Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a time when Quackity used to think that in an apocalypse that wiped out most of the world, the worst things would be the actual monsters. It's strange to remember that there was a time when he was so naive, a time before he knew how to hold a pistol or split someone's skill with an axe.

He knows better now, in a lot of ways.

That's not to say the monsters are easy to deal with, by any means. He's lost people, nearly everyone by now. He felt Schlatt's heart collapse under his lungs, the most peaceful death you could wish for after laying eyes on one of them. He's seen worse, minds turning on their bodies in much bloodier ways. He's heard the screaming, has cleared out the corpses.

But, as difficult as they are to survive, the monsters don't tend to follow him home. They aren't really a problem he has to worry about these days, especially in the face of the much bigger problem: survivors.

There was probably a time after the initial wave of deaths when things still stood, communities fighting together. He can remember it distantly if he tries. People helped each other, hands around other hands before hands around throats became more commonplace.

Then, the Bright Eyes came.

Seers, monster-seekers who tore communities apart for the hell of it.

People turned on each other, violent and vicious and unpredictable. Petty squabbles turned into duels to the death. People began to suspect each other, accusations and guns turned on one another in a heartbeat.

Anyone could be a Seer, especially in the beginning when things like colored contacts were attainable.

It was hard to tell who was right and who was wrong when death lurked around every corner, blood in every house. Only one thing was clear, the only consistency in the world turned nightmare: it was better to die if you saw than it was to live.

Quackity's nightmares were about the monsters once.

That was a long time ago.

It's why he's worked so hard to keep everyone the hell away from Charlie and Tubbo. His knuckles bleed more often than not now, his knife kept meticulously sharpened and cleaned.

It's why they live in a shithole in the middle of the woods, a building that creaks and groans with walls so thin he can hear when Tubbo sneezes from across the house. He keeps them out of the limelight, staying to the edges of society, trees on every side.

They're not going out looking for trouble. Without Schlatt to watch his back, Quackity just wants everyone to stay away.

It's not enough, none of it is ever enough, and Quackity's nearly seen more people at the end of his blade in the past few months than he has since the beginning of this shitshow.

He was hoping, albeit a bit naively, that the uptick in angry people with guns was a coincidence and not the result of survivors blabbering about him and his kids. Bodies topple like dominos, surrounding his house like an omen; he can't dig enough holes to make them disappear, so he lets them sit like a warning.

There's not much else he can do. He tries to fix up the house, but carpentry wasn't a skill he picked up before the apocalypse and he hasn't really had time to learn.

Still, he feels like he could have done more, should have done more, if only to keep the worst from happening.

If he's being honest, there are much worse things that could happen. He's seen them, bodies hanging from flagpoles and children's corpses beaten so badly they barely look human.

So this isn't the worst thing that could happen, but it's definitely up there.

The Blood God sneers, leaning close enough for Quackity to feel the man's breath on his throat. He keeps himself still, shuddering where he stands.

"You expect me to believe that all those groups just hunted you down?"

Quackity swallows.

"I don't know why--"

Technoblade doesn't give him the chance to explain himself, to think up a lie that sounds even halfway believable. The man grips him by the hair--he fucking knew getting rid of that beanie would come back to bite him in the ass--and slams his head into the wall.

Quackity cries out, half in surprise and half in pain. He can hear the floor creak through the thin walls a moment later.

"Come one, mate," Philza says, gliding forward with a smile that's never been anything but hungry, "You can't play us for fools. Just be honest. What were you up to?"

Quackity sputters. "I didn--"

His head hits the wall again, and this time he can hear the drywall crunch behind his skull with the force of it. His ears ring, high-pitched and static.

The building groans, wind whispering through the windows, and Quackity struggles against the hand holding him to the wall. He manages to elbow Technoblade in the gut, but most of his momentum just sends a few crates clattering to the floor.

It's a loud, rattling noise, but it's still not enough noise to cover up the sob that seems to echo from the kids' room.

Philza goes deathly still, his face falling flat.

Even Technoblade seems a little off-guard, so Quackity takes his final chance.

He twists, shouting as loudly as he can as he turns to half-grapple with Technoblade in the best distraction he can make.

"Run!"

He can hear the closet door scream as it's torn open, the door to their bedroom smacking into the wall. Little feet run down the halls, darting away, but Philza's already off like a shot.

Quackity for his part doesn't have a prayer's chance in hell against the Blade. The man flips him onto the table Schlatt taught Tubbo how to play poker on, Quackity's ribs groaning as they slam into the edge of it.

Quackity screams, a mangled sound that tears out of his throat and probably carries through the building. He buries his cries as much as he can; his kids don't need to hear this.

Techno lets him drop to the floor in a heap. As per the rules of their normal interactions, this is where Quackity would give up. There's no point trying to run since he'd never get away. But, this isn't the same as their normal interactions and he has to keep Techno distracted long enough for his kids to slip away, or for Charlie to find somewhere to hide.

Philza likes kids.

He might take mercy on them, maybe. It would just be a matter of time, though, and they barely have a chance as it is.

Quackity does everything he can to give them that chance, forcing himself off the ground like a snake. He lunges for a shattered second-story window he isn't trying to reach and bites back a cry as an elbow snaps into the space between his spine and his kidney.

"Bruh," Technoblade grunts, shoving him back to the floor, "Just give it up already."

Quackity pants, his lungs straining for air. "Fuck. You."

Technoblade looms over him for a moment and rolls his eyes before crashing down in a blow that leaves Quackity's throat raw from the scream that tears out of him.

Quackity wheezes, his chest pressed flush to the floor.

Something falls, a crash that's too close, just around the corner in the old house.

"Phil?" Technoblade grumbles without looking up, the hand twisting roughly into Quackity's spine loosening for a fraction of a second, "What'd you find?"

The house is eerily quiet and Quackity strains to listen. He can just barely hear a set of footsteps moving closer, the sound of someone sniffling in between soft, quiet cries.

Dread drops in his gut.

No.

No, no, no.

Quackity twists.

"Fuck you!" he says again, slamming his elbow into Technoblade's gut. The man barely winces even as Quackity rakes his nails across his face.

Technobalde grabs his wrist, squeezing until he cries out, straining against him. Tears burn in Quackity's eyes, blood and saltwater stinging his face.

He's trying to make time, writhing in Technoblade's hold uselessly, wishing and hoping and praying to God that Charlie will just hide.

Quackity should know better by now; God never listens, and neither does Charlie.

"Hey!"

Techno's hold on his wrist loosens just enough for Quackity to scramble backwards, just in time to get a perfect view of his six-year-old barrelling at the man.

"No!"

It's too late. Technoblade grunts, suddenly with an armful of Charlie as he slams his little fists into the man's chest.

"Jerk!" Charlie shouts, switching to kicking at Technoblade's shin. Quackity can feel his heart stop inside his chest.

"Bruh. What the fuck?"

Charlie growls loudly, a tinny sound like a baby lion trying to roar.

"Get your goop away from my dad!" he shouts.

"Charlie," Quackity cries, pleads, scrambling toward them, "Stop, stop, just run."

"No!" Charlie shouts, loud and petulant and unafraid, "He was hurting you!"

He's going to hurt you, Quackity wants to cry.

"What the fuck?" Technoblade asks again, setting Charlie down like he's never held a child before in his life.

Quackity doesn't even hear the Angel of Death approaching, between the heartbeat in his ears as Techno grabs him and the ringing that echoes inside his skull. The man just materializes, a shadow crawling out of the void.

"Oh," the man says, his eyes locked on Charlie, Tubbo limp in his arms like a doll. Or, a corpse. "I was wondering where the other one went."

Tubbo hangs, deadweight but not unconscious as he cries silent tears. He's a rabbit, caught in the jaws of a wolf. Charlie screams angrily, rushing at the man with as much fervor as he'd barreled into Technoblade with.

"Please," Quackity cries, twisting like an eel in Technoblade's unforgiving grip, "Please don't hurt them."

"You know we don't fuck with kids," Techno grunts, but that does nothing to calm Quackity's fruitless struggle.

"Please," he begs, meeting the Crowfather's gaze, "Please, man, he's just a kid."

Philza tilts his head. Then, getting a good look at Charlie, "Oh."

"Please," Quackity begs, his limbs falling heavy and his struggles starting to slow. "Please."

"What is it?" Technoblade asks curiously, letting Quackity fall limply to the floor only to pick up a struggling Charlie who'd only managed to kick uselessly at Philza.

"Go away!" Charlie shouts, snapping his teeth like Tubbo would if he were any less afraid, "Get your goop off me!"

Quackity sobs, trying to keep as quiet as he can.

"Relax," Philza says, his voice low and crooning, "We're not going to hurt you, mate. We don't hurt kids."

But Charlie isn't really a kid, not anymore. He's nothing but the bright eyes set into his skull and the monsters he likes to look at.

"Dad!" Charlie cries, thrashing in Technoblade's grip, truly desperate and scared for the first time since Quackity made him hide in the closet.

Quackity meets Tubbo's gaze, tears painting both of their faces, and knows that there's nothing either of them can do as Charlie screams.

"DAD!"

Quackity closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

---

"Don't. Fucking. Move."

Quackity swallows, trying to remember where the hell Charlie left his gun. For all Quackity's luck, he probably took it with him when he left.

The barrel of a much sleeker gun presses into the back of his skull, a handgun that smells so new the assassin probably just took it out of its casing.

"I'm not moving," Quackity says, his hands raising and shoulders hitching before he can bother to tell them not to.

The gun presses against his head again, before the pressure eases into a more relaxed hold and Quackity dares to let out a breath.

---

"Back the fuck up," the kid snarls, all teeth. His legs shake under him like they might give out any second, but the pistol in his hands doesn't waver, the barrel locked between Quackity's eyes.

"Okay, okay," Quackity says, his hands raised in surrender before he can think about it.

"Where's your food?" the kid asks, seeming a bit surprised, like he hadn't expected Quackity to cooperate when a gun was trained on his brains from five feet away.

"There's a bag by the tree," Quackity says, gesturing to the orange duffel.

"You know, if you just needed food, you could have asked," he says, but the kid just glares at him. Quackity considers him, a scrappy eleven-something-year-old with a pistol and bright purple eyes in a forest full of shrieking birds.

Yeah, fair enough.

Quackity can barely make out Charlie and Fundy's return, the underbrush snapping quietly. They've already figured out that Las Nevadas has guests, probably from the--

----

Quackity builds Las Nevadas three years after his fiances' death.

Technically, he starts carving out the town one building at a time a few months after he cracks the skull of the man who murders his fiances, eyes screwed shut in the face of the end of the world.

Once he finally remembers how to breathe, he remembers how to shoot--rip--kill. He does. Not often, since he'd decided to move out to middle-of-fuck-nowhere.

He can't stand to stay in the city, so he packs up his luck and captures a pigeon with the kind of Loony Tune's trap that would have absolutely killed Sapnap--

Point is, Quackity moves away from the city as slowly and as carefully as one can in the apocalypse.

He doesn't run into anyone until he hits a settlement, survivors with quick wits and a shoddy base. They know a little more than he does, but most of it's junk.

Not everyone who lives is fucking evil. Or crazy. And crazy people aren't fucking evil, either.

That's bullshit. As someone who lived with people with all kinds of connections to reality, Quackity's pretty sure of that.

But if crazy means alive--

Technoblade probably lived, somewhere out there. That guy was weird, and talked to himself way too much not to qualify.

He's surprised Karl didn't, especially with the whole 'I'm a time traveler' bit he'd been set on a few weeks before the end of the world.

---

Still, he keeps an eye out for the traces of those "Bright Eyes" Tubbo mentioned.

He's not calling them 'crazies.' Technoblade was fucking crazy, but you didn't hear Tommy saying it. It's ableist, is what it is.

---

He doesn't know what would happen if he looked.

He's cruel enough, twisted enough, that he isn't sure.

He doesn't tell Charlie that, laughing and agreeing to keep an eye out.

---

Quackity meets Karl three weeks after he watches his husband die, a shotgun shell exploding inside his rib cage and tearing his heart into pieces that fly.

---

His husband dies with a bang, glazed-over eyes finally shuttering closed as a bullet shoots out Schlatt's back. Pieces of flesh--bone--ribs--heart spray across the street with the sound of a splatter.

Blood pours into Quackity's mouth like wine.

The taste doesn't shock him into moving, jerking back to let his husband's fresh corpse drop to the ground.

His grip tightens instead, his arms pulling the warm body closer.

His fingertips brush the once-gushing wound, Schlatt's blood still dribbling down onto the concrete.

---

Quackity tries to think.

What the fuck is he supposed to do with a ten-year-old in the middle of the goddamm apocalypse?

---

His husband dies three weeks before the end of the world.

When he remembers it later, there's an open bottle of the strongest smelling vodka Quackity's ever had the displeasure of disposing of lying tipped over on its side next to where the lifeless corpse had to be carried away by paramedics.

Really, it's a fairly mild bottle of whiskey that smells nothing like the pungent odor he remembers. It barely even stained the carpet, the spot not dark enough for him to bother trying to scrub it out.

Quackity spends the next seven hours on the phone with his work trying to convince them to give him his promised bereavement leave. It's not meant to be paid, but Quackity predictably was a little shit and collected enough evidence to put his boss's boss's boss in federal prison, and he gets a few weeks of paid time off without even tipping too much of his hand.

---

Charlie gasps, eyes wide.

"You peeked!" he says aghast, pointing an accusatory finger at Tubbo.

"I did not!" Tubbo says, crossing his arms.

---

He can't take it anymore!

Charlie bursts out of the closet before Tubbo can stop him, screaming, and he barrels right into one of the strangers.

This one has pink hair! And he's holding Charlie's daddy by the hair, which doesn't seem very nice.

"Heh?"

This guy has a gun. A really big gun.

And he's making Charlie's daddy cry!

"Bitch," Charlie says, and he kicks the pink guy in the leg.

"What the fuck?" someone else demands and Charlie makes an incomprehensible noise at them.

"Get off my dad!" he says.

---

The door gives in with one final, solid kick.

Quackity strains to hear anything, even a breath, but the only noise he can make out is the somewhat distant sound of Technoblade's rampage.

He takes a step into the darkness, the light from the hallway spilling around his shadow and dusting the floor.

Glass crunches under his boots.

Then, in a blur of motion, Quacity crumples

--"WAIT!"

that's my dad don't kill him

---
[They're at home when it happens.]

---

Fundy glares at a piece of stubborn bacon that refuses to fry, poking at it with a wooden spatula, hot grease popping on the stove.

Quackity yawns, perched on the countertop while he waits for the kettle to boil, dreaming of coffee and quiet.

Foolish, for his part, is staring at a piece of toast like it holds the answers of the universe.

---

"Charlie," Fundy hisses, "get away from them."

"Aw," the masked man coos cruelly, his hand tightening on Charlie's shoulder, "Don't worry. We don't bite."

"Yeah, well I fucking do," hoodie-kid snaps, sinking his teeth into the masked asshole's arm.