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Summary
“Do you have a thermometer anywhere in this house?” Mac asked with a slightly aggrieved tone.
“Can’tcha just whip one up?”
“I’d have to get the mercury from something. Do you have float valves?”
“No.”
“Tooth fillings?”
“Not yet, take a few more punches to the face and I might.”
“A liquid mirror telescope?”
“To look at what? Smog?”
“A barometer?”
“Isn’t that what you’re trynna make?”
Mac paused, opened his mouth, and then saw Jack’s shit-eating grin and realized his partner was just screwing with him.
“Then no.” Mac huffed, looking back down at his report. “I can’t ‘whip you up’ a thermometer.”
“Shame.” Jack turned back to the TV. He didn’t sound particularly bothered.
Mac drummed his pen against the couch, the sound muffled. “…but you feel alright?”
Jack paused the movie this time, and the sudden absence of the action-movie chaotic soundtrack was blunt. Jack twisted to angle towards Mac fully, bracing his elbows on his knees and giving Mac both his full attention and a tolerant but slightly bewildered smile.
“I’m ok, Mac.” Jack reiterated slowly and warmly. “I appreciate the concern, but it’s just a cold. It’s not gonna kill me.”