Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

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When Grace woke up that morning, he felt dread.

That was his first sign, warning him of the day he has ahead of him. Everything that followed after he opened his eyes was just one irritating, inconvenient thing after the other. If this wasn't something that just happened occasionally, Grace would've been under the justified assumption that the world has something against him, personally.

These kinds of days aren't common, but they've happened often enough times that he recognizes this for what it is. Not His Day.

The Not His Day days follow a similar plotline. Everything and anything that could ever potentially annoy Ryland Grace should happen all at once throughout a single day. This particular day went like this:

He tried reaching for his alarm clock to shut it off blindly and ended up banging his hand hard onto his side drawer, the pain waking him up instantly, an ugly bruise already forming. When he went to brush his teeth, his toothpaste was practically finished, the tube wrung out and empty, and he had to spend around a minute rolling the tube and coaxing out the last bits of paste onto his toothbrush to save him from enduring his own morning breath every time he opened his mouth. Then, since it was the last day of the week, his wardrobe was barren of any of his favorite pants, and he had to begrudgingly put on the old itchy dress pants he used to wear to conferences that barely fit him anymore. He was already in a horrible mood by then as he went to grab his bike and remembered that he had a flat tire from yesterday that he told himself he'd fix during the weekend.

So now he had to walk to work. Jog, actually, he had to jog if he didn't want to be late. Which, whatever, it's good exercise. That he can deal with.

But again, that day was Not His Day. These days always managed to find ways to screw him sideways every chance they got, no matter what. The moment he would start accepting these inconveniences and shrugging them off was the moment they would start getting worse.

It started raining in the middle of his second period. Weak at first, ignorable. But then as his third period walked in, it was pouring. Raining elephants and rhinos, as one of his students commented, and Grace couldn't even manage more than a forced chuckle because if that doesn't slow down by the end of the day, he is going to have to walk home drenched and miserable.

The aggressive pitter-patter of rain on the window haunted him through all his classes; the rain didn't let up at all as the final bell rang. And now it was just him, his raincoat he always wears, his two feet, and a forty-minute, two-mile walk ahead of him.

With an exhausted sigh, Grace shrugs off his raincoat and drapes it above his head so he could at the very least save his backpack and all his students' homework inside it.

He shoots one last longing look at all the other staff getting into their cars or opening up their umbrellas because they actually bothered to check the weather app that morning and begins his soft jog through the harsh rain.

Around 30 minutes later and his shirt, socks, shoes, and itchy dress pants are completely soaked, the lenses of his glasses got too wet to see, so he ended up shrugging them down his chin, his vision was fuzzy, and he was freezing. Grace could already feel the cold he was undoubtedly going to get tomorrow. There goes his weekend.

He kept his head mostly pointed downwards towards the ground because he'd already managed to almost slip three times since he began walking. Due to the fact that his eyes were glued to the floor for anything that might trip him, he immediately noticed a discoloration in the puddle he stepped on. It was faint for the first few steps, easy to miss, and easy to ignore. But the more Grace walked, the more he found his shoes surrounded entirely by red. That he couldn't ignore. Because that was most definitely and unmistakably blood. Where did it come from? He really didn't want to know.

Obviously he doesn't get a choice, though. Today wasn't his day after all.

Just as Grace was about to step over the streaks of red in the water, he heard a whine, high-pitched and pained, coming from somewhere close by. It cut through the heavy noise of the rain and rang into his ear. Whipping his head around, Grace looked towards the direction he heard it come from and found himself staring into a dark alley.

Oh boy.

Those never lead to anywhere good.

He's got two options. Either he ignore the noise and be on his merry way and then feel the shame and guilt eat away at him for the next month. Or, he could go and investigate and maybe help somebody who's in pain. The second option came with the risk of potentially getting murdered. He didn't like that bit. As he's debating with himself on whether to risk himself like that simply to quell his sobbing, empathetic heart urging him to go check, Grace hears a loud splat, followed by another pained whine, followed by a bigger wave of blood flowing out and painting the sidewalk puddle an even darker red.

Without giving it a second thought, all worries about getting stabbed in a dark alleyway like some comic cliché leave Grace's head as he rushes in, following the trail of blood leading him further into the dark.

Just as his critical reasoning began catching up to him, insisting that this is the dumbest thing he could possibly do on a day that's already going as horribly as this one is going, Grace lets out a gasp when he finally finds the source of all the blood.

Right there on the floor, wet, dirty, and covered in torn, bloody clothes, was a huge dog. It was lying on its stomach, its fur was this dark gray shade Grace has only ever seen on Greyhounds and Huskies. This one had way too big a fur coat to be a hound, so he guessed it was a husky.

What a husky was doing bleeding out in an alleyway was beyond him. The sight of it had Grace's eyes going glossy. Gosh, how could this happen? Did someone seriously hurt this dog and leave it to die?

Is it dead? He should check.

Grace drops down, his knees hitting the concrete hard, and he suppresses a grimace as he goes to peel off the bloody clothes covering the wound. The sight that greets him has Grace sucking in another deep breath. It was pretty gnarly, to say the very least. And it was undoubtedly a stab wound, that, Grace could say with confidence.

Then the realization hit him, slow and disturbing.

Someone stabbed this dog.

And left it to die!

That is sick. He felt his stomach churn. Grace knew people could be cruel, but witnessing this had his heart breaking into a million different pieces.

"Oh, you poor thing," Grace mumbled sadly. "What happened?" His hand hovered uselessly above the gash in its thigh—close enough to feel the heat of blood, too afraid to touch. He wanted to scoop it up, smother it in blankets and pillows and soft words, erase every second of whatever monster had done this.

Okay, yeah, he's got a soft spot for animals. But then again what kind of heartless bastard finds a stabbed dog and doesn't want to burn the world down to make it right?

Notedly, he'll need to act quickly. Glancing over at its face, Grace startles when he sees the dog staring back at him with intense blue eyes.

"Oh- jeez." He pulls his hand back as if he were caught with it inside a cookie jar. "You're alive. That's good."

The dog showed no reaction to Grace. It didn't even move or shift; in fact, Grace doesn't think it moved an inch since he knelt down.

The poor dog.

"I-I'm so sorry this happened to you." He tells the dog. Uselessly, since obviously the dog can't understand him, but Grace was a little stressed at the moment, and talking is his outlet when stressed, so talking to the dog he will. "This is horrible... but uh, don't worry. I can help. I know it looks like I'm dangerous since I might as well be this huge predator cornering you in an alley while you're all vulnerable, but I promise I'm not. So please don't bite me or scratch me or something. I don't know if you have rabies or some kind of disease, and I really don't want to find out the hard way that you do."

The dog blinks at him but still doesn't move, gaze still steady and piercing.

"Well, uh. The nearest animal clinic is thirty minutes from here, but my house is less than ten. You definitely need a vet, but I don't know if I can get you there in time. I could probably clean and stitch that up at home so it's not an immediate concern. Oh, but how would you even get there? I don't really have a car. I could carry you, but you look…a little heavy, no offense. How am I going to get you to my house? Is this even an acceptable reason to call the police or an ambulance for? Crap, what do I do? I suck at this rescuing thing. I'm sorry."

When Grace mentioned his house, the dog suddenly began shifting, and he belatedly realized it was trying to stand up. Grace quickly reaches out his hand to help it, but the dog flinches at the contact and halts its movement. Grace retracts his hand. "Sorry! I was trying to help. Um, I can take some weight off the leg. Make it easier."

He stares into the dog's eyes. They're the most intense blue Grace has ever seen before, and he finds himself nervously looking away. He's avoiding eye contact with a dog…this is so ridiculous even for him.

But instead of kicking him or biting his hand off, the dog leans its injured leg towards him, as if offering it, and Grace felt like crying out in triumph. An injured dog trusts him! He's trustworthy! Or maybe it just didn't find him that threatening and thought it could take Grace down in a fight. Who knows. It definitely could.

Grace accepts the dog's show of trust and begins helping it stand up. Now Grace hasn't met a lot of dogs in his life, but he knows that the way this dog was moving was…odd. Unlike a dog somehow. Its movements were clumsy and stiff. Each action felt carefully calculated and coordinated as if it were trying to get used to an unfamiliar body. It was weird, but Grace chalks it up to the stab wound on its thigh.

He holds its leg up the whole time until it eventually manages to stand up to its full height, and Grace visibly balks at the sight because in his knelt-down position, the dog is literally taller than him.

He's never seen a dog this big anywhere outside of YouTube thumbnails. It was so uncanny, and he gives himself a second to worry about what kind of dangerous animal he was bringing to his house because this thing could absolutely without a doubt take Grace down in a fight, injured or not.

But then the dog slips out of Grace's hold and begins limping away and out of the alleyway, and Grace has to shake off his doubts and scrambles to follow it.

"Woah! Hey bud, slow down." He reaches it as it pauses on the sidewalk. The rain is still pouring as harshly as it has been since morning, and Grace took note of the way the dog was trembling every time the pinpricks of water hit its open wound.

Grace then realized the dog was patiently waiting for him to lead the way to his house. The man quickly steps next to it and spreads the reach of his raincoat so it also covers the dog and its wound, but it's so big that even with his improvised umbrella the rain still hits its rear end. He probably looks ridiculous to an outsider, hiding under a big bright yellow raincoat with a dog that reaches a little past his waist at full height.

Luckily other people are smart enough not to be walking outside in this weather, unlike Grace. So no one was around to give them weird looks.

The dog looks up at Grace as he positions the raincoat above its head and huffs a breath through its nose. "Alright buddy, follow me. We're not too far, so take it easy. We'll go as slow as you need."

Grace begins walking, and the dog obediently follows next to him, leaving a fading trail of blood in the water in its path. The dog would occasionally stumble and bump into Grace's leg. Clumsily lean half its weight onto his hip before righting itself again and continuing on. Grace quietly marvels at this badass dog who's literally walking off a stab wound as they approach his apartment building.

Walking into the lobby, the floors are already muddy-wet from other people rushing in from the rain, so Grace doesn't feel that bad as he holds the door open for the huge wet dog dripping huge puddles of water everywhere it steps. He folds the raincoat and drapes it over his forearm as he calls the elevator—that's floor is equally as wet and muddy as the lobby. Grace feels a little bad for Tim the janitor, who's going to be dealing with all that mess later.

As the elevator opens to his floor and they step out, he notices the dog beginning to lean more and more of its weight onto Grace, causing him to stumble sideways and almost bump loudly into his neighbor's door. Grace tanks the weight of a something-hundred-pound dog as he walks the last few steps to his door.

"This is me. You're doing great; stay with me, ok? We're here." He pulls out his keys from his surprisingly dry backpack and unlocks the door.

In an effort to not track water and blood all over his floor, Grace takes off his muddy shoes and quickly ushers the both of them to the bathroom. He tosses the raincoat to the corner near the laundry basket and hears it land with a splat and then does his best to clean his wet glasses using toilet paper and putting them back on his face. The dog's injured leg finally seemed to give out as it slumps to the floor with a groan. Grace wastes no time opening a cabinet and pulling out his med kit.

A few months ago, he had gotten the motivation to buy groceries and cook an actual meal for himself after watching a Hell's Kitchen episode where a chef quite literally couldn't cut their vegetables in small enough pieces, and their whole meal ended up chunky with random bits of almost half a tomato floating in the soup in full view of the camera.

Grace had thought to himself that even he wouldn't mess up a soup that bad and decided to prove it to himself. Unfortunately, that wasn't the first time his ego had cost him greatly, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. He couldn't afford to go to the hospital to stitch his sliced finger shut since he'd wasted most of his money on buying those groceries, so Grace ended up stitching his own wound closed with a sewing needle, downed a buttload of painkillers so he could manage to sleep, and then ran to the school nurse the next day to make sure he hadn't messed up his finger to the point of amputation.

Luckily he hadn't, and the needle and thread he used that day months ago was still in the medkit, which saved him the trouble of having to walk all the way to his sewing box in the living room and track mud all over the carpet.

With shaky hands, Grace cleaned around the blood around the wound as best as he could and picked up the needle and thread.

He can do this. He can.

If he says it to himself enough times, it will stop his hands from shaking so much. No such luck unfortunately. The fact that he's mediocre at best at stitching anything and also doesn't have any painkillers to give the dog to at least lessen the pain isn't helping his nerves.

"Ok. Ok." He blows a long breath out of his mouth, pulling the thread through the needle hole and adjusting himself on the cold floor, placing a hand on fur that isn't stained red in a futile attempt to soothe the animal and also to ground himself. "You got this. You're ok."

Grace doesn't know if he's trying to reassure himself or the dog. Either way all he gets in response is a low and impatient growl, which is enough to spring him into action. Crossing his metaphorical fingers and praying to every god he doesn't believe in to help both of them get through this in one piece, Grace takes hold of tender, bloody folds and begins the slow, agonizing process of sewing the skin back together.

It took every bone in Grace's body not to rush the process because all the pathetic groans and whines involuntarily tearing themselves out of the dog's throat was torture. Every flinch and whimper and moan of pain felt like a knife being plunged deeper and deeper into his gut. Grace concentrated so hard on the task he hadn't noticed or been able to do anything about the tears that began rolling down his face.

Every time the needle pierced skin, it prompted a louder reaction than the one before it, and Grace began thinking that this would never end. What was probably about ten minutes felt like hours, and he couldn't help but begin soothing and shushing the dog as he reached the other end of the wound and sealed it up in a simple knot.

He cut the remaining thread with a scissor and dropped all the supplies back into the med kit.

"Hey—hey. It's over. It's over, bud. That was good, you did so well. It's over, you're fine. Shh, it's over. We did it." He ran his trembling hand through the thick wet fur coat, petting its head and back and giving soothing scratches to its neck and behind the ears while wiping the tears off his face with his other hand. His whole body was shaking.

Grace continued to do this for several minutes until he felt the dog's tense muscles begin to unwind under his hand. The pained noises halted, and its stiff and taut posture slowly and carefully relaxed from the massage and his low, gentle reassurances. The dog's eyes began to droop, but it blinked rapidly to try and fight it.

Grace was now fully leaning against the wall, lazily running his hands up and down the dog's body. He also felt the entire day weighing him down, shoulders dropping and eyelids growing heavy. He would've been content with simply passing out right there on the floor of his tiny bathroom if his brain wasn't making him acutely aware of the uncomfortable sogginess of his clothes and all the mud and blood on his shoes and the dog's paws.

Grace already knew that getting sick would be inevitable at this point, and normally he would've been fine with simply stewing in his own misery right there on the floor until eventually getting up to deal with it. However, he didn't want to subject this poor injured dog to his unhealthy ways of dealing with situations. So after taking a deep breath, Grace pushes himself up and off the wall to stand upright and begins taking off his soaking-wet clothes.

Everything comes off with a struggle, especially his dress pants, which almost had him tripping and braining himself on the toilet seat, but he luckily caught himself and tossed the sopping lump into the laundry basket.

Now stripped down to his underwear, Grace goes to the tub and turns on the water. As he waits for it to warm up, he turns back to the dog that's still curled in on itself on the corner of the room.

He walks over, crouches next to it, and very gently pokes its side (very far away from the stitched wound) to get its attention.

"Hey buddy, we both really need a shower right now. You okay with standing up again?"

The dog's eyes dart up at him and then just as quickly dart away. Nevertheless, it begins the slow process of shuffling and rising to its full height without aggrivating the stitched wound. Grace goes to check the temperature of the water and hums happily when he feels it warm.

Finally, he strips out of his underwear, throwing it with the rest of his clothes into the basket, and steps into the shower. He lets out a long, content sigh as the hot water washes over him, replacing the cold, freezing rainwater.

After taking a moment to just enjoy the feeling, he steps back from the stream and looks over, making eye contact with the dog who was pointedly looking away from him. So now the dog's avoiding looking at him. Ok.

It was standing awkwardly on the other side of the small room, head pointed down and away, as if it were trying to give him privacy. Which was such an absurd thought it had him chuckling to himself aloud.

If it is trying to give him privacy or something, that'd be too bad. Because Grace's water bill genuinely cannot afford two hot showers at the moment, so either they both shower together or one of them is going to sleep cold and miserable.

"Hey, come here. Let's wash you up." He calls over. The dog ignores him. "The water's nice, I swear. I'll help you in."

Grace probably looked like a lunatic, trying to lure a dog into the shower like this, it certainly didn't help that said dog was very pointedly avoiding even facing his direction like he was some weirdo on the street.

What's its problem? Is it mad about the stitching? Did it think Grace intentionally caused it pain? It's not like he could've given human painkillers! It would've caused it more pain!

Dejected at the thought that he'd already got the dog to hate him this soon, Grace lowers himself down, knees hitting the porcelain floor as he sits back on his heels and crosses his arms over the side of the tub. He rests his chin over his crossed arms and pouts.

"Do you hate me?" he mutters pitifully. "I'm sorry for hurting you. I don't have any doggy pain meds, giving you mine would've made the pain worse. I swear I'll buy some from the vet tomorrow. Don't be mad at me."

The dog finally seemed to show signs of listening to him when it turned its head ever so slightly in his direction as if considering his words. Grace's eyes widen when the dog begins shaking its head dismissively. It doesn't move from its spot or look at him.

Fine. Different approach then.

"If you don't get in the tub now I'm gonna be forced to hose you down from here, and then neither of us will have a good time."

A beat of silence.

Then, after huffing a breath as if frustrated by Grace, the dog turns and limps over towards him.

"There you go. Thank you." Grace smiles warmly and scratches behind its ear as the dog's face approaches and stops right in front of him, his kneeling position making them at eye level with each other.

The dog leans into the touch despite its disgruntled attitude, which has Grace giggling. He pats it finally and pushes himself back up. "Alright, let's get you in here. The water's really nice."

He plants one foot out of the tub and gently takes hold of the dog's midsection, using all the strength he could muster to lift a body mass uncomfortably close to his. At the same time, the dog uses the weight lifted off its back legs to raise and lift its front to the tub.

Now, the dog obviously doesn't know any better and was simply following whatever Grace was leading it to do, so regarding the events that followed, the fault lies entirely on him.

He'd completely underestimated the dog's weight as well as his ability to carry it without stumbling. The tub itself isn't that big and can't comfortably hold the added company, so as the dog pushes itself forward and in, it bumps onto Grace's leg planted inside, and with the water reducing any friction he has with the floor, Grace's foot ends up sliding, sending the both of them stumbling back and into the tub.

Grace falls hard on his butt and even harder on his tailbone, and the dog semi-gracefully catches itself but collapses with a grunt as its stitches are stretched.

"OH— fffiddlesticks!" He cries out. "Owww…"

Grace rubs his lower back as the water continues washing down on him.

"Oh man that hurt." Grace internally moans about the soreness and bruising that would torment him for the rest of the week. Today truly wasn't his day; it was getting a little ridiculous.

After a brief self-pity session Grace brings his attention back to his canine friend and sees it slumped awkwardly inside the small tub. Grace was right under the shower head, his skin already flushed red from the warm stream cascading down on him while the water puddling at their feet was getting stained brown and red from the dog's dirty fur.

"Sorry about that." He sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. "Your stitches didn't tear, did they?"

The dog was once again not looking at him, and Grace huffed as he leaned forward and inspected its thigh. Nope, no visible tears. Thank God.

"Awesome, alright let's get you cleaned up." He gets up and grabs the showerhead off the mount and holds it over the dog's back. The moment the hot water hit it, the dog lets out a heavy, content sigh, and its body goes slack. It continued to huff out happy sighs as Grace ran his fingers through the fur, wringing out all the blood and grime that got mixed in and untangling any knots until each stroke traveled smoothly through its whole back.

Grace couldn't help but smile when he noticed its tail softly wagging, swinging back and forth in slow satisfaction.

"Alright, I need to turn you over now so I can wash your legs and belly. Could you roll over for me?" He asks, gently nudging at its side to indicate what he wants it to do. The dog only hesitates for a beat before adjusting itself and lying down on its side, giving Grace access to its legs and stomach.

Grace notes that the dog is male as he brings the shower head over and rinses out the mud that accumulated on its underside while it was lying in the alleyway. He hums when the tail wagging comes back more enthusiastically as he starts running his hands through the mud, which just looks like he is giving it belly rubs.

The funniest part of this is that the dog was still refusing to look at him. It had its head that's squeezed awkwardly into the wall turned away from him so he couldn't see its face.

Endearing.

"I always wanted a dog, y'know." Grace begins as he rinses out the mud off its paws, making sure to get every crevice by rubbing between each little toe. "Used to beg my parents to get me a puppy, I didn't even care what breed or size, just wanted a friend I could take care of."

He absentmindedly runs his fingers a few times over its front leg to wash out small bits of mud.

"My mom was a little hesitant about the idea, but I could always talk her into anything if I made a detailed enough presentation." He smiles fondly at the memory of all those hours spent making various presentations about his latest fixation and why his mom should totally buy it for him. "I almost had her convinced too, but then my dad just shut the whole thing down. He always had this, I don't know, distaste for animals. Told me he'd throw the mutt out if I tried to bring it into the house. He was a very, very stubborn man, my dad."

Grace shakes his head, as if shaking away those particular memories of the man.

"But anyway," he puts the showerhead down and grabs his old withered sponge that he should probably replace soon. "He's gone—th-they're gone. I'm an adult now, and lucky for you, I happen to like animals very much." Grace grins, grabbing the showerhead again and bringing it over his own head. His shampoo ran out two days ago because he procrastinated on replacing it for too long and suffered for it yesterday when he had to fill the bottle with water to get the last bits of shampoo out. Grace cursed his own lazy self and worked to rinse the rest of the mud and blood off of his arms and feet with only water.

After ensuring there wasn't any grime left on him, he shuts off the water and places the showerhead back on the mount.

Grace steps out of the tub and grabs a towel and briefly dries his hair and body before wrapping the towel around his waist. He looks back at the tub to help the dog out and sees it in the same position it's been lying in since Grace finished washing it. Simply laying motionless on its side, soaking wet.

Grace bends over the tub so he's hovering over it. "Did you die?"

Its eyes, which were previously staring blankly at the tub walls, flick to him, confirming that no, it did not die.

"Great! Are you planning to get out?" He places his hands on his hips. "You wanna go to sleep soaking wet?"

He was mostly just messing with the dog. Grace, being the cute-animal pushover that he is, would probably let it sleep in the tub if it wanted to. But he also knew that position it was lying in couldn't possibly be comfortable, and yet it was lounging there like the small tub was a five-star hotel bed. Grace wonders what uncomfortable positions this poor dog has had to sleep in in the past, and his heart twists into itself all over again.

Nope. This dog is going to sleep on a comfy bed even if Grace has to sleep on the couch to make it happen.

After a beat without any reaction, Grace lowers his arm and pokes the dog on top of its snout. "Get up, we need to dry you, and I've also got a really comfortable mattress. Ohh, you wanna lay on it so bad."

He keeps poking at it until the dog huffs in annoyance and snaps at Grace's hand. Grace jerks back with a yelp before the teeth can connect, but he can't help smirking when the dog grudgingly begins to push itself upright.

This time, he manages to help it out of the tub without tripping over his own feet or landing on his butt. The dog carefully lowers its injured leg onto the tiled floor, its long claws clicking softly against the ceramic. It stands there for a moment, soaked and impossibly heavy beneath its waterlogged coat. And then it proceeds to shake around its hundred pounds of water-filled fur coat and blast both Grace and the entirety of his small bathroom in water like an out-of-control sprinkler.

"Hey—! Oh, come on!" Grace raises his arms over his face to defend himself from the onslaught. The dog finally shakes its butt and tail out and then sneezes loudly, the sound wet and echoing in the now silent, dripping bathroom. It sniffs and looks up at Grace with a blank expression.

Grace lowers his arms and shoots it a half-hearted glare. "Really? Was that necessary?"

The dog just huffs loudly in exasperation, as if Grace is being stupid.

"Oh ok, you jerk." Grace strides to his sink and opens up the cabinet under it. "I was going to be nice and dry you off with a towel, but I don't think you deserve it anymore."

He pulls out an old blow dryer he hasn't touched in years by now. He doesn't even remember where he got it from or if it works; it's just one of those items that have always been there that you never touch.

It would probably take him hours if he tried to use a towel to dry this dog's huge fur coat so it doesn't drip all over his floor, and this day has already exhausted him enough. He just wants to pass out as soon as possible, so old blow dryer it is.

He watches as the dog sees the object and takes a slow step back. Grace laughs and plugs in the cable. He tests the buttons and is mildly surprised when it actually turns on. He blows hot air into his palm for a few moments to test out the temperature and then walks over to the dog that's cornered itself at the edge of the room.

"What? You're scared of a blow dryer? Big scary dog like you?" He playfully blows air on its side and chuckles when it lets out an annoyed grumble at the sensation. However, it proceeds to melt into the feeling as Grace continues to dry its back, the underside of its head, its tail, and its legs one by one.

What a funny dog. So aloof and indifferent but so clearly needy for comfort and warmth. Grace feels a surge of affection wash over him.

Jeez, it's only been less than three hours since he'd met it, and Grace was already getting seriously attached. That couldn't be normal. And as sad as it is, Grace chalks it up to the fact that he's lonely and having a horrible day and this dog is his only companion at the moment and also happens to be having a more horrible day than him. They're the less extreme version of trauma-bonded. Good for them.

Grace dries off the back a final time, running his hands through its spine and the fur in its chest and legs until he's sure everything is at the very least damp and not dripping all over the floor. He pats it on the head to indicate they're done and brings the blow dryer up to his own hair.

He usually towels it off, but again, he's tired and feels on the brink of collapsing, so he runs his own fingers through his hair a few times while holding the blowdryer to his scalp until his hair is also damp. He then walks back to shut off the dryer and stuff it back into the drawer.

Grace secures the towel around his waist tighter since it was beginning to slip off and then dusts off his hands. "Alright, we survived the hard part. I'm really proud of us, we make such a good team." Grace says to the dog that was standing miserably next to the door, its fur now mostly dry and sticking up in various crazy directions. It looked so silly Grace couldn't help but laugh, a soft, hearty chuckle.

His hair probably didn't look any better, but he couldn't really tell since the hot shower fogged up the mirror, but his blurry reflection didn't leave much to the imagination; he definitely looked as—if not more—goofy.

With a lazy smile, Grace goes to open the door to the bathroom and steps out, gesturing his arm out like a doorman inviting in a guest. "Rough and painful introduction aside, welcome to my home. You'll be staying the night here. Come on."

Grace calls it over with barely mustered enthusiasm as he walks out and into the thin hallway, the dog following behind with a slow trot, back leg limping.

He navigates through his tiny apartment in nothing but a towel around his waist and enters the kitchen. Grace would love to throw himself in bed naked and bid farewell to consciousness, but he's also aware that he is responsible for another life at the moment and can't just ignore the fact that the dog is probably starving after going through all that.

He stands in front of his fridge and crosses both fingers, silently praying that he has anything edible in there, and opens it.

The fridge is embarrassingly barren, save for leftover vegetables from his cooking stunt weeks ago, a half-finished carton of milk, and a full carton of orange juice. He doesn't even have eggs or bread. Grace miserably thinks that if this were a cartoon, a tumbleweed would've just rolled by the moment he opened the fridge door.

With a sigh, Grace scans the whole fridge, searching for anything he could feed the dog. And just as he feels said dog approaching him—since it was a few steps behind due to the limp, its claws making audible clicking sounds on the floor as it walks—Grace spots a takeout container he was saving from yesterday tucked in a thin upper cabinet on the fridge. It had a dish of steak inside of it that he bought when he and Marissa had their weekly meet-up. He wasn't hungry since another classroom across the hall was having a dish party and some students went over and brought him donuts and pizza, which he didn't feel like refusing.

He bought a steak anyway after school, took two bites, and dropped his fork in a grimace. Marissa had raised an eyebrow but luckily didn't comment, so he ended up taking the steak to-go when they left and shoving it into the fridge the other night, telling himself he'd take it as lunch the next morning, but he must've forgotten. His day started off awful, and food was the last thing on his mind.

For once, his unhealthy habits finally seem to work in his favor, so after a silent celebration, Grace grabs the plastic container and shuts the fridge with a bump of his hip. He glances down at the dog that was standing next to a cabinet, it was looking around the small room before its eyes finally landed on Grace and then the object in his hand. Its nose sniffed the air and the meat in his hand.

"Hope you like steak for dinner, cause that's all I've got." He pulls out a paper plate (he gets too tired to clean dishes, sue him) and with a fork plops the steak onto the plate before popping that into the microwave for a minute and a half.

With that, he leans into the counter to wait for the beep.

Grace's eyes trail to the dog again. Its sheer size standing there making the kitchen look smaller than it is.

In that moment of stillness, with the only noise filling the silence being the sounds of the microwave and the soft pitter-patter of rain outside his window, Grace wonders what in the world he is even planning to do with this dog.

He knows he will definitely take it to the vet tomorrow to make sure the wound isn't infected and get it some actual animal pain meds, but then what?

He debates keeping it. He's always wanted a dog after all, he said so himself. But the idea of owning a dog and actually owning one are two completely different things. A pet comes with a lot of responsibilities. He'd have to get it a medical examination and shots and would need to walk it every day multiple times so it can use the bathroom, and then he'd have to clean up after it. He'd have to buy it actual dog food instead of whatever junk he feeds himself daily.

And dogs are social animals, they get lonely and depressed when they don't have other dogs to play with or younger owners that could keep up with them. Grace spends most of the time at school, so the dog would be alone, just doing nothing for half the day. Plus, his apartment is pretty small. A big dog like that would need more space to move around in, or else it might go crazy from claustrophobia. Grace remembers seeing influencers being berated and cancelled online for having big pets in their tiny homes.

The last thing he wanted was to unintentionally be one of those ignorant abusive owners. The thought itself makes him shudder.

His life is pretty boring and lonely, so it feels cruel subjecting the dog to that when there are others out there that are way more suited to provide it with better living conditions.

The only reason he can think of for keeping the dog is pretty selfish. He's lonely, plain and simple.

The only real friend he really has is Marissa, and as much as he knows she loves him and considers him a close friend, she's got a boyfriend and family members that are higher priority than him. He isn't her 'person' and neither is she his.

He doesn't have a person.

Those are usually a family member or a lover or a best friend you hang out with all the time, and Grace has none of those things.

He doesn't have any immediate family he's close to, he's never really considered romance and probably already missed his chance to pursue it since hitting forty, and he's way too busy to constantly hang out and maintain a best friendship with somebody. He gets tired of people too easily and enjoys his alone time too much to stay that committed, which he's found most people are offended by and take as some personal attack against them, if his last relationship taught him anything.

His weekly thing with Marissa is in its own special category because they've known each other for so long. He doesn't really think he'd be able to do that with anyone else, which is ok. He's fine with that.

Doesn't make the silence at home or the boredom after completing all his responsibilities and realizing he doesn't really have much of a life outside his classroom any easier to deal with.

Keeping the dog would be selfish.

But maybe he could try. He could do research on how to care for it properly and sign it up to some doggy daycare so it can socialize with other dogs while he's at work. His salary won't allow for anything crazy or luxurious, but since he's lived alone for years, he always has some extra saved-up money he doesn't know what to do with at the end of the month, so he can use that for the dog's needs.

His apartment building fortunately allows for pets. Grace knows this because he's had to deal with his upstairs neighbors' loud pomeranian for years now, along with one tenant that moved next door for a couple of months who had a parrot that sang the Spider-Man theme song every morning at 6:30 am on the dot. Grace had thought the owner just had a very loud alarm with a special ringtone until he actually saw the parrot that had somehow gotten out and was flying circles in the lobby, spitting out various nonsense its owner probably taught it as said owner chased it around with a towel, trying to capture it. It was certainly a fun commotion to get home to.

But before Grace could think about it any further, the microwave started beeping, so he shook his head and went to grab the plate from inside.

Turning back, he locks eyes with the dog, which hasn't moved an inch from where it was standing. Grace shudders when he realizes the dog's been staring at him the whole time while he was zoned out. Yikes.

"Here you go." He places the plate of steak in front of it. "It's a little hot so watch your tongue."

Grace straightens up and watches as the dog stares at the food in front of it for a moment. It tentatively lowers its head and sniffs the meat curiously but makes no moves to actually eat it.

"Oh crap, you're probably thirsty too, hold on- " Grace scrambles to his cabinet and grabs the first bowl he sees. He puts it under the sink and fills it up with lukewarm water. Then, as he turns around to place the bowl down, he notices that the plate is now empty.

"I- Wow, that was fast. You must've been really hungry." He chuckles as the dog chews ravenously on the meat and licks its mouth. The thing just scarfed down a whole thing of steak in the ten seconds Grace had his back turned. If he's really planning to keep it, he's going to have his work cut out for him.

With an audible swallow, the dog turns to the bowl next and freezes. Grace raises an eyebrow as he picks up the paper plate and dumps it in the bin. The dog hesitates even more as it opens its mouth and then closes it, making several aborted motions to lean into the bowl before pulling back and trying at a different angle, like it couldn't figure out how it wanted to drink it.

Grace watches it in amusement as it gently bites the side of the bowl and tips it over and begins sipping the water like a person would. Except it isn't a person and doesn't have the mouth shape to sip like one, so a bunch of it ends up spilling onto the floor.

Grace shakes his head in disbelief but can't help the amused smirk pulling at his face. "What in the world are you doing?"

The dog jerks back as if realizing that Grace was still there, watching it. With the bowl now half empty and water on the floor, it looks at Grace like a deer in headlights.

"Why are you looking at me like that? It's just water. I really hope you're not having some kind of stroke right now because I don't know how to deal with those, let alone if an animal were having one."

The dog makes a noise between a huff and a grumble, but Grace gets the message that it detested his tone. But as much as Grace would love to be nice and polite to this poor injured pup, he is running on actual fumes and needs to reach his bed ASAP because that kitchen chair he is standing next to is beginning to look really comfortable. Which has never been a good sign because he's fallen for its siren call before and ended up with the worse back pain he's ever experienced in his life the next morning.

The dog glares at the bowl like it owes it money, and Grace just couldn't find it in himself to get frustrated at such a funny sight.

With a tense posture and a constipated expression, the dog lowers its head again and starts clumsily slobbering up the water with its long tongue.

The noises it made were frankly disgusting. Loud slurping and gulping fill the room, and Grace makes a mental note to put a sticker on that bowl because he's never eating anything out of it again and needs to make sure he doesn't mix it up lest he just get rid of all three of his identical bowls and buy a new set.

The dog was inhaling that water like a man dying of thirst in a desert, and it had Grace realizing he was also feeling a little dehydrated.

He grabs a cup and fills it under the tap, then downs the whole thing in one gulp.

Placing the cup on the counter, he turns and picks up the bowl on the floor that was licked clean. The dog lets out a satisfied rumble, and Grace just shakes his head and places the bowl on the counter as well.

Grace pats it gently on the head and doesn't miss the way it tensed as he made contact. "Alright, let's go to bed before my legs give out on me."

He says and makes his way to his room. Another benefit of keeping the dog in the tiny apartment is that it means less distance for it to walk with its injured leg.

Grace enters his room and holds the door open as the dog trots in. He beelines it to his closet and grabs a pair of underwear and a science pun shirt (a gag gift Marissa got him for his birthday back when she was simply his roommate's girlfriend and they didn't know each other that well. It's become a tradition for her to include a shirt with some stupid pun on it along with whatever gift she gets him that year. His collection continues to grow.)

As he slides out of the towel and into his plain white undies, the dog maneuvers around his legs and stands in front of his closet.

It isn't much of a closet—just a tiny IKEA wardrobe he picked up on clearance. Three square cabinets are stacked vertically along the right side, while a single horizontal compartment spans the top. Beneath it is an open section where he hangs his work clothes.

The dog plants itself in front of the lowest cabinet, the one stuffed with socks and underwear. Grace watches curiously as he tugs on his shirt.

He doesn't say anything as the dog just stands staring into his closet with intense focus. Grace wonders if it's smelling something in there.

No way he'd accidentally tossed dirty underwear in there... right? Honestly, with how today had been going, he wouldn't put it past himself.

Then, as if determined to outdo every bizarre thing it'd done so far, the dog steps forward and tries to climb inside. Grace watches in stunned silence as pairs of socks and underwear are shoved aside in the dog's earnest attempt to squeeze its massive body into a cabinet designed for folded laundry.

Undeterred, the dog twists itself into an impressive U-shape, hindquarters sticking out while its spine bends sideways in a valiant effort to wedge itself farther in.

It still doesn't fit.

With an irritated grumble, it backs out and immediately turns toward the wardrobe door beside it—the one leading to the hanging clothes. Grace has to quickly do something before the dog can nose the door open and attempt to crawl beneath his work shirts.

"Uh, hey bud. What're you doing?"

It grumbles back at him.

"Ok. Well, there's nothing that interesting in the closet. And the bed is over here." He points at his queen-sized bed. "So get your big butt up here cause you're for sure not fitting in there."

Grace plops down on the bed and pats the mattress a few times. "C'mon boy, c'mere."

He doesn't really know what's come over him. He never thought he was the kind of person who'd let a pet sleep on his bed. It had always weirded him out a little whenever he saw videos of people cuddling their dogs or cats under the covers. They walked around barefoot all over the house, rolled around on the floor, and licked their own butts. Why would anyone want that in their bed?

He'd always assumed it was because they loved cuddling their pets enough that the dirtiness was a price they were willing to pay.

As it turns out, he was absolutely right.

He really, really wants to cuddle this dog. It's big, warm, and ridiculously soft. As pathetic as it sounds, he'd missed the feeling of holding something alive that wasn't his pillow.

Besides, he'd just spent the better part of an hour washing it himself. If there was ever a time the dog was clean enough for his bed, it was now.

The dog, however, doesn't seem to agree. It lingers by the closet, reluctant to take another step.

It's strange. Why is it so determined to sleep in the closet? Is that some universal dog quirk Grace has somehow never heard of, or is this one just especially weird? He really hopes it isn't because it's used to sleeping in closets. The thought alone makes his chest ache.

Eventually, the dog seems to give in to Grace's persistent coaxing and pads over to the bed. It hovers its head over his lap, and Grace can't resist scratching behind its ears before helping it climb up.

The mattress doesn't so much as creak beneath the extra weight. Grace had gone out of his way to buy a bed frame that stayed completely silent. He was a restless sleeper, and the constant squeaking and groaning of cheaper frames had driven him insane.

As he settles back on his pillow, Grace watches the dog stand awkwardly on the mattress, watching him back. They stare at each other for a beat, and Grace tilts his head curiously.

"Lay down." He says softly, patting the spot next to him. He's squeezed himself into the wall to give the dog as much space as he can, which is a lot more than it actually needs. But again, he's a restless sleeper and doesn't want to injure it further by accidentally kicking or pushing it off.

The dog hesitates again before lowering itself down on the mattress. Grace smiles warmly and rests his hand on its back. He watches in real time as the dog slowly untenses and sinks into the soft mattress. It lets out a long, drawn-out, tired sigh, and Grace laughs.

"Same bud, same." He pats it gently on the back, which then turns into him running his hand lazily over its fur.

Grace feels the whole day weighing down on him, making his eyelids heavier and mind foggy.

With half-lidded eyes, he watches the dog as it stares at the wall.

He wants to know what it's thinking about.

Wants to know its story.

What happened to it to end up stabbed in an alleyway.

He wants to know if it has a name.

"Maybe I should give you a name." He says absentmindedly into the darkness.

He knows that's a bad idea. Giving it a name would be a surefire way to get unhealthily attached, which is the last thing he needs if he's planning to even consider giving it away.

But Grace is also half asleep and comfortable in bed, so he really can't be trusted to do any rational thinking at the moment.

"Always liked the name Ace," he says mildly. "Rhymes with Grace, so we'll be matching. Hah."

It's pretty lame, but he'd come up with that name as a kid when he was making the presentation for his mom and thought if the dog's name sounded kind of like their family name, it would convince her more. It was a stupid line of thinking, but he was also only eleven, so.

He looks down and pokes the dog on the side. "What do you think? Do you like it?"

No response.

"Ace?"

He pokes it again.

This time the dog huffs, feigning annoyance. But Grace catches a glimpse of its tail wagging at the end of the bed and can't help but smile widely.

"Ace, it is." He says with tired mirth.

He feels content, despite the fact that he might as well have sealed his own fate. He'll never be able to give the dog away now without crying about it for days.

He feels happy nonetheless.

His hand drifts idly through Ace's fur, fingers combing slow paths through the thick, still-damp coat. Ace lets out a long, contented sigh, the sound vibrating faintly beneath Grace's palm. He smiles to himself, eyes already too heavy to keep open.

Tomorrow would undoubtedly bring another dozen problems for him to panic over.

Tonight, though... tonight there was a warm dog in his bed, the steady rhythm of another living thing breathing beside him, and for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, Grace didn't feel quite so alone.

The thought follows him only halfway into sleep before exhaustion finally wins, pulling him gently into unconsciousness with his hand still buried in Ace's fur.