Hey! Akiho4 wrote a responding fic to this: "You Never Know Who Will Help You From a Ditch at Eleven PM" and it's honestly so beautiful and wonderful and after you're done reading this I suggest you go check it out. It's really something special. Thanks and I hope you enjoy!

It's raining.

And yeah, that sucks, because Walter really doesn't want to have to deal with that right now on top of everything else going on his life. Maybe running away from his responsibilities was immature of him, but he honestly can't bring himself to care. It's not that he's given up on life or anything, but he did kill two thousand people around a year and a half ago and yeah, that hurts a little.

Okay, it hurts a lot, and Walter doesn't know how to deal with it, but that guilt looming over him is the least of his issues at the moment. The biggest issue is him getting home, but that's a little difficult, seeing as those guys dropped him off in the literal middle of nowhere in this backwater state. They decided to abandon him right along a strip of questionable looking bars, and he's going to actually use his one hundred and ninety seven IQ for a change and not go near the suspicious looking establishments because he thinks that would just be a special kind of stupid.

So he trudges along and dammit he's cold, folding his arms over his chest and ducking his head. There's silence for about five minutes, Walter completely alone in his thoughts aside from the squish of his shoe in the mud and the thunder overhead- before there's a groan from about five feet to his left, making him jump and pause as he squints into the darkness.

Walter doesn't really know what the hell he's doing. He grew up in Ireland and he's sort of wandering around the States like a lost puppy, unable to stand being around his parents, who didn't understand, and his sister, who understood a little too much.

There's a small sort of grunting sound, not animalistic but not quite human either, and Walter doesn't really know why but he's a little concerned and a lot about throwing his shit to the wind. So he goes off the road he's been walking along and nearly tumbles down the little hill that he finds about three feet off the pavement, almost falling head over heels when he trips over a lump that feels strangely like a body.

There's only the sound of shifting fabric and a moan, and Walter throws himself up and away before he can process what he's doing, flinging himself down the road as fast as he can. Finally his brain catches up with his instinctive reaction and he scoffs at himself for his impulsiveness. That could be a man lying in a literal ditch dying, and Walter's running away?

He huffs and turns around, heading back the way he came. He'd only made it about a hundred yards, but it was far enough, and in the sleet and the darkness it takes skill to find that man again.

Instead of being afraid, he summons up all the courage he can and braves from above the downed man, "hello? Do you need help?"

There's a broken mumble that Walter can't hear over the howl of the wind, so he leans down closer to the mystery man's mouth. Walter finds he's not so much a man as he is a teen, like Walter himself, maybe a year or so older but still as fresh faced as Walter is. "Hello?" Walter repeats, and a hand- quick as lightning- darts forward to capture the edge of Walter's shirt.

Walter thrashes and tries to pry the man's grip from his shirt, but the man only pulls him closer, fever bright hazel eyes staring past him. "I- I need help," the man chokes, his hand going to his chest. "Can't breathe, can't breathe-"

Walter's eyes only have to take one fleeting look to know this guy's ribs are probably broken, and if he doesn't get to a hospital, it could become serious. Swallowing down his own discomfort at the thought of the evil place, he says, "I need to get you to a hospital."

The man's eyes, from when they'd drifted closed, snap open in mortification. "No!" He shouts. "No hospitals!"

Walter can only sympathize, but he's afraid (though he'll never admit it) and ends up snapping "fine, fine!" He's cold and wet and a little worried about this man too, and he can't really see because the water's washed it away and it's dark- but he thinks that maybe there's blood on the guy's shirt? "Fine. You can just come with me, and I'll...I'll fix you."

And yeah, stranger danger and all that, but he doesn't need an IQ of one hundred and ninety seven to realize that this man is no threat, even if he is dangerous. He looks about as threatening as a man face down in the mud can (which is, not a lot).

He puts it from his mind as he crouches and turns the man so he's facing Walter more. He grabs a mud-slicked arm, trying to hoist the man over his shoulders. Goddammit; he's heavy for however slim he looks (and it's the slim of not enough to eat because of money, not the slim of the medically ill or the slim of the addiction addled) and Walter stumbles, thinking blindly, how are we going to get to the highway?!

Some of his thought must have transferred because the man stirs and plants his feet, standing and locking his knees. "Well then," Walter murmurs as he begins hauling the two of them out of the three feet of mud there is, struggling up the tiny hill and out of the ditch, "isn't this just wonderful."

He's cold, he's wet, and he's muddy, and he doesn't really have the patience for a proper witticism. Sarcasm will have to do.

He lugs the man finally all the way out of the ditch and the few feet towards the road, looking forward and squinting, but there's no sign of headlights in the inky blackness out there. Sighing, he turns back to the glowing and dingy looking bar, swallowing and considering the man in his arms. Obviously he doesn't have enough strength to walk the near three miles into town, but Walter really, really doesn't want to have to deal with the drunks at this time of night. But the man's dying and has some slim chances of making it all the way. But they could be killed if they approached the wrong person and ticked them off accidentally, and Walter's just the golden-boy of social interactions, isn't he?

"Right," Walter says aloud once his logic has solidified. "Right," he repeats as he shifts the guy in his arms so that he's hanging mostly off of Walter's back instead of his shoulder. "Walking it is."

As he begins to falteringly step forward, he hears the dull scraping of the man's feet splayed out behind him. The rain's icy and he's shivering terribly (but he can dismiss it because the man on his back is shivering much, much worse) so he grits his teeth instead. "What's your name?" He asks the man, because although the rain is cold there is something unmistakably liquid and warm soaking into the skin of his back that doesn't belong to him. "And you need to tell me where-" he stumbles and almost falls- "you're hurt and where you need to go because if you don't, there's a good chance you'll bleed out and die before I can get you help. What'll it be?"

He winces as he realizes that that's probably not something someone would usually say, but there are only raspy breaths in his ear before the man responds in a breathy voice. "T-T-Toby," he chatters, and the amount that he's shuddering is more concerning than Walter will admit. "And I think I've been sta-stabbed." His breath hitches in pain before it evens again to wheezes, and Walter has to swallow because he knows how to stop bleeding, but depending on where this man has been stabbed, he could have ruined his chances by choosing the walk.

That's okay though, a voice in his head chimes. Just one more body on the list of people's lives you've destroyed, heh O'Brien?

"Great," he says, just because, "now I need you to tell me-"

"Why d-do you feel so guilty?" The stranger asks and Walter struggles to keep his breathing even.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says coolly. "Now, I need you to-"

"Well don't play ignorant," the stranger continues, like it's Sunday coffee in a warm diner instead of on the side of the road in nowhere with him bleeding out (and it's raining). He's still stuttering and wheezing, but he continues like it's not a big deal. "Words lie but bodies don't; you tensed up when I told you I'd been stabbed. Now, that could mean a number of things: you're concerned for me, you're reconsidering your decision to walk instead of asking someone for a ride but let me tell you, I'd rather die walking than live riding wherever the hell that person decided to whisk us off to."

The man takes a deep breath and it feels like he's sucking it from Walter's own lungs. "You could be remembering a past family member but there's a hitch of breath that comes with loss and you had none, but your shoulders did tense and your hands got subconsciously tighter as your head bowed, signs of guilt; maybe you'd killed someone? Different reaction, so maybe you saw some people killed; maybe you're guilty about not stepping in but no, that's a different cue too so maybe you've just made a mista- ah hah!"

Walter jumps a little at the exclamation of half-pain half-triumph, having been concentrating on keeping his body language in check. "That's it; your head slipped to the side like I was right. Okay, so you made a mistake and maybe people died- there we go, another nail on the head- and maybe it was your fault and you didn't realize? BAM! Perfect! Oh, I love being right."

The man sounds smitten for a few moments before Walter feels his excitement drain away as he slumps against the younger man again, curling. "Well, you're not the only one who can read body language," he says, and Toby tenses minutely. "You slumped after your rush of being correct went away, and maybe that was because of pain but come on, you don't seem to be addled by pain really aside from the normal reactions so it was probably disappointment; I'd thought it was until you'd curled, and that's when I realized that your smart-ass mouth gets you into all sorts of trouble."

Toby gives him a stiff nod. "How I got here in the first place," he answers, his voice gravelly, and Walter realizes Toby expects him to drop him and abandon him. Just like how he 'got here in the first place'.

He isn't going to let that happen though, so he raises his chin a little bit and responds, "me too."

If the man is surprised he doesn't show it, and they descend back into silence. Walter staggers again under all the weight he's supporting (because even though he's strong, he's only like a hundred and fifteen pounds, and he's soaking wet) and he gasps in pain as his ankle bends wrong.

"You're hurt," Toby says groggily from where his face is pressed into Walter's neck as his arms slacken their hold on Walter's shirt. "Your breath hi-hitched."

Walter finds a wry smile on his face. "So did yours," he says, and Toby snuffles a little and just presses his freezing nose into the skin under Walter's ear.

More silence, the howl of the wind the only company they have as they trek onward, and finally Walter can narrow his eyes and see some light in the distance. "Toby," he says excitedly, reaching up and unclasping one of Toby's hands to smack at his head lightly, "Toby, we've made it! There's town!"

Silence. Toby is still.

Walter's grin fades. "T-Toby?"

No response.

Walter blanches and scrambles to get Toby off his back, laying him flat against the ground gently. "Toby?!" He says in a slightly hysterical tone. "Toby?!"

He shakes the man now because he can't think to do anything else, and his body is running away without him, leaving an awkward tunnel feeling- like he's falling and can't catch himself. He clears his throat and wipes the rain off his cheeks and out of his eyes, taking Toby's cold face in his hands and feeling his neck.

For a frightening moment he feels nothing, but his fingers are numb with cold so he breathes on them and shoves them under his arms to warm up, and soon they've got tingles but not soon enough because Toby's lips are blue. Panicking, he jabs his fingers against Toby's jugular, asking for something, anything-

He's not sure if he's choking on relief, but there's an odd lump in his throat that he can't seem to make go away. Toby's pulse is a little sluggish, but it's nothing life threatening (not yet, at least) and Walter gulps down his nausea at the idea he may have been carrying a corpse. He takes in stuttering breaths as he gets Toby listlessly over his shoulder and resting against his back again, nearly impossible because he's weak and cold and wet and Toby is dead weight, but he gets it done out of sheer necessity.

He starts off walking again, a little more frantically than last time because he's still a little shaken about what just happened. What if Toby had died? What if he wasn't in time?

No, he tells himself forcefully. I can see the stupid city lights in the distance and I'll get there.

For a second he resents even getting himself into the situation at all, and if he weren't holding Toby secure with both hands he'd have hit himself. "Don't be an idiot O'Brien," he can almost hear Cabe say. "You saved a man because this happened. I never thought I'd see the day your smart-ass mouth helped you for once."

Thinking of Cabe is very firmly decided a bad idea after Walter is nearly doubled over with the force of his hurt, so he takes a deep breath and keeps on keepin' on, faltering over asphalt and dreaming of the days when he hadn't been wet and uncomfortable.

He finally gets to town and grimaces as he squelches down the deserted streets, biting his lip as he second guesses the adamancy of Toby's statement about not going to a hospital. He could have legitimate reasons though and Walter himself could possibly be blamed for the crime. Walter knows enough to just patch Toby up himself anyway, and with this knowledge safely reassuring him in the back of his brain he turns towards his garage.

It takes all of five minutes to get to it in the dark because navigating streets have always been one of Walter's specialties. He reaches around for his keys and oh, how could he forget? They're in his jacket. That he doesn't have. Because earlier this evening he didn't plan on going out and then the power'd shut down in his garage and he'd been Jerry-rigging it outside- and those blockheads had come up to him.

Wonderful; no keys. And no windows either because it's a garage, not a house.

Sighing in frustration and idly asking himself why nothing can go right today, Walter gently lays Toby out again, feeling around and trying to find the bin where he keeps all of the bobby pins he's collected. (Hey, this hasn't exactly happened once.)

Finally getting his numb hands on it and pulling out a couple, he finagles the lock until he hears the click, gratefully throwing open then door and pulling Toby by the arms inside, not bothering to lift him because the rain is coming down in torrents and the sooner they're warm and dry, the better.

He falls backwards onto his floor, limbs aching and body on fire, but he forces himself up and fetches the first aid kit, lifting Toby's shirt.

Okay, so stabbed wasn't exactly the right word; Toby's got a nice six inch gash running lengthwise along his ribs, curving a little with his body, somehow even managing to curl under his arm. Whoever it was that got Toby, he got Toby with his hands up. Like a coward.

Walter huffs out a breath at the angry red swelling around the wound, pursing his lips. This whole situation is so messed up it's a wonder that they've even made it this far at all, but now Walter's determined, so he wets a rag with peroxide and presses it without remorse to the inflamed wound.

Walter's not sure if he's concerned or relieved that all Toby does is murmur something that sounds like a curse and shrink away a little. Walter wets his lips and pushes his sopping bangs out of his eyes again as he concentrates, his tongue poking between his teeth as he applies disinfectant and topical pain relievers, putting gauze over the whole thing and feeling a little proud of himself if he's honest. He wraps Toby's ribs securely and knows there's nothing more to do, even though he still feels a little useless.

Then he works on getting Toby's clothing off him because it's soaking wet and the dude might be going into shock, and although he's bulkier, Walter's taller, so his clothes fit just fine. From Toby's thin jacket pocket he pulls a rounded hat, worn from use and grey in what was probably once a black color, but it's obviously well loved, so Walter puts it aside to dry. He may be a socially inept teenager, but he's anything but an idiot.

He sits back and decides that the cement floor seriously isn't a good place for his new guest, so he summons up some strength from God knows where and hauls Toby up just enough to thump him onto the couch, and his job is officially done. His ankle is aching dully now but Walter can't find the strength to wrap it, so he shrugs and does his best to ignore the pain he gets even when he's limping.

He wrangles himself out of his own clothes and into something warm and dry, toweling his hair and then doing the same for Toby, because he actually likes his couch and would rather it not be wet in the morning.

Then he lays down and, once again reassuring himself Toby's not going to be a threat (and dully feeling the bruises he earned from those goons returning with the ebbing of his adrenaline, his ankle throbbing in time with all of them) he drifts off.

...

He wakes to a clatter.

Usually when Walter wakes up it's to an alarm clock, or the heat of his little garage because he closed the vent too tight, or his phone ringing, or just because you wake up at some point. He doesn't usually wake to a clatter. Not even when he lived back home did he wake up to such a ruckus, and that's saying something in Walter's book.

He bolts upright and instinctively his eyes scan his garage as he reaches for the crowbar on his nightstand, but he freezes when he hears cheerful whistling from the kitchen area. Toby's face pokes around the corner, hat on his head and holding a spatula, an easy and likable grin on his face that Walter is glad to see. It means his charge hadn't died overnight, and if he'd wanted to kill Walter, statistics show he would have done it already.

So Walter throws away his covers and shivers as his feet hit the cold concrete ground, noticing that his ankle's been wrapped at some point, the pain nowhere near what it should be. He pads forward and into the kitchen with a slight limp, but he's definitely better off that he was. "Hope you like eggs," Toby says as he scrambles some, his eyes flickering over Walter's form. Walter's glad to see that although he's moving a little gingerly, Toby's up and about. "Ha, of course you do," he mutters to himself with a small smile, and Walter can't help but shake his head.

The eggs finish in less than thirty seconds and they sit on the couch (because of Walter's lack of a kitchen table; his garage is only like, twenty by twenty feet as a whole) before Toby finally completes his meal and clears his throat.

Walter agreeably spoons the last of it into his mouth, savoring it (it's been a while since anyone's cooked for him) and dutifully puts down both plates on the side table, and Toby clears his throat again. "So…" he starts awkwardly. "Why'd you save me?"

Walter has been expecting this question, but it doesn't make it any easier to answer. Why did he save Toby? Was it- God forbid- sentiment for a stranger? It definitely wasn't out of the goodness of his heart. Or was it?

"I- well," he says and forces himself not to shift, only leaning forward a bit, "I saw myself in you, I guess. Seemed like the kind of situation I'd find myself in because apparently I run my mouth too, and...I guess it was just…" And hell, if he's gonna skim the water might as well just jump in. "Geniuses have to watch out for each other, right?"

Toby stares at him as though he's grown two heads for a minute before he smiles jovially, the darkness that had clouded his eyes nowhere to be found. He sticks out his hand and Walter takes it. "Not sure you'd have found yourself in that situation with the same circumstances," he says, but Walter interjects before Toby can continue.

"Actually man, why in the world do you think I was walking alongside the road at like twelve A.M.?" There's a smirk in his voice and Toby's lip quirk says it all. "I get it."

Toby wets his lips, and Walter rolls his eyes. "Okay, so you're nervous," he starts, and Toby turns to look at him again.

He continues. "That could be because you're with a stranger in his house but that's unlikely seeing as statistic says that if I'd wanted to do something to you I'd have done it already. It could be discomfort of your surroundings, but you went and found my spatula, eggs and kitchen just fine; it could be me and my social awkwardness, but you've seemed fine thus far, so that's probably not it seeing as you probably get yourself into socially strange situations all the time; you could be afraid that the men who dumped you are coming back, but I think it's pretty clear that they weren't punking you, Toby, they meant business. That most likely leads to them being...harsh in their punishment of their so called "employees" because normal friends don't do that to each other."

He paused. "It all leads to crime, but what kind of crime? You don't have the countenance or the mannerisms of a killer and you freely told me your name, and didn't run out of here when you woke up, so I'd think you weren't a criminal. Maybe an addict? Ah! An addict, that would make sense, your body is slim enough; but it's the slim of not eating, not the slim of drugs or alcohol, so maybe you walk the streets. But that's probably unlikely seeing as your jacket- ah, your jacket- isn't heavy enough to be out in such harsh weather most of the day and night."

Another pause for breath. "I found you close to a bar and that bar had poker tables, so maybe you're crack at poker and addicted to gambling, and got a little too cocky or had a little too much to drink and let your mouth run, and your poker buddies got mad at you and left you in a ditch to die."

Toby blinks at him in astonishment for a few moments before a smile breaks out onto his face. "You're really something," he says in a tone that suggests awe. "How old are you, kid?"

Walter shakes his head. "Not kid," he corrects. "Walter. Walter O'Brien. And I'm seventeen."

Toby frowns as he looked around, then turns back to Walter and raises his eyebrow and Walter has no doubt in his mind Toby knows exactly why he's in this shitty garage. But he says nothing, only gets up and smiles again at him, and says, "I'm nearly twenty, man. I should hit the road and get ho-"

"You can crash here," Walter intercedes, and Toby gazes at him with those intense hazel eyes again. "It's ah, alright. And cold. And...you're still injured."

And if Toby doesn't have a home and actually needs a place to stay, they don't say anything, but Toby's eyes sparkle as he punches Walter lightly in the shoulder.

"You're okay, Walter O'Brien," Toby says, saluting lazily and looking up thoughtfully as his fingers catch the brim of his fedora. "And thanks for saving the hat."

Walter only smiles, but it's a little awkward and forced, though Toby doesn't say anything. "Any time."

Okay, this is only my third time posting in this fandom, so how'd I do? This is my interpretation on how they met and I hope you liked it too! Did we like Toby? Was Walter Walter-y? I hope you enjoyed, please leave me a comment on your thoughts, and thanks for reading!