By the time I post this, I'll have probably checked it fifty times to make sure it uploaded right. Evil computer...

And with this chapter, we finally meet Charlie. Mwaha!

Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment

Great Gatsby © 2013 Baz Luhrmann

Wilson had woken up sometime that afternoon, and after a call to his boss apologizing—"I've come down with something, won't be back in for a day or two"—he made a call to Charlie.

"Of course I'll come to tea," she had said, in that teasing voice that made every man she talked to think she only cared for him. "It's a date, then!"

Wilson hung up the phone and mused at the irony of that statement.

He spent the rest of that day tidying up his yard, debating on the wisdom of assisting in this. True, Charlie was unhappy—but was this really the best course of action?

He went to bed that night with his mind still buzzing with worry.

Wilson woke the next morning feeling very refreshed, and slightly resigned. Today was the day—time to get it out of the way, no matter what happened.

He made a pot of coffee, still in his pajamas and house robe, and then baked a little cake for the tea party—it was basic chemistry, something he was confident at. He pulled the golden brown cake from the oven and examined it happily.

"I am one heck of a scientist," he declared, taking a sip of his coffee.

He heard someone on the steps and glanced at the clock. It was much too early to be either Maxwell or Charlie—who could it be?

Wilson opened the door—

To find an entire team of people landscaping his yard.

Wilson stared at the busyness steadily transforming his yard. "Oh my…." He noised.

He heard snipping and looked over to see someone trimming the ivy that had been growing out of control on his house—the person he had heard on his porch.

Wilson took a steadying sip of his coffee. "Okay," he said, nodding. "Okay," he said again, walking back into his house.

The landscaping team had dispersed around noon, their jobs done. Wilson had made cupcakes and cookies to go with the cake, and was busy with icing when the rain started.

Wilson made a slightly disappointed noise at the sight of the rain. "Oh, H2O."

Not that he thought it was a bad omen or anything. It didn't help his icing, though—he thickened it before putting it in the bag and piping it out on the desserts.

Two-thirty saw Wilson in his dapper best, walking around his living room again and again, polishing this surface and straightening that thing, checking his icing to make sure it wasn't melting, and struggling not to make tea earlier than he needed to. He sat down on a chair by the fireplace, wringing his hands. He needed something to do, and he didn't trust himself to his tinkering in the meantime. He'd get into his work, and then he'd miss—

The doorbell.

Wilson rushed over, glad of the distraction, but wondering who it could be. It was still too early—

He pressed himself against the wall as a procession of flower-laden servants walked in and headed for his living room. He edged out the door and onto the porch, to see servants laden down with desserts and tea following the flowers, another line of servants holding umbrellas aloft to keep everything dry. And there, standing off to the side and supervising, was Maxwell. He caught sight of Wilson and grinned; Wilson was sure it was because of the dumbfounded look he must be sporting.

Maxwell crossed over to the porch, his umbrella-toting servant—Wilson was certain he had heard him referred to as Mr. Skits—following close behind.

"I heard the weatherman say the rain should be done by four," Maxwell told Wilson once he was on the porch, as though the rain had not factored into his day at all, and how dare it fall today of all days.

"Oh good," Wilson said, still focused on the procession. "I made cookies."

Wilson thought it was bad waiting for four o' clock by himself. As it turned out, waiting with Maxwell was worse.

Maxwell had his hands folded and his elbows on his knees, one foot tapping a rapid, irritated tempo on Wilson's hardwood floor. He had his ever-present cigar in his mouth, and he was giving Wilson's mantle clock a death glare. Wilson was secretly glad he wasn't looking at him that way. The few times he had attempted to make conversation, he had been met with terse answers, Maxwell's eyes never leaving that clock.

At two minutes to four Maxwell stood up abruptly. The sudden change in stance startled Wilson out of his reverie.

"I'm leaving," Maxwell said shortly. "She's not coming."

"What?" Wilson asked, glancing at the clock before bolting after Maxwell. "It's not even four yet! Give her a chance!"

Maxwell was almost at the door. "Why? It's obvious no one's coming—"

"I did not rig this up for you to run off at the last—"

They both froze in the hall when the crunch of driveway gravel reached their ears.

"It's her," Wilson said, or maybe it was Maxwell—Wilson's mind wasn't exactly working at the moment.

There was a light tapping at the door. Wilson snapped himself out of it with a shudder and crossed forward to the door, waving for Maxwell to go back to the living room.

Wilson answered the door, all forced cheerfulness while his insides were in turmoil. "Charlie! So glad you could make it!"

Charlie, Wilson felt, was a very beautiful woman, with the dark hair and pale skin that came from their shared side of the family. Her face could form the perfect pout, and she was doing so now.

"Of course I could make it—you made it sound like such the scandalous secret. You're not in love with me, are you?" She asked, dropping that last sentence into a whisper.

Wilson tried very hard not to blush—but, as blushing was an involuntary response that he had yet to scientifically harness—failed miserably. "Well, I find your company infinitely better in the absence of Tom—you can send your driver back home, by the way; no need for him to sit there for an hour or more."

"All right," she said, smiling. Then, to her driver, "Go home, Ferdie—I'll call you if I need you. His name is Ferdie," Charlie told Wilson in all seriousness.

Wilson stood aside with the door open, unsure what to do with the information. He waved good bye to Ferdie—who didn't seem to notice—and ducked in out of the rain.

"Oh my," Charlie noised.

Wilson froze. She was looking in the living room, frozen in the hall.

Wilson forgot how to breathe. This was it, do or die—he and his actions had put her happiness in either peril or salvation.

"Oh my," Charlie repeated, walking into the living room. "What did you do, Wilson, raid a florist?"

Huh?

Wilson ran over to the living room—

To find Charlie in there by herself, examining the numerous flowers. "He is in love with me," he heard her mutter.

"That's funny," Wilson said, before he could stop himself.

"What's funny?"

"Uh…." How to answer that?

There was a knocking at the front door. "I'll go get that!" Wilson blurted, grateful for the distraction. He dashed down the hall, leaving Charlie still looking bemused, and wondered who on earth could this be—

He opened the door to a soaking-wet Maxwell.

It took Wilson a moment to recover. "What are you doing?" he hissed. "Charlie's in there—she's waiting—"

Maxwell walked by him, reached the living room, made a ninety-degree turn, and stepped within.

The silence was deafening.