A/N - Got some requests for a little whumpy sick Mac action from a bunch of you (which you know I can't even slightly resist). I hope I hit at least a little of each of your suggestions. Keep letting me know what you'd like to see. I love hearing from you! ~ J
Jack watched his way through Avengers, then The Hunger Games, and finally an X-men movie he'd been meaning to get around to. Mac slept on through all of it, twitching every so often and mumbling in his sleep, but it never reached a level that in and of itself worried Jack. The fact that Mac just dozed off and stayed that way was a little concerning though. He'd never known Mac to sleep all that much, but he figured playing nursemaid all week probably just wore him out.
Dinner time came and went and Jack shook Mac lightly, knowing Mac would yell at him if he didn't at least try to wake him before fending for himself. Mac grumbled and rolled over, covering his head with one arm. Jack smiled slightly. Now he really looks like a kid, he thought. He was tempted to get out his cell phone and take a picture, but thought better of it when he remembered Mac's earlier reference to falling back on Army-inspired pranks as a form of retaliation.
He decided to let a sleeping Mac lie, and turned off the TV and light as he made his way out of his bedroom for the first time in a couple of days.
Jack noticed with a satisfied sort of smile that he was actually starving and, for the first time in days, his stomach didn't hurt at the mere thought of food. He'd been eating anything Mac put in front of him, but it had taken some real willpower to do it, up until the mac and cheese earlier, and now he thought he could eat half a cow and maybe have a beer with it. He knew neither of those things was a great idea, but it was nice to feel semi-normal again, even if it didn't last long.
He went into the kitchen and poked around in the fridge (wearing the gloves Mac had insisted on for him handling food that anyone else might touch) and he settled on various leftovers. He heated things up in the microwave and settled onto the couch. Die Hard was in the bedroom, so Jack flicked the TV to ESPN and shoveled in dinner while the sky outside the windows grew dark. He heard a slightly louder mumble from Mac in the other room and started to rise, but his young friend quieted again.
Any Given Sunday was on one of Jack's movie channels and he turned up the volume a little. It was one of his favorite football movies. But despite how entertaining the movie was, Jack was only just really starting to recover. Between his still over-taxed physical resources and how full his stomach was, not to mention how comfortable his couch felt -even if only because it was a change of venue - Jack soon dozed off, too. So he didn't hear Mac's dream really catch ahold of him.
0-0-0
Everything was too bright, the colors too rich. It looked like a dream, but he hurt too much for that to be true. So this had to be real. Right? Mac had a vague sense that something was wrong, but he wasn't sure what.
Other than everything, his inner voice grumped as he stumbled against a dumpster in the alleyway. "Damn it," he mumbled as he put his hand out against the wall to steady himself.
The shouts of the two men who pursued him had faded several blocks ago, but he hadn't dared to stop running. Now he had to. There was, at a minimum, bleeding to stop, and he needed shoes, some sort of disguise, and to figure out a way to get help, or at least get back to where the other men were being held so he could figure out how to help them himself if he couldn't find a way to make contact with the base.
He eased himself stiffly down onto the ground behind some garbage cans, checking to be sure he couldn't be seen from the street. Then puffing out a long breath, he mentally prepared to look at the slice that ran from his shoulder, across his chest, and terminated by his ribs on the opposite side. He hoped it wasn't as bad as it felt.
He wasn't altogether sure what had caused the men who'd captured them to decide to go to work on him first, but he was pretty grateful that it hadn't gone on for very long before they'd been called into the other room. He supposed they might have thought he was the weak link in the squad they captured. He was pretty obviously the youngest, and the only one not carrying a firearm … Actually, that might have been it. It marked him as potential EOD even if they didn't know the insignia on his uniform.
Mac fished out the salt packets that had been in his pocket from their lunch stop. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up his tattered t-shirt and poured the little salt he had into the shallow cut across his chest. He gasped at the sting and just sat for a few minutes, breathing through the discomfort, and trying to think of what to do next.
He had a moment to be truly grateful for the lessons his grandfather had taught him over the years. The first, most important one was when you're in a bad situation, don't panic. Take a deep breath and think.
When the RPG had hit their transport, Mac hadn't really known what happened until it stopped rolling. But he took a deep breath and did his best to process his surroundings. He heard rough voices shouting in Dari, which he was starting to pick out common words from, and he realized he was in serious trouble. A number of squads had gone missing locally and then either turned up on the internet in some truly disturbing videos, or simply been left to die in terrible places after every bit of information that could be squeezed was out of them by their captors.
Hoping at least one thing might swing his way, Mac had sluggishly taken his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and slid it into the waistband of his underwear. When the men had patted him down they'd missed it, and he was thankful for the belt that probably did the most to conceal it.
He'd taken a moderately severe beating, then been tied to a chair in the same dim room with one high window that the other guys were being held. In retrospect maybe they hadn't gone to work on him first, just separately. The other guys looked pretty bad, too, he thought.
A couple of them were unconscious. None of them were cut like he was though. He wondered exactly what he'd done to the guy working him over that pissed him off enough to warrant the slashing cut he delivered while the other impossibly large member of the pair pinned his arms behind his back and kept kicking his legs out from under him. Mac hadn't even done his usual letting his mouth get ahead of his brain thing that so often got him in trouble. He had already been scared. When that knife came out of his captor's pocket he was as close to panic as he'd ever been.
Bombs were not nearly as scary as that guy.
A bomb would kill you quick. Or you'd beat it and nothing bad would happen. But there wasn't a lot to contemplate beyond that. Not pain, not breaking under interrogation and compromising your own people, hell, your country, and not being the object of some sadistic piece of crap's undivided attention. Mac felt like anyone who could do what these men did, weren't even necessarily motivated by ideology the way people thought. He thought maybe there was just something broken about them, something that liked suffering and chaos.
He opened his eyes again, pulled at his collar to try to get a look at his chest this time. It wasn't bleeding as much. That was good. Next order of business, he thought, was find someplace to steal shoes, and maybe try to make a call if he could find an unattended phone or radio.
His first impulse had been to try to get help from anyone he ran into, but he was glad he'd hesitated and hidden. The person he'd almost approached after cutting himself loose from those coarse ropes and climbing out that window had tried to help his pursuers right after he'd gone over a low fence into a neighbor's yard.
He now felt like approaching a local was tantamount to suicide. So he was on his own until he could call in the cavalry, so to speak.
Mac forced himself to get to his feet, groaning in a completely involuntary way, as he realized that adrenaline from fleeing kept him from realizing how badly his feet had gotten cut up running through the streets with no boots or socks. He paused and looked at his feet, realizing that even if he found shoes they'd probably be an agony to wear. And he definitely couldn't shove these tenderized, raw, bloody appendages into anything that was too small. Mac knew he had big feet for a guy his height. Size thirteen was pretty ridiculous for someone who didn't crack six feet. He'd probably struggle to find shoes that would fit him on a good day, say nothing about now, which was the total opposite of that.
Mac made his way gingerly out of the alley, looking stealthily left and right before he hugged the shadows to move back in the direction he'd come from. He felt like everything was too bright. And it was definitely too hot. Sweat dripped down his back, dampening his shirt, his waistband. Or was it too cold. He shivered occasionally, too, convinced every once in a while that it was ice water dripping off him and not sweat at all.
He realized as he made his slow, painful way back to where his squad was being held that he was almost definitely suffering from dehydration, maybe even heat exhaustion. He was dizzy and his head hurt. His mouth felt like it was lined with cotton. His stomach churned unpleasantly and he'd already had to stop and physically pull his toes up with his fingers due to intense charlie horse spasms in his left calf at least three times.
That wasn't great, he thought. He managed to get some water out of what was clearly a trough for whatever animals lived at one residence and he thought of at least ten different bacteria he could pick up from such a thing and several really entertaining parasites. But, he reasoned, all those things were treatable. Heat stroke, well, that was less of a sure thing. That could kill you even if you were young and healthy like him.
Mac continued to make his determined way back to the broken down house on the outskirts of town he'd fled from. When it came back into view, he had to sit down for a minute, behind another structure. Seeing the place made every bruise flare back to life as if with a fresh blow, and seemed to make the seeping wound on his chest hot and stinging again.
He forced himself to breathe, to try to calm down. He edged closer to the house, able to hear, in the near silence of the almost deserted street, conversation from inside. He had to scramble into a garbage can to avoid being seen when two more of the men emerged from inside without warning.
After that things seemed to happen very quickly. A large military style covered truck pulled up. The men from inside were dragged out and shoved in the cargo area, bound, and now mostly with their faces covered, and the truck was pulling away.
If Mac hadn't done some really quick thinking and moving, despite his truly throbbing head, he would have been left behind. As it was, the thin, wiry, young man managed to get himself under the truck between prisoners being loaded, and wrap himself up in the undercarriage, jostling along painfully for the ten or so miles to the Mazari outpost outside of town.
Things were a bit of a blur after that.
Mac dropped out from under the truck, arms and legs shaking with fatigue, once the noise had faded and the sky had grown dark. Mac knew he'd lurked around warily. He'd had an opening to go in and try to rescue the men a few times, but his brain kept throwing out the sharp cry Tallahassee had let loose with when Mac had cracked that window. Mac didn't know why that was haunting him so, a man just crying out in pain and frustration, but it was, and he couldn't seem to do anything about it.
Mac knew that at some point he'd managed to get into the truck and use the radio. He remembered hearing a friendly voice, sounded like he was from the Bronx maybe, telling him that help was on the way. In relief and days long exhaustion, not to mention a progressively worse fever and general sense that all was not well, Mac had fallen asleep, concealed beneath a tarp near the garbage pile behind the place. He was almost warm and comfortable when a rough hand grabbed him by the front of the shirt and hauled his almost sleeping form off the ground while screaming in his face.
0-0-0
Mac thrashed, trying to free himself from the grip of someone who undoubtedly meant more pain, more fear, and a bitter bloody death at the end of it. His eyes were blown wide, but for the moment all he could see was the velvet dark around him, and all he could hear was the thudding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears.
He fell a few feet and hit the floor hard, forcing his breath out in a shocked gasp. Mac knew this couldn't be what it felt like, or at least there was a part of him that knew. But most of his brain was suddenly nineteen, blown up, captured, tortured, pursued, and just sick as hell before help arrived. Mac scrambled to his feet and just started trying to move toward the nearest light source. You couldn't get away if you couldn't see. He ran into something hard that one part of his brain that had already figured out where he was knew was Jack's dresser. But to the rest of him, it felt like someone had stabbed in in the hip. He frantically changed directions and tried getting away from wherever he was again.
Suddenly a dark imposing shape was in the doorway. Mac backpedalled almost before he'd processed that another person was near. The shape was saying something, moving toward him. But all Mac felt was hot, slick panic. He tried to get away as the figure reached out for him. Part of his brain said he should stop running, that the voice saying 'Mac' was speaking with calm, familiar concern. But that wasn't the part in charge.
Almost before he knew what was happening, Mac went over backwards, having overbalanced. He lay on the floor in the dark, gasping, struggling to get upright, struggling even, to breathe.
"Mac, hey, Mac buddy, calm down. It's me, it's Jack, you're okay," came the deceptively calm words out of a man who was legitimately a little scared at that moment.
It took the words being repeated a few times before they pierced Mac's general sense of danger and panic. He became aware that there was a dim light on that was maybe just Jack's phone and he could now see Jack kneeling on the floor next to him, looking down into his face with pained worry. "You with me, kid?"
"I … yeah," Mac croaked, sounding about like he felt. He started trying to struggle up to sitting, grateful at least that it was a dream and he wasn't in Afghanistan, wasn't bleeding, at least as far as he could tell.
"Hey, now, you slow down there, kid."
Jack's hand was firmly resting on his chest, keeping him from rising.
"Jack, quit it. I'm fine. I was dreaming …"
The pressure didn't withdraw. And Mac quickly found he didn't even have the energy to be pissed off, say nothing about fight back.
Jack's other hand reached out toward him, wrist resting briefly on Mac's forehead. "Jesus kid, you're burning up."
Mac took a minute to assess that assertion and decided based on his relentless shivering it was probably true. "Shit," was all that's seemed adequate.
"Yup," Jack agreed, finally easing off trying to keep Mac down. "That about covers it."
Jack stared down into his face for a minute. "We oughta get you to the infirmary …"
"I'm fine," Mac insisted, almost like a reflex.
"Mmmm," Jack said with a shake of his head, standing and turning on the bedside lamp. Instead of hopping up right after him, Mac sat blinking on the floor. Yeah, sure you're fine, Jack thought, looking down at him. He reached out a hand and helped Mac up.
Mac swayed on his feet for a minute, then realized there was no brushing this off. He sat down on the bed, gripping the edge for support, not quite ready to admit defeat, but not able to pretend he was okay either. He felt miserable, almost as miserable as he had the day he would have been recaptured by the Mazari if the good guys hadn't shown up.
Jack sat down next to him. Not too close. Crowding Mac if he was already feeling stubborn about something was usually a ticket to a fight that would leave Jack feeling dumb and Mac feeling bad about whatever he'd said. "I'm not trying to start a thing, kid, but you don't look fine."
He knew he didn't, he didn't feel it either. But what he said was. "I was having a bad dream. I just need a minute."
He still sounded hoarse and he mentally cursed the catalog of symptoms his brain was filing for him. Jack was just frowning at him. Mac could see the expression out of the corner of his eye. It was about killing Jack not to feel his forehead again.
Forestalling the inevitable, Mac looked at Jack and asked, "What time is it?"
"Round two in the morning I think," Jack said, after a moment's hesitation.
Mac ran both hands over his face and through his damp hair. "Jesus, I slept for like twelve hours, didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did. Pretty clearly a good reason your body decided to put the kibosh on you running around and waiting on me anymore," he observed. Mac shrugged. Jack waited a minute. "How about we revisit the infirmary part of this conversation, bud? You've been taking care of me all week and you said yourself that vaccine probably didn't do you any good."
"I've been very careful. You've been following the rules. I didn't catch typhoid, Jack."
Jack decided he was okay with pissing the kid off a little, so he reached out slowly to lay the back of his hand against Mac's forehead again. He'd given Mac plenty of opportunity to move away, but he didn't. He just rolled his eyes and flinched a little when it hurt his head.
Jack shook his head, lowering his hand. "Maybe not; but ya caught somethin' kid."
"I doubt it. That vaccine can cause high fevers sometimes and I was pretty beat," Mac shrugged and stood up with deliberate care. "I'm not going to the doctor in the middle of the night because you get fidgety," he said with a small grin. "I'm gonna take a shower and change into actual sleep clothes. I'll be out on the couch after that if you need me."
Jack's expression of concern deepened, but he said, "Okay."
He wanted to argue a little, but he felt like it wasn't even fair given the heaviness of the kid's eyes.
The rest of Mac's night was spent in fitful sleep, but it was blessedly free from dreams, at least as far as he could remember when he pried his eyes open, blinking against the pain the early morning light shot through his forehead.
He sat up, shaking his head at the expression on Jack's face, as well as the fact that his friend was sitting in the chair across from him, waiting for him to wake up.
"Morning, Jack. How you feeling this morning?"
"Like a million bucks compared to how you look," he answered wryly.
Mac sighed. He hurt everywhere, was cold but sweaty, and even after all the sleep he'd gotten just wanted to lay back down. Still, he wasn't worried about it. Probably caught a cold getting run down looking after Jack.
"Don't be so dramatic," he grumped.
He got up and headed around the counter to get himself a coffee. Once he was fully caffeinated, Mac was planning to go to the convenience store around the corner and buy some NyQuil or something. He'd just take is a little easy today, maybe order takeout instead of cooking, then he'd get a decent sleep, take Jack in to the infirmary tomorrow so he could be cleared to go back to work, and crash for the weekend, pounding Gatorade and vitamin c tablets.
Mac definitely looked worse for wear. Jack thought maybe he should try talking to him about going to the infirmary again or at least calling his own doctor, knowing from some experience what it took to get Mac to admit to being less than 100%. And now with the insights from Boze, he understood at least a little bit of why.
"You sure you don't think you could have caught this garbage from me? Because we could just go in to …"
"I'm sure," Mac snapped. He closed his eyes for a second. "Sorry. But I'm good, pal. Really."
Jack sighed. "Do I have to drag out my Sergeant Dalton voice on ya, kid?"
Mac bit down on his natural inclination to get defensive. Jack didn't mean it like that. Not like … "If I was worried, I'm capable of deciding to see a doctor, Jack." he said calmly, taking his coffee back into the living room, mostly because he needed to sit.
Jack followed, on eyebrow cocked in natural skepticism brought on by Mac's choice of words. "Do you even have a doctor?"
Mac rolled his eyes. "No … I mean, honestly, why would I?"
"It's kind of a thing you do," Jack said mildly.
"Dude, I'm twenty-three. And I never get sick."
"Evidence to the contrary right in front of me, bud." Mac was absently massaging his forehead, and realizing it, he refrained from any reply. "You really ought to just be sure, bud. We walk in tomorrow for my appointment with you lookin' like this, Thornton will literally make taking care of yourself a boss-level directive."
Mac could feel a line deepening across his forehead, to go with the ache behind it. "I don't need anyone who thinks they're in charge of me making going to the doctor for no reason a contingency of their approval or anything else."
There was more anger in Mac's tone than he was expecting. It seemed like as good a time as any to maybe reveal that he was aware of a complicated history around admitting to illness. He hoped it wouldn't get Bozer in trouble. "I … Bozer …"
Mac's eyes flashed. "Bozer what?" he snapped.
Jack figured he was about to owe Bozer an apology visit to The Cheesecake Factory or something. "He … and he was just trying to help, Mac … he kind of told me about you getting upset when you got sick after your mom passed …" Mac's eyes dropped at that, but he stayed quiet. "And he also said your dad was kind of a jerk about it."
"Yeah," Mac finally said quietly.
At that Jack got up and moved to sit next to Mac on the couch. "You were what? Five or six?" Mac nodded, with a little shrug. "You're a rational guy, Mac. I know you must see that you're still making decisions based on how that must've made you feel."
"Don't do that," he said with quiet seriousness. "Don't Psych 101 me, Jack."
"I don't mean it like that, Mac," he said softly, putting a hand on Mac's shoulder and giving it a squeeze.
"It's not that anyway," Mac insisted. Jack just raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. "I hate …" He paused, deciding not to finish that thought, instead choosing to share something he knew Jack would understand. "After that he also dragged me to the doctor if I got so much as a paper cut. And he always acted pissed off about it, too. So it was like it was a punishment. For the next five years." Mac sighed heavily.
"You finally get fed up and tell 'im off?" Jack asked, trying to lighten things back up, mostly because he couldn't stand the sorrowful look on Mac's face.
"I've never told him off," he said quietly. "But I'm damned well not … I don't even know."
He sighed again. Acquiescence was honestly easier than more of this conversation.
"Okay, fine. Let's go." Mac got slowly to his feet.
"Wait, seriously?" Jack said, almost incredulous. "You're gonna just go to the infirmary? Just like that?"
"I'm clearly not going to get you to lay off on this whole 'Listen to me, Carl's Junior, I'm your overwatch' thing you're doing."
Having gotten his way more easily than he anticipated, Jack grinned, getting up off the couch. "Not ever."