Chapter Text
The moon hangs high amongst the stars.
Double zeros have long since passed aligned on the 24 hour clock.
And Wilbur is still standing unacknowledged at this mind-numbing press conference, light in his stomach and fogged in his head.
Glancing over at his work partner, it’s evident that the man is worse for wear than Wilbur himself. Darkness gathered beneath his eyes, and golden feathers ruffled and scattered upon his wings. The toll of thirty-nine hours without sleep, evident in a yawn or two lazily covered by his hand.
Quackity is a man a foot beneath Wilbur’s slumped stature. Arms crossed over a white button shirt and red silk tie, both of which haven’t seen a washing machine in days. Locks of wavy onyx hair cascading from a red knit hat framing a disgruntled expression. But perhaps what is most striking about him isn’t just his fashionable dress, nor the searing glare of his right eye but the scar which cuts through his left, cracking down his cheek and splitting the corner of his lips revealing a few golden teeth until it ends just at his chin.
Mortals need at least a few hours of sleep per night. Wilbur isn’t an idiot. He’s not been captured by sleep in near fourteen years but that isn’t an excuse to forget the foundations of what makes one human.
“Careful BigQ, scowl any deeper and the public might start assuming that you don’t actually love your job,” WIlbur quips. Quackity looks over at him with a glare of which could cut a man in half.
“Yeah… yeah- and how the fuck do you still look like you’ve actually had a night of god damn rest??” He snaps, his voice low so as to not perk the attention of wandering boom mics.
Wilbur shrugs, “a consequence of rarely sleeping during college I assume. So my body is just tailored towards it.”
“Yeah aren’t you fucking lucky,” Quackity grumbles with a yawn to punctuate his fatigue. He peers over at Wilbur who’s lips are struggling to conceal a smile with bastard intent, “don’t you fucking start-”
However, both of their respective limited attention spans are ensnared by something much more boisterous.
First, the door to the town hall opens with a squeak sharp enough to nearly rupture an eardrum.
Then the waft of petrichor infused air, cold and damp with the pouring rain is rushed in with crowded steps.
And just as a cacophonous burst of shouted questions, and the flashing of shuttering cameras fills the room, Wilbur finds himself preoccupied with a sense of a different nature.
The beating of a hundred and nine hearts.
The warmth of a hundred and nine bodies baking within insulated marble walls.
The breath from a hundred and nine pairs of lungs condensating the air into a thick and suffocating mist.
But perhaps the most carnal of them all has to be the very air he breathes, so thick with a candied richness that the taste ghosts upon the tip of his parched tongue. Wilbur can do nothing to stop how the aroma fogs the very banks within his mind.
All of them, blinded by a sense of erroneous safety.
It would be so easy, jump into the crowd and latch his teeth into the first neck they land on. How sweet would they taste? What substances had they consumed that day? Would they even scream? Oh how a scream would perfectly whet the appetite of he who has starved for far too long.
It’s not until his stomach unleashes a sharp growl that he’s brought back to his reality, hand placed up to his abdomen if only to be placed immediately back to his side.
Quackity flits his tired gaze onto Wilbur, a tiny smirk playing behind the cover of a poker chip.
“Ay pendejo maybe you should have fucking eaten before all of this shit,” he jabs.
With a huff, Wilbur paws at his eye, “perhaps you should have taken a nap in the car when you had the chance,” he retorts back, “but no we had to go into a cafe so you could check your emails.
Thirty-nine hours sleep deprived.
Two weeks without ample time to properly feed.
What difference does it truly make on the psyche?
And so they remain, feet planting themselves roots under marble-printed linoleum.
And they stand
And they wait
And they begin to wonder if this is all some sick form of psychological torment.
All until the blinding flash of cameras relent, the sea of bodies siphons out of the courthouse, and their fleeting alertness is caught just as they are about to finally depart to their homes.
“Officer Quackity, Officer Soot,” A detention officer who looks better for wear than the two approaches them. Quackity huffs.
“What is it this time?”
The detention officer looks unperturbed by Quackity’s bark. Either that or she fears what could happen at the slip of a dagger held by skilled but exhausted fingers.
“You’re needed for a meeting at headquarters-”
The pair audibly groan masking a similar noise made by Wllbur’s stomach.
“But first the convict wants to speak to you, he’s being very adamant and keeps repeating that he’s been falsely accused.”
“And you’re just giving into his demands?” Quackity raises an eyebrow, the detention officer remains silent.
Her silence is an instant tip off to Wilbur who flicks his gaze over to the man in question.
J. Schlatt, a mogul of base tier whiskeys and a presidential candidate in the upcoming election. A man held in high regard though not from admiration, but rather he has a reputation for his ruthlessness with his policies and being sweet with many law firms.
But perhaps a fate most damning, a bitter ex of Quackity’s years past.
A coy little smile crosses Wilbur’s lips, “you’re scared you’re going to get sued into oblivion if he doesn’t get a word with us, is that it?”
“Again, Mr. Soot, your cooperation would be appreciated.”
Their walk over to their convict is more akin to a slow mosey. What rush was there truly if the police were being held until they’d arrived. Perhaps it felt more like a petty middle finger to those who were well fed and well slept.
What greets them is quite the pathetic sight. Schlatt tangled up in silver chains, his luxurious navy suit mangled and accessorised by a pair of pointed canines.
“Finally! Look who finally fuckin’ showed up!”
Quackity clicks his tongue, “I wouldn’t be saying that if I were the one in handcuffs. What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Oh lighten up Pumpkin, listen I’m not here to cause you problems-” Schlatt begins.
“Don’t call me that fucking name and stop wasting my God damn time, I have already wasted a fucking week on catching your ass, you should be down in the dungeons and out of my fucking sight.” Quackity barks.
“Well aren’t you just a ray of fucking sunshine? I am going to find out who did this to me and I am going to sue them and get the fuck out of prison! I don’t have time for this shit I have a campaign to run!” Schlatt gnashes.
“So, enlighten me, Mr- Mr. Schlatt, how are you going about “proving” your innocence?” Wilbur questions, taking a step forward with his hands in his pockets while Quackity takes a step back with arms crossed, glaring down at the man in a silent incantation.
“Proving my innocence?” Schlatt repeats incredulously, his handcuffs rattling as his hands attempt to budge, “dude I was framed!”
Wilbur scoffs a laugh, “oh so you were framed now were you? Schlatt need I remind you that it was your DNA found in the bite wounds left on your victims? Not to mention it was proven by measurements that it was in fact your teeth marks left behind? You’re saying you’re not the one who did them?”
“No! What? do you think I’m some kind of fucking idiot? What I’m saying is that someone obviously bit me to take me down. Please! You have to fucking believe me dude!” Schlatt’s plea bleeds a certain desperation which to Wilbur’s ears sings like a song of his own making.
With a sigh, Quackity tilts his sunglasses down and peers down towards the man they’ve spent the past day and a half straight capturing and testing, “just because you got fucking bit, doesn’t mean you’re innocent of what you’ve done. All vampires get bit and they still have to pay for their actions.”
He snaps his fingers twice, “alright lock him up, I think we’re done here.” Wilbur and Quackity look at each other for a moment before nodding. Then, finally, after Schlatt is taken away yelling and shouting profanities, and after several hours of this god forsaken press conference, they make their way out to their company car.
“Fuck- those motherfuckers are all so fucking useless,” Quackity starts as soon as their feet clack against cracked concrete and the first drops of rain soak into their clothing, “three fucking hours of fucking cameras and questions, and they didn’t even question us, the people who actually did all the God damn work?!”
“Didn’t you know, Quackity that all our job is, is to just stand there and look pretty and observe as they take all of our glory?” Wilbur sneers in an ask, flicking out a cigarette from a crumpled box.
Wilbur is defenseless as Quackity reaches over and takes the cigarette from his fingers. Simply, watching as Quackity tries to light it, failing before trying a second time… then a third before cursing in frustration as the spattle from the downpour snuffs out the flame each time and winds up just handing the cigarette back to Wilbur, “this is fucking bullshit!”
Chuckling fondly, and turning his body back against the rain, Wilbur leans over the lighter, sparking it a few times before bringing it to light. He turns his body back around as he takes in a long satisfying draw much to the chagrin of his coworker.
A grin cracks his cheeks when he glances over at the potent glare he’s received himself, “awwww don’t look at me with that scowl Big Q, I fear my heart will melt.”
Naturally, this does him no favors as Quackity just narrows his eyes before snatching the cigarette alight much like his spite, “go fuck yourself asshole.”
“You wouldn’t care to join me?” Wilbur posits, all Quackity does is roll his eyes.
“Just get in the fucking car and see what these assholes want, and we’re getting coffee on the way out to headquarters or I’m going to fall asleep in the god damn meeting.”
“Yes your highness,” Wilbur is well aware of the risks as he pushes his work partner further, however the reward of reaction is well worth the threat of silver to his heart
.
The work vehicle they’ve been provided is a 1970-something Ford Bronco, thirty years out of date but it works well enough; though much to their chagrin on long commutes it has no CD player. The only times it’s been stalled or broken down can be counted on one hand, if that hand also had a few extra fingers to spare.
The seat cushions have some small patches that are threadbare, a couple of cigarette burns dotting its landscape, and there is a distinct but faint scent of must, but they are by far, far more comfortable than anything upholstered in leather.
Slipping the key into the ignition, WIlbur gives it a twist-
And there is a pause
…
He twists again…
Once again there is a pause…
Until after a second too long the old Bronco finally sputters to a start, and for a brief moment there is a sense of vague celebration.
Quackity falls asleep in the passenger seat well before they get to the cafe, but still Wilbur goes in and orders two coffees to go. An extra-large black and a large mocha extra whipped cream.
As their commute commences, Wilbur is able to ignore the vague sweet scent that Quackity gives off at first, but as the car ride progresses the aroma begins to accumulate with every second that passes. It penetrates into the very fibres of his frumped shirt as his ears ring with the steady and taunting pulse of Quackity’s heart, that is pumping that nectar that he so desperately needs; teasing and mocking Wilbur’s stomach until all it can do is agonizingly clench with a hunger most nauseating.
The sight of red frosts at the edges of Wilbur’s vision, as Quackity’s pulse grows louder, doing nothing but thickening and trapping the scent within the cabin of the old Bronco.
Placing his knee to steady the steering wheel, Wilbur reaches over and rips the plastic top of his near still-boiling coffee before hastily guzzling it down, ignoring how it sears his tongue and throat. In a few seconds the coffee is gone and Wilbur breathes slowly as he feels his soft tissues numb and stitch the burn wounds back together. Though it takes a matter of fifteen seconds or so, it still goes on about ten seconds too long for his comfort.
A discontent grows forth from the coffee simmering in the pit of his stomach but at the very least the red fog is lifting, and the sweet scent that once suffocated him fades to an afternote.
The rest of the ride to headquarters is for the most part unremarkable from then on out, an occasional jiggle of the radio dial when the signal began to static, a quick two or three or four or however many glances over at his partner sleeping softly, a few verses sang soft and quiet to his lonesome.
Then, with a sigh most reluctant, the old Bronco shutters to a stop in a barren gravel parking lot. Up ahead of him is a marble monument of a building. Scenes of their great defeats and conquers of the evil within those vampiric carved into the exterior; pillars that match those of the ancient roman senate stand posted just outside the doors of which, in an appearance most jarring is a modern steel door with two guards stood watch on either side of it.
Instead of accepting whatever fate awaits him in that useless fucking meeting; Wilbur elects to simply resign himself to the comforting embrace of fluffy, only slightly dry rotted cushions, the serene sounds of heavy rain plattering on the windshield, and the warm pull of cigarette smoke into his wary lungs.
There he remains for a minute, or more like ten or fifteen. He doesn’t keep count, what’s the use in it anyways.
Eventually, with the flick of the last of his cigarette’s ashes into the Bronco’s overflowing ash tray, Wilbur makes himself sit up; taking a moment to simply observe Quackity still fast asleep. His hat has all but fallen off, feathers in his wings unkempt, and he’s making the hard interior door frame look like the plushest of down pillows.
“Big Q- wake up we’ve reached the destination of our reckoning,” reaching over Wilbur gently grabs Quackity by the shoulders and jostles him side to side, “I know you have no love for this job anymore but if you’re going to quit it at least fucking wake up for it.”
After a few more jostles, Quackity tenses before his eyes crack open and he looks over to Wilbur with a bleary look, a groan and a spot of drool moistening the corner of his lip. For a second or two the sight brings what can only be described as the sensation of the heart brushing against his ribcage.
“Did Sleeping Beauty enjoy her little nap?” Wilbur prods with a crooked smile.
All Quackity does is groan in response, “shut the fuck up asshole.” he rubs away the traces of blurriness from his eyes and flips open his cellphone, pressing a few buttons and squinting, “we’re fuckin’ early- good.”
Okay perhaps Wilbur was also speeding just a little bit.
Blame it on the sheer amount of caffeine racing through his veins.
Quackity sits up properly, taking a moment to stretch the sleep from his muscle fibres before abruptly stopping. For a moment Wilbur pauses, mouth cracking open to question until he watches as Quackity reaches over and grabs the mocha left over for him.
“Holy fucking shit, you actually stopped at the cafe?"
Wilbur shrugs, “you’re not the only one who needed caffeine, Big Q.”
Quackity looks at the cup in his hand for a few beats, and though it is slight, Wilbur sees him smile ever so briefly before he brings the disposable cup to his lips.
The mocha has long since gone cold and the whipped cream deflated, but he sighs after taking a few swigs like it was a perfect fresh brew anyways.
Before long, the two with a reluctant walk and minds heavy make their way over to the building, Wilbur stepping over the rings of salt of which have begun to melt from the rain with the ease of stepping over a tiny street stream.
Briefcases and weapons surrendered for a moment passing, over to the security officers standing garishly outside of carrara walls, before their items were returned to them and they proceeded forth.
“Sir, outside drinks are not permitted-” one of the personnel attempts, but is silenced by the searing gaze of a severely sleep deprived Quackity, the pair are ushered in without another word soon after.
There’s a grand old oak desk stained burgundy that is the centerpiece of the opening room which splits into two halls. Normally there is a cat eared man there, but he seems to be missing for the time being. A front desk left abandoned and harbouring an informational treasure chest of a computer seems all too tempting; but alas, Wilbur has places to be and at the very bottom of that list lies a special place for him in the dungeons.
The interior is furnished by pieces of farcity and red herrings. Corridors coated in a rich red wallpaper, with mirrors lining the walls in mahogany carved frames, all subjugated by whirring security cameras and electronic keypads.
Wilbur’s eye catches his reflection as he walks past one of those mirrors, raising his hand to his head and tassels his fingers into his curls to give them more of a disheveled worn-out appearance, before lowering his arm as the mirror cuts back to a cherry wall.
Up that flight of stairs sculpted out of jarring concrete, down that hallway that looks as victorian as all the rest, then into a creaking elevator, and finally a lone door made of iron and locked with steel greets them, and to the door three sharp knocks are doled out.
Irritation simmers in Quackity’s veins, the longer this meeting holds the sooner that simmering will roll into a boiling.
He glimpses at his watch.
Over an hour they’ve been trapped in this prison cell, the air thick and stuffy with a haughtiness that's all but suffocating to his sleep deprivation.
With a glance at his partner it’s evident that Wilbur himself is starting to wear down from the exertion as well, his visage a tone more akin to the marble exterior of the building with shadows carved intricately under his dulled brown eyes.
Quackity can’t help but feel a bit vindicated in Wilbur’s appearance.
Vindicated yet he can’t ignore the slight suspicion biting at the back of his throat. It’s a pesky feeling that never quite seems to cease despite how many times he assures himself it’s all probably a coincidence.
…probably.
The table is lined with other faces, some familiar, some not. Some almost as dishevelled as Quackity himself, others as fresh as a morning’s dew.
Assholes.
At the head of the table, standing tall and slightly askew as to not obscure the documents being projected on the wall, is a man dressed well with a white suit. Though instead of a man’s head sitting atop his shoulders, there is the head of a cartoon white bear with facial decals crudely stitched onto matted, stained fur.
“Now onto the victims, questions will be asked at the end,” it speaks with a tone that is attempting a human’s rhythm but shutters with a mechanical cadence that’s difficult to stomach at points.
A transparent photograph is flipped onto the overhead projector, and with a flick of a switch the image of a man appears; with his skin emaciated and pulled taut to what remains of his dessicated musculature and rigid skeleton. Dim city lights bring forth a neon green and pink display, spotlighting where bone peeks through a thin veil of flesh on the cheeks and darkening the shadows of the valleys where leathered skin hangs between the upper and lower jaws. Expression locked in a terrored scream forever silenced.
“There is debate as to whether or not this victim was one done by the Nightingale-”
“Excuse me- sss-sir?” An intern. A young one at that, can’t be older than 22, nervously puts up his hand, “what is the Nightingale?”
Cucurucho stares at the man for enough of a moment that drops of sweat are visible upon the intern's youthful and unscathed face.
Wilbur swallows thickly before his gaze though muddied flicks up to the white bear to pay attention.
“The Nightingale is a notorious figure within Quesadilla city. His signature is to whistle or to sing before claiming one of his victims. There are rumors that he is in cohorts with the Angel of Death and the Blood God but nothing has been confirmed.”
Ah yes, the Nightingale. A man whose case is nearly as alluring as his song. Quackity had tried hunting himself that song himself for the better part of a decade. He’d never been assigned to his case though that did nothing to stop him from scouting streets and picking through redacted files to gain a semblance of a case but so far every lead ended as abruptly as that damned song…
Thus, the presentation continues forth, with each click of the remote Quackity’s hope grows.
But as slide after slide passes, those clicks begin to feel more like bells that ring louder and louder as again and again though their work is displayed in a rush of information, their names are not yet named.
*click*...*click*...*click…*
At first Quackity is able to swallow down his rising anger like it’s stinging bile.
But with each click, irritation and discontent swell, forced down to sit pooled in his gut before being brought up near to the surface as more and more slides come to pass. The pencil clenched in Quackity’s fist creaking with each swell.
“That brings us to the end of the case, now to move onto the discussion-”
*Click! vroom-*
The light goes dark.
And that pencil finally
Snaps.
“Okay… okay so let me get this fucking right. So, okay. So my partner and I work without a fucking break for three weeks. Three. Fucking. weeks . Then we are worked day and fucking night without fucking sleep or any rest and finally catch this god damn son of a bitch only to be brought to a fucking meeting where we aren’t even credited!?” Quackity gripes, his projection elevated enough to startle that oh so innocent intern.
“Detective, calm down-”
“DON’T YOU FUCKING TELL ME TO CALM DOWN,” He shouts, cutting off Cucurucho abruptly. He laughs and rubs his face, his sleep deprived delirium mixing with years of pent up anger and resentment is creating a concoction of emotions so strange, that letting himself shout at the higher ups is borderline blissful enough to be like a drug.
“No… no you know what? You guys, in your fancy fucking chairs, in your- security protected desks, taking all of the pride while you work us to fucking death. You can all go to fucking hell! Every single fucking one of you! I lost my fucking eye working for you! And you fucking assholes won’t even give me fucking credit for when I finally fucking catch someone important enough to be on the fucking news!”
Save for the shaking of Quackity’s hardly controlled breath, the room is as silent as a graveyard.
“Come on, Wilbur. We’re clearly not needed here,” he concludes in a smaller voice. Straightening his tie, grabbing Wilbur by his wrist, and pulling him out into the hallway.
Red boils and bubbles and fills the corridors of Quackity’s veins with steam which leaks up through his ears. Black steel-toed boots filling barren halls and crumbling steps with echoes of stomps against the concrete, all the while Wilbur’s hand remains cold and limp within Quackity’s vice grip.
It’s almost too cold for his liking.
He’s going to be reprimanded for this little outburst.
He cares not.
For years he has slaved over their every command, hours of sleep he’ll never get back, days of recreation he threw away, years of his life discarded, half of his vision all sacrificed for a greater good he will never obtain nor accomplish.
So fucking what if he gets fired over this shit, maybe if he gets fired he’ll have a chance to reprimand all of that time in his youth wasted over what was nothing more than a promise shattered behind a thin veil of justice.
In lieu of Carrara halls and buzzing lights, the patter of rain against the inviting arms of a dense forest seems as warm and bright as a hug from one he holds dear.
“Wilbur I- listen, listen… maybe it will be a good thing if they fucking fire me,” a torn, pathetic thing of a laugh bubbles from Quackity’s chest as he releases Wilbur’s hand and takes off his hat, his fingers following the motion as they comb through his hair, uncaring if the droning of the rain renders his clothes and his raven locks soaked.
“If they wanted to keep their workers wanting to work for their cause they should, I don’t know, fucking acknowledge the sacrifices their fucking employees make for their piece of shit “cause”. Maybe, Wilbur, maybe all of this is some excuse for them to just fucking kill whoever the fuck they want,” Quackity laments, hands on his hips and face arched up to feel the rain.
“I…” Wilbur’s speech is strange. It’s hushed and slowed, partially obscured by the static of the rain, “fuck I can’t- I can’t do this anymore…”
“Wilbur-” Quackity turns, and as Wilbur comes back into view, first out of his peripheral he sees the man rip something from his mouth and discard it onto the forest floor, then a streak white as ash swirls and tangles into Wilbur’s damp chocolate locks.
There’s not even a second to fully process how Quackity’s partner’s eyes glowed a dusty red before his back slams up against the stiff bark of a nearby tree, hands stapled above his head with the strength of an iron shackle.
“Wilbur-! What the fuck are you doing!? get your God damn-” A finger wrought with cold like one of a corpse is pressed to Quackity’s lips.
“Shhh, shhh, shhhhh. Hush darling you don’t need to make a sound,” Wilbur’s voice is coarse and shuddered but coated in a sweetness, that to Quackity it sounds almost sincere. He soon finds himself pinned as WIlbur presses his body into his own. Not too much, just a gentle weight upon his chest. Then, perhaps most dastardly of all, a kiss to the cheek that sends several zaps down his spine and his feathers poof out in response
Twin pearlescent fangs reveal themselves from the curtains as a spindly grin carves its way up the corners of Wilbur’s chapped lips, and he laughs a laugh most sluggish and deceitful, “You… you have no fucking idea just how hard it is to keep my composure when you smell as sweet as you do. I don’t know what it is about you specifically but you’re like a temptress and I your mark. So decadent as though God himself were a chef and you were his magnum opus on a plate. I need you more than a blossom needs the sun… my desire for you only grows and swells with each hour that passes. I’ve wondered for years if your taste matches your musk, or if it’s even better than I could ever imagine.”
Quackity’s pupils shrink and his heart begins to drum its beat quicker and harder than it was previously. He attempts to struggle against these constraints but Wilbur’s grasp tightens, as he lowers his head.
Kisses tender to the nape of his neck are placed by lips though dead feel like little warm little bursts that caress Quackity’s thundering heart in their grasps. Wilbur makes a soft chuckle, his breath tickling those sensitive nerves ‘round his jugular.
Faced with the dangerous aspect of a vampire’s lips against one’s own neck should send them into a panic, they should fight, they should run, they should scream. Yet there Quackity remains utterly silent. Oh this touch he’s not felt in years, being held like this chest to chest, having sweet utterances of desire for him specifically, those God damn kisses making him melt like a cube of sugar in this beating midnight rain.
“Your heart darling, I can hardly keep up with it’s paces,” Wilbur hums, placing down another kiss upon his jugular, resting his lips there as though to keep the spot warm,
“F-f-fuck you…” is all Quackity can muster.
It’s not the first time Wilbur has held him, there have been many a night he’s found himself sunk into his embrace. Yet Wilbur has not kissed him like this before.
Wilbur… the only constant monolith in Quackity’s shattered youth.
“You weaken me, Quackity. And all that beating heart of yours does is plunge me further into this hunger…” Wilbur cups his palm beneath Quackity’s chin, fingers gripping onto his lower cheek and lip before forcing his head to the side exposing his prominent and pulsing jugular vein, “I do apologise for the facade darling…”
Quackity huffs at the pet name.
“And- and all will be explained later… but for now just grant me this taste. I’ll be gentle and I won’t take much I promise.”
Would it really be so bad if his story was ended by he who has comforted and protected him for all this time?
Soon after, Quackity feels the cold and slick slab of flesh of Wilbur's tongue rest on his jugular vein, followed by the sensation of twin points of needles scraping the upper layer of dead skin cells up from the spot on his neck.
No… wait- what the fuck is he thinking!??
In a flash and using all the force he can muster, Quackity shifts and twists and suddenly jabs the point of his shoulder into the soft portion of Wilbur’s chest where his ribcage meets his shoulder. He feels it almost feeble from his position, but it’s enough force to conjure a surprised and choked response from Wilbur as his legs tangle with one another and he drops to the rain-dampened ground below.
There’s not a moment to waste, for as Quackity retracts his shoulder, his hand grabs his dagger like it’s been primed to do for nearly a decade, a glistening white silver blade, it’s tip now pointed a few centimeters from Wilbur’s eye.
Heart pounding, he looks down at Wilbur with an expression of utter disdain. He shouldn’t have ignored his gut for all these years. He knew back then, deep down that there’s something off about him, all the classic signs that always had a convenient excuse.
How much of it all has been lies? Is Wilbur even truly his name?
God fucking damn it why did it have to be true this time?
Wilbur’s face is positioned to the ground for a moment, before slowly he lifts his chin. He blinks for a moment or two at the blade so close to his eye which reflects a crimson hue in the silver, until he pokes at the sharp edge and grins.
“What’s this all about Big Q?” He asks, a tone of innocence ringing in his voice. Quackity does not respond, taking in only a shaken breath and bringing the blade closer to his face.
“Are you going to kill me?” Wilbur’s grin slices through his cheek and his eyes shift to meet his work partner’s, there they linger for a second before a frosted laugh shakes Wilbur’s chest and he speaks, his tone glacial, “oh my Quackity, you don’t have the heart.
Quackity’s expression hardens, his breathing slowed and composed, yet the tip of his dagger still shakes, “you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Soot. I don’t care if we’ve been partnered for nine years, you’re still a monster, and I am highly skilled at killing monsters.”
“Is that so, Big Q?” Wilbur latches his fingers around the wrist of Quackity’s armed hand and quickly pulls on it so the dip of the blade digs under his chin but does not yet breach the flesh, “if you’re so skilled at killing “monsters” then do it. darling, kill me. If you don't care about the years we’ve shared, then pierce this silver up into my brain.”
With a twitch of Quackity’s elbow, the tip of the dagger breaches through the skin and a few drops of burgundy tinted blood streak down the blade, “I can do a lot more than that. Don’t. Make me do it.”
“Then what’s stopping you?” Wilbur asks, “come on then, just a few inches further."
A few seconds pass
And then a minute is soon met before a second escapes.
And Wilbur chuffs, “but you can’t, can you? You know, I could have taken a nibble when it was us alone and you were curled up in my arms, crying into my shirt because Schlatt had hurt you again. I could have taken my many opportunities when I was hungry, and you were sleeping in the Bronco and it was just us on an empty highway on our ways off to nowhere. You can’t just let that go because you now know my true nature, now can you, Big Q?”
The more this…this-this thing talks, the angrier Quackity becomes. Wilbur’s always been a fucking talker. Yap, yap, yaps on about fucking nothing but he still makes you believe him anyways. And his grip on the handle of the blade tightens.
Wilbur’s lips move, presumably to continue speaking with gilded words, but suddenly
He stops.
His conniving grin drops,
And those crimson eyes dull into his usual warm brown irises and they widen as his breathing quickens.
Those brown eyes bounce from Quackity’s disgusted aperture, and down off of the blade nearly pierced under his jaw. He jabs his fingers into his mouth, and upon pricking the tip of his own index with a fang, panic ices over his previously callous features.
“Oh God, oh fuck- FUCK!!!” Stuttered breathing and a few sobs chokes out of him, “no, no nonono. No…no no this- this- FUCK!!!. Why… why didn’t you kill me, Big Q- Why-why didn’t you just fucking kill me!??”
Quackity is unable to discern what has just happened. Just a few seconds ago he was near killing a silver-tongued man, only for him to melt into a panic unforeseen by Quackity. Is this all a ruse? It could be typical vampire behaviour. Act as though they are in extreme distress only to use their victims' charity to fill their own stomach.
Wilbur quickly scrambles blindly on his hands and knees until he is abruptly stopped by the trunk of a wide tree.
“Quackity- Quack- ARGH-” Wilbur’s face pinches and he suddenly digs his fingers into his stomach which has growled something terrible. “run- BIG Q RUN!”
Slowly, Quackity sighs and rests his dagger back into its sheath, taking a few steps forward and sitting beside Wilbur whom is curled up upon himself at the moment.
“QUACKITY RUN AS FUCKING FAR FROM ME AS YOU CAN-!!!”
"SHHHHHHH!! Shut the fuck up! They’ll hear you!!!” Quackity hisses, pulling Wilbur onto his lap, feeling just how cold and hollow his partner felt.. Wilbur’s hair is beyond soaked, but still Quackity runs his fingers through it, rubbing small circles into his scalp. “Shhhhh… just shut up Wilbur, this once.”
He then takes in a breath and opens up the leather satchel on his thigh, slipping in his hand, as Wilbur sobs.
“Quackity- Quackity what- what are you doing!?? Quackity- Big Q I’m losing contro-”
Swiftly, Quackity uncaps a syringe full of a clear faintly green liquid and jabs it into WIlbur’s shoulder. Brushing his hand up and down the spine as his partner immediately quiets down.
And once he goes limp In Quackity’s lap, he bends down and places a kiss to Wilbur’s frozen cheek.