Chapter Text
Recovery was slow. A few more people visited, but Quackity only really responded to Cellbit, Roier, and Tilín.
Wilbur was slowly learning sign language after Tallulah had staged a three day silence in order to get him jumpstarted. Roier and Cellbit already knew a little bit from their own kids, so they helped him along.
Quackity could hear loud noises, now, like when he put his ear next to Wilbur’s guitar, or when Tilín burst into his temporary room. He still struggled with blacking out and seizures, but he could tell when a seizure was about to hit him.
They had recovered his communicator from the depths of his house, and he often stared at the passing messages. When he had just gotten it back, it dinged with a welcome message.
[[ ] Quackity ]
After that, everyone had messaged him.
Where was he? What had happened? Who was that guy that looked like him?
If only he had all the answers.
Tilín leaned against his leg, doodling in the notebook that Roier had given him. Quackity was curled up, watching the world chat roll by. Occasionally he glanced over, a smile tugging on his lips whenever he noticed that they were drawing the two of them, often holding hands.
His hand drifted down to rest on their head for a moment, and Tilín pressed into it like a cat. She glanced back at him, smiling broadly before showing off the picture he just drew.
Quackity inspected it, absentmindedly petting their head, and smiled. It was him and Tilín in the middle, joined by Tallulah, Wilbur, Roier, and Cellbit. There was a bright yellow sun in the corner, surrounded by blue.
It made warmth swell in his chest. He looked down at the beaming egg, who held their hands up to their chest in anticipation.
Buen trabajo , he signed slowly with one hand, setting the page down and tracing the lines with his other fingers. Tilín curled into his side, taking his hand and gently running her fingers over the lines of it.
It was warm and soft and dim and everything the Federation wasn’t. He adored it.
The door opened, and he could hear it. Quackity looked up, getting a smile from Roier.
“Aye, man,” the brunet greeted, lifting a hand. In the other hand, he held a plate of food. “You hungry?”
Quackity nodded, holding out his hands tentatively for the plate. Roier smiled brightly, handing it to him.
It looked delicious. It was simple foods, but it was better than nothing.
“I had Philza check it,” Roier winked, grinning as Quackity snorted. He hadn’t been able to handle any semblance of “spicy” or a lot of salt since…he came back, without having a panic attack, so everything had to be basically tasteless. It was kind of sad.
He wiped his face, fingers lingering over the scars on his cheeks. They were nothing more than raised dots on his face, now, marring his skin.
Roier watched him carefully, sitting on the bedside as Tilín handed him a drawing. “Muy bien, Tilín! Wow!” He grinned at the egg, high-fiving her.
Quackity watched, quiet and unmoving. His hands twitched over his cutlery, but his gaze was fixed on his son.
On her smile when they turned to him, showing him the drawing again. He gave them a smile, pulling him close.
Roier watched, his eyes soft.
Quackity would get better. He didn’t cower at the mere mention of food or of water anymore. He was trying to open up about what had happened, even if he only got short, fragmented sentences or words written down before he shut down. Roier was proud of his friend.
He would get better. They were all sure of it.