It’s three in the morning when you get home and you’re tired as fuck. The whole apartment is dark and you can’t bring yourself to be annoyed because only a madman would be awake at this hour.
Let’s face it, you’d be furious at Jack if you caught him working at this hour. (And you’ve seen that multiple times. It makes your blood boil.)
Your heart is still beating too fast, pulse only coming down now from skyrocketing so wildly. Your hands still shake as they turn on the light switch in the kitchen. There’s a pot on top of a counter and when you look closer, you discover Jack’s cooked you guiso. It’s your favorite one, the one that contains corn and bell peppers. You smile when you smell it, Jack’s been making it spicier and spicier with time. You help yourself to a bowl of it and devour with trembling arms and limbs, almost not letting yourself to savor it. The spiciness makes your eyes water a little and soon you are crying, the sudden thought of eating such a heartfelt meal after a night of so much horror overwhelming you. The places where the needles clung to your body still sting and you resist the impulse to rub the area, willing away the pain.
You focus on what you’re going to get from this. You think of the ways this will save you and so many people more. How this could help prevent thousands of tragedies.
You think of your parents and grandparents, of your siblings and their families.
You think of Jack.
You think of Jack after eating the food he cooked for you and brushing your teeth and undressing for bed. You think of him as you slip into bed silently and cover him from behind, cradling his huddled form against your chest. He still sleeps curled up into a little ball. It’s cute. Makes you think of a rodent.
Things have been hard. Jack knows this and you know this and the whole fucking world knows this. Everything you ever built has come to the point of uncertainty, even your marriage. You love Jack and Jack loves you and this is written in stone, this is law between the two of you, even when everything is falling into pieces.
But your mind’s full of doubt and your heart doesn’t know what to follow anymore, and you wonder if Jack would really follow you to hell and back.
(And would you want him there with you?)
It’s four in the morning. Tomorrow Moira’s going to be waiting for you in the same cold, sterile room and black tar will fill your lungs as your heart stops and your instincts tell you to flee.
It’s four in the morning and Jack stirs in your arms, so you kiss his cheek and go to sleep.
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