Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s cold and dark when you come to. 

There’s a pounding in your pan, something worse than you’ve ever felt before, something pulsing under your skull. You groan, trying to shake the feeling off through your horns, wanting it to go away, but it doesn’t. You actually can’t even shake your horns much. What…?

Your eyes peel open, only to find darkness. The motherfuck? You don’t remember shutting any light off before you conked out. Were you still asleep maybe? Was this a dream? You don’t know. Karbro would know, if you could find your husktop, could hit him up and get his miraculous grey on your screen, get some answers. He knew reality from dreamland better than anyone; he’d know, he’d help you, precious as he is. 

You make to sit up, but your horns hit solid wall. Huh? You try again, but it’s still there. Where… where are you? You blink your eyes open as much as your can, only to find more darkness surrounding you. The pain of your headache subsides into panic; this ain’t the meteor. This ain’t even your hive. Where are you, where are you? You flail your arms to the sides

You meet

Someone’s

Wh

What the

You twist your head to see what your right hand just collided into, only to be met with the vacant eyed stare of your favorite cat-sis, Nepeta.

But you know. 

Just her head. 

Just. 

Her head. 

Suddenly, so suddenly, the wave of memories crash into your think pan, mushing together into something so horrendous, so terrible, so horrible, it makes you feel sick. And damn can you feel it; every bone crushed to stardust under your fingers, the feel of a broken bow as you pulled, the give of skull as you bashed it to smithereens, the tear-wrench-twist of flesh and sinew as you dismantled body after body, the heady feel of power, of clarity, manipulation as your chucklevoodoos rang, make them kneel, make them pay, make them make them make make--

You throw up all over yourself without warning. Your eyes water, and if your pan didn’t ache before, it sure as hell wasn’t letting you forget it now. Oh gods, what had you done? What had you… 

Predestined. It was all predestined. It had to, hadn’t it? Had to happen--

You don’t know that, you don’t--

It wasn’t me it was all him everything was him--

You DARE put blame on your messiah--

I ain’t giving him shit, I’m giving him credit for what--

What you did--

WE did, WE did--

To PlEaSe HiM--

With a hoarse shout, you thrash, the fridge rocking as you writhe in the pile of corpses. Someone’s horns-- you think Sollux’s, holy shit-- slices your left arm open as your hands hit the sides, trying desperately to do… something. Anything. Your gut drops again as you gag on nothing, apparently already out of stomach content to puke. You legs come up and kick at the top of your mini prison, Equius’s teeth gashing a hole in your ankle-- you murdered him, you murdered him-- and you feel eyes on you everywhere, voices whispering, the walls closing in on you saying Gamzee Gamzee Gamzee killer killer killer you killed your friends what will you do now all alone all alone you’re gonna die here die die die die die die--

Your voicebox screeches on its own accord as you crash most of your body into the top of the fridge with all your might. Something above snaps-- you hear it snap-- and suddenly the darkness gives way to light, too much light, too much and not enough all at once. Sunshine bears down on your heavy as your lug yourself over the edge of the fridge, ignoring the broken, rusted chains as you heave, eyes clenched shut, trying to will yourself to get used to the sun. For a moment, your pan connects the sunrays to Terezi-- poor Terezi, you’d always been a bit scared of her, but friendly nonetheless, and now you doubt she’d wanna come near you without being able to drive a blade through your chest-- and Kanaya-- Kanaya had wanted to kill you before, you were used to that idea-- and

And 

And

You sob, eyes brimming with tears, slipping down your face and taking small streaks of mussed facepaint with it. You don’t move to wipe it away. Karbro had always told you to keep your face clean and now

Now

Now you shouldn’t even be thinking of calling him Karbro. You shouldn’t even try to deserve that level of friendship with your most precious, most valued, most beautiful diamond best friend person that you once knew. 

Just Karkat now. 

The thought is enough to make you cover your mouth to try and smother your crying. There you sit, in a fridge full of the dismembered bodies and heads of your once-friends and victimes, broken chains and all, crying over those you had lost, the pain, the memories. 

Your thinkpan was free of everyone. Of everything.

Just you now, in there. 

You don’t know if you like it or not. 

Once you’ve quieted down, once the tears have stopped for now, once the memories become just a bit lighter on your shoulders, you force yourself to look up, try to get a sense of where you’ve landed. It’s a bright forest clearing. The trees grow tall around you, there are little featherbeasts flying around and chirping up a storm, little nut creatures and all the like scampering around and chittering as if to say “hi” to a motherfucker. With the sunshine not being all deadly and shit, it looks… looks so nice. Not a place for you and your dastardly self to be, nor this box of hell full of mistakes and the dead. 

You pull yourself up despite your body screaming in pain. You roll out over the edge of the fridge, grunting as your back hits the ground. The grass is soft beneath you, but you don’t really pause to appreciate it. 

Likes of you don’t get to appreciate. 

You roll over to your side and make yourself sit up, ignoring the pain, and you try to get up on shaky legs. You’re still in your god tier. It’s in absolute tatters, rags on your thin frame, but you don’t give one singular motherfuck. This thing could burn for all you care. Codpiece included. You're sure Kurloz would dare to box you over the aural clots if he heard you think that.

You wonder where Kurloz is. 

Wonder if he feels like you do. 

You hold yourself almost straight. Something in your side creaks; your hand flies to that spot and you involuntarily hiss. Something’s probably broken. The parts of you that are bleeding streak purple behind you as you begin to walk (more of a stumble, really) out of the clearing, leaving the fridge behind you. You don’t look back. 

All you know is that you have to get out of here. 

And as far away from that prison as possible. 

More tears slide down your face as your shamble off, your blood trail corrupting the serenity of nature as the sun shines right on down without a care in the world.

Chapter Text

The city is weird. 

But in the bigger picture, maybe that is for the best. You’ve happened upon this big, big city, made of metal cylinders and billboards. Something deep within you reminds you with a ping that this is like Can Town, but… well, big. A mish-mash of Alternian cities and fucking cans. 

Could have been worse, let’s be honest. 

What is definitely worse are the people. People are everywhere. Trolls, sure, and that’s bad enough, but carapacians too, humans too, even consorts running wild beneath everyone’s feet in a mad dash to not be trampled and still catch a bus. It was domestic as a city could be. 

Already you felt massively out of place. 

You height alone may have turned heads-- you’ve always been kinda disproportionate?-- but you were also… the way you were. Dirty. Bloody. Still in the tatters of your godtier robes. Hair a mess, facepaint a blasphemous travesty… maybe? You think? You don’t want to apply your battered think pan to that train of thought just yet. 

What was worthwhile a point to pay attention to was everyone’s eyes on you as you wandered the city streets. Some were pitiful, some were definitely not. But most were just vacant stares of creeped the motherfuck out. You don’t blame them, no. Your rank ass deserved some stare down. But… but you couldn’t control the way your pusher sped up when you passed a menacing looking troll, a judgemental human, a carapacian who squinted at you just so, either studying you or scrutinizing you. A sweat built on your raw hide; your hands were shaking; a mess, a right mess, you needed-- you wanted-- you must---

You don’t know! You don’t KNOW what you want, need, must, because ain’t no MOTHERFUCKER UP AND TELLING YOU . 

So you walk. 

Walking brings you to a part of Can City (Can City? Sure, whatever) that for sure is in no place to judge. The shiny cylinders give way to rusty ones, the billboards to empty cardboard boxes and litter. The passerby thinned out, and you saw less and less pocket books on the shoulders of the people passing by, less and less clean faces. 

Seems even the paradise of the gods had slums. 

Ain’t you been knew. 

You do feel a bit more comfortable here, funny enough. Your trashed appearance isn’t bringing any kind of side eye because some motherfuckers round here are even worse off than you. Some human guy is walking around in circles around a light pole in nothing but a tutu. 

“Saaaame,” you told him, but he didn’t respond. So you kept walking. 

Your body was beginning to tire, finally. Maybe blood loss was actually getting to you in this world? Either way, your eyes start skirting around for some place to sit, maybe rest your head. Someplace… safe? Do you want to be safe? Maybe. You want to be safe and alone. That’d be preferable. But sometimes you gotta settle for what you got, and… and… you don’t got a lot here. But you gotta work with it… but wouldn’t they like you alone? Alone or dead or… something. 

Both. 

Yeah. 

Your reverie is broken when you spot something green out of the corner of your vision. Green and… glowing. Glowing brightly from down an alleyway sandwiched between two can buildings. The reflection of the neon doesn’t reflect entirely right on the discoloration of the can’s dirtied tin walls. 

You stand there and think. 

And you go ahead in. 

Huddled around a fire of sorts is a group of trolls. They all are wearing black, so you can’t tell what paint they got running through their veins. They all got their heads bowed just a bit, but that doesn’t obscure the little sticks you can see them passing around. One of them tips their head up and breathes. A plume of green smoke floats up, up, up into the air and then dissipates. 

Your world freezes at the smell that finds its way to you. You know that smell. Have known that smell, motherfuck, you’ve been trained on that smell since before you were conscious. 

Sopor. 

You haven’t felt the hunger weigh in on your insides in what has got to be sweeps upon sweeps upon sweeps. You haven’t felt it curl up in your lungs, your pusher, everywhere, until you feel like you’re going to die right then and there if you can’t get some on your tongue. A pounding in your head starts back up almost immediately, and you can barely fight back a groan at the pain. 

Its poison. 

It's all that's keeping you away. 

It's been putting holes in your pan. 

It's all that's kept your sorry self in check. 

It's unholy. 

AiN’t ThAt GoNnA bE oUr NeW nOrMaL?

You step forward, your pan somewhere else (what else is new), and one of the trolls sees your approach from the shadows. His face is wrought with fear for a moment until he looks you over and seems to make a decision that you aren’t here to hurt anybody just yet. You don’t feel quite in control of yourself as you come into the circle. 

Least that’s a lil’ normal. 

“Hey,” the troll finally decides to speak, causing the others to take notice of your presence. A few eyebrows go up, but most just regard you with a glazed stare. 

The hunger….

“You in for a hit or two?” The troll offers, lifting the blunt. A generous gesture. “You look like you need it.”

The hunger…

Ok, lets take a step back for once. Who was going to care? At one point, somewhere distant, maybe Karkat would have stopped you. Maybe Equius, poor guy, would have talked you down a different path by guilting you or something. Or even T

Even Ta

Tav

There was no one though. Not here, not now, not anymore. There was that silence in your head, beyond the pounding behind your eyes of a good old regular migraine. Here’s the zinger, the real catch, the Ultimate Motherfucking cosmic punch line: who was gonna care if you took that blunt? Who was going to care if you imbibed the most detrimental thing in your life once again?

Was something unholy if you no longer saw jack shit as holy?

You smile languidly and take the blunt from the troll. “Sure thing, brother,” you drawl, lifting the blunt to your chapped lips. 

“Sure thing.”

Chapter Text

It’s drug bust time. 

You get called to drug busts all the damn time, mostly because none of the convicted have lawyers and you’re the best at what you do. You practically made this whole legal system, though these poor souls wouldn’t know; you’d fast forwarded about five thousands years into the future, and here you were now picking the fruits of your labor. Ooooh yes. 

Terezi Pyrope in the house, bitches. 

Anyways, drug busts! They wanted you there. So off you were, in a snazzy police scuttlebuggy on your way to a mega bust. “How many again?” You ask the police troll next to you as you file your claws up to their points. 

“Uh… a lot,” he responds, “didn’t get a count on a number, exactly.”

“None at all? Ugh,” you throw your head back, horns barely missing the head of the seat, “do I have to do everyone’s job? They’re supposed to tell you that. I’m a great legis-- a great lawyer, but I have unfortunately not yet been cloned. They don’t expect me to be present for all of them, do they?”

“Probably.”

You turn and sneer at your partner in crime, who’s leaning on the open bars of the shade of the vehicle, dividing the drivers from the prisoners. 

There she is, your partner in crime, Vriska Serket. She flashes you a grin, her trademark I’m Here To Cause Trouble grin, as she leans forward through the bars a bit. “What? If they absolutely neeeeeeeed you, they’ll share.”

“Criminals do not deserve to share things,” you huff, swatting at her smarmy little face from between the bars, “as you would know.”

She rolls her eyes. “Still sour, hm?”

“That was my fucking pancake, Vriska,” you growl, only playfully though, “had my name written all over it, I could so smell it.”

“Jane made more!”

“Because she is a troll saint, and you are a demoness!”

“I’m gonna soooooooo kick your ass once we get out of this scuttle,” Vriska mumbles, pressing her entire face into the bars and basically waffle-pressing her face. She frowns, which makes you laugh.

“What, looking like a dented hunk of metal? Like you are right now? Puh lease. I’d tap right on over you!”

The police troll driving looks uncomfortable with your back and forth. Probably because it sounds like pitch flirting. But hey, anyone who knows how you and Vriska operate know that this kind of banter was good. After you brought her back from the void, it had been eerily silent between the two of you. You didn’t know how to talk to her after everything, and for once, she didn’t know what to say either. It took pestering from Karkat, shoves from Dave, and long long long LONG sessions with Rose to get to the point of comfort you are now. You’re actually kinda proud. With Vriska, progress is hard to come by.

The scuttlebuggy swerves onto a dimly lit street in the North End of Can City. You can tell it’s the North End because it reeks of lack of sanitation-- a fault you’ve brought up with government officials constantly. The North End has always been a popular spot for your legal division. Seems everyone who wants to commit a crime commits one around here. In the reflecting mirror, you see Vriska turn and frown at the buildings. “Fucking hate this place, it’s so damn trashy,” she mumbles. 

“Says you,” you sniff. 

“Hey! I’m not trash. I’m recyclable. Eeeeeeeeveryone should recycle you know.”

“Vriska Serket for the environment,” you chuckle, adjusting your glasses and taking out your cane, “new slogan, who would’ve thought.”

“That’s fucking English’s job, not mine.”

“Vriska Serket for the environment, Vriska Serket for the environmeeeent~!”

“Uuuuuuuugh, has anyone told you to your ugly face that you’re annoying?”

“Not anyone alive, no, except you.”

The police troll seems to fight back a sigh of relief as you come across the scene. You smell flashing lights and the fabric cleaner smell of the official uniform of the police squadron. The vehicle stops, and you don’t waste time; you open the door and clamber out. The air is already thick with the substances of choice; sopor, no doubt. 

You smell Vriska hop out, and she’s about to kick your cane just to be bitchy when she smells it too. She pauses, stops. 

Yeah. 

You hate this particular fucking drug. 

“Fuck,” Vriska breathes next to you, “this again.”

“Every time” you say as the two of you walk forward, “they just don’t quit.”

“Don’t think they can,” Vriska adds shrewdly, crossing her arms as you walk to survey the case. “Not without going berzerk, right?”

Your eyebrows twitch a bit. “Right.”

Progress didn’t mean perfect. Vriska still hasn’t memorized all your boundaries, including the ones “gifted” to you post game when you were hit with the faint memories of your past and dead selves. So comments like that hit a bit too close with a few of your past selves and their memories…

You brush it off and approach one of the senior officers, a somber old carapacian with a hint of old Derse in his chipped old Common speak. You nod stiffly. This was insanely run of the mill. Bunch of people in the round up, all found in the act, put up a bit of a fight. All trolls, which wasn’t too uncommon; no drug bust was species exclusionary. Sopor drugs found at the scene (duh) in abundance, a few human drugs, mostly heroine, even some consort drugs of choice, mostly hypercandies. 

“They go all out, hm,” you sniff. 

The officer shrugs. 

Some of the not completely gone ones called for lawyers on the spot or they wouldn’t cooperate, and now you were here. The squad had them lined up on the wall, some scowling, some dazed in a drug hazed bliss. An ambulance was currently carting away some of those who had overdosed.

Vriska trailing behind you (you can smell her restlessness to get on with doing something), you walk towards the trolls on the wall.

Chapter Text

Typically, the ones who had requested you were young.

The hemocaste system has of course been done away with-- the party at Karkat and Dave’s the night of the official announcement had been spectacular, how could you forget the purpose of such a celebration?-- and the law was no properly blind (heh), but that didn't mean certain patterns didn't pop up regardless of color. Like younger trolls. The younger they were, the fiestier they were. It irked you, maybe because it reminded you too much of the brash group of friends you had known on Alternia, starstruck and dumb and thinking they were invincible. 

Vriska drifts off down the line, her bored curiosity ever insatiable, as you go through the drills with one of the trolls. Blah blah just drugs blah blah I plead the whatever. You’re practically yawning, etc etc. 

And then. 

“Uh… Terezi?”

“Hold on Vriska-- what do you mean, ‘got it legally’? Sopor is illegal to consume outside a recuperacoon, Mr. Rotten Strawberry Jelly, and it looks pretty damn baked to me, so I’m partial to believe that you cannot, in fact, walk away right now.”

“Terezi?”

“I said, hold on, Vriska-- no, stop crying, it will not help you, nor look good on the report. Or the newspapers.”

“ Tereziiiiiiii !”

“Oh my gog, hold on a second, WHAT, Vriska?! What do you want!?”

“Come here.”

You huff and toddle over, wildly tapping your cane in front of you, pretending to have to actually use it just to give you an excuse to whack a few people in your annoyance. You come to Vriska’s size and pause. Vriska smells of apprehension, anger, butl-- most uncharacteristically of all-- nervous. “Why do you smell nervous,” you begin, eyebrows furrowing, “I know something is bad when you get nervous.”

“Just… fuck. Smell in front of you for a sec,” she says, “and tell me what you see.”

Hm. You take a whiff. A troll rounded up on the wall. Tall? Pretty thin, reeks of malnourishment. Of sleep; he’s barely awake, definitely doped up to hell and back. Smells of regret and sadness and rage and…

And… 

“Vriska,” you speak, wanting to sound sure, but your voice comes out wobbly, “Vriska, what is in front of me right now.”

“Do you wanna know?” Vriska hisses. You hear her shuffle around herself. 

“Do I,” you whisper, disbelief flooding your system, inch by inch, “do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” Vriska mumbles a little. “Buuuuuuuut, you’re gonna ask anyway. Why? Because that’s just how Pyrope rolls.”

You take a step forward. There is something rotted about this troll, rotted and familiar in a way that is making your nutritional sac do flips. You extend your cane and poke at the barely there troll. He quietly whimpers at the poke, but that is all you need to place the voice. 

You sigh. 

“Ok,” you say, stepping back, “ok. So. That. He’s. Here. Huh.”

Vriska frowns, and you can taste the bubbling anger in her chest steadily replacing her confusion. It changes the air around her. “I thought I left him in that fridge.”

“You… did.”

“Then what the fuck is he doing back here???????? We sure as hell don’t want him. Don’t need him. Don’t even think about him! So how the hell did he crawl his dirty, scrawny ass back here, and how the hell did he--”

“Vriska,” you interject, the clarity of your voice calming even yourself. “It’s fine.”

Since your reconciliation, Vriska has done this with things you found touchy. And while you appreciate it, you know it’s coming from a good place (as good as Vriska can get, anyway, you can meet halfway there), sometimes, in classic Vriska fashion, she overcompensates. And right now, you don’t need her words. 

You need as much silence as possible.

You carefully approach the troll, not wanting to name him yet for fear of jinxing it. Slowly, you kneel down and reach out. Your fingers skim along his neck. A misshot on your part. They trail to take him by the chin, which gets another whimper out of him. You pinch the skin hard. The smell of sleep is still heavy on him, but he is definitely regaining some consciousness. 

You slap him. 

He gasps, and yep, that’s all you need. You stand, ignoring Vriska’s call of your name, and you stalk over to an officer, snapping to get his attention. 

“See that troll over there?” You stab your cane in the direction of the clown, “I want him locked in solitary, immediately.”

“Wh… what?”

“I want him locked in solitary, immediately, without questions, orders from ME , ok? Just do it.” You tilt your head in the clown’s direction, mind racing. 

“I just… it’s nothing… it's nothing abnormally... bad." You shrug, his eyes locked on you like your pusher is locked on panic mode.

"I’m just not taking chances this time.”

Chapter Text

You, GAMZEE MAKARA, wake up alone. 

Which is… different. From the about-a-month you had wasted on this new planet. 

You slowly move to sit up and see where the other trolls are who you’ve frequented with since your gifted (and abused) freedom on Earth C. Usually you all are blissed out from the sopor the night before, but you found yourself alone in an empty white walled room and actually now that you mention it you can’t sit up at all because your arms are strapped down to your sides. 

Ok. Um. 

So, white colored, enclosed spaces with a slight chill where you couldn’t move that much and were generally fridge-like were.

Decidedly not your thing. 

At all. 

Especially tied down.

You tug a bit more frantically, the sluggish feeling of sleep quickly washing off of you as you become more aware. It’s not just your arms; your ankles are strapped down too. When you try to lift your head, there is a tug at your horns, though instead of whatever stretchy sort of material your limbs were bound with, these were metal and heavy. 

The panic dial went from 0 to 100 really, really quick. 

You start jerking at your bonds, limbs pulling and testing but not making anything budge. Your voice box starts with panting, then heaving, then devolves into screams and shrieks until your throat feels raw. No one comes. It is empty and echoing and too small. You feel sick, like you want to throw up, but you can’t. There are spots in your vision. You keep thrashing, your screams starting to sound more like sobs to your ears. But no one comes no one ever comes why would they the damn thing was chained to motherfucking hell, you ain’t getting outta here and--

You think people come in. You don’t really know. You were too busy seeing the apparitions of dismembered heads in the corners of your vision, hearing voices that weren’t there and crying until your skin felt itchy. 

Around that point you think you got knocked out. 

Had to have, because when you wake up, you’re in a different room. This time it’s darker walls, grey, and your horns feel lighter. Still strapped down, but whatever you’re lying on now feels less like cold cement and more like plastic. It was still cold. But it was better. 

You could settle, for better. 

It takes you minutes of lying there in fear and turmoil, for you to remember what had happened. You had been lying with some of the others in one of the makeshift piles, a sopor stick lodged between your fingers. Comfortably in a haze you had welcomed back with open arms; you had forgotten what the high was like. It took you above yourself, and your body, no pressures or headaches or loneliness to be found. You were comfortably suspended in the air of nothingness, where thought nor reason could bring you down. An old friend, a bliss you didn’t know you had missed so much. 

Then there were lights. 

Loud voices. 

Batons. 

Handcuffs. 

Rough hands on you, almost pulling you from the haze you had lost yourself too for the weeks you had been here.

A familiar… a familiar something. You couldn’t place it. 

Pain. 

And now you were here.  

You test your bonds again, but admittedly a little less spastically. You’re secured down super tight. Weak as you are after… after everything, you aren’t getting out of it. You eventually stop struggling and you just lie down. 

Breathe. 

Stare at the ceiling. 

It dawns on you pretty quickly that you can’t do much else. 

Contrary to popular belief, you weren’t that dumb. You could put two and two together. You knew you damn well weren’t in Troll Kansas anymore, and that your little group of druggies had probably got busted, and now you were in some kind of jail. You were able to crane your head just a bit to see the door to your room, and yep, there were bars over the window near the top of it. Definitely a jail cell. 

Funniest thing, you’ve sinned so much and yet the very thing that helped you be free of it all was what got you nabbed. Almost makes you laugh a bit. Which you do. And you dissolve into tears right after. 

Crying ends up being a wonderful distraction from the growing pit of dread in your stomach.

Chapter Text

You, hindsight, don’t recall much from your first withdrawal. 

You’d been a little distracted. 

Flashing lights and puppets are what you recall most, and a feeling akin to having the rug pulled out from under you as your world was suddenly dissolved into mush and all you knew was exposed as a lie. That’s what you remembered most. Trapped in a game and the blaringness of every construct laid bare before you, your lack of sopor only gave way to perceived godhood. 

Which, then, had been true. You had been a god then. Had felt like one.

That was then, this is now. 

Because now, no game, no rules, and no motherfucking plot armour could protect you from biology. 

A few hours later from your most recent wake up, the headache starts. Not unlike the ones you’ve had before, but this one seemed to be extra persistent and would not leave you be. 

Then, chills. More chilly than the room could ever be. It got so cold, so unbearably cold. You swore that your highblood body was bound to just shut down. You shivered in that room, teeth chattering, until it went as quickly as it had come and did a reverse on you, and suddenly it was the heat that was unbearable. You felt itchy, heated, like the only way to feel better would be to peel off your damn skin at this point. 

It continued. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t rest. You start going fuzzy, and you think some motherfucker came in to give you something to eat and drink, but hell if you could keep it down. 

Everything feels dry. Everything feels damp. Everything feels numb. Everything feels like sharp, sharp pain. You scream, you cry, you know deep down what is happening to you because all you can think about is sopor sopor sopor and pain pain pain and nothing else. 

Hey, at least it’s a break from the “you fucked up everything in your life” train of thought. 

You know you’re seeing things. Everything is blurred together. Things go fast and things go slow. You think people come in, but you can’t even piece them together beyond the blur. 

And you don’t care. 

The occupants of your cell are you, yourself, and you. And there’s one you in the corner, constantly screaming at you,with red-orange eyes, covered in rainbow splotches, and there’s a you in the other, a small, weeping, 6 sweep old Gamzee, with sand on his bare feet, just crying at you. 

They both tell you that you deserve this. 

They tell you you deserve this pain, that this was a long time coming. What is a vessel without punishment? The red-eyed you tears his horns out, bit by bit, and you can do nothing but watch as the nerves detach from your head and he stabs them into his own eyes, gouges them out, screams that even that would be no way to repent to your Messiahs. And the smaller you cries, his tears scorch at his young face until he is well and as scarred as a psionic, eyes wide as he pleads with you to not do this to him.

You would escape them if you could fucking sleep, but you CAN’T .  

If this ain’t hell...

You feel feverish. You know that you start crying dry at some point. And you know that people do come into your cell to try and feed you, give you water, which again, you can’t keep down. They never unstrap you. Not even to go to the bathroom. Everything about you is soiled through with sweat and vomit and other things... 

...yeah, you wouldn’t want to touch you either. No one should ever touch your sorry carcass except if it's to throw it out. 

Well. Almost. 

When they come, sometimes, to try and keep useless food and water down your gullet, there is sometimes this… hand. It cups your cheek, mockingly tender, as if to taunt you. It’s warm, calloused, small, and it just kind of… pets at your cheek. It reminds you of something, but you can’t exactly place it. 

And you hate it. 

It’s the worst torture of this entire thing, that damn motherfucking hand on your face nug, just skimming over your skin like you’re something precious. It’s teasing, relentlessly so, and you hate it. You think you snap your jaws at it a few times? You can’t remember. All you know is that every damn time that stupid ass hand touches your face, you end up breaking down and they manage to get more food into you then before, which just ends up on the floor. 

So ha to them. 

You guess. 

The final stage of your withdrawal is when you fall off the thread of time. Everything is sharp pain and aches and darkness, only intersected by infrequent moments where you wake up to someone screaming in agony before you realize that you’re the one screaming and then you fall back off into nothingness. 

Isn’t that poetic? The Lord of Time really did abandon you.

They say that the final stage is the worst. You didn’t think it was anything that different from the misery before. 

Same pain. 

Different day. 

Chapter Text

You wake up from a dazed slumber sitting upright. 

This is new. 

Nonexistent gods only knew how long you’d been in that forsaken room. Eons, it felt like. You’d almost gotten used to the pain and the loneliness (again), but now it seems it was time to tip that scale again. 

Speaking of scales, you look forward and Terezi Pyrope is sitting directly across from you. 

Motherfuck- 

You, the smooth motherfucker you are, promptly throw up. Just, lean forward, head hanging down, and everything you had managed to keep down in the past few days comes right back up. You’re heaving, and then trying to catch your breath as you cough and clear your airways. You stare at the floor, trying to ignore the mess you just made, unable to pick your head back up both from weakness and the fact that you are in the same room as someone whose life you were instrumental in destroying (literally and figuratively) on many occasions. 

By the time you glance up, she… doesn't look halfway amused. Oh and apparently Vriska’s there too, whom you didn’t notice before. 

Great. 

“Are you done?” Terezi asks, her voice just as grating as your remember, “Because there are many other places I’d rather be right now, not here listening to you puke up a disgusting shade of Granny Apple Green.”

Vriska scoffs. “You legit are just doing more interrogations after this.”

“Yes, and then I am going hive, showering, and then you are treating me to dinner.”

“Yeah, a-- wait, whaaaaaaaat?! Since when?”

“Since just now, when I decided that little bitches get to buy me dinner when they’re being bitchy.”

“Are you calling me a little bitch? Pyrope, don’t preach to a choir when you’re sitting in the pulpit!”

“I made the court pulpit my own bitch a long time ago, I can’t be a little bitch to something that I have indeed already made my--wait for it--bitch.”

It’s a bit like watching two juggalos play toss with a dismembered head. It’s fascinating but also really creepy how they toss back and forth like it’s nothing. You ain’t no dumbass, you’re aware that to Terezi you should technically be dead where you sit, but Terezi and Vriska are just. Talking. Like you ain’t there. And upon further inspection, talking like you ain’t there and chained to a chair . 

Like a rogue lusii. 

You can’t find it in yourself to be angry. You’re so tired. 

Their attention eventually turns back to you. You wish it hadn’t. You had liked the background, it was much quieter that way. Both girls have two very special sets of eyes that you would rather have not staring at you. You note subconsciously that Terezi’s eyes are blank and red. Blind, yet again. You wonder how that happened. Ain’t your place to ask, or even talk right now, but you wonder regardless. 

“Anyways. Back to Mr. Plum Vomit.” Terezi shuffles a few papers in front of her, on the little interrogation table, and clears her throat. “I’ve been monitoring you the past few weeks. I suppose withdrawal in isolation, without husktop screens nor coolkid humans, isn’t nearly as lethal as with. Who would have thought.”

You swallow and avert your eyes. Everything in this room is too bright. 

“...it’s… it’s gone surprisingly well. Yet again, you defy all laws of physics and expectations. I had a whole squad of indigobloods with electric pitchforks at the ready. It was a sad waste of money and trollpower.” Vriska snorts again, but it’s more derisive. She doesn’t comment, though. Terezi finally seems to sniff out the paper she was looking for, and she clicks her pen open with a nice shk. 

“I have some questions for you,” her voice goes suddenly icy, “and you are going to answer them. If you refuse to talk, don’t worry, I have your holding cell booked for your imprisonment for another month, and I can plop you right back the fuck in there if I see a need to.”

Your body goes rigid. You nod.

“Good,” Terezi drawls, and “looks” at her paper. “What do you remember before you were found?”

You scramble to recall, because as terrifying as speaking sounds, you do NOT want to go back there. Back to the four walls, back to the straps holding you down to the bench, back to the deafening silence of your mind. You really don’t remember much of what she’s asking you to remember, just lights and sounds and comforting, familiar, neon green numbness. 

What you wouldn’t give… 

“Nothin’ much,” you mumble, cringing at how hoarse your voice sounds, “ain’t remember much.”

“Well, what can you remember?” Terezi doesn’t skip a motherfucking beat.

“....lights. Sounds. Uh… yeah.” Your answer feels and sounds lame. Terezi scribbles something down anyway. 

Vriska raises an eyebrow. Terezi’s handwriting is… very Terezi. 

“Ok. Do you remember who you were with?”

“...no.”

“Do you remember how you got there?”

“...woke up, and just… walked, til I motherfucking found the place.”

“Mmhm. And what were you on when we found you there?”

“......what?”

“You heard me. What were you on when we found you?”

Vriska’s got that smarmy ass triumphant look on her face, as Terezi corners you, metaphorically speaking. Nowhere to go, with how both of them are pinning you. Your fists clench, pulling at the chains just to have something to ground you. The clarity of your pan is dissolving into panic, and quickly. And you’re pausing too motherfucking long, because Terezi gives a grated “Well?” as if that will jumpstart your anxiety into fucking off a little motherfucking faster. 

“... sopor,” you practically whimper, voice on the verge of tears, and you really feel like you’re going to break down in front of both of them, which you really don’t want to do. Neither of them seem nor look surprised. Terezi scribbles it down regardless. Then she asks a question you weren’t prepared for. 

“And how are you doing now? You’re ok?”

Vriska mumbles something about blonde human girls and psychology, but you’re so taken aback that you can’t bother with Vriska’s mutterings at the moment. How… how are you? How are you. You? You!? You aren’t entirely sure how or why you’ve been kept alive, you’re scared, you’re confused, and most of all, you’re so, so, so, so, so exhausted. You could sleep a million years and still want to nap. You haven’t had a full day’s sleep in literal ages….

“Gamzee? Gamzee. Hello? Earth C to clown-fucker,” Vriska is snapping for your attention, and you shake from your reverie. Vriska looks normal annoyed, while Terezi looks concerned annoyed, which is a terrible look on her towards you and you want that shit to stop immediately. 

“... tired,” you offer, hoping that’s enough. By the looks on their faces, it isn’t, but they take it anyway. 

The questions continue, and you give half assed answers as best you can. You don’t know exactly what Terezi wants of you. Does she want honesty, or is she looking for something to fight? You don’t know. And not knowing is going to drive you up a wall mad. If you weren’t so tired and so scared for your life, you may very well have Raged by now. Luckily you weren’t. You don’t know if you could mentally handle bloodshed like this. 

Not as alone as you are now, up there. 

“Ok. Final question,” Terezi says, revealing the light at the end of the tunnel. She actually picks up her head for this one, turning her attention away from her paper. Her blank gaze could kill a warmer blood, you have no doubt. You ain’t even looking at her no more but you’re shivering. 

“Tell me about your religious beliefs as they stand right now.”

Your eyes flutter closed. No. You can’t take this anymore. The lights, their faces, their stares, their questions. No more. You can’t answer this, not when you aren’t sure of it yourself. Oh, but you are, aren’t you? Have been since you woke up here with an empty pan and an empty pusher, bloodied and beaten and broken, confused as the day your sorry ass hatched, lonely as the day Goatdad decided you weren’t worth his motherfucking dedication. You can’t. You can’t. You can’t, it’s all you’ve ever had, all you’ve ever wanted, the worth, the praise, the purpose, please….

Please…

Please…

“... I don’t believe,” you whisper, feeling a tear fall down your cheek. You couldn’t wipe it away or hide it if you tried, hands tied down the way they are. You have to repeat yourself, to hammer it hive, to make it real, the absence in your being given life in words. Your voice is choked up more than you would have liked. “I don’t believe.”

Vriska quirks an eyebrow. Terezi sits stock still for a moment. Then she just writes down one more scribble before clicking the pen shut. Shk. 

“I think I’m done here.” She nods, waves to Vriska, who rolls her eyes, more indifferent than before, and hands Terezi her cane. She stands, gathers the papers, and ushers Vriska up. “Sit there and pretend to look pretty even though you’re an ugly little grape,” Terezi said, “we will be back shortly.”

They left through a door blended perfectly into the wall, said door locking behind them with an audible click. 

You let yourself cry. 

You don’t know when they come back, could have been an hour or a day, you don’t know. All you know is that you cried until your eyes felt sore and your horns ached with the loss of moisture in your think pan, and if you were tired before you were drop dead exhausted now. But then the door opens, and Terezi re-enters, followed by Vriska. You watch blearily as the door closes and they stand before you, not sitting down as they were before. Terezi now holds a single file in her hands, cane hanging off her wrist. 

She smiles. 

“We, as a group, have reached a… conclusion, about you,” Terezi says, tapping the file. “About what course to take. Granted, I’d like you to know, it could have been much worse than what it was.”

“There was a vote to cull you,” Vriska interjected, “but some people said ‘noooooooo, no more death, no more bloodshed, waaaaaaaah, I’m a massive crybaby--’”

Terezi whaps her in the head with her cane. Vriska yelps. But at least she stops. 

“After reviewing your situation, and taking what you so eloquently told me during our little chat,” she said, “we have voted that you may live. But not without strict guidance. And after some extremely careful, loud, grating, and annoying deliberations… we have decided what will become of you.”

The way she said that was… super motherfucking foreboding. You swallow, and you think you’re shaking a bit, because the chains are rattling. Your pan, growing lethargic, is trying it’s damndest to catch up, but can’t seem to properly connect with your mouth, seeing as you spew the following bullshit out of pure reaction to her words. 

“...thank you.”

The look the two girls exchange is unreadable, but it’s an exchange no matter which way you slice it. You go unanswered, thankfully. Why the motherfuck would you say that, they don’t want to hear your sorry carcass more than they gotta….

Terezi gestures something, and Vriska goes to open the door. She barks something down what you assume is a hall, and a few guards come in, tools in hand to get out out of the chair and presumably take you somewhere. Your eyes flit to Terezi. 

“Your first, let’s call it, trial, will be relocation. It can be permanent relocation, if you behave. Which I think you will. No one has misbehaved, once, where you’re going. He has a knack for the broken ones, I suppose.” Her smile could cut motherfucking ice . 

Who’s… wait, wait, wait a second, who’s “ he”?

“Good luck.”

Chapter Text

You ain’t never paid much attention to The Mayor on the meteor. 

Guess you should have. 

When the jailers plop you in front of the little mansion, he’s standing at the door already, all civil looking and familiar in a weird way. You’re tall, as most purples are, and The Mayor’s really damn short. Doesn’t even make it to your hip. He scuttles over, chirping at one of the carapacian guards in that weird throaty language the carapacians had that was hard to replicate. They chirp for a while before the Mayor looks at you. He seems to take you in, giving you a full body look, which was extremely nerve wracking, before motherfucking nodding like you were a commissioned piece of art and he motherfucking approved, brother, approved. He waves you in, scuttles right up the stairs to the mansion doors, and you grunt as the guards who brought you here yank you forward to follow. They’ve still got your hands chained up nice and tight in front of you. And according to Terezi, the band they put on your ankle was to make sure you couldn’t escape The Mayor’s if you tried, not unless you wanted an electric shock (“Thank Lispy McBanana for that one! He sends his regards and a middle finger in your direction.”). 

Motherfucking house arrest. 

Long as you could sleep sometime in there, you were ok with that. 

The Mayor ushers your guards and you through the lobby and into what looked like a living room. Nice ass couches, a table, a fireplace with a little fire rumbling in it, even though it was hot outside. He gestures for you to sit on the couch, which the guards gladly help you do with a forceful shove. 

The Mayor angrily chirps. The guards raise their hands in mock surrender. 

There’s a lot of chirping then, which leaves you very out of the loop, and increasingly nervous because of it. You feel like you don’t really know what’s going on beyond what you were told by Terezi, which… well. She doesn’t have your best interests at pusher, and for good reason. You’d hate you too, were you her. But all she said was you were being relocated to someone who could handle you. 

And apparently that was The Mayor. 

The guards finally seem to give up, and they turn to you. You’re taken by surprise, enough to jump, when they unlock your chains. They don’t cut the ankle band, but you’re grateful for the freedom to rotate your wrists freely and get some circulation back. More chirps, and they hand The Mayor the remote and sensor for your ankle band, and then just like that, they’re gone. You and this little carapacian. 

Meh. You’ll take it. 

The Mayor chirps at you for a second more, and you stare blankly, because like fuck you understand. He seems to get this though, and instead raises his strange claw-like fingers, gesturing for you to wait there, and hurries away into a different room. 

Hey, orders! You can do orders. You stay put. 

He comes back with a tray of…. Of something. Cans, there are cans on there. He comes back and places the tray reverently on the coffee table in front of the fire, and struggles to shove the table over to you. You don’t know if you’re allowed to move just yet, so you stay put, not helping as he manages to get the table right in front of you. He triumphantly chirps, then seems to chirp madly at you. You shrink back a bit, feeling seen. He then puts the tray in front of you and looks at you expectantly. 

You…. what? Oh, wait, shit, the labels. This is canned food. 

He’s feeding you. 

He’s… he’s feeding you. 

Honestly, it’s not that special. It’s just food. Ain’t even been opened yet. But it’s the kindest damn thing you’ve ever motherfucking experienced since you dropped down here alive, and it makes a lump form in your throat. You try to swallow it, but just like poking a scab, it makes it worse. And by worse, you mean bursting into tears right where you sit. Mayor looks suddenly distressed, and he keeps clicking and poking at you like no one’s business, like you’re the ejector button on a crashing ship but the thing is that the crashing ship is you. He chitters and makes weird carapacian noises, but all you can do is sit there and cry and think of how not even your goddamn lusus brought you food to the point where you ain’t had to stand to get it, ain’t had to go looking for something edible, ain’t had to eat whatever you could, ain’t had to find that the only thing that they always were supplying you was that green shit in your ‘cuperacoon and-

The Mayor snaps in front of your face. You gasp ‘awake’ and look at him. He chirps and points to the tray again, and then to your chest. You look between him and the food, and then slowly lift a can. It seems to satisfy him enough to go take his own can and sit on the chair across from you. He gnaws on the can lid. You look at the metal and wipe some tears from your face, the fingertips coming away clean if not damp. It’s hitting you now that both Vriska and Terezi have seen you bare, without your paint. 

...not like you been needing it much anymore. 

You pick the can lid open with your stunted claws, clipped during your imprisonment. The Mayor sees this, and chirps in excitement. He hands his gnawed on can to you, once you have yours open. You raise an eyebrow. He- what? He chirps harder at you and makes a twisting motion with his hands. Oh. He wants you to open it? You do so. He claps happily and then takes the can back from you. He chirps with such sincerity and pride, and it feels misplaced in your direction. 

He and your sorry self eat canned food in silence. You prefer it that way. Who’d have thought, all this time, every damn trial, and the thing the shadows and voices seemed to fear at all costs was The gods-be-motherfucking-damned Mayor. Then again, maybe he just was adorable and sweet and good enough that you had no need to dwell on the inner workings of your mind. Seemed answer enough. 

The Mayor took the empty cans once you were done (well, done enough, you only ate a bit, the small bit you knew you’d be able to keep down) and he chirps like crazy and ushers you to stand. You awkwardly do, and gasp as he starts pushing you forwards down a hall. Free movement, not restrained, not knocked out, and not overly sluggish and drugged up to motherfucking hell is… it’s weird, and rare. You don’t know what to think about it. The greedy half of you relishes it, while the other wants to be handcuffed just to know you won’t hurt nobody no more. 

You’re afraid of that, every day you’re off sopor, even though you’ve apparently been off of it for over a month. 

The Mayor stops in front of a tall door in a gilded hallway. He swings the door open with a small ‘ta da!’ gesture and waves you inside. You step through the threshold to a nicely plain room, bare of any real personality but at least it’s not a cell. There’s a desk, a chair, a rug, a nice picture on the wall, a bed. No recuperacoon, which you weren’t surprised about. Sopor that close… not a great idea. You didn’t trust yourself yet, so why would literally anyone else?

The Mayor sees you situated, shows you where your clothes are (motherfucking clothes, not no prison garb no more, actual clothes), chirps and chitters and fusses til your horns hurt and your pan is spinning. It’s much too nice a room. It’s much too nice a situation. It’s much too nice a… a everything. When your eyes are properly spinning like a top, The Mayor looks at you a moment. He then chirps, jumps up to your collarbone height, and gives you a solid pat on the shoulder. 

Luckily that is when he turns and leaves, and as the door closes behind him, your tears fall and drip to the floor beneath you.

Chapter Text

It’s raining. 

It’s raining and you’re standing in a field. There are these wicked little wildflowers everywhere. They sway to their own tune and melody, their own song and voice. You have to envy living things like that. You would, if you had the state of mind. But for now, you’re standing with your face tipped upwards to catch the raindrops on your face. You have to keep blinking so you can see, so your poor oculars don’t get squeamish and pain you. All you can hear is the patter of water against the bosom of nature, and your skin. 

You smile, for this is peace. 

When you smile, your teeth are bared. The water feels so g- wait. Your eyes open. 

It’s not water anymore. 

Red. 

It’s red, falling from the sky. Your smile falls, and you stumble backwards. Orange joins the red. Then yellow. Then green. Jade. Teal. Cerulean. Indigo. Violet. Fuchsia. The entire rainbow is suddenly cascading down around you, getting into your eyes, your mouth, just everywhere, staining your teeth and dripping down your throat. Everything reeks of that metal-blood-tang. You look down. The grass is soaked in blood, and the flowers have shrivelled up. They no longer dance. 

They are as dead as the corpses you caused to be corpses. 

You run. You slip a few times, getting your clothes all bloodied the motherfuck up, and you run. You run through just--fuck, literal plains of blood, raining from the sky in some sort of technicolor bullshit you wrought upon yourself. Because it was you, wasn’t it? Blame your past or Lord English or whoever, but it was by your hand which spilt all that motherfucking blood, physical or metaphorical. 

It’s always been you. 

And motherfucking you . 

You slip again, but this time the bloodsoaked ground doesn’t catch you. You fall straight through, the ground itself splitting to take you, falling into Whatever Was Considered The Dark Carnival Now, chaining you to torment you for the rest of eternity as Paradox Space knew it-

~

You wake up in a cold sweat. Something is going off. An alarm maybe. You don’t know, you’re all kinds of discombobulated. Wait, no that ain’t an alarm. That’d be you. You’re screaming. Screaming yourself hoarse too, sounds like. You go to stop, but that ain’t happening. Voicebox seems to be all up and broken the fuck up. It ain’t turning off. You are screaming loud enough to hurt, your throat feeling raw, and your cheeks sticky with tears. You thrash in your human bed, suddenly overwhelmed and just wanting to find dreamless sleep again for once. 

The door opens; you don’t fully notice, but it does. You don’t notice the skitter of fast footfall either. Not even when it approaches your bedside. You’re too busy being motherfucking miserable to notice. 

It’s not til something slaps at your shoulders and horn and motherfucking face that you freeze, body, voicebox, and all, and you turn your ganderbulbs. 

The Mayor looks all frazzled and concerned as he looks at you. Motherfucker doesn’t even got his regular clothes on, gotta fuzzy little robe on instead. He’s crawled on an open drawer by the nightstand in order to get up to you. 

The gesture that he’d even come seeking out if you were ok after hearing screaming just made you dissolve into tears. 

Dammit, when were you gonna dry outta motherfucking tears?!

But The Mayor doesn’t seem to mind. He chitters and hugs you, and you can’t help but hug back, feeling itchy and restless and positive touch has never felt so good to your starved skin. He’s all small and shit, and his carapace is rock solid, but he gives good hugs anyways. For such a small motherfucker, he’s sure strong. His grip on you is sturdy. He squeezes you all kind like, and you can feel the tension start to leave your body. More chittering, and slowly, you relax and the room falls silent save your sniffling. 

“...’m sorry,” you whisper into the quiet, as it’s the only thing you can think of to say. The Mayor chirps some bullshit you can’t understand and nudges a horn with a hand. He gives a pat on your shoulder and clambers up more to sit at your bedside. Chirp chirp chirp, and he gestures to his head before waving his arms all in a panic. 

It takes you a long, long, long, long minute to understand. By a long minute, you mean ten of them and The Mayor having to grab a pen and paper to write down what he wanted to ask. His voicebox couldn’t replicate your way of speaking, but he sure as hell could write. 

“...oh. Yeah. Daym- uh, nightmare,” you shrug. You forget that time is different here, and what was a daymare was technically a nightmare round these parts. The Mayor nods and writes down more. 

“...protect me?” You question. The Mayor nods and ushers for you to wait before he hops off your bed and scampers off. When he returns, he’s holding a long stick of some kind with metal balls attached at the end. A weapon. He’s dressed in some weird ass Dersite-looking finery and he goes and stands at your door. And motherfucking salutes. 

He… he stands there the whole night. By your door. Protecting you from nothing, and you know it’s nothing, but for some reason it works. It works somehow. You lay there awake after a lot of chirping from The Mayor, and then you fall asleep, and the next thing you know, you’re up and The Mayor is poking you to get up and let him force you to eat something. 

He does that every night. Stands guard by your door to help you sleep. You dunno how he sleeps. Maybe he goes when you’ve conked out. Or maybe carapacians can go prolonged periods without shuteye. You don’t know. 

All you know is that after that night, the nightmares all but stop, and you wonder what sort of power The Mayor must have to scare away terror itself. 

Chapter Text

The first curveball Terezi pitches your way is sitting in The Mayor’s office looking burly yet uncomfortable as The Mayor chirps away. 

For such a public figure (apparently, you had no clue bout that til you saw him on TV on the three channels you’re allowed to watch), he’s a private carapacian. It’s been you and him for all the weeks you’ve been here (it’s been weeks now), so you weren’t expecting to see anyone sitting in his office when you came in that afternoon. You’d walked in as you always did when you wanted to get your ask on with the Mayor, and you turned around and near fainted on sight. 

Jake English is… well, he’s not imposing, not on an emotional plane of existence. Like, at all. But damn did he sprout like motherfucking troll Jack and the Beanstalk. Humans usually never had any shit on your height, being highblooded and all, but Jake had the muscle to make up, human-wise. Built like a brick house. Motherfucker’s clothes looked fit to burst right off his squishy human self. 

He turns in his chair to look at you. The Mayor waves enthusiastically. 

You swallow. 

So does Jake. 

“Er,” he speaks first, smiling all watery and waving, “ ‘ello, chap. Gamzee, right? I think I can rev up the old noggin engine to remember you somewhat. Well, remember you from...a while back, isn’t that so? No matter! It’s all blimey whats-it anyhow nowadays, isn’t that right, Mayor, old friend?”

The Mayor chirps an affirmative, then waves a bit harder for you to come over. Can he see you starting to panic? You had wanted to ask The Mayor if you could go onto one of the top floors and look out the window (you couldn’t do that on your own, you had to ask, or your ankle collar shocked you bad). You were not expecting to be confronted with anyone you may know. Nor wish you didn’t. Any part of the past, you weren’t prepared for right now. And yet here was Jake…

...you swallow again, at a loss for words, so opt to listen and approach The Mayor instead. 

Orders. 

You could motherfucking follow orders. 

You come to his side, putting in all your effort to not look at Jake, who stares all uncomfortable at the side of your sorry hide as you take knee at The Mayor’s little desk so he can address you. He chitters a bit and pats your shoulder like he has a habit of doing, and gestures to the other chair. It’s not next to Jake, but it certainly is too close to your liking. 

You whimper a bit. Jake speaks up. “I, er, won’t bite, lad! Aha.”

A sheepish smile on English’s face. It’s off putting despite Jake’s apparent friendliness. You ain’t a taker of friendliness no more lest it’s brought from The Mayor. The Mayor, who chirps again and hands you a cup of water from his desk, and then gently pushes you in the chair’s direction. 

You have no heart to not sit. Just fear, as you obey and do so. The water shakes a bit in your grip. 

You can feel Jake’s eyes on you, but he blessedly doesn’t try to pursue conversation. He just awkwardly looks to The Mayor and clears his throat. “...uh. Anyways… so, SkaiaTech, right. I was hoping to be able to implement some spiffy new gizmos we’ve been making…”

Jake and The Mayor chit chat about Can City and new things Jake wants to make in the name of sweet motherfucking civil service projects. You’re glad you ain’t front and center anymore. You’re content to sit there, curled up in one of these plush ass office chairs, and sip at the cup of water you were handed. You don’t got your understand on of half the words they’re all up and saying, but the constant back and forth of The Mayor’s chirps and pen scrolling on paper, and Jake’s constant peppy accent clog up the silence that would otherwise be suffocating in your empty think pan. They talk city speak while you get your zone out on. 

That is, til The Mayor chirps up and down, which you’ve become accustomed to knowing is his way of addressing you. You blink and look up. The Mayor chirps at you. Little guy is standing now, and he goes and gives you a good pat on the shoulder. His eyes are all beady, as usual, but they’re all lit up with… something else you can’t pin. 

And then he fucking leaves the room. 

Motherfucker. 

Alone now, sitting in that room with Jake English with naught but the half-empty plastic cup in your hands to distract you. You know you’re probably shaking again, but you ain’t gonna look to see if Jake’s taken up notice. You focus all hard and shit on your cup, at getting it to your lips and sipping as quietly as possible. Anything to not be in that space at that moment. The silence is somewhat deafening, and you half wish Jake would just leave or at least say something demeaning to you like all the rest, because at least it’d provide you with either peace or normalcy. 

Instead, he lets the silence go on for too long before he breathlessly chuckles, and you hear him shift in his seat. “So… Gamzee. How are you, chum? You’ve been alright? Can’t say I’ve, well, heard much from you.”

Your feet shuffle where you’re curled on the chair. 

“N-not that I-I think that’s bad! Or good. Just a good ol’ observation is all! Ahaha. Uh. Anyways. Did uh… uh…”

The stuttering is not making you feel an ounce of jack shit better, and the more he stutters the more speckles of warm, cozy brown you see in the corners of your vision and you fear you may start to panic. 

“...oof,” Jake lacklusterdly sighs, and you can hear him shift again, probably sinking in his seat. “Sorry. Not a touch of conversationalism in me, huh? I’m… not famed for it.”

A beat. 

“...what did you think of what The Mayor and I were talking about? With the city? SkaiaTech’s got chops, wouldn’t you say?”

You sip your water. 

“Gadzooks, you may be a worse conversationalist than I. Well… we have that in common, don’t we?”

That makes Jake laugh to himself. It does not make you laugh at all, however. You just swirl what’s left in your cup and pretend to not wish the liquid inside of it were more viscous and green, if just to levitate you from this hellacious moment in time. 

More silence. 

“... I quite like your jacket, by the by,” Jake softly offers. “It looks very comfortable. Is it used for the outdoors?”

“I ain’t allowed outdoors,” you quietly mumble, agitation itching under your skin with your lack of patience and your increasing anxiety. It wasn’t meant for Jake to hear. He hears it anyways, and you glance up because he’s fallen silent. 

He looks shocked, mouth agape. 

“What!? Absolute balderdash, the audacity! Says who!?”

“...uh,” you helpfully offer. 

“Why, the outdoors in a surefire cure for all! Adventure is a mindnumbing substitute for gods-knows is well damn near everything! You’ll forgive my mention, this is all common knowledge about you, good chum,” Jake just kinda goes off a minute, and you watch him jump to his feet and begin walking around the room. He’s talking as if someone offended him personally. “It’s scientifically proven that fresh air is nothing if not a heal-all for any illness that isn’t terminal. By jove, I will delegate most of my healing time on this planet to it’s most capable wildernesses! Even my newfound friendships, I’d attribute to the greenery! The shrubbery! The vastness of Gaia herself! Well, Gaia C, I suppose, would be the correct terminology. To hear such shenaniganry is perplexion on all levels! Why it’s offensive! Preposterous! I dare say it’s blasphemo-

“No,” you blurt out, cutting him off. Jake jumps and looks your way. 

“...not that word,” you whimper. 

“...oh. My apologies, good chap.” Jake looks apologetic. You’d like to tell him not to be, and that it ain’t his fault none, but you don’t feel extra speaky right now so you don’t. He shifts on his feet, and then moves a bit robotically to sit down. 

Jake’s a… pretty awkward person. You dunno if that makes you feel better or worse. 

“... I shall speak to Terezi immediately,” Jake says all soft, “and see if she will let you outside if it’s with my supervision. I cannot abide by a fellow living being subject to being indoors all the time. How could she think I could abide by such a thing? And to think, you’ve been here weeks…!”

When he says that, you realize that he was sent here. Terezi must have sent him here. Oh. You tense more, somehow, with that realization. Jake is definitely clumsy, but he’d seemed genuine before. Now you can’t unsee his fakeness. 

At least he seems genuinely miffed that you can’t go outside without getting fried like a psionic after burnout. 

“I’m sorry, I’m going quite off the beaten path, aren’t I?” Jake mumbles, before turning to you in his chair. “I’ve made such a terrible impression on you, I’m sure. How may I make it up to you?”

Stop talking, is what you’d like to say. Instead you… stare at him. 

Jake is the one who swallows this time. 

“...I’ve properly botched this whole shindig, haven’t I? You look more spooked than when you first came in. Ugh,” Jake groaned, leaning back. “I’m sorry, Gamzee. I’m supposed to- well. Whatever,” he sighs, “may I start over? Would you be alright with that?”

You very much would like to point out how he literally just kind of talked himself in a circle, and you want to question if he’d began anything to start over from. But instead you just give a timid nod and sip the last of your water.

“Splendid,” he says, then clears his throat. “I believe that for now, since you’re barred from the outdoors for some reason, I can regale you with some tales of my adventures here? Would that be nice?”

You nod.

“Wonderful. Where should I begin…?”

Chapter Text

It’s a cold night, where your joints don’t work. You ain’t motherfucking winter material. This isn’t your scene. Yet, the snow comes down anyways and seeps into the walls of The Mayor’s mansion. It’s chilly. You spend more time in a ball of blankets than you do out of it. Jake gifted you with a fur-lined blanket he had from one of his travels to one of Earth C’s many exotic islands. 

Jake has become a… a less threatening presence. You’re scared to call him a friend. You lose friends easily. But he shows up more and more often, and is never adverse to spending time with you. He talks a lot, about so many things, and you love not having to fill in the silence that deafens you whenever it arises. Jake has a lot going on in his life. You have nothing. It’s like living vicariously through his words, and it gives you a sense of spirit, in the crushing absence of your own. 

He talks about his business SkaiaTech, his home, the pet dogs he has that he and Jade love to bits and pieces, his media presence, the latest party he had to attend, the latest gossip. He’s no fashion mogul and he tells you so, so once or twice he’s had you give an opinion on what he should wear to the next red carpet he has to attend. He can’t style himself. It makes him nervous. 

He also talks about his private social life. You have cautioned him only once about the shared figures of your pasts. You aren’t ready yet. You aren’t ready. He respectfully and thankfully keeps it mostly to the humans of his session, who you are scarcely familiar with, seeing as you only briefly met Jane that one time with the potions. Unfortunately this means you are also most privy to his love life, which. Damn. If quadrants were considered complicated by human standards, what the motherfuck is Jake in? An octagon? It only concerns two humans, but seems like he ping pongs back and forth so hard between pleasing both of them that your own head spins from it. 

You know Jane, but you don’t really know the main source of Jake’s pains, which is Dirk. 

Just Dirk. 

Conveniently doesn’t mention his last name at all. 

So that night when Jake checks his phone and informs you that Dirk is stopping by with his brother, you don’t suspect that Terezi’s second curveball is coming your way. 

“You don’t mind terribly, do you?” Jake asks, anxiety in his tone. “Sometimes Dirk gets on these tirades and simply must speak with me about a blue print he’s been drafting up for me. Really, you’d think someone who’s as much a prat as Dirk would be easily pied off from a face to face conversation…”

The Mayor chirps in the affirmative. You just nod and listen. In reality, your nutritional sac is knocking on Death’s door and asking for it’s unholy motherfucking express lane. You hate the prospect of people. But Jake seems so mussed up about it, and he ain’t been nothing but merciful unto you thus far… 

“He won’t come too far inside. He’ll be in and out,” Jake said assertively, scrolling on his phone, “I promise, alright? Just him and his brother. Why are they even out in the frigid?! I do hope they have coats. Bloody daft, seriously, that family, thinks every season is summer…”

You don’t think Jake talks like this usually. He’s too free with his words. Maybe you’re a backboard. 

You sip the chocolate drink The Mayor made you to help warm your hands in peace as Jake rambles on, until The Mayor’s pager rings. Someone’s at the door. Your hands shake more on your mug and your knees draw closer in together from where you had them folded into your chest. 

“Ah! Should be them. Mayor, if you would?” Jake cheerily asks, standing to full height as The Mayor chirps and does the same. Jake turns to you, and his eyes soften. “...you can stay up here, chap. They won’t come upstairs, alright?” He raises a hand to your shoulder. 

You flinch. 

He lowers it. 

“...alright! Mayor, off with it,” he says, too chipper to not be making up for awkwardness, and he’s off. The Mayor chirps at you and pats your ankle, offering comfort and pointing back at Jake, then miming his guardsmen pose. You’ll be protected. No one will hurt you with The Mayor around. You calm, somewhat, and watch The Mayor scuttle off. 

Your relationship with silence is tense at best. You sip your drink and watch the snow fall from the window. Little flakes of pure white. You’ve never so longed for the world like you do now, more in your motherfucking pan than you ever have been and the urge to see beauty that you will never, ever possess is suffocating. You still can’t go outside. The most you’ve gone is the balcony on the top floor of The Mayor’s house, and even then you have to go with The Mayor, so it’s on his time schedule. The balcony overlooks the city. It’s a beautiful view, but you wish there was also a balcony that overlooked the plot of woods on the other side. You’re being too greedy though. And you know you are. 

You are mid-day dream about what a flower would feel like under your palm when Dave Strider walks into the room. 

Dave got tall too, though not as tall as Jake. He’s toned and lithe in structure, doesn’t take up the doorway but motherfucker does he take up space. He’s grown since you last saw him, a human with presence, a few coils of his hair got dyed red and gold piercings he didn’t have when you both were teenagers. One thing that’s remained the same though are his shades. 

They hide absolutely nothing about the way he stares at you. 

You stare back, not expecting anyone to be able to get past The Mayor’s front lines, but you suppose if anyone could it would be Dave. Or maybe The Mayor finally gave up on protecting you and let him upstairs. Maybe both he and Jake lied. Another likely possibility, and the thought alone makes your pusher weep with freshly opened wounds. Nothing hurts worse than knowing you’re alone, and that on top of the fear you currently feel is making your entire body itch and you feel lightheaded. 

“Sup,” Dave monotones. 

You place the mug down in increments ,and slowly raise your hands in surrender from where you’re sitting. 

“...raise the roof? What?” Dave asks, then goes back. “Oooooh. Nah, I’m not the fucking police force, dude. ACAB. Not only the slogan to go by but also a sick rhyme scheme if you play that shit right. Fun fact, police can’t rap. Also not ditching Tez by the wayside there but like I low key totally am. You know Terezi still, right?”

You startle and nod feverishly. You’re shaking so hard the blankets around you fall off. You are struggling to breathe a bit and you have no clue what’s going on anymore. Your body is on autopilot and you are sure you’re going to faint. 

Dave stares at you. 

“Yeah. She said I should go with Dirk to hash shit out with Jake, but that’s a can of Goya beans the government supports me opening and thus I’m not going to succumb to the popular demand of it. I came anyways, but like, whatever. They’re going over some blueprint downstairs and pretending to not be making out at some point and then denying that they’re a thing, when they definitely are, and The Mayor is making me hot chocolate because I asked and he’s the best hands down.”

He glances at the mug you put aside. “He makes the good shit.”

Dave walks in, the heels of his dress shoes clicking, and your eyes trail his every move. He comes to The Mayor’s desk and takes a pen, clicking it and leaning against the while facing you. You really wish he wouldn’t. This is a human that sent you one video file that very well destroyed your life, and then you doubly went and destroyed his in turn, pretty much. Or at least tried to, thank non-existent gods above you didn’t, they managed to win. 

Your throat feels tight. 

“I honestly don’t know why? Tez said I should come here? Maybe she wanted to show off her work, I dunno, I figured you were gonna be hella different than how you were when I knew you,” Dave rattles off, turning the pen this way and that between his fingers. “Like, back then, we were what, 13? 14? 15? 16? All of the above? Who knows, better ask a god of Time or something, I dunno, the game was a hella long time. Approximately 5 years, 4 months, 8 weeks, 17 days, 3 hours, 42 minutes, 21 seconds long, give or take 5 milliseconds, I hate milliseconds, shit ticks way too fast. But who’s counting? Me, I’m counting. I’m the counter. It’s me. Actually, and backtracking, this is me slamming the breaks and telling the conductor to go backwards despite all goodwill saying we shouldn’t or else we’re gonna run into a possible trolley problem via the railway company and not the actual railway or trolleys involved… wait, shit, what was I supposed to be backtracking to?”

You blink at him. You really can’t stop shaking. He’s going to hurt you, or maybe kill you. You hope not here. It’ll stain the chairs and it’d be a right shame. The Mayor loved these chairs. 

You think he’s looking at you. He puts the pen down and hoists himself up onto the desk, sitting down on top. Then he takes the pen back, though you don’t exactly know if he did it consciously. 

“Meh, doesn’t matter. Tldr; came here with Dirk, knew you were here, came to see what the project’s current stage was.”

Project. You motherfucking despise that word. Project. Like ain’t even alive to these people. But you can’t complain, you’re in no place to. You just shrink into yourself and wait for Dave to either kill you, hurt you, or leave. He’s always kind of mocking people, so you guess you don’t have to wait about mocking you. 

“......quiet,” he said, “not even a honk? Just for old time’s sake?”

You cringe and slowly hang your head. Ok, now you’re shaking worse. Your breathing revamps. You start to worry a bit when your vision gets blotchy, and you get downright panicky when you move your hand and find you can’t feel your fingers.  

“...whoa. Dude, chill,” Dave says, holding his hands up, “you’re fine, alright? It’s ok. So ok. I’m over here, you’re over there, last I checked you haven’t killed anyone or fucked with their corpses or-”

Your eyes roll, and the last thing you think of is Why’s this motherfucker always gotta ruin shit for me?

Chapter Text

When you wake up, The Mayor is at your side, along with Dave, who looks just the slightest hint apologetic.

You groan, everything feeling dry, and The Mayor chirps at you loud and expectant. It’s too loud. You shake your head, as if that would help your body settle, but it does the exact opposite, and your nutritional sac turns itself inside out uncomfortably. Eugh. You heave for a few moments before the puke-feeling mercifully passes your sorry husk by, and you breathe again. 

“....ok, no throw up bombs. Fucking mint.” Dave says, and you wince a bit where you lay. You realize you're still  in The Mayor’s office, on the floor. Feeling rushes back in. It’s cold. Your blankets are still in the chair. You cough weakly and try to orient yourself to reach them, but your body ain’t cooperating none. Figures. Too dependent on puppet strings for too long. Fucking, fucking figures…

The Mayor fusses over you for a period, and you try to reassure him you’re ok with weak bats of your hands. He’s not having it though. Keeps chirping up a fuss in your direction, making sure you aren’t… something. You don’t really know. All you remember really is passing out. Did something happen? While you were out? Your organs drop low in your torso when your pan rattles with the hypothesis that you did something while you were out. You hurt again. Maybe you even killed again. Your breathing picks up again in panic, eyes darting around for answers, anything-

“Whoa, whoa, dude, calm the fuck down,” Dave says briskly, The Mayor distressedly trying to hold you down. The monotone of his natural voice and The Mayor’s care bring you down, though your eyes are still desperately looking for an answer. Maybe two. Maybe more. 

Dave speaks in a whisper to The Mayor for a moment. The carapacian nods and pats your forehead like he does when you go to sleep, reassuring, and then scampers off. You are again left with Dave. 

You lay there. Whatever he wants to do to you, he’s welcome to it, free shots all around. But you don’t feel like he’s going to, anymore, unless he’s that brand of motherfucking dumb and didn’t go with it while the going was good, killed you while you were all up and down for the count. 

Which, may very well be, for Strider. Hm. 

He kneels at your side. You eye him warily, eyes still darting, but you don’t dare move a frond from your position. He sits and then just… sighs. 

“He was worried for exactly this,” he says, low in tone, “so worried, for exactly this. That you’d not like, change at all, and be unfixable, or… or. This. Something in between where you aren’t in the business of mur-- uh, of. Y’know. Doing bad shit, going fucking Lord Voldemort on all our asses. Between that and our type of unfixable. My brand, actually, I think was his wording? My brand of unfixable. Where it’s not a fucking bad thing, but… it sits with you, and… it’s. It’s something we all have. That you’re just like us now. Again.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. He’s always right. That’s annoyingly sweet as shit, for real.”

You blink slowly. You’ve lost him. He pinches the bridge of his nose above his glasses. 

“Look. Dude. I’m sorry. The Mayor’s right, I shouldn’t have come up here, knowing you were here and in recovery and not, like, solely a project for Terezi’s fucked up notion of justice and guilty conscience. Whatever she’s doing.” He gestures nonchalantly. “I guess I didn’t think it’d be bad? And she encouraged me to come with Dirk and check your deal out, which I honestly should have known was such a fucking ruse, because since when did Dirk ever come close to Jake without the known intention of sucking face these days….”

He’s talking too fast. You’re too tired to try and keep up. You just lie there and direct your gaze to the ceiling. Dave is quiet a moment more. 

“...I’m sorry, again. I’m kinda shitty at apologies.”

“...same,” you say raspy. 

He looks at you. His gaze burns holes into your already hole-riddled think pan. Poor motherfucker, your think pan. Can’t catch a break. Probably the only thing that’s hole-y about you now, is your pan. 

You make yourself snort. Ha, you’re funny. 

“...right? Apologies suck. Never know where to start with mine,” he says, conversational. His drawl itches at your skin, but it’s got no malice behind it, so you let it go. “And I have to apologize a lot. My brain’s not totally functional, believe it or not, shocker, I know. But like, even before the game it wasn’t. And it moves too fast for me to catch up. Shit’s unbearable sometimes as much as it is fucking clutch, especially in the mundance shit. Like Pictionary? Forget it. I’m the fucking master, no one can fuck with me at Pictionary. Ever played Pictionary?”

You shake your head. Still talking too fast. You wish he’d stop but also don’t wish he’d stop because you dunno if you can take the silence any better. 

“Where was I going with that. Uh… oh, right, brain, not chugging along the choo-choo track. Apologies. They’re tough for me too because I can never find the right words to say. Shit fucking sucks.” He fiddles with his jacket cuff. 

You can’t find words to reply with. So you don’t reply.

“... I’m sorry. Again. For freaking you out. Tez says one thing, yeah, but The Mayor is the one actually taking care of you, and he says you’ve been doing fucking peachy, 10/10 cans, best troll he’s ever taken care of. And for your informacion , he’s taken care of a lot. He’s a fucking parental figure god. Mayor and the fixer of so many mommy and daddy issues? He’s just THE best. Fuck I love The Mayor so much. Do you like The Mayor?”

You nod. You understand that question. You do like The Mayor. He feeds you and cares about you and protects you at night from what you know is nothing, but fear nonthemotherfuckingless. 

“Right?” Dave says, his usual energy seeping back into the monotone of his voice, something that ricochets and glances off the walls like bullets off the blade of a sword, “Fucking love that little dude. He said he was gonna go get you soup.”

Oh. You like soup. 

“Pft, you just lit up like a fucking light bulb on a South-bound train station switch board on a foggy night in a Nick Cassavetes film.” Dave huffs an emotionless laugh. “Guess you’re a soup guy? Never pegged you as a soup guy. Struck me as sandwiches.”

“...those too,” you offer, voice raspy. Dave doesn’t comment on it, he just goes off about Reuben sandwiches until The Mayor comes back to deliver your food and warm up your frigid, paralyzed-by-fear body. He stays with you both, taking up the silence with Dave, and they both try to help you back up to sitting. Well. Try. You start shaking when Dave takes your arm, vision whiting out as your pan supplies you with many helpful images of getting chopped to bits via angry katana, and making you stumble and wheeze something unholy fierce. So it’s just The Mayor that helps you. But Dave eases after that, and his presence somewhat reminds you of Jake’s, filling in the silence with things no one cares about. The Mayor stays this time, for which you’re grateful. 

By the time Jake and Dirk ascend the stairs looking for everyone, both clearly less put together than before, you are back in blankets with a soup bowl in hand and listening to Dave ramble about the struggle that was synthesizers. He and Dirk exchange something silently with a nod (Dirk only briefly looks your way, uninterested), and Dave stands to follow them out. Jake smiles and waves his goodbye to you, hastily, a quick “Gotta go! By for now, chap!” that’s rushed as hell. That’s something he does often though. 

Dave pauses before leaving, looking your way. You can’t make eye contact with him again, so you just sip your soup silently. When you glance up, he looks contemplative. He then nods. 

“...we’re rooting for you, bro,” he says, thoughtful, voice full of an emotion you can’t place, before walking out with the same swagger as before. 

You sit there with those words for a good hour, unmoving. You always knew the power of words, how they weave their righteous motherfucking fingers into the think pan and rend it to bits as much as they can soothe, though you haven’t known them to soothe in a very long time, truly, not since rainbows and abandoned beaches and dreams that were tangible upon calloused six-sweep-old fingers. These words seemed like an attempt at it, if nothing else. From Dave, though, was strange, and eased itself into your chest cavity like a motherfucking ooze, all slimy in your fronds and sticking to your palms in the worst way. We. We. Who’s we , you wonder. Intended as a plural, or a polite type of first person, like the trolls of old did? Coming down to your level? Trying to be kind to you? No. Couldn’t be. He wasn’t your friend. No, no, you weren’t his friend. You were enemies. And yet, he regarded you softly, even with remorse at setting you the motherfuck off. And for what? Maybe for what he was saying about Terezi before, his own guilty conscience. Maybe for naught. 

You ain’t in no place to question him.  

Then again, he ain’t in no place to treat you like a friend he hadn’t spoken to in motherfucking sweeps. 

You look back out the window. The snow floats down, soft as it had before. Nothing has changed since you last peered into the world out there, pristine and untouched. 

We’re rooting for you. 

You allow yourself a very small smile. 

Chapter Text

He’s mad at you. 

You know he’s actually mad at you because it’s been silent on his end for weeks and weeks now. Radio silence. Not a word from him. He’s always angry, spicy and red hot in everything he says. 

But when he’s really mad? He just shuts people the fuck out. 

Your name is TEREZI PYROPE, and you know he’s absolutely livid at you. 

It’s why you are shocked to smell bright candy red on it’s way towards your office, that distinct sunhot smell that was slightly tangy and filled the air with chaotic energy. 

He stands in your doorway. Never molted right, at least not yet, but he filled out pretty nicely, all stony roundness. “Buff”, in the words of Dave. His silhouette is still all small and angry though, as ever. 

You lean your head on one hand. “Long time no see.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks in and shuts the door behind him, and stomps over. He grabs one of your chairs, swings it angrily in front of him so the back is facing you, and sits down backward, forearms on the top of the chair back. 

As always. 

“Get it?” You grin. “I don’t see.”

“Dave fucking gets to see him,” he says slowly, “but I fucking don’t? Are you fucking serious?! ”

“Dave went with Dirk to see Jake and happened upon him,” you reply, flipping through your latest case file, “do you expect me to control circumstance?”

“For the sake of your bullshit, I’ll play along like I believe it really was circumstance: I don’t expect that, no! But I fucking expect some equality in the bullshit justice system you made from your own fucking sweat and blood, and that doesn’t seem too fucking fair when I get turned away from The Mayor’s fucking ‘open gate’ manor twice a fucking day.”

“You go to The Mayor’s twice a day?” You ask. 

“...yeah. Persistence, right?”

You sigh and sit back. “Ok, well, stop that. He’s under hive arrest for a reason! I can put you under probation on visiting him.”

“Visiting him, what--that’s not fucking visiting him! That’s being turned away, time and time again, by your shitty fucking assbleeding nooksucking idea of fucking rehabilitation, which isn’t really rehab at all, it’s fucking prison.”

“And you’d prefer him back in the actual one?” You ask, eyebrow arched. “It was a group vote. It was either that, or stay in jail. Or await formal sentencing for the death penalty.”

“The actual jail wasn’t any better,” he hisses, “that wasn’t just torture for him .”

Your smile falters a moment. You know it wasn’t. You watched from that observation window as Gamzee had thrashed and screamed and cried in pain, and you watched as he went in and calmed Gamzee down faster than any of the jailers had been able to do thus far. Watched as he stayed with Gamzee’s sleeping body, watched him bowl over him and shake apart into quiet, sad sobs when he thought no one was looking. Whisper ‘I’m sorry’ over and over to the point where you had to turn off the audio system on the prison watchboard because you couldn’t listen to such a depressive litany anymore.

“I know,” you respond, voice resolute. “I know you didn’t like that. I don’t think anyone did.”

“Vriska did. Luckily we locked her up too for her transgressions because that’s an equal system!” He pauses, then throws his hands up. “Oh fucking wait! We didn’t! Because she was your ‘ sister’, and she had the presence of mind to try and be a hero, and not the product of your fucking failures.”

“I’m not fighting you on this again,” you growl out this time, hands flattening on your desk, and you bet that if they weren’t so damaged your eyes would narrow, “he’s not your fucking failure.”

“He’s one of them!” He looks aflame and alight with rage. “He’s one of many. And you aren’t letting me fucking rectify it.”

“Have you considered that it’s not your place to ‘fucking rectify’ him?”

“Then what the hell are you doing,” he challenges, “what is this, huh? The fuck is this not ‘rectifying’ him? Finding him in the city, forcing him through withdrawal, locking him up, putting him up on a trial he wasn’t there for, which by the way, great job, Mrs. Justice League, real fucking astute use of your own code there, interrogating him, then putting a fucking ankle collar on him like he’s a fucking animal and tossing him to the hands of a carapacian who, while extremely trustworthy and capable, is a stranger, in a world that so far, to his crippled fucking pan, has only been out to fuck with him? The fuck is WRONG with you!?”

At the end of his tirade, he’s breathing hard. You ‘stare’ blankly at him. He stood at some point. He slowly sits back down and covers his face in his hands. 

“...you still love him,” you state, for the record, to you both. He doesn’t respond. Thus you know it to be true. You sigh. 

“....do you understand why that worries me?”

“I do,” he bites back, “and I know. I know exactly what you’re thinking. Kanaya thinks it too. That I’m walking straight back into a shitstorm that ws fucking awful last time. I know. But you know who helped make that shitstorm?” He points at himself, to his torso, smack dab in the middle of his sign. “ Me. I did. Reading back on some of the conversations we’ve had, I was a fucking monster to him. We all were! Can you imagine having a lusus who just fucking up and left you and everyone then turned around and were like ‘oh fuck yeah, no, you’re worthless, sorry excuse for a highblood, shittiest best friend’. What even was that!? Wriggler insults, is what. He didn’t care. His cracked out thinkpan didn’t give a shit. He was as gentle as ever, which for a highblood was unheard of. It was so miserably fucked up, every inch, and at the end of the tunnel he still came out just as he started, fucking alone .”

Silence engulfs the room again. “I won’t leave him alone again,” he gives out, voice desperate. “I just won’t, Terezi. I know you’re worried. I know you’re scared. Hell, I am too, who knows what he’s capable of now. But you have to let me see him. At least once. Please .”

It’s that final word that shakes you. Please . He’s never one to be desperate. He’s never one to falter or be anything but way too assertive, aggressively so. One foot forward and never back, ball’s always in his court and it’s annoying as hell and tastes familiar and welcoming like an old friend. Which he is. He never puts it in your court. You can’t remember the last time he asked for something. At least not since it was if you were ok or something soft and stupid like that. 

He’s truly, truly desperate to see Gamzee. 

You sit there for what feels like an eternity before you pick up your head somewhat. He smells expectant. On the edge of his seat, eyes boring into you. He reeks of hopefulness. 

“..............................................................................................he’s not ready for you yet,” you respond slowly. “Even if I were to trust you and your fast little pap hands that have lent themselves so well in the past when we were children , mind you, children, not full grown scary gnawing adults with enough pan-issues to fuel a Helmsmen position ourselves... he’s not ready for you yet. He apparently fainted when he met Dave again. Even meeting Jake wasn’t smooth sailing.” 

You can smell him deflate at your words. You push forward. 

“When we deem him ready,” you say, “I will make sure you’re the first he sees.”

He slowly looks up at you. 

“...that’s the best I can do. Not just for your safety. For his own, too.”

His eyes search your dead ones before he gives the most shuddering sigh in the history of shuddering sighs. He stands slowly and puts the chair back. He understands that there’s no dissuading you when you’ve made a decision. You strike your gavel with a particular certainty that leaves no room for argument; after all, you’re a lawful woman through and through. As your darling June would say: you’re a woman of refined taste. And by refined, she means refined salt. 

“I won’t stop going,” he says slowly, “every day, I’ll stand there and shout at the gatekeeper. I don’t give two fucks, not even three. Not even one. Until I see him.”

“Always were a die hard diamond romantic,” you sigh, leaning back in your chair again, finally. “Waving your pretty pale flag down below for your beloved to come out onto the balcony.”

“You won’t think it’s so cute in a week,” he snaps, turning to the door. He stops at the threshold, and just stands there a moment. 

“...I don’t forget what he did to you,” he says in a voice you don’t think you’ve ever heard from him, soft and delicate, “I don’t forget what he did to me either. To anyone. But we know that wasn't him, now. It wasn't him. This, now? This is him. We have him back, finally. And we made this world to be built on second chances and fresh starts.” 

Karkat turns to you, and the fire in his eyes could be smelled by a non-blind troll miles away. 

“Like you said. We were fucking kids . Six sweeps old. Thirteen years old. We didn’t fucking know anything. That world was for learning. This one’s for growing the fuck up.”

With that, he leaves your office, leaving behind the smoke of his words from the fire in his heart. You feel like you just ran a marathon. You tip your head back in your chair and ‘stare’ at the ceiling. You will never fathom how he feels, no matter what you went through. You’ll never understand how he doesn’t see it himself, how people can throw him against the pavement, watch him get back up, and be welcomed back to him with open arms. He’s a fucking idiot, for sure, an enigma you can’t crack despite how despairingly simple he is. But for what he’s lacking up there you’ve always known and been annoyed at the size of his compassion, of his pusher. 

That thing would be his downfall. 

It has been his downfall before, but here he is again, that stubborn little shit going for round 2. 

You pick your head back up and face towards the door where he left. 

Then you sigh, and slowly pick up your phone and call Vriska.

Chapter Text

The winter slips away and the snow melts. Pure, pristine white gives way to the little sprinklings of color, little flower buds that are winning their fight against the soil.

You spend more and more time by the window. You have discovered that if you poke a window open slowly and carefully, you’re able to allow fresh air in, and you can breathe the outside in without anything bad happening to you. The Mayor actually encouraged it. He’s still unhappy that he can’t bring you outside. 

You are idly sitting in one of the many rooms in the mansion, idly scratching at the window pane, when The Mayor chirps to announce his arrival. You turn and offer a silent, small smile. You like The Mayor. He ain’t ever done you no harm. 

He waves you forward, and immediately, you sense something is wrong. He is looking at you worriedly, beady eyes wavering in his sockets as he looks at you. You slowly rise to your feet and walk over. 

He offers his hand. 

Your entire body is screeching that something is wrong. Despite your instincts, you take The Mayor’s hand in yours and follow him out of the room, walking down the hallway and down the stairs. 

He pauses near the foyer. At this point, your body feels on fire, you are alight, one with the air, your pan feels wobbly more than ever and you think you’re a bit queasy. The moment you hear murmured voices beyond the doorway, you know for a fact that you feel faint again. You’re getting better at realizing when your body, which still ain’t exactly All There, is gonna just shut down instead of exercising that pretty little Autonomy thus gifted to you. 

The Mayor turns and studies you a moment. He chirps once and reaches up for you, beckoning you down. You kneel down to him, slouching more so he can knock at your temples like he sometimes does. He studies you, and then knocks his forehead with yours.

….just like Goatdad had done with you as a child, once or twice, in the scant times he was around. 

“.......what is this,” you ask, and that’s all you get out of yourself and The Mayor’s reassurance as he pulls at your hand and opens the door. 

Beyond it is Terezi, who you haven’t seen since she dropped you off here. Next to her is Vriska, who you also haven’t seen, since even further back, at your immediate capture. To the other side, is Jake, who looks rosy, as if laughing before, and leaning on the wall is Dave, who looks stoic, but his entire aura feels off, troubled. 

In the middle of the room, standing by the coffee table, is Tavros Nitram. 

You can motherfucking feel the wind get knocked out of your air sacs, get that whole whimsy of weightlessness all up in your pan. You ain’t remember getting back on sopor, on any kind of drug, so it ain’t no motherfucking hallucination brought on by that hard shit. No, it must be just a machination of your broken pan, so broken it conjures images from the miracles of it’s tattered remains lying on the floor of your headspace. There’s no air. You can’t motherfucking bReAtHe. Everything feels sticky, you taste and smell iron, tangy and rotten, and there’s a ringing in your ears that won’t go away. Every single living thing in that cursed room, from the wicked bacteria crawling wherever they may be to each righteous vindicated motherfucker of a past long past written is blurred and forgotten save for that troll in the middle with the bull-horns and a pusher made of pure gold that up and opened for you

Just to

Rip his

Corpse

to

S h re D s

“....uh… Gamzee?” Tavros says into the quiet of the room. 

A lot of things happen at once. 

You don’t got your know on of what happens exactly though, seeing as you turn and book it so fast even you don’t realize what’s happening until it’s already underway. 

You think people are calling for you. You don’t care. You run down the hallways like your life depends on it, running, and running, your pan echoing and creaking and screaming so badly you swear you may keel over then and there. But you can’t. You’ve gotta keep running. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t . Vriska, ok. Jake, ok. Terezi, and Dave, very hard to do, but you motherfucking managed when they had the upper hand always. 

Tavros?

Motherfucking Tavros ?!

How is he alive ? How is he standing? Why? Why here, why now, why you? Why, why, why…

The door. 

You see the front door, and you ain’t even fully in your pan were you ever in it though? when that becomes your primary destination. Out. You need out. Need, want, whatever, doesn’t matter. You gotta get the motherfuck out of here. Now. 

Before you hurt someone in your panic. 

Before you hurt him. 

“Gamzee, no-!” You hear someone call, but it’s too late. You rush the door, slamming it open, and make footfall outside, running t-

The ankle band. 

You forgot the ankle band. 

The world erupts in pain, and you cry out and fall down, falling down the stairs in front of the mansion in the process. You crash at the bottom, but the electric shocks just come on faster and harder, wracking your body and it hurts . It really, really hurts. You try and push yourself up, but these are meant to shock you til you’re still as the dead, to be retrieved, and damn it’s doing its job. You collapse in a heap, unable to try anymore, and resort yourself to being fried alive until someone comes and gets your carcass back inside. 

You’re so, so, so tired. 

Voices bubble up beyond the sound of the electricity zapping you up, but there’s footsteps coming from the opposite direction that are going faster than the voices are. They got the place just surrounded, huh? Your body convulses on one bad shock, but you are doing the thing again where you feel miles away, watching it all play out like a movie, all you know is real is the deep, deep pain, both physical and mental, the imprint of Tavros’s image fresh in your mind and brightening on every electrical wave. 

“--you-----for what?-------------- singeing  him ------no fucking----barkbeast-house now------”

Something stomps hard against your ankle, and your body yanks itself to the side, jerking as it happens, again, and again, harder and harder until, miraculously, there’s a breaking sound and the electric shocks stop. You float helplessly as your body goes completely slack and all consciousness in general begins to fade. 

There’s a warm hand on your cheek, achingly familiar. Your eyes can’t focus. You don’t know who it is. 

“You’re ok,” they say, “you’re ok, I promise, ok? You’re ok.”

Liar, you think, dirty, filthy motherfucking liar, and you don’t even have the energy to cry as you smile, drifting off shortly after. 

Chapter Text

You wake up in a bed. 

It’s a very soft, nice, bed. You note how the platform beneath you dimples under your height and weight, worn and used well. Trolls are all kinds of creatures what go bump in the night, so your eyes adjust quickly to the dark as you wake up. You lie in a small room, the walls painted a muted gray, with regular old wood furniture with zero detailing and all looking slightly off, as if whoever put them there didn’t know where they were going. The rare bit of personality comes from the few pictures hanging off the walls, the artistry looking strangely well done and the subject of the paintings looking… phallic. Some, yonic. 

You mean, gotta appreciate the artistic effort?

You try to sit up and find you can’t. For a moment, your body seizes, and you think you’re back at the jail, maybe you messed up or some shit, fucked up bad enough that The Mayor sent you back, something like that. But, it’s not cold, and it’s more furnished here than your cell. Warm, too, so not the fridge. 

You quickly discover you can’t move because you’ve been tucked in tight under the covers, and your dumb-motherfucking-ass didn’t realize that. Ain’t all that woken, you suppose. 

You turn your head, and see Karkat Vantas at your bedside, sitting backwards in a chair, dead asleep. One arm cushions his cheek as he slumbers against the back of the chair. His other hand rests on the covers, where your own hand would have been underneath. 

You stare. 

As always, there are two parts of you battling for dominance. One screams that you need to get the motherfuck up and get the motherfuck away, because if anyone in all of Paradox Space had the right to cull you so dead, it’d be Karkat. The other, though, just screams to lie back down. Why run? Even if you were to run, where would you run to? Back to The Mayor’s? No, clearly, since you’d fucked up in some capacity as to relinquish your being there. No. There’s nowhere to run. 

If Karkat is going to kill you upon waking up… so be it, then. 

A small part of you, separate from the other two, doubts it, slightly. Logically, why’s he holding your hand if he aims to cull you?

You sit there and stare at him. He’s softer than when you last saw him. No more jaggedness to his posture. His cheek actually squishes against the arm he’s sleeping against. Guess he doesn’t have to half starve to survive here, does he. His hair is fuller, though less frazzled. The thickness of his skin has lessened some, as it does with all trolls as they come into adulthood, and betrays the bright red blush that youth had done so well to hide. 

Still has bags under his eyes. Always had a hunch that they would never go away. 

He looks healthy. 

The part of you that is screaming to run away is starting to win your argument. Maybe you can find your way back into the city, find a different drug ring, and find a corner of the world to float in peace by yourself. 

By some stroke of either fortune or misfortune, that’s when Karkat’s eyelashes flutter, and he slowly begins to wake. Your breath hitches and holds there as his eyes crack open, revealing the orange of his sclera and the sinful crimson of his adult irises. It’s the most beautiful red you’ve ever seen, and it’s identical to Caliborn’s shade, which also makes it the absolute motherfucking most painful. 

“...shit,” Karkat says, sitting up too fast and almost knocking himself straight out of his chair, “Shit, you’re up. How fucking long have you been up?”

You don’t move a muscle. 

Karkat blinks and rubs his eyes, in the same way he’s always done since you were kids, and repeats himself. “Hello? Earth C to assclown? How long have you been up? I’m really fucking sorry, I have the shittiest sleep schedule to have ever scheduled under pretense of being scheduled.”

You still don’t move. 

“...hello? Gamzee? Hey.” He snaps his fingers in front of you. “Stay with me, even though we literally have nowhere to go and nowhere to like, actually stay.”

The snapping brings you out of your haze of initial amazement, and you look at him directly now, body feeling numb. Shock’s a hell of a drug. 

“...hey,” Karkat says, voice dropping one decibel (it’s still pretty loud), “Hey. Do you remember anything? Like, at all? Ok, I’m gonna take the vacant stare as a big fucking no- well, actually shit, I can’t dsicard that notion off the hitting stick, can I, because vacant staring is kind of your schtick. Or was. Uh. Fuck, anyways. Terezi, who always has a shits-for-pan attitude anyway because she can’t see any path but her fucking own sometimes, thought it’d be a great idea for Sollux, who also has a shits-for-pan attitude but is a lot more subtle about it, to make you an ankle thing that shocks you when you leave a certain fucking facility. I have told Terezi- countless fucking times!- that you shouldn’t be locked up like a fucking animal, but noooo, I’m the fucking idiot, because I’m the only wronged one by you, which, not true at all, but whatever, I digress. They brought Tavros in, before me, fuck them all sideways with the rustiest fucking javelin at my disposal, and then follow that up with a rusted sickle because that’s my fucking brand, thanks, you freaked out, you ran outside, shocked yourself half to death becauthe these fucking idiots don’t know the meaning of ‘the game is over no more violence’, I had to come over and break that shit down for everyone with the empty pan cases, I took you back hive, and you’ve been out for four days.”

He realizes he’s leaned forward a bit. He sits back. “...yeah. So.”

You stare. 

“...do you have anything to say to that?”

You think you probably should. And you know, all up in the depths of your tattered think pan, that you’d rehearsed what you should probably say to Karkat, in a perfect world. But you don’t say a word. You can’t, if you’d wanted to. You just stare and grapple with a response, blinking at him. 

Karkat stares back, and you think he’s going to scream at you. He does you one worse, and sinks deeper into his chair, putting his forehead on the chair back, and taking a shaky inhale. 

“Anything at all?” Karkat asks, without looking up at you. “Did they break you?”

A beat. 

“…did I?”

You take a shaky breath. 

“…. Ok. Because you apparently don’t wanna fucking communicate, out of shit to spew from your putrid wordgaper I guess, I’ll settle to start doing what I do best, which is wrigglersit the fuck out of you.”

He picks his head up and his gaze crosses yours before you can look away. Now, instead of the color of his irises, you’re struck by the openness of his face. So much emotion swirls in his sinful eyes: hatred, worry, fury, concern, to name a few. And you know, because you know him, and you know his expressions because he’s laughably easy to read. 

You can’t bear the coldness of his gaze, though. Even though you think any warmth would somehow be worse. 

“...c’mon. Lets go,” he says.

Chapter Text

He does as he says: wrigglersits. He gets you standing (you can’t stand on your own, you need help, Karkat says the “fucking shocks took more out of you than I thought”), gets you in the ablution chamber, strips you down (“Did they feed you at all!?”), plunks you into the basin, washes you off, gets new clothes for you (“I had these lying around from Dave’s failed costuming attempts, I think they’ll fit” Karkat says, even though you both know that excuse is flimsy at best, these clothes were too big for Dave by far, to have been bought for that purpose), goes and sits you down in the kitchen as he heats up leftover take out food. You can now piece together that this must be Karkat and Dave’s hive; no wonder it’s a mish-mash of absolute interior designing chaos and organized furnishings. They made this place together. 

Throughout this, you’ve been in a state of shock. Well, it’s either shock, or exhaustion. You don’t really know. In hindsight, you should have known that Karkat’s a motherfucking worse meddler than Kanaya sometimes, in that he always cares for everyone and everything he shouldn’t always. You should have known that just like Terezi, just like Jake, Dave, all of them, he’d come for you too. You should have prepared more. Had things to say. Things to express. 

But… is there anything he doesn’t already motherfucking know ?

Yes, you answer yourself as Karkat pretends to bustle and keep busy as the microwave whirrs on. He doesn’t know a lot about you anymore, nor do you him. All that’s between you is one shattered diamond, crushed into bits of stardust and thrown into a vast mixture of motherfucking lava and the blood of your friends. That’s it, now. And its all up and your fault. And you know that. 

So you haven’t said a word. You let Karkat fuss over you as he wants, whatever sort of things he wishes done to you, whatever care he wishes to bestow. You both know you ain’t deserve a lick. 

You know. 

And you know, when Karkat puts the plate of food in front of you and sits across from you, that it is time.

For Judgement. 

It’s not judgement by Terezi. Not by The Mayor. It’s judgement by the person who’s known you best, known you worst. Known you first hand. Known a you that even you don’t got much a know on for. 

You just kinda… stare at the plate. You aren’t hungry at all. 

“You gotta eat, you know. I’m not afraid to shove that entire fucking thing down your talk pole.”

You both know, too, that that is not a threat, but a promise. 

You slowly start to eat. 

He doesn’t speak a word until your plate is empty. You slowly lower your fork, and ignore how badly your hand shakes. You think he’s ignoring it too. Though, you both are studiously staring at your hand, and not each other. 

“...Gamzee.”

Your breath hitches, against your will. The way he says your name is the way in which one’s voice may carry broken glass, overly careful, not wanting to cut open a palm with a loose edge. His chair creaks. He’s readjusting. You’re not looking. 

“Gamzee. Look at me.”

You whine, as if in pain. Karkat gives you a motherfucking growl, and oh fuck you’re really gonna die here. While it’s what you were expecting, dreading, afraid for, accepting, it’s really not a great feeling to know that the last shit you’ll ever pull is disrespecting your bestest friend that you think you’ve ever had. 

You slowly look at him. 

Karkat’s face is contorted, as if he’d been hit with a very hard question and is trying to decipher it. His pupils dart all over your face, hypocritical in his demand for you to look at him since. Well. He ain’t really looking at you. He’s looking at everything about you. Is that the same thing? You dunno. 

Karkat leans back in his chair. He opens his mouth a few times, but doesn’t say anything, until finally, he lets out this defeated wheeze and scrubs his hands over his face before just leaving them there. 

For all his nervous theatrics, more nervous than your own, his words come out bold and sure. 

“I don’t forgive you.”

Those words hang heavy in the following silence. It’s a fact you know. It’s a fact you may even find relief in. Had he just... forgiven you, you may not have known what to do with yourself. 

All you can think to do is nod. 

“I don’t forgive you,” he repeats, “and to be completely fucking frank, I don’t know if I ever will. You… you. You fucking…. Ugh, you did so much fucking shit, Gamzee. Killed my friends, obviously, duh, everyone and their stupid dead lusii know that, but hurt my living ones, fucked over our universe, our game, tried to overturn our entire fucking session in the name of your religion, and fucked me up in so many mental tracks my pan train has been derailed on at least five different routes. Just because… I’m, y’know. We’re here, and I’m doing this for you, doesn’t mean I’ve let go of any single thing you’ve done to me and the people I love. You suck. You’re fucking horrible.” 

Another pause. His hands leave his face. He looks disturbed. 

“...just like I was. Just like I am .”

Your lips purse as confusion enters the game. Huh? You stare at him, and he holds up a hand. “Nuh uh, fuck off, you haven’t been speaking up til now and like hell are you gonna actually fucking interupt me. Do you know,” he leans forward a bit in his seat, “how many hours I spent, rereading old logs? Sludging through some ancient piece of shit commentaries out of the talk blisters of a bunch of six sweep old degenerates with little going for them in their lives? Gog, we talked so much shit. We were walking talking bottles of refuse and we drank each others verbal sewage down like it was our final meal on the way to our execution platforms . We all fucking sucked.” Karkat pauses to breathe. “And in hindsight, there’s so much we forget , you know? Like… fuck. I was horrible to Nepeta. So bad. What kind of insult dictionary did I look up to talk to her with, back then? Or like, Sollux? I’m always bad to Sollux, actually, that’s not a great fucking example. Equius, as much as I would love to say the sack of shit deserved it, he really didn’t, no one did. Terezi, I was so bad to Terezi. Still kind of am. Fuck, Eridan? I was such a shitty friend to Eridan. Or how I spoke to Dave, to Jade, fuck, even dorky ass Egbert didn’t deserve the royally shitspun narrative tumbling out of my stupid pre-final molt squawk blister at least 99% of the time, wherein the last 1% was spent explaining asinine movie plots.” 

He takes a deep breath. 

“And you . I was awful to you. Fuck, I was so bad. We all were. You were high off your ass, a fucking kite, and you were the most gentle highblood any of us had ever known- yeah, super fucking creepy and annoying, but harmless. You were so sweet . Fuck, you were a fucking black sheep in the muderous highblood flock and did we appreciate that? No. We bullied you. It was bullying. We attacked you at almost every turn, for your religion, for the sopor, for being an optimist , and I… I called you a sorry fucking excuse for a best friend when you were trying so hard to be friendly. And then apparently, according to fucking Aranea of all people, fuck her, honestly, I dunno if you know her but she sucks, tells us all about when Lord English chose you to wreck his fucking havoc. Through a puppet. Shitty ass fucking puppets. Fuck!” Karkat slams his hand on the table, overcome with his emotion, and you jump slightly. He plows on. “It’s almost unbelievable, how much shit I screwed up, heaps upon heaps of excrement that I just let fester until it literally stabbed me three times through the chest and then dumped me into a pit of lava in that one doomed timeline. Uh, creative, by the way, in the long list of possible ways I figured I’d perish, that exact combo wasn’t one of them, so, nice job, by the by.”

He takes another breath. 

“My point is. I don’t forgive you, at all, but I hope you don’t forgive me either.”

And then, another bout of silence, as Karkat seems to lose his steam and fumble with what to say next. 

“... I wanna do better by you. I wanna help, this time. I wanna…. I owe you. I owe everyone, but. I dunno, I fucking owe you. I wanna...fuck. I wanna fix what I broke. But I need your help to do that.”

You’re staring at your hands, at this point. 

Your pan, in shambles, recreates. 

The ventilation shafts, cold, haunted; 

you, looking down as Karkat toys about in Can Town with Dave and The Mayor. 

You, following, as if hunting, but no, it was stalking him, your moirail at the time, as he traipsed his way along the sorry rock that was your travel vessel. 

Watched him talk to Terezi. 

Watched him talk to Rose. 

Watched him chat at the occupants of the Golden Ship, dimensions away. 

Watched him talk to Kanaya. 

Watched their words drift pale . 

You watched him go everywhere but towards you. 

And when your paths did cross, when he wasn’t all up and butting his nubby horns into everyone else’s business, and when you weren’t serving your then-holy Lord, your diamond was a mockery of anything pale. Your mind was somewhere else, treating him like a game. A toy. A touch and go object of fascination, never quite realizing how good he was for you. 

...but. Is he right? Is the blame something to share? You remember seeing his fingers twitch whenever you moved in your little pile. His hands were never far from his sickles when you two were together. 

He never trusted you. 

You wonder if he ever loved you. 

You wonder if you ever loved him. 

Karkat rubs his temples before finally letting them flop away from his face. “.........I knew talking to you would be like talking to a brick wall, like always,” he mutters, “it’s just that now, you’re a brick wall with less swill spilling from your cracks.”

He stands, and you blink before you realize he was expecting some kind of answer to his tirade, and you missed your window. It all happens at once. Your breathing sacs seize, your world spins, and before you can think about it, you’re reaching for him in an attempt to assuage your fuck up. 

Before you can process anything, your world erupts in pain, and you’re on the floor. You yelp- or maybe you honk, you don’t up and know- and sprawl, gasping for air. You can’t get any. You can’t get a single breath in, every breath is labored, it feels like you’re dying, you’re dying, you’re dying, you’re dying- 

“-come up at me like that, are you fucking pan dead?!” Karkat’s screeching, but you haven’t been paying attention. You’re a little distracted by trying to breathe. You think Karkat’s eyes are searching yours, but you can’t focus, overwhelmed and trying to think of some way to not fuck up so much but nothing comes to mind. 

Karkat slaps you again. 

It all stops. 

“…Jegus,” Karkat breathes as you lie there, looking at him look at you. Well. Fuck this nasty. You dunno what he’s looking for here. You slowly pull away, inch away from him so he will be safer, and sit criss cross on the floor. 

“…I,” you start, and then backtrack. Karkat’s just kneeling there, eyes still stubbornly on yours, but you can’t make yourself make eye contact, no motherfucking way. Try again. “I,” you croak, and cough on a breath caught in your throat. Again. “I,” you say, and blink to try and focus on your words. Talk motherfucker, dammit, talk, talk, talk! 

“I,” you say, and push forward, “ain’t your closure.” 

Karkat’s eyebrows rise. 

“…ain’t your closure,” you repeat, “ain’t your closure. Ain’t your closure.”

You crane your head to stare resolutely at the floor. “You done wrong as us all. Ain’t about you. Ain’t ‘bout either of us. ‘Bout powers that be. Not,” you gasp as if startled, “not- I ain’t- no- not. Not any powers I been all up and keen on before? I ain’t try to be that no more, no belief in-“

“You don’t believe in your Messiahs anymore,” Karkat breathes, as if stupefied. 

You shut up effectively by curling into a tight ball and letting the tears go. 

“I wanna do better by you too,” you whimper, “I wanna do better by you too. I wanna,” a hiccup, against your will, “I wanna fix what I broke too, brother, Karkat , but I can’t.”

Silence as you sit there and cry. You know he knows what you’re insinuating. No one can truly fix a vase once it’s fallen and shattered. The cracks will always remain. You can feel him digesting your words, your tone, his full name on your tongue. You’re at least grateful he doesn’t try and comfort you, because if he touched you gently right now, you will cry harder. At this rate, whenever Karkat decides to get rid of you, at least you’ll be out of tears then.

“Yeah,” Karkat finally breaks the silence. “No, you’re right. You can’t fix shit. And ok, maybe… maybe it’s too much to ask to fix anything. I can’t kick my stupid fucking ambitious streak, I guess. My bad. But do better?” He scoots a bit closer to you, clearly cautious. “You can. Anyone can. That’s why we made this frog via the grossest hatching of this universe since frogs started hatching universes. To start over.”

Karkat’s voice drops. “I believe in you. Hell, I’m rooting for you. Believe that? I’ve never rooted for anything in my piss poor excuse for a life, but you, Gamzee. If you…” he pauses and swallows. “…if you can let me, I wanna help you. That one, that’s what I want. That’s all I want. What do you want?”

“That,” you quickly answer, on the heels of his words. You won’t miss the cue to respond this time. “That, want that.”

“…ok. Ok, this is fucking workable. I won’t be a jerk off dipstick to you this time, and you won’t kill my friends because no one listens to you and your inane ramblings. Ok?”

You slowly nod, and sniffle. Karkat slowly goes from kneeling to sitting by you. His presence is still off putting to you, but you prefer it to how it was before, which was suffocatingly off putting. 

He doesn’t touch you until your tears have ran out. He hoists you up mechanically and guides you back to the room you woke up in, helps you sit down. “Don’t lunge at me like that again, seriously. I might do worse than slap you next time. Just try and sleep, or I’ll throw a tantrum so large it’ll wreck the planet’s gravitational sphere. Tomorrow is gonna be the longest day you’ve lived in your pathetic fucking life.”

Karkat hesitates, glancing at you. His eyes rove over your face, and his hand twitches. 

You watch him leave. 

You should probably be feeling something. And that would be narratively satisfying, wouldn’t it? To feel guilt, or remorse, or something like that in this moment. But how could you describe such things? To be honest, you don’t feel anything. Karkat’s aware you’re not forgivable. He knows. Yet he wants to push forward, for what, you don’t know. To “help” you. Is that not what The Mayor and Terezi were doing? Will his help be any different? Or do you serve to be exactly what you called him out for: closure. Closure to a shitty ending to a shitty time on that shitty motherFUCKING meteor. 

Or, maybe, Karkat’s just a good person at pusher. 

You dunno. You guess all you feel right now is confusion, exhaustion, and the roiling regret you’ve felt for weeks now. 

You obey, because you of course know how to obey, and you rest. 

Chapter Text

Karkat knits. 

It’s something to help manage his anger. Thus, he makes you do it too. He drags you from the safety of your room (it's yours, they say it's yours) to sit with him in the living room every morning and knit with him. He uses needles he got from Rose, and has insisted you learn along with him. 

Fittingly, his knitting is all done in neat rows. Yours, not so much.

“But that’s not what’s fucking with me right now,” he babbles, “what is fucking mindblowing to me is the fucking audacity of a barista to even question my tastes! If I say oat milk, of course I want oat milk, not almond milk. I don’t care what goes best in a latte! Why would I give a squeakbeast’s ass?! I just want oak milk. I like oat milk, why does the world we fucking inherited as reward for all our struggles not have oat milk.”

You watch as a scarf forms from his needles, fast as his words. Pink yarn drips from the needles, with small stripes of purple in it. 

“Furthermore- Gamzee, be careful, don’t poke yourself,” Karkat pauses to readjust your grip on your needles, “I swear, seriously, pay some attention or you’ll actually poke out something important, you ignoramus shitw-”

He takes a deep breath, sudden and sharp. You watch as he closes his eyes, breathes deep once more, and speaks. 

“Sorry. Uh. Just be careful.” He looks back down to his knitting needles. “Anyway… right, oat milk. I want a mandate from the law to get that shit necessary in every fucking coffee shop…”

He does this a lot. Goes to spew some heinously correct shit at you, and then backtracks. Has been doing it since your first night here, a few weeks ago now. He rewords, rephrases, and redoes most of what he does around you. He’s even started to do it around Dave, who lives with you two, and who treats you well after some awkward apologies. 

You try to not dwell on it. You try to not dwell on a lot of things. 

Karkat finishes his final row with a flourish, and looks to you again. “Do you need help?”

The yarn is in a tangle between the needles. You stare at them, and then back at him.

“Take that as a yes,” he says, and you can tell he tried not to sigh. He scoots over, and every alarm in your head goes off at his proximity. He’s close, almost enough to touch, hip to hip where you sit. His warmth radiates and makes you yearn for his touch something motherfucking fierce, just the slightest brush of his palm against your cheek, anything to thaw your cold pusher-

You have it bad for Karkat. 

You don’t know if its’ in the way he’s cared for you these past few weeks, or the way he stops his harshness before it spews, or the way he looks both so vulnerable and so indestructible all the time. All you know is that he’s somehow wormed his way into your head and he won’t get the motherfuck out. Which is not new for you, but. You wish it wasn’t a thing. 

You don’t think you were actually pale for him before; now you are. You think this is what it means to yearn for someone so pale. Maybe if you’d understood back then what it was like to long for a pale touch, for soft words and for solace, you wouldn’t have done what you did to the two most prolific moirails in Paradox Space. 

You see blue and green in your nightmares still. 

His fingers deftly untie the knot you’ve somehow made with your knitting needles. “If Terezi just let you have sharper needles, I bet you wouldn’t have to deal with the yarn fucking itself up.”

“Thank you,” you manage as he lets the yarn fall free from the tangle. “It’s safer this way.”

“Everyone says that,” Karkat huffs, putting his skeins away back in the little basket he keeps them in, “and yet I can freely chop a fucking tuber around you with no repercussions.”

“... I ain’t holding the knife.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He just shoves the needles into the topmost yarn ball and then glances at your hands. “...you aren’t gonna do more, are you?”

You shake your head and hand him the needles and yarn. He drops them into the basket too, and then sets it aside. He picks up the scarf he finished, running his fingers over the threading a moment, and then looks at you again. He does that a lot too. His gaze wanders, then he remembers you’re there, and his attention all returns to you. You’ve yet to retain this eye contact for more than a minute at a time. Karkat claims he doesn’t take it personally though; you can’t seem to hold eye contact with anyone for long. 

“...hey,” Karkat says, and you glance over towards where his hands are. They’re offering the finished scarf over to you. “Here, feel this. Shit’s really soft, some fleece crap that Rose gave Dave to give to me.”

He thinks you haven’t figured out that ‘crap that Rose gave Dave to give to me’ is his code for Kanaya. Dave always forgets what he delivers from the Lalonde-Maryam hive, so he’s always quick to agree. But you know it’s from Kanaya. The only reason Karkat doesn’t plainly say ‘Kanaya’ is because the last time he said it, you hyperventilated and passed out. 

You take the scarf. He’s right, it is soft. You drag your fingers up and down the body of it, feeling the texture against your fingertips. The raised bumps of the yarn stitches are neat and tight together. 

“...here,” Karkat says, taking it from your hands. “You wear it like this.”

He wraps it around your neck, and your freeze, breath hitching. Karkat frowns at you. “You alright, dude?”

“... mmn.”

“What’s up, what’s wrong?”

Your eyes dart everywhere but at him. He makes a disgruntled clicking noise. “Hey, c’mon, fucking talk to me. Remember? You said you’d try.”

“...not tight,” you mutter, dipping your head to shield your neck somewhat. Karkat’s own breath stutters in rhythm, and he nods. “...oh. Yeah, sure. Not too tight.”

He winds it around your throat, and you desperately try to not think about it too hard. It’s not a chain. It’s not a rosary. It’s not a noose. It’s a scarf, that’s all, your mind needs to motherfucking hit the breaks. You’d prefer if it wasn’t so broken, but that’s far beyond your reach now, or anyone’s. 

“Hey, it fits you pretty well actually.” Karkat adjusts the ends and fiddles with the scarf end. “My genius continues it’s glorious fucking reign. It’s not too tight?”

“...nuh uh.”

“Good. Cozy?”

You nod. It is. It’s very soft. “...can… I….”

“Can you what, Gamzee.”

“...touch it.”

“No, I put it on you so it levitates off your shoulders. Of course you can fucking touch it! I know your fronds aren’t broken, you just tried knitting. Here,” he lets go and scooches back a bit, “knock yourself out.”

You feel at it. You refuse to look in mirrors, so the best way you can approximate how you look with it on is through touch. It’s loose around you but warm, making the pads of your fingers ache in some sort of wicked relief. It’s nice. “Nice,” you whisper, to who you’re unsure of. 

Karkat watches you studiously, and you can feel the red of his irises bore into you. “...keep it.”

“....huh?”

“Keep it. I mean it,” he says, way too fast. “I’ve made like, fifteen hundred of those fuckers. So many. The local thrift shop has started to fucking turn me away because I make too many. Same with every donation organization around. I’m just that angry all the damn time that my little mutated troll fronds can’t stop looping baabeast fur in circles until it resembles something vaguely wearable in shape and function.”

A pause. “You seem to like it, so. Keep it.”

You dare to look at him. “...I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“......destroy…. It.” You look down at one end of the scarf. It flops from where your fingers play with it, side to side, all loose and silly. “Don’t want to.”

“Oh fuck off, your claws are so dulled they could put a schoolfeeding hall to sleep.”

“So,” you state more than question. 

Karkat makes a sound of frustration, half click and half grunt. “Gamzee, c’mon, man. I can’t deal with you also thinking you’re a threat like everyone else. It’s annoying as fuck if I’m to be assbruisingly honest.”

“It’s truth,” your voice drops to a whisper. You bring the scarf end to your cheek, and relish the textile feel of it. It’s the perfect softness. You can’t shake off the relief of its feel in your grasp, around your neck, like a very gentle hug around your shoulders. 

You are so wrapped up in the softness of the scarf, you don’t jump when Karkat puts a hand on your shoulder. He keeps it there, his warmth almost searing. “Then destroy it,” he shrugs, “just tell me when you’re going to, ok? So I can…..”

Your eyes shoot open from where they’ve dropped shut. You slowly look at him, the comfort of the scarf slowly being engulfed by rising horror. Karkat’s voice falls off, realization dawning on his features as the tone of his voice registers with himself. 

That very pale tone. 

“…so I can choke you with it if I need to,” he quickly amends, “don’t wreck my shit, you fuckkkkk. Fuck.” He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I didn’t…” he heaves a breath in, then out. “Just… do what you want. Yeah. I don’t care, just take it, since you’re hugging it like…” he fumbles for words. “Like you like it. So. Have it. Because I’m a great samaritan like that.”

He gets up, takes the basket, and books it from the room, a little grey smear in the air. He’s fast when he wants to be. 

You sit there in the suffocating comfort of silence, and find your hands still bundled in the scarf around your neck. 

You lift it again to your cheeks, and ignore the way the fabric catches on the thick imprints of the scars that marr your face. 

Chapter Text

It is raining. 

It is raining, and you are in the park. You sit with Karkat’s bag as you watch him and Dave run around a children’s play set, some playground in the middle of the town center. You haven’t felt rain on your skin like this in a long, long time. You could touch it, with The Mayor, but you never quite got to feel it on your face directly, in your hair, drenching your clothes and enveloping you in a wet hug via your now wet clothes. You hunch over slightly, so Karkat’s bag stays safe from the water droplets. 

You watch him as he skids to a stop before Dave, with Dave promptly falling over. Karkat barks a laugh. That is a thing you’ve noticed, since you started living with him, he laughs. He laughs like the thunder, something loud and booming and overwhelmingly natural. It shakes you to your bones. His smile feels like lightning, cutting across the sky, and the way his head tips back when he laughs feels special under the rainfall. 

You are pale for him. You still haven’t said anything yet. You know what the answer will be. You pine anyway, something to preoccupy your cold shriveled heart, maybe. 

Karkat looks over at you, and his smile falters. He mouths, ‘you ok?’ at you, and you force a tight lipped smile on your face (you don’t show your teeth often, where you can help it; once Karkat took you to a farmer’s market to get you out of the hive, and you accidentally smiled at a grocer with your fangs out, and made him piss himself with fear. That was your bad). He takes that for what it is, and you’re lucky that Dave pulls his attention away by kicking his shin. 

You are not their biggest fan, but Dave takes care of Karkat well, and that was all that mattered in your eyes. 

In your watching, you were not paying attention to the bag in your lap. You curse under your breath when it slips, and plops to the muddy grass at your feet, spilling a few of its contents everywhere. You quickly gather them back up with the dexterity you were lucky to save, after your previous withdrawals. It didn’t look like anything was damaged; good. One thing you could depend on with a redhot motherfucker like Karkat was a universal temper, and you were not spared it. Comforting, yes, to know he treated you the same as anyone and everyone else, but disconcerting in the moment. The last thing you wanted was him yelling at you about mud on his stuff. 

You pick up his discarded phone, quickly moving to wipe the wet mud off. It pings in your hand, and you almost drop it. You don’t, luckily, and move to shove it back into its pocket. 

You are, unfortunately, not fast enough in your efforts, to not see the splash of olive text on his phone. 

Snooping is bad. You know this by now. Despite your… everything (and you’re very aware of it, have been now for some time), you’re not as dumb as you were when you were an odd six-sweep-old troll. You shouldn’t snoop. And yet, the pit of discomfort and dread in your stomach has you snooping anyway. 

You look at his phone screen. 

AC: :33 >> well, if mew really WANTED to show me he’s changed at all, mew can purring him to the cafe at the corner of 12th and 6th. 

AC: :33 equihiss wants to come and buy a furosted cookie. 

Now. 

You have known for a while that other players were revived since the game ended.

Vriska was here. Obviously. You’d seen Tavros for the two holy motherfucking seconds you had before you panicked and flew out the door of The Mayor’s estate. Hell! You were still up and kicking like the basin ain’t turned over yet. You’d overheard Karkat talking about Sollux’s drama with Feferi, Eridan’s latest issue, and Aradia’s new cave excursions (“They’re way too dangerous,” Karkat had ranted, “to even be considered spelunking territory for anyone,”) but it had taken you a moment to realize he was talking in the present tense and not the past. So, you knew. 

You just. 

Hadn’t expected that , you guessed. 

Hadn’t expected her. 

Karkat takes you to doctors, something you hadn’t done before. They poke and prod you and talk about things you don’t like discussing, and Karkat answers on your behalf most of the time. One thing they said is that you’re very prone to these attacks that happen exclusively to humans, trolls, and carapacians (the consorts luck out again, the little shits). They’re called panic attacks. You feel like you’re dying, basically, and can’t breathe or even feel your body parts at times. 

This is one of those times. 

You close your eyes and rock, hugging the bag close to try and ground yourself as the attack hits you. You’re hyperventilating loud enough for Karkat to hear, apparently since he comes rushing right over. “Gamzee? GAMZEE?! Holy shit, what the fuck happened, what the hell set you off?”

Dave bounds over as well, though slows as he nears you, clearly having learned his lesson from last time. “Shit,” you hear him curse as you almost topple over into Karkat’s arms. “Fuck, he hasn’t had one like this in a while.”

“No shit!?” Karkat says, “Go grab the car and bring it around, ok?” and you can hear his concern through the blood rushing through your ears. The rest though, you can’t hear at all. All you know is Dave runs off to obey. 

And then. 

Karkat’s hands are your cheeks.

Pap . 

And the world comes back in sudden, full, sharp focus, making you gasp. 

Karkat tears his hands away as soon as you do so, leaving you bereft of such a touch. You whip your head up to him, suddenly not aware of the sharp tips of your horns though you luckily don’t gore him. You stare at each other for a long, long moment, and neither of you dare move. The rain continues to fall around you but you could care less now about how it falls against your damp clothes or your clammy skin. All you’re worried about is if Karkat’s gonna run or not, like he seems up and ready to do. His eyes are searching your face for something, and you’re not quite sure what it is. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice more raspy than usual, and it lances your pusher, how remorseful he sounds. Every bone in your poor, eternally exhausted body screams to not do anything stupid like confess or something like that. That would be stupid. You’ve been sitting on these feelings forever, hiding them in the warm scarf that Karkat made that protects you from the chill in the night. You weren’t about to unveil that bullshit now. It would upset Karkat’s carefully constructed bubble he’s made, just for you, to help you heal and grow in ways Terezi never encouraged from you. 

But then again, he just papped you. No denying what that was. 

You still don’t say anything. 

Karkat seems to be fumbling too, because he just very suddenly barks out, “Are you ok now?!” As if the volume would help the situation. You very slowly nod, because you are. The panic attack is gone. At least, the symptoms are. You nod again, despite the suspicion that you’re on the brink of another one. 

“Gamzee, c’mon, say something,” Karkat rasps out, “even something stupid! I’m giving you the absolute, fullest green light to say something stupid. Go ahead. All yours. One chance, you’ll never get this again in your excruciatingly long life. C’mon, take full fucking advantage. All shots on the table.”

You keep staring. 

“Please?” Karkat says, and his voice is doing that funny high pitched whine he does when he’s abnormally stressed. His eyes never waver from yours, his brows drawn, his bottom lip quivering. 

“Please. Anything.” 

Tell me I didn’t fuck up again .

“I’m pale for you.”

“What? Gamzee, you… you’re speaking too fast now.”

You speak slowly, as if in a trance. “I’m pale for you.”

“…huh?”

“I’m pale for you,” you repeat. “I’m pale for you,” you say with more conviction, “I’m so pale for you, brother, so so so pale for you it’s like I’m seeing diamonds every time I even glance at you.”

“…uh.”

“And when I ain’t lookin’ at you, and I ain’t tryna keep my shit together, because it ain’t gonna motherfucking keep together less I think on it enough, I’m all on about you,” you babble like a brook, because now that you’ve said it, out loud, the words just keep coming, “about how you ain’t gotta do me a lick of what you have and yet you do? And you ain’t ask me motherfucking anything, ‘cept to try. And I do and you just lemme in when I ain’t deserving of that shit- and don’t interrupt me, I know it’s true. You’re loud as fuck and selfless as hell, and you never put yourself first. It’ll get you killed someday. I could kill you someday, ” you’re hyperventilating you think, damn, your lungs can’t catch a break, “but you still stick me ‘round, and take care of me like it ain’t nothin’ off your sorry hide, and all I wanna do is hold you and do what I shoulda done back then and be the motherfucking diamond you need but now I can’t do that because you wanna bring me to see Nepeta and I know I sure as hell ain’t gonna survive that-”

“Stop! Stop, stop, stop talking,” Karkat barks, and you immediately seize up. You can’t look at him. Your eyes are glued to your hands, now in your lap, still clutching Karkat’s bag. You feel… distant, now. Bracing for the worst. You know that what comes next is gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt like hell. He’s gonna deny you, then toss you out of his home to stave off the awkwardness. You’ll wander, again. The Mayor won’t want your issues. Terezi will remember how much of a lost cause you are, and raise you to real justice, and put you back in jail to keep you from wandering around without a damn clue where you’re going. They’ll give you a death penalty for real. You won’t ever see Karkat again, and you won’t ever make shit right like you should. It’s gonna be torture between here and there-

“ Gamzee, shut the fuck up.”

Oh. You were saying all that aloud. You close your jaw with a click, and finally go silent. 

You hear a sniffle. You pick your gaze up to see Karkat’s damp face, small beads of translucent red slipping down his cheeks. It's hard to really tell, since the rain was already making his face damp, but you know they're there. You know, because his eyes are all big, and his mouth is still slightly open, showing his sharp fangs, and he looks like he’s gonna yell again but he isn’t. He’s sniffling, and staring at you. He’s crying. 

And for once, in your lifetime, in the wide spans of space and time that have allowed you to travel through them, in and out of your pan, 

For once, in a place where Karkat’s path crossed yours, 

just for once, 

not a word needs to be spoken. 

Everything stills as he just. Hugs you.

The sky reknits itself. So does every clock, all over the universe. You’d wager your fucked up pusher that beyond this universe, even, in some empty, destroyed, tackily decorated green parlour room, the clocks begin ticking again. Rightness, in all its ways. Your mind ain’t so lucky, and you doubt it ever will be, nor will your soul, but you pretend, for a moment, that it could hold itself together again. Holding, like Karkat’s arms as he wraps them around you and just keeps you close. He’s warm, so warm, and thaws you through the rain. His bag is caught between you, but you forget why you gave such a damn about it. His head rests on your shoulder, though you’re so tall, and he’s so short, its more like your clavicle than your shoulder, really. He partially collapses, and you fumble a moment to support his weight. You… kind of fail. He ends up halfway on his knees in the mud, and you end up bent at an awkward angle that stretches your spine in a way that you haven’t had to do for a while. You don’t care. You don’t care at all. 

“Idiot,” Karkat half hisses, haf sobs, “such a fucking idiot, Gamzee, I…”

“I know,” you answer, voice low, hands clutching uselessly into his damp sweatshirt. “....I know.”

“You don’t know at all. You don’t know anything . Do you even know how much I…. I fucking…..” 

“....I don’t, I guess. I don’t know.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“......I know.”

“We really shouldn’t .”

“I know, Karkat. I know.”

And you could repeat that shit to motherfucking kingdom come, but it still won’t hit right. Karkat takes a shaky breath, not moving his face from where its tucked against you, and you can only imagine how cold that must be, with you as chilled as you are, plus the rain making it worse. He doesn’t budge from you though. He stays rock solid, right with you, unmoving, and slowly, as the seconds tick by, your worries and your anxieties and your knowledge that this is so terribly temporary, all fade away. It’s replaced by the pattering of the rain all around you, and the soft rise and fall of Karkat’s chest as he calms himself yet still sticks by you. 

You feel his fingers clutch into your damp clothes a bit more. “...do you… I mean… fukcing, hell, Gamzee, what you’re proposing isn’t gonna be like, easy? At all? It’s gonna be like running headfirst into a gauntlet of drones that are made of the most elite materials and up to the highest possible standards of our very long dead homeworld, all while having five cullable mutations and carrying seven angry wrigglers on your back. It isn’t gonna be easy.”

You nod again, and this time, you think it's warranted to move, a bit. Your hands come up shakily, and rub his shoulders. “I know. I really motherfucking know.”

Karkat shifts. “And you know I still don’t fully forgive you?”

“Wouldn’t forgive myself.”

“And you know people are gonna give us shit?”

“Better keep with the monstrosity, ‘s only righteousness in material form, what not should it exist in such.”

“...and you know I’m pale for you too? Which probably testifies that I’m somehow as pan rotted as you are?”

To hear him actually say it, to hear those words meet your ears, is everything to you. It has you suddenly hiccuping, and tears pricking your eyes as well. You try to curl in on yourself, as you have the habit of doing nowadays, but Karkat’s warm self doesn’t really let you get very far. He lets you try though. As he does. You can only imagine a nod. 

“...then. If we’re on the same page, I guess,” Karkat stammers a bit, looking at you but not really managing it because you’re both in kind of awkward positions. He searches for something else to say, before finally taking his finger, and slowly etching out a diamond shape on your shoulder. Your breath hitches, and you swear you can feel every electron in your body evaporate and then come into existence again. 

It’s not serendipity. Serendipity would mean there was some stroke of luck involved, or something fated. You don’t believe in that anymore, and you wonder sincerely if Karkat ever did, or ever has. For once, you don’t think this had to be fated. 

You think it just had to be. 

You trace the diamond shape into Karkat’s shoulder, and you hold each other while you cry until the lights of the car flash at you nearby. 

And Dave blasts Pitbull remixes at you both through the car speakers, until you clamber in and escape the rain. 

Chapter Text

The cafe is a small affair, and you think it's all up and in Nepeta’s territory upon seeing it. Small and quaint, with muted minty colors- something you appreciate, at the very least. It is one of four cafes on the block, but doesn’t look to be struggling. It’s logo lettering is bold and big, the furniture is all white and pristine, the windows are clear and the door has a cliche little bell jingle when you open it. 

Upon hearing that bell, you jump a clear foot, and Karkat has to grab your wrist so you don’t run away already. “Hey,” he hisses, taking his other hand to pap at the top of yours, “calm the fuck down, chucklefuck, I’m right here. They aren’t even here yet.”

“Sorry,” you wheeze, blinking into the light. “...sorry.”

Karkat gives you that look, the one that says he’s concerned but he’s not gonna say more about it. You’ve noted that he’s been doing that a lot recently. You can’t tell if that’s growth or an ongoing problem. At least he’s not screaming at you. At least not more than he used to. 

Karkat takes you over to a table in the corner. He hesitates, before sitting down and ushering you to sit by him, on one side of the booth. You slowly take your seat, hands tense and unable to not fiddle with your sweatshirt hem. 

“Hey, quit that,” he says, batting your hands away. “You’ll fray it more.”

“Can buy another.”

“That’s no fucking excuse?!”

“I could just take one of yours too.”

“You can’t fucking just take my sweatshirts when you feel like it! Most of them couldn’t even hope to fit you! They sit in my closet and weep at the fucking thought of leaving my bulgelicking horrendous possession just to fall into your somehow less capable hands.”

You give him a look. “I wouldn’t be weeping, being in your hands.”

The flush of his face, so unabashedly pink tinted, is almost enough to calm the storm of nerves flooding your entire hole-ridden system. Almost. 

You both sit for about ten minutes, waiting. Karkat talks on and on about random things- how stupid the color scheme of the place is, how he’s only getting one cookie and one decaf coffee and you have to hold him to that, how he wishes he had more time later today to take a shower, because after this he needs to go and meet Jade and John and whoever else for the weekly movie excursion (which you always declined to go to, the loud noises and potential films of violence never quite letting you rest easy in your sorry hide). He’s trying to distract you, you know he is. It’s a good-hearted gesture, however fruitless. You can’t get out of your head (which is as ironic as Dave claims it to be, even if, after he made said claim Karkat ran him out of the house with a frying pan). You’re already rooted to half an hour from now, when you’re looking your previous murder victims in the eyes- er, maybe? You wonder if Equius still wears sunglasses. You wonder if Nepeta wears a hat still, or, no, you took that from her, didn’t you. You took everything from her. Her hat, her moirail, her life. You’d be shocked still and straight to Shangri-bullshit-La right about now if she ever even forgave you, if this weren’t some well masked attempt at getting a better shot at your throat so you can bleed your happy little self all over the cafe countertops and remain nothing but a footnote at the end of a concluded storyline-

“Gamzee! Hello?! Alternia to ground command?!” Karkat yells, which snaps you out of it. You look at him, then realize how tight you were holding his hand. You let go. “...sorry, brother. My bad.”

“My bad?! Yeah, it’ll be your bad in two more second if even one fucking frond is broken,” Karkat mumbles rubbing his hand. But he peers at you through his eyelashes and makes your pusher twist, because he’s just worried and you hate making him worried, contrary to popular belief. “...I know you’re nervous, ok? But I’m gonna protect you. And they don’t want any repeats, that’d be such hoofbeast shit that the reigning hoofdick himself would gawk in absolute horror.”

“...heh,” you quirk a smile, just because, well. Your palest, he does have such a way with words. “...promise?”

“With all my fucking pusher, dude,” Karkat nods, and you really do, you opt to believe him, even as the cafe door bell chimes and you just know it was showtime in the worst sense. You glance down at your lap, breathing ragged in your chest and you feel like you’re back in a four walled prison of white and gray. Karkat slips his hand back into yours- you injured him, yet he’s still here, why is he still here-

“I’m pale for you,” he reminds you, “I won’t let you go. I won’t let you suffer. You’re mine now, ok?” Karkat’s voice sweeps through you like a breeze on a hot day, cooling you off, “I’m gonna take care of you. Ok?”

“...pale like silver,” you hoarsely respond, before oh shit, there they are. 

“Took long enough for you dumbfucks to get here,” Karkat sighs, turning his head forward. Your vision redirects to your lap again. It was funny, really. You felt you’d lived a thousand lifetimes, one after the other, each one more painful than the last. You’ve known soul-crushing bitterness, and you’ve known sand-salty sweetness. People always think it’s those two options, something gammy or something airy on the tongue- meat or candy, perhaps. You’ve never considered the third option, that being that taste just… didn’t matter, anymore. You had no preference. What you wanted was to get out on the other side, and here you are. Imperfect, in pain, forever healing, just not alone anymore. As solid as Karkat’s hand was in yours, you knew it. That the worst was over. That even now, sitting before your mistakes, you weren’t going through it all alone. Your plate could sit empty, if you knew someone would help you find sustenance in other ways. With a friend. With your quadrant mate. With the world you would never feel you deserved, yet inherited nonetheless, far from the beach that haunted you. You were free. 

Your eyes draw upwards, and you find someone staring back. For a moment, you swear you’re all up and looking at a mirror. Equius looks exhausted, deflated, his eyes bare for the world to see. In his blue irises, anyone could tell he’d experienced horrors the likes of which no one could quite understand, and that if he’d been left alone to suffer it he’d have sunken with his cut puppet strings and fallen on his face, just like you. 

He offers you the most imperceptible smile. 

And motherfuck, 

If you don’t smile back.