Door To Door

Customer Type #4: The Ones Who Don't Answer The Door

"Hello, ma'am, I'm Hudson Ellis - I'm a representative of the charity Man's Best Friend. You may have heard of us?"

"Oh, yeah," the woman looks around Hudson's age, maybe a little older, with deep red hair, warm brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Hooped earrings dangle from her ears, and she's wearing many bright colours her outfit practically blinds Hudson. "We're actually already signed up to your sponsoring programme. Have been for a few years now. Right, Brett?"

She glances back at the tall, lean man who has come up to stand behind her. He nods in confirmation, pushing up his glasses when they fall slightly from the movement.

"Oh," Hudson lets the monosyllable fall off his lips in surprise. Hastily, he reaches for the laminated diagram in his bag, scanning it for the small rectangle representing Brett and the woman's house. Sure enough, it's coloured a flurorescent green, indicating that the occupants have already contibuted to the charity.

"I'm so sorry," he tells the both of them earnestly. "I honestly didn't realise..."

The woman's eyes are made even warmer with amusement, and she bites her lip to suppress a grin from blooming onto her face. "Don't sweat it," she tells him.

Brett nods again, his smile matching the woman's. "You're only human, Mister Hudson Ellis," he says, tone made light with humour. 

Trying not to look too surprised at his recollection of his name, Hudson smiles. "Right," he steps away from the porch, still smiling. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, sir, ma'am."

"Aw man, don't call me that, I feel old," she chastises him. "I'm Rachel. Just Rachel."

"And I'm Just Brett," Brett jokes. 

"Sorry," Hudson apologises. "Rachel. Brett."

"Better," she tells him, lips quirking up into another smile. "But we should probably let you get back to your job now. Have an awesome morning, Hudson."

"You too," he murmurs as the door swings shut.

God, he loves nice people. 

☒

 Hudson tugs himself up the last flight of stairs of the apartment block, pausing to take a few deep breaths, bent over with his hands braced on his thighs.

(Why does he get the distinct feeling that since coming to New York and discovering that goddamn diner he’s gotten a little...unfit?)

“Okay,” he breathes aloud, straightening up, chest still heaving. “I’m okay.”

He makes his way to first of the two doors on the top floor, pausing once more to catch his breath (again), before knocking.

There is no response.

“You have got to be shitting me,” Hudson mutters under his breath. He did not come all this way only for the residents of the flat to be out.

Praying to all that is good and holy, he brings his knuckles to the wood once more, rapping slightly louder this time.

Still no response.

“You know what?” he says aloud to no one in particular. “I’m over it. I am fucking over it.” He huffs, grabbing a leaflet from his bag and shoving it under the door. Turning and glancing at the other door, Hudson considers knocking, but realises his ego could not take another blow if the residents of that flat also happened to be out. 

"I hate everything," he sighs as he begins his descent.

☒

"Hey, Hudson!" Beth grins at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly. Hudson beams back. "The usual?" she asks.