Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maxwell could admit the ghostly sister fought valiantly. But even spectres have their limit; this one letting out a defeated sigh before returning to its floral refuge, nestled in a pocket of her counterpart's overalls. The pale, empty eyes of her sibling widened at this realisation, surrounded by slavering jaws that were no longer distracted by an angry ghost. It didn’t take long for the hastily constructed spear to break with a definite snap as hounds began to swarm; a snarling tide of black fur and sharp teeth that signalled a painful death for the young girl.

The shadow king did not always stand watch when realising a pawn was about to fall; but it was one activity that quieted the whispering voices and pacified Them, something other than the infinite nothingness of the throne room. She was almost dead already though … what a pity. Hound waves were always over rather fast in his opinion, the creatures too hungry to add any sort of entertainment value to the way they killed.

Yet, as Maxwell leaned over the writhing mass of dogs and caught the resigned gaze of his latest victim, he couldn’t school his features into their usual triumphant sneer. Instead, he found himself frowning, an uncomfortable feeling prickling in the back of his head as if he was missing something crucial. What was there to know about this sullen child, other than the fact Maxwell had pulled her here from his seat on the throne, with the twisted promise of her sister’s resurrection?

The nagging sensation only grew stronger as Maxwell realised another world was calling him back to a gateway. Seems that Higgsbury, of all people, had found his door. Ironically fitting, for someone so familiar with the blueprints of that particular structure. He turned to give a parting remark, before realising the hounds had already completed their work. Nothing more than bleached bones remained, as the constant weaved its decidedly morbid magic.

Looks like he wouldn’t have time to greet the young girl at her gateway this cycle. It was a shame really, she always had such grim sounding remarks to offer him.

---

The 'dethroning' experience had all happened so quickly. Too bright, too loud, too alive… With a decisive thunk, Maxwell hit the ground, abruptly coming to the conclusion that everything hurt too much for this to be death. Discovering the hounds no longer recognised their creator had simply added insult to injury. It truly wasn’t fair having to run from beasts that were once his to command.

At least they’re still easily distracted, he had mused, while running for the nearest beehive.

But it was the result of a different predicament that now found Maxwell hunched over the renewed glow of a firepit; hands on unsteady knees, gasping for air. Somehow he had stumbled upon the camp of another survivor and the resulting fist-fight had been … less than ideal.

Of all the people he dragged to the constant, it had to be Higgsbury he ended up stuck with, didn’t it? How delightful.

The man in question, now glaring daggers at him from across the flames, hadn’t been too pleased to discover Maxwell scouting out his camp from the surrounding berry bushes. Wilson had barrelled towards him in a flurry of flying fists and trumpeting anger that the former King was wholly unprepared for. Thank goodness for shadow hands and their light-snuffing habits; a not-unwelcome diffusion for the situation as both men had scrambled to add more fuel to the fire.

At least Higgsbury dropped the axe before his assault, Maxwell contemplated, while trying desperately to catch his breath. Of course, this would also be the moment his grumbling stomach decided to protest about how empty it was.

Ah yes. Food was another problem to add to the ever-increasing list of things he needed to worry about now. Goodness, this surviving thing got old fast, didn't it?

The meat skewer Higgsbury begrudgingly handed over was a surprisingly unexpected gesture and the resulting conversation was .... tolerable. Not that he learnt anything particularly useful, of course, but talking to another human being was a refreshing change of pace. Even if that person happened to be none other than Wilson Higgsbury.
As the campfire burned lower and Maxwell bent over to feed another log to the flames, he noticed his reluctant company let out a yawn.

“Higgsbury, get some rest you fool.”

His abrasive instruction was met with a decisively firm head shake.

“How can I be sure you aren’t simply waiting to off me in my sleep?”

A fair conclusion to come to, all things considered. But even Maxwell was alarmed by the size of Wilson’s dark circles. Surely the man must be seeing Their shadows in the corner of his vision by now?

“Don’t be daft. I merely realise how useless you will be as a campmate if you can hardly stand on your own two feet.” At Wilson's indignant expression, Maxwell found his tone softening.

“No need for you to be awake if I can tend to the fire each night, is there Higgsbury?”

A beat of silence before an answer “.... I didn’t realise you wanted to stay?” Wilson’s manner had changed abruptly, the quiet, almost mumbled reply cutting Maxwell short. It was uttered as if it was a question, the unspoken ‘with me’ hanging in the night air.

He found himself stumbling over his words a little in an effort to explain,
“Well… I ... It’s easier from a survival perspective to camp together. Practicality. You of all people should know that… Besides…” Maxwell’s uncharacteristic rambling was interrupted by another jaw-splitting yawn from his companion.

Wilson flapped his hand sleepily, “I know, I know... Rest... You're right, I give in,” before rising from the log he was seated on and heading towards the tent. Fumbling with the canvas flaps, he turned around and seemed to consider what he was about to say next.

“...We’ll have to get you your own tent made up tomorrow?”

Another statement phrased like a question, so Maxwell graced it with a reply as Wilson shuffled inside.

“I would be… amenable to that.”

As he settled to watch the fire for the night, Maxwell was unwilling to think too deeply into what his conversation with Wilson had meant. Instead, he allowed his thoughts to return to his other recent interaction with another survivor. Namely, the young blonde girl and her ghostly sister.

Wait.
Not just a sister, but a twin sister.
How could he have forgotten a fact that held such significance?

It was with a dawning sense of horror that Maxwell realised this wasn’t all he had forgotten about the siblings. The crackling embers of the fire seemed to be clearing the last of the fog from his mind as he placed his head in his hands and whispered quietly, to no one but himself:

"Wendy Carter".

Chapter Text

Wilson considered himself a forgiving person (it was a gentlemanly trait) and, due to recent circumstances, he would even dare to say this statement extended to situations involving Maxwell. During their first meeting as ‘equals’ in the constant, his anger had burned hot but fleeting, soon giving way to curiosity (you turned to dust before my eyes, how are you here?) and a more confusing feeling Wilson couldn’t quite explain ... A sort of warmth? Probably just his desire to understand the unknown. A scientific mind is always striving for answers.

In any case, it was clear the ‘King’ had changed in more ways than one. Returning to camp after a firewood trip and stumbling upon a frustrated Maxwell, trying and failing to summon a dark sword, had confirmed for Wilson just how vulnerable his new campmate now was.

Maxwell had, of course, been furious at this accidental discovery; hauling Wilson up by his lapels and snarling sharp, indignant words for daring to suggest he was no longer in control of his magic. “W-What the hell are you insinuating Higgsbury? Need I remind you of the many different ways these powers can end your miserable little life?”

At the time, Wilson had not taken much notice of the magicians’ slender fingers against his neck; more worried about diffusing the situation and allowing his feet a return to solid ground. But after a placating, “How could I have forgotten about your incredible shadow clones… Of course …. My apologies!”, Wilson found himself slowly being lowered by hands stained black with nightmare fuel, sharp claws still gripping the fabric of his shirt. The look he now received was slightly less murderous than before.

What other physiological adaptations could the throne have possibly induced? Wilson wondered, before realising Maxwell had stalked away to the solitude of his tent and was not in any sort of mood to provide answers to his questions.

It was later that same evening, Wilson found himself alone at the firepit. His campmate had not re-emerged after their … misunderstanding, and there was now an extra plate of meatballs starting to lose their heat atop the crockpot (which were definitely not a peace offering in any way, shape, or form). It would be possible to simply keep them in the icebox for a slightly stale treat tomorrow, but, if Wilson remembered correctly, Maxwell had not eaten any sort of significant lunch. Toasted seeds did not count.

As he was deliberating over what to do with a now lukewarm dinner, a muffled sound of pain came from the direction of Maxwell's tent.

Unusual, to say the least.

Meatballs now discarded and forgotten, Wilson quietly made his way over to the older man’s tent. If Maxwell was injured he’d be damned to admit to such a weakness. But Wilson was nothing if not an adept physician, countless life or death experiences in the constant notwithstanding. Maxwell would receive help whether he wanted it or not. The stubborn old man.

An inconspicuous clearing of the throat to announce he was coming in did not gain any acknowledgement and, as he pushed back the tent flap to step inside, Wilson soon realised why. His campmate was fast asleep, tossing and turning in the throes of some sort of nightmare, features twisted in an uncharacteristic expression of fear.

Maxwell’s whimpering was louder now, mixed in with barely discernible words and snatches of a one-sided conversation. P-Please don’t take her … I’m so sorry … Charlie … . Whatever scenes were playing out behind his eyelids, they weren’t pleasant ones. Wilson was debating whether or not to wake the poor man and risk a fist to the face, before he heard a phrase that made his mind stutter for a minute.

Well, this is it Wilson. You found me. Now, what are you going to do?

He had heard that same phrase, uttered by the man in front of him not that long ago. The darkness was the same. The chair (no, a throne) was not.

Then came the scream.

It was a sound of absolute agony. One that shocked Wilson into action, shaking Maxwell awake and muttering vague, placating words to still the horrified sound escaping from his lips. You’re okay… It was only a dream. You’re here now with me … It’s okay.

The dusting of red across Maxwells’ face had seemed indicative of his anger during their earlier confrontation but, Wilson realised with a start, it may very well have been a flush of shame. The same shade graced Maxwell’s face now, as he shakily clung to Wilsons shoulders and began to speak in an uncharacteristically small, unsure voice.

C-Charlie … She was my assistant. Back when I had nothing to my name except the kind of magic that relies on trickery and sleight of hand …

Wilson heard it all. William and his hopes and dreams of America, the train accident, a whispered promise of fame and fortune from an ancient tome (the cover of which was far too familiar now). Mention of their last show in 1906 tugged at some long ago remembered fact, but he had never been much for history as a subject.

In discussing the unfortunate fate of Charlie, Wilson had asked whether the heady scent of roses he often sensed during his encounters with ‘The Grue’ held any importance. But the question drained Maxwell’s (already pale) face of colour, and Wilson made a note not to mention that particular flower again any time soon. In fact, he should probably also make an adjustment to the title he had given the monster of the night. After all, it was only polite, now that he knew who she was.

It wasn’t until later that night, when Wilson was retiring to his own tent, that he realised Maxwell had not explained how Wilson featured in his dream. While he could certainly guess what real-life circumstances it had drawn from, nightmares had a way of warping past events into far more ghastly caricatures.

The scream still echoed in his memory as waistcoat and pants were meticulously folded, bedroll laid out, and lantern shutters dimmed. A problem for another day, perhaps.