Chapter Text
Your name is Dave Strider, you’re twenty-seven years old, and you work in Sales. You never really intended to, it just kinda... happened. One moment, there you were, a freshly minted college grad off to mix some beats and fuck shit up, totally useless music degree in hand, and now here you are, having taken an acrobatic fucking pirouette directly off your teenage dreams and landed ass-first into a reality that consists mainly of cold-calling new customers and sucking up to existing ones.
You’ve been in your current job, at Crockercorp Paper Company, for a little over five years now. It’s not a good job, even by your admittedly pretty shitty standards. Your boss scares the crap out of you, your coworkers are all dead inside, and the office coffee isn’t even that good. You should’ve found another job a long time ago. You could’ve, even. You’re not a particularly good salesman, but you have an instinct for when to push a sale and when to let it be, and you interview fairly well. You’re pretty sure you could get the hell outta dodge and make twice your current salary, could have a better title and decent coffee, and could even, maybe, have your own office instead of half a desk in an open floor plan.
But you’ve got no intention of leaving CPC, for a shit ton of not-really-good reasons and one Really Good Reason. The Really Good Reason’s name is Karkat, and he’s the receptionist. Karkat is short and cranky and wears sweaters everyday and has a (hilarious) tendency to glare at people like they murdered his mother and shat on her corpse. You’d seen the full force of one of those glares on your first day at CPC, and then on your second, and then on your third and fourth and fifth. Animosity grew quickly between the both of you, and riling him up for shits and giggles became part of your everyday routine. It went on like that for maybe a month and a half, till the one night you stayed overtime and caught him watching 50 First Dates on his work computer, crying while Adam Sandler sang about Drew Barrymore’s ass with his shitty ukulele, and felt your heart grow three times in size like the fucking Grinch. Every habit of his you used to find annoying soon became flat out adorable, and your initial contempt softened into something way more endearing, and then you saw him really smile at you for the first time since you’d met him and it was all downhill from there.
You were still recovering from the full-force effect of his smile, your thoughts only just beginning to morph from a silent scream of holy SHIT into a hazy fantasy of making out with him on your loveseat while watching one of his lame ass romcoms, when your mind flashed back to the New Employee Manual you’d received on your first day at CPC and slapped you in the face with the fact that intra-office relationships are strictly off limits.
And so you’ve been, for the last five years, existing in the pants-shittingly torturous balance of knowing that you’ll never be able to date Karkat so long as you both work at CPC, and fearing that if you ever do leave the company, you’ll lose the certainty of seeing him every weekday between eight-thirty and five-thirty on the dot.
And all of that’s without even getting into the glaring fact that you aren’t at all sure whether Karkat even feels the same way. There are the fond glares, yeah, and the way he always lights up when he sees you in the morning but vehemently tries to deny it. There’s the softness in his voice when he thanks you for picking up a coffee for him at the cafe downstairs, and the way he always fails to keep himself from laughing even at your shittiest jokes, and the sorta warm exasperation in his voice when he calls you an asshole or fuckface or shithead or something. But all those things may, you tell yourself stubbornly, whenever you’re feeling particularly sappy and hopeful, just be Karkat being Karkat. He’s kinda like that with everyone, after all. The textbook definition of tsundere. Cranky as hell with a secret gooey chocolate center and all these hidden feelings and shit.
So you live in a state of mind-numbing uncertainty, plucking the petals off an imaginary flower like some sorta fairy tale princess, hoarding every bickerment and brush of fingertips and rare toothy smile like they were priceless treasures, as though enough maybes might someday add up to yes.
And when the branch manager of CPC Houston, Feferi, comes out of her office to announce that her latest team-building idea is a Sales versus Operations trivia contest, your first thought isn’t ‘how the hell is that supposed to facilitate team-building’ or ‘who the fuck invented team-building anyway.’ (those are all thoughts you have; they just aren’t the first.) Your first thought is that you and Karkat are gonna be on different teams.
“So,” says Feferi, in the cheerful boom of someone who has no obligations outside of work and has probably never considered that anyone else might, “we’ll all go down to the bar tomorrow at six. Trivia starts at six-thirty, it’ll be fun! Any questions?”
“Yeah,” says Sollux in Accounting, “is this mandatory?”
A general murmur of assent ripples through the office.
“Well,” Feferi says, as though she hasn’t even considered that anyone might not want to give up their Friday evening for a work trivia night (which, to be honest, she probably hasn’t), “hm, I don’t know if it...I guess...” She glances over at Tavros from Personnel, who shakes his head with a helpless look on his face. “Um. No. Not mandatory, I guess.”
“Great,” Sollux says, “then I’m out.”
“But!” Feferi says hurriedly, “the prize for the winning team is an extra day off! With pay. So. Keep that in mind!”
The rumble of discontent quickly turns into a rumble of interest.
Feferi claps her hands together and beams. “Great! So, back to work, everyone, and get ready for trivia night!” she says, scurrying back to her office.
You let your gaze gravitate to where it always does, Reception. Karkat’s typing away on his computer, at what looks from far away like work but is probably the draft of the romance novel he’d told you he was writing but has never let anyone read. With casualness that you’ve gotten good at pretending you have, you get up from your chair and stroll the few feet to Reception, forcing yourself to look like you’re completely focused on choosing which candy to pick from the bowl on Karkat’s desk. (the truth is, you don’t really like candy, but you’ve gained five pounds and two cavities since the beginning of your employment at CPC because eating the stuff gives you an excuse to talk to karkat during work hours and jesus christ you have it bad don’t you)
“Sup, man,” you say, stuffing a Sweet Tart into your mouth. “So this trivia night thing, huh? You, uh, you going?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Karkat says, still typing away on his computer. “Kanaya’s probably gonna drag me with her, and I don’t really have anything better to do, so. Yeah.”
“Oh. Cool.”
He throws you a glance. “Are you? Going, I mean.”
Yeah, you kinda wanna say, I’d go anywhere you went, dude. “Eh, I dunno. A day off sounds pretty nice right about now,” you say, instead.
“You should—” Karkat’s phone rings, and he rolls his eyes. “Hold on, let me get this. Crockercorp Paper Company, how may I direct your call?”
You snort at his customer service voice and he shoots you a vicious glare.
“I’ll transfer you, please hold,” Karkat says, and fusses over the buttons of his phone for a few seconds before pressing a few of them and slamming the phone back in its cradle. “Anyway, like I was saying,” he continues, “you should come. To trivia night. It fucking kills me to admit it but I’d probably pop a blood vessel without you.”
You swallow, nod. “Yeah, I don’t think I got anything—”
You’re cut off by Karkat’s phone ringing again. He curses and picks it up again. “Crockercorp Paper Company, how may I—oh, it’s you again. Oh, it didn’t go through? Fffffu-uhhh, I’m so sorry, if you’ll hold for just a second—”
The thing about Karkat is—he’s kind of a shitty receptionist. You can’t count on your hands the number of clients he’s lost to losing his temper or accidentally dropping a call. Honestly, it’s pretty surprising that he hasn’t been fired yet. You think it’s mostly ‘cause Feferi likes him too much, or is just too nice to fire him, but hey, you’re not complaining.
Karkat slams the phone down again, this time like he's sure it's over. “God, I fucking suck at this,” he complains. “You don’t think they’ve changed the commands again, do you?”
You bite your tongue really fucking hard to avoid saying something about how “they” hadn’t once changed the phone commands since you started working here.
“Yeah, maybe,” you say instead. “Anyway. I just popped by to get my, uh, my candy—” you gesture awkwardly to the lump in the corner of your mouth— “so I guess I’ll see you later, then. When I kick your ass at trivia night and all that.”
Karkat scoffs, rolls his eyes. “Don’t kid yourself, Strider, if anyone’s getting their ass kicked tonight it’s sure as hell not gonna be—” The phone rings again and he growls, “Are you fucking— Crockercorp Paper Company, how may I— oh, it didn’t? I’m so sorry, our phones must be acting up again…”
You grab a sticky note from Karkat’s desk and scrawl its transfer then 2 then the extension on it, then slap it to his monitor.
Karkat shoots you a grateful look, says, “Oh yeah, I see the problem now, hold on a second, please,” presses the buttons decisively, and places the phone back down again.
A few desks away, Equius’s phone rings.
“Oh thank fuck, it worked,” Karkat sighs, relieved. “Thanks so fucking much, Dave.”
You shrug. “Maybe you will be the one getting your ass handed to you, then. If, y’know, they have questions about phone commands or—”
Karkat reaches out towards his computer, un-sticks the sticky note, crumples it up, and throws it in your face. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Ow, fuck,” you say, despite the sticky note bouncing off your shades and causing you virtually no harm. “Guess we’ll see tonight, then, won’t we, Vantas?”
“You bet your ass we will, Strider,” he retorts, and you slouch back to your desk, the last few bits of sweetness from the candy sinking into your tongue, leaving behind only the sharp edges that prick and sting.
In the end, just about everyone shows up for trivia night. The bar Feferi chooses sucks major ass, though, with kitschy decor and too-expensive drinks and a clientele composed almost exclusively of snotty nosed businessmen in wrinkly suits, because, honestly, who the hell does trivia night on a Friday?
Feferi pesters you all into sitting with your teammates, Sales at one table and Operations at another. You look around at your table and— yeah, you’re not winning this thing. You’re kinda super fucking shitty at trivia, and you’re pretty sure that Eridan and that other dude from Sales whose name you can’t remember for the life of you but looks like he’s constantly on the verge of shitting himself aren’t too great at it, either. Feferi had declared herself a part of your team, and while she’ll maybe cushion the blow somewhat, you’re still no match for the Operations team. Kanaya in HR talks like she swallowed a thesaurus as a baby, you’re pretty sure Sollux in Accounting hacked into the Pentagon during office hours once, Tavros in Personnel plays DnD so he probably isn’t stupid, you have no idea what Aradia does but she looks like she’s constantly on the verge of going apeshit so that probably speaks for itself, and Karkat is Karkat.
All things considered, you’re fucked.
The Operations team proceeds to win the first seven rounds, out of eight. Which means that, in the span of just over two hours, as per the free-drink-per-round-won rule, Karkat slams seven gin and tonics, and is what you can only describe as totally fucking hammered.
“Okay,” says the host, running a hand through his hair and matting it down again, “final round. Uh, we’ve got CPC Operations with a commanding lead, but don’t forget, winners of this round still get free drinks…” He throws Karkat a nervous look. “Although the bartender would like me to remind you that he reserves the right to refuse to serve anyone for any reason, thankyouverymuch. Onto our final categories, which are, uh, Elvis Presley, 1990s television, reptiles, and hockey—”
From the corner of your eye, you see Karkat lurch out of his chair, stumble into a wall, giggle to himself (apparently unhurt), and make his way unsteadily towards the men’s room. And your single beer must’ve had more of an impact on you than you’d realized, because without even really thinking about it, you mutter an excuse under your breath and follow.
The room is completely empty except for Karkat, who’s standing in front of one of the sinks and looking at himself in the mirror.
“You alright?” you ask, softly, letting the door close behind you.
Karkat turns to look at you and smiles real wide. “I am kicking your ass,” he says, proudly, “might not know how t’transfer a call but I know my trivia.” He takes a step towards you, and your brain goes into fight-or-flight mode and somehow manages to select freeze.
“Didn’t really doubt you,” you manage to say, “congrats on the extra day off. You’ve earned it, dude.”
Karkat steps closer, again; he’s close enough to touch, now, and thank god your brain hasn’t figured out how to send signals to your limbs yet, or you’d have reached out and taken his face in your hands and—
“Oh my god,” Karkat says, like he’s suddenly stumbled across a litter of baby kittens or something, “I made Dave fucking Strider from Sales congratulate me—”
You feel a whoosh somewhere at the base of your stomach, and you can tell that the sensation is about to spread to all sorts of totally inconvenient places, starting with, but definitely not limited to, your heart. You finally, finally manage to get your arms working again, and just as you begin to wrap one of them around Karkat’s shoulders he turns a funny color, says “Oh fuck,” and throws up all over your feet.
You suddenly regain complete working control over all your limbs and use that shit to steer Karkat in the direction of the nearest toilet. “C’mon,” you say, a little nonsensically, “you’re alright, c’mon, just breathe, dude.”
Karkat throws up again, this time, mercifully, in the toilet. You get up to grab a paper towel, dampen it with warm water, and return to the stall where Karkat is hunched over, gripping the toilet with both hands. You carefully place one hand on his back.
“I’m sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Karkat babbles, sounding a little like he might cry, “I’ve probably ruined your shoes, oh my god, I’m—”
He has, and they were way more expensive than you could afford, but you just make a soft generic comfort-noise and reach up to dab at Karkat’s face with the damp paper towel till he stops looking like he’s gonna puke.
“I’m sorry,” Karkat says, again, once you rise to throw out the paper towel.
You shrug. “It’s alright, man, really. Happens to all of us.” The poor guy still looks miserable so you grin and tack on, “Sides, there’s a silver lining, right?”
“What, what silver lining?”
“Well, you’ve won an extra day off, haven’t you? So you’ve got, like, an extra day to recover.”
“Yeah,” Karkat says, smiling again, “I have!”
“You need a ride home?” you ask, cautiously, “Or—”
Karkat shakes his head, winces, and shakes it again, more carefully. “K’naya’s got me, she lives nearby. Actually—” he staggers to his feet— “should prob’ly go find her, make sure she hasn’t left.”
“Cool,” you say, and then are suddenly seized with the impulse to bump fists or something. “So, uh. See you Tuesday, then, huh?”
“See you Tuesday,” Karkat says, and stumbles carefully out of the room.
You stare after him a minute, then get to work on de-vomitizing your Jordans. They aren’t waterproof.
Yet… the night wasn’t half bad.