Title: Ironia
For: HS Worldcup Bonus Round 1
Prompt: Remember when Dirk touched another actual human being for the first time ever? (Well, it was his friend's dead body, but still?)
Character/Pairing: Dirk Roxy
A/N: So this takes place in a doomed timeline. :D During Dirk's attempt to save everyone's butts back at the beginning.
Summary: A human isn't supposed to feel this cold. His fingers run over her skin again, skin clammy and cool, and nothing changes.
...
...
...
...
A human isn't supposed to feel this cold. Well, maybe they could—Dirk isn't an expert on normal human temperatures. He knows the mechanics of a robot, the steady hum of a computer. Machines that are only as warm as you design them to be.
Humans aren't made from schematics. His fingers run over her skin again, skin as clammy and cool as steel.
It's unnatural. Somewhere deep within him, an instinct coming from the days his ancestors beat their chests in caves and huddled around a weak fire, he knows a human should never feel this cold.
Be this still.
"Roxy?" Somewhere inside, a switch is flicked. It's almost disturbing, how calm he feels as he takes in her body. Her skin is pale, too pale, and he softly touches her wrist again. The cold seeps into him and he knows, he knows what this is.
Any doubts he had are gone.
Idly, he wonders how long she's been lying here. Waiting for him. A corpse to greet him instead of a friend. A strong smell comes from her and he almost wants to puke. Just what is he smelling?
Part of it is vomit. He recognizes this from his fevers as a child. The rest is foreign to him—the smell of death? The smell of decay?
He doesn't know.
He never wanted to know.
(Did Bro smell like this after he died?)
An eternity passes. A second goes. Dirk isn't aware of time, of the rising sun and setting moon. Roxy still doesn't move, doesn't wake up like in those zombie movies he used to watch. Unlike his robots, he can't connect a few wires and start her up again.
This wasn't part of the plan. Not in the least. Everything is starting to fall apart, electrical breakers switching off, and he needs to step back and reorganize.
Needs to find out how that batterwitch did her in. Quietly, he crouches next to her corpse again, examining her clothes for blood stains. There's a curious lack of wounds, a lack of struggle, and he always thought Roxy would at least go out with a fight.
His feet hit a bottle, then another, and he almost laughs when he realizes just what happened. He doesn't have to look to see the pool of vomit beside her. Alcohol—that was what he smelled before.
Ironic, really. Her taste for alcohol killed her.
It's the first time he hates that word.
Crouching next to her, Dirk brushes her bangs to the side. "Idiot. I knew it would be the end of you. Why didn't you control yourself better?"
It's too late for warnings, for admonishments. A half-empty bottle sits nearby and he takes that first, tempting taste.
"Bitter," he grimaces, dumping the rest.
Bitter, his heart cries, and he doesn't know what to do with the feelings left inside. With the void growing in him.
He tries not to think how fitting that is. How fitting all of this is.
(His own death, he knows, will be of a broken heart.)