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.
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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"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."