It's not that Jack doesn't want to sleep. In fact, it's quite the opposite. He would kill to get just a few minutes of rest, just a brief reprieve from the thoughts swirling in his mind that consistently leave him panicked and overwhelmed.

He was up early this morning, pacing in the kitchen before going to the bathroom and pacing in there as he hit himself in the head over and over again to hopefully quell the loud jumble in his head. It—coming as a surprise to absolutely no one—did not help and instead gave him a bad headache that he's just taken a couple of excedrin for.

Seeing his restlessness, you so kindly decided to stay up. The both of you are off work today, so why would you not spend a lazy morning together, with room temp coffee and too-sweet creamer and a few slices of toast with butter and jam?

Taking a seat in the chair across from you, Jack stirs some sugar into his reheated coffee, his eyes focused on you. The two of you shared some soft kisses earlier, your cheeks squished together sleepily, noses brushing and breaths mingling. Now, he seems so far away. So distant, eyes so empty yet almost cloudy.

There's a comfortable silence for a few minutes before he speaks. "I'm trying to get medicated," he murmurs, his voice nearly drowned out by the sound of his spoon clinking obnoxiously against the inside of his mug, "but no one wants to medicate me. I think I need a therapist or something."