Predator (DWT x OC)

63

Schlatt's angry. 

Well, he always is, but today it's bad. Worse. A real fucking mess if Quackity's going to be perfectly honest. And guess who gets the pleasure of being in the firing line? That's right, the man himself and a seventeen year old kid who looks like he's on the verge of tears whenever anyone breathes in his direction. 

Quackity's stood outside Schlatt's office, shallow nervous breaths as he eyes up the decorated mahogany, all regal and authority and such as perfect facade, the brass handle and the demon within. 

The foul odour of cheap cigarettes assaults him the moment the door opens, revealing an office looking the worse for wear, like he'd ground smoke directly into the plush carpet, soaked alcohol into the fibres. He's not supposed to be drinking, and Quackity has been trying, he really has, to keep him away from liquor, but Schlatt is nothing if not stubborn, and a huge, self destructive pain in the ass. 

Rosemary told him he'd die if he kept drinking, and he'd managed two weeks cold turkey. It had been impressive really, because he doubts Schlatt has gone a day in his life since the age of eight without a drop of liquor. But in the end, he gave up, like he always did. 

Not that he'd had a whole lot of a hope. It was stupid, Quackity knows it was, but maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he'd care. 

But he hadn't, and they'd come full circle, watching on helplessly as he wound down the tiny amount still left on his life. Rosemary would have a fit if she came back to see the blatant disregard for personal health and medical advice. 

Actually, scrap that, she'd probably pour Schlatt a drink and laugh as he went. But, that's another problem for another day. 

"Ah sugar plum! You made it!" Schlatt croons out the nickname, one that's supposed to be loving, supposed to be said gently and kindly, not spat out like it burns his mouth to say it, not used to poke and prod at Quackity's heart like Schlatt knows how to do. 

"You wanted to talk?" He responds, stiffly, professionally, because he's talking to his boss about an important memo, and that's all. All it should be. 

"Loosen up Quackity, Jesus Christ." Schlatt stares at him with those black eyes, deep pools that seem too envelop him. "What's up your ass today?"

"What did you want to talk about Schlatt?" If he just sticks to the memo, just finds out what Schlatt needs him to do, then maybe he can escape this unscathed. 

Because yeah, like he's ever made it out unscathed before. 

It's okay though, because Schlatt doesn't even understand what he's doing half the time, and the other half, well the man's the goddamn President, cut him break. It's stressful, running a country (into the ground, as many have hissed into his ear), dealing with exiles and rebellions and taxes and shit. And Quackity would rather take it than Tubbo, be the scape goat, the proverbial, and literal, punching bag for all of Schlatt's frustrations. 

Schlatt keeps his eyes glued on him, and Quackity has to resist the urge too shiver under his gaze, because it always feels like Schlatt's sizing up his next meal, eyes raking over you like a prized possession, and not a human being. He sighs. 

"I'm making an announcement at the festival. We're going to be expanding the borders North, and setting up a search area for Wilbur and Tommy." Schlatt says, shuffling a stack of neatly printed papers. 

"North?" Quackity repeats hesitantly. 

"Have you gone deaf or something?" Schlatt snaps. "North. I want the ponds, and that iron reserve under Manburg territory."

"That's Greater SMP land. That's Dream's land."

Schlatt snorts, looking up at Quackity with that look on his face, the one that says I'm going to fucking steamroll whatever you're about to say and you're going to deal with it. "So?"