Chapter Text
He lost track of time.
While he couldn't regret it, he certainly missed the days he could identify. He missed celebrations, whether they be for his birthday or holidays.
Of course, with resources so low, even if he had known what day it was, he would not - could not - celebrate.
It was a celebration just to survive another day, to avoid starting all over.
In the beginning, when he kept count of the days, months, and years, he died often.
For lack of knowledge. For his denial.
For his inability to reconcile his reality.
Now, knowing what he knew and accepting what he did not, he lived longer.
In fact, this was the longest he'd been alive. Four years, give or take, with many near deaths in between.
A year ago, he had found a door - a very distinctive door, one he was sure Maxwell wished him to enter.
He refused, of course. After three years, one got used to one's situation, and even gave quite a lot of thought to it.
Going home, while feasible, was extremely unlikely. And who was to say he'd even reach it? He could be transported far from his home, with no money and no identification, and even wilder, he might be put far into the future or far into the past.
Who was to say it was better there than here? Afterall, he was left alone, kept occupied, and while in the beginning he was furious over his kidnapping, after so much time he… just didn't care to go back.
There were things he missed, but just like time, what use were they to him here?
Anyway, he refused to play Maxwell's game. The pieces he found went to his science or to the fire, whichever was more pressing. The door he covered with spider silk and vines.
He rubbed his hands, attempting to drag himself to the present day. (It was getting harder to do that. Should he be worried?)
Just recently, he'd found tracks not far from his camp, close to the door. Worn, but still fresh.
Fresh, and easily identified.
Human tracks. Fresh human tracks.
Human feet, ones fitted in shoes and small.
There was another human here, somewhere nearby.
At the time, he did nothing more than note their existence before moving onto more pressing matters - like trying to find more pinecones.
He huffed. How stupid was he? Ignoring the existence of another in favour of more “pressing concerns”?! Hells, he could not even recall what he wanted the damned pinecones for.
What should he do? If he sought this other out, what would occur? He had no interest in leaving, but perhaps he'd assist this person if they wished for it.
A flicker, a faint echo of his old fury. Maxwell had dragged one person here - couldn't he be satisfied? Of course not.
Well, who could blame him? Wilson could not. He hadn't played the game, had fought to learn and adapt, and probably had never been even slightly amusing.
Distracted again. He clenched his hands, rubbed his stubble. (Perhaps some concern was in order. His mind had never been so absent before)
He fed some twigs to the fire.
Now, what was he going to do? The summer rains were due soon, and the full moon was just around the corner. He supposed he could continue to ignore the other, but it rankled him.
Did they even know about the full moon? About the rains? About the winter season?
About the shadows?
A chill went through him. He at least could pass on his knowledge. He could at least do that.
He did not do that.
Days passed, and Wilson did not go far beyond the ring of trees surrounding his home.
He blamed it on his own forgetfulness. Everyone knew how such things went - one moment you're gathering wood for the fire, the next you're rushing home as the sun sets.
He blamed it on his work. He needed to keep his supplies well stocked, and needed to keep his science going.
These, of course, were just excuses. He avoided the place he had found the tracks, despite having multiple traps to collect in that region.
He knew this, but did not fight to change it.
When he wasn't distracted, when he focused on the issue, he realized he was afraid.
He hadn't seen another person (or, at least, a person that counted) for… he didn't even know. Far more than just four years.
But despite the aching in his gut, despite his guilt, he just couldn't push himself to find them.
He just couldn't.
So he continued his bustling work, creating several small overhangs against a nearby cliff face he had scouted out, moving his supplies there slowly in preparation for the coming rain.
By the time the first drops of rain had touched the roof, he'd quite forgotten about the tracks.
Now, sitting comfortably, dry and warm, waiting for his food to finish cooking, he let his thoughts drift again.
He'd found another one of Maxwell's pieces - in fact, it was a near copy of the first one he'd found.
At that time, he had thrown it into the fire - mind unsettled with lost sleep and raw mushrooms (impatience, a fault that was nearly nonexistent now), he'd sought to rid himself of it and to warm his cold fingers.
Now, he carefully analyzed it.
Square, wooden, with a useless rotating lever on the side.
Perhaps, if he could open it up…
He grasped his faithful knife (one he had never lost. It always awoke alongside him) just as he heard it.
Feet slapping mud. Ragged breathing, slight wheezing.
Nearby.
More than just nearby - just outside his shelter.
It was dark. Not yet night, but the night was edging closer, just as the person was now.
No, not just one person.
A child's face was outlined by his firelight.
The other, a tall, haggard woman, stepped into his shelter, gently leading the child in as well.