At exactly 6:30 Scott drags himself out of bed and begins scrounging for a pair of sneakers. He checks under the bed first, because that's where he usually keeps them, and then tries the closet. When he still doesn't find them he swears and stumbles out into the small hallway between his and Stiles' room, managing to trip over something in the process: his sneakers. He picks them up by the laces and carts them back into the bedroom, dressing quickly before tugging them on.

At approximately 6:45 he sits down at the table for breakfast.

Stiles forgot to go shopping again, so all he gets is a piece of toast with butter. Stiles, almost as if sensing he's being thought about, chooses that moment to stumble out of his bedroom and into a kitchen chair. Scott relates the breakfast situation to him while downing a glass of slightly outdated milk and grabbing his keys, "I'll be back in an hour."

"I'll be at Derek's."

Scott doesn't bother to ask if "Derek's" means Derek's house, or Derek's company, because it could go either way with Stiles. Stiles both dates and works for Derek, a situation that gets confusing at times. Meetings could be sexual or actual meetings. Scott's learned to just let it be, because it's not like Stiles won't tell him whatever sexual deviancy or number crunching he gets up to anyway. In painstaking detail.

"Remember to pick up some groceries!" He calls over his shoulder as he slams the door, jogging down the long flight of stairs to the second floor, then down the equally as long flight of stairs to the first. The elevator in their building's been broken forever, longer than they've lived in it. Their landlord keeps on promising to get it fixed, but has never actually done anything about it. At this point, nobody bothers to complain anymore. Some people joke that it's the only exercise they really get in their day, aside from walking the busy city blocks of New York. It's impossible not to get a little exercise in New York, even with a perfectly functional elevator in your building.

At 7:05 the city is already in full swing. It really never stops swinging, generally only fading to a dull roar in the later hours of the night. Now, the sidewalks are full of people on their way to work. Businessmen and women, regular people possibly going to teach, even a few people in scrubs. Scott joins them just like every morning, checking his watch nervously at the thought that he might be late. Some of the older women he works for will dock his pay if he's even the tiniest bit late.

A taxi honks its horn at another, equally as horn happy taxi, which in turn blares its horn for the eighth time at a crosswalk with people crossing on it. No one pays the slightest attention, since the green light is illuminated, and since taxis generally blare their horns all the time regardless of what's happening. As soon as the last person touches the sidewalk the line of traffic begins to move, speeding down the crowded street and off to wherever. Scott dodges a couple of tourists taking a picture of a seemingly innocuous building and eases into a jog, weaving his way through the crowds of people. He remembers when he was still struck by all of the buildings. And all of the people. And the noise, the atmosphere, the rush. It's been three years and he still kind of is, when it's late at night and there's no shortage of things to do.

At 7:13, a mere two minutes before he's supposed to be there, he rings the bell of his first client. Her name is Miss Winters, a rich woman who never got married, just invested her money in good places and garnered a large sum of money from her dad when he died. She opens the door in a bathrobe and passes Scott her small, black poodle Charlie. Charlie yaps at Scott and Scott scratches him behind the ears, nodding to Miss Winters before heading off down the sidewalk. Charlie has to run to keep up, but being cooped up in a house all day and night has him eager to stretch his legs. He yips and barks at everything and everyone as Scott hurries him down the sidewalk.

The next stop is a young couple, the Smiths, who own a large Rottweiler named Daisy.

Daisy is the one dragging Scott down the sidewalk.

Charlie is sprinting to keep up.

A bulldog named Reeves, a Dalmatian named Dolly, and a Labrador mix named Choco are the next three dogs on the list. Scott is soon fighting to keep all of the dogs in line, yanking at leashes and shouting commands desperately. Luckily, he's only got one more dog to go, and its another poodle named Sampson.

He collects Sampson with a harried greeting to his owner, May, before taking off down the sidewalk again. People are all but leaping out of his way now, although not even this can really disrupt their routine.

At 8:30 Scott reaches Central Park.

The dogs go wild at the sight of all the grass and other dogs, knowing exactly where they're going: the designated dog park near the back. Scott's almost as eager as they are at the blessed thought of a few minutes to rest his arms. Daisy yanks on the leash and Scott yells a half-hearted, "Daisy, no!" before just allowing her to have her way. If she wants to run, they'll run. It's not like he has any control over her anyway.

But running is a bad idea.

It's harder to watch where he's going and he's getting a lot of dirty looks.

"Sorry!" He calls helplessly to a man with a kid.

"Sorry, so sorry!" He gasps at a woman on a bicycle.

"Whatch where you're going, dick!"

"I have, like, eight dogs!" Scott yells back, momentarily losing his patience, and, because he's not looking, doesn't notice the two little kids standing in the middle of his path. Therefore, he doesn't think about stopping the dogs until they're almost on top of the children, at which point it's too late. Almost like a tidal wave, the dogs engulf the squealing children, covering them in licks and dog breath. Scott tugs uselessly on their leashes, screaming "heel" and "stop that right now" to no avail.

"Look how cute!" One of the children, the little girl he thinks, squeals delightedly and the other one, he thinks it might have been a little boy, slurs something that could be agreement. They're awfully young to be standing by themselves, surrounded by dogs in Central Park, so Scott looks around to maybe find their parents. However, none of the people old enough to have two young children are looking at them with any sort of recognition. It could be, Scott thinks, because they're completely covered in dogs.

"Where are your parents?" He asks the general vicinity where the general might be, and then, "Daisy, get down!" When the Rottweiler gets a little jumpy. She stops prancing, barely, and whines.

"They aren't here." The little girl responds with a giggle as Sampson yaps at her, "They're at work."

"Then who's here with you?" Scott panics, imaging kidnappings and murders and all sorts of horrible things. What kind of parents leave their children alone all day?

"Our nanny."

"Your nanny?"

"Yes, we lost him." The little girl explains patiently, "He went to buy us ice cream."

"Did you wander off?" Scott guesses, "Is that what happened?"

"We're not a'pposed to." The little boy says conspiratorially.

"But did you?" Scott presses, "Did you wander off?"

"We're not a'pposed to." The little boy repeats, "You have a lotta dogs."

"They're not all mine." Scott explains, searching for the elusive nanny, "Your nanny's a boy?"

"Yes, he's nice." The little girl states.

"What does he look like?"

"He's got fingers." The little boy holds up his own hand, inspecting his own fingers, "And toes."

"How tall is he?" Scott tries a more specific question, but gets only giggles and repetitions of "he's nice" in return. Sighing, he considers finding a policeman or something. He really needs to get the dogs somewhere where they can run around without bothering anyone. But he doesn't see any policemen anywhere.

"Do you know where you left him?" Scott prays that his tactic will work and, miraculously, the little girl points behind them.

"Over there."

"Could you show me?" Scott asks and she nods, motioning for him to follow. Almost mechanically, she takes her younger brother's hand, and the two set off together.

"I'm Jane," She tells Scott as they walk, "And this is Michael."

"I'm five." Michael says importantly, swinging his sister's hand.

"I'm seven." Jane gives her own age as well, then peers up at Scott expectantly.

"I'm Scott." Scott introduces himself, "And I'm twenty-three."

"You're old." Michael looks awed, "Like Isaac."

"Isaac?"

"Our nanny." Jane supplies, "See?" She points to an ice cream stand with a short line behind it, "He's right over there." Scott peers at the line, but there are too many people who could be the elusive nanny, "Do you see him?"

"Which one is he?"

"That one." She gestures to a blonde haired guy with two ice cream cones who's currently looking at an empty bench, "He's looking for us."

"We better show him you're okay." Scott says, "I don't want him to worry."

"Alright." Jane shrugs and heads towards the bench, "Come on, Mr. Scott!"

Scott obediently follows, noting that Isaac seems to get more and more attractive the closer he gets. In fact, by the time they're standing in a close enough range for Isaac to thank him for bringing back Jane and Michael, Scott realizes Isaac is drop dead gorgeous. And also very, very British. It's almost as if he's dreaming.

Six dogs, two kids, and a hot British dude.

Only in New York.

"No problem." He casually shrugs off Isaac's thanks, "Sorry about the dog saliva."

"Nothing a bath won't fix, right?" Isaac smiles at the kids who look at him adoringly, licking their ice cream cones, "Are these all yours?" He asks skeptically, eyeing the pile of dogs who are taking turns tasting the kids' ice cream cones. Scott laughs and shakes his head, adamantly disowning the pile of animals.

"I would love to have a dog, but no, these aren't mine." He explains, "This is my job."

"Oh, how does it pay?"

"Well." Scott says lamely, "Like, thirty bucks per dog."

"Is that a lot?"

"Yeah, I mean, I go for richer people."

"I see."

"Yeah, but I actually need to get going." Scott winces at how awkward he sounds, "You know, dogs don't walk themselves. Well, they do, but not in an orderly manner. It would be total chaos if dogs walked themselves. They wouldn't even walk," He fights to control his babbling, ending half-heartedly, "They would...run."

"Same with kids." Isaac says cheerfully, "It was nice meeting you..."

"Scott."

"Isaac."

Isaac holds out a hand, then laughs when he realizes Scott has too many leashes, "See you around." He says and takes the free hand of each child, immediately launching into a lecture about how they shouldn't wander off. Scott watches the trio walk away, away from the dog park and essentially away from Scott, until one of the dogs yanks his arm nearly out of socket.

At 9:30 he heads back to his apartment with sore arms and one name on repeat in his mind.