Chapter Text
Dave is less agile than you expected, moving in short, staccato bursts unavoidably reminiscent of faulty machinery: juddering starts, and skittering halts; swift, yet ungainly. It catches you off guard for that brief, anticipatory moment in which you were expecting something flawless. The gloom of the Veil has corroded his mannerisms, rendering sleek motions and seamless quips half dulled, almost hollow. Bruised, like a new shoe slightly scuffed.
Truth be told, you expected to be impressed.
As it is, you have been socked repeatedly in the jaw by the full force of your own misconceptions.
When the inevitable introduction occurs, you expect animosity – gratuitous posturing, followed by quick deliverance from each other’s company. Yet, a few sparrowlike footsteps and he stands before you, expression more sheepish than sardonic, rent ragged by the relentless push, tear and pull of the game’s machinations, and you simply cannot do it.
You cannot hate Dave Strider.
Not when he looks so goddamn neurotic.
“Strider,” you mutter, catching him by the shoulder before he lashes out at some imagined flicker of threat. “It’s over, OK?”
Fractionally, he tilts his chin upwards, and you could swear he is actually looking at you.
“… OK,” he says.