Mac glanced up from what he was tinkering with and frowned at the clock across from his work space. It was only three o'clock. There was absolutely no reason he should be hearing Jack's voice drifting down the hall toward the lab where he worked.

For one thing, he'd forbidden Jack from coming to retrieve him for meals two weeks ago, because after one week working here, some of the other employees of the Applied Sciences Division had started giving him shit about it. Not that he cared necessarily. It was good natured enough teasing. Just Jack playing the bigger cooler older brother bugged him sometimes.

For another, Jack was supposed to be out of town on some important security detail or other and Mac hadn't expected to see him until at least lunch time on Monday. He'd agreed to meet Jack in the cafeteria then.

Jack acknowledged work didn't always let you take a break at a regular time, but his concession to Mac's insistence he stay out of the lab had been that Mac promise to go the the cafeteria and eat everyday, whether Jack was there or not. Mac knew if Jack was around he'd have to go. But he hadn't gone today. If Jack was just randomly home early, Mac thought to himself, he better not be coming down to the lab to chew him out because he caught wind of Mac's absence in the cafeteria. Although, Mac would not put it past him.

Mac put down the screwdriver he'd been using on the compact GPS device he was repairing and prepared to give Jack his practiced, "I don't come bother you at the range or the training center so don't come down here and break stuff," speech.

When Jack stepped tentatively through the door, Mac's almost-rant died on his lips. Jack looked like he'd taken up illegal bare knuckles Fight Club style boxing and his arm was strapped across his chest in a heavy black sling.

"Jack, what happened?" Mac asked, hurrying around the table and sliding the wheeled office chair he himself almost never used behind Jack so he could sit.

Jack gave an abbreviated nod of thanks and sunk down into the seat. "Thanks, bud."

Mac waited for a minute. When Jack didn't just offer an explanation in response to Mac's concern, the young man tried a different tactic. "Rough day at the office?" was delivered with a wry smirk.

Jack grinned in return. "Rougher than some." He paused. "I took a spill on some loose gravel while the team I was with was moving some sensitive equipment. More focused on them than on me I guess."

"How bad is it?" Mac asked. Jack hated missing work. He often gave Mac a hard time over not slowing down long enough to take care of himself, but Mac thought Jack was a hundred times worse.

Jack shrugged with his good shoulder, but still winced at the pull on the other side. "Not so bad. Shoulda been payin' attention and it never woulda happened. … Anyhow, I'm down here because the boss has bounced me for a couple of days or so … And I'm not supposed to drive …"

"Well, yeah, you're in a sling," Mac replied.

"That and I've maybe taken some don't-operate-heavy-machinery stuff," Jack said, and this time Mac could hear the slightly lazy drawl Jack picked up if he was either really tired or a little medicated.

Mac looked at the clock again. He was supposed to work for a couple more hours, but if Jack had taken pain killers, he'd done more than 'taken a little spill'. Mac wondered exactly what was going on with him. "You need me to drive you?"

"Wouldja mind?" Jack asked. "I sort of wanted to talk about that thing we've been working on anyway, and Patty said to get whoever I wanted to get me outta here sooner rather than later, so …"

Mac was already putting his project away.

"I don't mind at all," he answered, slipping into his jacket.

He wouldn't have necessarily been in a hurry to leave because he'd not only figured out what was wrong with that backpack GPS, but he thought maybe he'd figured out how to change the casing so they wouldn't bust like that again, but they'd gotten nowhere fast looking into the Mazari, either in the US or in Afghanistan and the fact that Jack mentioned it at all at work, even in the low key way he'd done so, had Mac's heart beating a little faster.

After sitting in traffic for about twenty minutes, listening to Jack mess up the words to just about every song that came on the radio, it became increasingly clear to Mac that Jack had maybe had something slightly stronger than the slightly souped up Tylenol that was usually dispensed for the sorts of bumps and bruises the security guys always seemed to manage to come home with. Mac decided to confirm that suspicion with a question.

"Since when do you call Director Thornton Patty?"

Jack's head snapped in Mac's direction, an expression of mild horror on his face. "I would never call Patricia Thornton Patty in a million years. I like all my parts right where God put 'em."

Mac snickered. "You called her Patty this afternoon. You came into the lab and said Patty was sending you home."

Jack paled visibly, which was saying something because Mac already thought Jack looked like crap. "Shit. I hope I didn't say it to her face."

Mac felt a little bad for him. Thornton was a formidable person. He'd never met a Drill Sergeant who could inspire silence even with shouting quite like Thornton could with a quiet word. And Mac knew how to make an instructor yell. Sometimes he just couldn't quite keep his mouth shut. Charmingly impulsive was what Bozer's mom used to call it. Private Pain in the Ass was the first thing he'd ever been called by someone who out-ranked him. The nicknames hadn't improved from there.

Mac reached out and gave Jack a commiserating pat on the shoulder. "I'm sure that even if you did, she'll understand, Jack. Nobody filters what they're saying all that well on pain meds."

"Except you," Jack said, almost disapprovingly.

Mac smirked and refocused on driving. Traffic was finally moving again. He knew Jack had tried to get him to open up about his life back in Afghanistan, and he'd tried especially hard over one Christmas when Mac had been pretty banged up. Even not entirely in command of all his faculties, Mac had no intention of talking about his past, even with his partner. He didn't even talk about it with Bozer or Penny who both knew most of the details. He'd wound up suggesting a Die Hard marathon to get Jack off his back. Of course, he'd also found that he really liked the franchise. What bomb nerd wouldn't? Stuff was always blowing up in Bruce Willis movies. And he had to admit, Jack's running commentary was oddly soothing at the time, a pleasant distraction from the pain he'd been in from a piece of shrapnel tearing up his arm and torso pretty badly. "Yeah, well, some of us like the sound of our own voices more than others."

Jack gave him a half-hearted smack on the arm. Then he couldn't help his slightly dopey grin. "If you sounded like me you'd talk all the time, too."

Mac shook his head. "Maybe so," Mac said agreeably. "But you're officially too doped up to go stay home alone. You're crashing at my place."

Mac changed lanes without waiting for a response.

"Mac, I'm totally fine … It's not even that … What was I saying?"

"That you're totally fine," Mac smirked. "Let's pretend that's true and say I just want some company because Boze took off for that film festival thing in Pasadena."

Jack nodded thoughtfully. "Does that mean I can have Bozer's bed instead of your godawful couch?"

"Yes, it does. I'm not letting you sleep on the couch all banged up anyway, man."

Then Mac mumbled under his breath, "Took a spill my ass."

Mac decided if Jack could play master interrogator every time he thought Mac was being too tight lipped (which was basically always, Mac thought ruefully), turnabout was fair play. When they got back to Mac's place, Mac offered to fix dinner, but Jack turned him down, saying he was going to just take his prescriptions and go crash.

Then Mac offered a Die Hard marathon, but Jack shook his head, looking genuinely beat and like maybe remembering to take whatever the infirmary had sent him home with was more pain induced than Jack being responsible.

"Alright, pal, get some sleep," Mac said, trying to decide if he still wanted to bother fixing dinner or just eat a protein bar and lay on the couch, letting the TV lull him into fractured sleep. As Jack faded into Bozer's bedroom, Mac decided he'd better find something in the fridge. He felt better when he ate real food and he knew it. But self-care that was anything like focused was sort of new to him, and if it weren't for his therapist, he knew no amount of Jack and Bozer fussing at him could have gotten him to step back from his own behavior and see it.

When he opened the fridge he found stacks of neatly labeled containers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next several days. A note was stuck to the front of one.

"These all better be gone when I get back, Roomie. Don't make me call Mom and get her to yell at you." Bozer didn't need to sign his note but he did, with a sketched frowning face that was pointing up at the nearest container. He took the note off to throw it away, but saw there was more on the back. "P.S. There's some up in the freezer too in case Jack shows up to keep you company. I know he's out of town, but you know how he is."

Mac tossed the note, but did heat up the chicken alfredo with asparagus that Bozer had left him for dinner. He ate it quickly and hand washed the container. Then he changed into sweats and a t-shirt and stretched out on the couch like he'd been planning when he was at work, assuming he'd be alone in the house. He didn't sleep well in the quiet. If Boze wasn't home he usually crashed on their lumpy hard couch with at least one lamp and the television on. It made it easier to orient himself if he woke up from a nightmare.

Sometime during the night it became apparent that his plan was inadequate to keep dreams of the Mazari at bay because his eyes popped open to Jack squatting down beside the couch shaking his shoulder gently. Still unsure of where he was or whose hands were on him, Mac bolted upright, almost scrambling up into one corner of the couch before he was fully awake. After a moment, his eyes started to focus and he realized he was home and the person who had been touching him was Jack. "Hey." Jack's eyes were searching his face with real concern. "I didn't take a swing at you or anything did I?" Mac asked, already feeling himself flush with embarrassment at having clearly woken up Jack from a closed door and hallway away.

Jack smiled. "Not a good one anyway, kid. You okay?"

Mac scrubbed his hands over his face. "I think so. Now anyway. Thanks for waking me up."

"Anytime, bud. You gonna be able to go back to sleep?"

Mac shrugged. "I'll give it a try anyway. I've gotta work tomorrow … today," he amended, glancing at the clock. "Go back to bed, man. I'm good."

Jack stood with a groan. No point in arguing once Mac used that tone. It said unequivocally he wasn't going to talk about whatever had him hollering like someone was trying to kill him in his sleep, probably not even with Sissy. "Alright, bud, but if you need me, you know where to find me."

Mac nodded and Jack turned to head back down the hall. Mac finally noticed Jack was wearing a sort of oversized muscle shirt and through the large arm holes he could see that Jack's shoulder was bandaged front and back. "Jack," he called, stopping the older man, who turned back toward him then. "That doesn't look like a scrape from a little spill. What really happened to you?"

Jack smirked. "I could tell ya but I'd hafta kill ya," he teased.

Mac's eyebrows went up. "You're not getting off that easy, Jack. I'm serious."

The smirk morphed into a crooked grin. Kid was too smart for his own damned good. "It's a scrape just like I said more or less. Just can't tell you what I got scraped with."

Mac frowned, remembering a turn of phrase Jack and some of the other guys he ran with used in Afghanistan. A bullet wound could be jokingly referred to as a scrape, or a skinned knee, or hardly a mosquito bite if one of them got whiny about a non-critical injury. Mac had the sudden certainty that Jack was currently suffering from just that sort of scrape. Not that he seemed likely to say so in anything more than the most indirect manner.

"You better take care of it," he said, instead of pressing.

"I will, brother, I will." He winked. "Always do."

That was the last Mac saw of Jack until he got home from work in the evening. He hadn't been able to get back to sleep, so he'd gone for an insanely long run, come home to shower and change, and then, hearing Jack's snoring from Bozer's room, he'd just gone in early. He hadn't left until Director Thornton herself stuck her head in the lab to say she knew whose key code was used when and offered a chilly reminder that lab techs, no matter how talented, did not get paid overtime.

When Mac got home it was with bags full of takeout and a twelve pack of Jack's favorite beer. He expected to find Jack out on the back deck, hopefully dutifully trussed up in his sling, resting in one of the Adirondak chairs. Instead, Mac found Jack at the kitchen counter with papers, maps, and pictures spread everywhere. "Hey, Mac," Jack said distractedly. "I got some stuff for you to look at when you put that stuff away."

"Something that's more important to you than burgers and beer?" Mac asked. Jack teased Mac for his enthusiasms, but Mac thought Jack could go off the deep end for days after watching a rerun of the X-files.

"Um, yeah, bud, a little bit." Jack came over and took the bags away from Mac. "Why dontcha have a seat here for a minute, kid."

Mac frowned. "What for?"

Jack just raised his eyebrows in a familiar I-am-about-to-pull-rank-on-you expression, so Mac just pulled up the nearest stool and sat down near where Jack had been going over papers on the counter. "That buddy of mine I told you about that's been doing the digging for us?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he works for DHS."

"Do I know this buddy?" Mac asked, feeling strangely detached.

Jack nodded, "You might." He paused. "Anyway, he might have finally found something."

"Okay?" Mac replied, almost unable to believe that might be true.

Jack picked up a glossy photo and held it out. "You know this guy?"

Mac swallowed hard and nodded.

There were several familiar faces in the photograph, or at least he thought they might be familiar. But one was unmistakable. It was Ron O'Neill, the guy who'd been sitting in front of him in the transport when it had gotten hit with an RPG all those years ago.