Chapter Text
The very first thing Wilson did upon seeing Maxwell was try to strangle him. Which was reasonable, if still very uncouth. The uncharacteristic bloodlust in which Wilson attacked had taken him off guard, but, like the campfire light, that rage was quickly snuffed out by the dark. Charlie always did have impeccable timing.
By the time Wilson frantically brought the fire back to life, his desire to end Maxwell’s had already passed. Maxwell stayed, and Wilson said nothing—just plopped back down in the damp grass and glowered at the fire. Not knowing what else to do in that moment, Maxwell did the same. Daylight came and went, not once, but several times. Wilson continued to not speak to him, and Maxwell continued to not leave. Each night, when darkness fell, they wordlessly returned to the fire to wait in antagonistic silence; or, so Maxwell thought. He was rather taken aback when the gruff little man abruptly held out to him charred meat on a twig.
“You should be dead,” Wilson said as Maxwell tentatively took the skewered offering. “I watched you wither to dust. So why are you here in my camp?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, pal,” Maxwell returned with a shrug. He sniffed the meat, and the pang in his stomach loudly assured him that any food was good food. He barely even tasted it, which might have been a blessing, but still left him remorseful when it was gone. “And what about you?” Maxwell asked pointedly, gesturing with the barren stick. “You should be bound to the Throne, shouldn’t you?”
Wilson’s expression was flat, but the dark circles under his eyes and the droop of his mouth made him look profoundly weary. “I was.” Wilson rubbed at his eyes. “I was, until someone else came.”
Maxwell scowled. “Someone else? Another one of your little playmates managed to make it through the door?” Just exactly how long had he been gone from the world, if there was enough time for such a thing to happen? The amount of time it took to make it through all five worlds... that was a very long time to simply not exist.
“It was a woman,” Wilson continued, not mentioning the fact that, until this point, he shouldn’t have known about the others here. But perhaps he did, for however long he sat on the throne. He might have learned a great many things about this world. “She seemed pleasant, when she first approached. She freed me like it was nothing. I thought I was being saved.”
“Is this the point where she attempted to set you on fire?”
“It wasn’t Willow,” Wilson grumbled. Ah, so he did know of the others—by name even. Interesting. “And she didn’t try to set me on fire. Might as well have, though. The shadows hurt just as badly as a flame.”
That brought Maxwell up short. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean she manipulated the shadows—like you did. Sort of.”
“Before she sat on the throne?”
Wilson nodded. “I think she killed me,” he said, blandly. Maxwell said nothing; and, to fill the silence, Wilson hummed to himself and again rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. Maxwell poked him with the stick.
“Say,” he began, ignoring Wilson’s affronted squawk and letting him snatch the twig from his hand, “you look like you could use some sleep.”
Wilson scoffed. “Right, and just let you have free run of the place? I don't think so.”
“Oh please, like you have anything here worth taking.” Maxwell gestured grandly to the sum total of Wilson’s camp, which consisted of his science machine, a pot, a single chest, and the pit that was wedged between them. So, in other words, not much.
“There's enough that you keep sticking around, isn't there?” Wilson crossed his arms.
“Don’t flatter yourself, this is only temporary. I wouldn’t stay in your hovel if there were other options.”
“You could always, I don’t know, build your own camp. Far far away.”
“Why waste the resources? If you’re amenable, I believe we can come to an acceptable arrangement.”
“I am not. Amenable, that is.”
Maxwell paused, waiting for Wilson to do anything other than put up a fuss. When it seemed that was the extent of his objection, Maxwell continued, “As I was saying. I am sure we can find a way to make this predicament agreeable for the both of us; however, you would be far more reasonable provided you were adequately rested.”
“I’m sure me being dead would be most agreeable to you,” Wilson mocked.
Maxwell rolled his eyes. “As satisfying as that would be, and has been, it wouldn’t do me much good, at present.”
“Yeah, you’re really not helping your case, here,” Wilson said. He stood up to fetch another log to throw into the pit alongside the stick from dinner, and sat back down, huddled broodingly and protectively in on himself.
Sensing that it would, perhaps, be best not to push him further, Maxwell shrugged and sat back. If Wilson wanted to act like an imbecile, far be it from Maxwell to stop him. He’d either come around or die, one way or another. And in the meantime, he had his own matters to attend to.
Maxwell pulled out his Codex Umbra and began to reacquaint himself.
Wilson had been territorially remaining near his camp since Maxwell arrived—never going far enough that he couldn’t see exactly what the demon was up to at every moment. He’d seen Maxwell do little else other than steal Wilson's food and read his book, so Wilson knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Maxwell had not slept once in the entire time since he’d intruded. Wilson hadn’t either, for that very reason. Why wouldn’t he just leave?
Maxwell was faring remarkably better, to put it mildly.
While Wilson’s hands slowed and his precision dulled, Maxwell remained as exact as he began. It must have been, goodness, at least five days now since they’d slept, if Wilson had to guess. The dark shapes that danced in the corners of his eyes were growing denser and more and more unignorable. He wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever, he knew. It was only a matter of time before his trembling hands wouldn’t be able to even hold a spear, let alone fend off any attacks. He could hardly even finish his sewing without the stitches blurring.
It might already be too late. The menacing shadows wavered in and out of focus, and no matter how much Wilson blinked and shook his head, they just kept reforming. Where had the sun gone? Wilson squinted. The forest looked gray and leached of color. Fading; dimming. His head throbbed. He started hyperventilating. Were the shadows getting closer?
He must have blacked out, because the next thing he knew, a bed roll was unceremoniously lobbed at his head, and he didn’t have the wits about him to do much more than fumble with the silk he’d been mangling, then stare up at Maxwell’s scowl.
“Go to sleep, Higgsbury. I won’t tell you again.”
Wilson meekly clutched at the straw roll. He really didn’t have any choice here. It was either sleep, or go insane. And if Maxwell killed him in his sleep, well, he could at least hope it’d be more dignified than being ravaged by unseen hands and teeth.
“Don’t try anything,” he warned. “I’ll be sleeping with the axe.”
“You can barely lift your own head, let alone your arm. Is that supposed to intimidate me?” Wilson groaned and pushed the straw roll away, which seemed to push Maxwell’s exasperation to its limit. “Fine! I don’t care if you do or not, but this has gone on long enough.”
He stalked off, leaving Wilson to unfurl the roll next to the fire pit. It wasn’t yet dark, but it would be upon them soon enough. Even just the prospect of being able to sleep had him gratefully collapsing on the prickly straw. Maxwell took his customary place on the other side of the pit, sharp nose buried in his black tome. Wilson drew the axe up to his chest.
“So what’s with the book?”
“It’s none of your concern. Now, quiet; sleeping men shouldn’t be talking. And I need to concentrate.”
“On your murder plot?”
“Ask me again and I’ll consider it,” Maxwell snipped, not even bothering to look up. Wilson huffed, but closed his eyes.
For ages after, his mind continued to tick and whir, jolting back to wakefulness at every noise: Maxwell starting the fire, logs crackling and shifting, even the rustle of pages being turned. But finally, with the firelight’s protective glow suffusing him and axe at hand, he succumbed.
Maxwell did not, in fact, murder him in his sleep.
Wilson had been awake for a while, but did not move. He laid silently, watching, and tried his damndest to keep still. Maxwell hadn’t yet noticed; instead, he seemed entirely preoccupied with his precious book.
Snap! cracked Maxwell’s hand. He waited, expectant, staring at his open palm. Wilson looked on with a mix of eager apprehension and dread.
Nothing.
Poring once more over the open book in his lap, Maxwell brought his fingers together with flourish.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Again, there was nothing.
Or... almost? If Wilson focused very carefully, there seemed to be some sort of black cloud emanating there, darker than Maxwell’s glove. The firelight licked all trace of it away.
Unsatisfied, Maxwell removed his fine gloves to reveal boney, pale fingers. He attempted several more times to snap his fingers, but, to his growing frustration, producing the same lack of results. Palms outstretched and skyward, Maxwell muttered hushed, harsh words Wilson could only just hear, let alone make out. Maxwell’s finger tips curled inward like dying spiders’ legs, and slowly, faintly, his papery skin bled black like spilled ink.
That, too, simply seeped away.
Maxwell snarled and pounded the tome shut, startling Wilson into jumping. Their eyes met over the forked tongues of flame, and held. Maxwell’s eyes exuded his boiling frustration before he resolutely, ashamedly, looked away. Wilson courteously turned onto his back to allow him some modicum of privacy. And staring up into the starless sky, Wilson was faced with a sudden realization.
Maxwell didn’t have his powers.