The cold only bothers him first thing in the morning. Once he’s up and moving, he barely notices. But right now, lying in his empty bed surrounded by an Eastern seaboard winter, his body aches to its marrow.
The other agents at the Supernatural Cases Division think he’s invincible, but it’s only half true. Inside, he’s a patchwork of grafts and mends. He may not need casts or bed rest, but broken bones magically healed still leave their mark, still remember their weakness when the weather shifts.
He grunts with the effort of swinging his legs to the floor. The comminuted femur complains as he stands, his slight weight too much for the patch yet. A trio from the left foot creaks in agreement, chorusing with ribs six through twelve as he stretches, hitching at a shoulder dislocated so many times he’s lost count.
Moving warms the blood in stiff muscles as he washes his face. Long fingers with round knuckles slide over a thin jaw calloused at the hinge, glide across fine hair hiding sutures opened and closed. Thankfully, brushing his teeth doesn’t raise any alarms.
Body done with its complaints, Jack Alexander slides on his ubiquitous black suit like a second skin that covers his fractured skeleton and steps out into the frozen DC air, wondering how today will try to break him.
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