Work Text:
Of all the things his father had prepared him for, extensively, car chases were perhaps one area he’d neglected.
Or maybe it was just the thrill of the moment.
Either way, Wilbur found himself with very limited options as he tried desperately to duck into the footwells of a car owned by his kidnapper, getting shot at by his own fucking mafia.
“You weren’t kidding, birdie! They’re pretty fond of you!”
Quackity- in the one act of sanity he’d seen from the crime lord- didn’t take his eyes off the road. That didn’t in any way excuse his driving, which would put any maniacs to shame.
“No shit, arsehole! I’m the fucking heir, and my father has a fucking hyperfixation on me being kidnapped!”
“Weird families, eh?”
“Fuck off! Argh- not off the fucking road!”
Quackity cackled as the car actually tipped to one side before righting itself. The poor fucking suspension of this thing must be in shambles.
“Relax, pretty bird. You know, if you’d told me you had another tracker, this could have been avoided.”
“No! They’re trying to save me from your deranged ass!”
In case anyone asked him exactly why Quackity was so deranged, Wilbur had decided to start compiling a list. Just to keep himself sane.
Firstly, he’d gone and kidnapped the heir of one of the largest mafias in the city. Smart move, fucker. Secondly, he’d gotten into a car chase instead of just ditching said heir once his guards finally got wind of his abduction.
On that note, Quackity hadn’t had to be the one driving. No, the shrike had made the choice all by himself after their driver was shot in the shoulder, vaulting through to the front and kicking the poor lackey out of the door with zero hesitation.
Yeah, Wilbur was pretty glad to be in the back. Although his wings were having a pretty shitty time of it, with all the bouncing. Thanks to Quackity for making him ditch his coat, he definitely wasn’t bitter about that.
He screamed, actually, borderline chirped, as yet more bullets ripped through the air above his head, coming dangerously close to the shrike. For all he fucking hated Quackity’s guts right now, if he died there was significant odds the whole car would end up in a ditch, which was less than desirable.
“I said relax, I know what I’m doing!”
“You fucking do not!”
Quackity sighed loudly, rummaging in the space between his seat and the passenger seat before biting something, then tossing it backwards.
“Throw it, birdie.”
Wilbur screamed yet again as he realised what he was holding. A grenade. In a blink, he did as he’d been told, throwing the thing as hard as he could out the shattered back window. It was only a second later, when an explosion almost burst his eardrums, that he realised Quackity and made him bomb their pursuers.
“Fucking shrike bitch! I will fucking murder you!”
Quackity threw the steering wheel as far as it would go to the side, sending them skidding down a side road and nearly spinning out.
“Wait your turn!”
The crime lord’s eyes glinted in the rear view mirror, one a shining chestnut, and the other a milky white, courtesy of Wilbur’s older brother. He watched behind them, and the elytrian turned too, daring to poke his head up to see two more of the cars crash into one another from the unexpected turn. One left.
There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he insisted his father wouldn’t give up this easy. Or wouldn’t he? Quackity had been smart about it. Six cars was a decent commitment- even if the first two had been run off the road within a few minutes of the chase beginning- so maybe he would wait for a report. By which time Wilbur would probably be deep enough in Las Nevadas there would be no hope of finding him without razing half the city to the ground.
Maybe hopelessness hit a bit harder than he’d expected. Wilbur went suddenly still, the deafening sounds fading to faint echoes as he stared ahead. In the corner of his unfocused eyes, he saw Quackity finally let go of the wheel entirely, lean out the window, and shoot four times at the car behind them, before grabbing the wheel again to yank them back onto the road.
As the final car swerved into a shopfront, the shrike let out a yell of triumph, pumping his fist in the air.
“Get in! Told you I could handle it-“
He could feel Quackity’s eyes on him, but couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything at all as his breath caught in his throat, then he stopped breathing at all, mind a blank fuzz of everything he could have done differently, every way he’d fucked up and this was his fault.
He’d been too confident. He could have handled himself. He should have fought. He should have lied about more of the trackers. He should have checked his bodyguards were still with him.
So many ways he’d fucked up, so many reasons it was his fault his father’s whole empire might come crashing down. Because the man who’d raised him would pay any price Quackity set for his son’s safe return. Wait. The shrike had said this wasn’t ransom.
So what the fuck was it?
“-ilbur. Wilbur! Prince boy, can you fucking hear me?! Oh fuck it, we’re nearly there anyway. Try not to choke on your own stupidity!”
Too fucking late.
True to his word, just a few minutes later they were pulling up outside of what was, quite literally, a casino. Fair play, shrike bitch, he stuck to his branding.
Quackity was muttering something about ungrateful hostages as he got out the car, but Wilbur couldn’t even move to try to run, just lay, curled in on himself, dry sobs shaking his body.
“M’kay, you’re not going to be able to walk, are you?”
Why was the shrike so… whatever the fuck this was? His frustration nearly overwhelmed the panic attack. Nearly. Not close enough, and his screaming instincts only spiked again when the crime lord leaned in, sighing once again.
“Ridiculous bird. How the hell do you run the family business if you can’t handle getting shot at?”
It wasn’t the shooting. It wasn’t the shooting, goddammit, he’d been shooting since he was six. No, it was realising that all those lessons on gun techniques were useless in the face of someone who knew what they were doing so much more than him.
Fingers curled around his collar, yanking him upright. Dimly, he could see Quackity studying his face, eyes narrowed as if he thought Wilbur might be faking it.
“Say something, birdie.”
There was no air in his lungs to say anything, and he carried on staring into the void, chest rising and falling in time to the spasms making his wings twitch agonisingly.
Quackity slapped the side of his head lightly, as if that would shake him out of his own mind. When the magpie didn’t react, no more than another desperate attempt to breathe, the crime lord frowned, and tapped his forehead.
“You in there? I am still more than happy to shoot you if you turn out to be faking this.”
Bitch. No. Did he look like he was faking? Did the tears stinging his dry eyes look fake? What was dishonest about the way every muscle in his body was tense, screaming that it was his fault, it was all his fault?
“Oh you fucking… fine. Fine, have your shitty panic attack and ruin my fun. Come on, idiot, just let me do this.”
Shockingly gentle arms wrapped around his knees and shoulders, awkwardly tugging him towards the door and lifting him out. Somehow, Quackity actually managed to carry him bridal style with relative ease, shifting his hold a little on the elytrian as Wilbur managed to turn even more still, only for very different reasons.
Oh gods above. That was definitely too close. And to another avian, because fuck his life.
Luckily, the panic attack was dialled down. Unluckily, his instincts were now stepping up to take the stage, leaving him with the options of giving in and nuzzling his kidnapper’s shoulder, or trying to throw himself onto the concrete just to escape his own thoughts.
The hold tightened as Quackity started walking towards the doors, nodding in greeting to the guards on either side. Wilbur was about done with this. Nope. He wasn’t doing new things right now. His instincts might be the death of him, and he’d had those all his life.
He screwed his eyes closed against the sparkle and gaudy decorations inside, although he was fairly sure he caught a glimpse of an actual, functioning casino. Now that hadn’t been in his lessons, he’d thought Las Nevadas was just a basic mafia. If they had cover operations too… he should tell his dad about this.
“C’mon birdie, don’t you want to have a look? Maybe draft a report for your father for when you get out of this?”
Quackity was just mocking him, but it was slightly scary how the shrike seemed able to read his thoughts. Still, having it said aloud was exactly what he didn’t need. A reminder that thanks to his own incompetence, he was fucked. Yeah, poetry didn’t do shit for him right now, so he was abandoning it.
He realised a moment too late that he was somehow breathing again, but his stupid fucking instincts had decided to use that air for sleepy purring. Well fabulous. He wasn’t even tired, for fucks sake.
“Awww, tired? We haven’t even seen the good bits yet, but it can wait.” Quackity changed direction, stroking Wilbur’s hair idly and keeping him firmly in his instincts. “I’ve got a room ready for you, birdie. I’ve been planning this for a while, but… you were the unknown. Ah, shit, you’ve still got a tracker, haven’t you?”
Unable to stop himself, he nodded, enjoying getting to rub his head against the shrike’s shoulder briefly. Apparently, if you overwhelmed him enough, you got an extremely sleepy and cooperative magpie out of it. Good to know. Maybe better to know earlier, but any information was useful information.
“Wonderful. Lucky I’ve got a signal blocker in here then, hmm?”
Something about that made Wilbur’s heart tense, and he had the overwhelming urge to start sobbing again, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why anymore.
“Ok, where’s this tracker… you know, I’m going to put you down first, actually. Just a few more seconds, pretty bird, although I have a feeling you’re enjoying this.”
Unfortunately, Quackity was absolutely correct. It was doing wonders both for his panic attack and his bird brain, even if he really didn’t want to dive into why that was.
Actually, fuck it. What the fuck was up with this shrike bitch? Did he smell of something? Or were magpies and shrikes just compatible or something dumb like that?
Wilbur didn’t have too much time to think it over, which was probably for the best, because a minute later he was being dropped unceremoniously into- holy shit he was in a nest.
Immediately, he sat up, and this time he really and truly chirped, mourning the loss of contact, and also just from sheer instinctive bewilderment at the unfamiliar nest. Admittedly, it wasn’t too much, and most of the pillows and blankets seemed piled on a normal bed, but he couldn’t stop the uncomfortable thought of if this was Quackity’s nest.
Thankfully, the crime lord sat next to him, stroking his hair playfully and washing away his worries.
“Don’t freak out, Mr Mafia Prince, this isn’t my room. I’m not too far away though, so don’t go trying anything stupid.”
Suddenly, Quackity stopped touching him at all, and Wilbur looked over, aggrieved for no reason at all. Then he froze, because the shrike had set his gun to the side, just there between them, and was checking his phone, screen angled away.
He could just… take it. His lessons finally broke through the haze. That was an advantage, a slip up from his opponent. He should capitalise on it, take the opportunity to escape on his own, without the fancy guards.
Wilbur grabbed the gun, and levelled it at the crime lord’s head in a moment, his head steady and his finger resting on the trigger.
“Ok. I- I don’t know what you did to me, but- ok. This has been fun. I’m leaving now. Keep your- weird casinos. Don’t move.” His grip tightened as Quackity looked up, slowly, a strange smile in the corner of his mouth. “Congrats, you- really fucked me up. But if there’s one thing I can absolutely do, it’s shoot your fucking brains out.”
“My guards will do the same to you before you get halfway out, even if you don’t get lost.”
The shrike was smirking now, and Wilbur snarled slightly, adjusting his grip.
“Ok. Y- yeah, they will. Shit.” Come on, he’d been fucking trained for this. What was the point in being raised to kill and defend himself if one touchy avian made him too flustered to speak? “Ok, stand up. You’re coming with me. I- I won’t hurt you, I’m just going to get outside. I won’t even tell my father who you were, if you play along. Does- is that understood?”
“Loud and clear, pretty bird.”
Quackity stood smartly, and Wilbur cursed himself from remaining sitting down. Impressively, he managed to disentangle himself from the blankets without taking his eyes or the gun off the crime lord, although his display did earn him a laugh from the shrike.
“Fuck off. You fucking kidnapped me, bastard.”
“Ooh, low blow. I’ll have you know I wasn’t born into this thing at all. No fancy inheritances for me, Mi príncipe.”
The shrike was unsettlingly calm, but Wilbur tried to chalk it up to the same training he had, and kept his gaze cold. There were no worries about his hand shaking. His body knew what to do, but his mind was… a bit out of it at the moment.
“Ok. Walk-“
“You do keep saying ok.” Quackity raised an eyebrow, still smirking like an asshole. “Are you ok?”
“Not thanks to you, shrike bitch. Walk.”
Wilbur prodded him with the gun, towards the door, feeling a sense of petty satisfaction at getting his own back in the gun threats department.
“Relax, gods. Did your father never teach you to loosen up sometimes?” Holding his hands up mockingly, Quackity walked over to the door, opening it and leading the way out. Once they were in the corridor, he glanced over his shoulder, grinning again. “Want a guide? I’ve been told it’s like a maze back here.”
“No. Just walk.”
It was a struggle to keep his composure when he’d come through these corridors just a few seconds ago, in the arms of the crime lord who was now whistling as Wilbur held a gun to the back of his neck.
A ridiculous thought occurred to him. He was so getting grounded.
Quackity tried to keep walking down a hall he definitely hadn’t seen before, and Wilbur grabbed his shoulder to stop him.
“Hey, no. This way.”
“You sure, pretty bird?” His eyes were gleaming as he glanced from Wilbur to the junction, looking like he couldn’t care less which one the elytrian chose. “Don’t want to risk it, just this once?”
“Stop talking.”
As he shoved the shrike down the other corridor, Wilbur had the peculiar sensation of being in someone else’s territory. It was like a prickling on the back of his neck, that feeling when he didn’t know anything about his environment and would really rather he did. He barely left his family’s compound except for with his father, so being on someone else’s turf was something he’d learnt young to avoid.
“Put the gun down, and step away from him.”
Wilbur froze. Shit. The voice had the assurance of someone who had a weapon of their own, and came from behind him, so he couldn’t even tell what. It was just one shit storm after another, this day.
Quackity giggled, the fucker giggled, wings shaking as he raised a hand to cover his mouth.
“Nice to know you’re loyal, Foolish. Do go on.”
“Step. Away.”
Foolish’s voice was unwavering, but Wilbur was getting desperate. Quackity wouldn’t fuck up like this again, he knew, so this was his only shot. And, the longer he delayed, the longer his father had to maybe, just maybe lock onto the tracker still in his wings.
“I’d suggest you step away, Foolish.” He fought fighting to keep a note of self assurance in his voice, and gave a silent thanks Quackity didn’t call him on his bullshit. “I’m holding a gun to your boss’s head, I’d say I have the upper hand here.”
“If you don’t take a nice, big step away in five seconds, I will shoot you.”
Oh, he had a gun. That was nice.
“Somewhere non fatal, please!” Quackity was still incessantly chirpy, in fact, his cheerfulness seemed to be only increasing. “I’d quite like him alive.”
“Sure.”
Foolish didn’t even sound fazed, and Wilbur felt faintly sorry for whatever poor sods had to work for the shrike. At least his father had some composure when it came to business.
“I’ll shoot him first.”
“Five…” Foolish seemed to be calling his bluff. “Four…” And for a second, Wilbur wavered. “Three…” Then shook his head minutely cursing himself. “Two…” Act. Act or die. “One…”
Wilbur pulled the trigger of his gun, but didn’t run. It was like he was frozen to the spot, watching his kidnapper fall to the floor, gasping.
Or he should have. But no, Quackity was doubled over with laughter, and Wilbur was about on the point of tears.
“What the fuck?” His voice nearly broke, and he pulled the trigger again lamely. “What the…”
Suddenly, Quackity stood up, twisted the gun out of his hand and tossed it to the man standing behind them, nothing more than mildly bemused and more than a little done with this shit.
“I’m done here. Q, I’m leaving.”
“Oh, but it’s funny…”
Quackity was still stifling giggles. Foolish sighed, looked over the gun, and looked up at the crime lord.
“You want this back?”
Shrugging, the shrike looked over at Wilbur with a grin. It barely registered.
“Nah. Are you going to be any more trouble, birdie?”
Numbly, Wilbur shook his head. He was done. That was enough excitement for one day. Sure, he’d let himself get kidnapped. He was officially out of energy. Quackity trilled happily, with no shame in leaning into his avian features.
“Anything you need?”
Wilbur looked to Foolish with dead eyes, but the man was either avoiding looking at him or just didn’t care. He tried speaking, quietly.
“To go home?”
If he hadn’t had such an awful time earlier, he’d definitely be having a panic attack right about now. It had been the one part of him that wasn’t perfect as an heir, the constant fear that crept up on him when he got too stressed.
He felt someone touching his cheek softly, and had to fight harder than before not to trill.
“We’re ok. Thanks, Foolish. You’re dismissed.” Quackity’s voice was quieter too, to match him, and Wilbur heard a sigh from next to him.
“Be careful with him, remember? We don’t need to piss off the Angel of Death just yet.”
“Oh, I have plenty of plans on how to piss him off, don’t worry about it.” Quackity laughed briefly, and waved his hand without looking away from Wilbur. “Leave. Let me be irresponsible on my own. The driver’s dead by the way.”
“Of course they are. See you around, Q.”
Footsteps, walking away. A small portion of the buzzing in his mind quietened down now it was just the two of them, but he stayed still. He’d made his efforts. If his father hadn’t come for him yet, it was probably time to accept he was screwed.
“You are smart, birdie. I wasn’t wrong.”
“And you’re a fucking pain in the ass to kill.”
“Hey, I speak the truth.”
He felt a light weight on his shoulders, and a certain shrike avian’s head pressed against his shoulder.
“Oh- ok, why the fuck are you-“
“Feeling better?” Quackity’s voice was muffled from speaking into his shirt.
“Mhm. Got the murderous urge out of my system. But don’t try to interrogate me.”
“Noted. No more panic attack?”
“…no more panic attack.”
Wilbur felt a small smile on his lips as he rested his head on the shrike’s. Then Quackity pulled away, huffed, and adjusted his shirt.
“Good. Don’t go thinking I’m always nice. You get pretty privilege, understood?”
“I feel I should be worried by that, but I kind of feel like death.”
As he sighed, Quackity crossed his arms, glaring at him in what looked unsettlingly close to adoration.
“Poor bird. Suck it up. I’m about to have to touch your wings, so that should make you feel something.”
His head flew up to see the shrike smirking, then grabbing his wrist and starting to drag him once again, back down the corridor.
Quackity walked fast. Luckily, Wilbur was about a head taller than him, with significantly longer legs, so it wasn’t too much of a struggle to keep up.
He should be fighting. He could just rip his hand away and run, throw himself into the maze of shiny passages that would drive him insane before he ever found an exit. Surely it was a strategic move to familiarise himself with his surroundings? Of course, it fucking wasn’t, but he could pretend.
This time, he actually looked around the wing his room was in. His room. Now that was an unpleasant thought. He’d come back to it.
Wilbur frowned slightly as they hurried past what didn’t look like holding cells, but a residential wing. His feet were padding over plush carpet, and the decor shifted to just a little homely. Still gold though. That wasn’t fun for him.
“Hey, stop looking, pretty bird. I’ll give you a tour later, ok?”
Looking at the floor, Wilbur bit his lip, something painful in the way Quackity said it.
“…I’m not staying here.”
“Think of it as gathering information, Mi príncipe.”
Wilbur chuckled weakly as he was pushed lightly back into the room. His instincts didn’t react quite so horrifically to the nest this time, and he could take a brief moment to actually see the writing desk and wardrobe. This didn’t look like a cell.
“Is- where is this?”
“Guest room.”
“Yours?”
“Duh. Sit, birdie.”
Oh. Ok then. Quackity… actually lived here. And this was a guest room? He doubted it, he doubted anyone just had nesting materials in their guest room, but denying the explanation would force him to consider other possibilities, like the crime lord having prepared this whole room very specifically for him. Which he didn’t want to do.
He decided to sit down to further ignore the growing pile of things he’d rather not think about. Quackity sat next to him. He had about a hundred problems right now, and that shrike bitch right there was at least ninety nine of them.
If he had problems, he should find solutions. That was what he was meant to do. But somehow, Quackity nudging him further into the nest and touching his wings seemed a pretty good solution to a lot of them. Stupid bird instincts making him stupid.
“This thing is in your wings, correct?”
“How the fuck do you know that?” Wilbur didn’t bother to deny it.
“You hold them strangely, although that might be you, and I can’t imagine a better place to hide a last ditch tracker.” Quackity’s fingers danced down his neck, to the base of his wings, and giggled. “More fool the Angel, I get to touch your wings now.”
That had always been the disadvantage of using his wings as a hiding place. It made people all the more likely to touch them, and if that happened Wilbur would either freeze in fear and go fucking instinctive, depending on the context.
As Quackity began to sift through his feathers, he was delighted to discover it was the latter.
This was preening. It hit him a moment later than it should have, because he was kind of out of it at the moment. But as Quackity started to run his claws through his feathers, scratching in all the right places, Wilbur had the uncomfortable feeling he’d been tricked.
“Oh… pretty wings… I can’t believe it took me this long to steal you, birdie.”
“Y- you what?”
“Haven’t you worked it out? Come on, you’re a smart magpie. You can’t really still think this is for ransom.”
With Quackity’s claws buried in his wings, and nesting materials all across his lap, Wilbur had to admit this didn’t feel quite right…
Wait.
“Are you trying to court me?” Wilbur squawked, trying to wrench away from the shrike’s touches, but Quackity moved faster, grabbing his shoulders and rubbing the base of his wings. The magpie gasped, going limp despite his sudden fear.
“There it is. Clever birdie. Shhh, just relax, I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll never hurt you, Mi príncipe.”
That wasn’t right. But it was hard to tell right from wrong, just what felt good and what made his instincts sing and trill. Quackity found the small tracker buried in his feathers, hummed, and tossed it to the side derisively.
“Your father’s a smart guy. Not smart enough to keep you safe though. Oh, he’ll be so pissed when he sees you with me…”
As the shrike nuzzled at the back of his neck, Wilbur tried to cling on to every reason he should be angry, every reason it was wrong for Quackity to court him without reciprocation. But because his instincts were idiots, they decided the best was to fix that particular problem was to court the other avian right back. Which he was not having.
Absolutely powerless to stop it, he heard himself chirp, and wingtips twitch slightly, as if he was asking Quackity to carry on. Everything felt like he was moving through honey every time he tried to get away from the shrike, and it was so much easier to just sit in his lap, safe and happy and warm.
“See? Not so bad.”
And he hated himself, because it wasn’t.