Chapter Text
The shining of the moon is just dim enough to not obstruct Quackity's vision. It's quite dark, aside from the orange of the light-polluting street lamps which blocked out the stars from the sky and instead reflected off onto the charcoal-coloured pavement. In the distance, there stood a few trees, as far as Quackity could catch sight of, that the lights were dimly adorning; The faint orange painted the green leaves with such carefulness. Each leaf was barely aglow, but just enough to be seen, to be appreciated. He could see homes in the distance, with windows that still shone a yellow glow out of them. The people inside were presumably having a better time than him.
He's diverting his thoughts from the current situation with this. In short, he's distracting himself as much as he can, and procrastinating entering this rickety, old place.
Quackity loathed this, he longed to go back to his stupid co-op neighbourhood and hear the blabbering of his naive roommate as he withers into the mercy of unconsciousness. However, he's here, standing in front of what is told to be one of the most haunted buildings in Las Nevadas, which is probably a load of shit. And as Charlie, his roommate, says: he has bills to pay. So one way or another, he's going to figure this flair out.
There's a black tote bag slung over his shoulder with a few supplies in it, some of which he's read about, or seen videos of ghost investigators using. Such as a spirit box, an EMF detector, and other trinkets like the former.
Quackity takes a deep breath and walks to the door, placing his hand on the silver doorknob before opening said door and stepping inside. His flat leather shoes no longer clicked against the full concrete pavement, but now the click echoed on a shallow, wooden floor. He was suddenly so aware of the noise they made. He should've just worn Converse or something.
The place looked like it could fall apart at any second, so old and built with such a dainty structure. It's a miracle that it's still holding up, and Quackity has no idea how the building still hasn't at least been demolished in place of some parking lot or something. But it's oh, so haunted apparently.
First, he takes out his EMF reader to find where the most activity he could find was located. With that and a flashlight he searches through the large, old house. He should've brought a much bigger lamp, flashlights give you such limited vision with absolutely no peripherals.
As Quackity traversed, the wood tapping and creaking with every step his mind wondered. Why are these haunted buildings always so old and highly expensive? You never tend to see any small, average house haunted by a poor single mother and her three kids who lived off of welfare or something like that. No, it's always a huge ancient, extended family and a hotel-sized mansion with five maids.
The room where his EMF reader decided to spike was a comfortably spacious bedroom with aged blue chipping paint on the walls and a large queen-sized bed with a velvet blanket. Quackity mentally prepared himself for what was to happen next as he decided to sit down on the cold floor which creaked as he lowered to settle down on it.
He decided to use a strategy he saw on youtube. Quackity pulled two flashlights out of his tote bag, they powered on by twisting the top of the torch. He twisted both of them ever so slightly so they'd be easier to turn on for something or someone that had a weak force. He then placed both lights on the ground, facing toward him.
“Okay…” This is insane, he's talking to himself. Ghosts aren't real, Quackity is just desperate for money, surely. “So, uh, ghosts.” That's an embarrassing introduction, even to a ghost.
“I welcome any benevolent spirit into the room with me..” He opens up with something and hopes it works in welcoming something, somehow. “..If you can hear me now, please make your presence clear.”
There was nothing, of course, there was. Ghosts aren't real, and Quackity is delusional. He sighed longly and prepared to grab something new from his bag for another desperate attempt before a light finally flickered on.
“Holy shit— I mean, uh, thank you, Ghost… Uh..” He needed to talk to them, if that wasn't the coincidence Quackity really thinks it was, so that ghost wouldn't leave. This is it. This can't be a coincidence. He needs this.
“So, so… Turn that light back off if you're a girl, or turn the other one on if you're a guy, yeah?”
It's working. After a stressful minute, Quackity is staring at two flashlights with their lights on that he hadn't touched whatsoever. His heart is racing, he might be sitting with a ghost right now, and they're communicating. Just a few weeks ago he was sure ghosts were a myth and never thought anything more about it. He didn't care. Now it matters, now this is everything. All he needs to do is see a ghost, then he'll be rich.
“Amazing. So, how about… if you're an adult, turn that one off, and if you're under eighteen, turn off the other one.” Quackity pointed at the corresponding flashlights as he spoke, and, oddly enough, this ghost happened to be an adult. This is cool. Really damn cool. And he's not being haunted by some creepy apparition child. This is cool.
Quackity leans forward and grabs the flashlights, making sure they're both turned off before dropping them into his bag and reaching for something else. "I'm going to try to speak to you with another method, ghost. I hope you're okay with this." He pulls out a small black mechanism and places it on the ground in front of himself again. "This is a spirit box." Quackity presses a button and twists a knob, and there's sudden faint static coming from the small radio-like object now. "Just stitch together words, and we can talk. Simple as that."
He takes a deep breath and prepares to start the second part of his investigation. Honestly, he's sure he won't see a ghost today. "So, ghost… I'm Quackity, what are you called?"
Quackity listens closely to the crackling sound of quiet white noise, and occasional segments of half-words. Until… There really was a reply, "Will."
"Will? Really? …Uh, nice. Thanks for telling me, Will." He nods, continuing to the next question.
"Are you malicious?" Quackity asks out, and the white noise is short, the response is a quick "No." He's almost shocked at how fast and coherent the response was. But, it's a response, so it ceases to disappoint him.
He continues to ask a few more questions about whomever Will was, his past, how he died, and other things about him. He didn't get a clear response every single time, but Quackity did log what he received into a book.
Quackity received that Will was in his twenties, he's surprisingly English and didn't get a clear answer on how he died. To no surprise, though, did Quackity not see a ghost. So maybe it wasn't even real. He's only desperate.
When he decided he was finished communicating with Will, he announced his departure. "I'm on limited time, so I have to check out the other rooms now, Will. Goodbye. Thank you for–" but when Quackity reached out to the spirit box, it buzzed out a "Stay." He sighed and responded to the box with "No, Will. I'm going."
But as Quackity almost laid his hand on the box, repeated the word "Stay." before letting out a ringing sound, to which Quackity had to cover his ears. He quietly cussed out the ghost before he saw something happen. It was only a blur for a moment, then what almost resembled vague fog before… a figure.
What he was convinced surely wouldn't happen, has finally happened. Quackity can surely believe he could see the paranormal now.
At first, it was so similar to the occurrence that brought him here. Quackity senses a chill run down his spine so vividly. The room is oddly colder, and it seems like the space has a little less air. He's not sure if that part happened last time, but maybe he’s remembering incorrectly.
As soon as everything isn't an unclear blur anymore, he can see a somewhat indecipherable figure of what Will might've looked like.
It was rather tall, despite the way he sat with crossed legs, Quackity could tell the figure had an above average, lanky height, especially for a male. It had curly hair; he couldn't interpret the colour of his hair, though. Or the colour of most of him; Quackity settled to interpret it as a deep colour, but not strictly black. His hair was no lower than his neck, and he was wearing a light turtleneck sweater. There was a white button-up under the sweater, he could tell from how the wrinkled white fabric peeked out of the sleeves.
The weirdest thing about this spirit was that Quackity could tell it was dead. As stupid as that may sound, even if Will was a solid figure, he looked somewhat like he’d barely started rotting. Will's face carried deep eye bags painted over inhumanly pale skin. His sweater, as well,had a deep stain of dark liquid soaked around the higher area, maybe that was relevant to the death of Will.
"Will?" Quackity breathes out, barely above a whisper. Clearly he's stunned.
Quackity stares, and the dead stares back unblinking, until the silence broke, and it moved. "Oh, you can see me!"
There was hesitation before his next response, "Yeah, yeah. I can…"
"Oh, that's great! No one has been able to see me since I got here!" The dead smiled widely and leaned forward on his knees before reaching an arm out, an invitation to shake his hand.
Shaken up, Quackity simply nodded along and reached a trembling hand over to shake the colourless one. To his surprise, they make contact, but it's cold enough to make the living shiver; and as Will shakes their hands, it sends a shock of what felt like static electricity through Quackity's bones, but much more intense than usual static shocks.
He rips his hand away, and Will almost looks like he's reaching out for it as Quackity leans too far back and falls, catching himself by his forearms.
"Well, I hadn't expected that to, uh…"
Quackity pulls himself back up, sitting up straight once again with his legs crossed. "It's fine. Neither did I." He says with a friendly tone, trying to ease the tension.
It works, Will snickers quietly at it.
"It's Wilbur, by the way. Your little.. machine was just too hard to use." His expression shifts, and his voice is far too stern when exposing that fact.
"Oh, uh, yeah I get it. I only know what it's like on the receiving end, y'know?"
"'Guess so. Well then, Flesh-and-Bones, what landed you here?"
Quackity pauses and looks to the side as the dead still curiously stares, pondering.
"'Thought I saw a ghost."
"And that you did, I guess."
He responds with a dry chuckle, "Well, now I presume I did. I… "
He was about to continue, but it was as if Wilbur read his mind and frowned, and it tugged on Quackity's heart much more than it should've. He isn't an easily emotional person. But Quackity disregards what he initially was going to say, maybe it would've saddened Wilbur. He forthrightly just felt as if it would upset him, he didn't know why.
"It was the ghost of my ex, actually." Quackity murmured, seeming put off by the topic.
"Your ex? Well, was he any good?" To Quackity, Wilbur had such a particularly english accent that he's not sure why Wilbur is haunting somewhere in Las Nevadas, as opposed to somewhere out in L'manburg. Nonetheless, Quackity doesn't really care; it only really makes Wilbur a bit of an ironic Victorian ghost stereotype. It would be funny to him if he wasn’t quite stunned; he really would’ve poked at it.
Back to the point, no. No, Quackity's ex was not. He could remember it so clearly. A horrible, low-tempered, alcoholic man. He was horribly put-together, with too many problems of his own which he simply denied.
That doesn't mean he isn't mourning. Quackity loved him, he hasn't yet adjusted to not having a fiance anymore. They loved each other, despite his ex's harshness. He's sure there was something. He’s not used to nobody loving him yet, he’s not used to the absence of soft kisses with his morning black coffee, and the lack of a warm body to hold him close at night under their sheets like a second, protective blanket.
Ruining Wilbur's cheeky joke, he responds, "No, no. Well- No." and sighs while he notices Wilbur's expression soften. "I'm not- well, it's complicated."
"Yeah I understand." Wilbur replies with, leaning closer to Quackity and softly looking at him with such care in his foggy, dead eyes, that it almost made Quackity's heart flutter, to see someone who looked so affectionate of him again. It almost deceived him of an illusion of being someone’s treasure again, it was as if Wilbur held him dearly. Almost
But he was deceiving himself.
"I mean, he was your ex, there must've been a reason you loved him before. And either way, you're grieving. Grieving is hard, I know."
The apparition places a hand on Quackity's shoulder, and unlike their handshake it didn't shock or hurt, it was real. Cold, but caring, and not unusual. Then, he pulls Quackity closer, into a small hug. The embrace was cold, yet so quickly he felt like he could drift to sleep in it as his arms now occupied Wilbur's back. It felt like Quackity was a hot sponge, taking in every moment of coolness Wilbur had - since when was he hot? He thought the entire room was cold only a moment ago. Perhaps he was only imagining it. It doesn’t matter anymore, Quackity lets himself stop thinking and seep into Wilbur’s disturbingly soft sweater.
"..Yeah, thanks." Quackity lets out as Wilbur pulls back from the hug after a moment. He's almost bummed by it, he desires to stay so close. But, he's shivering again in the once more, cold room, and the thought of another hug puts him off due to the temperature of the room which newly envelopes him.
"Besides that, uh. I'm not here to vent, I'm here to speak to a fuckin' ghost." He laughs out dryly, waving a dismissive hand.
Wilbur shrugs, "Hey, I was a person once too, y'know. Nobody has been able to see me for ages, I want to have human conversations too. I don't care if I'll be too empathetic about what you say, as long as you say it to me.”
"Yeah.. so, uh, how long do you have here? Like.. how long are you able to be visible?" He quickly shoves the subject under a rug with a curious question.
"Oh, yeah, not forever. I'd like it if you came back, though, after I disappear. I'll be able to appear again soon, I think."
"Really?"
The dead smirked, a small grinning expression shifted his cheeks and perked his lips upward. "Absolutely. Just to see you. "
Quackity breathes a small, happy gasp, and lets out a small laugh. "Alright, alright. I'll find my way back here soon, Wilbur, promise."
At that, Wilbur leans forward with a small smile. He's so excited to finally have some company, Quackity thinks. He has to visit again, simply has to. "Perfect. You're not going to regret this, Q."
He smiles back sweetly, "I'm sure I won't, Wil."
"But, I'm not fading out just yet! So, don't go, please ."
"Woah, okay. Okay, I wasn't going to. Relax." Wilbur really needed company, Quackity's priority was to now fill that hole. It must be so lonely being so alone, being so painfully dead.
This job may make Quackity fear death even more than he had. Even more than staring at his fiance's unbeating heart in his booze-stenched deathbed. The whole room smelled like the disgusting drink at the time, it flooded his senses and spun a headache into his brain.
All of this made him far too painfully mortal.
So mortal.
They spoke a little more after that, about themselves, their past, their families. Some things were so sweet, Quackity couldn't help but be empathetic, tears might’ve pricked at the corner of his eyes that he didn’t let fall. The thought of being strayed from a living family like Wilbur had, and slowly yet surely having their memories drift away.
Then that curly-haired ghost disappeared. Just, out of the blue. At first, it caused Quackity to frown. He felt arms faintly wrap around him from behind that he didn't want to lose yet, too. One would find it ominous, but that instinct in Quackity felt like it was ripped away.
He eventually pulled himself from the cold, creaky floor, hoisted his bag, and stepped to the door. Quackity looked down the dim area as the door creaked open and found his way to the rickety stairs.
His palm slid down the dusty railing as he announced his goodbyes to Wilbur who might have the chance of hearing it and walked down in what was otherwise silence, and the creak of each step.
Lonely.
That's how it felt when he turned the key in his car and started up the radio.
That's how it felt when he turned the corner and parked just by the door of his apartment.
He lives through it and opens the door, stepping inside as quietly as he could for such a late hour. Quackity locks the door to his apartment behind himself after he steps in.
He can hear the TV at a soft volume in another room which he passes by. Charlie, his roommate who insisted his ghost seeing ability could get him money, is passed out on the sofa in parallel with the TV. Quackity doesn't mind, but maybe he should tell Charlie to sleep in his bed more solely so he doesn't develop a back problem. His old fiance used to fall asleep on the sofa far too frequently as well.
Quackity steps out to the bathroom to wash his face and maybe brush his teeth after all of that. He locks the door and flicks the light on before walking to the sink.
He makes eye contact with himself across the mirror, and he's never looked so.. deprived. Quackity can't tell why, but he looked tired, and unhealthy. Maybe like he hadn't eaten; it makes him wonder just how much sleep he'd gotten the night before. He turned the tap and water started rushing, clashing into the porcelain sink with an unsatisfying, familiar swish. It only felt like white noise in Quackity's ears. He cupped some water into his dusty, dry palm and watched it quickly overflow in his hands before taking a quick breath and splashing it onto his face, looking back at the mirror.
He looked a bit more lively, he'd say. Maybe he should grab a snack and some water before he gets some rest, though. Quackity walks out of the bathroom and flicks the light off before walking towards the kitchen, through the open area. Quietly, he opens the refrigerator and searches through. Quackity places a bottle of water from the fridge onto the counter and opens a cupboard.
That's the last thing he remembers before he hits the floor.
——//——
He sits on a bed in a pitch-black room. The bed is too stiff and he is too cold. Nothing outside of the middle of his vision was quite visible to him. Barely atop his eye lay dimly brown hair which he swipes a way with a pen-holding hand.
As he glares down at his notebook, he can't quite decipher the words, which he doesn't find too odd. He's biting his nails, a repetitive clicking rings through his ears as he bites through. Snap, snap, snap.
His finger is sore by now, he wasn't previously conscious about the fact he'd been biting the same nail over and over. It starts to hurt, he should really stop.
He should really-
Snap. His nail snaps completely in half and now there's blood scattered on the page he was writing on. Really, it just looks like a pen burst with red ink inside. He doesn't care to restart, he doesn't care for the fact that it may freak someone out. He doesn't fix the open, stinging, bleeding wound. It hurts.
He keeps writing.