You're Up Awfully Late {Septiplier}

Just the Agency

"Jack?" Mark calls softly. "Jack?"

The Irishman groan sleepily, feeling the bed dip. A hand lightly grasps his shoulder, giving him a small shake. Jack eyes flutter open slowly. As his vision adjusts to the soft light form the window, Mark's smiling face comes into focus.

Jack sleepily reaches his fingers out to brush Mark's cheek, lips turning upwards when his fingertips brush his stubble. Mark chuckles softly, taking the green hair man's hand from his face and returning it to the bed.

"I was going to let you sleep, but I figure a bit of food won't hurt," Mark explains, standing from the bed.

"How long was I out?" Jack asks, noticing Chica's absence.

"At least twelve hours," Mark replies, waving him to follow. "That's when I got home, at least."

"Oh," Jack says, just to say something. "Sorry for taking your bed. Don't worry, I showered beforehand."

"It's fine," Mark smiles softly. "Come on, now. Breakfast is getting cold."

Jack nods, throwing the blanket off. Cold air wraps around his legs, nothing but shorts on his lower half. Mark leads him downstairs, where the warmth from the kitchen eases the goosebumps on his arms. The scent of brewing coffee and delicious breakfast meets his nose, encouraging his bare feet to shuffle faster.

Mark points for Jack to sit at the table. The Irishman does so without complaint, watching Mark grab two plates. He loads the first with pancakes and bacon and hash browns, sitting it gently in front of his guest.

"You didn't have to do this," Jack says, a bit guilty imaging the work that must have gone into this.

"It's no big deal," Mark assures, moving to the fridge. He grabs the syrup and orange juice, sitting both on the table. "Black coffee, right?"

Jack nods, cheeks turning pink. He knows it is silly, but he always feels a bit too happy when Mark remembers little things about him, like how he takes his coffee. The American grabs a mug and a cup from the fridge, pouring Jack a portion of piping hot coffee. He brings both to the table, offering Jack the mug.

Jack grabs mug, taking a long drink. He sighs, content, the warm liquid warming his insides. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," the raven smiles, filling his plate. He joins the Irishman when the white face is covered with steaming breakfast, pouring himself a glass of orange juice.

Jack pours syrup onto his pancakes, eating slowly though his stomach feels like a ravenous pit. Trying not to look like a starved animal, he takes small bits from his fork, the flavors exploding on his tongue. It has been far too long since he's had an actually meal.

"Do you want to talk now or do you want to wait?" Mark asks, cutting his pancakes into bite-sized pieces.

The Irishman swallow hard, shaking his head lightly. "I, uh, still have a few... things to work out. I'll try, no, I will have myself together by... lunchtime? Maybe a bit after."

"Jack, I'm worried about you," Mark admits. "When you barged into the convention yesterday? That... that wasn't you. I don't know who that was."

Jack shrugs half heartedly. "I... haven't been doing so well lately. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that to you before your panel."

"Does anyone know you're here?" Mark asks, fearing he already knows the answer, keenly aware no sensible person would let Jack fly across the world in hysterics.

Jack shakes his head slowly, barely moving the muscles in his neck as he focuses on his plate. The small motion is riddled with shame, a voice in his head reminding him that he should have made some plan before escaping to America.

"Jack," Mark sighs, as if he expected a different answer.

The Irishman frowns, gaze dropped. The air turns stiff as he continues to eat, still starving despite the awkward atmosphere. The only sound is the clink of their forks against their plates, the sipping of their drinks from the glasses.

Finally, Mark sighs again, looking up at his friend. He looks much better now, clean and rested. But, he can still remember the greasy hair, crazed eyes, shaky hands of yesterday. He barely looked like himself when he showed up to the panel, certainly wasn't acting like the Jack he remembers.

"I'm sorry," Jack apologizes when the air feels to heavy, as if it may suffocate him. "I should've called you. I should've made some type of hotel arrangement. I'm sorry I just dropped myself on you."

Mark chuckles lightly, almost in disbelief. "That's not the problem. You're always welcome here, bud. Just, my god, please tell your family you're not dead, okay?"

"I've already talked to my brother," he mentions, whatever confident he had in his grand escape dissolving.

"And Signe?"

"I'm... getting to her. Just, trust me on this, okay? I'm going to make everything right."

"Okay," the raven nods, maybe because he does trust Jack or maybe because he doesn't want to fight with him.

Jack sighs, looking down to the floor. His eye catches Chica near his feet, her tail waging slowly. The Irishman smiles softly, gently petting the dog. She places her head on his leg, big brown eyes staring up at him.

"Such a good puppy," Jack coos.

"She really is," Mark grins. "She'll keep you company while I'm gone."

Jack raises his eyebrow.

"Last day of PAX," Mark explains simply. "There's a big collab panel. Word is it was supposed to be Felix's panel, but he denied it. Didn't even show up to the convention."

Jack hums, easing his shaky fingers as he continues to pet Chica. He tries not to think too hard about Felix, about what it could mean for him to avoid PAX. Lunchtime, he reminds himself. He has to have himself together by lunchtime.