So this is a fic idea I've been throwing around now for a while and finally decided to publish. It's just a short, tiny little thing but I hope it's going to be enjoyable for everyone who gives it a chance. I should note that it takes place in the same "universe" as my other work, New Jazz Age, but you don't need to read one for the other. It's just the same backdrop, so to speak.
So, without further ado, here we go.
Sweet Home
Chapter One: Who Are We Trying to Fool?
He arrives in the town by train with only his carry on luggage. The bullet trains race across the countryside in very precise patterns and it takes him three checks of his GPS on his phone before David Washington is confident enough to exit. It would be a long and expensive trip to get back to this out of the way station in this out of the way town if he made the mistake of getting off at the wrong one.
Though, why it would matter where he got off was something even he couldn't answer.
There isn't anyone waiting for him at the station, and he's not entirely confident how to pronounce the long and complicated name over the arched doors.
Everyone else around him hurriedly meets with company or knows exactly where they're going as they zip off and around him.
In that way, in his military issue clothes, Washington stands out more like a sore thumb than he ever had in the platoon.
After uselessly checking his phone again, Washington feels his stomach coil uncomfortably as he realizes that service in the small town is scarce, and he needs to not only clear the loading dock soon for the next train, but that he needs to also determine what direction he's going to be walking in outside of the station.
When he asks the woman at the information counter if there are places to stay in town, she gives him a very curious look. It's not a common question to get in a town with a population of less than five thousand, but at the same time Washington isn't sure what else he could expect after randomly plugging in GPS coordinates on Google Earth while having enough beers to get a buzz.
Surely he had known what he was in for when he bought his ticket.
There's an honestly pretty pathetic motel on the outskirts of town, and he's honked at by passing cars at least five times as he walks alongside the road to get to it from the train station. It's easy to ignore when he has his attention fully focused on the task at hand. He's gotten very good at forcing himself to focus.
The front desk for the motel is about the size of the room they are using as its office.
"Here's your keys," the woman at the desk offers, giving him two chipped cards. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"
Washington takes the keys and immediately pockets them before adjusting his bag. "Do you have a local newspaper? With… apartment ads? Roommate ads? I don't know… a Penny Saver or something?" he asks, feeling more awkward with every word.
The woman blinks at him lazily before pointing to the sign behind her. "You can load free wifi up in your room—"
"I appreciate that, but I mean… do they make… physical papers anymore?" he tries again. He's not sure if they do. It seems like an odd question to him now that it's out loud.
"I don't have any copies of our local paper, Sir, your best chance to find anything you're looking for is on the internet," she says flatly. "Like a normal person."
Despite his tightly controlled demeanor, Washington can't help but flicker up a dangerous glare toward the woman. It's the sort of look he's tried to restrain in public since his return but the unnecessary comment forces it out of him. There's no satisfaction, however, because she's back to looking at her computer screen.
"Normal people are pleasant with customers," he mutters under his breath.
"What?" she asks, looking back up.
Wash actually considers repeating himself but he exhales through his nose and cracks his neck muscles. "That's fine. I'll… look it up in my room."
She doesn't look like she believes him but she goes back to work all the same, seemingly more annoyed by the conversation than anything else. "We don't allow long-term or indefinite tenants," she informs him.
"Why?" he asks.
"Too many people selling drugs," she replies before looking back at him Her eyes glance over his military dress. "What're you on?"
"Nothing," he says too quickly and he knows it.
"Mmkay," she replies back. "I don't know anyone who's come back and isn't on something," she tries to argue before Wash heads out the door. "It's the only reason you people come to Chorus!"
Washington knows it's going to be useless to make a complaint, but he's going to write one out, on paper, to give to management when he finally leaves the shitty motel anyway. Because it'll make him feel a little better about the whole ordeal even if it won't really. His anger's so out of check as he reaches his outside facing room door that Wash can barely slide his card properly through the card reader as a result. He's sliding too quickly or too harshly or something he just can't fathom why chewing the inside of his cheek bare isn't enough to break the flare up on its own—
He gets in the room and immediately becomes awash with relief. He breathes deeply and steps inside, closing the door behind him.
There isn't much to the room. A bed, a mini fridge. No microwave. The iron is laying on the floor where the holder is broken. There's exactly one nightstand with a piece of paper, the password for the wifi written out.
Washington lets his bag slide off his shoulder and stands in place, looking around at the room like it's the culmination of all his life choices at once and then leans his head back.
"What're we doing next, Wash?" he asks.
He doesn't even know what he means by it. What's his next move? What's his next week? His next day? His next hour? His next minute.
Before the thoughts become too depressive, he opens up his phone and glances at the wifi bar.
"Someone has to be looking for a roommate in this town who isn't a complete jerk, right?" he asks out loud before beginning his search for the night. "Right…"
There are lots of ways that Wash isn't fully ready for real life and what's expected of him next because of it.
He doesn't sleep much and he hasn't even thought of what prospects having a job could give him. Really, the moment he was reassured his automatic payments from the military were coming to his bank account, he bought a few boxes of cereal and has stayed mostly in his motel room since then.
And despite the rudeness of his first encounter with the front desk, the gas station across the street does in fact have printed newspapers and he has been looking through them with each new edition as he eats cereal and tries not to become too overwhelmed with his circumstances.
There are a few ads looking for roommates, but the one which catches his attention the most is the one which at first he thought was a store advertisement, like some local ice cream or candy shop at the strip mall.
Sweet Home it says in large, loopy letters that almost didn't make it all to print, the last e hanging off the edge of the advertisement.
Looking for one roommate, does not mind odd hours of coming and going, two-bedroom house with one bathroom. Current tenant is a graduate student hence the odd hours.
Washington reads over the ad a few more times, swallows down his cereal, and can't help but think that this is a rare opportunity.
He only hopes it's not too good to be true.
When Washington arrives at the address listed as Sweet Home in the advertisements, he almost has to do a double take and assume he's in the wrong neighborhood or that there has been some sort of misprint in the rent listed.
This part of town is too nice, the house is a house and not a cottage or condo-sized residence. There's a small, picket fenced yard around it, and the mailbox is encased in brick with a decorative sign saying Sweet Home in ornate print.
Which goes against his assumption that the address is wrong but still.
The discomfort that Washington is already certain to experience in an interview has nearly tripled just by looking at the house he was going to try to rent from.
Instantly annoyed at the fact that his expectations are so aggressively incorrect or that his instincts are so clearly out of whack, Wash is ready to turn back and head to the motel for another night of interrogating for his end of stay and whether or not he's some kind of baby killer like the anti-war propaganda seems to say he and others are, when there is a loud knocking from the house.
It's enough to make Washington pause and wonder who it could be for. Certainly not for him.
At least, he thinks so until he glances toward the house and sees the excitable face in the window, tapping enthusiastically before waving. Then she disappears from the window for a moment.
When the door bursts open, the same frizzle haired woman from the window is standing there, arms out and gripping to the doorframe as if it's the only thing keeping her from lunging down the patio and onto Wash and the sidewalk. Her smile is as brilliant as her clothes are distractingly unique. Bright flawless white with purple spirals dancing across the fabric. They match her earrings.
Wash looks down the street and back for the Magic School Bus.
"You must be David!" the woman cries out emphatically. "So sorry! Hope the directions weren't confusing! Come in, come in! I can't tell you how excited I am to have you! I can, and probably will tell you. But positively can't wait to tell you in person. You're much taller than I expected. Also not nearly as tall as I had hoped. Your voice has a certain… baritone quality."
She pauses and turns back around to face Washington.
He hasn't moved from his spot, still looking at the woman warily and with more apprehension than any body should possess.
After an awkward silence the woman takes her smile down a few watts and squints a bit, making a pinching motion with her fingers. "A bit much on the enthusiasm levels, wasn't it? Needs to be taken down a bit for a first greeting, yes?"
Washington blinked a few times before shaking his head. The polite thing is to probably say no and yet Wash is pretty sure he didn't learn polite in basic.
"It's a bit much for me," he replies. "But it's probably… okay for normal people?"
"Oh how dreadful," the purple woman hums in reply. "Normal people at Sweet Home. Alright then. Adjustments, Emily. Adjustments. You've been preparing for this." In enormous, long strides she walks from the door to the fence where she reaches her hand over, out for Washington to take. He can't help but stare at her lack of shoes instead. "Greetings! You must be David Washington. We spoke on the phone about an interview for you being my roommate? I'm Emily Grey."
Blinking again, Wash still isn't sure what to make of the situation so he accepts the hand offered to him. "Hello, Miss Grey—"
"Oops! Sorry. It's Doctor Grey," she corrects kindly.
"Hello… Doctor Grey," Wash continues. "You can just call me Washington. Most people do. Well, military people do. But sorry about my height." And because he cannot stop himself, he continues, "You know, when I read the advertisement and it said you're a grad student I imagined someone…" Finally catching himself, Wash freezes up, eyes widening. They still awkwardly have hold of each other's hands and he realizes that he cannot finish the sentence he started with anything that is not an insult. But he definitely can't say what he was thinking which is that he expected someone… well, younger.
Doctor Grey stares back at him, smile still firm, grip still like a constrictor.
"So… tall?" he finally comes up with rather lamely.
"We both set far too much expectation for heights, I'm afraid," she says with a gentle sigh.
"Obviously," Wash expresses awkwardly.
They're still holding hands on opposite sides of the stupid white picket fence and Wash is pretty sure hives have just broken out around his neck where his sweatshirt collar is rubbing. Things are looking… worse? He's not certain how things could be worse and yet…
"Well, that's enough eye contact for one day," Emily announces abruptly, releasing Wash's throbbing hand. "Time to show you around the house, yes?"
"If I haven't already blown the interview then yes, I guess that's as good of a place to start as any," Wash replies.
He doesn't necessarily mean it as a joke, but Emily Grey bursts out in laughter — a high pitched, unmistakably genuine cackle like the sister of the Wicked Witch — and opens the gate to the fence. "Ah, you are a gem, Mister Washington. I can already tell. Can I call you David yet?"
Wash gives her a strange look as he enters the fence and scratches at his neck. "I… no. I don't… Washington's fine. Most people call me Washington," he repeats himself from before.
"Huh, alright then," Emily says, her eyes sharp and attentive before she turns and waves to the front of the house. "This is Sweet Home. I'm afraid the front side is the best side of it. The rest is rather normal looking. But this is the part you can see from the road so that will have to do. There's a bus stop at the end of the corner. Public transit takes you into downtown, to the university, and to four of the six neighborhoods that the mayor seems to think matters."
"It goes by the motel, too," Wash offers. "That's how I got here."
"Does that building still hold up to code? I thought someone lit the place on fire with a forgotten joint last year," Doctor Grey says mostly to herself, finger thoughtfully held to her chin. "Well then, you already know more about town than I do, Mister Washington!"
"I seriously doubt that," Wash tries to assure her. But before the words are even done coming from his mouth, she's moving on to the inside of the building. He has to shake his head slightly and jog in order to keep up with the ongoing tour.
Inside the house it's aa fairly standard two floor home. There's a stair case in the foyer, a living room immediately to the left, and a kitchen viewable from the hall of the foyer itself. A den to the right.
Wash knows that these are exactly what each of these rooms are not only from the atmosphere inspired by each of them but by the signs hanging above each door frame, written in that same eloquent font as Sweet Home's sign outside. It is a confusing choice in decor to say the least. But more confusing is that there's not a single bookshelf in sight yet every room, every corner, every piece of furniture has books stacked. Text books, mostly subjects ending in -ologies that Wash can't recognize for the life of him, but also various other kinds of books, some paperback mystery novels, and one book that catches his eye due to the oil painting on the cover which features a naked woman held by a centaur.
So porn apparently is just an open subject. Interesting.
"I can't wait to show you the full house — well, half full. That's just the kind of woman I am. I love seeing the house as half full rather than remembering that I have a space for a roommate and it's really something you could say is half empty," Grey blathers.
Washington is still trying to take everything in but is distracted by a strong smell coming from the kitchen. "Are those…"
"Oh, yes! I made you muffins. Do you have any allergies? I was worried you did so rather than make just one type of muffin and possibly hear that you're allergic to nuts, bananas, strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, corn, or gluten, I made all of them individually. Now they're roughly the size of souffles and it only just occurred to me that you might be vegan," she gasped at her own negligence and turned toward Washington, hand on her heart. "Are you vegan?"
"Not… yet…?" Washington answers only to realize it makes no sense once it leaves his brain. "Wait what. No I mean. I'm not. Vegan. Or allergic. And… muffins sound wonderful."
"Oh, good," she laughs, guiding him toward the kitchen. "Then I should let you know, the only real question I have for you right now is whether or not you have any uncontrollable impulses."
Caught off guard by Grey once again, Wash has to do a double take at her. "Impulses?"
"Yes, no judgment. I just need to know of any phobias or compulsive instincts you may have. Such as, are you a kleptomaniac?" she asks as if she's talking about the weather.
He stares at her, mortified. "No," he answers definitively.
"Oh, good, you have the room, move in as soon as you like. Today if you wish!" she replies cheerfully, pulling out a chair from the kitchen island where the array of giant muffins are set up. "Now, you just plop on down here, and I'll run to the store and have a copy made of my key to give to you and we can talk about when you want to make your monthly payments or if you like six months rent up front and what your plans are for your life and whether or not you're escaping any responsibilities including but not exclusive to child support payments."
There is so much being said and so much at once that Washington shakes his head and looks at her in confusion. "Wait, what? Also… do you need me to go back to the hotel or… follow you to the store?"
"No, silly, just eat any muffins you want," she assures him, grabbing a coat and keys from the coat rack nearby.
"You don't even know me," Wash replies, bewildered.
"I know you're not a kleptomaniac and that I need to start trusting you sometime if you're going to be a roommate of mine," she laughs, pulling on her coat and heading toward the front door. "I'll finish showing you the house when I get back with your key! Shouldn't take more than a few minutes! Or you can wander around the house at your own pace while I'm out. I won't mind."
"You really should mind," Wash says, feeling his heart is about to beat out of his chest. What the hell is happening right now.
"You're not a kleptomaniac!" she reminds him, like it's significant. "Welcome to Sweet Home!"
Grey walks straight out the door without shoes and Washington all but collapses into sitting at the island in bewilderment. He is overtly aware of his strange surroundings and how none of this seems particularly normal. He doesn't know how he even got to this point. But at the same time, a strange anxiety and protectiveness is eating at him already.
There's the question of what is possibly wrong with who is now apparently his roommate, but there's also the foreign feeling of being put unexpectedly into a spot of responsibility for a house he is about to live in.
There's so many questions swimming in his confused mind, but as he reaches out and grabs one of the homemade giant muffins and takes a bite, at least one of the questions gets its answer.
"That's why it's called Sweet Home," he decides, nose curled.
