[Printer jam, he thinks without context, and then thinks immediately after, what? It takes a second or two of bewildered mental backtracking to find it: the jarring, almost physical sound of suddenly too much paper at once after a rhythm so regular you forget about it, the way everything grinds to a stop. Dave's just eating too much paper at once. Just gotta separate it out.
He shakes his head--shut up, he's fine--and waits himself out, gives his pulse a few seconds to stop racing like it's the NASCAR cup and he's Danica Patrick with a glass ceiling to break. When he feels even an eighth of the way sufficiently settled, he breathes out (was he holding his breath?) and eases the pressure of his arm against Karkat's hand--only to replace it, tentatively, with his own fingertips, questing and shy. They skate across the back of Karkat's hand, over the bumps of his knuckles, and, after a moment, Dave moves them up, covers Karkat's hand with his, holds it gently there against his face. Another beat, another, and he sighs quietly, lets his fingers slide into the spaces between Karkat's, leans slightly into the warmth of his palm.
His voice is steadier, now.]
It's not the touching. That's fine. [No, wait.] I--I like it, it's. Good.
[Is it possible for a person's face to pull so much blood from the brain and the rest of the body that they swoon like a Southern belle? Detective Dave Strider is on the case! God, he's a mess. Why is blushing even a thing, what possible evolutionary purpose does it serve.
He wonders if he really could faint. Just from Karkat patting his face, just from this much. He doesn't feel like he will, but wouldn't that be a story to tell the wigglers.
...
W h a t. Okay, Jesus Christ, moving on!]
I think it's just--mnh. [Maybe he's not as steady as all that.] N-nobody ever...I've been trying to say. Nobody ever looked at me like that, like... [Like they needed to be gentle, like he was something worth being tender to. Like he had fucking feelings that could be hurt. He takes a shaky breath.] So, with all of it at once, it's a little...it's, it's like you said, it's a lot.
[Enough that he needs another couple seconds just to come back from saying it. Eventually, unstoppably, he loosens his other fingers from their deathgrip on the blanket, and, released, it slips off slowly to pool around him like a bad movie trope.
Dave looks down for another heartbeat, then meets Karkat's eyes again.]
no subject
He shakes his head--shut up, he's fine--and waits himself out, gives his pulse a few seconds to stop racing like it's the NASCAR cup and he's Danica Patrick with a glass ceiling to break. When he feels even an eighth of the way sufficiently settled, he breathes out (was he holding his breath?) and eases the pressure of his arm against Karkat's hand--only to replace it, tentatively, with his own fingertips, questing and shy. They skate across the back of Karkat's hand, over the bumps of his knuckles, and, after a moment, Dave moves them up, covers Karkat's hand with his, holds it gently there against his face. Another beat, another, and he sighs quietly, lets his fingers slide into the spaces between Karkat's, leans slightly into the warmth of his palm.
His voice is steadier, now.]
It's not the touching. That's fine. [No, wait.] I--I like it, it's. Good.
[Is it possible for a person's face to pull so much blood from the brain and the rest of the body that they swoon like a Southern belle? Detective Dave Strider is on the case! God, he's a mess. Why is blushing even a thing, what possible evolutionary purpose does it serve.
He wonders if he really could faint. Just from Karkat patting his face, just from this much. He doesn't feel like he will, but wouldn't that be a story to tell the wigglers.
...
W h a t. Okay, Jesus Christ, moving on!]
I think it's just--mnh. [Maybe he's not as steady as all that.] N-nobody ever...I've been trying to say. Nobody ever looked at me like that, like... [Like they needed to be gentle, like he was something worth being tender to. Like he had fucking feelings that could be hurt. He takes a shaky breath.] So, with all of it at once, it's a little...it's, it's like you said, it's a lot.
[Enough that he needs another couple seconds just to come back from saying it. Eventually, unstoppably, he loosens his other fingers from their deathgrip on the blanket, and, released, it slips off slowly to pool around him like a bad movie trope.
Dave looks down for another heartbeat, then meets Karkat's eyes again.]
I'm okay now. I mean, I'm still...but it's okay. ...Keep. Keep going.