Chapter Text
It’s a sultry August day outside, and the Veterans Affairs Outreach Coordinator’s office isn’t much better. A box fan chugs along in the corner, only succeeding in stirring up the air around Wash’s legs as he sits stiff-backed in his chair across the desk from the paunchy adviser tapping away on his computer.
The man has been rambling on about service and medical history for some time, taking down details that could impact Wash’s benefits. Wash, for his part, answers the questions mechanically and leaves the system to decide his fate. His mind fades in and out like the heat waves shimmering outside the window. Everything major would already be tucked away in his file, accessible to the man. There’s no reason for Wash to drag up any gory details in his mind for what’s simply an excess of precautionary paperwork.
“...Alright,” the man says, “with all of that covered, let’s talk housing. You’re staying in a motel right now, right? Nothing permanent yet?” He waits for Wash to nod before continuing. “Within the past year, we’ve begun providing reduced-rate housing opportunities for vets on disability. You would qualify, so if you’re interested we can set up a tour of one of the duplexes this week and--”
“No, that sounds alright. I’ll take one.”
“Are you sure? It may be good to see the layout, meet the neighbors if anyone’s already moved into the other half. Your benefits could potentially cover some apartments in the area that aren’t under our management.”
Wash shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it’s fine.” He has nowhere in particular to go, so one roof over his head is as good as any.
The man pauses, but simply replies with another “alright,” before moving on. “The duplexes have all of the major appliances, built-in counters, et cetera, but are otherwise unfurnished. Do you have any furniture for it?”
“No.” Wash hasn’t been on this side of the ocean for more than small stretches in years, and had always stayed with teammates when doing so, so there’s nothing in storage to pick up.
The man nods, seeming more at ease with this dismissal than the previous. It’s likely a common enough circumstance for new vets. “Alright. You don’t have a car yet either, right? It will probably take a couple weeks for us to get the paperwork settled for you to move into a place, so during that time we can set up some days for you and me or one of the other coordinators to go and rent a U-Haul, stop at some places for you to pick out and purchase some furniture. Okay?”
“Sure, sounds good. Any day works for me.” Again, it hardly matters to him. But Wash plays it safe; he hasn’t just gotten himself out of the hospital only to be sent back with people fearing him a suicide risk if he expresses too much lack of concern for this transition. It’s just a far cry from what he’s used to, having to consider the appearance of end tables important. “Is that all you needed today?”
The coordinator pauses a long moment, seeming to evaluate Wash from over the desk. “Corporal, if you’re interested, there are groups around the state for veterans who have been through similar experiences. We can provide you transportation to chapter meetings, it could help--”
“I’m not a Corporal anymore. And thanks, but I’m fine.” His tone is carefully neutral. It’s been carefully neutral for weeks, always in the face of help he doesn’t want, or need.
The man nods, obviously not intent on pushing the matter. “Okay. If you ever decide you want to go, just give me a call and we’ll make it happen.” He slides Wash a business card, who pockets it without looking it over. “Otherwise, you’re good. I’ll be in touch within the next few days to figure things out for the move.”
Wash gives a perfunctory goodbye and leaves the office, putting all of the matters from his mind, though he can’t shake the feeling of the coordinator’s eyes following his back all the way down the hall.
---
“You’ve got a pretty good place, been renovated since the last guy moved out West. Your neighbor’s been there a few months now. He’s...an interesting guy, but keeps to himself as far as I know. And if he makes too much noise even if you talk to him about it, just let me know,” the coordinator (should have learned his name by now) tells Wash as he navigates a van along narrow backroads. There’s a cargo trailer hitched to the back filled mostly with boxes; besides the mattress and boxspring, Wash had chosen all build-your-own furniture. He has quite a nest egg built up from his years of active duty on top of VA benefits and loans, could have easily afforded to get some sturdy pre-built stuff, but he needs something to do with his hands, something to keep his mind sharp. When time isn’t floating around without any concern for him, the minutes drag painfully long.
Wash hums noncommittally at the coordinator’s comments; a little bit of noise from a neighbor wouldn't hurt. It’s better than the quiet. Far better than the loud.
He shakes his head before that line of thought can go too far, rolling the window down to let the warm breeze coast his skin. There, there are the good memories, patrolling streets in armored cars, not active firefights, but the rare peaceful moments when they could cup the wind in their hands and watch the landscape pass by. Almost seemed like a vacation, sometimes, when he ignored the gun resting in his lap.
He’s pulled out of his reverie as the van rolls offroad into a gravel driveway, laid in a circle around the wide porch stairs of a two-story duplex, empty save for a worn red-and-white pickup he assumes belongs to his new neighbor. The house has pale yellow siding, with two doors on either side of the porch and a couple upstairs windows in each half visible from the front. Nothing too special, but Wash isn’t looking for special. Wash isn’t really looking for anything at all; he’d easily take “nothing in particular” so long as it has four standing walls.
While the day is young and the coordinator still feels limber, they focus on the heaviest items in the trailer, dragging in the bed, a flatscreen Wash had bought for white noise, a few tables of varying sizes, and a boxed-up sectional couch. A handful of other things follow it, some secondhand books purchased half at random and a small shelf for them, a bag of thrifted clothes, but there will still be plenty of empty space in the duplex by the time it’s all sorted. That’s fine with Wash. With mainly white walls and pale hardwood, it will look clean, austere. He’s seen enough grime to last him through at least this lifetime.
Wash is carrying one of the last small boxes up the porch steps when the other front door swings open wide, what’s presumably his neighbor tromping onto the porch to look him over. The man is a good fifteen years older than Wash at minimum, he’d guess. A few rugged scars line his face, one running through his gray hairline and leaving a patch missing in its wake. On the short end of the stick, but with his bulky shape and heavy stance, he’s built solid.
“You can stop right there! I don’t want whatever you’re sellin’, proselytizin’, abandonin’, or thinkin’ about TP’in’ my house with!” the man calls out to Wash, voice gruff with a southern twang.
Wash glances down at the box in his hands. “Oh, I’m not here for—I’m moving in, I’m your new neighbor.”
“Really? Ain’t been one in a while, since the last guy went AWOL.”
“Uh, yeah, I heard he moved out West?” Since the man on the porch seems to have stood down from his posturing, Wash supposes he’s in the clear. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Sarge,” his neighbor offers. “You?”
Sarge? Really? If Sarge lives in this housing, then he’s out of whatever branch he had formerly inhabited, so not much of a “sarge” anymore (Army? Air Force? Which ones use that nickname?) and it’s a little odd to pull that on Wash, especially when there’s no confirmation that he was a lower rank.
Well, Wash can proffer the same level of distance, himself. He isn’t about to start demanding to be called “Corporal”, feels too untrue now that he’s here, but with the time and significance it had held, his codename still feels real. “Washington,” he replies, coolly.
Before either man can comment further, the coordinator steps out of the house, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of a hand. “Phew, alright, I think that should be the—Oh, hey, Sarge.”
You call him Sarge too?
“Stephen!” Sarge practically shouts over Wash’s thoughts, walking over to the coordinator. “Did’ja get my voicemails?”
“Yeah, Sarge, I got them.” The coordinator—Stephen—looks even more worn out just from that one question. “I don’t think we’ll be able to help fund construction on, uh, ‘an underground bunker with automated security’?”
“Damn cutbacks...Just take the money out of my life insurance!”
“You have term life. Nobody gets money unless you die. And cost isn’t the only reason—”
On that note, Wash decides to take his leave. Though Sarge doesn’t seem bothered with his nearby presence for the conversation, he isn’t sure that he’s supposed to be aware of the particulars of Sarge’s benefits. And frankly, he doesn’t really want to hear more of the ridiculousness that his new neighbor had in mind for their yard.
“Thanks for all of the help, Stephen. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Nice to meet you, Sarge.” He shuffles by them to his door, leaving Sarge to tangle the coordinator further in conversations on his ideas for doomsday prep and questions regarding if insurance companies realize he’s faked his own death, whether they could take their money back.
Inside his new home, it’s still, and quiet. A large part of Wash has been looking forward to this, the promise of a space where there’s no thunderous sounds or movements to split his head open, make his skin crawl; nothing unless he allows there to be. But as he stands in the entryway, Wash finds that there’s no big sigh, no settling moment as he inspects his new home. He finds he feels largely the same.