Chapter Text
Multi was not a man people approached casually. He had a way of making rooms feel smaller simply by being in them. Not because he was loud—he almost never was—but because everything about him looked too deliberate to be accidental. The long white lab coat. The black layers underneath. The pale, almost white skin with that faint green cast that clung to him like a warning. The dreadlocks black at the roots and fading to radioactive green at the ends. The bright blue eyes that seemed calm right up until they sharpened into something greener and more predatory when someone said the wrong thing.
And then there were the fangs.
Quackity had noticed those immediately, and—annoyingly—continued noticing them every time Multi spoke.
Right now, Multi stood at his workbench in the reactor lab, shoulders slightly hunched as he leaned over a set of metal plates, a wrench in one hand and a stack of notes in the other. He was muttering to himself in Polish, low and irritated, the words coming out fast enough that Quackity caught only fragments.
“Nie, nie… this is wrong,” Multi said under his breath. Then, after a pause that sounded physically affected, “How do you say—support frame? No, no, not that. The other thing..” he mumbled to himself. Quackity had been leaning in the doorway for almost a full minute before Multi finally looked up.
“You can come in,” Multi said flatly. “I know you are there.” Quackity grinned and stepped inside, hands tucked in the pockets of his dark blue sweatshirt. His small golden wing-like ear wings twitched once when the reactor hum shifted, sensitive in the way he hated admitting to.
“You make it sound like I’m sneaking,” Quackity spoke, leaning against some random wall.
“You are always sneaking, Quackity.”
“I walked through the door.”
“You walked through the door like you wanted me to not hear you,” Multi finally looked up from his current project, whatever that may be. Quackity laughed, because of course he did, and Multi’s eyes flicked to his mouth for half a second before returning to the paper in his hand. Quackity noticed that too. He always noticed everything now, which was deeply inconvenient.
Multi set the notes down and looked at him properly. “What do you want?” It was not rude in the usual way. Not with Multi. It sounded more like he was prepared for the answer already. Quackity lifted a shoulder.
“I need a few things.”
Multi’s expression didn’t change. “What things?”
“Materials, maybe. Something better for defense. And—” Multi had already moved. He crossed the lab to a cabinet, opened it, and began sorting through components as if Quackity’s request had not been a request at all but a problem that had existed for several hours already and finally needed solving. Quackity paused. “You’re not even going to ask why?”
Multi did not look at him. “If you are asking me for better defense, then someone is a problem.”
Quackity stared at him. “That is not what I said.”
“It is what you meant.”
Quackity laughed under his breath and moved farther into the room, watching Multi as he worked. The scientist was all sharp angles and controlled movement, precise to the point of being unnerving. Even the way he reached for things looked measured. Like he could decide exactly how much force to use and never use one ounce more.
He pulled out a folded sheet of reinforced alloy and held it up. “This is enough for the outer plates.”
Quackity blinked. “Outer plates?”
Multi finally looked at him, as if the question itself was strange. “For your armor.”
Quackity stared harder. “You already started making me armor?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t ask you to make me armor.”
Multi’s brows knit just slightly. “You did not have to.”
That, more than the armor itself, was what had been happening more and more lately. Quackity had first thought Multi was just annoyingly useful. That had seemed fair. Multi was the sort of man who noticed things before anyone else did and then quietly fixed them without making a scene. A broken hinge on a door? Fixed. Badly mapped storage room? Corrected. Missing ammunition, unstable lock, failing wiring, bad supply route, useless council report—handled. Sometimes Quackity mentioned something once, casually, and the next day it would already be in Multi’s hands, solved before Quackity had the chance to think about it again.
But this was different. This was not “helpful.” This was Multi making an entire set of armor because Quackity had sounded vaguely irritated three days ago.
Quackity folded his arms. “You really just do things like this because I mention them?”
Multi gave him a look that suggested this was a ridiculous question. “Yes.”
“Even if I don’t ask?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s excessive?”
Multi’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Especially if it is excessive. Anything you need.”
Quackity couldn’t respond for a moment. God, that was just so… indescribably attractive?
Multi muttered in Polish while he worked, “Boże, this is stupid.” He seemed to realize he was missing a word, frowned, then tried again in English. “The support… the inside part. The thing that keeps it from bending.”
“The frame?” Quackity offered.
Multi pointed at him without looking up. “Yes. That.”
Quackity smiled despite himself. “You forgot a word.”
“In English.”
“In English,” Quackity agreed, amused. Multi glanced up at him, and there it was again—that tiny flash of sharpness in his face, the blue of his eyes edged in green for only a second, like someone had lit a fire under the surface.
Quackity should have looked away.
Instead he found himself staring at Multi’s mouth.
The fangs showed a little when Multi spoke, small and pointed and absolutely unfair. Quackity had noticed them the first time, but now he had the additional burden of noticing them in ways that felt increasingly suspicious. Every time Multi said his name. Every time he got annoyed. Every time he leaned slightly forward, focused and intent, the little flash of tooth made Quackity’s brain do something stupid. Multi’s eyes narrowed.
Quackity realized too late that he had been staring.
“What?” Quackity said quickly.
Multi looked unimpressed. “You are doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you have a question that you won’t ask me,” Multi crossed his arms.
Quackity choked on a laugh. “I always have a question, I’m just a curious guy!” He made an attempt at defending himself, but, I mean, what could he really do in that moment? Multi was, now that he noticed, less than two feet away from him.
“That is not what I meant.”
“Then maybe be more specific.”
Multi’s expression turned dry. “You are staring at my mouth.” The silence that followed was brief and violent.
Quackity’s face went hot. “No, I am not.”
Multi’s stare did not move. “You are.”
“I am absolutely not.”
“You know, it’s okay to be curious about them. They are strange.”
Quackity laughed too hard, because that was easier than admitting anything. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe.”
“That was not a denial.”
“It was not meant to be.” He turned back to the bench, and Quackity, still trying to recover, drifted closer and let himself watch Multi work. Up close, the scientist looked even less normal than he did from afar. The long coat hung from his shoulders with that perpetually half-untucked look, the black clothing beneath making his skin seem even paler. There was a strange greenish tone to him that never fully disappeared, as though the uranium he worked with had settled into him and decided to stay. He did not look fragile, though. Not even a little. He looked like a man who had survived being made strange and had chosen to become stranger on purpose.
“You should sleep more,” Quackity said.
Multi huffed. “You should stop pretending to know anything about my sleep and work schedule, Quackity,” he spoke, because he knew Quackity’s was terrible too.
“I know enough to tell you look terrible.”
Multi glanced at him. “Why do you say mean things to me when I am trying to focus kurwa.”
Quackity blinked. “I know the translation for ‘fuck’, Multi,” he almost laughed.
Multi looked unconvinced. “You are a disaster.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I know. I liked it anyway.” Multi made a sound that might have been a sigh, though Quackity suspected he was suppressing an actual comment. Then, instead of answering, he picked up a folded piece of heavy black fabric and held it out.
Quackity took it automatically. It was thick, reinforced, lined with pockets and concealed seams. He looked down at it and then back up at Multi. “What is this?”
“Something you will wear under the armor—oh, ehh, reminds me that I also have a question for you.”
Quackity stared. “You made me this too? What’s your— what’s your question?” He was a bit bewildered.
“Do you want wing accommodation for the backplate?” Multi asked, a little too casually. Had he even seen Quackity’s wings? How did he remember them?
“Uh— hm, um, I’m okay, actually,” he spoke quietly, still confused as to why Multi is making him armor. A custom set, too. Jesus Christ. It was definitely appreciated, but that was still insane.
Multi’s face remained carefully neutral, but his tone was unmistakably sincere. “You were complaining about your last one,” he seemed to read Quackity’s mind.
Oh, that’s right. Huh. “I complained once.”
“Tak, yes, exactly,” Multi turned back to his computer, noting something down.
“That was three days ago.”
“Yes, congratulations,” Multi spoke, a bit sarcastically.
Quackity let out a slow laugh and shook his head. “You just remember everything I say?”
Multi looked at him for a beat. “Yes, probably,” and that answer should have been simple. Instead it landed with far too much weight. Quackity coughed lightly, then turned the fabric over in his hands before looking back at him.
“You know this is not normal.”
Multi’s brows drew together. “What is not normal?”
“All of this,” he gestured at the armor, the lab, the notes, the supplies, the way Multi had already made four decisions in the span of one conversation like Quackity’s wants were self-evident laws of nature.
Multi looked at him as though Quackity was the strange one. “You want it, I’m just making it happen.”
Quackity laughed again, because the absurdity of hearing that said with complete seriousness was too much. “That’s not the point, though, you’re— you’re doing all these things for me, and it’s probably, like wasting your time,” Quackity tried to voice.
Multi’s mouth twitched again, fangs visible for a moment. “It is for me.” Before Quackity could respond, he heard footsteps at the lab door and turned just in time to see Ewroon ease inside with Nexe a few steps behind him.
“Ewroon, wypierdalaj z mojego laboratorium, próbuję pracować.” Multi spoke almost immediately, hardly sparing him a glance. Under absolutely no circumstances was Ewroon allowed in his lab. Nexe was… okay. He guessed.
“A, czyli Quackity może tu być, a ja nie?” Ewroon retaliated.
“Tak.”
“W porządku, po prostu zabiorę go ze sobą.” Ewroon beckoned Quackity forwards, leading him out of the lab—literally right outside the door. Ewroon looked at Quackity, who had a kind of… look on his face.
Ewroon noticed Quackity looking and sighed. “That face again.”
Quackity turned to him immediately. “What face?”
“The one where you are about to ask for advice with something and then fully disregard it and do your own little thing.”
“That is rude.”
“It is true.” Ewroon spoke, glancing at Mexe, who stayed by the door for a moment, then moved closer to Ewroon and said something soft in Polish. His voice was low and hesitant, clearly not as comfortable in English, and Ewroon answered in the same language without missing a beat. The words sounded affectionate even when Quackity did not understand them fully. He had heard Multi speak Polish enough now to recognize the cadence of it, the way certain phrases softened when they were meant fondly.
Quackity squinted at them. “I understood a disgusting amount of that,” his face soured. They were so affectionate it was actually puzzling.
Ewroon shot him a look. “No, you did not. By the way, Multi is one-hundred percent obsessed with you; there’s no other way to tell you.”
“No he’s—okay, absolutely not. You’re, like, way overanalysing this, and you can’t be talking,” he denied immediately, maybe a little too quick.
Ewroon looked mildly annoyed and entirely unbothered by the embarrassment. “He is! Can you see how he looks at you? Also, that is not even your business, don’t bring Nexe into this.”
“It is absolutely my business when you start talking like that in front of me.”
“You keep listening to Multi speak Polish and now you think you understand every private conversation in the room.”
Quackity gave a brief glare. “That is— yeah! That’s how it works! He’s taught me words before,” he crossed his arms over his chest.
Nexe, in the meantime, had drifted closer to Ewroon’s side. Ewroon adjusted automatically, a hand briefly touching Nexe’s shoulder in a way that was quiet enough to be private and obvious enough to mean something. He said a few words in Polish under his breath, and Nexe looked down at his feet, something other than awkwardly.
Quackity stared. Then he pointed at them. “That is unfair.”
Ewroon looked up. “What is?”
“You two are so, like, coupley, but you’re not together or anything, it’s actually ridiculous.”
“You’re getting too into this.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You are being annoying.”
“That too.” Multi, who had watched the entire exchange in silence until now, made his presence known by placing a hand on Quackity’s shoulder, stepping forward to be next to him.
Quackity looked at him again, grateful for the interruption and also immediately distracted by the way Multi was looking only at him. Not at Ewroon. Not at Nexe. Just him. That made Ewroon’s expression shift almost immediately.
Nexe noticed too, though he did it more quietly. He looked between them, then at Ewroon, and said something in Polish under his breath that sounded like warning mixed with curiosity. Ewroon did not answer him right away. He was too busy watching Multi. Because Jesus Christ, Alex Warner sure had a lyric for him. Specifically one from No.1 Party Anthem about two minutes and twenty eight seconds in.
And Multi, oblivious to the social tension his own existence had created, simply looked at Quackity and said, “Will you come back to the lab with me?” He was absolutely eager to get as far as possible from Ewroon and get him the fuck out of his reactor.
Quackity nodded, hardly saying bye to Ewroon or Nexe before leaving with Multi.
“Apologies, I cannot stand Ewroon,” Multi explained, returning to work.
Quackity started to agree in English, then got annoyed halfway through and switched languages without thinking. “I know, and he’s trying to, ugh, está tratando de asumir algo sobre nosotros,” He laughed at himself and continued in Spanish instead, faster now, voice lifting as the rant found momentum. “Lo cual es hipócrita porque, o sea, ¡míralo a él y a Nexe! Ugh—es que, literalmente, lo vi llamar a Nexe su ‘cachorrito’. Dios mío,” Quackity ran a hand over his face.
Multi watched him the entire time. He did not understand a word, which was obvious by the end of the first sentence, but who was he to interrupt? He just listened.
Quackity, mid-rant, paused and looked at him suspiciously. “You understand anything I just said?”
Multi answered honestly. “Nie.”
Quackity stared. “Then why are you still looking at me like that?”
Multi’s expression shifted by a fraction, and for once he looked almost caught off guard. “Because I like listening.” Quackity blinked.
Ewroon, who had somehow been watching the whole thing, without either of them noticing, looked very, very skeptical. Nexe glanced at him, then at Quackity, and seemed to understand whatever Ewroon was clued into. Quackity, meanwhile, had no idea what to do with the fact that Multi had just admitted, with absolute seriousness, that he liked listening to him speak in a language he did not even understand. That should not have been a meaningful thing. It was, though.
“Ewroon, oh my fucking God, wyleźć,” Multi spoke exasperatedly. Multi reached for the stack of armor plates again once he’d finally fucked off and left with Nexe, and Quackity—because he was ridiculous, because he laughed when he was uncomfortable, because his brain apparently preferred comedy to survival—let out a sharp laugh and covered part of his face with one hand.
“You are impossible,” he said.
Multi looked at him. “Yes.”
And then, because the world seemed determined to continue humiliating him in slow motion, he looked from where Ewroon was previously standing and then back to Multi and realized something with unbearable clarity. Multi was quiet with everyone else.
With Quackity, he was not. With Quackity, he talked. He explained. He complained. He argued. He remembered everything. He made armor before being asked. He offered weapons, information, materials, anything Quackity could possibly need like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Quackity stared at him. Multi stared back, still patient, still focused, still entirely himself. And Quackity, against his will, thought about the way Multi’s fangs had looked when he smiled just now.
Then he thought about the way he had said he liked listening. Then also thought about the way Ewroon had sounded far too certain.
“Oh,” Quackity said, very quietly.
Multi’s brows lifted. “What.” It wasn’t really a question.
Quackity looked at him for one long second, face going hot. Then, because the alternative was actually admitting the truth, he laughed again.
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Quackity told himself he was only going back because he was curious. That was true, technically. It was also a lie.
The truth was that after leaving Multi’s lab the first time, Quackity had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about him. About the armor plates. About the weird sincerity in his voice when he said anything. About the way he had listened to Quackity rant in Spanish without understanding a word and still looked like he cared about every syllable.
And, worse, about the fangs.
Quackity made a face at his own reflection as he stood outside the reactor lab the next afternoon. “This is pathetic,” he muttered to himself, then laughed quietly because that was somehow the funniest possible reaction to being deeply, embarrassingly aware of another person. He pushed the door open.
Multi was inside at his desk, head bent over a spread of papers and glass slides, one hand braced on the surface while the other moved over a page full of dense handwriting. He looked up immediately when Quackity entered, and Quackity had the absurd thought that Multi had been expecting him.
“You came back,” Multi spoke.
Quackity laughed once. “Sounds like you’re surprised,”
“I am not,” Multi assured, turning around to fully face him.
“You absolutely sounded like it.”
Multi glanced down at the papers, then back up, looking Quackity straight in the eyes. “I need your help with something.”
Quackity blinked. “You do?”
“Yes.”
That alone was enough to make Quackity pause. Multi usually did not ask for help. He acquired solutions. He built them, stole them, repaired them, or quietly engineered them into existence without anyone else ever being the wiser. Asking for help from Quackity—of all people—was already strange.
Quackity’s grin turned curious. “Okay, sure. With what?”
Multi’s eyes flicked briefly to Quackity’s shoulders, then lower, then back to his face with a kind of clinical focus that Quackity definitely did not notice too sharply because that would have been insane.
“I’m working on a cloning process,” Multi said.
Quackity stared. “A what?”
“A cloning process, the process of clones,”
“I heard you the first time. I just thought you were joking, honestly,” Quackity looked a bit bewildered. Cloning?
Multi looked a bit offended for just one moment. “Why would I joke about that?”
Quackity laughed under his breath. “That is a fair question, actually.”
Multi pointed at the papers scattered across his desk. “It is biological. I need data from a viable sample. Preferably one with strong structural integrity and useful regenerative traits.”
Quackity’s expression sharpened. “What, uh, kind of sample?”
Multi hesitated only long enough to look Quackity straight in the eye and say, “a wing sample, actually.”
Quackity went silent. Then, because life apparently enjoyed making this sort of thing obvious, Multi added, “and, unfortunately for you, I only know one person who might actually trust me to collect said sample.”
Quackity narrowed his eyes. “That sounds very suspicious.”
“It is a bit suspicious, considering I don't fully have clearance to be doing this—” he smiled, “—but it's a good idea in retrospect. It won't harm anyone.” Multi’s face remained neutral, but his attention did not move away from Quackity at all. And Quackity’s attention didn’t move away from the sharp fangs peeking out when he smiled. Jesus.
He continued, “I need help understanding the structure. The layering. The way the feathers hold together under stress. Your wings are the best reference I have.”
Quackity stared at him for a beat longer, then laughed. “You are seriously asking to study my wings?”
“Yes.”
Quackity made a face. “That sounds a bit painful.”
“It will be minimally invasive.”
Quackity gave him a long, suspicious look. “That's not, like, super reassuring.”
Multi’s mouth twitched. “It shouldn't be.” Multi set the papers down and folded his hands, his expression unreadable but his posture intent. “I am not asking lightly. I really, actually, do need help with this.”
Quackity looked at the desk, then at the notes, then back to Multi. “You’ve been planning this for a while?”
“Tak. Months now.”
“What kind of cloning process?”
Multi’s blue eyes sharpened. “One I am not discussing until I know whether you will help.” Multi’s gaze slid over him again, quick and assessing. “Will you help me or not?”
Quackity should have said no on principle. It was the reasonable thing to do when someone asked you to hand over samples from a body part that was very sensitive and absolutely not something you let a mad scientist poke around in without questioning his life choices first. Instead he smiled.
“I’ll help.”
Multi’s expression barely changed, but Quackity could see the immediate focus that took over beneath the calm. “Good.”
Quackity lifted a finger. “On one condition.” Multi stood patiently, waiting. Quackity tilted his head, trying not to smile too much because that would have been ridiculous. “You can do anything with them as long as you don’t permanently damage them.”
Multi stared at him for half a second. Then, very quietly, almost with offense, he said, “Why would I do that?”
Quackity shrugged. “Because you’re you.”
Multi looked personally insulted by the implication. “I would rather destroy my life’s work than damage your wings, you must know this,” Quackity blinked, then a smile slid over his face.
Multi, apparently realizing too late how serious he had sounded, looked faintly annoyed with himself. “That was not—”
“No, no,” Quackity said, letting out a small laugh. “That was great. Please keep talking like that,” the sentence was almost joking, but Quackity did appreciate the devotion.
Multi muttered something in Polish under his breath that Quackity missed, then turned sharply toward the workbench. “Take your sweatshirt off.”
Quackity raised both of his eyebrows. “You’re bossy today. Not even gonna take me to dinner first,” he tsked.
Multi did not look at him. “You agreed to be a part of the study.”
“I agreed to help, not to be ordered around.”
Multi finally glanced back at him. “You are in my lab.”
Quackity laughed again and began pulling off his sweatshirt. “Fine, fine. Mister important scientist. I’m moving.” He pulled his sweatshirt off easily, leaving him in the fitted black undershirt beneath it—the one with the diamond-shaped cutout in the back that existed specifically to accommodate his wings. The fabric clung enough to make the shape of his body obvious, and Multi’s gaze caught on that fact for one brief, betrayed second before he looked away as if it had never happened.
Quackity, for his part, didn’t notice the look. He was too busy unwinding the careful tension in his wings and stretching them only halfway (they were large, obviously, and the lab was filled with glass and other fragile things). His total wingspan stretched to roughly six feet, the yellow feathers sleek and golden in the lab light, though very few people had actually seen them properly. They were sensitive in a way Quackity had long since learned to resent, because the moment anything touched them wrong, his whole body reacted like it had been plugged into a live wire.
Multi had gone still. Quackity glanced over. “What?”
Multi’s eyes had fixed, not on Quackity’s face this time, but on the skin of his back visible beneath the cutout.
“Nothing.”
Quackity grinned, visibly entertained by all this. “You’re staring.”
Multi’s gaze snapped up at once, and for a second the irises of his eyes flashed a bit greener rather than blue. “Well, clearly I am staring, I’m studying them, Alex.”
“Ooh, someone’s defensive today.”
Multi looked like he wanted to disagree, failed, and then simply motioned toward the table. “Sit.”
Quackity obeyed, still amused, and folded himself onto the edge of the workbench while Multi began setting out tools with meticulous care. Glass slides. Small sample tubes. Sterile cloth. A pair of tweezers that looked much too precise for comfort. Multi’s movements were careful already, but now there was something else in them too—something very controlled, almost overly controlled, like he was making a point of being gentle before anything had even started.
That made Multi pause for half a beat, then glance at the wings again and say, “They are sensitive?”
Quackity looked at him like that was obvious. “Why else would I hide them all the time?”
Multi’s mouth twitched. “I am just being careful.”
Quackity’s smile softened despite himself. “I know.” Multi looked at him then—really looked, with that strange, quiet intensity he only ever seemed to use on Quackity—and nodded once before stepping closer. The first touch was so light Quackity almost did not feel it. Almost. Multi brushed the tip of one feather with a gloved finger, testing the texture, and Quackity’s shoulders twitched immediately.
“Too much?” Multi asked.
“No,” Quackity said quickly, then laughed through his teeth because the answer had been automatic and a little dishonest. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Multi’s brows drew together. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“It’s going to hurt.”
Multi looked faintly horrified. “I know that.”
Quackity’s smile tilted. “You sound guilty already.”
“I am not guilty.”
“You literally sound guilty though. I'm gonna be fine, Multi.”
Multi gave him a long, flat look, then began again with even more care. The next touch was better. Slower. More precise. He separated a few feathers near the edge of the wing and inspected the layering underneath with a focused expression that made him look almost lit from within by his own concentration.
Quackity shifted slightly on the bench, trying not to react too much. Multi noticed anyway, of course.
“Sorry. Too quick?” he asked immediately.
Quackity huffed a laugh. “You are so serious,” he spoke, a bit annoyed about how fragile this made him feel. He wasn't a child.
“You are sensitive.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Multi made a small sound in the back of his throat that Quackity could not quite interpret, then moved to collect a feather sample with tweezers. The moment the feather detached, Quackity flinched hard enough that his shoulders jerked. A quiet, involuntary string of Spanish spilled out of him at once.
“Joder—no, no, está bien, solo—”
Multi froze. Quackity immediately regretted every life choice that had led him to making sound effects in another language. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m fine.”
Multi was already setting the feather sample down. “It hurt.”
Quackity made a helpless motion with one hand. “A little.”
Multi’s expression tightened. “I can stop.”
“No.” Quackity huffed a laugh and shook his head. “No, keep going. It’s fine. Just—slowly.”
Multi’s gaze softened by a degree that Quackity probably would have missed if he had not already spent too much time staring at him. “Tell me if I do something wrong.”
Quackity’s mouth twitched. “That sounds suspiciously like concern.”
“It is concern, Alex; I do not want to hurt you.”
Quackity blinked, caught off guard by the straightforwardness of it, then laughed to cover his surprise. “Right. Sorry.”
Multi looked at him for a moment, then returned to the wing with a gentleness that seemed almost impossible for someone like him. He moved in small increments, taking a blood sample next with a sterile lancet so tiny Quackity barely saw it until it had already happened. The prick was enough to make Quackity inhale sharply.
“Jesús,” he muttered in Spanish, then softer, almost under his breath, “me duele un poco.”
Multi immediately stiffened. “Przepraszam.”
Quackity looked up. “You don’t need to apologize every time I twitch.”
“I forget that I have taught you Polish words.” Multi’s eyes flicked to the blood sample, then back to Quackity. “Are you in pain?”
Quackity laughed a little because the idea of Multi feeling bad over something this small was bizarre and, strangely, very sweet. “It’s a wing sample, not a war crime.”
Multi did not look convinced. “You said it hurts.”
“It does. Slightly.”
“I will be gentler.”
Quackity’s face warmed for reasons he absolutely did not want to examine. “You’re already being gentle.” Multi looked like he wanted to argue, then seemed to decide that it was not worth it. Instead he muttered something in Polish—too quiet for Quackity to catch—and continued, slower now, each touch careful enough to be almost reverent.
Every time Quackity flinched, Multi’s apology came immediately, low and sincere.
“Przepraszam.”
“Sorry.”
“Good?”
“Better?”
“Tell me if it hurts again.”
Quackity, for all his attempts to joke through it, found himself talking more when the pain came sharp enough to make him react. Little fragments of Spanish first, then random nonsense when he got too distracted to think clearly.
“Eso… okay, that’s—no, it’s fine.”
“Wow, no, that one was cold.”
“Dios mío, you are way too calm about this.”
“Wait, no, don’t do that—”
And Multi, instead of mocking him or getting impatient, just kept murmuring apologies and praise in a tone so quiet it almost got lost under the hum of the reactor.
“Dobre, dobra robota.”
“Almost done.”
“You’re doing well.”
“I know it hurts. You’re handling it well.”
Quackity had never been praised for enduring minor pain like it was a scientific achievement, and the effect of it was unsettling in the worst possible way. He laughed when he should have been wincing, glanced away when he should have been concentrating, and found himself relaxing more every time Multi’s voice went soft.
It was impossible not to notice how careful he was being. Impossible not to notice the difference between Multi’s usual severe focus and the almost absurd tenderness he used here, with Quackity’s wings in his hands.
By the time Multi had collected the final sample, Quackity was sitting a little too close to him on the bench, shoulders brushing more often than not while Multi worked through the notes and labeled each vial in perfect handwriting.
Quackity flexed his wings once, then winced faintly as they adjusted.
Multi looked up instantly. “Still sore?”
Quackity exhaled. “A bit.” Multi closed the vial, set it aside, and after one brief hesitation, reached up and gently smoothed a hand along the side of Quackity’s wing—not where the sensitive joints were, just the outer edge, light enough not to hurt.
Quackity went very still. Multi immediately pulled back. “Too much?”
Quackity swallowed, then laughed weakly. “No.” That answer was not entirely about pain. Multi seemed not to notice, or perhaps noticed and was too polite to point it out.
“Good.” They worked for another hour after that. Then another. The lab lights dimmed gradually as the evening settled over the server, and at some point Quackity stopped pretending he was only staying because of the research. Multi kept talking to him in that low, measured voice of his, explaining the structures he had found, theorizing about the biological application, occasionally slipping into Polish when a word escaped him or a thought came too fast.
Quackity listened anyway. Sometimes he answered in Spanish just to see Multi keep listening with that patient, unreadable expression. Sometimes he just laughed and let the quiet stretch between them.
At some point, exhaustion took them both.
It happened so naturally that neither of them seemed to notice at first.
Quackity had been sitting on the couch in the corner of the lab while Multi finished annotating the last page of notes. He had meant to leave when the work was done. He really had. But his eyes kept going heavy, the lab’s low hum and Multi’s voice becoming one long blur of warmth and fatigue. When he next blinked properly, the room had darkened.
Multi was still at the desk, head slightly bowed over his papers.
Quackity muttered, “Did I pass out?” Multi looked up slowly, then down at the blanket that had somehow been draped over Quackity’s shoulders.
“Yes.”
Quackity blinked. “You gave me a blanket.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Multi seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. “You were cold.”
Quackity laughed softly and rubbed at one eye. “Right. Of course you noticed.”
Multi set his pen down. “You want to sleep here?”
Quackity looked at him, then at the couch, then at the guest room door that existed a few hallways down and was technically meant for him. “I mean… probably.”
Multi nodded as though this was obvious and, after a moment’s pause, sat down on the other end of the couch with enough room to be reasonable and yet somehow not enough to feel distant.
Quackity, exhausted beyond the point of embarrassment, leaned back and let his head fall against the cushion.
Multi stayed where he was for a minute, then slowly, almost awkwardly, slid down enough to rest his own head against the couch back. Neither of them said anything. Quackity should have gotten up. He did not.
The next thing he knew, he was waking to the faint, steady hum of the reactor and the uncomfortable realization that he was half-turned toward Multi, one wing folded lazily along the couch, the other pressed lightly against Multi’s shoulder. Multi was still asleep beside him, one arm bent awkwardly at his side, his coat rumpled, his face turned just enough that Quackity could see the shape of his mouth and the faint outline of those fangs even in sleep.
Quackity stared for a full second before deciding not to think about that too hard. He was not alone, though. That was the strange part. Multi had not moved away in the night. If anything, he had drifted closer without realizing it, and now Quackity could feel the warmth of him through the edge of the couch, the subtle press of shoulder against wing, the utterly unguarded way their bodies had ended up sharing the same small space.
A little later, when Quackity shifted to sit up properly, Multi woke too, blinking slow and disoriented.
For one second, they just looked at each other.
Then Multi looked down at Quackity’s wing, which had somehow ended up partly across his lap, and said, with absolute calm, “You moved.”
Quackity laughed, still half-asleep. “So did you.”
Multi stared at him for a second, then looked down at the wing again like he had only just realized where he was.
Quackity should have made a joke. Instead he smiled, small and private and a little too soft to be safe.
Multi watched him for a moment longer than usual.
Then, very quietly, he reached out and adjusted the blanket around Quackity’s shoulders.
“Stay,” he said.
Quackity’s laugh faded into something gentler.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
And neither of them moved for a long while after that.