Wilson had never liked camping. Wilson's father, may he rest in peace, had tried time and time again to drag his son out of the house and into the wilderness. The attempts always ended with tears, pouts, and sabotage. One particularly nasty trip had ended with well-crafted stink bombs littering the camp grounds, which had forced everyone to be evacuated. No authorities ever discovered who planted the bombs. After that incident, Wilson's father never tried to take him camping again, leaving Wilson to spend his free time however he pleased.

However, as the axe missed it's mark yet again, the young man wished that he had spent his youth with a few less books and a few more communes with nature.

The sun continued to dip lower in the sky, inching ever closer towards the horizon. Each second was precious in this unpredictable realm, and Wilson feared that he would run out of time. The past few nights had been hell to get through, as he was barely scraping by on meager scraps of both food and supplies. Though fistfuls of berries were far from proper meals for all this exertion, he knew that if he did not focus on firewood, he would die. Darkness in this land filled him with an intense sense of foreboding, and the scientist preferred to keep it as far away from his person as possible.

He raised his axe and swung again, driven by a very unscientific fear of the unknown.

His aim was true; the axe dug into the preexisting slice in the tree. With a grunt, Wilson kicked down the skinny sapling. He raised his axe and chopped it into more manageable bits.

Satisfied, Wilson began to collect the logs into a secure stack. He counted up his spoils. Ten logs, some pine cones, and a few generous fistfuls of grass clippings would surely see him through until the morning. He began his trek to the edge of the woods, grass in his pockets and logs in his arms.

The ground trembled beneath Wilson's feet.

Something let out a heavy groan. Wilson spun on his heels, logs forgotten as he reached for his axe.

Wilson looked upon the the treeline, and the treeline looked back at him.

A young pine had ripped itself out of the earth, large leafy arms swinging for momentum. Three gaping holes marred it's foliage, fashioned into hateful eyes and a scowling mouth. It looked down at small, bewildered Wilson, and roared.

Wilson dropped his axe and bolted.

As he sprinted away from the beast, Wilson frantically searched his brain for solutions. He was distantly aware of the setting sun, though his more pressing concern was the angry plant on his heels.

He swerved left and squeezed himself through a dense clump of trees, hoping that the monster would find it's passage hindered. Wilson dared a glance over his shoulder to see if he was correct.

The tree was struggling between the closely packed trunks; he seemed afraid of damaging his brethren. A sigh of relief passed Wilson's lips. He had won.

Unfortunately, his foot chose that exact moment to dig into a rabbit hole. He stumbled, flipped, and skidded his way across the mulchy ground before sliding to a stop.

He was certainly glad no one had seen that.

He spat, pine needles and forest mush fleeing his mouth in a rather undignified manner. His chest heaved, and Wilson was again reminded how unprepared he was for braving the elements. He was a scientist, damn it, not a survivalist.

He was, however, extremely proud to have outwitted that tree.

The sun chose that moment to vanish.

"Oh no."

He tugged at his pockets, searching desperately for the proper equipment for a fire. He found only a single skinny log and a sprinkling of grass clippings.

They would have to do.

His little flame struggled to live, wavering in and out of existence at worrying intervals. He fed it dried pine needles, though the effect was negligible at best. His only option was to travel back to where he dropped his logs.

Which meant possibly facing the tree demon again.

"Perhaps it's given up by now," he murmured, cupping his hand protectively around the dying flame. With a deep breath, Wilson stood and walked back through the protective thicket of trees.

He poked his head out from between the trees, listening for the faintest hint of unearthly groaning. When none passed his ears, he cautiously stepped forward, primed to run at a moment's notice. His light wavered again and he felt darkness close around his throat for the briefest moment.

It was now or never.

He trekked along the path of littered pine as quickly as he dared; too much jostling would kill his flame, a fate he would much rather avoid. He had just passed the site of the tree's upheaval when two things happened at once:

First, a heavy groan, akin to the sound of a mighty oak toppling in a storm, closed in on him. Second, his torch's light flickered out of existence.

Wilson ducked, the tree's gargantuan hand just skimming the tips of his hair. He started to run when a sharp, biting pain erupted on his side. The scientist crumpled to the ground, screaming as the bites continued.

He closed his eyes and prepared for death. It had been foolish to think he could ever survive in this world. It had been foolish to listen to that cursed man on the cursed radio. Wilson P. Higgsbury was going to die a fool.

A bright light flooded the grove. Wilson felt the heat against his cheek and slowly opened his eyes.

The tree was on fire.

It howled, swatting at it's back but finding itself unable to reach the hungry flames that consumed it's leafy flesh. In it's haste it slammed into it's fellow trees, igniting them in the process. The forest was gradually burning to the ground.

Wilson was dumbstruck.

"Move!" a voice commanded. He felt a hand tug at his shoulder.

When his legs failed to respond, the figure huffed audibly and grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the dying forest. Wilson trailed behind, fingers laying limp in the stranger's death-grip. A tiny light guided them through the trees.

The pair collapsed once a generous mile lay between themselves and the tree monster's fiery grave. While Wilson held his legs and contemplated how wonderful it felt to be alive, his companion began stacking logs.

A large fire ignited inches from Wilson's face. He stumbled back, concerned for the safety of his eyebrows. He ran a quick hand across his face and, luckily, found them both unharmed.

The light gave him the opportunity to finally observe his fellow survivor.

She was a young woman; Wilson estimated she was no more than twenty-five. Thin, stringy bangs clung to her forehead, and twin pony tails bobbed across her bony shoulders. She was the very definition of lithe, every aspect of her frame stretched thin to nearly an unhealthy extent. His observations travelled down her arms and stumbled upon her hands. She was playing with a tiny lighter. She followed his gaze, and her light eyes (much too large for her face, he noted) narrowed. She swiftly tucked the lighter within the folds of her skirt.

The action caused something to click in Wilson's ever-churning mind.

"Did..." he started. He winced at the tremor still present in his voice. He coughed and began again. "Did you light that fire?"

She looked at him, first with confusion, then with pity. She leaned towards him.

"Alright, follow my finger with your eyes."

Wilson sat in bewildered silence for a few moments before putting two and two together.

"No! I'm fine. My brain is fine. I didn't mean this fire!" He assured, gesturing at the flames warming his skin. "I meant the fire in the forest."

Though she still looked a little unsure about his mental well-being, she nodded.

"Oh," he offered lamely, unsure of what else to say.

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "I just saved your sorry butt, and all you have to say is, 'Oh?'"

Wilson shrugged. "Well, I mean, thank you, but-"

"But?"

Wilson bit his tongue. He had near instinctively said, 'I could have handled it,' but the woman's camp was his only source of light until dawn. Additionally, he knew that statement was false to an almost hilarious degree. The pulsing ache in his side and his failing strength proved as much.

"That's it. Thank you."

She watched him for a few more moments before she returned her gaze to the crackling fire. "Alright. You're welcome, little guy."

"Excuse me?"

She smirked. "You're welcome? It's an expression used to acknowledge thanks. Are you sure you're okay?"

He leaped up. Even though this woman had saved his life, his ego was easily bruised, and he wouldn't back down from insults with his tail between his legs.

"I am not concussed! I was referring to your other comment! The one concerning my height." He fumed. While he had never been short enough to warrant joining a circus, his diminutive stature was always brought up when among his peers. Five foot six wasn't generously tall, but it was a respectable height in his earnest opinion.

Wilson realized the childishness of his outburst and tugged at his collar. "Erm...I apologize for that," he muttered. "But I still feel as though your comment was rather unnecessary."

The girl unfurled her legs and stood.

She was easily five inches taller than Wilson, her spindly limbs only accentuating her height. She placed her hands on her hips and grinned.

"What? 'Little guy?' I don't exactly know your name, and all things considered, I feel like 'Sir' is..." she paused, eyes lighting up with mirth. "A bit beneath me."

For the second time that evening Wilson found himself at a loss for words. Satisfied at her secured win, the girl folded her legs back beneath her skirt and settled down to watch the flames. It took a few minutes for Wilson to find the words he was looking for.

"At least I'm not a...a stick figure!"

She waved a hand at his weak response. Grumbling, Wilson trotted over to the opposite side of the campfire.

As a man who appreciated a good pun, Wilson had to admit that her retort had been golden.

The silence of the camp ground allowed Wilson to slip into his thoughts unhindered. His game plan was simple enough; wait until dawn, and then leave to collect his fallen supplies. He only hoped that the tree guardian had not survived the inferno.

If worst came to worst, he could perhaps find some flint to craft a new axe and start over. Though it would take a while, he was certain he could gather enough wood to survive the next night. He would, however, have to forgo food. The thought reminded him of the pain in his belly, and he sighed mournfully.

"Here."

Her voice startled Wilson out of his thoughts. He looked up at the girl that loomed over him, hands cupped around her offering.

Her fingers were closed around a fistful of what appeared to be orange and black petals. He held out a hand, which she dumped the contents into. He winced when he realized that he was now holding a pile of severed butterfly wings.

"I know it's gross, but trust me, they'll help."

Wilson shot her a look of uncertainty. "Do I make a poultice with these?"

She shook her head. "Nah, you eat them." Wilson, visibly paling, looked back at the pile of insect wings.

"It's not like they're gonna be flying around in your guts," she offered. "There's no more flying for those butterflies." Though her attempts at reassuring him fell flat, he was desperate to relieve the ache in both his empty stomach and bruised torso. Pinching his nose shut, he plucked up one butterfly wing and, without thinking too hard, placed it on his tongue.

He chewed, shuddered, and swallowed. The taste itself had been negligent, but the thought of eating an insect still gave him the willies. However, the effects of the wing were nearly immediate. He felt a tad stronger, and the clawing hunger in his stomach lessened slightly. He swiftly dumped the rest of the wings into his mouth.

Once his meager meal was demolished, Wilson groaned. "I can't believe I've resorted to eating bugs."

The girl beside him shot him a sympathetic look before reaching through her pockets. She pulled out a small chunk of meat, which she promptly stabbed onto a stick. She then offered the makeshift kebab to the hungry scientist.

"Here, this will help too."

He had no hesitation in accepting her offer this time. He had been living off of berries and carrots for days, and the very idea of meat was making his mouth flood. He thrust the stick into the fire.

"Where did you get this?"

"I trapped it earlier today. I was actually planning to have it for dinner, but then I heard a commotion in the woods, and, well..."

She had pulled out her lighter again, fiddling with the switch. "Dinner was kind of forgotten."

"Thank you again, truly. That was incredibly brave, what you did." She shrugged, though he saw her smile slightly at the compliment.

"It was no problem, really. Burning stuff is kind of my thing."

"Thank heavens for that."

They fell back into comfortable silence, side by side against the weakening flame. The girl picked up a log and tossed it in, grinning heartily when it began to spark and crackle.

"Forgive me if I'm being too invasive, but may I ask your name?"

"It's Willow," she replied. Wilson bit back a chuckle; it suited her far too well. Her willowy, slouchy frame could do no other name justice.

"What's yours?" Willow asked, her eyes never leaving the dancing embers.

Wilson tugged at his vest and puffed out his chest, reciting a mantra that he had practiced long and hard in front of a mirror. "Wilson Percival Higgsbury, at your service." He held out his hand. She did not reciprocate the handshake. Instead, she turned to him, her lips quirking upward.

"At my service, huh?"

His tongue stumbled again.

"I mean, I don't mean as a servant, or a slave. I am my own boss. It's just a greeting, no attachments involved."

She chuckled, a silvery sound that Wilson could only compare to a flute. He pulled the meat back from the flame, chewing it somberly as he contemplated his next move.

"Although, if you want to, perhaps we could travel together? There is safety in numbers, as you know."

Wilson was a solitary man at heart. That was why he had slipped away from society in the first place, holing himself away in a shack deep within the woods. He had never quite found joy in company and found social excursions to be, quite honestly, tiring. No one shared his passion for science, and trying to relate to others was a chore. 'Friendship' had too few benefits to be worth the effort, and Wilson had, quite frankly, given up. He had been happy to be alone in his little cabin, away from judgmental neighbors and unsolicited visitors.

However, the woman (Willow, he corrected himself) had saved his life. That fact alone was monumental, and combined with the unfamiliarity of his situation and his desperation to survive, he was willing to break out of his old, hermit-y habits. Not to mention, as awkward and uncouth as he tended to be, Wilson still bore a gentleman's heart, and a gentleman would never abandon a young woman to brave the elements alone. All things considered, he could afford to make this sacrifice.

Willow shook her head.

"What?" he asked shrilly. He looked down and cleared his throat, took a deep breath, composed himself. "Why not?"

She raised her palms apologetically. "No offense, but you kinda seem like a liability. You nearly got killed by a tree-"

"That tree was alive!"

"It was still a tree. A really slow tree, at that. And, as I was saying before you rudely interrupted, you're draining a lot of my resources."

He looked down at the stick he had been chewing on, rendering it completely void of even the smallest bit of gristle. He felt guilty, having eaten Willow's dinner without a second thought.

"But you offered?" he countered lamely. He was really striking out on the argument front tonight.

"Well I didn't really want to wake up next to a dead guy. I'd feel kind of responsible if you just keeled over at my camp."

He nodded sagely, shifting uncomfortably and wrapping his arms around his knees. He didn't have any further counter arguments, his ego shot to bits and his mind far too tired to think of his less than negligible traits. He wanted to tell her he was a genius, a scientist, but what proof did he have? The creation of the very door that had trapped him (and possibly her; how on earth did she get here?) here against his will? A stick with a sharp rock attached to it that he stupidly abandoned at the first hint of danger? Wilson had nothing to offer. "Right. You're right. My sincerest apologies."

She shrugged. "Don't beat yourself up over it. Hey, if we both manage to live maybe we'll run into each other again. We can throw a survivor party or something." He couldn't suppress his smile.

The sun rose slowly over the horizon, basking the field in a golden glow. He stretched, stiff limbs popping.

"Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Willow. I'll be off, then."

"Take care of yourself, Wilson."

"You as well."

He stood and walked toward the forest, leaving Willow and her giant campfire behind.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this fanfic. I've got a lot planned for this story, and will try to keep a consistent update schedule. I'm pretty new in the Don't Starve fandom and really wanted to make a story that showcases both Willow and Wilson's strengths and weaknesses. I'm kind of a sucker for those two, to be honest. Anyway, thanks again for reading! Reviews are appreciated.