Work Text:
Wilson tries not to look in her direction. Keyword: tries. He fails, per usual. When he hears the slightest giggle and the Scientist's head slowly turns from the science machine to the firepit, where a firestarter and someone else sit roasting meats.
Wigfrid probably means no harm, she never does, but she's loud in her boasting of the last battle, teeth tearing away in grins at her meal and Willow is her captured audience for the night. She sits in the firepit, knees curled up to her chest and face resting in her hands while the viking tells tales of battle against creatures on the dreaded moon island. (Wilson hopes she leaves out the part where Winona and himself lose their minds, but knowing the woman's theatrics, she probably didn't.)
There's a weird feeling in his chest and suddenly Wilson feels like a child. There's nothing wrong with what’s going on, just some friendly storytelling, nothing that he hasn’t done himself. But Wigfrid is a beautiful, strong, capable warrior, a perfect example of a charming rescue straight from the storybooks she speaks of. Wilson is none of those things, and he knows Willow is a fan of fairy tales and pixie dust.
He could go over there, make himself known to the conversation and join in. Wigfrid would probably appreciate his input, make the story more exciting. You know, like an adult should do.
But tonight, Wilson is feeling particularly bitter. He turns back to the science machine, working out the kinks and doesn't feel any weight lifted off his heart until Wigfrid loudly announces she's retiring to bed and Willow is left alone.
A pebble hits his left shoulder from behind. "SOMEONE looks grumpy." Willow is teasing him. He's decided not to answer her, giving her a non-committal noise in acknowledgement.
Another pebble is thrown, it finds the science machine and tinkers off the fixings he just put into place. When Wilson swings around to meet her gaze, she laughs at him.
"Why are you pouting?!" It’s nice when she laughs for him, 'at' him is a little bit different, but the fluttery feeling is still there. "What's up with you?"
“I’m not pouting,” Wilson says with maybe a little bit too much grump in his voice, because now she’s giving him a look of doubt. The feeling in his gut manages to crawl to his chest, his heart beating far too fast for his liking.
As much as he’d like to admit, Willow knows him much better than he thinks she does. The next time he looks at her, he finds that she’s scooted closer to him, a combined look of uncertainty and cheerful hesitance on her face that she is somehow able to master. It’s this moment that he realizes her flutey laughter has died down, and Wilson finds himself missing it greatly.
“Yes you aaaare,” she frowns, tapping the corner of her lip which is also in the shape of a pout. It takes him a moment to realize that she’s mirroring his own expression. Wilson bites the inside of his cheek as he tries to come up with a normal and casual excuse, but finds that he can’t come up with any. His close friend valued honesty, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to lie to her. Still-- he can try.
He lets out what he thinks is a soft sigh, but it only ends up sounding exasperated. “I’m tired.”
Willow shakes her head. “You’re used to staying up all the time! C’mon, what is it?” Her eyes flash with concern. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” His heart hurt. Just a little. But it wasn’t anything that time couldn’t fix. He turns away from her again so she can’t make fun of the pouty face that’s still lingering on him. “Please don’t bother me.”
There’s noises of shuffling going on behind him. Another pebble is thrown, and this time it hits him square in the back. It makes him flinch, and it certainly doesn’t encourage him to face her again.
“I’ll stop bothering you when you tell me what’s wrong!”
Oh, no. She was starting to yell.
He was really, really not sure how to vocalize it. After all, how could he admit he was suffering a case of jealousy? He wasn’t even with Willow, he had no right to feel guarded about her, or- or anything! Wilson turns around with a bit of a scowl. “That hurt, Willow!”
The firestarter faltered, the frown on her face turning apologetic. “I’m sorry, I’m worried.”
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” he answered, voice falling flat as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m fine.”
“You know I can tell when you’re lying,” she sighed. “I don’t like it. Just tell me the truth.” Scooting closer to him, she reaches for the spot on his back that she’d hit too hard. Her hands are warm from being in the fire, but it feels more like a dull sting than comfort.
“I’m just… embarrassed,” he sighs, picking up a spare twig and beginning to draw mindless lines in the dirt. “Lots of other people here are very good at protecting and fighting and all sorts of things. All I can do is…” he gestures to the machine with a noncommittal hum, “tinker.” He was lying. This wasn’t why he was upset. But he hoped Willow would buy it.
The look Willow gives him is unreadable. "Tinker?" She repeats, and Wilson gives a half-hearted shrug. "You're like, the only person out here who knows how any of these machines work. You're the one who figured out the meat statue things. We wouldn't be anywhere without your brains, we'd probably still be dead."
Her words are meant to be reassuring, but to Wilson it's starting to feel more like a scolding. "Keep you from death? Sure. But everyone can do that now. Some grass, some heart and a little bit of spider guts and viola, resurrection that science can't explain yet." He grumbles, waving a hand at the air, at any sort of thought of 'magic' and in its possibilities.
Willow watches him slump back into his spot, sneak a glance in her direction before sighing. "I can keep you from death. But I can't keep you alive."
She squints at him. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Oh, but it does." He stretches, his legs extending over the lines in the dirt and scruffing them out. "I'm not strong. I'm not a good defender. I don't know how to keep our stocks full and our supplies ample more than any other average fellow. I'm clearly human enough-" a examination of his hands just to double check. "Not to withstand lightning. Or spiders. Or drowning. I’m not exactly special- and don't say you aren't either because I'm quite certain being immune to fire is not something an everyday darling could do."
Willow closes her mouth and lowers her finger from where she was going to interject, and frowns. "I can't withstand lighting or water either, you know." She mumbles. "I'm not super strong, too."
"You don't need to be." He turns to face her fully. There's childish exhaustion on his face. "You burn anything that stands in your way."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"An observation." Wilson says. A pause, the slightest, shyest excuse of a wink Willow had ever seen and he's continuing. "And every man you come across."
She smacks him on the shoulder. "Maybe your superpower is really bad flirting." She scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder and doesn't move when he goes to rub the one she hit. "And changing subjects."
Blue eyes illuminated by the fire flicker to her face, then to the ground again. "Afraid so. That and my... tinkering. Not exactly impressive."
Willow huffs. "Who are you trying to impress, exactly? The monsters? I'm pretty sure they're impressed by how very smart and very much alive we are."
Wilson pauses, wrinkling his nose in confliction. "I don't have any grand stories to tell you, other than my blundering tale of how I ended up here." He avoids her eyes.
Willow laughs. Genuinely, he can tell by the way her breathe hitches at the end of a giggle. "Wigfrid JUST told me a story about you on the moon though!"
An inward cringe. Of course she didn't leave his loony madness out of the story. "And I was the damsel?"
"Yeah, about how she had to save yours and Winona's butts." Her laugh trails off, her smile falling hesitant. "Sorry."
"Hmm." He made a non-commital noise.
"Can I ask you something?"
He really, really wants to say that she just did. Perhaps just to get on her nerves for the fun of it, but the scientist decides on simplicity, and gives a faint nod of his head. "Sure."
Willow lifts her head up just enough to overtake his view, and he sees the sly yet curious look she dawns. "Were you jealous earlier?"
Wilson feels his heart skip a beat. Of course, he knew that she would have found out sooner or later.
“Why do you ask?” His voice sounds composed despite his shaking hands, which he is surprised that Willow does not seem to notice while sitting next to him.
He looks away from her again, unable to meet the newfound mischief in her eyes. As their conversation replays in his head, Wilson’s shoulders slump in utter disappointment. Not in regards to Willow or Wigfrid or to the story, but to himself.
“You can stop beating around the bush and tell me, you know. I won’t tell Wigfrid.” She lays her head on his shoulder and he flinches at the ticklish feeling of her hair on his neck. “You’ve got nothing to be jealous of. You’re my favorite scientist, remember? You make me fireworks!”
He laughs softly, bitterly. Yes, he supposes that is a huge part of why Willow cherishes him oh-so much. Because he makes her things that he thinks she would love. But did he really hold a candle to any of their other friends and their godly powers and abilities?
Willow rambled on about how special she didn’t seem to be, but it didn’t make Wilson feel any better. Especially because of how untrue it was.
“I—“ he bites the inside of his cheek, shy and embarrassed, “I didn’t say I was.” Then he softly boops the tip of her nose with his finger, his nervousness melting and allowing him to offer a small smile. “Silly girl.”
She sighs impatiently, wraps her arms around him in an awkward side hug as her face stays buried in his shoulder. “Don’t be jealous! I’m serious, Wilson,” she whines.
He looks at her from the corner of his eye. His mouth had thinned into a straight line.
“I’m sorry.”
Willow squeezes him gently. “You’re really special to me.”
Her scent, the warm hug, and the sincerity of her touch all comfort him as he moves to return the display of affection. Wilson still finds it hard to believe that he is more than anything extraordinary (he can’t even build a portal to get them home!), but being in Willow’s arms provides him with a special sort of solace that he knows nothing else can give him.
“So… you think I’m special because I invent shiny and fiery things for you?” He teases lightheartedly.
Willow giggles, sending the mood lighten up. “No! Didn’tcha listen to everything I just said?”
“Yes, I did, and-“
She laughs louder, shushing him with a bunch of “no’s” as well as a soft kiss to his cheek that successfully manages to snap him from any previous thoughts.
Like the fire that flickers behind them, Wilson feels his face burn and flush red. It was as if she were her own fire, setting him alight where she touched him. While Wilson sits, stunned, Willow is continuing to giggle into his neck.
“There! Do you believe me now?” She adjusts her hug on him, and Wilson finds that his hand has moved up to rest on her lower back.
“I- I do,” he manages.
“You know I don’t kiss just any of my friends.” She leans to whisper again in his ear, “So stop being jealous.”
Then before he can acknowledge it, Willow pulls away and pats him on the back, that all-knowing smile on her face. The kiss she shared with him is like their own little secret, given by friends who did not quite act like friends.
As Willow moves back to aid the dying fire, Wilson’s hand moves up to touch his cheek.
Perhaps being jealous had its perks after all.