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Wilbur has been wandering through the forests of Quesadilla island for a good few hours. Tallulah was put to sleep earlier that day, safe in their reinforced home, so her father went on an adventure. He wanted to find something nice and purple to bring to her. He is pretty satisfied with how he’s decorated the place but it could always be better. He wants only the best for his dear daughter.
The nights were getting longer and more dangerous. Wilbur doesn’t feel particularly safe, especially considering his fighting skills, so he makes sure to thoroughly light torches along the way and conserve his stamina. He never knows when a mob could jump out. He stays vigilant, scanning his surroundings carefully, ready to bolt straight the fuck away. Maybe later, he could convince someone to venture to the sea with him because so far nothing in this place has piqued his interest.
The moon shines brightly and he could feel the wind blowing through his hair. The only disturbance to the peace are a few baby zombies, ugly motherfuckers, that attempted to bite his face off. He could deal with them though, as long as he had enough food.
Green grass and patches of dirt littered with twigs are crunching under his boots when he steps on something soft. Startled, he takes a step back to figure out what he just squished. Was it another baby zombie? No, it didn’t feel fleshy and that little shit would have already bitten his ankles off if that was the case.
So he lights another torch nearby and leans down to take a look. It’s a beanie. Is this Quackity’s? He picks it off the ground and surely enough, it is. The hat is dirty, full of sticks and leaves that got stuck to the loose threads.
Huh.
Wilbur pockets it. Cause why not? Either he can give it to him later or, even better, he can piss him off with it later. He will see based on Quackity’s actions. If he decides to be annoying (as per usual) Wilbur might hold it just high enough in the air so that Quackity has to do a little jump to reach it.
With that thought in mind, Wilbur continues on his quest with a little smirk, slowly but surely circling back to his home. He is getting quite tired and this fruitless trip is becoming boring. He’s seen plenty of the island already and he was pretty certain he’s not going to find anything new. Maybe he will give it a few days. Something fucked up is bound to happen and who knows, maybe that something fucked up will be pretty and purple.
His steps falter and his smirk fades a little bit when he realizes that he’s made his way to Tilíns grave. He never got to meet the kid but still… it’s not a happy sight. He wants to walk past it when he notices a hunched figure lying against the headstone.
His hair is messy and tangled, clinging to his forehead. Against Wilbur’s better judgment, he takes a step closer to Quackity’s sleeping form. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, and dried tear marks staining his reddened cheeks. An empty bottle of liquor lays next to his hand that forms a tight fist.
Wilbur sighs. He wants to turn around and leave, get into his warm and comfortable bed, and just sleep. A drunken man is not his problem right now. Or ever really. But Quackity usually liked to make his temper tantrums everyone’s problem. Though… that was clearly not the case tonight and Wilbur couldn’t help but wonder how many nights Quackity spent like this. Drinking himself to sleep at his daughter's grave.
As he takes the first step to leave a few broken whimpers escape the other man’s lips as he shifts unconsciously.
“Not my circus, not my monkey,” Wilbur tries to convince himself.
But then a muttered word, almost too quiet for Wilbur to hear, catches his attention. “Tilín.” His gaze softens.
“Oh, Quackity…” Still not his circus, nor his monkey. But when a monkey sounds this broken and defenceless, borderline pathetic, what is he supposed to do?
He gently nudges the sleeping man’s shoulder. “Hey, Big Q. Wake up.” The man in question stirs but gives no further reaction. Wilbur can’t help but sigh again as he crouches next to him.
After a few more words and nudges that get progressively more aggressive, Quackity finally blinks his eyes open. He blearily looks up and blinks a few more times, eyelashes still stuck together by the tears he shed, before he realizes his predicament. Or well, as much as he can realize anything at all in his state.
“Wilbur,” he smiles up at him with a horrible British accent but the look in his eyes is still clouded.
“Quackity,” Wilbur reciprocates the sentiment. “What are you doing here?”
The moon has been covered by clouds as the man looks around and shrugs.
Wilbur waits patiently for a moment, expecting him to speak up. When he only lowers his eyes, fixated on the stone beneath him, Wilbur says: “Well anyways, you shouldn’t sleep here, it’s not safe. Go home, Q.”
He shakes his head. “It’s too empty and quiet.”
Wilbur doesn’t point out the fact that it’s even more empty and quiet outside, safe for the wind rustling through the treetops. “Suit yourself, man.” As he got up and turned away from him, suddenly there was a hand clutching at his pants. He looks down in surprise and sees Quackity looking up at him with big blown-out eyes. He’s out of it. Half asleep, the alcohol still circulating his system.
“Don’t leave me as well.”
What the actual fuck? Wilbur has never seen Quackity act this way. He has a feeling that even if he told somebody, they wouldn’t believe him. What is he? A stray puppy? Wilbur, against his better judgment (once again and he has an inkling it won’t be the last) takes Quackity by the forearms and hauls him up to his feet.
He stumbles a little bit but stabilizes himself with Wilbur’s hand which he’s now grabbing onto. Tightly. Almost too tight. Like he’s scared he’s going to disappear if he lets go.
“You can sleep over. But no funny business.” The silent threat is clear in his voice, and Quackity nods.
So home they go.
Wilbur had given up on trying to pry his fingers from Quackity or initiate small talk, so they simply walk. The silence isn’t uncomfortable.
When they finally arrive at their flower-filled destination, Wilbur makes sure to block the keypad with his hands so Quackity can’t see him typing in the password. For all he knows, this could be a very elaborate ploy to kidnap Tallulah. (Again.) However, he has a feeling that this is genuine.
“You can take the couch. I’ll brew you a potion for hangover very quickly, okay?”
Quackity lets go of his hand, finally, so Wilbur gets to brewing. It only takes a moment but by the time he’s done, the shorter man is nowhere to be seen. A jolt of panic shoots through him. He isn’t quite sure whose safety he’s worried about.
He doesn’t see anyone outside the window, so he tries looking in the second story of the house. He walks up the semi-stable ladder and there he finds him. Lying in Wilbur’s bed. Tucked under the blankets and everything.
“What the fuck,” he mutters to nobody in particular because the intruder is fast asleep. His soft snores filling the room. He makes a move to nudge Quackity awake for the umpteenth time in the past hour but all he manages is to get his hand trapped in Quackity’s iron grip.
For a sleeping man, he sure is strong. He pushes down the urge to swear and settles on the floor next to his own bed. How he managed to get to this point is still beyond him. He only lost sight of him for like a second, how did he move so fast when he was barely walking before? How he managed to climb up the ladder is even more of a mystery.
He forfeits the futile attempts to wriggle out of his hold and lays his head on the side of his mattress. His neck is going to cramp like crazy in the morning.
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Wilbur is woken up by an abrupt movement of the mattress under his head and the soft rustling of his bedsheets. He remembers what happened before he went to sleep when he tries to move his neck. Yeah. He was right about the cramps.
He blinks his eyes open, wiping at the sleep dust, and sits up from where he was leaning down. He finds Quackity’s frantic movements have seized. He turns his gaze up at the man in his bed. He looks like a deer in headlights.
“Good morning?” He offers meekly.
At least he has the decency to look sort of embarrassed.
“Morning,” Wilbur groans as he stands up, stretching his entire body, trying to get it to work as it should. Sleeping on the floor really shouldn’t make someone ache this much. But he aches all over. He notices that the bottle of potion he set on the table last night is empty. Good, that’s one less thing to worry about.
Quackity sits in the bed. Not sure what to do now. Should he leave? He wanted to make a quick escape before Wilbur can notice he’s gone, preferably forgetting he was ever there. But that chance has gone out of the window. Maybe he could jump out of the window. An exit so strange that maybe, just maybe, he could still convince Wilbur that all of this was just a wild fever dream.
He notices that Wilbur’s gaze falls on his head as he’s towering over him. Inspecting the mess that is his bed hair, surely not made any better by the fact that he hasn’t brushed through it in good few days. Then panic shoots through his body once again. Shifting through the bed, searching for something in a frenzied daze. Even with all his clothes he feels so exposed. So bare.
Then a hand is reaching towards him and he’s ready to slap it away when he realizes what it’s holding. His beanie.
His beanie.
He puts it on without giving it a second look and relaxes ever so slightly. Still on edge. But at least he doesn’t feel so vulnerable.
Wilbur chuckles and reaches his hand out again, touching Quackity’s head. Quackity’s body stiffens on instinct but Wilbur just starts pulling twigs, leaves, and clumps of dried dirt from the hat, dropping them on the floor.
“So… do you wanna talk about it?” He asks before sitting on the edge of the mattress next to Quackity.
The unexpected question sends him into a stupor. So much for disappearing quickly. He’s not getting out of here so easily with Wilbur fully awake, his warm body so near his own.
“Oh, this? I don’t know, I guess I lost it in the woods yesterday. It’s not like a fashion statement, I didn’t put the twigs and shit there intentionally.”
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” the gentle tone surprising both of them. “Look, Q. You don’t have to tell me anything. I know we didn’t exactly start on a good note, not my fault by the way, but even though I don’t really trust you, I want you to know that you can talk to me and I will listen. I want to be here for you. Is that something you’d want as well?”
Quackity hunches over and puts his head in his hands, absentmindedly playing with the red ribbon tied around one of his fingers. Wilbur wants to ask about it, but he has a good enough idea of what it’s about.
He lets out a tired sigh, allowing his shoulders to drop. “It’s just… ever since I lost Tilín I feel like a part of me is missing. Like there’s an egg-sized hole in my heart and nothing can fill it. I thought killing all the eggs would help but I couldn’t do it. I mean, that little fucker Bobby can go to hell for all I care,” he lets out a small huff laughter before his expression falls again. “But one of them reminds me too much of Tilín and I just looked at them and I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So then I thought kidnaping them would make me feel better.” The word was left unsaid but Wilbur all knew too well who Quackity was talking about. “But then it didn’t and I just… I don’t know what to do, Wilbur. I don’t know what to do without her.”
He looked at him with tears threatening to spill from behind his lashes. He wipes at them aggressively, grasping at the futile attempt to preserve the last of what is left of his dignity.
“Can I give you a hug, Quackity?”
A few quiet moments pass between them.
“I think I’d like that, Wilbur.”
Wilbur’s arms wrap around his shoulders and Quackity all but melts into his chest, not worrying about his expensive clothes for once. He bunches the other’s shirt in his fists.
Wilbur starts rubbing soothing circles into the other’s back before he speaks up. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know. I would consider us to be friends, as unstable as the bond is right now. We could earn each other’s trust. You can come to me if things get tough. I won’t turn you away. I’m not always here but I can offer you my couch for the time being. Not my bed though. I’m hurting all over,” he laughs to lighten the mood. Only half-joking. He can’t see Quackity’s face but by the way his head shifts against his chest, he’s either enjoying the discomfort he caused or he’s feeling at least a little bit bad for his friend.
“And Roier has that therapy business going on. I’ve been there myself and let me tell you, you will not find a better therapist on the entire island.”
“That’s because there isn’t anybody else.” Quackity deadpans, lifting his face to stare at Wilbur to make the words really sink in.
“Details, details,” he waves his hand dismissively.
“But maybe I’ll give it a try. I don’t have anything to lose. Except for a few diamonds per session,” he thinks. “And I’d like to consider us friends as well. Thank you for this. For everything I guess.” He fully separates himself from the hug, seemingly less tense. Almost relaxed.
“Anytime, Big Q.” Wilbur offers him a gentle smile and Quackity does his best to reciprocate. “I don’t mean to overstep, that’s going to be Roier’s job, but just remember that you have to live. Not just survive, that’s not what Tilín would have wanted for you.”
He wants to switch back into defense. Shout at him. What do you know? You’ve never even met her! But he swallows the words, noise dying in his throat. He knows he’s right. Tilín would hate what he’s becoming. So he just nods, expression solemn.
Wilbur shifts on the bed, turning away from Quackity, as he checks the clock on the wall.
“Well, Tallulah should be waking up soon. I’m kinda surprised we didn’t wake her up last night.”
Quackity’s posture goes tense almost unnoticeably again. This morning already feels like a rollercoaster and it’s not even nine a.m. “Oh, in that case, I should get going. Wouldn’t wanna impose, you know. Eh, thank you again for letting me sleep here, and sorry for hogging your bed.” He hurriedly stands up, looking for the shoes he blindly kicked off the night before.
“Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to stay for breakfast?” Wilbur asks. A peace offering.
“Are you sure Tallulah won’t mind?” He did attempt to kidnap her after all… multiple times.
“She likes you, you know. When you don’t act like a creep anyways. Just don’t do or say anything weird to scare her, okay? I’m more than ready to kick you out if you try something fishy.” He says with an easy smile but the lingering threat was more than obvious. Wilbur doesn’t play around when it comes to the well-being of his daughter.
The little sharp stab of pain he feels in his gut is still there. He should be there, should have been there, for Tilín like Wilbur is there for Tallulah. He wonders if there will ever come a time when he doesn’t feel like this. But for now, he pushes the thought down.
“Of course.” His tone of voice as genuine as it can be.
He trails after Wilbur to the kitchen downstairs to get started on their breakfast. Not really sure what to do, not sure how much he’s allowed to do, he stands behind him, taking peeks under his hands, silently judging his cutting technique of an avocado. He only speaks up after Wilbur almost stabs through his hand while trying to get the pit out.
“You’re useless, what the fuck, dude?” he exclaims and swiftly takes the knife from him before he can actually hurt himself. It would dampen his relationship with Tallulah even further if the first thing she saw after waking up was her father bleeding with Quackity stood next to him.
“I haven’t had the most experience with cutting avocados, we just started growing them recently,” he shrugs as he moves to toast the bread. “Make sure to mash them properly, Lullah doesn’t like the chunky texture.”
Quackity hums in acknowledgment and for a while they do their tasks as comfortable silence falls upon them. That is until they hear the gentle stomping of a certain child searching for her father.
Quakity’s shoulders stiffen as he continues to focus on thoroughly smashing the avocados as smooth as is humanly possible.
“Good morning, mi niña,” Wilbur coos as he lifts her up into an embrace.
“Good morning, papi,” she signs. “What’s Mr. Smiley doing here?” She’s wary but curious. Her big eyes scan over him as he tries to offer her a kind smile. He’s not sure how it looks on the outside but based on Wilbur’s amused glance it’s probably awkward at best but not threatening enough.
“Would you mind if I speak to her in private?”
More of a rhetorical question, as he doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s already on his way upstairs. Quackity shifts anxiously from one leg to the other. Debating whether he should make that quick escape now. Earlier he was stopped by Wilbur waking up but he has many choices now. Go through the door like a normal person? Dig a hole in the wall like a lunatic? Stay and wait for his possible demise? He really should just dip. Save himself the embarrassment of whatever awaits him. He’s stretching his ears, trying to hear what Wilbur is saying but he can’t discern anything apart from the gentle tone of his voice. He sets the mushed avocados down on the counter and gets ready to bolt just when Wilbur’s legs appear as he climbs down from the ladder, his daughter following him shortly after.
Fuck. Now he’s stuck. He missed his chance again. He expects Wilbur’s gaze to harden as he sets his eyes on him but it’s just as fond as before.
“The avocados are ready?” he offers, unsure of where he stands. “Do you use any seasonings?”
“Nah, just salt and a little bit of pepper. They’re in the cupboard to your right.”
“Pinches europeanos,” Quackity mutters under his breath. Bland avocado with salt and pepper. Wilbur probably thinks even that is too spicy.
“Hey, no swearing in front of my daughter. I may not understand what you’re saying but she does.”
He briefly considers telling him that pinche means brilliant or lovely but decides against it. Though it would be funny as fuck to hear him say “mi pinche niña” he’s not particularly inclined towards the thought of dying when he figures it out. That and Tallulah, bless her pure heart, would most likely call his bullshit and snitch on him immediately.
So he opts for grinning at him instead.
They set the table before Wilbur gestures for Quackity to sit down. Tallulah is already at her seat patiently eyeing her toast with hunger-filled eyes. He himself probably isn’t looking any better. He really didn’t really realize just how hungry he was after barely eating yesterday. They dig into their meals.
And for now, Quackity feels content. For once, when he thinks of Tilín he doesn’t feel entirely empty. There’s a sliver of hope for a better future. Hope, that the hole in his heart is going to get patched up. Filled with happy memories of his daughter instead of all the hollow and bitter regret. Hope, that one day he will become someone Tilín could be proud of.