Work Text:
He couldn’t remember.
There was something in the back of his mind. Always there. Constantly. Never quite in focus, but it always bothered him. Like when you have a twitch in your eye, and no matter what you try, you can’t stop it.
It frustrated him so much, much like being unable to control your eye would. He knew that whatever he couldn’t remember was so vitally important, so crucial to everybody's survival. And he couldn’t believe himself, that he had actually forgotten. They would have been so disappointed.
Wait, they who?
He figured that was something to do with what he was forgetting.
It was things like this that plagued his mind, at all hours. Being worried about disappointing "them", being worried that, if they knew, they'd be angry with him.
Sometimes, he would wake up in the middle of the night, with just the vaguest memories of a dream.
The dreams were always the same.
He always died.
He always died, and that was all he could remember. There were others there, and different worlds, so many things, things that couldn’t possibly be true.
He couldn’t remember.
He was working on a book, now. In his spare time, which was practically nonexistant. He was writing about four friends. Four of the closest friends in the world. And in doing that, he almost remembered.
Almost.
And he was so certain that she would have been pleased, to see him writing.
But it always just remained tauntingly out of reach.
It comforted him, nonetheless. Writing about these four, and their adventures. Their mad, impossible adventures.
When he wrote about them, he didn’t feel so alone.
Dave Strider couldn’t remember.
And honestly, he doubted he ever would.
But he kept writing his books, and and he kept making his horrible movies.
For them.
Whoever they were.
He did it all for them.