Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dave shouldered the door open with a weary groan, eyes half closed and body sagging as he staggered in. Tonight had been a long night. Almost multiple nights. All stitched together and laid out and slowed down to a standstill until it was like a lifetime.

A lifetime filled with listening to weak beats spun by amateur DJs picked from Craigslist, and cleaning up vomit. It's the first step, everyone told him. Get your foot in the door to the club scene, even if it's only as a janitor. You'll work your way up, everyone added.

But everyone was John, and John was a trust fund baby with a naive heart, too much faith in the world, and not enough sense.

There were bills to be paid though, so Dave kept making sure everyone made it to the restroom in time, and cleaned up their messes when they didn't. He plucked used condoms from floors and held back the hair of others bent over toilet bowls. And he quietly died a hundred deaths as he listened to the cheap tracks that played in the club all night.

"Yo, Dirkinator, I call the bottom bunk tonight. If you gotta problem with that you can just toss my ass up to the top, 'cause I ain't moving for shit," Dave called out as he made for the single bedroom.

"Be sure to take your shoes off for once," Dirk called back, his voice coming from the linoleum wasteland they called a kitchen.

"You're not my real mom," Dave said as he shrugged off his coat, letting it drop in the middle of the hall before nudging open the bedroom door.

The room was dark, the sole source of light the glow of Dirk's computer screen, his wallpaper a smattering of disembodied horses' heads and a tacky CGI waterfall. The floor was a sea of rumpled shirts and pants, the occasional hoodie tossed in to add flavor. Dave slogged through it until he reached to bottom bunk, falling face-forward without so much as taking his shades off.

Or his shoes.

Speaking of shoes, the clip clip clip of heels was haunting him, the steady echo that seemed to follow every fucking woman who was let into the club. It reached critical mass at 1 a.m., a cacophony of stilettos and pumps banging away like nails into wood. Dave was pretty sure the Geneva Conventions were supposed to protect him from this sort of torture.

But one pair, he could handle that. It was nice, almost. A clip here, a clip there, the sound of a cupboard opening and closing. Hell, it was rivaling on dainty, fast closing in on nice. It made him think of deer, all long slender legs and careful steps. Yeah. Deer were okay. He could appreciate them along with the in and out of the clipping.

Dave's thoughts grew muddled and heavy as he started to doze, cheek smooshed against the pillow and limbs loose while he balanced on the cusp of sleep. He was in the final stretch of consciousness when the mattress dipped, the rustle of fabric filtering into his half-dreams as hands gently gripped his ankle.

The touch startled him awake, forced his leg to snap out in surprise and meet against Dirk's side. Dirk gave a sharp hiss and smacked his hand against Dave's leg.

"Shit, dude, don't get your club-gunk all over my brand," Dirk said

"Sorry to break it to you, but TJ Maxx doesn't count as a brand," Dave yawned, curling on his side.

"This isn't no Bodyline," Dirk said, as if Dave should recognize the name. "This coord is straight up Angelic Pretty. Got help with it from the ladies on the comm and everything."

"Holy shit man, if you want to talk so late at night, stick to English," Dave said. He didn't jolt this time when Dirk touched his ankle.

There was something off about Dirk's hands, though. They were his, sure, but they didn't feel like it. The calloused roughness that accompanied his fingertips was muted, hidden beneath something softer, almost velvety. It wasn't skin.

"You wearing gloves, dude?" Dave asked.

Dirk gently worked Dave's first shoe off before untying the laces of the other.

"Feels good, huh?"

Dirk pulled the second shoe off, tossing the both of them with a thunk to the floor. He gave Dave's shin a quick pat and a stroke, like he was rewarding a horse after a good run. Dave sighed and rolled his shoulders, his mind beginning to clear the longer Dirk was around.

"Tough day at work?" Dirk asked.

"Tonight was like, night of the living midlife crisis dudes. And it's like─ shit, man. I can't help it if those twenty-somethings they keep feeding drinks too end up losing it all over their nice slacks, you know?"

"Will Easy Mac make it better?"

"It'll make it bearable."

With a laugh, Dirk rose from the bed, giving Dave another pat before he left. The clip of heels returned when he left, and this time Dave wasn't so sure they were a carryover noise haunting him from work. Dirk donning gloves for reasons hitherto unknown, and then babying him with tasteless, thirty second macaroni wasn't helping either.

Something was up.

Sometimes, when Dave came home early, he'd hear the clipping. He'd assumed it was a neighbor, their feet hitting the floor above his head. But they were on the top floor. Other times, he'd walk in to see Dirk at the computer, hair mussed in a very not-on-purpose way, and with his shirt on backwards or inside out, like he'd changed in a hurry.

Then things changed. Slowly, but they did.

Dirk stopped being so uptight about the packages he received on a bi-daily basis. No longer did he squirrel them away, hiding them only to dispose of the packaging in the middle of the night, like a killer carrying a body into the woods.

Not that it did him a lick of good, because Dave rooted through the trash like a stray dog in search of a meal, found the names of all sorts of places, ranging from run of the mill to somewhat suspicious. (Because seriously, what the fuck could Dirk be needing from a place called 'bridles4u"?) Most were from China, sporting names right off of ebay, while a few seemed to be from personal addresses, including one 'J. English', who lived on an island Dave had to google to make sure it existed, which did him a fat lot of good. There wasn't even a street view for it, and the wiki article was a stub.

The laundry changed after that. Snuck between jeans and socks and ironic graphic tees were nice things. Frilly things. Stuff made of lace and silk and stuff Dave wasn't sure he was supposed to find. He pinched them between thumb and forefinger, dropped them in the washing machine with his eyes averted and tried not to think about how they were soft as a chinchilla's ass.

Usually Dirk took the reins after that, folded everything freak-neat and put it away in drawers while humming Skrillex like some urban Disney princess, seagulls perched on the windowsill and listening in.

But there were times where Dave was stuck with the duty. He didn't fold clothes so much as he shoved them into what space there was, pounded and stuffed until it all fit. The closet was something else. The closet was vaguely frightening, in the way that run of the mill shadows could be when it got late. He hung up shirts on hangers and didn't waste time, tried to ignore the opaque dry cleaning bags that were always there.

He'd lifted the edge of one up once, overwhelmed by curiosity. What he'd found was pink and scalloped and good god, that was a lot of bows. He'd stopped then, yanked his hand away and shut the closet. Striders minded their own shit, first and foremost. Or at least pretended they did. Dave wasn't about to let on he'd wisened up to Dirk's cashflow.

Not that Dirk was shy about it. He ran a paysite. He posed for photos in the single clean spot of the living room. He stayed up until sunrise and then some, fingers tapping away at the keyboard while he entertained his customers. He didn't, however, entertain them or take photos in those nice things.

Or at least, that's what Dave told himself. Repeatedly.

The clipping in the kitchen became very clear and real as Dave sat up, pulling his shades off and folding them on the nightstand. That Easy Mac was calling his name, and he wasn't about to sit back and let Dirk take his slow-ass time until he got his grub on.

"What's the hold up, dude?" Dave said as he padded from the bedroom to the kitchen. "You should be a pro at cranking this stuff out with how many times you've made it."

"Figured I'd make it extra special for the big baby," Dirk said, and Dave saw that mother of God he was slicing through a fat hunk of velveeta and throwing it into the mix.

And that he still had his gloves on. And heels, yeah, those were a thing that was happening. Dave did a sweep that was anything but quick. Bullet-time was more applicable to the action. But when someone had legs like Dirk, fucking miles long and all toned and shit, it was a disservice to do anything but that.

It didn't help that those legs were clad in sheer stockings, hugging his calves and reflecting the light oh so perfectly as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. From the knees up he looked like confectionary on fine-ass legs. He was wearing a dress. No bones about it, like an Indian burial ground all dug up and carted off. There were negative bones, almost.

It was orange, but muted and soft. Nothing garish or tacky. The little candies and fruits on it, those were pretty damn tacky. Not to mention the little carousel horses that encircled the bottom, and the avalanche of bows didn't help. The dress was fitted around his chest, snug until it reached his waist where it promptly sloped and turned bell-shaped. The lace trim at the edges was the icing on the cake.

The hair on the back of Dave's neck stood when he spotted what was sure to be a hint of petticoat. Shit─ no. Seeing your bro in a dress wasn't supposed to do that sort of thing. Seeing your bro in any state of dress wasn't supposed to do that.

It wasn't supposed to make your throat close up and your breath hitch, your fingers twitch and curl with an instantaneous desire to touch. It didn't send your heart galloping and settle a sickly sweet twist in your stomach. It didn't kick up thoughts that had been bludgeoned into dark recesses and never meant to surface again.

But fuck if it wasn't doing all those things and more to Dave.

"You going to stand there all night or do you want some food?" Dirk eventually said, offering a bowl to Dave. His voice was flat, even. He wasn't making the first move.

"Don't you know it," Dave said, and shit, his voice kind of almost squeaked a little, like he was some sort of middle school dweeb talking to his crush.

Dave took the bowl from Dirk's hands like something holy, a splinter from the cross or a vial of the pope's blood. He looked to Dirk and found Dirk wasn't looking back, gaze instead directed downwards. Dave followed his line of sight to find his own hands.

Which were shaking like they were host to an off the charts earthquake. Dave gripped tightly at the bowl, trying and failing to steady his hands. The fork clattered against the rim of it when he tried to eat.

"Blood sugar's being a little shit again," was the excuse Dave supplied.

Dirk leaned back against the kitchen counter, half-perched and watchful. Dude had eyes like a hawk since day one, clear and sharp and a color no one else had. It was like amber and honey and some sort of shade plucked straight from Twilight but without all retarded adverbs.

"If I knew you were going to be such a pansy I would have thrown on sweats before you got home," Dirk said.

"I─ shit, dude. I'm not being a pansy. You dress however you want, man. You want to wear suspenders and elbow patches? Cool, dude. Want to dress up like a little girl waiting for her unicorn? I'm down, but you got to give a man a minute to get used to the glamor."

"Sure, like you weren't keen on it already."

Dave accidentally chomped on his tongue.

"What?"

"You're smart, Dave. You know my half of the rent doesn't grow on a money tree in the roof garden."

"Well yeah, dude. I know you got your entrepreneur on online, have that little site of yours or whatever. I didn't think you were pulling cash outta your ass."

"And you've been to the site," Dirk said. He wasn't looking at Dave's hands anymore.

"Like, once. Had to check up on my bro and all, make sure you weren't trying to hock a kidney and all."

Dirk clutched the counter for a split second, hands tensing before he pushed himself off. He closed the distance between the two of them, one agonizingly slow step at a time. He was doing this on purpose, dragging it out like a cat on cornered prey, moving nearer until Dave could hear his breathing, feel it tickling his skin and heating his blood.

"Well," Dirk said, the word drawled and low, "since you seem to have all the answers, perhaps you could tell me why you've felt the need to 'check up' on me five times over the past three days."

Fuck.

Busted.