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Peter Hale is wasting his life when hit by a bus. Or, Peter is spending his precious moments on Earth thinking about work when he gets hit by a bus. Or maybe, Peter is trying to beat his coworker to the office when he gets hit by a bus. In any event, Peter is hit by a bus.
What else can really be said? It feels exactly like it sounds. Noise, force and metal directed into a soft, helpless body. And there is no question of which object will come out victorious.
Peter doesn’t die, barely. The bus swerved, barely. The man walking beside Peter pulls him back by the coat, barely. The bus hits Peter’s shoulder more than anything and he flies a, frankly, comical distance. The man, the one who caught Peter’s coat, appears above Peter. His face is blank, neutral. His lips are moving and Peter squints at his pink mouth.
“Stay down,” Peter finally hears the man say.
There’s a ringing in his ears, shrill and spiraling above the echoing jangle of Peter’s own heart beat. The man pushes down on Peter’s thigh for some reason.
“What?” Peter asks, sounding stupid to himself.
“Stay down,” the man says.
Peter realizes he’s been struggling to stand.
The man undoes his own belt one-handed, the leather slithering free from the man’s belt loops. He takes Peter’s hand and presses it against Peter’s leg, hard. Peter pushes down. His fingers slip against something hot and wet and then the man is looping his belt around Peter’s thigh.
“I’m Stiles. I’m an Aries and I hate the beach.”
“What?” Peter utters weakly. His brain feels like a stuttering car engine.
“Now you tell me yours,” Stiles says. He yanks the belt tight, Peter can feel that, and he wraps the tail of it around his fist a few times so he can keep the pressure. “Name, zodiac and your opinion on beach walks.”
“Peter,” he says. The pain seeps in. “Shit. I’m Peter Hale. I don’t know my zodiac.”
“Alright, Peter Hale, that’s okay. There’s an ambulance coming. When’s your birthday?”
“October 27th.”
“Scorpio! I bet you’re insane in the sack. And out. Am I right?” Stiles asks, and he smiles for the first time since the bus smashed into Peter. “Okay, beaches. Pro? Against?”
“I can’t—,” Peter coughs and something hot spatters on his chin. His visions sparks, white and fluttery fireworks glazing together.
“Peter!” Stiles shouts. Peter’s face stings.
“You can’t just slap people,” Peter says. He swallows against the salt water in his mouth. The blood rushing in his head makes him think of pressing whelk shells to his ears as a boy. “I never liked swimming in the ocean.”
“Sharks, seaweed, fish pee. I get it,” Stiles says. He’s curled over Peter, one hand still pulling the belt taut and the other carding through Peter’s hair. “Who needs the ocean?”
“If you are the last thing I see, I suppose—,” Peter falters. Fear, silky and cold like an expensive scarf, settles over his body. “I didn’t live very well. I regret so much now.”
His eyes baby-doll-slide open and shut. There’s a whistle and his face hurts more but then his eyes are open again and Stiles is leaning closer.
“Well, take two. It’s never too late to change your life,” Stiles says. He pets Peter’s scalp clumsily. Too hard. It’s unpleasant. “Please don’t die.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Peter says, meeting Stiles’ eyes. They’re brown. Creme brûlée crust. His face is white, his teeth bared. Peter reaches up to touch his face, smears crimson across his pink mouth.
Then, like a stage light going dark, everything stops.
***
Peter drifts into awareness. Initially, all he can parse is a clean white light and astringent scents. Someone clears their voice beside him. Stiles. Blood stains the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
“I told them I'm your husband.”
“What? Why?”
“I wanted to know what happened to you,” Stiles says. He sucks air in through his teeth. “If you lived.”
“Why on earth would they believe you?” Peter asks. The cannula in his nose stinks of plastic and cleanliness.
“You had a ring on,” Stiles says. He holds his own hand up, the left one. A thin gold band circles his finger. “So did I. You coded in my lap. I’m entitled to some boundary crossing.”
“That’s…fair.”
“Your leg is broken,” Stiles’ words swing Peter’s attention down to his own leg. It’s hoisted off the bed with a stirrup, encased in a network of metal poles and Velcro. “Compound fracture. They fixed it. It’ll scar, I think. Your shoulder was…disconnected is not a strong enough word. Obliterated?”
“Your bedside manner is lacking,” Peter sighs.
“Yeah, obliterated. I thought you had internal bleeding—blood, coughing, you know. But it turns out you just bit your cheek at some point. Hey, should I call your wife?”
“No,” Peter says. Too quickly, maybe. Stiles’ eyebrows rise and then dip back to neutral. “I’m divorced. I just don’t care for the tan line the ring left.”
“Sure,” Stiles says, saying bullshit with his eyes more than his words. “Any kids?”
“Yes,” Peter says. “Do you know where my phone is?”
“I’ve got it,” Stiles waggles a black phone towards Peter. “Someone named Lydia is pissed at you.”
“We had a job bid. I didn’t make it, as you well know.”
“Is that the ex?”
“No,” Peter says. He considers the monumental task of moving his arm to reach for his phone and disregards the notion. “Anyone else?”
“A Laura and a Malia both texted you about dinner. Laura said you should bring a merlot and Malia thinks you should skip the dinner entirely.”
“My daughter, Malia,” Peter says. The morphine has loosened his tongue. “She’s amazing.”
Stiles snorts.
“Lots of -a’s in your phone. Hey, is your Lydia’s last name Martin?”
“Yes, actually. Do you know her?”
“Kind of. High school. She a lawyer now?”
“Risk analyst. She and I run a legal compliance agency.”
“Boring. But expensive sounding,” Stiles says. He flicks through what Peter recognizes as his own wallet. There’s several photos of Malia at various ages that flip out in a plastic-sheathed series and Stiles holds it closer to his face. “I know her.”
“Malia?”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “We go to the same 24-hour café. We’ve played Scrabble a few times.”
“I thought she’d improved recently,” Peter says. He smiles when Stiles snorts.
“Alright,” Stiles says after a moment of them smiling at one another. “It’s time to call in your actual family.”
“Are you married?”
“Huh?”
“The ring,” Peter says, nodding towards the thin circlet on Stiles’ finger. “Are you married?”
“Nope,” Stiles says. He pops the ‘p’. “It’s an heirloom.”
“Call Malia first,” Peter says. He can sense that the ring topic won’t be expounded upon. “Then Lydia, if you don’t mind.”
***
Stiles sticks around.
Lydia beats everyone by ten minutes. She flicks a purposely uninterested look at Stiles and then she’s hovering over Peter with uncharacteristic nerves. Her hands, pale and manicured, hover over his chest and his face and his leg in a jerky cycle.
“What did you do?” She asks, hair tumbling in a red wash over her shoulder. It’s flaming in the stark, still white of the hospital room. “Get hit by a bus?”
Stiles snorts.
“Yes,” Peter says. He catches Lydia’s hands in his. “A city bus.”
“You’re a moron.”
“Yes.”
Stiles laughs outright at that.
“Who are you exactly?” Lydia pounces, turning her head just enough to keep Peter in her peripheral. Her knuckles are white around his fingers. “Is this the lunch you couldn’t cancel?”
“I’m Stiles,” he says, waving in a manner Peter can only describe as sardonic.
“Stiles,” familiarity colors her voice. She turns fully to look at Stiles. “The Sheriffs’ kid.”
“That’s me,” Stiles says, flipping Peter’s phone around in his hands. “Hi, Lydia. Long time no see.”
“Peter, are you seriously dating Stiles?”
“Married,” Peter says, smiling at Stiles, and Stiles lifts his left hand to wiggle his ring finger at Lydia.
“Shut up,” Lydia snaps, rolling her eyes as she turns back to Peter. “I do your taxes, Peter. I’d know if you married anyone.”
“What does that mean?” Stiles asks. His smile is sweet, relaxed. Peter likes how it makes his eyes squish up.
“Peter likes to show his love with expensive, gaudy gestures and then be completely shocked when his revolving door of bimbos just want him for his money.”
“Alright,” Peter interrupts. “I’m injured. I can’t defend myself here.”
Stiles is laughing at them now and Peter can’t bring himself to be cross. His attention shifts, immediately, when Malia’s pale face appears in the window of his hospital door. He tries to get up, grimacing when his motion jolts his leg, and Lydia presses down on his chest with pointy fingers.
“Dad,” Malia says, voice thick with tears. She’s across to the room in seconds and climbing gingerly up into the bed with him to splay over his chest.
He holds her tight with his good arm, eyes squeezed shut and cheek on her temple. He hugs her tightly enough to press an exhale out of her and a wet sob slips out with it.
“I’m okay, girly,” Peter says into her hair. “I’m okay.”
“Mom’s pissed at you,” Malia says in a thick voice. “We were looking at apartments and I bailed.”
“I’ll send her flowers,” Peter laughs. He kisses the top of her head and gives her a final squeeze before she pulls back from him.
“Send her your signed papers,” Malia chides, wiping tears from her cheeks. “She bitched about it for most of lunch.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“You still haven’t sent your divorce papers back?” Lydia cuts in.
“I have my reasons,” Peter rolls his eyes, wishing he could get up and leave this bed.
He’s been grappling with the paperwork for weeks. It’s sitting on his writing desk, emotional terrorism in the form of expensive creamy paper and merciless, sterile typeset.
Their prenup had been rock solid and, by the end, their affairs had already been neatly separated. His divorce from the mother of his child has been well executed, painless and emotionally neutral.
For Corinne, anyway.
“Did I do something?” He’d asked. “Is there someone else?”
“No, Peter,” Corinne said, gentle to the point of inducing nausea.
He didn’t need gentle. He needed crying and broken plates and an ounce of agony from the person nuking his golden years.
“Then why?”
“Because I don’t want to sit around listening to the news wearing slippers! Or go on vacations to hike up Mount Who Fucking Cares! I want to spend my nights pouring over cases and not feeling guilty that I have a devoted husband waiting up for me. I want to be selfish. Truly selfish. Malia is fine. You will be fine too. Please, sign the papers.”
He hadn’t signed the papers. And she sighed like he had told her it was her turn to wash the dishes and then swanned away to a client meeting.
Peter has been mooning around their—his home like a ghost. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat. He fucks, sure, and goes on dates with shiny baubles of people who spend his money and keep his mind occupied. But it’s all surface. And when they return to their dorms or studio apartments, Peter is left alone to lay despondently in his indoor pool and stare at the Moroccan tiles plating his ceiling.
He loved Corinne. They’d met in law school in their twenties and fell together like fire and gunpowder. Peter thought Corinne was clever and funny and wicked. He liked when she slit throats in the courtroom. He liked when she ran red lights in her Bugatti and
got into screaming matches in the grocery store. After ten electric years later, they’d had Malia. Things had slowed then and Peter had transitioned from the breakneck criminal law to compliance law. He’d wanted to be more present for his bouncing baby girl. He’d wanted to settle into his older years.
Corinne didn’t.
And now, Malia is done with her Masters and engaged to a weak-kneed archeologist of all things and she’s done needing her father to guide her through life. And Corinne served him with papers. And he got hit by a bus.
“Sorry, dad,” Malia says, drawing him back to the present. “Wrong place.”
“At least you got out of dinner,” Lydia pipes up. She taps her iPhone against her cheek. “You’ll need physical therapy. And rest. Two months off work, at least.”
“Two months?” Peter yelps, sitting up again and regretting it immediately.
“It’ll give Theo time to cut his teeth,” Lydia shrugs. “Without you breathing down his neck.”
“Oh, dad,” Malia says. “I’ll cancel with Kira. You’ll need someone to help you around the house.”
“No, no,” Peter waves his hand. Malia and her fiancée were going on a trip to some island off Nova Scotia to look at ancient huts or something equally banal. “I’ll hire a private nurse or something.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Malia responds. “Maybe we can both come stay with you.“
God above, no. Kira takes cheerful to a near incomprehensible level. Kira is painful in brunch-sized chunks, let alone two months of playing nursemaid.
“No,” Peter says, aiming for firm. “It’s quite alright. I’ll have someone set up a temporary bed on the first floor. No stairs, no danger.”
“I could help you,” Stiles says, drawing the eyes of every person in the room.
“Oh?” Peter says, charmed despite himself.
“Scrabble Guy?” Malia asks incredulously, apparently looking at Stiles for the first time.
“Are you serious right now?” Lydia asked Peter, eyebrow raised. “You have no idea who that is.”
“That’s Stiles. The Sheriff’s kid.”
“Peter,” Lydia hisses.
Stiles continues, “And my place is one story. You could stay with me.”
Peter’s face breaks into a grin.
“If it’s not any trouble,” Peter demurres.
“No,” Stiles responds. He looks as amused as Peter feels.
“That’s insane,” Lydia says. She leans down to meet Peter’s eyes. “Do you realize that?”
“I’m a grown man, Lydia. I’m allowed to be insane,” Peter answers. His eyes slip back to Stiles, who is biting his lower lip. “If—Assuming you were serious.”
“I’m serious.”
“Insane,” Lydia repeats loudly. “He could be a murderer. He could skin you or sell your organs.”
“His dad is the Sheriff,” Peter replies. He hasn’t stopped grinning. “Of somewhere.”
“Yeah,” Stiles laughs. “Of somewhere. Okay, I’ll give you guys some space. I put my number in your phone, Peter. Lydia, good to see you again. Malia, nice to learn your name finally.”
“Thank you,” Peter says. His cheeks hurt.
“Wow,” Malia says, watching the doorway Stiles leaves through. “Scrabble Guy. Dad, what year is it? Who is the President?”
“I’m not infirm,” Peter scoffs. “I’m perfectly capable of making decisions.”
“You got hit by a bus,” Malia responds. “Even if your, like, physical brain is fine—You aren’t.”
“You worry too much, darling.”
“He was a weird kid,” Lydia says. Her eyebrows are creased. “Always in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Malia asks, sitting gingerly on the bed.
“He did a lot of trespassing. He would make these freaky sculptures and leave them all over town. Like drowning people and weird animals. He left one in the school once,” Lydia says with a shrug. “Of course, nobody could actually prove it.”
“He plays a mean Scrabble,” Malia interjects. “And he always buys my coffee.”
“Look, I’ll be fine. It’s the least inconvenient option.”
“It’s absolutely bizarre and, frankly, concerning,” Lydia replies firmly. She stands, sticking her phone in her purse. “But I have a contract to salvage now that I know you aren’t actively dying and I’m not going to risk-analyze your personal life pro bono.”
“Don’t let that kid touch my cases,” Peter calls to her retreating back. “I’m serious, Martin.”
“Why did you hire Theo if you don’t trust him to do a good job?” Malia asks, kicking off her shoes and drawing her feet up onto the bed. She leans over and snags the neglected pudding cup from his bedside tray and a spoon.
“It’s not that he can’t do it. It’s that he’s a charming little bastard and I’m not sure he won’t poach my clients.”
“Are you going to seriously go live with a stranger?” Malia asks around a spoonful of pudding.
“Honestly, I can’t think of a reason not to,” Peter answers.
“He’s hot at least,” Malia shrugs.
“That he is.”
***
He mails the divorce papers. He leaves his wedding ring in his fruit bowl. He brings a modest set of luggage, two suitcases and a toiletries bag, with him to Stiles’ house. He lets Malia and Kira drive him in their awful Subaru so they can vet the place.
Peter’s heart races for the first time in years as they turn the corner into the city’s industrial district. Warehouses line the street and Malia’s eyebrows draw closer and closer together.
“I knew it was weird,” Malia hisses.
“Maybe he lives in a warehouse,” Kira pipes up from the passenger seat. “Artists do that sometimes.”
“Maybe this is a Houses Jack Built thing and he wants to turn my dad into a meat-shack.”
“I hated that movie,” Kira sighs.
“Here, pull over,” Peter interjects. His phone announces their arrival at the destination cheerfully and he texts Stiles an equally jaunty Here!.
He and Stiles have exchanged many, many texts in the time since they met.
“Hm,” Malia grunts.
“I knew it!” Kira says, leaning against the window. “He’s an artist.”
They’re looking up at a warehouse, certainly. There’s a homemade metal ramp sprawled atop a cracked pavement walkway and giant, spiraling metal sculptures on either side of the ramp. The ramp is a work of art on its own, with curling edges and deep crimps to help the wheelchair gain purchase. One of the spirals has the word mischief welded to it in large, roughly cut letters. The entryway to the warehouse is a large bay door, already rolled open. The sound of a saw against metal rings from deep within the warehouse.
“Get my wheelchair. Quickly,” Peter says, opening the door and scooting so his good foot is touching the ground.
Kira rushes to fetch the horrid contraption from the trunk and sets it on the sidewalk before him. He carefully maneuvers into the chair and lets Kira push him to the foot of the ramp.
“You’re here,” a voice says— Stiles says. He’s at the top of the ramp, welding helmet faceplate flipped up.
“I’m here,” Peter breathes. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m here.”
Stiles rambles down the ramp, a smile splitting his face. He reaches out and Peter takes his hand immediately. They hang there, smiling at one another like idiots. Stiles’ hands are warm and calloused and dry against his.
“Listen up, Scrabble-Guy,” Malia says suddenly, startling them into letting go of each other. She drops Peter’s bags with a thud. “My dad is a very sensitive man—“
“Malia, please,” Peter interrupts but his daughter just gets louder.
“—and that means that if you hurt his sensitive feelings—which is very easy to do— I will smash your face in. And I don’t want to do that because I like playing Scrabble with you. But I will. Just so we’re clear.”
“Crystal,” Stiles says, eyes on Peter and mirth in his voice. “Sensitive man, face smashing, Scrabble. Got it.”
“Cool,” Malia grunts. She sucks on her teeth for a beat and then leans over and smacks a kiss on Peter’s head. “Bye, dad. Love you. Call me if Stiles is doing a House That Jack Built thing.”
“I loved that movie,” Stiles replies.
“Ooh,” Kira shivers. Then, she bends down and hugs Peter tightly and whispers, “Love you, pops.”
“Dead God,” Peter breaths but he pats her back good-naturedly.
Finally, the girls and the Subaru are gone and Stiles is hanging Peter’s clothes up on a random pipe moving down the length of the warehouse. There’s a king sized bed in the back corner of the warehouse next to a wall of milk crates stacked on their side that hold books and clothes and shoes and knickknacks. There’s a pullout sofa a few yards away from the bed and a beat-up recliner. White curtains section off the bedroom from the rest of the warehouse.
Just beyond the boundaries of the curtains, towering metal statues and sculptures crowd the room. Peter can see roosters and mermaids and abstract blobs. A pallet jack pokes through the art, bright yellow against the bronze. The warehouse is lines with high-up industrial windows and green, lush plants have waged a steady march across all flat surfaces. A fountain, portraying a beautiful woman with a bald scalp in a hospital gown and her arms outstretched above her head, pours an endless stream of water from a bowl down on to her neck and chest.
The woman in the fountain has Stiles’ nose.
“Pretty sweet digs, huh?” Stiles asks, startling him from his quiet observing. He’s still holding one of Peter’s silk pajama sets.
“I love it,” Peter says honestly. “It’s you.”
“Jesus,” Stiles laughs. He presses a square hand over his heart. “It’s the same. It feels the same.”
“Did you think it wouldn’t?”
“I was afraid it wouldn’t,” Stiles answers. “But it’s the same.”
“Like—“
“Like I want to crawl inside of you.”
“Like I want to let you.”
The silence that thrums between them is hot and slick and heavy. Peter’s heart races in his chest, faster and louder than thunder. Stiles wrings the silk pajamas, squeezes them in his fists hard enough to make the fabric creak. The fountain splashes, once peaceful, now sounds cacophonous.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Stiles says. He looks at Peter’s cast and sling. He licks his lips.
“You’re lying,” Peter answers.
And then, Stiles is on him.
***
“It’s my mom’s,” Stiles says. His head is on Peter’s good shoulder. He’s rolling his misshaped, golden ring back and forth across Peter’s chest. “My dad wanted to bury it but I stole it off her finger at the funeral.”
Peter readjusts, rubbing his cheek over Stiles’ spiky hair. His bad arm is splayed across his own chest.
“Where’s yours?” Stiles asks. He taps a finger over the tan line on Peter’s ring finger.
“Well,” Peter sighs. He pulls Stiles closer and kisses his temple. “I figure I’ll have plenty of time to fix my tan line before I start work again.”
“Or you could keep it,” Stiles says. “If you wanted.”
“Keep it?”
Stiles wordlessly rolls the ring closer to Peter’s hand. Peter sticks his ring finger in. Stiles pats Peter’s hand.
And that is the beginning of the rest of it all.