Fuck, your head hurts. You must have slept for a while, because it’s dark outside, and you’re on an unfamiliar couch. Where are your friends? You groan and try to sit up and ohhhhh fuck your blood is back to your head now, that’s not fun. You must have gotten your shit rocked by something. There are bandages on your face where something else used to be… your eyepatch? Yeah, that was it. There’s gauze where the eyepatch was, and it wraps around your head, tucked under your hair. An older troll you’re pretty sure you haven’t met before walks in, mopping her hands on an apron stained with what looks like your blood.
You aren’t used to being taken care of. Terezi tried, sometimes, but she wasn’t very good at it, and Kanaya was much less adept than she liked to pretend. This jadeblood – Swifer – reminds you of her, in a way. More gruff, and unlike Kanaya, outwardly pissed that she has to take care of people, but Swifer does it anyway. Shit, is Kanaya as old as Karkat is? Is Terezi? You know Vrissy told you some things about them, but between the post-clownmurder bliss and the head injuries, it didn’t really sink in.
Swifer notices your thoughts spiraling, it seems, and slaps a sopor patch on your forehead to accelerate your sleep. The last thing you see before your good eye closes is her leaning back in a rocking chair, angled to face the front door, with a shotgun across her lap.
Breakfast is quiet. Vrissy and Tavros talk about nothing in low tones, and while all Swifer’s movements are loud, she doesn’t actually talk a whole lot. You’re still trying to piece together what exactly happened the past few days, and you’re trying to avoid staring at Karkat. He’s… old. While Swifer just looks like an older, slightly more green-tinted version of you, with a lot of stress lines on her face, Karkat looks like a proper adult Alternian. Skin rough and dark like coal, his entire sclera candy red, and he’s a head taller than everyone else at the table. And he’s scarred most everywhere you can see, still wearing the eyepatch with his symbol on it (embroidered, by either Kanaya or Rose, no doubt, in the same bright red). One of his forearms is mechanical, from the elbow down, and its nicer than your prosthetic was. He’s changed into a pair of sweats instead of the military jumpsuit, but there’s still a knife and a pistol around his hip, and you remember that the captchalogue he used earlier was packing heat as well. He’s antsy, constantly looking out the window despite Swifer’s admonishments. You suppose you are too, for different reasons.
You pick at your food. You aren’t very hungry, despite Swifer telling you, rightfully, that you need to eat to get your strength back up. She, Tavros, and Vrissy finish their plates and dump them in the sink, and exit the room, leaving you and Karkat to talk. He hasn’t eaten much either, and while you can tell that the muscles under his thin shirt are coiled and well-built, he’s thinner than he should be.
Karkat clears his throat. You aren’t sure where to begin.
It is nice out. The sun is shining through the small window over the sink, casting a windowpane shadow over the kitchen table. You think for a second you see your own blood, stained on the tablecloth, but when you blink its gone.
He snorts a little. You aren’t sure why you started there, but it might help you get into a rhythm like you used to. You, making fun of Karkat, and him, blowing up about it. You aren’t sure that you want it to be like the old days – you were both different people then – but it’s a starting point.
He looks at you, puzzled. Maybe he knows more about the other version of you than you did.
Your heart beats a little faster. Why didn’t he mention her?
God, its your fault, isn’t it? All of this is your fault. Terezi wouldn’t have let things get like this.
You shove thoughts of Terezi out of your mind. You’ll cry about that later.
Karkat sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. The spark that had animated him when you were arguing is gone.
He stands up to leave, and he looks so tired, so heavy, with the sins he carries always on his back.
He looks back at you, and it’s a look of terror, like he knows that if Vriska Serket, serial murderer, thinks he’s a bad person, the fact would break him.
His face settles back into its usual hardened stare, the mask he wears just like he wore the rage when he was young. There’s a sadness, lurking in his one good eye.