Work Text:
Smoker feels like a complete idiot as he walks out of the pet shop, holding a stupid plastic bag with a stupid little orange fish spinning inside.
“This one,” he had said merely minutes ago, while pointing vaguely at absolutely nothing in the tank.
"The goldfish? Excellent choice, sir!" you beamed, with that perfect, radiant smile of yours. And he had to muster every ounce of marine-level discipline not to let his cheeks show what your sweet little “sir” did to him.
Goddammit.
He's a seasoned Marine officer. With leadership, duty, and a reputation for unshakable willpower. He's a Vice Admiral, for god’s sake. And yet here he is, head over heels like a total jackass for the girl at the pet shop... and too much of a coward to ask you out.
When he gets home, the fish looks at him like it's mocking him. He dumps it into a Tupperware and swears that he will never set foot in that damned store again.
But the little fucker needs food. And a proper tank too.
So a few days later, cursing his entire bloodline and puffing through half a pack of cigars like a train, there he is again. Back at the shop and buying a medium-sized tank, a water filter, and a little box of flakes that says “To make your fish happy!”
"Thank you," he says dryly, carefully avoiding your cleavage as you lean over the register to flip the box.
Days go by, and one goldfish turns into two. Then a Fantail. Then a Ryukin. When a increasingly grumpy Smoker accidentally points at a Tetra, you politely inform him it’s not compatible with goldfish.
"Tropical fish need warm water", you explain with those beautiful, lash-heavy eyes.
So another tank would be necessary. And what about those adorable little decorations you always insist on selling? You pull out a few and place them on the counter: colored gravel, artificial plants, a tiny castle, and a treasure chest.
"What will you be taking, s-?"
"All. All ’em," he cuts you off before you can dare say "sir" again.
The following feek, his aimless finger drifts once again over the tank and lands on another goldfish. A rounder, shinier little specimen.
“Oh, a female!" You chirp in joy. "You wanna make babies, sir?”
He nearly has a heart attack. He tries to cover it up with a coughing fit, so it's the cigar that takes the hit, almost snapping in half...
Back in his office, the shelves overflow with every kind of aquatic thermometer, marine biology books, and labeled food containers (all written in your neat, sweet handwriting). Stuff that no longer fits in his damn house.
Tashigi watches him set down yet another set of bags on his desk, all stamped with the logo of your shop.
“When are you going to-”
“NO,” he barks, and a cloud of smoke billows menacingly from his mouth.
“But-”
“TASHIGI,” he slumps into his chair, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose “Just… don’t.”