Chapter Text
Of all the shit that had happened to you in the past few years, going through a messy divorce and being ostracized from your own friend group was somehow not the worst of it all. The divorce was at least an escape from the nightmare that had been your marriage, and the fallout with your friends had quickly taught you who your friends were (or rather, weren't.) These were the things you'd been telling yourself over the past few weeks when you'd been suffering through the humiliation ritual that was living with your mother (read: living in their spare bedroom that wasn't yours anymore. She reminded you of this constantly, along with reminding you of just how little she wanted you around.)
Maybe that delusional self-help talk was how you'd managed to talk yourself into not one but two jobs in the heart of the city, and worse, an apartment in said city. You would be isolated from the life you'd always known (not that it was a particularly great one) and your support system (uh...) and starting over in a busy, loud world that you hadn't lived in since you were a child. You had loved this city, once upon a time, when your parents still loved one another and you meant more to them than how much you could earn for them on their income taxes.
Now?
Well, you were going to have to figure that out as you went along. You didn't have a lot to your name, so moving in didn't take a lot of time (especially since you'd hired movers) and neither did the meager amount of unpacking you'd done (enough for you to sleep, have clean clothes in the morning, and make a few meals...and for your cat to function.)
As you collapsed onto your bed, you turned your head to look at the only living being on this earth to truly be loyal to you through this whole thing. A huge, fat (you frequently told the vet he was well-loved) black and white cat with long fur and beautiful green eyes was sprawled across your pillows as if he paid taxes.
"You're so high right now, aren't you, Mice?" (Mice: Short for "Mice Tea." AKA: Mice. M, Tea, Tea-Tea, Emtee, Messy, and "Get the fuck away from my pizza, you little shit-") You reached to stroke the cat, who nuzzled into your hand and purred. You had sedated your companion for the drive per the recommendation of the vet. He was usually a pretty chill cat (as long as you fed him on schedule, anyway), but you worried about him tolerating the long drive. To be fair, you'd also worried that he'd miss his father after the divorce, but Mice Tea hadn't seemed to even notice the loss. You had always been the cat's main caretaker. You took him to all his vet appointments, always administered his medication when he was sick, and always gave him treats when he was good (and sometimes even when he wasn't.) Your ex...tolerated the cat.
He tolerated the cat in the same way he tolerated you, though, upon further examination, you think he probably showed more warmth towards the cat. The cat couldn't piss him off simply by virtue of your existence. The whole experience would have left you with a worse sense of self-hatred, but the therapist at the clinic you'd been seeing while living with your mother (that you totally ghosted, oops) had been relentless. Bitch. (You should write her a thank-you card.)
You'd survived the bitterness of the divorce, despite your ex-husband's best efforts and even had your own little place (with a doorman, of all things! Fancy, in your eyes). You'd gotten through. Sure, you had to work two jobs to make it work, but you had gotten through, regardless. Did you have any friends to celebrate this news with? No. You had been faced with the fact that you'd been isolated for years now. It was all by design.
"Wish I was too high to care," you grumbled, looking over at your cat. He stared at you, still blissfully unaware of taxes, then slowly blinked and purred so loudly it sounded performative. Yeah, he was not helpful. You rolled your eyes, absently petting the cat again before getting up off the bed. If you sat there, you'd stay there all night. You had to get ready for tomorrow. The idea of tomorrow being the first day of the rest of your life was horrifying. You were going to call it the first day of the rest of your...preparing for the first day of the rest of your life. You'd get there eventually. Right now, it was about survival.
Survival included food. Food tonight involved delivery. You thought it was going to be simple. Until you got a call from your driver. You squinted at the phone, irritated that this process was requiring more human contact than usual. To be fair, it was your first time getting food delivered in your new place; maybe you had entered the address incorrectly. You sighed.
"Hello?"
You heard that annoying pre-amble from the computer telling you they were connecting you to your food delivery driver. No shit.
"Hi, so, I have your Chinese delivery, but there's this pissy British dude at the door and he won't let me in."
You paused, staring at your phone with a frown. What the fuck was he talking about? The doorman you'd met earlier in the day was an older man with a New Jersey accent. Sweet man. You made the driver clarify the address, then heaved a sigh and told him you'd meet him in the lobby.
This was bullshit. You found a cardigan to hurl on (or was it a jacket? Whatever it was, it covered the fact that you were indeed, braless for the night.) You grumbled to yourself the entire way down to the first floor, bitching about how if you wanted to talk to people, you wouldn't pay delivery fees. When you got to the lobby, you expected to see Noah, the elderly doorman.
This was not Noah. This man was a tall sonofabitch. You weren't sure just how tall, but definitely taller than you. When he turned to acknowledge you, you were knocked out of your bitter ramblings by the sight of a beautiful man with dark brown eyes, an immaculately styled beard, and perfect hair. Absolutely not. This perfectly groomed bastard was what stood between you and your fried rice? Immediately, your attention was brought to the fact that you were in a pair of pajama pants and a mismatched jacket of some variety, arms crossed, hair in whatever way sitting, and dissociating into your phone had made it.
"What's your problem?" You frowned. "Listen, buddy, I don't know who you think you are, but can you fuck off so I can get my food?"
"My name..." His hands were folded perfectly in front of him, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him. His voice was honeyed, but there was something about it that felt artificial. His smile was neutral. "Is Dorian. You must be the new tenant. Pleased to meet you." His gaze only sharpened when it shifted to look over at your delivery driver, still holding your food. "I am the doorman."
You rolled your eyes, "No, you're not. Noah is the doorman. I met him earlier." You nudged past the British bastard, "Sorry, I'll take this. So sorry about him, hun, you have a good night." You shot the delivery guy a small smile and made a mental note to add extra to his tip. You rolled your eyes, moving past the British fuck-Dorian to go back towards your apartment. You didn't have time for this.
Some things, despite the constant horrors of life, remained constant. You sat down, pulled up a long video about the history of paraphilias, ate your food (while Mice Tea tried to steal bites of some of your food...), and you fell asleep to one of those "fireplace in a library" videos while your cat took up most of the bed.
Morning came, unmoved by your protests for more moments of the night. You fed Mice, you dug out your work uniform for your day job (you wore business casual even though you were so low on the totem pole you were sure the dirt had more benefits), and wrangled your hair and makeup. It was all routine, but it all felt odd now that you were doing it in a new home. Your body hadn't adjusted to the smaller space. Your mind had accounted for new corners, new doorways, or new noises the place made. You couldn't navigate the hall, half asleep, to pee in the middle of the night. This place wasn't home yet.
When was the last time you had a home? You'd had a place to live, sure, but when was the last time that place felt like home?
You thought of being newlyweds when you were sure your husband loved you. You thought of picking out paint colors and a spare bedroom that was meant to have several different uses over time. You thought about when you were little, when you listened to your parents laughing together from the kitchen while you did homework.
Now, it was going to sound like Mice Tea screaming at the top of his lungs for his wet food while you changed into the uniform for your second job, and the soft sounds of the city accompanied through your open window. You shut it, grumbling about the chill before you turned to leave. Job number two. By the time you got back to your building, it was dark, and you felt like you were going to drop dead of exhaustion.
There he was again. That tall, British bastard. You rolled your eyes and dropped your gaze as you went to pass him.
"Good evening, Miss-"
You flinched as he went to use your name. You hadn't gotten around to legally changing your last name back from your ex-husband's (money, it was money you didn't really have). You shook your head. "Don't---just call me my name."
Dorian looked at you like you'd just asked him to call you a slur. At least, that was what you read from his expression. True to his English nature, he seemed to be as emotionally constipated as any other man, but fancier about it. You frowned at him.
"Noah does it!" You protested before he could tell you no.
"Noah has grown paternal over you." Dorian said simply, "Which is astounding, considering how limited your interactions have been."
He was looking at you, his deep brown eye fixed on you in a way that made you feel like he'd peeled back your attitude and was reading the script that had brought this behavior on. You weren't sure you liked it. You wrapped your arms around yourself.
"More like grand-paternal. He's old enough to be my grandfather." You quipped.
Dorian raised a single brow at you.
"What would you like me to call you, if not by your name?"
You bit your lip, rocking your weight between your heels, "Just not that." Even if he did use your maiden name, you found that you weren't a fan of that, either. None of it was comfortable. Dorian was staring at you. You weren't sure what to do with him.
"My apologies, Miss." For his credit, he really did seem apologetic. You found yourself feeling sorry for your previous behavior. Maybe you'd been too harsh on him.
"No, no, I'm sorry, I've been... a lot." A pause. "So, uh, you work night shift?"
The smallest hint of a smile. Dorian nodded. "Yes, Miss."
That was the simplest answer, after all of the grief you'd given him. There weren't a lot of other good reasons he would know your name.
"Cool, can you not bully my food delivery drivers? I'd super appreciate it." You frowned, "Noah said that it wouldn't be an issue."
Dorian's jaw tightened ever so slightly. What was this dude's problem?!
"Of course, Miss. My apologies. It won't happen again."
And once more, you were left feeling like you'd been a dick. You hung your head. Your bed was calling to you, a siren's song that told you maybe a fresh start would make things better. Anything was better than trying to reason with this man. Arguing with Dorian was probably going to be like yelling at a closed door: cathartic but useless.
"I--whatever," You didn't have time for this. You didn't have time for anything, really. You made your way to the elevator. When you glanced back, Dorian was back in position, hands folded, staring out at the street. You frowned as the elevator doors shut. Did he really take this whole thing that seriously?
All thoughts of him were gone when you made your way back to your apartment. You cuddled up with your cat, used the remaining balance on the gift card you'd been hanging on to since last Christmas to order food delivery, and hung out with Mice (well, you hung out, Mice paced the apartment and kept trying to steal bobby pins from your side table). This time, the food was actually left at your door, so that was nice. Guess Dorian meant what he said about being less of a pain in the ass (in much, much fewer words. The man really didn't talk a lot, did he?)
Another night of passing out in front of your TV. You went through the routine of waking up, feeding the cat, (maybe) feeding yourself, shower, work, change, work again, eat (with less delivery this time), and sleep for the next few days. It all felt like a haze of useless time that passed by you. All you were doing was surviving from day to day, scraping what few moments of free time you could manage between your jobs to hang out with your cat and try to fish dopamine from the hobbies you had the energy to engage in (not many.) You hadn't considered that you hadn't interacted with another human being outside of work in five days. It never occurred to you. When Saturday morning hit and you weren't scrambling to run to work, you were instead met with the weird, existential anxiety about wasting time.
You spent your morning trying to arrange your furniture. You see, your movers hadn't exactly been the greatest. You'd paid for what you could afford, and what you could afford was for them to just drop everything off and leave. You were currently trying to pull your couch into an acceptable position, but you couldn't get the damn thing to budge. Fantastic. You were strong enough, but not strong enough to move that heavy, hand-me-down thing. You wouldn't be surprised if somebody died on that damn couch.
While you did so, the monstrosity had the nerve to bite you. Okay, it didn't bite you: you got a sliver. A decently sized one. You hissed, swore at yourself until you ran out of words, then dug through the first aid kit you had (it was missing most of the things you should really have, but tweezers, Band-Aids, and antiseptic were good enough). Rearranging the furniture was going to have to wait. You glared at the bandaging on your thumb, then moved on to the rest of your chores.
Being an adult was a nuisance that involved change of address forms, cleaning, and using a chunk of your first checks from your two jobs to buy curtains for your new place and fresh linens for your bed (only owning one set of sheets was a pain, you'd learned). At some point during your constant in and out, you ran into one of your neighbors in the elevator. She was beautiful, a tan woman with long, bubblegum pink hair and a bright smile. She wore a jacket best described as vibrant and heart-shaped, and peered at you through a pair of...well, they were certainly glasses.
"Hi!" Her voice was just as bubbly as she looked. "You're the girl who moved into 14A!" She smiled brightly at you, and unlike every girl who had bullied you in middle school, you didn't get the feeling she was being shady.
"Oh, yeah, hi," you realized you should probably offer your name, and you did.
"I'm Skylar! I'm up on 16."
You glanced up on instinct.
All you saw was the ceiling.
Seriously, chronic idiot.
"Penthouse, huh?" You mused. That was money.
Skylar shrugged, "I like being able to see everything. Plus, my agent insisted on it. Something about safety. But I told him the security here is good enough, a few extra rides on the elevator isn't going to change that, other than breed awkward conversation-" She frowned. The expression didn't suit her. Not in a misogynist's, "Women should only smile and perform for other people," kind of way, but in the way that told you Skylar just...didn't frown that often.
"Anyways! How are you liking it here?"
You shrugged, realizing very quickly that you had lost a lot of your socialization skills over the past few months. "Good. It's quiet enough. The night guy is a bit of a stiff, eh?"
Skylar raised a brow, her ponytail slipping away from where it had been lying over her shoulder when she tilted her head.
"Dorian? Oh, he's a sweetie. You just have to get him to open up."
"Doubt it," you shook your head. "Anyways-" The door dinged. Not your floor.
"Have you met the other tenants yet?" Skylar interjected.
"No? I, uh, I am busy. Work, you know." You felt like you'd wounded Skylar personally, by the way she looked at you.
"They're sweet. You really should. You might make a friend or two. You never know." She smiled encouragingly at you as the door dinged behind you.
You smiled back, but you knew your smile didn't look nearly as genuine. "Sure. Nice meeting you." You slipped away before your neighbor could protest any further.
Maybe you wouldn't leave your apartment tomorrow. You could hole up with your cat and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. Anything that avoided dealing with anyone else who lived here. You returned to your apartment and decided you were going to start unpacking, anyway. That would kill a few hours. In fact, it killed several. Murdered them in cold blood. You took the time to unpack and even fold the clothes you'd just tossed in laundry bags instead of packing neatly when moving here.
That was, of course, until you saw it. It was a band tee. The band tee wasn't yours, nor was it even current. The damn thing was from several years ago, for a band you didn't even like. It wasn't your shirt. It belonged to your ex-husband. It belonged to an era when the two of you were in love. It was from when he smiled at you like he actually wanted you there and gave you his clothes to wear when you spent the night at his studio apartment, so you didn't have to be around your mother. The more you stared at the ratty thing, the more you understood why you'd fallen in love with him. At some point, he'd loved you, you thought. He wasn't a monster, a storybook villain with an evil plot. He'd been just like you: young, scared, and desperate to get out of a bad situation.
What if you were the one who had done him wrong?
Sometimes, these thoughts kept you up at night. You'd replay your marriage, from the tearful ceremony to the bitter end. You'd pick apart every argument and dissect every time he snapped at you instead of talking to you. You'd stay up until the sun rose and try to figure out how you could have done better. If you did better, could you have loved him better? Did you love him at all?
That was how you ended up sobbing your eyes out, listening to a playlist that you were sure Notify had arranged specifically to torture you. Maybe you deserved it. What you didn't deserve, however, was the fact that you didn't have any tissues or ibuprofen on hand. You cleaned yourself up with some toilet paper, but decided you'd have to go out and handle the other issues. You couldn't afford to keep getting everything delivered. With all the strength and composure you could muster, you wiped your face down and made the trek downstairs.
When you got the main floor, you were met with...
Fuck's sake.
It was him again, standing perfectly still. He greeted you with that smile of his, the one that halted and softened into an appropriate amount of concern.
Behind him, outside, the rain was pouring. You glared at the storm like it had been sent specifically to fuck you over as you mentally went over the inventory of things you had in your apartment. An umbrella was not one of them. You thought it was something you could buy later, like a bath mat or a pizza cutter. It wasn't an immediate need. But now? Now it was a problem. Your problem. You wondered if you could just toss your jacket over your head as an acceptable substitute, but then the walking Fish and Chips in a suit opened his mouth.
"Awful weather. Do you have an umbrella, at least?"
You frowned at him, "Doesn't matter. I've gotta get some stuff." You went to move past him, but Dorian shifted just a portion of an inch into your way. Infuriating.
He did smell good, but it was infuriating.
"You're sure?"
You sighed, "Listen, I need to get some aspirin, and I won't melt in the rain. Just because I act like a witch sometimes doesn't mean I am one."
Dorian's laugh was soft and almost sounded genuine, "I would hardly call you a witch. But you're going to catch a cold if you go out like that."
"What are you, my mother? Back off, old man."
Dorian didn't even have the decency to look offended. He just tipped his head a little and smiled vaguely at you. What a weirdo.
"Are you alright?"
Nope, that was quite enough socialization, thank you. You decided that whatever headache came for you tonight was just fate punishing you for your behavior. You took a sharp breath as you entered the elevator, tears pricking at your eyes again. It was going to be a long, long night. You had already torn off whatever acceptable clothes you'd thrown on (mainly a bra and a jacket) and curled up on your couch when you heard a gentle knock at your door.
You hesitated. You hadn't ordered anything.
You slowly got up, peering through the peephole. You saw a flash of brown out of the corner of your eye, but otherwise, nothing. You waited for a few moments for the sound of distant footsteps to fade away, then slowly, cautiously opened your door. On the ground, in a little Dixie cup, were four acetaminophen and beside it, a note in cursive
Only two per 8 hours.
-D
Astounding.
You swallowed your ego (and the medicine) and decided to just go with it. If he did poison you, there would be evidence.
He did indeed not poison you. You made it just fine through the night. Your ego was a bit worse for wear, but there was little you could do about that. When you woke up, Mice Tea was lying on your chest, purring and staring at you expectantly. Emotionally, you felt hungover. You always felt this way after a bad night, but last night was worse because you had lashed out at someone else. Usually, these nights were isolated incidents.
You didn't see Dorian that night. You didn't see him the next night, either, in fact.
It wasn't until about three days later, when you were coming home from your second job, that you saw him again. It was another rainy night (this time you'd gotten an umbrella) and Dorian quickly opened the door for you.
"Thanks," you murmured. You hesitated after you stepped in and closed your umbrella, pausing to look up at him. You frowned, absently rubbing at the back of your neck. "And, um, thanks for the other night. I appreciate it." A pause. You couldn't look him in the eye, afraid you'd get fixated on how pretty he was instead of the task at hand. He could be pretty all he wanted and still a pain in your ass.
"I, uh, I know we didn't get off on the right foot, and I'm sorry. Things have been kinda...crazy, and none of that is your business, but just know you've been wonderful. Well, except for threatening my food delivery driver. That one was kinda fucked up." You squinted at Dorian, who gave you a hard, unamused look at the mention of the delivery driver.
"He wouldn't confirm his identity."
"Dude delivers Chinese food, what, you want his social security number?" You frowned. What a hardass.
Dorian shook his head, finally showing some level of human emotion.
"My job is to keep the people in this building safe. That, despite your protests, also includes you, Miss."
You couldn't help but laugh, "You can't stand not calling me by my name."
Dorian looked downright constipated in that moment. You were a little too amused by it.
"And you, love, are avoiding the subject at hand. My job is to keep you safe. I apologize if that inconveniences you, but I assure you, it is in your best interest."
You bit your lip, glancing down at your feet. Maybe you'd pushed him a little too hard.
"Right. Sorry."
Dorian's tone softened, something you didn't think he was capable of.
"What can I do to make this process easier on you?"
You hesitated, absently fussing with your sleeve. You weren't sure anything was going to help with this adjustment. Nothing would ease the sting of your life falling apart. Not even the gentle smile or the warmth in those deep brown eyes would make it better. You weren't sure if you could trust him. Hell, you weren't sure if you could trust yourself. You were left with this growing sense of self-hatred, burying itself in your gut.
"Just accept my apology and don't be weird about it?" You offered with a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.
Dorian nodded. You couldn't read him that well, but you decided that was as good as you were going to get.
"Apology accepted." He sounded...happier than before? You weren't sure, but something had changed.
"Thank you," you rocked your weight between your feet. "I, uh, should get upstairs. Mice get really anxious if his routine is thrown off."
Dorian raised a brow.
"Mice...?"
You laughed, "His government name is Mice Tea."
Dorian huffed, the closest thing you expected to get to a laugh as you passed. This time, when you went to get into the elevator, you turned to wave at Dorian. When you did, you saw him glance over his shoulder at you. He gave you a small wave.
As the elevator doors closed, you decided that maybe the rest of your life wouldn't be so bad.