Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been so sudden.

One moment, Higgsbury was leaning over his workbench and tinkering away at a watch. It had taken quite a long time to persuade Wanda to part with one, but after much perseverance, the camp’s resident timekeeper relinquished a watch to Higgsbury and only Higgsbury, blithely remarking in that cryptic way of hers that if anyone could crack the cracked timepiece, he had the largest shot.

Maxwell had chuckled darkly, muttered under his breath a macabre joke or two about no hope and never leaving that made Wendy’s lips twitch and the scientist purse his.

His own contributions to the effort amounted to reclining against a log by the fire—and if the view from where he sat was quite nice, Maxwell didn’t comment on it—with the Codex open on his lap and ready to pull Higgsbury out of whatever trouble the little scientist managed to get himself into.

Not that it mattered, in the end. As aforementioned, it had been so sudden.

One moment, Higgsbury was futilely toiling away at escape and the next, shadow tendrils unlike the miasmic hands so characteristic of this world sprout from the ground and engulf the scientist.

“Wilson!” Maxwell had cried out, scrambling to his feet and rushing over. And if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, he’s the first to make it to the workbench. Damn it, Higgsbury is never going to let him live that down—except, wait.

The crumpled form in his arms isn’t Wilson P. Higgsbury.

An inky suit, striped vest, and red tie have replaced the signature vest, white button-up, and dark trousers, the shoulders tapering upwards into dull points. His hair, often a source of vanity for the scientist, is now streaked with whites and greys. The most noticeable difference however, and the most obvious tell that this is not his Higgsbury are the lines of his face. His face is more angular, older, foreign. Even with his eyes closed and face relaxed, he looks like danger, like he could cut Maxwell six ways from Sunday and have Maxwell enjoy it.

“Urgh…”

Those eyes blink open, squinting at the light before transfixing on him. For a millisecond, utter shock flashes across Not-Higgsbury’s face, mirroring the magician’s expression. Then it shatters, those thin lips smirking and those knowing eyes narrowing amusedly. He smiles then, all sharp teeth and dark promise and oh Maxwell wishes Higgsbury were here. Not that he would ever tell the scientist that.

Maybe he should have. And maybe he should have throttled some more answers out of Wanda, just to get something more than cryptic nonsense from the timekeeper.

“Is Wilson okay?” the spider-child whispers behind him. The other survivors had heard the commotion it seems, and were quickly gathering around.

The Higgsbury in his arms is now very clearly checking him out, dark eyes appreciatively roving up and down the older man. Maxwell glares down at him. He wiggles his eyebrows tauntingly.

“Don’t you dare—” the magician hisses.

“Hello, William.”

Chapter Text

“This is excessive. I’m clearly unarmed.”

Maxwell walks towards a Them-touched Wilson, bound by rope to an ice flingomatic. “We both know that means nothing in the Constant.” To prove his point, he conjures a dark sword, pressing the tip of it under the other man’s chin. Though instead of fear, anger, annoyance, or any reasonable reaction, Wilson’s eyes actually dilate. He licks his lips, looking from the sword to Maxwell.

“William…”

“Do not address me by that name.”

“...okay. What is our relationship here?”

The non-sequitur dumps ice water into Maxwell’s lungs. He’s only able to keep a straight face from years, decades, of similar psychological tactics from Them. It’s… disconcerting to see Their influence on the scientist. The fact that he’s so clearly a survivor—clothes a little worn, faint scratches here and there all too reminiscent of the hounds—and not a king helps only marginally.

“Nonexistent,” Maxwell grits out.

“Hm? But what about the bondage? The bloodplay? The you-looking-at-me-like-I’ve-switched-places-with-your-lover-who-you-never-confessed-to-because—”

The blade presses forward, drawing a drop of blood. “Do you want me to gag you?”

Wilson grins, unperturbed. “Depends. Will you use the scarves this time? They chafe less.”

Maxwell glares back. “What did you do to Higgsbury?” he demands.  The blade plunges deeper. The droplet expands, shining onyx.

“Already going deaf, old man?” the other man bites back, amiability fleeting. “I. Already. Told. You. I was working on an escape through Wanda’s watches when I ended up here. Most likely, your Wilson is in my universe and most likely, I’m your best shot at getting him back. If you want to see him again, you’ll release me as you were told.”

Wilson’s dark eyes flit to the group of survivors nearby who were definitely not listening in. Maxwell feels Wickerbottom’s gaze, feels like a child being scolded again. With a sigh, he withdraws the sword just enough to slice through the ropes.

“Finally,” Wilson breathes, rubbing his wrists. The ropes immediately slack, dropping into useless clumps of grass at his feet from cuts Maxwell definitely didn’t make. “Next time, use the scarves, yeah?”

“There will be no next time, Higgsbury.”

“Does he always refer to your Wilson as such? Not Wilson?” Wilson questions the others, frowning at the near-choreographed nods of assent. He sighs. “Oh dear. Until you address me as Wilson, I won’t call you how you want, either. Bunny it is, then.” The other former shadow king offers that up much too quickly to have thought that on the spot.

“B-B-Bunn—” Maxwell can’t bring himself to even finish that thought, spluttering and choking on air.

“Why Bunny?” Willow cackles.

“Doesn’t he remind you of one? He puts up a dapper front, but he's really rather easy to fluster. You should see it--he turns this lovely shade of pink lavender. Oh wait, there it is.” Wilson has the audacity to wink. “Breathe, Bunny. Your heart can only take about 95 beats per minute.”

“Higgsbury!—”

“Heh. I look forward to working with you too."

Chapter Text

“Your shadow manifests are puppets in your likeness. A bit egotistical, hm, Bunny?” Wilson remarks.

His voice comes close enough that Maxwell can practically feel the other man’s breath on his neck and it’s wrong, how accented and sharp that voice is, sounding decidedly how one would expect a highborn brat to sound unlike the unplaceable hodgepodge of accents the other Wilson had adopted in his late-twenties. Maxwell represses the urge to snarl. Instead, he snaps the Codex Umbra shut and deadpans at his unwanted observer.

“What do you want, Higgsbury.” He pauses, then scowls. “And stop calling me Bunny.”

“Call me Wilson, then.”

“Absolutely not.”

Wilson shrugs. “Worth a shot. To answer your question—you, actually.”

He gestures to Maxwell’s bare hands. In his brief period of supposed privacy, Maxwell had removed them, baring his hands—shadow-painted things, human-shaped save for elongated, sharpened digits.

“I want to study the Throne’s effects,” he elaborates.

Maxwell pointedly dons his gloves. “Shouldn’t you be reversing the watch’s effects?”

“I burned through three prototypes. Wanda’s crafting more, but forbids my observation of the process.”

“And you seem so trustworthy.”

The two men break their gaze to see Webber scampering towards them. From afar, Walter, Wendy, and Wurt conspicuously observe from behind a berry bush, the camouflage ruined by a massive Woby sitting behind them. Looks like Webber drew the short end of the stick to approach them… or not, judging by Walter’s pout.

“We’ll negotiate later, Bunny,” Wilson whispers conspiratorially before Webber comes within earshot.

“Mr. Wilson!” the spider-child cries out, holding out their arms.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite human-spider abomination,” the scientist coos, lifting Webber onto his lap. “My Webber is just as cute, you know. What is it that you wanted?”

“We’re still confused. Mrs. Wickerbottom said you were visiting, but where did the other Mr. Wilson go? Where did you come from?”

“Ah. Would you like a demonstration?”

At Webber’s enthusiastic nod, the scientist flourishes his hand in a counterclockwise direction before his arm snaps to the side. The translucent shadows that had been gathering at his fingertips fuse into knife-like points that detach and crash straight into a nearby beefalo grooming station, splintering the reflective surface into a cracked web. Maxwell raises a brow at the blasé demonstration of magic.

“And up we go,” Wilson hums, lifting Webber onto the ruined vanity. “Now, say each of these mirror pieces are a separate universe, existing simultaneously…”

“A separate universe, existing simul…”

“Heh. Good boy.”

Maxwell notices he’s careful to set the child’s feet away from the glass shards. He also notices the way those gloved fingers gently trace along the Webber’s head, and how mapping of the exact places where spider and human skulls merge is disguised as harmless petting. And lastly, the magician notices the creeping inkiness on Wilson’s neck like English ivy, and the slight pointiness to the scientist’s teeth when he purrs “Good boy” while looking at Maxwell.

He turns away, cheeks flushing pink lavender.

Chapter Text

Maxwell finds Wilson at the er, Wilson’s science-ing station, a distance from camp. It’s a chaotic mess when he arrives, the area littered with smashed glass, shredded wooden boards, and suspiciously-punctured stone blocks. Evidently, Wilson had found, er, Wilson’s science-ing chest for he sports a bloodied science-ing lab coat and black science-ing goggles.

For the record, Maxwell didn’t name any of those things.

“Your world is deficient,” Wilson snarls, smashing a beaker of harmless green fluid on the ground. “There are 138 crafting possibilities with an alchemy engine, 21 with a shadow manipulator, and bugger-all that interact with the timekeeper’s tools. Stars and atoms, what did you get up to during your reign? No wonder why the other me dethroned your incompetent arse.”

Stomping around the camp and hurling curses at him and the Constant, hair flickering like shadows and flames, and his neck pitch black, Wilson looked nothing short of terrifying. Ironically though, Maxwell feels a sense of calm. He’s seen his Wilson like this before—plenty of times, actually, during that brief period of time when it was just the two of them building the second portal. Just without the spooky shadow bits.

“What did you do differently?” he asks, tone carefully neutral, a tinge fond.

Wilison pauses, stilling a razor over a frog that’s been pinned down to the workbench by its four limbs, rotund belly exposed. “What?”

“During your reign.”

“…transformation potions, for one.”

On cue, Maxwell leans forward. He doesn’t have to feign interest. “Oh? That sounds quite ingenious.”

“It was nothing. Just essence of a Bunnyman,” Wilson adds grudgingly, though he does remove the goggles. The pink circles around his eyes from where they’d pressed up against the skin looked adorable ridiculous. “Bottled and combined with a few choice components, could induce the transformation in any subject.”

“…that works scientifically?”

Dark eyes slide over to him, dreary and derisive. “If one perceives such results possible, yes. Placebo effect is about the only scientific factor in this world. Perception’s power to have observable, physiological effects. An average strongman can surpass human limitations. A mediocre magician becomes extraordinary… a would-be scientist can ‘science.’”

It occurs to the magician—not for the first time—the extent of their shared experiences. His Wilson had taken the Throne, true, but his reign was brief. Like Maxwell, this Wilson had been a true King, to both their misfortunes.

“I’m sorry for binding you.” He’s sincere.

“It’s all right. I would have done worse,” Wilson admits, shrugging. Maxwell idly notes the receding shadows on the scientist’s neck. “I just miss my world. My William. He’s my favorite subject, you know, but don’t tell him that. He’ll get a big head like you, and I don’t know how I’ll ever convince him to undergo another bunny transformation.” He pauses deliberately, but after no further prompting from the magician, explains, “Because y’know, he gets really good in b—"

“I picked up on your meaning, thank you, Higgsbury,” Maxwell hisses, face red.

Wilson cackles.

Chapter Text

Wilson is acting… strange, disappearing for hours on end.

Not that Wilson—any  iteration of him—was ever not a bit eccentric. Even before the watch incident, the scientist harbored various idiosyncrasies not typical of a Normal Human™: muttering to himself about nearby flora and fauna; arguing with himself and actually becoming offended at his own points, cursing in a bastardized Slavic language even Wolfgang couldn’t decipher; leaving notes for himself that spoke one message but meant another through a convoluted code, just to name a few.

So he’s always had a few screws loose. It’s one of his endearing qualities.

Maxwell finds him in an empty grove, shrouded in shadows.

“…could be so good for you if you just let me,” Wilson purrs to a chorus of whispers. “You missed your chance with him, but I’m here, you know what I’m capable of, think of the possibilities…”

What was that idiot scientist doing purposely calling on Them? Those are Their hushed voices, titillating platitudes flirting at the edges of his awareness as he toes that fine line between sanity and mental oblivion.

“I know you’re there, Bunny.”

The older man raises an eyebrow, wondering how that was possible. He had been quiet. He didn’t smell. He was the night, dammit—

“I can see you, that’s why. Also They told me,” Wilson drawls.

He finally turns around. The shadows have engulfed his neck, most of his face and most importantly, his sclera that have become pitch black. Miasmic knives float about behind Wilson in groups of three, clicking and clacking together like claws before Maxwell realizes that yes, they are claw-like contraptions, translucent wisps of shadow connecting each cluster to a point on Wilson’s vertebrae.

My, how the fuel has changed you.

“No, he’s not a problem. None of them are. Won’t be, once you let me in,” Wilson suddenly says, eyes distant. Uncertainty flickers across his face. Uncertainty warps earlier vocal evenness. Wilson—any iteration of him—has never been good at concealing his emotions.

“Don’t listen to Them,” Maxwell says steadily.

“I could. Tell you what: since I like you, Bunny, say that science is superior to magic and you’ll be spared and promoted to first lab assistant. We could rule this world together! Sounds like a good deal, hm? Hmmm? Like this: ‘science is the best!’”

Maxwell crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You don’t get to say that with eldritch horrors sprouting from your back, pal.”

Wilson pouts, his eyes getting comically wide and teary and his bottom shaking from side to side. “Pretty please?” he near pleads, nearly breaking Maxwell’s resolve. There’s nothing cute at all in a grown man sulking like that, and there’s nothing cute in the cognitive dissonance that one of the most dangerous beings in this world is begging him. Nope. Nothing at all. Not even a little bit.

Maxwell shakes his head firmly. He’s closing his eyes though.

“Well, it was worth a shot.” Wilson tilts his head. “Hey Bunny. Hold still.”

Chapter Text

Maxwell throws himself to the right as a shadow claw lunges for him. It collides with a nearby pine tree instead, violently shattering it into countless splinters and chips.

In the background, Wilson’s manic laughter is accompanied by a terrible cracking of what sounds suspiciously like bone. A quick glance reveals that yes, it is bone, the scientist’s spine breaking and reforming into something larger, taller, more monstrous in its hunched back, elongated limbs, and pointed fangs. The corruption had fully spread now, Wilson’s body completely covered in black save for the whites of his eyes and teeth, and a patch of red at his chest.

Maxwell blinks. “Huh. I thought you hated spiders,” he remarks, voice calm with only a hint of surprise and breathlessness.

Wilson shrugs. “I do. This checks out, honestly,” he replies, voice a screeching, grating thing overlayered with the click-click-clicks of Them.

Another claw snaps at Maxwell, the magician barely ducking out of harm’s way. The pounding of his heart near drowns out all other sound. He’s gasping for breath, adrenaline the sole reason he hasn’t been pulverized into a presumably very dapper-looking bloodstain. He knew he should have worked out more.

Fortunately, he only needed to dodge a handful of attacks which was easy enough with Wilson’s aim. The scientist didn’t seem to be putting his full effort behind each assault, each lunge of the claws telegraphed, each claw pointed and narrowed in its range. And each attack was loud.

Soon, the other survivors are drawn to the commotion and approach the rampaging Spider-Wilson from behind. All of them wear berry bush hats, but said berry bush hats are nullified by one of the bushes being literally on fire, another having balloons poking out of it, and yet another failing to cover the floating, glowing specter of his dead niece.

Typical.

Spider-Wilson pauses. “Wait. Is someone here?” he asks suspiciously, slowly turning towards the others.

“No,” Maxwell says quickly, wrestling the other’s attention back on him.

“Really? Because I swear I just heard some rustling—”

“Your imagination, surely.”

“Okay, now it just sounds like you’re being a distraction so I’m just gonna turn and check—"

Maxwell takes a deep breath, and crosses his arms. “City engineering is a real science, by the way,” he says blandly.

Predictably, Spider-Wilson then rears back to him with rage. “IT IS NOT!”

That’s all the distraction the other survivors need.

“DIE, FOUL DEMON!” Wigfrid roars, tackling Wilson singlehandedly. She raises her battle spear high over the protesting man. “I’M GONNA SPLIT YOU LIKE A LOG AND TEAR YOUR LUNGS OUT OF YOUR BACK! HAHAHA!”

And as much as Maxwell would love to see it, he’d rather not deal with the aftermath of a post-resurrection Wilson. He makes a peace sign with his fingers and pokes at the idiot scientist’s eyes, watching as Wilson easily falls limp to the ground, no gory body-splitting imagery needing to be written after all.

“Guess that checks out too,” Maxwell mutters with relief.

Chapter Text

His patient is awake.

“…you should have let her perform the bloody eagle on me. Would have made for an interesting experiment.”

“You’re welcome, Bunny,” Maxwell replies sarcastically, measuring out a grey, viscous fluid. “Thank you for saving me from a gruesome fate and figuring out the extent of Their corruption on my body, as well as mitigating the effects. Drink this.”

Wilson makes a face at the concoction. Maxwell sighs. The hard way it was, with Wilson being as picky as his counterpart. One hand grips Wilson’s jaw to hold his head still, another pinches his nose shut, and yet another, shadowy claw tips the fuel-imbued concoction into Wilson’s mouth when he gasps for breath. After swallowing though, Wilson looks him straight in the eye and moans erotically when Maxwell doesn’t let go.

“Will you for just one goddamn second be serious?” Maxwell snarls, releasing him.

“Sure. How about you scratch my back, I scratch yours?” Wilson grins, raising his hands in surrender at Maxwell’s death stare. “Forgive me, poor coping mechanisms. How about… you answer one of my questions and I answer one of yours? I know you have some.”

Maxwell doesn’t even take the time to consider. If anything, he could trust on the former king to keep his word when it came to a deal. Fulfilled bargains—Faustian deals, really—are absolutely Their thing, along with the whole murder-suicidal-depression urges and fuel body corruption, of course. Gloved claw clasps gloved claw.

“Fine, but I go first, pal.”

“…mm, sure. Why not?”

“Why would you even attempt to strike a deal with Them? You know what happens.”

Wilson exhales, fixing his gaze on the tent’s beams away from Maxwell. He’s quiet.

“Did you want your powers back?” Maxwell sneers. “Deliberately travel to a new world in a desperate bid—"

He receives a harsh glare in response. “Absolutely not,” Wilson hisses. Then, in a quieter voice, “I knew the consequences, but you don’t know Them like I do. Deep as I was, I saw things. I thought I could use that to my advantage here, find an escape...” He trails off.

“Is this related to the watches?” No answer. Maxwell probes further. “The connected alternate universes?” The corner of Wilson’s mouth twitches.

Ah.

“Though it’s useless with Charlie on this Throne,” Wilson sighs. “They’ll never trade her for me, which means no peeking under the hood on that one.”

“But you’re going to keep trying, regardless.”

A snort. “Failure is still progress. Just because this world didn’t work doesn’t mean we—or anyone else--won’t try another.” Dark eyes fix upon Maxwell meaningfully, then narrow in amusement. “All right. My turn.”

Maxwell sighs.

“Are we in his tent?”

“We are in my tent… which is also his tent.”

“Damn.” Wilson flops on his back, shocked.

“W-We didn’t have enough silk for another!”

“You cannot be serious.”

“He said he didn’t want to waste the resources, and seeing as I hardly need to sleep—"

“You are hopeless, my guy.”

Chapter Text

Wilson resumes engineering a watch, this time with Maxwell’s supervision. It was quite a simple process, really. All he had to do was configure the watch’s settings to his original world.

The first trial is a resounding failure. Once activated, the watch spawns a swirling vortex into which Wilson tosses in a cream-colored, horned rabbit and receives unspeakable horrors in return.

(“AAAAAHHH PUT IT AWAY PUT IT AWAY!!” Wilson screeches as Maxwell bravely cowers from behind an overturned chair.

“Me?! You’re the one with the shadow hands! That thing looks like it’d eat me!”

“HANDLE IT OR I EAT YOU! TO CLARIFY, IT WILL BE VERY UNSEXY!”

“I hate you so much.”)

They don’t speak of the second trial.

The third trial succeeds. A dial of the pocket watch and their rabbit is replaced by a hornless creature sporting far too many eyes. It waves at them, then dives into Warly’s crockpot, faint wisps of shadow emanating from the boiling-alive critter.

(Wilson laughs uproariously. “This is it. You know they call him ‘The Puppetmaster’ in my world?” he guffaws, wiping away tears. “What do they call you here, Bunny?”

“…the Puppetmaster,” Maxwell replies tersely.

“Oh. Well. Your puppets are very nice too.”)

They look down at the finished prototype watch below them.

“Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Wait. Before you go,” Maxwell says. He takes a deep breath. “This whole time you’ve alluded to your relationship with—how did you get to the point where you considered yourself worthy of…”

“I didn’t. I daresay I never will. But when he releases you from purgatory, defends you against your former victims, sleeps in the same tent despite the silk supply chests close to bursting… it’s clear what he wants. And shouldn’t he get that?” Wilson shrugs. Smiles. “I should go. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“Good luck.”

“Same to you.” Wilson pauses, right foot through the portal. “Some advice: be direct. It’s what worked with me.” His right leg lurches, making him lose his balance. “Okay, I’m coming!” the scientist complains, stumbling through the portal…

…and out steps Wilson—his Wilson, a sane Wilson—with his trademark red vest, abnormally-styled hair, and familiar frown, clutching a similarly-constructed watch. Maxwell never knew he could miss Wilson’s resting bitch-face so much.

“Stars and atoms, finally, a world where you all don’t look at me like you want to kill me,” the scientist breathes out. “How bad was the other Wilson? Please tell me he didn’t touch my stuff.”

Be direct.

“I made sure he fixed everything before his departure,” Maxwell reassures him. Then, carefully, he takes Wilson’s hands. “It’s… good to see you, Wilson. I… missed you.”

Wilson stares blankly at his hands ensconced by Maxwell’s, studies the doe-eyed expression on the magician’s face, and sighs, that one exhale chock full of consternation and maybe a little envy.

“Did you just call me ‘Wilson?’”

“Yes?”

“I’m definitely in the wrong universe,” Wilson mutters, already setting the dials on his watch.