Bro is quiet a moment. Shifts a bit as he goes from leaning against the wall to standing, arms still crossed. His stare, hidden behind his shades, is unreadable as always. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking if he’s thinking about anything regarding this at all. Since when has Bro Strider given a fuck?

“Yeah?” Bro asks.

Those are Dirk words, not Dave words, coming from Dave. They’re one of the mantras Bro has lived his life by, that he in all honesty taught Dave through his own example. It shouldn’t feel weird hearing them coming from Dave.

They do. They feel like words strained through a speaker system that is all fucked up. Like the cheap speakers in a super market calling out names for some dipshit to clean this up on aisle eleven, or for some asshole to get to the fucking service desk please because his terror spawn are chewing up the linoleum flooring and they just remodeled that shit last month. They’re words Bro understands but feels like he didn’t hear quite right above the din of his own, usually underfed, emotions.

There is a part of him that doesn’t want to hear Dave say shit like that.

“Good for you,” Bro says anyway. His lip quirks up, just a little. “Got tired of every asshole pushing you underwater when they wanted to horseback in the pool, huh?”