Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

At the stroke of midnight, Quackity found his target. Formidably tall, with dark hair and dark clothes, the corners of its mouth stained with dried blood.

It was a vampire.

Currently, the creature was busy kneeling down and counting a row of tiny flowering weeds that had emerged from a crack in the pavement. It was almost too easy—like it wanted to be found.

Quackity snuck forward, careful not to make any sound lest he alert it. Slowly, he took out his Derringer, which was armed with but a single silver bullet.

He pulled back the hammer.

The vampire snapped its head up to look at him, eyes glinting red like a prey animal in headlights.

Quackity knew he was anything but.

The vampire smiled. Quackity snarled in return. “Oh, hello,” it said, infuriatingly British. “What a cute little choice for an assassination. I doubt you can fit more than a single bullet in there!”

He bristled. “It can fit two. And it’s a lot easier than carrying around something with a million of them when I can finish you off in one.”

The vampire grinned waggishly. “Oh, can you now? I b—” It stopped mid-sentence, seemingly having sensed something. Wary, Quackity took a step back.

Its grin came back in full force, showing off its sharpened fangs. “Oh my. You’re not human either, are you?”

“How did you find out?” He snapped. Quackity pointed the gun at the vampire’s heart.

It held its gloved hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, hey, easy, now. I only noticed because your blood feels so different from them.”

Quackity wrinkled his nose. “You can tell when someone’s blood feels different?” He cursed mentally, wondering how many others had secretly known but not told him. How many times his disguise had slipped barely under the radar.

He stepped closer, adjusting his grip on the gun.

“Well, it’s more like a general vibe, y’know? Like it beats different, smells different… flows different.”

“Interesting. Well, it’s not like I can let you live with this information, so…” Quackity placed his finger on the trigger.

Quick as a whip, the vampire knocked the gun out of his hands and turned it on him. “How the tables have turned,” it gloated as he panicked internally. Shit, shit, shit.

“Wait, fuck.” This time it was Quackity’s turn to raise his hands, much to his chagrin. “Look, look—listen. Listen to me, okay? I have a proposition for you,” he said carefully.

“Mm?” The vampire hummed, cocking its head curiously. (It’s almost cute, Quackity mused, before quickly shooing away the thought.)

“Work with me, and I won’t kill you, mkay? In return, you don’t go around telling everybody that I’m a nonhuman vampire hunter. Sounds good?”

It shrugged noncommittally. “Honestly, man, it seems like you’re in more danger than I am in this scenario. I could just fuck off and tell everyone right now and you’d be in no position to argue.”

“I know nearly everything about you, vampire. I suggest you don’t fuck with me like I’m some amateur human,” he scoffed.

But its grin only widened. “Oh, it’s on then. Show me what kind of monster you are, dearest vampire hunter.” And with that, it ruptured into a swarm of bats and scattered into the night, Quackity’s gun falling to the ground with a clatter.

Quackity stood there, seething. He had to regain control somehow. That stupid vampire and its stupid smug aura had to be put in its place. And quick, before it revealed his secret to the world. But how?

At an hour past midnight, Quackity started to formulate a plan.

Wilbur couldn’t stop thinking of that mysterious vampire hunter in the alleyway. That experience had been quite possibly the most fun he’d ever had since November 16, 1984—the start of his undead life. Most humans (and even other fairytale species) often assumed that vampires were naturally hedonistic, malicious, unnaturally beautiful creatures. It never occurred to them that most of the time it was just because vampires didn’t like ugly people, and clubs were the #1 hotspot for turning.

The malicious part was still a mystery though. Perhaps just a common side effect?

Either way, Wilbur was the embarrassing exception to the rule—at least on the “hedonistic” and “attractive” points: he hated drinking blood, and got his meals by sticking straws in feeder rats; he’d never entered a relationship nor taken someone home using his supposed “vampiric charms”; and he never learned how to rock that “undead” look despite being goth for the past 41 years, or even rock his regular genetic looks. For some reason, though, trying not to be a terrible person seemed like such a chore. Like it was instinctual somehow.

Really, it was a lose-lose situation for Wilbur all around.

Although, if sleeping for 13 years straight counted as some form of pleasure-seeking, he’d at least fit the mould in that right… Wait, what was his point again? Right, the person in the alleyway.

Wilbur sighed and leaned back in his coffin. The things he’d give to feel that thrill again… getting the gun pulled on him almost made him feel the illusion of a heart beating in his chest. It was intoxicating.

Being nocturnal creatures, vampires could easily see in the dark, and Wilbur had used that to his advantage by memorising the stranger’s features in absolute clarity. Hair darker than the night, slicked back yet messy at the ends. Smooth skin dotted with beauty marks, and a violent scar slicing through his left eye; his right was deep brown and beady. Scarred hands ending in sharpened black claws.

And a gorgeous neck.

Unfortunately, the rest of him was covered: he wore a black mask, black beanie, and draped himself in a tailored black cloak.

One thing of note was how he wore black Louboutin loafers, which in his opinion was an exceedingly daring choice for an assassination.

Or perhaps the man was simply rich enough to discard designer shoes like old cardboard once they got even the slightest bit dirty.

Dashing either way, in Wilbur’s humble opinion.

He sure hoped he’d see him again. If he was truly a professional vampire hunter, he’d probably already found his abode by now. Wilbur was giddy just thinking about all the things they’d get up to together.

Maybe he was a hedonist after all.

Quackity watched the smoke dissipate from his Blackberry Sage Margarita and contemplated how best to solve his newest problem.

The vampire’s house was only a couple blocks away. If he acted quick, he’d have enough time to really make an impact.

He checked the time—2:22 am. Sunrise in 4 hours. But depending on how old of a vampire it was, sunlight could either make it sneeze a little or burn it alive in a matter of seconds. Considering how its turn date was estimated to be between the 80s and 90s, Quackity didn’t like those odds.

The vampire seemed like the airheaded yet hyperfocused type on first impression, but proved to be agile when it counted. If he caught it off guard and planned everything right to the dot, he could force it into having no way out.

A sadistic little smirk began to creep its way up the corners of his mouth. Just you wait and see, he thought. I’ll have you eating out of my hand faster than you can blink.

Wilbur slept soundly in the dark, smothered by the many blankets and pillows he’d added to his coffin. Normally, vampires bought caskets for the convenience of the hinged lid and slightly more bed-like structure, but to him nothing could beat the macabre feeling of laying in a coffin and sliding off the lid once the evening came. Plus, it made his feet feel cosy.

Tonight he was blessed with a phantasmagoria of dreams, ranging from his pet boa constrictor growing to a hundred feet long and protecting his house like one of those dragon guardians, to every rat he’d ever drank from cursing him with a new vampire-exclusive plague, to a strangely vivid Hallmark meetcute reimagining of his encounter with the vampire hunter from earlier that night.

Little did he know that the aforementioned hunter was currently in his room with a coil of silver rope in his hand.

Quackity quietly lifted the coffin lid. Wilbur was inside, his sleeping face a mask of peacefulness. It’s almost a shame to disturb it, he thought. Almost.

He got to work quickly, tying the first length of rope around his wrists. Wilbur’s expression twitched in discomfort—soon it’d start to burn. He tied the second length around his ankles, then abruptly slapped him awake.

Wilbur jolted upright with a gasp. “Agh, I’m up, I’m up!” He blinked the drowsiness out of his eyes, still half-asleep and blissfully unaware of what was going on.

Then he realised that a) he was, for some reason, bound by the ankles and wrists in silver rope, b) face-to-face with the vampire hunter with whom he’d been swooning over in his dreams 5 minutes ago, and c) being held at stakepoint.

“What the fuck is going on?” He asked, bewildered and mildly irritated. (Clearly, he hadn’t got to the stage in their parasocial relationship where he wouldn’t mind being woken up in the crack of dawn.)

“Good morning, vampire,” Quackity said cheerfully. “Bet you’re wondering why I’ve returned. You see, I was a bit unsatisfied by the way we left things earlier, so I came to set things straight.”

Wilbur knit his brows together, confused. Couldn’t he just have waited until the following evening? Surely this was unnecessary, unless—a sudden stab of pain interrupted his train of thought, and he looked down to see his flesh starting to burn. Wilbur tried and failed to suppress a whimper.

“Oh, does that hurt?” Quackity snickered. “Well, I’ll tell you this, okay—I can either stake you in the heart, right now, give you an easy out—or we can agree to work together, and in exchange I’ll let you go, and you won’t tell a soul about me. How does that sound, vampire?”

It was beyond condescending. Wilbur felt heat in his cheeks rise as he bit back a ripe-worded retort. “No way! Who do you think you are, fake vampire hunter? Just ‘cuz you caught me off guard, you think you have the right to do whatever you want!” He inched forward, ignoring the pain in his ankles in his pursuit of trying to look as threatening as possible (although, with the situation he was currently in, it was more pathetic than anything). “I’ll tell you this, motherfucker. I would rather die than give into your pathetic excuse of a ‘business deal.’”

Quackity leered, his corporate friendliness cracking for a fraction of a second. That was all Wilbur needed to feel superior… until Quackity opened his big mouth again. “Well then, I guess you wouldn’t mind me… talking with your friends, would you? Because you’d just rather die than work with me.”

Wilbur’s throat closed up, suddenly too dry. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

He went silent. His pride and his life were one thing, but to go after his loved ones?

“Fine,” Wilbur spat. “I-I’ll work with you, just please don’t hurt my family.”

Quackity clapped his hands together, delighted. He honestly wasn’t sure that bluff would work, but he was glad it did. “Great! I’ll leave you with my info, feel free to call me anytime, man.” He gave Wilbur a little pat on the cheek and set down a little business card in front of him. In a sleek, professional font, it read:

Then Quackity strolled away as if they’d just finished a casual chat about the weather.

It was only then, watching his red bottomed shoes make their way up the basement stairs, that Wilbur realised he hadn’t been untied.