Archive of Our Own ^beta

Wilbur should have gone to meet Tommy an hour ago.

Those were the plans he made, and the plans he ought to have stuck to. Tommy is likely worried sick by now, pacing the main SMP, maybe even searching for him. The thought is touching. Wilbur is cruel for standing him up, especially after building the importance of today’s meeting so high.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, the tail ends of his coat flapping theatrically in the strong wind. At the time, his meeting with Tommy had been the most important thing in his barren schedule.

Things changed.

There is a reason he stands in Las Nevadas, after all, staring up at the still-unopened casino. Wilbur thinks it may never leave the construction stage at this point. Despite Quackity's wild dreams, he doubts the casino is ever actually going to open to the public.

Unfortunately, Wilbur is the public, and the casino's doors are decidedly closed to him. Which makes it difficult to locate the exact man who sponsored such a grand project—the soon to be ghost town.

Quackity, to his dismay, is likely inside. And Wilbur doesn't have a way in. The doors, which he already shook for the better part of a minute, are locked. The windows are sealed, most of them still covered in tarps and plywood to safeguard the glass from the building process—or any slippery bastards trying to find a way inside. And Wilbur's skills of breaking and entering are rusty.

He's getting old.

He circles the main plaza again, backing up to the fountain, squinting up against the sun in order to observe the city in all its turgid glory. He intended to make the most of Tommy's wasted time. But the entire point of his journey—the President of Las Nevadas himself—is nowhere to be seen. Wilbur pretends it doesn't make his chest ache.

This is the third time he has come looking, only to find his quarry absent. He swore this time would be different. He needed it to be different. He couldn't go to Tommy, couldn't leave, not with unfinished business.

Wilbur runs a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as his fingers catch on greasy tangles. He is filthy; he knows it well. Matted hair, dirt-streaked skin, unwashed clothes. Recently, the motivation for hygiene, for cleanliness, has been rather lacking. Maintaining his living body has become...difficult, these past few weeks. Since Fundy jumped. Since his talk with Phil. Since Paradise crumbled.

Since Wilbur realised what he had to do.

People. Apologies. They are all he has left, and he has nearly reached the end of his list.

If only the president of this gleaming nation would deign to show his face.

Wilbur heaves a sigh, shoulders slumping. He doesn't have forever to wait, and doesn't know how else to reach Quackity. If it comes to it, maybe he could write a note. A book, a letter, to scrawl out his apology and leave at Quackity's door. By the time Quackity found it, Wilbur would be well and truly gone. It would be so simple. Simpler than looking Quackity in the eye and speaking his words aloud.

Wilbur doesn't know what he would write.

He doesn't know what he will say, but at least once he finds Quackity he won't be able to just back out of it. Quackity will stop him, he imagines, if he tries to leave before finishing his piece.

Or, well. That's probably a lie. Wilbur can't imagine anyone wanting him around enough to halt his exit. At best, Quackity will glare at him through his apology before ordering him to leave without a dozen threats and insults. At worst, he will shut Wilbur down before he manages to get out a word.

If he were to leave a note, Wilbur thinks, Quackity would sooner curse his name and use the sealed envelope as kindling than crack open the wax and read his words.

Wilbur doesn't know where he would find a wax seal. Or an envelope. Or a quill.

Three more strikes against a written apology.

Perhaps he should start hurling pebbles at the boarded windows. Although that has the possibility to come across more like a hopeful courter than a man on a mission. And the sandy ground is frustratingly clear of actual rubble, despite the messy construction site. It would be more appropriate to hurl boulders. Far more attention grabbing. Perhaps Quackity would run out, thinking one of his jaded fiancés had come for revenge.

Well, maybe that isn't the impression Wilbur wants to give either.

The cursed casino isn't actually a house, no matter how much the president wants to treat it as such. Thus there is no reasonable installation of a doorbell, or any other service to indicate someone has come calling, like a normal dwelling would have. Because normal people don't live in their business establishments. Though Wilbur himself has lived now in the back rooms of several vans that were also businesses, so he isn't really one to judge.

At least he could hear if someone knocked.

"QUACKITY!" he tries again, because it isn't going to hurt anything but his throat. He stares up at the imposing building; its windows are dull and its curtains are still. The casino looks, for all intents and purposes, empty. "OPEN YOUR FUCKING DOOR!"

He's yelling at metre thick quartz and miles of sand. He is also fucking tired.

Wilbur doesn't want to go find somewhere to sleep tonight. That is the major crux of the issue; that is why he asked Tommy to meet him today. He doesn't want to go to the van, or to what remains of Paradise, or to the arctic, or anywhere near Pogtopia. But if he can't find Quackity, then he can't go to Tommy. And if he can't go to Tommy, then he has to go find somewhere to spend the night. And he very much doesn't want to do that again.

He marches up the steps to the casino door for the nth time, and kicks it petulantly.

"Fucker," he snaps, and coughs without bothering to cover his mouth. Then he turns around, sits on the top step, and digs a cigarette from his pocket.

It takes over a dozen tries for the cigarette to catch a spark from his lighter. Wilbur has been smoking a lot, these past weeks, and his lighter is suffering the consequences. His cigarette supply too; it has dwindled down to just a few sticks.

In any other circumstance, Wilbur might have cared. Might have dragged himself to Phil’s house and dug through his chests till he found a refill of lighter fluid, and the blaze powder and nightshade needed to craft himself another pack.

This isn’t any other circumstance.

Wilbur takes a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for just a moment too long before letting it puff from his lips, bitter and comforting. If Tommy was here, he would try to snatch the cigarette from his hands, snapping something about health, about Wilbur’s lungs and an early death.

Tommy isn’t here, and Wilbur doesn’t care.

He tilts his head back, watching as the smoke wafts away, carried upwards by the fast-moving desert currents. The cloudless sky stretches out above him, bright and cheerful.

Wilbur rather thinks it should be raining.

He shuts his eyes and inhales another mouthful of smoke, mind drifting down to the potion of harming that sits in his coat’s inside pocket, nestled right beside heart. Brewed over the course of hours to achieve a potency that others could only dream of, imbued with enough glowstone dust—counterbalanced by time and crushed-up prismarine—to light a city. All his years of potion making, condensed into one perfect vial.

Wilbur had wanted, once, to go out with a bang. To leave a mark, a stain, a legacy. And he had. He died with an explosion that shook the earth, a betrayal worthy of the history books. And then he came back. He came back, and the scar he left had been healed and then torn open again: wider, deeper, more jagged. His legacy was gone, and people had moved on. Everyone had moved on.

Wilbur has only ever been living in the past.

Now, he thinks he will be lucky to appear as a footnote.

For a character such as him, someone so chewed and swallowed and regurgitated by history, there isn't much point in recycling the same tired tactics. In dipping his quill in ink, only to rewrite the same scratched lines the world had already seen. No, he might as well do things differently. And Wilbur has decided that this time, at the very least, it will be quiet when he leaves. A quiet to contrast the noise he creates in every life he touches. One last apology—a silent one.

But he's getting ahead of himself.

Wilbur tilts his head, smoke scorching his lips as he sighs. His eyes burn, but he can't fathom the idea of sleeping anytime soon. It's barely afternoon, and there are still hours of daylight he can use to potentially find Quackity. Then if he is quick, perhaps Tommy too.

Tommy will be angry, and hurt, that Wilbur stood him up. But that's okay. It will only be temporary. Wilbur will apologise for that too. And they can have their talk and get back on schedule.

He rolls his cigarette between his fingers.

He just needs Quackity.

Maybe he should set something on fire.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

The sudden voice from Wilbur's right startles him, and he jolts, dropping his cigarette on the quartz stairs. It creates a small smudge of ash on the crystalline stone as it smoulders into nothingness. Wilbur turns, pulse racing with an unusual liveliness, to see a welcome sight; Quackity approaches from between two buildings, looking distinctly pissed. But present.

"Quackity!" Wilbur smiles. Quackity does not.

"Get the fuck out of Las Nevadas," Quackity says, as is to be expected. "I have shit to do. You're blocking the door."

Quackity always has shit to do, and Wilbur is actually taking up a tiny fraction of the stairs. He suspects it's more the principle of the matter.

Wilbur lets his smile stretch a little wider, ignoring Quackity’s words entirely as he reaches down to fish another cigarette from his pocket. "D'you want a smoke?" he asks, holding it out. Quackity's eyes narrow. "Aw c'mon, Q. For old times' sake."

"What are you doing." It isn't a question.

"You know me." Wilbur shrugs, lifting the cigarette to his lips. Quackity obviously doesn't want it, and who would he be to pass up the opportunity? He clicks his lighter a few times, hoping to squeeze out one last spark. "Take your pick."

"You've got some real fucking nerve, Wilbur. Showing your face back here," Quackity says. "I was just making plans to tear down that shitty van of yours, actually. Thought you'd finally fucked off somewhere and died."

"Your wish is my command," Wilbur hums, letting out a small noise of victory as his cigarette finally catches alight. He takes a drag and pushes himself to his feet. "How about we take this inside? I've got some things to say, then I'll be out of your hair."

"No." Quackity stalks forward, lips twisting into an ugly sneer. "No, Wilbur. Get out of my fucking city."

Wilbur grins, blowing a mouthful of smoke into Quackity's face. "I don't think so," he says as the president takes a step backwards, obviously withholding a cough. "Five minutes of your day, Q. I know this dead nation of yours can't have you that busy. And then you'll never have to think about me again—I mean it, this time!"

"First, let's say I even believe that," Quackity scoffs, voice strained as his lungs reject the ambient smoke. "I don't owe you shit, Wilbur. Least of all five minutes of my goddamn time!"

Wilbur's lips tighten around his cigarette. He inhales rather than answer, studying the president. It's true, he supposes. He can't exactly argue that. But he can't leave either. Not when he finally has the opportunity to do what needs to be done. Better piss Quackity off one last time in the short-term and give him his apology for the long-term than let this all go to waste.

"You're speaking to me now," Wilbur tries, the movements of his arm painting curls of smoke like his cigarette is a brush, the air his canvas. "Surely you could inside, for a few minutes."

Quackity scowls. "You have a lot of fucking nerve."

"Five minutes," Wilbur repeats. "That's all—"

"You're up to something." Quackity surges forward, mounting the casino steps with purpose. Instinctively, Wilbur moves back. Unfortunately, the door is behind him. "Do you really think I'm stupid, Wilbur?"

"I'm not, I don't," Wilbur protests, growing frustrated for the first time. "I'm just trying to talk—briefly, even. Unless smoking’s against the law now?"

"I don't care where the fuck you smoke," Quackity snaps, and Wilbur presses back against the casino door. "You're not welcome here. Not fucking welcome, do you hear me? Fuck you. Fuck off. You're a fucking disease, Wilbur. You should've stayed away."

"I know!" Wilbur says, holding his hands out as though to ward Quackity off. "Look, Q. I'm well aware that you don't want me in this pretty little city of yours. Just—c'mon. Hear me out. I’m really not here to cause trouble, I swear. I just want to—"

"What, Wilbur? What did you want, huh? To barge your way back into my city? Back into my life? Months, you've been gone—what did you think was going to happen, showing up here again? Who the fuck do you think I am?"

"I'm here to apologise," Wilbur blurts, and Quackity stops short. His expression of shock might almost be comical, if not for the situation. Then his eyes narrow into slits.

"What?" The word is little more than a hiss.

"I'm here to apologise, Q. To say sorry! For—for everything. For everything I've done. Please, just—five minutes. Five minutes of your time. Then I’m gone."

”Oh, you fucking—” A laugh rips through Quackity's words, jagged and cold. Wilbur shrinks backwards, hands clenching nervously. The second cigarette smoulders between his fingers. “Ha-ha, Wilbur. And here I thought you couldn’t stoop any lower. Nice job proving me wrong. Fucking piece of shit.”

Wilbur flinches as a fleck of spittle hits his cheek. Slowly, he raises a hand, brushing it away; his eyes skitter across the ground, reluctant to meet Quackity's furious gaze.

"I'm not kidding," he says, each word carefully rolled around his mouth before spoken. They taste like smoke. The cigarette held afloat between his fingers sputters, struggling to burn as it sucks in dredges of the afternoon air.

"Not kidding," Quackity scoffs, and it sounds like a dismissal. He slips one hand into his pocket, the other waving Wilbur away like an obnoxious gnat. "You disgust me. Honestly."

Wilbur is well aware. He goes to lift his cigarette from his lips—and in a flash, Quackity has reached out and snatched it away, out of his hand. Wilbur watches as the president throws it to the ground, grinding it into paste beneath his perfectly polished shoes.

He isn't sure his lighter has the strength to ignite another.

"You didn't need to do that," Wilbur says quietly, but Quackity is already talking over him, like he's deaf to Wilbur's words.

"I don't think you get it, Wilbur," he snaps, closing the distance between them another step. "This isn't a fucking game. When I say you aren't welcome—I mean it. That isn't a loosey-goosey rule you get to bend whenever it pleases you. It means you're fucking banned. It means you don't set foot on my goddamn land ever again. It means when I tell you to leave, you do."

Wilbur's lips are dry; he wets them with his tongue. It doesn't help much.

"I know what it means," he says.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because this is...important."

Quackity laughs. "You and I have very different definitions of important, Wilbur."

“I know,” Wilbur manages, lips moving like rubber. Ice crawls through his veins, spiders skittering across his skin. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Sure you are,” Quackity sneers. “Sure you are, Wilbur. Go on then. Apologise. Apologise to me. Say you’re sorry—what are you sorry for, hm? How much of what you’ve done are you fucking sorry for?”

Wilbur draws in a shuddering breath. He deserves to hear this. Quackity deserves to say this, to look him in the eye and spit the truth. He just—he has to get his own piece out as well. So Quackity can hear the words. So he has the chance to shoot them down.

“All of it,” Wilbur says, and Quackity’s glare bores into his skull. If looks could kill, well—he wouldn’t be needing the potion in his pocket. “All of it, Quackity. I’m sorry for everything. I never should have come to Las Nevadas. Paradise—it was spiteful and petty and selfish a-and I shouldn’t have started it. I shouldn’t have dragged you or Ranboo or Tommy back into my...life. I-I should have listened to you.”

Quackity doesn’t respond, narrowed eyes tracking across Wilbur’s face, studying him, weighing up his words. Wilbur’s hands are trembling, he realises. He clenches them into fists, hoping Quackity hasn’t seen, wishing for another cigarette to calm him down.

"You should have listened to me," Quackity echoes, sounding to all the world uninterested. But his furrowed brow shows just how much attention he is paying. His eyes are piercing. "What does that mean." It isn't a question, but Wilbur knows an answer is expected. He pretends it doesn't bother him, how the rest of his apology went unacknowledged; to even think that is selfish. He should be grateful Quackity is listening at all.

"Back in L'Manberg," Wilbur clears his throat softly, and ignores Quackity's disbelieving scoff. "When you were trying to say your part about m—the country." Not his country. "In Pogtopia, when you tried to stop my destruction, when you backed Tommy up, when you talked about Schlatt and Manberg. Here, in Las Nevadas. When you told me right at very beginning not to get involved. That I would ruin it all. I should have listened."

Quackity is staring at him now, truly. It makes Wilbur deeply uncomfortable—deeply afraid—that he can't read exactly how the president is feeling. It doesn't allow him to ready himself, to prepare for what barrage might be coming. But perhaps that is just. Perhaps it is good he isn't allowed to build up shields, to try and numb the pain. That would defeat the point of what he is doing, wouldn't it?

"Wilbur," Quackity says, and Wilbur is jolted from his thoughts. He forces himself to look up, to meet Quackity's eyes. "I sincerely hope I'm not the first person you're trying to 'apologise' to." There is still a shadow of disbelief hanging over Quackity's words; a shadow of distrust. As though he doesn't quite believe what he's seeing. Wilbur understands.

"You're not," he says, because that is an easy reassurance for him to give. He knows there are other people he has hurt far more grievously, and he knows Quackity would have been affronted if Wilbur went to him before them. Like Tubbo.

"Ah." Quackity's voice grates, anger swelling. "I see what this is now. You're trying to salvage your reputation."

"No!" Wilbur protests immediately, and Quackity’s eyebrows fly up. "No, Q, I-I'm not—that isn't what this is. I'm not doing this for myself, okay? I swear. There wouldn't be a point."

"So you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart, are you?" Quackity spits, but there is something a little less biting about his tone. Something more considering, more calculating in the way he stares at Wilbur. "Crawling your way back here, saying sorry, just—because? Because it's the right thing to do, is that it?"

"I just wanted to say my piece," Wilbur says, words scraping like sandpaper against his throat. "I just wanted to...talk to you, one last time."

"Alright," Quackity says, taking a step backwards. His gaze is shrewd, eyes dark and unreadable. "Alright then, Wilbur. We've talked. And that's what you came here to do, right? You did it. You're done here. So you can fuck off now."

Wilbur swallows thickly, unable to tear his eyes away from Quackity's. This isn't enough. He hasn't done enough. Except—except that's the thing, isn't it? If people don't want him around, he has to leave. Leave them alone to heal. He tried, he had the chance to finally speak to Quackity, and—Quackity said no. Of course he said no, Wilbur should never have expected anything else. Should never have hoped for anything but this cold, hard truth.

Wilbur nods a subdued little acknowledgement, skin crawling as he pushes away from the door to skirt around Quackity, to disappear back down the main road. He just has to find Tommy now. He will probably be at his house, or maybe somewhere up near Snowchester. There are still a few hours of daylight left, Wilbur should be able to—

A hand clamps around his shoulder, knocking him roughly out of his head. Wilbur's eyes widen, and jerk to meet Quackity's.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Quackity hisses, fingers digging into Wilbur's skin.

Wilbur gapes, staring into Quackity's smouldering face. What has he done? Quackity told him to leave. Dismissed him out of hand. "I-I'm leaving?" he stutters, more a question than a declaration.

"Like hell you are," Quackity says, and Wilbur genuinely can do nothing but stare. Quackity's grip is painfully tight.

"You told me to leave," Wilbur reminds, voice shallow. His heart pounds in his chest, and it comes as a surprise that he feels afraid. His hands are trembling again. He doesn't understand what Quackity is doing.

"You are acting way too suspicious," Quackity says, forcing Wilbur to fully turn back around. Wilbur tries to step back, but is held still by the hand on his shoulder. Quackity observes him with narrowed eyes, gaze sweeping up and down. "This isn't normal behaviour, not from you."

"I don't know what you mean," Wilbur says, shrinking away. "I'm leaving, Quackity. I'm leaving, just like you wanted. You—"

"Shut up," Quackity interrupts harshly, and Wilbur's teeth click shut. Quackity's eyes immediately snap up to his face, disbelief colouring his expression. "No fucking way." Wilbur swallows nervously, throat tight. He doesn't know what is happening. "Alright, that’s it. You're not going anywhere, Wilbur. Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on."

No. No, what? This can't be happening. This isn't how things are meant to go. Wilbur's mouth opens soundlessly, unable to get out a single word. His head swims, dizzy and lightheaded. Quackity can't forgive him. It is obvious; Quackity can't forgive him and so Wilbur needs to leave. He needs to leave Quackity, leave Las Nevadas, except he can't, he can't because Quackity isn't letting him.

Wilbur doesn't understand.

Quackity is speaking again, words blurring in Wilbur's ears. The hand on his shoulder drops down to close around his wrist and he stumbles as it tugs him forward a step, eyes blinking slowly as he realises—Quackity is dragging him towards the doorway. Is inserting a key in the lock and pulling the handle and no, no no Wilbur has done what he came to do, he isn’t meant to stay any longer, what is Quackity doing?

"Let go of me," Wilbur manages to choke out, and Quackity shoots a narrow-eyed glance back at him, hand tightening around Wilbur's wrist. "Q, Quackity—let go of me!"

"Why?" Quackity demands; even as he asks, he pulls Wilbur further past the threshold of the casino. Wilbur stumbles along, weakly tugging his arm, pulse deafening in his ears—without the willpower, or the strength, to truly stop him. "What will you do if I let you go?"

What? What sort of question is that? Wilbur is so distracted by the golden atrium that he struggles to even formulate a reply; he stares at his surroundings, flabbergasted.

"Leave?" he finally says, and Quackity lets out an irritated sigh. "No, I...seriously Quackity. I have to go!"

"Go where?" Quackity presses. "You were all too eager to stay a few minutes ago." And oh god, this is an interrogation. Miserably, Wilbur stops struggling, letting his arm fall limp. His wrist feels clammy in Quackity's tight hold.

"Quackity, stop. You don't want to deal with this, I don't want to deal with this, can we be done with this conversation now?" He is resorting to begging. "I said what I needed to, and...you told me to leave. I'm trying to leave. Why are you making a fuss?"

"Because you're acting fucking bizarre!" Quackity snaps. "You didn't answer me. Go where, Wilbur?"

"To see Tommy," Wilbur says, and it’s not even a lie! He isn’t lying, yet Quackity glares at him like he is.

"Yeah, okay. Sure you were." Wilbur doesn't even know how to protest against the scepticism that weighs heavy in Quackity's tone. His chest feels far too tight, apprehension twisting around his lungs as Quackity brings him up a grand staircase and immediately takes a sharp left. "And I'm sure Tommy can stand to wait a few hours. I've got questions, Wilbur, and you're not leaving till you answer them."

"Hours? Quackity, I don't have hours, I-I need to—"

"You don't need to go anywhere, Wilbur," Quackity snaps, finally coming to a stop next to a mahogany door, embellished with a golden Q. He doesn't open it just yet, the full weight of his attention turning to settle on Wilbur. It feels like a damnation. "Be real with me, for once in your miserable life. What do you think Tommy will think when you don't show up? Will he panic? Freak out, worried over where you've gone? Come on. We both know he's gonna think you've just fucked off somewhere, as always—and he's not exactly wrong, is he?"

Wilbur draws a shaky breath. His eyes burn with a promise of unshed tears as they drop to the floor, unable to meet Quackity's piercing glare any longer. He wishes he could deny the man's words, but. But.

"I don't understand," he says, barely able to keep his voice from wavering. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

"Answers, Wilbur." Quackity finally turns to open the door, revealing an office behind it. He drags Wilbur inside, shutting the door and only then letting go of his wrist. Wilbur immediately steps away from him, backing further into the room, drawing his hand up to his chest. "You're giving me answers."

Wilbur watches, heart in his throat as Quackity turns away and marches towards the desk. There is some sort of misunderstanding going on here. Quackity thinks he has concocted some sort of...scheme, and god—how could Wilbur have fucked this up any worse? This was supposed to be an apology. An apology for Quackity, to help him rest easier, to help him heal. And that didn't work, so Wilbur was stepping away, leaving, to give him the permanent space he needed. Yet Quackity thinks it is all a lie.

Wilbur's chest is lead. These are the consequences of his actions. He deserves this sceptical eye. He does. He does.

"Well?" Quackity says, sitting behind the desk now—hands folded on the tabletop, gaze expectant and upturned. Wilbur stares down at him, and feels like a commoner approaching the throne of a king. He feels small. He feels judged.

He blinks back tears.

"You didn't ask a question," he mumbles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. His fingers trace anxious lines over the patterns of his cigarette box and lighter. He longs for one, but knows attempting to light another would just look foolish.

Quackity rolls his eyes. "Being avoidant," he says aloud, like he is marking off boxes on a checklist. Wilbur cringes. "Dodging eye contact. If you're trying not to act guilty, you're thoroughly failing, Wilbur. But that's the crux of the matter. You're not even trying to lie. You're just not answering."

"I-I just. Maybe I'm just having a bad day. A bad week." Understatement of the century. Quackity lifts a brow, entirely unimpressed, and Wilbur wilts a little further. Another silence stretches through the room; Wilbur swallows thickly and sets about digging more words from his voice box, stringing them together into some semblance of rhetoric. "I'm not here to cause trouble, Q. I'm really not. If I go, if you just...let me go. I'll never come back. You'll never have to see me again."

"I'll never have to see you again," Quackity repeats, voice flat.

Wilbur nods hesitantly. 'Isn't that what you want?' he doesn't say.

"So—let me get this straight. After coming back and establishing then blowing up that shitty little burger van, you disappear for months. And then you come back, looking like a fucking dumpster, so you can give me a piss-poor apology. Sorry, you say. Sorry. And then—what? You’re just going to disappear again, are you? Wow. Wow, great job facing your problems, Wilbur! Tell me, did you spend five minutes on all your other apologies, too? Did they nod their meek little heads and say wow, thank you Wilbur! Thank you! Is that what you expected from me too, huh? That I’d oh-so graciously bow my head, wave you off—a weight lifted from both our fucking shoulders? Is that how you thought this would go?"

Wilbur opens his mouth and closes it again, his tongue thick and unwieldy, on the verge of choking him. "No, I...I didn't expect...no. And I spent more than five minutes," he manages, and it sounds a bit like he's hearing someone else speak. His own voice sounds alien. "If they wanted to talk. You...you didn't."

Quackity laughs. "A real nice effort. Shift the blame onto me, for not wanting to talk to you. When you showed up unannounced and uninvited and unwelcome."

Wilbur's chest tightens further. "That isn't what I meant," he just about whispers.

Quackity slams his palms down on the table, and Wilbur jumps.

"Wilbur," he snaps. Wilbur stares at him, wide-eyed and spooked. "Look at me. Keep looking at me, don't fucking—stare at the floor, don't stare at your shoes, don't look at the walls—look at me."

Wilbur takes a shuddering breath, feeling a tad faint. "Okay Quackity."

Quackity gives him a hard look. "...you're all burnt out," he murmurs, so quiet Wilbur doesn't think the words are for him. He shifts uncomfortably as Quackity settles back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Then, louder, "Why the fuck are you trying to appease me?"

"...what?"

Quackity glares, but it is more like he's trying to solve a puzzle than murder an enemy. "You're trying to do what you think I want. You're trying to let me win this conversation. Why the fuck are you doing that?"

Wilbur blinks at Quackity, struggling to process his words. The world is moving too quickly, he thinks. It would be nice if it could all just slow down—if it could all just stop.

"I'm not," Wilbur tries weakly, and even though the lie is one of the most blatant he has ever told, Quackity doesn't look angry. He just tilts his head slightly, the disbelief on his face painting as clear a picture as is needed. Wilbur tries to drill feeling back into his body, to clench his fingers and curl his toes and dispel the staticky numbness that has settled over him like heavy fog. It doesn't work. "I-I just...won't it make you happy? Won't it make it better, when I leave? If this...if this is what you remember?"

"You're salvaging your reputation," Quackity says slowly, but this time it is said as more of a consideration. Like he is rolling the words around on his tongue, weighing up their truth. Wilbur can’t even find it in himself to protest. "Or...you're letting me draw my own conclusions. Acting fucking pathetic and letting me form my own impression. You leave now, and I'm left thinking that you're awful. That you're a piece of shit—is that what you want?"

Wilbur's hands tremble, stuffed deep inside his pockets. He attempts to clear his throat, attempts to think of the right way to respond. He doesn't know how. He doesn't know.

"I just want to leave." His voice wobbles right on the edge of cracking, of shattering into something truly unrecoverable. Wilbur clenches his teeth for a moment, willing away the awful burning that has encircled his jaw. That isn't what he meant to say. This isn't how this is supposed to go. Closure, he's doing this for closure, he's meant to bring Quackity closure. "Think what you want, Q. I-I don't—I don't care. I don't care, I just want to go."

"You cannot possibly want to see Tommy this badly, which means you just want to get out of this situation," Quackity says, and his matter of fact tone feels like a slap. "You want to escape the consequences of your actions. You don't want to face me."

"No, I-I..." Wilbur starts talking before he thinks, and finds the words sticking fast in his throat. He feels legitimately dizzy now. The room is closing in, like a mine tunnel caving in. He's too fucking claustrophobic. "You t-told me to leave."

"And now I'm telling you to stay." Quackity cocks his head. "I changed my mind. Is that not permission enough for you? I thought you wanted to stay too."

"No, I did what I had to." Wilbur takes a small step back, but there isn't anywhere to go. "I've done what I have to. I'm done. O-okay? Nice talk, Q. And I-I'm sorry. I am. I am. I hope you can believe that one day." Wilbur's chest aches, pounding like a drum as he reaches behind him, hoping he can find the door knob. "I'm sorry. Goodbye."

"Don't you dare." Quackity stands, the movement slow and deliberate, with all the grace of a coiled predator. A scorpion, a snake, ready to strike. Wilbur's back hits the wall, outstretched hand finding nothing but plaster and wood. He can't take his eyes off Quackity, not for a second, not as the man circles around his desk, not as he stalks across the room.

Wilbur can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe, he can't get out, he's—stuck. Trapped, the walls compressing in, the ceiling bearing down on him.

Quackity stands in front of him. Wilbur stares at him through a tunnel, vision hazy and distant as his heart makes steady work of beating its way through his sternum, lungs spasming with each inhale.

Quackity is speaking, Wilbur registers distantly. Mouth moving. Air buzzing with the sound of his words. Lips twitching down into an unhappy frown as—oh. Is Wilbur meant to say something? Is he meant to know what to say?

"Wilbur!" Quackity's shout flings Wilbur back into reality, and he gasps as Quackity's hands seize the lapels of his coat, dragging him forward. "HEY! Earth to fucking you! Answer me. Answer me right now."

"I-I-I hear you," Wilbur stutters, his hands gripping Quackity's wrists so tightly that they shake. Somehow, his knuckles look paler than the snow-white of Quackity's shirt. "I'm listening. I'm listening, please stop—"

"No you're fucking not," Quackity seethes, and he rises on his tiptoes to press their faces closer together; he drags Wilbur down to meet him. "You aren't, you are completely in your own goddamn head. This is ridiculous. This is absurd!"

"Quackity stop," Wilbur begs, but it falls on deaf ears. Quackity's eyes burn like coal set alight, embers red-hot and blazing.

"You think you can just walk away from this?" Quackity shakes him, and Wilbur just moves with the motion, pliant and unresisting. He stares at Quackity, shell-shocked. "That you can just turn and leave after showing up with such fucking audacity, after acting the way you have?"

"I don't know what you want from me," Wilbur whimpers, and his eyes burn. He uselessly tugs on Quackity's wrists, but the president's hold on his coat remains unrelenting. "I'm trying Quackity, I'm trying—"

"No you're not!" Quackity's shout rings in Wilbur's ears. "No you're fucking not. You're being snivelling and pathetic. A doormat! You're giving up. You're not trying."

"Just let me go." This is hell, this is torture. Wilbur could never have anticipated anything like this. "Quackity, please."

"Like hell," Quackity spits, and Wilbur is stopped from cringing back into the wall by the firm grip on his coat. "You have no right to come back here and disrupt everything, and then just leave when it gets too hard. You have no right. You are not allowed to give up like this. You are not allowed to leave. You are not allowed to turn your back on your problems, not like you always do, you understand? You fucking understand me?"

This was a mistake. This was all one great big mistake, Wilbur should never have sought Quackity out. He should have just gone to Tommy. Gone to Tommy and apologised and then found a nice hill. A nice grassy hill, far away from the server, with a clear view of the sky. And he would watch the sun creep down towards the horizon, watch streaks of orange and gold paint across the sky, and he wouldn't have to wait for the light to fade, would have the view of the sunset forever blazed into his mind. Quiet and peaceful, without fuss. Extinguished with a quiet puff of air, leaving nothing but a small smudge of ash.

He wants to leave. Tommy is waiting for him, he wants to leave. He doesn't want to be here. In the office, in the casino, in the city. On the server. Quackity is glaring at him. Still glaring at him, burning eyes, furious scowl. Has he said something else? Asked another question? Wilbur doesn't know, he doesn't know.

He blinks back tears.

Maybe he needs to run. Try and shove Quackity away, turn for the door, and just go. If he doesn't do it now, Wilbur isn't sure he is ever going to be able to. His legs feel like rubber, and his throat is closed up. If he doesn't get out of this suffocating room in the next few minutes, he thinks he might genuinely faint. And that might be the only possible way to make this situation worse. To not only come here and fail to apologise to Quackity, to piss him off—but then to faint into his arms out of sheer selfish distress. If humiliation could kill, Wilbur would die right then and there.

Quackity takes a step back, and Wilbur gasps as he is pulled forward to match him, Quackity's grip on his coat utterly unrelenting. "Come on, Wilbur. I'm not entertaining this dance anymore."

"No—Quackity." Wilbur's struggles begin anew, because he will not, cannot, be pulled deeper into the office. The closed door is his only hope. Despite himself, in his panic, he digs his nails into Quackity's wrists. The president seems largely unaffected. "Let me go, let me go right now—"

Wilbur is quieted not by Quackity interrupting, but by Quackity instead going statue-still. It startles Wilbur so much that he can't help but choke off into silence, wide-eyed, thoroughly intimidated. Quackity seems to be staring down at his hands.

"Wilbur," Quackity says, and his voice is low and full of warning. "What the fuck is this?" Wilbur truly has no idea what he is talking about. Not until Quackity tugs slightly on the lapels of his coat once more, and Wilbur realises that Quackity's thumb is circling the outline of his inner pocket, directly over where the concealed vial of poison creates a small bump in the fabric.

The wave of vertigo that hits Wilbur is intense. He thinks his heart stops. His mouth has gone dry.

He should never have come here.

"Wilbur. I wasn't asking to hear my own voice."

"It's nothing," he says weakly, the pitiful lie slipping thoughtlessly past his teeth. Quackity's scowl deepens, grip tightening for a moment before he lets go, action so harsh that Wilbur stumbles slightly. His eyes immediately flicker over towards the doorway, his escape, weighing up the distance and position and if he lunges just quick enough he can shove past Quackity, rip the door open, sprint—

Quackity takes a short but deliberate step sideways, moving between Wilbur and the door. The message is obvious. Wilbur cringes backwards.

"Take it out," Quackity demands, harsh and intense, and Wilbur feels the noose tightening around his neck. "Empty your pockets." The trapdoor snaps open, a bottomless pit of dread yawning out beneath him, freezing the air in his lungs, the blood in his veins. "Wilbur. I'm not fucking asking."

"It's a potion," Wilbur chokes out, silver tongue heavy and leaden in his mouth. He can talk his way out of this. He has always been good with words—surely he can talk his way out of this. "I-it's a potion, Quackity. I brew, you know I'm a potion maker. I-I brewed it. It's mine."

"Take it out," Quackity repeats, granite and flint in his eyes, his voice.

"Why do you care?" Wilbur grits out, clenching his shaking hands into fists. His nails bite into his palms. "I-I...fuck Q, it's j-just a resource, it's—"

"I'm not going to say it again." Quackity extends an arm out to the side, a gesture of intimidation that further blocks any path of escape. "...Wilbur." Fuck. Wilbur's fingers find the front of his coat, pulling it tighter around himself. He's shivering. He's freezing. He can't. He can't. He—

—doesn't have a way out of this.

He doesn't.

He doesn't.

"Okay," he whispers, before Quackity can open his mouth again. "Okay. Okay."

His mouth tastes like blood, and the corners of his eyes sting hot and sharp as he slowly slips one of his hands into his coat, fingering the smooth glass of the vial. It is cool to the touch. He closes his eyes, and shudders.

The vial is small enough to remain concealed in his palm when he draws his fist back out. He cracks his eyes open, only to cringe under Quackity's intense stare. His stomach rolls; his chest feels so heavy that he thinks he might throw up.

If he moves quickly enough, could he down the potion? Pop the cork, tip it back. One swift, fluid motion. He would be dead within a minute, if he brewed it right—which he did. But if Quackity has healing potions on hand, in his pocket or desk or shelves, then he might try to save him. Might succeed in saving him, and then Wilbur really would be fucked. Or he might be stopped before he can even drink, Quackity’s hand snapping around his wrist, forcing his fingers open, snatching the potion away. The man’s eyes are already trained on Wilbur’s hand, curled in a fist, held to his chest. Tension is coiled tight in every line of Q’s body, prepared to lunge at the slightest twitch, the first sign of trouble.

It won’t work. It won’t work, and it will only make things worse. Misery surges around Wilbur, hopelessness choking him, eating away at his lungs.

“Well?” Quackity extends a hand. Palm up, expectant.

Wilbur’s chest aches, heart thundering. His head spins. He doesn't want to relinquish the potion, but he knows Quackity won't be taking no for an answer. If Wilbur doesn't hand him the vial, Quackity will just seize his hand and pull it from him regardless. Maybe...maybe Quackity will give it back. More likely, he will have to make another.

Brewing stand, nether wart, spider eye. Hours of time, delicate work, careful preparation. Wilbur doesn't know where he would find the resources. He doesn't think he has it left in him.

Wilbur forces his hand out. White-knuckled. Trembling.

His relief, his respite, his peace.

He lets it go.

The vial tumbles into Quackity’s waiting palm, crimson standing starkly against skin.

Quackity looks down at the tiny bottle, taking it carefully between the fingertips of his other hand. Silence fills the room as he examines it; he twists his wrist to make the concentrated liquid slosh side to side. In the lighting, the glass seems to sparkle.

Wilbur's stomach rolls over, a twisted knot on the edge of hurling.

"So," Quackity says, and his voice is very soft. It still burns in Wilbur's ears. "When exactly were you planning on poisoning me?"

...what?

Quackity's eyes flick up, uncharacteristically neutral for what a statement he has just made. Wilbur can only stare, speechless. Trying to formulate some sort of understanding, but...he doesn't...he didn't...

"I-I—" Wilbur chokes on his own words, his eyes smarting and burning. Panic courses through his veins. He can't do more than whisper. "No. No. Quackity th-that's not..."

"No?" Quackity echoes, his voice still quiet. His hand curls around the vial, obscuring it from view. Wilbur flinches forward a half-inch, body instinctively hating the separation from his potion. He forces air into his lungs, forces himself to ignore it. He shakes his head.

"Please Quackity, you have to believe me," he begs. Because this can't be how this ends. With Quackity somehow thinking Wilbur wanted to kill him. It couldn't be further from the truth. "I-it's not that, I swear—"

"Then what is it, Wilbur?" There is a tiredness to Quackity's voice, yet his eyes are as sharp as ever. Seeing right through Wilbur, straight to his rotten core. Wilbur doesn't answer, and Quackity's lips press into a thin line. When he speaks again, his voice is harsher. "Really, what other explanation could there be?"

You don't want to know, Wilbur wants to say. He thinks he might be drowning. Please don't make me tell you.

"It's not that," he repeats in a hollow whisper, the only words that will rise up past the lump in his throat.

"It's not?" Quackity leans backwards, eyes widening in faux surprise. "It's not, is it? You come to Las Nevadas, seeking me out, demanding my attention, my time, trying to wheedle your way inside, into the casino. All this, after being gone months. All that, and you just so happen to have a bottle of poison on you? A tiny, concealable—tell me, how concentrated is it? What's the dosage?"

"I-It's—it's not meant for—"

"This, what's in here." Quackity shakes his fist, as though the meaning wasn't clear enough. "Is it enough to kill?"

Wilbur swallows thickly. He could lie. He could lie, but what would be the point? "Y-yes," he says, and for a moment he thinks something like grief flickers across Quackity's face. He blinks, and it's gone—was never there to begin with. "Yes, it is, but—Quackity, it's not for you. It's not for you, I swear I'm not—I-I wouldn't..."

Quackity's eyes narrow, flicking down to the potion then back up to Wilbur's face. "Oh yes," he says. "Yes of course, Wilbur. You would never do such a thing, would you? Would never betray my trust like that? Just like you wouldn't lead me down to a rigged basement to murder my pet in front of me. Just like you wouldn't get Ranboo torn to shreds in the fallout. Because of course, this isn't the next step up from that. No. No!"

"It's not," Wilbur protests, and there is something pinging at his radar. Something off in Quackity's tone, the anger in his words. Fury too calculated, rage too precise. Barbs aimed at exact targets, digging deep into raw, exposed nerves. It means something. It must mean something, Quackity is doing something except that Wilbur's mind is moving too quickly, overwhelmed by the hate, the accusations, he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe—"It's not Quackity, it's not. I swear, I swear. I-I'm—it's meant for—you're wrong. Y-you're wrong, please!"

"Am I? Am I, Wilbur?" Quackity stalks forward, driving Wilbur backwards in turn. Taking them both further away from the door, from Wilbur's escape. "I'm wrong, you say? I'm wrong, it's not meant for me? That's right—is that right? I'm meant to believe that, after everything you've done? Yeah. Yeah sure, Wilbur. What else have you got for me? What lie are you going to tell me next? The one about an apology? About wanting to leave—wanting to see Tommy? Is that right, Wilbur? Is that—"

"It's a SUICIDE POTION!" Wilbur shrieks, and the confession snaps something inside of him. The final string that was holding him together, holding him upright and functioning, holding him all together, snaps like a twig, and he feels himself unravelling, falling apart at the seams. He knows he looks just as wild as he feels, knows his eyes are bleeding desperation, knows his voice is shaking and his hands are trembling, knows he is seconds from breaking down into a sobbing mess, seconds from shattering entirely. "It's for me, Quackity. For ME! I'm killing myself. I'm going to fucking kill myself, are you fucking happy?!"

Quackity doesn't look happy. Wilbur heaves for breath as he stumbles another step back, wrapping his arms around himself in a mimicry of a hug. Terrible, awful silence fills the room. Quackity doesn't look surprised, either. And Wilbur thinks, with horrible dread, that he has just played right into waiting hands.

Quackity's eyes flick to the vial, still held tightly within tense fingers. Wilbur gasps.

"Quackity, DON'T—"

He slams the potion down on the desk, and the sound of shattering glass explodes throughout the room. Crimson liquid spills across the perfectly polished tabletop, dribbling down onto the pale carpet, staining it an irrevocable brown. Quackity quickly snatches back his surely burning hand, wiping it off on his pants.

For a heartbeat, all Wilbur can do is stare. Numbness holds him frozen like a statue, and his own pulse deafens him. Then the pressure in his throat spills over; the burning in his eyes becomes blazing.

Wilbur shatters like the vial, like his only plan of leaving this wretched world. He collapses to the ground and begins to sob. Brokenly, face buried in his arms, tears soaking the sleeves of his coat. He can't stop. He can't breathe. His world is ending, spiralling out of control.

"...Wilbur." Quackity almost sounds regretful. Wilbur doesn't care. He doesn't care. Quackity doesn't understand, he will never fucking understand what the hell he just did, what position he has put Wilbur into. It was selfish to try and apologise to anybody. To think of hills and sunsets. He should have just crawled into the nearest hole and died.

What can he do now? Wilbur’s mind grabs for an answer, for anything that might work. He doesn’t think he will be able to brew another potion, not with the ingredients and time and effort that would take. But...a sword to the chest, or a crossbow set under his chin, or a fall of enough height. Maybe he could follow Fundy down into the corpse of L’Manberg, he could—

Quackity kneels before him.

Wilbur cringes backwards, breath hitching for a moment before another ugly sob shoves its way between his teeth. His arms come up to wrap more securely around his head, unwilling to see Quackity’s reaction, to be dragged up to his feet, to face the brunt of his rage.

‘Selfish fuck,’ Wilbur can hear it already. ‘What right do you have?’

A hand settles on his shoulder, solid and heavy, punching a broken gasp from Wilbur’s lungs. He goes rigid, chest heaving, not having the strength to even try to pull away from the touch. He should have left. Should have run. Should never have come here in the first place.

"Wilbur." Quackity's voice is more neutral than Wilbur expects. More evenly toned. More composed. Wilbur expected his rage to be audible. But that is just like Q, isn't it? So put together, so unyielding. Always presenting a perfect picture. Wilbur hiccups. "I need you to look at me."

It's just cruel. Simply cruel. Wilbur doesn't respond—can't respond, too choked by tears. Instead he just shakes his head, burying his face further into his elbows. Trying to hide away in smoke-stained fabric and bad decisions. Refusing to face the consequences of his actions, exactly like Quackity said. But it is far too late for that. It is far too late, and Wilbur is a coward. He has always been a coward. He always will be. Cowardice is why he had a potion and not a tower. Cowardice is why he let himself get dragged into this stupid fucking casino instead of pulling away, running like he should have. Cowardice will always be his downfall.

Warm fingers brush his other arm, and now Quackity is gripping both of his shoulders. Wilbur can't see him, but he can hear him—close. "Just for a moment."

No. He will stay here until he sobs himself into silence, until he starves, until the world ends rather than face—

"Please."

It's the 'please' that does it. The quiet tone, mournful, almost on the edge of desperate. It isn't what Wilbur prepared himself to hear. He looks up, just an inch, to see that Quackity is very close. His dark eyes are wide and concerned; his lips are pinched in a tight, unhappy frown. He looks upset.

He doesn't look angry.

"What?" Wilbur croaks, blinking hard. With his intentions laid bare, he has nothing left to offer. With his potion gone, he has lost his direction. The urge to flee has died a desolate, hopeless death in his chest. Its carcass festers, rotting into something bitter and angry. "What, Quackity? Is this finally p-pathetic enough for you? Or am I j-just lying about this too? "

"Wilbur..." Quackity trails off, brow drawing downwards, jaw working furiously. His hands tighten around Wilbur's shoulders, seemingly unconscious as he leans back, studying him. And then, tersely, "Do you have any other weapons on you?"

Wilbur's breath catches on something between a laugh and another sob, the coal of indignance sparking deep inside his chest. He has nothing left to lose. "No," he says, lifting his head a little further. "No, I-I'm afraid I don’t. Didn't think I'd need one."

"Okay," Quackity says, and Wilbur doesn't know what is going through his head. Does he believe him now, now that he has finally shattered Wilbur, reduced him to a sobbing wreck? "Okay, Wilbur. Alright. And were you...were you really going to meet Tommy, after this?"

"Yes," Wilbur sniffles, and the thought seems so far away now. So pointless. That less than an hour ago, he had been so concerned with being late. That it would be another thing on a long list to upset Tommy. Now, that meeting is the last thing Wilbur has to worry about. He isn't going to go meet Tommy tonight. He might not meet Tommy ever. Wilbur hiccups again, rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand. "H-he was the last one."

A beat of silence stretches, and when Wilbur blinks tears away and glances up once more, Quackity is watching him, prodding. Ah.

"The last person I had t-to apologise to," Wilbur elaborates, wiping at his nose with the corner of his sleeve. He knows it's gross. He doesn't care, even when Quackity tracks the motion, cringing slightly.

"I see," Quackity says. His voice is dull. "And does Tommy know that's why you wanted to meet?"

"No," Wilbur scoffs, bitter. "Do you think I'm a fucking fool? Of c-course not. I just asked to hang out."

"Right," Quackity doesn't sound in agreement. "Of course."

"This isn't some fucking attention grab Quackity," Wilbur hisses, tears smarting in his eyes again. His cheeks feel sticky and damp. "No one was supposed to know. It was supposed to be quiet."

"I'm not accusing you, Wilbur," Quackity placates, and his voice is still frustratingly blank. "I didn't say I thought that."

“You didn’t need to,” Wilbur says, hands curling into fists, nails digging harshly into his palms. “You’ve made your opinion of me clear.”

Quackity’s shoulders slump. “Listen,” he says, eyes slipping closed a moment before he looks back up at Wilbur. “Listen, okay. I was...lacking context. And then I was trying to, well,” Quackity winces slightly, a pang of guilt flashing across his face, “force a confession. The things I said, I—”

“Bullshit,” Wilbur snaps, and he almost surprises himself with how harshly it comes out. Quackity’s empty words stoke something within him, fueling the embers smouldering in his chest. The man’s touch burns hot against his skin, eating holes through his coat. “Don’t even fucking try. You can’t just backpedal, not after treating me like that.”

“Who said I was trying to backpedal?” Quackity’s eyes are sharp. Assessing, weighing him up. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“Oh fuck that,” Wilbur sneers, hands coming up to shove Quackity’s arms away from him. Quackity grimaces, leaning backwards even as Wilbur pushes himself off the ground, standing on legs that tremble like a fawn's. “Fuck you, Quackity. I’m going to find Tommy. I hope you watch this city burn.”

Quackity rises to his feet, and Wilbur can’t help but take a step back, throat tightening. Quackity stares evenly up at him, positioned between him and the door. For however much of a weight the confession has lifted from his shoulders, however much it has reinforced his spine, the fear of Quackity exploding again is unshakable.

Quackity’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. “You’re not leaving.”

"I don't have anything to lose anymore, Quackity," Wilbur warns, and he hopes it sounds threatening. He hopes it makes him sound like he has conviction in what he's saying, because he doesn't. He is still trembling with the aftershocks of his crying fit, after all. "I don't have any more secrets to keep. So how about you move and make this easier for both of us."

"Wilbur," Quackity says, and he both looks and sounds irritated. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and Wilbur watches the motion nervously. "I'm not going to let you just...walk out of here and kill yourself."

"You destroyed my potion," Wilbur seethes, forcing out anger instead of the instinctual unease he feels at Quackity's words. "What are you so worried about, Quackity?" Sarcasm, mocking, comes easily. It is habit. Not even weeks of trying to be quiet and polite and good have managed to squash the behaviour out of him.

"Right. Because that will stop you, I'm sure." Quackity's voice is grim, and although he shifts his weight, he doesn't ever create a gap that Wilbur could safely duck through. "I think you should sit down, and we should talk."

"Talk!" Wilbur barks out a laugh, and it scorches his throat. "Talk, Quackity? What is there to talk about? You made it clear—our conversation was over before it began."

"I don't want you to apologise to me," Quackity snaps. "I don't want to talk about that. I want to talk about the fact that you're fucking suicidal again."

"There's nothing to talk about," Wilbur repeats. His tongue feels numb, and his arms feel cold. He rubs them, trying to get some sort of feeling back. "Plus—" he stops. Plus, why do you even care?

He doesn't. Quackity doesn't care. No one does. Wilbur feels colder, and hugs himself more tightly.

"I'm not letting you leave." Quackity's voice is low and firm. "Not with what you've just confessed. Sit down, Wilbur."

"Oh for fuck’s—I'm not a danger to you."

"You're white as a sheet. Sit down."

“Quackity, you can’t just—”

”Wilbur, this isn’t optional. I’m not fucking asking for your input.” Quackity takes a step forward, and Wilbur can’t help but cringe away from him, eyes flicking up to the door a moment, sizing it up, judging the distance. Surely he could make it, if he pulled all his stops. Dart past Quackity, shake the man’s hand from where it will inevitably close around his shoulder, shove his way out of the room.

Quackity shifts, and Wilbur’s attention immediately snaps back down to him, tensing. But Quackity has stepped backwards, and as he moves away from Wilbur, his hands reach up to the chain around his neck.

“Alright, fine,” Quackity says, taking the necklace in his hands and lowering them back to his side. Wilbur swallows nervously, caught off-guard by this...what is Quackity doing? “Alright, Wilbur. Have it your way.”

Quackity turns his back to Wilbur and strides over to the door, and Wilbur realises a moment too late that Quackity now holds a key, and what that means he is about to do. Dread swarms up his throat, strangling words of protest as he steps forward, hand extending as though he could somehow stop Quackity as he slides the key into the door and twists with an audible click, locking them both in.

When Quackity steps away from the door, necklace hanging innocently from his hand, Wilbur can't do anything but stare. He just feels so—hopeless. He doesn't understand why Quackity is bothering to push the matter so much, but it hardly even matters now. Nothing matters.

He isn't going to see Tommy tonight. Wilbur is surprised to find the thought is genuinely crushing. Like some part of him did truly want to see Tommy simply for that, simply to experience the kid's bright presence.

It doesn't matter. Now it seems his night will be here, under Quackity's burning gaze, at the mercy of his endless questions.

He watches, completely numb, as Quackity refastens the key around his neck and tucks it under his shirt.

"Now, will you sit?" Quackity asks. He sounds less angry now, more apprehensive. Wilbur just stares at him, stomach twisted into knots, mouth bitter with placebo bile. "Wilbur...please, man."

"Don't touch me," Wilbur whispers as Quackity draws near. "Don't—don't."

"Okay." Quackity's voice is soft. "Just come over here." He motions to the sofa, set against the far wall, to the left of the desk.

"Quackity—" Wilbur stops. He doesn't even know how to protest, not any more. His eyes well up with tears once more, smouldering and hot. He sniffles.

"We're not going to fight." Quackity speaks to him like a wounded animal. Gentle and sweet. At a low volume. "Just talk. Come sit, before you fall over."

"I don't want to." Tears roll down Wilbur's cheeks, and he wipes them away with his sleeve, pausing to scrub at his nose. Even so, slowly, his legs carry him over towards the couch. Quackity follows him, hand hovering by his shoulder. Not touching, however clearly he wants to.

Wilbur sinks hesitantly down onto the sofa, cramming himself right into the corner, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. Quackity stares down at him for a long moment before heaving a sigh and moving to sit beside him. He perches right on the edge of the cushions, shoulders tense, spine ramrod-straight. They stare at each other, Wilbur pressing himself further backwards, clutching nervously at the fabric of his trousers. Silence stretches between them.

"Why are you doing this?" Wilbur breaks it with a whisper. He bites down on his lower lip, trying to stop it from quivering, trying to blink back the tears that endlessly flood his eyes. "I-I don't understand. You—you hate me. Aren't you...shouldn't you be—" happy? He can't bring himself to say it. He's sure Quackity can finish the sentence.

"You don't deserve to die," Quackity says, and Wilbur can't help but scoff. Quackity purses his lips. "I fucking mean it, Wilbur. You shouldn't...history shouldn't repeat itself, not like this."

"History's been repeating itself just fine," Wilbur snaps, thinking about Paradise and Fundy and, Prime, the TNT he had Ranboo plant in the foundations of this very city. The past come back to haunt him, again and again and again. That implies it ever left. "I thought I'd just fall in line."

Quackity stares at him, something mournful flitting across his expression. "What happened?" he asks, and his voice is soft. "You came back, and you were...you were so fucking alive, Wilbur. You were just...what happened?"

"I woke up," Wilbur snaps, something painful and razor sharp crystalizing in his chest. It brings further tears to his eyes. "I took off the fucking rose-tinted glasses, Q! I actually looked around at the goddamn world! And you know what I saw?" His anger shrivels right back up again. He sinks further into his corner of the couch, sniffling. He brings his sleeve back to his nose. "...I saw a world that I f-fucked up. I saw a world of people that didn't want me around. A world that preferred a ghost. A world that couldn't ever forgive. And I hadn't changed, either! I was the same person. I blew up places, I got people killed. And you k-know what that means."

"I don't," Quackity says, and his voice is strained. "I actually don't, Wilbur. And—and don't you think you're giving yourself too much credit? I don't think you singlehandedly fucked up the server."

"No?" Wilbur laughs. It comes out more like a choking sound. "I'm sure some people would say otherwise. Especially after I came back. Especially after I killed Ghostbur."

Quackity stares at him. "Who told you that?"

Wilbur smiles thinly. "Tommy."

"Okay," Quackity says. "Okay, so...so I don't think that's true."

"I didn't do the act," Wilbur waves his hand, "I know t-that. But it's semantics Quackity, really. If it hadn't been for me, Tommy's precious ghost would still be around."

"Wilbur, Ghostbur only ever existed because of you." Quackity crosses his arms and leans back. Then, he seems to speak almost to himself, "...this is so much more than I thought."

"Forget Ghostbur," Wilbur blurts. "Forget the ghost. Ranboo is enough. Ranboo is more than enough. And you know that Quackity, I know you do."

“Ranboo...oh.” Quackity’s expression tightens into a grimace, shoulders rising slightly as he looks away. “Did you manage to speak to him, at all? Before the breakout? As you gave these—apologies of yours?”

Quackity’s words freeze the air in Wilbur’s chest, and he inhales sharply as his hands clench into his coat. “What?” he chokes out, voice scraping like barbed wire against his throat. Surely—surely Quackity isn’t digging at this, not even now. “What do you—what the fuck, Quackity? Are you—why would you—what?”

“...what?” Quackity turns to properly face Wilbur, addressing him more directly. “Ranboo came looking for you, you know. Sought me out, asked if I’d seen you—I hadn’t, of course. When he didn’t come back, I assumed he found you. And then...the breakout happened.”

“What? I don’t—what are you—” Wilbur clenches his jaw, swallowing thickly. He shouldn’t be hurt, he shouldn’t be hurt because he has known this entire time that Quackity doesn’t care. But nothing has prepared him for this. He is stumbling in the dark, completely blind to the game Quackity is playing. “You—why would you...I-I don’t understand. This isn’t—it’s not fucking f-funny, Quackity.”

Quackity’s eyes sharpen, regaining some of the keenness that he has concealed behind the false pretence of kindness. “Of course it’s not. Why would you think—why would you ask?”

"Don't—don't fucking disparage him." Wilbur's voice shakes as he clenches his hands into fists. "Even to get back at me. I-I get it, okay? I deserve it. But fucking...Ranboo doesn't. We've dragged him into enough of our shit." Wilbur feels sick even speaking. He feels disgraceful and small. Who is he to try and defend Ranboo's name? To even dare? To try and preserve what remains of his story? But it is the least he can do. After everything, everything. To try and bring the kid's memory some peace.

Quackity's expression is burrowing straight into Wilbur's soul. "I think," he says, with measured words and an even tone, "I am missing some sort of context." He sounds so callously unbothered. Wilbur blinks rapidly.

"You were there," Wilbur hisses, appalled. "Literally there, Quackity. You know what happened to him, I—he—I got him killed."

"With your stupid explosion plot, I know," Quackity says. He crosses his arms. "I'm well aware, Wilbur. You're not rocking my world here."

"Then stop telling lies!" Wilbur's voice raises, dangerously close to a cry. "Stop saying shit that's impossible to fuck with me!"

Quackity looks confused—but beneath that, is a level of something almost akin to realisation, to dread. "I lied?"

"Well obviously, Quackity," Wilbur breathes, mock sweet and patient. He seethes with every word. "A dead man cannot come visit you. Ranboo cannot have visited you, because—lest you forget again—I killed him."

"And I killed Schlatt," Quackity says slowly, and Wilbur's disbelief burns so strongly it leaves him numb. Quackity cannot be making this comparison "I shot him in the back. And we all still watched him die."

"What game is this?" Wilbur's voice is hollow, dull. Part of him wants to speak bitingly, but he doesn’t have it left in him. Not anymore. "I don’t understand. What are you playing, Quackity?"

Quackity stares at him, and there is something devastated in his expression. He swallows visibly, hands clasped tightly together, knuckles straining against skin.

"Wilbur." Quackity speaks as though Wilbur is going to break. "The explosion...you know that wasn't Ranboo's final death, right? He respawned. He respawned, and then died again.”

...what?

No. What?

Wilbur opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. He blinks rapidly, eyes burning with unshed tears. He didn’t think Quackity was so cruel.

"Stop," Wilbur says, his voice returning at a strained pitch. "Stop, you...you can't say that."

"It's true Wilbur, I never realised..." Quackity leans forward and shakes his head. "The explosion in Paradise wasn't his final death. He came here, to Las Nevadas, not long after. He was looking for you."

Quackity needs to stop talking. Wilbur needs him to stop talking. He doesn't think he can breathe. This cannot be possible. Ranboo is dead. Ranboo was dead. He never reappeared after the explosion. No one saw him, not Wilbur, not Techno, not Phil. He didn't return to his house in the arctic. He didn't respawn. Wilbur is sure. He is—

"You're lying," Wilbur whispers.

"I'm not," Quackity's voice is full of such pity. His face twists in pain and dismay. "I'm not, I'm really not. He died in the prison break, Wilbur. Did you...did you not hear about that? Sam killed him. Sam killed him to try and stop Dream. Sam took Ranboo's final death, not you."

It's too much information. Wilbur wants to slam his hands over his ears. He wants to get up and run. He wants to cry. This is impossible. He can't dare to believe such a thing.

"No way," he whispers, shaking his head. "No. No. No one saw him. Phil didn't see him. I didn't see him. He was gone, gone! I killed him, Quackity!"

"Wilbur, people were there. At the prison. People saw it happen—Philza was there. Half the goddamn server was there. Sam killed Ranboo. I promise you, it's the truth. He respawned. The explosion wasn't his final death."

The explosion wasn’t his final death.

Wilbur could have spoken to him.

Ranboo was alive. He was alive, and Wilbur could have spoken to him again. Could have apologised to him. Could have said sorry, sorry, sorry for the explosion, for Paradise, for ever coming into his life. Wilbur could have found him, had he been quicker. Searched harder.

"But I killed him." The fact has been eating at him for months. Smoke in his lungs, blood on his hands. Murderer, murderer. "I-I don't—why would he—I killed him, Quackity. You saw it. You—you were there. I killed him."

"It wasn't his final death," Quackity repeats firmly, one hand carefully reaching out to settle on Wilbur's knee. His touch is warm, even though the fabric of his pants. Wilbur stiffens, but there is nowhere to shrink back into. Wedged into the corner of the couch, he cannot shy away. "He wasn't angry, Wilbur. When he came to Las Nevadas. Not at you, not about his death. He told me...he made a choice. He was well aware what would happen when he jumped. It was his choice."

"Stop," Wilbur whispers, as tears begin to blur his vision once more. Warmth trickles down his cheeks. It is slow this time; he doesn't have the energy to sob. He can't protest more than that. It is all just...too much. It's too much.

"You need to hear this," Quackity says, a firmness to his voice that makes it clear he isn't going to back down. "You need to accept this. You've...been under a big misconception, Wilbur."

"I thought—I thought—" Wilbur hiccups, lifting a hand to press the heel of his palm into his eye. It does nothing to stop the flow of tears; if anything, it just makes him cry worse. Quackity's fingers squeeze his knee gently. "Oh no. Oh fuck."

"It's okay," Quackity says, soft and soothing—and he's such a fucking liar. He's so full of shit. Yet Wilbur can't find it in himself to protest, to argue, to push him away. Even if nothing is even remotely okay.

"I needed to apologise," Wilbur sniffles. "I need to apologise, I could've—Quackity, I could've. I could've and I didn't."

"That's not your fault," Quackity begins, and shushes him when Wilbur tries to interrupt. "No, stop—you are in no way responsible for Ranboo's third death, hear me? You weren't even there."

"But if I hadn't—" Wilbur drops his hands into his lap. They move again of his own accord, his fingers wrapping tightly around Quackity's wrist, clinging. Like if he lets go, he might shatter. "The explosion—he would've lived. If I hadn't done any of that, he'd still be alive."

"If I hadn't shot Schlatt, he might still be alive," Quackity says, and Wilbur hates the comparison. He absolutely hates it, but at least it makes sense now. "Maybe that heart attack wouldn't have taken him out; only a second death, right? Except maybe he would have had another the next day and gone out just the same, only a day later. Or maybe someone would've shot him when he respawned—you had already told Tommy to before he dropped. We drive ourselves crazy with 'what if's, Wilbur."

"You can't compare Ranboo to Schlatt," Wilbur mumbles, but—he can feel himself calming down. The tears he blinks away aren't immediately replaced, and the words he speaks are less hampered by the lump in his throat. "He fucking had it coming. We—we both know he did."

"That's not my point," Quackity huffs, leaning back into the couch. He doesn't pull his hand away. "Of course they're different. But hell, shouldn't I feel guiltier than you? I held the crossbow, I pulled the trigger. I murdered him, Wilbur. You didn't even mean to kill Ranboo. Ranboo chose to jump. If I don't feel guilty, then neither should you. Okay?"

Wilbur's lip quivers. "Okay," he repeats, and his voice cracks. He opens his mouth to continue, but he doesn't know what else there is to say. His teeth click wordlessly shut.

Quackity smiles at him. "Good. Good, see? That's good."

"Thanks." The word trembles, soft and weak, and Wilbur’s mind flits back to all the other people he has spoken to. The past weeks, apology after apology, the steadily growing weight on his shoulders. Quackity dragging him inside, accusation after accusation, the shatter of his potion vial. "I-I don't—no one else ever tried...why, Q? Why are you doing this?"

Quackity's face goes blank as soon as the words come out of Wilbur's mouth. A careful, fabricated type of blank, a neutrality meant to not give anything away. It should be suspicious, yet Wilbur can't help but think that the response was probably instinctive. Subconscious. He certainly has seen Quackity close up like that a number of times, usually in response to probing questions. Wilbur scrubs at his eyes, looking a bit closer at Quackity, his curiosity growing.

"Well..." Quackity stops, mouth closing with an audible click. He seems to roll words around in his mouth, considering them. Wilbur waits, hungry for an answer. He hasn't been so desperate for someone to explain something in a long while. He hasn't had the energy to muster such conviction. "If I'm honest Wilbur—this whole situation. It's very fucking sad." Quackity glances to the side momentarily, the blasé nature of his words betrayed by the seriousness in his eyes. "It isn't right, to just ignore—"

"Oh come off it, Q," Wilbur whispers. Quackity falls silent. "I know this has nothing to do with morals." He huffs a wet laugh that Quackity doesn't return.

Quackity stares at Wilbur. He wets his lips, and draws a breath. Hesitates, and looks away. Wilbur watches silently, tracking the minute twitches of Quackity's expression; the way his brow creases, his jaw clenches, his lips tighten. Wilbur wonders what's going through his head, but feels no particular need to urge him to respond. For however much Wilbur wants to know...they aren't under a timer. Quackity has made it abundantly obvious that Wilbur isn't going to leave, so the only real risk is of Quackity trying to deflect, or coming up with a convincing lie.

Wilbur trusts his ability to push past the first. As for the second, well. If Quackity does it well enough, Wilbur won't know. And if he does it poorly, Wilbur can just lay on some pressure. Turn the tables. Easier thought than done, but...he wasn't lying when he told Quackity he had nothing left to lose.

"I already said you didn't deserve to die," Quackity finally says, and Wilbur's eyes narrow. "I meant that, Wilbur. You're alive. After everything, you're alive again. And you shouldn't—you don't have to die. Not for yourself, not for anyone else."

Wilbur presses his lips together, rolling his response to that around in his mind. Wondering if it is worth saying what he's sure Quackity doesn't want to hear, although already knows—if his aborted, quickly rerouted sentence has anything to say. In the end, Wilbur's mind jumps ahead of him, and the words slip out anyways. "Sure. No one has to die. But some people should."

Quackity's eyes go wide. "Wilbur!" he says, like a parent whose child has just sworn. "Jesus. No."

"No?" Wilbur parrots, and he knows Quackity isn't saying enough. "I'll bet there are people you think should be dead, Quackity. I'm sure, in fact."

"But not you!" Quackity explodes, and his voice is nearly at the volume of a shout. He inhales deeply, exhales with a shudder. His hands clench into fists. "Not you, Wilbur. Never you."

"Goddammit Quackity, why!?" Wilbur pleads, frustration simmering in his chest. "I-I don't understand. I don't get it. I genuinely don't! I'm not special. I'm not different!"

“Like hell you’re not!” Quackity cries and Wilbur rears back, blindsided by his sudden intensity. “You’re the most fucking egotistical, self-centred prick I’ve ever met! Who the fuck are you, saying that? After everything you’ve done, everything you’ve created and ruined and built and destroyed. After all of it, like fuck can you say that!” Quackity’s expression is set in a glare, chest heaving from the force of his proclamation. His eyes bore into Wilbur for a moment before he squeezes them shut and looks away, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Wilbur...” Quackity’s voice is quieter now, softened by that momentary lapse. Wilbur didn’t even come close to finding a response. “Don’t you know how much you’ve done? How much of an impact you’ve had on this server, on history, on—me? Sure, L’Manberg is gone. You blew it up, and then it got wiped down to bedrock. But—fuck, don’t you understand the legacy you’ve left? The good stuff, Wilbur. The good stuff. You set so much, so much into motion. This city, my—so much of what I’ve done. It’s because of you, man. Because of L’Manberg. I used to look up to you, you know? Back, way back, when you were the shining president. And then—you died. You died, and you came back, and you focused on me. For months and months, with Ranboo and your stupid van and—I never got it. I never understood why. But...but I think now—

“Wilbur, you don’t have to—you’re not—” Quackity is struggling with his words, struggling to voice whatever realisation he seems to have had. His jaw works for a moment, brow furrowing. “All your history—has anyone ever apologised to you?” He pauses a moment, and then, “...have you ever forgiven yourself?”

Wilbur's face feels scorched, as though Quackity has become a burning bonfire—as though the sheer emotion imbued in his words has radiated outwards like heat and burned him right to the very bone. He feels raw and exposed, and no less confused than when he began asking—demanding—questions in the very first place. Passion is a word he always associated with Quackity, but recently it simmered low and subdued. Hidden behind a collected, put-together persona and carefully crafted elegance. Now it is fiery and explosive, allowed to run free. It smells like gunpowder and fireworks.

Wilbur is at a complete loss for words.

And even all of that is just Quackity's tone, be it loud or soft. That isn't accounting for his...words. His sentiment. Whatever the hell he is trying to say.

Has anyone ever apologised to you?

It's preposterous.

Quackity is staring at him, wide eyes so full that Wilbur cannot even begin to parse each individual element. He looks nearly as caught off guard as Wilbur feels.

Wilbur thinks the last time Quackity was this worked up was under Paradise, when they were both grappling to save Tubbo from the rigged detonation room. Then, Quackity was mad at him. Now—somehow—Wilbur thinks Quackity might be mad for him.

His legs feel unsteady. Despite already being seated, he has the sudden urge to sit down. Hard.

"Wilbur?" Quackity asks, and right. There is a question Wilbur hasn't answered. He clears his throat.

"I'm never going to forgive myself," Wilbur answers lowly, honestly. Quackity face drops, and Wilbur watches the reaction with an honest sense of curiosity.

Quackity makes a visible but shoddy job of concealing his dismay, the sight of which is enough to have slight guilt tugging at Wilbur's chest—and isn't that just fucking ridiculous. He was literally just answering Quackity's question, doing so truthfully for once. Yet he can't help but feel that he should have answered with something different, something less...depressing. Some part of him even seems to think he should be able to do that honestly.

Wilbur wants to find that filthy little part of himself and beat it with a stick. The last person he deserves sympathy from is himself.

"You should," Quackity says, quiet but firm, as though he can read Wilbur's thoughts. Something winds tight in Wilbur's chest, the terrible, slimy thing that wants to listen to Quackity's words. "You really should."

"Sure, Quackity," Wilbur scoffs, nails digging crescents into his palm. "Sure. And I should go revive Ranboo as well, shouldn't I? Go and un-explode L'Manberg? Undo the election? Any other bright ideas?"

"You could be easier on yourself," Quackity says mildly. "Be fucking fair to yourself."

"You'll have to forgive my scepticism," Wilbur sneers, hand closing around the arm of the sofa. "Fucking forgive myself. That's a bit hypocritical, isn't it? Why don't you go first?"

Quackity's brow furrows with what seems to be genuine confusion "Why don't I...forgive myself? Wilbur, I don't—"

"No," Wilbur cuts in sharply, and he allows a nasty little grin to twist his lips. He raises the knife—his words, sharpened to perfection—and shoves it in. "How about you forgive me, Quackity?"

Quackity's eyes go wide, and his face blanches a little. His mouth opens and closes, obviously floundering for a reply.

"Yeah. Not so easy is it." Wilbur's smile drops, but his tone remains cruel. "Now you understand. Don't lecture me about forgiveness, Quackity. I won't forgive anything that others can't. I won't waste my time—"

"Wilbur," Quackity interrupts him, voice ragged. "Shut up. Shut up, listen to me."

"Hypocrite," Wilbur snaps on instinct. Quackity stares at him. Wilbur wets his lips, fingers squeezing the arm of the sofa until his knuckles ache. "Right. Yes. Fine. What is it, Quackity?"

Quackity shakes his head, silent for a moment, as though trying to gather his thoughts. His hands twist in his lap, anxiously wringing one another. "...I do forgive you."

Wilbur goes very still. His ears are ringing slightly. "...come again?"

Quackity looks up at him, meets his eyes fully, his expression more determined this time. His eyes narrow, his lips pressed in a thin line. He leans forward. "Wilbur. I forgive you. So don't tell me you can't forgive yourself because you don't have...permission to. Because that is horseshit."

Wilbur's heart pounds in his chest. "...haha," he murmurs humorlessly, and his voice sounds far away. From down a distant tunnel. "Very funny, Q. F-fucking asshole."

"I'm not kidding." Quackity says, and he sounds so fucking serious. Wilbur's head spins. "You're sorry, I understand that now. And I accept your apology, Wilbur. I forgive you."

"Those are just words," Wilbur says numbly. "You're only saying that because I'm going to kill myself."

Quackity's expression twists. "I'm not. You're not, I'm not letting you."

"You said I was a disease." Wilbur feels nauseous, lightheaded. Quackity is lying. He's fucking lying. "What happened to that? To me just trying to salvage my reputation?"

"I was wrong. That's what happened, Wilbur. You showed up after so long and I was bitter and angry and I was wrong."

"I'm unwelcome here." Wilbur's tone edges on desperation now. Frantically clutching at the conviction that Quackity has torn to shreds. "You made it clear, Quackity. You made it clear, you can't just back out now. You can't just eat your words!"

"Are you telling me I'm wrong?" Quackity asks.

"I'm telling you that you have no idea what you're talking about."

Quackity's eyes sharpen. "So your apology was a lie? My initial assessment was right, is that it? You didn't mean any of it?"

Wilbur rears back, mouth opening wordlessly as he struggles to string together a coherent response. "No," he finally manages, barely more than a hiss. "No, fuck you! That's not—you know that's not what I meant."

"I didn't put a single word in your mouth," Quackity says, but there isn't a trace of hostility in his words.

"Fuck you," Wilbur repeats, nails digging deeper into his palm. He feels simultaneously too hot and too cold, feverish and freezing. Like he's sick. Like he's dying, even though his potion is long-since shattered. "Fuck off. Stop—stop lying. Stop acting. Stop being kind!"

"This isn't an act." Quackity’s face is painted with emotion that looks terribly, terribly genuine. "I'm not lying, Wilbur. I swear—I wouldn’t. What can I do to make you trust me?"

"Your honesty won't break me, Quackity," Wilbur snaps, not allowing himself to consider the question. “I'm not fragile, not a fucking bomb! I won't explode, if that's what you're worried about."

"No, I know," Quackity says, and continues before Wilbur can bite out a retort. "You're not exploding, Wilbur—you’re imploding. Like...like a star. A fucking supernova."

And Wilbur—

—has nothing to say. Nothing. He sits there with a dry throat and lips slightly parted, his chest tight and burning. He stares at Quackity, something hot building in his eyes, and doesn't know what to do.

He doesn't know what to do.

He doesn't have any more words to say.

Quackity stares at him with such sad patience, and it only makes everything worse. Makes every sensation in Wilbur's body more pointed, more jagged. He wants to turn his head away, block out that fucking turbulent expression coating Quackity's face, but he can't. It is pity, but it's soft. Sympathetic. Caring in a way that makes Wilbur feel sick, like how too much sugar is cloying and disgusting. Nauseous syrup. He wants to cry, but he has cried far, far too much.

His silence lasts too long, and Quackity sighs; it emerges as nothing more than a soft puff of air. Rueful, almost mournful. Quackity stands.

Wilbur immediately shrinks back into the sofa, renewed wariness prickling across his skin as he watches, not knowing what to expect. Except Quackity doesn’t even face him, just closes his eyes a moment too long to be a blink before turning and moving across the room.

Wilbur opens his mouth to say something—what are you doing, where are you going, please don’t leave me alone—but he finds himself still unable to choke out a single word. Tongue tied up in his mouth, silver turned lead. His jaw closes silently, and he sits statue still as Quackity kneels by a cabinet set against the wall and pulls open the bottom drawer. From it, he withdraws a blanket. Pale and fluffy, neatly folded, tucked away in his office as though it belongs.

Quackity straightens, turning back around and meeting Wilbur’s gaze. Wilbur stares. And stares some more as Quackity offers him the most hesitant of smiles, nudging the drawer shut with a foot before starting back towards the couch.

The blanket looks fucking bizarre in Quackity's arms. An anomaly that Wilbur can't quite reconcile; he feels like his brain isn't able to process the image of Quackity holding a fluffy blanket. Yet he is, and Wilbur is undeniably seeing it.

Quackity steps closer, returning to the sofa, and Wilbur turns his head slowly to track his movements. His lips are slightly parted in confusion.

"Here," Quackity says, and his voice is undeniably kind. Wilbur's skin crawls. He doesn't have a chance to respond before Quackity is unfolding the blanket like the wrapping paper to a present—and then, in one smooth motion, the soft fabric has been draped around Wilbur's shoulders.

Wilbur remains stock still as Quackity sits and tucks the ends around his waist, bundling him in.

He stares.

"That's better," Quackity murmurs, eyes lifting to hesitantly meet Wilbur's. His expression is calm, though his fingers twitch anxiously in his lap. They are sitting awfully close now, Quackity facing him, and Wilbur still doesn't feel like he has caught up to present reality. He is lagging behind.

"...what?" Wilbur finally manages to voice—a weak, thready whisper—as he lifts a trembling hand to stroke the blanket. It is so very soft beneath his ragged fingertips.

“You looked cold,” Quackity explains gently, and Wilbur thinks it has been a long time since he has been anything but. He can scarcely remember the last time he went a full day without feeling limbo’s infernal chill creeping along his bones. He has long since given up on finding anything to combat it.

The dead are cold, after all. And Wilbur doesn’t know when he was last truly alive.

So why is it that this blanket, this closeness, this kindness is stirring something warm in his chest?

“What?” Wilbur can’t help but repeat, barely any louder than before. His hands fist into the blanket, clutching the fabric, drawing it tighter around his shoulders. “What...is this?”

“I think it’s good,” Quackity says, and he seems to be acclimatising to this new arrangement. Shoulders loosening, relaxing back into the sofa; he seems at ease. Somehow. “See—you look warmer already.”

Quackity is...losing his mind. That is the only explanation Wilbur can come to. As he lightly brushes his thumb back and forth across the blanket, a soothing motion, he can't think anything but. Quackity must be going insane, to be acting like this. Toward him. Wilbur burrows his eyes into Quackity's skull, like he might see straight through and into his brain, might see whatever problem needs correcting to send things back to normal. Back to as they were. He is unsuccessful at anything but drawing more attention to himself.

"Hey." Quackity reaches out, takes his hands in his own. Quackity's palms are awfully warm. "Relax."

"Relax?" The word is nearly foreign, at least in terms of himself.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Quackity says, very seriously. "You're safe here, you know. You don't have to be afraid, in this city. Around me."

Wilbur shudders. "I have to be very afraid, I think," he whispers, turning his head away. Quackity releases his hand, but suddenly fingertips brush his jaw instead—ever so lightly, but still Wilbur jumps—pressing until their eyes meet.

"You don't," Quackity murmurs, and his presence is completely overwhelming. Nearly suffocating. Wilbur stares. "You don't. The last thing I want for you is harm. I won't let anyone hurt you here. Even yourself."

Wilbur swallows thickly, leaning backwards slightly. Quackity's gentle fingers drop away from his cheek, and Wilbur doesn't know why it feels like a loss. "...I'm not staying," he says, barely more than a whisper. Quackity's face falls, and Wilbur tries to ignore the guilt that writhes in his chest. "I-I can't, Q. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I need to—I need to find Tommy. He isn't going to know where I am."

"And what then?" Quackity asks, and his voice is fragile. "What happens next, Wilbur?"

"I-I—" Wilbur stumbles miserably, wanting to look anywhere but Quackity's terribly expressive eyes, but unable to tear his gaze away.

His mind flickers to the prospect of finding food to eat, a place to sleep. Of having to drag himself up tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that. Of having to live tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

One meeting can't change anything. Even if Quackity cares now, he will grow sick of Wilbur eventually. People always do. It would be better to leave now, before that inevitability. To be able to hold onto this single seed of goodness, before it has a chance to rot.

"I don't know. I don't know, but I can't stay. I'm sorry." The words leave his mouth, yet Wilbur can't find it in himself to make a move towards the door. He clutches the blanket around his shoulders, and Quackity is warm against his side, and he can't muster the will to act. He doesn't have the will to act.

Quackity is giving him a considering look, and Wilbur can see the gears whirling behind his eyes. The scheme being developed. It should be proper motivation to get up and leave; it isn't. Instead, Wilbur just sits there placidly, like a longing fool, as Quackity no doubt devises a plan to try and get him to stay.

Wilbur sighs softly, yet all he does is finally avert his gaze.

"Come eat something," Quackity says, and ah. This is the tactic he has decided to go with. Wilbur doesn't answer, and fingers brush his arm, tactile even through the blanket. "Please. Before you go."

Wilbur doubts this is the end. He is sure Quackity is going to do everything in his power to convince him not to leave. The worst part is, Wilbur can't say with certainty that he'll be able to refuse.

"I should leave now," he murmurs, keeping his eyes trained on the floor.

"A meal," Quackity insists. "Indulge me."

Well. Wilbur supposes this solves the issue of finding something to eat. For now, at least. One meal, a few hours of satiation. He tells himself that is why it only takes a few more seconds of deliberation before he caves, nodding a hesitant agreement.

The choice is just the practical one, really. Who would Wilbur be to refuse free food? Tommy probably isn’t looking for him anyway. He is only going to be annoyed when Wilbur finally does show up, for breaking his word, for making him wait so long. That, Quackity was right about. And Wilbur, coward that he is, can do with a few more hours before having to confront it.

“Alright.” Quackity is smiling again, bright and relieved, and Wilbur can’t quite believe he put that expression there. He has never been able to make beautiful things. Quackity pushes himself to his feet, and turns to extend a hand towards Wilbur. “Let’s go then. Or is there anything else you want to do first?”

Wilbur shakes his head slowly, shifting slightly so he can hold the blanket in one hand before reaching out to carefully accept Quackity’s offer, hands clasping tightly.

“You’re so light,” Quackity grumbles as he pulls Wilbur to his feet, using a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he stumbles slightly. “When did you last eat? Properly eat?”

Wilbur doesn’t know what counts as proper in Quackity’s book. He also doesn’t know the answer regardless. After too long of a pause, he shrugs, and Quackity's face does that falling thing again.

Wilbur is starting to hate when that happens. It's upsetting, in a way it really shouldn't be.

"Well, we're going to get something now," Quackity says decisively, and totally unnecessarily. Wilbur has already agreed to food. Yet Quackity keeps a tight hold on his hand as he drags them together towards the door—like he expects Wilbur to try and duck away at the first opportunity.

Wilbur is too tall for the blanket to brush the floor, but it still billows around his legs as he walks. He probably shouldn't be bringing it out of the office, but as Quackity fumbles to unlock the door one-handedly, Wilbur gets the sense that he really doesn't mind. Wilbur pulls the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. He wonders if he will even be able to find Tommy, by the time he gets out of Las Nevadas. It might be far too late, Tommy might be asleep.

His hand is squeezed, and Wilbur jumps. The door is open now, he realises, and Quackity stands just outside of it, tugging lightly on their joined grip.

"Come on," he urges, and his voice is just—gentle. It makes Wilbur feel small, even though he's actively looking down at the other man.

"Sorry," Wilbur murmurs. "...got distracted."

"I know," Quackity says, for once completely unsarcastic. He squeezes Wilbur's hand again, and the constant contact allows for far more nuance than simply a brush of fingers against skin, like he has been so prone to before. Tentatively, Wilbur squeezes Quackity's slightly clammy palm back. Quackity's face lights up in a grin, and Wilbur suddenly doesn't mind the sweat that comes with hand-holding at all. Maybe this meal will be...bearable.

Quackity keeps up a commentary as they move through the hallways and back down the staircase, Wilbur walking pliantly along behind him, listening with little comment. Quackity goes through the options of what they could eat, and requires no input from Wilbur to come to the decision that they will have leftovers from the night before—a good meal, if Quackity's word is to be believed. Part of Wilbur wants to ask why they aren't going to the perfectly serviceable Needle restaurant, but the majority of him is just glad to not have to go anywhere populated. He will settle for counting his blessings.

Quackity guides Wilbur into the casino's main room and over to a secluded little booth, tucked into one corner.

"You can sit here," Quackity says, letting go of Wilbur's hand. Wilbur shifts his weight, drawing his hands up to his chest. "I'll grab the food, alright?"

"Okay," Wilbur mumbles, trying to ignore the anxiety that bubbles in his chest. He hesitates a moment before sliding into the booth, shuffling right up to the wall.

Quackity's eyes are soft. "I'll be right back."

"Mm." Wilbur doesn't give any more than a hum of acknowledgment, but Quackity seems to accept that as approval to leave. Wilbur watches him go, watches his back until Quackity vanishes behind two double doors with circular windows. Almost immediately, Wilbur eyes jump back to the entrance of the casino's main room—the doors leading out to the foyer and the casino's exit.

He could leave. Right now, he could get up and go. Quackity wouldn't return fast enough to stop him. The distance isn't far, and Wilbur is sure he could make it before Quackity came back, especially if he ran.

He blinks a few times, rapidly. The plush backing of the booth is comforting against his shoulder blades; the blanket is warm and pulled tight around his body. There is a promise of food, soon.

He doesn't really want to run.

Tears prick at the corners of Wilbur's eyes, and he wiggles a hand free from the folds of his fabric cape to quickly scrub them away. He feels weak. It shouldn't be this hard to get up and go. He has done it countless times in the past, in countless contexts.

But Quackity will return, food in his hands, and see the empty booth and abandoned blanket, and his face will plummet.

"Goddammit," Wilbur whispers, staring down at the smooth, polished table top. His voice cracks. "Fuck. Shit."

He curls up his legs beneath him, tucking himself back into the corner of the booth. His window of opportunity slips through his fingers, frigid water that he refuses to dive into. He is still staring at the table when across the hall, he hears doors reopen.

Wilbur cringes even further against the wall, shoulders hunching over as Quackity's footsteps approach. His polished shoes click sharply against the floor, and Wilbur feels the burn in his eyes intensify. He lifts his other hand to dig his palms into his eyes, willing himself to calm as the blanket slips down his shoulders, as he hears Quackity's footsteps draw to a halt. He can't be crying when he looks up. He can't. He can't.

"Wilbur?" Quackity asks, plates making a slight scraping sound as he places them on the tabletop. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Wilbur lies, and he can't even keep his voice from trembling. A lump blocks his throat, and he tries to clear it. "I'm fine, Q. I'm fine."

Wilbur hears as Quackity takes a seat of his own, the soft brush of fabric against leather. A moment later, warm fingers close gently around his wrist. Not squeezing, not pulling—just holding. A grounding touch. Wilbur squeezes his eyes shut.

"Hey," Quackity says softly, and Wilbur doesn't have it in himself to look up, to meet Quackity's gaze. He doesn't think he could handle it. "It's...it's gonna be okay, Wilbur. I'm here, yeah? It's okay."

Wilbur feels something crack inside him. Hairline fractures winding through the tattered remains of his composure, the dam of emotions that has already seen so much damage today. His shoulders quake, the effort required to hold himself together increasing tenfold. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know how to handle the future promised in Quackity's actions and words. He doesn't know how he's going to live, if Quackity won't let him die.

"It's too much," Wilbur forces out past a tight throat, and what he really means is 'You're too much.' What he really means is 'You overwhelm me. You're overwhelming me.' Yet he makes no effort to pull away from the grip Quackity has around his wrist. He is weak to the touch, warm and comforting as it is. It isn't restrictive, yet it might as well be, for how powerless Wilbur is to detangle himself. It is all too much—and not enough, at the same time.

He is exhausted.

Dimly, Wilbur becomes aware of the fact that Quackity is moving his thumb back and forth against his hand, a slow and soothing motion. It draws Wilbur back from the recesses of his thoughts, until he is staring at Quackity in disbelief. Quackity offers him a tentative smile.

"Eat something," he says, as though Wilbur isn't on the verge of falling to pieces. As though he isn't hundred-year-old mortar between weather-worn bricks.

"I might vomit," Wilbur whispers honestly, considering the anxiety and turmoil swirling in his gut. To his shock, Quackity laughs.

"That's okay," he says, and Wilbur cannot believe this man. He has been...replaced. By a demon, in his likeness; it is the only explanation. The Quackity he knows wouldn't let anyone throw up on his precious marble tiles, least of all Wilbur. The metaphorical dirt on his shining boots, to be brushed off and swept away from prying eyes.

Wilbur tries to shrug the uncomfortable thought away, finally turning his attention to the food Quackity brought with him; his eyes land on two plates piled high with gravy-soaked steak and potatoes, and a side of green vegetables. Curls of steam rise delicately from both plates, dissipating into the air—clearly, Quackity took the time to reheat the meals. A pair of stacked glasses sit beside a jug of water, and the sight of it has Wilbur realising quite abruptly just how parched his throat is.

Multiple sessions of crying will do that, he supposes.

Quackity leans over to drag the plates down the table, taking one for himself and pushing the other towards Wilbur. He leaves the water be.

'I'm not going to be able to eat all that,' is what Wilbur thinks. 'I'm not hungry,' is what he considers saying. Nothing, is what he does. A long stretch of stillness as he stares first down at his meal, then up at Quackity.

"Here." Quackity holds out a set of cutlery, and keeps his hand outstretched as Wilbur does nothing but blink a few times, trying to regain a hold of himself. Trying to push himself into motion.

Quackity sits, infinitely patient as Wilbur finally reaches out, slow and silent as he accepts the offered silverware. Quackity sits back, apparently satisfied as Wilbur's hands clench around cold metal handles, as he forces his attention down to the plate before him a moment before looking back up at the water.

Wilbur clears his throat softly, setting the cutlery down on the table. “Can I...” he trails off, and doesn’t know why he can’t find it in him to just reach out and pour a glass of water himself. Everything feels slow and heavy, every action weighed down by the lead shackles clamped around his wrists.

Quackity seems to get the message, though—potentially from the way Wilbur is making pathetic doe-eyes at the water—as he unstacks the glasses and picks up the jug.

“Sorry—guess I forgot,” he says, filling the glass with water then sliding it over to Wilbur, who doesn’t know why he is bothering to apologise. “Here.”

Wilbur quickly picks it up, cupping it in both hands, not giving the water time to settle, not giving it the chance to show his reflection. That isn’t something he needs to see. He tries not to focus on the way Quackity is watching him; the weight of his silent attention bears down on Wilbur’s shoulders as he lifts the glass to his lips, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the table.

The cold water is soothing against his dry throat, though it does little to calm his churning gut, the pit of ice that has nestled next to his heart.

“I considered bringing something warmer,” Quackity says. “But I, uh—I didn’t know what you would like. Tea, coffee, hot cocoa...I thought water was the safest bet.”

"It's fine," Wilbur murmurs when he lowers the cup from his lips. It is nearly drained, and he sets it down on the table with a soft 'thump.' When his hand retracts, Quackity wordlessly reaches out to top off the drink once more before turning his attention to his food.

Wilbur watches Quackity's bowed head for a moment, his heart beating an irregular rhythm in his ribcage. Only when Q takes a bite and glances up inquiringly does Wilbur finally look down at his plate and fumble his own silverware to make the effort of consuming food.

It is almost too hot when it touches his lips—smarting against his tongue, and he chews and swallows quickly to get rid of the burning sensation. But it tastes good. Far better than anything Wilbur can remember eating...in a long while. Perhaps since the last meal he ate with Quackity, sat atop the Needle. Before Paradise fell.

"I can always get more," Q says softly, unprompted. An unspoken urge to 'eat as much as you want.' Wilbur frowns, not looking up.

"I don't think I'll even finish this," he says to his steak.

"That's okay too," Quackity says after a beat, and Wilbur can't help but wonder how he would react if Wilbur just put his cutlery down now. Pushed the food away, refused to cooperate with all this effort Q is making. Would he get angry, or maintain this placid gentleness? How far would he be willing to push Wilbur to force him to comply? How far would Wilbur be able to push him before something broke?

Wilbur cuts himself another bite of steak, and says nothing. He doesn't want to ruin this. He doesn’t even want to try.

The food is nice, and the company is too.

And for now, at least, that might just be enough.