Chapter Text
The world swam, fuzzy and distorted. Scenes blurred at the edges like fog on a frosted windowpane.
Wilson fumbled with the hairbrush like it had a vendetta, his fingers not wanting to listen as he made half-hearted attempts to tame Willow’s unruly (and slightly singed) hair. Was he always this uncoordinated? Surely not. Or maybe he was, he could’ve just been born with two left hands this whole time and nobody bothered to tell him. Then again, his head was pounding, and memory was… somewhere. Slippery. Like the rest of him. Recollection proved elusive – fuzzy, like trying to read through a wine glass.
A party. Charlie’s estate. Loud music. Cheap laughter. Him, standing off to the side as per usual – a wallflower by nature if not by choice. Sticky-sweet drinks. Too many. Or not enough? He couldn't tell.
And Willow. Always Willow. Loud, unruly, dancing as if the floor was aflame beneath her feet with people she probably didn’t know the names of. All charm, no shame. Far more confident than he could ever fake being, but that was fine. Willow was made for that,and he just… Wasn’t. Though, that was a compliment that would remain unsaid, like so many of his thoughts on her. A very different picture from the girl who was now throwing fits over his preening.
He sighed, trying to drag the brush through another snarl and missing. They’d clearly imbibed more than would be reasonable. For Wilson, it couldn’t be helped. He much preferred the buzz of wine to the meaningless chatter of the various party goers. It numbed the pain in his head far more effectively than forced small talk ever could.
He wasn’t one for merriment nor revelry. Who cared if he was dull? He was a scientist, for crying out loud. He didn’t want to be fun, just competent. The world didn’t need him to be charming, it needed him to be useful. Wilson was a man of reason, of calculation, and if that made him a bore so be it.
“Wiiiilsonnnn..!” Willow sang out, voice syrupy. “Stop fussin’ over me. I’m fine, I’m just peachy,” She slurred, half-laughing and half-falling against his side.
Wilson blinked slowly, pulled sharply from his rambling brain to the sorry sight in front of him. Her breath smelled like cinnamon, he’d never noticed that before.
Willow. She was his opposite, his antithesis. Bright, fiery, utterly improper. Loud where he was quiet. Brash where he was polite (or tried to be). The flame to his own cold, icy exterior. She was made of fireworks and trouble and things that did not belong in quiet, orderly lives. In short, the opposite of everything he tried to be. Which should terrify him, but instead it made his stomach feel like it was full of bees whenever she pranced by.
Willow’s presence in his study, her laughter bouncing off the walls as he pored over notes late into the night, it helped. More than he cared to confess, more than he would ever tell her.
Such a big personality, he thought, to be wrapped up in such a small frame.
He set the brush down with another low sigh, turning her face towards him and cradling her cheeks like she might dissolve if he wasn’t careful enough.
“Now really, my dear,” he mumbled, attempting dignity albeit failing, “this is hardly how a proper young lady ought to behave. Just look at the state of you.”
Her cheeks puffed under his fingers and she simply snorted in response.
“Proper lady?” she cackled. “Y’think this,” she gestured dramatically to herself, “is a lady? Wilson, I’m—I’m like, a...a goblin? No wait—a phoenix. A flamin’ phoenix! Born in alley trash and risen from the ashes!”
She threw her arms up as if to take flight, nearly toppling sideways yet still her expression remained triumphant in her chaos. He caught her before she could fall (heaven help him), and smiled despite himself.
When had she gotten so cute?
Odd.
Odd that he found her attractive now, in this state.
Odder still to think that there was a chance he’d always found her attractive.
Maybe the alcohol hadn’t planted anything new, just stripped the fog from what was already there. But he only lingered on such a possibility for a few seconds, adjusting his glasses and concluding that such thoughts were very ungentlemanly.
“That was very ridiculous and unlady-like.”
Red cheeked, smiling, giggling, she looked freer. Untouched by the shadows of her past mistakes and trauma that came to drag her down. For once, she wasn’t haunted. Wilson couldn’t help but be enamoured; the wish that he could hold onto this moment, if not for his sake for hers.
He picked the brush back up and resumed combing through her tangled locks, keeping his other hand on her cheek. Willow leaned into his touch like wax melting in the sun. Her makeup had long since gone awry; caked foundation, racoon eyeshadow, blotchy blush, lipstick faded to a clownish smear over the course of the night. A total warzone on her face, but none of it really mattered to Wilson. He didn’t even see it.
“Sit, please, before you break something. You’re about as steady as a newborn foal.” He guided her down into the armchair by the firepit. “All legs and no logic.”
“You’re sweet when you’re bossy,” she remarked, sinking into the cushions.
“Mmmh.” He didn’t answer, just resumed his efforts. He noted that her hair smelled like something floral, honeysuckle perhaps. Must be a new shampoo.
She looked up to him with bored eyes, though they still shone like jewels despite her moodiness. Lovely eyes, he reckoned, so deep a brown they seemed nearly black. Glinting like charcoal in a dying fire, ashes of a blaze that refused to go out. Back home, the royals themselves wouldn’t have been able to deny her beauty, even if she was an orphan.
Her skin was soft, too, an observation he made as she rubbed against his hand like a hungry cat. His hands, stained and burned by various chemicals, were significantly less velvety. Yet, the scientist handled the pyromaniac as if she were made of glass.
If he had one more glass of wine, he wouldn’t have had the willpower to restrain himself from pressing his lips to hers.
“Kinda cute when you’re flustered, too,” she spoke out suddenly.
“P-pardon?”
“Your dumb, serious face.” She poked his forehead. “It gets all red and scrunchy like a squashed tomato. It’s always especially bad when I stare at you,” Her tone turned teasing, mischievous as she added, “you—hah—y’look at me like you’ve never seen a woman before, Wilson. Like... you’re shocked I got boobs. You act like… like such a virgin I’m surprised you’re older than me.”
“Good grief.” Wilson rolled his eyes, used to the mockery but still reddening around his ears.
Willow took a second to think over her next words — a very rare phenomenon, Wilson had noticed.
“Truly, a total dork. But... not the bad kind.” Her voice lowered a bit, going soft as sleep tugged on her. “You take care of me. No one ever does that, really. Is that sad? I guess I should thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “Er. Thank you, Miss Willow. However, there’s no need to thank me. Truth be told…” Inhale, exhale, don’t say anything dumb while under the influence. This is fine. “... I don’t hate this. Not at all. In fact, I might… no, I quite like this. Yes. I quite like this. Being here, with you, like this.”
Willow hummed in response, the rosyness of Wilson’s face not going unnoticed by her. “I like you like this. All messy, not wearing your science face. With your collar all crooked and your hair a mess, it’s cute.”
Wilson smiled, small and shy
She reached out to try and fix his tie, her sloppy motor skills only succeeding in loosening it further before she gave up. She smirked at the absurdity of him like this, off-balance, messy, and a far cry from the polished British stiff she usually rolled her eyes at.
Willow wasn’t thinking clearly, she knew that for a fact. But she wanted more. Wanted something before the night ended.
“Usually, you strut around like you’re the smartest man in town. And maybe you are, but right now? It’s just… Kinda nice, I guess, to see you knocked down a peg.”
Wilson opened his mouth to respond, perhaps defend his dignity, but quickly shut up again once she leaned closer and clumsily placed her hands on his chest. She stared at him with that same determined glare, like a wildfire that never stopped burning.
“Wilson.” Her voice reeled him in.
“Yes, Miss Willow?”
“Take care of me.”
His breath hitched, “I… beg your pardon?”
“You—hic—you heard me, smart guy.” Her voice was slow, spoken with a slight tremor. “Just tonight. Just for now. You don’t gotta... marry me or nothin’. Just... hold me. Kiss me. I dunno. Something. Doesn’t have to mean forever. Just... something. Please?”
His heart thudded. Loud. Stupid loud. His chest felt too small for it. His throat was too tight, and he was taking too long to respond which only fueled her nervousness.
“We’re both drunk, aren’t we? Neither of us will remember anything come morning anyways.” She was pleading for a response now.
It was strange for Wilson to hear her stumble over words. Stranger to hear her beg. Touching him with such delicate hands, looking at him like that. Did she want comfort? Attention? Affection? All of it? Wilson cursed his lack of experience as his mind ran numb circles.
“That’s the problem, I want to remember it,” He kissed her brow — the only kind of touch he dared — and hated how much he wanted more. That wanting was the danger. “I want it to matter.”
“Then… Then do something. Don’t act like this towards me if you aren’t. It’s mean, Wilson. Don’t be mean.”
No, no, no, he can’t do this. He really shouldn’t do this, he thought, stiffening. He wanted to speak. He wanted to say no. Not because he didn’t feel the same — oh, he did — but because everything in him screamed this was wrong. Too drunk, too close, too vast.
Or rather, that it was too right, and that was the real danger.
He took a deep breath.
“Miss Willow,” he said, voice hoarse, caught between reason and reckless longing. “You’re not yourself this evening.”
“Neither are you”
“Yes, but I’m—” Wilson paused, realizing his usual excuses were slipping through his fingers like sand. “—but I’m at least trying to maintain a semblance of restraint.”
“Stop fawning over me like you love me.”
His hand froze mid-stroke. The shift in her tone was immediate, less joking now, less drunk. The silence in the room was louder than the crackling fireplace beside them.
“It’s mean, Wilson,” she repeated, her tone becoming quieter, colder. “It’s cruel, even. Being so gentle and careful, like I mean something to you. You can’t do that to a lady just to snatch it away again.”
He put the brush down on the coffee table beside the chair, her words hitting him harder than he would have anticipated.
Wilson looked down at her, really looked, and saw not the make-up streaked mess or the silly girl begging for attention, but the ache. The vulnerability. The desperate hope of someone who just wanted to be seen, to be chosen. After all, Wilson held the same pains within himself.
“I didn’t mean to be cruel,” he said, his voice apologetic.
Her eyes searched his – wary, wounded, hopeful.
“Then prove it.”
And for once, Wilson had nothing to say. No clever comeback, no scientific rationalization, no grand retort. Just a thundering heart, the heat of the fire, the weight of her trust.
And the unbearable closeness of a girl who had danced her way into his life like a spark on dry tinder — uninvited, impossible to ignore, and completely, utterly, devastatingly real.
But- no. He stopped himself, willing his drunken body to listen to reason. Unmoving, he stayed, caught between the gravity of her gaze and the tangle of his own principles.
“Willow.” Wilson’s voice broke, so slightly that nobody but her would’ve noticed. “It’s not that I don't want to, I do. But not like this, not while you’re like this.”
Her face fell, only a fraction of hurt visible from her demeanor. Hidden, but there.
“Then when, Wilson? When we’re sober? You’d just pretend this never happened, I know you. So then what? When I’ve moved on? When it’s too late?"
He shook his head, slow and deliberate.
“When it’s real.” He looked away from her. “When it’s not soaked in wine and what-ifs.”
Yet again, a heavy silence wrapped around them like fog. Wilson could feel Willow studying him as if he were a puzzle, one with missing pieces and burnt edges. Like she was deciding whether it was worth solving or if it would look prettier in flames.
“Fine. You win. I’m drunk, I’m tired, and I don’t wanna cry in front of you.” She pulled a blanket around her like a cocoon. “But don’t take too long. Some of us burn out faster than others.”
He nodded, running a gentle hand over her bangs one last time before picking himself up.
“I promise, Miss Willow.”