The Ninetieth Day of Dark: 5:00 PM: LOG 0052

Over time, the underground cave grows. Merchants, artisans, engineers, technicians. All sorts of people. As word of the continued survival of the Prospitian movement grows, so, too, does the size of the subterranean community. You'd once thought that having sixty rooms was excessive, but it's turned out that it's not enough!

New rooms are under construction, and there's a legitimate waiting list to live in the same space as Dave goddamned Strider.

Then again, you'd be the first to say that you're not quite sure why people do this. He's a normal person, aside from his health problems, he's the average human. You might even call him substandard. He's a bit dry when it comes to humor, and he's definitely not the sort of person that everyone can get along with.

Health-wise, Dave has remained fairly steady. He's neither improved, nor regressed. One problem is solved, another pops up. It's the most frustrating thing you've had to deal with, and it's not just because you mightlike Dave.

No.

Fine.

You like Dave.

You'll fucking admit it. After nearly an entire season of living with him—a season, during which you were supposed to kill him—you have to admit that you've fallen for the bastard. Rose knows this. And, since you told her first, Kanaya also knows. And, now, you're faced with two conundrums. You stillhaven't told him that you were initially hired to kill him. And, now, you have to figure out how the hell you're supposed to be romantic in a literal cave hell.

Everywhere you turn, there are people. Trolls. Carpacians. Argonians. Humans. Every species from the Galactic Alliance is in this cave, and they all seem to want nothing more than to meet Dave Strider.

And, to his credit, he's a gracious host. Even fourteen days ago, whilst battling (or, perhaps, a more apt description would be "beating the shit out of") a bout of some sort of strange human respiratory infection, he was more than happy to offer his time and advice. And, you have to admit that he's got linguistic skill. He knows how to say things, though, knowing him personally, he often uses this skill to say strange, incomprehensible bullshit.

As a whole, though, you're amazed. He might have appeared to be nothing more than a massive tool, but Dave Strider is smart. He has brains, and he's got skill. The fact that his face is damned nice to look at is only a bonus. The equivalent exchange-style takeaway is that he acts like a college frat boy most of the time. If he could stop being a foolhardy shithead for more than five minutes, he could have made it as a preacher or motivational speaker.

"Date me," you say aloud, pacing back and forth in your empty room. "No," you huff, addressing no one, except for yourself. "No. That's too straightforward."

You turn, set your hands on the stone surface of the carved-out vanity, and stare in the mirror mounted against the wall behind it. "Have you ever thought about us? Together?" For a few moments, this idea seems great. Then, you shake your head. "No! Fuck!" You're tempted to punch the mirror, but you know that will bring unwanted attention. (Living in a cave without doors sucks ass.) "Too vague."

Maybe you should go extreme? Just straight up kiss him. When you see him, just grab him by the shirt and pull him to you, and put your fucking clumsy-ass lips against his, which are so damned kissable that you knowthey'll deliver the perfect result. This idea is, quite possibly, the worst one yet.

A loud, frustrated groan escapes you. "I just want to fucking date you, you fucking twit!" you exclaim, spinning around to face—as if summoned by Satan—a confused-looking Dave Strider. Trolls don't blush. You know this. You remind yourself of this constantly. However, the color of a troll's horns will subtly shift towards their blood color. This isn't something that most humans notice; then again, Dave Strider isn't the average human; you wouldn't be surprised if he picked up on that sort of thing.

"Really?" Dave smirks. He quirks his brow. Clicking his tongue twice locks his chair in place, preventing him from accidentally hurling himself at random objects or people. (This was a later development, born from Dave being too impatient to pronounce around the retainer.) "That's really nice to know, dude." Again, he clicks his tongue. He pulls up beside you and waggles his brows. Clearly, he's prepared to annoy the shit out of you today.

"I'm going to fucking dump you onto the goddamned ground," you grumble, staring at your feet. At the far edge of your peripheral vision, you can see Dave's bright red shoes, which rest on the metal footplates of his chair.

"There are a few flaws in that logic." Dave inches closer to you, and the footplates gently bump against your shins. "First of all, that would probably kill me if you weren't keen on helping me plug back into the thing that literally breathes for me," he says this in a way that's half joking and half matter-of-fact. "Second, you'd have a whole lot of angry people raring to kick your ass afterwards. So, while I acknowledge that it would probably feel awesome as hell, I don't recommend it."

"Fine," you admit, folding your arms defiantly across your chest. "You might have a point. So, what?"

"Nothing." He shrugs. "I'm just saying. Also, if you want to know, I'll date you."

"Really?" you respond, flabbergasted by this development. "You're shitting me."

"Nope." Dave smirks, winks, and bumps your shins again. "You want to start with a kiss?"

"That a little forward. You know. Just a tiny fucking bit," you huff. Nonetheless, out of curiosity, you comply.

Thus, you can conclude this experience with at least one life lesson.

Dave Strider gives the best kisses on the entire goddamned planet. The absolute perfectkisses. It's unnatural how good he is at it, and you're almost certain it would take a decade to find someone to even rival him, much less beat him in that category.