TW: Guns, blood, and mention of panic attacks.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dark knows this is a bad idea.
Aside from how foolish it was, he knows it’s dangerous too. Him and Wilford are grown men with supernatural powers and unstable psyches, not children play fighting at a sleepover. It was very likely that any situation involving violence – even of the harmless kind – could escalate and end with someone getting hurt.
But even knowing that, Dark couldn’t help himself. Because Wilford just had to pluck the last piece of popcorn from Dark’s fingers and eat it. Because Wilford had this shit-eating grin on his face that Dark hated and loved. And because the smug bastard said, “Ah, victory tastes so sweet~”
Dark has no choice; he had to get payback.
Wilford’s only warning was his friend’s smirk before the man hit him in the face with a soft black pillow.
Dark heard Wilford’s muffled yelp and grinned. “Revenge tastes even sweeter,” he shot back.
Wilford shoved the pillow away, scowling at Dark before grinning too. “Well, two can play at that puzzle.”
“It’s game, Wil –” Dark cut himself off when Wilford grabbed two pillows and launched them in his direction. Dark ducked and both hit the wall, but there was no time to pause. Immediately, more pink pillows appeared (damn Wilford’s weird powers) and Wilford grabbed them. Dark slid off the bed for cover, gathering an arsenal of his own.
The next few minutes were chaos. Dark and Wilford kept chucking pillows at each other, not even caring if they hit their mark. Both men were laughing and trading witty comebacks.
“Feel the power of Wilford Warfstache!” Wilford yelled, tossing a bunch of pillows in Dark’s direction. Dark laughed and blocked them with his arms, quickly flinging a pillow Wilford’s way and laughing even more when it hit his face. He was so busy laughing he got a pillow to the face in return.
“You can’t hide forever, Darky!” Wilford chimed, now holding a huge pillow in his hands.
Dark snickered from below.
There was just enough room under the bed for him to fit. He planned to launch a sneak attack, eager to catch his friend off guard and win their unofficial fight.
Wilford frowned. Dark’s silence meant he was planning something and, sure enough, he heard someone jostle his things under the bed. Wilford grinned maniacally.
Oh, this would be good.
Wilford grabbed a random pillow, ready to whip Dark in the face with it. In his excitement, he didn’t notice the sudden weight in his hands. And the distinct shape of a gun poking through the pillow case.
As Dark sprang up to surprise him, Wilford struck.
Wait…that didn’t sound right.
“Fuck!” Dark hissed, grabbing his nose. Wilford stopped. When he saw the blood, he dropped the gun-hiding pillow on the bed.
“Oh, shit,” he stammered, “Dark, I’m sorry! Are you – “ Wilford saw the blood streaming down from Dark’s nose. Dark was trying to use his shirt to stop the bleeding, but it wasn’t much help. His nose was clearly broken.
Panic pierced Wilford like a bullet.
“Dark, I’m sorry, it was an accident, it was – “ Dark held up a finger. Quiet. Wilford shut up, still hovering over Dark on the bed.
“It’s fine, Wil,” Dark told him. “I can easily fix it.” He paused uncertainly. “You might want to look away though.” Wilford wasn’t sure what that meant, but closed his eyes anyways.
He heard another sharp crack and a tiny pained groan. Wilford kept his eyes closed. “Okay, you can look now,” Dark said.
When Wilford looked, his jaw dropped. The blood was still on Dark’s shirt and smeared on his face, but his nose looked fine. It was impressive, if not very disturbing.
No, impressive, Wilford told himself. There was no reason to be disturbed. “Wow,” he said aloud, “it’s like it never happened at all!”
Dark’s smile was bittersweet. “Exactly,” he agreed, “but the pain is still there…among other things.” He looked down at his shirt and grimaced. “I’m going to go change and wash up – “
“Are you coming back,” Wilford cut in.
Dark nodded to his relief. “Just remind me to check your pillows before we do this again.” He sounded like a parent scolding their child, but Wilford didn’t comment on it.
‘Before we do this again.’ So he didn’t mess up horribly and Dark wasn’t mad at him. That’s good. He’d hate to be banned from another fun activity because of his own carelessness.
Later that night, Wilford retold the story to the other egos. But this time, it was more like a funny story than a terrible accident that almost gave him a panic attack. Dark was chuckling as he spoke, so Wilford took that to be a good sign.
“So there I am thinking ‘Well, if good ol’ Darky thinks he’s gonna get the drop on me, he’s got another thing comin’!’” Wilford waves his hands for emphasis.
“And so I grab another pillow and just as he pops up –” here he mimics the action, “I whip that weasel in the face!”
Most of the egos laughed at that. It wasn’t often Dark was caught off guard, so even imagining it was just funny. Dark cleared his throat and added, “Except he ended up pistol whipping me since there was a gun in that pillow.”
Dr. Iplier was the first to react. His eyebrows shot up as he asked, “And you didn’t receive any injuries?”
“Oh, he did,” Wilford chimed in, “I broke his nose, but he fixed it by himself! Darky’s got some incredible powers.”
The doctor ego didn’t seem reassured, but said nothing else. One of the Jims spoke up too and said, “But that’s dangerous! Willy, your shooty shouldn’t be where you sleep.”
Wilford huffed. “It has to be! Otherwise what’ll I do when an intruder breaks in and tries to steal my precious guns?”
Bing looked confused. “But then couldn’t they just steal the one in your –”
“Intruders aren’t the issue,” Dark cut in, raising his voice. “The problem is that it’s hard to sleep when feeling unprotected, hence the guns.” Wilford nodded, glad that someone else understood.
Jim still looked concerned. “That’s still bad.”
Wilford huffed. “Well, we’re not exactly pure little angels like you, Jim.”
Jim smiled at the compliment, totally missing the sarcasm.
It was only early in the morning, after waking from another nightmare, that Wilford noticed it. On the pillow with his gun in it there was the word “Shooty” written in black Sharpie. Every other pillow said “Not Shooty” in the same black ink.
Wilford blinked. He figured it was Jim who did it – no one else called guns ‘shooty’ – and was more flattered than offended. If anything, it was kind of cute.
When Dark woke up next to him, Wilford pointed it out. “Look, Dark, Jim cares about you!” He figured Dark might complain about how ugly the pillows looked now, or maybe he’d just sigh and accept it.
But Dark’s jaw just dropped.
“How the hell did he get in here?!”