Archive of Our Own

The storm came in fast, the way the bad storms in LA always did. Wile heard it hit the roof before he saw it through the window: a sudden roar; the kind that meant hours, not minutes. The first drops were so sparse they were easy to ignore. One struck the window. Then another. 

The wind picked up, rattling the glass, and within seconds the rain was coming down hard. Minutes prior it had been sunny, which Wile found strange.

The rain hammered against the shop's roof so loudly that he could barely hear himself think, and every few seconds lightning flashed through the windows, bleaching the workshop white before plunging it back into shadow. Thunder followed almost immediately now, deep enough to almost rattle the tools hanging from the walls.

He glanced toward the door.

Yeah. He wasn't going home anytime soon.

With a quiet sigh, he turned back to the alternator on his workbench and reached for his wrench. There was no point standing around waiting for the weather to improve. He'd finish the job, lock up, and leave when the storm finally decided to move on.

The rain kept pounding the roof. Wind screamed around the corners of the shop, occasionally sending something skittering across the pavement outside. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered once, twice, then steadied.

He bent over the alternator again.

That was when he saw something outside from the corner of his eye. It looked like a shadow between flashes, barely visible through the rain-streaked glass.

He straightened slowly. He couldn't make out much. Just a dark, indistinct figure standing outside the shop, partially swallowed by the downpour. They were short, thin, and most likely trying to walk home, but the wind made it hard to do so. The rain distorted their shape through the window, making it hard to see properly.

Wile set the wrench down carefully, squinted, and waited until lightning illuminated the person again. 

It was hard to say but…

Small? Blue-haired? A blur of messy long waves and golden brown skin?

Oh, come on. 

Why was that guy always there? This had to be some sort of cruel joke. 

He watched the figure struggle against the wind. The way he stumbled, stopped, and braced himself. He had probably gone for a run around the neighborhood and got caught in the unexpected thunderstorm.

For a moment, Wile considered going back to work. It wasn't his problem. The runner was an idiot. A fast one, yes, but still an idiot. If he'd chosen to go wandering around in weather like this, that was on him.

But he probably hadn't known. No one had known a storm was coming.

Another gust tore through the street.

The figure barely moved. Wile looked toward the clock.

Then toward the window. Then back at the alternator.

Dammit.

He wasn't doing this because he liked him. He didn't. He couldn't even stand the man. Every time he saw him, there was usually something missing afterward; and after all these months, Wile still couldn't get any evidence for the petty crimes committed by that overrated track star.

But this was different. The neighborhood was huge. His house was too far to walk in this weather and the wind was strong enough to knock him sideways.

He'd freeze before he got home.

With another irritated sigh, Wile headed for the door.

No, this did not mean he liked him.

He opened the door.

The wind immediately shoved rain into his face, but he stepped outside anyway.

And that's when he saw him properly. 

Ray's hair was usually always up when he ran— tied back, controlled face framing pieces, part of the whole effortless package. Now it was down, the tie lost somewhere in the last twenty minutes, hanging in dark soaked sheets against his face and neck and back. Wile had six months of data on the athlete and none of it had included this specific configuration. He needed a moment to recalibrate.

The second problem was the shirt.

The pale blue crop top was doing everything wet fabric did, which was… Cling. And Wile's eyes went there for approximately one second —one entirely involuntary second— before he looked away. 

Ray stood there, wide eyed, soaked and shivering. His arms were crossed tight over his chest and his jaw was doing something controlled that suggested he was trying very hard not to let his teeth chatter. It seemed, also, like he was trying to smile at Wile but couldn't.

He signed, slower than usual, fingers stiff with cold: "I didn't know you were in the shop."

Wile looked at him, shivering. Looked at his hair. Looked at the floor. He didn't smile back, but Ray didn't seem to notice. He never did.

He didn't want him there. The runner stole things. He jaywalked. Wile had a file on him.

But, despite his flaws, he was also a human, and it was freezing cold outside.

So… 

He stepped back. Held the door open, without saying a word. Ray sighed, relieved, and came in. 

When he saw him standing there, Wile couldn't help but notice he looked… Pathetic. Fragile. That was not to say he looked bad, that was one of the most irritating things about him, he still looked perfect no matter what; but he would usually be signing enthusiastically, snooping around, maybe stealing something small to annoy Wile. Instead, he was standing still and shivering. That was it. He did not look like himself, and it was odd to see.

Well, Wile was irritated but he was not a bad person. Begrudgingly, he brought a few paper towels. It was entirely inadequate for the situation, and he knew when he offered them, but they were what he had. Ray smiled at him again. He used several of the paper towels on his face and hair while Wile went back to the workbench because his hands needed something to do.

He would not make conversation. It wasn't any of his business what this snake wanted, he had done his part by not letting him freeze to death outside.

… However, it was a little annoying to hear him shivering and breathing rapidly. It was his own fault, really, for going on a run in such skimpy clothes. But for some reason, Wile decided to show him mercy again. He got up, walked up to him, shrugged off his work jacket and held it out without looking at Ray directly. 

The young man looked up at him for a few seconds, smiling and tilting his head to one side. Wile looked back at him. Feeling like his intentions weren't clear enough, he held out the jacket again, closer to Ray's face.

Finally, he seemed to understand; he put the jacket on and… Basically disappeared into it, shoulders dropping halfway to his elbows, hem hitting his thighs.

Wile wasn't going to think about that. He turned back to keep working with the efficiency of someone completing a practical task and not doing anything else. It was just a jacket, he was cold, it was a practical solution.

Ray moved to the waiting area. He took the chair nearest the workbench —it was usually Sylvester's chair, he would use it when he came to rant about his problems at home— and sat in it and watched Wile work with the open, unhurried attention of someone who had decided to watch and wasn't going to pretend otherwise.

With another sigh, Wile turned around because pretending to work while being stared at with those big empty eyes was apparently not something he could sustain indefinitely.

Ray looked at him. The composure was gone, all of it, the practiced ease, the neighborhood smile, the studied effortlessness. What was left was just this boy, still soaking wet, wrapped in a jacket that wasn't his, watching Wile with an attention that had nothing performed in it. It was the most honest expression Wile had ever seen on him and he didn't know what to do with it so he looked at the floor until his nemesis chose to start a conversation.

"I live past the park," Ray signed.

"And you can't walk that distance in this weather," Wile signed back. It was maybe a twenty minute walk, not bad when it was sunny but impossible during a storm.

"I know. The weatherman said clear until eight but..." He made a sarcastic gesture— flat, expressive, conveying his complete feelings about the weatherman and his failures. Wile understood it perfectly and almost, almost, smiled, but he didn't. 

Ray shifted in his chair. Forward, slightly. Not much, just enough that he was closer, the distance between them reduced in a way that was too deliberate to be accidental but that Wile could technically attribute to the chairs if he needed to.

The chair was simply positioned that way. He was just settling. That was not directed at him.

"Thank you for opening the door," Ray signed. It was genuine, and that was the worst part. 

His eyes were very dark and currently very direct and Wile was finding it difficult to look at them for more than a few seconds at a time without having to find something else to look at. With some effort, he managed to look back at him, and signed: "It's raining. You were shivering. It's nothing."

Ray looked at him for a long moment. Something that seemed a lot like fondness moved through his expression. Warm and quiet and unbelievable for Wile when it came from someone he disliked this much.

The storm continued outside. Lightning somewhere. Rain on the roof. The shop hummed around them, warm and close, and Ray was still watching him with that direct open attention and Wile was running out of things to look at that weren't Ray's face. They looked at each other for what felt like hours, but was really a few seconds at most.

Ray shivered again, hard enough that it was visible, and Wile had to make a decision he was not happy about.

He stood. Got his keys. Signed: "My house is two blocks away. You can stay until you can walk home."

Ray looked at him with an expression that Wile was going to file as surprised and not look at further. He didn't reply. It was strange to see hesitation from someone that usually did whatever he wanted with little to no contempt for consequences.

"You're still shivering," Wile added. "You're going to get sick."

Something crossed Ray's face again, genuine and quick and not the practiced expression of someone performing anything.

It was simply another practical solution. Completely practical. They could not stay in the shop indefinitely and the guy could not walk to his house and the only logical solution was Wile's house. Not that he was happy about it, but his choices were limited in a context like this and he didn't want people in the neighborhood thinking he was an asshole if their precious golden boy got sick because he wouldn't take him home for a few minutes.

Ray stood. Nodded. And something about the way he did it —simply, without making it into anything, just accepting the offer at face value— made Wile's chest do something he immediately shut down.

They walked up to the door together. Counted the lightning. Ran.

The rain was even worse than it seemed. Wile kept his head down and moved and Ray was beside him, running, which was his nature, but not ahead and not away, right there, pace matched, and Wile registered this somewhere beneath the general discomfort of the rain.

They were at the corner of the street when headlights appeared. A car, fast, tires hitting the pooled water at the curb.

Wile's body moved almost by instinct.

There was no time to think, only enough time to make a decision.

He caught Ray by the arm and yanked him toward himself, turning his back to the street at the same time. The movement was so instinctive that he didn't even realize what he'd done until the spray of filthy street water that came up in a wave struck his back with a cold, heavy splash. He was taller and broader than Ray, so it was easy to shield him. He was already soaking wet and dirty from work, anyway. Plus, this boy's clothes were most likely worth more than anything Wile owned.

He stood in the rain and became aware, in sequence, of the following things: His arm was wrapped around Ray's waist. Ray was pressed against his chest, one hand braced instinctively against him. His head was tucked beneath Wile's chin, close enough that Wile could feel the uneven rise and fall of his breathing. Wile's own breathing wasn't much better.

He stared over Ray's shoulder at the car disappearing down the street.

What had he just done? And why had he done it?

He looked down. Ray looked up. Their eyes met.

The rain kept coming.

Wile could feel the warmth of him through his soaked clothes, could feel the small movement of his hand against his chest with every breath, and his grip around Ray's waist suddenly seemed much more noticeable than it had a moment ago.

He kept looking up at him with those big dark eyes. With the rain coming down around them and the street empty and the warmth of him apparent even through two soaked layers, he looked up at Wile with the open unguarded expression he'd been wearing since he walked through the shop door, and there was something in it that was clear. Very clear. But somehow, still unreadable to Wile. He let go, and stepped back.

He started walking very fast toward his house.

Behind him, Ray followed. He was smiling, but Wile couldn't see it. He was walking extremely fast and looking straight ahead and his hands, at his sides, could still feel the curve of that waist and this was information he was going to put somewhere in his mind and not look at for a while.

Wile's house was warm and slightly cluttered in the way of someone who worked long hours and considered tidying a task for future-him. He unlocked the door and they both came in dripping. He pointed at the hallway and signed: "Bathroom, second door. The towels are under the sink. I'll find something dry for you to wear, you'll get everything wet otherwise and I don't want that."

Ray nodded, smiling as usual. He looked around with immediate, unabashed interest; at the coat hooks, the boots by the door, the shelf with its small accumulated objects, the slightly battered umbrella stand— and then he went down the hallway.

Wile wasn't comfortable with letting him wander unsupervised, but after a few seconds of hesitation he went to his bedroom anyway. He stood in front of his wardrobe and assessed the situation with the practical focus of someone solving a specific problem.

The problem: His guest needed dry clothes. Wile's wardrobe contained: shirts he used for work, more shirts he used for work, a few flannels he'd had for ten years, a few hoodies, maybe three jeans in his size, and more work shirts. He pulled out the least-worn hoodie. It was a recent gift from his cousin; dark grey, good quality. He grabbed a shirt too and brought both things to the bathroom door. Then, he knocked.

Ray opened the door with a towel wrapped around him, looking warmer already, hair damp rather than soaked. He took the clothes. Looked at the hoodie. Looked at Wile.

"Sorry, I don't have any pants that would fit you," Wile signed, genuinely apologetic. "Can you try to dry your shorts? I'll put a towel on the couch."

Ray looked back at the hoodie. He nodded with a smile and closed the bathroom door again. 

Wile went to the kitchen.

He had changed his own shirt, telling himself he would have time to shower once that brat went home. He didn't trust him to be left alone and not steal or break anything, so he would have to keep an eye on him at all times. He was dangerous, it wasn't really necessary to know him personally to be aware of that fact.

He put the kettle on, stood at the counter and thought about nothing, which was in all honesty a lie, but it was the stance he had decided to take.

The situation was nothing out of the ordinary, if he really thought about it. Ray needed dry clothes and warmth, and Wile did what any person would do when another person was caught in a storm. It was basic human decency applied to a situation that happened to involve someone he had a file on and strongly disliked, if not hated.

The kettle boiled. He made two mugs of tea and picked them up before walking back to the living room, where Ray was already getting comfortable on the sofa without even asking. 

At least he had the decency to put a towel where he sat, which was something coming from him since he was usually an inconsiderate bastard. He was sitting with his feet tucked under him, the hoodie pulled over his knees, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair was still loose and drying in long dark blue waves. He had found the remote and was examining it with the focused interest of someone who intended to use it.

He looked up when Wile came in. Took in Wile's expression, and waved enthusiastically.

Wile set the mugs on the coffee table. The armchair was across the room from the sofa and that was where he sat. He did not want to be any closer than necessary to that guy, and he didn't need to be that close to make sure he behaved.

Ray looked at the armchair. Looked at the significant distance between it and the sofa. Looked at Wile with the expression of someone who found this arrangement unreasonable. Then he turned on the television, found a nature documentary, and set the remote down.

They watched birds in comfortable silence for approximately four minutes until Ray picked up his tea, stood up, walked across the room, and sat on the arm of Wile's chair.

Wile looked at the sofa. At the large, empty, perfectly good sofa that Ray had just voluntarily vacated. At Ray, who was sitting on the arm of his chair drinking his tea like this was a normal thing to do, close enough that his shoulder was almost against Wile's, smooth bare legs dangling, watching the documentary.

"Sorry, I'm cold," Ray signed, with one hand, the other holding his mug. Wile didn't reply, so after a two second frown that was quicky replaced with a smile he added: "Your house is nice!"

Wile nodded slowly, slightly irritated by the physical proximity. He looked at the documentary. A bird was doing something with a branch. He watched it with intense focus, as if birds were all of a sudden very interesting to him.

Ray shifted on the chair arm. Adjusted his position— and in the adjusting, his shoulder came to rest properly against Wile's. Warm, solid, and very deliberate. He didn't comment on it. Just settled there, mug in hand, watching the bird on screen too.

He looked tired. Obviously, he had gone on a run before the storm, and he had been out in the cold for who knows how long. Now that he was finally warming up and his body was settling, he was relaxing. 

He was, unfortunately, very warm.

Somehow, he still smelled nice too. 

Wile held his mug, and he did not move. His hands were very still and he was keeping them that way on purpose.

After a few minutes, Ray put his empty mug on the side table— leaning across Wile slightly to reach it, which required being temporarily closer, which Wile survived by looking at a fixed point on the opposite wall— and then, in the settling back, turned his head and tucked it briefly, lightly, against Wile's shoulder. Just for a moment. A small thing, an easy thing, the way everything he did was easy.

Wile stopped breathing for a second. For that second, it felt like he had gotten to a conclusion, but he was quick to reconsider the math of his assumption not adding up.

Because a perfect, wealthy, beautiful, athletic young man like him wouldn't, in any world, show interest in an almost middle aged mechanic with grease permanently somewhere on his hands and exhausted eyes. He was just tired too, most definitely, and his mind had gone somewhere he didn't fully authorize and gotten to a nonsensical conclusion before he had a chance to rationalize it.

Ray lifted his head. Looked at Wile's face —at whatever his face was doing, which Wile was not in control of— and his expression was warm and patient and not at all like someone who had done something by accident. He signed, one-handed: "Are you tired?"

Wile nodded, not wanting to make it a whole thing, but he knew this man was going to make it a whole thing.

"Are you cold? I'm not cold anymore, because you're warm," Ray added, like that was a normal thing to say to someone who was basically a stranger to him.

This time, Wile tried to take a few seconds to think about what he was going to reply, but a crack of thunder interrupted his train of thought, loud and close, and the lights flickered just once… Before they completely went out. 

And there went his chances of making conversation now that he felt comfortable enough to do so. It was not that he wanted to have a conversation with him of all people, but since they were trapped together with no choice what else was he supposed to do? Keep ignoring him? He was a hater, not a monster.

The room went dark. The rain on the windows was very loud in the sudden quiet of a house with no electricity, and they sat in the dark of Wile's living room, shoulder to shoulder on an armchair that was not designed for two people, and did not move.

Wile blinked uselessly at the room. He could still make out the faintest shapes of where the windows were, but everything else had vanished into shadow.

Great.

He'd always meant to buy an emergency light for the house. He had one at the shop; a good one, never failed him. He had simply never thought to buy one for his own home because, apparently, that would have been too sensible of him. 

Wile felt around beside the chair until his hand found Ray's knee. Ray startled with a small gasp beneath his touch.

Wile immediately caught his wrist, with the intention of trying to ask him to get up.

Ray's other hand came up, fingers moving rapidly through the darkness, and then he stopped.

… Right.

He could hear Ray softly smacking his forehead at his own attempt to communicate in the dark. A moment later, his fingers tapped against Wile's arm in a specific rhythm.

Morse code. This kid knew Morse code, of course he did. He was smart enough to try tapping out a message in the dark, naive enough to assume Wile would understand. Wile understood the attempt, but he understood absolutely none of the code.

He exhaled through his nose. Ray paused, seemingly getting the hint.

They couldn't just stay there and hope for the best, he had to find a flashlight.

Did he even have one at home? He probably did, somewhere in the house.

He was pretty sure he had left his phone at the shop, unfortunately, so he would have to look for a flashlight with vibes alone.

He stood, still holding Ray's wrist to make him get up too. He did not trust him to be left alone under any circumstances. He didn't want any of his belongings disappearing, the dark was most likely not enough to stop this egocentric, entitled force of evil that he could currently feel excitedly jumping up and down next to him. 

He was so irritating. Heaven knows what he was scheming.

As he walked, Ray followed, though apparently only because he was being physically pulled along.

Three steps. That was all they managed before Wile's shin slammed into the coffee table, and pain flashed up his leg. He stumbled forward with a strangled noise, caught himself against the couch, and stood there in silence while the rain hissed against the windows.

Ray's hand landed on his shoulder, concerned, and Wile could practically feel the question in the gesture. He tightened his grip on that narrow wrist in reply and kept moving. The brat was having an astonishingly easy time, he didn't trip once.

Wile bumped his hip against the corner of a cabinet, Ray walked around it. Wile caught his elbow on a doorframe, Ray avoided the doorframe. It was ridiculous, he was the one who lived here, and he knew where everything was! He had walked through these rooms thousands of times. Ray had never been inside this house before tonight, and somehow he was navigating the place like he'd been born here, with the same grace he navigated everything else in his life.

And when he almost did trip, Wile caught him instinctively.

After a few minutes, the question of whether they could reasonably make it to wherever the possibility of a flashlight was without Wile sustaining another injury, was starting to be a real concern. Then, he felt a gentle tug.

He stopped.

Ray tugged again.

Wile turned toward him.

In the darkness, he could barely make out the shape of his face. His hands moved once, quickly, then went still again with frustration. After that, he simply took hold of Wile's hand.

It didn't take him long to understand he was being dragged back toward the couch, being asked to accept defeat. He resisted for approximately two seconds.

He followed, nearly tripped over the coffee table for what felt like the hundredth time, and finally dropped onto the couch with a tired groan. Ray sat beside him. For a moment, neither moved.

Then Wile heard it. An almost silent little laugh. He stared at the culprit, who simply laughed harder.

Wile's expression flattened.

Oh, that was funny, was it?

He reached blindly toward Ray and shoved him lightly in the shoulder, but he didn't seem to mind. It was humiliating to be laughed at by someone like that, but he couldn't help it...

A laugh escaped him too.

It was ridiculous, the whole situation was ridiculous. They were sitting in complete darkness, Wile's leg hurt, his hip hurt, his elbow hurt, and Ray had somehow emerged from the ordeal without so much as bumping his knee.

Unbelievable. 

If only he had his…

He felt something under him. Small. Rectangular.

He froze. His fingers closed around it.

His phone, on the couch, the entire time.

He actually laughed again, this time in disbelief.

Ray looked over.

Wile unlocked and lifted the phone triumphantly. The flashlight came on, and both of them blinked at it.

For the first time since the blackout, Wile could actually see Ray. And for the first time ever, he was seeing him up close.

Really up close.

His hair was still slightly damp from the storm. Wile could see individual strands falling out of place around his forehead. The oversized hoodie Wile had given him was bunched around his shoulders, sleeves covering part of his hands. His smile was sweet, and so wide it made those big doe eyes squint a little.

Wile stared for a second too long. Then, he looked away and pointed the phone toward the room instead.

The flashlight illuminated the aftermath of their little expedition. The coffee table was crooked, a chair had been knocked several inches out of place, one of the decorative objects on the side table was lying on the floor.

Wile's eyes narrowed. He looked at Ray. Ray looked at him, then lifted both hands and signed, smug: "What? That was not my fault."

Wile gave him an incredulous look.

Ray pointed toward Wile, then toward the furniture, then back at Wile.

Wile's mouth twitched.

He pointed at Ray, and Ray shook his head.

He pointed at himself, and Ray immediately nodded.

Wile stared at him, then shook his head and settled farther into the couch.

The phone rested between them, its flashlight casting a small circle of light across their faces.

Ray looked at him.

Then his hands moved: "Are you hurt?"

He got a small shrug in reply.

"I'll live," Wile signed.

"You get hurt a lot."

Wile raised an eyebrow and Ray's expression became almost unbearably amused.

"And you don't?" Wile pointed at him.

Ray shook his head.

Wile narrowed his eyes. Then he signed: "How?"

Ray's smile widened, and he shrugged.

Of course, no explanation, he simply had that kind of luck, he always did.

Wile sighed and looked down at his phone, but not for long. Ray continued asking things because apparently he liked doing that. His hands couldn't be still for more than a few seconds at a time.

It was nothing particularly important or interesting, but enough to pass the time.

Whether Wile had always lived here.

Whether he liked the documentary.

Whether he watched television often.

Whether the storms in LA were this bad every year, since he was new to living here.

Wile answered, although not as enthusiastically. 

The storm still rattled the windows. Rain streamed down the glass. The electricity was still out. But sitting there, with the phone casting its little pool of light between them, the darkness didn't feel quite so inconvenient anymore.

Wile realized something as Ray asked another question.

He had never actually held a conversation with him before, not properly. He'd seen him around the neighborhood, running, stealing small things, laughing with people. He’d seen half the town stop what they were doing just to greet him.

But he'd never really looked at him, not like this. Not close enough to notice the small things. The way his eyebrows lifted when he was curious, the way his hands became more animated when he was excited about something, the way he occasionally paused in the middle of signing because he was trying to find the right way to convey what he was thinking.

And he always, always smiled. Although it was starting to feel a lot like it was not the bright, effortless smile he gave everyone else, but something smaller, softer.

Wile's expression shifted before he could stop it. He was smiling now, too. It was contagious, it seemed.

Ray signed one more question: "Are you always grumpy?"

Wile stared at him, and replied: "Are you always annoying? How are your hands not cramped?"

Ray's eyebrows shot up, and he put a hand dramatically over his chest.

Wile laughed.

Ray shook his head, smiling.

And somehow, sitting there in the dark with a dead television, a uselessly late phone flashlight, and furniture scattered around the room, Wile thought this might be the first and last time he'd ever actually enjoy having this man around.

Tomorrow, Ray would do something illegal or condescending, Wile would try to get evidence, and inevitably fail because Ray was too fast. His file on how to catch the track star and show people he was not as perfect as they thought would keep growing.

But that was tomorrow, not today.

Time went by fast. 

Ray left when the rain eased to manageable. He waved goodbye at the door. He was wearing the hoodie. He did not mention returning it, and Wile did not bring it up. He understood, as someone who knew the entitled brat he was dealing with, that the hoodie was, from this point forward, simply Ray's hoodie. Good thing he didn't like that hoodie, anyway… It was a bit uncomfortable, but he didn't want Ralph to feel bad when he bought it so he had accepted it.

So, he could keep it. Sure.

It didn't matter, right?

Sylvester came in on Tuesday, took one look at the smile on Wile's face, and very wisely said nothing. He brought him a plain black coffee. Wile signed a thank you, and Sylvester nodded. They worked on a plan for catching Ray in the act of something, which went nowhere, as all their plans did, and it was somehow the most normal afternoon either of them had had in a while.

Wile checked the weather app on Thursday. Then on Friday. 

He told himself it was just a new habit. 

He was not entirely convinced.