He'd gotten back into the habit of having better habits; of picking up work instead of a jar of moonshine--most of which will do better with some age. With the weather turning, he can't really afford to let Ty's appearance fuck it up, even if there isn't a task available distracting enough to save him from it.

Bunker duty hardly applies. He isn't some supernatural insomniac or expert hacker, but on slow shifts he stares at lists and code until the display blurs. Copies things into his journal, tries to count the different colored flames on the walls. If he gets sleepy staring at the usually empty tubes, he picks himself up and picks at the rubble clogging the stairs. Not in any true eagerness to see what's below, if it isn't entirely collapsed--just to stretch his legs and wear out his shift.

The cigarettes help. Nondescript, not his brand and a little dry--but who would he even complain to?

Seriously: who? He's got a list built up and put to paper. One of the entries is calling down the long hall, a strange enough sound in the concrete underground that he wonders if he's missed the load and launch of a new arrival in the time it took to walk down to the slightly caved in area with the bathroom.

"Please tell me this isn't where you wound up living," he greets, like he doesn't already know.