#macharwil?

[spaceoperajay]

I Bet on Losing Dogs

Maxwell dies of old age.

Read below the cut or on ao3.

A/N: this takes place in an AU (its not really alternate? it doesnt conflict with canon at time of writing) where wilson does magicscience and figures out a way to free charlie, bonding w/ her in the process's many trials and errors listening recs: I Bet on Losing Dogs (thank u inky for the rec!) The Never Ending Why and thank you to to all my pals who helped give me the confidence to post the damn thing

This was by far the weirdest death he had ever had.

He'd gone out in blazes of glory, striking his dark sword into the heart of the Bearger. Most of his violent deaths had been considerably less distinguished however, having all his organs tumble out after he tripped and let his tallbird egg prize crack open. Even more deaths had been caused by poor planning, his or others. He still resented Willow for the time the arsonist asked him to get honey without mentioning the dozens of homeless furious bees awaiting nearby.

He'd never died surrounded by loved ones before, well by loved ones who weren't furiously scrambling for their own lives. Someone, usually Wilson, would just patch him up with the magically quick healing they had at their disposal. Now, all Wilson could do was inject morphine in him to numb the pain and to hold his hand. Charlie sat right beside him on their bed, slowly petting the last wisps of hair he had left.

"You always liked my hair," he croaked to her, leaning his head into her hand.

"I still like it," she said smiling, her chubby face making even more wrinkles. It gave him joy over the years every time he noticed a new one on her face. He had grown old with her.

"You're a fool."

"I'll decide that. Now rest Maxy," she told him, putting a bit more pressure in her strokes.

"Seriously Max," chided Wilson. He put on a brave face, but Maxwell knew internally he was broken at how he couldn't out-science old age. Maxwell was glad that Wilson and Charlie were much closer in age, he wouldn't leave either alone and cold. Like he'd left them both on the throne. He was the one to bring them all home, They’d told him they forgave him. But as he felt his mind fading being wrapped in oily darkness he felt just felt some primal fear that they didn't.

"Bah, I'm resting, I'm resting," he said bringing his hand back down.

On the opposite side sat his daughters. "Papa," said his daughter Eunice. Well, being biologically his was unlikely, but that conversation had been had with his children long ago. "Can't believe you're actually listening to someone for once," she joked with tears in her eyes.

"That's one miracle, now another would be for you to actually do the same."

She snorted, tears cascading down her face, "With that many miracles we'd get your stupid ticker working again."

"Appreciate the little miracles. They're far enough and few in between in this cruel world," he said sincerely.

"Yes, I will," she told him grasping his boney arm, it was nice. He couldn't feel it very well though.

"You're going to continue working at the university?"

"Yes Papa."

"Good. Invent something that puts Dad to shame."

She chuckled harshly, "I'll try my best Papa."

"Oh, you know she will," reassured Wilson.

"And Christine," his younger daughter looked up nervous, "You're doing a much better at being a parent than I ever did."

"Papa, don't say that," she almost squeaked.

"Benefit of dying, I can say what I like."

As he said that Maxwell heard a child's voice announce, "He's awake, he's awake!" and the door opened to his son Oliver and nieces entering, with the grandchildren following.

"Uncle!" shouted Abigail, she knelt beside Christine with a flourish. Oliver sat beside Wilson, with a calm brave face on.

"If you had died without me here, I would have wept Maxwell," spoke Wendy, standing at his feet, her long blond hair greying.

"Oh? How come?" he asked with a dry smile that she returned.

"So many cursed souls having prayed for it, it would be shame to miss such an exodus."

If Maxwell had the ability to chuckle, he would have, it was only made funnier by Christine's harsh admonition of Wendy. Maxwell spoke, "I hope I will not disappoint you."

"You won't, Uncle," she said, with that barely noticeable touch of sadness to her voice. But he knew it well.

It felt so easy to close his eyes and sleep and imagine a world far away. He knew this feeling, but he had some things to say before he gave in. "Oliver, you've done me proud. A man of the community and industry."

Oliver nodded, crying.

"I wish I had been half the person any three of you grew to be," he looked at Oliver saying this, it took energy to turn his head. He was so weak.

His eyes moved to his sweethearts. "Charlie...Wilson...I could not have asked for better partners in life, but I still have something to ask-"

"Max if you would just rest," Wilson started nervously, "you could get better."

Keeping her gaze on Maxwell and hand in his hair, Charlie wrapped an arm around Wilson tightly, "Maxy, I forgave you, that night behind Pete's. And I haven't regretted it yet.

"Even though I made it hard?"

"Yes, even though you did," Charlie replied softly.

Wilson spoke sadly, “Max, do you really think we haven’t forgiven you?” and then almost a whisper he said more calmly, "I forgave you a long time ago, before you even realized."

And he found himself fading before he even finished his sentence, his last recollection was him sensing Wilson squeeze his hand tighter.

---

He looked up to see a high sun, yet his bones felt frozen to the ground. He stood; driven by a fighting instinct he hadn't felt in quite some time. He examined the snowy landscape around him. Uniform pines, irregularly spread-out high tufts of grass, and a carefully-made but primitive firepit with a chest next it.

He wasn't surprised to be in hell. He just didn't think it was going to be so personalized.

He bent down to open the chest, and saw he was wearing that old pinstripe suit. He'd thrown it out years ago. But here it was. And his joints didn't ache. Inside the chest was the basic resources to start a fire and he robotically set to it. He felt no grief for being here. In a way, it was comforting.

So cold. Starting a fire from scratch took time and the gloves had on were cheaper than he was used to. He took them off for the added dexterity, he had no reason to hide his claws here. He shivered; he knew the Buddhist hell was cold. Christianity got demons right, perhaps the Buddhists had gotten hell, right? He tried to recall the variances of the different frozen hells. But his mind wandered to their travels to Siam. Charlie with her keen skill at communication had picked up some Thai and regaled them from the knowledge she'd learned from the locals. Wilson had compared with her what he'd seen in the temples he'd studied. He smiled thinking about the warm conversations by the fireside. Well, he almost had fire at least, he felt sparks on his hands as he worked.

They'd traveled the world on Higgsbury money. Wilson showed them his pretty "fiancé" Charlie to his parents who were delighted to see normalcy in Wilson, and Maxwell had been a "friend" who had just happened to tag along. Truthfully not long after Wilson regained his memories of The Constant the already married couple had a private ceremony with Wilson. Not knowing that, the Higgsbury patriarch was happy to give them money to travel the world before settling down. The scheme had worked wonderfully, he had to say. Better than most of the ones Maxwell had had in life. Wilson had many anxieties about the plan, but he forgot about all of them when they first set out on that boat, adventure and new knowledge awaiting them. Charlie had been hesitant too, but her worries fell away earlier when she saw firsthand how every awful thing Wilson had said about his family was true. Then she took part in the plan with glee. Beautiful woman had even manipulated Madame Higgsbury into arranging their stay in Japan as well.

Maxwell startled and fell to his side as a flare went off beside him. Blinking and recovering, the string leading to a flare hook on the back of the was quite obvious now that he focused. It was equally obvious that someone else was here and they wanted to know about newcomers. He should have been more aware of his surroundings. He'd gone soft. He would need backup, someone ready to help him fight, someone to keep an eye on this spot as he hid.

He reached in his pocket and felt the cold slick oil he had expected. It felt both like yesterday and a lifetime ago he'd used the stuff. Maybe it was yesterday. Had he hallucinated growing old with two people he held closest in his heart? Hallucinated his children, Wendy, and Abigail growing up? Similar cruel jokes had been tried by Them before, though it hadn't been as nearly detailed. He'd disobeyed Them, used his knowledge to free Their pawns and Their Queen. It was a possibility. But could They really imitate human emotions so well? Imitate the tender way morning light fell on Wilson's face as his eyes slowly flickered awake. Imitate the way they traded sleepy insults in their code language that meant love. Imitate how Charlie would wake up giggling at them before rolling onto Wilson and pulling Maxwell close, even when he resisted out of some need to prove she'd keep pulling him.

He had to survive to figure it out. He took the fuel into his hands and molded it like Taffy, a Taffy that stretched and grew. The oil soon saturated his talons and perhaps instantaneously, he couldn't quite tell, he felt the fuel coat his mind. He promised Charlie he wouldn't use this again, hadn't he? He put it back in his pockets. Whoever left that flare couldn't torture him anymore than he had been already. And if they could kill him?

Maxwell laughed.

He might as well wait.

---

Some hours later deep into the night, as Maxwell roasted the rabbit he had trapped, Wickerbottom and Woodie had found him. The two other survivors who had died before him.

Wickerbottom greeted him with maternal hug and a gentle smile, and he returned the warmth.

"It's about time you got here," Woodie simply said.

"A kingdom is nothing without its king, now," Maxwell replied, amazed at how young his voice sounded. And arrogant, but he was having fun being his old pinstripe suit with his old voice and his old mobility.

"Haven't changed at all, not surprised," Woodie said gruffly.

"Can't fix what is already perfect," Maxwell shrugged with flair.

Woody just grunted in response, "Well him showing up coincides with your theory."

"It seems so," Wickerbottom replied, "Maxwell, have you died on Earth?"

"Yes, and to my knowledge only we three have." He didn't have to guess what Wickerbottom's theory was.

"Were you brought straight here?"

"Yes, where else would I have gone? The-" 'devil can't have competition and God is jealous' is what he would have said had the librarian not interrupted him.

"That does put hole in my theory."

"How?" he demanded.

"I hypothesized you would be put back on the throne, from the writings Woodie found." That did beg a certain question.

"Who is on the throne? What writings?" Maxwell asked, Someone had to be on the throne, else the entire Constant would never regenerate.

"No one," answered the Canadian. "I think uhm, They wrote it." Writing from Them?

"Impossible. They are unintelligent without a sentient being to channel Their will through." Maxwell replied.

"I saw it too Max," spoke up Lucy, "dunno what to tell ya."

"What did this writing look like?" he nearly barked.

"I have it in here," Wickerbottom said unperturbed, pulling a book out of her sack.

As she searched Maxwell asked, "Do you have notes on the magical field to keep Charlie safe?" He had lost all recollection how to build it, as one did.

"No. It is impossible to build without Moonstone, so there is no point in spending resources."

"What?"

The librarian looked up, looking pained. "I am sorry, but we do not have access to any of the resources from Charlie's reign as they never were created here."

"What?" Maxwell shouted. "Why haven't you started looking at substitutes? The thulecite is made of nearly the same material, it's just attuned differently!"

"Calm it hoser, we're just trying to survive. Maybe you can use some of that dark magic to 'fix' everything again, eh?"

Maxwell had no response but a huff. He'd spent the last few hours processing his failure. He had thought himself some big damn hero. They would all get some happy years but end up right back here ultimately.

Wickerbottom handed him the open book. Glued in was a rough sketch of the nightmare language. He felt that oily darkness of Them circling his mind as he read it, immediately recognizing what it meant. He created the symbols, and he created the thing. It was how he filled this world. He'd also needed to create glyphs to represent a soul bond to this world. This was Wilson's symbol. Right under it was a collection of symbols that roughly translated to 'second king of the humans'. Just some redundancy to be safe, huh?

With this knowledge in hand, he knew They were very intentional in not giving them the resources to free Charlie. Perhaps some residual intelligence in the Grue before it and Charlie had truly separated? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

This was Their payback. Let him have his few kind decades, let him think Charlie safe from the Grue and warm in his arms, let him fall in love with Wilson and be one of the few people the scientist could look in the eyes. Then take it away. He knew he was an idiot for hoping things could be changed.

"Maxwell," Wickerbottom spoke, "We should be getting back to camp." Maxwell said few words as they headed there.

---

He dropped his pack before the throne. He took a moment to catch his breath, the journey from the ruins to the throne room was a steep slog. Although, he was getting quite used to it with all his trips down here.

He pulled out drapes he'd sewn from Beefalo fur and dyed. He'd done his best to imitate the ones they'd had at home. They were ugly, garish, and the height of pretentious modern aesthetic, but Charlie adored them. He had let her put them up with limited snark. Their guests, either fellow artists or friends of artists, adored them as well. Charlie was better at actually relating to others than him, that was for certain. They were both better than Wilson, Maxwell snickered at the memory. Guests had come over early and Charlie had gone up to Wilson's lab in her red little flapper dress, only to rush down and whisper to Maxwell she couldn't find him anywhere. Maxwell's suspicion had gone to strange movement of the drapes, and hilariously confirmed. By some strange rationalization, Wilson had ended up hiding behind the drapes, too awkward to interact with the others. There were too many trembles in the scientist's voice as he explained for Maxwell to reveal Wilson callously. So, Maxwell distracted the guests with charm and slights of hand as Charlie slyly handed Wilson glasses of liquid courage, until Wilson found the confidence to reveal himself.

They laughed about the 'drapes debacle' for a long time after Wilson got over that depressive episode. There weren't windows for a drape here. Maybe one of the boulders would work.

Wilson wasn't going to get over depressive episodes anymore. The throne didn't let you. It only let you slide from one end from the other. The exhilaration of your dreams coming true, even though some part of you knows those aren't your dreams but you don't care, to crawling in the dirtiest pits a soul can reach.

He didn't know what to do for Wilson, who would be able to have any whim he wanted but freedom. His best idea was to keep Wilson company as king. But all it would be is honey for a sore throat when the real issue was that nightmare shadows would be suffocating him to every little alveoli (that's what Wilson said they were called right? he didn't want to forget a single thing from the world before). What to do for Charlie was a little more obvious, painful as it was to recall what she told him it was like. As the Grue she spent the day in the darkness surrounding the throne room. The rituals of civilization, from holidays, to decor, to clothes, let her remember what it was to be human as the Grue. She had little splotches of lucidity from seeing the twins celebrate their birthday or when Wolfgang celebrated Yom Kippur. So, he figured he would decorate there. For what it’s worth.

His hands trembled. He knew none of this would fix things. The mistake he'd made of trusting the Codex was a permanent one. Failure after failure. Every time Maxwell thought he a great achievement, he always reverted to failure. His natural state of being. Equilibrium, as Wilson would say. Every time he'd put his heart and soul into something, it didn't matter at all. Every time, every time. He was just damned; he had long known. He'd just let himself think he wasn't. He did wonder why despite knowing that the game was already lost, why he did this? Some baubles weren't going to be any sort of real alleviation for the pain of being tied to the darkness like Wilson and Charlie would be. Wilson's relentlessness had rubbed off on him, it seemed. He didn't deserve for it to. To be influenced by such a man to pick up a positive trait was an undeserved miracle.

If only, if only, he hadn't been so desperate and used that forsaken book. In all likelihood he would have never met Wilson or Charlie, but that didn't matter if they were happy. They taught him what love meant and for that'd he would give everything.

At first, he thought the crowd was love. The praise of the claps gave his heart warmth. When it didn't work out, his heart was as cold as the empty seats. But, when he started getting more popular, he thought he understood love, he thought he was known. Then once he got to know his beautiful assistant a little better, he was convinced he really really knew love. It was love to a degree, but infatuation to a bigger one, truthfully. Finally, when the shadows enraptured his mind, he had been surer than ever that that was true love. To be held tenderly for every thought, every impulse, and be so completed. What he knew They knew, he was known, they were known. He was on top of the universe, controlling it hand and hand with Them. What more could love be, he'd thought then. Truthfully, part of him still loved Them.

He hadn't ever real known love, the kind you give and return fully, until he had lived long past the age most people had. He mused that if it had taken him long enough to turn to dust, it must be a fact in the cruelty of the world, that some people do not ever know love. But he was lucky. When Wilson stood in front of him and said, quite plainly, "I'm going to free you." It wasn't a romantic love then, that didn't come until much later, but a love for humanity that Maxwell had never seen exist genuinely. Later was when he and Wilson had been sitting on a small cliff, feeling the light sprays of salt from the waves and Maxwell put his head on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson had loved him for a long time, he realized then. And it was in that moment that the ocean had eroded enough of his walls and pain for Maxwell to love him back.

The next time he experienced true love was back home. He'd been leaving through the back door of a sleazy bar. After performing, for chump change most likely, he'd sauntered out drunk. Then, in that dingy alley, with the full moon like a halo he saw Charlie for the first time in seven months and thirteen days. They'd stayed together after they returned, first to just try and cope with the earthquake's aftermath. But neither of them really knew what to do. Until one day he'd found a note saying "I'm leaving. I can't stay. I'm sorry. I don't know what I regret and don't." He didn't think he would see her again. But then in that alleyway she said, "I'm back Maxy. I'll stay for now. I'm going to try and forgive you Maxy, don't make me regret it." He'd sobbed to that beautiful clever charming and supremely dramatic woman that he would do whatever he could.

The last love he'd been taught was perhaps the silver lining in it all. His children would have happy lives free of the Constant.  When he held Eunice in his arms for the first time, he had been overjoyed. He had been afraid, afraid to be in charge of the care of such a pure creature. Right before her birth he'd almost messed things up again, but seeing her, made him promise to never touch Their magic again.  The midwives had locked out Maxwell and Wilson (although thankfully let in Winona and his nieces), so the two men were left to their own imagination. Wilson had that, the medical knowledge of everything that could go wrong, and his neuroticism, all in spades. Had it not been for all of that, Maxwell would have been perfectly calm. But it was enough for him to get out the Codex again. He'd almost used it to burst down those walls, but Wilson stopped him. And later that night, sitting with the people he loved, he tossed it into their bedroom hearth.

But now the Codex was in his jacket pocket.

He could burn it.

But he'd die.

And it would just come back. With him.

Maxwell lit a torch. He walked with the drapes to two gold boulders close to each other. Yes, that would be the perfect place to put the drapes.