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.
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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"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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"It's not too early to grab another bottle, is it?"
(He's joking. Mostly.)
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"I think I'll stick to coffee this morning. Don't want to push my luck."
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"Yeah, though the thought of drinking anything right now isn't exactly helping."