Chapter Text
Tommy is overwhelmed.
Wilbur, blank and unseeing by the door, stares despondently off into space. His forehead is pressed to his knees, his eyes fixed on the ground. Tears silently soak his pants.
Quackity huddles in a chair by the table, legs pulled up to his chest, eyes squeezed shut. A white-knuckled hand clutches at his chest. In contrast to Wilbur, he sobs loudly—violent and hysterical.
Tommy doesn't know what to do, who to focus on. His own heart beats wildly in his chest, his fingers twitching anxiously by his sides. Wilbur and Quackity sit apart from each other, neither man present in reality, and he feels a magnetic pull from them both. He can't be two places at once. He is alone in the building, everyone else sent home by the very same president who swore he could handle a dinner with Wilbur Soot by himself.
Tommy doesn't want to choose. He doesn't want this to be a matter of choosing at all. But he is the only remotely coherent person in the room, and the longer he idles, the worse the situation gets.
He, whose hands are dusted with chalk; pale pinks and blues. Tommy could laugh. The one covered in chalk is the one who needs to hold these fractured pieces together. It is a Pogtopia spiral all over again, except instead of frightening it’s just…sad. At least Pogtopia had Technoblade for situations like this.
Tommy swallows hard and makes a snap decision, stepping towards Quackity because with the way Wilbur had been speaking, when he was speaking, it sounded like Quackity might have been injured. He crouches beside the man, reaching out and hesitating momentarily before gripping Quackity's trembling shoulders. He stiffens under Tommy’s touch, enough to prove that he is at least responsive. Better than nothing.
He can't see any obvious injuries. No cuts, no blood. Tommy shifts one of his hands over to press his fingers against Quackity's throat, and he has enough time to find a thundering pulse before a hand snaps around his wrist, painfully tight. Tommy freezes.
"No," Quackity sobs, voice hitching. His eyes are still closed. "N-no, no, get off me. Get o-off me."
"Uh...Q?" Tommy says, tugging carefully at his trapped hand. Quackity's grip is unyielding. "Quackity, it's me. It's Tommy. You're in Las Nevadas—your country. You're safe."
He doesn't know if Quackity hears his words, but as he speaks he reaches over and starts pulling at the fingers around his wrist. Quackity doesn't react badly to having his hand pried away. In fact, he has gone very still. Maybe Tommy's words have been heard.
"Quackity, can you hear me? It's me. It's Tommy. You're safe. Everyone is safe..." Tommy trails off, quickly glancing over to Wilbur. The other man has moved to huddle against the far wall, head tipped back, eyes wide and staring glassily at the ceiling. He has his fingers pressed against his throat. Tommy clears his own. "Uh, yeah. We're all good. Or...we're all gonna be good, yeah? Just...listen to my voice. Follow my voice. I'm here."
"Tommy..." Quackity murmurs, dazed. Tommy nods reassuringly.
"Yeah big man, Big Q. What can I do for you?" Tommy crouches, laying a gentle hand on Quackity's knee. It is a gesture that worked on Wilbur in the past. Subtle contact—not too overwhelming, but not too distant either. Tommy hopes Quackity will react the same way. Q's face is red and blotchy, shining with tears as he blinks slowly, face twisted in misery.
"I don't k-know Tommy." He sounds heart wrenchingly pathetic. Tommy bites back a frown. "I don't know how to fix this. I-I was so scared and now I feel—" Quackity hiccups, and his eyes glaze over. "...hollow..."
A bolt of fear twinges in Tommy's chest, sharp and painful. His fingers tighten on Quackity's knee. "Alright Q," he says a little too fast. "Alright. I hear you. That's just cause you've tired yourself out, my man. You've screamed and cried and spent all your energy. That make sense?"
For a moment, Quackity doesn't respond. Then his head tilts to meet Tommy's eyes better, his expression clearing minutely. Some sense of comprehension behind his agony. Tommy breathes a sigh of relief as slowly, Quackity nods. "...makes sense."
"It's gonna be alright," Tommy soothes, mind racing to think of everything he needs to do next. Quackity seems to be in a relatively good state—far better than the picture painted by Wilbur's mumbled words of warning. He should be able to move back to Wilbur soon, help him out of whatever spiral he has fallen into. "We all get tired, yeah? You're just gonna have to rest. I can help you to the couch. Are you hurting anywhere?"
Quackity hesitates a moment, as though cataloguing his body, before jerkily shaking his head. He sniffles. "No." He sucks in a deep breath. "No, no I-I'm fine. Couch sounds good. I think I just needed...i-is Wilbur—" Quackity's eyes move away from Tommy's, sliding to a point somewhere over his shoulder. His words instantly choke into an harsh, distressed sort of wheeze; the blood drains from his face, leaving an ashy pallor.
Tommy quickly twists around, the words ‘what's wrong?’ catching in his throat as he sees what has Quackity so stunned. The world freezes around him as he stares at Wilbur, who has somehow managed to move from the wall and over to the dining table. His legs visibly tremble where he stands, back towards Tommy. One hand is braced against the wood, the other lifted high above his head.
A dark bottle of wine is clutched in his white-knuckled fist.
Then Wilbur brings his arm down and time restarts—except it overshoots and now everything is going too fast, too fast. Tommy flies to his feet right as the splintering crash of breaking glass rends the air, as the scent of alcohol floods the room, as dark red wine bursts from its confines.
Quackity lets out a terrified cry.
The jagged teeth of the shattered bottle glint harshly in the light of the room.
"WILBUR!" Tommy shrieks. Horror and shock and fear and outrage and oh dear god. "WHAT THE FUCK!?"
He lunges forward, and Wilbur stands like a statue as Tommy scrambles frantically around the table. Wine drips down Wilbur's fingers in slow rivulets, circling around his slender, bony wrist and falling in languid drops from the fingers that clutch the shattered bottle's neck.
The liquid pools on the floor and on the tabletop, an ocean of purple-tinted maroon. A few sprayed speckles stand out in strong contrast to Wilbur's pale cheek and nose. He blinks slowly, as though the sound of the bottle's demise has left him momentarily stunned.
Tommy's hand closes around Wilbur's damp wrist, the wine-soaked fabric of his sweater squishing beneath his fingers as he holds Wilbur's arm in a death grip.
"Drop it," Tommy snarls; his fear comes out as aggression and he knows it. Wilbur's eyes widen, staring down at him, and with a weak noise of protest he seems to come back to reality. But the wrong reality, Tommy realises instantly. Wilbur tries to back away, pointlessly tugging at the wrist Tommy holds captive.
"No, no—Tommy, no. No, you don't understand," Wilbur pleads, eyes wild and crazed, as glassy as Quackity's were not moments prior. "I need it. I need it."
"You don't need a weapon, Wil." Tommy exhales shakily and tries to keep his voice soft and firm. "I don't know why you think you do, but you don't. You are safe, and—and w-wanted—" He chokes on that prospect, the reassurance dying in his mouth. He has never had to voice that one before. He has never thought to voice that one before. But Wilbur just shakes his head, his curls swaying wildly around his face.
"No, no!" Wilbur repeats, over and over. He trembles, his wrist rapidly jolting against Tommy's hand. "Tommy it's wrong, it's all wrong." Wilbur's other hand rises to clutch at his chest, then to his throat, pressing against his neck. "I can't feel anything, nothing, nothing—"
Tommy tightens his grip on Wilbur's wrist, both to keep him from pulling away and to provide a grounding touch because fuck he thinks he knows what is going on and the realisation is one that washes over him like ice.
The wine is sticky beneath his fingers.
"Wilbur. Wil, can you focus on my hand? On my fingers? You're so cold—I must feel warm to you, yeah? Can you focus on that? Please?"
Wilbur shakes his head desperately. His knuckles are white against the glass, fingers clenched so tightly they have stopped shaking.
"N-no. I can't," he whispers brokenly. "I can't feel it. I'm numb. I'm numb, I can't—I-I can hear it. I can hear them, Tommy. Tommy, it's wrong. It's wrong, it's wrong—"
Tommy has done this too many times before.
"Wilbur, you don't need a weapon for this. I can help you. Let me help you," he begs. Fragile. His other hand reaches up to Wilbur's face, palm pressing against his cheek, trying to draw some sort of life back to those glassy eyes. Wilbur's skin is too cold. "Please, let go of the bottle. You don't need it. I promise you don't need it. Let me help you. Please, Wil."
Wilbur yanks at his wrist again, trying to free himself, trying to move backwards. Tommy's hold renders even the best of Wilbur's efforts useless. He can't afford to let him go, not now, not in a state like this.
The room stinks of alcohol.
"I need it," Wilbur mumbles, his free hand curling around his throat, fingers twitching. "I-I need it, Tommy. I need to feel something. I need it to feel something. Please, please."
"Wilbur, I-I—" Tommy's words stutter as his mind scatters, digging for anything, anything he can say to draw Wilbur back. Mentioning himself isn't working, but he drags up the words Wilbur endlessly mumbled as they staggered back to this room, repeating them as though they were a lifeline, the only thing keeping him afloat. Maybe they were.
Maybe that's what they can be.
"Wilbur, listen to me," Tommy says firmly, almost harshly. He uses the hand he has on Wil's cheek to force his head to face him. Watery eyes stare unseeingly into his. "Quackity needs help. He needs your help, okay? And right now? Right now, you’re not. Helping.”
Wilbur’s eyes, shining with the remnants of tears, stare off longingly at a place Tommy cannot possibly see. Then, oh-so slowly, they drift to focus on Tommy's, to properly meet his gaze.
Wilbur blinks.
"...what...?" he croaks, voice breaking.
"Isn't that why you came to find me? To find someone?" Tommy says, rising up on his tiptoes to move their faces closer together, to force Wilbur to maintain eye contact. "For Quackity. Is this helping Wilbur? Are you helping right now?"
Confusion mars Wilbur's face, and Tommy feels an odd twist in his stomach. For once Wilbur looks bizarrely...young, an uncomfortable adjective to associate with Wilbur. But he looks so miserably baffled that Tommy desperately wishes there was someone older to do this. Someone who knew better.
Except there isn't, is there? There isn't someone who knows better. For all intents and purposes, Tommy probably knows best right now.
Fucking hell.
"I-I don't understand," Wilbur stutters, and his arm has gone limp in Tommy's grasp. A good sign. "You're here Tommy. You...you'll help...?" Suddenly Wilbur looks very unsure of himself. He sways slightly, that moment of lucidity previously present beginning to fade back into glassy-eyed panic. "I just made it worse, that's why you—you have to—but you don't want...? Or no, you—I don't understand, I-I can't, it's numb, I—"
"Wilbur, Wilbur, shhh," Tommy hushes immediately, trying to calm down the rising hysteria in front of him. "I'll help, I'm trying to help. But we're both going to help. We can both help, yeah?"
Prime, he feels like he’s talking to a child. Tommy swallows, then abruptly darts a glance at Quackity, remembering his nearby presence. Quackity is statue stiff, staring at the floor, hands white-knuckled as they clutch the chair on either side of his legs. He is so still he scarcely seems to breathe, fallen locks of hair hiding his face. Like he’s bracing himself for something, or trying to shut something out, or both.
Shit.
"You—you...I did this, Tommy!" There is incredulity in Wilbur's voice, and Tommy quickly looks back. Emotion, a sign of passion, a hint of annoyance or frustration—that’s progress. Tommy desperately grasps at it.
"But now you can help!" Tommy insists, because for however much he would like to blatantly refute Wilbur's point he doesn't know enough about the situation to form any proper arguments. Blindly telling Wilbur it isn’t his fault will only aggravate him further. "Come on, Wilbur. Come back. I—Quackity needs you."
Wilbur stares back at him for a long moment, wide-eyed, panting for breath. "No, n-no" he mumbles, yet now he doesn't sound as sure of himself. "I tried, I tried. I did but—I couldn't. I ruined it. I did this. I-I—" his eyes drop back down to the shattered bottle in his hand. "Please, Tommy. Just let me—I need it. I need to feel. I can't feel."
"Wilbur." Tommy tightens the hand he has around Wilbur's wrist. "Wil, please, look at me." Red-brown eyes hesitantly flicker back up to meet his. "Quackity needs help, okay? Just—look at him. Look at him, Wil. He needs us. Needs you."
Wilbur's gaze moves over Tommy's shoulder. He visibly swallows. "I-I did that," he whispers, choked. "Tommy, it's my fault. I can't, I can't—"
"We can make up for it, then," Tommy says, biting back the urge to completely shut down Wilbur's protests. "You can help him, okay? You can make up for it. I'll help you. Just let me help you, Wil. Please. Please."
"...how?" Wilbur's voice is pleading. "How, Tommy?"
Oh dear god. The relief is so strong that Tommy's legs almost buckle.
"Just like this Wil. One step at a time. I'm right here," Tommy says breathlessly. He smiles a little, moves his free hand from Wilbur's cheek to gently touch the place where Wilbur's fingers curl around the bottle. "Do you think you could set this down for me? We shouldn't bring it near Quackity, should we?"
Wilbur's fingers tremble beneath Tommy's. He looks terrified.
"But..." Wilbur trails off, eyes flicking down to the bottle, then to Quackity. "No. Maybe. B-but I need it."
"But it will frighten Quackity," Tommy whispers, leaning closer, forcing a false naivety into his voice. He bites his lip, waiting, and hopes it pays off. Wilbur looks miserable.
"Please don't take it away," he whimpers.
"...I'm not, Wilbur." Tommy slowly reminds him. "I'm asking you to put it down." This is taking too long. He needs to address Quackity. But he can't step away from Wilbur or avert his attention, not now. Every single step of progress will completely unravel.
"I can come back for it?" Wilbur asks, and Tommy barely withholds a wince.
"...it'll be on the table, Wilbur," Tommy replies, a lie of omission. A second passes, and then very slowly, Tommy feels Wilbur's fingers untense. The fractured bottle rolls onto the tabletop.
"Okay. Okay," Tommy breathes. He feels slightly dizzy all of a sudden. He hadn't realised how tense he was up until this moment. "Come on Wilbur, come on."
He lets the hand that was restraining Wilbur wrist loosen, sliding down until it is instead gripping Wilbur's palm. Their fingers intertwine loosely; Wilbur's palm is clammy.
Wilbur stays silent as Tommy leads them quickly over towards Quackity, who concerningly and conveniently hasn't moved from his position at all. With caution, Tommy kneels in front of him, gently tugging Wilbur down to kneel beside him. He consciously ignores how tense Wilbur is, a bow poised to fire.
"Q?" Tommy inquires, bending his head lower to try and look up at Quackity's hidden face. "Hey man. Are you with us?" He squeezes Wilbur's hand slightly, nudging him with his knee. Wilbur jolts, and then after a second, softly clears his throat.
Very hesitantly, Wilbur offers a barely audible, "...Quackity?"
Quackity lets out a quiet sort of whimper, choked off and strangled and it hits Tommy then that he isn’t sure he has ever seen Quackity in this bad of a state before. He leans a bit further forward and can just barely make out the faintest shadows of words coming from where Quackity has buried his head in his knees, "no" and "stop" and "not again" mumbled out between sobs he is clearly trying to silence.
"It's just me. Tommy," he clarifies softly, knowing that sometimes Wilbur goes blind to who is in front of him and worrying that might be the same case here. "Me and Wilbur." Tommy wants to say more, but he forces himself into silence, to wait for a response, gnawing at his lip.
Quackity doesn't give any sign that he has registered the words, hands trembling in tight fists, arms wrapped close around his head. A protective shield.
"Tommy's a good kid," he murmurs, almost deliriously. Tommy flinches, startled at hearing his name directed at some invisible third party. Or maybe Quackity is talking to himself? Tommy can't actually tell. "...you didn't have to do that to him. You didn't, it was too harsh. Too harsh."
Wilbur's fingers squeeze his own, bringing him back down out of his thoughts, and Tommy realises that for a second he was the one drifting away. He shoots Wilbur a thankful look and Wilbur stares worriedly back. Wilbur is starting to look more and more clear eyed, more and more lucid. At least that is a good sign.
"Q?" Tommy says, a little helplessly. He reaches a hand out and very lightly touches Quackity's knee, the exact same gesture he did not five minutes earlier. But in an instant, Quackity is multiple feet away, trembling like a leaf in the wind.
"NO!"
"Prime!" Tommy yelps, falling on his ass. An arm wraps around his back, pushing him upright once more—Wilbur.
"Don't touch him," Wilbur says, voice ragged, as if Tommy hasn't just very obviously come to that conclusion.
"Did this happen before at all?" Tommy asks, panting slightly as adrenaline continues to course through his veins.
"No," Wilbur whispers, staring at Quackity. Quackity has curled up into a tiny ball underneath the table, and he is audibly crying again—soft, hiccupping sniffles.
Tommy feels like he is navigating blind. He doesn't know how to approach this, how to avoid tripping another wire. He turns to Wilbur, because one thing he knows he can't afford is to let him slip away again, and maybe drawing him further into the goal of help Quackity will help keep him present in the situation.
"Do you...do you know what we can do? What's actually going on up in his..." Tommy taps a finger against the side of his head.
Wilbur's eyes momentarily flick over to Tommy, brow slightly creased. "I might have an idea," he says slowly. "But I don't know if I can—if I should..."
Tommy waits until it becomes clear that Wilbur isn't going to keep going on his own. He nudges him slightly. "You can tell me," he says quietly, and Wilbur turns back to look at him again. "We're doing this together. You know I only want to help."
"Yes, but..." Wilbur exhales softly. His fingers tap anxiously against the back of Tommy's hand. "It's...it's private, Tommy. If you knew, then you'd know. Or—or you'd recognise it. Recognise what's going on. I-I think. I don't even know if I’m right. Not for sure."
Oh, Tommy realises suddenly. This is bigger than he thought. He sighs softly, gut churning.
"...I can't leave you guys alone, Wilbur," he whispers. "And what if this happens again, and you aren't around? I just...I don't think it can be helped. I'm sorry." He does feel bad. He does. Tommy knows what it is like to keep shitty stuff close to your chest and hold it there, intentionally. To be choosy about who knows what.
But this is a bit of an emergency. When you’ve been through a war—or several—you realise there isn't time for secrets in crisis. Maybe presidents don't quite get that perspective, but soldiers do.
Wilbur nods reluctantly.
"...I trust you to not be a dick in the future," he says haltingly, and in any other circumstance, Tommy would laugh at Wilbur scolding him about something like that. He doesn't. Nothing about this is funny.
Then Wilbur pulls his hand carefully out of Tommy's grip—they didn't negotiate this—and slowly creeps a little closer to Quackity on his own, maintaining a small gap between them. He clears his throat wetly.
"...hello Quackity," Wilbur says, slow and quiet. It’s a tone that is...honestly kind of unfamiliar to Tommy. Calm, but very quiet in volume and mostly monotone. Tired almost, but not relaxed. Yet not really hostile either.
Tommy can't place a time he has ever heard it. Suddenly, he is very on edge. He does not like when Wilbur is unpredictable. Now is not the time for Wilbur's volatile attitude to rear its head.
"It's been a shitty evening," Wilbur continues in that same tired, monotonous voice, like he is talking about the weather. "...started good, then turned real sour. I'm sorry yours has been the same."
"Wilbur, what are you doing?" Tommy hisses.
Wilbur shoots him a glare that very clearly tells him to shut the fuck up and Tommy's lips tighten as indignation curls his gut. He grits his teeth and swallows it down, forcing himself to remain silent, forcing himself to trust that Wilbur knows what he’s doing. It’s difficult. It’s really difficult, because it isn’t something that Tommy has done in—in a really long fucking time, actually, and if that realisation doesn't feel like a slap in the face.
Tommy doesn't even have time to express his assent because Wilbur has already turned his attention back to Quackity, has already begun speaking again.
"I'd offer you a smoke, but I seem to have lost my supply," he drawls. "Shame, ‘cause it really looks like you could use one."
Tommy bites down on his tongue. This entire situation has him on edge and it was easy enough to push it down when he was leading things, and he'd been doing well except now Wilbur has gone and dragged control out of his hands, just as he always does, leaving Tommy helpless but to watch as he steers them towards what feels inevitably like the edge of a cliff.
When Tommy asked Wilbur to help he hadn't meant this, and yet now it is far too late for him to try and divert their course.
Wilbur heaves a sigh and shuffles around slightly, moving so he can lean his weight against a leg of the table. He is sitting right by the dark puddle of wine that stains the pale carpet.
"If only sleep could be our escape, eh?" he says. "Too bad it seems to scorn the both of us."
It's then that Tommy realises he has been so focused on Wilbur and his recklessness that he's forgotten about Quackity. Quackity who is...silent. The sobbing has stopped; instead only silent tears track down his cheeks as Quackity stares blankly into space, his chin resting on his knees. His arms hug his legs, pressing them close to his chest, but he has fallen quiet and still. Like he’s actually listening to Wilbur.
Incredulously, some of Tommy's doubt for Wilbur's method begins to fade away.
"I know what keeps me awake," Wilbur continues absently, and Tommy doesn't understand why they are talking about sleep. No one is trying to sleep. "The same shit every night. But you're not as routine as me. That's okay. Eventually the sun will come up, it always does."
Tommy darts a glance out the window. The sun has barely set. He is missing something big here. Is this some inside thing he doesn't know? Something heavy and uncomfortable churns in Tommy's stomach. He thought he knew most things about Wilbur, by now. That he was around most of the time Wilbur and Quackity had interacted. He shouldn't feel affronted, that's selfish. But a part of him does.
Wilbur hums a tuneless sound softly, tapping a languid pattern on his knee.
"I know you'll skin me in the morning for saying this, say you don't need reminding, but there's no harm in saying it anyways—he isn't here." Wilbur tilts his head to look at Quackity directly for the first time this whole odd conversation. His tone doesn't change, but abruptly, despite their heaviness, there is an odd intensity to his words. "Bare minimum, he's a forest and a river away, in his stolen city and gilded house. Best case scenario, and it's more likely than you might think, he's six feet under."
Quackity is looking at Wilbur now, dark rimmed, haunted eyes peering trepidatiously from behind his hair. And it hits Tommy suddenly, that Wilbur isn't talking about their current reality.
He is talking about another time, another place.
"...probably getting drunk," Quackity whispers, his voice shaking and slurred, attention for Wilbur and Wilbur alone. He sounds terrified, but Wilbur chuckles dryly like Quackity has made a joke. And oh my god, Tommy realises, they're talking about Schlatt. Fucking Schlatt. Wilbur is talking like it's Pogtopia.
When Manberg was a forest and a river away, and when Schlatt still lived in their stolen whitehouse.
The connection has Tommy’s head spinning. He sinks down to his knees, suddenly exhausted. Wilbur’s eyes are on him again, tracking his movement.
Tommy tries to smile at him. Wilbur looks back at Quackity.
“Sounds about right,” he says, that odd intensity gone from his voice, and right. Of course. They’re talking about Schlatt like he’s still alive. Like they didn’t all see him die. Like Tommy didn’t watch Quackity eat the man’s heart at his own fucking funeral.
Tommy doesn’t want to think about Schlatt. He doesn’t want to think about Pogtopia, about who Wilbur was back then. His first true exile, a complete shitshow, and somehow it manages to be the better of the two.
Quackity huffs out a long breath. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Drinking. Y’know, I don’t think I’d be surprised if it were actually true. Even...” Quackity’s face twists with something that looks confused. “Even now.”
“Oh?” Wilbur tips his head, just slightly. His expression is blank. It can barely be called interest, but back in Pogtopia Wilbur had never been interested in anything, had he?
Tommy’s stomach twists. This is an act, he knows it is, but he also knows how Wilbur acts. He does it methodically. He does it so that he actually believes it.
That’s why he’s so good at it.
Quackity sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Glatt?”
"Glatt?" Wilbur echoes, and for a second there is a hint of mirth, of life in his voice. His lips quirk. "Can’t say I have."
Quackity winces, brow furrowing, looking for all the world like he is having a headache but still trying very hard to puzzle something out. "...looks like Schlatt. But pale and foggy. Runs a...gym. Friendlier. Probably still drinking, though. Hence the, uh...y’know."
"A ghost," Wilbur deadpans, and Tommy thinks that Wilbur is ignoring him now. Giving all of his attention to Quackity.
"Not friendly like yours," Quackity murmurs distantly. Tommy wonders if Quackity realises how badly he is mixing up the flow of time; talking like they are Pogtopians while referencing events far in the future. Is that not causing warning bells in Quackity's head?
And Schlatt has a ghost?
"But 'friendlier'?" Wilbur presses. Dryly sarcastic. "Forgive me if I don't trust your judgement on that."
"He's calmer." Quackity's voice shakes. He draws his knees close to his chest, somehow, impossibly tighter. "...h-he's trying to learn Spanish." He sounds dangerously close to crying again.
“Ah,” Wilbur drawls, and then pauses for a moment. “Yo hablar...un poco español.”
Quackity chokes on something halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Tarado. You said that fucking wrong.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Wilbur says breezily. “Tell me more about Schlatt’s ghost.”
It isn’t a question. Quackity huffs out another breath. He lifts a hand to drag his beanie from his head and starts fiddling with the fabric.
“He…he sent me a note,” he says quietly, subdued again. “I visited him. We made a deal.”
Wilbur’s eyes widen. “You what?”
“He was alone,” Quackity says. “I don’t think he wanted me to go. It was honestly just…sad. Pathetic.” He tugs at the beanie, stretching it. “I-I felt bad for him. And I hate him, I hate him, I do, but…we fucking had something, y’know? Once. Before it all went to shit. And I couldn’t help but…Prime, I don’t know.”
“Did you win?”
"...not yet," Quackity winces, and abruptly Wilbur turns to fully face him, incredulous.
"How complicated is this deal, that it's still ongoing?" Wilbur demands. Beneath the sharp anger in his voice is something that sounds close to concern.
Quackity's eyes flicker to Wilbur, then fixate back down on his beanie. "...it was more like a bet."
"A bet," Wilbur huffs, shaking his head. "You're a fool." A protest rises up in Tommy's throat, threatening to break free. This is too harsh, surely—
"I am," Quackity whispers, fragile. His knuckles turn white, the beanie visibly shaking. "I-I ruined myself for him. It was all for nothing. It was all pointless, and I have nothing to show for it."
"You've always let him walk over you," Wilbur snaps. He sounds upset. He looks upset. "Jschlatt is dirt beneath your feet, ash in the face of your brilliance and you just let him use you, Quackity, again and again!"
"I know!" Quackity cries, strangled, and Wilbur falls silent as Quackity buries his face in his hands. "I don't know why he has this p-power over me."
Prime. Tommy needs to step in, right? But he feels frozen.
Wilbur shifts a little closer, until his shoulder presses against Quackity's. To Tommy's shock, Quackity leans towards him, letting his weight fall into Wilbur's side.
"You never learn," Wilbur says, dull and disappointed. "You're too good for him. You were proper competition for the election, you know. He wasn't. Without you, he would have been nothing." Quackity makes a soft sobbing sound, muffled by his hands. A little more considerately, Wilbur repeats, "He's nothing without you."
For a long moment, Quackity doesn’t respond. His shoulders quake, his breath shudders, and his hands have moved up to press firmly over his eyes, rubbing at them over and over.
Wilbur has made him cry again.
But what he said isn’t wrong, is it? Tommy agrees with the sentiment and he agrees that Quackity needs to hear it. Schlatt was a fucking bitch and his ghost can go fuck himself. Can get away from Quackity, from whatever bet they made. Yet surely Wilbur doesn’t need to be so harsh about it. Surely he could just—
“Thanks,” Quackity mumbles, and maybe Tommy knows less about the situation than he would like. Quackity sniffles. “Thank you. I-I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” Wilbur says. “Don’t you fucking apologise. Not now. Not for this.”
"Okay." Quackity laughs a little and it sounds more like choking, wet and strangled. Then slowly, he lifts his head, blinks like his eyes are adjusting to the light. Tommy watches as Quackity surveys the room—their eyes momentarily meet. "...thank you," Quackity repeats a little stronger.
And Tommy thinks he might finally be back with them.
"Sure," Wilbur replies. He still sounds too toneless and too harsh, and Tommy has the sinking suspicion that it is going to take a while for this…Pogtopian act to fade away. He throws himself so deeply into his lies and masks that they stick like wet concrete, quickly solidifying into place.
Wilbur takes a deep, long breath, and exhales it slowly. His shoulders sag a little, and he leans more heavily against Quackity, and...maybe Tommy isn't giving Wilbur enough credit. Maybe he is trying to ease himself out of the mindset, despite Tommy reservations.
"I need a drink," Quackity rasps, a hand rising to massage his throat, "—water. I mean water." He looks sickened.
"Yeah. That makes two of us," Wilbur says. He sounds exhausted. His gaze flicks up. "...how about you, Tommy?"
"Me?" Tommy starts, surprised to be addressed. "What—about water? I guess um, I guess I could get water. We could get water." He darts his eyes nervously between Wilbur and Quackity both, but they both seem...subdued.
Quackity is silent now, his tears finally dried up, his breathing evening out. Wilbur is displaying a habit Tommy remembers well from Pogtopia—a warning sign, but one of his quieter habits of the time. He sits completely still, staring unseeing into space. If one couldn't see his chest slowly rising and falling, then not a single muscle would be twitching but for his mouth when he speaks. It is almost close to meditation, or a trance; Tommy doubts Wilbur would compare the state to either.
God, Tommy is fucking tired. They all need to go to bed so badly, but he isn’t sure a single damn one of them can be alone right now.
Tommy slowly pushes himself up to his feet. His body aches its protest.
"I can get it," he mutters, speaking just loud enough that Wilbur and Quackity will be able to hear him. "You guys can just...stay there. Rest, or whatever."
He doesn't listen for a response, trudging over to the kitchenette and flipping open cabinets until he finds a collection of wooden mugs. He is in the process grabbing a triplet of them when movement in his peripherals captures his attention. He pauses to watch as Wilbur crawls out from under the table and twists around to offer Quackity a hand. There is a moment's hesitation before Quackity reaches out to clasp it and Wilbur tugs him up.
They say nothing.
Tommy hears shuffling footsteps as he takes the mugs over to the sink and fills them each with cold water. One of them is smaller than the others. He leaves that for himself as he picks up the other two and turns to see that Wilbur has led Quackity over to the couch and they have both collapsed onto it. Quackity is leaning against one of the armrests, legs curled up to his chest, gazing sightlessly at the ground below. Wilbur sits back in the cushions, his posture one that could almost be mistaken for relaxed.
Tommy knows better.
Wilbur's eyes are fixed on him.
Tommy swallows thickly as he makes his way over to them. There is a small coffee table in front of the couch that he deposits the mugs onto. Wilbur nods a silent acknowledgement and then turns to nudge Quackity, who jerks, his attention snapping up from the ground. He makes a small, wordless noise of confusion.
"Water," Wilbur explains, leaning forward so he can grab the mugs. Tommy moves back to the kitchen for his own drink.
Tommy is planning on simply standing by the counter to drink his water, but like he always does, Wilbur disrupts Tommy's world by calling out, "Join us."
His tone leaves no room for argument.
Tommy shuffles over, his mug in hand, and finds there is no space on the couch. He doesn't want to sit there anyway; instead, he settles himself on the carpeted floor off to one side, leaning against the plush couch leg.
Tommy isn't exactly sure how the dynamic has shifted so thoroughly. He feels small now. Like he has lost control of the situation. Wilbur isn't saying a word, yet he commands the room while doing nothing but sipping water from a wooden cup. Barely any time ago at all, he was hysterical, weak, and completely in need of Tommy's help.
Now that moment feels like a dream, a figment of Tommy's imagination. His gut swirls uncomfortably, and Tommy looks down at the water in his own mug for something to focus on.
There is a silence in the room, and while it isn't unwelcome, it is raw. Emotions are scratched, bleeding and bare, and there is the occasional sniffle of stuffy noses—the aftermath of heavy crying. Tommy lets his head fall against the couch, eyes fluttering closed. A heaviness in his eyelids burns sharply, and there is a low pang deep in his skull that makes the darkness more desirable than even the low lighting of the suite.
The couch is soft against his cheek, the ambient quiet allowing his mind to wander away in endless valleys and mountains. He keeps replaying the events of the night over and over in his mind. Chalk on his hands and soothing Wilbur; Quackity and acts and history. The entire day preceding it.
Past memories and what it all means.
His cup is plucked from his hands, and Tommy doesn't fight it. He doesn't even bother to open his eyes.
When he startles back awake, Tommy is off the ground. Arms hold him aloft, one under his knees and the other around his back. A body is warm against his side. He sways slightly with the movement of walking as the person holding him adjusts their grip.
Words that Tommy can't quite distinguish swirl around him, in and out of his ears, and Tommy squints desperately against bright light as he tries to focus. His body and eyes are so heavy and already that momentary flash of energy is gone. Sleep is trying to pull him down once more.
The walking stops, and he is being lowered onto a bed that caves minutely beneath him. Pillows and blankets provide a soft nest, and then the arms are gone.
A heavy weight envelops him as a duvet is pulled over his shoulders. A far colder hand briefly presses against his cheek.
"You sure that's your brother and not just another kid of yours?"
Tommy ignores the distant, muffled voice and rolls over, burying his face in the pillows. It is comfortable and nice, and...he really is tired.
"...shut up."
Footsteps fade away, and a door shuts. Within minutes sleep has claimed Tommy once more.
For once, he doesn't worry.