Chapter Text
It had been so sudden.
One moment, Higgsbury was leaning over his workbench and tinkering away at a watch. It had taken quite a long time to persuade Wanda to part with one, but after much perseverance, the camp’s resident timekeeper relinquished a watch to Higgsbury and only Higgsbury, blithely remarking in that cryptic way of hers that if anyone could crack the cracked timepiece, he had the largest shot.
Maxwell had chuckled darkly, muttered under his breath a macabre joke or two about no hope and never leaving that made Wendy’s lips twitch and the scientist purse his.
His own contributions to the effort amounted to reclining against a log by the fire—and if the view from where he sat was quite nice, Maxwell didn’t comment on it—with the Codex open on his lap and ready to pull Higgsbury out of whatever trouble the little scientist managed to get himself into.
Not that it mattered, in the end. As aforementioned, it had been so sudden.
One moment, Higgsbury was futilely toiling away at escape and the next, shadow tendrils unlike the miasmic hands so characteristic of this world sprout from the ground and engulf the scientist.
“Wilson!” Maxwell had cried out, scrambling to his feet and rushing over. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, he’s the first to make it to the workbench. Damn it, Higgsbury is never going to let him live that down—except, wait.
The crumpled form in his arms isn’t Wilson P. Higgsbury.
An inky suit, striped vest, and red tie have replaced the signature vest, white button-up, and dark trousers, the shoulders tapering upwards into dull points. His hair, often a source of vanity for the scientist, is now streaked with whites and greys. The most noticeable difference however, and the most obvious tell that this is not his Higgsbury are the lines of his face. His face is more angular, older, foreign. Even with his eyes closed and face relaxed, he looks like danger, like he could cut Maxwell six ways from Sunday and have Maxwell enjoy it.
“Urgh…”
Those eyes blink open, squinting at the light before transfixing on him. For a millisecond, utter shock flashes across Not-Higgsbury’s face, mirroring the magician’s expression. Then it shatters, those thin lips smirking and those knowing eyes narrowing amusedly. He smiles then, all sharp teeth and dark promise and oh Maxwell wishes Higgsbury were here. Not that he would ever tell the scientist that.
Maybe he should have. And maybe he should have throttled some more answers out of Wanda, just to get something more than cryptic nonsense from the timekeeper.
“Is Wilson okay?” the spider-child whispers behind him. The other survivors had heard the commotion it seems, and were quickly gathering around.
The Higgsbury in his arms is now very clearly checking him out, dark eyes appreciatively roving up and down the older man. Maxwell glares down at him. He wiggles his eyebrows tauntingly.
“Don’t you dare—” the magician hisses.
“Hello, William.”