It was dark out, though it was still early in the evening. Angry rain clouds covered the sky, poised to break open at any moment. Wheatley was worried for two reasons, both of which concerned Chell. The most immediate issue on his mind was that she was still outside, only partially under the canopy of the woods that backed their home. Years ago he would not have been so concerned, so long as the oncoming storm was not accompanied by thunder and lightening. But those days were over, replaced by synthetic flesh and wires. He found himself outside, then, trying to coax her in. She spent so much of her time at home outside, now that she was back. He couldn't say he minded; it was nice to lay with her in the grass, but he had a good sense of self preservation and when being outside was dangerous. She seemed to lack that, and that was the first thing that worried him.

The second thing that had his circuitry fluttering in nervousness was where he found her. It wasn't unusual for her to be sitting under the apple tree, trying to read Gone with the Wind, but she was unoccupied as she sat there then. She had no book, no wood work, nothing in her hands but the dull, mottled red sphere of an apple. She held it at her fingertips, turning it slowly in her hands and inspecting every inch of its bruised surface.

He lingered at the back door for a moment, casting a worried glance at the overcast sky before venturing out to meet her. He braced himself against the trunk of the tree as he knelt to the grass, sitting next to her. She didn't look up, she didn't take her gaze off of the apple.

"Are you okay, luv? If… if you are, just say 'apple,'" he murmured, leaning towards her, reaching for the fruit. Her fingers tightened around it, nails digging into the softened flesh. He retreated, not wanting to disturb her further. She'd been edgy since their last escape from the facility, never quite as relaxed as she once was with him.

He'd known the moment he felt the hatch on the back of her neck that she would need time to adjust, but he always had faith in her ability to do so. She was Chell, she would be fine in the end and he knew it. But the way she became so despondent sometimes, completely dead to the world around her, to the danger that was brewing in the sky above, worried him. It was a sign that she was not getting better, that she was not adjusting, that she hadn't come to terms with what had been done to her. If anything, she was getting worse, more distant every day.

He ran his fingers through her hair. "We have to go inside, luv. You can't be out in the rain, neither of us can. Come on." He grabbed her elbows, picking her up from the dirt. She stood wearily and leaned against him for a moment, and he could feel the whirring in her chest increase as something in her spiked. He wrapped his arms around her waist, a comforting gesture, but she twisted away from him, swinging her arm in a sweeping arc and he watched, half stunned as the apple flew across the yard, exploding against the side of the house next to them with a hollow thunk! Bits clung to the stucco molding for a fraction of a second before falling to the earth and she copied the motion, clinging halfheartedly to his arm before her legs gave out underneath her. He sounded off and bent to scoop her up, cradling her as he did when she fell and broke her leg years ago. He rubbed his cheek against hers as he carried her back inside, the first roll of thunder floating through the air.

This was what he'd been afraid of since he found her in the labyrinth of the facility. This was what happened when you remembered. He should have known better than to think that Chell could easily handle the realization, the loss of her humanity. She was a stone cold, emotionless monster, and that was probably the only reason She'd been able to push past the discovery. But Chell wasn't like that. For the eons she'd been trapped in Aperture, her humanity was her only, most prized possession, a semblance of normal when everything else in her life had been uprooted by a giant homicidal computer. When she'd finally gotten her freedom and learned that she was possibly the last human on the face of the planet, she'd clung to her humanity as a motivator. It had been one of the only stable things in her life and now it, too, was gone, taken by Aperture.

He laid her on the bed and she curled up on her side, shaking. He pulled the covers up over her frame and crawled in next to her, patient until the shaking and the dry, angry sobs subsided. He held her close and ducked his head to rest against hers, his mouth at her ear, and he whispered to her that everything would be okay. He knew it would, because she was strong.

She shuddered under his touch. It was an odd, terrible sensation for her, to harbor such a strong emotion and be unable to express it. Tears were a thing of the past, replaced by electric impulses, though the knot in her chest, the one that felt unbelievably real, remained.

She sniffled, a habit that a lifetime had taught her, though her eyes were dry, and wiped absently at her face. "I'm sorry," she muttered, her breath stalling to mimic a hiccup. She was simultaneously fascinated and distressed by how closely her new body could emulate her old one. "I'm sorry, I'm just…" she trailed off. She didn't know what she was. Confused might have fit nicely in that slot, but she didn't feel like it was the correct word.

Wheatley felt something tug at his wiring. It was a deeply unpleasant feeling that contended with how he'd felt the night she'd collapsed in his arms and sobbed because she knew she was dying. Then, it had ended after a few months. This was forever, and it was hurting her. He reached forward and cupped her cheek, turning her head to face him. "A while back, there was this little bit of an event that took place. It was really wonderful, though, and it changed everything. Maybe you remember it?" he asked, and he could see her searching her memory, something that wasn't as easy now that she'd pushed past the lock. The corners of her mouth turned down and she looked up at him, apologetic. He merely smiled and leaned in closer. "The night I landed. Remember that?"

He could hear her fans slowing at the memory, and her voice was softer when she spoke. "Of course I do. That was – You call that a 'little bit' of an event?" She laughed weakly, and he could tell it was forced.

"Just hear me out, hear me out!" he pressed, his hand sliding from her cheek to rest against her collarbone. "When I landed, I didn't know anything about this place. You remember how jumpy I was, at everything? How I was terrified of going outside the house, how – how I just didn't fit up here?" He could see her nod slightly. "You helped me. You taught me! You showed me how to live up here and you took care of me."

Chell felt odd remembering the countless stormy nights and the sunny days where she was able to coax him out of the house; they were her memories, she knew, but they felt like they belonged to a stranger. "Things are going to change now, aren't they? It won't be the same."

Wheatley swallowed hard and gently rubbed the base of her neck. "Of course it will, luv. Of course it'll be the same. Is that what you're worried about? Tell me something: Do you still love me?"

He could feel her shudder, her body telling her that such a thing didn't exist. "Yes." She managed, knowing it was the truth even if her own body didn't recognize it.

"Right. And I, you. So the only thing that's changed, this go around, is that there's nothing in the way. No nasty illnesses or asbestos poisoning or anything that can ruin it this time." He pressed his lips against the back of her neck, planting a kiss over the covering. "I'm so sorry about what She did to you," he whispered to her. "Really, I am. But things are going to be better, you watch. And do you know what?" She hummed in response. "Now it's my turn. Now I get to help you, same way you took care of me. It'll be easy."

"Promise?" she muttered, turning over and resting her cheek against his chest. He held her close, running a hand down the back of her head and over her shoulders.

"Promise," he said, leaning into her. "You and me, we can do this. Even if we have to make it up as we go along. Live and learn, right luv?"

He felt her frame shake underneath him and he backed her up, to his pleasant surprise, finding a smile spreading across her lips. Her eyes shone in the darkened room, her watery blue light mixing with his own electric glow. "Live and learn," she repeated, as he ducked his head down to rest against hers. They lay together in silence for a moment, and Wheatley reflected on that feeling somewhere deep in his programming, that pure, impossible happiness. His whole life, he'd been blindly optimistic, trying to forge happiness and, for a long time, he'd thought he'd had it. But being in charge of the humans, being the sole moderator of Aperture during those lonely centuries, that was nothing compared to being safe with Chell in their own home. For thirty five years he'd held onto that feeling, a memory that had abandon him after so many nights staring at the smooth white headstone in their back yard. He'd forgotten what this felt like, how nice it was to be with her again.

"Wheatley," Chell started softly, leaning back to look up at him. He hummed in response. She hesitated for a moment, worrying at her bottom lip before continuing. "Do the words, 'Chamber Number Seventy Two,' mean anything to you?"

The man tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling in concentration. Chamber seventy two – was that supposed to mean something? His brow furrowed and he smiled through the frown. "Can't say it does, luv." He let his expression relax and traced his fingers across the patterns on her arms. "Sorry," he said, softly.

Chell turned away from him and he leaned in closer, resting his cheek against her shoulder. She reached back and ran a hand through his hair, still tinged with black singe after all these years, and sighed. "That's okay… it's okay. Everything's okay, isn't it?" she breathed, and she could hear him laughing softly in her ear.

"What've I been trying to tell you?" he asked, and she closed her eyes against the lightning striking the ground outside their bedroom window. Fleeting images, broken memories began to surface in her mind's eye, memories she knew were never hers; nightmares of a man's suppressed consciousness as he was dragged through the deepest part of the facility and forced into submission, broken and sobbing, with not enough fight left in him to resist the injections, the sedatives or the wires drilled into his skull. Not enough to keep Aperture from taking everything from him.

Chell came out of the terrible reverie at the weight of his arm slung around her waist, and she relaxed, not having realized that her every muscle had tensed during those thoughts. Wheatley was her best friend and she couldn't have imagined life – this one or the last – without him. Still, she couldn't help but feel sorry for the man in her memories. It was part of what he'd given her, a memory that he didn't even realize he owned, and hopefully never would.

He was happier this way.