Chapter Text
Las Nevadas is a beautiful city.
Quackity will die on that hill, to defend that notion. His city is beautiful. It is the most extraordinary location in the entire Greater SMP, made up of glittering gold and polished quartz as far as the eye can see. The city is constructed of tall towers, ornate fountains, and luxurious buildings. But above all, in the heart and soul of its centre, Las Nevadas holds the Needle and the casino. Truly, the rest of the city pales in comparison.
A pity it is that the local eyesore creates such brutal contrast. Paradise, in no way matching its namesake, is the neighbour to Las Nevadas—although even granting it such a title is more than generous. Before its explosion, Paradise had been an entertaining nuisance—a half-baked project started out of petty spite. Quackity believes the fact is one that had, during the outpost's short tenure, always been quite apparent.
Now, Paradise lies abandoned, long since left to ruin. A junk heap of ruined buildings ringing a large crater, all contained within a forest clearing that only barely exceeds his city’s borders. A stain on the earth that turns Quackity's gut every time he thinks about it. Every time his mind drifts to the events that left it in such a state of disrepair.
So, as he strolls down Las Nevadas' main road, Quackity tells himself that today is the day. He shall not sit idle any longer. After today, Paradise will be no more.
Quackity swings his pickaxe as he walks, the motion a futile attempt to distract himself from the thoughts that buzz through his head. These particular thoughts are, of course, very much not the reason he pushed himself from his desk and left his casino, unable to focus on his work for a moment longer. They are not the reason he grabbed his pickaxe, clipped an axe to his belt and shoved a stack of TNT into his pockets. And they are most certainly not the reason he has decided to finally deal with Paradise, of all things. Because Paradise has nothing to do with the thoughts either. It is completely unrelated, and the fact that it happens to be the problem Quackity has decided to address is a complete coincidence.
Because the thoughts that plague him most definitely do not revolve around Paradise’s founder, his rival of months, who had escalated things far too drastically and then, before the dust of his explosions even settled, had the gall to just fucking disappear.
No. No! What a ridiculous prospect. Quackity is doing this because of appearances. Because such a wreck beside his golden city is terrible for business. It isn't anything personal, of course it’s not! And if the stiffness in his shoulders and his pinched expression tell the world otherwise? Well, there’s no one around to actually see that, so what does it matter?
Quackity grinds his teeth together as he takes the near-invisible turn towards Paradise and starts shoving through the thick scrub that creeps along the path. He has watched Wilbur clear this track many times before—the man had eventually grown tired of hacking away at vegetation and begun laying a proper road, only to abandon it just as he had everything else.
Wilbur. Wilbur. Quackity’s tight expression twists into a fully-fledged scowl. He is going to have a fantastic time tearing down Wilbur’s stupid fucking outpost, picturing his stupid fucking face as he swings his pickaxe and chops his axe and lights his TNT. And then he is never going to think about him again. Ever.
He isn’t.
Yet he still can't help but hesitate when Paradise finally comes into view. The sight is...startling, and it makes Quackity flinch despite having seen it all before.
Somehow, in such a short amount of time, Paradise has only grown exponentially worse. Abandonment has not been kind. Plants spill out of the grass and over the edge of the crater, trying valiantly to reach down towards the bottom. Most of its builds lay in piles of crumbled stone and cracked wood, having failed to withstand the explosion that had disrupted their foundations.
One building still stands. It is cracked and covered in mildew, but present nonetheless, and Quackity can't help but shoot the structure a bitter look.
Of course that one, the tiny stone hut Wilbur built at the very beginning, just to spite Quackity's authority, is the one still standing. It is something poetic that Quackity is sure the bastard would like, but only serves to make his own skin crawl. He hates poetry.
He stomps forward until he stands right at the edge of the crater, breeze drifting through the trees and rustling his hair, too-long grass tickling his ankles. There are a couple of paths that crisscross around what remains of the clearing, although they really only consist of places where the grass has been trampled so much that only dirt remains. Greenery is beginning to encroach on even their scorched territory.
The whole place is very quiet. Quackity has never been to an empty Paradise before. Someone was always there. Wilbur or Tommy or—Ranboo. There was always noise or movement. Now, there is just desolate silence.
It’s fucking creepy.
The door to the HQ hangs ajar on rusty hinges, allowing for the faintest of glimpses into the darkened room beyond. The sight sends a shiver down Quackity’s spine. He really ought to just step back and begin his path of destruction. Start hacking away at the stone with his pickaxe. Unsheathe his axe and cut down the low wooden logs that outline Paradise’s border. Lay his TNT and light it up, then walk away while the fire still burns high.
He cannot quite explain why he instead, after glaring at the building for a moment, lowers his hand to clip his pickaxe to his belt and replace it with a lantern—a relatively delicate contraption of thin metal and a small, toggleable redstone bulb. Why he instead continues forward, reaching out to push the door open further.
The hinges squeal and groan their protest but give without too much force and, as the door swings inwards, a stale draught wafts out from the building. Dust tickles the back of Quackity's throat, the air hanging so thickly that it practically has a taste, sitting heavy on his tongue. Age and abandonment, along with mildewy wood and a hint of...iron?
Quackity’s brow furrows, a stroke of unease ringing out like a warning bell in his mind.
He has to work up the nerve to take the first step across the threshold, which—after everything he has been through—is embarrassing. The hard soles of his shoes echo loudly against the cobbles that sparsely decorate the stone floor.
The building isn't large—Quackity would go so far as to describe it as cramped—but his lamp still struggles to penetrate the thick layer of shadow that coats its interior, seeping out from the corners. He goes to step forward again, lantern held afloat, when movement shatters the silence. A quiet scuffing sound against the floor that makes Quackity freeze, his free hand darting towards the axe at his hip. He isn't about to be caught off guard by a monster or rabid wolf.
He advances another step, making an effort to soften his footfalls as his hand tightens on the handle of his weapon. Then the light hits the back wall and finally illuminates a twitching lump pressed against it, at the junction where the floor meets the wall.
For a second, Quackity thinks it actually is an animal. Then the lump shifts further, a head tilting up from the disjointed mass of brown, and the scent of blood hits him like a minecart.
His heart stutters in his chest, horror rising up and surpassing the disgust and wariness that swirl in his gut. He is caught between stumbling backwards and rushing forward, and ends up standing still—frozen in place, wide-eyed.
It’s a person.
Crimson is pooled beneath them, smeared across the stone, gathering in the cracks between cobbles. Quackity can just barely make out the bottom half of their face, and their eyes are completely shielded by their hair, but the lamplight shines brightly off the wet blood that streaks their lips and drips down their chin.
Their breath rattles through the still air, slow and wet, gargling in their throat. The sound alone is enough for Quackity to lift an instinctive hand to his own chest, as though to reassure himself that his own breathing is okay. Yet for however horrified he is, Quackity finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from their face as they continue moving, stuck watching as slowly, agonisingly, they tilt their head up and up and up until their snarl of dark hair is no longer enough to cover their eyes.
Their gaze meets his and Quackity recoils violently, nearly dropping his lantern as a bolt of icy shock lances through his chest. He abruptly finds himself able to look anywhere but the face before him, his eyes darting around, searching desperately for anything else to focus on and latching onto the faint glimmer he can make out near their chest.
It is a sword, the glow of its enchantments muted beneath the blood that coats its surface. He can only see a fraction of the blade, the part closest to the hilt, because the rest of it—the rest of it is—
Quackity's stomach twists itself into a sickening knot, all the air escaping his lungs in a punched exhale.
The sword is embedded in the person's chest. The sword is embedded in—
He inhales sharply and all he can smell is blood, blood.
Wilbur's blood.
It is like the realisation that the man is dying finally lets Quackity process the face before him. Gives permission for the name to enter his mind from where he had been shoving the recognition away.
What the fuck. What happened?
"Hello, Mr. President." Wilbur's voice is a wet rasp as he speaks, sarcasm dripping from each slow, agonised word. His lips pull into a bloody mockery of a smile.
The greeting echoes in Quackity's ears, loud in the silence of Paradise, and suddenly he is furious.
Good. Good! He is fucking glad that Wilbur is dying. Quackity takes a step backwards, an incredulous scoff escaping his lips. The selfish, infuriating bastard has always deserved to have someone retaliate against him. Clearly, someone finally has. Someone has left Wilbur like this.
Fucking justice, is what it is. For every goddamn wrong the man has committed. For Ranboo.
Quackity wants to leave. He wants to turn and go, forget about this entire ordeal. Let fate run its course, leave Wilbur’s body to cool within the hour. Or—whispers a more vicious side of him, the one that drove him to the prison after Tommy’s death, that tore down El Rapids, that formed the Butcher Army—he could continue exactly as planned. Lay his TNT around Wilbur’s soon-to-be corpse, light Paradise’s second explosion, give the man a taste of his own fucking medicine. Take out his pickaxe or axe, go at Wilbur directly or tear this shitty HQ down around him; the last sight of a dying man.
It is retribution.
It is vengeance.
Yet there is another part of Quackity, buried deep in his chest, that aches. That claws for attention, that looks at the devastated state of Wilbur Soot and feels sadness. Pity. Every shuddering breath he takes, audible in the quiet, is obviously agonising. The man is a mess of dirt and blood, caked so thickly he could well be made of it. His eyes are wide and full of pain and wild mania, and it makes Quackity ache. He hurts for Wilbur, even though he shouldn't. Even though he should spit on the man and leave him to rot alongside his crumbling outpost.
So many conflicting options swirl through Quackity’s head that he finds himself locked in place, his legs refusing to move beneath him. Still, motionless. Useless. His pulse is loud in his ears, twin sides of him warring in his chest, tugging at his heart. He still has one foot behind him, his aborted effort to twist around and leave. He has yet to speak a word.
Wilbur tips his head, an action so slight as to almost be imperceptible. The light of Quackity’s lantern casts long shadows across the hollows of his cheeks, glints against the whites of his eyes, illuminates the dark blood smeared across his chin.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” he says, his voice thin and strained, grating and gurgling in his throat, yet still retaining that dry quality that is just so characteristic. Quackity doesn’t know how he manages it. How, even dying, he manages to act like this. Like himself. “What did you come here for, Quackity? Your, heh, your Boner? ‘M afraid he’s not here this time, either.” Wilbur bares his teeth in another bloodstained grin, choking out that same awful mimicry of a laugh. But this time the sound jerks something in his chest, and his eyes momentarily blow wide before clenching tightly shut, his body going rigid, a strangled gasp slipping through his lips.
The obvious, quiet moment of pain has ripped away Wilbur's expression of mockery, and with it has also thrown Quackity off balance. It had been so easy to pull satisfaction and fury to the surface when it was—well when it was Wilbur in front of him. But the blood that shines crimson on Wilbur's lips and the way his entire body trembles in an effort to stay still is so jarringly human, in a way that makes it impossible for Quackity to sink back into that haze of only seeing his rival—and a disgraced one at that.
He hates it. Hates the way it makes his hand hesitate, even now, where it continues to rest on the handle of his axe.
Wilbur's eyes flutter open in unison with a ragged gasp of air, and Quackity realises that the brief silence had been because Wilbur was holding his breath. Wilbur's fingers are red where they clutch the hilt of the sword embedded deep within his own chest, and his eyes are dark in the soft lamplight, reflecting only disjoined glints. A shattered mirror, staring up at Quackity from the filthy ground.
“You want to finish the job, Q?" Wilbur rasps. A trickle of blood beads at the corner of his lip and starts slipping down his chin. His gaze lowers to the axe at Quackity’s hip and he smiles, then laughs—a horrifically choked sound, like a punctured balloon attempting to wheeze. "I know you want to. Come on...we both know I can't stop you." He giggles, all mania and no warmth. Wilbur licks his bloody lips, normally an anxious tell that Quackity exploits, yet in context it just seems sickeningly casual.
"Pick your poison, Quackity!" He is putting on his showman voice, tainted by his damaged airways. Wilbur coughs, and makes a small noise of pain he doesn't seem able to smother. But then he is just laughing again, like he doesn't care how much agony his body is in. "There are so many options, really. Just come—come pull out the sword, I'll bleed out soon enough. Or use your own weapons! Or hell, the chest over there has potions. Just force one down my throat. I promise not to struggle!"
Quackity’s stomach twists. Nausea churns in his gut, bubbles up his chest, tickles at the back of his throat. He grits his teeth and swallows it down. His hands are shaking, his fingers clenched almost painfully tightly around the handle of his lantern. He doesn’t dare try to loosen his grip, for fear of dropping it entirely.
All he can smell is blood.
“What the fuck?” he finally manages to breathe past the lump in his throat. “Wilbur, what—what did you—” the question chokes off, Quackity unable to finish. Because he knows what happened, doesn’t he? One of Wilbur’s many enemies came to get their revenge for one of the many things Wilbur has done. This is justice, this is payback, this is...it is good. After this, Quackity is never going to have to think about Wilbur again. That is what he wants. It is.
It is.
But...something about that explanation just doesn’t quite work. Jagged pieces of it that don’t fit together. Questions it brings rise to that Quackity just can’t find an answer to.
This is Paradise. Scant few people know where it is, fewer still who would actually have any reason to come here, not unless they were looking for Wilbur. Which would be all well and good, except that Wilbur himself has no reason to go back to Paradise, either. The place is a wreck, ruined and abandoned—hardly salvageable, certainly not worth salvaging.
The only reason he can see anyone else coming here would be if they wanted to be...alone.
Quackity feels the blood drain from his face. Because the sword doesn’t make sense either. The sword, embedded in Wilbur’s chest at an angle that must have been driven—upwards. And then, past the bloody handle clutched loosely in Wilbur’s hands, the blade has a distinctively blue hue. No one would leave something as valuable as a diamond sword to gather dust with its victim. But—but Wilbur’s sword is made of diamond, isn’t it?
No. No. Surely fucking not. Quackity inhales a trembling breath as he takes another step back, like the minute distance will somehow send his conclusion spiralling away, banished from his thoughts. But it only grows stronger, his mind spinning, buzzing with enthusiasm, forcing him to face a barrage of nauseating ideas over and over again.
No one outside of Las Nevadas, or Tommy-fucking-Innit, knows where Paradise is. And Quackity knows none of his people would do this. No one from Las Nevadas would attack and then...then leave their victim to die slowly, not like this. No one from Las Nevadas is foolish enough to give someone they hate strongly enough to kill any chance of escape.
The wound must be self-inflicted. It is the only option that fits; the only way a person who knows the location could be present, could strike at such an odd angle, would leave a sword and leave Wilbur alive.
The wound is fucking self-inflicted, and Quackity thinks of the motive and he might actually vomit. This isn't what he wants. He wants justice, or—or something fucking poetic, maybe, but not this.
What happened? Wilbur was himself again, after coming back. As loud and annoying and dickish as he had always been, but in that smooth way that was just so him. He was ecstatic to be alive, wasn't he? And clearly enthralled enough with Quackity and his city to become a problem. What changed? And...if Quackity had delayed himself the hour he originally planned, instead of shirking off duties to come here, would he have found a corpse instead?
It has been weeks, months since he has seen Wilbur. It was here, in the direct aftermath of the explosion, the man’s tailcoats disappearing into the woods surrounding Paradise as he fled the scene of Ranboo’s death. That was Quackity’s last glimpse of him—before now. Before this.
Wilbur’s earlier words ring through Quackity's head. His—offer, phrased so mockingly, so tauntingly. But with everything stripped away, his request had been a simple one: kill me.
A dare, a challenge, a plea. Wilbur is in agony, and everything he has done since Quackity arrived, his awful laughter and mocking words, has been to try and stop him from leaving. To draw him in, to anger him, to drive him to...murder.
Maybe it is at the point where such an act would simply be mercy.
Wilbur is still staring up at him. The bloodied grin has slipped from his face, replaced by something dark and small and scared.
“What the fuck, Wilbur?” Quackity repeats, because his mind is far too scattered to come up with anything better, because there is still a part of him screaming that he has to be wrong, that the answer he has settled on cannot, cannot be correct because Quackity doesn't know how to deal with that. He can’t deal with that. “What the fuck happened?”
Wilbur tries to laugh again, that awful, choking, grating cackle that turns into a fit of hacking, retching coughs as his body, again, instinctively tries to dispel the blood pooling in his lungs, and then, just as quickly, shifts into a thin, garbled wail as the coughing jostles the sword in his chest.
Wilbur is trembling now—his hands, his arms, his torso. His teeth are audibly chattering. There is a crimson froth bubbling at his lips, spittle and blood mixing and dripping slowly down to the ground that is already stained with so much red.
Quackity feels sick, that horrible mixture of pity and fear and concern forming a churning pit in his stomach. And he hates himself for feeling that way about Wilbur, but the sight before him is so agonising that he just can’t fucking help it.
Wilbur lets out a slight wheeze before he manages to speak again, his tongue darting out to uselessly try to clean his lips again, his tone somehow still retaining its biting edge.
“I’m sure you can figure it out,” he hisses, and Quackity has, he has and that is exactly why he is asking. “It’s not like you should be fucking surpised.” Wilbur shifts slightly, and Quackity watches as he winces and then gasps, his whole body spasming once before falling still.
"Wilbur," Quackity's voice is a low warning, but it is either that or betray the shakiness of how he feels. How blatantly caught off guard he is. "Wilbur...what did you do?" Spoken aloud, the words almost sound desperate.
Despite his earlier boldness, his offer to let Quackity finish the job, Wilbur's eyes are wide and dark as he stares up at him. He looks small against the wall, curled around his midsection. Sunken into a dirtied, blood matted face, his eyes are the only parts of him that seem to have any life, any shine in them; they look completely terrified.
"Don't act like you didn't want this, Q," Wilbur manages, and now he almost sounds nervous. "Don't. Don't." Every word gurgles, wet and airy like a punctured, flooded balloon.
“I—” Quackity begins, but words fail him as he stares down at Wilbur. Because that was his knee jerk reaction, wasn’t it? He saw Wilbur dying in Paradise and had been flooded by such a bitter, vicious glee; the fleeting urge to speed it up. And this shouldn’t change anything, it doesn’t change anything, and yet...
Quackity steps forward and hates how Wilbur still, somehow, manages to cower further against the wall.
He stops again, a frustrated breath hissing between his teeth as he stares into Wilbur’s wide eyes. There is a knot of emotions in his chest, all of them things that Wilbur has no right to elicit from him, not after everything he has done. But Quackity can’t fucking help it, can’t help the way his fingers itch to grab a potion of healing and feed it to the man before him, bring him back from the edge he is teetering on.
“Damn you, Wilbur,” he mutters, looking over to the chest Wilbur had spoken of. He only distantly realises that he is speaking the words aloud. “Damn you back to hell.”
"...that was the plan," Wilbur whispers, and Quackity snaps his head back, aware the soft words might not have even been intended for his ears. Wilbur's head is ducked, fingers white knuckled and clutching his sleeves, and he is shaking. Visibly shivering.
God fucking dammit.
Quackity swears loudly as he storms over to the chest. He sees Wilbur flinch violently in his peripherals but ignores it as he paws through the chest. It is a disaster, of course it is, of course Wilbur organises nothing.
Quackity's hands close around a few small vials, and he lifts them to the light of his lantern. Three are dark, murky brown-crimson, and with a rolling stomach, Quackity sets them back down in the chest. The fourth and final, half empty, is a luminescent pink.
He hooks the lantern to his belt and returns to Wilbur's side before his brain can catch up, before he can allow himself to second-guess this reckless course of action.
Quackity kneels and, none too gently, rolls Wilbur onto his side, ignoring the sharp and instinctive cry of pain—ignoring how Wilbur hands close around his wrists, his jagged fingernails digging into his skin harsh enough to draw blood. Quackity doesn't bother to warn Wilbur before he reaches down, shoves the man’s hands aside to grab the slick handle of the sword, and pulls it out.
Wilbur screams, and Quackity thinks the sound might haunt his nights to come.
He should have turned around and left.
Wilbur is babbling, and the sound is so choked with blood that Quackity can hardly understand him. He just hears "Q" and "please" and "stop," and that one might be the worst.
Quackity doesn't bother to try and administer the potion correctly. Wilbur is already dying, he might as well play risky. So, with one hand pining Wilbur's thrashing form to the ground, he uses his teeth to rip the cork from the vial and upends the potion over his abdomen.
Wilbur’s struggles are startlingly strong for the state he is in. He nearly manages to throw Quackity off a few times, until Quackity grimaces, throws the newly-empty bottle aside, and presses his other forearm across Wilbur’s chest, above the now-healing wound. He pushes him roughly against the harsh stone.
Wilbur thrashes harder, pitching desperately against Quackity, his screams and words merging into a horrible sort of keen. There are tears streaming down his face, his hands still grabbing, clutching, clawing frantically at Quackity’s wrists, his chest heaving with shuddering, gasping sobs. It is like he isn't even aware of what is going on.
Looking down into his glassy eyes, Quackity realises that might be exactly what’s happening.
"Wilbur. Wilbur!" he yells, leaning forward. But that only seems to make things worse, Wilbur spasming beneath him. His sobbing is getting louder, his wailing more continuous, and Quackity realises with a jolt that it is because Wilbur can breathe again. But the man doesn't even seem to notice.
Swearing again, Quackity leans forward, pressing his elbows down into Wilbur's shoulders to hold him down, grabbing Wilbur's head with both of his hands, framing Wilbur's face with his palms. Forcing the man to look at him, forcing their eyes to meet even though Wilbur's are a world away.
"Wilbur, look at me," Quackity hisses. "Look at me, you fucking idiot. I'm right in front of your goddamn face. Here, in reality. Where you can breathe. Because of me. Wilbur, come on. Wil."
Wilbur goes still beneath him, so abruptly that Quackity nearly jolts off him. For a fleeting moment, Quackity thinks he might have actually killed the man.
He isn't sure how that makes him feel.
But Quackity’s eyes have adjusted enough that can spot the exact moment Wilbur actually sees him, his gaze snapping from a point over Quackity’s shoulders directly to his face, suddenly unnervingly focused. Then there comes a slowly dawning horror—one that starts in his eyes and pools into his expression. He was already deathly pale, but somehow even more blood manages to drain away from his face.
“Get off,” Wilbur breathes, but Quackity doesn’t move, too caught off guard by this abrupt shift in demeanour. Wilbur’s breathing picks up again; Quackity can hear the shallow gasps that hiss through his teeth, can feel it through his arms that are still pinning him to the ground. And then Wilbur snaps again, but this time his struggles are with purpose, have a renewed vigour to them and have caught Quackity off guard.
“Get off, get off!” he screeches, his fingernails digging ruthlessly into one of the hands around his face.
He manages to knock one of Quackity’s elbows from his shoulder, which unbalances him in a way that Wilbur uses to shove him fully to the side. Quackity topples to the ground, and Wilbur doesn’t even spare the time to properly stand before he is scrambling backwards, across the sticky pool of his own blood and right back against the wall.
“What did you do?” Wilbur gasps, and this time it is he who asks that question. He scrabbles at his chest, at the jagged cut in the fabric, at the raw, tender flesh beneath. The potion had been brewed well—Wilbur made it, after all—and his wound has already sealed over.
“No, no, no! Y-you can’t have, you can’t have, I need to—I can’t—” Wilbur's eyes cast frantically around the room, landing on his bloody sword, discarded on the floor. He is reaching out towards it when Quackity lunges forward, coming up behind the weapon and snatching it from the ground. Wilbur flinches back again.
A part of Quackity bitterly wonders what it is that the man actually wants.
Silence falls between them as Wilbur stares at him, and Quackity slowly watches as Wilbur's expression morphs into despair.
“I hate you,” Wilbur says, and his voice shakes. Then, louder—and it comes out like a hiccuping sob—“I hate you. I hate you! You ruin everything, Quackity!” With a shriek, Wilbur is back on his feet, lunging towards him, but all Quackity has to do is sidestep and Wilbur crumples to his knees once more, one palm planted against the ground, the other pressed against his abdomen. Quackity watches with a tight chest and a mouth bitter with pity as Wilbur breaks down into heart-wrenching sobs. “What is wrong with you? Why would you do that?!”
The sword in Quackity's hands feels disgusting, but he doesn't dare put it down. He doesn't know what to say. Wilbur twists towards him, eyes narrowed in a furious, bloodshot glare.
“You want this! I want this! The entire fucking server wants this!” he screams at Quackity, his voice raw and hoarse. “Don’t fucking lie. Don’t do that to me, don’t do it to yourself.” Wilbur shuts his eyes and spits out a laugh. It is a harsh, bitter thing. His shoulders lift in a deep, shuddering inhale and then he twists from where he has fallen to his knees, not quite standing but instead shuffling around to face Quackity more directly.
“Kill me,” he says, words quiet compared to his precious shout. His voice is trembling, hitching on the words, and there is blatant fear twisting his expression. But when he opens his eyes and looks back up at Quackity, the only thing that sparkles in them is a maniac desperation. His next words come out as a biting hiss. “Do it, Quackity. Do it. Kill me. Stab me with the sword.”
Quackity swallows thickly, fingers curling tighter around the hilt of the sword until they ache. It feels rotten in his hand; the sensation of drying blood against his palm is enough for his skin to itch and crawl.
Quackity has always been a man who has valued justice, a man who has never backed down from letting vengeance take its place, letting it be his guide.
But fucking hell is he sick and tired of all of this.
He has other things to worry about, things like Dream, things like trying to figure out a way to get Ranboo and Charlie back, things like Sam’s disappearance and not knowing where Purpled is or what he might be planning. This isn't helping anything.
"...you don't want this, Wilbur," Quackity murmurs slowly, and his heart is hammering in his chest. He watches as a momentary wash of confusion, and then panic overtakes Wilbur's face.
“N-no, no you can’t, you—” Wilbur’s voice chokes off, and he lifts a hand to wipe at the bloody foam that still clings to his lips. Quackity watches, unmoving, as Wibur lurches to his feet and stumbles towards him.
“I killed Ranboo,” Wilbur says, his tone edged with something that almost sounds like glee. “I took his last life. He’s gone, he’s gone and now he’s in limbo, he’s in hell, it’s worse than hell and it has been years.” Wilbur reaches out to fist his hands in Quackity’s shirt, but Quackity just sidesteps again, staring up at him. He knows exactly what is happening, knows that this is just the final bait of a desperate man, but the dying part of him that is still furious screams that he isn't lying.
And Wilbur just keeps going, digging himself deeper. He has long since hit rock bottom, so he has thrown away his shovel to claw at the stone with his dirty hands and jagged nails. “I killed Ranboo just to get at you! You offered me a position that I refused and I got Ranboo killed for it! I killed him, and I enjoyed it! And I-I’m fucking glad I did! Because I—because he fucking—”
The sword clatters to the floor with the sharp clang of metal on rock as Quackity grabs Wilbur by the lapels of his torn jacket, easily dragging the unusually light man and turning to slam him up against the nearest wall. Their breath mingles with proximity (he can taste blood in the air—) as Quackity surges forward, holding Wilbur in place even as the man hangs limply, unresisting, eyes wide with shock.
There is a twisted little smile on his lips. He looks relieved. Satisfied, even. Quackity tightens his grip, pressing Wilbur harder against the wall until a small, pained whimper escapes his lips.
"Shut up, Wilbur," Quackity snarls. "For once in your FUCKING LIFE, just shut your goddamn mouth!”
He sees the gleam in Wilbur's eyes, manic and desperate, and can see him readying himself to speak, something else horrible and provoking. Quackity knees him in the gut, knocking the wind and any chance at words straight from Wilbur's lungs with a single stunned exhale. Quackity takes a moment to breathe, head tilting forward, struggling to calm himself. His head pounds with one of the worst headaches he has ever had.
"...Wilbur," he says, and the softness and tiredness of his voice startles them both. "You don't have to ruin this. I'm not—I'm not asking you to ruin this. You don't have to be evil, for what has happened to have happened. You don't have to die for the future to carry on."
Wilbur is silent for a moment, staring, wide-eyed. He is still regaining his breath; a fresh wave of tears brims in his eyes. “Why can’t you see?” he says, and his voice breaks. “There is no future for me. There never was. I wish I’d never come back. I-I should never have come back.”
Quackity shuts his eyes. He can’t—he can’t fucking deal with this. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. He doesn’t know why he is dealing with this.
“Wilbur,” Quackity starts, and then stops again. He can guess the answer, but maybe...“Is there anyone else you can go to?”
Wilbur goes rigid, his breath hitching audibly.
“Okay,” Quackity says, because that was as clear of a no as the word itself. “Okay, that’s fine. I can’t just—” his words taper off in his throat as he thinks over them. He has no obligation to help. He does, in fact, have reason to just leave Wilbur here. Except that...he can’t do that. He is too fucking soft, or stupid, or whatever, but he can’t bring himself to go.
Prime help him.
“Well...you are back now,” is what Quackity eventually settles on, addressing what Wilbur said earlier but passing no more judgement than that. “And that means you will have a future. Because it’s not ending here.”
Wilbur starts to shake his head, opening his mouth to speak again, but Quackity uses the leverage he still has on the man’s coat to silence him with another shake.
“I’m not letting it end here,” he repeats sharply, fixing Wilbur with a hard gaze as the man finally sags, turning into little more than dead weight that dangles limply from Quackity's grip.
For a brief moment, he wonders if he could send Wilbur back to his father. Surely Philza could handle this responsibility.
But last time Wilbur was like this, his father killed him. He let Wilbur go, instead of pulling him back.
Suddenly, Quackity is very against the idea of getting Phil.
"Get up, Wilbur," he sighs, waiting for Wilbur to hold his own weight again. He shouldn't have to deal with this. So why is he? Why does some stupid part of him insist that Wilbur needs him?
Maybe it is nostalgia from Pogtopia, from back when Wilbur granted him shelter from Schlatt. Maybe it is the part of him that chose the address for Wilbur in the letter he wrote. Maybe it is that tiny part of him that was actually glad to see Wilbur, when he was first revived. Before everything went to shit.
"Come on. We're getting out of this hellhole," Quackity murmurs, taking a step back, slowly loosening his grip on Wilbur's coat as the man stares up at him, confused.
“I-I...” Wilbur trails off, and Quackity watches as his gaze flickers around the room, avoiding his eyes, quickly settling on the chest of potions set against the wall. The man’s fingers twitch. Quackity doesn’t say anything, just neatly sidesteps between Wilbur and the chest. Wilbur swallows thickly.
“Why? Why are you...?” All the bite, all that burning rage is gone from his tone. There is still a bit of fear edging his words, but more than that he just sounds...lost.
Quackity doesn’t think he has ever heard anyone sound so small.
Quackity isn’t sure what the right way to answer is. He isn't sure what the right way to do any of this is. He has never had to deal with something like this before, and he is sure he has made a thousand and one mistakes, except that...going with his gut does seem to be working so far. In the short-term, at least.
Quackity considers the question for a moment longer before he sighs and says, “Because I don’t think there’s anyone else on this server who would.”
Wilbur stares up at him, and his mouth opens to ask something else. But then he hesitates, and Quackity can practically hear the gears turning in his head as Wilbur processes his words. It is a deflection, that much is certain, yet the truth is still there. The fact that Quackity doesn’t know why, buried beneath the mention of the rest of the server.
Slowly, Wilbur presses his hands against the wall. He stops, then, and his eyes widen in horrified realisation. One of his hands rises to his chest, brushing the fresh wound right below his ribs. Quackity glances down and sees that blood is dripping sluggishly past the fingers that are now desperately prodding his injury.
It must have torn open again, somewhere in their scuffle.
“Oh,” Wilbur breathes. And then his fingers start digging into his flesh, his expression twisting with pain, a thin cry forcing itself past his teeth even as he keeps going, practically clawing at the wound.
“Wilbur!” The man doesn’t even seem to register his shout. Quackity has no idea what has happened, what has suddenly changed. Frantic, he jumps forward and grabs Wilbur’s wrists, forcibly pulling his hands away from his chest.
Wilbur barely even reacts, staring at the blood on his fingers. He raises his gaze to look around the room, a renewed light in his eyes.
“Is this it, then?” he says, and now there is a hysterical pitch to his tone. His voice shakes. “My new eternity? No more fucking trains, just Paradise and—” Wilbur looks back at Quackity, and his eyes are wet again. Quackity doesn’t understand. “Why are you here? Why were you ever here?”
"Trains?" Quackity says instead of answering the question, feeling Wilbur's pulse hammering against the pads of his fingers. "What trains, Wilbur?" Quackity exhales, the air hissing between his teeth. He is fucking exhausted. But Wilbur just stares at him, an uncomprehending look in his eyes. Slowly, Wilbur begins to shake his head.
"I don't understand..." Wilbur murmurs, as though Quackity's words have gone unheard. He reaches out, and Quackity shies away from the bloodstained hand that tries to touch his cheek. "Are you...no. No, surely not. You're a part of this place, then. Designed to torture me." A soft, choked laugh escapes Wilbur's lips, and a tear rolls down his cheek. "Of course it's you."
Quackity stares at him, nervously adjusting his grip on Wilbur's arms, unnerved by the man's hollow, soft tone.
"Wilbur, what the actual fuck are you talking about," He demands, blinking sharply against Wilbur's hundred-mile gaze. He hates crying. Quackity hates crying. It freaks him out, he can't—he can't handle it. "You are talking nonsense, you're...Wilbur, stop that. Just look at me. Look at me." But Wilbur just shakes his head, that same sobbing laugh tearing from his throat.
"What’s this, then? Some sort of...second layer? For people who have left once and returned?" Wilbur asks, staring at the ground, at the puddle of his own blood that is smeared across the rock.
"Feels a bit redundant," he mutters, almost to himself. "The quiet was the worst part. Although I suppose it depends..." Wilbur blinks, and then finally looks back up at Quackity. His pupils are huge, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. Glassy. Quackity doesn't know what he is seeing. "Are there going to be others? Or is it just you?"
Quackity stares. He has no fucking idea what is going on. "I—no one knows I'm here," he says, trying to answer the one question he can understand, desperately hoping it will somehow help drag Wilbur back. "Hardly anyone even knows where ‘here’ is."
Wilbur's head tilts, and Quackity knows his words are being misinterpreted but he just cannot fathom how.
"The two of us, then. Ha!" Wilbur barks out a laugh. It is an ugly sound. "God, if you—if Quackity knew, he'd find this hilarious."
"I don't!" Quackity shouts, his hands tightening around Wilbur's wrists, dragging the man towards himself. Quackity’s heart is loud in his ears. "Wilbur, I have no fucking clue what you're talking about! You're not making any sense! Just fucking tell me what's going on! Tell me what you think is happening!"
"It's going to take more than that," Wilbur murmurs, and he isn't looking at Quackity anymore.
For a moment, Quackity thinks he is talking about his words, but then he follows Wilbur's gaze down, and sees that the man is looking at his own wrists. His wrists, which are still in Quackity’s grip, blood oozing from where Q’s fingernails have unconsciously bitten into Wilbur’s skin.
Quackity swears and lets go, dropping Wilbur's wrists like hot irons. Blood has gathered under his fingernails. Fuck, he hadn't even realised.
Wilbur's hands fall to his sides. He is swaying slightly. "You've got a sword," he whispers, his voice wobbling. "And you've got potions. And you've got all the time in the world."
All of a sudden Quackity feels cold. Ice cold. He's not sure he can breathe. "Wilbur, this is...this is not Pandora's Vault." His voice is strangled, Wilbur's words looping in his mind. How Wilbur has gotten to this conclusion, Quackity cannot even begin to fathom—but now he feels sick, and awful churning in his gut.
How does Wilbur even know about that? How? How?
"No," Wilbur breathes, tilting his head up, and his watery eyes suck Quackity in like the void. A mournful smile settles on Wilbur's lips—a heartbroken, helpless thing, fragile as glass. "It's worse, isn't it? For Dream, escape was an option." His voice shakes, like he is physically forcing the words out. Wilbur tilts dangerously, swaying like a man intoxicated.
"...I need to find Ranboo," he whispers. "Please. Just let me do that first. We'll have eternity, Q. You'll have eternity. But Ranboo is somewhere, I have this..." Wilbur sways again, stumbling slightly, glossy eyes skimming wildly across every surface around them as he turns his head. "I should be able to talk to him. I talked to the others. I have to talk to him. I have to. I have to."
Quackity has been thrown for so many loops that he hardly knows how to react anymore. He feels cold, as though Wilbur’s words are eating away at something in his chest. First he mentions Pandora’s Vault, and now Ranboo? What is going through Wilbur's head? What conclusions is he drawing, and how is he managing to come to them? Quackity watches Wilbur, his mind spinning, trying to connect everything the man has said, trying to form some cohesive explanation.
“Wilbur,” he says, and he forces his voice to be sharp so that it doesn’t shake. Wilbur freezes, but doesn’t turn to look at him. “Where do you think you are?”
Wilbur is still for a moment longer before he wraps his arms around his body, shrinking in on himself.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know, I’m sorry. But—you’ve got so much time. We’ve hardly even been here five minutes. A day is a month. And I-I talked to them before, I talked to them before, and they’re still here, I know they're still here and that means Ranboo must be here too. Please. Please.” Wilbur is shivering; it looks like he is going to keep talking, but Quackity beats him to it.
“No,” he says, frustrated, because Wilbur is somehow still hearing the question as something it's not, isn't actually answering what he is being asked. “No, Wilbur. Where do you think you are?”
Wilbur whines, high-pitched and miserable from the back of his throat. He takes a trembling step away from Quackity, but his leg buckles beneath him and he sinks to his knees.
“I’m back,” he moans, despairing. He leans forward and presses his head against the ground, huddled on the stone, bringing his hands up to tangle them into his hair. His shoulders are shaking. “I’m back, I’m back, but it's Paradise now. It's Paradise and you're here, you're not real but you're here." His breath hiccups. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here, I can’t be here. I don’t want this, I don’t want it, I don’t, I can’t, I can’t—”
Quackity stares down at Wilbur's twitching, mumbling form, throat tight, fingers shaking. Out of all of Wilbur's panicked words, what hits him the most is the rushed, mumbled, you're not real. His gut sinks lower, like lead and iron, metallic liquid dragging him down.
"Wilbur," Quackity whispers, dropping to his knees before the man. Wilbur's fingers are white against his hair, almost transparent in the dim lighting. Desperately, Quackity reaches out, grabbing Wilbur's hands, taking them in his own. Wilbur's fingers feel like ice, spindly and so cold that Quackity wants to pull away. Wilbur goes deathly still the second they touch. Motionless, like he doesn't even dare to breathe.
"You feel that?" Quackity whispers, and his voice cracks. Shit, this is...why is this getting to him? His eyes are burning. "I'm real." Wilbur's head is ducked, refusing to look at him, but Quackity still draws Wilbur's hands closer, pressing both of his palms to his chest, holding them there. Quackity can feel his own heartbeat pounding, even through Wilbur's thin hands.
"I'm fucking real, Wilbur. I'm right here. I'm right in front of you. I'm alive." Quackity swallows, staring helplessly at Wilbur's statue-like form. "...you gotta come back to me, Wilbur."
Wilbur's head lists to the side, his hair falling away from his face, revealing his eyes, glassy and wet but locked on Quackity's face. They flicker down to stare at their intertwined hands, pressed against Quackity's racing heart. Wilbur's fingers twitch, his hand pressing further against Quackity's chest, a motion that is all him.
Wilbur's breath still shudders, shallow gasps hiccuping audibly as he struggles to breathe right. But there is a new sort of concentration in his expression, in the way his brow knots as he focuses on the warmth and the rapid pounding beneath his palm, in the way his eyes dart from Quackity’s face to the room surrounding them.
They are sitting so close to each other that Quackity can see all the subtle shifts in Wilbur's expression. He can see as Wilbur's concentration slips almost imperceptibly into confusion, his lips tightening, his brow sinking lower as his gaze returns to the hand over Quackity's heart. And then he sees, in split-second detail, the slight widening of Wilbur's eyes, the tiny part in his lips, the hitch in his chest as his breath catches.
"Oh," Wilbur says, the word little more than a rush of air.
Quackity doesn't know how he should react. He doesn't know what is going through Wilbur's head. He doesn't know if their proximity is going to help, if Wilbur is going to need comfort or need space, if he is going to break down or lash out. His own words are caught in his chest, blocked off by the lump that has formed in his throat.
"Huh," Wilbur breathes, the sound even less defined than before, soft and almost...defeated. He squeezes his eyes shut, and Quackity can see the wetness that clumps his lashes together. "Huh." And then it turns into a quiet laugh. There is no hysteria in it, not like there has been before. It is slow and subdued and overwhelmingly sad, forceful puffs of air that catch in the back of his throat and only take a few moments to choke off into nothing.
Wilbur opens his eyes again, blinking away the droplets that have gathered again. There is a slight tug at Quackity's chest, and he instantly lets go of the hands he is clutching. Wilbur draws his arms close towards his own chest, hunching over slightly, refusing to meet Quackity's gaze.
"Wilbur?" Quackity asks softly. He gets no response. "...Wil?"
"You're...here," Wilbur whispers, the words said only for himself. His voice is a single, thin, fragile thread—like a trip wire stretched across a cavern. Slowly, Wilbur's fingers brush his own chest, gently tracing the outline of the wound. One of them drifts up to his lips, bloodstained fingers crimson against pale skin. "...you saved me."
"Yeah," Quackity murmurs, sitting back on his haunches, watching Wilbur with a slow, tired gaze. "I did. You're fine, Wilbur. You're alive. I gave you a potion, remember?"
Wilbur goes still for a moment, before his eyes flicker to meet Quackity's. "...I'm alive," he echoes, voice so soft. There are tears on his face. "Quackity, I didn't want to be there. I don’t want to be there."
"You're not dead," Quackity carefully reassures, keeping a watchful eye on the hand Wilbur still has near his chest. But it rests dormant, merely shielding the stab from view, no longer attempting to worsen it like he had before.
"...why'd you do it?" Wilbur says, hushed.
Quackity stares for a moment, then wets his lips, glancing away. "I don't know, Wilbur," he admits. Defeated. "I don't know. But I don't—" He doesn't regret it.
Quackity hesitates, then carefully reaches out, gently pulling Wilbur's hand away from his chest. He places his own hand over the sluggish wound instead, pressing down lightly, watching as Wilbur winces.
"...come to Las Nevadas, Wilbur. Let me help you. We've been playing a game of push and pull since you've come back, and it's destroying us both. We don't need to force history to repeat itself."
Wilbur's head tilts up at the offer, a surprised breath puffing through his lips. He stares for a moment, eyes wide, and then swallows hard. When he speaks, his words are almost dry. "It would...it would take a lot for history to repeat itself, Q. It tends to just rhyme."
Quackity blinks, taken aback by the tone of the response. "Well," he says after a beat, pulling his hands, now even bloodier, away from Wilbur's chest. Quackity pushes himself to his feet. "We'd best not let it do even that. You accepting my help, would that be a rhyme?"
"...no," Wilbur says after a moment "I suppose not."
Quackity holds out a hand. "So then...?"
Wilbur stares at the proffered hand for a moment, then glances down at his own, still curled loosely around his abdomen. He hesitates for a moment, before reaching out slowly, shakily, and clasping Quackity's hand. Relief washes through Quackity as he gently tugs Wilbur to his feet, hyper-aware of the other man’s wound. Quackity reaches out and steadies him.
He sends one last trepidatious look over his shoulder. Through the still-open door, the dark trees of the forest sway and the sky grows steadily more vibrant, painted by the brushstrokes of the setting sun.
“Let's get out of here before it's dark.”