Chapter Text
“Today’s gonna be our biggest win yet, Wilbur. Ready?” Quackity grins sharply, hand on the knob of the restaurant door.
Wilbur nods once, trying to ignore his nerves. He doesn’t dare talk, because Quackity can’t afford to get distracted if Wilbur’s power accidentally activates. Wilbur thinks his power’s more of a curse sometimes, the ability to influence anyone with his voice that he doesn’t know how to turn on or off, but Quackity’s always told him it’ll make them important someday. When Quackity says things like that, brings up the idea that Wilbur could win them importance, it almost seems worth the way he convinces people of things he didn’t mean to and can only sometimes call up the power when he really needs it.
But Quackity puts an arm around Wilbur’s shoulders, using his own power of attention control to snap Wilbur back to reality, and then they’re walking through the dining hall towards the private room where the heads of Sleepy Boys Incorporated wait for them.
No matter how many times he’s seen it, it always freaks Wilbur out when Quackity’s powers make them unnoticed. Eyes slide away from them like there’s nothing there, and even the few people who bump into them are entirely distracted a moment later.
A second later it’s over and they’re inside the darkened dining room. It’s barely twilight outside, and there are several candles on the table, but Wilbur supposes Zephyrus wanted to make a show of his ability by casting the room in deep shadows.
Wilbur settles into a chair next to Quackity and wills himself not to fidget. He’s dressed formally for the negotiation, and he feels exposed without his usual trench coat to pull around himself.
Quackity nods at the two SBI heads, a slight man with a veiled hat covering his face and a much taller and broader man in a boar-skull mask. “Zephyrus. Protesilaus. What a pleasure to see you here today.”
Zephyrus inclines his head pleasantly. “Kingpin. The pleasure is all mine, although I can’t help but notice you don’t have your usual right-hand-man with you.” He looks to Wilbur. “Who are you?”
Wilbur swallows. “The Siren,” he answers, and he’s never been so glad that Quackity came up with a name for him before he started doing these talks.
Protesilaus hums like he doesn’t like it, but Zephyrus just taps his fingers on the table, a distinctive syncopated pattern. “Siren. Charmed to meet you.”
“I think we know why we’re here,” Protesilaus says, staring down Q and Wilbur.
“Of course, of course,” Quackity replies. “You’ve been in my territory.”
“You’ve been in our territory,” Zephyrus corrects.
The three continue to exchange pleasant threats for a few minutes, and Wilbur wishes like hell he could zone out until he’s needed, but the instant his mind wanders he can feel Q bringing him back to the conversation.
Eventually, Quackity says, “Listen. We’ve come prepared with an offer for you,” and looks to Wilbur.
“You don’t really need the territory,” Wilbur begins, and he breathes a sigh of relief that the words have the weight of his power behind them, a kind of harmonic double-tone sound. “You’ve already got a lot, see? And you don’t want a real fight with Las Nevadas.” He knows, from experience, that he doesn’t have to make it sound reasonable, people will rationalize anything he puts his power behind, but it seems rude to not even try.
The SBI leaders look at each other, considering.
“It’s okay,” Wilbur adds. “You can listen to me. It’s a good offer.” His power dies out by the last sentence, but it seems like he’s already made his impression.
The negotiations are over pretty quickly after that, just a few closing promises, handshakes, and the formalities of thinly veiled threats. Wilbur shakes hands with Zephyrus and Protesilaus, but Quackity’s already called his focus away from the pair.
Quackity leads Wilbur through the crowd unnoticed, and the two slide into a car outside the restaurant.
Wilbur stares out the window, fidgeting with the cuffs of his dress shirt.
“Good job, kid,” Quackity says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I knew there was a reason I keep you around.” He laughs. Wilbur nods, but hunches his shoulder and keeps his eyes on the streets going past. Quackity had promised he could have his trench coat back as soon as they were done, and he feels less comfortable in the sharp suit jacket by the minute.
Suddenly he finds himself turning to face Quackity, and needs a moment to recover from the sharp pull on his focus. After ten years in Q’s care at Las Nevadas, he knows the feeling of Quackity’s power on his attention, and he doesn’t dare to try to look away. “What’s so interesting about the roads?” Quackity snaps.
“Nothing,” Wilbur responds quickly. “I’m sorry.”
Quackity smiles, and the few gold teeth on the left side of his mouth flash. “You know I could never stay mad at you for long.” Wilbur’s actually sure that’s not true, but he doesn’t object. Quackity ruffles his hair, and Wilbur only barely doesn’t flinch away. Now that Q’s loosened his hold on the teen’s attention, Wilbur can feel how exposed and stiff his suit is again. “You’re cute when you’re scared, y’know,” Q says. “You hide behind your bangs like that white streak doesn’t make you even more visible. What’s bothering you?”
Wilbur considers for a moment. Usually this kind of question is a trap, and he’ll be told off for being selfish or melodramatic. Quackity’s in such a good mood though, and Wilbur really does want his coat. “Where’s my trench coat?” he asks quietly. Stress makes his power activate in the words, but it’s a question, so it’s safe. He’s always allowed to phrase things as questions. He wills the double tone down before he keeps going, and for once manages to succeed. “You said I could have it back when we were done, but I don’t know where it is. You took it.”
Quackity frowns. “Do you really want that ratty old thing? It doesn’t really fit with the Las Nevadas image. If you were front of house staff, I’d never let you keep it. I don’t think I got rid of it, though. If I find it I’ll have Charlie get it to you.”
“Thank you,” Wilbur breathes. He’s had the coat since he was twelve and Quackity took him to a thrift store as a reward. It’s a little too big still, but its many pockets contain just about everything he owns.
The car pulls into the back garage of the Las Nevadas casino, and Quackity leads Wilbur into the basement area where most of the high-level staff live. “Run along to your room now,” he says, giving Wilbur an absentminded pat on the shoulder. “You know the drill. I’ll see you tomorrow before your library time.”
“What about dinner?” Wilbur asks, surprised at his own recklessness.
Q rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re valuable, Wilbur. I’ll have Charlie send it over with your coat.”
Wilbur walks slowly back to his room. Once he’s there, he can’t quite bring himself to take the suit jacket off and change, as uncomfortable as he is. He curls up on the bed, leaning against one wall, and tries to pretend the jacket is his trench coat.
It’s hours later, judging by how the pounding music reaching his room from the casino floor is a new tempo and the lights that flash through his curtains have taken the cooler tones of the late nights, when Charlie opens his door. “Hello Wilbur Ash,” he greets cheerfully. “I have found your coat, and brought you food for humans.”
“Soot. It’s Wilbur Soot,” Wilbur murmurs under his breath. Louder, he adds, “Thank you, Charlie.”
Charlie lays the coat on the bed and hands Wilbur a bowl of mixed greens. Wilbur’s honestly not surprised by the strange food— Charlie’s never had a great idea of what humans eat, and this isn’t the weirdest thing Wilbur’s eaten.
“Goodnight, Wilbur Ash.” Charlie turns back to the door.
“Goodnight, Charlie,” Wilbur responds, accidentally with power in it.
Charlie laughs. “You don’t need that. I know I’m having a good night already.”
“I can’t help it,” Wilbur whispers to the closing door.
As soon as he’s alone again, Wilbur changes as quickly as he can into a sweater and puts his trench coat on over it. He pats down the pockets, looking for and finding his library card, gloves, and a few packaged snacks he’s managed to squirrel away over the years. With a sigh of relief, he sits back down on his bed.
He doesn’t feel like sleeping just yet, so he grabs one of the books from the side table and starts rereading it. Library day is tomorrow, so he’s already finished all the books from last week, but he doesn’t mind rereading. Even having the side table is nice— Quackity got it for him on his seventeenth birthday and before that he had to put his books on the floor. Other than the little table and a chair, the room is pretty bare, just the bed and a rack in the corner of mostly yellow sweaters and jeans. Years ago Quackity decided yellow looked best on him (“You look young. Innocent. Someone a pigeon can trust.”), and he doesn’t mind the color very much.
It’s a while later, when the music changes yet again, that Wilbur puts the book down and curls up under the covers. Neon lights still flash through the curtained window, but he’s sure he’ll get to sleep eventually. He always manages somehow.