asgardmeridiem | retinas are bleeding for the enterprise

Entry tags:

retinas are bleeding for the enterprise

Who: Dave Strider

chronologistics and Terezi Pyrope

tongue3y3s
What: Nightmares are really shitty and TZ has just about had it with this bullshit, ergo: bedroom invasion. Scoot over, Dave. Unfortunately Dave isn't having such a hot night either.
When: Night of day 322, beginning of 323.
Where: El Casa de Strider.
Rating: PG-13. Mentions of violence and horror, bad language.

[Living alone isn't too bad. It's nothing like the vast solitude she had growing up with nothing but scalemates, but on the other hand she's spent a couple human years existing in extremely close quarters with other people. Suddenly now that it's back to her and her lusus, everything is...

Way too quiet.

It gets a little worse every night, in different and unnerving ways. She has off-thoughts of violence directed at strangers and friends alike which is not terribly unusual for a troll, but most frighteningly are the murderous twinges she feels toward nothing at all; alone, she ends up frustratedly tearing the arm off the stuffed dragon Nepeta gave her, which ultimately does little to improve her mood. Miserable from her lack of restraint, blaming it on her higher position on the hemospectrum, Terezi resolves to get the toy repaired as soon as possible and bites at her knuckles to remind her of restraint. Sleeping is hard, heralded by uncomfortable dreams, and when she decides not to sleep, the dark grows progressively more hostile. Unsure what to make of it, she initially believes her body is losing its ability to cope without sopor, even though it's been nearly a sweep since she slept with the slime's reassurance and she's been doing as fine as a troll can in its absence.

Today, a tree full of multicoloured fruit sprouted in the middle of her apartment. She follows the instructions and selects an apple, deciding on chance after flipping her caegar and then ignoring the results. It doesn't go away afterward, which she doesn't think she'll mind so much until night falls and the branches creak and the leaves whisper to her and she wonders, shivering next to her lusus in the mess she's made of her pile, what would happen if she took up the egg and threw it against the nearest wall.

Terezi flies from the mass of pillows and blankets like she's been burned, nauseous and appalled that such a thought could ever be produced by her thinkpan. She knows immediately that she can't stay here, first and foremost, that she must get as far away from her lusus as possible lest she do something she'll never forgive herself for.

Secondly, she thinks she really needs to not be alone right now.

There's only a loose handful of people who might understand, from the trolls left in the city, but Kanaya and Sollux are gone and Karkat and Nepeta... well, she hasn't been speaking to them so much, even if it's stupid. She doesn't have a moirail--before now she never really wanted one, but she admittedly believes that one would be useful in a situation such as this. In the end, the decision falls to her only quadrant, even if she doubts Dave will be expressly comfortable with her Troll Issues. It's not like she has to tell him; she merely can whine for company and treat it like any other of her whims.

No time is wasted: Terezi packs nothing more than the necessary sanitary items in a small satchel, pulls on her pants, shoes, and glasses and then, pausing only to grab her cane, slips out the window of her never-used bedroom without even bothering to comb her hair.

She can't bring herself to go back out into the other room to say goodbye to her mother. Touching the egg right now, she thinks, would make her vomit.

The trek to Freyr is silent and eerie and her hands are shaking by the time she lifts one fist to knock at Dave's window, the points of her teeth sinking anxiously into one inky black lip. Her nostrils flare while she waits, surveying the darkness for a threat that just doesn't seem to be there, no matter how she tries to pinpoint it.]

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[Music has helped.

Perhaps not as much as Dave would have preferred for it to help. It's definitely not enough to quell the tightening feeling of wanting to punch the living daylights out of any random passerby on the street, or of wanting to snatch one of his swords and take it to the rooftop with Kidbro. But it's helped to sort of file the inclinations in the background, not unlike filing away a sound sample for an ill jam later.

It's still there, though. Still lingering.

At first, it had just been difficult hard to sleep. So, mixing had become a way to sort of wind-down enough to at least feel like he wasn't burning through energy reserves. Then it had become impossible to sleep, and so now it was just being used to pass the time and keep his mind elsewhere until...

... until when? He's not sure. Part of him thinks it's just until he just keels over and dies.)

It's bad when you can feel the bags under your eyes like he can feel them now, and yet he still can't (won't) sleep.

So it's surprising enough -- like a jolt in his skin -- when he hears someone knock on his window that he grabs the handle of his closest sword. He keeps it blade-down but at the ready as he steps across the rug and pushes the curtain out of his way.

Somehow, even in his surprise, he isn't really surprised at all.

Jesus, he's thinking in circles. What was this place doing to him.

Dave leans the sword against the wall and slides the window up.]

So like I'm pretty sure visiting hours ended about three hours ago.

[Instinctively, Terezi casts about for a witty response; something snarky to shoot back at him. She comes up with nothing other than a pounding bloodpusher and a bloody lip, the point of one tooth bursting through her skin and releasing a shallow drop of teal.

No words come to mind.

The only thing she thinks to do is... reach out... stretching up on her toes with one quivering hand extended, and press cold fingers to his cheek. Glasses absent, her eyes are open; her expression, raw.]

[Her fingers are cold, and it makes him want to flinch when she reaches up to touch his cheek, but he keeps his expression still nonetheless. He's quiet for a moment, mostly to take in her expression, before he sighs and reaches up to run a hand through his hair.]

You too?

Yeah. [Her voice is hoarse. After a moment she pulls her hand away and clutches her fingers together over her chest, before dropping her arms to hang at her sides.

It's been a rough night.] Um. Can I come in?

...please?

[Wow, when has he ever heard Terezi Pyrope actually say please about anything.

Dave gestures with his head toward the inside of his room before belatedly remembering -- how the fuck does he even forget, anyway? -- that she can't really see it.] Yeah. Sure.

But the swords are staying on the wall and/or under my bed, and the books are staying in Kidbro's shelf.

I won't make a pile with your stuff, [she promises, and then lifts her hand up again, this time to reach for his own hand so he can pull her into the window.

Usually she'd climb up on her own, but the fact that she isn't is testament to her exhaustion.]

Edited 2013-09-25 04:59 (UTC)

[Yeah... he'd been pointedly trying to not let her take his hand, but she's reaching for it, and it kind of makes him feel more like an asshole than it should when he doesn't, so he does and tugs her through.]

Good. Kidbro's got some sort of filing system going on and there's no way in hell I'd be able to decipher it before he got back if you fucked it up.

[Not entirely true, but it sounds like a good enough excuse. He closes the curtains in the window (leaving the window open for the breeze to rustle in every so often) and turns for door to the hallway.]

[She follows him, quiet and letting her head droop from her shoulders like a hung man, following him without even pretending to use her sight. She abandons her cane leaning against a wall and walks without it.]

[Man, things are getting fucked the hell up when Terezi fucking Pyrope doesn't have anything to say. Dave thinks he might almost prefer it when she's nearly gabbing his ear off compared to when she's following him around like a lost puppy.

He pads down the hallway until it spills out into the open kitchenette/living room plan, and he turns toward the cupboards to pull out a cup. If it sounds like he's clattering shit around more than what should be necessary, it's because he is.

The fridge opens, and there's some shuffling as he pulls out a jug of orange kool-aid (for as close to kool-aid as one can get in Asgard) and pours a glass. It's left for her on the counter as he turns for another cupboard to pull out some popcorn.]

[It takes her a few minutes to go reach for it, but eventually she does, lifting the drink to her lips and sipping it slowly, lackluster.] Thanks, [she eventually croaks out, still staring emptily at the ground.]

Yeah.

[He shuffles a few boxes around -- crackers, macaroni and cheese, a box of spaghetti noodles -- before he finally finds the box of popcorn and pulls out a bag before wordlessly stuffing it into the microwave. It beeps as he hits some buttons.

Dave doesn't say anything as he crosses his arms and leans against the counter to study her.]

[She eventually becomes aware that she's being watched, and shrinks into herself, somewhat uncomfortably. She hopes she doesn't look too bad while simultaneously knowing that she does.

Eventually, she forces herself to speak:] Um. So. I was wondering if I could stay the night.

[Normally she wouldn't even ask, but she was getting kind of desperate to find something to say.]

[The microwave drones on, and Dave shifts his weight between his feet.]

Really? Man, I just figured after you went through the trouble of climbing through my window I was going to toss you out the front door after we counted how many pieces of popcorn you could catch in your mouth.

[Pop.... pop...]

Shut up. [A faint smile twists the black of her lips. He is a sarcastic asshole but he is her sarcastic asshole and his sarcastic assholery is actually comforting, in the way that for trolls exclusively negative and irritable interactions are often considered a form of closeness. It's whatever.

She swallows another mouthful of orange drank and then shuffles her way over to Dave. She doesn't aspire to touch him, but she does hipcheck him lightly. (Stop staring, jerk.)]

Jesus you've got to be more careful. You could totally kill a dude with that thing.

[The microwave erupts into a flurry of steady popping, bringing with it the smell of popcorn butter. Dave keeps his arms crossed.]

Sure, on the condition that nothing upon your departure is even remotely left in the shape of what looks like a pile.

Hey!

[She hedges for a small smile and barters with:] What if I put the things back before I go?

Non-negotiable.

[Groaning, she slumps against him like he's killed her.] You can't make me sleep in a bed. I'll lose body mass and I will collapse into a stupid flat panloaf. You'll have to scrape me off your stupid human relaxation platform with a spatula and then you will have a blob instead of a matesprit.

You can't do this. Show mercy on me, your most honourable tyranny.

[Oof.

Dave wrinkles his nose, too tired to really formulate something witty.] ... gross.

Fine, okay, you can have half a pile. But no books.

Deal!

[She pulls back and grins at him, but it is short lived. Only a few short moments after it appears her lips fall back down into an ambiguously miserable purse, and she draws away to sip self consciously at her drink.]

[He's not sure what to do with it. Thankfully, the microwave finishes and beeps thrice, and that's enough of a distraction. Dave grabs a bowl from the cupboard and crosses the kitchen to carefully extract the popcorn.]

[She follows his progress with her nose, and in the middle of him dropping grubcorn into a bowl she gets the intense, irrational urge to touch him; to run her fingers up the map of his spinal column and rest her cheek between the flat wings of his shoulderblades.

To her embarrassment, she's halfway through reaching out before she catches herself and pulls her hand back, curling further into herself and hoping he didn't notice.

(Even of the orange of the kool-aid is flat and dead on her tongue.)]

[He knows she's moving behind him, but he continues to move as if he isn't aware of it. Instead, he tosses a piece into the air and catches it in his mouth.]

Come on, let's go.

Okay. [Swallowing the rest of her kool-aid, Terezi winces as the taste hits her with all of the intensity and none of the usual pleasure. A shame.

She continues to resist the urge to touch him, and leaves a pointed foot and a half of space between them when Dave starts to move.]

[He pads back through the hallway and into his bedroom without so much of another glance in her direction.

When he flops down on the bed, he swaps the bowl of popcorn for the laptop sitting on the floor. It's put on the edge of the mattress as he settles down. He skims his finger over the touch pad, bringing the screen to life. The laptop's background is some SBAHJ compilation.]

So you have your choice between talking human wrigglers, jolly green giant in a red cape and matching underwear, or human Will Smith punching aliens.

Those first two sound slightly concerning.

[Uncharacteristically tentative and mild, Terezi inches onto the bed next to him, careful not to touch. She sniffs carefully at the pixellated laptop screen, then licks her teeth and says:]

Human Will Smith is the obvious choice, although I believe the aliens should rip him a new hole for his organsacs for such inhospitable behaviour.

[If he notices -- he does -- he doesn't say anything. A part of him is too tired to, knowing that if he were to call her out on it that it would likely end up retarded. She's not touching him, and maybe that's slightly weird, but he isn't complaining.]

Man, okay, look. The aliens should have thought twice before shooting off and blowing up New York fuckin' City like a bunch of extraterrestrial rednecks with playing baseball with loaded shotguns, then he wouldn't have had to punch them. Simple as that.

[There are a couple of clicks before he loads up Independence Day, and he flops back into his pillows.]

Maybe they were just having a bad day and thought that was an acceptable method of greeting, [she hedges with a small smile, knowing entirely that it's bullshit and not caring a bit. After a moment of inspecting the screen, Terezi begins to ease herself back into the pillows, but hesitates, unsure of how to proceed.

She's caught somewhere between wanting to keep the space between them and wanting to just give up and curl against his chest with her nose in his shirt and her arm around his waist. In the end, she freezes and does neither.]

[He reaches down for a handful of popcorn, and doesn't bother in being very polite about chewing the first half of the handful quite loudly as the first scene comes on.]

Yeah, and afterward they wanted to go and have tea parties. Would you like a crumpet, Mr. President?

[He turns one piece of popcorn between his fingers before reaching back to hold it up to her.]

[There is a long, heavy moment before Terezi leans forward a few centimeters and then catches the proffered snack with the tip of her tongue. She curls it into her mouth neatly, avoiding slobbering on him in the process though at another time she might have. Almost as a second thought, she follows it up with

a very shy, chaste kiss

to the very tip of his finger.

And then she preemptively turns bright teal in the face, and her sightless eyes hood as she turns her face down toward the bedsheets.]

[His fingers, at the feeling of her lips, twitch very, very slightly; involuntarily.

He touches the tips together, feeling as the ridges meet ridges, and finally reaches back to draw his knuckle over her temple just once before going after another handful of popcorn.]

[The touch is light and sends a little tremble across her shoulders, and she seeks out more, the dam having been broken. First it starts slow, with her relaxing and curling into the pillows beside him, letting her knees draw forward to press against his side, but even as she settles down and breathes in at the laptop screen she's calculating on how to casually get closer.]

[He keeps his eyes locked on the screen as he crunches through most of his popcorn, but he reaches down to give her knee a light tap. Human Will Smith makes his first appearance, and he reaches back with the remaining popcorn to offer it to her.]

[Her smile is small; fragile; but she accepts the popcorn and takes a moment to put some in her mouth and chew thoughtfully before she cradles the bowl in her lap and very, very carefully shifts to lean her head against his shoulder, mindful of her horn.]

[Dave stretches and folds his arms behind his head, using them as both a pillow and a prop so he doesn't have to strain to keep watching.

It's funny. He'd been entirely ready to settle down for some classic (human) film, but laying back like this, Terezi at his side, it's hard to not feel the exhaustion stewing in his bones. Bill Pullman brings his swaggers onto the screen -- Pullman always brings the swag to the yard, and it's always better than yours, fuck yes -- and Dave reaches down to rest his hand over her knee again.

(In time, probably when Judd Hirsch starts rambling conspiracy theories, she'll feel sleep-induced twitching in his fingers.)]

[The smell of him drifting off to sleep is soothing, and lulled by the drone of staticky laptop speakers, Terezi starts drifting off with him. His hand on her knee is stabilizing; a steady weight that holds her down, grounds her, comforts her. She leans comfortably against his shoulder, her eyes closed, making half-asleep noises of contentment in her chest.

The night's earlier nightmares are almost forgotten, far from her mind as she curls up around her matesprit and falls asleep with him in his bed. She's even forgotten to make a pile.]

[One moment, Judd Hirsch is wailing about alien probes, and the next moment Dave's standing in the hallway of the Freyr apartment. The stone tile is cold and hard beneath his bare feet; cold, hard and wet. There's a thick, stomach-turning sort of metallic smell in the air, and he doesn't have to look down to know he's standing in blood.

He doesn't have to look down to know he's standing in his brother's blood.

He moves forward, feet padding wetly along the floor until he reaches the open floorplan, and suddenly he's not in the Freyr apartment anymore, but his old apartment. It's an unusually warm spring day, and the sky is gold with falling meteors and rising flames. It bathes the apartment in a lazy, nostalgic amber color, casts the shadows of every smuppet and puppet along the walls and carpet.

The carpet... it squishes beneath his feet. Puddles between his toes.

Sticky.

He sees the glint of the sword peeking out from the other side of the couch. He feels his skin crawl from the glare of every beady puppet eye watching him through the golden haze.

If the sword's comin' out, it's comin' out clean.

A gloved hand is stretched toward him, palm up. Blood is settled into the ridges of the fingertips, sticky and dry and motionless.

His brow furrows.

This isn't right. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

(In the waking world, his body gives a weird twitch as his eyes dart to and fro behind his eyelids.)]

Edited 2013-10-16 06:13 (UTC)

[Fast asleep, Terezi doesn't really notice, except to maybe subconsciously tug him a little closer in her sleep. Long since gone inactive, the laptop screen is dead and black, no sound coming out of it.]

[This ain't right.

This ain't how it's supposed to be. Ain't how Bro died--

The fingers suddenly twitch, and the dying light plays off of the blood like playing off of the surface of a shiny marble. Dave takes a step back, listening to the carpet as it squelches beneath his foot, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of orange and blue --

Cal is sitting placidly on top of the flatscreen, glassy dead eyes baring down on him like the biggest asshole on the planet. The puppet's mouth opens, as if to cackle --

Cackling does fill the air, but it isn't Cal's. It's low and croakin, almost choked, and coming from the body laying mangled in the middle of the apartment living room.

Dave follows the tug in a fitful sort of way, hands clenching tight.]

[The smell of Dave's distress begins to rouse her, bitter lemon prickling the insides of her nostrils. Terezi, alarmed, struggles out of the thick haze of sleep, trying to figure out what is wrong and why, and also what she can do to help.

All she is aware of at the moment is the fact that she is laying with her matesprit in a pile of pillows, and the thick smell of panic in the air.

[There are words in the air. Low, dry, and raspy; strung together in a thick drawl. They're incomprehensible, but Dave doesn't need to hear them to know what they're saying.

This is your fault.

And it is.

If you hadn't been such a fuckass, I wouldn't have had to bail you out.

But he had had to, anyway.

How's it feel, knowing you're the reason someone died?

It --

Dave moves so fast that it doesn't occur to him until after he's got the tip of his sword pointed directly at the center of Terezi's throat that he's even on his feet.

Everything falls unnaturally still.

Air trapped in his lungs, eyes wide as fucking saucers. There is a goddamn sword pointed at his girlfriend's throat, as if he is about to prepare some really intricate troll sushi, and yet...

he

still

can't

fucking

move.

He should probably try to breathe soon.]

[Slowly, carefully, Terezi lifts her hand and...

in the space of a held, tense breath

pushes the sword away from her throat.] Coolkid, [she breathes, leveling him with a stare,] It's okay. Shoosh, Dave. It's just me. Terezi. Your matesprit, remember? I'm not going to hurt you. [She says it calm, low, without making any sudden movements toward him. Just talking.]

[In hindsight, he should be embarrassed that his chest is heaving as badly as it is. It's too wide open, too exposed. It was all a goddamn dream, and his throat hasn't felt this tight since --

Terezi is pushing the sword away, and after blinking at her a few times, the sword starts to come down.

(It won't occur to him that his eyes are wide as saucers, pupils dialated, until much later.)

His brow pulls into a light frown, and he looks down at his feet, wiggles his toes, as if feeling for something there.]

Yeah... [A fucking dream, and he feels like he's about to hurl.] ... okay.

[The tip of the sword meets the hard floor with a sound that cuts through the silence, and makes him jump a little.]

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retinas are bleeding for the enterprise

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