One of the things that still boggled his mind, even though it had only been two months, was the pure normalcy that had accompanied the rush and flow of activity of those eight or nine weeks. He could still shake his head at himself for initially feeling nothing but anger and betrayal, determination not to get involved or to be what he had described to himself as 'sucked in'.

Jack rolled over in bed as his alarm squawked incessantly at him, slamming the palm of his hand on the snooze button. The infernal machine wouldn't ring again for another forty-five minutes--enough time for him to take care of business and make it back to the bedroom to completely shut it off. Right now, firing on less than total brain cells, he just couldn't be bothered. Eyes still resolutely closed, as if he could catch up on the sleep he felt he was lacking just by keeping them that way even while he was up and around the house, Jack maneuvered until his feet were flat on the floor even while the rest of him was still horizontal.

It wasn't until the muscles and distended internal organs in his right side twinged a warning at its uncomfortable position that Jack rose and shuffled out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen. Half-blind, he put on his ritualistic coffee before retreating back to the bathroom to answer the call of nature.

When he returned to the kitchen and simply stood, head hanging, bracing himself against the counter, hovering over the coffeemaker as if its fumes alone could keep him awake, Jack yawned mightily. His detachedness from the rest of the world, though, fled when he felt two vines throw themselves whiplike around his thighs, and a weight pressed itself against his left side. Everything came back into focus, as it did every work day, and Jack looked down. The 'vines' loosened and reached up to him silently, and Jack followed the familiar routine--stoop, tuck his hands under reaching arms and lift, easing his burden to his right hip, relishing the feel of pointy little heels reaching around to dig their purchase into his left side. Daniel watched silently, eyes half-lidded with sleep, head resting against Jack's shoulder, as Jack poured himself a mug of coffee one-handed, the five-year-old a limp weight as he was carried down to the living room. Jack arranged them on the couch, coffee still in his left hand, Daniel slithering over to curl up on his lap, against his chest, both hands manipulating the fingers on Jack's right hand, which rubbed soothingly over the small, pajama-clad chest.

Five-fifteen on a Wednesday morning, smack-dab in the middle of the work/school week, and though neither of them had to be up for at least another forty-five minutes, it was a time of the day Jack wouldn't give up for all the well-rested energy in the world.

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The End