Oh my god. So. I checked up on this story like months after I posted it, and I realized I posted the wrong doc? I am so, so sorry about this. Hopefully it's better now.
Original AN: I'm going to start an alpha rose ask blog soon, so i wanted to iron out her character (and that of Dave's). So here's a oneshot written from Alpha Dave's pov!
Disclaimer: Andrew Hussie owns Homestuck.
[Part 1: You are here!] [Part 2: so here me smile behind these walls; tinyurl dot com slash FFNshmsbtw]
Start.
There's a knock on your door, sharp and loud. It's not the heavy banging of drunk-at-3AM-Rosario-from-two-doors-down or the light rattataptap of the kids asking would you like to buy a cookie sir.
It's also the wrong time for either of those, because it's 13 minutes after four in the morning and damn you should really be sleeping.
You sigh and run your hand through your hair (soft, blonde, currently disheveled but hey at least you look sexy) and toss your pen onto your desk because you are getting sick of this manuscript and could use a break.
You grab your sword, of course, because you are a very paranoid man.
It's not paranoia if somebody is trying to kill you.
You can't remember who said that, but you think it's very true. You open the door, a sarcastic comment forming on your lips, when your eyes meet a pair of eyes just as violently purple as yours are red and the world freezes.
You stop breathing, because all you can do is stare stare stare and damn you should stop staring but then she — right, it's a girl, there's a girl at your front door and holy shit that's a lot of blood what the hell — smiles. It's a small, ironic smile formed by lips carefully coated with black lipstick and it's also knowing and there's something happening right now, something you can't understand, something momentous and she says, voice lightly casual, as if she's not bleeding all over the hallway, "Hello, Dave."
Pause.
You've never met this girl in your life, but meeting her feels like coming home, like the sort of event that should be marked in bright red ink on the calendar, the sort of moment that you tell your boss sorry, can't come in today, it's a national holiday except you don't giving a rat's ass about national holidays and she feels so much more important than a national holiday.
She's thin and pale and ethereal looking, especially with all that blood. It hits you like an entire fucking train, because she's thin and pale and ethereal like you.
Violet eyes framed by long curling lashes, straight hair cut evenly at chin-length, fine bones, long slender fingers, hips that go out in out and cheekbones you could cut yourself on.
You're paranoid because you write dangerous things and you know people want to kill you. This apartment is shitty at best and you'd been so sure that nobody knew you were here but now she's here and she knows your name.
Dave, she'd said, as if she knows you. Not David, not Strider, not hot stuff, just Dave.
Oh, right, and she's also bleeding from what looks like stab wounds. That's stab wounds, plural, thank you very much, and damn why does it feel like the entire world is suddenly hinged on this very moment?
Play.
"What the hell?" you say, as eloquent as ever, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath.
You expect her to say more, for the moment to break, but then she pitches forward and yep you've got an unconscious chick halfway through your door and she's getting blood on the rug. That is never coming off and fuck she hit her head going down shit shit shi
Rewind.
"What the hell?" you say, as eloquent as ever, and she takes a deep, shuddering breath.
You expect her to say more, for the moment to break, but then she pitches forwards and you drop your katana and catch her before she hits the floor.
Nice save.
You carry her into your kitchen because linoleum is easier to clean than carpet and that's where your first aid kit is anyways.
You're wide awake despite the hour and you deal with her wounds quickly and efficiently, pulling off her jacket — leather, tacky — and pulling up her shirt — purple, maybe? — and damn you're glad you have practice doing this.
Fast forwards.
You've been sitting on the floor of your kitchen for what feels like hours (2:23:59) and the feeling hasn't faded.
If anything, the feeling of hugeness has only increased. She's alive and stable and she hasn't bled through her bandages and you can't get over the feeling that you know her.
If she's anything like you, she'll be awake soon and yep there she goes.
Her eyes flutter open and she just stares at your ceiling for several seconds that drag on and on and on, which is impossible because each second lasts just as long as the last but you'll be damned if you don't feel the entire universe shift as she turns her head and your eyes meet.
You'd gotten your shades but there's still a sudden feeling of complete and utter awe as she stares at you. It's the sort of silence that's louder than a shout and holier than a church, and you suddenly find that you can't do anything but stare at her.
She's staring, too, hungry for something you can't describe and you're suddenly absurdly certain that the stars have aligned.
Pause.
She's lying on her back, her skirt crumpled and her shirt soaked with blood, but there's still a hint of regality about her.
Imperial.
Her face is composed and there's another way she's like you, because you both have masks upon masks upon masks and you both feel how heavy this moment is.
It's as if everything you've ever done has led up to this.
Play.
"I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance, although I'm afraid I never envisioned it happening quite like this."
Your eyebrows shoot up because, whatever you'd been expecting, it hadn't been that. You had a lot of time to think about what you wanted to say to her, but she's disarmed you with a simple glance and a few words. "Yeah, yeah, I guess. Had you been expecting to meet me?"
She doesn't look similarly confused, but you know you don't either, and so there's really no way to tell. "I have."
You start with the easy one: "Who are you?"
Her reply is crawlingly quick. "Rose Lalonde. I'd curtsy, but. . . ." Her shoulders go up and down; a shrug.
Rose Lalonde. You feel like you knew that, somehow, which is impossible, because you've never met this girl in your life before.
She smiles, as if she knows what you're thinking. "I'm glad that you didn't leave me to bleed out."
Almost flawlessly, she'd led you to your next question. "Yeah, about that. Who stabbed you? And why come to me?" Your apartment is on the second floor, at the end of the hallway. She had to limp up a flight of stairs and past three doors to get to yours.
Without any warning, she pushes herself into a sitting position and damn that had to hurt, but she leans against the fridge and now your eyes are almost at the same height and you can't get over the sense of déjà vu. "I knew you'd help me." She tilts her head slightly, her bangs shifting to the side. "You're the movie director, correct?"
You shake your head, a little disappointed because you'd been expecting accuracy. "Nope, 'fraid not. I just write scripts."
She nods, not perturbed in the slightest. "You will be. Eventually. Everybody will know your name."
And there you go, right into your next question. "How'd you know my name, anyways? You're obviously not with that Crockerbitch."
She clicks her tongue, which is absurd and you've never seen anybody do that in real life, but she does it and somehow manages to pull it off as something natural. "I should hope not, considering that I'm doing the same thing you are."
Pause.
What the hell?!
Play.
"What am I doing, exactly?"
She does it again, the weird tongue click thing that you think means she's disappointed. "Come now, Dave. We are among friendly company. There's no need to pretend."
Okay, you said you were paranoid and you'd normally be convinced that this girl is a spy but she's somehow, inevitably, won your trust.
Somehow, because she'd spent most of that time unconscious.
Inevitably, because you know it wouldn't have gone any other way.
"Dave?"
Your eyes snap to hers, and you're struck — again — by how purple they are. "You know me." It isn't an answer to her question, but, as she said, there's no need to pretend. You both know what you do and there's no need for you to confirm it.
It's just like her to want you to verbally confirm something you both already know, and you'll be damned if you give her that pleasure.
Pause.
"Just like her?" You don't even know her. But she's sitting on your kitchen floor, her attention unequivocally on you and you know somehow that you're never going to forget her. Not ever.
Play.
"I do know you," she agrees. It should be a profound statement, a possible solution to all the bizarre things that are happening to you right now, but it slips away into silence with barely a sigh. It's not profound, not even in the slightest. It's just a simple statement of the facts. She might as well have said you have red eyes or you're horrible at spelling and it would've been met with just as much zero shits given. "Or, to put it more simply, I did know you. And I will know you."
That shouldn't make sense to you, but it does, and you somehow don't mind her cryptic answer. "That makes about zero sense." She shrugs, but you're not done yet. "I get the feeling you do a lot of that."
She laughs, a soft, fluttery thing and you understand with crystal clarity that this is Rose Lalonde and she is why this is so momentous.
Anything else is beyond you.
Pause.
Her words weren't meant to be a promise, but you take them as such anyways. And I will know you.
Fast forwards.
You're not famous, not yet, but you're known, and so is Rose, and the two of you are here, at the esteemed Party Hall. Music and dancers glimmer inside, weaving and spinning beneath the arched ceiling and chandelier.
You're wearing a fabulous tuxedo — double-breasted, black, red, sexy — and you feel immortal. You have a Rose on one arm and your eyes set on that one producer you've been (casually, and ironically of course) chasing for months. Rose's grip is tight on your arm, and she looks equally stunning. Gold decorates her hair and her body is hugged by a lovely violet gown. The press has already noticed that you'd foregone your signature sunglasses, and you'll be disappointed if there's not at least four close ups of your face on social media with the caption sexy vampire dave strider by at least the end of the night.
Play.
Rose has the invitations in hand, and she frowns at them, dark lips twitching down at the corners.
"What?" you ask. It's your second party this month, and the two of you only agreed to go to celebrate Rose's recent publication ofComplacency of the Learned: Zazzerpan's Malignancy.
She holds up the invitations. "Your name is David?"
You let go of her and drop into a bow worthy of Prince Charming. "David Strider, at your service, ma'am. Hands down, I'm the best goddamn David you're ever gonna meet. Gotta get in line behind all the guys just begging to learn my ways."
She offers her hand, as regal as a princess, and you kiss it. Gotta take this metaphor to its very end. She says lightly, "I shall have to throw myself at your feet and beg for the slightest morsel of your time."
"Fuck yeah you will," you reply, taking her arm again and leading her onto the dance floor. "And I'll shove all those posers away like the pieces of shit they are and treat you to the complete fucking spectrum of being a David."
"I shall listen most attentively." Rose tugs you off the dance floor and towards the drinks. "Perhaps with a drink in my hand and a scarlet rose between my teeth."
You're distracted when you see what's waiting at the table. "Rose. They have apple juice."
She puts her hand against her forehead like a maiden about to faint. "Oh, the horror. Apple juice at an esteemed party such as this? Perhaps our hosts are hoping we die of alcohol withdrawal."
You grab a glass and the two of you go by one of the massive stained glass windows that decorate the hall. Nobody's recognized either of you, and so you're happy to hide in a dark corner and talk shit about the other party guests.
"You know, I'm kind of hurt you didn't know I'm a David. What with you knowing practically fucking everything. Like my address and my name, back in the year of 1 B.R." Which of course means Before Rose, and you know she'll get it.
She steals your glass and takes a sip. "I'm incredibly sorry to inform you that I didn't actually stalk you, Mr. Strider. I'm sure your ego will be upset, but it should be fine again after a couple of anger management sessions."
You steal your juice back, because you both know she won't appreciate it nearly as much as you do. "My ego will kick drop your anger management sessions to fucking Australia. You'd be a shitty stalker anyways. It's just weird that your omniscience decided to skip out when it came to my full name."
She opens her mouth, a smile playing on the corners of her lips, but then she freezes. Already pale, her face goes stark white and her eyes widen and her spine goes stiff. For a wild moment, you're half convinced she's having a fit. But then she sucks in a sharp breath and says urgently, all humor gone from her face, "Dave, we need to go."
You don't understand, and so you look around. But you can't see anything that might have caused her alarm. "Rose, I haven't even talked to that producer yet. We've only been here for like eight seconds."
She grabs your arm and pulls. The movement trembles and shakes with blind urgency; all of her composure has fled. Like slow motion, you watch as you fall forwards, the juice from your glass slipping across both your and her chests, the liquid soaking into the cloth instantly. You fall against her, pitching the both of you backwards, when the world shatters and a terrific crash rents the air.
You whirl, horrified, to see the window shattered and a bullet lodged in the dance floor. People scream and scatter and Rose—Rose!
"We need to get out of here!" She grabs your hand and runs, dragging you along behind her. She's remarkably fast, considering that she's in heels and a skirt, but she pushes past party guest after party guest. Another bullet screams into the air where you'd been standing seconds ago.
"We should get under cover, not go outside!" You have to shout to be heard over the panicked screams, but she's shaking her head.
"No, no, we need to get out before it goes up."
You don't understand her — again — but she's pushing you out of the doors and into the city. Another bullet flies over your heads but she drags you backwards just in time. "Shit," you gasp.
She runs down a side street and you follow, focusing on keeping your breathing even and your mind alert.
Left. Left. Right.
Suddenly, she stops, and you nearly crash into her. You're at a crossroads; left, right, straight, or back? She whirls, eyes flashing from alley to road to road to road, and you can practically see the gears in her head turning. Left, she decides, because she heads in that direction.
You're not afraid. You don't want to die, obviously, because you've almost finished the script for your latest moViee and it's a goddamn cinematic masterpiece. But you also trust Rose in a way you don't trust anybody else. She slows to a walk, and so do you, because you haven't heard any gunshots in a while (00:01:47). The two of you walk side-by-side, panting, and you let out a long sigh. "Sniper on the roof?"
"That was the conclusion I'd drawn." She smooths down the back of her hair with shaking fingers even though her hair looks fine.
Pause.
Something is about to happen.
Play.
A gunshot. She reacts nanoseconds before the sound occurs, diving at you and sending you crashing against the alley wall. You have time to think holy shit and thank god I didn't wet myself before there's a second gunshot and fuck fuck FUCK it slides easily — too easily, too simply, no no fuck — through Rose's head and there's blood on your hands and oh god her face.
It's almost comically startled, eyes wide, mouth open, blood on her lips, but then you're both falling, the floor rushing up to meet you, and she's dying—dead—dying and you. Can't. Breathe. Fuck. Fuc
Rewind.
"Shit," you gasp.
She runs down a side street and you follow, focusing on keeping your breathing even and your mind alert.
Left. Left. Right.
Suddenly, she stops, and you nearly crash into her. You're at a crossroads; left, right, straight, or back? She whirls, eyes flashing from alley to road to road to road, and you can practically see the gears in her head turning. Left, she decides, but no. No.
You grab her shoulder. "Right."
A protest forms on her lips, but you're dragging her right and she has no choice but to follow. You look up, wildly, but you can't see a sniper. Just the lovely roofs of Party Hall and the dark steeples surrounding it.
Neither of you slow to a walk again — again? Why would you? — and you lead the flat sprint to away away need to get away because like fuck you're going to stay and be shot down like ducks.
"Turn here," she murmurs, and you hesitate but listen. There's a kid on a motorcycle up ahead, just putting on his helmet. An idea — bright and stereotypical but damn — rises amid the dead panic thundering in your mind.
"Police! Get off the vehicle!"
The kid immediately scrambles off the motorcycle, eyes wide and panicked at your tone, and you swing your leg over the seat and Rose does the same and you're off, blazing down the streets on a stolen bike.
Relief.
You take evasive movements, swinging the bike around and weaving between the streets. Suddenly ecstatic, you declare, "Fuck yes. I've always wanted to use that line."
Against the shell of your ear, Rose whispers, "What lofty aspirations." You smile a lopsided smile that only requires half your mouth and then she says, "Stop."
You slam on the brakes just as a concussive blast fills the air. Your head snaps around hard enough to give you whiplash and you stare, openmouthed, at the smoke rising into the air.
Party Hall is gone.
Pause.
It's horrifying, knowing that all those people in there — those glittering, laughing, filthy rich people but people nonetheless — lie dead now, their lives torn from their bodies by a bomb that hadn't even given them a warning.
Your sniper must be gone, too; the explosion was too close, too loud, and there's too much smoke.
The air is cold, but you skin is still flushed hot from your run and Rose's body is pressed to your back and the two of you are frozen. The city is quiet. People are sleeping. But soon it will come alive with sirens and helicopters and the press.
There's two realizations to be found here, and they hang, tantalizing and sharp, before you.
One. You're right. Rose is right. Betty Crocker is an evil fish tyrant and she's found your writing and she wants you dead.
Two. Rose knew. She knew about the bullet, the explosion, the motorcycle. She shouldn't have; it should be impossible. But she had known your name, hadn't she? And she always had been good at the impossible.
Just like you. You're impossible, just like she is.
Play.
Rose's voice is hushed. "We shouldn't run. It'll paint us as the wrongdoers."
"Fuck that," you retort, without any bite, "We need to talk."
She turns her eyes to you, dark violet and red-reflecting-flames meeting with barely the slightest click. "We do," she agrees, "We really do."
Fast forwards.
"So you're saying you're a fucking Seer?"
"I'm not saying I am. I get impressions, and inclinations. I can pick out fortuitous paths in moments otherwise dark with indecision."
"Well shit."
Pause.
Rose Lalonde, author, orphan, walking dictionary, is a seer of the future. Who would've guessed.
Play.
"Hm. 'Well shit' indeed. Your talents are no less startling."
"I call BS."
"Time manipulation, Dave? Really? I find it fascinating."
"It's not like I can go back and murder Hitler, not only because that would cause an absolute shitstorm of events, but because I literally can't. I can mostly just . . . influence certain events, you know?"
"Like I said: fascinating."
Pause. Fast forwards.
You're sitting with Rose in the observatory of her house, and you know her like you hadn't known her before. She has a glass of wine and a book in her lap, but she isn't reading. It's too dark out, and the sound of rain on the observatory roof is enough to lull you both into a comfortable silence.
Her glass is half empty, but she's not drunk. She knows you won't let her get drunk when you're there, and so she hadn't even bothered bringing the rest of the bottle. Her hair is getting a little long, the locks that frame her face brushing her collarbone and her headband stark black against her pale hair.
You have five candles lit, which you'd originally done because you needed inspiration for your next film, but now all you're doing is lying on your back and watching as the warm light sends flickers across the coldness of her house.
Play.
"Hey, Rose?"
Her gaze moves from the window to your prone form, one delicate eyebrow going up. "Yes, Dave?"
"Remember when we first met?"
The eyebrow climbs still further. "Dave, we both know that I am far from drunk enough to forget that."
You fall back into silence, and she idly turns the page. You're waiting for her to ask why. She knows that, and so she stays stubbornly quiet.
But curiosity killed the cat, and you're comfortable enough that you're not budging for a good long while, and so she sighs and puts her book down. "Why do you ask?" She's looking at her wine glass, as if she'd meant to ask all along.
You allow the barest flicker of a smile to cross your lips. That's one point for you, bringing the night up to a resounding tie. "Just wondering."
She huffs, annoyed, and picks her book back up again.
Pause.
It's funny; the more you got to know her, the more façades the two of you create. It's a game, to see how long it takes the other to pick it apart.
There's still a sense of belonging, when you're with her, but it's no longer fate. It's not something intangible, because Rose Lalonde is your best friend.
She's also your only friend, but that hardly matters.
Rewind. Play.
You walk into the kitchen, arms thrown open and glasses on your nose. "Come on, Rose, let's go up to the observatory."
Rose looks up, eyes flown wide with surprise. "Why? It'll be dark soon, and there's no lights up there."
You raise your eyebrows, because she has a wine bottle in her hand and there isn't a glass in sight. She sighs at your look and ducks under the counter to grab a glass. She knows you won't let her get drunk while you're there, so she doesn't even bother trying to sneak the bottle with her, instead filling the glass up three-quarters of the way. "We can watch the sunset or something equally cringey."
She brings the glass to her lips and takes a small sip. "You're just out of ideas for your next movie, aren't you?"
"Fuck yeah I am. It's also raining, and you like the sound of the rain."
"There's a waterfall under my living room, Dave. I never have need to seek the sound of rain."
But the two of you go up to the observatory anyways, stopping only for her to grab a book and for you to grab some candles on a whim.
You've been to her house before, but you're normally only there to plan your next move. You're rarely ever at each other's houses just to relax, and you have to admit it's nice.
The two of you sit around the telescope, and you light the candles around your feet and she laughs because you're making it look like you're trying to summon Satan.
You'd give anything to save moments like these, with a genuine smile on her lips and nobody trying to kill you. If only there was some way to pause your life, to stay here forever, safe and warm and happy.
"What if—" You stop, because you hadn't thought further than that.
Rose turns her page, but it's getting dark and she'll have trouble reading soon. "Yes, Dave?"
You sigh and flop back so that you're lying on your back. "Never mind."
"Alright." She continues reading, occasionally taking a sip from her glass.
"Hey, Rose?"
Her gaze moves from the window to your prone form, one delicate eyebrow going up. "Yes, Dave?"
"D'you ever think about how we'll never be normal?"
"No." She puts down her book, expression thoughtful. "I'm afraid I'd be bored with normality."
You smile fondly at her, because of course she'd say that. "You would. But do you ever think about, like, getting older? Getting married, having kids?"
She stares at him blankly. "Why would I think about doing that?"
You shrug and tilt your head back to look at the ceiling again. You hadn't meant to ask that, and now she's going to try and psychoanalyze you again and you hate that.
But you have her undivided attention now.
"When I was a kid, I used to tell myself shit like 'I'm never going to do this to my kid' or 'I'll make sure my kid knows they're loved' but then I got older and I just. Fuck, man. I think I'd really fuck a kid up." The words are delivered flatly, because the more personal you get, the more emotionless you like to act, but her expression softens.
"You wouldn't." She sets her glass down and crawls over to sit against your side. "You had a difficult childhood, but that doesn't mean you'd make a horrible father."
You shrug again, but don't shift away from her sudden warmth. "It's never going to happen anyways. Any families we make will just end up badly."
She nods. "We can't afford to give the Baroness any more leverage over us than she already has." You don't reply, and after a long silence she whispers, "I've thought about families, before." You turn to look, surprised. Rose always maintained that she liked being alone, that she hadn't minded being practically alone for the first fourteen years of her life. "My mother was hardly there, and so I dreamed of having somebody to come home to after work once I was an adult." Her smile is wry and hardly there, but it's there nonetheless. "I was a disaster of a child. I don't think I'd be very good with children."
"Yeah, we'd probably royally fuck up any kids," you agree.
She laughs, and it's meant as a sound of agreement, but it just ends up sad. Neither of you can have kids, not when you spend half your time making sure the Baroness doesn't know where you are. Jade's doing fine with hers, but that's because she's Jade.
Neither you nor Rose are stable enough to even think about taking care of a kid, regardless of where it came from.
"Have you thought of any names?"
The question is innocent enough, but the answer is a little embarrassing. "I mean, kind of."
One eyebrow rises slightly. "Kind of?"
"Well, it's a little silly."
She clicks her tongue and damn you'd forgotten she did that, that's so weird. "Dave, we are two adults with magical powers discussing children we are never going to have. I am also partially drunk. I doubt a little silliness will lower my opinion of you."
You roll your eyes. "Fine, Jesus. I thought. . . ." You trail off and flush slightly. "Dirk."
Her reaction is immediate and very, very telling. Her eyes widen and her fingers curl into fists and her face whitens. You freeze too, watching her warily, but she doesn't move. Cautiously, you push yourself up and snap your fingers in front of her glazed eyes.
"Rose? Hey, Rose?"
She doesn't reply, and you can't help it when a shiver runs up your spine. She rarely has proper visions, but they're always important and always unpredictable.
The last one had lasted 26 minutes and 14 seconds, and you'd spent every moment terrified that she wouldn't come back.
You place her so that she's leaning against the telescope and flashstep downstairs to grab food and a blanket.
She's just as you left her, eyes staring blankly at the wall. You rearrange the candles around her feet and wrap the blanket about her shoulders before settling down across from her.
Fast forwards.
A sound you can't identify permeates the darkness, and you jerk awake. It takes you several seconds to realize where you are and what'd happened.
Oh, fuck. Your heart jolts when you see Rose. She back, but she's sitting with her spine bent and her head in her hands. A sob breaks the silence and you realize that that was what you'd heard.
You scramble into a sitting position. "Rose, oh my God. What happened?"
She looks up, and you're horrified to see tears streaking her cheeks. "Roxy," she whispers, voice broken, and another sob bubbles from her throat.
You hold your arms out impulsively, and she falls into them, burying her face in your shoulder. You're both reticent, and this is unheard of, but you hold her tightly and she clings to you as if the world is ending.
Pause.
You can count the number of times you've seen Rose cry on one hand. Once, when her mother died. Once, into Jade's arms after a particularly bad nightmare. Once, when she was drunk and miserable. You've never seen her cry like this, as if her heart was breaking.
You can't even imagine what she must have seen, and you're almost too scared to ask.
Play.
She stops crying and instead draws in great, hiccuping breaths. You sense her tense, and so you let go, and she sits back and rubs her eyes miserably. You awkwardly pat her knee, not knowing what else to do. Her eyes meet yours, and you're startled at the grief there. "Dave. . . ."
Terror suddenly washes over you. "Do I die?" She shakes her head. "Do you?"
"Well—" Your stomach jolts. "—yes, but we always knew we'd die eventually." You scowl at her, but she continues, "That's not what I saw."
She hugs her knees and looks away, her eyes settling on the candles, which are miraculously still burning.
"In short, we fail. The Baroness succeeds. Everything we've done — and will have done — will be for nothing. In the future, after we're dead, the world will be covered in water. And—" Her breath catches. "—that's the world our children will live in."
Confusion. "What? Rose—"
She looks at you sharply. "They'll be ours the way that Jake is Jade's." Holy shit, you get a space baby. "But we'll never meet them."
Your brow furrows. "Why not? What'll happen to them?"
She shrugs helplessly. "We'll be long dead by then."
You hate the idea, hate the idea that you'll have a child — descendant? — who will know the same crippling loneliness that you had. You don't even think to doubt her; her visions are never wrong. "What can we do?"
She just shakes her head and you know she's done talking for the night.
"Rose—"
"Dave." Her tone is clipped, and she isn't meeting your eyes. "Please leave me alone."
Angry suddenly, because you have a right to know, you snap, "It's just fucking fine for you, isn't it? I'm fucking sick of you keeping things from me just because it suits you—"
"Dave!" She's not angry, and you wish she was. It would make this easier. "What do you want to know? That Dirk will have to raise himself? That Roxy will be miserable? That they'll both be miserable? That all they'll have of us — of anyone — are books? Movies? The internet? They'll be the only two humans left on Earth and we'll be dead."
You shut up, eyes widening with horror because that's not fair. Unable to meet Rose's eyes, you turn and flashstep away.
Fast forwards.
It's funny. The first time you saw her, she was bleeding from multiple stab wounds. It's ironic knowing that the last view you'll see of her is Rose Lalonde, bleeding from multiple stab wounds.
It's funny, but you aren't laughing.
You can't.
You're dead.
Stop.