Besides his wrench, all the weaponry Jack has at this apartment is stashed untidily around the living room. He gathers them all around himself and retreats to the couch, which is far more comfortable than it has any right to be. No more perching on wet splintery wood or cold stone for Jack, no sir. He's living the high life right now.

For a while he's content to check and reload the guns, and clean them a bit on the sleeve of his borrowed robe. (Sorry mister Sinclair. It should wash off?) The ambient noise of the lounge becomes the peaceful clicking of metal and sliding of lead. After a little while he's doing it horizontal, head on his arm, cosily watching the light reflect off the barrel of his shotgun. Jack's free arm's curled around his wrench like it's a teddy bear.











Sinclair better not laugh, because he's totally fallen asleep again.