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Quackity wakes up with a pounding headache and very little memory of the night before, and his first thought is, “Aw, fuck. Did I have that doctor’s appointment today?”
Judging by the light streaming through his half-closed blinds – he definitely remembers closing them the night before, but he doesn’t remember how well he’d closed them, is the thing – he’s definitely slept through both his alarm and whatever obligation had been planned for this morning. And maybe most of this afternoon too. Whoops.
He spends the next ten minutes frantically scrolling his phone, searching for whatever it is that’s lodged in his brain with big, bright, Don’t forget this! notes. It’s not a doctor’s appointment, that’s tomorrow. It’s not the renovations discussion with Sam, that’s supposed to be tonight over dinner. At least he won’t be late to that.
So what is he late to? He stares at the clock on his bedside table, trying not to wince at the time as he wills whatever it is into his mind. No matter how hard he tries, he has not been able to shake the habit of sleeping past noon, except for when he doesn’t sleep at all. He doesn’t know how early-riser perfectly chipper early-bird Tubbo does it. Turning up to every cabinet meeting, bright-eyed and ready for the day while Quackity’s halfway through his second cup of coffee and would much rather be back in bed.
Oh, fuck. Tubbo.
His memory is still spotty, but the spots roll in. Tubbo, Tubbo’s car, drinks, Foolish? Foolish’s arms. And–
And a conversation he does not remember most of, except for the vague impression of ram’s horns and guilt.
Shit.
This is why he doesn’t drink with Tubbo. Tubbo didn’t even get drunk with him, the fucker, so they could have a mutual forgetting after a mutually embarrassing night. At least Wilbur grants him that much, asshole that he is. Nope, Tubbo’s respectable and responsible, with his car and his husband and his kid and his steady, well-paying job on Quackity’s payroll.
Quackity groans into his hands. He rolls over and groans into his pillow. Tubbo’s working today, probably just about on his lunch break as the midday burger rush dies down. So Quackity can either stop by and say hello and gauge the damage – if Tubbo’s polite to him, he fucked up last night; if Tubbo’s normal to him, he’s probably fine; if Tubbo’s rude to him, Quackity should probably just die about it – or he can skillfully avoid Tubbo and never think about this ever again.
Maybe he can pretend he’s sick. He’s good at a fake cough.
He could fake his own death.
Okay, no, no. He is being ridiculous. He says it, out loud: “You are being ridiculous, Quackity.”
It comes out sounding a little like Wilbur’s voice. He should kill that guy.
In the end, hunger is the thing that makes up his mind. He downs ibuprofen and a glass of water, and as soon as the headache subsides, his stomach begins to growl. Loudly.
So he ends up dressed, standing in the parking garage, and trying to figure out where he left his car. It’s not in his reserved parking space, which waits for him patiently and unhelpfully empty. Did someone steal his car? Who would have the audacity to steal from him? Nobody but Tommy Innit, he imagines. If Tommy stole his car, he can probably say goodbye to it forever, though. Farewell, beautiful red convertible.
Oh, wait. Tubbo drove him home. It’s still parked at the Casino.
That’s a relief, even if the outcome is still the same. He’s walking to Tubburger.
It’s warm, end-of-summer kind of sunlight and warmth. Breezes that remind you fall is just around the corner, and winter waiting behind that. Especially here in Las Nevadas, where the temperatures dip far lower than anything Quackity’s ever been used to.
The end of the summer reminds him of Manberg, sometimes. The fall reminds him of Pogtopia, and winter reminds him of blood in his mouth and the whole world smelling like sulfur. But it’s the end of summer, with all of it’s sunny warnings, that reminds him of Schlatt.
It’s making his head hurt. He wishes he’d worn his sunglasses.
Tubbo is sitting outside at one of the picnic tables in front of Tubburger when he arrives. He’s still wearing his uniform, apron folded up on the table next to him. Shadow casts over him and the person he’s sitting with, mercifully blocking out the bright sun with red-and-white umbrella shade.
It takes exactly three seconds for Quackity to recognize who he’s sitting with. Tall. Wrong set of colors to be the kid’s husband. Too many warm colors, brown, yellow–
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” is the first thing out of Quackity’s mouth.
Wilbur beams at him. “Oh, Quackity! What a pleasant surprise!”
“This is my country,” Quackity says. “The hell do you mean, surprise? You’re in my restaurant.”
“Technically,” Wilbur says, “I’m outside of it.”
“I’ll kill you,” Quackity says. “I’ll have you executed. Painfully.”
Wilbur raises both eyebrows. “That’s original of you.”
Quackity considers lunging over the picnic table to strangle him with his bare hands. He doesn’t, because he is the mature and responsible leader of a country and the owner of this fine establishment, and also because he might knock over Tubbo’s drink in the process. And he hasn’t figured out if Tubbo’s mad at him or not. Tubbo hasn’t even said a word to him yet.
He decides to get there first. Pointedly, he turns and faces Tubbo directly. “Hello, Tubbo. How are you today? Is this guy bothering you?”
“Oh, no, he just came to say hi on my lunch break,” Tubbo says. He sounds normal. He eats a fry–it looks like a casual motion. Maybe he’s not mad. “We were catching up.”
“Yes, it’s this very interesting thing,” Wilbur says, “Where two people spend time together because they want to hang out. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
“I will kick you out of my country.” Quackity’s stomach growls. “Don’t get on my nerves before I’ve eaten, Wilbur Soot, or I swear to god–”
Wilbur looks like he’s going to get on Quackity’s nerves, but before he manages to say anything, Tubbo says, “Go get a burger, Big Q. You can sit and eat with us.”
He needs a burger. And a drink. And to stand in the air conditioning for a few minutes. The sunlight seems to have burned off all of the effects of the painkillers and water, and Quackity is left with his head once more throbbing.
God, he’s getting old. Why are the hangovers getting worse?
But hey, Tubbo invited him to sit and eat together. That has to mean he’s not mad, and Quackity is totally fine, and he didn’t even say anything weird last night. He probably didn’t even say anything about Schlatt and that part’s in his head too. Everything’s fine.
Tray of food in hand, Quackity steps outside of Tubburger and back into the August sunlight. He’s greeted by the familiar sound of Tubbo’s laugh, grinning at something Wilbur must have just said. Wilbur’s smiling along, the two of them clearly in on some bit.
Wilbur looks over, and he doesn’t stop grinning, so Quackity slides onto the bench between the two of them. “What’s so funny?”
Except, it’s at that moment that Tubbo stops laughing.
Wilbur doesn’t stop. He opens his mouth, starts to say something, but Quackity’s heart sinks anyway.
“Just something dumb,” Tubbo says, interrupting Wilbur’s explanation. “Don’t worry about it. How are you feeling, Big Q?”
Aw, fuck. Tubbo’s definitely mad. What did Quackity say? How does he fix something he doesn’t remember and doesn’t exactly know if he did-or-didn’t do?
“Oh, I’m dying,” he says, because he is in agony. “Head’s killing me. Let this be a lesson, Tubbo, don’t drink or you’ll die immediately.”
“You literally invited me drinking with you,” Tubbo says, dryly.
“Well, maybe I was just trying to teach you. Show you an–an–”
Wilbur says, “I’d go drinking with you. You guys went drinking without me?”
“We hung out.” Quackity punctuates with a fry, jabbing it in Wilbur’s direction. “Because we are friends. And I also happened to drink a little bit.”
“He was very drunk,” Tubbo says. “He kept flirting with Foolish.”
Okay. Yeah, that’s one of the things Quackity remembers doing. “In my defense, I would do that sober.”
Tubbo rolls his eyes. Quackity thinks he probably shouldn’t have said that out loud in public, even as a joke. But to be fair, the tabloids have been calling him a slut since Manberg, so he’s not really that concerned about being overheard. There’s not much more they can accuse him of.
And his priority right now is solving the mystery of is-Tubbo-mad-at-him, so he’s gonna focus on that. Tubbo’s back to joking with him, and he’s not doing the over-polite thing, so he’s probably not mad. But Tubbo won’t tell him what him and Wilbur have been talking about, and he hasn’t laughed at anything Quackity’s said yet, so maybe he is mad.
God, why is Tubbo so hard to read?
“Did you know I don’t get hangovers?” Wilbur is saying.
“Bullshit,” Quackity calls. “I’ve seen you with one, after the presidential debate. You got drunk as fuck and then looked like death warmed over the next day.”
“That was before,” Wilbur says. “I have not gotten a hangover since I was revived. No clue why.”
“That’s fucked up,” Quackity says. His head throbs. “That’s fucked up. Why would you tell me that? Are you rubbing it in? That’s fucked up.”
“I’m not rubbing it in,” Wilbur says smugly.
The conversation carries on. Quackity argues with Wilbur; Tubbo chimes in; Quackity listens to the two of them talk and eats his burger. The whole time, he tries to gauge how Tubbo is feeling.
Through it all, Quackity can’t read Tubbo’s expression. Which, in itself, is a way to read Tubbo, because here’s the thing – Tubbo misleads. He does it, subtly, in the way that makes you think you’re following, that you’ve caught what he’s covering up, but that’s the part he does on purpose. He leaves you a crumb, and you latch onto it, eat it up, and he acts like you’ve caught him. You haven’t. And Quackity watches Tubbo laugh, watches him crack a joke with Wilbur, and he knows better than to think he’s caught anything about Tubbo.
It’s what makes Tubbo such a good leader. It’s what makes him a good spy.
It’s what makes Quackity know that neither of them have left Manberg. Not all the way.
“Anyway,” Wilbur says, mouth full of the last of his burger, “I was thinking. I’m gonna apply for a Las Nevadas visa.”
“Like hell you are.” Quackity doesn’t even bother looking up.
“No, really, I want to stay here for a bit. Build something nice. It’ll be great for both of us, I think–”
“No,” Quackity says. “You are not building a–a–a fucking, I don’t know, a giant cobblestone dick in my country.”
Wilbur makes an offended noise. “I would never.”
Now he looks up. He stares at Wilbur, as pointed as he can.
“Yeah, Tommy would just build it for you,” Tubbo jokes.
Wilbur laughs. Quackity says, “Tommy can do whatever he wants. But you are not getting a fucking visa.”
“I’ll trade you.”
“No.”
“Visa for a visa?” Tubbo asks.
“I do not want a visa for the fucking burger van. That doesn’t even make sense.”
Wilbur’s pulling something out of his coat pocket. “I’ve got a special deal, actually, a rare loyal-customer-card–”
“Your loyal customers are rare? Figures.”
“--That I only give to very special visitors,” Wilbur finishes, his voice pitching up in the way that Quackity knows means he’s pretending to not have acknowledged that comment. Ha. Ha. Got him. “Free burger every five visits.”
“Oh, Wilbur,” Quackity says, derisively. “I would never visit your establishment five times.”
Wilbur frowns. Across the table, Tubbo seems to have stopped paying attention and is going back to eating while ignoring the two of them. Shit. He probably feels left out of the conversation. This is all Wilbur’s fault.
Quackity kicks Wilbur’s ankle under the table, tries to signal him a subtle Shut The Fuck Up. It does not go across, apparently, because Wilbur is a fucking idiot and decides to kick him back instead. The toe of his boot jabs into Quackity’s shin, sharp enough to leave a bruise. Fucking asshole.
“Ow.” Quackity glares at him.
Tubbo, across the table, clears his throat. He’s done eating now, empty tray and wrapper in front of him. The paper edges crinkle in the mild breeze. “I’m so sorry to interrupt you guys’ date, but my lunch break is almost over, so I gotta get back to work.”
“Aw, well, don’t let me keep you,” Wilbur says, shoveling the last of his fries into his mouth and wiping his fingers.
Quackity says, “Who said anything about a date?”
He’s the only one still eating, which is a little bit awkward, but in his defense, he only just sat down, like, five minutes ago. And he’s been kind of preoccupied. Is Tubbo trying to get away from him? Surely he knows Quackity doesn’t care if he extends his lunch break. Tubbo could leave work three hours early every single day without notice and Quackity would let him.
All the same, Quackity starts to pack up his food. He’ll save the rest for another time. Dinner with Sam in a couple hours anyway.
“It could be a date.” Wilbur’s on his feet now, gathering up trash for the bin just behind him. “Don’t we have a date this weekend?”
He’d scrolled past that on his phone this morning. Wilbur, plans, Saturday. “Absolutely not.”
“Margaritas,” Wilbur says. “It’s on my calendar and everything.”
Quackity flips him off. As he watches Wilbur round the corner and disappear out of sight, Quackity mutters, “I fucking hate that guy. I’m gonna ban him from the whole country.”
Tubbo huffs, close enough to a laugh that Quackity will take it and rejoice. Maybe Tubbo’s not mad at him. “I thought he already was banned.”
“I’m gonna double ban him.” He gets up, starts to follow Tubbo into Tubburger. He needs a box for his leftovers.
“And then drink margaritas with him this weekend?”
Quackity levels a glare at Tubbo. And then, abruptly, he realizes, he is leveling the glare slightly upwards. He’s looking up in order to meet Tubbo’s eyes.
“What the fuck,” he says, the words shocked right out of his mouth.
Tubbo shrugs. “I mean, I figure, you’re probably gonna hang out with him. It’s just a bit that you guys do, hating each other and whatever, right?”
“What–No, I mean–No, it’s not a fucking bit, I actually do hate him. That’s not what I’m talking about. Tubbo, are you fucking taller than me?”
“Huh? Oh.” Tubbo blinks. He chews his lip, tilts his head back and forth. Finally, he says, “...Yeah. Uh, have been, actually. I was waiting to see how long that’d take you to notice”
“What the fuck,” Quackity repeats. “That’s illegal. That’s illegal. Get shorter, right now.”
In response, Tubbo hunches his shoulders and crouches forward, terrible posture bringing him down a few inches. Quackity laughs. He holds the door open for him.
A few customers swivel their heads to watch him follow Tubbo to the counter, and Quackity gives a noncommittal half-smile to them. Which is miles better than telling them to mind their own business, and Sam will be proud of him for making a positive public interaction.
He feels a little more at ease after he disappears into the kitchen after Tubbo, though. Nobody else is watching them.
“There’s boxes on that counter,” Tubbo says, tying his apron on and gesturing with his chin. “Sorry, I have to get back to the counter. I’m gonna be honest, my lunch break was actually over ten minutes ago and I’m definitely behind. Don’t fire me, boss.”
“And lose my best employee?” Quackity knocks him with his elbow, just a nudge. “Never.”
“Okay.” Tubbo grins. “While I’m at it, by the way, I want paid holidays, unlimited sick days, dental–”
“You already do,” Quackity says. “You literally already do.”
Tubbo laughs. It feels genuine this time. It feels like he means it, and Quackity can feel the weight rolling off of his shoulders. He believes it this time.
And he almost says it. The words are right there on his tongue — the way he nearly says, “Are we all good?” The way he almost asks, “Do I need to apologize for anything?”
The way he can taste the words, can move them around in his mouth, and then when he opens it, what he says is, “Have a good day, Tubbo. I’ll see you around.”
Tubbo says, “See you, Big Q.”
He waves. It’s a friendly one. It isn’t angry.
And Quackity just hopes he hasn’t fallen for anything.