Jack spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor.
"Just wait til I write my Yelp review," Jack threatens, his tongue dabs tentatively at the cut on his lip. "I've got a lot of followers. This place is in for a boycott of epic proportions."
A blow to the solar plexus has him nearly doubled over, or would if his arms weren't as tightly restrained. It drives the air from his lungs, his diaphragm spasms. He fights against the panicky feeling of being unable to draw a breath. Short, quick gasps that don't seem to even reach his lungs.
"I find you amusing," the man he's been mentally referring to as 'the brains' says then gestures to his partner, 'the muscle,' who has been doing most of the hitting. "Him not so much."
"Everyone's a critic," Jack wheezes, sucking in enough oxygen to launch into his next tirade. "With their blogs and vlogs, nowadays, everyone's gotta get the last word in there, gotta share their opinion with the world-" Jack is slammed against the chair, cutting off the next portion of his diatribe.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way."
Jack scrunches up his face. "Now, I hate to be nitpicky, especially since I was just complaining about the critics, but that line is overused. It's lost the emotional impact."
Jack's head snaps back from the punch. Blood runs down his chin.
"What do you think of the physical impact?" 'The muscle' asks.
"Untie me a second and I can show you how to throw a better punch," Jack taunts. He sees stars with the next hit. He feels the skin split on the side of his face. "That was a little better."
Jack will probably have to thank 'the brains.' Maybe send him a card once Mac turns the tables and they take him into custody because he's pretty sure that man is the only reason 'the muscle' didn't bash his head with that last comment. Jack has a knack for pissing people off.
He's also a champ at taking the hits. Especially if that gives Mac a chance to do his thing, and keeps him safely away from the blows. Sure, Jack's going to be spending some quality time with an ice pack when they get home. And Mac will have to keep waking him up to check his neurological status, which, while annoying, Jack has found ways to keep it interesting, but this far from the worst beating he's ever taken. He'll take the hits all day long if it keeps the bad guys distracted and Mac safe.
"Who else knows you're here?"
"What are you talking about, man?" Jack scowls his voice condescending. "I'm here alone."
"Hmm. I see," 'the brains' says in such a way that Jack has a bad feeling about this. And instantly scolds himself for using that line. It's a sure fire way to make sure things really do go bad.
There's commotion as the door to the cell swings open. 'The henchmen,' but Jack's gleeful smirk at his continued use of cliched nicknames lasts only a second. His heart sinks, as his partner is pulled into the room, struggling all the while. A bruise already forming on his jaw, and Jack feels his own jaw clench in anger. The kid is strong and wiry and a bear to hang onto when he's struggling to get away, but he is scrawny compared to these goons. They didn't have to rough him up so much to take him down.
"Thought you said you were here alone," the man taunts, looking at Jack while walking toward Mac.
"Am I supposed to know that kid?" Jack puts effort into sounding bored. Into sounding like his world isn't falling down around his ears.
"You're saying you don't?"
"Nope," he pops the 'p'.
They pull Mac further into the room, forcing him to his knees in front of Jack's chair, grabbing a handful of Mac's hair, jerking Mac's head back with a snap. A flinch crosses Mac's face as he chokes off a yelp. A cold fury settles into Jack's chest. These men can hit him all they like, but they crossed the line when they laid a hand on Mac. It takes all his years of experience to keep the anger and pain out of his eyes.
"Take a closer look," 'the brains' says. "Maybe your vision is cloudy. Too many blows to the head."
Neck exposed, Mac's adam's apple bobs as he swallows. There's defiance in Mac's gaze, but Jack can read regret. Regret at getting caught, guilt that he feels Jack is bleeding for nothing.
Jack shrugs, giving nothing away.
"Fine," 'brains' says. "You don't know him, he has no value to me." He releases Mac's hair. He chambers a round and pushes the gun against the back of Mac's head. Positioning Mac now so that he's looking Jack in the eye.
This was not in the playbook.
Mac's eyes widen, struggling against the strong arms holding him. No locks for him to pick with a paperclip or ropes to slice through with a button shiv.
"Wait!" Jack yells, the situation taking a surprising turn for the worse. "He's just a kid." He fights against the restraints "Leave him alone!"
The man shrugs.
The gun fires.
Mac crumples. Jack screams.
He doesn't stop screaming.
His vision turns red. He's not sure if it's rage or blood running into his eyes. The restraints holding him to the chair snap, and in the space of a heartbeat he's on his feet. The chair cracks over 'the muscle's' head, and the man slams against the floor.
The two men who dragged Mac into Jack's cell are on the ground before they knew what hit them. Leaving only 'the brains,' who suddenly, can't hold that title. Because shooting Mac made him an idiot.
Shooting Mac unleashed a beast.
Jack tears the gun from the man's hand. In his haze he hears bone snapping, crunching under his hands. He considers, for a moment, using the gun, but decides its too merciful. He wants this man to pay. He dissembles the gun in a quick practiced movement that doesn't require a thought and throws it across the room. His hands close around the man's throat, pushing him against the wall, tightening his grip.
Jack sees the fear and panic in the eyes of his prey. The realization that he's underestimated his former captive, and that he's made a devastating mistake. His hands scramble and claw at his throat, but Jack's grip never wavers. He continues to meet the man's gaze until those eyes start to slide closed.
There's a whisper that breaks through the fugue.
His name.
Mac's voice.
Jack's hands release, and the limp body falls from his grasp.
He turns towards the voice, not sure what he's expecting. A ghost. A chance to say goodbye. A chance to beg forgiveness for not being enough.
Mac is struggling to rise from the floor. Blood coating the right side of his face, turning blond hair dark, the collar of his shirt saturated, a pool on the floor underneath him.
Jack feels his heart stop. He still doesn't know what he's seeing. He can't process the scene in front of him with the vision he expected.
He staggers towards his partner. His legs give out and he drops beside Mac. He raises a shaky hand, slowly, excruciatingly, and stalls just short of touching Mac. Fingers aching to touch, to confirm the image he's seeing, to verify life. Refute the horror his mind supplied after hearing the crack of the gunshot.
Warm, bloody fingers close around Jack's hand. Mac's pupils blown wide.
Jack chokes on oxygen. His chest spasms in dueling hope and terror; Mac's rasping breath echoes.
"Jack," Mac breathes, and it spurs Jack to action. One hand pressed firmly against the pulse point under Mac's jaw, life thrumming, racing, beneath his fingertips, his other searching through the blood, hair and terror.
"Jack," the word passes from bloodless lips.
"It's okay, you're okay," Jack's voice trembles and breaks. He repeats the words, a promise, a prayer.
A crease runs along Mac's scalp. Powder burns under his hair. Jack's fingers gently probe. Mac whimpers but remains still under his ministrations.
It was too close.
Millimeters too close.
A hair's breadth.
Jack's not sure which one of them is shaking more.
He pulls off his shirt and presses it against the wound. Mac hisses and tries to pull away. Jack captures Mac's chin and holds on, trying to stem the bleeding that continues to pour down Mac's face.
"Head wounds bleed a lot," Jack whispers to himself, to Mac. Reassurance. Mac's eyes still wide. "Put pressure on this."
Mac doesn't move.
Jack frowns. The terror that was slowly releasing it's grip on his chest, tightening it's hold again. The realization that Mac has barely moved, and hasn't done more than say his name almost as if a reflex. His quick exam of the kid can't show the damage that was done inside. The hand not holding the dressing comes up to cup Mac's cheek. He leans forward, peering into Mac's eyes.
"Mac..." his own beginning to flood with tears.
Mac reaches up and brushes his hand against Jack's. "I can't hear you," he gestures towards his ear. "Tinnitus."
Jack releases a shuddering breath, it takes his remaining vestiges of strength not to immediately drop to the floor in relief.
A bloody handprint paints Mac's cheek when Jack pulls his hand away. It's so mild compared to the rivulets that run down the other side of Mac's face, but it looks worse to Jack.
He takes Mac's hand, guiding it to the makeshift bandage.
Mac's movements are tentative, reluctance to have his hands anywhere near the wound but he follows the wordless directions to hold it in place. Another whimper escapes and claws at Jack's chest.
"We're getting out of here." Jack says uselessly, knowing Mac can't hear the words, as he pulls his partner into his arms.
Mac gasps in surprise, his arm sliding around Jack's neck at the sudden motion. Eyes clench tightly shut as Mac's grip tightens on Jack.
Jack's gait is slow, painful but remarkably steady. His arms hold the most precious cargo.
They cause quite a stir arriving at the nearest emergency department, in a small rural hospital, saturated with blood and refusing to let go of each other.