#wilfy has a breakdown and its not very fun or sexy for anyone

[swedisheek]

@morfiplier gave me a lovely ficlet idea earlier and i ran with it, and @doctordiscord123 is generally a cool person and an inspiration so i’m tagging her as well :)

also dark uses he/they interchangeably because i want him to :3

(tw: violence and blood)

one day, wilford snaps.

not a quick, clean break, but an agonizing tearing apart, the sort of wounding that leaves a bad scar and a worse story behind it.

when he comes home from work, eyes burning with frustrated tears and gripping a not unused knife in his white-knuckled, shaking hands, dark stands from their reading spot on the couch, preparing to ask him soothingly about his day, but he stops cold in his tracks when his husband gives them a silent, wild-eyed look, breath trembling. the two stand there for a tense, quiet moment before wilford stalks off into their shared room.

dark has just enough apathy to be able to ignore the yells and crashes and thumps coming from the master bedroom, but by the time dinner rolls around, the other egos are a bit anxious, to say the least.

erik is shaking as he practically tiptoes to the table, bing is quiet for once as he squeezes google’s hand tightly, yancy’s head is bowed low as he shuffles around the kitchen, and even the host looks uncomfortable, muttering a stream of nervous narrations under his breath as he swishes around the corner into the dining room. his bandages are stained with blood, a sure sign that he’s had a vision recently, and an unpleasant one.

dark is the only one that dares go near the master bedroom.

there’s a broken vase scattered in shards all across the floor next to the knocked-over bedside table, and dark winces at the sight of it. it’s a relic from a dig that illinois had managed to squirrel away in his bag, and he’d given it to the heads of the household as a one-year-of-living-together present. the pillows have been thrown off of the bed, and several have been torn apart, split precisely down the middle by someone with a very sharp blade that had quite a lot of experience using it. the curtains are ripped at the base, and the tears almost look like the claw marks of some desperate, furious animal.

and among the feathers and pottery and thrown furniture, there is wilford, knees pulled up to his chest, flicking a pink switchblade open and shut, open and shut. there are tear tracks on his half-covered face, and his eyes, which have reverted to a pinwheel of yellow and pink with pinprick-sized pupils in the middle, are focused solely on the knife in his hands. the spiraling eyes and still-bloodied arms don’t ease dark much as to how easy this will be, but he steps forward, modulating his aura’s ringing into a quiet, calming hum.

this is their husband. blood and strange, supernatural traits are nothing new to the two of them.

open and shut, open and shut, and the soft thud of dark’s shoes join in with the rhythm of the clicking blade. wilford still doesn’t look up, even when dark is standing right next to him.

“love, dinner’s almost ready. you need to stand up and wash off your hands, please.”

open, shut, open, shut. wilford mumbles something like “don’wanna” into his arm, eyes still blankly following the switchblade. dark tuts, sitting down on a near-empty pillowcase and propping their head in their hand.

“i understand that you had a bad day, wil, but you’ll feel better once you see everyone and you talk about it, alright?”

they reach out, squeezing wilford’s arm.

“don’t TOUCH ME!”

in a flash, he bolts up, backing away and holding out the knife in front of him, and there’s a strange disconnect for a moment as dark stares at the smear of near-black rotten blood along the edge of the blade. they can hardly hear their husband’s breathed continuation through the sudden feeling of their head being submerged underwater.

“please.”

they’ve known each other for nearly a century and wilford has never, never, laid a hand on them.

so perhaps it’s appropriate that, as dark watches the trickle of blackness down their wrist, at the decayed muscles wrapped in the black energy that makes up their soul, he feels a little bit like he’s just been hit by a tsunami.

judging by wilford’s shocked, pained expression, he feels a bit similar.

“i- oh god, dami- dark- wait, fuck, fuck, no no no, i’m so- so goddamn sorry, i-“

“wil, it’s okay.“

the words feel like lies, even to their own ears, and they know tears are beginning to slip out of their eyes, but he hopes his husband will believe it enough for the both of them.

they take a step forward, extending their hands the barest amount, and wilford collapses into them, chest heaving as he cries quietly. dark knows his suit is getting bloody, but he doesn’t mind.

wil’s okay now, or at least, he’s going to be. that’s all that matters.

and if the other egos pile into the doorway a few minutes later, each giving wilford a more aggressive hug than the last until he’s giggling uncontrollably and throwing handfuls of feathers at everyone and dark is laughing as they’re dragged into the fight until he nearly forgets about the cut, well that’s no one’s business but theirs.

(this turned out significantly fluffier than it was supposed to but darkstache is like. the biggest comfort ship for me i cant have it end on angst :( )