Work Text:
It wasn’t Wilford’s fault.
It wasn’t his fault that the others were being profoundly boring; honestly, they should’ve thanked him for giving them something to do.
It certainly wasn’t his fault that the Googles left their door unlocked.
And it most definitely wasn’t his fault that someone had ordered a giant bottle of bubble soap.
Wilford double-checked that no one was watching him before tip-toeing across the hall into the Googles’ room, closing and locking the door behind him. He had to be fast– they were settling an argument between Mark and Tyler in the living room, and, knowing Tyler, they’d return in frustration any minute.
Google_G’s desk was first, littered with spare microphones, speakers, and a clunky hard drive. Wilford wasted little time, pouring bubble soap into every available port, being sure not to spill any. Wilford whistled while he smeared a slippery layer over the surface of the workbench, imagining the chaos to come. Soon, he told himself. Soon.
Google_R’s desk was next, a little farther into the office. Wilford eyed the weapons on the bench with glee, admiring the sharp-edged blades and blunt-nosed hammers. A little chewed bubblegum on the end of a tool, and soap covering every surface. The bottle in his hand was half-empty now, the soap used on the two workbenches enough to fill the whole office, twice over. But Wilford was far from done.
Google_B’s desk, farthest from the door, was clear of any projects. A four-monitor setup showed security cameras around the office, but none of them showed Wilford. There were plenty of open ports here, and Wilford was careful not to miss a single one. Some soap on the mouse, and he stepped back, satisfied. The bottle of soap was almost empty, which left one more victim.
Oliver’s desk, opposite Google_R’s, was by far the most cluttered. Bits of scrap metal, the infamous welding torch, and wires littered the bench. Wilford reached for the gas canister that fueled the welding torch, unscrewed it, and replaced it with the bottle of bubble soap, now nearly full of soap and water. He didn’t disturb anything else on Oliver’s desk, looking over it carefully.
As far as anyone else was concerned, Wilford had never been in this room, and neither had the bubble soap.
Wilford was lounging in the studio, ‘supervising’ Bim dressing the set, when he heard it.
“WILFORD WARFSTACHE.”
Wilford put the most innocent smile possible on his face, ignoring Bim’s suspicious glare, and poked his head out of the door.
“Ye-es?” he sang, looking down the hallway.
The bottom of the Googles’ door was already leaking pink soap. As Wilford watched, Google_R threw the door open, releasing an avalanche of bubbles, and stormed out. “Wilford?!”
Wilford tried to restrain himself from laughing– he really did. But the sight of Google_R, blushing red and fuming, bubbles clinging to the legs of his jeans and even to his hair, was just too funny.
With barely restrained anger, Google_R grabbed Wilford by the shoulder and marched him over to the Googles’ room. “Did you do this?”
Wilford could’ve sworn he saw a wire pop in Google_R’s forehead, looking at the scene in front of them.
Google_G and _B were positively swimming in the cascade of bubbles streaming from every port on their computers, pushing them away as they tried to turn the machines off. Wilford saw Google_B get close, reaching for the mouse, but it was so covered in soap that it shot away from him like a rocket. Google_G was scrambling for footing on top of his bench, away from the bubbles, but fell every time he tried to get farther than his knees.
Wilford doubled over, laughing, and heard Bim run up behind them.
Google_R, watching, started to shake in anger, whirring violently. He was covered in soap, and as the whirring of his fans grew to a peak, he opened his mouth to yell at Wilford– but all that came out was a stream of bubbles. He was heating up, coughing out soap, and it would be terrifying if it wasn’t so funny.
Bim, behind Wilford, started to laugh too. Google_R reached for one of the heavier hammers on his desk, eyes flashing in anger, but it slipped out of his fingers.
Oliver stood by his desk, knee-deep in bubbles, watching the others battle their computers. Slowly, he turned to see Wilford and Bim positively howling with laughter, the other residents of the office running up behind them. Slowly, Oliver turned to look at his own desk, seemingly untouched. It was confusing and illogical, that Wilford should have left his work alone.
He checked over everything, once Wilford and the others had retreated, still laughing, and he and his brothers were mopping up the mess. Besides the bubbles around the room, there wasn’t a single trace of soap on anything he owned.
It wasn’t until weeks later, when Oliver picked up his welding torch to fix a broken chair leg, that he discovered just how much Wilford had left him alone.
“WILFORD!”