When he wakes up, Jack does what he always does when he's in a bed - he reaches back with a slurred babe, because it's daytime and their precocious three-year-old is going to start wandering around the house soon, probably get into the cereal while she's at it. They have a house, Jack's done that much, even if it's small and kind of crappy and they don't have a lot of cash. They have food, even if it's that generic shit like Froot Circles and Hamburger Assistant. (They do okay. They both deserve more, but Soph is always telling him we're happy.) The TV is small but they get cartoons, and their sofa is kind of springy, but all three of them have found comfortable spots of their own. Soph'll make him bacon and potatoes because she knows it's probably all he'll eat today, and Jack gets ready for work, promising to eat on the drive over so she doesn't chew him out for not taking care of himself.

Yeah, it's kind of crappy at the edges, and it's not as fun as when they could just speed off and go party, but he likes it. They're happy, and if they're happy, he's happy too.

But the bed is cold and the room isn't his, and when he remembers, he just kind of tries to will himself dead for about twenty minutes. That's what lovebirds are supposed to do, right? Is it actually a thing?

It's not actually a thing, or at least it isn't for him, because he ends up getting around and looking for his boots. It's uncharacteristically thoughtful for him to take them off before getting in the bed (not that he even pulled the covers down), and he's glad to get them back on before he slips into the main room, picks up the aforementioned container, and uses the plastic fork to shovel it down mindlessly.

Two or three forkfuls in and he promptly drops it back on the counter and throws up in Tony's sink. Sorry about that, friend-o.