Chapter Text
To say his role in the world was a taxing one wasn’t… an overstatement. Twilight could see that, as much as he wanted to deny it at the same time. But be realistic.
He, on a good day, put in twelve to sixteen hours of work. Sylvia seemed to pull some kind of sick, twisted fun bouncing him between the hospital and isolated mission sites like her own personal little pinball. You would almost think she was giving him the most spaced-out jobs she had on her roster intentionally, see how much she could throw him around before he finally snapped and flew off the board.
Each of those jobs had their own individual demands and requirements to meet– a freshly formed disguise, paperwork that always seemed to need a little extra work to get a hold of (Franky could back him up in that regard, at least). Sometimes they were combative in nature, which then became a problem of hiding injuries from his family and day job.
The hospital work was its own beast. Dr. Forger was friendly, yes. An excellent position to be in for a man trying to keep prying SSS agents off of his back. But to be friendly often led to you being well-liked, which meant you were popular among your workplace. And to be popular was to be pulled in five different directions, bouncing between eight conversations, and getting asked a flurry of questions from gaggles of colleagues on a daily basis.
It hardly lent him enough time to duck into his office to pull together a half-assed idea of how to treat the patients he had been assigned to, rapidly skimming mental health literature and sparse files trying to piece together solutions for a field he, in truth, had no business being in. While many of the cases he was given were WISE plants, there were a few real people that made it onto his list.
And he didn’t want to give them bad advice; they came unassuming into a hospital asking for help, obviously, not to be a part of some ploy. He could at least put his overworked brain towards a little good and give them a partially complete solution instead of more lies and snake oil suggestions.
That was his day (and sometimes his nights). His personal life, if it could be called that, was less time to himself and more so another factor sapping his energy away every day. Waking up before dawn could break to whip up nutritional breakfasts, keeping things tidy, minding bills and home maintenance, playing tutor for such long hours you’d wonder if his student was even picking up anything at her actual school, even more cooking in the evening. Could you really say you liked cooking if putting meals together stressed you out this much?
All while running through plans and codes and intel and every other detail that needed to be considered in the world of spycraft. Near endless work throughout the day rounded out by two to four hours of sleep, on a good night, before his vengeful little schedule roped him back in for a fresh day.
In hindsight, it’s hardly a wonder he is standing in his current position.
The kitchen bulb glints off the stylized glass bottle occupying the top shelf, challenging him to see if he’ll take it down again. He was mindful in storing it, placing it where Anya could never get a hold of it, obviously. He’d even pushed it a little further towards the back to help keep it out of Yor’s sight.
She was an adult, though, and not a clueless one. He could always feel her gaze searing his back or shoulder, looking past him to the where the bottle and single glass hit the counter with a soft clink. She was polite enough to never ask; Twilight appreciated the gesture. His relationship with scotch was a confusing one. He didn’t feel he took it down often enough to call it a dependency. Even so…
His days were long, stressful ones. When the worst of them hit, it was always the corner cabinet he looked towards for guidance. His tolerance training would never let him enter a fully drunken state; alcohol was an easy means of gaining information, but that rule applied to losing information, as well. Spies needed to learn to be in their right minds if they were willing to take the riskier approach to gathering intel.
It did offer Twilight a gentle sense of numbness, though. His thoughts weren’t fully stilled, but the tsunami of worries and plans could at least be reduced to rough waves. Over ten years of endless work; being offered even a brief, fleeting respite was better than–
Soft, hesitant warmth makes contact with his shoulder blade. He turns around at the touch; Yor drops her hand from his back as quickly as she had placed it there, returning it to a spot of support keeping a dozing Anya balanced on her opposite shoulder. In its stead, her mouth curves into a small smile.
“A little late for that, maybe?” she asks softly, eyes flicking once from the scotch to him.
Loid blinks twice, a garbled response tangled in his throat. He can’t explain why, but there’s a sense of… embarrassment? strung up in his gut. Like he’s been caught, even knowing she’s more than aware of his habit.
“A little,” he’s able to put together in a neutral tone.
“Let me prepare some tea,” she offers instead. “You’ll probably sleep better with that.”
He hums his assent, blindly returning the bottle and accompanying glass to the cabinet as she takes the child down the hall to lay in her room. It’s only a half-conscious task, though.
He’s distracted.
He gives her a semblance of a conversation as they stand in the kitchen with their cups, enough to appear present even if he really isn’t. She bids him goodnight in her oh-so-effortlessly gentle manner. He moves almost robotically to the bathroom before retiring to his room, mind wanting to run thoughts at twice its usual speed.
It’s a miracle he gets to sleep at the hour he does, lingering hints of honey and chamomile on his tongue and the ghost of light fingertips teasing his skin.
He is so, very distracted.