Mac Desert Jack

by impossiblepluto

Turns out, escaping from the fallout shelter was just the beginning. Now they have to survive the aftermath, dehydration and the desert. Continuation from where episode 3x11 Mac Fallout Jack left off

"You want me to sign this?" Matty looks up from the document and glares at the agent who'd handed it to her.

"Every single time we try to go anywhere, do any kind of relaxing we always get a call that the world is ending and we need to fix it. Not this time," Jack says, sliding a pen across the desk. "This time it's just me and Mac and buffets and blackjack."

"You're not going to count cards, are you?" Matty asks. An eyebrow raised and her tone accusing.

"I know that is very illegal," Jack says innocently.

"Yes, but Mac can't help but do the math in his head," she glances down at the paperwork again. "I just don't need my best agent getting worked over by the mob because he gets too excited about statistics."

"Matty, Mac's not a puppy anymore. He's not gonna get over excited and pee on the rug because numbers are flying." Jack pauses, then remembering stories his research and his cousin told him about crime in Las Vegas, continues. "And the mob thing only happens if you get caught, which would never happen, because like you said, we're your best agents, so we wouldn't get caught. And also we wouldn't be counting cards."

"I said Mac was my best, I don't recall mentioning you." Matty purposefully baits the agent she's known for years. Ignoring Jack's protests and cries of foul, she continues. "So according to this, I can't contact you for seventy two hours."

"Eighty-four, actually," Jack says gesturing to the document. "Including travel time. But you if you read further, you can contact us, in an extreme emergency."

"Yeah," Matty says slowly, reaching that clause. "In the event of a zombie apocalypse."

"Don't want to leave you hanging if that comes up, because, you know, Mac and I are the only agents who would be able to handle that."

Matty slides the paper back across the desk towards Jack.

"Oh, come on Matty," Jack cajoles "You've got other teams. And Mac needs to get away. You can see it in his eyes lately. Everything's just getting to be too much again. We've even been having some trouble in our partnership," Jack confesses, and it takes a lot for him to admit that, but Mac is more important than his pride. "We need to get away, rekindle the relationship."

"What are you, married?"

Jack shrugs. He knows she's not looking for an answer. She's not so far removed from her days in the field that she can't remember the bond between two agents who put their lives on the line.

Matty rolls her eyes. "Did you even look at this?"

Jack is gearing up for another appeal before he glances at the paper again. Her signature scrawled across the bottom. He looks up with a grin. "Matty, I could kiss you!"

"Please don't," Matty says with a frown. "Once was more than enough."

Jack grins.

"Get out of here," Matty says her tone annoyed but her eyes smiling. "Go enjoy your anniversary... excuse me, your manniversary."

"Better be carefully, Matty. Rumor's are gonna get out that you do have a heart."

"Oh, I am doing this for purely selfish reasons. This is eighty-four hours with the two of you out of my hair. Don't make me regret this." She doesn't know why she tacks that last part on.

Now, she wishes she hadn't. Matty glances at her phone on the table. She's multitasking ops around the globe as usual, but her thoughts stray to her favorite agents, though she will deny calling them that. Doesn't matter that she's already said it to their faces more than once.

Over thirty hours into Jack's self-imposed incommunicado vacation. She's received exactly one photo, pre-road trip. She can't help feeling a hint of worry in the pit of her stomach. Jack's selfie game is strong, especially on the very rare occasion that he and Mac are totally off duty. She is surprised that she hasn't yet received a single photo of Mac with an Elvis impersonator or the famous 'Welcome to Las Vegas' sign or a selfie of Mac and Jack on a roller coaster. Maybe he's taking this no contact contract seriously.

Still, Matty can't help but feel vaguely uncomfortable. And she's been running ops long enough to know that this is a feeling she shouldn't ignore.

She'll never hear the end of it if they find out she was checking up on them. Jack, especially, will cackle in delight and never stop reminding her. But it wouldn't hurt to just make sure they checked in to the hotel.

---

"Aw, come on, man! You couldn't have just left the car parked outside?" Jack dumps an unconscious Griggs off his shoulder once he's topside. He scans the area. Desert for miles. No vehicle in sight.

Jack turns back towards the access tunnel. He offers an arm to Mac and groans as he helps pull his partner into the blinding early morning light. The sun is just peeking over the horizon. It's already hot.

Mac winces and shields his eyes. He, too, scans the area. He wasn't sure where he expected to pop out of the fallout shelter, but no man's land wasn't it. There is so sign of civilization as far as he can see.

Jack absently rubs a hand against his chest. Right over the spot where the fire extinguisher hit him. The spot on his chest where Mac shot him. "We could stay here. There's shelter from the sun."

Mac watches Jack's hand, the motion hypnotizing. He can't stop staring. Every time he looks at Jack, he sees his partner down the barrel of a gun. He sees Jack begging Mac to take his life, to end his suffering. He can't stop the scene from playing out. The crack of the shot echoing in the small chamber. The way the gun recoils in his hand. Jack falling back against the concrete slab, blood blooming across his chest.

Jack's hand freezes, and without looking up Mac knows he's been caught. He can feel Jack studying his face, and he knows his expression betrays him. He can't hide things from Jack on his best days, especially after all these years. Jack is too adept at reading his thoughts, interpreting his mindset.

Mac shakes himself free of the memory and replies before Jack can comment. "It might keep us out of the sun, but it's gonna get hot down there now that I shorted out the air supply," The heat in the tunnels creeping higher, already stifling in the last few hours as they enacted their escape plan. "No one would even know where to start looking for us. No way to build a phone or a radio, not with the supplies we have."

"So, a hike through the desert with no shoes, your knife, about half a bottle of water and what's left of the worms? And," Jack feels like kicking himself. "Thanks to me, no one will be expecting to hear from us for at least a day and a half."

Mac pauses, he turns to look at the bunker from which they just escaped. "A fallout shelter shouldn't be too far from a town. I mean, what's the point of having a plan to survive a nuclear blast if it's too far away for anyone to get there," Mac reasons.

"I'll buy that. What're you thinking, two, three clicks?"

Mac scans the horizon again, hoping to pick out a topographical landmark. "Yeah, maybe a few more? As long as we pick the right direction. I'm not seeing any obvious signs of life."

"Damn," Jack whispers, his hand goes back to rub his chest, but stops as soon as he realizes. "We could be anywhere." Jack stoops to study the ground for tracks that could show which direction Griggs had taken while bringing them here. He can't help a small wince as the movement pulls on sore muscles.

"Sun's coming up. We'll need to find shelter before it gets too high. It's gonna be a scorcher," Jack stands, stretching carefully. "Average walking speed is three miles an hour. Knock that down a bit for terrain, and because we haven't slept or eaten in days..."

"And we'll be pulling Griggs," Mac announces, face determined, daring Jack to argue with him.

Jack notices that Mac's slipped into an almost defensive position. "Mac, buddy," Jack says slowly. "Just hear me out. There are a lot of variables to consider here. We're not at our best right now. Walking, even a couple of miles in this heat isn't gonna be easy. And I know you're hurtin'. Hell, I am too. We can send help back for him as soon as we reach a town."

Mac's jaw tightens. "You're gonna leave him behind? Again? Isn't that what started this whole thing?" His tone even, but his eyes flash. Jack can read anger and guilt.

"Hey, man, that wasn't our fault," Jack can't let Mac blame himself for what retrospectively became an even more spectacular failure of a mission.

"Wasn't it? We left them." Mac stares at his partner. "Do you think they would have given up on us? Left us behind? It could easily have been the other way around. Our position overrun and us left behind."

"Look, I feel just as badly about Hadley and Griggs as you do. And it's gonna be the subject of a lot of sleepless nights coming up..."

"I'm not leaving him behind," Mac says firmly. "We can argue about our role in that op later; if there was anything we should have done differently. What we do right now is what matters."

Jack slowly nods, acquiescing to Mac's determination. "I'll follow your lead. Whatever you need me to do, I've got your back. All the way down." He reaches out, and puts his hand on Mac's shoulder. "But hear this, I will not hesitate to make the hard choices for you if I need to. If at any point it comes down to us or Griggs, I will leave him behind."

Mac climbs back down into the tunnels. If he thought it was stifling before it's even worse now that there's absolutely no airflow. He's surprised because a subterranean room's temperature should remain relatively stable. If he had time he would be interested in investigating why this isn't the case. But every minute he's down here puts the sun higher in the sky, making their trek all that much more dangerous. Instead he'll take it as confirmation that sitting here waiting for a rescue is no longer a viable option.

He's completing one more quick search of the tunnels and rooms for anything he can possibly use. Supplies are limited. There are a few boxes left over from when the fallout shelter was in use, if the expiration dates stamped on the side are anything to go by. All long since expired.

Griggs didn't bring much with him, obviously more focused on revenge than survival. Mac wonders if Griggs would have shot himself after he and Jack were dead.

At least he found their missing shoes.

The heat is making his head pound. He's sure it's also a side effect of the ketamine, though that should be mostly out of his system by now. But it's compounded by the lack of sleep, dehydration and he suspects he has a mild concussion from the crash. He is fairly certain he has at least one cracked rib. If he took the time to look he's also sure that his right side is one massive bruise.

But he doesn't have the time or inclination to look. All it will do is confirm that yes, he does hurt, and he has good reason to. None of this is life threatening, not yet.

He returns to the surface after his survey of the tunnels, laden with anything he might find remotely helpful. He barely manages to hold back a groan as muscles protest and lungs heave with the effort of pulling his treasures up the ladder. He knows Jack is showing considerable restraint, not immediately making Mac cease and submit to a body check so he can assess the damage, or vetoing the idea of dragging their former captor across the desert. He's not going to undo all of that by groaning.

Jack helps Mac modify the remains of their fire extinguisher crossbow into a litter to carry Griggs. Mac redresses the wound and lifts the man's head to coax water down his throat.

Jack draws the line there.

"That's enough, Mac," he says firmly, but with a gentle hand on Mac's shoulders. "He's getting a free ride. We're doing all the heavy lifting here. His only chance of survival is if we get him there. We're gonna need that water."

Mac knows better than to protest. He can see the wisdom in Jack's words, even if it's clouded by his guilt.

They survey the area one last time, hoping to see a clue they previously missed before setting out across the desert.

---

Step. One step forward. Dress shoes are not made for for a desert stroll. The slick soles slip on the sand. But it's better than the hot coarse sand on bare feet. Step. Other foot. He slides against the sharp stones. The remains of the shackle rubs against his ankle. The skin is raw already, leaking serous fluid.

He can feel blisters forming on his toes, his heels. He tries to ignore them.

Hot can't even begin to describe it. The sun creeps higher in the sky, beating down on his head, half covered with the remains of his jacket. It's an attempt to keep the worst of the heat off of his face and the back of his neck. What he wouldn't give for some sunscreen.

It's a struggle to stay awake. His eyes are heavy. He's moving forward purely on momentum.

Sweltering. That's a better word for this heat. Whoever says the desert is more tolerable because it's a dry heat is an idiot.

There's a steady wind, through the vast empty space. Rushing past his ears, blowing dust and dirt. It too, is hot, doing nothing to cool overheated skin.

Sweat runs down his face, leaving tracks in the smudges of dust. It's near enough to the side of his mouth that he sticks his dry tongue out, hoping to catch a few drops of salty moisture. It doesn't do anything to ease his thirst.

Each step kicks up more sand and dust, coating his mouth and throat. His lips chapped and cracked. That mouthful of water he'd swallowed before starting their trek feels like he's imagined it. He is sure it's been years since any liquid's passed over his lips.

The passage of time is hard to determine. It feels like it's been days. When he wants to get Jack riled up, he rants about how time is arbitrary. That it's a social construct with no real meaning. He doesn't exactly believe that himself, but it's a fun argument when he wants to watch Jack's head spin.

Out here in the desert, he might believe it. There's no real way to track the passage of time except by the position of the sun.

No way to measure distance except by how much his feet hurt. He has no point of reference, because it all looks exactly the same. He doesn't think about anything except the next step. The next heavy, painful step. Just make it to that copse of scrub brush. Just to the pile of rocks. Little goals to focus on, to help him ignore how long he's been walking, how much his muscles are protesting, and how hot is he.

Sweat soaks his collar, running in rivulets down his back and chest. He wonders how long before he stops sweating. He raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he scans the horizon again. There should be a town. Instead it's barren, desolate.

Cati, scrub, grass, rocks, sand, dirt. It's all the same. A never ending stream of wasteland.

He hates the desert. Hates the years he spent suffocating in the heat. Too many years, fearing that the desert would be the last place he ever sees. Those old fears have resurfaced. Maybe they were never buried that deep.

The scritch of the travois behind him, brushing against sand, bumping over rocks as he pushes forward, straining with effort. A cramps tightens the muscle in his leg. He grits his teeth through it.

Dehydration, electrolyte imbalance, lactic acid build up, his mind warns him. He needs water. He needs shade. They need to think about stopping soon.

He turns to look toward his right. The space is empty.

That... that's wrong.

That space shouldn't be empty. He spins to look towards the left, and sees nothing by open desert.

No.

Jack should be next to him, like a partner in a three legged race. He should be telling Mac about about how hot it gets in Texas. How he used to work a full day on the ranch in heat worse than this, and never broke a sweat, and that Mac is a sissy city boy if he thinks this is hot. And in the next breath complaining that he's never actually been this hot or thirsty before.

He's supposed to be there, raising a fuss about carrying Griggs out of here. How he's slowing them down too much, and they'll never make it. But still helping, straining against the weight because it's important to Mac.

Mac breathes heavily, finally turning to look behind him.

Jack is on the travois. His face pale; eyes closed and sunken. Lips chapped, cracked and bleeding. The stain on his chest, where Mac shot him, spreading.

Gravity pulls the viscous fluid from the hole in Jack's chest. The hole that Mac put there. Dry, dusty desert sucks up each drop of Jack's blood.

Mac drops his hand holds on the litter. Jack grunts when the sled hits the ground.

"Jack, you're bleeding," Mac's voice soft, filled with horror. He drops to his knees beside his partner. Dirty, sunburned hands press against Jack's chest. There's nothing for him to use as a bandage. He's used everything, every last supply, already.

"Why are you bleeding? I didn't shoot you," his voice is panicked. This isn't right.

"I don't blame you, hoss," Jack says, eyes opening slowly. "We did what we had to do to get out of there. Getting you out safe is worth it."

"No, no," Mac shakes his head. "I wouldn't. I wouldn't shoot you. We faked it."

"I would do any to keep you safe," Jack reaches up, placing his hand against Mac's cheek. The hand is cool, too cold.

Peripheral circulation collapse, Mac's brain supplies. Blood loss. Hypovolemic shock. Death.

Jack's hand slips back to his side, leaving a streak of blood across Mac's face.

"Does this work as an anniversary gift?" Jack asks. He coughs and cringes. Mac can see blood at the corner of Jack's mouth. His fingers catch the drop and he holds it up, staring at it. "I was having trouble thinking of something but this is sort of poetic."

"No, it's not. Don't say that." Mac's hands press harder at the wound. Jack cries out.

"Blood, for the copper anniversary." Jack is panting, writhing, chest heaving.

Mac pushes him back, holding pressure to the wound, desperate to staunch the blood flow. "Blood is made of iron," Mac can't help but correct, even as his face is frozen in horror. "Iron is the sixth anniversary."

His hands are coated in red. No matter how hard he presses the blood keeps oozing.

Jack gives a half laugh. Blood gurgles in his throat. "How do you know that?" He coughs again. "It sure tastes like copper..."

"No," Mac shushes. "Lay back."

"Hurts, Mac," Jack whispers.

"No, no, I didn't shoot you, Jack. I didn't. I don't understand."

Jack's eyes are sliding closed. "Mac, you okay, hoss?"

---

"Hey," Jack pats Mac's cheek to get his attention. "You okay there, hoss?"

Mac startles. Jack is on his right. Standing under his own power, pulling the sled. His hand warm, hot against Mac's cheek, but not sticky with blood.

Mac's eyes widen. "I don't understand," he murmurs. His brow furrows in confusion.

"Hey, hey," Jack says. "Stop a minute." Lowering the travois to the ground.

Mac swings around and sees Griggs laying there. Mac turns back to look at Jack. His breaths come in short gasps as he tries to reconcile the nightmare he just saw with what he sees in front of him now.

Both seem so real, he doesn't know what to believe. Because he did shoot Jack. Or he pretended to. It's too vivid. That memory. The emotions he felt. Holding the gun in front of him. Pointing it at his partner. The slightest tightening of his index finger against the trigger. An insignificant change in pressure and Jack's life spills out before his eyes.

The evidence is in front of him. Right there on Jack's shirt.

You can't ignore that evidence, his mind argues.

His mind is a traitor.

Mac slowly reaches out, his fingers brushing the dark dry stain on Jack's shirt. It isn't spreading. It isn't leaking or dripping. Mac fumbles with the buttons. He has to see. He has to know for sure. Pushing the material out of the way, Mac places his hands against Jack's chest, he need to see and feel for himself. The skin is hot to the touch, sweaty, but intact. No blood.

"Just bruises, bud," Jack says gently. "I'm fine. It was a con. You didn't shoot me."

"I didn't shoot you," Mac repeats the words he said before in his... dream... hallucination. It was so real. So real he almost believed it.

His mind whispers, what if you're hallucinating now?

"Here, take a little water," Jack presses the bottle into Mac's shaking hands. Jack is too real, too solid, too present to be a hallucination, he argues with his mind.

Mac slowly takes a sip from the bottle, his eyes never leaving Jack. As if he thinks the man will disappear, that this reality will be a dream, if he closes his eyes.

The water is warm, but as it rushes over his tongue, Mac is sure he's never tasted anything so good. He holds it in his mouth for a moment, letting it splash against every surface, before slowly swallowing. It almost hurts his throat to feel moisture again.

Mac hands the bottle back to Jack.

"Take another drink," Jack encourages.

Mac shakes his head. "We need to ration it."

Jack reluctantly accepts the water and takes a pull from the bottle.

It's not enough. It's not nearly enough.

"How far do you think we've gone?" Mac asks. He dreads the answer. No matter what it is, they're in trouble.

Jack turns to look back at the trail they made. He shakes his head. "I don't know, too far to turn back." Then squints skyward. The sun nearly at it's zenith.

"We chose wrong. We should have hit a town, a road, something," Mac shakes his head. "We should have just stayed at the bunker. I chose wrong."

"No, we would have been sitting around there waiting for a rescue that wasn't coming. You know I don't do well just sitting around. We weighed our options and we made a choice. Together." Jack passes the water back to Mac. "Take another sip."

Mac shakes his head in protest. He wants to. He wants nothing more than to guzzle the remaining water. "We need to save it. It's all we have. We need to make it last."

"People die of dehydration in the desert with a whole bottle of water on them because they were trying to ration it," Jack says, pressing Mac's hand closed around the bottle. "Take a sip." Jack squints in the sunlight. "We gotta get out of the sun. Find shelter and rest until dusk."

Reluctantly, they push on. Bleary eyes searching for shelter.

It isn't much more than a rocky overhang, but it blocks the rays as the sun beats down. Barely big enough for three men. But it faces east. Their space will grow as the sun dips west. They can wait out the worst of the heat. Rest. Wake again at dusk to continue their sojourn.

Jack settles back against the rocks with a groan.

"Hope you'll be able be able to get up again, old man," Mac teases listening to Jack curse his strained muscles.

"Keep it up and I'll find the motivation to get up and kick your scrawny ass." Jack's lips pull tight across dry teeth.

Mac's return smile is subdued.

"Try to rest," Jack says. "It's not the Lancelot suite, but it's the best value in town."

"Think they gave away our room?" Mac asks.

"Better not. We can drop Griggs off at the next town and hitch a ride the rest of the way, and hit at least four of those buffets before our vacation's over."

---

Jack watches Mac lean back against the rocks. Mac's eyes slip shut and his breathing slowly evens out. He's grateful for any rest Mac can find. The heat slowly depleting any limited reserves either man had left. They're both struggling. It's bad. It's going to get worse.

Jack is worried. That's nothing new. When it comes to Mac, Jack is always worried.

Before he even particularly liked the kid, Jack found himself worrying about him. Which drove bad ass Delta Dalton nuts. Because the kid was annoying. A huge pain in the ass. And way too quickly made himself a home in Jack's heart.

Jack was so broken in the few months before meeting Mac. Had a raging case of PTSD. He wasn't interested in making friends. Just staying alive and getting home. And he was pretty sure that the twelve year old bomb nerd was gonna get one or both of them killed. Yes, he knows Mac wasn't really twelve. He also knows how much it annoys Mac when he says that. And sometimes he really, really enjoys annoying Mac.

Most of the anger and annoyance directed at Mac during those first few months was because he was so furious for letting himself get attached to the kid.

This kid who had way too much hurt in his eyes. No sense of self-preservation. And an overworked sense of guilt. Mac takes any perceived failure way too personally.

Jack knew, in that concrete room, when they realized their first DXS mission was related to their kidnapping that there's no way this ended well. Mac's always struggled with that first mission. In the wake of Jakarta, Jack seriously regretted introducing Mac to Patty; getting him involved in the agency. At the time he believed he should have sent him home or back to MIT or to NASA. Anywhere but back to courting danger and death.

After Jakarta, they were reassured that that efforts had been made to recover Hadley and Griggs' bodies. That both men had indeed been KIA.

Mac was a soldier. He'd watched men that he'd eaten breakfast with die hours later. That was a reality. It was different with DXS. The lines were blurrier. He had uncertainty, in his abilities, in whether he wanted to continue in this line of work in the immediate aftermath of that mission, but Mac had eventually overcome it.

Mostly.

Jack knows it bothers Mac, even years later, that his first mission, though a technical success resulted in the loss of two lives.

Late yesterday, when the pieces started falling into place, and they realized it all went back to that mission, Jack expected Mac to be rattled. Mentally preparing to deal with the fallout, but anticipating that they would be safely home when it happened. Where a sunset and fire on the deck would do wonders for his boy's mindset.

When that faraway look in Mac's eyes crops up a few miles in, it's familiar. Jack doesn't like it, but he's used to it. When things get tough and the only solution is to power through, Mac has a tendency to retreat into his brain. It surprises Jack, in that it happens so quickly. Mac must feel more guilt about Jakarta, and the two CIA agents than Jack ever realized.

It's when he shakes Mac out of his walking nightmare that he realizes his mistake.

Somehow in the midst of planning their escape, Jack failed to take into account how unsettling Mac would find it to pretend to shoot him. Because it would be fake, a con, and nothing that would ever happen in reality. No reason for it to haunt Mac.

And yet.

Jack could kick himself. Will kick himself, if they survive, once he has strength enough to do so properly, for failing to realize what ideas are kicking around in Mac's brain. The new guilt and nightmares he's supplied his partner.

The role reversal, Mac's frenetic search for injury surprised him. He wonders if that's how Mac feels every time Jack searches him for injury. Mac's sigh of relief at finding nothing was certainly familiar.

He hopes that getting Mac out of the sun, and letting him rest will clear his mind, and allow him to put aside those fears.

A shadow passes overhead. Circling. So far wildlife has ignored them, kept its distance. Aside from a few lizards sunning themselves, scurrying away as they stumble past. But that shadow sends a shudder through Jack, despite the heat. The grim reaper of the desert.

He hasn't seen any signs of human life. No landmarks that tell him they're going in the right direction. They can't second guess themselves now. Only press on.

Jack moves slowly so not to disturb Mac's slumber. The bandage appears to be holding, but Griggs' face is flushed, whether heat from the desert or infection he doesn't know. It doesn't matter. He rests his fingers against Griggs' neck. His pulse is rapid, thready. Unless they crest a sand dune and find a town hidden on the other side, Griggs' isn't making it out of this.

Jack shakes his head. No. It wouldn't have mattered if the fallout shelter had been next to a top trauma center. Griggs was dead long before they started their trek, long before Jack shot him.

"You never made it out of Jakarta, did you?" He asks the agent, knowing he'll get no reply. He'll be surprised if Griggs is still alive when they wake in a few hours, hopes maybe he won't be. The man has suffered enough.

And it will save Jack from making the decision to leave the man behind. Making the hard decisions is what Jack does. Doesn't mean that it doesn't bother him sometimes. Mac's not the only one having trouble with the idea that they left two of their own behind. That no one ever checked.

Maybe it's the desert, the dehydration, or the sleep deprivation. For once he's not sure he can make that tough decision. Maybe because he feels guilty. Maybe because Mac's head space is too fragile.

Jack also recognizes that sometimes the effort isn't made to save the victim, but the bystanders. He doesn't know if letting Mac try and fail to save Griggs will mess with his head more, but he's made a decision and he'll stick with it. As long as Griggs has breath, and they can keep walking they'll try to save a fellow agent.

---

Mac's head feels thick when he wakes. Pressure building behind his eyes. A slow roll of nausea through his belly. He pries heavy eyelids open. Eyes gritty with sand, his vision blurry. It takes him a minute to realize that sky is dim. The sun beginning to set. The heat still oppressive and the air thick but at least the blinding, cutting sunlight has given way to swirling purples and oranges of the setting sun.

He raises his head.

This is wrong. Again.

It's takes him a minute to understand the deep resonating feeling that screams something is askew.

He's in the wrong desert. The smell of gasoline tickles his nose. He turns, putting his hand not on the rock wall of the outcropping he knows he is resting in, but on the roof of a rolled humvee. The ground shakes, heavy artillery fire. The tang of blood and explosives in the air.

He scrambles to his feet. His head swims at the sudden change in position. He swallows back nausea, he can't afford to get sick. He can't risk losing the little water he's managed to take in.

"Jack!" He calls out, his voice sounds far away. It's wrong, but this, he recognizes this. He knows this mission. He stumbles against the vehicle, making his way toward the front, to the windshield.

Spiderwebbed cracks splinter the reinforced glass. Jack lays heavily against the driver side door. Bleeding sluggishly from a head wound.

Mac struggles against the crumpled hood, straining to open it, to cut power, to keep a stray spark from igniting the gasoline that leaks steadily from the vehicle. Mac climbs up the vehicle, and lowers himself through the passenger window. Even though he should know better this time around, in his unsteady rush, his leg still slips against metal, the jagged end tears through his pants and flesh of his lower leg until it is stopped by his knee pads. He ignores it, like he did the first time. Focusing on his partner.

Jack is breathing, pulse steady. Aside from the cut on his forehead he appears to be alright.

He was alright. Mac remembers. Just a concussion, a couple of butterfly bandages for Jack. Twenty-two stitches for Mac.

The radio fritzed out, and they'll have to hoof it about a click before they're picked up by another team. Another desert hike. Or rather the first desert hike. It hurts Mac's head to think about it.

Mac pulls Jack from the wreckage, just like he did years before, looking him over more thoroughly once they're safely out of the overturned vehicle.

"This is it, isn't it, bud?" Jack says seriously. His dark eyes cloudy.

"You're not getting out of this that easily, old man" Mac replies. "Just a concussion. We're back at the base in time for dinner. I think they had ice cream that night."

"What are you talking about, Mac?" Jack pulls himself upright, worry in his eyes.

"You're fine, Jack. This a dream."

"Did you hit your head?" Jack leans forward to check Mac's eyes. Mac bats Jack's hands away.

"I'm not concussed. Just my subconscious reliving this moment. Another desert mission where I feel responsible for what happened." He feels strangely proud of himself, that he's recognized so quickly that this is a hallucination.

The fact that he's hallucinating scares him a little bit, but he brushes that aside. Because he knows this scenario, and he doesn't have to worry. He and Jack are fine.

Except that Jack's not following the script.

"It's not your fault Mac," Jack whispers. "I'm living on borrowed time. Playing with house money."

"Stop being so dramatic. It's a concussion."

Jack isn't listening to him, words rambling. "Yeah, this time. But I'm a dead man walking. Sealed my fate when I re-upped"

"No," Mac shakes his head. "We're gonna make it out of this. We did make it out of this."

"I'm dying, Mac. I always knew you were gonna be the death of me." The words cut. It wasn't the first time Jack said those words to him in the early days. It wasn't even the last time he said them.

"We don't die here, Jack," Mac yells. His voice hoarse, protesting Mac's use of it. "We make it back to base. We make it home."

"What's the difference? Either I die here, now, or I get to wait a few years for you to shoot me," Jack's voice weak, gravelly.

Mac notices it then. The bullet hole in Jack's camo, through the vest and the gear, blood bubbling from his chest where Mac shot him. He frantically searches through his pockets for something to stop the flow of blood.

Mac takes a deep breath. "It wasn't real. I didn't shoot Jack."

"You pointed a gun at me," Jack whispers. "You pulled the trigger."

"That was part of a plan, a- a ruse to escape," Mac is breathing heavily, trembling. He feels his heart racing. "We got out. We're in the desert. We're heading for help. We're gonna be fine."

"Not this time, bud," Jack's voice growing weaker. "I'm sorry."

"This isn't real," Mac repeats.

"You sure you didn't hit your head?" Jack says gently. "You're talking kinda crazy."

"Stop it," Mac says.

"Sorry, bud," Jack's voice barely a whisper. His eyes slide closed.

"Jack," Mac shouts. His fingers can't find a pulse when they press against Jack's neck.

---

Mac wakes with a start. The pressure behind his eyes, and the thick, stuffy feeling of his head still there. He opens his eyes. Cati cast long shadows, as the sun sets. Southwestern United States, not Afghanistan. No desert camo. No rolled humvee.

Jack laying next to him, sunburned, alive. No new holes that Mac can see. It looks like he's breathing.

With hands shaking, Mac reaches over and place his fingers against Jack's carotid.

Jack startles awake at the motion, immediately assuming a defensive position.

Mac scuttles back, scrambling against the rocks, heart racing. There's a long pause as brown eyes meet blue, both filled with confusion and pain, before Jack comes to his senses.

"Hey, kid, it's okay," Jack says, reaching a tentative hand out in a calming gesture. "Deep breath, it's alright."

"No it's not. I killed you," Mac whispers. "Dead man walking. It's my fault."

Jack reaches out to put a hand on Mac's shoulder.

Mac jumps at the contact, pulling away. His hands clench into fists to try to control his tremors.

"What are you talking about?" Jack asks, worry filling his face.

Mac's heart is still racing, pounding painfully in his chest. "I can't tell what's real anymore," he whispers.

Jack reaches over again, this time pausing just before placing his hand over Mac's.

"Okay?" He asks looking for permission to touch him. Mac stares at Jack hand before nodding.

Gently, Jack takes Mac's hand in his, pulling it up and placing it on his chest, just over his heart. His own hand covers Mac's tightly.

"You feel that?" Jack asks him. The strong beat pulses against Mac's hand.

He slowly nods.

"I'm here. I'm alive. Your plan worked." He waits until Mac meets his gaze. "This is real."

Mac nods. "This is real," he repeats the words. Jack's heart beat grounds him in the moment. He sits there, eyes closed, hand against Jack's chest. This is real. This is real. He repeats in his head between heartbeats.

The temperature is still blazing, but the sun's low enough that they'll be out of direct heat. They should get to their feet, start hiking again, but feet and joints protest. And more than anything they need to rest in the comfort that they are, for the moment, still alive.

Eventually, Jack pulls out the water and hands it to Mac. "It's not quite a beer and fire on the deck."

Mac takes a pull from the bottle before handing it back to Jack "It's close."

Jack smiles. "Could go for a pizza too."

"Should have brought the rest of the worms."

"Not even you could pretend those worms are close to being a pizza."

"Everything tastes better when you're hungry."

Jack gags. "Is that why you forget to eat at all when you're in the lab? To convince yourself that your cooking isn't terrible."

"It's not that bad."

"Kid, if Bozer ever moves out you're gonna starve. I'm gonna have to move in just to make sure you don't try to live on protein bars."

"Wait, you don't already live in my house?"

Jack laughs.

Mac sighs, this feel right. This feels normal.

Jack eyes the remaining water in the bottle, then shrugs.

"Might as well drink the rest. Refill the bottle."

Mac makes a face when he realizes what Jack is saying. His bladder uncomfortably full. It feels wrong to be as thirsty as he is and still feel the need to pee.

They pass the water back and forth, each taking sips until its gone. Then take turns filling it again.

Mac knows it's sterile. He knows people have done worse to survive. He's eaten bugs and worms, but he's never reached that point where he's had to drink urine. He also knows that point is fast approaching.

"It's probably just as well we didn't make it to Vegas," Jack says as they stagger out of from their shelter. Griggs, still unconscious but somehow still hanging on. "The way our luck's been on this trip we'd have lost our shirts, maybe the car, Matty would have had to come bail us out for counting cards."

"I wouldn't have helped you cheat."

"You can't help it. Numbers are your thing. One minute you would have been saying 'Jack counting cards is cheating' and the next we would have been cashing in our chips and retiring on an island because you won so much money."

"A tropical island, with a breeze and water."

"So much water," Jack agrees.

---

It worries Jack, how long it takes for Mac to calm after waking. The hand against his chest is trembling. The blue eyes, usually so bright and expressive are shuttered. Jack can read his boy like a book. These memories, dreams, hallucinations, whatever, are taking just as much a toll on Mac as their trek. He's struggling. Matty will probably never grant them another vacation again, but they are going to need some serious time off when they get back. If they get back. Jack shakes his head. He can't afford to think like that.

He needs to get Mac out of his own head. Noticing Mac scanning the horizon he asks, "Hey, Mac, what do your elf eyes see?"

"Not Isengard," Mac smiles. "If I'm Legolas who are you supposed to be? Gimli?"

"You wish you could be Gimli. He was a stud of a dwarf." Jack retorts. "But I always saw myself as more of an Aragorn."

"You would."

"You're just jealous because you'd be a skinny blond elf boy and I'd be a hearty ranger king or a rich handsome warrior dwarf. Probably some combination of the two."

"I feel a little more like Frodo on Mount Doom. It's hot enough." Mac pauses. "I guess that makes you Sam. Frodo wouldn't have made it without Sam."

Jack's steps falter. He blinks hard, surprised by how affected he feels by Mac's comparison.

"Did you know most of the Rohan riders were women?" Mac continues, oblivious to how his words have sent a wave of emotion rushing over Jack, just picking up the topic just like Jack hoped he would. "In the movie, not the book."

Jack smiles, his distraction working. "I think you mentioned it when you named your horse Brego."

"After Aragorn's horse, in the movies."

"You're kind of a nerdy dude," Jack says. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it's part of your charm, but seriously, who knows that?"

"Kids who were nine when the movies started coming out."

"Your Brego's not nearly as loyal, though. Nana ain't ever gonna forgive you for scaring her like that when that fool horse came trotting up like he hadn't left you in the dirt five miles from home and you come limping up to the house."

"It was less that half a mile, and it wasn't his fault. He got spooked," Mac defends his equestrian friend.

"He's about the moodiest horse I've ever met. Guess that's why you two get on so well."

"You're just jealous. You and Obi wish you were as tight," Mac says referencing Jack's mount.

"Ol' Ben and I would leave you guys eating our dust," Jack taunts. "If he was here we could just Hidalgo our way out of this desert."

"You can't use a proper name as a verb."

"Sure, you can, watch me. Mac MacGyvered the bomb to stop it from exploding."

---

They're both limping along. Joints aching from overuse. Muscles straining, cramping in protest. Mac cries out as a particularly vicious cramp tears through his thigh. The muscles in his right leg protest more since the scissors incident last year. They're less forgiving of overuse, and electrolyte imbalances.

Mac drops to his knees, grasping his leg, massaging the knot in the muscles. The intensity takes his breath away. Finally, it relents.

Jack passes him the water bottle. "Don't think about it." He says.

Mac pulls a face.

Jack continues. "It's not gatorade, but it'll have some of those electrolytes you need."

His tongue so thick and dry and swollen that he can't taste much of anything. At least that's what Mac tells himself. It's not true though. He can taste this. It's warm and salty. Bitter. He forces himself to keep drinking, gulping, otherwise he'll never get it down, before passing it back to Jack.

"Down the hatch," Jack raises the bottle in a toast.

Mac turns away. He's glad he went first, because it's over and he doesn't have to do it again.

Jack tosses away the bottle when he's finished. "I don't know about you, but I'm not sure could do it again."

"You can only do about three rounds before the toxins build up and it's too concentrated to drink," Mac says. "And since we were already dehydrated to start with we could probably only get away with it a second time."

Jack grimaces, looking over where he tossed the bottle. "Do you think we should..." his voice trails off.

Mac shakes his head. "Once is enough."

Jack scrapes his tongue along his teeth, like he's trying to scrape off his tastebuds. "Growing up in Texas, then all those years in Afghanistan, I thought I knew hot. I thought I understood how thirsty a body could get. Never got that thirsty though."

"Don't know if I'll ever get that thirsty again," Mac agrees.

"I tried to tell myself it was Nana's lemonade, mind over matter or something like that. Didn't work. Needs a whole lot more sugar and lemons."

Mac grimaces. "Please stop. I don't ever want to associate your Nana's lemonade with that."

"Looked more like iced tea anyway."

Mac gagged. "Jack!"

Mac might have gotten a "C" in biology, but that was more due to the fact that he was too engrossed in chemistry and physics and never completed the homework than him not knowing the material. He understands plenty about human physiology.

Like the fact that tea colored urine is a really bad thing. Jack is joking, but the color isn't that far off. They're in trouble.

Mac's brain immediately pulls out every piece of information he's ever read on desert survival tips cross referenced with the effects of heat exhaustion, muscle strain, hyperthermia, the effects of the car accident and even the taser Griggs attacked them with.

Rhabdomyolysis, his brain supplies the answer helpfully right now. Muscle cell injury leading to acute kidney injury, compounded by dehydration. Potential for hepatic injury, for cardiac arrhythmias.

It's bad. It's probably not Cairo bad. Not yet. But it's a matter of time.

---

"How much do you think this weekend is gonna cost them?" Bozer asks as they walk through the Phoenix hallways, very happy to be home.

"Not nearly as much as that fashion show is going to cost you," Riley smirks, swinging her bag over her shoulder. "I'm surprised Matty didn't immediately appear on whatever screen was nearby to yell about spending that kind of money for the mission."

Bozer pats his pocket, his face full of worry. "The wad of cash from Princess Zahara should help ease Matty's fury, right?"

"I'm not sure you can use that," Leanna replies. "It's probably evidence. Besides, it's not nearly enough to cover all those dresses."

"Maybe we should have stopped off and met Mac and Jack in Vegas. Give me a chance to double my money."

"I don't think Jack would have been too thrilled about us crashing their vacation," Riley says. "He was so worried about something going wrong. Or they'd get call up for a mission."

"Yeah, this last week he was like borderline paranoid, even for Jack," Bozer agrees. "He was double checking on locations of their enemies, reading up on Vegas crime stats."

"So Jack was being thorough. Trouble does tend to follow them, babe," Leanna points out.

Both Riley and Bozer immediately shush her.

"Don't ever say that where Jack might hear you," Bozer says. "Don't get me wrong. I get that he's thorough, and I appreciate it. There's no one else I would trust to watch Mac's back."

"And sometimes it's fun to get Jack all wound up. A lot of it's for show, mostly to try to wind Mac up, but sometimes he gets it in his head that something's going to go wrong, and then watch out."

"Mac made the mistake of sneezing a couple of times a few days before their trip. You'd have thought he was coming down with the plague the way Jack reacted. I thought he was going to haul Mac off to medical."

"Seriously?" Leanna asks in disbelief.

"Jack can be amazingly superstitious," Riley answers. "It's like he thinks if he gets excited about something that's a guarantee that it will go spectacularly wrong."

"And the only real thing Jack actually fears, is for something to happen to Mac," Bozer says in conclusion. "So when he lets his imagination run away with him..." Bozer shudders.

"Poor Mac," Riley laughs, knowing how... attentive Jack can be if he's even remotely worried about his partner.

"Jack went all out planning this trip," Bozer continues. "Actually it was kind of sweet."

"They needed it." Riley says. "When's the last time you saw either one of them doing something for fun? They've been going nonstop for months."

" Are they home yet?" Leanna asks, looking at her watch. She makes a face. "I'm so tired I can't even read this. What day is it?"

"Is the sun rising or setting?" Riley laughs, rubbing tired eyes. "I think they're getting home tomorrow night."

Time zones and two international flights in seventy two hours are enough to confuse even the most world weary traveler. Putting together a fashion show took most of the night they were in Milan. Aside from cat naps on the plane they were running on nearly zero sleep.

And now Riley's just ready to get home, crawl immediately into her bed and mess up her internal clock even more with a nice long nap. All that's between her and her bed is a debrief, and Matty's efficient, thorough and well aware that returning agents just want to get home. So she's surprised when the war room is empty. A little frustrated too, but she'd never say that out loud. Not when Matty could overhear it.

Bozer apparently has no qualms about it. "Oh come on, Matty, please. I just want to get home. It's gonna be the quietest the house has been in months. I need to get a nap in before Jack comes clomping through with tales of their escapades." He collapses on the couch.

Riley flinches as Bozer says the words aloud. She expects Matty to walk through the door, or appear on the screen at the front of the room, scolding Bozer for his rant. She's surprised when it doesn't happen. Matty usually has impeccable timing like that.

"Does anything about this bug you?" Leanna asks. "When is Matty not waiting to debrief us?"

"Now who's superstitious," Bozer asks laughing.

Riley glances around the room looking for clues to her missing boss. "I wonder what's going down. It's gotta be something big if she's late meeting us."

Bozer's head is on the arm rest. "Maybe she had to go bail Mac and Jack out of casino jail?"

"Couldn't she do that with like a phone call?" Leanna points out, pushing Bozer's feet off the couch to sit next to him, leaning against his side.

Bozer sighs and since Matty isn't here, puts his feet on the coffee table instead, accidentally jostling the tablet sitting there and waking it from sleep mode. The screen at the front of the room blinks to life.

Riley's heart plummets. The jokes and laughter about Jack's fears from moments ago like ash in her mouth.

"Guys," she points to the screen. Mac and Jack's pictures on the screen, along with a smashed SUV and a timer, clicking up.

---

"I had my doubts about hiring you."

It's a voice he hasn't heard in years. Mac squints against the sun, as a figure approaches him. Just a silhouette, until she steps forward. Her features backlit, her expression, as always, cool and unimpressed.

"Patty?"

"I watched your EOD career with great interest. You made quite a name for yourself. And Jack spoke so highly of you." She looks down at him, like he was something she might scrape off her shoe. "I had my doubts, though. Especially when I heard you wouldn't use a gun. Maybe if you'd had a gun that day, Jack could have backed up Griggs and Hadley instead of staying behind with you."

"He's my partner. He watches my back," Mac repeats the words he's heard Jack say hundreds of times before.

"What does he get out of the arrangement?" Patty leans forward. Her voice cold. "He gets to take the hits. He gets the blood on his hands so you don't have to. He gets to die for you."

Mac gasps, protests flying from his lips.

"Maybe if you'd used a gun on that first mission, you wouldn't have been forced to kill your partner on your last."

"Jack's not dead," Mac whispers. He reaches a hand out, looking for Jack, trying to find him, trying to ground himself.

Patty smirks. She steps back with a flourish and for the first time Mac notices Jack's body laying next to him. She nudges him with one stilettoed foot. "Sure looks like he's dead to me."

"I told him, that you'd be the death of him," she says it so casually.

Mac falls to his knees, searching for a pulse. Placing his hand against Jack's chest.

"Get away from him," Patty snarls. It's more emotion than Mac's ever heard in her voice in all the years he worked for her. She was always so calm, so level. "Get back!"

---

"Get back!" Jack's yelling. Mac's in the desert. Jack's alive. It's the right desert. Just them. And Griggs. But mostly them because Griggs hasn't woken since their trek began, at least as far as Mac knows. But the most important thing is that Jack is alive. Alive and yelling. Cursing. Why is Jack yelling?

"We're not dead!" Jack shouts, hurtling a stone at a turkey vulture. The bird's wings flap and flutter in protest."Get out of here you carcass eating killer, we're not your lunch."

"Turkey vultures don't kill their prey," the fact rolls off Mac's tongue before he even realizes he's speaking.

Jack doesn't reply.

Mac looks up in alarm, worry that he's slipped back into an alternate reality where Jack is gone. Dying. Where that buzzard is chasing after them to snack on his partner. He's just about to reach out and put his hand on Jack's chest, as if it's a totem to ground him in reality, when the other man speaks.

"Griggs is dead."

Mac nods. He's not surprised. Hadn't expected him to make it this long. He wonders how long they've been dragging a dead man.

Since yesterday, his brain tells him. There was never a chance Griggs lived. He didn't want to live, not after you left him behind to be tortured and forced him kill his partner.

"We gotta leave him."

Mac nods again. It takes Jack uncurling his fingers from the travois before he can let it go. They have to leave him there. Walk away. This is twice Mac's failed to bring him home. Walk away. Save himself. Get to safety. Leave Griggs behind. Lying in the dirt and the blistering heat.

The sun level with the horizon. It'll be dark soon.

One foot in front of the other.

Mac turns to glance behind him. The vultures descend upon the body.

Mac gasps.

"Hey, hey," Jack's voice breaks through. "We're okay. We're going to make it. We're walking out of here together." Jack's arm across his shoulders, despite the heat, keeps him grounded.

Keeps him from running back and clearing the buzzards away from the body to make sure it's not Jack.

Mac realizes that this is probably it. Maybe if they hadn't started out already dehydrated. Maybe if they'd slept in the forty hours or so prior. If they'd eaten anything in the last three days. If they hadn't been drugged or in a car accident, or dragged a dead man through the desert.

They don't have much time left. They can't go on like this. It won't be long before the buzzards are circling them.

---

Mac is sure he's never seen the moon so full or so close. He's grateful for the light, so bright it allows them to keep trudging forward in the dark. Even with the light they're still lurching and tripping. Shadows hiding obstacles in their path. It feels like the sunset hours ago.

He's so thirsty.

His cracked lips split further. Blood wells from the fissure, wet against his tongue. Tangy, coppery but wet. His tongue keeps darting back to steal moisture. He drank urine. He has no qualms about wetting his tongue with blood. He's aware those few drops are only going to dry his mouth out more. Make his tongue feel caked and thick, but he can't bring himself to care. Can't stop the small comfort it's bringing to him now.

That's a problem for later. And later might not have a chance to come.

Time, as always, is elusive.

His shoulders bump against Jack's as they pull the travois. With that thought, he turns to look at his partner, nearly stumbling in surprise. Griggs is next to him, muscles straining against the sled.

"Come on, kid, bringing him along was your idea, put some muscle into it."

Mac glances behind him. Jack is on the litter.

"Should have just left him. He couldn't have survived. He's buzzard food."

"No, please not again," Mac stumbles again, tripping over rocks he can't see in the dark. This time Mac falls. Knees and palms scraping against the rocks and dirt.

"I'll take one of you with me, kid" Griggs offers. He looks fresh, strong. Like he's just stepped out of an air conditioned car, after having a good meal and plenty of water. "One lives, one dies. It still applies here. One lays down in the dirt and waits for death. One gets out. You can chose."

"Jack," Mac whispers.

"You choose Jack?" Griggs asks, his voice soft, kind. It's how Mac remembers it from the mission years before. Where Hadley criticized him and his methods, giving him a hard time about each action he took, Griggs was surprisingly supportive of his new agent status. Like he remembered the uncertainty that came with the first missions. Talking with him, not at him. Interested in his thoughts, his opinions.

"Yes."

Griggs pulls out a gun and empties the chambers into Jack, amid Mac's screams.

"What did you do?" Mac asks in horror.

"Exactly what you asked for. Should have known you'd be the one to crack." Griggs frowns at him.

---

He's shivering. That is so not fair. The heat from the day dissipating. No one thinks about how cold the desert gets at night. It feels good for about ten minutes. Now goosebumps erect on burned flesh and it feels like he's being stuck with hundreds of little pins.

His teeth are chattering.

His brain supplies information about heat exhaustion, temperature regulation and the hypothalamus. He smirks, thinking about his brain supplying him information about how his brain works. He doesn't know why it's so amusing right now, but it amusement stops when he realizes he doesn't have more than a fleeting grasp on each thought as it races through his brain.

Those thoughts are mostly 'This is bad. Jack is dead. Keep walking.' They spin through his brain at intervals.

That last one he questions. Why keep walking? If Jack is dead what's the point.

He should have just stayed with Jack's body. He should have laid down next to him and waited for death to claim him too.

He's not walking out of this, but if Jack is dead he doesn't care. If Jack is dead, he doesn't want to live.

Jack is pulling on his arm. Mac eyes him coolly. It's obviously his brain, trying to give him comfort in his last moments by conjuring up an image of his partner.

Jack would tell him not to ignore the metaphysical. That loved ones really do come to help with the passage over to the other side. No matter that Jack's only been there an hour or two himself. Jack always said he's not letting Mac make that journey by alone.

Maybe time works different there too. Maybe he's already found his pop, and maybe Mac's mom and Harry. He hopes so. And obviously Jack can't be too mad at Mac for killing him if he's here to help him let go of the mortal coil. Mac smirks again, he's getting poetic in his last moments.

Jack is saying something to him, which Mac can't understand over the rushing in his ears. Probably 'walk into the light.'

There isn't a light that Mac can see though. Jack is pulling at his arm again. Mac shrugs. He tries to tell Jack that there isn't a light to walk into.

Jack's face crumples. He pulls Mac close. They're sitting down now. Jack pulls Mac up tightly against his chest, his arms wrapping around Mac's torso. Jack throws something over him, Griggs' jacket. Jack took it from the body when they left it behind. He's still shivering, but it's lessening. He can feel Jack's chest shuddering behind him.

He's comfortable. The most comfortable he's been in days. He's always thought it would be a bomb he couldn't disarm that would take him out in a flash and a bang. Over in an instant. No time to think about what's happening. No time to say goodbyes.

This isn't so bad though.

Jack returning from death, to protect him one last time, is something so very Jack. He tries to thank him, but he's not sure if the words are coming out. Jack must understand though, because his hold tightens.

The moon is so close. The stars are so bright. Jack is with him. It's really not a bad way to go.

---

The sun is still below the horizon. Faint pinks and oranges paint the clouds. It won't be long before pre-dawn gives way to sunrise.

He hates the sun.

The mercury is already rising. Mac will tell him they don't use mercury thermometers anymore.

Mac!

His body is still warm in Jack's arms, against his chest. His arms loosen their hold and his fingers scramble to find Mac's pulse.

It's there. Jack lets out a shuddering sob of relief.

Last night he couldn't break through Mac's hallucinations. Mac truly believed Jack was dead. He'd been shivering and shaking so badly, stumbling in the darkness, they'd had no choice but to stop.

Jack tried not to fall asleep, worrying that he'd wake to find Mac dead.

Mac stirs. He's mumbling again. They need to move. Walk while the sun is low. He's not sure how far Mac will be able to go. He's not sure of his own abilities at the moment either.

He pulls Mac to his feet. Jack's body protests. Mac protests. Jack wonders what's the point. They're not going to make it very much farther.

But Jack's a survivor. As long as he still has breath, he's not going to sit here and wait to die. Maybe they will only go a few hundred yards before it's too much, but he's never been one to give up without a fight. Even a futile one.

So they'll try.

They'll walk.

They'll walk until they drop.

Without rescue, neither of them will survive another day. He pushes ahead. Mac's arm around Jack's shoulders. Jack gripping the waistband of Mac's pants to help keep him upright.

"Come on, Mac," Jack begs. His voice raw. The words thick and awkward against a swollen tongue.

Mac continues to mumble incoherently. His eyes mere slits. He isn't responding to anything Jack says to him anymore, like he can't see or hear the man next to him. Like he can't see the desert.

A shadow passes overhead again. Jack ignores it.

He should have dumped Griggs out of the litter with the first hallucination and thrown Mac into it.

He should have fought Mac harder about pulling Griggs along with them, shouldn't have wasted the energy. Especially after they realize help wasn't just a few miles away.

The sun climbs.

The temperature spikes.

It's already unbearable against his skin, breathing that heat into his lungs.

The shimmer of heat hurts his eyes.

He's mostly dragging Mac now. His partners feet scuffing against the sand, barely making an effort to keep them under him.

Mac's mumbles are slowing.

Jack should be sweating from the exertion, but he's not.

So this is it. He doesn't have much more to give.

All he can do now is find them shelter from the sun, and hold Mac until he passes. Hope that they go quickly.

Mac stumbles and goes down hard. Jack follows a moment later. Neither attempt to get up.

Jack pulls Mac into his arms. Mac's skin blistering. Hot. Dry. He's stopped sweating too. They don't have much time.

He scans the terrain. Now he's hallucinating. Or seeing mirages. Except that it it looks so real.

He pats his hand, ineffectually against Mac's cheek and shoulder "Please, open your eyes and look. There's a town. Please, tell me you see it. We made it. We did it."

Mac doesn't stir.

"Open your eyes and tell me it's real."

---

He is moving, very, very fast. It's so bright. It's been so bright for so long, but this is different. Bright, but not nearly so hot.

It's noisy too. Not the perpetual rush of wind that's been his constant companion. But real noise, voices, people. Aside from the wind, and occasional conversation, it's been so quiet.

Hands on his body. Taking his clothes and he wonders if he should be upset about that, but he can't work up enough energy to care.

Something tight wraps around his arm. "Shit, he's got nothing for veins."

"Get a central in then."

A cold cloth presses to his forehead. It's soaked, water drips down his face, runs behind his ears, into his hair, onto the pillow behind his head. It might be the best thing he's ever felt in his life. He forgives them for taking his clothes.

"Temp's 105.4"

"Hot damn."

He would definitely be laughing if he was coherent.

"One line in, running wide open. Do you want a second?"

Ice packs slide behind his neck, under his arms, against his groin.

Something... someone pinches the skin on his hand. "There's no elasticity. I've never seen skin tenting like that," a voice whispers, it's clear through the haze and the sounds of organized chaos.

He wants to tell them he'll be fine if he could just have some water. The words don't form. His throat tight, his tongue swollen.

"Get a catheter in. We're gonna need strict I's & O's."

"Those labs need to be run stat. And page nephrology."

"Heart rate's tachy. Looks like SVT."

"Pressure's non existent. Bolus another liter."

"How's the other one?"

The other one? That means something to him. It's important. His heart clenches painfully in his chest. He can't think. He strains to listen, to hear what they have to say but his head is spinning and his ears are ringing.

"Can't believe they survived this."

---

He has to get out. He has to go. Mac. He has to get Mac.

He pushes himself upright.

His head is spinning. He's dizzy. He might vomit. He can't though. There's nothing left, not even bile in his stomach.

People are yelling. Except they're not people.

They're buzzards.

Wings flapping, talons ripping flesh from bone.

Grabbing him. Holding him. Pulling him back.

He can't let them drag him back. He has to get out. He has to get Mac out. They're going after Mac, too. They're going to eat his eyes. And his brain. He can't let them eat Mac's brain.

He tries to yell and scream and scare the birds off but the words don't form in his dry throat.

The buzzards are shrieking, squawking as he staggers to his feet, but the ground is shaking so hard he can't keep his balance. Or maybe it's his legs shaking. They're weak, trembling.

He's going down. He can't go down. If he falls they'll have him. The birds will swarm him. He'll never be able to get back up again and they'll eat him. He's still alive. They already ate Griggs, wasn't that enough.

They lift him off the ground. They're going to fly away with him. Carry him away from Mac so they can enjoy their meal in piece. Come back and get Mac for dessert.

Their talons are strong, and no matter how he struggles he can't get free. They're too much for him.

---

It's a slow pull to consciousness. He's reluctant. It hurts so much. But it's better than before. Much better.

He's safe. It's dark. And cool. There are more cold cloths and ice packs and maybe a fan.

He's surprised by how much he likes the fan, because before there was wind and he hated it. But this doesn't kick up dust, and blow it into his eyes and throat. His throat is still dry though. So are his eyes. He keeps them closed.

There's a pressing need to do... something... in the back of his mind. To go somewhere, do something.

But he's so tired. His arms and legs are stuck when he tries to move them and that thought should concern him but for now he can't muster the energy to care.

There's a hand on his. It feels familiar.

"Are you awake?" A soft voice asks. Riley.

He doesn't want to talk, but he doesn't want to be rude. "No," he replies.

"How are you feeling?" He can hear her anxiety; her voice warbles. He hates that she sounds so unsure.

He pauses, considering his answer. He doesn't want to make her worry. "Crispy."

He can imagine her smile. It makes him want to smile too, but it pulls against dry, cracked skin so he stops.

"Mac?" That is the important something.

"Across the hall."

"He okay?"

There's a pause, and Jack's eyes open. Riley is blurry but she meets his gaze steadily.

"Yeah, about the same as you." Riley's tone catches in his brain, but before he can act on the thought sleep is tugging at him again.

"I'm gonna go back to sleep now," he whispers.

---

The next time Jack wakes is easier. The room is still dim, thank goodness, but he see streams of light through the closed built in blinds of the window panes. The fans still blow, and he's fairly certain there's still ice tucked into various places. He's definitely interested in losing a few of those ice packs.

His skin stills feels tight, but he doesn't feel trapped within like he did earlier. Everything vaguely hurts, but it's muted, like a buzz in the background.

He could easily be pulled back under the lull of sleep except a figure sleeping in the chair next to him catches his attention. Riley's dark hair is mostly pulled back, but it's messy and falls across her face. She's curled up in a recliner, head resting on a closed fist. She's going to wake with a crick in her neck and an arm full of pins and needles. He's very familiar with the scenario.

"Riles," his voice is coarse like sand, but it's enough to send his visitor sitting upright.

She rubs her eyes, looking to see what woke her. A relieved smile crosses her face.

"Jack," she breathes, as she leans forward. Her hand reaches out and stops, as if she's scared to touch his burned skin.

"Hey, kiddo, you okay?"

"Of course, I'm not the one who tried to walk to Vegas in a hundred and ten degree heat," she scoffs, but her hand dashes across her eyes, and he can see a glint of tears in the faint light.

"Is Mac okay?" Jack asks worried at Riley's tears.

"He's down the hall. Bozer's been sitting with him. You're stuck with me."

"Is he okay?" Jack asks again, noticing that Riley didn't answer his question.

She nods.

"Riley, I've known you since you were twelve. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen you cry," Jack is pushing himself up in the bed. If she won't give him answers he will walk himself down the hall and get them himself.

"You guys scared us, okay," Riley says, her voice cracks.

"Bozer, Leanna and I get back and hear that you guys have been missing the entire time we were gone. No one had any idea where you were. And then you turn up in some little nowhere, hick town half dead. More than half, Jack, they said you wouldn't have survived another hour out there. And you were completely out of your head when we got here." She pauses. Her breath catches in her chest.

"Hey, hey, Riley," Jack pushes himself up, reaching for her, and she flings herself into his arms.

"I lost you once, Jack," she mumbles into his neck. "I couldn't handle it if you left my life a second time."

"I'm not going anywhere, Riles," his hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, mindful of the IV. "It's gonna take more than a lousy desert to kill Jack Dalton."

Riley lets out a half laugh between tears.

"Better deserts have tried and failed," Jack says with a smile, falling back on his staple humor to stop her tears.

Riley pulls back from the hug, wiping her eyes. "I guess we've all just been really lucky. I haven't seen a mission go this bad. I really thought we were going to lose you both."

"How long..." Jack's voice trailed off.

"They found you Sunday afternoon. We got here Sunday night. It's Tuesday morning," Riley says bringing Jack up to speed.

Jack nods and leans back against the pillows. The small action of sitting up and hugging Riley exhausted him. He's never felt fatigue like this, but he's not going to say that out loud. He doesn't need Riley worrying about how fragile he's feeling.

He also wants to ask Riley what she means when she said he was 'out of his head.' But he's not sure he's ready to deal with the idea of Riley seeing him live out any of his night terrors.

"Mac up and about yet?"

"Uh, no," Riley says vaguely. She shakes her head, and doesn't make eye contact.

Jack is starting to sit up again, fear growing in the pit of his belly. "Riley..."

"He's been having a little rougher time," Riley confesses reluctantly.

"Why? I need to see him," Jack is pushing the sheet away.

Riley pushed a hand against his chest. He's embarrassed to admit that one slender hand is enough to keep him from moving.

"Riley," Jack tries to growl, but it's hoarse and lacks his usual gruff forcefulness.

"If you try to get up and leave again, or take the IV out, your nurses, who are really nice, are going to be super pissed. You tried to go find Mac. You fought them and thought they were trying to eat you and ended up on the floor because you were too weak to stand. They had to restrain you when you first got here," she gestures to padded foam cuffs still attached to the bed.

Jack blinks in surprise at the information. "I- I don't remember any of that."

"Like I said, you were completely out of your head," Riley shrugs, trying to play it off as no big deal. She knows that information if going to upset Jack. It upset her to see it.

"I will go get Mac's doctor to give you an update, but you cannot try to stand up."

Jack nods, slowly, his eyebrows still raised.

"They will know if you try to get up. They've got a bed alarm on you," Riley warns him.

"I didn't hurt anyone, did I?" Jack asks quietly.

"Are you kidding? Nurses are tough, man. They got you back in bed and into five point restraints before security even made it to the floor. Delta could learn a thing or two from them about close combat training exercises." Riley says, and then she's out the door.

Jack scrubs a hand over his face, digesting the information Riley's given him. He's not given much time to dwell on anything that was revealed before Riley returns with his physician in tow.

"Mr. Dalton, I'm Dr. Hirpara, I've been overseeing your care," the woman in the white coat says, extending a hand to him.

"Call me Jack. Are you Mac's doctor too?" Jack asks accepting her hand with a firm shake.

"Mr. MacGyver? Yes, I am."

"How is he?" Jack notices her moment of hesitation. "I'm his next of kin."

"Why don't you let me examine you first."

"Look, Doc, I just care about, Mac."

"Jack..." Riley's tone warning.

"I understand," the doctor replies, her voice soft, her accent lilting. "I anticipate that you will be anxious to see him after we talk. I would be able to approve such a visit if I had a recent assessment of your condition."

He's about to protest again, when he sees Riley frowning at him from where she's leaning, arms crossed against the wall. Jack suffers through the exam with barely concealed annoyance as the doctor listens to his chest, and makes him sit up to listen to his back. She assesses his mental acuity, pupils and skin turgor. She's thorough but quick. Jack keeps glancing at Riley, throughout. She makes no attempt to move from her spot, watching the doctor work. He supposes this isn't the first time she's watched a doctor or nurse look him over in the last thirty six hours. He knows he's never made a move to give Mac any privacy in a similar situation so he can't complain.

"Overall, I am pleased with you progress," the doctor says after she finishes. "You still have a long way to go before you're ready to leave our care, and even longer until you are feeling completely yourself again, but I am convinced that you'll make a full recovery."

"That's great, Doc, but what about Mac?" Jack says impatient to hear about his partner.

The doctor replies slowly "We have some concerns about his progress. Mr. MacGyver has not been as quick to respond to treatment."

"Why?"

"I'll be honest, I don't have an answer for that. Mr. MacGyver was a very healthy young man prior to this. Some unique exposures to hazardous materials, and more gunshot wounds than I would expect from the average twenty-eight year old, but no other significant past medical history." Dr. Hirpara states. "Given his age and general level of wellness, I would have expected to find that he responded to treatment better than you."

"Like you, he was severely dehydrated, suffering from heat stroke. We started with fluid resuscitation, but he is experiencing kidney failure. We started him on dialysis to clean and filter his blood. We are dealing with a delicate balance we need to keep him adequately hydrated to combat his kidney injury, but we cannot let him become too fluid overloaded or he could go into heart failure as well."

Jack feels his own heart squeeze in his chest.

"He's been lethargic and confused since he arrived. He hasn't woken yet."

"I have to go see him," Jack says. "Right now." Memories of their hike through the desert assault him. Mac's tenuous grasp on reality. His belief that he killed Jack. Now in the hospital, without Jack by his side, even unconscious Mac would notice that Jack's not there and assume the worst.

It doesn't matter how reassuring the doctors or nurses, or Bozer or Riley are. Jack's missing presence will be all that Mac notices.

"Jack, I understand you are concerned for your son, and that you wish to see him. You are doing well, but your health is still fragile."

"No, you don't understand. I have to see Mac. I have to tell him I'm alive," Jack says, his voice rising. "He thinks he killed me. The man who abducted us wanted one of us to shoot the other. We tricked him. Mac did one of his builds and we faked it, but he had to pick up a gun and fire a blank at me."

Riley gasped, realizing the emotional toll it would take for Mac to even fake shooting Jack. "Oh, Mac."

Jack shakes his head, continuing. "After we got out, he kept, I don't know, hallucinating that he'd killed me. At first it was easy to get him to snap out of it, but the further we walked and the hotter it got the harder it was for him." Jack looks up at the doctor.

"I know my son," he says, not correcting the doctor's assumption from earlier, because maybe that assumption is already correct. "Sometimes his brain is too big and he gets lost in there. He's not gonna respond unless I convince him that it's me and I'm alive."

It's not a simple task, getting Jack moved across the hall. There's a myriad of medical equipment that needs to follow him. It takes two nurse to transfer him into a wheelchair. He tries to apologize to them for his actions while he was delusional. They accept his words more graciously than they should according to Riley. He's a little embarrassed at how heavily he leaned on them during the maneuver to the chair. But it's short lived. He will put up with anything if it means he gets to see Mac.

The door pushes open, and Jack takes in the scene before him. Mac is restless, weakly tossing and turning. Bozer is gamely trying to keep ice packs and cool cloths in place.

Mac cries out, Jack isn't sure if it's pain or fear or something in between. There is more equipment in Mac's room, and if asked Jack will admit that scares him.

"It's good to see you awake," Bozer says as they enter.

Jack feels a flush creeping up his neck, remembering what Riley told him. He tries to apologize to the nurses again.

"He's been getting more restless," Bozer says, to Jack, to the nurses.

One of them steps forward, putting a tympanic thermometer in Mac's ear. "His fever's spiking again."

"Push me up there," Jack instructs. "Let me talk to him. The nurses help Jack move from the wheelchair to the recliner next to Mac's bed. Pillows and blankets arranged to help keep Jack comfortable. He's astounded by how the simple pivot from one chair to the other exhausts him. With strict orders to rest, and promises that the nurses will be back to check on him, they leave the room.

"Hey, hoss," Jack says, leaning over the bed. He pushes Mac's hair back from his sweaty forehead. Mac is still too warm, but at least his skin isn't bone dry, and almost sizzling to the touch. The skin on his face is sunken, pinched, even after hours of IV fluids. "You causing trouble around here? You got everybody worried, including me."

Mac shifts uncomfortably in the bed, but stills when Jack's hand brushes against his face.

"We made it, bud." Jack whispers. "You hear me? We escaped, we survived. I'm alive."

Mac moans, and Jack's heart breaks.

"Come on, Mac. Open your eyes for a minute."

Slowly, blue eyes crack open. "Jack?"

"Right here, kid."

"I'm sorry," Mac says. His eyes are bright with fever. He's not quite looking at Jack.

"Nothing to be sorry about. You figured it out, saved us both."

Tears fill Mac's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers again.

"Hey, you listening to me? I'm fine, you're gonna be fine," Jack says, leaning closer.

"I killed you," he tosses again, pushing the ice packs away.

"No, Mac. Mac, buddy, you didn't. You didn't shoot me."

"It's my fault."

Jack grasps Mac's hand and mimics the action that calmed Mac in the desert, places Mac's hand against his chest.

"You feel that?"

Mac's struggles slow. His eyes meet Jack. He nods.

"I'm here," Jack says.

"You're here," Mac repeats.

"You didn't shoot me."

"I-I didn't shoot you." Mac sighs and relaxes against the pillows. "We made it?"

"Sure did, bud."

"Okay," Mac whispers. His eyes slide closed and for a moment Jack panics. But the heart monitor remains quiet. Mac breathes deeply, lulled, finally to a restful sleep by Jack's presence.

Jack stays sitting in that chair as long as they let him, holding Mac's hand to his chest.

As much as he wishes, Jack's arrival at Mac's bedside doesn't spark as miraculous recovery. It isn't an immediate catalyst that turns everything around.

It's still days of IV fluid, and cooling measures; ice packs, cool cloths and fans.

But it's a start. For both of them.

---

Mac shuffles across the hall, to the room kitty corner from his. The nurse follows closely, her hand resting on his back. She tells him that she's just there to help maneuver the IV pole and plug the pump in once he's situated. He knows better though. No one trusts him to walk across the hall by himself yet, and that includes him. Her hand on his back, as unobtrusive as she tries to make it, is there to steady him in case he loses his balance.

It's amazing, that a week ago they made it nearly thirty clicks, and the idea of walking thirty feet fatigues him.

Jack waves as they enter the room, already tucking into his breakfast.

This hospital is made up of tiny single patient rooms with little extra space, so they take turns camping out in the other's room. Mac sinks into the recliner with a sigh. Grateful to sit down. It's been a busy morning. Labs and vital signs; dressing changes to his feet, one worse than the other, salves to his burnt skin. He's frustrated that this little bit of activity constitutes a busy morning and that he's already ready for a nap.

Later this morning they'll probably make the journey over to Mac's room where Jack will commandeer that recliner allowing Mac to rest in bed. Mac looks forward to those naps when Jack is nearby. He sleeps better for that hour or two in the middle of the day than he does alone in his room all night long. Though he won't tell Jack that. He doesn't need Jack trying to wheedle his way into sleeping in his recliner. Jack needs just as much rest and recovery as Mac does.

The nurse helps him get situated. He tries not to let it bother him that he's still feeling so weak. She arranges the tray table in front of him, and breakfast is unveiled with a flourish. He still doesn't have much of an appetite. He picks at his food, mostly to keep Jack happy. He's not trying to be difficult.

The medical staff quickly realize that Jack is the best resource in their care plan for Mac. He's able to guilt and beg and bargain Mac into doing just about anything. Food, however, if one area that even Jack's influence has little impact. Mac's appetite disappears whenever he's distressed. Even though he's more or less come to terms with what happened, this week and seven years ago, it's still going to take a while to put this whole ordeal behind him. Some memories, real or otherwise are going to be hard to shake.

Plus hospital food leaves a lot to be desired. Bozer, Riley and Leanna sneaked in a pizza last night. They didn't really have to sneak it in, the nurses definitely encouraged them to bring something that might tempt Mac's appetite, but it's hard to shake the secret agent thing sometimes, and contraband food always tastes better.

And their sad attempts at stealth had Mac laughing for the first time since they found him.

Mac leans his head against the back of the chair. "I'm so tired, Jack," he admits quietly. The fatigue has been the hardest for both of them to deal with.

"Go to sleep," Jack says. "You don't have to stay up to keep me company."

Mac makes a face. "I'm too tired to sleep."

Jack reaches over and lays a hand on Mac's forehead. Mac doesn't bat him away. He's been surprisingly compliant with all his medical care, and even Jack's hovering. He hasn't even started asking to go home yet.

"Does that make sense in that big brain of yours?"

"It's less of a logic thing and more of a feeling thing," Mac replies, his tongue darts across his lips. They're still dry, still cracked, scabs holding them together.

"Though you were more of a logic kind of guy," Jack observes. "Stop licking at those scabs."

"I'm not," Mac lies, his tongue slips out again. He can't help it.

"I just saw you," Jack says.

"They're irritating."

"Stop messing around with them and they'll be less irritating," Jack hands him a tube of ointment.

"This stuff tastes terrible."

"Pretty sure you're not supposed to eat it."

Mac gestures to his breakfast tray.

"Oh, you were gonna eat that breakfast? Not just play with it?" Jack asks.

Mac shoots Jack a glare and picks up the fork again. Jack smiles to himself, as Mac takes a bite. He knows his boy well and will use any available tool in his arsenal to help Mac heal. That includes baiting, nagging, pestering, arguing. Jack's not above making an absolute nuisance of himself if it gets Mac to eat, or sleep or follow doctor's orders.

"You think Matty will give us some time off to go to the ranch for a while after this?" Jack asks a few minutes, and several bites later.

"I think we're still looking at some mandatory time off before we're ready to go back to work," Mac replies. "I think you could probably go for a while."

Jack looks concerned, disappointed. "You don't want to go?"

"I probably won't be up for mending fences for a while," Mac says, regret in his voice. He doesn't like the idea of Jack leaving, even for a week or two. After all this, he wants to keep him close.

"I wasn't planning on doing that either," Jack says. "I know you think I'm superman, but even I'm gonna need some R&R after this." Jack pauses, looking closely at Mac.

Mac is studiously pushing scrambled eggs around on his plate. He doesn't even smile at Jack joking about being superman.

"You know you don't have to earn your keep," Jack says. Mac still didn't meet his eyes. "Mac, you know that right?"

Mac shrugs, glancing up at Jack.

"They don't expect you to do anything but eat cookies and drink lemonade," Jack's mouth twitches at that. Mac gives a slight smile. "I won't even tell Nana about the desert lemonade we had. But seriously Mac, the only reason I put you to work that first trip is because I know how stir crazy you get if your hands aren't occupied. My mom, Gramps and Nana all told me off but good the first time I did that."

"I can't go there like this. I wouldn't even be able to make it up to my room by myself," Mac gestures to himself.

"Oh, you can hike eighteen miles through the desert but one little set of stairs in an old farmhouse is too much?"

"I can barely make it across the hall right now," Mac confesses.

"Then we camp out in the guest room on the main floor if we have to."

"I just don't want them to feel like they have to take care of me," Mac says in a rush, his cheeks coloring under the remains of his sunburn.

Jack smiles softly. "That's what family does, bud."

"But I'm not-"

"Not what?" Jack interrupts. "Not family? You want to try telling Nana that? Or mom that you're renouncing your title as her oldest grandson?"

Mac looks up eyebrows raised.

"You know that's how she talks about you. Tells the whole town about what Jack's boy is up to now, how smart he is. Everyone is thinking how you musta got your smarts from your mama cause there ain't no way Jack sired a genius," Jack's accent gets thicker when he talks about Texas and when he gets emotional. He looks at the younger man. "You didn't know? Everyone's always so excited to see Cousin Mac."

"I thought maybe it was just a Southern hospitality thing."

"The moment I brought you home the first time the whole Dalton family up and adopted you. You're stuck with us."

Mac can't help but smile.

"And once they hear the whole story, or the half they can hear, if we don't go visit them there's a good chance you're getting a houseful of guests coming to make sure we're okay. And there's a good chance they won't leave until they put some meat on your bones."

---

The room is full of Team Improvise, sans Matty, who, even though her best agents are out of commission, still has a clandestine organization to run. In the last week they've commandeered every available folding chair in the building and the small room is crowded.

"Nah, nah, dude, that's disgusting," Bozer cringes. "And honestly, kinda weird."

"It's boring sitting around here though," Jack complains. "We never actually made it to Vegas. Didn't get a chance to do any real gambling."

"I mean, it's not the weirdest thing people can bet on," Mac says, feeling a little defensive. After several days of continuous IV fluids, they both look better. Mac's features still pinched. Both men still fatigue quickly. It will be a while before they're back to their usual levels of health.

"You're betting on which one of you has better kidney function?" Riley asks, not sure if she's understanding.

Mac shrugs, wishing the team had shown up just a few minutes later and missed the conversation entirely. Jack was entirely too gleeful to explain.

"Just the labs results. All of them really, but since our creatinine levels are what's going to tell us when we can ditch the fluids and get out of here, that's the one that matters," Mac tries to sound nonchalant, but has to admit, just to himself, it does sound pretty weird when spoken out loud.

"They're drawing blood every day anyway, and there's not much to pass the time around here. Even Katie is getting in on the action," Jack says about their favorite nurse. "But we could bet on output too."

Mac grimaces and shakes his head. He would very much like to forget that he still has a catheter. A blush creeps up on his neck. Its one thing for his friends to know about it, it's another thing for his friends to talk about it.

"I gotta say, in this last week I have learned more than I ever want to know about both of your kidney functions," Bozer shudders dramatically.

"It could be worse Boze," Jack says with a sly smile, knowing he could make the room gag with a word.

"Jack," Mac's tone warning. He's not sure he wants all of his friends to know what they did to survive dehydration.

"Only water in the desert's what you carrying in with you," Jack continues, ignoring Mac.

Riley catches on first. "Oh, please, I don't want to hear this."

Bozer looks puzzled. Leanna leans over and whispers in his ear.

"Oh, hell no!"

"Anyway," Mac interrupts, his face still flushed under the sunburn. "The doctor says as long as things keep progressing like this we can go home the day after tomorrow."

"That's really good news," Leanna says, smiling, but elbowing Bozer who is nearly dry heaving.

"At this point it's just exchanging one bed for another," Mac says, his tone showing his disappointment in his continued weakness.

"But it'll be home," Jack shrugs. "Your home, anyway." Neither of them are quite ready to be too far from the other at this point. The latest nightmares are still too fresh. Both men also see it as an opportunity to keep an eye on the other, sure that left to his own devices he will quickly overdo it.

"Don't you basically live there, Jack?" Riley asks. "It was like three months after I met you before I realized you had your own place."

"Mac might be looking for a new roommate," Leanna says with a smile. "Since Bozer might be moving out."

"Really?" Mac asks looking his friends. "Congratulations, man!"

Bozer waves weakly to acknowledge the well wishes, but still looks faintly green.

Mac and Jack exchange at look, a whole conversation and debate taking place in that quick glance.

"If I'm moving in then we are gonna need to do some serious security upgrades man. Seriously, every supervillain has a map with GPS coordinates to your house. I'm not waking up with Murdoc standing over my bed."

---

The night air is cool. Mac sits on the porch swing. A gentle breeze ruffles his hair. The porch swing creaks. Horses bray in the distance. The moon is a perfect crescent. He closes his eyes, and lets the feelings of safety and home wash over him.

The farmhouse behind him bustles. Light spills onto the porch as the door opens.

"Didn't think I'd find you out here," Jack says joining him on the porch. Mac isn't exactly avoiding the outdoors. He still finds time to care for Brego, though he isn't up for a trail ride yet. Over the last few days he's gained enough strength that he's bored without a project to work on. He's venturing out to the barn and the shed, tinkering with projects. He still finds the bright sun abrasive, and tends to nap during the worst heat of the day. He's still limiting the time spent outside, and he's definitely only out there when he has a specific project or activity in mind.

Night time's easier," Mac says holding the swing steady while Jack sits next to him.

"You okay?"

"Sure."

"Don't be flippant."

"I'm... getting there," Mac says, honestly. He's surprised by how much the ordeal took out of him. "You okay?"

"I'm getting there," Jack repeats Mac's answer. "Unlike you, I find the moon to be harder to deal with."

Mac has very fractured memories of their night in the desert, half-dead. But they are memories that Jack will never forget. The sun and heat was bad, but for Jack, shivering in the dark, under the moon was worse.

"I really thought that this was it. That seven years was all we got," Jack admits. "I thought I'd wake up and you'd be dead."

"I'm kind of glad I missed all that," Mac says quietly.

"Earlier we were talking, you compared us to Sam and Frodo and all I kept thinking that night was 'don't go where I can't follow.'"

They lean back against the swing staring at the night sky, listening to the cicadas chirp.

"That's... that was really sappy."

Jack laughs, wiping his eyes. "Yeah, that was pretty bad wasn't it?"

But he notices that Mac's eyes are damp too.

He throws an arm around Mac's shoulders, and pulls him into a half hug.

"Here's to the next seven years."