Work Text:
You were dead
By the time that I had found you
Your blood was spilled
...
So I carried you West
...
Your body felt just like a backpack
It’d become an unfortunate truth to Quackity, that finding corpses lying beneath the Las Nevadas sign wasn’t unusual.
To be fair, most of them were mobs. Creepers deprived of water who had wandered too far out in the desert, shriveling at the pole’s base, only hissing feebly when approached. A single swing of even the dullest blade snuffed them out. It was so simple Quackity had even allowed Charlie to go and patrol around at night, on occasion. Zombies and skeletons would brawl under there, taking each others lives as a result of a petty battle. Endermen were probably the most common creature to be bleeding to death under the neon. Quackity had a theory; they might be sensing Ranboo to be nearby, and endermen can be notoriously territorial. Similar to the brainless brawls of the undead, the slender beings would usually take eachother out in the fits of war.
It just happened to be highly abnormal for those corpses to be human.
Wilbur was technically already a corpse, a walking one, but still a dead body nonetheless. His revival scarring displayed it well, any person could see that he hadn’t exactly come back… right . Stitches littered his body, split his limbs and face into patchwork, each intersecting slab of skin a slightly off colour to the one it connected with. His face was perhaps the most blaring example of this, struck through the center with a thick, twisted wire; the top half a slightly off green, pale and sickly, before it split into a healthy flush, while one of his cheeks was purpled with rot. He wasn’t grotesque nor gory, but his often zombie-like appearance lended to being off putting.
Wilbur was a dead man walking; keyword, walking .
But as of now, Quackity stands over the unmoving, bleeding heap of what would usually be a very alive, and very annoying , Wilbur Soot.
His eyes sit glazed and painfully dry, accompanied by an open, gaping mouth with sand creeping out of it. He’d fallen face first, and rolled himself over it seems. He hasn’t been here too long, no sunburns, and his skin still has some moisture left. At least the chunks that usually had something other than dead texture. And the blood coating him is but damp. In fact, the body is still bleeding.
As Quackity crouches to further inspect the body, a heaviness sets into his chest. Tracing fingers over the wound in Wilbur’s gut, the blood is cool, watery, and for the first time in years, Quackity feels ill at the sight of crimson. A pit is forming in his stomach to match Wilbur’s. He blinks and for a split moment he’s staring at Tubbo’s charred, sanguine body. But the sting of smoke in his eyes and the stench of rotisseried cadaver fades in an instant. Quackity shuffles closer, legs bumping up against Wilbur’s. He’s lukewarm, about as hot as the dusk air surrounding them. Tiny puncture holes line up his chest, assumedly piercing into his lungs, which explains the blood that lines his mouth like some sick excuse for makeup. It’s honestly miraculous his eyes aren’t damaged, due to the shattered lenses of his glasses. Quackity gazes down into them; it’s been quite a while since he had the chance to look a deadman in the eyes.
It’s especially been a while since the damned bloodshot things moved in response.
With a high pitched yelp, he jumps to his feet and stumbles back. His wings flap up in aid to steady him, while the rest of him breaks into a flurried cold sweat.
Wilbur’s mouth slowly morphs into a grin. His entire body cracks when he lurches, hacking up a hefy glob of blood, flem and sand.
A weak croak escapes the chapped lips of the corpse, “Hello Quackity.”
Quackity puffs, bending to rest his hands on his knees and catch his breath, “Oh my god Wilbur!”
Wilbur laughs, or at least, tries to; the sound he makes is animalistic. A raspy, guttural guffaw that upticks slightly towards its end. More sand flurries from his esophagus, turning the laugh into what it really sounds like, a cough. His head tips back when he laughs, body writhing upwards with involuntary reflexes. Despite his laugh, it chokes out slightly, and Wilbur gargles as if he’s in a great deal of pain. The fit dies quickly, instead, Wilbur attempts to catch his breath and whines.
Quackity tries to realign himself, switching from a gasping mouth of shock, to a firm glare. Even when faced with a dying man, appearances must be upheld. “I thought you were dead.”
“So did I!” He groans lowly, setting a hand against the wound in his gut, pushing down. It squelches, and Quackity quickly realizes the brit’s intestines may be closer to the surface than they should be. He giggles again, “Ah- ah, god, that hurts.”
“What did you do to yourself, Soot?” Quackity lowers back down, hovering his hands over Wilbur, trying to dictate what he can touch and what he can’t. It is only then that Quackity realizes not all the blood decorating Wilbur is actually, well, Wilbur’s .
Wilbur’s blood usually shed a darker shade than others, an after effect of being revived without a proper body; coloured as if permanently exposed to oxygen, as it had been for months during his initial decaying. His blood is thicker as well. A blackened, viscous sludge flows through his veins, but some of the splatters here are still bright red, recent and violent. Not to mention there are weeks old splatters of blood, and specks of green fluid too. They aren’t potion stains; these are the blood of some other creature he hasn’t bothered to air out yet.
Most concerning of all though, is the blood that bubbles on his skin’s surface, as if boiling.
Quackity knows this blood.
He’d seen it spray from the cheek of the receiving end of Tommy’s Axe of Peace. He’d seen it paint the floor of that underground hall, full of a madman’s collection of “attachments''. He’d seen how it fizzled against rough obsidian and hissed in lava, how it thickened in water.
He’d seen that monstrous, revival cursed blood, dripping directly from the gaping face wound of Dream.
“G-got inna lil argument s’all.” Wilbur slurs. It sounds odd coming from the usually precise and eloquent lips of an ex-president.
If Wilbur hadn’t been dead before, he’s about to be.
The last thing Quackity needs is an eviscerated ex-president croaking on his doorstep. Quackity curses beneath his breath, and shifts to pick up Wilbur. He’d call for back up if it wasn’t the middle of the night. The man’s bones shift with the movement of Quackity lifting him up beneath his elbows. He's much taller than his winged counterpart, but lighter.
What Wilbur has in height, Quackity makes up for in muscle. It’d be an easy feat to haul Wilbur over his shoulders, but that risks rubbing the wound open more.
He carries Wilbur in his arms instead. He’s limp.
It rings in eerie memories of collecting what was left of Charlie, molding it together, and carrying a slumped, dripping carcass to his underground bunker.
Wilbur hisses something indiscernible. He only writhes a little, tiny whimpers managing to escape his sun-chapped lips. Whatever he’s trying to communicate falls completely and utterly flat.
Quackity keeps walking, sand uneven beneath his feet. He hums a thanks to no one when he sets his feet on the main paved road to Las Nevadas. It’s very late. Sometime just past three in the morning. Covered by a blanket of dark, the lights of Las Nevadas are off at this time, not only a power saving tactic, but to allow a cut down on light pollution. Not to mention it can be difficult to sleep with the constant buzz of neon and chatter of businesses.
A hand suddenly, gently, caresses Quackity’s cheek.
Wilbur buzzes again, and as much as Quackity tries to not decipher it the word comes easily to him. A weak plea, as Wilbur gazes blearily upwards, eyes clearly clouded in blood loss hallucination. “ Sally .”
“I’m gonna get you help, okay?” Quackity mutters back without looking down.
Truthfully, Las Nevadas isn’t designed to save a life.
Realistically, Wilbur will die here.
It’d simply be better for him to pass somewhere warm and cushioned, by a fireplace or in an office, no matter if he deserved that or not. Quackity at least owed it to Tommy, to Fundy.
“Sal? Been so long…” Wilbur moans deliriously, voice high and taut, “Fundy… ‘ure suposs'd be lookin’ af’er ‘im.”
It’s easier to not answer, even as Wilbur pats his fingers lightly against Quackity’s lips. It’s unclear exactly what he’s attempting to accomplish.
“ ‘E’s a bay-bee…can-can’t be lef’ alon’e.”
“Fundy’s an adult- '' Quackity shakes his head, Wilbur’s shaking hand pulls back, and for the first time in his life, Quackity can’t read whatever swims in Wilbur’s teary eyes, “Fundy’s fine. He’s okay.”
The man giggles and he strains his eyes up and back as if trying to look around more, “My li'l champ-ee-on”
Odd that Wilbur makes comment of a young Fundy, considering trailing him about feels just the same as having to appease a confused toddler.
“Sally…m’ side…I’m blee-d-ign.”
“I know you are, Wilbur.”
“M scare’d.”
“I know, Wilbur.”
“I don’ wanna die.”
Quackity doesn’t answer.
Whatever hit Wilbur was bad . Judging by his delirium, if it isn’t from blood loss, then it’s a poison.
Quackity awkwardly opens the door to the hotel with his shoe, shuffling in sideways. Wilbur’s hand tries to grab the glass as he titters, but there’s no strength in his fingers.
Quackity's eyes trail down to linger on the teeth shaped scabs on Wilbur’s forearm. The taste of human flesh fills Quackity’s mouth. The smell of Ranboo’s green viscera floods his nose.
He shakes his head, and surges forwards.
It’s best to not think of that fight right now.
The hallways of the hotel shouldn’t be creepy, but Wilbur’s rasping breaths add a sinister air.
They’re almost in the elevator. Wilbur seems to be becoming heavier by the second.
This isn’t how Quackity had planned on spending his Friday night. He just hopes Tommy knows Wilbur wandered out and got himself into some kind of skirmish.
The nagging question of why exactly Dream did this, still lingers, nags and chews, in the back of Quackity’s mind. It is far from the priority at the moment, but he can’t help but wonder.
Wilbur is his perfect creation . Wilbur is his magnum opus; pure proof of immortality.
So what did Wilbur see that made Dream decide to gut him?
Quackity resigns to sighing in frustration. He presses the elevator button, watching it light up the dark hall.
The only sound in the lonely velvet is the sound of the elevator clunking up the shaft.
The only sound.
Cold, stinging dread cracks up Quackity’s spin. Wilbur isn’t breathing.
“Wilbur?” He shakes him, “Wilbur this isn’t funny.”
A little bit of sand trickles from his mouth in response. “ Wilbur! ”
The doors slide open in front of him, and Quackity nearly falls into the elevator. He sets Wilbur down and begins frantically pressing the buttons to his penthouse room. The access key nearly slips from between his fingers as he clicks it into place. The elevator jolts to life, ascending sluggishly.
“No no no no no- Wilbur come on! ”
He knew he’d die, so why does this feel so bad ?
Is it because he’s got the weight of a body to deal with? Is it because he’ll have to be the one to tell Tommy? Fundy? Is it something else ?
Or does he actually care about Wilbur still?
Despite his smell and annoying nature and prickliness?
Despite the fact he’d wake up tossing and whining in the middle of night in Pogtopia, and scurry outside their cave for a smoke?
Despite the fact he passed those smokes onto Quackity, giving his tongue the first killer taste of nicotine?
Despite the fact he killed himself and left them all? Left him?
The doors open and Quackity hobbles out, dragging the body. Wilbur’s glassy eyes gaze unmoving into Quackity’s, as he sets him on the couch. The dark apartment is far, far too still.
Knowing cardiopulmonary resuscitation might’ve been a good skill to have before starting a city, but it’s too late to regret never learning. So instead Quackity just stares downwards, breath quick and panicked. A spindly stupid thought creeps into the back of his mind and he wishes he could hear Wilbur’s shaky wheezing one last time.
Maybe he’ll spring back to life like he did beneath the sign. Maybe he’s really just joking. He kneels down and grabs Wilbur’s shoulders, jostling him slightly.
“ Wilbur ?” he can’t help but say it as a shaking whisper, “Wilbur, c’mon man, please .”
He finally takes a moment to stare at Wilbur’s expression.
A picture of his last moments alive; he looks terrified . Quackity chokes on nothing.
His com buzzes in his pocket and the sickened feeling deepens in his gut. He pulls it out like its made of glass, and watches through thin tears as the screen lights up with Tommy’s name.
‘ you seen wil?’
Static electricity bubbles across his fingers as he presses down on the buttons.
He’s used to his communicator giving him tiny jolts every now and then. It’s an old busted model, so a few shocks are expected.
Quackity bites his lip. He holds his breath for a second, looking from the screen, to Wilbur, to the screen, then up at Wilbur again. He presses the ‘h’ button and a particularly bitey spark jolts through his thumb. He curses, and holds the tingling finger between his teeth.
It hits him like a brick.
Electricity.
Quackity’s always been a gambler one way or another.
He pulls himself up and rushes for the nearest ender chest. He thanks whatever god might be in the sky that he decided to employ not only a fish-totem thing but a certified electrician as well. Combining their skills led to a surplus of tridents endowed with channeling.
He slams the chest shut, and jumps on the coffee table, stabbing wildly at the ceiling, chunks of cement and plaster rain down. There’s a tiny hole in no time, allowing moon light to seep through and bathe Wilbur’s face even more pale.
Quackity sucks in his breath and steps back. He barely shakes as he aims the trident. He throws.
The only sound is the soft woosh as the spiked weapon slices the air. It stabs an upturned piece of Wilbur’s bloody arm bandage.
The room blasts alight. Someone is screaming.
Quackity is knocked backwards from the utter force of wind and power flowing down from the empty sky.
When the room quiets, there’s two sets of lungs panting desperately. Wilbur's chest rises up and down and up and down like a rabbit’s that's being chased. His head immediately whips to Quackity.
“Wh….What d-did you do?” He hasn't heard Wilbur’s voice shake quite like this since he held his crumpled, crying form in the button room, deep underground, shortly after talking him down. Before Quackity can even open his mouth an answer, he notices moisture glinting in the corners of Wilbur’s eyes as he cradles his face in his hands, “I was back there . He killed me. He killed me .”
If he speaks, Wilbur could crack. He could go berserk and decide to attack him. He wasn’t exactly there the first time Wilbur was brought back from the dead, so who knows what he’ll do. He’s like a cornered coyote.
But Quackity’s always been a gambler one way or another.
“Wilbur?” The mere introduction of another sound, no matter how quiet and soft Quackity concentrates on making his voice, makes Wilbur shudder and flinch. But at the very least, he draws his hand away from his face to stare at Quackity as he slowly stands. “It’s just me. You know I’m no threat to you.”
Wilbur swallows thickly. Quackity approaches as steadily as possible. He makes sure to show his hands, allowing Wilbur’s stare to register his lack of weapons.
“You’re alive, it’s okay.”
“Why would he kill me? I’m- I’m his prized experiment. Why did he kill me?”
“Maybe he didn’t mean to-”
“ He stabbed me in the gut …he splashed me with potion that- that burned me . Why- why ?”
He hates seeing Wilbur look like this. Wilbur should be arrogant and striding about this apartment calling the furniture tacky and leaving trails of cigarette ash across the carpet. Wilbur should be talking his ear off about proposed plans on how to become the next in line for the Las Nevadas dynasty.
Wilbur shouldn’t be nearly wordless and shivering on the couch.
“You appeared under the entrance sign. I brought you here to help.”
Wil bur’s voice slowly smooths itself out, becoming a little steadier and less breathy, “I know. I remember.”
“I- uh, shot you with lightning. It restarted your heart I think.”
“I was back there.”
Quackity cocks his head, “What?”
“It was so much quieter than I remember it being. No trains were coming through.” his arms wrap around to squeeze his arms; hug himself, “I saw you yelling my name; on the dot-matrix display. ”
Oh .
That’s what .
“You’re safe now Wilbur. You’re not going back there.”
Wilbur’s eyes swivel to Quackity’s, “Why are you helping me. Two weeks ago you tried to kill me with your bare fists.”
Heat spreads across his face and down his neck, and Quackity can no longer look Wilbur in the eye.
Why did he save him?
“I owe it to Tommy and Fundy.”
“Fundy doesn’t give a shit if I die. You know that. I doubt Tommy would either. He’s more upset I’m back than anything. I took away his favourite version of me. So why did you do it?”
Why?
Because he can’t have this rotted man dying on his property, right?
Because it’d be a tough bit of paperwork to sift through, right?
He was his enemy, his nemesis, his rival. They hated each other, a respected that mutually.
There was no way he actually still cared about Wilbur.
Right?