Work Text:
GC: 1 H4V3 COM3 TO 4 D3C1S1ON
GC: R3G4RDING TH3 1SSU3 W3 D1SCUSS3D TH3 OTH3R D4Y
TT: Oh?
GC: Y34H
GC: 1N F4CT MY PL4N3 T1CK3TS H4V3 B33N BOOK3D
GC: SO UNL3SS YOU W4NT M3 TO B3 STR4ND3D 4ND 4LON3 1N 4 STR4NG3 HUM4N L4ND
GC: ROOT1NG THROUGH W4ST3 R3C3PT4CL3S FOR FOOD
GC: 4TT3MPT1NG TH3 CULTUR4L PH3NOM3NON OF ‘H1TCH H1KING’
GC: YOU H4V3 NO CHO1C3 BUT TO L3T M3 ST4Y! >;]
TT: I see.
TT: Well, I’ll have to check my schedule, you understand.
TT: I am a very busy woman these days.
TT: But it appears you’re in luck: I might just have space for you between Thursday’s commitments (drink neat gin from the bottle) and Saturday’s (organise bookshelves by genre).
TT: I’ll have to reshuffle some brooding pacing of my empty hallways, of course, but I feel our relationship is close enough that I can make that sacrifice.
Terezi’s plane is due to arrive early in the morning, so you are necessitated to take a bus to the airport to pick her up. You reflect on the fact that you have destroyed a world and created a new one, communed with aliens and eldritch abominations, become a semi-immortal divinity, but you have never learnt to drive. The driver smiles at you, and you are responsible for his existence and his wife’s and that of his two sons and one daughter. You wonder if the others still feel like this.
She meets you at the arrivals gate, sidestepping customs and security with the staff apparently blind to her presence (you doubt she even owns a passport; such are the benefits of a Mind player’s leftover abilities). You haven’t seen her for the best part of a year. Now she’s seven sweeps old, growing into all her sharp angles and straight lines, her hair brushing her shoulders, her horns tapering to vicious points. She’s wearing a bright red trenchcoat over a teal t-shirt and black jeans, and she’s just a little shorter than you, and when she stops in front of you her grin is precisely as wide and white and dangerous as you remember.
“Rose,” she says, like nothing at all has changed, like she’s not spent the past ten months living on a semi-tropical island with the rest of your former co-players, like the two of you are still on the meteor, sitting cross-legged on a rusting desk surrounded by dead computers. “Rose. The woman next to me was reading a popular work of human legislacerator fiction, and it was absurd. Unless your security forces actually employ amateurs who miss obvious clues because they’re pailing their suspects?”
“Only if they’re suitably hard-boiled,” you inform her, smiling despite yourself, “and they wear the appropriate fedora. It’s all a matter of style.”
“…You boil them?”
On the bus ride home she tells you at length about life on Jade’s island. For the most part it’s all miscellany, and half of it you’ve been informed of via pesterchum in any case- Kanaya and Jade are working on the greenhouse, Aradia is investigating the caves down by the bay. Terezi herself is attempting to compile a book of Alternian law-- “I am not optimistic enough to assume it’ll be adopted by your authorities, as it rightfully ought to be,” she says gravely, “but as long as I am alive it will not be forgotten.”
You listen, of course. You miss them all-- of course. She tells you, “You should come and live with us, you know! Everyone wants you there, they said so.”
You say, “I wonder.”
Your house- your mother’s house- is too big for the two of you, has been too big for you alone ever since you decided the others were better off without you and the risk you’d go off the horrorterror deep end again. You take Terezi to the bar and make her a Bloody Mary, and she proclaims it “M4GN1F1C3NT,” just as you knew she would. Whether it was the Light or your judgement of her character that allowed you to predict this, you’re not sure; the lines are blurred.
“Welcome to the brave new world of my mother’s liquor cabinet,” you say.
Several martinis later, you accept the undeniable fact that you are situated firmly somewhere on the inebriation spectrum, because you appear to be reading Terezi your original fiction. She is sprawled on one of your mother’s couches, lying on her stomach, resolutely not keeping her arms and legs inside the ride at all times; you are perched on the arm of the couch nearest her head, your legs crossed, an open notebook in your lap.
“’Thus pondering, he found he had wandered- quite without realising- to the gate of the High Council chamber. Zazzerpan spoke, feeling the almost sentient force of the Dark Magicks fill him more powerfully than ever before, the raw heat hurtling down his throat to sizzle on his tongue. With a moan as though of carnal pleasure, the gate swung open.’”
Terezi shifts to rest her chin on the heels of her hands, kicking her legs up in the air behind her, listening. You’d expected her to interject, but she has been silent and attentive since you began.
“’The chamber was empty, or so it seemed to Zazzerpan,’” you continue. “’His footsteps echoed ominously around the ancient walls, disturbing nought but the ghosts of wizards long dead. A shadow solidified. Zazzerpan turned; the newcomer’s aura was a glacial blue that seemed to absorb all warmth from the air, a color Zazzerpan had hoped- in vain- he would never see again. Frigglish.’”
You pause after this whispered revelation, and Terezi gasps aloud, eyes wide behind her glasses. Her face is very close to your thigh. You swallow; your throat tastes like gin.
“…and that marks the spot where I finished writing last night,” you tell her, conclusively. “So I’m afraid the mystery of Frigglish’s presence in the High Council chamber will remain a mystery, until such time as I choose to pick up my pen and solve it.”
“Are you taking reader suggestions?” Terezi asks. She tucks her knees under her so her eyes are level with yours, splaying one hand on the arm of the couch next to your leg, fingers brushing your socks. “I propose a dramatic magical duel, reducing the chamber of the corrupt and outdated council to rubble, followed by a passionate caliginous embrace on the throne of the High Lord Mage! If you came back home with me, I could illustrate it. I have crayons.”
“A viable option, certainly. If you could convince me on the thematic resonance—”
She kisses you so hard you have to hold onto her arm to keep yourself steady. It is sudden and sharp and intense, the bones of her wrist and the prick of her teeth and the alcohol on her tongue, and for several long seconds you sit there open-eyed and motionless; this path was not illuminated for you at all.
When she shifts backwards your lipstick is smeared across the corner of her mouth. She says, “Yes, I think I can convince you!” and you slide your hand over her shoulder and down her spine to pull her closer.
----
TG: yeah well thats fine with me
TG: i mean bring a shovel or something
TG: gotta clear all the adoring fans from my doorstep before you can get in
TG: theyre getting a bit rowdy lately
GC: DO TH3Y W4NT YOUR L4T3ST J4MS D4V3?
GC: DO TH3Y… D3M4ND TH3M?
TG: you know they do
GC: HOW 1MPUD3NT OF TH3M!
TG: every day theyre more desperate
TG: please lay down your sick beats for us mr strider
TG: im just trying to get out the door and theyre all clutchin at my ankles
TG: mr strider we have never heard jams like yours
TG: bestow upon us some ill fucking rhymes
TG: hey you cant rush genius i tell them
GC: 1T MUST B3... H4RD... 4T TH3 TOP
GC: H4RD 4ND LON3LY
TG: i have no idea what youre trying to suggest
TG: anyway just let me know when you arrive okay
You’re not actually sure you want to know how Terezi worked out the way to your apartment. She turns up on your doorstep at 6:39pm, wearing a backpack that’s about as big as she is and a grin that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, just like it always has.
“Hey,” you say, leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey.” She prods you in the chest with two fingers; she’s tiny and spiky and she barely reaches your shoulders, but you’re pretty sure she could knock you over just like that. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? Where is the fabled coolkid hospitality I have been told about?”
You step aside, gesture for her to come in, all mock-chivalrous; “TZ, the hospitality jam has not even begun. Trust me, you’ll know when I’m getting my hospitable on. You won’t even know what’s going on. ‘I thought I was at Dave’s place,’ you’ll say, ‘but this is a Michelin star hotel!’”
“Isn’t Michelin for restaurants?”
“Whatever.”
“Well, I will be holding you to that promise!” she says, laughing, and steps through the door.
As it turns out, there is almost literally no food in your kitchen. You’ve left Terezi sprawled contentedly in front of the shopping channel while you try to find something to cook. The shelves are empty of everything except various half-full bottles of condiments; the refrigerator is a barren wasteland, populated only by apple juice, a tub of what might once have been yoghurt, and a single, shrivelled onion. You stare at the onion; it stares back. It has no mouth and it must scream.
In the freezer you find salvation in the form of a frozen pizza and a bag of chicken nuggets. While you’re waiting for them to cook you hunt around for plates, manage to find a couple under a pile of old CDs. Terezi looks up as you bring the whole mess over, the pizza cut in half, the nuggets scattered over the top, both plates coated liberally with barbeque sauce and ketchup, because why the fuck not.
“Pizza-nuggets à la Strider,” you declare, putting the plates on the floor. “Bon appetit, TZ.”
She leans forward and sniffs all over her plate, frowning. “I have never had a nugget ,” she pronounces dubiously, picking one up and licking the ketchup off it.
“Local delicacy,” you say. “Better savour it while you got the chance. That shit’s exclusive.”
She practically inhales the thing, follows it down with a slice of pizza like a chaser. You have never seen anyone eat like Terezi Pyrope eats. She says, “If you came back to the island with me, would you bring nuggets? The answer is ‘yes’, by the way.”
“Since when was I coming back to the island?” you say, looking at her. “When was that ever a thing that was under discussion.”
“It is under discussion now! You’d like it there, it is just like old times. Everyone misses you, there is a Strider-shaped hole in our bloodpushers.”
You smile; it’s short-lived and uncomfortable. “Old times like disembowelment being everyone’s favourite hobby? Or like being trapped on a meteor for months on end? Or just the shitty coffee and arguments? The game’s over, TZ, sorry to break it to you. No point pretending it ain’t.”
She sits up, her face very serious; you almost think she’s about to hit you. Instead she just stares at you for a good ten seconds straight. “What time is it?” she says eventually.
“Seven fifty-six and thirty-one seconds,” you reply. There are no clocks in the apartment- why would you need them? It works on automatic, like how you know that cup of coffee on the floor by the TV has been there for just over thirteen hours, like how you slept for six hours last night, exactly as long as you intended. You haven’t worn your red hood in ten months (and seventeen days, and five hours, and forty-three minutes), but you can’t get rid of what it represented.
Terezi leans over your plate and licks the barbeque sauce from the corner of your mouth. When you say nothing, she grabs you by the shirt collar and runs her tongue over your lips, first the top and then the bottom; you can feel her teeth scrape against your tongue and her claws scrape against your chest all at once.
When she sits back she says, “And how long did that last?”
“Ten and a half seconds,” you say. Your voice is hoarse; it’d felt longer. She’s still staring at you, and you look away, even though that’s basically completely redundant.
“The game is over, but that doesn’t mean it never happened,” says Terezi.
----
TT: She asked me to come and live on the island with everyone.
TT: She was rather insistent about it, in fact.
TT: Apparently she will not permit me to “ROT 1N TH1S HOUS3”.
TG: well shes got a point lets be honest
TG: youre all alone in bluebeards dumb castle
TG: wandering the hallways muttering out damned spot
TG: i use proactiv and ive still got these shitty blackheads
TG: out out i say
TT: Allow me to commend you on your impressively mangled literary allusions.
TT: But I suspect you’re being disingenuous.
TT: Did she or did she not make the same proposition to you?
TG: maybe
TG: maybe not
TG: who knows im a fucking mystery
TT: You are indeed an enigma, brother dearest.
TT: If I may request even a sliver of sincerity in this conversation, however…
TT: I promise on my honor as a Seer that afterwards we can return to the usual ambiguously ironic back-and-forth and no more will be said on the matter.
TG: okay whatre you insinuating
TG: im all about the sincerity
TG: serious sisterly conversations is my middle name
TT: Really.
TG: okay fine
TG: we may have discussed it
TG: going to live with everyone else i mean
TG: like when we were taking a break from all that planning our sbahj cosplays and rapping about justice and dropping it like its hot we were doing
TG: we got some emotional heart to heart shit done
TT: And mouth to mouth?
TG: what
TT: You heard me.
TG: how did you know
TG: is this a seer thing because thats fucking creepy
TT: My Light abilities have nothing to do with it.
TT: I simply don’t think there is any conceivable universe in which Terezi Pyrope visiting Dave Strider’s grotty bachelor pad does not end in sloppy makeouts.
TT: In any case, calm down, you’re not the only one who has recently become even more intimate than usual with Terezi’s tongue.
TG: wow uh
TG: that sure is an image thats in my head now
TG: and that i dont think is ever going to be out of my head
TT: I told her you’d say that.
TT: She said to tell you that if you and I consent to go and live with her, it will be an image you can see - and involve yourself in - 'IRL', as it were, should you wish to.
TG: okay so i think we should go
TT: So do I.
TT: And not only because of the aforementioned incentive.
TG: yeah
TG: obviously
TG: im done with this lone wolf shit and i think you are too
TG: we were stupid
TT: So we’re agreed.
---
Your name is Terezi Pyrope, and you are extraordinarily pleased with yourself.
It is difficult to smell properly on the beach, with bright salt and great wide endless blueness sparkling everywhere you turn, but that is clearly Dave and Rose stepping out of their boat onto the sand down there! You wait for them to walk up the beach to you; when they reach you, you don’t know which of them you want to touch first, or where.
You settle for slinging an arm around each of their waists (you have to reach up a little for Dave’s, but that’s okay) and grinning wider than ever. You tell them, “Welcome to the island!”
Dave says, “Okay, I’m beat, that boat was like the actual polar opposite of seaworthy-- hey TZ, where’s that famous tealblood hospitality I’ve been told about?”
“Um,” you say, frowning, “I think that involves arrest, torture, and interrogation--”
“What Dave is trying, in vain, to tell you,” says Rose, and the corners of her mouth are turned up, all wry and pleased, “is that we have had a very long journey, and upon our arrival we expect the best. Silken sheets, massages, peeled grapes. Et cetera.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I can give you the et cetera ,” you say, chewing the syllables over, and you did not intend it to sound as much like an innuendo as it turns out! But Rose gives a quiet little hm of amusement and the corner of Dave’s mouth twitches in a smirk, the kind you’d like to kiss, and you don’t mind at all.
You slip your hands into theirs, one on either side, and walk up the beach to go home.
