Chapter Text
In the end, the decision to abandon Las Nevadas had been an easy one.
The realization came as a surprise to Quackity. If someone told him a year ago that he'd be leaving his handcrafted masterpiece to rot, he would've assumed they meant it as some kind of mockery. Now, here he is pulling the trigger; and what a welcome pull it is.
It's all metaphorical of course. Despite his flair for the dramatic, Quackity isn't going to destroy Las Nevadas. It's a waste of time and resources, not to mention a very noisy process– and he's trying to get out of here with as little fuss as possible. Which is, ironically, how he ended up in his panic room, brewing potions behind the cover of mechanical walls.
The passage to the room was Sam's design. All Quackity had to do was hammer on a specific section of his office's wall, and the entrance would open and reseal itself in turn. It was completely unnoticeable, if not for the faint smell of redstone staining the air.
Fortunately, he's gotten used to that.
Hovering over a brewing stand, Quackity measures out careful scoops of redstone powder. It's more of a challenge than it used to be. The regen potions give off a surprising amount of warmth, shimmering in anticipation of the journey ahead. Their heat makes his newly scorched skin itch with discomfort.
Amidst the fever of the small room, Quackity glances at his travel bag, set in the corner and packed with the essentials. He wonders if he'll be lucky enough for Charlie to find him. Do potions lose their potency over time? Are they going to end up a waste of space?
He watches the mixtures swirl, asserting ideas of when Charlie finds him– not if– until he's suddenly very aware of a presence looming over his shoulder.
"What are we working on here?"
Quackity snaps around in an instant, bracing himself against the table.
Great. Just the person he didn't want to see.
Wilbur Soot peers down at him through red tinted glasses, lenses fogging up from the steam of the brewing stand. He's far too close for Quackity's liking– especially with Wilbur's habit of hiding his hands in his pockets– and wearing a pleasant smile that makes his blood boil.
Quackity reacts on instinct.
He lunges forward, seizing Wilbur by his less than pristine white collar. Wilbur looks far more relaxed than Quackity thinks he should, although maybe it's the small room making him hazy.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Soot?!" Quackity shouts, teeth bared in agitation. He poises the glass measuring spoon centimetres from Wilbur's throat, redstone sprinkling over his opponent's lapel. Wilbur has the cognizance to quirk his eyebrows.
"S'bit warm in here for this, don't you think?"
Quackity nearly bites off his own tongue.
"How'd you get in here?" he hisses. "Who fucking snitched? Explain yourself or i swear to God, Wilbur, one of us is gonna be feeling a shit ton of regret."
Wilbur's eyes flit from the hand at his collar to the fist raising the spoon. The bastard has the audacity to laugh– albeit a bit breathlessly– before cautiously steering the utensil away from his neck.
"Calm down, Big Q. You can let me go," he drawls, patting Quackity's wrist.
Quackity tightens his grip.
"No one snitched," Wilbur insists, eyes now visible through his defogged lenses. "I could smell the redstone– your office stinks of the stuff, by the way. Couldn't spot any activator, so i tapped around a bit and, well, i guess i hit the right block."
Quackity studies him for a moment.
"You're fucking with me."
Wilbur shakes his head.
"I'm not."
"You are!" Quackity laughs. "You are, you– You've never been that lucky a day in your fucking life!"
Wilbur shrugs. He takes Quackity's confusion as an opportunity to squirm from his grasp. "Perhaps revival re-tared the scales for me," he offers, smoothing out his collar.
Quackity steps away from Wilbur, impatience thrumming in his movements.
"You really expect me to believe that?"
Wilbur simply grins at him.
"I don't expect much from you at all, Quackity– but please, feel free to silence my doubts."
A quiet snap sounds through the room. The spoon's head clatters to the ground, handle still clenched in Quackity's palm. There's a moment where he thinks he's going to hit Wilbur– and Wilbur's fully expecting it too– but Quackity refrains, pinching his eyes closed and managing to settle his temper. He's gotten better at that, since Charlie had been around. Maybe even more so after he'd left.
Wilbur has a stupid look on his face as he steps away, as if surprised– or almost disappointed. Quackity just cuffs his sleeves and turns back to his work. The potions are done brewing by now, thank God; and Quackity reseals the redstone powder and sets to checking their quality. He swirls them gently in their bottles, only getting halfway through the process before Wilbur speaks up again.
"What do you need regen pots for?"
"Nothing you need to be worried about," he responds evenly, keeping his back turned.
"Sounds awfully dubious," Wilbur's voice is lilted with something strange. "Are you sure this is a legal practice? I happen to have some experience myself, you know."
Quackity lets out an unamused chuckle. "I'm well within my rights here, Soot."
"Even morally?"
"Yes. Which is more than can be said of you."
There's a pause. Quackity feels a petty wave of triumph. "You never answered my question," he points out cooly.
"How do you mean?"
"I mean– fucking damn it–" he grits, shaky fingers fighting his attempts to cork the potion bottles. "I mean, what the hell are you doing; and why are you doing it here?"
"Oh!" Wilbur exclaims, clasping his hands together cheerfully. "Well you see, Quackity, i've been coming up with ideas for bettering that old burger van of mine! Just some minor improvements– things to drum up business, you know how it goes– and i thought, 'Who better to run these by than Mr. Quackity himself?'" Wilbur gestures enthusiastically as he speaks, and Quackity feels his movements don't quite match his eyes.
"And then–" Wilbur prattles on, "It's a bit funny, really– that's when i realized, 'Man, i haven't seen Big Q around in ages!' I was starting to think you'd forgotten about our friendly little competitions– and neither of us want that of course," he winks, "So i took it upon myself to remind you."
Quackity had definitely not forgotten. It'd be pretty hard to, between the noise machines, blatant vandalism and the leisurely walks Wilbur likes to take along their border. Las Nevadas' border, that is– which is by no means 'theirs,' as Quackity would never agree to such an infuriating partnership.
"Well," he begins, finally corking the last bottle. "I'd love to help you out, Wilbur, but i actually have somewhere to be right now."
"Oh, that's a shame," Wilbur simpers. "Where're you headed, Big Q?"
Quackity shakes his head dismissively. "Nowhere important. I owe Sam payment for a commission and he's being a real pain in the ass about it." He fidgets one of the rings on his right hand. "It's gonna be a bit of a journey, so i've been making some last minute preparations."
Wilbur hums at that, momentarily shifting in the corner of Quackity's eye. Quackity stuffs the potions into his bag and quickly shoulders it before straightening to face him. Wilbur's staring at him strangely, brows furrowed like he's trying to slot together a particularly finicky puzzle.
"Surely you could stop by for a minute," he insists, already stepping towards the doorway. "Have one last chat before you go?"
Quackity rolls his eyes, planting a hand firmly on Wilbur's chest and guiding him out of his path. "I don't want any of your sketchy ash burgers," he spurns, footsteps echoing down the room's narrow passageway.
"Oh come on, you haven't given me a chance yet!" Wilbur trails behind him, nearly hitting his head as they slip out into Quackity's office. Quackity snorts in amusement when the wall reseals itself, snapping dangerously at singed coattails.
Persistent as ever, Wilbur pesters him all the way to the casino's exit.
"Do you not enjoy my cooking or something, Quackity?"
"No, i really don't."
"Why not? Every meal's made by hand, with love– Like all good food should be!"
"…"
"You haven't even tried it, if i recall correctly. Are you really going to be that presumpt–"
"Fuck off, Wilbur!"
Wilbur only pauses his attempts when Quackity detours at the doorway, yanking down a heavy lever and plunging the building into darkness. He ushers the other out onto the sidewalk, muttering curses to himself as he locks the casino behind them. Wilbur notices it then, in the waning light of the afternoon: All the buildings are like this. It's dark and quiet– even quieter than usual– and lacking any of the usual Las Nevadas glamour. The kenopsia is intense enough that even he wants to question it.
But Quackity's halfway gone before any questions can be posed, and Wilbur resolves to quicken his pace, overtaking Quackity until he's subtly steering them towards his edge of the border.
Arriving at the Ranvan– or the 'Wilbur Van'– or just 'the burger van' as Wilbur refers to it now– is a bit of a reality check. Ironically, moreso for its owner than Quackity, since one of them can see the van from his office, and the other can barely bring himself to go near the place. Still, Wilbur strolls on up like it's nothing, stomping down any prospects of the self-loathing dead. The grass is stomped down conjointly as Quackity takes in the state of it.
Like most things on this damned server, it hadn't looked so bad from far away.
The van itself has definitely seen better days. Deflated tires sit sadly under its body, sand and cobwebs coating the dull red and white paint. Still, it's doing surprisingly well for… six plus months of disuse? Especially with Las Nevadas' dust storms raging right next to it.
If Wilbur's bothered by the van's condition, he sure doesn't show it. Quackity has to stumble through tangles of weeds in order to catch up with him, an annoyance that briefly reminds him he's not even supposed to be here right now.
Wilbur seems to think otherwise.
"Quackity! Why don't we have dinner before you leave?" he calls from the other side of the van. "You wouldn't want to hit the road on an empty stomach!" He bursts through the door before Quackity could even process what's being said, flinging open the shutters and leaning haughtily over the counter.
"Still quite pretty, isn't she?" he beams.
Quackity looks up at him with disdain.
"You can't act pretentious while owning a place like this. You don't even–" he fights back a laugh– "You don't even have tables ."
"We used to have tables!" Wilbur squawks. "Still would, if they hadn't rolled down the hill."
"You used t–" A frantic scan of the area reveals that there are no hills remotely near them. "What hill?!" Quackity chokes, voice wavering between amusement and genuine mental anguish. "How did they get to a fucking hill?!"
"Tubbo took them!" Wilbur bolsters out, voice raising defensively at Quackity's laughter. "He was supposed to bring them back, but that didn't end up happening and i couldn't be bothered to make replacements!"
Quackity slides his bag off, tittering as he props it against the side of the van. "God, and you wonder why you don't get any business." Wilbur waves a hand sourly and turns away, beginning to rummage through the van's chest freezer. Quackity basks in the satisfaction of his victory, until a loud BANG nearly scares the shit out of him.
"Jesus, did you fucking die or something?!" he yells in alarm, peering inside at the noise.
"Brilliant news, Quackity!" Wilbur announces. He gestures at the two frozen bags, evidently being what he'd slammed onto the table. "We have meat!"
Quackity widens his eyes at him.
"Fuck no. Fuck no, absolutely not!"
"Oh come on!" Wilbur persists, grill already heating as he opens the packages. "It's all redstone power, nothing's spoiled. The buns might be a little freezer burned but they can be toasted, so no troubles there!" He sets the patties on the grill, sizzling gently as Quackity grimaces.
"Pretty sure we have ketchup as well," Wilbur muses, "Unless Tommy broke in and stole it… Oh– No, here we go!" He presents a small red jar, setting it on the counter for Quackity to admire. "Did you know Tommy grew the tomatoes for this himself? Made it all from scratch in fact, start to finish."
"No kidding," Quackity responds. "How uh… How'd he manage that?" He's not sure where to go with this topic. Quackity doesn't know shit about farming, and certainly isn't confident in the subject– but apparently he doesn't need to be, because Wilbur lights up at the mere offer of interest and immediately spearheads the conversation.
He leans against the van's exterior as Wilbur launches into a tangent about how impressed he is by agriculture– he has little interest in it himself, he might add, but the trades and customs are something he could lend himself to– and Tommy's so well-versed that Wilbur actually enjoys learning from him (even if none of his own plants ever seem to make it). This leads into another rant that Quackity honestly struggles to follow, which is put on hold when Wilbur realizes that Quackity's been stood outside the entire time and promptly invites him in.
Quackity refuses the offer, quipping that he doesn't trust Wilbur in such a small space. Wilbur grins wantonly at that, but doesn't miss how Quackity eyes the heat rippling off the grill. Wilbur, in turn, eyes the burn scars trailing up his arms– then shifts to discussing the psychology of pack animals, which the other joins in on with renewed interest.
"So you've got something like a hivemind, right?" Quackity punctuates his ideas with his hands as he speaks. "Hiveminds are great if you've already got an army– which is why it works for insects– but something like a wolf can thrive with pack mentality, because it capitalizes on individual needs and skills. Much like humans do– but at our level, i feel like a hivemind couldn't be much worse–"
Wilbur ends up back at the shutter window, hanging off every measured word, until Quackity freezes and says that something is burning. The next five minutes are spent scraping char from the grill. Quackity spends it levelling his breathing.
"Order up!" Wilbur announces after a time, pushing a flimsy plate across the serving counter. "One Wilburger with house ketchup, free of charge."
Quackity scrutinizes it.
"Right. One Sootburger with house fuckups, extra char," he corrects. Wilbur laughs rather loudly at that, hopping out over the counter and scanning the ground.
"I don't have a picnic blanket, but this should do fine," he says, shrugging off his tattered trench coat. "Serves the same purpose; certainly fucking big enough for it, anyways."
Quackity watches him lay out the jacket, gripping his plate tightly at the edges.
How the fuck did he end up here?
Wilbur fetches his own plate and sits down, leaving a polite amount of space for both of them. Quackity stays rooted in place.
"Guess all your chairs got up and rolled away too, huh?"
"There's a story about that actually," Wilbur recalls from the ground. "There was a group of… seven? No, it was eight chairs, all living in this abandoned mansion. They were going to be destroyed in some way– i don't really remember how– so they learned to move in order to escape; but they fell down the stairs trying and nearly broke their legs."
Quackity frowns at him. "That sounds ridiculous."
"Of course," Wilbur shrugs. "Most stories are. Real-life escape attempts aren't usually as successful as fictional ones."
Quackity eyes him for a moment. Then begrudgingly, sits down.
Wilbur has already started on his burger, clearly unperturbed by the heavy amounts of char. Quackity just sighs internally. He rules that a pre-journey meal is a very good idea actually, and the sandwich is so charred that whatever diseases may have been living in it sure as hell aren't living now. So he swallows his pride– he's been having to do that a lot lately– and faces the abomination that Wilbur had so lovingly made for him.
The silence stretches as he settles on a verdict.
"This is fucking atrocious, Wilbur," he deadpans.
Wilbur covers his mouth, stifling a chuckle.
"Is it really that bad?"
"It's terrible!" Quackity stresses. "It tastes like the Nether and the L'Manberg crater had violent hate sex and coughed this out six months later! Shit's giving me flashbacks, man."
He goes in for another bite despite the description, and Wilbur finally cracks, collapsing into a fit of wheezes next to him.
"They've probably been in the freezer for that long," he manages eventually, coughing a bit as he catches his breath. Quackity swears he can hear his lungs creak. "To be fair, i never bothered to learn how to cook. Things taste like cardboard half the time anyways, so it really became more about texture than flavour– and let me tell you, Big Q– this's got some fuckin' texture to it!"
Wilbur returns to his burger with vigor, Quackity snickering into his own. They finish the meal in oddly comfortable silence, only breaking it to rib at the other or point out an animal passing by. Quackity stares into space for the tail end of it, slowly becoming less receptive as he sinks into thought.
This whole experience is… weird, to put it simply. This is probably his last chance to tell someone that he's leaving. To let someone know that he's getting the fuck out of here, that he's never coming back, and that the whole SMP can kiss his ass goodbye. Yet here he is, having dinner with his rival and rambling about pointless bullshit. Maybe he shouldn't spill his guts to Wilbur of all people– but at the same time, who else was he planning to talk to? Sapnap? Karl? Those ships had sailed a long fucking time ago.
He knows that there's more harm than benefit in sharing his escape plan– but it doesn't make much of a difference in the end, does it? Besides, Wilbur looks a great deal friendlier here, bathing in the glow of the sun's setting light, with his legs tucked against his chest, and suddenly Quackity's realizing how much his life's been centered around this place and its people.
Accordingly, Wilbur's the one to snap him out of his spiral. He doesn't touch Quackity at all– just moves his hand gently into view until his good eye flits towards him. Upon focus, Quackity sees Wilbur's own eyes hold an earnestness that's been absent for a long time.
"What happened to you, Big Q?"
"…What?"
He's caught off guard by the question, tone bordering on the aggressive. Wilbur darts his gaze away.
"What do you mean by that?" Quackity scowls, trying to reestablish eye contact as if intimidation would help his case. "I come all the way out here, i give you my attention, and for what? Just for you to try and insult me?"
Wilbur looks confused by that conclusion, and Quackity has to wonder if he's being fucked with.
"I didn't mean anything by it, man. I'm just–" Wilbur fiddles with a string on his coat, looking a bit lost. "Well, it's like you said: You're here. You up and vanished for– Christ, i don't know how long– and now you're here, joining me for a picnic as if it's the most typical thing in the world."
The reality of the situation dawns on him horrifically, then. His so-called nemesis had cooked him a meal– a terrible one, but a meal nonetheless– and Quackity had accepted it without question, not even pausing to consider the risks that could have posed. All he'd been able to think about was how nice it was to have someone cook for him again.
It's fucking terrifying, being so easily disarmed by Wilbur of all people. It has to have been purposeful, Quackity reasons. There's no way you could smoothly transition from the beginning of this evening to now without some kind of measured calculation.
But as Wilbur sits next to him, awkwardly searching for the right words to say, Quackity can't fathom how any of this could be planned. He's so clearly disarmed himself, silver tongue failing him even as Quackity almost threatens to rip it out of his mouth.
Wilbur hadn't prepared for this. Meaning, Quackity has to entertain the realistic idea that this has all been organic . Everything; from the casual banter to listening to each other's ramblings– even the genuine concern for him at one point. Even if Wilbur had been the one to lead him here, Quackity had chosen to stay without any hesitation– and that scares him more than any methodical disarming ever could.
"So fucking what?" Quackity repeats, venom lacing his tone. "You think i've gotten too soft or something?"
"I think something changed you." He says it simply, as if the words aren't going to eat Quackity alive.
Quackity rests his chin on his palm, half covering any expression that might slip through onto his face. He doesn't see how Wilbur lingers over his burned hands.
"Are there still people in Las Nevadas?"
Quackity ignores him. The air feels stagnant, residual summer heat turning to something melancholic and muggy in the evening air. It's almost the end of the season, he thinks mundanely. Not like it makes a difference. It will always snow in Las Nevadas.
Wilbur shifts to his left, churning up scents of grass and cigarette smoke.
"Do you want anything more to eat?"
For some reason, that's the question that breaks him.
Quackity's head drops into his hands, clutching into his fringe as he fights desperately to hold back a sob. The noise that escapes is more like a choked laugh, immediately stifled as he tries and fails to steady his air flow; lungs compressing as he curls in on himself, body stuttering as he presses his lips firmly together.
Frustratingly, the tears come despite his efforts. Water blurs his vision until it pools and escapes, leaking quietly between the cracks of his fingers. Wilbur murmurs something next to him and his voice sounds so small and nervous, and Quackity can't bring himself to look at him.
He doesn't want to leave. As much as he hates it here, as much as he knows he needs to get out. He thinks he would give just about anything to go back to how things were. To dinners with Karl and Sapnap, and El Rapids with George, and whatever maniacally crass event he'd set up for Bad to attend that week. To that party with Niki, bless her heart, where Quackity had showed up over thirty minutes late and all she'd had to say was how happy she was to see him.
It's horrible. He feels nauseous with longing, aching for the time when he could have stayed– when he did stay, crashing into every morning with ambition driven by creativity rather than skull-crushing fear.
Someone's fingers are trailing over his shoulder blade, brushing gently against the fabric of his jacket. Quackity bats them away weakly, stomach lurching. "No, i'm not– Stop."
The hand withdraws immediately, giving a quiet apology as Quackity rakes his hair away from his face. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket– a suggestion he'd received from Tubbo, thanks to their matching eye injuries– clutching it to his mouth in an attempt at something soothing. The trees around them rustle in the breeze, and Quackity spends several minutes just focusing on the sound.
Wilbur keeps his distance now. After a while, Quackity steals a glimpse at him, face hot with embarrassment and salty tears. There's no way Wilbur can know what he'd done– Quackity doesn't really know himself, honestly– and yet he looks unmistakably apologetic. His head is cocked apprehensively, brows dipping with concern, and his fingers are knitted so tight that his nails have started digging into his skin.
Quackity knocks Wilbur's hands lightly with one of his own.
"Stop, stop, stop, don't do that, you're okay. You're okay; i'm fine."
He's not really, if he's honest– his eye is bugging him and there's an insistent pounding against his skull– but Quackity finds that this is also the safest he's felt in a long time.
"Did i do something wrong?" Wilbur breathes next to him, eventually breaking his own silence.
Quackity scoffs. What a stupid fucking question, he wants to say. The sun's not even below the horizon yet, but Quackity believes it would take until morning to list all the things Wilbur's done to ruin him– some in better ways than others.
But, Quackity just shakes his head.
"No, Wil. You're good."
He's so tired of fighting. He doesn't like people being afraid.
Wilbur looks back at him, lips slightly parted, confusion swirling dangerously in his eyes. 'Good' was an odd choice of words, he supposes, but Quackity doesn't really know what qualifies as good anymore, and whatever Wilbur's doing here right now, it certainly isn't bad. He's here and alright and willing to listen, and Quackity's so goddamn tired of bottling his entire life up.
So, Quackity tells him everything. Everything from when he met Charlie; recruited him, taught him and gave him a duty to watch Purpled. How Purpled had eventually come along for the ride, only to betray them in the end, plunging Charlie to his death and disappearing without a trace. How Charlie's salvaged remains had vanished soon after, leaving Quackity to wonder blindly if his best friend would ever be coming home.
Wilbur lets him speak, only interjecting to ask for clarification. It feels a bit strange at first. Wilbur and him have been push-and-pull forces since day one, and Quackity doesn't think he's ever trusted him with a secret– not while in his right mind at least. But what does it matter anymore? There's no one around to hear them anyways.
Wilbur asks about Charlie, then. Of course, they'd never really had the chance to meet, had they? Quackity smiles fondly, trying to pick out the right words.
"He was, uh… He was kind." It's the first thing that comes to mind. "Kind and quick-witted, and interested in just about everything. Sort of existential," he chuckles wetly. "But wise. Wise beyond anything we could comprehend, i think. He really knew how to change someone's perspective."
Wilbur nods. "Is that what the potions are for?" he asks. He tilts his head towards Quackity's bag, now shrouded in the van's heavy shadow.
Quackity pauses.
"Some of it's for him," he allows. "In case i– Well it sounds stupid out loud, but– in case i run into him again, you know? Maybe he'll need fixing up or something."
He keeps his answers purposefully vague, not giving Wilbur the means to poke holes in his story. It makes him feel like a bit of a coward, but at the same time, he's not sure how Wilbur would react to his decision to leave. Maybe if he keeps his mouth shut, they could end things on decent terms.
Wilbur waves a hand at him, unaware of Quackity's internal dilemma.
"Nah, i think that's a good idea, actually," he says matter-of-factly. "From what i can tell, if Charlie wants to find you, then he will– and it sounds like he should have plenty of motivation to do so."
Quackity shrugs lukewarmly. "He'd appreciate that good faith. Y'know, you two might've actually gotten along– assuming we'd set some ground rules."
"You say that like i'm hard to get along with!" Wilbur croons, leaning dramatically towards him.
"Well you're both just about as annoying–"
"And we get along just great, don't we?" Wilbur carries on gallantly. "Honestly, what would we do without each other?"
"Thrive, probably," Quackity grumbles, lightly pushing him away. Wilbur laughs a bit, the sound rising nervously like smoke from his chest.
He looks away for a moment, then fishes a cigarette pack from his pocket, wordlessly offering it to Quackity before taking one himself. Quackity watches as he sets his cigarette loosely between his own lips, then beckons Quackity closer, lighter poised in his hand.
Quackity hesitates, starting at it. He hasn't really smoked since Charlie died. Not that he hasn't tried to, but it's hard to ignite something without an active flame; and shaky hands don't mesh well with hot metal.
Wilbur glances at Quackity's seared fingers, then starts up his own tobacco before swiftly pocketing the lighter.
He beckons again.
Coaxing Quackity's hand to his, Wilbur gingerly guides one cigarette to the other. Quackity watches, heart racing as Wilbur presses the ends together, slowly inhaling until the embers glow a violent red. He tries not to think about the last time Wilbur had gotten this close, tries not to study the gentle curve of his eyelashes and the focused crease in his brow.
The paper goes up in a sudden flare. Quackity flinches instinctively, but Wilbur holds his wrist steady, waiting for the flame to settle before releasing his grasp and pulling back. He turns away, still not saying a word, and instead sets his attention on a pair of moths hovering nearby.
The insects dance around the glow of their torches, small wings basking in the dim light. It's dusk now, Quackity realizes. He should've been gone an hour ago.
"I never used to smoke before you came around," Quackity murmurs. He side-eyes Wilbur's silhouette, observing his stray hairs set against the remaining traces of light. Wilbur doesn't look at him.
"S'that so?" he finally says. His voice is shallow and soft, almost inaudible over the melodic humming of crickets. "What an honourable legacy i've left."
Quackity exhales a giggle, coughing a bit as he chokes up. Next to him, a heavy stream of smoke unfurls, uninterrupted, into the air.
The next drag illuminates Wilbur enough to show the fear in his eyes.
"Quackity."
Quackity stills at his tone.
"Yeah?"
Wilbur bites his lip, gaze turned to the ground.
What's that old saying; never trust anything you think after 8pm?
"I uh… I'm–" Wilbur stops himself, turning to meet his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
Quackity feels his heart sink a bit, looking at Wilbur with uncertainty.
What?
"You're–"
"I'm really–" Wilbur runs a hand through his hair, hands shaking. "I fucked everything up. Sorry, no, no– that's not– Shit–" He searches for the words momentarily as Quackity stares at him, too dumbfounded to interrupt.
"I'm sorry for everything you've been put through. Everything i put you through– directly or indirectly." Wilbur's words come out jumbled and messy, shattering his usual standard of elegance as he tries to scrape together his thoughts. "I had a habit of– No, i've been undermining your abilities and opinions since day one, really, and i'm sorry, because you didn't deserve that. You don't deserve that," he emphasizes firmly. "You put up with my constant insolence and paranoia through our entire alliance, and i thanked you by destroying your home and leaving you– leaving everyone to pick up the pieces."
Quackity keeps his jaw locked shut.
"And then," Wilbur frowns, gesturing frantically with his free hand, "I had the audacity– the immaturity– to come to the country you'd built from the ground up, and start some petty rivalry, all because you were smart enough not to make the same mistake twice." Wilbur pauses, hand tapping his knee anxiously. "I've been treating you like you're beneath me. You're not. You're not in the slightest, Quackity."
His gaze falls to the ground, expression tensed as if he's expecting to be hit. Quackity just sits there, processing his words.
He wants to be angry. That's his first instinct; to be defensive and assume that this is some joke Wilbur's decided to commit to. But it feels all wrong.
This is Wilbur Soot, the man unable to make a bakery order without practicing his lines. The same man who can lie through his teeth like water through a sieve, so long as he lacks respect for his target. Who can weave a story on the pull of a tripwire, but struggles to even face a person he deems righteous. Who crumbles under the pressure of caring too much.
He's being genuine. He must be, Quackity concludes, and the revelation is vertiginous. But he cools the rage boiling in his stomach, because Charlie's wisdom hadn't been in vain; but he'd be damned if Quackity didn't jump at such an opportunity.
He drops his cigarette unceremoniously, grinding toluene and herbs under his heel.
"I may be wrong here Wil, but aren't your apologies usually better crafted than that?"
Wilbur's eyes go wide with fear. He almost looks like he's going to be sick.
Quackity holds, stone faced. Then, his expression breaks into a playful grin.
"Oh fucking hell–" Wilbur wheezes a sigh of relief, covering his face bashfully. Quackity cackles loudly in response, basking in satisfaction as Wilbur slumps away to settle his breathing.
"Dumbass," he ribs. "You looked like you were about to pass out."
Wilbur's sweating nervously, cheeks flushed a deep red behind his hand. He looks like he wants to respond, but has the decency not to undermine his own apology.
"Seriously though, what the hell?" Quackity carries on, unfaltering despite Wilbur's humiliation. "You're going around giving people these extravagant 'i'm sorry' gifts– And all i got was fucking charcoal?!"
He hears Wilbur sputter a laugh behind his palm, knocking his glasses slightly askew. Instinctively, Quackity almost reaches out to fix them.
"Well." Wilbur rights his frames before Quackity gets the chance. "Not sure if you noticed, but i didn't exactly have time to prepare. I hadn't realized you were leaving until a few minutes ago."
Quackity's laughter stutters. "The hell do you mean 'leaving'?" he interjects. He hadn't let it slip, had he?
Wilbur just tilts his chin at him.
Quackity frowns at the motion. "I said i was going on a trip. I never said i was leaving anything," he asserts.
"I know you love your gambling, Quackity, but there's no need to double down here." Wilbur takes another puff off his cigarette. "I'm not going to try and stop you."
Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but Quackity swears he hears something melancholy in Wilbur's voice.
"You're not–" His words come out small, almost disbelieving.
Wilbur shakes his head, and crushes his smoke butt into the dirt.
"Not really my place, is it?"
There's no more light around them now. No flame to draw the moths to; and so they quickly disperse.
Maybe it's better like that.
Quackity stands up, eyeing the moon's low position in the sky. The night provides a nice break from the usual oppressive heat, and he's been planning to take full advantage of it.
"Right. I should, uh, probably get moving then," he sighs, walking over to fetch his backpack. He slings the bag over his shoulders and looks back at Wilbur, still curled up on his coat in the grass. Maybe if he doesn't move, Quackity will feel like he's not supposed to leave yet.
Wilbur cracks a wry smile. His lips part as if he's going to say something, but he bites it back, standing up briskly and shaking the dirt off his coat.
"What?" Quackity grins.
Wilbur directs his gaze down to button his coat. "Nothing. That knapsack makes you look tiny."
"Fuck off," Quackity scoffs heavily. He wanders back over to Wilbur, boots rutting their way through the grass. "So. What's your next move, Soot? Planning to overthrow something stupid in my absence?"
Wilbur exhales a chuckle. "Not sure there's anything worth overthrowing nowadays, Big Q. Though i heard a new estate may have just opened up–"
"Don't you fucking dare." Quackity warns, jabbing him lightly in the arm. "I'll hear about it, Wilbur, don't even try." Wilbur just giggles again, hands tucked reservedly in his pockets.
There's a pause.
Quackity looks to his rival, whose jaw is tilted to gaze at the heavens, starlight scintillating in his eyes. He ignores how the reflections swim there, refusing to dwell on the faint wetness of his lenses' refractions, and extends a parting hand.
Wilbur looks down and obliges, meeting his palm with a tight squeeze; then without warning, he pulls Quackity into a hug.
It only lasts a few seconds. Quackity barely has time to process it before Wilbur lets him go, fists shoved into his pockets and hair shifting in the breeze.
"Good luck, Quackity," he nods.
Quackity blinks at him.
"Good luck," he echoes confusedly. He hadn't expected a revived man to be so warm.
Wilbur steps away, expression unreadable, and Quackity follows suit, unsure of what else to say. He doesn't remember how proper goodbyes work.
Turning to leave, he nods once more, then sets his pace towards the coastline.
He only makes it about fifteen meters before glancing back uncertainly, only to see Wilbur already staring at him.
"Yes?" He prompts, a knowing grin plastered on his face.
Quackity mirrors it, cheeks growing red at his own predictability. He flips Wilbur off for good measure, who gives an exceedingly obscene motion in response. Quackity laughs at him and just shakes his head.
"Thank you, Wil," he confides. "Take care of yourself."
And for the first time in years, there's no deception in his words.