in which obsession overcomes irony

kill me! (romantically)

Wilbur was not well, and he would not be taking criticism or feedback on the matter.

Wilbur was certain that well, mentally stable people did not think about one person constantly to a point where he hallucinated and thought he saw the ghostly form of his dead coworker.

Wilbur was certain only he could do such a thing.

So, over the next week or so, Wilbur tried to show self-restraint and not think about Quackity. He tried not to think about his soft lips, or his fierce eyes that softened on rare occasions, or the moment Wilbur left him standing in his office, dumbfounded.

He tried, and he failed miserably.

Every waking hour Wilbur's mind was constantly on Quackity, Quackity, Quackity, and Wilbur couldn't make it stop. Not that he wanted to, anyway.

He restrained himself from breaking into his office again, trusting that if Quackity really did want to talk again, he would know where to find him. A few times Wilbur even entered the lobby of the office building on one of his trips to Las Nevadas—for cigarettes; he took the "complementary" ones behind the desk—and had to physically restrain himself to not show up on Quackity's doorstep right then and there.

When Wilbur found a letter outside his door from Quackity one morning, to say he was ecstatic would be an understatement.

"Listen to this, Ranbus," he said, just in case his friend was listening, ""You have been formally invited to the grand reopening of the LN casino, located Northeast of the Needle."" he read. The letter was signed with Yours Truly, Quackity in ink under the print.

Wilbur grinned, finding the time and date on the back, along with a small, handwritten P.S. next to it: "I'll be in my office an hour and a half before."

Wilbur's grin grew as he finished reading it. He lit a quick cigarette, setting the letter carefully inside a drawer under a counter—where he kept most things from Quackity—and letting smoke fill the room.

"Looks like I've got myself a date of some sorts, Ranboo!" Wilbur cheered through the cig in his teeth. "I think I'll be leaving now. Take care of the Wilburger-Ranvan while I'm gone, yeah?"

As he left for Las Nevadas in complete silence, Wilbur realized how crazy he would look to any passerby, talking to nobody inside of an old, broken down van. And even crazier he must seem to be going to Las Nevadas four hours before the grand opening would start. But Wilbur was not well, and "crazy" might be an accurate description, he thought.

Wilbur had a plan.

He would wait for Quackity in his office, however long it took. He had been waiting approximately 10 days—that's around 240 hours; 14,400 minutes; or 864,000 seconds—for Quackity. What's a few more?

So Wilbur, on the eighth floor of the office building, took a seat in Quackity's chair, and he waited. And waited. And waited, until his cigarette had burnt out, as had three more after it. He waited until Quackity's determined time of one and a half hours before the reopening dwindled into 15 minutes. But still, he waited, long enough for the stars to come out from underneath the sky's dark velvet coat.

Quackity wouldn't have lied to him. The man was many things, untruthful, perhaps, but Wilbur was hopeful.

"The stars are beautiful tonight," he murmured to himself, staring out of the huge window with a magnificent view of Las Nevadas below.

The elevator chime startled him.

He spun and met eyes with an equally startled Quackity.

The man cleared his throat. "What are you doing in my office, Wilbur?" he asked.