Flustered and Under the Weather

Chapter 1: Oh, To Be Sick Again (Quackity pov)

Quackity opened his eyes blearily, the bright desert sun flooding his vision. The space needle cast a long shadow over the casino and the dark contrast posed a sharp shift over the walls. The air was tingling with chance, with the prospect of fortune. Bright lights and colors awaited him downstairs in the form of games or wheels, as did the distant illuminated "Welcome to Las Nevadas" sign just on the edge of the border. The country he built was beautiful in the morning. Tranquil, almost.

The light was high, almost noon. Quackity usually woke up at dawn; the sooner he started the day, the more he could get done. Which is also why the desk across the room was littered with empty cans of energy drinks and half-full glasses of whiskey; the product of a both a late sleeper and an early riser.

A large, wall-to-wall bookshelf carved around a tall window sat behind the woodwork, filled with paperbacks and hardcovers detailing anything from the rules of Black Jack to documents he'd saved from Pogtopia. On one of the middle shelves was a bowl of golden casino chips. Quackity had a habit of twirling the plastic between his fingers, letting the repetition take him over for a little while. Usually, he kept a few in his pockets- Slime liked to steal them every now and again. Only now, he realized what a bad idea it was to put them across the room.

He groaned quietly, trying to push himself into a sitting position, but it felt like there was an invisible weight crushing his muscles. Gravity was working overtime, determined to flatten him like a pancake. A wave of fatigue hit him, drawing a hoarse cough from his dry throat.

Shit. Out of all the times to be sick...

He reached for the open glass of water by his bedside, taking a tentative sip. The liquid burned Quackity's throat, the cold sensation searing his vocal cords. Ok, no more water.

His desk was a fine work of craftsmanship, carved with various images of the four suits. It was a daily reminder to him, that no matter what gambling went on or what losses were made that day, "the house always wins." On that desk, next to the bright window with velvet curtains and the wooden shelves, was a telephone. The red handset and golden cord called to Quackity, pleading for him to come and work. There was so much for him to do, always more and more paperwork. It was a never-ending pile. But with his voice clearly out of service, his cold, or whatever was making him feel like shit, would do far more harm than good in a work environment.

With great effort, he pushed himself off the mattress, the squeaking of springs filling the audible void. His legs felt like jelly, his ankles ached, but Quackity griped his bedpost tightly, trying to hold himself up. He swayed.

"Gotta...call..." He stumbled blindly to the desk, focusing on putting one foot down at a time. Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. Wait, wrong foot. He stumbled, but threw his arms out to regain his footing.

Blurry vision coated him like a blanket, a sea of black building up and poking out the color. It felt like moving through molasses, a thick layer of freezing molasses. The hardwood floor stung his feet, and Quackity wished he had put on slippers or socks or something to get rid of this frigid feeling that was only worsened by his sporadic shivering.

Finally, after what felt like months or years, he collapsed in the warm leather chair and reached for the phone, hands shaking. The still-open window did little to help his temperature, but it didn't matter. He needed to get in contact with his successor. Quackity dialed the number.

"Hmmnn...Slime?"

"What's up Quackity from Las Nevadas! You doing good, man?"

"Slime, I-"

"Is your connection ok? You sound sorta muffled."

"Sick...uhh do you remember a f-" He coughed harshly. "-few months ago?"

"Of course I do! What day are we talking about?"

"The day I- I said to...run Las Nev-"

"-adas if you ever get sick! You're not feeling well today, huh?"

Quackity sneezed once, twice. The phone hummed silently as Slimecicle waited on the other end. "N-no shit...got it?"

"Quackity from Las Nevadas, I'm here to help!"

—

It was miserable, being sick. Chills came and went. Pounding headaches played with his thoughts. He kept imagining that someone was standing over him, watching him cough himself nearly to death and laughing at him. Maybe that someone was fate. Quackity knew it was just a cold, but he didn't have a strong immune system. Sickness hit him like a ton of TNT.

He wanted to see Slime, let him know what had to be done while he was out of commission. But he could barely talk, his throat felt like sandpaper. The most he could hope for was returning to still see the semblance a country. It's not that he didn't trust Slime; as his closest friend, he trusted him with his life; but the guy was often swayed by the people around him. Gullible. Quackity was still trying to get him out of that habit.

He tried to flip himself over in bed, to the cold side. But the movement sent blood rushing to his head, and he sank into the mattress. God, this is pathetic.

Years ago, he would have had someone to care for him. Once before, it was Schlatt. He had put aside the alcohol so his Vice President could keep going. And though it wasn't extremely helpful, but Quackity appreciated the thought. Another time was Karl, who then called up Sapnap to help him deal with the flu once. The two of them were careful, loving in their movement. They had helped each other in order to help him.

But Quackity couldn't see anyone, truly. Slime needed to run the country, and he wasn't going to risk anything; he couldn't have his Plan B get sick too. Tubbo had to run the burger van and his husband had to run Wilbur's. Foolish was building another monument, Purpled was somewhere, and...Quackity couldn't think of anyone else. His country would have to run without him for a bit, just as he'd have to recover alone.

He was still laying uncomfortably when a soft knock reverberated through the room, worsening the headache.

"Quackity? Can I come in?"