Disclaimer. If it was mine, you'd know, but it's not.
Author's Notes. Warning for a brief description of dissociation, and Bro's abuse. Happy 4/13.
Nine, eight.
Living with Bro has sharpened your instincts like nobody's business, and you're damned if you doesn't take some pride in it. It's not like you're going to whine about it like a goddamn pussy.
Seven, six.
What happens is that lately whenever a strife is starting up there's a current in your veins kicked into motion, and then it's gametime and you can hear nothing but steel – and it's taking longer and longer before Bro has to say get up lil' man when your back is frenching concrete.
Five, four.
So you suppose it shows what a badass you are, a testament to your ability to survive being raised by the coolest guy who ever fucking lived. If nothing else you sure have gotten good at tending to wounds, as lame as that is – Bro only ever demonstrated it the once.
It sure beats the times when you're playing one of Bro's stupid skateboard games at one in the afternoon while he's out doing something, before suddenly blinking and it's five in the evening and Bro is back and calling you for a strife.
Three.
The thing is that Bro's a sharp teacher, learned tidbits from every fight you've ever had carrying you through SBURB, and even on the meteor you were always a second away from switching gears and falling into the old dance.
Two.
Even now you can recall the surreality of it, of just knowing that Murder Bec wouldn't hurt Jade so you used her as cover without skipping a goddamn beat –
One.
So when Dirk is caught fending off Noir's crowbar not more than an hour after you fuckin' bared your sixteen years running wound from his alternate self, all you have to do is nod back and let the countdown start running.
Author's Notes. 004/100 for the 100 Fandoms Challenge. Written for prompt 82 – time. Originally posted 2021.4.13 on Ao3.