Dave's having a bad day; Karkat does what he does best: talks him into a slightly better one.
(Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14615118)
TG: need you over here
CG: LIKE YOU'RE MOVING MOVIE NIGHT TO YOUR ROOM INSTEAD OF MINE?
TG: yeah
TG: sure
TG: karkat please just get your ass over here
TG: ill fucking pay you if thats what you want
TG: i need you where i can wrap my stupid self around you right now okay
TG: you know how you steal my cape? well you dont gotta do that today because you can just pretend im the cape
TG: need you
CG: HEY.
CG: CALM DOWN. I'M COMING OVER RIGHT NOW, I SWEAR.
TG: trying
TG: doesnt work
CG: WHAT DOESN'T?
TG: calming down
TG: youre coming?
CG: FIVE MINUTES. COUNT THEM OFF.
You don't think it's going to take you five minutes, but counting the time down will calm Dave at least a little, you think. It usually works; that's one of the ways you use to talk him down from his too-fucking-frequent panic attacks, reorient him on when and where he is when his mind slips a little out of time.
Maybe that's what's wrong now—just him disassociating. You don't think so, though. He texts differently when that happens, either terse and perfectionist or even more rambling than usual, full of misspellings. This time, he just seems upset. A little frantic.
Fuck, you hope this isn't the aftermath of some kind of Time fiasco again. You hate those, not just because you know each of them adds another dead Dave to the dreambubbles but because your Dave, the one who's left, has to process the aftermath of dying every fucking time. He hides it, or he thinks he hides it, but you know how he wakes up stifling screams and grabbing for you, sleeptalk spilling out of him and letting you know how much he blames himself for every doomed timeline.
It's not fucking fair.
You cross your fingers that today's shitshow doesn't involve time shenanigans and push the door to Dave's respiteblock open, slipping inside as quietly as you can (not very) and blinking a few times as you close it behind you, letting your eyes adjust to how dark he has it in here. "Dave?"
"Karkat." Yep, there he is on the floor by the couch, tangled up in his own caps and two or three blankets that he hauled off said piece of furniture. His shades are off—not really a surprise; when he has most of the lights off it's usually so he can ditch the eyewear without being in pain—and as you take a step toward him he drags his sleeve across his face before reaching up for you. "Hey. Sorry."
"Oh, shut the fuck up." Lifting him off the floor is easy; Dave doesn't let you pick him up often, and it's always a surprise how fucking light he is. This time, he curls against you as you sit down on the couch, settling on your lap and burying his face in the crook of your neck. "Actually no, don't shut up, but don't waste your fucking breath on stupid-ass apologies either. What's going on? How bad is it?"
The pained whining sound he makes suggests that it's pretty fucking bad, but he just mumbles, "I'm sorry for calling you over for nothing, dumbass..."
"Nothing?" You want to growl offendedly at Dave, point out that there's no such thing as him calling you over for nothing. If he just wants to hang out, if he decides he needs to watch a movie with you, if he wants to show you prophetic patterns in fucking spilled apple juice, you'd come to him in a heartbeat. You want to make it known that there's nothing here for him to be sorry for.
But that'd become an argument, and while usually you'd love to snipe back and forth with him until you're both mutually annoyed enough to end the argument by cuddling up with a movie, right now that's the last thing Dave needs. So you just shrug, card your fingers through his hair, and offer one questioning chirp.
He's silent for a long minute. You can feel him relaxing, so slowly and in such small increments that he's probably not aware of it.
Finally, "I feel. Like shit."
That's a complete statement in and of itself, but it still raises so fucking many questions. You know that if you ask them, there's a pretty fucking good chance that Dave'll just clam up, pretend that there's absolutely nothing wrong.
Well, try to pretend. You know him too well for that to have a chance of working.
So more waiting. Patience isn't a natural thing for you, but you can manage it for him.
"I shouldn't...feel bad," he says haltingly, after another minute or so. He keeps his face tucked up against you, where he doesn't have to let you see him. Like he's ashamed of whatever emotion's showing there. "Like...fuck, man, nothing's going to shit now. Everything's good, everything's fine, no one's dying and everything is fucking safe, you know? And I'm. Here. Feeling like...like I should fucking tear myself apart, like I am tearing myself apart from the fuckin' inside, do you get it? I want—I feel like I'm dying, like dying makes sense right now, like that's what's supposed to happen, what should happen, what—what I—"
"Dave. Dave, shush. Shush." Normally, you'd let him talk himself to a stop, but that's obviously not really going to happen today. He stills after a moment of shushing and gentle hair-petting, at least, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to go limp against you. "You're not fucking dying. Right?"
"No, but it feels—"
"Shhh. Bad, right? It feels bad."
"Fuckin' awful, horrible." And a shaky laugh, maybe at the inadequacy of bad next to how fucked up he is.
"Does it get better when I'm here with you?"
Dave doesn't even hesitate. "Hell yes."
You can't help the immediate possessive/pleased growling purr that rumbles up from your chest as he tightens his grip on you. Dave obviously appreciates it, too; he sighs, leaning his head against your chest to hear it better, and because it obviously calms him you try to keep the purr going as loudly as you're capable of.
"You're supposed to fucking call me when you need me," you tell him softly, hearing how your own purring smooths out the rough edges in your voice. "Not when you can't fucking stand the shit in your head any longer. You call me when you think things are starting to get bad. Let me try to keep you from spinning out like this."
"I can't," he whispers, and presses his face against your sweatshirt again. This time, you feel telltale dampness and know it's because he's crying. "Can't, fucking—stupid, I know I'm stupid, I let it get this far and I don't even think—"
"Shush. You're not stupid. I can call you an idiot, because I don't fucking mean it. You're not allowed to think you're stupid."
Dave hesitates, then nods slightly, huffing out a sigh. He's quiet for another minute or so, just holding onto you.
Then, "...hey."
"Mm?"
"What if. This is how I am? Just, like, if there's nothing to fight, nothing to worry about, no—no danger? What if this is normal for me? What if Bro knew that, if that's why he was always such a fucking bastard—because he knew I'd, I'd get more fucked up if he r-raised me like a fuckin' normal kid—"
His voice cracks on the last word, and when you shoosh him he gratefully goes quiet. "It's not normal for you."
"What if it is? Dude, I remember—when I was a fucking kid, feeling shitty right around when he'd come home, what if—"
"Does it feel like that? Like your bro's coming home?"
"I—" Dave makes a considering noise, pulling back just a little to frown up at you thoughtfully. "...kinda. But—"
"You know what flashbacks are, right?" God fucking damn it Rose should be the one helping him through this. You barely know what you're doing.
"Yeah, of course I know how those feel, but that ain't what this is, dude."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He shakes his head, groping for words for a second, then very obviously gives up. "Because? It's not? There wasn't a fucking trigger, there's gotta be a reason for my mental shit to act up. This is me being fucked up in the head, is all."
"Oh my fucking god." You give him a Look. It's an expression you learned from Rose, you think; it conveys the general feeling of you're being very stupid but I can't say that out loud really fucking well. "'Mental shit' as opposed to 'being fucked up in the head?' Are you really saying that you're going to try and fucking differentiate between those two?"
Dave just stares back at you blankly for a moment. "There's PTSD shit, and then there's shit I don't have an excuse for—"
"You don't have to have an excuse, idiot!" You let yourself get probably too loud there, and try to apologize for it by kissing Dave's forehead. From the genuinely pleased smile he gives you, it's an acceptable apology. "Who says the shitty feelings aren't your fucking trauma kicking in again?"
"It just isn't."
"Did you ask Rose if it can present like that? Did you talk to her about it at all?" You already know he didn't; you won't force him to answer those questions. "This isn't just you being broken for no reason. We'll figure it out, okay?"
"Mhm." Dave nods and loosens his grip on you enough to lean over and snag the remote from between the sofa cushions, offering it to you. "...thanks, man. Is a movie enough payment for the whole trying-to-fix-me thing?"
"You know I'd do it for free." You roll your eyes at him and hit the correct sequence of buttons to get the TV on and playing whatever he has in the DVD player, raising your eyebrows at the sight of human Leonardo DiCaprio onscreen. "You were watching Titanic?"
He just groans and leans up against you. "Shut the fuck up."
"Nope. I'm too amazed that you finally grew a sense of taste."
"I only watch it because it reminds me of you, asshole."
"Fuck, that's even better." You grin at him and lean down to kiss the corner of his mouth, he turns his head just enough that you catch his lips full-on, and both you and Dave relax against each other as the movie really gets started.
You can't help but be fucking amazed that this is where you are, even though you spend so much time just like this, curled up somewhere with Dave. All the crazy shit you went though, and somehow you ended up right where you belonged. Right where he needs you to be.
Post-Traumatically Stressed Feminist is finally finished and being published!
Post-Traumatically Stressed Feminist is a collection of work from 30 feminist artists and activists about their experience with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
The main goal of this book was to empower survivors with PTSD by giving them a platform to share their stories, essays, and artwork about PTSD with the world.
Post-Traumatically Stressed Feminist is a way for feminists living with PTSD to turn one of the most challenging aspects of their lives into a powerful tool for social change. PTSF hopes to serve as a resource to counter misinformation, stereotypes, and stigmas surrounding PTSD and those who live with it by highlighting multiple voices and experiences.
