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When they would stay up late back home, they wouldn't so much check the clocks but the dawnlight coming in blue through the blinds of their bedroom window. Would get scolded by their mother for staying up all night sometimes, and their father would joke about them being a night owl—both memories spike tightness into their chest. Pidge can't even really remember most of what they would do staying up back then. Goofing off, mostly, between schoolwork, research on their own time, and the occasional project. Nothing like the fire that had started after the Kerberos mission.
At the Garrison, there weren't very many windows, but they had gotten used to the requisite twenty-four hour clock easily—set all their devices to it before going, to lock themselves into it. There had been less time to work, because everybody had to be ready and on their feet at ass o'clock in the morning (around 05:00, most days), but what time they did have they would use to the fullest extent—focused as much as they could on finding out what they needed to know. All of it dead ends, but better than nothing at all. Rarely sleeping; would slog through the day with not more than an hour sometimes, a handful at best. Sometimes Hunk or Lance would tell them to sleep for once, and sometimes they would even listen.
But it's pretty hard to have a solar cycle when you don't even have a sun. Out here—well, yeah, sure, there's a schedule, but without things to really compare it to, it doesn't mean much. So Pidge has taken to sleeping even less and working even more. On upgrades to their Lion, on examining the Castle's tech—and they never did think they'd be able to get so easily acquainted with unimaginably advanced alien technology. Working on the same old work, a job that feels like it'll never get finished.
Sometimes it feels like they're never going to see their dad or Matt again.
It's the sort of pessimism their father never did approve of, but they can't stop thinking it. Their mind won't leave the idea alone, like prodding at a loose tooth, or a math problem that won't let itself get solved. At the same time, though, there's hope, too, which is nice in theory and catastrophic in practice. Same hope that's been brewing since they first heard the news, really; and that's part of it! They heard it on the news first! If it had really been pilot error, why wouldn't they all have gotten the information from—from... they're trying not to think about it. They're trying not to think about it, so they throw themselves into the work pulled up in front of them. They've been throwing themselves into this for the past two hours, not that those mean much out here, and they've been awake since long before they were technically supposed to have gone to bed last night.
Their eyes are starting to burn. Pidge can't tell if it's from exhaustion or being so focused on what's before them. In the short term, it'd be wiser to try and work on upgrading their Lion, but they're smart, not wise. Already dug themselves into a hole on that one for the time being—best to detach from the project for a bit, let the ideas simmer while they work on something else. They've got the guts pulled out of some not-quite-necessary-but-appreciated console at Allura's request; the readings are all in Altean—or, they would be, if the screen would turn on at all—but they were told Coran would be around to cross-reference the data after the basic hardware was back in working order.
It's weird to think that they're able to understand the basics of tech from a civilization that's so far beyond humanity. Weirder to think that it can have glitches just like anything else. This is kind of the technical error you associate more with your ereader circling the drain, not futuristic alien tech. Except they could fix an ereader. Pidge grimaces, lips pursing to one side. There's a headache forming behind their eyes. They've checked everything that could plausibly be wrong with the display—the old adage about when you hear hoofbeats, look for horses, not zebras, but following that logic, they're on a freaking safari by now. Originally medical, but the idea works for technology, too. Especially Altean technology, which feels more—fluid. Natural.
Leaning in and turning a screwdriver at an angle that hurts their wrist. This is such a stupid thing to be stuck on! They can't help but wonder if it has anything to do with not having slept since... uh... well, whenever, but that's never stopped them before. And then, like, there's emotions to deal with, but those are useless right now and as such are being pushed into a filing cabinet as best they can manage. A panel in the back of the console comes open, and they stick their head in to get a better look, because safety is for people with a sense of patience. It doesn't look like anything's out of place—wait. What's that? They make a quick adjustment before backing out, hitting their head on the edge of the console because of course they do.
"Crap!" Pidge closes the access panel and presses the power button, wincing, other hand rubbing their head. Buzzing for a second. But the display lights up. Finally. The brightness of it is another nail in the coffin of their vision, feeling kind of like their retinas have been flayed alive, but they're too relieved to even care. The display is working. There's Altean on the screen and everything! They can go get Coran to check that the sensors are accurate and—
—the characters on the screen corrupt for a second, before it all fades to black. Pidge kicks the side of the console's base before dropping to the floor with a prolonged groan of earth-shattering rage.
Is it really too much to ask that one thing work? Is it really? "Dammit! Are you kidding me!" They bury their face in their hand, tossing their screwdriver aside. Punching the thing blindly as their other hand tightens its grip into their hair. One thing! They just wanted one thing to work today—! Two hours they've spent on this when they could have been doing something more productive and less mind-blastingly frustrating. Bad enough that they could hardly focus, bad enough that they could hardly keep their eyes open for a portion of that time, but—come on. They were already in a bad mood. They pull their knees up to their chest and press closer to the console, head buried in their arms folded across their knees.
Whoosh of a door opening. Footsteps. They don't bother lifting their head—besides, they know those footsteps. Solid, treading with the whole foot, but not ungraceful. Hunk. The footsteps pass the console, before pausing, then stepping backwards. Of course. It's Hunk. Of course he'd be concerned.
"Pidge? You okay down there?" They look up and he's crouched in front of them, the completely-expected look of concern on his face. "Sounded like you were doing some old-fashioned percussive maintenance in here."
"Two hours I spent on this and it hasn't managed to work yet!" Venom in their voice. Exasperation. "I mean—it worked for two seconds! And then it didn't!" There's something heavy building up in their throat. This is stupid. Their eyes are burning. This is stupid. "I could have been doing something useful! I—" A crack in their voice. Pidge lets their gaze sink downwards, a breath hitching in their chest. Looks like someone knocked over the aforementioned filing cabinet of emotions. They don't need to look up to know Hunk's panicking.
"I mean, Pidge, fixing up a ship console is kind of useful. Objectively. Sure, Coran could have done it, but it's pretty good for you to get used to the ship, too." He scratches the back of his neck. "Guess I've kinda been neglecting that, huh? Some engineer I am." Pidge sniffs. "Stop that." "Stop what?" "That." "...Okay." Before he can say anything else, Pidge keeps talking. "It's—It's not just the console. I mean, the console's pretty stupid, but...." There's nothing to say that they know how to put into words, so they groan instead, dumping their face back into their arms.
A pause that feels longer than it probably is. When they get wound up like this any period of silence feels like something grating directly on their brain tissue. "I think I get you. Everything's been kind of harsh lately, hasn't it? Especially for you." He reaches out, and his hand is warm on their shoulder. His voice is concerned without being condescending—which is good, because there's not much Pidge hates more than condescension. "Look up at me?"
Pidge looks up. Hunk frowns, eyebrows raising. "Oh my god, dude, no, never mind, you look half-dead. The bags under your eyes are purple. When was the last time you slept?"
"They're Gucci, actually," Pidge mumbles. The real question is when don't they have bags under their eyes. "Answer the question, man." He squeezes their shoulder. ...They still haven't done the math on that one. "Uh. Maybe thirty-four?" Thirty-four hours awake and sitting on the floor brimming with frustration over the stupidest things is a good excuse not to speak in complete sentences, right? Right. Hunk whistles, and somehow it manages to convey simultaneous awe and disappointment. "Dude. Oh my god. Go to sleep for once in your life."
"I've got to fix this console." If they don't it's going to irritate them forever. They stand up, shaky on their feet, and reopen the access panel. It's not really the console failing they're upset over, not mostly. It's more like—things have been building up for ages and the display not freaking working set off some kind of garbage avalanche in their brain that had been sneaking up on them for days. Hunk looks up at them from the floor, something hardset in his gaze. "Well, if you're going to stay out here and drive yourself into the ground, then I'm going to try and help. ...With the maintenance, not with driving you into the ground. You do that enough on your own already." He picks up the screwdriver, which had long since rolled off to the side. "What was the last thing you tried?"
Pidge takes a deep breath. Their eyes are stinging a little with tears, but they'll be damned if they let them fall. Having Hunk here helps, though. He knows the right things to say, in ways that are hard to refute. "There's a panel in the back I opened and closed up that had something loose in it. I put it back into place and that's what made the display even try to boot up. This ship takes such a beating I'm surprised it wasn't even more of a mess."
A moment of quiet except for the rustling of the insides of the console. "...Do you mean this panel?" Hunk holds up the panel from the back of the console. The panel Pidge could have sworn they put back into place. They take a very deep breath. "Uh. Yeah, actually." "And did the loose thing happen to be—oh, hey, that's a pretty blue." Holy crap. "...Maybe. Yes."
A click as Hunk snaps the blue thing back into place, and it takes just a second for him to screw the panel back. He pulls out of the console and stands up, closing the access panel. A nod towards the power button. "How about you do the honors?"
Pidge presses the button. And the display boots up. And stays booted. Somewhere in the back of their mind an angelic choir is singing an ode to a beautiful victory. They take a moment to revel in it before running headlong at Hunk to give him a hug. "Holy crap, Hunk, you're a genius!"
Hunk takes a step back when they make impact, awkwardly patting them on the back. "No, come on, man, you're just really, really sleep-deprived. Anybody running on more sleep than literally none at all can put a panel back into pla—wait a minute, hold the phone. Let me see your hand." Pidge pulls away and holds up their hand, looking up curiously. "...Your other hand, Pidge." Right hand. Got it. Hunk stares at the back of their hand when they lift it up.
"There's a bruise on your knuckles. How hard did you punch that thing?" There is, in fact, a very gnarly bruise on their knuckle. Unsurprising. They shrug. "You would have punched it too! Two hours I worked on this thing!"
Hunk takes a very deep breath. "How about you just go to bed."