Mac rolled his eyes for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes. Then he glared at Kendrick. "Dude, you are not helping."

Kendrick took in the expression on Mac's face and backpedaled his latest repetition of the story of ankle arthrocentesis from back in school. "I mean, it really didn't hurt though," the man assured Jack with a shrug.

Pretty sure that's not what he's worried about, Mac thought. He hadn't known Jack for all that long, but he'd never once see the man shy away from something because he might get hurt (or because he already was). And the man wielded a head butt like his skull was made of marble or something. Pain didn't decide Jack Dalton's actions.

Irrational fears though? Those Jack had a whole catalogue of apparently. And this one was actually pretty common and understandable. Much more so than his aversion to say black cats. The story that involved a "foot long needle" was pretty clearly the root of Jack's renewed reluctance.

What he said instead of any of that was a half assed attempt at being reassuring. "You don't even know what the doctor's going to say, Jack. So let's go."

"In a minute," Jack said grumpily.

"You've been saying that for the last quarter hour, pal. I feel like you must have noticed by now, but the higher ups don't take too kindly to soldiers being late around here … Or anywhere, really. C'mon." He leaned against the door jamb and gestured toward the hall again.

Jack made no move to get up from his position sprawled on his bunk. "I don't see what difference it makes to you whether I go today or not. Maybe all I need is another day on the meds and the swelling'll come right down. Why give me a five day supply and then make me come back before it's done."

"Probably so they can see if it's working, before you get necrotizing fasciitis or something." Mac thought it only looked worse, but he didn't say so. What he did do was clarify his statement. "That's gangrene by the way, which is a legit possibility if the swelling effects circulation."

The appearance of Jack's knee was actually starting to freak him out a little; it sort of looked the way a lab glove did if you turned it into a water balloon. He couldn't just say that though. Jack might have no difficulty expressing that he was worried, that he cared about his partner, but Mac just wasn't wired that way. In fact, in Mac's experience, that sort of openness led to trouble.

So he huffed a sigh and snapped, "And it makes a difference because I have orders, too. I'm supposed to get you there today even, and I quote, even if I have to drag you."

Jack frowned. He was not accustomed to Mac behaving with obvious concern for him, or anyone else for that matter. "You're not gonna get in trouble just because I decided …"

Mac threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine! Do whatever you want!"

Mac turned to leave the room and Jack called out, "Where you goin'?"

"For a walk!" he said, totally exasperated, without turning around. Then he stalked off down the hall, hands jammed into his pockets. Life had been a hell of a lot easier without a partner, he grumbled in his head.

He turned over the thought that he shouldn't be so worried about someone else deciding to be irresponsible, that it shouldn't bother him. Jack was right; it was unlikely that he'd get in trouble for not being able to make a guy who both outranked him and had about forty pounds on him to go anywhere he didn't want to. Why should he care?

Because Jack does. And because, in spite of a lot of things, we're friends.

There is was. Simple as that. Mac was someone who, while it was difficult for him to show, cared deeply about the people in his life, whether that care was reciprocated or not. And if it was, he'd move mountains. Just look at everything he'd been through with Bozer; most of that trouble was of Bozer's own doing, too. And Jack cared. So much sometimes that Mac didn't even know how to respond to it. Like when Jack called him brother completely absent any irony or teasing.

Jack's telling me he doesn't want me to ...

He stopped himself.

When Mac had gotten hurt at Christmas, Jack had hardly left his side. And Jack hadn't cared that Mac kept telling him he was fine, that he didn't need help or support. Jack had stubbornly stuck with him anyway. Mac paced the corridors and the equipment areas remembering the several weeks after he'd woken up sore all over, foggy, and covered in bandages.

Mac had only been kept at the hospital in Kabul for a couple of days. Proof, he asserted, that he wasn't hurt all that badly. He was fine, or they wouldn't have let him go. Jack had just shaken his head on the trip back to base. He didn't say the only reason they'd cut him loose was that he kept getting out of bed, setting off alarms, and on one notable occasion "accidentally" setting fire to one of the garbage cans, triggering the alarm and necessitating a mini evacuation of the area.

Mac was pretty clearly a lot of things, but fine wasn't one of them. He bitched about the pain medication making him sleepy and half drunk, but it was obvious to both the medical staff and to Jack that Mac's concussion was what had him in a haze, since when they substituted Tylenol for the more burly meds, Mac had just as much trouble concentrating and staying awake.

They got back about mid-day on Christmas Eve. Mac had missed his call with his grandfather as well as with Bozer and Penny. Half the guys there offered to let him have their time, but he'd just shaken his head. The trip back had worn him out, and he didn't want anyone to miss time with their families just because he'd gotten blown up a little.

He'd gone straight to bed after being annoyed by the local medical staff. As they had for the better part of the previous week, dreams of Alfred Pena's fiery death plagued him. He'd woken up early that evening to Jack sitting on the edge of his bunk, gently shaking him awake from the latest of those dreams.

Jack pretended not to notice the tears on his face or the fact that he was slicked with sweat, mostly because he'd slept through a dose of pain medicine. He'd just handed Mac an orange Gatorade that Mac had no idea where he'd scrounged up (there was never any orange) and said it was chow time.

Mac groaned. He had no interest in getting out of bed and limping to the Mess. Not even a little. Jack offered to bring him something, admirably refraining from pointing out that someone who was still badly off enough to choose bed over access to the soft serve machine he usually practically lived on top of was probably still badly off enough to be occupying a bed somewhere more supervised than this bunkhouse.

Mac hadn't eaten much the last several days. The one time Jack had seen him finish a meal at the hospital it had been tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. When Jack had commented on it being nice to know he could still put away food if he wanted to, a more medicated than he cared to be and altogether exhausted blond bomb nerd had admitted that it had been a favorite since he was a kid, that it's what his mother had always made him when he was sick. The slight crack in Mac's voice then had kept Jack from pressing any further, but he filed away the information for later.

Instead of pressing about Mac coming to dinner with him, he'd delivered the mail he'd come down here with anyway. A box of cookies from Bozer and a portable DVD player along with the first season boxed set of Mythbusters had seemed to cheer Mac up a little. Jack left him watching the myth busting crew strapping a JATO rocket to the top of a beat up car.

Instead of going to get a hot meal, Jack had gone on a mission. He never asked what was in it, but Jack had used some MREs and God knew what else to cob together something that vaguely resembled grilled cheese and tomato soup. Mac had eaten the whole thing too. It was disgusting and weirdly comforting.

They'd watched the videos Mac had received as a Christmas present until he fell asleep. And the following day, instead of engaging in what passed for Christmas festivities for most others not on duty, Jack had hung out with Mac again, just talking and watching the copy of Die Hard Jack kept in his gear as a good luck charm. Mac had never seen it before, and usually just picked apart the technical aspects of action movies. But he found himself pleasantly distracted by both the movie and Jack's incessant lilting chatter.

Mac nearly blushed thinking about how much of his life he'd revealed to Jack in the week or so following that explosion. He'd not really meant to let the man in that far. Bozer was probably the only one he'd told anything like some of the stuff he'd revealed about his mother's death, about MIT and his decision to leave, about a lot of things. And Mac knew he'd been prickly as hell while he recovered, especially about the expectations that he report to the infirmary regularly and Jack's ridiculous vigilance about reminding him to take his antibiotics and pain medication.

Mac suddenly turned on his heel and headed back to their room. Jack had made sure he was alright after Christmas. Mac was going to return the favor, even if it didn't feel much like a favor in the moment.

He approached the room and could hear Kendrick finally trying to repair the damage his storytelling had done over the last two days. Apparently he'd finally figured out what Jack's problem was. It was probably too little too late, but Mac appreciated the effort.

"Seriously, it's so numb when they do it, if you aren't looking, you'd never know anything was happening."

Jack sighed. "That's good, I guess …" Another sigh. "If it's not better by the end of these meds, I'll let 'em do whatever they want to it … Can we drop it for now, huh?"

Mac strode through the door, "Still trying to wind up charged with disobeying a direct order, I see."

"They're not gonna charge me with anything," Jack said, rolling his eyes in a way that Mac took to be slightly mocking. Jack was always pointing out Mac's almost involuntary eye rolling. Then Jack frowned at him. "You okay, bud? You look … I dunno kinda iffy."

"Yeah, I'm …" Mac realized that he'd more or less broken his own restrictions and jogged back over here. So he was sweaty and a little out of breath. He also realized there was one good way to get his partner over to the infirmary. Once Jack was there, the staff would take care of the rest.

Oh, man, I am definitely gonna regret this …

Mac sat down hard on Stevens's bunk, the one closest to him. He put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. "Whoa," he breathed. "Dizzy all of a sudden."

He heard Jack sit up all the way and swing both legs off his bed. "Mac?"

"Ah, um … ah, Hell … my head …"

He heard Jack's breath hiss through his teeth as he got his crutches under himself and took the ten or so steps over to where Mac sat. "Kid, look at me a minute, okay?"

Mac hesitated, then reluctantly squinted up at his partner like it was the last thing on earth he wanted to be doing. "Yeah?" he said like he couldn't imagine what Jack's problem was.

"Alright," Jack said with a definitive nod. "Let's get you to the infirmary."

Mac frowned and then winced at the expression. "I'm fine, Jack. I don't need …"

"What were your orders about more headaches and gettin' dizzy an' all that?" Jack asked with a certain amount of severity, already knowing the answer.

"I mean …" Mac heaved a heavy exaggerated sigh. "Okay, but …"

"But nothin', kid. Let's go."

Mac braced his hands on his thighs and stood slowly. Jack started out the door in front of him. Mac sullenly mumbled, "I don't need an escort, you know."

Jack just tossed him a grin over his shoulder. "But I'm gonna give you one anyway."

Mac shrugged and followed him. He paused at the door and flashed a grin at Kendrick who started laughing softly.

Mac had the feeling if Jack hadn't needed both hands on his crutches to get there, he'd have beef led to the infirmary by his elbow. Mac breathed an involuntary puff of relief at seeing who was working the desk. Jack spoke before he could though. "Morinin' there, Lieutenant Lowery."

Trisha looked up with a smile. "There you are, Dalton. Major Richards was about ready to send the MPs after you," she teased.

"Oh, I'm not here for me," Jack asserted. "Those meds are workin' just fine. I'm here cuz my little bomb nerd here just near passed out on me."

She looked to Mac in time to catch the expected eye roll. "I didn't anywhere near pass out, ma'am. I got a little dizzy and I have a headache."

She gave him a nod. "Alright, let's get somebody to take a look."

She started to lead him off toward one of the exam rooms. "I'll let Richards know he can check you over, now, Sargent," she said over her shoulder to Jack. "Since you're here anyway."

Jack made a petulant face, realizing his error in walking his partner down here personally just a little too late. He considered just taking off now that Mac was being taken care of but one of the other nurses came out a split second later. Jack noted his name as Lieutenant Smith but immediately substituted Lieutenant Smirky based on the man's facial expression.

In a nearby room, Trisha was taking Mac's vital signs. "How bad's the headache?"

"I don't have a headache," he replied with a grin. "I couldn't get Jack to come down here for himself so I faked a dizzy spell and said my head hurt. Worked like a charm."

She laughed. "I think maybe Jack's right. You are kind of sneaky. I mean he says sneaky little shit, but you're bigger than me so I can hardly use that."

"Yeah, well his knee looks like a water balloon full of pudding, so I figured I had to try something."

She made a note on the clipboard and said, "I'm going to let Captain Carver know you're here anyway. She might as well have a look at you." She snickered as his eyes rolled. "It'll keep your cover with your Overwatch, anyway."

He actually nodded at that. "That's a good point."

It took Mac about ten more minutes to get himself out of the exam room. He was almost glad he'd used the ploy he had to get Jack in here because Carver said he could start doing some light duty after the weekend. He was about to slip into the waiting area when he heard somebody, not Jack, swear.

Something told him that colorful language was probably related to his partner. So he changed direction. A tallish dark haired man in scrubs came out of the room right in front of him, cursing under his breath, lip bleeding.

"Are you alright, sir?" Mac asked.

"Fine, Specialist." He went behind a counter and got an alcohol wipe to clean his lip. "I'm guessing from the description you're the tech Dalton is trying to use as an excuse to take off?"

"That's me, sir." Unable to resist, he asked. "He didn't hit you, did he, sir?"

"I don't think it was necessarily on purpose, if that's what you're asking." Mac nodded. It had been. His biggest worry this morning had been that Jack was about to let a perfectly legitimate phobia get him in big trouble because instead of admitting to it, he was being a jackass. "Maybe you can talk some sense into your Overwatch. Get him to pull his head out of his fourth point of contact."

Mac chuckled then. "I can try, sir."

Mac opened the door and realized that might prove beyond his skills. He knew the look, certainly. Pale, shaky, with slightly wild eyes. He recognized it from having worn it on any number of occasions where he, himself, had needed to be further off the ground than he cared for, which basically meant at all. It was an unpleasant panicky feeling, made worse by the fact that you knew it was ridiculous, so you got to be embarrassed on top of feeling like your stomach had grown claws and was trying to make a hasty exit out your windpipe.

"Hey, Jack," he greeted, like his partner's sheer terror wasn't totally obvious. "You almost done in here, or what?"

Major Richards favored Mac with an approving expression. "He can get out of here pretty quickly if he just follows my advice and finds someplace else to look for about three minutes as an alternative to his current losing argument."

"We could give it another day or three though," Jack asserted, shifting uncomfortably in his carefully chosen several feet away from the table seat.

"Could," Richards agreed, making it clear he thought the suggestion didn't really warrant consideration. "And you could also permanently lose function or develop a dangerous infection if we don't take the swelling down, Dalton. The imaging looks fine. This is just a sort of feedback loop of inflammation."

"So you gave me that stuff to help with that already!"

Mac leaned against the counter next to Jack. "Which isn't working, Jack," he observed mildly.

"Which isn't working," Richards agreed with a nod. "We'll take the inflammation down the easy way, introduce medication for the pain and swelling, and more likely than not, a week from now, you can pretend this never happened."

Jack looked back and forth between his young partner and the doctor, eyes just a little wild. Mac could hear the subtle sound of Jack's breathing picking up, and an audible click as Jack swallowed. Mac relaxed. Those were the sounds of defeat. "Alright, I guess," Jack sighed.

Mac patted him on the shoulder as he took a step toward the door. "I'll hang around and walk back with you."

"Thanks, man," Jack said, voice tight, but resigned.

Mac's hand was on the doorknob when the doctor took a step toward Jack with what was realistically a pretty small syringe full of anesthetic. That wasn't what Jack saw though. It was definitely the foot long needle Kendrick had described that was no way no how going anywhere near, say nothing about into, his person. He was on his feet and headed somewhat wildly toward the door.

Mac just happened to be in his way. Jack made a move to just shove him out of the way in the midst of what amounted to a panic attack and without even thinking, without hesitating, Mac just fired out with a compact right jab that Jack had been coaching him on for months when the hit the gym to blow off steam. Jack went limp and crumpled to the floor.

"Shit," Mac said under his breath and dropped down to see if Jack was alright. "Sorry, pal," he said, although Jack was out cold and unlikely to hear anything.

"Well, that's one way to get this done," Richards observed. He checked his patient's pulse and vitals before tipping his chin at Mac. "Gimme a hand, woulda?"

Mac started to help Richards lift Jack back into the chair. Trisha stepped into the room just then, acting as relief for Smith whose lip was still bleeding intermittently. "Oh my god, did he pass out?"

"Yes!" Mac said quickly. "He definitely definitely did pass out."

He was already mentally experiencing the endless well-earned revenge dead arms and Charlie horses that were bound to be coming his way when Jack realized what had happened here.

"Sure," Richards said with a laugh, going about the business he could have had out of the way almost a half hour ago. "No bantam weight just ko'd him with one tap."

Trisha widened her eyes at Mac. "Nice," she said, sounding like she meant it. "Should've had you clock him a couple days ago and he'd probably be off the crutches already."

"Um … glad I could … ahem … help," Mac said looking everywhere but anywhere near what was going on with Jack's knee.

"Not you, too?" Richards asked with a snicker at the suddenly green Specialist.

"No, not exactly … but … I'm … I prefer my science a little less …"

"Squishy?" Trisha supplied.

"Yeah," he agreed.

When Trisha used smelling salts and Jack snapped awake a couple of minutes later his knee was back to normal size with two bandaids on it.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, sitting up and trying to orient himself.

"You fainted!" Mac said just a little too quickly. "Vasovagal syncope is a common symptom of trypanophobia, due to overstimulation of the …"

"Save the science lesson for when I ain't got a headache there Carl's Junior," Jack said, running his hands over his face and wincing when he touched his chin. He raised an eyebrow at Mac but didn't say anything. "I take it I can get out of here then?" he asked Trisha.

She nodded and told him he could go as soon as Richards got back with some printed instructions for him.

As they made their way back to the barracks, Jack still on his crutches for a couple of days, he couldn't quite let go of his trip to the infirmary. "I have never passed out in my life."

"First time for everything, pal," Mac observed, not looking at Jack.

Jack frowned at the back of Mac's head. "I guess I almost did when I enlisted though, even though they used those air gun thingys," he said thoughtfully.

"I was just thinking Medical Reception must've been fun for you," Mac said. "If ever anybody was gonna maybe pass out, that'd be the place."

Jack made a conscious effort to catch up so he could see Mac's profile. "Did you?" he demanded.

Mac shrugged. "Nah. I was too busy getting yelled at for running my mouth to be too worried about a couple of shots, man."

"I figured you had a problem with it too when you wouldn't go get inked with us," Jack said, letting it be almost a question.

Mac laughed and hazarded a look at Jack finally. "All that tells you is I a) don't think getting poked with sharp things is a reasonable recreational activity and b) there's only so far I trust the statistical efficacy of the hepatitis vaccine. That place was a dump, dude."

Jack laughed then, finally ready to drop the subject and no longer feeling quite so defensive. He spent the next few minutes quizzing Mac about how his head was and what his doctor had said. He was glad Mac was doing okay and might get a little desk duty next week to break up the monotony. Then right before they got to their bunk room he stopped and turned to face Mac fully. "You're not gonna tell the guys I passed out like a first class baby are ya?"

"Even though you did practically issue a press release when you found out that I'm afraid of heights?"

"Aw Mac, I'm sorry man, I was just kiddin' around and …"

"Your secret's safe with me, Dalton," he said with a reassuring grin before heading inside.

Later that night, everyone else was already asleep, tired from a long day of hard duty, or in Kendrick's case, pain medication. Even though it was dark, Mac knew Jack was still awake by how quiet he was. If Jack was asleep he was snoring, no question about it. He asked softly, "How's the leg, pal? Still keeping you up?"

"Nah," he answered quietly. "Got kind of a headache though."

"Maybe you bumped your head when you passed out."

"Maybe, yeah. G'night, kid"

"Good night, Jack."

It was quiet for a few minutes.

Mac heard the rasp of Jack rubbing his hands over his scruffy five o'clock shadow. "Ow, what the hell?" he whispered.

Mac suddenly felt like a rabbit caught in the sights of a dangerous predator. Jack's voice hissed, "You hit me."

"I … You fainted."

"You hit me."

"You probably bumped your chin when you fell." As soon as it was out of his mouth Mac realized that was specific enough to constitute a mistake.

"You. Hit. Me."

"Um … Is your leg really feeling better tonight?"

He heard an exasperated half affectionate chuckle. "Yeah, kid, it really is." He sighed. "Goodnight, Mac."

"Night Jack." He paused, feeling guilty. "I'm sorry about your face …"

"I knew you hit me!"

The End