Work Text:
It's so fucking quiet.
You hate that you could probably hear a pin drop right now, even if it was dropped off the edge of this tower's seemingly infinite rooftop. You don't know if it would ever even hit the ground, but you'd fucking hear it.
It's that fucking quiet.
Away from you and out of your line of sight, a clicking starts up. Slow and deliberate, fingers on a worn-down keyboard, and you know your ecto-bro has gotten just as tired of the silence as you have. You inwardly thank him for the sound, but make no attempt to voice it.
Every time you open your mouth the kid blanches in a way only one used to the attributes of a Strider can see. There's a tenseness that doesn't leave when you're near him, and Dave can't seem to stop his word-vomit when he tries to cover it up with cool indifference.
You get it, you do, but it still frustrates you to no end.
So you get up, making certain your movements are heard as you notice the way his back's facing you. You're sure he'd be able to hear your approach even with the silence you can flash-step with, but you're sure he'd startle like a baby deer if your movements were anything more than a tortoise-pace of motion.
The time it takes to cross the building feels grueling, but once you're a few feet away you can make out familiar shapes on his screen - poorly drawn as they are, you'd recognize them anywhere.
"Bro," you breathe, and though he tenses, he doesn't stop the slow motions of his finger as he draws with a built-in computer mouse. Shitty quality, but the irony of his tactic's off the charts.
"You know," you start, careful to chose your words lest he blocks you out again, "I think you'd enjoy my Bro's work. Fucking killer movies, ironic as shit."
He pauses, and the silence starts to sink in, so you continue.
"Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff: The Moive," you clarify, "Not sure how, but he got a fucking blockbuster out of that shit. Even got Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson cast. Damn impressive."
"...No fucking way."
You can't help the smirk you end up wearing as he responds, and you know he's watching you out of the reflection of the laptop's screen. "Way. Couldn't get Snoop, but he made it work."
"Shit. And your Bro, he was...?" Dave seems tentative, his gaze dropping as he picks at some lint on the cuffs of his rad-ass pjs.
"Like you," you supply, "At least he fucking looked the part from what I've seen. Never met the guy, but he was pretty cool in theory." Aside from the fact he left you to raise yourself. Not his fault he went to save the world or some shit.
Dave opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and furrows his brows the slightest bit before opening it again. His words form slowly, careful, as if he's testing the waters on the set of Jaws, "Bro was... he was Bro, alright." He seemed frustrated with how he said it, but you shrug it off. Doesn't want to talk about it? You get it.
"Looked like me, was a pompous ass, I take it?" A nod. "Figured."
The silence that follows is less tense, neither of you looking to break it any time soon. You want to brag about your tattoo, bring the discussion back to something familiar, but he's already gone back to the computer.
This time you simply stand behind him, off to the side to better see his screen, watching silently as a comic comes to life beneath Dave's practiced, perfectly shitty strokes.