Portal Oneshots

Drunk

Chell didn't consider herself a big drinker.

She didn't mind red wine or sweet cocktails on special occasions, but she wouldn't seek out beer or strong-tasting spirits—wrinkling her nose at their too-bitter flavours like a child.

Once, though, she tried her hand at fruit liqueur.

The recipe had been passed along by a friend, who had recommended ageing the mixture for a couple of months. Chell filled a borrowed jar with Vodka and fruit—peaches, pears, berries—and hid it away in her cellar.

Close to Christmas, she sent Wheatley down there for a jar of pickled beets and a can of cranberry sauce. Some of the beets would be served with tonight's dinner, while the cranberries were for the twenty-fifth in a few days.

Wheatley agreed, vocally lamenting how low the ceiling was down there, how awkward it was for him to climb up and down the cellar stairs, and that he'd have to walk all the way around the outside of Chell's farmhouse in the cold to reach it—all the way 'round! His boots crunched through freshly fallen snow, and she could hear him ranting to himself the whole way.

Still, for the fuss he made, Chell knew he'd do it for the beets—Wheatley liked beets.

He discovered the liqueur by accident, having already secured a jar of pickled beets but still in the process of searching for some cranberries. Compared to the ones Chell normally used, this jar was huge. There had to have been three—no, four litres of liquid in there at least! Its outside was painted with decorative flowers in red, orange, and yellow, and the whole thing was covered in about two months worth of dust.

It was also stuffed full of fruit!

Wheatley had only ever known Chell to make jams with fruit (sometimes applesauce or pie-filling) and she always seemed to crush or blend it rather than use whole slices. Was she pickling these for a change? Was pickled fruit even a thing?

More importantly, would it taste salty? Tangy? Sweet?

A mischievous smile played on Wheatley's lips. As long as he didn't drop the jar or spill any liquid on the cellar floor, Chell would never know!

Still, he'd have to be extra careful. He had a track-record for dropping and tripping over things, and Chell would probably smell this stuff on the floor the next time she came looking for produce.

Beets forgotten, Wheatley pushed some smaller jars aside, then hefted the big one into his arms. Getting the lid off was tricky—half-frozen fingers versus rusty locking mechanism while hugging the container to his body—but he succeeded, and without spilling a drop! That in itself was a victory.

So far, so good! He might just get away with this!

When opened, the jar had an unusual smell. It looked very much like the inside of a can of fruit cocktail, though. Wheatley snatched a peach slice off the very top and popped the whole thing in his mouth.

He frowned. It wasn't quite the flavour he was expecting. Sweet, definitely, but there was an extra "something" he couldn't identify. It was a different kind of sweet—one that Wheatley was sure he'd never experienced before.

He took a second look at the jar.

Once, he'd forgotten about a half-drunk glass of juice for a few days. When he went to taste it again, it was completely different—sort of sour.

Maybe, he thought, he should have another one. It would be a shame if Chell opened the jar in a month or two and found funky fruit.

He took another peach slice and slurped it, taking a moment to press it against the roof of his mouth with his tongue and really savour its juices. The extra flavour was still there, but he still wasn't sure if it was intentional—only Chell would know for sure!

Wheatley smacked his lips, debating whether he should just go upstairs and ask her, or sample just one more!

And while he was at it, he should probably try a couple of berries—and pears, even though he wasn't normally keen on pears. Did Chell like pears? If she did, she'd be mighty disappointed if she reached in and got a bad one.

Two pieces became four, became twelve, became shakily returning the jar to the metal shelf after consuming at least three whole peaches, half a pear, and ten to twenty berries—give or take.

What had he come down here for again? Turnips?

Upstairs, Chell was growing impatient.

She stomped her foot on the kitchen floor a couple of times to tell him to hurry up. What was he doing down there? Supper was almost ready!

For someone who hated the cold so much, Wheatley was certainly taking his time. On any other day, he'd have grabbed whatever he could find quickly and to hell with the rest! Unless, of course, he found those beets first.

To hell with everything that wasn't easily accessible—or beets.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. At twenty, Chell let out an exasperated sigh. There was no reason for him to linger unless he was having trouble finding what she'd asked for—or he'd found something tasty to snack on. She didn't hear him carrying on anymore, either.

If sound wasn't coming out, then food must be going in.

Chell's eyes narrowed.

She removed the stew pot from the stove and grabbed her jacket and boots.

She was mildly shocked when she found him on the cellar floor, thinking something might be seriously wrong and scrambling to help, but then he looked up at her, cheeks flushed and grinning like an idiot.

"What did you do to those peaches?" He slurred. "I like peaches, but those tasted different. Not bad different...I don't think...what was I talking about?"

Chell glanced over at the liqueur jar—now missing almost an eighth of its contents. Her concern melted into a deadly glower.

The next half-hour was spent half-dragging Wheatley back into the house, which he seemed to think was entertaining in-between high-pitched giggling and chattering.

"I wasn't going to eat the pears" He hiccuped, "I don't think I should have, I don't even like pears! Wooooow! You're pulling me all by yourself!" He started to laugh, which turned into a wheeze. "I don't know why that's funny!"

Later, Chell would be thankful that she'd taken the stew off—as she wouldn't return to the kitchen for another twenty minutes. By then, she was dumping it into the largest container she could find and stowing it in the fridge; Wheatley probably wasn't going to want any until tomorrow.

When he sobered up, Chell scolded him, but also apologized for not warning him that liqueur had alcohol in it.

He never did enjoy peaches as much after that.