Speaking of Cal. Dirk, as this conversation continues, finds himself thinking about Cal. Which, okay, Cal is fucking rad, but that's weird. He's still just--a fucking puppet. And yeah, Dirk has a wild obsession with puppets, but something about Cal is... different.

He is, at least, cognizant that it's weird. He doesn't know what to do about that. He's never cared about being weird, that's his fucking life-blood, but... Shit. He misses Cal like someone misses a fucking lover, has for a long time, and he knows that's fucked up. He knows it.

He snaps out of it when Dave speaks.

Seventeen. Dirk looks at Dave, Dave and his red eyes and his blond hair, and says, eloquently: "shit."

Nice.

He sighs, scrubbing his chin with a hand, then pinches the bridge of his nose. Then Dave has a fucking juice box and offers him one and it's so goddamn childish but it's so Dave that he just. Stares at him some more, like he's seeing him for the first time.

Then he shuts it down, a little. A lot. Clamps that bear trap down over his emotions, and just nods his thanks.

An upnod. Like a tool.

But Dave's last comment actually cracks him a bit. He ducks his head forward, and his lips fucking twitch up at the corners. Just a little.

"I've only been dead a week, personally, so I got a whole three years to turn into a slob."

He's not going to turn into a slob.