A/N: So I saw the first episode way back in 2014 but never got the chance to finish watching it until now.

I just binge watched Over The Garden Wall and Holy crap I am screeching because it was so frexing good.

I don't have any ships except platonic, and even though I don't ship Wirt with Sara I still found the ending cute.

The whole story was amazing - I wasn't expecting them to be from what appears to be the late 80s. I think The Unknown is stuck between 20s and 50s maybe? So that tripped me out. And the whole show had that unsettling ring Misadventures Of Flapjack has while being a lot more dream-quality (and a lot better) than it. I did catch that the moon never changed its phase, though.

And the background art is downright gorgeous.

And the storyline and characters. Wirt's turmoil and Greg's a sweetheart. The descent from anxiety to happiness go hopelessness. THIS SHOW MESSED WITH ME EMOTIONALLY AND THAT IS NOT OKAY. But it's so good. I could write a freaking essay on this.

Now that most of this is Author's Note, onto the fic. It's post-series, contemplative.

Yes I put the title as one word on purpose.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own this charming series nor the associated characters.

Afteraffects

It had been months since they had gotten back over the Garden Wall; long enough for Greg to return the stolen rock (and volunteer to do multiple chores for Old Mrs. Daniels out of guilt, though she didn't know), for Jason the frog to be gotten a tank, long enough for Wirt to awkwardly date Sara (which went really well actually, until she had to move), long enough for Wirt to get along with his step-father (though not like him, but it was a start.) Long enough for days to tumble to weeks to tumble to months-

But not long enough for memories to completely fade.

Both Wirt and Greg knew that their adventure had to be real, at least to some extent. For who could dream the same exact dream as another, and both be in perfect clarity?

But while Greg could chatter on about their tale with wild abandon, his young age making it seem like an infantile story to get attention, Wirt chose to keep silent on the matter, merely nod and agree with Greg to appear the good big brother.

But no one seemed to notice it. And in truth he was trying to be a better big-brother. They may only share half their blood but it was through their mom, so he was his brother. Any problems he had were really because his own dad chose to left.

And things were going well for once; Wirt's anxiety wasn't any better, just more manageable.

There was still an imprint of the lost forest - of The Unknown. He couldn't escape the jumble of memories in dream. And while Wirt wouldn't want to forget most of their adventure, there were parts of it that would be better left in the dark.

Vines, growing, tightening-

Hopelessness choking him tightly in its grip-

The dark, the unknown; eyes of soul light burning in the inky nothing and the Beast hisses in his ear-

"Why don't you save your brother?"

Screaming and screeching as hellstrewn noises and the piercing biting cold takes hold and he is d-

Wirt bolts upright with a screech dying in his throat and his heart pounding, hands sweaty and cold. He wipes at his clammy forebears as his eyes dart into the darkened shadows and moonlit patches of his room.

'Oh right.'

The moon is half full. It's always worse then.

His eyes scan again, catching briefly on his outfit from the excursion, shadowed in purples and blues. But no Woodsman or Lantern or Beast confronts him, and he breathes a shaky sigh of relief and the adrenaline begins to fade away.

He's not sure if he prefers it lit or dark anymore.

But he has yet to wake up anyone, so he decides to try to fall back asleep.

Not that sleep will be forthcoming. It usually occurs this way, when remembrance of wanderings takes a turn into vivid nightmares; morning will come just as his eyes grow heavy enough for sleep, and he'll have to get up and go about his day pretending the dark circles are nothing.

He knows, too, that Greg faces his own inner dealings with the darker turns of their adventure. Not to the same degree, and not in the same way - but he is just a little kid in Elementary school, and even if in the face of danger he held his head high and his courage close ('unlike me', Wirt thinks), he is like a kid who has watched a cheesy scary movie. He has no fear upon the watching, but it is the thoughts that stick with him to be amplified in the night.

So Wirt knows they just have to continue and deal with it; time should fade the harsher edges. It will still always be a thing that they share.

But . . . he can't stop the turn of his head when they pass the graveyard; can't stop the ascent of his eyes to the height of the Garden Wall.

And maybe he doesn't want to.