Work Text:
“You want me to do what?!”
Wilford rolled his eyes, aloof, candy cane between his fingers. He pulled the candy out of his mouth with a pop, grinning. “Don’t sound so scandalized, Trimmer.”
Bim sat back on his heels, halfway through rigging a backdrop. “I’m not going to kidnap someone, Warfstache.”
“Now, kidnap is a strong word,” Wilford scolded, folding his arms, lounging in his director’s chair. “We’re just... borrowing them.”
“Right,” Bim scoffed, turning his attention back to the set. He ran a hand carefully through his hair, sweeping it back. In only his shirt, sleeves pushed past his elbows, he looked younger than ever.
It had been less than a week since Markiplier TV had aired, less than a week since Bim had become more than thin air. Being alive again had been confusing, to say the least, and Bim didn’t know how long it was going to last. Better not to take it for granted, he figured. Better to work, work, work, put his mark on the office before it was all gone.
Wilford got to his feet, heavy steps in the empty studio. “C’mon,” he jabbed, walking right up to Bim. “It’ll be fun.”
“This is your idea of fun?” Bim huffed, getting to his feet.
“There might be a meat grinder in it for you.” Wilford winked, starting to walk away. “If you don’t want in, I suppose that’s fine… I can always call someone more trustworthy…”
Now, that struck a chord. Bim hated, more than anything, being the ‘new kid’ in the office. He was trustworthy, of course he was. He’d show Wilford. He’d show them all. “Hey,” Bim yelled, sprinting after him, “I already told you, that was special effects!”
A crack like a gunshot rang through the air, and Bim knew, in the houses around them, that the humans must be wondering what was happening. “Hurry up,” he muttered, jaw clenched, to Wilford.
“All right, all right,” Wilford called down, above him.
Bim held the rope steady, palms sweating. They were going to get caught. They were definitely going to get caught. Wilford rappelled down the side of the house with all the grace of a mountain goat, a squirming, human-sized bag slung over his shoulder.
A cricket chirped in the grass behind them, and Bim flinched, the rope slipping. With a thump, Wilford fell the final few feet to the ground, landing squarely on the sack. “Dammit, stop being so twitchy, would you?”
Bim straightened his suit, swept back his hair, indignant. “Well, the least you could do is hurry up--!”
Wilford shushed him, picking the bag up off the ground. Bim noticed, a churning in his stomach, that a suspicious dark-red stain was spreading over the fabric. “You’re going to attract the attention of the whole neighborhood,” he whispered, shifting his grip. “You’ve always been so composed,” Wilford said, brushing past him, gesturing with a bloodied hand.
Bim, brow furrowing, followed. ‘Always been’?
“Well,” Bim said, mopping up blood, “that was successful.”
Wilford shook his hair out of his eyes, arms and shirt front splattered in bright red. “Couldn’t have gone better,” he said, enthusiastic, a genuine smile on his face. He twiddled his knife and curled his mustache around his finger, beaming.
Bim sighed, and Wilford’s smile dropped. “Oh,” he muttered. “Sarcasm.”
“I’d really rather not be cleaning up blood, Wilford.”
Wilford rolled his eyes. “Get used to it, m’ boy.”
Bim put his hands on his hips, mop held by his side like a cane. “You barely know me, Wilford.”
“That’s not important.” Wilford collapsed back into his director’s chair, now tossing his knife experimentally in the air. “What’s important is that ‘Warfstache Tonight’ gets edited and uploaded--”
“I’ll have it done soon--”
“--by tonight.”
Bim stopped. “To-- tonight?”
“That won’t be a problem, right?”
Bim looked around at the blood seeping into his shoes, the destroyed studio, the mop in his hand. “I...” I can always call someone more trustworthy. “No problem, boss.” A mock salute.
Wilford clapped him on the shoulder, standing up, turning to leave. “I’ll get some beauty sleep. You’ve always been dependable, it’s no wonder we elected you.” He walked out, half of the lights shutting off after him.
Bim stared after him, a battering ram of emotions threatening to burst from his chest. He swept his hair back with a bloodied hand, pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Elected’?
“Gooooooood morning, sunshine!” Wilford swept into the room, trailing fireworks, holding a cup of something that smelled delicious.
Bim half-turned from the computer, squinting, haggard, a blanket around his shoulders. As soon as he saw Wilford, he perked up. “Hey,” he said, voice raspy, but eyes bright.
“How’s that video looking?” Wilford took a swig of his drink, and Bim could smell the strength of the coffee.
“It’s... good.” Bim could’ve used some coffee. Bim could really have used some coffee.
Wilford gave Bim a conspiratorial wink before downing the rest of the cup in one gulp. “Ah,” he sighed, stretching. “Making a show sure is hard work.”
“Uh...”
Wilford stared into the distance, eyes oddly blank. “‘S just like university, eh?”
“Will?” Bim said, standing, blanket falling from his shoulders. His front was still stained with blood from the night before, and he reached a hand up to smooth his hair back into place. The mop stood by his chair, where he’d propped it, and Bim traced a finger over the bloody hand prints. “Will, I--”
Wilford waved a hand at Bim, a suit and slicked-back hair. Everything was just bit blurry these days-- maybe he needed glasses? “If you could have that rendered by lunch, that would be great.”
“Uh. I can, but--”
“Thanks, Damien.”
Wilford swept from the room, the present a little out of focus, and Bim was left wondering who Wilford’s last partner had been. Not only who, but what had happened to him, why he wasn’t around anymore. Looking down at the blood on his shirt, Bim could hazard a guess, and sighed. Well, he supposed that Wilford had always been this way, that nothing had ever changed, and there was no change to be had.
Bim took a deep breath and went back to work.
Wilford waltzed down the hall, giggly and on an apparent sugar high, wondering when the world had gone so pink. In truth, not a single empty candy wrapper was left in his wake, and the world itself was washed in the blood of the day before.
Why, then, did things seem so familiar? Nothing had changed, Wilford convinced himself. After all, here he was, side by side with a man in a suit, hair slicked back, cane in hand, and trusting to a fault.