Chapter Text
An indeterminate amount of time later, Dietrick wakes with a low, drawn out groan of misery.
Everything hurts and is terrible. His joints ache, his head pounds, his stomach is cramping, his mouth and throat are so dry it feels like he ate a whole bag of cotton balls, and his eyes are so gritty with sleep crusties that he has to scrub at the corners with his fingertips before it's even a little bit comfortable to open them. In addition to his tongue being a shriveled husk, his mouth also tastes like Bad. It, as a matter of fact, tastes like Very Bad. It's like something crawled into his mouth and fucking died while he was asleep. It's utterly disgusting and Dietrick desperately yearns for a toothbrush.
It takes a few minutes to convince himself to move, though. Part of the reason he aches all over is probably because he's curled up on the floor between the futon and the beat up wreck of a coffee table like some kind of creature. He takes his time to stretch out longways on the floor, turning over onto his back with another noise of discomfort. His back pops in three places when he's flat on the floor and he makes a relieved sound. Fuck, when did he get old ? This fucking sucks. He stretches out his arms and legs, then lifts his hips to stretch those, shoulders and heels still planted on the floor. The groan that's pulled from him probably sounds obscene out of context but he really can't be assed to care right now. That stretch felt really good. He feels a lot looser and more relaxed, now. Who needs sex when you can do a big full body stretch instead ?
He snorts at his own joke, then carefully sits up off the floor. His back and head still protest, but the former is much better now. Hopefully the latter will follow. Dietrick is slow and careful to stand. He doesn't want to get up too fast and end up knocked right back over with vertigo. Once he's up he stays still for a moment, testing his balance with small motions, then finally commits to moving around.
The apartment is a fucking wreck. It looks like a whole frat has been squatting in the place. There's crap everywhere, trash and old food and weapons— shitty katanas and shuriken, a couple other types of blade including kitchen knives, a few different kinds of firework.... What the everloving fuck ? And then there are the puppets; they look like a horrible, sexualized bastardization of the cute friendly kind he made as a teenager. There are piles of them. Sewing has been one of the very few things to bring him any modicum of peace over however many years it's been, even if he was barely even present for it, but knowing that this is apparently what he was making ? Great. Fantastic. Another thing Cal has ruined for him.
In addition to the mess, the carpets are disgusting and stained, the windows are cloudy, the walls are grody and have holes, even the ceiling has scratches and dents, and he's pretty sure he can see at least three tripwires just from the entry to the kitchen. He's already got a fucking laundry list of shit to do and he's barely been awake for ten minutes.
Dietrick makes it into the kitchen and pauses. There's more of the same mess, but he spots something that makes his stomach churn and his chest feels tight: a smear of old, dried blood against one of the cabinets.
It's at too low a height to have ever been from him.
Now that he knows to look for it he can see other spots in the grime on the floors. Some places it looks like there was at least some effort to clean, but it seems it didn't get everything, and then the endeavor was given up on and the clean.... er..... ish spot was allowed to crust over again with dirt and other gross shit.
Hopefully not actual shit.
Dietrick steps up to the sink and is somehow surprised to find fireworks and shuriken in it. The handle to the faucet comes off in his hand when he tries to turn it. He sets it down on the counter. At least it appears that the sink's water has been shut off. But holy fuck, does Dietrick need something to drink. He glances around, grimacing at the absolute disgusting mess that his kid— and himself, sort of, he guesses— has been living in. His eyes catch on the fridge. Maybe there's something in there ? (He knows he's delusional in thinking so, but he can't really help it.)
There are swords in the fridge.
Who the fuck puts swords in a fridge ?!!?!??! Dietrick captchalogues the whole fucking avalanche of the things instead of doing something stupid like trying to catch them with his hands. Behind the sharp tangle of stupidity, the fridge is empty.
Dietrick sighs heavily. His throat and sinuses feel cored out, uncomfortable.
Bathroom sink, then. He's not even going to bother trying to find a cup in this mess; he'll just fucking drink from his hands. And, as a bonus, he'll be able to brush his teeth. His mouth feels so gross.
The bathroom's plumbing seems to be in working order, and Dietrick happily drinks down some water and brushes his teeth— with his finger, because he can't find a toothbrush— and he feels much more human afterwards. The bathroom is slightly less of a wreck than everywhere else, with a hamper overflowing with smelly laundry and a few scattered obscene puppets around. The tile comes halfway up the wall, and there's a drain in the middle of the floor, so that's all relatively clean, but the once-white paint above that is yellowed, chipped, and peeling. The mirror is cracked at two of the corners and has other scratches and chips out of it. The shower curtain has mold spotted along the bottom half of it, and one corner is kind of tattered.
He drinks some more water and returns to the living room. Eugh, okay, the futon has got to go. When he bought it he had a removable cover on it so that it could be washed, but now the cushioning is bare— and stained to hell and back. There's so much grime on it that if he didn't know it had been beige to begin with he'd have no idea that it hadn't come in gray. It's also ripped to hell, stuffing poking out all over the place. The thin rods of the frame are broken in too many places for Dietrick's comfort. Better to just get rid of the whole thing.
There are also loose cables snaking around across the entire floor. DJ equipment, the television, a computer in the corner— the cable management is fucking atrocious. All of these wires should be taped down in straight lines and against walls whenever possible. Just looking at the spaghetti mess of cables is making his fingers twitch. He likes things to be orderly— and safe. This is a tripping hazard, and more importantly a fire hazard.
Okay, to do list: Replacing the futon. Ripping out the carpet. Replacing and/or repairing drywall. Repaint. Cable management. Replace bathroom mirror. Replace shower curtain. Mount towel rods. Deep clean bathroom. Deep clean kitchen. Replace kitchen sink. Deep clean fridge (just in case). Grocery shopping. Buy toothbrushes ? Buy real furniture. Everything is plywood and cinderblocks and it sucks.
Dietrick has a lot of fucking work to do.
But first: food. His stomach fucking hurts.
The computer is in a terrible state and he's probably going to replace it, too. But it's good enough for him to order delivery. He gets mcdonald's— it's close by, so it shouldn't be too long a wait. He gets himself four mcdoubles, because he feels like he could eat a fucking horse right now and still be hungry, plus a large fry and a fanta. He's not sure what Dave likes anymore, but he figures that a ten piece nugget and another large fry is probably a safe bet. He also adds a coke, a bottle of water, and two of their little apple pie things. If there's anything they don't end up finishing, they can put it in the fridge. Its intended use. Dietrick grimaces at his captcha card full of fucking swords.
While he waits, he takes the time to scrub down the kitchen island. It takes some searching to find a couple scraps of cloth and a scrub brush, but he's able to unearth some tile cleaner, and he goes to fucking town on the countertop. He and Dave are going to need a clean place to eat, after all, and he's getting a jumpstart on all the rest, however small.
As he predicted, though, it doesn't take long at all for the food to arrive, and just the smell of it makes Dietrick want to tear into the paper bag with his teeth like some sort of maniac. He refrains, though, setting the bag and the drink tray on the newly cleaned counter and going down the hall to knock on Dave's door.
He pauses before actually doing so. Dave has no idea that Dietrick hasn't been in control of his own body for the vast majority of the time. He's been terrorized by Cal for probably about as long as he can remember. Is it really a good idea for Dietrick to bother him ? To make Dave spend any amount of time with him ? Dave probably hates him.
Even though it would be completely justified, the idea that his kid hates him makes him ache.
Dietrick massages his temples for a moment. His headache has lessened but hasn't really gone away. Dave still needs to eat something; who the hell knows when the last time he ate was, what with the fucking swords in the fridge. Dietrick had been learning to cook, just a bit, when Dave was little, but fuck if he remembers any of that now. He's going to have to do some research and some practice so he can try to correct the likely abysmal state of Dave's nutrition. Everything was painful and hazy and foggy and awful after his seizure, but Dave seemed too skinny even then.
Would he even trust anything Dietrick cooked ? Would he ever be able to look at Dietrick and see anything other than his abuser ?
Dietrick feels nauseous.
Dave still has to eat. There's mcdonald's on the counter. If he wants to eat in his room, then that's fine.
Dietrick knocks on the door. It takes a long few moments to garner a response, almost long enough for Dietrick to knock again. The door opens just before he tries, though. Just a crack. Dietrick can only see a sliver of Dave's face, and even that is mostly covered by those round shades. His mouth is a flat line, but his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are drawn up, just a little. He's tense, wary.
Afraid.
Dietrick swallows uncomfortably and scratches at the back of his neck. "Uh, hey," he says, "I don't know if you're hungry or anything but I got us mcdonald's. It's in the kitchen. Got you some nuggets and fries, if that's okay.... ?"
Dave's face shifts, just barely. Mouth parting a little, eyebrows twitching up. Surprise ?
"Sure, that's cool," he says, voice flat and toneless. Dietrick frowns slightly, but doesn't comment on it. Definitely something for him to keep an eye on, though.
"Alright, c'mon then," he says, waving a hand as he turns back down the hall. He's fucking ravenous and can't wait to eat. Dave takes a moment to follow, but Dietrick hears the quiet woosh of air as the door opens, and the faintest swish of socked feet on the carpet.
Dietrick leans against the counter and finally opens up the bag of food, setting out everything and setting the bag itself aside to collect their trash. He puts Dave's food along the adjacent edge, next to him, and puts the napkins and condiments between them— closer to Dave, on account of his shorter arms, but still well within Dietrick's reach. Dave hovers silently in the doorway, still tense and watching closely. Dietrick starts to unwrap his first burger.
Dave still hasn't approached the counter. Dietrick frowns again. "Well ? C'mon, Dave, 's gon' get cold." He takes his first bite— nearly half of the damned thing— and nearly moans at how good it tastes. His senses have been dulled for so long. This greasy garbage fast food tastes fucking heavenly. He takes a sip of his fanta next and smiles to himself at the delicious, artificial orange taste.
Dave slowly steps closer and sets his hands flat on the countertop. He doesn't touch the food yet, just staring down at it. Dietrick takes another big bite of his first burger. He can just barely see Dave's eyes from behind his shades, because they've slid down his nose just a little. He stares at the food for a moment longer, then flicks his gaze up toward Dietrick, considering. Dietrick pretends not to notice; Dave seems skittish and he doesn't want to set him off. Dave watches him for a good minute or so, still not moving, barely even breathing. Dietrick doesn't like it.
He also has no idea how to fix it.
Dave finally, finally reaches for the box of nuggets. Dietrick watches him eat several, curling slightly inward as if trying to protect his food. Dietrick's chest feels tight, watching Dave's behavior. He needs to get some real food into this kid, ASAP. He unwraps his second burger, and nudges Dave's fries and a couple packets of ketchup toward him. Dave freezes for a moment before accepting the offering. He gives Dietrick a strange look, one he can't really read from behind the shades. Dietrick licks some mustard off his thumb and starts in on the third mcdouble, shoving some of his own fries in his mouth. He feels a lot better already, even his headache receding more now that he's eaten, but he's still pretty hungry. He'll probably finish most, if not all, of his food.
Dave eats. He's still wary, and increasingly confused, but he does eat. It settles something in Dietrick. Knowing that, at least for now, his child is taken care of. Provided for. Once Dave is done and sipping on his coke, Dietrick takes the apple pies from the bag and reaches over to set those in front of Dave, too.
Dave's whole face lights up. Looks like he still likes everything apples, Dietrick thinks triumphantly. Dave's bright little grin is contagious, and Dietrick finds himself smiling too. He sighs, pleased at making his kid happy. It breaks the spell. Dave flinches, freezing in place and staring at Dietrick. His own smile starts to fade, then, shame and worry rolling through him at having disrupted such a moment.
Dave presses his lips together, staring at Dietrick for another minute before he slowly relaxes again, and picks up one of the pie boxes. Dietrick smiles, trying to be encouraging. He wants Dave to eat, and he wants Dave to eat something he likes. He wants Dave to be happy and healthy and safe.
That's all he's ever wanted.
When Dave is halfway through the first pie, he nudges the second box closer to Dietrick with one finger. Dietrick pushes it back. "That's for you, kiddo," he says, with some amusement.
When Dave was little he was always trying to share his food, even going so far as to shove it into Dietrick's mouth. He remembers chubby little fists around two apple slices, one half chewed, and Dave staring very seriously at the other before turning and shoving it into Dietrick's open mouth. He'd been talking on the phone with Roxanne about something, and Roxanne had laughed at him when he made an awkward noise and then told her what happened. Dave had seemed very pleased with himself, grinning between chewing on his remaining apple slice.
"Oh," Dave says quietly. "Um, thanks, Bro."
"Sure thing," Dietrick replies. Dave finishes the first pie and starts in on the second with only brief hesitation.
Did Dave call him bro ?
Thinking about it, he's pretty sure that's Cal's doing. Whatever he is— was ?— he had weird ideas about things like obscenity, and Dietrick remembers Cal recoiling in disgust whenever he would be affectionate with friends or members of a foster family. Dave called him Daddy when he was still very small, and Dietrick kind of misses it, but he supposes it would make sense for Cal to discourage that, as much as it sucks.
He's hit with a flash of red hot anger. So much has been stolen from him. From both of them. He should have had the last however many years of his son calling him Dad, he should have been a source of comfort and safety for Dave, Dave should have been in preschool and kindergarten and then grade school, making friends and going to parties and sleepovers and spending time with his sister and mom. He and Roxanne were supposed to work together on this. They were supposed to reach out to Jeanette and Jacob and introduce Dave and Rose to John and Jade when they were still kids so the four of them could grow up together.
Instead, Dietrick became a living puppet, Dave has been terrorized by his puppeteer, and he's spent years being hurt. He's not in school. He has no relationship with the rest of his family— hell, Dave probably has no idea he even has a sister. Dietrick has no idea if Dave has managed to meet any of the other kids on his own. He knows that they have to meet in order to do what they're meant to, but even as a Guardian he has limited scope on such things as timelines and their validity.
The anger fades as quickly as it set in. He's left feeling tired, mostly. Sad and a little defeated. He's never going to get those years back. He just has to live with that. The most he can do now is to try his best to get back on track, and make sure that Dave is as happy, healthy, and safe as Dietrick can make him.
Dave finishes his food and puts all his trash back in the bag, then stands by, fidgeting with his hands for a moment. Dietrick can't quite tell where he's looking, but Dave is at least facing him, and he's caught his chin dipping a couple times. Is he still hungry ? He probably needs more to eat. Dietrick sticks another couple fries in his mouth and then turns the box toward Dave. There's maybe a third of them left, but he's most of the way through his last burger and is taking his time finishing up, so it's no great loss to let Dave have the last of the fries.
Again there's that hesitance, for just slightly less time, before Dave reaches out for the little carton. He polishes those off fast too, and deposits the trash in the bag with the rest. Still, he stands there at the edge of the counter. Dietrick doesn't think he knows he's frowning. Dave watches as Dietrick finishes his food, cleans up the counter, and leaves the bag of trash on the other counter, next to a preexisting pile of garbage, to take care of later.
Fuck, but he's got such a long fucking list of shit to do to unfuck this place.
It's okay. It's fine. He'll make an actual list, or maybe several, to break down the tasks into more manageable chunks, and then make a fuller plan from there. For now....
"You still hungry ? I can order somethin' else if you want," Dietrick offers. He sees the way Dave suppresses a flinch. All he wants is to pull Dave into a hug and tell him he's safe.
It's the last thing in the world that he should do right now.
"Nah, I'm good," Dave says. He's talking in some weird accent, too. Enunciating shit he ain't got no business doing. Suppressing his natural drawl ? "Thanks, though, Bro."
"Yeah, 'course," Dietrick responds slowly. Fuck, he should call Roxanne. He has no idea how to fix this. She'd always wanted to be a mom; maybe she'd have some idea. Beyond cutting himself out of Dave's life entirely, anyway. It's not exactly feasible, and it certainly isn't a good idea even if Dave would be better off, emotionally speaking, without him. Until the game rolls around, he's going to need a legal guardian, and when the game rolls around he's going to need a Guardian, period, to help guide him through the early stages of the game. It is, quite literally, what Dietrick was made for. It's his entire purpose.
Dave seems to be waiting for some kind of response. "You, uh, you can head back to your room if you want," Dietrick says, feeling a little awkward. "I've got a lot of shit to do. Gonna fix up the apartment some. Dunno how long it'll take, could be a few days, maybe more." Dave stays stock still. He doesn't even acknowledge what Dietrick is saying.
Fuck, how does he interact with his kid ???? The last time he was fully aware, Dave was five, and liked dinosaurs and apples and sesame street. Now.... Music ? Video games. He remembers playing Tony Hawk with him. Dave had done this horrible glitch that sent his avatar absolutely flying and it was the funniest shit Dietrick's ever seen.
That's a start, he supposes. But what the hell else can he talk to Dave about ?
Dave seems to take Dietrick's prolonged silence as a dismissal. He presses his lips together, and nods, a quick dip of his chin, before he flashsteps out of the room.
His kid is obviously scared shitless of him. He takes a minute to feel that hurt. Lets it wash over him, sting at his eyes, constrict his chest. Then he lets it go, at least for now. He has to unfuck the apartment, get Dave in school, make sure all his shots are up to date, (re)learn to cook, probably research childhood trauma, it might be a good idea for both of them to be in therapy....
And...... he should probably call Roxanne.
But before that, he's got an entire fucking laundry list of shit to do.
......Up to and including actual laundry.
Dietrick sighs heavily, sliding his fingertips up underneath his shades to rub at his eyes, and then gets to work.