Chapter Text
As far as Karkat Vantas is concerned, the very idea of the “Rent-a-Bud” business model is predatory. It’s yet another capitalist scheme to commercialize every aspect of life. Maybe he, at the ripe age of twenty-five, is just too old-fashioned. He sees few reasons to be offering himself as a platonic escort, and he’s certain nobody would be interested in his services. He’s brash, foul-mouthed, and (quite literally) half deaf — and he’s said as much in his profile. Yet, today, as he checks his emails, he finds a single match.
As the bus pulls away from the Broad Street stop, he rolls his eyes. He reasons that it’s probably some sort of scam. Someone’s looking to steal his kidneys, perhaps. Or, maybe, it’s a flat-out pervert. Either way, he doubts it’ll be someone worth his time. Still, his near-empty bank account needs replenishing. If, as Terezi had suggested, this entire affair can make him some easy cash, then so be it.
Email:
From: [email protected]
Subject: 📢 YOUR FIRST BUDDY TASK 📢
Attached: d-strider-2020.jpg (12.1 KB) d-strider-2021.jpg (11 KB)
Congratulations, KARKAT VANTAS! You’ve gotten your first request on Rent-a-Bud®!
Every Rent-a-Bud® request goes through vigorous safety screening, so you can rest assured you’re meeting with a real, genuine, and upstanding person. 💕 Profiles are similarly vetted, and we encourage all Friends™ to report any suspicious or unwelcome activity from prospective Pals™. Remember that Rent-a-Bud® is for friendly interactions ONLY.
Attached below are the details of your Buddy Request™ from Pal™ user d-strider-120391, received on 04 DECEMBER 2021.
Let’s start with the personal information! These facts will tell you more about your new Pal™.
Full Name: David Ellison Strider
Preferred Name: Dave Strider
Birthday: 03 December 1991
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Location: USA | New Alternia Hills, VA
Occupation: Freelance video editor
IMPORTANT NOTICE: This Pal™ has self-identified as a member of the following vulnerable groups (see the Rent-a-Bud® rulebook for details): LGBTQ+ (Transgender), DISABLED (Physical)
This Pal™ has flagged their ADDITIONAL NOTES section as essential reading.
This Pal™ has an important MEDICAL NOTES section.
ADDITIONAL NOTES: I am submitting this request on behalf of my twin brother, who is currently showing increasing signs of depression. Unfortunately, I have recently moved to Chicago, approximately 800 miles away. Yesterday was his 30th birthday, and I feel rotten for being unable to attend. Please see the attached medical notes. If you need more information, do not hesitate to call me. My name is Rose Lalonde, and I can be reached at all times at ▋▋▋-▋▋▋-▋▋▋▋. I somehow persuaded him to answer the “friendship requests” questionnaire, so those answers are entirely his. I don’t own any of the bullshit I’m sure he’ll say.
MEDICAL NOTES: Dave was paralyzed in a motorcycle accident approximately 15 years ago (T2–T4 incomplete). I supported him for most of the intermediate time until my job forced me to move a few months ago. He generally manages well on his own. No assistance needed for bladder routines (indwelling catheter).
Great! You’re well on your way to your first Rent-a-Bud® job! Now, let’s review the friendship requests of this Pal™! Here, you’ll learn what your new Pal™ is looking for in a new Friend™!
Tell us a fun fact about yourself!
do they even check what i type here? can i just fill this space with bullshit. maybe if all of my friends didn’t move WHO KNOWS HOW MANY HOURS AWAY i wouldn’t even need to fill out this pointless little form.
What are your favorite hobbies?
breathing, eating, sleeping. fuck off with this shit. do you think i’m five years old?
What books or films do you enjoy?
they really just went with the most useless questions they could find huh?
What is your ideal day out with a FRIEND™?
can someone maybe talk to me like i’m a goddamn adult for once?
What are you looking for in a FRIEND™?
… i really just want someone to talk to honestly.
Why are you looking for a FRIEND™?
i’m sorry. i really didn’t mean to come across as such an asshole. i’m sorry.
What can you give as a Pal™?
please. everyone i know moved away. i moved here four years ago because rose’s job dragged her out of houston. i don’t have anyone else. please. i just… i want someone to at least act like they care about me.
What else do you want to tell your new FRIEND™?
i know rose is paying you to do this. i know you probably won’t be able to stand me. i can’t stand myself most of the time. i haven’t met another goddamn person who isn’t a medical professional or my sister in two months.
Amazing! 🎉 Now that you’re acquainted, consider the following benefits:
Pay Rate: $50/hour
Requested Time: 3 times/week @ 3 hours/session
Will Pay for Events: Yes
Will Pay for Food: Yes
Will Pay for Overtime: Yes
Will Pay for Transportation: Yes
If you’re open to being this user’s new Friend™, please message them! Rent-a-Bud® does not host any financial transactions on-site.
The entire email is so downright pitiful that he half expects the attachment to be some sort of “gotcha”. Instead, it’s exactly what it claims to be — a fairly standard portrait. The man in the photo is… admittedly attractive. (Not that it really matters, of course.) Broad shoulders compliment a pale, angular face and a well-defined jawline. Blond hair is swept to the side and neatly maintained. A deep, round scar is barely visible at the base of his neck, mostly obscured by a red and white baseball shirt. His lips are pressed tightly together; he’s either anxious or constipated.
The second photo, still carefully framed to avoid displaying most of his lower body, shows him in a slightly more relaxed state. His shoulders seem to naturally slouch forward, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of reflective aviators. A defined upper body slowly shifts to something softer near the torso. His casual smirk reveals a single dimple on the left side of his face.
With just text and two photos to go by, Karkat can’t make much of a decision about Dave’s personality. The most he can say is that he’s lonely, desperate, and incredibly bad at hiding both of those facts. More importantly, he seems to have a sister with very deep pockets. At the listed rate, just a year of tolerating Dave will net him more than enough to finish paying off his student loans.
He taps on the included phone number. It takes just two rings for him to get an answer.
The voice on the other end is hoarse and rough, sounding more like that of a lifelong smoker than a thirty-year-old man. It’s pleasantly mid-pitched with a plucky Southern twang. “‘Sup. You’ve reached Dave Strider.” His breathing is shallow and calculated. He clears his throat, but the act only seems to make his voice slightly louder. “Sorry. I’m just waking up. Probably sound like shit. What’s up?”
Now, Karkat breathes in. He gives himself a few firm mental kicks to hype himself up. He adopts the most chipper customer service voice he can muster from his chronically pessimistic soul. “Hi! I’m Karkat Vantas. You responded to my Rent-a-Bud ad.”
“Is that who Rose picked? Yeah. Sure. Give me a minute.” A series of muffled breezes fills the speaker. A quiet rattling follows. It takes about half a minute for Dave to return. “You’re younger than I was hoping for.”
“Beggars can’t be fucking choosers,” Karkat mumbles.
Apparently, he hadn’t been quiet enough.
Dave counters with a throaty laugh that ends with a series of weak coughs. “Ah. Fuck. How soon can you come over? I mean… Not to sound desperate or anything, but you said it yourself, right?”
Karkat checks his watch. Personally, he’d rather go home and take a nap; financially, he needs some cash. “I can come over today.”
“Really?” Dave’s tone brightens immediately. “Give me an hour to make myself presentable. I’ll text you my address.”
“Sure,” Karkat practically sings. He may have hated his three-year stint as a craft store cashier, but he can’t say he learned nothing. He considers his ability to fake enthusiasm a fine art. “I’ll see you then.”
Dave doesn’t respond. Instead, he ends the call. The promised text comes through seconds later.
-----
The map app eventually leads Karkat to a modest Cape Cod-style ranch house at the northern edge of New Alternia Hills. A wooden ramp and three concrete stairs lead to an inviting covered porch. Rows of overgrown blue hydrangeas wave in the wind, rubbing against the white brick walls. The garage door has been left open. Inside, there’s a mostly empty space and a beaten-down, faded red Honda Prelude. The name “Lalonde” has been hastily (and poorly) peeled off the side of a dented mailbox.
He breathes in.
One year. That’s it.
He rings the bell.
A minute passes.
Then, two.
Three.
Karkat tugs at his red knitted scarf, a gift from Nepeta, and wonders if he’s been pranked. At the five-minute mark, he’s ready to leave. He’s about to turn around and write the entire interaction off as some sort of morbid prank when the door swings open. His eyes land where a person’s face usually is before sweeping down.
Dave mostly matches his pictures. He has the same broad shoulders and clean-shaven face. Hazel eyes look out through rectangular black bifocals, studying his visitor with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. Well-worn fingerless gloves cover his hands. “I’m assuming you’re Karkat?” In person, his voice is slightly deeper and a touch breathier. From time to time, he stacks a handful of shallow inhales to force out a long exhale. His shoulders seem to involuntarily twitch and contract inward with each breath. “So, uhm.” He presses against the wheels of his chair long enough to shift his position. Its supports rise to the small of his back; the sleek, bright red frame places his gaze level with Karkat’s navel. A heavy-looking bag is strung across the short, blunted handlebars. “You want to come in?” He cocks his head to the side.
“No, I thought it’d be delightful to stand on your porch and freeze my ass off,” Karkat quips.
Dave smirks. He gulps down a few breaths and wheels backwards, opening a path into the house.
Karkat steps inside.
The polished oak floors are covered in scrapes and dents. Piles of paperwork and empty medicine bottles are strewn across the kitchen island, and the warmth of the gas fireplace fills the space with a strange, almost metallic smell.
“I used to share this place with my sister.” Dave parks himself in front of the fireplace. “I’m… uh. I ain’t too sure how this should work, so…” he gestures to a nearby leather armchair. “I guess I’ll introduce myself for real.” He rubs the back of his neck and focuses his gaze on the faux wood logs. His right leg shakes slightly, weakly, before falling still. “Name’s Dave. Thirty. Paralyzed myself from ‘round the armpits down trying to do a wheelie on a stolen motorbike when I was fifteen. Spent a year learning how to move and breathe again. Graduated bottom of my class, flunked out of college, and I work as a freelance video editor.” He claps his hands together and pushes against his knees to straighten his back. “I… I appreciate you taking the time to visit.”
“Have Rose send me the money later today,” Karkat says dismissively.
Dave nods; his nervous smile falters. “Yeah. ‘Course. It’s… I’m buying your time, right?”
“You make it sound a lot worse than it is when you say it like that, but yes.” Karkat folds his arms across his chest and leans into his seat. The cushioning is luxuriously soft. It’s firm enough to cradle his heavier frame without pulling him into an ever-deepening indent. “My turn, right? Karkat Vantas, twenty-five. I got fired from my job as a waiter and took this gig on a whim.”
A wry smirk tugs at Dave’s lips. He rests his forearms against his knees and leans forward. “I’m a whim, then?”
Knowing that honesty seems to be the best policy with Dave, Karkat lets his usual bluntness shine through. “Maybe you’ll get upgraded to an acquaintance after a few visits.”
Dave counters with a genuine smile. “Fair enough. Ain’t really expecting too much else. Just someone to talk to, I guess.”
“About what?”
“Anything.” When Dave shrugs, his left shoulder rises higher than his right. “I guess… Most people think I’m stupid, I guess. Always hated going out with Rose; they’d always talk to her, y’know? I had my little circle of people I trusted, but it ain’t there anymore.”
“That fucking blows,” is Karkat’s honest answer. Idly, he checks his reflection in the nearby mirror. He runs his fingers through his mop of loose, black curls and rubs his hand over his rounded jawline. His skin — with its rich, dark hues — is the near-opposite of Dave’s, though they both seem to share the same arched nasal bridge. “Have you tried visiting them?”
“Yeah,” Dave’s tone takes a sudden, icy turn, “I’ll just hand over my legs without any guarantee that I’ll get them back again. Sounds great.” His brows furrow as he rubs his thumbs against his temples. “Sorry. That was… unnecessarily rude. I don’t much like long-distance travel. Tried it once and had to buy a new wheelchair afterwards. Unfortunately, it ain’t worth it. They’ve got to come to me, not the other way around.” Dave tugs on a lever by his right hip, causing him to sink slightly lower into his seat. “They’re expensive, by the way. Wheelchairs. This one’s ‘round $6,000. Give or take. Custom measurements, pressure relief padding, all that shit.”
“They’re that fucking expensive?”
“Costs a lot to survive shit that would’ve killed you a few decades ago, apparently.” Dave pulls up the sleeve of his bright red sweater and checks the time. A huff of discomfort passes through his lips as he pushes himself upright in his seat. “You want something to eat? I can fry some eggs or somethin’.”
“I…” Karkat wants to say he’s not hungry, but a dull pang in his abdomen begs to differ. “Fine. Don’t do anything fancy, though.”
“Ha! Nah, cooking’s Rose’s specialty.” Dave flips a locking mechanism by his left knee. When he hears a muffled click, he moves. He lazily propels himself off nearby furniture whenever he has the chance, sparing his hands from touching the pushrims. “She’s my twin, by the way. I’m sure she said as much on the sign-up form. We grew up down the street from each other. Divorce and all that sorta drama.” Dave pulls a pan from the lower cabinets and sets it on the convection stovetop. After twisting the knob, he adds a splash of vegetable oil. “My deadbeat dad dumped my ass on her and my mom after the accident. Might’ve been a bad call. Rose was always helping me out. Now it feels like I’m a little lost without her pestering me to do things right.” Two eggs are pulled from the fridge and cracked open in the sizzling pan. “I mean… I can handle myself. There’s a nursing company that comes by once a month. They check my lungs, help me clear out any stubborn gunk, and give me a thorough exam for any injuries I can’t feel. Basic shit.”
Karkat nods.
Dave seems to speak just to hear himself talk. He needs no further prompting; he’s a surprisingly open book. “We really ignored each other until then. She went with the nerdy goth circles. I hung out with the jocks. But it’s almost impossible to think ‘bout not having her here at this point. It’s just… we grew up together, y’know? She was there for me when I needed her most. Even all these years later, she knows how to cheer me up. Maybe that’s what I miss.” He studies the sizzling eggs. “When I turned twenty-one, we both hit up the bars. Both of us were drunk out of our goddamn minds, Karkat. We had to have my mother pick us both up from some hole-in-the-wall dive spot.” He laughs; this time, the sound is crisp and clear. It’s like the ringing of dull, low chime that lingers in the air. Waiting — no, demanding — to be noticed. “Not that you have to do that, by the way. Definitely not today, at least.” There’s something oddly compelling about his mannerisms, how he manages to grab attention like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get. “You want your egg on bread?”
Karkat blinks. “Huh?”
“The eggs are almost ready.” Dave throws his arm over the back of his chair and turns slightly to the right. His mid-back is tense and inflexible. “You want it on toast, or nah?”
“Not really.”
A bright red spatula scrapes two eggs onto waiting plates. Dave sets a fork and one serving in his lap and brings it over to his guest. “Here. You deserve something for putting up with my shit.”
There’s nothing particularly special about it; it’s an egg. There’s salt and pepper. That’s about as much as can be said about it. By the time Karkat has eaten a quarter of his serving, Dave is back in his former place.
One hand starts cutting into his meal; the other flips the lever by his left knee. “So, you want to talk ‘bout you? I’ve chatted ‘bout myself for a while.”
“I’m not really that interesting.”
“Aw, c’mon,” a good-natured smile spreads across Dave’s face, “Everyone’s a little interesting. You went to the local college, right? When’d you graduate?”
“Two years ago. I took a few gap years.” Karkat slurps down the last bit of his fried egg. “I studied child psychology, but I’m not sure why. I guess it sounded good.”
“Then you should be able to figure me out real quick,” Dave smirks. He tucks his right hand under the corresponding leg to lift it into a more comfortable position. His foot dangles limply when it leaves the rubberized platform. “I tried studying music. Figured it wasn’t my style and dropped out. Ended up doing some odd jobs. Car mechanic, cashier, bartender, shit like that. Nothing spectacular.” Bright yellow yolk runs from a fresh slice across the center of his egg. “I wanted to be a musician when I was younger. Eventually, I switched to just wanting to have a stable job.”
“I dreamed of being a romance novelist,” Karkat admits, wrinkling his nose, “Stupid as fuck, I know.”
“Meh,” Dave wiggles his free hand dismissively, “plenty of dreams are a little whack. Rose wanted to be a necromancer, so I’d say a romance novelist is a more realistic goal.”
Despite his best efforts to remain impartial, a whoop of laughter escapes Karkat.
By now, Dave has finished his meal. He collects both plates in his lap and grabs his wallet from the bag against his back. “Look, it’s been nice, but I have to get to an appointment.” He holds $100 in cash between the index and middle fingers of his right hand; the left gives Karkat a surprisingly strong pat on the back. “I’ll see you next week?”
Against his more decent instincts, Karkat pockets the money. “Yeah. Text me whenever you’re free.”
From Dave, a lopsided smile and a casual thumbs-up.
Karkat doesn’t bother sticking around. He’s tired enough as it is. He pockets the cash eagerly before departing.