Chapter Text
Ten days into their recon mission, Mac and Jack were ready to pack it up and head home. Ten days of eating canned beans warmed over a campfire. Ten days of cured salty meats with enough nitrates and preservatives to keep their own bodies from decomposing later. Jack insisted on shotgunning half a glass of apple cider vinegar every morning "to ward off the flying insects" but all it did was give him a faint but pungent odor after so many days without a proper shower or shave. Of course Mac's face was still as smooth as a baby's bottom, but Jack was starting to look like a grizzly mountain man, especially since he'd stopped shaving as soon as they got word of this mission so he wouldn't feel that new beard itch he gets in the first few days without shaving.
Their basecamp was three miles away from the stakeout site, a nondescript campsite for two regular dudes being dudes in the woods. They'd arrived in a giant maroon pickup truck with a large reservoir of drinking water in the back to conceal all of the nifty surveillance equipment they'd brought with them.
On their first day in the woods, they set up camp and cooked steaks over an open flame; they'd considered using the generator on the diesel truck to run a small refrigerator for cold beer and fresh food, but had only intended to stay a few days to gather intel, of which they still had bupkis. Jack had however refused to budge when it came to lugging the zero gravity chairs to the stakeout site. He dragged them three miles under the guise of darkness, strapped to his back while his partner pulled a wagon full of equipment for their clandestine op.
They'd run out of things to talk about hours ago. Mac put down his knitting needles and stretched as far as he could with a big yawn, elongating his body until his chair extended all the way out flat. He rolled on to his side to face Jack, not expecting his movement to go unnoticed much less be completely ignored. His face twisted into a mix of disappointment and frustration
The last several hours had been silent by all accounts, no activity at the black site they were tasked to watch, and Jack hadn't said a word, concentrating very intently on whatever he was doodling in that notebook. Mac moved emphatically and readjusted the dorky tan boonie hat he was wearing that Jack liked to make fun of him for wearing. His partner still didn't take his eyes from the sketch pad. For a moment, he'd considered throwing something at Jack but figured he could pull him away from his drawing with a little humor.
In a falsetto voice with his head propped up on his elbow Mac squawked at Jack, "Draw me like one of your French girls."
Without missing a beat or taking his eyes off his paper, Jack responded deadpan "I would, but you look like the Crocodile Hunter's grandma with that hat and yarn."
The blonde groaned and whined like a petulant child, "Talk to me, I'm bored!"
Jack put down his pencil and looked straight at his younger partner, "Why don't you keep knitting? Or collect more of that weed you've been stockpiling over there."
"I'm almost out of yarn. I've already finished a second lace shawl for Riley since we've been here. How many black wool accessories does a girl need?"
“So what's this then?” He motioned to the wool pile in Mac's seat.
"Nothing! I've frogged and reknitted this same ball of yarn three times. This,” he held it up in front of his face, “is a sleeve? a leg-warmer? a koozy for that old green Stanley thermos you carry around that's older than my grandfather.” He paused, “I'm so bored, I just needed to keep my hands busy, and circular stockinette is the easiest way to do that. I honestly thought you would be the first to go stir crazy here, and you were close four days ago, but you calmed down." The kid's rant was starting to scare Jack. "What did you do? How did you fix it? Did You ingest some magic mushrooms or poison berries? Peyote? What the hell, man?"
"I don't know, man. It's peaceful. It's quiet. I feel relaxed. This is the easiest mission we've seen in years. Sure it’s taking three times longer than it should have, but I'll call once we get back to basecamp to see if we can pack this operation up tomorrow; it's clear that we're not going to find anything." Jack closed his sketchbook and slid his pencil into the coil, standing up with an invigorating stretch.
While his TAC vest and array of firearms wasn't necessary for this particular recon mission, Jack still kept it stashed at the stakeout site just in case. He did however keep a tiny .22 Sig Mosquito in the pocket of what Riley dubbed his "dad shorts," in case of snakes or rabid vermin. Mac liked to tease Jack about the giant bowie knife strapped to his bare calf. "It was a gift," he replied so many times in response to the jest, "from my SEAL friend McGarrett. I want to be able to tell him I used it."
"But you haven't used it." Mac would always counter.
Jack threw back something different every time, the latest being , "wearing counts as using, even if I don't do something with it. Like would you consider this sock on my foot used before I shoved it down your throat to shut you up, or not until after?" That did indeed shut him up.
Mac went over to his pile of collected weeds, bending and flattening a piece, and pulling it apart. He then turned to Jack and stated as a matter of factly, "Well the purpose of the sock is to be worn on your foot, so yes, the sock is already used. The purpose of the knife is to slice or cut things, which you haven't done."
"But these straps attached to the knife sheath" he motioned enthusiastically with both hands at the straps," are for attaching it to my body, which it is most definitely doing. So it IS being used."
"Ok. Ok. You win. But please go back to wearing full length pants when we get home."
"I dunno, I kinda like the breeze I'm getting up in here." Jack smirked and pulled his thighs apart and pushed them back together repeatedly like a bellows.
Mac made a sound of disgust and turned back to the stick he was tinkering with, pulling and tearing it lengthwise.
“You’ve been fiddling with those sticks since we got here, what in the world are you doing? Weaving baskets?”
"Actually, that’s pretty close. The stinging nettle plant can be harvested for the soft fiber inside and then spun into yarn or fabric,” he explained as he bent and pulled the nettle over and over again, working it until he held the wooden pith in one hand and the soft fibers in the other, “see, the fibers can be spun and used for any textiles, and the wooden pith can be used to make paper. If we were to be stuck here indefinitely, we would not run out of things to do.”
“Hey, don’t put that curse on us. I plan to be in that truck headed back to the land of electricity and Dairy Queen by sun up tomorrow.”
“I sure hope so.” Mac was feeling better after finally breaking up the silence and ecstatic about the prospect of getting back home. While he was definitely an outdoorsy guy, this was not a recreational camping trip. Sure they’d had fun the first few days, bonding and relaxing, but this had grown painfully monotonous.
Jack folded up the chairs and placed them next to the surveillance equipment. “Let’s pack it up and call it a day.”
Looking up at the sky, Mac countered, “We still have a good 3 hours of daylight. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, help me load this crap onto the wagon, I think it's time to call it quits.”
Mac's desperation and earlier ranting, made Jack's decision to pack up and leave without getting permission first a no brainer. Jack would gladly take any write up for insubordination if it meant he got Mac out of there before the kid went stir crazy.
They put their Tetris skills to work and loaded the equipment into a glorious 5 feet tall rectangular prism secured with bungee cords. Jack knew that hanging the lawn chairs off the side of their geometric masterpiece would make Mac's eye twitch, but he did it anyway as Mac slung his messenger bag over his shoulder instead of throwing it on top of the stack where it would sully the finesse of such a beautifully stacked metal monstrosity.
As Jack put the finishing touches on their work of modern art, he heard a gunshot and the clang of a bullet hitting the hollow aluminum frame of the folding chair. "Shit!" he yelped as he took cover behind the wagon, relieved to find his partner was back there before the shot was fired.
"Was that...? " Mac was now crouching.
"I think so, yeah." Jack admired the jagged hole in the chair leg where the projectile had blown through it, still hot to the touch, causing him to hiss and recoil.
"What do you want to do?"
"Not a lot of options here. My damn vest is somewhere in this pile, I've got 10 rounds in this," he pulled back the slide of his .22 to make sure one round was chambered and let it slam back into place. "Maybe it's just a confused hunter thinking he's found big foot's cousin or something." Another shot came from a location to the east of the first, definitely a larger more powerful weapon than the first. "Ok. Then two hunters, or a cheetah with a rifle running real fast. Why you askin' me? You're the one with the brilliant escape plans. I've got a BB gun on steroids; we may not be able to shoot our way out of this without my TAC vest."
"Let's move back toward camp, pulling this along as cover, you can dig for your vest while I pull the wagon. They'll catch up soon enough, but hopefully we'll have time to get what we need out and make a run for it." The wagon was much more difficult to maneuver with the rough terrain, combined with Jack playing Jenga with the pieces of equipment looking for his vest. Mac inverted the handle so he could push while still being shielded by the wagon's contents; it was quite the struggle. The ground was relatively flat, but the brush and other foliage were still a hindrance.
They were still taking fire, but not as much as they'd expected. For every 2 shots, Jack tried to return with one, but the small firearm was really more for making noise more than causing damage. Jack grunted and shoved pieces of expensive surveillance equipment off the stack, crashing to the ground, until he finally found his vest. Sliding it over his head, he secured the velcro straps let out an excited yelp. "It's on now!"
Jogging slightly ahead of his partner's slow progress, to announce his new plan, "I got you covered, man, keep going forward," the final instructions were stern, "and STAY behind this stack."
The blonde gave a nod and kept trudging along. Jack stepped out from the safety of their machine mountain to draw fire away from Mac and to try to get a position on their assailants. He felt a bullet cut by him about a foot away. "I got you now," he growled between his teeth, aimed at the direction the shot came from, and once he saw a glimpse of pink skin, he fired and took the guy out.
Mac had made it a good 30 feet ahead of Jack, so he'd walked backwards to catch up, while keeping an eye out for the second shooter. About 20 Paces later, after no more activity, Jack turned around and trot-jogged toward his partner. When he'd nearly caught up, they heard 2 bangs in quick succession, and Jack went down with a heavy grunt. Mac scrambled toward where his best friend was lying face down on the ground. "Jack!" Another round hit low near Mac's feet, and another burst a tire on the wagon. Loss of the tire made the whole rig completely unbalanced to where hundreds of pounds of metal and electronics were about to topple onto Jack. On a rush of adrenaline, Mac pivoted toward the stack and held it steady, utilizing every limb and muscle he had to keep it from falling apart. The parts removed while looking for the TAC vest had ruined the structural integrity they'd worked so hard to achieve. Stray parts were still clattering to the ground after he stopped the tower from falling over. Mac pushed the majority of the contents in the opposite direction, away from his downed partner. Something snapped in his knee as he shoved the last rogue falling piece away. The equipment landed with a loud crash, and formed a convenient above ground foxhole to protect them for a few moments. Mac fell to the ground clutching his twisted knee. Immediately ignoring that lightning bolt of pain, he pulled himself to a sitting position to look Jack up and down. He rolled Jack onto his back as he began to groan and open his eyes. "Jack? Jack, are you hit? I don't see any blood." The panic in Mac's voice made the hair on Jack's neck stand on end.
"No. Got my vest," he gasped, "in my back," still trying to catch his breath, "knocked the wind out of me. What's wrong with you?" Sharp Inhale. "You hit?" Pained grunting. "Look like you've seen a ghost."
Mac hadn't even realized he was panting through his pain. "Twisted my knee. Think I dislocated it."
"Knee or kneecap?"
"Kneecap maybe knee. Not sure."
"Shit, brother, we need to get that taken care of. Lemme take this fuckstick out so we can get back to the truck and get you to a hospital."
Rage bubbled up inside of Jack and he sprung up with energy he wasn't aware he still possessed. He fired into the trees, hoping the other guy would fire back and give up his location. Two more shots came back in response to his.
"Gotcha" Jack winked as he peeked over their makeshift foxhole, fired two shots in quick succession, and heard the other man fall. From the sound of it, their last assailant had gotten pretty close before being taken out. Standing, he holstered his Glock and put his left hand hand out to help pull Mac up. With practiced efficiency and grace, the blonde stood on his left leg and hooked his right arm across Jack's shoulders.
"You sure you're ok?" Mac questioned when Jack moved a little more awkwardly as they adjusted to balance their newly combined weight. Jack responded with a quick nod, and with a silent count of three in a speed and cadence well established over their years together in various states of crippling injury, they took off without another word.
Mac dug his fingers into Jack's shoulder as if his life depended on it, like squeezing harder would somehow diminish his pain. They hobbled along together, back toward basecamp when another round buzzed by Jack 's arm. Thankfully a miss, Jack tried to pivot himself without moving Mac to face their newest unexpected shooter. The death grip on his shoulder only slightly affecting his muscle memory for firing. Jack compensated for that, hitting the final suspect center mass. As he went down, the assailant squeezed off one final shot, hitting Mac's inner left thigh. Jack cursed himself for not going for a headshot, but he wasn't sure if the less than ideal shooting conditions would decrease his accuracy too much.
The jarring impact and loss of Mac's weight bearing leg almost sent them to the ground, but Jack wrenched his already bruised back to keep them upright. Mac could tell his older partner was trying to get a look at the injury, so he grunted through clenched teeth, "Just a flesh wound, keep going. There still might be more."