Sleepytime Junction feat. Alpha Dave

[Chairubplay]

The prophecy has finally come true. Any thoughts, questions, or constructive criticism is very much appreciated!

(( Sleep deprivation and Alpha Dave are a match made in heaven. Don't match length or I'll cry, but give me plenty to work with for your response. I'm looking for a Rose, Dirk, Roxy, Karkat, Aradia, Eridan, or Feferi to coax this guy into getting some sleep, cuddles optional. Play somebody I didn’t list or have questions? Don't be afraid to run them by me! I hope you enjoy the prompt! ))

This is the second cup of coffee he's dumped down the front of his shirt today, but nothing phases him anymore. He's transcended pain receptors. He's shattered sensory awareness. He's seen the heat death of the universe reflected in the blurry pages of his manuscript. The rest of his staff is just waiting on the edge of their seats, fingers poised unwavering over the handy little button that'll speed-dial an ambulance right on over; if he goes limp with exhaustion, at least the response time will be record-breaking. Wee-woo, wee-woo, it's his quarterly breakdown, right on schedule. If nothing else, at least nobody can say that Dave Strider does things halfway.

Except when it comes to mopping up his mess, fresh coffee stains joining the old ones and making the fabric cling to his skin. The first time, Dave had been able to jump from his chair, cuss up a storm, pat himself down, and assure colleagues around him that this was still toe to tip a Functioning Human Being they had on their hands. Now though, his second wind's left him, a gaunt husk of a person shambling over to the napkin dispenser set by the Keurig to paw absently at the damp patch on his ridiculous novelty tie. Luckily his preferred brew was so watered down by cream and sugar that it isn't nearly as noticeable as the stronger stuff might have been. Still a waste of a nice, crisp dress shirt.

Dave notes this all with the detached sort of disinterest that only means the details have been filed away somewhere in the deepest recesses of his head, not that he's done any actual processing. Considering that he's running on less than empty, this is something of an achievement in itself. Good on you, boyo, you managed to store basic information from your eyejellies into your greyspace. Never mind that he's two seconds from losing all motor function and sprawling into an ungainly heap right there on the office floor, nestled up all cosy with the ugly-as-sin carpeting littered with tracked dirt and coffee stains and other unidentifiable ones he doesn't even want to begin to inspect too closely.

Headlines blare: Darling Director D.O.A?!

No. This is not how Dave Strider meets his end, done in by crunch time in the midst of proofing SBAHJ: The Moeive: The Squeakquel. He is an explosive, a force of nature, the result of what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. He's lived through bodily shutdowns aplenty and he'll live through this one, too, even if he has to do it through sheer willpower and not because of any actual care for his physical health.

Hey, it isn't a perfect system, but it gets the job done, and right now, that's all that matters.

With how close the office is to its collective deadline, he expects to hear some complaint when he shuffles over to grab his jacket. 'Oh, please, sir, don't leave us with a mountain of paperwork.' 'You're our rock!' 'Your stalwart devotion to shenanigans keeps me going, and also your hair is looking particularly luscious today.' Not a peep, except for a couple of mumbled well wishes and an offer from his long-suffering assistant to drive him home.

"Look, people, I'm not stumblin' out of a bar piss-drunk at three in the morning and smelling like a decade's worth of caked-on vomit over here. Old man Strider's got a ticket booked to Sleepytime Junction, there ain't no need to be saddling me with a designated driver, thanks ever so much." And there it is, so down to the wire that Dave can't even keep the drawl from his voice, a dead giveaway to origins that lay far from the typical West Coast surfer slang. Just perfect.

L.A. traffic is a fucking horror show. So much of a waking nightmare that he finds himself dozing against his steering wheel, startled to alertness only when the light's finally green and there's a minivan full of sportball enthusiasts headed by a suburban mom honking at him with everything she's got. Dave flips Helen the bird as she passes him and continues on his way.

Walking through the door should provide him with a sense of relief. He can collapse right past the threshold and nobody could tell him off for it or trip over his prone body in an effort to get past him. His apartment, his castle, his rules, and his incorrigible sleeping habits.

Except it doesn't.

Dave kicks off his dress shoes without bothering to unlace them, lets the weight of his bag thump to the floor with his jacket soon to follow, and trudges across the length of the room to the living room couch. The thing is plush as fuck and plenty comfy ordinarily, but for some reason he can't get settled. Maybe this was a problem only a little quality time with his bed could solve. The mattress is more inviting, fresh sheets providing wicked temptation that Dave so badly wants to succumb to, but even that siren call couldn't displace the feeling that something was amiss.

Fuck's sake. He's bone-tired, he knows this for a fact. His eyes burn. His limbs are heavy. Every movement is a chore. Yet he still pushes himself out of bed to try everything he's got in his big book of tricks. Warm milk. Calm music. Dim lights. Goddamn whale songs, even! Dave isn't sure he remembers what it feels like to close his eyes, even though something cerebral recalls that he was ten seconds away from getting t-boned at any given moment during the drive over.

Welp, it looks like things have gone completely fucking pear-shaped, to borrow a phrase. There's no other way out of this. Dave fishes around in his pocket for his phone, scrolls through his contacts, and picks out a number.

TG: doors unlocked
TG: you know what to do

[Dave Strider]

CALL OUT POST FOR Chairubplay

I PICKED THIS PROMPT, WROTE 892 WORDS, AND HE PANICKED AND DISCONNECTED

U BIG WEENIE

<3

[Chairubplay]

BANNED, BANNED, BANNED, NONE OF YOU ARE FREE OF SIN.

_{(I panicked, okay.)}