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Over the years, Quackity had heard of the different forms someone’s conscience could take. There was the classic–if overused–idea of having a demon and one shoulder and an angel on the other, or having voices that spoke to you in the back of your head. Maybe the form of someone you love followed you around whilst berating you about your various sins, or an ominous sign that seemed to be everywhere reminded you of your faults. Quackity had heard of these things, but he had never been able to decide if they were just magic, superstition, a load of crap, or some strange mixture of all three. Either way, he knew they couldn’t be real. It wasn’t possible that people could actually believe this.
That was before a certain annoying, British man decided to crash into his life. After thirteen and a half years of being dead, Wilbur Soot had finally managed to crawl his way back out of the grave. Quackity desperately wished he would go back. With his constant smirking and penchant for smoking, he was somehow even more annoying than before. He had some sort of idolatrous fascination with Dream, not to mention he was just as unstable as he had been when he died. And, as if all of this wasn’t bad enough, he seemed to love hanging out around Las Nevadas, finding various ways to make Quackity’s life worse.
For the first few months after his revival, Quackity had devoted much of his time and energy to chasing Wilbur away from Las Nevadas. The two of them would sprint across the sand for hours, Quackity yelling obscenities and threatening to kill Wilbur if he ever set foot in Las Nevadas again. This only encouraged Wilbur, who kept talking about how if Quackity really wanted to choke him that badly he should have said so in the first place, and how he wouldn’t mind being stabbed as long as Quackity was the one doing the stabbing. Then they would reach the outskirts of Las Nevadas’ territory, and Quackity would give up the chase. Wilbur would be back the next day, trench coat swishing across the sand as he ran. After weeks of this, Quackity decided Wilbur proved no threat to Las Nevadas and gave up trying to keep him out. Maybe he would spend too much at the casino and fall into crippling debt. That would show him.
Allowing Wilbur into Las Nevadas had seemed like a justifiable decision at the time, but now Quackity was regretting it dearly. Now he was everywhere, winking at Quackity whenever he passed. If this idiot wasn’t some subconscious nightmare the universe was throwing at him as punishment for all of the stunts he had pulled in the past, Quackity didn’t know what he was. Because there was no chance in hell Wilbur was human.
At the moment, Quackity was unloading supplies for the casino, trying to forget about the man that stuck to him like the plague. But all busywork seemed to do was leave a good portion of his mind open to thinking about Wilbur. He fiddled with a spare casino chip, trying to rid his mind of any trace of him. Don’t think about his dumb, or his stupid hair, or his dark eyes, or his voice…
“Hey, Quackity!” There it was. That voice. Bright and cheerful, with a smoky undertone that swiftly derailed Quackity’s thoughts.
Quackity’s anger intensified, and he silently vowed to make a list of ways to kill Wilbur and present it to Sam before the day was done. He turned around, balling his hands into fists. The chip dug into his palm, but he didn’t let up on the pressure. The pain kept him tethered, keeping him from getting lost in the overwhelming experience of being near Wilbur. As expected, he just stood there, his hands sunk deep into his pockets. The ugly stitches crisscrossing the left side of his face seemed even more apparent in the broad daylight, but he showed no sign of being self conscious. Of course he didn’t. Quackity doubted he felt any emotions other than smugness and masochism.
“What do you want, Soot?” he asked.
Wilbur blew a white lock of hair out of his face, smiling coyly at Quackity. “What? Can’t I just come to see you with no ulterior motives?”
“No, you can’t.”
Wilbur’s eyes sparkled dangerously behind his spectacles; Quackity recognized the look. When he had first known Wilbur, he had noticed that the man loved danger. He seemed to get high on the thrill of putting himself in life threatening situations. His eyes would twinkle with excitement, and he would bite his lip slightly as he anticipated whatever was going to put his life in danger. Whether he loved the adrenaline, or if he genuinely had a death wish, Quackity didn’t know. Either way, Wilbur evidently thought messing with him was dangerous enough to enjoy.
Wilbur leaned against the wall, tapping his foot idly against the payment. “Is that so?” He spoke lazily, drawing out each syllable with measured patience.
Quackity turned back to the boxes, determined not to look at Wilbur any longer. “Don’t play dumb. Of course it is.” He began unpacking supplies furiously with one hand, the other clenching the casino chip like it was the last line to his sanity. The rings hanging from around his neck jingled as he moved, and he stopped briefly to tuck them into his shirt. “No one wants to see anyone unless they want someone from them. Favors, friendship, money, it doesn’t matter. You came to see me, so you must want something.” His voice was cold, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Wilbur’s soft, low chuckle sent shivers down Quackity’s spine. “What do I want?” he echoed thoughtfully. “Well, if I had to choose…” His voice trailed off, and Quackity heard the tapping of boots coming towards him. He spun around to meet Wilbur, and ended up face to face with the other man. Their noses were barely touching, eyes so close Quackity could see himself reflected in the deep red of Wilbur’s irises. He hadn’t been this close to anyone since before Karl and Sapnap had left him, and it was so sudden that he flinched. Wilbur’s hands gripped his wrists, and Quackity found his fists unclenching slowly. The casino chip clattered to the floor, leaving a large red mark on Quackity’s hand. Wilbur’s eyes flickered to the mark, then back to his face. Was it his imagination, or did Wilbur’s gaze linger on his lips for a second longer than necessary? “If I had to choose,” he repeated, “I would say I want you.” A shadow of a grin ghosted across his face.
Almost of its own accord, Quackity’s face turned a furious shade of red. He furrowed his eyebrows, feeling the heat on his cheeks. “You… what?”
“You heard me.” Wilbur was so near that Quackity could feel his breath. Every little detail about him was so much more up close. Whether it was the stubble dusting his cheeks, the remaining bits of life in his skin, or the smell of smoke on his breath, everything was so intense it was overwhelming.
For a moment, they were frozen there—almost together, but not quite. Then Quackity shoved Wilbur away. Wilbur toppled backwards, hitting the ground hard. He grinned up at Quackity, rubbing his wrist.
“Ow,” he said wryly, obviously not caring that Quackity had pushed him.
“You–you can’t just say that!” Quackity stammered angrily.
“Why not? It’s true.” Wilbur’s words were simple, as if the implications behind them weren’t bigger than the entirety of the country he had blown up.
Still, Quackity didn’t know how to answer the question. Why should it matter? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it bothered him all the same. He stormed away from Wilbur without a word, determined to figure out what was wrong with himself.
“Quackity—” Wilbur started to call, but Quackity was already inside the casino. With more satisfaction than he would have liked to admit, he slammed the door in Wilbur’s face.
---
It had been hours, and Quackity still couldn’t get Wilbur out of his head. He bounced his knee anxiously, trying to focus on the massive amounts of work in front of him. He had letters to answer, problems to solve, and lots of paperwork to do. It was nearing nighttime now, and he would have to go check on the borders before going to sleep. He had begun doing this after Wilbur first started his daily harassment, and found he enjoyed the late night patrols. The walks had become a necessary ritual before going to bed, and something that he always enjoyed.
Plus, maybe the calming desert landscape would be enough to take his mind off of… Nope. He wasn’t even going to think his name anymore. If he did, he would be stuck thinking about all of the other details of his encounter. The way the sun lit up his face, adding a sparkle to his eye and a rosy hue to his cheeks.
That was it. Quackity needed to go outside or he was going to go insane. He stood up from his desk, pushing his chair back with force. It slid backwards across the stone floor, catching on an edge and toppling backwards. Whatever. He would fix it later. Grabbing his coat, Quackity shrugged it on. He walked quickly down the stairs, worried that anyone he ran into would notice something was wrong. This wasn’t his finest moment, and there were certain citizens he knew that would take full advantage of that.
When he finally escaped into the night air, Quackity let out a sigh of relief. The moon and stars were bright tonight, illuminating his surroundings with a pale white glow. He shivered in the cool air, and started his trek across the sand.
As usual, the borders were quiet. Wilbur had been the only trouble he had experienced so far, and now he was a different kind of nuisance entirely.
“But of course it’s my country he decides to try to join,” Quackity groaned aloud. He was far enough away from the city that no one could hear him, so he might as well make use of it. “He knows how angry he makes me, the idiot. And yet, he does this!” Quackity kicked a clump of sand, relishing in the way the eroded rocks flew in different directions. “‘Oh, Quackity, I want you,’” he crooned in a bad English accent. “Yeah, sure you do.” This time, he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “That’s what they’ve all said, isn’t it? Sapnap, Karl, even Schlatt! They all promised me they would always be there, saying they loved me or they would never leave me or stupid crap like that. Then they either died, forgot about me, or left me!” He let out a growl of frustration, caring less and less about volume control. “And now, you show up, with your stupid scars and your cute accent, thinking that I’m just going to trust you! Yeah, right! How dumb do you think I am?!”
He was nearing the edges of Las Nevadas now. The sky was slowly getting darker as clouds moved in from the West. It was going to rain soon, and Quackity had no intention of getting his suit wet. Still, he kept walking, yelling and cursing like he never had before.
“And who cares if you’re funny, or attractive, or good at guitar!” he added angrily. “Or that nothing ever seems to bother you! Or even when I push you away, you always just come back! You’re just an idiot who doesn’t care about me, and you’re trying to gain my trust so that I’ll let you into my life. Then, once I’m finally starting to feel okay again, you’ll leave me! And I’ll be expected to be fine, like I always am. But guess what?! I won’t be fine! I’ll have a country to run, and I’ll only be able to think of stupid, handsome, arrogant, stubborn Wilbur Soot! The man who was too good to ever let anyone love him without hurting them!”
Quackity stopped, gasping for breath. The raindrops were starting to fall, brushing his hair and clothes lightly. The sand around him turned dark and moist as he walked.
That was when he heard the all too familiar voice. “You think I’m handsome?”
Quackity spun around angrily, once again finding himself face to face with the source of all of his problems. Wilbur.
“Soot,” he spat the name as if it were venom in his mouth. “Why were you eavesdropping on me?!”
Wilbur shrugged, adjusting his spectacles. There were so many water droplets on the lenses, Quackity doubted he could see in the first place. “I wouldn’t call it eavesdropping, considering I could probably hear you from across the country.”
Ignoring the fact that he was definitely right, Quackity changed the subject. “Anyway, what does it matter to you if I think you’re handsome?” he snapped. “You’re just messing with me.”
For the first time since Quackity had seen him, Wilbur’s nonchalant facade flickered. “‘Messing with you’?!” he said, voice choked with laughter. “Q, how much does it take to convince you I’m serious? I snuck into your country day after day after day,” he said, each “day” punctuated with a step towards Quackity. “I let you threaten me with all manners of weapons, deaths, and punishments, and you’re accusing me of not being serious?” He stopped, close enough to Quackity that he could look down on him. “Darling, I’m more serious than anyone you’ve ever met.”
The sentiment should have been romantic. If Quackity was anyone else, it would have been. Still, he remembered Schlatt telling him the same thing:
“Come on pumpkin, you know I’ll never leave you. The two of us, we’re the real deal.”
Of course, this was before the alcohol, before the abuse, before Schlatt became a twisted shell of his former self. Before every day became a living nightmare, and before Quackity had been afraid to go home for fear Schlatt had drunk himself into an early grave. More often than not, all he had done was become just intoxicated enough to ensure violence. He glanced down at a small scar on his hand, a souvenir of one of those horrible nights. It curved along his skin, reminding him that flowery, elegant words meant nothing on their own.
Quackity scowled at Wilbur. “Prove it.” If he really meant what he said, he would have to give Quackity more than just pretty promises and offers of sharing cigarettes.
The rain was falling harder.
Wilbur looked shocked, to say the least. After a second, he grinned. A low chuckle escaped his throat. “All right,” he agreed. “What shall it be? Murder? Arson?” He winked. “I’m quite partial to bombs myself—”
Grabbing the collar of Wilbur’s trench coat, Quackity pulled him into a kiss.
Kissing Wilbur was something Quackity hadn’t realized he wanted until he had it. Now, he pulled the other man close, relishing in the bitter taste of nicotine on his lips. It was a rough kiss, and it sent every other thought in Quackity’s head spiraling. He paused for a moment to take a breath, half expecting for Wilbur to pull away from him. Instead, Wilbur smiled down at him.
“Wow. Took you long enough,” he murmured, lips parted in a toothy grin.
This time, it was Wilbur who brought their lips together. His hands cupped the back of Quackity’s head, grabbing his hair. It was pouring, and the water soaked through Quackity’s suit. His hair stuck to his face in clumps, and the water ran down his skin. But Wilbur’s hands were warm on his skin, his tall form providing shelter from the rain. Thunder crackled above them, and the skies lit up with lightning. Quackity had always hated lightning storms. He tensed up, thinking about how he was caught in the middle of a storm with no protection.
Sensing his hesitation, Wilbur stepped back, taking Quackity’s hand in his own. Another streak of lightning flashed across the sky, and Quackity practically jumped out of his skin.
“Come on,” he said, lips curving into a smile. “I have something to show you.”
Quackity allowed Wilbur to pull him across the sand, stumbling when Wilbur broke into a run. Their feet sunk into the damp sand, making their steps heavy. More than once, Quackity thought he would trip, but Wilbur pulled him upright. Droplets splashed along Quackity’s face, making it difficult to see. Wilbur seemed unbothered by the water; if anything, he was enjoying it.
Eventually, Quackity saw their destination in the distance.
“Oh Prime,” he said. “Is that what I think it is?”
Wilbur shrugged without breaking stride. “That depends on what, exactly, you think it is.”
To be honest, Quackity wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at. In front of him stood a vaguely rectangular vehicle with a sloping, dented roof, and four wheels that looked like they couldn’t spin even if they wanted to. Art covered the sides, the biggest of which being a massive painting of the L’Manberg flag. The windows were covered with curtains, so Quackity couldn’t see inside. Still, he doubted it was much fancier than the crumbling exterior.
“A van,” he said dryly.
“I call it the L’Manburg Van!” he said proudly.
“That’s a terrible name,” Quackity said.
Wilbur pouted, his soaked hair hanging in front of his left eye. “I guess you don’t want the grand tour, then?”
“No, but I do want to get out of this rain.” Under no circumstances would Quackity let Wilbur know how curious he was about the contents of the van. “I have water in places where water should not be.”
Wilbur laughed. “Fine. This way.” He tugged Quackity towards the van, pulling open the side door. The rain blurred Quackity’s vision, and made it appear as though the L’Manberg flag painting was waving in an invisible wind. He darted inside, eager to escape the rain and his hallucinations.
Immediately, the smell of lavender assaulted him. He wrinkled his nose, looking around for the source of the smell. It was pleasant, but somehow out of place. He saw a small incense burner next to an old lantern--the one source of light in the room. The back of the van had been made into a makeshift living space, with a few blankets, a gas stove, and a makeshift writing desk. It was dimly lit, but cozy. On the desk, Quackity could see a few letters written in Wilbur’s scrawling handwriting. Out of politeness (a quality he hadn’t realized he possessed until that moment) he did his best to avert his eyes from the writing.
“Welcome to Casa De Wilbur!” Wilbur said, closing the door behind him. He let out a breath, stretching his limbs as far as the small ceiling would allow. “Man, it feels good to get out of the rain.”
Quackity sat down on the floor of the van, taking his beanie off to wring it out. The process only seemed to make the dampness worse, however, and he sighed angrily. Wilbur tossed him a blanket.
“Here. You can dry off.”
Wordlessly, Quackity accepted, wrapping the blanket around himself. It was soft and warm, and the material smelled like Wilbur. He closed his eyes, immersed in the bliss of the moment. After absorbing as much of the peace as he could, he opened his eyes.
So this was where Wilbur went when he wasn’t annoying Quackity. It was all too easy to imagine him living in this space. Wilbur sleeping on that pile of blankets in the corner, or shuffling through those papers while humming to himself. Though this place was cramped and uncomfortable, Wilbur had somehow managed to make it his own. Quackity respected that; even though he had built Las Nevadas from the ground up, sometimes it didn’t feel like home to him. The marble hallways felt sterile, his room like a hotel. Nothing was broken in, and everything felt too perfect to be real.
“So,” Wilbur said, “what do you think?”
“I think,” Quackity said slowly, “you’ve been living in a van.”
“Where else was I supposed to live?” Wilbur asked. “It’s not like you welcomed me with open arms.” There wasn’t any anger or bitterness in his voice, but Quackity still felt a twinge of defensiveness.
“Why didn’t you go stay with Phil or Tommy? I’m sure they would have been happy to accommodate you. You know, the prodigal son returning and all that.” He waved his hands sarcastically.
Wilbur groaned, taking off his soaking coat and tossing it into a corner. He turned back to Quackity, walking in slow circles around the van. “That’s exactly the problem. Phil’s obsessed with who I was before…” he paused, “before L’Manburg was destroyed. I spent thirteen years in purgatory, Big Q. I’m different than I was. And when I look at Phil, all I see are his expectations of who I should be. But I’m different now, and he needs to accept that! Maybe him being an absentee father was fine when I was a kid, but it’s a little late for him to start caring now.” Quackity nodded along, tracing circles in the fabric of the blanket as he listened to Wilbur talk. “It’s not like I care. If he doesn’t want to try to understand who I am now, he doesn’t have to. I don’t need him.” He sighed, flopping onto the mound of blankets.
“And Tommy?” Quackity was almost afraid to ask. He knew their relationship had deteriorated since Wilbur came back, but he didn’t know the exact details.
Wilbur scrunched up his face. “He doesn’t trust me anymore. Something about how I’m ‘delusional,’ and ‘should be locked up.’” He sighed, and for a moment disappointment flashed across his face. “He built up my return in his mind without really considering what would happen when I was back, I suppose. And now he’s all ‘Oh no, my brother’s back, but he’s just as screwed up as he was before!’” he said, his voice high-pitched in an attempt to sound like Tommy. “Big surprise. Honestly, I think everyone liked me better when I was a ghost.” He shrugged. “Not like I can do much about that. I’ve been given a second chance, and I have no intention of wasting it.”
“You’re welcome to stay with me,” Quackity offered.
The van was quiet except for the sounds of the rain. Wilbur adjusted his glasses, glancing at Quackity. “A surprising offer, coming from the man who fought against letting me into his country in the first place.”
Quackity shook his head. “Only because you were annoying.”
Wilbur quirked an eyebrow. “I was?”
“Are,” Quackity amended. “You are annoying.”
Just because they had kissed one time did not mean that Quackity was going to start liking him. No. That was not allowed to happen. Though from the way his heart was pounding, the rest of him certainly felt otherwise.
“If you say so.” Wilbur shrugged. “You seem to like me well enough, though.”
“Shut up,” Quackity said.
“Make me,” Wilbur countered.
“You–” Just as Quackity was preparing another devastating verbal blow to knock Wilbur off his feet, he heard the rumble of lightning from above them. He flinched slightly, trying to remind himself that he was safe. Lightning couldn’t hurt him right now, so he was okay.
When he had been with Karl and Sapnap, the three of them would gather blankets and curl up in the middle of their living room. Snuggled in between his two fiances, Quackity would almost be able to forget about the storm right outside the window. Lately, Las Nevadas’ bad weather streaks had left him curled up in his closet, trying to block the noise from his ears. Slime didn’t understand why he was “afraid of the light in the sky,” but he didn’t ever tell anyone. Quackity was grateful for that.
“Are you okay?” Wilbur’s words were a pure and innocent question; he even seemed genuinely concerned for Quackity’s well being.
Quackity paused. He had a reputation to uphold, and it wouldn’t go well if everyone knew that the ruthless president of Las Nevadas was afraid of a little water. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I… um… I don’t like lightning very much.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe,” Wilbur declared, standing up. Unceremoniously, he sat down on the ground next to Quackity, pulling his lanky legs together. Quackity pulled a blanket over the both of them so that they were pressed together, his head against Wilbur’s chest. His hair was damp, soaking Wilbur’s already drenched clothing. Still, Wilbur didn’t protest; if anything, he pulled Quackity closer. Quackity was tempted to move, but another loud clap of thunder sounded. Startled, he wrapped his arms around Wilbur. Over the next few minutes, they sat there, the crackle of thunder and the pitter patter of the rain their only companions.
Wilbur hummed softly, holding Quackity in his arms. And for the first time since he could remember, Quackity felt safe.
Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Wilbur wasn’t an omen, but a godsend.
As the two of them held tightly to each other in the middle of the storm, Quackity thought that it would certainly explain a lot.