Work Text:
"I don't know how the fuck you managed to get a hold of alcohol in the game."
"Pssh," says Roxy. "Psssshhhh. Do you know who you're talking to?"
She's leaning up against you on the floor of your bedroom, impossibly sweet like this. Her eyes are drooping and she's leaning against you, head tucked against your shoulder.
"You don't have to take care of me, you know," says Roxy. "I learned how to do that on my own."
"And that's precisely why I want to," you say, and that's when Roxy starts to cry.
When her face crumples it rips something in you apart. "Shh," you say. Her hair is gritty with ash and dust. You comb it out, one strand at a time. "I know, I know."
"S'not fair," she mutters. "Why d' we get the short end of the paternical - parental - stick?"
"In exchange for our superior intelligence and stunning good looks."
Roxy snorts. Her nose is running so you wipe her face with your sleeve, which should be gross, but -
But well, it's Roxy.
"Miss her," she says.
"Yeah," you say. "Me too."
You're trying not to think of him, his stupid glasses and shitty comics and how he read you bedtime stories and taught you how to fight.
You wonder if he'd be proud of you or if he'd be ashamed of this boy who hides behind AIs and robots and stiff vocabulary and who is too much of a coward to say what he feels.
He was so much better than you.
"Aw shit," says Roxy, groping at you face with clumsy fingers. She rubs at your eyes. "Now I got you started."
"It's fine," you say. "Things were just - much easier before."
Roxy bumps her forehead against yours. "Hey, hey," she says. "You know how much he loved you."
You wish you could hold back the little choked sound that comes out of you then. Fuck, you hope so.
"Strider," says Roxy.
"Yes, Lalonde?"
"You wanna distaction?"
"Yes please."
She slumps against you. "Think 'm gonna hurl."
"Oh thank God," you say.
You drag Roxy to the bathroom, prop her against the toilet, hold her hair back as she vomits. "I hate this," she says, wiping off her mouth.
"I know," you say. "Fuck, I know."
She lets you brush her teeth, she's so limp you don't know how much longer she'll be able to stand.
"I love you," she says, to your reflection in the mirror. "n a way. I dunno."
"Yes," you say, lifting a glass of water to her lips. "I know."
"When're you gonna tell Jake?" she asks.
"I don't know. Soon. I don't know."
She pats your cheek. "If he turns you down he is super stupid and you will have to just come and tell me n' then we can cry over feelins and stuff, ok?"
Roxy is messy and young and so very lonely, but she tries, she tries so hard. You don't think anyone else has ever tried so hard for you.
She trips back into the bedroom. "Let's dance," she says, slipping her arms over your shoulders.
You hold her waist, and Roxy folds herself against you, head buried in your shoulder. She's humming something as you shuffle around, a middle schooler's slow dance.
"I would do anything for you, you know," you say.
Roxy tips her head up. "Right back atcha distri."
You kiss her forehead, and she yawns.
"Bed now," you say.
"Ooh, Mr. Strider, are you tryin to seduce me?"
"Yes."
She yawns again. "Oh, okay."
Roxy collapses onto your bed, and you slip her shoes off, and her socks.
"Do you wanna wear a different shirt? That one looks like hell?"
It's streaked with dust and blood. You don't know whose blood.
"Dirk I think you're movin a little fast. I am an innocent woman - girl - thing."
You dig a t-shit out of your closet, and toss it at her. She stares at it in befuddlement, as if she's forgotten what sleeves are. "Oh God," you say. "Arms. Up."
Roxy sticks her arms up, and you slip her shirt off. "This is v v naughty Mr. Strider. I'm gonna tell AR."
"Okay," you say, and pull your shirt down over her head. Her hair gets caught in the collar, ruffles up.
"Are yer pervy fantasies satisfied?" she asks, laying down. "Can I go to sleep now?"
"Yes," you say. "Sweet dreams."
You suppose you could work on updating one of the 'bots. Or perhaps travel back outside and work on slaying more imps. And it's been a while since you pestered Jane, you really ought to make sure she's playing properly.
"Hey," says Roxy. "Get back over here."
"What?" you ask. "What is it now?"
She pulls back the covers, and pats the spot next to her. "Get in you supig - stupid - dude. Can't go galvan - gallivanting off until you get sleepytimes. Doct'rs orders."
"Roxy, I should probably -"
"I'm not even gonna be sleepy until you get over here," she says, splaying her hand against the sheets. She winks at you. It is the worst wink possible. "No homo."
"Okay," you say. "Sure."
Your shoes and socks come off too, and you lay down next to her. Roxy wraps herself around you, and you try to do the same back, even though it means you're pretty sure your head is in her armpit.
You've never gotten to do this before. Be this close to someone else. Smell their sweat, and their worn-down perfume, and hear the beginnings of snores come out of their mouth, and stroke their hair and nudge their nose with yours and know that they are yours, in a way, and you're theirs.
"You're gonna be okay Dirk," says Roxy. "Ok? So go to sleep."
You ache for more of this, though you shouldn't. You feel so desperate and sharp and tiny, all of five years old and wanting so bad for your brother to pick you up and put you on his shoulders. You've prided yourself on self dependence for so long and now all of that's crumbling away, drink by drink by slurred sentence.
"Don't leave me, okay?"
In some ways, it's the hardest sentence you've ever had to say.
"You are soooo silly," says Roxy. "C'mon. We stick together. Team le sign, kk?"
"All right," you say.
"You can't get rid of me. I'm gonna lock you up in my secret lab and make you beta my wizzerd slash, it's gonna be hardcore."
"You'll be the death of me," you say.