Chapter Text
Your name is Dave Strider.
You're kind of impressed that you actually remember this, considering the intensity of the throbbing pain in your head. This is Christ-level shit; if some priest came along and found you like this you're pretty sure you'd be elevated to sainthood just for living through the sheer torture that is your hangover. Seriously. It's that bad.
Since you're courageous as all hell, you crack open one eye to brave the evil that is the sun. It burns your vision white for a minute, and when you're finally able to see, you notice you passed out on the couch. Again. You should really stop doing that; you're not twenty anymore and you don't need a back problem to keep your litany of other problems company. The TV's on mute and your son-- shit, that word stings, after eleven years you're still unable to wrap your head around fatherhood-- your son, Dirk, is sitting in front of it, watching something with too much science and not enough explosions.
"Morning," you grumble. You rub your eyes and attempt to sit up before flopping flat on your back again.
"Afternoon, actually," he says, not looking away from the TV. "Do you want me to make you Ovaltine or something?"
"Hair of the dog that bit me, and I'm pretty sure that particular mutt goes great with tomato juice. Had a hell of a pair of jaws on it too." You pause. "Afternoon?"
"Yeah." He stands up and goes into the kitchen, leaving you alone with his show. A robot with an uncannily human face smiles and waves at the camera while a couple Asian guys in labcoats talk. You wonder if you're still drunk because the subtitles don't make any damn sense. After a few seconds of blinking and squinting, you realize that's because they're not in English.
Dirk returns with your Bloody Mary, and you take a gulp as soon as it's in your hand, wincing at the taste.
"Thanks, bro." You jerk a finger at the TV. "Ain't that boring? You can't even understand what they're saying."
"Yes I can."
"What, you speak Chinese now?"
"Japanese." He purses his lips and your realize that you probably should have known that. "I've been studying it for the past year with Miss Megido. I'm almost fluent. Miss Megido says it's easier to learn languages when you're my age, because of how our brains are wired."
"All looks like Wingdings to me." You reach out to ruffle his hair. He does that thing where he tries to look superior and adult but just ends up pouting. "Robotics and bilingual? Next thing you know you're gonna be heading off to college."
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Miss Megido says she's considering moving me up to the eighth grade."
"You'll be top dog in a week flat. Ain't nobody cooler than a Strider, don't worry about those fourteen-year-old twerps messin' with you."
"She also says that I have to improve my social skills first, though. She says that I need to learn to 'relate to the other children on a peer level,' and that I can come off as 'a bit conceited and generally abrasive.'" His voice inflects on his teacher's words, diverging from his usual monotone enough that Dave can tell it's a quotation.
"Bitch."
Dirk shrugs. "She's alright," he says. He pauses, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Miss Megido also says that in the eighth grade my absenteeism won't be tolerated."
You raise an eyebrow, unable to answer with your mouth full of your drink.
"She says if I can make a friend and pick up my attendance rate by the end of the semester, she'll promote me."
"That's great, bro." You hold out your fist for a bunp, which he doesn't grant you.
"So, I'll need your help with that."
"'Course. Anything for you."
He just stares at you, and you feel kind of like you're missing something. What does he want from you?
"Don't look at me like that, dude. The fuck do I help you with school shit on a Sunday?"
"Monday."
"What?"
"Today's Monday. It's two in the afternoon on Monday."
You blink, going over last night--Saturday night-- in your memory. You'd gone out with your friends, had a couple beers, met a couple girls, and then, yeah. You don't remember much more, but you must have come home sometime around five AM and passed out on the couch.
You snort. "That shit ain't funny, dude, and it ain't cute. You're way too old for pranks like that."
"I'm not joking, Dave."
Dirk doesn't mess with you very often, and when he does, he owns up to it as soon as you remind him that adults don't act that way. Kid wants so hard to be grown up. You rub your temples, trying to remember more of last night, but you must have drank more than you can recall because you're drawing a blank.
"Did I come home Sunday?"
Dirk shakes his head. "I didn't really notice until it was late, though, since I was working on Brobot all day."
Shit. You really must have drank more than you can recall.
"Did you eat?" you ask.
"Yeah, Easy Mac. I do know how to work a microwave, believe it or not."
"Yeah, you're a regular fuckin' genius." You reach out to ruffle his hair again, but he darts away, pursing his lips and crossing his arms once he's out of arm's reach.
"Thanks to your nigh-comatose state, I missed school today. Again. If you can't drive me in the morning, we need to move somewhere with a bus stop. I can't miss this much school. I know you fucked off all your school years, but I actually want a future, so."
Ouch.
"Better call the fire patrol, that was a pretty hot burn there."
He scoffs. "Look, it doesn't matter to me if you go out Friday, Saturday night, whatever. Honestly, I could care less. I'm old enough that I can take care of myself on weekends. All I'm asking is that you be here, awake and sober, Monday through Friday at eight in the morning to drive me to school, and four in the afternoon to drive me back. It's not a Herculean feat, Dave. The other parents seem to manage it just fine."
"If you like the other kids' parents so goddamn much, why don't you go get yourself adopted?"
"Fuck you."
"Right back at you. That was out of line, and you know it," you say.
"I suppose you're right."
"Damn straight," you snap.
"After all, you'd know what not being on the line looks like. Nine days out of ten you can't walk in a straight one."
He turns on his heel and walks back to his bedroom before you can reply, and you're left with a half-empty glass and something that feels suspiciously like guilt.
Dirk doesn't confront you again, and in return you do your best to be a halfway-decent dad. You set the alarm on your phone for seven-thirty, and though you're usually sore and bleary, with a couple cups of coffee in you you're at least awake enough to drive him to his middle-school. Then you fall back asleep until your second alarm wakes you up at three-fifteen to go pick him up.
You manage this schedule for a whole two weeks before the alarm stops being enough to wake you up. Somehow, though, Dirk continues to get to and from school without your help. You ask him about it and he says that he made a friend, Jane, and he's getting rides with her now. When you ask him to elaborate, he says Jane's a seventh-grader, smart but not as smart as he is, and that her dad is very nice, doesn't drink but smokes like a chimney. You ask him if he likes her. He says sure, that if he has to have a friend she's an acceptable one. You ask him if he like likes her and he just shrugs noncommittally. He's becoming more of a teenager every day.
It's a few weeks later when the pamphlet shows up. It's sitting on your chest when you wake up that afternoon, ugly typography asking if you need help. There's a circle surrounding a triangle on the cover, and on the inside it's got a phone number, an address, and a list of twelve steps.
You're waiting for Dirk when the front door opens that afternoon.
"What the fuck?" You demand, brandishing the pamphlet. "Fuckin' AA? What the actual fuck, Dirk."
He doesn't say anything, just stares at his feet, but an unfamiliar voice answers you.
"I'm afraid that was my doing." The door's pushed open wider to reveal a man maybe ten years older than you, wearing a crisp white button-up and a matching fedora. "Dirk, would you go keep Jane company in the car? I'm sure she's lonely."
Dirk nods mutely and slips through the door, this stranger taking the opportunity to step inside.
"I'm Jane's father, if you hadn't deduced as much already. I assume you are Mr. Strider."
"Uh, yeah. Call me Dave."
"I'd rather not, if you don't mind." He looks you straight in the eye-- not an easy feat with your sunglasses in the way. "Mr. Strider, I have half a mind to skip this entire conversation and simply call CPS."
You want to drop your jaw, but you restrict yourself to a simple eyebrow raise. What.
"I was set to do so in the first place, but my daughter begged me not to. She said Dirk cares about you quite a lot, and despite my attempt at explaining that it would be for the best for him, she was adamant that I at least give you a chance. Luckily for you, I am a man incapable of refusing his daughter anything. So consider this your warning." He steps closer, not breaking eye contact. "Despite your son's refusal to admit your incompetence, it is clear as day that you are an unfit parent. After extensive probing-" You snort at his word choice and he raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me? After interrogating him thoroughly I managed to ascertain that as expected, your problem is alcohol. The over-consumption, of it, to be precise."
He clears his throat. "Mr. Strider, I am not unfamiliar with the subtleties of substance abuse. Somebody very close to me is also an alcoholic, but after an attempt to turn his life around with the help of the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, he has now achieved thirty consecutive years of sobriety."
Shit, you can't imagine going thirty days without a drink.
"I want you to go to AA. I had Dirk leave you a pamphlet with a phone number. Call it, and you will be given an itinerary of available meetings. I will be checking up on you."
You're still pretty shell-shocked. "Uh, what?"
"Furthermore, Dirk will be sleeping over with Jane until you attend your first meeting. If you find this displeasurable, I suggest you complain to Child Protective Services."
You frown. "Isn't that kinda inappropriate? Boy and girl rule, y'know."
He blinks. "My god, you really don't know your son at all, do you."
Before you can answer, he leaves.
You're not entirely sure what just happened.
You wait two days, sure that this white-bread suburban dad won't stand by his threat, but when the third day dawns with no sight of Dirk, you finally make the call.
"Hello, this is Seattle AA, how may I help you?"
You hang up.
You stare at the phone for a good fifteen minutes, trying to convince yourself to call again, but instead you find yourself calling Dirk's cell. (He made you buy it for him after the time you accidentally forgot him at a truck stop. He was nine. You were tipsy.)
The voice that greets you is not Dirk's.
"Hello, Mr. Strider."
"Oh. Uh. Hey, uh..."
"Mr. Crocker."
"Yeah. Jane's dad. I went to that meeting. Can I have my son back?"
"Poppycock."
"...What?"
Mr. Crocker sighs into the phone. "You're lying to me, Mr. Strider. I know for a fact you didn't attend one minute of a meeting. You most likely didn't even call the number I gave you."
"I did, actually."
"Very well, you may indeed have called the number."
"Look, I called, and I heard the schedule, and it's just not feasible. I'm too busy, and they all conflict. Okay? I tried, Jesus H. Christ."
"You're too busy to attend an hour-long meeting in order to reclaim your son?"
Shit. You hadn't known they were only an hour long. Now you look really bad. "Yeah, basically."
"That's a shame."
"Mhm."
"Especially considering Dirk tells me that you're unemployed."
Shit.
"I overheard him bragging to Jane that you made so much money off the series of movies you wrote and directed during your twenties that you are, apparently, 'set for life.' Or was he just exaggerating, as children are prone to do?"
You hit your forehead with the heel of your hand. You are the biggest fucking moron ever; it's you.
"Yeah, you know how Dirk can be," you say.
"Yes, I do. The question is, do you?"
"What?"
Mr. Crocker sighs again. "Never mind. Go to a meeting, Mr. Strider. Do not call again until you have done so. I am confiscating Dirk's cellular phone. Goodbye."
"Wait, don't-"
He hangs up on you.
You put off calling again for another day, and spend it getting as wasted as possible without leaving your apartment. Partway through you dial up some girl you know-- you honestly don't remember what she looks like, but you have her number programmed into your phone so you figure she's probably down to fuck. She's too high to drive and you're too drunk, so you end up having phone sex on the couch, and when you're finished and hang up you think how nice it is not to have the responsibility of taking care of your kid. You can basically do whatever you want now he's gone, and you scoff at thin air. Mr. Crocker can keep Dirk for all you care. You're fine without him.
Your phone goes off with the shitty ironic rap song you have programmed as your texting ringtone. You scramble to answer it and find your Pesterchum app blinking.
-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --
TT: Hey.
TG: su
TG: p
TT: Have you been drinking?
TG: ...,
TG: nno
TT: Right. Whatever.
TT: Mr. Crocker's at work, so I have my phone back for the moment. It was just laying in the drawer of his bedside table.
TG: wow lmae
TT: Clearly he was unaware that I've spent my eleven years sleuthing out the increasingly esoteric places you hide my Christmas presents. He might as well have just handed my phone to me.
TG: shit istill dont knwo how you fuond last years presnet youre pacticarly shelrock holms dude
TG: exept more hi techh with all your frekay robobotics shit youd be lik sehrlock 2.0
TT: If you don't mind, I'm going to sidestep what is sure to be a long-winded and completely ridiculous metaphor to explain my very simple strategy.
TG: aw mna that was gona be a good obe too
TT: My deepest apologies.
TT: You checked on the present at least once a day because you were paranoid that I'd discovered its location. All I had to do was covertly follow you and eventually you led me straight to it.
TT: Elementary, my dear Watson.
TG: alrihgt that makss sense but how thr hell did yu get all the wya up htere
TT: A man has to keep some of his secrets.
TG: yeha okay a man deios but a preteeen boy doersnt
TG: dish
TT: Never.
TG: do i haev tobeg
TG: im dwon on my kneeas
TG: i woludd even sayy pleasae
TG: but youer so ice col;d im afraod my phoene woudl freexe
TG: jeeeeeez
TG: uoure sucha t ease
TG: did you scarmable up som treess
TG: or laren to wok atrappeze
TG: i woundlt put it apst you if y ou can majke sense of jarpnaese
TG: no dor is barrde to yyo bro you ogt the keyus
TG: aynthign you wantt you can obtuian it wtuh easae
TT: Dave.
TT: Stop.
TG: i was runnnig out of siht that ryhyhmes with jnees anwtay
TG: triyngto figuer out hw to work peasa in htere
TT: I'll make a deal with you.
TG: im listerening
TT: I promise I'll tell you how I got up onto the roof, but I'll only do it in person. I can't have any random hacker discovering what is quite possibly the secret of the century. A secret to rival Nicolas Cage's discovery, a National Treasure the likes of which are unseen by the human eye. Excepting my own, of course.
TT: That means you'd have to actually go to a meeting though, as Mr. Crocker seems unlikely to retract his threat any time in the next... well.
TT: Ever.
TG: shti
TG: cant yu jsut sneak outor soemtyhing
TG: meert me ata taco belll adn revreal your holioest of holyy sercets htere
TT: No, it has to be in private.
TT: Besides, Mr. Crocker has installed a tracking chip beneath my skin. He has the front door all wired up and it gives me an electric shock whenever I attempt to leave the premises. He's torturing me, Dave. Can't you break me out of here?
TG: im rihhgt on tit ill pull an indioana jones siwng in ona rope an pull you aaway shotoing out the frnt door all in oen fell swop theyll writ ballards abut it dudee shitll be epci
TT: Haha.
TT: In all honesty though, it's pretty nice here. Mr. Crocker is a great cook and Jane has Dance Dance Revolution for the Wii. I'm living like a king.
TG: oh
TT: I miss Brobot and my toolbox, though. Mr. Crocker just doesn't have the materials I need in order to construct anything of interest. He knows how to make twelve different kinds of chocolate cake but has no idea what a Phillips screwdriver is.
TG: haha wahta fag
TT: Yeah.
TG: do yuo miss antyhing else tehn
TT: I have an inexplicable craving for Taco Bell and Domino's. It seems I can't just quit fast food cold turkey.
TG: its an addidctoion
TT: Yeah.
TT: Anyway, I have to go. Jane was taking a nap but I can hear her getting up.
TT: I doubt I'll get another chance to pester you anytime soon.
TG: ima big bouy i thnik ican hadnle it
TT: I'll see you around, then.
TT: Maybe.
-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --
It takes another two days of complete radio silence before you finally give up and make the call. One meeting won't kill you, probably.
The woman who answers the phone tells you that the next meeting is at six thirty that evening, and gives you an address that you program into your iPhone's GPS. When you drive up and see a church, you chicken out. You were never much for all that God shit-- most of your foster parents were Christians and they never seemed to like you much either-- but you see a few people out front smoking and you figure you can at least get out and have a cigarette before you drive all the way back to your apartment.
You nod to them when you light up. Two guys, looks like they're both in their fifties, maybe early sixties. One's got a pair of thick-framed glasses perched on his nose and a greying walrus mustache below it. The other's clean-shaven and is wearing an army jacket-- not the fashion-statement kind, but the genuine article. You think you might even see a bullethole on the shoulder.
"You here for the meeting, bud?" the mustached guy asks.
Before you can answer, the guy in the army jacket grumbles, "Shut the hell up, John. It's fucking obvious what he's here for."
"I'm not a drunk," you say.
"Sure you're not," Army Jacket says. "You're just here for the women's quilting group down the hall, you've got sewing guild written all over you. And you know what else is all over you? The smell of booze."
"I don't fucking need this," you snap.
"Yeah, you fucking do. I know your type. Somebody doesn't call you on your shit now, you'll keep your head up your ass sniffing it all evening long and you won't hear a goddamn word. I've seen too many punks like you come in and throw away their chance at recovery not to recognize the signs."
"Whatever, gramps. Your onsetting dementia is clearly making you forget one vee aye eff very important fact: you don't fucking know me." You stub your cigarette out in the ashtray. "See you around."
"The only place I'll be seeing you is laying in the gutter. You're fucked, asshole!" Army Jacket calls after you as you walk away. "It's probably for the best that you're bailing out now before anybody gets attached to you because I doubt you're even going to be able to put thirty days together, judging by the size of your ego."
You stop to give him the finger but feel a hand on your shoulder. You turn to see Mustache (John?) smiling at you.
"Don't let him scare you away, bud," he says. "He can be kind of a dick but he's a good guy really."
"Don't bother. He was just on his way out. He's too much of a pussy to stay," Army Jacket says.
"Actually," you say. "I was just locking my car. Wouldn't want some drunk to steal it while I'm in there getting my recovery on." You pointedly ignore Army Jacket as you turn your key in the lock and walk past him through the church doors and into the meeting room. You'll fucking show him. Him and Mr. Crocker both.