Red Looks Better On Liars- Schlatt X Quackity

41~ No, You Cannot Kill The President.

Sapnap ~ we're doing so many perspective changes. this is actually so fun to write. 

Tw/Cw

guys quackity has officially lost it.

-

I lift my arm to knock, instead resting awkwardly over the wood. Never had my anxiety been bad, if anything, I'd say I was very good with talking to people. 

Now, though, I took that into question. What was I to expect when I opened this door? A bloody, horrific crime scene? Where Quackity had been brutally murdered and then stashed away, and I came at the exact time of the crime?

I blow a huff of air out of my nose, letting my hand finally knock on the door. Silence. I narrow my eyes, lifting my hand before stopping. Maybe they aren't home? Perhaps, I can leave now. So I don't have to deal with finding Quackity when Schlatt isn't near to deposit the goods—or singular good. 

I feel at my waistband, grazing the chilling pistol with my fingertips. Something about this felt so frightening. Maybe, that was why my anxiety was so high. The pistol tucked in my jeans.

My hand collides with the door one last time, finally being opened. Surprisingly, though, it was not Schlatt who opened. 

I'm met with Quackity, eye to eye. He's alive. He's alive.

I grin, breathing in a massive breath of relief. His eyes widen, eyebrows creasing. "He--Hello? Hi Nick--Uhm."  He, too, breathes in a breath, but not of relief. 

     "You really shouldn't be here," He grimaces, eyes glancing to the side, into his house. I tilt my head childishly, squinting my eyes. "Why?" 

He raises both eyebrows now, looking from me, to behind him. "Because-- I don't know. I can't think of a single reason." He sighs out, stepping aside to let me in. I grin, allowing myself in.

It feels almost wrong being so close to him, as if he's an artefact that isn't truly real, but is only a distant memory. Sometimes, it really felt that way.

 I smile at him, keeping my eyes on him. He looks uneasy at first, before turning into a room for me to follow. He leads us down a hallway, glancing into different rooms as he does. 

We finally get to a well lit room, leading to a beautiful marble kitchen. I smile softly, looking from decoration to decoration, wiping my hand on the counter. "Wow," I mutter.

He gives me a look, turning to close the door. He kicks something in front of him, basically locking it. Now he speaks. "Are you okay?" 

My lips crease to a thin line. "Actually, I came here to ask you that." 

He sighs, shaking his head, his fingers pressing into his temple. "I've already told you, I'm fine." 

My eyes narrow, tilting my head with a silent judgement. "Can he hear us?" I ask, a bit quieter. 

He nods, eyes glancing upward, insinuating an upstairs. 

     "Ah," I whisper now. "Karl's been worried sick about you." 

He grimaces, a noise escaping his throat. "I thought he was mad at me." 

I sigh. "Yes, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't care about you." 

He shakes his head. "Why would he care?" 

I furrow my eyebrows. "What do you mean? Of course, he'd care." 

       "I haven't seen him in months--I feel like I haven't seen anyone in months," He grumbles, pressing his hands into his face. "I can barely remember anything. Nothing has been the same."