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Loathe as he was to admit it, Las Nevadas was impressive. The casino had a fully stocked bar, a gleaming mahogany countertop and matching barstools wrapped around nearly the entire room. Green felt card tables for blackjack, poker, with chips lined up in even stacks in the center, plastic gleaming dully in the low light. Two large pool tables stood near either end of the room, both in line with a series of roulette wheels taking center stage. Everything was all very luxurious, and Wilbur could imagine it full of rowdy or more refined patrons with ease.
It was currently empty, save for himself and he barely counted as a person let alone a guest. Technically, he wasn’t allowed in here, but what Quackity didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Not like either of them had anywhere else to go outside of this sandy metropolis and the sad stone buildings across the lake (not like anyone would take them).
Tommy left a few days ago after shouting for an impressive amount of time about how Wilbur needed to stop being selfish and manipulative. It seemed as though he really hadn’t gotten over that whole business with Dream, and Wilbur could partially understand why, a familiar curl of rage filling him as he thought of the abuse he had leveled against Tommy, but really it had been ages and, frankly, he was a little hurt that Tommy hadn’t been even a little excited to have his older brother back, but he supposed that’s what happened when said older brother was an evil villain.
Anyways, it didn’t matter that he was all alone now ( again ) and Wilbur definitely did not care about it at all except that Tommy was stupid and probably getting into trouble without him there to protect him which he could admit to himself was maybe the tiniest bit worrying, but it was totally fine and probably for the best. Tommy would just slow him down; it wasn’t good to have an attachment like that so close to him and his new project, not when Quackity was right there ready to twist the kid against him or worse hurt him.
Wilbur sighed in annoyance and drummed darkened fingertips against the polished bar. The whole point of coming here was to distract himself, maybe relax a little, maybe fuck with Quackity some. Things had actually been… strangely quiet on that front lately. Even before Tommy made his dramatic departure, the casino owner hadn’t shown up to antagonize them for a few days. Occasionally, Wilbur would get a glimpse of the man speed walking in the direction of L’manburg- or, the crater where L’manburg had been and gods wasn’t that a sight to be greeted with upon resurrection- but he never so much as turned his head from the path and all the stupid imported sand. He was drinking what was probably very good whiskey, a vintage or something, but he didn’t give enough of a shit to check the label. Using up all of Quackity’s top shelf booze was pretty appealing the more he thought about it, so with a sigh Wilbur stood and walked behind the bar, idly cracking his neck. Prime, he really was an old man now.
Fancy labels in foreign scripts decorated thick glass bottles sealed with corks or twine or wax. Wilbur’s lip quirked up briefly upon realizing that very few of the bottles had actually been opened; clearly, business was yet to be booming in the new establishment, despite all of Quackity’s showboating and preening. Ha. Preening. Good one Wilbur, he thought sardonically. No matter, he was here to find something expensive, hopefully imported in addition to being high quality so that Quackity really took a hit. Of course, the odds of anything he did tonight actually costing Quackity enough to make a dent in the man’s no doubt significant resources were slim, but he may as well try.
He ran his fingers lightly over brands and origins: S. Major Scotch from the new Empire to the West, Minx brand poitín, something called “Hypixelade” which was shockingly orange and shimmery, a nondescript bottle with a peeling piece of tape on it that simply said “tequila.” His eyes landed on a familiarly shaped brown glass, brows furrowing. It almost looked like Sch-
“Enjoying my collection?”
Wilbur spun around. Stupid man, getting so caught up in fucking alcohol container aesthetics to notice someone approaching him in a dead silent room .
Quackity stood in his usual casino outfit, although his shirt was untucked and his suspenders hung off his shoulders. Wilbur grinned, slightly too sharp canines glinting briefly.
“Quackity! I was just thinking it was kind of shit, actually.” A slight tightening of the other man’s mouth and Wilbur’s smile became slightly more gleeful at how easy it was to rile him up. “How are you this fine evening?”
He looked tired, Wilbur thought unbidden (and there was not a twinge of concern for his former… friend in that realization). Aside from the obvious dishevelment, the duck hybrid was leaning a little too heavily on the bartop to be casual and deep bags made themselves apparent under his eyes as Wilbur came around to his side of the bar, grabbing something random from the shelf as he went. Most interestingly (worryingly his brain whispered traitorously. Shut up, Wilbur whispered back) was the reappearance of his LAFD beanie, which Wilbur hadn’t seen him with since his sudden return to the server.
Placing the bottle down next to the whiskey he’d already had pulled out revealed it was the Hypixelade, which he stared at in resignation and suspicion. Quackity simply looked between him and the nearly glowing orange liquid and raised a singular eyebrow, cut through by a rather gnarly scar.
“Oh don’t give me that, you bought this in the first place.” A moment passed. “Want to have a drink with me? For old time’s sake?” Wilbur asked.
Quackity squinted at the Hypixelade then seemingly came to a decision, reaching over for a glass. “Sure Wilbur. For old time’s sake.” They poured their drinks in silence, but neither moved to try it once the glasses were full. They looked at each other apprehensively.
Wilbur raised his glass to Quackity, regretting every decision which had led him to this point. Quackity obliged and clinked their glasses together, both murmuring a quiet “cheers” and then taking a sip.
Bright, citrusy fizz hit Wilbur’s taste buds. It was sweet, almost too sweet but he was pleasantly surprised at how good it was, with an alcoholic aftertaste the only hint that it was fermented. Maybe people on Hypixel knew what they were doing after all. He looked over at Quackity and found him nodding appreciatively, clearly in the same boat as Wilbur.
For a few minutes they drank without speaking, each wrapped up in whatever thoughts had driven them to the casino in the first place. Wilbur started watching Quackity more and more as time went on, drawn to the milky white of his left eye and the slight sneer that seemed permanently etched on his face from the skin puckering. He took another sip, a warmth spreading throughout him as he decided to take the plunge.
“You look different, Quackity, did I miss something? The scar’s kinda cool though. Threatening, y'know? A little hot.” He winked. Quackity didn’t appear amused but Wilbur noticed the tiniest quirk of his mouth. The scar really was a good look if Wilbur was being honest, which he had of course promised he would be.
“You’re one to talk. The whole white streak, mysteriously stained fingers, and just… general vibe is also pretty different.” Quackity responded, waving his hand vaguely at Wilbur’s entire being.
He leaned further onto the counter, practically sprawling against it, and tilted his head in a way that he knew made his hair fall attractively into his face and showed off his jawline. “Different in a good way though right?”
“Yeah. If we’ve got trauma at least it made us sexier”
Wilbur laughed at that, a genuine one startled out of him and Quackity smiled briefly into his dayglo orange drink.
This was… nice, he thought, as they continued to sit with each other in relative peace.
Three drinks later and Wilbur pushed himself off the counter, noticeably sloppier than earlier. At Quackity’s questioning look he waved a hand loosely in his direction.
“Just going to powder my nose, try not to miss me too much.”
Wilbur barely heard Quackity huff under his breath as he turned to find the bathroom. Luckily, the casino seemed to be designed with people far more intoxicated than he currently was in mind and it wasn’t hard at all to get there. He pushed open the dark spruce door, taking in the wall length mirror, black marble countertops and sleek porcelain basin sinks. He ambled to the first one and turned on the tap, splashing his face with cold water to try and cut the effects of the alcohol.
For a minute he stayed there, hands braced on the countertop as he breathed deeply. His fingers nearly blended in with the stone and he lost himself briefly as he stared at them. Quackity’s words echoed in his head. Making eye contact with himself in the mirror he examined his differences and found them numerous.
It all added to his unsettling energy… the fangs, the cut on his arm he’d given himself in those terrifying first moments of rebirth when he couldn’t tell if this was real (he still couldn’t tell sometimes, heard the rushing of trains and an infuriating jingle and the strange noisy silence of being deep underground but with tunnels around you like in the central cavern of a cave system) that refused to heal and bled red and sometimes blue, the white in his hair growing from the strands which had formed here and there while he was president to a significant streak during limbo. Now he looked more like the monster he knew himself to be.
There was something on his hand.
Wilbur didn’t notice it at first, too busy messing with his hair, picking up the white strands and scrutinizing them in the mirror, but as he moved to push his fluff out of his face he caught sight of it.
There, on the back of his hand, was a spot of red. A curl of unease wound through his gut. It probably wasn’t a good thing that he’d managed to cut himself without realizing it. Or maybe the blood, and it was blood he confirmed when he turned to look at it properly as opposed to through the mirror, came from someone else. But who? It’s not like he’d been around all that many people, much less people who were bleeding on him.
Could it be Tommy’s? He had noticed at one point that his hands were all wrapped up and wounded from collecting stone. (And he didn’t know how to feel about the fact that this child who he’d hurt so badly was still willing to work to the point of injury at one request from him. It was nice to have that in his pocket. He didn’t want Tommy to do that for him .) Tommy didn’t get close to him, though, always wary but hopeful in a way that made Wilbur’s head hurt for how little it made sense. He preferred to keep Wilbur at a distance, always easy to watch and easier still to run away from which was fine he got it, it didn’t even matter anyways. It just meant it couldn’t be Tommy’s.
A huff escaped him; who cared where the blood came from, he just needed to wash it off. He hadn’t been able to shower for thirteen years, and the feeling of water on his skin had yet to cease amazing him.
The drop quickly disappeared and he shook excess water from his hands before reaching for a towel. He paused- there was another spot he must have missed, welling up perfectly on the center of his palm. Disconcerted, he returned to the sink and washed his hands again, lathering them thoroughly until they were so sudsy he could barely see before plunging them under the water. And, there! Another one, on his forearm this time. He raised his arm, water running down towards his elbow, and saw a flash of red on the original location on the back of his hand. Even as he began the cleaning process anew he found more and more, growing in size until his hands were seemingly covered in sticky red liquid.
Limbo had left his fingers darkened, dipped in soot or ink, a permanent bruise from clawing at the walls, and they suddenly looked so viscerally wrong against his skin. He was a dead thing sewn back together, a creature haunting the nightmares of the others, and he was rotting the core out from the server, and he was so tired.
He knew he was the villain but god sometimes he didn't want to be not when it meant hurting his friends, hurting Tommy, hurting his son and he was trying to make amends trying to get this red off his skin but nothing was working and the more he scrubbed the more he noticed it caked slushy and greyed out beneath his fingernails (back and shoulders aching from being hunched over a crafting table, eyes dry from the gunpowder in the air, fingers shaking from hours and hours of detailed wiring and would it be so bad if he made a mistake? Completed the circuit, accidentally touching a wire to its redstone source and boom no more pain but there would be pain at least at first and then it would be over and dont you deserve a little pain anyways? Any suffering you get is just recompense for the poison you’ve worked into the heart of your nation YOUR nation into the server as a whole but no he couldn’t slip up not here not yet not when Tubbo and Techno and Quackity and Niki and Tommy and Fundy when family could be nearby) and he sucked in a heaving breath, flickering afterimages of red red red stacks of TNT at the edges of his vision (red safety lights on a railway no).
His hands soaking and raw tried to grab the edges of the counter and slipped on the tile, a bloody smear left in its wake. Wilbur stared at it panting and his vision grew blurry as he returned to the sink, grabbing more soap and shoving his fingers under the spray.
It wasn’t hot enough to kill the germs, kill the sickness inside him, and he could feel the itch of dried blood beneath his skin and he had to get it out, had to wash himself clean, so he lathered his hands again and scrubbed and then scrubbing turned to scratching and then he was clawing at his hands, fingers dark with void and violence and regret, and his arms stung as wounds opened up on them and were immediately coated in soap. Puffy lines raised up as layers of skin were scraped away and suddenly the bar soap slipped out of Wilbur’s hand almost comically shooting across the room.
He winced as it crashed against a stupidly large decorative vase, eyes torn towards it instinctively. Heavy breaths echoed around him, a slight whistle on the exhale matching pitch with the ringing in his ears. Something moved over his hand and he jumped, jerking his hands away. Slowly the sound of running water reached his ears (thundering and not quite like a train but nearly, metal monstrosities rushing over steel) and he should really turn that faucet off, they were right next to a desert after all. As he moved to do just that he felt a spike of pain in his left arm and watched as the clear water (it was clear, clear ) slowly turned pinkish as swirls of blood dripped off his pinky into the basin.
“Shit,” he muttered. Another few seconds passed while Wilbur stared at his hands, taking in their slightly swollen state, patchy and red from the heat of the water but not red like that, not like the blood which was running down his arm, quicker now. “Shit,” he swore again as he finally snapped back into his mind (but something still felt off, like he didn’t quite fit right anymore). With a quick turn of his wrist the water finally cut off, and he moved to grab one of Quackity’s stupid nice towels to press against his arm.
The door opened on near silent hinges and Quackity’s obnoxious businessman shoes clacked against the floor. As he approached Wilbur noticed he seemed taller than normal and he glanced down quickly to make sure Quackity wasn’t just wearing high heels. No they looked like standard oxfords, but the closer Quackity got the more convinced he was that the man didn’t used to be able to make eye contact without tipping his head back farther. A high pitched giggle left him at the thought of Quackity being so insecure about his admittedly tiny stature that he felt the need to put lifts in his fucking shoes.
“Big Q, are you wearing fucking platforms?”
Quackity stopped in the middle of his sentence (and, oh, he hadn’t even noticed he’d been trying to get his attention) to stare at Wilbur incredulously.
“Fucking what?”
A peal of laughter escaped him. “I know I’ve been gone a while but aren’t you done growing? And yet, it seems I don’t have to crane down so far to look at you.” The duck hybrid spluttered and Wilbur laughed harder. “Oh my god you are! You totally are! Little baby Quackity had to get special shoes so he wasn’t so itty bitty anymore!”
Wilbur giggled at the offended expression on Quackity’s face, raising his hand to cover his mouth and try and muffle the uncontrollable laughter.
“Dude are you fucking bleeding?”
“Hm?” Wilbur followed Quackity’s eyes to his arm and the, now red, towel pressed to it. “Oh. Yes, it does that sometimes.”
“Prime you’re such a fucking mess.” Quackity seemed vaguely amazed as he said it, and Wilbur couldn’t resist rolling his eyes.
“Oh please, like you’re one to talk,” he scoffed.
“Alright, well there's no need to be rude, and after I open my beautiful bar to you and you stain my nice ass towels.”
Wilbur stiffened and lifted his head from where he’d dropped it against the mirror, looking back at the towel before delicately picking it up in two fingers and dropping it in the sink. He had half a mind to throw it at Quackity but he really had been very accommodating and Wilbur was… tired.
“It’s just a fucking cut, I don’t need someone to tenderly bandage me or whatever,” he paused and leaned over Quackity, leering at the shorter man. “Do you want to tenderly bandage my wounds Big Q? Share a sweet moment together? Don’t you have two people at home? For shame, Quackity, trying to seduce me when you’re already spoken for.”
Quackity shoved at his chest. “Fuck off, can’t a guy just be nice? Deal with it yourself then,” and he turned to leave.
All at once Wilbur’s brain was screaming at him, violently rejecting his rational desire for solitude, chest tightening as a terrifyingly intense wave of desire came over him, begging please please don’t leave me here alone. Before he knew it, he’d reached his arm out to Quackity and grabbed one of the loops of his suspenders. Quackity froze and turned slowly to stare at him.
Wilbur kept his head lowered, unable to meet the other man’s eyes, and mumbled a request under his breath.
“What?”
“I said… Could you stay? It might be… helpful to have someone do this for me.” Prime this was embarrassing. Wilbur hoped that his face wasn’t as red as it felt although judging from the vaguely amused expression on Quackity’s face, chances were slim.
He rolled his eye and came back towards where Wilbur was still leaning on the counter, almost gently unhooking his fingers from his suspenders.
“Alright, come sit down. And take off that gross jacket,” his voice lowered, “probably part of why the damn cut won’t heal, you moron.” Wilbur complied, exhausted, and sat on the posh settee because apparent Quackity really went all out and this bathroom had a fucking seating area like at a fancy restaurant or hotel. He shrugged his left arm out of the trenchcoat, wincing when it jostled the gash which had continued to bleed sluggishly for their entire interaction. Staring at the dirty sleeve of his sweater he begrudgingly admitted that Quackity may have had a point. Maybe he would wash both coat and sweater tomorrow or something, see if that helped it heal (and he ignored the voice telling him not to because he deserved the discomfort, that a festering wound, constantly reopened and oozing was the perfect metaphor for his role in the world).
After a minute of quiet searching, Quackity returned with a small roll of gauze, cotton pads, and antiseptic. He uncapped the antiseptic and Wilbur wrinkled his nose at the strong smell as Quackity poured it onto a cotton pad.
“This might sting-”
“Yes, I know, I’m not a child just go for it.” Wilbur interrupted huffily. Quackity’s expression flattened in annoyance and he looked upwards briefly, as if he was commiserating with the Sky Gods on Wilbur’s petulance. Then he grabbed his arm and Wilbur stopped breathing. All his focus was on the points of contact. Quackity had widened the slash in his sweater, holding it away from the matching tear in his skin to allow him better access to it and Wilbur was nearly overwhelmed at the feeling of warm, slightly rough fingers pressing into his skin. His palm was resting lightly on Wilbur’s bicep and radiating heat through the sweater. Prime, he hadn’t touched someone in ages it felt like, and maybe it had been. Aside from a quick hug with Phil when he first came back, it had been at least thirteen years since Wilbur enjoyed the simple pleasure of physical contact. Honestly, even before limbo he’d pulled himself so far into his mind during exile that he’d flinched away or rejected what few attempts at touch he had been offered. He fought down a shudder, semi unsuccessfully and Quackity paused.
“You good?” And Wilbur was so needy he could almost convince himself there was genuine concern in his voice. He hummed in response and Quackity resumed dabbing at his arm. It did sting like a bitch, but Wilbur refused to let Quackity win by reacting to the burn. After a few more swipes, Quackity deemed it clean enough and stepped away to prepare the wrapping.
He quickly formed a small square of gauze folded many times over and then hesitated, looking between it and Wilbur, mouth opening slightly and-
“Absolutely fucking not.”
He froze with the gauze pad part way to his mouth. “What?”
“You can’t tear it off with your teeth, Quackity, Prime’s sake, that’s so unsanitary. And after all that about my lovely jacket, too.” Wilbur said, glaring at him.
“Ok fine,” Quackity sighed and lowered the gauze again. His hand dipped briefly into his pocket to retrieve a knife, and with a flick of his wrist he had opened it and cut off the piece he needed. He looked pointedly at Wilbur as he approached.
“Can you hold this in place for me?” he asked. Wilbur nodded and took the gauze from his hand, pressing it firmly against the cut, hissing out through his teeth quietly as he did so.
Quackity was soon in his space once more.
“Now, really this should be going on under the sweater, but-”
“Trying to undress me now? Quackity, I’m flattered, really, but I’m a man of class. At least buy me a drink first,” he said with a smirk. Quackity let out a long suffering sigh.
“ But , I knew you’d be a pain in my ass about it, so we’re just going to put it on top.” With that, he began carefully wrapping Wilbur’s arm. Wilbur could feel his soft breaths and he became hyper aware of the quiet rustling of Quackity’s shirtsleeves, the firm grip he had on his arm as he passed the gauze around and around. When he finally finished Wilbur found himself leaning into Quackity’s grip as he pulled away.
Wilbur forced himself to hold still, he wasn’t some kind of abandoned puppy and he wouldn’t chase after the first kind touch he felt. A heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder in an attempt at a casual pat that lingered a little too long to be played off. Jaw clenching, he turned away from where Quackity was looking at him with growing pity in his eyes and he hurriedly shrugged his coat back on, standing abruptly.
It felt nice to have the extra height on Quackity once more and Wilbur carefully took all the warm feelings and pushed them down into the depths of his mind, where they would hopefully remain without causing further incidents like this one.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly and Quackity gave a single nod in acknowledgement. It looked like he was about to say something else so Wilbur continued hurriedly. “Really the service was wonderful, you should offer this to everyone. What kind of care packages do you have, actually? I’m sure it would help your business, it seems like you need it. I shouldn’t be giving you such wonderful advice, but consider it a little bit of charity from one successful businessman to another, less successful one.” As he spoke he walked out into the main area of the casino, Quackity stomping along behind him.
“Prime you’re a dickhead.” He ran a hand down his face. “Just- fuck off? I don’t have the energy to deal with your shit anymore.” Wilbur ignored the disappointment at that. He liked hanging out with Big Q. He was fun to rile up, easy on the eyes, and most importantly he was the only one left on the server who was even close to his capability for a good verbal sparring match. There was Dream, of course, but for some reason the thought of doing this weird debate conversation with him made Wilbur’s stomach turn.
He smiled at Quackity, the one he knew was a little too wide to be disarming and revelled in the increased wariness in the other man’s eyes.
“Well, if you insist. I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome. Have a lovely evening Quackity,” and with a two-fingered salute, he spun on his heel, coat flaring dramatically, and strode off towards the doors. When he reached them, however, he paused. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Quackity staring at the Hypixelade and whiskey that were left on the bar, hands clenched into fists at his side. Wilbur’s eyes narrowed briefly, but then he shrugged and walked outside. It wasn’t his problem if Quackity had some kind of angst going on. They weren’t friends, not even close.
Rain came down gently and that was still something he’d need to get used to. Las Nevadas was an artificial desert, after all. He tilted his head back, letting the rain slide over his face for a moment before continuing on.
He didn’t quite know why he’d reacted to Quackity’s touch like that or why he freaked out in the first place, but it was a weakness to be dealt with. Another time though, he thought as he rubbed absently at the clean bandages. That could wait until another time.