Work Text:
When Quackity steps over the threshold of his own front door, the first thing he hears is a crash.
It’s loud, but muffled, somewhere deeper into his home. A line of tension forms across his shoulders, stiffening even further beyond the damage today’s cabinet work left him with. He’s got his suit jacket looped over one arm, tie loose around his neck, but he hasn’t shaken the work stress as quickly as he drops the appearance of decorum. He never really does.
The crash happens again, a thump, loud. Echoing, repeating. Quackity frowns.
“Hello?” he calls. Cold air still seeps in at his back; he closes it behind him, takes a step further into the house. “If you’re burgling me, you’re not gonna find anything good. Go next door to Karl’s or something, he’s probably got–”
He’s cut off by the sound of a dog barking, and then skidding nails on his wooden floor. A mass of white fur turns the corner, and he has exactly two seconds to brace himself before the animal goes crashing right into his knees.
“Fran!” he squawks, arms and wings pinwheeling to keep his balance. In the next room, the banging sound has stopped. “Hi, yes, hello, Sam, can you get your dog!”
There’s a whistle from the kitchen. Or at least, a noise sort of like a whistle, if something had interrupted it partway through. Fran backs off, at least enough that Quackity can get properly inside his house and around the corner.
Sam is in his kitchen, front legs on a wooden chair, hammer in one hand and another hand on the doorframe over his head. His mask’s loose around his neck, so Quackity can see the smile that crinkles up the corners of his eyes, sheepish and fond. Between his teeth, he’s holding more nails, but he switches his hammer between his fingers to take them out of his mouth. “Hey, Q. Sorry, I thought I’d be done before you got back.”
A bit of tension drains out of Quackity’s shoulders. He slides past Sam and avoids tripping over Fran to drop his jacket on the kitchen table. “What are you doing to my doorway?”
“Fixing it,” Sam says. “Noticed last time I was here, you’ve got loose boards on your doorframe. Didn’t want you giving yourself a concussion when you walk under it and it falls right off onto your noggin.”
“How would I ever survive,” Quackity deadpans. Sam reaches up to hammer in another nail. “I was gonna get around to that, you know.”
“Well, turned out the loose board was loose because it wasn’t the right length. I took it off and trimmed it down for you.”
Okay, so, maybe Quackity doesn’t know how to do that.
“I was gonna get Sapnap to do it, then,” Quackity says anyway. He’s gotta win something here. “Or Tubbo, maybe. He’s leveling into butch these days, knows his away around power tools now.”
“Really,” Sam says, pleasantly. He doesn’t seem to notice Quackity is arguing with him; just hits the nail a few more times, then leans back to survey his work. His front legs rejoin his hind legs, securely on the ground, hands on hips.
“Yeah. What with rebuilding the whole country, and everything. He’s real hands on, that kid. Wants to do it all himself.” Quackity drops into a chair. God, he’s exhausted, despite spending the whole day sitting at a desk. Crazy how that works. “Leading by example, or something?”
“Mmhm,” Sam says. He dusts off his hands, drops a few extra nails into a pocket at his side. The hammer finds a resting place on the table. “There’s pie in the oven, by the way. Figured you might be hungry when you got home.”
“Oh my god, what are you, my dad?” Quackity scoffs. “What’s next, are you taking me fishing? Gonna teach me how to cast a line?”
“If you want to,” Sam says. “We can bring Fran, she’ll enjoy the exercise.”
“We’re not going on a fishing trip,” Quackity says. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”
Sam laughs, soft. He washes his hands at the sink, dries them, and then finds a set of oven mitts in the drawer beside it. Watching Sam move around his admittedly-small kitchen is always amusing, but he navigates it with familiarity. “Well, maybe someday. When you’re less busy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whenever that happens.” Quackity’s gonna work til he drops dead, probably. And then respawn and get up and keep going. Still, there’s part of him that has to admit, it wouldn’t be awful to take a break. Even if it’s going fucking fishing with Sam.
Yeah, maybe someday.
He gets up to scrounge up some plates and forks – dishes piling up in the sink make it a little difficult to find clean ones, but he finds a pair anyway, mismatched things with a couple chipped edges. Sam cuts the pie.
“So how are you? How’s Ponk?” Quackity asks. He blows on a forkful of pie, cools it down enough to be safe for consumption. Oh, god, Sam was right — he’s starving, and hadn’t even realized until he took the first bite. He disregards safety for the next bite and proceeds to burn his tongue instantly. “Aw, shit.”
“It’s hot,” Sam cautions, smiling. Quackity rolls his eyes, like, No fucking kidding, and he’s pretty sure the idea gets across even without the words. “We’re good. She baked me a pie the other day.”
“Did she?” He forgot to serve either of them water. Oops. Does that now — gulps down a mouthful of it, cold against his tongue. He sets another glass in front of Sam. “Thought pie was kind of your thing.”
“Oh, it is,” Sam says. “Nobody’s ever made me pie before, though. It was sweet.”
“Aww,” Quackity says. “You guys are gross. When’s the wedding?”
Sam laughs, soft, fond. “You’ll be the first to know, I’m sure.”
The pie is good, pumpkin but savory, swiss cheese and roasted onion. It’s a little muted on his tongue now that he’s burned off most of his taste buds and probably will never be able to taste anything ever again, but he enjoys it enough to go for seconds.
It’s while he’s sitting there, enjoying the last few bites of his second slice of pie while Sam keeps up his side of a quiet conversation, that the weight of exhaustion really settles over him. It’s way too early to be this tired. He feels like an old man; it’s not even eight in the evening and he’s already nodding off at the kitchen table.
Sam notices, because of course he does. “Bedtime already, huh? I’ll clean up for you.”
Quackity starts to protest. “You made dinner, and you fixed my doorframe.”
“You’ve got work in the morning, right?” Sam shrugs. He stands up, grabs Quackity’s plate. “Better get some rest, Mr. Secretary.”
“Sexy-tary,” Quackity corrects, and then gets struck with a yawn midsentence. “It’s Sexytary of State. Use my–my–oh god, aaahh. Use my correct title, Sam, Jesus.”
Sam laughs. “Okay, Mr. Sexytary. How about you sit on the couch with Fran, and I’ll clean up in here.”
“You want me to dogsit?” Quackity complains. “You’re using me for free dog babysitting? I can’t believe you, man.”
Fran sticks her cold, wet doggy nose against Quackity’s arm, excited at the sound of her name. Her tail wags, moving her whole back half along with it in enthusiasm. “Yeah, Fran, your dad’s pawning you off on me. How do you feel about that?”
She barks. They both laugh.
And he doesn’t mean to fall asleep, exactly. But he’s tired, and he’s sitting on the couch half-buried under sixty pounds of white fluff, and the next thing he knows he’s blinking awake again.
Fran’s gone, replaced by a blanket that he keeps over the back of the sofa. The lights are dimmed; the house is quiet. When he stumbles to his feet and out into the kitchen, the clock blinks 12:07 softly over the stove.
The kitchen is spotless. Sink emptied of dishes; table wiped down with a note sitting in the center of it.
Sleep well, Q. Leftover pie in the fridge. Fishing trip next week? (Or just dinner at my place. Bring your boys, if you like, and I’ll invite Ponk. Make a thing of it. Or just us. Let me know.)
Take care of yourself. Let me know if you need anything.
- Sam (and Fran)
“Ugh,” Quackity says. He pins the note to the fridge under a magnet. An invitation to family dinner? Who is this guy, his dad?
He turns the lights off in the kitchen, and the faint smell of pumpkin is all that’s left lingering in the dark.