Chapter Text
Throughout Quackity's life– though he's loath to admit it– there are many things he's been uncertain about. Nothing in life is certain, that's what he'd usually say; especially after the shitshow the past few years have been. However, all those horrible experiences have helped him in solidifying three things as fact:
One, he is the sexiest motherfucker to ever grace this earth.
Two, human beings are assholes and can never be trusted.
And three, marriage is a sham and will fall through, consistently, no matter what you fucking try; so save yourself the headache and treat the concept as a joke.
Now, in the freshly painted light of the late morning, a fourth fact has presented itself to him:
He is going to kill BadBoyHalo.
Quackity races down the pathway of the Skephalo Estate, Wilbur Soot hot on his trail. He's not really sure if they can call it the Skephalo Estate anymore, but, as horrible as it sounds, he has something more urgent on his mind than addressing the namesakes of his dearly departed friend.
Friend? Acquaintance? Father-in-law?
Fuck this.
"Quackity, you need to calm down, man!" Wilbur calls after him, his voice airy from exertion. "It's very unlikely that anything's official , you know, and Bad's not–"
Quackity bursts through the double doors of his other fren-quaintance-in-law's mansion, nearly throwing the dark oak off its hinges. Bad, who appears to have been reading quietly on the couch, looks up at him with an equal mix of fear and shock.
"Oh– Quackity!" He puts down the blue highlighter annotating the book, a polite smile plastered on his face. "What can i–"
"BadBoyHalo!" Quackity announces theatrically. He stalks up to the couch, looming over Bad as he holds out his left hand to display a metallic band fitted around the middle finger. It's quite pretty, made of a mixture of gold and iron, the crisp edges smoothed just to be safe enough to wear. A lovely gift. That's what a normal person would think.
"What the fuck is this for?" Quackity interrogates, tone full of barely contained rage. "And why," he stresses, pointing behind himself, "Does Wilbur fucking Soot have a matching piece?"
——
The inciting incident had happened two days ago. Quackity and Wilbur had been going through their routine song and dance; Wilbur showed up at Las Nevadas, unannounced and uninvited as usual. Quackity had immediately stormed out to shoo him off, only to get caught up in rebutting some pointless argument Wilbur had made. Standard, but not pretty. They had nearly been at each other's throats when Bad appeared out of nowhere, breaking them up and de-escalating the situation as swiftly as it had begun.
Eager to break the tension, Bad had asked for an 'updated tour' of Las Nevadas. He'd definitely been shown around before, and not much had changed, but Quackity humoured him. Mostly because he believed Bad was a powerful asset– but also because he was technically still Quackity's father-in-law, and he honestly felt a bit sorry about that whole situation.
Plus, Wilbur didn't look like he was leaving any time soon and Quackity really didn't want to deal with him alone.
The tour had been unexpectedly pleasant. Bad had operated like a buffer of insulation between him and Wilbur, and by the time they reached the wedding pavilion, the mood was lightened enough that Quackity was actually willing to show the place.
"So this is like… A chapel i guess? But less formal," Quackity explained, fidgeting with the chain around his neck. "Something more scenic for the guests. I don't think there's anything else like this in the SMP."
"Oh this looks lovely, Quackity! I'm sure someone will put it to good use one day." Bad looked sincerely pleased with the decor of the place, with chiseled quartz and floral displays not dissimilar to his own home. Quackity felt a swell of pride, wings fluttering as he momentarily forot the venue's original purpose.
Luckily, Wilbur was more than happy to remind him.
"Has this not been used yet?"
Quackity turned slowly to look at him, teeth grinding.
"No, it hasn't. Do you know anyone who's gotten married recently, Wilbur?"
Wilbur shrugged. "I suppose i don't. I don't remember being invited to any weddings." He smiled at Quackity, corners of his eyes crinkling innocently.
"You think people would invite you to a wedding?" Quackity laughed in disbelief. "That's rich, man– The happiest day of someone's life, and you think they'd personally invite you to ruin it!"
"Hey, that's a bit much–" Bad chimed in, clearly perturbed. "I think Wilbur could be a great wedding guest."
Quackity rolled his eyes. "Geez, lying through your teeth again, Bad? Thought you were better than that."
Wilbur ignored him, flopping his head to the side in a show of humility. Emphasis on show, Quackity seethed.
"Oh stop it, Bad," he simpered. "Really, you don't have to be so kind. I understand where Quackity's coming from here." He paced to the end of the aisle, tracking faint streaks of dirt and ash over the runway carpet. "I'd probably be bitter about the subject as well, if i'd stood here as many times as he has without a lasting resolution."
Quackity's fists clenched automatically. The cool metal around his neck burned like fresh coals, as newly stoked as the betrayal bubbling beneath his skin.
Wilbur watched him expectantly.
Bad shifted in discomfort.
"You seem pretty bothered by the idea, for someone who's not even fucking involved," Quackity spat. He followed Wilbur down the aisle, rooting himself in front of the other as he spoke. "Like, what, are you jealous or something? 'Oh, oh, Quackity, i've been rejected 27 times!'" he mocked, putting on a high-pitched voice. "'I can't remember what the love of another human feels like so i take it out on everyone around me!'"
The impression dropped on the last few words. Wilbur stared at him, eyebrows raised. Bad cleared his throat.
"Do you want me to leave, or–"
"No, no, Bad, come here." Quackity requested. Bad hesitantly obliged, joining them by the polished white archway. He looked to Quackity expectantly, mirroring Wilbur's own intrigued expression.
"Listen, Wilbur, you wanna be involved in everything so badly? You wanna put this place to good use? We can do that!" Quackity chuckled a bit coldly, but Wilbur could've sworn there was a remnant of his familiar, boisterous laugh in there.
"Yeah?" Wilbur challenged it, adopting a more relaxed tone. It felt natural to slip back into, despite the apparent combativeness of the situation. He almost felt a sort of nostalgia for it.
"Yeah! Yeah, give us some vows, Mr. Soot!" Quackity's tone was walking a fine line between casual banter and spite-fuelled aggression. "Bad's our witness! Explain to me why you're so well-equipped to be making commentary on other people's lives."
"I don't think weddings even need a witness here, Quackity. You really only need an officiant," Bad pointed out, moving around to the other side of the two.
"Well, you can do that, then," Quackity shrugged. He didn't know why it mattered. It's not like he was being serious, and Bad's word wasn't legally binding either way. "Whatever your heart desires, BadBoyHalo."
Wilbur looked entertained by the scene, grin a little too sharp as he observed them. He brushed his hair out of his face, which Quackity assumed was more about narcissism than nerves.
"Is this my marriage proposal then, Mr. Vice President?" he ribbed, looking Quackity up and down. "I thought you would've put in a bit more effort."
Quackity was pretty sure he could taste iron. At this rate, he'd end up following in the late president's footsteps.
He supposed a heart attack would at least be fitting. Wilbur might call it poetic.
"Something tells me it's the closest thing you'll ever get to one, Soot. I wouldn't be so picky. Now pick some fucking vows."
——
At the time, Quackity hadn't been concerned about the exchange. It was a joke; a mockery to put Wilbur in his place, to make him feel belittled for even suggesting that other people's affairs were any of his business. He hadn't meant for it to end up like this– and he can't imagine that Wilbur had, either.
Bad, on the other hand, seemed to have been on a completely different page. He looks deeply confused for a moment, eyes darting from Quackity, to his hand, to Wilbur, still standing behind in the doorway. Wilbur waves cordially in response, an identical ring glinting off his right pinky.
"Um…" Bad processes for a second longer, too disoriented to chastise Quackity's cursing. "I thought it would be nice? You don't have to wear them if you don't want to, i just thought–"
"Bad, Bad," Quackity cuts in, lowering his voice intently. "I need to clarify something with you."
"Okay..?"
"Two days ago, when we were at the pavilion in Las Nevadas; you didn't take that seriously, did you?"
Bad frowns. "Of course i did, Quackity!" He says it like the most obvious thing in the world, standing up to face the two properly. "I know it was a bit unprofessional to send Tubbo to deliver the rings, but i really didn't think you'd mind. He was going right by the both of you anyways."
At least that last part was lining up squarely– Tubbo had delivered the rings to both of them, as Wilbur had claimed for himself, not giving much more context than 'Bad asked me to give you this, by the way!' before hurrying off to do whatever the fuck Tubbo normally does on a Sunday afternoon.
That's really not what Quackity was concerned about though.
"It's not the delivery method, man! I mean that i wasn't being god damn serious about it!"
"Okay, language," Bad interjects, "And how is that my fault? An ordained minister isn't meant to question how you express yourselves, they're just supposed to help you do it properly! You guys have always had… Weird interactions."
Wilbur coughs from his place in the doorway. Quackity's locked in stunned silence, eyes fixed on Bad.
"You– You're what."
"What?" Bad's steps away a bit, nervously.
"You're an ordained minister."
"Yes."
Quackity blinks. He can feel his heart lurch in his chest.
The gears are turning, maybe for a bit more time than they need to be. Probably something to do with bad habits and delaying the inevitable.
"You're not– I– Wilbur is–"
He can't bring himself to say it.
A raucous laugh behind him fills in the offending blank.
"You married me for real, Quackity?!"
Wilbur breaks down into wheezing breaths, and although he won't turn to see him, he imagines Wilbur is doubled over in hysterics. Quackity doesn't even know when he last laughed that hard. "That's– That's really quite sweet of you! I'm tremendously flattered, i have to say!"
He wants to be sick. He can feel his stomach churning and leaping in tandem, hear the blood pounding in his ears, and he wonders, for just a moment, if the Gods truly hate him. They must, he concludes, because there's no other explanation for something this convoluted. No other reason for every other marriage proposal he's ever undergone to end up in miserable failure, just for this on e to be the one that managed to pull through.
Bad looks at him empathetically. Quackity wonders how the hell you even get ordained here. Do they also do restraining orders?
"Look, you guys could always split up just as easily if you really wanted to," Bad offers. "It's more on a basis of a verbal agreement here, so as long as you both consent–"
"Oh absolutely not!" Wilbur steps forward, readjusting his glasses as he wipes away a tear. "I'm pretty happy with this arrangement, Bad, and i'd rather not rush into anything, you know? Or rush out of them, rather." He side-eyes his newly appointed partner, nauseatingly saccharine in his sarcasm. "It's too bad we don't have a certificate to frame, isn't it?"
Quackity feels dizzy with Wilbur towering over him. It reminds him of the vertigo he used to have, before he got used to walking past the Needle. Wilbur just smiles at him, glasses reflecting light like the penthouse windows of Las Nevadas' prized hotel.
Quackity steels himself, looking up at Wilbur with devout resolution.
"You know what? Fine." He steps closer, ignoring the telltale creak of the taller man's lungs. "You want some kind of competition here, Soot? I'd be more than happy to make your life hell."
"Really?" Wilbur narrows his eyes as if sizing him up, searching for some kind of crack in his facade. Besides the scar, he comes up empty. "What are you suggesting?"
To Wilbur's surprise, Quackity cracks a smile.
"I don't know. How about you fuck off while i'm giving you the chance, or i'll spend all my free time making you despise me?"
Quackity has no interest in escalating the situation– at least, not by traditional means– but he's pretty damn good at being annoying when he wants to be. He has no idea how far out Wilbur's limits lie, considering the man has to put up himself every day, but maybe he could kill two birds with one stone here. This could double as an opportunity to research how much irritation Wilbur can take, while also convincing him to agree to the fucking divorce.
God that sounds insane. Is he insane?
It's for the sake of science. Research. That's a valid excuse. Reason, rather. Excuses are for people with guilty consciences.
Which he does not have.
Obviously. Allegedly.
"Alright," Wilbur agrees simply, breaking Quackity out of his mental torture chamber. He turns to the side, making his way towards the waiting exit. "I'll see you around, then."
He waves politely to Bad before slipping out the door, not bothering to look back as Quackity stares daggers.
That tone is far too familiar. He's planning something already, he just knows it. Caught up in his own frustration, Quackity shouts pointlessly after him.
"You're gonna regret this shit, Wilbur! Stop being dickhead and work with me here!"
He can hear Wilbur's laugh echo in the air outside, breezing through the door with the autumn chill.
"Give me hell, darling!" he calls back– and for once, Quackity finds himself paling in face of a challenge.