Chapter 1
You hate closing times.
Unfortunately, because you lost the coin toss, you're getting saddled with this particular duty. You were a fool to think you could go against Cassie's luck amd come out top, and now you're paying the price for your hubris.
You're taking out the trash after having wiped down what feels like every fucking surface in the cafe, only to stop short when you kick the back door open. The parking lot is about as creepy as you'd expect it to be at 12 am. The entire thing is empty. It reminds you of those fanmade backroom levels, actually, because it's really dark out here, you can only see like 3 feet ahead of you with the flickering cafe light, and the liminal space vibes are too strong for you to be the slightest bit comfortable.
Alo, it's raining.
There's fat pellets falling from the clouds and the 2 feet of shelter outside the door do jackshit to prevent you from getting drenched. The darkness of the entire place (you're pretty sure having four measly streetlights for a whole parking lot is a major safety violation, but you're not paid enough to deal with that so you just kind of…avoid thinking about it) doesn't do much for your vision, even as icy little splatters hit the surface of your boots.
The hem of your pants is completely soaked after a single minute lugging those trash bags out, and it's with an annoyed huff that you return inside to grab an umbrella. Closing staff misfortune be damned, you're not going to be soaked on your ride home.
Armed with a ducky umbrella, you bravely venture out from beneath your meagre shelter; and instantly regret it. The water soaks through your socks like liquid pins and needles, and you hold back a swear as you quicken your pace. It's cold as fuck out here, and you're suddenly reminded of the weather forecast that morning. "Rapidly dropping temperatures", the forecaster had said, "expect snow in the next week". You'd tuned it out because you were rushing, and you hadn't noticed the whole day because you'd been warm and cozy behind the cafe counter, but now you're walking through ice rain in jeans and definitely starting to regret it.
It doesn't matter, though, because this is the last thing you have to do and then you're going home. Pushing aside your discomfort, you plod onwards with your trash bags in hand.
Getting the trash across the parking lot goes much more smoothly than you'd expected, which is probably why everything goes wrong the moment you pull open the dumpster lid. You barely catch a glimpse of whatever's in there (—but it's not a what, it's a who—) before a sudden shriek pierces the air. It's loud and it's close and it cuts through the monotonous thundering of the rain like a fucking cannon, and you snatch your hand away so fast that the momentum almost sends you crashing to the ground
The dumpster lid slams back down as you stagger back, dropping the trash as you finally realise how numb your fingers are. The bag hits the floor like a sack of flour, and clumps of spoiled milk spill from a tear but you're so confused that you can't even muster up disgust.
No, your main issue right now is the fucker sitting in the dumpster.
It takes a few minutes before your heart finally stops feeling like it's about to take a trip up your throat, but eventually you're standing in front of that dumpster again. You take a deep breath to steady yourself. And then you grab the handle of the lid, and yank it open.
It's stupidly dark in the dumpster. That's not actually a surprise, considering the angle the streetlight is shining down at it, but that's something you never needed to know before because you hadn't needed to look in here before. Your eyes skim over sickly pale skin, barely noting the oddly round (you don't think shadows are supposed to be that circular, but the lighting sucks and you can't actually see shit, so who knows what kind of optical illusion is going on there? That's right, not you) way shadows fall over the too long limbs because that's an actual person curled up in there, a person without—
This time, you're the one who lets out a horrified shriek (and your voice actually cracks like it hasn't since your first year at college, but really, you're justified—).
"Holy shit, where are your fucking clothes!?"
—
Jonathan knows there's someone outside the bin he's sitting in. What he doesn't expect, however, is the sudden ice drenching him. The shriek that he lets or reverberates off the walls around him, and the lid slams down with a thud as the person outside rapidly backtracks.
There's no other reaction for a few minutes, and he hopes they've been scared into leaving. All his hopes are dashed when the lid slowly opens again, and he makes an unhappy sound when water pours in again, pooling at the bottom of his makeshift residence.
The water doesn't bother him much, something he'd been relieved to discover and one of the few advantages of this…new form. He can't say the same for the light shining in. It's relatively dim, actually, but still such a contrast to his previous surroundings that he turns away from it.
There's harsh shadows across your face, body back-lit by the streetlight, but the expression that etches itself across your face is intimately familiar with him. And even curled up as he is and even in the poor lighting, he can see the horror on your face. He doesn't know why this time hurts more than it usually does, but all the same, he braces for the terror and disgust that always follows when someone catches sight of him.
"Holy shit—"
Ah, here it comes. Goodbye dumpster, it was a terrible place, but at least it protected him from the rain. He hopes you won't kick him out, but that's probably in vain.
"—where are your fucking clothes!?"
He looks up from sheer surprise when the expected vitriol doesn’t come, "I—I'm sorry?"
You turn away to gesture at the surroundings. Namely, the sheets of half-frozen rain puddling on the ground. And falling into the portal where his face should be.He doubles over to try to spit out all that ice, which is, for some godforsaken reason, stupidly difficult to do without an actual mouth.
"It's like, -12 degrees out here! There's no way you aren't freezing!"
He's fumbling for an answer, but the sky slushy distracts him enough that Jonathan ends up blurting out, "It's not like I have anywhere else to stay, so."
He immediately regrets it. The silence after that statement is deafening, and it lasts for what feels like an hour but was probably just twenty seconds, dragged on by his ever-present (and currently increasing) anxiety before he tries to fill it.
"But it's—uh, it's not so bad, I don't feel cold as much as the average person, so it's not like I'm freezing or anything! The lid keeps most of the rain out and all the cracks are on the bottom, except for that one crack on the lid, I guess, but all the water that drips onto me just flows out the bottom cracks so it's not like I'm…drowning in here…"
Jonathan trails off, cringing when he finally realises how pathetic that whole spiel actually made him sound. You're just staring at him now, and the silence is getting unbearable, so he tacks on a, "The rain is getting in, though, so if you could please close the bin lid…?"
Slowly, the bin lid comes down again, and your face is still unreadable even as his view of you narrows and disappears. He lets out a relieved sigh as the rain pouring in becomes a mere trickle. "Thank you."
The layer of plastic the bin is made out of isn't very good for sound insulation, and he can clearly hear your footsteps moving away. The splashing sounds quickly fade into the distance, drowned out by the rain, and he resigns himself to trying to fall asleep again.
Your sudden absence is weirdly lonely, and he's reminded of how oddly familiar you are. The niggling thought and the icy water dripping down on him don't make for a very good sleep environment, and eventually, he gives up on actually getting any sleep tonight.
And it's at this exact moment that the bin lid slams open again.
—
You speedwalk away from the bin so quickly you might as well just start sprinting, and halfway across the parking lot, you do. You almost break your ankle as you slam the back door open, the soles of your boots too smooth for those ice slick stairs, and then you hit the cafe floor with an audible oof.
Thank god you'd just finished cleaning. Luckily, you hadn't faceplanted, so you pick yourself up and make your way to the backroom.
You'd been told that the room had been built to act as a shelter in case of a tornado, which you still find really weird, because firstly, the region wasn't a tornado zone, and second, the past owner of the building was real shifty about it. Everyone had collectively decided to ignore the implications of that, and made the room into a break room in some sort of DIY re-christening. Cassie, that beloved asshole, had decided to stock the room full of blankets after last year's shitshow of a winter (and you really should have learnt from that and actually kept an eye out for the fucking weather this year), and you can almost forgive them for winning the coin toss.
Almost.
Five minutes later, the biggest, fluffiest blanket from the stockpile is tucked under your arm as you make your way downstairs again, and this time you watch your step as you make your way out the back door. You notice with mild concern that there's actual ice creeping across the concrete now, barely there for moments before the rain plummeting down melts it. The previously drenched hems of your pants aren't just soaked with ice water now, they've literally frosted over, and you shudder at the thought of being out in this weather without actual clothes.
The parking lot seems endlessly long this time, dull gray concrete stretching out ahead of you. You can hear every breath you take, and your footsteps hasten again when you notice the pale mist that accompanies each exhale.
This time, you don't hesitate when you slam the dumpster lid open. "Come on, get out of there, I'm not letting you sit here for a whole night in subzero weather."
At the sound of that, the pale man snaps his head up, and if you couldn't tell he was confused from the way his shoulders draw up, the stunned wobble in his voice certainly gave that away. "What?"
"Get out of the bin, or you're going to get the blanket dirty. And wet." You hold the blanket up to punctuate your point, drawing his attention to it. You've manage to keep the rain off it so far.
"I—what?"
He sounds even more confused now, so you add on, "There's a cafe across this parking lot. I can guarantee the heating works way better than whatever plastic insulation you're relying on right now, so come on."
"Wait, wait, how do you know I'm not going to like, murder you or anything?"
You shoot him a disbelieving look, even if you're not sure he can see it with the shadows overlaying everything. "If you were going to kill me, then you'd have done the first time I opened this fucking bin. And speaking of this bin, the lighting in there sucks, the shadows are weird and I'm not sure if I'm even looking at you half the time."
He makes a full-bodied flinch at that statement, and you hurry to backtrack, certain you've said something wrong, "Fuck, uh, sorry, if you don't want me to look at you, I'll keep my eyes away.
There's silence for a few moments as you flounder for something to say. God, you hope you hadn't offended him or anything, that would make this so much harder.
"It's more for you than it is for me." His voice is abruptly quiet, and you strain to hear it over the thunder in the background. "Most people don't like how I look. Sometimes, they even go running and screaming in the other direction."
There's something simultaneously bitter and mournful in his tone, and you decide to skip comforting him entirely, going straight to a solution. "Okay, well, if it makes you feel better, I have a blanket with me, and I'm pretty sure it has more than enough fabric to completely cover you. If I pass it to you, will you come with me?"
You can practically feel him wavering, so you sweeten the offer just a little bit more. "And I was making hot chocolate just before I came out here, so…"
You're lying through your teeth, of course, but he doesn't know that.
It's a while before he speaks up again, but this time it's a final attempt so paper-thin you see through it in seconds.. "I don't want to inconvenience you."
And this you don't have to lie about. "You're not, I assure you. I don't have work tomorrow, so I have basically an entire night to waste." You wave a flippant hand, before offering it to him.
Hand outstretched, you make a 'gimme' motion. "Now come on, give me your hand, I'll help you outta there."
There's a certain reluctance in the set of his shoulders even as he takes your hand, but that doesn't faze you. (The odd round shadows fluctuate on the edges too, but you're too busy shoving down a sudden and completely unexpected swell of affection to notice.)
Despite your best efforts, an endeared smile flashes across your face. You turn your face away so he doesn't see it, and focus your efforts on helping the man clamber out of the bin instead. The moment he's steady om his feet, you avert your eyes despite the temptation to look (and god, there's so much temptation) and shove the blanket towards him.
You spare a thought for what he'd mentioned about his appearance, letting your imagination run wild for the few short moments it takes for him to wrap the blanket around himself. It sounds like he has a disfigurement of some sort. You're not going to mention that, though, much less ask him. He probably doesn't want to talk about it.
From the corner of your eye, you see the blanket settle tightly around the man as he wraps himself up like a burrito. He wriggles a hand out of that tangled mess to tuck down the loose ends, and you absently note that he has nice hands.
He makes another wriggly motion to snake his hands back into the blanket, and once again, you can't help but smile. It's an unbearably fond feeling that rises up in you, sticky-sweet and winding itself through your insides like spun sugar.
You press a hand over your mouth to hide the sigh that follows. What was up with that?
And more specifically, what was up with you?