The crow squawked indignantly at him as he removed the bandages from the wing, wriggling to get out of his hand. It was tempting to curse at the blasted bird when he felt the beak stab at his other wrist when his right arm got too close, but there were children present.

Webber was eagerly watching the crow as he finally managed the bird back into the cage, and quickly shut and latched the door before they could hop on out. “Mr. Wilson, does this mean it can fly again?” Webber asked, voice maybe a little too loud for camp. “Can we release it?”

Hm, maybe he wouldn’t have to worry about finding another crow to sneak this one out. “Give it a few days, Webber. We need to see if they actually can use their wing.” And a few days to ease Maxwell into the idea of joining them to see it’s release.

The crow, to add in their two cents, hopped and spread it’s wings with a loud caw, and Webber giggled at it, before running off, with a shout of “We’re going to get Wendy!”

With an amused huff, Wilson shook his head at the enthusiasm before looking at the bird again, who, to their testament of trying his patience, reached their beak through the bars and tried to get at him. To his undying (frazzled, soon to be shot in all honesty) patience, he didn’t threaten to pluck the damned crow. Out loud, at least.

The glare was hopefully sufficient in getting the point across. The crow squawked again at him however. Blasted thing. “You’re going to have to wait, it’s not time yet.” Wilson said, spreading his own wings as he backed up from the cage. “I have things to do.”

After dealing with his cranky crow friend, Wilson had found himself gathering the reeds and honey he’d need if Maxwell agreed to the plan. There was plenty of salve in his stores, but during the spring they’d gotten low on honey, and didn’t want to handle the already annoyed bees. So, now with the seasons turning and the bees far less aggressive, he’d donned the bee keeper hat and harvested the overflowing boxes.

There would ‘bee’ plenty for these bandages and then some.

But, it was hot work, the netting around the hat didn’t exactly let any minor breeze through, and even now, after sunset, he was desperate for some relief, and there was the benefit of convincing Max.

Thank his lucky stars, Maxwell was on watch tonight.

The cold flames were dancing, it was strange to see something that echoed the color of his Bunsen burner feel so cold. Still, a welcome break from the already sweltering summer, even though it’d only just started. He settled down on the log without a word, just taking the break to cool off before even broaching the topic. It was quiet, and Wilson stretched, both arms and wings, letting the cold air from the fire flow around his wings. “Could you try not to hit me, please? I don’t particularly care to be smacked upside the face by your feathers, Higgsbury.”

“Oh, come on, they’re featherweight, can’t hurt that much.” He did however, pull them back a bit.

“I’m not fond of eating feathers, there’s a reason we pluck our birds.” There’s a glare, and Wilson sends one back at the implication.

“Well, at least mi-” Shit, Wilson snaps his jaw closed before he loses his chance because if he goes down that path, he know exactly what will happen. They’ll needle one another until there’s a screaming match because he’s going to go for a sore spot.

“At least what?” There’s a terseness to his voice. It’s not a good sign, that Maxwell knows what he was about to say.

He can feel the heat in his face as he stares at the fire instead of looking over at Maxwell. “At least I’m not that easy to pluck.” He covers. “I’d punch you first.” It’s not convincingly what he was going to say, but it fits at least. Better then saying 'At least mine work.’

It’s silent for some time, and Maxwell doesn’t break the silence. Wilson pulled his wings in fully, still watching the fire. “Speaking of feathers…” He manages out. This is something to breech out to the topic. “How are your wings? It must not be very comfortable to keep them tucked in all the time in this heat.”

There was a hum before a few seconds of stifling silence, then Maxwell had the courtesy to speak. “Well, it’s not what I’d call conductive to cooling off.” He muttered.

Wilson nodded, resisting the urge to point out that of course it wouldn’t be conductive, he hides them in a jacket that he almost always refused to take off in front of anyone, the only few times he’d even seen the wings were due to the rain. “You can pull them out, you know. It’s just us. Everyone else is asleep or off doing something.” Wickerbottom was currently working on a new book, Wilson couldn’t tell if it was for her magic or just enjoyment, but she liked silence to work.

“And risk someone seeing them? Clever plan there, Higgsbury.”

Wilson sighed. Stubborn idiot.“Fine. By the way… I’m going to release that crow that got banged up in a few days, you should come with us. Webber’s particularly excited.”

Maxwell’s silent, and in the firelight, Wilson turns to see his eyes closed. “So you’re still on about that, hm? Trying to prove you can fix mine.” He finally manages out. “Fine, I’ll come, but more then likely it’s just going to fail.”

“What’s so wrong with trying?” Wilson looked up at the bleak, pitch black sky. “It’d be safer if you could fly, you know. And then you wouldn’t have to even worry about anyone else find out about your broken wings."  

"You’re absurd, you know. I’ve been doing just fine without your help.”

“You’re going to fall out of one of those pines you climb when you don’t have a weapon on you and break your neck. That’s what’s going to happen.” Wilson shot back. “I don’t want to have to revive you from that. Besides.” He stifles a snort, it’s late and he can’t resist the pun. “You have to stop trying to 'wing it’ alone.”

The groan is audible. “You’re incorrigible. You keep crowing and crowing.” Is shot back and Wilson can’t help the laughter as bad of a joke as it is.

“Is it that hard to 'swallow’?”

“I guess you are featherbrained, aren’t you?”

He could, and normally he would jab back at that, but the pun is there, and so he resists the urge. Instead it’s “Better beak-lieve it,” and Wilson shook his head as he said it, that one was pretty awful even by his standards.

It’s a comfortable quiet, suddenly, and after a while, it must be close to midnight, all he can hear is distant snoring and the fire, Maxwell finally pulls his jacket off. Now that he looks at it, he can see there’s mends where there should be the opening for his wings. The fabric is must have been induced to match, the sewing kits here had a tendency to force things to match, even when he puts patches in, they turn the same color as his pants.

He doesn’t unfurl them, Wilson remembers the two times he has, there’s been wincing as he did. Still, he scoots over and fixes a few feathers, much like the time he’d looked over the breaks. “Besides, then you could at least take care of them. Considering how much time you put into the rest of your appearance, it must drive you nuts to not be able to handle this.” The dark blue feathers are incredible dull and out of place from being under that jacket. It’s a shame really, he’d caught sight of swallows as a child, and they tended towards looking so sleek.

The due notice was practically staring back at him as he stared at his desk, the hastily scribbled out accounting on a pad was a desperate attempt at making some form of budget and miserably failing. He was never good with numbers anyway, but the decline in audience was making this more impossible then it already was. He was barely making rent and food before.

Now he wasn’t even making rent. Not to mention the debt. William sighed and pulled his glasses off, folding them before reaching for his one desperately needed vice as he found the cheap packet of cigarettes, hidden under an earlier due notice.

The lighter at least was easier to find, he needed it for shows, and frankly while he probably shouldn’t be wasting the fuel… Life was a little easier when he had a moment to actually calm down.

He opened the one sad little window his room had and lit the cigarette up, hanging out the window to keep both of the rabbits out of the smoke as he breathed in, trying to suss out some sort of solution.

At least Jack’s latest postcard hadn’t arrived yet.

It left a guilty feeling in his stomach as he practically lied through his teeth to his sibling about how everything was going. That it was great and things were fine, you don't need to worry about me. The reality of it was that he was miserable and Jack kept trying to say that he was doing great, that William should take a break and come visit.

Instead, William looked down, past the suit he was still wearing because he was too anxious to change after seeing the new threat on his door, and to the ground.

He always could just jump. Get rid of all his problems in one fell swoop. His body was fragile, he could easily break his neck. Boom. Everything solved.

Really, what was the bloody point of all this. He tried and he tried and it all just ended badly anyway. He knew practically no one, he tried his best and honestly? He wasn’t dealing with stage fright, the act was solid, he hadn’t managed to fumble yet. Will had to admit he probably just wasn’t interesting enough. Wasn't funny enough. Wasn't handsome or clever enough. He never was.

Was he ever going to be enough? Was he ever going to make something of himself?

He doubted it, looking at the ground still as he took another drag, sighing. It wasn’t like anyone would really notice he was gone. Oh, sure, there would be a body, but no one would miss him immediately, and Jack probably wouldn’t notice for a while. They only did communicate through letters. It would be months.

Though… he had two little nieces. He hadn’t had the chance to meet the twins yet, though he’s heard of their hi-jinx. Almost as bad as they were as kids, and one letter mentioned that they were excited to meet him (though more excited about the rabbits.) That they both loved the idea of magic (parlor tricks, really...) and wanted to hear about everything.

He sighed at the thought, and while holding the cigarette out the window, tapping the ash off, he turned to look at the little enclosure that held his two rabbits, they were snuggled up for the night. He hadn't fed them yet, he'd leave their food out later tonight because they'd both been through a day after tonight's miserably attended show.

As much trouble as they brought with them, he didn’t want to leave them alone. He didn’t want to leave Jack with the task of explaining to the twins that their uncle was gone. Shouldn’t leave Jack with questions or that pain. And then there was the debt... did family have to take up that burden, or would it die with him? He'd hope it would be the latter. It wasn't a huge amount if you had a steady job, but it'd still be food out of the girls' mouths. Still a good ding to the wallet. Was it really worth putting his burdens to his family?

But his chest felt heavy, he was so tired and empty and scared. William sighed again, looking up at the dark sky instead of the ground, at least trying to shake the thought and the want off with another inhale. At least with the cigarette, he only had to worry about the rabbit’s hay for tonight.

Will soon finished it off and extinguished the last bit of it before closing the window, shivering as he realized just how cold it was outside. There weren’t any good answers, and he doubted he’d figure anything out in the morning… but it was one more day.

William shuddered, shaking off the light dusting of snow from his shoulders. The weather had decided now of all times to worsen, he decided. Maybe punishment, for everything he’s done, remembered and forgotten sins. He wouldn’t say that he didn’t deserve it right now. How long had he and Wilson been bickering? Far longer then they should of at least. Since mid-autumn, at least.

An offhanded frustrated comment because he’d made just enough boards to fashion just enough new chests, so they didn’t waste lumber and then Wilson makes one while he was finishing the last piece of lumber even though he’d said, repeatedly, he’d take care of it. Stubborn scientist his partner was, Wilson had just shrugged it off despite his annoyance and it’d spiraled out of control.

They’d sniped at one another for ages and finally, finally, Wilson had said one thing that was going too far. And so, he’d walked away. His chest ached, the one person he finally trusted, and Wilson had said that. Wilson knew what could hurt him, and there were low blows and then there was that.

He curled in on himself, the stone in his pocket ice cold. His joints ached with every step. There was enough supplies for a fire at least, in his pack. But he hadn’t prepared, hadn’t taken anything else useful with him. He’d read the note, they’d stopped talking a few weeks ago. And so he’d left.

If Wilson felt he was still that monster, the man who he was suppose to have become? Then fine. He could think that. But… he wasn’t going to stick around and have every single insecurity and fear thrown back at him by the man he’d fallen in love with.

He’d rather try and survive alone, even in this freezing weather.

William’s steps slowed, the cold having seeped down into his bones, and he trudged forward, feet dragging in the snow. He just… needed to find a safe space to make a fire. Somewhere where he wouldn’t cause a forest fire. With a fire blazing he could just curl up for the night, even without any kind of bedding. And it’d be good to get it started before midnight hit.

He didn’t hear the crunching of the snow behind him, didn’t hear anything until he felt warm arms around his waist. “Stars, William.” Was a hushed whisper. “You’re freezing.” A lantern hit against his hip, a soft glow in the almost pitch black dusk.

“Wi-wilson?” His teeth chattered. “What a-are you d-doing here?”

“Came to get you.” There was a pause. “And… I need to apologize.” Wilson’s arms tightened. “I shouldn’t of written that. I don’t think that, I was just angry and went for the worst thing I could think of. And I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry, Will.” Wilson’s forehead was leaning against the back of William’s frozen neck.

William bit his lip. He wanted to lean back, to just take in all of Wilson’s warmth. But, he’d contributed to the mess they were now in, too. “I’m s-sorry too.” He crumpled, trying not to let his voice crack. “I kept… egging you on. You’re not an idiot. Not at all.” Really, Wilson was quite brilliant.

A hand was removed from his waist, and Wilson grabbed at one of his hands, intertwining frozen cold fingers with his own, trying to warm his hands up. “And you’re not a failure.” Wilson shivered at William’s temperature. “Stars and atoms, I need to make a fire. You’re going to freeze to death.”

Wilson let the hand drop, and stepped away, shrugging off his pack, as William tucked his arms around himself again, missing the warmth against his back and neck already. “I-i think I have wood in my bag still.” He said, not really able to turn around, too cold.

“That’s alright, I packed some when I couldn’t find you so I could apolog-“ Wilson went quiet as the woods reverberated with harsh, guttural breathing. He dropped the log chunk he’d been pulling out of his pack and pulled off his vest, standing.

William found the energy to turn around when Wilson stopped his sentence, and in seconds had the still warm puffy vest thrust into his arms. “Get this on, quick. We’ll have to just run back to camp, and hope it ends up disinterested in us. Maybe it’ll find that Varg instead.”

William nodded slowly and struggled to slide it on with his shaking hands, but finally managed it on. The vest was short, but warm enough to bring some comfort to him. Wilson re-slung his pack and grabbed William’s hand, pulling him along. There wasn’t any conversation as they moved through the forest, the breathing growing closer. Of course, with his luck, they’d encounter the deerclops tonight.

Even with the thick vest and the hurried pace, his body temperature was steadily dropping down, teeth chattering. Wilson paused at a particularly violent and sudden shudder from his companion, and dropped the other’s hand to rummage in his pocket, pulling out a yellow thermal stone, tucking it into the pocket he’d made in the inside of the vest, looking up at Will’s face in the light of the lantern on the ground. “I can last till camp. Stars, you’re turning blue.” He grabbed William’s gloved hand again and tried to rub warmth into him, momentarily forgetting the deerclops out of worry.

They almost jumped out of their skin when they heard a tree snap behind them, and Wilson pulled William forward again, snatching the lantern up as he ran forward. The deerclops was gaining on them.

He was pulled up to a tree, Wilson pressed a finger to his lips, for silence as he pulled a stone from his pocket, waiting for the crashing din to catch up.

William could swear he felt the creature’s breath on his back.

Wilson pelted the stone, his aim not the greatest, but instead of the deerclop’s heavy footsteps, William heard a different kind of rustle from the area near where the stone fell. The deerclops did too, their ears a far better indicator of movement then the singular eyeball.

Growling mixed with the harsh breathing.

He could swear he felt his heart stop. If the darned creature was going to stumble on the Varg and their hounds, it should happen on it’s own time. Right now, they were just in the middle of this disaster, freezing to death.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Curse him, curse his stupid reaction, curse this whole stupid mess he started because of some ridiculous extra boards. They should be back at base, warm, maybe curled up by the firepit, or at least, just somewhat miffed at one another like they had been all season. That would be better then this.

They were going to die, and it was his dratted fault. He hunched over into himself, biting the inside of his lip.

“Will, Come on.” Wilson whispered, gesturing with his thumb, away from the chaotic dim. “While we have time.”

William blinked, it took a second for it to really get through his head that this was Wilson’s plan, and in that time, Wilson snagged his hand and pulled him forward, away from the noise of the fighting between deerclops and varg. Even with his ridiculously long legs, he had to jog to keep up with Wilson’s pace, but due to it, it wasn’t long until they hit the clearing of their camp, a almost dead fire glowing to greet them home.

Wilson stopped in front of the fire and let go of his hand, and Will quietly accepted that Wilson was probably angry with him, now that they were back at camp, he did run off at the worst possible time. He couldn’t blame him, not one bit, he’d put them both in severe danger and frankly, he was expecting a verbal lashing.

“Will…” Wilson’s voice was soft, and he flinched away, already expecting the worst. “Oh, William.” It was sad and worried, and he didn’t quite know what to expect now. He heard the sound of wood hitting the open blaze, and then finally a blanket draped on his shoulders. “Sit down, you need to warm up.”

He quietly listened, trying to not be more obnoxious then he probably had been, and bundled up in the blanket. The warmth was slowly seeping into his body, and he gave a relieved sigh, and he heard the clank of a crockpot. “We don’t have much, but I think there’s enough for soup, and I’ll go out tommorow to see if I can hunt down a koalafant.” Wilson said, already digging their scraps out of the icebox. “Maybe you can see if some of the berry bushes still have anything on them.”

All William could really do was nod. Wilson was being so kind, when he’d screwed up so badly they’d both almost died. He was looking at the fire, and heard footsteps approaching, he shrank down into himself more, before feeling arms wrap around him, Wilson pulling him against his chest, until they were tucked together, Wilson’s head on his shoulder, and hands wrapped around his waist. “Something’s wrong.” Wilson stated bluntly, leaning their heads together. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to figure it out on my own?”

Closing his eyes, William sighed and relaxed into the embrace finally. “Just… tired.” He couldn’t help but lie, he didn’t want to start anything else.

“Mhm.” It didn’t sound like Wilson believed him, but he’d let it slide for now at least. “You seem to be actually somewhat warm again, at least.” Thankfully, his clothes had been mostly dry, it was just the wind and lack of actual protective clothing that had almost killed him. It was silent as they both sat for a few moments more. Wilson shifted, and Will expected him to get up, not reach for one of the hands bundled up in a blanket. “I’m… well, sorry doesn’t cut it, does it.” His voice was flat, and he felt him shift, head down, forehead against his shoulder. “Stars, I really screwed up, didn’t I?” It was a humorless chuckle. “If you’re still upset with me, I’d understand.” He admits.

William squeezed his hand. Was he still hurt? Yes. Was he angry with the person who was behind him, trying to make sure he was okay? He… well, he wasn’t quite sure if he was or wasn’t. He’d bet on wasn’t, frankly. “I… I’m not mad with you, at least, not right now.” He had been upset earlier, “Aren’t you angry with me for almost getting both of us killed?”

“No Will, stars and atoms. I wasn’t…” Wilson trailed off. “I saw the note and I panicked. I was upset when I wrote mine, and then I’d finally had time to think and was hoping you hadn’t seen it, and then to be confronted with my worst fear?” Wilson’s voice broke. “You’re the best thing in my life, I don’t want to lose you. I know we’ve been arguing for weeks and I should have just apologized for not listening but we kept escalating and… I didn’t know how to back down, I couldn’t let myself back down. And then I really screwed up.” There was a small sigh. “You could have died out there, and it would have been all my fault.”

William leaned into Wilson more, and started to rub the side of Wilson’s hand with his thumb, trying to be reassuring. “I think it would’ve been mine, I’m the one who ran off.”

He could feel Wilson shaking his head. “I knew that would hurt you and I wrote it anyway.” Wilson said, his voice still sad, but his hand squeezing Will’s back. “I’m just so glad you’re still here. I really do love you.”

The ground was dry and cool, a sure sign of fall, like most new variations of this wretched hell island, Wilson decided. It always started in fall, and then turned to winter, and spring, and then summer, before the markers they’d all agreed upon as a year passed.

So this world was fresh, new. He was the first one here. The others might end up here, if the little group they’d managed to keep together for a while didn’t end up doing what he did, dying with no safety net. He’d find them again eventually. Or not. That was always a possibility. 

Wilson’s eyes traced over the ring on his left as he sat up, the gold band with a line of mosaic red through it. He hadn’t seen the matching ring, or owner in ten years, and he hadn’t felt a pulse through it in five.

It’d been an experiment, he’d been trying to make a long distance communication system at first. That required magic, at least in this world, his attempts at a simple ham radio had failed miserably, despite the appearances of the divining rod. While he hadn’t gotten that to work, Wilson decided that designing something that would at least give him an idea of if his companions were alive was enough for the time. The rings were what came out of that, a pair of them.

He still hadn’t figured out that radio system, or the magical equivalent of it. But it didn’t feel that important since they all kept getting split up, especially… he looked away from the ring. It was a reminder, at least, the only thing he carried from world to world.

Maxwell had been with him, the day he’d made them. The design had been meant for a bracelet, but one red gem only made enough shards for one bracelet, and that was what was going to connect the prototypes together, one red gem. Theoretically, if it worked in the prototype, he could use multiple gems and make sure each one was in each bracelet. But that was if it even worked in the first place.

One chunk of gold, nightmare fuel, and a red gem. The same sort of things he’d use for a life amulet, and then his thought process was interrupted by Max’s voice, and he’d almost whacked the gem into the dirt off of the alter.

“Think you could hurry up? It’s been a while since the last earthquake, and I’m not exactly keen on being here for a cave-in.”

The man had been sitting on a chunk of a broken thulcite wall, the medallion in his hand, and their lantern at his feet. “Maxwell, you have a miner’s hat, if you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to be.”  Wilson looked at the gem, the shards would go everywhere if he didn’t contain it.

“And leave you down here all by your lonesome? Like I’d let that happen, pal.” He could hear footsteps as he emptied out his satchel, the hammer left on the alter. “Besides, I’m interested to see what you’ll create.”

“If you’re content with being my guinea pig, then fine, see what I care.” Wilson picked up the hammer, and turned, Maxwell only a few inches away. “But no complaining! That’s all you ever do down here.” He turned back to his work, gem going into the now empty bag.

“Fine, fine…” Honestly, if he was looking at him right now, he’d probably see Max rolling his eyes.

It was rather quiet as Max took a seat closer to the alter, apparently actually invested in his work, watching him break up the red gem.

It’d taken longer then he expected, really, when he looked at the two rings, finally finished. “Hey, Max.” He turned around to see him frowning, eyebrows raised in a question. “Try this on,” he raised up one of the two rings, “I need to see if it works.”

“Are you going to try to catch me on fire?” Really, he should be insulted, but there was amusement in Maxwell’s voice and so he rolled his eyes instead of starting another petty fight, taking the extended hand offered.

“I would of just made one of your stupid gems on a stick if I wanted to do that, any catching on fire is a failure of my creation and not intended.” He slid the ring on, before turning back to the alter, sliding the other onto his left hand. “Any ‘catching on fire’ yet?”

“It’s… growing warm? Frankly, genius. A ring that barely will heat you up in the winter. Brilliance, my dear Higgsbury.” So was his own ring, and he couldn’t tell if the line of gem shards was glittering in the light, or it was illuminating itself. There was a faint pulse from it, somewhat… off. It seemed steady, then faltered, steady, then another falter.

“That’s not the purpose, Max. They’re suppose to link up, be a way to tell if someone’s alive…” Oh. It was a heartbeat. “Is yours beating?” He knew that pattern, it was the same as the heartbeat of the man sitting behind him.

“Is it a good thing or a bad thing if it is?” Wilson laughed and turned around, grabbing Max’s right hand, the one without the ring. “I’ll guess it’s a good thing?” There was bemusement as Wilson pulled the hand to his chest.

“They match, correct?” Realization dawned on Maxwell’s face, and he nodded, pulling his hand away. “Well, I guess we’ll have to see if they work as intended, but let’s get out of here for now, I can work on designing them for everyone later.”

He never did get around to that. Things got busy, the world had new changes to discover and understand, they had escape to figure out.

Wilson gave it one last look before pulling the fingers of his gloves up to cover it. He didn’t have time to dwell on the past, to dwell on Max. He had to get going…

Had his lover changed since then? Ten years was a long time, even in this hellish place where their old sense of time meant nothing. He hoped it was for the better if he had.

He tried to shake off the thoughts. Even after so long, every new variation of this world had him hoping that he’d feel an arrhythmic heartbeat through the ring. But he’d probably never catch up to him, the last time he’d felt it, he’d died searching.

It was dusk, hours later, a fresh satchel procured, and a supply of firewood for the night snuggly inside, when he noticed the warmth from his finger, pointer on the left. His ring finger. 

Instead of any rational thoughts, that he’d injured it, or he was just hallucinating, Wilson put together two torches, haphazardly, and ran. It’d been so long, too long, that the mere hope of seeing Maxwell made it easier to run after chopping wood, dodging spiders that were starting to awaken. It couldn’t lead him to the other ring, but it was getting dark, and the long tuffs of grass they used for torches were rare in this variation of the world, except in one place he’d found so far.

The plains.

The sun was almost gone when he saw a lanky silhouette standing from a kneeling position.

Frankly, it was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a long long while. “Max!” At least he was loud enough to be heard from across the field, the other’s head turning. “You stupid, ridiculous, egotistical doofus!” Okay, not the nicest greeting, but that was standard. Wilson hoped there was the same sort of disbelief on Max’s face that he’d guess was on his as he jogged over to him.

Finally. After so damned long…

Well, tackling him in a hug was reserved enough.

“I…” Oh, there was exactly what he wanted to hear. Disbelief, wonderment. “Aren’t you being rather rude, Wilson?” Or not. Of course Max would immediately hide that. 

“Oh, was I suppose to do this first?” A hand to the back of Max’s head, pulling the other down so he could wrap the free arm around his lower back and keep him close, just for a kiss.

More then one, really, he couldn’t help himself. For once, Wilson was the one looking smug as he pulled back to get a better look at Max’s face. “Happier now?” Maxwell actually looking starstruck was rather delightful, but a glance over the other’s shoulder certainly ruined the moment. He backed off to sling off his satchel, they needed a fire, unless they wanted to lose one another again.

He didn’t want to wait another ten years, a few moments could be spared for that.

Maxwell had enough sense to back off until the fire was started, and before anything else could be said, Wilson felt arms around him, a head on his shoulder. “I’ve missed you.” It was quiet, and tired, and was there really anything else to define this. Ten years of missing one another.

Jack Carter brushed the hair out of their face as they prepped the spider glands. They forced the glands into the shape of a human heart with roughly hewn rope, pressing the tiny group of three together. Ms. Wyn had figured out the recipe the last time Winfred had died.

It was… an experiment. Winifred had groaned and walked away when they’d said that, saying she utterly hated that word. These telltale hearts, as Ms. Wyn had decided to call them, could be given to the ghost of one of their fallen companions. But there was a odd little graveyard, far different from the other graves they’d encountered. The normal tombstones looked well hewn, granite or marble, with rather… odd and occasionally witty quotes on them. These, however, were roughly cut rock, actual names on them, sometimes delicately carved, other times the names were harsh cut. Not a soul dared to dig them up, for a very specific reason.

Every grave seemed to be made for the precise purpose of mocking them. They’d all ended to this world because they were looking for someone, and they’d been promised they’d find their missing family or friends.

The one with the name Wendy carved into it was heartbreaking to look at, it’d been done with care. If it was really their missing daughter, then Jack was thankful someone had cared enough about her.

Jack would have spent more time around the graves, but the graveyard was strange for another reason. The air was heavy feeling, the area felt heavy and morose at all times. It was a more mild version of the feeling they experienced in pitch black before they died by shadows.

Then, there was a oppressive sorrow that wrapped around them when they lost a light. It ached, and quickly they would see, well they would if they retreated to a light source before they died, the translucent crawling shadows. But the feeling would be gone, Whatever wrapped around them in the dark wouldn’t follow them into the light. Jack once swore there were claws on their shoulders, sinking into the fabric of their jacket. They’d never felt this creature use them, it was always the other shadows that killed them, when they couldn’t manage to escape the drain of their sanity.

But, according to Winona, she’d lingered too long in the little tree covered graveyard, and dusk turned to night, and before she could even pull out a torch to light it, she’d felt claws sink into her neck, painfully ripping out her throat. It was the fast death she’d ever experienced in the night, Sharp claws and something like the faintest scent of tobacco her last memory before waking up at a touch stone.

Something was up about that graveyard, and Jack was rather intent on figuring it out. They rolled up their sleeve  and cut open their arm, waiting for the makeshift organs to start beating as blood fell on them. It was the full moon, and they needed to hurry to the graveyard before night fell.

The last time it’d been a full moon, ghosts had risen from the graves of the more classical tombstones. No one had been near the odd, mocking graveyard, but Jack had to hold on hope that the same kind of ghosts would rise from these graves.

Maybe the graves were linked to their monster, maybe it would soothe not just them, but the creature who’s mere presence seemed to drive them to the end of their ropes. It’d be a few lunar cycles to bring them all back, if it worked. What did they know about this world, Jack wondered, wrapping the slice in honey coated bandages. Why had they not been able to come back to life? Or had they been dead from the start.

Was this just more trickery from the sweet honey coated voice that just needed them to accept their deal, they they would find their friends, their families.

Was the flower Jack kept in their chest, the pink peony, that looked just like the one Wendy had taken with her after Abigail’s funereal, actually Wendy’s?

They could feel the hearts beating in their pack, and they settled the bag down in the grass closest to the Wendy’s grave. It was almost night, and they’d see if their hunch was right.

They already felt like crying, the area’s general feeling making the anticipation worse. What if these ghosts were as violent as the ones from the normal graves, another heartbreaking trick?

The light slowly turned blue, and Jack pulled out the first heart, backing away from the grave, eyes widening as a transparent form rose.

The rest of the ‘ooh’ cacophony went unnoticed as Jack looked at the white sheet ghost, a trail of yellow flowers on one side of their head.

It had to be Wendy. Jack silently wished, hoped, prayed as they thrust the heart into the white sheet. It was cold, but then light.

Jack didn’t back up, just watched as the ghost became a small girl, falling right before they grabbed her out of the air, blond pigtails and a red skirt, and even at twelve, as light as a feather. It was Wendy. Their daughter. Kneeling, they let her stand up on her own.

“Hello, Wendy.” They whispered. “I missed you.” They brought her into a hug, and smiled, tears running down their face. However, the other ghosts had noticed the revival, and were crowding around the reunited family. Wendy wasn’t speaking, just holding onto Jack’s jacket tightly.

The ‘oooooh’ noises were starting to get annoying, and night would end soon, and they still had two hearts left to go.

There wasn’t much rational choice, they didn’t know any of these people. Jack let go of Wendy, pulling the next heart and thrusting it into the closest ghost, turning their back to grab the last one and repeat the process. “Sorry, I’ll have more next full moon, I promise.” They said to the other ghosts.

One looked a bit like Winifred, the same stuck up hair, as he got up off the ground, brushing off his pants and vest. The other… was if someone had stuck one of the spiders this world had made on a body. A child sized body no less.

“Webber!” Wendy rushed over to the spider-child and helped them up.

Webber… as in Webster? Wendell’s grandson?

Winifred had never named her brother, but Jack had to assume this was the scientist brother she’d been looking for. And had greatly complained about blowing something up on accident.

“Well, that was a rather unexpected turn of events, but thank you very much.” He approached Jack. “I’m-“ he paused, looking over Jack before shaking his head. “Sorry, you just… reminded me of someone. Anyway, Wilson P. Higgsbury, and you?”

“Mother…” Wendy had gotten between them and tugged at Jack’s sleeve and gestured to the spider-child. “This is Webber, my friend.”

“Jack Carter… and well then, hello Webber. We better start heading back, alright?”

“Camp, I’m assuming?” Wilson turned to look at the graves, though, not looking at Jack as he spoke. “Anyone else in this place, or are you the first unlucky new person?”

“I think I’ll let camp speak for itself.” Jack smiled.

Wendy and Webber were off playing, and Jack was paging through one of Ms. Wickerbottom’s books, the librarian getting reacquainted with Wyn. With Wilson’s help, they’d managed to make enough telltale hearts for the rest of the ghosts. The old survivors had dug their own graves and pulled out their possessions.

No one had gotten stuck in the dark recently, and so Jack hadn’t had a chance to see if this effected their night monster.

But people were reuniting. Wilson, upon entering camp, had started to argue with Winifred. Both of them seemed to be just as mouthy as the other. Wendell had been shocked by Webber’s new look, but apparently the small boy was the same as always, if a bit more fuzzy.

But, apparently someone was still missing. The recently revived survivors had mentioned another member of their old group, a Maxwell. Wilson had muttered something about wondering where the idiot had gotten off to when they’d given the hearts to the other ghosts.

No one knew. Between the ten of them, they’d explored the whole map, and there wasn’t any sign of any other living human. There was the old, worn, broken structures from what they now knew was the other survivors, but nothing like a fresh campsite.

The man had vanished.

Jack had to wonder who the man was, everyone else seemed to have had people brought here because of them, people who were looking for them.

Wilson frowned, he knew he had a torch somewhere. He’d finally dug out his own grave, and surprisingly had found the Codex. Max had survived long enough to bury him properly, it seemed, but to throw the Codex Umbra into his grave as well? Odd.

He was on his way back to camp, and it was quickly getting too dark to see. He cringed. He’d seen his sister revived, so he knew even if he died out here, he’d be brought back to life, but he still couldn’t help but think of how terrifying it’d been when the other’s ghosts hadn’t appeared, that they were taken out, one by one, until it’d just been him and Maxwell.

He had to wonder what happened, after he died. To stay afloat, they’d joked that whoever was the last one standing had to make sure that the graves were safe. Max had said that was below him, but he might. But they’d both hoped it wouldn’t come down to that. Being alone, again.

He couldn’t even remember how he died.

He blinked, still looking for that torch in his bag, now just feeling for it. Any second now, he’d hear a hiss and the grue would be there.

Except… he felt cold hands on his shoulder, a growing sense of dread in his body. The sensation was unbearable. It was sorrow and anger and loss that weighed down, something familiar in there too, but it was mostly emotional pain. Wilson swallowed, trying not to start crying from the weight. Camp was close, he just had to start running.

It took a few seconds before he could get his legs to move, but he kept moving until he stumbled into the edge of light, one of Jack’s lanterns by the chests. Shadows were flicking around his vision, and he dodged a crawling horror, moving for the fridge. There were some cooked green caps he’d left there, and he swallowed them down, shaking.

Everyone was staring, but he didn’t care. That was new. That was very new.

Jack held the lantern, watching as the scientist walked to the edge of the light. “Wilson, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Let’s see, you have green caps, wood, and a life amulet if I really mess this up, but, with Woodie’s help, I need to hear this monster described for myself.” Apparently, Woodie’s werebeaver form could see the night monster. Though, at the mention of it, Warner had expressed confusion, and Woodie had sighed.

“I’ll tell you aboot it later, eh?” And that was that, Woodie was off, only taking Lucy with him into the dusk, following Jack and Wilson.

“Look, I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Jack, this is completely different from my former experiences with the grue! Something has changed, and I need to know what. You used to get attacked, viciously, a few times before dying if you didn’t have a light.” Wilson paused. “What would change that so drastically? Max used to…” He paused and sighed. “Anyway! Woodie, are you ready?”

“Ya, Lucy’s not the happiest camper about this, but it’s almost time.”

“Great!”

“So it looked like a human shaped shadow then? And it was just…”

“Curled aboot you.” Wilson vigorously took notes.

“Well,” he said, “That’s very different from before. Are we even dealing with the same shadow then?” He hummed, already too much in his own thoughts. “It wasn’t even trying to kill me, it just drained my sanity until a terror beak or a crawling horror could take me out.”

“It’s killed though.” Jack sat down. “Ask Winona, she’s the only one who’s experienced it so far.”

“Hm. Odd. I’ll have to inquire about that. I’ll ask her later but do you have any details for right now?” Wilson looked up from his paper.

“Well, it happened in the graveyard you were buri-“ There was a pause in the scribble of writing.

“Wait. It… only happened there?”

“At least, that’s what Winona said.” Jack frowned. “Are you alright? You’re looking rather ill.”

Wilson stood. “I need to go look at something, that’s all.” He waved off the concern. “That’s… fascinating.” He didn’t sound quite so intrigued as he had a few seconds ago.

“Jack, I need your help.” Wilson was holding a leather bound book, in the entrance of Jack’s tent.

“Couldn’t you ask Wyn or Wickerbottom? I think they’re more the people to deal with books, Wilson.”  Jack went back to the repairs on a hat for winter, silently regretting they didn’t have William’s talent for needlecraft. “I just need to get these repairs done so Wendy and Webber won’t have to worry about not having a hat this winter.”

“I… can’t tell them I have this book. Wickerbottom would go on a tangent about where it came from and to be honest, I don’t want to tell them.”

Jack looked up from the sewing. “What, is it from Wickerbottom’s library and you never returned it?”

That managed a snort. “If only it was that easy…” Wilson sighed and stepped in. “The man who’s missing. Maxwell. It’s his Codex. Magic mumbo jumbo, but it relates to this world.” He handed over the book. “It’s all latin. Easy enough to translate, I’ve been working on it but… I have reason to believe the shadow creature is Maxwell.”

Jack gave him a questioning look. “How could a man be-“

Wilson cut them off. “This world is full of insane impossibilities that make no sense, Jack. I mean, magic, giant bees, a goose with antlers that’s the size of a small house?”

“My brother would of loved the magic part.” Jack softly said to themselves. “But yes, okay, you have a point. So, why are you asking me?”

“My sister won’t touch my experiments with a five foot stick, and everyone else would be a little too loose-lipped. I need someone to accompany me to the ruins. I want to try and see if I can get Maxwell back.” Wilson took back the book. “I need to do a lot of research, and this has some info on the language on the ruins, but it’s rather dangerous to go alone.”

“And you can’t ask say… Wigfrid?” Someone who was more suited for fighting, Jack silently thought.

“I don’t want to explain my reasoning to them.” Wilson said. “They wouldn’t exactly get it, and I don’t want to explain to them I found the Codex in my grave.” He paused. “I’m fairly certain it’s him. We were the last two left, and we’d become close. We joked about keeping everyone else safe when only one of us was left, and well…”

“He’s keeping his word.” Jack finished the thought. Winona had lingered at night, the only time the night monster could appear.

“Exactly.” Wilson flipped open the codex. “I just need company while I work, the ruins aren’t particularly friendly to a lone traveler.”

“…Fine.” Jack finished their last stitch. “You’ve made your case, just give me a few days notice before you head down.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Jack sighed, the miner hat already dimming. “Pass me your bag, I need to add more of those light flowers to this.”

“It’s a foot away from you, now shush, I’m trying to translate.” Jack rolled their eyes, pulling a few of the light balls from the mentioned bag. They hadn’t noticed Wilson dropping it. There’d been a few incidents, spiders, some monkeys, and they were currently on watching the ‘thulecite’ medallion for color changes.

It was the third trip down so far, and Wilson had found nothing of use.

Jack was certain if they heard Wilson mutter about how stupid the translation sounded, they’d fling the medallion at his head.

“How about you check that alter we passed. You keep avoiding it.” Jack turned the Thulecite Medallion over in their hands. It wasn’t that heavy.

“All that makes is the ingenious invention of a gem on a stick, and…” Wilson paused. “I wonder if the Magiluminescence would work. Woodie said he more of a human shape, maybe if I could get it around him it’d burn the shadows.”

Jack covered their ears and ran forward with the lantern. Wilson was trying again, this time with Magiluminescence made with two gems, and the screech from the shadow was painful to endure. The first time it’d been a hiss of pain, but now it was just the mangled sound of someone screaming in pain, harsh and discordant, with a flash of light.

“Wilson, are you okay?” They could see the man hunched over in the edge of the light.”

“I’m fine.” Wilson said, standing up. “That should of worked. Stars and atoms! What if he’s hurt, Jack? That might have been too much, though. But it was two gems. If one’s not enough and two’s too many, what am I suppose to do?”

Jack shrugged. They were just here to be an assistant. They had no idea about this man. “Is there even a body, or is it all shadow.”

Wilson’s eyes lit up. “That’s it! I need to anchor the soul down, because you’re absolutely correct. He doesn’t have a body anymore. I wonder if I could combine the Magiluminescence with a life amulet, or if i need two amulets.”

It wasn’t elegant. It was some weird frankenstein of a necklace, it looked like three gems wasted if anyone else saw it. Jack had this feeling in the pit of their stomach that something bad was going to happen though, and had tried to dissuade Wilson earlier. What if they were wrong? They’d be down gems and Wilson had been hedging so much on his hunch being right.

“Alright Jack, I’m turning off my lantern.”

They sighed and waited. There was another ear splitting screech as there was a flash of light, before red light filtered into view, a body forming around the necklace.

They ran, lantern waving wildly. Wilson was ahead of them, though, lantern quickly switched on. They paused, Wilson already working on carrying the prone body.

Wilson cradled the small creature gently in his arms, trying to see where William had gotten off to. It’d been a secret experiment, between him and Mrs. Wickerbottom. They’d gotten the mushroom lights to somehow crossbreed with the trees, using rather… improbable methods. The spores wouldn’t of properly pollinated the trees in their world, but here the rules were rather bent anyway. So they decided to see what the spores would do to one of the many small creatures.

They’d managed a success. The rabbit’s small brood had produced one rabbit that looked like all the rest, but at night, it’s body produced the luminous glow that was characteristic of the mush trees and lights.

Out of any of them, William was probably the best fit to take care of the small rabbit. He’d always had a soft spot for them, and apparently had taken care of two for quite a while, before everything had gone so wrong.

Besides, Wilson had privately decided. He’d get to see William happy. It was a selfish reason to give the small bunny to William, but it seemed right.

It’d been eight weeks. He’d been ready to retrieve the small kit from the den earlier, but Wickerbottom had been certain that even in this world, eight weeks was the amount of time the kits needed to stay with their mother. About seven weeks of silent anticipation. Part of it, was yes, he wanted to see if the illumination would stay with the rabbit, but mostly… the winter had been tough on all of them, and the spring certainly wasn’t making life any easier. The rains were, as always, ceaseless. They were soaked to the bone and exhausted from trying to restock supplies and gather things they’d gone without over winter. Even William could barely manage a smile.

He knew a lot of William’s smiles were faked. He’d realized that long ago. But the few genuine ones that actually did occur were brilliant to see.

Still, it was telling that even a fake smile was hard to manage. So maybe this small rabbit would at least be a little bit of light in the dreary grey.

It was a red umbrella that tipped Wilson off to where William had hidden himself. “Oh, come on. It’s been raining so much, and you’ve all barely grown.” He sighed, looking at the small plots of land they’d measured out ages ago to grow vegetables. The rain had stopped a short time ago, but with how grey the sky still was, it wasn’t irrational to keep the umbrella out, the rod resting against William’s shoulder.

“William?” Wilson approached him, the rabbit stirring in his arms at the noise of his voice.

The magician stiffened at the noise, then relaxed as he turned. “Oh, it’s just you, Wilson.” He said, removing the umbrella from his shoulder and letting the canopy retract. “I’ve been checking on the plants, that’s all.”

“And talking to them.” Wilson gave a faint smile at that as he held out the rabbit. “Anyway, here.”

He reached over, before thinking twice and withdrawing. “I hope you aren’t asking me to skin it. You know I can’t… do that.”  He cringed at the thought, looking away.

“Why would I ask you to skin a rabbit?”

“I… I don’t know why, but WX was trying to get me to snap a rabbit’s neck. They said I used to be a more entertaining fleshling before.” William frowned and looked at the ground. “Was I that heartless?” He quietly questioned.

“Well, I’m not asking you to skin this one. Could you do me a favor and take care of this rabbit for me?” Wilson gestured to the small kit, trying to draw William’s attention from his questions on the man he became, and now couldn’t remember. “I’d do it myself, but I’m not quite as good with rabbits as you are.” He gave a small smile, and held out the rabbit again.

“I… of course, Wilson.” He let the handle of the umbrella dangle on his wrist and reached out, letting Wilson carefully rest the surprisingly calm rabbit in his hands, and he folded his arms, cradling it. “I’ll take care of them.”

He’s too tired to open his eyes, head lolling against Wilson’s shoulder in the far too bright light of what must be the scientist’s attic. The floorboards are an interesting sensation, the wood feeling real underneath his gloved hands. God, he felt exhausted, but… Wilson was warm and safe. Maxwell took in a shuttered breath as he sat up, and tried his best to give his partner some reassurance that he wasn’t just dead with a smile.

Wilson watched the other’s smile, which was more like a grimace, but it was enough to let him know they’d both made it home okay. He’d gone back, trying to rescue the former king from his own personal hell, and had found Maxwell half dead, They taking out everything on their last toy. The man hadn’t even responded for a long time until he’d managed to tell Wilson a shaky plan to free them both.

Now they were back in his little cabin, and Wilson had no idea what was next. The portal, well, he had to destroy that now, didn’t he. “Max, I’m gonna put you in my old armchair, alright?” He whispered. “I need to break apart the portal.” He didn’t want to be loud, what if They’d managed to hear them.

There was an affirmative kind of noise, he assumed Max was still exhausted, and he carried his lover over to the old red armchair, pressing a kiss to the other’s cheek.

It took longer then he expected, but when he finished, Maxwell was watching, an almost nervous look to the other’s face before Wilson came over and wrapped steady arms around a far too thin waist, lifting him with ease to his unsteady feet. “I think we both need some sleep.” He muttered, setting his face against a sharp, boney shoulder. “I think I have some extra bed clothes you can have for right now. We can bathe later.”

“A-alright, pal.” His voice is horse, but Wilson smiles at the use of pal. “Sounds good.”

The clothes were a little short on Maxwell, but Wilson managed to help him into something that wasn’t his suit, and got him into bed. He tried not to smile at the sight, the idiot he’d fallen in love with finally safe, in a proper bed. Resisting the urge to just crawl in without changing his own clothes was hard, but eventually he managed and got in, drawing close to the former captive. “Missed you.” He murmured, already spooning the other. He was so exhausted, emotionally and physically, but he doubted he even knew the half of it. Maxwell turned around, tucking himself close, head under Wilson’s neck. Weak hands clutched at the pajama top, and Wilson could feel him shaking.

He couldn’t remember much of his time dead, only that for some reason it felt longer then it had in the past. While a day might really pass, the touchstones felt instant. He could remember flashes of the world in a more monochromatic tone, but even then, it was blurry and forgotten.

All he knew was that right now, his body ached and he was laying in the grass, breathing.

Maxwell hovered over him and mix of annoyance… and concern on his face. “What were you thinking, Higgsbury?!” His voice was obnoxiously loud. “There were ways to deal with that, that wouldn’t of involved your death!”

He stood, and saw the supplies he’d sacrificed himself to get sticking out of Maxwell’s bag. Blood splattered the ground, but it wasn’t where he’d died.

“Higgsbury, are you even listening?” Maxwell was really wound up. “There’s two of us, and while I don’t like getting my hands dirty, working together and neither of us dying is far more efficient then you just giving up the ghost, literally!”

Wilson crinkled his nose. “I got the parts. Why do you care, I thought you liked seeing me die.” He spat back.

“Yes, well, that was then and now we need to work together and that means not dying on me! Heavens help me, Higgsbury, you want me to leave you as a ghost next time? Because I might not be able to make a heart, and I do not want to see you dead.” Maxwell threw up his hands, and Wilson could see the blood slowly trickle down from under the glove.

“You’re bleeding.” It was a blunt statement, Wilson preferring not to address the ghost thing.

“Of course I’m bleeding still. The heart needed blood to work, but it’s worth the price, seeing as I couldn’t find a touchstone, and the graves I did dig up didn’t contain a single life amulet. Now come on, we need to get back to work.”

It was later that night, when the other man was asleep, that Wilson realized just why he’d given no real care to if he’d live or die at the end of day, as long as he got what he needed to do done. “No one used to care if I lived or died.” He muttered, looking over at Maxwell, asleep the other straw roll. “Who’d of thought the first person to seem to actually care would be you.”

His chest ached, a bruise probably blooming from the hound that run into him at high speeds. It laid dead, a few good sword slashes having taken care of the beast, Wilson fighting another a few paces away. It was a small group, they’d wandered too close to a pair of hound mounds while gathering cactus flowers, the children only along since they both complained at the idea of staying in camp.

He could hear panting though, from behind him, where both children were. They’d yelled at them to run a decent distance, and yet a hound was still going for the smallest members of their little group.

It wasn’t well thought out but he bolted, following the hound’s noises, catching up just before it’s teeth could reach Webber. A slash of the sword at it’s back, to startle it away from the children.

The hound growled, then pivoted, launching itself at him before he could guard properly.

There wasn’t much thinking after that, he could feel the dog’s jaws in his wrist, the bones broken under powerful teeth. He couldn’t breathe.

Too much damage too fast, The world sounded muddied, dull. yelling and growls intermingling as he fell.

A hand around the bleeding wrist, blurry, shadowed figures. Agonized yelling, but he wasn’t slipping away. He was just… tired. That was all.

The tent was dimly illuminated, and crowded, a hip too close to his head. Wilson was already awake, watching as he slowly opened his eyes. “Hey, Max.” It was a quiet, weary greeting. “We all. Well… we all were worried.” He muttered, sliding down into the bedroll from his seated position. “They wanted to stay here. To make sure you were okay.” He gestures with his head to what must be their young charges, curled up asleep.

“They’re alright?” Just a silent nod as Wilson shifted closer.

“I got there the moment you fell, Wendy was trying to summon Abigail, but she didn’t have anything she could sacrifice.”

“That’s good. As long as they’re okay.” He mumbled, feeling a forehead touch his.

Wilson noticed that Maxwell’s door wasn’t locked. The first sign something was wrong, in all honesty. They all locked their doors. Paranoia.

He’d heard from Wigfrid that Charlie had seemed kind of off when the two of them had encountered one another. Wigfrid mentioned that she felt like she had back when she’d been with Them.

He shuddered at the thought. There wasn’t any kind of explanation, and he hadn’t heard from Maxwell in weeks, expecting at least some explanation or complaint about Charlie’s odd behavior, that they’d fought, or something. Part of it was that he was worried that Maxwell had done something. It was irrational, but, this was Maxwell they were talking about. He was trouble, as much as Wilson trusted him to at least not get them all killed some horrible way.

The door opened without trouble into the small apartment, silence. It was empty, ruined. Claw marks in the walls, books scattered across the carpet from a upturned bookcase, an empty desk, papers across the floor. He stepped in, avoiding a number of shards of glass, a broken vase perhaps? Maxwell was nowhere to be found.

What made him pause was blood. Not much, of course, but it was brown and dried in the carpeting.

“Maxwell?” He called out, looking back at the claw marks. Something was very wrong.

Nothing. Silence in the dim room. Maxwell wouldn’t have left his home without locking the door, surely, Wilson asked himself. Nor would he leave his place in such a mess. He’d always hated Wilson’s cabin for the sheer disorganization of the place.

“Max, it’s just me, Wilson. You alright?” Maybe, with luck, Maxwell was just hidden, waiting out whatever had caused such a mess. Still, just silence.

He almost shuddered. Without knowing where the usual occupant was, this place had an odd feeling to it, not to mention how dim it was. At least there was another two rooms. Maybe they would provide answers.

He’d rarely gone to Maxwell’s small apartment, but he’d assumed it was the bedroom that was partially open. It was darker then the living room as he stepped in, the door already ajar, a few more bloodstains on the carpeting in front of it. From the faint light of the window, he could tell at least that it wasn’t in the same shape as the first room. It was moderately orderly, the bed however, a lump under the covers he couldn’t make out, a silhouette thanks to the lighting.

He swallowed and walked forward, hoping that it was Maxwell, just asleep.

He wasn’t asleep. Nor dead, at least. Wilson was silently thankful for that. As annoying as Max could be, he wouldn’t wish him dead. There was a blank look on his face, a large gash that was scabbed over on his forehead, and claw scratches across his cheek.

He was a mess. That much Wilson could tell from only seeing his face. Hair askew and greasy, eyes just staring into the distance.

If it wasn’t for his distinct facial features, Wilson wouldn’t be able to believe it was Maxwell. He was always so well presented, even when they all were trying not to die. When they were at their worst, he still managed to keep himself neat. That stupid phrase he’d said a few times, ‘there’s a reason I stay so dapper.’

Something was incredibly wrong.

Wilson’s voice was quiet as he reached out a hand to the covered shoulder. “Hey, Maxwell, what happened?” He asked, hoping that maybe he could get those scratches checked out, they seemed far too dark once he bent down, eye to eye with Maxwell.

Maxwell was at least breathing, and his lips twitched, almost about to answer before they closed again, and his eyes followed suit.

“Max. Seriously. Are you alright?” Wilson asked. Maybe he wasn’t able to talk about what happened, he’d understand that. But that gash didn’t look good, and now that he was up close, he could see dark purple blossoming at the edges of his other cheek.

“Go away, Higgsbury.” Was croaked out, voice heavy and crackled with disuse.

How could he go away, and more importantly, why would he just up and leave? The place was a mess, Maxwell was injured and unkempt and the more he looked the worse it got. The magician was always thin, but he was far more gaunt then usual, eyes dark and sunken in. In what world would he leave anyone in this state? Even Maxwell, of all people.

“What happened?” He asked again, still quiet, hand squeezing the blanketed shoulder.

Maxwell’s voice was quiet, and he’d opened his eyes but he looked anywhere but Wilson “I’ve managed to screw up. Again.” Was a very soft deadpan. “Now just go, Higgsbury.” He muttered. "You don't need to be here."

"Screw up?" Wilson questioned the word choice. "You're injured, first off. I'm not about to leave you here alone."

"Yes, screwed up. Just like..." He sighed and closed his eyes. "We're not stuck in that world anymore, Wilson. Just leave me be. You don't need to worry about these." Wilson had a feeling that if Maxwell was more active, he'd gesture to his face.

"You look like hell." Wilson admitted. "Just, Max, let me help. Stop being so stubborn."

“Stop it. Why should you care?” He asked, more force in his voice then Wilson had heard this entire conversation. It softens and deadpanned again with the next phrase, “I ruined your life. But we’re all free now. Just go. Let me die in peace.”

Whenever he cared enough to read novels, and a character said something of that nature, it was always impassioned, Wilson thought, still shocked by the words. But the lack of care in Maxwell’s voice, the lack of emotion towards the idea of death, permanent death, was worse. They’d tried to find an escape so they didn’t have to keep dying, over and over again. And here Maxwell was, seeking it.

“I’m not going to let you die here.” Wilson said, squeezed his shoulder again before slowly getting back up. “I’m going to go find your medical supplies, and get that gash looked at.” He looked around the rest of the room. There was a small door close to the wardrobe, probably the bathroom.

As he headed towards the door, Wilson managed to hear a low, “Don’t bother, pal.”

Instead, he ignored it.

It took a while to find exactly what he needed, noticing what else was in his medical cabinet. Not much, surprisingly, but there was at least some gauze pads, medical alcohol, and bandages, plus more mundane things like a razor, toothpaste, and such.

Wilson planned as he collected the gauze and bandages. He’d need to remove the scabs and check for infection. He doubted that the claw marks were necrotizing, but he needed to check. What would cause those scratches though? They weren’t exactly indicative of human nails.

He shuddered at the thought. There were plenty of things that could have caused those scratches, but they weren’t here. Not in this world.

He returned quickly, setting down the finds on the nightstand next to the bed. Maxwell was still just laying there, staring through Wilson, no expression really apparent before he closed his eyes. “Why are you still here?”

He’d of expected the question to sound more annoyed. It just sounded tired. “I said I wasn’t going to leave you here.” There was nothing but silence, and Wilson sighed, grabbing a chair and pushing it to the bedside. “I’m going to get you some water and see what food you have, and then after you eat, I’ll look at those injuries. How long have you been laying there?” He didn’t expect a reply and started back towards the ruined living room.

“I don’t know.” Maxwell replied. “The days have kind of blurred together.”

Wilson froze at the door knob. “Days?” He asked. “It’s been more then one or two?” How long had… he leaned his head against the door. “What’s the last date you remember.”

Maxwell hesitated. “The… thirteenth, I think.”

“It’s the nineteenth now. Oh stars, Maxwell, it’s been six days?” Wilson looked back, lifting his head off the door. He’d just been in this room, waiting to die, for six days?

“I guess, pal.” His voice didn’t sound like it mattered very much.

Wilson hesitated at the door knob. Six days… stars and atoms, whatever had happened just had made Maxwell crumble. He thought it’d only been a day or two.

Whatever happened, he wasn’t about to just leave Maxwell there in that state. There was one other door in the living room, and the kitchen, or whatever constituted for a kitchen, would most likely be there.

Stars, what could he even give the man. He’d end up puking up anything that was too much for his stomach. Water was a safe choice, obviously, but food wise… maybe soup? Broth?

He dodged the books scattered across the floor and continued toward the kitchen door. The claw marks in the wall looked like the ones on Maxwell’s cheek, just larger.

He paused. There was one thing he could think of that could have claws and change sizes.

Them. Was that why Charlie was acting off, according to Wigfrid? Had They gotten back through to their world?

He felt a wave of nausea, and pressed a hand to the door he finally had reached. No… no wonder Maxwell was in such a state.

He’d have to confirm the theory, of course, but it made too much sense. The amount of destruction in the room, the claw marks, thrown objects and a toppled bookcase. It wouldn’t be easy for one person to leave claw marks, but one person with shadows on their side? Much easier.

His head was spinning as he opened the door and walked into the small, clean kitchen. There was another window, uncovered, providing light to the room. At least this place didn’t seem to have any horrible thing to uncover and try to make sense of.

He leaned on the counter for a second, recollecting himself. If it was Them, he had to warn everyone to watch out, see what maybe Wickerbottom might think, she knew how to detect magic.

Atoms, he hoped it wasn’t. But there weren’t many rational explanations otherwise.

And Maxwell… somehow ever obstinate even when at the edge. It was terrifying to see him so… emotionless. To not care that he was going to die, that he even wanted it. And he was quiet. Maxwell’s over exaggerated gestures and loud, proud words were gone. Just a quiet murmur in the dark.

He shook himself out of his thoughts. He needed to find which cabinet had food in it, and also find the cups. He didn’t relish the thought of Max being alone for too long, even if the man seemed to be confined to that bed. Were there injuries that were covered up? Or was he just so weak that he didn't have the energy to get up.

Both were equally likely.

The first cabinet he opened seemed to be a small set of glassware, the cups at the forefront. They were simple things, surprisingly. Just plain glass. He'd almost expected crystal, considering Maxwell had a thing about the finer things, but no, simple, very plain glass.

It clinked as he set it down, and he grabbed a mug, simpler then he'd expected, again.

The other cabinet was rather bare, a few cans of soup, a small bouillon tin, some tinned vegetables. He pulled down the bullion tin and opened it, noting it was mostly full, missing maybe only one cube. Chicken bouillon, apparently.

The lower cabinets had the few small pots and he hazarded a guess about how much water was a cup of water. Normally, he might have bothered to measure, but this wasn't his kitchen and he wasn't about to spend more time searching for things.

He leaned against the wall, suppressing a sigh. Things had finally started to seem normal. And now this.

It’d originally been a morbid joke. At least, it must have been one. Why else would he say it, out loud, around the other survivors. Maybe a bitter admonition about the world. ‘If only the world had a single neck,’ he’d mused, a grim chuckle before passing back Wilson’s razor. He’d needed it for something.

Now, it was in his hands, the flint sharp and ready. He closed it, careful to avoid the sharpened blade. He’d snuck it out of Wilson’s bag.

He was tired, if he was being honest, and he almost never was. But… he reopened it, regarding the blade. It was well kept. It’d be simple. He’d thought about it before, long ago, how easy it’d be. Slice the neck, bleed out like a stuck pig. But, he was too much of a coward for either option, living or dying.

He’d ran.

What a mistake that had turned out to be.

The world did have a single neck. At least, his own world did. He could wander out into the wild, where they wouldn’t look, not that they would anyway. The only sign it was one of them would be the razor left behind. They wouldn’t be able to tell the skeleton from any other one that littered the island. It wasn’t like he had a life amulet on, or was keyed to any touchstone. And it’d be better to do it himself then let anything here ruin him. Even his own creations had tried.

But, the real villains behind the red curtain. They certainly wouldn’t let him meet a pleasurable end like that. It’d be another island, another world of Their making.

But… would being alone be that bad? He considered it. The stares. The other survivors, they played nice, well nice enough for people he’d drug here due to Them, which was fine. Understandable. But it didn’t mean he had to like it. That he had to enjoy the few scraps of kindness he’d get, like a begging dog, if only for the sake they survived better in a group. He’d swallowed down plenty of barbed comments, that was as nice as he’d let himself be to most of them. He couldn’t be soft, either.

Well, really, was there anything soft left in him? Was there anything good left in him? Probably not. 

But still, sadly, this truce he had with them… the most companionship in years. He hated how glad he was for it at times. Loneliness, again, might actually be better.

It’d be easy. He’d control it, that was something he did miss, being in control. There wasn’t much he could do away from the control of Them, but he’d enjoyed every chance he’d had for that.

Maybe soon. He didn’t have much emotion to the idea, but he felt numb at the idea of continuing ‘camp life’ either. He folded it safely.

He’d leaned on one of the many trees Woodie planted around camp only to chop down in a few days, but started to walk away from the silent camp as soon as he could, closing the razor, clutching it. A life line.

 Everyone was busy with something, it was the reason he’d found the time to sneak back and steal the flint razor, thankfully.

Five steps, and he heard footsteps behind him, a hand grabbing his wrist. “Maxwell.” The tone is low, quiet, but serious. “Give me the razor.”

He turned, removing his arm from Wilson’s grip and spread his hands, revealing nothing, the razor quickly hidden during the turn, an old vanishing trick. “What razor, pal?” He smirks, the usual show already beginning as he lowered his hands to his sides.

“Don’t give me that.” Wilson’s eyes narrowed. “It’s up your sleeve. Or you’ve pocketed it, one of the two. I know you have it.” He frowns, instead of scowling at the other. “I’d like it back.”

There’s silence and Wilson stepped forward, reaching out, grabbing his wrist again. “I know, it’s tempting. But you won’t solve anything like that.” 

“What do you know, Higgsbury?” His voice is strangled, other hand protectively going for the pocket the razor was so quickly stashed in. Wilson’s grip didn’t let him leave.

“Enough. Give it back, Max. Please.” Wilson looked him in the eye, the only thing apparent on his face was concern. Odd.

The free hand slipped into the pocket and grasped it, slowly pulling out, an almost smooth gesture if it wasn’t for the fact he was shaking.

Wilson’s grip relented enough and Maxwell stepped back, razor clutched hard in his hands, everything in his head telling him to run, that it’s faked, much like everything else. Every other little bit of good or kindness in this damned hell-scape.

But Wilson was quicker. Razor pried from his shaking hand, thrown to the ground. “It’s okay.” The scientist said. “It gets to be too much, I know.”

He’s heard this tone before. Webber, a nightmare, Wickerbottom and Wilson on watch. He’d been unable to sleep and had just listened from his tent, unwilling to expose the insomnia that plagued him. Webber babbled something about hounds and their parents.

Wilson had used that voice to remind Webber that they were alright, that their parents weren’t here, that the hounds only existed here.

“You think you know what too much is, Wilson?” He managed, shaking even more. “I have…” He stops. There’s too much to say, too much that he can’t say. He can’t reveal anything, he can’t let himself be regarded as anything but what he shows. There is too much he has hidden away.

Arms have steadied him, a firm embrace. There really isn’t much either of them could have said, Wilson’s steady inhale, exhale pattern at least bringing something calm to the chaos in his head.

He leaned in and closed his eyes. He’d been so tired, for so long.

The urge was still strong, to run, to grab the razor in the grass and run as far away as he can, to control this one little aspect he can.