Chapter Text
"Quackity," Dream said. He was backed against the wall, hugging himself. "You don't have to do this."
"I'm sorry, Dream," Quackity said, surprised to find that he might mean it. "I really, really do."
"Let's bet on it," Quackity says. "If you win, I go to Dream, get the revive book, and bring you back. But if I win, you never come back to life."
Schlatt considers, tilting his head. His ram's horns glint in the torchlight. Quackity's torn, an internal battle between the part that wants to touch Schlatt to make sure he's real -- as real as a ghost can be -- and the part that wants to run away screaming.
"Deal," Schlatt says, and now there's no backing out.
Quackity cleaned Sam's tools himself. It was polite, but it also gave him more time to stall before going back to Las Nevadas. The blood under his fingernails and cuticles, that was harder to get out.
"How are you doing?" Sam asked when he handed him clean shears.
Quackity just looked at him and shrugged. He knew he looked like shit. "Why won't he just tell me, Sam?" he asked. "What the fuck else does he have to lose?"
"What do you think?" Quackity asks, eyeing Schlatt's reaction to the unfinished casino. "You got an early look at this place. Nobody's seen as much as you have."
"Well...for being under construction, it looks good," Schlatt says. Still physically unable to give Quackity a compliment without an edge, Quackity thinks with annoyance. But then Schlatt smiles. "It's going to be fucking fantastic when it's done! You're a goddamn genius."
"Thanks, man, thanks," Quackity says casually, covering up how good the praise feels coming from Schlatt. It's less that he wants the older man's approval and more that he wants to shove his accomplishments in Schlatt's face. Look at me, I'm doing fine, better than fine, I'm doing great without you. Everything got better without you. I never needed you.
"So where's the game?" Schlatt asks with a spark in his eye. "What are we playing?"
"This way." Quackity beckons Schlatt up a sweeping, red-carpeted staircase. He hides his smirk as the ghost openly gapes in amazement at the second floor's sights. But he doesn't lead Schlatt to any of the big redstone gambling machines or the long tables. Instead he places his hand on the small of Schlatt's back and steers him toward a small room tucked away in a secluded corner. "You'll have time to look later."
"All business and no pleasure, huh?" Schlatt says with a sleazy wink.
"The business is the pleasure for me," Quackity returns.
"Ooh." Schlatt raises his eyebrows. "How's that working out for you, duckling? My little pumpkin all alone in this big, empty casino? No one to keep you company except the machines?"
"Don't call me that," Quackity says automatically. He opens the door, showing Schlatt through.
"Hey, if machines are what you're into, I won't judge."
"Machines are more reliable than people," Quackity says, choosing to ignore Schlatt's innuendo. "Take a seat."
The room is small with an intimate atmosphere, dark armchairs and a low, long couch circling a small table. Low lighting gently touches the fabric with gold and red, creating a pool of light in the center while the corners are steeped in shadow.
Schlatt slides into an armchair, leaning back and crossing his legs. "Damn," he says. "This is the champagne room, huh? It's nice."
"It's -- " Quackity sighs. It's a room for private groups and small games, for smoking, but sure, let Schlatt call it whatever he wanted. There's still a small part of him that's afraid of the man, whispering that it's better to keep Schlatt pacified, to agree with whatever he says, to do anything possible to avoid triggering that temper and the violence that comes with it.
"Sure," he says, hating himself a little. "It's a champagne room."
God, Quackity can't wait until this fucker is dead for good.
At this rate, he was going to break Dream's mind before the man would tell him anything. Quackity had almost enjoyed this at first. He'd let his rage and grief and shame take over, beating Dream with his bare hands until they were both crying. Dream would plead with him to stop, say that Quackity clearly hated this, and Quackity would just laugh through his tears and prove him wrong.
Now there was nothing about this that he enjoyed. It had gone on too long, Dream's slipping sanity a mirror of his own. The closer Quackity pushed Dream to the brink, the closer he pushed himself.
"Please," he said. He made eye contact with Dream, trying to convey how desperate he was. "Please end this. Just tell me."
"A champagne room with no champagne?" Schlatt says in a mock-joking tone. "What kind of establishment is this?"
"We're not ready for guests yet," Quackity says. "Make yourself comfortable; I'll get us drinks."
Quackity gathers wine from a small fridge hiding in the corner of the room. He has to leave to hunt for glasses, and by the time he returns, Schlatt has opened the bottle himself. Of course Schlatt had a flask. Quackity shakes his head and sighs. "Great thing about being dead," Schlatt comments. "Ghosts don't get hangovers."
Quackity snorts. "That'll be one consolation when you lose. No hangovers for the rest of eternity."
"Maybe I should lose on purpose, then." Schlatt loosens his tie, then grimaces and tugs it off, wrapping it around his neck. Quackity has a sudden, vivid memory of the way that tie feels around his wrists. Schlatt unbuttons his collar and the first few buttons of his dress shirt, exposing a glimpse of dark hair and some of the musculature he's been boasting about. "What?" he says innocently when Quackity scowls. "You told me to get comfortable."
"It's nothing." Quackity pours himself a glass from the opened bottle. "You ready to get your ass kicked?"
"What are we playing?"
"Poker."
"Poker? I hardly know her!"
"If you weren't already dead, I'd kill you for that one," Quackity says, rolling his eyes. He drains half his wine to calm his nerves. "How long have you been waiting to make that joke?"
"It's been thirteen fuckin' years in limbo, baby," Schlatt says with a toothy grin. "I got a lot more where that came from."
Quackity just shuffles the deck, shaking his head. Now that he's actually going through with this, it occurs to him that he has a lot more to lose than Schlatt. It's not that he doesn't think he can convince Dream to give up his secret -- one way or another -- it's the idea of having Schlatt back among the living.
But the risk gives it that bit of thrill, too. Even if he knows Schlatt won't win, knows that he won't let Schlatt win. On his way to get the wineglasses, Quackity has prepared his extra cards. He's been practicing his slight of hand, learning all the ways to cheat so that he can spot cheaters in the casino. Schlatt has agreed to a gamble that he was always going to lose.
The house always wins.
"Let me help you, Dream. You can stop this."
"No."
"Why are you doing this to me, Dream? Why are you making me do this?" Quackity lashed out in a rage he hadn't felt since those first days. His axe struck the obsidian just by Dream's head. Dream screamed and flinched. Quackity breathed heavily, despair settling into his bones. "Just tell me."
"You wouldn't stop if I told you everything," Dream said. "You like it. You like this, you -- "
"Fuck you," Quackity snarled. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck -- " His vision went blurry, and Quackity went somewhere else in his mind. After a while, so did his victim.
When he came back to his body, he was walking out of the prison like every other day, his hands clean, Sam's borrowed weapons gone. He looked down at his hands, as if they had answers. He was dissociating more and more these days. If only there was a way to trigger it on purpose, Quackity thought. Especially since he was heading towards home.
"I didn't like it," he whispered.
It's halfway through the second game. They've agreed on the best three out of five, which Quackity feels was very generous of him. Two-person poker, or heads-up, could go lightning-quick. But the play is slow. Both of them are a little impaired by now, Quackity just pouring his second glass of wine and Schlatt still sucking on that flask like a drowning man.
As far as Quackity knows, Schlatt refilled his flask from the bottle when Quackity left the room. So why the hell is he slurring his words more than Schlatt? Quackity tries to remember the last time he had a drink. It has been a while.
Didn't realize I was this much of a lightweight. He blinks away a moment of dizziness. He's tired, the alcohol affecting him more than usual. But he wins the second round, and he doesn't even have to cheat.
That's two. He just needs one more.
"Need a break?" Schlatt asks when Quackity fumbles the cards, spilling half the deck over the table with a curse.
"Just nervous I guess," Quackity mutters, scooping up the cards. He's dizzy again, his fingers feeling thick and heavy and uncoordinated as he tries to shuffle. He's practiced the action so many times that it's muscle memory and he manages it, barely. "That wine must be stronger than I thought," he mumbles. He's determined not to show weakness to Schlatt.
"You used to be able to drink with me," Schlatt chides. "Used to be able to hold your liquor like a real man."
Quackity shakes his head -- and has to close his eyes against the way the room spins. "Shit."
"Are you sure you don't need a break?" Schlatt asks. A small smirk curves his lips, and there's a glint in his eyes that Quackity knows all too well. "You seem a little unsteady there. A little drunk."
Quackity pushes himself upright, bracing his arms on the table. A wave of sleep laps at his mind. "Schlatt," he snarls. "What the fuck did you do to me?"
"Nothing!"
Quackity stands fully, taking deep breaths, and swivels. He can make it to the door. Just hold on. Where he's going afterwards, he doesn't know, but...the door. It's so close. Maybe he can block it off until he figures out what Schlatt did to him, and how to reverse it.
"Are you really that drunk?" Schlatt asks. "Let me get you a water." Schlatt is beside him, taking his arm in one hand with his other around Quackity's waist, steering him back around to the couch. Quackity flinches away, but Schlatt's grip is iron.
"You fuckin' poisoned me," Quackity slurs. "Fucker. Should've known...should've known you'd try to kill me..."
"I would never kill you, pumpkin spice," Schlatt says. "No, no, no. You're so much more use to me alive." Quackity's legs give out and he watches the carpet approach his face in slow motion. Everything is slow and heavy.
Schlatt catches him easily, lifting him in his arms. "You're just tired, sweet cheeks. You're overworked, you've been drinking..." He lays Quackity down on the couch, tucking a pillow under his head. "You just need a little rest."
"No," Quackity groans, barely able to move. He tries to roll over, off of the couch.
"Yes," Schlatt says. He pushes Quackity back against the plush cushions and Quackity is gone.
"Just a hint, Dream," Quackity cajoled. "Come on. You can make it a riddle if you want, just give me something. Maybe I'll be able to figure out the rest myself. Then I won't need to come back here."
Dream pressed his lips together and shook his head, looking away.
"I'm trying to help you here," Quackity said, growing more frustrated. "Help me help you." Help me. "C'mon. I need your help. I'll owe you a favor, how about that? Just help me out here." Help me, help me help Dream please. Quackity straddled Dream, grabbing his wrists to force his hands away from his eyes. "Help me to help you."
"P-Please," Dream squeaked. Tears filled his eyes. "Quackity, please don't."
"I have to. You don't understand." Schlatt's ghost would never leave him, not until he had the book. "Just tell me."
When Dream didn't answer, Quackity huffed and stood. Dream began to cry, sobs of relief echoing around the tiny room. Quackity kicked his ribs. "Shut up." Then he realized. "Wait. Did you think I was going to -- " His skin crawled. "Jesus, Dream, I'm not that kind of monster."
What kind of monster was he, then? Maybe not Schlatt's breed of monster, but one created by him, related to him.
What made him any better than Schlatt, at the end of the day?
Would he have given in to Schlatt if he didn't like it, like Schlatt said? Like Dream said?
Quackity wanted to throw up. He messaged Sam. He had to get out of here.
Schlatt lays Quackity out on the couch again when he's done, smoothing fingers through his tousled hair. He presses his nose to Quackity's neck, careful of his horns, and inhales his scent. "You always smell so good, baby," he murmurs. Quackity's natural scent is heavy with the smell of the potion, the drug adding a noxious sweetness. Schlatt hums.
Just watching, waiting for him to wake up is intoxicating, a power rush greater than winning the election. Will he get to see and feel every little confused movement as Quackity wakes up slowly, or will he start struggling immediately? Will he realize what's happened? Will he cry, will he curse Schlatt? Will his pleas for mercy turn into moans of pleasure as Schlatt touches him in all the ways his little slut loves?
As much as he wants to hear Quackity beg and plead, he really doesn't want to listen to him talk. And Quackity is dangerous with his words the way others are with weapons. Schlatt opens Quackity's mouth, stuffing his tie in as a gag. "Can't run your mouth like this, you little shit." Quackity's mouth is wet with drool, but Schlatt has to move his fingers around the unresponsive tongue to make sure he won't suffocate.
The sensation makes him groan. He changes his mind, pulls the tie out of his mouth, and forces Quackity's jaws open wider.
Quackity approached home, his heart pounding rapidly, adrenaline turning his extremities numb. Dream's reaction had shaken him, waking that voice that screamed that this should not be routine, that he shouldn't submit to this, that he didn't like it.
He didn't. But what was the point of resisting? He was as broken as Dream at this point, wasn't he? At least Dream still had his pride, his final secret. What was there left of himself to save?
He climbed to the hotel penthouse. Maybe Schlatt wouldn't be there today, he thought. Maybe it would be one of Schlatt's good days. The ghost could be kind, when he wanted to.
When he opened the door, Quackity physically could not force his legs to carry him across the threshold. His mind went blank with fear and he froze in place. Schlatt was saying something but he couldn't hear it.
"...I said, come here," Schlatt said, crooking a finger. He was barefoot and dressed in a silk bathrobe, lounging on the couch where he'd first raped Quackity. He'd had it brought to his room from the casino. Quackity didn't know if it was a twisted memento or an attempt to intimidate him. Either way, it worked.
Quackity shook his head minutely. The barest resistance. Schlatt didn't seem upset, though. Instead he smiled, and the sadistic joy in the expression was terrifying.
As much as he couldn't make himself walk forward, Quackity couldn't make himself run as Schlatt approached him. "I was going to be nice today. Give you a potion," Schlatt said. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "But maybe I prefer it like this."
"Please don't," Quackity managed to whisper. Please don't, he heard Dream beg. Why should he get the same mercy he won't give?
"Oh, pumpkin," Schlatt chuckled. "If you didn't like it, you wouldn't be here. You must be a fucking glutton for punishment."
"I don't like it," Quackity said, but the words didn't make it past his throat. Then Schlatt was on him, dragging him past the doorway and slamming his cheek against the kitchen counter.
Maybe he deserved this, he thought as Schlatt went through the drawers, pulling out utensils. This was what he deserved as a torturer, as a traitor, as a failure. Schlatt took his sweet time that night.
Quackity wakes up with Schlatt's hand on his neck shoving his face into the couch. His mouth is filled with fabric and a hot, bitter taste that has him gagging. He chokes out a plea, flailing in panic at the feeling of suffocation. A weight presses him down, keeps him from moving to free himself.
"Moaning like a whore, as usual," Schlatt hisses, his breath harsh on Quackity's ear. The ghost smells -- this close, surrounded by him, covered by him, with Schlatt panting in his ear, Quackity can't not notice the mouldering smell beneath Schlatt's normal whiskey-cigar-sweat stink. It's something rotten.
Quackity makes another confused noise. His body isn't quite obeying him, still weak and lethargic from the drug. "Oh, you like that?" Schlatt says. "Still like the dirty talk, huh, sugar pie?" Schlatt starts moving. Quackity screams.
Schlatt is ruthless, keeping Quackity's face pressed into the cushion. "Fucking thought you could trick me, huh? Trick me?" He giggles. "Ace up your sleeve, always had a backup plan, a way out, didn't you? Always thought you were so fucking clever." He pauses as if Quackity is going to reply. "Should've guessed you were going to betray me again. Oh shit -- oh yeah, baby, yeah."
"Fuck you," Quackity snarls, and even though he can't articulate the words, the tone comes across.
Schlatt twists his fingers cruelly into Quackity's hair. "Fuck you, bitch," he snarls. "Didn't think I'd try to trick you, huh? Didn't think I'd have an ace up my own sleeve, huh? Fuck you. You were never going to fucking win this. Worthless fucking loser."
The worst part, Quackity thinks numbly, is how familiar Schlatt feels. He can feel Schlatt's arousal growing as he spits cruel words. He recognizes the signs as Schlatt's fingernails dig into his skin, as his cock twitches and leaks, as the man's moans grow hoarse and he starts mumbling pet names and praises, cute nothing words that he used to whisper to Quackity under the covers to make him giggle. Even the sensual prickle of his beard as he kisses across Quackity's shoulders is familiar. Schlatt's rolling his hips the way Quackity likes, as if they're still lovers, and he hates how well Schlatt knows his body's map. The pleasure and the memories fogging his mind make this so much more intimate, so much more violating.
Quackity can barely move, can't speak, but he can clench down hard and so he does, trying to end this, surprising Schlatt and forcing the older man to climax with a curse. Quackity laughs. Then he screams, pain exploding bright across his mind as Schlatt twists his arm.
"You must like pain," Schlatt says. He bends Quackity's finger back. Quackity shakes. "No? Too much?" He twists and the bone snaps with a dry twig sound. "Oops."
Schlatt climbs off him then. Quackity hears the rustle of clothing and the clink of a belt being fastened, but he doesn't look, not wanting to give Schlatt the satisfaction of seeing his tears. Schlatt waits to speak until Quackity's sobs have quieted down.
"Here's what's gonna happen," he says calmly. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, sweetheart, or it's another finger."
Quackity slowly, grudgingly turns his head to look at Schlatt. The ghost's eyes have an eerie gold sheen to them. He continues. "You visit Dream, you get the revive book, you bring me back. Do I think that bastard's just going to hand it over? No. But you'll convince him. Every day you fail, I'll be here waiting for you. Just to keep you...motivated. Not about to take a gamble on you keeping your word." He tosses down a pair of aces.
Quackity pulls the gag out of his mouth. "I'll kill you." His voice sounds tiny in his own ears.
"I'm a ghost, baby," Schlatt chuckles. "Can't kill what's already dead. And if you run, I'll find you. You think one little finger and a fuck is bad?" Schlatt smiles a thin, bitter smile. "I've got thirteen years of hurt to take out on the fucker who left me and betrayed me."
Quackity is still. Schlatt isn't leaving. He seems to want something more from him. So he nods. Anything to get him out of here.
Schlatt smacks his ass. "I'll see you tomorrow, duckling."
When Quackity comes back to himself, he's in the basement of the Needle, curled up in bed. His finger is healed, he's in pajamas, he feels -- not clean, but showered -- and his memory of the last few hours after Schlatt are...blurry. He shies away from examining them too closely.
I am in such deep shit, he thinks, and shivers. He can't stop shivering.
He really doesn't want to be alone right now, but he can't bring himself to contact anyone either. He twists the rings on his finger. He wants Karl and Sapnap so badly, but the idea of having to explain this terrifies him. He's scared Karl will cry, and scared Sapnap will go after Schlatt. They're the loves of his life, the best thing to ever happen to him, and he doesn't want to hurt them.
Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow he can visit them. Tonight is just...too much. Tonight he hides under the blanket and shivers and tries not to claw off his own skin.
Quackity finally got some rest when the sun rose and the ghost retreated to an inner room. Sun hurt Schlatt. Maybe he should run east, try to stay ahead of nightfall.
Quackity walked to the balcony of the penthouse and looked over his city. The others had built something really special on the foundation he'd laid. None of them knew about his deal with Schlatt. He didn't want them to suffer for his debts, and anyone else he pulled into this would be in danger.
They deserved better. Especially Foolish and Purpled, who he'd fucked over and then promised the moon. And Fundy, who just wanted to belong somewhere. Slime deserved a safe place to learn, and better friends than Quackity.
He'd schemed to bring them together, but they didn't need him anymore. Not really. Quackity stepped carefully over the railing, sighing as a breeze ruffled his hair. He wasn't abandoning them if they would be better off without him.
What about the book, though? Schlatt could rot in hell, but what if something happened to one of his own people? Should Dream really be the only person with that power?
Dream. Quackity laughed. One person would be happy he was gone.
And he was so tired.
"Quackity! Quackity? Is that you, Quackity from Las Nevadas?"
Quackity squinted. A small figure on the ground jumped up and down, waving. He waved back.
He went back inside.
He used a healing potion before he left the hotel to meet Slime, who grabbed his hand and tugged him towards the outpost, asking about burgers. Quackity never left any marks on Dream, and he made damn sure Schlatt never left any marks on him either. It was a last point of pride with him, not to let the ghost leave a permanent sign on his body.
On days like today, though, he wanted to leave them. Just to prove it had happened. Just to find out if someone else could see the shiny red skin where Schlatt had pressed his face to the stovetop. He would go about today just like normal, just like he had during Manberg, but this time knowing there was nowhere to run and no help coming.
So he acted like things were fine, and he could almost believe it. Quackity felt like he was fracturing, torn between his shame and the fear of losing his mind.
Quackity meets George outside the prison and the rest of his world falls apart.
Is it my fault? Quackity wonders. He's been so busy with his surprise project; maybe he's been too distant. Maybe they got tired of waiting for him. And that hurts because in their absence, he's only missed them more each day.
How could they just -- leave? Even if Karl forgot to tell him they were abandoning their home, what's Sapnap and George's excuse? Don't they want him to be a part of their new home?
At least I don't have to tell them about Schlatt. Quackity tries to convince himself this is a good thing. All he wants, though, are familiar arms around him and someone to hold him as he cries. He sinks down behind a secluded patch of vines and hugs himself instead. Painful, gasping sobs tear out of him. He can't remember the last time he hurt like this.
Schlatt used to say that he was the only one who could ever put up with him. Maybe he's right, and Quackity is just unlovable.
Maybe Schlatt is what he deserves. Because Schlatt has always been there, as cruel as he is. Even in death, Schlatt came back for him.
Because Schlatt still loves him.
That's all he has, all he'll ever have, all he deserves.
Maybe they were always meant to be.