Jack isn't up at this hour on purpose, not lately. His party days may not be far behind him, but they are behind him, or at least swept under the run with the rest of his vices. He has morning meetings, places to be and things to do in far too few hours to be awake right now. Too bad that's not in the cards tonight.

If it's the Militia's rounds that wake him, it isn't until they're near finished, and he isn't thinking clearly enough to be aware of it, not consciously. He simply finds himself sitting up in bed, awake, alert, every nerve in his body on edge – and he tells himself it's nothing, because it's always nothing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, hold the breath in his lungs until it burns just to remind himself how to feel, and he's up. He checks the locks, then the windows, just– just because. He doesn't analyze it; he does it, and when that doesn't settle him, he grabs a bottle and a cigarette and heads to the terrace.

A squeaky hinge harbingers his arrival, followed by a quick flash of the match, then the slow glow of his cigarette as he takes a drag before stepping out away from the door. It's fucking freezing out here, by the way. (...Granted, it would help if he'd remembered to put on a shirt.)