Work Text:
Quackity had made a promise to himself.
A promise that he would at least try to cut down on the drinking. Though, maybe the passive language was his downfall, dooming the narrative from the start, a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Staring down into the bitter amber of his glass, he considers his options. He’s already two glasses in, and, quite frankly, there’s no one around to stop him from succumbing to the whiskey. Las Nevadas is a ghost town. Yet another marked failure on his ever-growing list. He’s no second-place medal, he’s the bottom of the fucking barrel. He could drink himself sick and he wouldn’t be found for days. Maybe Foolish would stop by, inquiring about pay or resources or a new project, only to find Quackity slumped in his own vomit. A pitiful end for a pitiful man. Ignoring the sting behind his eye, he shoots the drink back, relishing in the burn from throat to gut.
He was always a lemming, mindlessly following in the footsteps of others.
Quackity had made a promise to Tubbo.
A promise that he was never going to keep from the moment it left his traitorous lips. With Schlatt’s blood on his hands and his heart between his teeth, he knew what he was fated for.
He is violent. He is brash. He is angry. He is nothing all at once. He knew he was going to stamp out the cautious, tired hope in his Secretary of State’s eyes.
…He might be sick.
Quackity made a promise to Schlatt.
A promise to love and cherish a man who felt nothing for him from the beginning. A vow to be there in sickness and in health. A vow that shattered before his eyes as he drove an arrow through his husband’s flesh. A vow that ground itself into fine dust when he watched the man he loved clutch at his chest, before dropping dead in finality. Quackity had been filled with what could only be described as relief, knowing there were no more obligations or expectations for him to fulfill.
But that couldn’t be further from the truth. He was the vice-president, and he had a job to do.
Quackity made a promise to New L’manberg.
A promise to keep its best interests in mind. A promise not to fall into the corruption that had plagued it since its founding. A promise to protect it. A promise that he thought he’d be able to keep. He really fucking did.
Quackity finds himself rushing to the nearby restroom from his barstool, quickly heaving into the toilet, unable to differentiate sobs from the gagging. His last few drinks surge past his lips for an encore, with added acidity. Quackity distantly considers the wasted product, before pushing the thought away. No one was going to drink them anyway. With a final spit, he wipes his lips with a square of toilet roll and flushes the mix of booze and bile down.
Looking into the mirror he finds bitterness rising within him, unrelated to the alcohol.
Technoblade was a threat to national security. Quackity feels his hands shake as the memories snake in front of his eyes. The pull of the pickaxe against his skin. The panic when he realised he couldn’t fucking see–! The blinding pain. Then nothing.
He remembers the distant hope that, maybe– just maybe– the damage wouldn’t follow him through his respawn. He had seen the carnage inflicted on Tubbo first-hand. He knew hoping was futile. Bringing a hand to his face, he lightly drags his fingers against the rough, hypertrophic scarring. He was never going to be able to protect New L’manberg. He couldn’t even protect himself. Not against his husband. Not against Technoblade. Not even against himself.
Quackity had made a promise to himself.
A promise to keep his chin up and continue living despite this world wanting him dead. A promise he would break tonight.
Tearing his eye from the mirror, he washes his hands, rinses his mouth and walks out. Staggering back to the bar, he intends to get on with cleaning the glasses he used and stumble back to his flat, finding the potions in the same place he left them. That is, until he spots a tall figure meandering into the bar.
“Get the fuck out.” Quackity says sharply, exhaustion gripping his words, a croak behind his voice.
“Well! That’s just about the warm welcome I’ve come to expect from you.” Wilbur shoots back with a crooked smile.
Quackity sighs, continuing over to clear off and clean the glasses. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering. No one is going to be inhabiting this godforsaken country after tonight. “What do you want, Wilbur?”
Wilbur’s eyes follow him, scanning his movements. He claps in delight, “Are we drinking tonight?”
“No?” Quackity questions, drying the first glass and setting it to the side.
“Really? Because a tequila sunrise would be really nice right now.”
Quackity wrinkles his nose. “Of course you’d like that sweet shit.”
“Drinking doesn’t have to be torture, contrary to popular belief.” Wilbur says, giving Quackity a sideways glance. Quackity rolls his eyes.
“Come on, I haven’t had a good drink in thirteen years, Q. Just one and I’ll leave.”
Quackity slaps the drying rag onto the counter in annoyance. “Fine.”
Wilbur seemed satisfied at this, finally shutting up for a moment and plopping himself onto a stool. The lull in conversation brought silence, cushioned by the gentle clinking of glass as Quackity flitted around the bar. Slowly adding the grenadine, Quackity sets Wilbur’s drink to the side. He then settles on a glass of water for his unsettled stomach. Wilbur raises a brow at his drink choice, but Quackity ignores him.
Sliding Wilbur’s drink over, he waits behind the bar, drumming his fingers against his glass. Wilbur looks at him oddly.
“Are you not going to sit down?” Quackity eyes him right back.
“No, I didn’t plan on it.”
“You are so fucking strange, man.” Wilbur says with a laugh.
“Just finish your drink, Wilbur. I’d like to go home tonight.”
Wilbur frowns at the subdued response, scanning Quackity’s face for something. Quackity feels small under the scrutiny, like Wilbur can see right through him.
“Are you doing alright?” Wilbur asks after a moment.
“Just peachy. Now drink.”
Wilbur looks conflicted but brings the drink to his mouth anyhow. Quackity berates himself for how his eye remains transfixed on the motion of Wilbur’s lips, the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp.
Quackity had made a promise to his fiancés.
A promise to always stick together. A promise to remain side by side by side through trials and tribulations. They planned a future together; they legitimised a nation together. And it wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough. Because they built a nation without him. They forgot he even existed. And with that, he learned from them. Learned he had to be self-reliant. Learned that if it sounds too good to be true then it most definitely is.
Wilbur catches his eye and Quackity quickly averts his gaze.
“Quackity, have you added anything new to the city recently?”
“Uh, no. I mean, I guess if you want to count refurbishing the hotel but that’s lame as fuck.”
“Can I see?”
“Do you really have nothing better to do than be a thorn in my side tonight?”
Wilbur pretends to think for a second, “Let me see…yep, my schedule’s all clear. It’s Quackin’ time.”
“Promise to never say that to me ever again and I suppose I can show you the hotel.” Quackity says, exasperated. He steps around the counter and holds out his hand for Wilbur to take. Wilbur looks pensive, eyes flitting from his half-finished drink to Quackity.
“Fucking come on! I don’t have all night, dipshit. You have a lifetime to drink.”
Wilbur stares at Quackity with furrowed brows.
“...You have a lifetime too. What do you have to do tonight that’s so important?” Wilbur asks slowly.
“Nothing that concerns you, Wilbur.”
“No, really. Just entertain me for a second. You go back to your sad, dingy flat–”
“What the fuck, hey?!”
“–Shut up, I’m not done. You go home and then what? What are you going to do?”
They stare at each other for a moment. Quackity feels a vague sense of panic building inside of him.
“Am I going to see you tomorrow?”
Quackity meets his threshold. “Jesus Christ. What the hell are you implying, Wilbur? I’m not fucking suicidal!”
“Right, right. Of course not, you just want to go home so you can kill yourself like a normal, healthy person.” Wilbur quips, nodding sarcastically.
“I never said that!” Quackity cries, throwing his arms up. His heart is pounding.
“You didn’t have to! You’re not discreet, Q!”
“There’s nothing to be discreet about, Wilbur! You’re reading into shit too much!” The shake in his hands betrays his anxiety and he shoves them into the pockets of his slacks.
“If that’s really the case then let’s take a detour. Forget the hotel, let’s see your flat.”
“I am not letting you into my house.”
“No, I insist. If you’re supposedly Mr. Will-to-Live, let me see what’s going on. You’re not hiding anything apparently.”
“I seem to distinctly remember you saying you’d leave me alone after you got your drink.” Quackity deflects.
“You told me not to finish it!” Wilbur looks seconds from ripping his hair out, voice shrill. If Quackity wasn’t so pissed at him, he might feel a little bad for stressing him out this much.
“Go finish your drink then, I don't care! I’m going home to sleep and nothing else.” Quackity sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. He quickly adds, “Don’t follow me.”
Wilbur looks dumbfounded before springing back into action, “No, who gives a shit about the drink! The goal here is for you to not be alone.” Quackity rolls his eyes.
“Wilbur, if you’re that freaked out, I’ll meet you by the Las Nevadas sign tomorrow at noon.” He says, stifling a yawn.
“Do you promise?” Quackity freezes, voice momentarily caught in his throat. He nods.
Wilbur still doesn’t look pleased by this but acquiesces, “Fine, but if you’re late, I’m coming to find you.” Quackity waves him off and starts the walk to his flat.
Lying in bed, Quackity finds his thoughts drifting to the instant harming potions on his counter, he had no notes written out. It was an expected ending for him after it all. He had no final words to share with the world and no one who would bother to read them. Except Wilbur apparently.
Fucking Wilbur.
Quackity dreams of chestnut eyes, gentle hands, and mischievous smiles throughout the night. He’s only a little bit angry about that.
Changing into fresh clothes, he sees the potions on his counter again. He grabs the vials and throws them into his pocket, stomach twisting.
Checking his watch, he realises he was dangerously close to being late for his meeting with Wilbur. He dashes out the door towards their meeting spot. He can see Wilbur pacing from a distance.
He jogs a bit faster. Before he can fully process what’s happening, there are arms around him.
“Oh, thank fuck.” Wilbur breathes out into his beanie. “You’re okay.”
Quackity can do nothing to fight the tears that build behind his eye. Hiccupping gasps falling past his lips, wondering when the last time he’d been held was. He doesn't care to feel embarrassed because it's so nice, and he doesn't know when he'll get to feel this again, physical and mental stimuli overwhelming.
He feels Wilbur stiffen, “I mean– Are you okay?”
He shakes his head, burying his face in Wilbur’s shoulder.
“Okay, that’s okay.” Wilbur murmurs,
Quackity lifts his head briefly, “Stop saying okay, idiot.”
Wilbur huffs out a laugh and begins rubbing small circles into Quackity’s back. Eventually, Quackity’s cries die down into quiet sniffles.
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Wilbur hums.
“Probably giving you grey hair to match the white yesterday.”
“Well, that is a very interesting way of saying I was right.”
Quackity shuffles for a moment, pulling the vials out of his pocket, pressing them into the palm of Wilbur’s hand.
Wilbur looks into his hand, confused, before the colour of the potion clicks and his face crumples.
“Shit.”
Quackity swallows thickly, “I just didn’t want them sitting around my house anymore.”
Wilbur nods shakily, “Yeah, makes sense.” Wilbur puts the potions into the pockets of his ratty trench coat, and Quackity can’t find it in himself to be concerned with what he’ll do with them.
The silence borders on suffocating before Wilbur speaks again.
“Quackity, what was the reason?”
Quackity tries not to let the words bite into his already frayed emotions, “Uh, hey Kettle, it’s the Pot.”
Wilbur gives Quackity an annoyed look, and replies with a mocking voice, “Uh, hey Pot, the Kettle’s been to the afterlife and it’s pretty fucking ass. Do you really want to hang out with Schlatt for all of eternity?”
Quackity winces, “No, but I don’t want to put up with this shit anymore.”
“Quackity, there are infinite possibilities while we’re on this plane. We’re not bound to the Greater SMP. Like, dude, we could fuckin'...go to Utah!”
Quackity squints at Wilbur, a smile tugging at his lips, “Why the hell would we go to Utah?”
Wilbur shrugs, “It was just an example. We can go anywhere, Quackity.”
Quackity sits for a moment, thinking, “You know, maybe living on an island would be cool.”
“I’d like to travel the world." Wilbur says wistfully, staring off towards the horizon.
He looks back to Quackity, "We’ll do it together.”
“Do you promise?”
Wilbur responds without a moment’s hesitation, “I promise.” Quackity ignores the swirling sense of déjà vu within him.
Wilbur holds his hand out to Quackity, and he takes it with a grin.