Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oh hm.” Dream sighs as he looks out the window, surrounded by the police with more reinforcements on the horizon. He wasn’t panicked in the slightest, although he must admit, to see so many people so adamant on catching him is sort of exciting. He’s become sort of infamous over these last few years, mostly due to his ability to cause so much damage in so little time. 

After this, in fact, he was planning on going downtown to cause chaos with his newest partner, Technoblade. Seeing as the officers confirmed that it is in fact Dream, they most likely evacuated and shut down downtown and advised people to stay home until further notice. That’s no fucking fun. 

As he stares out the window, just itching for the thrill chaos gives him, he impulsively fishes out his revolver and checks the bullet compartment; six bullets inside, taunting him as his index finger fondles the trigger. He takes out five bullets, leaving only one and puts the revolver back in place. They need to wait . That’s what Techno told him to do and so he shall, but what’s the harm in a little fun?

“Techie, how bout a game of Russian roulette, hm?” Dream spins the revolver as he walks around the museum floor, breaking the glass meant to conserve artifacts but never taking the items inside the glass. He doesn’t need to. 

The hybrid looked up from the book he was reading, the couple of hostages sitting near him flinching back. “Russian roulette?” As unamused as he sounds, the hint of curiosity coating his voice didn’t go over Dream’s head. “Is it just us two playing?”

Dream laughs, the impatient sort of laugh Techno understood quite intimately despite being Dream’s partner for three months. “Of course not! It’s them. Keep up, Techie.” 

Techno uncrosses his legs, sliding off of the counter leaving the book behind. The hybrid takes slow, calculated steps towards the trigger happy blond; flicking his braid off of his shoulder. “Okay. Any rules you want to add in particular?” He reached his hand out for the gun, which Dream gave him happily. 

“Best three out of five?” Dream steps back, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know the rules. Aim for the head. If they die, that’s a loss.” He shrugged, “and if they don’t, that’s a dub. Simple as that.”

“I understand.” The pinkette hums, checking the bullet compartment. Last time they played, Dream loaded in five bullets and he sort of expected that to be the case now. Technoblade enjoys playing with five bullets. “Best three out of five so…” Techno looks around the room. A man sitting at the furthermost edge of the lobby caught his eye; wide baby blue eyes staring back at him, glassy and red as tears began to fall. Techno aims his gun and pulls the trigger without a second thought.

He intentionally made the bullet miss.

“Missing on purpose?” The blond takes the gun, loading in a bullet. Mimicking Techno’s way of selection, spinning around the room wildly, allowing his gun to guide him. Eventually he stops and the way the hostage trembles before the barrel of his gun is intoxicating. He revels in it for a beat longer, a sickening smile spreading across his face as his hands begin to tremble in pure excitement. 

He shoots. Scoring a point. 

Techno scoffs, “you’re sick in the head.” 

“It was thrilling , Techie.” He grips the handle of it. Reliving what he just experienced over, and over, and over again in his mind. “That was fucking great.”

The score is now 1-0. 

Techno reached his hand out for the weapon and Dream gave it to him, albeit a bit hesitant this time. Which was mainly due to the fact that he wanted to live in that moment that passed minutes ago. 

“What happens if one of us wins?” Techno plates a bullet into the holder, spinning the revolver with ease. 

“Well,” Dream hums, tightly clasping his hands together as he watched Techno choose his next target. It brings an amused smile to his face because Techno is clearly waiting to hear the answer before choosing. “If I win, we go downtown and wreak havoc.”

“Nobody’s gonna be there. Sure you understand that.” 

“And, if you win,” The blond sways on the balls of his feet, “you get to handle those fuckers outside.” Techno snaps his head towards Dream, while attempting to look unphased, his eyes wore ‘ you’re on ’ in bright colors. “How does that sound?” 

“I suppose I can agree to those terms.” 

The score quickly tied. 2-2.

Loading in another bullet, he hummed to himself as he selected. Dream continued to chase after the excitement he felt earlier today. Holding his gun the same way he did, positioning it in the exact position- everything, yet it never came. The reaction was still the same, in fact, some reacted more violently compared to others when a gun was put in their face. That should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t . 

He wants that feeling again. Oh god , he wants that again.

As he begins pulling the trigger back, he hears something… someone . Dream drops the gun to his side, looking up towards the glass ceiling. Enforcements were trying to break in from the top and, judging by the way Techno walked over towards his book and calmly tucked it away, this was it.

“Roshambo?” Dream chirps. 

Techno nods. Techno balls his hand into a fist and Dream follows suit. 

“Ro…” Dream starts, bouncing their fists. “sham...” and twice, “bo!” 

The blond celebrates loudly, “yes! Rock beats scissors!” Much to Techno’s dismay. This is a hassle.

“Fine. But, we’re doing fake out since you wanna celebrate.” The hybrid snaps his fingers, grabbing his axe from his back and climbing on top of the desk and jumping away. 

Dream watches for a brief moment, turning his attention back towards the roof. He reaches into his pocket for a necklace, throwing it over his head as it adjusted itself to his neck. It’s supposed to be a charm that alters the physical perception of the user, a new weapon that Techno’s enchanter came up with. 

Fake out, fake out, fake out . Dream sighs as he takes out a piece of gum. He fucking hates fake out more than any other scheme they came up with. It’s somehow always him being put on the chopping board, not that he’s afraid of it, but being surrounded by officers isn’t really an ideal situation.

“Stop! Put your hands up!” 

Dream obeys. Chewing on a piece of gum as subtly as possible, he places the revolver on the ground. 

The front doors leading into the museum opened carefully, two officers peeking in before stepping out of the way so a group of officers rushed into the building; checking on the hostages left alive and horrified at those who weren’t. Of course, they remained calm. Can’t show any signs of panic or else Dream would take advantage of their weakness. The blond scoffs as a group of five approaches him carefully, two staying back with their weapons trained on him and three crowding him. 

He complies with their orders, mainly because he didn’t feel like being shot today. With magic, it’s fairly easy to treat, but it only speeds up the healing process. Last time Dream was shot, he was so exhausted that he could hardly get out of bed for classes. Usually he’d test the odds. Why? Because he’s a very lucky guy.

He isn’t worried as they snatched his hand behind his back and snap handcuffs onto his wrists. Dream isn’t scared as they lead him out of the museum and begin reciting his rights nor is he scared when they’re rough with him or fear mongering. He continues chewing on the gum, uninterested in anything being said to him. 

“What is wrong with you?” One asks, maneuvering away from the blood staining the floor. Dream smiles, practically chirping with delight at the question because he thought they would never ask !

The farther he was led away, the quieter the room became. But the officers leading him away didn’t seem to notice. The blond hums in a sing-song tone, “with me? Oh nothing. I’m just your normal sadomasochist with slight narcissistic tendencies.” He said quite loud, seemingly happy to tell the officers everything they wanted to hear. “Ah, but if I were you, I’d be more scared of him.”

“Of who?” They asked. Oh, how wide his smile became at that question. 

Not long afterwards, they were silenced. Techno stood next to him and panted heavily, pulling his hair as he coped with a splitting headache. Dream felt bad because it’s only going to get worse when they step outside. It always does, leaving Technoblade out of commission for a good week or so. 

Techno is strong though, so he’ll make it through. Dream isn’t giving him a choice.

“Need a break?” Dream places a hand on the other’s shoulder- Techno jumps. It was worrying. 

“I’ll be fine.”

“I can handle all of them outside. Ought to take a break, Techie.” He breaks free from the handcuffs, flexing his hands and rotating his wrists. 

Techno throws his head back, murmuring a couple things to himself before shivering. “I’m okay.” He steps over the body of the officers, shaking his head every now and then. “Let’s cause chaos.”

Dream smiles, running back to pick up his revolver from the ground and returning to Techno’s side. He nods gleefully, “you took the words right out of my mouth.”

Chapter Text

University is really killing him.

Dream checked his phone for the thirtieth time that day, expecting a text from his partner in crime. Techno’s been out of commission for about two weeks now with Dream checking up on him every couple hours or so. They should’ve stopped when he noticed something was wrong, but he knew that Techno would refuse to and because of his lapse in judgment, he hasn’t been out committing serious crimes in a while. 

He taps his fingers on his desk, impatiently watching as the text bubble lit up and just as fast as it came, it left. He hated when Techno did this with all of his heart, most times just calling the hybrid instead because that seems to be more fucking convenient. Dream wanted a response and the lack of response is making him frustrated. As much as he was tempted to just up and call Techno right then and there, he’s currently in class half listening to a lesson that’s probably important. 

Can’t really listen if all he wants to do is seek a thrill. 

Dream looks up from his phone when the door opens, revealing a guy he’s never seen before. This is… well, strange to say the least. Either he’s from another class or in the wrong class, both equally amusing. But, when the teacher welcomed him into the classroom and led him in front of the whiteboard with a welcoming smile, Dream was even more confused. This wasn’t at all funny and he didn’t gain a laugh from this. 

“Oh class!” The teacher exclaims, patting the new boy on the back. The boy was tan and significantly shorter than he was with an all white bandanna tied around his long dark black hair. He wore a white shirt with a flame on it and a long sleeved black shirt under it, black sweatpants with white stripes on the sides to accompany it. “I’d like you to meet our newest student! Introduce yourself!”

The new student smiles, “ah well.”

Dream knew that voice. It wasn’t the voice of anybody he’s taken hostage before and it couldn’t have been the voice of any grieving families of his victims before. So where…

“My name’s Nick and I  recently moved here from Mexico. I’m not Mexican though, but my boyfriend is.”

He gasps, dropping his eyes back towards his phone because holy fucking shit it’s him .

Dream recognized that voice anywhere and, honestly, his interest peaked. It’s Sapnap, an assassin well known for his usage of fire and heat activated poisons. They’ve worked together a handful of times, most being during the summer and in scarily flammable places, and it was one of the best times he’s ever had. 

Sapnap is impulsive and lacks any type of rational thinking when fire is involved. Dream likes that. 

Shortly thereafter, the class ended. Dream quickly gathered his things and unlocked his phone, unlocking it and pressing on Techno’s contact immediately. He pressed the phone up to his ear as he rushed down the hallway past the other students, murmuring quick apologies to those that he bumps into. The rings a couple times before someone picks up, an unfamiliar, deeply accented voice picking up the phone.

“Hello?” 

The voice sounds young, definitely not older than he is. Giving a rough estimate, the kid had to be younger than 18- maybe 17 or 16?

“Hi! I’m…” he hesitates and throws a look over his shoulder as he separates himself from the crowd of students getting out of class. “I’m Dream. Is Technoblade there? I’d like to speak to him.” He decides on using his pseudonym, mainly due to the fact that Techno might not know his real name. 

(and also he doesn’t want to give his name to some random ass kid.)

“Uh yeah. Give me a second- TECHNO.” The kid screams on the other line, intense shuffling is heard. “The hell is that fucker? Phil? ‘Uve seen Techno around anywhere? Phone’s ringing nonstop.” Dream recognized the voice that responded. They’ve talked dozens of times before. “Got his friend on the phone here- said his name is Dream? You know him?”

There’s more shuffling on the other line before a peppy voice spoke, “Dream! Hey!” He says, “how’re you? Haven’t- Fundy, stop hitting Tommy with a pan - seen you in a while!”

“Phil! Hello!” The blond greets, attempting to match the other’s energy but falling short. Phil had so much energy and happiness for a mobster, which both disturbed him and interested him at the same time. “I’m doing great! Would be doing even better if Techno were here! Speaking of which,” Dream masked his irritation with a laugh, “the hell is that hybrid fucker?”

“Sometimes I think you forget you’re a hybrid yourself…” the oldest of the two murmurs before more shifting is heard. Dream inhales deeply at the mention of him being a hybrid, opting to forget that there’s another part of him that exists just under the surface and make the human side of him outshine the non-human. Though, forgetting has become increasingly difficult as of late. “Techno won’t be home for the next couple of hours. He’s been wonky this entire week so you shouldn’t expect consistency.”

Well, it’s not his business so he chooses not to pry anymore than he has already. Dream says his goodbyes, promptly ending the phone call afterwards. Sometimes, Dream finds himself worrying for his partner. Yeah, Techno is strong as hell and is able to think on his feet while keeping him in check, but that facade has been deteriorating recently. He often finds himself asking the pinkette if anything is wrong- if he wants to talk about anything because nothing is off limits when it’s just the two of them. Techno would decline the offer, stating that everything is fine and swiftly changing the topic. He never pushed on because it isn’t really his business. 

But now, as he strays away from his original path, he wonders if he should’ve made it his business. Then again, how would he even help? Dream could hardly pick up on social cues, much less offer emotional support to someone. He could’ve tried to, at least, get an understanding of how Techno might feel. Maybe then he could understand better. 

Why does he even want to understand? Since when did he start caring for Techno personally? This is weird. He should stop.

Dream slips into a nearby coffee shop, finding a seat farthest away from the front counter and from humans as a whole. There’s not many that would bother talking to him to begin with; due to his infamous reputation of sudden outbursts and unruly aggression, most people make the choice to stay away from him. 

He doesn’t want to interact with them anyway.

The blond sinks into his seat, removing his book bag from his back and placing it snugly next to him. One part of him, the non-human part, is screaming at him to go to sleep. To pass into the dream realm, spark chaos in the minds of others if he really wants that thrill he’s been repressing so desperately. 

He looks at the palms of hands, a pair eyes staring back at him. They look as if they’re brand new; something that’s been painted neatly despite having been on his body since birth. The eyes on his hand act as eyes in the dream realm because a normal set of eyes aren’t able to see or navigate through the realm.

He hates them. He hates these things so fucking much.

This pair of eyes have caused him so much pain- the non-human part of himself have caused him so many painful memories that he wished he had spent being a kid-

Dream slams his hand on the table, accepting the pain he inflicted upon himself. Despite the weird stares he received all across the cafe, he did it two more times, each time harder than the next. It felt good- taking out the anger he felt about himself on himself often did. 

“Woah! You wanna calm down there, buddy?” 

Dream snaps his head up towards the voice, flexing his hand every so often. It hurt. He liked it that way.

“Oh Sap- I mean, Nick.” Dream notices the uneasiness painted on the other’s face. Which, he guesses, is understandable. If someone repeatedly slammed their hand on the table as hard as they could people might be concerned. “When’d you get here?”

“Nevermind that! What the fuck was that whole show you just put on?” Sapnap, almost instinctively, slides into the seat across from him. Dream didn’t care much though.

He hums to himself for a moment before responding, “I’m a masochist.” Which is technically true. 

“Are you okay?”

He mulls over the question for a bit. 

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

Chapter Text

His nightmares are becoming too frequent. Too realistic.

He lays awake at night, staring at the ceiling for hours on end while his mind raced with dozens of different thoughts but never quite addressing any of them. Lately, he’s been neglecting to take his medicine that would help him with sleeping. The nurses would always sit and watch him take it, satisfied with the fake swallow he’s perfected over the years. 

He can’t sleep because if he does he’ll relive the same moment in his life over, and over, and over again. He doesn’t want to listen to his thoughts because they’ll always remind him why he’s here, yell terrible things at him, force him to contemplate terrible things- he wants to quiet them. Sometimes, during nights when his mind becomes too unbearable, he screams into his pillow until his vocal chords felt like it’ll tear. He’d silently sob into his pillow, begging for them to stop being so fucking cruel only for them to intensify tenfold. 

As the brunette lays in bed, forcing himself to focus on the sounds coming from the window next to his bed, he wonders where he would be now if he hadn’t made that mistake. If he hasn’t made such a stupid fucking mistake, perhaps he’d be home right now. Perhaps he’d be sitting in his room, strumming his guitar while Techno reads a book in the bed across from him. Perhaps he’d be with his son, planting flowers in the garden like he always wanted to. Perhaps he’d be arguing with Tommy over the smallest details. 

Maybe Phil wouldn’t see him as a disappointment.

He wants to go home. He wants that more than anything else in the world, but he knows that he’ll never truly belong because he- for some frustrating reason- always dwells on everything . He can’t forget and he struggles with forgiving even more. 

He will never come to terms with what happened to her. He will never have an understanding to explain what he did. 

His eyes open when he hears a knock on the door, searching through his muddled memories for when he went to sleep. He doesn’t remember, but he feels tired. Sleeping wasn’t that bad, so maybe he’ll sneak in a nap today.

“Good morning!” The nurse greets and he responds with a curt nod. The clock hanging from the opposite side of his bed read 7:30. He hums and averts his eyes away from the nurse. She smiles brightly, way too bright for someone working an early morning shift at a mental institution. “How did you sleep?”

“Well.” He decides to get out of bed and get ready for the day. He chooses some clothes; just a sweater and sweatpants like every other day. The nurse asked him other questions, such as what the day is, what he dreamt about, the things he’s looking forward to today. Well, he’s always looking forward to speaking to his friends. 

During his stay, he made a friend. Her name is Niki and she’s a really sweet person. She likes watching the fish that swim in the fish tank in the living area and knows a worrying amount about fish. He likes her because she can talk a whole lot and he doesn’t have to do much, only listen to her while she rambles. He enjoys it and Niki likes it as well because there’s someone who will listen.

He quickly took his medication and shuffled into the main living area. Niki was already awake, observing the fish from the tank. He goes to join her without a second thought, showing her the warmest smile he could muster despite feeling so hopelessly cold. 

“Did you sleep last night?” Niki asks while she takes a closer look at him. He feigns confusion.

“What do you mean? Of course I did!” He laughs and Niki didn’t laugh with him, concern written over her face.

“Why are you skipping your medication?” 

“I’m- Niki, I’m not skipping my medication.” He tries to reassure her, but she’s skeptical. She saw right through his facade before trained professionals did which… disturbed him… to say the least.

Somehow, he felt cared for when Niki battered down on him. She’s very observant, which makes him scared, but she always checks up on those she cares about when she sees something is wrong. She cares for him. He wants her to stay safe, protected, because he would lose it if he lost another woman he cared about.

“Hm…” she shakes her head, “stop skipping them. You need to take them.” Niki pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, giving him a firm and unwavering gaze. He rolls his eyes and turns his attention towards the fish, crossing his arms over his torso. 

“Okay.” He murmurs, following one of the fish with his eyes. It’s about time for breakfast anyway. He wasn’t hungry this morning. “Thank you for worrying about me. My dad would probably kill me if he knew.”

Niki smiles, “how is your dad? Oh, and your son too?” She shifts in her wheelchair a bit, moving her eyes away from him and back on the tank. They recently got a new fish. Niki named it noodle.

“My dad? He’s the same as always, you know.” He sighs, although he became a bit more lively at the topic of his son. His sweet boy, his champion. He hasn’t seen his son in person for almost four years, but he’s talked to him over the phone. Hearing his son’s voice is always a highlight of his day despite the rarity of it happening. “Fundy is… he’s a sweet boy. Tommy told me that he’s a very energetic spirit.”

“That’s nice.” She raises her hand which startled him a bit. Niki silently asked for permission to touch him, which he granted after a moment of processing. She rubs his shoulder gently, going as slow as possible so she doesn’t scare him. 

He smiles. He felt a lot warmer compared to this morning.

They are breakfast together. At some point, Niki started talking about her partner, Minx. She said that Minx is visiting her today and she looked so excited, and he felt excited for her. He’s talked to Minx a couple times before and they got along extremely well. 

He thinks he’ll leave them alone this time. 

Breakfast ended on a good note. He isn’t sure what to do with the rest of his time. Niki leaves after breakfast for personal hygiene while he stays in the living area. He could probably go outside, stretch his wings and maybe even go for a fly. The other residents are always fascinated with his wings and amazed when he takes flight. 

A majority of the population are humans with no animal mutations. Hybrids are common, common enough to have laws put in place to stop discrimination against them and to have some hybrids in immeanse places of power (his father being a prime example), but not common enough to construct an accurate timeline of when hybrids began showing up. 

He sits outside on his stomach to avoid applying pressure on his wings. They were safely binded to his back (as safe as one could get ) and it felt uncomfortable. Painful, even, at times. The only time he ever really gets to let them out and stretch them is during bedtime and, occasionally, group therapy. However, during the times he’s allowed to in group therapy, others always touch his wings.

It’s weird and he didn’t like it. 

In the middle of his impromptu sunbathing session, a nurse approaches him. The nurse crouched besides him, a warm smile greeting him as he pays attention to whatever this guy has to say. Most of the other nurses maintain a distance between him and them but this one chooses to get close to him. He doesn’t know how to feel. 

“You have a visitor.” The nurse says, as simple and sweet as one could get. He nods, getting up from the grass and following the nurse to the visiting center. It felt weird going there. Something doesn’t feel right.

The demeanor of this nurse felt… off. 

The room was empty; all except for one person sitting at a table located in the middle of the room. This man wore a pitch black suit with a cherry colored tie to compliment it. A neatly kept pair of horns perturbed from his head, curling behind his ear cleanly. 

For a moment, he thought he was staring at the devil himself. In a way, he is. 

“Um,” he turns to look at the nurse, “I don’t know this man.”

Now that he thinks about it, has he ever seen this nurse before?

“Wilbur.” The horned figure speaks, “sit. We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

Tubbo taps his fingers on the table rhythmically, watching as each person passed him through the window with a gentle sigh. It felt weird being in such a public place like this considering that his father always encouraged staying on the downlow, never being memorable enough for people to remember, never being the one people would want to talk about. 

Ranboo, his bodyguard, sat next to him with a cup of coffee cradled in between his hands. He watched Tubbo closely, though he was much more grounded when he had something to keep him out of his mind- something to hold. Tubbo would often allow Ranboo to hold his hand and it’s nice. 

Today is different though. Tubbo is supposed to meet someone today, someone important, and Ranboo isn’t sure who. Tubbo was vague when he initially explained it and, even now, still continues that pattern. 

Tubbo’s eyes brighten as he watches a man land very carefully on the ground, pure white wings tucking themselves behind the man in question. The ram hybrid gasps happily, jumping out of his seat and clambering out of the coffee shop. Ranboo chases after him, stopping after witnessing Tubbo fall into the man’s arms while an excited laugh escapes his throat. The man hugs back, fondly petting the ram’s head and… Tubbo leans into it.

Ranboo steps out the way as Tubbo led the man into the coffee shop, taking a moment to process what he just saw. Engulfed by his curiosity, he goes in after the two and sits in the seat he had previously, his hands finding its way back to the sides of the cup. 

“How long have you been here, Tubbo?” The winged man starts off, shifting in his seat for a moment before giving his full attention to the ram hybrid. 

“About three days.” The ram shrugs, averting his eyes down at the table. “I’ve been hanging out with Ranboo- oh wait!” He giggles to himself as he gestures between the two. “I haven’t introduced you two have I? Big Q, this is Ranboo, my bodyguard.” Tubbo waves his hands in Quackity’s direction, “and Ranboo, this is Quackity. He’s my dad’s husband.”

Dad’s what-

The boss has a husband? Since fucking when? He’s been working for Schlatt for almost half a year, yet he has never seen- much less has anyone mentioned - that the boss is married . He hasn’t even seen a wedding band on the boss’s finger. 

Ranboo’s eyes darted towards Quackity’s hand, again, no ring in sight. He then looks back at Tubbo. 

“I didn’t know the boss was married.” Ranboo mutters, surprise painting his face. Quackity, slightly amused by this reaction, laughs to himself.

“Let’s keep it that way, yeah?” The winged hybrid says and Ranboo complies wholeheartedly, mostly due to the fact that other, newer house staff might have their fucking minds blown. Not only that, but Tubbo has two fathers ? Who would’ve guessed?

Tubbo observes the interaction, happy that his two favorite people are getting along. He hums happily, spinning from side to side in his chair as the short interaction took place. It felt nice.

“What are… what type of Aviator are you?” Ranboo questions, sending glances towards the other man’s wings. He’s a bit surprised, mostly due to the fact that Quackity is allowed to have his wings out in an eatery. In New York, all hybrids with wings have to put them away; mostly because they don’t want feathers around the place. 

“I’m a duck!” Quackity puffs his chest out with pride, crossing his arms over his chest. “A call duck, to be more specific.”

Well, that certainly makes more sense. Call ducks are seen as decorative ducks, raised with the sole purpose of being pranced around as a prize. Ranboo nods, but it still doesn’t explain why Quackity is never with the boss. Call ducks are always with their spouses- the wife or husband of a call duck more or less owns them. 

This doesn’t make any sense at all.

“Big Q,” Tubbo buts in, immediately grabbing the attention of them both. “Uh… I just wanted to know when you’re coming home?” Tubbo scratches his head nervously. Ranboo impulsively places a hand on Tubbo’s knee, training his eyes on the smaller boy for any signs that he was uncomfortable with it. Instead of swatting his hand away, he leans into the touch. “Two years is a long time away from home, isn’t it?”

Quackity smiles, albeit sadly, and ruffles the ram’s hair fondly. He’s hiding something, they both knew.

“It’s complicated, Turbo.” That was the end of one conversation, leading directly into another. “Is your father in Florida as well?”

“He is.” Tubbo answers, “he said he had some business to take care of so I haven’t seen him since the plane landed.” 

“How long ago was that?”

Tubbo shrugs, never really being good at keeping track of the time. Ranboo steps on his behalf, “three days ago.” 

The color drains from Quackity’s face, the man immediately glancing around the establishment frantically after hearing the amount of days. Nobody has seen Schlatt in over three fucking days?!  

Ranboo didn’t understand the panic. Sure, the boss could be a scary person, but he’s not that much of a scary person if you’re on his good side. Quackity is on Schlatt’s good side right? They’re married and Tubbo likes him, and if Tubbo likes anyone , the boss goes soft on them. 

Quackity isn’t supposed to be here. Ranboo pieced that together rather quickly.

The boss owns him. 

And Quackity went rogue.

As if on cue, a bullet is shot into the coffee shop, grazing the duck’s face as it passes. That one was intentional. 

Everyone panics. Ranboo pushed Tubbo under the table, both he and Quackity following shortly thereafter. They waited a moment as more gunshots echoed throughout the shop. Tubbo had a wing put over his shoulder that pulled him closer to Quackity, though he didn’t seem phased by any of this at all. Ranboo thought that in of itself is by far scarier than the bullets piercing through the air. 

Quackity grabbed his attention with a wave of a hand. “Get Tubbo out of here when you see the opportunity.” He instructed, instinctively pulling Tubbo closer to him as another bullet tore through the window. After a moment he releases the boy reluctantly, the wing tucking itself back to his side. 

He gives Tubbo to Ranboo with a simple pinch on the ram’s arm and a reassuring smile. The ram didn’t reciprocate it, averting his eyes towards the floor sadly at the gesture. 

Pinches in duck hybrid culture signified trust and love. It’s the gesture Quackity always did to him right before disappearing into oblivion.

The duck carefully crawled away from the table as the shots began to slow down, taking a deep breath and counting the time in between shots. In one breath, he takes a leap of faith and stands, quickly running out the store and flying away as fast as he could. The hitmen, no longer interested in the cafe, chased down their target and the gun fire ceased immediately. 

A breath of relief escaped Ranboo’s mouth as he relaxed visibly. They were safe, perhaps, but he still needed to get Tubbo out of here. The hitmen most likely work for the boss and if the boss finds out they’re here and that they met him , he’s dead.

So inexplicably dead that the word dead doesn’t do him enough justice.

Ranboo grabs Tubbo’s hand, running out of the cafe before the cops arrive. He ran as far as possible. Away from all that, away from emotions, away from Tubbo’s scary ass dad- just away . 

Tubbo pulls at his sleeve a couple times, telling Ranboo to slow down. Eventually, he does, panting heavily as Tubbo pressed a hand on his back. He isn’t sure where they are. 

“Are…” he huffs, “are you…. okay?”

The ram tilted his head to the side, “are you okay?” 

“Who cares about me, Tubbs?” 

“I do, Ranboo!” The brunette exclaims, waving his hand in nonsensical ways. Ranboo is a bit taken aback by the outburst, but remains quiet. “We just got shot at and you’re over here worrying about my well-being? What about you!” 

What about him? He’s scared, of course, but he refuses to demonstrate his fear outwardly. Ranboo’s job is to protect Tubbo and, because he cares about Tubbo too much, he’ll protect the ram with everything he has. 

For his own sake, he took the ram’s hand into his own with a wobbly smile. He looks at their hands for a moment as he calms his heart which, at this point, he’s more than sure that Tubbo is able to feel his heartbeat from his palm. He feels a pair of eyes searing into his chest as their hands connect, obviously wanting to ask questions but stopping himself short. 

Ranboo never lets go of Tubbo’s hand, steadying himself mentally. “I only care about you.” 

It was the honest-to-God truth. 

Tubbo nods his head in understanding, but keeps his comment to himself and saves them for a later time. Ranboo squeezes his hand and Tubbo squeezed back, gingerly and tightly. He’s safe. They’re safe.

Chapter Text

Quackity managed to get away from the hitmen, although it was not easy. He presses a hand on his cheek as he takes a step through the sliding doors, being greeted with the familiar sounds of slot machines and loud talking. The duck maneuvers his way through the crowd, making sure he didn’t draw attention to himself as the owner of this establishment. Regulars knew him well, which is why he avoided them like the plague compared to his usual loud, prideful greetings. 

He needs to get to his office. Karl kept and prepared healing potions in his office and, somehow, they always manage to come in handy. Quackity hurried up the stairs, neglecting to say anything to anybody he passed- although, the atmosphere of his staff is a little off. He doesn’t think much about it. Probably a bad customer.

Quackity opened the door to his office, closing it gently before running over to his desk. As he rummaged through his drawers, the door opened. He didn’t look up to see who it was, mostly because his staff doesn’t have to knock before coming in unless he expressed otherwise, so he chuckles breathlessly. “Hey,” he says attempting an upbeat tone, “I’m sort of busy right now. Could you come back later?”

“Is that how you treat a guest?”

He pauses. 

“Mind your manners boy.” The voice spoke again and Quackity’s heart dropped. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

What should he do? What should he do? The only way he fled last time was because he had someone there with him. Someone there to protect him, to comfort him, to mediate the situation. Now? There’s nobody except them. 

He’s much stronger now, that much is true, but how much stronger is the question. 

He takes a deep breath, standing up from a crouch position and uses his table as a way to balance himself. Quackity feels dizzy all of a sudden. 

“Schlatt, I-“ he presses a hand to his head, pulling out the rolling chair from his desk and taking a seat in it. “I didn’t know you were here. Why don’t you grab a seat?”

Quackity didn’t look at Schlatt, training his eyes on the desk and hoping for the best outcome. The ram, with this shit eating grin Quackity loathed, grabs a chair from somewhere in the room and takes a seat across from him. He flinched as the ram’s elbows touched the table, instinctively sliding out of other’s reach slowly. However, before he was completely out of reach, Schlatt’s hand gripped the side of his face and yanked him back, forcing the duck to make eye contact with him.

“I told you to look at me when spoken to.” Schlatt reiterates in a voice he knew all too well. He fucking hates that voice.

He fucking hates this man.

“No.”

;;;;

Dream is sort of weird.

At least, that’s what he thinks.

George has known the blond for a while now. They’ve become good friends in that time and, really, the time he’s spent with Dream has always been fun and something he easily looked forward to. However, during their friendship, he has noticed Dream has these little things that he does in certain situations. Like when he would cry, instead of comforting him, Dream would just watch in wonder as if it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. When he’s upset or any other emotion aside from happy, Dream would stare at him incredulously. 

George thought Dream was just terrible with emotions (which is true), but looking back on the interactions, it’s almost like Dream doesn’t believe he can feel such terrible emotions. It’s weird, but he chooses not to think so hard on those weird moments. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, feeling happy enough with the way that he looks. The Brit walks out of his room, waving to Dream as he enters the living room with an arm stretch. Breakfast wasn’t ready from what he could see so he plops down on the couch, content with watching whatever Dream thought was interesting. 

“Good morning to you too.” Dream murmurs from the kitchen while stirring batter. George waves lazily, hand dropping almost immediately.

“Afternoon Clayton.” George smiles. Dream hated his real name, but it is fun to use it every now and then.

Dream groans dramatically and George’s smile only grew. Moments like these only cement the idea that Dream is absolutely the most dramatic person to exist, but he honestly doesn’t mind. The blond’s theatrics held a special place in his heart.

“Fuck you.” 

The Brit could only laugh fondly at the other’s reaction. They’re always so real and so remarkable in their own way. Provoking a reaction from Dream is fun because he knows that he’ll always get one. 

“It’s not afternoon and that’s not even my name.” Some of the cooking batter slips over the edge of the bowl. George knows he’ll most likely have to clean up the kitchen after this and he honestly doesn’t look forward to it. Asking Dream to clean up is like asking a two year old to pick up their toys. Trifling. 

“Shut up pissbaby.” George hums, waving his index finger around in circles lazily. Today is turning out to be an interesting day- well, aside from the mess being made in the kitchen. The way he’s gonna spend his day could just be annoying the fuck outta Dream before the blond disappears wherever he decides to run off to these days- well, if today is one of those days. Sometimes Dream will become restless and unable to stay still and then disappear and comes back hours later being calm and concerningly relaxed. George learned to stop asking what happened, but never stopped questioning it in his head. “Are you doing anything today?”

Dream scrunched his face in thought, bobbing his head from side to side as he regarded the question. “I don’t think so.”

“Subject to change?”

“I hope not.” The blond focuses on the pancakes in the pan, determined to get the perfect color on each side. He wants to make it as good as George does, but he’s finding great difficulty in doing so. George is a normal human being; not magically inclined, not a hybrid, just an average person living his life. So, how the fuck does he make pancakes perfect each fucking time? “I like spending time with you.”

The Brit giggles as a response and Dream doesn’t understand why. It’s true.

“You’re weird.” George spoke in a sweetly humorous way only unique to him. Dream breaks his focus on creating breakfast to look at his roommate who was lounging on the couch with no cares in the world. He wanted to take a picture, but his hands were covered in dry pancake batter so he opted to burn his memory into his head with a smile. 

Dream goes back to the pancakes, flipping it over. It’s a little darker than what he imagined, but he decides to let this one slide for now. “Untrue.” He sighs, “also, how do you make pancakes?”

“I don’t smell anything burning.” George comments, sitting upright at the question. He didn’t particularly feel like getting up but, at the same time, the kitchen burning down isn’t ideal as well. 

“Well, I’m not burning anything.” The blond gestures towards the pancakes he already made. None of them fit the image he had in his head and it is extremely disappointing. “I wanna make it like you do. This,” he holds up the pan, “is not what God intended.”

George rolls his eyes, laying back down on the couch. “All it takes is practice. Making mistakes is only human.” He yawns, “or hybrid.”

“There’s no hybrids here.” Dream lied. George doesn’t know. He won’t need to know.

“Eh, well.” The Brit stretches his limbs again. His body is feeling really stiff today for some reason. “You don’t need certain people to be present in order to be inclusive.”

Dream doesn’t understand the sentiment. Why add the extra when they aren’t even here? Of course, there is a hybrid among them- he’s here- but for all George knows he’s as human as the next. 

“Oh.” He says in a tone of faux understanding. Eventually, he finishes the pancakes and takes it upon himself to plate them. There’s a knock at the door, though Dream pays little attention to it as he was too busy plating the food to care. He cleans up a bit by throwing the dishes he’s no longer using into the sink and wiping the batter off the counter. It’s not much, but he’ll come back and clean after eating. 

George grabs his attention, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There’s someone at the door for you.” The Brit glances at the door cautiously. “His name is Karl. You know him?”

Dream nodded slowly. He never gave anybody in those circles his address. Though, it couldn’t have been that hard to obtain information. Karl is sort of like the historian or interrogator or something like that. Gaining information like this must’ve been child’s play.

He approached the door incredulously. What the fuck could be so important that one has to interrupt his personal life? Dream steps out onto the stairway and closes the door behind him to prevent George from listening in. 

“Karl,” he whispers harshly. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? Why the hell are you-“

“Big Q is missing.” Karl says coolly. Surprisingly, Karl managed to keep his composure despite the information being relayed. Dream doesn’t know how he manages to stay calm during situations like these because if George went missing, he would be panicking beyond belief. 

“I- huh?”

This is certainly not expected.

Chapter Text

Interrogations went on for hours.

After a while, Karl decided to take a break. His wrist was tired of cracking a whip all say and his voice was hoarse after speaking for so long with no breaks in between. It was a beautiful sight to see, to Dream at least, because of the anger he released during each session. Karl’s frustration really shone through this time around, so much so that Sapnap felt the need to step in. Dream stopped him though. It was probably the only time Karl ever allowed himself to vent out his anger. 

Karl calmly removed the half palm gloves that covered his hands, ensuring that he’s careful with the removal so the blood covering his gloves didn’t get on his hands. Dream watches the other closely while Sapnap trains his eyes on the television screen. A victim of Karl’s infamous interrogation tactics heaving on the floor with gashes over their back where the tail of the whip had been. This is Quackity’s staff. The people they fucking got along with and cracked jokes with and to just massacre them like this… it’s fucking unthinkable. 

Dream doesn’t seem affected by any of this and, to some effect, he wonders why.

“Dream,” Karl speaks gently in a tone he was all too familiar with. Sapnap looks away from the screen for a split second then goes back to the screen. The voice doesn’t align with actions. “Come here please.” 

“What do you need?” Dream questions as he stands from his seat. It’s strange for Karl to need him of all people, especially after the whole fiasco they witnessed four minutes ago. 

Karl held out a bloodied glove, meeting Dream’s eyes with an unexpected coldness that betrayed the warmth in his voice. The blond didn’t understand the command, holding both hands out curiously. “Taste it.”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“The blood.” Karl drops the glove into his hands, picking up his whip from the wall beside him and dropping it into the sink along with his other glove. “Get a taste.”

Dream contorts his face into many different things as he attempts to comprehend what Karl could possibly mean. Why would Karl ask him to taste it as if… 

His eyes widened because how -

“Every time I asked, each one of them said that they had no clue what happened.” As Karl gives an explanation, he starts the water at the sink and holds his hand under it as he waits for it to reach the right temperature. “Which makes me believe they might’ve been subjective to some type of magic that wiped their memories.”

“An amnesiac?” Sapnap pipes up, suddenly interested in the conversation. Well, Dream guesses it’s not entirely out of left field. Sapnap specializes in potions and enchantments so maybe he would have an interest in this. “How? Amnesiacs don’t work like that. It has a different effect for each person I think.”

“Someone managed to create an amnesiac that causes widespread memory loss.” Karl begins washing his whip with a patient hum. Dream sniffs the glove carefully, smelling many different blood types on it. He didn’t want to taste it. His body wasn’t made to handle blood, only things that plague the mind like nightmares, thoughts, dreams, anything of that matter. “Even the hybrids had their memories wiped. This isn’t a normal drug.”

“By that logic, this isn’t even a drug.” Dream points out, handing the glove back to its owner. There’s definitely something wrong with it, that much he’s sure of. “ And , I can’t conduct the test for you. I’m not able to digest blood.”

“Dream’s a human , Karl. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” Sapnap scoffs halfheartedly, though he kept to himself across the room. By now, the victim is shivering so Sapnap decides to increase the temperature just a bit to aid with the probably freezing room. Karl can’t feel the cold, but is ultra sensitive to heat. Which is sort of weird considering that Karl is only a magically inclined human.“A weird human with… many questionable morals.”

“Morals are for the weak.” The blond retorts as Karl takes the glove gingerly. 

Karl hums in acknowledgment, dropping it into the sink as well. This is not the proper way to wash a pair of gloves, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t want to be alone right now. “Yes…” he huffs to himself. “Well… it must’ve been an oversight on my end.” It wasn’t.

Plenty of “oversights'' have been happening since the disappearance. Due to stress, he’s been more forgetful than usual. Sapnap’s been spending more and more time alone, cooped up in his room talking to god knows what. Worst part is, he doesn’t know where to start. There’s virtually no footage of Big Q that was caught that day, which made it seem like he wasn’t out the building to begin with. The whole fucking day is a blank. No cell phone traces, his car and keys were left at his office, and there weren’t any signs of foul-play. The only sign Karl has that ensures Quackity is alive is a feather hidden in the desk drawer. 

It was a sign they came up with, so as long as the feather is white, Quackity is alive. 

This is so frustrating.

To make things worse, Philza refused to help. The actual fuck is up with that? He and Quackity were close, but now they aren’t? 

Karl just wants Quackity back. Big Q would know what to do. He always did. 

During these times, Quackity would expect him to be strong as he always was and to take control of the situation. To guide everyone to a solution as he always was. Sapnap said that it’s one of his best qualities. 

Karl flexes his hand, the dull pain keeping him grounded. Dream and Sapnap chattered amongst themselves and he wondered when he checked out of the conversation. What were they talking about? He doesn’t know. 

“... oh… that’s who it is?” That’s Dream, he thinks.

“Yeah… surprised you can see him… even Karl can’t… ha! Totally.” Sapnap. What doesn’t he know?

Karl is snapped out of his daze when someone calls his name. Who? He doesn’t exactly know.

“We’ll look over this footage.” Dream takes the tape from the recorder. Karl only nods blankly and returns to cleaning his tools. That’s fine, he guesses, because he probably needs more time to comprehend the information at hand. For now, however, he thinks he’ll continue with witnesses. 

Karl snaps up from the sink, “wait, hold up a moment.” Sapnap and Dream stop at the door, almost surprised by the outburst. “Sapnap, I would like you to set up a rendezvous with Skep. It’s imperative that it’s sooner rather than later- like, tomorrow soon.”

“I’m on the case, boss.” Sapnap stretches his limbs. 

“Thank you.” Karl smiles and goes back to the sink, though he was caught off guard as a sweet kiss was placed on his cheek. 

“Love you.” The blaze hybrid speaks softly, a whisper for only the two of them to hear. “Take a break, okay?”

“Fucking gross dude! Get a room.” Dream leaves the room while making mock gagging noises. They giggle between themselves. 

He can be strong. He will be stronger for Sapnap.

For Quackity.

Karl snaps up from the sink, “wait, hold up a moment.” Sapnap and Dream stop at the door, almost surprised by the outburst. “Sapnap, I would like you to set up a rendezvous with Skep. It’s imperative that it’s sooner rather than later- like, tomorrow soon.”

;;;;;

When Tubbo was a lamb, something he often looked forward to was bedtime.

Big Q helped him get ready for bed; doing something with his hair and telling bedtime stories quickly became something he looked forward to. During that time, everything was fine in his eyes. His parents got along well, very well from what he remembers, and the three of them spent lots of time together. If they fought, he wouldn’t have known since they were always uptight about what they allowed Tubbo to know or hear. He never cared because it never mattered.

Yet, as he sits at the dinner table, his lack of knowledge only frustrated him in ways he never knew possible.

Quackity’s here . They’re eating together as a family again. When he imagined this scenario in his head, it was always happy and full of laughter- it was supposed to be something he’d never forget and regarded as a super duper jovial day in his mind palace. Not a tense atmosphere between his parents. No. This is not how any of this is supposed to go down.

After setting the table and serving their food, Ranboo left to eat in a different room. Tubbo is the first to dig into his meal, shoveling vegetable soup into his mouth with a smile. It tastes really good.

He tried not to focus on the tension brewing between his parents and wanted to get dinner over with. Tubbo felt upset and sad with a mixture of curiosity and pure confusion. It’s as if the chance for Quackity to make an appearance on his own terms was taken away from him. The chance to reenact the fantasy he created in his head was snatched from beneath him. It’s not fucking right. 

“Remember,” Tubbo starts, ultimately deciding to salvage this dinner. This is the first dinner with both of his parents in over two years and he’s determined to make the absolute most of it. “Remember when I was little and I used to call Big Q ‘Itty’ because I couldn’t pronounce his name?” The memory lived in his mind and he often laughed at it in his private time. His father would give him a long stare each time he used it and Quackity would laugh it off so he, in turn, learned to laugh at the situation as well. “Dad would give me this weird look… it’s funny looking back on it.”

Quackity’s mood changed as the memory is brought up, brightening up significantly but keeping his distance from Schlatt. “It was funny.” Although, there’s plenty more memories associated with that name. Most of them aren’t good. 

“I guess it was.” Schlatt adds in. Quackity stirs the soup as he cringes at Schlatt’s voice. 

He wishes Schlatt didn’t have a voice to talk with.

“Uh…” Tubbo scratched the back of his head, “we’re planning on getting me tested to see if I can eat meat.” He scoops up another spoonful of soup and eats it in one gulp. “I doubt I will. I know dad isn’t able to and that’s all I really know.”

“You never know big man.” Schlatt chuckles in a reserved way. “Big Q over here is able to eat both plants and meat.”

His stomach isn’t able to handle meat. He’s only able to eat fish- if that counts as a meat, he guesses- but he stays quiet.

“You’re kidding!” Tubbo exclaims curiously, looking to Big Q for some sort of explanation for this. Big Q has been in his life for as long as he could remember and never once has he seen the duck feast on any sort of meat- not even at restaurants that offered carnivorous food options. “What does it taste like? Is it good? I heard mutton is an option at some places, have you tried that?”

Schlatt looks at his son. Saying he was a little disturbed is an understatement. “Why do you wanna know what mutton tastes like?”

“Humans eat sheep dad.” Tubbo speaks in a tone that had the word ‘ duh ’ written all over it. Schlatt only scrunched his face into one of concerned amusement. What is Tubbo on? “They even eat lamb . Our lamb is different from their lamb- I think- so it should be okay to eat, right?” 

“I hope you’re herbivorous so you’ll never find out.” Schlatt knew the answer, but hearing the things his son thinks of are always amusing in a ‘ who the fuck raised this kid? ’ kind of way. 

“Dad, no!” Tubbo groans loudly, sinking into his chair. “You’re gonna jinx it!” 

Schlatt rolls his eyes, “good. You don’t need to know. Actually-“

Quackity stands abruptly, startling both people at the table. The duck excused himself from the table and hurried up the stairs. Ranboo ran into the dining room, quickly sharing a glance with Tubbo and then looking at his boss expectantly. 

The time spent with both of his parents was cut short as his father trailed after Quackity. The food was good, but he suddenly lost his appetite.

Later that night, as Ranboo combs through his hair, he thinks. Usually, he doesn’t think about things that hurt him. Tubbo chops it up to his animalistic instincts attempting to keep him safe, but deep down he knows that’s not true. He’s human as well. Maybe not as human as normal people, but he is. Maybe that’s why tonight’s events hit him hard. 

It hurt. He thought having both his parents back together would be as good as it was when he was a lamb, but it wasn’t. It was so, so, so much worse and he doesn’t understand why.

Ranboo rubs his shoulder. It felt nice, it always did, but it doesn’t help him feel better. Tubbo probably needs some time to himself, but he doesn’t like being alone. How does he fix this type of pain? It’s probably some stupid cheesy thing like ‘ yOu cAnT’ or ‘ iT tAkEs tImE ’. He doesn’t have time like that. 

“Hey,” Ranboo taps his shoulder. “Are you okay?” 

“I don’t know.” Tubbo sighs. Having his hair being combed is a relaxing activity because it helps his mind calm down enough for a restful night of sleep. It isn’t helping now and he wonders why.

“Is it…” the enderman clicks his tongue. The sound irritates his ears, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “Because of your parents? Are they quarreling?”

“That’s the thing, Ranboo.” The ram snaps his fingers, “I don’t know. I never fucking know. I’m clueless on everything around me and I never question it because it’s what I was taught.” Tubbo sighs and looks at the mirror, his eyes meeting a pair of red and green eyes. For some reason, he felt betrayed. “I don’t even know what my dad does for a living , but you do. In what world does that make any fucking sense?”

Ranboo knew everything that went on behind the scenes and only enabled Tubbo’s ignorance by refusing to speak on anything when asked. It felt so fucking frustrating to know that a total fucking stranger knew more about his own family than he did. 

“I’m sorry, Tubbo.” Ranboo starts, putting the comb to the side. He would tell Tubbo every single thing he knew if that was an option. “How can I make it up to you?”

Tubbo decides, in that very moment, to figure out the truth himself. He isn’t sure how he’ll do it, but he does remember seeing Big Q eagerly shuffling poker cards when he was younger.

“Take me out tomorrow please.” He flicks a piece of hair, “I want to buy something.”

Chapter Text

Karl’s chair sways from side to side as he reads reports on a skirmish that happened recently. While does not mind "cleaning up" the messes that his partners make, it does worry him when they get into life-threatening situations. The amount of worry he dishes out to each of his partners in these situations are entirely dependent on who is getting into said life-threatening situations-- which is, more often than not, Sapnap. Karl isn't as worried when it's Sapnap getting into problematic situations because Sapnap enjoys doing dangerous things. Sapnap can get himself out of dangerous situations not only because of his lineage, but because he is well equipped for those types of problems. Quackity, on the other hand, prefers quick, up-close, and incredibly personal jobs where he is in control at all times. Nothing too dangerous, not for him. 

Which is why Karl does not understand why Quackity would want to intentionally put a target on his back. No matter how long he looks at the reports, why would he use the guise of "meeting up" with someone? And, worst of all, he is unable to get a viable profile on the person Quackity was meeting up with.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts as someone enters the room. His gaze snaps towards the door, an instant smile coming to his face as Quackity enters the room. The duck squirms at the door for a moment looking between the door and his boyfriend like he was contemplating something. Karl lays the paper on his desk and watches, inviting his boyfriend in with a wave of his hand. That seems to be all the duck needs as he closes the door and scurries into the makeshift office area. 

“Sapnap’s out the house, isn’t he?” Quackity asks.

Karl nods hesitantly, "he... is. What’s going on?” Karl puts both elbows on his desk, entwining his fingers together. Quackity paces the room once the question was asked which only made Karl more worried. “Did you two fight?”

The duck shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest as he goes up and down the same part of the room. “I need to tell you something actually. Only you.”

“Only me?”

“Yes.”

Karl inhales deeply, urging Quackity on with a nod. He slides the report to the side of his desk and brings the phone closer. Just in case. He prefers handling things via negotiation, but judging by his duck’s nervousness, he may have to handle this personally. 

Quackity clears his throat, ignoring the short rearrangement of Karl’s desk. “I haven’t been completely truthful with you. Or Sapnap.” He stops in his tracks as he considers his next couple of words carefully. There’s a scenario that he planned in his head along with a small speech that explained his situation as neatly as possible. He forgot it. “And, in light of recent events, I… I think it’s best that I tell you.” Going about this is difficult. Would’ve been easier to put everything out in the open in the beginning but no. He doesn’t think too far ahead because of course he wouldn’t get a swift and easy divorce. 

Schlatt would never allow that. He knew this, yet tried despite knowing the potential consequences he could reap.

“If I… were to…” he fidgets with his fingers nervously, “disappear.” Quackity sighs, creating a firm resolve mentally. He can’t get them involved with his shit. That isn’t fair. Schlatt is his problem and his alone. “Don’t look for me.”

“I haven’t seen you since you were seventeen!” Skeppy squeals as he attacks the blaze tenfold, engulfing the younger in a hug strong enough for two people. He nods, albeit hesitantly, silently questioning if it would be in his best interest to hug back. If he hugs back, will he get attached? “Ahh! We’ve missed you, Sap! Why haven’t you visited us?!”

He guesses that is a good question. Is it appropriate to confess that the thought of ‘home’ is too painful to bear? Probably not. Sapnap clears his throat, ultimately deciding to pry Skeppy off of him- which proved to be difficult. The man is much stronger than he remembered. “Get off-“ he mutters, twisting and turning to try and get the other man off. 

“We were worried about you!” Skeppy huffs loudly, as if it’s the most pressing issue of the hour. Catching up. Sapnap could hardly believe catching up is the most important thing on the man’s mind. “Where the hell’ve you been? We couldn’t find you anywhere.”

It’s better that way, he thought. 

“Skeppy!” Karl spoke as he entered the house, cleaning the bottom of his shoe with a grin. “It’s so good to meet you! You don’t look a day over twenty-one.”

Sapnap nods in agreement. For as long as he’s known Skeppy, the hybrid hasn’t physically aged despite being well over thirty-five. It’s sort of funny because Q physically looks older than Skeppy. 

“Thank you… well, you.” The elf-hybrid squeezes Sapnap tightly, letting the blaze go. He looks Sapnap over once more, content with what he saw as a small smile tugging at his lip. Seems like his little flame grew into a beautiful fire. “I forgot your partner’s name, sorry!” The elf laughs heartily, walking out of the doorway and moving deeper into the house.

Sapnap rolls his eyes because of course. Skeppy never bothers to learn the names of people he believes he’ll never see again. After a couple seconds, he even forgets faces which… is slightly concerning… but it doesn’t really harm anyone, so maybe his concern is unfounded.

Hopefully. 

Sapnap walks into the living room with his hands tucked in his pockets, choosing to sit across the room from his dad. Karl sat on the couch with him, throwing their coats over his lap. He didn’t bother hanging the coat up as they both had no interest in staying long.

“Hello there.” His father regards them quietly with a soft smile. “Well then, now that everyone’s acquainted, let’s get down to business.” Skeppy stands at his father’s side, observing the other closely. Almost as if Skeppy himself isn’t a part of the discussion at all. “Karl, was it? Would you start?”

Karl nods slowly, clearing his voice. “Yes, well.” He shifts to the edge of the couch cushion, “to get straight to the point, our boss is missing.” He explains carefully, pausing briefly to collect his thoughts. “We’ve exhausted every avenue possible, but each attempt has yielded no results. I was hoping that you would lend a hand considering your magic is much more developed than my own.”

“That’s weird, isn’t it Bad?” Skeppy questions loudly. Bad perks up at the word ‘missing’, his curiosity beginning to peak at the mention of some mystery that needs to be solved. This sounds almost too delicious to pass up. 

“I haven’t heard of any ‘bosses’ being taken care of recently…” Bad notes out loud with Skeppy nodding enthusiastically behind him. Skeppy is considered to be the eyes and ears of the underground, which means if a disposal or abduction happened Bad and Skeppy would be the first to know. Strange how they haven’t heard of it, huh?

“Who is your boss?” Skeppy inquires casually, quickly losing interest in the topic all together. In this line of work, people go “missing” all the time. Being unprepared for an omnipresent threat is their fault. Honestly, Sapnap is still a child. What did he really expect? 

“Quackity!” Sapnap jumps at the opportunity, happy that his parents were considering helping them despite how silly it may sound. “His name is Quackity! Do you-“

“Ugh, really?!” Skeppy groans, covering his eyes with his hands in pure annoyance. Bad, however, found his bond-mate’s reaction to the name humorous and chuckled affectionately. “That guy? I thought you had serious business Sapnap, what the heck!”

“This is serious!” Karl reasons, “we don’t know where he is! He left- out of the blue, mind you- giving no warnings as to where he is!” 

Bad stares at the couple quizzically, finding their concern to be a bit misplaced. Because sure, the duck has a tendency to disappear for extended periods of time, but even then the location of their “boss” is obvious. 

“He’s with his husband. Where else would he be?” Bad says as if it’s the most obvious thing on Earth.

And, well, it wasn’t. The word ‘husband’ being used in association with Quackity is brand new to them.

Quackity was always so adverse to the idea of marriage that it simply seemed impossible for the thought to cross Karl's mind that, "hey, maybe the reason why Q hates marriage is because he is married?". Q seemed so used to being alone, so used to being free that it never seemed obvious to either of them that perhaps Quackity is just like them. Perhaps Quackity is still learning what it means to be himself and, because Q managed to find the both of them at low points in their lives, they both were too blind to see the gaping holes within Quackity as an individual. 

Karl feels dumb, yet, his admiration for Quackity only seems to grow. Quackity is safe, which is the most important part to take away from this. 

Sapnap calmly leans into him, whispering a gentle 'what do we do now?' from his partner. Karl chuckles quietly, pressing a gentle kiss on his beloved's forehead.

"Thank you for your help." Karl gets up abruptly after a short breath of silence, "we'll take your words to heart." he pulls Sapnap up with him, politely nodding at both of his partner's parents and taking their leave. 

Chapter Text

“I never know what you’re thinking, Q.” Schlatt says, turning to him to stress his point and to make sure the duck heard him- and heard him well. Quackity glanced at him, having this familiar feeling that his husband isn’t being entirely truthful, then deciding to take Schlatt at his word as a piece of jewelry quickly caught his attention. 

“Do you need to?” The duck replies after inspecting the jewelry carefully. He observes the necklace through the glass and for some reason, his heart begins to ache.

He didn’t know if his heart was aching because he misses them or if it was because he felt bad for deceiving someone so good. It was a weird, mix-y thing that left him feeling restless because he wants to go back to them. Then again, spending time with Tubbo is something he would never give up again if he had the ability to. The ram is a good kid, always has been. 

Choices, choices, choices. If only Schlatt wasn’t… well, Schlatt , there wouldn’t have to be a choice.

“… it’s really disheartening, you know?” The duck heard the end of the sentence as he tunes back into reality. He’s torn between the two greatest goods of his life. Quackity loves Tubbo, but he can’t stay with Schlatt he fucking can’t . But leaving would be worse won’t it? “When we were married… you were so cute- wait, no! Not saying that you aren’t now! I mean-“

The duck chuckles. Schlatt really fucking sucks at giving genuine compliments and he’s always found it amusing. “You’re still bad at giving compliments?”

The ram, ecstatic that his husband is paying attention to him, jumps at the opportunity to engage in conversation with the other. A real conversation! Not one blabbering on while the other nods blankly. 

“Ah, well.” Schlatt smiles, scratching the back of his head awkwardly while the duck regards him. “When it comes to you and Tubbo, I’m at a loss for words.” Quackity seems humored by him. Which means that he’s making progress- he hopes. 

That was true. Quackity remembers plenty of occasions when Schlatt stumbled over his words, such as their wedding day or the day Tubbo took his first steps. Maybe back then Schlatt actually did feel something. Maybe even had a heart. Who really knows?

“You care. Good.” Quackity nods curtly, dismissing the conversation all together. He doesn’t know if it’s okay to touch the glass, but he does so anyway, placing a hand above the necklace firmly as if it will somehow reassure him that his partners are okay. He knows they are though. With Karl in control, he is confident they’ll be okay. 

He promises he’ll come back soon. The duck needs to settle some business here so as to not get them involved. He made up his mind.

“Do you want that?” His husband peers over his shoulder, happy to see that Quackity took a liking to something. Beautiful Carmine rubies adorned by the shiniest silver he’s seen in a while, he figured that the necklace would look stunning around Quackity’s neck. Schlatt thinks he’ll buy it. Maybe even the Pearl necklace right next to it as he heard from Tubbo pearls are very important in call duck culture. 

“No.” Quackity answers swiftly, taking his hand away while gazing intently at the jewelry before him. If Schlatt touches it, he’ll ruin it. 

Because Schlatt ruins everything that he touches. 

“Nonsense. I’ll get it for you.” The ram insists, “how about the necklace right next to it? Tubbo once told me that pearls are important to call ducks so-“

“I want a divorce, Schlatt.” Quackity states firmly. There is no room for misinterpretation.

For a moment, Schlatt paused. Gazing upon his husband with a critical glare. If one can’t misinterpret, don’t interpret at all.

Because he’s going to fix their relationship. Quackity is being irrational.

“So the pearls? I don’t really know the significance of white pearls to call ducks.” The ram nods. He’ll get both. 

“Don’t ignore what I said. I fucking mean it.” 

“They have rose colored pearls over there! Those look nice right?” He points to the far left, with a wide grin on his face. “I like pink on you. Let’s get you some of those.”

The duck glares, but he will not be deterred. He’ll figure it out.

“Your poetry is becoming more concerning.” Niki pipes up. Wilbur snaps his attention away from his art piece, sort of confused where this is coming from. She shifts in her seat to steal a glance at Wilbur’s artwork while she hosts an internal debate on how to explain the observation. There’s something off about her friend’s recent writing pieces and, to be quite honest, she isn’t sure what exactly it is.

At first, she thought she might’ve been overhearing things or thinking too hard about it; after all, the counselors hardly took any issue with Wilbur’s pieces and added them to a folder rather happily. If they didn’t think anything was wrong with it, then she should probably drop the subject all together right? Yet, the longer she listened to his recent writing pieces (even going as far as to ask to read them for confirmation), something just felt off. More urgent. More angry. More emotions in every piece made, so much so, that she isn’t able to pinpoint everything put on the paper. It worries her. Niki thought about bringing it up with a counselor or nurse, but decided otherwise due to lack of sufficient evidence.

Niki rubs her temple with both hands, murmuring in coherently to herself. Wording this is difficult. “Your writing sort of looks more… jumbled? Like- you were rushing to write down all your thoughts before you forget them, I guess?”

Wilbur’s face contorts into many different expressions, landing on a look of half understanding. “How is that bad? We only have ten minutes to write, y’know?” The counselors don’t expect things to be clear and concise, besides, his current writings are significantly better compared to when he first got here- in fact, they’re even considering allowing him to have a journal to write in during the day! He wasn’t allowed to have one after what happened last time.

“Distressed!” Niki exclaims, earning a chastising gaze from the therapist monitoring them. She smiled sheepishly at the therapist as a form of apology and turned her attention back to her friend. “You sound conflicted and distressed. What’s going on, Wil?”

“Do I?” He hums curiously. Wilbur was quite distressed last week, but he’s calmed down a lot this week. Maybe it’s more of his subconscious speaking? Maybe his subconscious is in a constant state of disarray, who knows? 

Last week... his stomach bubbles with nervousness and anxiety each time he thinks about what he did last week. Which then creates the issue of what he did that would cause him to feel this way. For some reason, his mind couldn't seem to conjure even the slightest idea of what might've happened.

But why can’t he remember? He had a vivid image of the child in his head last week, but now it’s all a red blur- was it red? He misses Fundy (that is his name right?) a lot and wishes to see him. 

“How’s the family?” Niki breaks the silence, drawing soft lines reminiscent of the fish in the living room. “Tommy? Didn’t you say he’s gonna start flying soon?”

“Oh- uh…” he thinks on an answer to the question.

Did he? He vaguely remembers saying something about his brother the other day, but he isn’t sure what he said. Though, when he thinks about it, it should be about time for Tommy to start flying right? Tommy’s about seventeen- he thinks- so it’s about time he started flying. Wilbur remembers starting flight training a year after everyone else because he neglected to exercise his wings everyday like he’s supposed to. 

“I think he is.” Wilbur nods, happy with his answer. Though, the more he thought about it the more muddled it became in his mind. 

Chapter Text

“Hmph. Y’know what?” Wilbur chuckles, picking at his food with a fork. “I actually quite like you.” The brunette smiles widely, genuinely, as if something like this doesn’t happen often. Dream wonders if it’s him liking people or if it’s people liking him. He figures it’s the second option.

“That’s a first.” Dream huffs, throwing his arm over his chest. People don’t like him- always had a hard time making friends- so he finds it difficult to believe that someone could like him on the first meeting. 

“Why?” Wilbur gasped in surprise. “You’re very likable! How come you have no friends?”

“Wha-“ he coughs, shaking his head. “No! I have friends!”

“Haha me too.” Wilbur agrees with a laugh. “I have a friend. Her name is Niki. She’s really nice and likes fish.” Wilbur retells small details about his friend the best he can, struggling to remember thing about her yet he happily told him other things about her. Dream couldn’t understand why people were so cautious around him as he seemed so… so, well harmless. Like a child eagerly telling their parents about their day. 

There’s no way he could guess by using just looks and behavior patterns; the dude is too observant and strangely careful. Not careful in the ‘strange guy hiding a secret’ way, more like ‘remembering my manners’ type of way. It unnerved Dream.

“Why’re you here?” Why did you show up at my apartment? 

“Oh well.” Wilbur perks up, dropping the utensils he was using on the plate. He looks down, apologizes for the suddenness of his actions, and picks up his bag to start digging through it. Searching diligently as he spoke, “Techno’s scent is on you. Figured you had an idea of where he is or how to get in contact with him.” He pulls out a paper and straightens it out over his knee, putting his bag somewhere off to the side. “I’d like to speak to him before, y’know, my dad. He’s a really, really scary guy. Y’know. Hah, you don’t.” He murmurs the last part.

Wilbur was the dirty little secret hiding under the rug. Dream taps his index finger on the table to a beat he’s long since forgotten.

“Philza didn’t strike me as the ‘I’ll fucking kill you and your mama’ type, but I guess we learn something new everyday, huh?” Dream clicks his tongue thoughtfully. Wilbur nods shyly, handing him the paper; a list of about twelve addresses with names attached to them in very precise handwriting. As relieved as he was to not see his name on there, his address was.

‘Go to them if you need help. -J’ was written at the bottom of the paper. He squints, burning the writing into his brain for later. If there is a later. 

The other addresses too- two which he recognizes- must be personal addresses for each person. Dream folds the paper neatly, pressing on the worn-out creases carefully before handing it back to Wilbur with an appreciative smile. Bothering to remember every single address on the paper is such a pain. Besides, his main concern should be why his address is on the paper and the name attached to it.

“Thank you.” Dream nods and Wilbur returns the smile, happily tucking the paper into his pocket. “Is that the real reason you showed up here? Or do you have business with, uh, that guy?” Referring to him like that didn’t feel right. 

“Do you know him?” The bird asks, though sort of confused. 

“I do if you do.” 

“Ah.” The other acknowledges, squeezing his knees tightly then releasing them. That’s how it is. Ah well, he should’ve assumed that’s how it was gonna be. Keeping a fugitive (fugitive?) in your home isn’t the best situation to be in. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. I get it.”

Chapter Text

“I want to fix our relationship.”

Is what Schlatt said thirty minutes ago. 

He doesn’t want to fix something that’s already lost. Over nineteen years of putting up with Schlatt’s bullshit and never has the ram even made an effort to fix misunderstandings or tension between them. But now , after two fucking years of being absent, Schlatt want to “fix” their relationship? This is not the man he married. The fuck happened while he was gone?

Quackity couldn’t wrap his mind around the change. Did Tubbo say something?- well, yeah no fucking shit Q- but Schlatt’s pride wouldn’t allow him to do things like admit he’s wrong . The ram did what he wanted and indirectly admitting to some-sort of wrongdoing isn’t what he does. It never was and, honestly, never has been in the nineteen years they’ve been married- seventeen taking away the two years he was gone.

Or maybe he’s thinking about it too much. Schlatt does things to fuck with him. Despite how genuine the declaration felt, Quackity refused to believe there’s a shred of truth in any of it. Because there can’t be. All men like Schlatt do is lie (to him).

And betray (his trust).

And cause pain. 

Schlatt’s fucking with him. There is no other explanation.

On top of that, Ranboo and Tubbo left an hour prior. It’s just the two of them; Schlatt sitting on the edge of the bed while he’s curled up on the floor with his wings wrapped around him protectively- as if to hide him away from the impending evil looming over his shoulders. 

The duck chuckles breathlessly, “this joke isn’t funny.” His head emerges from the comforting cocoon his wings offered to steal a glance at the ram who was, surprisingly, staring blankly at the wall. It’s a look he’s never seen before. With much luck, he’ll never see it again. 

“It’s…” the hybrid snaps out of his daze with a shake of his head, eyes following the direction of his husband’s voice. “Not a joke.” Schlatt’s eyes landed on the winged-hybrid. Their eyes met- warm hazel eyes that turn cold when looking at him- for a moment and he hated how short-lived the eye contact was. “Please understand that I’m being entirely serious.”

That in of itself proved to be difficult for the duck as he had a difficult time believing that the all-prideful Schlatt is scared - that Schlatt succumbed to the fact that he needs Quackity. 

“What happened to the man I knew?” Quackity feigns a joking tone to mask the underlying concern in his voice. Now that he’s thinking about it, Schlatt has… well, changed . More considerate, more observant, more kind. Everything that the ram lacked before seems to exist now. 

“The man you knew was the reason you left,” The ram spoke softly, staring at the back of his husband’s head tentatively.  “So the man you know now won’t be. Simple as that, I think.”

Quackity doesn’t believe it’s ever that simple as their marital issues are much more than Schlatt’s character. He isn’t sure how much reflecting Schlatt’s been doing in his absence, but he can appreciate the change. 

“Is that why you abducted me?” Quackity asks as he stares at the wall ahead of him. Schlatt often told him he was easy to read which is why he fears sharing eye contact during a time like this. He doesn’t want to be a book right now. 

“It is.” The ram admitted with a deep sigh, “I doubt you would’ve wanted to see me if I asked. It was dumb, yeah, but I needed to talk to you in person.” He doesn’t know what more to say. His intentions are clear, but he doesn’t know how else to prove his seriousness aside from affirming it verbally and through his actions (both of which Quackity isn’t receptive to). “To have this conversation in person.”

Quackity understands. He gets it. 

“Okay.” He hums, while still processing certain pieces of information, he thinks he might have the general idea of what’s happening. “You’re trying to court me, right? Like when I was eighteen?”

“Uh- well.” The question caught Schlatt off guard it seems. “I-I guess? If going back and retracing our steps will fix things, then… I guess that’s what I’m doing.”

The duck isn’t entirely sure that, on the off chance he decides to give Schlatt another try, things would be better . He has people waiting for him to come home; worries out of their asses about his well-being. Yet, here he is. Entertaining an idea that never had a chance to begin with. 

“I don’t really think things can be fixed, Schlatt.” Quackity pipes up. Shutting it down is the best thing he can do. “We should both try and move on, you know? I left for my own personal reasons, so you don’t have to feel guilty-“

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Sad to hear you think I’m lying.”

“I want to try.” Schlatt asserts. There is no room for convincing.

“It’s a losing game.” He tries once more. Quackity cannot fathom why Schlatt is so adamant on trying. What the fuck is his deal?

“I’m confident I’ll win.” 

Fundy has sort of a weird family structure.

The other kids at his school have a mom and a dad, uncles, aunts, cousins, plus some grandparents if they were lucky enough. But him? His family is made up of one grandpa and two uncles, which tend to confuse the other children because they have moms and dads but he doesn’t. Sometimes, when the topic was brought up, he’d wonder where his parents were; though, he wouldn’t directly ask his family about it. It probably hurts to think about.

He’d conjure up images of what he thinks they look like. In his mind, his dad is tall with bright hazel eyes and ginger hair like his own. Both of his parents are foxes just like him and in this made up world, they both love him very much. 

Fundy wonders where they are now; what they’re doing, the foods they like, the songs they listen to. He’d like to tell them about Phil’s wings and how they change colors in the light, about the time Techno taught him how to survive in the wild (how the fuck does he know that?), or about Tommy’s funny little accent. However, if they are happy, he hopes they can stay that way- wherever that “happiness” may be. 

Recently, Tommy’s been a lot more… paranoid? Yeah- that’s the word his therapist used- paranoid. While he has tried his best to calm the raven’s nerves using the techniques his therapist taught him, it doesn’t seem to work (were those self-soothing techniques?). In turn, he’s starting to feel a bit antsy as if he’s anticipating bad news. Fundy doesn’t believe they’re in any danger, in fact he feels quite safe, so why is everyone acting as if they are?

Deciding to focus his energy on other things, there’s a hollow floorboard in the bedroom farthest right. The only reason he knows this is because he was investigating a noise one day and accidentally stumbled upon the floorboard. At the time, he really didn’t think much of it as the noise was really bothering him, however, about three days after the fact he remembered that the floorboard existed and has been figuring out ways to get the board up.

The board was right beside the bed, covered partially in a shadow as the rays of sun flowed through the window. Fundy figured that it should be relatively easy to pry the floorboard off since it seems to have been taken off frequently when it was used. Putting his ear atop the board, he can hear that there’s something there . It’s metal. With something in it. 

He’s curious. There’s never been something he’s been so curious about before in his nine years of life. Fundy attempts to pick up the board using his nails, however it doesn’t seem to budge. Then, in a fit of genius ideas after another, he thinks of checking the drawers as it seems the room has been used before. Constantly. Because of that, why wouldn’t the person living here keep some sort of thing to open the floorboard?

He didn’t find anything of note except for an old lighter with the letter ‘ S ’ etched into it. The lighter hasn’t been used in years and, while he isn’t sure how to turn on the lighter, he’s more than sure that it’s either empty or approaching empty. It smells like worn out clothes and the wood from the dresser it came from.

Fundy shrugs it off, gently tucking the lighter under the vast amount of sweaters. 

Plan B is to get a knife and pry the floorboard over. Problem is, getting the knife out of the kitchen. The first obstacle: Technoblade is home. The hybrid is unnecessarily vigilant and has the ears of a bloodhound. Obstacle two: Tommy. Fundy isn’t sure how but Tommy somehow always knows . The one thing he absolutely does not want anybody to see is whatever’s hiding beneath the floor.

Not before he does, anyway. 

Surveying the first floor showed that nobody is downstairs. Putting his ears to the wall, he could easily tell that someone’s upstairs. He could find anyone else in the house via relying solely on his ears. 

As Fundy crept into the kitchen, he quickly searched the drawers for the knives. It’s important to get the right one the first time because it’s not like he can mosey back down and choose another. Rummaging through the silverware almost distracted him from the open window. Almost.

“I’d like to see him.” There’s a voice outside, light and cheery. Fundy didn’t recognize the voice, though it’s not like he really wants to. Curiosity killed the fox as Phil so often said. 

“No.” Techno stated firmly. “You know I can’t let you do that. Why’re you being so difficult?” The pig-hybrid sounds so exasperated that it’s sort of scary and he isn’t even involved in the conversation. 

“At least pretend to miss me.” The voice sighs,  “even if you didn’t, could you at least pretend?”

“No.”

Fundy left, clutching the knife tightly as he scurries away. 

Whatever that was won’t dampen the excitement he feels in this moment. He’s about to unveil the mysteries of this room and there is absolutely nothing that could be better than this. 

Fundy makes quick work with the knife, dropping to the floor and wedging the knife between the floorboard. He pried it open with everything he had, trying a couple more times before the floorboard eventually gave in. The fox drops the knife somewhere to the side in his rush to get the metal box from the small hole, opening it as quickly as he got it.

… and, well. It wasn’t much but it was something? It’s just a bunch of photos and a couple of knick knacks that hold no value to him. 

In the pictures, at least, he’s able to notice a common denominator. There’s a guy who’s much taller than Phil or Techno in every photo. The photo, while faded, shows a man with dark brown hair and a marigold sweater staring blankly into the camera. Sometimes he would attempt a smile while holding a red beanie in his hands and other times he doesn’t even bother. 

There is one photo however, a Polaroid taken at some party with the caption ‘ Happy Birthday. -Sally ’ written neatly in purple marker. The woman in the photo has bright ginger hair much like his own, he notes.

There’s plenty of folded sheets of paper with song lyrics written on them accompanied by a couple of erasers and pencils. For a moment, Fundy pondered who exactly this man was. 

It wasn’t all that cool, but it would make for some good table talk (probably?). Fundy decides to keep the polaroid for safe keeping. 

The fox cleans up rather quickly and puts the knife back where he found it without much trouble. Mission was a glorious success. The loot collected wasn’t that exciting, but loot is loot after all and he damn well deserves it.

Fundy inspects the photo carefully, wracking his mind for any potential Sally’s or whatever. The more he looks at her, the more she starts to resemble him.

Well, Tommy had once said that he looks nothing like his father a couple years back. The raven was relieved, he remembers silently, and he didn’t quite know what that meant.

As he walks upstairs, the door suddenly bursts open. Techno was involved in a scuffle with a man, attempting to pull the two back outside. On the other hand, the man yanked Techno inside the house. It was a struggle as one side is trying to get the upper hand while trying to cause the least amount of damage possible.

The stranger Techno was fighting started to stretch his wings out which, strangely enough, looks exactly like Phil’s. Now that he thinks about it… this guy does look like the man in the photo.

“Fundy!” The fox snaps to attention, holding the Polaroid to his chest as Techno tackles the man to the ground. “Get Tommy and leave! Hurry!”

The man’s eyes falls on him immediately. The guy gawks at his mere existence, awestruck by his presence. It made him shiver uncomfortably. 

“Go!” 

Fundy nods, hurrying up the stairs as fast as his feet would take him. 

“No! Ah- wait!”

He rams himself into Tommy’s door. No response. He tries a couple more times, thinking that maybe Tommy is, like, a super heavy sleeper and having an eight-year-old slam into your door multiple times would probably rouse the raven. 

He then resorts to banging his hand on the door and, at some point, he starts screaming gibberish at the door. Nothing. He coughs as his throat starts feeling sore, slamming his bruised hand into the door a couple times more to hopefully stir a reaction. 

“There you are.” The man, bloodied and bruised, crouched with a grunt to meet him at eye level. Fundy shuffles backwards slowly, jumping to the side as the guy picks up a paper from the floor. “Where’d you get this from?” The brunette shows the paper- which is the Polaroid he was carrying- to him. “I haven’t seen a photo of your mother in years…”

The fox paused. His gaze immediately falls on the photo as he connects her with the word mother . How would this guy know anyway?

The stranger stretched out his wings again, staring at the photo of his alleged mother with a soft expression on his face. The tiredness evident on the man’s face as the photo brought some semblance of peace with it. “Thank you for returning this to me.” He fans his wings lightly. “You don’t remember me do you? Well, I’m Wilbur.” He chuckles, having always dreamt of doing this one day; the words he wants to say to his son quickly bombards him one by one. Wilbur smiles as he’s barely able to contain the happiness bubbling in his chest. “I’m, well, I’m your d-“

Fundy collapses, reacting quickly and catching the eight-year-old in his arms. 

Wilbur will tell him a different day.

Chapter Text

Schlatt perfected the art of lying long before they met. 

Even still, he thought that Quackity complimented him perfectly. He’s keen, intelligent, isn’t afraid to speak his mind, and has a brilliant sense of humor. Enamoured with the duck, Schlatt spent all his time in Mexico by Quackity’s side and in return Quackity slowly grew fond of the ram during the short time they spent together. 

When they were together, Quackity brought out the absolute best in him- at least, in his own mind he thought so. He wasn’t sure then and to be honest he isn’t sure now what qualities Quackity has that keeps him coming back. What about Quackity made him want to be better? Why can’t he let go? 

“ Is this love? ” Schlatt remembers asking. The duck peers over his cards curiously with a devilish smile on his face. Whether he’s grinning about his next play or at him doesn’t seem to matter at all to him. That look is the most natural expression his face could make; amused and entertained while simultaneously calculating his downfall. That expression belongs on his face and, with any luck, he hopes it will stay. 

“ What makes you say that? ” The duck picks up a card from the deck and drops another. 

“ I’ve never felt this way before. ” Schlatt keeps his eyes on the cards in front of him, hiding his face from the other via the cards. His cheeks flush a bright pink as he picks up and drops cards. All his life he’s been hiding himself yet, in front of Quackity, it felt like he’s being laid bare. He doesn’t like it. Then again, he doesn’t necessarily hate it either. “ For some reason, when I’m with you, I want to be authentic. Is this what love is? ”

The duck mulls over the confession for a while. “Are you being sincere?” Sillily enough, he found the answer when Schlatt looked over the cards in his hand shyly and nodded. Adorable, Quackity thought to himself as a dopey smile began tugging at his lips. “Ah, then I think you’re in love.” He confirms cheerily, “I’m happy. So let’s be happy together, okay?”

Their marriage was something their fathers put together a while back. When they both were finally of age, they met for the first time and surprisingly got along well. Schlatt didn’t think that they would even speak to each other outside of when they needed to, after all he was some stranger who barged into his life claiming to be his fiancé. Quackity adapted to the situation, treating his fiancé with remarkable hospitality even when they were left alone.

Schlatt perfected the art of lying and because of that he was able to identify a lie in others.

Quackity is sincere. Quackity is sincere . He’s good. Quackity is kind and considerate even when he doesn’t want to be. 

“ Our parents put us together. Do you believe they made a good decision? ” Schlatt questions. Their game has come to a standstill after the confession with Quackity being too lovestruck to focus on his next play and Schlatt being too embarrassed to move. 

“ It’s as good of a decision as any. ” The duck answers calmly, casting his cards off to the side and standing up. He reached across the table and attempted to push the cards down so he could see his face. Schlatt resisted the other and shook his head vehemently. “ Move your cards! I wanna see your face! ”

“ I can’t! I might die! Actually die from embarrassment! ” His reason wasn’t really a reason, but his mind is stun-locked from embarrassment. 

“ Telling someone you love them is nothing to be embarrassed about! ” Quackity snatched the cards from the other’s hands, throwing the cards over his shoulder and grabbing the ram’s arms. “ Stop being silly, gordito! ”

They both giggled happily amongst themselves, enjoying each other's presence more than anything in that moment.

For him, that feeling never left. The moment he felt that feeling start to evaporate from his husband was the day Tubbo was brought home. 

A constant reminder of his betrayal staying underneath their roof. He couldn’t possibly bring himself to face the storm brewing. 

“ Chiquito , what in the world are you doing?!” 

But, what if he had faced the storm? Would their relationship be similar to how it was back then? Rather, why the fuck does he care so much? 

Why can’t he let go? It would be better for the both of them, he laments, but the thought of leaving Quackity for good makes his heart ache. 

“Q, it’s all part of the process. Ya gotta trust me on this one.” 

The past is the past. He needs to let go. He has to let Quackity free. Quackity doesn’t want him anymore. 

Anymore . 

“Tubbo, please stop being so reckless. You’re going to give Q a heart attack.”

Why does it hurt so badly? 

Why can’t he let go?

“Eh!? Et tu, Ranboo?” 

Everything hurts. Maybe he should just stop thinking about it . Allow nature to run its course and accept whatever comes after that point. 

He’s too damn old to be stuck in the past. It’s embarrassing.

“It won’t turn out correctly if you do it like that! Mios Dio. ”

Is this how Quackity felt all those years ago? 

“You worry too much! Dad, tell ‘em that I know my way around the kitchen!” 

He snaps out of his thoughts, frantically checking his surroundings. How did he end up on the couch?

“You good?” Tubbo quirks his eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. Schlatt isn’t good in any sense of the word but he fakes a smile and his usual confident aura. 

“Good? I’m great! Just zoned out a bit is all.” 

Schlatt has long perfected the art of playing pretend.

Chapter Text

Among the many memories that he has with his parents, he could never remember a point where his father chose to spend time with him outside of Q’s requests. Barely sparing a glance at him as a young lamb and speaking to him as if he was simply an obligation, Quackity would do the only thing he knew how. 

The duck would hug him tightly, caressing his hair gently and reassuring him that Schlatt has always been like that, that his father loves him very much but simply has no way of properly expressing that. At first, it sounded like Quackity was attempting to reason with himself; cradling his son in his lap whilst repeating that his husband’s love is genuine. Quackity’s reassurances gradually grew less fervent, less and less about his impassioned belief in his husband and more about assuage Tubbo’s insatiable need for his father’s attention. 

Tubbo believed Quackity’s feverish delusions and held onto those ideals as if his life depended on it. Because to a small lamb who lives through the lenses of his caretaker, Quackity is very right. In all places, no matter what, Quackity is never wrong.

And, sure, his parents were not romantic in any sense of the word but they were romantic . They had their moments where, as they stared at each other, it was as if stars had been caught in their eyes. His father would always maintain this tough exterior but he knew, from the moment his father’s eyes met Quackity’s, that his father was at his most authentic. That when Quackity’s warm smile and gentle eyes were aimed at him, the facade melted into a deep puddle; so enamored with the man in front of him it was as if he were glancing upon God’s one true masterpiece. 

Often exchanging silent glances at one another, either holding eye contact or breaking it with the other, they would smile softly to themselves at the act. Of course, Tubbo assumes, his parents wouldn’t have spoken to each other about what that means. In fact, Tubbo could probably guarantee that the two of them have never spoken about what he means; choosing instead the route of anger that sizzles atop their stomachs instead of loud outbursts of emotions. Even despite that, despite choosing to swallow his anger and bear the burden of child-rearing, Quackity still looked for his father while his father did the same.

Tubbo stares out the window absently, the open blue sky filled with bird-hybrids soaring free above their heads. Some faze through clouds while others steer clear of them, leading Tubbo to the assumption that a class has to be flying through. Even still, a tight triangle shape was formed above him and he smiles. Children, much like him, filled with purpose; while his is yet to be known.

“Are you okay?” His companion, Ranboo, questions from the driver seat. He glances back and forth between Tubbo and the road, yet showing more concern for his friend compared to those around them. 

The ram sighs, “yeah.” He observes the school of hybrids fly away rather slowly. “Just thinking. About, you know, stuff.”

“Ah. Okay.” Ranboo hesitantly accepts the response, gripping the wheel as he flicks on a turn signal. “Stuff.” He repeats. “Stuff like what?”

“About the ethics of humanity.” He responds, “morality, societal norms, you know the lot.” Tubbo props his head up with his fist, the school of hybrids having long since left his line of vision. “Just kinda not vibing with it right now.”

“… ethics of humanity— what? You’re pondering the ethics of humanity? Really, Tubbo?” Ranboo scrunches his face into one of confusion, “you don’t even know what half of those words mean!” 

“I know enough to ponder the reality of it!” Tubbo retorts, taking slight offense to his friend underestimating his intelligence. 

“ You’re not even human, Tubbo!” Ranboo raises his voice gradually, “the hell are you doing pondering things that do not apply to you—“

“I’m as much human as the next person!” Tubbo snaps back, bitterness seeping into his words as he continues on the tirade. “You say ‘ oh that doesn’t apply to you! ’ Like hell it does! We claim that we are separate from humans, that we are so much more different from them and therefore we aren’t them, but since the inception of hybrids, we have done nothing but mold ourselves into what they want !” The ram yells, bitterness and anger that he kept hidden away deep inside of him resurfacing all at once. Confusing emotions bubbled over, tumbling over themselves as more words came pouring out in one big display. “And, if not for that, why then do we remain shackled by laws we didn’t create?”

There’s a sharp pause. The car comes to a complete stop at the light, the heavy atmosphere making it hard to breathe or even concentrate on driving. Ranboo reaches for the radio, switching through the channels for something he liked to soften the atmosphere a little. 

“I’m sorry,” Ranboo replies with a determined huff. “It was… never my intention to make you feel this way. I’ll be more conscious of my words moving forward.”

If Tubbo heard the apology, he didn’t let it be known. Absent from the present moment, he smothers the car door with his body. He has never, ever had an outburst like that before. His existence feels shocked to its core.

Tubbo blames it on his parents. He blames it on the two people who created him. He blames it on an unknown mother who has never once been brought up; on a mother who has abandoned his existence upon his conception. He blames it on a father who, regretful about his mistake, refuses to acknowledge a being he helped to create. He blames it on Quackity, an anchor he heavily relied on from the moment he gained awareness, for mysteriously leaving and abandoning him too, just like his mother. 

His whole life, as he is slowly starting to become aware of, is a constant reminder of people’s sins. Tubbo knows that if either of his parents could go back in time, they would choose a path that ensures his conception did not happen. 

Tubbo feels an underlying sense of anger once again rise up at the notion. The urge to fight against the fate that has been laid out before him hits him immediately, thus being the most cutthroat decision he has ever made.

It no longer matters what his purpose was when being introduced to existence, all that matters is what he chooses to make it. Tubbo refuses to feel guilty over something that he played no part in for is not the root of Quackity’s suffering, nor is he the issue. His life is not something to feel guilt over, he decides.

Content, yet restless, his body sinks into the car chair having lost all his energy from that outburst. The last thing he saw was a lone bird hybrid soaring through the sky, wings outstretched proudly.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Dream starts soon after he enters the shared apartment. He takes off his jacket hurriedly as he kicks his shoes off without much care for where they landed. “I know you’re getting ready for work, but there’s a question I’d like to ask.” 

George hums absentmindedly from the kitchen, hovering over a lunchbox that he’s carefully preparing while also leaving enough food for Dream to make himself something later. The brunette acknowledges his friend’s presence with a slight nod of the head as Dream approaches him, urgent and frenzied but trying to hide it all the same. 

“Can I ask you the question?” The blond reiterates, making sure that he was being listened to before he begins. George breaks his focus to give some attention to his roommate, smiling sweetly as a signal to continue. “Someone came to our apartment earlier,” he begins gingerly, choosing his next words meticulously despite mulling over this since it happened. 

“Did they?” George questions, though very uninterested in the story Dream is about to tell in order to ask the question. However, it did strike him as odd that the usually blunt Dream is beating around the bush. “Is it someone we know?”

Dream opens his mouth, yet closes it as the words die in his mouth. Part of him is urging him to simply ask the question, to be transparent and to trust the person before him as he was prone to doing before— yet, the more rational side of him is refusing to acknowledge the years they’ve spent with one another in the name of self preservation. Truthfully, what more does he need? George is a very dangerous person, as was proven when Wilbur knocked on his door. 

However truthful that may be, he too is just as dangerous as George. They pose threats to each other the longer they stay within the same breathing space, yet it seems George pays no mind to it. If Dream is correct about his assumptions, then that would mean George has known what he’s been doing this whole time and either thought nothing of it because Dream didn’t know who he was or simply did not see him as an actual threat. 

In either case, Dream should not be underestimating George in the slightest. The man in front of him is his enemy. 

He shivers. 

If a job is putting him at odds with George, is it truly a job worth having? 

God! He hasn’t felt this conflicted since Technoblade whooped his ass that one time.

Dream sighs, “George, we…” suddenly, his throat felt so terribly dry. His heartbeat quickened and his palms became moist. What is this sensation? He has never felt this before.

It was as if his vocal cords would bleed if he spoke one word more. If he confirmed his suspicions, it felt as if the lump in his throat would suffocate him and do him in. His heart raced, making it impossible to hear his thoughts as the ringing in his ears took precedence above all else. The entering his lungs felt as if it wasn’t near enough, so he started taking quick, shallow breathes to help. His senses felt overwhelmed, making him even more vulnerable to the perceived danger. 

George was saying something, but the ringing made it near difficult to hear. In his eagerness, he ignored the impending sense of dread that loomed over him until his attacked him. Until there was nothing he could do, but watch as he implodes and eventually sizzle out. 

Perhaps it was in the drink that George gave him, somehow making it over to the couch but being unsure as to how that happened. This is probably what he deserves, dying a quiet and lonely death seems in character for someone like him. Lowly and unloved. Barely making a squeak as the droplets of sweat got caught on his brow, nothing but the desperate gasps of air being the last thing he ever spoke. 

Yet, despite this, George sat next to him and gently dabbed the sweat off his brow with a cold rag. The brunette whispered things into his ear, all of which he wished he could hear before the painful send off into the next life. The circumstances are less than ideal, but the Brit’s embrace felt to warm and caring that he couldn’t help but shed the tears that welled in his eyes. Gentle hands caress his hair and ears endearingly, intentional brushes across his hands and arms, and sometimes fingers would glide across his neck push into the side of his neck for only a moment before going back to petting him. He could endure the trembling pain in his chest for centuries if it meant that this was his reward.

George sat with him for what felt like hours, reassuring him and never once allowing for the sticky mess of emotions he felt to be vocalized outside of involuntary groans that was usually followed up by a sharp inhale as the pain got to him. The ringing soon died down enough to where he could partially hear what George had been whispering to him.

“It’ll all be okay,” The Brit shushed, sounding almost as if he was shocked at the response Dream had. “You’ll be okay. I’m right here with you.” George pets him once more. The soft touches there to remind him that the world isn’t spinning, almost cruelly reminding him that this would be the last he would hear George. “I know you can’t hear me right now, but I’m here for you. Right here. Right next to you.”

Dream could feel George’s chest rising and falling, comforting him in his most vulnerable state. He attempts to breathe in the same way George does, always wanting to copy perfection in hopes of one day achieving it. Hoping that he could be good enough for George, to be able to stand next to him and pour his love that hasn’t been tainted with blood onto the Brit in the prettiest way he could. Maybe it is selfish of him to copy what he knows he’ll never be.

George smiles at him, blotches in his vision that he hadn’t noticed previously awarding him this sight. Though, his vision was blurry as if he had awoken from a fitful rest. Did he close his eyes?

“You’re doing so good, Dream.” The Brit awards his effort with a saccharine caress near his ear. So he continues to copy perfection at George’s behest. Each intoxicatingly soft pat only enabled his behavior to want more, to follow George’s will so he could receive praises honeyed in genuine adoration, sincerity, and love. He leaned into each touch, much to George’s concerned amusement. 

His heart rate soon steadied out as the color returned to his skin. George still kept showering him in praise for every little thing he did, but he didn’t care. The attention he received felt all too good, plus he was dying. What does it matter if he splurged a little? 

“Good job, Dream. I’m so proud of you.” 

‘Yes,’ Dream sighs dreamily, eyes fluttering shut content with a content smile. ‘I did do a mighty fine job.’

“Can you hear me now?” George asks, to which Dream nods tiredly. “Would you like to hear my answer to your question?” Again, Dream nods.

“The person you’re talking about… I don’t want to beat around the bush because you already know.” George pauses before continuing again, “the relationship is a little difficult to explain, but I owe a favor to someone— that someone being Philza.” George begins, as if running over the story in his head once more. “A while back, Philza saved me and my family. When I was old enough, I was made into playmate for his children and then moved to the US alongside his own family. I guess you could say I’ve known Wilbur since… Forever. Not that I’ve wanted to, though.”

Dream sits up, head dizzy but he powers through the throbbing headache. “George—“ he heaves, body punishing him for doing anything besides resting. “Wait… what are you…” he coughs once more. 

George ignores the blond’s pleas and decides to continue with his story. “Two years back, when Philza helped Quackity escape from his husband, a deal was struck between Phil and Schlatt.” He lowers his voice, leaning into the hybrid’s ear thoughtfully, “that in exchange for Quackity, Phil would lend Schlatt two of his best and most trusted workers to make up for the loss Schlatt had endured.” 

“George!” Dream thought he tasted blood, though perhaps he was mistaken. The episode he had earlier felt like death itself had harped upon him, but the information he is being told now feels like a death sentence. “Sto...p! I don’t need… to know…” the blond chokes backs coughs that threatened to erupt from his body. 

“I was handed over shortly thereafter.” George recalls coldly, the once warm emotions fading into harsh coldness that he hadn’t heard from George ever. “I was the one who introduced Wilbur to Schlatt. I was the one who got rid of Quackity’s staff at the casino. That was me. All me.” 

Dream froze. George is more dangerous than he could ever fathom.  Suddenly, his throat felt clogged once more.

“Florida has always been Phil’s territory… Which brings me into why I’m telling you this.” George gulps, nervousness revealing itself for the first time in forever. “Schlatt is planning on scorching this place to the ground. No survivors.” George sighs, “He blames Philza for somehow convincing Quackity that a divorce is in the question. He’s pissed, Dream.” The brunette squeezes his shoulders to gain his attention, but Dream found that he could focus on nothing but George. “I want you to leave this place with me. Let’s leave, start over somewhere new, and put this behind us. Just you and I.”

Dream stares at the other for a moment, not fully able to process the information that was just told to him. Everything feels unreal, as if he had really died and is in purgatory. “Just… you and I?” 

“Yes! I’ve been coordinating with the other person who came alongside me for a while to make his escape possible,” George reveals, wanting nothing more then to run away with Dream right then and there. “The person I’ve been working with is the personal escort of Schlatt’s son, so that’s why I’ve been able to get away with so much for this long.” The brunette admits, “Schlatt is focused on Quackity right now! He won’t even notice that we’re gone!” 

“Okay.” 

“I know I’m asking a lot from you. But I’m glad that you brought this up, because I was planning on kidnapping you originally—“ George pauses, “… what?”

“I said okay. I’ll go with you.” He thinks about Techno, feeling a pang in his chest over leaving the friend he had made. Then, he thinks to Karl and Sapnap who have been reaching out to him consistently with updates and then to check on his wellbeing. Showing him kindness no matter how sketchy that kindness may be. Despite having his doubts, he decides to take the jump with George.

Because there’s nothing left for him in Florida if George isn’t there. 

Chapter Text

On one fall day, twin boys were born. Weeping as they entered the world, Philza held both boys close to his chest while his wife rested from the birth; feeling lost as what to do now that his kin have finally entered the world. Anticipation abated for a brief moment as he glanced upon his children’s faces, scrunched up and wet with tears among plenty of other bodily fluids. 

As per their marriage agreements, the youngest, whom they affectionately called ‘Wilbur’, was to take his mother’s last name, ‘Soot’, and would be raised to be the sole heir of his mother’s business. The eldest of the two, ‘Technoblade’ Philza declares triumphantly, would take his last name, ‘Minecraft’, and would be raised as the heir of his business. 

Wilbur, luckily, grew to resemble his mother the most. Despite all of Philza’s attempts and maybe due in part to his wife personally tutoring the boy, Wilbur also grew into a demeanor similar to his mother. His wife had jet black hair where Wilbur would have brown, seemingly soulless charcoal eyes in contrast to bright, bubbly and in equal parts warm brown eyes; yet the way they would both bare into his soul would be the same, with neigh a difference. Then, it seems like Wilbur even inherited his wife’s personality with slight differences here and there. 

Technoblade took after him, in countenance, the most. Techno resembled neither of his parents, somehow growing into unfamiliar pink eyes and hair as well as pig-like features; yet strikingly similar to the woman that birthed him. 

As strange as it was, Philza took great care in raising both of his children, doing all he could to ensure his children will never cross hairs with danger. With his efforts, Techno matured into a quiet young man with a physique similar to his own when he was in his prime and Wilbur became a carefree dreamer with sharp intuition and a knack for music. 

With his wife having passed when both boys were eight years old, shortly after the birth of their third child, he still tried. It was hard, damn near impossible, but he staunchly believes that he raised all of his children with the tender care and love of a father. 

Then… she came along. Every child has a rebellious phase, but that thing changed everything. She is the one who ruined Wilbur’s life, there is no doubt in Phil’s mind. The only good thing having come from that creature was Fundy… if only he wasn’t made in her image.

“Father,” Wilbur attempts a tone above a squeak, wanting to be seen as grown and competent. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You haven’t spoken to me in a bit.” 

Philza huffs, gripping the sleeves of his shirt so tightly that his knuckles started to pale. His stomach churned violently as the emotions he managed to hide started clawing up his throat. He exhaled deeply, looking towards the red mop of hair squeezing his leg. “It has.” 

The brunette rubs a thumb across his knuckles, which Philza immediately recognized as self soothing because Fundy was prone to the same behaviors. Perhaps, he thinks sadly, a trait that he inherited from his father.

“How are you?” Wilbur asks, attempting to make small talk with him. “I assume you’re taking care of the family well?”

“Your son would say so, yes.” Philza answers curtly, yet cold. Uninterested in the musings of the ungrateful. 

Wilbur’s lips contort into a nervous smile, choosing his words carefully as he confronts the monster hiding in the dark. He rubs his knees, putting weight in his arms to add a soothing pressure. “Father,” he holds his breath in knowing anticipation, “thank you for taking care of my son. I know it wasn’t easy… and his father is not the best child…” Wilbur sighs, “but I want to thank you, properly this time.” 

The blond strokes his grandson’s head, hand gliding over soft bouncy locks of ginger. The boy’s ears flick up at the action, amusing Philza into a gentle smile. The warmth of this scene is something he grew accustomed to, as Wilbur could no longer be in the photo anymore. He loved it as it reminded him of Techno. 

“How do you plan on doing that then, Wil?” The owl scooped the child into his arms, pressing a loving kiss onto the fox’s forehead. “Because as I see it, I am only doing what needs to be done.” 

“Still,” Wilbur pushes gray hair behind his ear, “it’s something you shouldn’t be tasked with doing. I’m sorry, papa.” He avoids eye contact with his father, choosing to instead eye the white floor tiles. “I’m really, really, really sorry. I… I’m not sure if even an apology could suffice…” 

‘Papa’. 

It was a name that his wife encouraged their children to call him, believing that allowing the children to only refer to them as ‘mother’ and ‘father’ was too rigid and impersonal. She was under the belief that building close relationships with them is of the utmost importance when it comes to being a parent and preached this to him constantly, however, the whole concept was very foreign to him. Philza grew up under the scrutinizing gaze of his father and the silent judgement of his mother, always being told that he has to strive for the best to keep what his father has built alive. Tutors hounded into him that his purpose was to be an heir. A proper replacement if anything were to happen to his father, a notion which his mother seconded with small nods and sealed lips.

Therefore, the first time he had heard their energetic son call him ‘papa’ so innocently, Philza understood the joys of parenting. Beings that needed him, loved him unconditionally, admired him… this is what he has been missing all along.

The realization smashed into him suddenly, a loving smile creeping onto his lips as he enveloped the brunette into a tight embrace. He also reached for his wife and oldest son and ensured he hugged the life out of them, pouring as much love into that one embrace that he possibly could. He was still learning how to love his wife and he was still unsure on how to love his children, but he’s going to try. He promised himself that his children would feel loved, more loved than he felt as a kid.

He sat idly across from Wilbur, petting his grandson’s hair as he got lost in thought. Wilbur fidgets with his hands, unsure of what to do or say. He had half expected his father to say something bitter or snarky in response to his apology, reminding him of all of his failures. How impossibly far he fell from what his life was expecting to look like, how incompetent is he, how much of a failure he is compared to Technoblade, how Philza has done so much for him to ensure that he even has a future after what he’s done. The plethora of things that he was told by his siblings or Phil himself, internalizing and believing them wholeheartedly. 

“I suppose…” Philza began, wetting his lips habitually. The owl rather hated the smell of spit and would curse himself whenever he did it— however, this time it did not phase him. “The hospital has taught you a thing or two.” 

Wilbur eagerly agrees, jumping up at the opportunity to not only prove himself but to get on his father’s good side. “Of course, papa.” He began with an optimistic tone, “I understand that I’ll never be able to run mom’s business and I should’ve listened to you. I’ll relinquish my right to inheritance and give it to Tommy like you’ve asked.” 

Philza nods in agreement. It wasn’t truly what he had wanted from Wilbur, but it is certainly a start. Silently, he stands up as he shifts Fundy from arm to arm, beckoning for Wilbur to follow him with his eyes. Fundy hugs his grandfather’s neck tightly, squeezing his eyes shut in fear as the two adults walk to some place. Wilbur caresses his son’s cheeks gently, attempting a polite smile to placate the very evident fear plaguing the poor boy’s face. It pained him, but it was what he had to do to get his son back. 

A bead of blood peeked out from Fundy’s nostrils. The boy’s rosy skin having calmed into a gentle pink, inhaling and exhaling haggardly the longer Wilbur observed him. The side effects of the drug Wilbur administered were brutal, but nothing that could possibly kill anyone he cared about. He knew that Fundy would be experiencing hyperthermia around two days after the drug was initially administered, but he decided to take that risk. Fundy wouldn’t die, he knew Phil would do everything in his power to ensure Fundy made it out alive, but the poor boy would be experiencing pain.

However, for the chance to hold his sleeping son in his arms, it would be a gamble he would make over and over and over again no matter the cost. 

“Coming from the perspective of a worried father I have to ask,” the owl opens the door to his bedroom, hurrying over to the bed and gently placing the fox on it. Phil brings the covers across Fundy’s body, to which the fox kicked them off in a matter of seconds in an attempt to stay cool. His father stares at the boy in horror as he presses the back of his hand to the boy’s temple, taking his hand back with a wince. He’s too hot. “Did they teach you the right things?” Philza laughs humorlessly, wiping the newly formed sweat off the brow of his grandson.

Wilbur paled at the question. He thought that he had already proved that it did? 

“I would say so, papa.” Wilbur responds, albeit hesitantly. He was unsure where this line of questioning was going.

Philza shakes his head feverishly, looking down at the boy who was evidently caught in between their quarrel. He felt bad for Fundy, thinking that almost all of this could be traced back to him and his terrible decision making. That if only he was better at loving Wilbur, maybe his won wouldn’t have fell into this path of confusion and rage. If only he had paid more attention to Wilbur’s emotional needs growing up, giving time not only to the good things but the bad things as well, his son would be more accomplished. Wilbur’s behaviors reflect back on him and his parenting.

If his wife were here, she would’ve been able to lead him on the right path. Perhaps his father was right, remarrying and giving the boys a proper mother figure would have been the best case for them— or, would separating Wilbur and Sally in the beginning have been the best case scenario?

The blond reaches into his drawer sadly, picking up a pen and paper that he had been holding off on signing for a while now. It would be the best thing to do for Fundy as well as the rest of his family. 

Wilbur peers across the bed curiously, “what is it that you’re signing, papa?”

Phil closes his eyes tightly, wishing that he didn’t have to make this terrible decision. “… your wings away, Wilbur.” God, he’s the worst parent ever. “I told you that if you acted up again, I would take your wings.” He attempted to hold firm, “I’m doing this for your own good, Wil. I’m sorry.”

Truthfully, Wilbur found it hard to believe that his father even understood the meaning of sorry. He did then, and he does now. His father hates him, what more is there to say?

He inherited the name “Technoblade” from his father, having always been close to him since childhood. His mother was a different story entirely. During her time on this earth, they weren’t as close as he would’ve liked. His mother connected more with Wilbur; a tall boy even at that age, who took an interest in the beauty of life and would prefer to strum his guitar over learning the family business. While Techno cleaned and polished his weapons, Wilbur could be found sitting in the living room at the foot of their mother; talking incredulously about every topic a seven year old could possibly think of. He somehow felt bitter every time he witnessed this.

Techno did not look like either of his parents, instead sharing a striking resemblance to his grandmother on his father’s side. Which, as Phil fondly comments on the similarities between them, perhaps started the climb to his doom. While inheriting his looks from his father, he too also inherited Phil’s temper. The scarily calm demeanor that deeply disturbed others resonated within him as easily as he drew breath, picking up on his father’s mannerisms and quickly developing into the perfect heir for the business. 

Mother watched him grow, though not for long, and would comment on how proud she was. She would pat him on the shoulders with a bright smile, planting delicate, yet sweet kisses on cupped cheeks. Internally, Techno felt all the good emotions in his body boil over and pour itself into words that died in his throat; fighting off the smile that tugged at his lips. He hated himself for it, still does, and perhaps always will.

Techno hates that he always allowed appearances to take precedence over relationships. After her death, he swore to himself that he would do better— that the mistakes he made with his mother, who died without ever hearing the words “I love you” from him, would never be committed again. Yet he always makes mistakes. 

“One day,” Wilbur says between sobs as he gazes at his mother’s headstone. The sun beat down on them almost as if casting judgment on them— punishing them for their sins. “One day, we will see her again, won’t we?” 

Techno nods slowly, unsure of his surroundings. None of this feels real, at least to him, because he is almost certain that mama will be waiting for them at home. Situated in her favorite chair in the living room, next to the front yard window with a new knitting project set down to greet them. It still feels as though she is alive. 

“We all will, at some point, I guess.” Techno responds, giving the most mature response that his brain could come up with.  As the oldest twin between the two of them, he should be the most mature. But, how mature could two eight year olds possibly be?

“I don’t want to go!” Wilbur screams, earning a very stern look from their father. “Mama should just come back to us! Why did she leave?” 

In hindsight, their first brush with death was perhaps the most painful experience of his life. When his mother died, a piece of himself died right alongside her. 

He thought of his death often, pondering on the semantics of what a noble death would look like for someone like him. Techno wondered if he even deserved to have a noble death, his hands having done countless unspeakable things as his eyes witnessed the actions a regular person couldn’t have fathomed.  Was he deserving of respect after his death, or is spit rolling down his headstone the highest form of respect he could reasonably expect? 

He doesn’t know. His father says that there’s no use pondering it, stating that he would sooner succumb to the voices than to find an answer that will sit right with him. Techno would simply nod along to his father’s ramblings, never quite being much of a talker despite how much he’d like to. But, as he glanced up from his father’s protective shadow, he could see in his father the respect he had always wanted to garner. Because, if he had the respect of others, it would be easier to protect and care for his family and truly become the perfect heir. 

His throat burned with sleep and his nose felt damp. Heavy eyelids protested against him, only opening a peep before forcing themselves close once more. Aching bone and muscle yelled at him venomously, berating him at every turn since he regained some semblance of consciousness. As he lay on the steps, he saw blurs of red run across pink skin. His arm supported his head while the rest of his lanky body was spread across the bottom of the steps, reminding him of someone who passed out drunk. The soreness coming from his arm felt as though he'd been laying here for days and, seeing as he has no prior recollection of waking up prior to this, that probably was the case.

Techno felt horribly disoriented, dizzily reminding himself of how he ended up at the bottom of the stairs to begin with. He noticed his heart pounding erratically, sweat rolling down his face teasingly as he panted desperately for air that escaped him. Along with the streaks of red scuttling along his forearm, he took notice of his strangely flushed skin. While his skin is normally a pale hue of pink, it was now something similar to a strawberry pink. 

Technoblade attempted to move his body through groans of pain, pushing through despite the clear resistance his body enforced. Much to his dismay, he only managed to move enough to lift his throbbing head. Droplets of blood landed on the ground beneath him, pooling a bit the longer he stayed in that position. The pig forced his arm to move towards his nose, rubbing under it to feel for the possible nose bleed. 

Through his blurred vision, he could see already flushed skin stained with his own blood that still continued to fall from his body. Crimson sunk into his skin comfortably, remaining even after he had rubbed his arm furiously on dirtied clothes. Frustratedly, he continues to rub away blood in an attempt to forget about his failures, yet the stains on his skin remained; shamelessly proving that he is the worst uncle and brother. Fat tears fell harshly onto the ground, somehow deafening the pounding of his heart.

In his twenty-six years of living, he has never sustained a loss this bad. In some grand way, this is what he deserved. A life of stepping on others cannot come without its consequences. Yet, he thought that if he truly believed in his own motivations and character, then the inevitable punch in the gut would be easier to shoulder. However, simply because the bruising left is easier to care for does not mean it hurts any less. 

Somewhere within him, he knew that the fall from grace would be painful. Perhaps it was the more reasonable part of himself whispering to him, warning him of how hard the ground is going to feel when he finally hits it— or maybe, it was the voices giggling amongst themselves as they discuss the final cries of the mighty. He never quite knew, but as he wailed violently, Techno understood. 

He understood how Wilbur felt when Sally had died, how his father felt when he lost both his wife and son, how both Fundy and Tommy must’ve felt when their fathers and family rejected them. In those moments, Techno felt all the grief he had kept bottled up and stored away in one fell swoop. The tears stung his wounded face, intermixing with the blood, sweat and snot to create a disgusting smell that resonated in his nose. The ache of his racing heart drove him mad, yet felt familiar all the same. 

His body trembled with vulnerability, shaking under the massive amount of guilt and regret that once sat heavily on his shoulders. His lungs gasped for air, attempting to retrieve some between sobs, but burned with failure. His hands, damaged with the familiar blood of those he was told to dispose of, balled into a fist tightly; skin tearing as his nails bore into his palm. 

Everything hurt more than it ever did. He cried because of guilt and regret, but most importantly, he cried because of the pain he felt. Pain that he never allowed himself to feel, the same pain that made people stupid and vulnerable— he felt and wept for. It hurts. He’s hurt. 'I’m hurt.'

“Papa,” Techno bawled into the stairway, dirtied with the remnant of the fight. “Papa! I’m hurt. It hurts. Papa, please.” He cried for his papa, reaching a hand out despite knowing the papa he wanted wasn’t there. He longed for the loving embrace of his papa, to be consoled and protected by the strongest person he knows. Techno no longer wished to surpass his father, but to instead be with him. “I’m sorry, papa. I wasn’t strong enough.”

That’s how Technoblade spent the rest of his energy, begging and pleading for a father that is too far away to indulge him. His father would perhaps scold him for such an unsightly display, but in the end, Phil would calmly console him until he felt better. 

A father calming down his son. 

He passes out with that thought in mind, drifting into a painful slumber.