Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maxwell had always had an affliction, of sorts.

There was never a point where the man wasn't letting out small coughs, crushing the rose petals that fell from his mouth under his boot or ripping them to shreds in his hands. The rose pinned to his lapel was a real one, real enough to wilt, and every so often was replaced. It wasn't too hard to bridge the gap of understanding and note that he probably wasn't picking replacement roses.

"Excuse me," the man mutters, bringing a hand to his mouth in the middle of dinner. Nobody bats an eye, used to him excusing himself in this way. At one point, they'd ask what was wrong, only to receive the reply 'I am a horrible man,' and nothing else. It's not like any of them actually wanted to contest him on that point, and he knew it enough to use it to shut them up.

"It's dark," Wilson supplies, lifting the torch he keeps close to him and offering it handle-first to Maxwell. He takes it with no reply, quickly standing up to light it in the fire, grab a shovel, and stalk off to bury whatever escapes his mouth this time.

With his presence gone, the environment around their fire lightens a bit, but not before Woodie grumbles out a, "hoser." This sparks laughter from Willow, who puts a hand on his shoulder joyously.

"Hush, you two," Wickerbottom scolds, but her heart obviously isn't into it, as she flips a page in her newest book and writes in more words.

"Oh please," Willow says, leaning in Wickerbottom's direction. "He's a big nerd and we all know it."

"I believe that's an insult to nerds, Willow," Wilson adds, through a mouthful of meatball. "Though I am a bit concerned, hadn't his coughing stopped recently, for the most part?"

"You only say that because you're also a big nerd."

Winona sighs from the other side of the fire. "As much as I hate to say it, y'all could use a little more respect for this. I know he ain't told anyone what's happenin' to him, but it's not pretty."

"He doesn't deserve pretty," Woodie says, shaking his head. He opens his mouth to say more, but is interrupted from doing so by a laugh from Wortox, who strolls in with his hands behind his back.

"At this point, I don't have to play any pranks on him! He pranks himself! Hyuhuhu!"

Winona raises her head at that. "An' what exactly would those be?"

"Why would I ruin the fun of discovery by telling you?" is the imp's reply, as he strolls over and sits easily beside WX-78, wrapping his tail around the bot's chasis with entirely too little care. WX-78 turns to give him an offended look, somehow, and Wortox just shrugs good-naturedly. "The tail does what the tail wants to do."

"'THE TAIL' DOES NOT HAVE ANY LOGIC SYSTEM, NOR A MEATBRAIN. IT CANNOT HAVE WANTS"

"Hyuhuhu, are you so sure?"

That seems to shut WX-78 up for the moment, as the bot does its very best to figure out if it is sure or not. The fact it didn't give an immediate reply means it probably isn't, and Willow snorts as she recognizes this.

Wilson leads toward Webber, smiling st the child affectionately. "We're not exactly unfamiliar with creatures with two consciousness, are we, Webber?" Whether the man actually believes Wortox about his tail or is just going along with the gag is up in the air, but the way Webber smiles when referenced makes up for the possibility of having to tell Wilson that no, it was a joke.

"Nope! We're very happy like this."

"Abby and I are also a creature with two consciousness," Wendy adds, throwing the stick of her finished kabob into the fire. Abigail drifts a bit closer as she speaks, then away again. The poor girl always seemed so shy and gentle, right until you started going after her sister.

"I guess you are," Wilson confirms with a hum. He leans back to stretch, then looks into the trees. "It's been a minute. When you saw Maxwell, Wortox, was he headed back?"

Wortox does not reply, apparently busy watching WX-78 begin to shake as the robot thinks. Most likely, he just didn't want to reply, for whatever tricky reason he'll never give up. Wilson grumbles and looks to Winona, who seems a bit surprised by the regard.

"You said you know something about what's up with him."

"I can say for certain my sister did it."

"That would do it. Care to share, or...?"

"I know I ain't the nicest to him, but it's really somethin' he needs to talk on himself."

"Which probably means he won't," Willow adds, making a face.

"No kidding," Wilson mutters, sticking the last of his meatballs in in his mouth. "Damn him, he doesn't even let us try to help him."

"I don't see why you try," Willow mutters, "I want to set his suit on fire and nothing else."

"It's a good thing to do, Willow."

"It's gonna bite you in the ass."

Wilson gasps in offense and slides his hands between the spider legs on Webber's head, ignoring the child's protests about that not actually being where their ears are.

"Oh shut up," Willow says, "you just said damn a minute ago."

"It's not that bad!" Wilson cries, then turns his head frantically when Wendy reaches over to tap him on the shoulder.

"Fuck you, mister Wilson," she says, turning to him with a deadpan.

"No!!"

Willow laughs at his reaction, leaning on Woodie again. He joins in, as do Wolfgang and Wigfrid as the scientist looks desperately around for anyone on his side. Winona avoids his gaze, and while Wickerbottom would normally voice the same concerns, she regards him with silent superiority. Wes, on the other hand, appears to also be miming laughter.

Wilson opens his mouth to say something else, but is interrupted by the return of the man they'd been discussing. "Maxwell," he calls out, "what took you so long? Things seemed to be improving, last I noticed any coughing from you."

Maxwell doesn't meet his eyes, crushing something colourful in his free hand as he snuffs out the torch he'd been given and hands it back to Wilson.

"Not even gonna talk, huh." Wilson accepts the return of the torch with a frown.

"Shut it."

"Oh," Wilson draws himself away, startled by the stern tone the other man used. Though Maxwell often acted as if he didn't want to be spoken to, it was never in this way. "Fine, then. Sorry for trying to extend an olive branch, geez."

"Don't be," Maxwell mutters, turning around and practically stomping off to his tent.

"What's gotten into him?" Willow asks once he's gone. "Usually he's not that bad, right? On that note, actually," she winks at Wilson, "I heard that 'geez'."

"Yeah, yeah. We're all bound to pick up things from each other while we're here," Wilson says, relaxing a bit. "You're right, though. He really isn't."

"I dunno if it was just me, but the thing 'n his hand didn't look much like a rose," Winona comments, seemingly in thought.

"You think he's coughing up other flowers, now?" Wilson turns to look at her, joining in with his own thoughtful expression.

"I hope not. That would, to put it lightly, make things pretty complicated, and not in the 'fun to build' way."

"How would flowers do that?" Willow asks, making a scrunched up, but not quite thoughtful, face of her own.

Winona shakes her head. "Ask 'im yourself."

"Ugh, no thanks."

"Next time I see him, I very well might," Wilson says. "You're saying there's a reason, which means science! He has no right to forbid me to do science!" A pause. "Before then, though, we should probably all sleep."

"Especially if you plan to do science," Wickerbottom adds, earning herself a glare from him, which she ignores as she closes her book to stand and head to her tent.

The gathering around the fire disperses, questions on the situation left to be discussed further in the morning.

Chapter Text

When Wilson woke, he could see it was still dark out. Just lightening into day, so he could lay and rest just a little longer. They'd all gotten used to getting up immediately so they could start doing what they needed to survive, but that didn't mean anyone liked it. Now that there were more of them, well... resting until it was truly day out there wouldn't hurt as much.

Besides, he could hear some of the others talking outside. They were speaking in low voices, obviously trying not to disturb anyone, but they weren't that hard to understand. Not when your mind's been forced to process every sound you hear and assess it for danger.

"...really out to ruin as many lives as possible. Even if those are your own. Ha!" Winona. The exclamation of amusement couldn't come from anyone else.

"I didn't want this," comes a hiss in reply. Maxwell.

Wilson scoots a little closer to the entrance of his tent, remembering the discussion last night. They must be talking about it.

Winona chuckles, "you can't really say that, can'tcha? This wouldn't be a problem if that was true."

There's no reply from Maxwell, at least none that Wilson can hear. What he does hear, though, is what is definitely Winona slapping him on the back after a minute of that silence.

"Hey, you didn't die last time. And ya know this time already that it ain't gonna work. Maybe just wait it out."

"As if she'll let me. Now that it's not her..."

"I've more faith in 'er than that," Wilson can almost hear the smirk in her voice, "if she's still in there, she'll give you as much time as possible. And if she ain't? She still will, just to see ya suffer."

"That's..." Maxwell doesn't get to finish his sentence, interrupted by coughs. For a moment, he sounds like he's choking, and the coughing lasts a minute at the very least, as far as Wilson can tell.

"It's somethin'. You think you'll pin that as a replacement? Looks like a full one."

"Perhaps. I can't help but wonder which one it is."

Wilson frowns, finally sitting up as the conversation slows. That didn't give much information, which meant he'll probably have to harass Maxwell after all. It's been so long since he actually had something to discover, though, he's almost happy he didn't glean much from the conversation. Real science!

Even though it means he'll have to bother Maxwell. He'd really prefer having to deal with that guy as little as possible, but at the same time... If he does figure it out, he might have something new to hold over the man's head.

With renewed vigor, he clambers out of his tent, only to have it collapse behind him.

"Damn," he mutters, giving the two a somewhat embarrassed glance before turning back to pick up the remains. Even though he knew it wasn't any fault of his, he couldn't help it.

Maxwell makes some unhappy noise, and Winona laughs. "Need help with that?" she asks, standing to walk over.

"At least in getting everything out of the way," Wilson replies. "Where's Wickerbottom, by the way?"

"Out. Dunno what she's doin', but I admire her work ethic."

The two of them begin to move the cloth out of the way as they speak. "Pretty sure she's just an insomniac."

"She's still out there doin' important things instead of just sittin' around."

"You know what, fair enough." Wilson pauses, then grins, leaning to look at Maxwell. "Unlike some of us."

The other man looks up at him from his struggles to undo his pin, expression unreadable for a moment before settling on a halfhearted glare. Winona laughs, then tugs at the fabric to get Wilson's attention again.

"C'mon, boys. Can't spend all day fighting," she throws the cloth off, "we've work to do!"

"Yaay," Wilson says disinterestedly, going in to scoop his things off the ground where he'd set them within his tent. "I wish these things would last longer. We need so many so that everyone has one and then they collapse within a week."

"If you're up to figurin' out how, I'm up to buildin' better ones."

"...Maybe. Speaking of building, can you build me a chest for all of this? Can't carry it forever, and last I checked we're low on silk. I'd rather not use the last of it for now."

"I'll see if we've got any wood," Winona says with a nod.

"Sweet."

Wilson finishes gathering up his things, rolling up all his sketches and notes into one roll to save space and tucking it under his armpit. The little scale models are less easily sorted, but he manages to get most of it together in his arms. It's a good thing he made a little box for his pencils, too. Even if everyone calls all of his things a 'waste of resources', he can't really help it. Besides, he gets all the resources himself.

The only problem was the bigger thing he'd been working on. Arms full, he stares down at the shiny frame of the prototype, not really sure what to do with it. In the end, that's probably what collapsed the tent, but he hadn't wanted to get anyone's hopes up on it working by leaving it in the open.

"And what, exactly, is that supposed to be?"

Wilson doesn't startle, already aware Maxwell had been approaching, just keeping it in the back of his mind. He'd gotten over the fear of the man trying to sneak-attack him.

"A bicycle. Maybe. Kept it in there because I wasn't quite sure it was going to work."

"...It doesn't look right."

"Thanks."

In the corner of his eye, Wilson sees Maxwell tilt his head as he rolls his eyes, and internally basks in having annoyed him. As he turns to externally bask, though, he catches sight of the new flower on his lapel.

"Is that a darwin orchid?" he asks, leaning forward to get a better look at it. "I love orchids! Where'd you get this? Are you coughing these up now?" He starts to move one of his arms to reach out for it, only to be painfully reminded that he's holding things by some of his models landing on his feet.

Maxwell steps back, seemingly because of the sudden barrage of questions, as well as the sudden barrage of painful objects at their feet. "Er, yes."

Wilson speaks excitedly, even as he readjusts his arms to try to allow himself to pick the models he dropped back up. "If you get more whole ones, you'll give them to me, right? I used to try to breed some, but growing them is harder than you'd think, much less breeding any. Never got my hands on darwins though, expensive little things. They've got a good amount of meaning, being, well, darwin's orchids, and all. Science!"

Wow, Maxwell really looks like he doesn't want to be here right now. And not in the fun annoyed way. Wilson hates seeing him look genuinely awkward, if only because it makes him feel mean. He kind of regrets going off like that, but damn, did he love orchids. So varied, so rare, and so... scientific! It's taking all he can to keep himself from dropping more of his things out of excitement.

Luckily for Maxwell, Winona returns, raising her eyebrows at the scene before her. "Whew. You've managed to get Wilson excited, I see."

"Apparently, he is a fan of orchids."

"I wouldn't have guessed." Winona says that oddly, but Wilson doesn't bother to question it, still grinning like a madman.

"They're scientific!"

"Well, I hate to ruin your excitement, but we're out of wood."

That does shoot Wilson's excitement. "Completely?"

"We got one log." Winona holds it up for emphasis.

"Damnit. I guess I'll just... Can you pull the cloth out in front of me?"

Winona does as told, though she looks a bit confused about it. Once the cloth's out, Wilson squats down to deposit the things in his arms. One tumbles away, and he reaches out to grab it and bring it back in. Then, simply wraps it all up in the cloth.

"This will have to do for now," he says, shaking his head a bit.

"I will go get us more wood," Maxwell says suddenly, already drawing nightmare fuel from his pockets.

"You're actually volunteering to do something?" Wilson asks, standing back up. "What happened to the lazy old man we all know and love?"

Both Winona and Maxwell seem to cringe at that. Uh? Before Wilson can question why, though, Maxwell's turned stiffly around and has let the Codex Umbra drop down half a foot or so away from him.

"Would you rather I did not? The option is still on the table," Maxwell says with sudden venom, apparently extremely focused on the book.

"By all means, go for it," Wilson replies, "I'm definitely not about to stop you. Actually, though, may I come with? There's something I've meant to ask you about."

"Absolutely not." Two shadows with axes appear beside him, and he scoops the Codex back up as he walks quickly off.

Wilson blinks, turning to Winona with a look of confusion. She just shakes her head, then turns to the bicycle frame.

"What's this supposed to be?"

"Oh. A bicycle, if I can get it working."

"Doesn't look right for a bike. Frame's all wrong."

"Ugh, Maxwell said that too. I've been trying, but I just can't remember how it's supposed to look."

"Ya got more paper wrapped up in there? I think I've got it..."

Chapter Text

Maxwell sits upon a stump, holding his head at the sides and crying. Not very kingly of him, but he didn't bother to pretend he was much like a king anymore when alone and in his own head. At first, it had been habit, more than anything. Now? Just him pretending he had any kind of personality left at all for the other survivors. He wouldn't know what to do with himself otherwise. Anything he'd been before being king has slipped through his fingers and left him with nothing.

He wishes he had something. Maybe if he did, he wouldn't be in this situation.

Immediately, he regrets even thinking about it, quickly moving to grasp his shovel and lean on that for the moment as he coughs up flowers. Orchids, he corrects himself, focusing on that for the time being, instead of the pain. Unlike the mostly red roses, the orchids which escape from his lungs are varied, which was what clued him in on them being orchids at all. No other type of flower could be so endlessly varied and yet still be the same.

God, he hadn't, expected Wilson to be so excited about them. Charlie had loved roses, sure, but Wilson seemed genuinely passionate about the flowers. He hadn't really managed to pay much attention to what he was saying at the time, but he did equate them with science, so. Of course.

Maxwell's whole body seems to shake with the power required for the next cough, and at this point he's really struggling to breathe. It wouldn't be so bad, but he's crying too. Trying to manage the breaths required to cry as well as not choke on flower petals wasn't exactly easy.

He decides to find something else to focus on. Thinking about this will only make it worse. Start on the hole you'll bury these in.

That's what he does, weakly standing up and pressing the blade of the shovel into the dirt. It doesn't go very far, so he brings up a foot and puts all his weight on it.

This time, it goes through, but the shovel also breaks under him, sending him tumbling to the ground.

The panic and sudden hit to his chest at least help him get the last of this batch of flowers out of his windpipe, and for that reason he doesn't bother to get up immediately. He's not going to asphyxiate. For now. Instead, he just cries from his pathetic position on the ground.

The flint from the broken shovel blade is pressing into his side. The weight of his sins presses on his mind. The soft touch of flower petals press onto his cheeks, but so does the blood which had escaped his lungs with them.

He wasn't content, laying on the ground and sobbing like this, but he was certainly resigned to it. As he was with all things. Fate had long ago decided he wasn't worth a damn thing.

That wasn't entirely true, though, was it?

No, fate had decided he was worth worse than nothing. Just torture the man, even though all he'd wanted, was, was...

What was it that he'd wanted again?

He didn't remember what it originally was. It's been too long. He doesn't even remember enough of who he used to be to make a guess. The only thing that comes to mind is what he wants now.

Wilson.

Thinking about it makes his chest constrict in at least two different ways, both his heart and his lungs warning him at going down this train of thought will be disastrous. Though, he is already on the ground, crying, in the middle of the forest. There's not much reason not to. His shadows are hard at work cutting trees, and will continue to be even if he drives himself entirely insane.

The only thing that would change anything is if he died, but even that wouldn't change much at all. He'd still be here, just as a marginally more useless ghost. The changing of the rules of death here when she'd taken to the throne are a curse as well, for he couldn't even try to escape and get over things in a new world.

He wouldn't enjoy a world without Wilson, but he isn't exactly enjoying this one with him either. That damnable scientist.

He wasn't going to bother pretending it wasn't what it was. The time for that had passed. Maxwell had managed to fall in love with him. Noting that sends flowers up from his lungs again, and he finally at least partially pulls himself up from the ground so that he doesn't choke.

How could he not, though? While perhaps not conventionally attractive by any means, the man seemed practically built to survive out here. Smart in all the right ways, allowing himself to describe the trees here as simply 'piney' and 'leafy' rather than getting caught on what exactly they were. Reserving his mental ability for when it was important.

Adaptable, too. As soon as he'd been dropped in, he hadn't sat around trying to figure out where he was or anything. He'd recognized immediately that he was in a survival situation and began stockpiling anything and everything. Rarely did Maxwell see Wilson hesitate to do anything, the man only pausing when things were genuinely unknown. As soon as he had any inkling of what was happening, he was right on it.

The amount of confidence he seemed to have in that regard, especially when it was mostly unfounded, was definitely attractive. That wasn't the main thing that Maxwell loved about him, though. And it certainly wasn't the thing that tortured him endlessly.

No, the thing that Maxwell loves most about Wilson is the fact that Wilson hates him. Yet! Yet! He is still so, so, endlessly kind to him. Even from the very beginning, he'd chosen to put the key in the lock. Maxwell had done his best to make it clear what would happen if he did without gaining Their wrath, yet he did anyway. Wilson had tried to attack him as the first action he'd done when he got there, obviously still so very mad at him, and yet he freed him anyway. He chose to.

Then, while he was on that throne, he did nothing to him. There was no horrible destruction, just the regularly scheduled things Maxwell himself had already set up. For sure, Wilson had been struggling against the throne. They must have tried to entice him with revenge, but obviously he didn't take it.

And after he was off! Again, the first thing he tried to do was punch him, but Maxwell distinctly remembered him putting a spear he'd been holding off to the side to do so. He didn't immediately go to kill him, even though he got pretty damn close with how much he tried to pummel him. After that was over with, though... He'd conversed with him, allowed him to attempt to help with his project, seemed to be enjoying himself when it finally came to building it.

Once everyone was here? He'd convinced them all to give him a chance, too. Even though Maxwell could tell it was partially because he didn't want to have to deal with him all the time. When he did, though, almost everyone agreed, having already randomly passed by him back when the worlds were mostly separate and learned that he was trustworthy.

Even now, Wilson was kind enough to him. He could still tell Wilson hated him, with the way he phrased things and his body language. It'd be impossible not to see it. Even then, though, he could see he was doing his best not to be legitimately offensive. That, too! He hated him, yet he cared enough not to truly offend him!

Truly, Wilson gave him far more than Maxwell thought he deserved, far more than Wilson obviously thought he deserved, and yet he didn't seem all that naïve either. So willing to help, to perhaps not forget but to, in a way, forgive...

That was what was truly attractive about him. It still threw Maxwell off sometimes, and every time it did he could feel a bit of the softness that came with love come back to him. Only two days ago he'd realized that's what it was, and that's when all this started again. Just a bit after that he realized he no longer felt as strongly for Charlie, and probably hadn't for half an eternity.

Now, thinking back at all those moments of suddenly feeling softer and more comfortable, all he can feel is the stabbing pain of heartbreak and the squeeze of the flowers in his lungs. Fate, apparently, had decided long ago that he didn't deserve love, and he knew even if it hadn't, Wilson would never be the one to give it to him.

Maxwell has to stop thinking, choking on his sobs and flowers again. In front of him is practically a whole bouquet at this point, and he stares at it, vision blurring as he weakly tries to hit himself and get the flowers stuck in his throat out. Isn't there a way...? His mind goes fuzzy from the lack of air.

Finally, though, with one more desperate cough, he gets it out, and stops to just breathe for a minute. In, out, there goes a stray petal, in again, out again.

Reaching up to his face, he wipes the tears from his eyes and the blood from his mouth. Damnit. He couldn't say he didn't deserve this, but that didn't make it hurt any less. If only, it made it hurt more. It was all his fault, anyway. He was only getting just as much pain as he caused back.

He looks up as something approaches him - stopping him from inevitably spiraling into crippling self-hatred again - finding himself looking up at one of his shadow minions. The other joins in a few ticks later, and Maxwell takes in a shaky breath. "Good- good work, you two." He has no idea if it is, but it's polite to say so. "You are dismissed."

They fall away, stray pieces of nightmare fuel which had been once their bodies dropping to the ground in their places. Absently, he returns the material to his pockets.

Then his gaze falls on the flowers again, and he pauses. He should... look for whole ones. Wilson said he wanted them, hadn't he? Besides, his shovel is broken anyway, so he can't bury them.

So, Maxwell begins to sift through the petals, looking for whole-looking flowers. There were surprisingly few, considering how much he felt like he was coughing up whole ones, but the ones he did find were actually quite nice looking.

The best of all of them was probably this red one. It was fairly small, compared to all of the others he'd collected, but actually had a bit of leaves with it, probably because something or someone decided something as small as it wasn't torture enough. He couldn't help but smile at it, though. Red was Wilson's favourite colour, wasn't it? It had always seemed so. He seemed to love small things too.

He'd love this one.

Maxwell sets aside the whole flowers, putting the red one down with care, and sweeps the rest away into the beginnings of the hole he'd created. There's blood on the grass, and it smears on his hands. He takes a sheet of silk from his pockets to wipe it off, as well as give the whole flowers a simple wipe as well. They're unsanitary anyway, for sure, but at the very least he can get the blood off of them.

"Oh dear, what has happened here?"

Maxwell raises his head, startled by the sudden voice. Wickerbottom moves through the trees nearby, picking up the pieces of wood his dutiful shadows had left laying on the ground. She seems like she hasn't noticed him quite yet, so he quickly turns away to wipe at his face again, get rid if the last of the tears and the blood at his mouth.

Then, he stands, tucking his selection of flowers delicately into a pocket with the silk. Except for the red one, of course. It's a little odd, but he refuses to let anything happen to it.

"Wickerbottom," he calls, and she turns to look in his direction.

Walking up to him, Wickerbottom raises her eyebrows. "You look like a disaster, dear. What is it you're holding?"

"An orchid, I believe," he can't exactly deny looking like a disaster.

"Appears to be... dendrobium cuthbertsonii. A red variant, of course. Where did you find it?"

A sigh. "My lungs."

"Oh, I see... The one on your lapel, then, angraecum sesquipedale, also?"

"I don't believe whatever this affliction is cares on the genus of the flowers, only that they are considered orchids, so yes."

"A jump from only roses, is it not?"

Maxwell doesn't reply, hoping that she won't bother to press any further. Much like Winona, Wickerbottom seems to have decided the proper way to treat him is as if he was an overgrown child. At least Winona appears to see him as more of a younger sibling. He appreciates it in some ways, as it means they tolerate him enough to be almost affectionate, but definitely not in others.

"Well then. I assume all of this is the work of your shadows?"

"We were out of wood," he supplies.

"A respectable decision, then. Shall we collect it all?"

"You can, if you'd like, work like this isn't fit for... for..." Maxwell brings his free hand to his head, then sighs. "I don't have the energy for this. Let's just do it."

Wickerbottom seems fairly surprised, but doesn't bother to contest him on that, instead nodding and beginning to collect more of the fallen trees. Maxwell joins her, weakly, until finally she corals him back to the stump he'd been sitting on before.

"You are far too frail to be doing any of this right now, young man."

Maxwell opens his mouth to reply, but what comes out instead is a cough and a few orchid petals. He just lowers his head and relaxes a little instead, truly too weak and too lacking in energy to contest it.

He'll just, close his eyes for a second.

Chapter Text

"He is getting worse. I found him weak and surrounded by petals in one of the nearby forests, and he fainted soon after."

Is that another flower he's holding?"

"Yes, dendrobium cuthbertsonii. He seemed oddly protective of it."

"It's so small..."

"Er, Wilson?"

Wilson doesn't look up from his spot on the ground. He's surrounded by papers, and straddling the frame of the bicycle prototype as he works on it. "What can I do for you, Maxwell? A bit busy."

Maxwell does his best annoyed huff. "You wanted these, did you not?" He offers out a small bundle, and Wilson takes it with confusion. Only when he unwraps it does he smile brightly, seeing all of the flowers within.

"I didn't know you had it in you, Maxwell! Thank you!"

"I have this one, too," he offers, showing Wilson the small red one he'd carefully saved. Wilson leans over to look at it.

"Oh yes, I saw that one when Wickerbottom brought you back to camp. What do you-- HEY!" Wilson leans back, bringing his hands up to his hair and glaring at Maxwell. Maxwell himself snapped back, as if struck. He'd tried to quickly put the flower in Wilson's hair. "What's your problem!? I thought everyone knew by now to lay off the hair, but apparently not. What were you even trying to do?"

"I thought... maybe, it would look nice in your hair," Maxwell replies, arms drawn in anxiously.

"If I wanted it in my hair I'd put it there myself! You know better. Actually, you know what? I don't even want this anymore. Not if you're going to pull things like that." Wilson shoves the bundle back in Maxwell's direction.

"I--" Maxwell's interrupted by his own coughs, and all fight he might have had slips away. "Alright. I apologize."

Then he turns and walks off, heading for a camp exit. Wilson was given pause, though, by the apology, and sits staring off in the direction Maxwell left in. This flower thing was suddenly seeming a whole lot bigger than just starting up something that appeared to have been over.

"Summer has arrived. I shall let the heat take me."

"Wendy, no. Get over here, I made both you and Webber some shirts." Wilson's putting one on Webber as he speaks, and pats the kid's back once he's done.

Willow climbs out of her tent with a cheer. "It's fire season! I can't wait!"

Winona wanders over, eyeing the floral shirt Wilson's putting on Wendy. "Where'd you even get those shirts, Wilson?"

"Went out during the night and waited for the flowers."

"Only enough for Wendy and Webber though. Didn't know the rest of us were worth that little to ya."

"You want me to pass out from heat stroke, Winona?"

"Maybe I do. Ha!"

"Ha. You're the worst."

Wendy turns her head to look up at Wilson. "You do not actually think that."

"Of course not. It's a joke."

She fiddles with the collar of her new shirt. "Do you hate any of us?"

"I hate Maxwell. I know it might not seem like it, but I am a gentleman. It's impolite to be unkind, as much as I despise him. Besides, nothing good will come from us arguing all the time. It's better spent actually getting things done."

Wendy looks back down. "Then may death embrace him."

"Uh," Winona says from behind them.

"You don't need to go that far!"

"It will happen whether you want it to or not," Wendy says, standing. "He told me."

"Well, of course we're all going to die eventually. That's how this works."

Wendy says nothing in reply, walking off to find where Webber went. Wilson looks up at Winona, and she holds the gaze a bit too steadily.

"I'm definitely missing something," he mutters.

But what?

"What is the point of this, exactly?"

"It's an intervention, Max." Winona sits down beside Wendy, leaving a large spot for Abigail to hover in as well

"Miss Winona said I had to come," the young girl says, shaking her head. "I care not which affairs you choose to put in order before your death."

"Shush, kid. You need ta be here because you know about it."

Maxwell leans over a pre-made hole to cough out a few flowers. Tentatively, Wendy reaches for his back. "You should not be made to suffer like this," she whispers.

"Yes, which is why we're here, right?" Winona straightens up a bit. "The short of it is, ya need to tell 'im what's going on."

Maxwell's coughing suddenly gets way worse. Once he's got it under control again, he looks up at Winona with a look of complete disbelief. "Are you mad, woman?"

"He's gettin' more suspicious anyway. Besides, I really don't think he actually hates you as much as ya think. I know for certain I couldn't be that kind to someone if I legitimately hated 'em."

Perhaps Maxwell would take that as some kind of compliment another time, but right now, being told something like this? He speaks through the petals in his mouth, through the coughs that his body forces upon him.

"What kind of-- Winona, you're an adult. You know this is not how the world works! Wilson prides himself on being a gentleman, and knows very well that a group that argues is a group that gets nothing done. Your, wishful thinking, is just that, wishful thinking! This isn't some grand tale with the promise of a happy ending, those don't exist."

Winona turns her head up in disgust, then quickly shakes it so she can clear it enough to formulate a reply. "You're just a pessimist who gives up too easily! Won't hurt to try, will it?"

"Won't hurt to try!?" Maxwell practically shrieks through the flowers he's half choking on. "He already hates me, Winona. I've already ruined his life. Yet somehow you've managed to find and suggest an additional way for me to make him more miserable! Wilson does not want to hurt anyone. How do you think he would take knowing that someone's blood was on his hands!? Permanently so! He-- chk--"

Wendy gives Maxwell a swift smack to the back, dislodging the flower that interrupted his tirade. "I doubt that is what you wish to be your last words."

"If you keep this up, I'm tellin' him myself. This is getting out of hand."

"Do not. Please. If he's going to hear it, he'll hear it from me."

"Then you better get it done, Maxwell. I ain't opposed to doin' the hard work."

"Fine. Fine. If things go the way I think they will, though." He pauses, half pained and half apologetic for what he's preparing to say. "Take care of him for me. It will be your punishment."

"Like you have any right ta--"

"I think I have every right 'ta', considering what you're forcing me to do."

Wendy stares into the darkness. "We should return to our camp. Miss Wickerbottom will wonder where we have gone."

"Thank you, Wendy," Maxwell says, pushing the dirt on the sides of the hole he'd been coughing into back into it. Then, he retrieves a torch from his pocket, standing as he lights it. "Let's go."

"I don't get how he can think like this. Has he any form of hope?"

Wendy rocks on her feet as she watches Winona mess with the alchemy engine, somehow turning stone to metal as she follows the messy blueprint of a bicycle wheel Wilson drew for her.

"Why should he?" she asks, voice soft. "He had everything taken from him, and even more beyond that. I can relate to that."

Abigail almost seems to loom behind her as she says that, and Winona freezes her crafting due to the sudden spook. "I--"

"How would you feel, if you came here, and your sister could not be saved at all? It would destroy you, would it not? All of this work, for nothing. And now you are trapped here, having to live with the constant reminder that you cannot do a thing to fix things."

"W-Wendy?"

"I believe, he had plenty of times, where he believed that this time, things would work. Why should he hold onto that hope again now, if it was untrue all those times before? We are lucky to have only experienced these feelings once, twice, or not at all."

The young girl turns around, sighing. "Even I feel dramatic when I think of my situation compared to his. Maybe we really do all hold to our hope like the world is our own fairytale. Perhaps he is the only one who sees things as they really are.

"We'll know when he chooses to make his move."

And then Wendy walks off, leaving Winona slack-jawed and frozen in her place.

Chapter Text

"We should talk, Higgsbury."

Wilson looks up from weaving a rabbit trap. "Higgsbury again? And to think maybe you respected me. Let me finish this."

Maxwell does, standing in one place and staring down at the other man. He knows that if he wanders off he will both lose the will to do this at all, and Wilson will probably do his best to avoid it. He's obviously unnerving him, though, and it does get very hard not to do anything about it. Creeping Wilson out is the exact opposite of what he wanted to do, and he wasn't exactly comfortable himself with seeing Wilson uncomfortable. No, what he really wanted to do was reach out and try to reassure him.

Anyone could see how poorly that would end, though. How poorly thoughts like those have already ended. He still cursed himself for the attempt he made at putting the small orchid in Wilson's hair, even though it was two seasons ago now.

"Alright, alright, I'll put this aside for now. Obviously it's important." Wilson stands up, looking annoyedly at Maxwell. "Well?"

"Walk with me. I'd rather not talk about this in the middle of our base."

He thinks on that for a second. "Only if I get to ask a question or two once we're far enough away."

"You'll have plenty, I'm sure."

Maxwell turns away, starting a brisk walk out of the camp. Wilson follows just as unenthusiastically behind him, and they walk in silence for a bit.

During this walk, Wilson can't help but think about what Maxwell needs to talk about that can't be done in camp. Obviously he himself was going to ask about the flowers, it's the perfect chance to! Or, was Maxwell going to talk about them himself? That wouldn't make much sense, but the man was unpredictable as far as Wilson could tell. The way he's been acting lately was proof of that.

When Maxwell finally stops and looks back to make sure Wilson was following, Wilson's surprised to find them at the weird moonstone altar in the middle of one of the piney forests.

"I thought you found this place unsettling."

"I do, but none of us have any reason to come here. It's private enough."

"So whatever you want to talk about requires genuine privacy. That's not spooky at all."

Maxwell sighs through his teeth. He's standing next to a hole he dug out before, knowing that this was probably going to end in a lot of flowers. "Charlie was always a fan of eastern culture," he begins.

Wilson looks at him incredulously.

"The shrines that we sometimes find ourselves making, here, for example. Each correlate to some... thing, about eastern culture that I don't remember. And this, affliction, of mine, also originates from stories in those cultures. Winona confirmed it for me."

Maxwell starts coughing, not even bothering to try to be polite and cover his mouth. He just sits down so he can lean over the hole. To actually try to be polite, himself, Wilson sits down as well.

"I'm going to eat my hat, I was just thinking that this couldn't be what you were going to talk about," he comments, though excitement seeps into his voice. "So what is it!? Winona has said there's a reason for it all, but she wouldn't say a thing to me. Figuring out the reasons for things is a type of science, you know."

Maxwell looks up at him, with an expression Wilson almost finds himself describing as fond, if that didn't make no sense at all.

"I don't remember if there's a name for it, so perhaps you will get to mark it as your very own discovery. Call it Wilson's disease or something of the like."

Maxwell turns his head away, coughing up more petals as he does. Can't meet Wilson's eyes for the next part. Dread pools in him and his entire torso feels like it's being constricted, but he pushes on.

"As for why it happens, well. It-- It begins when you realize you love someone, and don't know if they, or believe they don't, return the feelings."

Maxwell doesn't dare to look back at Wilson, not that he'd really get the chance to. Once he pushed that out it feels like an entire lung's worth of orchids decided it would be prime time to escape. Dread and shame make quite the pair of emotions to compliment it, and he can feel the warmth of his own face.

Wilson is silent, and though it didn't take long at all for the right piece to click into place and bring him to a conclusion he really didn't want to consider, well. He didn't want to consider it. It just about shattered his worldview, and it practically made him nauseous to think about it. Obviously the roses had been Charlie. That made enough sense. Yet he was the only one interested at all in orchids. It couldn't be. That-- no!

Maxwell couldn't love him. They hated each other! Or, at least, he hated him! That wasn't going to change, but, damnit, Wilson didn't want to hurt him either.

The scientist takes in a large breath, then, in a voice more small and scared than he'd ever heard himself make previously, asks a question. "And then what?"

Maxwell really didn't like the sound of that. "Either you never tell them, and eventually asphyxiate. Or you do tell them, asphyxiate anyway because you were right, or, in the less tragic cases, you were wrong, and it leaves you be once you know. And we already know that the flowers stay after I die. Which one do you think this is, scientist?"

Wilson laughs, sounding a bit hysterical. "Well, have you told them yet?"

"You're not that dense, Wilson."

"...I'm-- not. No. I'm not. But you're not, you're not either!" Wilson slides his hands into his own hair, almost immediately sending it into a craze. One to match his current emotional state for sure. "If-- If you're saying what I think you're trying to say, then why-- why-- why would you do this to me?! You know I don't want to hurt anyone, you know I hate you! If you, if you l-love someone, isn't the whole idea that you want to keep them happy and comfortable!?"

Maxwell chokes on his flowers, only to have them dislodged by Wilson giving him a hard hit to the back distressedly. "ANSWER ME!"

"I didn't have a choice," Maxwell says softly. "I do know all of those things, if I'd had any choice in the matter I wouldn't be here. Winona threatened to tell you herself if I didn't. And you, you planned to ask, anyway. It's not like you would've made it any easier on me.

"I'm sorry," he finishes, even quieter. "I didn't want this. I love you."

Wilson makes a noise that sounds like a mix of disgust and offense. "You don't get to say that! You ruined my life, Maxwell, and I've given you so many chances, and this is how you repay me!? By putting blood on my hands!?"

Maxwell's whole body shakes as he desperately tries not to cry. Not now. Not in front of Wilson. "I didn't want any of this," he repeats. "I'm sorry. I--"

He's interrupted by Wilson standing up and giving him a swift kick to the back. "This is next level," Wilson hisses, and yanks Maxwell off the ground by an arm. "We're going back to base and you're not going to complain. I don't want to hear a word."

It's not like Maxwell can say anything anyway, as the venom in Wilson's voice seems to enlarge the flowers in his throat. He chokes on them, struggling to breathe, to call and ask for help, as much as he didn't deserve it. This time, none comes, and he faints.

Wilson practically growls at this, jamming an elbow under the limp man's ribs to loosen the flowers, as well as giving his back a few hard whacks. Finally, they tumble out, and he breathes again. Those will definitely bruise, but Wilson doesn't care. He's on the verge of a breakdown, and the guy was going to live a while longer now.

Funny, how nothing in in the Constant before bothered him as much as this. But he just couldn't take the idea of having blood permanently on his hands over something he couldn't control. Even if he could at this point, he didn't want to love Maxwell.

And boy. He was going to give Winona a piece of his mind, too.

Chapter Text

The sound of cooking crockpots fills the air, as does the smell. Around the fire pit, almost the entire group was gathered, working on some small things and chatting with one another.

"How's the bike going, Winona?" Willow leans forward, watching Winona as she spins the front wheel in her lap.

"It still ain't balanced right. We just can't figure it out."

"Dang. I can't wait for it to be finished. We could make one for everyone, and then I could set mine on fire! Imagine it, just me, riding around on a flaming bicycle!"

Wigfrid beside her runs a stone against the blade of her spear in an attempt to sharpen it. "It would be nö steed."

"Yeah, sadly," Winona sets the bike aside. "Ya wouldn't be able to fight from it. Transport only, for sure."

"I HAVE FOUND THE SMALL HUMANS"

The group looks up at the approaching WX-78, who holds both Wendy and Webber under its armpits. Webber appears to be pretending they're a bird, much to the annoyance of their captor, while Wendy hangs practically limp except for her head, looking straight out.

Wes makes some overdramatic gesture of surprise and WX-78 looks at him unamusedly as it drops the children on the logs they'd set up around the fire to sit on.

Wickerbottom goes back to finishing the weave on a trap she'd found abandoned half-finished, letting out a low hum. "This means only Wilson and Maxwell are missing, now, yes?"

Winona makes a dismissive gesture. "Ya don't need to worry about them."

"I thought you said it was dangerous for Maxwell to be out alone, now that whatever this is has gotten so bad?" Willow points out.

"He's not alone, I saw 'em leave a while back."

"Together? That doesn't sound good..."

There's a sound like stomping, and Willow looks back in that direction. "Well speak of the devil! Wilson, ahha, your hair looks even dumber than usual!"

Wilson storms up to the logs, looking more than a little unhinged. He deposits the limp body of Maxwell that he dragged here onto one of the logs, then, as he walks around the group, raises his fist as he gets to where Winona sits.

She looks back at him with a look of worry, opening her mouth to voice those concerns when suddenly there's a fist against her face and she's been thrown to the side by the force.

"Wilson!" Wickerbottom gasps in surprise.

"Oh my god, Winona, are you okay? Wilson, what the hell!" Willow gets up from where she sits to go over to them.

Wilson makes an incomprehensible low noise, then turns and runs off to the lean-to.

"Get back here! How dare y--" Willow is hushed by Winona sitting back up and holding up a hand.

Once Willow's quiet, Winona moves her hand to her cheek, and her other hovers over her nose uncertainly. A touch, and she winces in pain.

"I think I made a bit of a mistake," she says casually, and quite a few of the people in the group look at her like she's nuts.

Willow throws her hands up. "He just punched you for no reason, and you think it's your fault?"

Wendy has stood up and appeared at their sides, and she tugs on Willow's skirt for her attention. "It is her fault."

"WHY ARE FLESHLINGS SO FRAGILE," WX-78 comments unhelpfully, "A HIT LIKE THAT WOULDN'T DENT ME"

Willow gasps in offense. "Have some empathy, you two! What do you mean, it's her fault!"

"We knew this would happen," Wendy says, soft as usual. "Winona thought it would not, and made a threat based on that thought. Now, she will suffer the consequences. They are not as bad as what Wilson must live with, now."

Willow sputters. "What?? What's even going on!" She makes a noise of frustration, and Wigfrid draws her back over to her seat.

Wendy stares at Winona, and Winona back at her. Everyone is silent, over the tense air and the fact they're all still taking in that Wilson had indeed punched her.

After a long stretch of that silence, the crock pots finish, and everyone begins to slowly get up and retrieve one of the dishes. There's none of the usual fighting over who gets what, they just accept it and retreat.

"Mister Wilson," Wendy says softly, ducking into the lean-to. Webber's dragged in by the hand after her, looking a lot more concerned than she does. Following them is the ever-present Abigail.

Wilson is crouched on the ground inside, knees drawn in front of him and arms locking them in that position. His head is down, completing the curled-up look. He makes a pathetic little sound in reply to their approach. Wendy sits down beside him, and Webber joins him on his other side. She puts a small hand on Wilson's back, and hums a short tune.

Wilson shifts a bit, and moves his head to look at the both of them. "You two... don't need to be worrying about this," he says tiredly and kindly, shrugging Wendy's hand off his back.

Wendy opens her mouth to reply, but Webber leans forward instead, tugging on Wilson's sleeve. "Why did you punch Miss Winona? We thought you liked her."

"I... I do like her, I think. She just... did something very cruel to me."

Wendy moves over to the side of Wilson that Webber is on, so Wilson no longer has to keep turning his head to look at them both. "She tried to make me do it too. I did not, for I was aware it was not my place."

"I thank you for that, Wendy."

Webber makes some rough noise, unhappy. "Why would she do that?"

Wendy's the one who replies. "She is still very hopeful. Fate has not crushed her yet. Perhaps this will have been a lesson."

Wilson nods sadly into his knees. "Now that I've recovered from the shock of the situation, I... regret it, obviously. I understand why she did it very well, and though I'm still very mad, I don't think striking her was the right choice."

"It takes a lot to make you mad," Webber says, touching Wilson's face with one of the spider legs on their head. "How'd she even do it?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to stress all of you any more than I already have."

"At least give us a hint, Mister Wilson!" Webber tugs on his sleeve again, a smile growing on their face as they prepare the ultimate trick up their sleeve. "So we can do science, figure it out ourselves!"

Wilson stares at them for a long minute, picking up on what they were trying to do. Then, a sigh. "I don't want you thinking about it. Let's just say... I'm going to be a bit different from now on. I--" his voice cracks as he speaks, "I'm a murderer. By proxy. But still a murderer."

Webber gasps at that, gripping his arm. "But people don't die here, Mister Wilson! Not forever! You don't have to worry!"

Wilson looks away.

Wendy stands up, lifting Webber up by the arm with her. It takes a second for the spider child to let go of Wilson's arm, and they look at Wendy with panic. She just begins to lead them away, saying nothing in reply to the quiet, "am I wrong?" they ask as they leave.

Wilson lowers his head again, beginning to cry.

Chapter Text

Wendy presses down the pedal of her bicycle, testing how it feels. Even though Wilson had completed the design and distributed them to everyone, he'd given a halfhearted warning that they should be careful and that the bikes were not infinitely durable. For now, though, it seemed the bicycle would last another day.

Abigail floats a little ways away, whispering quiet encouragement to her. She nods in confirmation, then starts heading on her way.

It's a bumpy ride for sure, but eventually she makes it to the distant Birchnut forest. She'd gotten quite adept at weaving through the trees, so she doesn't bother to dismount until she finds who they're looking for.

"Maxwell," she calls to the ghost, watching as he removes himself from the tree he'd been trying to chop down through possession alone.

He whispers, and though she can't understand him, she can understand Abigail, who relays what he says. He's asking if she's here to retrieve the wood.

"No. Abigail and I had an idea. Didn't we, Abby?"

Abigail hums her confirmation, and Maxwell drifts closer, obviously interested. He's a sorry sight, ignoring the fact that he's a ghost. Stems erupt from the pin over his heart, enveloping him with orchids in a manner that would certainly restrict his movement were he not a spectre. He looks almost caged.

"We thought, perhaps, Abigail could teach you how to fight. You could protect Wilson like she protects me."

According to Abigail, Maxwell doesn't seem to think it's a good idea. He doesn't want to cause his love more pain by being around him, and Wilson would certainly dislike being protected as a concept.

"I'm not so sure. He doesn't appear to like fighting, nor doing everything himself. I believe he may be against it in the beginning, but learn to appreciate it."

He doesn't want to have a repeat of Winona.

"This is different. I will not force you, just attempt to convince you."

Abigail brings up her own point: Knowing how to fight will be beneficial if he wants to help more than just chopping trees.

He seems to consider that for a moment, and Wendy doesn't hear whispers from him. He circles the two of them, as if pacing, and then Abigail had something new to relay. He'll learn to fight, and he will try to protect Wilson for a bit.

Wendy smiles a little.

"Can I help you with something?" Wilson asks, scribbling on a piece of paper. He's been working on a more stable thing than a tent, actually considering the possibility of building real houses. One-room huts, more like, but if he can get a good design down, they'd be far better than what they have now.

Of course, getting the design down was the issue, especially when he never stopped. He knew that breaks were good when you ran out of ideas, but stopping meant interacting with the other survivors, and he couldn't take doing that. Even being approached was bothering him, and they hadn't even said anything yet.

"Hello Mister Wilson. We just came to drop him off."

Wilson turns around hesitantly, scowling when he sees Wendy and Abigail with Maxwell. Already he could feel the cold stare both the twins always had bore into him, and pain and anger flare in him whenever he just sees Maxwell. And guilt. A lot of guilt.

"What's he doing here?" he asks, intentionally referring to Maxwell like he wasn't there.

"He's going to protect you from now on, like how Abigail protects me." Wendy steps forward and takes Wilson's hands before he can react. "Though it is in a different way, he loves you, after all. Just like Abigail loves me. They are both bound to this world as spirits due to their love. This way, they can be friends!"

Wilson's expression morphs from to shock, pain, and then reluctant fondness. Wendy seemed, so excited, to have thought of this, even though the idea was extremely painful to even consider. And still, her gaze bores into him, passion only making her creepier. He didn't want to think what would happen if he refused, so he takes in a shaky breath.

"W-Well. If you put it that way. It would be awfully rude to refuse, wouldn't it?"

Wendy actually smiles, letting go of his hands and walking back to Maxwell and Abigail. She steps closer to Maxwell, as if nudging him forward, and he whispers something Wilson can't hear as he moves.

"He's surprised," Wendy relays, "he thought you would reject it outright. Abigail and I are so glad, we did not like watching him suffer. He reminds us of our uncle."

Wilson quickly turns back to his papers, feeling a pressure on his mind. He couldn't look anymore. So he had caused Wendy and Abigail pain, too? A murderer. And he'd hurt other people because he'd killed someone. A murderer. Winona's nose was permanently damaged, and she avoided him now. Because he killed someone. They all did. He's a murderer and he's permanently hurt people.

"Wilson."

He freezes at the stern voice, feels Wendy's gaze on him. She hates him now too. She has for the two years she's had to see Maxwell like this. This is all just a test to see if he's worth anything at all.

He slowly starts moving his pencils across the paper again. Maybe she'll leave him be for now if he just pretends everything is okay. He needs to do something and he doesn't want to look at her.

"...not your fault," he hears her say softly, "dying is not a choice, for the most part..."

She's trying to reassure Maxwell. Maxwell thinks it's his fault? That didn't make sense, it was Wilson's fault! He killed him! Maxwell should hate him, he killed him. He's a murderer.

A chill envelops him, and he opens his eyes - when did he close them? - to see that Maxwell had floated through him, and was now half in his writing desk. Wilson takes a step back, holding his arm in front of his chest. As if Maxwell was going to hurt him.

The ghost of his former enemy stays in place, just staring at him with what looked like worry. God, if Wilson could, he'd slap him right there. Don't worry about him! For gods sake, he killed him! He's a murderer! Who worries for murderers?!

Then again, Maxwell wasn't exactly the least horrible person out there. Maybe bad people worry for bad people.

Maxwell whispers something again, and this time he's close enough that he can almost hear it. Don't... I ... you.

It sounds enough like 'I hate you' that Wilson can pretend, and he lets out some crazed-sounding laughter. He was right, he was right, everyone hates him now. As they should.

He'll take solace in that.

While most of the survivors allow Wilson to isolate himself from them and bury his pain in his projects, now that Wendy has a reason, she comes by with Abigail often. Sometimes, she even brings Webber, who seems afraid to approach Wilson on his own.

Maxwell is always happy to see them, and even more happy when Wilson draws himself out to try to talk to them. He's been able to tolerate their presence longer and longer before breaking down and retreating to being convinced that everyone hates him. He hated having to lie to him in those times and tell him he did too, but that was always what dragged him out of it. Getting it 'confirmed'.

He comforted himself with thinking that it was just how he had to express his love. Even though he hated it, it was what Wilson needed.

Today, Wendy, Abigail, Webber, and Willow are here, and Wilson seems on edge because of Willow's presence. She leans forward, nudging him with her elbow.

"You think you'll be rejoining us, soon, egghead? We've all missed you!"

Wilson tenses at the contact and words, and Maxwell moves forward to give him a chill, ground him in the world. To Maxwell's personal delight, he does relax a little.

"I... don't think so. Sorry, Willow." A pause, as if he's considering if what he's about to say is okay. "You'll have to find someone else to set on fire."

Willow laughs, shaking her head. "That's why we want you back, you know! We all miss your jokes."

Webber kicks their feet. "We miss feeling like we had a father again."

Wilson winces at that, taking a step back. He must be taking that negatively, certainly thinking about how he's hurt Webber. Maxwell tries to brush through him again, but this time it doesn't seem to help. Instead, Wilson turns stiffly around and begins to walk off.

Maxwell glances back apologetically, then follows him.

While it was definitely his fault Wilson was like this, by now, Maxwell has found that he's just... accepted that? This was his fault, but Wilson thought it was his own. And that's what Maxwell was focused on now, not his own internal struggles. He wasn't important at all, but Wilson was, and he wasn't going to let Wilson blame himself for something he didn't have any control over.

He'd swear on his life, but, well, he'd already lost that.