Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This is Willow, our new chemist from the capital.”

Matheo stares at the woman in question, anger and horror flaring hot in his chest.

The chemist is striking. No taller than Rue, lean in an awkward way that befits her name, startlingly young, undeniably pretty, naive and naked ambition clear in her blue-gray eyes. That she comes from the capital is obvious; it clings to every inch of her like a disgusting film, from her clothes (cut modern and dyed gaudy colors), to her hair (dark ashen brown, pulled up off her neck to reveal a shaved portion underneath), to even the way she holds herself (defensive, fidgety, like she’d fistfight anyone who dared to call her knowledge into question).

Myer, either oblivious to his formerly solitary healer’s thorough alienation and betrayal or pointedly ignoring it, continues on: “Willow, this is Matheo, Moonbury’s witch doctor.”

She has to tilt her head back and look up to meet his gaze, which he manages to scrape some feeling of power from in this bewildering situation.

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, the quirk of her brows among her otherwise neutral smile betraying her uncertainty.

Matheo ignores her, turns to Myer instead. “What have you done?” It comes out through clenched teeth.

Shifting into mediation mode with an air of disappointed resignation, Myer stands up a little straighter and adjusts his hat. “Now, now, Matheo,” he says. “You must understand where I’m coming from. I’d never forgive myself if something were to happen to Rue…”

“That justifies bringing someone from the Medical Association in?” Matheo hisses. “Have you forgotten everything the capital did to Moonbury? To us?”

“I remember full well, thank you very much,” Myer says. “But until Rue is cured I will exhaust every option. I will not refuse help if it means a chance for her to get better -- no matter who or where that help comes from.”

“You doubt my abilities?”

“I doubt our remaining time.”

From the bed (the rickety, dusty, creaky, moth-eaten old excuse for a bed in this rickety, dusty, creaky, moth-eaten old excuse for a clinic), Rue erupts into a coughing fit, wet and rasping and so intense it seems, for a moment, she won’t be able to catch her breath. The chemist steps forward and rubs Rue’s back as she dry heaves over the edge of the mattress, hair stuck in clumps to her sweaty forehead.

Myer and Mariele both crowd the opposite side of the bed, ill at ease, leaving Matheo to stand adrift, alone, in the center aisle.

Despite everything, his concern for Rue’s health is bone deep, etched into him. At this point in his life he has been a healer for so long that it’s instinctual -- illness presents itself, and he takes care of it. While he’s never been a man who wears his feelings on his sleeve, he is invested in the health and wellbeing of the people of Moonbury, and seeing one of his own ailing troubles him. To be unable to help --to be made to be unable to help-- adds additional insult to injury.

He watches the chemist as she pokes and prods at Rue, asks her questions, runs a small gamut of information-gathering tests to establish vitals. She is, as he’d intuited the instant he saw her, inexperienced, almost certainly fresh from whatever overpriced capital school she’d been churned through along with a hundred other clueless excuses for healers. He pictures her fumbling her way through procedures he’s done so many times he could perform them blindfolded. He pictures her giving her patients -- his patients, his neighbors and friends-- medications synthesized from the same toxic sludge that ravaged so much of Moonbury’s wildlife, the same poison that all capital chemists love to play with and pretend is safe.

“Sunworm?” Mariele says, puzzled, bringing Matheo out of his reverie. He finds his hands are clenched into such tight fists that his knuckles ache, and his joints protest as he forces them to unbend.

The chemist nods, brows furrowed. She’s got her hand on Rue’s head, the perfect picture of professional resolve, except that she’s from the capital and so in reality it’s a sham. “It’s a parasite,” she says. “Most of the time it’s ingested from contaminated water.”

Fresh anger curls around Matheo’s lungs like fingers, squeezing them so hard his breath comes to him in fractions.

“How can you be so sure?” he can’t help but ask. “I’ve been attempting to diagnose her for days, and you think you’ve done it in fifteen minutes?”

The chemist turns towards him, owlish, and he enjoys the clear intimidation in her eyes.

“There… There are other conditions that present in a similar way,” she says. “But, um… It’s the sputum.”

“The what?” Mariele asks.

“Phlegm, kind of? Coughed up from the lungs,” the chemist says, hunching her shoulders. “Rue’s is pink. That gave me a hunch, so I put some under my microscope and found that there are eggs present. That means it’s definitely some kind of parasite, and all the other symptoms are very characteristic of Sunworm.”

A beat of silence passes, tense and uncomfortable.

“I could run some more thorough tests, of course, to be sure,” the chemist continues, “but if, like you said, you’ve been attempting to diagnose her for days and haven’t been successful, I would assume that rules out all of the other, more obvious possibilities.”

Matheo doesn’t have time to decide whether or not to be offended (does she think he only considered the obvious possibilities?) before Myer, taken in, asks, “Is it… Is it fatal?”

The chemist keeps her voice level. “It can be fatal, yes,” she says. “But if you’d permit me to treat her, I believe it would be worth trying.”

“Yes, of course!” Myer says. “Do whatever you must!”

The chemist nods, her hair bouncing around her face. “I can go make a potion right now,” she says. “It won’t take long. Maybe five or six minutes.” She strokes Rue’s hair, as if they’re dear friends with a long and storied history, as if the chemist is someone Rue can trust . “You’ll feel better soon, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Rue just moans, half-delirious.

The chemist turns to leave and meets Matheo’s gaze again. Her expression shifts from one of focused determination to something more unsure, and as she shuffles past him towards the exit (even her perfume is capital, sharp and strong) he experiences the brief but uncharacteristically violent urge to wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze.

As soon as the clinic door swings shut, he addresses Myer.

“You’re seriously trusting her?” he snaps, trying his absolute damndest to communicate the potential finality of this decision. “You’re gambling the life of your daughter by laying it in the hands of a gods-damned capital chemist?”

“She seems confident,” Myer says, not looking away from Rue. “I see no reason not to trust her.”

“Is the fact that she’s from the capital not reason enough?”

Myer shuts his eyes. “I know you’re angry, Matheo, and I appreciate the reason why, I do,” he says, “but this is a fear you can’t understand until you’re faced with losing someone so close to you that it’s like…”

“Like losing a part of yourself,” Mariele finishes, and Myer nods.

“Yes, precisely.” He sighs, and seems to deflate, grow smaller and older and more tired. He slides his hands around the already-clasped hands of his daughter and wife, squeezing them. “Please, Matheo. I do not accept the capital’s help lightly. But don’t begrudge me for wanting to save my daughter’s life.”

I could have done it, Matheo wants to say, you know I could have.

Forty years. Raised in the thick of six generations’ worth of collective knowledge, lived tradition, so intimately familiar with medicine and healing that it’s like an additional sense, something woven into the very fibers of him, his entire life’s work -- all of it cast aside in favor of an upstart, fresh-faced chemist whose sole legacy of any significance to Moonbury is one of reckless endangerment and massive ecological collapse.

He stares at Myer’s hands, clasped around his wife’s, his child’s. Doesn’t understand what sort of desperation would drive a man to this. Feels a sick twist in his gut at the inconceivability of ever doing the same.

The chemist returns a couple minutes later, holding a glass potion bottle. The liquid inside is a deep blue color, vapor drifting from the open top. “Okay,” she says, helping Rue to sit up a little. “I need you to drink this, Rue. All of it, okay?”

Rue takes the bottle and stares into it, looking as dubious and nervous as Matheo feels.

The chemist continues: “It might make you throw up, but that’s normal. And then you should feel a lot better within just a few minutes.”

Rue looks up from the bottle, to the chemist, like she’s not fully comprehending what she’s being told. And then she looks at her parents, who nod in encouragement. And then she looks at Matheo, who forces his expression to be as neutral as possible.

And then she drinks.

Matheo takes a deep breath, lets it out in a prolonged exhale, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he might be about to witness Rue’s death at the hands of a negligent amateur.

Rue gags at the taste of the potion, but endures with the coaxing of the chemist and her parents, drinking until the entire bottle is drained, at which point the chemist stands up and replaces the empty bottle with a bowl.

“Good job,” she says. “Sorry about the taste.”

“So now we wait?” Mariele asks, apprehensive.

“Mm hmm. Shouldn’t take long. If she doesn’t feel better in… say, fifteen minutes or so, we can rule out Sunworm.”

“And if that’s the case, how will that concoction you just gave her affect her?” Matheo asks.

The chemist half-shrugs. “It’ll probably make her throw up, like I said, but then she’ll feel just as miserable as before,” she says.

“So at best you’ll have dehydrated her for no reason.”

“No. At best it’ll make her feel better and be the first step in treatment,” she says. “At worst it’ll do nothing. And then I can put her on fluids and run more thorough tests.” She gives another half-shrug, and the casualness of the gesture, so unfitting for the current situation, aggravates him. “But… I feel confident in my diagnosis.”

Matheo crosses his arms. “It’s kind of premature to be getting cocky, don’t you think?”

Myer and Mariele remain quiet, though it’s obvious that Myer wants to step in but is unsure how.

The chemist frowns, part annoyed and part hurt. “You know, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to,” she says. “I understand why you’re upset with me, but--”

“Oh, you do?” he asks. “You understand why I might not take kindly to a half-baked capital puppet barging in and pretending to care about people while no doubt poisoning all of us with the exact same toxic dreck your predecessors did?”

“Well, no, I…” She looks troubled.

“Alright, Matheo, that’s enough,” Myer says. “As Willow said, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. But if you’re going to stay, stop antagonizing her.” He straightens his jacket. “In the end, we’re all here for Rue, are we not?”

As if on cue, Rue vomits into the bowl she’s holding, her entire body convulsing. Matheo steps closer out of reflex, grasping the flimsy bars of the bed’s footboard. It goes on long enough to be concerning before it comes to an end, and Rue groans in disgust.

“All done?” the chemist asks, removing the bowl and replacing it with a glass of water, which Rue begins chugging.

Matheo’s stomach twists. The difference is noticeable already, stark and obvious in comparison to the Rue of even several seconds ago. She’s moving with more energy, the color returning to her skin, the light to her eyes, the ease to her muscles. Her parents don’t seem to have noticed yet, but the chemist has, and she meets his gaze, her expression ambiguous, searching, appraising.

He has no idea what expression of his own he responds with.

“Rue?” Mariele asks. “How are you feeling, darling?”

Rue finishes the glass of water and lets out all of her breath in one long sigh, wiping her mouth with her arm. “I… I-I feel… better, I think--oomf--”

Her voice is smothered by her father squeezing her in a hug. “Oh, you have no idea how relieved I am to hear that!”

She wheezes. “Papa, please… I can’t--”

Myer withdraws, patting her shoulders. “Oh, oh, of course, I’m sorry, Rue.” He makes his way around the bed to shake the chemist’s hand. “Thank you so much, Willow, I’m in your debt--how can I ever repay you?”

“It’s--no, it’s nothing--ough--!”

She, too, is pulled into a tight hug, and she endures it in silence, looking over Myer’s shoulder at Matheo. She doesn’t look away even as Myer backs away to continue shaking her hand and babbling on about paying her, about how grateful he is, about how bright the chemist’s future looks, about how he’ll urge all his constituents to come to her if they’re feeling ill.

She just stares at Matheo, like she’s trying to figure him out, like there’s something she wants to say to him. Matheo stares back, letting any remaining mask of neutrality he might have been attempting to salvage for professionalism’s sake slip away so she can see exactly how intense his hatred is for her and everything she represents.

“What was in it?” he hisses. “What did you give her?”

Myer, who’d still been talking, goes silent.

The chemist swallows, pulling herself up to her full but unimposing height. “Moonbrine. It was… It was a mixture of local flora I gathered near Meadow Range. There are quite a few plants on the island that contain appropriate anthelmintic properties,” she says, her voice thick, like she’s forcing it past a lump in her throat.

“That’s it?”

She nods again.

“I don’t buy it. You must have put some sort of synthetic material in it.”

“No--”

“She was under express orders to only use materials found on the island," Myer interrupts, in a tone of finality. "And the most important thing is that it worked. My daughter is alive and on the road back to good health, and that’s all that matters. I’ll not tolerate anymore badgering of the chemist, Matheo, do you understand?”

Everyone looks at him, and he bites back the righteously indignant and skeptical rant that’s fighting to claw its way out of his mouth. Unable to trust himself to say much of anything without it devolving into either that or a numbered list of all the precise reasons the chemist is an immoral fraud of a healer who lacks any legitimate qualifications and should be sent back to the cesspit she came from on the soonest train, Matheo nods, mutters, “I’ll take my leave, then,” and turns on his heel to head towards the door.

“Please, excuse him,” he hears Myer saying to the chemist as he leaves, “he’s usually such a pleasant man.”

Chapter Text

Willow stares up at the patchy, worn boards of the ceiling in her room at the potion house. It’s freezing, unseasonably so for autumn, or maybe the capital is just warmer than Moonbury in general. She hadn’t had adequate time when she'd arrived to evaluate the state of the house or its appliances besides the ancient cauldron that had, like a miracle, sputtered to life at Runeheart’s touch, and the actual infrastructure of the building itself is in such disarray that there’s little to no insulation from the cold outside.

She huddles under her threadbare blanket. She hasn’t unpacked yet either, and is unwilling to expose herself to the cold now, even for a moment, so she’s still in her day clothes; she pulls her woolen cape closer around her as a second blanket, looking down at the floor where her dog is sleeping, unbothered by the temperature under his thick white fur. She half-considers climbing down to snuggle up with him and leech off his body heat, but Alistair has never been much of a cuddler.

She’d been thrown headfirst into the situation with Rue with so much immediacy and urgency she’s only now getting a chance to even think about anything else. Mixed emotions buffet her. Pride, regret, uncertainty, unfamiliarity, thrill, thankfulness. She wishes Dr Nestor and the Medical Association board members could have seen her, could have witnessed her working so gracefully under pressure; any doubts they might have had about sending her, someone untried in practical, real-world healing aside from the final internship that all capital chemists are required to complete, would have been smoothed away. She can function under stress, without her mentor, can keep a level head, can consider all the signs and symptoms, listen to her clients, reason out a correct diagnosis, and can discern which potion to brew to treat said diagnosis.

She can do this. She can be a chemist.

The thought fills her with pride and excitement. She’d been chosen for this based on little more than random chance, a name pulled out of a proverbial hat, one of the lucky few who’d been given a chance to find real work so soon after their internship, and the thought that she might be able to hang onto it, to prove herself, to save lives and actually affect tangible positive change in a community--

Her heart seems to drop through the floor as her thoughts turn, not for the first time, to the resident witch doctor.

He is, at the moment, so far as she can see, her primary obstacle to establishing a clinic (and life) here. That she is stepping into a role which is already occupied uneases her. Moonbury is a tiny village, with no need for more than one healer, and she has no desire to compete with a man who’s been here longer than she has, is more familiar with the townsfolk, and has far more to lose if his livelihood is pulled out from under him. She doesn’t want to drive him out of his house, to clamp him off and starve him of the life he’s used to until he has no choice but to leave.

But maybe it’s presumptuous of her to even think that way. Given that the townsfolk have an already-established history with him, maybe they’ll have no desire to come to her clinic, anyway, and she’ll be the one faced having to leave.

That thought also discomforts her. She doesn’t want to leave, not when this opportunity is so perfect, not when she doesn’t know if or when another like it will be dropped into her lap like this one was, not when her abilities as a healer have already proved to be beneficial.

She keeps remembering Mayor Myer’s suffocating hug and bone-crushing handshake as he’d thanked her over and over again. She keeps remembering Mariele dabbing at her cheeks, unable to keep her emotions from overflowing after such a tumultuous experience. She keeps remembering Rue, sweaty and pallid and exhausted but alive, sparing a weak smile and a few words of thanks before falling asleep in the clinic bed for some deserved and much-needed rest.

She keeps remembering Matheo, staring at her as Myer hugged her, looking like he wanted nothing more than to rip her apart with his own hands. If looks could kill, she’d have undoubtedly dropped dead right then and there.

She has no idea why. She would never expect him to be happy about her presence in the town, given the circumstances, but the sheer, near overwhelming intensity of his dislike puzzles her. Did she do something wrong? Did she do something to offend him?

He seemed to be hung up about her being from the capital, and now that she’s thinking on it, she remembers Dr Nestor and Myer both mentioning some bad blood between the capital and Moonbury. The context is lost to her, however. If she’d known beforehand she would have tried to be more informed. What could have happened that would cause a stranger to hate her so much based solely on where she came from?

She shuts her eyes, trying not to shiver in the cold.

When she at last manages to sleep, she dreams of cold amber eyes and withering plants.

--

“How are you feeling?” Willow asks Rue the next day, sitting on the edge of the bed. It’s early in the morning and the cold is still infiltrating everything, even here in the clinic where temperature control is far more vital than most places.

Rue hunches her shoulders, rubs her arms in an effort to warm herself. “Better,” she says. “Cold.”

“I’m sorry,” Willow says, pulling an additional blanket off of the nearby empty bed and passing it to Rue so she can wrap it around her shoulders. “I’m going to be spending today taking stock of the buildings here, to see what’s functional and what’s not. See if the Medical Association can spare some funding to improve things. At least here, where patients are going to be.”

Rue tilts her head. She looks far better than she did last night, but the rings under her eyes are still present, and though she’ll likely be cleared to go home later today it will take her several more days to regain her full strength and health. “So you’re staying in Moonbury?” she asks.

“I’m… not sure yet,” Willow replies. “It kind of depends on what the Medical Association decides. Treating you was part of my assessment.”

“Oh.” Rue pulls her knees up, huddling into a ball. “I didn’t realize I was just part of an assessment.”

“You’re not--” Willow says, cursing herself for her clumsy phrasing. “I mean, not to me. I genuinely wanted --want-- to help you. It’s just, the most accurate way for the Medical Association to truly assess a chemist’s skills is in real world situations, you know what I mean?”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“I’d like to stay, though. Moonbury seems like a really lovely town.”

“I don’t think they’ll take well to someone from the capital, though.”

Willow’s heart skips. “Who?”

A brief pause as Rue shrugs slowly, seeming hesitant to admit the truth in an effort to spare Willow’s feelings. “Everyone…?” she says.

That same falling feeling as last night, when she’d reflected on Matheo and the unambiguous hatred in his eyes. Not just him, then? Everyone? Will everyone in town look at her like that?

“Oh.”

“I want to give you something, though,” Rue says. “It should be in my bag. I think Papa brought it last night?”

“Yeah, he did.” Willow grabs the old canvas messenger bag from where it’s hanging on the footboard and hands it to Rue, who rummages through it.

“Here it is.” She pulls out a small, palm-sized bag, deep purple in color with a little crescent moon emblazoned on it. Willow takes it when Rue holds it towards her.

“What is it?”

“Moon cloves,” Rue answers. “They’re native to Moonbury, and it’s sort of… a tradition here to give them as gifts. They’re seen as a symbol of friendship.”

Willow finds herself squeezing the bag, protective of it. She lifts it to her nose and inhales; the smell is earthy but sweet, like soil after fresh rain, with a mild edge of citrusy spice that lingers after the other scents fade. It’s lovely.

“It might help if, you know… if people give you a hard time,” Rue continues.

“Thank you,” Willow says, chest warming. “That means a lot.”

Rue seems about to reply when the door of the clinic opens, interrupting the moment. For half a second Willow imagines Matheo storming in to continue arguing with her, but thankfully that’s not the case. Instead, a handsome, unfamiliar man enters, followed by the Medical Association board members Moira and Collin, as well as Dr Nestor.

Willow scrambles to her feet, standing up straight and as confident as she can, wishing she’d had more forewarning to make herself look presentable. She hadn’t slept well in the cold and she’s sure it must reflect in her still-present bedhead.

“Willow?” the unfamiliar man asks, and Willow nods in affirmation. “I’m Xiao. I’m Mayor Myer’s assistant, and Moonbury’s treasurer.” He extends his hand and Willow shakes it. “These three are here to talk with you and Myer about your assessment, and what the next step will be. I’ll escort you all to Myer’s office at Town Hall.”

Willow’s heart climbs into her throat and kicks up to double speed. Alright. This is happening. This is it. Moving so fast it’s all she can do to keep abreast of it. Part of her wants to scream into a pillow just to release the sudden flood of nerves that washes over her.

After confirming with Rue that she’s alright for the time being, Xiao leads everyone to Town Hall. As Willow follows, sandwiched between Xiao’s back and the board members’ fronts with Nestor beside her, she has her first chance to take in the town of Moonbury -- and its colorful residents.

People stare. Of course they do. Some are obviously distrustful, including the police officer they pass who seems to be formulating a reason to arrest not just Willow, but all four of the capital natives. Some folks seem curious more than anything, uncertain of the capital’s intentions, maybe thinking about whatever the incident was that destroyed their trust in chemists as a profession so thoroughly.

I’m here to help, Willow wants to say, tries to say with her encouraging smiles and head nods and body language that probably instead comes off as trying too hard. It’s all going to be okay.

She squeezes the little bag of moon cloves in her pocket, thinking of Rue’s trust.

As they reach Town Hall and wait for Xiao to unlock the door, Willow turns towards the entrance into town from the train station, the end of that rickety old bridge framed by the pillared edges of the stone wall that surrounds the landlocked edges of town, and sees Myer crossing that threshold, on his way to meet them.

He’s walking with Matheo.

Her guts twist into a knot, so intense that she winces, has to resist setting a hand over her stomach.

Myer and Matheo stop at the end of the bridge and say a few parting words before Myer takes his leave, and Matheo’s eyes fall on her instead. Even from so far away she can feel the aura of hatred that seems to radiate off of him.

In the daylight, though, still a little high off of her success, she finds that her initial reflexive fear makes way for curiosity, and no small amount of petty pride. Did he think she couldn’t do it?

She squares her shoulders, lifts her head, fixes him with the haughtiest, bitchiest scowl she can muster.

He stares.

And then he shakes his head, seems to roll his eyes, and goes back the way he came.

Willow doesn’t have time to feel triumphant, as she is shuffled into Town Hall by the bodies of Moira and Collin, who tease about her distracted nature and apparent nervousness, and reality crashes over her again.

----

“The Board is incredibly pleased with you, Willow,” Moira says, grinning in that professional-but-patronizing way that all the Medical Association board members have perfected.

“Indeed!” Dr Nestor says, much warmer, clapping her on the shoulder. “I’m so proud to call you my mentee. You did well.”

Myer chuckles from behind his desk. “More than well, I’d say. I’m indebted to your chemist.”

“N-Nonsense,” Willow says, choking on her own voice.

“At any rate,” Collin cuts in, “the Medical Association would love to have you be its representative here at Moonbury.”

Willow’s heart seems to stop, but her pulse continues pounding in her ears, almost deafening. “Really?” she says breathlessly. “So… does that mean…?”

Collin nods. “It does.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out an envelope, sealed with the crimson wax crest of the Medical Association. “On behalf of the Medical Association, and with Mayor Myer’s authorization… I, Collin, hereby grant you permittance and licensure to open and operate a provisional clinic here in Moonbury as the capital’s ambassador. Congratulations.”

He holds the envelope out, and Willow takes it with shaking hands. She can’t even muster the strength to say thank you because she's pretty sure that if she tries she'll turn into a blubbering sap.

Moira rolls her eyes. “Gods, Collin, could you be more insufferably excessive?”

Collin smirks at her. “Come on, this is a groundbreaking step in our relationship with Moonbury. Don’t you think it deserves some pomp and circumstance?”

“Alright, you two, cut it out,” Dr Nestor says. “We have paperwork for both Willow and the mayor to read through. Contracts to sign. Regulations and expectations and all of that poppycock to review.”

Collin bows deeply, and Moira rolls her eyes again. “Of course.”

The several-inch-tall stack of papers he drops on Myer’s desk does little to dull Willow’s excitement.

----

Several hours have passed by the time all of the paperwork has been read through, explained, discussed, amended, and signed. Dr Nestor and the board members take their leave, and Willow remains in Myer’s office with him, still clutching the sealed envelope containing her clinic license against her chest.

“Well, then,” Myer says, adjusting his tie, “now that that’s over and done with, I have something for you, as well.”

He rifles through the filing cabinet in the corner of the room for a moment before meeting her in front of his desk, and sets on it a small circular piece of blue metal with odd, wing-like nubs on each side.

“This is an approval badge,” he says. “It will let you access some parts of the island you weren’t allowed to beforehand. There are different levels of approval badges, and only I can grant them to you.”

Willow picks it up, runs her thumb over its surface, embellished with a small checkmark. It’s so shiny she can almost see her reflection in it.

“I apologize if this seems odd or foreign to you,” Myer says. “I felt it was a necessary precaution, after the incidents with the previous capital chemists.”

Willow squeezes the badge, the edges of it a mild but grounding bite against her palm. “Um. About that,” she says.

“Curious about what happened?” Myer asks.

She nods. “Yes. I never heard anything about it until the train ride here, but I didn’t realize how severe it must have been until…”

“Until Matheo brought it up last night,” Myer finishes.

“... Yeah.”

He sighs. “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell,” he says. “Most of what happened was kept under wraps, so even I’m not fully informed about it.” He returns to the filing cabinet for a moment and pulls out a thin binder, which he holds in his hands as he continues, “There were… a series of accidents, the fallout of which rendered a number of our native plant species extinct and polluted the island so badly that we’re still feeling the effects to this day."

“O-Oh. I’m so sorry,” is all Willow can think to say.

“The Board downplayed the severity, of course, and news of it was smothered to keep the capital’s and the Medical Association’s reputations clean. But the damage was done, and our trust of chemists was shattered.”

Willow swallows down the lump her throat. The weight of expectation, the pressure to be better, to undo the damage that was done, settles on her shoulders, wraps itself around her. “I’m so sorry,” she says again.

“Oh, you have nothing to apologize for,” Myer says, and Willow feels unworthy of his grace, as if she really is the representative of all of the Medical Association’s crimes so many of the townsfolk see her as. “But, I hope now you understand a little more why people treat you the way they do here. And I’m sorry for that.” He shakes his head. “Please don’t hold it against them. They’re all wonderful people. Just… they don’t trust easily, when it comes to the capital. I know that they all disapprove of me bringing you in.” He slumps against his desk, contemplative, regretful. “Until now we’ve never had any need for healers other than Matheo’s family line, but even his considerable knowledge has gaps, as we experienced with Rue. It made me realize that there are some things we’re not capable of handling by ourselves. Bringing a chemist in from the capital, though…”

“I understand,” Willow says, still trying to wrap her mind around everything.

Myer holds that thin binder towards her, and she can see that there’s a label on the front which reads Record of Capital Incident. “This is everything we were told about what happened,” he says. “It’s not much.”

“It’s better than nothing,” she says, stowing it in her arms along with her license and the approval badge. “Thank you, Myer.”

“Of course,” he says. And then he brightens, clasping his hands together. “I, for one, am grateful you’re here, Willow, and I’m so excited about what the future holds for you and Moonbury.” He pats her shoulder. “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Her thoughts turn to the clinic, and to the freezing temperatures there, and the disrepair, and the missing supplies. She’s loathe to admit it after being shown so much trust, but if he’s as eager to see her succeed as he seems, she’d be a fool not to ask. “Actually, there is something…”

----

After leaving Town Hall, Willow goes to the Lazy Bowl Tavern, at the suggestion of Myer, to eat and rest. She hadn’t even realized how starving she was until he mentioned it, having gone without food since the day before and thus, it seems, subsisting off of adrenaline alone.

The gruff, tattooed man behind the bar intimidates her enough that she pauses at the threshold of the upper level, pretending to read the posters and notices plastered to the bulletin board. It takes a mere couple of seconds before the man calls her bluff.

“Hey,” he calls.

She tilts into the space, looking at him.

“Yeah, you,” he says. “You want something to eat, chemist? Or are you just here to judge?”

Flustered, Willow tries smooth down her hair and the wrinkles in her clothes as she hurries over to the bar. “O-Oh, I’m not judging, I’m just…” She bites her tongue to prevent herself from saying something stupid. “Sorry. I would like something to eat, if possible.”

“Anything in particular?” He gestures to the menu hanging above his head, and Willow scans over it for a few moments before nervousness gets the better of her and she shrugs.

“Um… Chef’s choice?” she says.

The man quirks an eyebrow, but also grins, crookedly. It fits his face better than she would have assumed. “Alright. Have a seat anywhere that’s open.”

Willow does so, sliding into a chair at the table nearest the bar, setting down all of the things she’s gathered this morning so she can go through them after eating.

There are only two other people in the tavern besides her: a stout, sturdy older woman, and a very pretty younger woman with the longest silver-blonde hair Willow has ever seen. The older woman regards her with obvious distrust, but doesn’t seem too hostile; the younger woman seems much friendlier, approaching Willow’s table.

“Hey there,” she says. “I’m Martha, the waitress here at the Lazy Bowl. Did you already order?”

“Yeah, thank you.”

Martha glances around the tavern, and then leans against the table. “You’re the new chemist from the capital, right?”

“Y-Yeah, I’m Willow.”

“It’s good to meet you,” Martha says, warm. “Are people treating you okay?”

Willow waffles a bit, hunching her shoulders. “I haven’t really talked to too many people, yet,” she says. “I’m trying not to take anything personally, though. The distrust is understandable, as far as I can tell.”

Martha pushes some of that long, long hair off of her neck and tilts her head, looking as though she’s trying to remember something.

“Maybe,” she says. “I didn’t live in Moonbury when all of that… messiness happened, so… I don’t really know.”

“You’re not from Moonbury?” Willow asks; that this surprises her is silly, but given how the town has been talked about by everyone she’s spoken to so far, it feels unexpected that anyone here isn’t a born-and-bred Moonbury native.

“No, I’m from Brightstone, south of here,” Martha says. “Came to Moonbury for a change of scenery and liked it so much that I stayed. That was maybe… five or six years ago, now?”

Their conversation is interrupted by the gruff, tattooed man returning. He sets a large plate down in front of Willow, on top of which is a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread; both smell incredible.

“Don’t let Martha talk your ear off, okay?” he says, laughing at Martha’s indignant huff. As he walks back to the bar, Martha rolls her eyes, though her fondness for him is evident.

“Don’t mind Yorn,” she says. “He can come off as unapproachable sometimes, but he’s really a big softy.”

“Good to know,” Willow says, hoping that her eating in the middle of this conversation isn’t coming across as impolite.

“Have you gotten to explore Moonbury much yet?” Martha says.

Willow shakes her head.

"Well, when you have a chance, you should definitely check out the bathhouse north of you," Martha says, becoming lively and animated, "It's run by Cassandra and Olive -- actually, I think Olive is interested in the capital, so she'd probably enjoy talking to you! But yeah, it's super relaxing." She hums as she thinks, tapping her finger against her chin. She's giving Willow so much information all at once that Willow doubts she'll be able to remember everything. "Oh, and Silky Stitch, if you're interested in clothes and accessories, they've got some pretty stuff in there. And then Hearts and Sparks is the blacksmith, that's where Opalheart and her daughter work--" She gestures to the older woman from before. "And Bulk and Build is where Reyner works; he's the carpenter, and can fix almost anything."

A couple of people enter the tavern, and Martha, dutybound but apologetic, has to return to work. Willow is so eager for a kind interaction, for anything resembling approval, that she can’t help but be disappointed. It gives her time to eat, though, and bask in the cozy warmth of the tavern, and let all of the events of the day pass through her with the benefit of hindsight. She still doesn’t open the envelope containing her license, but she does read through the binder Myer gave her containing information about the incident.

It’s sparse, as she'd been warned. A brief overview (it seems that the several different accidents occurred in multiple areas across the island, borne of unregulated experimentation), the names of the chemists involved (unfamiliar to Willow, but potentially informational), some effects of the aftermath (extinction of several plant species, as Myer had mentioned, as well as pollution of air, soil, and water, and fatal mutations in the wildlife that had been nearby), as well as a list of, and botanical sketches depicting, the lost plants.

Despite the scarcity of any in-depth information, it all feels like so much to take in. Some amount of resentment bubbles up inside of her, that no one at the Medical Association thought to inform her of this before packing her up and shipping her off into the jaws of the beast. Did they expect her to take the fall? To clean up after them? Or did they expect Moonbury to have moved past this not-insignificant wound that’s barely begun to scar over? Is her presence here, on behalf of the capital, out of genuine goodwill? Or had it simply been opportunistic?

She rubs her temples, sighing, staring at the botanical sketches as she finishes her food. They’re detailed, depicting root systems, petal and leaf structures, reproductive methods. She’s not sure why, but they’re captivating, somehow. Maybe because they might be the sole remaining representation of a once-flourishing organism now relegated to memory. The permanence --that something which feels like it should be intrinsic to the natural order, should be definitionally indestructible, can just be gone forever, scoured from the face of the planet with so little effort-- is chilling.

Willow closes the binder, disquieted.

You understand why I might not take kindly to a half-baked capital puppet barging in and pretending to care about people while no doubt poisoning all of us with the exact same toxic dreck your predecessors did?

Unbidden, Matheo’s words echo in her head for what feels like the thousandth time, and as she gathers her things to head back to the potion house and the clinic -- her clinic, under the jurisdiction of the Medical Association-- she thinks, also for the thousandth time,

I’m not a puppet. I’m not a puppet. I’m not a puppet.

But maybe she is.

----

When she leaves the tavern, she goes south, guided by directions from Martha, to Matheo’s house.

On the way she tries to figure out what she’s going to say to him, with little success. Most of all she just wants to talk to him, for real, without the conversation being shaped by an emergency situation or mistaken assumptions, wants to make an honest effort to start anew now that she knows the stakes, and reassure him that she’s not like the previous chemists. But the actual specifics elude her.

The journey is picturesque. She’s seen very little of the island, mostly from the window of the train, but it’s a beautiful place with far more greenery than Willow is used to; she’s a little bit envious that Matheo gets to live out here among all of it.

It’s not long before she reaches the clearing, and his house, which is, much like most of the other buildings in Moonbury, charmingly rustic. The trees lining the perimeter of the clearing are gold and red, the garden in the back yard is thriving, even so far into autumn, and she can just barely see, beyond the house, another smaller clearing overlooking a pond. It’s an idyllic, peaceful bubble among the already idyllic, peaceful bubble of Moonbury.

She keeps moving, intending to go and knock on the front door, but she doesn’t get that far; as she passes what she assumes is the adjoined clinic she finds herself at a small table with a few chairs set up around it, and seated at one of those chairs is Matheo.

He looks startled to see her, holding a cup that’s raised halfway to his mouth, though in an instant his expression drops into open hostility, and he sets the cup down, leans back in his chair.

“Chemist,” he says by way of greeting.

“Um,” Willow says, very intelligently. “Hi. It’s Willow.”

“I remember.” His voice is monotone, low in his chest.

Willow fiddles with her hands for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. She’s more nervous than she thought she’d be, given that she’d felt pretty good about herself when she glared at him earlier today. But he has a very intimidating energy, self-assured and imposing, and it’s hard not to feel like a scared, inexperienced rookie again.

Matheo watches her in silence, seeming relaxed despite the suspense, and despite the fact that he still looks like he’s trying to kill her via thinking about it hard enough.

Willow takes a breath in an effort to calm her nerves. “I, um, I just wanted to say that… I’ve been reading about the previous chemists, and the accidents, and… I think I understand why you don’t like me very much.”

His eyebrow quirks, but he remains silent.

Just as well, because Willow rambles on: “But I wanted to tell you that I’m not like them. I’m not here to destroy anything or cause any trouble -- pretty much exactly the opposite, really. And with regards to us both being healers, I don’t want to overstep my bounds there, either, so I’ll try to stay out of your way.” She’s aware that she’s babbling, and not even eloquently, but she supposes it is what it is. “Anyway. I just feel like we got off on the wrong foot, so I was wondering if we could… start over.”

He stares at her, for so long that it becomes uncomfortable.

And then he stands up, walks towards her until he’s looming over her, regards her like she’s some kind of disgusting vermin that’s strayed into a holy place, and all at once Willow regrets coming here.

“Listen to me carefully, chemist,” he says. “I have nothing to say to you, nor do I have any interest in how you think you might differ from your predecessors. I’ve heard it before, and it has never been true.” He squares his shoulders, lifts his head to look down his nose at her. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me believe that you’re any better or more trustworthy than all the other chemists who fed me the same lies. As far as I’m concerned, as long as you’re here, Moonbury is in imminent danger of being even further destroyed, so if you really are better than your predecessors, the way to prove it would be to leave.”

Willow clenches her hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Her heart is racing. She can’t find her voice, stuck in awful precarious tension, unsure if she’s angry, insulted, or terrified.

“So no, we cannot start over,” he says. “Do not talk to me again, do you understand?”

She can’t even find it in herself to nod.

It doesn’t matter, anyway, because Matheo turns around and goes back to his seat, implicitly dismissing her, and she seizes the opportunity, turning on her heel and almost running up the path back towards town.

Chapter Text

Matheo taps his reflex hammer against Garret's knee, and is careful to be neutral when there's no reaction. He stands up straight, stretches his back, and takes a breath.

"Garret, you know what I'm going to say…"

"What, that you've given up on me, too?" Garret says, not meeting Matheo's eyes. "That I should just accept being in this gods-damned chair for the rest of my life?"

Matheo crosses his arms, trying to choose his next words carefully. It feels like he has this conversation, or something like it, every time Garret visits the clinic, and Matheo has never managed to make any progress in convincing him of his injury's permanence.

On one hand, he understands. It was a traumatic accident, one that left Matheo no chance to save any of Garret's legs' function, and then the many life changes that transitioning to a wheelchair after so many years walking have been a hard adjustment. It's understandable that Garret is frustrated by it.

On the other hand, though, continuing to fight against it, for years now, is just prolonging his misery. If he would just accept that this is his life now, and that there's nothing inherently wrong with it, he could start moving on and being happier and healthier. Matheo wonders sometimes if some part of Garret has grown comfortable and safe within his anger and doesn't want to move on.

Matheo sighs. "I haven't given up on anyone, Garret," he says. "But I believe that you'd be happier if you would at least consider the possibility that this is permanent."

"It's easy for you to say," Garret snaps. "You have no idea how demeaning it is to be stuck like this."

While he disagrees that it's demeaning, Matheo can concede that it's true he doesn't know what it's like to be in Garret's position.

"What would you like me to do, Garret?" he asks, once again making sure to keep his voice neutral.

"I don't know!" Garret says, gesturing angrily. "You really don't have anything else? No supplements or salves or injections or anything?"

Matheo shakes his head. "Nothing we haven't already tried," he says. "I'm sorry."

Garret stares at him for a long moment, and then sighs, settling back into his chair with an air of bitterness and, for maybe the first time, resignation.

Matheo wonders how it must feel, to be so unwilling to let go of that anger, to have it dictate every choice and color every interaction. It seems like it would be exhausting and disheartening, not only for Garret but for his family, as well. Garret has never been a man overflowing with carefree whimsy, but it wasn't that long ago that Matheo remembers him being much more easygoing. What is it like, to fall so deep into a pit of despair and fury and hopelessness that the most obvious way out -- acceptance -- feels incomprehensible and unachievable?

"I'm gonna see the chemist," Garret says at length, bringing Matheo out of his reverie with such an awful shock that he feels like he has to regain his footing even though he hasn't moved an inch.

"What?" He can't help it -- it comes out as a spiteful hiss. He shouldn't be taking his distrust and hatred of the chemist out on a patient, but just the mention of her fills him with rage, and the thought that Garret wants to go to her, of his own free will, rather than continue working with Matheo? It's enough to make his chest simmer with dangerous heat.

Garret seems listless, more out of annoyance than embarrassment. "I said I'm going to see the chemist," he says, sitting up a little taller. "I don't mean anything by it, but if you think you've done all that you can for me, I'm going to talk to her."

"She's from the capital," Matheo says, monotone even though he wants to shout, wants to shake Garret by his shoulders until he understands what foolishness he's spouting. "Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what they did to Moonbury."

Garret waves a hand dismissively. "I remember just fucking fine, Matheo," he snaps, rolling his wheelchair away, "but if she can get me out of this damn chair, I'm willing to let bygones be bygones."

Matheo swallows down his retort, grinding his teeth.

Is your loyalty that conditional? he wants to say. You'd forgive multiple ecological atrocities in exchange for your own personal betterment?

Just the same as Myer. Is it worth the temporary relief of familial and personal wellbeing when the chemist will quicken their collective deaths anyway, just like all the others?

As he watches Garret leave the clinic, his stomach sinks and his blood runs cold, foreboding gnawing at his back.

It feels like history repeating itself.

It feels like an omen.

Willow pokes her head through the open doorway of Hearts and Sparks. The temperature inside the building feels at least twenty degrees higher than outside, and the smell of metal and leather pervades the air. Opalheart is at the anvil, hammering away on what seems to be a sword of some kind. She’s so deep in concentration that she doesn’t notice Willow.

Runeheart, however, who is bent over the front counter rifling through some paperwork, looks up.

"Well, hey there, chemist!" she says. "I was wondering when you'd be ‘round. Come in, come in!”

Willow obeys, waving in greeting. “Hi,” she says, feeling a little intimidated as she usually does around Runeheart. There’s something about her casual swagger, her blunt but affable temperament, and her ample muscles that make Willow’s tongue tie into a knot.

“What brings you by?” Runeheart asks, leaning on the counter.

“Trying to get a lay of the land, still,” Willow says, hunching her shoulders. “Moonbury is small, but I still find myself getting lost.”

“Oh, you’ll get it soon enough,” Runeheart says, waving her arm and then, with a hiss, wincing in sudden pain.

Willow’s doctor instincts go wild.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Just sprained my shoulder yesterday,” Runeheart says, rolling the joint in question with an expression of distaste. “Nothing I haven’t done before or will do again.”

Willow crosses her arms, thinking. That’s not a mindset she’d call healthy, but then, everyone has their quirks. She doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on herself.

“And yes, before you ask, I am resting it,” Runeheart says, grinning. “That’s why I’m here at the desk instead of working.”

Willow feels a flush crawl across her cheeks, embarrassed at being read with so much ease. Hoping that she isn’t also sweating as much as she feels like she is, she says, “You know, I could make you a balm that’d help with the inflammation, if you’re interested.”

“For real?” Runeheart says. “That’d be great!”

“Yeah!” Willow says, inching towards the doorway. “I can go make it right now, it’ll take like… twenty minutes.”

Runeheart almost jumps over the desk in a surge of eagerness. “Right now?” she says. “Oh, if you’re making it right now, I’ve got to come and check it out. If that’s okay, of course.”

“Oh! U-Um, sure,” Willow says, butterflies in her stomach for several reasons now. “As long as Opalheart is okay being here alone for a little bit.”

“I’ll be fine!” Opalheart calls from the other end of the room, and Willow has no idea how she could have heard them over the clanking of her hammer, and the whirring and crackling of the bellows and furnace fire, but it at least saves a conversation. She knows that Opalheart still doesn’t care for her much, and she’d like to give her as few additional reasons as possible for that opinion to get any lower.

Runeheart grabs her coat from the hook near the door and pulls it on. “Be back soon, mum!” she calls as she follows Willow outside.

As they walk, Willow can't help but feel a little flicker of camaraderie. It's silly, but she hasn't walked alongside someone, casual and companionable with no real obligations, since university, and it makes her hopeful that at least some of Moonbury is warming up to her.

"How've you been settling in?"

Willow tries not to seem overeager or so nervous as to be off-putting, but normalcy is a hard thing to force. “Oh, it’s been alright!” she says. “It’s been a little bit of an adjustment, and a lot of people still seem wary of me, but I’ve been keeping busy, at least.”

“Is that cauldron treating you okay?”

“Yeah,” Willow says. “Honestly, it’s probably the thing that works the best in the house and the clinic.”

Runeheart makes an amusing, disgusted groan in the back of her throat. “Yeah, that house seemed to be in need of some major TLC,” she says. “I can’t imagine the clinic is any better.”

“It’s not,” Willow affirms, half-shrugging. “But Myer helped me draft a letter to the Medical Association imploring them for some funding, so hopefully that will go through and I can at least make the clinic a sanitary place to be.”

“Seems weird that those buildings’ve just been sitting there untouched all these years,” Runeheart says, shaking her head. “Wasn’t that long ago that Reyner and I would play in the yard outside as kids. Mum had to shoo us away from them because everyone thought they were full of toxic chemicals or contaminated equipment or something.”

Willow’s chest tightens in ambivalence. It’s not such an illogical suspicion for them to have had, if the Incident Report is anything to go by. “I’m surprised they’re still standing. Seems like demolishing them could have put some of that unease to rest, if nothing else.”

Runeheart shrugs, nonplussed. “We don’t have the capabilities to demolish a building. At least, not safely,” she says. “Besides, it’s better that it’s being used now, anyway. Um, assuming you don’t fuck everything up like the last chemists.” Her voice is lighthearted, but with an unmistakable edge of seriousness to it, and Willow’s stomach joins her chest in its displacement.

“Gods, I have no intentions of doing anything like what they did,” she says. “I really, truly just want to help people.”

“Well,” Runeheart says as they near Willow’s house, “you can start by helping me!”

----

The potion house is still dark and musty and overall unwelcoming to be in, but in the week and a half since Willow arrived she’s at least managed to rid the surfaces of dust, the corners of cobwebs, and the floors of rat feces. In the grand scheme of things it represents maybe five percent of the work that needs to be put into the house, but it’s a five percent that makes a lot of difference.

Upon entering, Runeheart is distracted by Alistair, who is ecstatic to meet someone new, even more so when she proves to be willing to give him almost unlimited belly scratches.

They talk as Willow brews in a shallow pot situated inside the cauldron, as it heats up the house, and again she feels that sense of camaraderie. This is the first time someone’s been in her house to just spend time chatting and idling, and it feels like friendship; maybe it’s premature, but it’s too heartening not to cling to.

Runeheart tells her about blacksmithing, about her mother, about the unique pressures of apprenticing under a parent.

“But it seems like that’s how things shake out here, a lot of the time. Myer’s father was the mayor before him, Osman’s father was the chief of police before him, Matheo’s mother was the town’s witch doctor before him, and Lucke’s family has been running that farm for generations now…” She gives Alistair a few firm pats on the chest and stands up, dusting herself off. “Seems like lots of people just kind of fall into their roles without thinking.”

Unlike the capital, where one’s vocational possibilities being endless is so integral to the culture that school programs are required to expose students to as many potential paths as possible. It had been an incredible experience growing up, but looking back it feels a bit more like vanity than an honest effort to help people find their calling. Something the capital can point to and brag about how enlightened everyone is.

“You, too?” Willow asks.

“I mean, yeah,” Runeheart says, bright. “But I love doing it, so I guess it all worked out.”

It’s necessary, as well, with such a small population, Willow assumes, unless everyone wanted to shuffle around to different jobs, or unless there was as steady an influx of new people as there was an efflux of the old. A delicate, self-sustaining economy, altered significantly by the addition or subtraction of a single person, as she herself is evidence of.

It doesn’t take long for Willow to finish the balm, pouring it out of the pot and into a glass jar, using a spatula to scrape it all off the sides. She scented this one with some of the jasmine she’d gathered from Meadow Range a few days ago, and the sweet steam fills the room.

“All done!” she announces.

Runeheart stands up from where she had once again been crouching to give Alistair more belly rubs. “Can I try it now?” she asks.

Absurdly, Willow feels nervous. It will work, of course --everything she’s made has, so far-- but besides Rue, none of her remedies have been tested right after she finished them, with her and her patient in the same room. It’s a little nerve-wracking.

“O-Oh, of course,” she says, trying not to stare as Runeheart sheds her coat and stretches. “You said it was your shoulder, right?”

“Yeah. I can get it, if you want.”

Willow hands her the jar, both thankful and despairing that she won’t be massaging Runeheart’s shoulder today. “You don’t need a lot, okay? And make sure to rub it all in.”

“Alright.” Runeheart dips a couple fingers into the jar and then reaches over her opposite shoulder, rubbing the balm in. She grins at once, eyes shutting in bliss. “Ah, that feels good already.”

Willow laughs. “That’s just because it’s still warm from the cauldron,” she says. “It’ll probably actually take a couple hours for it to reach full effect.”

“I’ll report back later, then,” Runeheart says. “I’ll have to get Reyner in here, some time. That boy pushes himself even harder than I do.”

“I’d be happy to treat him, too.”

“Don’t run yourself too ragged, you hear?” Runeheart gives Willow a gentle punch on the arm, and she has to resist the urge to rub the sudden ache.

“I-I’ll try,” she says.

“Thanks for this, Willow,” Runeheart says, pulling her coat back on. She pulls a handful of coins out of her pocket and pushes them into Willow’s hands before she has a chance to object. “I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

“Sounds good,” Willow says, her heart feeling full. “Take care of yourself. Don’t work too hard.”

“No promises.”

As Runeheart leaves the house, Willow notices that, along with the coins, Runeheart gave her a small bag of moon cloves, as well.

She has to bite her tongue to keep from crying.

“Hey, Matheo.”

Matheo, hunched over in his garden, turns to see who’s made the journey all the way out here to him; he half-expects it to be the chemist, returning to badger him yet again, but it’s not. It’s Rue.

He stands up, dusts himself off. “Hello, Rue,” he says. “Are you feeling alright? Do you need something?”

She grins, clasping her hands in front of her and stretching. “I’m fine. I just came to see if you’d like some help with gardening. It’s been a while.”

It has been a while; Rue used to come and assist him in his garden regularly, but since she got sick, and afterwards, while she recovered, she’s been absent. Truth be told he’s missed the company. While Rue can be childish on occasion, she’s easy to talk to, and her burgeoning love of plants and their relation to medicine is something he enjoys indulging.

“Of course,” he says, “although there’s not much to do. I’ve just been harvesting the last of the lavender.”

“That’s okay.” She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and comes into the garden, weaving between him and the rows of plants to get to a spot he hasn’t reached yet. “Seems like they didn’t do so well this year,” she says, inspecting some of the lavender.

“They didn’t,” he affirms, moving the forage basket to sit between them and then falling into the familiar motions of harvesting and talking at the same time. “I’m not sure whether it’s poor conditions or just bad luck.”

“I can’t imagine your garden counting as ‘poor conditions’,” she says, voice light.

He shrugs. “I’m close enough to Meadow Range that I suspect some of the waste at the accident site could have made its way to me.”

“That’s a scary thought,” she says, and then she pauses, fingers stroking up the stalk of of flowers in front of her as she thinks. “But I guess it’s kind of likely, huh? That’s probably why I got sick, after all. Willow said sunworm comes from contaminated water.”

The chemist is the reason the water is contaminated, Matheo thinks, but decides against saying, because he doesn’t want to ruin a pleasant time with Rue. Besides, the idea of bringing it up just makes him feel bitter and ashamed that he was unable to treat her -- that, were she left in his care, she might not be standing here now. It’s a sickening thought.

“Mm hmm,” he hums. “I’ve been thinking about going back out there. Trying to see if I can fix anything.”

He’s been out there before, many times in the immediate aftermath of the accident years ago, and then on occasion as the years passed; he’s never been able to effect any change no matter what he tries, no matter how many bouts of inspiration strike him. But if the effects are spreading, as they seem to be, none of them can afford to let that poisonous abomination continue to exist. The potential consequences make him sick just to speculate about. Rue almost died , and she won’t be the last.

“Do you think you could?” Rue says, sounding hopeful, and Matheo almost regrets saying something because now there’s an expectation .

“I’m not sure,” he says, “but I feel like it would be irresponsible of me not to try. It’s been a while, anyway. Maybe something has changed.”

A beat passes, and Rue’s demeanor changes, becoming a little tense as she works. He’s about to ask why, but she beats him.

“Maybe you could ask Willow to help,” she says, and then, before he can respond, adds, “I-I was really out of it while I was sick, but I do remember that you don’t like her very much. But she’s a chemist, so… I thought, y’know…”

He takes a breath, mildly annoyed that he can’t seem to escape some sort of mention of the chemist for more than a few hours at a time. “I don’t need her help,” he says.

He can feel Rue watching him, but he doesn’t look at her, focusing on picking lavender. After a couple moments, she seems to realize that this isn’t a discussion he’s interested in having, and she relents.

“Well,” she says, “if I can help, let me know.”

Thankful for the change of subject, he turns to meet her bright and trusting smile, tries not to feel unworthy of it given his failure to treat her.

“I will. Thank you.”

“Chemist, could I talk to you?”

Willow perks up from her spot near the front desk of the clinic, looking to the door to see who’s just come in.

It’s… oh, gods, she can’t remember her name. Beautiful, dark skin, long black hair. Doesn’t loiter around town that often. Works at the bathhouse? Married to… someone else, someone important?

Willow stands up, dusting herself off. “Of course!” she says. “Although, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Cassandra,” the woman says, wringing her hands in front of her. “And you’re… Willow, right?”

“I’m surprised you remember,” Willow says, because she is; she hasn’t spoken to Cassandra more than maybe twice.

“It’s easy,” Cassandra says, “since the bathhouse is called Willow Waters.”

“Oh! How funny! No one’s mentioned that yet,” Willow says, and then, flustered, adds, “I mean, people have told me about the bathhouse, and it sounds wonderful, but no one’s mentioned that it’s called Willow Waters…” Trying not to get too distracted with smalltalk, she makes the ungraceful transition of, “Um, anyway, what did you want to talk about?”

Cassandra grins, but it seems strained. “I… I have a medical question,” she says.

Just from Cassandra’s tone, Willow can tell that the issue is sensitive. She steps back, gestures towards the clinic proper. “Of course. Do you want to sit down?”

“Alright.”

Cassandra follows Willow over to the nearest bed and sits on the edge of it, and Willow sits opposite her on a rolling chair. “So, what’s going on?” she asks.

Cassandra wraps her arms around herself, chewing on her lip, and for a moment doesn’t respond. Willow sits, patient, letting her work through her thoughts and emotions. If she’s here at Willow’s clinic instead of Matheo’s, out of the blue, after they haven’t spoken more than a dozen words to each other, it must have her rattled.

At length, Cassandra says, “I’m… not sure… but I think I might be pregnant.”

Willow keeps her expression as neutral as possible, mostly because Cassandra doesn’t seem particularly enthused by this possibility -- in fact, her leg starts bouncing up and down, and in addition to everything else it’s clear that what she’s feeling is either anxiety and unrest or pent-up energy with no outlet.

“Oh?” Willow says. “What makes you say that? Have you been having symptoms?”

Cassandra doesn’t meet Willow’s eyes, instead looking every which way, maybe at all of the clinic’s alarming and dirty little flaws. “Well, um… I haven’t had my period,” she says.

“Do you have a history of that?”

“Sometimes,” she says, “but I’ve also been having other symptoms. I’ve been nauseous, and tired. And I’ve been snapping at my husband…"

“Any other symptoms? Tender breasts, bloating, constipation, anything like that? Any aversions to foods you usually like?”

Cassandra shakes her head.

“Hmm.” Willow taps her finger against her chin, thinking. “And how far past your period are you?”

“A little over a week.”

Willow thinks a bit more, turning over the options in her head.

“Well,” she says. “I can do a test here, if you want. It’s a blood test, and it's very accurate, and it can tell me whether or not you’re pregnant.”

Cassandra looks at her sideways. Every bit of her body language indicates that she might not want to know that information. She almost looks like she might run out of the clinic at a moment’s notice.

Willow sighs. “I’m sorry for being nosy, but I’m asking this as a doctor, okay?” she says. “Do you want to be pregnant?”

Cassandra sighs this time, pulling her hair over her shoulder and running her fingers through it, as if it’s self-soothing. “I-I’m not sure,” she says. “It’s not a good time. Osman is so busy, and I have the bathhouse, and… I don’t know if I feel ready to raise a child yet. I don’t know if I’m ready to give birth, either.”

“Well… You do have your community to lean on, for raising a child. I’m sure everyone in Moonbury would be glad to help you. It takes a village, after all,” Willow says. “But, if you really think you’re not ready, I am able to make potions that are abortifacients, which would end the pregnancy.”

Cassandra nods, absorbing the information, mulling it all over. She still seems uneasy, conflicted, and Willow's not sure whether she's even helping or not, but all she can do is offer her support.

"The first step, of course, is to confirm whether you are pregnant or not," she says. "We can discuss the next steps after we know that. Does that sound okay?"

"I-I guess so," Cassandra says. "How long does the test take?"

"It's a quick blood draw from you, and then the actual test only takes a couple of minutes, but it'll take me about an hour to brew it. It's finicky."

"Alright." Cassandra begins rolling her sleeve up. "Let's do it, then."

"Perfect," Willow says, standing up. "You make yourself comfortable, and I'll be right back."

----

Cassandra elects not to stay while Willow brews the potion, which is fine; it's a particular one to brew, with multiple critical timings and precise measurements, and being distracted is the last thing she needs.

An hour later, as Willow is dripping Cassandra's blood into the potion with a pipette, Cassandra returns, coming into the clinic like a ghost, so quiet that Willow almost doesn't hear her (and then resolves to buy some bells to hang from the door so she doesn't get taken by surprise).

Willow is too deep in concentration to say anything in greeting, and Cassandra seems to realize this because she just sits down on one of the rolling chairs and waits the few more moments it takes for the test to finish.

"Sorry about that," Willow says, turning around and relaxing, and Cassandra grins, genuine this time.

"I didn't realize this would be so labor intensive for you," she says.

"Oh, it's alright. It's not that bad after you've done it as many times as I have." She turns back around and watches the potion. It remains unchanged, a dark rusty color, sort of like root beer. She waits a couple extra seconds to be sure before she addresses Cassandra again. "Well. You don't seem to be pregnant," she says.

Cassandra's brows draw together in confusion. "I’m not?" 

"Mm hmm. If you were pregnant, the liquid inside the jar would turn cloudy. But it's not. So you're almost certainly not pregnant."

She seems troubled now, mind wandering. Her leg has started bouncing up and down again.

Willow takes a breath. "You know… There are a lot of things that can cause missed periods," she says. "You said you've had this happen before?" 

"Mm hmm." Cassandra watches her closely, and Willow can't tell whether she's being evaluated or if Cassandra already knows what she's about to say, but the effect is the same: an odd tenseness, expectant and heavy, settles between them.

"Malnutrition, hormones, and stress are the most common reasons," Willow continues. "And… I know we don't know each other that well, but just from talking to you today, it seems like you're carrying a lot of stress, Cassandra."

Cassandra says nothing, just continues to seem troubled and conflicted.

“Are things okay at home?” Willow asks. “You’re safe, right?”

This makes Cassandra perk up, earnestness flooding into her so fast it’s like she’s a different person. “Yes, I’m safe. Osman is nothing but good to me,” she says. “But he… he works so much, and I worry about him.” She sighs, pulling her chair closer, and now that she’s opened up Willow’s not sure how she overlooked her being so closed off and secretive before. “Y-You’re right, when you say I’m stressed. I can’t seem to stop worrying about… everything. It’s exhausting. It’s like I can’t get my mind to quiet down. I always go to the worst case scenario, I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, per se,” Willow says, waving her hands. “You might just have an anxiety disorder. And if that’s the case, I can make you a potion to help.”

Cassandra’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Really?”

“Mm hmm,” Willow hums. “It’s a potion you have to take regularly, but whenever you run out, I can supply you with more. If you want to try it, I’m happy to make some--oomf--”

Cassandra hugs her, brief but tight, and when she pulls away she’s beaming, so different than she’s been all this time. “Sorry,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I would love to try it.”

Willow’s body feels warm inside and out, her heart fluttering. For a second she’s too distracted and moved to reply. “Alright!” she says at length. “I can bring it by the bathhouse later today?”

“Perfect,” Cassandra says. “I can pay you then, as well; my purse is there.”

“That sounds great! I’ll see you in a little while.”

Willow waves her goodbye, and tries not to let her emotions get the better of her.

She’s doing it.

She’s helping people.

She’s helping people, and making a difference, and they like her!

Her emotions do boil over, and she jumps around her clinic a couple of times, too happy and excited to sit still.

Willow bundles up in her cloak, holding her bag of leftovers with one hand and waving goodbye to Martha with the other. When she steps out of the Lazy Bowl she expects it to be cold, but it’s mild, if a bit brisk. She’s distracted from going home by the sound of a cat meowing from the covered dining area, but when she goes to inspect, she finds Matheo sitting there, eating at a table by himself.

Her stomach clenches in reflexive apprehension when she sees him, and then again when he notices her and his expression slides into that familiar malice.

Still, her curiosity gets the better of her, because the implications are bizarre. “Were you… meowing?” she asks.

“Really?” he asks, and then points to the table next to him, where a cat is sitting, obviously begging for food; it’s almost all black and blends in with the dim evening. When it notices Willow looking at it, it meows.

“O-Oh,” Willow says.

They stare at each other for a moment. Impatience and animosity radiate off of Matheo like a tangible aura, but Willow finds that he’s less intimidating here, out of his element, halfway through a meal and with a cat bothering him for free samples.

Or she’s just tipsy enough from dinner that it’s smoothed down her fear into something manageable.

“Why are you eating outside? Alone?”

“I thought I told you not to talk to me.”

Sticking to his guns, then. Still uninterested in being civil, or giving her a chance. It makes sense, she supposes -- he’d told her, in a very concise way, the way things were going to be, and it’d be foolish to expect him to have changed his mind.

But, also, he’d said that because he thought she was going to destroy things like the chemists from before, and given that she’s already helped some of the townsfolk, that seems like it should be compelling evidence to the contrary. So maybe it doesn’t make sense.

She half-shrugs. “You know, I’ve been treating people,” she says. “Helping them.”

“I’m aware,” he says flatly.

“So…” She purses her lips, hovers her hands in the air like two sides of a scale. “You don’t think that counts for anything?”

He takes a breath, sets his silverware down on his plate, and sits up straighter. “You know that your aiding people has resulted in less work for me?” he says.

She does know that, but she hadn’t been letting herself think about it because she’s still not completely at peace with poaching clientele from him, even if he is a bastard. “I do,” she says.

“And you know that despite your paltry contributions to a select few individuals’ healthcare, the far larger and more serious issue still exists, ignored and disregarded?”

“I haven’t been ignoring anything,” Willow says, sharper than she intends, but it feels like a low blow. “I’ve been busy.”

“Excuses,” he mutters.

“No!” she says. “Gods, I’ve been here two weeks, did you expect me to have changed the world in that amount of time?”

“I expected at least some diligence on your part, given how much you protested being compared to the previous chemists,” Matheo says, “but even that was expecting too much, obviously.”

Willow steps forward, grabs the back of the chair nearest her, opposite Matheo. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says. When she leans forward, into his space, his expression changes, a flicker of something --not quite intimidation, but perhaps a cousin-- flashing over his features. “I will fix things, just you watch. And when I do, and everything you think you know sooo well about me is proven to be a fucking sham, I expect an apology.”

Matheo says nothing. That change in him has passed, now replaced by an obvious, deep loathing. He stares at her from under his lashes, amber eyes turned red by the flames of the lanterns, but Willow’s fear has turned to boldness, and his glare just makes her feel annoyed, determined to succeed if only to spite him.

She stands up straight, shoulders squared, raises her head so she can look at him down her nose, and then leaves him behind.

Chapter Text

It’s been three weeks since the chemist arrived in Moonbury, and one week since Matheo last saw her. In that time, she's already stolen around a third of his clients, his friends, his community. He's not sure if he's more annoyed at them for abandoning him with nary an indication of regret, or at the chemist for beguiling them so thoroughly.

How did she do it? How does she continue to do it? Can she be that much more competent than him? He doubts it, given that she's so fresh out of university and that he has, at his estimate, around ten years on her in a purely numerical sense, to say nothing of practical experience. That she might be better than him in any capacity is a statistical shot in the dark at best.

She must be tempting them with empty promises, then, pretty words and assurances she can't follow through on, and in that case it's just a matter of time before her machinations blow up in her face. Which means that he has to endure this foolishness for a limited time, until she slips up and proves herself to be a fraud, and everything goes back to normal.

It’s not ideal, but he’s pretty sure he can manage to hold out that long.

It’s temporary.

This is all temporary.

----

“Well, what is the diagnosis? Am I to be reunited with my dear Luca?”

Matheo stands up straight, pulls his gloves off. “No need to be morbid, Nova. It seems to be a simple upper respiratory infection. Nothing serious,” he says, blunt only because the familiarity between them warrants it; Nova’s gentle, sardonic grin reassures him that while she may be in a mood (she almost never utilizes humor as a coping mechanism), she is at least self-aware.

“Do you suspect it’s the accident site again? Like last time?” Nova asks.

“That’s always my primary suspicion,” Matheo answers. Every time an eastern wind sweeps through Moonbury for long enough it brings the pollution from Meadow Range with it, almost always causing a handful of various maladies to crop up around town. “It is also autumn, though, so it could be seasonal.”

Nova coughs a few times into a handkerchief, seeming more put-out than anything else.

“Someone really ought to do something about that site,” she says after she’s finished.

He huffs. Her implication is clear. “Believe me, I wish I could,” he says.

She sighs. “I know. I don’t mean to put any undue pressure on you,” she says. “I think it’s just on my mind because of this. And because of that new chemist.”

Matheo sits down on a chair opposite her, crosses his legs, tries to let himself be at ease in the company of someone whose opinion he generally trusts. Still, as always, the mere mention of the chemist makes the muscles between his shoulders tense up.

“It’s been so long now since we had a capital chemist here,” Nova continues before Matheo can think of anything to say. “I know I’m not the only one who doesn’t trust her.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s hard not to be a little bit nervous. I’m just waiting for something to happen, like all the other times.”

“I am, too.”

“But all the young folks in town seem to have taken such a liking to her,” Nova says, removing her monocle to clean it with the corner of her shirt. “She and Hannah were fast friends almost their first conversation.”

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t surprise me much,” Matheo says, crossing his arms. “It’s happening more and more often.”

“She looks like she dresses herself in the dark, too,” Nova says, coughing a bit.

Matheo hums, because he doesn’t feel qualified to add to his opinion, even though he agrees. The chemist reminds him a bit of a peacock, she’s dressed in such bright, garish colors. He can’t imagine how headache-inducing the capital must be, if that’s how everyone dresses.

Nova sighs, rubbing her chin. “I worry that they’re being too lackadaisical,” she says. “How easy we forget our past when something new and shiny arrives. But I don’t think anyone would listen to me.”

Matheo hums again, this time in thought. He shares the sentiment, that he doubts people would listen to his concerns; when he has brought them up he’s just gotten excuses and justifications, why would that change now? But he hasn’t tried reasoning with Myer since the night the chemist arrived, and it might be worth another try now that emotions aren’t running so high and Rue’s life isn’t in imminent danger.

“At any rate,” Nova continues, “I should get going.”

Matheo shakes himself out of his thoughts, sitting up straight. “Alright,” he says. “Treatment is the same as always. You know the routine at this point. Come back to me if you need anything else.”

Nova gives him a reassuring smile. “I will. Goodness knows I won’t be going to the chemist.”

----

“This is lunacy and you know it.”

“Matheo…”

“It’s asinine; as far as I’m concerned, she’s far overstayed her welcome and should be sent back to the capital on the next outbound train. Her services are no longer needed.”

“Matheo.”

“You know as well as I do that her continued presence here is a liability and a threat to Moonbury’s safety. Soon enough she’ll show her true colors as a duplicitous liar just like all the other chemists who have come here--”

“Matheo! Enough!”

Matheo stops his pacing in front of Myer’s desk, falling silent as requested even though he could continue ranting for the rest of the day. Myer laughs, but it’s the sort of laugh that’s wary and insincere, maybe meant to placate Matheo’s nerves or just an expression of Myer’s own.

“I didn’t realize you were still so up in arms over this,” Myer says, removing his monocle to wipe it with a handkerchief.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Matheo asks. “I’m one of the dwindling few who still has the good sense to be skeptical about the chemist’s intentions, and you know my suspicion is justifiable.”

“I do,” Myer concedes, “but I think you should ease up a little bit, Matheo. Willow hasn’t done anything that leads me to believe she means to harm Moonbury.”

“Neither did the other chemists, at first.”

“I know, I know,” Myer says, rubbing his chin. “This time is different, though, I think.”

“Are you basing that off of a hunch?” Matheo asks, sneering.

Myer shrugs. “Maybe. But there are others in town who share my sentiment.”

Matheo grits his teeth, lets his breath out between them. Of course there are others who share the sentiment, but that doesn’t mean it’s not based in faulty logic and blind faith. Personal feelings and anecdotal experiences will almost always outrank actual statistical likelihood, and it seems that’s the case even here, where the stakes are so high as to loom over them all.

He’s beginning to suspect that nothing he says will convince Myer.

“I like her,” Myer says at length. “Other people like her. She’s doing good work. I’m not going to send her away, Matheo, I’m sorry.”

“Even if she compromises my business?”

Myer sighs, slumping in his chair. “I’ll admit, that detail doesn’t sit well with me,” he says. “But I believe Willow is still too valuable an asset to our community to send away. If I were you, I would talk to her and have a conversation about splitting duties, or come to some other arrangement.”

“Absolutely not,” Matheo says. It’s ludicrous to expect him, the veteran and more established party in this situation, to concede anything to the chemist; this isn’t a matter of finding a middle ground, it’s a matter of clearcut right and wrong, a conniving miscreant coming in and usurping his role, his job, and his community. Does Myer not see that, or does he just not care?

Myer sighs again, throwing up his hands in both surrender and supplication. “Alright,” he says. “You do whatever you want, Matheo. But I won’t be sending Willow away, and I won’t tolerate you harassing her, either. I don’t want to hear about this again. Do I make myself clear?”

Matheo stares, seething. Myer can be so disarming; even when he’s being firm and uncompromising, that sense of warmth and geniality is still present. It’s likely he doesn’t have an unkind bone in his body.

“Yes,” Matheo answers.

“Good,” Myer says. “Now. Was there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

Matheo shakes his head. “That was all.”

Myer offers him a smile that at least implies he’s trying to be genuinely sympathetic. “Alright. Then I hope you have a wonderful rest of your day, my friend.”

Matheo can’t find it in himself to respond in kind, instead giving a single nod of the head and leaving the office.

When the chemist’s true nature is revealed, and everyone is shocked that the person they put their foolish trust is, in reality, as evil as any other capital chemist, it will be hard to be compassionate when he’ll have been the one to know all along. It will be hard not to say ‘I told you so’.

But then, depending on what sort of misfortune she brings to the island, maybe he won’t get the chance, anyway.

That’s the crux of it all, in the end. What really gets to him. It’s not just about his personal dislike of the chemist, although that is a factor -- it’s that she is endangering them all, and no one cares. Ignorance? Complacence? Curiosity? In the end, he supposes, the reasons don’t matter. There is no excuse for forgetting history and putting one’s trust in the hands of a capital chemist; anything less than active disapproval and skepticism is tantamount to conspiring with the enemy, as far as he’s concerned. Give a chemist an inch and they’ll take a mile. They’ll take everything. They always have.

As he walks home, his anger begins to make way for a vague sense of helplessness.

It’s happening again.

He can’t stop it. No one is listening to him. The chemist is winning people over and it’s all happening all over again .

It’s only a matter of time before catastrophe hits them, borne of the chemist. What form will it take? Which plant life will it scour from existence? Will it poison the animals, the townsfolk, the earth itself?

Why them? Why always Moonbury? Can the capital not leave them alone, in peace? What do they want ? To watch a tiny little town suffer for no good reason? To be tyrants, untouchable even in the face of evil being committed? To test the limits of human hubris?

Gods, it makes him feel sick. Fills him with rage and horror and dread. If he had less scruples maybe he would do something drastic --sabotage the chemist’s work, bodily force her onto a train, get her blacklisted from the Medical Association-- but for all his posturing he knows he lacks the mettle to do anything radical. He could certainly never hurt anyone, even if he hates them with the entirety of his being. And even if he wishes he could, sometimes, if it meant the protection of the greater good.

As it is, the lack of action from anyone, including him, could very well lead to Moonbury’s doom.

As the ranger station comes into view, Matheo notices that Derrek is there, speaking to Forrest and Bubble. When he gets near, Forrest waves him down.

“Hey! Matheo!” he says. “Can we talk to you for a sec?”

He walks over to the group, and doesn’t even get a chance to say hello before Derrek says, “Have you noticed anyone suspicious around here the past couple days?”

Besides the chemist? Matheo wants to say, but Derrek has given him no context, which is typical. “What happened?”

“The ranger station was robbed,” Bubble says, gesturing to it over her shoulder. “Some emergency supplies were taken, along with one of the rifles.”

“Right,” Derrek says, impatient. “So you have any leads? Seen anyone skulking around?”

“Besides the chemist?” Matheo does say this time, and tension immediately descends upon the small group. Derrek scribbles something down in his notepad, Bubble goes rigid, and Forrest crosses his arms, rubbing his chin.

For a moment, no one says anything, and then Forrest says, “To tell you the truth, that’s kinda who I was thinking of, too.”

Matheo almost can’t believe his ears. Common sense?

“I-I dunno,” Bubble says, chewing on her thumbnail, “I have trouble imagining it was Willow.”

“Who else could have done it?” Matheo asks.

“I don’t know! But… Willow’s so nice…”

“She is also the most likely suspect, though, given the circumstances,” Derrek says.

“Thank you,” Matheo mutters.

“I guess,” Bubble says, crossing her arms in a mirror of Forrest.

Again, a moment of silence descends on them all, interrupted by the sound of Derrek continuing to write in his notepad.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Matheo asks, at length.

“Welllll,” Derrek drawls, not looking up, “technically we can’t do anything without more evidence. All we’ve got to go off of right now is a suspicion.”

“So search her belongings,” Matheo says. “It’s hard to hide a rifle.”

“Can’t without a warrant,” Derrek says.

“Not even on the basis of probable cause?”

Derrek flips his notebook closed and slips his pencil behind his ear. “Look. I would, because I’m also convinced the chemist did it,” he says, “but Osman would have my head. So take it up with him, or get Willow to incriminate herself so we have something more than a hunch to go off of.”

Matheo glares at the ground, hard enough that he feels reasonably certain there should be a hole forming.

“I’ve got to get back to the station,” Derrek says, walking backwards. Forrest lifts a hand in farewell.

“Thanks, Derrek,” he says, distracted.

“You really think it was Willow?” Bubble asks Forrest, after Derrek leaves. Forrest shrugs.

“I mean, I dunno. I don’t see who else it could’ve been, y’know?”

“I guess.”

“How would one go about getting the chemist to incriminate herself?” Matheo asks, crossing his arms.

Bubble and Forrest look at him, the former in disapproval but the latter in consideration. “You think it’s possible?” he asks.

“With the right leverage, probably,” Matheo replies.

“Hmm…”

Bubble groans. “Why don’t you just ask her?” she says. “Just have a regular conversation with her about it.”

“She’s a chemist,” Matheo says, because that should be reason enough, though Bubble isn’t convinced.

“She’s also a person,” she says, “who you can talk to.”

“You do it, then,” Matheo says.

“Guys, come on,” Forrest says, waving his hands between them. “Look. Next time she comes around, I’ll talk to her and see what happens. Derrek also mentioned talking to Osman, so… maybe if one of you guys wants to do that…?”

Despite implying either of them, both of the rangers turn to look at Matheo, somewhat expectantly. He rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Forrest says, patting Matheo on the shoulder.

Matheo huffs. “Mm hmm. I’m going home.”

“Take care!” Forrest says, cheery as ever.

Matheo resents that cheeriness.

----

When Matheo sees Osman the next morning, he’s standing at the inlet north of the potion house, looking troubled.

“Osman,” Matheo says by way of greeting, and Osman nods his head in return. “Have you seen the chemist?”

“Not lately, no,” Osman replies.

“Are you aware the ranger station was robbed?”

Osman looks at Matheo sideways, seeming tired, and then he sighs and pushes his hands into his pockets. “I did read the report Derrek made, yes,” he says.

It’s already clear that Osman doesn’t suspect the chemist, for whatever reason, and that sends a sharp little slice of annoyance through Matheo’s veins. “What is your opinion? Who else could have done it, if not the chemist?”

Osman sighs again, more annoyed this time. “Look, I don’t know. Willow helped Cassandra out a lot, I don’t think she’s the type of person to do something like that.”

“She’s the most likely suspect. You know she is.”

“I’m not discounting the possibility,” Osman says, “I’m just doubtful of its likelihood, is all. I’m keeping an eye on her, though.”

“‘Keeping an eye on her?’” Matheo repeats. “You know a rifle was stolen, right?”

“I understand that, Matheo, and I’ve got it under control,” Osman says. “How about you do your job, and I do mine, alright?”

They stare at each other for a moment, and Matheo lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Just like with Myer, and with an increasing amount of people, it seems Osman, too, is being twisted around the chemist’s finger.

But Matheo has no desire to be on the police chief’s bad side, no matter how foolish and shortsighted he’s being. Especially if Osman is going to throw his lot in with the chemist, Matheo would rather not make an enemy of someone in power.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll leave you be.”

As he turns around to leave he almost crashes into the chemist, who scrambles backwards to avoid being stepped on. Her dog, under the impression that this is a fun new game, hops away and then spins around a couple of times.

“Gods--fuck! What are you doing?” Matheo can’t help but snarl.

“I’m walking!” the chemist snarls back. “Why would you not look back before moving?”

“Normal people don’t usually just lurk behind others!”

“I wasn’t lurking, I was walking!”

“Enough,” Osman says, stepping in between them. “Actually, Willow, I’m glad you’re here. I have a favor to ask both of you.”

Matheo glares over Osman’s shoulders at the chemist, who glares back, and then, after a moment, sighs and smooths her hair down. “Of course,” she says, looking to Osman. “What’s going on?”

Osman leads them over to the edge of the inlet and crouches down next to it. “Look at the water here.”

The chemist makes a display of walking to the opposite side of Osman as Matheo before she crouches down next to him. Matheo does the same, inspecting the water.

“Notice how there’s this layer of slime on top?” Osman says, pointing to it.

At almost the same time, Matheo and the chemist both lean forward; closer up, the stink of algae becomes noticeable, and there is indeed a thick layer of translucent greenish slime covering the surface of the dark water.

To Matheo’s morbid curiosity, the chemist dips a hand in, grimacing at the sensation. “What is it?” she asks.

“Slime droppings, I think,” Osman answers, watching her cup some of the water between her hands to examine it.

“Slime droppings?” Her grimace grows more exaggerated, and she pours the water back into the inlet. Her dog, who had been sniffing the water, coughs and loses interest, wandering off to go roll in the grass.

“Green blobs secrete slime semi-constantly,” Matheo says, leaning back to scan the rest of the inlet; it disappears beyond a grate in the lower part of the perimeter wall that surrounds Moonbury, to a large lake on the other side. “I wonder if a brood of them found its way into the lake.”

Osman shakes his head. “I had Bubble check it out this morning and she didn’t find even a single one,” he says. “Whatever caused it, it didn’t stay.”

He stands up, and Matheo follows suit; the chemist remains crouched, wiping her hands on her pants.

“Anyway,” Osman says, “the favor I wanted to ask was if either of you could create something that could get rid of this slime.”

“Of course,” Matheo answers, in stereo with the chemist.

“Perfect,” Osman says. “I’ve got to get back to the station, but just let me know when you’ve got something, alright? Either of you.”

“Will do,” the chemist says.

“Of course,” Matheo says at the same time.

Osman turns and gives Matheo a pointed, warning look, and Matheo rolls his eyes, tries to convey without speaking that he has no intention of, say, pushing the chemist into the inlet, no matter how much he might want to. Whether or not he succeeds in communicating that he’s not sure, but Osman seems placated and, with a nod, walks away.

As soon as he’s out of sight and earshot, Matheo turns back to the chemist.

“Does it never get tiring, continually inserting yourself into business that doesn’t pertain to you?” Matheo hisses.

“Osman asked me to help,” the chemist says, with an air of forced calm, reaching into her messenger bag to retrieve a few empty bottles. Her dog returns to her side and flops next to her, panting.

“Because you just so happened to be right there.”

The chemist looks at him over her shoulder, squinting one eye in the diffused sunlight. “You think this is premeditated?” she says. “You’re accusing me of premeditated altruism?”

“No!” Matheo snaps, emphasizing the word to make a point of how incredibly far off the mark that guess is. “I don’t trust that you’re not up to something .”

She groans, popping the cork on one of her bottle to dip it into the water. “What could I possibly be up to?” she says.

“Given that you’re a capital chemist, almost anything.”

“Except helping, obviously,” she says, dipping the next bottle.

“That goes without saying.”

She dips the last bottle into the water, stoppers it, stows it and the others in her bag, and then stands up. She sets her hands on her hips and flips her hair over her shoulder, haughtiness personified.

“Well, I am helping,” she says. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to accept it.”

“Maybe when you effect any tangible positive change,” he says.

“Alright,” she says. “Let's make a bet.”

“What?”

“Let's make a bet.” Her demeanor changes, becomes more scrappy and amused, like she’s just challenged him to a boxing match and is convinced she can knock him out. “Whoever fixes this problem with the slime first wins.”

“That’s absurd,” Matheo says.

“If I win, you have to apologize to me and admit that I’m helping,” she says.

His interest piques. It is absurd, and stupid, and irresponsible, but if she’s so confident that this is going to go her way that she’s willing to gamble on it, maybe he can take advantage of that for the greater good.

“If I win,” Matheo says, “I want you out of Moonbury.”

“Deal,” she says. No hesitation, no flicker of doubt, no asking if he’s serious. Just cocksureness and a hand extended towards him.

He shakes it a single time, and they both squeeze harder than necessary; her grip is surprisingly strong.

“Deal.”

----

Matheo goes home in high spirits, determined to win this laughable excuse for a bet. So shortsighted, on the chemist’s part, and he can’t wait to watch her smugness fall away and be replaced with shame as she’s cowed and defeated at last.

Spite motivates him more than any sense of philanthropy, something which the better part of his character tries to scold him for but which he ignores, and he makes steady progress.

He wins this little diversion and the chemist leaves forever. Things go back to normal, Moonbury ceases to be in danger, he gets his livelihood back, everyone’s lives improve. It shouldn’t be too hard, and the payoff is significant.

He can do this.

----

It takes less than three hours for the chemist to come knocking.

“Hey, I finished a potion to fix the slime problem,” she says when Matheo opens his front door. “I’m just about to take it to Osman.”

“What?” he spits.

Already? How in the gods’ names did she finish so fast?

“You heard me just fine,” she says, her smile not meeting her eyes. “I only came here to tell you in case you wanted to be physically present when I win this bet. If not, I will accept a written apology.”

“Fuck off,” he growls, stepping outside and slamming his door shut. “Let’s go.”

----

Osman laughs, shakes his head, and lets out an impressed whistle as the slime dissolves from the surface of the inlet’s water. The chemist stands nearby with her dog, pleased with herself, casting the occasional sideways smirk at Matheo, who tries to imagine her as a tiny insect caught under a focused beam of light from a magnifying glass.

“Look at it, it just keeps going!” Osman says, as the disintegration of the slime continues all the way to the grate, doubtlessly into the lake beyond. “Incredible!”

“Almost too incredible,” Matheo mutters.

The chemist crosses her arms. “What, you think I orchestrated all of this?”

“It seems an easy way to earn favor and make yourself look good,” Matheo says, shrugging. “And chemists have always been good at contaminating our water.”

“Right,” she says, “because what I really wanted to do today was spend three hours researching and brewing a cure for a problem I created. Instead of just, like, not creating the problem in the first place.”

Osman watches Matheo, the way a parent stares at their child when anticipating bad behavior.

He purses his lips. Says nothing. 

Satisfied, Osman turns towards the chemist and shakes her hand. “Well, I appreciate it, Willow,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she replies.

“I’ll mention this to Myer, as well.”

“O-Oh, thank you.”

“Keep it up, chemist.”

“I will.”

Osman departs, and Matheo and the chemist stare at each other.

She steps forward, raising her head defiantly. There is no more smirk on her face.

“Apologize,” she says.

He continues to stare at her. He would rather drink an entire bottle of diuretic and live in his bathroom for a week than apologize to her for anything; even thinking of uttering the words makes his mouth feel like it’s full of bees, itchy and brimming.

He does try, because he is nothing if not a man who keeps his word.

In the end, though, he can’t force it out, instead letting out a wordless, exasperated bark and walking away from her.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to do it,” she says to his retreating back. “Sore loser!"

He ignores her and continues walking.

He needs a drink.

Chapter Text

After receiving the letter Willow and Myer wrote, the Medical Association wasted no time in approving some funding to improve Moonbury’s clinic. Not much, but enough to remedy the most vital and immediate needs: infrastructure repair, the ability to regulate the temperature, and implementation of proper safety measures -- enough that the clinic can start on the path from ‘dark, horrifying hovel’ to ‘clean, pleasant shelter’.

Reyner improves the building’s structural integrity, and Runeheart and Opalheart bring the ventilation, boiler, and plumbing up to code, and Willow busies herself with what she’s capable of doing. She pulls the boards down from the windows, dismantles the old, rusty beds and drags them out onto the lawn along with the outdated IVs, demolishes old cabinets and hutches. The clinic is almost empty when she finishes, and she takes the chance to give it a deep clean, run over everything with a fine-toothed comb. She sweeps, mops, dusts, and wipes down damn near every surface she can reach. She even scrubs the walls -- she’s never scrubbed walls before.

She convinces Reyner to show her how to restore the flooring, and they end up doing that together. It takes hours, and Willow’s entire body is sore by the end of it, but the effect it has can’t be overstated; the clinic almost looks like new, just from being cleaned and shown a little bit of elbow grease.

It takes two weeks before the work is done, and it only finishes that quickly because several other townsfolk pitch in to help, as well. Yorn helps her build the new beds, Hannah and Nova help furnish the windows and beds with curtains and sheets, Lucke and his family, and Mariele, gift her with potted plants and flowers, and Helene and Martha help her decorate the space with various paintings and knick-knacks. Even Russo and Laura help her paint the exterior, and Socellia gives a small blessing.

There’s still work left, of course -- it will still be a while before Reyner finishes the rest of her cabinets and her new front desk, and her new replacement medical equipment is on its way from the capital, and there are files and paperwork to organize, kinks to work out. It’s not glamorous by any means, with its distinctly homemade charm, but its hygienic and serviceable and it was created with her community. Just standing in the empty building makes her feel warm with affection, almost overwhelmed with fondness for her burgeoning friends and the care they’ve shown her.

She’s determined to pay back that kindness. They’ve taken care of her so much more than she anticipated, it’s her turn to take care of them -- and now she has the perfect place to do that.

----

The bells on the door jingling alerts Willow to someone coming in, and she is once again glad that she went through with buying them, since otherwise, sequestered in the lavatory as she is (Cassandra and Olive had supplied her with a huge supply of soap, and some of her other supplies have started arriving as well, and now she’s making sure everything is stocked and organized), she wouldn’t have known.

Dusting herself off, she heads into the clinic proper, where Dev is standing in the middle of the foyer, examining everything.

“Hey, Dev!” Willow says, waving as she gets closer. “More supplies?”

“Not today,” he says, idly scratching his cheek and looking at her sideways. “I was actually hoping I could talk to you about something.”

“Oh!” Willow says, trying not to be excited, because it feels a little perverse to be excited at the prospect of someone being unwell, but this could be her first chance to put the new and improved clinic to use so it’s hard not to be excited to some degree. “Of course. You wanna sit down?”

“Alright.”

He follows her over to where the front desk will be -- at the moment it’s just a couple chairs and an end table she’d brought over from the house, but it’s enough for her current purposes until the actual desk is finished.

“What’s up?” she asks.

Dev fidgets with the hem of his vest for a moment. “Um… My shoulder has been sore, and there’s this bruise there, as well,” he says.

“Can I see?” she says.

“I’m not sure what might be causing it,” he says, pulling his vest and jacket off; underneath, he’s wearing a button-up shirt, which he goes about taking off as well. “I don’t think it’s from work, and I haven’t been doing anything more strenuous than usual… So…” He pulls one side of his button-up off, and lifts the sleeve of his short-sleeved base layer up so that Willow can see his shoulder.

Just as he said, there’s a mottled bruise forming on his skin, purple and green. Willow leans forward for a better look. “Is it alright if I touch?” she says.

“Sure,” Dev says.

Willow rolls her chair away just long enough to grab a pair of gloves, and then rolls back to Dev as she pulls them on. Gently, she starts pressing on his shoulder and arm surrounding the bruise.

“You’ve never gotten any bruises like this from your mail bag or anything?” she asks.

“I have, but up here.” He indicates the top of his shoulder, near his neck.

Willow hums in thought. “Does any of this hurt?” she asks, continuing to press into his muscle.

He bobs his head back and forth. “A little bit,” he says. “Mostly just around the bruise.”

“Have you been having any other symptoms?” she asks, leaning back in her chair again. “Fatigue, fainting, nausea, anything like that?”

He crosses his arms, thinking. “Well. Fatigue, but that’s not out of the ordinary,” he says. “Except…” He trails off, though Willow’s not sure if it’s in thought or if he’s reticent to admit something.

“Except…?” she asks, leading.

He hesitates for another moment, and then says, “Well, I don’t think it’s related, but everything sounds kind of fuzzy lately.”

She’s not sure what she expected him to say, but this still surprises her. “Can I take a look?”

He nods, and Willow hops up to go and retrieve her otoscope. She returns a moment later, rolling her chair up close to Dev so she can look in his ears.

Sure enough, on the same side as his bruised shoulder, his eardrum is ruptured. Small, but there.

Willow is mystified.

“Gotten into any fights?” she asks as she returns to her spot opposite him.

“Not that I can remember,” he says as he pulls on all of his layers again. “Dan, on the other hand… I guess he could be.”

Willow crosses her arms, thinking. If Dan was getting into fights, they would, in theory, have to be with someone in town, and she’s not aware of anyone who’s inclined to such things. Even Dan, while rowdy, isn’t violent.

“Any other theories?” she asks, because despite being the one to suggest it, Dev seems unconvinced as well, and still in thought.

He hums noncommittally, finishing buttoning up his jacket. “Maybe,” he says, but then he falls silent, declining to elaborate. He seems troubled. Willow decides not to push it.

“Well,” she says. “The rupture in your eardrum should heal on its own just fine, but if it starts giving you trouble, come back so I can make sure it’s not getting infected, okay?”

“Alright.”

“And I can give you some balm for the bruise, if you want. Would help with the pain.”

He grins, features softening. It’s always so striking how different he is from Dan, despite sharing a body with him; Willow thinks of them more often as twins rather than two parts of a single person. “No, that’s alright,” he says. “But, um… Next time you see Dan, maybe try to figure out what he’s been doing?”

“I’ll try,” she says.

“Thanks.” He stands up, dusts himself off. “Any mail, by the way?”

“Not today.”

“Alright. I’ll see you around, then.”

“Bye, Dev.”

As he’s leaving the clinic, Willow can’t shake the feeling that she’s missing something.

----

Meadow Range is maybe one of the most beautiful places Willow has ever been.

It’s beautiful and lush, even now, so late into autumn. The trees have turned flaming orange, dead leaves littering the ground or flying through the air when the breeze picks up, the grass turning pale and patchy in the cold and the decreasing sunlight. It’s more wild and untamed nature than Willow has ever been exposed to at once, and it’s hard not to be a little overwhelmed.

It smells so good, too. Fresh and crisp, so unlike the air in the capital, which always seems to have an edge of staleness to it even on the best of days.

Alistair is also enjoying himself. He bounds across the fields at high speed, and Willow isn't sure she's ever actually seen him run, because there isn't enough room to in the capital. He's so much faster than she expected. Sometimes he jumps into the nearby streams, or descends upon a pile of leaves, or finds a stick that's too inviting to pass up, and when she throws it he darts away again.

She'd come here for forage, but this is her first time being able to take in the sights in earnest; when she was gathering materials for Rue, she'd been so busy and distracted she hadn't gotten to take her time and appreciate her surroundings. It seems like every time she turns around there's something else to see. A tree covered in fascinating lichen. Multicolored moss and ivy growing up the cliffside, abundant with little insects. Mushrooms upon mushrooms upon mushrooms, sprouting from the damp earth and between rocks and out of felled trees. Animal tracks, bird feathers, even some bones and owl pellets.

It's fascinating. An entire ecosystem, self-sustaining and dizzyingly complex, and she's just never been aware of it. Never had the chance to be aware of it. It feels like a shame. Better late than never, though, she supposes.

Her progress into the deeper reaches of Meadow Range is hampered by a landslide, which seems to have caved in from opposing sides of a tall cliff wall that bisects the eastern half of the wilderness from the western half. Experimentally, she tries climbing up it, but it's more rock and gravel than compacted earth, far too hazardous to attempt to scale. She makes a mental note to ask Forrest and Bubble about it, and turns back.

----

“How goes it, chemist?” Forrest asks as Willow passes the ranger station on her way home. “Good haul?”

Willow half-shrugs. “I think so,” she says. “Meadow Range is gorgeous.”

“Isn’t it?” Bubble says, from her place just inside the station, leaning on the counter. “We’re so fortunate to have as biodiverse an environment as we do.”

“And it used to be even more diverse, before all those past chemists got to it,” Forrest says, more thoughtful than upset.

Willow joins him in thought; it’s been on her mind more and more often, that damage done. Somewhere out there in the wilderness are still-lingering wounds, each eating away at their surroundings. The thought makes her nervous --maybe even a little bit frightened-- but, if nothing else, she should go and see the Meadow Range site with her own two eyes if she’s going to stay here in Moonbury. She owes herself and the townsfolk that much at minimum.

“Do either of you know how to get to the nearest accident site?” she asks, gazing down the road to the east.

“Used to be easy, before the landslide,” Forrest says. “You could just walk there. It’s a pretty linear path.”

“Do you think the landslide could be cleared?” Willow asks.

“Probably, with enough manpower. And time. And resources.”

“I could help,” Willow offers. “Anything in particular?”

Bubble and Forrest glance at each other, communicating nonverbally, and then Bubble says, “I think, more than anything, we’d need some kind of net, or mesh, to contain all the fallen earth and rocks. Leano and Ottmar would be able to make something, I’d guess? Ottmar makes fishing nets all the time.” She rubs her chin, seeming to go over an imaginary checklist in her head. “Otherwise I think all we’d need would be able bodies.”

“Which is easy enough to gather if we were to put up a notice on the community board. Or at Town Hall,” Forrest says.

“I can post at both,” Willow says. “And I’ll talk to Leano and Ottmar tomorrow.”

Forrest crosses his arms, his stance and demeanor shifting, and he regards her a little bit like she’s just said something unexpected. Part confused, part impressed, part suspicious.

“You really that determined to go?” he says.

“Well…” Willow says, “to tell you the truth, I’m a little unsure. But… I want to. At some point. If nothing else, just to see it with my own eyes.”

“Fair enough,” Forrest says, shrugging. “Then, yeah, if you can gather the materials and some volunteers, I don’t think it’d be that hard to clear it up.”

“Perfect!” Willow says.

“While I have you here, though,” he says, somewhat foreboding, before she can get too excited, “you seen anything weird or suspicious going on?”

“Oh, gods,” Bubble mutters under her breath, annoyed.

“Um… Not really, no,” Willow replies, because she hasn’t. Nothing besides what seems to be the normal amount of weird and suspicious in Moonbury, at least.

“Hm.” He uncrosses his arms, sets his hands on his hips; it reminds her of just how big he is, as a person. “Well… The ranger station’s been robbed a couple times over the past week. And sorry to say, you’re the most likely suspect right now.”

Willow blinks as her emotions and her mind catch up with what she’s hearing, and then all her inner organs tumble down to her feet in dread.

“What? Why?”

“This hasn’t ever happened before, and now it does, after you show up.” He shrugs, seeming nonchalant for someone who’s supposedly sorry about delivering her bad news. “You have to admit, it looks pretty damning.”

It does, she will admit that.

“If it’s any consolation,” Bubble says, “I don’t think you did it.”

“Thanks,” Willow says, and then sighs, staring down at Alistair, who is resting nearby; when he notices her looking at him, he perks up, panting. Watching him catch a scent on the air and lift his head to sniff it gives her an idea. “Do you think the thief left any sort of trail?”

Forrest and Bubble, once again, stare at each other, communicating without saying anything. It goes on longer than before, as they don’t seem to be on quite the same wavelength this time.

“We haven’t seen any tracks or anything like that,” Bubble says at length.

“No, like a scent trail,” Willow says. “Alistair is pretty good at tracking. If I give him the scent of something that was stolen, he might be able to track it down.”

Bubble’s eyebrows raise, and she glances between Willow and Forrest, a pointed expression on her face.

“Maybe the gunpowder?” she says.

“Gunpowder?” Willow echoes, aghast. “Are you saying a gun was stolen?”

“One of our hunting rifles,” Bubble affirms.

That little detail makes Willow’s stomach squirm. Her discomfort must show on her face, because Forrest’s mouth lifts in a half-grin.

“I’m guessing you don’t feel that enthused about tracking someone down who’s got a rifle?” he says.

Willow almost laughs, harrowed. “N-Not really,” she says.

“Well, I’ve got another idea, then,” Bubble says. “We should do a stakeout.”

“A stakeout?” Forrest asks. “I guess that’s not a bad idea. I assume you’d be alright joining us, Willow? If you aren’t the thief, I mean.”

Willow has to bite back the impolite retort that wants to escape her. “I’m not,” she says instead. “And of course I’ll join you. Um, as long as you’re sure it’s safe.”

“The gun’s been missing for almost a week now and no one’s gone on a rampage yet,” Forrest says. “It’s more likely that whoever took it wanted to do some ill-conceived hunting on their own, or something.” He shrugs. “Anyway. Do you wanna meet us here later tonight? Maybe around eight? That’s when we leave the station for the day.”

Finding little reassurance in Forrest’s words, Willow nevertheless gathers her resolve, because anyone suspecting she might be a thief --especially of a gun-- is the opposite of what she needs right now when the budding trust between her and the townsfolk is still so new.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll see you then.”

----

Willow shudders against the cold air, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to warm them as she walks to the ranger station, Alistair trotting dutifully alongside her.

It’s almost eight, which means that it’s about time for the stakeout.

Willow has never done a stakeout before, though she assumes that she’s not alone in that, and that most people have never done a stakeout before. She has little idea what to expect, thankful that Forrest and Bubble will be with her.

“Hey there!” Forrest calls when he catches sight of her; Alistair, excited by the enthusiasm, bounds off to meet him in search of pets, which Forrest is all too ready to indulge. Bubble joins in, as well.

“Are you ready?” Bubble asks when Willow gets close enough that raising her voice isn’t necessary.

Willow attempts to put on an air of sincerity, though she’s not sure how successful she is. “I think so!” she says. “It won’t be a boring night, at least.”

“If it’s anything like hunting, I think you’ll be taking those words back soon enough,” Bubble says. “More waiting and watching than actual action.”

“That’s alright with me, considering the… you know… the rifle,” Willow says, her facade crumbling into ash and her hesitancy plain.

“I really don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Forrest says, patting Alistair’s head. “I can’t think of anyone in town who’d turn a gun on someone else.”

Willow would almost agree with him if she didn’t have firsthand experience with Matheo.

“At any rate,” Forrest continues, breezing past the topic, “let’s get into position.”

----

The spot they choose to wait is close, south of the ranger station, near Forrest and Bubble’s cabin, behind a jut in the cliff wall. There’s enough foliage that someone coming from the path into town won’t see them, and if they retreat behind the cliff they’re hidden from the ranger station altogether.

As Bubble warned, it is indeed much more dull than Willow expected, consisting mostly of sitting around and keeping an eye on the path and the station. As time passes the temperature drops, and despite feeling like she could look down at her fingers and find them blue with cold, Willow tries not to embarrass herself in front of Forrest and Bubble, who seem to be entirely unbothered even though they’re wearing fewer layers.

“Gods, it’s freezing,” Willow says despite everything, cupping her hands over her nose and mouth and breathing into them in an effort to warm her face.

Forrest huffs, breath appearing in a mist in front of him. “Yeah. It’s from being at the base of Glaze Iceberg.”

“Glaze Iceberg?” Willow echoes, interest piquing at the name she’s now familiar with from the Incident Report.

“It’s not really an iceberg,” Bubble says, pointing to the looming mountain to the northeast. Even on a dark, moonless night like tonight, the massive landmark is bright with snow and easy to see against the black sky.

“Oh, I know,” Willow says. “I just… I read that that was one of the accident sites.”

“Mm hmm,” Bubble affirms. “And south, too, in the Barren Wasteland.”

“Though nobody’s been to any of the sites in a long time,” Forrest says. “Especially not the Glaze Iceberg or Barren Wasteland sites. We haven’t been to either of those in something like…” He glances at Bubble, and they seem to be calculating together. “Ten years? I think?”

“Something like that,” Bubble says. “Ever since the cable car broke down and the geyser destroyed the path.” She gestures towards the mountain and then towards the distant wasteland respectively.

“Matheo used to go out to the Meadow Range site,” Forrest says, crossing his arms. “Kept trying to fix it. Never had any luck, though, and he hasn’t been out there in a while now.”

Willow hums in response, too distracted to give more. This is the first she’s heard of Matheo trying to restore the sites -- it’s not in the Incident Report. She supposes that makes sense, though, or at least it would if his character was consistent with what other people have said about him.

Well, no, even given what she knows of him, his protectiveness of Moonbury is obvious.

“I’ve heard Lucke is interested in going out there when it gets warmer,” Bubble says, and then laughs a bit. “I can’t imagine Mercy is very excited about that prospect.”

“Hey, the more brains the better, in my opinion,” Forrest says. “It’s way out of my league.”

“Mine, too, unfortunately,” Bubble says.

Alistair, at Willow’s feet, perks up, ears forward and attention fixed, apparently sensing someone coming down the path from town, and all three of them go hush, tucking against the rock face.

It’s Matheo.

It’s obvious he’s not the thief, as he pays no attention to the station, instead heading their direction, towards his home.

Willow sinks back further against the cliffside, annoyed dread roiling around in her stomach. Great. Just what she needs. Petty insults and contentious accusations, at a time when they’re perhaps least convenient to her reputation. She can only hope that Bubble and Forrest understand that Matheo’s loathing of her has little foundation. That they don’t agree with him.

“Hey, Matheo,” Forrest says, when Matheo gets near them, and Matheo nearly jumps out of his skin, having been lost in thought.

“ Gods--!” he hisses. “What are you doing?”

“A stakeout,” Bubble answers. “Trying to catch the person who’s been robbing the ranger station.”

“Yeah, speaking of, come over here so you’re not visible,” Forrest says, waving him over.

Matheo’s eyes land on Willow, and she squares her shoulders, tries not to let herself be intimidated. It helps to remember that he’s just a prideful jerk whose abilities do not measure up to his overinflated (and easily bruised, if their little bet is anything to go by) ego.

He’s all bark and no bite. She has to stop fearing otherwise.

He walks around to join the side of the group farthest from her, glances at Forrest and Bubble in turn.

“You know that the most likely suspect is right there, right?” he says, gesturing to Willow, who has to resist flipping him off, or sticking her tongue out at him like a child.

Before she can say anything in her defense, though, Bubble swats his arm and says, “We’ve already discussed that. Willow’s here to prove her innocence.” She glances sideways at Willow. “Not that I suspect her in the first place.”

“Ah,” Matheo says. “So you’ll just be here all night, freezing to death."

Forrest fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Even he, the one less convinced of Willow's innocence, seems uncomfortable with the outright hostility on display, though his unsurety with regards to how to step in is obvious.

"You should join us," Willow blurts out, before she can stop herself. "Particularly that last bit."

Everyone turns to look at her with different expressions on their faces. Bubble, taken aback in confusion; Forrest, caught somewhere between amusement and disapproval; Matheo, unimpressed, reproachful, and impatient.

“For someone so sure of her own virtue, you seem to harbor some vitriolic sentiments,” he says, setting his jaw.

“Only for you,” she says, crossing her arms.

“I can only assume it’s because I’m the only one in Moonbury who’s unafraid to hold you accountable.”

“Accountable for what?” Willow hisses, dimly aware of Forrest and Bubble’s heads swiveling side-to-side to follow the conversation in her peripheral vision. “I haven’t done anything!”

“Is complacency not reprehensible enough?” Matheo says, expression intensifying, eyes lighting up.

“Maybe it would be if I was actually complacent in anything,” Willow says, stepping forward, too agitated to continue leaning against the rockface. “But you know I’m not, you just want an excuse to dislike me.”

“I don’t need an excuse,” Matheo says, stepping forward as well, “you’re a chemist. That’s reason enough to dislike you. Even if I did need an excuse, your natural unlikeability would be a perfectly valid one.”

Like a volcanic eruption, sudden and out of control, Willow’s temper flares, and before she knows what she’s doing she’s already reached out and gotten a fist in Matheo’s jacket. She doesn’t even know what she intends to do (Punch him? Shove him away? Throw him to the ground?), her body just seems to move of its own accord without consulting her rationality.

Bubble and Forrest both jolt forward, doling out warnings in stereo: “Whoa, hold on, slow down.”

Willow doesn’t pay them any mind, because she’s suddenly found herself sucked into some sort of pocket dimension where only she and Matheo exist, glaring at each other so hard it’s a wonder neither of them have strained something.

Matheo hadn’t even flinched. It’s like he’d been expecting it. Expecting her to lose her cool.

Maybe he had.

Maybe he’d been baiting her, trying to get her to break.

Willow’s breath comes to her unwillingly, her skin buzzing with adrenaline.

Matheo stares at her like he’s daring her to make a move, like he wants her to hurt him and confirm his uncharitable opinions about her character.

He inhales. Exhales. His breath is warm, misting into the frigid space between them.

A horrible, horrible realization hits Willow at that moment.

Despite everything, despite how fucking angry he makes her, despite the fact that he hates her and she doesn’t care for him either…

She is, gods damn her to a slow and painful death, attracted to him.

The revelation distresses her so much that she immediately lets go of his jacket and steps back, hoping that her thoughts aren’t somehow so loud as to be audible to everyone else, hoping that the heat in her face isn’t manifesting itself as a flush.

A beat passes.

The corner of Matheo’s mouth twists up into a brief smirk, smug and arrogant, and Willow’s stomach twists in an awful mix of horror, anger, disgust, and intrigue.

She wants to leave. She wants to run home and shove her face into her pillow and scream. She wants to go back to before she had this realization, because she knows it’s going to fucking plague her now; she has to share this town with him, and interact with him on a semi-regular basis, and this is always going to be hanging over her like a permanent little rain cloud, mingling with her dislike of and annoyance with him.

“Maybe we should all just take a breath,” Bubble says, breaking the very tense silence.

“I was on my way home, anyway, if you recall,” Matheo says, not looking away from Willow as he straightens his jacket. That smirk is gone from his mouth, but it’s still in his eyes. Self-congratulatory pride that makes her want to stomp on his toes.

“Then go,” she hisses.

“Gladly.” He turns to Forrest and Bubble in turn, says goodnight, and leaves without so much as another glance at her. Willow watches him go until his black cape renders him indistinguishable from the darkness of the night.

“What the fuck was that about?” Forrest asks, turning to Willow. “You were acting like you were about to throw hands!”

Willow shakes herself out of it, tries to regain her mental footing, trying very hard not to think about the complicated and conflicted way that damned fucking little smirk made her feel.

Fuck him.

Fuck.

F u c k .

“I-I wasn’t,” she says, running her hands through her hair. “Honestly. I really don’t know what came over me. I’ve never lost my temper like that.”

Bubble squeezes her shoulder, and the pressure is comforting, grounding. “The only thing that really matters is that you didn’t hit him,” she says. “You’re not going to get in trouble for wanting to.”

“He was being kind of an ass,” Forrest says, crossing his arms.

“You mean that’s not how he always is?” Willow says, in a tone that she hopes suggests that the question is rhetorical.

Forrest grins crookedly, casting a sideways glance at Bubble. “Well, he’s always been a little…”

“Prickly,” Bubble finishes, also seeming amused. “But not really ever mean.”

“Yeah. Seems like you’ve got him riled up, chemist.”

Seems like he’s got me riled up, too, Willow thinks, but says nothing, because no one ever needs to know. It will be her own shameful little secret, forever, festering in the back of her thoughts whenever she has to talk to him.

Or talk about him.

Or think about him.

“I’m sure he’ll come around,” Bubble says, though she doesn’t seem overly hopeful. “... Eventually.”

Alistair perks up again, sniffing the air like before, and everyone falls silent, making themselves scarce along the rock face. It’s only a few moments before Dan creeps into the clearing in front of the ranger station, hesitating for a moment to scan his surroundings before heading to the station proper.

“Dan?” Forrest hisses, puzzled. “Dan is the thief?”

“Told you it wasn’t Willow,” Bubble whispers back.

Willow, thankful for the distraction from her unpleasant Matheo-related revelation, seizes the moment. “C’mon, let’s go.”

They box Dan in at the station, where he’s rifling through the supply crates, and then Forrest says, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Dan whirls around so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t crack his head against the counter. “Gods beyond, are ye trying t’ give me a heart attack?” he says, eyes wide.

“I’m trying to make sure our ranger station is fully stocked, Dan,” Forrest says, planting his hands on his hips. “You know these supplies are for ranger use and emergencies only, right?”

“I know,” Dan says, in a tone that suggests he’s trying his very hardest to come up with an excuse on the fly, “I was jus’ checkin' the viability of ‘em, is all.”

Forrest shakes his head. “No, you’re stealing them.”

More noble and decent than not despite his quirkiness and love of mischief, Dan relents rather than trying to find another excuse. He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Alright. I was stealing them.”

“Why?” Bubble asks.

“Stocking up!” Dan says, his usual enthusiasm unable to be dampened for long. “A pirate won’t last long on the high seas without supplies!”

Willow tilts her head, uncertainty cropping up inside her. “Are you… going somewhere?” she asks.

Dan’s smile turns a little crooked and sheepish. “Well. Y’know… Eventually,” he says, hunching his shoulders. “Once I’ve got my ship. And maybe a fair crew.”

Willow inhales, finding herself more relieved than anything else -- this is silly and inconvenient, of course, but at least she doesn’t have to worry about Dev’s immediate wellbeing; he gets roughed-up enough thanks to Dan’s antics, she can’t imagine him handling life at sea well, either.

“Did you steal the rifle, as well?” Bubble asks.

“Um…” Dan says damningly.

“Dan!” Forrest cries, throwing his hands up. “You cannot be running around with a gun in Moonbury!”

“I wasn’t!” Dan says, and then, under his breath, mutters, “I only took it out into the forest a couple times for practice.”

“You’ve been shooting it?” Forrest asks.

“Just a couple o’ times!”

“Dan, you could get hurt!” Forrest’s voice pitches up in even more incredulity, causing Bubble to set a hand on his shoulder, a gesture which seems to instantly ground him -- he takes a quick breath before continuing. “Those rifles are hard to handle. Even if you don’t shoot yourself, you could dislocate your shoulder if you’re not careful!”

Willow almost starts as the situation clicks into place in her brain -- Dev’s bruised shoulder and ruptured eardrum must have come from Dan’s cavalier gun handling and lack of shooting experience. It almost feels lucky that was the extent of the injuries.

“Dan,” Willow says, stepping forward, “I understand why you want to stock up on supplies, but you know stealing isn’t necessary, right? Besides, these supplies are for emergencies, and taking them means Forrest and Bubble might not be able to help if something happens.”

Dan’s gaze alternates between Willow, Bubble, and Forrest, thoughtful and fidgeting, for a total of maybe five seconds before he relents with a sigh. “Fine. Ye can have it all back -- if,” He turns to Willow, addressing only her now, “ye solemnly swear to be me crewmate when I set sail.”

Willow glances at Bubble and Forrest, who both wear implacable expressions which offer her no guidance. She’s never sworn her life away to piracy before, so she assumes that anyone would agree that her hesitancy is warranted -- but, then again, this is Dan, whose contributions to legitimate piracy could be summed up in a single paragraph, most of which would be detailing this very theft.

At length, Willow half-shrugs. “Alright,” she says. “I guess if my career as a chemist ever falls through, piracy would be as good a backup as any.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” Dan says, offering a hand, which Willow shakes. “Welcome aboard, Willow!”

“Uh--thanks--captain?”

Dan looks like he could keel over in excitement at being called captain -- it’s actually quite endearing -- but he manages to stay upright and settle for a fawning grin instead.

Forrest clears his throat.

“Could we go get the supplies now?”

----

It’s late by the time Forrest and Bubble are headed back to the station with their arms full of the returned supplies. Willow lingers behind with Dan, whose inner turmoil is loud enough for her to hear.

“T’ tell ye the truth,” he says, before she can address it, “I was kind of plannin’ on givin’ ‘em back, anyway. Didn’t feel right, stealing ‘em.”

“Hmm,” Willow hums, crossing her arms in thought and looking at Dan sideways, “that seems unusually upstanding for a pirate.”

He pouts at her. “Stealin’ from friends be different than true piracy,” he says. “I was only doin’ it because it felt necessary. I became a pirate for treasure, not for plunderin’.

Willow can’t help but grin. “We’ll get you new supplies,” she says, patting his shoulder.

“I’ll hold ye to it,” he says.

They stand there for a moment, and Willow stares down at Alistair, her thoughts drifting between Dan and Dev, the landslide, her clinic and house and the work that still needs to be done to them, the accident sites, and Matheo. She tries not to dwell.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asks at length, doing her best to be casual.

“Hm?”

“Could you… take it easy for a while? For Dev’s sake?”

Dan crosses his arms, clearly unenthused by this idea. “That blockhead can take care of himself,” he says. “I’m a free man.”

Willow steps closer, elbowing him in a way she hopes comes across as playful rather than insistent. “If Dev gets hurt, so do you, you know,” she says. “Did you know you have a ruptured eardrum from firing that rifle?”

Dan doesn’t reply, though the slight furrow between his eyebrows is telling.

“Just… Maybe take a little time to rest, okay? The ocean’s not going anywhere.”

Dan sighs, and then glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He sets his jaw, rolls his eyes overactedly. “Fine,” he says, “but I’m not doin’ it for him; I’m doin’ it for you, because you’re me crew.”

“Works for me,” Willow says. “Thanks.”

“Mm hmm,” Dan huffs, scratching his cheek idly. “Go on now, it’s late.”

It’s true, it is late, and Willow has business she still needs to attend to before sleeping tonight. While she has some mixed feelings about leaving so soon, she has too much going on, and Dan seems to want to part ways before things become too personal. Much like Dev in that regard.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll talk to you later, then. Have a good night, captain.”

Dan grins, doing a poor job of hiding his giddiness, gives her a little nod and a salute, and Willow heads back down the path to her house.

----

Willow lays in bed, staring out her bedroom window; it’s set high enough on the wall that all she can see are the black silhouettes of treetops against the snow-dusted backdrop of Glaze Iceberg.

Her thoughts are loud.

As she’d expected, they keep returning to Matheo, each time with an uncomfortable twist in her gut as she relives the moment of revelation -- but more troubling, one particular question replays in her head.

Is complacency not reprehensible enough?

It coagulates together with everything else: the accident sites, that Matheo has been attempting to restore them, the beauty of Meadow Range, the landslide, the secrets, the bad blood.

It makes her head hurt.

She came here to be a chemist and to keep people healthy -- she never volunteered for anything else. She might never have even accepted this position if she’d known the full extent of what it entailed.

But she’s here.

So she’ll have to reckon with it sooner or later.

Chapter Text

Matheo hasn’t seen the chemist in several weeks.

As always, though, he can’t escape hearing of her exploits, mostly from the rangers since he’s started to avoid going into town anymore often than necessary. She continues to worm her way into people’s trust, and has stolen even more of his clientele from him; he’s thankful he has so few expenses to cover now that his income has become far less consistent. 

Begrudging but without much choice in the matter, he’s settled into this new life, found his stability again. The chemist’s arrival was such a tremendous upheaval to the status quo that he still maintains his initial catastrophization as justified; even now, he is unable to conceive of a path forward for Moonbury that doesn’t eventually end with yet another incident resulting in yet more destruction and death at the hands of a vengeful, uncaring capital lackey.

But…

it hasn’t happened -- yet -- and his hackles have gone down, his adrenaline and anxiety have abated, and his life has continued, albeit with far more free time that he still doesn’t know how to fill. Often, he finds himself standing by the pond south of his house and just staring into the water, mind blank. He’s unused to having so little to do.

Today, though, Matheo ventures to the entrance to Meadow Range and forages a bit. He doesn’t do so often, preferring to buy his supplies from the rangers, who forage on his behalf; Meadow Range can be dangerous, and while his stubbornness counts for a lot, it’s no substitution for proper survival skills, particularly with regards to aggressive animals. He’s never been much of a fighter.

The entrance, just beyond the banner, is as far as he cares to go most of the time, and even it offers some valuable forage if one knows where to look, especially on a rainy day like today, when much of the wildlife prefer to stay in their dens.

He’s on his way home when the chemist runs into him.

Quite literally.

She runs around the sharp bend of the cliff face so fast that she doesn’t have time to stop before she collides with him; she’s short enough that she doesn’t throw him off balance, and even with one hand holding an umbrella he grabs her shoulder and pushes her aside.

Even after so much time, seeing her now makes his blood instantly run hot.

“Sorry!” she says, adjusting her hood, which is keeping her dry. “I didn’t see you.”

“Then you should watch where you’re going,” Matheo replies.

“I… was,” she says, seeming to shrink into herself as she realizes who she’s talking to. “You should--um… really be wearing a bear bell when you go into Meadow Range.”

It doesn’t seem to be what she’d intended to say when she opened her mouth, and he quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t go into Meadow Range,” he says. “Your concern is unneeded.”

“I wasn’t concerned,” she says, as her dog catches up to her, its normally white and gray legs stained brown with mud. “I was just… making an observation.”

“An unneeded one.”

The chemist shrugs. “How was I supposed to know you were being irresponsible on purpose?” she says, and he bristles at her dismissive tone. She beckons for her dog to follow her as she continues down the path, her bear bell jingling, and he turns to watch her, so much annoyance clouding his brain he can’t even think of a properly snarky response.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Without stopping, she gestures to the large basket strapped to her back. “Foraging.”

Matheo narrows his eyes.

And then he follows after her.

The chemist, crouched down to harvest a small clump of edible mushrooms from the meadow floor, almost jumps out of her skin when she realizes he’s caught up to her. “What are you doing?” she asks, tossing the mushrooms into her basket as she stands up.

“Observing.”

She frowns. “Why?” she asks. "I’m sure you know how to forage, if everything I’ve heard about you is true.”

He lets out a single bark of laughter. “There’s nothing you could teach me that I don’t already know, chemist.”

“So go away.” She waves him off as she keeps walking, eyes on the ground, intent and searching. Her dog wanders nearby, nosing through piles of leaves and sniffing rocks, and Matheo thinks on the old adage about dogs and their owners looking alike.

“I don’t trust you,” he says.

“Is that why you’re following me?”

“Yes.” She bends over, just long enough to pull some wild daisies out of the ground, and Matheo finds his eyes idly, annoyingly, drawn to the pockets on the back of her pants. “Chemists always have ulterior motives. You’ll bring destruction to this island, just like all of your predecessors.”

The chemist heaves a sigh. She turns to face him, her arms wrapped around herself. “I’m not like them,” she says.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Yes!” she says. “Because it’s the truth.”

“Talk is cheap, chemist.” He tightens his grip on his umbrella. “Until you do anything to prove you’re trustworthy, I have very little reason to take stock in anything you say.”

She rolls her eyes, spinning around to continue foraging.

“You’re like, the one person in town who still has a problem with me, you know that?” she says over her shoulder. “Even the other people in town who still don’t trust me very much because I’m from the capital are at least civil about it.”

“Do you need everyone to like you?”

“No, I just think it’s stupid to dislike me for something I haven’t done.”

“I consider my skepticism to be well-earned, considering historical events.”

The chemist spins back around. Her jaw is clenched, brows low, eyes alight with incredulity. “Skepticism?” she says. “Is that what you call it?”

Matheo squares his shoulders, looks at her down his nose. “It is.”

“At least be honest and just say you hate me,” she says, her hands balling into fists.

“Alright,” he says. “I hate you.”

“Thank you!” she says, arms splaying wide. “While we’re being honest, I don’t really care for you, either, you arrogant ass!”

Despite his valiant attempt to prevent it, Matheo can’t stop the corner of his mouth from lifting in amusement, though he does succeed in turning into a sneer. “Name calling. Tsk.” He absently twirls his umbrella in his hand. “Though I should have expected something so juvenile from a child barely off the capital’s teat.”

She scowls, grasping the air as if she wishes it was his throat instead. “I'm not a child!” she snarls, and then, realizing she’s lost her temper, shuts her mouth so hard he hears her teeth clack. That there’s more she wants to say is obvious, but she restrains herself, taking a deep breath and turning her back on him once more.

He follows her in silence as she continues foraging. Even in anger, being rougher than necessary, she harvests plants in a way that allows them to regrow, only takes what she presumably needs and leaves the rest, which is more conscientious of her than he would have assumed, though she also neglects to take some things that Matheo knows are beneficial. He's not sure if she doesn't know better or if she just doesn't need them; he suspects the former.

Her dog also helps, digging up the occasional plant or mineral and barking to let her know when it's found something of value. Matheo wonders if she trained it to do that, or if that talent was the reason she chose to adopt it. It strikes him as just another way she's spoiled, has been given an advantage she didn't earn.

After a bit, the chemist sits on a low rock to catch her breath. Her temper seems to have cooled somewhat. “Why don't you trust me, anyway?" she asks, pulling her hood down to wipe her forehead with her arm and leaving a smudge of dirt there that disappears under her bangs. "You don’t even know anything about me.”

“You are a capital chemist,” Matheo says, shrugging. “That’s all I need to know. You’re all the same.”

“Elaborate.”

“Negligent, reckless, irreverent, scheming, opportunistic, disrespectful, overconfident, underqualified--”

“Overconfident? Underqualified?” Temper heating right back up, the chemist stands, crossing her arms, jutting one hip out to the side, the perfect picture of insecure but headstrong capital attitude. “That’s pretty rich, considering I was the one who cured Rue after you spent days ineffectually trying to.”

That digs under his skin, itches like insects burrowing into his pride. “A fluke is a fluke,” he hisses. “Don’t think that you stumbling your way into success is in any way comparable to having the breadth of knowledge and experience that I do.”

"Is it a fluke when almost half the townsfolk come to me now, instead of you?" she says, and her cocky little smirk sends fury, molten and violent, carving its way between his ribs.

He takes a step towards her, and she straightens up, trying to look taller than she is, a failed attempt to not be loomed over. "How dare you?" he growls.

She laughs, runs her hands through her dampening hair. "How dare I?" she echoes, her tone so full of obvious disdain that her dog, some ways away, perks up in concern.

"How dare you take pride in this?" he says. "You come here, unwanted--"

"I was wanted!" 

"--grind your boot into my neck, and then have the audacity to act like you're the one in the right?"

She puffs up like a spooked cat, taking a step toward him this time, looking for all the world like she'd like nothing more than to introduce her knuckles to his cheek. "Oh, you want to lecture me about audacity?" she shouts, while her dog whines at her feet, ignored. "People are coming to me of their own free will, and now I can see why, when their other choice is an irritable bastard--"

"Your novelty will fade when your false pretenses fall away--"

"False pretenses?"

"--and everyone sees you for the contemptuous little capital puppet--"

"I'm not a puppet!"

He snorts. "And yet you still have yet to address the destruction your predecessors inflicted here," he says, "and don't think I haven't noticed that you've still failed to take any action regarding it."

"I've been busy treating my patients--"

"--who are largely sick because of that destruction!"

She blinks at him, looking rattled, like she’s been slapped. She says nothing.

Matheo becomes aware, suddenly, of how close they’ve become, a mere handbreadth separating their chests; he can make out the individual hairs of the chemist's eyelashes even though they're clumped together with water.

As the moment stretches on, agonizing and nebulous, the chemist’s expression changes, incomprehension making way for something else, something akin to curiosity but more complex and indistinct, harder to identify. Her eyes flit over his face like he's a puzzle she's trying to figure out.

He watches the rain-slicked skin of her throat shift as she swallows, watches her heightened pulse pound in her vein.

"You know what?" she says, voice low and even. “I think you’re just scared."

He scoffs. “What could I possibly have to be scared of?”

“I think you’re scared that you’re a washed-up has-been whose outdated traditions can’t compete with advancing science,” she says. “That you’re becoming irrelevant."

Ice runs through him, because she’s cut alarmingly close to the quick; almost those exact thoughts cycle through his head every time another of his patients transfers their business to the chemist’s clinic. Maybe he is becoming irrelevant. Maybe the world will go on around him, without him, and he’ll be left behind, lost and alone.

“Am I right?” she asks, breath warm on his neck.

He stands up straight, drawing away from her. She stares at him, pulling her hood over her head again as she’s left exposed without the shelter of his umbrella. Dread settles in him, like he’s an insect pinned to a board, all his vulnerabilities on display for her to see.

She’s won.

Again.

He tries to tell himself that his lack of answer as he walks away is defying her, not giving her the satisfaction she wants, but a part of him suspects it’s more damning than anything he could have said.

----

That night he lays awake for a long, long time, staring up at his ceiling and doing his best to not think of anything at all.

----

Something is wrong.

At the northern end of Meadow Range, the plants are covered in bizarre purple-gray rashes, reminiscent of the pool of toxic purple sludge to the south and almost certainly related, though how its effects have migrated so far is lost to him. Root systems, perhaps? Air currents?

Matheo has never seen anything like this before, and he’s familiar with most all plant diseases that exist.

Which means this is new.

He pulls out some of the test tubes he carries and begins collecting samples: leaves, petals, roots, soil, anything that does, or might, harbor the rash.

That old familiar anger creeps into him. Even now, years later, the effects of the capital’s ineptitude are being felt, continuing to lay waste to the delicate balance of nature while the parties responsible go about their lives without feeling any consequence. Moonbury and its townsfolk, its precious wilderness, are left to shoulder that weight instead, and the absurd injustice of it all has never stopped gnawing at him, probably never will.

Maybe the migration of the disease is the chemist’s fault.

She had been the one to facilitate the clearing of the landslide blocking access to the heart of Meadow Range. It’s not impossible.

The thought sends makes his stomach lurch in mixed disgust, horror, and hatred. He’s of half a mind to run straight to Myer’s office and demand the chemist be kicked out of town on grounds of ecocide, charged alongside all her conspirators back in the capital who escaped prosecution--

But he has no proof, of course. Just a hunch. A warranted one, given historical context, but a hunch nonetheless.

He takes a breath, clears his head. He’s getting distracted by her, again. He’s going to have to instate a moratorium on brooding about the chemist soon, if this continues.

He needs to learn more, needs to study what this disease is… What its made up of, its speed of growth, the method through which it reproduces and subsumes, whether its solely plant-bound or can be transferred to fauna as well. It’s better, he decides, not to tell anyone about it yet. Partly because doing so, with so many unknowns, could incite unrest and panic, and partly out of selfishness; it’s something to do. It’s something worthwhile to do, something helpful and beneficial, and also, if the chemist did cause it, he wants to be the one to reveal that, to lift the veil from everyone’s eyes -- and if the chemist didn’t cause it, he wants to be the one to eradicate the disease before she can. He’ll be damned if he lets her become the golden child of Moonbury without a fight.

Damn it, he’s thinking about her again.

He stuffs the test tubes back into their holders within his pouch, then pulls out his notebook and begins jotting down as many of his relevant thoughts and observations as he can, followed by making several sketches of the plants, as detailed and true to life as he can manage. He tries to capture everything, so he has an adequate visual reference and doesn’t have to come back here for a while.

A low, snuffling growling from somewhere behind him interrupts him, almost so quiet he doesn’t register it except that he’s already on edge and his senses are heightened. Pure instinctual fear grips him, and he tries very hard not to move too quickly when he turns around even though his fight-or-flight reflex is so extreme he’s almost vibrating with the effort not to bolt.

The blackpaw is enormous, a hulking mountain emerging from the brush, twitchy with pent up and unpredictable aggression. Its claws are easily four inches long, its lips pulled back as it growls to show its equally-as-deadly teeth, its fur matted where old, gnarled scars have rendered the skin bald.

It’s staring right at him.

Matheo breathes in, steady as possible, and then breathes out, trying not to scream. He can’t remember what either Bubble or Forrest have taught in their wildlife safety seminars about what to do when facing a giant, territorial, and hostile bear, and now he wishes he would have paid closer attention.

This is why he pays the rangers to forage for him.

Infuriatingly, he thinks, once again, about the chemist.

You should--um… really be wearing a bear bell if you go into Meadow Range.

As he’s running for his life, lungs aching, a stitch in his side, heartbeat roaring in his ears, having thrown his notebook in a desperate attempt to distract the enormous, murderous beast long enough to assure his continued existence as a living human being, he hates that she was probably right.

Chapter Text

Willow wipes the dust off of her hands, surveying her work.

Her house is coming along, slowly but surely.

Getting the clinic into working order had been a much more pressing concern, and while she’d been allowed to use some of the funding given to her to repair the failing architecture in her house that posed a danger to her health and safety, install a fireplace in the living room to keep her warm at night, and upgrade and revitalize the cauldron used for her work as a chemist, she’d been prohibited from doing much more than that on the Medical Association’s dime. Which, to be fair, was no one’s fault. There wasn’t much money they could give her, and what she got had to be allocated to specific non-personal uses. She doesn’t regret that it was spent on the clinic.

It just means that now, she’s putting her own elbow grease into her house.

She's just finished deep-cleaning and sanding down all of the cabinet doors in her kitchen. It was by far the worst room of the house, beset by old smoke damage, grease, ancient mysterious food scraps, and mysterious stains on the walls, on top of the general cobwebby disrepair felt in all the other areas of the house. Willow can't help but wonder if the chemists before her, given what she knows about their conduct and characters, used this room more for experimentation than cooking actual food to eat.

After all her effort so far, though, its potential is beginning to be realized. The whole house’s is, really. It’s been hard and slow work, to be sure, but the tangible results of improving her own living space are more rewarding than a lot of things Willow has done in her life. Every day it gets a little closer to being a true home.

She checks the time; it’s still early in the afternoon, which leaves her plenty of time to do something she’s been dreading but determined to do: make her way through Meadow Range to the site of one of the accidents.

It’s been nagging at her for days, ever since she’d gotten into that argument with Matheo. It had already been lingering, ever-present, in the back of her thoughts like a bad toothache, but that had been the tipping point. That she was uninformed at first was no fault of her own; that she continues to be uninformed is. She owes it both to the people of Moonbury and to herself to investigate, because if what Matheo said is true --that the townspeople here are so chronically sick due to the accidents-- diverting all of her extra time and resources to rectify what she can is both her duty as a chemist, as well as an instinct in a much more abstract, spiritual sense.

Illness presents itself, and she takes care of it.

Leaving the kitchen in its current state of chaos (with cabinet doors pulled off and propped around the room, soiled rags and sandpaper littering the floor, and much more work to be done), she bundles up in extra layers, packs her things, tucks her shiny new hatchet into its holster just in case, and heads out, with Alistair right behind her.

It’s a little warmer today than it has been, though it will be a mere couple of weeks before temperatures drop again as winter creeps in. The trees in town are stripped of most of their leaves, the air growing drier and crisper, the sky overcast more often than not. All the more reason to do this now, before the weather renders it impossible for the rest of the year.

Willow makes her way out of town, mulling everything over. She has no idea what she’s going to find out there, and truth be told part of her is terrified to face this. It’s ridiculous, in some ways, that it’s her burden to bear despite not being her responsibility, but the fact remains that it is, because it’s so obviously, inextricably tangled together with Moonbury’s history and yet no one here has the means to pull apart the proverbial knot.

Chemists fucked it up.

Now a chemist has to fix it.

Besides, despite her frustration at the duty being thrust upon her, she doubts she’d be able to resist the call for long, anyway. It’s etched into her, that instinct, that need to help, to fix, to heal. Regardless of circumstances, and regardless of her fear, this feels right.

As she passes the ranger station and waves to Bubble, she becomes aware of voices up ahead, around the cliff face at the mouth of Meadow Range. One voice belongs to Forrest, and the other…

Willow stops walking, spine going rigid.

Fuck.

Before she can decide whether she wants to return home, wait back at the station, or just trudge right along, Alistair passes her and bounds on, oblivious to her reticence. Ahead, she hears Forrest greet him.

“Alistair, hey there, boy!” he says, and then, a moment later, “You out here all alone?”

Gritting her teeth until her jaw aches, Willow continues on around the cliff face.

“No, I’m here, he’s fine,” she says, waving at Forrest and paying no mind to the way Matheo glares daggers at her.

“Hey there, Willow!” Forrest says, waving back to her. “Heading into Meadow Range?”

“Mm hmm.” She nods. “Just doing some light foraging today.” Because there’s no way she’s going to let Matheo know she’s involving herself in business about the accident, even if that business is in pursuit of being helpful; if he gets it into his head to follow her again she’s pretty sure she won’t be able to resist strangling him half to death out in the middle of the wilderness.

“Hey, be careful, alright?” Forrest says, patting Alistair’s wide, fluffy head and casting a glance at Matheo. “Sounds like there’s been some bear activity out there.”

The implication is clear. Loathe as she is to admit it, Willow’s stomach drops, and she looks at Matheo as well. “Were you hurt?”

He crosses his arms. “No,” he says, and just the single word, so stuffed to the brim with contempt, like he’s annoyed that she might be concerned for his safety, makes her want to ram her knee up between his thighs.

“But you did lose your notebook, right?” Forrest says, glancing between the two of them. “Could you maybe keep an eye out for it while you’re out there, Willow?”

Matheo looks like he loathes the idea of her doing that, but to object would be too much of a fuss, so he just stands there awkwardly.

Feeling far too petty, Willow shrugs. “Sure,” she says. “What’s it look like?”

Matheo stares at her like he’s two seconds away from driving his fingers into her eyes. Wearing the thinnest mask of civility possible, he says, gesturing accordingly, “About this large. Bound in brown leather with gold filigree details. I lost it several days ago, towards the north of Meadow Range.”

“Alright,” she says. “If I see it I’ll bring it back.”

“Thanks, Willow,” Forrest says. “I’ve got to do some scouting over on the east side, otherwise I’d do it.” He turns to Matheo. “If she doesn’t find it, I can look tomorrow, alright?”

Clearly reluctant, Matheo nods.

“Cool!” Forrest pats Willow on the back as he starts back towards the ranger station. “Thanks again, and seriously, be careful today, alright?”

“I will.”

As Forrest leaves, Willow does too, in the opposite direction, eager to put as much distance between her and Matheo as quickly as possible.

“Chemist.”

Of course.

Against her better judgment, she stops, taking a moment to steel herself before turning back around.

“What,” she says, trying to be as neutral as she can.

Alongside the ever-present sullenness, Matheo’s expression is pensive as he watches her. “If you find my notebook…” he says, and then trails off, and when it becomes clear he’s not going to continue, Willow contemplates just walking off.

“As much as I might be tempted to rub it in animal dung before I give it back to you, I won’t,” she says.

He sneers. “How considerate,” he says, and then, with a huff, drops his arms to rest on the pouches of his belt. “No, I was going to say, if you find my notebook, I’d appreciate it if you respected my privacy and didn’t read it.”

“Why, do you have something to hide?”

He rolls his eyes. He seems too weary to put his heart into arguing today; it’s actually a little disappointing.

“For the gods’ sakes,” he mutters, rubbing his temples. “It’s my private property. Do not read it. Period. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” she says. “I don’t have any interest in reading your stupid notebook, anyway. Okay? Can I go now?”

He sighs, then nods, resigning himself to his fate.

Willow gives him an exaggerated thumbs up as she turns and walks away, following Alistair deeper into Meadow Range.

----

She forages as she goes, which Alistair is all-too-happy to assist with, digging up mushrooms and minerals and even some wild ginger. She puts all of it into her foraging basket, thankful for the replenishment, and harvests some plants herself as well.

Past the site where the landslide used to be, Meadow Range becomes more linear, changing from grassy plains to rocky, shallow canyon-like corridors that split into two paths, to the north and to the south. She decides to take a detour north first, to search for Matheo’s notebook.

There’s more wildlife on this side of the former landslide; pangols, mostly, which flee as soon as they hear her bear bell, but also green blobs and the occasional greedbonnet. Once, when a well-camouflaged crownmite bursts out of the foliage to skitter up the canyon wall, Willow shrieks in surprise and the commotion sends Alistair into a jumpy, barking mania. It takes her several minutes to calm him (and herself) down.

It doesn’t take long before she comes upon the unfortunate remains of Matheo’s notebook.

It’s in complete tatters, scattered all over the place, and though some pages are still bound together by the fewest of threads, there’s no sign of anything resembling either a front or back cover. Some pages are shredded to ribbons, some are soaked in mud, some are crumpled and trampled and covered in animal tracks, and some are an almost unrecognizable combination of all three.

She sighs, surveys the area for a moment.

While they number less than she’d like, there are some pages that are salvageable, and she begins gathering them up, trying to keep things as neat as she can. He’d told her not to read his notes, but she decides to scan a few pages out of spiteful curiosity.

His handwriting isn’t so much messy as it is… abstract, and most of his notes contain so much shorthand that she can’t decipher them, anyway. It reminds her of many of the veteran chemists’ handwriting back in the capital, which amuses her because she knows if she told him that he would probably have an aneurism.

Her amusement is cut short when she picks up a page with a sketch on it. It’s of some Meadow Range flora, though it seems to depict said flora covered in some kind of… fungus, or something. What really gives her pause, though, isn’t the subject, but rather the sketch itself.

It’s the same style as the sketches in the Incident Report.

It’s unmistakable. The line quality, the hatching, the attention to detail and exact replication of real life. She’s stared at those sketches so damn long, enthralled by the obvious passion and respect the artist had for the subject matter, she’d bet she could make her own passable recreation if she tried.

And they were drawn by Matheo.

The thought makes her feel duped, somehow, because if she’d known Matheo was the artist responsible for the sketches she would have never spent so much time admiring them. The thought of such a contentious and irritable man being able to produce something so beautiful is outlandish; she literally cannot visualize him drawing anything except maybe a vindictive doodle of her laying dead in a ditch with Xs for eyes like a bratty child, much less something like these botanical illustrations, which showcase not only an impressive level of study and skill, but also far more thoughtfulness than he’s ever demonstrated himself being capable of.

She almost crumples up the page, just out of disdain.

But damn it all, she’s still so affected by the sketch that she can’t find it in her to destroy it.

Annoyed, Willow gathers the rest of the salvageable pages and stuffs them into her bag, and takes a tiny two-step detour to mash an already-destroyed one deeper into the mud.

Mercifully for the remains of Matheo’s notes, she’s distracted from her vandalization by an odd buzzing din from further down the westward bend of the path. She’s not heard anything like it before, and her near bottomless curiosity gets the better of her.

The buzzing gets louder as she moves west, and she follows it until she reaches an alcove and peeks inside.

She’s thankful that she’s not entomophobic; even not being afraid of insects, the sheer amount of them crawling around the alcove makes her feel itchy and jumpy. They’re everywhere, and have covered everything in thick, sticky-looking webs -- including the plants. It’s hard to through the webbing, and since it’s so late in the season they’re mostly wilted, but she’s pretty sure they’re konjacs. She hasn’t seen these insects anywhere else in Meadow Range, and they don’t seem to have any interest in leaving this alcove to seek out other plants. She can’t think of any insect that specifically targets konjacs, so maybe this is another result of former chemists’ meddling? The thought makes her blood run hot. 

She knows far too little to do anything right now, though, and she’s already preoccupied today, anyway. Before she leaves, she kills one of the insects as cleanly as she can and scoops it into a test tube, along with a sample of some of the webbing, which is far more disgusting to touch than she’d anticipated. She resolves to ask Forrest and Bubble about it next time she sees them.

Leaving the alcove behind for now, she heads back down the path with Alistair at her side.

----

Her focus returns as she makes her way south, first back to the fork near the remains of the landslide, and then further on, towards the site of the accident. While her detour hadn’t taken that long, she’d gotten such a late start that she’s becoming uneasy about making it to the site and back before dark. She walks a little faster than normal, doesn’t dawdle with as much foraging. Thankfully the path is linear and easy to follow, consisting of the same odd, narrow canyon structure that leads her under huge stone archways and around craggy monoliths, whose status as naturally-formed feels debatable.

After a while the path widens, and she finds herself in a more forested area of Meadow Range. There are more evergreens here, mottling the sun and providing enough shade for ferns and mushrooms and moss to grow. She continues to follow the cliff face as it bends westward because she suspects she could easily become lost if she strays too far from it.

Compared to the wide fields of central Meadow Range, this place feels like a different world. The air is wetter, colder, thick with the scent of pine, and the ground is muddier without as much sun to dry it out. The plants are different, larger and more lush than the scrubbier plants up north -- Willow’s never before seen trees as dizzyingly tall as the ones around her, at least not in real life; the trees in the capital are first and foremost for decorative purposes, planted as accents to the buildings’ beauty rather than for their own sake, groomed to meticulous perfection.

That anyone would prefer hectic, vapid city life to the fascinating, magnificent wonderland of untouched nature, boggles her mind. The wilderness, untamed and flourishing, takes her breath away; she falls in love with it over and over again.

Which, of course, makes it all the harder when human hubris ruins things.

The first sign that something is off comes in the form of quietude; birdsong fades, frogs go silent, crickets stop chirping. Willow takes this to mean that she’s nearing the site, that the wildlife give it a wide berth.

Sure enough, soon after that the other signs appear: the trees turn bare and sickly purple-gray, the brush turns skeletal and dry, the ground loses all moisture. Ahead of her, there’s an eerie purple glow illuminating the petrified remains of the old chemists’ experiment site.

As they get nearer, Willow commands Alistair to stay, and he does, whining as she continues on. The sense of wrongness is everywhere, almost overpowering. The trees, rendered skeletal, seem bent at wrong angles, bark stripped away; the air is hot, charged, stinking of decomposition; the ground, though hardened, simultaneously has a nerve-wracking give to it, like at any moment it could crack open into a sinkhole and swallow her alive.

In the middle of everything is a large crater, full of thick, bubbling, glowing purple sludge. There’s nothing natural about it at all, and even just looking at it makes Willow’s head ache. It’s sickening. Harrowing. Frightening.

Most of all, it’s infuriating.

Why is this still here? Why did the capital just ignore something so calamitous? How could it? How could it dare turn its back on this, after being the direct cause, and leave Moonbury to fend for itself against an incursion it has no means to withstand? Did they not know they were dooming an entire island to a slow and painful death of a thousand cuts, or did they simply not care?

She wants to scream.

Instead, she filters that anger into resolve. She has to fix this. There is no alternative.

She gathers samples of everything, from the soil, the plants, the trees, takes as diverse a range as she can find, stores everything in her test tubes and spare potion bottles, and then she turns to the crater. The idea of getting close enough to take samples makes her nervous.

But she has to.

She glances back at Alistair, who stays obediently in place even though his tail starts wagging with anticipation, and then she makes her way towards the crater. She’s cautious and light-footed, testing the ground every step. The stench gets much worse as she reaches the edge, hits her in the back of the throat, makes her gag, and that unnatural glow needles into the space behind her eyes. She wishes she had proper protective gear.

She crouches down and dips the top of a potion bottle into it, holding it under for a few seconds before pulling it up again. She expects it to be half dissolved, or congealed into paste, but it remains intact, so she proceeds to gather samples, as quickly as she can without being reckless, and then all but runs back to Alistair so she doesn’t have to spend anymore time near that crater than necessary.

Alistair hops to his feet when she reaches him, just as glad as she is that she’s back. Willow takes a moment to pet him and catch her breath, wipes her arm across her forehead, finds that she’s sweating. She feels heavy, like she’s now carrying contraband, and is eager to get home and offload the samples; she’s still not trustful that the sludge won’t melt through her bottles.

She spends a few more minutes calming down, and then starts the journey back to town.

She thinks about the capital some more, unable to stop herself from ruminating.

Everything about this baffles her. That the capital refused to be accountable to this disaster, that they then had the gall to send more chemists who made the exact same mistakes, that they covered it all up and have kept it obscured from everyone, even from student chemists, whose chosen profession should necessitate learning about this, if for no other reason than to prevent the repetition of history. How did she go through so many years of schooling and never hear a word even breathed about these accidents?

She thinks of Myer, and of the tremendous amount of trust he’s shown her, considering the circumstances. And not just him -- lots of people in Moonbury trust her now, enough to place their health and wellbeing in her care. Does she even deserve it? She hasn’t ruined anything (yet), but what has she done that’s merited their trust? Is being more competent than the previous chemists and more pleasant to interact with than Matheo really enough to warrant everything they’ve given her?

If she fixes this -- when she fixes this-- maybe then she’ll feel like she deserves it.

A branch snaps somewhere, and Willow's mind is wiped blank, her perception of her surroundings crystallizing; the contrast between light and shadow becomes starker, the air becomes crisper, and she becomes aware of just how many sounds are present around her again. Beyond the now-cacophonous pounding of her heart in her ears she can hear birds, frogs, crickets, the wind rustling the plants, every single water droplet that falls from the treetops to the forest floor.

Footsteps, too. Some ways away, quiet but there; she can't ascertain which direction they're going, but she can identify where they're coming from, and she cautiously turns to face that direction.

It's a bonemask.

Willow's stomach drops. She hisses, sharp and short, at Alistair, who is sniffing around nearby, and he snaps to attention, looking to her for guidance. She gives him the hand signal to sit, and then to stay, and he does so, unaware of the danger. 

She looks back to the bonemask. It’s staring in her direction, probably having been lured here by her bear bell. She’s never seen one in person before, but it's as bizarre and unnerving as the photos and illustrations she's looked at, its ivory faceplate devoid of expression and covered in a patchy layer of moss, its mane matted and tangled with debris. It's smaller than she'd envisioned, not much larger than Alistair, and completely silent as it makes its way in her direction. 

Very slowly, with no idea what else to do, Willow crouches, removing her foraging basket and messenger bag, trying to lower herself beneath the average height of the surrounding brush. She knows that despite being herbivores, bonemasks are territorial and aggressive, and charge fast enough to break limbs, bruise organs, and fell trees. She’s seen the injuries, helped Dr Nestor treat some during her mentorship, knows very well how serious these attacks can be.

The bonemask stops a short distance away from her, maybe three yards, and seems to sniff the air for a moment. And then it drops into a combative stance, head lowered, hackles raised, mane puffing up like it’s full of static electricity. Willow’s blood runs cold. The sound it makes is unlike anything she’s heard, hardly even animal, more like the distant rumble of thunder. A growl, a warning.

Shit shit shit shit shit--

“Alistair, retrieve!” Willow shouts, pointing off in a random direction, just trying to get her dog out of the area, and he obeys, running off. The bonemask is momentarily distracted by this before Willow makes a run for the closest tree, trying to put something between it and herself. As she’s running she can see that peculiar pulse of light race along its body, like it’s bioluminescent, and that thundering growl gets louder, more vicious.

She barely reaches the tree before it’s already slammed into the other side with an echoing crack, sending a rain of pine needles and broken branches down on top of Willow, who’s so hyped up on the sudden rush of adrenaline that she forgets to even scream. The tree, half-destroyed, begins tilting precariously, and Willow runs because the alternative seems to be getting crushed if it falls.

The bonemask zeros in on her again, flickering with light, snarling with that alien voice.

There’s nothing for her to hide behind this time.

When it charges, she dives, desperate, hits the ground hard and half-skids, half-rolls out of the way. Pain streaks through her shoulder, and then through her ankle when she tries to stand up too fast and trips on her cape, joint twisting under her.

She lands in the mud, gasping for breath.

The bonemask is on her, rearing up on its hind limbs and then slamming back down, perilously close to her legs. She scrambles backwards, imagining her bones shattering, trying to get out from underneath it, prey animal drive overtaking her, panicking, panicking, panicking--

Alistair appears out of nowhere, lunging on the bonemask and sinking his teeth into its flank. It bucks and spins, howling and screeching, and Alistair holds on, trying to get his feet under him so he can fight.

Willow is aware, distantly, that she’s shouting, trying to get Alistair to let go, to run, to retrieve, to fetch, to let go, let go, let go --

The bonemask kicks, and Alistair is launched back with a sharp, rending cry that makes Willow’s chest feel like it’s going to explode. As the bonemask turns to follow up, she moves on pure instinct, without thinking, like she’s been possessed and is no longer controlling her own body. Everything seems to slow to a crawl, every one of her senses zeroing in on surviving at any cost.

She stands up. Pulls her hatchet out of its holster. Grips it tight. Shouts.

The bonemask turns.

She swings, as hard as she can.

When her hatchet connects with the bonemask’s throat, there’s a sound like a thunderclap, deafeningly loud, and it seems to ring all the way down into Willow’s soul.

Blood sprays from the wound, covers her arms.

Horror, raw and nauseating, hits her like a train. She bursts into tears.

She pulls the hatchet back, swings again.

A sickening, squelching crack.

Willow swings again.

The bonemask ceases making noise, but continues to struggle, disoriented and panicking as it suffers.

Willow swings again.

The bonemask's head jerks, tilts at a wrong angle as it comes away from its body.

Willow swings again.

The bonemask's legs fail and it falls on its side.

Willow follows it, swings again.

The bonemask stops moving.

Willow swings again.

Blood pools at her feet.

As quickly as she can, just trying to put it out of its misery, Willow swings again.

The bonemask dies.

It's all over in less than a minute.

Willow collapses on the ground, covered in blood and viscera, shaking, ears ringing, her entire body aching as she sobs.

She’s never killed anything larger and more intelligent than a bug before.

This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

This wasn't what she wanted.

For a long moment it’s all she can do not to lose herself to an anxiety attack as everything replays in her mind, over and over, as she attempts to grapple with the fact that she’s just brutally murdered a wild animal who was merely operating on instinct, defending its home that she stumbled into.

She’s ended a life.

She stumbles to her feet, but only so she can take a few steps and throw up far enough away that it doesn’t feel like even further sacrilege, even worse disrespect.

When she finishes, she can’t even wipe her mouth because there’s so much blood slicking her arms.

She shrieks when Alistair nudges her leg, and then, in both relief and continued distress, drops back down to her knees to wrap her arms around him, crying into his neck.

Ever-patient, as exhausted and in pain as she is, he lets her.

----

Willow tries to make herself as presentable as she can as she limps to Matheo’s house. Her shoulder and ankle are throbbing in pain, and she’s covered in mud and blood, her hair a mess, face probably still flushed and swollen from continuing to cry in shifts the entire journey back.

She’d cut through the forest to avoid walking by the ranger station, because she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, much less Bubble or Forrest, both of whose endless founts of deep concern will just serve to make Willow feel even worse. She really doesn’t want to talk to Matheo either, but she has to give him what remains of his notes, and if she doesn’t do it now, she’ll have to make an extra trip out here some other time. Besides, she’s exhausted and pissed-off and sad enough that she’s just beyond the reach of her more rational reasoning.

“Chemist,” Matheo says, before they even see each other, having been alerted to her presence by her bear bell. He’s in his garden, crouched down over a feverfew that's on its last legs for the year. “I was wondering when you’d…”

He trails off as he looks at her, uncomprehending, and then, as her appearance registers, he stands up, alert and incredulous.

“Gods beyond,” he mumbles.

“I found what was left of your notebook,” she says, unclasping the buckles of her messenger bag. She opens it and holds the bag out towards him so he can retrieve the papers himself, since her hands are still covered in blood and she’s pretty confident that he would prefer not to have his precious few remaining notes be stained as well.

He takes them cautiously, expression waffling between betrayal and continuing disbelief. “Did you… What did you do to them?” he asks.

“I found them like that, asshole,” she says, and she must sound weary enough that he doesn’t argue. “Most of them were in even worse condition. I salvaged what I could.”

He says nothing, just stares down at the papers in his hands.

For a moment, Willow considers leaving. Even as drained as she is, though, her curiosity wins out.

“Can I ask you a question?"

He doesn't reply verbally, but he does look up at her, and she takes that as permission enough. 

"Did you draw the botanical illustrations in the Incident Report? The one Myer has?” she asks.

He catches the subtext. "I thought I told you not to read this,” he says.

Her chest is burning with that now-very-familiar annoyance that talking to Matheo always seems to ignite. “I didn’t,” she half-lies, “but they were scattered all over the place and I had to pick them up. I just… saw one of the sketches you did, and it looks just like the ones in the Incident Report that Myer loaned me when I first got here.”

His expression doesn’t change. His fingers tighten around the pages. “Why do you even care?” he asks.

Willow groans, hands reflexively coming up to rub at her face but stopping just short when she sees all the dried blood still caked into the wrinkles of her gloves and under her fingernails. “Gods--why is talking to you so fucking miserable?” she asks. “Having teeth pulled would be easier and more fun.”

“Then you should go do that,” he says, though without quite as much venom as usual.

“I was just curious!” she says. “When I saw the ones in the Incident Report I was so… struck by them. By the fact that I might never get to see those plants in real life, you know? Maybe your illustrations are all I’ll ever get to see, but even if that’s the case…” She swallows, voice catching in her throat, as if her body is attempting to prevent her from paying him any kind of compliment. “Even if that’s the case, it’s obvious those illustrations were made with a lot of passion and respect and love for nature. And… I liked that, I don’t know.” She shrugs, because the casual nature of it feels like it offsets the unexpectedly vulnerable and honest things coming out of her mouth. “They’re beautiful, okay? That’s it. Whatever. I’m going home.”

She turns and follows Alistair up the main path to town, towards the rangers’ cabin.

“Chemist.”

Gods damn him.

She spins back around to face him but doesn’t say anything, mostly because she’s maybe half a dozen physical exertions away from passing out, and she’s not going to waste anymore on him. Matheo’s fingers tighten around his papers again as he watches her, brows furrowed.

“Are you…” He pauses. His shoulders slump as he lets out his breath. “Are you hurt?”

She stares at him, eyes burning with tears. Part of her wants to scream at him. How dare he act concerned for her now? Is surviving traumatizing mortal peril the singular way she can expect to be shown any kind of decency from him? Is that really what it takes? How dare he?

“Please,” she says around the lump in her throat, trying her hardest not to cry, unsure what she’s even begging for. Maybe just for the universe to let her go and curl up in bed and sob herself to sleep. “I’m exhausted, Matheo. I want to go home.”

He blinks. Looks troubled, and maybe something else that she's too drained to examine. "O-Of course. Don’t let me keep you,” he says, and then, awkwardly, adds, “Um… if you… If… Thank you for bringing these back.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, and then continues on her way home, desperate to put the day behind her.

Chapter Text

Willow breathes out, running her hand across the sun-warmed headstone to loosen the remaining bits of moss and debris. Instinctively she scans it for an epitaph, but there is only one word:

Caenus.

She knows the name in passing, but it strikes her that she doesn’t actually know who Caenus --or Amadeus, the other supposed ghost that hangs about, for that matter-- is. Besides Victor, no one ever talks about either of them.

As she’s thinking this, the man in question walks over and stands beside her, and she pushes herself to her feet, dusting off her knees.

“Ready?” Victor asks, tilting his head back to look at her from under his unruly mop. It always surprises Willow how light his eyes are -- purplish-blue, almost white, accentuated by platinum-blonde hair and porcelain skin. If he really wanted, he could probably pass for a statue.

Willow tucks her hair behind her ear, nodding. “Yeah.”

Victor walks over to the ornamental door set into the shallow rockface that’s sandwiched between the church on one side and the fenced-off edge of the cliffside overlook on the other. He pulls a ring of keys out of his pocket, many more than Willow assumes have matching doors in Moonbury and all of which look at least several hundred years old, and unlocks the door to the crypt; she braces for the squealing of ancient hinges when he pulls it, but instead it opens with a silent rush of frigid, dusty air.

She can’t help but shiver as she stares down into the pitch-blackness of the crypt, which does not go unnoticed by Victor. He giggles.

“Frightened, chemist?” he says, not unkindly.

Willow half-shrugs, pulling her hood up over her hair as she imagines all the insects no doubt scuttling around down there. “Maybe a little,” she admits, laughing to downplay her nervousness. “I haven’t really spent that much time in crypts.”

Victor clicks his tongue a couple times, an idle stim. “They’re not so bad,” he says, edges of his mouth curling into that ever-present little enigmatic smile. “They’re places of peace.” He takes one of the torches that border the door, descends the first couple steps down into the crypt before pausing in thought. “... Most of the time.”

Willow waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, instead continuing down into the crypt.

Unsettled but determined to follow through on her promise to help out, she steels herself, glances back to where Alistair is napping in the graveyard (with Kipps curled up in his neck), and then follows after Victor.

What little warmth the sun was blessing the surface with is snuffed out instantly, and Willow almost winces as the temperature plummets. Pulling her cloak around her both for warmth and to make herself smaller in the cramped stairwell, she wonders how Victor doesn’t even seem to feel it, dressed as he is in his usual button-up and waistcoat.

Within moments the stairwell opens into a larger room, a hollowed-out cave that’s roughly finished with brickwork. In the grand scheme of things it’s not very large, considering their location on the overlook doesn’t afford much space, but it’s enough to ease the sense of claustrophobia, and even with several sealed-up graves there are a few empty spaces leftover.

“Here,” Victor says, handing her the torch and pulling on some old leather gloves. “Won’t take long, there’s hardly ever anything out of the ordinary to address down here.”

“‘Hardly ever?’” Willow echoes, following Victor over to the edge of the room and watching as he crouches down near an old grate. “So… sometimes?”

Victor giggles as he pulls the grate up and clears some debris out of the drain; as he does so, a thin layer of water covering the floor that Willow hadn’t registered begins to empty out of the room. “Oh, sometimes wild animals find their way in somehow. Or a seal breaks and the air gets rotten,” he says, nonchalant despite the subject. Satisfied with the drainage, he replaces the grate and stands up. “Or sometimes the spirits get restless.”

Willow watches him, acutely aware of the way his shadow flickers on the wall behind him in the torchlight. The expanded space suddenly feels a little too cavernous, and she wishes she could see the corners of the room.

Victor giggles once more, genuinely amused and lighthearted, and despite everything it helps break the tension. “You’re so easily rattled, chemist,” he says. “There’s nothing to be scared of. Spirits aren’t vengeful, even when they get restless. That’s all just spooky stories.”

He walks over to the closed tombs, runs his gloved fingers along the edges to check the seals. Considering that all Willow can smell is damp earth, she assumes that everything is in-tact, but she supposes that Victor probably goes over everything every time anyway, whenever maintenance day comes around.

“Um.” Willow swallows. “What do spirits do when they’re not restless?”

Victor hums, clicks his tongue. “If a spirit stays in this world instead of moving on, it’s generally because of unfinished business, or a lingering attachment, or something’s gone wrong, like a fucked up resurrection ritual or something…” He pauses, thinking, fingers drumming against the wall, then moves to the second set of graves to check them. “So I don’t think spirits who’re stuck on this side are ever truly restful, by definition. But most seem to like just spending time around us. The living.” Finished with his work, he removes the gloves and stows them back on the hook he initially retrieved them from. “They seem to find it comforting.”

Willow chews on her lip, struck by how casually Victor talks about this topic, as if he’s explaining something mundane like animal behavior, and not the state of one’s consciousness after death. He looks at her sideways, through a part in his bangs, apparently sensing that she has more questions.

“And… there are two spirits in Moonbury who haven’t moved on, right? Caenus and Amadeus?”

“Oh, no, they’re not the only ones,” Victor says. “Just, I don’t see the others often.”

Willow’s not sure how to respond, and her lack of comprehension must show on her face because Victor grins crookedly as he gestures with his head back towards the stairwell.

“Caenus and Amadeus have been here a long time. Since Moonbury’s founding,” he says as they begin their ascent back to the surface. “They hang around by choice; they watch over the town. But there’s also James, from a little later. He’s a pirate who washed up onshore after a shipwreck and died there. Spends most of his time in the ocean. Luca comes around sometimes, too -- that’s Nova’s husband. He wasn’t buried in Moonbury but he visits. Moving on is hard for him because Nova still has so much grief. And then there’s Selena, as well -- she was the last witch doctor before Matheo. His mother. She’s buried out by Meadow Range and she almost never comes round here.”

The air outside the stairwell, fresh and warm with sunshine, feels almost too humid to breathe in comparison to the crispness of the crypt, and Willow takes a careful breath as she tries to absorb this new information. Any scant skepticism she might have harbored with regards to the existence of spirits is becoming difficult to cling to, when Victor talks about them so matter-of-factly. And this is the first time anyone’s mentioned the name of Matheo’s mother; up until now she only knew her as ‘the previous witch doctor’.

“Why hasn’t she moved on?”

Victor shrugs as he shuts the door of the crypt and locks it, dusts off his sleeves. “I’m not entirely sure,” he says. “She doesn’t really like communicating. From what little I’ve gathered I think it has something to do with the accidents. I think she feels…”

He trails off, searching for the correct word. Willow wraps her arms around herself. Her body aches. She tries not to slip down the rabbit hole of rumination.

“Angry?” she offers.

“I think so. Regret, too, and unease.” He clicks his tongue, thinking, and then says, “She is definitely a spirit I would call restless.”

The hair on the back of Willow’s neck prickles with the odd sensation of realizing, in retrospect, that she was almost certainly being watched when she was in Meadow Range.

“Um…” she says, awkward but not sure how else to transition the subject, “I should get going.”

“Thanks for your help, chemist,” Victor says, and then giggles gently. “Maybe next time there will be something more substantial to do.”

I think I’m glad there wasn’t, she thinks. Says instead, “I don’t mind just holding the torch.”

Victor grins, enigmatic. She can’t see it, but she imagines one of his brows quirking.

“Take care,” she says, patting her leg to rouse Alistair from his nap; Kipps, put-out by her pillow deserting her, darts off to perch on the retaining wall, stretching out on the warm bricks.

Victor tips his hat in farewell. “Until next time, chemist.”

Matheo fights back a yawn as he rifles through his wallet, counting cash. He doesn’t often stay at the bathhouse until closing, but it’s becoming easier and easier to justify considering the circumstances, as well as the fact that he has little else to occupy his time nowadays.

“Feels like I’ve seen you around here a lot more than usual,” Olive says as Matheo slides payment across the counter to her.

Matheo hums, watching her stow the money in the till and count out his change. She looks how he feels -- tired, in a way that transcends mere need for sleep. Drained. Weary. She’s always been like that. Prone to depression, and using alcohol as a coping mechanism. She’s ended up in his clinic in the middle of the night more than once because of it.

“I’ve found myself with more free time since the chemist arrived,” he says, choosing to swallow down the embittered and stole all my clientele that wants to follow , because Olive is among that clientele and he's too tired to deal with the consequences of a purposeful social faux pas right now when falling into his bed fully-clothed is starting to sound pretty inviting.

“And you choose to spend it here?” she says as she hands him his change. It’s not really an accusation, but there’s enough incredulity in her voice to make it feel like one.

Where else would I spend it? Matheo almost says, but Olive beats him to the punch.

“I mean, where else would you spend it, I guess, right?” she says, bending down to gather her things from under the counter. “Not like there’s much else to do in Moonbury.”

Is there not?

Maybe that’s true.

It’s not something he’s had to think about. He’s never had need to fill his life with frivolities. Before, his free time was limited, and easily passed enjoying nature, reading at home, or spending an occasional night at the tavern with his neighbors.

Now, though…

But he knows that Olive resents her circumstances. He knows that she’s dissatisfied with the bathhouse and bored of Moonbury. He knows that she wants out.

“Better here than the capital,” he says, more abrasive than he’d intended, and she fixes him with an unimpressed frown.

“I beg to differ.”

She gestures with her head towards the door, and they exit together.

It’s frosty outside, so cold that it stings. Matheo waits while Olive locks up so they can walk together, as much for his own benefit as for hers.

“You’ve really never thought about leaving?” Olive says, draping her cloak over her shoulders as they start down the hill. “Not even once?”

“No.”

In fact the mere idea is almost incomprehensible. Why? What could the capital possibly contain that Moonbury doesn’t, except more pollution and corruption? Isn’t every town worth visiting or living in fundamentally the same? What else could there be?

Moonbury is all he’s known. It’s all he cares to know.

“I don’t understand.” Olive grabs the edges of her cloak, wraps them around herself like a blanket. “I don’t understand how you’re not so painfully bored here.”

“I enjoy Moonbury’s slow pace,” he says, and it is at least partly true. He did. He still could. He will again. At some point.

“But it’s not just slow, it’s… it’s glacial. Gods, it’s hard not to feel trapped most of the time.” Her voice sinks into resigned sadness, head drooping, and she sighs a long cloud of mist into the air. “Feels like I’m just going through the motions. Watching life pass me by from afar while I’m stuck here, doing the same damn thing every day.”

Matheo remains silent, sliding his hands into his pockets. He often wonders why Olive never actually makes the decision to go, if she wants to so much, but he’s never voiced it because he’s never wanted to inadvertently be the catalyst which makes her, or anyone, leave Moonbury -- for the capital, least of all.

They’re nearing Olive’s house, but she shows no sign of slowing down, which means she’s going to the Lazy Bowl.

“What would you do, if you weren’t running the bathhouse?” Matheo asks, because he can’t imagine her doing anything else -- her family has been here just as long as his, running Willow Waters; her taking up, maintaining, and then passing down that mantle always seemed as foregone a conclusion as him doing the same with the role of witch doctor.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “I’ve imagined a couple different things. Event coordinator, maybe, or getting into finance, or entertainment.”

“As an actor?” he asks, trying and failing to imagine that.

“No. I think director.” She pauses. “What about you?

“Hm?”

“What would you do if you weren’t Moonbury’s witch doctor?”

He goes damningly silent.

As they pass the potion house, Matheo eyes the windows, glowing with warm light. A shadow moves behind the curtain, ill-defined, a fuzzy blob with no context. It makes something in his stomach twist, anyway.

What would he do?

“You’ve never thought about it?” she says, and then, in a tone that’s half-teasing and half-scolding, “Matheo.”

He shrugs, defensive. “I’ve never needed to think about it,” he says. “There was never any doubt in my mind that I would take over as witch doctor after my mother retired.”

She hums, considering, seems to be going through her memories to see if they match up. “I guess.”

“I don’t have any siblings, Olive,” he says. “Who else would have done it?”

He looks at her sideways, meets her gaze which is sidelong as well, though as they stop at the intersection near the Lazy Bowl she turns towards him with a drawn brow. Troubled, or maybe pensive. She glances back towards the potion house.

“Someone else…?” she says slowly.

Before he can reply to voice the fact that his heart seems to be plunging down into his guts like a stone, she continues:

“What I mean is, you aren’t obligated to stay here anymore than I am. Neither of us has to accept our station just because we were born into it.”

Matheo understands that she’s not intending to offend him, but he still bristles at her words; becoming Moonbury’s witch doctor was never any sort of burden for him, not the way inheriting the bathhouse seems to have been for Olive, and the implications that he should feel the same resentment towards his position that she feels for hers makes him feel…

Well.

It doesn’t make him feel as angry as he thinks it should.

Which brings its own sort of dismay with it, mildly existential and needling at the edges of his subconscious.

He refuses to acknowledge it.

“I’d rather be here than the capital,” he says.

“The world is a lot bigger than just the capital and Moonbury, you know,” Olive says, hunching her shoulders.

The silence that descends over them is painfully tense and awkward, though thankfully shortlived, as Olive lets out an overacted sigh and takes a step backwards, towards the Lazy Bowl.

“Well,” she says, resigned, “have a good night, Matheo.”

“You, as well,” he says.

He watches her head into the tavern, where she will ruminate about her dreary and repetitive life, yearn for satisfaction, make herself miserable wishing things were different, and then wake up tomorrow morning and do it all over again.

Matheo continues southeast, to his home, with the awful sinking feeling that he’s going to do the same.

Willow breathes in, taking a moment to gather her thoughts, remind herself why she’s doing this. It’s easy to be angry, for all her rational points to devolve into accusations and interrogations even when she mentally runs through any number of hypothetical directions this conversation could take -- but that would get her nowhere, except maybe in hot water with the Medical Association, and it certainly wouldn’t be conducive to getting actual answers.

Her disregulated emotions are why it’s taken her several days to finally commit to doing this, and she’s still not sure she’ll be able to keep them in check.

Taking another breath, she knocks on the door to Myer’s office, and enters when beckoned.

“Willow!” Myer says warmly when he sees her. “What can I do for you?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a telephone in Moonbury, would you?” she asks, deciding against any preamble, mostly because the frailty of her nerves is already threatening to send her running back to her house with her tail between her legs.

This is obviously not what Myer had been expecting her to say, and he does a poor job of hiding his interest. To his credit, though, he rolls well with the punches.

“As a matter of fact, we do,” he says, gesturing to the machine in question where it sits on his desk.

“Could I use it?”

“Of course!” he says, pushing himself away from his desk and straightening his jacket. “In fact, I was just thinking about how I could use some lunch. I think I’ll head over to the Lazy Bowl while you make your call.”

Willow nods her head; the movement sends a twinge of pain shooting up her neck from her scapula, where she’d landed wrong trying to avoid the bonemask. “Thank you.”

Myer pauses beside her at the threshold, seeming to appraise her; she fights the urge to stand up straighter or fuss with her hair.

“Is everything alright, Willow?” he asks at length, fatherly concern taking the place of curiosity.

The question, and Myer’s intrinsic, immutable sincerity, makes Willow’s ribs clench together. She nods again, looking away from him so he can’t see the sudden wetness in her eyes.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think so.”

It’s a bad lie and they both know it, but he accepts it, giving her a pat on the arm as he exits. “Well, you know I’m always here if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” she says, choked.

“I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“Thank you.”

She shuts the door and pulls the fraying edges of herself back together, trying to will her way out of the self-pitying, sad, tired headspace she’s in.

Answers.

She needs answers.

And she’s going to get them today .

----

“Willow, hello.” Dr Nestor’s voice is staticky over the phone, but the familiarity is heartening, comforting. “I’ve heard you’re doing a splendid job over there in Moonbury.”

Willow’s cheeks warm, even if she’s too tired to feel gratified. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m trying my best.”

“Myer’s feedback has been nothing short of glowing.”

This time the warmth in her face is from self-consciousness. “Actually, Dr Nestor, that’s kind of why I’m calling,” she says, unwilling to let the conversation wander.

“Oh?”

“I have… questions,” she says. “Specifically, I have questions about the accidents the capital was involved in, here in Moonbury.”

Dr Nestor is quiet, for long enough that it almost begins feeling foreboding. But then he sighs, crackling down the line, and says, “I was wondering when those would rear their heads again.”

“Why were we never taught about them?” She can’t keep the anger out of her voice, stretched too emotionally thin to maintain any pretense of neutrality. “We should have been taught. I should have known. The least the Medical Association could have done is make me aware they happened at all. I think I was owed that, at least.”

Dr Nestor is quiet again, though not for as long. “I agree with you, Willow,” he says, sounding tired. “Sending you into Moonbury without any prior knowledge about what happened was an intentional decision made by the board; I had no power to change it.”

“You could have told me anyway.”

“Going against the board’s orders could get me censured, or even blacklisted,” he says. “I’m sorry, Willow, I truly am. But I can’t afford to lose my position. The most I could do was try to make sure you were adequately prepared.”

Willow stares at the glossy surface of Myer’s desk, breathing evenly. Intentionally. It’s hard not to feel betrayed. Harder still to rationalize Dr Nestor’s decision to act in self-interest when the wellbeing of an entire island is at stake.

But then, would it have changed anything, if he’d told her? Would it have made any practical difference?

“Why has the Medical Association kept the accidents so under wraps?” she asks.

Dr Nestor sighs again, and there’s a creaking sound, and she can picture him leaning back in his chair, or maybe slumping down into it, sober and serious.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not entirely sure,” he says. “So far as I can tell, shame is a significant factor.”

“That doesn’t justify keeping them a secret.”

“I agree.”

“You don’t think it has anything to do with wanting to keep the Medical Association’s reputation clean?” she says.

“No, I do,” Dr Nestor says. “As they were happening, all of the information about the accidents was so tightly regulated that most of us still don’t have a clear picture of what actually happened. And it was regulated specifically to prevent the enormous scandal that would have resulted if word got out that the Medical Association was responsible for some of the worst ecological damage seen in hundreds of years.”

“Then why send me?” Willow asks, shaking her head.

“Mayor Myer asked,” Dr Nestor says, and she can almost hear his shrug through the telephone. “He was desperate for someone to treat his daughter. And despite everything you might think about the Medical Association right now, our founding principle has always been to help people.”

“But they had to know that the damage would be discovered if they sent a chemist here,” Willow says, resting her head in her hand. “What is their contingency plan if word gets out now?”

Her blood runs cold as her logical mind catches up with her emotional one and she is reminded of the extent to which she is wrapped up in this complete and utter clusterfuck of a disaster. She’s been so distracted by her questions about the Medical Association’s role in these accidents that she’s neglected to think about the potential consequences to herself if she were to talk about any of this with anyone outside of Moonbury.

“Would I be blacklisted?” she asks. “Would… Would I lose my license?”

Dr Nestor is silent for a long time.

“I’m afraid I have no idea, Willow,” he says at length. “That’s the board’s decision. It’s above me. I’m sorry.”

Willow swallows down the growing lump in her throat, blinking through the tears burning her eyes. She clenches her hand into a fist, squeezes hard until her fingernails dig into her palm because the pain distracts her from her desire to cry and the sensation of her stomach feeling like it’s opening up to devour the rest of her organs. Eating her from the inside out. All dismay.

“If you have other questions, I’ll answer them to the best of my abilities,” Dr Nestor says, subdued. “Otherwise…”

“Just one, I think,” Willow says, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Um… what was the Medical Association doing here? What were the chemists researching?”

Dr Nestor hums. “Each of the teams were researching something different. Dr Samuel’s team was initially the only intended one, sent to research the nature of the soil there -- specifically in the Meadow Range region. Moonbury is incredibly biodiverse, and its soil is uniquely fertile and nutrient-dense. I believe the intent was to replicate its properties outside of Moonbury; the benefits could have been invaluable to medical science.

As for Dr Lewis’s team, they were researching a species of plant found on Glaze Iceberg whose population was declining; that expedition was offered as reparation for the Meadow Range disaster. So was Dr Schemist’s in the Barren Wasteland, if I remember, researching similarly declining plant life there. They began at around the same time. Dr Lewis and most of his team perished in an avalanche on the mountain which caused an additional accident, followed shortly by Dr Schemist and his team being summoned back because of so much brewing turmoil.

“But that’s all I know, really. I’m sorry I don’t have more useful information.” There’s a pause, tense and pregnant, before Dr Nestor continues, “For all of its mistakes, the Medical Association’s intentions were good. None of us have ever wanted to cause intentional harm. I hope you know that, Willow.”

Willow shuts her eyes, absorbing all of this information, filing it away inside her head, trying to make sense of it all. Every new thing she learns about these accidents, the more daunting it feels to address them. She’s not even sure if any of this information is helpful, or if all she’s managed to do is heap more needless dread onto her shoulders.

“If there’s ever anything I can do to help, I’ll do whatever I can,” Dr Nestor says, maybe sensing her turmoil.

She rubs her eyes, wipes her cheeks. “Thanks,” she says. “Um… I’ll let you know.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll… I’ll talk to you later, Dr Nestor.”

“Take care of yourself, Willow.”

The click of the line going dead makes her feel very, very alone.

“It’s with great pride that today, the day of the winter solstice, I unveil the first of what I hope are many improvements to our town: the new and improved bridge!”

It’s cold. Far too cold to justify dragging almost everyone in Moonbury to the entrance of town just so Myer and indulge in ceremony for ceremony’s sake. It’s the bridge; everyone’s seen the bridge. Replacing the old rotting boards isn’t worth making such a fuss over.

“Of course, I have to thank Willow,” Myer says, gesturing to the chemist, who in turn gives a small, self-conscious smile. “None of this would have happened without her. Her diligence and hard work as our chemist and healer is what’s inspired me to better our town. So, thank you, Willow! This is only the beginning.”

The chemist’s expression slips into something grimace-adjacent, and her cheeks, already ruddy from the cold, darken even more. It’s simple to understand that she would rather be anywhere but here; Matheo’s not sure he’s ever seen her look so withdrawn and standoffish.

In fact, she looks downright miserable, now that he’s paying real attention.

The parts of her face that aren’t flushed are oddly gray, and the bags under her eyes are shadowed, puffy, her entire disposition flatter than usual. Sick, maybe, or having trouble sleeping?

The idea sends a little flicker of smug gratification through him, although it’s not as pronounced as he would like. In fact, it’s tempered by something that could almost, perhaps, be construed as concern . Which is exceptionally annoying.

She looks at him. Meets his gaze.

That nothing in her eyes shifts to something, something subtle but significant. Forlorn. She blinks, intentional and odd, like she’s trying to communicate with him, but he’s not on the same wavelength as her, has no idea what she might be trying to say.

Frustrating. Confounding. Fruitless. What could she possibly have to tell him, anyway?

She seems to understand the futility of her efforts, and her expression shifts again, to resignment. She looks away.

Matheo realizes he’s been staring.

He looks up at the heavy, overcast sky instead.

----

“Can I ask you something?”

Matheo flinches, having been so absorbed in observing the latest of Runeheart and Reyner’s perennial attempts to best each other at darts that he hadn’t noticed the chemist sidle up to his table.

“What about?” he asks, taking a sip of the whiskey he wishes he had every time he’s forced to talk to her.

She crosses her arms, though only for a moment before wrapping them around her middle instead. Unsettled. “The accidents.”

He’s not sure what he expected her to say, but it wasn’t this, and it takes him enough by surprise that he gestures his head towards the chair at the opposite corner of the table from him. She sits down, a little stiffly, as though she’s in pain.

“Go on,” he mutters.

“Why didn’t you ever go to the press about the accidents?”

Again, it takes him so off-guard that he’s almost not even sure he heard her correctly. His confusion must be obvious, because she continues:

"I asked Myer the same thing, and he told me that most of the people here were satisfied enough with the Medical Association leaving Moonbury and vowing not to come back that they agreed not to talk about any of the damage done.” She tilts her head, studying him. “But you don’t seem like the sort of person who would agree to that.”

It’s off-putting to have her be so serious and impersonal. Maybe that’s part of why it feels like it’s taking Matheo forever to make sense of what she’s saying, besides the fact that she’s brought up this subject in particular, and with more apparent insight than before.

“I didn’t, at first,” he says, “but my mother changed my mind. She believed that news getting out would bring crowds. Journalists. Capital police. Investigators. Tourists. People who had no business poking into our affairs.” He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, lifts his head. “She wanted to preserve what we still had rather than risk even more damage. When she put it like that, I agreed with her.”

The chemist nods, the gears in her head turning so obviously even he can sense them. Something must have happened. She’s puzzling something out. It makes apprehension tighten and tingle between his shoulders, and he starts to regret telling her anything.

“Are you going to?” he asks.

She looks at him, confused. “Am I going to what?”

“Talk to the press.”

“Why would I do that?”

He shrugs, annoyed. “Why else would you be asking about this?”

She swallows, turns away from him, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Instead of answering, she simply gets up and leaves the tavern, and her sudden absence is jarring. Like a ghost dematerializing.

Ignoring the seed of uncertainty in the back of his thoughts, Matheo settles into his seat once more and takes another sip of his drink.

Chapter Text

Several days after the chemist returns Matheo’s notes to him (looking as though she’d jumped out of the pages of a cheap horror paperback), he goes to pick up some supplies at the ranger station and Bubble throws him for a complete loop when, in lieu of a greeting, she announces,

"Willow got rid of all the frostmites up north." She says it like she's making small talk about the weather and not unveiling a revelation.

"What?" He's not quick enough to disguise his reflexive reaction of disgruntled incredulity, either in his face or his voice. He almost drops the supply box he’s holding.

Bubble gives him a knowing-but-sympathetic grin, because she’s far more perceptive than anyone, including him, gives her credit for. “Just this morning. I went with her. It was… incredible.” She laughs. “I have no idea how she did it.”

“Did she kill them?” he says, half-hoping for the answer to be yes so he can justify hating her for the additional reason of exterminating an endangered species.

“No,” Bubble says, shaking her head. “She made this potion, borrowed Mercy and Garret’s sprayer, and then doused everything. And the frostmites just… flew off. All at once.”

“What about the konjacs?”

“We had to clean up some of the leftover webs, but the konjacs were fine.” She sighs wistfully. “They’re going to flourish when spring comes.”

Matheo stares at her.

That the chemist managed to drive off the frostmites at all is an achievement in and of itself --he and the rangers have been trying to do so for several years now-- but that she'd managed to not kill them or the konjacs stretches the limits of his belief.

“Why did she do that?” he asks.

Bubble regards him for a moment, and then wraps her arms around herself. “You know,” she says, “you two are a lot alike, in some ways.”

“What?” Again, just the same as before, he fails to disguise his horror.

Bubble rubs her arms in an effort to warm up, undoubtedly aware of, but unbothered by, the fact that she’s just dealt a serious blow to his pride and offended him to his core. “You know what she said, as we were cleaning up those webs? She said that she was doing it because she loves nature. That she wants to fix things. That as long as she has the means and the ability to heal, she will.” She shrugs. “I think you’ve literally said some of the exact same things she said today.”

Matheo’s stomach turns. She’s not wrong, but to be likened to the chemist in any way makes him feel sullied. Even if the chemist was telling the truth about her motives, which he doubts, a few commonalities do little to bridge the vast gap of all their conflicting differences.

“I’m kind of surprised you two aren’t closer friends,” Bubble says.

He steps back, away from her, hoisting the box higher in his arms. “You know why I refuse to associate with her,” he says.

“I mean, I guess,” Bubble says. “Maybe it’s just because I was so young when all the accidents happened, so maybe I’m being lenient or whatever, but Willow has done a lot more good than harm, y’know? She’s improved things in town, and on the island in general. I think at this point not trusting her is like… kind of being willfully ignorant.”

“Bubble,” he chides, annoyed and newly offended.

She shrugs again, unruffled. “Sorry,” she says, sounding very not-sorry. “Anyway, I don’t mean to ramble. I’m sure you have other things to do today.”

He doesn’t, really, but he’s not about to admit that.

“Thank you for the supplies, as always,” he says, trying not to hiss it through his teeth and only kind of succeeding.

Bubble tips her hat. “Of course,” she says as he leaves. “And hey, take care of yourself! Willow mentioned we’re getting into flu season.”

He bites down on his tongue to keep from shouting.

----

Matheo pushes the heavy door open and warm steam hits him like a wall. The air smells like flowers and herbs, as it always does, and the lights are dimmed a little bit, though that's not unusual for this time of the evening; what is unusual is that the bath is empty, a rarity in and of itself, but especially for winter.

Or, it seems to be empty at first, but as his eyes adjust he sees that there are people here, they're just situated all the way in the far corner, half obscured by the steam clouding the room. 

It's the chemist and Martha.

Matheo pauses. Something in his stomach jolts, so minute it almost escapes his notice. They’re talking to each other, quiet enough that he can't pick up any specific words over the din of the bath's waterfall. He becomes aware, gradually, that he's just standing on the edge of the pool and staring at them without moving, and when the chemist glances up and meets his eye with an uncharacteristically timid expression, he realizes how off-putting that must be.

Shaking himself out of it (whatever it was), he pulls his towel off and climbs into the bath. The water is much hotter than normal, and scattered across the surface are the various flowers and herbs that Olive and Cassandra throw in to add to the bath's calming effect, as well as for aesthetics.

He takes a breath, trying to adjust to the temperature as he wades in towards the center, where the bath gets deeper, letting the water soothe the aching tension in his muscles, trying to relax. Through the bathhouse's high windows he can see that it's started to rain, and he can't help but think about the missing pages of his notebook that are, by now, if what the chemist said is true, destroyed beyond any hope of recognition.

For what feels like the thousandth time, his heart picks up in mixed anger and regret. Maybe if he'd been able to retrieve his notes himself, rather than being strong-armed into relying on the chemist, he'd have been able to save more. Had she sabotaged him? Had she lied to him about not reading them, seen his data on the emergent disease?

Or, worse, his private musings, an embarrassing amount of which, lately, contain his uncensored thoughts about her?

It's not so much the content that he doesn't want her to see, because what he's written is the same as what he's told her to her face, but rather the quantity -- many unrelated pages contain annoyed notes and observations penned in the margins. He has no doubt that if she knew how much time he's spent agitatedly ruminating about her, how much space she occupies in his brain, she'd become even more insufferable.

"Hey, good evening, Matheo," Martha says, startling him out of his thoughts. She's standing between him and the chemist, and the position feels purposeful. Peacekeeping, maybe.

"Martha," he says in greeting, and then, a moment later, something clicks in his brain. "You're not at the tavern?"

She shrugs. "I should be, technically, but it was slow enough that Yorn let me leave so I could come here with Willow." She gestures with her head to the chemist.

"Ah," he says, and then, after a moment, takes a step backwards. "I don't mean to intrude."

"You're not," Martha says, bright as ever, though there's a note of uncertainty there that's well-disguised but not undetectable. "We're just… decompressing. De-stressing. Y'know."

He nods. Behind Martha he can see the chemist, seated in the corner of the ledge seat that lines the perimeter of the bath, looking over her shoulder at him. Her expression is unreadable.

Her shoulder, though, is what absorbs his attention. It looks terrible, swollen and welted and bruised a deep, sickly mix of purple, yellow, and green. The damage extends over her entire shoulder and seems to wrap around her back to her shoulder blade, as well as down beneath the surface of the water, which is too opaque with bubbles to see through.

He tries not to stare, but questions fly through his head. When had that happened? How? Had she fallen? Been attacked? Assaulted? No one in town would have done such a thing, but maybe in the capital--has she been to the capital recently? The thought sends a disconcerting protective anger flashing through him, which he very much objects to.

"l know you want to ask," the chemist says.

He takes another generous step backwards. He does want to ask, but he's certainly not going to let her have that satisfaction. Martha turns to face the chemist, and they exchange a look, the meaning of which Matheo is not privy to.

"A bonemask attacked me," the chemist says at length, "the other day, when I was out in Meadow Range."

"You said you weren't hurt," Matheo says, accusatory, and then feels stupid when he remembers the state she was in when she returned his papers. How could she not have been injured?

The chemist shakes her head. "I didn't say anything."

Matheo frowns down into the water, trying to remember. "You're lucky to have survived," he says, crossing his arms.

"I… killed it," the chemist says, and that detail would spark outrage in him (because of course she would kill a wild animal, she's a capital chemist and killing is all they're capable of doing) if he couldn't see her tearing up. Still, reflexive anger simmers between his ribs. He should have never let her go alone, should have made certain her destructive nature was contained.

"You had to," Martha says, in a tone that suggests this isn't the first time she's insisted this. "It was self defense."

"I guess," the chemist says, pulling her knees up to huddle into a ball. "I just… I-I don't know. It didn't do anything wrong." 

A beat of silence. Martha seems to be grasping at straws for something comforting to say and coming up empty. She glances at Matheo, imploring. 

He doesn't have anything to add, though. What is there to say? That he's sorry? Empty sympathy would be a hollow gesture, and he has no desire to offer it, least of all to the chemist, who no one forced to go into Meadow Range, anyway; in fact, Forrest had specifically warned her to be careful. Perhaps her own lackadaisical failure to do so was what led to the attack in the first place.

He shakes his head, retreats to the opposite corner of the pool, submerges himself in the water, determined not to let the chemist's pity party interfere with his relaxation.

"The rangers have to kill animals sometimes, too," Martha says gently, just audible over the waterfall now that Matheo is tuned in to their voices.

The chemist's reply is too quiet to hear.

He watches the rain pelt the windows. It's slushy and thick, a precursor to the snow that he hopes will delay falling for a little while longer. He's not prepared yet. Hasn't finished winterizing his house, or pruning his garden, or stocking his pantry and clinic in the event of a snow-in.

"Okay, but that doesn't make you a bad person," Martha says, in response to another unheard comment.

He scoffs, sinking lower into the water, closing his eyes. All capital chemists are, by definition, bad people, but of course Martha has always seen the best in everybody. Far too sweet and trusting for her own good, fortunate to be in Moonbury and surrounded by decent folks, current company notwithstanding. 

He wonders how many of his remaining clients he'll lose over the winter, when the chemist's clinic is so much more convenient to get to in the weather. Maybe he'll stay in his house the whole season, hibernating like a bear. Maybe no one will notice his absence. 

"Are you sure?" Martha says, and then a moment later she speaks again, too quiet to pick up.

The sound of someone climbing out of the pool brings Matheo back to the present, and he opens his eyes. Martha is wrapping up in a towel, and when she finishes she crouches near the chemist and they exchange a few words before she heads for the exit.

"Goodnight, Matheo," she says as she leaves.

"Goodnight."

The door closes, and he is alone with the chemist.

He leans back against the wall of the bath and closes his eyes again. He hopes, probably in vain, that she'll stay where she is and let him go unbothered. Being browbeaten into stroking her ego so she doesn't sulk so much over killing a wild animal is one of the absolute last things he'd like to do right now.

Unwillingly, he thinks of that night.

'Please.' Tears in her eyes, debris in her hair, mud and blood on her boots, on her clothes, on her face. Maybe the most miserable and wretched he’s ever seen someone look. The smallest damned spark of sympathy and compassion that he wants to clamp his hands around and smother to death. Had he caused this? If she hadn’t been looking for his notebook would she have been able to avoid this pain, this distress? 'I’m exhausted, Matheo. I want to go home.'

So go home, he wants to say. You’re not welcome here, anyway. How do you not understand that? Even the island wants you gone.

Matheo opens his eyes.

The chemist remains in her corner, still huddled in the corner with her knees drawn up to her chest. 

She's watching him.

He bristles, feels delayed unease as he wonders how long she's been doing so. He watches her as well, but her face is so blank, so devoid of her usual vigor that it's more disquieting to look her in the eye than to just let her continue staring while he ignores her. It's like looking into an empty shell.

That same little spark of concern from that night once again flickers in his chest (she is a person experiencing pain; he fixes that, he always has), and he quashes it without mercy. He'd rather touch a burning stovetop than let himself feel anything for the chemist besides contempt.

Annoyed with himself, he dunks his head under the water and lingers there for a moment, though when he opens his eyes they're assaulted with a sudden intense, stinging pain that sends him right back up, coughing up the water he'd accidentally gasped into his now-burning airway.

"Gods, I should have told you!" the chemist babbles as he rubs at his eyes, "Olive and Cassandra let me pour a potion in here, for the bruising, but it can be really rough on some mucous membranes."

Matheo wheezes and chokes, opens one (burning, itching, watering) eye to look at her. She's moved closer, standing in the middle of the pool like she thought he might be drowning and was about to play at being a lifeguard.

He groans, curses, rubs at his eyes some more, pushes his hair out of his face.

"I'm sorry," she says, apprehensive.

He can't think of anything more articulate to say than, "Whatever." It feels as immature as it sounds the moment it leaves his mouth.

He heaves himself out of the pool to half-blindly fumble around for the towel he'd left on the lounge chair nearby, and when he finds it he scrubs his face with it in an attempt to get as much of this damned water out of his eyes as possible.

After they've calmed down enough that he can open them without wanting to claw them out of his head, he sets the towel back down on the chair and turns to go back to the pool. 

Once again, the chemist is watching him.

Or rather, she was, but when he meets her eyes she looks away so fast it's a wonder she doesn't sprain her neck.

Remarkably, absurdly, alarmingly, her cheeks turn pink.

Matheo, baffled, has no idea how he should feel about that. And is unwilling to think about it at all.

"Sorry," she repeats, as he climbs back into the water. He doesn't know if she's apologizing again for the potion or for gawking at him, and he's not about to ask for clarification, because he'd rather not know; one option is more awkward than the other by many degrees of magnitude.

"Of course the singular time I have to share this space with you, you somehow make it miserable," Matheo says, wiping his eyes a final time, though he feels mildly bad about it when her expression shifts, that despondency settling over her again.

And then he feels angry again, because gods damn him this must be the hundredth time he's had to remind himself not to feel bad for her.

Kicking a capital chemist while she's down should feel good. The fact that it doesn't makes him resent all of his righteous anger and indignation for abandoning him at such an inconvenient time.

Swallowing his pride (like swallowing nails, sharp and protesting all the way down), he mutters, "I'm sorry."

She looks at him sideways, surprised. "Thanks," she says.

A beat of silence passes, stretching long. The chemist remains in the middle of the pool, almost up to her jaw in the water, staring into the middle distance, preoccupied with her own thoughts. She looks very tired, with rings under her eyes and a pallid, dull quality to her skin, to say nothing of the way she sort of sways as she stands, like she could, at any time, pass out right in the bath.

"Can I ask you something?" she says at length.

"Fine."

"Have you ever… killed anything?" she says.

He shakes his head.

She shrinks into herself. Hesitates, maybe second-guessing. "I'm… I didn't think I ever would. I've never wanted to kill anything -- not that I think other people do, I just…" She huffs and rolls her eyes, frustrated at her lack of coherence. "I don't know, I just feel like I'm here, I exist, to help people, to make things better, to heal. It's not my place to take a life, you know? Like, who am I to end something's existence? It felt… I-It was like a violation of the natural order."

It takes Matheo off-guard, that not only is she confiding in him, but also that she's given this any thought. He'd grown so used to capital chemists' callous disregard for nature and the ecosystem and, overall, anything that was deemed not directly useful to their schemes as a tool to be used instead of something sacred to be respected, that he's taken aback that she's come to these conclusions, as obvious as they seem.

But talk is cheap, as he's told her, and that's a belief he's grown ever more adherent to after all the previous chemists assured Moonbury's townsfolk that they had no intention to cause harm while at the same time destroying acres of wilderness and dooming all of them to a poisoning so slow most of them haven't even noticed it happening. Talk is cheap, and it's easy and convenient to lie; that's always been true of chemists.

Except that she's so shaken, so rattled, so inconsolable. Is she that good of an actor, preying on them all, manipulating them for pity to endear them to her? Or is this genuine?

The possibility of it being genuine is uncomfortable, and imply much about her character and conduct. His, as well.

He takes a deep breath.

She's still standing in the middle of the bath, gingerly trying to rinse the potion-infused water over her bruised shoulder. Even moving to do so, stretching the muscles necessary to cross her uninjured arm over her body like that, is causing her obvious pain.

Matheo’s not

really

sure what possesses him to do so (maybe morbid curiosity, maybe that healer instinct he can't seem to bury deep enough to prevent resurfacing no matter how hard he tries), but he leans forward until she notices him.

"Come here," he says, gesturing with his head. 

She stares at him, eyes wide, as if he's just asked her to attempt to blow up the bathhouse with her mind.

"Come here and I'll help you."

Again, she just stares at him, and then glances side to side like she thinks there's someone hidden out of sight waiting to jump out and scare her as a prank, or like there might be someone else present he'd been addressing.

He leans back against the wall again. "Or don't."

He scrubs at his arms. He'd come here right after working in his garden and there's still some residual dirt caked into the wrinkles in his palms and under his nails. He's always enjoyed coming here after a day of working with his hands, and letting the water ease the strain of physical exertion before it even gets a chance to manifest.

It doesn't take long for the chemist to break. She approaches him with the same caution as approaching a feral animal, her arms crossed over her front to preserve her modesty as the water becomes shallower away from the center of the pool. She continues to say nothing, continues to stare at him with that suspicious bewilderment in her eyes.

"Sit," Matheo says, gesturing to the spot on the bench in front of him.

A moment more of hesitation. And then the chemist complies, sitting down on the bench with her back turned towards him, knees pulled up to her chin like before.

Her bruise looks even worse close up, now that he can see the true extent of it. It does indeed span across her shoulder blade, almost to her spine, though not as low as he'd thought. It's welted and awful, so obviously painful that he almost doesn't want to touch it.

But he does, cupping some water in his hand and then tipping it over her shoulder, fingers skimming her as he rubs the water (and consequently, the potion) into her skin.

She tenses.

"Does that hurt?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Not too bad," she mumbles.

He lets his hand settle over her shoulder more fully, stroking his palm down the bare expanse of her back. Just past her shoulder blade there's a noticeable lump, and she jerks away from him with a gasp when he brushes it. 

"That hurt--" she says, whirling around to glare at him and then wincing from doing so. 

"I didn't do anything," he snaps, and then, because his interest as a doctor is now piqued, "Did the bonemask ram you?"

She chews on her lip, shakes her head. "No, I… I had to roll out of the way and I landed wrong. I think maybe on a rock."

Just imagining that makes Matheo's own shoulder ache.

"Have you been having any sharp pain there? Any sort of clicking or popping? Trouble taking a full breath?"

She half-shrugs. As always, the casual gesture annoys him, though this time her current position offers him a glimpse of her breasts as the movement pulls them above the water's surface for a moment. "I-I guess, yeah. A little bit."

Now distracting himself from the other, more unwelcome distraction of thinking about her admittedly pretty breasts, he says, "I think you have a slipped rib. Can I feel a bit more, or are you going to throw a fit?"

She rolls her eyes. "Shut up," she grumbles, but turns back around anyway. "Just… be gentle, okay?"

He takes a moment to clear his head and refocus. Looking at her back now, he can see the swelling he hadn't noticed before, over the rib in question. He traces the edge with his fingertips and the chemist tenses again.

"I'm going to press on it--"

"Waitwaitwait--" she says, scooting away.

"Chemist," he says. "Relax. I'm not trying to hurt you."

She wavers, chewing on her lip some more. At length she nods, though in a way that suggests she'll not hesitate to maul him if he steps out of line.

Matheo rests his hand on her back again.

Her skin is warm.

Discarding that thought, he says, "Take a deep breath and hold it in your chest."

She does so, and she's so skinny that all her ribs reveal themselves, including the one under his hand, which he gently presses against, testing the give, the angle, the pain. She winces, hisses, but stays still.

"You can exhale now," he says, and she lets out all her breath in a relieved puff. "You're not eating enough."

Her exhalation turns into laughter, which takes him by surprise. "You're not the first doctor to tell me that," she says.

"Why doesn't it surprise me that you disregard medical advice," he states more than asks, going back to rinsing her bruise.

"Not on purpose," she says. "I just… don't have time. First it was university, and then my mentorship, and now being here. Other things take priority."

"Mm." He moves in towards her spine with the next handful of water, fingertips ghosting along the back of her neck. Her hair is pulled up into a bun; the shaved portion is growing out. "That's irresponsible."

"I know," she says, and then, after a pause, "Is my rib slipped?"

"Considering the circumstances and your other symptoms, almost certainly."

"So… no wrestling on the beach with Dan for a while?" she says, in an ambiguous enough tone that he can't tell if she's joking or not. Probably the former, but such behavior wouldn't surprise him coming from the chemist. Or Dan, for that matter.

"Not unless you want to make things worse and prolong your recovery," he says.

"Noted."

He moves further in, over her spine, finds himself counting her vertebrae as he presses his fingers between them. T1, T2, T3, T4, T5… Reflexive, like breathing.

The chemist lets her chin drop to her knees, relaxing all at once, like someone's let all the air of her. Her muscles become more pliant under his palm, the softness of her body more apparent. He almost pulls away, the sudden sense of intimacy is so striking.

"I… had a patient die once," he says, both because it's a pertinent topic and perhaps the partial solidarity will ease her guilt, and to reinstate a proper metaphysical distance between them.

She turns her head, looks at him out of the corner of her eye. She says nothing, but her curiosity is clear.

Some part of Matheo, deep in his more rational brain, is trying very hard to get his attention, offering up as many objections at it can to this continued interaction. This conversation has been far too civil, he's been touching her long enough, where where where is his usual hatred of her, why does he even care whether she feels guilty or not (in fact she should), she's a chemist, she's a chemist, she's a gods-damned capital chemist.

That part of his brain is being drowned out, though, by another part of his brain that's been deprived for far too long to relinquish its vice grip control of his body: he's really fucking lonely.

Ever since she arrived he's been far more reclusive than normal, and the loss of his clients means the amount of face-to-face human interaction he's had with his community has plummeted. In fact, aside from this morning with Bubble, the majority of the conversations he's had in the past month that have lasted more than a few sentences have been with the chemist.

That should be infuriating, he's pretty certain, but right now all he can muster is resigned disappointment.

"Matheo?"

He blinks, pulling himself back to the present. The chemist has turned a bit more, her concern warranted since he'd drifted off so much that his hand had stopped moving and is now just resting in the middle of her back.

"Harper," he says, picking up the dropped thread of his thoughts, and then, at her puzzlement, he adds, "That was the name of the woman who died."

"... O-Oh," she says.

"She was…" Matheo pauses, attempting to ascertain how she'll react to this particular detail, given what she knows about him. "She was a chemist from the capital."

She turns all the way around to sit opposite him, enthralled. "Was she… Did she…"

"She was a part of the first group of chemists who came to Moonbury, so none of us had any reason to be distrustful," Matheo says. "That was… years ago, now. Maybe seventeen, eighteen? I was in my early twenties, apprenticing under my mother."

The chemist looks bowled over, as if he's just given her the secrets of the universe. More likely she's just as surprised as he is that he's telling her this.

"There were three of them, I think,” he says. “That was when the potion house was built, but they set up their base in the southern part of Meadow Range. For a while everything was fine. In particular, Harper seemed very friendly and inquisitive, always asking my mother and I questions, fascinated by the differences in the way we practiced medicine."

He crosses his arms, troubled. He hasn't told anyone this story in a long time, and he'd forgotten how conflicted his feelings are about it, even now, almost twenty years later. He'd been so idealistic back then, so naive, so trusting.

"When their research went wrong, it did so… explosively," he says, and the chemist goes very serious, probably already pulling apart the subtext and deducing what’s next. "All three of them came into the clinic with serious burns, lacerations from shrapnel, blood loss… But Harper ended up in the crater that was left afterwards, floating in the pool of poisonous muck that they'd created for several hours before the rangers found them and brought them to us."

The chemist draws back, uncomfortable, and Matheo feels that anger coming back to him, picking at the back of his brain, because her secondhand regret feels so meager and insignificant compared to all of the devastation her predecessors wrought. 

"We tried to save her. I tried. For hours. She suffered. And then she died, choking on the fluid that filled her disintegrated lungs."

The chemist swallows, eyes downcast. The silence is unpleasant.

"I'm so sorry," she says finally.

"And then," he says, "the animals died the same way. The plants died, withered into husks. The earth died, scorched into infertility. And the capital just sent us more chemists."

The chemist says nothing. When she looks back up at him her eyes are wet.

All over again, any remorse she might feel, any redeeming features she might possesses, any compassion he might harbor for her -- it all feels exceedingly inadequate, far too little too late when, despite her objections to the contrary, she's just perpetuating a cycle that will eventually reduce Moonbury and all of its inhabitants to a desolate, toxic ruin.

Heart pounding with sudden energy, with the need to remove himself from this situation before he can't stop himself from lashing out at her once again, he climbs out of the bath, wraps his towel around his hips, and heads for the door.

He pauses for a moment to look back at her.

She's right where she was, but she's turned away so her back is facing him.

Stupidly, his hand itches with the tactile memory of touching her.

Cursing himself and extinguishing any hint of sentimentality that remains in him without remorse, he leaves her behind.

Chapter Text

Willow turns into a recluse.

Aside from treating anyone who comes into her clinic (for which she doesn't linger any longer than necessary), she stays holed up in her house and doesn't come out.

It's fortunate, she supposes, that her self-imposed confinement affords her body time to heal; her bruises lighten, the swelling goes down, the pain fades. Her mind, however, spins in a tireless cycle of anger, determination, sorrow, disheartenment, and hope. She drifts in and out of concentration, keeps odd hours, eats rarely, sleeps fitfully, paces her house, references book after book after book, crafts potion after potion after potion.

She immerses herself in researching the sludge in Meadow Range. She becomes obsessed.

That night in the bathhouse had lit a fire inside of her, burned away whatever remained of her passive apathy. She'd cried for a long time after Matheo left, been so fucking sad and horrified and disgusted, and then when she'd finished, having been drained of all of that, what proceeded to fill that space was grave conviction.

She'd gone home and pulled out the samples she'd collected from Meadow Range. Lugged her microscope from the clinic to her house. Took every relevant book she could think of, including the Incident Report, off of her bookshelf and piled them onto her desk along with everything else. And then she sat down and began.

She's been researching for days. Maybe weeks? She's not sure; time has lost relevance, and concern of it has been relegated to the back corner of her mind with the other unimportant facets of her life. All that matters is fixing things.

She researches, takes meticulous notes, thinks of Matheo, crafts potions, administers them to the samples of the near-lifeless soil and the withered leaves and the toxic sludge, thinks of Matheo, goes back to the drawing board when her potions fail to have an effect, crunches numbers and perfects ratios and pinpoints elements, tries to massage the pain out of her slipped rib,

thinks of Matheo,

thinks of his warm fingers brushing over her spine, slow and methodical,

drags her focus back, kicking and screaming, to the task at hand, starts the whole process over again.

She ignores Alistair’s hopeful looks when she passes near the front door; it’s been ages since she’s taken him on a proper walk, and she knows he’s pent up, but she can’t afford to waste any of her precious time or resources.

She pacifies Helene and Martha when they come to check on her, because, “It’s been a while,” and, “We’re just worried for you.” She wonders how she looks, unbathed, pallid from lack of sunlight, haggard from forgetting to eat and sleep. She wonders how long until Myer second-guesses his decision to bring her, the chemist-turned-mad-scientist-hermit, into town.

(Sometimes she pulls her hair up, runs her hand down the back of her neck, imitating the touch that now lives in her skin’s memory, tingling and warm)

Somehow Dev convinces her to let him into her house, and it’s a wonder he doesn’t immediately turn around and run given the state of the space and of her. But then, he’s probably one of the last people who would judge her for her neuroses, and maybe that mutual respect is why they get along so well. They talk over moon clove tea, the most normal Willow has felt since shutting herself in her house, and when he gives her a hug goodbye she lingers maybe a moment too long, just because the solidity of another human being, her friend, feels so foreign right now that she hadn’t realized she missed it so much.

She pores over her books, reads through lines and paragraphs and pages over and over again as if doing so will yield secret, heretofore hidden information. She makes headway with her potions, haltingly, succeeds in revitalizing the soil but fails to affect the plants or the sludge. She speaks all of her thoughts out loud because hearing them helps her process them, helps her notice unnatural leaps of logic or flaws in her reasoning. She goes back to her notes, scribbles out new realizations. Her next potion revitalizes the soil and partly affects the plants. She moves forward.

(Sometimes she closes her eyes and remembers the expanse of naked, wet skin as he stood by the pool wiping his face, and the damning twist of her stomach)

She stares at her samples under her microscope, compares her findings to the many dog-eared pages of the various books laying open on her desk, compares those to her notes, makes adjustments both minute and significant. Her next potion revitalizes both the soil and the plant, but still doesn’t affect the sludge.

She has to fend off Xiao and Rue when they visit and try to plead with her to come have a meal with them, come to the park with them, the beach, the square, anywhere that’s not her house. She assures them she’s fine, she’s fine, she’s almost had a breakthrough, and she’s aware that’s not at all a reassuring thing to say, but it’s true, she’s so close.

She scours the Incident Report, as well as the scattered journal pages she’d found at the old base, ponders chemical makeups and chemical fuckups, tries to replicate the old chemists’ mistakes on a teeny tiny scale that she hopes won’t blow up her house, or the town, or the island. She gets close enough that her next potion almost dries the sludge out, reduces its volume and potency almost entirely.

(Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she’s too exhausted to keep working but unable to shut her mind off enough to sleep, she lays on her bed and slips her hand between her thighs, imagines her fingers belong to someone else, tries not to introspect about it too much)

She goes through her most recent formula with a fine-toothed comb, pulls it apart to examine every possible angle. Cross-references it with similar potions, with her samples, with the details gathered from the Incident Report. Works out the last kinks, refines the rough edges, trims the fat. Uses every single one of her brain cells to puzzle out this last obstacle.

She succeeds.

The first time she tries it, and it works, she’s so overcome with emotion that she squeals, dancing around her house and crying and cheering and driving Alistair into a similarly excited frenzy.

She tests it again, and again, and again, with every variable she can think of and produce given her limited resources. Her samples have dwindled, enough that if this turns out to be a bust, she’ll have to return to the site to collect more, and even thinking about doing that makes her blood turn cold. Still, she can’t not put her potion through as rigorous testing as she can manage, because she hasn’t put so much time, energy, blood, sweat, and tears into this to fail now.

She can fix this.

She will fix this.

When she finishes supplying each variable sample with an adequate amount of potion, she labels them, stores them, and then leaves them so she can monitor them for changes. With the sudden lack of anything to do but wait, she subsequently passes out; when she wakes up, stirred by Alistair whining and pawing at the front door to go outside and relieve himself, she has no idea how much time has passed. It’s dark when she opens the door, and the air is frigid. How far into winter are they now?

Alistair returns, and Willow passes out again.

This time when she wakes up, it’s on her own, and the sky outside her window is steel blue dawn. Had she slept through the night, or multiple days? Disoriented but well-rested at last, she takes stock of the massive mess she’d created. It is, at least, contained more or less to one room, but its scale still gives her pause; she has no idea where to start.

Over the next few days she cleans her potion room, organizes her books and her notes, puzzles over whether a few stains were her fault or were already present, washes the scattered dishes and glasses she’d abandoned halfway through finishing when she’d had a revelation. She bathes, brushes the knots out of her hair, starts to feel like a real person again. Does a little more work repairing and updating her kitchen.

The samples remain stable.

Every time she looks at them under her microscope they all show the same things: nutrients returned to the soil, the ability to hold moisture and sustain life; plants that remain withered (after all, it’s not possible to unkill something) but on a microscopic level have been stitched back together, the poisoned, ragged-edged holes paved over with a membrane of protective skin; the sludge rendered inert, dried out to such a thorough and complete extent that it surprises even her.

Pride and hope swell inside her chest. Proper testing would take years, maybe, but she doesn’t have that kind of time, isn’t sure if Moonbury does.

She makes a huge batch of the potion, and then the next day, she finally leaves her house.

----

Forrest and Bubble are gobsmacked to see her when she strides up to the ranger station in the morning.

“Willow! You’re alive!” Forrest jokes, patting Alistair’s head.

“We’ve been so worried about you,” Bubble says, giving her a hug, and Willow melts a little bit, squeezes her back. Just like with Dev she finds that the physical contact is something her body had been craving, missing, and is now desperate to soak up what it can after being neglected for so long.

“I’m sorry,” Willow says. “I… I had to do something. And… I have something exciting to show you.”

Forrest and Bubble glance at each other, wary. Willow removes her foraging basket from her back and lowers it enough that they can see inside, where she’s put her enormous, full jar.

Forrest whistles. “That’s a lot of potion,” he says.

“What’s it for?” Bubble asks, the gears in her mind clearly working. Willow replaces her basket on her back and adjusts it; it’s much heavier than normal with the jar inside, but it’s not anything she can’t handle, and this is the most convenient way she could think of to transport it.

“It’s for the crater, down in southern Meadow Range,” she says, and both Forrest and Bubble’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Could one of you come with me? I don’t want to go alone again.”

“Wait wait wait,” Forrest says, waving his hands. “Is this safe? How do you know it’s going to work and not just make things worse?”

“Forrest,” Willow says, “I’ve tested it. I’ve tested it a lot. I can show you all my samples back at home if you want proof. This is all I’ve been doing the whole time I’ve been holed up in my house.”

Relatedly, she thinks, she still has no idea what the date is.

Forrest still looks dubious, but after sharing a significant look with Bubble, he shrugs. “Alright. If you’re sure… I trust you.”

“I am,” Willow says, trying and failing to keep the giddiness out of her voice. “And thank you.”

“You go ahead,” Bubble says to them. “I’ll stay here and keep watch. Let me know how it goes, okay?”

“Will do,” Forrest says, and then heads for the entrance to Meadow Range.

Willow orders Alistair to stay with Bubble at the station, and then follows after Forrest, buzzing with mixed anticipation, fear, and hope.

----

They reach the site without incident, to Willow’s immense relief. It’s strange enough to be back here without having to deal with wild animal encounters; she’d forgotten how wrong everything feels, how silent and devoid of life it is, a no-man’s-land if there ever was one. As they approach the crater, with its noxious purple sludge, Willow tries not to think about Matheo’s story, tries not to think about a body floating there.

“I hate coming here,” Forrest says, thankfully pulling her out of that train of thought.

“I don’t blame you,” Willow says. “I don’t like it, either.”

They stop maybe three yards away from the edge of the crater, and for a moment just regard it in silence.

“So how does this potion of yours work?” Forrest asks at length.

Willow shuts her eyes. Focuses.

She pulls her foraging basket off of her back and sets it on the ground. “We just pour it onto the effected areas,” she says, gauging the size of the jar compared to the size of the dead zone. Part of her is beginning to doubt she made enough. “It should work almost immediately. At least, it did when I tested it.”

She grabs the jar, cradles it in her arms, and stands up, looking at Forrest for… she’s not sure. Affirmation? Reassurance? Permission? If she messes this up --if she makes this worse -- he’ll be the first to know. Would he give her a second chance, or stow her on the next train back to the capital? She likes to think they’re close enough friends that it would be the former, but that doubt still lingers in her, that sense of walking on eggshells in an effort not to disturb the fragile peace she’s managed to cultivate.

“Be careful,” Forrest says, as Willow removes the lid of the jar and discards it.

She approaches the crater. Like last time, even moving forward a few steps makes things exponentially more intolerable; the air gets hotter, filled with that sour, acrid stench that hits the back of her sinuses, makes her hold her breath, and the ground turns rock hard under her boots, parched and barren. As she nears the edge, she creeps forward, wary of potential structural weakness, but it holds fast despite its desecration.

She turns back to Forrest, who is watching her with so much anxiety on his face that it’s a wonder he hasn’t broken down and joined her. Evidently even his courage has limits; Willow is pretty sure that if she wasn’t so emotionally invested in this, so motivated, so burdened with this responsibility, she’d be right there beside him.

Forrest gives her a tentative thumbs up, and she nods.

She turns back to the crater, and pours some of the potion into the sludge.

It’s hard to know when to stop. Her instinct is to empty the jar, but she needs to save some for the surrounding areas. Still, she pours around a third of it -- maybe a bit more than necessary, but her nervousness gets the better of her. If this doesn’t work--

She hasn’t even finished when the sludge begins bubbling, boiling like it’s about to erupt. For a moment Willow thinks it might, but she’d seen this same behavior in her samples.

“Willow, get back!” Forrest says.

“It’s working!” she says.

“What?”

“Come here! Look!”

She hears him pussyfooting around behind her, conflicted, but then her attention is swept up by what’s in front of her. Just like with her samples, the sludge recedes, boils itself so hard it evaporates, and she claps a hand over her nose and mouth just to be cautious as the vapor rises into the air. Within moments the crater is empty, reduced to a grim but harmless scar in the earth, a memory no longer capable of hurting anyone or anything.

Forrest runs up to stand beside her, amazed.

“Willow!” he shouts. “You… You did it! That’s incredible!”

Willow’s head spins with elation, relief, and she swallows down the lump that forms in her throat. “There’s still the ground and the plants to get--”

Before she can finish that sentence, there’s a sudden shift in the air, like barometric pressure fluctuating, and she knows Forrest can feel it too because his stance changes, becomes more grounded and defensive, head swiveling to survey their surroundings.

And then a miracle happens.

All at once, like a veil being pulled back, everything transforms; the soil under her feet softens, swells with moisture, tiny blades of grass poking up as if they’ve always been there but have been trapped in an oppressive tomb; the air cools, clears up, that stench dissipating; withered plants die away and petrified plants crumble, and sprouts spring to life in their place; even the bark on the surrounding trees brightens in color, replenished.

It all happens in maybe fifteen seconds, so fast that it leaves Willow dizzy and lightheaded. If the empty crater wasn’t still there, the area would be almost unrecognizable.

“Holy shit,” Forrest breathes, looking around. He jumps over the crater to its other side, near the cliff face, crouching down over the baby sprouts. “Willow, do you know what these are?”

Willow, still reeling, trying to wrap her mind around what just happened, decides to walk along the edge of the crater to join him. Her ears are ringing, heart slamming against her ribs.

Forrest plucks one of the buds and stands up to show her.

“I-I think this is a rainbow dew,” he says. “I’m not a hundred percent sure, Bubble is better with plants than I am, but look, it’s got that iridescent sheen.” He pulls the protective leaves back and sure enough, the baby petals within are dazzling, glimmering even in the weak sunlight.

“They’re… They’re beautiful,” Willow stammers.

“If that is what this is, Willow…” Forrest leans down to look her in the eye, expression intense. “This is huge. Rainbow dews were one of the plants we thought were exterminated completely, in the accident.”

She doesn’t reply. Her head is still swimming, racing, making it hard to focus.

“These won’t be able to survive the winter,” Forrest says, “but I’d bet Bubble could cultivate some cuttings if I bring her some.”

He crouches down to do just that, and Willow watches him.

Her thoughts are drifting out of her head.

She registers, far away, like she’s watching herself from outside of her body, that something is wrong.

She tries to tell Forrest this, though she’s not sure if she succeeds, given that she can’t hear her own voice over the blood rushing in her ears. She doesn’t get visual confirmation, either, because her vision is starting to black out.

She thinks, stupidly, as she’s passing out, about how she still doesn’t know what day it is.

----

When she comes to, she’s being cradled in someone’s arms, and her side is wet. She cracks open her eyes, finds her head resting on Forrest’s shoulder as he carries her. She groans, and he jumps, stopping.

“Hey, hey,” he says, doing a poor job of disguising the apprehension in his voice. “What was that all about? Are you okay?”

“Mmm.” She slumps against him, weak.

“Willow,” he says, shaking her a bit. “Seriously. Are you sick? Do you want me to take you to Matheo?”

“Nooo,” she says, though in such a slurred whine she’s pretty sure she does nothing to convince him.

Electing not to reply, Forrest begins walking again.

Willow dozes for a few moments, and then takes a deep breath, trying to gather her strength to tell him that she’s fine , she’d just been overwhelmed. She wants to go home. Or to the tavern, to visit Martha. She does not want to go to Matheo.

----

When she wakes up again, she’s in Matheo’s clinic.

She sits up so fast that it feels like her brain metaphysically flings out of her head. She’s never been here before, of course, but it must be his clinic because it’s not hers, and that leaves only one other option.

She’s alone, but she can hear the din of voices outside the door on the wall opposite her. Her foraging basket is on the floor next to that door, along with her boots, cape, and overshirt, all of which are stained the same color as her potion.

Damn Forrest, she thinks as she pushes the covers off of herself. She’ll have to find some way to get him back for this. Never mind that he was concerned, she could have taken care of this herself. She’s pushed herself too far before, she’ll almost certainly do it again.

She’s climbing out of the bed (far slower than she’d like to be moving, but her limbs feel rubbery, the edges of her vision still wavering) when the door opens.

“Going somewhere?” Matheo asks.

Willow lets out a string of curses inside the privacy of her mind, but remains, she hopes, neutral on the outside.

She stands up straight, wills her knees to stop wobbling, and puts on her pleasantest smile as she turns to face him.

He’s standing in the doorway holding a wooden tray, on top of which are a few various plates and bowls of food. He somehow manages to look both unimpressed and smug at the same time.

Damnably, the first thing she thinks of is that spot on the back of her neck that still sometimes prickles with remembered heat.

She discards that thought like the intrusive distraction that it is. “I told Forrest not to bring me here,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“Your blood pressure was extremely low,” he says. “I doubt it’s returned to where it should be. Sit.”

She does so, mostly because her knees just sort of buckle out from under her, and she’s starting to notice how much she’s shaking, how weak and weary she feels. Maybe adrenaline had been sustaining her in Meadow Range, but now that it’s subsided she’s left feeling a bit like a wrecked bicycle, all bent out of shape and structurally unsound. She thinks that maybe the last time she felt this feeble was back in university, when she’d…

When she’d barely eaten for weeks.

Oh.

She could slap herself, in hindsight. When had she last eaten a proper meal? Had she really not even thought to do so while she’d monitored her samples, without anything else to do? Gods, she needs to figure out how to stop accidentally starving herself.

Matheo sits on the edge of the bed and sets the tray down in front of her. “Given what I know about you, and given your lack of any other notable symptoms, I’m making an educated guess that this contributed to your fainting.”

She stares down at the food. It’s a variety of basic, fast-acting carbs, intended to raise her blood sugar to more sustainable levels. A slice of bread with honey, some grapes, a bowl of oatmeal, even a small glass of orange juice.

Her stomach growls, loud enough to hear.

“Mm hmm,” Matheo hums, crossing his arms. “Eat.”

She takes a bite of the bread to prevent herself from saying anything, and as soon as she swallows it’s like the cavern of her stomach creaks open and she’s suddenly fucking ravenous. She stuffs the rest of the bread into her mouth before she can think better of giving him the satisfaction.

Thankfully, though, his mind seems to be on other things, because even as he sits there and watches her it’s with a look of perturbed distraction. Maybe monitoring her for any other suspicious symptoms, maybe wishing she’d eat faster so she’ll get out of his clinic sooner, maybe just meditating on his general dislike of her.

Willow has nothing to say, either, because her thoughts surrounding him as of late have been… complicated, to say the least. She can’t even look at him for too long because it makes her remember all the embarrassingly explicit things she’s been imagining with him at the center.

“Forrest said you restored the site in south Meadow Range,” he says at length, crossing his arms. Neither his voice nor his body language give any clue as to how he feels about this. “If it was even half as extraordinary as Forrest described it as being, I imagine the shock, along with the empty stomach, must have triggered a sudden drop in blood pressure.” 

Willow supposes he’s probably right. “Where is Forrest?” she asks.

“He went to talk to Myer,” Matheo says. “He was… enthusiastic.”

Willow watches him for a moment as she chews on her oatmeal. He’s giving her nothing, not even anger, which at least would feel more normal. She has no idea what he might be thinking.

“You don’t seem to feel the same way,” she says.

“I’m unconvinced,” he says.

“Unconvinced?” she blurts out, mouth half-full. She swallows before she asks, “Did he show you the cuttings he took?”

“He did.”

“You think they’re fake or something?”

“No, I’m not unconvinced it worked for the moment,” he says. “I’m just doubtful of its… longevity. Its efficacy.”

Willow puts the bowl back on the tray, her appetite waning. “I’ve been testing the potion for weeks. All of my data so far points to a permanent fix.”

“We’ll see.”

She huffs, indignant. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks. “Isn’t this what you wanted? I thought you’d be… I don’t know, relieved that I fixed it.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he says, looking at her again, out of the corner of his eye, face becoming more severe.

“You didn’t need to, because I didn’t do it for you,” she says. “I did it because it’s the right thing to do.”

“But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you even care?” he says, standing up. “You must have some ulterior motive.”

“Why?” she asks. “I can’t just do something good for its own sake?”

Matheo opens his mouth to speak but Willow doesn’t let him, continuing on, feeling a little stronger now that she’s got food and annoyance in her system again,

“I don’t understand you, Matheo,” she says. “You spend so much time telling me that I’m a shit-sucking capital pawn because I wasn’t taking any action to right the wrongs of the old chemists, but now that I have, it must be because I have ulterior motives.”

“Because no capital chemist I’ve met truly has an altruistic bone in their body,” he says.

Willow rolls her eyes, biting back the groan that wants to pour out of her. “That’s the problem, I guess -- no matter what I do I’ll just be another capital chemist to you.” She takes a breath, lets it out, willing herself to calm down, because she sees now, no amount of arguing will make a difference. “You made your mind up about me as soon as you met me, and that will never change,” she says, climbing off the bed. Her knees hold more steady this time, and she walks over to the door to gather her things.

He lets her, standing in silence.

“You know,” Willow says, pulling her boots on, “when I first met you, I thought you were a real bastard, and I still think that, but--” She pulls her overshirt and cape on, ignoring the wetness from where she’d spilled potion on herself. “--for a little bit, based on what you told me, I also thought that you might actually care more about repairing and preserving the island than holding a stupid grudge, but I guess I was wrong.” She slides her foraging basket onto her back and turns to look at him; he’s looking away, petulant and upset. “So… whatever. Moonbury is my home now, and I’m going to keep doing what I can to fix things because I care. And if you want to keep hating me based on your own preconceived notions, and making yourself miserable, go ahead, but you don’t scare me, and you’re not going to get rid of me.”

Without waiting for a reply, she opens the door and leaves.

----

Willow tries to arrange her face into something other than a scowl as she approaches the ranger station, where Bubble is, along with Alistair, who, upon spotting her, comes racing to meet her, so excited he almost knocks her over. She crouches down to ruffle his face, finding comfort in him and his unconditional affection as she always does.

“He’s been whining ever since Forrest passed by with you earlier,” Bubble says, laughing a bit. “How are you feeling?”

Willow shrugs. “I’m okay,” she says. “Just… need to eat.”

Bubble hums. “Well, I don’t want to keep you too long, but Forrest told me about how you restored the rainbow dews,” she says. “That’s incredible, Willow. I hope you know that.”

Willow stands up, her chest aching with warmth. The affirmation is heartening, but tinged bittersweet after her conversation with Matheo. She tries not to dwell on it; better to cherish the approval and acknowledgement of her friends than continue to seek respect from someone who so clearly has no interest in giving her any.  “Thank you,” she says.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a rainbow dew in person before,” Bubble says, inspecting one of the buds that Forrest picked. “I was so young when the accident happened. If I have, I don’t remember.”

Willow wraps her arms around herself. “They’re one of the plant species native to Moonbury, right?”

“Mm hmm.” Bubble holds the bud out and Willow takes it, brings it close to her face so she can study it. She hadn’t gotten to take as close of a look as she’d have liked back in Meadow Range, since she’d been too busy passing out, but now she takes a moment to just admire.

It’s beautiful, even now, immature and underdeveloped. The iridescence is enthralling, reminiscent more of hummingbird feathers than flower petals, shifting in color as Willow turns the bud over between her fingers.

“My mother told me that rainbow dews signify love. Not necessarily romantic love, just… love in general."

"I read about that in the Incident Report," Willow says, thinking about the painstaking wealth of information about every extinct plant compared to the scant few details about the accidents which caused said extinction.

Bubble grins. "Of course, they were popular gifts between lovers, regardless of whatever they might symbolize," she says. "They're very hardy plants, so maybe that's why. Maybe people liked to imagine that that steadfastness would manifest in their relationship."

Willow snorts despite herself. "I think you're overthinking it," she says. "It's probably just because they're beautiful."

Bubble shrugs, amused. "Maybe," she says. "I guess I wouldn't really know, seeing as romance has never interested me."

A beat of silence passes. Willow contemplates the bud in her hand, about the fact that she's already very familiar with the intricacies of it because of how long she's studied the Incident Report. It's an odd feeling, to be acquainted with the real thing after having grown so used to the illustrations. The former surpasses the latter in brilliance and novelty, but she's become attached to those lines nonetheless, to the obvious devotion behind them.

Her heart twinges. She tries not to think about it.

"Willow!" 

The voice is Forrest's; he's striding towards them from the direction of town, and Myer is hot on his heels. They both exude so much enthusiasm and excitement that Willow almost feels like she has to brace herself for the oncoming wall.

"You're up!" Forrest says, as he comes to a stop in front of her. "Are you alright?"

I'm just fine but have you ever considered not being so thoughtful and kind because it's really inconvenient for me in particular doesn't seem like the best response, so she just nods and smiles. "I'm fine. Sorry you had to carry me all the way back."

"It's alright, I'm just glad to see you're well." He turns to Myer, who seems so eager to speak that he's about to burst at the seams.

"Willow!" he says, almost shouts. "Forrest just told me about what you did! And he showed me the cuttings he took, as well! I couldn't wait, I had to come and thank you. Let me shake your hand!" 

He does so vigorously, giving her a companionable slap on the shoulder.

"My girl, you never cease to surpass my expectations! Moonbury is once again indebted to you."

He's still shaking her hand. Willow, aware that she should be puffing up with pride right now, instead feels herself wilting inside. "N-No, please," she says. "I did it because it needed to be done. It was the right thing to do."

Myer scoffs. "So humble," he says. "Regardless of your intentions, the fact remains that you've restored something precious to us, again, and for that I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. We're lucky to have you here, Willow. If there's anything I can do to repay you, please don't hesitate to let me know."

Willow offers him her best and brightest smile, though it feels strained and she doubts that it's convincing. Myer's gratitude is too much, far too much; just the same as the previous times he offered her endless thanks and placed her up on his own personal pedestal, she feels insecure and uncomfortable with the praise, like she's merely an imposter who's stealing it from someone more worthy.

"Thank you, Myer, I will," she says, pulling her hand back to herself. "Um… I'm sorry, but… I should get home and rest. And eat something. Doctor's orders." She gestures towards the path to Matheo's house.

"Oh, of course," Myer says. "Don't let us keep you."

"Thanks. I'll talk to you all later."

She heads in the direction of town, with Alistair following her, already lost in thought.

While having her hard-won achievement minimized and misattributed to impure motives had been upsetting, being given accolades for it isn't what she'd wanted either. In theory, anyone could have done it; there's nothing special about her except that she was in the right place at the right time and with the right amount of determination to see justice served and nature restored.

But, she supposes, Myer is a single (excitable) man. His exaltation of her virtues isn't indicative of how Moonbury at large will treat her -- Matheo is proof enough of that.

"Willow, hey, good to see you out among the living again," Dev greets her as she reaches the tavern. 

"Hey, Dev," she says, pulling him into a hug.

He squeezes her. "How long has it been, anyway?" he asks as they part. "I've been missing your company in the mornings, and I think Dan has been floundering without his crewmate. He's far too proud to recruit someone else, but last I heard he was badgering Helene, of all people, to fill your space in the interim." He scratches at his cheek, amused and mildly self-conscious.

Willow stares at him, mind going blank.

Dev tilts his head, brows furrowed, fiddling with the strap of his messenger bag. "What's the matter?"

Embarrassed heat crawling up the back of her neck, Willow steps forward, puts her hands on Dev's shoulders, and says, "Dev, I need to ask you a question, and I need you not to judge me."

"Um." Dev stands very still, seems to be stuck somewhere between amused and nervous, that furrowed brow quirking upwards. "Of course." 

Willow takes a breath. "What… is the date today?"

Dev blinks at her. 

And then bursts out laughing.

Chapter Text

“Aaand done.” Hannah steps back, hands on her hips, straight pins sticking out of her mouth as she surveys her work. “Take a look, tell me how it feels.”

Willow spins around to look at herself in the mirror, and can’t help but be a little dumbfounded by Hannah’s handiwork. The outfit --a thick sweater and sturdy trousers, both of wool to keep the winter at bay-- is an excellent blend of beauty and practicality, something unseen in the capital where one’s clothes are first and foremost a status symbol. To have clothing that’s both useable and attractive is a novel concept, and Willow can’t keep her gaze from coming back to admire all the little details over and over again.

“Hannah, they’re… incredible,” she says, turning back around.

“Really?” Hannah says, eyes lighting up as she returns the pins to the pincushion strapped to her wrist.

“Yeah, I’ve… I’ve never had clothes like this before,” Willow says, inspecting the floral-patterned panel at the top of the sweater, the deep blue-green of the rest, the leather patches on the elbows. The trousers, too, slate brown, with reinforced seams and golden rivet details, fitted enough to tuck into boots but without being constricting.

“You’re starting to look like you belong here,” Hannah says.

Willow twists to look at herself over her shoulder. Her hair has grown out, skin a little darker and freckled from the sun. Most all of the clothes she brought with her from the capital began to fall apart as soon as she put any significant strain on them, but now, with some new clothes, she is beginning to look like she belongs.

Her chest warms.

She’s more than a little okay with that.

----

Willow smooths down the front of her sweater as she climbs the stairs to Myer’s office. He’d asked her to meet him to discuss her progress, and while his tone held nothing but promise she still can’t help but feel nervous.

When she knocks at the door the response is immediate: “Come in!”

“Hi,” she says as she enters, and Myer’s face brightens.

“Willow, hello!” he says. “Thank you for coming!”

“Of course,” she says, coming to stand opposite his desk and trying not to wring her hands together. Confidenc , she thinks. She just restored an entire ecosystem, and he’d showered her with praise. There’s no reason to be uncertain. “What did you want to talk about?”

Myer clears his throat. “Right, yes,” he says. “I wanted to keep you abreast of the discussions I’ve been having with the Medical Association, regarding your progress.”

Confidence.

“I’ve talked with Dr Nestor and the board, as well. I told them all about how you’ve been assisting Moonbury’s residents, fulfilling your duty as chemist, and I also told them about the little miracle you pulled out in Meadow Range.” His eyes glitter, and he claps his hands together for emphasis as he says, “They’re very pleased with you, Willow. And of course they are! How could they not be? They even talked about possibly diverting some additional funding your way, although the details still need to be finalized.”

Willow’s tenseness abates, though only somewhat. She’s not sure why this news, expected as it may be, fails to reassure her as much as it probably should.

Of course they are!

How could they not be?

How could they not be?

“I am also very pleased with you,” Myer continues, standing up from his chair and rummaging in one of his desk drawers. “You’ve done us an immeasurable service, restoring Meadow Range, and for that, I want to give you this.”

He sets an approval badge on her side of the desk, similar to the one she already has, but the nubs on the side are larger and more distinct.

“With this, the rangers will let you climb up Glaze Iceberg -- or, well, they would, if the cable car was working.”

Willow’s interest piques. “Glaze Iceberg?” she says, picking up the approval badge and watching it catch the light as she turns it. “There’s another accident site up there, isn’t there?”

“Yes, there is,” Myer says. “Not quite as serious as the one in Meadow Range, if I recall, but an accident site nonetheless.”

“But the cable car isn’t working?”

“Not at present.” He shakes his head. “It’s been inoperable for a while, but none of us has any business up on the mountain to warrant spending the money to repair it.”

Willow hums, thinking. While she hadn’t really been thinking that far ahead yet, this does throw a wrench into the possibility of visiting the Glaze Iceberg site -- a possibility she had, eventually, wanted to pursue.

“What if I had business up on the mountain?” she says.

Myer’s grin widens, his excitement almost palpable.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Matheo crosses his arms, watching Russo and Laura chase each other around the sanctuary, weaving in between pews and the small crowd of people on the other side of the hall who are here for the church’s potluck, trying to gauge which of them is more likely to trip and skin a knee, and then trying to figure out whether he or the chemist would be the one requested for treatment.

“They’re good children, aren’t they?”

The voice is Sister Socellia’s, as she settles into the pew next to him, interrupting his reverie before it can even gather momentum, for which he’s thankful.

“They are,” he says.

“It’s good they have each other,” she says. “I imagine it could be lonely to be the only two children in town. It’s a shame they don’t have more playmates.”

There’s a moment of silence. Matheo watches Laura stumble and reflexively tenses, prepares for a fall, but Russo manages to grab her arm and stabilize her; they laugh, and the chase begins again. The sound echoes through the hall, bright and warm.

Realizing that Socellia has fallen silent, Matheo turns towards her, meets her gaze. She is not skilled at keeping her expression neutral, and her thoughts read plainly on her face.

He can’t help the upwards quirk of his mouth as he huffs, looks away from her again.

“I’ll get right on that,” he says dryly.

She laughs; her voice has a musical quality to it even when she’s not singing.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she says. “You aren’t the sole person in Moonbury whose priorities lie elsewhere.”

It’s true. In this case, Mercy and Garret having children made them the outliers of Matheo’s generation, while everyone else has been focusing on work, or community.

“It's not a fault,” Socellia continues, her voice still light. “Although I’ll admit I’ve been somewhat puzzled, in your case, given your family has been Moonbury’s healers for seven generations now. I’ve always assumed you would keep the tradition going.”

She has another point. He is, by a small margin, the oldest childless man in his family line; according to what documentation he has, nearly all of his ancestors had already had multiple children by the time they were forty. But between his own apprenticeship, and then the accidents, and then his mother’s declination in health and death, followed by him taking over as Moonbury’s fully-realized witch doctor and finding so much fulfillment in that work, the thought of marrying and having children was rarely ever a pertinent one in his mind.

At least, until recently. The chemist’s arrival made him realize how much he took for granted his position, and how little he’d previously thought about who will take care of Moonbury after he’s gone.

And, now, feeling increasingly alienated from his community and the resulting loneliness stemming from it, on a personal level his lack of any sort of consistent close companionship has made itself very much known.

“Um… I apologize if I touched on a sore spot,” Socellia says, and Matheo realizes he never actually responded to her last statement. “It’s not my business.”

“Can I ask you for some advice?” he says, turning to face her, and she blinks, seeming thrown by the abrupt change of subject.

“Of course,” she says.

He turns back to watch the crowd milling about. Watches the chemist in particular, as she chats with Reyner and Runeheart, evidently in the middle of telling them about the supposed restoration of Meadow Range, if her gestures and their awestruck expressions are anything to go by. The newfound lightness in her is impossible not to notice.

“How do you know when the gods are trying to tell you something?” he says, without looking away from the chemist.

Socellia hums in consideration. “Well,” she says, thoughtful, “scripture says there are several ways the gods speak to us. Dreams, visions, and premonitions, mostly, but there are others.”

“What about…” The chemist meets his eyes, like she can feel his gaze drilling into her, and repositions herself so her back is turned to him. It’s for the better. “... circumstances?”

“Circumstances…?”

“Continually running into walls where doors should be.” A beat, tangibly confused, and he adds, “Metaphorically.”

She hums again. “There’s nothing about it in scripture,” she says, “but I wouldn’t discount it just because of that. I believe the gods are far more complex than our attempts to capture them in writing; who’s to say they wouldn’t use one’s circumstances as a communicative tool?”

Matheo sighs. “They’re doing kind of a shitty job.”

Socellia laughs, scooting forward to the edge of the pew so they can look at each other more head-on. “If you feel they’re divine in nature, keep an open mind. Pray for understanding. If you believe the gods are trying to communicate with you, try communicating with them in turn. But…” She pauses, choosing her words. “It could be that circumstances are just circumstances, Matheo. Sometimes life is just hard.” She squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sorry it is for you right now.”

He sighs again, something inside his chest aching like an old bruise. Despite the fact that he’s never held too fast to belief in the gods, despite the fact that no amount of advice or explanation will make his displacement easier to bear even if it were to be divinely ordained, despite the fact that Socellia is, like everyone else in Moonbury, contributing to the problem, her sympathy is still comforting. “Thank you,” he mutters.

She gives his shoulder another squeeze, stands up, kisses his forehead. “Come try some of the biscuits Mercy made,” she says as she returns to the center aisle.

“Maybe in a minute.”

The grin she gives him is warm and compassionate, and then she heads back to the little crowd on the other side of the sanctuary.

Matheo slips away as soon as no one is looking.

Willow reads over the intake form she’s written up for Dan for what feels like the half-dozenth time, making sure she didn’t forget anything. Nothing too severe this time -- a little dehydrated, fingers almost frostbitten but not quite, a sizeable but easily-stitched-up laceration on the forearm which seems to have been from mishandling an ornamental dagger, apparently during a mock duel with a homemade dummy. She can put the pieces together. Dan’s injuries are familiar to her now, considering the frequency with which he ends up in her clinic after every ill-fated misadventure.

He stirs, comes to consciousness with a deep breath and a groan.

“Hey, careful, Dan, you were out for a little bit in the snow,” Willow says, sitting in the chair next to the bed she has him set up in.

“It’s Dev,” he says, rubbing his eyes as he sits up. He blinks a couple times, groggy, turning to face her with an expression that’s equal parts confusion, frustration, weariness, and expectation. It’s the expression he usually fixes her with when he wakes up here as Dev.

She tries to give him the most reassuring smile she can.

“What happened this time?” he says, taking another deep breath and running a hand through his hair.

“Seems Dan was practicing some knifeplay,” she says, gesturing to where the dagger sits on the rolling tray next to her. “I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think he nicked himself and got spooked, then passed out because of the blood. Wasn’t too bad, though, just a couple stitches.”

“Stitches?” Dev echoes, grimacing, uncharacteristically expressive.

Willow gestures to the bandage wrapped around his arm, and he examines it for a moment before letting out a long, annoyed exhale.

“First the rifle and now this,” he mutters, both hands dragging through his hair this time in a much more nervous gesture than before. “Gods, he’s so damn reckless. He’s going to get me killed one of these days.”

The statement sends a chill through Willow. She grips the clipboard in her lap, debating on the best way to reply.

She knows little about Dissociative Identity Disorder; it was only perfunctorily touched on in her curriculum, as were most psychological conditions. She’s a chemist, not a therapist. She knows how to treat a myriad of physical injuries, sicknesses, maladies, and other issues, but mental is another realm entirely.

Even if she did know more about therapy, even if she was qualified to offer that, she only knows about Dev’s specific case on a surface level; despite their closeness (or maybe because of it) they’ve never really talked about the topic in any significant depth. Whatever Dev has in his past that’s tied up with Dan, he keeps private, and Willow has never had any desire to push that boundary. Dev’s trauma isn’t any of her business unless he wants it to be.

Still, though, her lack of knowledge feels especially evident at times like this, when she wishes she could offer something more helpful and substantial to say than ‘try to take it easy’.

“Have you ever tried leaving notes or messages for Dan?” she asks at length. “Like… to tell him about your concerns and how his actions affect you ?”

Dev huffs, a little deadpan, staring out the window across the room on the opposite wall. “Matheo suggested the same thing,” he says, and Willow inwardly winces. “I tried. So far as I can tell, though, Dan’s never read any of them.” The muscles in his jaw shift as he clenches it, unclenches it, thinking. “Kind of hard to communicate with someone who has no interest in even trying.”

Willow watches him, feels a little twinge between her lungs. She knows firsthand how hard it is to get Dan to do something he doesn’t want to do. Even she, his apparent favorite (to such an extent that she often feels like she’s being courted by a colorful, exotic bird), has no shortage of trouble getting him to just sit still and have a mellow, regular conversation sometimes.

But as far as she’s aware, Dev and Dan got along fine, more or less, for years. Moonbury is safe enough and people look out for each other; it’s calm and steady and consistent. Besides her arrival (which she doubts was change enough to have an impact), she’s not sure what would have changed to make their existence and relationship so much more… frictional.

“Dev,” she says, somewhat trepidatious, “have you ever looked into therapy?”

He shakes his head.

“Well… there are therapists in the capital who work specifically with Dissociative Identity Disorder.” She taps her fingers on her clipboard, a tiny little outlet for her uncertainty. It’s odd to feel so out of her depth as both a medical professional and a friend. “Mostly they just work to try and facilitate more communication and awareness between alters,” she says. “Maybe that’d be helpful for you and Dan.”

He looks down at his bandaged arm, runs his fingers along the edge of the gauze.

“I mean, no pressure or anything, of course. You can make your own decisions,” Willow continues, feeling like she’s passing from ‘talking’ to ‘rambling’ and fighting the reflex to shrink into herself, “but if you are interested, I can try to help you get in touch with them. Schedule a consultation, feel them out… That sort of thing.”

Dev is quiet, still looking down at his arm, and doesn’t reply for so long that Willow starts feeling the particular antsiness of having put her foot in her mouth; it’s rendered even more unbearable by the complete and utter silence of her now very-well-insulated clinic -- she needs to hang some sort of wind chime outside the door, or get a record player, or something.

“O-Or not,” she blurts out. “Whatever you’re most comfortable with. I just don’t like seeing you or Dan get hurt--”

“I’ll think about it,” Dev says, looking up at her with a mild grin, and she’s never felt so much relief at being interrupted.

“Okay--” she says, and then, lighter, "Okay. Yeah. Of course."

His eyes liven up a little, brightening. “Thank you. It’s, um… It can be… not really bad so much as… frustrating. Isolating sometimes, I guess. With Dan. I’m not really sure how else to explain it.” He scratches the back of his neck. “But it’s nice to have people I can rely on.”

Willow nods. “Any way I can help, let me know,” she says.

“I will.” His grin widens, turns self-conscious, and he climbs out of the bed on careful legs. “How much do I owe you?”

She scoffs overactedly. “Dev, absolutely not.”

“Willow…”

“No, no,” she says, standing up and planting her hands on her hips. “No protests, Dev. If you try to give me money I’ll send it back to you, and that’ll be really awkward for you since you’re the postman.”

He laughs gently. “Alright, point taken,” he says. “At least let me give you some moon cloves or something.”

That twinge in Willow’s chest is replaced by the warmth of fondness, and she tries not to make it obvious that receiving moon cloves still makes her feel like she could melt into a puddle of softhearted sentimentality.

“Sounds perfect.”

“Hey, handsome.”

Matheo looks up from his glass to find Helene grinning down at him from the other side of his table.

“Helene,” he says by way of greeting.

“How’ve you been?” she says. “It’s been a minute since I’ve seen you. Been busy downstairs these days. Tis the season; cold weather is good for business.”

He shrugs noncommittally. It’s late and the Lazy Bowl is empty aside from himself, Yorn, and Helene. He’s been here for the better part of the evening, set up at his usual table in the corner of the room, sipping whiskey and flipping through his old notes on the Meadow Range accident site, although he’s not entirely sure to what end. Maybe just because it’s pertinent in his mind.

“I’ve been…” He searches for the right word, something to satisfy her curiosity without making her feel the need to ask follow-up questions. “... occupied,” is what he settles with.

Helene huffs. “Occupied,” she echoes, mimicking his tone. “Well, that’s good to hear.”

A beat passes, and then she leans forward, elbows on the back of the chair in front of her.

“Hey,” she says. “How ‘bout a reading?”

She produces her deck of tarot cards from some heretofore unseen pocket, shuffling them idly.

He watches her, trying to gauge her intentions, but as expected given her occupation, her expression is trained to be impenetrable aside from the ever-present upward tilt of the corners of her mouth and the glint in her eyes. She quirks an eyebrow, pointed.

It’s not the first time she’s asked.

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood right now,” he says, eyes dropping to watch her hands as she shuffles, so much a second-nature that she’s clearly not even thinking about it.

“You’re never in the mood,” she says. “In the five years I’ve been here in Moonbury I’ve read everybody’s cards but yours. Shit, I’ve even read Willow’s.”

That does almost nothing to persuade him.

“C’mon, handsome, don’t you wanna know what the cards have got to say to you?” She sets the deck on the table, an invitation. “Maybe they’ve got some revelatory enlightenment just waiting to blow your mind. Give you some food for thought to chew on for a while.”

He sighs.

Like most things intangible and supernatural, he’s never put much stock into divination, although his mother (a more spiritual person than him in general) often read her own tarot, and sometimes tea leaves, and found her own comfort and insight in them. He’s just never seen the appeal or the point. His belief in any sort of otherworldly significance isn’t without flexibility, of course, but almost entirely begins and ends with the inherent sanctity of the natural world and its inhabitants.

But, he has little desire to go home, and Helene is always pleasant company; she has a levity in her that’s not in many of the other Moonbury residents, himself included.

“Fine.”

“Perfect!” she says, sliding into her chair. She picks up the deck again, fiddling with it as she continues on: “How’s a past, present, future reading sound to you? It’s an old standby, always good for first timers. Not too long but lots of guidance to be gleaned.”

“I’ll leave it up to you,” Matheo says.

“Alright, then that’s what we’ll do.” She readjusts in her chair, becoming a little more serious. “So, with tarot it’s always a good idea to come to the cards with a question or concern, so think of something you’d like guidance with.”

“Like what?”

Helene hums. “Most anything, really,” she says. “Career and love life are probably the most common, but if there’s something in particular that’s weighing on you, go with that.”

Matheo’s thoughts turn like a damned magnet to the chemist, and to all the misery her arrival and continued residence has dropped in his lap. He’s thought himself in so many endless circles regarding her that maybe the possibility of divine revelation is worth exploring at this point.

“Alright,” he says.

“What’s your concern?” she asks.

Heat, both embarrassed and annoyed, creeps into his face. “I didn’t realize I’d have to share it.”

Helene shrugs. “You don’t have to,” she says. “But it helps me to have context when I read the cards.”

Matheo tries not to let his uncertainty show on his face, though he’s pretty sure he’s doing a bad job.

“Hey, I’m not a snitch,” she says. “I’ve been told all sorts of private matters that would scandalize people if they knew, but have you ever heard me gossip? Pain of death couldn’t loosen these lips.”

She does have a point, that he’s never heard anything even remotely incriminating about anyone come out of her mouth, and maybe that (or the mild warmth of alcohol in his veins) is why, at length, he mutters,

“The chemist.”

Her mouth turns into a little O shape, eyebrows popping up, interest piqued. “Oooh, and what about her?” she asks, in a suggestive tone that indicates she has gravely misinterpreted the situation.

“I don’t trust her,” he says, rubbing his temples, ignoring the momentary and disconcerting record-skip in his brain.

Helene watches him, penetrative, trying to intuit the things he’s leaving unspoken, but this time he sets his expression determinedly neutral, and she accepts that boundary, for which he’s thankful; part of him is still stuck lingering on the implications of her misunderstanding.

“Alright,” she says, giving the deck a final shuffle and then setting it on the table between them. “Well, first thing’s first: with your non-dominant hand, I’ll have you cut the deck, while thinking of our dear, sweet Willow and the tizzy she’s got you in.” She gestures to where it sits, unimposing but with a certain strange gravity resultant of her conviction.

Ignoring her teasing, he does as instructed, picking up the rough top half of the deck with his right hand and setting it aside.

“Now that half goes on top,” she says, referring to the half he left behind, and he follows her instructions again, already somewhat taken aback by what feels like unnecessary ritual.

That done, Helene scoots forward, cracking her knuckles. “Okay,” she says. “In a past, present, future reading, the first card represents an event from your past, the elements of which are still affecting you today.”

She pulls the first card and sets it face down.

“The second card represents your current state.”

She pulls the second card, sets it beside the first, also face down.

“And the third card represents a potential --some would say likely-- outcome. It might not be immediately obvious how it fits in, but it can give us some guidance into how to handle the current situation so as to manifest, or avoid, the future we’re shown.”

She pulls the final card and sets it in line, face down like the others, puts aside the rest of the deck, and fixes him with an expression of practiced ambiguity.

“Generally speaking, Major Arcana cards can indicate more significant and long-term effects, and that you have less power in a situation, and that you might just need to hunker down and endure -- or enjoy it while it lasts, depending. Minor Arcana cards, on the other hand, can indicate that you have more power over your circumstances, and that resolving your situation might just be a matter of you taking initiative. But, of course, it’s all relative, and we won’t know for sure until we read your cards.”

Matheo crosses his arms. “This all seems very… vague,” he says.

Helene grins. “We’ll see if you still feel that way afterwards.” She turns her attention to the cards. “At first, just try to take in the general vibe of the spread without going into specifics,” she says. “Focus on your gut instincts and feelings, but try not to jump to conclusions.”

Matheo can’t help but feel oddly nervous.

She flips the first card. The image is ominous, of a tall spire being struck by lightning, spewing fire, two figures jumping from the windows. Helene reads the title of it without any intonation: “The Tower.”

She flips the second card, and this image isn’t much better. A figure in bed, seemingly weeping, a column of horizontally stacked swords interrupting the pitch black backdrop behind them. Again, she reads the title: “Nine of Swords.”

She flips the final card, and Matheo half expects this one to depict a man lying dead on the ground, or being disemboweled by a bear, or something similarly morbid, but instead it shows a woman, peaceful, naked, crouched next to a spring and carrying a jug in each hand, both of which are pouring water; overhead are several stars, most notably a large central one, for which the card is titled: “The Star.”

Matheo stares at the cards, trying to keep Helene’s instructions in his mind but finding it difficult when he finds all three to be cryptic, and when two of them are so dismaying just to look at.

“Well?” Helene asks, neutral. “What do you feel?”

“Mm…” He scans each one in turn, comes up empty. “Like I might be in over my head,” he says.

“That’s understandable, I guess. Let’s see if I can clear things up.” She touches the first card. “The Tower is a Major Arcana card,” she says. “It’s generally regarded as a bad omen, and some people believe it’s the worst card to pull in a reading.”

“Oh,” he says, a prickle of foreboding scratching at the back of his neck, “wonderful.”

She scoffs. “It’s not without its own bright sides,” she says. “And this is your past card. It represents something that happened to you, y’know… in the past. But you’re still feeling its effects now, in the present. So, with your chemist conundrum in mind, it could mean… her arrival, I suppose. Or further back, the accidents. That one’s more likely, in my opinion, given the gravity The Tower card generally holds.”

Matheo swallows. Crosses his arms, because it somehow feels more defensible.

“But you said it’s not without its bright sides?” he says. “There were no bright sides to the accidents. Or to the chemist’s arrival.”

Helene shrugs, her grin turning crooked and sly for a moment before straightening again. “What I mean is that The Tower sometimes just represents massive, sudden change. It doesn’t always represent destruction -- although, in your case I think it does. And even then, that destruction isn’t the end, you know?”

“... I don’t follow.”

“Let me put it this way,” she says. “The Tower is… change on a foundational level. Everything you thought you knew is flipped on its head, your core beliefs are challenged, and everything about your life before is stripped away and destroyed.”

“Is this the bright side?” he mutters.

“I’m not finished.” She taps her fingers on the card, rhythmic. “After all of that tribulation, you’re still here. Fundamentally changed, yeah, but here nonetheless. And you can rebuild. The destruction of the old doesn’t mean something new can’t be created in its wake. Life goes on, and you survive. After the destruction comes renewal.”

Her words, comforting as they’re intended, do little to reassure him. The accidents were carnage, annihilation, a horrific violation of the natural order. Life does not just ‘go on’ after something like that--

But--

His eyes land on his notes about Meadow Range, still on the table in front of him. He can’t help but think about its supposed restoration.

That prickle of foreboding gets its claws in him, scrapes down his back.

“You have survived, Matheo,” she says, resting her head on her fist. “Whether you realize it or not, you have built something out of that destruction. You should find reassurance in that.”

“I get it,” he says through his teeth.

Her grin turns crooked again, just for a moment. “Then let’s move on. Keep in mind that all of your cards are intertwined, and each stage ties into the other. They don’t exist in a vacuum. As we move to your present, think about how the destruction of your Tower is playing into your life now.”

She moves on to the next card.

“The Nine of Swords is a Minor Arcana card. It represents anxiety, anger, fear, doubt, stress, and being overwhelmed.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Sound accurate so far?”

Matheo says nothing, which Helene takes as an answer in itself.

She continues on: “Usually when the Nine of Swords comes up, it means you’re going through a dark time. Probably getting shitty sleep. Not able to relax.” She pauses, lets her words hang in the air for a moment. “Interestingly, it’s sometimes associated with trauma. An implication of it coming back to haunt you. And that could be true, considering your Tower, and our chemist conundrum.”

She tries to meet his gaze again but he looks down, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt.

“You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know,” he says, low.

She hums, clasping her hands together in front of her and twiddling her thumbs. “Well, there is something of a catch with the Nine of Swords,” she says.

“Which would be…?”

“A lot of the time, the card signifies… self-inflicted hardship.”

Matheo stares at her, baffled. He can’t even think of a cogent response, so all that comes out of his mouth is an echoed, “Self-inflicted.”

Helene nods. “It’s by far the most common connotation,” she says.

He blinks. “S-So… So you think I’m--”

“I don’t think anything, Matheo,” she says, leaning forward. “I’m just reading your cards.”

The sudden ache in his jaw makes him realize how hard he’s been clenching it, and he makes a concerted effort to loosen up despite his nerves, and despite the fact that this reading is turning out to be, for want of a more meaningful descriptor, frustrating bullshit.

“Listen,” Helene says. “Regardless of whether or not your current suffering is self-inflicted, it doesn’t make it any less awful to endure. It’s just, when the Nine of Swords comes up for me, sometimes I have to try and recontextualize whatever it is I’m going through to see if I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. And most of the time, I am.”

“I fail to see how that would be true in my situation.”

Helene hunches her shoulders, tilts her head. “Maybe it’s not. It can be hard to navigate sometimes,” she says. “But something to keep in mind is whether your perception of what’s happening matches up with reality. Whether things really are as bad as you fear, or if you’re catastrophizing.” She pauses, tapping on each of the first two cards in turns, the rhythm seeming to sync with his heartbeat somehow. “Is your Tower coming back to haunt you, or are you just worried that it might?”

Gods, he wants to argue with her so badly. Wishes he could point to the evidence and shout, it’s right there in the blood on the chemist’s hands. But he can’t, because the chemist went and did the exact and unfathomable opposite of what had, up until now, seemed a universal constant.

Why did she do it--

He still doesn’t understand. Can’t understand. Because these two ideas coexisting --that chemists are, as a rule, immoral and exploitative, and that this chemist is not, that she’s decent and truthful and noble-- has no basis in reality.

She can be either decent and truthful and noble, or a chemist, but not both.

That’s how it works.

That’s how it’s always worked.

“Y’know,” Helene says, pulling him out of his spiral, “talking to people can help. The Nine of Swords is a very… cerebral card. Sometimes it’s good to get out of your head. And to have help.”

Matheo suddenly feels like he’s being studied under a microscope.

“Noted.”

The grin she gives him is soft. “And if it’s any consolation, your future card is The Star. Which is a really good omen.”

He looks at it as she moves on to address it. Even the image is indeed much calmer and easier to look at.

“The Star is a Major Arcana card, and chronologically it comes right after The Tower,” she says, pointing to the respective numbers at the top of each card. “It represents the calm after the storm. That renewal after destruction. Balance, healing, self-assurance, clarity of purpose, peace, belonging, love. All growing out of the desolate remains of what you thought you knew, and all better and stronger than they were before. A metamorphosis. It’s an assurance that things will get better, even if they seem really shitty right now.”

“If it could hurry up, that would be nice,” Matheo says, trying to get his voice light to disguise the fact that his stomach still feels twisted into knots.

Helene’s grin widens. “It’s a Major Arcana card, it’ll come when it’s good and ready,” she says. “But, it might be helpful to keep in mind your little Nine of Swords here. If you are unwittingly acting as the bringer of your own torment--” (she says this with an overacted fluttering of her fingers) “--then untangling all of that could help you manifest your Star. On the other hand, if you’re just along for the shitty ride, try to take heart in the fact that you’ve got this light at the end of the tunnel.”

A beat passes.

The reading is finished.

It feels abrupt.

Matheo watches her slide the cards back into the deck, that sense of foreboding returning to haunt the edges of his thoughts. He almost wishes he’d taken longer to study The Star, commit it to memory, just for the fragile sense of reassurance looking at it evoked.

“Well,” Helene says, shuffling the deck once more, “that was a little heavier than I expected it would be. How are you feeling?”

Mostly, he just feels very tired.

“You do this often?” he asks rather than answering her. “Is it not… demoralizing?”

She makes a vague sound, leaning back in her chair. “I find it grounding,” she says. “It clears my head.”

“Even if you get readings like this?” he asks dryly, mirroring her position.

“Helps me prepare. Or reflect. Or, like I said, recontextualize. I dunno. I find that without the intuition I get from reading I start to feel…” She shrugs, tilting her head back and forth. “... lost, maybe?”

He tries to understand what that might be like. Aimlessness, or maybe hopelessness? Or just confusion, being overwhelmed?

What does being lost feel like?

“Alright, kids, time to pack up!” Yorn says, startling both of them with his sudden appearance. “It’s closin’ time. I want sleep. Helene, can you lock up after Matheo?”

“Sure thing, boss,” Helene says, sweeping out of her chair with all the grace of a mythological queen. Matheo, on the other hand, feels clumsier than usual as he gathers his notes and shuffles out of his corner while simultaneously trying to pull his jacket back on. Probably the whiskey. Probably.

“Thank you as always, Yorn,” he says, and Yorn grunts in acknowledgement as is usual.

Helene opens the door and Matheo crosses the threshold into the frigid outside. When he turns to say goodbye he finds her leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, casual.

“Thanks for letting me finally read for you, handsome,” she says. “Sorry it wasn’t better.”

“As I said… It wasn’t anything I didn’t already know.”

“Well, at least you have that Star to look forward to,” she says, and taps her temple. “Remember that.”

“I suppose,” he says, wrapping his arms around himself to try and keep his fingers warm.

“Well, I’ll see you later,” she says. “Careful on the walk home.”

“Thanks.”

With a final grin she closes the tavern door, and it locks with a thunk. Matheo lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and starts down the path out of town.

----

It feels somewhat silly and juvenile to do it, but considering that he lives alone and that no one but him will ever know, when he gets home he spends some time recreating the image from The Star. It’s probably not perfect, all things considered, but it gets the idea across, and that’s all he’s really trying to do.

He hangs it on the small board in his kitchen, with his calendar, the reminders he’s left to himself, and the thoughtful notes he’s received from his neighbors over the years.

Silly and juvenile, but he’ll take what he can get.

Willow runs for the shelter of the town hall’s arches, holding her hood to keep it from flying off her head. The downpour is so heavy and thick with slush she can hardly see twenty feet in front of her, already soaked to the bone through all of her layers. It had come on so fast that she hopes it’s just a passing squall she can wait out for a few minutes under the archways.

As she nears town hall, though, she almost decides to forgo it and continue home, because Matheo is standing there, similarly drenched, looking impatient and indignant that the sudden storm dared to interrupt his routine. What makes her relent despite her hesitancy is the gust of wind so cold that it rips the breath from her lungs.

A moment.

Just a moment to rest, and then she’ll continue.

She doesn’t even have to talk to him.

She ducks into the archways, shivering, throwing her hood back to push water out of her face and wring out her hair. She can feel Matheo watching her, but she doesn’t bother dignifying him with a sideways glance, focusing instead on trying to lessen her physical discomfort, to little success. She’s pretty sure she has puddles inside her boots.

Alistair, next to her, shakes himself dry, spraying water everywhere, and Matheo groans.

“Really?” he says, stepping away and flicking water off of his hands.

Willow can’t stop the undignified snort of laughter that comes out of her. “Oh, gods, oh no, a little bit more water!” she says. “Is the poor witch doctor going to melt?”

He frowns at her. His hair is slicked back away from his face except for a few uncooperative strays that are stuck to his forehead, and little droplets of water are clinging to his beard. With no small amount of awkwardness, she is reminded of how he looked standing by the edge of the bath, and she turns away, scrubbing at her face under the pretense of trying to dry it but hoping that it will disguise her sudden flush.

“You’re also here, trying to stay dry,” he says.

“Point taken,” she says lamely, any will to further tease him withering away under embarrassment’s unrelenting scrutiny.

He doesn’t reply, lapsing into a silence that’s just this side of being too awkward for Willow to handle. Her attention is diverted from thinking about the bathhouse by a low rumble of thunder and a muted flash of light across the sky.

Her first bodily reaction is to feel sick, reminded of the bonemask; she takes a few deep breaths to calm down, trying to focus on physical sensations to keep herself grounded. The coolness of the temperature, the heavy feeling of her waterlogged clothes on her body, the smell of the air, the sight of the small stream of water flowing from the town hall’s gutter spout down the gentle slope to the southern brook.

“It smells so different here,” she blurts out, mostly to keep herself distracted, but it’s true.

Matheo doesn’t reply.

“I didn’t really notice it until I moved here,” Willow says, “but the capital kind of stinks. Especially when it rains. Smells like oil and gasoline, from the vehicles. Out here it smells like…” She takes a deep breath, savoring the fresh air. It really is wonderful; even in the winter there’s a lingering scent of flowers, and besides that there’s pine, sap, wet soil, flowing water. “It smells like nature. Smells good.”

Matheo crosses his arms, turning to look at her again.

“Sometimes,” he says, “when the wind blew just right, we used to be able to smell the accident site in Meadow Range.”

Willow looks at him now, meets his eyes; his expression is ambiguous, and she gets the feeling he is, once again, trying to remind her of her predecessor’s failings, and to implicate her in them. She’s about to retort when he continues:

“But I suppose that’s a thing of the past, isn’t it? If your restoration of it is permanent, like you think--”

“It is.”

He huffs. “We’ll see.”

Willow crosses her arms now, too, trying to figure out how to reply. She wants to grab his shoulders and shake him back and forth until the good sense that she assumes is inside his head somewhere is dislodged.

“What will it take for you to trust me?” she asks.

He blinks at her, seeming taken aback by the question.

“Like I said, you’ve made it clear that I’ll only ever be a capital chemist to you, but I feel like I’ve done more than enough to prove that I’m not like the chemists who came before.” She pushes her hair out of her face, watching him. “I don’t understand why you still hate me so much.”

He slumps, starts to roll his eyes before thinking better of it. “I don’t hate you,” he says, though even he seems to not fully believe this.

“You told me that you do," she says, thinking back to their argument in Meadow Range, which feels like ages ago now.

“I was angry,” he says, annoyed, and then turns to face her, his hands settling on the pouches of his belt. “Are you implying that you don’t hate the past chemists, knowing what they did?”

“I-I don’t know,” she says, hunching her shoulders. “Maybe, I guess. I’m not sure. But I wouldn’t use that as an excuse to hate a stranger.”

“You’re better than me, then,” he says, bitter, throwing up his hands. “Not all of us can be as perfect as you, chemist.”

She groans, rubbing her eyes. “Gods, stop,” she says. “Can I just have a regular conversation with you for once?”

Matheo goes quiet, his expression returning to ambiguity. Something about his demeanor changes, slight, just enough that she can detect it but can’t identify any specifics.

Another roll of thunder interrupts her thoughts, but the rain also lightens up a bit. Willow leans forward and gazes in the direction of her house, trying to ascertain whether or not to make a run for it.

“If,” Matheo says, overemphasizing the word, “you’ve really restored the site for good…” He crosses his arms, turning his head away from her as if to have plausible deniability of ever saying anything to her that could even be misconstrued as uncruel. “... It will be nice to not have to smell it. To leave it in the past.”

Despite everything, Willow’s heart does an odd little jump inside her ribcage. Is this… Is he trying?

“It will be nice,” she agrees. “It smelled terrible. Like… death. And decay.” Sometimes she thinks she can still sense it clinging to her clothes, or lingering in her sinuses; hopefully it will go away at some point, but at this point she’s not counting on it. “But it can’t hurt anyone or anything anymore. It’s gone, forever. And when spring comes, it will be rainbow dews that we’ll be smelling instead.”

Matheo says nothing, brow drawn in consideration rather than frustration. He watches her like he’s trying to read her thoughts, an ability Willow is very thankful he doesn’t possess.

The rain has eased up enough for the moment that she feels comfortable making the last leg of her journey home, so she pulls her hood up, whistles for Alistair, and starts on her way.

“Try to stay dry, chemist,” Matheo says, and it throws her for such a loop that she stops, looks at him over her shoulder. He’s still watching her.

Feeling heat creeping into her face, she nods, says, “You, too,” and continues on her way home.

Chapter Text

It takes a while before he gathers the nerve, but Matheo does break down and go to the restored site in Meadow Range. It’s becoming increasingly dangerous to leave town as temperatures drop and frost becomes a semi-permanent feature of the world, but the fact that he hasn’t verified the site’s restoration with his own two eyes nags at him, never leaves the back of his mind. So he bundles up, leaves early in the morning because he wants to take his time, tread the safest path, be cautious of the wildlife. He has no desire to run into another bear; he's just started a fresh notebook and to lose it a second time would be humiliating beyond measure.

Despite the who and the why and the how, despite his resentment that the chemist did in mere months what he'd been dreaming of doing for fifteen years, despite his distrust of her motives, despite his doubts about whether or not this will last, whether or not it will blow up in everyone's faces, despite all of it -- it takes his breath away.

It actually takes him a moment to be sure that he's in the correct place, it's so changed. Aside from the empty crater in the ground it would be easy to assume that nothing ever happened here, that this was never a horrific aberration poisoning everything around it.

Everything is lush, alive, even in this weather, that oppressive atmosphere of death wiped clean and replaced by a new sense of rightness, of peace, of purity. It feels, in some respect, like hallowed ground. A tiny realm of reincarnated infancy among its far more ancient kin, afforded a miraculous second chance.

His chest tightens. Aches

He walks over to the cliff face, crouches down where the rainbow dew sprouts are sagging in the frost. But they're there, and seeing them, even in this form, for the first time in so many years, after having almost forgotten what they truly looked like and resigning himself to the reality of their extermination, makes him legitimately emotional.

Assuming this lasts, should the chemist's motives matter when she's restored something sacred like this? When she's contributed a net good to the world? Should he care why she did it when, in the end, what matters is that she did?

He plucks one of the sprouts, pulls it apart carefully, examining it. Its petals and leaves are browned, dying, but it's the natural wilt from the weather and not the rapid, perverse deterioration from being poisoned. It is, so far as he can tell, genuine in every sense of the word, as if the damage from the accident hadn't just been cleared up, but reversed. How had she managed to restore life to something so utterly devoid of it?

And why? Why would she do it? 

He can accept, begrudgingly, that the chemist might be a prodigy, but he still can't make himself trust her. She has no reason to care. She has no logical reason to have done this, except maybe to wipe clean the capital's reputation, or maybe for personal glory.

'Moonbury is my home now, and I’m going to keep doing what I can to fix things because I care.'

But anyone can lie.

Again, he supposes, as he stands up and surveys the rest of the site, teeming with new life, maybe it doesn't even matter.

She did it. And maybe he should be grateful for that.

----

He goes back up north, to the place he'd first noticed the mysterious rashes covering the plants. The same resolve simmers in him again, that he wants to be the one to fix this, that he needs to put an end to the chemist's monopoly on being the resident miracle worker.

She's not special. She's not some unsurpassed deity who’s been gifted with divine knowledge and powers. She’s just a damn human, like anyone else. He has more experience than her, more knowledge, and it's only been his own inaction that's prevented him from doing what she's done.

If he puts the effort in, he can fix things.

He can.

He still has the samples he'd gathered last time, but he gathers a few more from the plants that remain. Retakes the notes he took last time that weren't recovered.

As he's leaving he almost trips over a pangol that darts across the path, and curses in surprise; he's still too jumpy to be out here after last time. He needs to get home.

The pangol stops at the edge of the cliff side, and he watches it; it’s agitated, scratching at its neck, at its sides, at its limbs. It's more troubled by whatever is causing it discomfort than his presence; he takes a few cautious steps forward, lowering himself in an effort to appear smaller and less threatening.

The pangol freezes, body tense, and Matheo stops, both because he doesn't want it to flee, and because he can now see what's making it so edgy. 

Rashes.

The same as the ones on the plants.

His heart drops to his feet, dread flooding the empty space left in its absence.

It's spreading. Undoubtedly yet another gods-damned byproduct of the accidents, the effects of which are still unknown, and it's spreading.

Again? Again, will he have to watch the wilderness languish and deteriorate into a withered husk of itself, just like last time, just like all of the last times, while he can do nothing but stand by, helpless to do anything?

No, but he's not helpless.

He's a professional, with decades of experience. Defeatist hand-wringing will get him nowhere, and it certainly won't produce a cure. He can do this; there's no reason he can't.

He will. He'll do it, or he'll drive himself into the ground trying.

He stands up, resolve calcifying. He's going to go home and get started right now, maybe shut himself up in his house like the chemist if that's what it takes; goodness knows he has little else that requires his attention.

It feels good, in a way, to be focused and determined again, to not feel so aimless. He doesn't handle idleness well, not after so many years without it, and despite his recent indifference to his fate as an apparent relic that no one needs or wants anymore (indifference achieved only after exhausting himself trying to cling to his position as Moonbury's primary healer, without success), he cannot make himself indifferent to suffering.

Maybe his motives aren't the most pure, but he is doing it at least partly out of genuine fear and devotion. He loves and respects nature far too much to turn his back on something he can fix -- and if that happens to include knocking the chemist down a peg or two, all the better.

Feeling more confident and self-assured than he has in a long while… 

… he runs into yet another bear.

----

"A what?" Nova asks, crossing her arms and fixing Matheo with a disapproving frown not unlike the one his mother used to give him when he'd bring wild animals into the house as a child.

"A honeypaw," he repeats, for what feels like the half-dozenth time, holding his ripped jacket and shirt towards her. "Can you fix them?"

Nova takes the clothing with an air of… almost fascination, inspecting the damage.

He'd been nicked in the arm by the honeypaw's claws when they'd mutually startled each other, and though the damage had been superficial, he'd bled through both his shirt and his jacket. Besides that, they're shredded enough that even his mending skills are insufficient.

Nova shakes her head, clicking her tongue. "I don't think I can salvage what's left of the sleeves. I'd have to see if I have any fabrics that are a close enough match to make new ones out of." She fiddles with the tatters, still examining them. "Shouldn't be a problem for the shirt, but I'm less sure about the jacket."

Matheo frowns, thinking. That's his favorite jacket. It's been passed down through several generations of his family. As if losing his notebook (again, and it's just as humiliating as he imagined it would be) hadn’t been enough, now he might also lose an heirloom -- he has to stop thinking he can go into Meadow Range and not incur the universe's wrath somehow.

He sighs. "It's worth the effort, for me," he says.

Nova nods. "Alright." She pulls a pencil from behind her ear, a tiny pad of paper from her apron, and begins jotting down some notes. As she's writing, she says, "I feel like I haven't seen you in a long time, Matheo. Have you been well?" 

He stares past her, at the racks of fabric and clothing waiting to be mended and altered. Feels nothing.

"I've just been busy," he lies.

Nova hums, replacing her pencil behind her ear and regarding him for a moment. "You know, there's going to be a get-together in the tavern tomorrow night. You should come. I'm sure everyone misses you."

Hannah, in the other half of the shop, pokes her blue-and-blonde head out from behind a mannequin she's pinning an elegant black dress onto.

"Oh! Yes! You should!" she says. "It's going to be so fun, and it's a fundraiser, too. We've got some super neat things up for sale." 

Matheo blinks at her, lost. "A fundraiser for what?" he asks.

"For materials to repair the cable car to Glaze Iceberg."

Dread already coiling around his stomach, he asks, “Why?”

"Willow wants to go to the accident site up there."

Matheo shuts his eyes, willing the flash of disdain inside his chest to reduce down to a more manageable flicker. Of course she does. Because performing a single miracle wasn’t enough, she has to be an immaculate saint.

“I’m surprised Myer didn’t just give her the money for it,” he says, unable to keep all of the bitterness out of his voice.

“Oh, he did,” Nova says. “At least, he contributed what he could from the city’s treasury, but it wasn’t enough to cover the entire cost of repairs.”

Matheo clenches his jaw, trying to force himself to say nothing. He’s already alienated himself so much from everyone, airing his grievances (justified or not) with the chemist would only serve to estrange him further.

He fails, however. “Doesn’t it strike either of you as suspicious that she’s taken such an interest in the accident sites?” he asks. “Every other time we’ve given a chemist free run of the island it’s resulted in disaster.”

Hannah tilts her head, looking as though she hadn’t even considered the possibility that the chemist might have impure intentions. “I mean, she’s already fixed one site,” she says. “If she’s trying to destroy things, she’s doing a bad job of it.”

Matheo supposes that’s true. The chemist has had ample chance to follow the examples of her predecessors and yet if that’s ever been her intention, she is doing a poor job of it. It’s a mystifying possibility because no chemist who’s come to Moonbury has ever been anything but a vessel for pernicious egotism.

If the same is true of the chemist, as he's assumed up until now -- as he still assumes -- wants to assume -- what is she waiting for? She already has almost the entire town in her pocket, it would take little effort on her part now to break them on the rocky shore of their misplaced trust. She has the means, the opportunity, the time, and yet… she hasn't.

But it makes no damn sense.

All of the evidence, all of the history, all of the events leading up to this point are irreconcilable with a chemist being virtuous, or even middling. It's ludicrous. Nonsensical .

"You know," Nova says, rubbing her chin in thought, "I wasn't too sure about her at first, either. To be frank, part of me is still waiting for the other shoe to drop." She shakes her head, shrugs her shoulders, seems to be relinquishing any conviction she might still possess right here and now. "But even I have to admit that I might be mistaken about her."

Hannah glances between them. It’s clear she has her own opinion on the matter, but she says nothing, maybe to avoid getting into a confrontation with her mentor.

"Anyway," Nova says, shaking herself out of thoughtfulness. "You really should consider coming tomorrow night. You've been much more of a hermit than usual. Can't be good for you."

Matheo doesn't disagree with her, but the idea of going to a celebration in the chemist's honor, or for her sake, sounds almost comically unappealing. Still, it would be a chance to reconnect with everyone.

"I'll consider it," he says.

"If you do come, make sure to dress nice!" Hannah says.

Matheo frowns at her. "I always dress nice," he says, though his point is rendered less effective by the fact that he's wearing an over-large, dusty old gardening shirt because all of his other, nicer shirts are either in need of washing or have been shredded by a bear.

Both Hannah's and Nova's eyebrows quirk, mirror images of each other.

Defying the reflex to cringe as his ego is grazed, he squares his shoulders, turns, and leaves the shop.

----

It's late.

Matheo yawns, trying to get his eyes to focus, but it's far past midnight, hours later than he usually goes to sleep.

The rashes are eluding his understanding. 

He's only been studying them in any significant depth for a day, of course, but it's still frustrating. This should be simple. Identifying illness has always come so easy to him, and now it seems like so much of it has climbed up to a higher plane of existence than he can reach or comprehend. All of the accidents he's reflected on for years, Rue's illness, now this. It's hard not to feel… broken, somehow, like some vital part of his brain has stopped functioning. Is it the world that's getting more complicated, or is he losing his touch?

Exhausted, he rests his elbows on his desk, and his head in his hands.

It's also hard not to feel like someone or something --the gods, if they exist, or maybe the universe, or maybe some other enigmatic supernatural force-- really is trying to tell him something.

Besides ceasing to be able to do something that had, up until now, been as unthinkingly natural as blinking his eyes or drawing air into his lungs, he’s lost his notes twice, had his role usurped by the chemist, watched his community's favor turn, in every way, towards that usurper, leaving him behind.

He thinks back to when the chemist had called his bluff, ascertained that he feared he was becoming irrelevant.

He'd hoped that fear would go away, but it's only grown heavier and more insistent.

He breathes in.

It's becoming harder to reason his way back to his belief that he is still relevant, that there's no way he would ever truly be unneeded.

It's becoming harder to justify hoping the chemist slips up so he can reveal her duplicity, when everyone has already given themselves over to her anyway. When he can't puzzle out her motives.

It's becoming harder and harder to ignore the idea of leaving.

The idea would have been inconceivable mere months ago. That he would ever leave Moonbury --would ever even contemplate leaving-- would have been laughable, an impossibility. He was born here, raised here, has never been anywhere else and has never wanted to be, knows every part of this island almost as well as he knows himself. This is his home, his community, his heart and soul.

But, gods, is it worth it to stay when it makes him so miserable? When it's moved on without him?

He breathes out.

Drifts off before he can catch himself.

----

Matheo wakes up to the sound of knocking on his door. Disoriented, it takes him several moments to figure out where he is and what he'd been doing. 

He'd fallen asleep at his desk, in his clothes, having apparently not moved all night if the ache in his back is anything to go by. Outside his curtains the light is bright, the sun almost overhead. Midday.

Another knock.

He doesn't have the time or the wherewithal to make himself look more presentable, so he readies himself for the further blemishing of his reputation. When he opens the front door, the light burns his eyes.

"Hey--oh. Are you, uh… okay."

He blinks blearily down at the chemist, who is looking up at him in concern.

He almost closes the door, save for a couple of things: the fact that she's even here of her own free will is intriguing enough on its own, but she's also cut several inches of her hair off, up to her jawline, with a band of colorful woven threads on her head, and the difference is significant enough to give him pause.

"I just woke up," he says, watching her dog dig a hole in the snow-speckled dirt nearby.

Her eyebrows pop up, and then furrow. "It's almost noon," she says.

Matheo is still too tired to be put-out by this information. "Why are you here?" he asks.

Clearly reluctant to change the topic, she says, "Myer lost his pocket watch. The last places he remembers having it are here and the bathhouse."

He almost laughs, leaning against the edge of his door. "Myer hasn't been here in weeks. If it were here he would have noticed its absence before now."

"Alright," she says, somewhat peevish. "Well, I told him I would ask, so. There."

A beat of silence passes, awkward. The chemist shifts her weight from the balls of her feet to her heels and back again, still trying to figure out the exact nature of his dishevelment.

"What is on your head," he says, for some incomprehensible reason, and then almost shuts the door to prevent himself from blurting out anymore inane smalltalk.

She scratches her cheek as it turns pink, seeming more self-conscious than anything else.

"Ah, uh, that was Russo and Laura," she says, pulling the band off and stowing it in her pocket. "I taught them how to make friendship bracelets this morning, but they wanted to make a single really long one."

"Did they cut your hair, as well?"

Her smile is replaced with an apprehensive frown, and she reaches up to run a hand through her hair.

"N-No, Hannah did," she says. "Does it really look that bad?"

"No, it looks fine," he says, and then resolves to drown himself in his bathtub after this.

The chemist stares at him, taken as much aback as he is. There's something disconcerting in her eyes, something earnest, that jars him to move at last.

"Well," he says, tormented by the abandonment of his more intelligent thoughts, "goodbye."

"Oh wait--!"

He shuts the door on her, locks it, but lingers there, sudden adrenaline prickling in his limbs.

"Um…" she mutters, and then she raises her voice, "I was supposed to tell you that you should come to the tavern tonight at six!"

Matheo rests his forehead against the door. Continues to think about the least traumatizing way to drown himself in his bathtub. Says nothing.

The chemist is also silent for a moment, but he can hear the faint jingling of her bag as she fidgets with it, and then the curious sniffing of her dog at the threshold.

She clears her throat. "Or you can go fuck yourself!" she says, her tone an odd mixture of genuine scorn and also lighthearted amusement. "That works, too!"

Involuntarily, he huffs out a laugh.

And then, heart sinking in horror, he goes to the bathroom, fills his tub with frigid water, and climbs in without taking his clothes off.

----

He agonizes about it the entire day.

He does, eventually, get out of the bath. Shaves the stubble off his jaw (which proves to be difficult when he's shivering). Combs his hair. Stares in the mirror and inwardly reprimands himself for feeling anything but disdain for the chemist.

He decides not to go.

He tries to do more research on the rashes and runs into the same impassable walls as before, making no headway. Without his notes he's second-guessing himself, doubting his own surety. He should know this -- he does know this, but he's lost the ability to trust his intuition.

Or maybe he's just incapable.

He changes his mind, decides to go.

He flops onto his bed and stares at the ceiling, thinking very careful, specific thoughts.

He has to acknowledge it at some point, otherwise he'll never be able to move past it, but gods, he doesn't want to.

Somehow, she'd slipped through his walls and disrupted even his defenses, and that he'd let his guard down so much makes him want to sequester himself away for as long as it takes to learn how to exert control over his subconscious.

Him. She'd managed to affect him.

He changes his mind again, decides not to go.

He grits his teeth, gathers his nerves, and lets himself, slowly and uncomfortably, come to terms with it.

He had,

for a moment, 

a singular moment,

out of many,

slipped up,

one time, 

and found himself,

attracted,

to the chemist.

His hand settles over his stomach as it turns, as his mind rebels against this development, as he tries not to let his thoughts wander from the exact path he's plotted for them.

The chemist is objectively pretty. That's a fact. Instinctual attraction to an objectively pretty person doesn't mean anything. It does not indicate a lapse in his integrity.

It simply means that the chemist is pretty, and that he has functioning eyes.

And also functioning libido.

It hits him like someone's just kicked him hard in the sternum, robbing him of breath, sabotaging and disregarding his attempts to refocus his attention.

Images invade his brain, uncontrollable, vivid and erotic.

Her eyes, lidded, pupils blown wide.

Her head thrown back, throat bared.

Her breasts in his hands.

Her ribcage expanding as she gasps for breath.

He imagines pulling her hair, flowers woven into it; imagines burying his face into the crook of her neck and inhaling the scent of soil and herbs, kissing, biting, marking her; imagines pinning her down against sun-warmed grass and fucking her so thoroughly that she can no longer associate the concept with anyone else.

One of his hands fists into his bedsheets, so tight that his knuckles turn white and his tendons ache. His other hand, on his stomach, strays lower, until it's poised so close to his fly that he can feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric.

He jolts up, drags his hands through his hair instead, trying to regain control of his derailed train of thought.

No, no, no no no.

This is the chemist, the chemist, the gods-damned capital chemist -- he doesn't want to think about her like this. She's brought nothing but pain and misery to his life since she arrived and there's absolutely no reason for him to be imagining--

imagining her body pressed up against his, naked and soft--

Gods, NO --

He rushes back to his bathroom and, for the second time today, wrenches the tub on, fills it with freezing water, and climbs in fully clothed.

He changes his mind again. Decides to go.

----

Matheo waits until seven-thirty before he even leaves his house.

He spends most of the intervening time between his second cold bath of the day and getting ready attempting to do more research on the rashes, which proves to be challenging for several reasons. It does, at least, distract him from thinking about the chemist, mostly, even if she continues to linger in the back of his mind like a ghost.

The freezing air is refreshing, though it does little to calm his nerves. Several times he almost turns back, questioning his rationale but then re-convincing himself that, no, this is a good idea. This will help.

Seeing the chemist will help.

Seeing her, and reminding himself of what she’s like in reality (as opposed to the intrusive mental images that are still attempting to divert his attention), reminding himself of her inherent unlikeability and her disreputable origins, reminding himself why he should continue hating her -- it’s good.

He hopes.

As he nears the tavern he smooths out his jacket; without his favorite, and without much idea of what constitutes ‘nice’ when he already dresses nice in general (yesterday notwithstanding), he’d gone with something elegant but understated: a clean silhouette, unadorned, but the color is deep burgundy; with it, a matching tie over a black shirt. He had, at least, been able to wear his usual trousers and boots, but had forgone his cape, which makes him feel exposed, especially in this weather.

The tavern is full of bodies, loud and warm, and smelling of food and alcohol. All the tables and chairs that usually fill the lower level have been moved out, leaving a large open space for people to mill about and chat.

The first thing Matheo notices is that Dan is present, and wearing such an ornate, over-the-top coat and hat that any fear he might have had about being overdressed is wiped away.

The second thing he notices is the chemist, who is talking to Dan. She’s wearing the dress Hannah had been working on: all black, simple, almost to the floor, with tiny beads scattered throughout the skirt that glint in the light. A gold ribbon is tied around her waist, which matches the crescent moon-shaped pendant around her neck and the thin circlet on her head.

She's striking.

Beautiful, even.

He knows, instantly, that this had been a bad idea.

He’s about to leave when Myer approaches him, shakes his hand and pulls him into a brief, companionable hug.

“Matheo!” he says. “You came! I didn't think you would!”

“I don’t think I’ll stay long,” Matheo replies, putting up a mental block between himself and the chemist in his peripheral vision.

Myer looks disappointed. “Oh. Well. At least make a round -- I know everyone has been missing you,” he says. “And check out the items for sale downstairs! There are still a few left, and all proceeds go to repairing the cable car!”

“Noted. I'll talk to you later, Myer,” Matheo says, and takes the opportunity to break away, to head to the raised level of the tavern where it’s less crowded.

Yorn is behind the bar as usual, idly wiping down glasses and keeping an eye on everything on this side of the central wall separating the two halves of the tavern. Matheo slides into the seat opposite him and beside Osman. Both other men regard him as if a dead man has just returned to life.

“Look who it is,” Osman says, patting Matheo’s back.

“Long time, no see,” Yorn says at the same time. “What’ll you have?”

“Something hard,” Matheo says, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder; it would be far too conspicuous and he wouldn’t be able to see her, anyway.

“You got it.”

Matheo sits in silence, caught somewhere between panic and fury.

How in the gods' names had he let this happen?

She cuts her hair and makes him laugh and all of the sudden he's returned to being a teenager incapable of controlling himself, addled by hormones and crude fantasies?

Or, the more horrible possibility, that he's been attracted to her for longer than this and just hasn't noticed somehow? That his integrity really was weakening this entire time and this was just the decisive blow that disintegrated it?

Yorn sets a glass on the counter and Matheo takes it, slams it back so fast he hardly even tastes it except for the harsh burn in his throat. When he sets the glass back down, Yorn fixes him with a dubious stare.

"You alright, doc?" he asks.

I think I might be having a midlife crisis, Matheo doesn't say even though it's partly how he feels, given how he seems to be unable to make any sense of his life as of late.

"Just stressed," he mutters.

Osman spins around on his barstool to lean back against the bar, elbows resting on the counter. He seems to have already had a couple drinks himself; he's not usually so laidback. "Anything any of us can help with?" he asks.

If you could all just stop being fawning sheep and help me kick the chemist out of town so we can all go back to normal and pretend none of this ever happened, that would be great, Matheo once again thinks but doesn't say.

Instead, he slumps forward, resting his chin in his hand.

"I'd take another drink, if you don't mind," he says, because maybe alcohol will lessen the pain of the loss of his remaining dignity. Maybe that’s what he’s needed for a while now, to just drink until he can’t feel anything anymore.

Yorn complies. As he’s pouring another glass, Osman tilts sideways, towards Matheo, and says, “Really, if there’s anything we can help with…” He takes his hat off, runs his hand through his short hair. “I’m know it’s been a little bit of an adjustment for you, with Willow here…”

Yorn sets the glass down, and Matheo picks it up, downs it as quickly as the last one, shaking his head against the fresh burn that spreads through his chest.

“Another, please,” he says as he sets the glass down. Yorn’s stare now turns from dubious to more concerned and disapproving.

“Maybe you should slow down a little, Matheo,” he says. “You sure you don’t want some root beer? Or maybe water?”

Matheo rubs his temples. “I know what I can handle.”

Yorn seems to not believe this at all, but after a moment he shrugs and pours another glass.

“You know none of us mean anything personal by it, right?” Osman says, as the third glass is set on the counter.

“ Osman ,” Matheo snaps as he takes his drink, “please. I don’t want to talk about this.” He takes a breath, trying to cool his temper back down, because Osman isn’t trying to be inflammatory or tactless -- that he’s trying to broach and discuss a sensitive topic is probably a good, mature thing, but Matheo’s pride is far too sore to indulge right now. He didn’t come here to talk about the fact that, regardless of intentions, he’s lost his livelihood, and he didn’t come here to soothe anyone’s guilt, he came here to convince himself that his absurd, unwelcome, aggravating attraction to the chemist is nothing but a fleeting whim, and he seems to have failed at that, too.

He stands up, intending to walk away, and then pauses. Downs the drink in his hand and sets the glass on the bar. “I’m sorry,” he says.

And then he walks away.

He glances into the main area, sees the chemist talking with Rue and Martha. They seem to be discussing her dress, as she grabs the skirt and pulls it out to either side, swishes it in an apparent effort to show off the beads, which sparkle like little stars.

Her smile is wide, exuberant.

She has dimples.

He's never noticed before.

Damning himself and desperately wishing he could un-notice that, Matheo walks across the room to the downstairs passage as fast as he can while remaining inconspicuous. He takes the stairs two at a time, trying to ignore the increasing din of low-grade anxiety in the back of his brain and wishing he had another drink.

Thankfully the arcade is cooler than upstairs, with no one currently milling about, and he takes a deep, steadying breath as he moves into the main room, where tables are set up to display the various wares on sale.

As Myer said, most of them are gone by now, but some remain: a couple of hand-knitted items from Mariele, some ornate tools and knives from Opalheart and Runeheart, fishing nets and poles from Leano and Ottmar, some jewelry from Nova's shop, and some baked goods from Mercy and Lucke.

Matheo passes them, pretending to browse, his thoughts still stuck upstairs and refusing to join him down here.

Why is he even still here? He should go. He should go home and curl up in his bed with his blankets over his head and just stay there for a while until all of this blows over and he can go back to functioning like a normal human being. He should go back to the Meadow Range site and lay in the snow and breathe in the fresh clean air and meditate on his failure as a healer until he gets his shit together.

He needs to stop thinking about the chemist.

He needs some way to turn his thoughts off. They're far too loud, and far too dismaying.

He needs more alcohol.

"Hey there, handsome." Helene's voice pulls him back to the room, and he blinks, looks up at her from where he's been staring blankly at a display. She's leaning back against the wall, idly shuffling her deck of tarot cards, her grin genuine but the glint in her eye mischievous. "Thinking of someone special?" she asks.

It takes him a moment to cotton on, realizing that the display he's standing in front of is one of moon brooches from the Silky Stitch.

His muscles itch. Some part of him, deep inside, wants to lose it, go into full-fledged panic and outrage, flip tables and throw things at walls. He feels like he's losing his mind.

Helene laughs before he gets a chance to reply, either not noticing his nearness to nervous breakdown or choosing to ignore it. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Matheo doesn't trust himself to open his mouth. Doesn't trust that what comes out won't be unintelligible shouting.

A beat passes.

"You feeling alright, Matheo?" Helene says, setting her cards aside and stepping forward. "You want me to get Willow?"

"No." He says it with such sharpness that it's impossible it wasn't suspicious somehow, but Helene throws her hands up, shrugging, apparently satisfied enough that he replied at all.

"Alright, alright," she says, leaning against the back of a chair, hip cocked. "How 'bout another tarot reading?"

The thought is disquieting. Makes his stomach twist at the new horrible potentialities they might find. But the conversation is diverting, at least.

"I think I'll pass."

She sighs overactedly. "Oh, no fun," she says, without conviction. She leans down, grabs something under the table. "It's been sooo boring cooped up down here."

Matheo's eyes track the movement of the wine bottle she lifts to her lips and drinks from. It is not a bottle meant for consumption by one person, although of course Helene doesn't care.

She notices his abject staring and her grin turns into a smirk.

"That kind of day, huh?" she asks, holding the bottle towards him.

That she was just drinking from the same bottle is so far beyond his current concern one would have to have a telescope to observe it.

He tries not to seem too eager as he takes it, tries not to take so long a drink that she has anymore excuse to ask him invasive questions, tries not to think about what his immediate future holds if this harrowing mental torture continues.

“Do you ever feel like you’re just the gods’ plaything,” he states more than asks, returning the wine, and Helene huffs.

“Can’t say I do,” she says. “Feels easier to just believe that all my fuckups are my own fault. Then at least they’re in my control.”

Matheo feels himself grinding his teeth, but with too much nervous energy in himself to stop.

He’s not sure whether this being some sick joke pulled by divinity, or being in his control is worse. If the former, at least he doesn’t have to take any sort of responsibility for it. He can defer blame for this plight elsewhere, wash his hands of accountability, accept (however unenthusiastically) that he’s the victim of divine mischief, and exile this awful, horrible interest in the chemist to the bottom of his consciousness, partitioned away where it won’t do anymore harm. He can ignore any of this ever happened. He can go on like normal.

But if it’s within his control… If he’s the one who’s been unknowingly steering this ship and has crashed himself into the sandy shoals of this catastrophe… What does that say about his integrity? His ability to trust that he won’t continually, repeatedly fail in his attempts to reinstate proper animosity between them? How many times has he already failed?

Looking back now, he can see the standouts. The moments he let his guard down. Every conversation he’s had with her that wasn’t adequately hostile. Every thought he’s had about her as a person instead of a chemist. Every damn moment of weakness or sympathy where the carefully curated shell around his heart chipped just the tiniest amount, too minute for him to notice until now, when the damage might be too severe to repair.

Has he done this to himself? His lack of vigilance, lack of conviction, lack of principle?

Gods, the implications don’t bear thinking about.

“Hey,” Helene says, her soft voice like a thunderclap in the muffled silence of the room, startling him out of his spiral. “You know if there’s something bothering you, you can talk to me, right?” She crosses her arms. “You know I’m good for it. Pain of death.”

Matheo watches her. He feels like he’s about to break apart, like the edges of himself are about to shatter and he’s just going to liquefy into a goopy puddle on the ground.

So close to telling her. It’s right behind his teeth, begging to come out, desperate for the possibility that Helene might be able to say something to soothe his bruised ego, or to pick apart the tangled mess of his thoughts. Desperate for someone, anyone, to talk to.

But if there’s even the barest chance that word might get back to the chemist…

Those edges of himself threatening to crumble clamp back together, determined and stubborn. He’s not going to risk the obliteration of the last vestiges of his pride. He can’t. The idea of the chemist ever discovering this weakness sends an ice-cold sharpness through his body, like someone’s taken a razor to his insides.

No one can know.

No one.

Ever.

He takes a breath. Gathers himself. Stands up straighter. “I appreciate it,” he says, “but I’m fine.”

Helene’s doubtfulness is clear, and for a moment it seems like she might push, poke her finger into the still-fragile membrane between the plates he’s trying to knit back together. But she doesn’t.

“If you say so.”

The din of music from the floor above makes her look up, lightness returning to her face.

“Oh, they’re starting the dancing,” she says. “That means I’m officially done for the night. Finally.” She glances at him, pausing. “Um, assuming you didn’t want to buy anything.”

Matheo shakes his head.

“Alright, perfect.” She rounds the table, wine in hand, holding it towards him. “Here. You seem like you need this more than I do,” she says.

He takes it. He’s not sure if he still has an appetite for alcohol, but he finds himself grateful nonetheless.

Helene gestures towards the staircase. “Let’s go.”

----

Matheo intends to leave when they get back upstairs, but there are so many people dancing that the exit is effectively blocked. Helene joins the fray, leaving him alone, and, resigned to his fate until he either runs out of patience and bowls people over to get out, or the crowd thins, he flops into one of the chairs lined up around the perimeter of the room and takes a long drink of wine.

When his eyes are drawn (like a gods-damned moth to a flame, and just as self-destructive) to the chemist he tries to muster all the animosity he still can through the wavering haze of the alcohol in his veins.

He’s not sure if he succeeds.

She dances in the middle of the crowd, by herself, chattering and laughing with the people around her. She’s removed the circlet from her head, as well as her shoes, and her face is flushed with drunkenness.

Matheo takes a drink.

She dances with Dan, rowdy and joyous, squealing with laughter every time he pivots them around in a spin. Her skirt billows out, beads sparkling, revealing glimpses of her bare legs underneath.

Matheo takes a drink.

She dances with Victor, too; they hold hands and pull each other around, spinning one under the other’s arm, twisting and dipping in a frolic that only barely syncs to the music. And then she dances with Martha, even less coordinated, and then with Reyner and Runeheart, which only lasts a few minutes before all three of them are doubled over with laughter, the chemist looking so damned happy it’s a wonder she’s still on the ground.

Matheo takes a drink.

She breaks away from the dancing then, goes and gets some water, and then stumbles, alarmingly, in his direction.

He’s not coordinated enough to get up and move before she’s dropped onto the seat next to him. She smells like fruity alcohol.

“Hey,” she says, running her hands through her hair, maybe in an attempt to neaten it but having the opposite effect.

“Hello,” he says stiffly, suddenly wishing he was more sober.

She blinks at him, slow, like Kipps does sometimes. “I-I didn’t think you’d come,” she says, “but everyone’s happy to see you.”

Even you? he thinks dubiously. He wishes he could find something rude to say to her, just to make himself feel better. He takes another drink of wine.

“H-Hey, I wanna tell you something,” she says, leaning forward a little bit; he leans back. “When I went to pick up my dress from Silky Stitch, I saw your jacket there, and Nova… um, Nova mentioned that it needs repairs, right?”

He remains silent.

The chemist continues on, unperturbed. “But she mentioned that the fabric might be… hard to match,” she says, narrowing her eyes, like she’s trying to remember the details of the conversation through her drunken haze. “Um, well, I wanted to tell you… that, I-I know you hate the capital, um, but, if you want, I bet… I could find a fabric there that matches for you. If… If Nova doesn’t have any. There’s lots of tex… text… uh, fabrics in the capital.”

He watches her, trying to figure out why she might be offering this. Another way to endear herself to the town? To him? Another way to play at being the hero of Moonbury with all the answers to everyone’s problems?

He has to be vigilant. He cannot let her sneak under his guard again.

“No, thank you,” he says, wanting to rip out his tongue for that lukewarm rebuttal.

“S-S-Standing offer,” she says, shrugging. She rubs her face, particularly her eyes, as though she’s getting tired, and then sighs, scooting up to the front of her chair. “Um, hey, you wanna dance?”

An abhorrent mix of interest and incredulity fills him, and before he can stop himself he asks, “What?”

“D’you wanna dance?” she asks, gesturing with her head to where everyone else is dancing. “You’re like, th-the only person who hasn’t danced tonight, I’m pretty sure.”

Is that true? If it is, how would she know? Has she been keeping tabs to make sure everyone’s put in their due time, or has she been scrutinizing his choices specifically?

He glances around the room, taking stock of everyone still here. There are quite a few people on the floor dancing, clumsy with collective drunkenness, but laughter and slurred chattering fills the air. It's chaotic coziness and camaraderie, and some part of Matheo (the achingly lonely part that's been deprived of human contact as of late) longs to be a part of it.

Vigilance, he reminds himself. Do not lower your guard.

She grabs his hand and pulls on it, imploring.

He pulls away, glaring at her.

She's got that earnestness in her eyes again, like when he'd (damn him) told her her hair looked fine. It feels precarious somehow, a brimming glass whose surface tension is about to break, like he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to. It makes the muscles in his shoulders buzz with anxiety, and he ignores all the parts of his mind that try to read into that look, try to puzzle it out.

"One dance?" she says, holding up her index finger. "It's a… I-It's a party, you have to dance at parties."

Again, he watches everyone else dancing, and that little pang of loneliness returns. He misses… being human. Being among friends. Misses his life.

Vigilance, vigilance, vigilance, he thinks, begs of himself.

She slips her hand into his again, slow and gentle, and his skin tingles. This time it's an offer rather than a demand.

He meets her gaze. She grins, uncertain but genuine.

Damn it all. He blames his vague drunkenness for the way he lets her pull him to his feet, because it's easier, safer, and less painful than admitting to anything else.

When they reach the middle of the room she turns around and sets her free hand on his shoulder, draws closer, farther into his space than she's ever been before; he almost holds his breath, or braces for it, willing himself to feel nothing as he sets his hand on her back.

Her grin is all teeth, a white contrast to the ruddy red of her cheeks.

She dips to the side, takes him with her; the music isn't slow (thank the gods), but it's not particularly fast, either, and she seems uninterested in anything structured, preferring to go wherever her whims take her, bouncing around and swaying and spinning with him.

It's curious. Foreign. Matheo has never been one for dancing, moreso because of lack of interest than an active dislike, and has very little experience with it. Dancing with the chemist, in particular, is bizarre from a conceptual standpoint, but he’s also not used to this closeness, not used to moving this way, not used to this unfamiliar whimsy that's trying its best to sprout up between the cracks in his determined indifference.

It doesn’t help that he’s more than a little bit tipsy, that the world feels fuzzy and pleasant and wavering at the edges. It’s as disorienting as it is stupefying, and makes it much harder to hold onto any sense of priority: should he be dancing with the chemist? No. Is he doing so anyway, and enjoying it? Yes. And it’s very hard to focus on his mission to re-hate her with all the extraneous stimulation barraging him right now.

She swings him around but it's graceless and stumbling; they bump into Cassandra and Osman, who laugh, and the chemist laughs, too, babbling an apology as the other couple continues on their way.

Matheo backs up, a little away from the crowd so they have more room. The chemist continues to giggle as she's dragged along, as her jumbled vestibular system makes the involuntary movement feel more intense and entertaining than it actually is.

They continue dancing for a moment, and then she steps away, still holding his hand.

"Give me a spin!" she says.

Given that she's significantly shorter than him, spinning under her arm is almost unfeasible, and is impossible to do with any grace. Still, rolling his eyes, he does it, even though he doesn't know why, having to bend sideways to get under her arm.

He finds himself laughing when he stands up straight again, and the chemist is almost jumping up and down with excitement. He raises her hand over her head.

"Go on."

She spins, twice for good measure, giving him a crooked, playful smile over her shoulder as she does. Even as tipsy as she is she still manages to look mischievous.

As she’s coming out of her second spin he pulls her in, slips his arm around her waist, swings to the side. Her hand lands not on his shoulder, but on his collar, almost the back of his neck, and her expression shifts, perplexed and intrigued, eyes sparkling.

They weave to and fro, pressed close.

Her body is warm, small but solid under his hand, the buttons up the back of her dress catching his fingernails.

She looks starstruck.

When he leans forward she leans back, synchronous, like they’ve reached the same wavelength and are moving as one instead of two. It’s easy, fluid, fun, makes him feel high and uninhibited and happy. There's a wild lightness filtering into him, from somewhere deep inside him, buried so long now he’d kind of forgotten what it feels like.

Her expression shifts again, becomes softer and more sincere.

“What?” he can’t help but ask.

She huffs. “I-I don’t think I’ve ever seen you s-smile,” she says. “It’s n-nice.”

Gods, it is nice.

The song fades out, and they come to a stop. The chemist stares at him, the corners of her mouth still tilted up.

The next song is slow and lilting, and something vengeful inside of Matheo’s chest gets an icy fist around his heart and squeezes.

He gasps, though he’s able to disguise it with a deeper breath, and then he steps back, away from the chemist. She seems understanding, for what it’s worth, maybe in agreement, and they stare at each other for a moment. Her brows tilt, smile turning conciliatory, like she’s sorry for something. Or maybe it’s assurance? But what would she be assuring either herself or him of?

He takes another breath, ambivalent, and walks away.

He goes back to the upper level of the tavern and sits at one of the tables. Rue is sitting there as well; she looks tired, leaned against the table with her head in her hand, eyes half closed.

Matheo’s chest aches, that light contentment and that heavy uncertainty battling for dominance, with the latter beginning to take hold. His head is too muddled by alcohol to think properly, but he knows he’s made a mistake.

He’s made another mistake.

Another gods-damned mistake.

His entire life seems to have escaped his grasp and is spiraling further and further out of his control. And he keeps letting it. Is it weakness, lack of willpower? Is it self-sabotage, letting subconscious desire overpower his more rational and logical mind despite the fact that he should --that he does-- know better?

“Have you been having a good time tonight?” Rue asks, her voice quiet and monotone with sleepiness.

Matheo stares across the large room at the chemist, who is sitting on a chair, pulling her shoes back on and talking to Martha. He does not think about the feeling of her body pressed against his, or about her excited smile, or about the warmth of her hand. He thinks about the fact that she’s a chemist from the capital, that she’s just like all the other chemists from the capital. That she has to be, because if she’s not…

“I’m… not sure, to be honest,” he says, facing Rue.

“I guess it’s a lot, huh,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “It was nice to have everyone all together, though. Moonbury is so small, but I still feel like there are people I don’t really talk to very much.”

The slow song comes to an end, and the remaining townsfolk seem to take that as a fitting place to end the night. As everyone begins gathering their things, Myer and Mariele come to retrieve Rue.

“Matheo!” Myer says as he pulls his jacket on. He, like the chemist, seems thoroughly drunk, face flushed and gait unsteady. “Y-You looked like you were having f-fun. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you d-dance!”

Matheo says nothing, just pushes his hands into his pockets and puts on a pleasant, neutral grin.

“And with W-Willow, no less!” Myer laughs, patting Matheo’s shoulder. “I’m s-so glad you two s-seem to be getting along finally. I've b-been so worried.”

Resentment bubbles up between everything else, and it’s been such a long stretch of uninterrupted time since he’s felt it that it takes him by surprise.

You were right to worry, that resentment wants to say. This is all your fault.

But it’s not. Not really.

As he watches Mariele help Rue shrug into her coat, he can’t help but be reminded of his own failure.

It’s not Myer’s fault.

It’s Matheo’s.

Because if he’d just been better , if he’d been able to cure Rue, if he’d been able to do the one singular thing he’s always done, if he hadn’t failed … Myer would never have felt the need for the chemist’s help.

He feels sick.

“Are you leaving?” Myer asks, not of Matheo, but of the chemist, who is standing near the front doors, bundling up in her cloak.

She nods, coming over to give Myer a hug. “Y-Yeah,” she says. “Th-Thanks for doing this, Myer.”

“Willow, dear,” Mariele says, “be careful on the walk back, alright?”

“Yes, yes!” Myer says. “In fact, Matheo, why don’t y-you walk her home?”

He meets the chemist’s gaze at the exact moment she meets his, and they seem to share the same feeling of unsurety.

“Myer,” Matheo says, flat.

“O-Oh, th-that’s okay,” the chemist says. “It’s not a long walk.”

“N-Nonsense!” Myer says, oblivious. “We’re all l-leaving, anyway, aren’t we? And it’s not l-like your house is th-that far out of Matheo’s way.”

He shuffles all of them towards the exit; Matheo doesn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Yorn, Martha, or Helene, as within seconds he’s standing outside, the cold air rendered even more biting in comparison to the tavern’s inviting heat.

Myer babbles about having Xiao collect the earnings tomorrow and take stock of what’s still needed to repair the cable car, and promises to be in touch, and then he, Mariele, and Rue walk off, leaving Matheo and the chemist alone.

Matheo glances at her out of the corner of his eye; she seems uncomfortable, though that’s not surprising. It only lasts a moment, however, before she pulls the hood of her cloak over her head and sighs.

“I-I’m going home,” she says. “You don’t… Y-You don’t have to walk me.”

He wants to acquiesce, but his voice refuses to obey, and it’s for the better, anyway, since as she starts walking he finds himself falling into step next to her like a fucking lost puppy, unable to exert any diametric force.

When she notices, she slows down a little bit, like she’s giving him a chance to catch up except that she’s the one who has to take two steps for every one of his.

“C-Can I ask you something?” she asks.

Inside his pockets, he clenches his hands into fists. She’s giving no clue as to what she might want to ask, and he's not sure, right now, whether or not he wants to agree to answer a question he has no idea the context of.

He just hums, in a vague enough tone that she’s free to interpret it as either consent or rejection.

She takes it as the former. “What were you… Um… Wh-Why did you sleep in s-so late?” she asks.

He looks at her, befuddled. It’s a strange thing to ask, and again, he has no guess as to her intentions.

“Why?”

“‘S just unusual,” she says. “A-And you s-seemed, like… I dunno, like… not good.”

He rolls his eyes. “Stop beating around the bush,” he says.

She looks at him now, concerned. “A-Are you okay?” she asks.

The question takes him aback, not just because she’s the one asking it, but also because of the nature of the question itself. How long has he gone without asking it himself?

Is he okay?

Gods, is he?

He doesn’t feel like it.

“Why do you care?” he asks, and even though it’s out of genuine curiosity his voice still turns sharp out of habit.

“I mean…” She half-shrugs. “I-I just… I-I know you can take care of y-yourself, but… um… if you’re ever unwell and y-you feel like you need help, you know you c-can come to me, right?”

Matheo stares down at his feet, unsure what he’s feeling, or what he’s even supposed to be feeling. At this point, maybe, his emotions are so tired from his constant flip-flopping that he’s numb to feeling anything at all. But that’s what he wanted, after all, when he started drinking tonight.

“I j-just wanted to m-make sure you knew. Considering, um… Considering how th-things have been b-between us. I-I w-wont ever turn you away," she says, as they near her front door. "A-Anyway." She pauses, turns towards him.

They stare at each other.

It’s very, very quiet.

Her brows are furrowed, just a little bit, her eyes determined and searching, though he’s not sure what for. Under her cloak he can see her chest rising and falling as she breathes.

She steps forward.

Reaches out, grabs the knot of his tie.

He stiffens, preparing to resist being pulled, but she doesn’t attempt to do that, just rests her hand there, like she’s trying to convince herself to take the next step.

Her expression is intense, still searching, that earnestness in her again but with a vulnerability that makes him nervous. Her eyes scan his face, land on her hand, and then back up, to his mouth.

“Chemist,” he pleads. His heart feels like it’s going to give out, beating hard and fast against his tightened ribcage like a panicked little bird.

Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. It’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t get it out. Another failure, just like his other failures regarding her, including his current inability to move away, crushed by the opposing pressures of dread and apprehension, and temptation and desire.

She tilts her head, in affirmation that she heard him, but still just continues to stare, her own inner battle evident.

She takes another step forward. She’s close enough that he can feel the warmth of her alcoholic breath on his neck.

“Willow.” As firm as he can. Begging her to stop, because he’s too weak to.

She blinks, alertness returning to her eyes, like she’s coming out of a daze.

She lets go of his tie, steps away, pulls her arm back to fold with her other one and curl around her middle. She looks troubled.

“U-Um,” she says. “I-I’m… I…” She clears her throat, looking away from him, her cheeks darkening even more. “Th-Thanks for walking me home. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he says, and seizes the dismissal, however reluctant it might seem, turning on his heel and wasting no time putting distance between them.

He has to get home.

He has to get home and fix this, somehow. No matter how drastic the measures might be.

Chapter Text

Willow wakes up to find herself still half-dressed, her dress pulled down to her waist as though she'd gotten frustrated trying to take it off last night and just given up instead.

She pushes herself to her feet, groggy, and pulls the dress up over her shoulders as it's intended to be removed. As she does so, she inhales the scent of alcohol clinging to the fabric, as well as Matheo's cologne--

Oh, gods--

The jolt that runs through her is so severe that she has to sit back down on her bed, scrambling to pull the dress off and toss it onto her nearby chair before the scent of Matheo becomes too overwhelming to handle.

Oh, GODS--

She huddles into a ball, trying to think, trying to remember what she did last night. She'd been so far under the table that what few recollections she has access to are fragmented and blurry, but she’s pretty sure she remembers the end of the night.

She lets her head drop to rest on her knees, covering it with her arms because it feels like the appropriate amount of shame. She doesn't even want to think about it, but she can't not.

She had, honest to the gods, been about to kiss him.

What had come over her? Even in the moment it felt risky and not quite right, but she’d been powerless to stop herself, enough alcohol in her veins to put her past the reach of her own restraint. The only reason she stopped is because he said her name; it was the first time that he called her something other than ‘chemist’ or a pejorative, and he’d said it in such a serious, sharp tone -- because of course he had, because she’d been about to kiss him and he hates her. 

She grabs her pillow and yells into it, flooded with nerves; Alistair, on the floor, jumps to his feet on high alert. She’s made a complete fool of herself.

She should apologize.

Or maybe not, maybe that would just make things worse.

Did he take it as a grave insult, another reason to characterize her as a thoughtless, impulsive lowlife with no respect for boundaries? Or did he take it as an absurd fuckup, something to hold over her head forever?

Maybe she should write him an apology letter so she never has to interact with him in person again.

But crossing a boundary like that deserves more than a letter, right?

Or is it an exception when the other person hates you?

A knock on her front door startles both her and Alistair, who barks a couple times in response. Willow hushes him, hurrying to find clothes to pull on.

She settles on a bathrobe, and after making sure she’s decently covered, she makes her way to the door; everything is still shivery if she moves too fast, her brain feeling like a tiny pebble rolling around the empty basin of her skull.

“Coming!” she shouts when there’s a second knock. It takes her a second to get her door unlocked, during which she prays to whoever might be listening that the person on the other side of the door is not Matheo.

The world outside is so bright that she has to shield her eyes, pain erupting through her sinuses.

“Good morning, Willow,” Xiao says, the perfect picture of decorum. As Willow's bleary vision clears, she sees that he's just as pristine as he always is, not a hair out of place on his handsome head.

"Ough… Is it still morning?" she says, as Alistair squeezes between her leg and the door frame to dart outside.

Xiao's smile turns amused and sympathetic. "Late morning, but yes," he says. "How are you feeling after last night?"

"Mmmmm…" Willow hums, "fffairly hungover?"

Xiao nods, sliding his hands into his pockets. "That seems to be the consensus among everyone I've talked to this morning."

"And you?"

He huffs. "I've been less hungover before, I won't lie," he says, and then straightens his stance. “At any rate… I wanted to tell you that I gathered all the profits from last night.”

Willow’s heart jumps in trepidatious excitement. “And?”

“We didn’t quite hit what we needed, but Opalheart is absorbing the extra cost and has already put in the order for materials,” Xiao says, smiling fondly, no doubt proud of his community’s commitment to helping each other out.

Willow’s heart jumps again, almost taking her with it. “Really?” she gasps.

“Mm hmm.” Xiao nods. “She said that we can expect the cable car to be serviceable by the end of next week.”

A third jump, and Willow feels inciting weariness now in her tired body; this is too much excitement too soon after waking up with a raging hangover. The part of her that doesn’t want to go back to bed still wants to dance around in happiness, though. “So soon?” she says.

Xiao nods again, and then shrugs one shoulder. “Well, it will take a little longer than that for repairs to be fully finished, but she said that she expects it should be perfectly safe to use before that point, if you’re really eager to go.”

“I am!” Willow says, and Xiao chuckles.

“That’s what Opalheart figured,” he says. “So, start making sure you’re prepared, I’d say. Glaze Iceberg is freezing and dangerous, and the wildlife there is pretty vicious, as well. Maybe talk to Forrest and Bubble about their recommendations?”

“I will,” Willow says, that trepidation returning.

“Good,” Xiao says. “If there’s anything else I can help you with, please let me know, okay?”

“Thank you, Xiao,” she says. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sounds good.”

They wave goodbye to each other, and Willow whistles for Alistair to come back, then closes the door when he’s inside. Her mind is racing already. She has to prepare, has to research, has to figure out how to get to the site and what to expect when she finds it. She has to make sure she can keep herself safe, and not freak out if things take a bad turn like last time. So much to do, and she’s not sure where to start.

As Alistair pants up at her with an air of excited expectation, she supposes that breakfast is as good a place as any.

----

Keeping busy ends up being easier than she expected.

A few days after the party, Lucke comes stumbling into the clinic, with every symptom of the flu.

Willow prepares herself. It’s that time of the year, and where there’s one flu, there are several more waiting in the wings. She checks Lucke into the clinic, brews up a medicinal potion, makes him drink as much water as she can manage, and then leaves him with a pile of books from university so he can rest. He’d probably be able to manage it at his home, but Moonbury’s townsfolk are in such close contact with each other that it feels prudent to keep him at the clinic. Besides, she knows he enjoys the dedicated reading time.

A couple days later, Garret comes in, exhibiting the same symptoms. Willow checks him in, repeats the process (except in place of books to read, she jerry-rigs an easel he can set on his lap so he can paint; it’s not glamorous, but it is functional), and then she does it again the next day when Laura comes in (Laura gets the best of both worlds: a mix of books and art supplies). Garret stays in the clinic a little longer than his children, as his health fluctuates and the flu takes advantage of his lowered immune system, but after some careful monitoring, some additional medicine, and some much-needed rest, he, too, goes home.

After that, things slow down a bit.

Willow tries to chug fluids, tries to eat well, tries to keep her health in check so she can stave off the flu for as long as possible. Since becoming a chemist, she’s only managed to prevent catching it one time, but she is usually successful in warding it off until it’s passed through most everyone else. Handy for a chemist, to not be sick and out of commission when everyone else needs help. Though, she supposes, if she’s unable to work, Matheo is also available.

She tries not to think about Matheo.

She does see him, sometimes, most often from a far enough distance away that she can divert her path and go somewhere else. That damned almost-kiss continues to haunt her every otherwise-unoccupied step, and she still has no idea what to say to him.

She reads through the Incident Report, reads about anything relating to the Glaze Iceberg accident; there are even fewer details about this one than there were about Meadow Range, but she tries to absorb what she can. The extinct flower, yggdrasil, in particular, interests her. There are so few flowers she’s aware of that thrive in cold conditions, and according to the Incident Report, they had already been dying off before the capital chemists even arrived. It sends her mind racing with theories, but she has nothing else to go off of, so theorizing is all she gets.

Will she get to see a yggdrasil in person, like the rainbow dews, or is she almost at the last dregs of her luck?

Can she pull this off again? Can she perform two miracles, like a figure of myth?

Is her presence here, at just the right time, with just the right skillset, full of just the right amount of determination, a lottery’s chance, mere coincidence, or has it passed the threshold into divine appointment? Was she always meant to be here, now?

She’s not really sure if she believes in destiny, or fate, or preordination. If she was meant to be here to fix this, wouldn’t that mean the accidents were meant to happen as well? To what end? All the rot and deterioration and death, for what?

Easier to swallow if she blames human foolishness, and less unsettling to take heart in her own autonomy.

Regardless of the reason, she’s here, and she has the means and opportunity to do something about it. She just has to keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other.

She prepares in any other way she can think of. She commissions some warm gear from Hannah, has Runeheart check over her hatchet, refreshes herself on any potions to help stave off frostbite and exhaustion and brews several of each, as well as some experimental defensive potions she hopes might help her in the event of another bonemask situation.

Zeke comes into her clinic with a high fever, persistent cough, and fatigue, a little too near pneumonia for Willow’s comfort. She knows that his inadequate shelter has contributed to the seriousness of his condition but he won’t hear a word of it, and she gives up wasting her time.

They discuss the capital, and it’s so novel to do so with someone who has firsthand experience like her, who knows which businesses she references shopping at, which streets she talks about traveling. Given his former position when he lived in the capital he’s able to tell her all sorts of wild stories, and as he delves into the complicated web of social mores and privileges and mind games involved in navigating the upper class Willow starts to feel like there’s an entire secret world she’s only seeing glimpses of. It’s bizarre to try and reconcile the things he tells her about the capital’s aristocracy, with her own experiences and how she understands the world to work.

It makes her wonder, again and again and again, whether the medical association’s intentions in Moonbury were purely altruistic.

It’s strange to feel like she may no longer belong to the place she called home for so many years.

It makes her determination settle into her bones.

----

When Willow gets word that the cable car is almost finished, it’s like her world simultaneously speeds up and slows down. She can feel her mindset shifting, focus narrowing, priorities crystalizing. All of her preparations, by necessity, enter their final stages as her near future locks itself together. Will they be enough? Has she forgotten anything?

Her order from Silky Stitch is finished the day before she’s set to leave, and is the last thing she needs.

Hannah pulls out the jacket with a flourish, beaming, clearly proud of her work. “Ta dah! What do you think?”

Willow is, as always, more than a little bit awed. The jacket is beautiful, made of wool with a quilted, down-filled insulating liner and fur around the hood. It feels almost too luxurious to wear for such a rugged journey, but as soon as Willow tries it on it’s like stepping into the water at the bathhouse so there's no chance she's leaving without it.

“Gods, you never cease to amaze, Hannah,” Willow says, turning to survey herself in the mirror. “And on such short notice, too.”

Hannah claps her hands together. “Honestly, your requests have been such fun challenges for me. I feel like I’ve been stretched as a designer and a seamstress,” she says, pulling her hair over her shoulder and combing her fingers through it. “Do you think it’ll be warm enough for the mountain?”

Willow is almost sweating here in the shop, but up on Glaze Iceberg?

“Honestly, I have no idea what to expect,” she says. “But it’s a lot warmer than anything else I have, and if it’s somehow not enough I’ll be surprised.”

Hannah’s expression becomes a bit more serious as she meets Willow’s eyes in the mirror. “Do you think you’re ready?” she says. “No one’s been up the mountain in like, a really long time.”

Willow runs through her mental checklist on instinct, for the hundredth time. It’s a near compulsion at this point. Food, clothes, potions, medical supplies, sample bottles, research-- “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” she says, half-shrugging.

“You have more guts than me,” Hannah says, wrinkling her nose. “I hate the cold. Makes my skin so dry."

Willow grins. Her skin being dry wasn’t even a thought she’d had about this excursion, but it’s not like it’s an invalid concern, and it ends up adding itself to the growing list in her brain. At this point the list has grown so long she doubts she’d be doing this if she didn’t have such a personal stake in these accidents. Not guts, but obligation.

She’s about to voice this to Hannah when the front door opens, and Nova’s greeting of, “Oh, Matheo, here to pick up your jacket?” makes Willow’s stomach petrify inside her body.

She tries very hard to act natural, although the sudden rush of heat through her body makes her new coat feel suffocatingly hot. She stares at herself in the mirror, refusing to acknowledge the redness of her cheeks and praying that Hannah doesn’t notice and say something.

“I think the fabric is a fair match,” Nova says, and Willow cautiously watches the conversation in the mirror, over her shoulder -- or at least, Nova’s side of the conversation. She can’t bring herself to look at Matheo. “Not perfect, but you really have to get close and look to see the difference.”

“I appreciate it, Nova,” Matheo says. “Truly.”

Nova hums. “Just don’t go running into anymore bears,” she says. “Much as I appreciate the business, I’d rather it not come at the cost of your safety.”

Matheo huffs out something that might be a laugh. “Noted,” he says.

He pays, and Willow lets her eyes shift to look at him--

--right as he turns and meets her eyes in the mirror.

Her heart rate jumps, stomach trying to squirm out of that petrified shell it formed. A not-insignificant part of her almost succeeds in convincing her to run for it, dash out of the store into the welcoming relief of the frost outside.

The only reason she doesn’t, really, is because Matheo walks over to stand between her and the exit.

“Is this for Glaze Iceberg?” he asks, pulling on his jacket.

Willow wills her blood to stop roaring in her ears like a klaxon. He seems normal. The normal amount of aloof. She thinks. He’s not shouting at her for trying to kiss him so that’s a good sign, probably. Maybe he was so drunk he doesn’t remember it, or he’s choosing to ignore it ever happened because acknowledging it is too much trouble and energy. Why he would pass up an excuse to berate her for anything, she’s not sure, but in this case she’ll take it because she's pretty sure she'd die of humiliation if he were to try and bring it up.

“Yep,” she says.

“She’s headed out tomorrow,” Hannah says, seeming oblivious to any of the very weird vibes Willow has begun emitting.

“Tomorrow?” Matheo echoes. “So soon?”

Willow risks a glance at him in the mirror, finds that behind the expected expression of skepticism he looks… thoughtful. He’s staring at the back of her head.

“The sooner it’s done the sooner Moonbury can put all this shit behind it,” she says, a little more steady. Rubbing his face in her achievements, both realized and yet to pass, is easier than trying to talk to him like a normal human being.

He meets her eyes in the mirror again, and she fights the near-overwhelming urge to look away.

“If you’re going…” He takes a breath, clenches his jaw, looks away, grumbles, “I have… a favor to ask.”

Willow blinks, so surprised that her frenetic thoughts silence themselves all at once. Matheo, asking her for a favor? Willingly ? She almost pinches herself to check if she’s dreaming. “Oh. Um. Of course. What is it?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment -- just a short moment, but his ears turn pink, and his demeanor changes, annoyed and embarrassed. “Not here,” he says. “Let’s talk outside.”

He turns and leaves without waiting for a reply, and Willow, now thoroughly intrigued, scrambles to pay and thank Hannah and chase after him all at the same time.

She has to run to catch up to him as he walks to the town square, near the old battered moon statue.

“What’s going on?” she asks, trying not to pant with the sudden exertion and adrenaline rush.

Matheo rests his chin in his hand, supported by his other arm wrapped around his middle. He doesn’t answer her, finding the statue more interesting to focus on instead.

Outside in the sunlight she can see he looks more tired than usual, like he hasn’t been sleeping well; his skin has an odd flatness to it, and there are grayish rings under his eyes where there usually aren’t. His eyes, too, seem dull and hazy somehow.

She thinks about him answering his door at noon, having clearly just woken up, looking exhausted by every definition of the word.

“Matheo?”

“I lost my notebook,” he says, and then shuts his eyes and exhales, that embarrassed annoyance returning to him. “Again.”

“Your notebook?” she says.

“Yes.” He crosses his arms, still refusing to look at her. “Out in Meadow Range, last week. It was another damned bear. Came out of nowhere. I was… startled, and dropped my notebook. I was wondering if you’d look for it, on your way to Glaze Iceberg tomorrow.”

Willow can’t help the grin that pulls at her mouth, though she tries to resist it because she knows it will just further annoy him. She finds this flustered Matheo more than a little endearing; she can appreciate that he’s swallowing his pride to ask this of her -- something which clearly doesn’t come easy to him, especially with regards to her.

"I'm surprised you're asking me instead of Bubble or Forrest," Willow says, slipping her hands into her pockets.

Matheo looks at her sideways, brows furrowed. "They were so busy with their duties I didn’t think to ask, and then this morning they left to go help repair some of the train tracks out west… but the notes I was taking were too important to lose.”

He frowns, turns away from her, his energy shifting and becoming markedly strange . Like he's trying to close himself off while consciously attempting to act like he’s not. Like he's let slip something he didn't mean to.

Willow thinks. All things considered, it's not like she can say she knows Matheo well, but on the other hand she's spent enough time around him to have what she assumes is a pretty thorough understanding of his general disposition --or at least, what he chooses to show her; lately he's been so uncharacteristically brimming with ennui she’s pretty confident she’s not imagining things.

She’s not sure whether it’s her training, ingrained as it is, or her burgeoning fondness for him that makes it so disquieting.

She takes a step forward, tilting into his field of view. "Is everything okay?"

Something passes over him, a match to dry tinder, an almost-eruption forcefully smothered out. It’s so fleeting she’s not even sure if she sees it or if she imagines it.

“I’m fine,” he says, hands landing on his belt pouches. “I can take care of this. I can. I’m a professional. I just need my notes so I can stop this sickness before--”

The abrupt force with which he shuts his mouth is damning.

A sickly chill runs through Willow’s veins. “Sickness?” she says, steady as possible. “Are you sick? Did you catch the flu? Do you need help?”

“ No.” He steps back, away from her, hands clenching into fists. Willow half expects him to turn around and leave, but he stays, returning her intense and anxious stare with one of careful examination. Annoyed at her concern, maybe.

“Matheo,” she implores. “What’s going on?”

He continues to stare at her. Seems stuck in an internal debate (and oh , what she wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall inside his brain right now).

At length, he sighs, relenting. “I’ve discovered… something. A disease, I think. In Meadow Range. I’ve been looking into it for a while. Some of the vegetation and wildlife have these… bizarre rashes on them.”

Willow’s heart is still beating at an erratic rhythm, caught between relief and renewed, recontextualized concern. Why didn’t you tell me? is the question that she wants to ask, except that she knows why. Why would he tell her anything? They’re not friends.

“Is it serious?" she asks, and then, the dam of her restraint breaking under the weight of uneasy curiosity, “How long have you been seeing it? What are the symptoms? Is it spreading? Should we be concerned?”

“I’ve got it under control,” Matheo cuts in, serious and impatient but not, for once, spiteful. “As I said: I can take care of it. I just need my notebook. Do you understand?”

It’s meant to put her off of pursuing this topic any further. Firm and final, but neutral. The wall she’s come to expect, but made of brick instead of barbed wire.

Frustrating, of course, but also grounding, because she has enough to worry about right now. She’s busy fixing all the other problems Moonbury is facing, and developing an all-consuming savior complex is just going to burn her out. She can cede control to Matheo on this one.

She nods, emptying her lungs of breath in one long exhale. “I understand,” she says. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“And don’t even think of looking inside. This is my undertaking.”

“I won’t,” she says, finding an odd sense of relief at the return of his usual prickliness. “If you believe you can fix it, I trust you. I’m not going to snoop.”

He blinks, and they watch each other for a moment, and Willow gets the sense of something shifting, on a metaphysical level, similar to that barometric pressure fluctuation at Meadow Range but hyper-localized to the thirty-six inches between her and Matheo.

She’s not sure if he feels it too, but his expression softens -- by a fraction, all told, but she’s never seen him without that painstakingly constructed facade of unapproachability around him and seeing it slip in any capacity is significant enough to notice. It makes her chest warm.

Matheo crosses his arms, looking back to the statue. “I’m surprised to hear that,” he says. “That you trust me.”

She half-shrugs. “You haven’t given me any reason not to.”

He looks back to her, visibly puzzled. Seems to want to say something, but says nothing.

Even in the state he's in she finds him very attractive. It's hard not to want to examine the lines of his face, especially when he's displaying such a reduced amount of the loathing she's grown used to.

She thinks about almost kissing him.

She still wants to kiss him.

"Um--" she blurts out, too loud. "Um, I, um…" She swallows, ignoring the heat invading her face. For the love of the gods, get a hold of yourself. "I should go. Lots to do still, before tomorrow."

"Alright." He shifts his weight, about to take his leave.

"Um… Try to take it easy, okay? The flu that's been going around is pretty harsh." 

"Don't worry about me."

"Easier said than done," she says, tripping over her words when she realizes how incriminating that sounds. "Uh. Chemist. You know. Worrying about people is part of the job description."

He cocks an eyebrow.

"Anyway--" She clears her throat. "I'll let you know if I find your notebook."

Matheo nods, a single incline of his head. "I appreciate it."

Willow returns the gesture as he leaves, watching his retreating back with a mild sense of wistfulness.

That was a conversation. An honest to the gods conversation. No arguing, no name-calling, no barely-contained hostility just waiting for an excuse to explode into the open.

Just talking.

And she wants more of it.

----

Among all of her other priorities, Willow adds, ‘become Matheo’s friend’ to the list.

Because she’s done. Done with the animosity, with the willful misunderstandings, with the arguing -- they live in the same damn town and that’s not going to change, and now that she’s had a glimpse of the possibility that things might be able to be amicable between them, she’s not going to pass that up.

She doubts he’ll take the first step, so she takes the initiative to do so herself.

She slips a little pouch of moon cloves into her bag, to give to him when she returns his notebook.

They can be friends.

She knows they can.

----

While the name might be a misnomer, Glaze Iceberg feels as cold as its namesake -- or at least Willow assumes, and she’s thankful for the new coat over all of the other insulating layers she owns, because even with all of them on, the chill still bites at whatever bare skin it finds.

Alistair seems oblivious to the temperature, seems more bothered by the potion Willow put on his paws to keep them from getting frostbitten as he trudges through the snow. She tries not to be jealous of him.

According to what Mariele told her, cold blooms are to the southeast, and given that they’re closer than the accident site, Willow heads there first.

The walk is uneventful, but eerie. The clamor of birds and bugs that’s ever-present in Meadow Range is absent here, replaced by heavy silence except for whenever the wind picks up and whistles by. Every once in a while the silence is broken by the sound of snow cascading to the ground from a tree, or, more alarming, a branch breaking somewhere in the distance. It sends her hackles up every time, but when she scans the surrounding area there’s nothing to be seen except the empty mountain and, beyond, the dazzling expanse of the island. Even in winter, faded, it’s more green than not, lush and wild.

It’s easy to tell when she arrives at the place where the cold blooms should be: wilted, blackened husks of flowers litter the ground -- normal for most plants, but cold blooms should be thriving in this weather. She drops to her knees and digs through the snow until she reaches solid ground, and as soon as she does, she finds the soil oddly dry and… dead, somehow; when she walks some distance back the way she came and digs to the soil there, it's damp, dark, and rich like it should be.

She goes about collecting samples for researching later, slipping everything into test tubes and potion bottles. As she inspects the site, she thinks back to her conversation with Dr Nestor over the telephone, so long ago. If what he told her was the truth (she doubts that he would lie to her, but whether he has accurate information to pass along is another matter), this isn’t related to anything the capital did -- at least, not directly. It might be a byproduct, or maybe just a symptom of the overall unwellness that Moonbury endures, but it wasn’t a direct result of an accident. She’s not in a place where she can make any sort of confident claim, though, so she packs her samples and returns northwest, and then due north, towards the accident site.

She begins to see more signs of life as she moves further north. Giant golden plants surrounded by melted slush (the source of which becomes clear when Alistair wanders too close to one and the plant spews what seems to be an acid-filled pod from its core; Willow is quick to call Alistair back and keep a closer eye on him after that) and huge insects with unnervingly human-like tongues, which Willow gives a wide berth. Besides that, mole hills and warren entrances litter the ground, sometimes so dense that she has to be careful where she steps, as well as elderwolf tracks, and tracks she’s not familiar with.

She keeps her hand on the handle of her hatchet, simmering adrenaline making her warm.

Some ways up the mountain, against all odds, in what is maybe the most miraculous stroke of luck Willow has ever experienced, she finds Matheo’s notebook. It’s half covered in snow and a little chewed up, but when Willow picks it up she finds that it is, indeed, intact, and giving it a cursory flip-through confirms that all the pages seem to be present, as well.

She shakes her head, gobsmacked. She’d resigned herself to it being lost when she couldn’t find it in Meadow Range, yet here it is, on Glaze Iceberg. How it ended up here, so far away, is a complete mystery, but one that doesn’t matter. Unlike before, she’ll be able to give him all of his notes, all in one piece.

Heartened, she stows the notebook in her bag and continues north.

It’s not a long walk to the accident site from there, but it is steep, and several times she has to take a break, crouch down and rest and catch her breath. The air is thin, and so cold it hurts to inhale. How and why did the last chemists erect their base all the way up here? Did they have access to some kind of transportation she doesn’t, or were they just in very good shape?

She decides she prefers Meadow Range.

Slowly and haltingly, she makes it to the accident site, heralded by the smell of sulfur and large, odd spikes of ice jutting out of the earth. There isn’t just one, but two craters at the center of it all, larger than the one in Meadow Range but not as alarming to be near. In fact, if she didn’t know this was an accident site, it could almost be passed off as a natural feature of the land.

Like before, she instructs Alistair to stay behind as she approaches the edge of the nearest crater with caution. The sulfur smell becomes stronger as she gets closer, makes her gag a few times, but it’s not as bad as the stench of death and decomposition that pervaded the site in Meadow Range. The liquid --she’s not sure if it’s water or some kind of poison, or something else-- is boiling hot, steaming and roiling, almost suffocating in comparison to the frigid air she’s been breathing for hours. The snow surrounding the craters has been melted away, but those spikes of ice somehow remain, frozen and undisturbed. The inherent wrongness of that isn’t lost on Willow, and once she realizes it makes the whole site feel more surreal.

She gathers samples of what she can. The liquid first, since she’s here, and then everything else. There are no vegetative remains, so she makes do with gathering soil, as well as snow and chips from the ice spikes (even if they melt, she might be able to garner useful information out of the water left behind).

When she finishes, she goes over to the remains of what must have been the chemists’ base, now reduced to a pile of lumber and stone. It seems to have been picked clean, either by the chemists themselves when they left or by the wildlife, but she ventures into it anyway, to be thorough.

It’s a mess. She can’t help but wonder if this wreckage was caused by the accident, by poor construction, by the weather, or by someone (or something) with intent to destroy. Maybe some combination of all of them. It’s strange to think that this empty husk of a building has been up here for so long, abandoned and rotting away with so few people aware of its existence. It feels lonely. The whole site does. Lonely and regretful, compared to Meadow Range’s vanity and fallen glory.

Poking around yields a single small journal, barely holding together, so frozen that the pages are brittle enough to break if she handles them too rough. Trying to be gentle, she scans through it.

It’s a record, written by Dr Lewis, whose name she knows from her conversation with Dr Nestor and from the Incident Report, detailing their research here at the Glaze Iceberg site. Even at a glance she notices that there are details in here that aren’t in the Incident Report, including what seems to be a potion recipe and some notes pertaining to it.

Intrigue and excitement rush through Willow. This is far more substantial than anything she had for Meadow Range, and the possibilities for further context, explanations, maybe even a solution, fill her with more hope and gratitude than she’s come to expect from anything related to these accidents. Maybe this time will be a little easier. Maybe it won’t be as embittering, either.

Unwilling to risk destroying the journal, she stows it in her bag with everything else and goes back to Alistair, who is rolling around in the snow. He jumps to his feet when she gets near and she pats him on the head, encouraged.

She heads back down the mountain, sliding and stumbling down the steep incline, trying not to lose her footing. It’s rough and slow going, even worse than climbing up, takes her far longer than she likes, and by the time she reaches the bottom of the incline, where the ground levels out again, she’s exhausted. She takes a couple minutes to rest, trying to ascertain how much daylight she has left.

Less than she’d like, when it comes down to it.

She’d gotten a late start, and the tricky terrain has rendered her slower than usual. According to her estimations (which she’s always been lackluster at), she has maybe an hour of light left. She might not even make it to the cable car by then, and will definitely be traveling through Meadow Range in the dark.

The thought makes her muscles tighten with dread. She can’t afford to sit around.

Trying not to catastrophize, she hauls herself to her feet and continues on.

----

Of course, everything goes wrong.

The sun has set but the sky is still light when the cable car comes into view.

What also comes into view is an elderwolf stalking towards them.

Willow freezes, hissing at Alistair to stop.

Reflexive nausea churns in her stomach as she remembers last time, as she tries not to remember last time but fails to stop the vivid images that flash through her mind.

Not again. She can’t do this again.

The elderwolf prowls closer, and Alistair’s stance changes, becomes more defensive and hostile. Willow hisses at him again, but he doesn’t obey, too preoccupied with the elderwolf who seems to have no intention of stopping.

Her heart races. She hisses at Alistair once more, firmer, continues to have no effect; he steps forward, hackles raised, head low, growling, and the elderwolf mirrors that body language.

She knows that she has mere seconds to react before they maul each other, but she can’t make herself move, frozen in terror and flashbacks of the bonemask.

When the elderwolf breaks into a run, though, she finds herself dashing forward, feeling out of control of her own body like last time, like she’s being directed by some outside, supernatural force. She gets between the elderwolf and Alistair, grabs her hatchet--

can’t bring herself to use it--

The elderwolf lunges at her and she shrieks as it swipes a huge paw over her side, rips through every layer of clothing and her skin; pain, white hot and razor sharp, lances through her, steals her breath, makes her eyes water, sends her to her knees. She’s almost too stunned and dazed to move, except that the elderwolf has turned back towards Alistair.

She drops her hatchet, grabs one of the bottles secured to the strap of her messenger bag, pulls the cork out of it, and throws it as hard as she can at the elderwolf.

The glass shatters, and the repellent potion inside sprays everywhere. The effects are immediate: the elderwolf jolts, cries out, then whirls around and sprints away, spooked, disoriented, and in pain.

Alistair almost gives chase, except that he doesn’t seem to want to cross the remains of the potion in the snow, instead just barking and pacing in agitation. Willow, too distracted by the pain in her side to calm him down, just kneels there and tries not to pass out or throw up.

Dizzy, she presses a shaking hand over her side, wincing in muted panic when she feels blood slicking over her fingers. She can’t bring herself to look, instead squeezing her eyes shut as tears well up in them.

She has to get home.

Has to get home, to her clinic, where she’ll be safe, where she can fix herself up.

She just has to make it to the cable car.

And then walk all the way through Meadow Range.

In the dark.

Without running into anymore wild animals.

Somehow.

She just has to get home.

Chapter Text

Matheo is about to start getting ready for bed when he hears the scratching at his door.

It’s so unfamiliar a sound that it takes him a moment to figure out where it’s coming from, though the whining of the chemist’s dog outside helps to contextualize it.

It’s late for her to be returning from Glaze Iceberg, but if she’s here, hopefully it means she found his notebook, and he’s not about to complain about getting it back, regardless of the time.

When he opens the door, though, the chemist isn’t on the other side. Just her dog, who, upon spotting him, begins pacing back and forth, hopping from one side to the other.

Matheo tilts his head, puzzled. If her dog is here, the chemist must have returned, right? But the fact that she’s not with her dog, when they’re usually inseparable, is abnormal, and sends a mild shock of concern through him.

Something is wrong.

“What?” Matheo says, crouching down a bit.

The dog barks, startling Matheo, as well as an owl that had been resting in a nearby tree, and continues bouncing and pacing, panting and snorting, full of agitated energy. When Matheo takes a step forward, it bounds off, but only for about ten feet before spinning around and continuing that same frantic behavior.

Getting the hint, Matheo closes his door and follows it, hoping that he’s not about to stumble upon the chemist’s mangled body. It’s freezing out, eating through his insufficient layers, and he tucks his hands under his arms to try and keep them warm. The dog leads him up the path to Forrest and Bubble’s currently empty cabin, around the bend, past the ranger station, and towards Meadow Range.

Matheo hesitates, much to the annoyance of the dog. The idea of venturing any further, especially now, after dark, tempts him to turn around and go right back home. But the dog is adamant, bouncing again, spinning in circles, and Matheo finds that his stomach is beginning to tie into knots. What could have happened to upset the chemist’s dog so intensely?

They arrive at their destination shortly: the banner at the mouth of Meadow Range, the lantern atop it blazing. Under the lantern, leaned against the post, is the chemist. Even from this far away he can see the stiffness in her posture, the blood all over her torso.

Annoyed at how much concern buffets him, he breaks into a jog until he reaches the chemist, who watches him.

Her bottom lip is split, dried blood crusted over her chin, but more alarming is all the blood soaking through her ripped-up clothing. There’s so much of it he’s surprised she’s still steady on her feet, though he can’t surmise the true extent of her injury because she’s got her arm wrapped around herself.

“You’ll never believe what I found,” she says, grinning tiredly; it cracks her busted lip and she winces. With the hand not cradling her side, she rummages in her messenger bag and pulls out his notebook, holding it towards him. “Totally intact. No idea how.”

He takes it, finds his fingers numb.

“What in the gods’ names happened?” It comes out angry, and maybe he is, because this is the second time she’s returned his notes to him looking like she just lost a fight with a sawmill, and it’s either because she really is as destructively-inclined as he feared, or because she has even worse luck than he does in the wilderness.

“This was an elderwolf. Shredded right through the beautiful coat Hannah made for me,” she says tiredly, gesturing to her side, and then to her mouth as she says: “And this was just from me, um… not fainting, but… tripping.” She presses her fingers against her lip to staunch the bleeding, sheepish. It's an obvious half-truth, and the horrible implications of her fainting, even for a moment, in Meadow Range, don't bear thinking about.

“An elderwolf?” he repeats in disbelief.

“Mm hmm,” she hums. “I was able to scare it off with a potion I made, but i-it got me pretty bad, I think.”

“You… And you walked… You made it…” He pauses, takes a breath. “You walked all the way here in this state?”

She sighs, her breath fogging the air in front of her. “I didn’t… didn’t really have much of a choice,” she says, and he supposes that’s true, unless she wanted to sequester herself away on the cable car and try not to freeze to death during the night.

She pushes herself up the post, trying to stand straighter, gritting her teeth against the pain. “I-I don’t… I don’t think I can make it any further by myself. Will you help me get home?”

Outrage flashes through him, strikes him like a lightning bolt. “No!” It’s almost a shout, and the chemist jumps slightly. “Gods--how could you--you want to… Absolutely not! I’m taking you to my clinic and treating you there.”

The chemist swallows, arm tightening around her side. “Y-You… You don’t have to do that--”

“Do not," Matheo says, pushing a finger into her face, “argue with me about this, chemist.”

She blinks at him, her eyes wet, that now-familiar earnestness in her expression. When, at length, she says, “Okay,” her voice is very small.

He steps towards her, and she slumps against him, grabbing his shoulder for support. He slides an arm high around her ribs, avoiding her injury, and can’t stop himself from remembering the night at the tavern, about dancing with her, about her almost kissing him. It feels somewhat precarious now to touch her, like the last delicate threads of something inside him are frayed to their breaking point, about to snap apart.

He wishes he knew what that something was. Fears that it’s his confidence in his rightness, his conviction of her villainy. That he might never be able to scrape it together again.

They make their way back to his house slowly but surely, the chemist’s dog keeping a close eye on its master.

“Did you make it to the accident site?” Matheo asks at length, as they’re walking along the final stretch of pathway before the clearing where his house is.

“Yeah,” she says, and it surprises him even though it shouldn’t. Of course she would make it, why wouldn’t she? She’s a damn superhuman, blessed to be successful in all of her endeavors while the rest of humanity languishes in mediocrity. “And the cold blooms, too.”

“And you think you can restore them?”

“I-I have to try, at least,” she says, and he doesn’t disagree. It’s what he’s been wanting her to do all this time, anyway: follow through on all her talk. He’s not about to insist that the onus for fixing this doesn’t fall on her shoulders as a capital chemist.

He huffs. “I’m surprised you even bothered with my notebook,” he says sardonically.

The chemist half-shrugs with her free shoulder. “I found it on the way,” she says. “And…”

A beat passes, conspicuously silent without the sound of wildlife to fill it, and when he realizes that the chemist isn’t going to continue, Matheo glances down at her from the corner of his eye.

“And…?”

She shrinks into herself a little bit, body going rigid. “And… I wanted to find it,” she says. “I-I don’t know, I just… It’s important to you, so I wanted to get it back for you.”

Matheo takes a very careful, measured breath, brain muddled. He’s thankful that they arrive at his house, sparing him from having to reply. He allows the dog into the front room but confines it there while he takes the chemist into the clinic.

“Sit,” he offers, gesturing to the nearest bed.

She divests herself of her bag and sits down while he goes to the sink, rolls up his sleeves, washes her blood off his hands.

When he returns, he finds her slumped forward with her eyes closed, brows furrowed, pallid and weary. She needs to eat something, and to sleep, but ascertaining the severity of her injury and preventing an infection takes priority.

He hooks his ankle around one of the chairs nearby and pulls it over, sitting across from her.

“Let me see,” he says, pulling on some gloves.

She doesn’t move. In fact, she seems to wrap her arm tighter around herself. “I-I don’t want to,” she says, expression a mix of pain, amusement, and self-consciousness.

He frowns at her. “Why not?”

“Because I think it’s bad. It hurts,” she says, voice dropping to a strained whisper. “It’s gonna hurt to move.”

Matheo huffs. “Well, you know I have to look at it,” he says. “We can’t just leave it to get infected. I’ve got numbing agents I can put on it.”

He grasps her wrist, but she resists being moved, whimpering.

“Chemist,” he chides, and then, when she gives him a tired, teary-eyed grimace, “Willow. Trust me. Take a deep breath and relax.”

She does so, inhaling slow and steady and then exhaling shakily as he pulls her hand away from her side to inspect her wound.

It’s not as serious as he’d feared, given the state of her clothing and how much blood she’s covered in. Four long gashes low on her ribs, swollen and angry, one of which is a mere suggestion, two of which are superficial, and the last of which is deep and ragged, still trying to bleed even after the chemist has been putting pressure on it for what he assumes has been several hours.

“Is it bad?” she asks.

He pushes the shredded bits of her clothing out of the way so he can inspect the deeper gash more closely.

“They need to be flushed,” he tells her. “And this one needs stitches.”

“Oh,” she squeaks, “okay.”

Matheo stands up, pulls off his gloves, steels himself for the reality of the situation he’s about to put both of them in. Before that damn day she awoke something implacable inside him he would have never in a thousand years expected to be so hesitant about making this request, and yet, here he is, trying his very hardest to stay focused on the task at hand even when his traitorous mind wants to behave otherwise.

“Take off all the clothes in the way,” he says, grateful for his own sake that his back is turned to her as she does so. “I’ll be right back.”

He takes a moment longer than is strictly necessary to finish gathering the needed materials, to rein in every stray thought that’s currently trying to run wild, to remind himself that he’s a damn professional and he has seen many, many women in states of far more undress than this. Until the chemist arrived he was the only doctor in town -- he’s performed countless gynecological exams and assisted in birthing babies, for the gods’ sakes. Willow is no different. She is, right now, just his patient, and she deserves to be treated just like any of his other patients, rather than being subject to his overcomplicated and conflicted feelings about her.

He is the perfect picture of propriety when he returns to the chemist, who is considerably more awkward now that she’s naked from the waist up save for her bra. Matheo sets all of his materials out on a small rolling tray and sits back down across from her.

He tries to avoid looking at her breasts, tempting as it might be, instead focusing on her wounds. The first step, and undoubtedly the worst, is to rinse them and try to flush any bacteria out. Willow sits very still, every muscle in her body pulled taut in anxious anticipation, arm lifted over her head and out of the way.

"I'm just going to clean around them first," he says, wiping her skin with a wet paper towel. There's a lot of blood but it comes up without much effort, and the chemist shivers, goosebumps raising along her ribs.

"Do you think there's gonna be a scar?" she asks.

"Probably," he says, "but considering the alternatives could have been disembowelment or bleeding to death, I'd consider getting away with a scar a stroke of luck."

She laughs, gasping in pain as she does so. "Dumb luck, maybe," she says, a little bitter. "I couldn't even make myself use my hatchet, and it was going after Alistair." She shakes her head. "If that potion hadn't worked I think both of us would have been killed."

Matheo glances at her face; her eyes are downcast, lashes dark against her skin, brows drawn together. Her lip is swollen where it's been cracked.

She looks up, inadvertently meets his eyes for the barest fraction of a second before he looks back to her injury.

"What did you put in that potion to drive away an elderwolf?" he says, ignoring the warmth at the back of his neck.

"Capsaicin, mostly," she says.

"Capsaicin?" he repeats, legitimately impressed. "I guess that would do it, wouldn't it."

"I'm just glad it worked," she says.

Damn him, he is, as well.

He finishes cleaning her skin, grabs his prepared cup of water, and holds the edge against her side.

“Ready?”

She swallows, teeth clenched. “F-Fuck this,” she mutters.

Matheo tries to suppress his smile, though he’s not sure if he succeeds. It doesn’t matter anyway, because as soon as he tips the cup and lets the water run over her wounds she jolts away from him, groaning in pain.

“Sorry--” she gasps.

“Try to hold still,” he says in his best firm and impartial doctor voice, even if it proves to be challenging when he notices how badly she’s shaking.

“Okay, okayokayokay.” She resituates herself, takes a moment to calm down, and shuts her eyes. “Okay.”

He resumes, tilting the cup until water runs down her side, and this time instead of jolting away from him, her free hand shoots out and fists into his collar.

“Sorry--” she gasps again, but makes no move to let go, and Matheo mourns the bloodstain that will forever haunt this shirt after tonight.

“Just don’t choke me,” he says, taken aback.

“No promises,” she says, voice trailing off into a wordless, prolonged, pained moan. She’s trembling with the effort not to move, muscles twitching, breath coming to her in broken fragments, but she prevails, and Matheo is able to finish flushing her wound, as satisfied with its cleanliness as is possible, given the circumstances.

“That’s done,” he says, setting that cup aside and grabbing another. She looks down at it, wary and distrustful.

“What’s in that one?” she asks.

“Numbing agent,” he says, dipping his fingers into it so he can spread it around the edges of the gashes.

“Is that--” She hisses, eyes squeezing shut. “Is that slime-based?”

“‘Slime-based’?” he echoes, confused.

“Yeah --hah-- you know… The slime that green blobs secrete. That’s… That’s what I use.”

“Ah,” he says. “Yes, it is. And feverfew, and a few other things.”

“Smells like ginseng.”

“There’s some ginseng in it, as well,” he says.

“Mm,” she says. She seems to be relaxing now, as the numbing agent kicks in, the furrow between her brows softening. “Did you know that in some places, ginseng is considered an aphrodisiac?”

Matheo pauses, thankful that her eyes are closed so she can't see his face flush. Willow’s hand in his collar suddenly feels heavier and more conspicuous somehow.

He swallows. “I did know that,” he says evenly, finishing with the cream and setting the cup back on the tray.

“Sorry,” Willow says once more, apparently sensing that something in the air has changed. “I’m just… t-talking because I’m tired and stressed.”

He takes the opening to change the subject. “There’s no need to be stressed,” he says, trimming the ragged edges of her now-numbed skin so that they’re smooth. “I’m very good at what I do.”

She grins, though there’s something withdrawn and uncertain about it. “I know you are.”

He starts on the stitches, and she remains still, quiet, opening her eyes to look pointedly up at the ceiling, which is amusing. So capable of treating others when they come to her in varying states of illness and injury, but squeamish when it comes to being treated herself, apparently.

“I’m sorry,” she says, for the fourth time now, fist tightening in his shirt. This time, however, it sounds grave and intentional, rather than just reflexive like previously.

He glances at her face, reluctant and with more than a little bit of mounting uncertainty, trying to prepare himself for whatever turn this conversation is about to take. “What for?”

“For… For everything,” she says, shaking her head. “For displacing you when I opened my clinic. For getting off on the wrong foot. For not being better informed about what the capital did to Moonbury. E-Everything, I don’t know.”

Matheo doesn’t reply, mostly because he’s not sure how to. Part of him still wants to tell her to go shove a potion bottle up her ass, to please, for the love of the gods, go back to the capital and leave them in peace, to forget any of this ever happened and let him have his life back.

But another part of him is grateful for the apology, that she's acknowledging the fact that her presence here has disrupted the status quo so thoroughly, that despite the undeniable good that's come from it, it's come at a cost. Because she did displace him, and not many people in town seem to give a damn about the fact that he's been cast aside, his feelings disregarded. In fact, now, she's the only one who's apologized for the situation, and the irony is not lost on him.

Even though he’s grateful for her apology, however, he’s not sure if he can accept it, because he’s not sure if he’ll ever not be bitter, in some capacity, about her being here.

He finishes with her stitches, ties them off, covers them and the less serious wounds with bandages, tries to convince himself that he's imagining how she seems to lean into his hands on her waist, and the chemist twists, testing how it feels.

“You realize you’ll need to take it easy for a while, right?” he says, pulling his gloves off.

“I will.” She breathes, full and even now that her stress has abated. “Thank you.”

“Let’s look at your face now,” he says, scooting closer, and the chemist leans away.

“Oh, I can… I can take care of that at home,” she says.

“Nonsense,” he says. “You’re here now.”

She stares at him for a moment, searching, and then yields, resting her hands in her lap and returning to her previous position.

He grabs her chin, tilts her face to inspect it, and she snorts, giggling.

“Come on.”

“Sorry. Feels weird.”

“Mm hmm.”

She gets a hold of herself, eyes tracking him as he pushes her head side to side. Her split lip is also superficial, and it’s true that she could have taken care of it, but it’s so late in the night, and she’s so battered, that he’s averse to letting her leave -- at the very least, not offering her shelter would be unethical, contrary to his identity as a healer.

Also, that damnable weakness in him is overriding his other faculties; even just holding her face in his hand is making his pulse quicken, and he finds that he's resistant to the idea of letting go.

He wipes the dried blood off of her chin and her mouth, taking care to be gentle, and she continues to watch him, and he continues to try and ignore it.

“Do you want money?” she asks quietly. “You should let me pay you for this.”

He fixes her with a quirked eyebrow, dubious. “Absolutely not,” he says. “I asked for my notebook, and you found it, and that’s payment enough.”

She huffs, half amused and half annoyed. “Fine, fine.” Her tongue darts out to wet her lip, alarmingly close to his fingers. “Will you tell me about this disease you’ve been researching?”

Matheo considers it. It would doubtlessly be helpful to have another person’s brainpower, but he’s also committed --almost obsessed-- to figuring this out by himself. It’s an issue that he knows about and she doesn’t, and maybe this time he’ll be the one to restore something vital that was once believed to be lost. It’s selfish and irresponsible and maybe even cowardly and he knows it, but what remains of his pride is so feeble, aching for revitalization by any means necessary, that it prevents him from accepting her assistance.

“Maybe after I’ve figured out what’s causing it,” he says, inspecting a bruise on her brow bone he hadn't noticed before; to do so he has to brush her bangs away from her forehead, which feels dangerously intimate so he doesn't linger any longer than necessary.

“So cocky,” she says, voice warm. “You know that you don’t have to figure it out alone, right?” She leans forward a little bit, conspiratorial. “We could work together.”

He meets her gaze. There's something intriguing about the way she's looking at him, the same warmth in her eyes as in her voice, open and trusting; so damn illogical, that she trusts him despite everything between them. He realizes it's been a moment too long when her playful smile falters.

“Hm,” he says, heat creeping up his neck again. “Work together?”

She nods, the movement stifled by his hand still holding her chin. “... Yeah,” she murmurs. “We’d make a good team.”

He dabs a small bit of medicated cream over the split in her lip, and her mouth opens, and he has the absurd thought to slide his thumb between her teeth, press down against the wet warmth of her tongue.

She shifts forward. He is distantly aware of how close their faces are. The last time she was this close was after the fundraiser…

There’s a light but conspicuous weight and pressure on his thigh, and that heat on his neck races down his spine, coils low in his belly. He draws back, about to comment on her nerve, though whether to chastise or encourage her he has no idea -- but she pulls her hand away, not having been touching him but rather setting something there: a small purple bag with a crescent moon emblazoned on it.

Moon cloves.

"What…"

"I want us to be friends, Matheo,” Willow says, imploring and sincere. “I-I don’t want to fight anymore."

He stares at the bag, dumbfounded.

“I can’t accept this,” Matheo says, because he can’t . That she wants to be his friend after he’s been openly reproachful of everything she’s done and everything she is doesn't make any damn sense.

What’s more, that she’s attempting to give him a gift so emblematic of Moonbury, so idiosyncratic that no outsider understands its significance, forces him to face the reality that maybe she really is a part of this community, more Moonbury than capital now, and that any justifications for hating her really are slipping between his fingers.

He’s trying, he’s trying, he’s trying so damn hard to find the little loose thread he can pull on to rid her of her disguise and reveal her villainous true self, but the evidence of its existence is becoming ever more tenuous. And now, mixed up with all of this other shit, he’s got this gods-damned soft spot for her that just keeps growing, rendering him stupid and sentimental and lenient, finds that he’s starting to enjoy her company rather than abhor it.

But he wants to abhor it.

Right?

Because she’s a chemist. She’s a fundamentally bad person.

Right?

This can’t happen.

He can’t possibly be her friend.

He tries to hand the bag back to her, but she closes her hands around his, shaking her head.

“If nothing else, take it as payment for treating me tonight, okay?” the chemist says. “Please.”

Matheo sighs. Waits for her to come to her senses and change her mind. And then, when she doesn’t, he takes the bag with mixed guilt, resignation, annoyance, and… something else, something precipitous and alarming that he’s far too upset to examine.

“Thank you,” he mutters. He stands up to clean, stowing the moon cloves in his pocket. A dismaying sense of nothingness settles over him, like something at the core of his emotional center has finally withered up, spent, too overexerted to carry on, leaving him with indifference and nothing else.

As he’s washing his hands, he sees the chemist stand up in his peripheral vision, testing her legs and pulling on the tattered remains of her clothing again.

“Um… I’m gonna go home,” she says, walking over to him, and he tries not to let his disappointment show, because he resents that he's disappointed in the first place.

“Are you sure? You seem exhausted,” he says. “You’re welcome to stay.”

“I don’t want to be in your way,” she says, fidgeting with the strap of her messenger bag.

“You wouldn’t be in my way.”

She watches him, her expression inscrutable, fidgeting, fidgeting, fidgeting.

“I haven’t eaten,” she says, in a tone that suggests she’s attempting to formulate excuses.

 “I have food.”

 “I need to bathe.”

She’s backed him into the proverbial corner, because he has no bathtub in the clinic and offering her the use of his feels like it carries more undue implications than he intends. He doesn’t think about it.

 At length, he nods. “Alright,” he says, and something about her changes somehow, like she was testing him, but he’s not sure if he’s passed or failed, and he doesn’t particularly appreciate the feeling of being secretly tested in the first place. “I’ll see you out.”

 She follows him to the front room, her dog circling her feet eagerly and then bounding outside once Matheo opens his front door. She crosses the threshold and then stops, hesitating for a moment before turning around to face him. She's still wearing that same hard-to-read neutrality, like even she, too, is unconvinced he should be letting her leave. 

 “Be careful getting home, chemist,” he tells her. “And… thank you for my notebook.”

 “Mm hmm.” She scratches idly at her cheek. “Thank you, too,” she says. “For… coming to get me. And helping me. I… I wasn’t sure you would.”

 “I’m not that heartless,” he says.

 This makes her grin, albeit vaguely, eyes going soft and warm again like before. “I know that now,” she says.

 “Goodnight,” he says.

 She visibly tenses, and a moment passes during which she seems to be reconsidering… and then just as quickly she eases, tucks her hair behind her ear, says, “Goodnight, Matheo," and follows her dog up the path back to town.

Matheo watches her go, and for the first time ever, wishes she would stay.

----

Days pass.

Willow more or less disappears, hides herself away, researching. Whenever Matheo passes by, he can’t help but look at the drawn curtains in her windows, wondering how she’s doing. Whether she’s making progress. Whether she’s remembering to eat and sleep, unlike last time.

Once, on his way to the farm for groceries, she exits her clinic with Martha, and their eyes meet, and in the brief moment before he looks away he feels damning warmth invade his cheeks.

It’s ridiculous. Juvenile. Maddening and perplexing and distracting and stupid.

He should be stronger than this. More mature. More logical and rational. Never before has he been so affected by anyone , much less a chemist , and the irrationality of it is driving him crazy. He thinks in circles, frustrated by his own indecision and lack of conviction, his inability to solidify how he feels about her, the continued sensation that he no longer dictates his own life.

Desperate for any modicum of control, he takes a cue from the chemist and throws himself, yet again, into research. He pores over his notebook (it’s dented and the pages are wobbly from being wet, but it’s legible enough), reacquaints himself with everything he’d written down about the rashes, gets a better handle on what he knows. He pulls every related book out of his shelves and pores over those, too, digs up his mother’s notes, his grandfather’s notes, his great grandparents’ notes, every witch doctor in his family line that he still has notes or journals or essays from, reads through anything relevant they left.

Whenever he stumbles across anything that might be helpful, he tries to apply it to the rashes.

Fungus? Bacteria? Mutation? Parasite? Poison from one of the accident sites?

Nothing works.

Sometimes it seems like he takes one step forward, only to take two steps back, making incremental progress and then regressing, or arriving at a conundrum he has no idea how to tackle.

He stares at samples under his microscope so long he starts to feel the phantom sensation of an eyepiece against his face. He compares the structure of those samples to anything he can find in the enormous pile of books strewn around his house and finds nothing helpful. He plays fast and loose, makes educated guesses, throws anything he thinks could be plausible at the rashes to see if he gets lucky, and fails there, too.

When he goes to the bathhouse to clear his head, Xiao and Rue are there; Matheo sits on the bench and stares into the frothing water and listens to them chat, and maybe flirt? It’s sometimes hard to determine whether their relationship is entirely platonic or not. Xiao asks after Mariele, and Rue responds that she’s been doing better, that her fever broke with the help of a potion the chemist made. She says that she and her father feel fine. Xiao says that Dev has been out sick and that Dean and Derrek have been filling in as joint postmen, but that Derrek mentioned feeling unwell this morning.

Moonbury is a small town, and sickness pervades it, passes through and afflicts without discrimination.

Is Willow up to the task? Is she prepared?

If she’s not, is he? Now, anymore?

He goes home and continues researching.

It’s torturous. If he manages to scrabble together enough forward momentum to overcome the obstacle in front of him, another one waits just beyond. If he manages to identify a possible vulnerability and treat it, it causes new problems to crop up that weren’t present before. Maybe he seems to cure the rashes, but then when he checks the next day they’ve gotten worse. Maybe he does manage a remedy that cures the rashes, but then it begins eating away at the plant itself, and no amount of dilution seems to fix the problem. When he tries to think like Willow and brew a potion, he spills it on his hand and gives himself such a severe, blistering burn that his motivation to continue doesn’t survive the frantic scramble to his clinic.

He leaves home again, goes to Meadow Range.

He’s beginning to feel unwell.

Is it the flu? Or is it just defeatism? Resignation? The final crestfallen struggle of his self-assurance as what’s left of it is snuffed out?

He doesn’t go far into Meadow Range, but he doesn’t have to; he spots rashes on a couple of pangols soon enough.

He goes home again. Takes his temperature, finds he’s running a low-grade fever. Brews some tea with the moon cloves Willow gave him. Sits outside at his snow-covered table, because his fever makes him hot, and just… thinks.

Is he being irresponsible?

He’s been trying so hard to fix this, to regain his previous standing, or even just a sense of usefulness, but at what point does that go from being noble and well-meaning to being stupid, futile, and shortsighted? Has he crossed that point? He’s been so consumed by desperation and bitterness that it’s blinded him to his own ethical and moral principles: that nature is beautiful and sacred, and is to be protected and cared for. That should take precedence over any of his petty disputes. He knows better, believes better, and yet he’s allowed himself to become so caught up in his hatred of the chemist that he’s neglected so much of what he stands for.

And Willow… She would help him in a heartbeat, he knows she would. Would he be able to swallow his pride long enough to ask her for help?

But it wouldn’t be her helping him.

It would be the other way around.

He would be helping her. Would she even need his help? Probably not.

Because she is better than him. More competent, better read, smarter, more well-liked. He’s been fighting the inevitable ever since she arrived.

He holds his cup in both hands, inhales the scent of moon clove tea. It smells like Willow. Makes him think back to the night he met her, when everything about her was so garishly capital -- her hair, her clothes, even her perfume. Now that shaved portion of her hair is grown out, and she wears clothes sewn by Hannah and Nova, and she smells like moon cloves and the bathhouse’s jasmine soap.

She belongs to Moonbury, and it belongs to her.

He is irrelevant.

----

It takes him a couple of days to bring himself to fully accept it.

He compartmentalizes all of the pain and sadness and anger, packs it up into a little box and stows it away in the back of his mind, and then he numbs himself.

He cleans up his house a bit, takes passive stock of his belongings, what he should bring with him when he leaves, what he should leave behind. Would the chemist want his books about medicine? The supplies in his clinic? Maybe the Lazy Bowl would find a use for all of his excess kitchen utensils, and maybe Hannah and Nova could repurpose some of his excess clothing, and maybe Myer would want to file away his and his ancestors’ notes and journals about Moonbury flora and fauna, just in case.

His fever climbs. He develops a deep, rasping cough.

He tries to make sure he drinks enough fluids, and takes the excuse to not leave his bed. He stares up at the ceiling and thinks of nothing.

Thinks of nothing at all.

Tries so fucking hard to think of nothing.

Chapter Text

Lucke’s eyes light up like fireworks when Willow asks him for help restoring the cold blooms.

“Fertilizer?” he echoes her. “Yeah, of course! I have tons of books about fertilizer!”

And so they end up holed away in the potion house, surrounded by books from both their collections, poring over every word, studying Willow’s soil samples, writing up formulas and notes, testing and troubleshooting. Lucke is so well-versed in horticulture that several times Willow struggles to keep up, but he takes her requests for repeated explanations in stride, cheerful as always, thriving in his element.

The line between too much nitrogen, phosphorous, and potassium, and not enough seems to be a knife’s edge, the margin for error so unusually tiny it would be a deterrent if it wasn’t being scrutinized by perhaps the two people in Moonbury whose investment in ecological restoration is only surpassed by Matheo's.

While they experiment and run tests, they theorize.

Whatever is going on with the soil where the cold blooms grow, it seems to be independent of the accident sites. What, then, is the cause?

“I’d guess it’s the koblins,” Lucke says, applying a few drops of their most recent fertilizer to a soil sample.

“Koblins?” Willow asks.

“Mm hmm.” Lucke sets the sample down, taking a moment to pull his hair back away from his face. “They’re… creatures that live up on the mountain,” he says, twisting his hair into a braid. “They walk on two legs like humans, but also resemble dogs. Seem to be intelligent, maybe hunter gatherers. I’m not sure. No one’s ever successfully communicated with them, cause they just go straight to fighting.”

Willow wraps her arms around herself, unnerved. She didn’t see any evidence of any sort of civilization, but the idea that she might have been watched while she was up on the mountain, that she was stumbling into hostile territory without knowing it… Seems she can’t go anywhere on the island without someone keeping an eye on her, for better or for worse.

“They’ve never tried to come down to town?” she asks.

Lucke shakes his head. “Never. They seem to be fine up there, and they don’t bother us as long as we don’t bother them.”

Willow hums. “No one mentioned anything about them to me. Would have been nice to know before I went up there,” she says, crossing her arms.

Lucke laughs. “I don’t think many people here are actually aware they exist, to be honest, and that’s probably for the better,” he says. “I read about them in a book, but, y’know, no one ever goes up the mountain and the koblins never come down, so it kinda makes sense that people wouldn’t know about them.”

“That’s… mysterious.”

“Tell me about it,” Lucke says, no trace of apprehension in his voice. “But… imagine if we could manage to communicate. I mean, they’re not obliged to or anything, of course, but imagine if we could bridge that gap and come to some kind of understanding.”

Willow finds his optimism calming. Never mind that the koblins are apparently hostile and won’t hesitate to kill her without a second thought and now she’ll have that lurking in the back of her head next time she goes up to Glaze Iceberg -- Lucke’s idealistic dream of intercultural exchange is a pleasant one.

“Are you going to become Moonbury’s koblin ambassador, then?”

Lucke snorts out a laugh. “Oh, mom would love that,” he says.

Willow hunches her shoulders, grinning in sympathy as she imagines Mercy’s no-doubt… emphatic reaction to such news. Her overprotective streak is so excessively calibrated to any perceived potential danger to her children’s wellbeing that the reality of actual danger would probably send her into a full-fledged panic.

“Lucky for her my ambitions aren’t so suicidally naive,” Lucke continues, concentrating more on the sample in front of him than thoughts about his mother.

His tone is intriguing, and Willow joins him, surveying the sample as well. She doesn’t have full context for this one, but it already looks promising.

Lucke checks over his notes, compares the formula against the soil’s composition, the cold blooms’ characteristics, the last formulas they tried.

“Well? What do you think?” Willow asks, hopeful.

Lucke nods, first in affirmation that he heard her, and then again a moment later, as he finishes his comparisons. “I think…” he says, ripping out the page with the winning formula on it, “we’ve got ourselves a fertilizer.”

Matheo’s not sure how long he’s been sitting here at his desk staring at his notes.

The part of his brain that still retains any clarity of thought is stubbornly attempting to get him to continue researching the rashes -- the problem is, that part only counts for something like twenty-five percent, by his estimation. The much larger part of him is mired in mental fog and rapidly-worsening physical fatigue, as if his body is shutting down the parts of itself it’s no longer deemed absolute necessities so that all his energy can be redirected to fighting whatever he’s come down with.

His notes aren’t making any sense. And trying to focus his eyes enough to read them gives him a headache, anyway.

He stands up, unsteady on his feet, and tries to come to terms with two facts:

First, that he is, in fact, sick, for the first time in so long he can’t actually remember the last time.

Second, that he needs to go to Mercy and Garret’s, because he needs food.

Even just thinking about the journey is daunting. His limbs are starting to feel weak and untrustworthy, and every time he turns his head it’s like the world moves at a half-second delay, so small but so dizzying that he would much rather just make himself some medicinal tea, lay in bed, shut his eyes, and at least be miserable in relative peace.

But he needs food.

And he needs to get it before he gets any worse, because his supply isn’t going to last if he’s cooped up here for another week (or, gods forbid, any longer)

So, as decisive and indifferent as he can, he gets dressed, prepares himself, and ventures outside.

It’s snowy out, and that’s the other reason he needs food. His house is remote enough that he’s gotten snowed-in on a few occasions over the years, when the winters are severe, and only one of those times were the rangers able to make it out to him to clear a path. This year they’re trying to be more prepared, but precautions still need to be taken. If worse comes to worst and he’s stuck in his house, he’ll need to be able to survive.

The cold still feels good to his overheated body, and it’s not icy, thank the gods, because he’s sure he lacks the coordination necessary to weather that hazard. So the walk is slow and halting, and he’s sore, and tired, and his burned hand is still tender to the touch, and his head is pounding, and his chest is starting to ache, and whenever he coughs it comes with a horrible grating sound and the sensation of someone rubbing sandpaper across the inside of his throat -- but it is, at least, tolerable.

He just has to get to the farm, and then home, and then he can languish in his bed and not leave it until he feels better.

When he passes Willow’s house he’s far too tired to stop his thoughts from turning to her. She’d told him about the flu going around, back before she left for Glaze Iceberg, and he hadn’t paid it any mind. Now he wishes he had.

He thinks about the moon cloves she gave him. He still has half the bag -- it’s been a while since he’s received any, and that’s his reasoning as to why he’s been rationing them despite moon clove tea being among his favorite things in the world. Certainly not any sort of conflict-choked appreciation , or the near overwhelming sense of guilt he feels when he portions them out, like one of the gods themselves is standing over his shoulder and scrutinizing him in imminent judgment.

He does not think about her face so close to his, about the crystalline blue of her eyes as she looked into his, about the solid warmth of her waist under his hands. He does not think about her inconceivable trust in him, about the softness of her expression when she said goodnight, about the way, when she left, his heart seemed to wither like a plant who’d just glimpsed sunlight and water and oxygen for the first time and then was deprived of it.

He does not think about any of it.

Instead, he thinks about leaving.

Going somewhere Willow isn’t.

She can have Moonbury. He’s done fighting. Done exhausting himself trying to cling to the life he’s known for so long when it obviously has so little interest in being clung to.

He still has no idea where he’s going to go, and is still unsure whether the prospect of starting over --being unknown by anyone, rebuilding trust with a new community, finding new footing and reestablishing a practice from the ground up-- is enlivening or terrifying.

Though, Willow did it. Why can’t he?

Willow did it, and that’s the whole gods-damned reason he’s being forced to do it.

And comparing himself to Willow has not been going in his favor as of late, regardless of anything else.

That he’s even running these mental circuits annoys him. Too much confused and muddled emotional baggage wrapped up in this for him to do anything but ruminate right now, ill as he is.

Gods, he just wants to go home.

That’s the thought he keeps coming back to.

In more ways than one.

----

He doesn’t linger at Garrett and Mercy’s, and manages to be in and out in less than an hour, arms full of bags of food. It’s an even more laborious return trip. His burned hand is starting to semi-constantly ache, which means using it to hold groceries just adds to his existing weariness, and several times he has to stop to catch his breath. 

Maybe wherever he ends up living after this, he’ll find a house closer to town.

(Almost as soon as he thinks it he feels conflicted about it -- living among nature feels so fundamentally right he’s not sure if he could adjust to something different. But not having such a long trek to and from his neighbors would be nice.)

It feels like it takes the better part of the day before he reaches the rangers’ cabin, although in actuality it almost certainly takes ten minutes at most. Bubble and Forrest have returned from their trip west and are in the side yard, in the middle of replacing a few of the house’s exterior siding boards. Matheo attempts to keep a low profile as he passes, but they greet him, anyway.

“Hey, Matheoooh, shit, are you feeling okay?” Forrest says.

“Fine,” Matheo replies, although it comes out in such a ground-up croak it could probably be considered a punchline in and of itself. “I think I caught the flu that’s been spreading around town. Just need rest. Don’t worry about me.”

“Well, don’t let us keep you,” Bubble says. “It’s been a rough one.”

“So I’ve heard.” His arms are starting to feel weak and shaky again. He needs to get home so he can put everything away and collapse into his bed. Sleeping for several days straight is starting to sound more and more appealing.

“But let us know if you need anything, okay?” Bubble continues as Matheo takes his leave.

“Thank you,” Matheo calls over his shoulder, although he has little intention of asking anyone for anything.

He can take care of himself.

Chapter Text

Willow inhales, deep and steady.

She's tried to keep a healthier pace this time with regards to researching and restoring the Glaze Iceberg accident site, rather than becoming a total shut-in like last time. In fact, she's been focusing more on the cold blooms as of late, as her and Lucke’s fertilizer seems to be the exact solution to restore life to the soil.

Returning to the mountain is a little nerve-wracking. Her side is still tender, the pull of the stitches a constant reminder of how fragile she really is. It's so easy to get caught up in outside circumstances that she forgets about her own limits, but she's just as susceptible to life --and giant claws-- as anything else in the world, even if she gets too preoccupied sometimes to remember she exists as a person.

She and Alistair make it to the site undisturbed, maybe owing to the fact that it's the middle of the day and most of the wildlife on the mountain here seem to be crepuscular, active during dawn and dusk. Regardless of the reason, she'll take what she can get.

She's brought Mercy and Garrett's sprayer, the same one she'd used for the frostmites on the konjacs, but this time it's filled with fertilizer. Liquid gold, as Lucke called it. Their tests had worked perfectly in small scale, and now it's time to see if it translates to the real deal.

Using a hoe (also borrowed from Mercy and Garrett), she scrapes all the snow aside so she can see and access what's beneath; what few dead or dying cold blooms remain are unfortunately uprooted, but it's a necessary evil. It's easy to trace the boundary of dead soil, and the area is smaller than she'd anticipated, which is promising; she'd been a little nervous that she might not have brought enough fertilizer. 

When she finishes with the snow, she tills the ground, trying to turn it over, remove the top layer and bring what she hopes is healthier soil up. It takes several hours of work, ever-mindful of her stitches, to get the area anywhere near viable, and even then it feels like all she's achieved is a workout that's rendered her entire body sore, but she gets to spraying nonetheless. Since the area is smaller than she thought, she can afford to be a bit generous with the fertilizer, starting at one side of the roughly-circular infertile patch and moving to the other, taking her time to be thorough.

When she finishes, she's still got a little bit of fertilizer left over, but the area is quenched, and she crouches down to watch the moisture sink into the crumbled bits of soil.

Part of her expects (or maybe hopes) for something like the Meadow Range accident site, a sudden and sweeping change that almost defies belief, and she can't help but be disappointed when that doesn't happen. It's not a sign of failure, though, she has to remember, and she'll be back to Glaze Iceberg before too long to restore the accident site up north, so she can check in again then.

Gathering her patience, she returns home.

----

The flu continues its sweep through Moonbury. Precious few remain who either haven’t gone through it already, or aren't going through it right now. As far as Willow knows, she, Victor, Sister Socellia, Ottmar, Xiao, Forrest, and Matheo are the only ones who have outrun it so far.

Symptoms have been varied. It seems to be a milder strain than some years, but not without its hardships. Some of the townsfolk have gotten a simple runny nose and headache, while a few have developed concerning coughs and persistent fevers. Everyone's come out the other side, though, so she's thankful, even if it's kept her hypervigilant and too busy to dedicate much time to researching the accident site.

She continues to try and stay as healthy as possible, but it's almost a certainty that she'll catch it now that her body is also working to heal her lacerations. At least by now most everyone else is through it.

Whenever she changes her bandages, she ends up thinking about Matheo. 

She hasn't seen him much since the night he patched her up, but even still, she's finding it harder and harder to convince herself that something hasn't shifted between them. Something small but significant, that makes her stomach twist with intrigue every time she tries to puzzle it out.

Sometimes it will just insert itself into her thoughts, distracting her from whatever she's working on. Researching, potion brewing, foraging, taking stock, talking to someone -- one moment she's focused and engaged, the next moment her mind is empty of everything except how very large and warm Matheo's hands are, or about the unguarded expression on his face when she’d said goodnight

She’s not sure how long she can continue to hold out without making a complete fool of herself. She can’t think of another time in her life when her impulse control was so unreliable.

There’s something. That much is undeniable.

It’s just a matter of how that something develops.

----

Now that Willow is so acutely aware of Matheo’s presence, it’s easy to notice when he disappears.

He’s a recluse by nature, of course, so a couple of days passing without seeing him is normal.

A week, though?

She’s gone several weeks without talking to him before, especially when she first arrived, but aside from when she holed herself up in her house, she can’t remember any time that she hasn’t at least seen him run errands around town for too long.

Several times she almost walks down to his house to check up on him, but she always ends up losing her nerve. Maybe he’s isolated himself because of that night, because she’d overstepped his boundaries with the moon cloves, or trying to be his friend -- but if that’s the case, wouldn’t he be angry ? That’s his usual reaction to perceived transgressions, legitimate or not, not complete withdrawal from society.

She compromises.

When she goes to the ranger station to pick up some forage, she waits until just the right (if conspicuous) moment in the conversation to transition.

After Forrest mentions honeypaw hibernation, Willow says, “Speaking of hibernation, have you seen Matheo lately?”

The mirrored frowns on both Forrest and Bubble’s faces sends a trickle of foreboding down Willow’s spine.

“A couple days ago, yeah,” Bubble says. “He wasn’t looking very good, to tell you the truth.”

“What?” Willow says, before she can stop herself. “What do you mean?”

“Definitely has the flu,” Forrest says, crossing his arms, “but he insisted he was fine. Didn’t want anyone to worry about him.”

Willow grips the strap of her bag, squeezing it. “But he didn’t look well?” she says. “How, specifically?”

“I-I dunno,” Bubble says. “Like… really pale and gray, but also flushed?”

“And sweaty,” Forrest adds.

“Big rings under his eyes, seemed super tired.”

Willow looks down towards the path to Matheo’s house, her heart pounding off-kilter. Something feels wrong about this, but she’s not sure if her judgment is being clouded by bias or not; would it matter if it is?

“I have to get back, I left Alistair at the house, but could one of you check up on Matheo for me today?” she asks. “A couple of people got pretty sick from this flu. I’d like to make sure he’s okay.”

“Can do, chemist,” Forrest says. “I’ll go as soon as we finish sorting this forage.”

“Thanks,” Willow says. “Let me know how it goes.”

Forrest gives her a thumbs-up, and she heads back towards town, disquieted.

He’s a doctor. He can take care of himself. She’s catastrophizing because she’s overanalyzing everything right now.

He’s fine.

Matheo is fine.

----

Glaze Iceberg Expedition, Day 42

After a week of research, we believe we’ve traced every one of this area’s problems back to the exceedingly mysterious properties of its soil. There seems to be some kind of substance within it that keeps those spikes of ice from melting regardless of the temperature, and is simultaneously deleterious to any organic life -- including the yggdrasil. I have no theory as to what this substance is, or how it came to be, but given that there are people in Moonbury who remember the yggdrasils being large and bountiful, we can extrapolate that this must be a recent development.

Regardless, neither I nor my team came here to theorize about this substance. We came here to restore the yggdrasil. So that is where our research has turned. If we could remove the substance from the soil, then a sustainable environment for the flowers would doubtlessly be restored.

This is all a monumental discovery. We’ve gathered dozens of samples of the soil for scientists far smarter than myself to study back at the capital, and I’ll admit that my curiosity about that substance is not inconsequential. Gods, I'd love to go and have a drink with Oswald and his son, but the weather has turned ugly. Snowstorm has been raging for days. Far too dangerous to leave base. Some of the others have even been fretting about a potential avalanche.

I can only pray for our continued safety.

--

Glaze Iceberg Expedition, Day 61

The weather has been extreme lately. Oswald made the trek to base here and warned us about the danger of our continued existence here. He even relayed orders from the Association for us to abandon the expedition and return to the capital, but none of us are ready to give up yet; we’ve managed small scale success in cleansing the soil. We’ve decided to defy the orders and stay until we see this through, and all of us are prepared to accept whatever potential consequences the Association deems fit when we return. And if the weather does turn for the worse, we’re prepared for that, too.

The weight of the ticking clock is heavy, but we must succeed. The allowance of this expedition was a show of enormous, unearned trust towards us on Moonbury’s part -- the least we can do is show them we’re good for it.

--

Willow flips through Dr Lewis’s journal as gingerly as she can. The pages aren’t quite so fragile now that they’ve warmed up, but they’re still so thin and damaged from being on the mountain for so many years that they tear without much provocation. As well, the writing is patchy and hard to read, worn down and faded and with more than a few words missing altogether; she has to consciously concentrate to piece together some sentences from context.

The sense of loss is all the more striking because of the kinship and admiration she’s developed while reading. What she wouldn’t give to talk to Dr Lewis -- similarly thrust into a disaster he was not at fault for, treated with suspicion by most of the townsfolk, with the responsibility for fixing it placed on his shoulders; he was, in Willow’s opinion, assuming his journal reflects his true thoughts of the time, a far better person than she is. He accepted his situation without any of the bitterness or doubt she’s felt in her own position. He died trying to make things right. Would she be willing to do the same? She can’t honestly say for sure.

She can, at least, finish his work.

The notes he made about his and his team’s solution to cleanse the soil are extensive and dizzyingly insightful, even in the suboptimal condition they’re in. Given a little time to piece everything together, and run some tests, Willow has no doubt that she’ll be able to recreate their success, in far less time and with far less effort than she put into Meadow Range.

Unexpected but not out of place, she thinks about Victor, about what he told her of spirits who linger after death. Are Dr Lewis and his team still up there, unable to leave this plane because of their unfinished business?

If they are, she supposes, they’ll get to move on with everybody else when this is all said and done.

----

A couple hours pass, and Willow’s research is interrupted by a heavy pounding on her door, followed by Alistair jumping to his feet and barking in agitation, drowning out the muffled voice of whoever’s outside.

Her stomach seems to plummet to her feet, her blood pressure jumping. She hushes Alistair and tries to empty herself of any expectations, preparing for anything. When she opens the door she finds Bubble on the other side, panting, having apparently run here.

“Hey,” she says, taking a breath. “So, uh, Matheo’s definitely not okay.”

----

Bubble helps Willow get a clinic bed ready, and Willow finds that the conversation, the delegation of tasks, the preparation, the process of going through the motions she’s gone through a hundred times before, keep her focused. If she allows her mind to wander, to speculate on the severity of Matheo’s condition before she’s seen him, she starts to panic, forgets her priorities as the rational and logical part of her brain cedes all territory to the emotional part of her brain that just wants to unhelpfully but understandably freak the fuck out.

She pulls herself back. Concentrates. Stays as grounded as she can.

She’s worked through emergencies before. Calm, clearheaded, analytical. There will be time to decompress and let her emotions take over later, but right now, she has to be resilient.

Evidently when Bubble and Forrest went to check on Matheo, he didn't answer the door despite them knocking multiple times, at which point Forrest was forced to break a window and climb in that way. They found him huddled in an armchair, burning up, barely awake and confused.

Willow is already running through every possible diagnosis, along with their treatments and likelihood of survival (catastrophizing again , damn her brain), but it's too early to tell. He could just be one of the unlucky few whose run-in with the flu has turned severe.

It doesn't take long for Forrest to arrive with Matheo, who's half-walking and half-being-dragged and does indeed look like death warmed over. It's obvious he's dehydrated, gaunt and sickly greenish-gray except for where he’s flushed from his fever; the rings under his eyes are bruise-dark.

Willow shows Forrest over to the prepared bed, and they both help Matheo into it; he's quiet the whole time, seeming more dazed and disoriented than anything else.

After everything is settled, Forrest and Bubble take their leave, promising to be on call if their assistance is needed, and Willow takes just a last moment to breathe before addressing Matheo.

"Hey," Willow says, sitting on the edge of his bed and inspecting his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Gods, like… I'm…" He trails off into a fit of coughing, burying his face in the crook of his elbow; it's a deep, painful cough, like he could hack up a lung if he's not careful. "So tired," he says, tilting forward like he's about to fall asleep, and Willow gets a hand on his chest, pushes him back to sit up straight again.

"You can't sleep yet," she says. "I need to figure out what's wrong with you first."

"I'm sick," he says matter-of-factly, and Willow almost laughs at his stern expression, rendered ineffective by his unfocused gaze.

"I can see that," she says, moving to undo the buttons of his jacket. She has to be able to get at his arm to check his blood pressure, and if he needs an IV, but the implicit intimacy of undressing him isn't lost on her.

"What're you doing?" he mutters, though he makes no move to stop her.

"I need to check your blood pressure," she says, pulling his jacket open. "C'mon. Off."

He complies, though in the way a sullen child might. "I'm fine," he says.

Again, she almost laughs, throwing his jacket onto the next bed over. Aside from it, he's in simple, deep blue silk pajamas. It's odd to see him looking so… casual .

"You just told me you were sick," she says. "And even if you didn't tell me, I can see that you are. So let me take care of you, alright?"

Matheo takes a wheezing breath, which dissolves into another fit of coughing. Willow watches him, apprehensive, wishing there was something more she could do to offer him relief.

When he finishes, he grimaces in disgust at the phlegm left over on his sleeve.

"How long have you been having a productive cough like that?" she asks, handing him a tissue.

He has to think about it for a moment, during which Willow readies the blood pressure cuff around his arm. "Couple of days, I think," he says, slurred.

She makes a note of it on her intake form, which she’d rested on the bedside table, and hands him a small cup. "Next time you cough, do it in there," she says. "Also. Temperature. Open up."

She rests the thermometer under his tongue and he obediently waits. She takes his blood pressure in the meantime, makes a note of that as well when she's finished.

"Your blood pressure is kind of high," she says. "Is that normal?"

The look he gives her is pointed, and even a little wry, which is an achievement considering he still can't fully focus on her face.

"Sorry," she mumbles, embarrassed. Of course his blood pressure would run high, he's maybe the most tightly-wound person in Moonbury. "Pulse next."

She presses her fingers against his wrist, though her attention is diverted by what seems to be a significant burn along the back and side of his hand.

"Oh, gods, Matheo, what happened?" she asks, turning his hand so she can examine it. It's in the beginning stages of healing but it still looks angry and painful, all shiny red skin and blisters, and it extends partway up his wrist and arm, as well.

When he doesn't answer she looks up at him, and is reminded that he still has the thermometer in his mouth; his expression is too hazy and muddled to decipher, but he seems… guilty, somehow, or maybe embarrassed. She's not sure. It makes a little thread of chill run through her blood.

"This wasn't on purpose, was it?"

He shakes his head, and then tries not to cough since his mouth is full, but he fails, having to remove the thermometer so he can once again bury his face in the crook of his elbow. 

"The cup--" Willow reminds him, taking the thermometer and checking it. Like she suspected, his fever is high, alarmingly so, but she tries not to let herself jump to panic. She sets the thermometer aside and notices, with a small jolt, that he's gripping her hand, squeezing it like she's a fixed point to keep grounded to.

Her chest aches. She wants to squeeze back but she doesn't want to irritate his burn.

When he finishes again, he hands her the cup, now full of sputum, seeming apologetic.

"Thanks," she says. "I'm… going to take your pulse for real now."

She flips his hand over so she can press her fingers into his wrist like before, keeping watch on the clock. She can feel him shaking, probably from a mix of weakness, dehydration, and, as she's realizing, a heightened heart rate.

She wipes her hands on her pants and takes a breath.

"Does it hurt to breathe? Like, in your chest?" she asks.

He nods.

"Do you feel like you're not able to get a full breath?"

He nods again.

"Okay. I'm going to listen to your lungs now."

 She pops her stethoscope into her ears with a little more roughness than is necessary, holds the disk up to the first spot on his chest. Tries to ignore how close they are. Focus.

She guides him through a few deep breaths (though 'deep' in this case ends up being what would otherwise be average, and it's not without several forced breaks for coughing, once so intense that it makes him dry heave, and Willow's urgency continues to grow), listens at multiple spots through his chest and then through his back, noting the abnormalities. Neither of his lungs sound great, crackling and rattling, but his left is noticeably worse.

"Alright," she says, picking up the cup he'd coughed into. "I'm going to go and look at this under my microscope. I'll be back shortly. You rest a little bit, okay? But don't lay down flat. Stay propped up, and try to drink some water."

He nods, seeming half-asleep already. He looks so different than usual, weak and weary, hair stuck to his forehead, beard scruffy and unkempt, eyes dull and lifeless. It takes a significant amount of Willow's restraint to keep from throwing her arms around his neck and trying to just will him better, or something similarly foolish and maudlin.

Once again she pulls herself together.

She's capable, and logical, and knowledgeable. She's done this before and she can do it again.

She's a fucking chemist.

----

Matheo has pneumonia.

It's one of the things she'd suspected, but now that she's seen and evaluated him and all of his symptoms, and done a sputum culture, she's comfortable diagnosing it with certainty.

When she tells Matheo he seems unsurprised, though she's not sure if that's because he'd also suspected it or if he's just too tired to emote. She gives him an antibiotic potion, which he is unfamiliar with and thus, annoyingly, interrogates her about beforehand. When he relents at last, she lets herself relax a little bit.

She helps to make him more comfortable, propping him up and giving him some of her books to read since all of his belongings remain at his house, but after she gives him another potion to suppress his coughing a little bit he ends up falling asleep before he can get to any of them.

Willow settles in at the front desk of the clinic, continuing to read over the journal from the Glaze Iceberg site. She checks up on him every hour, and then, when he remains asleep and stable, she finds it in herself to venture out of the clinic. She takes Alistair for a brisk walk, breathing in the fresh air and trying to let the tension in her muscles slacken, and then she goes home, bathes, changes her bandages and checks her stitches, makes herself some food, pulls a few of her old textbooks out and skims through them for anything she might have forgotten about pneumonia.

She returns to the clinic. Matheo is still asleep.

It had been late afternoon when Forrest and Bubble brought him in, and it's well past dark now. Willow suspects that he'll be asleep for a good long while.

She sits down on a chair and watches him for a couple minutes, listening to him breathe. He is, at least, not coughing, but even just the simple acts of inhaling and exhaling sound labored and painful. He's still sweaty, as well, and in general seems like he's asleep more because it's not as miserable as being awake rather than because he's getting any semblance of legitimately rejuvenating rest.

She hopes that if she does end up getting sick, it doesn't evolve into this.

----

Willow wakes up the next morning with her back aching, and her face smashed into the bed. Slowly, she lifts her head, her neck twinging in protest.

She’s in her clinic.

She’d fallen asleep while checking up on Matheo.

To be precise, she’d fallen asleep while listening to his lungs, so her hand is still resting on his chest while her head had dropped to nestle into his side, with her shoulder and arm crooked at an awkward, painful angle. One earpiece of her stethoscope is attempting to hang onto her temple, while the other is tangled in her hair.

It’s an already embarrassing discovery, but when she looks at Matheo’s face she finds that he’s awake and watching her with a vaguely puzzled expression, which startles her the rest of the way to full consciousness.

“Oh, gods, I’m so sorry,” Willow mumbles, pulling her stethoscope off of her head and returning it to her neck where it belongs. The shoulder and arm that had been resting on him are stiff and numb; her entire body is sore. “I don’t make it a habit, falling asleep on patients, I promise.”

He says nothing. Just watches her. While he still looks terrible, there’s light in his eyes again, and she finds the returned sharpness reassuring.

“I’m definitely going to get sick now,” she says, shaking her arm as it tingles with renewed blood flow. “I guess that’s what I get for my lapse in professionalism--”

“Willow.” His voice is a quiet, hoarse rasp, almost inaudible.

“Yeah?”

“Why am I here?”

Willow stares at him, and he stares back. She would be unsure whether he’s serious or not, except that when has Matheo ever told a joke?

“Forrest brought you in yesterday,” she says. “You have pneumonia.”

He nods, though the movement irritates his throat and he falls into a coughing fit; it’s the first one of the day, Willow assumes (if he’d had any earlier it would have woken her up), and thus it goes on for a long time, deep and wheezing and gravelly, intense enough that he gags. She walks over to the bedside table and hands him the glass of water she’d put there yesterday.

“Drink,” she says, and he does, downing the whole glass in a matter of moments.

“Gods, that’s disgusting,” he grumbles.

“It’s better that it comes up,” she says, handing him a couple tissues. “Do you really not remember yesterday?”

Matheo thinks for a moment, rubbing his temples. “I remember… bits and pieces, but they’re hazy and indistinct.”

“You were pretty out of it,” she says, fetching the thermometer off the bedside table. “Open.”

He does so, and she places the thermometer under his tongue. Like before, she takes his blood pressure in the meantime. It’s a mildly off-putting feeling, to be more closely scrutinized this time around; she wonders if he’s judging her, evaluating everything she does and comparing it to his own methods, or what he holds as best practice.

She doesn’t care. Maybe being treated by her firsthand will finally convince him that she’s genuine and capable and good at what she does.

“Blood pressure is the same, a little high,” she says, jotting it down. “Pulse next.”

Willow presses her fingers into his wrist, noting that he’s not shaking as much today, and remembering the mysterious burn on his hand. Matheo all but confirms that there’s something questionable about it when he remembers it as well and seems to want to pull away.

“Heart rate is more normal than last night, so that’s good,” she says, noting it as well. “By the way… Um… I have a balm that I could put on that, if you’re interested. It helps with the pain.”

He only holds her gaze for a second before looking away, and Willow’s unease mounts. What happened that he’s so reticent to tell her about? Something embarrassing? Something he’s trying to hide?

She gives him a bit of space, filling up another glass of water and getting his next dose of antibiotic. When she returns, she takes the thermometer.

“Not quite as dire as yesterday, but still high,” she says, making a final note. “Here.” She holds the water and potion vial towards him. He eyes the latter suspiciously.

“What’s this?”

“Antibiotic potion,” she says. “You already gave me a hard time about it yesterday, so don’t do it again. Just drink it.”

His eyes flit from her hand to her face, one eyebrow quirked, but it’s only a moment before he relents and takes it from her.

“All at once?”

“All at once.”

She waits until after he’s emptied the flask to ask, “Are you hungry? It’s better to take it with food, but you didn’t have any appetite yesterday.”

He shakes his head.

“Alright, well keep drinking water, at least,” she says. “You’re still pretty dehydrated, I think, and it will help all that mucus come up.”

“Lovely.”

She can’t stop one corner of her mouth from lifting, though she forces it back down. “I’m going to run to my house to take care of Alistair and brush my teeth and grab something to eat. Are you alright here for a little bit?”

He fixes her with a quizzical expression, head tilted. His hair is well and truly a mess now, flipped up at all different angles and hanging in his eyes. She has the abrupt and silly urge to brush it back off his forehead.

“You want me to stay here?” he asks.

It’s her turn to stare, in muted disbelief. “Yes?” she says. “I don’t trust that you’re well enough to go home yet.”

He looks away. “I guess it was only a matter of time before even I ended up here, as well,” he grumbles.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, crossing her arms. “You’re sick, and I’m a doctor.”

“So am I.”

“But you’re obviously too sick to take care of yourself. So let me.”

He says nothing, but something in him shifts, like his resistance has given way but he’s more melancholy than angry about it. Maybe he’s so sick that it’s taken all of the fight out of him.

Nevertheless, she sits down on the side of the bed and leans into his field of view until he looks at her again.

“Hey,” she says. “You took care of me. More than once. It’s my turn to take care of you, okay? Fair’s fair.”

He sighs, but it devolves into coughing, and Willow watches him, waiting.

“Fine,” he rasps, after he’s finished, “you win.”

It’s not about winning, it’s about your health and safety, Willow thinks but decides against saying. He’s obviously in a weird mood and the last thing either of them needs right now is for him to get worked up.

“Thank you,” she says. “There’s a lavatory over there if you need it, fully stocked. Just be careful because you were pretty weak yesterday. And the books on the table here are also for you, if you’re bored.” She stands up, brushes herself off. “I’ll be back soon.”

He nods in affirmation but doesn’t reply.

Willow is beginning to feel like his lack of fight might be from something other than being sick, but she pushes it to the back of her mind. The most important thing is that he’s here, in her care, and doesn’t seem intent on leaving.

She can work with that.

----

When she returns a couple hours later, Matheo is asleep again, in a position that implies he got up to go to the bathroom and then, upon returning, fell into the bed and immediately went to sleep without readjusting. Willow contemplates waking him up, but decides against it since he needs as much rest as he can get; it’s only a matter of time before his cough will inevitably wake him up, anyway.

She sets herself up at the front desk of the clinic like yesterday, reading through Dr Lewis's journal. Truth be told, the break from worrying about the accident site has been a welcome change of pace, especially for her wounds -- circumstances notwithstanding. Being forced to take it easy has already contributed a significant amount of good to her healing. Maybe when she goes back up to the mountain she’ll be doing so with a new scar, rather than a bunch of stitches.

As expected, Matheo wakes up coughing after about an hour, and Willow takes the chance to stretch her muscles, which are still sore from having slept all night in such an awkward and incriminating position (She still cringes inside when she thinks about it).

“How are you feeling?” she asks after he’s quieted down and is crawling into the bed proper.

“Miserable,” he mutters, flopping against the pillows. “Like I’ve been hit by a train.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, handing him a glass of water. “Drink.”

He does so, sipping on it rather than chugging it like last time.

“I brought that balm, if you want to try it,” she says, holding the tin out for him to see. He looks at her, wary, over the rim of the glass, which he’s holding in his burned hand so she can see all that angry red skin. “Like I said, it would help with the pain.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says, though she suspects it’s a lie, or at the very least a half-truth.

“Well, it would still aid with healing.”

He doesn’t reply, instead taking another drink.

She sits on the edge of the bed, squeezing the tin in her hands. “Matheo. What’s wrong?”

“I’m sick,” he says.

“Don’t be an ass,” she says. “You know what I mean.”

He takes a breath, and it rattles in his chest but doesn’t turn into coughing this time. Again, he doesn’t reply.

“Look, I know you resent being here and having a chemist take care of you, but I felt like…” She swallows, cheeks warming and something in her stomach fluttering at the memory of their last interaction. “I thought that we parted on a good note last time,” she says. “I-I thought…"

“Gods, Willow, it’s not… I’m just…” He pauses, glances at her, and then finishes lamely, “going through some things.”

“O-Oh,” she says, tapping her fingers against the tin. There’s a beat of silence, tense because both of them know that’s not even the beginning of the full story. “Anything I can help with?”

He doesn’t meet her eyes, withdrawing, seeming to deflate. Yet again, he doesn’t answer her.

“At least let me try this,” she says, in what she hopes is a tone of openness and not insistence, holding the tin up again. “I promise it’ll help.”

Matheo stares at her for such a long time that it starts to feel awkward, expression shifting multiple times, but Willow remains stubbornly committed to outlasting him, refusing to move. If he’s trying to intimidate her, it’s rendered less effective by the fact that he doesn’t have enough energy to exude his usual standoffish and thorny aura; in fact, his overall demeanor is reminiscent of an abused dog trying to learn how to trust for the first time, more forlorn and pitiful than anything else.

At length, he sighs. “Fine,” he says, attempting, without success, to put on an unaffected air.

“Thank you,” Willow says. “I’m going to go wash my hands, I’ll be right back.”

She hops to her feet and hustles to the sink before he can object, scrubbing her hands and wrists clean, and then returns to his bed, pulling on some gloves. In the short time it takes her to do those things, he already seems to be having second thoughts.

“Let me see,” she says, popping the tin open.

Matheo sets the glass of water aside and holds his hand towards her. She takes it, examining it as she scoops a generous amount of the balm out of the tin with her free fingers.

“It might sting a little at first, but then it will feel really nice.” She spreads the balm over his hand, covering the largest areas first. His fingers twitch, muscles tensing, and then it passes and he relaxes again. The way the burn covers his hand makes it obvious that it was some kind of liquid rather than fire, or touching a burner or a stove. “What happened?” she asks, in as neutral and open a tone as she can manage.

Unsurprisingly, he’s silent.

She lets the question hang there, an open invitation, rubbing her fingers in gentle little circles, trying not to irritate his tender skin as she massages the balm in. She’s not sure how old the burn is, but it still feels residually warm to her, or maybe it’s just his fever.

“Just an accident,” Matheo says finally, so quiet and hoarse that she almost doesn’t hear him. “I was…” He sighs, coughs a little bit. “I was being stupid.”

“Don’t say that,” she says, though it comes out unconvincing, and he huffs out a laugh, which just makes him cough again.

“Objectively, I was being stupid,” he says, clearing his throat, and then he’s silent again.

Willow takes a breath, moving from the back of his hand to his wrist, slowing her pace. Maybe she’s imagining it, but it feels like he wants to tell her what happened but won’t for some reason, and she can’t figure out the correct set of words or actions that will convince him to.

She glances at him from under her lashes, finds him watching her. She looks back down, dipping her head a little in an attempt to hide the flush that rises into her face.

“I think I’m…” His fingers close around the back of her hand, light but purposeful. “I think I’m lost.”

It’s an odd word choice. Lost? How could he be lost? Emotionally, mentally, spiritually? She’s not sure what he means, but he says it with such despondency that she can’t stop the involuntary twist of her stomach. It feels like a plea.

“Hey,” she says, as serious and steady as she can, meeting his eyes. “If you need help --with anything-- I’m here, okay?” She squeezes his hand, mindful to not irritate his burn. “I meant what I said. I-I want us to be friends. And I’ll never turn you away.”

Matheo offers her a smile, but it’s tired, maybe even a little cynical, and doesn’t reach his eyes. He pulls his hand out of hers, looks away. When he says, “Thanks,” it’s in a whisper, out of obligation rather than genuine thankfulness.

She sighs, and nods in affirmation, then stands up to give him space, and to dispose of her gloves and wash her hands again.

A heavy, uncomfortable rock has lodged itself into her chest alongside her heart.

Guilt, too, because she can’t help but feel this is partly her fault.

Chapter Text

Matheo spends the first week or so at Willow's clinic feeling what he would regard as the absolute shittiest he's ever felt.

He sleeps as much as he physically can, mostly just because the alternative --laying in bed and feeling like he's dying-- is miserable, near unbearable.

His head will not stop pounding, so unrelentingly, acutely heavy and sore it makes him nauseous. His lungs feel tight, like there's a vice around his chest preventing him from taking a full breath, to say nothing of the awful, rattling wheezing that accompanies every breath he does take, or the constant scraping sensation in his throat which intensifies to needle-sharp pain when he swallows. Every time he coughs it's like an ironfin slicing through his ribs, and his fever means he keeps cycling between freezing cold and nearly burning alive, sweating and shivering at the same time. And he's so gods-damned tired.

More than once it all hits him so hard again that he lapses into that same impenetrable mental fog and bone-deep, utter exhaustion he'd been stuck in when he was first dragged here. He'll wake up and not remember anything of the past six to twelve hours, and the relief on Willow's face at his lucidity is always keenly apparent.

Every day that passes that he doesn't feel any better is hard to bear. Hard to keep languishing here, doing nothing, unable to escape the fucking misery of being alive right now.

Willow, of course, tries to cheer him up. She tries reassuring him that he's headed in a good direction first, before it becomes clear that his health is fluctuating instead of linearly improving, and then she tries distracting him by making small talk or relaying messages and occasional gifts from the townsfolk or telling him about her research into the Glaze Iceberg site. She keeps constant watch. Several times he's awoken in the middle of the night and found her, like that first night, asleep in a chair beside his bed.

She's putting herself at unnecessary risk, and he tells her this, but she argues and he lacks the energy to argue back.

“Besides,” she says once, dryly, “if I catch it after you get better I'll just come and stay at your clinic. We'll take turns.”

She means it as a joke, of course, but he can't find it in himself to laugh, or even react, because why would he? If she gets sick after he gets better, she's on her own. He'll be gone.

Gradually, though, he does start feeling better. One day he wakes up and his head doesn't ache quite as much as before, and he's able to swallow without feeling like his throat has been turned into a pincushion.

If he wakes up the day after that and finds his sheets wet with sweat and a fist still clenched around his lungs, at least it's with the knowledge that maybe it will be over soon, after all.

----

He dreams he’s a moth, fluttering in a deep, cool darkness. It’s home, a familiar comfort, and he wraps himself inside it, savoring it, letting it soak into him. This lovely darkness is his. He thrives in it like he and it were made for each other.

And then a light bursts into existence.

It burns. It’s an unwelcome interruption to the totality of his darkness, too bright and hot, confusing his senses. It’s incomprehensible, refusing to dim itself regardless of who it hurts, regardless of the effect it has on anything but itself.

Worst of all, he’s drawn to it.

It’s easy to ignore at first, but over time it’s like a compulsion, impossible to exert an opposing will towards.

Even if he fears it, he flies towards it.

Even if he hates it, he flies towards it.

Even if he knows it will hurt, he flies towards it.

He can’t shut it off, like being stuck inside his body while someone else puppeteers him around, watching in terror and awe as he’s forced closer to a light that he wants so badly to flee from.

The light’s form resolves as he gets closer to it, and he sees that it’s the sun.

It keeps getting brighter, hotter, scorching his eyes and burning his wings, excruciating, but he keeps flying towards it .

Even if it kills him, he flies towards it.

Matheo jolts awake in the pitch-dark clinic, heart racing. He coughs, and it's excruciating, throat burning and every gasping inhalation like sandpaper inside his lungs.

He coughs mucus up into the towel next to his bed, gagging and heaving and trying not to vomit. Grabs the glass of water alongside the towel and drinks half of it in one go, desperate for relief.

When it finally passes, he pushes the bedcovers aside and huddles up, resting his forehead on his knees, so hot from his fever (and, perhaps, the dream) that he’s sweating. There’s so much pressure behind his eyes they feel as though they could burst, so he closes them and just… breathes.

He keeps having these damn dreams. Always so similar. Transparent and obvious and yet maddeningly oblique. Socellia had told him that the gods sometimes communicate through dreams, but these feel far more like all of his unsettled and conflicted desires and regrets and frustrations and longings tangling together and repeating back to him.

I know, I get it already, he wants to say, none of this is new information. Leave me alone and let me sleep.

Of course, that’s an exercise in futility. He suspects the dreams will continue for a long while yet. Maybe until he leaves Moonbury. Maybe after.

Not for the first time, he contemplates going home. Sneaking out right now, in the middle of the night, while no one will catch him. He could pack his things and be on the first train westbound in the morning. Put an end to all this stupidity sooner rather than later.

Gods, though, he feels miserable.

When he thinks about the actual reality of what the journey to his house entails, the prospect is enough to pull him back down from his daydreams -- even walking to the lavatory is exhausting, there’s no way he’d be able to make it home.

Besides…

He takes a deep, slow breath, careful not to irritate his throat and lungs, and lays down again, rubbing his forehead.

Besides… He had agreed to stay here so Willow could treat him.

A stupid agreement, maybe. Bound to make this whole situation even harder and more convoluted and protracted. An unnecessary concession borne from that growing sentimentality for her that he’s too sick to stifle -- he doesn’t need her help, and yet…

He takes another breath.

Until he feels better.

Just until he feels better.

And then he’ll go.

----

It hasn't stopped being awkward to talk to Willow. She can tell there’s something he’s not telling her, and it’s obviously bothering her, but he has no intention of telling anyone about his plans to leave, least of all her, especially not while he’s confined to her clinic. He’s not sure how she would react, and at this point he’s not sure whether her being glad or upset would further salt the wound worse. 

And despite everything, he's still angry. Still bitter and hurt and insulted, and it stays alive at the bottom of his consciousness like a kindling fire, burning low but refusing to go out.

Maybe he believes that she has good intentions. Maybe she was the best thing that could have happened to Moonbury. But gods, did it have to come at the cost of his entire life's work?

And does she not realize? Does she not care?

She must. She must.

But then, why isn't she doing anything about it?

He can't decide if he wants to bring it up now and see what she has to say for herself, or if he just wants to spring it on her last minute as he leaves so she can be haunted by it.

----

At his request (hesitant and fumbling, because while he doesn't love the idea of asking this of anyone, in particular Willow, he's still too damn weary to do it himself) Willow draws him a bath in the clinic lavatory, and helps him get there as well. It's frustrating to feel winded after what amounts to a less-than-ten-second walk.

"Are you okay or do you want me to stay," she states more than asks, looking at him sideways; his arm around her shoulders suddenly feels a little more like casual affection than stabilization.

Matheo returns the sideways look, trying to read her thoughts; her face is so uncharacteristically indifferent that it's an obvious facade. Still, the fact that she manages to maintain unbroken eye contact is an achievement, given her usual propensity for bashfulness in compromising situations.

"I think I'm okay," he says, pulling away from her to lean against the edge of the tub. She's never returned his jacket (he actually has no idea where it might be at this point, though he assumes it's safe) and has never brought him anything else to wear, which means he’s been solely in his pajamas this entire time. He probably smells terrible.

He's able to make pretty quick work of his shirt, but doesn't even think about the possible overfamiliarity of pulling the drawstring of his pants loose until Willow spins around to give him privacy, the backs of her ears turning pink.

"Alright," she says, holding her arms out backwards. "Well. Give me your clothes so I can wash them."

"Give me a second," he grumbles. "This is more moving than I've done in… probably a week."

Either she has eyes in the back of her head or she can hear his labored breathing as he struggles to pull his pants off with as little movement as possible, because after a moment she says, "Are you sure you're okay? I don't want to come back here and find you've drowned in the bathtub."

Matheo can’t help but be darkly amused at the recent familiarity of that notion.

"Gods," he huffs, "why is everything so tiring."

"Pneumonia takes a really big toll on the body," Willow says, gentle, as if she's talking to a cranky child or a spooked horse.

He knows that. In theory. But experiencing it firsthand is another, more annoying matter.

He finally succeeds in escaping from his pants after what feels like an hour of effort, thankful that his underwear come off with them. He lacks the energy to fold any of it properly, instead just stuffing the bundle into Willow's still-outstretched arms.

"Thanks," she says. "I'll go put these in the wash, and I'll get you something clean to wear in the meantime.”

She leaves the room, and Matheo slides into the bathtub, boneless and fatigued. The hot water feels wonderful against his skin, soothing his aching limbs, and the steam eases the strain in his throat and chest. A not-insignificant part of him wants to just lay his head back and doze, though of course the dangers of that are obvious and very real.

Still, he does allow himself to just sit for a moment, eyes closed, breathing in the steam as he tries to gather the strength needed to clean himself off properly.

A soft knock at the door interrupts his pseudo-meditation, and then Willow comes back in, though she keeps her eyes averted in an effort to afford him at least some privacy. “Here,” she says, dropping a folded square of fabric onto the counter. “It’s just a hospital gown, but you shouldn’t have to wear it for too long.”

She turns back to the door, and is about to leave again, but Matheo, swallowing the sharp glass fragments of what little pride he has left, mutters, “I might need your help.”

She pauses, turns to look at him, and they stare at each other. Matheo has no idea what his face is doing, but Willow’s is pensive and penetrating, which makes him think that he’s not doing a very good job of hiding any of his embarrassment; he’s a grown man, for the gods’ sakes -- asking for help bathing, especially from her, is more than a little humiliating.

It only takes her a moment, though, to nod and say, “Okay. Anything in particular?”

As if in response to the mere idea that he might not have to exert anymore of his very limited energy, most of the muscles in his body go lax and he finds himself just sort of flopping against the side of the tub like a dying fish. He can’t bring himself to actually answer her, because all of this is so undignified that the idea of trying to voice a question like ‘can you wash my hair for me’ feels more akin to scaling a sheer cliffside than just opening his mouth and talking.

Willow seems to sense this, and, with a sigh, pulls a stool over to sit on, bringing her closer to his eye level, though he doesn’t look at her.

“I know it’s weird,” she says, running her hand through her hair, “but I’ve done a lot weirder things as a chemist than help someone take a bath. I’m sure you have, too.”

She has a point. A compelling one, too. He has done weirder things than this -- he’s just usually the one in her position; he’s unused to being a patient.

He takes a breath, swallowing yet more of his pride.

“Lifting my arms is exhausting,” he says, and thanks the gods when she picks up the subtext and spares him the tiny little speck of dignity left inside of him.

“So, your hair?” she says.

He hums in affirmation.

“Alright.”

She stands up and goes over to the nearby supply cabinet, rifles through it, and when she returns it’s with a small cup. Scooting the stool to the end of the tub, she sits down behind him.

When she leans forward and reaches past him to dip the cup into the water, coming startlingly close to him, he hopes that his involuntary shiver is minute enough that she doesn’t notice.

“Look up,” she says.

He does so, and she pours the water into his hair.

Strangely (or maybe not), he thinks about flushing her wounds. The memory, and its juxtaposition to his present situation, brings an odd sense of regret and wistfulness with it, mostly because it was the last time he felt like he was competent and confident. In his element. Before helping her that night, it had been months since he’d practiced, and he still fell into it like the second nature that it is.

Or that he thought it was, at least.

Willow pours a couple more cups’ worth of water into his hair. “Lean back,” she says, and he does so, trying not to flop as pathetically as last time. He hears the sound of glass clinking --potion bottles, he assumes-- and then Willow’s hands are in his hair, soft and deliberate.

It’s stupid, really, but that’s the thing that makes his eyes burn with sudden wetness.

The possibility of crying in front of her sends just enough panicked energy through him to readjust, making sure as much of his face is hidden from her sight as possible. He stares at the faucet on the opposite side of the tub, steadfastly ignoring that little knot of infuriating emotion that’s attempting to unravel inside of his chest.

“I made this shampoo myself,” she says, in a voice that suggests she’s either sensed the change in the room or is uncomfortable with the prolonged silence. “Olive and Cassandra taught me how.”

Annoyingly, he doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just hums.

Her touch is gentle, careful, fingers working through the several knots he’s accumulated while sweatily tossing and turning in the clinic bed. So damn gentle, even as she works shampoo into his hair, mindful of his semi-constant headache. It makes the continual whole-body tension he’s been sustaining since her arrival in Moonbury glaringly obvious, like every one of his other muscles aches to be touched so gently after being neglected for so long.

He breathes in.

Willow’s fingertips trace along his hairline, featherlight.

He’s been such a gods-damned fucking fool. Blind and obstinate and stupid.

This is Willow, isn’t it? Big-hearted and diligent, just like everyone told him. Just like she’s shown him. He’s been trying so hard to ignore it, to see what he’s wanted to see, even as it becomes more and more obvious that he’s just been prejudiced for the sake of not having to admit to being wrong.

“Lean forward again," she says.

He does so, and she pours more water over his head, rinsing out the shampoo. It doesn’t take long, which is somewhat bittersweet since it means her hands won’t be in his hair anymore.

“Alright,” she says, and then, before he can reply, adds, “if you lean back again I’ll get a comb through it.”

Matheo glances at her over his shoulder. She grins, subdued and sympathetic. Earnest, as always.

He does as requested, more out of his own selfishness than anything else.

She runs her fingers through his hair a bit, loosening it before using the comb.

"Your hair is getting long," she says, voice quiet.

"Well, I haven't exactly had a chance to cut it," he grumbles, defensive, and she laughs.

"I wasn't accusing you of anything," she says, and then, "Sorry--" when she catches the comb on a knot and accidentally tugs.

Matheo has recovered enough energy to move in any sort of significant capacity again, and idly makes an effort to clean himself off, because if he doesn't do it then Willow will probably insist on doing so so she can get him back in his bed, and if she does that he's pretty sure that he'll never be able to look her in the eye again.

"You have pretty hair," she mumbles, so low he almost doesn't hear her through his still-stuffy ears.

He stares down at his hands, at the scabbed burn that's beginning to darken and turn into a scar. Tries not to overanalyze the possible implications of her words.

Finishing with the comb, Willow cards her fingers through his hair one more time, blunt nails skimming his scalp.

She seems to linger,

or maybe it’s just his own projections.

It’s not hard to imagine her twisting his hair around her fingers and pulling. Leaning his head to the side. Craning forward over the edge of the tub to get her mouth on his throat.

The idea hits him so abruptly that he finds himself grateful when she retreats.

“Done,” she says, again in that quiet almost-whisper. “Are you alright to finish on your own?”

“Yes,” he says. “I won’t be long.”

“Well, I’ll be around, so if you need me just holler,” she says. She stands up, returns the comb and the stool to their homes, and leaves the room after giving him one more of those little smiles.

Matheo doesn’t really believe in needing anyone.

But he feels like hollering, anyway.

----

“I find most people lack a true connection to nature,” Matheo says, watching as Willow spreads more of that balm on his burned hand; by now enough of his energy and wherewithal has returned that he’d be more than capable of doing so himself, but she’s never even offered, and he’s not so apathetic as to not relish the physical contact.

“What d’you mean?” she asks without looking up.

“Just that… they don’t understand that we are part of nature,” he says. “We're not separate from it. We’re not merely observers. We are nature, just as much as any other animal.”

She pauses, hums in thought. “You’re right, I’ve never thought of it like that.”

“It’s easy to forget,” he says. “My family has always stressed it. Everything around us is alive, and has been for decades, sometimes eons, far longer than we have the ability to comprehend. An entire nervous system, flourishing with life everywhere around us, at all times, and we so easily fall into the trap of ignoring it, separating ourselves from it completely.”

Willow looks at him, the edges of her mouth turned up in a smile that’s unmistakably fond.

“What?” Matheo asks, something in his chest catching a spark and warming up.

She shakes her head, going back to work, using her wrist to try and push her hair behind her ear (he has the passing impulse to reach out and do it for her). “Oh, it’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sound so impassioned before. It's nice,” she says, and then, after a moment, adds, “and you make it sound like such a romantic notion.”

He huffs out a laugh, tries not to cough at the scratch in his throat. “But it’s true,” he says.

“I agree with you,” she says. “I feel like I’ve only just started to understand how interconnected everything is since I moved here and have been trying to fix the last chemists’ fuckups. Like… nature isn’t always just for our benefit, right? I think that’s what the previous chemists weren’t thinking about. But our relationship is more symbiotic than that." She tilts her head, seeming somewhat frustrated at her inability to express her thoughts. "And when I was able to restore the Meadow Range site --not destroy, but restore-- and it was so much more beautiful than I imagined -- it was like I suddenly… belonged to the world… in a way I hadn’t before? Does that make sense?”

A beat passes, wherein Matheo feels like he’s being strangled both by ever-growing affection and by grief.

“Yes,” he says, around the lump in his throat, “it makes sense.”

----

Sometimes when she listens to his lungs, she draws so close that he can feel her body heat, and he thinks, as he watches her brow furrow in concentration, stethoscope pressed against his chest, about how easy it would be to lean forward and meet her mouth with his own.

----

When he gets his appetite back, Willow starts bringing him food, and often moon clove tea, as well, and then sits in her chair beside his bed and reads aloud. Sometimes books from her collection, sometimes the journal she’d found at the Glaze Iceberg site, sometimes interesting or outrageous stories from the newspaper.

The sense of intimacy is striking because of its domesticity; if he closes his eyes (which he does, often, because despite the continued gradual return of his energy he’s still so damn tired all the time) he could almost imagine he’s at home, laying on his couch with her.

Home.

A funny concept, nowadays.

----

At some point both Willow and Matheo realize that among all the chaos, the date has passed for Willow's stitches to be removed.

Given that it's not overly wise to try and remove them by oneself, they make the extremely unsound and unprofessional decision to have her sit opposite him on his bed while he removes them.

"If anyone from the Medical Association saw this right now," she says, for maybe the third time, "I would lose my license so fast."

"Stop laughing," he says, because she is, though in a rueful, self-conscious way.

She makes a big show of sucking in a breath and holding it.

He leans forward to make sure he has a clear view of exactly where he needs to snip the stitches to pull them free, and Willow's hands tense where they're holding the edge of her shirt up.

He clips the first knot, and the corresponding section of stitches runs free with a little gentle tugging. Willow winces.

"Did that hurt?" Matheo asks, glancing at her sideways.

She half-shrugs. "Mostly it just felt weird."

"Should only be one more," he says.

He clips the second knot, and its stitches come out even easier. She doesn't even seem to feel it.

"Done." Before he can think better of it it, he runs his free fingers over the thin, silvery line of scar tissue left over, and Willow shudders, letting out an odd little giggling gasp.

"Ohgodsthattickled--!" she babbles, pulling her shirt back down to protect her vulnerable skin from further prodding. Her cheeks turn bright pink, quick, like she's been struck, and she scrambles off the bed to stand up again.

"Sorry--" he says. "Was just admiring my handiwork."

She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, chest still rising and falling with sudden adrenaline, then walks over to the nearby mirror, examining the scar for herself.

"Oh!" she says. "That's not bad at all. Can't really even see it from far away."

"As I said. Admiring my handiwork."

She snorts. "Maybe just, um… warn me next time."

A beat passes.

She seems to realize the implications of that 'next time' at the same time as him, and her flush spreads across her entire face and down her neck. With a loud, overacted clearing of her throat, she says, "Anyway! I'll be back," and leaves the clinic faster than he can set aside the scissors in his hand.

Matheo's fingers feel warm. His face, too. Is he also pink, or is his fever coming back?

Next time.

It's only a moment before Willow pokes her head back in. "Thank you, by the way!"

----

He dreams he's a bird. Something green and orange and black, soaring through canopies of rich foliage far above the ground. The sky is blue, the air warm, the breeze carrying him. He lands in a tree, sunning himself with the rest of his flock, carefree and simple.

The scenery changes. He's lying on the ground, watching his flock fly away without him. He keeps trying to lift himself off the ground, flapping his wings, crying out for them to wait, something is wrong. He flaps, flaps, jumps in the air and gains a couple of feet of altitude before crashing back down.

And then he's being lifted, not by the air but by… He recognizes them as human hands, but he can't stop from being terrified -- these hands are so much bigger than him, could crush him without any effort. They do not flinch or pull away despite him pecking and scratching at them.

The hands belong to Willow.

She's holding him close to her face, inspecting him, but he's not sure why. Is she going to hurt him? Does she find him lacking in some way? He couldn't fly, after all, maybe she finds him a pitiful excuse for a bird. He finds he wouldn’t blame her. Every other bird in his flock can fly, and he could too, until just now. It is pitiful, isn't it?

She says something to him that he doesn't understand, or doesn't remember. Her hands are all around him. He can't move.

He can't move, can't move, can't move, just wants to move.

The scenery changes. He's in a small cage in a house that he presumes to be Willow's. She's watching him. Saying something to him again, but he still doesn't understand.

There's food and water in his cage, but it's hard to be grateful for them when they're in a cage.

Something is on his wing. Smothering him. Makes it even harder for him to fly. The audacity of her, to humiliate him even further, to kick him when he's down.

She pokes her fingers through the bars and he attacks, furious and feral and despairing. She says something, hushed.

He can’t comprehend her.

The scenery changes. He's still in the cage, but he knows time has passed somehow. Weeks, maybe. Willow opens the door of the cage and reaches her hand in, although she stops when he attacks her like he always does.

“Shhh,” she says, and he understands her now. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

But you are, can't you see that? You are. You're hurting me right now.

She tilts her head. “How so?”

I don't understand you. I can't understand you. You're going to destroy me.

She shakes her head this time. “Why would I do that?”

It's your nature.

She grins, and he wants to cry; how can she find amusement at his suffering? “How would you know that? We never met before this.”

I know what your kind are like. Destroying things is all you do.

She hums, and her expression shifts.

Her expression is…

The scenery changes. More time has passed. Willow is holding him again. She's inspecting his wing. He's struggling to free himself, except that he can't find as much energy as usual. He wants to free himself, but…

“The more you struggle the longer this is going to take,” she says.

We wouldn't even be in this situation if not for you.

“What was the alternative? If I'd left you there you could have been attacked.”

Are you not attacking me right now?

“Is that what it feels like?”

That's all you do.

“Just because you don't understand doesn't mean that you're right.”

That's all you do.

“Your wing was broken and I fixed it. I'm helping you, not hurting you.”

But that's all you do.

Her expression shifts.

Her expression is…

The scenery changes. More time has passed. He's in Willow's hands. She’s not holding onto him this time, just providing a platform to stand on. They're outside; he could fly away. He's not sure he even remembers how to.

Willow holds her hands up and out, and he turns to look at her.

He's a man. Her hands are cradling his face.

“Whats wrong?” she asks.

“I don't understand you,” he says. “I don't understand why any of this had to happen.”

“Do you want to?”

Her thumbs brush along his cheekbones, soft and slow and achingly intimate. He shuts his eyes for a moment to just feel it.

“I think at this point… it would be less painful to just put it all behind me.”

A moment of silence. He turns his head and her hand shifts, thumb tracing along his lips, pausing there, and then she lifts his chin, coaxing him to stand up straight. 

“Then go,” she says.

He opens his eyes.

He's a bird once more, resting in Willow's hands. She's holding him towards the sky. The open air beckons him. It's terrifying, but what other choice does he have? He doesn't belong here. This place is beyond him. She is beyond him. To stay would be foolish, and painful, and suffocating.

He hops to her fingertips, looking at the ground below. It feels so far away.

But he knows how to fly. He knows. He's done it his whole life.

He turns to her.

Her expression is…

He falls, backwards.

Her expression is…

He should not be falling backwards.

Her expression is…

He opens his wings.

But he's still falling. Falling, and not flying.

Her expression is…

He hits the ground.

Matheo wakes up with a start. He’s short of breath, and for a moment reflexive panic chokes him; he sits up, clutching his chest, grounding himself in reality.

He’s still in Willow’s clinic. It’s the middle of the night. He’s still sick.

Another dream. Even more blatant and stupid than usual.

He turns towards the chair Willow sometimes occupies overnight; she’s not there.

He’s not sure whether or not he wishes she was.

----

“Alright.” Willow slides the lamp across the floor. “How’s this?”

Matheo scrutinizes the still life in front of him. It’s set up on a table at the foot of his bed and consists of a vase with some silk flowers in it, a bowl of fruit, some potion flasks, and a somewhat abstract sculpture of an elk from Willow’s house. No thematic coherence whatsoever, but this isn’t exactly intended to result in any sort of deep, meaningful masterpiece. He’d asked her for interesting shapes and textures, and she’d delivered.

He nods. “That looks good.”

“Perfect.”

She flops into her chair, picking up the pencil and paper she’d brought, and he picks up his own, and… they sketch.

It feels good. It’s been a long time since Matheo last did any sort of real study, or any art for its own sake. The last time he can remember drawing anything was when he’d been taking notes about the rashes (which he’s trying not to think about at the moment). Doing it now, intentional, feels like stretching an underused muscle, or taking his skills off the proverbial shelf and blowing the dust off of them. And it distracts him a little bit from how terrible he still feels -- given too much time without stimulus he can't help but meditate on how much his head still aches all the time, and how he still can't inhale to the full capacity of his lungs.

As well, Willow was eager to try out the new record player she’d ordered, so now it feels downright cozy here in the clinic, with sunlight filtering through the frosty windows and music filling the space, and them, sketching in shared silence.

Companionable silence, it could be called.

The concept still feels foreign, like a sock that’s twisted its seam to be underfoot. Some part of him is trying to convince the rest of him that he should start an argument with her.

Matheo’s not sure how much time has passed when he becomes aware that he’s being watched. In his peripheral vision he can see Willow (trying not to be too obvious) stealing glances at his paper, sometimes lingering for several seconds before returning to her own. She almost seems to be referencing his drawing more than the actual still life.

“You know it helps to look at the thing you’re drawing,” he says, looking at her sideways.

She blinks at him, and then looks to her paper, to the still life, to his paper, and then back to her own. “I think I’m doing it wrong,” she says. “I was trying to copy how you do it.”

He huffs, and it sends him into a mild coughing fit, necessitating water. “What feels wrong?” he asks, after it passes.

“I’m not sure,” she says, tilting her head as she compares her sketch to its real counterpart. “It just looks… bad.”

He inspects her sketch -- what little of it there is. Her lack of experience is obvious, and not surprising. Her lines are dark and wobbly; too decisive too early, and now she's regretting the inability to refine.

“You're too heavy-handed,” he says. “Loosen up.”

Her mouth twists into an almost-smile that she attempts to hide by pinching her lips together, and then she nods, looking a little more serious.

“How?”

“Work from your shoulder. Start light. Quick. Just get the basic shapes down first, and refine later.”

She nods again, turning back to compare her sketch and the still life.

Matheo watches her as she picks up where she left off. Trying to use a pencil from her shoulder is obviously not something she's used to, but she's trying and it shows.

“Lighter. Quicker,” he says. “Let it be more instinctual.”

She nods once more, and something in her shifts. Her hand sweeps across her page, once, twice, thrice, clumsy and sharp but almost impressionistic as she tries to emulate what she's seen him do. Her gaze flits between the still life and her page. Focusing. As she finds a flow that serves and satisfies her she relaxes, humming along to the music absentmindedly, absorbed, engaged, enjoying the novelty of trying this new thing she's never done before.

Matheo’s already idly sketched the shape of her profile in the corner of his paper before he consciously realizes he's done it. The wave of her hair over her forehead, down to her dark lashes and straight nose, to the curve of her lips, to the sweep from her chin to her throat.

And then he erases it, trying not to roll his eyes at himself, and returns to the still life.

“When did you start drawing?” Willow asks suddenly, sparing Matheo from deliberating too much longer on his own lack of judiciousness.

“When I was a teenager,” he says. “I took it up… informally, I guess, as part of my schooling. It felt like a natural extension of everything else I was being taught.”

Willow hums in thought. “By your parents, I'm assuming? Or did you go out of Moonbury for school?”

“My mother, mostly. She was Moonbury’s previous witch doctor, and I was her only child, so my following in her footsteps was sort of… inevitable.”

She hums again. “Did you ever feel forced into it?”

He can understand her line of reasoning here but it still feels like a pointed question, and one that makes that little flicker of resentment towards her gleam hot inside of him. Instead of answering her, he asks, a little sharply, “Why would I have?”

For what it's worth, she seems to know what edge she's balancing on, and how precariously, and she hunches her shoulders. “It's just something Runeheart mentioned to me when I first moved here. About how everyone in Moonbury kind of just falls into their parents’ roles. I know Olive resents it, with Willow Waters--”

“Olive is the exception,” Matheo says, again a bit sharply, but it's hard not to read presumptuousness from this conversation. Like she's trying to convince him to resent being a witch doctor to make his displacement easier to swallow.

She turns to look at him, brow furrowed in uncertainty. A beat passes, pregnant, and then she nods, swallowing down whatever response had been on her tongue. “Okay,” she says instead, going back to her drawing.

The ensuing silence is short but deeply uncomfortable. Matheo stares into the middle distance, angry, trying to figure out how to --whether or not he even should-- address the elephant in the room.

Willow interrupts his thoughts before he can decide. “I, um… I decided I wanted to be a chemist after my mother almost died,” she says. “She got so sick out of nowhere, and so many of the doctors we talked to couldn't figure out why. I was sixteen. I wanted to do something , so that no one else would have to go through what we did -- not if I could help it.”

She pauses.

Matheo looks at her once more; she remains fixated on her sketch, if distractedly, her lines becoming dark and clumsy again as her thoughts turn to her memories rather than maintaining proper technique.

“I guess it was a choice, right? I chose to become a chemist,” she says, seeming to pick her words carefully. “But it never felt like a choice. It felt like… I don't know, like it was something already inside of me that I just had to discover.”

Inevitable, Matheo thinks but does not say, because he still can't bring himself to parallelize the two of them.

“All the better I had that revelation so early, I guess. Meant I could jump right into the schooling.”

Her tone is so different all of the sudden, almost biting in comparison to her wistfulness of just a moment ago.

“I take it you didn’t have a good experience?” he says.

“It’s not that, necessarily. The Medical Association was great, mostly,” she says. “It’s just… the culture surrounding it all. There’s so much pressure to find your calling as soon as possible so you can ‘start contributing’. Like everything is just a big machine that will fall apart if even one piece of it drops away. It’s hard not to feel the weight of those expectations.”

Matheo watches her. Her lack of enthusiasm and disillusionment are obvious, and he can understand why -- it’s difficult for him to even conceptualize a society how she describes, but it sounds miserable. He’s always imagined the capital as a sort of shadowy cabal, a bunch of sanctimonious, power hungry sociopaths whose only desires were to subjugate and dissect anything they didn’t understand. Willow’s description, while brief, makes it seem uncaring and indifferent rather than actively villainous. A machine . It’s chilling in its own way.

“I can’t imagine there’s anything like that here in Moonbury,” Willow says.

“Not like that, no,” Matheo says, mouth moving faster than his thoughts. “But there were expectations.”

“What d’you mean?” Willow turns to him, interest piqued, and a not insignificant part of him regrets saying anything.

He shrugs one shoulder; it feels as fake as it probably looks. “I meant it when I said I never felt forced into being Moonbury’s witch doctor.”

A beat that takes place between songs, far too silent, and Willow reads between the lines.

“But…?”

Matheo swallows down the oddly bitter taste in his mouth. That part of him that wants to argue with her is trying very hard to win out over his other inclinations, and in this case, at least, he is able to identify it as a defense mechanism, because this conversation is veering into subject matter that feels risky somehow.

“But… My family has always been Moonbury’s witch doctors. Seven generations, with me. I have no siblings.” He takes a breath. “I was never in any position to say no.”

Willow is quiet, wringing her pencil between her hands. She has thoughts, it’s obvious, but for whatever reason she refrains from sharing them.

“Again, though, I never wanted to say no. I never wanted to do anything else,” Matheo continues, to reiterate the point, even if he feels like he’s rambling at this point. “But like you said, the weight of expectation is there. Seven generations of it.” He grins (or maybe grimaces) down at his hands, trying not to dwell on how it feels like all of his burned-and-scabbing-and-scarring skin is emblematic of a failure to live up to those expectations. “Seems like such a loss for it to come to an end now.”

It’s so surreal to tell her these things. Her, of all people. He has felt the pressure of generational expectations, the looming shadow of every one of his ancestors’ successful lives and practices as Moonbury’s sole healers, all funneling down to him; the prospect of following in such gilded footsteps was always daunting, has never stopped being so, but it's the lot he was given -- nothing to do but steel himself and face it.

And he’s never divulged these sentiments to anybody, yet here he is, spilling his gods-damned guts to the gods-damned chemist.

“It doesn’t have to,” Willow says, and the reflexive hope of her announcing her imminent leave springs up inside him. What she says instead, though, is, “You’re not that old.”

It takes a moment longer than he’d like for him to figure out what she’s talking about, and then he faces her.

She looks serious aside from a quirk in her brow, the significance of which he fails to glean.

Finding her wavelength --understanding that she’s talking about his lack of children while he’d been talking about his plan to leave Moonbury -- makes him feel almost stupid. Of course that’s what she would assume, given the context.

For some reason he laughs; it jolts out of him, sudden and unsuppressable, and while her face softens it’s the sort of softening that accompanies suspicion, probably because laughing is not what she expected him to do.

He almost immediately devolves into a coughing fit and retrieves the glass of water from his bedside table.

“Sorry…” Willow says, almost asks. “I-I didn’t mean--”

“No, no, it's just…” He coughs some more, finishes the water. “I, uh… That's just… not what I was expecting you to say.”

“O-Oh.” She still looks suspicious, although she grins. “I think that's the first time I've ever heard you laugh,” she says, gently. “Like, honest to the gods laugh.”

He sighs as sobriety returns to him, as he returns to his sketch, trying to make sense of this conversation.

She's right, sort of. The last time he laughed with any amount of real spirit was dancing with her, at the fundraiser (although she seems to have been too drunk to remember), and that had been the first time in…

The memory hits him with an odd dissonant sensation, almost physically uncomfortable, like a fist reaching inside of him to twist his guts around, both disconcerting and intriguing. Something the rational and logical part of him wants to avoid but the emotional and sentimental part of him wants to dip back into.

And yet the tight, tangled bundle of resentment rears its head as it always does when he feels that he might be able to let himself fall into the warmth of the friendship she's so obviously attempting to foster. Every new trace of affection for her that seeps out of the aching open wound of his heart brings with it its own corresponding bitterness. 

Remember what she's done to you.

It's a persuasive and effective point. Regardless of what sort of person Willow is, she is, ultimately, still responsible for uprooting everything he's ever known and loved, and has never shown any sort of remorse for it.

So no matter how inviting that light seems, and no matter how drawn to it he may be, it keeps ringing hollow over and over and over again.

----

One of Willow's books has a map in it.

Matheo's not sure he's ever actually seen a map of anything more expansive than the continent that Moonbury's island exists next to; nothing else has ever been relevant to his life. It's so much larger than he imagined. He starts to understand why some of his distant family members left Moonbury to travel elsewhere. There's so much .

He tries to find Moonbury, but it's too small of a town to be included on such a monumental map.

It's funny. So tiny, but his entire world.

He wonders, idly, whether he could find any of his cousins, or aunts or uncles out in the world. He hasn't talked to any of them since he was a young man -- they might not even still be alive, for all he knows. But maybe it would be something to do, when he leaves. An excuse of a purpose.

How did they choose where to go? Faced with near endless possibilities, how did they narrow it down to one?

He holds the book close to his face so he can read the tiny text, ignoring the mild headache that focusing so intently still causes to bloom behind his eyes. The names of towns offer him no information, but some of them he's passingly familiar with, either because he remembers them from his family's stories and history, or because someone in town moved from one of them to Moonbury.

Maybe pick the closest one he's heard of and go from there?

Crossroads. To the southwest. That's where Helene came from. Easily accessible by the train, and then maybe by horseback after that. As good a place to start as any.

The name is fitting.

----

He dreams.

He’s in Willow’s clinic. It’s a dank, musty, rundown shithole, dark except for an ancient, flickering table lamp illuminating the bed of the sole occupant:

Rue.

She looks terrible. Gaunt and withered, skin pale and pallid, hair dull, entire body crumpled into a little heap on the bed. He thinks she’s dead at first, but she’s not -- she’s awake, barely, staring down at him where he’s standing at the foot of her bed.

Neither of them move.

Matheo wants to move, of course, but he doesn’t. Can’t, for some reason. Less like he’s stuck and more like he doesn’t remember how to.

For what feels like hours, or weeks, or maybe even longer, they just sit there and stare at each other in silence.

Rue declines. Grows thinner and more sickly, the rings under her eyes turning purple-green while the rest of her loses all trace of color. She just stares at him, expression some muddy mix of resignment, expectancy, hope, and fear. He’s not even sure if she blinks. If not for her slow, deep breathing he would swear she’s dead.

He wants to move. He needs to move. Why can’t he move??? Rue is dying right in front of him and he’s just standing here like a fucking moron, as if he suddenly lacks the capacity to do anything else. No wonder she’s staring at him; if he can’t fulfill his sole duty to her --to protect her and her health-- why is he even here?

She keeps declining. She’s skeletal, skin translucent, hair thin.

Matheo does nothing.

He wants to be sick. Every cell in his body aches to move, is begging to do so with a frantic desperation that feels like bugs crawling under his skin, like an electric current skittering through his veins, trying so so hard to spur him on, but he’s fucking paralyzed, not just unable to move but completely helpless to do anything.

He cannot fix this.

Rue stares at him.

He stares back.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.

Despite everything, he can’t even call for Willow. Willow, at least, could do something, but Matheo can’t even figure out how to open his mouth, let alone make any noise.

All he can do is stand there and watch while Rue dies.

Matheo wakes up with a wheezing gasp, one that’s ripped from deep out of his lungs and that catches on every one of his ribs; the coughing fit that follows is equally deep, but it doesn’t last as long as some of his previous middle-of-the-night-coughing-fits, passing without much fuss after maybe ten seconds.

“You okay?” Willow asks from behind him; another night of keeping watch from her chair, apparently.

Matheo doesn’t move, hunched over the edge of the bed. His chest still feels tight, and he’s shaking, and he realizes with a small jolt that his face is wet; he’d been crying in his sleep.

He takes a moment to calm his nerves, clearing his throat so that his voice doesn’t betray him.

“I’m fine,” he says, settling onto his back again, thankful for the darkness so that she can’t see him.

Willow remains silent for so long that he starts to wonder if he imagined her voice. He has no desire to look and confirm if she’s actually there or not, instead focusing on staring up at the ceiling and waiting for his vision to adjust, trying not to let his mind wander back to his dream. It still feels uncomfortably close, hovering around behind his eyes like if he went back to sleep he would slip right back into it.

“You were mumbling in your sleep,” Willow says, voice thick with tiredness. “Woke me up.”

It’s an odd thing, to talk to her like this. It feels intimate in a way that’s hard to pin down; it would take very little effort, in the darkness, to imagine them in his house, in his bed, together.

But, hearing her voice is grounding. Even as the nature of his dream pulls all that resentment towards her up again, the sensitive and dangerously vulnerable part of him that won’t stop yearning for her wins out this time, probably because of lack of energy.

“Anything insightful?”

Willow huffs. It takes her a moment to reply. “Yeah, you were waxing philosophical about how trees experience the world.” He can hear the smile in her voice; it’s clear she’s being facetious. Maybe poking fun at him, although without ill intent.

It’s more than a little bit juvenile, perhaps, but it’s also too welcome a distraction not to lean into at the moment.

“Oh?” he says. “I hope I was at least being eloquent.”

“Always. Let’s see…” She clears her throat, and when she speaks again her voice is deep in her chest, gruff and raspy:  “Trees aren’t so different from us, you know--”

He snorts at her apparent impression of him, and she laughs --first quietly, and then much more unabashed, goofy and graceless given the hour-- and he realizes he’s laughing along with her, albeit more restrained, tiredness having lowered his inhibitions (and standards, apparently).

“S-Stop,” she says, “I’m trying to be serious.”

“Mm hmm.”

She laughs a bit more, readjusting in her chair, and then, at length, with a sigh, comes back down.

“Sorry,” she says, voice still quavering with amusement. “You, uh… You weren’t mumbling anything in particular. But I assume that’s what you do talk about in your sleep.”

Matheo’s stomach twists a little bit. Gods, he wishes he’d been dreaming about trees.

When Willow doesn’t continue, and that uncomfortable, walls-closing-in feeling starts settling over him again, he turns towards her; his vision has adjusted enough that he can make out the general shape of her, huddled in a ball, chin on her knees, leaned to one side. He can’t imagine spending as many nights as she has in that chair -- how stiff her back and neck and knees must be. Why she doesn’t use one of the other clinic beds if she insists on sleeping here, he has no idea.

That little yearning part of him wants to invite her to stretch out next to him; the gods only know how much she’s already exposed herself to his contagions, what’s a little more? Propriety, personal history, and complicated feelings be damned?

It’s asinine, of course. Fleeting and hormonal, exacerbated by half-alertness.

Still, though, if nothing else, he can’t help but continue chasing the distraction of listening to her voice.

“How do you think trees experience the world,” he says -- not really a question, even, almost an accusation. A challenge.

Willow hums, maybe to let him know that she’s still awake.

“I’m not really sure,” she says slowly. “I think… I think… So many of them are connected, down at the roots, right? So… I think it would be like seeing through a hundred other people’s eyes all at once -- or, maybe not at all at once. Maybe having the ability to see through a specific pair of eyes at any given time. I-I don't know, I...”

She pauses; as is becoming clear, her lack of confidence in her ability to express her thoughts is something that bothers her, and she’s taking a moment to try and choose her words. Matheo waits.

“I think it must be… communal,” she says at length, sounding somewhat wistful. “Interconnected. Like not just with all the other trees, but also with everything else. Plants and animals and even the air.”

She pauses again, shorter this time, readjusting again; despite the lack of light he can see her twisting, stretching out and slumping low in her chair to lay her head over the backrest and look up at the ceiling.

“I guess this is pretty anthropomorphic, but I feel like it must be… comforting. No question. You are a tree, and you were always meant to be, and your whole purpose is to just be. Trees probably don't have any concept of imposter syndrome.”

Her voice catches, like she's just let slip a secret she swore to keep and is wondering if she should walk it back.

It's easy to pick up the subtext.

Imposter syndrome, the chemist? He wouldn't have ever guessed. She's always seemed so self-assured to him, bordering on cocksure. And now, after she's restored Meadow Range, he can begrudgingly understand why. That she might be doubtful of her abilities in any capacity when she's accomplished what she has -- isn't he the one whose skills have failed to measure up to his and everybody else's expectations? If anyone is pretending to be someone they're not here in Moonbury, it's Matheo.

Once again, his perception of her is shifted, tilted to reveal another heretofore unseen facet he'd willfully ignored.

“I think,” Willow says, quiet and monotone, “it’s like you said. One big nervous system, flourishing with life. Ever since you said that I like to think of it like that, at least.”

He clasps his hands together over his stomach, squeezing hard. It’s almost disconcerting to hear her admit that he’s affected the way she thinks.

Minutes pass, and he can’t think of anything to say, so he just lays there and listens to Willow’s breathing deepen as she falls back to sleep, syncing his own with it until, gradually, he, too, slips back into unconsiousness.

He dreams, blessedly, of nothing.

----

As Matheo regains his health and becomes more cognizant of what leaving Moonbury will involve, he keeps coming back to the one little sticking point:

The rashes.

He owes it to Moonbury and to himself to cure them. A parting gift, as it were, but more than that, the right thing to do, and something he needs to do to prove to himself that he can.

He runs through a mental checklist of all his data. All his theories, every method of remedy he’s tried, every success and failure, every observation. He tries his best to go through them with a fine-toothed comb, but never succeeds in garnering a revelation. It’s a familiar frustration by now, this thinking in endless circles.

Perhaps, though, when he returns home and is in his proper element, having rested and recovered, he’ll hit upon the missing element and unlock the solution to this maddening puzzle.

And then he can uphold his philosophy of conservation and protection of nature, bolster his confidence in his abilities, and leave with a clear conscience.

He can do it.

He can do it.

He can.

----

“I’ve got it,” Willow says, doing a very poor job of hiding her giddiness, holding a test tube full of soil towards him.

Matheo regards it with about as much enthusiasm as he imagines anyone would regard a test tube filled with soil. “What?”

“The solution,” she says, dropping to sit on the edge of his bed; her cheeks are rosy from being outside, tiny flecks of snow clinging to her hair. “This is purified soil from Glaze Iceberg. I’ve got what I need to restore the site up there.”

Matheo’s heart skips a beat. He takes the test tube from her and inspects it, twisting it this way and that as if examining it with the naked eye will actually warrant any sort of interesting or useful information. “Already?” It’s out of his mouth before he realizes he’s even speaking.

“Well, I had Dr Lewis’s notes. You know…” she says, rubbing her hands together to warm them. “I don’t think I can overstate how incredibly helpful they were. He and his team were so close to figuring it out.”

As if it’s no small feat to take a team’s efforts and bring them to completion as a single person. She’d read that journal to him; he knows how much work she must have been putting in herself, aside from spending a not-insignificant amount of time with him and helping him recover.

“You know that you don’t have to figure it out alone, right?” She leans forward a little bit, conspiratorial. “We could work together.”

It’s not the first time the memory of her offer wriggles into his brain. She’s proven herself, several times over, to be a capable problem-solver when it comes to these ecological wellfare puzzles seemingly endemic to Moonbury, even when she has to work off someone else’s progress  -- all he would have to do would be to ask, and she would help…

Willow’s voice interrupts his thoughts: “I was wondering…” She slips her hands into the pockets of her coat, so overly casual that it loops right back around to being conspicuous. “I’m not really sure if it’s something you’d be interested in doing, but I was wondering if… if you’d want to come with me, when I go back up to restore the site in a couple of days.”

Matheo doesn’t look at her, continuing to stare at the soil inside the test tube.

It’s a compelling offer. He wishes, in retrospect, that he had gotten to witness the restoration of Meadow Range, so getting to see Glaze Iceberg’s is reason enough to consider. Of course, the other reason, and the one which is much more embarrassing, would be to spend more time with her. Even admitting, in the privacy of his own head, that it factors into this decision at all, requires intentional effort.

“I’m a little surprised you’d want me along,” he says, facing her, unsure whether or not he should even be admitting this.

“Why?” Willow asks, one side of her mouth raising into a crooked smile. “Because we’ve historically not gotten along?”

Matheo huffs, eyes dropping to regard the test tube again. To answer that question honestly would almost certainly result in a painful, awkward, and heated… conversation he does not have the energy or wherewithal for at the moment.

“I’m not worried about that,” Willow continues, “for what it’s worth.”

“I was thinking more about my abysmal record of encountering bears,” he says absently.

Willow makes an odd, almost-but-not-quite-laughing sound that elongates into a hum. “As if I haven’t also had bad luck with wildlife. But I see your point.”

He goes over the trip in his head. Meadow Range isn’t small, but it’s mostly flat and easy to navigate. Besides wild animals, he’s not too concerned about that.

Glaze Iceberg, on the other hand…

Not only is it frigidly cold, it’s steep, and full of winding, treacherous excuses for paths. Visibility is bad. Air is thin. It’s a hard trip to make even in prime health; Willow hadn’t gotten his notebook back to him until well into the night. Even if they were to leave at dawn, Matheo’s not sure if they --if he-- would be able to weather that journey without collapsing from exhaustion or relapsing back into the suffocating grip of pneumonia. Just thinking about it makes him tired.

Besides, he still has his own obligation to fulfill, with the rashes.

“Willow, I… appreciate the invitation, but…”

“... but you’re still too sick,” Willow finishes, and then nods. “You’re right. It would be stupid to push you like that, I’m sorry.” Matheo hands the test tube back to her; her fingers brush against his. There’s a moment of somewhat tense, morose silence, and then Willow perks up, sitting straighter. “Maybe by the time I get out to the third site in the Barren Wasteland you’ll be well enough to come with me.”

The words cause a pit of despondency to open inside of Matheo’s stomach. The inevitability of her success at Glaze Iceberg and then her determination carrying her south to the Barren Wasteland; the implications, however inadvertent, of his inferiority, that he would be tagging along simply to witness her pull off yet another miracle where he has continuously failed; the reminder of the implicit conflict between them -- he is here at rock bottom because of her accomplishments. Apparently his security is the price for Moonbury’s safety.

He doesn’t want to stand in Willow’s shadow anymore, and his softening feelings for her, and his investment in Moonbury’s continued recovery, means that her failing wouldn’t bring him comfort, either. He’s stuck and he has no idea how to get unstuck except to just leave it behind altogether. He has to get out. He has to, or he’ll be lost to despair and anger and desperation.

He offers Willow a halfhearted smile that he’s sure doesn’t ring genuine. “Maybe so.”

----

“You sure you feel okay?” Willow says, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

Matheo takes stock of himself.

He spent a total of two and a half weeks in Willow’s clinic; it had been grueling in multiple ways, but now?

He’s not burning up with a fever, his throat doesn’t ache like he’s swallowed a cactus, he’s stopped coughing up mucus, his head doesn’t seem to be filled simultaneously with cotton and lead, and his muscle aches have all but abated.

Exerting himself in any significant capacity still tires him out far quicker than it should, and his chest still feels like an old bruise, but he knows that those will fade with time, even if they’re a hindrance to normality for now. One hundred percent isn’t so far from seventy-five.

“About as okay as I can, given the circumstances,” he says.

She grins. “Alright,” she says. “If you start feeling worse again or you need anything, let me know, okay?”

“I will,” he says, though he has no intention of imposing himself on her any further. She’s already done far more for him than he probably deserves, considering how he’s treated her, and she’s antsy to return to Glaze Iceberg now that she has what she needs, and then to the Barren Wasteland after that; at this point he doubts that her tenacity can be sated until she either restores every accident site or keels over trying.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Of course,” she says. “Like I said… You helped me, so I helped you. I think that makes us friends now, right?”

He can’t help but huff out an almost-laugh, because he realizes that if he doesn’t relent to being her friend soon, she’ll just keep wearing him down with kindness until he does. She doesn’t just want to be his friend, she’s determined. Even if he’s the most belligerent ass in Moonbury.

“I suppose it does,” he says, and her smile brightens.

“Good. I’m glad,” she says. “Well. Take care. Make sure to get plenty of rest, and don’t push yourself too hard while you’re still healing.”

“I know how to look after myself, thank you,” he says, unable to keep the undercurrent of fondness out of his sarcasm.

“If you say so,” she says, clearly unconvinced, or at least playing at being so.

There’s a beat. This conversation has run its course. They’ve exchanged pleasantries, she’s lodged herself firmly inside of his heart, he’s done a poor job expressing his gratitude, and now it’s time to go home and return to his existential crisis.

Gods, but he doesn’t want to.

“Good luck with Glaze Iceberg,” he says, and her smile falters, brows raising.

“Thank you…” she says, almost a question, a catch in her voice.

“When you go back, try not to get mauled by an elderwolf,” he says, slow, trying to choose his words precisely. Still, though, despite his efforts, he can’t help but let slip, “Moonbury would be lesser for it.”

She frowns in mixed confusion and disbelief, and then she sighs, and her eyes go very, very soft.

Before she can say anything and make him feel even more awkward than he already does, he says, “I’ll see you later, Willow,” and turns to leave.

She grabs his arm, stops him, and he doesn’t get a chance to ask her intentions before she’s pulled him to face her and slipped her arms around his middle.

Something inside his chest seems to melt, with all the hot, liquid pain that implies, and her head against his collarbone is a comforting weight in contrast, her arms a grounding, solid ring that steals his breath as she squeezes.

It’s agonizing. He wants her to never pull away.

He manages to reciprocate in the form of a hand on her spine, tries not to dig his fingers into her and betray all this damn pining for her that refuses to leave him be, even though what he really wants is to bury her in his arms and soak up every little drop of affection she deigns to rain down on him.

All told, it lasts maybe a grand total of three seconds, but when she steps away it’s like she takes a part of him with her somehow, and the only thing that prevents him from pulling her right back in is the discrepancy of their continued existence in the same place, and his resolution to leave Moonbury, now always in the back of his mind.

He cannot allow himself to get anymore attached to her. He will not.

“See you later, Matheo,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, offers her a cordial smile, and turns to head home, with her body heat still warming his clothes.

Chapter Text

Willow makes the journey to the Glaze Iceberg site with Bubble and Osman, both of whom handle the rough terrain and fierce cold with far more grace and confidence than Willow could ever hope to achieve. It’s hard not to think back to Meadow Range, and making the trek there with Forrest, full of so much trepidation and hesitant hope, so much at stake and relying on her hundred-and-forty-four ounces of potion. That same trepidation is in her now, that same hesitant hope, as she carries that same hundred-and-forty-four ounce jar in her foraging basket just like before; there is still so much at stake.

She doesn’t even try to stop her thoughts from turning to Matheo -- to waking up in his clinic after Meadow Range and being so frustrated at his continued distrust in her. She can’t help but wonder how much of that distrust still remains, and how long he’ll hold out. Surely, after this, anyone would have to admit her intentions are good, right? Unless they had a deep-rooted grudge, she supposes. And maybe the roots of Matheo’s grudge are deeper than she realizes.

The possibility gives her pause. Spending two and a half weeks with him as he recovered from pneumonia, she’s only found herself with even more of a giant crush on him; the continued glimpses of the thoughtful, gentle, sweet, maybe even idealistic man he seems to be under his mask of unapproachability are so damn intriguing, and Willow can’t help but be drawn to him whenever he lets that mask slip aside. He had, of course, agreed to be friends, but if he might still hold a grudge against her…

She tries not to think about it.

She, Bubble, and Osman make a brief detour to the cold blooms, and find sprouts -- honest to the gods sprouts, poking up through the snow like any other flower at the behest of springtime, except that it’s the middle of winter on top of a mountain. Bubble excitedly collects some samples for potential cultivation, and Osman has nothing but praise for Willow’s efforts, but they don’t linger long out of necessity; their second stop awaits, and Willow in particular has, at this point, grown so wary of the wildlife that despite the fact both Bubble and Osman brought rifles with them, she’ll only feel relaxed again when she reaches the comfort of her own home.

Like the last time she was here, to collect samples, the sour smell of sulfur permeates the air before the site comes into view as they crest the hill. It takes all three of them a moment to brace themselves before they continue to the site itself.

“I would ask if you’re sure this will do the job,” Osman says, “but I’ve seen your work enough times now that I don’t have any doubts.”

Willow manages to laugh around her chattering teeth as she pulls her foraging basket off of her back and retrieves the jar of potion from it. His faith in her -- honestly, that everyone in Moonbury continues to be so consistently supportive and encouraging of her efforts -- makes her heart feel too big for her body.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Be careful, okay?” Bubble says from her other side.

“I will.”

Taking a deep, focusing breath, Willow tightens her arms around her jar and approaches the site.

Her body feels taut, like a drawn bowstring ready to fire, different from how she felt in Meadow Range. More determined, more meditative, more prepared; maybe part of it is that she actually made sure to eat beforehand this time, but she suspects that it’s also because of familiarity. Meadow Range was the unknown, a vicious beast she’d never even imagined she would have to reckon with and whose nature she had no idea about. It felt like throwing herself into the jaws of that beast with only a prayer and a frenzied, desperate, righteous anger to fuel herself. Now she knows the beast, and knows how to handle it.

She doesn’t hesitate as she reaches the edge, tipping some of the contents of the jar into the crater and then pouring the rest onto those spikes of ice around the perimeter, and down into the soil. She’s not even made it halfway around the site when the pool of liquid --much like the one in Meadow Range-- begins roiling and swirling, and then, all at once, evaporates into the air; this is followed, within moments, by the ice spikes melting as if they’ve been blasted by a furnace, those bizarre physics-defying anomalies which have stood here for so many years dissolving down into puddles of water no more remarkable than any other puddle of water. It feels almost anticlimactic.

Osman jogs over to get a closer look, followed closely by Bubble.

“Look at that!” he exclaims, planting his hands on his hips. When Willow comes to stand next to him he thumps her back and pulls her into a companionable side-hug. “Look at you go, chemist!”

Willow’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

Also like Meadow Range, there is a second round, albeit less pronounced. Still, it’s palpable when the air fluctuates in some abstract, impossible-to-describe way, and then an odd, rolling-wave sensation emanates outwards from the crater, shifting the soil underneath them. Plants -- fully-grown, blossoming, and tall -- spring up from the snow like buckshot, wild and sweeping, so fast it’s almost alarming. By the time everything has settled maybe ten seconds later, the entire cliffside is covered in dense foliage.

A beat passes, all three of them stunned silent. Bubble is the one to break it.

“Gods beyond--” she says breathlessly, dropping to the ground to inspect the plant closest to her. “Yggdrasils! Look at all of them!”

Despite her bolstered confidence this time around, Willow still finds herself feeling more than a little bit stupefied, and her legs wobble a bit when Osman leaves her side to kneel down next to Bubble. She takes a moment to get her wits about her.

“I’ll be damned,” Osman says, examining one of the Yggdrasils. “Gods. My father would be bowled over right now. He supported Dr Lewis as well as he could, but…” He shakes his head, takes a breath. “It’s a shame neither of them ever got to see success.”

Willow hugs the empty potion jar closer to her as she watches both Bubble and Osman admire the plants in front of them. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” Osman says, standing up again. “You’ve carried on their legacy, you know that? They would be so proud of you.”

Willow swallows the sudden lump in her throat, turning away to hide the embarrassed, grateful tears that burn her eyes.

“I’m proud of you, too,” Bubble says, voice giddy, and Willow watches her take some cuttings for cultivation. When she stands up she laughs as she dusts herself off. “Maybe you’re tired of hearing this, but you’re doing incredible work, Willow. Moonbury has been so… fractured, a-and feeble ever since the accidents, and I think we’ve all been affected.” She spreads her arms, gesturing to all the yggdrasils like they’re a crowd of people, like she’s talking about them just as much as she’s talking about the people in town -- she probably is. “You’re healing us. All of us. I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to Moonbury.”

Willow’s face burns, and she chews on the inside of her cheek, trying hard not to cry. Not trusting herself to speak, she just nods, and Bubble nods back, beaming.

“Y’know,” Osman says thoughtfully, “I think I might try and grow one of these back at the station. To remember my father by.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Bubble says.

Willow steps back as they talk, turning away to try and get a hold of herself. She crouches down, wipes her face as a few tears escape despite her efforts, and examines one of the yggdrasils for herself.

It’s a beautiful plant, with small cerulean-colored berries and broad, shiny leaves; the topmost one is unique, spade-shaped and fenestrated. She thinks about the sketch --Matheo’s sketch-- in the Incident Report, that she’d studied for an extended amount of time, wondering just how true to life the depiction of that odd little leaf was. She’s unsurprised that it was a perfect recreation.

She looks up, out into the distance, and with a twist of her stomach finds that they’re being watched.

There’s a long ways separating them from the creature watching them --they’re not in any immediate danger-- but the day’s muted sunlight catches the edge of a blade, and the creature’s vaguely doglike features make Willow remember what Lucke told her about koblins.

She stands up, intending to alert Bubble and Osman, but she can’t find her voice, and something stops her, anyway; the koblin is just… standing. Watching. Out in the open, fully aware that Willow is looking right back at it. It has a blade, yes, but that blade is held in a limp hand by its side.

For some reason, it doesn’t seem interested in fighting.

It sniffs the air, and then tilts its head to the side, and Willow gets the feeling that it’s asking something. Maybe about what she’s doing here in its territory, but she thinks, probably more likely, it’s curious about the site.

Breath shallow, Willow nods, hoping that’s the correct response, trying not to let her fear show too much on her face. Yes, this place is safe. It’s fixed. It’s right again.

The koblin stares for a long moment, and then gives her a single incline of its head, and then it turns and leaves.

Willow watches it go with a racing heart, blood thrumming in her ears. She has no idea what she’s just communicated, but given that placid reaction, apparently, hopefully, it was satisfactory enough that she and Osman and Bubble won’t be attacked on their way back down the mountain.

And, indeed, the return trip is smooth, full of joyful conversation -- and by the time they’ve gotten back to Moonbury, found Myer, and showed him the yggdrasils and told him everything, followed by Myer excitedly sharing the news with everyone else within shouting distance, Willow hardly even has time to think about the encounter again.

What sticks with her most, as her heart swells even more full of affection and gratitude and cameradie, is that, somehow, she’s done it. Again.

And there’s only one more site to go.

----

Willow takes just a moment to breathe before she knocks on Myer’s office door. It’s been several days since Glaze Iceberg’s restoration, and he’d summoned her to discuss her progress. Like the previous time he’d summoned her, after Meadow Range, she finds herself feeling a little nervous; it strikes her as even less rational this time around, when she’s familiar enough with Myer to have an idea of exactly how this discussion will go. Still it rears its head, persistent as ever. She tries to push it down to a background hum rather than a shrill screech at the forefront of her thoughts.

“Come in!” Myer calls, and Willow enters, waving at him as she does so. “Willow, hello! Thank you for coming despite the snow!”

“Of course,” she says, “it’s no problem at all.”

Myer grins, genial, standing up and rounding his desk to lean against it. “Well, I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to tell you that I notified Dr Nestor of what you did up on Glaze Iceberg. He was more than a little flabbergasted, and for good reason! He's going to inform the board of the Medical Association -- he wasn’t sure what sort of response they’ll have, but I for one would be shocked if it was anything but glowing praise, all things considered. You’re the gift that keeps on giving, Willow!”

Willow’s cheeks warm. Myer’s approval --and Dr Nestor’s, and doubtlessly the board’s, by extension-- feels a little like staring into the depths of the ocean, both lovely and daunting. She pushes that nervousness down, down, down.

“I’d like to give you this. You’ve more than earned it.”

He presents her with an approval badge; this one is framed by true little wings rather than nubs.

“With this, you’re free to roam the entirety of the island at your leisure, including the Barren Wasteland to the south of Meadow Range,” he says as she takes the badge and examines it. “At least, if you can find a way around the geyser blocking the pathway.”

Willow almost laughs. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy as simply walking right in. “I’m guessing that’s something that can’t be fixed by another fundraiser?” she says.

Myer hums. “Alas, I don’t think so,” he says, “although I’ll admit, it’s been years since I was last down that way. The rangers would have a better idea of the current state of things, and how to access the Wasteland.”

“I’ll ask them about it next time I see them, then,” she says.

Myer nods. “I believe if anyone can make it past, it would be you, Willow,” he says, chuckling. “I’m not sure there’s any obstacle in the world that would stop you now.”

Willow can’t help but grin, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I-I’m not sure about that--”

Her fumbling attempt to be humble is interrupted by a knock on the door. Myer looks at it, befuddled, momentarily at a loss for words until he adjusts to the sudden change in circumstances.

“Um, come in?” he says.

The door opens and Matheo pokes his head in. Willow's stomach twists with an abruptness so intense that she has to resist setting her hand over it. He still looks residually sick, still a little pallid, but the evidence of even more of his strength returning since he left her clinic is evident and reassuring.

“Oh--hello, Matheo,” Myer says, warm despite his obvious continued confusion. “Did you need something?”

“I need to talk to you,” Matheo says, monotone.

“Ah, well, Willow and I are almost finished--”

“It pertains to Willow, as well.” He looks at her sideways as he steps fully into the office and closes the door behind him, lingering by it. Only now does Willow realize how tense he’s held, how overly-stiff and straight his posture is. The mask of impersonal coolness is so tangible it makes her remember when she first arrived in Moonbury; it's almost disorienting facing it again after seeing it down so much as of late. “It's… urgent.”

There's an awkward beat as Myer is forced to accept that his and Willow's prior conversation is finished and he now has to grapple with this development, whatever it may be.

He clears his throat and stands up a little taller, focusing. “Alright, then. What’s going on?”

Matheo takes a breath, addressing Willow fully now. “Do you remember that disease I told you about, before you left for Glaze Iceberg the first time?”

Willow nods, trepidatious. He looks so very serious, and not in the way she's used to. He looks, if she's not mistaken, a little bit afraid.

He glances at Myer, who is watching him with an equally as serious eye, and then his eyes go downcast, to the floor, brows drawing together. “I tried… I’ve been trying… to create a cure, but my efforts have been… unsuccessful.” He swallows, looking back up to Myer. “And now I’m afraid it’s been too long. Today I found some rashes on the flora south of my house. They keep spreading. Quickly. At this point I’m concerned about their potential to spread to humans, or become an epidemic.”

Myer’s expression is partially hidden behind the thoughtful fist rested over top of his mouth, but what is visible is hard, calculating. Absorbing what Matheo is saying and already trying to figure out what the next steps should be.

“Why haven’t either of you mentioned this before?” he asks.

“Willow knew almost nothing about it,” Matheo interjects, before Willow has a chance. “I only mentioned it to her briefly; I was sure I could fix it myself.”

He meets her gaze for a moment before looking away again, into the middle distance. That carefully-composed expression cracks, just the slightest bit, although the exact nature of what seeps through Willow can’t parse; it makes her chest ache nonetheless.

“I-I was… certain I could create a cure before the disease had a chance to gain any foothold.” He takes a measured breath. “I’m no longer confident in my abilities to do that. And if it is spreading as quickly as I fear, we may not have much time.”

“What’s your proposal?” Myer asks.

Matheo turns to face Willow head-on, and she instantly knows what’s coming. Part of her feels like she needs to prepare for the reality of it.

“I need your help,” he says, voice low and resigned. His hands clench into fists at his sides, a visual indication of how much pride he’s having to swallow right now. If she wasn’t so caught up in the evident urgency of the situation, she might be more appreciative of that.

“Of course,” she says. “Of course, whatever I can do.”

He nods, takes a step backwards towards the door as if he’s still unused to the concept of them not being actively at each other’s throats and her willingness to help makes him uncomfortable. Which is probably the case.

“All of my research is back at my house,” he says. “Sketches, notes, samples, everything I’ve tried so far… You’re welcome to it all, if you think it would help.”

“I do,” Willow says, mind sputtering to life; she has another job to do now, she needs to focus. So soon after Glaze Iceberg, it’s a little hard not to want to rest and reset in preparation for the Barren Wasteland, but it seems like that will have to wait. With more resolve, she continues, “I can come and take a look now, if you want -- assuming, um, you didn’t have anything else you wanted to talk about, Myer.”

Myer’s grin takes her by surprise. He shakes his head. “No, no, this should take precedence. I’ll let you know if I receive any communication from the Medical Association,” he says, clasping his hands together in front of him. “It does my heart good to see you two working together. I was so afraid, when you first arrived, Willow, that things would remain antagonistic between you forever."

The air in the room turns tense; Willow wraps her arms around herself, and Matheo again looks down at the floor, idly scuffing his boot against the tile. Myer continues on, and whether he’s ignoring the shift or unaware of it is, as always, impossible to tell.

“Honestly, with the two of you on this task together, I have no doubts it will be resolved. I have every faith in you both.”

“Thank you,” Willow and Matheo say, stiff and in stereo, and the air seems to get even thicker; it feels somehow hard to breathe. She wants out, and now, before Myer says anything else.

Matheo seems to share the sentiment because he clears his throat and opens the door. “Well, at any rate,” he says, stepping aside and gesturing to the threshold. “After you.”

Willow all but jumps at the chance to leave the suddenly-far-too-claustrophobic office, waving at Myer as she goes. “We’ll keep you updated,” she says.

“I would wish you good luck, but I don’t think you two will need it!” Myer calls.

Matheo sweeps into the hallway like he’s just leapt across a vast chasm, cape billowing around him.

A beat passes. They stare at each other. Try to decide whether or not to broach the subject. At length, come to a silent agreement not to.

“Let’s not waste any time,” Matheo says, taking his leave. Willow hustles for a moment to catch up to him, but that shroud of awkwardness seems to not to have followed them so it is, at least, not painful to walk with him.

“Can we make a stop at my house first?” she says.

“What for?”

“A few things,” she says, counting on her fingers as she thinks of the relevant items: “A couple books I’d like to have on hand, some of my potion supplies -- do you have a microscope?”

Matheo stops at the bottom of the lobby stairs, turning to look at her. Given she’s a couple steps up, she’s at eye level with him. It’s odd.

“Are you not… planning to take my work to your house and do your research there?” he says.

Willow wrings her hands together, realizing, with a damning little drop of her heart, that she may have misinterpreted things. “I… I thought you wanted my help…” she says, “at your house.”

Matheo blinks at her. “... Ah.”

She tries not to shrink into herself out of embarrassment.

This transition state from constant arguing into cordiality remains in such flux that she still feels like she’s walking on eggshells, unsure how to talk to him so much of the time. She keeps half-expecting him to scoff and dismiss her and call her ‘chemist’ again. But, she reminds herself, he had agreed to be her friend, and she’s going to hold him to that, damn it.

“I just thought, uh, that since you’ve already done so much research and are already so familiar with the disease, that working together on this would be the most, um… efficient? course of action.”

He shifts his weight, unsure. At length, he manages to mumble, “To be honest, I’m not sure I…” before trailing off and glancing towards Xiao’s desk, perpendicular from the stairs, reminded of everyone besides himself and Willow who is present in the immediate vicinity. Again he clenches his fists, that tangible manifestation of his discomfort. He seems to be attempting to summon enough fortitude to continue, but he fails, instead rolling his eyes and gesturing with his head towards the entrance door before heading that direction.

Willow falls into step with him. The snow is coming down heavy today; big white flakes of it land on Matheo’s shoulders, stark against his black suit. She watches them melt, thinking about the disease.

This is only her second time hearing about it --she’d successfully put it out of her mind after he asked her to, having been so absorbed in Glaze Iceberg-- and she’s never run into anything unusual that caught her interest in Meadow Range. Of course, the nature of this disease is, like so much of Moonbury, frighteningly unusual, given that Matheo mentioned it spreading to animals, as well. That puts a bit of a wrench into any of her possible guesses that come to mind. She’s anxious to see what he’s discovered.

Matheo does lead her back to her house, and as she opens the door Alistair springs past her into the overgrown yard. “Come in, I’ll just be a second,” she says, wiping her boots on her welcome mat before shuffling into her living room.

She goes to her bookcase and scans the titles, pulling out the several she had in mind as well as a couple that catch her interest as potential resources she hadn’t considered. She stuffs them into one of her bookbags, and then goes to her potion supplies, all filed and stored in a large apothecary cabinet near her cauldron. She opens a few drawers and scans the contents inside, scoops them into test tubes -- Matheo doubtlessly has many of the common herbs and flowers at his house, so she only takes what she suspects he doesn’t have: the little bit of rainbow dew and konjac she has, yggdrasil and cold bloom, as well as some of the many diverse types of tree sap found in Moonbury’s wilderness, some of the minerals she’s gathered, and some of the animal byproducts the rangers gathered for her.

When she finishes, with her bag weighing something like fifteen or twenty pounds, she turns to see Matheo has wandered over to a table just past the entranceway where she keeps a small book of the photos she’s taken since she arrived.

“What are these?” he asks when he notices her watching him.

Heat creeps up her neck. She’s not a particularly gifted photographer, and having someone whose artistic eye is far more developed than hers looking at them is a little nerve-wracking. But then, these were never really meant to be displayed. Just keepsakes.

“They’re photographs,” she says, “of people in Moonbury.”

“‘Photographs’?” He sounds dubious.

Ah, right. It’s been a while since she last took one; she’d had to try and explain this to everyone else, too.

“From my camera,” she says, gesturing to the apparatus in question, currently stowed in the corner of the room on its tripod. “They’re… images caught on pieces of film, which are coated in a particular mixture of chemicals that react to light. The camera shutter opens and exposes the film to the light, and then you develop it in a dark room, and then you get… photos.”

He does not look enlightened. She chews on her lip.

“Sorry, I’m bad at explaining,” she says, hoisting her bag up further into her arms. “I don’t do it very much, really just for portraits of--um… friends.” The last word comes out of her mouth with no intonation, and she half-shrugs in an effort to seem casual, because Matheo is, at this point, the only person in town who doesn’t have a place in her album and he’s probably noticed that. In an additional effort to save face, she adds, “It’s easier to show people how it works. I’d be happy to take your photo some time. Add it with the others.”

He doesn’t reply, flipping to another page and scanning the photos there, and then he hums, closes the book.

“We should go, if you’re ready,” he says, eyebrow quirked, gaze lingering on her overfilled bag, and Willow, thankful to be off any subject adjacent to their tremulous, still-infant friendship, nods.

“I am.”

Willow whistles for Alistair as they head down the path out of town, and he bounds past and around them, happy to be stretching his legs and expending his energy.

The walk to Matheo’s house is brisk. The snowfall out here seems thicker somehow, or maybe it’s just because Dean and Derrek don’t shovel the paths outside of town; regardless, it feels more isolated than usual. A single house out here in the wilderness, so far removed, sheltered by the shallow canyon walls of Meadow Range and tucked into a clearing one could easily miss. It feels less idyllic than she remembers, and more… lonesome.

Matheo ushers her into his front room, and confines Alistair there as he continues into his house proper. Willow follows him.

She’s never been inside Matheo’s house before (it strikes her, belatedly, that he’d never been into her house before today, either). It’s smaller than she anticipated, full of old handmade furniture that’s probably been here for hundreds of years now, a fireplace that’s seen so much use the bricks inside are worn together into one composite surface, and a work area that’s almost as messy as hers is. It all feels very practical, although not without a certain coziness borne of the fact that everything here must be sentimental, passed down through all the previous generations to come and rest with Matheo.

It smells nice. Like moon cloves, and something else too. That surprises her, for some reason.

“Feel free to set up as you’d like,” Matheo says, pulling his cape off and draping it over the back of a nearby armchair, which he leans against with a sigh.

“You okay?” Willow asks, watching him.

“I’m fine, Willow,” he says, curt, running a hand through his hair, and then, after a moment, he sighs again, more deliberate this time; something about his energy seems so strange, like the stubborn wall around him that she can’t seem to breach is fragmenting, letting her glimpse something on the other side, the piece she’s still missing that would make this all make sense. A thread pulled so tight it’s almost begging to snap. “Just… still recovering. And I’ve… I’ve been working on this for so long now that it’s… Well.” He squares his shoulders, stands up straight. The wall goes back up. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just focus on the rashes.”

Willow hesitates. She wants to push. Something’s not right, her intuition keeps telling her, and maybe she can help.

But she’s asked him how many times, now? And he keeps evading her.

It had felt so close this time, though.

She relents. The rashes do need to be focused on, it’s true. Maybe next time that wall will truly crumble.

“Alright,” she says, setting her bag on a mostly-empty corner of his desk. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

----

Matheo goes over everything.

He shows her his notes and sketches, including the ones she’d retrieved for him in Meadow Range the first day she’d gone to the accident site; he shows her the samples he’s collected, stored in jars with lids tightly sealed, and tells her about the affected wildlife he’s seen; he shows her the cures he’s tried: powders, ointments, tinctures, gels, even a potion (and Willow does not miss the way he protectively strokes over the lingering burn scar on his hand, seeming so damn ashamed), comprised of so many different combinations of ingredients it’s hard not to feel intimidated by how seemingly insurmountable this disease is.

They go out to the pond south of his house so Willow can see the infected plant life for herself. Neither of them are sure how to be cautious when they have no idea how the disease reproduces or jumps from flora to fauna, or what the consequences would be in the event of an infection, but she tries, getting only close enough to solidify it in her memory.

It’s off-putting. Almost mold-like at first glance, purplish-gray and fuzzy, but then with the scales and bumps and blisters which prompted Matheo to call it a rash -- and with the brittle, scorched holes of sun damage, too.

When they return to Matheo’s house, Willow washes her hands several times, scrubbing at her arms with her fingernails.

It had been late morning when they’d first arrived, and now it’s early evening, and Willow, only now feeling up to speed in any capacity, plants herself at the desk, poring over all the materials available to her. She makes extensive use of Matheo’s microscope -- it’s not as nice as hers, being quite a bit older, but it does the job. She studies the structure of every sample she can, flipping through the books she brought, cross referencing with Matheo’s books and the notes he took.

“I don’t think it’s a disease, per se… I think it has to be some kind of fungus,” she says, see-sawing her pen between her fingers, staring at a scientific illustration in one of her mycology books that sort of resembles the samples she’s been looking at. It’s the closest she’s been able to come so far, based on what she knows.

“I thought so, too,” Matheo says, coming to stand behind her, “but everything I tried with that in mind made no difference. It looks like a fungus but it doesn’t… react like one.” He steps to the side, sets a bowl of soup in front of her. “Eat.”

She does, on autopilot at first until she actually gets a spoonful of it into her mouth, and then her thoughts skip along like a stone across a lake, unceremoniously gone. “Wait--shit, this is good.” As if on cue, her stomach growls, and she is forced, with no small amount of disorientation, back into realm of reality. He must have been cooking for a while now, because the house smells incredible; she’s not sure how she didn’t notice, except that she was so engaged in her work. “Gods, I didn’t even realize I was hungry,” she says, turning to find Matheo sitting at his dining table, also eating.

“I had a suspicion,” he says, both unimpressed and smug; Willow almost laughs at how much more like himself he looks. She goes over to sit across from him, which he seems slightly taken aback by.

“Thanks,” she says.

He huffs, shoulders slumping. “You’re welcome.”

They eat, the silence broken by a ticking clock somewhere. Willow continues to mull over the rashes, trying to puzzle piece them together with anything else she knows that might shed further light on their nature.

“Bubble told me that you restored Glaze Iceberg,” Matheo says, quietly, and Willow once again focuses on the here-and-now with a bit of a delay in cognition. He’s studying her distractedly, not unlike his demeanor when she’d restored Meadow Range. That conversation had also happened after he’d given her food; it feels very deja vu.

She wonders if he still has those same doubts about her motives.

“Yeah,” Willow says. “Did she show you any of the clippings she took?”

“She did,” he says, thinking for a moment as he eats. “I never did go up to that site that often. It’s so remote. Once or twice, when I thought I’d stumbled across an answer and then failed to make any sort of impact.” The corner of his mouth twists up, but the grin is not one of mirth or amusement, and it’s gone almost as quick as it came. “I remember how oppressive it felt. Meadow Range always felt so angry and destructive. Glaze Iceberg almost felt… mournful.”

She watches him. She’s not sure if he’s leading up to a point or if he’s just expressing his general thoughts, but she’s interested either way. When she was up there she only ever felt the alienness of the site, the uncanny wrongness, mostly from those spikes of ice that refused to melt even in the face of the not-insignificant heat coming from the pool below them. Technically speaking, though, the site is a mass grave, even more so than Meadow Range, so it’s easy to understand where that feeling of mournfulness could come from.

“Bubble said that the restoration was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen,” Matheo continues, that corner of his mouth lifting again in a more genuine, albeit small, smile this time. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

Willow’s heart aches. “Me, too,” she says. “Like I said, though, if I… if I can do it again at the Barren Wasteland site--”

Matheo chuckles, and it’s not entirely bright but there’s still enough real amusement in it to catch Willow by surprise. “ If ?” he says. “You’ve restored two of these accident sites that have been haunting Moonbury for twenty years and somehow revived two native plant species thought to be entirely extinct, and you’re only now doubting yourself?”

Willow’s face warms, out of embarrassment rather than flattery. “Oh--no, it’s not… What I mean is…” She pushes her hair out of her face. “I-I don’t know, I just keep… expecting my luck to run out, I guess.”

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Surely you don’t attribute your successes so far to luck,” he says.

Her face warms even more. She’s flubbing this, hard. “I-I don’t know--gods, maybe not, I just--”

“You seemed plenty confident in your abilities when you first arrived.”

“I mean I am, I guess, but I’m not special.” She chews on her lip, feeling unusually exposed. This is not something she’s used to talking about out loud, and with Matheo in particular some of her still instinctually wants to gloss over it in an attempt to mask her insecurities, because this is Matheo and she’s still expecting him to fixate on those insecurities and pick them apart. But she’s not used to someone putting her on the spot like this, not about this specific topic -- she’s not sure how to gloss over it. “Anyone could do this.”

“I couldn’t,” he says, matter-of-fact, and that foot-in-mouth feeling gets so much worse .

“Gods--I, um…” She pushes her mostly-empty bowl towards the center of the table. “I’m just gonna get back to work.”

She hops back over to the desk, throwing herself into the chair and taking a moment to sort her thoughts. Her face is burning . She’d almost be tempted to step outside and bury her head in the snow, if it didn’t mean every other part of her body would also suffer the cold.

“I don’t mean to interrogate you,” Matheo says, now sounding fully amused, as he pushes one of his dining chairs up against the desk, backwards, and sits down. “It’s just… you’ve succeeded where I and several others failed, in a fraction of the time we’ve been failing. Your successes are why I asked you, specifically, to help me with this, and not Lucke or Bubble.”

Willow pulls her knees up to her chest, feet resting on the edge of the chair. She doesn’t look at him, but she can feel him looking at her.

She almost wishes he would say something mean to her, just to break the tension. It had been so easy to take credit when he’d belittled her accomplishments, so easy to rub them all in his face. Now that he’s affirming those accomplishments it feels almost torturous.

“My being here was completely by chance,” she says. “I wasn’t destined to fix things here. I’m not the only person who could have done it.”

“But you did,” Matheo says, again so matter-of-fact that it makes Willow wince. “You don’t have to downplay your achievements just because someone else theoretically could have done them instead. You’re being ridiculous.”

Willow snorts out an ungraceful laugh. “Maybe,” she says. “I-I just… I dunno. I’m not smarter or more skilled than any of the other chemists at the Medical Association. I’ve only succeeded so far out of determination, I think.” She sighs, picking up her pen from before and twisting it between her fingers. “Why am I being praised when so many other people could have done the same thing?”

“Because you did, and they didn’t.” He crosses his arms again. “It’s not that deep, chemist.”

She looks at him, unable to stop the grin that pulls at her mouth. His expression is mild, part stern and part warm, those pretty amber eyes of his fixed to hers.

They’re close enough that she could easily lean in and kiss him.

She ignores the sudden, strong urge to do just that.

She swallows, letting her feet slide off the chair and onto the floor again with a heavy, intentional thump. “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” she says, pushing the book in front of her towards him. “We should get back to work.”

----

Hours pass.

Working with Matheo turns out to be invigorating. True that he may be some twenty years behind the latest scientific and medical discoveries and advancements, but he’s not the only one in Moonbury who’s been insulated, and aside from that his knowledge speaks for itself; more than once she’s surprised when she starts theorizing and he picks up on her train of thought effortlessly, matching her, sometimes even finishing her thoughts before she has a chance.

It’s been a long time since she’s felt like this, so caught up in collaboration with someone who’s on the exact same frequency as she is. She’d forgotten how fulfilling it is.

They review everything they know, everything they suspect could be a possibility, and everything they don’t know; they flip through book after book after book, sharing any passages that seem relevant; they repeatedly swap places to look through the microscope at slides; they excitedly follow each other down rabbit holes of hypothesizing, and get into heated disagreements followed by awkward, silent parallel work that only lasts a few minutes before it’s broken by one of them having another thought or finding another attention-grabbing passage in a book.

At some point Willow sets up all the samples they have, gives them labels, and sets up a makeshift cauldron at the fireplace.

They test.

They try a few of the things Matheo came up with during his initial research, and Willow takes extensive notes on the immediate effects; even if they were failures, the manner in which they fail might be revealing.

They try potions, too. Recipes that Willow comes up with based on their theories, and then recipes modified by Matheo based on botany and herbology and esoterica Willow has very little context for but is eager to indulge in, anyway.

They huddle over samples and watch with bated breath, waiting and hoping, and then returning to the drawing board when nothing takes.

They get so completely engrossed in their work that neither of them realize it’s past eleven o’ clock until they’re interrupted by the sound of Alistair whining in the front room, no doubt needing to go outside.

The moment of realization stretches on so long it becomes awkward.

“I, uh. I guess I should go,” Willow says, staring at the clock on the wall, not entirely trusting her eyes. Where had the time gone?

“Will you be okay?” Matheo asks, watching as she pulls her coat on. “It’s almost midnight.”

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “It’s not a long walk. I can come back in the morning.”

When she opens Matheo’s front door, having to physically slam her shoulder into it to get it to move, Alistair bounds outside…

… and promptly slides across the lawn, paws scrambling, only coming to a stop when he bumps into a tree at the edge of the clearing.

Willow leans out of the doorway, peering at the world beyond. She feels Matheo doing the same thing over her shoulder.

It’s freezing, the coldest air Willow has felt outside of Glaze Iceberg. There’s probably three inches of snow on the ground. More alarming, of course, is the slushy, half-frozen rain coming down, which has formed  a sheet of ice atop the snow, so slick that when she takes a single cautious step onto it she almost falls on her ass, first from the ice itself and then from her weight breaking the ice and her foot sinking to the ground.

She promptly retracts that step, back into the safety of Matheo’s home.

“Well,” she says, thoughts slowing down like they’re trudging through molasses, “shit.”

“It will melt tomorrow, I assume. When the temperature goes back up,” Matheo says. “We’ll just have to be more aware of the time.”

Willow whistles for Alistair when he’s done relieving himself, and he slowly, clumsily makes his way back.

“I have more than enough supplies for both you and Alistair to stay the night,” Matheo continues. He’s standing so close behind her that she can feel his breath on her neck.

“Are you sure? I-I don't want to be in the way…”

“I insist, actually,” he says. “There's no need for you to go and break an ankle out there for politeness’ sake.”

She clenches her hands into fists, her stomach seeming to melt down into her toes as she's forced to accept that she will, in fact, be staying the night here. At Matheo's house. “Okay,” she says, voice small. When Alistair finally crosses the threshold, she pulls the door shut and turns around to find Matheo has already left, back into his house. She follows after him.

“Come on,” he says, beckoning her towards a hallway on the opposite wall from her position.

The hallway is short; the door to the bathroom is at the end, but there are also two other doors to either side. Matheo opens the door on the right and ushers her in. It’s a bedroom, similarly practical-but-cozy as the rest of the house, although sparser, and with two narrow beds. The distinct lack of any sort of ‘lived-in’ feeling makes it clear this bedroom is not his, and Willow thanks the gods for that because the idea of sleeping in his bedroom is just, a lot for her to even conceptualize at the moment.

“If you need extra blankets, they’re in the closet,” Matheo says, gesturing to the door in question. “My bedroom is across from this one, if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Willow says, trying not to shuffle around.

He lingers in the doorway, thoughtful. She watches him, carefully not thinking about anything. At length, he says, “Alistair eats…?”

“Oh,” she says, “he’ll be okay until morning.”

“I have some chicken from Mercy and Garret.”

“... Okay.”

“Good.”

He nods, and she nods back.

He clears his throat. “Well. I’ll see you in the morning,” he says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He shuts the door on his way out, and Willow lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in a very, very long sigh.

----

It takes her a long time to fall asleep. She’s not sure if it’s because she’s not in her own bed, or if it’s because she’s still in her day clothes (she was certainly not about to ask him for anything to change into), or if it’s because she’s in Matheo’s house, but she ends up laying awake tossing and turning for a while.

It’s becoming increasingly hard to ignore that, at some point, she will have to grapple with the fact that she has displaced him.

Back when she’d first arrived she’d been so uneasy pushing him aside. She’d been so uncomfortable with the idea of stepping into his position, encroaching on his territory, and depriving him of work.

It had become easy to ignore that guilt when his open and unambiguous hatred for her made her determined to succeed just to spite him. It had even felt kind of good .

Now, though, it makes her feel sick.

She’s sure that must be the wall she keeps running into. Why wouldn’t he still be mad? Even if they are friends, or are at least trying to be, this is still something that will have to be addressed at some point, otherwise that wall will always be there.

She’s just not sure what the solution is.

But she can’t ignore it forever. It’s not going to just go away on its own. Matheo is certainly not going to forget it anytime soon.

At some point, she will have to face it.

----

She sleeps like a rock, so hard and so deep that when she wakes up in the morning she’s pretty sure she hasn’t moved at all.

Unsure of the time, she drags herself out of the bed and cracks open the door.

From that crack she has a clear view to the kitchen.

Matheo is already awake, and in the process of making breakfast, apparently, if the smell is anything to go by. She watches him; he’s at ease, moving with a relaxed calm that’s not usually present in him. His hair is still messy from sleep, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up, and he is, in general, so much more casual than she’s ever seen him before that she finds herself almost fascinated.

She opens the door a little more.

Alistair is sitting nearby, watching with vested interest in case Matheo might be so merciful as to share some food. Matheo looks down at him, says something Willow can’t hear over the sound of her heart in her ears, and then huffs out a laugh when Alistair’s tail starts wagging eagerly.

He crouches down, patting Alistair’s head, scratching behind his ear until Alistair turns, sensing Willow’s presence.

Matheo turns around to check what Alistair has noticed, and for a moment the image of him kneeling there, petting Alistair, looking at her with a little grin so damned soft it makes Willow’s damned heart do a damned little flip, is so striking that she doesn’t move or say anything at all.

Gods, she might be in too deep.

And then it passes, and that wall goes back up, almost imperceptible except for its absence a mere half-second ago.

“Good morning,” Matheo says, standing up. He walks over to the nearby counter and picks up a toothbrush, holding it towards her. “I forgot to give you this last night. It’s from the clinic, so it’s clean.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I’m gonna wash up.”

He nods, goes back to making breakfast. Willow slips into the bathroom at the end of the hall and leans against the closed door, pressing her hands over her chest to feel her heart thumping against her palms.

Keep it cool, Willow, you’re going to make a complete ass of yourself if you don’t keep it cool.

She drags her mind out of its smitten little bubble of fantasy. Focus. She’s here to help find a cure for a mysterious disease, not get distracted by the way the sun streaming through the windows turns his eyes the colors of goldenrod and honey--

Oh, gods damn it.

She goes over to the sink and splashes water on her face; it’s ice-cold, trickling weakly from being in frozen pipes all night, but she’ll take whatever she can get. She has to focus.

When she’s finished in the bathroom and returns to the main house Matheo is finishing up, stowing any used utensils in the sink for later cleaning.

“Need any help?” she asks, trying her very best to act normal but feeling like it's coming across as conspicuous.

“If you'd bring the tea…” he says, gesturing to the tea pot with his head, and the accompanying mugs nearby.

Willow gathers everything up and follows him to the dining table, sitting across from him like last night. He sets two plates out, with silverware, and Willow takes a moment to reflect on the fact that this is probably the first proper breakfast she's had in far too long. It's nothing fancy -- an omelet which is no doubt full of forage from Meadow Range, knowing Matheo, and some toast with honey, as well as a small selection of fruit -- but it's far more than what she bothers to prepare for herself in the mornings, and her stomach rumbles as she inhales the scent of it.

“Did you sleep alright?” Matheo asks, pouring tea into both of their mugs.

“Like the dead,” Willow says, not allowing herself to dwell on the subject that had kept her up. “Ready to solve our mystery today.” She glances back to where their small selection of samples are resting, too far away for her to surmise if any have yielded results so soon. When she looks back to Matheo, he is looking past her to the samples as well, albeit considerably less enthused. She can see the gears turning in his head, and when he meets her eyes his smile is lopsided and unconfident.

“We'll see if you still feel that way in an hour,” he says, sipping his tea.

Willow wrinkles her nose. “Come on, at least try to have a little faith.”

He exhales, sharp, almost but not quite a huff of laughter. Too resigned. He says nothing.

They eat in somewhat tremulous silence for a moment, and then discuss their plans for how to proceed for the day, and about the weather and keeping a closer eye on it.

Despite Willow's confidence in her -- their -- abilities to make significant headway today, that pesky little guilt lingers in the back of her mind like the fishing net she's watched Ottmar use down at the docks, all her other thoughts catching on it as they pass through, the boundaries of its eventuality closing in on her. She does her best to ignore it, or at least push it to the bottom of her list of things to be concerned about, because for now there is a clear priority that needs to be focused on, and their inherently unbalanced and discordant living and working situation is not it.

After they finish breakfast they waste no time getting to inspecting all of the test samples they prepared yesterday, a task which turns out to be so demoralizing that it threatens to prove Matheo’s pessimism correct and knock any and all wind out of Willow’s proverbial sails -- and they haven’t even started any real work yet.

“But it’s been a single day,” Willow muses, inspecting yet another vial unchanged from yesterday. “It took me weeks to figure out how to restore Meadow Range. Glaze Iceberg, too.”

“I’ve been working on this off and on for months,” Matheo says, flat, also inspecting a vial, and Willow considers that perhaps she should just put her literal foot into her literal mouth next time and save everyone the trouble.

“All the closer then,” she says in an attempt to salvage this faux pas.

Matheo hums and, after examining another vial to find no change, evidently frustrated, removes himself from the work area. Willow continues filing through them. She’s done this before. Twice. She can do it again. This setback isn’t that bad, really; Matheo had been trying to restore the accident sites for almost twenty years before she managed to do it in those couple of weeks -- if that ratio translates here, well…

The smell of moon cloves distracts her, because it’s not just that, but something spicy and smoky, too. It’s the smell she’d been struck by when she first walked in here yesterday.

She turns to watch Matheo set a simple incense burner on the nearby coffee table. A thin, snaking plume of smoke drifts from the stick of incense secured by it.

“What is that?” Willow asks.

“Moon incense,” Matheo says, returning to his chair beside her at the table.

“Smells like moon cloves.”

“It is, largely.” He crosses his arms, grinning mildly as he watches her continue to inspect samples. “The original formula calls for rainbow dews, which helped balance it. But I haven’t been able to get my hands on rainbow dews, for obvious reasons. So it mostly just smells like tea.”

“Smells good.”

“If you smelled the original you’d find this one sorely lacking.”

Willow snorts, inspecting and then discarding another sample. “Come springtime you can make some, right?” she says. “Can bring some yggdrasil down, too. Really get crazy with it.”

He doesn’t reply, and that little grin disappears, and Willow finds that something in her chest twinges at his reticence this time. That something-he’s-not-telling-her feels more tangible than ever.

She very nearly brings it up -- it’s right behind her teeth, heavy in her mouth -- but the new sample in her hand steals the entirety of her attention.

“Whoa--” She brings it closer to her face, and at her sudden enthusiasm Matheo leans closer as well, interest piqued.

That purple-gray fuzz coating the plant inside the vial is… different. Still there, but drier, somehow. Atrophied, maybe? It's subtle. A small change, considering. But it's a change, which is more than can be said for all the other samples they've gone through.

“Look,” she says, and then, “Sorry--” when she almost punches him because she hadn't realized how close he was. He takes the vial and scrutinizes it, squinting, and at length looks back to her dubiously, brow knitted. His thoughts are so plain on his face that she almost laughs. “It's more different than anything else we've checked. It's our best shot.” She plucks it out of his hands and turns it to check the label; it takes a moment for her to decipher Matheo's messy handwriting, but it's one of their joint recipes.

Heartened despite Matheo's doubts, she sets the vial aside and continues rifling through the other samples. None of them show any change.

But, it leaves them with one -- which is better than none. It gives them somewhere to start, at least.

And so, they clean up the failed vials, clear away the excess materials, and begin anew.

They spend a significant amount of time just refamiliarizing themselves with the successful recipe and then going through all of their combined books and notes and other materials to try and find anything relevant they might be able to use to improve it.

At some point Willow brews another batch of it - it is, at its core, a potion, modified by Matheo's suggestions. At his further suggestions, and her own ideas, she separates the batch into portions and tweaks them each accordingly.

There’s less to do today; less time spent actively creating and more time spent brainstorming, problem solving, trying to pull apart the knotted-up threads of each other’s thoughts, trying to piece together this puzzle, trying to make things make sense .

It’s a fungus of some kind, that much Willow is confident of. Why, then, does it not react predictably to stimuli which should effect it? Which would effect other forms of fungi? Why is it so hardy, so prolific?

Several times she thinks she has a breakthrough, excitedly explaining her brilliant new theory to Matheo, only for him to tell her he’d already had the same thought months ago, and that it yielded nothing. Once or twice she has to run a little test anyway, just for her own curiosity -- they might have arrived at the same conclusions but their responses differ so often that she has to make sure she’s not leaving any stone unturned. When she fails to glean anything significant, it’s hard not to find Matheo’s smug, self-satisfied, I told you so grin equal parts annoying and endearing.

He is quiet today, even more so than usual; she’s not sure if that’s because of his disheartenment or because of something else, but its pertinence is de-prioritized by the surprise of him displaying, for the first time ever, genuine interest in her work. While she’s brewing that second batch of potion in a makeshift cauldron in his hearth, he stands next to her, arms crossed, contemplative. He asks her questions. And then he listens to the answers. And then he has follow-up thoughts. He legitimately thoughtfully engages with her, seemingly without judgment, and even seems impressed by a couple of the things she mentions learning at the Medical Association.

It feels alien. She’s never seen him like this. In many ways it just makes the sense of something being off that much stronger.

Trying to be equally as engaged, Willow asks about his rationale when he makes suggestions. And listening to him is interesting. Even if she doesn’t necessarily always agree with his line of reasoning she can see the logical throughline, and she likes getting glimpses into his thought processes. He does surprise her a couple of times when he pulls incredibly esoteric knowledge out of nowhere -- ways to use certain plants in treatments she’s never considered, obscure and unintuitive ways to diagnose certain maladies, even bizarre old folk medicine passed down over hundreds and hundreds of years that he only cares about remembering for novelty’s sake.

It strikes her, not for the first time, how much they could teach each other.

----

They reach an impasse.

With nothing to do but wait, they make lunch.

It makes her very aware of all her bad habits and ill-advised shortcuts.

Still, though, cooking with Matheo is… nice.

They talk about food, about Moonbury’s very limited cultural cuisine and the capital’s incredibly diverse culinary landscape in contrast.

They talk about agriculture, and he tells her about his little garden behind his house and his own experience growing fruits and vegetables and herbs in addition to the medicinal plants he grows -- the soil has been getting progressively worse over the years; they both suspect Meadow Range to be the culprit. Willow wonders how long it will take for it to recover.

Somehow they talk about relationships -- an absentminded question from Matheo, as they sit down to eat, when Willow mentions she hasn’t cooked with another person in years, that her last experience was with her last partner. And oh, gods, she feels like her stuttering, rambling answer -- that she’d had a few relationships when she was in college but that they weren’t serious, mostly just for companionship with other students -- is stupefyingly damning, to say nothing of the flush that creeps up her neck when she ventures to ask him about his experiences and gets a wry, sheepish half-smile in return.

“Very limited. Mostly by choice,” he says, not looking at her. “When we were young, Olive and I briefly entertained the idea, but we very quickly realized we were not compatible as romantic partners.”

Willow has to fight to keep her expression neutral, intrigued and agog. That he’s even telling her this in the first place feels almost like a fever dream, but -- Olive ! Oh, it’s easy to picture them as fresh-faced twenty-year-olds trying so very hard to make it work but both far too dour and repressed to last, and with such different desires. She imagines Olive wanting to leave Moonbury for the capital would have been non-negotiable for Matheo, regardless of the fact that Olive has never actually acted on that want.

And then he surprises her again because that’s it. That is his entire romantic history, summed up in three short sentences.

She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised, really. Given Matheo’s general disposition, and his disinclination towards camaraderie (he exists among his community, but perhaps not so much within it), and the fact that he has never left Moonbury, and the fact that hardly anyone moves to Moonbury… the brevity of his experience makes sense. But she still is surprised for some reason. Maybe just because he seems like the sort of person who would have a longer list of old flames. Or maybe her attraction to him is clouding her judgment.

He moves on, backtracking in the conversation to talk about learning to grow food and cook with his parents, and Willow finds herself grateful if only because even that brief foray into the subject with him makes her feel hot and sweaty and out of her depth. She has already thought far too many inappropriate things about him, she doesn’t need to have anymore reason to ponder him in this context. And she’d also rather not risk saying something incriminating, knowing herself and her own tendency to speak before thinking.

And so, she moves on with him.

----

They talk.

They talk about hobbies (besides drawing, Matheo's hobbies are few and predictable -- gardening, hiking, and sometimes, on occasion, fishing; Willow feels like his lack of hobbies may explain some things about him as a person), pets (she is unsurprised to learn that he was the sort of child who brought wild animals into the house as potential companions), religion (he is as blasé about it as she is). She learns more about his family, and his father in particular, who died when he was still young; in turn, she tells him more about her family, and growing up in the capital. She tells him about some of the developing technology there, in the Medical Association, and he seems thoroughly horrified by most of it; she makes it a point to ask why, and finds his reasoning sound even when she doesn't agree with him. More often, he's misunderstood, because he lacks the context to even conceptualize something like an x-ray, and when she goes into more in-depth information, sometimes he seems to come around a little bit.

It's after two hours pass that they suddenly realize they've forgotten about their samples.

----

One of the refined samples is working.

Inside one of the little test tubes, the purple fuzz is receding. Unmistakable even to the naked eye.

Willow almost shouts in excitement when she notices, snatching it out of its holder to show to Matheo, who stares at it with an expression somewhere between awe, disbelief, and reticence. Too wary to hope but wanting to so badly.

They refine some more. Follow the steps they've taken so far and try to extrapolate from that to refine the formula further. It's difficult; they seem to be working with a parasitic fungus of some kind, but not one either of them is familiar with, and little of the established knowledge about parasitic fungi, either in their combined books or their combined brains, has been of help. A parasitic fungus, but with something else. And that something else is what keeps tripping them up. Now, stretched to the limits of their collaborative knowledge, it feels like taking shots in the dark; anything they can think of, from the educated guess to the outlandish whim, goes into the running, along with a prayer that something will take.

They are so close.

----

It's early evening, when, at long last, bleary-eyed and mentally exhausted, Willow rifles through their samples again and finds a miracle.

Inside the test tube, there isn't a trace of purple fuzz to be found.

“Holy shit,” she gasps, before she can stop herself, and in her peripheral vision she sees Matheo turn to look at her with piqued, hawk-like interest.

She flips the test tube, scans the label, then flips it back over to look at it even closer, bringing it right up to her face, as close as she can look with the naked eye.

It's gone. Entirely. Not a trace.

“Willow,” Matheo says tentatively, almost a question.

“It's… I… I think we did it,” she says, stunned, turning to him. “Matheo, I-I think we did it.”

She holds onto the sample with shaking fingers as she passes it to him. Instead of taking the tube, he closes his hands around hers, as if he doesn't trust either of them to hold onto it by themselves.

He examines it in silence for what feels like a long time, expression blank and focused, nervous tension in his shoulders. Willow can feel him shaking, too.

At length, he looks at her; he seems simultaneously astonished and doubtful, as if after working on it for so many months he can't bring himself to believe that this is the end.

“Let… L-Let me look at it under the microscope,” Willow says, heart pounding in her ears.

Matheo relinquishes his hold on her hands and she ignores the distracted little part of her that misses the warmth of them, moving to the microscope; she clumsily dumps the contents of the tube onto a slide and positions it, staring through the eyepiece, scanning as thoroughly as she can, searching for any trace of the fungus.

But there's none. None at all.

“It's gone. It's gone, it's all gone. Look--”

She moves aside to let him in, hurries over to her makeshift cauldron, throws another log onto the fire, gathers all the ingredients. Her mind is racing so fast it's difficult to remember the method they used for this recipe, the timings and quantities, and she shuffles back over to the table, reaching over Matheo's shoulder to fetch her notebook and ignoring his disgruntled sounds of protest at being disturbed.

She has to make more. They have to be sure.

----

It takes another hour for her to brew the potion. It passes in near complete silence.

Willow's thoughts have narrowed down to a pinpoint. Whatever step comes next. She does not -- cannot -- think about anything else.

This recipe is so much a combination of their collaboration that she can't remember which of them contributed what.

When she finishes, with a pot full of potion, she turns to Matheo and all she can offer is a nod.

He nods in return.

She ladles some potion into the remaining unused samples they have, sets them on the desk, and sits.

The waiting is tense. Matheo pushes a chair over and sits next to her; the urge to take his hand is strong, either for support or just out of want. She resists.

It's silent for a long time. Even Alistair doesn't make a peep. The ticking clock is the only sound.

Willow's not sure how much time passes before something happens. All at once, in every sample, the fuzz recedes; doesn't fall off, or evaporate somehow, or wilt, just… recedes , as if its growth pattern is reversing itself. Matheo leans forward and almost pushes his face against the samples, watching intently, and Willow follows.

Within moments it's done. And the samples are clear, clean, and free of fungus. As if it never existed at all.

Willow's heart soars. They've done it. They've fixed it, they've persevered, they've done it. Whatever this was, it will not take hold, not while they're around to stop it; another ecological tragedy prevented because of her, because of them. The feeling of relief is tangible, a heavy weight off her shoulders.

Invigorated, she can't stop herself from letting out a cheered, “YES!” She thumps Matheo on the back, jostling him as she stands, picking up each sample in turn to inspect them. “We did it, Matheo, we actually fucking did it !! Look at this!”

She hands him a tube as he stands up as well.

“I-I just wish I knew why. Why this one? What is this stuff?” she babbles as she twists the sample in her hands over and over, scanning the label as if it will bring any new revelations. “But I guess it doesn't matter. Right now what matters is that we did it. We have a cure, and we can start administering it as soon as the sun comes back up. We'll just have to do more research about what this stuff actually is at some point later, huh?”

She turns to find him watching her with an expression that is… significantly less enthused than she feels is appropriate. Not even a smile.

She doesn't even have time to be concerned that he might be about to say something caustic or mean before he tells her, “I'm leaving.”

The words don't really register. He's leaving? Now? Leaving his house? In the dark? “What?” she asks, blood going cold as a sense of foreboding descends to nestle between her lungs.

“Now that this is done, I'm leaving,” he says again, looking from her to the samples. “I'm leaving Moonbury.”

That foreboding swells, steals her breath. “What?” she says, feeling like a broken record. “What are you talking about?”

He lets out all his breath in a long sigh, seeming to deflate. “I've been planning it for weeks. I… I promised myself I would fix this, and then I could go with a clean conscience.” His eyes go downcast, brows furrowing. His hands clench into fists. “I have to. Have to get out of here.”

“I-I don't understand, now ?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere that's not here.”

“But you love Moonbury, why?”

Annoyed, he looks up at her again, every muscle in his body suddenly pulled taut and tense, like a sudden spark is about to catch fire and erupt. “Because--”

And then something seems to break inside of him, and his chest hitches with an odd, choked gasp; they both recognize at the same time what's about to happen, and a look of humiliated, angry horror twists his features as he realizes he's powerless to stop it.

Tears streak down his cheeks, and he grimaces, pushing through them, halting, voice wavering and thin. “Because I am so. Fucking. Tired, Willow.”

Willow's heart crumbles.

She knows, instantly, that this is what's been on the other side of the wall he's been putting up. This is the thing that's been festering and swelling inside of him, the thing that's wormed its way into whatever their burgeoning friendship could have been and gone rotten.

“I can't do this anymore.”

He inhales, harsh and uneven.

“I can't stay here and just… just… languish in your shadow, I can't keep pretending, I can't keep watching everything I have worked for for twenty years, everything I've built, my entire life, slip through my fingers, I-I can't, I can't do it anymore.”

And then he exhales with an awful, grating sob, running his hands through his hair, visibly embarrassed and uncomfortable; just more salt in his wounded pride.

Guilt and shame and regret wash over Willow, smothering her; her chest blazes with pain. Gods, she should have brought it up already, she should have tried harder to make things copacetic between them from the beginning, she should have pushed for an end to their asinine and meaningless feud sooner, she should have done something; she knew it was bad, but not this bad. Not so bad that he's so anguished about it. Not so bad that he's leaving.

“Matheo…” She has no idea what to say. What can she say? That she's sorry? As if that will make any difference now?

Before she can figure it out, Matheo continues. “I have tried. I really have , Willow, but I… I-I can't, because I-I'm still… so angry at you and I don't know how to put that aside and be your friend when you've completely uprooted my entire life -- everything. My work, my relationships, my security, my-my-my gods-damned sense of self. Everything!”

He takes another breath, watery and shaking, calming down.

“I tried for months to fix this,” he says, pointing to the samples sitting on the desk. “I struggled and fought and tried so fucking hard, and I watched you cure Meadow Range, and then Glaze Iceberg, and restore the konjacs and the rainbow dews and the cold blooms and the yggdrasils, and I watched you bond with every single person in town, and I watched them all choose you over and over and over again, and I tried to do this one fucking thing, and I couldn't even do that.”

Another exhale, quiet this time but still hoarse and stumbling; a silent sob but still a sob. More tears roll down his face. He swallows, shakes his head, wipes them away.

Willow swallows too, around the sharp, swollen lump in her throat. It's terrible to see him like this. Makes her feel like an abject monster, that she never saw exactly how severe this had gotten.

Matheo takes one more breath, steadying a little. “I-I have never felt so… small,” he says, fidgeting with his hands. “Irrelevant. Forgotten about. Cast aside.” For the first time he looks directly at her, utterly forlorn. Doesn't even seem angry like he usually does, like she would expect him to be -- just… sad and betrayed and weary in a way that makes her want to crawl into a hole and hide from everyone for a long, long time. “Do you understand what that feels like?”

And, gods, she doesn't. She imagines it must be agonizing. Isolating, demoralizing, and depressing. All while she's gone about her life and tried to convince him to be friends with her -- of course he would resent her.

She has to fight the reflex to look away from him. “I'm sorry,” she manages to say, weakly. “I-I know it's too little too late, but I'm sorry, Matheo, I should have known, there must be something we can do--”

He sniffs, slumping, wrapping his arms around himself. “There is -- I leave Moonbury. You take over everyone's care. No more fighting. No more of this… misery. No more. We'll just put it behind us and be done.”

Willow's stomach turns. No, no, no… No, this isn't how it's supposed to be, not at all. She can't have them part ways, not now, not like this.

“You can't, Matheo, this is crazy,” she says.

He huffs out a laugh, humorless. “We cannot both live and practice here. You know we can't. It's self evident.”

“There must be something,” she says. “You can't-- you can't leave Moonbury, this is your home.”

“Then you leave.”

She starts, taken aback.

Leave Moonbury? After everything, all the relationships she's fostered, all the routine she's established, all the life she's built? Leave the town she's grown to love, the town she'd gladly call home for the rest of her life? The thought makes her feel sick.

But then…

“You don't want to, do you,” Matheo states rather than asks, because he already knows. “Everyone's already coming to you for care, anyway. And Moonbury is obviously better off in your hands. No, better that I leave.”

“Matheo,” she says, emphatic, voice cracking.

“I've already made up my mind, Willow,” he says, turning away from her. “It's been made up for weeks. We cannot continue to exist in the same place. We just can't.”

“But-But I don't want you to go,” she says.

This seems to take him by surprise; he blinks, looks at her sideways, one eyebrow quirked.

“Even if that were true, it doesn't change the facts, and you know it.”

“It is true,” she says, stepping towards him. “I don't want you to go. And the facts are whatever we want them to be--”

He rolls his eyes. “That's not how this works--”

“Come work with me,” she says, spreading her arms. “Come work with me at the clinic. We can bring your things over--”

“Willow…”

“I'd even have Reyner build you a desk if you want, so you can have your own workspace--”

“Willow, that's not--”

“I know it's kind of a walk but we could make it work -- everybody already knows you, I'm sure people wouldn't mind if we split duties, and having two of us there means there'd be less waiting on busy days, more hands in case of an emergency--”

“Willow, enough !”

She shuts her mouth; in the sudden, short silence her ears ring.

Matheo frowns at her. For a moment he just stares, and she has no idea what he might be thinking but it feels like he's bewildered. Or maybe frustrated. Maybe both.

“Why are you so determined to try and fix this? My leaving would only benefit you.”

She almost laughs, despite everything. Fixing is what I do. What's picking up the fragments of a shattered attempt at friendship to curing a twenty-year-old ecological blight on the land?

And then more harrowing words spring to her mind. Because I like you. I like you so much. I want to get to know you better and I want to spend time with you and I want you to like me too. I like you and it might be more than that.

“Because I'm sorry,” she says instead, and it's not untrue. “I'm sorry, Matheo, I-I never wanted to fuck you over, I never meant to displace you--”

“But you did.”

“Would you have had me leave, now that you've seen I've been telling the truth about wanting to help this whole fucking time?”

His frown turns into a glare, a more familiar expression on his face. Almost comforting after seeing him so openly despairing.

“You said it yourself, that Moonbury is better off in my hands--” She raises a hand to stop him from interrupting. “--And I think that's going too far but you did acknowledge that I've been a net good to the town.”

His jaw works. He watches her, expectant, still glaring.

“What's done is done. I displaced you, and I'm sorry for that, Matheo, I really am. Even if you were an ass at first, I hate the thought that I hurt you so much. Gods, it makes my stomach turn. But I can't go back and change that, so let's fix it now.” She gestures to the samples on the desk. “Look at what we did! Compared to that, fixing this should be easy! We can make this right. I know we can.”

Matheo swallows; his fingers drum on his arm as he thinks, and Willow watches him, trying and failing not to fidget.

She wishes, not for the first time in her life, that she was better at conflict resolution. She's never had a conflict she's so badly wanted to resolve.

“I… I don't understand why you're so invested in having me stay,” he says, softening, gaze drifting into the middle distance. “After I… After…” He swallows again. Can't bring himself to say what he wants, so he settles on, “... After I treated you the way I did.”

“Well, you've been slightly less of an ass as of late,” she says, half-regretting her choice of words as soon as they leave her mouth even if they are true. “But mostly, Moonbury is your home. Your family has been here for seven generations. People love you. You know so much more about this place than anyone else -- I could learn so much from you.”

Again he seems surprised, blinking at her in doubtful astonishment.

“You could learn from me?” he murmurs.

Willow half-shrugs. “Well, yeah. No one else knows Moonbury like you do. No one else is as familiar with the fauna and flora here. I've walked through Meadow Range so many times now and I've never noticed that fungus. I don't think I would have until it was too late. That alone is huge, you know? If you hadn't been here, who knows what would have happened? If we hadn't worked together on this, who knows if I'd ever been able to find a cure later, when the problem would have been a hundred times worse?”

She takes a breath to clear her jumbled thoughts. Focus.

“Look, could we… I want to just start over. No arguing, no suspicion, no pettiness, no stupid rivalry, none of that. I want us to be friends. I want us both to be able to live here. Somehow. Please.” She bites down on her tongue to stave off the sudden burning in her eyes. “I don't want you to go.”

Matheo stares at her, impossible to read, expression shifting several times. At length, he sighs. “I… I don't know if we can,” he says, staring at the floor.

“Could we try?”

“And risk making it even worse?” He looks up at her, brow furrowed.

She half-shrugs again. “I'm willing to risk it if you are,” she says. “Maybe it will make things worse. I don't know. But I want to try. I want to fix this.”

Gods, she'd do almost anything just to try.

He sighs again, deep and slow, filling his lungs, arms lowering to his sides; a restart of its own. He doesn't look at her, and he seems unsure even as he says it, but he does, so quietly she almost doesn't hear him. “Alright.”

And that's enough.

----

It's late again tonight by the time Willow leaves. She doesn't want to -- doesn't want to leave Matheo in the state he's in, doesn't want to leave this situation balancing in such a precarious state, but the weather is more agreeable so she doesn't have an excuse to stay, and she gets the feeling that he would rather be alone right now, no matter how much she doesn't think that's a good idea.

She makes sure that they agree on plans for tomorrow: they'll meet in the morning, at Willow's house; she'll brew a huge batch of the cure in her cauldron and they'll go to Meadow Range and try to find as much infected flora and fauna as they can.

Leaving feels strange. She wants to give him a hug, though whether that's out of guilt, wanting to comfort him, or just out of affection she's not sure. She doesn't, of course. It would just make things worse.

More strange, in some way, is the lack of that wall. She'd wondered what was on the other side, and now she knows, and it's all very much right there, plain to see, no pretenses. Nowhere else to run or hide. Exposed and defenseless.

There's still so much to address and Willow has no idea how to do that; all of this feels tremulous and liable to fall apart at the slightest provocation. All of it feels nerve-wracking in a way she's not used to. She just has to hope that they can take it one day at a time.

She doesn't want to fuck this up. Not after all this time, not after they've come so far, not now when she's so sure they could be friends if they can just figure this out. She owes it to herself, to him, to them.