Chapter Text
Wilson sat alone at his campsite by his fire pit. He quietly watched the flames, decompressing after his recent expedition.
He had no idea where that door would take him, he had hoped home, but of course it didn’t.
And what had it all been for? Months, possibly years, spent trekking through Maxwell’s labyrinth, and here he was. Back at camp, nothing to show for it all.
He didn’t like to think about what happened in the final room he had found himself in. It was horrible to find that loathsome man on that throne. To call him a shell of a person would be a compliment. It was like he was decaying before death, the embodiment of misery.
For a moment, in that throne room, all the hatred he carried for Maxwell seemed to melt away. He was left only with pity.
He drove the diving rod into place. The bindings came free and with great difficulty Maxwell stood up with a tentative smile.
He mirrored a small smile, but it was wiped clean in an instant.
Wilson shuddered at the memory, he forced it down out and out of his thoughts.
He was dead now. It seemed both a fitting punishment and benevolent blessing. Wilson tried to think of it as a mercy killing. At least he’s not suffering anymore.
The whole ordeal only brought more questions to mind, questions likely only Maxwell knew the answer to.
He was broken from his thoughts when he heard rustling in the surrounding woods. He grabbed his axe, approaching slowly, hoping he’d find a meaty meal.
He sprinted the final steps and reared his axe, yelling primally, ready to bring the blade down on the unsuspecting animal.
The animal screamed loudly and scrambled backwards on the ground. Wilson halted his movement, axe hanging in the air, and stared at the animal. It was a man. The man he befriended through a radio. The man he then came to hate with his very soul. The man who had turned to dust before his own eyes.
That man stared back, fearfully, unsure what Wilson would do next.
Wilson stood up straight and dropped the axe to his side. Continuing eye contact with Maxwell.
Maxwell waited for Wilson to say something, but he didn’t.
Sitting up slightly he started, voice uneven, “Hey pal-“
“rrrRR—AAGHHH!” Wilson throttled the man.
Maxwell struggled under him. He grabbed and punched at Wilson’s arms and tried to claw his fingers off from around his throat.
“Grk—ag-k” he gasped for breath.
Wilson was unrelenting, filled with white hot rage. He shouts and growls, spit falling on Maxwell’s now nearly purple face.
Maxwell finally realizes his advantage and as hard as he can, punches Wilson in the face with his lanky arm. Wilson’s grip falters and he hits him again, in the eye now.
Once he lets go of his throat, Maxwell shoves Wilson off of him. Gasping painfully for air, coughing violently.
It’s not long before Wilson pounces on him again. They roll with each other in the dirt, punching, scratching, and kicking.
Wilson manages to pin him again, straddling his chest. He grabs him by the collar, “Bastard!” He shouts, and delivers a hard punch to his face, crunching under the force of his fist. Blood splattered out from his nose.
Wilson continued to wail on him. exhausted, all Maxwell could do now is brace his arms over his face.
He only stopped when they were suddenly enveloped in darkness.
Wilson froze, his blood running cold. He jumps off of Maxwell and runs to the fire pit. His hands tremble. He uses an entire dead bush to quick start a new fire. Quickly feeding it sticks and then logs.
Maxwell continued to lay on the ground, wheezing and panting. The only movement he made was to spit out blood that had pooled in his mouth.
Wilson fed the fire another large log and was finally satisfied by the now roaring flames. He sat back on his heels, breathing heavily, trembling at the exertion of raw emotion.
He looked back to see Maxwell now sat up, his face a bloody mess. He started at Wilson with wide, fearful eyes, just waiting for Wilson to attack again.
Wilson toor his gaze away, feeling shell shocked at what had just transpired. Adrenaline running thin, guilt started to take hold. Realizing that even though this was Maxwell, he essentially just beat up an old man.
He stood up and stiffly walked to his tent and grabbed out a sack that was stitched with a red square. He pulled out healing salve, bandages, and paper. He also grabbed a bucket of warm water and a cloth from next to the fire pit.
He approached Maxwell softly with the items, trying to make his intentions clear.
He sat with his hand to his nose, pinching it shut, trying to clot the bleeding. Maxwell eyed him warily, but made no move to run.
Wilson sits down beside him on his knees. He dumps the cloth in the water and rings it out.
He holds the wet cloth a half foot from Maxwell’s face.
Sighing, Wilson said, “I’m sorry.” Plainly, but genuinely.
After a beat, Maxwell let his hand fall from his face and Wilson wiped the blood from under his nose and face. Face so tender that the gentle act made Maxwell wince in pain. Wilson grimaced and continued to clean the blood that had dripped down his neck.
He rinsed the cloth and held it back to Maxwell’s still bleeding nose.
“Hold this.” He said and Maxwell did.
He rubbed salve over every blooming bruise. His eyes, cheeks, neck. He could feel Maxwell’s subtle tremble, trying desperately not to flinch.
He applied a much thicker layer to his nose and covered it with paper.
“Your nose isn’t broken. Just cartilage.” Wilson said, Wrapping bandages around his head to hold it in place.
After the methodical aid Wilson looked him over. He still looked awful.
‘Not dead, at least’ Wilson thought.
Anger flashed across his features again at the thought and it scared Maxwell. Wilson stood up and stormed back to sit by the fire pit before another outburst.
He watched the flames mindlessly. At least five minutes passed, Maxwell hadn’t moved from his spot on the ground. Wilson sighed.
“That’s enough sulking.” He called out.
The only reply he heard was a slight shift in the grass.
“Come on.” Wilson said, “I have questions for you.”