Chapter Text
==> Move on Up.
Your name is Dave Strider, and holy fuck, what has Bro done to you.
The highway you’ve been driving on for almost a full day has slowly shifted from dry desert and blistering heat to forests, hills, and a cool early morning breeze. Dirk is awake beside you, taking his turn at the wheel, while your eldest brother catches some well-deserved z’s in the back of your 1993 Jeep Wagoneer.
You’ve been leading a caravan of moving vans across the country all day and night, not by choice, that’s for damn sure. If it were your choice, you’d be at home with a freshly cracked bottle of AJ, thinking about how you’re not being forced out of your house and away from all your friends (spoiler: you have none, but that's besides the point. You're a 'principle of the thing' kinda guy).
Three days ago, Bro stormed into your Texas apartment and told you all to pack your shit and be ready to hit the road by morning. You were moving to the “beautiful residential area” of Washington, D.C., as demanded by your mother and two sisters. Not like you didn’t see them often enough (at least once a year), but ever since your dad passed, Mom’s been getting more and more anxious about leaving the three of you alone with your absurd cash flow and lack of “healthy guidance.”
More likely, though, it’s because last week was the seventh time the police knocked on your door over a “disturbance of the peace” from your rooftop strifing. She’s also a little concerned about the amount of puppet ass you’re exposed to via Bro’s weird porn company. It's probably not that much, but you also think you've blocked out a lot of the horrific memories with a healthy trauma response.
Dirk takes the next exit into the streets of Washington, and Bro stirs awake, silent as ever, leaning forward with one arm slung over the seat to get a better look. You scope out the neighbourhood yourself, stretching your neck to look around Bro's big ass body.
It’s... well, it’s not terrible. Just nothing like the dusty nest you’d perched in before. You mentally wince at your own lame bird metaphor and glance over at Bro.
“I can almost smell the alcohol and psychological assault from here,” you mumble.
He smirks. “That shit’ll stick to your clothes.”
Dirk turns down a small cul-de-sac per Bro’s instructions. It’s a neat, suburban paradise—white picket fences, happy families of four, probably planning to take the kids for a Sunday drive before a wholesome game of all-American baseball and some Jeff Foxworthy jokes over the grill. There’s even a park at the end of the road, squeaky clean and graffiti-free.
You can practically feel the unspoken urge to get your grubby little fingers all over the place buzzing in the air.
Within minutes, you pull up to the second-to-last house on the street. Dirk parks, and you take in your new home. It looks exactly like all the others, except this one has a garage, which is a novelty for you. You’ve never had one. Hell, you’ve never even lived in a house before.
You always figured that by the time you did, it’d be ironic—to stick a pipe in your mouth, grab the morning paper in your bathrobe, and shake your fist at the neighbourhood hooligans. Whatever. You can roll with the punches. You’re rolling so hard right now, people think you’re rolling into the sunset. Everyone’s like, “Damn, there goes Dave, rolling with some serious punches.” And you are. So many punches.
Bro slams his door shut, jolting you out of your mental monologue. He glances at the moving vans, and you already know: there’s no way you’re just pulling out mattresses and calling it a night.
God, you love moving.
==> Sleep away, be the bed.
You’re trying to punch that one-way ticket to sugarplum dreamland when someone starts ringing the doorbell like tomorrow doesn’t exist. It’s been two days since you moved to Washington, and you’ve already called Mom three times to ask if you can go home. She sees right through your guilty shtick, though, you’re stuck here for the rest of your miserable fucking life.
“Dirk!” you groan into the darkness of your empty new room.
“Yes, darlin’?” he shouts back from somewhere in the house.
You frown. Asshole’s awake and still won’t answer the damn door. With a sigh, you roll off your mattress.
“Fuck you!” you yell back, yanking on a pair of boxers that are probably clean. Bro’s definitely not getting the door, and apparently Dirk’s too busy being a useless chunk of shit to do it himself.
You stomp down the stairs, making sure to wake up anyone still asleep, and yank the door open.
On the other side stands a man who looks like the living embodiment of your ironic dreams. He takes the pipe from his mouth and offers you a handshake, totally unfazed by your Back to the Future boxers.
“Good morning, young man!” he says cheerfully. “You can call me Mr. Egbert, you must be our new neighbour!”
Holy shit. Is this guy for real? You stop the urge to look into the camera that is certainly hiding around the corner. What 70's sitcom is this? You smirk and shake his hand.
“’Sup. I’m Dave.”
He grins wider, shaking your hand with unearned enthusiasm. Dirk shuffles down the stairs behind you, with Bro close behind.
“Mr. Egbert, huh? Nice to meet you. Bro Strider. My brother Dirk—and you’ve met Dave already.”
You try not to laugh at this guy’s wasted optimism. The Striders aren’t exactly model neighbours. You like to keep to yourselves, and most people end up moving out within a couple months of living near you.
Mr. Egbert tips his hat and sticks his pipe back between his teeth. “I live across the street with my son John and daughter Jane. They look to be about your age. We all baked this for you to welcome you to the neighbourhood! I'd hate for a new neighbour to go cakeless in this economy," he says seriously.
You exchange a look with Dirk and roll your eyes behind your shades. Mr. Egbert seems nice enough, but if he thinks you’re about to become best buds with his suburban kids, he’s as delusional as Dirk’s self-insert anime fanfic phase.
“Don’t be strangers!” he says brightly, handing you a cake before strolling back across the street.
Holy fuck—it looks good. Perfect handwriting, flawless piping, the kind of cake that should be on a magazine cover.
Mr. Egbert’s starting to look like a much better neighbour. Maybe this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.
You bring the cake into the house and set it on your shitty kitchen table from the apartment.
“He can stay,” Dirk murmurs, as Bro rummages through a box for a knife. Eventually, Bro gives up and just pulls a sword out of the fridge.
“Fuck it. This thing’s seen worse.”
You all gather around, waiting for your first slice.
There are a few things you expect when Bro cuts into Mr. Egbert’s cake. One: heavenly, sugary bliss. Two: maybe a sign that your new life won’t totally suck. Three: definitely not for the cake to explode all over your kitchen the second the blade hits it.
Your expectations have a tendency to fail these days.
As Dirk sputters in the corner, wiping frosting off his shades, laughter rings out from the Egbert residence across the street. Bro calmly licks icing off his fingers.
“This means fucking war.”
You don’t think you’ve ever agreed more with a man covered in cake.
This meant fucking war.