#tw dependency

It’s weird to see Dream compliant.

Not that he hadn’t been in prison — fuck, Quackity had ensured Dream had been nothing short of obedient, able to get him to do almost anything (other than hand over the Revive Book information of course, rather frustratingly) — but Wilbur and Dream are on a different level. An inhuman level: Wilbur smiles and Dream rips apart a zombie in front of him; Wilbur takes a drag from his cigarette and Dream creates a diversion for him to get out of a situation; Wilbur fucking walks into a room, and Dream is ready to burn the world for him.

He won’t lie. It’s three parts unsettling and seven parts enviable: in his long three months of getting to know Dream (to put what he had been doing in prison lightly), Dream had never once been so attentive of his wants, had never once been on the same page as him, even in their rare moments of semi-understanding, the moments where Dream would scream and Quackity would demand an answer that both of them would willingly do anything for. To see Wilbur swan into the scene, pluck Dream out from of his grasp, and bend him into the perfect guard dog within a week is almost an insult.

“How’d you do it?” He asks one day, unable to help himself. It’s impossible to hide the thin layer of hunger in his words, hunger that Dream and Schlatt and Techno and Wilbur had lit the match on but that had always been buried deep inside him. “How’d you..”

Well. They both know what he’s talking about. Quackity makes a rough gesture to Dream, sat on the floor at Wilbur’s feet with his hands pressed against the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. He’s more animal than human; Quackity pays him almost no mind when his face snaps to him, when he stiffens, body growing tense at the sight of his torturer, because at this point, Wilbur talking for Dream is more expected. Fuck, Quackity still isn’t convinced they don’t have some sort of telekinetic bond, telekinesis, telepathic, whatever — when Wilbur smiles at Quackity, teeth gleaming, Dream’s hand twists on the floor into something white knuckled and heavy. Quackity eyes him in barely concealed contempt.

“Do what?” Wilbur has the gall to feign ignorance, tilting his head in boyish confusion. “I’ve done a lot of things, you’re going to have to be a tad more specific, Big Q.”

Quackity jerks his head to the prisoner in the room, moving from his slouched position against the doorframe further into the room, probing, restless. “You know what I’m talking about. To Dream. How the fuck did you get him like that?”

Wilbur’s eyes don’t even flicker to Dream; he doesn’t even acknowledge his presence in the room, but Dream sits up straighter anyway, that stupid mask keeping his face hidden, what wouldn’t I give, Quackity thinks, to rip that fucking thing from his face?

“I’m really not sure I understand,” Wilbur begins, and, fuse short, Quackity sneers distrustfully at him, wings bristling.

“Don’t play games with me.”

Wilbur laughs, genuinely laughs, eyes lit up behind his glasses with amusement. “Isn’t that your forte, though?” He asks, almost teasingly, if not for the fact every goddamn thing the madman says is some riddle, some stupid enigma Quackity never understands and always feels stupid hearing. “You made Las Nevadas. You’re a very talented player, too: I thought you’d quite like a good game. But I’m not playing with you,” he continues, when Quackity considers slamming his fist into Wilbur’s face, “you didn’t let me finish. I really don’t understand why you’re asking me this. I thought it was obvious.”

Wilbur isn’t calling him stupid, but Prime, Quackity hears implications of it layered cleanly into his voice, and for a second really has to fight not to pull an axe on Wilbur and take him apart right then and there. The man is viciously infuriating, but Dream is there, and Quackity doesn’t want to deal with him: he’s a lot of things, but viciously protective of Wilbur is unfortunately one of them, and Quackity doesn’t want to risk Dream actually hurting him.

Instead, he forces a razor thin smile over his face that takes the place of his curiosity, thinly veiled annoyance dripping from his expression. Stupid Quackity, the implication is, and he hears it from Wilbur’s expression and in Schlatt’s voice, always too slow to catch up with the main players, stupid Quackity, always a step behind. “If you’re not gonna give me a straight fucking answer,” he says as evenly as he can, “don’t bother giving me one at all, Jesus Christ.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean anything by it!” Wilbur chuckles, and buries his hand in Dream’s hair, almost bragging without words, almost but not quite saying look at how fucked up he is, look how fucked up we all are, we are going down in flames and I can’t wait. Dream leans into the touch, still uneasy with Quackity nearby, but more relaxed than he’s seen him in months. “Only that you and Sam helped a tremendous deal, you really did, and I thought you knew that. That’s why I’m surprised you asked.”

Quackity scowls. “What?”

Wilbur’s eyebrow raises. “Give a dog a bone...”

Your move, he says without speaking, expecting understanding, and Quackity swears internally as he tries to put the pieces together.

And then it clicks. Wilbur’s hand is still in Dream’s hair, and Quackity thinks of how Wilbur is the only one able to control Dream without leaving him an emotional unresponsive wreck; how Wilbur can blink and Dream will be carrying out his slightest command before anyone has any idea what’s going on. And he thinks of the compliments Wilbur pays Dream, the human decency he shows him — praising him after dispatching an unruly customer, talking to him cheerfully (no matter how often conversations with Wilbur lead to destruction), making sure he gets enough food and drink and oh, Quackity thinks, oh, he thinks he might understand.

“Niceties got a long way,” Wilbur muses, like he can hear Quackity’s thoughts, “I thought you’d understand that better than most, Big Q.”

Stupid Quackity, he hears laced in Wilbur’s voice, and it distorts in his mind, twists into Schlatt, but this time his words are sickeningly sweet and remind him of the election, remind him of being on top of the world afterwards and Schlatt praising him for almost the full night while they celebrated until Quackity had believed them. You’re so fucking smart, Quackity hears Schlatt say, sees in his mind’s eye his appreciative quick grin and the glint of his ring on his finger as he pours them victory drinks, I couldn’t have done this without my Vice President.

His face is hot. Wilbur is smiling benignly.

“It’s nice to feel part of a team, right?” He asks, and Quackity’s axe is in his hand and he’s lunging for Wilbur before he knows what hits him.

It’s a stupid rookie mistake, because Dream is knocking him down in a heartbeat, silent and stoic and utterly loyal to Wilbur while he defends him. Quackity scrambles back when Dream pulls out a sword, snarling curses under his breath while going wide-eyed in panic — for all Dream is fucked up right now, Quackity still doesn’t trust himself to be able to beat him in a fight.

“Dream,” Wilbur says mildly, but he’s grinning, pleased as shit, and Quackity could kill him, he really could, “down, boy.”

And just like that, Dream leashes himself: slams to a stop, sword just inches away from Quackity’s skull and returning to his inventory, before he pulls himself back to Wilbur’s side. Quackity wastes no time getting to his feet again, humiliated, angry beyond belief: he gestures with his axe at Dream, who cringes back, suddenly aware of his own actions, and Quackity feels vindictive satisfaction at the sight. Good. Fucking good. Dream should still be scared of him.

“If you ever try that again, I swear to fuck, Dream, I’ll make what happened in that prison seem like a goddamn dream, pal, do you understand me?”

Dream doesn’t speak. Quackity imagines his face, wide-eyed and terrified. Wilbur lays a hand on Dream‘s arm, and he‘s smiling, all teeth and delight at the drama.

“He understands,” he says pleasantly, and lifts Dream‘s arm to wave playfully at Quackity, “goodbye, Quackity.”

It’s a dismissal if there ever had been one. Face burning, furious and humiliated and shaking with how badly he wants to kill them both, Quackity takes it, storming from the room and slamming the door behind him loud enough that he knows Dream will flinch.

“He’s using you,” George tells him one day, frustration oozing through the apathetic boredom he’s so fond of displaying, “you know that, right?”

Dream doesn’t respond for a minute. He’s focused on the rhythmic dig-dig-digging motion of the spade as he resolutely digs a tunnel for Wilbur and him to use later - it burrows throughout the whole of the SMP, snaking off in eight different directions and looping back round on itself like it’s devouring its own tail. Wilbur will be pleased when it’s done. That thought weaves itself round Dream’s neck like the soft caress of a noose when he turns to George, swallowing thickly.

“You know that,” George presses, and there’s something odd in his voice, something thick and annoyed that reeks of caring, “that he doesn’t care. That he’s using you as a weapon. An-”

“-An attack dog,” Dream finishes for him, lips twisting into a tired reprise of the softer smile he used to give his George, “yeah, I know. I’m not stupid.”

George makes a sound: infuriated, eyeing Dream like one might a particularly difficult puzzle. “Then why are you helping him?” He demands. “Why do any of this for him?”

And oh, Dream wonders, when had George changed? When had he cracked, just enough to care, just a little? Does he care, he wonders, or is he more annoyed that someone, something (Wilbur isn’t exactly human anymore, he’s much worse than that now) has taken away his toy, his toy who used to have eyes only for him?

George is still waiting for an answer, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, arms crossed resolutely, and Dream clears another layer of dirt before he deems it right to answer, finding the words easily.

“Because it’s nice to be used for once by someone who pretends to like me.” It’s a quiet little sentence, but George winces like it’s twisted a knife in his heart, opening his mouth to reply, but Dream, constantly feverish, constantly angry, tired, exhausted, pushes ahead first. “It’s nice to feel wanted, for once, it’s nice to be told I’m doing good, it’s nice to be comforted when I wake up screaming with nightmares.”

It’s only because it’s George that Dream dares admit any of this, because George is still something, someone to him, even months after their final conversation in the prison. Because George’s final words still ring through his head, because he still cares about George, because George, despite all his flaws and pettiness, won’t go and tell anyone what he’s spoken about. 

(Nobody will believe George if he tries to tell them the big bad villain had nightmares. It’s not what anyone wants to hear.)

“But-” George seems to wrestle with something, frowning, like he’s been denied his favourite candy. It had been endearing once. Dream has to turn away and slam his shovel particularly viciously into the ground at the sight of it now. “But, he doesn’t actually care. He doesn’t want you. He’s using you to scare people, he’s using you as manpower. He’ll throw you aside as soon as you aren’t useful, Dream. You know that. I know you know that.”

Dream arches an eyebrow, aware his face is hidden in shadows. “Better than being thrown aside for being boring,” he answers honestly, voice tired, “because at least I know I’ll always be useful.”

George is silent. Dream is too. Both of them remember their last bitter prison encounter, both of them remember Dream’s pleas, George’s indifference. The only thing that’s changed is that someone has Dream’s attention when it should be George, and they both know it.

And Dream doesn’t fault George for it. He’s always been a butterfly, floating from flower to flower, flitting from powerful friend to pretty friend, seeking out good times. Dream doesn’t blame him for that, because he understands that’s just how George works. But it feels nice to have Wilbur’s full attention, to know that he will always be useful as something.

(He knows he’s long passed by George’s field of interest, and he tells himself that’s okay. Wilbur is just as good.)

“You are interesting,” George tells him after a moment, and there’s something quieter in his voice now. It reminds Dream of the lazy summer afternoons they used to spend together, with George’s head nestled in Dream’s lap and Dream’s hand in George’s hair. George had napped while Dream had written, stories where the prince ended up with the prince that saved him and got a happy ending, stories where the hunted made friends with the hunters and got a happy ending, stories where two soulmates found themselves at peace under the sun and got a happy ending, always with a happy ending. George always loved his stories with happy endings.

Disclaimer, George, he wants to tell him, this isn’t a fairytale. There is no happy ending.

(From the look on George’s face, he’s just realised that.)

Dream lets himself chuckle, light, fond. George has always been a pretty liar.

“I’ll see you around, George,” he tells him, not unkindly, and continues his work, Wilbur in his mind’s eye, not George and his butterfly tendencies and the butterflies he causes in his stomach.