Chapter Text
Oh fuck off, what is that noise?
It’s downright fucking nasty, piercing through the soft blanket that you pulled over your head in an attempt to calm your alarm’s tits and get a few more minutes of sleep. You shove an arm out of your cushioned abode, slapping around on your side table until you feel something vaguely phone-shaped and grab it, taking it back into the covers with the rest of your body. Maybe today it’ll finally seal around your body and leave you embalmed for future archaeologists to dig up and view.
If only blankets and beds only worked that way.
It’s more likely that you’d just assume the fetal position until it gets too hot and you’re forced to shuffle your way out of bed to face the day like a responsible adult. Shame.
Anyway.
You unlock your phone screen, squinting at the clock. 6:2...7? It isn’t supposed to ring yet for at least three minutes.
You wince. That screeching noise is still happening.
Wait. Oh.
Oh, shit.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck that’s Roxy’s scream.
In an acrobatic move that would make hot movie men running from an impending gunfight gape in jealousy, you launch yourself off the metaphorical handle and out the literal bedroom to sock-slide your way into the kitchen where impending catastrophe is being sown like a bunch of seeds after a farmer’s been paid one hell of a hefty subsidy. Like little bean buds being scattered about from flower girls going haywire at a wedding recital, or some other shit that you might actually have knowledge on that didn’t come from late night browses on Wikipedia with Rose.
And like late night browses on Wikipedia with Rose, you rub your eyes and wonder if you have enough energy for the day to believe this, much less live your life knowing that lobsters technically can’t die. Or that your little brother is ten seconds into microwaving a full bowl of cereal with a spoon in it. At least the screaming died down, though.
You bend down to scoop up Dirk with one arm and turn off the microwave before things start getting a little bit too lightning-inducing for your tastes. You feel Roxy tug at your pajama leg.
“Morning Dave-Davey,” she hoarsely wheezes, completely out of breath. You take Emergency Midnight Plastic Cup of Water #1 off the table and hand it to her, sitting down on the floor to wait until she’s done.
“Morning Davey,” she repeats, handing the cup back to you with enthusiasm. “Dirk put a spoon in the oven even when I told him not to because it’ll melt. So I screamed.”
“Yeah, I heard you loud and clear, sweetie,” you sigh. “Thanks for waking me up so we don’t have to spend this month’s fast food money on another tech replacement. I appreciate it.” Roxy beams, hugging you around the neck.
You turn to Dirk, who’s still chilling in your arm, albeit looking away. Maybe thinking about making some controlled lightning when you’re not looking later.
“Dirk,” you begin, giving his cheek a gentle prod, “my best bro, my main man and second in command, I appreciate you trying to get ready for school all by yourself but you totally should not -” you raise an eyebrow for emphasis “-should, not could, okay- put a spoon or fork or any other metal utensil used for cooking or mouth contact into the microwave, okay? That shit’s gonna explode in the bad way that ends up with a lot of bad smells and boring tech shopping. Hate to say it, but I already told you before that you’re not allowed to use the fun heating box until you’re old enough to read and understand the entire manual that comes with it. That okay with you?”
Dirk looks between you, the microwave and Roxy, considering your offer. You hold up a fist primed for bumping.
“I’ll let you press the buttons whenever you want to help heat something up. Don’t leave me hanging.”
And to that he nods, sealing the kiddy contract with the most businesslike of deals one could ever fathom when you’re six years old and coincidentally wearing tuxedo-print pajamas. Fuck yeah.
The now distant ringing of what’s actually your phone alarm reminds you that it’s Friday. And productive shit should probably be transpiring right about now. You stand up, set your kids down and quickly get into routine mode.
You open the cupboards, set down three more bowls, a carton of cold milk and three glasses. You microwave Dirk’s cereal with his help as per your newfound deal, fill up said three glasses, get hydrated, take out your last decent attempt at homemade pizza from the fridge to pack for lunch, and finally give Roxy her good morning hug before double checking that chaos won’t break out again as you leave.
That was a fucking lot. You proceed to sock shuffle your way to Rose’s door, giving it a good drum beat before banging on it twice with finality. An aggravated groan resounds through the wood, followed by the familiar sound of Rose falling onto the floor.
“Fuck YOU. I’m not g’nna get up , ‘m thirty for fuck’s shake-”
“First of all,” you sigh, “you’re not thirty, you’re twenty six. Also, you have to go to school.”
“I’m fucking twenty six.”
“You’re the damn teacher , Rose.”
“Fuck you.”
You groan. “I gotta be honest, there’s probably no way to sugarcoat this in a way that sounds appealing. You’re twenty-six and going back to school. My mandible is made of calcium and not sucrose. Speaking of mandible, I’m not gonna call in to flap my jaw about how you’re sick with what’s definitely an actual cold and not the fatal illness called life fucking sucks syndrome. Which I guess is just called life?” You pause, hearing her sigh through the door.
“Also, Roxy and Dirk are going to school healthy as newborn fucking foals and it’s only a matter of time before they find out about how there’s no way they’re happy little babies while you’re supposedly bedridden Victorian-style. It’s also not just because of the fact that the dirt they ate amped up their immune system by like a million units.” You place your forehead to the door.
No reply.
Even after all these years, it still isn't easy for Rose. She toiled over a desk for years, taking a double major in psychology and literature, only to end up with a job that’s nowhere near what you were ever thinking of. At least you get to talk about bones; Rose ended back up in the very education system she worked so hard to get over with.
She’s a good teacher and sister though; you both know that. High school is just one extra special circle of hell.
“Look,” you amend, “it’s Friday. Just eight or so more hours and then we can all relax on the couch and chill if you want, okay? It’s gonna be like every other fuck-normal day.”
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
The door finally opens, and you greet your second favorite sister and sole confidant good morning with a fist bump. She hits it dead on, yawning before motioning for you to dip your head down low.
“Your roots are growing back in, just infinitesimally too much. As is your fade.”
“Well, your professional gray isn’t looking as pristine as it was before either, asshole. Better bleach them soon before people discover all your shit’s just a cover up for your actual gray hairs.”
You both hold your long-practiced deadpan stares, refusing to be the first one to break.
Rose raises an eyebrow. “Fucker.”
“Poopyhead.”
“Oh, are we resorting back to kindergarten insults now?”
“We all know you have to fight fire with fire.” That was a good comeback. Good one, Dave.
Rose breaks into a snort before shoving you aside to head straight for the bathroom. Well, not straight. She faceplants the wall along the way.
While Rose attends to her porcelain-adjacent duties, you go back to check up on Dirk and Roxy, making sure their backpacks have everything they need: lunch, pencil cases, whatever constitutes as homework for first graders- like seriously, what do they even fucking do? Color in the alphabet? It doesn’t matter- that one horse lego for Dirk, glitter pens and a daily sticky note from Rose for Roxy, water bottles and helping them get ready (Roxy puts her socks on backwards and Dirk brushes his teeth for too long). You finish off by cleaning up any stray crumbs on the table until Rose gets out fully dressed, tapping you out of Responsible Adult Duty and into grabbing your own set of clothes before heading into the bathroom yourself.
There is a uniform for tour guides at the museum, but Aradia lets you spice up your look with a suit occasionally. It’s not that cold today, though. Maybe you’ll forgo the jacket and just wear the long sleeve.
You wink at yourself. You clean up well.
Fuck. You forgot to wash your face.
Admittedly, you probably spend a lot more time in the bathroom than you need to. You stare at yourself in the mirror, slowly wiping your face clean of any stray droplets. Look at that.
Dave Strider, responsible adult.
You’re not so detached from your childhood yet that the concept itself still sounds laughable. Like you’re two steps away from the circus spotlight, tomatoes and clown horns at the ready. And yet, here you are. With three jobs and taking commissions on the side, waking up every day to accompany your siblings to school and work. Every night, you go to sleep with a mental list of unfinished tasks that you’ll never complete, because that’s just the way shit is on this bitch of an earth. Resignation is your motivation.
You even pay taxes , now. That’s fucked up.
Okay, Rose pays the taxes. You’re still not completely sure how to do them.
The point still stands.
You stare down into the towel. You’re so tired.
You’re the eldest (barely, but whatever) in a family of four, spreading yourself thin with responsibilities that hammer at you as heavily as the day your parents died, no matter how familiar you are with the routine. The days have begun to blend together into a haze, your only anchor to time being the constant surprises Roxy and Dirk spring at you everyday as they grow.
Yeah, those two. And Rose, of course.
The memory of bright smiles and quiet nods are all you need to remind yourself of what you’re still here for.
Dirk’s small hands gripping your own with determination, pointing to various pieces of furniture around the house and not letting up until you got the hint and wrote each word down on a piece of masking tape, effectively labeling everything he wanted to learn to read.
Rose and Roxy painting your nails, your left hand with blue and right with red. Watching Sharkboy and Lavagirl while discussing cartoon physics as you wait for the paint to dry. Roxy pointing out that your toes are still as nude as the day you were born, and bearing the scent of acetone as you try to wipe off the excess polish that got on your feet afterwards.
You’re doing it for them. Trying to make the world a little less shitty for the people that mean everything to you. Even if everything is turning out to be the complete opposite of what you expected adulthood to be like from coming of age movies and simple childlike idealization, you have Rose and Roxy and Dirk.
Maybe that’s enough for you.
A sharp series of steps rouses you out of the towel (when did that get in your face?) before a kick to the door has you rapidly tucking it back onto the rack, double checking yourself in the mirror one more time. Fuck, your hair is growing out too much. You probably need to do something about that soon.
“Dave!” Rose’s yell pierces clear through the wood. “It’s been twenty minutes! Don’t tell me you’re somehow too infantile to know how to get dressed unassisted. Although I wouldn’t put that past you.”
“Damn it, Rose,” you open the door, grabbing the car keys before ushering everyone out the apartment and down the stairs, “don’t you know the first rule of bathroom etiquette is not to disrupt pensive spirals? I could’ve-”
“-frightened yourself at the sound of my voice mid-shit, effectively alerting yourself to the fact that your legs were rendered numb in the process of your porcelain philosophy, inducing a toilet-related bone breakage?” She looks back, flashing a cheeky smile. “I’m certain you’ll live. After all, I do believe you’re already quite familiar with the experience.”
“That happened only twice! Two fucking times, and you never let me live it down,” you call out. Woefully, your retort is already diffused into the air, left behind by the time you all buckle in your seatbelts and drive off to school.
In her own apt manner, Rose asks you for a time check just as you pull into the front of the school.
“7:45,” you state. “Kick them kids’ asses, incorporate them into the assembly line mentality as all teachers evilly conspire to do in a totally not evil manner-”
“I’ll have you know that I personally detest the current education system, a belief that I am thankfully not alone with in this desolate landscape of pedagogic indoctrination.” Rose gets out the door and opens the side to help Roxy out, leaning over to continue. “He’s quite charming actually, when not ear-gratingly exhausting. You’d like him.”
“That so?” You reply. Throughout the entirety of her current career, Rose solely talks about one guy as if he’s the only other coworker she actively likes (if not tolerates) in the school. You don’t know what the fuck he did to gain her respect, but if Rose likes him, he’s bound to be a pretty okay guy.
That, or she’s been secretly making fun of him and you’ve been misinterpreting shit as always.
It’s about time you meet someone new, anyway. Maybe you could be friends.
Maybe he’s also cute. You don’t fucking know.
Rose nods in confirmation. “Indeed. We really must organize a lunch together, you know. For adults, we’re surprisingly incompetent in our responsibilities.”
“I beg to differ-"
"Then beg-"
"Real mature of you right then. I mean, we have two toddlers to manhandle while running on a maximum of 7 hours of sleep on a good night. Considering the ass-over-head rating on circumstances, I think we're doing pretty good."
Rose purses her lips. Ooh, and an eyebrow raise. She’s definitely admitting you’re right. "I suppose you're not wrong."
"And we’ve only committed tax evasion, like, once.”
“We don’t talk about that. We’re lovable law abiding citizens.”
“I’m kidding.”
“I know you know you’re kidding.”
“3:30?” Dirk’s voice speaks up against your rapport. It isn’t often that he talks- he usually resorts to simple gestures and ASL, although you and Rose are still trying to remember all the letters. When he does, though, it’s punctual and short. Ironically, you have a feeling he’s going to be a lot more roundabout and obtuse when he grows up.
“Yes Dirk, Dave will pick us up at 3:30. He will have to return to work shortly afterward, though. He’ll join us later when his last shift is over, if I’m correct.” Rose finally takes his hand, helping him out of the car.
“Would you two like to bade Dave farewell?”
“Seeya Davey!! Have a good day at work. I love you.”
“Bye.”
“Thanks for making it sound like I’ve aged twenty years, Rose.”
“You look it.”
You almost flip her off before you remember you’re supposed to be driving and you’re also in front of a bunch of very impressionable kids. You get on your way with a wave. And a glimpse of a middle finger.
At around 8:20, you pull into the parking lot of the Clockwork Museum. Which, ironically enough, is not about clocks. It does involve time though, so you guess it does make sense from a certain perspective. If that certain perspective involves a good-natured sense of humor towards the fact that we’ll all be sets of bones in due time.
Aradia’s waiting for you when you enter the doors, wiping off the countertops with a final flourish. Her smile is infectious.
“Hello Dave! You’re earlier than usual today.”
You put on your nametag, taking the rag from her and setting it back down onto an inconspicuous corner of the table. “Yeah, I got an earlier wakeup courtesy of toddler shenanigans. Dirk tried to microwave a spoon.”
“That’s a riveting way to start your day. Also, they’re not toddlers anymore.”
You groan. “Don’t remind me of the passage of time.”
“It exists!”
“It’s existing too fast.”
“Not exactly. Your days are simply blending together into one continuous block of tedium.” She reaches over to straighten your collar, turning to walk to the front doors while you quickly fall in step next to her. “What makes time more distinctive is the moments that we spend doing things outside of the usual. In reality, there’s plenty of time to satisfy various curiosities you might have about life and vigor and whatnot.”
“Tell that to my calendar.”
“It’s quite possible that I will! When we finally hang outside of work.”
You sigh, setting a directory sign outside of the door. “Soon.”
“And how many soons more?”
“When I stop getting my ass handed to me by the very fingers of the clock itself. And considering I’m so far back in on sleep debt I might as well get put into a coma to get it all back I’ll probably have to postpone it a few soons more to actually get back to you with non-caffeinated blood running through my veins. Now go ahead and tell me if I’m lying. I’m a big and honest boy.”
“You are! You drink what constitutes as coffee-flavored milk. There is not a single ounce of caffeinated blood in your veins that could add up to a single bean.”
Ooh. That hurt.
“Anyway!” She continues, completely ignoring the minor breakdown you’re having about how your preferable coffee flavor is that of a milk truck driving through a single plant for its subtle hint of energy.
“I’m reminding you that there will be a group of students on a school field trip today. They should be arriving here soon.”
Right. You’re working. As you do. Right right right right right-
Aradia places her hand on your shoulder, grounding you. “Dave, you’re great with children. And you will do fine. You know that just as well as I do.”
You take a deep breath. Yeah. “Yeah. Thanks, Ara.”
“It’s no problem. Our coworkers will be arriving soon. Go get a drink of water before you start.”
One cup of water later, you’re standing near the front desk, waiting for the plethora of middle schoolers heading right your way. You shake your hands. At least these are little kids; Just remember to speak a bit slower and you’ll be fine.
Finally, the kids are all gathered and mostly silent in front of you, stationed by two teachers at each side.
“Alright! Good morning, sup, hope you’ve had a good start to everything so far, my name’s Dave and I’ll be your tour guide for today,” you greet. The routine starts coming back to you, flowing into your veins and steadying you for a long day destined for talking about one of the things you love most. You start leading them down the hallway, with a skip in your step that reminds you with a familiar nudge that everything’s okay.
“To start off, what do you know about evolution?”
A kid in the front frantically waves her hand.
“It is-It’s when a Pokemon changes into another type of Pokemon!”
The group bursts into laughter and high fives, and you smile and wave the two teachers away from reprimanding them.
You love your job.
-
Multiple successful (albeit draining) tours and a family drop-off later, you’re back in your car, driving to your third job.
Honestly, you don’t even know why you work at this cafe other than the extra bucks it gives you for the occasional self-care splurging. Olive Garden makes sense: You started visiting it in middle school as an endeavor for free breadsticks, which evolved into a high school job for the extra money, which evolved into an extra Adult Job to keep up the extra money just in case you and Rose’s inheritance ran out after your parents died.
Which it mostly did, because -surprise surprise- providing for two little kids with enough healthy food to make sure you don’t get scurvy as well as a fuckton of other stressing factors that you don’t really want to think about takes a devastating bite out of your bank account. You’re scared to think about what would’ve happened if you didn’t get the money.
Probably a lot more work and a lot less sleep.
You reach the cafe aaand it’s not your fucking shift today.
Great. Great. You’re fucking fantastic. Just a top notch dude on top of his schedule like Atlas taking a piggyback on the Earth.
Look, you already drove over here. Might as well use the employee’s discount to get a hot chocolate and work on your commissions.
At least the ambiance in here isn’t that bad. The whole cafe is pretty cozy with seat cushions and dim lighting, and the hot chocolate makes your tastebuds sing.
The coffee fucking sucks, though. It’s always too bitter.
And your coworkers are never really up to talking with you, which sucks a lot of the fun out of it all. Most days you find yourself standing idly, people watching until you get your next order. It’s pretty shitty, but the extra money helps.
Anyway.
You put your headphones on, pressing play on a playlist, and take out your drawing tablet. Time to work.
-
You’ve got an extra sixty dollars in the bag and a cramped wrist when you arrive back home, tuckered out and ready to avoid interacting with the outside world for 48 hours.
The door opens. Like a ball hitting you square in the gut, Roxy tackles you with a squeal and a (surprisingly) strong grip. Behind her, Dirk’s expectantly holding up some blank paper and a pencil.
You hold them tight, reminding yourself what you’re here for.
You’re still thinking about it on your bed as Dirk does addition worksheets, smiling while Roxy colors next to you. Rose is in the living room, probably sitting on the couch with a book forgotten on her lap while she watches the news to keep up with the times like a responsible adult. Like you probably should be doing too.
The steady mumble of the distant reporter rumbles in the back of your head, with the last few rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You need to turn the lights on soon- can’t have the kids strain their eyes in the dark.
It’s for the little moments. Spending what time you have doing things outside of the usual, satisfying the curiosities you have about growing up and simple addition.
You owe Aradia some time one day.
“Dave?” Roxy tugs at your sleeve. “Can you help me draw the grass?”
You take the colored pencil with the esteem of a newly knighted chevalier. “It’d be my deepest honor, Rox, holy shit. Shit. Ignore that.” She and Dirk giggle.
Yeah, you gotta stop swearing around these kids.
There’s something oddly calming about drawing grass. They’re simple enough that they can be easily illustrated with just a couple green lines and minimal effort. Zigzags, maybe, if you’re getting overly pretentious and fancy. Huh. You could do a comic about that. Maybe something about- BANG
The kids scream.
FUCK, you just made a giant green streak across the paper. You don’t know if Roxy’s going to be that forgiving.
“Dave. ” Rose is keeling over with her sleeves drawn up, ragged and wheezing through her teeth. Her eyes are wide with fear. But Rose can’t be afraid. She never is.
And yet, she’s staring at you with furrowed eyebrows and a hand gripping the door handle, hard.
You’re jolted back to a memory.
When she knocked on your apartment door, clutching her arms and stumbling over her words as she tried to tell you that you had two 3-year old little siblings living with your parents that you had no idea existed, and an inheritance given to you as next of kin.
This is something where she doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, and it terrifies her.
You stand up, reaching out to her.
“Rose. You- are you okay?”
“Dave.”
“Your favorite tv show not getting cancelled or anything?”
“Dave, this is serious. ”
“Okay. Okay, okay.” You soothe. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She looks you dead on in the eye. You glance away.
“Have you been wearing long sleeves all day?”
“What?” That wasn’t the end of the world question you were expecting.
“Have you?”
You look down at your covered arms. “Yeah, I guess so. Did I miss a memo on shirts or something-”
“-You haven’t pulled them up at all? Not to scratch at anything or to wash your hands? You didn’t draw anything on your arm recently?” Her voice gets tense, like she’s building up to something that she’s not necessarily sure how to explain. The news trickles on behind her.
“...No.”
She takes a deep breath, and turns on the lights.
“Can you -please- take off your shades and pull up your sleeves. I have to make sure this isn’t a hoax.”
You skip on replying, blinking as you adjust to the change in lighting.
Left sleeve up.
Arm bare, just as it’s always been.
Rose sucks in a breath.
You drag your right sleeve up
and feel your stomach jump up to your throat and right back down again.
Rose lets out a grievous hah.
“So it is real.”
You can’t stop fucking staring.
Because somehow, like fucking magic, there’s a dark outline of words gradually etching themselves into your skin.