Work Text:
One of the only things Damon keeps from his childhood is a picture of his brother – one he stole from the mantle, one that won't be missed, one he cut up so it only had Nicholas and himself in it.
He knows why he kept the picture, sort of. It's his brother, sort of.
He tells that to himself– and the very rare visitor, at least. His brother went missing
(died, just say died)
when he was 5 and Damon was 9. It's reasonable to have that. Even though they hadn't known each other for long, since Damon was adopted right around the same time as Nicholas was born, he likes having something of his around. They got along fine. Nicholas wasn't around long enough to form too much of a personality, but he was quiet, especially for a boy, and especially for his age. He was just like Damon, in that regard.
Lying to himself only works for so long. Damon knows why he has it. It's to atone. He treats this picture, this crumpled up, dusty photograph from the ‘90s, this glimpse into a life he didn't even live, like a miniature altar. Damon isn't religious – he didn't grow up that way, and he knows that trying to convert to any religion now wouldn't save him from Hell, but, on the darkest of nights when the rain is at its heaviest and his mind is running faster than he's used to, he practically prays to it.
He stares at Nicholas’ face. He's got his father's cheekbones, but his mother's lighter complexion. His hair is a dull red and a little too long, not unlike his father or his brother. His eyes are big and brown, soft and sad. He never smiled in pictures; Damon doesn't think he knew how to.
(he was just like me)
There's this innocence Damon can sense when he looks at him. Nicholas was a child. The youngest of the West family. He didn't know what was coming to him. He didn't know anything. Cruelty was a foreign concept. Real cruelty was, anyway.
You can see it in the photo. He doesn't look happy, but he looks childish. Pure. Full of life.
It kills Damon. It makes his heart ache so horribly that he thinks
(hopes)
it will stop completely. Nicholas should be here, and Damon should not, and this picture is a reminder of that. Every morning, he has to look his dead brother in the eye and come to terms with the fact that Nicholas deserved life more than he did. That Damon let him die.
If it's very quiet, he can hear Nicholas. His screams were high, too high for anyone who isn't a five year old boy about to be murdered by his father could replicate. He can't remember what, exactly, was said, but he knows he heard Nicholas cry out for his father. He remembers it because it made him grab onto the disgustingly rotted feathers of the Crow harder. It made his stomach turn and bile rise in his throat. It still does.
If he doesn't look at this picture, though, how will he be reminded? Damon is allowed to roam freely, free of any punishment he deserves. His father, at least, lost something, even if he never was convicted for the murders.. He had to close down the pizzeria for the most part, only opening it for seasonal operation or when a particularly rich customer wants to rent the place out for a night of nostalgia and B-tier pizza, but, for the most part, he was forced to move on to another get rich quick scheme.
Damon, however, didn't lose anything. Nobody has ever known the true extent to which Damon is corrupted, especially not where he lives now. The news of the missing children was national, but serious speculation was only conducted in the small town that housed the original Betty Bunny's Pizza Place. No one here even knows he was
(is, it's “is,” stop pretending, stop avoiding, is is IS)
related to the owner of Betty's. He changed his name the moment he could, readopting Woods as a surname once he moved closer to the city.
If he's allowed to shed his skin and crawl into somebody new, somebody with a normal life and a stomach that could handle seeing pizza without wanting to vomit, he needs something to tether him back to his roots. Something to tell him, each and every day, that the blood on his father's hands has spilled onto his own, and has been clinging to his hands since he was a child.
He stares at Nicholas’ face. Meets his eyes.
Damon gets told, every now and again, when he comes across someone who knew his biological mother, that he has her eyes.
Nicholas’ hair is different from his own. Nicholas had this shaggy, almost mullet cut, that hadn't been in style for years. The color of it, a copperish ginger, united the West family – all but Damon. He didn't belong. He was always meant to be the black sheep.
And yet, he was the key to all of those murders. He was the bait. He was the most important part of this plan Arnold had devised for God-knows-why.
His eyes shift to look at himself in the picture now. Even at nine, he was gangly and awkward looking.
He looks nothing like Arnold. Nicholas, if given the time to grow, would've looked just like his father. He's certain that Charles looks like him now, although he's not seen his older brother in ages.
Damon knows, though, that he and Arnold are cut from the same cloth. They're two halves of a whole. One lures, the other strikes. Both lie. They lied then, they lie now.
He looks back at Nicholas.
Does Arnold keep these reminders, too?
—
“Woods. Are you okay?”
He's at the water cooler at work. He's unsure how long he's been standing here. The water inside of the tiny cup he has in his hands is no longer cold. He blinks and looks up at his coworker.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You've been starin’ at that cup for, like, twenty minutes. It's creeping people out. They don't want to go on their lunch break, haha…”
He blinks again. It's meant to be a joke, he knows, but
(“come on, you can't be up here, it's bad for business! we get enough complaints about the animatronics freaking people out, we don't need you adding to that. go to the storage room, okay? your little friend wants to see you, i'm sure. he's gotta be about the only person who does, hah!”)
it hits too close to home. He shifts.
“Of course. My apologies.”
“You're all good! No need to be so formal, alright? ‘M not your superior or anything, Woods.” She smiles, although her eyes look a bit weary. “I was just checkin’ in on you.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you. I'll finish this, then be on my way.”
“Take your time.” She pats him on the shoulder, then goes to the mini-fridge to grab her sack lunch.
Damon looks down at the cup. What was he doing, again? He only really remembers being here, at this cooler, cup in hand. Everything before that is hazy.
He takes a sip, hoping it might jog his memory– and it does, a bit. He remembers coming in here in a daze, vision focused on the cooler and nothing else. His throat felt horribly dry. He realizes that, until he took that drink a second ago, it still did. He must have just poured the water when his mind went fuzzy and blank, like it's always tended to do.
Before that… He was at his desk. Two of his fellow officers passed by. They were talking about- something. Something bad. Something that made his mind go blank.
(“god damn it. these articles just HAVE to mention our name. customers aren't gonna wanna come here if they think a bunch of kids died here! i know they did, you don't need to be such a smartass.”)
…That's right. It was about a local case. A man found
(four children and one teenager who went missing)
the body of
(four children and one teenager)
a woman in
(the suits they're in the suits)
the dumpster behind a gas station.
Damon can practically feel the fog creeping back, eager to make him forget hearing any of this again. He fights it by closing his eyes and downing the rest of the water. As tempting as it is to push all thoughts about the- incident out of his mind, he knows he needs to work. Busying himself with his job works well to keep his mind off of everything.
Usually.
He stares at his empty cup for a moment, then refills it. The water is cold this time.
There better be a petty thief that needs to be taken care of.
—
There's another thing from his childhood, Damon learns, that he carried over into this new life of his.
He's running late for… something. Some work party. A guy who's been friendly since he started working alongside him in the police force invited him. He thinks it might be a housewarming party, or maybe his birthday. Damon wasn't paying much attention; he never really does. Friendship isn't meant for him, he's learned. He'll play along and act nice, just how Arnold taught him, but he has no intention of actually getting close with anyone.
Tomorrow is laundry day. Every Sunday is. It's the day when the local laundromat runs a sale, marking every service they have down to be half the price it otherwise would be. Damon makes okay money, but he likes pinching pennies when he can.
(and my father is to blame, isn't he?)
He sighs. He doesn't have time to be in his head right now. He has to find a shirt. All he needs is one single shirt, preferably a button up, but he's going on twenty minutes of being late for this mystery party, so he'll take anything.
As soon as he has the thought, his eyes catch sight of a faded navy blue t-shirt in the back of his closet. There's something about it that draws him to it, like a magnet sewed under his skin is trying to reach its other half.
(i'm not wearing that to a party; these people respect me)
He's not really aware he's grabbing the hanger until his hand is wrapped around its thick, white-ish plastic.
(that respect isn't exactly deserved, is it now?)
His body moves on its own as he pulls the hanger out of the closet.
The room around him crumbles, warping and twisting into his childhood bedroom, filled to the brim with mass produced, cheap Betty's merchandise that wasn't suitable for regular customers but was just right for Damon. He can see the mirror in front of him, the severely cracked one right next to his dresser. From the corner of his eye, he makes out a young boy. He's a gangly thing, his bones outgrowing his skin already, set to grow into his body in a few year's time – probably.
His shirt is navy blue. It's a very rich color. The back of the shirt, Damon can see, has a thread loose; he feels the same thread brushing against one of his hands. In the reflection, he sees a face– not on the little boy, but on the front of the shirt. It's a stylized cartoon face, painted in vibrant greens and bright whites, depicting a bunny Damon knows very, very well.
Betty Bunny stares at him from the mirror, smiling brightly, as she so often did. This exact art, Damon remembers, was
(is)
also used on the big sign that hung
(hangs. is, hangs. it's still there. you know that, stop pretending)
above the doorway to Betty's. She's waving invitingly. Her expression is warm, and so familiar. The sweet smile shown off in this drawing is like the entry mat to his childhood home. Her eyes, flat and printed onto a t-shirt he bets hundreds of other kids also owned, are kinder than his father's ever have been.
He finally looks down at the actual shirt that is in his hands. His fingers brush over the frayed and itchy fabric. Betty's face is almost decaying, it looks like. There are holes where the vinyl used to be, forming gross blotches all over her. It reminds him of
(takataka; the crow; my first friend)
(my father's first victim)
being a kid, of Betty Bunny's Pizza Place, of the storage closet he so frequently spent his time in.
The sight of this icon, this friend, uncared for and withered by time, makes Damon's chest ache. He knows the real Betty isn't rotted like this, but
(the girl inside of her is)
it hurts like she is, anyway.
Even after the cruel fate time had given the Betty illustration, her eyes are kind, looking up at Damon sweetly. Just like they always have.
The ache in his chest turns to something much more bitter– the dull hurt of a wound still bleeding rather than the sharp pain of getting stabbed. He doesn't deserve to be looked at with the fondness Betty looks at him– that Moriko looked at him with when he was a kid, wearing this same shirt. Her expression is much too kind to be looking at the man complicit in the death of four children. And one teenager.
He doesn't even know why he has this– it must have fallen into his suitcase when he was packing in the middle of the night. He should throw it away. It's practically disintegrating in his hands. He doubts he can fit in it still, anyway. It's just taking up space in his closet. Space that could be used for new clothes, clothes that suit him, clothes not designed for children.
He isn't a child anymore. He's a grown man. His name is Damon
(west)
Woods and he's an adult. He has a job, and people who care about him, and his own house. His apartment is suffocatingly small, but it's his own, and it isn't filled with useless, imperfect junk like this shirt.
He looks at Betty again. His grip on the shirt and hanger has tightened, his right hand making the fabric warp further while his left hand's knuckles turn white. The same sickly guilt he feels when he looks at the picture of Nicholas rears its ugly head.
(how can i think like that jesus christ how can i think about getting rid of this shirt what is wrong with me is letting moriko fucking die and get shoved into the suit not bad enough do i have to spit on her grave too god i'm going to vomit)
He nearly does. His body lurches forward with a dry heave; his first instinct, when he feels the wretch coming up his throat, is to bring the Betty shirt closer to himself, to protect her image from being further sullied.
For a moment, all he does is stand, staring at his closet. He feels his hands shake, hears the way the plastic hanger shakes in his palm.
He closes his eyes. Swallows down any bile that may have been ready to spew.
The Betty Bunny shirt gets hung back in his closet, exactly where it was before. Damon remains standing in front of it, fingers roaming the once-soft fabric for hours, and hours, and hours.
With every stroke of his hands, he apologizes with words that he's said millions of times by now.
—
“Hey, do you wanna join Wilson and I for lunch?”
Damon pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and tries to make a pleasant face at his coworker; ever since he ditched his housewarming party, he's been trying to be nicer to make it up to him.
“No, thank you.” A pause. Denying without reason is mean, he's learned. “I've brought my lunch today.” He's also learned that a well-placed lie is necessary from time to time.
(”why can't you do what you're told this one time. tell that news reporter that you didn't know those kids. help your old man out, will you? it's the least you could do for me, you know.”)
His coworker's face drops a little, but he smiles anyway. “Oh, okay. Another time, then?” He smiles hopefully.
Damon makes an attempt to smile back. “Another time,” he repeats affirmatively. The coworker nods and waves, then heads out the front door to his shiny new car he thinks Damon is impressed by.
Lying doesn't make him feel as horrible as it did when he was a child, but he feels a little bad making empty promises day after day to someone he can't even remember the name of. Doesn't he understand that getting close to Damon is one of the worst choices a person could make?
He shakes his head. He can't grasp why his coworkers are so insistent on spending time with him. It isn't a worthwhile way to pass time.
Asking him to lunch is an especially futile act. Every day, another officer asks him to join them for lunch, occasionally throwing in that they'll pay, if they're desperate; every day, Damon gives them that awkward smile of his and politely says that he'll pass. He's careful not to reuse excuses too frequently – he has to feed his neighbor's cat, or he's fasting for medical reasons, or he's allergic to the food they're planning on getting.
Damon shoves his jacket on and heads out the door, slotting himself comfortably in the driver's seat of his car. It's time for his daily visit.
Every day, instead of spending time with his coworkers, or even eating at all, Damon takes a over half-hour drive to the opposite side of town. It's been a part of his routine for as long as he's lived on his own. He knows the route, both from the police station and from the apartment complex he lives in, by heart. He hardly has to think about where he's going anymore to wind up there.
It's a twenty-five minute drive that, going to and from, takes up the entire time he's given to be on his lunch break. Damon doesn't mind, though. He's never been too concerned about keeping himself well fed. When most of the food around him growing up was practically swimming in grease and crawling with artificial mystery meat, he's lost his appetite for most foods. Anything cheesy repulses him, processed meat makes his skin crawl, and the mere smell of fresh bread can make him feel sick for hours.
It's better if he skips lunch and chooses to eat at home once he's dismissed for the day. Cups of ramen noodles are safe, and a far cry from what he was allowed to eat growing up.
Besides, if he ate now anyway, he would
(puke it up before it could even be digested)
miss out on his daily drive. And he can't miss that.
(they'd get lonely if i did okay they need to know i care they need to know i'm sorry if i don't do this they'll never know)
He can't miss that.
Some part of him knows it's
(”you can't just spend hours staring at the animatronics. you're taking up space other kids deserve more. what's even the point of doing this, huh? you don't dance with them or sing with them or whatever the hell, you just stare. you look)
stupid. He's apologized for everything for over a decade at this point. He doesn't even go inside. All he does is sit in his car, staring at the signage, chanting apologies in his head until he thinks enough have been delivered for the day. Then, it's right back to the station.
It's a pointless waste of gas and he knows it. But being aware of something doesn't always make you want to change it.
The car pulls into the same parking space it always does, and Fannie, Betty, Clara, and Ray all greet Damon like they always have.