Summary: Wigfrid becomes annoyed that Wes has never spoken to her, so she tries to convince him to speak.
"Yöu're really nöt much öf a talker, are ye?" Wigfrid brought up the question rather abruptly. They had been sitting around a campfire for what felt like hours, and the silence was threatening to bore her to death.
It didn't help much that her only conversation partner in this hostile world was an extremely silent mime. The only noises she had ever heard come out of him was a small cry of pain when he had gotten stung by a bee, and the steady breaths he took whenever he slept next to her.
It wasn't that she didn't appreciate his presence. It still beat being alone out here by a long ways. He always listened attentively whenever she spoke to him, always nodding or shaking his head, maybe throwing in a few written words, sign language, or even charades. She had become rather skilled in reading his body language whenever they had a conversation.
Still, despite how close they had become, the fact that he had never truly spoken to her wouldn't leave her mind.
He averted his gaze from the campfire to glance at her, a little taken off-guard by the question. He simply shrugged, and resumed watching the flames.
She sighed. "Förgive if that söunded intrusive." She glanced down to study the fire as well. "It's just that, I've never önce heard yöu speak."
He looked back up at her, his eyes fixated on her curiously.
That must've been her indication to keep going. "I just sömetimes wönder… Can yöu talk?"
To her surprise, he sat up straight and nodded his head, a small smile on his painted face.
She blinked. That was not the answer she was expecting. "Sö, yöu can… but yöu dön't?"
He gave a small shrug and another nod.
She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her legs. "Why nöt?"
He sighed quietly and averted his gaze, looking rather contemplative, before looking back at her and shrugging again.
"Dö you just… feel like yöu have nöthing tö say?"
Another small nod.
"Hm." She studied the flames again in silence, then spoke up. "Really? Nöthing at all?"
Instead of nodding, he looked a bit sheepish then gave another small shrug.
She sat back up. "Aw, c'mön nöw. There must be something yöu'd like tö say."
He twiddled his thumbs, trying to look nonchalant.
"Please?"
He glanced away, avoiding eye contact.
"Cöme ön, just say öne thing." She egged him. "Öne sentence. The first thing that cömes intö yöur head."
He looked at her again, then sighed quietly, accepting defeat. He carefully got up from his sitting place, and walked around the fire to where she sat.
She watched him expectantly, he mind already reeling with what he might say to her.
He sat down in front of her, the firelight casting a silhouette around his figure. Then, he took his hand in hers, another thing that surprised her greatly.
He watched her for what felt like an eternity. The air around them was silent save for the crackling of the fire and their soft breathing.
He took an audible breath. "Je… Je t'aime."
She stared at him, desperately trying to remember her French. "Je" meant "I", and "aime" meant…
"Yöu… löve m-" She stopped mid-sentence, her face turning bright pink. "Wait, what?!"
She didn't even realize her Nordic accent had disappeared.
He simply sat there, smiling at her.
She stared back, completely dumbstruck, before tackling him in a massive hug.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her as close he could.
She sniffed, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I love you too… Ye big lug, yöu…"
He never said another word to her the entire time they were on that island, and she never asked him to.
The second time he ever spoke to her was the moment they had gotten out of that world. They stood together on the outskirts of Paris. He had turned to her, and took her hands in his just as he did so long ago.
"Tu es ma joie de vivre, et je veux être avec toi." He beamed at her, then kneeled down on the ground. "Veux-tu m'épouser?"