John could tell Dave was out of it. As Dave stepped into the dining car, he nearly tripped over the floor; found he was wearing a pair of John's shorts backwards, which were too big for him, along with his trademark broken record long-sleeve; also found himself to be wearing the wrong pair of shades somehow, though John found all of Dave's shades to be identical, and almost took them off before realizing there was more than just himself in the car. Dave didn't even manage a polite smirk as one of his multiple fangirls squealed and grabbed for her phone. She looked about nine years old to John, and the fact that Dave had fans this young disturbed John more than a bit.

The shade-bearing techno-pop star sidled in beside John. "We're on a train," said Dave.

"Yeah. We are on a train."

"Why the fuck are we on a train."

"I needed a way to get you out of town as fast as I could. We ended up in a train station, so the famous Dave Strider's credit card bought us tickets out of LA." In the midst of this, John shot Dave a look, wordlessly saying, Dave, there's a nine-year-old fangirl in the car, watch your friggin' language, please.

"I'm starving," commented Dave in his usual monotone, ignoring John's look, and the fact that John had just busted somewhere around three hundred on tickets to who-knows-where.

"That's probably because the last thing you ate was leftover pizza. Two days ago." This was true. While Dave was famous, had millions on his card alone, and could probably do whatever the hell he liked and no one would know the better, he was horrible about taking care of himself. He was a Strider, after all. This was the main reason why John insisted on being something equivalent to a bodyguard. The main thing John ended up protecting Dave from, however, was himself, as Strider was somewhat prone to mood swings, or, more commonly, parties. This often resulted in Dave being surly, hung-over, and, well, Dave. All at once. John had no idea how he dealt with it sometimes. When it came down to it, though, he supposed they were just, to put it bluntly, best bros.

"Metabolism is for the weak motherfuckas. Get me a goddamn snack, man."

"Dave, you have a hangover, don't you." John's tone was flat. This was not an unusual line to be exchanged in the midst of their conversations. Somehow, somewhen, somewhere, somesomething, John had managed to stuff some baked goods in his laptop bag, one of which he now pulled out and tossed in Dave's general direction.

"What time is it?" Dave's words were spoken through muffin; the sound he made was closer to Whff tmm 'st?

"Dave, I swear, we may be informal around each other, but you need some freaking manners." John glanced at his watch despite this. "Two fourteen in the afternoon."

Dave nodded through the baked goods, satisfied with having slept through the morning. "Where we headed, anyways?" Again, the answer was almost incomprehensible. But John had long since learned proper etiquette was not a thing commonly found in a Strider.

"Uh," was all that came out of John's mouth. He had no idea where in all hell they could possibly be headed. No idea where in all hell those hundred-something-dollar tickets were supposed to get them to in the first place. John had been in a hurry to get out of the area quickly as possible, bought the tickets that would get them the furthest away possible. "I'd have to check. They're back in the cabin, I think."

By this point, the muffin was long gone. RIP Delicious Dearest. Dave stood up, knocking his legs into the table, sidled on out of there, and went back into the cabin he'd come out of barely five minutes previously.

John glanced after him worriedly. Drunk, semi-drunk, hung-over, high, sober in each and every way, or just tired: Dave was not something you should let wander around in a train, especially alone. John grabbed his laptop bag from beside him and dashed after the blond, be-shaded jackass, squeezing past an elderly couple—"Excuse me! Really sorry!"

Dave was not in sight thus far. Hopefully he had made it to the cabin without incident, and without walking unassumingly into a middle-aged woman's cabin as she dressed (Dave did not count this as incident; rather, as an occurrence that happened to happen.)

John caught sight of the back of a blonde head ahead of him. Thinking it was Dave, he went after him. Her. It. Thing. What gender is blonde? Seeing the person duck into a cabin that was most certainly not the one John and Dave were in fuck, he went in behind them.

"Da—"

"Excuthe me, but what the fuck are you doing in here?"

The blond guy was staring at John, behind him a hipsterthing too gay for gender to apply to. Blond Guy wore slightly broken, askew glasses, an overlarge Doctor Who shirt, overly long shorts (not the first time John had seen this today...) and knee-high bee-striped socks. Obviously, this was not Dave.

"I'll just go then..." John backed out of the room, the blond guy glaring after him.

By the time he got back to the cabin, John discovered Dave face-down on the floor. Not face-down, exactly, however, he appeared to be asleep. Thank fucking god. John wasn't exactly prepared for any more Dave. It would be at least nine hours until they reached their destination. John did not exactly want to run into Not Dave Blond Guy again, and decided to stay in the cabin. He pulled out his phone and found something like thirty new texts.

All from one person...