[Author's Note: Britni here! I finally got some time and my muse somewhat cooperated (even though this took three days or so), so here's some JakeDirk AU fanfiction! Written for Ryan. Hope you like it, peaches! And anyone else that reads it, too.

I do not own Homestuck or any of the characters. Homestuck and all rights belong to Andrew Hussie. I also do not own My Little Pony, or any other copyrighted things mentioned in this. This is strictly a work of fiction.]

There are often things that happen that can only be described as "unexpected". Your parents drop by for a visit when you have your friend with benefits staying the weekend, or maybe the cashier at the supermarket forgot to ring up a couple of your items so you got them for free. It can be good or bad; the most that people don't like about it is the fact that it wasn't expected. But then there are things that are so soul-shatteringly shocking, a single word could never describe the feeling it causes.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you've just gotten the worst possible news of your life.

It was only supposed to be an expedition; a trip with the sole purpose of exploration and nothing more. "What could possibly happen?" You remember those four words being one of the last things he said to you, right before "I love you". He'd been away on his little trip for four months. It wasn't that long of a journey, he'd said, and so that should have been the longest he was gone. You had just gotten a letter in the mail a week before saying that today was the day he was going to be flying in. Everything was all planned out. You'd go pick him up at the airport, give him shit for being gone so long (jokingly, of course) and ask him how everything went. He'd be overly excited despite his jetlag and tell you all about it, his hand never leaving yours even when you were on the drive home. Roxy and Jane would stop by to welcome him back, but you'd quickly kick them out so you could have your time, because four months with no English-Strider sex is a crime somewhere, you're sure of it.

It was all supposed to go as planned.
But, now that you think about it, you suppose nothing ever does…

You wouldn't dare call it an act of fate that your ass happened to land right on the remote as you sat down with your second bowl of cereal, interrupting the episode of My Little Pony you'd been in the middle of watching and switching it to the news. You frowned and sat up slightly, reaching under to grab the remote, but froze when a face you never thought you'd see was on the screen. Information scrolled underneath, but you didn't read it; couldn't. Your eyes were glued to that picture, scanning over it relentlessly as the anchor woman with too much makeup and too little class droned on about what happened.

"—when bombs were dropped from planes flying over Lesotho in Southern Africa late last night. The attacks seem to have been directed at the group of American soldiers stationed there as relief for the recent problems the natives have been experiencing. No information on the number of casualties has been reported; however, there have been reports of a group of military officials moving closer to Maseru. More information tonight at nine."

Numbness consumed you at the very first glance, but the more you listened, the more you felt something. A weird burning sensation in the pit of your stomach, slowly working its way up into your chest, your neck, your head. You were faintly aware of your hands shaking, the bowl now clenched tightly in both hands, spoon clattering quietly against the side with each bodily tremor. Sweat drips down the back of your neck before running cold, and you lean forward, just barely managing to grab the abandoned popcorn bowl from the other night before you heave, depositing your breakfast into it. You choke back the rest from joining it so you can look up at the television screen again, catching a last glimpse of the photo before it changed. Something about a local girl scout troop selling whatever ridiculous amount of cookies. You pitch forward and vomit again, not because girl scout cookies unsettle your stomach, but because of the familiar black-rimmed glasses lying broken somewhere in a pool of blood on the soils of South Africa.

-x-x-x-x-x-

You waited for a satellite call or a letter for days, but none ever came. Rationally, you knew that he probably got away safely. He was probably one in the group that had headed to wherever it was. You knew that. You knew that was the most probable outcome for him. He was a soldier, and a damn good one at that. You knew that if anything ever happened, he'd be ready to confront it. But as the days dragged on into weeks, you started to doubt your own mind a little bit. Not often, but in times of weakness, when you were lying in bed after waking up alone again, you questioned your own rational thoughts. The ever-present 'what if' scenarios that you were normally able to push away without a problem would swarm like a cloud of hornets, stinging at your brain, making it swell with doubt and insecurity and fear.

It was times like those that you'd clutch the phone in hand all day, never allowing it to leave your side. Those days were the ones where you checked for the mail six times before lunch, and you lost sleep, because it just wasn't right. He'd been gone for months at a time already, and you were used to it, but it was different this time.

This time, you didn't know for sure if he'd be coming home again.

You had a moment of true weakness when you finally seemed to come to terms with that thought, and when you called, Roxy was there in minutes, bottle of vodka in hand. Even with all of the screwdrivers and straight shots you had, you still couldn't erase that fear. It was numbed, though, and you think you appreciated that, even if it was only for a moment. The painful stabs you'd felt before were small tingles then, trickling down the back of your mind into your spine. It spread through your nerves like a lethargic electric flow, and when it finally started to numb your fingertips, you took another drink.

She held your shades while you emptied your stomach into the toilet and put you to bed, and you think you might have called for Jake in your drunken haze. You'll never know for sure, though, because she was gone by morning, and she doesn't drag up things that happen when you two drink. She never has.

After that it got easier. It was still on your mind, but you forced yourself to go through every day as normally as possible. It was still hard going to bed alone every night and waking up with no one by your side, but it wasn't awful. You watched the news every morning before you watched your show, not because you necessarily wanted to know what was going on in the world, but in case, by some off chance, they said something about him. They never did. You started having dreams about him frequently; though they weren't anything spectacular, it was still nice. Little snippets of daily life snuck into your mind as you slept, and let you relive what it was like to go out with him, eat meals with him, be jumped after getting out of a shower. There were a few where he was trying to make you laugh, and though you stubbornly fought against it, you always ended up a snorting mess under his fingertips as they pressed sporadically against your sides.

The most frequent, though, were ones where you couldn't see anything. At first, you didn't even think it was him. All you could hear was a steady beating sound, maybe a drum or something. For a few nights you were lost as to what it was, but when you woke up and realized, there was an ache in your chest that you didn't understand.

Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thum-
"Hey, Dirk?"
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
"Hn?"
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
"…I love you."
Th-thump. Th-thump.
"I love you, too, Jake."
Th-thump…

You remembered the nights where you had trouble sleeping, and you'd rest your head against his chest, ear pressed just over his heart, and you listened to that steady, rhythmic beating. Whether it was swift and furious, like it was while you two were lying in a glorious afterglow, or slow and strong, like when he was asleep, that was one of the things you loved the most.

It was one of the things you missed the most.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Time continued to pass, even though you were caught between acting as though everything was just "hunky-dory" (and you almost want to laugh, because that's something he would have said) and breaking down and grieving. It was almost cruel, but that's just how things go, you guess. You worked on new robots, fixed up Brobot and Squarewave and Sawtooth, but it was all just a tedious task now. It wasn't nearly as enjoyable as it used to be, and it wasn't fair. He was everywhere, and integrated into every single thing you did in some way. Watching My Little Pony, you remember the times when he would sit with you and watch marathons while you curled up to his side. Building robots, you recall moments where he'd come in and try to help, only to end up breaking something. You'd get angry with him and end up in an argument, but you always made up somehow. You remember the time when he got startled playing Call of Duty Black Ops II and pulled his pistol, shooting the television on pure impulse. That fight was particularly bad, but he'd come home with an expensive puppet from an antique shop on the other side of town as an apology.

Maybe this is the only way he'll ever be home again, you start to think. Living on in memories and stories.

Fuck that bullshit.

You refused to give up on the idea of him finding his way home, refused to think of anything other than him coming back. Jane and Roxy quickly learned that the hard way when you threw a glass across the kitchen when Jane had brought up possible funeral services. There isn't anything here to bury, so there's no way in hell you're going to do that to him. She was in tears when you apologized, and it was only when she hugged you around the neck and Roxy squeezed your shoulder that you realized you were dangerously close to that yourself.

They helped you a lot while he was gone, but you spent most of your time alone. It wasn't really the best thing for you, you knew, but they weren't either. What was best for you was thousands of miles away in another country.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Six months, two weeks, and four days.

Not that you've been keeping track, but he's been gone a ridiculous amount of time. Realistically speaking, you know that something must have happened. Two months since the initial news broadcast showing his glasses lying in a pool of blood, chaos in the background of their destroyed campsite.

"I should message Roxy..." You pull out your phone and check the time, seeing that it's well past noon. Mail, you think. Mail, then Roxy. You leave your apartment and make your way down the stairs to the ground level, where the collection of mailboxes waited for you. You'd stopped waiting by it in hopes of a letter after a couple weeks, now only making the trip down once every couple days. It isn't like anyone really sends mail anymore, when they could just email or text you. You fish the mailbox key out of your pocket and wrench it open, peering inside. Bill, bill, junk mail, credit card letter of preapproval, junk, junk, junk, more junk- You flip through the stack of envelopes as you climb the stairs again. You're staring down at the electric bill and calculating in your mind how much you assume it's going to be for the month when something catches you off-guard.

A smell.

Earthy and reminiscent of a forest, a slight, clean musk underlying. It's been half a year since you've had it fill the apartment, but you'd recognize it anywhere. It fills your chest with water, makes it hard to breathe, and you slowly glance up from the stack of mail, grateful you don't actually lose your grip on it. Tired forest-green eyes look more narrow without the black frames surrounding them, but they're still as familiar as the last time you saw them. Those eyes, set in an exhausted tanned face made of strong lines, under thick black brows that are drawn up together in some emotion you can't quite place. Maybe that's because the weariness in his face doesn't look right there; or, maybe it's because you're overcome by the swelling-feeling in your chest to focus.

"I'm home."

That voice that suddenly strikes out at you is the same, too. Slightly husky, but it isn't loud like it normally was. It's gentle, quiet, and you'd venture a guess that he was almost hesitant to even speak at all, not sure of what to say. That's why you've just been standing there like a statue, staring at him behind your shades, mouth drawn into a tight line.

He's back.

He's back, but why the fuck did it take him so long?!

You drop the mail on the small table beside the door and push the door shut behind you, locking it. The room is slowly crossed over until you're standing in front of him next to the couch. You can see his bags scattered on the floor, and all the doors down the hallway are opened. He came home and immediately started looking for you. You draw in a short breath and draw your fist back, connecting solidly with his shoulder. You know it hurts from the grunt he gives, but he doesn't move; you could probably punch him across the jaw right now and he wouldn't stop you, because he understands. This isn't the first time he's been gone for months at a time, and you know it probably won't be the last. It was the first time that he'd been in such danger, though, and you're angry. You're absolutely pissed that he continues to leave home for these dangerous places, but you know that you can't stop him. He always comes home, so you can't do much more than make sure you're still there for him when he returns.

He's waiting for you now, and you're not going to make him wait long.

Your arms slip around his neck and you press your lips to his, a long, drawn-out kiss that tells him of everything you've felt since he's been gone. You know that he can feel it because of the way he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you close, tight against his chest. The overwhelming feeling of relief is horrid yet wonderful, and you linger in it as long as you can, until air becomes a necessity. When you finally pull away, he's pressing another kiss to your forehead, your temple, your cheek, your jaw. You release a deep, shivering breath and dig your fingers into the back of his shirt.

"Welcome home, Jake..."

[Author's Note: There'll be another chapter following up this one, some "Welcome Home sex" because come on. It's been over six months, and I think they deserve it. ]