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Rose was getting on your nerves.
At first it seemed like she would back down after your first conversation on the topic. It seemed easily resolved – you would greet your uncomfortably attractive young mother when you arrived in their world, and she would deal with Bro.
But you fell asleep that night and had a nightmare about some shorter, smoother version of Bro grinning his way around Rose’s thoughts.
So you told her lil’ bro could take care of himself.
That got her upset.
She was convinced you didn’t think she was “cool” enough or some other dumb bullshit. Rose was cool. You, on the other hand, were not.
You needed to get over it. It wasn’t like he ever hurt you outside of strifes, and even then it was usually a shallow cut to the shoulder after you missed a swing. The stairs were to be expected, and he almost always helped you get up afterwards.
But all you know is that for a brief moment after seeing your brother lying on the group with the very sword he’s used again and again to give you vigilance lessons stabbed through his heart,
Part of you was relieved.
It was sick. He was your brother and never failed to remind you of that fact. But there was a certain freedom you felt with his death. You walked a little taller.
Eventually, the footsteps of your friends didn’t make you jump so often.
And the occasional surprise hug from Terezi didn’t lead to a sudden upending of your sylladex.
You were sick. The one person you grew up with was dead and you were happy.
Bro didn’t yell- at least not anymore. When you were a kid he would have these angry fits where he screamed at you with this terrifying look on his face, only to apologize and ruffle your hair a bit later. You never blamed him. He did a lot of work sewing and setting up those cameras around the apartment.
Eventually he sunk into silence, and you learned to also. Occasionally he would fake you out by smiling or laughing or crying, only to shake his head at you if you followed suit. You got good.
Your favorite memory of him was the day he ran into your room and picked you up, slung you over his shoulder and carried you all the way to the McDonalds two blocks down. He sat next to you instead of in front of you and talked feverishly and excitedly, and hugged you before you both had left. He dumped both of your fries onto the table instead of leaving you to your own, but even then didn’t eat more than half of the tray.
The next day he screamed at you for the first time in years because you left one of his controllers out.
Rose was smarter than you. She would have yelled back or flipped him off to his face.
Instead, you loved him.
Maybe she would be alright meeting him.
Your chest ached, and you didn’t want to take the chance.
“Hey Rose”
“Yes, Dave?”
“I was thinking maybe I would handle the B man and you chill with Mom.”
“Whatever you want, Dave.”
She rolled her eyes. You sighed in relief.
You imagined a stern, young, blank face, and shivered.