Predator (DWT x OC)

63

And only because this is a phenomenally terrible idea, really, Schlatt's outdone himself on the horrible, very bad, barely comprehensible idea front, and only because if he does go ahead with this, they're fucked beyond explanation, Quackity has to intervene.

"So?" He repeats, outraged, because Schlatt know's exactly what the issue with that is, and that means he knows how bad of an idea that is. "So that directly violates the peace treaty between Dream and Manburg, and should that happen, the only thing it's going to lead to is an all out war. One we're not ready for."

Schlatt shrugs. He fucking shrugs, and Quackity wants to lean over and shake some sense into him. "I want that iron."

"It's not worth a war!" He explodes, and by the time the words leave his mouth, he knows he's fucked up. 

"Excuse me?" Schlatt's voice is calm, too calm, too quiet, too calculated and it's fucking terrifying, setting his hair on edge, the red tie of his uniform digging to tightly into his neck, the suit jacket too hot. Schlatt rounds the desk, standing next to him, staring straight at the side of his head, Quackity refusing to turn. "What did you just say?"

He swallows nervously, fingers fidgeting by his sides. Just apologise, just hold your frame, because Schlatt doesn't like cry babies, apologise and maybe he'll go easy today. 

Quackity said he knew not to be hopeful, but by god, sometimes that's all he had to get through the day. 

"I uh, I said it's not worth a war." There's a horrible, terrible pause of dead silence. "Sir."

Schlatt leans even closer in, and he can feel his hot breath on his cheek and neck, and he can smell the residual stench of the brandy Schlatt had been drinking, probably stashed somewhere under his desk, and his cologne. "No, I think you shouted that. At me."

"Now, Quackity, can you remind me who exactly is the President here?"

"You, sir."

The blow comes out of nowhere, and it stuns him, more than hurts him, sending him stumbling nonetheless. Thick skin built up over the months protects him from the familiar sting, but it still fucking hurts. And it's probably going to bruise, already throbbing on his cheekbone.

"Exactly. I'm the President. Don't you ever think that you can talk to me like that." Schlatt spits, painfully clear that he's done with him. The final nail in the coffin comes by a smack on his ass, and Quackity feels sick, cowering near the door in Schlatt's office, terrified of more blows to come. 

They don't though, and it's clear whoever came into the office beforehand must of suffered the brunt of the rage mentioned by clerks earlier on, and Quackity takes that information with a glint of gratitude right out of the door with him, without even being dismissed. 

It could have been worse. It always could have been worse. 

One time, Schlatt threw a one of the empty brandy bottle at his head, glass splintering straight into his temple and cheek. The blood had been everywhere, and the needlelike shards of paper thin glass were almost impossible to get out. Rosemary had been in jail by that time, and the last time they had spoken, she'd been covered in Fundy's blood, grinning like a homicidal maniac, so he had to resort to getting Tubbo to help him patch it up. 

It had taken months to heal. 

He rounds the corner of the hallway, to the opening foyer, ignoring the stares, some filled with knowing pity, emotions he didn't want, eyes he didn't like following him around with sympathetic smiles and hastily averted gazes. 

When he reaches is front porch, he finds out who the poor soul was that felt the brunt of Schlatt's anger, and saved him a beating and a possible broken cheekbone.