Chapter Text
It was another snow-filled Las Nevadas night. The air was tranquil and still, save for the peaceful murmurs of wind. It was a beautiful sight to behold— city covered in a blanket of white.
It should’ve been lovely, it would be anywhere else— but Quackity loathed it. Snowy days were always terrible for business. After all, Las Nevadas was really an attraction best sorted for warm weather. The winter scene meant that Quackity would have to cover the pool with a tarp, that the sand and would be repulsively wet in wake of the snow.
Like he said, terrible nights for business.
What peeved him more, however, was the thought that his rival’s so called ‘business’ could be out-performing his own in a time like this. Wilbur’s quaint burger-van, which he affectionately named ‘Paradise’ could not be seen was a serious competitor to Las Nevadas by anyone with a brain. He remembers asking Tubbo one day just as the boy was about to clock out.
“Yeah, Ran said that they don’t get any customers, so he just sits on his communicator all day.”
Quackity had thought intently about the boy’s words ever since. If Paradise had really brought in no profit, what was in it for Wilbur? Clearly, the man’s theory about competition being beneficial for both sides was a misjudgment. Still, every time he looked from the needle— Paradise’s lights were always on. He could always see Wilbur, alone or not— sitting there. Waiting for something, someone. Quackity assumed Wilbur only came over to Las Nevadas during the times he got bored of waiting, but it never answered Quackity’s question of what exactly the man had been waiting for.
The van lights usually went dark in the late evening. Despite this, Quackity could never recall seeing Wilbur actually leave. He always assumed the man left when Quackity hadn’t been looking, or that it was too dark and distance to witness him leaving from The Needle. He had to assume, because there was no way Wilbur had been staying there, had he? Quackity had only visited the van a few times, usually upon Wilbur or Ranboo’s request. When he visited a couple of weeks ago— there hadn’t even been windows installed yet. The van was cramped, just big enough for the basic necessities of cooking— not even big enough to put a mattress down— let alone live in.
The snow was really coming down.
What the hell, why should he care? It didn’t matter to him one bit of Wilbur froze out there! It would just be one less of the myriad of problems he had to worry about. Besides, there was no way Wilbur was dumb enough to sleep in a van— let alone one without so much as a lock. Even if he was that stupid, Wilbur was a grown man and it wasn’t Quackity’s responsibility to check on his living conditions.
Still… The thought of Wilbur sleeping on a hard wooden floor, trembling and curling in on himself as he desperately tried to fight against the unrelenting chill of the icy conditions outside an open window… That was enough to send a shiver down Quackity’s spine, one that even he could admit was not from the cold. That whole picture, it reminded him too much of a Wilbur he once knew a long time ago.
The snow was really coming down.
Damnit.
It couldn’t hurt to just.. check, could it?
Quackity reluctantly grabbed a jacket from the cloakroom, internally screaming at himself that he really should not be doing this, It wasn’t his responsibility. But if it wasn’t his— then whose was it? If he wasn’t going to check up on Wilbur, who would? He just hoped that his anxiousness (Anxiousness— why would he be anxious?) wouldn’t prove him right, for once.
Quackity made his way out of the penthouse, and each second that he lingered in the elevator was filled with his logical side begging him to turn back now while he had the chance. Return to his apartment, make some tea and forget about this whole Wilbur thing. But something deeper in his subconscious screamed that if he didn’t keep going, he’d regret it later. Quackity wasn’t a man to play with odds, and if there was any chance to avoid losing— he’d take it. The elevator doors sliding open were a convenient distraction from realising his brain had regarded losing Wilbur as a failure.
Upon exiting the hotel, Quackity was immediately confronted with the stark reality that the weather outside was far worse than it had appeared from his window. His coat would not be sufficient to protect him for long, and he had already begun to experience numbness in his fingers. Las Nevadas had never experienced a snowstorm of this magnitude, and Quackity's apprehension increased tenfold. It was not only his brain that was telling him to return indoors— to return to the warmth— but his body. But now, deep down, he knew he couldn't, he just... he had a feeling.
As he walked across the now-snow-covered Las Nevadas sands, his thoughts filled with fear and uncertainty. Was he going mad? He shouldn't care so much, should he? He could have asked one of his staff to check on the man; why was he even bothering? Why did he even care about Wilbur in the first place? Wilbur had only ever been a nuisance to him; nothing more than a waste of time, or so he had thought. Still… Even if Wilbur was all of those things, he didn't deserve to freeze in the back of a van. Sure, that's it—it’s just morality. He'd do the same for anybody, wouldn't he?
Quackity was in Paradise now, the name being a complete juxtaposition to his own emotions. If you were to ask him— he’d tell you he was feeling anything but tranquil right now. As he stood a few feet away from the entrance to the van, he made a silent plea to himself that it would be empty. Even if it meant he walked all this way for nothing. It had to be empty. It just had to be.
But as he stepped towards the door, and put his palm on the ice-cold handle— his brain knew it wouldn’t be. Mentally preparing himself for what he was about to see, Quackity took a few deep breaths before pushing the door open.
And there was Wilbur, just as his gut had told him— just as he had feared. The man was curled up in the fetal position in the corner, facing away from Quackity. His arms were wrapped around himself, sleeves pulled down to cover his hands— he was shivering. Part of Quackity was relieved to see the other man’s trembles— it meant that he was alive. It meant that the worst stages of hypothermia had not gotten to him yet, and there was no need for a hospital.
At least not if Quackity acted fast.
With a bit more haste than he’d like to admit, Quackity crouched down next to Wilbur and turned the man around to face him. It was clear that he was asleep, or at the very least disoriented. His eyes were screwed shut in a way that looked damn near painful— and in their proximity Quackity could see every furrow of his eyebrows, every grimace of discomfort. Something churned in Quackity’s gut, something he desperately wanted to write off as merely pity.
Wilbur’s face was even paler than usual, save for some splotches of vermillion on his cheeks and nose. Quackity couldn’t quite tell in the dim lighting, but from what he could make out the other man thankfully didn’t have any blisters or frostbite. Unsure of what else to do, he shook the other’s shoulder with urgency.
Wilbur mumbled something and curled in on himself further, but didn’t stir.
“Come on, man. You need to get up now.” Quackity’s voice came out a bit more gentle than he would’ve liked. It scared him for a moment— because for a moment, he imagined the two of them in an entirely different situation.
He shook Wilbur’s shoulder again, and once again— received nothing but incoherent grumbles. He knew it wasn’t the best idea to shake the other around a bunch, but Quackity wasn’t sure if he could carry the other, at least not without help. And God, the thought of getting help— the thought of one of his employees knowing he came out here— he really needed to avoid that.
Murmuring another plea, he shook the man once more— closing his eyes and praying the other would wake up. For the first time that night, his prayers would be answered.
In a way.
Wilbur’s eyes drowsily blinked open, one falling out of sync with the other. Almost instantly upon stirring, his teeth began to chatter as he drew into himself further— if that was even possible at this point. Whether Wilbur hadn’t noticed Quackity— or was simply too disoriented to care— was beyond him. Just as Wilbur was about to close his eyes once more, Quackity jolted him out of the action.
“No, no! You can’t go back to sleep. Come on, we need to get out of here.”
His words must have startled the man, because much to Quackity’s relief— Wilbur had finally made eye contact with him. Upon doing so, Quackity realised the other man’s pupils were blown out wide, and he had a beyond dazed look on his face. It was clear that the man being conscious now wasn’t going to be much of a help in pulling his own weight. Wilbur hummed, clearly trying to communicate something as his eyes exhaustedly scanned across Quackity’s face.
Quackity sighed. “You’re freezing, dude. Come on, get up.”
That was Wilbur’s only warning before Quackity grabbed his icy hands and pulled him up into a sitting position. Wilbur was so much lighter than Quackity was expecting— so much lighter than what could even be considered healthy. That didn’t mean things were smooth sailing though, because as soon as Quackity had let go of Wilbur’s hands to let him stabilise— the man nearly fell right back onto his side.
Quackity quickly caught him by the shoulders.
“Hey, I know you’re freezing and all you want to do is sleep— but I need you to work with me here.” He grumbled.
Much to Quackity’s surprise, Wilbur let out a hum that sounded like an affirmative. It gave Quackity a little bit of hope— the taller was at least lucid enough to somewhat understand him. In any other situation, Quackity would have waited until Wilbur was strong enough to be able to stand on his own. But right now, every second he waited Wilbur was only getting colder and colder— and he didn’t know how much longer the other would last until he passed out again. Hell, he wasn’t sure how much longer he himself would last.
With a sigh— Quackity linked his arms under Wilbur‘s armpits and stood them both up. They stood there for a few seconds as Quackity thought he was merely allowing Wilbur to gain his footing— but that illusion was quickly broken when Quackity felt arms circle around him and Wilbur suddenly put his entire body weight onto him— almost sending the two tumbling to the ground, though Quackity quickly regained balance.
At first, Quackity feared the worst that Wilbur had lost consciousness again. But just as he was planning a strategy on how to move forward, he felt Wilbur shift a little and mumble something— clearly awake.
His first instinct was to be frustrated. Even under these circumstances, Wilbur somehow found a way to still be the most infuriating person ever! He was ready to push the man off of him, until he recalled back to the dazed look on Wilbur’s face from earlier— that’s right. The man was disoriented, exhausted— freezing cold. Quackity couldn’t exactly blame him for latching onto the first warm body he came into contact with. Hell, he’d probably do the same thing. Still— he couldn’t let Wilbur get too comfortable.
He waited a few seconds, just to make sure he wasn’t disorienting the man further— before slowly pushing Wilbur away, keeping his hands planted firmly on the other’s shoulders. Quackity also made sure they were close enough so if anything went wrong he could catch Wilbur’s fall— just not close enough where the man was on the verge of falling asleep on him. Wilbur grumbled something in disapproval before attempting to move closer once more, which Quackity shut down immediately— even if the way Wilbur’s face fell made his heart ache.
Quackity sighed. “I know— l know you’re cold. You’ll be warmer once we get to Las Nevadas. It’s not that far of a walk, I promise.” Quackity didn’t know why he was speaking so gently to the man. If you were to ask him an hour ago what he’d do in this scenario, he probably would’ve told Wilbur to get over it or freeze. But now— seeing Wilbur’s erratic shivering… he didn’t have the heart to.
Wilbur blinked at him for a few seconds, still with those blown out, wildered eyes— before sadly nodding. Quackity slowly let go of Wilbur’s shoulders, first seeing if the man could even stand on his own yet. Upon the confirmation, he grabbed Wilbur’s hand and led the two out of the van. Quackity tried to walk as carefully as possible, but the weather conditions had not gotten anymore forgiving from when he came in. His survival instincts begged him to go faster, get out of the storm. But he couldn’t leave Wilbur behind, even if he started to feel his face going numb.
He could see Wilbur staggering along, struggling to keep up behind him. They were almost at the fountain now— it would only be a couple more minutes before they made it inside. He could practically feel the warmth already, that is— until he felt Wilbur squeeze his hand.
He turned his head— only to find Wilbur, even more furiously than before— trembling behind him. The man had a sickly pale complexion to his face; his lips were so chapped and blue and Quackity swore he could see parts that were bleeding.
“What’s wrong, Wilbur? We’re almost there, come on.” Quackity spoke, tugging at Wilbur’s wrist. However, all he was met with was Wilbur’s shallow breathing before the man finally spoke for the first time that night.
“So— so cold. I can’t… walk, Q. It— it hurts too much.” Wilbur choked out, and for every word he spoke his mouth contorted into a tortuous mess, as if it was painful just to speak.
Quackity wanted to be angry. God damn it, he was freezing too! They were so close— He so badly wanted to tell Wilbur to suck it up and keep moving. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know why he couldn’t— what had changed from an hour ago to now? He didn’t know, but there were tears forming in Wilbur’s eyes— tears he hadn’t seen from the other in a long, long time. He couldn’t stop himself from moving closer and closer, and resting his hands on the taller’s shoulders.
“I know it hurts.” He sighed, rubbing circles into the other’s shoulders. “Come on, it’s just a little further. I promise as soon as we get inside you won’t have to walk anymore.”
Wilbur shot him a pained look, but nodded once more. Quackity sighed before wrapping an arm around the other and pulling him in close, the two now walking together. Within their propinquity, Quackity could hear every pained noise that came from the man as he tried to walk. It made him feel awful— it made him feel awful that part of him had been considering not checking the van tonight. If he hadn’t been there, who knows what would’ve happened? Quackity felt nauseated thinking about it.
After what seemed like hours of hearing the taller cry and wince as he overexerted his hypothermic body to excruciating levels just trying to walk, Wilbur and Quackity finally made it to the entrance of the hotel. With a relieved sigh, Quackity finally pushed the door open and stepped inside. Before he had time to even shut the door behind them, Wilbur had already collapsed against the wall and sat down on the floor, his head tucked into his knees.
After all of that, Quackity felt like he was melting thanks to finally being in a warm room again— he could only imagine how the other felt.
After securely locking the door, he sat down beside Wilbur. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the other man would be safe— that he wouldn’t freeze to death. But it’s clear that wasn’t enough, because Wilbur was still curled up in a ball, shivering. Quackity grimaced before taking off his coat and tucking it around Wilbur, even though the man already had one on.
Wilbur grabbed both sides of the coat and pulled it towards his chest.
“When you’re able to, we’ll go back up and— and you can go get some sleep.” Quackity spoke. He felt… strange. He hadn’t taken care of someone in a long time, longer than he’d like to admit. Is that really what this was? Was he taking care of Wilbur? He wasn’t sure how he felt about that— but he wasn’t completely repulsed by it, and that confused him even more.
Suddenly, Wilbur lurched forward with a yell as he dug his palm onto his chest— groaning.
Quackity startled. “What the hell? What’s wrong?” He hated this. He hated how concerned he felt— he hated how powerless he was to stop it.
Wilbur choked, sitting back against the wall and squeezing his eyes tight. “My chest— hurts… cold.” He muttered. “I’m fine— it‘s fine…”
“It’s not fine.” Quackity scoffed. “Here, we need to warm the area around your heart first. I’ll make some tea.” He said, quickly standing up— eager.
“Wait—“ Wilbur stifled. “No— don’t go.”
Quackity faltered. But he couldn’t— he couldn’t stand to look at Wilbur‘s pained face any longer, he needed to help— he needed to go.
“Do you want your chest to keep hurting?”
Wilbur’s face fell. “No.”
“Then I’ll be right back.” Quackity put on a faux smile.
Quackity hastily made his way into the hotel kitchen, not once looking behind him. He filled the kettle with water from the tap, placed it on the stove, and waited for the water to heat up. The mindless routine provided a distraction for him, because for a moment— Quackity could pretend this entire situation never happened. Though, that didn’t prove useful for very long.
So, Wilbur really had been sleeping there the whole time? It was possible this was a one-time thing and the man merely got caught up in the storm, but something in Quackity’s gut told him that wasn’t true.
His heart stung at the memory of other stormy nights in Las Nevadas. None of them as bad as this one; none of them would’ve put Wilbur in any danger— but it was all so sickening. How many times had Wilbur done this before? How many times had he curled up in the corner of the van trying to keep himself warm? It made a part of Quackity regret his decision to ban the man from Las Nevadas. He shouldn’t blame himself, he had no way of knowing— even if he did, it’s not his responsibility to provide Wilbur a home just because the man doesn’t have one.
So why did he feel like it was? Why, when he looked at Wilbur’s shivering body, did he feel like he failed?
The sound of the tea kettle hollering saved him from answering the question.
Quackity grabbed a box of green tea packets from the cabinet, along with a mug— and poured the water inside of it. He put the packet into the drink— and waited.
He wanted to wait forever. He didn’t want to go back and face the trembling man outside.
He felt too guilty.
After the tea had turned a sufficient amber colour, Quackity decided he couldn’t hide away forever, grabbed the mug, and walked back into the main lobby of the hotel.
He could see it immediately. He could hear it immediately. Wilbur was right where Quackity had left him— really, he wasn’t expecting the man to be able to move anywhere else— but he was… crying. Quackity tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, he couldn’t exactly see Wilbur’s face to know if there were hot tears streaming down it, but he didn’t need to. Wilbur’s entire body hitched at every gasp for air, and shook with every broken sob.
All Quackity could do was stand there.
It looked painful.
He slowly crouched in front of the hypothermic man, conscious not to draw any attention to himself or make too much noise— like a rescuer to a stray animal. Carefully, he sat the cup of tea beside Wilbur; close enough to be within reach but not enough for the man to accidentally knock it over. Quackity truly did not know what to do in the moment— he had no idea what Wilbur could want. Would he want space? Or was too much space the reason why Wilbur was upset to begin with?
Quackity recalled the pained expression the other gave him in the van after being denied proximity. He recalled the other asking him to not leave.
Fuck.
He really wasn’t good at this.
“Hey,” Quackity muttered, grimacing at his own hushed tone.
Almost instantly after Quackity made his presence known, Wilbur’s head shot up from where it was buried to look at him. Quackity would describe the other’s expression as a pitiful mixture of distress, and then relief. He could only give a coy smile in response.
“I thought you—“ Wilbur croaked, taking in a few shaky breaths. “I thought you—“ He crumbled before the word was finished. Wilbur once again buried his head in his knees, now reaching up hands to tug at greasy locks of hair, though, the gesture began to seem more painful than soothing.
Quackity hated crying. He hated it, but the least he could do was try to help. “It’s okay. Take your time—“
“Just shut up!” Wilbur screeched. “Shut up, shut up! I can’t— I can’t fucking think, just shut up!”
Wilbur continued to bark out demands for quiet, even when Quackity took the signal to back away from the man— his lips sealed. The only noise in the entire building came from the distressed man in front of him. Quackity was ready to let Wilbur calm down on his own time, that was until the man began banging his wrist against his own temple— hard.
Quackity really did not want to overwhelm Wilbur even further, but the other’s sobbing only got louder as the seconds passed.
He scooted forward and gently grabbed Wilbur’s wrist where it was unforgivingly colliding with his temple. Quackity noticed the man instinctively flinch at the contact, but didn’t struggle. He didn’t want Wilbur to feel trapped, he just… didn’t want the man to hurt himself anymore. Wilbur thankfully wasn’t triggered more by the touch, but he didn’t seem to calm down either.
That was fine with Quackity, frustrating— but fine, as long as the other wasn’t hurting himself, it was fine.
He continued to hold Wilbur’s wrist with a feather light touch as the man hyperventilated. Looking to his left, he could see Wilbur’s other hand repeatedly open and shut, ragged fingernails making crescent shapes into his palms.
In a leap of faith, Quackity let his hand locate Wilbur’s own as he rested his palm in the other’s. Not much to his surprise, the panicked man wasted no time squeezing his. The sheer force of this sent a spike of anxiety up Quackity’s spine, but as Wilbur calmed down— so did he. Of course, the man was still panicked— but at least he wasn’t at risk of losing consciousness.
After a few more minutes, Wilbur returned to shaky breaths— though never once did he lift his face.
Wilbur spoke, his voice dry and scratchy. “I thought you left, earlier. I thought you left for good.”
“Well, I said I’d be back.” Quackity’s eyebrows furrowed. “You heard me, right?”
Quackity’s pretentious tone struck a cord in Wilbur, but he didn’t take the bait.
“Yeah, I heard you but— just because someone says they’ll be back doesn’t mean they mean it.” Wilbur paused, his voice wavering. “And to me, it felt like you were gone for a long time.”
Quackity blinked. Logically, he wanted to correct that he was only gone for a few moments— but even he could decipher that Wilbur didn’t want, or need to hear that.
“So what, you thought I’d just leave you here? Why the hell would I do that, Wilbur?” The man scoffed, defensively.
“Because I wasn’t in any danger? You already got me out of the storm, man. Your— Your moral duties ended as soon as we walked through those doors.”
Quackity couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Did Wilbur really think that he was just going to leave him in the middle of the hotel lobby? Did the man really think that little of him—? Or did Wilbur just think that little of himself? He wanted so badly to dig into the intricacies of the other’s psyche, but for now there was another part of Wilbur to focus on.
After a moment of awkward silence, Quackity spoke. “Does your chest still hurt?”
Wilbur nodded. “Yeah, hyperventilating didn’t really help either.”
Quackity grimaced at the hostile grit in the other’s voice. Sighing, he let go of Wilbur’s hands and picked up the cup of tea which had now reduced to a gentle warmth. He tapped Wilbur on the shoulder to alert him, and as the man lifted his head and fixated his eyes on the cup— something washed over his gaze that Quackity could only describe as guilt. Wilbur’s eyes were red and puffy as he reached to grab the cup by its handle. Quackity was thankful he’d been keeping a keen eye on the mug, because Wilbur’s cold, trembling hands almost sent the beverage spilling onto the floor before Quackity reached out to hold it steady.
Wilbur winced before readjusting his grip on the mug, his eyes wobbling slightly as he looked to the man kneeling in front of him for confirmation. Quackity slowly let go from where his hands were resting on the mug— now warm from the contact. He kept a close eye on Wilbur as the man lifted the drink to his lips. After a moment, Wilbur’s face soured as he turned away in disgust.
“What? What the hell is wrong with it?” Quackity interrogated.
Wilbur made a slightly amused expression before he confessed, “I just don’t like tea.”
Quackity scoffed, and then the scoff turned into a stifled chuckle. “Well, you’re not in any position to complain, are you?”
“I suppose not.” The taller grinned, tilting his head slightly. After a few seconds of silence, he petulantly groaned and placed the mug to his lips once more.
Quackity was pleasantly surprised, he hadn’t expected Wilbur’s demeanour to change so suddenly— part of him wanted to question it. After all, there was still a tremor in Wilbur’s form— though that could just be lingering effects of hypothermia. He decided not to dwell on it, and to just be relieved that Wilbur had been somewhat reduced to normal. Even if that meant the other would dramatically gag after every sip of tea.
Quackity moved to sit next to the Wilbur, reaching over to the coat the man had borrowed. Wilbur made a startled noise at the touch and nearly dropped the mug, to which Quackity simply raised an eyebrow before pulling his communicator out of one of the pockets. If he noticed the other’s face flush in embarrassment, he’d blame it on the cold. Quackity made quick work of finding Sam on his contact list, of course— forgetting nosy man next to him.
Wilbur smirked, indiscreetly leaning over to peek at the device. “What are you writing?” He exaggerated.
“None of your business,” Quackity sighed, fighting back a grin. “Drink your tea.” He said, swatting the other away.
Wilbur facetiously pouted and leaned back against the wall.
‘Might not be in the office tomorrow. If not drop by paperwork at penthouse.’
He snuck glances at Wilbur through his peripherals, seeing the man’s face fall as soon as he believed eyes weren’t on him. He drank his tea his tea with a straight face, body trembling.
‘Alright. Is everything okay?’
Wilbur finished his tea, staring down blankly at the empty cup.
‘Yes. Just something I need to take care of.’
Quackity turned off the communicator, witnessing Wilbur’s character instantly become lively once more, like a switch had been flipped— he furrowed his eyebrows.
“Tsk tsk tsk. Texting while you have a guest in your company? You know, Quackity, if this is how you treat all your guests then I can see why the hotel is empty!” Wilbur jested.
“Right, so sorry about that, Wilbur.” He joked, standing up. “Come on, we’re going up to my penthouse.”
Wilbur dramatically gasped. “Why, how forward of you! Though, I must admit it is a little—“
Quackity shot a disdainful glare. Wilbur snickered and attempted to push himself up, but toppled over in a matter of seconds. It was Quackity’s turn to laugh now, as Wilbur rolled his eyes with embarrassment and reached his hand out for Quackity to take. Quackity grabbed the man’s hand with a firm hold and pulled him up off the floor, giving him time to regain his balance. Wilbur suddenly placed his other hand on Quackity’s shoulder, planting his feet.
“Stand up too fast?” Quackity asked with a hint of concern in his voice.
Wilbur paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed— before he slowly nodded. After another minute or so he took his hand off of Quackity’s shoulder.
“Sorry about that, still a little loopy I guess.” He laughed, but Quackity found no humour in it.
Quackity hummed before beginning to walk over to the elevator. Wilbur was laser focused on their conjoined hands as they walked in.
“Look away.” Quackity said, making a shooing motion.
Wilbur covered his eyes with his hand in confusion as Quackity let go and began to press buttons in a particular order. The elevator made a satisfying ding before the doors shut.
Quackity chuckled. “You can open your eyes now, Wilbur.”
Wilbur took his hand off his face. “I’ve never been up here before.” He muttered, looking around the elevator.
“You mean you’ve never been allowed up here before.”
“Well it must be my lucky day.” Wilbur beamed.
As Quackity rolled his eyes for what might’ve been the hundredth time that evening, the elevator dinged once again and the doors pulled open— revealing a shiny clean penthouse.
Wilbur gaped as they both stepped out of the elevator. Quackity wasted no time hanging his keys back up on the rack and resting his communicator on the coffee table. As he looked back, Wilbur was still stood there, enamoured. Quackity could not find the entire situation any stranger. He was so used to seeing Wilbur cooped up in his van— for better or worse— so seeing the man now stood in the middle of a beautiful spacious room, he never looked so small.
Or uncomfortable.
It was very rare that Quackity ever saw Wilbur out of his element, almost always the man had a joke or sarcastic comment to make. Calling it charisma would be a blatant lie, but he certainly wouldn’t describe Wilbur as shy.
But here Wilbur was, standing meekly with his arms crossed over his chest— gazing around the room.
Quackity decided to break the silence.
“So, you’re probably tired. I’ll let you get some sleep, but I want you out in the morning, understand?”
Wilbur broke out of his trance. “Oh, yeah, sure.” He mumbled, walking over to the couch.
Quackity spoke. “What are you doing?”
“Sleeping on the couch?” Wilbur answered, puzzled. “Unless you have a guest bedroom.”
Quackity did not have a guest bedroom. In any other circumstance, Wilbur would be confined to the couch. But he could still see Wilbur’s shivering figure from where he stood, and he didn’t have any throw-over blankets that would keep the man warm and comfortable on the couch. At the back of his mind, he questioned why he was so concerned about the other’s comfort to begin with.
“No, I don’t— but it’ll be too cold out here on the couch. Trust me, I don’t want to keep you here for longer because you got sick. I’ll take the couch.”
In all truth, Quackity knew Wilbur would end up getting sick anyway. He just hoped that someone else would be willing to take him in and look after him. Though, if Wilbur had been sleeping in his van— that might not be so likely.
Wilbur looked like he was about to protest further, but for some reason unknown to Quackity— simply nodded.
Quackity sighed. “Right, but don’t even think I’m letting you sleep here with your nasty clothes. Come on, let’s go find something.”
Wilbur stood with a bemused expression. “Quackity, I don’t know if the snowstorm made you lose a few braincells— but in what world would your clothes fit me?” He spoke, following the shorter into another room.
Quackity went into his bedroom and turned on the closet light. Kneeling down, he pulled out a cardboard box full of clothes, and sighed.
“I know they’ll fit because they’re yours.” He murmured.
“Mine?” Wilbur questioned, moving closer to inspect the cardboard box.
Quackity bowed his head. “Yeah, from— from Pogtopia.” He shook his head. “I know it’s stupid, but I thought I’d keep them, just incase.”
“In case of what?”
“In case you ever… came back. Thought I’d hold onto them for you, good decision in hindsight.” He whispered.
Wilbur stood there with an appalled look on his face. Not necessarily confused or creeped out— more in disbelief that someone had held onto his possessions, that someone had been expecting— maybe even hoping he’d return. He couldn’t help but smile a little.
Quackity stood up once more to face him. “Just uh— pick whatever you want, they’re all clean.”
The taller nodded, kneeling down to take articles of clothing out. After searching for a few moments, he settled on a cotton black sweater and grey sweatpants. He unfolded the clothing as if to assure they really would fit, before walking into the en-suite. Quackity put the rest of the clothes back into the box, and placed the box on the dresser— fully expecting the other man to take it with him in the morning.
That is, if Wilbur would even leave in the morning.
Quackity was sure the other would contact some illness, if not— he’d probably still feel too shitty from the after-effects of hypothermia to properly take care of himself. Well, as much as he was used to taking care of himself anyway.
That was another issue too, why was Wilbur so… disheveled? Quackity wasn’t necessarily one to judge other’s living conditions, but this went beyond that. It wasn’t like Wilbur just wore the same torn clothes every day— though, he did do that— it was his entire appearance. For starters, he was unnaturally, almost scarily thin. Thin beyond having a fast metabolism or skipping meals here and there, dangerously thin. Another issue was just how exhausted he seemed, Wilbur’s eye-bags were dark and large enough to resemble a raccoon. Though, he couldn’t blame the man— sleeping on the hardwood floor of a van would do that to you.
Lord, Quackity was terrified to even think about that. Nothing about it made sense. It wasn’t as if Wilbur didn’t have a family, he had Phil or Tommy or someone else to go to— hypothetically. Wilbur was unpredictable, but Quackity knows the taller wouldn’t choose to sleep on the ground out of pride. All those people Wilbur could’ve gone to, but he never did— Or rather, he did, and they didn’t take him in.
Fuck, that was starting to make sense. He’d done the same thing, hadn’t he? The other had practically begged him for a place to stay, somewhere to belong— and he refused. Quackity had just assumed someone else would take him in, but that’s probably what everyone else assumed too. He’d seen Wilbur’s greasy hair, his tired eyes and scarily thin stature— and assumed someone else would handle it.
But clearly, no one did. If they had, he wouldn’t have found Wilbur, on the floor, trembling and on the verge of freezing to death.
So he can’t assume the man will have somewhere to go when he inevitably feels sick in the morning.
He can’t assume. Assumption is what almost killed Wilbur.
Just then, Quackity heard the bathroom door click open and saw Wilbur walk out, old outfit in hand. He gathered his composure, rubbing eyes that had began to sting. The clothing— Wilbur’s own clothing— rested a bit too big on him.
Quackity’s heart ached a bit.
Quackity walked over to where Wilbur was standing. “Here, I’ll put your clothes in the wash while you rest. If you need anything— I mean anything, I’ll be out there.”
Wilbur faux smiled before placing the articles of clothing in Quackity’s hands. “I’d never disturb you, your highness.” He jested.
Quackity’s eyebrows furrowed before he turned around, beginning to walk out of the room. Wilbur wasted no time flopping on the bed and curling up with the silk sheets and cotton pillows— it probably felt like heaven compared to what he was used to. Quackity frowned slightly before quietly clicking the door shut, allowing the man to drift off into a deep sleep.
—
Quackity was almost asleep when it happened. He’d been reading novels that lined his bookshelves, they were all boring as hell— makes sense, considering they were just for show. His body had been fighting to stay awake for nearly three hours now— but he couldn’t rest. What if Wilbur needed him? He knew the man would never wake him up if he needed anything, and it was better to assume that Wilbur would need something rather than assume he wouldn’t.
But he was so, so exhausted.
That is, until he heard a blood-curdling scream coming from the other room.
Immediately Quackity bolted up, fearing the worst. Had someone broken in to attack Las Nevadas— Had Wilbur hurt himself? All these thoughts swarmed in his mind as he rushed over and slammed the door open without hesitation. He raced into the room and checked for any sign of an intruder, but nothing was out of the ordinary. In fact, he didn’t even see Wilbur. That was, until he turned to face the bed.
There was Wilbur. Trembling faster than Quackity had even thought possible, wrapped up in blankets sobbing and murmuring something as he rocked back and forth. He was sitting up, completely curled in on himself— arms wrapped tightly around his form as he caressed the soft fabric of his own sleeves, like he was mimicking a loving embrace. Tears spilled from Wilbur’s eyes as he shook his head, objecting to a question no one had asked.
Carefully, Quackity trailed forward and sat on the side of the bed closest to Wilbur. He expected the other to at least look at him— acknowledge his presence— but he just kept staring off into space, eyes glossed over with fear. The mumbled string of words coming out of the man’s mouth were completely incomprehensible, but they sounded desperate.
“Wilbur?” Quackity said, keeping his voice soft. “Are you okay?”
But Wilbur didn’t verbally answer, he just kept rocking himself as he began to shake his head fiercely.
Quackity had already seen Wilbur in a state like this two times tonight, yet somehow this case was the most confusing. In the van, the other wanted proximity— or what might even be called intimacy. In the hotel lobby, Wilbur wanted space. So what would it be this time? Would Wilbur ask him to leave, only to upset once he did? Or ask him to stay, only to be even more overwhelmed by his presence? It was all too frustrating for Quackity. For the first time in ages, he didn’t know what someone wanted.
He made the decision to move, now sitting in front of Wilbur. Even then, the other didn’t acknowledge his presence, though he was staring right at him. No— it was almost like Wilbur was staring right through him.
Quackity hastily grabbed one of Wilbur’s hands from where it had been grasping the fabric of his sweater. “Hey,” He whispered, voice laced with concern. “I need to know you can hear me, okay?”
Still, no response— not even a hum.
He sighed. “Here, squeeze my hand twice if you can hear me.”
Quackity waited a few moments in anticipation, before feeling two consecutive pressures in his hand.
“Okay, okay.” Quackity smiled. “Here, why don’t you squeeze one time for yes, and twice for no. Can you do that for me?”
Wilbur’s eyebrows twitched ever so slightly.
One squeeze.
The shorter grinned. “Okay. Are you hurt? Physically, I mean.”
The other squeezed twice.
“Alright, alright that’s good. Can you speak?”
Wilbur’s face contorted before the man squeezed his hand… Three times?
“Does that mean you’re not sure?” Quackity asked.
One squeeze.
Shit, what was he supposed to do now? At least before Wilbur was able to move around— vocalise what he wanted outside of yes and no answers. But now? Now, Quackity had no clue how to even read this situation.
“Do— Do you want me to leave?”
Wilbur suddenly flinched and squeezed Quackity’s hand twice with urgency. So much urgency, that he’d actually dug his nails into Quackity’s hand— just shy of drawing blood— causing the man to pull away.
That, however, was probably the worst decision Quackity could have made— because as soon as he pulled away, Wilbur let out a spine-chilling scream. Like a hopeless animal watching it’s young be torn to shreds. Wilbur blindly grasped out in front of himself in a desperate attempt to find Quackity’s hand again. Quackity wondered— with Wilbur’s aimless nature— if the man even knew where he was.
Quackity tried to catch one of Wilbur’s hands, but the other was flinging them around so uncontrollably as sob after sob escaped from his throat. Growing impatient, Quackity grabbed both of the man’s shoulders and held him there. After struggling for only a few more seconds, Wilbur’s shoulders slumped and he bowed his head— sobs turning into incoherent noises.
Quackity sighed. “So, that’s a no, I take it?”
The shorter slipped one of his hands down to rest in Wilbur’s once more, the man in question wasted no time latching on. Quackity noticed the other’s hand was cold to the touch. At first he didn’t question it, after all Wilbur was still recovering from the incident earlier— but he’d been inside for a while now, shouldn’t Wilbur have warmed up by now?
“Are you still cold?” He asked.
Wilbur snivelled before faintly squeezing his hand. Quackity— trying to not let go of the other’s hand— tucked the undone blanket around Wilbur’s body once more.
“It won’t help.” Wilbur choked, his voice scratchy like death had clawed at his throat.
Quackity, shocked for a moment that he man had actually spoken, stared a moment before asserting— “It will eventually. You just have to be patient.”
The other shook his head. “No, it won’t.” Wilbur’s face screwed up in thought, as if he was debating the next words that would escape his lips. “I can’t— My body can’t really produce warmth on its own that well, so a blanket won’t do much.”
Wilbur’s eyes screwed tightly after that, not in pain— but in expectancy of it. As if he anticipated a blow to head, or harsh words thrown his way.
“Sorry.” He whispered.
Quackity tilted his head incredulously. “You—“ He began, “You don’t have anything to feel sorry for.”
Wilbur hummed something of defiance. Quackity was still holding onto his hand, he could feel the warmth from his palm transferring to the other’s— he wondered if Wilbur could too.
“I do.” The taller spoke again— tone dripping with guilt. “You’ve had to deal with me all night, I’d wager you haven’t gotten any sleep either.”
Quackity paused. “You recovering from hypothermia isn’t necessarily something I’d put you into debt over.” He scoffed, slightly amused at the ridiculousness of Wilbur’s perspective.
“Why?” Wilbur exhaled. “Why help me? Just one less person to compete with, right?”
“Wilbur, you’re my only competition.” Quackity jested. “Like you said, having an opponent is good for business.”
“Oh come off it,” Wilbur babbled. “You and I both know damn well that my shop is a wasteland.” He looked away towards the window, staring blankly into the navy curtains. “If I died, it wouldn’t matter for Las Nevadas.”
“It would matter to me.”
Wilbur never turned to look at him, but he didn’t need to. Quackity could already see his words registering in the way the other’s body slumped.
“Wilbur,” Quackity started— intense. “If there had been anyone else who came to Las Nevadas and tried to do what you did, I would have their head on a spike immediately. It was never about competition, it was about you. It was about us.” He paused, taking a breath. “I don’t know what’s going through your head right now, I rarely do— but I didn’t help you because I wanted to trap you into my debt. I helped you because I want you alive, Wilbur.”
“That’s just because you didn’t want blood on your hands.” Wilbur mumbled.
“It’s more than just morality, Wilbur!” Quackity huffed, his tone coming out harsher than it should have. “If I really wanted, I could’ve sent any random employee to come get you. I didn’t, you know why—? Because a part of me doesn’t trust anyone else with you except myself. Not because I know how to deal with any of this— but because I wouldn’t leave you to wake up screaming, calling out to for someone who won’t come.”
Wilbur’s breath hitched, and his shoulders began to shake.
“Let me help you, Wilbur. Not just when you’re dying, or you’re sick— but whenever you want help. Want, not need.” Quackity added.
“Quackity,” The man’s voice wavered. “That’s a burden I couldn’t bear you with. If I went to you whenever I wanted something, I’d never leave you.”
“Then don’t leave me. You’ve already tried that, remember?”
Wilbur’s voice broke, on the edge of a sob. “I don’t want to remember.”
Quackity smiled, squeezing Wilbur’s hand in a gentle way. “You don’t have to,” He replied. “It’s all over now, you’re safe— you’re here with me, that’s all that matters.”
Wilbur hung his head, staring at his knees. A sob caught in his throat when Quackity let go of his hand, moving to sit next to Wilbur on the mattress.
“Q?” He spoke.
“Yeah? What’s up, Wil’?” The gentle tone of the man’s voice almost sent Wilbur crumbling then and there, though he managed to hold it in.
“I’m alive, aren’t I?” He asked. “You—You’re real, right?”
“Wilbur…” The man cooed his name, he fought down a shiver. “You’re alive, I promise. We both are, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Can you prove it?”
Quackity was unmoving for a moment, before he carefully wrapped his arms around Wilbur’s shoulders and pulled him in close until the man was lying down across his chest, ear to heart. Wilbur’s entire form froze before he soon melted into the hold, mewling when warm, affectionate hands reached up to brush through tangled curls.
Quackity brought the blankets up to seal them both in the obscure coalescence of tenderness and love they had created. “You hear my heart beating? That means we’re alive, Wilbur— and we’re exactly where we should be.”
Wilbur uttered an incomprehensible affirmative, sinking deeper into the warmth, prepared to fall into a fearless rest.
“I’m not afraid to get blood on my hands, Wilbur— but I’d rather die a thousand deaths than wash off yours.”
The two men lie there, sharing warmth like thread spinning together to form a tapestry.