Author's Note: Not sure what my plan is with this. Might be continued, might not be, as I am also writing 2 other things in conjunction with this. I have a rough draft of 4,000 words of Wheatley/Chell that I haven't touched since October that could go onto the end of this should I fix it, but I don't know if I'm up to that right now.

Not really any warnings for this part, as it's just Wheatley being very angry that Chell will not solve his test. Like the title implies - based on the achievement with the same name.

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You Made Your Point

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"Oh! Lady! You're alive!"

Wheatley's monitor pushes through the wall as the screen flickers into life, displaying a bright, cheerful image of him, broadcasted through cascading lines of static. The woman in front of him (rendered filthy, undoubtedly with dirt collected from wherever it is she has resurfaced from) has one hand fitted snugly inside back of the lowering portal device while the other hand drops loosely by her side. His sudden presence appears to have startled her, Wheatley notes, watching as she stumbles back, away from the angry glow of the super colliding button on which she's just placed one of his creations, his boxes-with-legs, staring at him with something as close to complete shock as her expression-resilient face can come.

He grins in a mechanical fashion, blue eye lively and blazing, instantly stumbling on his words in a rush to get them all out right, "I-I mean uh, that's great! Wonderful!" he cheers sincerely under her scrutinizing glare. "Seriously, I'm not joking. It is lovely. It is lovely. I am being absolutely, a hundred percent serious when I say that. Guaranteed. I am tremendously grateful that you're alive, that you've lived to tell the tale, and all that."

He pauses then, to better observe the lady's grease-smeared face—oh bother, does she ever get dirty fast. How long's it been, even? Twelve hours since I saw her last? And already regrettably filthy… He fights down the swelling sensation of betrayal at the realization that he's been suffering for a full twelve hours like this. He feels like she's left him alone here on purpose to deal with the itch all by himself; left him to his own devices, like the boxes-with-legs-that-don't-work, even though he knows it was him who had punched her into the pit. All of this is driving him mad, but he simulates a shaky breath, trying to fight it unsuccessfully—at least she's back, now. Good. Finally. It's about time she arrived, I can hardly handle this for a moment longer—and his enthusiasm for their reunion only dampens the smallest amount as he notices how angry she looks.

"Oh…" he says and thinks a bit before coming to a realization, "You want to know why I'm glad? You want to know why. Of course you want to know, want to satisfy the old curiosity, and all that, don't blame you—all right, I'll tell you why!"

He can obviously see, as he simulates a throat-clearing sound, that the lady is having none of it, but something nags at the back of his mind in reply. It's the memory of the last time he saw her, when he'd made sure to properly impress upon her exactly who is the boss, here—it doesn't matter if the lady doesn't want to listen, he thought. She has to listen. He is in charge, and she will have to listen to everything he says, no matter what. She's dragged this out for him long enough, and now, she is going to listen.

"Because," he continues, glancing off to the side once before meeting her cold steel eyes brightly. Politeness is in his voice, as is empathy, because as nice as it is to actually have the elating ability to command her and boss her around, and as impatient as he is to get started, he'd rather have her willingly take care of his itch than have her fight him on this. Taking care of the itch, obviously, is top priority, number one thing on his to-do list. "Please don't take this the wrong way when I say this, luv, but I am in serious need of test subjects right now, so having you back here works out perfect!"

She still glares, and he tilts his optic, considering her. Maybe if he asks nicely, she'll do it. "And, also, here's another thing, say—since you are back, wonderfully back, alive, standing right in front of me, survived the whole punching-you-down-a-pit thing, can you just, find it in your little heart to help old Wheatley with testing nicely? Put all of that me-versus-you thing in the past, and just move along with the testing, as it were."

He twitches jumpily a bit at the conclusion of his small speech, closer to the screen. He's not quite desperate yet, not as desperate as he felt mere moments before she'd shown up, because hopefulness and determination is pushing the itch back into its home at the center of his body, now. The sight of her is oddly soothing and helps untangle the warm knot of code the smallest bit, but the relief is short-lived; in the end it only serves to further squeeze the tight coil centered in his core. The notion that this isn't helping has him closing his eye, optic shields pressing firmly against one another in attempt to block the itch out, before he—while dismissing the feeling as best he can—reopens them and concentrates fully on her, willing her to accept, willing her to want to help fix this for him, because she's the only one who can—

She shakes her head, and Wheatley recoils. "N-no? You won't forgive me?" he asks, his voice high and disbelieving, "A-are you positive? Not any sort of chance of forgiveness, whatsoever? Um… fair's fair… I suppose… um, you're still going to have to test, though. Through that door, just there, then…"

He shepherds her along, through the emancipation grid. She climbs the catwalks, and Wheatley can see the muscles in her forearm flex as she grabs hold of the railing, sees the loose strands of hair floating and glistening along beside her pony. Her t-shirt reads Aperture Laboratories, and briefly, he laments that it would be much better if it said Wheatley Laboratories—he's already got his name on everything else, and it would have been grand to have her display it proudly across her chest as well. Ah.

He's got another monitor above the catwalk, and as she looks up at him, he suddenly feels a tugging sensation that sends his vocal processor into yet another tumbling speech. "Lady…" he begins as she makes for the door, and his optic watches her head bob along underneath his screen. Might as well be honest with her, he decides. A little honesty never hurt anyone. "Before you go in there, let me just lay my cards on the table. I'm having this… problem," he explains. "Not a big deal really, if I'm honest, just need a tiny little favor from you—I… ah… have sort of got a bit of an itch, you might say. Little but itchy, over here. Need to scratch it, absolutely need to scratch it, driving me right up the wall, this is… mad, isn't it? An itch of all bloody things. Heh."

He laughs, almost expecting the lady to share in his amusement, and, crestfallen because she does not crack a smile, he sinks a little lower on the screen before brightening again. "Now, you're probably saying to yourself, "Wheatley, why don't you just scratch that itch by yourself?" but here's the thing," he nods, completely set on explaining this to her clearly, so that she understands perfectly, "here's the thing—I can't! I actually can't scratch it by myself, because this particular itch is a need to test. Which is why I need you. Needing your help, all the time, needing your help to solve it—so if you would just be so kind, and press that button right over there."

Wheatley's eye darts to the button in question before he resumes following her every move closely. Pride swells within him at the sight of her down there, in his first-ever test—it's absolutely brilliant, this one is, with a nice big, eventually-deadly moat in there and everything—and she makes her way forward, toward the button. It's rigged to drop a cube to automatically release the door—optimal solving conditions, right there—and even just the short wait sends the tight coil itching inside twisting even tighter. He can't keep silent, he's too excited . "Yes, the big tall one, just there, can't miss it—it will result in—haha, little pun there, clever—" he beams, so proud and ecstatic from the knowledge that finally, he's about to have it, "in a very, tremendously pleasurable, um, scratching sort of sensation for me. I would love it. Seriously. Just LOVE it. Looking forward to it. Like you would not believe."

He waits for her to push it patiently.

And keeps waiting.

Nothing happens. She doesn't move, there is no sound of her long fall boots scraping the chamber floor, no peal of a button being pressed as he'd so hoped to hear, there isn't even the scratch of Her vocoder audible in the chamber. Wheatley's top shutter drops down in disappointment as he comments, eye flashing with each word, his voice riddled with confusion and disbelief. "Still not pressing it?" She doesn't reply. To be expected, he knows. Maybe she's just having trouble… figuring out how to press the button. Yes. That must be it. "Okay, I understand, it is a bit difficult, isn't it, button pressing—but, just pick up your old finger, there, that long bit attached to your hand, and press the button."

Ignoring his straightforward, to-the-letter instructions, she only blinks and breathes. Breathing his air, which he is nice enough to manufacture for her, and she won't even solve the test! A lace of anger and panic shoots through him at the unsavory idea that maybe she is being frigid on purpose, and he feels the coil of code wind up further, almost grinding and shuddering it's so taught and itchy. He grimaces. "No? No, still nothing whatsoever? All right, um, all right, stay calm, stay calm, think, Wheatley, think—uuuuuuummmm… OH! I've got an idea!" He relaxes the smallest amount. It's a beautiful one. "Yes, brilliant! How about this: how about you press that button, there, and I've got a BIIIIIIIG surprise here for you, over here, waiting to be revealed at the conclusion of the test. It's already waiting inside of the Vital Apparatus Vent. Hidden! Look at that, eh!"

It's largely a trick, but what does she know? The box-with-legs waiting in the Vent could have been placed there as a present for her. Only thing stopping it from being so is the fact that she'd need to leave it there, to get out of the chamber, but what did that matter? "Yes. Big surprise, with your name….. riiiight… on the packaging! Imagine that. Quite literally, got your name on, correctly spelled, and everything—well, technically speaking it is actually my name on it, but that's even better, innit!" he beams again at the mention of his name. "'Wheatley Laboratories', proper sort of charming name, that, isn't it? Yep. Just rolls right off the old tongue. You would know, too, if you could, um, talk. But you can't. So just go ahead, and press the button."

There is an instant shudder from the Laboratories themselves in reply. It's as if the entire building is furious, rising up in protest against their new master, and he absolutely hates it. When the rumbles cease, he cocks his eye and prepares to ignore it. Certainly, he can feel the pulsing heat of a reactor core meltdown, but what does that matter? It doesn't. It doesn't matter. It doesn't affect him in any way whatsoever right now. All that matters is soothing the itch and releasing the tense coil deep inside.

"Warning. Explosion imminent. Reactor core has reached critical temp—" Fzzzt. He silences the voice immediately and peers down at her, casings twitching a little more than usual in frustration—she hasn't even moved. She is staring back up at him, fear etched all across her dark face.

This is the last thing he needs. He doesn't need her distracted by this. He needs her to focus on the test, and not worry about things that are his job. He decides explaining is a good idea, and prepares to try to convince her that it's all been taken care of. "Yeah," he begins. "That guy, mentioning the reactor core? I think he's lying. Something tells me, it's nothing to worry about. No worries whatsoever. Everything is completely under control. Completely under control here, except there is one small thing I should mention…"

Just in case there actually is a critical problem with the reactor core, he's going to need her to hurry up. "There is a time limit," he lies, "on this test. I should have mentioned that before, if I'm honest, but I… um, forgot. Bit of an accident. Must have just slipped the old brain, but no matter—even if you've just thought to yourself, "Oh no! I've missed the, um, window of time! In which to press the button and solve Wheatley's devilishly hard test!" you'd be wrong. It's still open, actually. Time is not up. Yet. Time is not up yet, and I am still, aha, um, quite itchy, over here. Desperately needing a scratch. Please. Needing it scratched, please. Cannot wait for it to be solved."

That disobedient woman—! Instead of solving it she's settled down on the chamber floor, her arms folded and cross-legged.

He's so angry. He's so angry, he's tense and aching and his feelings are hurt at her reluctance to do just this one, simple thing for him and it's not okay, and for a moment he nearly loses it. He hovers on the edge of commanding the ceiling panels above her to smash down and slam right onto her pretty little head. He wants to squash her like a bug. He trembles and shudders and takes a deep, simulated breath, closing his eye with a shake, trying to control himself.

"Look, you made your point, okay?" His voice is strained but oddly flat, lacking almost all of the enthusiasm he'd expressed at their reunion. "You don't want to test. Lovely, but it's not relevant. And, I didn't want to mention this to you, but you've gone and dragged it out of me, what with taking so long down there. If you do NOT press that button, the allotted time for this test chamber will, in fact, run out, and I will be forced to take you up here by myself to where I am and sort all this out manually."

He knows it sounds a little unprecedented, but if testing is not going to work, he has to do something. Even if he only manages to teach her a lesson and it turns out that there really is no way to remove the itch, save for her finding the solution, it's still a win-win for him—he might get a properly respectful test subject out of it, if he plays his cards right!

Ace of fours, right there, if there ever was one. The best hand. Absolutely, tremendously unbeatable, he grins. He doesn't have a problem with breaking her resilience by force—a little bit of a primitive method perhaps, a little crude, if he's honest with himself, but if it gets the tests done faster… anything to get the tests done faster…

And anyways, she shouldn't have kept him waiting at all! She knows he's the boss here. She knows that, but perhaps, the problem is that she's not fully aware of exactly what the boss is capable of. That's probably correct, he nods. Probably hasn't realized yet that I could hurt her. He doesn't have a single issue with showing her—it might even be fun (for him)! Not too fun for her, though.

"That doesn't sound enjoyable, does it?" he asks, beginning to imagine exactly what he could do to prove she didn't have any choice but to listen and which of these ideas would be most likely to help him scratch the itch. He doesn't care much that nearly all of the options would probably end horribly for her. "Bringing you up here, to my deadly lair, by force. No, not good-sounding, is it? No, best you just solve the test. Quite simple, this one, and everything! Made it that way, just for you. Yes. Definitely easier, good old button pushing in the nice… not as-deadly-as-my-lair… test chamber."

Testing is obviously his first, go-to option for scratching the itch, but he sort of wonders—is there really no other way? None at all? Well—he'll see about that, if she decides that she will not comply. That non-compliance has got to stop. "Furthermore, once you get to my lair, ignoring me will not be optional. Okay?" Better impress that fact upon her right away. It'll stop, he grins, once I bring her to my lair. Also, we'll be able to work out a solution to this feeling together once I have her allegiance. "Doing as I say, to the letter, will be mandatory. Absolutely mandatory, unless you would like to die a very not-painless death. All right?"

There is no answer. She scrapes her fingertip along the chamber floor, as if bored. Is she even listening to him?

Wheatley fights back a fresh wave of anger and frustration, trying so hard to be civil. "I'm going to give you another ten minutes to decide before time runs out, and then, if you have not solved it, it's off to my deadly lair for you. All right?" That sounds fair enough. "Ten minutes, so take your time coming to a decision, you've got plenty of time to process what I've said, at your leisurely digestion. Don't wanna pressure you, but—just a friendly little hint, here, reminiscent of told times, when we were friends—pushing that button is definitely the way to go. Seriously."

He blinks once before adding, finally, "You are going to be helping me scratch this, whether you like it or not, lady. Just bear that in mind, if you should decide not to solve it."

And then he waits.

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She doesn't solve it.

At first, he's unbelievably angry, and the entrance doors slam back open, allowing her to exit the test unsolved. He's unsatisfied and livid and fully prepared to do whatever it takes to get rid of the itch—and then, he'll think about a suitable punishment.

He's got to get rid of the itch first, though. Punishment, he'll save for later—itch scratching now.

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