The Long Game (Karkat/Dave/Terezi, 3/?)
Title: The Long Game
Characters/Pairings: Dave/Terezi, eventual Karkat/Dave/Terezi
Summary: Karkat and Dave spend some quality time together. There is no way this could possibly end badly.
Notes: bluh bluh more words. For a homesmut prompt requesting functional polyamory.
Dave doesn't lose track of time. The game's over, dashed to pieces like a kid who's just been told that no, there is no Santa Claus, but the clock in his head will keep on ticking even through apocalypses. He feels every second like the grooves on the debut album of that cult classic, You Just Fucked Up. An old favorite, that one. Bro played it to him in the fucking cradle, said it put him to sleep right quick.
It has been one hour, twenty-two minutes, and fifty-four seconds since Dave decided it would be a good idea to give a vengeful alien a bloody nose. Right now Dave is lying in the grass, stargazing--that one looks an awful lot like a devilbeast head. Dave is kind of an asshole, and he's beginning to come around to the argument that he's pretty stupid, too. He times the beating of his heart to the beat in his head and tries to block out the thoughts.
"Hey, fuckass."
Lovely.
Dave opens one eye, and there he is. Santa Claus, of course; it's a Christmas miracle. Santa's eye has been forced shut by a purpling-over bruise, the color of eggplant on the verge of going bad, and he walks awkwardly, painfully. Getting on in years, that Santa: soon they'll have to put him out to the old folks' home. Santa drops a paper bag by Dave's ear. "Get up and fucking eat something, will you?"
Oh, boy, coal.
"Ho ho ho," Dave says, and pulls himself up, wincing as the strain of motion pulls his muscles in all the wrong way. The bruise, if anything, looks worse from this angle.
Karkat gives him a look. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
He's done enough exercising of his witty motherfucking mouth for the day, he thinks. "Nothing." Besides, he really is hungry; he reaches for the bag and shoves half a sandwich into his mouth. Karkat's nose wrinkles, but he doesn't say anything, just plops himself down onto the ground in front of Dave, folding his arms protectively across his chest. He doesn't look at Dave.
Dave chews his food slowly and politely, the way Bro never taught him. It takes exactly eight minutes and forty-five seconds. The sandwich tastes like mush. (There's blood, still, in Karkat's hair, streaked across his horns and his hands--not to mention both their shirts; Dave's pretty sure it's not going to wash out. Not completely.)
"Sorry about your eye," he says, flat like he doesn’t mean it-he might not have mastered being too cool for guilt, but he is way too cool for apologies.
"Sorry about your face," Karkat replies, and almost manages to make it sound like a diss.
***
Karkat settles into a slouch against the rock, chin tucked into his shoulder, eyeing the ground like it's just beaten him at dodgeball and now he has to shake hands. Dave eyes him with the air of a middle-aged housewife watching Sixteen and Pregnant, and wonders at what his life has become. Terezi's probably left him for a younger woman already; all he has are the brats, twenty pounds of excess fat, and morbid fascination. (Karkat fidgets, the movements not quite human--too sudden, jerky. He moves like someone who never got used to being still, like someone who can't bear to be in his own skin.)
It takes him eleven minutes and twenty-one seconds to notice that Dave's made him his own personal guilt-watching experience. He keeps his head still when he slides his gaze on over to Dave, but his hands twitch like a spasm; not turning around is a awful burden, apparently. His eyes narrow. Can't tell for sure what Dave's looking at, probably--the shades do come in handy sometimes. Dave doesn't say a word; doesn't move, either. The blood's dripping. He can feel the trails caressing his back tenderly, making obscene solicitations against his skin. It's enough to make a girl blush, but he can't move--what would Karkat think? His pure and tender image, ruined forever.
"--you're bleeding," Karkat says. By his tone you'd think Dave was doing it to offend him personally.
"Yeah, funny thing about that. Got into a fight with this dude a little while ago, you know, he kind of scratched me up."
As soon as it leaves his mouth, he realizes it's dumb as fuck--like blowing up a dynamite factory and tossing a match into the rubble to see if anything will still burn--but miraculously, there are no explosions. Karkat actually flinches. He twists against the rock, moves his arms around, tucks his knees up against his chest only to stretch them back out again. It's like he thinks if he moves fast enough, he'll vibrate himself into evaporation.
Then he says, "Take off your shirt."
Dave takes this moment to appreciate the fact that his life is being run by horrorterrors. Horrorterrors who write fanfiction. He wonders if he should appeal to his sweet ectobiological sister, get her to sing the praises of some alternate pairing. Dave/Gamzee. Dave/Equius. Dave/seppuku.
With some effort he bites back his first, second, and third witty retorts, which is probably good for that fragile state of not punching the shit out of each other they find themselves in, but bad for his wordsmith's pride, because what he's left with is basically, "Huh?"
Karkat pulls himself back, as if withdrawing from some threat--oh, yeah, now he realizes his entire existence is awkward. "You're bleeding all over the fucking place," he mutters into his shirt. "It stinks. You smell like a wiggler who couldn't pass his trials."
"You can smell this shit now? What are you, Terezi?"
No maybe about it. Dave is definitely stupid.
Karkat grimaces exactly like he used to before they took Gamzee off cooking duty for good. "I actually have olfactory receptacles that work," he informs Dave, "unlike you and the rest of your weak-ass species."
"Yes," Dave says faintly, staring up at the sky. "Yes, that is exactly how you woo a man, Karkles."
That one earns him fourteen sweet seconds of silence. Karkat's eyes narrow, his mouth works uselessly--it's actually impressive, how easy he is to rile. Then he shuts down, all of him drawing in. He sighs. "It's not fucking difficult," he says resentfully. "I understand that your feeble human thinkpan prevents you from understanding anything more complicated than See Threshecutioner Cull, but this is comically stupid. You are bleeding. This is a problem. We are going to fix this problem using this fascinating and complicated technology--" he holds up the roll of bandages-- "designed for the purpose. See? Simple."
His face is incredibly pained. Karkat, Dave reflects, is the kind of dude who would take a burden off your back just so he could complain about it later. "I can do it myself," he points out.
Karkat rolls his eyes; the disdain of the gesture is only kind of undercut by how he has not yet stopped looking like a cranky toddler. (Someone needs his sippy cup.) "As much as I want to watch you perfecting your one-man comedy routine for an hour, Strider--and I am sure 'Hilarious Incompetency Involving Wound-Cleaning Implements' will be a smashing success--I am going to have to go with no, you grublicking moron, not unless we want to be here all night."
The end of that sentence, it turns out, is also the harbinger for the long-awaited return of the nailbat expression. Its appearance resembles nothing so much as a bucket of ice water to the face: a Rose Lalonde to the boner of Dave's carefully cherished hope that he might get out of this situation without being groped by a hatelustful alien.
Fact: the only thing Karkat Vantas works better than rage is overweening obligation. Fact: his offer to touch Dave in all Dave's tender bleedy places is probably some demented attempt at a peace offering. Fact: miracles abound tonight, because for approximately the second time in the history of three universes, Karkat's logic does not suck monkey balls. The fortress holds steady, unmoved by Dave's feeble protests of look I can do it myself and jegus fuck don't touch me. Efficiency and diplomacy: the twin pillars of Dave's doom.
He shucks off his shirt, which is by this time a total pungent mess. "Be gentle now, Karkles. I'm very delicate."
"Oh for god's sake will you ever shut up," is Karkat's reply.
Dave turns and stretches his arms above his head, giving Karkat access to his (tortured and abused) back. Neither of them speaks--it's quiet out there in that field, except for the occasional squawking of a cricketcrow--but Karkat comes and kneels behind Dave, fumbling with his own sylladex. After a moment, he presses something damp to the base of Dave's neck and begins to wipe away the blood. It stings, a bit; Dave forces himself to relax only by thinking about the amount of effort he's already expended into maintaining his own ego.
The silence quickly reaches Equius Zahhak levels of eerie, but there is no backing down from this game of mime chicken. To speak would be a concession to the fact that yes, they are actually here. Karkat is touching Dave, motions careful in a way that belies his scowling, someone-just-pissed-in-my-Trollent-Green expression. Dave can feel the pads of his fingers against his skin. (He must use moisturizer or something; compared to Terezi's sandpaper coating he's downright baby-soft.)
Dave would rather not be making any of these observations--but this is a multiple choice test, and "not being here" is not one of the options.
He lies back and thinks of Smuppets Gone Wild.
The next twenty-three minutes are excruciating on a level previously only found in the office of someone with a DDS. Karkat does not stop touching him. Karkat wraps the bandages very snugly. Karkat's dedication to Dave's mangled flesh is nothing short of impressive. Dave is being a complete asshole, but given that all this assholishness is confined to inside his head, he doesn't feel terribly guilty about it. It's a step up, right?
One eternity, two apocalypses, and innumerable plush rumps later, he hears Karkat get up. "Okay," Karkat says finally. He breathes through his teeth, and then again: "Okay. You’re done."
There's a horrible long second of empty air--it begs to be filled, but Dave can't think of anything properly Egbert-approved to put in there. He shifts away from Karkat, stretching his arms, and reaches for his shirt: ah, shirt, love of his life, sweet savior of his boyish chastity, defender of privacy, virtue, and apple fucking pie.
Unfortunately, the shirt has fallen in the line of battle. It is now an ex-shirt, rest in pieces, brave shirt, so on and so forth. If Egbert was here he would play Taps for the shirt on his nose. Dave just stares at it. He decides it is probably a metaphor for the tangled and bloody mess his life has become.
Karkat just looks at him. His eyes flicker towards the shirt--still half-dangling from Dave’s hand--before he slides his gaze abruptly away. "What is it now, Strider?" he says, sounding like he’s just swallowed something bitter.
It’s going to be a long day, isn’t it. "Nothing. Just contemplating the meaning of my existence, Karkles." He tosses the shirt casually away-god, does it stink-and rolls over onto his side. The grass itches. He can feel a rock digging into his hip, but he doesn’t move until he’s sure Karkat has stopped staring.
That night he dreams about a bathtub full of weasels. They lick so tenderly at his reopening wounds.
***
He sleeps for four hours and thirty-four minutes, fitfully, in pieces, before giving up and accepting his defeat like a man. Dave Strider knows when to cut his losses, sometimes.
Light peeks in at the edges of the sky, and he can’t see the stars anymore, but the three round moons of the new universe are still hanging there like they think he needs a reminder that everything about this place is alien. Early morning has dulled their luminous yellow-they look kind of like earwax now, he thinks. There’s a rap in that somewhere, or at least a comic joke.
At his side, Karkat stirs. Still asleep, Dave decides; if he was awake he would have complained about something by now. (Karkat sleeps-when he sleeps-like a dead man, silently and soundly. John wakes him with a pitcher of cold water when he misses the alarm, and sometimes just for fun. It’s kind of sad that he knows this.) Should Dave wake him up? He considers it, but not for very long: experience has taught him that he doesn’t want to be within blast radius of whatever forces Karkat from sleep, and also the intervening six hours haven’t made anything less awkward between them.
He still isn’t wearing a shirt.
This is excruciating. He might as well be back at sixth grade Cotillion (Bro’s idea of a good joke), hand in Marcy Johnson’s sweaty glove, avoiding her feet as the two of them try to translate the director’s droning voice into a passable Cotton-Eye Joe. He’d managed a decent one in the three weeks it took him to blow that joint, but he suspects the Let’s Not Stick Our Hands Up In Each Other’s Issues tango is going to be harder.
Another twenty-seven minutes and Karkat is finally up, although he doesn’t look any more rested than Dave feels. The grass has left indentations on his cheek; he looks fully ridiculous. "Should’ve woken me up earlier," he mutters. "Come on, let’s just go."
Dave can’t think of anything to say that won’t send them reeling straight back into danger territory, so he just shrugs. Good fucking god, he’s become bland. He is a lumpy oatmeal bowl of a man, shedding stray bits of milk everywhere he goes.
-- gardenGnostic [GG] has begun pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --
GG: hey, dave!
TG: are you seriously up already
TG: the plants arent going to go anywhere you know
GG: they’re sensitive! we were up all night trying to save what we could
GG: i'm just about to go to bed, actually, i'm really tired
GG: what about you? karkat woke you up early, i bet :P
GG: he is such a tightass sometimes!
TG: nah
TG: were just trying to get this over with as soon as possible
TG: its the one thing he and i can agree on i guess
GG: :/
TG: what you wanted me gone longer
GG: of course not! :P
GG: i guess i just hoped you guys would learn to get along a little better!
GG: i know he can be REALLY REALLY ANNOYING ugh
GG: but things go more smoothly when we aren't trying to kill each other, don't you think??
TG: yeah about that
GG: dave! :[
TG: real friends help friends hide bodies jade
TG: so how bout it we friends or what
GG: :P
GG: don't even joke about that, john would be so sad!!
TG: who says im joking
TG: rip karkat vantas
TG: he went peacefully like a whisper
TG: like when your mother kisses your forehead just before she runs off with the milkman
TG: the softest kiss goodbye
TG: all thats left is this empty shell
TG: it doesnt even get mad at things jade
TG: hold me plz
GG: i, um...
GG: i would if i could??
GG: i am still not entirely sure what you are saying dave :P
TG: just messing around really
TG: i guess
TG: things got kind of bad yesterday
TG: said some stuff that was pretty stupid
TG: its all blown over now but i dont know
TG: i dont think were ever going to get along awkward silences are probably the best we can do
TG: theres too much drama shit going on
GG: hmmmm.... :S
GG: like what?
TG: seriously shouldnt you be in bed
GG: :P :P :P
GG: if it's private you can just say so silly!!!
GG: you don't have to get all cagey, geez
TG: sorry
TG: you should go to bed though suns coming up and everything
GG: you are worse than bec ://////
GG: FINE since i am pretty tired
GG: i will go to bed
GG: but we are going to talk about this when you get back!
GG: i hope you get things sorted out with karkat <3
TG: yeah
TG: thanks i guess
GG: bye! <33333
-- gardensGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --
When he turns his attention back to the real world in all its garish glory, Karkat is trying his damnedest to pretend he's not looking at Dave--but of course, hilarious transparency is the theme song of Karkat Vantas's life. "Harley says hi," he tells Karkat.
Karkat grunts. Real advanced civilization, these trolls.
***
Nothing else to do, really. No matter how many times Jade scowls or John prays to his god of the gushers, there is no force in three universes that will ever get him and Karkat to hold hands around a campfire and sing Kumbaya. (For one thing, the troll version of Kumbaya probably involves eye gouging or hostile takeovers or something.) They'll get along. That'll have to be enough. Dave can be mature, when he wants to be--Dave can quit this poking-at-the-sore thing whenever he wants, thank you very much, and would you look at that, whenever he wants happens to be right the fuck now--and Karkat is theoretically also capable of maturity, if he tries really hard. By the look on his face either he is trying really hard or they're lost.
Dave puts all his chips on All of the Above. It's a shame that doesn't fly in Vegas.
He rides it out for another six and a half minutes, pulling up Tavros's color-by-numbers map on his iShades just in case that'll help, and yeah, Space isn't his domain, but they have definitely passed this weird rock before. "Dude," he says. "Give it up, we're lost."
Karkat sits down on the rock. "Fuck you, Strider," he says, "I know exactly where we're going," but there's no fire in it; he just looks tired.
"Karkles," Dave says, "you don't even have a map. This is Nitram's art project. You were supposed to hang it on the fridge--excuse me, the thermal hull--after you gave him the gold star."
Karkat is staring at him--his expression's more surprised than sullen, and his mouth twitches a little. For a minute Dave thinks he might actually laugh, but then he turns away, face falling back into its usual scowl. "Don't condescend to me, you asshole."
On the Karkat Vantas Rage-O-Meter, Dave estimates that's about a four. It's a lot better than he usually gets. "We're still lost," he points out.
Karkat opens his mouth, already readying his rant--but then he stops. Shuts his mouth. Opens his mouth. Looks at Dave, and then shuts his mouth again. Apparently Karkat is a walking bowl of oatmeal too, bereft of his metaphors and impotent threats. Honesty is the only thing either of them has left.
Yeah, they're definitely screwed. "Fine," Karkat grumbles. "This map is the shittiest fucking thing--is that supposed to be a rock or a tree?"
"Looks like a giraffe," Dave puts in helpfully.
"Strider, I have no idea what you're talking about."
He snorts. "Just earth babbling, Karkles, nothing doing. Looks like a tree to me, with that green patch there--"
"That's from the grass, you dolt."
Goddamn, but this would be a great place to make a hateflirting joke. "You sure about that? That's a totally different shade, see, this is forest green and that's kelly--which I, being a classy heterosexual dude, totally understand--"
Karkat stops. "Are you fucking with me again, Strider," he says. It's not pitched like a question.
And hell, Dave decides he'll try a little honesty himself. "Yeah, I kind of am."
He's not sure what he's expecting Karkat to do--scream? Launch into one of his pre-programmed diatribes? (That's not fair to Karkat. The diatribes are always, as far as Dave can tell, ad-libbed.) But he just huffs and rolls his eyes; apparently, like Dave, all out of serial killer rage. "We're in the right general area, I'm pretty sure," he says. "The nest can't be far from here. We'll split up--shouldn't take more than one of us to take these assholes out."
"Sure thing, Fearless Leader." He gives Karkat a little mock salute, and starts walking west.
"Are you ever not a douchebag, Strider?" Karkat calls after him.
He doesn't turn. "Never," he calls back.
Characters/Pairings: Dave/Terezi, eventual Karkat/Dave/Terezi
Summary: Karkat and Dave spend some quality time together. There is no way this could possibly end badly.
Notes: bluh bluh more words. For a homesmut prompt requesting functional polyamory.
Dave doesn't lose track of time. The game's over, dashed to pieces like a kid who's just been told that no, there is no Santa Claus, but the clock in his head will keep on ticking even through apocalypses. He feels every second like the grooves on the debut album of that cult classic, You Just Fucked Up. An old favorite, that one. Bro played it to him in the fucking cradle, said it put him to sleep right quick.
It has been one hour, twenty-two minutes, and fifty-four seconds since Dave decided it would be a good idea to give a vengeful alien a bloody nose. Right now Dave is lying in the grass, stargazing--that one looks an awful lot like a devilbeast head. Dave is kind of an asshole, and he's beginning to come around to the argument that he's pretty stupid, too. He times the beating of his heart to the beat in his head and tries to block out the thoughts.
"Hey, fuckass."
Lovely.
Dave opens one eye, and there he is. Santa Claus, of course; it's a Christmas miracle. Santa's eye has been forced shut by a purpling-over bruise, the color of eggplant on the verge of going bad, and he walks awkwardly, painfully. Getting on in years, that Santa: soon they'll have to put him out to the old folks' home. Santa drops a paper bag by Dave's ear. "Get up and fucking eat something, will you?"
Oh, boy, coal.
"Ho ho ho," Dave says, and pulls himself up, wincing as the strain of motion pulls his muscles in all the wrong way. The bruise, if anything, looks worse from this angle.
Karkat gives him a look. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
He's done enough exercising of his witty motherfucking mouth for the day, he thinks. "Nothing." Besides, he really is hungry; he reaches for the bag and shoves half a sandwich into his mouth. Karkat's nose wrinkles, but he doesn't say anything, just plops himself down onto the ground in front of Dave, folding his arms protectively across his chest. He doesn't look at Dave.
Dave chews his food slowly and politely, the way Bro never taught him. It takes exactly eight minutes and forty-five seconds. The sandwich tastes like mush. (There's blood, still, in Karkat's hair, streaked across his horns and his hands--not to mention both their shirts; Dave's pretty sure it's not going to wash out. Not completely.)
"Sorry about your eye," he says, flat like he doesn’t mean it-he might not have mastered being too cool for guilt, but he is way too cool for apologies.
"Sorry about your face," Karkat replies, and almost manages to make it sound like a diss.
***
Karkat settles into a slouch against the rock, chin tucked into his shoulder, eyeing the ground like it's just beaten him at dodgeball and now he has to shake hands. Dave eyes him with the air of a middle-aged housewife watching Sixteen and Pregnant, and wonders at what his life has become. Terezi's probably left him for a younger woman already; all he has are the brats, twenty pounds of excess fat, and morbid fascination. (Karkat fidgets, the movements not quite human--too sudden, jerky. He moves like someone who never got used to being still, like someone who can't bear to be in his own skin.)
It takes him eleven minutes and twenty-one seconds to notice that Dave's made him his own personal guilt-watching experience. He keeps his head still when he slides his gaze on over to Dave, but his hands twitch like a spasm; not turning around is a awful burden, apparently. His eyes narrow. Can't tell for sure what Dave's looking at, probably--the shades do come in handy sometimes. Dave doesn't say a word; doesn't move, either. The blood's dripping. He can feel the trails caressing his back tenderly, making obscene solicitations against his skin. It's enough to make a girl blush, but he can't move--what would Karkat think? His pure and tender image, ruined forever.
"--you're bleeding," Karkat says. By his tone you'd think Dave was doing it to offend him personally.
"Yeah, funny thing about that. Got into a fight with this dude a little while ago, you know, he kind of scratched me up."
As soon as it leaves his mouth, he realizes it's dumb as fuck--like blowing up a dynamite factory and tossing a match into the rubble to see if anything will still burn--but miraculously, there are no explosions. Karkat actually flinches. He twists against the rock, moves his arms around, tucks his knees up against his chest only to stretch them back out again. It's like he thinks if he moves fast enough, he'll vibrate himself into evaporation.
Then he says, "Take off your shirt."
Dave takes this moment to appreciate the fact that his life is being run by horrorterrors. Horrorterrors who write fanfiction. He wonders if he should appeal to his sweet ectobiological sister, get her to sing the praises of some alternate pairing. Dave/Gamzee. Dave/Equius. Dave/seppuku.
With some effort he bites back his first, second, and third witty retorts, which is probably good for that fragile state of not punching the shit out of each other they find themselves in, but bad for his wordsmith's pride, because what he's left with is basically, "Huh?"
Karkat pulls himself back, as if withdrawing from some threat--oh, yeah, now he realizes his entire existence is awkward. "You're bleeding all over the fucking place," he mutters into his shirt. "It stinks. You smell like a wiggler who couldn't pass his trials."
"You can smell this shit now? What are you, Terezi?"
No maybe about it. Dave is definitely stupid.
Karkat grimaces exactly like he used to before they took Gamzee off cooking duty for good. "I actually have olfactory receptacles that work," he informs Dave, "unlike you and the rest of your weak-ass species."
"Yes," Dave says faintly, staring up at the sky. "Yes, that is exactly how you woo a man, Karkles."
That one earns him fourteen sweet seconds of silence. Karkat's eyes narrow, his mouth works uselessly--it's actually impressive, how easy he is to rile. Then he shuts down, all of him drawing in. He sighs. "It's not fucking difficult," he says resentfully. "I understand that your feeble human thinkpan prevents you from understanding anything more complicated than See Threshecutioner Cull, but this is comically stupid. You are bleeding. This is a problem. We are going to fix this problem using this fascinating and complicated technology--" he holds up the roll of bandages-- "designed for the purpose. See? Simple."
His face is incredibly pained. Karkat, Dave reflects, is the kind of dude who would take a burden off your back just so he could complain about it later. "I can do it myself," he points out.
Karkat rolls his eyes; the disdain of the gesture is only kind of undercut by how he has not yet stopped looking like a cranky toddler. (Someone needs his sippy cup.) "As much as I want to watch you perfecting your one-man comedy routine for an hour, Strider--and I am sure 'Hilarious Incompetency Involving Wound-Cleaning Implements' will be a smashing success--I am going to have to go with no, you grublicking moron, not unless we want to be here all night."
The end of that sentence, it turns out, is also the harbinger for the long-awaited return of the nailbat expression. Its appearance resembles nothing so much as a bucket of ice water to the face: a Rose Lalonde to the boner of Dave's carefully cherished hope that he might get out of this situation without being groped by a hatelustful alien.
Fact: the only thing Karkat Vantas works better than rage is overweening obligation. Fact: his offer to touch Dave in all Dave's tender bleedy places is probably some demented attempt at a peace offering. Fact: miracles abound tonight, because for approximately the second time in the history of three universes, Karkat's logic does not suck monkey balls. The fortress holds steady, unmoved by Dave's feeble protests of look I can do it myself and jegus fuck don't touch me. Efficiency and diplomacy: the twin pillars of Dave's doom.
He shucks off his shirt, which is by this time a total pungent mess. "Be gentle now, Karkles. I'm very delicate."
"Oh for god's sake will you ever shut up," is Karkat's reply.
Dave turns and stretches his arms above his head, giving Karkat access to his (tortured and abused) back. Neither of them speaks--it's quiet out there in that field, except for the occasional squawking of a cricketcrow--but Karkat comes and kneels behind Dave, fumbling with his own sylladex. After a moment, he presses something damp to the base of Dave's neck and begins to wipe away the blood. It stings, a bit; Dave forces himself to relax only by thinking about the amount of effort he's already expended into maintaining his own ego.
The silence quickly reaches Equius Zahhak levels of eerie, but there is no backing down from this game of mime chicken. To speak would be a concession to the fact that yes, they are actually here. Karkat is touching Dave, motions careful in a way that belies his scowling, someone-just-pissed-in-my-Trollent-Green expression. Dave can feel the pads of his fingers against his skin. (He must use moisturizer or something; compared to Terezi's sandpaper coating he's downright baby-soft.)
Dave would rather not be making any of these observations--but this is a multiple choice test, and "not being here" is not one of the options.
He lies back and thinks of Smuppets Gone Wild.
The next twenty-three minutes are excruciating on a level previously only found in the office of someone with a DDS. Karkat does not stop touching him. Karkat wraps the bandages very snugly. Karkat's dedication to Dave's mangled flesh is nothing short of impressive. Dave is being a complete asshole, but given that all this assholishness is confined to inside his head, he doesn't feel terribly guilty about it. It's a step up, right?
One eternity, two apocalypses, and innumerable plush rumps later, he hears Karkat get up. "Okay," Karkat says finally. He breathes through his teeth, and then again: "Okay. You’re done."
There's a horrible long second of empty air--it begs to be filled, but Dave can't think of anything properly Egbert-approved to put in there. He shifts away from Karkat, stretching his arms, and reaches for his shirt: ah, shirt, love of his life, sweet savior of his boyish chastity, defender of privacy, virtue, and apple fucking pie.
Unfortunately, the shirt has fallen in the line of battle. It is now an ex-shirt, rest in pieces, brave shirt, so on and so forth. If Egbert was here he would play Taps for the shirt on his nose. Dave just stares at it. He decides it is probably a metaphor for the tangled and bloody mess his life has become.
Karkat just looks at him. His eyes flicker towards the shirt--still half-dangling from Dave’s hand--before he slides his gaze abruptly away. "What is it now, Strider?" he says, sounding like he’s just swallowed something bitter.
It’s going to be a long day, isn’t it. "Nothing. Just contemplating the meaning of my existence, Karkles." He tosses the shirt casually away-god, does it stink-and rolls over onto his side. The grass itches. He can feel a rock digging into his hip, but he doesn’t move until he’s sure Karkat has stopped staring.
That night he dreams about a bathtub full of weasels. They lick so tenderly at his reopening wounds.
***
He sleeps for four hours and thirty-four minutes, fitfully, in pieces, before giving up and accepting his defeat like a man. Dave Strider knows when to cut his losses, sometimes.
Light peeks in at the edges of the sky, and he can’t see the stars anymore, but the three round moons of the new universe are still hanging there like they think he needs a reminder that everything about this place is alien. Early morning has dulled their luminous yellow-they look kind of like earwax now, he thinks. There’s a rap in that somewhere, or at least a comic joke.
At his side, Karkat stirs. Still asleep, Dave decides; if he was awake he would have complained about something by now. (Karkat sleeps-when he sleeps-like a dead man, silently and soundly. John wakes him with a pitcher of cold water when he misses the alarm, and sometimes just for fun. It’s kind of sad that he knows this.) Should Dave wake him up? He considers it, but not for very long: experience has taught him that he doesn’t want to be within blast radius of whatever forces Karkat from sleep, and also the intervening six hours haven’t made anything less awkward between them.
He still isn’t wearing a shirt.
This is excruciating. He might as well be back at sixth grade Cotillion (Bro’s idea of a good joke), hand in Marcy Johnson’s sweaty glove, avoiding her feet as the two of them try to translate the director’s droning voice into a passable Cotton-Eye Joe. He’d managed a decent one in the three weeks it took him to blow that joint, but he suspects the Let’s Not Stick Our Hands Up In Each Other’s Issues tango is going to be harder.
Another twenty-seven minutes and Karkat is finally up, although he doesn’t look any more rested than Dave feels. The grass has left indentations on his cheek; he looks fully ridiculous. "Should’ve woken me up earlier," he mutters. "Come on, let’s just go."
Dave can’t think of anything to say that won’t send them reeling straight back into danger territory, so he just shrugs. Good fucking god, he’s become bland. He is a lumpy oatmeal bowl of a man, shedding stray bits of milk everywhere he goes.
-- gardenGnostic [GG] has begun pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --
GG: hey, dave!
TG: are you seriously up already
TG: the plants arent going to go anywhere you know
GG: they’re sensitive! we were up all night trying to save what we could
GG: i'm just about to go to bed, actually, i'm really tired
GG: what about you? karkat woke you up early, i bet :P
GG: he is such a tightass sometimes!
TG: nah
TG: were just trying to get this over with as soon as possible
TG: its the one thing he and i can agree on i guess
GG: :/
TG: what you wanted me gone longer
GG: of course not! :P
GG: i guess i just hoped you guys would learn to get along a little better!
GG: i know he can be REALLY REALLY ANNOYING ugh
GG: but things go more smoothly when we aren't trying to kill each other, don't you think??
TG: yeah about that
GG: dave! :[
TG: real friends help friends hide bodies jade
TG: so how bout it we friends or what
GG: :P
GG: don't even joke about that, john would be so sad!!
TG: who says im joking
TG: rip karkat vantas
TG: he went peacefully like a whisper
TG: like when your mother kisses your forehead just before she runs off with the milkman
TG: the softest kiss goodbye
TG: all thats left is this empty shell
TG: it doesnt even get mad at things jade
TG: hold me plz
GG: i, um...
GG: i would if i could??
GG: i am still not entirely sure what you are saying dave :P
TG: just messing around really
TG: i guess
TG: things got kind of bad yesterday
TG: said some stuff that was pretty stupid
TG: its all blown over now but i dont know
TG: i dont think were ever going to get along awkward silences are probably the best we can do
TG: theres too much drama shit going on
GG: hmmmm.... :S
GG: like what?
TG: seriously shouldnt you be in bed
GG: :P :P :P
GG: if it's private you can just say so silly!!!
GG: you don't have to get all cagey, geez
TG: sorry
TG: you should go to bed though suns coming up and everything
GG: you are worse than bec ://////
GG: FINE since i am pretty tired
GG: i will go to bed
GG: but we are going to talk about this when you get back!
GG: i hope you get things sorted out with karkat <3
TG: yeah
TG: thanks i guess
GG: bye! <33333
-- gardensGnostic [GG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --
When he turns his attention back to the real world in all its garish glory, Karkat is trying his damnedest to pretend he's not looking at Dave--but of course, hilarious transparency is the theme song of Karkat Vantas's life. "Harley says hi," he tells Karkat.
Karkat grunts. Real advanced civilization, these trolls.
***
Nothing else to do, really. No matter how many times Jade scowls or John prays to his god of the gushers, there is no force in three universes that will ever get him and Karkat to hold hands around a campfire and sing Kumbaya. (For one thing, the troll version of Kumbaya probably involves eye gouging or hostile takeovers or something.) They'll get along. That'll have to be enough. Dave can be mature, when he wants to be--Dave can quit this poking-at-the-sore thing whenever he wants, thank you very much, and would you look at that, whenever he wants happens to be right the fuck now--and Karkat is theoretically also capable of maturity, if he tries really hard. By the look on his face either he is trying really hard or they're lost.
Dave puts all his chips on All of the Above. It's a shame that doesn't fly in Vegas.
He rides it out for another six and a half minutes, pulling up Tavros's color-by-numbers map on his iShades just in case that'll help, and yeah, Space isn't his domain, but they have definitely passed this weird rock before. "Dude," he says. "Give it up, we're lost."
Karkat sits down on the rock. "Fuck you, Strider," he says, "I know exactly where we're going," but there's no fire in it; he just looks tired.
"Karkles," Dave says, "you don't even have a map. This is Nitram's art project. You were supposed to hang it on the fridge--excuse me, the thermal hull--after you gave him the gold star."
Karkat is staring at him--his expression's more surprised than sullen, and his mouth twitches a little. For a minute Dave thinks he might actually laugh, but then he turns away, face falling back into its usual scowl. "Don't condescend to me, you asshole."
On the Karkat Vantas Rage-O-Meter, Dave estimates that's about a four. It's a lot better than he usually gets. "We're still lost," he points out.
Karkat opens his mouth, already readying his rant--but then he stops. Shuts his mouth. Opens his mouth. Looks at Dave, and then shuts his mouth again. Apparently Karkat is a walking bowl of oatmeal too, bereft of his metaphors and impotent threats. Honesty is the only thing either of them has left.
Yeah, they're definitely screwed. "Fine," Karkat grumbles. "This map is the shittiest fucking thing--is that supposed to be a rock or a tree?"
"Looks like a giraffe," Dave puts in helpfully.
"Strider, I have no idea what you're talking about."
He snorts. "Just earth babbling, Karkles, nothing doing. Looks like a tree to me, with that green patch there--"
"That's from the grass, you dolt."
Goddamn, but this would be a great place to make a hateflirting joke. "You sure about that? That's a totally different shade, see, this is forest green and that's kelly--which I, being a classy heterosexual dude, totally understand--"
Karkat stops. "Are you fucking with me again, Strider," he says. It's not pitched like a question.
And hell, Dave decides he'll try a little honesty himself. "Yeah, I kind of am."
He's not sure what he's expecting Karkat to do--scream? Launch into one of his pre-programmed diatribes? (That's not fair to Karkat. The diatribes are always, as far as Dave can tell, ad-libbed.) But he just huffs and rolls his eyes; apparently, like Dave, all out of serial killer rage. "We're in the right general area, I'm pretty sure," he says. "The nest can't be far from here. We'll split up--shouldn't take more than one of us to take these assholes out."
"Sure thing, Fearless Leader." He gives Karkat a little mock salute, and starts walking west.
"Are you ever not a douchebag, Strider?" Karkat calls after him.
He doesn't turn. "Never," he calls back.