The next morning, Jack doesn't wake easily. Mired in disturbing dreams, he tosses slightly as sleep eases its grip and as the dream fades and reality replaces it, he has a growing realization that he's not alone in the bed.
"Does Bar give out medication, do you know?" Jack asks. Considering aspirin and things just appear in his medicine cabinet, he'd think she'd give out something like antibiotics.
He hasn't asked her about other kinds of drugs, as much as he's been tempted.
"Yeah. I can't really say what your best option is."
On the one hand, he's not sure Carl's in the best frame of mind to do a debriefing, particularly one about this type of situation. On the other hand, putting it off isn't going to help.
"Fuck yes. Think it's been a while since I drank that much."
Usually because he didn't have the excuse of being with someone else, and because he still had to get himself up to his room. Not that he hadn't been waking up with a hell of a lot of hangovers since he came into the bar.
Carl bows his head and wills the throbbing behind his eyelids to disappear. He doubts it's going to anytime soon, but it's worth a shot.
"Been...long time since I've had to do that. Wanted to do that...drink that much, I mean. Christ. I don't want to know what my tab looks like right now."
"I don't know. How much did we drink?" Jack remembers the first couple shots, and after that things get fuzzy. He's not sure he wants to know if they killed more than one bottle.
"Hope so. But then if we didn't, we'd probably be in the infirmary with alcohol poisoning right now."
Jack's tempted to lie down again, but he has the feeling if he does, it's going to take him even longer to get back up again. Instead, he leans back against the headboard and tries to will the thumping in his head away.
He exhales, and there's a hint of self-frustration in his sigh.
"Jack, I was two men behind point when the grenades went off. Both the boys get blown into pieces and I end up with a busted fuckin' elbow, of all things. Two feet closer and I'd have been another name in a chunk of granite. Two fuckin' feet."
Now he remembers why he came in here to drink in the first place. He wonders if it's too early to get served downstairs.
"If you're trying to make it make some kind of sense, Carl, it's never going to happen. There isn't any rhyme or reason to it."
He sure knows it, considering how many people he knows that have been hurt or died--how many people have been hurt because of him--and how many times he's escaped death.
Not that it doesn't stop the guilt from weighing him down.
Carl opens his eyes to stare up at the ceiling, only because when he keeps them closed, his mind swims with the hangover and the images of the last forty-eight hours blur across the dark.
"It's shite, that's what it is. No sense, no reason, nothing."
He swallows.
"You know, what pisses me off about the whole thing? We didn't get the guy."
Jack nods. He's trying to think of something to say that might help, but there really isn't anything that isn't either incredibly insensitive, smugly patronizing or totally inadequate.
"Yeah, I'd be pissed too," he says, eventually. "To lose your men and not get your target...it fucking sucks, Carl."
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He hasn't asked her about other kinds of drugs, as much as he's been tempted.
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He's watching the progress being made on his arm, as Jack places the gauze pad against the skin. His eyes are still a little distant.
"Kind of just want to get it done with."
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On the one hand, he's not sure Carl's in the best frame of mind to do a debriefing, particularly one about this type of situation. On the other hand, putting it off isn't going to help.
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"Probably could use some time to get my thoughts together. Put things down so I've got the story solid before I head in."
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"If they didn't have any questions, I'd wonder what the fuck was wrong."
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What happens when he goes back, might.
He exhales sharply as Jack tightens the bandage around his arm, wishing he had another drink -- no, painkillers -- to take the edge off.
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"Okay, you're done, unless there's some other injury I don't know about," he says, starting to pack up the first aid supplies.
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"No, just that. My hearing is better than it was yesterday, too."
There's less of a static threatening to steal the words away, now.
"Thanks," he adds.
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"You feel like you've been hit by a truck too, yeah? It's not just me?"
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Usually because he didn't have the excuse of being with someone else, and because he still had to get himself up to his room. Not that he hadn't been waking up with a hell of a lot of hangovers since he came into the bar.
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Carl bows his head and wills the throbbing behind his eyelids to disappear. He doubts it's going to anytime soon, but it's worth a shot.
"Been...long time since I've had to do that. Wanted to do that...drink that much, I mean. Christ. I don't want to know what my tab looks like right now."
He also doesn't give a shit.
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He moves further onto the bed, in an attempt to stretch out and not end up on Jack's lap.
"I have a feeling we ran out and called it a night."
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Jack's tempted to lie down again, but he has the feeling if he does, it's going to take him even longer to get back up again. Instead, he leans back against the headboard and tries to will the thumping in his head away.
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Carl winces as he gets comfortable.
"Though I think that's the grenades talking."
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He has to wonder if there's a little survivor guilt talking in there.
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Eventually:
"At the least, in the infirmary."
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He exhales, and there's a hint of self-frustration in his sigh.
"Jack, I was two men behind point when the grenades went off. Both the boys get blown into pieces and I end up with a busted fuckin' elbow, of all things. Two feet closer and I'd have been another name in a chunk of granite. Two fuckin' feet."
Now he remembers why he came in here to drink in the first place. He wonders if it's too early to get served downstairs.
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He sure knows it, considering how many people he knows that have been hurt or died--how many people have been hurt because of him--and how many times he's escaped death.
Not that it doesn't stop the guilt from weighing him down.
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"It's shite, that's what it is. No sense, no reason, nothing."
He swallows.
"You know, what pisses me off about the whole thing? We didn't get the guy."
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"Yeah, I'd be pissed too," he says, eventually. "To lose your men and not get your target...it fucking sucks, Carl."
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