Jack saw it coming, probably before Mac did.
Although it took him some time, too.
Once it came down to actually getting out of bed unassisted and jumping through the necessary metaphorical hoops to get the doctor to discharge him, Jack found himself spending a few more days in the hospital. And it informed him that jumping through actual hoops would be off the table for awhile.
For Jack, those extra days meant by the time he was allowed to leave with Mac (who just showed up with his Jeep and ignored the looks the medical staff gave him for driving on his own), his pain was down to manageable and he'd figured out how to move around without causing too much more of it.
For Mac, it meant an awful lot of time alone with the triple-password-protected tablet Thornton had sent him home with. Time reading and rereading information about DXS. Time lying to his best friend about what had happened. And about who he really worked for. Time thinking about how he wasn't even sure who that was either.
Jack had seen the tension in Mac's face, in his posture, when he'd hobbled into the infirmary (still dutifully using the crutches) to pick him up. He didn't say anything though. He figured whatever was really bothering the kid was better off coming out on its own.
Between the sling he was wearing for his injured shoulder, and how carefully he had to breathe to keep from setting off a cascade of pain that felt like lightning bolts zapping his legs, Jack didn't think he could give Mac and whatever was going on in his head the attention it deserved when he first got to Mac's place anyway. It took everything he had to just get through the basics of being alive. Being a sympathetic ear was out of the question for a few days.
Mac was clearly sensitive to Jack's plight, and also still obviously struggling a little with his own injury, not to mention Bozer's relentless questions, helpful suggestions, and general grandmotherly levels of fussing. But none of that seemed to distract Mac or even ease whatever was causing him to slowly wind himself up.
That tension felt like a gathering storm until the following weekend rolled around. Bozer had taken several days off (over Mac's protests) to take care of both of them, but a busy Los Angeles Friday night had him called in to work. He fretted endlessly until Mac practically chased him out the door. The minute it was closed, Mac's shoulders lowered in what was definitely relief, and he propped his crutches against the wall, right by the door and limped over to the refrigerator.
"Want anything?" he called casually to Jack, who was propped up on the couch and giving him a very distinctive look. Mac glanced up when Jack didn't answer, and caught his expression. "I don't need them, Jack," he said flatly, interpreting the look.
Accurately, Jack had to admit.
"You sure about that, because I seem to recall the doc was …"
"Passing on Thornton's directive instead of offering an actual medical opinion. Which is crap. I've done my research and recovery-wise I'm probably better off starting to use the leg than not."
"You sure it was a Thornton thing?" Jack asked, skeptical.
"He flat out said, 'The Director wanted me to remind you', not that he thought I needed to be using them. Like I said. It's crap."
Mac got himself a beer, then looked over at Jack, who was still taking prescription pain meds every four hours, and put it back in favor of a soda. Jack hadn't answered his question about wanting anything, but he got him one too and made his way over to the chair around the short end of the coffee table so he could put his foot up and keep reading.
Jack opened his soda without comment, other than, "Thanks, bud."
Then he studied Mac for a long moment as the blond's eyes traveled back and forth over whatever he was reading and a line found its way back across his forehead. The tension he'd seen leave Mac's body when he closed the door on Bozer and his next-level mother hen superpowers crept back into everything about him.
Jack cleared his throat. "Um … did Thornton send you more material to read?"
Mac didn't look up, but his frown deepened. "Uh, no, nothing new. Why?"
Jack took a deep breath. This was going to be a can of worms. He could tell. "It's just you're usually such a fast reader … I was wondering why you weren't finished?"
He let it be a question. Mac could rarely resist a question.
This time Mac looked up. Ha, Jack thought, I knew that would get him. "Just rereading some stuff. Trying … to figure some things out."
Jack wasn't sure he ought to move, but he did, sitting up to better face Mac, and almost smiling because it hurt a little less than it did the last time he'd done it without Bozer on his elbow insisting on helping. Mac did smile when he noticed the increased ease Jack was moving with. He still felt guilty as hell about Jack getting hurt and seeing him improving was assuaging that somewhat. However, he could tell Jack was about to push. Maybe not a lot, but he definitely had something on his mind. Mac felt like he had too much on his own at the moment to take on Jack's stuff, too.
But instead of pushing or asking more questions, Jack just offered, "Thornton said I could answer questions for you, kid. I'll know if we're skirting anything I'm not authorized to talk about with you."
Mac thought about it for a minute, then nodded slowly, powering down the company tablet and setting it on the coffee table. He leaned back in his chair, trying to look relaxed, knew immediately that he was failing miserably, and picked up a paperclip out of a small scattered pile and started fidgeting with it.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"What's the mission?"
Jack frowned. "Usually whatever the boss says it is, kid."
"No," Mac frowned, frustrated that he hadn't articulated this better. " Like the organizational mission." He paused as Jack's frown further creased his mobile face. "You know, like the Army's mission is, 'To fight and win our Nation's wars, by providing prompt, sustained, land dominance, across the full range of military operations and the spectrum of conflict, in support of combatant commanders.' And the CIA's is 'to strengthen national security and foreign policy objectives through the clandestine collection of human intelligence and covert action.'"
Jack's expression changed to a grin at the way Mac just rattled all that off. Jack was sure if he looked them up, those would be the exact mission statements his former employers had issued to the public. Jack wished he had a better answer, but had to shrug. "Since DXS doesn't really officially exist … I don't think we really have a mission statement, Mac. Other than 'get the job done when everybody else can't'."
Mac chewed on that for a few minutes. Well, actually what he chewed on was the inside of his cheeks, but Jack knew that meant he was deep in thought, so even if he said anything else, Mac might not even hear him.
Finally, Mac returned his eyes to Jack's. "What kind of jobs?"
Jack bit his lip, trying to decide how much he could reasonably say without checking with Thornton. Mac had been afforded the most basic of clearances at this point. He decided 'screw it', if Thornton wanted the kid to work for her, he deserved some honest answers while he made the decision about that.
He forced a chuckle. "Well, kid, some days it's still like Delta, and some days all I am is a personal security guard for somebody smarter than me who has to go do a job, but, it ain't ever boring," he began.
Mac looked at the sling Jack was still wearing very pointedly. "I'll bet." He paused, thinking again. "I know you can't give me specifics, but how about some generalities? You know, other than not boring." He managed a smirk.
Jack nodded, then his face screwed up into his thinking expression. "I mean, lots of stuff you'd expect I guess. Feels kind of like this job is if the Army and the CIA had a baby," he laughed. "I've been part of rescuing Americans overseas … Retrieval teams for sensitive equipment, like crashed satellites … That's how I got typhoid, actually. Um … intelligence gathering stuff. And um, you know … I've put my sniper skills to use a time or two, I guess."
Mac shifted forward in his seat, dropping his feet to the floor, and moving to rest his forearms on his thighs. He immediately swore and leaned back, putting his injured leg back up on the coffee table. Jack didn't react with anything other than a brow raised with concern, which Mac immediately waved off.
"That was stupid," he said with a head shake. Jack didn't disagree and his mild expression said so. Mac looked at his leg, then back at Jack. "I'll be right back. I'm gonna go make sure I didn't just open this back up."
Jack nodded. "You'd make your life a helluva a lot easier if you just wore gym shorts or something until that's healed a little more. Shorts make takin' care of a leg wound slightly less of a pain in the ass," he observed.
Mac let Jack's experience with leg wounds slide for a moment. He shrugged as he got slowly to his feet. "I don't have a lot of shorts I guess."
"I hope that's not about that itty bitty scar on your knee you told me you got when you were still a pup, because if that made you self conscious I'd hate to think what this scar will do."
Mac grinned. "Nah, I kind of like my scars. They're mostly good stories. But I don't ride or surf much anymore. No time I guess."
Then he headed toward his room. He was gone for long enough that Jack figured one of two things happened. Either Mac had actually reopened the wound by leaning on it and he was in there debating with himself about using super glue on it versus going to the infirmary. Or he'd spent more time thinking over Jack's answers and was maybe not thrilled with the conclusions he was coming to.
His expression when he returned, now clad in long oversized basketball shorts, told Jack it was the later.
This time when he limped to the fridge he did take out a beer. Remembering Jack wasn't necessarily one to eschew all alcohol, pain meds be damned, he offered one to the older man who was looking at it longingly.
Jack's answer made Mac pull a face that looked to Jack like the kid had tasted something bad. "No thanks, bud. Doc said no booze … I better toe the line. If the boss catches wind of it, she won't be happy."
Mac frowned then. "How the hell would she even know?"
Jack gave a slight shrug, just enough to remind himself that the movement was not yet back to comfortable. "She always seems to know … whatever she needs to, I guess."
Mac hummed an annoyed little noise but sat back down near Jack, taking a long pull off his beer. Then he leveled his sharp blue eyes at Jack and Jack felt for all the world like he was caught in someone's laser sight.
"You've shot people for DXS?" Mac asked, with no preface.
Jack wouldn't have chosen to phrase it that way, but he wasn't surprised that Mac did. Mac had never hidden his distaste for that part of the job, or for the idea that the best defense was a good offense. Instead of trying to dress that up, Jack just nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I have." Feeling the need to defend it a little, Jack added, "But they were real bad dudes, Mac."
Mac nodded. "I never thought you went after the good guys, man." He was quiet for a minute. "But Jack … bad guys or not … outside a war zone … that's assassination. Even CIA won't touch that."
"I told ya, kid. DXS gets the job done. I can't really think of another way to put it."
Mac finished his entire beer in several long swallows. Then he got himself another, his limp just a little more pronounced than it was when he first discarded the crutches. He didn't offer Jack one this time.
When he got back to his seat, Jack was looking at his phone. He glanced up as Mac eased himself back into his seat. "Thornton just texted me." He expected Mac to ask about it, but Mac just looked a strange combination of curious and like he didn't want to know. "You're expected in her office at six am on Monday so she can officially brief you in."
"Why didn't she text me?" he asked.
"She wanted me to confirm it with you. She's like that, bud. Two plans for everything and a secret backup plan in case those don't work out."
"So, she's a control freak," Mac observed.
He wasn't much for plans, himself, and had an innate mistrust of anyone who relied on them over much.
"Never met anyone in her line of work that wasn't," Jack returned with a small smile.
"And what's that, exactly?"
"Before taking on the job as DO of DXS? Only being the most successful clandestine operative in US history. James Bond has nothin' on Patricia Thornton."
"James Bond is English, big guy."
"Yeah well. Maybe both countries then."
"So, she's a spy?"
Jack shrugged. "Sort of, yeah."
Mac frowned. "What does that make you?"
Jack just shook his head, not quite sure what to make of the slight challenge in Mac's tone. "On the DL at the moment. And definitely not James Bond."
That seemed to close the subject.
They wound up watching Star Wars. Mac didn't pick up, not did he bring up, the tablet or its contents again, but Jack knew he was still thinking about it, if only by the heavy sighs Mac was t even aware of. And every sigh felt like a gust of wind acting as a harbinger of the storm to come.
Boze came in as they were about halfway in to Empire and caught Mac at the fridge without his crutches. Mac tried just heading back to his chair and ignoring Bozer, but Boze wouldn't have it. Then rant started almost before he'd gotten through the door.
"You need to just do what you're told and get better Mac! You act like this isn't a big deal, but it is! You'd think you still get shot at for a living!"
He went and got Mac's crutches and thrust them into his hands.
"You use those until the doctor says not to! Or I swear I'll call Mom! That's a order!" he finished sharply and stalked off, presumably to either shower and change, or rat Mac out to Mrs. Bozer and elicit a disapproving parental type phone call.
The flexing of Mac's jaw and the way his eyes hardened just a little told Jack that Mac didn't really care which. He wasn't even really paying attention. Mac said flatly, "I'm going to bed," and limped off toward his room, leaving his crutches right where he'd propped them against the sofa when Boze left the room.
Mac's door closed a little loudly. Jack sensed, though he couldn't have pinpointed exactly why, the the sound was the first ripple of thunder in the storm he'd been sensing. Whatever came next, that storm was about to break.