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"So, that didn't go to plan, did it?" Wilbur starts, sharp and with a smirk. He is standing in his doorway — or more correctly described as the hole that gives him access out of his bedroom. The light comes from behind him, shading over his face and leaving his shadow on the stony floor.
Quackity expects nothing better from him. He should tell him to leave, now.
"Hey, thought you'd be asleep by now," he lies — he knows what he would really be doing is pacing around somewhere, his hurried footsteps echoing in the caverns for everyone to hear — "that's what I'm doing anyways."
Sitting in bed, in a older, large shirt and small bike-pants, the sort Schlatt wouldn't hesitate to call him a whore for, with the thin blanket rolled up for him to slip into. Another reason he should tell Wilbur to leave and go to bed himself.
"Not my thing," he remarks, "thought I should stay up a little longer. Keep watch or something."
"Really? Knowing you, you'd probably run off first chance you get and fucking blow us all up."
"Not tonight," Wilbur grins, "swore off it, didn't I?" He places his hand over his chest — over his somehow still beating heart.
"And your promises mean something?" he counters, raising one eye brow.
"Touché, Big Q." If Quackity isn't imagining things, which he honestly might be at this point, he could say with honesty he swears he just saw Wilbur's smile soften ever so slightly. "Maybe while I'm here, you can keep me in check."
"Yeah? What I am, your fucking mother?"
Laughing, he replies, "no... More like an officer. Just don't let it go to your head," he winks.
"Oh, and you're the fucking expert on that. Mr. 'I'm gonna run my own election,'" he mocks.
"Doesn't mean you're not as capable of it." His voice has a darker tone to it. "But you're right, what would I know? It's not like I've been in that situation before and you have."
He scoffs while turning his head away, stands and crosses to another side of the room. Quackity doesn't dare to grace Wilbur with eye contact. "I'm too tired for your shit today."
"And when you're too tired? That's when your actions matter most, because surprise, surprise, that's when everyone else is tired and needs a clear head. A voice of reason."
His eyes snap back to him, his whole body moving in the same motion. "Wil- Wilbur, what the fuck are you on about?"
"I don't know," he says in that annoying voice that means he definitely knows, "just a bit of advice for those who take politics seriously. I think you do, you have the fire in your eyes. But it can burn out so quickly if you don't know what you're doing with it."
Quackity stares at him for a solid second, a mix of confusion and anger washing in him like the storm waves against the shore. "What- are you- are you drunk right now? Is that what this fucking is?"
Pointing his eyes downward, breaking their eye contact, Wilbur reflects over his next words. He then lifts his head and takes a stride towards Quackity.
"When the time comes for us to try and win L'manburg, whether we do or don't—"
"—we will, Wilbur—"
"Whether we do or don't, you're gonna be there, right? Pick up on the broken pieces and try to put the puzzle together. Try to put that perfect image of L'manburg together?" Another long step forward. "But if you're judging my own actions like this, you're not going to like your own. Your fancy suits and charisma can only get you so far, I think you've realised that now." Another stride. "You're going to have to get your hands dirty, if you want to live happy and safe."
"Wilbur, what are you sa—"
This time, step takes Wilbur up to his face.
"Because no matter, how bright a light is, there will always be a shadow because of it, Quackity" he whispers, so fucking pretentious and— so close to his lips.
"Stop being fucking poetic, just— just fucking say it like a normal person," Quackity bites back.
"You can't be good, Quackity, none of us can be. That's what makes the idea so thrilling, being so perfect and so nice it makes everyone love you or— makes them look at you. Makes you a spectacle. But— but I think I know you—"
"No you fucking don't—"
"I know what you are. You're every other politician who's tried and tried to solve this world. But none of us can. There's no one fix solution."
"I know that. I know that, Wilbur. Don't try and sound all fucking high and mighty— you tried to rig an election — a one party election. That was you. And that's the same you who thinks this will bring any good."
Wilbur only looks — really looks at him, not the look when you are paying attention to a conversation or checking their eye colour, but really looking and searching for something inside them — Quackity. Letting those words simmer, he hopes foolishly they do something. They wake him up or turn him around. They won't, but that is why he is thinking it instead of saying that.
Taking a step back, Wilbur exits his personal bubble. It feels like the fuse dying out before it hits the dynamite.
"You're right. And— and you wanna know the best part, Quackity?"
He thinks it is rhetorical at first. The pause convinces him otherwise.
"What is it?" he breathes, light as a feather.
"Everyone else is too scared to say it. Too scared of me. They just— just look at me, and they know, but do you see anyone else calling me on my bullshit?" He takes a step forward again. Quackity stills himself, forcefully. "And here you are. You say it so easily. You're mind-boggling. Utterly confusing."
Wilbur looks at— in him. The mouth is saying confusing, his eyes are saying enthralling though.
Quackity can feel the hairs on his arm.
"I— you need to go to bed, Wilbur."
"What I need is to push that button—" Wilbur says with determination, Quackity tries to protest, "but— but I'm not doing that tonight, I swore off it. So, I want to know... what do you need? What scratches your brain, Quackity?"
"What— what the fuck are you on about, Wil? You— you need some fucking sleep, man." He goes to push Wilbur away from the door, both hands positioned against his chest. Instead of letting himself be guided out, Wilbur secures his own hands over Quackity's and drags him forward with him. "Let go, Wilbur, and go to fucking sleep."
"I don't feel like sleeping. I feel like— I feel... I don't know... awake. Like everything's finally clear."
"Wilbur... Wilbur, please," Quackity protests, slipping his hands away from under his. "Just lie down. We— we have big stuff coming up, so we— we need all the rest we can get." He hopes his exhaustion bleeds through his tone.
"Alright," he complies, and Quackity almost believes him, before he sees the sly smile creeping up his face, "I'll just... lie down."
Wilbur moves around him, and saunters towards his bed— Plonks straight down on it, as if he owns the place. Fucking asshole, Quackity holds in by biting his tongue.
"You— Fuck you, man," he complains. He walks to his own bed, peering down at Wilbur strung out with the dumbest grin on his face. When he moves to shuffle onto it, and therefore on top of Wilbur, his smile increases tenfold, showing slightly yellowing teeth. Considering his options wisely — not very wisely at all, he is half asleep — Quackity contains his wrists in each hand, pinning them to the bed. "You're an asshole, you know that?"
"I think I've worked that out, Quackity."
"And I know that you know you have your own bed," he bites.
"But this one is so much closer," Wilbur whines playfully, "and it looks like I'm pinned here anyways..."
He lets go quickly. A small thump as Wilbur's hands hit the bed. As his grin grows, Quackity sighs tiredly, rolls to the side and climbs off the bed. He walks over to a chest by the wall and looks through for cleaner clothes for the night.
Even though his eyes are focused on the task in front of him, he can feel Wilbur's eyes on his back.
"You should get changed too," Quackity suggests, not so subtly talking about his overworn clothes which are little greasy if not smelly.
He finally finds a good shirt and shorts to wear, and since he seems to have an aversion towards to keeping his own privacy, Quackity slips off his top and replaces it with a new, blue one.
"What if I don't feel like it?" Wilbur replies petulantly.
Groaning and rolling his eyes, "then at least take off the fucking homeless man coat then, if you plan on staying the night."
Considering Quackity hears no reply again, he assumes Wilbur is finally slipping off his brown and bulky overcoat that is in dire need of some repairing. Once he is finally changed into different clothes and joins him in the bed — face up towards the ceiling and both hands resting on his stomach.
He is pissed off, but he is too accustomed by the dumb theatrics and stunts he was introduced to along side Pogtopia.
Because Wilbur does what Wilbur always does. Try to do something that will ruin everyone else's lives, say something he can and never wants to take back that sits ill in the base of Quackity's stomach, make some dumb joke and make everyone let him back in again. The roller-coaster ride it causes makes him want to throw up most times, but it seems he has finally acquired a taste for it — or he has gotten much better at swallowing the bile back down like it was never there.
His eyes drift around the ceiling.
"I hate you, you know that?" he lets out into the night, like an injured animal finally going back to their home after the predators have left.
"Yeah. Yeah, I know," Wilbur brings back, like the shitty prize at the end of an even shittier reality television show — completely and utterly expected.
"You're sleeping in your own bed tomorrow, too," Quackity adds on. "I'm not letting you pull this shit again."
"I know, but you're gonna have to find a warmer blanket then."
He doesn't know if it is some quick remark, or if it is something more. Maybe it is an insulting "you need me" or if it is some desperate cry for help, "can I stay?" Quackity pauses for a second.
"You've done a shit job anyways, I'll be fine."
"...But I'm better than nothing, yeah?" Wilbur isn't looking at him anymore, and it has the same weight as it does when he is looking.
Nothing is a low bar.
"Yeah," he responds. "Just a little bit though," he adds on to keep it light-hearted — he hasn't gotten fully used to the sickly feeling in his stomach.