Your name is Dave Strider, you are twenty-nine years old, and you are waking up in an unfamiliar bed as the afternoon sunlight pours in between floral curtains.

Groggy and your mouth filled with mucous, you sit up, wiping your eyes and systematically returning your sunglasses to their place on your face. You were sleeping just fine after you stayed up half the night (filled with worry and thoughts and maybe you should get work done you'd think, no you can't you couldn't not in a state like that), so you are currently wondering why exactly you even woke up.

On the oak nightstand beside your bed is your phone, lit up and vibrating furiously against the wood, and you're yawning into your hand as you reach over for it, processing it as a call due to its continuous vibration.

"Yo," you breathe mid-yawn, before going the scratch the back of your head.

"H-hey! …Oh sorry, did I wake you up?"

It's John.

"Yeah, but it's like… 3 o' clock oh jesus. So yeah it's chill. 'Sup?"

"I uhm… are you still in town?" he laughs nervously, and you wonder again what the hell might've happened.

"Yeah, I'm at the Hilton downtown, why?"

"Oh! Uh… could I head over and talk to you?" and he sounds so freaked out, wiping all your fatigue away as only concern takes its place.

You're standing up to put a shirt on as you hurriedly say, "Yeah, yeah of course. I'll be down in the lobby to meet you, sound chill?"

"Yeah! Thanks, haha. See ya!" And the line goes dead.

—-

You're sitting on the hotel-provided furnished bench in the lobby, watching the revolving doors spin 'round and 'round with each new person walking in to check in, waiting eagerly for the familiar face you care so much for to walk right in the door.

Something terrible must've happened with Molly, you know it, you just can't put your finger on what. For the past four years, they've not spent more than a day apart, and even then had been for work or friends' bachelor and bachelorette parties ("Haha, Dave, when will yours be?"), not because of any fights. You mean, you're sure they've had some fights but, they've never been this bad, and you've never seen John look so defeated. Are things really that hopeless for him?

And then finally there he is, hands in his pockets as he looks around, biting his lower lip nervously. Until then, his eyes rest on you, and you see a wave of relief flush through him (and your heart's beating faster, God you hate that this is when you're happy but it's the greatest feeling in the world). He walks toward you, smiling and waving. "Here!"

"No shit, Sherlock," you chuckle, patting his back (something you aren't sure if you'd normally do, but he seems like he needs all the affection he can get, and Hell, you're more than happy to extend a comfortable amount) and going to lead him to the elevator.

"Why'd you get such a nice place?" he blinks, looking around the hotel with wide eyes.

Tapping the up button on the elevator, you shrug. "They had open rooms, and my flight's not 'til Monday. May as well crash in style. Not like I can't afford it, y'know?"

He's nodding before the two of you step into the elevator, and the rest of the trek to your room is silent. You don't like this one bit - it's not like John to be silent. Sometimes when he's busy he'll be unresponsive and you'll have to bug the shit out of him to get his attention back to conversing, but he's just standing there. Silent.

By the time you make it to the room, he's walking in, tiredly sitting on the provided chair with his legs spread, elbows on his knees, and head in his hands, taking his glasses off tiredly to mess his hair before replacing them and looking up at you. "Geez, sorry I'm being such a downer right now, haha."

"No man, it's chill. Be as down in the dumps as you fucking please," you say, going to sit on the edge of the bed facing him. "But in exchange you're pretty much obligated to tell me the whole truth about what the hell's going on. That sound just?"

"You've been talking to Terezi again," he's laughing, leaning back in his chair, trying to loosen up, you think. "But alright, let's see where to start," he says, rubbing at his eyes. He looks so tired - you don't think he slept one wink last night. Which would make sense with how Molly was acting, you wonder if she even let him share the bed with her that night. Even if she did, if she was being standoffish the poor guy was probably too nervous to get a wink of sleep.

Your hand is on your shoulder as you're standing, and you're shaking your head. "It can wait, you look like you could use some Z's."

"I… uh, here?" You nod. "Are you sure? I mean…"

"Come on, you know I know you got zero sleep last night," his eyes widen, "So just crash. I'll work or watch some TV while you do, 'cause you're a hard as hell sleeper. 'kay?" And you're already pulling him standing up, pushing him over onto the bed. "You can even use my pajamas if you want."

He raises his eyebrows at you, "You don't wear pajamas, you sleep in your boxers. Or have you gotten lamer than when we last spent the night together?" He's joking around and it's not forced - you can already tell he's beginning to calm down, and it's really nice.

"I packed some for when Casey curls up with me, dipshit," you say, going to gather out your T-shirt and sweatpants, tossing them at him.

Already changing, he laughs at you. "Didn't think you were the type to get all cuddley with kids!"

"Hey, the Case meister is the exception to all rules, you know that."

"Shut up, I'm going to bed." And with that he's already curled up under the sheets, comfortable in your pajamas. You sit in the chair he was just in, waiting until you can tell he's fast asleep to turn the television on.

Somewhere during today's riveting episode of some talk show you don't give two shits about, John starts making noise. Not "I'm getting up" noise, or "I'm getting comfortable" noise, but honestly thrashing and practically screaming in his sleep. You haven't seem him like this since he last fell asleep on your lap in college, and it affects you just as much as it did then (terrifying, rip-your-heart-out fear of your own for this poor kid, boy, man). You're getting up faster than you'd ever admit before you're on the bed with him, picking up his torso and pulling it to you, petting his hair and rubbing his back. It feels like a routine left alone too long, a bike from the old apartment complex's garage - familiar, something you'll never forget, but covered in dust and rust.

He continues shaking, but after a few minutes of your thumb smoothed over his forehead, his breathing evens out, and he's just calmly sleeping in your arms, looking as beautiful as ever. You find yourself wondering again if Molly ever does this for him, if she even knows to do it. You doubt it, and that feeling of specialty warms your esteem for at least a moment, letting you continue petting this poor, frightened boy you adore for a little while longer.

After some time he wakes, stirring and squirming in his position half-on-your-chest-half-on-your-lap, and yawning as he rubs at his eyes. You retrieve his glasses for him, handing them to him, and a bit nervous that he'll freak out at your position. You mean, you've always done these sorts of things with him to comfort, but not since before he knewand you hope that doesn't just, ruin things.

But no, he's not freaked, he's not disgusted, he's just a little puzzled, blinking those pretty little eyelashes up at you. "Why 're you here…?" he slurs out, still tired from sleep.

"Nightmare business again," is your simple response as you lean against the headboard, not sure if this is a queue to leave or to continue, so you remain neutral.

He blinks again, seeming surprised. "I think that's the first time I haven't woken up from one in a while. Molly always shakes me awake…" he purses his lips, going from thoughtful to sad in an instant, and you aren't sure if it's because of Molly, her usual gesture, or both. Your money's on both.

"Yeah, I guess," you shrug, not sure what else to say. "Ya seemed to sleep alright though." He nods, smiling a little again. God, you'd do anything for that smile.

And the two of you sit in general contentment again for a little while, his head moved to laying completely on your lap (but oh fuck that's still so great and you think that maybe your heart is going to fall out of your chest god dammit god dammit god dammit). He's making fun of you for your choice of channel, nagging you to get the remote and let him check the movie selection. Finally you give in, stretching your arm (you refuse to move this position, you'd never leave if you could) to retrieve it for him. "Just don't pick anything stupid."

And you expect him to pick City of Angels when it comes up on the menu, but he keeps searching, and you aren't sure for what, until one of the many editions of SB&HJ comes up and he selects it. You can't help but smile a bit, even when he makes fun of it excessively (of course he does, you wonder why not everyone does) and everything's going so perfectly, him picking yourmovie while laying in your lap, that you can't help but feel like this isn't just some stupid dream, one that's even worse than the nightmares because of the feeling you wake up with in the morning, when the place in bed beside you is empty.

But this is no dream, and yet you find no relief in that, because either way, it's going to draw to a close. As your movie ends, you think you can already see that time coming - no happiness to remain untainted.

"So I… about Molly."

You look down at him, seeing him staring straight ahead (in his position, this meaning your knee), and you want to pet his hair and lean down to kiss the top of his head, but you can't, because you know even this is almost too much, and you aren't about to overstep your boundaries any further.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I decided that… after four years of being married maybe, now would be a good time to tell her about the game?"

Oh God.

"And well I… haha, she didn't… take it well…"

Fuck, fuck, he didn't.

"Shit man. What happened exactly?"

"We were at the resort, being all lovey dovey and I was like," he shifts in your lap to curl up a little, a habit he has saying he's feeling less and less secure. "'So remember that thing from when I was younger I never told you about?' and she was so excited to hear! So I figured, y'know, it'd all go great, right?"

You nod, listening to the train about to wreck with a ball in your throat.

"And I did and she… didn't believe me, I guess?" he's laughing the most hollow, painful laugh and it cracks the edges of your heart. "So I told her she could ask any of you because, you all were there and that I was serious and all this was… really, super important to me." He's taking a deep breath, obviously working on his composure. "But when I said that, she said you guys probably brainwashed me or… something, I don't know, she was getting kind of, hysterical, if that's what you'd call it."

And he continues his story, but each little detail is terrible, hearing how she shied away and how he kept trying (and you'd never say this but you think that by doing that, he was pushing her away, and no matter how sweet she is or whatever, that was bound to happen. She just wasn't there.) and fuck you wish it didn't have to be like this.

But there's nothing you can do.

So you just hoist him back up and hold him as he begins to cry.