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It is early Sunday evening and Vice President Quackity is married now.
Schlatt is a man he barely knows. An ally, sure, but not even a friend. Not quite. And now they're meant to rule— no, he reminds himself, govern, as a pair.
He kisses Schlatt at the altar, soft and chaste. His mutton chops are not wiry like a human's, but soft as wool; that is, Quackity supposes, they are wool. They do not pretend to be interested in the kiss, only fulfilling the ceremony. Quackity's ring is a bit too big, a simple band of iron, and he slips it into his pocket the second they leave the wedding.
They do not speak to one another on the way home. Quackity worries with the ring in his pocket until Schlatt huffs.
"Give it here."
Quackity is nothing if not a perfect underling, so he obliges. Schlatt holds it up to the sun.
"I'll get it resized."
It is late Sunday night and Schlatt closes a manila folder in their office with a snap.
"Alright, we should get going."
Quackity stacks his papers together, no questions asked, and follows Schlatt like a puppy.
And before he knows it, he is stood in the middle of his- their- new bedroom in his underwear. Schlatt is taking a shower (because of course he takes night showers,) and Quackity has no clue what to do with himself. The bed is fancy, satin pillowcases and all, but it's small, at least for two men that aren't romantically involved. They're supposed to be romantically involved now, though, so maybe that's the point. Dress for the job you want, and all that.
He is still standing there, chewing his nails, as Schlatt slams open the door of the bathroom. A towel is draped around his waist, and he whistles obnoxiously. He drops the towel to put underwear on, and then spins around to look at Quackity.
"You can go to bed, darling, we don't have to consummate our marriage tonight."
The thought hadn't even crossed Quackity's mind. He blushes, and turns the sheets down, sliding between the covers. Schlatt follows, heaving a sigh.
"You know, you're awfully quiet today," Schlatt says, turning out the light. "I mean, not that that's not a desirable trait in a wife, but it's not... you."
"I'm not your wife," Quackity replies, voice hushed.
"That's more like it!" Schlatt chuckles and flops over, immediately beginning to snore.
It is Monday morning and Quackity learns that Schlatt is a very heavy sleeper.
The alarm starts blaring at five A.M. sharp, and Quackity sits straight up in a panic before realizing where he is. He looks beside him, and sees Schlatt sleeping peacefully, hugging his pillow tight. He's never noticed how long his eyelashes are.
Quackity shuts off the alarm, ears ringing, and shakes Schlatt to wake him. Schlatt groans, throwing his arm up and blindly punching Quackity in the face.
"What the fuck, Schlatt!" Quackity yells, getting out of the bed. The punch was uncoordinated, but Schlatt is strong, and Quackity can feel his nose throbbing with a dull pain, unbroken but bleeding.
"Shit, shit!" Schlatt is immediately awake. "I didn't— you scared me!"
"You... how the fuck did you sleep through that shit?"
"Listen, listen," Schlatt says, calming down, “hold your head down, and hold your hand under your nose."
"I thought you held your head up for a nosebleed!"
"Don't argue with me, I'm the president." Schlatt jumps out of bed and walks to the bathroom, returning with a few squares of toilet paper. He sits down on the floor next to his husband, legs crossed, and holds the paper to his nose.
"Listen, Quackity, I really am sorry. Day one and I'm already a fuckup of a husband," Schlatt laughs, voice cold.
Quackity grabs his wrist, accidentally brushing it with his lips, and takes the toilet paper. "Don't say that, Schlatt, I shouldn't'a woken you like that."
His face visibly softens. "That's President Schlatt to you."
"What? We're married, the rules don't apply to me."
"Your options are either 'Pumpkin' or President Schlatt, Quacky-poo."
"Fine, Pumpkin, I need to go take a shower." He rolls the toilet paper up to plug his nose and walks off to the bathroom, leaving Schlatt on the ground.
It is Tuesday afternoon and Quackity is not doing his work.
He is sitting across from Schlatt as the other man idly rubs his right horn, yelling at some poor bastard on the phone. Quackity doesn't know or care what the conversation is about, mind completely fixated on the man's hands. He's kind of got the hands of an elderly man, but in a nice way, tendons popping out against his pale skin. He wonders what they would feel like—
He catches himself in this thought and shelves it away for later.
He does not look at the swoop of Schlatt's hair around his horn. He does not examine the sharp bridge of his nose. He most certainly does not shelve away the memory of what Schlatt is saying to degrade the man on the other end of the line to use later.
Quackity sighs and gets back to work.
It is Wednesday night and it is too cold to sleep.
Quackity tosses and turns, unable to fall asleep for more than a minute. The man next to him seems to be sucking the heat out of the room, all contained in his body, but Quackity is too proud for that "sharing body heat" bullshit. Instead, he lays awake, listening to Schlatt's breathing, and thanks the heavens that he isn't snoring.
"Jesus fucking Christ," Schlatt mutters, apparently awake.
"What?"
"Quit rolling around, you're keeping me awake."
"Well, it's not my fault you're like-" a pause to think- "a, a vacuum for heat."
"That doesn't make sense, Quackity."
"Well, it's late, Schl- pumpkin, what do you expect?"
Schlatt sighs. "Still on that? C'mere."
He turns around, abandoning his pillow, and wraps his arms gently around Quackity's waist, pulling him against his chest. He buries his head into Quackity's neck the best he can without stabbing him with a horn and promptly starts snoring.
The snores reverberate through Quackity's body, but he doesn't mind, not really. At least he's warm, and he's safe here in his husband's arms.
(He's getting used to calling Schlatt his husband, now. He thought it would take more time to adjust.)
It is Thursday morning, and Quackity most certainly does not do anything in the shower involving Schlatt's 3-in-one bodywash (it smells surprisingly good, but it’s appalling all the same) while he waits for the alarm to wake the other man.
When he exits, Schlatt is fully dressed and talking on the phone, rubbing a hand over his face and groaning.
"Quackity, I've gotta leave."
"For where?"
"Diplomacy shit."
"Do I come too?"
"You're the second-in-command, dumbass, you stay home and run the country. I'll be back tomorrow night."
"Oh."
"Bye, darlin', I-love-you and all that jazz." Schlatt kisses Quackity on the cheek in a move that is meant to be playful but turns out remarkably somber.
"Bye, Schlatt."
"That's 'pumpkin' to you."
It is Thursday night and, despite the balmy weather, it is colder than the night before.
It is Thursday night, and Quackity falls into a fitful sleep, holding Schlatt’s pillow to his chest.
It is Thursday night. Maybe it is Friday morning. Quackity neither knows nor cares.
It is Friday morning, and Quackity feels like shit. He drags himself out of bed and to their office, sipping coffee and signing papers.
He looks at his phone.
He does not look at the phone. He will not look at the phone. Schlatt is busy, too busy for some trophy husband. Although, Quackity thinks, he probably isn’t even a trophy. He’s a participation ribbon husband.
He looks at the phone.
It is Friday morning, still, somehow. The minute hand moves like it is stuck in a pot of honey.
It is Friday afternoon, and Quackity counts the minutes.
And then, finally, it is Friday night, and Quackity is still sitting at his desk, chewing his nails and watching the door for Schlatt.
It is very late Friday night when the office door opens. Quackity wakes up to the sight of Schlatt walking in. He isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep.
“Woah, Quackity, you look like shit.” He’s one to talk, tie hanging loose around his neck and sleeves rolled up. It’s kind of sexy, Quackity thinks, but it’s also the same set of clothes he was wearing when he left. His jacket is draped over his arm and his bag is over his shoulder.
”I missed you,” Quackity offers as explanation.
Schlatt sighs, and Quackity is afraid he’s messed up. But just like that, Schlatt puts his bag down on the table and sweeps Quackity into a bridal carry like it’s nothing. He would argue, yell to be put down, but he’s just so tired.
He nuzzles into Schlatt’s neck as he is carried to their room. He smells of sweat and blood and a little bit of that bodywash, but it’s a good smell. Comforting, at least.
(Quackity thanks his lucky stars that Schlatt doesn’t smell like a wet sheep when he sweats.)
He is set down gently on the bed and watches with half-closed eyes as Schlatt unbuttons his shirt and throws it on the floor, exhausted. He crawls into bed and puts his arm around Quackity, and just like that, they’re fast asleep.
It is the middle of Saturday morning and Quackity is brushing his teeth as Schlatt dresses.
”Hey, darlin’, come in here!” Schlatt shouts. By now, the word “darling” his lost its bite, instead being almost comforting.
Quackity spits out his toothpaste and walks into the bedroom. Schlatt fishes a little box out of the jacket he’d discarded the night before.
”I picked this up on my way home last night.”
“What is it?”
”Open it and find out, dumbass.”
It’s his wedding ring. He slips it on, and it fits perfectly.
“It’s engraved, look,” Schlatt says, impatient.
Quackity takes it off and looks at it closely. In small letters, it reads “VP BIG Q.”
”Vice-President Quackity wouldn’t fit on there. You have tiny fingers.” Schlatt smiles, sheepish and tentative. “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, I just—“
Quackity grabs Schlatt’s face in his hands and kisses him. Schlatt is still, thoroughly surprised, but quickly gives in, arms around Quackity’s waist.
Schlatt tastes like toothpaste, mostly. He must have brushed his teeth in the shower. At this point, it doesn’t surprise Quackity. Quackity kisses him, deep and careful and loving, until finally he pulls away.
”I love it. I love you. I love you,” he says, finally realizing it for himself.
“It’s about time,” Schlatt grins. “I love you too, babe.”
It is early Sunday evening and there is nowhere Quackity would rather be than in his husband’s arms.