Sinclair, on the other hand, while managing to sleep better than Jack usually got to, has been unable to sleep a full night since he came to Rapture. There's a constant glow coming in the windows from the neon of the city and those Wales geniuses decided that no one in Rapture would need blinds. There's more to it than that, he thinks, but he doesn't care to examine it any further. He misses the sun, same as everyone else down here, but it's not that. Still, when he and Jack reach the surface, he intends to take a full day to do nothing but lie on the beach. Sometimes he just feels pale, it'll be good to get some color again.
And, you know, it doesn't hurt that once he's settled in up there he'll be able to have a whole island to himself if he wants it. Which he does. You better believe he does.
He lies in bed, staring out of his window at the sea. The tangled seaweed that flaps about in the current, the ugly brown fish that settle above the muck. It's not exactly a tropical paradise. And yeah, the city is beautiful, the entire concept is nothing short of a miracle, but at the end of the day he sure as hell is not going to miss this place.
And then there's a sound that interrupts his thoughts, through his open door out in the living room. It's quiet, but usually his entire suite is dead silent, any noise is out of place at night. It occurs to him that it's not impossible his concerns were valid ones, and his guest is politely plundering his drawers and cabinets. But then again, he doubts Jack's abilities to do something like that this quietly.
Sinclair swings his feet around to the ground, pushing himself up onto his good leg using his night stand. He limps along the wall until he can lean in the door frame and tries to listen a little more closely.
It sounds like...sniffling. And in the pallid light filtering through the windows, he can make out the indefinite form of shaking shoulders pressed into the sofa cushions. Jack is crying.
Oh christ, Jack is crying. Sinclair is now faced with the option of attempting to console him or ignoring him and listening to his quiet piteous whimpers until one of them falls asleep again.
And that sounds utterly miserable.
Sinclair clears his throat. "Can I get you anything, son?"
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And, you know, it doesn't hurt that once he's settled in up there he'll be able to have a whole island to himself if he wants it. Which he does. You better believe he does.
He lies in bed, staring out of his window at the sea. The tangled seaweed that flaps about in the current, the ugly brown fish that settle above the muck. It's not exactly a tropical paradise. And yeah, the city is beautiful, the entire concept is nothing short of a miracle, but at the end of the day he sure as hell is not going to miss this place.
And then there's a sound that interrupts his thoughts, through his open door out in the living room. It's quiet, but usually his entire suite is dead silent, any noise is out of place at night. It occurs to him that it's not impossible his concerns were valid ones, and his guest is politely plundering his drawers and cabinets. But then again, he doubts Jack's abilities to do something like that this quietly.
Sinclair swings his feet around to the ground, pushing himself up onto his good leg using his night stand. He limps along the wall until he can lean in the door frame and tries to listen a little more closely.
It sounds like...sniffling. And in the pallid light filtering through the windows, he can make out the indefinite form of shaking shoulders pressed into the sofa cushions. Jack is crying.
Oh christ, Jack is crying. Sinclair is now faced with the option of attempting to console him or ignoring him and listening to his quiet piteous whimpers until one of them falls asleep again.
And that sounds utterly miserable.
Sinclair clears his throat. "Can I get you anything, son?"