Chapter Text
He knows it as soon as he wakes up. When he digs his head out from underneath his pillow, his mouth dry from the human sleeping pills that manage to hold the night terrors at bay, it hits Sollux right between the eyes before he's even properly awake. He lies there on the futon, arms and legs hanging over the sides, and sighs into the mound of blankets. His skin feels cold, the chill going right to his bones, and his muscles hurt dull and pounding. The beginning of a vicious migraine threatens around the edges of his head. Sollux groans and rolls over on his back. “Fuck thith, fuck it right up the ath,” he informs the ceiling.
A bottle of red powerade crosses the air right above his head and smacks into the wall next to the futon. It bounces off and rolls across the floor, ending up right next to his hand. Sollux drags the pillow over his eyes for protection two seconds before the blue counterpart bottle is lobbed right after it. When there's no more airborne beverages to watch out for, he gropes around blindy and grabs the first bottle. He is the thirstiest he's ever been in his life, and he sucks down half of the contents without even opening his eyes.
“I dunno. It's a little early for assfucking, at least for human standards. That kind of stuff's reserved for Sunday mornings, don't you know that? Today's Saturday. Jeez, Captor, learn the rules.”
Sollux sits up with grueling slowness and runs a hand through his hair. He's been sweating like hell, but he feels ice cold. “Fuck you, Thtrider. Good morning.” He even makes the effort to contort his face into a smile, but it probably just looks sick.
Dave slinks over to the futon in that special pretend-disinterested walk of his, and crouches down next to him with a fluidity that betrays his martial arts training. It's ten in the goddamn morning and that douchebag is wearing his shades. Sollux gropes for his own, and there's a moment of total disorientation when he puts them on the wrong way around.
“I mean, man, I've heard about people not knowing if it's asshole or breakfast time when their head's not screwed on right, but personally, I'm all for pancakes first. You can commence with the assfucking when I've had my fix of fake maple syrup.”
He misses by a foot when he tries to punch Dave in the shoulder, and almost falls over from trying to swing his fist in the first place. “It's a figure of fucking thpeech, you prick. I'm the one being thcrewed here, and my metabolithm'th doing the pounding. Ugh.”
“You know, for the way you and Vantas always gripe on about how your weird troll bodies are so inherently fucking superior to us pink sacks of water, you're sure a delicate little kitten.” He stands up and practically saunters over to the kitchenette.
Sollux has every intention to get up and stick him into the fridge upside down, or at the very least smack him on the ass so hard he'll feel it backwards in time. He only gets as far as one leg before the world gives an uncomfortable sideways tilt, his head pounds with pain and the leg collapses under him again.
“Fuck.” Sollux says, his face smashed into the mattress. He props himself up on his arms and retrieves his anaglyph shades from the floor.
Dave returns with a box of Lucky Charms tucked under his arm like a ragdoll. He picks out a handful of marshmallows, crams them into his mouth, and raises his eyebrows.
“Mph. So what's the emergency? Alien space fever? Common cold? Do I have to call the Men in Black or just tenderly feed you chicken soup?”
“Chicken thoup.” Sollux echoes. He finally manages to get his feet under him, and isn't too proud to take an iron grip on Dave's shirtfront to drag himself up. He is feeling honestly pathetic. “Chicken thoup?” He drags the blanket up along with him – it's one of Dave's which means it has some sort of monstrously big-eyed animals in pastel on it – and more or less crashes at the table. He doesn't even flinch when Dave starts patting his hair.
“Yeah, chicken soup. That's what humans cook for their poor little darlings when they're feeling unwell.” Dave's thumb scritches over the hairline at the back of his neck, and Sollux breathes out a purr at that. This isn't ironic head-patting, then.
Sollux hunches his shoulders forward and wraps the hideous blanket tighter around himself. The time window that would have allowed him to go no-dude-stop-hands-off and slap Dave's fingers away closed about half a minute ago. The worst part is that he doesn't even mind. There is pretty much no way this will not eventually lead to the king of douchebags ironically calling him a cute little alien kitten. Sollux hates it when that happens. He's convinced the asshole is just jealous that he has only one method of vocalization.
Right now he can not bring himself to give a fuck about all this annoying pet name fuckery. He actually tilts his head back into the scratching fingers and for a moment he can articulate himself even worse than usual, because he's purring so hard his tongue is vibrating between his teeth. Then he manages, “Fuck you and fuck your chicken thoup. I'm not an ill girl in one of your thtupid little human earth thitcomth.”
Dave's stupid satisfied look that's not quite a smile because he's too cool to smile is almost audible. He drags his fingernails over Sollux's scalp, scratches him behind the horns like he's scratching a cat behind the ears. Then his palm is flat against Sollux's forehead suddenly.
“Fuck, dude, this really is alien space fever we're dealing with here. You're burning up, I could just about fry my pancakes on your bony ass. Gonna call some scientists up who'll draw a vial of your blood and squint at it all concerned-like in a microscope. How big is the chance you'll turn into a ravenous lisping werebeast and start eating raw meat and ripping people's heads off?”
Sollux slaps the hand away from his forehead and gets his his throat back under control. “At thith point I'd thay fifty perthent. But theriouthly, Thh-Strider, shut your gaping fathe hole and lithten for like two goddamn minuteth.”
Strider shuts all of his face, and sits down across from Sollux, Lucky Charms still on his lap. He digs out a few more marshmallows and throws one at Sollux. It bounces off his forehead. Sollux intends to toss it right back and stick it up his nose, using his psionics because no way is he going to move his arms even an inch if he doesn't have to. But as soon as he tries to pick the thing up, his head explodes with pain and the psionics crackle and pop. The marshmallow melts into a puddle on the table. Dave's nearly translucent eyebrows slowly rise over the rim of his shades.
“Okay.” Sollux says, “tho now that I have your attention, here'th the deal. Thith ith not a thickneth, it'th a biological function. We call it a shift. Shit'th gonna be crathy for a while, and you're gonna be privy to my thuffering. Thound cool?”
“Like a cold storage warehouse, man. So what does it do?” His lip gives that sly little twitch that is his interpretation of a smile, and he offers the box of cereal to Sollux.
“I mean, not that I'm not a dedicated student of weird alien biology. Look at me here, spending time inbetween classes on my knees to secure my straight A's in the study of skinny-ass grey extraterrestials. But I have no fucking clue what is even a shift, so clue me in, teacher man.”
Despite himself, Sollux snorts in laughter. His head is still throbbing, and he could use a soda or a dozen. “Watch out tho I don't thpank you with a ruler for talking in clath. Layman'th termth, it meanth that I trade out thith underthithed body for a bigger one. Not bodyhopping thtyle, tho calm your titth. But if I'm lucky I'll grow five incheth.” He flashes a fangy grin at Dave's not-quite-so-cool expression, and amends, “In height, that ith.”
“Shit, man. And here I thought you'd stay a shrimp for all eternity. Where do I figure in this?”
“You can make yourthelf utheful and get me thome milk. I'll need the nutrientth.”
Dave stands up and nods, “Done. Dude I swear, you're becoming a kitten more and more every day.”
Bingo. Sollux laughs again, but weaker than before. He really needs something to drink before he falls flat on his face. Which is a distinct possibility, he thinks muzzily, before everything goes blurry and the next thing he knows is that he's face-down on the table and Dave is patting his face, looking almost but not quite totally not worried.
Dave will not put up with any sort of shit. He will especially not put up with shit from somebody who just abruptly introduced his face to the table while his back was turned for half a minute. His absolute determination not to take any shit is thwarted a little when Sollux suddenly starts, makes a confused snarly noise and starts fighting tooth and nail against being dragged over to the couch. Literally, with his claw-tipped hands flailing all over the place and his freaky-cool fangs flashing like he's planning to really use them, which kind of isn't cool at all.
“Hey fuck, Captor, calm the hell down!” Dave tries to heave him across the floor, wondering what the fuck went wrong here and why the hell they are suddenly strifing when all he wanted to do was deposit him on the couch so his stupid ass wouldn't fall off the chair sideways.
Sollux flashes him a look that's equal parts vicious and completely confused and tries to thrash out of his arms. Dave can take him in a fight no problem if he doesn't use his creepy mindpowers, at least most of the time, but right now it isn't looking so good. It's like trying to carry a running blender bridal-style, all sharp nails and arms whipping around, and Dave gets an elbow that is so sharp it could probably shank someone in the ribs before he stumbles over backwards and drags Sollux along with himself. They sort of sit down hard but mostly just crash on the floor
Sollux immediately deflates. All the air and fight in him seem to get exhaled in one massive sigh, and he collapses halfway across Dave's lap and halfway on the floor. His eyes look the size of plates and there's a really creepy glow around their edges, and he stares up in Dave's direction but not at him for a long moment. Then the focus snaps back into his face all at once and he sits up like a jack-in-the-box, so rapidly that their foreheads almost crash together.
“Thorry. Fuck. Fuck, thorry,” he blurts, and then his bony fingers are on his temples suddenly, squeezing like he's scared his head will fall apart if he doesn't hold it together.
Dave reaches up and adjusts his shades before they fall off his face entirely. There are little sparks crackling in Sollux's hair, and that is definitely what he has learned to recognize as a Bad Omen. “What the fuck just happened?” he asks,
“I pathed out, and then I wath awake but not really, and you were thuddenly dragging me off my chair what the fuck but I shouldn't have freaked like thith fuck I'm thorry I really need to eat thomething.” All of that comes out on one single breath, and so fast that he bites his tongue on the last word. Dave can always tell when that happens, because when it does, Sollux fucks the sibilant up even more and spits a little, and then he cringes because biting your tongue with these killer fangs really hurts. His oh-fuck expression is one that Dave is pretty familiar with.
“That another symptom of your transformation sequence?” he asks, and shifts Sollux's skinny legs off of his own so he can get the milk off the counter.
“That'th pretty much it, fuck, that'll blow over in a few dayth," There's an odd assortment of expressions fending for room on Sollux's face, from apologetic to a kind of thinly-veiled frustration and back and a strange mixture of the two. When Dave offers him the milk, all of that shifts to something surprisingly grateful. The ironic nursery blanket is still tangled around one of his ankles, and he pauses to drag it up and throw it across his shoulders before he tears the spout right off the milk carton.
Dave stares.
Sollux tilts his head back and starts to swallow and nope that doesn't look dirty at all. Actually, it doesn't. It mostly looks creepy. His throat works and there's milk spilling down his chin, and then it's spilling down his shirt and he just keeps chugging it like it's a 40 and he's determined to forget his troubles all in one go.
For a very brief moment Dave is reminded of that one scene in Batman Returns, but he banishes that thought from his headspace before it can get any more screwed up.
Sollux discards the empty carton and draws the soggy blanket up to his chin. “I wath thirsty,” he manages, and then, “I hate thith.”
After a legendary amount of fussing, Dave manages to convince Sollux to install his narrow arse on the couch. He even fetches a warmer blanket, because despite his yellow-flushed cheeks, Sollux is shivering violently. Whatever it is that his body is doing should be enough to render anyone monosyllabic, but he can not seem to shut up. He keeps running his mouth off, trying to explain, but he keeps verbally getting lost in the culture gap and tries to dig his way out with more and more convoluted metaphors. Dave keeps up a constant repartee of “yeah”, “fuck, man, really?” and “so that means that you'll grow a tentacle beard like Davy Jones, right?”.
Sollux pronounces him insane and demands more milk.
His eyes go all narrow when he laughs like that, it makes him look kind of Asian, but mostly he doesn't look human at all. It isn't just the horns. It isn't even mostly the horns. It's the way the bones of his face are put together, it's his sharp chin and cheekbones and the wide forehead that just come together to look weird. Dave is really oddly glad that the game interpreted their cheat the way it did, that it didn't change the trolls' species when they tricked it into making Earth receive them benignly.
He pretends not to notice the differences too much, but he has the sneaking suspicion that Sollux sees right through him, which obligates him to make a few more stupid jokes to cover himself up. Those eyes can look right through a foot of solid steel, at least they look like they could, and no amount of “That'th not how clairvoyanthe workth, shithead,” will convince him otherwise. It's hard to tell if Sollux is even looking at him.
Right now he's sure that he is, because he's is doing that thing where he contorts his eyebrows halfway off his face and pulls his lip up to display one needle-like fang. This means what the fuck, Thtrider, in huge neon letters. This is because Dave has shoved an old-ass videotape from his collection of anachronistic movie shit into an equally antiquated VCR. A sixties-tastic jingle starts playing, and Sollux makes a big show of cringing overdramatically. He has a milk mustache.
Dave has to grit his teeth together to keep from laughing. He somehow fails to mention it. Instead, he sets the remote down out of Sollux's reach, who looks like he won't do a lot of walking around today.
“Do me a favour and don't blow anything up. I have this thing where I kinda dislike remotes that are molten like a cheese sandwich.”
Sollux flips him a double bird. They both know that he has a massive boner for those old black-and-white shows, but for some reason he'd eat his own feet rather than admitting it. He'll stay glued to the screen and Dave is going to have a hard time not offering him popcorn. Actually, Sollux thinks popcorn is gross and only good for throwing at the guy who so magnanimously offered you some in the first place. He's practically got a ph.D in biting the hand that feeds him.
“I think I can manage to leave half of the wallth thtanding. Now you do me a favour and methage KK –”
“Hold on,” Dave interrupts him, “is there a reason for me to message the automatic rage machine, or are you just a sadist, because no way am I writing anything to that guy without a solid gold justification. You know what a fucking little priss he is.”
“Thtrider,” Sollux says, but half his attention is on the screen, “Dave. You know that I'm a thaditht. Tho not the point. KK kind of hath to know that I'm thtarting to shift. He'll be dithappointed if he doethn't know it firtht. Jutht imagine hith thad little fathe. That'th all the juthtification you're going to get, and you can jutht thuck on it.”
“Yeah, okay, I'll brave the rage of mommy Karkles, but you'd better pay me back for the effort and nerves of iron that's going to cost me.”
Sollux doesn't even grace him with an answer, he just flops down onto the pillow and burrows himself into the blankets. Dave is already halfway to his room when Sollux calls him back, yammering for his phone. “I'm telling AA and FF,” he explains, and he looks so much younger than his age and so tired and worn that Dave doesn't even complain that he gets to talk to people who aren't raging half-pints.