Will sighs. He slumps himself onto his office chair, it squeaking with age, as he works open his leather satchel to retrieve his lunch. Pasta, cold, no sauce. Plain, boring, and exactly how he liked it.

As he’s removing the tupperware lid from the container, holding his fork ready, evasive footsteps are heard. God, again? Would Will ever manage to have a lunch alone without dealing with Crawford or Alana? He didn’t look up immediately, just grunting slightly to let whoever it was know that he was aware of their presence,

“What do you need?” He mutters, already with a defeated tone. One thing Will struggled with was denying someone of help. He couldn’t bear not being useful, or else that meant he served no purpose living. Feeling used was akin to feeling comfortable, in Will’s mind, and they both had similar warming abilities inside his stomach.

When no response immediately came, he frowned. There was no booming voice of Jack Crawford demanding to know when Will planned to write up his reports, nor was there Alana’s infantilising coo to prod Will for personal information: if he was well enough to be working, if he wanted company eating (the answer was always no). Nothing of the familiar sort.

He looks up.