Welcome to Gaia! ::

When nighttime rolled around Taym left his door open again. Typically he did this as a mute invitation for company; an easier way to tell Peyton that he'd appreciate not being alone than actually telling her he'd appreciate not being alone. He hadn't done it in quite some time, partly because he was so rarely in his room any more that he wasn't squeezing in a couple of hours of fitful sleep, and partly because he did not entirely trust Maebe not to sabotage him somehow.

Tonight the door had not been left open because he was waiting for company, although of course she wouldn't know that. The door was open because his hands were full and he was distracted, with a box delivered to the hallway that he'd just deposited on the bed, exercising self-discipline and forcing himself to disregard it long enough to shrug out of his scarf and his coat, to light emergency candles and a cigarette.

He suspected he knew what was inside.

His desk was still meticulously organized, but rather more full than it had been--folders and notebooks, a neat stack of books from the library. And one folder in particular that sat in the middle of the desk, and on which he now rested the hand that wasn't occupied with a smoke. He sat in his chair and he looked skeptically at the box on the bed as though it contained a venomous snake or a flock of bats, until he finally, forgetting that the door was still open, reached to take it gingerly into his lap.

"Sorry," he said quietly, apparently feeling the need to address the "long time no see" comment. "I've been... busy." And he had. Mostly, granted, with the sort of mindless drudge work that filled up any trainee's day, with volunteered extra perimeter shifts, with whatever he could get away with doing. But some other things too. Things he didn't like talking about, surveillance for Caelius, writing things down that he felt ought not to be written down. And one trip off the Island, taken unexpectedly, that he'd told no one about.

He glanced up at her, face an expressionless mask, and he put his cigarette down in the ashtray before he lifted the lid with resignation. He hadn't told anyone, but it was bound to come out at some point.

The first thing he lifted out of the box was a stack of empty mission report forms, stapled together. He looked at them with a grim expression, a snort, and a roll of his eyes before opening the folder on the desk, tucking them inside, and reaching back in to extract exactly what Peyton suspected he would.

He lifted the sleeve out, and then the rest of the coat, which showed faint signs of wear. He ran his fingers over the striped trim.

He wasn't looking at her, but his eyes wandered, meandering off to the side and down to the floor, clearly distracted. He looked embarrassed, a little boy made to show off his report card at a family gathering.

"I didn't know," he said flatly. "Or rather, I knew the past couple of days, but I didn't know before it happened. Got called out to a mission. Off-island."

He paused, remembering the sensory of overload of landing in a busy intersection.

"It was... I didn't know what it was, at the time. Just took orders. Got back, got the news. Did you know," he added without looking up, almost conversationally, "that we can get shot. Like, with a gun. Shot. It hurts like a son of a b***h but it's not even a little life threatening." His back, the back of one leg--they were still peppered with bruises and welts that had almost healed already, but no other damage. Not physically, anyway.

Peyton had had zombies and spiders on her promo mission, not that he knew this. Taym had had people, as far as he was aware.

He met her eye, finally, putting the box down to pull on the coat, testing the fit of it--surprisingly not bad, given how poorly he was going to fill out any coat given to him--and popping the collar, as he always did, without looking away.

"I don't know if I'm supposed to talk about it," he said. "Classified, or something. But yes. I was shot at." Shot at. A small backtrack. He procured the scarf from the bottom of the box, turning it over in his hands before he absently wound it around his neck, tucking up the ends and reaching for his cigarette with one hand and the folder with the other. "Speaking of classified," he said, lofting one of the empty mission reports and looking away finally, towards one of the other pages inside, "how good are you at going undetected? I realize I'm asking a Sun this," he added, without looking up. "But you're small and you aren't stupid and you have a weapon you can wield in a tight space."

"I have to organize some people," he said vaguely, putting the reports back down and closing the folder, sliding it to the back of his desk and taking a long, contemplative drag. "Or go alone," he amended, "but I'm not so sure for some of these. No monsters. No dragons. Just reclaiming some things that are ours."

Which sounded mysterious, but honestly, was just as much as he knew. Caelius was being pretty damn tight-lipped, much to his frustration. "Find a way in, get the s**t, get out." And then blow the place up, but he didn't feel the need to share that part. It made him uncomfortable. He was already trying to think of how to verify that the buildings were empty; running through mental plans of how to evacuate security guards and janitors or who-knew-who-else without raising alarms and causing suspicion. He suspected his plans diverged from Caelius's on this front, which was an uncomfortable thought.

"Nothing set in stone yet," he continued, absently coughing into his new sleeve, "but if I think I need backup--well." He made a vague movement of his hands. "Thought you might appreciate a chance to get the fresh air, not that there'll be time for sightseeing. Every chance in the world I might need someone who can land a punch without drawing a lot of attention."

He watched her sideways for a couple of seconds before pushing the folder aside, putting his feet up, and in this familiar habit pushed his free hand into his pocket. As always, he turned his head away to exhale.

"What's wrong?" he asked bluntly.

He was silent for a while, but, perhaps surprisingly, his answer was entirely unoffended. If anything, it was in agreement.

"I don't know why," he told her quietly. "Caelius said he didn't either, although I don't believe him. But I do know I'm..."

He trailed off. Fiona filled in the silence for him, and he felt out her words carefully, and rephrased them. "I can't... stop working. I don't know how to stop working. I slept for two hours last night, Peyton. You haven't been working as hard as I have, and that's smart, because you're not--" Fiona's word here stung, but he used it "--addicted to it. It's... it's not a long-term strategy." That was as close as he could come to putting it into words.

Not a long-term strategy. He barely ate; he barely slept. He found excuses to work his fingers raw. He was, for all intents and purposes, working himself to death. Taym had never had this much free time that he couldn't fill up with the mindless void of addiction. He wasn't sure how to operate outside of a mode of self-destruction, and he was skirting along the edges of admitting it.

"No s**t," he answered, but it was without malice. Just--appropriately--tired. He paused.

"I don't know why," he repeated to her, leaning up to stub out his cigarette. "OK? So don't... feel guilty about not throwing me a ******** party, or whatever. I'm not throwing one either. When we go get dinner it's for you, not for me. Maybe they thought bribing me with a raise would make me more willing to--"

He didn't finish the thought. He didn't want to.