"He said that about me too, you know. He'll get over it."

(Wilbur shoots Tommy a surprised look, which Tommy ignores.)

"Good to hear, I think? If he hits me with an axe about it again I'll be annoyed." 

"He hit you with an axe?"

Wilbur is vaguely aware that he should probably sound sympathetic rather than excited. He's even trying, a little bit. Not very well.

Probably he should not think that's cute. It just— it reminds him of home, okay. He likes Wilbur. A Wilbur. 

Fuck, he misses Wilbur. 

Shut up. 

"I mean, it didn't take or anything, and I got my stuff back? I'm not totally sure what he was even expecting to happen, honestly." 

“Well, it still hurt, didn’t it?” Sympathetic. Sympathetic sympathetic sympathetic. Not jealous or excited or eager or even afraid. Sympathetic. 

(Already, he can’t imagine anything except for how Quackity’s axe would feel, cutting through him. Not enough for a death, he doesn’t want to die again, he doesn’t, doesn’t want to risk going back to that fucking train station— but, but, fuck, if imagining Quackity like that doesn’t do something for him—)

"You are so fucking weird," he says, openly affectionate. (Shut up shut up shut UP.) "But if you wanna get hit with an axe that bad I am sure that by our powers combined we can make that happen." 

Tommy is instantly in between Wilbur and Quackity, his own axe drawn on Quackity. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“It’s not— it wasn’t— you can put the axe away, Tommy.”

“Shut up,” he says, but he puts the axe away. He doesn’t move, though, eyes locked with Quackity’s.

"Joking! I'm unarmed, I'm sorry--" 

It is probably, like, bad, or something, how ninety percent of his brain has been replaced with shaky flight-or-freeze panic, notes the other ten percent. 

Tommy eyes him warily for another moment and then relaxes, steps back. “Sorry, mate,” he mutters to Quackity, and then turns to glare at Wilbur. 

“Awwwwwww, Tommy, you caaaaare! Isn’t he adorable?” His voice is pitched for babytalk. 

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, but the heat is gone from his voice. 

"Aha. Yeah. Very cute." He has maybe thirty percent of his brain running now? Having the weapon put away helped a lot. He sounds like he is maybe not really processing the words coming out of his mouth, which is correct, he isn't. 

He hadn't acted like this when other-Quackity threatened him, and that axe actually hit. Is he just fucking stupid, is that his problem? Maybe it is. Fuck. 

Tommy squints at Quackity and then hands him a piece of bread. “Have some pity bread.”

This is strange enough behavior from someone who just threatened you that it does, at least, get him to the point of being approximately all in running order.

Like hell is he going to go back to cracking jokes with Wilbur after that, though. He will take and eat pity bread. 

Tommy socks Wilbur in the shoulder (light, playful). “Now look what you did, he’s eating fuckin’ pity bread.”

“You’re the one who threatened him. Besides, nothing wrong with a bit of pity bread every once in a while.”

“Yeah there is, it’s fuckin’—pity bread. You’re just a fuckin’ idiot.”

Affectionate eyeroll. 

Quackity shrugs. "Hey, food is food, man." 

He actually kind of sounds normal! Low standards are a joy. 

“No. No. Absolutely not. Do you also put grape jelly on your sausage, like, oh, food is food! No!!!”

“You did that.”

“Yeah, when I was eight.”

“Look, I’m in favor of your food crimes, but unless you’ve changed a lot in the past seven months—”