Chapter Text
It’s five in the morning and John can’t see more than two feet in front of him.
It’s partly due to the time of day; the sun hasn’t even come up past the horizon, so the only light sources are the whispers of dawn and the streetlights. But it’s also the rain that’s pouring down like Jesus Christ and all of his angels are weeping. John half thinks the glass on the bus shelter canopy will break from how hard the raindrops are plunking down.
So why is John out here, freezing his arse off, waiting for the bus at this ungodly hour in this ungodly weather?
Well. He likes money. He likes buying things with said money. And in order to continue living this life, he needs to get to his paying job. Unfortunately, his car chose last night to up and die on him. So now he has no other choice but to wait at this bus stop at the crack of dawn in the middle of a raging storm. Just his luck that the only route that can send him straight to work comes by once every hour.
John gripes internally at his situation and shivers when a chilly gust blows by. It flicks water in his face, and he adjusts the beanie on his head.
Only two types of people would be out here right now- the desperate, or the crazy. John knows what category he falls under. He can’t say the same about the man standing next to him.
(Standing, not sitting, no matter how bad John’s legs ache. The bench is wet, and he’s not showing up to work to hear Phillip Graves joke about soiled trousers.)
John is six-foot-one, so it says something that the other man is even taller, and built like a brick shithouse. Or, he looks like he is, but maybe he’s just bulked out by layers of clothes. Somehow, John doubts that’s the case. The man just has this aura about him.
His height and stature aren’t what throws him off, though. No.
It’s the fucking skull balaclava he’s wearing.
Wearing a balaclava is perfectly reasonable , John tells himself, glancing again at the man from the corner of his eyes. It’s cold. Chilly. Wish I had one right about now. Maybe the fella’s got sensitive skin.
But a skull print on the mask? Together with the dark clothes and rainy atmosphere, the man looks like something straight out of a slasher flick. He has to know how threatening it makes him look. Threatening enough that John mentally runs through worst case scenarios about how he would defend himself if it came down to it- if the man turned out to be a crazy serial killer who thought John would make an easy target. He’d go for the legs, probably. John’s been in his share of fights, he could hold his own. Maybe even say a few cool one-liners.
His attention snaps back to the man when he huffs and shifts his weight. His boots splash the puddles around his feet.
Who is he kidding? John would be lucky to survive ten seconds against a man like this. Maybe he could get some of the man's skin under his fingernails in his final moments. Bite some flesh, a nice present for the forensic analysts that find his body.
He’s halfway through writing his own obituary when he hears the man beside him shuffle and turn towards him. John tenses, prays for a quick death.
“Should’ve bought a mop,” the man mumbles.
“Huh-?” He whips his head around. All he can see of the other man’s face are his eyes, staring blankly back at him. “Sorry?”
“A mop,” His deep voice is, to John's quiet awe, awkward and flat, even through the mask. “For the…” he gestures vaguely with his hands. “Rain. Because…it’s wet.”
John continues staring. The man looks away, seems like he's considering shoving his hands in his jean pockets, before keeping his fists at his sides.
“Forget it.”
“No, no!” John sputters, frantically waving his hands. “I got it. It’s funny,” He tries, really tries, to make his voice sound chipper and friendly. It probably comes off more like a grimace. The man doesn’t look up at him. John hears him sigh dejectedly. He thinks about his next move for all of half a second before he opens his mouth, and the words pour out.
“What do you call a bear that’s stuck in the rain?” The man turns back to him with a slow blink. Not dead yet, that's probably good. When the man nods at him to finish, John thinks its a miracle. "A drizzly bear.”
“...Not bad.” John can hear the smile in his voice. Somehow, through the cold rain, a warmth blooms in his chest. The man leans close and reaches out his hand. “Simon.”
“John.” He shakes the offered hand.
The tension in his body seeps away, and less than five minutes later, the bus’ headlights shine down the road cutting through the mist and haze. The bus is completely empty- of course it is. Simon steps in first, swiping his bus pass and taking a seat at the back. John pays his fee, nodding hello at the driver who sips on their coffee.
When he scans the bus, he stops for a moment. Would it be rude to sit next to the guy he just met? Or would it be ruder to end the conversation like that and awkwardly ignore him for the rest of their ride? The bus starts up again, and John makes his decision quickly.
Simon’s eyes widen with surprise when John takes the seat next to him. John gives him his best nonchalant smile.
Making polite conversation with an intimidating stranger is a lot better than being dead. Simon's not so bad company.