You enter the small bake shop. The walls are painted pink, and the chairs and tables match. Faint 80's music plays from the ceiling. The display case shows off the shops wide array of treats, too many to count. If you wanted it, it was there. And if it wasn't in the case, it was written on the giant chalkboard behind the counter.
It's empty, save for one man behind the counter. He's just about as pink as the rest of the shop. Pink uniform, pink mustache, pink cheeks. He looks up at you as soon as you walk in. And he smiles wide.
"Oh, hello! Welcome to Wilford Warfstaches Sweets Emporium! My name is Wilford, how can I help you today?"
Hello! This is a blog dedicated to my baker!Wilford Warfstache AU! You may call me Dexter! I'm the account owner of @wilfywarfy
A few rules for ya!:
-Be kind. Plain and simple, don't be a jerk. I want this place to be fun, and bring a jerk just really brings the mood down. Not to mention, makes you look bad. Just be kind and respect others.
-No NSFW will be posted here. Flirting and fighting are allowed, and there will be foul language, but no blatant NSFW will be posted or allowed.
-This is mainly and RP account, so expect RP to happen.
And now, a bit of info for ya!:
-Wilford is the owner of his own bake shop. Unfortunately, the bake shop isn't exactly popular, even though he makes the best sweets in town. But even though he struggles, he's still trying his best!
-He has no magic, or powers... Or does he? (Find out yourself)
-Struggles with memory/time. He also has trouble with reality (Not knowing when things are real or not). Certain things he remembers better than others. But, again, he's trying his best. He's taking medication, though sparsely, as it's expensive.
It's a rare day for Jackson, for a couple of reasons.
One, he's enjoying a nice quiet afternoon inside of a cozy bakery. It's a bit too pink for his liking, but it's warm, and the coffee is good. Along with the danish he's currently snacking on.
The second reason is that he's working outside of his office today. Specifically, tracking a target that's been seen coming to this bakery rather often. Usually, Jackson was needed in the field to be... well, to put it lightly, a human battering ram. To fix shit that's gone sideways.
It's a nice change of pace either way.
Sipping his coffee, he goes back to reading his newspaper. Sitting in the back corner, facing the front exit and keeping his peripheral vision on his surroundings.
The bakery is mostly quiet, as per usual. Not that Wilford minded it any. His music played softly from the ceiling speakers, and that was really all he needed.
The only thing that was really different was the man currently hiding away in the back corner with a newspaper. Seemingly entranced with whatever words were on the page.
The stranger had been nice enough. It was a standard transaction, buying himself some treats, a small pause at the price (Or rather lack of), and going to sit. Nothing extraordinary.
And yet, every few moments, Wilford takes his eyes off the cake he's frosting to look at the man. Can you blame him? He's one of the few customers he gets all day, of course he's interested.
Jackson is honestly surprised that this place isn't busier. He had done his due diligence when scouting out the area, and if the other goods were as delightful as the danish he just finished, there should be a line. Especially with the prices being low. Too low, quite frankly.
It made his job easier, though. If the target would hurry and show up.
Folding the newspaper in half and setting it down, Jackson rises from the chair and makes his way to the counter. He eyes the cake that Wilford is frosting with approval before quietly clearing his throat. "Scuse me, love. May I trouble you for another cuppa coffee, please?"
Wilford quickly looks away when the man drops his newspaper. The last thing he needed was for a new customer to think he was a creep who just stared at people. Not good for business at all.
When he looks back up, the man is back at the counter, asking for another cup of coffee. "Oh, no problem!" He places the frosting down and gets to work on another drink.
The cake he's working on is, like most of the other cakes he had on display, beautiful. Dollops of bright pink and yellow frosting topped a chocolate, 4 layer cake. Intricate designs done in dark chocolate all along the side. It was enough to give anyone sweet tooth.
And now, the smell of fresh coffee was in the air as Wilford started the machine. "Should be done in a few minutes."
It's a rare day for Jackson, for a couple of reasons.
One, he's enjoying a nice quiet afternoon inside of a cozy bakery. It's a bit too pink for his liking, but it's warm, and the coffee is good. Along with the danish he's currently snacking on.
The second reason is that he's working outside of his office today. Specifically, tracking a target that's been seen coming to this bakery rather often. Usually, Jackson was needed in the field to be... well, to put it lightly, a human battering ram. To fix shit that's gone sideways.
It's a nice change of pace either way.
Sipping his coffee, he goes back to reading his newspaper. Sitting in the back corner, facing the front exit and keeping his peripheral vision on his surroundings.
The bakery is mostly quiet, as per usual. Not that Wilford minded it any. His music played softly from the ceiling speakers, and that was really all he needed.
The only thing that was really different was the man currently hiding away in the back corner with a newspaper. Seemingly entranced with whatever words were on the page.
The stranger had been nice enough. It was a standard transaction, buying himself some treats, a small pause at the price (Or rather lack of), and going to sit. Nothing extraordinary.
And yet, every few moments, Wilford takes his eyes off the cake he's frosting to look at the man. Can you blame him? He's one of the few customers he gets all day, of course he's interested.
There's a little pink box left outside of Jackson's door! Who'd placed it there? How'd it gets here in the first place? Don't worry about it. It was a pink box, and it smelled amazing. And for a good reason too.
Inside the little pink box, there's a fresh serving of bread pudding, in a cute pink bowl.
Did I mention it smelled amazing?
-You know who :3
Jackson almost steps on the box when he's stepping out of the door, pulling back at the last second. It's... very pink. Disarming.
He's not paranoid. He's not. Cautious, weary... sure. He's not expecting a package, so why is there one...
Christ, it smells good, though.
Alright, let's think this through. More than likely, it's a 'welcome to the neighborhood' kind of gift. Crouching down, he carefully picks up the box and opens it. When he sees its bread pudding, his eyebrows raise high on his forehead.
He looks one way and the other before bringing it inside. "A bite won't hurt," he murmurs before closing the door.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.
He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.
You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.
Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!
"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.
~~~
At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.
He shuts off the front lights and locks all the doors, triple checking just to make sure no one would be able to get in if they saw anything. It was almost ten. He'd already cleaned and put everything away. Now all he had to do was wait... If he even showed up.
He knew it was a lot to ask for. Yancy gave him everything once, but this... this was the one thing that truly felt too much to ask for. Especially after what they went through before they split. He could only hope that his, really, only hope would show.
A few minutes after that, he hears the knock in the back. A hint of relief is there as he makes his way, opening the door to let him in.
Yancy's hands are buried deep in his hoodie pockets when Wilford answers the door, letting out a huff of air through his nose at what he says. "Yeah, well..." He looks away, up and down the alley. Partly from habit and to look anywhere but at him. "Figured if yer askin' me for help, you must be pretty desperate, so..."
It's harsher than he means it, but it's still the truth of the matter. Shrugging, he steps inside once he's satisfied with the coast being clear. Looking around the kitchen, it's hard to keep the memories at bay. Baking together, feeling utterly out of his element, but still... at peace.
Well, he's not wrong. He was definitely desperate. And Yancy was the only one he could trust with this.
Wilford shuts and locks the door behind him. It's weird being back here. The last time they were here together... they kissed, and it was amazing and beautiful and... and magical. Now though, that magic was gone. Replaced with an awkward tension that just made everything feel icky.
"Right... Uh, come here."
Wilford leads Yancy to the walk in fridge, taking a deep breath before opening it.
It's normal in there. Shelves of ingredients, doughs ready for the next morning, buckets of icing, and a man. In a winter coat. With his hands and arms tied. And a piece of cloth in his mouth. Shivering like crazy.
Well. It's not a dead body, but it is... a body. And if Wilford, one of the kindest people he's ever had in his orbit, has this guy tied up in his walk-in fridge, there has to be a good reason. Hell, even if there isn't, he's here, and that means he's going to help.
"Huh," Yancy manages after a moment. While he is filled with questions about how this happened exactly, he focuses on the task at hand. "Guess I see why you asked me for help. Just about anyone else would, uh... freak out."
Dipping his head and stepping inside, he stops a few away from the man and bends slightly at the waist, tilting his head curiously. No matter what the guy does, Yancy doesn't flinch. Just stares. "Just how badly did you fuck up to end up here?"
He has an idea by connecting a few dots, and it's obvious he's not expecting the gagged man to answer. He needs to hear it from Wilford.
The man appears to be pale. Whether or not that's from being in the freezer for so long, it was a bit tough to tell. He had short blonde hair that had started to form ice crystals from the amount of gel in it. He was dressed like a wannabe rockstar, with torn up black jeans and a band t-shirt.
And he looks absolutely pissed. Looking up at Yancy with anger in his eyes, though it wasn't directed towards him. Moreso at the man behind him.
"...he hit me." Wilfords says simply. "He's why I look like this... Not just the eye. Everything. The scars. The memories. Almost everything bad... It was him."
The words ricochet in Yancy's brain like bullets, each one making his blood boil in his veins. He can tell himself all he wants that he would be equally furious if this was anyone else... but he would be lying.
Yancy would have killed for Wilford once upon a time. He still would.
"I see," he responds through gritted teeth. He can't even feel the cold clinging to his hoodie at this point, hands flexing painfully in the pockets. "Well... that is a big problem, isn't it?"
Slowly, he straightens his spine to his full height and turns his head to look at Wilford. As much as he hates that he couldn't protect him, he's... proud of him. Standing up to an abuser is not easy. And if this is the guy that made Wilford be so fucking hard on himself...
"Surely, you didn't ask me here to take him to the cops," he says, his voice low and just above the hum of the fridge. "So, again... what do you need from me?"
The question is softer this time, because honestly? He would do whatever Wilford required. But Yancy needs to hear it.
The tied man seems to try and plead for himself, screaming against the gag in his mouth. But all Wilford can focus on it Yancy. Or moreso what he asks.
What do you need from me?
Could he really do this? Could he really ask Yancy to do this? Sure, Wilford was willing to essentially kidnap him, but... Asking him to kill someone? Was Vic really that horrible that he would be willing to end his life?
Yeah, he hit him... but was it really that bad?
...no. No. He couldn't think like that. Because that's exactly what got him here in the first place. Thinking that it wasn't that bad, and falling for it time and time again. How many times had he hurt him? How many times had he believed he would be better?
He'd make sure he never hurt anyone else.
"I need you to take care of him." He says. Vic starts thrashing around, but he can do little when he's weak and tied.
The irony isn't lost on him, and if Yancy were a lesser man, he'd be pointing it out. Wilford wants him to kill this man, one of the many things that makes Yancy the bad person he believes him to be. But he doesn't point out the specifics.
"Yer askin' me to kill him," he states bluntly. He won't make Wilford say it, but he's not going to mince words about it. While Yancy will gladly have this piece of shits blood on his hands so none of it touches Wilford, he's still the implement that the sweet baker is wielding. He nods. "Okay."
The look lingers, things he wants to say, apologies he wants to throw at his feet. But words fail him. He's here to help, so he will. Turning back to the man, his hands emerge from his pockets and begin working on untying him from the chair. "We're gonna go for a ride, shitstain. I'd suggest not makin' it more difficult for yerself."
He knows it's a horrible task. And he knows how horrible he is for asking Yancy to do his dirty work for him. If that makes him a bad person... Then so be it. He was a bad person as soon as he tied Vic to that chair and left him here to freeze.
Speaking of Vic, as soon as there's enough wiggle room, the man tries to thrash around. Keyword, tries. The actual action is a bit pathetic. Flinging himself with little strength, hurting himself more than Yancy. Words are muffled against the gag.
The more Wilford watches, the more his stomach twists. Yancy shouldn't have to do this. He loved Yancy at one point... And past him wanted to be there for him no matter what.
Yancy sighs with annoyance like he's dealing with a gnat flying around his ear. The strength difference might as well be the same, too. He expertly unties him from the chair, and he's partway through binding his arms and hands behind his back when he hears Wilford.
That... is not what he's expecting. Any other time, Yancy would be elated that Wilford would want to be around him. But in this instance, it makes something vicious and dark clench in his stomach.
"You don't have to do that, Wilford," he responds, pausing briefly in his movements and shaking his head. "This doesn't need to go any further for you. I can deal with it..." He had only ever wanted to protect Wilford from people like him. Now... Yancy knows he needs to protect Wilford from himself.
Why he was so adamant on being there, he could pin the blame on a few things. One of them was that he wanted to make sure that Vic would stay dead. Another was that he just didn't want to be left alone in the darkness of the street.
And the third reason? Well... he didn't want Yancy to be alone either. He was already a mess. The last thing he needed was to be alone. And as much as he still might not know about how to feel, he knows that the last thing Yancy wanted do is admit he doesn't have everything under control.
Yancy is stunned for the second time in the last minute or so, eyebrows raised high on his forehead as he looks at Wilford. Really looks at him. He had been avoiding it since he got here, but he sees it now: something has changed, and Yancy shouldn't be surprised.
When you reach the point of tying someone up and locking them in a giant fridge (even if they fucking deserve it and worse), a line is being crossed. And as badly as Yancy wants to stop him from taking any more steps past that line... Wilford is his own man.
He takes in a breath, slowly lets it out, fog briefly obscuring his face before he's standing up. "Fine," he answers simply before he's easily picking the guy up and tossing him over his shoulder. He had smelled it before, but now it hits him like a brick: cheap body spray and even cheaper beer. "Fuckin' Christ, you smell like a frat party threw up on you..."
Hr can tell Yancy is questioning if he's serious about this or not. But if the dead look on his face, and the blankness in his eyes doesn't give it away, he doesn't know what will. He's not going to take no for an answer. Yancy seems to pick up that he wasn't joking either, and let's him go. Smart choice.
Oh, yeah, another thing: Vic smelled bad. Like... real bad. "He was drunk when I knocked him out." Wilford says, less concerned about the well being of the man on Yancy's shoulder, and more about that fact that he'll probably have to disinfect the floor.
Vic doesn't take too kindly to being insulted, trying his hardest to kick and trash about in Yancy's hold.
It's odd, the sense of mourning that comes over Yancy when he looks at Wilford. There's something in his eyes... or, more accurately, a lack of something. The usual softness, a light he once took solace in.
And the fucker over his shoulder had everything to do with it.
"Piece of shit," he grits out as he waits for Wilford to open the door leading out. Putting his slimy hands on him, and he was drunk? There's a dark satisfaction settling inside of Yancy that he got to take care of this problem personally.
He carries Vic easily enough to the car despite the thrashing, but his razor-thin patience wasn't going to deal with him for a car ride. Setting him roughly in the backseat, it's a flash of movement, and Yancy grunts as his fist connects with his face, knocking him out cold.
Fuck, that hurt... worth it. He flexes his injured hand as searing pain flashes up his wrist, slamming the door before turning to Wilford. "Last chance to back outta this."
It should be alarming, how Vic goes from thrashing about, to stone still. But at this point, it's gonna take a miracle to get a surprised reaction out of Wilford. Too much has happened in too little time to render him anything other than stoic.
Yancy seems angry. Good news for him, bad news for the person currently tied in the back seat. Though now it seems it's Wilfords turn to get a little ticked off, when Yancy tries to get him to back out.
"I'm going with you, Yancy. Quit trying to go by yourself, it's not working." He says, a hint of annoyance coming through in his voice. Old him would've never thought about being annoyed with him... Then again, the old him wouldn't have been in this position in the first place.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.
He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.
You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.
Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!
"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.
~~~
At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.
He shuts off the front lights and locks all the doors, triple checking just to make sure no one would be able to get in if they saw anything. It was almost ten. He'd already cleaned and put everything away. Now all he had to do was wait... If he even showed up.
He knew it was a lot to ask for. Yancy gave him everything once, but this... this was the one thing that truly felt too much to ask for. Especially after what they went through before they split. He could only hope that his, really, only hope would show.
A few minutes after that, he hears the knock in the back. A hint of relief is there as he makes his way, opening the door to let him in.
Yancy's hands are buried deep in his hoodie pockets when Wilford answers the door, letting out a huff of air through his nose at what he says. "Yeah, well..." He looks away, up and down the alley. Partly from habit and to look anywhere but at him. "Figured if yer askin' me for help, you must be pretty desperate, so..."
It's harsher than he means it, but it's still the truth of the matter. Shrugging, he steps inside once he's satisfied with the coast being clear. Looking around the kitchen, it's hard to keep the memories at bay. Baking together, feeling utterly out of his element, but still... at peace.
Well, he's not wrong. He was definitely desperate. And Yancy was the only one he could trust with this.
Wilford shuts and locks the door behind him. It's weird being back here. The last time they were here together... they kissed, and it was amazing and beautiful and... and magical. Now though, that magic was gone. Replaced with an awkward tension that just made everything feel icky.
"Right... Uh, come here."
Wilford leads Yancy to the walk in fridge, taking a deep breath before opening it.
It's normal in there. Shelves of ingredients, doughs ready for the next morning, buckets of icing, and a man. In a winter coat. With his hands and arms tied. And a piece of cloth in his mouth. Shivering like crazy.
Well. It's not a dead body, but it is... a body. And if Wilford, one of the kindest people he's ever had in his orbit, has this guy tied up in his walk-in fridge, there has to be a good reason. Hell, even if there isn't, he's here, and that means he's going to help.
"Huh," Yancy manages after a moment. While he is filled with questions about how this happened exactly, he focuses on the task at hand. "Guess I see why you asked me for help. Just about anyone else would, uh... freak out."
Dipping his head and stepping inside, he stops a few away from the man and bends slightly at the waist, tilting his head curiously. No matter what the guy does, Yancy doesn't flinch. Just stares. "Just how badly did you fuck up to end up here?"
He has an idea by connecting a few dots, and it's obvious he's not expecting the gagged man to answer. He needs to hear it from Wilford.
The man appears to be pale. Whether or not that's from being in the freezer for so long, it was a bit tough to tell. He had short blonde hair that had started to form ice crystals from the amount of gel in it. He was dressed like a wannabe rockstar, with torn up black jeans and a band t-shirt.
And he looks absolutely pissed. Looking up at Yancy with anger in his eyes, though it wasn't directed towards him. Moreso at the man behind him.
"...he hit me." Wilfords says simply. "He's why I look like this... Not just the eye. Everything. The scars. The memories. Almost everything bad... It was him."
The words ricochet in Yancy's brain like bullets, each one making his blood boil in his veins. He can tell himself all he wants that he would be equally furious if this was anyone else... but he would be lying.
Yancy would have killed for Wilford once upon a time. He still would.
"I see," he responds through gritted teeth. He can't even feel the cold clinging to his hoodie at this point, hands flexing painfully in the pockets. "Well... that is a big problem, isn't it?"
Slowly, he straightens his spine to his full height and turns his head to look at Wilford. As much as he hates that he couldn't protect him, he's... proud of him. Standing up to an abuser is not easy. And if this is the guy that made Wilford be so fucking hard on himself...
"Surely, you didn't ask me here to take him to the cops," he says, his voice low and just above the hum of the fridge. "So, again... what do you need from me?"
The question is softer this time, because honestly? He would do whatever Wilford required. But Yancy needs to hear it.
The tied man seems to try and plead for himself, screaming against the gag in his mouth. But all Wilford can focus on it Yancy. Or moreso what he asks.
What do you need from me?
Could he really do this? Could he really ask Yancy to do this? Sure, Wilford was willing to essentially kidnap him, but... Asking him to kill someone? Was Vic really that horrible that he would be willing to end his life?
Yeah, he hit him... but was it really that bad?
...no. No. He couldn't think like that. Because that's exactly what got him here in the first place. Thinking that it wasn't that bad, and falling for it time and time again. How many times had he hurt him? How many times had he believed he would be better?
He'd make sure he never hurt anyone else.
"I need you to take care of him." He says. Vic starts thrashing around, but he can do little when he's weak and tied.
The irony isn't lost on him, and if Yancy were a lesser man, he'd be pointing it out. Wilford wants him to kill this man, one of the many things that makes Yancy the bad person he believes him to be. But he doesn't point out the specifics.
"Yer askin' me to kill him," he states bluntly. He won't make Wilford say it, but he's not going to mince words about it. While Yancy will gladly have this piece of shits blood on his hands so none of it touches Wilford, he's still the implement that the sweet baker is wielding. He nods. "Okay."
The look lingers, things he wants to say, apologies he wants to throw at his feet. But words fail him. He's here to help, so he will. Turning back to the man, his hands emerge from his pockets and begin working on untying him from the chair. "We're gonna go for a ride, shitstain. I'd suggest not makin' it more difficult for yerself."
He knows it's a horrible task. And he knows how horrible he is for asking Yancy to do his dirty work for him. If that makes him a bad person... Then so be it. He was a bad person as soon as he tied Vic to that chair and left him here to freeze.
Speaking of Vic, as soon as there's enough wiggle room, the man tries to thrash around. Keyword, tries. The actual action is a bit pathetic. Flinging himself with little strength, hurting himself more than Yancy. Words are muffled against the gag.
The more Wilford watches, the more his stomach twists. Yancy shouldn't have to do this. He loved Yancy at one point... And past him wanted to be there for him no matter what.
Yancy sighs with annoyance like he's dealing with a gnat flying around his ear. The strength difference might as well be the same, too. He expertly unties him from the chair, and he's partway through binding his arms and hands behind his back when he hears Wilford.
That... is not what he's expecting. Any other time, Yancy would be elated that Wilford would want to be around him. But in this instance, it makes something vicious and dark clench in his stomach.
"You don't have to do that, Wilford," he responds, pausing briefly in his movements and shaking his head. "This doesn't need to go any further for you. I can deal with it..." He had only ever wanted to protect Wilford from people like him. Now... Yancy knows he needs to protect Wilford from himself.
Why he was so adamant on being there, he could pin the blame on a few things. One of them was that he wanted to make sure that Vic would stay dead. Another was that he just didn't want to be left alone in the darkness of the street.
And the third reason? Well... he didn't want Yancy to be alone either. He was already a mess. The last thing he needed was to be alone. And as much as he still might not know about how to feel, he knows that the last thing Yancy wanted do is admit he doesn't have everything under control.
Yancy is stunned for the second time in the last minute or so, eyebrows raised high on his forehead as he looks at Wilford. Really looks at him. He had been avoiding it since he got here, but he sees it now: something has changed, and Yancy shouldn't be surprised.
When you reach the point of tying someone up and locking them in a giant fridge (even if they fucking deserve it and worse), a line is being crossed. And as badly as Yancy wants to stop him from taking any more steps past that line... Wilford is his own man.
He takes in a breath, slowly lets it out, fog briefly obscuring his face before he's standing up. "Fine," he answers simply before he's easily picking the guy up and tossing him over his shoulder. He had smelled it before, but now it hits him like a brick: cheap body spray and even cheaper beer. "Fuckin' Christ, you smell like a frat party threw up on you..."
Hr can tell Yancy is questioning if he's serious about this or not. But if the dead look on his face, and the blankness in his eyes doesn't give it away, he doesn't know what will. He's not going to take no for an answer. Yancy seems to pick up that he wasn't joking either, and let's him go. Smart choice.
Oh, yeah, another thing: Vic smelled bad. Like... real bad. "He was drunk when I knocked him out." Wilford says, less concerned about the well being of the man on Yancy's shoulder, and more about that fact that he'll probably have to disinfect the floor.
Vic doesn't take too kindly to being insulted, trying his hardest to kick and trash about in Yancy's hold.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.
He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.
You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.
Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!
"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.
~~~
At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.
He shuts off the front lights and locks all the doors, triple checking just to make sure no one would be able to get in if they saw anything. It was almost ten. He'd already cleaned and put everything away. Now all he had to do was wait... If he even showed up.
He knew it was a lot to ask for. Yancy gave him everything once, but this... this was the one thing that truly felt too much to ask for. Especially after what they went through before they split. He could only hope that his, really, only hope would show.
A few minutes after that, he hears the knock in the back. A hint of relief is there as he makes his way, opening the door to let him in.
Yancy's hands are buried deep in his hoodie pockets when Wilford answers the door, letting out a huff of air through his nose at what he says. "Yeah, well..." He looks away, up and down the alley. Partly from habit and to look anywhere but at him. "Figured if yer askin' me for help, you must be pretty desperate, so..."
It's harsher than he means it, but it's still the truth of the matter. Shrugging, he steps inside once he's satisfied with the coast being clear. Looking around the kitchen, it's hard to keep the memories at bay. Baking together, feeling utterly out of his element, but still... at peace.
Well, he's not wrong. He was definitely desperate. And Yancy was the only one he could trust with this.
Wilford shuts and locks the door behind him. It's weird being back here. The last time they were here together... they kissed, and it was amazing and beautiful and... and magical. Now though, that magic was gone. Replaced with an awkward tension that just made everything feel icky.
"Right... Uh, come here."
Wilford leads Yancy to the walk in fridge, taking a deep breath before opening it.
It's normal in there. Shelves of ingredients, doughs ready for the next morning, buckets of icing, and a man. In a winter coat. With his hands and arms tied. And a piece of cloth in his mouth. Shivering like crazy.
Well. It's not a dead body, but it is... a body. And if Wilford, one of the kindest people he's ever had in his orbit, has this guy tied up in his walk-in fridge, there has to be a good reason. Hell, even if there isn't, he's here, and that means he's going to help.
"Huh," Yancy manages after a moment. While he is filled with questions about how this happened exactly, he focuses on the task at hand. "Guess I see why you asked me for help. Just about anyone else would, uh... freak out."
Dipping his head and stepping inside, he stops a few away from the man and bends slightly at the waist, tilting his head curiously. No matter what the guy does, Yancy doesn't flinch. Just stares. "Just how badly did you fuck up to end up here?"
He has an idea by connecting a few dots, and it's obvious he's not expecting the gagged man to answer. He needs to hear it from Wilford.
The man appears to be pale. Whether or not that's from being in the freezer for so long, it was a bit tough to tell. He had short blonde hair that had started to form ice crystals from the amount of gel in it. He was dressed like a wannabe rockstar, with torn up black jeans and a band t-shirt.
And he looks absolutely pissed. Looking up at Yancy with anger in his eyes, though it wasn't directed towards him. Moreso at the man behind him.
"...he hit me." Wilfords says simply. "He's why I look like this... Not just the eye. Everything. The scars. The memories. Almost everything bad... It was him."
The words ricochet in Yancy's brain like bullets, each one making his blood boil in his veins. He can tell himself all he wants that he would be equally furious if this was anyone else... but he would be lying.
Yancy would have killed for Wilford once upon a time. He still would.
"I see," he responds through gritted teeth. He can't even feel the cold clinging to his hoodie at this point, hands flexing painfully in the pockets. "Well... that is a big problem, isn't it?"
Slowly, he straightens his spine to his full height and turns his head to look at Wilford. As much as he hates that he couldn't protect him, he's... proud of him. Standing up to an abuser is not easy. And if this is the guy that made Wilford be so fucking hard on himself...
"Surely, you didn't ask me here to take him to the cops," he says, his voice low and just above the hum of the fridge. "So, again... what do you need from me?"
The question is softer this time, because honestly? He would do whatever Wilford required. But Yancy needs to hear it.
The tied man seems to try and plead for himself, screaming against the gag in his mouth. But all Wilford can focus on it Yancy. Or moreso what he asks.
What do you need from me?
Could he really do this? Could he really ask Yancy to do this? Sure, Wilford was willing to essentially kidnap him, but... Asking him to kill someone? Was Vic really that horrible that he would be willing to end his life?
Yeah, he hit him... but was it really that bad?
...no. No. He couldn't think like that. Because that's exactly what got him here in the first place. Thinking that it wasn't that bad, and falling for it time and time again. How many times had he hurt him? How many times had he believed he would be better?
He'd make sure he never hurt anyone else.
"I need you to take care of him." He says. Vic starts thrashing around, but he can do little when he's weak and tied.
The irony isn't lost on him, and if Yancy were a lesser man, he'd be pointing it out. Wilford wants him to kill this man, one of the many things that makes Yancy the bad person he believes him to be. But he doesn't point out the specifics.
"Yer askin' me to kill him," he states bluntly. He won't make Wilford say it, but he's not going to mince words about it. While Yancy will gladly have this piece of shits blood on his hands so none of it touches Wilford, he's still the implement that the sweet baker is wielding. He nods. "Okay."
The look lingers, things he wants to say, apologies he wants to throw at his feet. But words fail him. He's here to help, so he will. Turning back to the man, his hands emerge from his pockets and begin working on untying him from the chair. "We're gonna go for a ride, shitstain. I'd suggest not makin' it more difficult for yerself."
He knows it's a horrible task. And he knows how horrible he is for asking Yancy to do his dirty work for him. If that makes him a bad person... Then so be it. He was a bad person as soon as he tied Vic to that chair and left him here to freeze.
Speaking of Vic, as soon as there's enough wiggle room, the man tries to thrash around. Keyword, tries. The actual action is a bit pathetic. Flinging himself with little strength, hurting himself more than Yancy. Words are muffled against the gag.
The more Wilford watches, the more his stomach twists. Yancy shouldn't have to do this. He loved Yancy at one point... And past him wanted to be there for him no matter what.
Yancy sighs with annoyance like he's dealing with a gnat flying around his ear. The strength difference might as well be the same, too. He expertly unties him from the chair, and he's partway through binding his arms and hands behind his back when he hears Wilford.
That... is not what he's expecting. Any other time, Yancy would be elated that Wilford would want to be around him. But in this instance, it makes something vicious and dark clench in his stomach.
"You don't have to do that, Wilford," he responds, pausing briefly in his movements and shaking his head. "This doesn't need to go any further for you. I can deal with it..." He had only ever wanted to protect Wilford from people like him. Now... Yancy knows he needs to protect Wilford from himself.
Why he was so adamant on being there, he could pin the blame on a few things. One of them was that he wanted to make sure that Vic would stay dead. Another was that he just didn't want to be left alone in the darkness of the street.
And the third reason? Well... he didn't want Yancy to be alone either. He was already a mess. The last thing he needed was to be alone. And as much as he still might not know about how to feel, he knows that the last thing Yancy wanted do is admit he doesn't have everything under control.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.
He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.
You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.
Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!
"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.
~~~
At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.
He shuts off the front lights and locks all the doors, triple checking just to make sure no one would be able to get in if they saw anything. It was almost ten. He'd already cleaned and put everything away. Now all he had to do was wait... If he even showed up.
He knew it was a lot to ask for. Yancy gave him everything once, but this... this was the one thing that truly felt too much to ask for. Especially after what they went through before they split. He could only hope that his, really, only hope would show.
A few minutes after that, he hears the knock in the back. A hint of relief is there as he makes his way, opening the door to let him in.
Yancy's hands are buried deep in his hoodie pockets when Wilford answers the door, letting out a huff of air through his nose at what he says. "Yeah, well..." He looks away, up and down the alley. Partly from habit and to look anywhere but at him. "Figured if yer askin' me for help, you must be pretty desperate, so..."
It's harsher than he means it, but it's still the truth of the matter. Shrugging, he steps inside once he's satisfied with the coast being clear. Looking around the kitchen, it's hard to keep the memories at bay. Baking together, feeling utterly out of his element, but still... at peace.
Well, he's not wrong. He was definitely desperate. And Yancy was the only one he could trust with this.
Wilford shuts and locks the door behind him. It's weird being back here. The last time they were here together... they kissed, and it was amazing and beautiful and... and magical. Now though, that magic was gone. Replaced with an awkward tension that just made everything feel icky.
"Right... Uh, come here."
Wilford leads Yancy to the walk in fridge, taking a deep breath before opening it.
It's normal in there. Shelves of ingredients, doughs ready for the next morning, buckets of icing, and a man. In a winter coat. With his hands and arms tied. And a piece of cloth in his mouth. Shivering like crazy.
Well. It's not a dead body, but it is... a body. And if Wilford, one of the kindest people he's ever had in his orbit, has this guy tied up in his walk-in fridge, there has to be a good reason. Hell, even if there isn't, he's here, and that means he's going to help.
"Huh," Yancy manages after a moment. While he is filled with questions about how this happened exactly, he focuses on the task at hand. "Guess I see why you asked me for help. Just about anyone else would, uh... freak out."
Dipping his head and stepping inside, he stops a few away from the man and bends slightly at the waist, tilting his head curiously. No matter what the guy does, Yancy doesn't flinch. Just stares. "Just how badly did you fuck up to end up here?"
He has an idea by connecting a few dots, and it's obvious he's not expecting the gagged man to answer. He needs to hear it from Wilford.
The man appears to be pale. Whether or not that's from being in the freezer for so long, it was a bit tough to tell. He had short blonde hair that had started to form ice crystals from the amount of gel in it. He was dressed like a wannabe rockstar, with torn up black jeans and a band t-shirt.
And he looks absolutely pissed. Looking up at Yancy with anger in his eyes, though it wasn't directed towards him. Moreso at the man behind him.
"...he hit me." Wilfords says simply. "He's why I look like this... Not just the eye. Everything. The scars. The memories. Almost everything bad... It was him."
The words ricochet in Yancy's brain like bullets, each one making his blood boil in his veins. He can tell himself all he wants that he would be equally furious if this was anyone else... but he would be lying.
Yancy would have killed for Wilford once upon a time. He still would.
"I see," he responds through gritted teeth. He can't even feel the cold clinging to his hoodie at this point, hands flexing painfully in the pockets. "Well... that is a big problem, isn't it?"
Slowly, he straightens his spine to his full height and turns his head to look at Wilford. As much as he hates that he couldn't protect him, he's... proud of him. Standing up to an abuser is not easy. And if this is the guy that made Wilford be so fucking hard on himself...
"Surely, you didn't ask me here to take him to the cops," he says, his voice low and just above the hum of the fridge. "So, again... what do you need from me?"
The question is softer this time, because honestly? He would do whatever Wilford required. But Yancy needs to hear it.
The tied man seems to try and plead for himself, screaming against the gag in his mouth. But all Wilford can focus on it Yancy. Or moreso what he asks.
What do you need from me?
Could he really do this? Could he really ask Yancy to do this? Sure, Wilford was willing to essentially kidnap him, but... Asking him to kill someone? Was Vic really that horrible that he would be willing to end his life?
Yeah, he hit him... but was it really that bad?
...no. No. He couldn't think like that. Because that's exactly what got him here in the first place. Thinking that it wasn't that bad, and falling for it time and time again. How many times had he hurt him? How many times had he believed he would be better?
He'd make sure he never hurt anyone else.
"I need you to take care of him." He says. Vic starts thrashing around, but he can do little when he's weak and tied.
The irony isn't lost on him, and if Yancy were a lesser man, he'd be pointing it out. Wilford wants him to kill this man, one of the many things that makes Yancy the bad person he believes him to be. But he doesn't point out the specifics.
"Yer askin' me to kill him," he states bluntly. He won't make Wilford say it, but he's not going to mince words about it. While Yancy will gladly have this piece of shits blood on his hands so none of it touches Wilford, he's still the implement that the sweet baker is wielding. He nods. "Okay."
The look lingers, things he wants to say, apologies he wants to throw at his feet. But words fail him. He's here to help, so he will. Turning back to the man, his hands emerge from his pockets and begin working on untying him from the chair. "We're gonna go for a ride, shitstain. I'd suggest not makin' it more difficult for yerself."
He knows it's a horrible task. And he knows how horrible he is for asking Yancy to do his dirty work for him. If that makes him a bad person... Then so be it. He was a bad person as soon as he tied Vic to that chair and left him here to freeze.
Speaking of Vic, as soon as there's enough wiggle room, the man tries to thrash around. Keyword, tries. The actual action is a bit pathetic. Flinging himself with little strength, hurting himself more than Yancy. Words are muffled against the gag.
The more Wilford watches, the more his stomach twists. Yancy shouldn't have to do this. He loved Yancy at one point... And past him wanted to be there for him no matter what.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.
He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.
You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.
Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!
"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.
~~~
At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.
He shuts off the front lights and locks all the doors, triple checking just to make sure no one would be able to get in if they saw anything. It was almost ten. He'd already cleaned and put everything away. Now all he had to do was wait... If he even showed up.
He knew it was a lot to ask for. Yancy gave him everything once, but this... this was the one thing that truly felt too much to ask for. Especially after what they went through before they split. He could only hope that his, really, only hope would show.
A few minutes after that, he hears the knock in the back. A hint of relief is there as he makes his way, opening the door to let him in.
Yancy's hands are buried deep in his hoodie pockets when Wilford answers the door, letting out a huff of air through his nose at what he says. "Yeah, well..." He looks away, up and down the alley. Partly from habit and to look anywhere but at him. "Figured if yer askin' me for help, you must be pretty desperate, so..."
It's harsher than he means it, but it's still the truth of the matter. Shrugging, he steps inside once he's satisfied with the coast being clear. Looking around the kitchen, it's hard to keep the memories at bay. Baking together, feeling utterly out of his element, but still... at peace.
Well, he's not wrong. He was definitely desperate. And Yancy was the only one he could trust with this.
Wilford shuts and locks the door behind him. It's weird being back here. The last time they were here together... they kissed, and it was amazing and beautiful and... and magical. Now though, that magic was gone. Replaced with an awkward tension that just made everything feel icky.
"Right... Uh, come here."
Wilford leads Yancy to the walk in fridge, taking a deep breath before opening it.
It's normal in there. Shelves of ingredients, doughs ready for the next morning, buckets of icing, and a man. In a winter coat. With his hands and arms tied. And a piece of cloth in his mouth. Shivering like crazy.
Well. It's not a dead body, but it is... a body. And if Wilford, one of the kindest people he's ever had in his orbit, has this guy tied up in his walk-in fridge, there has to be a good reason. Hell, even if there isn't, he's here, and that means he's going to help.
"Huh," Yancy manages after a moment. While he is filled with questions about how this happened exactly, he focuses on the task at hand. "Guess I see why you asked me for help. Just about anyone else would, uh... freak out."
Dipping his head and stepping inside, he stops a few away from the man and bends slightly at the waist, tilting his head curiously. No matter what the guy does, Yancy doesn't flinch. Just stares. "Just how badly did you fuck up to end up here?"
He has an idea by connecting a few dots, and it's obvious he's not expecting the gagged man to answer. He needs to hear it from Wilford.
The man appears to be pale. Whether or not that's from being in the freezer for so long, it was a bit tough to tell. He had short blonde hair that had started to form ice crystals from the amount of gel in it. He was dressed like a wannabe rockstar, with torn up black jeans and a band t-shirt.
And he looks absolutely pissed. Looking up at Yancy with anger in his eyes, though it wasn't directed towards him. Moreso at the man behind him.
"...he hit me." Wilfords says simply. "He's why I look like this... Not just the eye. Everything. The scars. The memories. Almost everything bad... It was him."
The words ricochet in Yancy's brain like bullets, each one making his blood boil in his veins. He can tell himself all he wants that he would be equally furious if this was anyone else... but he would be lying.
Yancy would have killed for Wilford once upon a time. He still would.
"I see," he responds through gritted teeth. He can't even feel the cold clinging to his hoodie at this point, hands flexing painfully in the pockets. "Well... that is a big problem, isn't it?"
Slowly, he straightens his spine to his full height and turns his head to look at Wilford. As much as he hates that he couldn't protect him, he's... proud of him. Standing up to an abuser is not easy. And if this is the guy that made Wilford be so fucking hard on himself...
"Surely, you didn't ask me here to take him to the cops," he says, his voice low and just above the hum of the fridge. "So, again... what do you need from me?"
The question is softer this time, because honestly? He would do whatever Wilford required. But Yancy needs to hear it.
The tied man seems to try and plead for himself, screaming against the gag in his mouth. But all Wilford can focus on it Yancy. Or moreso what he asks.
What do you need from me?
Could he really do this? Could he really ask Yancy to do this? Sure, Wilford was willing to essentially kidnap him, but... Asking him to kill someone? Was Vic really that horrible that he would be willing to end his life?
Yeah, he hit him... but was it really that bad?
...no. No. He couldn't think like that. Because that's exactly what got him here in the first place. Thinking that it wasn't that bad, and falling for it time and time again. How many times had he hurt him? How many times had he believed he would be better?
He'd make sure he never hurt anyone else.
"I need you to take care of him." He says. Vic starts thrashing around, but he can do little when he's weak and tied.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.
He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.
You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.
Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!
"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.
~~~
At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.
He shuts off the front lights and locks all the doors, triple checking just to make sure no one would be able to get in if they saw anything. It was almost ten. He'd already cleaned and put everything away. Now all he had to do was wait... If he even showed up.
He knew it was a lot to ask for. Yancy gave him everything once, but this... this was the one thing that truly felt too much to ask for. Especially after what they went through before they split. He could only hope that his, really, only hope would show.
A few minutes after that, he hears the knock in the back. A hint of relief is there as he makes his way, opening the door to let him in.
Yancy's hands are buried deep in his hoodie pockets when Wilford answers the door, letting out a huff of air through his nose at what he says. "Yeah, well..." He looks away, up and down the alley. Partly from habit and to look anywhere but at him. "Figured if yer askin' me for help, you must be pretty desperate, so..."
It's harsher than he means it, but it's still the truth of the matter. Shrugging, he steps inside once he's satisfied with the coast being clear. Looking around the kitchen, it's hard to keep the memories at bay. Baking together, feeling utterly out of his element, but still... at peace.
Well, he's not wrong. He was definitely desperate. And Yancy was the only one he could trust with this.
Wilford shuts and locks the door behind him. It's weird being back here. The last time they were here together... they kissed, and it was amazing and beautiful and... and magical. Now though, that magic was gone. Replaced with an awkward tension that just made everything feel icky.
"Right... Uh, come here."
Wilford leads Yancy to the walk in fridge, taking a deep breath before opening it.
It's normal in there. Shelves of ingredients, doughs ready for the next morning, buckets of icing, and a man. In a winter coat. With his hands and arms tied. And a piece of cloth in his mouth. Shivering like crazy.
Well. It's not a dead body, but it is... a body. And if Wilford, one of the kindest people he's ever had in his orbit, has this guy tied up in his walk-in fridge, there has to be a good reason. Hell, even if there isn't, he's here, and that means he's going to help.
"Huh," Yancy manages after a moment. While he is filled with questions about how this happened exactly, he focuses on the task at hand. "Guess I see why you asked me for help. Just about anyone else would, uh... freak out."
Dipping his head and stepping inside, he stops a few away from the man and bends slightly at the waist, tilting his head curiously. No matter what the guy does, Yancy doesn't flinch. Just stares. "Just how badly did you fuck up to end up here?"
He has an idea by connecting a few dots, and it's obvious he's not expecting the gagged man to answer. He needs to hear it from Wilford.
The man appears to be pale. Whether or not that's from being in the freezer for so long, it was a bit tough to tell. He had short blonde hair that had started to form ice crystals from the amount of gel in it. He was dressed like a wannabe rockstar, with torn up black jeans and a band t-shirt.
And he looks absolutely pissed. Looking up at Yancy with anger in his eyes, though it wasn't directed towards him. Moreso at the man behind him.
"...he hit me." Wilfords says simply. "He's why I look like this... Not just the eye. Everything. The scars. The memories. Almost everything bad... It was him."
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.
He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.
You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.
Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!
"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.
~~~
At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.
He shuts off the front lights and locks all the doors, triple checking just to make sure no one would be able to get in if they saw anything. It was almost ten. He'd already cleaned and put everything away. Now all he had to do was wait... If he even showed up.
He knew it was a lot to ask for. Yancy gave him everything once, but this... this was the one thing that truly felt too much to ask for. Especially after what they went through before they split. He could only hope that his, really, only hope would show.
A few minutes after that, he hears the knock in the back. A hint of relief is there as he makes his way, opening the door to let him in.
Yancy's hands are buried deep in his hoodie pockets when Wilford answers the door, letting out a huff of air through his nose at what he says. "Yeah, well..." He looks away, up and down the alley. Partly from habit and to look anywhere but at him. "Figured if yer askin' me for help, you must be pretty desperate, so..."
It's harsher than he means it, but it's still the truth of the matter. Shrugging, he steps inside once he's satisfied with the coast being clear. Looking around the kitchen, it's hard to keep the memories at bay. Baking together, feeling utterly out of his element, but still... at peace.
Well, he's not wrong. He was definitely desperate. And Yancy was the only one he could trust with this.
Wilford shuts and locks the door behind him. It's weird being back here. The last time they were here together... they kissed, and it was amazing and beautiful and... and magical. Now though, that magic was gone. Replaced with an awkward tension that just made everything feel icky.
"Right... Uh, come here."
Wilford leads Yancy to the walk in fridge, taking a deep breath before opening it.
It's normal in there. Shelves of ingredients, doughs ready for the next morning, buckets of icing, and a man. In a winter coat. With his hands and arms tied. And a piece of cloth in his mouth. Shivering like crazy.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
Yancy isn't sure how long he stares at the note or how many times he reads it. The glittery pink is a pop of color in his world, just like Wilford used to be. Several alarms are blaring in his head. If Wilford wanted him to come back late at night to help with something, it definitely wasn't anything good.
He tries not to read too much into this. Wilford obviously needs help with something that is his... specialty. Illegal, shady shit. And because Yancy still cares, he's going to do it.
You are a lying piece of shit. Glad you admit it.
Protecting me... from what? From people like you?!
"Guess so," he murmurs to himself as he starts the car. There's no malice or anger behind it, just... nothing. He knows what he is.
~~~
At a few minutes to ten, he's parking in the alley and knocking on the back door of the bakery. Not knowing what to expect, but ready to 'help'. Whatever that entails.
He shuts off the front lights and locks all the doors, triple checking just to make sure no one would be able to get in if they saw anything. It was almost ten. He'd already cleaned and put everything away. Now all he had to do was wait... If he even showed up.
He knew it was a lot to ask for. Yancy gave him everything once, but this... this was the one thing that truly felt too much to ask for. Especially after what they went through before they split. He could only hope that his, really, only hope would show.
A few minutes after that, he hears the knock in the back. A hint of relief is there as he makes his way, opening the door to let him in.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
Yancy doesn't know what to make of Wilford's look. Only that it makes something unpleasant clench in his chest. Feeling powerless is, unfortunately, a feeling he has become used to in the last few months. But now, seeing that Wil is hurting and unable to do a fucking thing about it is somehow worse than everything else.
Fuck.
In the moment he has alone, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing as he remembers it's also still healing from his... fighting. His eyes water, but still, the pain helps clear his head. He straightens back out when Wil returns.
Six dollars. Not enough to make much or any profit, but it's not his business. He puts a fifty on the counter (to be fair, he doesn't even look at the demonination) and doesn't ask for change before picking up the box.
"Take care of yerself, sw... Wilford," he says lowly before walking out. Once he's in the car, he breathes and opens the box. He's not one to eat his feelings, but why fucking not.
Wilford can only watch as Yancy pays and takes his cookies. He doesn't miss that little slip up though. And a small part of him wishes that he's finished that sentence. A small part.
After he leaves, he just stares for a few. Hoping that he'd actually open the box. And if he truly wanted to help... He'd show up.
---
The note was simple. Written in the glittery pink ink he wrote all his notes in.
Come back tonight at 10 PM if you really want to help.
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
Guilt twists like a serrated blade in Yancy's gut. He's responsible for this... he hurt Wilford in ways that he didn't deserve. No matter his intentions, the blame lays at his feet. The mob boss (leader of fucking what, exactly?) can only hope that Wilford can move on to something better.
Pressing his lips together hard, he nods as he looks down at the display case. He hardly sees what's in it, just various shapes in assorted colors. "Yeah, uh... how 'bout a dozen a those?" One bandaged hand emerges from his hoodie pocket, pointing at some cookies. Doesn't really matter what they are.
But then he's looking up again, and while a part of him knows he shouldn't press, it can't be helped. Leaning in closer, he lowered his voice to a soft rumble. "Wilford... if someone's hurtin' you... fuck, you don't deserve it. D'you need help?"
Wilford ignores the question. Now wasn't the time to get into his problems. Especially not with customers around, and when other people can walk in at a moments notice. He just gives Yancy a look before going to pack his order.
He packs a random assortment of a dozen cookies. He knows he pointed at a specific kind, but he could tell that Yancy wasn't that into it either. They're arranged nearly, as he did with all of his customers sweets. However, before he seals the box with a sticker, he takes his pen and writes something on a card, and slips the note into it.
He brings the box back and rings it at the front. "I'm fine, Yancy... Nothing I haven't dealt with. That'll be 6 dollars."
It took months of operating from the shadows, but Yancy had finally managed to get his hands on him and make him regret ever showing his face around his territory. Cutting the head off the snake made the others scatter into hiding... the ones he didn't have taken care of, anyway. He had to call in some favors and contingencies he wasn't proud of, but... oh fucking well.
Regardless, things wouldn't be the same. But that's the least of his worries right now.
As much as Hank and Jimmy tried to stop him from doing it, he had to see Wilford. Just to confirm with his own eyes that he was okay. He knew Wilford could have issues with his memory, and a part of him hoped that he had forgotten about him altogether.
Just gotta see him. Then... I'll leave him to his life.
He stands at the door of the bakery for a few seconds, in a dark hoodie and jeans, hands wrapped up in bandages as he reaches for the door and enters. Even the door chime makes his heart hurt.
The bakery appears the same as when Yancy first stepped into it. There's a few new decorations on the wall in preparation for the holidays, but other than that... It's the same little shop he loved knew.
And behind the counter is Wilford. With the same smile he always had. Handing a lollipop in the shape of a cat to a child no older than 5. "Here you go, baby. Now go, your mommy's waiting for you!" He says sweetly, the mother of said child giving Wilford a kind smile in return, and a mouthed 'thank you'.
However, there are two major differences, both glaringly obvious. There's a dark purple ring around Wilfords left eye. And below that, on his left cheek, a pink band aid. With a little heart drawn onto it.
When the bell rings, that seemingly gets his attention. Looking up from the countertop to-
Oh.
...oh.
"...welcome." he says. Though it isn't completely happy. It isn't completely anything. It's... Vague.
Seeing the way Wilford's expression falls when he sees Yancy confirms that he remembers him, at least. But any reservations he had about being here immediately dissolve once he sees Wilford's appearance.
A black eye and a bandaid, what the hell? Paranoia seeps in, mind racing. Someone would have told him if Wilford had been jumped by any of John's stragglers. He's at the counter in a few quick strides, hands aching to touch, but they ball into fists in his hoodie pockets instead.
"What happened? Are you okay?" The words are rushed and quiet, brown-black eyes searching the other man's face.
As Yancy gets closer, Wilfords face becomes easier to see. And there are smaller, less obvious things that have changed about him. There are small scratches on his face and hands. And the white of his black eye is slightly red.
"'M fine... What you you doing here?" He questions in a whisper. The last thing he wants to do is cause a scene in front of his customers. Customers that were because of Yancy and his help... Stop. That wasn't important right now. The point was that he didn't want to freak out right here right now.
No, the hell he's not fine. Yancy's jaw clenches in frustration for a few different reasons, none of them directly aimed at Wilford. It's not like it's his place to know anything about him anymore, right?
No matter how badly Yancy's hands ache to choke the life out of whoever hurt him.
"Right..." He wills steel into his spine as he nods. "Wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't havin' any issues on my account." He's intentionally vague, aware of the few people around them. "I took care of the problem... and I won't be botherin' you again."
"...I see." So, he took care of the problem, huh? If Wilford knew anything about code, that meant he more than likely killed someone. And now, allegedly, Yancy was free of whatever burden they caused him. Hm.
Wilford stares at one of the spots on his countertop, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "...at least you're still alive." It's not said in a happy sense, but not in a bad way either. Again, it's very... Blank.
