Chapter Text
You had, for the longest time, believed yourself to be incapable of real pity. Concupiscence, fine, but never pity, not in the real way. Not where it counts.
Your dear moirail, on the other hand, thought and still thinks that you are the stupidest troll to ever grace society. Nepeta is firm in her belief that anyone can pity, humans included, and has been since the moment you two met.
At the moment, you admit that she may be onto something.
Nepeta had already been expecting Dirk to act, had been trying to convince you of this for the better part of a perigree, but your wriggling day was coming up and you’d hoped that would at least draw her attention away from meddling in your other quadrants.
It took all of five minutes after the last guest had left for her to pounce, and another five to quiet her down enough that you could understand her babble of “he did it, I knew he’d do something good, Equihiss you have to tell him!” You have never been particularly good at resisting her demands.
Even so, messaging Dirk at such an odd hour felt more daring than you were capable of. You managed to do it anyway and, well.
This is the second day in a row that Dirk has been in your garage.
You’d drawn up the schematics ages ago, so far back that you’d nearly forgotten the plans altogether, but you can’t pretend they aren’t coming in handy now.
You and Dirk have spent time together in the past, but despite it being fairly private it was always at larger gatherings. This—working in such close quarters, on the same machine—was something else entirely. It doesn’t come as a surprise to you that you enjoy his company, he’s perfectly smart and capable of conversation, but you hadn’t quite expected to want it so badly.
By the end of the third day you find yourself waiting for him to come back the moment he leaves. The sense of longing is new. You aren’t entirely sure how to feel about it, aside from knowing that it’s his fault.
Dirk treats you as an equal, something that becomes clearer as time goes on. When you work it’s simultaneously, both of you taking on some piece of the final build, and he asks your opinion on thinks he’s made as often as he comes around and comments on your work. You are beginning to suspect he might just like being nearby—you’d initially been working at seperate ends of your desk, and he’s since dragged a chair across from you. He isn’t afraid of your strength, or to touch you.
On more than one occasion, he’s joked about your temperature being a comfort, and every single time it’s flustered you enough that you’ve broken tools.
Something has to give. Your supply of backup wrenches is nearly run dry.
————
By the time you’re finished, Dirk has taken to calling it Maplehoof. You are convinced you’ve never been this proud of a robot. A true-to-size replica hoofbeast, fully articulated and capable of withstanding over 70,000 newtons of force.
And, at Dirk’s insistence, able to play a song and dance around.
“S’a mighty fine piece of machinery,” he says, suddenly much closer to your side than you’d noted before. The flashstepping still takes you by surprise.
“It’s a masterpiece,” you agree. “Thank you for assi—for collaborating with me.”
Dirk tips his head toward you, and you can pick out the barest hint of a smile on his face. Your mind goes into overdrive before you can stop it.
“Would you like to come inside?”
He looks taken by surprise, and you count it as a win. In the weeks you’ve been working, he’s only entered your actual block once, but you’re loathe to let him leave so soon today, not when you aren’t sure when you’ll see him next.
Dirk nods, and you release a breath you hadn’t realize you’d been holding.
————
Your plan had been to come up with a plan on your way in, but now that he’s here you’re finding it difficult to speak. He takes notice almost immediately.
“Hey, man, if I’m overstayin’ my welcome here I can always—“
“No! No, of course not, I just don’t want to risk making you uncomfortable.” He seems to take personal offense to this, if the way his mouth presses thin is any indication.
“C’mon, man, we’ve gotta be friends by now. Say whatever it is you wanna say.”
Oh, fiddlesticks. You might as well.
“I am... lucky. To have met you.” Your jaw clenches so forcefully that you’re concerned you may have done your teeth more damage. Still, you need to continue. “It is nice to have someone to talk to who isn’t—ahem. Well. Someone who isn’t obligated to do so.”
You chance a look upward. Dirk’s façade has broken just enough that he’s tipped his head, seemingly pleased, and he looks taken aback.
There are moments when you looks at the boy before you and fear you may truly lose your composure. This prince who strains himself for virtue, who sits so noble and so, so lonely. You watch as his eyes betray the stoic line of his mouth over the rim of his pointed shades, as your pusher threatens to overflow at the crinkle of a smile. You suddenly believe in every delicate, looping prose about pity your moirail has read to you.
He must notice you staring, fiddlesticks, that was horribly rude of you—you draw back, and his hand cages atop yours, lowblood warm and stopping you in your tracks.
There is a brief moment of nothing, both of you frozen, and then Dirk moves and his hands are in your hair. He kisses you and oh, oh, you finally understand. A blunt nail traces the point of your ear, and your lip is caught between teeth not meant to tear flesh, and why else would humans evolve to be so defenseless if not for such tenderness, for such pity.
You hesitate, hands floating just above Dirk’s ribcage, until he pulls away to look at you with his cheeks glowing in the soft light of your block. Carefully, you bring a hand up, doing your best to ignore the tremor in your palm as you slide your wrecked shades off of your face and captchalogue them. Despite the dim, your eyes are sensitive, adjusting slowly to watch as Dirk’s usual mask wavers into contentment.
The expression doesn’t fall away like you expect it to. Instead, he slips his own glasses off, leaning away to set them down on the arm of your loungeplank.
This is the first time you’ve seen his face bare.
Now you really are staring, enhanced vision making it easy to admire the openness. He’s so... alien. You had been expecting something less jarring than the way his eyes pierce you, the soft slope of his cheekbones and the subtle fullness of his face. You are not naïve enough to take any of this as a sign of weakness—memories of Dirk decimating enemies twice his size without so much as a glance still feel fresh in your mind. The thought excites a trill from deep in your chest, and you’re too caught off guard to tamp it down. You don’t think he heard it, the frequency may be just out of his reach, but your face must betray what you’re thinking because he nudges you back onto your plank and climbs straight into your lap.
His hands push at your shoulders until you concede and sit back, and he sits triumphant while you revel in the act of someone commanding you physically. You are a simple troll.
Dirk is, unsurprisingly, the first to break the silence.
“I feel the same, y’know. I like havin’ you around.” Dirk shifts, sitting astride your thighs like it’s nothing. You can feel just how warm he is even through two layers of fabric. “S’it forward to assume this is what you had planned when you invited me over?”
The lilt in his voice cannot be good for you, and you’re suddenly extremely thankful that humans have such base-level hearing.
“I— goodness, no, that would have been... incredibly improper of me, not to mention presumptuous,” Dirk seems disappointed with that answer, somehow. He begins to draw away and you hold your hands still behind his back, letting him bump them rather than you touch him. The last thing you want to do is hurt him. “I... cannot pretend I wasn’t hoping it would go this way.”
That seems to settle his nerves, and he flashes a grin, perfectly flat teeth on full display. You try to mirror the expression and promptly duck your head when you recall the state of your mouth.
“It’s... quite late, you know.” There’s the eyebrow again, except now you can see the questioning up close and it does nothing to calm the pounding of your pusher. “You are welcome to stay the night.”