Chapter Text
Twelve inches of snow had fallen overnight, blanketing Toledo in a fresh layer of white. Ned’s always loved winter; the tranquility, a magical feeling he doesn’t quite have words for. Plus, no sunburns. No bugs. No humidity.
Ned peers out the window. He heard the plows going all night, but the streets still aren’t clear, and he watches cars struggling to make their way down the road outside. It’s not that he doubts his skills on his fat tire bike, but more so that he would rather not be crushed by an out of control car on his commute.
Before he committed to this apartment, Ned had carefully mapped out a bike route and a backup plan with public transit, making sure the time tables worked with his schedule. “Public transit” being a bus route; not quite as exciting as Chicago.
He hasn’t had to use his backup plan yet, but decides today would be an apt day to give it a try. Ned double checks the bus route one more time, tugs on his boots, and walks the couple of blocks to the bus stop. He’ll need to take this route all the way to the transit center downtown, which is just down the street from Truth Teller Tower.
The bus pulls up after a few minutes of waiting, and Ned hears the hiss of the bus lowering to the curb as the front doors open up. Ned holds his credit card at the ready, prepared to execute his carefully researched plan. Which really only involves tapping his card on the reader and finding an empty seat, but he’d researched it and rehearsed it in his mind nonetheless.
His plan disintegrates immediately when Ned steps through the bus doors and is confronted by the most beautiful profile he’s ever seen sitting in the driver’s seat. A bit unconventional, perhaps, but somehow that makes it even better.
The driver, around his same age, turns to face him.
“Good morning,” the man greets him in a low, soft voice, and the butterflies in Ned's stomach are so fluttery that he thinks he might just float away.
Ned’s eyes drift from the man’s somewhat shaggy hair and dark eyes down to his broad shoulders underneath a windbreaker and a light blue button up. He wears a nametag reading “Paterson” and a green lanyard with sunflowers adorned with two pins—one with a smiling panda that says “I’m autistic” and one with a pride flag. Which could mean any number of things, of course, but there are a few…specific interpretations that Ned hopes could be the reason Paterson wears the pin.
He’s so distracted and his chest feels so fluttery that he almost forgets to respond, hoping his mouth hasn’t been hanging open too long.
“Good morning,” Ned responds breathily and scurries to find a seat.
The bus continues on its route toward downtown, picking up several passengers along the way, but none receive the “good morning” that Ned did.
The driver—Paterson—seems unbothered by the cold, wearing just the windbreaker despite the constant onslaught of cold air each time the door opens to let passengers on.
Ned's stop is the transit center, which is also where the route ends. He pretends to be preoccupied on his phone but keeps glancing upward, watching Paterson step off the bus, lock the front doors, and stretch his arms. Ned stops pretending to look at his phone in favor of admiring the long arms and broad shoulders, and the sliver of skin that peeks out when Paterson’s shirt comes slightly untucked with his arms extended upward.
Paterson carries a small, metal lunchbox and a thermos to the nearest bench and takes a seat. He pulls a muffin, a notebook, and a pen from inside. Ned watches as he eats the muffin with one hand and writes something with the other, taking a sip from the thermos every two bites.
Ned frantically turns on his heel and flees when Paterson glances up in his direction, and he’s all flushed and breathing hard even as he steps off the elevator to head to his office.
“What’s wrong with you?” Mare frowns, concerned after giving him a once-over.
“Nothing!” Ned rushes into his office and shuts all the blinds.
The roads look better the next morning, but Ned takes the bus again. Just to be safe, he tells himself. No other reason.
Paterson gives him the same, gentle “good morning,” and Ned manages to return the greeting without staring too much. He does stare a little, though.
The bus continues down the same route, picking up many of the same people, none receiving a greeting, and pulls up to the same spot at the transit center at precisely 7:49 am, just like yesterday.
Paterson takes the same seat on the same bench with the same lunchbox, muffin, thermos, and notebook. In a moment of genius, or perhaps the complete opposite, Ned pretends to answer a phone call and leans up against the post of the crosswalk signal.
He gives up on the fake conversation almost immediately, watching Paterson's pensive expression as he chews, sips, and writes.
Ned continues taking the bus to work each day. He's given up on his flimsy mental gymnastics regarding the snow in favor of some flimsy mental gymnastics about enjoying routine. Which is still true, but it's not the reason he takes the bus.
He's learned Paterson gets a fifteen minute break before restarting the route again. Not because he stands there and times it. It's because he walks around the block and times it.
His first “walk around the block” attempt does end up being successful as he sees Paterson stand up from the bench at 8:02 and restart his route at 8:04 but it ends up inviting more suspicion.
But not from Paterson. Because of his detour, Ned arrives at the office at 8:11 am.
“Are you sure you're okay?” Mare eyes him suspiciously. “You've literally never been late to work. Not once.”
“I'm fine! Everything's fine!” Ned yelps and hides in his office once again.
The daily routine continues with the added step of walking around the block from the transit center while Paterson is on his break, showing up to the office at 8:11 every day now. Mare seems to have accepted his explanation of the bus timing and “bad back” preventing him from biking.
But maybe someday he'll have the courage to sit in the empty seat next to Paterson for those fifteen minutes that make him late to work instead of only catching stolen glances.