Heya guys, it's me, Jesspikapal, but you probably already knew that.

So yeah, I'm here with chapter 10 of The Wonders of Human Contact, and I hope you enjoy it. Also, this story is bound to come to some kind of "abrupt" ending, but that's because the sequel continues the story almost immediately; just that this story would be too long for me to maintain if it was one thing. Plus, in the sequel, more characters will be coming in (or so I'm planning) and so it just seems more logical for me to split it. Also, the sequel takes place elsewhere in the Don't Starve universe too, so again, it gets "original" from there on out.

Also, this is a filler-ish chapter, but it needed to happen since anxiety has been building up in Wilson due to Whimsy being secretive about her stress and her nightmares. Also, it initiates the next part of the plot, which will (hopefully) be action-packed, which then leads to the sequel, haha.

Anyhow, please review.

~Jess~

X x

Chester hurtled through the snow, tongue sticking out and little rubber legs propelling him forwards with astonishing speed. Further behind, Whimsy struggled to keep up, swinging a twig around provocatively, trying to get the 'pet' to come back. As Wilson cooked meat slowly from the inner stone walls of their camp, he raised his head and watched, a fond smile on his face; true joy was something he hadn't felt in so long, and yet he felt it course through his veins as he watched the two things that kept him human and happy bonding like no tomorrow. The snow was a quintessential shade of white, even with the constant trudging through it.

Whimsy, eventually catching up to the rushing creature, pounced and landed them both in a pile of snow. The pet's head popped up, then hers, and they both began to laugh as snow fell from their heads like a soft downpour of rain. Actually, rain would have been kinder; this harsh climate certainly was ruining any positivity Wilson had had beforehand. It was so hard to find stock and supply in these conditions... but he didn't want to scare the other two – particularly Whimsy. It seemed Chester could cope, he didn't seem to eat at all, just store things... but Whimsy, Whimsy was like him: she needed food to survive. He certainly didn't want to instil fear within her.

"Hmm...," he hummed as he turned the meat over meticulously, watching the colour darken as the supply was fuelled with heat. Those days, Wilson had thought more than he had spoken, and it was because his mind was heavy with question. Questions, whether he liked to admit it or not, about Whimsy. He peeked up once more, and caught sight of the pair of them piling snow up ridiculously, the girl snorting with laughter whilst Chester drooled excitedly all over the place. Wilson shook his head, the smile still engraved into his pale face.

"Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I still thinking about this...? I should be concentrating on Maxwell and his next troublesome scheme... not her and the way her pretty coat trails behind her. I should be thinking about Science and my inventions to keep us alive... not the way she laughs and smiles all the time. I should be pondering about how to get out of here, how to get us out of here... not as to whether I will get another excuse to embrace her like when she made these beautiful clothes. What is wrong with me? Is there even anything wrong, per say? I am a scientist... yet I can't figure out my own mind. Brilliant. Wilson, you're a real genius. Stop this, you're hindering your brilliant capabilities..." he sighed, trying to bring his ever-alive mind to a stand-still. Sometimes, the poor man wished he was like everybody else. That he didn't possess such a keen hankering for knowledge, or an ambitious way of thinking; that he didn't crave to experiment with everything, or to uncover long-lost secrets that delved deeper back into history than any human mind could; that he didn't know any better at all. It seemed much more peaceful a life to simply be oblivious. To not care. To not want to know. And yet there he was, with secret knowledge in his head and his heart on a standstill as his mind took over.

"Hey, Wilson!" he heard and he immediately turned his head towards the sound. What he saw humoured him: a snow replica of him (to some degree, it's hair wasn't nearly fabulous enough) with a somewhat dopey smile. He noticed Whimsy stood behind it, holding sticks, which were presumably its arms.

"What on earth...?" he grinned, unable to stop himself. Whimsy cleared her throat.

"Hey, I'm Wilson and I'm really outrageously clever. Science, science, science," she chanted, waving the sticks around like over-excited arms. Normally, he didn't appreciate mocking to any degree... but he spluttered with laughter; the impression was terrible! Strangely, however, it was fitting too. Perhaps it was the dialogue that did it for him. Briefly, he noticed her slouch slightly; she seemed terribly tired...

He soon stopped laughing, though still he sported the smile on his face. "Now you're being ridiculous."

"If anything, you need ridiculous. You need me to have fun," she taunted in return, still waving the sticks around half-heartedly, earning Chester's attention as he turned his head upwards to spectate. The sentence hit him hard. Nowadays, it really did feel like he needed her. Even so, he tutted, taking the meat from the crock-pot and putting it onto two squares of wood; she bounded over immediately, accepting a plate graciously. The little sculptor sat beside the burning fire, accepting a fork as Wilson handed her one.

"Please try to eat better today?" he quizzed, sitting next to her. In turn, Whimsy hung her head. She knew exactly what he meant: she hadn't been eating well at all over the past couple of weeks. When Maxwell left after their last encounter, actually; the terrible nightmares had taken over her sleep, and she couldn't evade them; she had tried everything: a warm drink before bed, burrowing under the beefalo-blanket, she had even made Wilson come along with her so that she could clean her hair before bed, – he held the torch as it went from dusk to night – convinced that, if she could clean her head, she could clean her mind too. But nothing was working. Maxwell was spoon-feeding her horror, and there was nothing she could do to keep her mind from ingesting it gluttonously, using the remains of the thoughts to produce terrifying nightmares.

The nightmares were horrific figments of her imagination – or his imagination. Maxwell's imagination was very broad indeed, and did not hold limitations; she had seen horrid things in the form of slippery shadows and angry monsters and nothing ever was pleasant. She had witnessed brutal killings in her head, bloody messes and disgusting slaughters, the cackles of anonymous nay-sayers and evil utterances of hatred. He had even used her parents, the devilish fiend; made them express how disappointed they were, and that they could no longer cope with her disobedience to work within the family business and were therefore getting rid of her. For good. It was truly horrific. And it was not strange to say her appetite had gone away over the past few days because of it.

"I-I'll try...," she mumbled, putting bite-size pieces into her mouth as she chewed thoughtfully. Her vision was swimming in front of her slightly. Seeing two of everything had become normal. The only reason she'd been running earlier was to keep a brave face; she didn't want Wilson to catch on, though he already had by the looks of things. She didn't want to worry him. Besides, she could deal with Maxwell on her own, or so she kept saying to herself. The problem was, each meal was becoming a gruelling challenge and the lack of sleep made her feel woozy and sick.

Her deep thought was interrupted by Wilson suddenly putting his plate down firmly. She turned her head to see him frowning, staring straight ahead of him, looking at nothing.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked. His voice was free of anything – remorse, anger, question, it was just a simple ring-tone of what she used to know. There was so much the matter with her... and yet she felt obligated to keep quiet and struggle on herself. She forced out a nervous chuckle.

"Nothing!" she replied brightly. It was so tiring putting all that effort into keeping perky... so tiring...

He didn't react. He didn't claim anything. He didn't make a sound for a moment, as he simply stared at the snow, cold eyes out-matching the ice like school children against university graduates. He sighed a long, drawn-out sigh.

"Stop," the scientist said monotonously.

"S-Stop?"

"Stop lying to me."

His head slowly turned up to look at her. His face was in no way a picture of hurt, nor anger, just blank with a lack of emotion. Or so it seemed. Inwardly, he was yelling, screaming even. Why didn't she trust him with her issues? Or why was she too proud to confess she had them? This needed to stop... it was driving him insane. What was he doing wrong? What was stopping her from confessing her problems to him?

"...lying?"

This was it. This was the final straw. He couldn't take any more. Those past two weeks, she had kept so much from him, and he had been stupid and let it slide; he should have pressed it. Should have pressed the issue before she had time to build up her façades and her brave face.

"Yes, lying," he hissed at her, shooting up into a standing position angrily. "Stop lying! Stop saying you're fine! That nothing's wrong! Just stop doing it, Whimsy!" he cried, and she stared up at him, unable to speak at all. She never expected him to shout at her, to yell at her, not even raise his voice. And not because she wouldn't allow it, but because he had never before in the past, even when he technically had reason to. The last time he had snapped at her was when Maxwell was fiddling with the day-and-night scheme and he had demanded she hold his torch, and that had been a while ago. "I am up to my neck in worry and it's not doing me any good to hear you shrug off my help. Don't you want it? Would you rather stay upset? Angry?!" he continued and she felt her insides cower away and hide. He was extremely intimidating right then, with his tall posture (even slouching slightly as he bent towards her) and his fisted hands; he would never ever use them, but it still painted a rather unpleasant picture in her mind.

"Wilson, I-"

"Hush!" he ordered and she instantly stopped talking; she didn't even try to compete. The anger and hurt was slowly beginning to show itself, and not just in his tone, but on his face as well. His darkened eyes were narrow with irritation, his usual gentleman physique long-gone. For now, he merely represented an angry, bitter, typical man. "Don't take me for a fool, I've known since day one that something has been wrong. Am I not trustworthy? Do you not trust me?" Wilson heaved, still going strong. He simply wanted to release all of the hurt, and all of the pain and all of the strain in not being able to help her. He ached with a passion to aid her, just as he assumed she did too, bringing supplies back and making him laugh all to keep him that little bit more sane and stable.

"Of course I trust you...," she whispered, head drooping to face the snow-littered ground.

"Really? It doesn't seem so," by now, his voice had reduced to an irritated snip. He had quenched his thirst for yelling, at least, but his stomach still felt twisted with need for resolve. It was driving him mad to have the issue incomplete. He suddenly growled, frustrated. "Why won't you let me help you? Why? I have been asking and asking and asking... and you keep saying you're fine. You're not fooling me, nobody fools me."

"I-I just thought that-"

"Whatever you thought, you were wrong." Wilson frowned. He took a deep breath, steadying himself before he started shouting again. He was through being so rash. He didn't want to make any more uninformed choices regarding his responses to her from here on out. With effort, he softened. "I care about you." he paused. "A lot. And it is hurting me to see you in such a state. Do you remember by the fire, when I took your face in my hand and examined you? It was all because I saw you hurt. You were- no, you are – hurting, Whimsy. I don't know what's happened to you, but these two weeks, you have been distant. I hate to think I'm losing you in some way," he finished.

Meanwhile, the girl sat stiffly, thinking over her options. She didn't really have any... but there were two obvious ones. And each with terrifyingly solid results: she could confess her problems, open up to him, be honest about Maxwell and the key and the nightmares, and have him worry about her. Or, she could keep on refusing to tell him, and most likely lose his company. It seemed dramatic... but she knew Wilson by now; he never shouted, he was never nasty, he was never cruel... but when he did any of those things, you knew you were in for it. She sighed; she knew that losing him was not an option, how could she have even been so selfish as to think that there was an option in the first place? He deserved to know.

As she made a move to speak, he seemed to look up expectantly.

"I..." she began, but she didn't know what to say first. What to say at all, in fact. "Maxwell talked to me two weeks ago."

The shock on the gentleman's face was predictable to her, but it still didn't cover what she was expecting. She expected him to at least get mad over her not telling him, but nothing about him looked the slightest bit angry.

"When I was fishing... ages ago... I brought fish and frog back. But I also found this," and with that, she went into her back pocket and pulled out the tiny key. Immediately, the scientist reached out for it, touching it gently and bringing it near to his face as he inspected it closely. "And Maxwell wants it. He said it can 'take us to places even he hasn't been'. And I kept it, because I think it threatens him. Who knows, it could be our ticket out of here..."

"I must say, I don't recognise it," mumbled Wilson as he took a long look at the key's jagged indents and the moon-shaped hole in the base of it. His mind reeled somewhat excitedly; this could take him anywhere. Whimsy was correct, it could be there ticket out of there. "When was this?" he saw as fit to ask.

"When we – or you – were reunited with Chester. It was that same night we travelled by head-lights on our miner's hats." she answered, recollecting the events perfectly. He nodded immediately in understanding; he obviously remembered.

"Ah yes." he nodded.

"But since I refused to give it to him," she continued once more, earning the scientist's attention in less than a moment. "He has been 'attacking' me. Kind of. With... with nightmares. Bad nightmares... they are really bad, Wilson..." Even though she knew the dripping truth to this statement, she still felt silly, complaining about nightmares. Of all the things she was being kept awake by, it was nightmares, which a seven year old complained about. The difference was that a seven year old could get away with being frightened; in her shoes, it simply sounded juvenile and stupid.

To her surprise, he merely nodded. "I can understand. It explains why you are so tired, and why you tried to skip sleeping on several occasions. I can't determine how bad they truly are, but I have a fairly good idea based on how you tried to avoid having them. I don't think you'd have put nearly as much effort in to sleep well if they aren't as bad as you say they are." he explained gently, moving slightly closer to her. His mind, now knowing what her problem was, relaxed briefly. True, there was still the problem to actually tackle, but he now knew how to do that.

"I didn't want to say anything because... I didn't want to worry you." she fiddled with her hands nervously and awaited his reaction. He didn't say anything, merely looked at her. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he definitely had a considerate air about him. "You already work so hard, Wilson. I didn't want to add to that... plus, I was convinced I could handle it on my own." she added quickly, thinking on her feet. She at least wanted her case to sound reasonable; the last thing she wanted was for him to recoil at the fact that he could have helped her quite simply and yet she wouldn't allow him to. Her issue was not simple, not in the slightest, and she didn't want him to misjudge her lack of a plea for help.

"You should have said something...," he trailed, picking up his head. Whimsy nodded slowly, shame carved into her face as she hung her head, staring at her lap with a hard, fixated gaze.

"I know, and I'm sorry. Really sorry..."

"It's fine, now I know. I think I may be able to assist you." he said with a soft smile. He stood up, offering her a hand, and she took it without question. She didn't even know where they were headed, she just knew she was so glad to see it there in front of her in that tense moment of confession and confrontation. She stood up when she felt him walking, only to keep up with him. Wherever they were going, he had a clear idea.

X x

Settling down in the tent, Whimsy shifted uncomfortably.

"Wilson, they'll come for me again... please don't make me try to sleep."

"I am going to," he replied, fiddling with the thick blanket. "But not alone." he finished, and she could only watch, dumbfounded, as he began to shift the interior of the tent. It was a tiny space anyway – barely big enough for the both of them – and yet he organised quite well. Her mind wasn't adding anything together, and so it was a shock when she suddenly realised that their grassy pillows (stuck together by a mixture of honey and mud) were side by side. "Come." she heard him say, and she turned her gaze upwards to see him laying on his side, patting the space next to him.

"No." she said as she she realised what was going on. "Wilson, I can't."

He frowned. "Of course you can." and he patted the space again, this time more vigorously. This didn't seem in-character of him, inviting her to bed... not at all, and yet, the gesture was so undeniably sweet that she couldn't see herself refusing, even if she put up a little bit of a fight first. She already understood he was doing this for the good of her, and not what people often led others to bed for, but the thought, ever-present (how could it not be?), made her slightly uneasy, a light blush on her face. Slowly, she shifted to the space he was touching, before leaning on her side there, facing away from him. She wasn't laying down yet, she just couldn't, she was much too unrelieved.

"O-Oh, shouldn't we find more supplies first?" she excused, trying to get back up, only for Wilson to touch a hand to her arm, shaking his head.

"We have plenty. Relax."

And so she did as she was told. She hesitantly laid back against the floor of the tent next to the clever young man. He fumbled with the blanket, pulling it over the pair of them slowly. As she felt the warmth caress her body, she already began to feel sleep wash over her; she was most definitely deprived, the rate at which it arrived was almost instant. It wasn't normal at all. She could already hear the unpleasant wails, like a ring in her ears that would forever be there and the fear began to settle in her gut.

"Huh?" she asked as she heard the sounds suddenly drown out, the shadows behind her eyelids retreating as something tough wrapped around her waist. Even though she was rigid, she could feel what it was now: Wilson's arm. She instantly felt her face going red, and she had no clue why. There was no damn implication! There was no intention! Even so, she found herself squirming.

"Don't do that, please." she heard his sleep-slick voice and quickly stopped, doing as she was told. Something about it stirred something within her; it was low... somewhat husky if she concentrated hard and allowed her imagination to stretch a little bit. The sound was a pleasant experience, one she wished to have again, even on such short notice. As if her wish had been served, Wilson soon spoke again in the same tone as before. "Please just relax..."

So she allowed the tension out of her body as she relaxed with his arm around her.

"Why are you doing this?" she squeaked, and she was glad she was facing away from him as a firm blush formed on her face. Coming to terms with herself, she enjoyed his grip a lot... and even if the notion was out of character for him, it was the gentle intention that made her smile. She already knew why he was doing this... she had asked merely to hear him speak more. While ever he did, the bad went away for a while.

"It makes sense to me that you would sleep better if there was somebody here to make sure your nightmares didn't get too bad. I can wake you if they do; then you can sleep again, and we can repeat this process until you've gained enough rest."

"You're too kind to me..."

"I am just kind enough," he whispered, closing his eyes. She'd never tell, but she snuck closer to the Gentleman Scientist, basking in his warmth. She wasn't quite brave enough to turn and face him... but she didn't need to. She was perfectly comfortable as she was. Her eyes closed slowly, and though the chanting was still faintly emanating in the background of her mind, she managed to ignore it for the most part; she was more interested in the tender warmth around her waist and his body warmth burning against her back. He was so hot, she probably could have felt his body heat a little ways off. And yet this seemed normal as she felt his peaceful breathing against her back as his chest rose and fell in an almost-silent pattern. Whimsy smiled to herself. This was very comforting... perhaps she could give it a go.

"All right, try as you might, you won't terrorize me this time. Come get me, Maxxy. I'm prepared for you." was her last thought before she slowly drifted off to sleep.

X x

Okay, so, YES, there ARE reasons for this chapter:

1) I needed Wilson's stress with Whimsy out of not being able to assist her when she was obviously suffering, to come out, and having him have his angry outburst was just perfect for that. He may have seemed like he changed moods a lot, but I can imagine Wilson being very apologetic (inwardly), even if the person he's mad at deserves to be yelled at; I doubt his maturity and smarts would allow him to stay simmering for long, and so that's why, in this chapter, he calmed fairly quickly after having his minute of heat or so.

2) I needed Whimsy's nightmare thing explained. I needed readers to know just how bad they were; there was an example in the previous chapter to this one, but it wasn't nearly as violent as the ones she is experiencing on a regular basis; because this story is T rated, I am not going into them, so nobody needs to get squeamish, or whatever. But still, I really wanted to emphasise just how terrible they were, and how twisted Maxwell could be when taunted and pushed. Also, it kind of shows build up in how bad they are now to how bad they were before; over the course of the two weeks, they had progressed, and since I didn't show those two weeks – there was just a time jump as stated in the previous chapter – it at least covered why she was having nightmares in the first place.

3) I had to somehow move the pair along a little bit; it's no good me claiming Wilson/OC if nothing between them HAPPENS. As explained in the chapter, the reason he invited her to bed was not particularly romantic, but it did express his care for her rather well, or so I believe; I also expressed that Whimsy was aware he was merely looking out for her... so nobody should get pissy with it. I imagine Wilson to be mature enough to deal with it, and to explain himself well as well, whereas Whimsy would get flustered, but would still understand fairly well, given the circumstances.

Anyhow, please review, and I'm sorry for quite the tedious chapter; it will pick up again.

~Jess~