Oh, Arthur, don't be silly!
The gray light of dawn greeted him as he blinked awake, and his mother's tinkling laugh faded back into his memory. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut again even as he put his feet on the floor.
The hotel room where he'd been staying was bland and unoriginal, and yet probably more hospitable than his apartment in New York. It certainly had more hung on the walls.
Not that he didn't miss it. He kept it minimalistic on purpose. A simple life for a simple guy, he told himself. Or just less to collect dust in an apartment where he only came to sleep, poorly, before heading back to the office.
It was definitely easier than this shit, though, he thought, straightening his tie in the mirror. When his mother died, Cobb had told him to take a week off. When he told him that wasn't necessary and he'd be back on Monday, Cobb insisted he take two.
So here he was, end of week one, funeral planned and attended, casseroles portioned into containers which barely fit in the hotel fridge and probably wouldn't be eaten, and a testy text from his sister asking him to meet her at the house at 8 sharp, as if he'd ever been late for anything in his life.
True to form, she rolled up at five after, large sunglasses hiding her face and Starbucks for one in her hand.
"Hey, Spaz," she said, but she sounded tired and drawn.
"Hey, Puke," he replied, but her smile wobbled a bit and she looked at the house with a sigh.
"You ready for this?" she asked.
"I was born ready."
"And 6 weeks early," she said, brandishing the keys which a week ago had been his mother's.
"I got tired of waiting," he answered, their standard back and forth. The routine was comforting and a bit odd at the same time without her there to roll her eyes at them.
"If there's anything you want, claim it now," she announced, leaning into the old door to get it open. "The vultures will descend eventually."
Arthur looked around the house where he grew up and spent every major holiday and summer vacation, and felt lost. "I'd like dad's drawing table I think," he replied, not knowing what he'd do with it or how he'd get it back to New York.
"Kay," she said, and dropped the keys into the flower-shaped bowl by the door.
It struck Arthur that the flower bowl would be one of the things neither he nor anyone else would claim, and it would be donated somewhere, and soon it would be by someone else's front door, holding someone else's keys. Or it would be trash.
I should be crying, Arthur thought. I should have cried by now. But he just felt numb. Was that one of the stages? Numbness? How many stages of grief were there, anyway? 12? No, that was alcohol.
Arthur took off his jacket and hung it over the back of the kitchen chair, wishing he were drunk. Then he rolled his sleeves and got a garbage bag. This, and there was no other word for it, sucked.
His sister hugged him at the airport. He knew she'd gotten the shit end of the bargain, living closer, and she knew it too. He thanked her, and she nodded, tear-stained and puffy. God, why hadn't he cried yet? Maybe he was broken.
Oh, Arthur, don't be silly!
Arthur lugged his carryon and turned to wave one last time.
The funeral had been nice, the estate auction hurried and depressing. But they'd figured out what to do with everything except the house.
"It'll keep," he'd let her tell him. "It's paid for. Besides, one of us might want it for all the kids we're going to have someday."
He'd snorted and let her make the decision. He'd let her make most of the decisions, actually.
His apartment smelled stale when he got back, so he threw open one of the windows he paid so much to look out of but rarely did. Then, because he didn't know what else to do, he unpacked and went to bed.
He woke again at 5 am to the memory of his mother's laugh, their last phone conversation haunting him. He'd always called her once or twice a month, just to let her check in on him, and she'd always dropped whatever she was doing to talk.
When she'd told him she was sick, he'd offered to come home. She'd laughed.
"Oh, Arthur, don't be silly! You couldn't take care of a goldfish. You don't need to worry about me. I'll be fine."
And he'd believed her. He'd let her make the decision, and he'd gone back to work. Which is where he was two weeks later when his sister, Alex, had called to tell him she'd passed away.
Arthur rubbed the grit from his eyes and stood to make coffee. He didn't particularly want any, but it was a routine, and he could use a little normalcy right now. He sipped it black and stared unseeing at the news article he'd pulled up on his phone because he had to get his head into work mode somehow. Everything felt off for some reason, but he had to get back to work. It was his comfort zone, his space where he could be successful, and it didn't take a therapist to figure out why he worked 60-hour weeks. It also didn't take a therapist to figure out why his houseplants always died. He'd stopped keeping them a long time ago.
There was a buzz for the door.
Arthur frowned and pressed the intercom. "Yes?"
"Got a delivery here for you. Looks like some kinda table?"
"Oh, right," Arthur said. "Bring it up."
He opened the door for two sweaty guys carrying his father's drafting table, and he tipped them even though they didn't ask where he wanted it before plopping it in the middle of his living room floor.
Arthur sighed and went to get ready for work.
In his office at his own drafting table, he couldn't shake the fog which had enveloped him. The disappointing weight of his empty coffee mug every time he picked it up was a let down every time.
He had just picked it up for the fourth time in an hour when Dom walked in, a file in his hand.
"Hey, Arthur, welcome back, have a good few days off?"
"Um…"
"Hey, listen. I need you to pull up the Stanover plans. The wife wants bigger cabinets in the kitchen so we're going to have to redraw them."
Arthur raised an eyebrow at the "we're" and dragged the plans over. "Okay, so fewer, but wider?"
"No, she wants the same number, but wider." He handed Arthur the specs sheet.
Arthur just looked at Dom. "How are we going to do that, Dom? The room is only so big."
Dom gave a soft laugh, the kind clients loved. "I know, man. Homeowners, am I right?" He tapped the file on Arthur's desk. "But it's not like the house is built yet, so…"
He clicked his tongue and left, and Arthur could hear him whistling down the hall.
Fuck. An entire redraw for a few more inches of cabinet space. He was going to need coffee for this. He picked up his mug, and when the empty, coffee-stained bottom looked back at him, he calmly and viciously chucked it against the wall.
The resounding shatter didn't do anything to make him feel better and the tiny scream from someone in the exterior office made him realize he needed to get out of there. He grabbed his jacket.
"Everything okay? Arthur?" someone asked.
"Yeah," he replied, not slowing down, "just dropped a mug. Going to grab some air, you need anything?" He left without listening for a reply.
Outside, the heat baked the concrete around him and the air was too still. Sweat prickled his skin before he'd walked a block, and by the second block, he was done. He headed into the next commercial building with air conditioning.
His sigh of relief ended in a sigh of resignation. A pet store. Of course it was a pet store.
Oh, Arthur, don't be silly! You couldn't take care of a goldfish.
With a frown of determination, he headed to the wall of aquariums he could see from the front door.
"Hello!" said a perky assistant. Her name tag said "Ariadne". "How can I help you?"
"Um," Arthur hesitated. "I'm just looking?"
She raised a dubious eyebrow. "Okayyyy, well, in the meantime, do you have any questions I can answer? My shift isn't over for five more hours and you're the first customer I've had all day. Come on, help me out. Mister…?"
At her pleading face, Arthur smiled despite himself. "Arthur is fine. And you're Arrriiie...?"
"Ariadne," she said, holding out her hand. "But Ari is fine."
He shook it and looked around. "Well, okay, uh. How much are your goldfish?"
Her eyes lit up and she led him toward the wall. "Fancy or feeder?"
"Um, I don't know?"
"Well, what's it for?"
And how did he say, It's to prove to my dead mother and possibly myself that I can take care of myself and possibly even other things? How could he tell this young woman that?
"It's… it's for me."
"They're both good for pets," she said. "Do you have any other fish?"
Arthur shook his head. "I've never had a pet," he admitted.
Her mouth hung open dramatically. "Not even when you were a kid?" She led him over to a large tank in the middle of the floor, swarming with small fish, flashing brightly.
Arthur peered through the glass. "My sister was allergic and by the time I was old enough to realize there were pets I might still be able to get..." my dad had died and everything fell apart. "I was into other stuff."
She nodded. "Goldfish can live a long time if you take care of them. Ten years or so, if you've got a big enough tank, or move them to a pond."
Arthur hesitated and straightened. "And how do you actually… take care of them?"
So she talked. And talked. Water changes and tank sizes and proper feeding, filters, and bubblers and Arthur's head started to swim. He wished he'd had his notebook.
He looked back at the tank, indecision washing over him. "There are so many different colors. I thought they were just… gold."
Ari chuckled, but not unkindly. "Feeder fish are still an offshoot of koi fish. But if they're overwhelming…"
She turned and led him back to the wall, smaller tanks atop one another, so many different kinds of fish calmly existing.
"Here. There are a couple of fancy breeds, but..." she pointed to a tank. "I've always been partial to fantails, myself."
A handful of goldfish bobbed back and forth, a little bigger than the fish in the swarm tank and looking much more comfortable with the extra room to swim. One turned to look at him. Its fins floated elegantly, and it seemed healthy enough? Except there was nothing else in the tank with them. Didn't fish need plants? Or decorations? He refused to think of his own apartment and asked Ari.
"Yes, absolutely, fish love having places to hide and explore. Here," she said, leading him to the aisles, and before Arthur knew it, he had a cart with an aquarium full of supplies, and a plastic bag holding one (1) fantail goldfish.
"And you're sure he won't be lonely."
Ari looked like she'd hug him if it wasn't unprofessional. "He'll be fine. But check with me before you decide to get another fish. Okay?"
Arthur nodded, but one was enough for him. He just had to make sure he could handle one at all. He got an Uber home and called Dom to let him know he was taking the rest of the day off. Dom hadn't been aware he'd left but agreed as long as the Stanover plans were finished on time. Arthur didn't even hang up on him.
The stand he'd purchased for the tank fit neatly once he'd moved the table he never used and put his dad's table in the corner. He spent the rest of the day setting it up, the perfect display and ratio of plants to rocks, with a small castle in the middle. By the time he'd installed everything, treated the water, and floated the bag like he was supposed to, it was full dark outside.
"Okay, Frank, here we go," Arthur said into the stillness of his apartment. "I've got everything set up for you, so just… don't die on me."
He released Frank from his plastic confines and held his breath as he swam, bewildered, over the expanse of his new home. Arthur fed him, sitting on the floor with his Moleskin to record Frank's reactions to the food, and watched him poke his nose into the maze of nooks and crannies Arthur had carefully created.
It was… peaceful. Before he knew it, he'd forgotten his notebook on the floor, and Arthur felt the tension slough off his shoulders as he listened to the quiet whir of the filter. He watched Frank swim and just… breathed. After a while, he lay on the floor, watching Frank swim, the light from the aquarium washing over him.
One week. That's how long he was able to prove to his dead mother he could handle taking care of himself and possibly even other things.
"Alright, Frank," Arthur said, bending to grab his shoes on his way out the door. He'd taken to talking to him as he moved around the apartment, knowing exactly how dumb he sounded. "You're the man of the house while I'm…"
He broke off as he caught sight of the flash of orange drifting listlessly toward the top of the tank.
"Oh no no no no," Arthur chanted under his breath, "please, please…"
Arthur shook food into the tank hopefully, but the flakes drifted, uneaten, toward the gravel at the bottom. He tapped on the side of the tank, which startled the fish into swimming toward the back and Arthur caught sight of a gash on Frank's side.
"Fuck," Arthur breathed. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay, okay, it's okay, Frank. I can fix this. Shit. Um." He shoved his feet into his shoes and scrambled to his kitchen cabinets.
"Something, something, something…"
He reached for and discarded various bowls and plastic leftover containers, trying to find one trustworthy of transporting his fish. Then he spent fifteen frustrating minutes trying to scoop Frank into a mason jar and was only vaguely aware he was slopping water all over his work slacks and his shoes were still untied.
Once he had Frank secured, he sent a hurried text to Dom and went to hail a cab. Outside, the driver didn't know where the nearest vet's office was and was not all that interested in finding out. He looked on blandly as Arthur searched one-handed on his phone.
"Here," he said, holding his phone up to the glass. "Go here."
The driver seemed to move at half speed as he slow-blinked and turned to put the car in drive. Arthur tried to calm the beating of his heart because this was stupid, and he knew that. But as he lifted the jar to his face and watched Frank's mouth open and close, he couldn't help but whisper, "Hang in there, buddy."
The vet's office was small-minuscule, really, and smelled slightly of dog food, but Arthur barely noticed. He rushed to the counter.
"Hi, I need to see a…" he broke off as he realized no one was sitting at the desk. Well, not no one.
A golden retriever sat on the chair and smiled at Arthur with his tongue hanging out.
"Um…" Arthur looked around for some kind of bell.
The dog gave one short bark and a flurry of activity sounded around a corner. "Buzz!" came a woman's voice, "What is this barking? We are at work! You know better than—"
She hurried to the desk, a stack of folders in her arms and a fierce frown on her face, but blinked when she saw Arthur. "Oh, hello." She had a French accent and a warm smile. "My apologies, I did not hear the door." She pushed the dog out of the chair with her hip and muttered something in French, which Arthur caught the word "lucky" and nothing else.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes, I need to see the vet," Arthur said, licking his lips.
She raised a cool, perfectly arched brow and propped her chin on her fingertips. "You need to see the vet?"
Arthur frowned his confusion before he realized what she was asking. "Oh, no, not me. I mean, for my fish. My fish needs to see the vet."
She looked truly sorry for a second before she said, "I apologize, we do not work on tropical fish here. There is another office—"
"No, this isn't a tropical fish," Arthur interrupted. He carefully set Frank's jar on the counter and unwrapped his hands from where they'd been clenched around it.
"My dear," the woman said carefully, "this is a goldfish."
"Yeah."
There was a long pause as she alternated looking between him and the jar.
"Listen, my dear—"
"Arthur."
"Arthur," she said, "listen. Goldfish, they are inexpensive, yes? But the doctor… he is not always so inexpensive. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"
Arthur flapped his hand, trying not to scowl. "It's fine, that's not important right now."
"Yes, but—"
"I said it's not important right now!" Arthur said.
Her face closed off, cool and disdainful in response to his raised voice, and Arthur immediately felt guilty in a way most people couldn't provoke.
"I mean," he said tightly, "he could be dying. And I can't let that happen, okay? Not if there's something I can do to stop it. I know that probably sounds idiotic, but..."
"Arthur…"
"Please. Okay? Please."
She pursed her lips and reached for a clipboard. "Fine. You will fill these out." She thrust them at Arthur. "Buzz," she said to the dog, "go get Eames."
A whump and a clatter of nails on tile, and Arthur watched a tail wag its way out of the small lobby.
Arthur took his clipboard and pen taped to a plastic flower and retreated to a chair under the front window. He juggled Frank's jar, worried shoving it between his thighs would make Frank too warm, and anything else risked knocking it over and breaking it. Eventually, he settled on placing it gently on the neighboring chair and struggled to explain on the form that he didn't know the age of his fish or when his last vaccination was.
"Alright, where's my next victim?" came a cheery British voice from the back. The clatter of nails preceded the entrance of Buzz and a scruffy man in scrubs and a lab coat wearing hideous neon sneakers.
"Oh, hello there," he said, smiling a charmingly crooked smile. "Buzz, good boy," he muttered under his breath, and held his hand out to Arthur. "Dr. Eames, at your service, but you can just call me Eames. And you've already met Mal," he gestured to the woman behind the counter, who nodded, "and my assistant, Buzz. What can I—"
Arthur ignored the way a dog had been introduced as an assistant and thrust Frank's jar at the very handsome vet. A vet who may or may not have just woken up based on the state of his hair and beard. "You need to save my fish."
To Arthur's embarrassment, his voice sounded strained and scared and about 12 years old, and he could feel the tips of his ears heating.
Eames just took the jar calmly. "Oh, aren't you a beauty?" he said, holding Frank up to the light. "Yep, I see what you mean." He looked at Arthur. "Why don't you come back this way and we'll take a look."
Arthur nodded too fast and handed his clipboard to a dubious Mal at the front desk.
"Eames…" she started.
"Shh tssh tssh," Eames said, waving her off, and held a door open for Arthur and Buzz.
Arthur followed the dog, who seemed to know where he was going, into what was clearly an exam room. It smelled of disinfectant back here rather than dog food, and Arthur stood awkwardly in the liminal space.
"Alright," Eames said, entering shortly behind him, "have a seat and we'll see what we've got. Arthur, isn't it?"
"Yes," Arthur said tightly, sitting in a chair against the wall. Buzz settled himself immediately against Arthur's shins, leaning against him and getting dog hair all over his suit pants.
"And who do we have here?"
"Frank."
Eames settled the jar carefully on the exam table in the middle of the room and unscrewed the lid. He didn't rush, and his movements were economical and practiced. Arthur felt a little better just watching his hands pull on exam gloves and gather equipment, humming to himself.
"Now," he said, setting everything in front of him, "Arthur. Tell me what's going on."
"Well, I just saw him this morning, kind of listless, and then I saw that big gash on his side, and so your office was the closest one to my apartment."
"Hmm," Eames hummed. "Arthur." He said it like a warning, his efficient movements never stopping.
"...What?"
"You brought Frank to the vet because he wasn't well. You've done all any responsible goldfish owner could do. So. Pet the dog," Eames said, "And tell me what's really going on."
Buzz carefully placed his chin on Arthur's knee, a soft sigh escaping, and Arthur felt the last every moment since that phone call catch up to him. His shoulders dropped under the weight of the last few weeks, and he placed his hand on the soft fur of Buzz's head. To his humiliation, as he stroked his ears, Arthur felt the ridiculous urge to cry.
After all this time, after so many restless nights of waking up to memories and fading voices, he was going to start sobbing in front of the hottest guy he'd seen in a year.
Eames didn't push him or even watch him except to glance over occasionally. He was busy adding water from Frank's jar to multiple test tubes via a needleless syringe. Frank had settled near the bottom of his jar, fins flicking occasionally, and Arthur's throat clicked as he tried to blink through the way the room was wavering.
"My," he said, clearing his throat, "my uh, mom died."
Eames froze, but his face didn't hold that hint of terror that he'd said the wrong thing. Just a sad understanding. "Oh, Arthur, I'm so sorry."
Arthur just licked his lips, biting them to keep everything inside and nodded. He would need to get better at saying that and then coming up with an answer.
Eames studied him carefully for a few seconds, considering, and then went back to his test tubes. "Was Frank hers?" he asked carefully.
"No," Arthur shook his head. "But I should be able to take care of a goldfish. Or at least help if it gets sick. Or at least know…" His hands fluttered before he settled them on Buzz again.
Eames added various elements the test tubes, swirling them and placing them in a rack. Then he snapped off his gloves and took the chair next to Arthur.
"Well," he started, "I have good news and I have bad news."
Arthur steeled himself. "What's the bad news?"
"The good news," Eames said, eyes crinkling, "is that your fish is going to be fine."
The air whooshed out of Arthur's lungs. "He is?"
"Mm hmm." His eyes were gray and steady, and he was smiling. "Fish are fairly resilient, given that you're keeping their water clean. And your water, Arthur, is perfect."
Arthur swallowed around the lump in his throat.
"The laceration on his side has got a nice, healthy slime buildup on it, so he's going to heal right up, all on his own. Now, do you have any other fish?"
Arthur shook his head, not trusting his voice.
"Hmm, well in that case," Eames said, nodding toward Frank, "he probably got that gash from not minding where he put his fins when he was exploring his new home. Have you got any sharp rocks or decorations in his tank?"
"Um," Arthur said, "a, a castle? Was that wrong?"
"No, no, not at all. And I'm guessing he's learned his lesson. But just in case, I think Frank is more of a plant guy than a picket fence guy."
Arthur felt himself nodding and realized he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. "You said there was bad news?"
"Ah, yes," Eames said. "The bad news is that I am probably not going to get to see you again, which is just terrible because I would very much like to. Also, it is really rather a bad moment to give you my number."
Arthur blinked. "I… excuse me?"
Eames just smiled and shrugged one shoulder, and Arthur couldn't tell if he had any sense of shame at all. "I'd like to see you again. Would you like to go to dinner?"
"Are you really hitting on me? After I told you my mom died and you've just taken care of my fish?"
"I am, darling." Nope, no sense of shame at all. But a really great smile. "What do you say?"
"I… Isn't this like, an ethical dilemma?"
Eames chuckled and Buzz lifted his head, tongue lolling. "I'm not asking to take your fish to dinner, Arthur, just you. So I don't think I'm crossing any boundaries. But I'm glad you asked, darling. I do have the highest level of professional integrity, after all. I want to be completely professional regarding your fish."
Arthur felt like he'd been strung out all over this exam room, just one long, unwound ball of Arthur needing to be knitted back together. He felt a semi-hysterical laugh bubble up out of his throat. Buzz looked up at Arthur now, smiling back and forth between them.
"I can't believe this is happening," he muttered to himself. "I don't know anything about you," Arthur pointed out. "And you don't know anything about me. How can you possibly know if you want to take me to dinner?"
"Arthur," and the way he said his name made it sound like a fond admonition. "We know loads about each other already!"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, annoyed that he could be so charmed by someone so completely not his type.
"For example," Eames said, sitting back. "You know that I am a charming and debonair animal-lover who looks exactly like his profile picture, with a steady income and a very high level of professional integrity."
Arthur snorted, but Buzz had leaned back in for a scratch, and what could Arthur do but comply?
"And I feel as if I know you already, Arthur Last-Name-Not-Given," Eames grinned. "Gorgeous, no ring so more than likely unmarried, obviously brilliant and financially stable if those trousers are anything to go by…"
He smiled softly at Arthur, no longer teasing. "And you care about your family and your pets. And maybe you're just a bloke who could use a night out and someone to talk to. That's okay too. But, let me tell you, darling, I am brilliant at nights out as well as just talking."
Arthur had been given so many hugs since his mother had died. Embrace after embrace, extended family and people he'd never met, and he hadn't felt a single one. But for some reason, he believed Eames. After all those hugs, his words were what had finally gotten through. He felt warm and seen.
"Besides," Eames said, "if the dog likes you, that's good enough for me."
Arthur looked down at the pliant pile of dog hair leaning up against him with his eyes closed, groaning into the scratches Arthur was providing. "You sure? Buzz seems like the kind of dog who likes anyone."
Eames frowned mightily. "Oh no," he shook his head. "Very discerning taste, that one. And me, as well! Only the best for my animals."
Arthur huffed a laugh. "I'm sure."
"So… is that a yes?"
Arthur looked at him, gray eyes hopeful and his face making Arthur feel like maybe he could be hopeful again someday too. He stood, disrupting Buzz and making his way over to the exam table. "I tell you what," he said, cautiously. "I'll go to dinner with you on one condition."
Eames lifted an eyebrow and stood also. "What's that, then?"
"Frank has to live." Arthur picked up the jar and checked on the fish floating near the bottom. "One week, and if he's still alive, I'll go to dinner with you."
Eames raised his eyebrows and made an interested noise.
"What do you say, Dr. Eames? Confident in your diagnosis?"
Eames crossed his arms and a flash of tattoo poked out from under the collar of his scrubs. He grinned. "Darling, one thing I have never lacked is confidence."
Arthur rolled his eyes despite his smile. "I have no doubt that's true."