Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1070642.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      John_Egbert/Dave_Strider, Former_Dirk_Strider/Jake_English, Dave_Strider/
      Dirk_Strider, Dirk_Strider/Dave_Strider/Samuel_Lecter, Former_Dave
      Strider/Melissa_McNeely
  Character:
      John_Egbert, Dave_Strider, Bro_|_Dirk_Strider, multiple_original
      characters
  Additional Tags:
      Just_Don't_Even_Think_About_Reading_This, It's_Got_Too_Much_Inside
      Backstory_And_Was_Never_Meant_To_Be_An_Actual_Fic, This_Is_Only_Here_For
      Storage_And_Gift_Purposes, Also_It's_One_Big_Solid_Trigger
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-05 Chapters: 1/? Words: 1428
****** Do You Love Me Now, Princess? ******
by dipshitHarlequin
Summary
     He's healing.
     Or so you think.
     But there's a lot more to Dave than you thought.
     And you don't like any of it.
The first week he's bedbound, and you rarely leave his side. He's asleep a lot,
as would be expected, and you either watch children's shows on the little
mounted television, the only programs you trust anymore, or sleep with him.
You're never half as tired as he is, but when the lights are down and the only
sounds in the room are his soft breaths and the faint beeps of his vital
monitors and his hands are pressed lightly to the skin just at the small of
your back, it gets hard to keep your eyes open.
Little happens in the makeshift infirmary and even less in the steel and
concrete hell on the other side of the bathroom door, but you can often hear
Dirk and the Doctor scrapping upstairs. Only the basement is soundproof, and
sometimes you want to sit in there on the metal beds and wallow in the vile
stench of dried blood and death, just to get away from their yelling and
crashing. It dies down as quickly as it starts and they have since to appear
unscathed when they do make their appearances, Sam's much more preferable than
Bro's to you.
He hasn't actively moved against you since that first night, but you've found
that he shoots you glares half as dangerous as he is when you aren't curled at
Dave's side, and even that would be enough to strike a normal man dead. It's
been made obvious that he doesn't see you as a person, but as an object, a
simple toy belonging to his brother. You wonder if he values anyone not blood
or similarkin to him, and if you thought about it, he must not. How else could
he claim so many lives and still sleep soundly at night?
Samuel is kinder, but he never turns off his killer's smile, and his eerily
polite glances have done so much as disturb your dreams. Despite his haunting
demeanor, he's a decent friend and a fine host. He offered you sleep in his
bed, but you declined, staying you'd prefer to stay with Dave. It's not
entirely untrue, but you leave out that half of it is his awkward and
unwarranted advances. He's gone out of his way to cook your meals seperately
and out of things not human, usually beef or veal. You've expressed minimal
gratitude for his work and your morality aches because you know it's probably
more than he does for any of his guests, and still you're afraid to linger with
the likes of him.
You're afraid of everything these days, and no one's surprised.
The second week, Dave can walk around sometimes, and he only has to keep his
IV's in while he's sleeping. He seems happy, like there's nothing wrong, and
he's definitely acting like his old self again. He even whines and pouts when
you make him keep his shirt on. He's welcome to go without it, except for
around you, because you can't stand to look at him the way he is anymore. Deep
red lines and the strings that just barely hold them together, he's more wound
than he is skin. He doesn't let any of that stop him though, and he rambles
until his voice breaks to hacking coughs and you have to stop him before he
tears a stitch, and you think you're sort of alike in the sense that both of
your voices are limited. Even still, his quick recovery is something
miraculous. It usually takes four to five weeks at the least, you know, to be
able to do what he is, even in lighter cases, and you decide to ask the Doctor
about it.
One night, not quite late but late enough for Dave to be sound asleep, you dig
through his hoodie pocket for the remote to the door you know he hides in there
and ascend the horror-eqsue stairs, feet prodding to the rhythm of the
flickering neon lights that line the steep steps. Your fingers hover on the
button for a moment before you press it, and overhead the mantle creaks as it
disassembles and slides open. The light above brings stark contrast to the
previously ill-lit staircase below, and you have to blink a bit to readjust
your eyes. Once your vision has again cleared, you continue on and the doors
close swiftly behind you as you resurface.
It's brisk, like Sammy likes it, and you start to wish you'd worn Dave's
hoodie. Now that you think of it, why /didn't/ you throw that thing on? Before
you have too much time to ponder, Sammy comes stomping down the stairs and he's
practically screaming, "Diiirk! I'm going to pin you down by your neck and cut
off your arms with a rusty spoon if you don't- Oh." His tone drops
significantly in venom and volume when he sees you standing there. "Hello John.
Bit late for you to be out, isn't it?"
"Um, not really...but if you're busy with Bro I can always just go down and
wai-"
"It's fine, I'm not even sure where he ran off to. Did you need something?"
"D-Do you have time to talk?"
"Oh my..." He stops, noticing the tentative seriousness in your tone. "What
about?"
"Some things."
"Some things that are immediately concerning?"
"I guess not, but I just was thinking about some things and I wanted to ask you
about...stuff."
He's starting to catch your drift and he looks around one more time, presumably
for Dirk, and finding nothing, turns back to you.
"Doctor stuff or Dave stuff? Or both or neither?"
"Both."
He spins on his heel and heads down the long cornered hall to his room, and
you've been around long enough that he means for you to follow.
You do, sock-clad feet prodding quietly over the hardwood as you trail behind
him. His room is as crisp-clean and luxe as ever, and the television runs some
documentary you don't care to watch. He turns it off and flops face-first onto
his bed, and his childish antics remind you of Dave. Then you remember that he
and Dave have a lot of mutual influence on each other and you aren't actually
surprised. He lies there for a moment before he gets back up and sits straight,
patting the space next to him.
You crawl onto the bed and it's just as soft as you remember, and he seems
pleased to have you there, which concerns you more than it should. He just
wants to be your friend, you remind yourself, and he's only doing what he
thinks he should. You don't wait around to strike up the inevitable
conversation, and you really just want to get your answers and get back to
Dave.
"So...about Dave."
"Mhm?"
"Why- No, no, how is he healing so fast? Doesn't it usually take, like,
months?"
"For a normal person, yes, I suppose, but you can hardly base any knowledge of
our kind on the mundane."
"...Your kind?" He's out of his damn mind.
He sighs, shaking his head slightly, and then looks you dead in the eye with a
sort of feral glint you've only seen once and hoped you'd never see again.
"You don't know much about legends, do you?"
You were expecting him to jump you, to hurt you, just out of negative
association, but you guess you were wrong, because despite that bone-chilling
look, his conversation was as smooth and steady as ever.
"I guess not, because I really don't know what that has to do with anything..."
"Hundreds of thousands of ancient groups and religions believe that eating
human flesh gives it's consumer superhuman qualities," And every word after
that sends you into another flashback.
"Speed,"
"About that whole fighting thing... how do you even do that? That thingy when
you move around really fast."
"You know, I don't actually know."
"Strength,"
You watch him as he leaps out the window and lands flawlessly on the rooftop a
few stories below, and you don't have the slightest fucking clue how that
didn't break his ankle, or at least hurt, or /something/, but he leaps from
there to another, and another, andChrist, how did he do that?
"And from many, accelerated healing. You don't have to believe in the
superstitions, but it makes more sense than any scientific logic I could come
up with, and I've been studying humans inside and out my whole life."
And it clicks.
And you can still taste him on your tongue.
And you're disgusted.
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