The radio crackles in his ear. It's the thing that's taken the longest to get used to. He can deal with the heat, and the lack of privacy and eating sand with every meal. The comm in his ear, day in, day out aches after a while, but that's not even the worst thing.
It's the constant chatter through that comm. Pena didn't talk this much. Neither did Charlie. Or the guy that was his Overwatch for a couple weeks.
Even Bozer, who can spend hours discussing filmography, slush molds and the right combination of spices for pastrami, does not have Jack's gift for gab. This perpetual, uninterrupted ramble of any passing thought spouts from his mouth.
If Jack has a thought, Mac has the thought.
So if Jack wonders if an icicle would be the perfect stabby murder weapon, Mac reasons that the force needed for the killing blow would be difficult to achieve grasping slick frozen water, and the ice would probably slow the blood flow from the wound so the victim is going to bleed out slower, and potentially be able to get help, and identify the attacker. But by then Jack has already moved onto the difference between snow cones and shaved ice and the how many miles could a Tauntaun travel on Hoth if the weather was mild like the day the Imperials attacked the rebel base, not the blizzard Han and Luke were stranded in.
It's just mentally exhausting to follow all the crisscrossing rabbit trails.
Jack's rambling again. Mac's focusing on the device in front of him. It's a messy build. Sometimes those are worse. Just enough knowledge to be dangerous and none of the skill or finesse.
It's a moment later that he notices the extra voice in his head is quiet. He's just about to tease his Overwatch that he's finally run out of words when Jack's voice, low and dangerous, comes through the comms again.
"Mac, we've got some movement. I think you should just blow this one and head back."
"It'll probably only take me a minute or two longer to disarm than it would to blow it. We might be able to take it apart and figure out where-"
"Mac, you don't have time to CSI the bomb. I'm telling you to get out now," Jack is growling. This protective rumbling making his voice deeper, darker. Not for the first time Mac wonders if there's more to his Overwatch than he's let on, than he's at liberty to say.
"Yeah, okay," Mac agrees, his hands moving sure and steady through his pack, pulling out a packet of C4 and, changing the tool on his Swiss Army Knife from wire cutters to a knife, slicing the explosive into smaller pieces.
He's backing away from the site slowly, feeling secure in the knowledge that Jack's covering him. Eyes scanning for movement, searching for threats. The frayed curtains in a window across the street flutter. He's being watched. A darkened doorway barely hides the figure of a man. A shadow passes across another window.
"You're almost in the clear, slick."
Glass shatters with a rattle and a pop. Mac turns and runs.
Jack returns fire, his mouth moving almost as fast as the bullets from his gun. Mac's head is racing and he can barely keep up with Jack's instructions, encouragement to run faster, and assorted movie quotes, which don't necessarily fit the scenario, but fit Jack, so it works.
A hollow ping of metal and the canteen on his hip nearly explodes, a cascade of water pours from the flask, down his fatigues and seeping into the dry desert sands. The combination of the close call, and the loss of precious water, though they aren't all that far from base, makes him angry.
He jumps into the passenger seat of the humvee and yells for Jack to drive.
They're about a klick down the road when it registers that his hands are shaking. That surprises him. It wasn't his first firefight, and it sure wasn't the worse they've been in. He makes a fist, trying to quell the trembling.
Jack's hand grappling his flack jacket. "Are you hearing me?" His voice raised, taking his eyes off the road for only seconds at a time, trying to get a better look at his charge.
"Everyone hears you, Jack. All the time," Mac says, as the dull roar in his ears quiet and he realizes Jack had been yelling at him since they got in the vehicle. And it's probably his lack of response that caused the tension that's radiating off Jack in waves.
Jack's voice slow and steady now. Almost soft. "Then, can you answer the question, Angus? Are you okay? Were you hit?"
Mac's eyes darted up at the gentle use of his first name. Angus had only ever been a sneer, whether from kids in middle school or from Jack himself. Then it was Carl's Jr for weeks, months, going from mocking, to slightly exasperating, before nearly entirely disappearing from Jack's vocabulary, except as an occasional affectionate joke.
It had been Mac for months now. The use of Angus almost sent him reeling again, but he tucked it away, compartmentalized deep in his brain, to answer Jack's questions.
"I'm good."
Jack's sigh of relief palpable. "What was that?" He asks rhetorically, and is launching into another rant. Mac settles back against the seat and lets the comforting drawl wash over him, steadying his shaking hands. Since when did he start calling Jack's voice comforting?
The tension bleeds from Mac as they roll onto the base. All he wants to do is head for his bunk and sleep for a week. He stumbles out of the cab, feet scuffing the sand. It's like this morning's incident has drained any reserved strength from him. He follows Jack to the barracks, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
He rubs a tired hand across bleary eyes. He's only half paying attention to what Jack is saying, until it's directed at him.
"What the hell?!" Jack descends on him, spinning him around, patting him down, hands divesting him of his gear.
"Damn it, Jack! What are you-" Mac tries to push the older man away.
"What is this?" Jack's hands roughly pulling at Mac's hip, where his clothes are still damp from the exploding canteen.
Mac shrugs, not quite understanding what has Jack so excited. "I guess I'll need to see the supply specialist for a new canteen."
"Who cares about the canteen! Why didn't you say you were hit?"
"I'm..." Mac's eyes trail down to Jack's hands pressing hard just above his hip. Blood leaking between his tightly clamped fingers. "Oh."
"'Oh.' 'Oh,' he says," decibels rising. "You hit anywhere else? Why am I asking you? Can you walk?" Without waiting for an answer, Jack is dragging him back out the door of the barracks and across the base.
They've barely crossed the threshold when Jack is yelling for a doctor to look at Mac.
Mac is pulled into a curtained off exam room and Jack follows closely beside him. His hands still attempting to staunch the flow of blood.
Jack's usual sniper, laser focus is riveted on getting Mac out of the rest of his gear and onto a gurney. Mac tries to help but shock makes his fingers clumsy, and Jack ends up batting his fingers away, releasing the straps of Mac's vest himself.
Mac thinks that he should be concerned by the fact that his fingers are confounded by unfastening the belts that cinch his gear in place. Nimble fingers are crucial for him to be able to do his job, but he's too distracted by the blood leaking from his side. It's so red. Blood red. He snorts, reaching down towards the wound to examine it himself.
"Don't touch that," Jack's hands grab his own. "Your hands are dirty."
"Yours probably aren't much better," Mac counters.
Getting shot doesn't feel like he thought it would. Now that he realizes it happened, it hurts. He sways on his feet. Three sets of strong arms steady him and settle him onto the gurney.
"The canteen slowed the bullet, so it didn't penetrate as deeply as it could. Unfortunately, there are some fragments of the canteen embedded as well," the doctor explains as probes at the wound.
Mac gasps, and tries not to flinch. Jack's hands latch onto his again, providing comfort and holding him steady, careful not to disturb the IV that Mac really doesn't remember getting. He can feel the cool rush of saline as it enters his veins and travels up his arm. He hopes they gave him a hit of something to take the edge off, because it's really starting to hurt now.
A tugging on the wound as the doctor extracts pieces of metal from his side. Mac bites off a yell as the forceps dig into the wound again, his lips pressed tightly closed, trying not to move. His hands squeezing Jack's in a bone crunching grip.
"Breathe, Mac," Jack coaches. "Keep breathing."
A sharp intake of breath against the pain. Jack leans over him, whispering words of comfort and encouragement. He never would have thought of Jack as being comforting. Jack leans in closer, his forehead brushing against Mac.
Clink.
Metal on metal.
"That's the last piece. We got it all."
Mac's head falls back against the pillow in relief. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes. If he could get his hands free from Jack he'd brush them away. The fact that Jack stayed with him, the whole time, is unexpected.
He can still feel them irrigating the wound, cleansing it of debris and sand. It burns, but its not the sharp, shooting pain. Trading one pain for the other, but he thinks this is more tolerable. And it's almost over.
Jack still holds tight to his hands.
When they're done, when the last piece of tape stretches across the dressing, and they tuck Mac in under the blankets, Jack lets go of his hands and drops bonelessly into the chair behind him. His hands scrub against bristly hair and drag across his face. Jack's eyes are pink rimmed when he looks at Mac again.
"Kid, you are going to make me go gray!"
Mac, riding the high of pain medications finally kicking in, chortles. "I think it's already too late for that."
"How did you not know you were hit?"
Mac gives him a half-loopy smile. "Adrenaline's a hell of a drug."
"Go to sleep, Mac," Jack instructs as the kid's eyes slip closed. He lets out a shaky breath, and mentally promises himself to bodycheck the kid in the future if there's ever a even a remote possibility that he could be hurt. He never wants another surprise like the one he got today.
When Mac wakes a few hours later there's a new canteen on his bedside table. And a snoring Delta sniper in the chair next to him.