Principals Aren't Meant To Be Hot What The Fuck

And In Your Heart.

  Jack woke up early. Far too early, in fact. It was the day that Jackie would take the kids. Patrick's birthday was just a few weeks ago, and she'd be glad to spend even more time with him. The onesie really was expensive. The tag was in its own damn bag. Maybe he was up because he couldn't sleep, or he kept waking up in cold sweats. He didn't know why. His nerves and stress were through the roof. He was fine the day before, but every time he closed his eyes he woke right back up with his heart going a million miles an hour and a sick feeling in his stomach. Not even NyQuill helped. If anything, that made it worse. So for a second, he lay in bed, thinking about everything.

  He still remembers the loud bang of the colliding metal. The ship's meeting and him being thrown off his feet, falling, and having to do something. Having to rescue. Water flooding his clothes and over his body and flooding his brain. It didn't, but maybe it did. Maybe it did, and this was all fake. He'd already died. And the hard feeling of sand digging into his leg and his hair dripping in front of his face, bones aching, back nerves ripping into his thoughts. Harsh breathing. Pulling with teeth. His teeth pulling with as much strength as they could muster and living. The coarse sand between his fingers and grating his skin red. The initial pain after, of his spine hurting like no other. Chronic. Horrible. Aches in the back, his head, whining deliriously as he's on a bed and almost coked out with meds. He still remembers it. He tried, he tried hard, but each time he tried to say it his spine shot imaginary knives through his entire body and he always let out a pathetic sob instead.

Joe. Joe coming back. Joe, Joe, Joe—he didn't leave Jack behind, couldn't, no—no—Joe left and served gloriously but he came. He came back. His brother. His big brother was back and he came to see him. Came to see Jack. Jack was in a horrible state. Pain and gauze and bandages, his spine acting more like poison than a bone. But he got a medal. It was small, it was insignificant, but to him it was proof that he was someone. The effort wasn't for naught. He did something. If his father was proud. Then. That was all that mattered.

Smoke. Water. Salty. Pulling. Sand. Carving. Ache.

He still remembers.

The usual day like this would be fine. Jackie would come over, they'd talk a bit, and she'd take the kids and they'd have fun together. Jack would probably get work done or have a day all to himself—lately it had been going out with Abraham but that wouldn't be possible this time. Bobby was supposed to visit along with Ted to start sorting out the base of what would go on in court. Jack already said he'd pay and Bobby said he'd bring documents for that. He wasn't particularly fascinated by law, but he knew enough that this would be expensive and time-consuming if even one person didn't like how it was going. At least Abraham didn't have to pay, though.

Not everyone had as much money as the Kennedys obviously. That was obvious right from the start. And so Jack didn't feel bad at all about helping Abraham out, god knew he needed it, and it wasn't like he was paying the same amount he'd given to charity before. That was a lot, but not even that put a dent into their money. Paying for Court couldn't either and surely Jefferson didn't charge much. Even if he did, Jack wouldn't feel it. The amount his father gave him in his savings account was enough that he could pay for court a thousand times over.

But he wondered. What was Abraham going to say? Would it be something important or was it a question? The thought circled in his head for the majority of the moment. He'd have to find out, and hopefully soon. For right now, he got up, the pain shooting up his back like an arrow. He was used to it, of course he was, but it still hurt. Jack put on a grey long sleeve and took his pills. He took an extra one—even if it was possibly dangerous, the pain felt way worse today. He brushed his teeth, fixed his hair, and grabbed his phone from the bedside table. There was not much except two texts. One from Bobby, one from Abraham.