"Have you?" Quackity sips at his wine. "Look behind you, Wilbur. I'm running a country now. No one else, just me. I'd say one of us has changed." More than he can say to Wilbur, even; he thinks of Dream's voice, begging, and there's something vicious in him that makes him want to show Wilbur how much he's changed. He takes another sip of the wine.

"You're running a ghost town. You wish you were running half the country L'Manberg was."

"I ran L'manburg, too, or did you forget you lost the election?"

"I got more votes than you did. Schlatt ran L'Manberg. Wasn't that your point? That you didn't need him anymore, now you can run a second-rate country all on your own?"

If Quackity lets Wilbur rile him up, Wilbur wins. "I honestly don't know why I invited you. We're done here. Q, take his plate. Wilbur, get out of my nation."

Does Wilbur not know what he's invoking, or does he just care that fucking little?

Q steps forward and, making direct eye contact with Wilbur, takes his plate. The customer service smile does not drop but he is doing his level best to put go fuck yourself into every motion.

Wilbur makes the eye contact right back. "So you'll let him order you around, is that how it is?"

There are any number of things Q could say, several that he really fucking wants to, and absolutely none that wouldn't be either a concession or handing Wilbur more ammunition. So he doesn't. 

"Wilbur. Leave."

"Or what? Gonna make me?"

"It'd be a waste of both our time even more than this already is. I'm asking. Out. Now."

"You could still change your mind. We could--we could work together, I'd stop bothering you, you'd never have to think about me again--"

"I don't think about you at all." It's not even a little bit true, but it doesn't need to be; Wilbur's face falls on cue. There we go, Quackity thinks. Fucking finally.

"Q, if you ever--"

Quackity interrupts, voice faux-sympathetic. "Oh, Wilbur. How relaxing it must be to have a mind unburdened by embarrassment."

...He takes the hint and leaves.

Now the customer service act drops. 

"That went better than it could've." 

"Damn right." He's not sure if he believes the conviction behind his words. Doesn't matter. Fake it till you make it. He drinks the rest of his wine in one swallow. Wilbur's glass is untouched. At least they both ate most of their food.

He steals Wilbur's wine and sips it— he isn't a capital-letters Wine Guy but he knows more than zero, enough to tell if it's any good and enough to pretend to be a capital-letters Wine Guy at parties if he really has to, which is more than enough to know you're not supposed to drink it like a shot. 

(He's not thinking about Schlatt. He's absolutely definitely not thinking about Schlatt. He is totally thinking about Schlatt but he would rather not be so he isn't and also fuck you.) 

"I'm almost curious what he thought he still had to offer me," he says, mostly so that they aren't just drinking in silence. 

"It's Wilbur. He thinks he has something to offer fucking everyone."

And they're back to Q being looked at like a dead rat in your kitchen. Joy. 

"This is true," he says, in the same neutral nothing way he'd say it to a stranger he had to make small talk with, and takes another sip of wine.