Quackity felt like shit.
He sat at his desk, his head pounding. He felt too hot, but he was so fucking cold, he was shivering non-stop. He felt miserable. But he had to keep working - these documents won't finish themselves.
He was so distracted by the throbbing of his head that he somehow hadn't noticed the sound of the door creaking open, followed by footsteps. Footsteps leading up to his desk. So distracted, That he wasn't aware of their presence until they'd spun his chair around to face themselves. Of course.
"Quackity?" They'd asked, seeing the pale boy shifting uncomfortably in his chair. His hair was slicked down to his forehead in sweat, but he was shaking- no, shivering?
"Go away Wilbur." He'd held back a cough as he spoke, his voice raspy. He sounded as though he hadn't drunken water in days. Not that Wilbur cared about his health. He really didn't. But he knew that if Quackity didn't make an effort to get better, it'd only get worse. And at this point, annoying the man had become Wilbur's main source of entertainment. And he really didn't wanna let him just die on him.
"Are you alright?" The Brit asked, setting his hand to his forehead. It was a concerning temperature against Wilbur's nearly ice cold skin. Despite Quackity's protests and negative comments, he seemed to lean into Wilbur's touch, desperately trying to rid of the heat the fever brought.
"Just - get out, I'm perfectly-"
"Don't even try to say you're fine." Wilbur cut him off, looking around as though something in the room would be of use.
"I'm fine." Quackity said with a glare, his tone nearly as cold as Wilbur's skin.
"You're going home." Wilbur said decidedly with a shake of his head.
"I have to work." Quackity scoffed, making a reach for his pen. This effort was useless, as his movements were rather fatigued, and Wilbur snatched it before he could get to it.
"You'll work when you're better." Wilbur insisted, leaning forward. Quackity didn't talk. Instead he shook his head, however his protests were ignored as Wilbur scooped him up out of his chair and into his arms.
He opened his mouth, beginning to speak up, most likely to shout stubbornly and demand to be let go. But then he burst into a fit of coughing, and the aching burn returned to his throat.
Wilbur waited, and waited, and stood there as Quackity nearly coughed himself to death. Finally, the man seemed to be over it, and Wilbur let him clear his throat. He could tell Quackity had managed to cough himself dizzy, and chuckled at the odd expression he now had. Watching Quackity in this state was quite amusing.
"You'll get sick." Quackity mumbled hoarsely. Now, suddenly, he cared whether or not Wilbur was ill? How funny.
"So? I know when to accept the fact that I need a break." Wilbur said absently. Quackity simply sighed. At this point, he'd given up. Wilbur could take the man anywheres, and Quackity wouldn't care. He'd let himself ease and relax in Wilbur's hold to the point of no return, he was exhausted. Wilbur considered this for just a moment, before setting the thought aside. He wasn't that cruel, he could tell Quackity wouldn't be able to defend himself against much in this state. Besides, where would he even take him?
He wasn't that cruel.
Or perhaps he was.
He'd decide along the way.
