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It’s strange how much Tilín has changed Wilbur already. He’s only known the boy for a few weeks, and he already cannot imagine his life without his son. Every day is stressful as hell, and it’s somehow the best he’s ever felt.
After his first night back, Wilbur decided to stay with Quackity and Tilín, and he hasn’t regretted it once. He feels at home immediately. Mornings find him in the golden rays of the rising sun, burrowed under blankets with Quackity (and oftentimes Tilín) at his side. Evenings find him singing lullabies and telling stories to his son, and listening to Quackity do the same.
One of these days, Wilbur wakes up. He first feels the chill of air on his legs, which seem to no longer be covered by the blanket he certainly remembers pulling over his body last night. Then, he feels warmth pressed against his side and on top of his chest. When he finally pries his eyes open, Wilbur is met with the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, even though he wakes up to it almost every morning.
Quackity is tucked against his right side, snoring softly. His mouth is open, and drool has soaked through Wilbur’s shirt. He is somehow still covered by the blankets, seemingly untouched by the evil spirits that like to freeze Wilbur in the night.
On top of Wilbur’s chest, Tilín is curled up, tangled up in blankets. He is the culprit who has stolen Wilbur’s warmth, it seems. Wilbur can’t find it in himself to be mad about it, though. Not when his boy is seeking him for comfort, and especially when he is finding it. He can’t be mad when his heart is so full.
Carefully, Wilbur slips out from under Tilín and the remainders of his warm blankets. He is forever grateful that Tilín is such a heavy sleeper, he hardly even moves as Wilbur tugs the blankets up over his little body and places a soft kiss on his forehead. Quackity does stir a bit, but does not wake up. Wilbur lets a soft smile form on his face, pausing for a moment to take in the scene before padding out to the kitchen.
While he has never been a particularly good cook, Wilbur has forced himself to get better since returning to the island. He wants to be able to help his family wherever he can. This morning, “wherever” happens to be in the kitchen.
Tilín has a particular affinity for Wilbur’s omelets. Quackity says that it’s strange, since Tilín apparently came from an egg, but Wilbur has decided not to think about it too hard. He uses chicken eggs, anyway. That’s a different kind of egg, so it’s fine. Probably. He’s pretty sure. Again, he doesn’t want to spend too much time thinking about it.
Wilbur shuffles through the fridge, pulling out various vegetables and cheese. He makes sure to pull out tomatoes, since he knows Tilín likes them. Spinach and mushrooms are also pulled from the fridge, for Quackity.
The stovetop crackles as Wilbur turns on the heat, and rests a pan on top of it. Eggs sizzle as they touch the heat, and Wilbur hums to himself as he bustles around the kitchen. He makes the food with the ease that only comes from repetition, which makes his heart sing like it’s still on stage. The knowledge that Wilbur has been cooking for his family long enough for it to become like second nature, even if it has only been a handful of weeks, makes him almost want to cry. Just a little bit.
Wilbur is pulled from his stupor when warm arms wind their way around his waist, and a chin rests on his shoulder. He startles a bit, then softens.
“Morning,” Wilbur whispers, placing one of his hands on the ones around his waist. His other hand stays on the handle of the pan, ready to take it off the heat.
“Ugh,” Quackity groans in response. He buries his head into Wilbur’s shoulder, and his grip tightens around Wilbur’s waist. “Why the hell are you up?”
“I’m making breakfast,” Wilbur responds. He removes his hand from Quackity’s, grabbing a spatula off the counter instead. Wilbur transfers the omelette to a plate, and begins working on the next one.
“I think you should come back to bed instead.”
“Well, I’ve already started. Can’t stop now, amor.”
“Eres un pedazo de mierda, y te odio.” Quackity grumbles as he pulls Wilbur closer. Wilbur chuckles.
“I can only assume that means that I am your favorite person ever,” Wilbur snarks. He leans back into the man behind him, relishing in the warmth he emanates.
“Whatever you wanna believe, Soot.”
Wilbur lets Quackity get the last word, and finishes up the second omelette. He begins the third, and cranes his neck to try to look at Quackity. It doesn’t quite work, but he tries regardless.
“Could you go wake up Tilín for breakfast, love?” Wilbur asks. Quackity huffs, but pulls away from Wilbur. His footsteps fade down the hallway quickly, and Wilbur can hear his soft murmuring coming from their bedroom.
Wilbur slides the final omelette onto a plate as Quackity comes back into the kitchen, Tilín in his arms. The boy looks like he is still half asleep, little fingers gripping Quackity’s shirt. He leans out of Quackity’s arms when he catches sight of Wilbur, making grabby hands. Wilbur takes him easily, one arm cradling Tilín, the other holding his son’s plate.
“Buenos días Papa,” Tilín says sleepily. He curls up into Wilbur easily, and his jaw cracks with a yawn.
“Good morning, baby,” Wilbur says. He sets Tilín’s plate down at the table, then Tilín in his seat. “Did you sleep well?”
“Mhmm,” Tilín hums. His feet kick as he begins to finally wake up.
“That’s good,” Wilbur replies, “Especially since you took all my blankets last night.”
Wilbur immediately crouches to tickle Tilín’s tummy, making the boy burst into giggles. Quackity’s own giggle mingles with his son’s, making Wilbur look up. Quackity sets the remaining two plates at the table. Wilbur stands with a small groan, knees protesting, and pecks Quackity on the cheek before sitting at his spot.
“You can’t tickle me at breakfast time, Papa,” Tilín exclaims as Wilbur sits.
“I think you should get him back after breakfast, hijo,” Quackity stage whispers with a grin. Wilbur gasps dramatically, hand flying up to his chest in mock-offense.
“Q, how could you? I thought you were on my side!”
“You should know better by now, Soot.” Quackity smirks, and it takes all of Wilbur’s self control to not lean forward and kiss the smug look off his face.
“You two are silly,” Tilín says seriously. Wilbur and Quackity both look at their son, then at each other, and promptly dissolve into laughter.
“You’re right, chico,” Wilbur agrees, “We are pretty silly. And we’ll only get more silly after breakfast, so eat up.”
Tilín nods, and starts shoveling his omelette into his mouth. Quackity looks back up at WIlbur, fondness obvious on his face, and Wilbur melts. He offers a smile, then begins eating. His food has grown cold, having accepted the first omelette he made, but Wilbur hardly notices.
Breakfast goes by quickly, and Wilbur soon finds himself on the couch in the living room. The dishes lie forgotten in the sink as Quackity curls up into his side. Tilín plays on the floor, showing off all of his favorite toys, as if neither of his fathers have seen them before. They both nod along anyway, though Quackity’s grow more sluggish as time goes on.
“Te amo, Big Q,” WIlbur whispers into his partner’s hair as their son plays at their feet.
“Yeah, I guess I love you too, Will.”
Wilbur drops a kiss onto the top of Quackity’s head, and watches Tilín play. He hums, and closes his eyes, wrapped in the warmth of his home. Wilbur grins, and, despite how loud Tilín becomes when playing, feels at peace.