Six Feet Under Chapter 2: The Crash, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 2, everybody! Which is actually Chapters 2 and 3 as they were originally drafted, but that would have had the chapters run too short—I'm trying to keep them around three pages/two thousand words so they're not short blurbs, but also aren't incredibly long and hard to keep your place on (I've said it before and I'll say it again: Marvel has done research on how many pages of a digital comic a person can read and when, and it's usually about three pages on the bus or something like that).

In other news, have a reference to the Dick Van Dyke Show, with Chester guest-starring. :)

Willow was of the opinion that Wilson was acting weirdly.

Granted, this was nothing new. He'd go wandering around the house with his pen and pad, scribbling down notes and muttering to himself, the fact that he had lived in that house for years and knew its layout by heart the only thing that kept him from bumping into the walls. As it was, Willow delighted in rearranging the furniture when he wasn't looking—he kept tripping over one fuzzy orange ottoman (which she had fondly dubbed "Chester") over and over and over again, each time glaring back at the object as though it had moved on its own.

So, when he locked himself in his "office" on the second floor and wouldn't let her in, she just figured he was working on some new science-y thing. That chowderhead would come out eventually.

She smirked, knowing just the thing that would lure him out.

She went over to the record player and started sorting through the records.

Wilson checked the tiny box on his desk for precisely the hundredth time that day.

"Okay, that's still there," he muttered, eyeing the gold ring and the paltry gem set in it. A ruby, not a diamond—and barely a chip, not a stone—but she did like red….

"Okay, checklist," he muttered, going through his hastily scribbled list. Romantic dinner, and he was going to have it all set up by Willow's old fire pit out back…he was missing something—what?

Harry Belafonte's "Jump in the Line" started playing.

Ah, that was it—figuring a way to get Willow out of the house. Why, why, why had she graduated finishing school? And she wasn't due to start work until next week, which was past the right date, and he really wanted to do this before he lost his nerve or talked himself out of it—

Wilson thumped his head against his desk in exasperation. Why did this sort of thing look so easy on the telly?

Okay. He could do this. He was a scientist. He was intelligent. He could figure out how to do this. He could.

Now for the simple task of sneaking around Willow.

Willow was dancing in the living room, waiting for the inevitable loud creak that came from the door of Wilson's office.

It came, followed by very rapid footsteps.

Willow glanced over to see Wilson practically running down the steps, stuffing notes into his pockets.

"I have to run into town to get something be back later bye," he blurted, so fast it sounded like one long word.

"I'm coming with you, then," Willow said, dashing into the kitchen and grabbing the grocery list.

"What? No!" Wilson blurted. "I'm not going to be gone that long—"

"And if I don't go with you, you'll forget something and have to go dashing back out." Willow tapped him on the head with the list. "Sorry, Charlie—you may be a 'brilliant gentleman scientist', but when it comes to everyday life, you're lucky that you can put one foot in front of the other."

She flounced out the door, leaving him with that consternated look on his face.

"Well, come on!" She called back. "Let's go, so you can get back to your important scientific duties!"

What a mess.

Wilson drove to town, in a funk. Of course Willow wanted to go with him—they always went together, for the precise reason Willow had stated. Of course his attempt at going alone had met with failure.

But it was an important date. Willow would claim that it wasn't, but it was. He had been to enough "shindigs", trying to curry funding for his science, to know that women valued that sort of thing. They liked it when their husbands remembered those dates. And he was going to start things off right, by golly!

"Wilson?"

"Hmm?" Wilson noised, glancing over at Willow. "What is it?"

"When, precisely, did you move from England to here?"

Wilson thought about it. "I think I was eight. Why?"

"Because in America, we drive on the right side of the road."

Wilson made a strangled sort of noise and steered back onto the proper side of the road, flushing furiously and deeply grateful that no one else was on the quiet country road.

"What's the new scientific breakthrough this time?" Willow asked, with an air of longsuffering.

Wilson grimaced, but took the out she unwittingly provided. "It's top secret—"

"They always are."

"This one is especially so."

Willow made a tsking noise in the back of her throat.

"And…it's especially important that I return to it at once," Wilson said slowly, sensing a way to ditch Willow temporarily. "So perhaps—just this once—you do the grocery shopping whilst I gather my scientific materials—"

"Honestly," Willow noised. "You're such a—Wilson! Look out!"

Wilson yelped in alarm as something ran out in the road, twisting the wheel and mashing on the brakes—

The car swerved, striking the side of the covered bridge and crashing through to the other side.

Wilson shoved the door open, Willow leaning heavily on his arm.

"I can't believe I wrecked the car," he said hollowly.

"I can," Willow noised, kicking the door shut once they were in. "I was there. Maybe I should drive from now on."

"Probably wise," Wilson said, walking by the living room.

He stopped.

"I'm going to bed," Willow announced. "But first, I'm getting the heating blanket—I'm freezing, and my arm is numb—why did you stop?"

Wilson pointed. "Oh, great! A fire!" Willow exclaimed, going over to stand by the fireplace.

Wilson followed at a subdued pace. "I don't remember this being lit when we left," he said slowly.

Willow had been rubbing her hands and holding them to the fire, but ceased and looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't—Willow! Watch your hands!"

He yanked her back from the fire, examined her hands for burn marks—

The tips of her fingers were on fire.

"Cool," Willow noised, visibly happier. Good. At least one of them were.

Wilson blew her fingers out. "Aww," she groaned, but he was too busy checking her fingertips. No burns. Nothing. Her fingers weren't even pink.

He let go and she started rubbing her hands together, as though it were just now starting to sink in. "Maybe…maybe I ought to make some tea or something," she muttered.

"No," Wilson said, putting a hand on her shoulder and holding her there. "Let's just take this really slow—do you remember how we got home?"

Willow opened her mouth, froze, closed it with a look of consternation on her face.

Wilson headed for the door. "I'm going to retrace our steps—maybe there's something we—"

"Wait! Wilson!"

He opened the door and stepped out—

To a world that was not his own.

He knew this instinctively, from the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. His eyes confirmed this: wherever he was, it most decidedly was not outside the house on the hill outside of Shanter.

The ground was too flat, the trees too uniform, the air too still. This place…it was…sinister, somehow.

He heard baying, backed up frantically—

Felt a hand on his shoulder—

Wilson shrieked in alarm as he was yanked back—

Into the house.

Instantly, it was like a heavy blanket had been ripped off of him. He breathed in sharply, glancing around to assure himself that yes, he was home—

Willow was eyeing him with concern.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "You stepped outside and it was like you vanished!"

"You," Wilson gasped, grasping at her arm, then her shoulder, as though to tether himself to her and the house. "Will not believe where I've been. I stepped outside…." He stopped, the reality of what he was about to say hitting him hard. "Into another world," he finished slowly. "I walked outside…into a place that wasn't Shanter. But that's impossible!"

"Well, while you're at it," Willow said, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the living room. "While you were gone, I looked around the house—"

"Wait," Wilson asked, feeling his eyebrows furrow. "How long was I gone?"

"About an hour."

Wilson felt like someone had hit him in the stomach. "But that's impossible!" he repeated.

"Let's add to that," Willow said, picking up her lighter, where she had left it on the mantle. "Look at this."

She held it up in front of the mirror and moved it around. Wilson watched.

"Are you looking?" she asked.

"Yes…." Wilson said slowly, unsure what she was wanting him to see.

"At the mirror, idiot!"

Wilson huffed and turned to the mirror.

He wasn't there.

Neither was Willow, although she was waving the lighter in front of it. In the mirror, the lighter floated maniacally through the air.

Wilson may have made a small noise, the sound of yet another gut-punch. "There's that," Willow said, putting the lighter down and turning him around. "And then there's that."

She pointed at a book on that annoying furry orange ottoman.

Wilson blinked, not recognizing the binding. He picked it up gingerly, as though it would snap open and bite him. Still cautious, he held it at arm's length and read the title.

"'Handbook for the Recently Diseased,'" he read.

"'Deceased,'" Willow corrected.

"'Deceased'?" Wilson repeated.

"Wilson?" Willow asked, in a tremulous voice. She swallowed before continuing.

"I don't think we survived that crash," she squeaked.

And that made gut-punch number three.

Wilson lay in his bed, a pointless action, he thought.

No, no—it wasn't a pointless action. He was dreaming. He'd wake up. He just dreamt the whole day's events.

So why wasn't he waking up?

He slapped himself hard to jostle awake.

"Ow," he moaned, rolling to a sitting position. Well, he wasn't sleeping—but now his jaw ached.

He rubbed his jaw, pondering. So if—and this was a big if—he did just die that afternoon, did that mean he was dead and could still feel pain? That was—that was downright unfair, that's what it was.

And it was his fault.

He moved from rubbing his jaw to rubbing his forehead. He shouldn't have let himself get distracted. He shouldn't have let Willow go with him. He shouldn't have—

"Wilson?"

He looked to see Willow standing in the doorway, holding her pillow and her teddy. "Can't sleep?" she asked.

He shook his head. "What are you doing?" he asked.

She blushed, but edged away from the hall, as though afraid the dark would somehow reach out and grab her. "Can…I feel silly for asking…can I sleep with you tonight? I don't feel…I don't want to be by myself."

Wilson stood and pulled back the covers on one side, letting her get in without a fuss. He momentarily debated on sleeping on the floor, but crawled back into his usual side, making sure to be as far away from her as possible, so they didn't touch.

"So…." Willow noised. "How are you taking this?"

"What? You being in my bed?" Wilson asked, pulling the covers up to his chin.

"Being…recently deceased."

"I think someone is going to great pains to play an elaborate joke on us," he replied. "And tomorrow I'm going to get to the bottom of this once and for all."

Willow made a small noise. And then….

"What if it's not a joke?"

Wilson lifted his head to look at her. "Huh?"

"What if it isn't a joke and we're really…."

"Don't say it," Wilson chided, laying his head back down. "We'll be fine. We will."

Willow made another small noise, but didn't argue. Wilson doubted he had convinced her. He hadn't even convinced himself.

Secretly, he was glad she had come; he didn't want to be by himself either.

So, when she rolled over to be next to him, he didn't say anything. And when at around three she began sobbing uncontrollably, he scootched over so she could cry into his shoulder.