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When Quackity walked down to the Las Navedas sign as he usually did to share a smoke with Wilbur before the next headache of a day began he was not expecting to find the revived man looking like utter shit. Well, Wilbur looked pretty nasty most of the time honestly but this was particularly bad. The taller was slouched, twisting a cigarette between his fingers but not lighting it.
When Wilbur notices him the man straightens slightly, lips quirking into a smile that edged just barely on a grimace. As always, no matter how much they talked, Wilbur was trying to hold up his fucking facade. Not that Quackity could truly complain, the pot calling the kettle black and all that.
“You look like shit,” he greets bluntly as he pulls out a cigarette and lighter from his pocket. It’s not the first time he’s said the words to the ex-President but it is the first time he’s truly meant them.
Wilbur rolls his eyes behind the obnoxious red sunglasses he always insisted on wearing. “Hello to you too Q, pleasant as always I see.” The words are nasally and if he wasn’t sure something was wrong before he definitely was now.
“So are we just not going to address that you’re sick?”
“I-“ The taller’s brows furrowed, “I’m not sick.”
Well, he tried. “Okay.”
They delve into silence as Quackity stands and smokes while Wilbur leans against the base of the sign and simply fiddles with his own cigarette. The taller’s eyes are glazed and his face flushed harshly. The more Quackity looks at him the more he’s convinced that he’s got to do something about it, even if he hates the motherfucker. Prime knows Wilbur would rather die again then give into a sliver of self-care and Quackity may dislike him but he isn’t a monster.
Wilbur won’t just let himself be taken care of though. He won’t even admit he’s fucking sick. Quackity will have to be sneaky about it; which is fine, he can do sneaky. Plus, Wilbur won’t like being tricked so at least Quackity’s messing with him a bit.
“Do you want me to preen your wings?”
“Pardon?”
In his defense, it’s the first thing he’d thought of. Quackity had wanted to fix the taller’s wings for months anyway, even back in Pogtopia. The black feathers were tangled and unkempt and he could only imagine how painful it was to keep them that way. There were very clearly some spots missing chunks of feathers as well and Quackity wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what led to that.
He can’t just say that though, can’t make it sound like he cares. Not that he does but- he just can’t say it like that, Wilbur will take it the wrong way. “They’re a fucking mess, Wilbur. When was the last time you even cleaned them?”
The taller flushes, eyes darting up to look over the Las Navedas sign. “Does it matter? Why do you even care?”
“If you’re going to be around Las Navedas you might as well look slightly presentable.”
Wilbur purses his lips and Quackity can see it in his eyes just how badly he wanted to say yes. Wings are meant to be preened regularly, not just so the wings are healthy but so the owner of them is as well. Any good bird-hybrid knows that wing care is directly correlated to their mental well-being.
Maybe it isn’t all that surprising that Wilbur’s are as ratty as they are.
“Do you want me to do it or not?” He asks, dropping his cigarette and stubbing it out with his boot. As much as Quackity wants to help he won’t beg Wilbur to let him. He has better things to be doing with his time (and he’s not that desperate).
Wilbur hesitates, then sighs as he lets his shoulders slouch again. “Fine, better you than Phil.”
Quackity doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Instead, he gestures for Wilbur to follow him and begins to head back into Las Navedas. It’s early enough that everyone else is asleep and he admittedly hopes he can get this over with before they wake. The last thing he needs is word getting out that he was taking care of Wilbur Soot.
Heading into the bottom of his tower, Quackity pushes Wilbur into Charlie’s empty bed. The slime apparently didn’t need sleep and he had long since given up on trying to get him to try. As long as Charlie was alive the next morning Quackity couldn’t care less about what he did during the night.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Wilbur’s eyes trail after him as Quackity rifles through chests. “What are you looking for?”
“Healing potion,” he says, pulling out a glass vial with glowing pink liquid as he does. When Wilbur opens his mouth to protest, Quackity is quick to cut him off, “with the state your wings are in you’ll need it.”
Whether the taller is simply too out of it to call Quackity out on the blatant lie or simply doesn’t know that potions don’t affect wings is beyond him. Either way, Wilbur willingly takes the potion, grimacing heavily as it goes down. Taking the vial back, Quackity throws it into the closest chest before rounding the bed and sitting down behind Wilbur.
The wings only look marginally better in the back. They’re still unkempt and matted but at the very least they lack the concerning bald spots that littered the front. Wilbur’s wings are much larger than Quackity’s own, being that of a crow’s rather than a duck’s. Not that it matters much in the long run but it will make preening them take much longer.
Reaching up for the top, Quackity softly begins to resettle the feathers into their places. Wilbur tenses the moment he’s touched and doesn’t seem to relax even slightly as he continues, body rigid. Concerned he’s doing something wrong, Quackity pulls away only to startle when Wilbur whines in protest. The taller seems even more shocked at his reaction than Quackity, hunching in on himself and hiding his body behind his ragged wings.
“Sorry, I-“ Wilbur sucked in a deep breath, “it’s been a long time since I’ve been… touched.”
‘I spent… thirteen years in hell’ Quackity recalls dimly from a shared morning weeks ago with burned cigarette buds falling to their feet and heavy secrets breathed between them. He supposed it wasn’t exactly shocking that Wilbur was touch starved if it had truly been over a decade since he’d seen other people. Quackity briefly wonders if the lack of affection went further back then that though.
“It’s-“ he goes back to delicately sorting through the feathers, listening as Wilbur takes another deep, relieved breath. “It’s fine, man, don’t worry about it. Just tell me to stop if you want me too.”
They fall into silence after that, the only sounds being feathers rubbing against each other and Wilbur’s slightly nasalled breathing. Quackity allows himself to go through the motions of preening mindlessly, feeling Wilbur relax more and more as he continues. It feels weird to be so… gentle with the man he’d been spitting insults with for weeks, months, but Quackity can’t honestly say he hates it.
When he finishes preening Wilbur is practically asleep, eyes fluttering and body slumping harshly. The man is too tired to even fight against him as Quackity gently takes his glasses and pushes him down to lay fully on the bed. He pulls off the man’s boots and rests them on the floor, hooking the glasses onto Wilbur’s shirt and pulling the blanket over him. When he looks up again Wilbur is fast asleep, mouth slightly open and face relaxed in a way Quackity is unsure he’s ever seen on the ex-President before.
Finally, with Wilbur unable to fight him on it, Quackity gently reaches his hand beneath the taller’s bangs to press against his forehead. Just as he had thought, the man is running warm, and he’d very likely been even warmer when Quackity had first come across him. What an idiot.
Well, he can’t make Wilbur take care of himself, but he can at least look after the idiot when he gets the chance. Quackity is positive the taller will be far more careful after this, at least to ensure he’s never caught in this situation again, but for now Quackity feels little guilt in enjoying the situation while he can get it.
Domestic life had long since proven it wanted nothing to do with him but that didn’t mean Quackity couldn’t be domestic from time to time.
Hesitating, Quackity leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Wilbur’s head. The taller will never know it occurred, but Quackity can hold it close to his chest alongside all the other loving memories he holds of Wilbur. Small glimpses of what could have been had they been just a little less fucked up.
For once he was content, and Quackity softly left to go start his day. He still had work to do after all. Plus, now he had a full day to pull ahead of Wilbur in the burger business.
Oh, the taller was going to be furious.