Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Quackity regretted taking this job. Well, kind of – it was at a local bar hidden inside an indoor mall, so for the most part he did fuck-all for his entire shift. It was really only during the night or during sports games that he actually had to do his job as a bartender. There were also some day drinkers that came by when he opened the store up, but no one particularly minded that he was on his phone while customers drank themselves into a stupor. During those times, the only thing he had to do was make sure people didn’t get wasted off their ass, and to call a cab if and/or when they weren’t sober enough to drive.

The average person would think that a job such as this was a dream come true. Being able to open the store independently, clean and serve drinks sometimes, and sit and do nothing until closing time? Not only that, but there’s a small staff that can easily be memorized and communicated with? Quackity bet that anybody would take that over customer service or corporate retail any day.

But there was a neat little detail that most people didn’t consider when Quackity told them about his occupation: Having nothing to do for an entire day, but still having to be professional and look like an employee for over twelve hours, five days a week, is an absolute nightmare. Sure, the job was incredibly low-maintenance; but that was a double-edged sword. The days went by at a snail’s pace, and most customers weren’t particularly fun to converse with. Scrolling through social media and doodling on spare pieces of paper only staved off his immense boredom for so long.

Today was a day like any other. Quackity opened up the store at noon, did some cleaning that last night’s employee didn’t do – he would scold them for that, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to do so – and sat himself on the stool where he would stay for the next several hours. He sighed and began daydreaming a little bit, fantasizing about other worlds. Universes where everything was perfect and utopian, green and free from hot asphalt and old bricked streets. Worlds in which no one had to work dead-end jobs – especially those that are in places that only alcoholics and city veterans knew about, Quackity thought.

However, there was something slightly different that happened. At one of the several times that Quackity knew no one came into the bar, he heard the trigger bell ding as the door was opened. Immediately composing himself from being entirely out of it a second prior, he looked towards the entrance to see a very tall man slightly ducking to avoid hitting the hydraulic mechanism at the top of the doorway. He had what looked like slightly too-long, curly hair that was tucked back in a ponytail, with his messy fringe still out and free. Even though it was still mid-summer, the stranger donned a yellow sweater-vest with a white collared top underneath and black jeans.

Generally, the man was dressed like a hipster nerd.

“Welcome in, how’s your day been?” Quackity called out halfheartedly.

“You need taller doors,” the man replied with a heavy British accent, his shoes clicking loudly against the linoleum floors.

“I mean, it’s not every day that we get giants like you coming through,” Quackity joked, getting off his stool to look more presentable and alert.

That made the new customer laugh a little bit. In fact, his soft giggles were a little bit contagious. He bent over slightly from it, which made Quackity’s eyebrows quirk up.

“I didn’t know that would be so funny that it would make you double over.” A smile teased at the bartender’s cheeks.

“It’s also not every day that I get a barkeep who is so sharp so early in the afternoon,” the man responded. He sat down at the bar, with the window facing him. The afternoon light hit the stranger square in the face, making him squint.

“I just have coffee and a good breakfast in the morning.”

“Good for you, mister…” the man paused to read Quackity’s metal name tag. “Quackity? Is that it?”

“The one and only.” Quackity bowed. “And what’s your name, since I’m the only one here to talk to for the time being?”

“The name’s Wilbur. Wilbur Soot, if you really want to get personal.”

“Nice to meet you, mister Wilbur Suit.” Quackity purposely mispronounced Wilbur’s last name, a playful smirk forming on his face.

“It’s– y’know what, I’m not even going to correct you on that.” Wilbur rested his elbows on the wooden bar top. “Can I get a whiskey and Coke, on ice?”

“Coming right up, my good sir.” Quackity got to work, easily finding the whiskey and sodas. Within about thirty seconds, Wilbur’s drink of choice slid across the counter. He watched the man muss his fringe before grabbing the wide whiskey glass and taking a small swig. Wilbur’s face contorted for a moment as he set the glass down and licked his lips.

“So what brought you here so early in the afternoon?” Quackity asked after a few beats of silence. “Normally I don’t see people on weekdays until at least five or six o’ clock.”

“Didn’t have anything to do, and figured I may as well explore around,” Wilbur responded.

“Do you normally go day drinking when you’re out and about?”

“I mean, it’s not like there’s much else to do around here other than browse far-too expensive items, is there?”

Quackity hummed. “If you think that I can even take a look inside those stores and know how much that shit costs, you are greatly mistaken.”

Wilbur chuckled, and took another small sip of his whiskey. Quackity watched his eyebrows furrow again at the liquor’s bitter taste.

“Why do you torture yourself with whiskey of all things, especially so early?” The barkeep asked, lazily wiping down the bar top. “You can get so many other things that have much less of a bite to them. That is unless, of course, for some reason you actually like bitter alcohols.”

“I do like them, truly,” Wilbur said, circling his finger around the rim of the glass. “It makes me feel alive, y’know?”

“Feeling alive also means that you can have drinks that are a little easier on the tongue and throat too, though.” Quackity put away his counter washcloth. “Don’t you want it to be a bit more enjoyable?”

“I mean yes, but that’s why I added Coke to my whiskey.”

Quackity didn’t realize that he was staring at Wilbur until the older man’s eyes met his. They were striking yet comforting, in a way – warm, dark brown pools with gold flecks strewn throughout that likely wouldn’t be noticeable if it wasn’t for the sun shining straight into Wilbur’s face. Quackity could easily get lost in them – if the other party allowed him to, of course. And it’s not like he ever would, either; this was purely a business exchange. When Wilbur eventually got sick of being in a dead bar and left, Quackity would go on with his day and likely never see the man again.

Nevertheless, he hoped that at least he would remember Wilbur’s eyes if the man disappeared.

“You’re a weird son of a bitch, you know that?” Quackity mused.

“I guess you could say that having a whiskey with Coke is kind of like my coffee.”

The bartender raised his eyebrows at Wilbur’s reply. “...Do I need to stage an intervention? ‘Cause from what you’re implying…”

“What?” Wilbur said confusedly, “Oh, wait, wait, God, NO, that’s not what I meant, I’m not an alcoholic!” The man started laughing, almost falling out of his chair. That godforsaken contagious laughter made Quackity smile a stupid little grin. He kicked himself for warming up to a random, likely one-time customer so fast.

“Okay good, thank God, ‘cause I did not want to be that guy supplying an addict with his vice,” Quackity laughed lightly.

“I may be a day drinker, but I certainly do not have a dependency on alcohol!” Wilbur snorted.

“Day drinking is still kind of weird though, Wilbur, you gotta be careful with that one.” Quackity mostly said that as a lighthearted joke, but a part of him still genuinely meant the statement. He always felt weird selling to day drinkers, especially ones who drank in excess. He didn’t come across borderline addicts often, but when he did he always felt guilty for just doing his job. Of course he stopped people from getting too inebriated in his establishment for everyone’s safety, including their own; but who knew exactly how effective that was when it came to one-time customers.

“Oh, no, I’m aware, and I am careful with it. I only do it more on occasion, on lazy days such as these with nothing better to do.” Wilbur drank the last of his whiskey and slid some of the leftover ice in his mouth to crunch on. He promptly slid the glass towards Quackity and got up, fishing his wallet out from his back pocket. “Now how much do I owe you?” He opened his wallet and got out his card, looking at Quackity through the edges of his curly fringe.

“Oh, um, $8.50,” Quackity stuttered, catching himself distractedly staring at Wilbur.

“How about this – I give you $30 and you keep the change for yourself, yeah?” Wilbur slapped a twenty-dollar and ten-dollar bill down on the table and slid it towards Quackity, startling the barkeep a little bit. “And I don’t need a receipt or anything, I’m all good. I will be back, though; this place is kind of nice.”

Quackity was stunned. “You really don’t have to–“

“Trust me, I know how hard it is working in a place with shit pay,” Wilbur interrupted, holding up a hand in the air to stop the bartender from speaking. He had only taken a few strides before he was halfway out the open doorway. “You deserve that, especially for putting up with my banter.”

Both men stood still for a few moments, staring at each other. The only sound that broke the silence in the bar was tinny music from the indoor mall’s speakers in the distance.

Realizing that Wilbur was waiting for a response with raised eyebrows and slightly upturned lips, Quackity snapped back into reality and blurted out, “Oh, well- thank you, Wilbur. Genuinely, it means a lot to me to pay me that much for just a whiskey. See you next time.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, mister Quackity,” Wilbur responded, saluting the other man with two fingers before turning around and walking out into the mall’s lobby.

Quackity sighed and took the glass from the bar top, washing it with the high-pressure rinser below the counter. He went back to his hazy routine, remembering the little gold flecks in Wilbur’s brown eyes as if he were still peering into them.

He really hoped that he’d see Wilbur again.

Chapter Text

Wilbur told the truth when he said that he would be back. For the next two weeks or so, every time Quackity was working Wilbur came in, got his whiskey and Coke, talked a bit with Quackity, paid way too much for an $8.50 drink, and left. That became their new routine - and he wasn't sure whether Wilbur felt the same about it, but Quackity personally liked this new change. It was nice having something to break the monotony of every shift.

On the fifth day or so of their new routine, Quackity was greeted with a surprise. As Wilbur was leaving, Quackity saw his longtime friend Roier enter the bar with his boyfriend, Cellbit, in tow. He watched Wilbur abruptly stop, stumble around the couple, offer an awkward apology, and rush out into the mall lobby. Roier and Cellbit looked towards the tall man and back to Quackity, who witnessed the entire exchange with raised eyebrows and a slight smile. Quackity shrugged and motioned his friends over to sit down in front of him.

"Who was that?" Roier asked, sitting down on a bar seat and setting his arms on the counter. His left hand was still attached to Cellbit's, who sat down right next to him and leaned back on the small back rest on the stool. 

"A new regular," Quackity replied, rinsing out the glass that formerly housed Wilbur's liquor of choice. "His name's Wilbur. What're you getting?" 

"Just the usual," Roier said. "Has he been coming here often?"

"Yeah, quite a bit, why?" Quackity looked at his friends from his peripherals while reaching for one of the pour spouts behind the bar. He saw Cellbit and Roier look at each other and smirk, silently communicating between themselves.

"What." Quackity said flatly, sliding the couple their respective drinks. "What are you guys doing."

"Nothing, man! We just saw how you were looking at him before we came in, and…” Roier was full-on grinning now, throwing more glances towards his boyfriend.

“Oh my GOD, asshole, HE IS A CUSTOMER! I do not LIKE him!” Quackity scoffed, turning his back on his friends, who were now laughing.

“We didn’t say that you did!” Cellbit giggled. “You said that!”

“I’ve known you two for years, I know exactly what your body language means!” The barkeep threw up his hands. “There is no way that I could possibly have a crush on a fucking patron.”

“Do you think we don’t know what you look like when you have crushes on people?” Roier asked through guffaws. “You looked like you were just entranced with him!”

“I did not, because I was not!”

“You had this little smile on your face and dare I say it? You were blushing!” Roier took a long swig of his drink and set the glass down on the table with a ting.

“Oh fuck you guys, this is such bullshit!”

“It’s not like the guy is your superior or anything, right?” Cellbit said, still grinning. “You are perfectly free to ask him out, there’s nothing stopping you!”

“I’m not going to do that because I don’t have a crush on him!” Quackity covered his face with his hands and groaned. “God, it sounds like we’re in high school talking about our love lives again.”

“C’mon, man! You know we’re right on this.” Roier held up Cellbit’s hand with his own and pointed at it with his free one. “We have experience, after all.”

“Yeah, if you want we can help you ask him–”

“Guys, please! What if he’s sneaking around and hears this?” Quackity looked behind his friends and towards the door, trying to see through the open doorway and small window beside the bar’s entrance.

“From the looks of it, he was too embarrassed with himself to stick around here.” Cellbit craned his neck to look in the same direction the bartender was looking for a second or two, before turning back around and taking a sip from his drink. “You should be glad that there’s nobody else in the store right now, though. Who knows how people would take us laughing about your obvious crush on Wilb–”

“I DON’T – okay, fine. What if I do like him like that? What the fuck am I even supposed to do? I just met him! I barely even know what his favorite foods are!”

“You don’t have to do it now, man,” Roier said. “But at least now you’re being honest with yourself about the guy.”

Quackity caught a glimpse of the man rubbing slow circles on the back of Cellbit’s hand and felt a tiny urge to retch. “Oh please,” he scoffed, “I’m only saying that so I can get you guys off my back, and so that I don’t get scolded by other stores around here for being loud. The door is literally open, after all.”

“You’re the one who was being loud just because we know what you look like when you’re in loove,” Roier teased. He downed his drink all in one go and slammed the glass down on the bar top, making Quackity flinch a little at the sudden noise. Cellbit looked at his boyfriend and quickly swallowed his own, knowing just from slight gestures that Roier was going to try and leave soon.

“Oh shut the fuck up, Roier,” Quackity groaned, writing down the couple’s total on a sheet of paper and sliding it towards them. “Here’s your total. Get the fuck out of my face.”

Roier grinned, grabbed his wallet from his pocket and slapped a 20-dollar bill on the table. “Keep the change, Quackity,” he said, standing up and waiting for his boyfriend to get up with him. “We’ll see you soon. I’ll text you the script to ask that hot guy out.”

“Good bye, guys!” Quackity flitted his hand in the couple’s direction and turned away, rolling his eyes while his back was turned.

Even though he talked to them like he hated their guts, Quackity really did love his friends. Roier had been in his life since they were little kids, and Cellbit’d been in his life since some time in high school. They all knew each other like the backs of their hands, and as much as Quackity hated to admit it, they were probably right on his feelings towards Wilbur. He had never felt this type of immediate connection with a complete stranger before, much less with a normal customer. Wilbur had this inexplicable charisma and magnetic personality that immediately drew him in like bait on a fishing rod. And besides, what harm could there possibly be to getting to know a very attractive British man and maybe even asking him out?

Quackity cleaned up his friends’ messes and sat back down on his stool, but this time he didn’t bother pulling out his phone to absentmindedly scroll through social media. This time, there was something – or rather some one – else that the lone bartender would be perfectly content to have fill his head. One thought stayed in his brain as he was transported into his daydreams:

Fuck, what have I gotten myself into?

Chapter Text

Quackity became more nervous around Wilbur after Roier and Cellbit visited him. Sure, it was still the same between him and his apparent love interest; but now there was an elephant in the room – at least to him – that became harder and harder to ignore every time Wilbur came around. Whenever he saw the tall British man come in, he felt his cheeks warm and his brain shut off, only remembering what Wilbur said and not the entire conversation. What a great poker face I have, Quackity thought, nearly every time Wilbur left the establishment.

But as days turned into weeks, Wilbur hadn’t said or done anything that tipped off Quackity’s sense that he’d caught on. In fact, the only thing that changed between them was the ever-lengthening time Wilbur spent at the bar. Of course, Wilbur followed his usual routine; but more recently the man had stayed so long that other customers had started showing up before he left. There were times that veterans asked about the new guy, and Quackity told them in the vaguest way possible who Wilbur was. He would brush off their prods for more information and teases at the way he looked at Wilbur, when he stayed just a tad too long.

To everyone else, Wilbur just became another customer – a lonely man coming in when the sun was still high in the sky, just to drink and talk to the bartender for at least one relationship in their solitary lives.

But to Quackity, Wilbur was more than just a customer or a lonely man with nothing to do except sit in a hidden bar.

To the barkeep, Wilbur was the man who simultaneously made his brain wake up and shut off nearly every shift. He was someone who made Quackity actually look forward to going to work. More than anything, Wilbur was someone who made his life actually interesting for the first time since high school.

And even though Quackity wanted to kick his friends for bringing up his apparent thing for the then-stranger, he was grateful that they could sense it much better than he himself did.

Because now he could see it clear as day:

Wilbur was his addiction, the one thing that kept him coming back for more. But of all the things that came along with that title, he certainly wasn’t a vice. In fact, in a way the man was more of a saving grace (especially for his wallet, with the exorbitant tips that Wilbur left with each payment).

Around a week after the official first day of autumn, Quackity was sitting and waiting for the lanky British man to walk in, occasionally checking his watch while doodling on a napkin. (Okay, maybe not occasionally, more like every minute. But what else is a bored barkeep supposed to do when waiting for a special someone to show up?). Wilbur always had a set schedule – between two and two-and-a-half hours into Quackity’s shift, the bartender would hear the signature clacking of moderately-expensive boots against linoleum flooring. And around fifteen seconds later, he would see brown curls narrowly miss the hydraulic door machinery and a dazzling grin, with a snarky response to Quackity’s ‘hellos’ already prepared.

Quackity eventually got sucked up in something with an employee from another store, and he had no idea how much time had passed while he’d been away from his work station. When he went back, however, he checked his watch and was shocked. It took him over an hour to deal with the other employee, but Wilbur still had not shown up in his hipster-nerd attire. The bartender tried not to let something so small as Wilbur being late to showing up when he had no obligation to do so get to him, but the sudden, unexplained change left a pang in his heart. But really, all that Quackity really could do now was do the same shit he’s done for years:

Continue doodling or get lost in his phone until Wilbur or somebody else decided to show up.

As Quackity watched the window’s reflection turn orange, and as more and more people who weren’t Wilbur turned up and sat down, the more his hopes that the man would walk in were dashed. He hated how this actually hurt him, when more than anything Wilbur should have been no more than just another customer. Someone who showed up, gave Quackity his money and left. And it’s not like Wilbur was here every day, either; but there was still a routine that they’d had for months that Quackity looked forward to, every time he was set to work.

Eventually Wilbur’s absence became all but a niggling reminder in Quackity’s mind as the bar filled up. If he recalled correctly, there was a baseball game happening tonight in the city, so he turned on the overhead TV and tended to guests dressed in their fan gear. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d entirely forgotten before work that there was a game today, he would have worn his own fan gear – even if it was for the worst team in the entire league.

About ten minutes into the game, a trio of strangers wearing the home team’s jerseys wandered in and sat down at the bar top, lost in their own conversation. In the group, there were two women – one with thick, black hair and lots of tattoos, and the other with long blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail – and an older gentleman, who wore a green-striped bucket hat over his chin-length blond hair that badly clashed with his fanwear. Quackity tried to eavesdrop a little bit on their conversation, but there were other things to attend to that left him unable to listen in.

While his back was turned, one member of the trio rapped their knuckles loudly on the counter, making Quackity jump. Normally he was used to the sound of idle tapping on polished wood, but he was running on autopilot with his head in the clouds. He was also in the middle of serving other customers, and their obvious grab at his attention got on his already sensitive nerves. Impatient fucks, he thought, as he rolled his eyes before turning towards the small group.

“How’s it going, what can I get you?” he asked, not really aiming his question at any particular person.

“Hey, you’re Quackity right?” the old man interjected.

“The one and only,” Quackity replied, “Unless this isn’t my name tag and I’m actually someone completely different.” The barkeep winked, making the blonde woman in the middle smile a little.

“We have a friend who comes here a lot,” she said. “He’s told us a ton about you.”

“Oh?” Quackity raised his eyebrows. “What’s his name? If he’s a regular, I’ll definitely recognize him.”

“His name is Wilbur,” the old man spoke up. “He’s my son. We figured that if what he said was true, then this bar would be a good place to go to watch the game.”

Quackity’s cheeks grew slightly warmer at the mention of Wilbur. “Well I’m glad that he’s at least told you guys nice things about me,” the bartender said, “I wouldn’t know what I would do if, after all this time, it turns out that he actually hates my guts and has been deterring customers with trash talk.”

The trio laughed, and Quackity saw a couple heads turn their direction.

“Are you kidding?” the woman with lots of tattoos giggled. “Quackity, he never shuts up about you! He’s said nothing but nice things, and even goes a little bit too much into detail sometimes.”

The bartender felt his entire face go red. Fucking hell, keep it professional, Q! “I don’t know how he could possibly be able to get into that much detail when we only see each other for a few minutes each time he shows up,” he chuckled nervously. To keep his hands busy, he prepared and served Wilbur’s friends and father with water. He accidentally filled the glasses with a little too much ice, but he doubted they would really mind. “But now you’ve all piqued my interest. What nice things is he saying about me?”

“He really likes your eyes and the way you carry yourself,” the blonde woman said, “And how you go into these extravagant stories and it’s so obvious that you’re lying, but he says that the way your face gets when you tell them is cute and funny.”

“Wilbur also keeps telling us about how you have this really contagious laugh and charm that drags him in every time he walks through the door,” the inked-up girl added. “You were the first thing he talked about when he told us about what he’d been up to recently, actually. We didn’t think too much of it, but then he just kept on talking about you and wouldn’t stop.”

“You made him actually get out of the house a lot more too, mate.” Now Wilbur’s father was talking, almost as if they’d planned how this conversation would go from the start. “I originally forced him out of the house because he was getting all depressed after having musician’s block with his band. I didn’t know that he would go straight to a bar, but I’m glad that he at least met somebody whilst wandering about. And now he’s been going outside a shit ton, and it looks like his trips have only been to see you outside of rehearsals.”

Quackity’s face and neck felt like a searing hot iron. Maybe the weird thing between us isn’t just one sided, he mused, briefly imagining what it would be like to confront Wilbur about what he just heard. “Well if he likes me so much, might I ask why he didn’t come here with you guys to say hi?”

There were a few seconds of silence while the trio hesitated on speaking. “Sorry mate, he may not be back for a while,” the old man answered. “He just got on a plane late last night to go across the world to tour with his band.”

The barkeep’s eyebrows raised, in hopes that his expression would hide his quickly building disappointment. “Really? Do you know how long Wilbur will be gone for?” he asked.

The trio shook their heads, and it was once again Wilbur’s father’s turn to speak. “He said that it could be a month, but he’s already so busy that it’ll probably be a lot longer than that. And he can only really send letters from where he’s going, so we’ll all have very limited communication with him until he comes back.”

Quackity’s face fell despite his efforts to keep it from being too obvious. Regret and multiple other emotions gathered in the corners of his brain, but he certainly could not dwell on it for very long. “Aw, well that’s quite a shame,” he said, looking down and taking the blonde woman’s now-empty water glass to wash it. “Give him a good luck from me, and tell him that I’ll be waiting for him until he gets back.”

“Oh I’m sure he’ll love to hear that,” the black-haired woman grinned, nudging her friend. “I guess we should tell you our names now that we’re here for the game, shouldn’t we? I’m Jaiden, the girl next to me is Baghera, and the old man here is Phil.”

“It’s a pleasure to formally meet you all,” Quackity said, doing a mock bow and making the trio laugh a little more. If Wilbur talks about me to his friends and father all the time, then they better get some good stories from here to tell him, he thought, before standing back up straight and setting his hands down hard on the bar top. “Now what can I finally get you tonight, other than water and a conversation about a veteran customer?”

The rest of the night was spent with Wilbur’s friends and father not really watching the game, but rather talking about the lanky man himself. Quackity didn’t particularly mind, though he desperately wished that Wilbur was the one sitting here in a baseball jersey talking to him, rather than his friends telling stories about the man and being his messengers. They weren’t bad people, of course; but the bartender missed Wilbur’s presence and charm that lit up the room as soon as he entered it. Quackity also hoped that it didn’t show on his face or body language, but he was a little disappointed that Wilbur had chosen not to tell him about his tour. He knew that it was childish; but he couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous that he wasn’t given the news directly like Wilbur’s own friends were.

But no matter how he felt towards Wilbur in that moment, Quackity still had the now-touring musician’s return to look forward to. And he wouldn’t dare say it out loud, but he was more than excited about it. With that trip, Wilbur would come back to him with hours of stories to tell. If the barkeep actually figured out how to ask the guy out, maybe Wilbur could tell those tales to him on a date.

Now he definitely wouldn’t admit it to anyone, especially not his own friends, for he knew that they would give him endless amounts of shit for it. But as always, they hit Quackity with Cupid's bow and watched as he fell hard.

But instead of being gradual like the other times they made him realize his romantic feelings towards another, this time it was blindingly quick.

Within a matter of weeks – no, a matter of days, maybe even hours – Quackity had fallen in love with a stranger.

And with what the trio told him, he really hoped that Wilbur felt the same way too.

Chapter Text

Wilbur went to sleep late last night.

Obviously he wasn’t going to blame anyone else but himself – he arrived at Quesadilla Island with a very warm welcome (a whole party for just him, he couldn’t believe it) and couldn’t bring himself to pull an Irish goodbye when he got too tired.

Now that he was home, Wilbur was expecting to be able to actually sleep in for the first time in ages. Granted, his band had some free days on tour, but those were mostly spent wandering and being tourists instead of laying in bed all day. Wilbur himself rarely got the chance to nap for long (and tour bus beds weren’t particularly comfortable for a man of his stature), so his return and subsequent jet-lag slumber was certainly something he welcomed with open arms.

Alas, Wilbur’s plans to pass out and sleep the entire day away was rudely interrupted by a certain black-winged fellow shaking him awake.

“Wil, something’s happening, wake the fuck up!” Phil exclaimed, clawed fingers digging into Wilbur’s skin.

Wilbur’s eyes shot open and he gripped Phil’s arms to avoid falling off the couch. “Jesus fucking CHRIST man!” he cried, “What’s so important that I can’t take the day to sleep?! And for Christ’s sake, please stop shaking me, I’m up!”

“There’s a wedding that’s about to start, mate!” Phil stopped shaking Wilbur, but he was still looming over the man, hands still attached to his arms. “We were all just notified by a huge announcement earlier this morning, and everyone got worried that you of all people didn’t show up!”

“Who the hell would get married so early in the day??” Wilbur groaned.

Phil hesitated. “…Wil, it’s– just, come with me and I’ll show you. Find something nice and get dressed as quick as you can.”

“I would like to at least be told who–”

“Mate, just get dressed and you’ll find out when we get there.” Phil let go of Wilbur’s arms and walked briskly to the front door. “I’ll be waiting outside, but please hurry. I don’t want us to be late for this.”

Confused, groggy, and a tad bit hungover, Wilbur got up off the couch and began shuffling through his bags for something to wear. He eventually settled on a black button-up with its sleeves rolled up and a couple buttons undone, his usual black jeans, and some red sneakers he hurriedly shoved on while halfway out the door.

As soon as Wilbur was finished locking the door to Tallulah Towers, Phil grabbed his hand and ran towards a flowery garden path through the wall. Despite his long legs, Wilbur almost couldn’t keep up with the avian, and ended up stumbling and almost falling on his face several times throughout the journey.

Phil slowed down when Wilbur saw cherry blossom trees in the distance. The closer the two got to their destination, the more details Wilbur could make out – and the more excited he became to see everything it had to offer.

Then they reached a clearing, and Wilbur’s jaw dropped.

The place was gorgeous.

Tons of cherry blossom trees surrounded the entire area, and pink balloons and fairy lights decorated the entrance. Short, manually-cut, pink-leaved hedges separated the entire venue from the rest of the forest. As Wilbur stepped into the after-party section right in front of the clearing, his shoes clicked on chiseled quartz flooring that was detailed with hearts and various flowers. The tables and chairs were made with beautiful dark oak and cherry wood, with custom-made embroidered tablecloths set upon them. Behind the last set of chairs were two wheeled counters stacked with plates and stainless steel lids, presumably filled with various hors d'oeuvres.

Wilbur looked back at Phil, only to see the man lagging behind him. For a man so eager to get me out of the house, he certainly looks quite on edge, Wilbur thought, quirking an eyebrow at the avian in silent inquiry.

Noticing Wilbur’s expression, Phil shook his head and mouthed that he was fine. He nodded towards the intricately-carved cherry wood arch covered with flower vines, urging Wilbur to keep going.

Wilbur was so distracted by the beauty of the venue that he’d almost forgotten what he was here for. Speeding up a bit, he reached the entrance to the wedding aisle and turned to face…

“...Q-Quackity?”

Quackity froze. Wilbur could see several other attendees look towards each other and at him in his peripherals, but his gaze was dead-set on the groom.

The groom, who was marrying a picture of Wilbur from a few years ago.

The groom, who never proposed to Wilbur or even asked him on a date.

The groom, who never even bothered to send Wilbur letters during his absences, or even speak to him when he came back from his first long tour.

Wilbur knew about their weird relationship, but he thought he knew Quackity better than this. He thought that no matter how much time went by, their elaborate dance around the elephant in the room would continue (though he certainly wished that that wasn’t the case).

He also knew how Quackity was one of the most impulsive people on the island, so much so that it bordered on destructive more times than Wilbur could count. Nevertheless, no matter how much time passed, the man’s unpredictability was ironically predictable.

This random – and dare he say it, ballsy – behavior was certainly some huge news to Wilbur.

In fact, it was so out of the blue that it didn’t even seem like something the Quackity he knew would do.

And as Wilbur stared at the frozen man on the wedding stand, he noticed little bits and pieces that set his theory in stone.

This wasn’t his Quackity.

No – this wasn’t even Quackity at all.

Chapter Text

“Hello.”

Wilbur just about jumped out of his skin. “FUCKING hell– stop doing that!” He whipped his head around to see just who he was expecting: a white bear with a disturbing, permanent smile stuck on its face. If Wilbur himself were the height of the other island members, it’s likely that the creature would tower above him – but it was only taller than him by a couple inches. “What do you want?”

“Read this.” 

A book was thrown on the ground before Wilbur, who had one hand occupied by a pickaxe he’d gotten from another member way before his prolonged absence. The book’s pages fanned out as it hit the stone floor, turning too fast before Wilbur could get a look without picking the item up.

Wilbur hesitated, quirking an eyebrow and only moving to fully face the white bear. “I don’t know why you’re still using these when we all know that you can talk normally.”

“Read this.” The bear repeated. It gestured towards the book.

“I’m doing everything you’ve asked me to do. I don’t–”

“Read this.”

“Okay! Alright! Fine! I’ll read the damn book! Jesus Christ…” Wilbur reluctantly picked up the book, flipped it over, and rolled his eyes before opening it to the first page.

WIlbur’s eyebrows raised and eyes widened as he read. “I don’t–” His brow furrowed in frustration in confusion. “What the fuck do you want with me? I’m doing everything you ask, I– I can’t do this!”

The bear looked at Wilbur with beady eyes (though he wasn’t sure if it was always looking at him; its eyes didn’t have any sclerae or other indicators that they moved at all) and quirked its head to the side. Wilbur’s anger grew at the stupid look and that awful goddamned smile the bear wore.

“What the fuck do you expect me to do, huh?” Wilbur threw the book in the bear’s direction, but it dodged the item. The fresh leather scraped across the stone floor. “I’m already doing whatever you want! No one knows that I’m even working for you, and keeping that secret is enough work as is! I can’t do this!” 

“Ha ha ha.”

“What are you laughing at?! I refuse to do this shit, it’s too much! Didn’t I already give you all I have?”

Silence. Wilbur’s fists shook.

“Please. Follow me.”

“I’m in the middle of something. You know, gathering the things you requested? Working my ass off to make sure you don’t hurt my family?”

“Please. Follow me.”

“I won’t. You’re asking too much of me. I’m putting my foot down.”

The world stilled for a few moments. The only thing audible was Wilbur’s angry breathing and the bear’s fur rustling in the slight wind of the massive cave.

Suddenly, Wilbur felt a massive paw grab his forearm and yank hard, claws digging into his skin. He yelped, pulling back and trying to twist out of the bear’s tight grasp. “What the fuck?! Let go of me!”

But the bear was stronger. Much stronger, in fact. 

Wilbur continued to squirm, pulling back with all his might. The bear dug its claws further into his arm, making him see spots at the pain. He was sure blood would start welling out of the wounds, if it hadn’t already. Just as he began getting his vision back, he realized he’d made a grave mistake.

He’d faltered in his struggle. He’d left himself vulnerable.

But it was too late to correct that mistake, for the bear yanked Wilbur’s arm again and nearly dislocated his shoulder with the force, making him topple. Claws ripped deep into his skin and his eyes teared up from the pain of simultaneous near-dislocation and multiple lacerations. Warm liquid ran down his underarm, and he knew he was done for. 

There was no way Wilbur could struggle without making his wounds worse. He had to accept his fate and just see where the white bear was taking him with no fights. The grip it had on his forelimb was agonizing, and the microscopic, jagged edge of its claws in his skin made it countless times worse. He barely resisted the urge to writhe and twist away from the massive paw as he was dragged along the stone floor.

Wilbur looked at the dark ceiling of the huge cave he was asked to spelunk by the Federation, trying to feel anything but the perpetual torment of the white bear’s claws and the feeling of warm blood leaving his veins for the stone ground. After only a few strong tugs and groans of pain from Wilbur, he felt the edge of the book hit his calf. He immediately looked down at the stimulus, reading the words on the front page, written in all caps, that caused this whole mess:

CHOOSE WHO TO TARGET.

QUACKITY OR TALLULAH.

YOU HAVE 24 HOURS.

Chapter Text

Quackity felt sick to his stomach when he walked into the military encampment.

Don’t get him wrong, he’d seen the dire circumstances of war before. As the General’s son, it was his duty to train under her and fill her spot if or when she died (though she insisted that Quackity said when instead of if; “There’s no point in being hopeful that anyone will survive in battle,” she’d said in several instances, and every time Quackity just shook his head in disagreement). He’d seen the carnage on the battlefield, and directed the battalion’s wizards and dragon riders to shoot any moving enemy target. He’d seen bodies scattered in the tall grasses, and literally had blood on his hands more times than he could count. He was also no stranger to the depressing aura of the barracks after a hard battle, and seeing the hospital cots filled, with nurses running left and right. Quackity learned years ago to blot out the viscera and feelings of guilt from the blind murdering of hostiles from his memory.

But nothing prepared him for seeing his own husband, pale and bloodied to oblivion, coughing and panting on a cot among other soldiers.

No. He’s not supposed to be here. 

“Wilbur!” Quackity cried out, running and nearly slipping in the mud into the medic tent. “What the fuck is going on? Why are you here? You’re supposed to be at home, what— what the hell did you do to end up here?”

Wilbur weakly reached up to cup Quackity’s cheek. Quackity nearly shivered at the feeling of sticky blood on his spouse’s palm. “Hello, my love,” Wilbur whispered, wincing in pain. 

“Hi, Wil,” he replied, leaning into the touch despite the uncomfortable feeling of crimson drying on his skin. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

“I’m sorry honey, I–” Wilbur broke into a fit of coughs, spittle mixed with blood escaping his lungs. Quackity’s heart panged with dread. “I heard that something had happened to you, so I came running. I didn’t mean to get hurt like this, I promise.”

“Amor, I’m alright,” Quackity crooned. His own hand met Wilbur’s, and his thumb gently rubbed against his husband’s knuckles. “I said I’d send messenger pigeons with news, and I have been, haven’t I? You know not to answer the door unless a pigeon has reached you first.” 

“General Quackity.” The Head Nurse, Niki, spoke from behind him. Quackity turned, hand still holding Wilbur’s. “Head Magician Wilbur was targeted by an enemy spy dressed as one of our own militiamen. They told him that you were gravely injured in battle, and that he needed to come right away. As you can see, he came running to your aid, but was shot through his back with a poison-tipped arrow enchanted with a returning power. One of our men found him incapacitated on the ground a ways away from the battlefield, having completely missed the encampment due to Wilbur being led astray by the spy.”

“Have you found an antidote for the poison? I’m sure it isn’t anything we haven’t dealt with in the past. And you know me well, Head Nurse Niki. There’s no need to greet me with such formality.” 

“I still feel obligated to show you respect on the field, Quackity,” Niki replied, her formal tone shifting into something kinder, as if she were greeting an old family member (which, in a way, Quackity was). “And no sir, we haven’t. This one is different, General. I think it’s laced with some sort of paralyzing bacterial toxin, and it’s slowly working through his system. The Head Magician no longer has the use of his legs, and it’s working quite quickly.”

“I’m sure the healers’ master book has information about this toxin,” Quackity said, his brow furrowing, “have you not looked at it yet?”

“Our healers are searching through the grimoire, but have yet to find anything. And our top nurses are currently tending to the Head Magician to the best of their ability. They’re making sure he’s comfortable, though with what medicines we currently have and the influx of injured soldiers it’s a little difficult to share everything among them and your husband.”

“Please, Niki,” Wilbur murmured, barely loud enough for the Head Nurse and Quackity to hear, “you know me just as well as my husband. Just Wilbur is fine; I’m not just my title, you know.”

“If I refer to Quackity as the General, then I refer to you as the Head Magician,” Niki responded with a slight, humored smile, “I respect you too much to have the soldiers start referring to you both by your first names due to my own informality.”

“I appreciate the concern, but I trust your reprimanding skills,” Wilbur said with a cough. “A friend can refer to me as informally as they’d like.”

“Not in the barracks, I won’t,” Niki remarked.

“Head Nurse Niki,” Quackity interjected, “may I ask what was done with the spy?”

“They were shot on sight as soon as they were found by our wizard sentries.”

“Good. I’m sure that the magic did a number on them.”

“Yes sir. Unfortunately it did render us unable to identify the spy very easily, but I’m sure that we can find some sort of identification on their corpse.”

“Please do. I’m sure that we can use the spy’s identity against the enemy in some way. After all, if they were assigned with the assassination of the kingdom’s Head Magician, I’m sure that they had quite the high ranking amongst their men.”

“I will be sure to relay it to the Lower Command,” Niki nodded, “and I will continue to assist the healers with finding anything about the toxin when I can. As you can see, I have many patients to tend to.”

“Tend to them first, Head Nurse,” Wilbur said. Niki made a sour face at his instruction. “Niki, treat me as if I were any of the other soldiers here,” he continued, “they got here first. I’ll be fine; I have my husband here by my side, and that is enough for me.” Wilbur looked at Quackity with bloodshot eyes, and the General swore that his spouse had hearts in his pupils. He snorted at his husband’s infatuated gaze, and Wilbur smiled at his reaction.

“Okay, I will do as you wish, Wil,” Niki said hesitantly. She set a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder, and Wilbur smiled softly at her. “But don’t expect me to not pay attention to you at all. As the kingdom’s Head Magician, I can’t have you dying on me and get my head placed on a stake by King Philza.”

“Thank you, Niki,” Wilbur said affectionately. “Now go! Tend to your patients! I see so many around me who are in much worse shape than I am.”

“I will, I will!” Niki’s hand slid off Wilbur’s shoulder and she waved it around as she walked away to the next soldier.

After a few seconds of silence, Wilbur snickered and Quackity glanced at him. “You are so hot when you’re commanding,” he said. Quackity huffed into a chuckle and rolled his eyes.

“You are high off adrenaline and whatever is in that IV, Wil.”

“You’re dismissing my comment because you know it’s true!”

“It is not! You’re just in love with me.”

“I am indeed,” Wilbur hummed, “that’s why I came running. You are the only thing I live for, my love.”

Quackity’s cheeks and nose flushed a shade of pink. “Isn’t that a little reckless and depressing, to only live for me?”

“You are my food, my water, and my shelter,” Wilbur replied, squeezing Quackity’s hand. “I would run to the ends of the earth if it meant you were still in my life.”

“And I’ll still be in it, if you don’t tell the Head Nurse and our best friend to take care of the soldiers and not you! Wil, that’s a death sentence; paralysis is no fucking joke!”

“Honey, they’re the ones on the battlefield, not me,” Wilbur coughed.

“And you’re the most important person in the kingdom, next to the King! Don’t you realize that that’s why you’re held in such high regard? You’ve written books that training wizards use as standard education!”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with me wanting to make sure my husband is safe? I could never bear to lose you, Quackity.”

“Is that why you went against both my and Commandant Etoiles’ orders and answered the door for a spy?” Quackity raised an incredulous brow.

“Okay, I understand how it was a dumb idea to answer the door–”

“Yes, it was.”

Wilbur stuck out his tongue and continued. “–but I know what the Theoritas Army uniform looks like. I’ve never had a soldier arrive at my door, especially so late in the night, so it worried me and I felt that I should open the door to see what’s happening.”

“You still disobeyed direct orders from me and the Commandant.”

“Sure, but what if something had actually happened to you? I still don’t know how particularly quick messenger pigeons are with delivering letters.” 

“That’s no excuse, amor.” 

“Okay, Q, then what are you gonna do now? I admitted how I shouldn’t have opened the door, but now I’m here with you, and at least I know that you’re alright! That’s a good thing, right?”

“Wil, I’ve been alright, and a letter would have been sent to you if something happened to me, as previously said. But now you’re not okay, and even if you are right here with me, we don’t know how to make an antidote for whatever you were shot with.” Quackity closed Wilbur’s hand into a fist and lovingly scratched it on his own chest.

“I don’t know if this is relevant, but I was doing some research and made a breakthrough about a toxin similar to what the Federation troops shot me with.”

Quackity’s world stopped. “What?”

“Did I not tell you– well, that’s not important right now.” Wilbur erupted into a coughing fit so violent that he leaned over the bed and gagged from the force. Quackity gasped and turned to call for a nurse, but Wilbur stopped him with a tight hand squeeze. “I was looking at the bacteria when the spy knocked on my door, and it turns out that we encounter it all the time,” he continued. “It’s normally harmless because it just sits in the soils, and only becomes dangerous when placed in low-oxygen environments. It’s why we see it in outbreaks when someone incorrectly cans their own food. I have yet to come up with a name for it, but this may be a breakthrough in biological studies.”

“Niki already said that it was a bacteria that caused it, but how does it become dangerous? We can’t just treat it with antibiotics; that seems kind of counterproductive.”

“Correct, my love.” Wilbur moved to try and sit up, but he could only arch the upper half of his back before falling into the cot again in defeat. “There should be a magic remedy section for toxins and venoms in the grimoire. I remember updating it, but I’m not sure if the healers here have the new version.”

“Head Nurse Niki!” Quackity called out. Niki, who was bent over a patient, whipped her head around in the General’s direction. He couldn’t hear what she was talking about, but it didn’t take more than half a minute for the nurse to trot over.

“Yes?” she inquired as she slowed to a stop.

“Wilbur has a question for you to ask the healers.”

“Thank you, my love, but you don’t need to talk for me.” Wilbur winked at Quackity, prompting a slight smile from the other, before locking eyes with Niki. “Before the spy came to me, I made a discovery with the unknown bacteria you mentioned. The Federation army may have kept the tips of their arrows in a closed, low-oxygen container for the toxin created by the unknown organism to absorb into.”

“What does this have to do with the healers? This just sounds like some semi-related topic to me,” Niki said, unimpressed. “If you just wanted to talk to me, I hope you know that I am very busy with following your orders and tending to my other patients.”

“No, wait, this is related!” Wilbur exclaimed before the woman got the chance to walk away. Niki stopped in her tracks and turned to face the Head Magician with a raised eyebrow. “Is there a bacteria and fungi section in the grimoire? It may have the recipe in there for a universal antitoxin.”

“I can check,” Niki replied, “I’ll be right back with an answer for you, Head Magician.” The couple watched her leave before they looked at each other.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Quackity muttered. He kneeled down and kissed Wilbur’s forehead, furrowing his brow at the abnormal heat he felt against his lips. “Wilbur, you’re feverish.”

“What? How could I be? I feel fine.” Wilbur pressed the back of his hand against his own forehead. “Q, are you joking with me, because I don’t appreciate your attempt at being funny.”

“No, Wil, I’m serious. You have a temperature. I’ll be right back, I’m going to talk to one of the nurses to see what we can do.” Quackity pulled away and let go of Wilbur’s grasp, only for his husband to grip his hand tighter.

“Q, please stay.”

Quackity furrowed his brow. “Are you alright? What are you feeling?”

“I… I’m scared, sweetheart. I don’t want you to leave me.”

“I know, but I won’t be long, my love. I’ll be in your sights, I promise.” Quackity gave Wilbur a peck on the cheek – which confirmed his suspicions that Wilbur had a fever – before getting up and chatting with one of the nurses.

As Quackity chatted with an old healer about Wilbur’s fever, the Head Magician’s condition quickly deteriorated. At some point, Quackity had been pulled away (albeit reluctantly) by Commandant Etoiles to discuss battle plans and alternative routes back to the camp, so that the enemy couldn’t follow the Theoritas Army and play dirty war tactics. While he was busy conversing with Etoiles, he didn’t hear Wilbur cry out weakly for his husband as he lost the feeling in his hands and suddenly found it incredibly hard to breathe.

“We’re far enough away from the battlefield that I’m sure they won’t find us,” Quackity argued, crossing his arms.

“Yes, but we either need to move camp or reroute the way to get back here,” Etoiles replied sharply. “General Quackity, it’s dangerous.”

“Commandant, I need you to understand that we can’t just uproot the whole camp to find someplace else. This is the optimal spot, and we have others in case the Federation troops find us. I hear your concern and respect the strategy that you’re recommending; but we are hidden by the trees, and have wizard sentries protecting us from the enemy.”

“General, you’re not listening,” Etoiles warned, “what if they flank backup troops on their way to camp, and find the path to us?”

“I think you’re being paranoid,” Quackity snapped.

“It’s an incredibly simple solution! If you would simply let me show you the map, we could tell the kingdom’s army reserves that we’ve changed the route–”

“That is not necessary, Commandant.”

“What if there was a tracking spell or something cast on the arrow that shot the Head Magician? Gods know that that’s possible; you’ve seen how advanced magic has become.”

“I know that the Federation is smart, but I don’t think they’re smart enough to get intel on what the Head Magician has created and only shared with his most trusted associates.”

“And your husband immediately disobeyed both my and your orders for him to stay put because he was lied to by a spy.” Etoiles looked at Quackity with annoyed, unimpressed eyes, and Quackity fumed.

“You are really bringing my husband into this, Commandant?” he snarled. “He is irrelevant to this conversation. Frankly, I didn’t realize that you would play that dirty to try and persuade me to go through a million hoops for your hard-to-initiate strategy that may not even work.”

“General Quackity, his foolishness nearly cost him his life and the camp’s location.”

“You dare call the Head Magician a fool?” If Quackity had feathers, he was certain that they would be bristling.

“General Quackity!”

A nurse came running from the army hospital tent, flinging mud behind him. Quackity turned and quickly paled at the expression on the other’s face.

“The Head Magician…” the nurse panted, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees.

“What, what’s happened?”

“General, your husband… he’s been intubated and closely monitored. His lungs have been paralyzed by the toxin, and are currently being controlled manually by one of the healers.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck– get out of my way!” Quackity pushed past the nurse – and felt a twinge of regret in the panic rushing through his veins – and sprinted into the tent. 

It wasn’t hard at all to locate his husband, as at least five army hospital staff were surrounding him, frantically looking back and forth between each other and Wilbur. Among the mixture of heads was Niki’s signature half-dyed hair. Quackity immediately ran to her and tapped her on the shoulder. “Niki– I mean, Head Nurse!”

Niki whipped her head toward the panicking Quackity with a calm expression – but her eyes betrayed how she truly felt. “General, I don’t know what happened– he declined so fast, much faster than what we were expecting. One moment he was at least somewhat lively and speaking, and the next he was unconscious and struggling to breathe.”

“Did you or the healers find anything in the grimoire?” Quackity demanded. Niki shook her head.

“I’m sure that Wil– I mean the Head Magician, was being honest about his discoveries, but he must not have updated the book and sent it to the healing team before this all happened. Did he say how recent the discovery was?” 

“He said ‘before the spy came to him’, but that could be any time before today. It’s all subjective, but now we can’t ask him because he’s fucking intubated!” Quackity placed his hands behind his head and attempted to take deep breaths to calm his nerves.

“General–”

“Just Quackity, Niki. Please; no need to keep up formalities in scenarios such as these.”

Niki huffed before continuing. “Quackity, I understand how charged the air is right now, but we must do whatever it takes to keep the Head Magician alive. Besides, he’s unconscious; he wouldn’t be able to tell us anything, even if he wanted to.”

“Maybe–” Quackity stuttered, sifting through his brain for possible solutions, “–maybe a soldier can run to Wilbur’s research lab and try and find the book, I-I’m sure that it’s somewhere. He usually writes his findings in a blue, leather-bound book, and always leaves his pen in the page he last wrote in.”

“Is there anyone around who can help the General?!” Niki yelled over the commotion. Both her and Quackity looked around, but found no one not attending to downed militiamen. “Oh, wait, Quackity! Commandant Etoiles pulled you away to talk about something, right? I saw you both leave out of the corner of my eye while I was assisting a healer.”

“Yes, why– oh shit, Niki, you goddamned genius!” Quackity exclaimed, pulling Niki into a tight squeeze and patting her hard on the back. “I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to assist. After all, no one really wants to be hunted by the king’s top assassins,” he attempted to lightheartedly joke – but of course, it fell flat. “I’ll find him as quick as I can and order him to go to WIlbur’s lab and find that book. I’ll be right back. Call for me if something more happens, alright?”

Niki nodded. “Like I wouldn’t,” she remarked, before turning back to the crowd and conversing with the medic staff. Quackity, on an urgent mission, ran back out of the tent and scanned the camp for any sign of the green-skinned Commandant. As he asked a couple wandering soldiers for Etoiles’ whereabouts, only one thought repeated in his mind:

Please, Wilbur, survive this. I can’t live without you.

Chapter Text

Wilbur woke with a start in a completely different place from where he went unconscious. He was disoriented and his head pounded, as if someone were beating a hammer against his skull. Wherever he was, it was hot and difficult to breathe in – though the latter feeling was likely due to some unknown object sticking to the walls of his throat that he couldn’t cough up. Confused, Wilbur sat up slowly, his head spinning at the change in position. When he looked around, the world slowly came into focus.

He was back in the upper floor of his research lab, where his and Quackity’s king-size bed sat. The sun shone bright through a small sliver in the satin curtains he was given by King Philza several years ago.

What the hell? Wilbur thought. As he attempted to right himself and get a better grasp of what the fuck happened in his dream, the faint smell of burnt spices filled the air. He wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant scent, and decided that that was his cue to actually get out of bed.

“Wilbur!” A voice called from the first floor, “breakfast is ready!”

“Coming, love!” Wilbur tossed the thick, heavy covers off his body and set his feet on the old, wooden floor. Even more confusion and concern filled his head when he attempted to stand up – but couldn’t, at least not easily. His legs felt as if he had run a hundred-mile marathon the day before, and barely functioned at all. “Just– just give me a moment, okay honey?”

“You have five minutes!” came the reply. “Don’t let your food get cold!”

Wilbur knew that it would take longer than five minutes to get up with the state of his legs. Dread filled his stomach as his attempts to stand proved futile. He didn’t want to ask his husband for help, but every time his legs wobbled from his weight that seemed to be his only option to move.

At about the fourteenth or fifteenth attempt, Wilbur sighed in defeat and plopped back down on the soft mattress. He set his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands against his cheeks, digging the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Somehow the room felt even warmer, and he broke out in a slow, inexplicable sweat. As Wilbur sat in that position, he heard Quackity’s soft footsteps come up the lab’s spiral staircase.

“Wil?” Quackity asked quietly. When Wilbur barely responded to his voice, he slowly moved closer. The Head Magician felt the bed dip with his husband’s weight. A warm, gentle hand came around behind his back and squeezed his bicep, hugging him close. Quackity’s head rested on Wilbur’s shoulder, and Wilbur’s chest tightened.

“Is everything okay?” Quackity questioned after a few moments.

Wilbur inhaled a shaky breath and willed his burning eyes to not let loose a couple embarrassed tears. “I-I just don’t feel well,” he stuttered. There goes my attempt to seem put together, he thought, mentally kicking himself.

“I can bring breakfast up to you on a tray if you’d like,” Quackity offered, rubbing Wilbur’s arm. “I know you didn’t feel the best yesterday, so I made you a surprise.”

I felt off yesterday? Why don’t I remember this?

“No, sweetheart, you don’t have to,” Wilbur said quietly. “I just need a minute, is all. Woke up a bit rough.”

“If I give you any more time, your food will get cold and my cooking efforts will have been wasted,” Quackity joked softly. He shifted and gave Wilbur a kiss on the cheek. He started rocking Wilbur side to side in silence, gently pushing and pulling him with his body weight. Wilbur took several more shaky breaths and felt tears run down his cheeks. “Hey, I saw that,” his husband said. Quackity pulled Wilbur’s hands away from his face and manually turned his head to look at the other. Wilbur met Quackity’s deep brown eyes and smiled wistfully.

“I’m sorry love,” Wilbur murmured.

Quackity wiped away the tear tracks on his spouse’s face. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Wil,” he assured softly, “we all have bad days.”

“Can I tell you something?” Wilbur inhaled deeply to calm his fried nerves.

“Of course.”

“I-I tried to get out of bed, I really did. I just… physically couldn’t. I don’t know why, I just felt… weak, I guess.”

“Hey, we all have those days, don’t worry.” The mattress moved again as Quackity stood and kissed Wilbur gingerly. The magician could taste something sweet on his lover’s lips, likely maple syrup or sweet cream from his usual morning coffee. “Let me bring up your breakfast for you. We can just have a rest day; there’s no rush to do anything.”

Wilbur looked up at Quackity and spoke after he pulled away. “What about the front? Don’t you have to get to the encampment today and make battle plans?”

Quackity blinked. “What do you mean?”

Wilbur’s stomach dropped. “You’re the General of the Theoritas army, y-you were trained by your mother when she eventually retired, don’t you remember? You better not be fooling me right now, Quackity.”

“What? No, I am the General, Wil,” Quackity hurriedly reassured, “I mean that I just don’t have anything urgent on the board today. We just won a huge battle and turned the tide of the war, and the Major General ordered me to go home and visit you while the army recoups.”

Wilbur sighed in relief, but coughed midway through. The object in his throat pressed uncomfortably against his larynx and made it even harder to breathe. In fact, it felt like his diaphragm was struggling to move at all.

“Wilbur, are you alright? Do I need to send for the kingdom healer?”

“No Q, I’m fine, really–” he erupted into another hacking fit and covered his mouth to prevent saliva from getting all over his husband. Is this what Quackity meant by ‘not feeling the best?’ When he pulled his hand away from his face, he felt the blood drain from the upper part of his body. 

In his palm was a mixture of mucus, saliva and blood.

Fuck.

Suddenly his stomach hurt as if he were shot with an arrow, and he cried out in pain, doubling over so fast that he fell off the bed and onto the planks below. His throat felt like it was closing up and his lungs stopped working as he struggled to breathe. He would stretch his back to try and give his diaphragm a chance to expand, but he was afraid that his abdomen would rip open if he did.

“Wilbur!” Quackity screamed as Wilbur squeaked and gasped for air. His peripherals narrowed with a black vignette, and spots dotted his vision from agonizing pain and oxygen deprivation. “Please, please, stay with me! I can’t lose you!” his husband cried. Even though Wilbur was conscious (though he was quickly becoming less so), Quackity began performing CPR and pressing hard against his sternum. He breathed his own air into the magician’s lungs, repeating “I love you I love you I love you so much don’t die please don’t die stay awake for me please I love you” like a mantra. Tears streamed down Quackity’s face, and Wilbur nearly started crying too – except it was impossible for his eyes to do anything except burn and redden. Everything was so warm that he felt as if he were in an oven.

“Hold on, I’ll bring you to a healer!” Suddenly a limp Wilbur was being picked up and cradled as Quackity raced down the stairs and out of the research lab. He barely felt the jostling of being ran with and the cool autumn air against his bare skin. All the while, the General was screaming as loud as he could between pants and getting closer to the castle walls. Wilbur’s vision darkened and the incredible urge to close his eyes weighed his muscles down further. The lack of oxygen was really getting to him now; he could barely think straight, if at all.

When Quackity entered the castle gates and into the ancient, grandiose building, Wilbur had a final thought that it must look quite humorous, watching a man nine inches shorter than the magician carrying someone six-and-a-half feet tall. As his vision blacked out, he was jostled into another person’s hands and placed on what felt like a hospital cot. Muddled voices surrounded him as his brain couldn’t take the lack of oxygen, and he fell unconscious.

｡˚ ➶ ｡˚

Wilbur woke up once again, this time much slower than the last. His eyelids felt like they were stuck together with glue as he made a strangled noise and tried to move around. Instead of being on his soft mattress, he was still on a hospital cot right where he left off. Except here, it was twice as cold as his previous location. 

As soon as he strained his eyes open to slivers, Wilbur noticed several people standing around him in a circle. He attempted to sit up, but he was either being held down or had no control of anything lower than his collarbone. His world gradually came into focus, and suddenly he felt incredibly self conscious when he became aware of just how many pairs of colored pupils were staring at him intently. 

Abruptly, Wilbur heard one of the strangers – who, based on their uniforms, were likely Theoritas Army medical staff – yell out some name he couldn’t decipher. He watched as two nurses parted, and a new face came into view.

His husband, who had tear streaks down his cheeks and bloodshot eyes. 

Quackity cried harder at the sight of the Head Magician, but Wilbur himself couldn’t figure out why. He was dazed out of his mind, with an incredibly uncomfortable feeling of something stuffed down his throat and air being forced into his lungs. The object was so incredibly close to making him gag, but it was far enough from that nerve that it barely kept him from vomiting. Suddenly all he could see were black strands of hair messily tied back in a short ponytail, as Quackity hugged him tightly and sobbed into his shoulder. Another strangled noise left Wilbur’s throat and his chest tightened – but this time, it wasn’t from a lack of oxygen.

“…tube out,” Wilbur heard a shaky voice say. Based on the timbre, he guessed it was Quackity giving some sort of order. Immediately following the instruction, Wilbur’s need to gag became unbearable as the object in the tall man’s windpipe dragged against its flesh at an agonizingly slow pace. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and Wilbur screwed them shut as he struggled to breathe through his nose. 

After what felt like ages, the intrusion in Wilbur’s throat – which he now saw was a breathing tube – finally left his mouth. Bile quickly rose to fill the space the apparatus left behind, and a nurse barely had time to turn him over before he vomited all over the ground. Someone else – probably Quackity – gently rubbed Wilbur’s back in soothing circles as he retched. A healer barged through the crowd with a healing potion and told Wilbur to “drink this.” He obliged as he was manhandled into a sitting position, grateful for the gesture. The strawberry-flavored liquid burned down his throat like a shot of vodka, but left no pain behind as it covered the walls of his esophagus.

Wilbur could tell how quickly the potion worked through his system by how his hearing was suddenly restored. He could decipher who was talking and what they were saying; the commotion in the hospital tent; the distant hustling of soldiers outside; and most of all, the quiet weeping of Quackity. The General embraced him once again, his face wet and shoulders shaking. Guilt wracked through Wilbur’s body — he would have hugged his sobbing husband, but he could only press his chin into the crook of Quackity’s neck. The rest of his body was numb, and flopped around when his lover adjusted his hold.

Words resembling “I’m sorry” tumbled out of Wilbur’s mouth. Quackity only held him tighter. Sadness filled the Head Magician’s heart and pumped through his aorta to the rest of his numb body. Despite his consciousness, there were still very few coherent thoughts that ran through Wilbur’s brain. He barely spoke anything as time passed, even though he was sure that he could mumble something to any of the surrounding medical staff.

The nurses let Wilbur sleep after he freaked both them and Quackity out and passed out in his lover’s arms. He had no idea how long he slept, but he could tell that it’d been at least a few hours when he woke up and saw that the sun had set.

Wilbur mumbled something he himself couldn’t understand, and Quackity looked up from kneeling and writing some paperwork on the cot. The General’s eyes raised, and he moved closer to better listen to his tall lover.

“Sorry, what'd you say, Wil?” Quackity asked. He set a hand on Wilbur’s shin and absentmindedly rubbed it under the thin blanket. Not that Wilbur could feel it, of course; he only saw Quackity do it from his position.

“How… h-how long…?” was all Wilbur could muster.

“Are you asking how long you were asleep, or how long you were out?”

“…Both,” Wilbur slurred.

“You were asleep for about five hours just now,” Quackity began, “but you were in a coma for a few weeks.”

Wilbur blinked, stunned. “Weeks?”

“Wil, do you know why you’re here? In the army medical tent?” Wilbur only shook his head to the best of his ability. The General gave him the saddest look he’d ever seen. “You… you came running for me. You were tricked by a Federation spy dressed as a Theoritas soldier, and were told that I was gravely injured in battle. Even though Commandant Etoiles and I told you to not leave your research lab unless absolutely necessary and with protection from the castle guards, you disobeyed us and followed the spy, almost to the battlefield. One of their archers shot you with a poison-tipped arrow – rather, it was soaked in a bacterial neurotoxin, and enchanted, really – and you were brought here. You almost died, Wil. The toxin paralyzed you from the neck down, including your diaphragm and lungs. You stopped breathing. If it had the chance, it likely would have stopped your heart. That’s why you were intubated.” 

Wilbur watched Quackity shake his head as silent tears rolled down his lover’s cheeks. “I… I almost lost you, Wilbur,” he whispered. “The entire kingdom nearly lost you. You’re lucky that Etoiles found your book with all your observations in it and found the recipe for that universal antitoxin. Even then, it took weeks for it to fully leave your system.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Wilbur could think to respond with. Sludge-like sorrow and guilt mixed and flowed with the plasma in his veins.

“It’s okay, my love,” Quackity murmured, crawling on his knees and kissing Wilbur’s hand. “You’re awake and alive, and that’s all that matters to me.”

Even though the General probably meant his statement, to Wilbur it didn’t sound genuine. He felt like he should be punished for making Quackity worry like this during a time of war. His husband should be doing his job, making battle plans, marking up maps and arguing with his cohorts – but instead he was here, by Wilbur’s unconscious side, for gods know how long. Did he have to breathe for Wilbur? Did he have to pump the bag that kept air flowing through his lungs? Did he have to change the IV filled with healing spells and medication from the hospital reserves for him? Did he mourn the man whom he wasn’t sure would live or die?

Dammit. He really was just a fool.

Wilbur didn’t realize he was crying too until Quackity brushed away the tear tracks on his cheeks. “What’s going on in that head of yours, amor?” he asked quietly. Wilbur only flopped his head into his lover’s shirt and wet the cotton fibers with his tears. Quackity brought one hand up and combed through Wilbur’s matted curls, which only made him cry harder. No matter how much he wanted to say something, anything more than just apology after apology, it seemed like that was the only phrase his tongue could form. “It’s okay, it’s okay, shh, you don’t have to apologize,” was Quackity’s constant reply.

“Yes I do,” Wilbur stuttered out. Quackity never listened. And Wilbur never quite forgave himself.