Chapter Text
artwork by youcantsaymylastname
Arthur propped the apartment door open with his foot as he signed for the package, and Atlas dashed between his legs and off down the hallway.
“Goddamnit! He’s not allowed out!” Arthur dropped the box and ran after him.
“Sorry,” the delivery guy said.
“Not your fault,” Arthur called back, scooping up the pug. “He’s supposed to be trained.”
It wasn’t until he got back to his door, squirming dog in hand, that he realized his real problem — the door had closed and locked behind him.
“You,” he said, looking at the pug, “are a pain in the ass.”
The dog licked his hand. Arthur wiped it on his jeans in disgust.
“I’m never dog-sitting again,” he muttered.
He dialed the building superintendent. It went to voicemail. “Hi, this is Arthur in 703. I’m locked out, and I have stuff in the oven. Can you get back to me? Thanks.”
Five minutes passed. He called again. “Yeah, it’s Arthur. 703. Still locked out.”
Fifteen minutes. The smell of fresh brownies wafted under the door, which … wasn’t good. It meant they were done, and would very soon be burned. “Me again. 703. It’s you or the fire department.”
His hopes were raised when the elevator dinged, but it was only his neighbor, Mr. Eames. The irritatingly handsome, British one.
“Need a hand? Cute puppy.”
“Locked out. His fault.”
“Did you lock the silly man out?” Eames cooed.
Arthur glared at him. “I’m making brownies. They’re going to burn and set off the fire alarm.”
“Well, darling, you should have said. I’ll be right back.”
He returned, moments later, with a set of lock-picking tools.
“That’s … disturbing,” Arthur said.
“I promise I’ll only break in when you ask me to.”
Arthur forgave Cobb’s dog.