Work Text:
Wilbur was sprawled across the mattress on the floor of his van, layered thoroughly within two blankets. His face rubbed against the fabric as he brought one closer, glaring into the light of his communicator. All he had been doing for the past fifteen minutes was watching Quackity’s "typing…” animation bounce up, then back down. Bounce up and back down again. He had always known Quackity to be an expressive and overall communicative guy, but my God, was he writing an essay?
Earlier throughout the night, Wilbur’s involuntary huffs of laughter echoed against his empty walls in reaction to the absolute bullshit Quackity was sending him. The poor man had gotten dragged to the Las Nevadas strip club after a late night brawl broke out. Entire stocks of liquor had shattered across the bars surfaces, with shards and blood staining more than the tabletops. Overall, the damages left the only man in credibility to assess the situation be the president himself. Luckily to this, Quackity always knew in the oddest of hours, he had company. When times rose too early for Quackity, Wilbur’s insomnia was too, keeping him awake during the all the wrong times.
Even through Quackity’s work hours, he was still managing to banter around and somehow morph the general complaints of his city to be Wilbur’s problem. Through the presidents perspective, none of the drunken population would have ever grown the balls to even think of such a brawl, if it weren’t for Wilbur’s initial tomfoolery around Las Nevadas. Although, to the esteemed terrorist, he was nothing but proud of the impact Quackity had so on believed Wilbur had on the public.
Quackity’s texts were splayed with typos, words landing longer than they should, missed punctuations and nuances slipping past him. The man was tired and Wilbur was dead clear on that fact, which entirely added to the leverage he had on pissing Quackity off. The little “typing…” animation irritated Wilbur even further. This repetitive inaction poked at Wilburs blood. Expectedly, a damned paragraph was incoming to sit as just another sleep-deprived, rambled declaration disguised as irritation.
Putting some more thought to it, Wilbur clocked that Quackity may not even be at his communicator. The timing of the animation came in waves, leaving Wilbur to confusedly distrust the other's activity status.
Wilbur's thumb scrolled prior to their current messages, eyes grazing each of Quackity's words. Neglected commas, repeatedly pressed letters and his compulsive over explanation pressed so adamantly into Wilbur's mind. He knew he was open to speak to his desires of now. Anything would go by, especially with Quackity's presidential obligations emerging so early.
His eyes glazed over his communicators keyboard once again. He was aware he could bring something to escalation, ignore the other's irritated honesty and test his standing ground. Thoughts spilled into the empty message bar, only for Wilbur to delete them with each passing thought. As he glanced at the time on the screen, the "typing..." animation was once set in place again.
Sensing that Quackity was in no place near to sending his essay of a text, Wilbur decidedly sent off his devised message.
Wilbur: If you want me, just say it, sweetheart.
The typing animation stopped. Wilbur chuckled. The passing moments before the animation once picked up again were the best moments of Wilburs night, possibly even his entire week. Imagining Quackity, walking the streets of his city in the deadest hours of the night, angrily typing into his phone, all while being sleep deprived just added to Wilbur’s hilarious mental image. The newest message lit the depths of Wilbur's face as it popped up.
Quackity: What? Where did that come from?
And the leverage Wilbur had known he had, was all in his hands. Quackity’s guard was down and Wilbur knew all the ways to push him once his walls were lowered. He thought for a second, and began typing some nonsense, deleting it, typing some more nonsense all to just delete it again, fully playing the game Quackity had just been teasing him with.
He let his mind wander further into a daydream. A Quackity walking into his office lobby, eyes glued onto the typing animation on his screen, brows furrowing in impatience. Wilbur just took it as a reality for more time to brainstorm.
Wilbur: Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact you text me the instant you’re awake at four in the morning? Knowing i’ll be awake, and at your disposable service?
For the first time of the night, not sure if he had liked that response, Wilbur placed his phone face down and rolled onto his back. The blue hues of the night filled his vision as he regulated his sight to the real world. A vague screen shaped box floated around in his view. Quackity, oh, Quackity. The powers he had over Wilbur, knowingly and unknowingly. A ping brought him back to what Wilbur would have considered his real reality.
Quackity: I was explaining the mayhem you have caused for my country, Wilbur. With people like you, who have no set boundaries or care for the reputation they have in a country, my citizens are influenced and grow to believe that I don’t care for how you act in public, period.
Quackity: The public acts as if I have a megaphone, projecting myself saying ‘Go ahead! Trash everything! Get wasted on the streets and pick at the ground for crack!’ because that’s how they see you acting, Soot.
Simply being in reference brought an exhilaration in Wilbur.
Wilbur: You’re sure awake now. No point in going back to sleep, I see?
Quackity: Fuck you. I have shit to do regardless of the time. Unlike you, where your only use is in waiting for my presence.