Jim wakes up comfortably and early. He can usually force himself to get four to six hours when necessary, when there's shit going down but there's literally nothing he can do but wait for a while, and get himself into the best possible state for dealing with said shit.

This shouldn't be possible, though. He's been worried. Learning the truth sure hasn't made him less worried. He should've slept fitfully at best.

Must be the man in his arms. Reassuring his hindbrain that yeah, things are horrible but he has the best person in the universe with him and they can handle everything together.

Stupid hindbrain.

Jim's lips curve in a reflexive smile, though, as he peers down at his best friend's face. Everything's softened while he sleeps. Eyes, forehead. Those tiny angry lines around his mouth.

...his mouth.

No, idiot. Take it easy. You act on that impulse and it'll come across as confused pity.