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1: Lost
Wilson tries to read the stars to find out which direction they were heading. (It doesn’t work. The constellations aren’t of their old sky and the lights were scattered in the dark at random.) He eventually gives up, slinking back to sit down to roaring campfire Willow has been attending to in the meantime. When he voices his concerns, the fear that they’ll never return back to original base, the firestarter startles him with a non-nonchalant smile.
“Lets go that way.” She points off to some far off forest, pines and foliage perfect for the burning. “Let’s just wander around until we find a spot to make our own little camp in. Somewhere hot. With lava. And no pigs. And no beefalo either.”
Wilson pauses in roasting his rabbit. Willow can see the hesitation in his pose. “I quite like our current camp, actually.”
“What do you like more? The old camp? Or me?”
He gives her a look. “What a silly question.”
“Then lets go get lost together.” She pipes up, a wide smile that could rival the sun. A light within the night itself. Bernie is clutched to her chest. The scientist briefly wonders if he should fetch and cook her some green mushrooms. “Let’s get away for a while. Play missing, or something. We’ll get back to the others, you know. Eventually.”
He ponders for a moment, twirling the roasting stick in his hands as he chews. Willow looks to him expectantly. Hopeful. The scientist finds that placing a hand on her knee seems to quieten the jitters she’s clearly having.“I suppose I could disappear for a while.”
2: Reminder
He doesn’t mean to. It’s unintentional. An invasion of his thoughts that suddenly come from the unknown and lingers in his mind until his curiosity or boredom is sated. The odd fact is that pretty much anything could trigger it.
He could mining rocks, gathering lumber, trading with the pig king or even something mundane as picking flowers. Somehow, a thought will pop up, depending on whatever he’s doing at the moment, and now Wilson is standing in the middle of the bee fields holding a rose, wondering if Willow will like it because it’s red.
(She doesn’t, he later finds out. And another thought arises, a question, to wonder if there’s a sort of flower she does like.)
3: Morning
They never really woke up at the same time or in the same spirits. Wilson was always either bright and early while Willow would be glued to her sleeping mat, groaning and batting away any attempts to dislodge her, and vice versa. Acting as an alarm clock to one another was not a uncommon thing for them, and it’s not odd to see that when one of the survivors attempt to rouse the sleeping one would only result in the the other being called to promptly kick them out of the tent and to get to work. (Because for some reason, it only really works with each other.)
So it’s not odd to see Willow bound over to Wilson’s tent, pop her head in and yell something incomprehensible so that he jumps awake to her laughter. Or perhaps Wilson has peeked inside of the brunette’s tent to gently shake her shoulder and bribe her with breakfast only if she arises.
What is odd, however, is the sudden change in routine when Wortox notices that neither scientist nor firestarter emerges from their respective tents, and out of pure curiosity (and mischievous suspicion) does he stick in snout through the flaps of one for a peek.
Willow’s head is tucked underneath Wilson’s chin, curled up against his side, squishing her teddy between the both of them whilst said scientist looked quite comfortable with a arm slumped around the woman with what appeared to strands of her hair curled gently around his fingers, stuck in a motion that suggests he’s been twirling it.
It’s a cute sight that would be a shame to mess up. So Wortox does what Wortox does best and promptly scribbles over their faces with charcoal.
4: Swimming
The day that Willow received a swimsuit, of all things, from the strange, reappearing boxes that decorate the bases’s science machine, was the day that Wilson learned that fire immunity extended to all forms of the such.
He nearly has a heart attack watching her fall backwards into the lava pit, and almost has a second one when her head reemerges on the surface, a toothy grin and molten rock stuck in her hair. “I’d ask you to join, but-”
“No, no. That’s fine. I’ll be alright. Thank you.”
5: Buried
The graveyard was starting to take a toll on him. The bodies within these holes were long gone, wasted away or perhaps never there to begin with, the tombstones just placed for their sake of memory. Or perhaps, a marker of treasure. It does not make him feel any better about digging them up.
He’s on his fourth, wait no, fifth grave for the day when two pale hands come to rest over his own, stopping the shovel mid-shove and Wilson jolts. His eyes meet Willow, looking him over with furrowed brows. “I think you should take a break.”
“We need gears.” He refutes. “I’ve already found a pile already. If I can just find another-”
“You’ll go crazy.” She cuts him off. “And I need your help weaving a new backpack anyways. I forgot how.”
No, she didn’t forget. You don’t forget what you learn in the Constant, not ever. But Wilson can see the determination in her face and the grip on the shovel waivers. It drops to the grass, and his hand keeps clasping her own. “Okay.” Science can wait for those gears another day. “Did you want a red backpack, this time?”
6: Laughter
It is not often he laughs. Willow is not certain how much he did prior to coming to the constant, but the (lack of) smile lines in his face and the continues brood that seems to linger in his expression tells her that whenever it was; it wasn’t often.
She was running through camp in the rain, bounding past the crockpot and the chest and practically skidding inside the tent in order to get out of the storm. Wilson is already inside fiddling with some blueprints, and he startles at her entrance.
Willow mutters a curse underneath her breathe as she wringes the water out from one of her pigtails. “No one ever told me that spring here would be so in-tents.”
A pause, and Wilson lets out a bout of laughter that frankly catches her by surprise. It’s a soft, low chuckle coming from the back of his throat and she thinks that’s just endearing. The smile on his face looks so warm, so inviting, and the rain was so cold. “What?”
“Intense.” He snorts. “In-tents. Good one.” She takes off one of her shoes and bats it at him.
7: Stitches
There’s a thief in the Constant and everyone is quite surprised to find that it wasn’t Wx-78. (Who, of course, threatened everyone for the daring accusation.)
Nothing important is missing, nothing that would sent the camp into a dire situation should it be gone, but it’s noticeable. Bits of taffy missing from the ice box, a sewing kit and even some silk stashed away were taken from the bunch.
Wickerbottom finds Wilson fiddling with a teddy bear far away from the camp one evening, trying to reattatch the torn off arm to the stuffed animal, one of it’s ears ripped apart with teeth marks that look deep enough to belong to the hounds.
They meet eyes, and the scientist looks akin to a startled deer.
“It’s supposed to be a surprise.” He tries to explain. “She hasn’t had the time to repair him for over a week now.”
The librarian blinks at the shoddy crafts work of the stitching, and a knowing smile comes to her face. “Do ask her to teach you how to sow when you present it to her.”
8: Shave
The first day of summer rolls around and Wilson still refuses to shave his beard. Despite many times of overheating, the sweat, the absolute frizz in the front of his face, Willow does not understand why he is so infatuated with it.
“It makes me look manly!” He defends. The woman tries not to laugh at the high pitch in his voice that enters at the end of his sentence. “I look very handsome with it.”
“You look like a hobo.” She jabs a finger in his chest and sticks a finger in his beard, poking his chin through all the hair. Wilson tenses up. “I like my scientist with only a little bit of scruff. Like, a bunny or something.”
He bats her hand away (and tries not to think about the wording in her sentence) “I’m a grown man. I don’t need your input, thank you.”
Wilson shows up with a bare face the next day anyways. Willow laughs at the suntan lines on the two halves of his face where his beard had begun and ended. She likes to pap the cleanly shaven face though, finding amusement in the way he pouts.
9: Hammock
He doesn’t know exactly how she’s done it, but he’ll attest to her fantastic girl scout skills and admire the hammock she’s crafted merely out of silk and rope. It looks quite comfortable, quite inviting, even more so with the fire starter laying across on it. “Is this where you’ve been all day? Woodie was looking for you earlier.”
“Probably cause I burned his pile. I’m staying here till he cools off.” She waves him hand nonchalant, Bernie snuggled up to her side. “Care to join me?”
Wilson looks to the ropes tied around the tree trunks and inspects the motion of her swinging. “I don’t think it’ll support both of our weights combined.”
“Oh C’mon, don’t be a wuss.” Willow beams a smile and lifts one of her arms in invitation. “Get over here.”
He narrows his eyes, but approuches anyways. He stops at her side, eyeing the hammock with suspision and it’s a moment of pondering until Willow decides she’s too impatient. She opens her mouth to say something witty, but cuts short as Wilson leans forward to take a place beside her, leaning across her body and making the hammock swing harder with the motion.
It’s smaller than he thought, and the two of them are pressed closer together than what is normally comfortable. Shoulders pushed next to each other, Wilson fidgets in his spot. “This is softer than I thought-”
A snap, the rope on the top end of the hammock suddenly breaks and both survivors are sent to the ground with an oof. Hitting the hard dirt, the scientist feels the ache in his back and listens to the giggles that are suddenly on top of him.
“You’re softer than I thought!” Willow has successfully maneuvered just enough to use him as a cushion, it seems. “Are you okay?”
He groans and mummers a hammock pun. Of course he’s alright.
10: Red
The color was on her shoes. Her skirt. Her hands were covered in it. It seeped through her fingers and no matter how careful she pushed or how gentle she worked the color just kept pooling out, out and out and Wilson’s shirt was blooming like a rose.
“Sorry.” His voice is low. Calm. That wasn’t a good thing. Like he accepted his fate. Willow whispers something but it comes out choked, so the scientist continues. “I didn’t want to leave you alone out here.”
She presses harder on the wound. The poultice that’s supposed to be in their backpack isn’t there. “Shut up.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow”
“Shut up.”
He goes quiet. Willow looks up with wet eyes to make sure that..you know, he’s still here. He’s looking at her too, but not really. His gaze is moving elsewhere, staring off into somewhere her own cannot follow. Blue eyes fidget, they don’t match the color of his blood. A pretty color, a warm, fiery color. She hates it right now.
“I’m trying. I’m trying. I don’t know what to do.” She’s begging him. She’s crying. Willow’s wipes the wetness off her face and doesn’t think about the blood she’s smeared across her cheek.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.” He repeats. There’s a touchstone unused, a day’s trip away but in a place much safer than here. A hand comes up, the one that wasn’t torn clean off, and tries to wipe the substance off her skin. It comes back stained, and drops to the grass. “I’ll be back. Get home safe. I need you to get home safe.”
Willow doesn’t promise him. Wilson’s voice strains again. “Please.”
A pause. A long one. The moment is only broken by the shuddering breath of someone losing their life for what seems to be the 100th time. (And it never gets easier. Maybe for him. Never for her.) Until Willow swallows the sob and feels her expression harden. “Okay. See you tomarrow.”
He’s so far gone, a slow blink it the only tell-tell that he’s even still here. Willow watches him let out the last breath of this life, and it sounds too eerily casual. “See you…tomorrow.”
11: Stars
Wilson had some sort of fascination with the stars. She’s not sure why, but she’s sure he has it. There are doodles in his notebooks, notes on possible constellations, only to be scribbled out once he realized that the sky here was not the same as the sky back at home. He constantly wonders how far they are from earth (or, wherever they are, if this was even still earth.)
He tells her of his dreams of the moon, of the knowledge he wishes he could posses of it. She thinks she heard him mummer something about talking to it, but brushes it off as a fantasy and brings taffy along with her should he be acting a little more out of sorts than usual.
He still tries to name them, even though there’s no way to know if that star is the same star that was in that exact position the night prior. (The navigation he uses is not very reliable.) She’s listening to him list them off, naming them after famous scientists, made-up names, after himself more than once, after the other survivors…
“Which one is mine?” She pipes up right after he showed which star he deemed was Wendy’s and Abigail's. (Two little specks of light, close together and seemly almost the same spot unless you looked very closely)
“Oh, right. You can’t see it right now. It’s too dark.” He answers her instictivly, lost in his fascination with the sky. Willow’s frowns. He gave her a star that didn’t even glow brightly? Rude.
A blink, and it’s when Wilson is turning to face her does she realize that she vocalized that complaint out loud. “What are you talking about? It’s the brightest one out there.”
“Well, I don’t see it.” She pouts.
Wilson’s mouth twitches upwards at the sight. “That’s because it’s nighttime.” He waits to see the realization on her face. She only stares at him. “It’s the sun. The sun is star, you know.”
Her eyes grow wide just a bit, and he can feel his face grow warmer by the second. He’s about to offer a half-assed explanation before she snorts and punches his shoulder. “The sun already has a name!”
He rubs the skin where her hand met and looks back to the sky. “I gave it a better one.”
12: Warmth
Webber fiddles with the hem of his winter hat, peering across the campfire to his travel mates. Wolfgang is fast asleep behind him, and the spider uses the his turned back as a comfortable rest for the night. The other two companions are in a comfortable position of their own, though nothing alike him.
Willow is passed clean out in Wilson’s lap, her face tucked into his neck and nose buried in the beginnings of a long beard he has. Wilson is barely awake, losing to sleep himself, but just aware enough to keep his hold on the woman, one arm wrapped around her shoulders and the other holding a lengthy stick, tending to the fire.
Webber hears a tiny snore come through. “Mr. Higgsbury?”
The scientist blinks awake. “Yes, Webber?”
“Why do you hold Miss Willow like that?”
“Because she’s cold.”
All of the spider’s eyes narrow just a little bit of confusion. “Then why not put her in the fire? She likes the fire.”
The older man falters just for a moment. “I know she likes the fire.” A moment passes, and Webber is still waiting for an answer that is sufficient enough. Wilson fiddles with the stick, letting it drop to the snow and curling his other arm closer to the woman. She seems to snuggle closer. If she was awake, she has no intention of making that known.
“I’m cold too. She’s helping.” He tells the child. It’s not a lie, not a full one anyways. But it’s enough for Webber to nod his head in understanding, hoisting up the blanket that is thrown over the strongman and himself. “Do you need a quilt, Mr. Higgsbury?”
Wilson smiles. “No, thank you. I’m doing alright, Webber.”
13: Nightmare
There’s something out there.
It’s looking for him. Searching for him. Searching for all of them, claws and teeth and intentions that don’t bode well for their health. It finds them in the daytime, forms of shadows and creatures that he can push his hand through and find it clear out the other side of it’s body. White eyes that look through him and wait for him to deteriorate. Just a little bit more. Just a little bit more to the edge and he will be vulnerable.
The creature, (a tall, creepy thing that Maxwell has dutifully named the ‘Terrorbeak’) stares down at him. Ready, but waiting. It does not shy away from him, sticking to the corners of his vision to wait for his rotting mind. It stands at attention, his hallucinations were getting stronger, more solid. He’s not safe from his own mind.
The nightmares attest to this.
Sleeping was supposed to provide safety, rest and a refresh. So why was it getting so much worse?
He’s good at lying to the others. Years have trained him for that. But words can only extend the truth so far when your eyes are sunken in, you stay up till the wake of dawn, only ever sleeping in bursts, dozing off in the worst amount of times and you flinch at the sound the wind blowing through the brushes and it sounds too eerily like a hiss.
He thinks he’s doing a good job so far, until Willow invades his tent one night while everyone else is sleeping and he’s much too lost in his thoughts and surprise to come up with an excuse as to why he’s up so late.
She plops down in front of him, their knees touching and Wilson swallows down the lump in his throat. (He must look atrocious. Dark circles. Bed head. He looks messy, not gentlemanly at all.) She doesn’t seem bothered by his appearance though. Her expression is coated with determination.
A teddy bear is shoved into his arms and the scientist fumbles with his hands for a moment before he’s able to grasp it. Willow puffs her lips out at him, crossing her arms. He realizes she looks just as disheveled as he did. “Bernie told me you weren’t doing so well.”
His eye twitches. “He told you that, did he?”
“He wouldn’t stop moving. Wouldn’t stop trying to get over here.” She pointidly scolds him.
The man looks down. A touch of shame comes across his face. “Tell him I’m doing alright.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” She brushes him off and scoots her legs out to a more comfortable position. More comfortable as in; thrown over his own legs so she can lie backwards with her head propped upwards by her elbow. Wilson looks from her position to the bear and back again, and the firestarter yawns loudly. Closely, she’s a bit too close. The tent feels smaller and more cramped the longer she is here.
Bernie twitches in his hands. One of his arms comes up to touch Wilson’s face. “Well?” Willow sounds impatient. She’s probably just as tired as he is. The scientist feels an arm push him down and he’s much too exhausted to fight it as the firestarter lays it across his chest, brushing the hair out of his eyes and the no-doubt feeling the dampness that covered his cheeks if only a few minutes prior. “Get some sleep. They can’t get you while I’m here.”
Wilson’s fingers fidget around the bear. “This is inappropriate.”
“I’ll burn them.” She ignores his comment completely. “If they come for you. I’ll burn them. Me and Bernie both.”
He doesn’t have any other choice but to hold her to that promise. So Wilson shifts to be as comfortable as he possibly can (it’s difficult not to curl up close to her, so he doesn’t try to fight it) and faces away from her. He decides not to speak again as he closes his eyes, feeling her move and shift so she’s pressed up aganist his back. He doesn’t complain about that either.
“Don’t feel bad about it. I have them too.” Her voice has gotten quieter. “But I have Bernie.”
“I don’t have a Bernie.” He feels the texture of the teddy bear, running a thumb over it’s stitches. It feels foreign. It feels well loved. Like something precious.
“You have me.” She’s tired. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.Wilson hums something incomprehensible as an answer.
In the morning, the Terrorbeak that waits for him outside the tent isn’t there anymore, and he can’t find it when he searches in the corner of his mind. He doesn’t know if he should think upon that, or the smell that she’s left behind in the fabric of his shirt.
14: Melody
Willow looks at him strangely when he puts the one-man-band in the fish-chest, (who he’s lovely named Hutch,) and stares at him even stranger when music begins to play out of the creature. Wilson looks proud of himself.
“And, you wanna explain to me…Why??” She crouches down, the light from her head lamp shines off the slimy skin it has and makes it glimmer. It peers up at her with a happy, wet face. The music that is playing throughout the caves now is…relaxing, to say the least. It makes her wanna dance, just a little. She doesn’t remember the last time she truly danced.
“Just something to ease the tension, I guess.” Wilson’s explanation is half-hearted, but the smile on his face is full of pride and accomplishment. And mischief. She wonders if the dark down here is starting to get to him. In any case, she enjoys the music just as much as he appears to be. “We can’t take him up to the surface with us though, so I’m afriad any ‘dance parties’ we host are going to be down here. Damp place, unfortunately. It wouldn’t be so bad if we lit the place up a little.”
“Is that permission to set off explosions in here?” She pipes up. He shushes her with a chuckle. Willow puts a hand on her hip, a smile matching to his. “And I thought you hated parties.”
“I hate a lot of things.” He shrugs off his backpack, dusting off his shoudlers and setting the lantern down to the side, the light casting off it illuminating the three figures. A spotlight in the dark, the darkness around them holds a shadowed audience. Wilson holds out a hand. “Care to dance?”
She snickers at him. “I thought you hated dancing.”
A tilt of his head.“Do you?”
“No?”
“Then humor me.”
She lets out a huff of air, shrugging off her own backpack and placing her hand in his palm.
15: Scream
He has never heard a sound so bone-chilling.
Wilson drops what he was doing (the tools he was using clatter to the ground, he almost stumbles over them as he jumps to attention, scrambling to grab his spear and running towards the source of the scream.
It’s a voice he knows well. A voice that keeps him grounded. And it’s screaming. Incomprehensible. It’s the first time he’s ever heard her yell. Ever heard her voice go as high as that. The feeling that lurches in his chest as he runs is not a comfortable one.
He finally runs into the clearing where she’s situated and skids to a stop, searching for the source. He finds her, crouched on the ground, and for a moment the thought that he’s heaved over with some unseen wound comes through his mind, but it’s dispersed once she notices his appearance.
Willow looks up with enlighten, panicked speed, one hand down a rabbit hole and a wide eyed, panicked look on her face. Wilson feels his heart stammer. “What-”
“I dropped my lighter down a stupid rabbit hole!” She whines. The tension in his shoulders drop immediately. “I can’t get it out. I think it’s lost forever!”
Wilson feels his face go still, slack and drop all in a span of three seconds. Spear stuck in the ground, he takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. Relief, perhaps with a touch of frustration. “I thought…I thought this was something more serious.”
“This is VERY serious!”
16: Clothes
His vest was beyond repair. Torn to shreds, thread and other indiscernible pieces of fabric so ruined that Wilson must come to accept the fact that one of the only things that kept him anchored to The World Before was irreversibly destroyed.
It’s fine. He has other clothes. But the vest was a trademark of his. Like Wendy’s flower, like Wicker bottom's glasses. Just a little part of his attire that made him feel perhaps just a little bit civilized in a world where living trees walk and sky occasionally rained frogs.
It was bits and pieces when he threw it out, so color him surprised when he finds it in one piece laid out upon the science machine once evening on his return from the swampland.
He picks it up, inspecting it with suspicion. His first thought it that this is a trick, or even a gift from the shadows. But turning the vest inside out shows all the stitching invisible to the outside, perfected with impeccable skill. The kind of sewing skill that only one person in the camp could boast.
He finds her later to tell her thank you, and Willow just looks at him with half a kabob in her mouth. “So now you can wear your vest, I want what the boxes gave you.” She looks out to the rest of the camp mates, too far to hear her before turning back to him. “I just wanted to wear the sweater you have on.”
Wilson blinks at her, glances down to himself before raising a brow. “I thought you didn’t like blue.”
“It just looks cute.” She sounds oddly defensive. “Hand it over whenever you’re done with it. I mean, if that’s cool.” She grabs something from the fire. A kabob is outstretched to him.
Wilson stares at her for a moment. He shakes his head, a smile on his face and plops down to join her. “I would have given it to you if you had asked prior. You didn’t have to spend the time to fix this for me.”
She mumbles something, but her mouth is too full for him to understand.
17: Origami
Willow learned lots of things as a girl scout. Origami was one of them.
It’s not often they have spare paper. Reeds are dangerous to get and it takes a time and amount to shape them into something usable. Still on the occasional when the season hasn’t been has harsh, or perhaps they made more than what they were expecting to need, she’ll make something cute. Something to pass the time. Cranes and spiders and bunnies and other little things that the children of the camp like to crawl over and watch her craft are fun to make.
Not as fun as it is to throw the finished creations in the fire and watch the paper burn to nothingness. But it was fun.
It’s funny when she finds Wilson trying (and failing) to put together a simple paper giraffe one early morning when he thinks everyone else is still asleep. She comes up behind him quiet as mouse. “Whatcha doin?”
“AHCK-” The man jumps, her appearance a surprise. The folded, messed up paper he was messing with prior tumbles to the ground and lands in front of her shoes. Wilson holds a hand over his heart. “Hell. Quit scaring me like this.”
His request goes unheard of. The fire starter crouches down to the creation, picking it up with careful hands. The gentleman sits nervously as she inpects his handiwork, no doubt with harsh judgement. “You bent it’s neck all wrong. It looks broken.” She looks at him with mischief. “Giraffe murderer.”
Wilson sighs. “Yes, well. Oramni isn't really something I’m practiced in.”
She joins with him, closely sitting by. Wilson notices her distance is short, but her attention is still held by the paper. “Whats with the sudden interest to learn how to do it?”
“Do I need a reason?” He sounds oddly child-like defensive for a man in his early 30s. “The pursuit of knowledge extends to all forms. Including,” He gestures to the paper, and Willow sticks out her tongue and holds it protectively close. “That.”
“Uh huh, sure.” She jests. “Want me to teach you how to make one?”
The scientist looks sheepish. “If you’d want to.”
18: Worms
There’s dirt in his fingernails and an ache in his wrists, but even as Wilson wipes the sweat off his brow (and by default, dirt on his forehead) he can’t help but feel a little proud with the garden work. Scientist don’t normally do manual labor as such, but the plot work looks good! Hypothesis tells him that these crops should be ready before winter.
Willow is behind him, making fake-vomiting noises as he wipes the guck off his hands and onto his pants. “Plants are boring. I don’t wanna garden.”
“Well, if you want to have your chili, we don’t have a choice.” He turns to her and watches her lip stick out at the mention of her favorite food. “Or you can just be like Wigfrid and eat nothing but meat all the time, if that’s what you prefer.”
He wants to laugh at her reaction. He doesn’t like gardening either, (or nature, for that matter) either, but desperate times opens new doors. She wrinkles her nose at him as he leans down again, watching him pick up a squirming worm. “Says the guy who’s diet consists of nearly 90% mushrooms.”
He throws the worm at her. It lands on her skirt. “Hush, you.”
19: Teddy
He is a protector, a guardian. Always have been, always will be. Bernie wasn’t created to be those things, he was created to be a toy, but things change. His girl changed. She used to be so scared, and he handled that. Now she’s bigger, fearless. But she still needs to be protected. That’s just what teddy bears do. That’s just what he does.
He’s not certain about the newcomers. Newcomers have never stuck around before, and even if they did, they were never always nice. But she’s got no where else to go, (despite him telling her otherwise) so she stays. She tries to adapt. And so does he.
The one that found her is the one she talks to the most. She speaks to the others, friends with them even. The viking with red hair the bear can respect. She yells too loudly and is much too animated, but is a warrior dedicated to protecting her friends and allies. Bernie can respect this. The strongman is not far behind on his list.
Willow is friends with them, spends time with them. But they’re not her ‘besties’. (Bernie will always be the first bestie. She needs a human one though. He worries about that for her.)
Then there are others. The older man with receding hair that reeks of shadow, or the robot that is keen on stealing Bernie when she has her back turned. He doesn’t trust them. He doesn’t think she should either. Those they have trusted before have stabbed them in the back and lessons must be learned.
Willow tries to be friends with those people anyway, the robot more over than the older man, and everyone else is just variables in the mix. She tells him she’s found a place where she belongs, with people who care about her, and he believes her. But still. He wonders.
The one who found her keeps close by, and at first Bernie thinks that he is a (threat). But overtime it becomes clear that the man is anything but.
Bernie still watches him, not out of guard, but out of pure curiosity, however, as Willow keeps him to her chest and laughs at whatever the wild haired man is saying. Puns or something, it’s all stuffing in the teddy’s ears.
One night, he feels something off. At first, he thinks it’s her. So he jumps from his inactivity, stuffed limbs moving and ready, but there are no shadows. No threats, no nightmares. The feeling of (threat) is still there, but Willow is fast asleep to his side. Bernie feels something wrong a distance away.
Willow awakens when he stumbles over her ankle trying to make it through the tent flaps, falling over his face and fumbling to stand again. Her hands come around his body and lift him upwards, sleepily asking in confusion. What’s wrong?
His head lops over to the side. Willow follows the direction of Bernie’s gaze to the man’s tent, where something else stands guard that she can’t see. Not guard. Waiting. Preying on something. The Terrorbeak glances over at the teddy bear and takes a step backwards.
“Oh.” She can’t see it. But she understands. Bernie feels like she is a tad bit safer as she approaches his tent.
20: Doctor
“Stay back, slut!” Willow juts out a closed umbrella towards him. “I’m armed!.”
Wilson’s gaze darts from her ‘weapon’ of choice to the woman’s other side, her sleeve covered in blood. “I don’t know if I should be more appalled by your language towards me or that horrible use of a pun.”
“You’re one to talk!”
Willow keeps her good arm up, holding the umbrella outwards to deter the scientist from coming closer. It doesn’t work. He bats it out of her hand with a swift move of the hand and settles down beside her. “Quit that, you’ll strain yourself.”
The brunette groans and tries to squirm away, but the scientist puts a hand on her hip, (apologetically, of course) effectively preventing her from scooting away. He tries to offer her a kinder look, his voice going softer.“Please? You’re arm won’t heal properly unless we treat it immediately.”
The firestarter grits her teeth, whether in pain or in frustration there’s no telling. Tears dot the corners of her eyes but her mouth is still twisted in the same furiocity she had when she was facing the hounds. “I’m fine-”
“Your elbow is dislocated.” He looks over her arm with worry lines creasing in his face. He swallows his concern, places one hand at the joint of her arm and the other holding her wrist, summoning up the most pleasant and apologetic smile he could muster. “This will probably hurt. Sorry.”
A slight twinge of fear comes to her eyes. It makes him feel horrible. “But, I can’t really feel anything in this arm.”
“You will.” He hates how that sounds, but the nerves are going to come back full force once he sets it back. “Are you ready? I can count to three, if you want.” Wilson feels a bit nervous himself. “Do you want something to bite down on?”
“If it hurts, I’ll bite YOU.” She curses. She’s grumpy when she’s in pain.
“Noted.” He holds her wrist gently, thumb over her calm and lets our arm extend outwards to the best of her ability. Willow winces at the incoming pain, and Wilson tells her to take a deep breathe. “One, two…”
Three. He pushes the joint upwards and pushes her wrist back so her arm bends at an angle just enough for a loud, pop noise to sound out. It loud, but not as loud as the sharp hiss and cry of pain that comes from her. “AUGH FUCK! That fucking HURT. You FUCKER!”
Her other hand lashes out and grabs his collar, yanking him forwards. Willow hunches over in pain, the top of her head against his chest hissing out curses and other unsavory sentences. Her other arm hangs limply, but fixed to the side. Wilson can only stroke her back and ignore the initial embarrassment. “Sorry.”
A tiny cry came out. A tear rolled down her face and a sniff hinted that the pain was passing, so she looks up and gives him a half-hearted smile. “It’s fine.” She sighs, shuddering for a moment. A glance to her arm. “Thanks doc. I’m sorry for calling for a slut. And a fucker. And other stuff.”
He lets her stay as long as she needs to catch her breathe. “You’re forgiven. I guess.” He can hear her raspberry against his shirt.
21: Triumph
It looks like him. It talks like him. It sounds like him. It doesn’t smile like him.
It doesn’t smile like him.
She’s alone. One of the things he told her never to be. But they never worried about that, because they were also together. Partners. A team. A duo the Constant wouldn’t stand a chance against. The Constant decided to play dirty.
White pinpricks in the dark don’t hold any color. They don’t hold any recognition either. But they glow, glowering at her from the shadows, staring at her, the lighter in her hands. The light glints off it’s razor teeth, pulled up into a sinister smile that’s supposed to be a mockery of a pleasant greeting.
Willow’s back hits the tree.
It watches her scramble backwards with amusement, trying to get away from it, staring in shock. Disbelief. Horror. Whatever expression she is wearing must be fascinating, because it’s soaking it in and reveling in the way her eyes widen at the sight of it coming closer. Too close. But not close enough. There’s a light she’s holding. Fire is the only thing that keeps her safe now.
He looks to her lighter with distaste. Like it’s an inconvenience.
Willow holds it out further. White eyes glint at the action. Wisps of black trail off it suit, it hair, it skin. There’s a scream in the back of her throat. Or a sob. Or a curse. She can’t really tell, but her entire body is shaking as it steps closer, just out of radius for the lighter, but close enough to see it face fully. It wears his face.
A black, tainted hand with clawed finger tips outstretch to her, and he gives her a sharp smile. “Wilson P. Higgsbury, at your service.”