Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing he notices is the cold.

An overwhelming, bone deep chill that seems to seep into his very core, numbing his entire being. 

He can’t feel his body. Did he fall asleep in the snow? Where the fuck did he find snow? Where is he? There's not even the familiar static of sleeping limbs to focus on. Just. Fucking nothing.

The moment he considers opening his eyes, he’s suddenly aware of his surroundings as if they had never been closed at all. Everything is faded, colors drained and sounds muted as if he were underwater. The ceiling above him is unfamiliar. Paint as dark as night coats the surface, the texture smooth as ice aside from the thin cracks spider-webbing across the surface. There's no scent, no sound. Silence as thick as a shroud hangs over him, oppressive in its weight. The only light comes from through the crack under a door in the room, though it's firmly shut. Dread sinks into his gut like a stone as he stares. 

He turns his head to break away from the door, the motion blurred on itself like images overlapping. Staring blankly at lush blue curtains drawn right over windows, he squints. No light peeks through, giving fuckall hints as to the time of day. He wouldn't be out late, there's no way. Dirk's waiting for him. It's pizza night. 

Dave feels so strange. There’s nothing but the cold. 

He looks down at his hands. They still look like his hands, every wrinkle and freckle familiar. There’s one key difference, however.

Dave can see straight through them. 

Distantly he’s aware that he should be alarmed. Why the fuck can he see through his own goddamn hands? The only emotion he can muster is a muted curiosity tinged with confusion as he examines the rest of his body. 

Completely transparent. Even his clothes.

What kind of dream is this? Rose will have a field day dissecting this shit. Oh, he can just hear it now. 

You see, Dave, this aching emptiness symbolizes your dissatisfaction with the direction of your life. Perhaps you should consider cracking open that stubbornly locked closet door and getting a breath of fresh air. Blah blah blah, more flighty broad psychoanalytical bullshit. Honestly, it just never ends with her.

As he’s looking himself over - er, through, something catches the corner of his eye. A flash of red so dark that it appears nearly black against skin so pale that it seems to scream against the spreading stain beneath it.

The skin of a hand he’s intimately familiar with, the freckles matching the ones he had just been examining.

Dave blinks once, twice as he realizes what he’s looking at, eyes widening and mouth opening in a silent gasp as emotions begin to flood back into his body with the force of a tidal wave. 

Above all others, terror. It crawls up his throat, threatening to choke him. His own pale face stares blankly ahead, glassy eyes locked onto that same ceiling he saw moments ago. With his shades nowhere to be seen, the nauseating lifelessness in his own eyes is on full display. They're flat, the shine of life completely extinguished. How can the vibrant red of his eyes look so dull? Is this what a body looks like without a soul? Is he a soul? Is he dead? A ghost?

Where is he? What is this? Is this a joke?

Dave tries to stand - no sooner than the thought occurs, he’s suddenly on his feet, knowing full well he didn’t actually move. 

His own body lay still, splayed out on an unfamiliar bed, limbs unnaturally limp. A dark shadow around his neck catches Dave’s eye, and he gets as close as he dares to see deep purple bruises in the shape of strong fingers encircling his throat. As he stares, he can almost imagine the suffocating grip sliding over his neck, squeezing down to smother the screams from his throat. It's choking him, he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't---

There’s not even a moment to understand exactly what he’s seeing before he hears movement. A running sink, a gruff sigh. The rustle of rough hands been dried on a shitty hotel towel that should have been replaced years prior. Whipping his head around, he sees a large shadow moving beneath the crack of the door.

The knob begins to turn.

Terror yanks the reins of his control from his hands and he flees the room, not even able to spare a thought for how odd it feels to run without a body. Down unfamiliar hallways and through run-down rooms, he doesn't dare look back until he's stumbling out onto the street. Streets pass by in the blink of an eye, far faster than he's ever run before. 

He runs for what seems like hours, not stopping until he finds himself on familiar streets. It’s raining, and as he slows to a stop, he holds his hands in front of him. The water falls straight through him, undeterred by whatever his body is made of now, if it’s made of anything at all. 

Raising his head, he stares at the dirty storefront window he stopped in front of. 

The reflection of an empty street stares back.

Panic rises to meld with his terror, threatening to swallow him whole. This goes so far beyond a fucking joke. There’s only one thing that can be happening, but how can it be happening? How can it be happening to him? 

Frantically he searches his memories for any hint of what may have happened, but there is a distinct lack of anything at all. A black hole in his mind that aches when he tries too hard to see through it. It's like pushing on a door made of shattered glass, the shards biting through his flesh and bone. Are the screams coming from behind the door, or from his own throat?

Feeling numb in more ways than one, Dave follows the streets of his hometown until he’s climbing the steps of his apartment. It's been years since he's been out of breath from the trek upwards, but now he would trade anything and everything he owns in the world for the sensation. Any sensation at all.

Standing in front of the door, he pats down his pockets uselessly. Even if he had a key, would it fucking work? Would it be just as intangible as he is? His hand passes straight through the doorknob regardless. Taking a deep breath, Dave takes a step forward and through his front door.

It looks almost exactly as he left it. It can't have been long. His favorite red hoodie is still draped over the back of the sofa, and there's no way Dirk would've left that there for long, the fucking neat freak. No, it's all the same. 

The only difference being his older brother pacing the living room in tight circles as he smokes and dials a number on his phone. The coffee table is bare - why? It's pizza night. Dirk never forgets pizza for pizza night.

Dave watches curiously as Dirk brings the phone to his ear, taking a long drag. Whoever he called must have picked up, because Dirk is clutching the phone even tighter. 

“Hey, is this John?” he asks, voice tight. Oh, shit, he sounds awful. Dave always told him to lay off the fucking cancer sticks. “This is Dirk - Dirk Strider. Y’know, Dave’s brother?”

He pauses for a moment as John responds. “Yeah, it’s just — have you seen him? Or heard from him? Anything at all?” Dave doesn’t need to hear what John says in return. The way Dirk’s face falls is answer enough. 

“Okay, fuck. Thanks anyway. Can you maybe ask around for me? Anyone that Dave spends a lot of time with? Please? And just let me know, okay?” he pleads.

As he hangs up, he raises his phone as if to throw it across the room, then hesitates and dials another number with shaking hands. 

Dave sits on the worn couch and nervously watches Dirk track down all of his friends, none of whom have anything to say about Dave’s whereabouts. 

By the sixth call, Dirk is downright frantic. 

Well. More frantic. So is Dave at this point, in an entirely detached sort of way. Dave doesn't have many more friends for Dirk to go through. Or any at all, actually. 

“Where the fuck are you, Dave?” he whispers to himself as he dials another number, lighting another cigarette. It takes several tries to light the cigarette because of how hard his hands tremble.

Dave listens intently as Dirk calls the police and officially registers Dave as a missing person. The outfit he describes as the most recent he’s seen Dave in is the same he’s wearing now, he notes with vague interest. White record shirt with red sleeves, dark blue jeans with a hole ripped in the knees from one too many rad as fuck tricks on his skateboard. The only thing missing is his red shoes. Dirty white socks with holes in the heel are all he has on now. At least there's one good thing about not having any physical sensation to speak of at the moment. He can't imagine how much it would've sucked to run through rainy city streets with only these shitty socks. 

Drifting into his own thoughts, Dave is only pulled out again when he hears how long he’s been missing.

48 hours?

He frowns. It doesn’t seem like he’s missing 48 hours of memories, but then again, how would he know? The last thing he remembers was splitting off from his friends to go home, mere hours after saying bye to Dirk. He tries thinking past the empty void once more, past the door of shards, only to draw back as a agonizing stab of dread lances through him.

Before he has a chance to get lost in his thoughts, Dirk is throwing himself down onto the couch and gripping his hair tight. 

“C’mon, man, just fucking call me!” Dirk whispers to himself. “Text me or something!” 

Dave watches him sadly. Melancholy floods like the tide, washing him away, unanchored as he is now. They always made a point to keep each other updated, and Dave never stayed away from home for long without saying something. 

What is Dirk going to do when he never comes home? Dave is…was his only family.

Sinking into the couch next to Dirk, Dave tries to lay a hand over his, only for it to pass straight through. He draws it back quickly as if stung. That, more than anything else that has happened this night, hammers home the reality of what's happening. No longer is he able to write this off as a dream. He's a creative dude, sure, but this is way beyond him. The only dreams he has to his name are nonsensical pantomimes of his subconscious, ones that not even Rose would care to sink her claws into. 

Will they find him? What if whoever killed him tries to hide his body? What if they succeed?

Nauseating unease spreads through him at the thought. Surely they would find him, right? It’s one thing for Dave to have been…killed, it’s entirely another for him to never be found.

Watching the stress contort Dirk’s face into a mask of pain, Dave prays fervently to a god he doesn’t believe in to not let himself become a mystery. Dirk deserves to know what happened to him, not having to wonder for the rest of his life. 

The evening passes with the strangest sensation. It’s as if Dave himself slows to a stop, watching Dirk buzz around the apartment with desperate energy. A living statue, never even blink--no. Scratch that. That qualifier doesn't work for him anymore, does it? He couldn’t say how long he sits motionless before the phone rings again. 

Dirk dives for the phone, scrambling to answer with shaking fingers. Dave tunes back in, his eyes locked onto Dirk like a hawk.

This is the call. He can feel it.

He’s never been more devastated to be proven right in his life than when Dirk’s face pales, the phone slipping from his hand to clatter along the tile. 

The scream that rips from Dirks throat as he sinks to his knees is unlike anything Dave has ever heard in his life. Pure, raw grief explodes from him as he covers his face, mouth stretched as wide as it can go as he screams and screams and screams.

Dave moves to kneel beside him, wishing he could cry. Anything to relieve his own grief at seeing his brother process the fact that Dave’s been found, and that he’s never coming home. 

He reaches a hand out to Dirk’s back, carefully holding it just above his flesh so it doesn’t pass straight through. Like this, he can almost pretend Dirk can feel his touch and the comfort he longs to provide.

They stay on the floor together, one openly weeping and the other only able to wish he could until Dirk’s wails die out. 

Chapter Text

The next few days are nothing short of absolute hell. That's one thing he's sure of, if nothing else.

This is Hell. 

It had been horrific enough to sit with Dirk as his sobs died out with the rising sun, huddled on the floor with Dave's jacket held to his face to soak in the seemingly endless tears and being unable to provide any sort of...well, anything at all. It's such bullshit. The ghosts in movies always get some spooky powers, like moving shit around. If Dave could just give Dirk any sign at all that he's okay, he'd do it in a heartbeat. Or, not okay, exactly, but...here. 

He can’t bear to stay and watch Dirk spiral in his own grief. Besides, Dirk deserves the privacy to break down without an unseen spectator. While he can’t offer any true comfort, Dave can give him that, at least. 

Drifting along the streets without any true destination in mind, he’s mildly surprised to see he followed the route to his high school. Must’ve gone there due to muscle memory. Wait, is it muscle memory if he no longer has muscles? Dave can’t be bothered to think too hard about it. It doesn’t even fucking matter anyway, does it?

Finding his friends is an easy task. They meet in the same spot every morning before classes begin to goof off together. However, the atmosphere couldn’t be further from normal this morning. Every single one of them is tense, their faces pale and drawn as they murmur quietly amongst themselves. As he gets closer, he can hear whispers of his name and Dirk’s scattered in their conversation. Dave can tell they have already begun to assume the worst, but keep the thought locked firmly behind their teeth as if speaking it aloud will somehow make it true. John's long graceful fingers tap nervous patterns on the strap of his new blue backpack, still pristine and immaculately cared for. Not once has that bag touched a single floor - John's dad would give him the sternest fatherly chat if he ever caught wind of John treating his possessions badly. Rose's black lipstick is worn away in places, breaking the illusion she likes to project of being perfectly composed at all times. As he watches, she draws her lower lip between her teeth to worry at it anxiously. Jade's vibrant green eyes dart around nervously behind her glasses, locked on each and every entrance as if expecting Dave to stroll in any second now. 

Any second now.

Any second. 

Please.

...They know he's not coming. He can't explain how he knows they know, but he does. Chalk it up to years of friendship or whatever the hell.

Jade cries out in surprise as the bell rips through the air shrilly, screeching the end of their freedom for the morning. Rose sets a comforting hand on her shoulder, squeezing at it with a smile that's got to feel as fake as it looks. They don't want to split, it's obvious, but none of them have the same homeroom class. Not for the first time, Dave is pissed over that fact - he can't follow all three of them at once. Making a split second decision, he hovers closely behind John, watching the girls sadly as they shuffle towards their own destinations. He'll make time for them later. Maybe. There's only so many tears he can handle in a day, after all, and as much as he loves the girls he has to admit that they can really get the fucking waterworks going when they want to. 

John's anxiety doesn't improve as he settles into his seat, pulling his backpack into his lap to pull out his notebook with hands that shake more often than not. The sight of the book sends a sharp ache through Dave's chest. It's their notebook, the one that they pass back and forth. John always writes in jokes he's working on or complaints about their teachers and his dad while Dave doodles comics and fills page after page with rambling raps that have nothing to do with anything at all. It's an obnoxious amalgamation of red and blue scrambled together; the thoughts of two teenage boys forever immortalized in ink. 

Looks like that blue ink is going to overpower the red, now. If John even bothers to keep writing in it, that is. Probably not. Who would spend the energy to write notes to someone who'll never be able to read them again? Dave watches as John begins to scrawl over a new page, blue ink uneven and shaky as it fills the page. Line after line of John directly asking him where he is, begging for him to just show up, it's not funny anymore, dude-

He doesn’t get to watch John scribble his pleas for long before the home room gets interrupted with an announcement. The principals voice is grim, and Dave has a sinking feeling that he knows what’s about to be revealed to the entire goddamn student body. John clearly knows too, if the immediate stiffening of his shoulders is anything to go off of.

“Attention, students and staff.” the tinny voice blares out from the shitty speaker. It's nearly inaudible thanks to the horrible quality, but they've all been forced to listen to it long enough that they can decipher what they need to. “I regret to inform you that one of our own seniors, David Strider, is no longer with us.”

Gasps ring out across the room as the students immediately explode into shocked whispers, looking around at each other as if they would somehow have any answers. Dave gets to witness the blood draining from John’s face, leaving his dark skin pale. His mouth moves wordlessly before he clamps it shut, staring hard at the surface of his desk. He looks like he's going to puke right here and now.

The voice over the loudspeaker clears their throat, sounding bored as if they’re reading out the fucking weather and not announcing the fact that Dave is dead.

“In light of this horrible tragedy, all students are dismissed for the day. Please return to classes tomorrow prepared to continue your lessons.” the voice intones, the shuffling of papers audible as she moves shit around on her desk. Like whatever she's doing is just so fucking important that it can't even wait until she finishes announcing the fact that he's dead.

Biiiitch. 

Dave doesn't hang around after that. He's already witnessed more than enough begging and grieving from Dirk - he can't sit around and watch his best friends in the world process it too. It's not fucking fair to him. It's not his fault he's dead. Why should he be punished by forcing himself to watch this?

Instead, Dave wanders. Up and down streets, through dark alleyways that no longer hold danger for him. He spends most of his time in theaters, watching the same movies over and over as he just...waits. Man, he can't even kick rocks to pass the time. 
Isn't he supposed to move on or something now? Being dead is so fucking boring. What's he supposed to be doing? He should've paid more attention to John's ghost movies. Maybe there was a hint in there. Something, anything for him to go off of.

He doesn't stay away for terribly long. Despite not having anyone close to him having passed before, Dave knows that there's supposed to be formalities. Or something. Like a funeral, right? How many guys get to attend their own funeral, after all? He has to admit he’s curious to see just how big his turnout will be. 

Dave sits on his coffin, just above his own dead as fuck body. Looking down at it gives him a strange sense of sickening inertia. Kind of like that one time he finally got to go on the piece of shit ride at the carnival with John. 

The Slingshot.

It was a great, monstrous thing, all gaudy paint and flashing lights - though not all of them worked at once. There had always been at least half a dozen lights permanently out of commission that never managed to get fixed. The boys had stared up at it for years, just waiting for the day they could finally ride it. 

Yet when it was time to finally make it happen, the attendant hadn’t fully strapped them in, and the two had looked at each other with pure unadulterated terror right before they shot into the sky. Their skulls slammed back onto the shitty headrests and rattled their brains as the sky opened its maw to swallow them whole.

John had loved it, chortling his happy little ass off, crowing on and on about did you see how blue it is up there, and if I could fly, I’d never come back down!

Dave hadn’t been quite as much of a fan, to put it lightly. The wind whipped at his face, clawing through his hair and sucking the breath right from his lungs. The terror had been so great he hadn’t even managed to scream. By the time they stepped off the ride on trembling legs, his hands ached from how hard he gripped the handles as if that alone could save him.

This feels like that. Only now it’s not as easy as just getting off of the ride. There’s no exit here, no ducking out of line when the nerves build to a sickening peak. No. The only option is to stare down the gaping void of eternity, gripping tight on the handles of who he once was. This time it won’t save him, no matter how hard he clings.

Whoever did his makeup did an awful job. Garishly bright blush sits unblended on his cheeks, icing on the cake of foundation they piled on. Fuck, he can’t even see his freckles like this. How is this supposed to make him look more lifelike? This is fucking horrifying. He looks like a shitty wax figure that couldn’t quite nail the likeness. He’s going to personally throttle the person who decided on these clothes. Like, come on, man. He looks like a fucking server from Red Lobster! Now he has to wear that shit for all of eternity? This is the outfit he’s going to rot in? Rattling off seafood specials to the other chumps in the graveyard?

Great. Just great. This is more insulting than being killed in the first place.

One by one, people mill up to his coffin to whisper their final words to him. Half of these people have him rolling his eyes when they break out the fake tears. No one’s buying it, fucking stop it already. 

Yeah yeah, fuck you - Dave hasn’t forgotten the time this guy shoved him in a locker. Oh, and this asshole? He stole Dave’s camera back in middle school, the one that he had saved up for by mowing the lawns of anyone who would toss a buck his way. This dickhead is so lucky Dave hasn’t figured out how to move shit around or he would’ve been on the express train to one hell of a haunting.

Coming up behind them, though, is them. His everything. 

Seeing his friends is excruciating as they come up to whisper their goodbyes. Witnessing the way they walk up as a unit, now forever incomplete. Their quartet has become a trio - and god, that empty space between John and Rose beckons to him. Begs for him. Taunts him. He’ll never fill that space again. How long will it take for the three of them to close it? To stop leaving that room for him?

“Rest easy, coolkid. I’ll miss you.” Jade murmurs as she ruffles his neatly styled bangs into something a little more lively (ha.) He never liked it too neat, especially after she told him it made him look like the freak-ass dentist elf from that claymation reindeer movie. 

Next to her, John squeezes her hand and pulls a small white envelope out of his suit jacket. John’s dad had bought it for him not even a year prior, yet his lanky teenage limbs have already outgrown it. With his tanned wrists peeking out from the dark blue suit with every movement, John tucks it carefully into the coffin. He opens his mouth to speak, only to falter and choke on a strangled sob. Those gorgeous ocean blue eyes fill with tears, clearly not for the first time even just today. The skin around his eyes and nose is red rimmed and raw, as if he’s been rubbing tears away for hours. Days? 

John turns to bury his face into Jade’s dark hair, clutching her tight as if she can keep him from drifting away. 

Damn it John, at least open the envelope! What does it say?

Rose steps lightly around them and reaches into his coffin to press something into his cold stiff palm. 

“For the ferryman. I’d hate for you to get stuck because you’re no longer able to pester me for your travel fare.” She murmurs with a watery smile. She’s not able to hold it for long, and tears slip down her face to land on his cheek, smearing the thick makeup they caked onto him. How appropriate is it that Rose would be the one to wash away the false pretense of life. She never did let him get away with hiding shit. Why start now?

He’s dead. He’s never not going to be dead. No matter how much cheap blush they smear onto his cheeks.

Dave would give anything to be able to talk to them for just one minute. That’s all he needs. Just one. 

When the service starts, Dave stays on his perch. Listening to the priest drone on about his eternal soul is mind numbing, so instead he lets his eyes drift across the attendees.

It’s mostly people he expected, with a few strangers that he assumes are family members of his classmates or something. It’s funny that most of his homeroom class is here, given the fact that most of them couldn’t stand his guts. The feeling was mutual, at least. Dave snorts in amusement as they look bored out of their minds, clearly just barely resisting the urge to pull out their phones to pass the time until they’re free of this bullshit. Why are they even here? Did the teacher offer them an easy A or some shit if they showed up?

As his eyes scan across the pews and over the prim and proper Vantas’s, his lip curls in distaste. Ugh, they’re just the worst. All of them. They’re all uptight and snooty as hell - though not all of them are as outwardly wretched as Karkat. Man, fuck that guy. 

How best to describe Karkat fucking Vantas? Oh, it's easy. Imagine one day God woke up and decided it was time to create a human being with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Only, when He went to grab the ingredients for a normal human, He didn't fucking have any - so He had to use a steaming, sloppy pile of horse shit and pumped it full of hernia-inducing rage that explodes over any and everyone that dares to look in his direction. Then, for the piss icing on the shit cake that is Karkat fucking Vantas, He drained any ounce of humor that might've once existed and dumped it right down the nearest drain.

In short, Karkat fucking sucks. 

He’s never once seen him walking around with anything less than a scowl so deep it’s shocking that the lines haven't etched themselves on his skull. They’ve never really gotten along, to say the very least. Dave’s flippant attitude and motor mouth always seemed to piss Karkat off in the most spectacular way, and he never heard a kind word from the guy. Dave had never been his biggest fan either, to put it lightly. Karkat has a tendency to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, and Dave was full of those. 

Dave levels him with his customary glare, as useless as it is behind the safety of his shades. Look at that stupid smug little asshole in his smug little suit like a--

His attention snaps back to Karkat’s face, insult instantly forgotten.

It almost looks like Karkat is…looking at him? Did this piece of shit just make eye contact with him? 

The second Dave’s gaze lands on him, Karkat averts his eyes, focusing back on the priest. It’s not subtle in the slightest. In fact, it was so not smooth that it would’ve been hilariously pathetic if it wasn’t so fucking odd. Dave narrows his eyes and drifts off of his coffin, floating closer to where Karkat is sitting with his family. 

Karkat's dark brown eyes dart nervously towards him again before he catches himself, though he’s not quick enough to hide the flinch as their eyes meet. 

Oh, hell no. Dave’s not letting whatever this is slip past him. He gets as close as he can to Karkat's face, staring directly into his eyes. Had his body still been made of anything other than thin air, their noses would be touching. Karkat's eyes undeniably focus directly on his as he blanches, pupils shrinking in fear and cringing back into his seat. Dave follows him, his expression intense as a hawk locked onto its prey.

“You can see me?” he tries to ask, only for his words to dissipate into the air like mist. His voice has a horrifyingly wavering quality to it, almost as if the words and the sounds themselves don’t quite align. 

Karkat clearly hears him though, if his horrified exhale is anything to go by. Dave doesn’t get a chance to force any further words out before Karkat is up and out of the pew, hauling ass as politely as he can to the exit, ignoring the hissed demands of his father to sit back down! The heavy wooden doors of the church slam behind him, echoing loudly throughout the space. Mr. Vantas scowls but ultimately turns back to face forward. 

Dave starts to follow after him, only to be stopped when he hears Dirk’s voice at the pulpit. Oh, shit, is Dirk going to give a speech? Worry rushes through Dave as he abandons all thoughts of Karkat to float up to Dirks side. Dirk has never been one for public speaking. Or speaking to anyone at all, aside from Dave. So the fact that he’s willing to do this for Dave? He owes it to Dirk to stay and listen. 

Dirk takes a shaky breath, smoothing out a piece of paper on the podium. He looks rough - skin pale and cheeks sunken, his shoulders hunched around his ears and hair unkempt. He’s not taking care of himself.

“Dave was…” he begins, then catches himself with a shake of the head. “Dave is the best brother anyone could ask for. He was always there for me, even when he decided to be a shithead about it.” 

Dirk’s joke falls flat with the monotone delivery. His hands shake as he fidgets with the paper. Up this close, Dave can see the way his breath shakes as he inhales, the slight tremble of his lower lip.

“He…he was such a good person. You could just see it In everything he did. Everyone that knew him loved him. It was impossible not to, you know? And he was amazing at everything he tried, that asshole. It seemed like every day he came home with some new skill that he effortlessly picked up, just to shrug it off like it wasn’t fucking incredible that he could just do that.” 

Dirk swipes a hand across his face and inhales shakily before continuing. “He had a good heart, too. On top of everything else he excelled at, he was kind. He’d never admit it, but Dave was the kind of kid that would bring home little injured animals to nurse them back to health, the help them find homes. He only ever wanted to help.”

Dirks voice trails off and cracks on the last word as he sucks in a harsh breath, his eyebrows knotting together behind his shades. Pale hands clutch the chipped wood of the pulpit, knuckles white from the sheer force. 

“Why did it have to be him?” he whispers. “Of everyone, why him?”

Abruptly, Dirk grabs the paper from the podium and stalks from the stage with a hand over his face to hide the tears that he can no longer hold back.

Dave’s seen enough. 

As he drifts out of his own funeral, a dark figure in the back catches his attention. 

He couldn’t say what it was that drew his eye, only that despite not recognizing the man at all, the sight of him fills Dave with such an intense dread that he recoils. Why is he getting the urge to run? Nothing can hurt him now, right? 

For the first time since waking up like this, Dave’s not so sure of that. 

The man sits quietly in an empty pew in the back of the church, head bent down in a mockery of respect with the brim of his midnight black hat obscuring his face. A log, dark coat covers his clothes, immaculately cleaned and pressed. Not a single wrinkle to be seen. Not a single fold out of place. Even the shine of his glossy black shoes is impeccable, glinting like the menacing teeth in the jaws of a predator. 

No one else pays him any mind. No indication that he’s even truly there at all.

But the fear. 

Oh, god, the fear-…!

It aches, it wails, it shrieks through the bones he no longer has. Phantom hands slide over his throat, squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until he’s certain he’s going to die again oh god he’s going to die again— 

The man begins to look up. Slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. The wailing intensifies to a fever pitch, until something in Dave simply 





Snaps

The sounds of mourning fade in a flash as Dave flees for the life he no longer has - leaving the church far, far behind.

Chapter Text

Death sucks straight ass.

Dave is so fucking bored he can't stand it. Determined to avoid his friends after the funeral, he instead busied himself with testing the limits of what he is now. Don't fucking look at him like that. It's just--okay, fuck, it's hard. It's so hard to see the way the life has been drained from his once boisterous friends or his brilliant brother, all the while knowing that it's because of him. 

He just can't do it. No one can make him, either. So he just...doesn't.

Unfortunately, that distraction tactic doesn't achieve much more than granting him bout after bout of frustration. Even chattering into the empty space and pretending that he's engaged in a particularly thrilling one-sided conversation doesn't do it for him. He's used to not always receiving the best reactions to his verbal diarrhea vomit, but at least give him a fucking eye roll or something. Anything! What's he supposed to do when he doesn't exist to anyone at all?

...Although, that's not exactly true, is it? 

As much as Dave would love to avoid the human canker sore known as Karkat Vantas for the rest of this pathetic non-life, he has to admit that he's desperate. Not that he'd ever admit it for anyone, but hey. Who the fuck is going to ask? Maybe he can get something that could pass as conversation. Anything, really. Even just a heated 'fuck you.' As long as Karkat looked right at him as he said it.

Karkat's easy enough to track down. Follow the sound of hot and chunky bullshit plopping straight onto the concrete from his incessantly shrieking maw. Dave could hear him going from miles away. Man, just look at him go. What the fuck is he even yelling about now? It's seven thirty in the goddamned morning. Who pissed in his cornflakes? Dave would have if he still had piss to speak of. Homeroom hasn't even begun, but Karkat is red in the face as he lets loose a stream of hot and heavy vitriol straight into the uncaring gaunt face of a dude Dave has seen in passing. Stephen? Solomon? It's Sol-something, but Dave never gave enough of a shit to learn his name. That isn't less true now that he's dead. 

"-and if you gave a single iota of a shit, you wouldn't have dog-eared the page! Do you even know how to treat a book with some goddamned respect? Let me guess, you cracked it's fucking spine, too? Do you shit between the pages to mark your spot, you gibbering ape? Have you never heard of a bookmark, you uncultured swine? Have you held a book in your life? Are you even listening to me? I bought that book at full price! It's limited edition! Sollux!" 

The skinny dude, Sollux, rolls his eyes so hard that Dave honestly has to give him kudos - his entire body follows the motion like a flimsy ragdoll stuffed to the brim with sass and disdain. As Karkat opens his mouth to undoubtedly unleash the verbal equivalent of a nuke right into his bored face, bulging forehead vein and all, Dave finally loses patience with whatever the hell this is.

There are some perks to being incorporeal, Dave reluctantly admits to himself, as he stealthily slips through the dingy brick wall to move behind Sollux’s lax form. If he’s judged his position right, then he can just-…

In one smooth motion, Dave leans forward through brick and flesh, his insubstantial body moving through Sollux’s with no resistance. He can’t even help adding a sarcastic little boo as his face splits into a shit-eating grin.

Karkat’s eyes lock onto Dave immediately. This close, Dave’s treated to the glorious sight of the blood draining from Karkat’s face, pupils tightening in fear as his eyebrows shoot straight up into his hairline. There’s not even a moment of pause before he unleashes an unholy shriek, flailing backwards and tumbling onto the concrete still cold from the morning chill.

It stops being quite so funny when Karkat passes out, still laid out flat on the concrete. 

…Nah, scratch that. It’s even funnier.

Sollux doesn’t seem to agree, finally showing a modicum of concern when Karkat doesn’t stir. Pushing himself off of the brick wall, he tilts his head in an oddly birdlike motion as he stands next to Karkat’s supine form. “KK? Did you actually have a heart attack or something?” 

Unsurprisingly, Karkat doesn’t stir. Frowning now, Sollux nudges him in the ribs with the tip of his red converse. “Did you seriously pass out?" When no answer comes, Sollux tosses his head back with a put-upon groan, face-palming and dragging his hand down his face. "You’re such a pain in the ass.”

Dave waits next to Karkat as Sollux ambles off to find a teacher to help him lug Karkat’s unconscious body to the nurses office. Moments after he leaves, Karkat groans and squeezes his eyes shut tighter before squinting up at the sky. Dave’s already leaning over to block the view of the morning clouds, eyebrows raised over the rims of his shades. Nodding his chin up in greeting, he drawls a simple, “Sup?”

With a pathetic groan, Karkat’s eyes roll back in his head as he passes out a second time.

“Oh, my god.” Dave mutters, rolling his eyes. 

Watching Sollux return with a teacher to carry Karkat’s limp body and noodle limbs to the nurses station with an annoyed sort of disinterest, Dave follows behind as he curses his rotten luck. Why Karkat of all people? Why couldn’t John be the one to see him? The dude was practically made for this ghost bullshit. Or Rose? She would’ve eaten up the spooky shit. Even Jade! Who…okay, she may not be super inclined to the ghost shenanigans like the other two, but she would’ve been happy to see him regardless. 

But no. Instead, he’s stuck with this jackass. 

Said jackass is still drooling all over himself in the abandoned nurses station. Thanks to budget cuts, there’s no one on duty, instead leaving students with the help yourself mentality to work with. Dave entertains himself by scanning the barely stocked shelves of dollar store bandaids, cotton swabs, and unfrozen ice packs. Man, they really couldn't even pretend to care, huh? There’s a single cot in the corner where they dumped Karkat. Dave doesn’t know where Sollux or the teacher went, and honestly he doesn’t give a single shit. They can’t see him, so they don’t matter. What matters is that Karkat is finally stirring again.

As he blinks his eyes open a second time, Dave nods his chin in greeting from his perch. He’s floating next to the bed, leaning back like he’s in a lawn chair with one leg crossed over the other and his head resting on a bent arm. “Try not to piss your pants this time, man.”

“Holy shit, what the fuck!” Karkat cries out, scrambling backwards uselessly, back hitting the off-white wall as Dave slowly floats lower. 

Holding his hands up in a show of peace, Dave tries not to let his annoyance get the better of him. If he plays his cards right, he can get an actual conversation here. Genuine, honest to god interaction. He can’t screw this up. “Nah, look, see? I come in peace, or whatever. Can you calm the fuck down?”

Karkat’s eyes bulge out as he watches the way Dave moves. Every motion leaves a bizarre after image, like there are several Dave’s layered on top of each other that can’t quite manage to sync up. For once, he’s rendered entirely speechless, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to understand how the dead kid is right fucking here.

“Hands down, that was the most bitchass scream I’ve ever heard. Honestly, I had no idea a guy’s voice could even pitch that high.” Dave drawls to break the silence, once again relaxing into a recline. Look at how charitable he is, making the first move and all. 

The insult seems to shake some sense back into Karkat, and he scoffs in offense. “Excuse the fuck out of me, asshole. You’re the one who popped out of my best friend’s face with no warning. What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“Uh, anything other than passing out like a pansy? Seriously, man. That was as pathetic as it comes. You’d think you’ve never seen a ghost before.” 

Groaning, Karkat presses his palms against his eyes and rolls over onto his side. “Oh, my god. This can’t be happening. I’ve lost my goddamned mind. I’m officially fucking bug-nuts crazy.”

“Crazy stupid, maybe.” Dave mutters. 

Karkat whips around to shoot a nasty glare in Dave's direction. It's hardly the first Vantas Glare he's ever been on the receiving end of, but fuck. They definitely don't lose their potency, do they? If looks could kill, he'd be dead. Er, double dead. Triple dead, even. Blow through two lives at once from the force of those pupils. Piling dead Dave's all up in this bitch, crazy style. “What the fuck do you want from me? Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

This time, Dave shoots Karkat his own glare. “Supposed to be dead? No, man. I'm supposed to be goofing off with my friends right now. I’m supposed to be thinking about what I’m going to eat for lunch, or what I’m going to do when I get home. I’m supposed to be in class right now, bitching and moaning about being forced to learn about quandrantic equations.”

“You mean quadratic formulas.” Karkat interjects, seemingly unable to help himself.

“Yeah, because that’s what mattered out of everything I just said! God, you’re the fucking worst.” Dave spits, losing his nonexistent cool. His cool must be just as dead as he is, rotting six feet deep.

Face pinched in a scowl, Karkat’s turns to glare at the wall. “Oh, yeah? If I’m the fucking worst, why are you talking to me?”

Dave scoffs, crossing his arms. “Do you think that I would be talking to you if I had any other choice? Hell, no.”

“So why are you here then? Don’t talk to me. I sure as hell don’t want to talk to you.” Karkat snaps, head whipping around to glare at him again. Oop, now he’s quadruple dead. This dead Dave pile is growing quick. They’ll have to set up a dead Dave landfill to keep up with this shit.

“Did you miss the part where I said I have no other choice?” Dave repeats slowly. “No one else can see me. It’s just…you.”

“…Why? I don’t even know you.” Karkat points out, pulling his knees up to his chest as he leans back against the wall. 

Huffing, Dave throws his hands up. “I don’t know! I didn’t choose this! I sure as hell wouldn’t have chosen you! But here we are, alright? This is what I’ve got.”

There’s a long moment of tense silence as Karkat stares Dave down. Dave fights the urge to shift uncomfortably. What exactly does Karkat see? A spectre of his departed classmate, or is Dave merely a shadow to him? Does he look like he did in life? For all he knows, he's in and out like a mirage. Or worse, he looks like nothing at all.

“I don’t know what you’re expecting me to do here.” Karkat admits finally, anxious discomfort radiating from every bone in his body. “I don’t know anything about ghosts, and I definitely don’t know anything about you.”

Opening his mouth, Dave for once fails to come up with any words to say. What is he expecting here? This isn’t how he thought this would go - but then again, he didn’t even spare a single second to think about it, did he? He just charged in, desperate for…what? Companionship? A little friendly conversation? Acknowledgment?

With a heavy sigh, Dave’s shoulders droop. He rubs the back of his neck and glances away. “…I don’t know what I was expecting. Nevermind, I guess.”

Man, fuck this.

Closing his eyes, Dave lets himself sink through the floor with a ghostly sigh, not bothering to spare Karkat once last glance. Why would he? 

Karkat sits on the cot, staring at the space that Dave had just occupied before dropping through the floor in the most melodramatic exit he’s ever seen in his life.

“What the fuck?” he sighs, flopping onto his back once more. 

Chapter Text

For all the drama of his exit, even Dave himself has to admit the effect is somewhat lessened by the way he reappears in Karkat’s periphery mere hours later. As much as he would have loved to steer clear of the angsty little fucker for as long as possible, he’s also very much reached the threshold for boredom. Now that he knows he can have some sort of conversation - even the sort that gives him a pounding headache in a skull he no longer has - it’s unthinkable to go back to the unending silence. He’s not built for that shit, okay? The world is not meant to be bereft of Strider sermons. He was put on this earth to spread the word of anything and everything that pops into his head at a moments notice, and by god he’s going to do it, even if the only audience member hates his guts. And hey, it’s not like the feeling isn’t mutual.

“So anyway, like I was saying.” Dave announces loudly as he floats up through the floor next to Karkat’s desk. To the dude’s credit, he doesn’t scream this time, though he does jolt hard enough to knock his notebooks off his desk with a barely held back shriek. The notebooks fall to the ground in a flurry of loose leaf paper, pages scattering across the floor and underneath several desks. Every head in the room turns to stare.

Immediately Karkat’s tanned skin darkens in embarrassment as a dozen pairs of eyes focus right on him. He shrinks under their gaze, scowling in a way that Dave would describe as painfully constipated. Although, to be fair, he always looks like that in Dave’s opinion. 

Dave snickers meanly, hiding a grin behind his hand. “Wow, smooth. At least no one noticed, huh?”

The embarrassed flush darkens further as Karkat slides to the floor, only sparing Dave a split second of a glare before he scrambles to pick the papers up. None of his classmates move to help him, instead choosing to watch with the same mixture of pity and annoyance that’s mirrored on Dave’s own face. He has to awkwardly crawl to reach a few that landed directly under other people’s desks. They don’t scoot their chairs or reach down to pick it up for him, and Karkat doesn’t bother to ask. 

Dave waits until Karkat has gathered all of his papers before speaking again. “Guess you’re never going to be the kind of guy that’ll hold a girls hand through a haunted house, huh? Or if you do, she’s going to be the one keeping you from losing your shit. Maybe she’ll even drag you through the halls. Damn, Karkat, you bagged a buff bitch, huh? She’ll drag your unconscious body behind her so easily that the haunted house crew will think she snatched a spare dummy out of the supply closet. They’ll all have to band together to stop her from leaving with their stolen property, and after they wrestle you from her bulging biceps, they’ll prop you up in the corner to scare all the other diaper soiling babies that walk through. Alright, alright. I’m figuring you out, man.”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Karkat whispers harshly, glaring at Dave. He’s really got to find a new move - these glares aren’t really hitting the same way anymore. Something something tolerance, blah blah blah. 

The mousy girl next to Karkat frowns. “I didn’t say anything!”

Clicking his tongue against his teeth in annoyance, Karkat turns the full force of his glare onto her instead of Dave. “I wasn’t fucking talking to you.” he hisses. She clearly doesn’t feel the same about the effectiveness of Karkat’s glares, because she shrinks back immediately and focuses on her own scribbled notes.

Dave whistles lowly. “Again. So, so smooth, dude. At least you don’t have to worry about blowing it with her, huh? She’s not nearly buff enough to drag you through any house, haunted or not.”

There’s a mean little thrill of satisfaction that zips through Dave’s body-not-body as Karkat drops his forehead onto his desk in exasperation with a loud thud. Everyone that had finally refocused on the teacher after Karkat’s notebook debacle turns right back around to stare, this time with far more annoyance than curiosity.

With a belabored sigh, the middle aged teacher rubs his wrinkled forehead. His beady eyes squeeze shut behind his coke bottle glasses. Why did he choose to become a high school teacher, he laments. He could’ve been anything he wanted. Hell, he could’ve been an assistant manager at Best Buy by now. Or, if he had followed the advice his mother had told him, he could have his very own cubicle, devoid of obnoxious children and the same lesson plan over and over and over again. “Mr. Vantas, if you can’t help yourself from distracting the rest of the class, I’m going to have to ask you to—“

Karkat’s way ahead of him, already shoving his papers into his backpack with little care. “Yeah, yeah, ask me to leave. I know the drill. Don’t bother.”

Dave can hardly call his exit dignified with the way his unzipped backpack spits out loose pages onto the floor. Karkat doesn’t bother turning around to pick them up, and Dave trails along after him effortlessly.

“Hey, man, you’re dropping shit everywhere.” Dave points out as another paper slips its way loose from the open maw of the backpack zipper.

“I don’t give a shit! Stop following me!” Karkat snaps, still storming ahead.

“Nah.”

“Motherfucker, leave me alone!” Karkat growls as he stomps through the hallway, neck and ears flushing dark with anger.

Dave scoffs. “Make me.”

In an instant, Karkat’s slipping the backpack from his shoulders and gripping the straps tight, swinging it hard at Dave with all of his might. The backpack whistles through the air as it swings right through Dave with no resistance at all. Papers fly from the opening, fluttering around the two of them like falling leaves. 

This asshole.

Karkat stands with his backpack still clutched tight in his hands, shoulders heaving with his teeth clenched in a snarl as the papers slowly settle on the dirty linoleum. Dave just stares him down, gaze ice cold.

“You’re even stupider than you look, aren’t you? What did you think that was gonna do, huh? You gonna hit a ghost?” Dave taunts, lip curling in a sneer. 

Fuck, he shouldn’t be so antagonistic and he knows it, but god. The little shithead just brings it out of him. Who does he think he is? Why the hell is he staring at Dave like he’s the Devil incarnate? It’s just annoying.

They hold their glare, tension crackling between the two of them like a bolt of lightning. Had Dave still possessed his own flesh and blood, there’s no doubt they’d already be swinging. There’s nothing more that he’d love in this moment than to give Karkat a well deserved beat down. 

Karkat is the first to break the stare, scowling at the floor as he bends down to gather his papers for the second time today. Nearly every one is wrinkled now, especially as Karkat roughly snatches them from the floor to shove into the bottom of his bag. His lower lip trembles with barely held back frustration. Dave notices, but steadfastly refuses to feel any guilt. It’s not his fault the guy has a hair trigger. He’s just standing here. Er, floating.

The empty hallway feels oddly large as he watches Karkat pick up his stuff. It’s funny how it’s the same hallways that always used to feel so claustrophobic before. Is it the lack of other students, or is it the lack of a body? It’s difficult to feel like the walls are closing in when he can just move through them now, after all. 

Getting back to his feet, Karkat’s brows pinch tight as he slings the backpack back over his shoulder.

“Zip up your backpack.” Dave sighs, trailing after him. “Twice is enough for one day, don’t you think? Unless you really like picking up your papers, I guess. I don’t know your life.”

Shooting him a half-hearted glare, Karkat obeys, pulling his backpack around to zip it closed. “Seriously, leave me alone. I don’t want anything to do with…whatever this is.”

That makes two of them, doesn’t it? Well, too fucking bad.

“Sucks for you, doesn’t it?” Dave shrugs, very much not leaving him alone. “I don’t want anything this shit either. But if I don’t get a fuckin’ choice, neither do you.”

Suddenly exhausted beyond belief, Karkat’s shoulders sag. 

“Of fucking course. This is just my luck, isn’t it? I’m cursed. Actually fucking cursed. Did I piss off a witch or something? Did I cut off a wizard in traffic? Did I insult some god while I wasn’t looking? Why me?” Karkat laments, looking towards the sky as if searching for answers as he pushes the front doors open.

“I mean, it could be worse. At least you’re not the dead one.” Dave points out, not even bothering to get pissed about the thoughtless comment for once. Eh, what can he say? It’s been a long day and he’s fucking tired of being angry. That can come later when Karkat inevitably pisses him off again.

Karkat seems to feel much the same, merely offering a shrug in response. “Fair enough.”

Nothing else really needs to be said as the two slowly make their way down the sidewalk. The sun shines brightly, not a cloud in sight. Dave tilts his face up to soak in the rays.

There’s nothing but the cold.