Chapter Text
Dan opened his eyes expecting the same grey ceiling as everyday - braced himself for the all-consuming void of loneliness to be staring back at him from the dark. Dan the recently divorced, secretly gay, very miserable architect always expected the worst. However, instead of all his failures, he saw Phoebe. She beamed down at him, paws on his chest, mismatched eyes eager for the day to begin and things seemed just a little less bleak than they did a second ago. Dan glanced at the clock beside him. It read 11:34, and although he knew he needed to walk Phoebe he couldn't seem to convince his legs to move out of his bed. He couldn’t do it, and guilt began to crush him. Thoughts started whirling, consuming him, drowning out everything else. Why couldn’t he just be okay? Why couldn’t he get his lazy ass out of this fucking bed to look after the only good thing he has? He’s already ruined every other aspect of his life, surely he could try a bit for Phoebe? He was brought back to earth, however, when Phoebe whined, as if reading his mind. Guilt still gnawing at his thoughts, Dan dragged himself out of his bed feeling the weight of what seemed like everything ever, and opened the garden door - he could do this, even if he couldn’t find a way to walk her properly.
Dan had struggled with depression for a long time; longer than he cares to admit, actually. He managed it before. He subdued the pain with work, drinking, a fake, picture perfect life. He’d convinced himself he was fine for so, so long. After the divorce, though, he was completely alone and nothing could protect him from his thoughts. Now it was physically as well as just in his head. He was lonely before, sure, but now he was also alone. No one was there so Dan had no one to perform for. No more pretending he was happy, or simply not miserable. It got really bad during the divorce. It felt like a constant reminder that Dan was wrong. He couldn’t love his wife, his home, himself and that was poisonous. It left wounds and scars he didn't know how long it would take to heal. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t leave his house - often not even his bed - and certainly couldn’t keep up with court and papers and legal jargon. For the most part he just pretended he was half focused, not entirely caring what happened and what his now ex-wife took, but on one particularly bad day, at the end of whatever meeting they were having, Dan broke down. Years of repression and guilt and shame and utter pain surfaced and he couldn’t force them back down, and he just let it happen. He could give himself this much. When court was adjourned that day, when he was alone, he cracked. He’d finally processed three years of a hopeless, loveless, performed marriage; just about admitting to himself that he was, in fact, gay; having no one to turn to or even talk to; and he crumbled. Every wall he’d built so meticulously collapsed as he sat in that fucking chair, surrounded by too tall windows and a haunting smell of professionalism and overpriced perfumes. Alone. Utterly alone.
After this little incident, he stopped trying. He got the house and he had nothing else he cared much about, so he just shut down, let his ex-wife take what she wanted. Eventually, his lawyer noticed this creeping hopelessness, and suggested he go see a therapist, which he did. It was helping, somewhat. It couldn’t take away his suffocating loneliness but it helped with the guilt, he could at least admit he was gay. Eventually, when they were talking about loneliness, his therapist suggested he get a dog, even if it was just to have something alive in the apartment, a reason to do anything. And so he did.
Dan found Phoebe at the shelter, four years old, abandoned for being ‘too much’ (which he could relate to quite a bit) as well as half-blind. She was the sweetest border collie and corgi mix - so full of life, joyful. She was small, smaller than an average border collie, but her legs were longer than most corgis, and her coat was mostly black and white but there were small patches of brown. He loves her so much, he really does, even on days when he can’t do anything. For the first few weeks, they settled into a routine - three walks a day, food at 9AM and 7PM - but Dan seemed to be getting worse, and his motivation plummeted further, so walking Phoebe seemed like the equivalent of moving the earth.
Today Dan would find a solution to the walking problem. Just because he was miserable didn’t mean Phoebe should be, so last thing he did before going to sleep was to start looking for dog walkers. He found a small organisation in his area which was highly rated, so sent them an email. They responded early the next day, saying someone would be at Dan’s the day after at 10:30 for a long morning walk, meaning he’d only have to walk her in the evening, which was a massive relief. It let the guilt subside slightly.
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For the first time in what felt like centuries, Dan set an alarm. To his surprise, he also didn’t sleep through it. He got up at 10:00, Phoebe staring in her usual way above Dan, eyes wide. He put some trousers on, and went to make coffee and tidy up a little. His house was nice (which makes sense for an architect) - it was modern and sleek and once upon a time covered in photos and plants. Today, however, it was a little bit less nice because, when he walked through the corridor, he saw a pile of shit in the living room. As in a literal pile of shit. Not just the mess from months of depression. The dog walker would arrive in 25 minutes and now Dan had to deal with this. His already minimal motivation was not sparked by the bleak sight before him, but he managed to clean it up anyway. For Phoebe.
He cleaned it up as best he could, still scrubbing at the rug (because where else would a dog shit but a rug?) when the doorbell rang. Dan stopped dead in his tracks, holding a dirty cloth, not wearing a shirt, the room a mess, and annoyed. He went to open the door, Phoebe on his heels. When he opened the door, his heart fell to his stomach and he could feel the warm sensation of blush creeping up his neck and ears. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest and ears as he took in the man in front of him - dressed in the single most colourful jacket Dan thought he had ever seen. Then the panic set in - Dan, in only pyjama bottoms, was standing surrounded by mess, probably looking exactly like he did when he woke up, because he had no time to make sure he looked presentable.
“Oh! It’s you!” The man across from him said, far too cheerily. “Hello again!”
“You’re blonde.” Was what escaped Dan’s lips before he could control anything that was happening. Dan was met with silence. Not devastating, not awkward, simply amused and strangely comfortable.