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Quackity’s always had an eye for details.
For example - Schlatt’s left eyebrow sticks up more than his right one. For example - his teeth may be yellowing by the day, but they’ve always been oddly straight and flat. For example - when he peels his lips back (so far that they practically disappear) Quackity can see that the only sharp things in his mouth are his canines, jutting up like scimitars, like - like scythes, like -
“Are you fucking listening?” Schlatt snaps. His hand waves so close to Quackity’s eyes that one of his rings catches on his nose.
“Yes,” Quackity stutters, stepping back.
“Yes,” Schlatt sneers, mockingly.
“Yes sir,” Quackity says, bitterness edging his words. Schlatt laughs, and it twists Quackity’s stomach into his lungs and makes it hard to breathe.
“What did I say, huh?” Schlatt raises the bottle clutched tight in his hand, not drinking, just smiling bright acid to mirror the contents inside.
“You - you didn’t want me to start construction on the apartment,” Quackity says.
Schlatt raises his gaze to meet Quackity’s, slowly. He doesn’t say anything. Fuck, Quackity can feel his arms trembling - he can only imagine how badly his wings are shaking.
“Sir?” he croaks out, and flinches when Schlatt fucking growls at him.
“Shut up.” Schlatt stares with his hand outstretched, almost brushing Quackity’s heaving chest, until the silence is too goddamn much and he feels like his head is going to explode, and -
Schlatt moves with a frightening speed, raising the bottle the rest of the way to his mouth and tipping it backwards, polishing it off in one go.
Quackity watches and thinks for an awful second he’s going to be picking glass out of his hair tonight.
“You shouldn’t,” Schlatt says, interrupting himself with a short burp, “have started construction, Mr. Vice President.”
The title brands Quackity’s cheeks bright red, despite being his, despite being earned - somehow, when it leaves Schlatt’s rotting lungs, it makes him feel dirty.
“I’m sorry,” Quackity bites, still feigning anger. If he stops, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to talk at all. “You didn’t tell me -”
“You fuckin’ idiot, can’t you fuckin’ read?” Schlatt’s voice echoes on the marble of the Oval Office. Quackity tries to step back again, only to hit the wood of Schlatt’s desk.
“I can,” he says, a weird mix of defiant and salty but mostly, he thinks, and knows that Schlatt can see it - he’s fucking terrified.
Schlatt stalks forward, closing the gap between them. Quackity clenches his teeth tight and braces a hand against the desk as Schlatt leans over him, grabbing for one of the papers littering his workspace. He smells awful.
“Then read this,” Schlatt growls, leaning back enough to slap a pamphlet into Quackity’s chest but not enough for Quackity to be able to look him in the eyes without breaking his neck. “Out loud.”
“Sir,” Quackity says, because he doesn’t think he can even breathe, let alone read.
Schlatt’s hand slams down on top of Quackity’s, grinding his fingers into the desk corner. Quackity yells, surprised, afraid, and fuck, it hurts -
“P-presidential order,” Quackity squeaks out, having to hold the paper against Schlatt’s shoulder to read it. The President’s touch lights his skin on fire, crawls up his wrist, through his fingers, into his eyes until they’re watering so much the words blur. “Presidential order - construction of the, the - the - Manberg Apartment Complex is to begin -”
“What’s the date there, sweetie?” Schlatt interrupts, patronizing and poisonous and coupled with more of his weight crushing down on Quackity’s hand.
“Tomorrow,” Quackity gasps. “Tomorrow, tomorrow - Schlatt, please -”
“I can’t hear you,” Schlatt smiles. He and his four fucking canines lean in, so close to his cheek Quackity feels hot breath in his ears.
“Mr. President,” Quackity begs. “Please. Please.”
“Better.” Schlatt eases up.
Quackity doesn’t have the strength to be ashamed of the relieved sob tearing out of him. “I just thought, I swear, I was just - I thought, you, I -”
“That was your problem!” Schlatt laughs, throwing up the hand that isn’t still wrapped around Quackity’s in a fucked up mirror of affection. “It isn’t your job to think, babe. Not your job to take charge, not your job to do anything. Do you know what you do, Quackity?”
Schlatt’s hair is greasy. His eyes are the color of -
“Look at me.”
His shirt’s wrinkled. It looks like the same one he wore Friday. He should buy more shirts.
“I’m talking to you, bitch -”
Quackity screams. Schlatt’s hand stays in the air, the man behind it breathing angrily.
Quackity, on the other hand, feels his body contract, and the resulting gasp for air would have been painful if the nerve endings in his face hadn’t all been on fire. He drops to the ground.
Schlatt crouches down to Quackity’s new level. Quackity flinches, pulling up his arm to cover his head. He ghosts his fingers over the stinging area - Schlatt’s rings didn’t cut him, but the slap is going to leave a visible mark on his cheek for at least a day.
“Calm down,” Schlatt mutters, looking like he’s realized the same thing. “Jesus.”
Quackity feels like it’s his cue to apologize, but the thought of doing anything Schlatt hasn’t authorized rings the same as a death sentence right now, but if he doesn’t it might be insubordination, and -
“Listen.” Schlatt reaches forward. Quackity tries to scramble away and only succeeds in hitting the back of his head on the desk. “Shhhh. Fucksake, Quackity, pull it together and listen to me.”
Quackity nods, eyes flickering from Schlatt’s mouth to his hands to the scars on his neck to his eyes, and tries to force air through his lungs.
“You do what I say,” Schlatt intones, low, staring him in the eyes for the first time in weeks. “You only do what I say.”
Quackity feels like crying. Maybe he is. He wants to yell - maybe he could - he wants to point his own finger in Schlatt’s face and say you never say anything to me and he wants to slam his fist into Schlatt’s smug grin and shout if you just fucking talked to me -
“Yes sir,” Quackity says.
“Do you understand?” Schlatt says. For an awful, awful moment, he sounds unbearably gentle.
Quackity nods again, jerky, unable to hold back the tears in his eyes. Schlatt’s mouth quirks at the first one that falls. “Yes. Yes sir.”
“Good boy,” Schlatt murmurs. His hand moves in Quackity’s vision, but he forces himself to stay still, and Schlatt cups his cheek with his too-large hand that could crush his windpipe with a single twitch.
Quackity isn’t sure what he wants, so he hiccups and says, “thank you.”
Schlatt sighs and straightens to his full height, grabbing the bottle from the desk, walking a staggering line to the door of the office. He pauses with a hand on the doorknob.
“I’m sorry,” Quackity says, still crying, feeling so, so tired.
“Good,” Schlatt says, and the last Quackity sees is the satisfied gleam in his eyes.