Chapter Text
DECEMBER 3, 1995
To say that you’re no stranger to panic attacks would be an understatement. Panic is your favorite reaction to any number of situations, warranted or not—usually not, but that’s just one of the perks of being you, your special array of neuroses and complete inability to cope with day to day happenings. What a life you lead.
Something you’ve done less of, something you'd be pissed about if your emotional processing skills weren't bound-and-gagged at the moment, is dissociating.
You know it still counts as panicking, technically. That your shit brain saw what was happening here, processed it, and decided fuck no, not today, good luck broseph before dipping out. That’s why everything feels just a little off to you. Why you can see everything happening, but it’s like you’re watching it on a projector screen instead of living it. Why you can hear the nurses talking to you, but it’s coming through like you’ve got cotton balls stuffed in your ears. It’s like those dreams you have sometimes when you’re still half-awake, when you’re conscious enough to feel like what’s happening is fucked up but not conscious enough to think hey, this isn't right, this can’t be real. This isn't real. WAKE UP.
Seriously, wake up. You’ve never needed to be awake as much as you do right now. Awake with a racing heart and sweaty palms and borderline-hyperventilatory breathing pattern, sure, but that's all shit you at least know how to deal with, instead of floating around uselessly in this in-between headspace. You have… you have something important to do, don’t you? Who are you?
Wait, you can do this. This, you know.
Your name is DIRK STRIDER and you are THIRTEEN YEARS OLD. You are currently seated in perhaps the last place you expected to end up this evening, a semi-private LABOR AND DELIVERY ROOM in the maternity wing of your local hospital. Beneath your legs is an uncomfortable vinyl armchair, and on top of them is a small BLANKETED BUNDLE. This bundle contains a warm, squirmy little neonatal human who just so happens to be your brand-new BABY BROTHER. What will you do?
You shake your head and quietly scoff at yourself. Adding a quirky narrative framework does not in fact make this situation easier to swallow, that was stupid. But at least you feel a little more grounded. Your stomach churns as you glance down at the infant in your lap. He makes a small noise, possibly distressed (how the fuck would you know) spurring you to carefully cradle him in your arms and bring him closer. Are all babies this… soft? And floppy? He’s so goddamn delicate. Human reproduction seems inefficient, you think. Why is pregnancy like that, really? Nine months of all that strain on the body, countless possible complications notwithstanding, just to squeeze out a creature still this helplessly underdeveloped? Shouldn’t humans, as a species, have evolved beyond—
You’re doing it again.
You blink hard and focus back on the baby. His name is David or something, you couldn’t really make out what your mom slurred to you before conking out, but it’s along those lines. You're pretty sure it means beloved in Hebrew. It's a solid name. Biblical, if you’re into that. You tentatively offer him your pinkie finger, an unfamiliar warmth flooding your chest when his tiny fist closes around it. He blinks up at you, chill as an hours-old baby could possibly be. His eyes are red—the same deep, rich crimson as your mom’s, and for that you’re grateful. You wouldn’t mind your own orangey irises so much if they didn’t make you the spitting image of your asshole dad, but they do. So fuck that.
He’ll be sensitive to light, probably worse than you, but you think that’s a fair trade. He’s already squinting a little against the hospital fluorescents, though. You’ll have to get him some shades ASAP. Fuck, do they even make little baby shades? They should, right? Probably not mad cool badass anime ones, though. Ugh, and the rest probably all got those lame kiddie designs plastered over 'em, and your baby bro is clearly too cool for that shit. Maybe you could find a My Little Pony design? ...Ironically of course. There's an idea...
You don’t even realize it, too caught up in thinking about how you’re gonna cultivate his personal Brand—he’ll need enough ironic swagger to make it known that he’s better than all the other babies, but not so much that anyone'll view it as a sincere endeavor—but at some point you’ve started rocking side to side, just a gentle sway with your bro tucked close to your chest. Slowly, his eyes droop and his breaths even out until he’s fast asleep, though this does not come to your attention until a familiar and very surprised voice brings you back to reality.
“Dirk?”
You startle, your gaze immediately zeroing in on the door to the room and consequently your best friend. She looks a little out of breath, almost like she’d been running down the hall, cheeks flushed and pink-streaked hair all tousled. Her eyes, the exact same pink as her highlights, are wide and apprehensive at the sight of you.
“Rox?” You’re confused for a second, until you realize what she must be doing here. Her mom is — was?— pushing 41 weeks. You ask anyway, though, to get the attention off you. “What’re you here for?”
It works, because for a second Roxy looks terribly excited.
“Mom’s in labor!” She skips into the room with that seemingly boundless energy of hers. “Her water broke right in the middle of her acceptance speech at that awards dinner I was telling you about? Holy shit, it was awesome, the University neuropsych department’s gonna be talking about it forever. Anyway, Rosie’s gonna be here soon!”
Her excitement fades back to confusion when her eyes land on the brand-new little person you’re still clutching. She gestures vaguely at him.
“Um,” her voice gets quieter as she remembers exactly where she is, too. “Who’s this tiny dude and what’re you holding him for?”
You glance down at your sleeping brother, then back up at Roxy. You don’t even know where to begin explaining what happened when you can barely wrap your head around it yourself. Naturally, you give the stupidest and least helpful answer you can formulate.
“This,” you clear your throat awkwardly and shift around a little so Roxy can have a better view. “Uh. This is, um. Dave.”
Well, you hope your mom doesn’t have a sudden change of heart on the name, now that you’ve said it out loud.
“Okay,” Roxy nods, patient as ever with you. “And Dave is…?”
You can’t bring yourself to do more than tilt your head to the side, in the direction of the bed. Roxy follows until her eyes land on your mom, hospital gown and all, passed the fuck out. Her eyes are wider than before as she whips her head back around—like, might-bulge-out-of-her-skull wide, not that you blame her.
“Had no idea she was pregnant,” you say with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug, like that’s at all appropriate. What’s your other choice, cave to the dark and swirling mass of emotions clouding your every thought? No, for the sake of everyone in this room, not least of all yourself, you’ve got to stay cool.
Case in point: you can already see Roxy starting to freak out on your behalf.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. Her voice is thick and her eyes are starting to well with tears. “Dirk, oh my god.”
“Hey, no,” you try for a placating, reassuring tone of voice, though that’s admittedly not your strong suit. “Rox, it’s okay. Unexpected, obviously, but we’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. I’ve got him.”
You can tell she wants to believe you. It’s hard. She knows you too well, cares about you too much. But she wants to.
She kneels down in front of you to get a closer look at Dave. He’s still sleeping.
“Damn,” she shakes her head a little and hastily wipes the corner of one eye. “He looks like you.”
You know she’s hesitant to ask what comes next. She averts her eyes for a second when she does. “What about your dad?”
“Dunno,” you carefully keep the bitterness out of your tone. “Haven’t seen him in a month.”
You avoid looking at her for a good few seconds to escape the worst of her pity-stare. She means well, can’t help wearing her heart on her sleeve, (better her than you), but damn if it doesn’t make you feel pathetic sometimes.
“Hey, look,” you offer before she can say anything else. “You’ve got bigger stuff to worry about than my family’s bullshit.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but you cut her off with a shake of your head.
“I’m serious. Go be with your mom, meet your sister. This is a happy day for you, Roxy.”
She manages a watery smile at that. The overwhelming guilt pressing down on your shoulders eases just a tad.
“I know,” she nods and brushes off her knees as she stands back up. “I know. But Dirk, if you guys need anything, seriously, please—”
You nudge her foot gently with one of your own. “Go,” you insist. “I promise we’ll talk more later. You’re not trying to miss Rose’s beautiful gory entrance into this world, are you?”
Finally, that gets you a laugh. “Hey,” she says, looking a little brighter as she dabs at her cheeks one more time with the cuffs of her sweater. “If Mom pushes her out before midnight, Dave and Rose can be like twins.”
That makes you smile a little, actually. A genuine one.
She still seems reluctant to leave you here, but her excitement at getting to meet her new baby sister wins out. She leaves you with a kiss on the cheek before bounding down the hall. You listen until you hear her footsteps fade, and then slump back into the chair. You didn’t realize you’d tensed up so much.
When you look back down at Dave, he’s awake again. Calm as can be, he just stares at you, and you try not to entertain the feeling of him looking through you, like he can see straight into your soul. Babies can’t do that, right? Your chest aches when his tiny hand reaches out to clutch the fabric of your t-shirt, though.
The exact cause of that ache? You’re not sure. Might have something to do with the fact that when you look at Dave, really look into those pensive red eyes and listen to the rise and fall of his breathing and press your lips to his soft little baby head, you wonder for the very first time in your life if perhaps you’re not as incomprehensibly, devastatingly, soul-suckingly alone as you’ve always felt.
“Just you and me now, lil’man,” you whisper, tucking in a loose corner of his blanket. When he blinks up at you like he’s actually listening, like he understands, you get that new, foreign kind of warm feeling again.
Something about it hurts, too, but you ignore that.
“So, anyway, welcome to the world. It’s kinda awful. But you and me, we’re gonna be alright.”
Dave looks like he believes you. Although you guess he doesn’t really have a choice. It still boosts your confidence a little.
“Yeah, we’re gonna be alright,” you breathe and nod to yourself with a little more conviction. You are gonna be alright, you have to be.
“I promise.”