Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rhythmic sound of the axe echoes through the quiet forest around him, shattering the peace and startling wildlife.  Sapnap grits his teeth as the conversation replays in his mind over and over and over. It stings, deep in his chest and behind his eyes. The pain is like a corrosive acid that he tries to burn out of his system with every heavy swing of his axe against the wood. The words will not ignite. They sit there, fresh and biting, marinating in his solitude. 

It’s better you don’t know. Look, I’m sure you care and all, but just– leave it alone. You’re not made for this, okay? I’ll handle it. 

But he was made for this. He was. It’s the only thing he knows beyond a doubt, that he needs this. He swings, and splinters of wood fly from the felled log where he strikes it.

Stop trying to fix things, you– you don’t even understand, how could you? You’ll never understand, so just–

But he wants to. He wants so badly to understand; if someone would just explain it to him, he knows that he could help.

–just stop asking!

Sapnap’s axe breaks through the log and buries itself halfway into the earth below. He pauses for a moment, panting softly through his teeth. His vision blurs ever so slightly, and for a moment he thinks that his anger is burning hot enough to warp the flow of the air in front of his face. Then the breath hitches in his throat and starts to come out ragged, and he realizes that his eyes are blurring with tears. Cursing quietly, he pries the axe head up, leaving a gash in the dirt. 

It’s been seventeen hours since he last saw Karl in the early morning. He had appeared sometime in the night; if Sapnap hadn’t been awake keeping watch, he would have missed him completely. But there he was, dark circles under his kaleidoscopic eyes, muttering to himself as he drifted through the library like a ghost. Sapnap spotted the glow of his candle and followed him into the dusty shelves. He had meant to worriedly ask where Karl had been for the past week and perhaps persuade him to come home and sleep. When he was standing there, though, under Karl’s intensely blank and searching gaze, he couldn’t help what came out of his mouth. He was angry. Of course he was angry, and yet Karl didn’t seem to have any inkling of why Sapnap felt the way he did. He withdrew, got defensive, and refused to explain anything at all. 

Sapnap tried to backtrack, of course, softening his tone and telling him that he just wanted to understand. He just wanted to help. It made no difference. Karl is involved with something, something that is stealing him gradually away from Sapnap, and he doesn’t even think that Sapnap can handle knowing what it is. It makes Sapnap’s blood boil – mostly because it scares him, and he hates feeling scared. It doesn’t feel natural.

Sapnap raises the axe once again, ready to chop the rest of the log into kindling. At that moment, there is a faint crunching sound which makes him pause. His eyes scan the woods around him, axe poised in his hands as the sound of rustling branches and hurried footsteps gets closer. 

“Who’s there?” he calls out. The noise halts. 

“Hello?” A scratchy voice replies. Sapnap’s eyes lock on the bushes in the direction that the voice comes from. 

“Is that Tommy?” he asks. 

There is a quiet rustling and snapping, and the young Brit emerges from the brush. His hair is windswept and his face is flushed as though he has been running for some time. He breathes heavily, and Sapnap notices that his face and arms are covered in thin scratches from crashing through the forest.

“Sapnap!” Tommy says. “Sapnap, oh thank Prime.” His voice is raw. Already, Sapnap’s senses are pricked up; something feels wrong here. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, shouldering his axe and squinting into the forest where Tommy came from. 

“The Egg is all over the place, Phil and Niki are still back there, and- but it’s all red, the whole- the whole temple is just red, and there was fire, but they don’t burn, so Techno is fighting them but Ranboo has gone off– but they’re spreading, they can’t stop the Eggpire spreading–”

“Wait,” Sapnap interrupts, “The Eggpire?” He hasn’t had a personal conflict with the servants of the Red Egg yet, but he doesn’t need to. He’s heard enough about the Egg from his dad, and besides that, there are whispers all over the server about the sacrifices. The Red Banquet. The blood vines that are slowly and gradually creeping their way through the ground.

“They’re coming!” Tommy’s knuckles are white, and Sapnap notices for the first time that there is an ornate glass bottle clenched in his hand. 

“How many people?” He holds his axe out in front of him, checking its condition and durability. 

“It’s not.” Tommy shakes his head. “It’s not people, it’s them.”

“It’s who?” Sapnap looks back up at him, brows furrowed.

“The vines,” Tommy answers, and a shudder goes through him. He takes a few steps toward Sapnap. “The vines are coming, Sapnap, they’re spreading faster than I’ve ever seen them go before. We need to get out of here. We need to go–”

“They’re following you?” Sapnap asks.

“Well I– no, I don’t– No, I hope not.” Tommy looks behind him. “I ran away, but they were headed…” He trails off, then whispers, “Oh Prime.”

“Where?” Sapnap’s voice has risen a little, unintentionally. Tommy looks like he’s just realized something awful. “C’mon, Tommy, pull it together. Where are the vines going?”

“The last I saw, they were going that way.” Hesitantly, he raises a hand to point. “Through the hills and across toward… Las Nevadas.” Sapnap follows along with his gaze,though he can’t see through the thick forest.

“Toward what?” he says. Tommy looks back at him with wide eyes.

“Wilbur’s still over there,” he says.

“Wilbur, okay,” Sapnap nods, “Is there anyone else? What’s over there, who’s in danger?”

“Quackity, and– and Fundy, Foolish– other people too, I think, but Wilbur is–” Tommy keeps talking, but after the first name, everything else drops into static. Quackity. Sapnap’s heart stops for a moment and then resumes beating in a panicked rhythm.

“Get somewhere safe,” he says, twisting the axe around in his hands. Tommy doesn’t appear to be listening.

“We need to go back,” he murmurs.

“I’m going back there.” Sapnap walks forward and puts a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “I’ll go find whoever I can and get them out of there.” 

Tommy shakes his head. “I’m not leaving Wilbur. I’m not letting him– I’m going back for him. I have to.”

“What about Tubbo?” Sapnap reminds him. Tommy visibly falters, but then resumes his frightened but determined expression. “Tubbo’s safe, he and Ranboo are in Snowchester, in the arctic. They’re safe there, they’ll be okay, I know they will. Wilbur needs my help.”

Sapnap opens his mouth to argue, but the words catch in his throat when his eyes fall on the stretch of skin on the side of Tommy’s neck. Three scars sit close together; one of them a faint shrapnel pockmark, almost faded; the second a patch of wrinkled, pink burn damage; the third a thin, indented line that slices almost down to his collarbone. He shuts his mouth. Tommy has been through worse. He knows what danger is, he knows what he can handle. 

“Alright. We go together, then,” Sapnap says, and he doesn’t miss the flash of relief that crosses Tommy’s face before the boy pulls away and ventures back into the brush, Sapnap following close behind.

Chapter Text

“You know, this is quite an overreaction, even by your standards. I really don’t see how big of a problem–” The pressure on Wilbur’s windpipe increases sharply, extinguishing the rest of his sentence. 

“Shut. Up.” Quackity’s nails dig into the side of his neck. “Do you have any idea how much trouble I went to just to sort out the mess you made?”

Wilbur, unable to reply, pries halfheartedly at Quackity’s fingers. His back is pressed up against the side of a building, which is probably the only thing keeping him from toppling over since he has been pulled down to Quackity’s eye level, and his feet are having some trouble finding firm placement on the shifting sand beneath him. With the hand that is not gripping Wilbur’s throat, Quackity brandishes a slightly crumpled sheaf of papers – each page bearing Quackity’s signature, carefully forged by Wilbur’s hand.

“When you said you wanted competition, I made the mistake of thinking you would be at least as respectable as any other sleazy scam artist I’ve ever cut a deal with before,” he goes on, while Wilbur struggles to draw in an occasional gasp of air. “But you know what? None of them have ever had the audacity–” He smacks Wilbur’s face with the papers– “to try and impersonate me!”

Wilbur manages to get enough leverage to dig his foot into Quackity's stomach, sending the smaller man stumbling backward. He straightens up and draws in a rasping breath as his throat is released. Quackity is only momentarily fazed.

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure out what you did, tu maldita rata?” he snaps. 

Wilbur, even with his face flushed and hair tousled from being shoved around, has the gall to look amused. “No,” he says simply, flicking his curls out of his crinkled eyes. 

Quackity’s temples throb with the same headache he’s had since he woke up that morning. The glaring sun, the scalding desert heat, the familiar accent grating on his ears – all of it serves only to fray his already threadbare patience even further. 

“I swear to Prime, Soot, if you sent these stupid letters in my name just to– you know what?” He grits his teeth in what could be either an unhinged smile or a warning snarl. “I don’t even know which would be worse – if you were actually trying to sabotage my business, or if you knew it wouldn’t work and you just wanted to waste my time!”

“Well, from a purely professional standpoint–” Wilbur is cut off again, this time by the back of Quackity’s hand striking him across the face. He hisses as angular, golden rings leave stinging marks on his cheekbone, then laughs at Quackity’s irritation.

“Shut up and listen to me, tu cabrón, I don’t want to hear another word unless it’s an apology!”

There’s a short pause, in which the expression on Wilbur’s face alone is smug enough to constitute talkback. Quackity grunts in frustration and hits him again. Wilbur bursts out laughing as though he just can’t help himself.

Usually, Quackity would continue delivering a substantial tongue-lashing, concluding with whatever threat seems proportional to the mischief Wilbur has been up to this time. Lately, though, he’s reached the end of the well of tolerance he had constantly been drawing from to deal with– well, everything, really. This is the last straw. He’s had such a bad week that it’s apparently rendered him incapable of finding the long, degrading lecture he wanted. Instead, he spits a muddled slew of curses. And Wilbur, because he has to be an observant pain in the ass, notices.

“Prime, where’s your eloquence gone, Q?” he goads, “I really can’t imagine what’s on your mind to render you so classless.”

Quackity curses at him again in mingled Spanish and English, dropping the papers in favor of seizing a fistful of Wilbur’s hair and winding up to punch him. Wilbur counters him this time, grabbing his wrist and shoulder and grappling for control. The pair stumbles back and forth, each searching for sturdy footing to drive the other backward. 

Suddenly, Wilbur is sprawled on the ground. Quackity stumbles and nearly trips after him.

“What the hell?” Wilbur grunts, immediately trying to get back up. He freezes. “What the hell…”

Quackity opens his mouth to taunt him, and then stops as well.

A small, scarlet tendril stretches up out of the golden sand, wrapping around Wilbur’s ankle. As they watch, another one emerges from the ground, unfurling its dark-colored leaflets and slowly winding from one side to the other. As if it’s searching for something. 

Wordlessly, Wilbur reaches down and tries to unwrap the tendril from around his ankle. Instantly, the sand begins to shift and shimmer all around him. Three more tendrils, thicker this time, erupt from the earth, and he barely has time to shout and rip his leg away from the first one before they snake toward him.

Quackity backs away, staring as Wilbur struggles to escape. Is this a nightmare? he wonders. He knows those vines. They’re too familiar not to mean something…

“Vines,” he says out loud. And then, “Vines. Damn it.”

These are blood vines. The same ones that were crawling all over the Red Banquet, the same ones that are rumored to infect people with their roots and– Quackity isn’t even sure what they do, but he knows it’s not good.

“Wil– Wilbur!” He fumbles for any sort of tool he might have on his person. He didn’t come out here with much in the way of weaponry – all he can find is a pair of clipping shears. “I’ll get them, let me–” He drops down next to Wilbur and attacks the closest vine. The shears bite down over and over; the vine is tough, but it comes apart messily while Wilbur scrambles to evade the others. The instant he’s free, Wilbur is on his feet and running. 

“What is that?” he yells over his shoulder. 

“They’re blood vines,” Quackity answers, catching up.

Wilbur lets out an incredulous noise as if this explanation is utterly unreasonable, but there is no more time for either of them to speak. The sand all around them roils as more vines burst out of the ground – first a dozen, then ten dozen, then more. They run side by side toward the heart of the city. Quackity clutches his shears in one hand and grasps at Wilbur’s coat with the other while the scarlet tendrils snatch at their heels. When Wilbur stumbles and nearly trips, Quackity catches hold of his arm and drags him along. 

The vines are racing close behind them, snaking up the walls of buildings and burrowing through the sand until they reach the pavement. Soon Quackity is the one being dragged, as Wilbur’s long legs carry him faster. Then, they turn down an alley that is already writhing with red. 

“No, NO!” Quackity yells, yanking on Wilbur’s sleeve to redirect him.

“We can’t go back, we’re cornered!” Wilbur shoots back.

“Through here!” Quackity barrels through a service door into a lavish building, Wilbur on his heels. He slams the door shut behind them and deadbolts it. Wilbur leans against the wall to catch his breath. 

“Why… is there… what…?” He gestures vaguely, staring at Quackity for some kind of explanation.

“I don’t know, they’ve never done that before,” Quackity snaps. His mind is whirling around and around. “They belong to the Eggpire, I think. I didn’t think they could move like that” 

“So why are they trying to…” Wilbur’s brow furrows as he tries to find the word for what the vines are trying to do. “...get us?” he settles on.

“Do you not know anything about the Egg?” says Quackity.

Wilbur looks annoyed. “You can hardly expect me to keep up with every– um. Er, Quackity, they’re. They’re coming through. They’re coming through, look!”

Quackity looks down and jolts as he spots the creeping red tendrils slithering under the door toward him. He ducks down and goes at them with his shears, chopping and snipping the weaker branches away. It’s not enough. The vines seem to recognize the presence of the tool, and the incoming fingerlets all converge toward the shears, winding around the blades and jamming the fulcrum. Quackity swears as his weapon is torn out of his hands and rapidly encased in a leafy, red lump of vegetation.

“They’re alive?” Wilbur squawks. 

“Of course they’re alive, dumbass,” Quackity retorts, scrambling away from the intruding vines as they set a course straight for him.

“No, I know that, I meant–” Wilbur doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before the grate on a nearby heat register groans in metallic strain, then gives way as a flood of thick, pulsing, red foliage bursts through the heating vents. It clips Wilbur directly in the side, throwing him flat on the floor. Viny fingers wind around his limbs, under his coat, into his hair. He screams.

Quackity dodges past him, searching for an escape. There’s nothing he can do without a weapon, and nowhere to go that the vines won’t be able to wriggle their way in.

Unless. He spots a large metal door some ways down the hall ahead of them. It’ll be sealed tight, he knows, and no heating vents inside – still, if the vines get in, they’ll be done for. But Wilbur is quickly losing mobility, and Quackity has to make two important decisions in the span of half a second. 

He chooses to turn back, grab Wilbur, and wrestle him out of the viny web, leaving the man’s trenchcoat caught in its grasp. 

And he chooses to drag him to the stainless steel door, haul it open, and barricade both of them inside, the metal icy against his skin as he seals it behind them with a resounding thud.

Silence, except for two pairs of lungs heaving. 

Quackity’s breath turns to fog instantly as he exhales. For a moment, the refrigerated air feels nice against his sweaty skin. He turns his back to the door of the walk-in freezer, looking instead at Wilbur.

Wilbur looks dazed and confused, standing in his wrinkled sweater with one small, scarlet vine still clinging to the fabric. Quackity’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t have time to shout a warning as the vine plunges into Wilbur’s skin like a hot knife through butter.