You’re not exactly certain what time it is when Dave interrupts your session of human video games. Dave does, you’re sure, because Dave has some sort of weird ability involving that, but all you know is that it’s been bright and sunny for all the time you’ve spent in this dream bubble.
“Tavros,” he says, voice oddly serious.
“Oh, hey Dave,” you say, focused on your game of something called Mad Snacks, Yo. “Um. What’s up?”
“Stop playing your fucking game and look at me, Tavros.” You fumble with the pause button, managing only to get your skater guy stuck in a pole. A moment later you give up and throw your controller to the ground, turning to face Dave.
He looks pale. Well, he always looks pale, which is weird for a member of a species that wakes up with the sun, but right now he looks even paler than normal. He seems almost sickly, and from the way he’s leaning against the far wall you get the idea something’s wrong.
“Uh, wow, Dave. You… you don’t really look so good.”
He flips his shades down just enough that you can see the very top of his dead white eyes. “Tavros,” he says again and runs his hands through his hair.
“What?” By now you’re on the verge of panicking. Is something wrong with the dream bubbles? Are they being attacked?
“I’m pregnant,” Dave says solemnly.
Your world stops.
“Um. What.” You researched a lot about humans back when you first started trolling them, and you are almost one-hundred percent certain human reproduction does not work that way. But when you bring that little objection up to Dave, he just sighs and shakes his head, looking through his shades at you like you are the world’s biggest bulgemuncher. Which, okay, maybe you are, but still.
“Tavros, Tavros, Tavros,” he sighs, and you are beginning to get really tired of him repeating your name. “Remember what happened last time you thought you’d figured out how humans worked?”
At your clueless look, he curls his fingers into a gun and makes a little “bang” sound.
Oh, right, you think as you flush bright orange. You are beginning to wish you’d never confided that little detail about Jade’s grandfather’s death to him.
“But,” you stammer, “I’m, um, very reasonably sure that we never actually, um.” Pailed, your mind fills in, but you are far too embarrassed to say that out loud.
“You really don’t know anything about human reproduction, do you?”
Dave sighs and walks over to you, casually straddling the arm of the couch you are sitting on—he’s far too devoted to some human concept called “irony” to ever sit like a normal person.
“Well, shit, he says. “Never thought I’d be giving the talk to some thirteen year old alien dipshit, but eh, what the hell. You remember that time when you first tried to troll me?”
You nod miserably. Of course you remember—it’s been seared into your brain as one of the most humiliating experiences of your entire life (along with anything involving either Vriska, stairs, or both combined. Especially both combined).
“And you remember the part where I told you I was feeling matrimonial?”
"What? I—no. There is no way in, um, in anything that that is even possible.”
“Hell, not my fault you accepted my proposal.”
“But! I didn't- what? I. What?"
Dave nods. "Yup."
"We weren’t even in the same universe!” You wail miserably, dropping your head into your hands.
“Soul sperm,” Dave says sagely, making a little swimming motion with his hands. “Persistent little buggers.”
“I… ugh. Argh.”
Dave gives you an awkward pat on the back. “Eh, s’not so bad. We can go curtain shopping, and have a cute little baby shower, and name our kid Amadeus Reginald Derpy Hooves Strider.”
“Er, Dave, I don’t want to um, burst your bubble or anything, but we are dead and also the only two people in this whole entire universe. I don’t think there are any curtain stores. And um, also, about our…” Oh, Gog, you can’t say it, “…kid, I’m not exactly comfortable giving him that sort of a name.”
“She’s a girl, actually.” Dave pauses for a moment, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “And yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ll tell Aradia to tell that fashion-obsessed chick of yours—”
“Kanaya,” you say.
“Yeah, sure, Kanaya. She can sew us up some curtains.”
You both sit there in silence for a moment.
“Oh Gog,” you eventually say, “I can’t believe I’m going to be a... father? Is that the word?”
“You’re not going to be a father,” Dave says, smirking at you with an evil light in his eyes.
“Wait.” It takes a moment for you to process the look on his face. “You mean… you were, um, teasing me?”
“What?” Dave snorts. “No way. I’m as serious as a mourner at the freaking president’s funeral. But there’s no way Id trust you to be our little girl’s father figure. Shit, can you imagine how screwed up poor Amadeus Reginald Derpy Hooves would be? No,” he says, and you suddenly wish you were in any other dream bubble, any at all. “I think we’ll call you Mommy.”
(The sad part is that it takes you another three months, more or less, to realize he was kidding. On the plus side, though, it turns out Kanaya is very skilled at the fine art of curtain-making.)