Chapter Text
Quackity sighed, footsteps echoing through the corridor. It’d been five days since he’d met the ‘new’ Slime. Five long days.
Slime was quiet, rarely speaking and only interacting when he needed to. He’d spent most of his time locked up in the room Quackity set up for him, basking in the ability to lock Quackity out, so it seems.
The paperwork shifted in his hands as Quackity unlocked his condo door. It was times like this when he was most grateful to live in a place nearby his office, especially with mountains of paperwork in his arms that nearly blocked his vision with their height.
He grunted as the pile of paperwork slumped over on the small, glass coffee table. He straightened back up, hands falling to his hips as he stared disappointingly at the papers, as if he could wish them away.
He had been slowly turning his bedroom into a makeshift office. With winter just around the corner, he wanted to focus on talking to the slime currently occupying the guest bedroom. A task that started with working from home.
Quackity closed the door behind him with a weary sigh, shrugging off his tie and suspenders before plopping onto the couch. He grabbed a large chunk of papers from the top of the pile and started sorting. Bills, receipts, executive orders, trade proclamations, and more.
The more he worked, the more he realized how much the couch he was sitting on was, in fact, not made for comfort. That the lights above him are a bit too bright and pale for his liking. He grabbed another stack, a larger one this time. He persevered, sifting through the larger stacks of papers until each one was categorized and held together in manilla folders.
He slumped into the rough couch, staring at the folders from far back. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and allowed himself a brief nap, one well deserved.
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The hallway was dark as the door creaked open, a bright green eye peaking through. Slime squeezed out the door, a cream colored mug held carefully in his hands. He stepped through the hall, eyeing the pictures on the wall as he walked.
Several consisted of people he didn’t know, as well as members of Las Nevadas, and, as he would get goosebumps looking at, himself.
There was one picture of himself he avoided regularly, it neared the end of the hall almost tauntingly.
The picture was of Slime, brightly smiling on the balcony of the Needle, an embarrassed Quackity wrapping an arm around his waist, hand failing terribly at shelling his smile.
Slime remembered this day clearly.
–Well,
He remembered his day.
It was one of the earlier ones, before all disaster struck.
He remembered laughing as Foolish ran for his life, Quackity, still blushing, running after the man.
Slime remembered staying back, Foolish’s camera in hand as he grinned down at the picture.
He almost feels the same warmth in his chest, that is– before he remembered that wasn’t real. This wasn’t his happiness, this wasn’t his picture.
His skin starts to tingle, almost bubble under the surface. His throat, desperately dry, is closing in on him.
Hands are shaking, the ceramic mug clattering in his hands.
Slime can feel his breath start to quicken– hands clasping around his neck as he gaged.
He turned, searching for any excuse to not focus on the picture, and soon, he turned to the room the hallway met with. He forced his legs to inch forward, hands staggering to set the mug down on the kitchen island before collapsing on the side of an island chair. He bent over, hair falling to frame his face as he caught his breath.
He huffed, graceful air filling his lungs. He sighed in relief, hand toying with his own locks as he almost laughs. He’s so pathetic.
It took him an estimated 25 minutes before having the power to stand, groaning as he inched to the counter across from him and dragging the mug under the faucet and filling it (maybe to much) with cold water.
He’d hummed approvingly as he sipped from the edge of the cup, moving to face the room in front of him with his back against the counter. His eyebrows furrowed as he gazed into the connected living room, a limp, quietly snoring body laying blissfully on the couch.
He’d memorized the room pretty well at this point, having explored it and its contants on the days Quackity was out of the house, yet he couldnt help tilt his head at the countless folders and stray papers that littered the floor and coffee table. None of the living room’s drawers or cabinets contained papers or folders similar, let alone the sheer amount that was scattered. He almost considers that they’ve came from Quackity’s room, but then again, he’s snooped through there too (as he’d hate to admit.)
He doesn’t process himself moving, only registering as his knees hit the floor with one of the folders falling into his hand. He slips the folder open, eyeing the papers as he flips through. Work. He rolls his eyes.
He sets the folder down and picks up the next, noting the weight difference before glancing only briefly at the papers inside. Work.
He picks up another, and the pattern repeats. He really should have stopped looking by now, but his hands keep moving until he’s made it halfway through the pile already. His thumb is aching where he’d must have gotten a paper cut or two, but, to his own confusion, his hands keep going.
He sighs as he opens another folder, scanning idly through before pausing. This folder was different, the papers; instead of being neatly printed copy paper, looked to be torn off of a note book, decorated with inky pen swatches and shaky words. The folder sinks to his lap as he examined the contents, eyes flickering between each sentence.
“No…” His breath is shaky, and for the second time this night, his throat seizes up and his breathing is growing scratchy. “No.” He says more firmly into the still air of the living room. He don’t know who he’s trying to convince, but his attempt is weak.
“-slime?” A sleep-rough voice breaks through the tense air, sending shivers down Slimes back. He freezes as the man shifts beside him, sitting up on the couch while his eyes inspect the scene written out in front of him.
Slime can’t find it in himself to move, not with the eyes hovering over him. Not with the papers inside his hands.
Quackity blinks, voice unsure as he pushes it out anyway. “I didn’t think you’d be up.”
“I wasn’t, I-uh, I needed water.“ Slime says, voice horse as he finally looks up to meet the man’s eyes, but what’s worse, is that Quackity’s eyes aren’t on him, but instead glued to the papers crinkling in his gripped hands.
Quackity glances up, holding Slimes gaze. “That’s- sorry. I should have put those away.”
“You write about him like he’s still here.”
He blurts breathlessly, the air only thickening in tension.
Suffocating, unnerving tension.
And Quackity—he just stares, mouth parted like he’s forgotten how to speak. His jaw tightens as he looks down at the papers, as if they might answer for him.
Slime drags his eyes away, the attention digging into his skin, shaking him to the bone. His grip on the papers loosens, as if his mind and body are fighting—whether to hold them close or fling them across the room.
He doesn’t get long to decide. Quackity slides off the couch and onto his knees in front of him, hands gently lifting the weight of the papers from Slime’s grasp. Watching him carefully, Quackity sets them face-down on the table beside them. His hands hover—hesitate—before slipping into Slime’s.
“I shouldn’t have kept those,” he says quietly, eyes never leaving Slime’s.
“I’m sorry.”
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