Chapter Text
Your name is Dave Strider, and you're going to fucking die.
There's a demon somewhere in the building, your bro said. He grinned at you, and you didn't flinch even though the look on his face made you feel like he was about to take a swing at you. You're gonna go in and kill it. Or, y'know, not. Maybe. It's up to you, lil' man.
What about you? you asked him. Never mind that questions usually earn you bruises or worse. You didn't want to walk into that damn place. It was abandoned, c'mon, if there's a demon here it's not hurting anyone, there's a couple hundred demons that're actual threats...
I'll be keeping an eye on you, he said. Too quiet. Like he was covering up a laugh, like this whole thing was funny. Gotta see if my lil' bro can handle a solo job, right?
...yeah. Fine. See you in a while, then.
And you checked that your weapons were where they should be, and you walked in. Now? Now you're screwed.
There's something in here, yeah, but you don't have a damn clue where it is. Or what it is, really—Bro called it a demon, but he's used that word for all kinds of things you two have had to kill: vampires, shapeshifters, halfblood fae, actual true demons...
This isn't helping.
"I fucking hate this stupid dark shit..." you mumble, trying to keep your back to a wall. Not that you know where the wall is. For all you know, you're backed up against a door and the thing's about to yank it open and rip you apart.
"That makes two of us," someone says. Not your bro.
Fuck.
You grab for your sword, decide that the demon's probably out of range for that, and pull the gun that you absolutely hate using instead. It won't even kill most demons (or other supernatural creatures) but it'll make the actual kill a hell of a lot easier.
"I see you, asshole," you growl, aiming in the approximate direction of the voice. (You do not, in fact, see him. You can't see anything. Damn.)
"Really?" Great, now he sounds like he's laughing at you. Understandable, since now that he's talking again you can tell that you're pointing your weapon the wrong fucking way. "Good for you, but—"
You reorient and pull the trigger.
He's still talking when the ringing in your ears dies down a little. "—so either you don't actually want to blow a fucking hole in me or you were lying before. That, or I'm a lucky fucker."
Wait. He knows where you are now, he had to have seen the muzzle flash even if he can't see in the dark. Oh, fuck. You need to move—
You have enough time to think that. Then someone grabs your wrist and twists hard enough that you're almost sure bones snap, snatching the gun away.
So fucking embarrassing, you think. Shot with my own weapon. Bro won't even bother claiming my fucking body—
Then you hear the distinct sound of a firearm clattering to the floor, and there's two hands on you instead of one. He doesn't even try to go for your blades, though—just puts more pressure on your already-sore wrist and pulls, one leg sweeping your feet out from under you.
The back of your head hits the concrete floor as the demon's knees drive down onto your chest. Concussion. Cracked ribs. God, but you hate that you can catalogue this shit.
"Get off—" you hiss as soon as you can gasp in a shallow breath.
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up." Claws dig into your throat (shit shit shit please no) and are gone almost immediately, leaving a sting of bright red pain there. You're bleeding, but not much. Not yet. "What the fuck are you supposed to be—bait? Food?"
Fuck. "I'm your fucking death, asshole." You spit the words out to cover up the fact that you're fucking terrified right now.
He laughs. A hand dips into your pockets, hunting through them as you squirm and try unsuccessfully to buck him off. "Fucking hunters. You're all overdramatic pieces of shit, you know that?" He finds what he's looking for and sits back just a little, all of his weight still on you, but on your stomach instead of your chest.
When the flashlight clicks on you yelp and squeeze your eyes shut. It's too fucking bright—the only impression you get of the guy holding you down is a flash of pale skin and enormous red and black eyes.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, very softly. "You are bait. You're a fucking kid, what the hell?"
"Shut up!" He's got one of your hands pinned down; you swing at him blindly with the other one. Even with your eyes closed you see the flashlight swing and spin as he drops it to catch your wrist. "I've killed you fuckers before, asshole, I'm not—"
He squeezes your wrist. It's the one that he may or may not have broken already, and you stop talking and struggle to hold back a scream.
"You have, haven't you?" He just sounds curious, and you risk opening your eyes again.
Again, you're drawn to his fucking eyes. They're round and surprised, dark pupils huge enough to swallow up normal irises. Not that his are normal—as far as you can tell, he doesn't have sclera, just shifting shades of brighter and darker red.
"Huh." He tilts his head slightly, not enough to break eye contact. "You're too fucking innocent for this shit."
"Fuck you." It's a whisper. You're not even sure you're the one talking.
"Get yourself a fucking incubus if that's what you want."
"Get off me." C'mon, Dave, put some force behind that. Don't just ask him politely; that won't do a damn thing.
"That won't get me out of this shithole, now will it?" The demon shakes his head, claws tracing along your neck again.
Wait. That means he's not holding me—
"No, I'm not holding you. You still won't hit me." He sounds so fucking confident, and even though he's running his fingers across the scratches he already made, he's right. He's fucking right. You can't hit him. You can't fucking move. "I'm not about to kill you, believe it or not."
"Get off me."
"You sound like a fucking broken record."
"My brother's going to take you apart, asshole."
He blinks at that, and you feel whatever's holding you back from trying to hurt him flicker for a second. Just a second, though—not enough to do anything about it. "Your brother." Coming from him, the word sounds like a curse. "So he's the one who set this shit up."
"He didn't set anything up."
"You don't know anything."
"What?" The flashlight's a little bit away from your hand; you reach out and grab it, aiming it up at his face. Maybe you want him to flinch. That doesn't happen; all he does is blink again and reach up to shade his eyes for a moment as his pupils shrink down.
He's cute, you think. Those eyes are strange but pretty, and his face is the perfect shape to frame them, with curly red hair that goes so fucking well with that pale skin. He called you a kid, but he doesn't look older than around seventeen himself. Then you think, fuck, what's wrong with me?
"I mean, I don't know if it's something wrong with you, but I can think of a couple wrong things here." He shifts to kneel straddling your stomach, rather than keep his weight on you, and you can't help but sigh in relief.
Which is blotted out by anger as you realize that he's just responded to something you didn't say again. "Get the fuck out of my head!"
"You're the one in my head, fuckass—you quit talking and I'll stop eavesdropping." The demon punctuates the sentence with a long, low snarl, and you have to force yourself to not flinch back. "Listen."
"No, fuck you—"
"Listen to me." The words have an echo, one that you don't hear with your ears. "I don't want to kill you."
"Yeah, right."
"Your fucking brother knocked me out and trapped me here. If I had a fucking choice, I'd be somewhere where you stupid ass-headed hunters can't pin anything on me." He touches your face, this time, and you can see that his nails are just that—not claws, just long-ish nails. You've seen women with more dangerous-looking manicures. "But no, you've got a brother who's the darkest motherfucker I've ever tasted, who decided he had to round me up like a fucking animal, send you in here to get killed—"
"That's not what he's doing!" Okay, now you can shout at him. Drown out what he's saying, even though some part of you is nodding in agreement. "I'm supposed to kill you, he sent me in here to kill you, it's—it's..."
He leans forward and lays a warm finger across your lips. "Shush. You'll have him in here if you scream like that."
"Good. Let him kill you." And probably beat me half to death for ending up in this fucking position.
"Wow, so you're willing to let him hurt you just as long as I die."
"Stop doing that!"
"Can't help it." The demon shrugs; his eyes narrow as he leans down to put his face even nearer yours. "Do you want to kill me?" His teeth are even whiter than his skin, sharp and too fucking close to your throat right now. "I haven't hurt you. I'm not interested in hurting you. I just want someone to break the circle around this place and let me leave."
Because you're a fucking coward, you close your eyes. "There's no goddamn circle."
"Oh, there is. Lucky humans just can't see it." Both of his hands are on your chest now, pressing down lightly enough that it doesn't hurt. "This entire place smells like him—corrupt, evil; I can fucking taste how much he wants to hurt us."
"You. He wants to hurt you."
"Both of us," he says again, and laughs. There's a bitter note in it. "Your blood remembers hundreds of times it escaped your body because of something he did. He wants me to die, but he wants you to be hurt."
Fuck.
"I found a nerve, didn't I?" He brushes his fingertips across your cheek again, but this time you snap the hand that's not holding the flashlight up and grab his wrist.
"Shut up." When you open your eyes, he doesn't look as scared as you expect. Curious, maybe. "You don't know him. You don't know me. You don't know anything—"
"Shush." His free hand traces up your ribs, and you flinch, but you find that you can't bring yourself to strike him. Those fucking eyes, you think, and he nods. "Mhm. There's a reason they're the windows to the soul; everybody knows that, right? But here. How deep was the cut? Was this the one he sewed up, to show you how to give yourself stitches, or did you do it?"
"I fucking hate you." You're lying. The demon's voice is too soft and sympathetic for you to actually hate him. Plus...he's right. He can't possibly know about training sessions and killing lessons that your brother's been putting you through almost since you were old enough to walk, but he does know. "You're wrong."
His eyes change. The red nuances shift in a pattern that you instinctively recognise as sorrow. "He'll kill you. Or he'll keep you like some kind of fucking beast, just so he can keep getting off on having you hurt and scared."
He doesn't scare me, you mean to say. Or, He doesn't hurt me.
Something else completely comes out, in a tone rough enough that you can barely recognise your own voice. "So I fucking hope for the former and expect the latter. It's not rocket science."
...shit, I didn't say that. No. Not out loud. Not to a demon.
"You did say it." His lips curve up in a smile that's not reflected in his eyes. "Say something else."
"...what?"
"It's simple." He leans down further, pressing his face into the side of your neck. You can feel sharp teeth brush against your skin as he whispers, but he doesn't draw blood. "Ask for my help. 'Help me.' Just say that. Let me take the fucker down, okay?"
No. I can't. That's a demon. He's a hunter, he's my goddamn brother—
But he's still murmuring in your ear, reminding you of your whole fucking life as his hands run across your torso and trace the crisscross of scars that he can't possibly see through your shirt. So fucking many scars, and yeah, some of them are from fights with demons or what he calls demons, but the rest?
Your brother's been hurting you in the name of keeping you alive for damn near your whole life. I hope for the former, you said a minute ago—and that's true, isn't it? You want Bro to kill you. You want this shit to be over.
There's something warm and faintly salty on your lips. Not blood. Worse. Tears.
Such a pathetic admission of weakness. He'd kill you for that.
"Help me," you whisper, and close your eyes.
The demon laughs in your ear, breath hot against your skin, and pulls back. His full weight slams down onto your chest again, and you gasp in shock. You only get one breath in, though, because then his hands are closing around your throat, claws digging in and drawing blood. "Oh, you fucking weak bitch..."
"No—"
Hey. Calm down. Trust me, hunter, I do have a fucking plan.
His voice is in your head, soothing and gentle and completely at odds with the gleeful snarl on his face as he strangles you with one hand and rips bloody lines in your shirt with the other. Except...
You've been choked out before, and he's not doing that. It might look like he's killing you, but really? It's a little pain, a little bit hard to breathe, but every fucking sparring match with Bro takes you closer to death than this does.
Yeah. You gotta bleed for this to have a chance, but I'll fix it later. Assuming it works. Now I need you to scream for your fucking brother.
He'll kill you. You don't say it out loud, but the demon grins wider, shaking his head slightly.
Other way around, he tells you, and takes his hand off your throat, grabbing a handful of your hair. Scream.
And when he slams your head against the floor, you do. It's a hoarse, weak sound—you still kind of can't breathe, he's left bruises on your neck—but your second cry is louder, recognisable as a call for your brother. The demon's clawing at your chest and there's blood on his hands, he leans down and sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and you fucking howl.
Bro doesn't come.
The demon keeps hurting you, carving patterns into the lattice of old scars that cover your chest, and you struggle but you can't throw him off. You bite your tongue and taste blood, when he slams your head against the floor again and you keep screaming. His hand closes around your throat and you try to scream, you try so fucking hard—
There is the distinct and familiar sound of something solid impacting something alive, and the demon's weight leaves your chest. You have approximately two seconds to sob in a breath; then your brother's hauling you to your feet, tossing the tire iron he just decked the demon with to the floor.
"Fucking idiot!" Before you can look up at him, his fist hits your chest, right where the demon bit you. You barely manage to swallow your cry of pain. "Can't do any-fucking-thing right, can you, Dave! Can you?"
It's a question, but your throat hurts too much to answer it even when he grabs your shoulders and gives you a rough shake. You shake your head, though.
That earns you another punch, this one to your face. Something crunches in your nose—maybe he's broken it, maybe not, but there's blood running down your face now. You can feel it and taste it.
"Let that fucking thing get on top of you? Let it win?" He shakes you again, and this time you can't hold back the sound you make. "Fucking weak bitch—you're no Strider, are you? Are you?"
"Bro, please—" you manage, and this time he backhands you and something definitely just broke in your face. Oh, god.
"Shut the fuck up, lil' man, I just saved your fucking life and you—"
He stops talking, and you automatically close your eyes against the expected blow.
When it doesn't come, you open them again.
Your brother isn't even looking at you anymore. No, he's looking down, past where he's gripping your shoulders.
You look down too, and immediately step back. There's six inches of bloody blade sticking out of his chest—your sword, your fucking sword, he'd never touch the European-style shortsword you favor, he only uses his goddamn pretentious katana and that's not...that's not...
When you step away he sways and collapses, and the demon wrenches the blade out of your brother's back. He looks so much less human now—his skin's pure marble white, red hair darker, closer to the color of blood, with short horns poking out of it. He tosses your sword aside, giving you a quick glance with eyes that burn with fiery light and a fanged smile, then falls to his knees and drags your brother half-upright.
I don't want to see this, you think.
Still, you don't move until the demon bows his head and rips out Bro's throat with his teeth. You see the spray of blood, you see white bone shining through the red, and then you spin away and immediately trip over your own feet.
Thank god that you catch yourself and end up on hands and knees, because you're retching even on the way down, and the sounds of tearing flesh from behind you are more than enough to ruin any chance you have of getting yourself under control. Everything in your stomach seems to come up at once—except that can't be right, because it doesn't stop. You see your brother, you taste the blood in your mouth, and you keep throwing up.
At some point, your arms give out.
You don't fall into your mess, though. Someone's holding you up. He's holding you up. The demon.
Are you going to kill me? you wonder. Somehow you can't bring yourself to care much. That can't be worse than puking your guts out, can it?
"No, Dave," he murmurs in your ear, and you're scared as hell for a second before you remember that Bro used your name, before—fuck, please don't think about that, I don't want to see. "I won't kill you. I told you I wouldn't. I don't lie."
"He's dead." Damn, but you sound awful.
"Yeah. Fucker's dead." The demon loosens his grip on you for a second, quickly tightening it again when you almost fall. "We should go."
"Body. His body."
"There isn't one. We need to go, Dave; I don't fucking like it here."
We. He keeps saying that.
"I can carry you—"
God, you want him to carry you, you really do. But you shake your head and make a decent effort to stand up. "Nah. I got it. Grab my sword? And the light?"
You feel him nod, more than you see it, and he lets go of you again. Once he's not touching you, you raise one hand to wipe at your face, almost sobbing when you accidentally touch your nose. Yeah, he broke it. And you'll have some messy bruises tomorrow, too; only the ones from the demon are where you can cover them up.
He slides your sword back into the sheath on your hip while you're still checking your face; the movement's so subtle that you're not surprised you didn't notice him taking it in the first place. "It's clean."
"Thanks." As he pulls your arm over his shoulder, it occurs to you that you still haven't asked one of the most basic questions. "Hey, man."
"Mm?" He adjust the flashlight in his free hand so you can see his face. He looks human again—or at least as human as he did before. There's a rising bruise across one temple, but not a drop of blood on him. "What?"
"I don't know your name."
"Oh." And the demon smiles. "Vantas. Karkat Vantas."
"Dave Strider." Your smile back feels really fucking shaky, but at least you're trying. "You killed my brother. I, uh. I owe you." So fucking much.
Don't worry, we'll work that out, he says without saying anything. Then, "Worry about that later—I'm planning on hanging around you for a while. Let's get the fuck out of this shithole."
"Yeah. Let's go break that fucking circle."
And you lean on him, and he takes your weight like it's nothing and steers you towards what you assume is the exit. You trust him to get both of you out of here.
Which is...weird as hell. But fuck it. He's a demon and you trust him anyway. After all, he helped you. You owe him.
...and surprisingly, you're okay with that.