“‘Fix your sleep schedule,’ they said. ‘It’ll be fun,’ they said,” Juno grumbles, losing his balancing and tipping into the wall before righting himself and continuing down the hallway.
It’s just before one in the morning, and Juno’s hungry. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Actually, it would be good. Being hungry means a distraction means five fewer minutes to contemplate the bleak, pointless march of human existence. Tonight, though, it’s just frustrating.
See, Juno’s trying to fix his sleep schedule. Rita’s been on his case about it forever, saying things like, ‘It’s not healthy to wake up at four pm and go to sleep at seven am,’ and, ‘I really don’t like how many naps you’re takin’, boss, it’s not normal,’ and finally, ‘Juno Steel, get your ass out of this bed this instant before I douse you with this water bottle!’
That last one had been at seven thirty this morning. She had poured the water on him. They had words about it. Juno had gotten up.
The problem with resetting one’s sleep schedule lies in the exhausting transition days when you have an hour of sleep to get through a day you’d rather not be awake for in the first place. This leads to things like taking a depression nap after dinner while your secretary pretends not to stare at you from across the office. It also includes waking up from said depression nap at the time you were supposed to go to sleep and spending the next four hours in a fruitless attempt to go back to dreamland while your mind reminds you every five minutes that this wouldn’t be a problem if you were actually a good person, and speaking of, you should probably start that paperwork over there, but remember that time you tried to do paperwork at night and you fucked it all up and-
Yeah, okay, Juno’s looking for food now. He wrenches the fridge open, staring into its slightly gross, overly bright depths for anything that won’t turn his aching stomach. Leftover chicken from three days ago? No thanks. Expired yogurt? Definitely not (he should probably throw it out, actually). Nothing in here looks appealing.
He tries the cabinet and finds it barren of anything that’s not assorted condiments or freeze-dried gack. Toast it is, then.
Toast is a pretty safe option for, well, basically any time. It’s inoffensive on its own and pairs well with most things. It has carbs to keep his blood sugar from tanking. It can be dressed up with a myriad of toppings (though Juno’s just going to put peanut butter on it like the last three hundred times). It’s so easy to make that even a severely depressed person could do it, Juno reflects as he pops the bread in the toaster and waits.
The only problem is that, after a while, toast starts to taste like bad weeks and downward spirals. What was that old Earth saying? Something about dog training?
As Juno waits for his bread to toast, he glances over to his medication stack. He didn’t take his antidepressants today. Too depressed, if you can believe it. He almost leaves them be, content to ruin his own life, when he remembers Rita’s earnest, concerned eyes. Rolling his own, he pops the childproof bottle open and swallows his dose dry. Wow. He feels not even a little bit better.
He eats the toast and feels… well, okay, he feels a little bit better. Just a little bit, though. He’s tired, actually. Getting food and water and medicine has made him a bit more... comfortable? Relaxed? Huh.
Whatever it is, he puts the dishes in the sink and turns the lights off and gets back in bed. He worries for a moment that he won’t be able to fall asleep, but then it’s morning and Rita’s stupid screaming alarm is going off and yeah, alright, he can get up and get to the office by nine. He can do this.
And if Rita finds a little Andromeda action figure at her desk a week later, long after Mistah Steel’s gone off on a case he’s finally had the energy to take, well, Rita can keep a few secrets.