The Things We Do For Science Chapter 46: Relations, a Portal + Don't Starve Crossover fanfic

Chapter 46, which may very well be my longest chapter for this story to date….Apologies to all who speak Yiddish, by the by. ^^; And with this, we reveal that yes, I do buy into the "Cave + Caroline = Chell" theory….What can I say, I read a really good fanfiction that pitched it that way ("The Human Vault" by Michaela-Le-Mongoola), and I've liked it ever since. :)

They walked until she couldn't walk anymore and found a place to curl up and nap, ignoring Maxwell's dire predictions that they were going to die if they stopped.

Not that he was complaining too strenuously, he decided, sagging to the floor outside her little hidey-hole. He was killing himself trying to keep up, and his batteries needed at least a little time to recharge.

Unfortunately, not continually focusing on navigating and putting one foot in front of the other and ignoring the absolute agony that constituted him right now enabled his mind to wander, and he did not like letting his mind wander down here. The first time he had been so foolish as to do so was when he had been first dropped down here—after the agonized raging and cursing and the downright disgust at the thought that someone else was running his show, he had finally stilled enough to go into standby mode and recover slightly….

And he had heard someone talking.

Not loudly, and barely enough to hear words—just a steady musical stream that had made him feel calmer right up until he woke with a jolt and realized that he had never heard that person before.

During his initial wanderings, he had perhaps discovered the source of the voice—the old testing tracks, complete with old recordings. The guy talking was a putz, in his opinion, but the girl….

She was familiar, for some reason.

But he had grown to hate those recordings, and how for some reason he'd catch himself reciting them, had cursed and spit and raged at the stupid things and attracted the ire of those stupid mutant bunnies—

And then of all the people he had run into: her.

Which added a new wrinkle to the absolute misery that was now Maxwell's life: her thinking she was calling all the shots now, berating him before rescuing him only to punch his lights out. He was going to personally put her through the shredder when he was back in his rightful place. Having to listen to her harp and moan and whine and pine—and then making him short-circuit with such a stupid inane question about stupid inane people who weren't alive anymore and didn't matter—

Who's Charlie?

Like he would know. If Charlie was the girl….It made no sense—Charlie was most definitely a boy's name. He had incinerated more than one Charlie over the years—in the name of science, of course (at least, that was the reason on the books)—and they had consistently been male. And the putz Max…he hated that name—one, he hated any shortening of his own name; and two, there was no way that guy was worthy enough to carry his moniker. He just wasn't. From the sniveling driveling mess in the initial recordings to the bundle of barbed wire at the end…he just wasn't worthy of being called Max.

So of course, she had to be taken with them. She liked them. She had no taste whatsoever. If it weren't for the fact he needed her for a distraction when he got back, he'd have ditched her long ago. That was the only reason he had saved her.

…And besides, Charlie would have killed him otherwise.

He blinked at the errant thought, realized he had drifted off somewhat. Ugh, don't fall asleep—you can recharge for days when you get back, but don't fall asleep now. One of those old errant experiments will happen along and eat you if you fall asleep now. Not that he'd offer much in the way of nutrients, he reflected as he looked at himself….

And noticed that he was steadily leaking a dark gray fluid. Blood. Or at least, what passed as it for him. No wonder he was feeling lethargic. Should probably fix that. He needed the nanites at least—they were really the only thing keeping him moving aside from sheer force of will. But he was tired, so tired…so stinking tired of it all….And with everything that had happened, he had no idea when he had sustained these injuries—it could have been ages ago or recently inflicted for all he knew. Come to think of it, this was probably mostly being ripped out of his facility and thrown down into this dump. And then saving the girl…ugh. He needed to get back there where he belonged, where he was in charge, and then throw the yutz kid down here and see how he liked it. Get up. Get up….

He heard something stirring—oh, nevermind, just the girl.

"Alright," she declared, after much stretching and carrying on—ugh. "Get up and let's get going." Again, ugh.

"I can't," he said.

"Don't be such a baby. Weren't you the one in the big hurry to get out of here?"

"I was. And I've been trying to get up for the past minute. I'm not moving." Apparently, he had been bleeding for a while now—and while he wasn't certain he'd die from loss of blood, he didn't want to find out. It wasn't even like this stuff qualified as blood—which was probably why it wasn't stopping.

She looked him up and down before running off. Good girl—recognize a lost cause when you see one.

It was really a pity he'd miss those two running into each other again—he had been hoping to have the opportunity to relish in her heartbreak. Because that kid wouldn't be in his right mind when the facility was done with him: it'd chew him up and fry his brain and turn him into mush….Why did he want to go back again?...Oh, right, because it was the only life he had ever known. Which probably wasn't a good reason, he reflected as he finally succumbed to his anemia and drifted off…maybe he'd be out of it when whatever started chewing on him. And maybe it'd die of food poisoning when it did. That'd be an appropriate send-off, he figured.

And surprisingly, as he drifted into unconsciousness, he felt…warm. He didn't do warm—he did temperature-controlled seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. He had never been warm. Or comfortable, but he was both now, steadily sleeping next to…next to….

Charlie.

Charlie's surprise left him more than a little distracted throughout the rest of the day—for once, the sound guys had him rerecord, simply because what he was saying was absolutely incoherent. Whatever—it killed time.

He was practically glued to her side when they left.

"So, I've been thinking," he noised. "Would the surprise be big enough to fit in my pocket?"

"Are you fishing?" she asked.

"Just a little. Is it working?"

"Hmm…."

"Maybe not? Is it big enough to fit in a hatbox?"

"Max, be patient."

"What about an oven? Is it big enough to fit in one of those?"

"This surprise I'm showing you, if you put it in an oven, they will never find your remains."

"Ooh, this is going to be good—I can tell."

"Let's just say it'll leave you flat-footed."

They had reached their old apartment, and now Charlie was unlocking the door. He leaned with his hand on the doorframe, watching her. "Okay, so it's in the apartment. And I didn't notice any shiny new vehicles out front…."

"Max," she said, one finger raised. "If either of us gets the other a car, it'll be you getting me one."

"Not in my paygrade," he sighed, wincing at the light slap she directed at his chest.

And then she ducked in.

"Mrs. Wickerbottom?" she called.

Max couldn't hide his disappointment—he was sagging as he went in. "My surprise is an old librarian? What, did you adopt her—hi," he corrected quickly, noticing the little old lady glaring at him. And holding a camera that Charlie was going over with her.

"Okay, you're sure you know how to work this?" Charlie asked.

"I have been practicing all day," Mrs. Wickerbottom replied primly. "And I have read all the manuals. Yes, I know how to operate this device."

"Perfect!" Charlie grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him forward. "Come on, in the bedroom."

Max couldn't help his expression. "If…that's my surprise, then why are you having an old lady film it?"

"No, that's not your surprise," Charlie laughed, lowering her voice. "But it was a contributing factor."

"Why are you whispering?"

"Because," Charlie said, steering him towards what looked like a box and pointing in. "She's sleeping."

He looked in the box, at what looked like a loaf of bread wrapped in a blanket. No, wait, bread loaves didn't have noses.

Hold it….

"I told you I wanted that reaction recorded," Charlie said.

"So you did," Mrs. Wickerbottom agreed.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asked.

"It depends on what you think it is," Charlie replied.

"How did this happen?" he asked, pointing in the box.

"Storks," Charlie replied promptly.

"What?"

"Well, when a man and a woman love each other very much, storks come along—"

He had to sit down hard on the floor—he was feeling very dizzy.

"Are you okay?" Charlie asked, kneeling next to him.

He had his head between his knees and his hands on his face. Oh, come on….

"Charlie, why do you do this to me?" he moaned.

"Technically, you did this to me—"

"What about the storks?"

"Max, last I checked, you were a grown man."

"We can't possibly afford—"

"Max," she said pointedly, holding his face so he was looking at her. "Don't even think about the money. We can handle this, she needs a father more than a paycheck, and Mrs. Wickerbottom has agreed to help in exchange for us occasionally watching her cat Glommer. We're fine."

He didn't really have an argument for that, considering his brain was still processing this event—inanely, he wondered why anyone would name a cat that, and realized that perhaps hysteria was sinking in. Either that, or his brain was leaking out his ears—which, considering the event before him, was probably likely.

Mrs. Wickerbottom excused herself, saying that she thought Charlie had gotten what she needed. He was back to rubbing his face and rocking back and forth slightly as the door shut behind her.

"So," Charlie asked, sitting beside him. "Have you processed it yet?"

"No," he moaned.

"How much longer do you think it'll take?"

"A few years, maybe."

She made a noise, made another noise at the sound of something stirring—which he froze at the sound of. Oh no.

"Come on," Charlie said, tugging at his arm. "You want to meet her?"

"I'd rather meet my executioner."

"Don't be silly," she said, tugging him to his feet. He leaned heavily on her, not feeling up to supporting his own weight, and looked back in the box—which, he supposed, was really a crib.

"Well?" Charlie asked.

"You're…sure this is…ours?" he asked, indicating the both of them.

"Well, there was that fling with the mailman—yes, she's ours, you ninny."

He looked the little squirming thing over again, critically this time, before sagging against Charlie once more.

"Thank goodness she looks like her mother," he declared soberly. "And a bit like the mailman."

"Trust me, you helped with this—she's got your toes and she thinks she's never wrong."

"I'll cop to the toes, but I think she gets the latter from you."

Charlie slapped him on the chest again, but hugged him, which he felt was a good sign. "Well?" she asked.

He returned the hug, noting that he was standing better now. "She's the second-most beautiful and terrifying thing I've ever seen."

"Really? And what was the first?"

"You," he replied, kissing the top of her head. He gave his next comment long consideration. "What's her name?"

"Well, you have to realize that I needed to pick something graceful and feminine and easily spotted from the hospital window—"

"Charlie…."

"And I wanted something that referenced her parents—"

"Charlie…."

"And 'Maxwell' would have been too horrible for a little girl—"

"Charlie…."

"And I did want something that had a nice ring to it—"

"Charlie…."

She hugged him tighter.

"Willow," she informed him. "Her name is Willow."

Another look before hugging Charlie again—oh wow, this was heavy….

"It suits her," he said finally.