silph_co | if we can call them friends then we can call them on their telephones

The thing about Jack letting himself into the lab is that as soon as Dirk made it clear he didn't want to talk, Jack didn't fucking talk to him.

He just worked, in silence, until he left again.

Fine.

The thing about Steven letting himself in--

Dirk's voice echoes from somewhere in Lapras' long, mostly functional neck. It's metallic from his surroundings and bitter in the way metal is.

"What in the good goddamn makes you think I want to talk about that? Just asking. Before you go any further with this."

Steven shrugs. "I don't think you do. I don't care. You should just know that we all saw the security footage leak--everyone that actually matters and all the useless mooks that don't."

He's quiet for a moment before he adds, "I brought you supper. You might as well come out and eat it."

Steven's... everything is met with resounding silence from the inside of the Lapras. It's the sound of Dirk staring at the wires and processing the renewed intensity of his own hate-filled and hate-fuelled feelings about this kind of intrusive contempt for and indifference to his decisions.

There is also the fact that he has been living on room temperature protein shakes, fish jerky, and cup noodles for the past however many days. Steven isn't the first person in Dirk's life to do this, to trample over what he's made explicitly clear but couching it in the guise of necessity, if not outright 'good intentions.'

At least (and he does mean 'least') he can rest assured that Steven isn't even pretending to give an actual fuck about that angle.

"I don't give a fuck," he says finally and clearly. Or as clearly as an echo chamber can be.

"Yeah, that much is obvious," Steven says disdainfully. "Well, there's rice, gravy, egg, and room temperature orange soda when you want it."

And then he walks about ten feet away, until he finds something resembling something to sit on and he sits, pulling out a pocket paperback of A Feast For Murkrows and opening to his makeshift bookmark.

He sits and waits.

Dirk's face twists into an ugly grimace, lip curling and the corners of his mouth turning down sharply. He can make expressions like that in private, where Steven can't see him and know just how much he detests this.

He doesn't expect to hear Steven leave from where he is. He doesn't even know how the man got in because Steven's timing fucking sucks.

There's no way to guarantee Steven's gone, so he ignores the 'offer' for a while, ignores the time he's spending 'ignoring' the offer, and ignoring the time he's ignoring, and so on.

But after a certain point his determination not to have his decision of when he stopped work because of Steven loops back around from staying put because he didn't want to stop because of Steven to staying put because he didn't want to leave because of Steven Durante.

The problem isn't just that he can't hear Steven, though, it's that he can't Hear him. He's never stopped missing the omniscience of having the narrative dictation of canon and reality beamed directly into his brain all the time.

Eventually--

When's eventually? Minutes? Hours?

Who gives a fuck.

--he rappels down the inside of the Lapras' neck at a speed that more closely approximates a straight drop, which probably makes some interesting noises and definitely warns Steven of Dirk's progress before he drops out from behind a flipper to land on his feet.

'And there he is' is a sentence that could be written by either author at that moment. From Dirk's perspective, that's the second thought. The first thought is he brought a book.

The third thought is an internal recognition of both resentment and dread.

Externally, Dirk's face is stone. And if Steven's looking for open wounds, he'll be disappointed; the skin next to his tattoo is sutured tight with some black thread.

But be it 'work' related or merely circumstantial, Dirk's hair is pretty dishevelled, so he's clearly been in there a while.

Long enough to have already finished the chapter he'd been on, not long enough to have finished the book. Steven looks up at him.

"Food's there still," he says, calmly. Collectedly. Like he hasn't been waiting for Dirk to leave his robot. Like the first thing he'd done upon getting in hadn't been to tell Dirk that the security footage had been leaked and that he'd been an ass in it. "I haven't touched it since I set it down. And-- you're going to have to add another thing to your list. Ghostbuster, Voltron, My Little Pony, Homestuck... and. Uh. Ranma 1/2."

Dirk was fully prepared for a confrontation, for accusations, a reckoning.

It was always one of two things, if not both--the first, 'what the fuck were you thinking,' is so old it's on dial-up. The second, 'we just want to help,' newer and worse.

But Steven can literally see the hesitation in Dirk's step as he falters at 'Do you remember that martial arts rom-com from the 1980s.'

His thick brows furrow up over his shades, the rest of his expression unhelpfully static.

"Don't fuck with me."

"I'm not," Steven says, quite seriously. "Look. I checked in with Connie first, yesterday, and her new traveling companion is Akane fucking Tendo." He slides his book back into his coat pocket, the runs a hand through his hair. "Though it took me a second to connect the dots. It's been a long time since I watched or read much Ranma--but back in the day, it was kind of inescapable in North American anime fandom."

"One of the first big hits that wasn't totally rewritten in adaptation for a Western audience," Dirk confirms, though his brows have knitted together at the mention of Connie. Not in surprise or offence; it only makes sense that Steven checked in with Connie first. Dirk would have been a little disgusted if he hadn't.

So she's hit the road.

Running away? Is that any better?

Enough.

It doesn't matter.

He's more than a little disgusted with himself for having wasted time thinking about it.

"You're sure it's her?"

"I'm sure," Steven confirms. "She's popped up on the public network already and I was able to get a good look at her face. It's-- different to translate something you only saw as a drawing to, you know, flesh and bones, so it took me a while, but... it's her. Connie went on and on about their little adventures together and she dropped all kinds of little tidbits about Akane that, uh, added up. Like how she distrusts men and that she's a fighter and shit like that. So yeah. Yeah, I think it's her. And, uh, in another thing on the public network she mentions Ranma, Ryouga, Mousse, and Shampoo, so..."

He sighs and runs his hand through his short hair again and says, "So. When Connie's finally talking to you again--you're not going to tell her that her new best friend is from a manga, right? Because I don't think that's something she could deal with."

Dirk makes such a face at Steven it's almost out of the bounds of his rigid characterisation; in an ideal universe, Steven might remember the symbolic and minimal way Homestuck's characters are traditionally rendered. Of course, this is far from the ideal universe. So there's a very good chance the weird face Dirk is making at him looks better suited to a situation in which Steven had jammed a live sea cucumber in Dirk's mouth.

Then again, maybe that's just the way Dirk feels about Steven's conscious assumption that he and Connie will exchange words ever again. Or that Connie will ever credit Dirk for anything but a scoundrel and a creep.

"I don't think that's going to matter," he deadpans even as his voice ices over.

"But I ain't told no one yet. It's not what I do."

"You told me," Steven points out. Then, a moment later, "Only after I revealed knowing what Homestuck is. Okay. Yes. Fine. The point is-- God, I'm not entirely sure I know what the point is." He runs his hand through his hair again, a nervous gesture. "She's doing, okay, by the way. Connie is. Better than she could be. Traveling with Akane's good for her, at least."

"I didn't ask," Dirk replies callously. "Great. Good for her."

Internally, he commends himself for his restraint in not sighing--or saying anything more provocative.

"I'm sure they're just perfect for each other. What I'm not certain of is what conversation you're trying to have here, but I'm telling you now I'm only interested in one of them."

Steven rolls his eyes. "Whatever," he says. "It's not like you both weren't idiots in your own special ways, especially with how you jammed your entire leg down your throat like that.. Just-- fuck, I don't know. You going to be okay in the long run?"

He's not going to ask about in the short term. That's kind of obvious.

Dirk makes another face, this time like he's stepped in something rancid.

He's been making a lot of faces here for Steven's edification, a veritable one-man variety show.

"You really think I give a shit that I made a teenage girl sad? Or pissed her off enough to stab me? Is that what you think the problem here is?"

Steven scowls. "I was assuming, given that she was your protege, that you actually did give a shit about Connie, yeah."

"God damn but you are absolutely terrible at listening to a single thing I actually say."

He crosses his arms over his chest, very purposefully refrains from scowling--but his tone and demeanour are still about as forgiving as sandpaper.

"I said," he begins--and when Dirk slows down like that, both his clipped enunciation and his drawl get stronger.

"Do you for one second think I feel fucking sorry I made her cry."

It's a yes or no question, Steven.

He can't make a choice-based UI function to narrow it down for you so you'll have to figure it out yourself. But then, usually they call it a brain.

"And you're an extremely literally minded asshole," Steven retorts. "Enough that it makes every goddamn conversation with you a chore. I. Have. No. Fucking. Clue. Okay? This isn't about if you give a shit about what you did, this is going to be if you think you're going to be a functional human being at some point. Because that would be good to know, given your current turn for the recluse."

"Ah. There. See, here's the thing. I do care about what I did." His expression doesn't change at all, and he completely ignores Steven's bitchy preamble in its entirety. But hey, it's an answer, right?

Or was.

"But enough about that," he uncrosses his arms, waving his left hand to the side as though closing a window on a particularly sci-fi invisible touch screen.

"I'm already 'functional.' I'm getting loads of work done, in fact. I mean, look at this thing. The percentage of this project I can call complete is ticking upwards of 90%. Whether or not I'm feeling sociable is irrelevant, especially right now everyone wants to crawl up my asshole and die there."

Now his scowl returns.

"If, however, this is about me being human, I don't know that was ever the case. Maybe in a nominal sense, but now?"

He doesn't wait for Steven to answer before shutting any attempt to answer down.

"It doesn't matter."

Steven rolls his eyes as Dirk explains his supposed functionality and is about to tell him that just because he can still work doesn't mean he's functional in other ways--but then Dirk says his bit about not being human and--

Well. It's not like Steven is unfamiliar with the sensation of feeling cut-off from humanity, even before El Pecador's basement. Of feeling other, alien, a monster. He's always had some idea of what's inside him, after all.

He sighs. "Fine. Whatever. Just-- you're not a robot, Dirk."

"No," Dirk agrees. His tone evens out, though his jaw remains tight. "You're right about that."

Historically, the point of comparison between Dirk and his robots, or any robot, has been a bit loaded. Not unlike a gun. Not to mention a bit contentious.

Steven stopped reading long before he would know any of it.

"I'm the machinist."

After a moment, Steven nods. "Well--controlling vessels outside yourself is kind of your thing, isn't it?" he says, wearily. "Robots and smuppets and all that shit." A terrible thought occurs to him. "You-- haven't made a giant robot smuppet, have you?"

No. Wait. Focus, Steven Durante.

"Look. I don't know if that's your way of saying your flesh is merely a vessel or not. But you know. It's the only one you've got here. Eat. Drink your warm soda."

"Fuck no. The point of a smuppet is the plush. That soft, alluring felt outside imprisons a dense, yielding mass of felt and foam. You stuff that ass so tight it feels like it's gonna burst right up until that last stitch.... but once you tie it off, you can bounce a coin off it and that red cent ain't going nowhere. Shit, it might just settle in for a nice nap."

The very idea of a smuppet that is anything but 100% pornographically provocative plush pal--all perky posterior and friendly facial phallus--is offensive, that's what it is. It's offensive.

He does, however, swipe the plate and actually take a moment to just savour the smell. Which might or might not be a moment to recompose himself after that mental digression. Which was itself only a distraction while he worked around the the other thing.

Before he puts the first bite in his mouth, he has to issue a correction.

"The body is one of many vessels. The flesh is a material limitation." He raises the spoon.

"Not all of those are physical."

Now he eats.

But while he chews, his mental gears are still turning, still thinking about flesh and plush and vessels and puppets. It's less stringent when he speaks again. Clarifying.

But the expression around his shades remains harsh.

"Consciousness is also a vessel. Perception is a limitation on consciousness. There are others."

"I mean, it's not my personal fetish," Steven says, finally. "But since it's yours, I'll believe you. As for the rest of it... what are the others?"

Is he... is he indulging you in your bullshit, Dirk, and actually listening to you expound about this shit?

He is. Will you look at that.

"Other limitations, or other vessels? It's not a definitive list. There could be one, maybe. I could make one. But it wouldn't--"

He's thinking out loud. He can hear it, and he stops abruptly and returns to inhaling the food with a renewed intensity. He doesn't actually finish the thought until he's thoroughly tracked down every last scrap of egg, sopped it up with rice, and eaten it.

"Me saying it won't hold water--not unless something changes in a big way," he concludes at long last. It comes out grim, and there's a truth to that, one that leaves a sour taste in his throat.

"I'm... cut off." He hates the way it sounds coming out of his mouth, hates the way it feels to say it, hates the dull feeling of his thoughts as they run up against an invisible wall, the emptiness of where more should be. The other emptiness, vast and silent, where the words should have been. And his words, and so his Word.

This is why any list he made off the cuff would be incomplete. Missing that essential element of canonocity. He cannot know, or say, and so his heap of ideas, however finely assembled, would only ever be just that. And so too would it be ever haunted by the ghost of more.

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image is from the live action adaptation

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oh here we go

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Sorry for delay.... rough brain week (ironic?)

Re: Sorry for delay.... rough brain week (ironic?)

Cuts out like 1/3 of this tag to let poor Steven speak

thank dirk. thirk.

This tag is purposefully confusing sorry Steven