18. Chapter Eighteen #3
I have to close my eyes for a minute, dizzy with all the worry. Or maybe with exhaustion. Or… hunger. Shit, when was the last time I ate?
There's a mental checklist in my head, existing whether I like it or not.
Always existing. It's flooded right now with top priority tasks - preparing for the possibility of Travis and Maison fighting again, preparing for how that will affect Carter, preparing for how it will affect the others, returning Keaton's calls, likely having to talk to him about letting go again now that Mica is handled, dodging any and all inquiries he may have into my end of our self-care deal, checking all my traps for anything on Elliot, rewriting my algorithms if they're all empty, researching high-calorie options for snacks, looking into text-to-speech technology, making sure there's more licorice coming in the next supply drop - oh, and a shit ton of Epi-pens.
But… me eating a real meal is surely tucked in there somewhere, crushed between go the fuck to sleep and cry into your pillow or some shit.
I could probably use a good meal, actually. Especially with how bad of a day I'm likely about to have.
Like, a really fucking bad day, the more I think about it.
I make a pot of especially strong coffee and find the biggest mug we have.
It’s Maison’s, a mug I bought him just to make him smile a few days before the end of the operation.
The words SHIT SHOW SUPERVISOR are written across it.
At the time, it had been mostly accurate.
A lot of my job was just watching to make sure all of the moving pieces were falling in the right place.
I was monitoring feeds and checking-in with the auxiliary teams and supporting Travis, Jake, and Maison in any way I could, but I was also having fun decorating the house and finding all the little ways I could give the survivors a bit of extra color in their new world. The calm before the storm, really.
Now the shit show is here in the house and I feel pretty confident in saying I am the only one supervising.
The rest of my team are trying their best, I know they are, but they’ve all got overflowing plates and the massive weight of their own trauma to deal with.
They’re doing what they can. They’re doing quite a lot, actually, when it comes to the tasks they know about.
Considering at least sixty percent of what I’m doing at any given time is stuff for the organization that they don’t know about, and another twenty is part of the pet project that has become Elliot’s case, I don’t blame them for not helping out more.
Still, out of all the supervisors, I’m definitely the one in charge of the ‘shit show’ part of things.
I love these guys to death, but they are falling apart at the seams - Maison especially, whether he’s team leader or not.
It’s probably my saving grace when it comes to Adam leaving me alone, actually.
With all that said, when Maison comes downstairs and points out, “That’s my mug,” I play my part of the goofy tech guy with free time on his hands and no worries in the world.
“Is it?” I take a nice long drink. “We can share, can’t we?”
“Are we sharing all of the paperwork that comes with the supervisory position as well?”
I'm too tired to laugh, even more so than I was with Travis, which works in my favor this time around.
Laughing to the thought of oh man, you have no idea about paperwork, is not a laugh I want to have to explain to him.
I just pout and offer the mug back instead, acting like I could never handle such a heavy workload.
He waves me off. “Keep it. I don’t want your cooties.”
“Just Nolan’s cooties, then?” I ask. I keep my tone playful to keep the mood light, but let some curiosity through to let him know I care. To let him know he can talk to me about this if he wants.
He flips me off, then pointedly pours out the rest of the coffee into his mug and puts the empty carafe back in the maker without making a new pot. Which is a cardinal sin, if you ask me. Something he knows, the bastard.
He’s lucky I am exhausted to the point of near-delirium, because otherwise this would be war.
By the end of the week, he would be begging for my forgiveness.
I am very, very good at terrorizing my loved ones in perfectly safe, perfectly aggravating ways.
It was how I tested Kellan and Keaton, after all, once I felt safe enough to push my boundaries.
I always thought they’d get rid of me once I pressed too far, but they never did.
I had energy back then, though. I have zero energy right now. Or, like, 1 ounce of energy - and it’s quickly draining. I barely manage to even toss out, “You’re a child.”
“Says the one using the word cooties,” he grumbles.
“You used it first!”
He goes to argue, stops himself upon realization that I’m right, then resorts to, “I don’t like you.”
Which is a bold-faced lie, so I blow him a kiss and tell him, “Love you too, boss,” before he starts to walk away.
Then I remember why I sat down here waiting for him and all humor - faked or otherwise - drains right out of me, right alongside any energy I was managing to cling to.
“Shit, Mais, wait.”
His shoulders pull tight with tension before he slowly turns to face me. “Yeah?”
I rip it off like a band-aid. “Trav is back.”
He carefully puts his mug down on the counter. “Say that again?”