Detached Desperation
AO3 Link: click here!
Summary: Wilford and Dark have been trying for another child for years, with no result. Dark figures it's their fault, and they must fix it, no matter the cost.
---
The crypt exhaled centuries of damp stone and forgotten prayers as Dark stepped inside, their polished shoes clicking against the uneven floor. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something old—something that curled in the back of the throat like a half-remembered nightmare.
They had chosen this place carefully.
Far from the warmth of the manor’s hearth. Far from Wilford’s booming laughter. Far from the sound of small feet pattering down the hall, of a child’s voice calling "Mama!" in that bright, demanding way that made Dark’s chest ache.
No distractions. No weaknesses.
The book lay open on the altar, its pages yellowed and breathing, the ink shifting like trapped insects beneath glass. Dark ran their fingers over the ritual circle carved into the floor, the grooves worn smooth from previous attempts.
Fix this. Fix me.
The knife was cold in their grip. They turned it once, watching torchlight catch on the silver edge. There was no hesitation as it parted their skin—only the clinical satisfaction of precision. Blood welled, thick and dark, dripping into the waiting basin with a sound like a dying clock.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
They exhaled, long and slow. The pain was irrelevant. Pain was for creatures bound to flesh, and Dark had long since severed themselves from such weaknesses. This was not suffering. This was correction.
Their thoughts splintered—one half methodically reciting the incantations, the other drifting somewhere outside their body, watching with detached fascination as their own hands worked.
Detached. Efficient.
But their fingers trembled.
---
Yancy’s laughter bounced off the parlor walls as he hurled another pillow at Wilford’s head.
"Missed me!" Wilford crowed, ducking with exaggerated flair. The pillow fort—a lopsided monstrosity of velvet cushions and stolen bedsheets—trembled precariously.
"Did not!" Yancy scrambled over a mountain of pillows, his socks slipping on the polished wood. At ten years old, he was all knees and elbows, a whirlwind of energy with his father’s wild grin and his mother’s sharp eyes. "You cheated!"
"Cheating implies rules, sunshine," Wilford said, ruffling his hair. *"And we Iplier men invent the rules."
Yancy stuck out his tongue. "Mama says that’s why you keep setting the kitchen on fire."
Wilford gasped, clutching his chest. "Betrayal! From my own flesh and blood!"
Yancy giggled, flopping onto a pile of cushions. "Where is Mama, anyway?"
Wilford’s smile didn’t falter, but something flickered behind his eyes—too fast for a child to catch. "Oh, you know how they are. Probably brooding in the study. Or plotting world domination. Very busy, very scary stuff."
Yancy rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet idly. "They promised to help me with my math."
"Ah, well, in that case, they’re definitely hiding," Wilford said, winking.
Yancy huffed, but he was grinning. "You’re terrible at math, Pops."
"Excuse you, I’m brilliant at math," Wilford said, snatching him up and tickling his ribs. "I just don’t like it."
Yancy shrieked with laughter, squirming away. "Mama’s better at it!"
Wilford’s grin softened. "Yeah," he said quietly. "They are."
---
Wilford was laughing when the scream tore through him.
One moment, he was sprawled across the parlor floor, Yancy’s indignant yelp ringing in his ears as the pillow fort collapsed around them. The next—
*Agony.*
A sound that wasn’t a sound, a scream that wasn’t his own, ripped through his skull, a psychic blade buried hilt-deep in his chest. His magic recoiled , then surged , a wildfire of pink and gold lashing out before he could think. Dark.
"Pops?" Yancy’s voice was small, confused.
Wilford didn’t hear him. He didn’t teleport—he unraveled , reality shredding under the force of his panic.
The last thing he saw was Yancy’s wide, frightened eyes.
Then he was gone.
---
Wilford re-materialized in the crypt, the stench of blood and rot hitting him like a physical blow.
What he saw stopped his heart.
Dark knelt at the center of a grotesque masterpiece, their blood painting the floor in jagged, hungry spirals. Their face was serene. Empty. The way it looked when they had locked themselves away so thoroughly even Wilford couldn’t reach them.
"Stop." The word clawed its way out of his throat, raw and desperate.
Dark didn’t look up. "Don’t interfere."
Wilford lunged. The wards screamed as they seared his skin, blood-magic burning like acid. He barely felt it. "DARK!”
"It’s necessary." Their voice was flat. Lifeless. They lifted the basin, their hands steady. "I am flawed. I cannot give you what you deserve."
Wilford’s magic detonated. The crypt shook, dust raining from the ceiling as the wards shattered under the force of his fury.
"Flawed?" he roared. "You’re perfect . You’ve always been—"
"Liar." A crack in the ice—just one. Dark’s breath hitched. "You want another child. I want another child. And I—I cannot—"
The basin tilted toward their lips.
Wilford moved faster than thought.
---
Yancy stared at the spot where Wilford had been.
"Pops?"
Silence.
The parlor felt too big suddenly, the shadows stretching too long. The pillow fort lay in ruins around him, the cushions scattered like fallen soldiers.
"Papa?"
Nothing.
Yancy swallowed, his throat tight. He knew better than to go looking when his parents disappeared like this. Mama had rules about that.
But he wanted his Mama.
He curled into the remains of the fort, pulling a blanket over his shoulders. "They’ll come back," he whispered to himself. "They always come back."
---
The basin exploded against the wall, blood splattering like a dying star.
Wilford didn’t remember crossing the distance. One moment he was screaming; the next, he had Dark’s face in his hands, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of their cheeks hard enough to bruise.
"You think this is about a child ?!" His voice was a blade, sharp enough to draw blood. "I would raze continents . I would unspool time itself . Do you hear me? You are not allowed to leave me. "
Dark stared through him, their eyes glassy. "You deserve more."
"I DESERVE YOU!" Wilford’s voice broke. "All of you. The coldness, the fury, the calculated fucking cruelty —it’s mine . You don’t get to take it away!"
For the first time in decades, Dark flinched. Their composure splintered, just for a second. "Wilford, I—"
"No." He dragged them against his chest, his fingers tangling in their hair like a man clinging to a cliff’s edge. "You don’t get to die for a maybe . You don’t get to die at all."
Dark’s hands hovered—trembling—before fisting in his shirt. "I’m… tired," they whispered.
Wilford pressed his face into their neck, his tears scalding. "Then rest. But here. With me."
Somewhere, in a ruined pillow fort, a child waited.
And for the first time in a long while, Dark let themselves be held.
---
Wilford found Yancy asleep in the wreckage of the fort, curled under a blanket with tear tracks on his cheeks.
He scooped him up gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Hey, sunshine."
Yancy stirred, blinking blearily. "Papa?"
"Yeah, kiddo. I’m here."
Yancy’s eyes darted past him, searching. "Mama?"
Wilford turned.
Dark stood in the doorway, their expression unreadable.
Yancy wriggled out of Wilford’s arms and ran to them, burying his face in their coat. "You left," he accused, his voice muffled.
Dark’s hands hovered for a moment before settling on his back. "I came back."
Yancy sniffed. "You promised to help me with math."
A beat. Then—
"...I did," Dark said quietly.
Wilford watched as they let Yancy drag them to the table, as they bent over his workbook with exaggerated patience, as their fingers—still stained with blood— brushed his hair back with something almost like tenderness.
In the doorway, Wilford smiled.
And Dark, for once, didn’t argue.
[Read at AO3 for better formatting! Formatting in Tumblr is a Pain and I give up. Sgdhshd]
