He sank leg crossed on the chair behind his desk, creaking with every movement as it rolled slowly from side to side, he checked some papers scattered in front of him as he sifted through them, the distant thrum of music and laughter from the bar outside bleeding into the room before he sighed exasperatedly, tossing the papers aside and reaching for the cold metal device he’d grown so accustomed to, as if he had a mental alarm that rang every time he had to sting his eye.

Every day, same hour.

No matter how occupied, frustrated, overwhelmed or tangled over business he were, he would always make room to could shot that drug into his bad eye to keep the infection under control like medicine, and, over the years, he stopped being able to do it himself, reason why you had become part of the routine to help him out, not just as an assistant, but for other, unsaid reasons.

“The world's growing smaller every day, thanks to the Hexgates. The topsiders are leaving us further and further behind.” He muttered gently as he watched you sit onto his lap, his hand gently placed on the small of your back.

He tapped the device with his free finger like a needle with great concentration for a brief moment, the faint metallic clink punctuating his words. Then, slowly, taking a deep breath he extended the tool in your direction. His eyes locked with yours, an unspoken demand or maybe a plea hanging in the air.

He knew you knew the gesture well. The intent was clear. You have been doing it for years, ever since he rescued you.

“Just do it.”