(no subject)

He's used to the howling winds and the star strewn skies that greet him come time to sleep. He's used to the memories of rough ground and cold nights and scratchy canvas; of horse blankets and linens that never quite lost the smells of their wives.

So when he turns over and his rough small bed turns into a larger, softer one, he's resigned himself a night (one more night, one less night) without Jack.