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It's two am at the end of what is perhaps one of the most normal days that Ponk has experienced in the past couple weeks. The sky is dark and cloudless, a half moon reflecting off the pond at the front of the White House, lampposts lining dirt paths, the few protected trees left in the area beginning to lose their leaves for autumn as the world turns orange and brown. His medical bag bangs against his thigh as he walks, and he whistles to fill the silence as he makes his way up the path. Schlatt calling him down so late isn't uncommon. But the fact that it had been Quackity who'd sent him the message telling him to "get his ass to the White House as fast as his little legs could carry him" that's worrying. There's a sick part of him that wonders if Schlatt's finally kicked it. There's an even sicker part that wonders if he'd be upset.
Things get strange when the door swings open before Ponk even reaches it, and a beanie-clad head pokes out through the crack that spills light down the front steps to where Ponk stands. "Are you an idiot?" Quackity hisses, gesturing furiously with narrowed eyes. "I told you to go round the back, man, hurry up!"
He then proceeds to shut the door in Ponk's face.
So the day isn't off to the best of starts. He sighs and begins to walk around the building, raising on his toes to glance into the few open windows he sees out of pure curiosity - there's nothing of interest to see. "This is stupid," he sings to himself as he walks. "I could be doing so many other things right no-ow."
The hiss of a spider nearby is enough to make him jog slightly faster, humming as he does so.
Quackity's at the back door when he arrives, dressed in a casual indigo tracksuit and mismatched socks. "Schlatt told me to send for you," he whispers, his voice carrying in the near dead silence of the night. "He isn't able to do so right now, so -"
Ponk interrupts before he can finish. "Let me guess, he's intoxicated?" he begins wearily. "If he's injured himself again, I did ask you to make sure you specified what exactly happened in your message to me so that I would know what -"
"No." Quackity's shaking his head, and glancing quickly back inside the White House with almost nervous eyes. The light reflects off of them, glowing. "It's not - Schlatt. He's fine. He sent me to get your help with someone else."
Ponk raises his eyebrows under his mask, hoping that even though Quackity couldn't see his full expression, he was still getting the drift. "Uh huhhh," he drawls, popping his lips. "Show me inside. I'd like to speak to Schlatt first."
Quackity makes a noise of surprise. "Can't do that," he says, fluffing up his pale duck wings and straightening to his full height, which isn't very much. Ponk stands at a several inches taller, which the younger seems to take as an insult. "Schlatt's busy. Just follow me and keep quiet, I'll show you where to go."
He gestures for Ponk to come inside. Ponk does not move.
"Is this a trick?" he asks suspiciously. "Somehow, I don't believe that whatever you're trying to lead me into is something that President Schlatt has approved."
Quackity hisses through his teeth. "Look, one of Schlatt's cabinet is hurt, ok?" he snaps, shifting his weight from foot to foot with blatant nervousness. "So I need your help, fucking hell, ok? Please, Ponk. Just listen to me this once."
He waits. Ponk deliberates.
He knows about Schlatt, of course. He's his doctor - he's seen the politician drunk, hungover, sick, furious. He's heard the things he said when he thinks no one important can hear, when they're alone in one room and Ponk is bandaging Schlatt's hand after he punched a wall in an intoxicated fury, when Schlatt's throwing up and shaking and babbling nonsense. He knows President Schlatt is not the best of men.
He doesn't know why he stays by his side. Maybe there's a certain sense of necessity, as a doctor, albeit a barely qualified one. He likes to experiment and understand things. Ponk isn't sure he holds any love for Schlatt, or anything more than the base respect that a man as confident and demanding as the President demands. Ponk is not sure of a lot of things these days.
"Fine," he says lightly, and pretends not to notice Quackity sag with relief at the affirmation.
The White House is less impressive when you've been in it as many times as Ponk has, and when you've seen the truth behind the cream lined walls and golden candle holders and birch planks and carefully placed stainless rugs, it's difficult to shake off the shadows that seem to drape the place in an ugly light. Quackity leads them through two hallways before stopping and making a wide eyed motion for Ponk to take off his shoes - he does so without question, and Quackity hides them under a pair of thin white curtains that block a rather large window. "Just in case," he mumbles, more to himself than anyone. Ponk doesn't need to reply.
The lights are all off, with the exception of the ones in the front hall that Quackity had switched off as they left. Luckily Ponk's night vision is pretty good - making up for a slight weakness in his left ear - and he notices whose door it is that he's being led to. "Quackity," he says firmly, stopping in his tracks. He is about to tap the man on the shoulder when he thinks about the bruises on Quackity's neck and thinks otherwise. "What happened?"
Quackity breathes out shakily, and his eyes flutter shut as he drags his hands across the back of his head. "Schlatt happened. It's fine, you don't need to worry about it. Just go inside."
So Ponk does without question.
The room is large and spacious, but also rather empty, with just a lamp, a couple chests and table pushed up against a wall next to a bookcase and one small bed under the covered windowsill. Sitting atop that bed is none other than Tubbo Underscore, the one person Ponk hadn't wanted to see but had expected anyway. The kid's in pajamas, plain dark green ones, and his hair has been cut short since Ponk had last seen him. His ears are visible now. Emerald wings quiver behind his back. Bright aqua eyes pierce him from all the way across the room, and Ponk feels frozen - there's something in Tubbo's gaze that feels sharper than usual, like a baby deer awaiting a hunting dog.
"How are you feeling, Tubbo?" Quackity says softly, moving into the room with gentle steps. Tubbo's eyes flick to meet his instead, and Ponk almost sags at the relief of the weight. "Any better?"
Tubbo blinks owlishly, face unreadable. "Why is Ponk here?"
Ponk is feeling more and more concerned for his own safety by the minute. "I was called here," he stresses, side eyeing Quackity suspiciously. "By Schlatt. I assume I'm here to help you with something."
"Show Ponk," Quackity says hurriedly. He's uncharacteristically fidgety, tapping his shoes against the ground. "Quickly now, come on."
Tubbo glances back at Ponk, then leans his head back and tilts it in a circle, and as he does so, his skin starts to change. Dark bruises spread across his face, one of his eyes puffing up with violent red and purple, fingerprints appearing on his neck. He lets out a small whimper of pain and clutches at his chest, pressing his lips tightly together. He doesn't say anything.
Ponk has never really gotten used to Tubbo and Quackity's shapeshifting, but he doesn't have the time to take it in right now. "You're holding your chest," he says instead, softly, because he is a doctor and this is all he has left. "Are you hurt there too?"
Tubbo looks to Quackity, who nods, and the boy leans back and lifts his shirt slightly. As suspected, his chest is lightly bruised in ugly patterns across the side, swollen and painful looking in a way that makes Ponk wince. "Ok," he murmurs to himself. "I can help with that."
He moves towards the bed, and both Tubbo and Quackity startle at the suddenness. "I'm just going to take a closer look," Ponk says calmly, and he sits at the other end of the bed. "When ones ribs are broken or bruised, it's best not to lay down for long - how long ago did this happen?"
Tubbo pops his lips, staring somewhere near his bedsheets. "Two days ago," he says casually. "I was being a dumbass, it was really my own fault."
Ponk knows there is no way for something like this to happen without outside influence. He doesn't think about it. Instead, he opens his medical bag and takes out a little box of painkillers and offers two to the boy. "Drink water and swallow these. Breathe as normally as you can and cough when you need to to clear mucus from your chest. Also, hold a pillow against your ribs. It helps." He turns back to Quackity. "Do you have any ice?"
Quackity's shoulders shoot to his ears. "No," he mutters, almost defensively, expression hardening under Ponk's cool gaze. "We don't. We've been trying to -"
He cuts off, exhaling sharply. Ponk doesn't need to ask what he was going to say.
"Well," he starts. "I think the best course of action is to -"
Something slams not far off outside the door, and everybody freezes.
"Q?" Tubbo says, voice small all of a sudden. He's clutching his pillow, now, just as Ponk had said, eyes wide. "Is that…"
Quackity seems to cycle through a hundred thoughts in seconds before deciding on his next move. He darts over and taps Tubbo on the head, ruffling his hair, before smiling at him in the way you do when you're reassuring a child that things will be ok even when you know they might not be. "Stay put, Two," he says lowly, before turning to leave the room, nodding at Ponk once before he goes. The door makes no sound as it shuts behind him.
The room suddenly feels darker. Tubbo lets slip another whine of pain. Ponk remembers himself. "Don't move around too much," he whispers, touching Tubbo's hands with his own and causing him to still. "It's not good for you. Does Schlatt know about this? I'll have to tell him that you can't move around or do too much work for the next few days, especially if you've taken two to tell me that you injured yourself in the first place and possibly strained yourself further."
Tubbo's already shaking his head. "I have work to do today," he says hoarsely. "And you can't tell Schlatt you were here. We'll be in trouble." He lets out a shaky gasp, suddenly sitting up straighter. "But that's - not Schlatt's fault, so don't be angry at him."
The worst part is that Ponk hadn't been planning to. He wonders if that makes him a bad person.
"Do you have an Enderchest?" he asks. He doesn't know why he's still speaking so quietly.
"No," Tubbo whispers back. "I don't own one."
Schlatt won't allow me to have one. Ponk gets it.
He takes a melted icepack from his bag and presses it against Tubbo's chest, adjusting the pillow so he can hold it underneath. Tubbo's wings shudder, puffing up before relaxing again. He's shaking. Ponk's head is spinning for more reasons than he can explain.
He should be used to this.
"You know," Tubbo says, and a small, bitter smile splits his face for a moment. "I almost miss the days when you were griefing my base in the jungle."
Ponk hadn't expected that, of all things. He laughs out of surprise. "You say that as though it was unprovoked. You killed Bebbles."
Tubbo snorts. "You killed my dog."
"After you killed Bebbles. And you burned down my lemon tree."
"That wasn't even me, bossman," Tubbo says, and there's a spark in his eyes that wasn't there before. He looks almost relieved at the distraction. "That was Big Crime."
Ponk rolls his eyes. "You are Big Crime."
"No proof." Tubbo grins. Then he winces as Ponk's fingers press too hard against his ribs, and they both remember the situation and go quiet.
"How's your newest lemon tree?" Tubbo asks.
This is another question he hadn't expected. Ponk leans back, adjusting his jacket collar, and meets Tubbo's eyes again. They're ridiculously bright, almost glowing. He wonders if Tubbo's powers as a shifter allow him to do that, or if it's a natural occurrence that he'd never noticed before. "Have you seen the one I planted in the centre of Manberg?" he replies, leaning forward and pulling his legs to his chest. He can't imagine he looks professional, curled up in a ball like he is. Ponk has never cared about that before anyway. "It's… beautiful. President Schlatt guaranteed its safety when I first showed it to him. And while I'm under his protection, no one dares to touch it."
Something changes in Tubbo's expression during the course of Ponk's words, but he doesn't make it obvious. "That's pog," he says, and coughs into his sleeve, wracking his whole body. Ponk hands him the water bottle that he had placed on the floor besides his bed, and Tubbo drinks. Droplets fall from his chin to his lap. "That's pog as hell. What about your city? I imagine it must be doing well these days, being in trade with Manberg."
Ponk can't detect any sarcasm in his words. Tubbo is being genuine. "Lemon City is thriving," he says enthusiastically. "I get people staying there from time to time, a lot more often these days. They like the Nether aesthetic cause it means they can get the creepy vibe without having to actually go to the Nether. They pay me in gold and iron when they stay in the houses, and they all respect my lemon trees. They never get burnt down."
Tubbo says nothing.
Ponk tilts his head. "Tubbo?"
The boy snaps back to the present. "Hm? Sorry, I zoned out. Got lost in da head, y'know?"
A small laugh escapes Ponk's nose. "Sure."
Tubbo pauses. "I'm sorry for burning down your tree."
This is progress. This is the first time Tubbo has ever admitted to having been the one to do it. Ponk has always known, but the kid's also always denied it, always blamed it on his alter ego who he claimed to be unable to control, and he's always resented him a little for that. But it's now that Ponk realizes he hasn't been able to hold anything against Tubbo for a long time, and the relief and glee he was expecting to feel is more of a relaxed breath, an empty sigh.
"I forgave you months ago," Ponk says. "I'm sorry for killing your dog. What was its name again?"
Tubbo stares at his hands. "He didn't have one."
"Oh," Ponk murmurs.
"It's ok," says the boy. "I forgive you too."
Ponk leans back. Tubbo lets slip a small noise of pain, and even with the lights off, the marks all over his skin are increasingly more prominent. He wonders whether Tubbo really thinks he deserves them or not. He wonders why he stays.
Something touches one of Ponk's hands, and his breath hitches as Tubbo taps his knuckles, one by one like piano keys. Tubbo hums, bobbing his head in time with whatever tune he's creating. It's such an innocent action that Ponk almost feels the need to pull away, torn.
"Ponk?" Tubbo whispers, so quietly that he has to strain to hear. "Can I tell you something?"
Ponk stills. "If it's something I'll have to inform the President of, don't say it."
And Tubbo goes silent, and that sense of guilt comes back. Not very much of it, though. Ponk tries to avoid these affairs for this very reason, and he won't let being faced with this quiet, bruised kid change everything he felt before. President Schlatt is giving him purpose. President Schlatt is helping his home thrive. President Schlatt is a welcome distraction from everything else, and he is someone Ponk can help while war brews under the surface of Manberg, he is someone to talk to even when the man is too drunk to respond or remember. He is no Sam. But Sam has been gone for months and Ponk has nothing left to lose.
Suddenly the door swings open and this time they both tense, but it's Quackity again. He looks a little out of it, eyes unfocused. He gives no explanation for his sudden disappearance and the previous noises from outside.
"Well," Ponk says, swallowing back a voice crack and getting to his feet. "I suppose I should get going. Tubbo, you take it easy over the next few days, ok?"
"He can't," Quackity says loudly before Tubbo can say anything. He's gone rather pale, but stands as straight as ever. "It's the sixteenth. Have you forgotten what today is, Ponk?"
Ponk struggles to remember. His head is fuzzy and while he is known for a good memory, he also hasn't slept in a full day and isn't at the best capacity to think. "I'm not sure."
"The festival," Tubbo pipes up. His eyelids are heavy like he's tired as well. "I have a speech to set up and give." He hums and lies back against the bedframe, pillow still clutched to his chest. "Hopefully if I do well, Schlatt might let me take a break afterwards. He told me yesterday he was proud of how well I was doing."
And if Ponk notices Quackity's expression fall, notices him take a step back, he says nothing.
"You should go," the younger man tells Ponk.
He agrees. He doesn't need anyone to show him to the front door, as he's made the journey enough times to know it by heart, picking up his shoes from where they were tucked away and carrying them until he gets out into the crisp morning air. From up here, he can see lanterns and streetlamps and fireplaces through windowsills, lights blinking across the rolling hills and green land. Manberg is beautiful without its walls. The whole SMP is. Ponk wonders what changed, for a split second.
"Helloooo, Doctor."
Ponk jumps. He whips round in seconds, and then sees that behind him is none other than Schlatt, dressed in a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms with a crumpled black blazer over it all. His hooves clunk as he stumbles out the door to the front steps beside Ponk. "Y'here for Tubbo? I already spoke w'Alex, you're not in trouble."
Ponk swallows. Schlatt looks clammy and pale, black hair sweaty and yellow eyes slit. "Very sorry for coming here without your notice, Mr President," Ponk says, folding his arms behind his back. He knows how to be respectful. "I didn't know you were asleep, or - whatever."
Schlatt grins devilishly, baring off colour teeth and pink gums. "Yeah. Alex thought he could get that one past me. 'S'ok, though, he's got a… good heart."
He huffs and sits down, patting the wood next to him to signal Ponk should follow suit. And he does. He isn't scared. It's impossible for him to be scared of Schlatt, of all people. He's faced worse.
"Ponk," says Schlatt, and his tone is now more serious, no cocky grins or anything. "Important question for you. You've been my doctor for a little while now, haven't you? Nod if you're listening." Ponk does. He is unsure as to where this is going. "Well. I have a… situation. And whatever you say probably won't change whatever I'm gonna do, but it might, so I'm asking. Y'know. As a friend."
A friend. Does Ponk view Schlatt as a friend? He cares for his health, certainly, and he enjoys their talks when the man is sober, on the rare occasion. Maybe he does. "Ok," Ponk murmurs, tapping his fingers on his knee. "Go for it."
Schlatt leans back, the shadow enveloping his face.
"There's a traitor in my cabinet," he says casually. Ponk's breath hitches. The president doesn't notice. "I need to dispose of them, somehow, carefully. Today. At the festival later this evening. And I was just wondering about your opinions on doing so. Y'know? As my doctor. Your opinion does matter to me."
A traitor. Ponk thinks about Tubbo and Quackity, and exhales.
"I would say," he says carefully, "that that would be a good idea."
They would understand. Ponk is doing what is best for the majority. Manberg is best for the majority. Schlatt is best for the majority. He cannot afford to think of just a few people in situations where hundreds of lives are on the line.
Schlatt grins again, clapping Ponk's knee and laughing out his nose. "I knew you'd agree," he wheezes. "You always have good opinions on things, pal!"
When Ponk goes home that night, Lemon City is almost empty. Sam is not there. He hadn't expected him to be, but he misses him and wishes he was. It's been so long since he left and promised he'd come back for Ponk one day in the future, after he'd sorted himself out. He's starting to believe it was all a lie to get away without breaking Ponk's heart.
"I love you," Sam had said the night he disappeared.
"And I, you," Ponk had replied, and it had been the last time they'd ever spoken. Ponk is tired of liars. He is tired of losing.
The doctor doesn't sleep that night, Schlatt's laugh on a loop in his mind.