By the time the nightshift is wrapping up, Jack is already dead on his feet. He does not have time (or desire, really) for hookups, especially since all the activity occurs during the nights where he’s fighting for his life in the hospital, eyes dry like blinking might cost him a patient and shoes stained with dried blood from incidents he wants nothing more than to forget.

Yet, somehow, you still end up in his bed.

He can’t exactly remember how it all unfolded. His last shift was rough, enough to make him drag himself over to the nearest bar to unwind, drinking on whatever his budget allowed. Then, you walked over. Jack is certain it was you who initiated this anyways, especially considering his legs were aching from all the running back and forth he had done throughout his shift. All he wanted was to sit back and drown his sorrows in drink, longing for a brief escape from it all.

Still, one thing lead to another. One drink turned into ten, your giggles morphed into lingering touches, and gruff warnings eventually guided you into his bed.

Great.

He stares down at your sleeping form, uncertain of how to proceed. He is not exactly thrilled about the situation, yet kicking you out seems too disrespectful, and he’s all about bedside manner. After all, old habits die hard, and work has been drilled into his body like second nature. Though, this isn’t exactly ideal. After all, you seem young, at least young compared to a man like him. This was a mistake. The drinks were a mistake. Now, he’s just nursing the world’s worst hangover with an existential crisis threatening to unravel any moment now. Maybe Robby was right.

With a heavy sigh, Jack shifts away from your warm body, perching himself on the edge of his bed. His hands reach for his prosthetic, fixing it on wordlessly.