[Don't Starve] Someone I'm Close To {Maxwil}

Chapter 2- His Recovery

Wilson awoke to the sound of several people talking in rushed, worried voices. His hands and legs throbbed and the smells of medicine and meat stew filled his nose. He tried to sit up, but a firm hand pressed against his chest, moving him back down.

"Easy, Wilson." Wigfrid's rough, accented voice crooned softly in a gentle and almost motherly way. "You've been out for almost half the night. Take it easy."

"What happened?" Wilson mumbled and instantly regretted it, as his threat felt raw and dry. Apparently the water he had consumed either wasn't the cleanest or wasn't enough to quench him.

"You passed out at the front of the base. Wes put healing salve on your wounds and Wickerbottom and I made soup for you. No, no, don't sit up. I'll help you."

Wilson opened his mouth to protest but decided it was useless as Wigfrid raised the spoon to his lips, tilting her wrist slightly to allow the liquid to pour down the scientist's throat.

He had to admit, it was much better than anything he could ever make himself, at least not without a crockpot. The broth was just the right temperature–not too hot, not too cold–and it contained the perfect ratio of carrots to chunks of meat. Wilson could tell this wasn't just morsels of meat, either. This was real, actual meat, likely from a catcoon or possibly even Beefalo. Wilson would be more than impressed if he found out Wigfrid had managed to take down even one on her own, but not necessarily surprised.

"Feeling better?" Wigfrid asked after the scientist had downed the last spoonful.

Wilson nodded weakly. "Definitely." He croaked out with a smile. "That was amazing."

"I'm sure Miss Wickerbottom will be more than happy to hear it." There was an unusual cheeriness in her voice as she said this. Maybe it was relief. Wilson was too tired to tell.

The man simply nodded in response, still a bit too weary to do much else. Wigfrid got up to dispose of the bowl and spoon and Wilson's eyes met those of Wes', who was sitting by the fire pit not too far away. Wes smiled, obviously relieved to see the other was okay, and made his way over. He sat down next to Wilson and produced a piece of papyrus and a pen constructed from a twig, some berries for ink, and a red bird feather.

How are you feeling? He wrote and showed the paper to Wilson.

Wilson smiled at the mime's concern. "Better than I was earlier."

That's good. Wes wrote. Why have you been so busy? Did we do something wrong?

Wilson shook his head as frantically as he could muster. "A-absolutely not! What makes you think that?"

Wes' smile faded. You never so much as talk to anyone here anymore. You're always off doing...god knows what. I can tell even Wendy's become upset because of it. She sees you as a father, you know.

"...does she?" Wilson's eyes widened. "Oh...I'm sorry..." He hadn't been paying attention to how anyone else was feeling. Not that he really had time, anyway.

What is it, then, if not us? Wes looked at him curiously.

Wilson shook his head. "I can't tell you, Wes. I'm sorry. It's not...anyone's concern but my own. Please understand."

Well, you might as well tell us. The further you slip into your problems, the further everyone else slips into worry. Wilson was surprised at how fast and yet how neatly Wes could write in English. Then again, that was usually what he wrote in since no one else here could understand the language except for Woodie and Wickerbottom. The only time Wilson had ever seen Wes write in French was when he spied the mime and Woodie passing a piece of paper back and forth and writing. They appeared to be flirting. Wickerbottom looked over their shoulders to see what they were doing, went three shades paler in the face, and kept walking like nothing happened.