Archive of Our Own

Experiencing devastating moments of trauma had become normalized during the war. From the obliteration of an entire country within the span of a couple hours, to ancient beings playing human for decades praying for just a taste of what it feels to be mortal.

But, this?

This really takes the fucking cake.

As he looms over the lifeless body below him, staring with a numbed shock, he can’t help but feel that this was some sick prank cursed upon him by the universe. What had he done to deserve standing in a torrential downpour, droplets of rain falling from thick eyelashes like tears? If he were being honest with himself, he probably did deserve this.

However, in this moment Quackity realizes that honesty is for those far braver than himself.

He barely restrains from flinching as a loud clap of thunder rumbles through the valley, the ground beneath him trembling at the force, echoes of war cannons ringing in his ears. He spares a quick glance upwards before wincing in discomfort as his eyes are exposed directly to the rain, attempting to wipe the droplets away to ease the stinging. It doesn’t do much good.

Even as his mind buzzes curiously, questions piling up, he can’t find it in himself to dredge one emotion besides mild annoyance. Just like the bastard below him to make a dramatic entrance, even when he’s not alive. He’s been dead long enough for the years to pass by without him, so why is his body here? Why does the blood matted to his untamed curls, soaked into his clothes, running off into the ground below... Look no more than a day old?

Dread begins eating its way up Quackity’s throat, forming a lump that he can’t quite swallow past. Curling up in his stomach with a sickening rumble, the feeling urges him to run as far from the body as his legs can take him. To physically exert this anxious humming that begins to flutter behind his ribcage.

Another body. Death was anything but uncommon in this world, but something about this situation was bizarre enough to make Quackity scratch at his wrist in discomfort.

He groans, pressing the bottom of his palms to his eyes with enough force to guarantee a migraine later, the painful pressure giving him something to focus on other than the bile begging to be emptied from his stomach.

He’d never hated Wilbur Soot more than in this moment.

Once he’s stood in the rain long enough to start shivering, his clothes having been soaked through by the frigid drops hours ago, he forces his spine to pull his back straight. He studies the body below him, focusing on concentrated breathing like Puffy had recommended. A bit more steady, he scans for any signs of life.

Wilbur’s body is lying on its stomach in a muddy trench beside one of the long abandoned roads a few hours out from the ruins of L’Manberg. Fitting, really. Quackity couldn’t see his face as it was shoved into the ground from where he stood on the road, but his back was still. He couldn’t spot one twitch, one rise or fall of breath. He didn’t know if he was searching because he didn’t want to see a sign of life, or because he so desperately did.

Finally, with a slightly crazed thought of fuck it, he lifts his foot and slams a kick into the ribcage of the body. The force of his boot sinks into the body, causing it to shift across the mud further into the ditch. Quackity swallows, holding a desperate fist to his mouth, the urge to puke even stronger than before. Another clap of thunder. This time, they both flinch.

Before Quackity can register the movement, a loud groan of pain escapes from the body below him. Wilbur’s body begins to move, curling just a few inches into himself, as if feebly trying to protect what he could of his bruised flesh.

There was nothing Quackity could do to stop himself from hurling his meager lunch into the ditch not two feet away from Wilbur. The dead man was lucky Quackity hadn't decided to puke on his body instead.

After he finishes emptying the contents of his stomach, clutching his knees in a white-knuckled grip, his gaze quickly flicks over to Wilbur, the dread increasing tenfold.

The man - decidedly not a lifeless body - lies motionless once more, although rolled mostly onto his right side. He was now facing the direction of the road and Quackity mustered what little courage he had to stumble back over in front of Wilbur, collapsing on his knees. The mud under him immediately soaks into his most expensive slacks, squelching from his weight, but he can’t find it in him to care.

Reaching his hand out to touch Wilbur’s side, he pauses. Outstretched fingers hovering just a couple inches above the ribs he kicked, perhaps a little too vehemently now that he thinks about it, his mind freezes. He’d gone so long without seeing Wilbur, hearing from him, much less touching him. That had been his third life. He was dead.

Instinctively, he knew the decision he was about to make would inevitably change the course of his life, entangling the threads of their fate together irreversibly.

There was no going back after this.

Quackity presses his shaking hand to Wilbur’s throat, two fingers searching for a pulse, before letting out a choked groan as he feels the faintest thrum of life under the calloused pads of his fingertips. Smoothing his hand over the rest of Wilbur’s neck, he holds as much as he can, the curls of matted hair tickling the back of his fingers.

He swallows. “Wilbur,” was a harsh whisper. The mantra begins to play in his head on sickly repeat, Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur, Wilbur-

A wheeze as Wilbur’s eyelids squint shut against the pain of consciousness. Quackity’s eyes are drawn to the rain pattering against the man’s face, droplets striking his dirtied cheek and sliding their way down to the edge of his nose, falling with a soundless splatter onto the ground below. A single eye cracks open, the dark bruising surrounding it making his sable irises seem darker than ever.

Even so close to death, Quackity is frozen in place by the intensity in Wilbur’s gaze as he stares up at him. He sees Wilbur swallow, flinch, before he rasps out a quiet sentence that Quackity is unable to make out in the noise surrounding them.

He shakes his head, eyebrows knitting down in stressed concern, wrinkles appearing on his forehead. Wilbur nods his chin down only by a millimeter, imperceptible if Quackity hadn’t already been enraptured in watching every sliver of movement. He understood and bent down further, bracing the hand previously on Wilbur’s neck into the hill of the trench behind him, the other hand on his own knee.

Once he’s close enough to see the dirt lining every wrinkle, the cuts across his smooth skin, he focuses on the land behind Wilbur, unable to bear looking at him from this close. Wilbur’s breath brushes across his cheek and he barely keeps from flinching, “That fucking hurt, asshole.” Quackity pauses in surprise, expecting a pitiful plea or slurred groan of pain, and bursts out with a disbelieving laugh. The humor dies quickly, meeting Wilbur’s eyes again.

Wilbur only stares at him, both eyes now laser focused on the man in front of him, the ghost of a grin gracing his face. However broken his body may be, as choked-out as the sentence was, Quackity knew the dread making his heart race from Wilbur’s wounds would not be lessened by Wilbur’s methods of coping via humor. The look of serene calm did nothing to hide the downturn in Quackity’s lips.

He coughs another half laugh, jerkily nodding once, clearing his throat, “Yeah, uh. Sorry, I- We… We all thought you were dead.” They both know he’s not just referring to Wilbur’s lifeless form just minutes earlier.

A hum, or a growl, escapes Wilbur’s throat. He closes his eyes and Quackity can see how much this is exhausting him, tension building up in his shoulders then releasing from the effort, before tensing again. “Yeah. Me too, Big Q,” it’s scratchy and painfully wrought out and Quackity does not flinch when he hears the old nickname.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s, uh, let’s get you back to… You know what, nevermind, let’s just go.” He trips and stumbles over his words, which isn’t uncommon as he speaks faster than he thinks, but his hands are shaking from something other than the cold and he hasn’t had enough sleep in the past year to handle this delicately. Or at all.

Despite that, he leans down again and wraps his arms under the man, ignoring the half scoff he receives for his bumbling words. He doesn’t, however, so easily ignore the loud whine of pain Wilbur releases as he begins to lift. Quackity pauses, chest twisting in physical discomfort at the noise. “C’mon, just, we’ve gotta get you up. Yeah, there we go, you’re doing great man.”

He continues to ramble as he lifts, unsure if it’s more for Wilbur’s sake or his own. He manages to secure one arm under the man's shoulders, one under his knees. With a grunt of effort, he pushes himself up and onto his feet, swaying slightly under the dead weight he’s clutching with barely concealed desperation.

Adjusting his grip slightly, Quackity softly hushes Wilbur as he bites down on a groan while shaking in his arms. Wilbur is thinner than he’d ever been, the knots of his spine pressing into Quackity’s arm. He makes a mental note to have extra groceries delivered each week, before realizing he should not already be planning to host the very recently no-longer-dead man in his arms.

Wilbur coughs violently, form rattling in the arms keeping him from falling limp to the ground again. Quackity doesn’t panic at the sight of the blood spitting from Wilbur’s mouth, staining the pristine white of his collared shirt. He doesn’t panic at the thought of the worst case scenario, that Wilbur might die again, with Quackity helpless to do anything but stare in horror yet again.

Wilbur drifts into staring up at Quackity again, once he can breathe with harsh pants rather than wracking coughs. He seems hesitant, mouth hanging open by the slightest bit. His eyes dart away when they make eye contact, Wilbur clearing his throat with a pained grimace.

“You don’t have to do this, Big Q. Not after… Well, everything.” No more than a rasp, pauses between for breaks.

Quackity looks out and takes one deep breath, imagining he can feel the cold wind rushing into his lungs as they expand to accommodate, before releasing slowly. He lets his fear and increasing worry leave with the breath, resolve hardening with the conflicting emotions flitting around his heart. He’s been working on compartmentalizing his feelings and right now would be the best time to put that new skill to use.

Once he’s safely shackled his heart behind bars, he glances down at Wilbur again with a quirk of a smile. The man is still looking away, a forced expression of tranquil acceptance at his own offer, although Quackity can easily see the way his throat works in hidden distress. He sighs, ignoring the hint of irritation behind it that he can't quite stop, “Just shut up already or I might throw you into the mud myself.”

He doesn’t miss the millisecond glance of shock Wilbur sends him, before it settles into an unreadable look.

He pointedly clears his throat, Wilbur seeming to be thrown out of his revelation from it, quickly masking his face back into what's supposed to be a smirk, but only reads as a grimace. The caked blood and dark bruises lessens its irritating effect.

Quackity can already feel his arms straining from the weight of carrying Wilbur, even though he’s vastly lighter than he should be. He racks his mind for what to do, where to go. He’d been planning on searching nearby, his shovel now lying forgotten on the ground beside them, before he stumbled upon Wilbur.

It’ll take hours to get to civilization again, the closest population being the ruins of L’Manberg. He had a sneaking suspicion that wouldn’t quite be the best direction to take. There was also Wilbur’s injuries to think about, how long could he last without medical aid? Quackity didn’t search for the extent of his wounds, but safely assumed he was just a few hours shy of death. Again.

He narrows his eyes unconsciously as he questions, where the hell did Wilbur’s injuries come from? Bruises and cuts of this magnitude and precision wouldn’t be caused by mobs, which would have torn the body apart via more primal means. Then, who had caused this? Would they be coming back?

Quackity doubted it. If he’d been lying there this long, he’d likely been left to die from blood loss. They should be safe from any human assailants. At least, he hoped.

Mobs were a different story. He wouldn’t very well be able to fight off any attacks with a lanky and half dead man in his arms. They needed to move quickly. His previous plans could wait.

As he runs through various options within the safety of his mind, he whistles for his horse that he’d left grazing in a field nearby. Wilbur spares him a curious glance, looking at their surroundings dubiously. A distant thunder of hooves begins to approach and he can’t help the swell of pride. He’d spent far too much money to have her professionally trained for her not to listen to his commands. Animals could be coerced into a fierce loyalty that was not as guaranteed when training people.

He starts walking towards his approaching steed, affectionately named Blackjack, feeling smug when Wilbur’s doubt shifts to blatant surprise. “That’s impressive.” Wilbur muttered, sounding almost jealous.

“Well, not everyone is shit with animals like you, Wilbur.” Quackity decidedly does not mention the fact that he did not train her himself.

If Quackity were alone, he’d be able to ride back to Las Nevadas in half a day. However, with the unexpected addition, it would undoubtedly take until the next morning, assuming they didn’t take breaks. He heaves a deep breath, unsure of how to proceed forward.

They were both shaking, whether from the cold slide of raindrops, or jolting pain, or immense alarm at the increasingly stressful situation, there was no difference. They were both at their limit, unable to do much more than keep pushing forward.

He shifts Wilbur in his arms slightly, murmuring a half apology at the whimper of pain. He didn’t want to imagine how much agony Wilbur must be in, from both his injuries and each jostle of Quackity’s steps on the uneven path.

“This is probably going to hurt like a bitch, but I need to get you on Blackjack.” Regret laced his words, not looking forward to Wilbur’s bemoaning.

To Quackity’s surprise, the other just silently nodded with a slight upward quirk to his lips. “Blackjack, huh?” Amusement danced in his eyes, which had an odd look to them that Quackity couldn’t quite place.

He glances away from the others' gaze, rolling his eyes and ignoring the comment. He tugs on Blackjack’s saddle with his free hand, checking that the straps were still secure as he’d left them. Satisfied with what he finds, he begins the arduous process of attempting to get Wilbur into the saddle.

The process is humiliating for both of them, the only silver lining being that Blackjack was rather small compared to other horses local to the region, a feature Quackity had specified he required with his preferred breeder.

Nonetheless Quackity does his best to get Wilbur on Blackjack with as little pain as possible, albeit at an agonizingly slow pace. Hands gripping his waist, then the underside of thighs and lifting. The only sound shared between the two being the heavy breathing from the laborious movements and a few half whines of pain. Hands tightening in sudden agony, both freezing in their movements, fingers clutching in despair. Swallowing the hundreds of apologies in his throat at Wilbur’s quick glare, he keeps his mouth shut, knowing logically it wasn’t his fault for their current predicament, yet unable to stop from scratching at the feeling of guilt building within his chest.

After some time, with a final shift into place, Wilbur is able to lift his leg over Blackjack and collapse into the black leather saddle. His fingers clench the horn hard enough to turn a pale white, still shaking despite the rough grip.

Quackity swallows, chest heaving from exertion and staring at Wilbur’s slumped form with a trepidation that he eases by scratching at the inside of his arm. An uneasy feeling descends upon them, mild amusement long gone with the wind of the storm.

Shaking his hair out, water droplets flying around him, he wipes his eyes and grabs Blackjack’s lead. He gives her a quick pat on the cheek, a silent thank you. She stares back at him, ears flicking with an aggrieved chuff.

She was about as fond of strangers as he was.

“Try not to bite him, okay?” He muttered with a final scratch before tugging on her lead and going back down the path he came, itching to get somewhere warm and dry.

The exertion of walking Blackjack with Wilbur through the endless torrents of rain and wind started to catch up to Quackity after an hour or so. Thankfully, there had been no attacks from wayward mobs, seemingly smart enough to hide out from the storm. Quackity wished he had shared their intellect.

Knowing that night would be falling within a couple hours and that Wilbur would be lucky to last that long, he clears his throat and speaks up. “We’re going to take a quick break, okay?”

Wilbur had been resting in the saddle, not quite asleep, but coming in and out of consciousness as his head bounced with each step Blackjack took. He hums slightly, not opening his eyes. “You couldn’t have been smart enough to have a wagon, could you?” He mutters it out in a way that makes Quackity want to bark back a rebuttal, quick to raise defense at the condescension in his tone. He’d always had a skill for riling Quackity with little to no effort.

“Fuck you. I should’ve left your ungrateful ass in the ditch.” He snaps, patience running even thinner than usual, whether due to the stress or Wilbur’s general presence. He has a feeling his impatience is caused by the latter.

A half snort of breath in humor, “Yeah, you should’ve. I’m surprised you didn’t.” Before Quackity could sputter in indignation, Wilbur opens his eyes and glances around, contemplative. “Where exactly are we?” He sounds dreadful, words barely more than a whisper with cracks from his torn throat between.

Quackity takes a deep breath and brushes past the insult, “I think about two hours West of,” he takes a breath before continuing, “L’manberg.” He braces for a reaction, hoping the mention of L’Manberg doesn’t make Wilbur lash out as he expects.

Instead, Wilbur merely nods once decisively, showing no signs of distress at the mention of his once-great nation.

Odd, Quackity thinks to himself, although maybe it was the pain causing the lack of reaction. For an unexplainable reason, he doubts it. Wilbur had never been one to be easily distracted by physical pain. Thinking of his habitual masochism brings a rush of blood to his cheeks, feeling sheepish towards the memories from a time long in the past, then pushes it far from his mind. Better not to think of that. Although an insidious part of his mind whispers with speculation, if Wilbur had any memory of times when they had been more than intimate, if he indulged in those echoes as Quackity found himself doing in his loneliest moments.

Not noticing, or perhaps uncaring of Quackity’s internal struggle, Wilbur speaks up, “Then where are we going?” Quackity pauses from pulling out a carved flask from the internal pockets of his coat.

“Las Nevadas, eventually. Somewhere safe, for tonight.” He doesn’t give much more explanation, taking a swig from the flask before grimacing. He’d never favored vodka, had only packed it for his plans. Figuring he no longer needed it, he glances up to offer the rest to Wilbur, flinching at the intense look he receives.

There’s a silent pause, Wilbur seeming to search Quackity’s face with a burning curiosity similar to the days of Pogtopia, as if he could read people the same as a particularly revealing book. There’s a heavy moment before Wilbur looks away, swallowing. Quackity distantly wonders what he’d found.

“Project Nevadas…” Wilbur says into the air, refusing to look back. Quackity freezes, hand still halfway raised to offer the flask, staring absently at the man above him. Blackjack stomps a hoof, eager to be moving again.

It snaps him from his thoughts, coughing slightly. “Uh. Yeah. You-you got that? I left it for you, well, really, more for myself, a long time ago.” The surprise makes his words trip over themselves. How long has Wilbur been back? If he’d read his note, he must’ve seen L’Manberg. Quackity suddenly feels a distinct sense of vertigo, the realization that Wilbur is sitting next to him finally sinking in.

“How long ago was that?” Wilbur asked, finally meeting Quackity’s gaze again. He asks as if he’s bracing for the answer, shoulders drawn in.

Quackity pauses, eyebrows knitting as he considers being honest to what Wilbur is really asking, “It’s been about two and half years since you. Y’know.” A deep frown settles on Wilbur’s face at this, eyes darkening in a way that makes Quackity suddenly grateful Wilbur is too injured to inflict damage. He scoffs, closing his eyes and resting his head in his hands, suddenly worn in a way that doesn’t have to do with his physical trauma.

His words are muffled through his palms, “That’s not at all how long I spent there, Big Q.” Conversation quickly stilled, the silence pulled taunt.

Mildly irritated by the lack of context, he huffs and attempts to keep his annoyance from showing, “How long… Where is there?” He starts, realizing quickly there were more questions brought up from Wilbur’s lackluster statement.

Wilbur takes a rattling breath, voice thin, “Thirteen years.”

Quackity mulls over the information now placed in front of him, making quick calculations in his head.

With a start, he realizes if what Wilbur said is true, one day in the overworld would actually be a month wherever the hell he was at. He muses if perhaps Wilbur had been stuck in the nether, but dismisses the thought. There was only a seven day difference between the overworld and the nether, similar to the seven feet difference.

Given the sudden tension, he assumes it best not to question Wilbur about it for now. Wilbur, being alive again, and from some other dimension, is priceless information Quackity desperately wants to grab and hide away. He could wait for a later time to interrogate him, if there was one. Patience is a virtue he’d been honing well in the two and a half years since Wilbur died.

The thought strikes Quackity with a revelation. He pulls out his communicator with the hand not leading Blackjack along the path, quickly typing out a message to Sam. Emergency. Grab a cart and meet us at-. He pauses, realizing he’s not entirely sure of where they’re headed. Wilbur, looking closer to death’s door with each passing moment, won’t make it to L’Manberg. They needed a place to rest outside of the storm before Wilbur bled out and Quackity is forced to watch him die for a second time.

He quickly pulls away from that thought, focusing on what he could remember of the area. The only settlement that he can remember is one that’s long been abandoned, in the depths of a forgotten ravine. Quackity pauses in the road, trepidation filling him at the thought of returning to Pogtopia. Yet, he knows with a clear certainty that it’s the only option available to them.

Quackity turns to face Wilbur, who’s already watching him with distant eyes. He sways slightly in the saddle, still gripping the leather horn to keep himself upright. Bracing himself, Quackity’s gaze hardens and he speaks with an authority that leaves no room for argument, “We’re going to Pogtopia for tonight. In the morning, an associate of mine will arrive to take us to Las Nevadas. You will not speak to them or anyone else we see, got it?”

Despite the pain and exhaustion clouding his gaze, Quackity can still spot the hard lines that appear in the corners of Wilbur’s eyes. They have a brief and silent battle of wills, nothing spoken aloud but trust stretched thin regardless. Eventually, Wilbur relents with a quick nod and glances away with a muted, “Okay.” With that being the best he could hope for from Wilbur, Quackity lets out an imperceptible sigh of relief.

Keeping Wilbur a secret was not going to be easy, but Quackity was willing to fight tooth and nail to ensure it was done. If word got out that someone, Wilbur especially, had been brought back from the dead? No. It was far safer to keep him stowed away until he could assess the political pitfalls of this new development. And the political advantages, a familiar voice whispered in the recess of his mind with a thrilled reverence.

There would be time for those musings later. For now, Quackity focuses himself on recalling the path to a dark ravine full of memories he’d rather not relive in this lifetime or the next.

He finishes the message he’d originally begun, Emergency. Meet us at Pogtopia. Bring a med kit and wagon. He quickly sends another message after a brief moment of contemplation. And the bottle of gin we were saving.

He watches in trepidation for a moment as the message attempts to send, and he prays to whatever he can that the storm won’t be enough to knock the connection out completely, before letting out a breath of relief as the messages go through. Finally having a plan in place anchors him and gives him something, anything, to think about other than the warring emotions making a battlefield of his diaphragm.

Time passes slowly, his steps becoming clumsy as he stumbles through the mud. Perhaps he shouldn’t put this much effort, this much care, into Wilbur, but he feels helpless even thinking of doing otherwise. As ruthless as he’d become, even for him it would be difficult to look at anyone he once knew and leave them behind to rot in the storm.

After some time, a small voice speaks up from the saddle, “Almost there. You’ll have to go around that hill, the left side, then past the oak trees. The ravine is right nearby. Surely you remember that much?” The inflection is passive aggressive, lilting in a demeaning way to possibly insult his intelligence. Quackity knows better.

Wilbur has always played games like this. Quackity used to fall for it, be baited into giving a reaction that made Wilbur purr like the cat who got the cream, or bark a laugh of victory. He didn’t enjoy games, back then. There was too much to worry about, between being Vice President to someone he loved as much as he hated and working with Pogtopia against L’Manberg.

However, that was a very, very long time ago.

Besides, how could one expect Quackity to have such a successful and resplendent country if he hadn’t played a few games of his own?

He lightly laughed with a practiced nonchalance, “Well, Wilbur. It has been a while. Besides, there are bigger things to worry about remembering nowadays.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

Wilbur’s head jerked slightly, attention regained and narrowed, “Like what? Being some meek Vice President again to an abusive alcoholic?” The words are sharp, lashing out in retaliation and honed finer than any blade on the server.

Quackity had thick enough skin to pretend the words didn’t cut.

He’d forgotten just how much he’d shared with Wilbur during their time in Pogtopia. Both of them were in very dark places in life, coping with what felt like the beginning of the end with drugs, booze, each other, anything they could get their hands on to escape for a few moments.

Quackity mulls on what other information he’d shared with Wilbur that would eventually be used in an attempt to manipulate or torment him now that Wilbur is back, alive and seemingly ready to cause trouble at the first notion that he may not get exactly what he wants.

A reaction. Any form of attention, eyes on him, watching his every move. Whether he received a standing ovation or the press of a blade against his throat, he seemed to thrive under it. To need it more than the dark blood dripping from his wounds.

Quackity isn't surprised that his cry for recognition seems to be even worse after his time buried six feet under. He muses that anyone would probably want a little attention after that.

Maybe a bit of a reaction was fine. He tried to convince himself that giving Wilbur the reaction that he wanted was in Quackity’s benefit, that it would help him convince Wilbur he hadn’t changed so he would underestimate him.

He realizes very suddenly that it’s far harder to lie to yourself than it is to others.

“Fuck off, Wilbur. I don’t give a shit about being Vice President of anything or anyone, that’s quite honestly nothing compared to what I have now.” He snarks, letting his irritation show, against his better judgment.

There was a pause, which Quackity assumes is Wilbur deciding how best to dig the knife deeper. Instead, Wilbur does the last thing Quackity had ever expected from him, had never even considered a possibility since his return to the living.

He apologizes.

A frustrated sigh, “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have used that against you, that was wrong of me. I’m sorry, Quackity. I really am. I-,” he’s cut off by a coughing fit, something dark staining his quivering hand. He continues on shakily, “That was wrong of me, you’re quite literally saving my life and I fucked up. That’s on me.” He doesn’t look at Quackity, too focused on breathing without coughing more blood.

Quackity still had some integrity. Just enough to admit that, despite all odds, Wilbur Soot managed to surprise him.

He pauses, thrown off-guard and suddenly far out of his element. A Wilbur who apologizes is not a Wilbur he’s ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Deciding on the spot that a diplomatic approach would be best, he speaks deliberately, attempting to rectify the situation, “Hey, yeah, thanks man. I, uh, appreciate that. Let’s just move past it, yeah?” He nods to himself, keeping his gaze focused ahead instead of on the lit fuse nervously pattering on behind him.

Wilbur growls in annoyance, “No, I apologize. I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll prove to you I won’t again in the future. I’ve changed, believe it or not, Big Q. It’s been so long, how could I not?” Despite his injuries, he seems desperate, and Quackity doesn’t know what to make of this. Wilbur pauses, seeming to process his own words for a moment.

The moment of silence is a nice respite. Quackity briefly considers if throwing Wilbur back to the ditch is still an option when he’s interrupted by the man in question.

“So, you’ve… Moved on?” There's a double meaning to the question that Quackity chooses to ignore, “You said you’ve got a better position now, like, what, presidency?” He speaks with a half laugh, as if the idea itself was so incredulous it’d be humorous to even ponder the thought.

“Yeah.” Another moment of blissful silence, the rain having stopped for the moment, only the darkening sky and distant rumble of thunder interrupting. “Yeah, I am, actually. I have my own country now, Wilbur. Just something I’ve been working on for the past year or so. We actually just opened the casino to the public and oh man. You’d shit your pants if you saw the traffic we got the first night, I mean-,” he cut himself off, noticing Wilbur silently listening with rapt attention.

Giving away so much information was a little more than dangerous, especially to someone prone to jealousy with an affinity for explosions. Even if it did feel nice to speak to someone who knew what he had been through, how hard he had to work in order to build what he has.

“Go on.” Quackity spares a glance for the soft spoken words, barely able to meet Wilbur’s eyes in his peripheral vision. He clears his throat, adjusting his grip on Blackjack’s reins.

With a half-laugh, he shrugs the notion off, “Nah, man. I’m good, just. It’s been a lot, you know?”

“Oh, don’t I.” Wilbur doesn’t pose it as a question, but as a statement of past lives experienced. If anyone could understand the blinding exhilaration of carving a country with your bare hands, it would be Wilbur Soot. Although distant, both from past memories and exertion, he mutters, “Just up there, you’re nearly at the entrance.”

Relief at the prospect of rest was a welcome feeling, even if it did little to calm his frayed nerves. He carefully keeps his eyes forward, not wanting to see the state of decay the surrounding buildings were in.

“Yeah,” he says with a shaky breath, taking in the entrance that looks out of place in the dark storm, carved into the rocky hillside. He brings Blackjack up to it, pausing by the old wooden door, “I remember.” He lets go of the reins in order to trail a hand down the wood, rotting near the broken windows, smelling of mildew and neglect. The handle groans at the effort of a downward swing, but grants access inside.

Rather than stepping inside to escape the rain, he cranes his head back to look up to Wilbur, who’s already looking down at him. Quackity can’t read his expression, covered in shadow by the lightless storm, unruly hair dripping down his face. There’s something here, some feeling that gives Quackity pause, but he stubbornly pushes through it and puts his hands on his hips with a smirk.

“Guess it’s time to finally come down from your high horse, huh?” Quackity can just barely make out the huff that leaves Wilbur, seeing it leave his shoulders moreso than hearing it over the pounding rain. “Alright, come on then, let’s get inside.”

With that, they begin the careful dismount, Wilbur trading the back of Blackjack for Quackity’s own. It’s a painful process for him, shaking and swallowing groans with each movement. Quackity carefully does not think about the patch of blood in the side of his white shirt that’s doubled in size since they began their journey here, only helps pull Wilbur down and gets him situated on his back.

Wilbur tightens his grip around Quackity’s neck, discomfort radiating from him in waves, almost palpable in the energy of the surrounding storm. He’s always been far more expressive with his body language than his words, which was saying quite a bit.

Swinging the door open, there was little time for a dramatic pause to take in the space. Quackity’s increasing panic over the severity of Wilbur’s wounds is a more pressing matter, not to mention the need for rest overwhelming now that the rush of adrenaline was wearing thin. He stumbles inside, Wilbur tensing around him, before shifting to crouch beside the collapsed bed frame to their right.

“Alrighty, off you go.” With a deep intake of breath, Quackity starts to lower them both as slowly as he can, knees threatening to buckle from the effort. Thankfully, building an entire nation from the ground up had left him with far more strength in his lithe muscles than he’d ever thought possible. Once his kneecaps finally hit the ground, the rest of his body falls back onto his heels, sagging in exhaustion. He grunts, slowly sliding Wilbur from his back and into a sitting position, attempting to prop him against the broken wooden frames. They creak dangerously, but are a steady enough support as Wilbur lets his back lean against the beams. He tilts his head, eyes clenched in pain, fists holding his stomach.

A loud swallow in the still air of a place long forgotten, adam’s apple bobbing. Quackity suddenly feels extremely overwhelmed, unsure of how to proceed now that they’ve made it to their destination. He had little to no experience with medical aid outside of his own minor injuries. Certainly nothing to this extent.

The sting of copper on his tongue breaks him from his reverie, swallowing around the taste and wincing at the thought of the bruise he would surely feel later. With shaky hands, he pulls a rubber band from his pants pocket, tying his soaked hair up into a rough bun. He could feel strands of his bangs falling around his face, quickly tucking the longer pieces behind his ears.

He could do this. Why he would choose to? Not quite sure on that one, yet.

Another small puff of air escapes Wilbur’s twisted lips, breathing shallow and fast in the blinding wake of his pain. A gentle touch to Wilbur’s arm does nothing to stir him, so Quackity takes the silence as consent to start doing what he could.

He starts with shedding Wilbur of his torn trench coat, reeking of something foul that Quackity would rather not name. Trying to pull it off of Wilbur results in a series of curses and pained groans, so he gives up rather quickly.

“Shit, Wilbur. I’m gonna have to cut this thing off… Is that okay?” The irony of the semblance was not lost on him.

Wilbur just nods, face flushed. Quackity presses the back of his hand to his forehead, recoiling at the burning heat he could feel radiating from his skin, despite the moisture still clinging to his sunken face.

Running thin on time and energy, he pulls a switchblade from his boot, flipping the blade out and quickly cutting through the trench coat. He tries not to think of the last time he’d seen this exact coat, from so, so far away.

The arms were easiest, quickly falling away to show a torn white poet’s shirt, blood diluted with rain dripping from the wrists resting on Wilbur’s thighs.

The torso proved more difficult, having to physically shift Wilbur - who protested rather pitifully - in order to rip the seams in the back and shimmy the thick fabric off.

Too quickly, the coat was gone, shreds of a life once lived discarded in a pile on a filthy cobblestone floor.

Wilbur’s shirt left little to the imagination, clinging to his body like a second skin. There were too many angry cuts, slowly blossoming bruises, knots of bone and sharp ribs from malnutrition. Too much, too little he could do.

The feeling was familiar, as with all things that involved Wilbur.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” He hears Wilbur grind out, and he glances up, not expecting to hear the grating voice. Wilbur is staring at him through half-lidded eyes, chest rising a little too slowly for Quackity’s comfort.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that one, bud.” He mutters as he glances around, trying to make out their surroundings in the dim light filtering through the open doorway.

There isn’t much to work with, broken down tables and scattered wood. Buttons cover every surface, although he makes a mental note to worry about that later. There’s a rotten wooden pickaxe thrown carelessly in the corner next to a few stacked chests that seemed to be mostly intact.

Trying not to get his hopes up, he pushes himself onto shaky legs, leaving Wilbur to lay against the bed while he checks the contents of the chests. He curses as a splinter lodges itself into his palm as he attempts to lift the lids of the chests.

Quackity chatters aimlessly as he investigates the chests, the silence only serving to further his discomfort. The first chest offers nothing, only some bonemeal scattered at the bottom and what looks like dried wheat seeds. He pushes that chest off from the one below it, ignoring the loud crash as it shatters into pieces on the floor.

“Sorry.” He mutters, not wanting Wilbur to gripe at him for the noise. The only response is the chilled wind filtering into the room through the broken window. He shrugs the silence off, continuing to talk aloud.

There’s a relieved sigh at the contents of the second chest, however small the reward is. Digging through, there were a lot of items thrown carelessly in. Ranging from fossilized bread that Quackity carefully picked around to spools of string. There was little else in the room, so he figures he’ll have to make due and grabs an arm full of supplies from the chest he thinks may be useful.

When he turns around, excited to show Wilbur what he’d found, he almost drops the stack of precious items in his arms. The other man had slid to the floor at some point during the search. Quackity freezes, staring at Wilbur’s shut eyelids, praying to every God he doesn't believe in that his eyelashes would flutter.

There is no movement.

Quackity spurs into action, rushing over and dumping the items onto the ground near Wilbur. He shoves two fingers onto Wilbur’s throat, checking for any sign of a pulse, voice high, “Come on you stupid fucking bastard. I turned around for five fucking minutes you are not allowed to do this shit. I did not walk all this way just for you to fucking die now!”

He continues to ramble, cursing Wilbur again as he feels a faint pulse. The ringing in his ears is nothing compared to the painful beating of his heart, causing him to wince.

Wilbur makes no sign of consciousness as he lightly pushes at him, skin paler than Quackity had ever seen, his lips a light shade of lavender. Wilbur looks dead and it makes his eyes burn, even if he knows logically that Wilbur still has a beating pulse.

Gritting his teeth, he sets to work. He has little knowledge on medical processes, but he’d injured himself enough during the building of Las Nevadas to understand basic necessities. As he works, his shaking hands begin to steady, falling into the mindless motions.

He doesn’t let himself think that if Wilbur dies, it would be on him. He couldn’t fail to save someone, not again.

Starting with the blood stained shirt, he cuts it away as well. His eyes sweep across the wounds, lingering on the sickly white skin revealed. There was no better word to describe Wilbur’s current state other than gaunt, easily able to count every bone in his ribcage. He’s so skinny it’s painful to look at.

He doesn’t let himself think about the bit of jerky and lone apple he has in his pocket, barely enough for a single meal.

Pulling a flask of vodka from his oversized black trench coat, which he thankfully hadn’t finished, he pours it onto the worst of the wounds. He feels relief pound through him as Wilbur quietly groans, even if he does not awaken.

He doesn’t let himself think about the fact that he wasn’t sure if Wilbur would ever open his eyes again.

Paper wasn’t the best cloth to use for cleaning stab wounds, but sue him. He does what he can to clear the caked mud from the torn flesh, swallowing the bile building in his throat as he watches blood drip from Wilbur’s torso onto the cobble ground.

He doesn’t let himself think about how the more he cleans, the more blood that flows.

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he immediately recoils, retching at the feel of blood and dirt that was now smeared across his face. He blinks it out from his eyes, hands clutching his own thighs painfully as he forces himself to breathe. In four, hold four, out six, hold two. Four, four, six, two. Four, four, six, two.

He doesn’t let himself think about the exhaustion beginning to take the place of adrenaline, which still courses through his veins like a bad acid trip.

Using the thickest of the papers, he wraps them around Wilbur’s wounds, securing them with string. They’re pitiful bindings, but it’s all he has. It only takes seconds for the white to bleed into red.

He doesn’t let himself think about the warmth of the blood slowly soaking into his knees from the puddle on the floor.

He focuses on cleaning Wilbur’s body and the ground beneath him next, using the discarded scraps of Wilbur’s pants. Quackity loses track of time, only really noticing the change when the light completely fades from the room. The sun has fallen over the horizon, causing Quackity to jump from his hyperfocus as the cold sets in. He needed to block the door from mobs, find a safe spot for Blackjack, find a light source, and, and, and.

He doesn’t let himself think of Charlie, doesn't let himself compare the situations.

Shrugging his black trench coat off, he gingerly lays it on top of Wilbur, tucking in the sides. It only reaches his knees. He ignores it and stands up, shivering from the quick drop in the temperature. He spends some time searching for coal, finding some small pieces in the collapsed pile of what he thinks used to be a table.

He doesn’t let himself think of the door on the other side of the room that leads down, deep into a dark recess of a life long past.

Fashioning a rather dismal torch, he places it into one of the sconces by the outside door, lighting it with the flint and steel he’d taken from his coat before sacrificing it to Wilbur. It takes a couple tries before it finally flickers to life, offering a pathetic amount of light that brings a headache from eye strain. He braces himself to the cold before grabbing the torch and wandering outside to Blackjack, who knickers at him and gently nibbles his ear with her lips.

He doesn’t let himself think about the chance of hypothermia, that a torch would provide no warmth for Wilbur, who desperately needed it if he were to make it through the night.

He'd also taken the apple from his coat. He offers it to Blackjack, who immediately begins eating from his palm. Quackity presses his face into her wet coat, breathing in the simple earthy smell and letting it ground him. Once she’s finished her meal, he takes her lead and coaxes her through the door, shushing her huffs of protest at the small enclosed space.

He doesn’t let himself think about leaving her outside undefended from the elements or mobs, wouldn’t consider it.

The door screeches as he closes it, the hinges whining in protest. He shoves against it to force it closed, locking it afterwards. He grabs the edges of the broken window, ignoring the bit of glass that digs into his hand, and pulls as hard as he can. He could almost sob at the consolation that it refuses to budge, that they might at least be safe from mobs for the night.

He doesn’t let himself think about how mobs would be the absolute least of their worries before long and how terrifying that thought was.

Setting to work, he recovers the scraps of wood most similar to kindling, quickly fashioning a rudimentary firepit in the middle of the room. It takes far too long to get a small fire going, but it fills his veins with triumph and misery all at once. He stares into the small bundle of flaming wood for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire and the impatient stomping of hooves from Blackjack on the other side.

He doesn’t let himself think about smoke inhalation, if the fire will keep them warm enough through the night, the shade of lavender painting Wilbur’s lips.

With nothing left to throw himself into, he forces himself to turn around and look at Wilbur. He hasn’t moved and Quackity can’t decide if he looks better or worse than before. The only clothing he has is Quackity’s coat tucked over him, the rest discarded in a dirty pile nearby. He crouches down next to Wilbur, relieved to see when he lifts the coat that the worst wounds have finally stopped bleeding. He changes the paper out again.

He doesn’t let himself think of the pounding headache behind his eyes, the pain lacing through his stomach from hunger, the stinging in his hands.

Unsure of what more he could do, he sits back on his heels and stares down at the lifeless man below him. He rests a shaky palm against Wilbur’s forehead with trepidation, relief flooding him at the feeling of burning skin rather than the cold of a dead body. Exhaustion catches up to him, making his limbs feel heavier than the force of the anxiety coursing through him.

He doesn't let himself think about his own shaking body, clothes still soaked and amplifying the cold wind drifting through the room.

There's little left to do besides wait for morning, when Sam will arrive with the armor of a knight and the loyalty of a scab. The idea of curling around Wilbur is taunting him, his repressed desire for physical comfort and knowledge that sharing body warmth is a logical idea both circling his thoughts in a vicious feedback loop.

He doesn't let himself consider it. Until he does.

After a half hour, his determined willpower is easily won over by the instinctual need for survival and comfort. With a loud swallow, he carefully sneaks over to Wilbur, moving slowly as if in the process of committing a terrible crime. Quackity peels off his outermost layers, leaving them out to dry, and curls up on the dirty floor behind Wilbur, back pressed against the taller man's arm. It's been a long time since he let himself have easy comfort.

He doesn't let himself think about Slime. He doesn't, he doesn't, he doesn-

Quackity squeezes his eyes shut against the emotions that begin to flood from the cage he locked them within.

Four, four, six, two.

Four, four, six two.

Four, four, six, two.