Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sunlight cracks through the gap in the curtains where they don't close properly, and hits you right in the fucking face.

You groan (if you don't get up now, you never would), pulling your legs over the side of your bed and yawn so much in fact that your jaw hurts. Your eyes take a second to blink open properly. Your mouth tastes like salt and death, and you grimace like someone has just shoved shit into your face. Wait, what day was it? Saturday, you think. Well, you hope. Part of you can't be asked to check, because you're that damn tired. What sort of fool can't even remember the day of the week? You, apparently.

Deciding that pants were a good place to start, you stand on shaky legs, pulling on yesterday's jeans on and then running fumbly hands through that crazy poof on top of your head you have the audacity to call hair. No offense, but seriously- you need to buy a fucking comb. You're starting to feel like Gamzee.

You leave your hair alone for now, because you know that its a lost cause to even try and deal with before you've had breakfast. Instead you pull it into the tiniest ponytail ever, and conclude that you look minutely less shitty.

Mission accomplished.

Step two: SUSTENANCE. There was a bowl of Cookie Crisp (Nestle is a gift to the world. Tiny cookies in milk for cereal? Fucking genuis.) with your name on it just across the hall. Your stomach growls approving, but even so, you practically drag your feet across your tiny apartment.

Well- it wasn't tiny. Two bedroom, one bathroom, living room, and kitchen, but a little on the cozy side. Of course, you room with Gamzee, but he's out almost every night bumming his long-term boyfriend. Tavros, he's called. Whatever floats Gamzee's boat, you supposed. Because you practically had an empty apartment most of the time, Dave would visit far too often in between his busy A-list movie director life and chill with you. Obviously not anymore. Those were good memories, but you tried to avoid thinking about him now. It only made you remember that he was dead.

Wow, that was a cheery digression. Anyway: food. You pull open your creaky ass kitchen door, step inside, walk past Dave and start rummaging through your cupboards for-

Wait, back the fuck up. Start that paragraph again.

You open your creaky ass kitchen door, step inside, walk past Dave- there we go. False alarm, you're just going insane. But- you can hear him obnoxiously slurping every spoonful of cereal right behind you. Geez, he's even trying your patience from beyond the fucking grave. You turn, grey eyes wide and questioning, palms sweaty (knees weak), and see him. He's not even translucent or anything. Shouldn't ghosts be translucent? Can ghosts even eat cereal? Since when do ghosts wear obnoxious red suits?

"You look like you've seen a ghost", he says, so nonchalantly that you think you could kill him (haha). He finishes off his cereal (YOUR cereal) and you tilt your head slightly as he stands to sidle past you and put the bowl in the sink. The warmth practically radiates off of him, and your realise that he isn't a being from beyond the grave. This only makes you more mad.

"Are you wearing a ponytail? God, man, you've let yourself these past few years."

Clenching your fists and your teeth, you take a steady breath and-

And, well, you punch him right in the fucking face.

It was a good punch too, and you would be glad to congratulate yourself if you weren't seething over the fact that your best friend had faked his death for three years- and then acted like he'd only popped to the shops to replace the fucking milk. The blonde stumbles, leaning against the counter, his huge shades skewed awkwardly on his face. Meanwhile, your usually pale face is red, shoulders hunched in rage, and eyebrows furrowed to form a glare that could kill Dave all over again. Your breath is surprisingly laboured.

"Ah, fuck, nice left hook, sweetie- but shit that hurts", Dave stands up fully and readjusts his shades, rubbing the side of his face tenderly as a dribble of blood exits his nose. "That's gonna sting like hell in the morning. But geez, a hello would've been nicer. I thought you'd be sort of glad to see me, not angry."

"Who wouldn't be angry?! You ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!", you hear yourself roar back.

"Well", the blonde pauses, "you got me there."

Chapter Text

You remember Dave's funeral as if it were yesterday, rather than three years ago.

Contrary to popular belief, not every funeral had to be held on a day where it was raining. This pissed you off more than anything. How could the sun sit in the sky like nothing had happened when your best friend was sitting six feet under? It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, and you were sure to let everyone know that, too. You couldn't even begin to wrap your head around the prospect of the earth still turning when Dave was dead.

The church the service was held in was in the buttcrack of nowhere, in an old building that looked like it saw its better days over a century ago. Not only was it tiny and beat up, but it also reeked of mothballs and cheap air freshener and it made you want to gag yourself to death. No doubt, Dave probably requested that he be buried in the most ironic place ever if he were ever to pop his clogs, which he did. There were fucking birthday decorations up around the place, that morbid asshole. Of course, him being a successful multi-millionaire, the blonde had to go for a place that looked like it he been hired at the price of $2.60 and a mouldy piece of bread. It was so quintessentially Dave, and that only made it harder to be there. The pain that enveloped you was like heartbreak had seeped into every limb, between every fibre of every muscle, making them heavy and hard to move, and your veins throbbed beneath your skin every time you thought of him. He was gone forever (or so you thought at the time) and you'd never get those moments again.

To make matters worse, the service itself was packed. Agents, producers, paparazzi, you name it- they were there. It was disrespectful as fuck, and you managed to scare off a few of them as soon as you started shouting, which didn't take long (no surprise there). Rather than sit through the service like you'd hoped you'd be able to, you practically had to be dragged out by Kanaya after you almost threw up. There were too many people. It was too bright outside. It was all too surreal. You were far from accepting that he was gone. Now that you look back on it, you shouldn't have accepted it at all.

For once in her life, Kanaya Maryam couldn't console you.

You sat in the dirt with her, in the shade of sardine packed church, and you cried onto her like it was the last thing you'd ever do, bawling and dribbling and sniffing like a very sticky and sad child. You probably stained her expensive ass dress, you emotional twat, but she didn't care, lucky for you. Remembering how long you sat there for was difficult in itself, but you recall Kanaya only just patting your face dry after people started to file out of the building. You recall being angry. So, so angry. At Dave especially. How could he leave you like this? He was the closest person you had since your mother died, and even though he was a gargantuan asshole, he was there for you, no matter how busy he got. Heck, he'd probably call off dinner with Quentin Tarantino if he found out you were sitting at home, bored with nothing to do. Dave was probably the only person aside from Kanaya that could effectively calm you down (and yes, rile you up just as easily), and your heart was being ripped in two.

How dare he leave you like that.

A few hours later, Rose held a more personal event for the few of you that knew Dave that well. Aside from you, Rose and Kanaya, John, Jade, Roxy, Dirk, Terezi, Aradia and Sollux were there, and sitting in a room amongst the nine of them was much more bearable. They, of course, were the few people who knew what Dave meant to you, too, considering there wasn't a label for what you had. Well, you'd kissed a lot, but nothing between you was ever official, and you were surprisingly okay with that. He was just your Dave. Your dead Dave. Whilst everyone chatted away, sharing some of Dave's best stories to try and lighten the mood, you sat in the corner, elbows propped on your spread knees as your head hung sadly. No one pressured you to talk, and you were grateful for that. In fact, no one pressured you into taking for the next few days, so you just didn't.

You holed yourself up in your apartment for weeks as news of Dave's death spread across television, reminding you of his absence every time you tried to distract yourself. Kanaya visited every so often, and it was obvious that she had asked Gamzee to keep a keen eye on you on the days she couldn't, not that you did much with yourself the first two months after the funeral, anyway.

That brings you here, standing in your kitchen three years later, and you tell Dave all of this, everything about the effects of his little trick, and the hell you felt when he "died". For the first time in forever, he's speechless and attempts to shuffle forwards to try and hug you, console you even.

"Don't touch me", you whisper, a surprising amount of venom in your voice. He backs up as told, and you hug yourself, feeling tears roll onto your tensed arms. You didn't realise you were crying. Dave looks hurt by the malice in your tone, but you're too angry to care at this point, and you don't feel quite ready to forgive him yet. His arms drop and he nods sadly but understandingly, and he chews his lip in thought.

"I'm sorry, Kat, I really am sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you that bad, but I need you to know- I had my reasons. I- I know you're not going to forgive me any time soon, and I can't take back the last three years, but I'll explain this all to you, I promise."

Somehow, you believe him entirely, and drop your guard momentarily to look at him, to see that his shades have been pushed up to his head. He looks absolutely gutted. Your heart throbs painfully but you don't move, and just take him in instead. He barely looks any different from when you last saw him, or the pictures you keep, maybe a little more tanned, if anything, and a little taller. For once in your life, he had more than a two inch lead on you. He still had the same clusters of dark freckles on his cheeks and nose, and the same ridiculously dark eyebrows, and the same dark roots of his hair. He was still your Dave. But, y'know.

Not dead.