[Towel. Towel towel towel. He takes it and notices the tactile sensation of terrycloth, fluffy-thick while rough, too, all the little, bumpy loops of thread against his fingers. Clumsy with his shaking hands, Dave unfolds it over his head, takes a moment to register the palpable difference between towel-in-hair and towel-on-skin. He rubs it jerkily across his scalp a couple times and then, more carefully, wipes and presses it against the back of his neck.

Right. He can feel that, he's here. Here-not-there. Not that there is a there, not one that he can think of. It was just...white noise, mental static. No. Here-not-nowhere.

Shit, he's freezing.]

Want new underwear, too. I-I can do that myself.

[He glances briefly at Karkat, then down again as he dries his ears, works his way towards his face. Well, thank god his modesty is intact. What would they even do without such a vital facet of his base personality at play, it's not like that's a mild inconvenience in this situation or anything.]

Y-y-you can help, with everything, but. Undies, j-just me, please. T.Y.

[A dick joke really ought to follow, or something about Dave Strider magic alone time, but he can't get the part of his brain that handles hilarious and inappropriate phrasing for human and troll anatomy alike (a very large and important mental organ--haha, mental organ, but he's not even in a headspace to appreciate that) to engage. Tragedy. Jesus, what's wrong with him.

He shivers.]