Whoever posed the question of whether people dream in color was an idiot.

Dave opened his mouth amid bright green flames, fighting to scream and failing when the nightmare snatched the cry from his throat. Oil-black stood out like a stain against the blinding green, in the all-too-familiar shape of a figure with tattered wings, pointed ears, and a snarling, canine mouth. Shreds of harlequin around the demon's neck added purple and yellow to the myriad of colors. Red was smeared and spattered all over the scene like a macabre Jackson Pollock. And at Dave's feet, in the very center of the mess of color, was lone, pitiful splash of white.

Bro.

As he watched, red bloomed from the center of his brother's chest, where that sword, that stupid katana, the only sword in the apartment that wasn't cheap and useless, jutted out almost mockingly toward Dave as if daring him to try to pull it out. Do it, why don't you. See what good it'll do.

The white vanished before his eyes, swallowed up by the sticky, spreading crimson. The demon's lips stretched back in a hideous mockery of a smile, and the green flames roared.

Dave awoke, gasping harshly in the dark as he sucked in the air he needed to scream. At the very last moment, as he realized what he was about to do, he slammed his hand over his mouth and wrenched himself onto his side so that he faced away from his bedroom door. The action reduced the cry of terror to a muffled whimper against his palm, thin and lost in the 4 a.m. silence, and for a moment Dave could only hate himself for making it. He could blink away the tears gathering in his eyes, could tell himself they were there because he'd hit himself in the face so hard, but he couldn't deny the childish whine of fear. Heart pounding, Dave closed his eyes, took in a deep, shuddering breath through his nose, and forced himself not to count the minutes that went by before he finally let his hand fall back to the mattress.

The game was over. There was no more green fire, no more red miles, no more Jack Noir. It was over. They had been allowed to keep what they had gained, and more importantly, far more importantly, they had been given back what they'd lost.

Now if only he could convince himself of that.

He's fine, Dave. Just like he has been, every night for the past three weeks. He's right down the hall, on the futon in the living room. Where he belongs. Go back to sleep. He's fine. You won.

But what if – what if –

Dave lay on his side barely a moment longer, eyelids drooping, listening to the silence, before he finally sat up. He slid to the edge of his bed until his bare feet touched the carpet, before standing up and navigating his pitch-black bedroom to the door. The first few nights he'd stumbled like an idiot, tripping over cords and various alchemized items he hadn't yet found a place for. He'd learned quickly that moving things around was a bad idea, and after that it hadn't taken him long to memorize the layout of his bedroom floor. Briefly he wondered if Terezi had done this in her own home.

He had taken to leaving the door ajar, to limit the noise and the risk of waking his brother. Bro could notfind out about this; he just... he just couldn't. If he did, Dave would never live it down.

But he had to check. He had to make sure.

Dirk Strider lay on his back and stared blindly up at the ceiling, one hand clutching the edge of the futon in a death grip. As quietly as he could, he gasped and wheezed for breath like a drowning man, and the fingers of his free hand dug into the center his heaving chest. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, soaking into his hair as he sobbed quietly with each breath. Fighting down blind panic, he focused on inhaling and exhaling as deeply, slowly, and silently as he could manage, grasping at his chest until he could convince himself that there was no sword transfixing it, no warm, sticky blood leaking out between his fingers or soaking his back (it had gone through, it had gone all the way through).

That wasn't even the worst part of that dream, nor was the fact that he'd had it every night since he'd found himself unexpectedly alive again. No, the worst part was Dave. He was always there, as he had been back when the dream had been a reality. Screaming, bleeding, sobbing with rage, and it didn't matter if he was a translucent sprite with a pair of wings and a hole in his stomach, because he was still Dave, still Dirk's scrappy, stubborn little brother who was in trouble and in pain and what's that noise, what's wrong with his wing, why – no, no GET AWAY FROM HIM, DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH HIM YOU SON OF A BITCH –

Stop.

Enough.

With one last, shaky breath, Dirk released the futon cushion and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

He's fine, Dirk. You're fine. Just like you have been, every night for the past three weeks. He's right down the hall, and you're here on the futon in the living room. Where you both belong. Go back to sleep. You're fine. He won.

But what if – what if –

And before he could finish the thought, a high-pitched whimper reached his ears. In the heavy silence of the apartment, it might as well have been a thunderclap.

The fear that gripped him eased slightly. Dave was awake, then. Alive and unharmed and awake and about to pay his nightly visit. Dirk had even taken to leaving the living room door ajar so his brother would feel better about opening it to check on him. But beyond that...

The game was over. All that crap about being independent and strong and self-reliant, that was all pointless and stupid now. But old habits are hard to break, and the game had barely come up in conversation since it had ended. Hell, upon seeing Dirk alive again, all Dave had done was say "Hey," and give him a fist bump. Seriously. Three years of being dead and he got a fist bump?

He hadn't been surprised. That was how Dave dealt with heavy shit like this, and Dirk wasn't sure how much of that was the way Dave was and how much was his own influence.

What he was sure of, however, was that three weeks was long enough.

He could just barely hear footsteps in Dave's bedroom as he kicked the blankets back, got to his feet, and crept to the door. Bracing himself, he pulled it open, just as Dave was stepping out into the hall.

His brother froze, staring at him in shock with a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. There were dark circles beneath his tired red eyes, stark evidence to a lack of sufficient sleep. Dirk spared a moment to deeply regret not doing this sooner.

There was fear there, as well, and uncertainty, like his little brother was freaking the hell out over the possibility that Dirk might know what he was doing up at 4 in the morning.

You're outta luck there, little bro.

"Hey," Dirk greeted, which was how pretty much all of their conversations usually began. "You're up early."

"I have to piss," Dave retorted. "What, is that a crime?"

"Nope." Nightmares and insufficient sleep did not do much for his little brother's wit, if it took all of four words to get him on the defensive.

Damn it, why the hellhad he waited so long?

With a touch more haste than was strictly necessary, Dave darted to the bathroom and shut the door. Heaving a small sigh, Dirk leaned back against the door frame to wait for him.

Dave dawdled coming out, and there was a wary look in his eyes when he faced Dirk.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Bro?"he demanded. "Is there something wrong with having to pee at night?"

"I'm the one who's wrong, if the way I raised you means you can't even come to me when you need to," Dirk answered abruptly.

Dave's face remained expressionless as he took a step toward his room. "I don'tneed to."

"Right. See, this is that stupid thing we do where we stare at each other like idiots instead of talking to each other." Dirk stood up straight and stepped away from the living room door. "And I don't know how much of that is you being you, or the fucked up way I raised you, or what happened in the game, because we haven't said anything to each other since we got back."

"Yes we have," Dave protested, with a longing glance at his room.

"No," Dirk said quietly. "We've talked, but we haven't saida goddamn thing. Not about what happened in the game, or–"

"You don't know what happened in the game!" Dave interrupted. "Okay? You don't know a damn thing about... fuck, Bro, I can't do this right now. It's four in the goddamn morning and I'm tired." He turned away, shoulders slumped with weariness.

Dirk hesitated, alarmed that Dave would flee back to his room, that he'd lose this chance, because if they didn't do this right now, they might not do it ever. One thing about dying: it tended to remind you of your priorities.

"I know that every night for the past three weeks, you've come down the hall to make sure I'm still here," he said bluntly.

Dave froze, his hand on the door frame.

"I know you're not sleeping, or you're having nightmares, or both, and I also know that that means I'm not doing my fucking job," Dirk went on. He wavered for a moment, and pretended it was a dramatic pause rather than a hesitation. "Dave... the game's over. I'm not going anywhere. Okay? I-I need you to understand that. I know that, in the game, you were really big on getting shit done without me, after I helped you set it up." A lump threatened to form in his throat, and he swallowed hard. "But you don't have to do that anymore. I'm not gonna fly off on my fucking skateboard and leave you. I'm here for a reason, Dave."

Dave gripped the door frame but did not turn around. "So... this whole time, you've known that I was...?"

"Checking on me? Yeah. Kinda glad you've been doing it, too." Dave jerked his head around to stare at him, and Dirk shrugged. "It saved me a walk down the hall."

Dave blinked, his expression gradually changing from humiliaton to confusion, and then to surprise as he understood what Dirk was telling him, what it meant. "I – oh.You mean you..."

The elder Strider stared back at him with tired eyes. "Why do you think I'm always awake when you do it?"

It was a rhetorical question, and one that Dave didn't bother to answer. He simply stared into his room one more time, as if in a final attempt to convince himself to bail. Seconds turned to minutes, and for a moment Dirk was sure Dave would fall asleep on his feet if he stood there any longer. Finally, Dave turned around, crossed his arms, and stared at the floor.

His voice was low and reluctant. "So... you have, uh, dreams, too?" he said at last.

"About my own death," Dirk told him. "Every night."

Dave studied the floor as if reading cues from it. "I–" he began haltingly. He closed his eyes, seemed to brace himself, and let out a noisy breath. "I keep seeing you die. And, God, I don't know if my mind's just making up what happened or if I'm dreaming about what Davesprite saw, but–" His voice cracked, but the words tumbled out as if he could no longer stop them. "But it doesn't matter because it's you, and you're dead, and you being dead sucked." He rocked back slightly on his heels, still staring downward and not meeting Dirk's eyes. "And then I wake up and have to check – I have to make sure you're there, because no matter what I tell myself, I can't sleep unless I make sure you coming back wasn't a dream, too."

Silence reigned in the apartment once more.

Dirk nodded to himself, then jerked his head back toward the living room. "C'mon. I'll lay out the futon."

Taken aback, Dave left off looking at the floor to stare at him again. "What?"

"Don't argue, c'mon," Dirk called over his shoulder as he headed sleepily for the futon. "It'll save us both a walk every night."

Behind him, his brother hesitated. "Remind me how this is ironic again?"

Dirk was already laying the bed out flat. "Fuck irony, we need sleep."

He imagined that Dave's last few seconds of hesitation was just shock.

Dave jolted awake from a nightmare filled with green fire, red blood, and a black and harlequin demon for the second time that night. For a moment his heart raced and tears stung in his eyes again. Bro. Where's Bro– oh. Oh, yeah.

He was right there, with his shoulder serving as a decent pillow, his arm draped around Dave, and Dave gripping his shirt over the spot from which a sword had once protruded. Still half asleep, Dave raised his head to glance blearily at his guardian's face, and was not quite surprised to see orange eyes staring back at him past drooping lids. The arm around him tightened as Dirk drew him closer, the way he had back when Dave was a small child and afraid of thunder or bad dreams or imagined monsters.

This monster was far less imaginary. But he was gone, and Bro was here, and at that moment, cuddling against his brother in the dark of the living room, Dave was too exhausted, comfortable, and happy to give two shits about anything else.