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Slime spends breakfast staring at Quackity. Not technically out of the ordinary, Quackity has a very stare-at-able face (at least in Slime’s opinion).
Quackity had been balls deep in work all week — setting up for opening night, traveling for days on end, filing paper-work, and yelling at people for simply breathing the wrong way (as Wilbur liked to put it while he and Slime watched Quackity and Foolish argue from the balcony on the Space Needle). But Slime had taken notice of the subtly darkening circles beneath Quackity’s eye, singular, the scarred one too damaged to have anything even remotely close to a bag beneath it.
It always found a way to take over at least a chunk of Slime’s thinking at all times, the scar. It was deep and relatively healed and seemed almost like if you stared long enough you would get stuck, lost forever in the deep shades of red and brown, scabbed and shaped until you were sated.
And God did Slime feel fucking sated.
But then Quackity had looked up from the bills — power and water and heating because, believe it or not, big ass casinos take a shit ton of money to run — and caught Slime’s eyes.
“The fuck you staring at?” He asked harshly with that tone that’d get harder the less sleep he got, “Eat your damn food.”
“I don’t need to eat, Quackity from Las Nevadas.” Slime re-informs.
Quackity sighs, “Right… Just like— stop fucking looking at me like that, it’s freaking me out.”
“Yes sir.” Slime beamed, moving his gaze towards the empty plate in front of him, paralleling the full one in front of Quackity.
—
Tommy comes to visit after sundown one day.
He shows up as the clouds begin to swallow the sky, consuming the light from the stars and moon that should be illuminating Las Nevadas. Slime has been counting each night, the full moon will be coming soon. He hoped he could sit and watch from the Big Needle just as he and Quackity used to — though something deep in his gut told him the business that now rules Quackity’s life would work against that plan.
Slime’s sitting on the edge of the fountain, kicking his feet when Tommy slides up next to him.
“Why are you waiting out here?” He asks, staring at Slime’s side profile.
“Quackity from Las Nevadas is up in the casino with Wilbur.” Slime responds easily, dropping the title from Wilbur’s name but not Quackity’s. It’s something inside of him that makes it difficult. Something about wanting, about needing. Something about ownership.
“Oh,” Tommy says, “like— fucking? ” He asks in a hushed, disturbed tone.
Slime hums, turning away from the ground and looking up at Tommy, “Sex…” He pauses, digging deep into his own mind to pull the definition for himself, “Yes? Probably. This is a common occurrence.”
“ Gross. ” Tommy responds, pulling his knees up so he can turn around and look into the water from the fountain rather than the road beneath him.
Slime agrees although he doesn’t really understand why. Quackity and Wilbur seem close, they’ve touched and held and laughed. And from Slime’s basic understanding of love, that’s all they need. But Tommy knows both human emotions and Wilbur better than he does so Slime thinks he can trust the blonde on this one.
“I was going to ask Quackity something but I can come back tomorrow.” Tommy says, dipping the tips of his fingers into the fountain water.
“Would you like me to take a message?” Slime asks, “I can tell him when he and Wilbur are done sex-ing.”
Tommy laughs, “Jesus, you really are just his ditzy secretary.”
Slime laughs too. He doesn’t get it — he doesn’t try to. But he’s seen the way humans interact and he’s had some harsh experiences of his own so he forces something fake and repeats Tommy’s question in his mind a few times to recite back to Quackity at a later time.
—
The smell of smoke is prominent coming from the gap between Quackity’s bedroom door and the red carpeted floor. Slime knocks carefully, waiting for a response before slowly peeking his head in.
“Slime!” Quackity smiles, “Come in, come in!”
Slime shuffles towards the edge of the bed where Quackity is sitting, shutting the door behind him. He stands with his hands clasped together in front of him, waiting for instruction.
Quackity pats the mattress beside him, “Join me, sit.”
He watches Slime sit down like it’s an art that needs to be perfected. Slime turns towards Quackity and tries not to wrinkle his nose at the intense smell that swallows the room.
“Have you ever shot-gunned, Slime?” Quackity asks, holding something small between his thumb and fore-finger.
Slime furrows his brows and tries to decipher the definition without having to ask. He shakes his head slowly, “I don’t believe I have.”
Quackity makes this sound — this laugh — that Slime has never heard leave his mouth. Something too bubbly and sweet to be coming from the man next to him and yet he wishes it was the only sound he could hear for the rest of his life.
“Let’s try.” Quackity says, “I’m going to inhale from this joint and then blow it into your mouth, okay?”
His smile is soft and welcoming and Slime couldn’t possibly have declined in any single universe. So he nods and copies the smile and watches with the utmost attention as Quackity brings the joint up to his lips.
He pulls it away from his mouth and sets it down somewhere before reaching out towards Slime’s face. His palms are flat as he silently beckons Slime closer, taking his face between his hands and pulling their faces until Slime could list every color in Quackity’s eye by hex-code.
Quackity brushes their lips together for a moment before pressing them together and opening his mouth. Logically, Slime processes that Quackity’s eyes are closed and he needs to get with the fucking program and inhale the smoke. However, Quackity’s lips are moist and peeled and so welcoming in a disturbing way against his own that he thinks he might begin to understand why him and Wilbur kiss so often.
And, yes, Slime has kissed Quackity before — social lessons be damned, that bitch will not give up kissing anyone and everyone — but something about this is different. Closer, nicer, with more purpose. Like it's a choice rather than a chore for Quackity. Like he wants to reciprocate.
It’s too late when Slime realizes he did not inhale correctly and is now choking. Quackity covers his mouth with one of his hands as he tries to stifle laughter watching Slime struggle and cough.
“Dude, that was bad. ” He slurs, smiling with a big ole’ toothy grin Slime wishes he could see more often. Quackity picks up the joint again and inhales before pulling it away and blowing the smoke into Slime’s face when he’s finished coughing, “We should maybe not do that again.”
But Slime isn’t ready to give up. He wants to get that feeling again. Because the approval of Quackity is what Slime fucking lives for and if he can do this trick the right way than he knows Quackity would be happy. And his happiness is Slime’s happiness so he sits up straighter.
“No wait—” He coughs, “I can do it, let's try again.”
Quackity raises an eyebrow, “You sure?”
He shrugs when Slime nods vigorously and flexes his hands against his thighs. Quackity takes a hit from the joint again, setting it down by his hip as he turns back to Slime. This time, he’s ready. He closes his eyes when he’s meant to and focuses on Quackity’s fingers pressing into his cheeks. He takes the smoke right from Quackity’s mouth as he should’ve the first time and relishes in their lips pressed for a few more seconds before Quackity pulls back.
When Quackity’s hands have left Slime’s face and Slime has finally gotten his eyes to re-open, he commits Quackity’s proud smile to his memory. He leans forward with his hand like he’s going to ruffle Slime’s hair before remembering there isn't any hair so his hand just kinda hangs awkwardly in the air for a moment.
“Good job, buddy.” He praises.
And Slime feels his whole body want to shift and morph until he’s no longer holding human form.
—
Quackity wakes up later than usual.
Slime knocked on the door at six, Quackity told him to fuck off. Slime returned at seven, Quackitys only response was a groan. At eight, Quackity had just stopped responding. Foolish showed up for a meeting at nine, Quackity was still up in his room.
Slime had stood at the entrance of the casino, watching as Foolish walked up from the edge of the faux desert. He greeted him with a smile and an extended hand to dap him up.
Foolish raised on his tip-toes to look past Slime with a brow raised, “Hey uh— Where’s Quackity?”
“He’s still sleeping.” Slime informed.
“What?” Foolish fell back on flat feet, “He never sleeps in this late, is he okay?”
“He is still breathing.”
Foolish stares at Slime for a moment, remembering that the non-human in front of him is not the brightest and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Can you go get him? ”
“No I can not.” Slime nods.
“ God damnit. ” Foolish hisses, pushing past Slime and into the casino, “ I’m getting him then; we have important shit to discuss.”
Slime follows behind Foolish quickly, trying to stop him from disturbing Quackity before shit hits the fan but Foolish continues to rant out loud and over Slime’s warnings. The door hits the wall with a bang as Foolish slams it open and stands in the doorway with his arms crossed.
Quackity groans and rolls over, pulling his pillow with him over his head like it’ll shield him from loud sounds, “What the fuck? ”
“Quackity, get your ass up. We have a fucking country to run.”
Slime taps Foolish’s shoulder timidly and leans in closer to whisper, “Foolish from a long time ago, you should really be leaving him alone.”
Foolish shrugs Slime’s hand off and moves closer to the bed. He reaches towards the blanket but a hand clamps around his wrist and halts him. It squeezes tighter followed by a growl.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Quackity asks, voice gravelly.
Sime feels himself take a step back without thinking, his hands curling at his sides. Foolish’s eyes widen and he swallows audibly.
“You weren’t awake, and we—” He stammers, “We have a meeting and I knew you usually wake up early and—”
The sound of a slap cuts Foolish’s sentence off. Quackity lets go of Foolish’s hand and stands up out of his bed. He twists left and right to pop his back casually and moves towards the closet.
“Get out.” He says as he grabs a tie from his wall.
Foolish follows the order immediately, pushing past Slime who has been frozen in the same spot.
Quackity turns towards Slime before looking back at himself in the mirror, “Slime, come here.”
And Slime’s body is moving, once again without a single thought. It’s as if it's second nature, following every word at the tip of Quackity’s tongue. He stands behind Quackity, leaving space between them but close enough to see his own reflection.
“Slime,” Quackity turns around as he finishes adjusting his tie, “do you think I would ever hurt you?”
Slime’s throat feels like it's constricting as he stares with his lips parted at Quackity. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for Slime’s answer. Quackity takes a step closer, taking Slime’s hands into his own as he watches his face intently. Slime feels himself flinch as Quackity’s hands come into contact with his, though he’s not sure why.
‘Humans are assholes.’ Quackity had told him. They weren’t to be trusted because they would use you and turn on you the moment you weren’t helping them. But Quackity was the one who had taught him. He gave Slime the advice and he gave Slime clothes and he gave Slime a roof over his head.
So Slime answers what he thinks is the correct response, “Of course not.”
Quackity smiles, not quite reaching his eyes, and brings Slime’s hands closer to his face, “It’s good to put your trust in me.” He says, pressing a kiss to the back of one of Slime’s hands.
He drops them and pats Slime’s shoulder before walking past him and going to find Foolish. Slime stands and stares at himself in the mirror — the person staring back completely different from the creature Quackity had taken in months ago.
—
It’s been raining more often, Slime has noticed. Quackity stays outside longer and just lets the rain pour down on him. It’s always completely silent, even going as far as to shush other people when they try to speak to him.
But Slime sits by the nearest window and watches Quackity like he’s performing on a stage — the moon, his stage light, the stars, his audience (just as well as Slime).
He holds his beanie in his hands and tilts his head back, letting the water slick his unkempt hair back. He brings one hand up to push his hair back before shaking his head forward like a dog and letting his hair frame his face. Thunder sounds somewhere off in the distance, and usually Slime would’ve jumped or cried or ran and hid, but something about seeing Quackity in this way kept him perfectly calm. Slime leans forward more, his hands pressing against the edge of the window sill as he tries to get closer to Quackity without having to go outside.
Quackity turns and grins as Slime from his place in the middle of the road. He flexes his wings the most he can with the rain weighing down his feathers and the damages already having been there from past wars. He’d lost the ability to fly long ago, though he enjoyed re-telling Slime the same few stories from before he was sucked into that shit show that is the DreamSMP. Slime wouldn’t ever have admitted it out-loud — knowing the way Quackity tends to react to outward affection — but he would've loved to see Quackity in those moments. Free and happy, without scars or eyebags or that permanent frown, even if just for a moment.
He doesn’t sleep often, but when he does, Slime dreams of Quackity like that. Stilled like a perfectly timed photo, posed only for him.
—
Wilbur starts showing up more and more often until he’s basically living in Las Nevadas (though he refuses to admit he’s basically a citizen of the country when Slime mentions it).
It’s not that Slime is getting annoyed, per se. More just that he wished Wilbur would stop cutting him off mid-sentence or making direct eye-contact with him right before kissing Quackity in the most obscene way possible.
(Or maybe just stop fucking breathing altogether.)
But Quackity seems to tolerate his presence so Slime will too.
—
Quackity tends to get worse when Wilbur is around, Slime picks up quickly. He stays in bed longer, lounging in his boxers and half buttoned dress-shirt, the edge riding up and giving way to his stomach as he and Wil pass a cigarette between each other. He starts to look thinner, less human — less real.
His eyes are bloodshot when he grabs Slime's hand more gently than he’s done anything in the last six months to drag him up to the balcony of the Space Needle. The whole way to the tower and up the elevator, he’s ranting absolute nonsense to Slime that he cannot for the life of him follow — yet he listens perfectly because the way his slurred words roll off his tongue is just as addicting as the weed in Quackity’s system.
Wilbur is leaning against the railing on his elbows, blunt between his fore and middle fingers. He looks back over his shoulder slightly before returning his gaze to the sky ahead of him. Quackity lets go of Slime’s hand and slides up next to Wilbur’s left, taking the blunt from his fingers and taking a long drag. Slime just stands awkwardly.
He can perfectly see the bruises lining Quackity’s neck and shoulder from where he’s standing — and all he wants to do is walk over and fix the way his shirt is hanging off his shoulder like a fucking whore. But he stares until Quackity turns around, coughing through a smile and holding both his hands out, palms facing up like he’s welcoming Slime (though he always is in Slime’s eyes).
“Slime,” He drags out, “join us, my love. ”
And God, something about that name. That fucking title. It’s all Slime wants to hear for the rest of his time on earth, he hopes the day he dies it’ll be what plays in his ears.
So yeah, sue him, Slime goes. He follows the order like a sick puppy and ignores the weird way Wilbur half-smiles at him. Quackity takes Slime’s hands and lifts one up, spinning him clumsily.
Wilbur blows smoke in their direction like shitty special effects and finishes the blunt he and Quackity had been sharing.
When Slime has his footing back, he’s standing close enough to feel Quackity’s breath fanning over his face. He tries not to recoil at the intense smell of alcohol wafting his direction and instead focuses on the way Quackity looks down at his lips. Slime waits — like he does everything else. Because for Quackity he’d do anything and he'd wait any amount of time if only to stay in his life.
So he waits and waits and feels the way his gut swoops when he realizes Wilbur is most likely watching whatever weird ass mating dance they're doing. And then it finally happens, Quackity moving one of his hands to Slime’s cheek and standing up on the tips of his toes to press their lips together. He almost misses and it’s off-balanced as hell and Christ Quackity smells like shit but Slime wouldn’t have pulled away in a million years.
Distantly, Slime processes that the footsteps he hears means Wilbur has walked away somewhere else, but all he can think of is the way his ‘skin’ burns where Quackity’s hand is and his own hands unconsciously moving to tentatively grab Quackity’s hips. His thumbs press just above the dip of Quackity’s hips.
Quackity’s other hand comes up, using both of them to tilt Slime’s head at a better angle for himself as he tries to kiss harsher. Now, Slime has kissed people. He knows it's a press of lips and it’s a way of showing affection. What he has not done is felt Quackity’s tongue run across his bottom lip (until now).
Slime sort of yelps like a hurt chihuahua to which Quackity takes the chance to actually get his tongue in Slime’s mouth and that’s where Slime decides it’s time to end this.
He pulls back awkwardly but keeps his hands on Quackity’s body. Slime prepares himself momentarily for Quackity to be upset about the abrupt ending or try to push Slime away. And, technically, the response he gives is upset — just not the type Slime had been prepared for.
He whines and falls back on the balls of his feet before dropping his hands to Slime’s chest and pressing his face into Slime’s shoulder. And Slime fucking freezes because? What the fuck?
“Quackity—” Slime starts but Quackity lifts a finger to his lips to shush him.
“Tired.” He yawns.
Slime catches Wilbur grinning out of the corner of his eye and turns to face him. Wilbur’s leaning against the outside of the wall of the Space Needle, lit cigarette between his fingers (because God forbid he isn’t smoking for one moment).
“Wil—” Slime’s breath hitches when Quackity’s arms move to circle Slime’s waist. He clears his throat and tries again, “Wilbur, what uh… What did he take?”
“He’s like— plastered. ” Wilbur shrugs, laughing quietly, “And also probably very high.”
Slime growls in a way he’s never before and narrows his every before immediately melting when Quackity manages to press himself closer to Slime. He sighs and brings a hand up to the back of Quackity’s head.
“I’m taking him to bed.” He announces, turning Quackity’s body with ease and leasing him back into the Needle.
They make it to Quackity’s room after stumbling through several halls and flights of stairs (and Slime is sure Quackity has more bruises then he started with despite his best efforts to protect him). And it kind of makes him feel like he’s really doing something with his life. Carrying a drunk and flushed Quackity to bed, holding the back of his skull and blocking his body from bumping into furniture.
He makes sure Quackity isn’t laying on his back and pulls the covers up over Quackity even though he knows they’ll be kicked off the minute he leaves the room. Just as he shuts off the light, Quackity stirs slightly. He whines once more, reaching a hand out to try and grab Slime who has already made it to the door.
“Come back.” He rasps, doing a gross little grabby hand as he pouts like a child.
And Slime does exactly as he’s told, shutting the door softly behind himself and stripping his clothes until he’s in nothing but his boxers.
“Scoot.” He pushes Quackity as he pulls the covers back and climbs in next to him.
Quackity’s on him immediately, face squished against Slime’s chest and arms wrapped around his waist. And Slime knows they’ll both be sweaty as hell in the morning but he holds Quackity with the same fervor and buries his face into Quackity’s greasy ass hair.
—
They don’t talk about it ever again. Slime can tell by the way Quackity looks at him that he remembers clearly, he’s just choosing to pretend it never happened. And somewhere deep down, Slime convinces himself that’s what needed to happen. Like it’s the best option for the country as if Quackity and Wilbur don’t fuck like bitches in heat. But Quackity knows best so Slime thinks he would’ve done the same if he had been in his position — although he wished he could’ve done otherwise.
—
The two of them are standing in Quackity’s bathroom. Slime watches with his hands behind him as Quackity stares at his reflection for longer than the average person normally would. He stares like if he’ll blink the person staring back would be different.
Quackity pulls at his skin, beneath his eye, near his lips, around his scar, his brows curving more and more the longer it goes on.
“Slime—” He starts but Slime cuts him off without a single thought behind his glazed over eyes.
“Quackity from Las Nevadas, I think you’re beautiful. ” He says almost breathlessly. Like he’s been waiting an entire lifetime to admit it.
Quackity’s mouth closes and he drops his hands, looking up at Slime in the mirror. He looks back down at the sink drain, avoiding the way Slime stares at him like he hung the moon himself, “Why would you think that?”
And Slime knows the answer, he’s thought about this answer every day since Quackity caught him stalking. So he answers with honesty, "Because it's your face. And I think no matter what, as long as you're who I'm looking at, I'll always be impressed. Your scar—"
Quackity cuts him off with a quickly raised hand. Slime stops immediately, pressing his lips together in a thin line and covering his mouth with his hand.
“Scars aren’t pretty, Slime. They’re gross reminders of the shit I’ve been through, not cool accessories.”
“Well,” He says, lowering his hand slowly, “I think you make them look cool.”