Karkat doesn't know what to do with his daemon. None of the trolls do; Terezi hides it a little better but in the week she's been sharing their apartment Byrd doesn't count the times he found her sitting in silence on the couch, or in the staircase to the roof, that horrific alligator-mawed, hollow-bellied hound-thing of hers staring back at her with his head on her knee, both trying to make sense of each other.
It's funny because neither does Byrd, really.
Three years without, and then he's home and he's human again. He tries to lean on his right arm he crashes to the floor, nose in an old pizza box, and then Bowie is here fluttering awkwardly at his side like she forgot how to, in the three years she was gone, the three years he was less than human in almost all possible ways.
His Bowie, not Dave's Bowie. They won't mix them up in a hurry, even discounting the missing chunks. His is white as bleached bone now.
"Did you change her name?" Karkat asks him without looking his way, sitting awkwardly on the couch before a show they're not watching. "Since you changed yours."
Byrd stretches his legs before him, hums distractedly. The rook is perched on the back of the couch, between his head and Karkat's, and she tilts her head this and that way as she stares down at the mishmash of dwarf bunny and hedgehog on the far end of the couch, the one that Karkat is determinedly not petting.
"Still haven't found a name for yours?" she asks, and caws almost as a joke.
Karkat and his daemon turn to frown at Byrd's in unplanned concert. The daemon doesn't speak; she doesn't do it much, not like Karkat at all. She looks so uneasy in her own skin, like she's wary of reminding Karkat she exists.
If his daemon could still fly she'd probably divebomb them and try to lift her off the couch just long enough to drop her on Karkat's lap.
(She can't, she can just hop and flutter a little, she's grounded.)
"Can't figure out what would fit. I'm no good at naming things, okay? And she says she has no preference." A short, annoyed sigh. "Come on, share, a miracle might happen and inspiration might descend unto me."
"Hm. Okay then. If you insist." Silence.
Karkat kicks his ankle, not too hard yet. It'll change soon. "I'm insisting, you douche."
"Hyum'n," Byrd says. "Pronounced like human."
Karkat groans and shoves at his shoulder. "Oh, get out."
"... Shouldn't that be Mamm'l?" inquires the nameless daemon, one ear up, one ear down like she's quirking an eyebrow. "To keep with the theme."
Byrd and Hyum'n exchange a look. (Byrd is barely tripped up by the color, all wrong.) Shit, it totally should have been.
"Striders work in mysterious ways." They turn back to Karkat. "Don't forget the silent apostrophe, it's super important."
"I'm serious, get the fuck out."
"And the pretentious accent--"
"Fuck you so much."