Archive of Our Own

The weariness in Phil’s eyes rendered his smile redundant—it’s not like Wilbur needed a confirmation to know his father’s true feelings on his participation in the New Year’s Eve preparations.  “Just rest, you seem tired”, “there’s no need, you can just enjoy the break”, “you’ve had enough to worry about, we can handle it” were all quite funny ways of pronouncing “you’re not needed here, and you’re most certainly not trusted”.

But that was fine, Wilbur knew when to remove himself.

And so that was how—after first roaming the Las Nevadas streets for hours—he found himself inside a bar at 9 pm on the 31st of December.  He decided to try a gay bar in hopes of scoring a free drink, knowing that even a simple beer anywhere in the overpriced city could put a dent in his wallet, but was surprised to find a suspicious lack of “gay bars”.  That was until he finally walked into one, and soon realised that, naturally, Quackity made sure the outlier would be a straight bar.  That is, if one even existed anywhere near Las Nevadas.

The place was already quite busy.  He sat down by the bar on the only free stool left, soon realising why indeed it was left free, as he sank down immediately upon placing his weight onto the seat.  He tried adjusting it, but yet again, it changed by itself the second he moved, putting him at an awkward height.  After wrestling with the mechanism for a bit and staying completely still, he finally managed to stay up.

With that, his hunt began.

Well, perhaps not so much a hunt, as awkward attempts at batting his eyelashes at people just enough times to unlock the “receive a free drink” option, but that proved more difficult than he thought it’d be.  He tried changing to more active flirting, but after several attempts which included mimicking what he thought a gay man would sound like, and even more times he had to adjust the stool, he decided to stop before someone accused him of a hate crime.  Eventually he once more resorted to doing his best to look as dainty and feminine as he could, smiling flirtatiously at the nearby people.  When he noticed a new person approaching the bar and readied himself to “turn on the charm”, he heard a voice.

“Hey.”  Wilbur turned around to see the bartender’s furrowed brows.  “What on earth are you doing, man?”  The tone sounded more full of pity and exasperation than any level of anger.

“Trying to get a drink. What does it look like I'm doing,” Wilbur retorted.

“Failing.”

Wilbur scoffed, straightening out.  “Listen, you prick—”

“Just—” a sigh, as presumably vodka coke was pushed in Wilbur’s direction, “—take it.  On the house.  It’s the New Year.  Unsuccessfully flirting with guys you’re clearly not even into just to get a single drink is a shit way to spend it.”  Wilbur looked at the drink with a blink, unsure if he felt grateful, or insulted.  “Drink it, talk with people like a normal person, and hopefully have a decent night after all.”

Wilbur hesitated, but took the drink, deciding it was too early to cause a ruckus.  “Won’t your boss be unhappy about you giving out free drinks?” he commented cynically.

“Prime— it’s on me, man, alright?  Just shut up and stop disrupting the other guests before I regret giving it to you and have to ask you to leave.”

Wilbur took the advice to heart—well, a part of the advice, at least.  His drink certainly finished quicker than he wished.  He looked to the side at the other people by the bar, mindlessly toying with the glass as ice swirled and clinked around in it.

And then his eyebrows drew close, as his eyes fixed on the swift movement of fingers over a drink.  He looked around, but it seemed only he noticed.  He scrunched his nose up.  The incomprehensible levels of despicability it took to as much as think to spike someone’s drink made him sick.  He stood up, preparing himself to make quite the scene out of the incident.  He wondered what specific substance it even was.  Party drug?  Or perhaps something more directly sedating?  Options were truly endless, when the alcohol was at play as well—probably half the common prescription medications could have a “desired” effect when mixed with it.  Of course, “desired” meaning making the person pass—it was often a gamble whether it’d be “out” or “away”.  He felt there was an odd wastefulness to it which he couldn’t shake off.  After all, many people would probably take those willingly for a good thrill, if informed.

That’s when a thought hit him—he was, in fact, one of those people.  He moved forward, out of his seat.  The woman, standing closer, had her back towards him as the two talked.  ‘Well, no wonder he couldn’t pick her up like a person—you’re a guy trying to flirt with a girl at a gay bar.  She’s probably not into men anyway,’ Wilbur thought.

“Hi, sorry to disturb.”  He smiled politely—in his mind, at least.  The two looked at him with confusion—the woman with suspicion, the man with something that almost seemed like a twinge of anxiety.  “See, I couldn’t help but notice that this gentleman slipped something into your drink, love.  I’ll assume that wasn’t something you both planned?”  The woman’s expression shifted into disbelief and anger as she looked at the man.

“What? No I— I didn’t—!”

“Are you fucking kidding me??  You said you’re gay, what even—???”

“Right so I think I’ll just take this off your hands then.”  Wilbur grabbed the drink, but before he could happily down it, the man grabbed his arm.

“Oh that’s what it is!  You just wanted a free drink, you asshat!”

Wilbur could feel rage boiling inside him.  “Don’t you fucking dare even speak to me, you pathetic excuse for a human,” he spat in a growl.  He jerked his arm away.  He looked at the woman, who now looked unsure.  The commotion alerted the bartender, who swiftly reached them.

“Man I fucking told you to stop disrupting guests—”

“Oh, no, see this drink is spiked, I’m just trying to do my humanly duty and react in a situation like that,” he noted pointedly, in the same breath adding “tell you what.  I’ll drink it.  If nothing happens, I’ll get you that exact same drink right back.”  He went to sit down, but forgot about the stool, which, of course, lowered right down, and as his elbow caught on the bar, his body dropped, making him spill near half of the sticky, sugary liquid onto himself.  “Shit.”

“Dude, what the fuck is your problem?!”   The culprit now seemed very ready to pick a fight.

“Alright that’s it, I wanted to be nice but you have to fucking leave, man,” the bartender asserted, putting away the bottle he was working with.

“Fucking hell—” Wilbur breathed, feeling the drink infiltrate his jumper and shirt, making him want to rip his skin off, “—no i’m fucking telling you, he threw something in here, i saw it—”

“Then why the fuck are you trying to drink this??” the man argued.

“WELL, I figured you weren’t planning on someone with my body mass and drug tolerance drinking this, so I’m guessing I’ll be fine—” he snapped at the other, but at that point no one was listening.

Wilbur couldn’t decide what to focus on—the lights, the music, the yelling, the cold mix of sugar and alcohol sticking his shirt to his chest, or anything and everything else in the overcrowded bar.  He yelled something back, he wasn’t sure what.  At some point he smacked the glass down onto the bar counter, finally letting go of it, but he couldn’t tell when.  Finally, his fist connected with the face of the roofier.

Time stood in place as hours, maybe even seconds passed.

Finally, a familiar voice.

“WILBUR.”  He felt a harsh pull on his jumper, and soon he was forced into eye contact with Quackity.  “You are coming with me,” Quackity ground through his teeth, and Wilbur would have argued, if not for the ping of what almost could have been relief that hit him, making him hesitate for just a split second.  That was enough for the other to pull him right out of the bar, coat in hand—he didn’t have the time, and most definitely not the energy to put it on.  

They stopped at a nearby alleyway.

“Wilbur, what the fuck—” Quackity turned towards him, but Wilbur regained his speech by then.

“Oh, so you too believe I just made that up, huh??!”  He snapped.  He should have talked with the other.  Quackity would have understood, he would have believed him, surely.  Wilbur knew that.  He wasn’t mad at Quackity—if anything he was grateful to be pulled out of that horrible place.  And yet, as his heartbeat thundered in his ears and shoulders shook in anger, he couldn’t even think of calming down.

“Wilbur—” Quackity pushed his hair back with an exasperated sigh, “—you’re drunk—”

“Oh so what— I’m lying, huh?! Making it up?!”

“Wilbur—”

“Or maybe you also think it was actually me who slipped something in there, just to make a scene, huh?!?”  Quackity shot him the most taken aback, bewildered look.

“What?!  No!  Are you out of your god damned mind?!”

“WELL YOUR FUCKING EMPLOYEES AND CUSTOMERS SURE AS FUCK SEEM TO BE HAPPY TO THINK SO!”  He was truly at his limit, his head was bursting with the storm of screaming thoughts, all turned entirely against him.

“Wilbur, for fuck’s sake, calm down, you are drunk—”

“I’M NOT—” his voice broke as he ran out of words to argue.  Before there could even be a proper pause, his hands were pummeling his own head, having reached their breaking point, ready to do anything and everything to quiet down the brain hurricane.

He thought he could hear “Wil” at some point, but he wasn’t sure if that wasn’t his brain misfiring after undoubtedly years of various kinds of brain damage, to which he was readily adding.  As he punched once again, notably harder, he felt a strong grip on his wrists.

“Wilbur, stop it—”

“FUCK OFF!”  He ripped his hands away, visibly making Quackity take a cautious step back.  There he was, such an ‘upstanding guy’, and yet he still made the one person trying to help him recoil so easily.  The thought made him nauseous, and certainly validated his verdict deeming himself deserving of the pummeling.  Regardless, he didn’t calm down for a moment.  “FUCK RIGHT OFF ALRIGHT I DON’T FUCKING CARE!  I DON’T FUCKING CARE WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY OK JUST—” he sank into himself, arms squeezing harder around his head as he could taste tears in the back of his throat, “—just leave me the fuck alone Q before I ruin that perfect fucking life o’ yours even more.”  ‘Before I scare you even more,’ he thought.

Silence.  Then footsteps—to Wilbur’s relief, and an even stronger squeeze in his chest—heading away.

Click.

He wasn’t exactly expecting a lighter, but he figured it made sense.  He wasn’t going to busy himself with thinking about that either way, he’d already accepted he naturally had a horrible influence on the man, undoubtedly causing him immense stress.

That was all he was good at, after all.  Clearly. 

And yet, soon a cloud of smoke gently enveloped him.  He disregarded it, only to realise the smell was not passing.  He looked up from in between his arms and mess of hair, only to see Quackity calmly leaning against the wall opposite of him, smoking.

“What the fuck are you doing,” he damanded in an abrasive mumble.

“Fucking off,” Quackity simply stated.

“Why are you still here then.”

A small pause followed as Quackity drew in the smoke.  Wilbur wanted to recoil at the look in his eyes, but oddly enough he couldn’t find the expected condescension in the evident, soft worry.

“I’m not leaving you here like this."

Wilbur scoffed, rolling his eyes.  “Just save yourself the effort and give up on me like everyone else di—”

“I didn’t,” Quackity cut him off sternly.  “And I won’t.”

Wilbur fell silent.  He already hated himself, he didn’t want to think about their past.

He slid down the coarse wall, curling into a ball.

“Is it ok if I sit next to you?” Quackity asked softly after some more silence.

“Do whatever the fuck you want,” Wilbur mumbled, and soon steps preceded a surprising warmth of another shoulder against his own.  He hadn’t realised just how cold the place had gotten…

They sat in silence, time dragging out, but somehow not unpleasantly so.  Eventually, once the cold began bothering him as the adrenaline slowly subsided, Wilbur raised his head.  A puff of smoke escaped Quackity before he moved the cigarette in Wilbur’s direction, who hesitantly took it into his trembling hands.  Warmth, even if fleeting, entered his freezing lungs as he moved a bit away from the wall, letting Quackity drape the coat he’d picked up over him.  Wilbur finished the cigarette fairly quickly.

“I ruin everything, Q,” he finally muttered after a while, half hoping not to be heard.  “I can’t even stop someone getting fucking roofied without fucking it up.”  A moment of silence followed, as Wilbur didn’t dare to turn to look at the other.

Quackity sighed.  “You’re shivering,” he noted.  Wilbur scoffed.

“Anything else you’d like to add, oh captain obvious?” He retorted, doing his best to hide the tremble in his iced vocal cords.

“Come on.”  Quackity placed a hand on Wilbur’s knee, giving it a little squeeze.  “Let’s get you somewhere warm.”  He stood up, offering the other a hand.

Wilbur was in no shape to deny the generosity.  He followed wordlessly.

—

Wilbur let out an audible sigh of relief, stepping into Quackity’s warm penthouse.  He stood motionless for a moment, soaking up the familiar warmth, as the other took off his shoes and jacket before eyeing him.

“I’ll grab you some fresh clothes,” he decided.

Wilbur didn’t argue.  He went to follow, but when Quackity gave him a pointed look, Wilbur rolled his eyes and relented, going to untangle his old shoelaces and kicking the muddied up boots off first, before they headed further into the suite.

“You know,” Quackity started, looking through his wardrobe, “my bar staff are actually all contractually obligated to immediately believe any and all roofie allegations.  If you hadn't tried drinking it, they'd have tested the drink immediately, reviewed the security footage, and the guy would be spending New Year’s in jail awaiting trial.  And that brings me to my main question: if it was spiked, then why on earth were you trying to drink it???”

“I just… I needed something, alright?” he sighed.  “ I’m quite a bit taller than that woman he was targeting, and besides, you know my drug tolerance.  I figured I’d probably get a slight buzz or something.  And even if it’d knocked me out… well, it’s not like anyone could have robbed me,” he chuckled.  “And considering that absolutely no one wanted to flirt with me, I figured I’m safe on that front too.”  He paused, before deciding to lighten up the atmosphere.  “Speaking of which, you need some better gay guys at your gay bars, Quackity.  They don’t know a catch when they see one,” he sighed dramatically, as the other snorted flatly.

“Mhm, you’re so right, I have no idea how your brilliant flirting wasn’t successful,” he mocked.

“Not a single drink.  Not even a slap on the ass or even a wink.”

“Horrible, really,” Quackity sighed without looking at him.

 “I don’t think I’ll ever recover from it, Quackity,” he continued.

“Will you recover if I offer you a drink?  I’ve got some mulled wine that could help warm you up.”

Wilbur considered the offer for a moment.  “You know what?  That actually sounds delightful.”

“Alright, go change and I’ll prepare us some.”  He handed Wilbur an oversized jumper, some casuals, and fluffy socks.

Wilbur furrowed his brows.  “Are these actually yours?”  He looked at Quackity as he grabbed the clothes.  “I cannot imagine you dressing this comfortably, Mr. President.”  

Quackity rolled his eyes, but Wilbur could have sworn the corner of his mouth curled.  “Just go get changed, asshole,”  he dismissed.

And Wilbur gladly did.  He didn’t take a full shower, he was too cold for that, but as he wiped the stickiness off himself (with Quackity’s towel—he decided he needed to make sure the man wouldn’t start thinking the whole thing meant he’ll be all nice now) he was ready to weep from joy.  After pulling the warm, cosy outfit on, he finally stepped out of the bathroom, and entered the kitchen area.

“I used your towel, just so you know,” he started off, tone defiant.

“Well great, now I’ll have to call up pest control,” Quackity flatly retorted, throwing some spices into the pot on the stove.  Wilbur rolled his eyes.

“You already caught all my germs, it’s too late for you, Quackity.”

“I said pest control, dipshit.”  Quackity turned around just in time to catch Wilbur mockingly moving his hand and mouth in a highly overdone ‘blah blah’ motion.  Wilbur didn’t even have to look at him to know exactly how his eyes moved in an exaggerated circle—he knew that image way too well at that point, and couldn’t help a smug little smirk.  “Just go get under the covers before I wisen up and stop being so nice, icicle-man.”

“Alright, alright,” Wilbur sighed with theatrical exertion.  “I’ll go so you can comfortably add that poison,” he joked, waving his hand dismissively.

“Hope you choke on the cinnamon,” Quackity bit back.

But they both knew damn well Wilbur was in fact grateful, there was no hiding it, especially once he slipped under the soft, red, silky covers with a little purr.  He pulled the duvet into a cocoon around himself.  The satin fabric would have been just the perfect level of refreshingly chilly, if not for how frozen Wilbur felt.  It got a small shiver out of him, as his cold body tried to warm up the surrounding fabric, but he didn’t have much warmth to spare.  And then Quackity stepped through the door, holding two big, steaming mugs.  If it were fiction, Wilbur was sure the undoubtedly delightfully warm clouds would form into a halo around the man’s head, seeing as any promise of warmth seemed nothing short of holy to him in that moment.

 “Here.”  Quackity extended one mug in Wilbur’s direction.

“Thank you,” Wilbur let out in an exasperated, still slightly shaky from the cold sigh, as his hands cupped the delightfully warm porcelain.  The intoxicating smell hit him first, as he immediately tilted the mug already pressed to his lips.  The wine was warm—a bit too warm to immediately drink, perhaps, but Wilbur’s nerves were pretty fried already so he didn’t care much.  Soon blissful heat poured down his throat, spreading through his numb insides.  He smacked his lips.  “See, that’s all I wanted.  Just a single drink.  I tried so hard to flirt.  I figured, it can’t be that hard, y’know?  I mean, you’ve done it!”  He paused, as Quackity let out a sarcastic little ‘mhm’. “And yet…”

“Can’t believe your pathetic wet dog charm didn’t work,” Quackity retorted.

“Well, I don’t know if it didn’t—I am in the president’s bed as we speak,” Wilbur hummed teasingly.

Quackity tilted his head from one side to the other.  “Yeah no, fair enough I suppose,” he admitted, sitting down with his own mug.  “Though, you know, when it comes to flirting, keep in mind that you are almost forty, Wil.  And after the revival you look to be in your fifties.”  

Wilbur scoffed.  “So what, I’m too old for anyone to find me attractive?”

“Oh, no, not what I mean—”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow with a smirk.  “Oh?  So you’re suggesting I am attractive?” his coo interrupted, before he smugly took a sip of his drink.  Quackity rolled his eyes.

“Big shocker, I know—I didn’t sleep with you for your vast wealth in Pogtopia,” he teased with sarcasm so heavy it should have torn a hole through the floor.

“Alright, prick, fuck off,” Wilbur chuckled.

“My point is,” Quackity sighed, “It’s usually expected that people our age are the ones buying the drinks for others.”

“Tsk, as though we’re old.”

Quackity shrugged.  “For clubs we are, I s’pose.”

Wilbur leaned back against the wall, thinking.  “Well,” he finally started, after drinking some more, “this is much better than a bar anyway,” he decided.  “Not as noisy,” he clarified.  Naturally, he couldn’t let the other believe there was any other reason.

“And you finally got a drink, huh?” Quackity teased.

“And I finally got a drink,” Wilbur agreed with a nod.

With time (and wine) Wilbur grew warmer and more comfortable, and so did Quackity, it seemed.  It had been a while since they laughed and joked together like that, yet they snapped back into it as though no time had passed.  Soon Quackity was bringing them a second helping of the wine.  ‘Must be some New Year’s miracle,’ Wilbur thought, which reminded him of a certain detail.  He paused.

“So, the Las Nevadas’ New Year’s party..?”

“Yeah, god, that sure was a hassle to organise,” Quackity said with a small chuckle in his breath, looking vacantly forward.

Wilbur pressed his lips.  “I didn’t mean to make you miss it,” he promised.  “You can still go back out there, I swear I won’t do anything stupid this time.”  He meant it.  A betrayal like that after so much good will would be too far even for him.

“Oh, no, don’t worry,” Quackity looked at him.  “I’m fine here, really.  I planned everything to the T, it’ll be fine—it has to be, because honestly if it’s not, then there is absolutely nothing in this world that could save it,” he joked.  Wilbur knocked on the wooden, ornate bed frame, and Quackity halted.  “Oh my god you fucking asshole—” but there was clear laughter in his voice.

“Whaaaat, I’m just making sure you don’t jinx it!”  Wilbur grinned.

Quackity lowered his forehead onto his hand.  “A dickhead, that’s what you are,” he chuckled.  Wilbur smiled.  Quackity straightened out again, letting out a deep, ‘irritated’ sigh.  “Well, I was going to say that this is a well deserved moment of rest for me, but I see there is no rest with you, dumbass.”

“Hell yeah there’s no rest with me,” Wilbur said smugly, leaning back.

“I should have left you in that alleyway.”

“Oh you love me, Big Q.”

“Mhm, just as much as you love not being a nuisance.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes.  “Hey, you’re free to go back to the party, I’m not stopping you.”  He lifted his hands slightly, feigning innocence.

“Well now I know I can’t,” Quackity commented.

“No but, actually, you can,” Wilbur clarified more genuinely.

“I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t do, you self-important jerk,” Quackity jabbed.  “But I did mean it, I think I needed a break like this for a while…”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow suspiciously.  “And you promise you’re not just saying that to spare my feelings?”

“When have I ever tried to spare your feelings?”

Wilbur rolled his eyes.  “Touché.”  His gaze fixed on the mug, and soon despite himself he found his own lips touching upon a subject he was trying to avoid.  "Though, if I had to guess in Pogtopia you might have..."

"I never lied to you, Wilbur,”  Quackity stated planely.  “Sure, sometimes I didn't volunteer the truth, but whenever you cared to ask, I never actually lied."  He paused, and a small, playful smirk crept onto his face.  "It's much more fun to try bending the truth in a way where you still have plausible deniability. It's a challenge, a matter of word games — much more entertaining than outright lying."

Wilbur couldn’t help but laugh.  “Oh your business partners must hate you.”

Quackity grinned, glancing at Wilbur with a hauntingly carnivorous spark in his eye.  “They don’t even realise they should.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes.  “You are unhinged.” But he didn’t get a reply. Instead, Quackity’s gaze on him intensified as he cocked his head.  Just as Wilbur furrowed his eyebrows in a silent question, the man spoke up.

“You’d look good with some lipstick on.”

Wilbur blinked.  “Huh?”

“The wine.  It dyed your lips a bit.  And I think you’d look good with some lipstick on.”

Wilbur raised an eyebrow.  “Why are you looking at my lips?”

Quackity shrugged.  “Why are your lips looking at my eyes?”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Wilbur chuckled.

“It means that red is pretty eye-catching, and unlike you I can keep eye contact as I'm talking with someone.”

“More like lip contact.”

“I think that’d mean something a bit different.”

“Yeah?  How about you show me?”  Wilbur tilted his head with a glint of a challenge in his eye.

Quackity raised an eyebrow, returning a smirk.  “Feeling forward, huh?”

“I’m already in your bed and you’re staring at my lips, so I figured I might as well be.”

“Touché,” Quackity hummed, and before Wilbur knew it, he felt a nose softly brush up against the side of his own, as the other closed the distance between them.

Quackity’s lips moved slowly against his, and Wilbur could have sworn he caught a whiff of the damp ravine air for just a split second.  It had been a while since their kisses were this slow and gentle.  Those lips… so familiar yet so strange now.  The scar was a clear, harsh difference which pulled him firmly out of his nostalgia, but he didn’t mind much—he never particularly liked those memories anyway.  He was happy to make new ones.

Just as he was about to lean in closer, he was violently wrenched back into more of the past by a thundering explosion.  The wine enthusiastically swished right out of his mug, spilling into a notable stain across the luxurious sheets and the borrowed loungewear as he jumped up, his heartbeat no longer just delightfully brisk, but rushing now, sharper, stabbing at his chest.

“Sh—shit, fuck, sorry, I—”

“Oh fuck are you ok?” Quackity cut him off.   “Did you burn yourself??”

“I—” Wilbur hesitated for a brief second, caught off guard.  “Y—yeah just, the fireworks, y’know,” he explained, the reaction unexpected enough to help ground him.  He cussed again, though, flinching at an audibly closer bang.

“Alright, lemme grab some towel real quick then.” Quackity stated, simply placing both their mugs on the bedside table.  He made a swift trip to the wardrobe and soon was helping the still dumbfounded Wilbur dry off the wine.

“Fucking, fireworks already,” Wilbur muttered, almost trying to reaffirm an excuse.  Quackity looked down at his watch.

“Huh, yeah, it’s the New Year already… Guess we kissed right at midnight,” he noted with a hint of a chuckle to his voice.  He looked at Wilbur.  “I s’pose that means we’re stuck together for yet another year.”

Wilbur rolled his eyes.  “We would have been either way.  At least now maybe you’ll get something more than me pissing you off from it,” he joked, before flinching at a more loud explosion.

“You ok?” Quackity asked, sitting down next to him.

“Yeah, just, being stupid, “ Wilbur dismissed, focusing all his attention on ignoring the ongoing assault of sounds.  “I guess my divine punishment for becoming a terrorist is turning into a fucking dog who can’t handle fireworks,” he groused.  “I am really sorry about the sheets, “ Wilbur said, his brain silently praying that Quackity would take pity on him and make him pay back only a part of their price.

“It’s fine,” Quackity waved his hand.  “They’re red anyway.  I just got worried about you spilling hot wine all over yourself, y’know?”

Wilbur paused.  More understanding was the last thing he expected.  He felt his shoulders tense.  “Why are you so unbearably nice to me today.”  His question was really more of an accusation than a query. 

Quackity sighed.  “I don’t know, maybe I’m just tipsy enough, maybe I’m just lonely… “  He paused, looking right at Wilbur.  “Or maybe you deserve a bit of compassion every once in a while, just like everyone else.”  Wilbur remained silent.  “I’ll get you some new clothes and you’ll have to help me change the sheets.”  But Wilbur stayed silent, studying Quackity’s expression until it turned to slight confusion.  Wilbur narrowed his eyes.

“What is wrong with you?”

“What are you on about,” the other sighed, his head tilting a little.

“What kind of fetish—” Wilbur flinched again as one of the fireworks broke out of the painstakingly crafted mental veil he’d created to at least partially block out the onslaught of explosions, but he persisted, “— is this where you just— I don’t fucking know, is this some hero complex bullshit?  Or are you just stupid??”

“What, ‘cause I didn’t start screaming at you or some shit when you accidentally spilled something?” Quackity said with a hint of an emotionless chuckle at the absurdity.

“No, Quackity, because I ruin everything, and you keep ignoring that!”  He flung his hands to the sides in his exasperation, standing up as the other pulled back just a little bit.  “You had to get me out of a bar where I quite literally started a damned fight!”

Quackity scoffed, rolling his eyes.  “Yeah, with a fucking rapist-wannabe.”

“Your staff would have handled it—you said it yourself!”

Quackity lowered his head a bit, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh.  “Wilbur—”

“And let's not forget,” Wilbur continued with cold laughter, “I’m sure you felt— and now feel just wonderful having a drunk guy yelling at you!  Bet that’s just delightfully thoughtful of me, isn’t it?!”  This comment at least managed to get Quackity to look a bit more serious.

“Wil—”

“No, Quackity, I don’t know why you’re acting like this, but if even my own ‘guilt ridden’ father,” he said, making air quotes, “can see that I am a walking hazard, then you have no damned excuse other than sheer stupidity for just— ignoring all of that.  I. Am. A. Liability.  I am an unhinged, dangerous fucking terrorist, Quackity.  And you are definitely among the people whose lives I’ve ruined.”  He jumped again.  “AND FUCK THOSE FUCKING FIREWORKS—!”

“Oh please,” Quackity cut Wilbur off, not with anger, though, but mild annoyance.  “Don’t flatter yourself, I’m perfectly capable of ruining my own life, you really didn’t have much of a hand in that.”

“You literally denied me a position of power in your country on the grounds of how much of a risk I am to have around.”

“Well, du-uh.”  Quackity leaned back with a slight shrug.  “I’m not stupid, I know you’re fucked up in the head, man, I’m not putting you in charge of a whole ass country again,” he chuckled.  “Besides, what were you even thinking with that whole thing?”  Wilbur just stared at the other, not sure how to act in the face of such casualness.  Quackity really was the only man who remained an enigma to him, no matter how well Wilbur knew him.  “That I’d just give you a country I poured my own blood, sweat and tears into?” he continued.  “Nah man, this is mine, fuck off.  That doesn’t mean I hate you or some shit—”

“You don’t?” Wilbur found himself interrupting.

Quackity just raised an eyebrow with an amused half-smirk.  “ ‘Course I don’t,” he laughed.  “Is kissing people you hate like, something you do on the regular?”

“Why.”

“Why what.”

“Why don’t you hate me.  Literally why.”

“Because you really aren’t as hateable as you wish you were, Wilbur.”  Silence.  Finally, Quackity got up off the bed too.   “Come on, let’s change those sheets.  I think you need some sleep.”

“And you’re just gonna let me sleep here too, huh?” Wilbur mocked flatly.

Quackity exhaled loudly, looking at him with his head tilted.  He stepped towards the man, moved a bit of the duvet to uncover the mattress, and gently took Wilbur’s hands, before slowly directing him onto the bed.  “Stay here.”

Wilbur found himself obeying the simple direction, himself not exactly sure why, but it felt intuitively easy, perhaps especially in contrast to the storm of agonising thoughts his own brain flung at him.  He remained motionless, staring at the hardwood floor as Quackity took the duvet out of the bedroom, soon coming back with a different set.  He listened as the man pulled a cover over it, only flinching again as it brushed against his back, as Quackity spread it across the bed.  He left the room again, and walked up to Wilbur with a new sweatshirt, having returned. 

“Do you wanna change yourself, or do you want me to help?”

Wilbur continued to stare at the ground, his whole body tense.

“Is it ok if I take the sweater off of you?” Quackity asked after a moment.

Wilbur just shrugged.

Quackity hesitated.  “Alright, I’ll take it as a yes, but you can stop me at any point, alright?”  Getting no reply, he proceeded to carefully undress the other.  Wilbur cooperated, at least somewhat, lifting his arms a bit.  And then Quackity paused.  “Wilbur?”  Wilbur didn’t reply.  “When was the last time you had someone look at that scar?”  Ah, right.  He’d forgotten about that.

“Why’s that matter,” he grumbled.

“You are impossible,” Quackity sighed, staying silent for a moment.  “It looks infected, you need—” he started, clear worry in his voice, before pausing.  “You know what, just— wait a moment.”

This time Quackity came back with some rubbing alcohol and gauze.  Wilbur hissed, feeling the sting of disinfectant.  “Why do you even bother,” he complained.

“Wilbur, I am seriously fed up with your whining.”

“Then—”

“Then get your shit together and stop acting like a child, because your self-sabbotage has never, and will never work on me, asshole.”  He grabbed Wilbur’s face with one hand, turning it towards himself.  “Got that?” he ground through his teeth, his gaze piercing.  

“Don’t fucking boss me around—”  Wilbur pulled away aggressively.  But seeing Quackity’s look he did quiet down, before looking away.  “This is exactly what you’re claiming ‘has no effect’, so if you’re so adamant about it, put your money where your mouth is and prove it, you confident twat,” he added more quietly, but there was no bite to his bark, and as silence fell between them, he refrained from more of the comments.  Once Quackity cleaned the wound and dressed it,  Wilbur pulled the jumper on himself, and moved back onto the bed, knees against his chest as he wrapped the duvet over himself.

Quackity changed into his own pyjamas—a t-shirt and boxers—before sitting down next to the other.  Soon, Wilbur’s head wordlessly rested against the man’s shoulder.  An arm wrapped around him, palm carefully though firmly pressed over his ear, muting the thankfully increasingly sparse sounds of explosions, even if just a little bit.  Quackity’s cheek gently pressed against the messy, brown locks.

“Happy New Year, or something,” Wilbur murmured quietly, no more anger or defiance in his voice, only tired dejection.

Quackity pulled him into more of a hug.  “Happy New Year, asshole.”