Dave
You had one arm through a sweater sleeve when the impatient—and unwelcome—guest knocked briefly, before entering the house. It was Dave, a friend of yours who you hadn’t seen in a long time. His hair was still the same shade of bleached blonde, glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and a firm line drawn taught where an expression would be.
However, that expression quickly changed when he looked over at you, as in your panic you stopped fighting with the sweater to instead just shove your arm through the available arm hole and fight it into place. It was bundled and curled tightly around your head, neck, even keeping one of your arms up at a rather uncomfortable angle.
“H-Hey Dave!” You called from inside the sweater beast, an attempt to be chipper and distract yourself from the fresh scratches you had made and their slightly scary burning.
“Uh, hey.” Dave responded. “It all up and profitable in sweater town for you in there? Some kind of twisted ass reverse mortgage on your own face? You in deep to the crochet mob?” He asked, his words only partially making their way through the thick wooly fabric.
“No, Just a little wardrobe malfunction!” You tried to wave you hands reassuringly only to have them get further caught in the fabric. It made Dave smirk, almost laughing from the way you struggled to fight the piece of fabric that wasn’t even trying to attack you.
“Let me help you out of there,” He said, stepping towards you when you took one back.
“Nonono!!” You said, much too quickly. “I-I’m fine! You can go, if there was no real reason for your visit!” You said with a voice on the very edge of shattering into confused tears.
“______,” He spoke, taking another step towards you. You took another one back, Dave couldn’t find out. Dave couldn’t know, he would make fun of you, or even worse say nothing and never come back again.
The two of you continued this awkward shuffle of a strife until you moved to take another step back and tripped over the small ledge that lead to your couch. You yelped, falling back as a strong wrist latched onto your own.
“Be careful,” Dave said, “If the crochet mob really wants you then the last thing I need is them coming after me for letting you hit your head and die or something.” He said, helping you to stand back up. He let go of your wrist, and went to wipe his hand on his shirt when he noticed what he thought was sweat, was actually blood. It was your blood. “Oh shit ______, you’re fucking bleeding.” He said, his voice only growing slightly louder than the monotone you remember it being permanently set at before.
“I-It’s nothing," You said, hoping Dave would believe you and just leave. Fat fucking chance of that happening. This Strider was too much of a gentleman to leave you if you were injured.
“Hold still ______, I’m gonna cut off your sweater.” Dave said as calmly as he could, the fabric was no use in him determining exactly what was going on in here. He had wanted to check in, make sure you were doing okay, which you clearly weren’t. Equipping his welsh sword, he made a clean slice and you felt the fabric restricting your movement fall to shreds. You reflexively felt your hands move to shield your face.
Your partially bandaged forearms and bleeding scratches only were shown off this way though, and Dave took in a sharp breath at the sight.
“______?” He asked quietly, as you started to shake, afraid of how your friend would react to your scars. “I’m so fucking sorry.” He spoke quietly, stepping close and wrapping his arms around you. “I’m so fucking sorry I haven’t been here for you.” He muttered, disappointed in himself.
You first tensed under his touch, before relaxing. He still felt the same as he did what felt like so long ago now. His smell had changed, but he was still the same Dave you had fallen hard for. The glasses, the AJ obsession, it was your Dave. And just being embraced like this, you couldn’t help but cry into his warmth, balling your first with handfuls of Dave’s shirt. He was so goddamn familiar, a beacon of consistency in this changing and horrifying world.
“I’m not gonna leave you, not like this.” Dave spoke into your hair, still holding you tight. “We need to get you cleaned up though," He said, “Shuffle our way to the bathroom?” He offered, as you kept your grip on his shirt.
You didn’t respond, and Dave took matters into his own hands. Carefully, Dave lifted you up into his arms and with a little help from you—who was pressed against his chest the whole damn time—Dave set you down the toilet lid to grab a first aid kit and cover up some of your more avid scrapes. You couldn’t really look at him though, just watch his calloused fingers dart across your skin to cover and treat the more serious injuries. You could’t really say anything now, your voice gone and mind following close behind. It was nice though, feeling important. Feeling like someone cared.
“You’re not allowed to do this shit anymore, alright? I find out bout any more of this and I’m flying so graciously off the handle I’ll get perfect tens across the board and a solid nine point five from the stick-up-his-ass Russian critic.” Dave spoke, his voice somehow both comforting and worrisome. After a few minutes, you reached out and delicately grabbed the back of Dave’s shirt as he was putting away the first aid kit.
“Yeah?” He seemed to ask.
"Thank you.” You replied, voice hoarse and eyes tired.
“Just tell me whenever you wanna do something like this, I’ll be over in a flash with some shitty swords or a Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff comic to take your mind off it.” Dave promised, reaching down to pick you up again. You let him, and directed him to your bedroom. He laid you down, before laying down beside you. You must have spooked him seriously, normally he wouldn’t want to be in such close sleeping quarters with someone else, but this time he laid right down beside you.
“Not letting you out of my sight.” He said, shades still on and hair a mess.
“Thanks Dave.” You murmur, before closing your eyes for the night. Just before you pass out, you feel a pair of warm lips press against your own. He said something you couldn’t quite get, three little words, and you murmured them back before getting your first real night’s sleep in a long time.