He is not fretting, nor is he sulking, worrying, pouting, or whining.
He's just constantly touching Jack's cold, lifeless body, pacing -- though never far enough away to take his eyes off his childe -- and occasionally kicking the wall, just because it was looking at him funny.
Sawyer's never spent a longer day, living or undead, and he keeps obsessively checking the wounds on Jack's neck, the scratches on his body. They do look smaller, don't they? Magic of turning, and all.
Sawyer feels the sun set and stalks back over to the bed, glowering at Jack.
He is going to rise now, isn't he?
An hour later, he's still staring, and hungry to boot. But no way in hell is he leaving to find food, so he orders take-out Chinese -- door-to-door delivery -- and chucks the body out the window after sucking down dinner.
Sawyer sits on the bed, tapping his thigh restlessly, eyes burning on Jack's form. Something... nothing's changed in Jack's position, but Sawyer swears he can feel electricity zinging in the air, blood calling, and he moves a little closer to Jack, hand resting on the bed, brushing lightly against Jack's.