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Chapter Text

0o0o0 JACK

When Jack returned, mission accomplished, there was a darkness hanging over everything. He’d kept his sanity with dreams of Mac’s deck, of laughter and easy silences with people he had a genuine drive to be around and protect. But he isn’t the same and neither is anyone else, least of all Mac.

Months had dragged into a year, then three years, and Jack knew it wasn’t going to be easy for any of them despite the comfortable warmth of his dreams. He underestimated how changed he’d been by all he’d seen and lost chasing Kovacs. He knew from the few messages he’d managed to exchange with Mac, Riley and Bozer that a darkness had crept into his Phoenix family too, and he wasn’t blind enough to assume he could just saunter in and make any of it better.

His things were moved to Mac’s garage after the temporary shutdown of the Phoenix Foundation. His apartment rent was not deemed a sustainable expense by the army on an open-ended mission. Now Jack slept on the couch or sometimes on the deck, when he slept at all. He had the spare room of course, but it felt too closed in for now.

He walked the in-between with no destination in mind; it simply felt wrong whenever he stayed still. The open Californian sky was a balm to his soul that he didn’t know he needed.  Movement kept the darkness at bay. The anxious energy wasn’t new. He got familiar with it after Delta, before he joined the CIA, between his last deep cover op and his sudden decision to reenlist and ship out to Afghanistan. But he’d never been deployed for three years straight before. The short and rare long weekends back home to a strained sort of happy notwithstanding.

He wasn’t good, but neither was Mac. Problem was, Jack wasn’t sure if there was enough of him left to patch things up and get back to some semblance of a new version of his old life. The one where he loved and protected the family that he’d built around him. Held them close and safe above all else as they held him together. The one place he’d been happy, before he accepted a mission that, despite good intentions, may have ruined it all.

0o0o0 MAC

Mac was relieved to have Jack back. He really was. After three years he’d found his mind going to dark places, wondering if his friend would ever return as promised. He just wasn’t sure how to feel or what to say. He’d fallen into a trap of speaking to Jack as if he was there, even though he was deployed. He’d spent many hours sitting at Jack Dalton Senior’s grave and pouring his heart out over a six pack of whatever beer was on special that week; discussing the latest sadness and guilt falling heavy on his heart and mind alike. It was like being co-dependent on a ghost, one he hoped was still alive somewhere between the covertly short contacts they were allowed and the deafeningly long silences.

Returned Jack barely seemed to sleep, at least his bed was rarely slept in. Mac was aware that Jack moved to and from the house, but he’s rarely seen him. It’s as if, three years, fifteen days and five hours after Jack was deployed, and the Kovacs mission finally ended, maybe Jack didn’t really make it home in one piece. Mac hoped the ghostly graveside companion he’d been keeping alive wasn’t all that remained of the Jack he remembered.

This Jack hadn’t been there for all those heart-to-heart chats that lived in Mac’s mind. The Jack that returned was darker, heavier somehow. His movements that used to expand to fill a room, now seemed dim, tired and hesitant.

Mac felt he didn’t have the right to burden this new version of Jack with all the things he’d shared at Jack Senior’s gravesite. Death and guilt and distrust now formed Mac’s day-to-day existence; his litany of failures stalked his days and stole his sleep. Jack’s council, even imagined, had helped Mac get through.

Now, Mac drank in the evening, putting away the alcohol no longer for relaxing pleasure, but as mechanical attempt at self-soothing that he was smart enough to know was not very good. He builds things constantly when he isn’t on a mission. He doesn’t twist paperclips anymore; everything must have a purpose. Work is all that he has now, more so than ever before, and the idea that maybe with every save, every win, every good intention, just maybe, he can reduce the loss and guilt and pain a little.  

This is the man Mac has become.

He feels wrung out and stripped bare. He doesn’t know if or how he can help Jack to push back the darkness, when he doesn’t know how to help himself.

0o0o0

Jack had driven to the Santa Monica Pier. He walked the famous beaches, passed briefly through the throng of tourists loudly entertained at the famous amusement park, and shared a pie with the seagulls as the sun started to wane and the famous ferris wheel was back lit by a purpling sky.

When the sky was as dark as it could get with LA’s light pollution, faint stars shining, he walked tiredly to the GTO, scrunched up the parking fine plastered to the glass and headed back to Mac’s place. Not home. Not these days. But a place to sleep, if only briefly.

The house was dark. Jack set his keys in the bowl by the side table with a quiet chink of metal on ceramic, then froze as he sensed he wasn’t alone. He reached for the Glock concealed only by his baggy shirt and cocked it, not bothering to hide the sound.

“I know you’re there,” he stated in a no-nonsense military voice. Keeping his gun trained forward, Jack flicked the lights on.

Mac’s head snapped up, squinting into the light as if Jack were a teenager home late for curfew and now busted by an irate parent. He didn’t look remotely scared or apologetic as Jack lowered his weapon.

“What the hell, Mac?”

Usually Mac was out, asleep or consumed with a project at this time of night, but tonight found Mac apparently waiting up, with enough empties beside him for the smell of beer to permeate the room even with the sliding doors open.

“Look what the cat dragged in. I wasn’t sure you still lived here,” the words were quiet, but not pleasant.

Mac waved the half-finished bottle in his hand and seemed to melt even further into the couch. It wasn’t a remotely relaxed posture though and that, more than the words, kept Jack on edge.

Jack stowed his weapon and quietly raised an eyebrow unsure how to handle this situation. He thought he and Mac had been pretty actively avoiding each other. Jack was walking on eggshells around Mac, making himself scarce so as not to be a bother while the black dog of depression followed him around. But he had been fairly sure the avoidance had been mutual.

“You almost gave me a heart attack, hoss. Maybe leave some lights on now and then.”

Jack chuckled half-heartedly, trying for a levity he didn’t feel. His hands shook and he clenched them into fists for a moment before running one over his mouth and through the stubble at his jawline.

Mac didn’t reply, except to stare at Jack with a silent intensity that makes the air in the room turn heavy. Jack could suddenly feel the walls of the house close in on him. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he walked quickly out onto the deck and leaned against the railing, sucking in fresh air as he stared blindly at the city skyline.

He felt, more than heard Mac follow him outside. His inebriated footfalls were an unsteady rhythm on the wooden decking. Mac leaned on the railing too, far enough from Jack to be well out of his personal space.

“You really can’t even stand to be around me, can you?” Mac stated, his words slurred a little.

The words hit Jack harder than a punch ever could and he turned from the view to face Mac, denial ready on his lips, but Mac wasn’t finished.

“I thought we could talk. But it . . . it was selfish. I know I’d only burden you further, and . . .” Mac paused as he flung his arms out wide in a hopeless gesture made larger by alcohol and fatigue.

He wavered for a moment as his balance failed him and then his hand came down, still holding the bottle, and hit the top of the railing. The smash of the bottle was loud in the silence that followed. Mac raised his now empty hand, and blinked slowly at the blood dripping freely from his palm.

Mac was not close enough for Jack to prevent the damage, but he was in front of Mac almost before he was aware of moving. He picked up Mac’s hand carefully in both of his own, gently inspecting the injury. The cut was long and deep across Mac’s palm but, as Jack gently manipulated each of Mac’s fingers, he was satisfied here was no real functional damage. Jack let out a relieved breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

"I don’t think it’s bad but, I think it’ll need stitches, hoss." 

Jack’s words were as gentle and when he straightened up from inspecting the cut, Mac was staring directly at him; so still he gave the impression of a deer frozen in headlights. Jack was so close that he could feel Mac’s breath hitching slightly and see the glossy shine of unshed tears in his bloodshot eyes.

Jack released one hand from Mac’s and squeezed his shoulder instead. “Hey, let’s wrap this up, bud.”

Mac nodded in silent agreement. There was nothing out on the deck to use to staunch the bleeding, so Jack tugged Mac’s arm, using his hold on Mac’s hand to lead him back inside. Mac followed placidly enough. None of the aggression was on display from before, but this new behaviour wasn’t any less worrying. Jack was torn between slapping him for a response and giving him a hug. He did neither.

Clearly, Mac was correct. They did need to talk.  But right now, was perhaps not the best moment for it. Inside, Jack grabbed a fresh dish towel from the kitchen and wrapped it around Mac’s hand.  Mac sat obediently on the couch, some of the empty bottles clinked as his foot accidentally knocked against them, and Jack went to grab the first aid kit.

Jack knelt down in front of Mac and carefully unfurled the dish towel, then dug around in the first aid box until he had a roll of bandage. Mac’s hand was only bleeding sluggishly now, clearly no major blood vessels were hit, but that wasn’t too surprising with a cut across the palm.

“Let’s wrap it up a bit neater, then I’ll drive. Your choice, emergency or Phoenix med.”

“You stitch it, Jack. You’ve done it before in the field. I’m not going to medical like this, and I’ll be waiting hours at emergency,” Mac’s voice was flat, but his eyes were determined steel. Even after more than three years, Jack knew that look well.

“Emergency would be better. I’ll wait with you. We’re not in the field, Mac. And there’s nothing in here to numb your hand. I . . .” Jack’s voice caught a little and he swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mac. Not when I don’t have to.”

“Little too late for that,” Mac muttered under his breath, but this close to him there was no way Jack couldn’t hear it.

“What was that, hoss?” Jack breathed.

“You heard me. And I’m plenty numb enough already.” Mac brought his head up, defiantly staring into Jack’s soul as he kicked the bottles at his feet again, deliberately this time. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“I guess I deserve that.” Jack spoke despite the lump in his throat. “Fine. I’m not going to fight you on this and you need that hand stitched or it’s just going to get infected.” Jack threw the bandage, still in its plastic wrap, back into the first aid box and pointed to the kitchen. “You know the drill, several minutes irrigation under the tap. Scrub it out gently. I’ll set up on the kitchen bench.”

Thank Phoenix for insisting on over-stocking medical supplies in and around their agents. Jack dug through the first aid box with a purpose now, retrieving a suture kit, antiseptic wipes, sterile bandages. He’d laid several large triangle bandages, straight from their plastic wrap, out on the benchtop after wiping the whole thing down with antiseptic, just as Mac turned from the sink.

“You’re sure you want to do it this way?” Jack asked one more time.

“Yeah, I am.”

Mac pulled up the stool on the kitchen side of the bench using his uninjured left hand, settled into it and then laid his right hand in the middle of the sterile space Jack had set up. Jack looked at Mac’s face, his eyes determined but sad, and couldn’t help but at least feel a little relieved that there was absolute trust in that gesture.

Mac had just given him his hand. And despite whatever was going on with him, he’d essentially just said I trust you to stab my hand with sharp things. Even as he had no desire to hurt the kid and would rather be driving him in to medical; if this was what they had for now, Jack could work with that.

Jack grunted, snapped on gloves and opened an antiseptic wipe packet.  Taking Mac’s hand, he cleaned right into the cut, eliciting a small hiss from Mac, then around it. Once he was done, he looked back again at Mac, one eyebrow raised as he paused before ripping open the suture kit – an unspoken final chance to back out.

Mac raised an eyebrow too and nodded to the kit. Jack ripped it open.

He steadied Mac’s hand, positioning it at the best angle for him to make sutures, then he started talking.

“I’ve been walking a lot lately. Need the space to not think too much, you know? Seems better than the last time I was in this headspace and just sat on the couch.” Jack shrugged gently. “So, I was at the pier today and the sunset was so lit up, it reminded me a little of Texas. I mean, clearly not the setting, not the beach and the wheel, but the colours, you know?”

Mac grunted in surprise as the small curved needle pushed through his skin, clearly concentrating on Jack’s lilting words, maybe even Jack’s admissions contained inside them, rather than on his hand. Jack tied off the first stitch and positioned the next, ignoring as best he could the small breathy sounds of pain that Mac was apparently incapable of containing tonight. Likely the intoxication had made him less aware of his reactions than usual.

Mac’s fingers twitched now and then, though his hand remained in place. So, Jack kept talking. Words flowed without too much thought as he kept his attention on the delicate work, and on making sure, he hoped, that he wouldn’t be the cause another scar on Mac if he could prevent it.

“I know you’ve been in a bad place too and, I thought . . . I don’t know, I guess I thought I wouldn’t burden you further with my troubles,” Jack continued.

Mac made another noise that sounded like pain, but Jack hadn’t repositioned the needle yet. He looked up in surprise to see Mac’s expression was an unreadable mix of sadness and something else; guilt maybe. Jack quickly moved back to stitching, pushed the needle through a little too quickly and Mac twitched and gasped.  Jack stopped immediately.

“Sorry, sorry, hoss. That one’s on me. I’ll give you a moment, okay.  Breathe it out.  Anyway, the colours at the peer were amazing tonight, purples and reds and . . .”

“I was waiting up for you tonight,” Mac cut in on Jack’s rambling monologue.  “I did it wrong though. I didn’t mean to . . .” Mac sighed. His fingers twitched again brushing against Jack’s arm. His shoulders slumped forward further and Jack brought his own head down to bump their foreheads.

“You don’t have to apologise, kid. Let’s just finish this patch job first . . .” Jack tapped Mac’s hand gently. “. . . and work on patching the rest from there.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Mac’s words were quiet again, accepting. Jack repositioned the needle as Mac stoically straightened himself back up.

Jack was good at this, if he said so himself. His hands were firm and steady when he needed them to be. Afterall, he was a sniper. This was simple in comparison. Needle driver in his right hand, forceps in the other and he used his left arm to hold Mac’s hand in place a little; tried to stop his fingers twitching quite so much.

“Only two more, okay.  You got this.  What was I saying, oh yeah, you ever seen a real Texan sunset, kid? We must’ve seen at least a few that time you came for Christmas on the ranch.  I once kissed the prettiest girl in my senior year on a haycart under that kinda sunset. Well we kissed first and then . . .” 

“Jack?” Mac’s exasperation was feigned and it felt just a little bit like old times for a moment.

In Jack’s peripheral vision, Mac’s mouth twitched into something like a small smile, despite the hiss of pain that followed as Jack poked the needle through once more and finished off the next stitch.

“All I’m saying is there’s good memories to go with Texan sunsets.” 

They continued on that way, Jack talking of things of little of consequence until the job was done. Mac moved his hand, testing the stitches a little before Jack gently ran another antiseptic wipe over them and then bandaging it all lightly. Jack stood and balled all the packaging up inside one of the triangle bandages and trashed it.

Mac stood up just as Jack was drying his hands after cleaning up. He saw Mac wobble, unsteady on his feet. Then Mac went suddenly paler than usual.

“Jack?”

Jack was close enough to quickly grab him and steer him to the sink. And as he held him up, rubbing calming circles in his back while Mac threw up violently, Jack realised he’d been an idiot to make himself scarce.  They needed each other, always had, and as the alcohol and pain combined to just about take Mac’s legs out from under him, Jack propped him up against his side and steered him to bed.

He was sure of one thing, something needed to change.

0o0o0

Mac woke up to a splitting headache and the feeling that something had crawled into his mouth and died. He groaned, shifting to his back before deciding that was a terrible idea. The move left his head spinning, even before he’d opened his eyes, and he swallowed down on the nausea. He became aware also of a throbbing pain in his hand.

Cracking open one eye, he brought his hand up to his face and stared at the bandage. There were spots of blood on it and Mac carefully peeled it back to take in the stitches underneath . . . and it all suddenly came back to him. The waiting, the confrontation and how Jack had cared for him. He’d cared for him, even though he was behaving like a stroppy drunk teenager.

“Ugh.”  He squeezed his hand closed, letting the painful pull of the stitches clear his head a little.

He cracked both eyes open and looked more carefully around the room. On the bedside table, settled carefully where he’d see them, was a bottle of water, an Alka-Seltzer, some paracetamol and plain crackers. Next to the bed was a bucket. Mac felt his eyes water as a lump formed in his throat and he found himself rapidly blinking back tears.

He wasn’t a baby and he didn’t cry over a splitting headache or nausea no matter how disorientating they felt at this moment. It was by no means the first time he’d woken up feeling like an idiot for drinking and knowing he’d do it again anyway.  But he couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared for him like this. Cared enough to leave comfort items on his bedside table.  

When had his life become so complicated, that he was crying over crackers and water and drugs? And he was, crying that is. He realised that at some point, lost in thought, he forgot to blink back the hot tears now flowing down his face.

Mac curled into a ball facing the thoughtful beside gifts and he let the tears come. He sobbed, eyes squeezed shut and face tucked beneath the comforter in the hope he wouldn’t be heard, but he sobbed nonetheless. He just let himself wallow and sulk and feel like he hadn’t in so long.

At some point he realised there was a warm hand rubbing careful circles between his shoulders. A voice he knew so well, yet had missed for so long, was murmuring something comforting in a Texan drawl thick with worry.  Mac opened his eyes to find himself staring straight into Jack’s face.  The man had at some point entered his room and knelt down in front of him and, with that and the simple act of placing crackers on his night stand earlier, he’d made Mac realise all that was missing from his life right now.

“. . . Let’s go, hoss. We’ll pack up, take off, just the two of us. We can get our shit back together and we can do it together, yeah? What do you say?” 

Mac tuned into the words, not knowing how many had come before. He’d stopped crying now, but his shoulders still shook a little as Jack continued to rub a soothing pattern along his arm. Jack’s big brown eyes looked hopefully into Mac’s own. His eyebrows furrowed in that worried look that had always made Mac feel a little guilty for causing it. It didn’t make sense that Jack could still be so kind after the way he’d behaved last night, but Mac didn’t want to move. He didn’t want it to end.

“Mac?” Jack asked, his hand pausing the comforting movement. “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. Yeah whatever you want Jack,” Mac murmured, thankful when Jack gave the back of his neck a gentle squeeze.

“Good.  You try some crackers and water and I’ll pack us some supplies. You’ll see, this might be what we both need. Just pack yourself a go-bag and I’ve got the rest.”

Jack shifted off the floor, knees cracking with the effort, as he left Mac to slide himself up against the headboard and carefully reach for the water bottle. Mac only wished he knew what he’d just agreed to.  

0o0o0

By the time Mac stumbled out of the shower and into jeans and a flannel shirt over a plain white t-shirt, his wet hair askew and his eyes still squinting at the lights, he was feeling marginally more human. He could hear Jack’s footsteps trekking up and down the internal stairs to the garage. No doubt he was loading one of the cars for the trip. Which car he was loading would depend on where they were going. Where Mac had agreed to go.

Mac grabbed a medium-sized duffle from the back of his closet and briefly contemplated his options. Layers seemed the best idea. He always packed layered clothing in his go-bag for missions anyway and, since it was cooler this time of year even for L.A., it would let him cope with any weather wherever it was they were going. Toiletry bag, underwear and socks, an extra pair of shoes and his jacket and he was pretty much done. He added a hat, his IFAK, a reusable drink bottle and a packet of water purification tablets just in case. The duffle was barely half full, but that wasn’t a surprise, after all his entire lifestyle was about travelling light.

Bag packed, he sat down on the end of his bed and scrubbed the heels of his hands into his gritty eyes. There was still plenty of room in the bag and he really wasn’t sure how long they’d be gone. Decision made, he moved to his dresser and rummaged in the bottom drawer until he found the bottle of whisky he stashed for a rainy day. As he was lifting up some of the clothing in his duffle bag to make a soft pocket for it, he felt rather than heard Jack freeze behind him.

Mac paused in his movement as Jack, now aware he’d been noticed, made a noise somewhere between clearing his throat and a pained sigh. Mac, felt himself freeze like a deer in headlights, breath suddenly coming too hard as his throat felt tight with shame. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Jack as he moved in close enough to lean in next to him.

Jack reached a hand out cautiously until he was also holding the bottle. His large ring clinked against the glass in the silence between them and they both winced as if the bottle were an IED that could explode at any moment.  Mac could hear Jack’s breath also coming too harshly.

Jack’s voice was low and soft when he finally spoke. “Maybe, let’s try without that, hoss?”

Mac slumped, not sure what to say, but he released the bottle and Jack pulled it out of his slack grip without a word and backed away, moving back to the doorway as quietly as he’d arrived. Mac swiped at tear that slipped down his face, but still couldn’t make himself turn to face Jack.

“I’m almost packed,” Mac all but whispered

“Take your time, bud. I’ll back the truck out and meet you out front when you’re ready.” Jack’s receding footsteps matched his quiet words as he left Mac to gather himself back together.

For a moment, Mac thought about not going. But that thought was childish. Jack was right. The last few moments had just proven that, as if last night hadn’t already. Mac pushed his thumb along the line of stitches running through his palm and sucked a breath in at the pain it caused him even as he used it to center himself.

They used to work everything out as a team. Mac and Jack, inseparable, co-dependent, like family. This might be the hardest place they’d had to get out of yet, but if they could live through Cairo and come out better for it . . .

With a deep breath Mac stood and shouldered the duffel bag. He locked the front door behind him.

Chapter Text

Jack waited in Mac’s Toyota. He’d rather drive the GTO, but while the classic car was made for road trips, it was not a wise choice for rough roads. Mac and Jack had spent a weekend once before at Mac’s grandfather’s cabin and it was not an easy drive. The first time that was part of the fun if Jack was honest. He’d whooped happily as the borrowed Phoenix four-wheel drive had cut through the rough dirt roads like butter. Mac’s truck would no doubt do the same. The diesel engine purred quietly around him as it idled in front of the house.

His fingers beat an anxious rhythm on the steering wheel. Jack hadn’t deliberately walked in on Mac but, once Mac had noticed he was there, he couldn’t just pretend he hadn’t seen what he’d been doing. Now he wasn’t sure if he’d blown the whole thing. After the previous evening, he’d dared to imagine they might both be due for some healing. Some time to quietly gather themselves, maybe even get back to the partnership they’d had before the Kovacs mission and before Mac had been forced to take a break. He hoped he wasn’t wrong.

When Mac appeared at the front door and turned to lock it behind him, duffle slung loosely over his shoulder, Jack not only breathed a sigh, but found himself wiping a few tears from his face that slipped out from under his sunglasses. The feeling of relief was that big he found himself unexpectedly slammed by it.

“Get a hold of yourself, Jack,” he muttered, breathing deeply in an attempt to do just that. It wouldn’t do for Mac to find him balling his eyes out in the driver’s seat.

Mac slipped into the passenger seat with raised eyebrows. “We’re taking my truck?”

“Yeah, man. You know what the roads are like close to Harry’s cabin. Much as I hate to admit it, your truck’s better suited to the trip. Just don’t tell Baby.” Jack gave a low chuckle, relieved his voice was steady and Mac seemed oblivious to his little breakdown of just moments before.

“Harry’s cabin?” Mac looked surprised.

“Sure, like we talked about. Where did you think we were going?” Jack, tilted his sunglasses down his nose a little and gave Mac a once over.

“Yeah, yeah of course. Better get going then.”  Mac’s voice was flat and unreadable, but he pulled the door closed and fastened his seatbelt, before staring expectantly out the front windscreen. 

Alright then , Jack thought. He pulled out his CD case, fed a random Willie Nelson album into the player built into the dash, and peeled out into the street. If Jack’s trepidation showed at all it was in his foot pushing a little heavier than necessary on the gas, but Mac didn’t seem to notice, already apparently lost in his own head.

It had been late morning by the time they’d left town, with a pause for fuel and lunch snacks, it was late into the afternoon by the time they arrived at the cabin. The truck’s suspension bumped gently over the last of the dirt road and Jack reversed up to the front door.

“Well, here we are,” Jack stated. He cut the engine and allowed his hands to restlessly slide over the wheel for a moment as he took in the cabin before them.

Calling it a cabin made it sound like a wooden shack but in reality, Harry wasn’t a complete wilderness freak. There was always camping for that. The log cabin was rustic, yes, but it was also a professionally built two-bedroom home with all the basic conveniences. The wooden beams inside and out made it blend nicely with the wild surroundings.

“Yeah, here we are,” Mac confirmed. “I’ll go find the key.” Mac unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed his duffel from the back seat, and was soon digging around for the hidden rock he knew contained the key.

Jack took his time getting out of the truck. He stretched his back and arms, taking everything in carefully, before beginning to unpack the supplies. Mac had explained to Jack the one time they had stayed here together - and wasn’t that a long time ago now - that when he came here with his grandfather as a child, it was to fish and read, take trail walks and just get away from modern life.

Jack thought that sounded like heaven right now. Quiet open spaces and a chance to breathe fresh air. No people or loud noises. He just hoped Mac would benefit too. Puttering around doing endless projects by himself at home certainly didn’t seem to be helping from the little Jack had observed.

Now that he’d dragged Mac out here though, Jack was suddenly aware he didn’t have any plans for what to do once they got here. The cabin could use some maintenance work. He knew from last time they were here there was a firepit and some old books and board games. Maybe they could do some tracking and hiking. Well, they’d just have to figure it out. There was no way Jack was abandoning the place now. They were here until they both felt more human. However long that took.

Jack unhooked the tray cover and hefted the cooler of food out and his personal duffel bag out of the tray. The rest of the supplies they could bring in at a more leisurely pace. 

Inside, he found Mac standing stock still in the main room looking around.  The place had clearly not been lived in for a while. Dust coated most surfaces. It could use some maintenance too; one of the kitchen cupboards hung at an angle and when Jack stepped forward a floorboard creaked heavily causing Mac to swing around suddenly.

“Just me, hoss,” Jack greeted. “Looks like nobody’s been here for a while, huh.”

“Honestly, last time I was here was with you,” Mac answered, turning back to his inspection of the cabin. “My grandfather wouldn’t be happy I let it get this run down.” 

Mac’s voice was small and it reminded Jack that this is more than just a cabin for Mac. It was a place Mac came with his grandfather. The closest thing to a father figure he had for most of his adolescence. And with his father recently gone, such as he was . . . Jack swallowed, hoping this wasn’t a bad idea after all.

“We could work on fixing up the place together if you like. Doesn’t look too bad. Your grandfather had tools up here if I’m rememberin’ right.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did,” Mac sounded a little lost still, but he smiled at Jack. “Hey I’ll go start the generator. Get the lights on and the fridge going before it gets too dark.”

With that Mac wandered outside, purpose in his tired steps. Jack finished unpacking the truck.

When Jack came back inside with the last few items, the lights were on, the fridge was humming, a fire burned cheerily in the fireplace and the dust covers had been removed from the few soft furnishings. Overall, the place looked a lot more like the comfortable cabin he remembered.

In the middle of it all, Mac was sacked out on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes in a way that made him look much more like the nineteen-year-old kid Jack had met in Afghanistan rather than the thirty-year-old man he was now. Jack felt his lips quirk in a smile at the sight of him.

“Hey, Mac?” Jack Kept his voice soft.

“Hmm?” Mac replied.

“How about you claim a bedroom and get some real sleep?”

“Hmm,” Mac responded. Tone lower, than the first hum, but not convincingly awake.

Jack chuckled gently and carefully shook Mac’s shoulder. “Mac, buddy? Did you hear me?”

“Hmm?,” Mac hummed again, but this time Mac dropped his arm from his face and opened his eyes to squint up at Jack.

“I said, you might want to claim a room before you fall asleep on the couch,” Jack repeated.

Mac yawned gently and pushed himself up until he was sitting. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll take you up on the maintenance help in the morning though.”

Jack watched Mac shuffle, half asleep into his usual bedroom. Jack looked around. The fire would burn down on its own. Mac had set it up expertly as always. He switched off the main lights and, despite what he’d just told Mac, settled in on the couch himself. He was kidding himself to think he wasn’t planning to sleep here in the bigger space of the living area with the bonus of the hypnotic crackling of the fire.

Jack snapped awake, the sound of the gunfire and screams that haunted his sleep receding to the back of his mind as he tried to slow his breathing. He ran his shaking hands back and forth through his short hair, concentrating on the stubbly softness beneath his fingers and allowing the repetitive gesture to sooth him a little.

When he looked up, he was surprised to note the fire was all but burnt out, only a few embers remaining and the sun was just beginning to rise. The first rays of the light marking the horizon outside the large windows that lead out to the deck.  He’d slept the whole night.

The quiet was interrupted by a sound from the direction of Mac’s room, low and sad, and Jack drew in a sharp breath, trying to gauge if he was needed or would be allowed to help if he was. There was another moan and Jack found himself on his feet, frozen, unsure whether to move.  

Jack had decided to take a look, just a little look, when Mac made the decision obsolete. He appeared at his bedroom door in his boxers and the t-shirt from yesterday’s travel, leaned into the door jamb for a moment and groaned again.

“You okay, hoss?” Jack asked quietly.

Mac’s head snapped up, clearly surprised by Jack’s presence.

“Yeah,” Mac muttered.  He rubbed a hand through his hair and across his face, squinting his eyes with another aborted groan. He signed instead.

Jack raised his eyebrows, all concerned disbelief, but chose not to call him on it out loud. His expression clearly did the work for him.

“It’s just a headache, Jack,” Mac snapped. “Leave it.”

“Mmhmm,” Jack hummed his disbelief. He knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t seem to help himself.  “If you say so.”

Mac gave him another squint-eyed annoyed look, before he slunk across the room to the kitchen island, where he banged open cupboards loudly until he found where Jack had stored the coffee and mugs. Jack cringed at the sudden loud noises, trying his best to keep his breathing slow as his primate brain yelled Danger Danger DANGER . With a controlled breath he carefully sat at one of the stools that lined the kitchen bench, trying hard to blend in and look like he wasn’t hovering.

“Need help finding anything?” he asked.

“Nope,” Mac replied into the now open fridge. His back remained turned to Jack as he pulled out a long-life carton of milk.

He added the instant coffee to the mug, spilling some on the counter. When the water finished boiling, Mac’s hands shook as he poured it into the mug. He turned and leaned against the counter as he took a sip, then sighed and looked up at Jack almost shyly.

“I should’ve; do you want one?” he asked, eyes turned back to his mug.

“Uh, sure.” Jack was thrown by the sudden change of pace, but not about to complain.

Mac rubbed at his eyes, before retrieving a second mug and repeating the process. While Mac worked Jack decided he may as well make small talk and take both their minds off their woes. 

“Should we try to repair a few things today, then?  Rehanging that cupboard door might be an easy one.”

Mac looked down at the cupboard in question and nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Alright. Go make yourself pretty and I’ll cook us a proper breakfast,” Jack joked, but Mac couldn’t really cook at all, so that was always going to be Jack’s job. He didn’t mind, cooking being a calming familiar task. 

Mac just nodded again, taking his mug with him as he went to freshen up and change. Jack sipped his coffee thoughtfully for a moment, before pulling out pans and ingredients to make a good old greasy farmer’s breakfast. Extra crispy bacon just the way they both liked it.

Mac washed quickly with a washcloth and soap in the sink. No reason to waste water on a shower when they were only going to get dirty repairing things. The cool water dripping down his face and neck felt refreshing nonetheless and seemed to clear his head a little.

He knew he was definitely behaving less than rationally, reacting to pent up emotions he didn’t seem able to control right now, and he could hear the voices of various trainers telling him how emotions are superfluous. How they only get you killed. He leaned into the mirror with both hands on the edge of the sink. His eyes were reddened, dark circles beneath them, his face paler than usual.

“Pull yourself together, Mac, Jesus.”

When he pushed back from the sink, his hands still shook though. Along with the rest of him if he were being honest. It was like anxiety with no specific reason or focus. He balled his hands into fists and tried to breathe like Jack had taught him down range.

Four beats in, hold for four. Four beats out, hold for four. Repeat.

He continued the breathing the whole time he dressed, trying hard to shake out his tense muscles. He could do this. He had no idea what he needed to do. But he could do this.

Mac stepped out of the tiny bathroom and tried not to wretch as the smell of bacon suddenly assaulted his senses in unexpected ways. The sudden nausea was intense, but with shallow breathing he managed not to act on it.  He made his way to the kitchen where he found Jack.

“Hey, Mac,” Jack called happily as he concentrated on the frypans in front of him. “Food’s up, bud.”

Mac hummed in answer, still not trusting he wasn’t about to hurl.

Jack turned around, wiping his hands on a towel. “Eggs and bacon, crispy like you like it . . .” Jack’s voice petered out as he got a good look at Mac.

At the specific mention of food, the blood drained from Mac’s face and his stomach lurched in a way he didn’t think shallow breathing was going to stop.  He dry-heaved and then Jack’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder and, for the second time in a few days, Jack gently but firmly steered him away, this time out the door and into the fresh mountain air.

Jack held Mac steady as Mac brought up the small amount of coffee in his stomach and then heaved bile into the bushes next to the door. When nothing more seemed to come up, Mac sat heavily on the steps with his head between his knees. Jack squeezed the back of his neck before Mac felt him stand.

“I’ll get you some water. Just catch your breath for a minute.” Jack’s voice sounded slightly unsure, but anything but unkind. 

Jack could feel Mac shaking against his palm as he stood, scrubbed a hand across his face and hair and headed back inside. He opened some windows and left the door open to air out the cooking smells, before moving into the kitchen.

Now that he thought about it, he really wasn’t that surprised at what was happening. He probably should have even expected it considering the events that had led to their trip out here to a remote cabin in the first place. But he hadn’t thought Mac’s drinking was quite that bad. He still didn’t think it was bad, just definitely a little worse than he’d thought. If only he had tried spending more time with Mac, rather than wallowing in his own issues. Maybe . . .

Jack shook his head as he retrieved a glass from the cabinet above him and filled it with water from the faucet. He couldn’t afford to think that way. They were both a mess. They had been dealing with things in equally, if different, screwed up ways. The difference was Jack had already tried Mac’s way in previous cycles and he’d needed to be rescued from himself then too. Needed someone to kick him in the pants and hard, but it only worked if Mac acknowledged it first. Which made it hard not to blame himself, especially when his leaving may have been one of many catalysts for Mac’s current state.

“Nope, stop it, Dalton. It ain’t your fault. We're just two hay bales caught in the same twister. But we’re gonna find our feet together.”

Jack chucked the used pans into the sink with a bit more force than really necessary and ran some water into them to soak, then grabbed some fruit as an afterthought as he made his way back to Mac. Mac was exactly where he’d left him, still hunched over, head between his legs. Jack dangled the glass of water in front of him. When Mac didn’t move, Jack bumped it against his forearm.

“Here, kid. Rinse your mouth out a bit. Gotta taste like ass.”

That got a mild snort as Mac looked up enough to take the glass. He rinsed and leaned over to almost shyly spit into the bushes. Then took several more sips, swallowing this time.

“Thanks Jack. Sorry,” Mac gestured with the glass. “Sorry for this.”

Jack reached down to ruffle Mac’s hair. Then pausedy as he realised what he’d done. Mac didn’t react, except to lean into his hand slightly and Jack gingerly ruffled his hair again before pulling his hand away. 

“It’s fine, man. Can’t be helped. When you gotta do the technicolour yawn there ain’t nothing you can do about it. . .”

“Jack!” Mac sat up, looking a bit green again. “Please don’t . . .” Mac waved a hand to indicate things generally, but the meaning was obvious.

Jack laughed unreservedly, but chose not to add any more of the many colourful metaphors in his repertoire lest the kid really did start throwing up again. Instead, he dangled the fruit in front of Mac’s face to get his attention and then set it beside him. For just a moment, it almost felt like they were back in good times and the feeling hit Jack like a freight train.

“I’ll clean up and air out the cabin, but you should probably eat something once you get a grip on your guts. Get your blood sugar back up. Fruit’s a pretty safe start.”

Mac only grunted an acknowledgement and Jack chuckled again.

“We’ll be okay, Mac. It’s just gonna take some time and we’ve got a lot of that here. I think this is gonna work real good. I’m gonna go freshen up.”

Jack squeezed Mac’s shoulder briefly on his way back inside the cabin, feeling more hopeful than he had in a long while. He paused in the kitchen to scoff down some eggs and bacon, put the rest in the fridge, and then cleaned up the pans, before making his way into the bathroom.

Mac sat on the steps for an indeterminate amount of time. He hadn’t stopped shaking. No, it was more like he couldn’t stop shivering and, despite his lack of a jacket, he wasn’t able to quite convince himself the cool mountain air was at fault. 

Eventually he managed to munch on a banana and half a pear before his innards rumbled in an unhappy manner. It was partly because he really was a little hungry that he’d tried the fruit, but mostly it was to appease the voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like the Jack of his memory, harping on about blood sugar and treating his body right. The thought of the Jack he knows well enough to hear him in his head made him frown. He could’ve sworn that same Jack just walked back into the cabin, though he barely dared to believe.

He rubbed his hands together, then balled them into fists, willing them to stop shaking as he breathed deeply. His stomach was no longer flip-flopping as brutally and Mac figured a distraction was the best plan. Something useful would take his mind off things, help get him back into his usual groove. There were repairs to be done after all. That had been this morning’s plan. He stood carefully, stretched and shook out his hands and made his way to the small shed where his grandfather’s tools still lived.

Jack took his time over washing up, splashing warm water under his armpits and other important areas, scrubbing fingers through his hair and shaving off the stubble that had been building on his cheeks, all the while singing a quietly cheery rendition of various 80’s rock classics.

“A good night’s sleep and a little bit of hope takes you a long way, Dalton. Yes, it does.” Jack patted his freshly shaved cheeks dry, then winked at his reflection giving himself a two-fingered point as he grinned at his own antics. “Yep, this crazy plan might just work.”

A sudden loud crash outside, had Jack just about tripping over his jeans in the process of pulling them on. Shirt unbuttoned and hopping as he zipped his fly, Jack slammed out of the bathroom door and strode into the main living area, heart hammering in his throat.

“Mac?” he yelled.

“In here,” came Mac’s irritable voice from the kitchen.

“You alright, buddy?”

Jack paused in the entrance to the kitchen, taking in Mac’s apparently whole and unharmed self, though he was clutching his stitched hand to his chest. The same couldn’t be said for the cupboard door they had planned to fix which was now lying on the floor. As Jack watched, Mac gave it a kick.

“Hey!” Jack yelled. He swallowed, as Mac looked up at him sharply. Jack deliberately tried a softer tone. “Hey now. Not sure that’s gonna help. I thought we were gonna work on it together.”

Mac shrugged, glaring at the cupboard as if its mere presence offended him. When he brought his head up again, the look Jack received was not much better. Jack sucked in a breath and raised an eyebrow.

“I can fix a damn cupboard without your help, Jack. Been doing it since I was a kid. Just this stupid hinge is bent out of shape at some freaky angle and my hand is . . .”

Mac wiggled his fingers in irritation and Jack caught sight of blood staining the bandage there. He’d clearly popped at least one stitch, maybe more.  When Mac moved to give the cupboard door another annoyed kick, Jack stepped up, carefully taking Mac’s wrist and backing him away from the offending furniture. Mac moved with him, but the look on his face said he didn’t want to.  

“Let me go, Jack!” The look in Mac’s eyes was cold and angry.

“Yeah alright.” Jack dropped Mac’s wrist, but didn’t move away, even as he stood between Mac and the exit from the kitchen. “What’s going on, hoss? How about you take a break from this and lemme look at your hand. You might’ve popped a stitch or two.”

“You’re so bossy. Who are you to come back here after all this time and tell me what to do? You’ve got no right.” Mac’s voice cracked and he was breathing far too hard when he paused and swallowed. “Just leave me alone, Jack. You can’t make me stay here. You left! You can’t make me do anything!”

Mac poked a shaky finger at Jack’s chest to emphasise the words and Jack went with the movement, stepping back passively.

“I’m not going to argue with you, Mac. But let’s calm things down a little bit. Just take a beat.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I can’t even . . . I don’t know why I’m even . . . Goddammit, Jack!” Mac brought both hands up this time to push at Jack’s chest.

Jack held solid, rather than stepping back this time. As Mac smacked at Jack again, an outlet for his frustration rather than trying for any real damage, Jack blocked the blows easily enough. 

“Jesus, Mac. Quit it. Stop!” Jack knew his voice was too loud, his blocks, passive as they were, would likely leave bruises on Mac, but his own mind was spinning with the frantic movement and sound. His trained instinct was to make it stop. But his base instinct was also to protect Mac and he was satisfied to find that still there, intact. It was frightening to think he wasn’t sure it would be. 

Jack brought his arms up until he held Mac solidly, dragging him in closer until he didn’t have room to hit out anymore; Mac’s arms pressed between them even as he continued to struggle and shriek like a wild animal into Jack’s clavicle. 

“Let me go, Jack!”

“You can get mad at me all you like, but I think you know what this is. You telling me that big brain of yours can’t put it all together and work it out.”

Mac made a final attempt to push away, then huffed and stopped struggling. He relaxed a little into Jack like someone had cut his strings. Both men panted loud breaths into the sudden quiet that followed. Jack almost let go, but some instinct told him Mac wouldn’t stay standing if he did. 

Mac’s voice was muffled when he finally spoke. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sound off, list out what’s going on. How are you feeling?”

Mac just huffed again and Jack gave Mac a tighter squeeze. 

“Come on, bud. List it.”  

Mac was quiet for several minutes as their breathing slowed between them. Mac didn’t try to move, so Jack just held him, feeling Mac’s body trembling as he waited him out. 

“I’m irritable,” Mac finally stated.

Jack released a pensive breath he hadn’t realised he’d held. “Really, didn’t notice that one,” he muttered with a small smile.

“Jaaaack,” Mac all but whined and wiggled a bit as if he might push away.

“Sorry. Go on my child,” Jack deliberately put on priestly airs and was rewarded with another huff from Mac.

“Fine,” Jack can hear the eyeroll implied in the word. “I keep shaking, sweating, shivering. Nausea and . . .”

“Upchucking,” Jack filled in unhelpfully and he felt more than heard Mac take a deep breath as he buried his face more firmly against Jack.

“Yeah.” Mac nodded. “I really don’t want to even think about food. Headaches too. And I’m tired, but I don’t think I could rest right now.”

“Yeah alright.” Jack rubbed a hand up Mac’s back, and leaned closer until his lips were almost touching Mac’s hair when he spoke again. “What does all that add up to? Why do you want to leave suddenly?” He hoped he wasn’t pushing too quickly. Their old rapport wasn’t nearly there yet. In its place this fragile truce they’d just managed to begin to build again. 

Mac stiffened against Jack for a moment, then all but went limp as he sniffed back a small sob. His voice was barely a whisper when he finally spoke.

“I really want a drink.”

Jack wasn’t sure how they ended up on the ground exactly, but he ignored the way his knees protested when they hit the floor.  Mac was cradled against Jack’s chest even as much of his body now rested on the kitchen tiles, the shaking of his shoulders now directly related to the small hiccupped sobs that escaped him. 

Jack sniffed back his own tears as he held Mac closer making shushing sounds and rambling soothing words in a voice cracked with emotions that he hoped to be true for both their sakes.

“We’re gonna be alright, bud. We’re back together. We can be a team again. We can fix both of us. Together. We improvise. Fight our way through it. Whatever we need to do.” 

He hoped, no, he needed to believe, every word was true.