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“As promised.”
Maxwell looks up from the Codex to find Wilson standing before him, smiling and holding a plate of Pumpkin Cookies.
“Happy birthday, Maxwell.”
Maxwell blinks at him in disbelief. Higgsbury’s crooked smile widens, and he gives a small, quiet laugh. “Didn’t think I'd remember? I have it written in my personal Maxwell notebook.”
“. . .When I get my hands on those infernal ‘field notes' on my physiology, they're going right in the fire.”
“What do you have against science? And you'll never find those notes, by the way. I have three copies of them.”
Maxwell scowls, but Higgsbury’s subsequent laugh is like the warm Autumn afternoon sunlight, melting over him like butter, and he can’t maintain his dour expression.
“Go on, try one! I promise. . .they're really gourd cookies.”
Maxwell snorts. “It has been eons since I've had a good biscuit.”
Wilson also proffers a delicate porcelain teacup, garnished with a spiky-petaled blue plant reminiscent of a cornflower—a Forget-Me-Lot. “And some Soothing Tea. Can’t have cookies without tea.”
Maxwell accepts the tea and tentatively selects a cookie, turning the latter over to inspect it. Eyeing it suspiciously, sniffing it, flicking out his tongue.
“You made these.”
“I did. But I followed Warly’s recipe exactly.
. . .Well, almost. There maaayyy be one or two. . .secret ingredients.”
“Then you didn’t ‘follow the recipe exactly,’ you dolt.”
“Warly and I both tried one. They're tasty!”
“If their deliciousness is assured, why are you waiting so expectantly for my reaction?”
“Warly says the best part of cooking for someone you love is watching them take that first bite. And he's right!”
Maxwell chokes on absolutely nothing. His coloration alternates rapidly between stark white and a violent burgeoning plum. His voice is thin, high, and reedy when he finally speaks: “. . .You love me?”
“W-What!? No!” Higgsbury squawks, his own complexion now tumultuously ruddy. “No, I hate you! Just—just eat the damn cookie!”
Maxwell clears his throat, hoping to ease its constriction with a sip of sweet floral tea. Then raises the cookie to his lips to take a cautious bite. Higgsbury is rocking back on his heels somewhere in the periphery of his vision, bouncing anticipatorily in place much like the monsterchild does.
The Pumpkin Cookie is crisp at the edges, but dense and chewy in the middle. The natural sweetness of the Pumpkin, the studs of hardened Honey like chips of butterscotch peppered throughout, the saltiness of the Butter that plays so nicely with the sweetness, and a bit of spice—something that tastes faintly of cloves, star anise, licorice, and. . .menthol?
Nightmare Fuel. Of course.
It didn’t taste out of place, in fact it complements the different flavors quite well, other than the strange notes of not-quite-mint. But it’s overshadowed—overShadowed?—by another strange addition: a pinch of Chili Flakes.
Warly had once raved about a drinking chocolate that contained cinnamon and chili powder, supposedly Mexican in origin, and an Indian tea known as chai masala, featuring black pepper, cardamom, and ginger as core ingredients. Adding “a hint of spice” to something sweet, “to awaken the tastebuds,” as Warly often said, wasn’t exactly a new concept. And it had been with his Hot Dragon Chili Salad that Warly had won over Maxwell with his competence.
“I'll permit him to stay so long as he keeps cooking,” he had told Higgsbury, to which the scientist had responded “that's not up to you” and slapped the back of his head.
A little salty, a little sweet, a little spicy. A little scientist that was all three. The mentally unstable lunatic that kept Maxwell sane, with skilled hands that could hurt and heal in equal measure. A refined gentleman content to faff about with the common folk, an idiot savant with a fondness for clever wordplay, a meek, softhearted man with an aggressive streak to rival Wigfrid’s. He was a walking, talking contradiction. He was every wrong ingredient, but combined, they somehow worked.
Wilson watches with bated breath as Maxwell chews. The man's eyes flutter closed, and the faintest smile touches his lips. He hums quietly in approval, and Wilson's heart lifts. He had taken a calculated risk with Nightmare Fuel and Chili Flakes
The King's Gambit
and it had paid off.
“Well?”
“. . .It’s delicious. Thank you.”
Wilson sets the plate of Pumpkin Cookies beside Maxwell and kneels between his legs, causing the magician to jolt from his haze of sweets-induced bliss.
“What are you—!?”
“I was thinking,” Wilson murmurs quietly, “after dinner—Warly's making your favorite, by the way, we caught the Wobsters ourselves—that we head back to my Tent for a little. . .dessert.” He passes his thumb over Maxwell’s lips to swipe off the crumbs of Cookie, and presses the thumb back in the center of his closed mouth. “Warly helped me dry some Stone Fruit for oil, I've managed to distill some lovely Pomegranate-Dragonfruit champagne for us. What would you say to a sumptuous candlelit massage and some slow, sensual lovemaking?”
Maxwell is entranced, scarcely breathing and perfectly still, save for his tongue slipping from his mouth to lap at the remnants of Pumpkin Cookie on Wilson’s thumb. The bifurcated prongs wrap around the digit as if in a hug.
“How does that sound?”
Maxwell’s tongue retracts, and he nods once, his eyes still glazed and unfocused. “Sounds nice,” he mumbles thickly.
“Good, good.” Wilson rises, hands resting on Maxwell’s thighs to steady himself—how was his touch so hot?—and gives Maxwell a deep, lingering kiss.
“. . .Why?”
Wilson slowly pulls back to regard Maxwell with confusion. “Why what?”
“Why are you. . .doing this. Any of this. Why are any of you doing any of this.”
“I've said it before, I'll say it again. You’re one of us, now. And birthdays are special, you know? It's another year you've managed to survive.
. . .Especially out here.”
Maxwell frowns.
“And I might. . .you know. . .like you. A little bit. Even though you’re. . .you.”
“Higgsbury. . .”
“. . .I always did, really.”
Maxwell tries to hide his flush by ducking his head to take another sip of tea. Then he chokes.
“Whoa, hey! Are you okay?”
“. . .D-Did you mean to say ‘lovemaking’ earlier?”
“I. . .” Wilson clears his throat, blushing himself. “I know what I said. Don’t read too much into it. It's just a type of intercourse.
. . .I still hate you.”
Maxwell relaxes, looking almost relieved. “Good, because I still hate you.”
“Good. Mutual hatred and nothing else.”
“Naturally.”
“Now I'm going to kiss you again. Hatefully, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And maybe nibble your ear.”
“With the utmost hatred.”
“The utmost.”