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Summary
Quackity wakes up alone, with a headache that shifts and pulses at his temples and curls around the back of his neck, in a bed that isn’t his.
This isn’t the first time he’s fallen asleep in Karl’s bed— in the bed that wasn’t Karl’s— what fucking ever— after a night of too much drinking; he just hopes he hasn’t missed too much of the day—
Then he remembers Q. Because this is Q’s bed, now, set up not for Karl but for Quackity’s pathetic little fucking bitch of a former self. Quackity is in it. Q is not.
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Quackity knows a thing or two about protecting himself.