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The first thing you are aware of is the dull throbbing against your skull. Then you feel the tender soreness in the side of your face. There's a low humming noise reverberating through the ground. You can feel the vibrations in your leg, your shoulder, your cheek, pressed against warm metal. Your neck is stiff. Laying on the hard ground for who knows how long will do that to you. You feel for your sylladex but find it completely empty. There's a distant creak of structural settling.
You catalogue all of these things methodically, as you do with everything. It's only after you've made those preliminary observations that you realize something is horribly wrong.
You weren't supposed to wake up at all.
You grasp blindly for the narrative, feeling out with your mind for any loose wisp to grab onto. But there is nothing. You are wildly outside of canon: steps removed from steps removed. There is no more truth. No more purpose. You are no longer in control.
You failed.
You blink your eyes open, against the pressure of your skull and the wrongness of your existence. Your shades are gone. The room is dim enough that it shouldn't matter, but then again, photosensitivity has never been your primary reason for wearing shades. Or has it? In the state of existence you currently occupy, anything could be true.
You try to sit up, finding it more difficult than you expected. Your wrists are tied together in front of you. You use your elbow to push you up instead. The movement makes you dizzy as blood thumps loudly in your ears. Fucking Egbert has a hell of an arm.
The sound of someone clearing their throat breaks you out of your reverie. The fact that you're only noticing them now—given that they're sitting in a chair directly in your line of vision— is a goddamn miracle, or at least a testament to how long you've been living in your own head.
"Hey bro," Dave says, fake casual. Everything about him is fake casual. He's got his arms crossed and he's leaning against the back of his chair, head propped against the wall behind him. His right ankle is hooked over his left. His face is blank, relaxed with the same forced stillness that inhabits the rest of his body. The Dave you know is always bouncing his leg, always tapping his fingers against his arm or a table, always rolling his neck and shaking out his shoulders. Or does he? Was that ever confirmed? You think pretty certainly that it was. But perhaps it was only an implicit truth. Perhaps it never was truth at all.
Come to think of it, which Dave are you even engaging with right now? He's flesh and blood, so he's not the Davebot from that batshit sugar nightmare timeline. But something about him seems different than canon Dave. He seems… more whole. It would be easier to tell if he didn't have his shades on, but you have a sneaking suspicion you know who you're dealing with. He's got an aura about him that set your heart powers on edge.
"You're not a robot any more," you say, choosing to believe your suspicions are correct.
He shrugs.
"Yeah, I wasn't feeling that," he says. "Terezi and Rose helped me load all of my Dave files into this body. Didn't even kill me or anything. Pretty amazing what you can do when you get help from your friends and don't… you know… go on a psycho rampage trying to fix everything yourself."
You can feel him searching you for a reaction, even as his demeanor doesn't change. You know he's doing it because that's what you do.
"Rose is hoping to get back in her flesh body too," he continues when you don't give him anything to work with, "but we think we need Jane for that, so it might be a while."
You don't say anything to that. You're not sure what he's expecting you to say. To ask where you're going maybe? To try to provide a faster solution? Why bother. Nothing fucking matters anymore anyway.
"It's funny," he says, tilting his head slightly like he's listening to something. "Having all of these Daves in my head… different versions, different timelines… especially the ones where I interacted with other Daves. I can remember both sides of those conversations. Weird as shit, man. I've been a feathery asshole, a badass movie director-slash-vigilante, a member of the resistance against a xenophobic regime, and so many dipshit kids who didn't make it through puberty. I've dated Jade, Terezi, Karkat… shit even this dude Sollux in this weirdass timeline I don't even want to get into right now. You'd think I'd be pulled in about a million different directions with every thought. How the fuck is something like me supposed to make even the simplest decision with all of the different people I've been? All of the different life experiences I've had?"
His finger does start tapping now. The motion of it makes you relax infinitesimally, by such a small degree that you, prince of self-obsession, don't even notice.
"But it's not hard at all," he says. "Or, it's not any harder than it ever has been. I'm… the same as I've always been. Just… more."
You shift, not used to sitting the way you are with your legs folded to the side. You lean back against the wall behind you and scoot your legs around in front of you, resting your elbows on your knees. The ropes around your wrists are tight and secure, without cutting off your circulation. If you'd ever had more than, what, one conversation with Terezi, you'd probably instantly recognize her handiwork.
"Which brings me to my first question," he says, leaning forward a bit. "What the fuck?"
You stare at him blankly, determinately unimpressed. You wait for him to clarify, but he just looks at you expectantly. You don't really need clarification anyway.
You sniff, noting the way he immediately tenses. It's a gesture affected by the many versions of yourself that raised Dave in various instances of the beta-Earth timeline. You perform it calculatedly. Partially because you hate yourself. And partially because it helps your point.
"You answered your own question," you say. "I am who I am. If you're surprised, you didn't know me very well."
That seems to make him angry. Fidgety Dave is starting to make a reappearance. His leg bounces and one thumb taps against the side of his other hand while he works his jaw and actually thinks about what he's going to say next for once in his life. In his lives. His anger fades quickly, though. Now he just looks sad.
"You're wrong, though," he says, quietly but not defensively. "I know you better than just about anyone."
You give him an unimpressed look that reminds him who he's talking to. That reminds him who his sister is. That reminds him of the distance that's grown between you over so many years, throughout so many timelines.
"No," he says, seeming to answer his own doubts as much as yours. "I think I do. Because I had to."
It's at this moment you realize that you never had to remind him who he's talking to.
"For thirteen years my existence was knowing you," he continues. "Trying to figure out your mind games. Trying to predict what you would do next. Because every time I was wrong I got the shit beat out of me. So yeah. I think I know you pretty damn well. So I ask again: what the fuck?"
You frown and tilt your head slightly. You're… not sure what he's asking at this point. If he's been thinking of you in terms of the you who raised him, he shouldn't be the slightest bit surprised with how you turned out.
"I'm… not sure what you're asking me," you admit, chalking the confusion up to Dave's inability to communicate anything in a straightforward manner rather than your non-existent inability to not know what's going on at every given moment. You're pretty sure you used the correct number of negations in that sentiment to convey that you always know what's going on all the time.
"The guy I grew up with pushed me down the stairs so frequently and casually that I made a goddamn meme out of it," he elaborates. Which explains nothing. Oh he's still talking. A shocking development. "So why are you sitting on your ass like Jake 'plush-rump' English after one of your patented homoerotic rap-battle wrestling matches instead of putting me in my place?"
Your eyebrows raise at that. He's trying to get a rise out of you by comparing you to your pansy-ass imbecile of an ex-boyfriend. It does make you angry, a little bit, but not enough to do anything about it. Bold of him to assume that there's any way your anger could outweigh your depression at the moment.
"Because nothing matters any more." You shrug. "This isn't real. It doesn't matter if I'm on my ass or you're on yours. We're existentially fucked no matter what."
"Bullshit it doesn't matter," he says. "So what if it isn't 'real.' You could stand up right now and knock me on my ass. Maybe in the limitless scope of paradox space it doesn't mean anything, but I bet it would make you feel pretty damn good right about now."
You hold up your bound wrists to demonstrate just how combatively castrated you are at the moment. His head tips back in a way that lets you know he's rolling his eyes.
"Like some fucking rope could stop you from beating the shit out of me," he says. "You forget, I fucking know you."
You don't have a response to that. It was a hollow excuse anyway. You were as perfectly aware of this fact as you were of the fact that he would see right through it and of the fact that he's aware that you never intended it to be a serious argument in the first place.
You hate your brain.
"So?" he says, standing up and shaking his hands out. "How about it? It's been a while, huh bro?"
You study him. You know exactly what he's doing. He's trying to make a point. You could prove him wrong if you wanted to, but it doesn't matter anyway. Why not let him believe what he wants to believe?
"Not in the mood," you say.
"What? Do you need me to get candles? Put on some romantic music? You never struck me as someone who would go in for the flowers and chocolates shit. You're the kind of guy to make the grand gestures, not receive them. If you were manipulating someone into fucking you sure. You'd organize a fucking flash mob to persuade them. Violins, poetry, fucking…jugglers I dunno, the whole nine yards. What the hell was I talking about?"
His voice streams directly into the question as if it followed logically from whatever preceded it. Good to know Ultimate Dave is just as much a disaster as every other iteration you've interacted with. The corner of your mouth quirks up, just a millimeter. You stamp that shit back down as soon as you realize what you're doing. This isn't even Ultimate Dave in the first place. It's goddamn… you don't know. Dave-lite. Dave-whatever-this-fucking-sad-excuse-for-a-reality-thinks-he's-supposed-to-be.
"Right," he says, entirely unaware of your tiny slip-up. "Why you should fight me. First of all--"
"For fuck's sake Dave," you cut in before he can start itemizing reasons. Frustration seeps into your voice. "I'm not going to fight you?"
He suddenly goes still and stares at you hopefully. He's been bouncing on the balls of his feet for the entirety of his rambling. Shaking out his hands every now and then. The degree to which he suddenly relaxes makes you aware of how tense he was.
"Re-hm-Really?" he asks, clearing the hopeful tone from his voice. "Why's that?"
He's waiting for some sort of heartfelt confession. He's going to be fucking disappointed.
"I already told you," you say, leaning your head back against the wall. "It doesn't fucking matter. Besides, I've got a hell of a headache."
The last part wasn't a lie. Fucking Egbert and his unnatural, gooberish strength. You've sliced a fucking meteor in half and you don't know anyone else with such a consistent reputation for one-hit KOs.
Dave doesn't seem impressed by this, but surprisingly, he stops pushing the issue. Instead he straightens up, taking on, again, some of that unnatural stillness.
"Let me ask you another question, then," he says, not waiting for you to "let him" do anything. "How the hell did I beat you earlier?"
You give him a blank stare.
"There were two of you," you say. "One being a tricked out Roboversion of my own making. You're not so much weaker than me that I could take you both at once."
Jake's other spaceship caught up with yours at the same time Davebot met you head on. Flesh Dave was somewhat out of practice, but between him and his Ultimate counterpart, they were eventually able to subdue you. You, of course, had figured this would happen. What you didn't expect, as Davebot pinned your arms to your sides with his other arm around your neck, was for Flesh Dave to not decapitate you per tradition and instead duck out of the way as John fucking Egbert came in for a surprise punch and consequential KO. He's not even supposed to be alive, which means you were dealing with some canon-divergent bullshit from the very beginning.
"Let me rephrase that then," he says. His jaw sets. "How did I fight you for twenty-six goddamn minutes and come out of it without a single scratch?"
He gestures to his body to emphasize his point. He doesn't even look smug, just serious, and a little sad.
"There were two of you," you repeat.
"Bullshit," he says, exactly as you knew he would. "I told you before. I know you. I can tell when you're holding back."
You don't have anything to say to that.
"You wanted me to kill you." It hurts him to say it. You can tell. You don't do anything to help him through it. "You're not a goddamn psycho-villain. You're fucking scared. You're scared to not matter any more. You tried to make yourself a villain because that's the only way you think anything can matter. But it's not! The 'truth' you're looking for doesn't have to be in violence and conflict and all that edgy masochistic bullshit. Sometimes you just have to let things be… soft."
You stare at him. He seems caught in his own head for a moment. Between the psychoanalysis and philosophy he just threw at you, you can see where he gets his genes. But the sentiment… that's all Rox.
"Goddamn that sounded stupid," he says, shaking his head. "I just mean that… it's okay to chill. God forbid we get a fucking break every once in a while."
His voice cracks a little.
"Why do you even care?" you ask after a moment. "You could have killed me, still could now, and you'd have your fucking 'soft' narrative back, if you think I'm what's keeping you from it."
He looks at you and you think this is the saddest you've ever seen him. He swallows.
"Fuck man," he says, and this time his voice definitely cracks. "Because I… love… you."
Goddamit. An awkward air instantly settles over the room. And of course, like the Ultimate Dave he is, your brother handles it the only way he knows how: by trampling on through.
"I mean… fuck. No. That's exactly what I mean. I hate seeing you like this. Making decisions you hate because you think you have to fix everything. Thinking that everything is a thing that you have to fix in the fist place. It fucking hurts to see you put yourself through all your self-deprecating bullshit and know that under all of the irony and jokes you really do mean it. How much you hate yourself. How much you want to… And it makes me so fucking angry that I just sit back and let you do it. That I don't ever call you on it because we'll suddenly be in emotional-vulnerability city, meeting the fucking mayor in his feelings mansion and waving goodbye to casual bro moments… broments… I can't believe I've watched you fall this far over so many years and not done a thing. Because of our stupid Stri-Londe emotionally constipated bullshit. Goddamn, why are we all like this?"
You're a little stunned at the wall of affection and concern you find yourself suddenly and very thoroughly crashed into. Dave inadvertently spews his guts to… everyone in the immediate vicinity (and then some) on the regular. But you don't think you've ever heard him talk about you like this. You're… honestly not sure how to react.
"Roxy's the only one who isn't," you point out, weakly. "Guess it's all my genes."
To your surprise, Dave just snorts.
"You'd be surprised man," he says. "You weren't around when they married John. They've got it in 'em too."
Right… pronouns.
"Damn, I've been a dick to Roxy," you say quietly. You think maybe Dave's honesty is a little contagious.
"Dirk, hate to break it to you, but you've kind of been a dick to everyone." He's smiling a bit when he says it.
You let out a sigh and let your head drop on your arms. You're so fucking tired.
"I'm so fucking tired," you say.
You hear Dave move and suddenly there is a warm presence beside you. His side presses against yours.
"Then maybe… it's time to let go," he says. "Fucking relax for once. It won't kill you."
"I can't," you admit. "I need to have a purpose. I… don't know what else to do with myself."
"Can your purpose be to be happy?" Dave asks. You give him a Look and he winces good-naturedly. "Fuck, you're right. That was some stupid shit. Sorry."
You let yourself laugh, just a bit.
"You can still have purpose, I think," Dave says, nudging you with his elbow. "Honestly, we could all use a little purpose what with the lazy pieces of shit we've been these past years. We just have to keep making it."
"It won't be important," you say. "Do I need to remind you, yet again, that nothing we do from this point is real?"
"Fuck important," he says. "And fuck 'real' whatever that shit means. If this isn't as 'real' as fighting Lord English, or Fish Hitler, or any bullshit we've dealt with since we first starting playing that stupid game, I don't think anything we've done has been real at all."
You sigh.
"You know that's not totally true. There's a difference. I know you can feel it."
He shrugs.
"Maybe. But even if we're not 'real' any more. Even if it's not the 'truth.' I still think we matter. To some extent, we can make our own truth, even if it feels different. I think we've understood that for a long time. And I don't think we really needed any bullshit lesson to teach us that."
You're not exactly sure what he means by that last bit, but luckily he stops following that train of thought. There's been enough metatextual symbolism in this goddamn fanfiction without the author directly hijacking the dialogue to make a point about its source material. This is about two brothers healing for fuck's sake. Have some respect.
"The sentiment is… nice," you say eventually. "But as much as I'd like to go along with all this and pretend everything is fine… I know how my brain works. I'll sabotage it eventually. You know that."
"Sure," Dave says. "You'll sabotage it, we'll settle your dramatic ass down, you'll chill for a bit, and then we start over again. No one expects you to make a full one-eighty, introducing Dirk 2.0: this time with less issues. That'd be hypocritical as shit."
"You're really willing to put up with that?" you ask.
"Dude," he says, placing a hand on your arm. He even takes off his shades to look you dead in the eyes. "I live with Karkat. I live and breath dramatic bullshit. Just pile yours on top. It’s okay if the bullshit pile doesn’t stop keeping from getting taller.”
You stare at him for a moment in his absolute sincerity, then huff a laugh and let your head fall back on your arms.
"You're a weird fucking guy," you say. "You know that right?"
You feel his head lean on your shoulder. He doesn't let go of your arm. His hand is calloused and warm.
"Only get it from the best."