Chapter Text
Quackity’s life had been a living hell since Wilbur decided to come back. Some stores were getting robbed at night, very often for alcohol or cigarettes, lots of people reported sights of him in Las Nevadas, and he, multiple times, got threatening letter from Wilbur.
That man had brought hell back with him and decided to unleash it on him.
Even tho no parts of Las Nevadas had explosed, yet, he couldn’t help but being tensed up everyday. Wilbur himself would visit him sometimes , often. Too often. Always with snarky comments about anything, like his height, his ability to rule his nation, his new scar, his wings.
Actually, for the two lasts, it was more flirting than mean comments. That was the worst. The man had the audacity to come in his office, where he wasn’t allowed, insult him, and then call him pretty ? That was sick.
The more the days passed the more Quackity knew he was anythinh but mentally stable. Wilbur always knew which buttons to push to piss him off. And the weirdest part was that his twisted mind seemed to enjoy bothering him, seeing how he would always come back, even after he had been dragged around, pushed, even punched, once.
Quackity wasn’t sure if he should have been proud of that moment or not. Wilbur totally deserved it, but resorting to violence did bring back some nasty memories. Even if Wilbur didn’t seem bothered at all, when he just received a breath-cutting jab to his stomach, he still couldn’t help but feel guitly. He had talked about this issue once, with Slime, who told him that if he kept coming back, then he was definetly enjoying it, and trying to push Quackity to do all of theses to him.
After that Quackity decided that if he started ignoring the man, he would leave him alone. So for his next encounters, he did just that, internally enjoying Wilbur’s annoyed face when he didn’t get what he wanted.
The last time he had seen Wilbur, he almost gave in. The man kept trying to push every single one of his buttons to try and get something out of him. But he fought back his urges and instead focused on if he wanted the beds in the Spike’s suite to be white, red or black.
Wilbur left, he was sure, devastated.
Since then, he hasn’t heard about him. Finally getting the peace he deserved. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if Wilbur had left, or if he was just planning to do something bigger. The latter wouldn’t surprise him at all, but since any of the brunette’s previous treaths had never become real, he guessed it probably wasn’t something to worry about, right?
It was late at night, Quackity had finished his work and decided to indulge himself in some drinks at one of his bars. He was slightly drunk when he got out and had the wonderful idea to take a stroll near the border of Las Nevadas.
That’s when he saw him.
Wilbur.
He was sitting on the floor, his arms around his knees and his head resting in the middle. Quackity found that concerning. It had been a while since he saw Wilbur in a position of weakness like that, and to him it sounded very wrong. So without thinking much, he walked to the guy and crouched in front of him, trying to keep his balance while he was more than tipsy.
"Wilbur ? What are you doing there ?" He said in a neutral voice. Not wanting to startle the man in front of him, but not wanting to show any form of kindness either. When Wilbur didn’t answer, he tried again. "Wilbur ? It’s me, Quackity ? Prime, can you even hear me ?"
The other slightly lifted his head at his words, and that’s when Quackity noticed he seemed to be crying. And by his smell, he might be as drunk as him.
Or maybe worse.
Probably worse.
"Q..Quackity ? wha’ are yud oing here ?" Wilbur whispered, his words slurring because of the alcohol.
"Well, I was walking around and saw you there, alone. And you’ve been crying. Are you alright ?" He asked again.
"I can’t be alright Q." Wilbur whispered, in some strange tone of secret confidence. "I am dead. Empty. Lifeless." And he started crying again.
Quackity was stunned. And lost. What did Wilbur mean ? He wasn’t dead ? He was right here ? So he akwardly pat Wilbur’s shoulder while the other was crying, still mumbling things Quackity could barely understand, probably about being dead.
And then came his not so bright idea. He wasn’t going to let Wilbur in that state alone right ? Okay that guy had been a total dickhead. Even worse. But it did look like he had some serious unresolved problems. So once Wilbur had calmed down, he helped him get up and supported half his weight to walk to his penthouse.
He knew he was getting himself in more troubles, but that would be an issue for sober Quackity.