last draw for the night. tiny!Chell, complete with big head and an ear that I never draw because I cannot draw ears.
I woulda done color but I forgot to layer up again
what if he poops on the table
what if he fell in the toilet?
he’s not going to poop on the table
because I’m not going to write about him pooping on the table
whatles got up on de tablez
and he sat his butt
and he said
and he pooped!!!
my question for you is:
should I try to write this next one in Wheatley’s point of view?
or should I follow my instincts and stick with Chell?
this kind of got away from me, but here you go!
It started with the sneezes. She really should have known then, to be honest. It was how her own illness had started, after all, but he was so good at playing it off.
Don’t worry, love, he’d say, wiping his nose on his sleeve and showing off that disarming smile. It’s just an involuntary, violent expulsion of air through the mouth and nose. Nothing major. A sneeze, it’s called, I believe.
She should have known better.
One sneeze had turned into two, which had turned into many, which had turned into three solid days of runny noses and hasty apologies whenever his explosive new habit caused her to jump. Crockery unfortunately fell victim to this pattern, and not just because of his outbursts. Flailing limbs as he attempted to make up for startling her caused things to fly, as well as his hazardous lizard-like run through the house to the nearest box of tissues when he found himself—well, “leaking,” as he put it. It almost got to the point where she was ready to fashion a tissue box necklace and hang it around his neck if only to keep him in one place long enough to restore her piece of mind.
And still he insisted he was fine. It wasn’t until the dawn of the fourth day that Chell fully realized how bad things had gotten. There were things that she could have blamed for her distraction—work and neighbors and the simple stress of living with Wheatley day in and day out—but the fact was that she had been (totally irrationally) hoping that he might somehow be immune.
So the fourth day dawned. When she awoke, he was not hogging the bathroom in an attempt to out-stare his reflection. He was not in the kitchen, curled in a pathetic ball by the stove as he waited for the kettle to heat. He was not outside waiting by the end of the drive to attempt to chat with the man who delivered the paper. No, Chell found him in the very last place she expected him to be: curled up in bed.
She knocked lightly on the door as she opened it, not so much for permission as for warning. It was plainly unnecessary, though, when she stepped inside the room. He was out like a light. She took a cautious look around and wrinkled her nose.
Outwardly, Wheatley had shown few signs of illness. She supposed it was because he kept it in here. Tissues were strewn across the floor in careless heaps. The bed sheets were hopelessly tangled around the poor man—he’d obviously had a fitful night’s sleep. Mugs of half-drunk tea (another clear sign—he never left a mug of tea half-drunk if he could help it) cluttered the bedside table.
Her eyes turned to the man himself and she sighed upon taking in the circles under his eyes and the sickly paleness of his face. Poor thing. The least she could do is clean up a little—an environment like this was hardly beneficial to his health.
The world Wheatley woke to was fuzzy, but that wasn’t very surprising. Without his glasses, the world was little more than a bunch of smudges. What did surprise him, though, was that the cloud over his vision had spread to fill his ears and his head, making him feel as though he had been stuffed with cotton while he was asleep. He closed his mouth and scrunched up his face when he felt his dry tongue flopping around inside.
A hand on his shoulder got his attention and he sat upright abruptly. There was really only one person he could think that would enter this room and he flinched guiltily when her face swam into semi-clarity. She didn’t seem angry with him for oversleeping, though. Her mouth was set in a stern frown, but her eyes were soft as she looked at him. She pressed a glass into his hand and then motioned for him to drink. He did and almost choked with relief as the water slipped down his throat. After a moment of simply sipping and rehydrating his mouth, he noticed Chell holding out her other hand to him.
When he held out her hand to receive whatever it was, she dumped a pair of capsules in his palm. He recognized them as the ones she’d taken periodically a few weeks ago, when she’d been—oh!
“These’ll make the fuzz go away, then?” he said. His voice was dreadful. “Oh, that sounds bloody awful, dunnit? Like I’ve got gravel stuck up my—” He cut himself off to cough harshly into his hand. Instinct saved him from sloshing water all over himself and also from dropping the pills. When he looked up, Chell had pressed a finger to her lips and looked like she was struggling not to laugh.
He managed to down the pills without killing himself and Chell urged him to drink the rest of the water. When he finished, he began to get up in order to take the glass downstairs. He knew she wouldn’t much notice his tea mugs disappearing, but the glass was one of the nice set she’d bought to replace the damage he’d done to the last one. Much to his surprise, however, Chell pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him to get back in the bed.
“What?” he croaked. She gave him a glare and pointed at him again, as if to reinforce what she’d just done. “Love, I can’t stay in bed all day. I’ve got to—” Again, he broke off to cough. Her glare doubled in intensity and she crossed her arms at him, as if to say I told you so. “Alright, alright. I’ll stay.”
She took the glass from him and sent him one last meaningful look before she made a gesture to suggest she’d be back. When the door clicked shut behind her, Wheatley couldn’t help his bewildered smile.
this actually has very little to do with the prompt but you know what I don’t care because it took me like a week to write it so bully for you
One morning she wakes up and makes herself a coffee. There’s a sound outside and the next thing she knows, coffee is dripping down the wallpaper and ceramic is in shards around her feet. Wheatley comes bounding down the stairs to see what’s the matter and stops in the doorway when she holds up her hands. He only has to take one look at the floor and the expression on her face to understand. He goes and gets the broom.
She pulls out the chair at the table with a clatter and sits herself heavily in it, staring between her fingers at his feet as he sweeps up the soggy mess. It isn’t the first time this has happened. She knows it won’t be the last. She remains in her seat long after Wheatley has thrown out the broken porcelain and mopped the coffee up from the floor. She doesn’t look up when he drags out the chair next to hers and sits calmly at the table.
“Shepherd’s car backfiring?” he asks quietly.
She shuts her eyes and nods. Her lower lip trembles and she pulls it between her teeth, biting down hard enough to make her eyes burn and her fingers twitch. He notices, of course, and slides his hand across the table toward her. She flinches away and he stops. Without having to look, she knows that she’s hurt him. Without having to hear, he knows that she’s sorry. He stands and crosses the kitchen, passing the coffee pot over for the electric kettle nestled in the corner. He fills it and plugs it in, humming a tune that she might have known once that he probably doesn’t know either.
“How about some tea this morning?” he says casually. They both studiously avoid looking at the coffee stain on the wall. She nods when he turns to look at her, and he smiles.
As she passes him to get the milk, she briefly wraps her arms around him in a tight, heartfelt hug.
and more photoshop
it’s caroline, in case you couldn’t tell
bleh, kinda sucks
I finally have photoshop and this is the first thing I made and saved with it.
that would be me and my bestie ace in the drawing, and she is wearing long-fall socks that I’m fairly sure she doesn’t actually own. I drew her like her avatar is/used to be on the website where we met, and me like… me.
our laptops don’t look like that, sadly. I would buy a sticky cover for it like that, though. also I’m balancing mine on my huge lumpy throw pillow.
EDIT: she does in fact own the long-fall socks. c: