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Chapter Text

I've got you
You've got whatever's left of me to get
Our conversations are like minefields
No one's found a safe way through one yet
I spend a lot of money
I buy you white gold
We raise up a little roof
Against the cold
On Southwood Plantation Road

"Southwood Plantation Road", the Mountain Goats

It's been a month, and things are going better than he could have ever imagined.

He lays next to her in bed late at night, staring at the reflection of the moon in her raven hair. This, if he is honest with himself, is the best part of settling down. Not any of that sappy shit--though he does enjoy laying here with his girlfriend/matesprit/waifu/pimp daddy/whatever the hell you call a girl with more teeth than a great white and a noose fetish. No, the best part of homeownership is sleeping in an honest-to-god bed. Not some shitty cot or the sack of bricks that passes for the mattress in the Winnebago. He'd forgotten what it felt like to not have his spine raped by the steel wires of the bedframe.

As he rhapsodizes to himself on the joys of owning a proper bed, Terezi rolls over and opens her eyes.

"Hey coolkid," she giggles. "You're still awake?"

"Shit, babe, go back to sleep. I'm just writing an epic rap about mattresses in my head. I'll be done in a minute."

"Hehehe! Is that a euphamism, Mr. Strider?"

"Hold on there TZ, tone down the leering for a second. I know you want my heaving bulge, but now it's time for me to get my mad sleeps on."

He closes his eyes, and then it's morning.

The next few weeks pass in a blur of pleasant suburban monotony.

He mows the lawn with his shirt off while Terezi drinks strawberry kool-aid on the porch.

They go to the local Winn-Dixie and the cashier stares as Terezi dumps ten bottles of ketchup onto the conveyor belt.

They both sit on the porch and throw shit at the neighborhood children as they bike past.

And every night the two of them sit in their living room on their furniture in front of their very own fucking television. He'll turn the channel to Lifetime, crack open a couple cans of Pabst, and then the two of them will proceed to rip into the "original movies" until the house is filled with Terezi's cackles and even Dave can't resist busting out laughing.

They had become what he'd feared most. They had become boring. Except living like a normal person is nothing like he thought it would be. It isn't boring.

It's wonderful.