#wttrw

At some point he starts using this creature to do vigilante justice because the world sucks and there are horrible people (including those who hurt people he loves or is mildly fond of or just happens to know + the justice system doesn't work) and also its body is much healthier than his and at some point it's just exhilarating to do this stuff regardless of the morality. It's an Indian metro city, people die in random accidents all the time. The creature's shapeshifting helps a lot with this. Sometimes people fall into a nala and that's that. Sometimes a drunkard stumbles into a vortex of turbulent spacetime (after having all the oxygen sucked out of him). Someone might be on the CCTV getting beaten to a pulp by a figure that's foreign to anyone and everyone before being dissolved with no trace, and the murderer seeming to dissolve too, making it seem like the camera could've hallucinated (happens sometimes in the rips in reality), who knows! The whole thing is some combo of a Frankenstein + Jekyll & Hyde narrative. The creature hates it so much but Moksh ends up becoming a very manipulative parent as he gets a taste for bloodlust. At the start it's just about eliminating someone who wouldn't be walking free if the justice system worked. After that, yeah, he DOES keep targetting awful people, but many may not deserve such awful deaths + their awfulness is on a personal level, abuse and all, and he slowly starts ignoring whatever the hell the victims may have wanted (prev he'd at least TRY to figure out if they might want the person dead, whether through conversation or by having the creature shapeshift into a random stranger at some tapri engaging them in the sort of deep conversations you often only have with people you'll never meet again; he starts disrespecting both the agency of the creature and that of the people he's supposedly helping. it's so suspicious to his community at some point too, he keeps disappearing and then abusers giving trouble to them and their friends keep dropping like flies, and he slowly stops thinking through the consequence of killing , say, someone who holds financial power over someone, etc etc

Dark walls the smell the smell they’re there can’t find a way back hurts blood dirt the smell can’t find them can’t find a way just them there so long forever never going to get out it’s just going to be us in the dark just going to be us forever just going to be YOU—

Wash wakes halfway sitting, noise ripping through a throat already raw, blanket damp with sweat from where it’s wrapped around his waist. As soon as he can pull in a deep enough breath that he’s sure his legs won’t just fold under him, he stumbles out to the bathroom, turning the water on cool and standing under the spray, trying to imagine the water washing the memories away, the cold freezing them out of his head.

Most nights it’s something, but it’s not always that bad.

When he can finally see black after closing his eyes, Wash steps out of the shower and pulls on some clothes, leaving his hair damp. He shambles down to the first floor, about to put on coffee when a few loud thumps ring out from the front door. If he hadn’t been trained to control his reactions, he might have jumped right out of his skin.

He stares at the door for a couple seconds before grabbing a kitchen knife, placing it on the dining table within his reach but out of view of whoever is on the other side. His rational brain tells him that he won’t need to stab anyone who comes to his new house here, particularly anyone who comes and knocks before entering. The rest of his brain really doesn’t give a shit. He leaves (to his credit, only the one) security chain in place before opening the door.

Sarge stands there with two steaming red mugs in hand. When Wash reopens the door sans chain, Sarge silently hands him one before walking to his usual seat.

Wash looks down at the mug, filled with light-colored coffee. If the gravel in his throat is any indication, Sarge probably heard him through the walls during the night. Wash feels both very awkward at the thought, and very touched at the quiet gesture in response. He takes a sip; Sarge added cream and sugar where Wash usually drinks his black, but the sweetness is a welcome change.

When he joins Sarge on the porch, Wash says, “thanks for the coffee,” unsure if he should add anything else, but Sarge seems all too ready to wave him off, much to his relief. “No need.”

They soak in the sun in comfortable silence today, and by the time he reaches the dregs in his mug, Wash has lost the tang in his lungs that the dream left behind.

---

He must have my schedule figured out, Wash muses, when knocks again sound at his door as he steps out of the shower a little over a week later. He throws on a T-shirt and jeans before padding down the stairs as the knocking grows more insistent.

He pulls open the door to see Sarge with something in his hands once again...though this time it’s a shampoo bottle and red towel. “Um, good morning?”

“Morning, Washington,” Sarge grumbles, clearly not thinking it’s a very good one. “Power’s out in my half. I can fix it, but not before a shower. I see yours is on, proving my suspicions that mine has gone out with the sole purpose of spiting me.”

Wash runs a hand through his damp hair and wonders if it’s worth asking why he needs a shower first, where he had gotten training as an electrician (if he has any at all), why Sarge just came over assuming Wash’s worked before seeing him, why Wash’s being on proved the...spite theory? Before promptly deciding against all of it. Though they’ve started conversing more when they meet in the mornings, Sarge frequently makes it a challenging battle of words and often illogical wits over the smallest topics. Too little coffee in Wash’s bloodstream for that just yet, and it isn’t like anyone else needs the shower now. He unlocks the chain before stepping aside, waving Sarge in.

Sarge glances around as Wash guides him through the kitchen and into the living room, taking it in. Not that there’s much to see. The furniture he’s built drowns in the open space, and there aren’t enough boxes waiting to be opened to fill what’s left. Wash isn’t bothered by the bareness, but it is easier to notice with a second person’s perspective there. To his credit, Sarge doesn’t comment.

“Bathroom’s upstairs on the right,” Wash says, gesturing toward the stairs. He figures Sarge can find his own way there and back; he isn’t sure if Sarge is the type to poke through the other rooms, but it isn’t like there’s much for him to find there either.

After Sarge heads up to the bathroom, Wash walks back to the kitchen to put on two servings of coffee, figuring that he can return the favor of the other week and give Sarge his morning fix. As it drains into the pot, he wonders if he should just leave a second mug out and head to the porch with his cup. Waiting would be courteous, right? ...I don’t know that there are specific courtesies for this. He finally just lets it be, sitting at the table while he waits. Sarge has been slowly flipping Wash’s routine on its head; may as well go all the way.

“You know, Washington, I’ll give you points for creativity! Most people with loose cabinet doors tape them shut.” It takes Wash a moment of blank staring as Sarge enters the room, towel hung around his shoulders, before he realizes what Sarge is talking about; the medicine cabinet over the sink left wide, a strip of duct tape securing it to the wall.

Wash thinks about the last time he willingly looked in a mirror, at the military clinic before he shipped back home for care. You and me, he had remembered. A constant recurrence, but that time something was different, something wrong. His image, distorting, still him but not really him, both of them but that wasn’t possible because it was just him now because he was alone and—

He shakes his head a little to dispel that memory before it can become another black pit, swallowing his attention away for hours on end. “I...don’t like mirrors.”

Sarge just stares at him a moment before huffing, turning to pull back the seat across from Wash. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, ya look fine.”

Wash...doesn’t really have an answer for that. It’s...flattering? As much as at misses his point by a mile. “I...Thanks. Sarge.”

“You’re crazy”.

“Safu! Let me explain at least!”

“He’s the most dangerous convict we’re currently hosting. Possibly the most dangerous convict we’ve ever hosted. He was put in jail for a freaking murder attempt! For God’s sake Shion, what are you thinking?”

Shion let out a tired sigh. “First, he was only suspected of murder attempt, no proof has been made against him. They put him in jail for the violence and prostitution – let me speak!”

She didn’t understand him. Shion had come after work once again to discuss the arrival of VC-103221. She had heard of this Nezumi long before he came to their establishment. As a psychiatrist, the federals had asked her opinion on Nezumi’s transfer to the NCIR. She had never hidden her concern about the project. Criminals who showed no remorse, no fear of authority were prone to backslide. However, she hadn’t been the one deciding, and here she was now in this delicate situation. Shion was known for his kind heart and optimistic mind. But both as his best friend and a practitioner, she was worried for him. Nezumi’s outburst against Arugo earlier this day had led to a formal investigation. Several testimonies had shown that Arugo had been the one starting the fight. But it didn’t excuse Nezumi for his violence. It was his second day in the facility, and Nezumi was already making waves… Shion knew well that during the next weekly meeting, there would be demands for a psychiatric examination on him. And for some reason, he had come to ask Safu to volunteer.

“I hope you realise this is corruption. This is a serious matter, Shion, I don’t understand you.”

Shion looked down at his fingers, twisting them. His voice was soft and a tiny smile was showing on his lips.

“He’s… uncanny, for sure.” Shion’s gaze rose to meet Safu’s. “But I swear, I feel it deep inside me, he’s not a bad man. He’s full of wrath but… he looks like he had such a tough life. He deserves more time. To adjust. To get to know us. But…”

“But he’s an insolent, infuriating and provocative jerk. Shion…” Safu huffed before taking her head in her hands. “What are you doing to me? OKAY. I’ll volunteer.” Shion’s face brightened immediately. He looked like a puppy who just saw his owner bringing the leash for the morning walk.

“Thank you Safu, I love you so much, you’re the best.” He took her warmly in his arms. As her head laid on his shoulder, he missed the bittersweet expression on her face. “Yeah, Shion… me too…”

Nezumi woke up with his heart beating fast and sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. The air was fresh and he was shivering. He guessed he must have had another nightmare but he couldn’t remember it. And for all he knew, he didn’t care. Only the present mattered. He extended his arm to fetch the clock, and saw it was only 4 am. He had awoken almost an hour too early, but already too late to get back to sleep. So he’d better get up, and simply go through his morning work-out. The routine, the regularity of the exercises were what grounded him. It felt good, to push hard on his arms, to get his heart to beat fast for a reason, to get his brain to empty and his back to burn. This morning especially, the effort was even more rewarding than usual. His sharp breath breaking the silence. Time to shower, he decided.

The shower. Oh! This was the best reward he could have. He had made the right choice, he thought, as warm water was running on his head, slowly reaching his scalp, and along his spine, down his thigh and between his ankles, giving him delicious chills. He was so much better here. Alone, calm. Busy, even. And most importantly, he was not permanently shut in one of those atrocious concrete cells. If there was a fire, he thought, the flames would rise to the sky.

Nezumi didn’t think very often of the past. But the previous day’s odd vision was still in his mind as his lower back burned once more beneath the scalding water. But was it too hot or was it only his mind playing tricks once more? Anyway, it was time to get clothed and go outside. This time he took a backpack and a few books as he made his way to the cafeteria. It was still very early – too early – and very few men were sat at the large tables. Nezumi considered taking a seat too, but the glares he received and the whispering quickly made him change his mind. Too early to deal with this shit. He took an apple, and walked to the bus area. But the drivers weren’t there yet. Checking his watch, Nezumi repressed a sigh. One hour left… He could have just sat next to the bus, but he didn’t like staying there. When he was reading, it was easy to sneak behind his back. Looking around him, Nezumi noticed the building Shion had come from the previous day. It was a bit further away, and gave a nice view on the cafeteria. He supposed he would also hear the driver when he arrived. Once he reached the entrance, he was glad to notice the stairs. Sitting there, he took his book, and started reading. .

.

           “Nezumi?”

Startled at the soft call of his name, Nezumi almost dropped his book as he got up to face the source of the voice. “Shion…” Nezumi muttered, as his heartbeat slowed to a decent rate. He wanted to shout at the other man for alarming him. But of course, he couldn’t do that. Instead he searched for this watch, fumbling with his sleeves.  “Am I late?”

“Don’t worry, you still have half an hour. I always come in advance.” Shion smiled as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t entered Nezumi’s safety zone without the other man noticing. A bright smile, and kind ruby eyes that pierced through Nezumi’s mind. “You’re reading?”

“Wow, your sharp mind struck once again, I see.” Nezumi’s tone was defiant, his gaze dark. Shion’s eyes widened a bit as he took a step back and cocked his head on this side.

“Wow. Good morning, too, Nezumi.” He looked offended.

Of course. He couldn’t understand his reaction. Nezumi gave a sigh, his shoulders dropping. “I am sorry, Your Majesty. Please forgive my rudeness.” He really needed to get his shit together, rules here were different.  He got up, shoving his book back in his bag and looking up at Shion, who was staring back from the top of the stairs. His head was still cocked but his eyes had softened. With the rising sun reflecting on them, they wore an almost mystical look.

“Why do you call me that?” he asked.

“Call you what?” Nezumi replied lazily as he took the first steps toward the bus, which was now open for them to climb in.

“Your Majesty. It’s inappropriate!” Nezumi closed his eyes as Shion’s voice reached his ears. He was right behind him, having to trot to catch up with him. Suddenly he felt the smaller man’s hand closing on his arm. It took all his will power, and a sharp inhale to avoid turning too violently on his coordinator.

“Is it?” he breathed through clenched teeth. Shion’s stare at him was serious, and unwavering. His grip was strong but not painful. An easy twist of his wrist and the roles were reversed, Nezumi taking Shion’s arm to pull at him and whisper in his ear, “It doesn’t seem inappropriate to me. I didn’t choose you but still you have complete power over me. You live in a wealth I’ve never achieved and certainly never will. You think you can change my life but you have no idea what world our folk lives in. You’re there, commanding people when you have no right to, when you’ve never had to prove anything whereas we always have to prove ourselves. You’re unreachable…”

To this, Shion took a step back, seeming unsure what to say. “You’re wrong…”

“Pardon me?” Nezumi snorted. “We’re not allowed to go in the same buildings as far as I know. I can’t even put my hand to your throat – ” he raised his free hand to place his fingers lightly over the white-haired man’s wind pipe, feeling his heavy gulp as he did so “ – without risking being taken away immediately by your guards.” The last words were merely a murmur, a string of air brushing at Shion’s cheeks.

Shion shook his head at the statement. His eyes locked on Nezumi’s glare as he pressed his hand against Nezumi’s, thus forcing his throat harder against the other man’s palm. “You can reach me,” he whispered. “We live in the same world Nezumi. Only we don’t have the same view of it….”

Nezumi huffed at the ridiculous sentence. He shook his hands away and resumed walking to the bus, but stopped when Shion spoke to his back.

“It’s like the forest, Nezumi… Like I showed you yesterday… Some are broken and ill, but with care and time… I am sure we can nurse them back to health and beauty.”

Looking over his shoulder, Nezumi answered flatly, “I am not so sure, Your Majesty. Some fires burn the forest to the roots, and the only things left are  ashes that gather in your airways and choke you as you breath them in.” And with this, he left the coordinator to take a seat at the back of the bus. His back itched but he ignored the minor discomfort.

Once arrived in the forest, Shion brought the group to a new area where they started collecting samples again. The other inmates worked in pairs. They all had their roles. Some were there to collect the samples, others had to organize them. They took notes and talked light-heartedly. Nezumi observed them as Shion was occupied collecting soil, looking fascinated at the numerous insects he saw, noting everything frenetically on a small notepad. His curious eyes so focused, they looked almost brown.

At some point, an inmate started using a large liana to whip a colleague, shouting lewdly as he did so. Everyone laughed, rolling their eyes as Shion asked for them to calm down and get back to work, hiding a small smile. Nezumi would have imagined a coordinator would be harder on them than that. He didn’t understand how Shion managed to get his team together with such a lenient attitude, but still. Somehow it worked, as everyone was getting their work done.

At the lunch break, everyone took their sandwich and sat on the ground, chewing happily. Shion was once again chattering with everyone, asking for news. One of the guys’ wife had given birth the day before. She had been pregnant right when he was imprisoned for stealing money at his workplace.

“Hey boss, you think they’ll let me see my baby at the hospital? I made my appeal a few weeks ago but they said I’d have to wait to get the answer. The wife isn’t too happy, but well you know… hormones n’ everything, she ain’t an easy one!”

Another guy burst out laughing. “Admit you only wanna have your way!! Hormones, hey?”

Almost everyone laughed loudly as Shion answered to the guy softly, telling him he had asked the hierarchy, but as he only had a few weeks left here before being released, he would probably have to wait. The guy’s shoulders dropped in disappointment.  

“And you, boss, you have a kid and a wife waiting for you at home?” another asked.

Nezumi didn’t miss few men snickering, looking right at him. “As if that fag would ever go for a woman.” Nezumi pointedly ignored them as Shion smiled. “No wife for me, guys… And as for kids….” He patted the ground, holding a flower delicately between his fingers, “I guess this forest is sort of my baby.” He smiled tenderly at the flower.

“And now…. Time to baby sit again everyone!” He winked at the group, getting up again as they were half-heartedly complaining. “Nezumi, come with me!”

Nezumi got up and gathered his stuff before following Shion. Silently he took the boxes his coordinator handed him. “I want to collect some flowers with their roots. We’ll grow them back at the facility.” Nezumi nodded, getting to work.

“Your Majesty?” he asked after a while.

Shion was kneeling beside him. His hand deeply buried in the soil, he stopped moving, waiting for the other man to continue.

“Do you have a family? At home, I mean…”

“Here is my family, Nezumi.” Shion smiled easily. “I live here, you know.”

“Yeah, one of the apartments above mine, I saw that. But… don’t you have parents, friends, outside of here?”

Shion took his time to answer. “I have my mom, but she lives in town and I can go see her fairly often. As for my friends. Well my colleagues are my friends. There is also Safu. She works as a psychiatrist here you know. We went to school together.”

Nezumi hummed. “You look like a workaholic to me.”

“Find a job you love and you’ll never have to work a day in your life, as the saying goes.” Shion’s voice was cheerful. “And you Nezumi, don’t you have a family, friends, waiting for you to join them outside?”

Nezumi froze, his silver eyes looking empty for a second, before he closed them. “Why would I burden myself with people? I’m great on my own you know.” Shion seemed to hesitate. Nezumi caught his eyelashes – white, he noticed – fluttering, and his Adam’s apple moving as he gulped. Eventually he spoke, his voice careful.

“I’m sorry Nezumi… I checked your record yesterday.” Nezumi didn’t answer, but he resumed working, gaze focused on his task. He should have known better.

“It says you were suspected of trying to…”

“You should know when to stop for your own good, your Majesty.” Nezumi’s voice was gentle but his eyes were hard. “Don’t try to understand me, the only ones who tried are now dead.”

Shion fell silent for a few seconds, looking at the other man. He was quite beautiful, this man. His muscles stood out below his T-shirt. Even stained with dirt, his hands were elegant; his long, raven hair attached in a ponytail apart from a few strands sticking to his neck. His neck, so delicate and strong at the same time. Pale skin that led to a strong jaw… and even stronger eyes. Mesmerizing eyes the color of a blade. Shion breathed deeply. This beautiful man, who had spent more years in prison than most of the convicts here. He reminded him of shattered mirrors, whose numerous facets were so hypnotizing, but showed a distorted reflection of reality. Shattered mirrors were both amazingly entrancing and extremely sharp. So sharp.

Suddenly his eyes got teary, he didn’t know why. Nezumi’s eyes widened at the sight of the first tear rolling along Shion’s cheek. But as Shion resumed working without a word, he did the same.

When it was time for them to get their dinner, the convicts all went to the cafeteria. Most of them were exhausted from their day of hard working, and so the ambiance was rather quiet, considering the amount of people gathered in the building. Nezumi got himself a plate and a place next to a group of silent guys who didn’t seem to be too much of a nuisance. He ate his supper tranquilly. His mind wandered to the day’s events. Shion was too curious for his own good. He had the feeling the man wanted to get to know him. To get inside his skin, inside his head and analyse him like he analysed the pieces of bark they collected. You’ll only find fire. And at this rate you’ll end as scorched and hurt as the others. The others. There was a time when he wasn’t so hostile to his fellows. But that time was over now, and the only contacts he still sought were those from whom he had something to gain. Speaking of which…

“HEY! The rat! I heard you were a whore back in prison!” The man calling out to him seemed rather smug, all his friends laughing heavily around him. Nezumi was used to it. He could have ignored the remark but right now it seemed a nice distraction enough. Turning in his direction, he took note of the broad shoulders and nice enough lips. The guy looked rather clean. A good point for him. It was a change from those scums he had to hang out with lately. Yeah, this guy would do, after all.

Nezumi winked at him, lips turning up oh so slightly.

“Are you interested?” He got up, taking a few steps toward the guy, who stopped laughing altogether as whistles could be heard around them. “I can give you a sample if you wish.” The words were breathed against the guy’s neck as Nezumi sat on the table next to him. The guy turned to him, an eyebrow quirked in defiance. “Bored already?”

Nezumi’s smile broadened. “You have no idea…” Over the guy’s shoulder he could see a few guards speaking to one another, one of them running to the coordinator’s room. The image of a single tear rolling down a pale cheek, above a reddish scar flashed in front him. His lips crashed against the other guy’s, and he ignored his surprised inhale as he kissed the man fully.

In all honesty it wasn’t a really good kiss. The guy was apparently self-conscious, and he lacked the boldness Nezumi craved. But still it was lips, and tongue, and around them he could hear the whistles and people cheering excitedly. It was enough to clear his mind and get his body to go numb. The guy cupped his jaw, letting a moan as Nezumi licked his lips and it was enough of an invitation to get closer and grind against him. The guy’s breathing was hard and Nezumi could feel him shaking as he took his hands lower on his body. But right when it was getting interesting he felt a strong grip on his shoulder and didn’t have time to register as he was brutally thrown away from the panting guy’s lap.

“NEZUMI!!! IN MY OFFICE! NOW!”

Shion’s furious glare paralyzed Nezumi for a second, and he was still so far gone. But his coordinator didn’t give him the time to think further as he took him by the neck and strongly pushed him onward. This woke Nezumi up, and he broke away from the white-haired man, noticing his own rasping breathing as he retorted, “Hey, give me a break will you?!”

“How. DARE. YOU?!” Shion was furious. Almost scary. His blood-coloured eyes were fixed at Nezumi in a threatening glare. Nezumi shook his shoulders looking at the door, then at the man. “Show me the way, sir. I’m new, here, if you remember.” He dropped in a tone that was, hopefully, nonchalant.

Shion took him once again by the T-shirt and dragged him, mumbling something that sounded a lot like, “The hell I know you’re new here….”

They arrived in Shion’s office and the door slammed hard behind them. Shion didn’t take the time to sit behind his desk, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Explain yourself.”

Nezumi looked at him dumbfounded. He felt dizzy, blood slowly coming back to his brain as he took in his surroundings. He was starting to note the number of potted plants in the place, when Shion punched the door, startling him.

“EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

Well. That was unexpected. “What is there to explain, if I may ask?”

“Oh. I don’t know. Like why the hell were you almost getting off on that guy’s lap in the middle of the fucking cafeteria?”

“Well I didn’t know making out was forbidden, you told me nothing about it yesterday.”

“That. Is not. The. Question.” Shion was trembling, his face red and eyes still furious, but his breathing was getting steadier.

Nezumi decided this little game had lasted long enough. He was tired, and needed to be alone “The guy made advances on me, I wanted to kiss him, we kissed, end of the story. What’s the issue with that?”

Shion’s exasperated sigh was enough of an answer. “Nezumi the guy was almost coming on you!”

“Well it’s not my fault if I’m a good kisser. Wanna try it?”

Nezumi didn’t expect Shion’s slap but the guy was too slow and he was faster, catching Shion’s hand before it hit his face.

“WHAT’S THE PROBLEM WITH YOU?!” the white-haired man almost howled at him.

“I could ask you the same question,” Nezumi growled. “Do you often hit your men, Shion?”

Shion looked like someone had just punched him in the face. Suddenly he started shaking, blushing heavily. His arms went limp. Nezumi released him, judging he was no threat anymore. Still he kept a cautious eye on him as Shion sat on his chair, taking his head in his hand.

“Please, forgive me, I forgot myself.” Shion’s shaky voice was low. Under Nezumi’s scrutinizing gaze, he took a series of deep breaths before finally raising his eyes. “What got into to your head Nezumi?”

“And what got into yours? We were only kissing. Nothing to panic about to my knowledge.”

“Normal people don’t go nearly having sex in public right after their arrival in an inmate reintegration center….”

“I arrived three days ago!”

“Still, Nezumi. What were you thinking? Did you want to get something from him? No one is allowed to use money here you know.”

“I’ve had enough,” Nezumi barked, turning around, but as he tried to open the door, the knob somehow refused to obey. “The fuck?” he growled, looking at Shion. “You locked us in?!”

“I wanted to have a proper talk with you.”

“Great! Don’t you have better things to do Shion? Your days are longer than mine and still I’m exhausted. Let’s be done with it.” The last sentence was almost a plea. Shion sighed deeply.

“I can’t have you prostituting yourself again… It’s for your own good….”

“For fuck’s sake SHION, I. Was. Not. Prostituting. Myself. I just freaking kissed a guy, that’s all!!” Nezumi was now gesturing broadly, hands above his head. Clearly frustrated way beyond his usual tolerance level.

“Nezumi you need to understand. Don’t give them reason to throw you back there…”

“That’s none of your business to my knowledge!”

Shion’s eyes hardened “Actually. It is. As your coordinator I’m responsible for your actions. But you’re right, I’m exhausted. You exhaust me. I still have a meeting in 10 minutes I need to attend. So I’ll let you go for now, but I don’t want to hear more about you tonight.” Nezumi’s relieved sigh was audible to the both of them. And he hated himself for that.

Shion got up to unlock the door. Before they parted ways, he took a last look at his convict. “Nezumi. You have to know. They’ll request a psychiatric examination for you. I won’t be able to prevent it. So if you want to avoid being sent to I-don’t-know-what-medical-facility. Please. Behave”. Nezumi’s eyes widened. Shion made an attempt at reaching toward him before obviously thinking better of it and dropping his arm.

“Goodnight Nezumi.”

Wash is a chronic homebody rapidly chewing through the books on his shelf and the TV shows he can stand to be semi-present for. The phone never rings when he’s there, but he still can’t help and check every morning and night hoping the voicemail light will have come on.

He’s pretty sure he saw a couple of his teammates when he was taken in by the medical team, half-coherent. No one has been in touch since, through his care or discharge. He’s not sure what he expects them to say. Wish you were here, xoxo? Sorry you’ve cracked? (He’s not crazy.) Thanks for compromising the mission, asshole? How could you have fucked up so badly?

Wash isn’t sure. But he thinks he’d take any of it over the dead light and the dial tone.

---

It just keeps getting hotter as they approach midsummer, and one day when Wash steps outside straight into a wall of humidity, Sarge joins him only to suggest that he come inside for coffee so they don’t just up and die on the porch from the weather.

Wash is pleasantly surprised when Sarge gives him a tour of the downstairs space; it’s cluttered, but not a junk pile as he may have guessed. Rather, the home looks lovingly lived-in. A card table is open in the corner of the living room, with parts and tools for some sort of electronics project scattered across it. The TV stand is covered in small piles of DVDs; at quick glance Wash sees serious war documentaries mingling with old family sitcoms.

Of course, it still shows little signs of Sarge’s quirkiness beyond the multiple locks on the door. Despite the gun cabinet standing against the wall with his scarlet beret sitting atop it, there’s a shotgun casually leaned up against the coffee table that Wash only hopes has the safety on. Everything that can come in different colors is red in Sarge’s apartment; upholstery, painted wood, you name it. There’s a strawberry Yoo-hoo balanced on the couch armrest, and Wash halfway wonders if the flavor was chosen to fit the color scheme.

They take their coffee on very red chairs at the very red table in the kitchen. Sarge is polite enough to only harass Wash for two straight minutes about how he takes his coffee (“Washington, without sugar you’ll have no energy to defend yourself!” “Defend myself from what?”) The new location doesn’t change much until Wash asks, “Which way to your bathroom? Is your side of the duplex the same as mine?”

“Flipped. Upstairs to the left.”

When Wash walks into the bathroom, it takes him a moment to register what’s off. At first he thinks Sarge had installed a full-size towel rack above the sink, but after stepping closer, he sees that a bath towel has simply been strung across the medicine cabinet to cover it.

He remembered, Wash realizes. He remembered the mirror.

Something in his throat tightens, almost imperceptibly. It was a small, simple gesture, but an appreciated one all the same, at a time when the world feels minimal in its kindness.

---

When Wash hears a knock on his door early one evening, he only pauses a moment before opening it without the chain in place, having an easy enough guess of who it will be. “Hey, Sarge. Something you need?”

Sarge is leaning against the doorframe all too casually, an atypical grin splitting his face in two. “Washington, when was the last time you went out anywhere?”

Wash pauses for a moment, thinking. “I go running every day? Beyond that, I picked up groceries three days ago.”

Sarge switches battle tactics. “When was the last time you went somewhere to do something fun?”

Wash has a sinking, suspicious feeling he knows the ballpark where this is heading. “...I don’t mind grocery shopping.”

“...Well, that answers that.” Sarge chuckles. He doesn’t seem too surprised. Wash supposes he can’t really be insulted; a serious answer to Sarge’s question would have been ‘on shore leave over a year ago’.

“There’s a legion a couple towns over,” Sarge continues. “A few of the guys I know are catching up there tonight! There will be drinks! General merriment! And YOU are cordially invited!”

“I wouldn’t know any of the people there.”

“I can introduce ya’!”

Wash knows that Sarge isn’t the type to take no for an answer when his mind is set on something. And he has to acknowledge that he has become a hermit in the months since his discharge, to an unsustainable extent. At some point he’ll have to reconnect with the real world. May as well do it with a friend to guide him. “Alright, fine.”

“That’s the spirit!”

They take Sarge’s Ford, a decades-spanning oddity; the truck itself is from the 70’s, but has a new high-tech radio system Sarge says he installed himself. The radio will only tune into an obnoxious polka station from god knows where and which Sarge will claim no fault in his installation process for. The drive is still nice with the windows rolled low, Sarge resting his elbow on the sill as he steers with one hand, Wash turning in his seat so the early evening sun shines down on his face.

They’re quickly hailed by a chorus of both greetings and heckling from a far table when Sarge leads the way into the Legion. There’s one chair left open for Sarge when they approach, but he grabs another one from an empty table and plants it next to his own for Wash, the nearest guy shuffling over to make more space.

“Men, this is Washington,” Sarge announces when they’ve settled in. Wash receives some amicable nods and hello’s from the ensemble; apparently Sarge doesn’t think more introduction is necessary, and neither do they. “Washington, this is Tucker, Caboose, Donut, Lopez, Simmons, and Grif.” There’s a surly element to his tone when he introduces the last one, who seems unperturbed, just offering Wash a late “‘Sup?” before some earlier conversation picks back up.

Wash takes the time to examine the group unnoticed, observing that they look ragtag in more ways than one. They’re all young, younger than Wash, though it's not always easy to tell under the scars; the majority of this group look like they had to physically claw their way out of warzones. Wash can pick out four prosthetics between what he can see of just two of the people at the table, and with the extent of Lopez’s, he might guess prosthetic legs were hidden out of sight too. Grif and...Donut? sport some major scarring visible above the table. Grif’s scars, a layer of patchworks across his cheek and down one arm, look too clean to be from anything in-field; skin grafts, maybe? With Donut’s ear and eye gone, and the side of his nose and lips halfway there, it’s easy to assume that he took something hard straight to the face.

“—Before I can catch whatever gave Private Pinhead that stroke of inspiration, I’m going to get a drink!” Sarge huffs, brushing off a conversation with Grif to rise. “You want something, Washington?”

“Oh, I—whatever you’re getting is fine. Thanks.” Wash reaches for his wallet to offer him payment for the drink, but Sarge has already moseyed over to the bar.

“So, Washington, how do you know Sarge?” Simmons asks, all attention now turning to the new guy.

“He’s my neighbor.”

“Man, that sucks,” Tucker replies, though obviously without true rancor.

“Could be worse. He could live next to Donut,” Grif says.

“Hey!”

“That’s right, has Lopez gotten his insurance pay back after that fire yet?”

“No.”

“Hey, I said sorry, I didn’t think a hair dryer could overheat like that! I guess I’d been doing too much blowing.”

Amidst a chorus of groans, Sarge returns with a pina colada in each hand. “Can’t believe the bartender didn’t card me! They’re supposed to card anyone under forty.”

“And why would they card you, again?” Wash asks as he takes one of the drinks. Sarge’s efforts to convince Wash that he’s some ludicrous age are drowned out by amused laughter from others at the table.

The longer Wash is there with them, the more he feels himself settling into the rhythm of the conversation, becoming comfortable enough to laugh and joke along. By the end of the night, he’s been wrapped up into a number of ridiculous and crazy anecdotes that tell him two things: Sarge surrounds himself only with those that are as insane as himself, and that Wash has had the best night in as many weeks despite his hesitation before he came.

“They’re idiots, but they’re my idiots,” Sarge says fondly in the car on the way home.

“I can see why. They’re good guys.”

“We’re there every week. Just let me know if you want to come along again.” Washington looks at Sarge, but Sarge is cheerfully watching the road as he says it.

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 items 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.