"So, it's true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love."
~E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly
Part Two: Los Angeles, California
He was listening for Jack's voice.
He knew it would be there…somewhere, under the persistent, rhythmic tone that seemed to be everywhere. Like the countdown of a timer. He let himself lay quietly, eyes closed, and listened for a while.
After a bit, the rhythm lulled him back into the black, into silence.
He listened for Jack again. But instead, he heard Bozer. His voice strained with anxiousness, thick with tears. Whispering a plea.
"C'mon, man…you can't…you can't do this to me, now. Not after…not after all we…I mean, we can't lose you, too, okay? Not you. I need you, Mac…."
The tone was still there, like a heartbeat above his head. There wasn't a real fading in this time. There was just nothing, and then…voices.
"Any idea when he's gonna wake up?" Bozer. He sounded mad.
"It's hard to say. Damage such as the kind your friend has survived…all we can do is wait."
"Wait? That's…that's it? That's what all your fancy degrees and your…your decades of school get you to? Just cross your fingers and wait?"
"We have treated his wounds, and we are healing his body. It's his mind that is keeping him in this state. That…we can't always treat."
"Mac c'mon, man. You've come through worse than this. Wake up!"
But he was tired. He was so tired. And he still had not heard Jack's voice. He'd wake up when Jack told him to.
"What are you saying, Matty?"
"I'm saying this may not be physical, Bozer. Mac's…lost a lot here recently—we all have," Matty's voice sounded faint. Tinny. Like she was speaking from the other side of a tunnel. "But reactions to loss are tremendously variable. It can be difficult to differentiate between normal and abnormal grief."
"So…Mac isn't waking up because he…doesn't want to?"
He did, though. He did want to. Maybe.
He felt cool, dry air slipping up through his nose, felt the pull of tape on his chest and arms, felt the pinch of a needle. He strained to hear something that told him where he was and if he was safe. He couldn't hear anything he recognized—just the rhythmic tone, off to his left.
"If you're wondering why the others aren't here…they haven't given up on you, man."
Bozer. Every time he'd surfaced, even for a moment, he'd heard Bozer's voice.
"They just…well, Riley…it's just that after Jack…it's hard, Mac. It's damn hard to see you like this."
After Jack…where was Jack? Why wasn't he here? He needed him. He'd wait…just a bit longer.
This time, he was too uncomfortable to slip back into the peaceful nothing of sleep.
"Hi there, sugar," came a soft voice to his left, one he was not familiar with. "You thinking about waking up for me?"
He wasn't sure. The last clear thing he remembered was being in a room with Jack tied to a post and a bomb around his neck. And he'd been in pain…a lot of pain.
He couldn't feel much of anything now.
"You're moving your eyes," the voice observed. "That's something, now, isn't it?"
He felt soft fingers—decidedly not Jack's—slide into the curve of his hand and squeeze. He instinctively squeezed back.
"There you go," the voice encouraged. It was a woman, he realized now. "That's it! How about you try that one more time? Just squeeze my fingers."
He complied.
"Well, how about that," she was smiling, he could tell. He could hear her voice curve upward. "I knew you'd come on back when you were good and ready."
Back? From the mission?
"Think you could open your eyes for me?"
Mac took a slow breath. He wanted to, but they were so heavy.
"It's okay," she patted the back of his hand. "Rest. You can try again later."
The world was soft around him. There were voices in the distance, but they sounded more like the base beat of a song, less like the vocalization of thought. He listened for a while, letting the gray hold him. After a bit, they quieted. Or left. Either way, there was only the same steady beat—almost like a pulse.
The human heartbeat at 1.2Hz per second; he could count that rhythm. It was like the pendulum of a clock, or the way Jack tapped the steering wheel of his Mustang with the flat of his hand in time with the music. The beat doubled for a moment, then reverted to the steady rhythm.
"Hey there." It was that voice from before. Female, friendly. "Don't think I didn't pick up on that, kiddo."
It was his heart. He could feel it now. Beating to the rhythm of the steady sound echoing a bit off to his left.
"Feel like maybe opening your eyes this time?"
He did. Feel like it. The question was…could he?
He took a breath and blinked. For a moment, everything was blurred, even the figure next to his bed. A few more blinks and the room around him came into focus.
Hospital.
"Wh—" It came out as a dry whisper.
"Oh, not yet, hon," said the voice to his right. He turned his head slowly, tracking it.
Light blue scrubs, dark blonde hair pulled away from a softly lined, unfamiliar face, and kind eyes. She smiled.
"There you are," she said. "I've been wanting to meet you for some time, young man."
Mac swallowed; his throat felt raw.
The woman pressed a button on the inside of his bed rail, slowly raising his head a bit. "How about some ice chips?"
He nodded, opening his mouth obligingly as she spooned crushed ice onto his tongue. It felt heavenly. He let them melt, then tipped his chin for more. She obliged, then suggested he let that settle for a bit before she gave him more.
"You've had a time of it," she told him.
"How long?" he whispered.
She tilted her head. "Let's see…you were in intensive care for about 6 days, and this is going on day number eight here on my floor."
Mac blinked in astonishment. That was…that was two weeks.
"Where's—" His voice caught on the back of his throat, and he coughed. And suddenly, he remembered. His side flared and his head pounded.
"Easy, you're okay," his nurse, put a cool hand on his wrist as he caught his breath, instinctively pressing a hand to his side. "That's it. Catch your breath and I'll give you some more ice chips."
Mac closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm his breathing. When he had control again, he opened his eyes and looked at the cup on the side table greedily. His nurse complied and he gratefully sucked on the ice, letting the cool liquid run down his throat.
"You were asking about your friend?" she guessed.
Mac nodded eagerly. If he'd been in the hospital for 14 days, there was no question in his mind that Jack would have been there as much as possible.
"He wouldn't leave your side," she smiled softly. "Even when you were in ICU—and they limit the visiting hours there to two hours a day. But he was there until they kicked him out."
Mac felt his mouth tug up in a reflexive smile.
"Got to where he wasn't sleeping much and we had to make him go home and rest," she concluded. "I know he's going to be happy to see you awake. He never gave up hope."
That was just like Jack, Mac knew. He would've never given up, no matter how bleak things looked.
"Am I…," he wasn't sure how to ask the question.
"How about I get your doctor in here and he can go over things with you—maybe get you some clear liquids?"
Mac nodded eagerly. When she left, he let his eyes trace over the room, noting a small couch under the curtained window, a stack of books to one side, and the cord for a laptop piled on the floor. He saw a door he presumed was to a bathroom and under the TV, directly across from the foot of his bed, was a whiteboard with the name Tasha written at the top.
That had to be the name of his nurse, he assumed.
He looked down at his arms, surprised to see the inside of his forearms covered in fading bruises. He could see by the placement of his IV that each bruise was where catheters had been placed before and moved. He lifted his sheet and moved the gown to the side, drawing his head back in surprise at the size of the white bandage taped across his stomach.
Carefully pulling at the tape, he lifted the gauze padding from his skin and stared at the healing incision that bisected him from his belly button across to his side, curving around his waist.
"Exploring a bit, I see?"
Mac startled at the new voice, dropping the bandage and looking up. He felt a bit like a deer in the headlights, getting caught doing something he shouldn't.
"No, no, you're okay." It was a man, walking in with Tasha, wearing a sweatshirt with an insignia on the left breast and a stethoscope around his neck. Mac frowned. The man picked up on his confusion. "I know I don't look the part," he said, lifting the end of the stethoscope, "except for maybe this. But I'm your doctor. My name is Mal Reynolds, and usually I'd be all decked out in the white lab coat and whatnot, but…it's Saturday. And, uh…," he gestured to the insignia on his sweatshirt, "I was at a game."
"Basketball?" Mac guessed, his voice carrying slightly more weight than before.
"Wrong season," Dr. Reynolds shrugged. "But we'll give you a pass since you've been kinda…not conscious."
Tasha caught Mac's eye and mouthed football, then smiled. Mac smiled back.
"So!" Dr. Reynolds pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and put the ends in his ears before leaning over Mac to press the chest piece over Mac's heart—which he thought was somewhat duplicative considering the machine was still beeping off to Mac's left. "I hear you'd like to know what gives?"
Dr. Reynolds slid the chest piece down a bit to Mac's belly and carefully listened to different areas of his gut. Mac felt his stomach rumble in reaction.
"Now, that's what I like to hear," Dr. Reynolds straightened up and slung the stethoscope back around his neck. He nodded at Tasha and tipped his chin toward the ice chips, allowing her to give Mac another spoonful.
"So…," he crossed his arms and leaned a hip against Mac's bed. "Tasha let you know you've been here for a bit."
Mac nodded, sucking on the ice chips. "Fourteen days."
"When you came in you were in pretty bad shape," Dr. Reynolds told him. "You had massive internal bleeding, a ruptured spleen, a grade four concussion, and some pretty severe bruising around your neck."
At that, Mac frowned. He'd expected everything but the concussion and bruising around his neck. He reached up to his throat and realized his skin was sensitive to touch—and what's more, he felt the scruff of a few weeks' growth along his jawline.
"We were able to stop the internal hemorrhaging," Dr. Reynolds continued, "but we had to remove your spleen. Luckily," he offered Mac a half-grin, "you can still live a long and healthy life without that particular organ. You did require two surgeries and about four pints of blood when all was said and done."
"Wow," Mac whispered.
"The biggest concern, though," Dr. Reynolds cleared his throat, dropping his chin and raising his eyebrows in Mac's direction, "was the concussion. You would show signs of waking but we couldn't get you to stay conscious…until now."
"I don't remember any of that," Mac replied, feeling off-balance with this news.
"It's no surprise," Dr. Reynolds stepped away from the bed, pulled out a pen light from his back pocket, and leaned over Mac. "The brain is complicated. We can hide for a long time if we think it might help us escape pain."
Mac flinched suddenly, Jack's voice echoing in his memory.
"Life ain't about escaping pain. No matter how much we might want to. Pain…hell, it's inevitable. It's gonna happen to you one way or another, no matter what you do."
"Mac?" Dr. Reynolds swept the light across Mac's wide-open eyes. "You hanging in there with me?"
"Y-yeah," Mac stuttered, swallowing hard. "I'm okay."
Dr. Reynolds straightened up. "Well, you sure seem to be doing remarkably well." He looked at the readout on the machine to Mac's left. "Your vitals are strong, your gut is noisy, and your cognition is on track—especially for someone who has been through what you have."
He looked over at Tasha. "I think we can start him on a clear liquid diet and see how he does." Glancing back at Mac, he smiled. "If you behave, we can get you some real food tomorrow, how's that?"
Mac smiled in return. "Good," he nodded. "Um…can I…could I maybe get a shower?"
Dr. Reynolds tilted his head, considering. "How about you get some calories in you and Tasha can help you get cleaned up in bed first. Let's save the standing on your own until tomorrow. And…we'll have to remove the catheter."
Mac grimaced. He'd not felt the catheter until the moment it was mentioned, but now the discomfort made itself known.
"I'll be back later to check on you," Dr. Reynolds promised.
The moment he left, Tasha began to disconnect him from some of the machines and called for a food tray, then went about getting him the supplies he'd need to wash up when he was done eating.
"We called your friends to let them know you were awake," Tasha told him as she worked. "Your boss—Matty?"
Mac nodded.
"She informed us that someone would be here to see you as soon as possible, and they were all very happy to hear you were awake."
Mac smiled softly. He couldn't wait to see Jack—and Bozer and Riley. But mostly Jack. He needed to find out how they'd managed to get free from that C4. How they'd escaped. He needed to tell Jack thank you for keeping him alive. Present. Hopeful.
When the food tray came, Tasha left to check on a few more patients and showed him where the TV controls were. He ate slowly, savoring the flavor of the broth and Jello, scrolling through the stations to try to catch up on news and events. Tasha returned when he was done eating and had just about decided to allow himself to go back to sleep.
"I see those sleepy eyes," Tasha noted, pushing the curtain aside. "How we get you cleaned up first? You have some friends out there, but I told them you wanted to wash up and might need a bit of privacy."
"It's okay," Mac smiled. "I want to see them first."
Tasha motioned toward the door and Mac grinned as Bozer and Riley walked in, followed by an attractive Asian female with tattoos on her arms and chest.
"Mac!" Bozer practically sprinted toward the bed. "Can I hug you? I won't hurt you, will I?"
Mac chuckled at his friend's earnestness and reached for him, hugging Bozer back tightly. "'s good to see you, man," he said softly against Bozer's shoulder.
"Damn, it's good to see you awake," Bozer said, pulling away.
Riley leaned in for a hug and well. "I'm so happy to see you, Mac," she whispered against his cheek. "We were all so worried."
"I'm glad to see you guys," Mac grinned, his eyes sliding to the Asian woman.
She smiled at him, looking hesitant. "We've missed you," she said, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. "No one knows what to do with that big bowl of paperclips in the war room."
And then it hit him. "Desi," he said suddenly, the memory of her crashing against him, making him a bit dizzy. "But…wait," he frowned, "why are you…?" He looked over a Bozer. "Where's Jack?
The room seemed to flinch. Bozer brought his head up and Riley pulled back from Mac with a soft gasp. Only Desi stayed still.
"What?" Bozer asked, sounding choked.
"Isn't he with you guys?" Mac glanced over Bozer's shoulder toward the door.
He looked back at Bozer, then Riley, noting with confusion and curiosity how they both seemed to pale. Desi withdrew her hand from where it had rested on his bed rail and crossed her arms over her chest. Mac felt a tightness in his chest like the air was being slowly siphoned from the room.
"Mac," Riley said, her voice sounding choked and thin. "Jack's…gone."
Mac frowned, his brows pulling together. "What, like…he left the hospital?" That seemed strange—why would he do that before seeing Mac?
"No, Mac, like…gone gone," Bozer echoed. He glanced around the room in obvious confusion. "Jack…Jack died, man."
Mac felt his heart stutter, the room shrinking around him.
"He didn't make it?" He couldn't breathe, could barely get the words out.
"What? No…," Bozer stared at him. "Mac, his service was three months ago. They gave you his dog tags…."
"You're wrong," Mac said, his voice echoing hollowly in his ears. "You're lying."
Bozer looked stricken. Mac's gaze shifted to Riley and saw tears flooding her eyes.
"No," Mac shook his head. "You're wrong. He was there—he was in Panama. With me. He saved me!"
Bozer visibly swallowed. "You went on this one on your own, man," he informed Mac. "You insisted on it—said it was an easy in and out, not worth our time."
Mac shook his head again. "He was there, Boze," his voice trembled, matching the shaking of his heart. He couldn't understand why they wouldn't believe him. "You…how did you get me out? Maybe you…maybe you missed him. He was—th-they'd strapped him to a pole. There was a b-bomb…his neck was—it was around his neck, and I c-couldn't—"
"That was you, Mac," Desi spoke up softly at his side, causing Mac to look at her with startled surprise. He'd almost forgotten she was there. "You were strapped to a post with a bomb at your neck and you were…you were beat to hell—"
"NO." Mac shook his head, looking away from all of them. "You're wrong. I don't know why you're doing this." He reached up to his suddenly pounding head, his hand trembling. "You left him there!"
"Mac!" Riley gasped through her tears. "We would never—"
"Leave." Mac snapped. When they shuffled uncertainly, he shouted, "NOW!" His eyes went to the window on his left and the waning sunlight filtering through the shades.
"Mac, c'mon, man we—"
"Go!" Mac shouted, eyes shifting to glare at Bozer.
He ignored the way his heart stuttered at the crushed expression on Bozer's face, the way his friend's eyes went flat and hollow just before he turned and stalked from the room. Turning his glare to Riley and Desi, he waited until the two women walked out of the room before shifting stiffly to his non-wounded side and wrapped his arms around himself.
Tasha had stayed quiet in the corner of the room, watching the exchange. She set the wash basin and towels to the side, then stepped over to the curtain the closed the room off from the exit and hallway.
"How about you get some rest and I'll come back with your dinner tray…we can get you cleaned up then," she said softly.
"Thank you," Mac managed to choke out, watching her leave.
She didn't close the door. Mac could hear the murmur of voices in the hall, recognized Riley's tearful tone, and heard Tasha consoling her. He picked up on Dr. Reynold's deep timber and Bozer's angry questions.
"You said he'd wake up when he wanted to," Bozer accused.
"And he did," Dr. Reynolds asserted.
"But…he doesn't," Riley started, choking off to a stop. "He doesn't believe us about Jack. He doesn't remember."
It felt as if he were listening to a TV coming from a different room. He recognized the words, but they held no meaning for him. They weren't about him. They were about some other poor soul who had experienced a terrible loss. Not him.
Mac heard Dr. Reynolds sigh. "Loss by traumatic means—such as the loss of your friend, and his partner, someone he depended on, and trusted—is a traumatic stressor. The result for some could be classified as PTSD. And you told me Mac is a vet as well, yes?"
"Yeah, he and Jack met in Afghanistan," Bozer replied. "Jack was Mac's overwatch—Mac was part of the bomb disposal unit."
"So, he's spent literal years depending on this one person to keep him alive," Dr. Reynolds pointed out. "That's not something he's going to get over quickly."
"It's been three months since the service," Desi pointed out. "And Jack was on assignment for almost two years before that."
There was a pause. Maybe the channel changed. Maybe someone turned off the program. Maybe—
"The effects of unexpected loss don't operate along a specific timeline," Dr. Reynolds' voice came back through the ambient chaos of the hospital hallway. "The impact can create severe feelings of personal vulnerability and can force an individual in that situation to confront the prospect of death, creating intense anxiety—which, arguably, is the psychological aftereffect common to all traumatic stressors."
"So, you're saying, what? This is just Mac's way of—" Desi's tone was skeptical.
"Mac went through hell in Panama," Dr. Reynolds broke in. "And he was alone. I think he needed Jack to be alive just so he could survive. So…Jack was alive."
"But how do we get Mac to remember?" Bozer asked.
"You give him time."
Mac saw the shadow of the door grow wider as someone reached to close it, cutting off whatever the rest of the conversation entailed. But he'd heard enough. They had all written Jack off. How they'd missed him when they rescued Mac, he didn't know. Something had to have happened after he'd passed out.
"I'll see you on the other side."
Mac closed his eyes, holding on to that promise tighter than any lifeline he'd ever grasped before.
"You feel like getting cleaned up?"
Mac blinked aware as the light above his bed was turned on, setting the room aglow with a soft, yellow light. He looked over to his right and saw Tasha standing next to the counter holding the wash basin she'd brought in earlier. Stiffly, he rolled from his side to his back, stifling a groan.
"Hi," he greeted her, his voice rough from sleep.
"Hi," she smiled at him. "You napped for a couple of hours, but if you want to graduate to something more than broth, we need to get you moving around a bit."
"Shower?" Mac asked hopefully, smiling at her.
Tasha grinned. "Nice try, hot shot. How about first, we wash you up here in bed and get you sitting in a chair? You handle that okay, we'll talk shower tomorrow."
Mac nodded, adjusting his position once more as she tilted the bed forward. He realized he was weaker than he thought as she helped him remove his gown, wash carefully with warm water and a fresh-smelling, sanitizing soap—being extra careful around his suture site—and change into a new gown. He let her use the warm shower cap shampoo to clean his hair, pushing the damp strands back from his face with relief.
"Now," she said, hands on hips, head tilted with a discerning eye. "How about we do something with that scruff on your jaw, yeah?"
"Yeah," Mac nodded. "It itches like crazy."
"Not a five o'clock shadow kinda guy, huh?" Tasha guessed, gently applying the shaving cream.
Mac shook his head. "That's Jack. Soon as we got out of the Army, he stopped shaving every day."
Tasha carefully and methodically ran the razor down his cheeks and along his jawline, making faces that he mimicked to stretch his lips.
"Sounds like a man who knows what makes him happy," Tasha commented.
"Yeah, Jack's unique," Mac chuckled, taking the warm, wet cloth from her and wiping down his face. "He didn't like me when we first met," he revealed.
"Oh yeah?" Tasha said as she cleaned up the bathing supplies and returned them to the basin. "How'd you win him over?"
Mac frowned. "Honestly…I'm not sure. I always thought it was when I saved him from an IED he stepped on in this abandoned house outside of Kandahar, but…I think he was invested in our friendship before that…he just didn't realize it."
"That happens," Tasha nodded, handing Mac a mirror. "The best relationships can sneak up on us."
Mac looked at his reflection, blinking slightly with surprise at the thinness he saw there. After two weeks of IV fluids and unconsciousness, his cheekbones stood out, his eyes looked hollow, haunted, and bruised, and there was a stitched-up wound above his left eyebrow that hadn't been there before. He tilted the mirror lower and saw his neck still holding dark traces of bruising, front to back, and what looked like thin lines near his collar bones and jaw line where something had cut into him.
It almost looked like he'd been garroted.
"I know it looks bad," Tasha said softly, "but you're healing well. In a couple of weeks, you won't see the bruising and the stitches can come out tomorrow."
Mac touched his neck with careful fingers; his reflection didn't feel real. He didn't remember hitting his head—maybe it happened after he passed out, and that's why he can't remember the rescue. And his neck….
"Why didn't they get Jack when they saved me?" Mac whispered, tilting his head to look closer at the bruise.
Tasha sighed, then gently took the mirror from his hands. "When you were unconscious," she began instead of answering him, "your friend stayed by your side. He wouldn't leave. He spoke to you continuously—read books to you, narrated TV shows. He was a constant flow of noise. He advocated for you and asked questions about what would help you. I've rarely seen that in a friend."
"You're talking about Bozer," he said, looking toward the window. "Not Jack."
Tasha patted his hand. "I'll get your supper tray, and then you can get some rest."
Mac sank back against his pillows. He didn't believe them. He knew Jack was still alive—he had to be. He could still hear his voice and feel his hands grip the back of his neck. He could still conjure up the dual senses of relief and frustration having him ramble on about nonsensical things in his ear to help him concentrate.
He could still feel the security of simply knowing Jack was nearby.
"Where are you, Jack?" he whispered, closing his eyes and feeling more alone than he had since his father had left.
"Well, you look a bit…out of sorts," Tasha commented as she entered his room the next morning.
Mac slid a side-eyed glance her way. "Too bad you can't work 24-hour shifts," he told her.
"Ah, now Fiona's not that bad," Tasha chuckled. Mac simply looked at her. "Well, okay, she does have her…quirks."
"Grouping food by color is a quirk," Mac countered. "She was—"
"Having a bad night," Tasha broke in. "You never know what someone else is dealing with, Mac."
He blinked at her, then nodded, subdued by her empathy. "You're right," he acquiesced. "I'm sorry."
"I do have good news for you," Tasha redirected.
"I get to go home?" Mac asked.
"Always so eager to leave me," Tasha sighed. "Not quite yet," she reached into a box on the wall at the head of his bed and grabbed two blue gloves. Snapping one on, she looked at him with a grin. "You get to shower!"
Mac smiled in return, until she started to fold back his blankets and realized that meant she had to remove the catheter. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, listening to her instructions and trying not to wince.
"All done!" she declared. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Not exactly something I'm eager to repeat," Mac grumbled.
Tasha chuckled. "Grumpy today, are we?"
Mac sighed. "I'm sorry, Tasha," he apologized. "I don't mean to be an asshole. I just…my head's not…I'm all…," he shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck, "tangled up."
"Bet you didn't sleep much either," Tasha guessed.
Mac looked toward the window. "Can't stop thinking about Jack," he confessed. "I know he's still there. In Panama. Probably thinks we gave up on him."
Tasha was quiet for a moment, then clicked her tongue against her teeth. "How about we get to that shower?"
Mac smiled gratefully at her and nodded. It was shocking to him how difficult the process was. He'd sat in an actual chair for a few hours the night before, but that had been a relatively easy transfer from the bed and then back again. This was a whole different ballgame. And it had been a long time since he'd been so weak.
"I'll give you some privacy if you promise to sit on the shower bench," Tasha told him.
"I promise," Mac nodded, and waited until she'd closed the curtain before he pulled his gown off and tossed it out of the shower stall.
The warm water sluiced over him, soaking his hair, and running down the valley of his spine. He lifted his face to it and let the noise cancel out everything else. His chest and stomach muscles protested, his legs shook, his arms and shoulders burned from the movement of washing his hair, but he finally felt human when he was finished.
Tasha waited for him with towels and some scrubs instead of a gown.
"Thought maybe some pants might cheer you up," she offered.
Mac grinned. "Yes ma'am."
He was exhausted when she helped him back to his bed—but not too tired to eat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had actual food. And while hospital fare wasn't exactly the most appetizing food on a typical day, it was pure ambrosia for Mac at this moment. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
"Let's see how you do with that before we try anything else," Tasha told him. "If you need help getting to the bathroom, you just press that call button, okay?"
Mac nodded, suddenly sleepy.
"PT starts tomorrow," she said as she left the room.
He nodded again, letting his eyes close. He was asleep in minutes, but instead of falling into the black as he had before, he dreamed.
He dreamed of a cement barricade and a scared kid with a bomb strapped to him. He dreamed of Jack carrying a wounded soldier to a waiting chopper and then coming back for him. He dreamed of being locked in a clean room and writing on the glass with his blood. He dreamed of Jack finding a way in and saving him by stabbing him in the chest with a needle.
He dreamed of a blizzard and a cabin and blood on the snow. He dreamed of a wolf watching him and Jack digging a tunnel through a snowbank to get him free. He dreamed of a high rise burning and a bomb bringing the building down around him. He dreamed of seeing Jack's face through the chaos and knowing he would survive. He dreamed of wandering lost and blind inside Roman catacombs, following Jack's voice to freedom. Of an earthquake bringing the sky down on them and knowing Jack would find a way for them to escape.
When he opened his eyes in the morning, they were swollen, his face damp from tears. His breath hitched and he couldn't help the sob that caught in his throat. The night nurse—a different one from before—looked anxious, but he simply shook his head, rolling to his side and curling up around his pillow.
His head was a mess. He needed to talk to Jack—to see Jack. And he was starting to be very afraid of the reason why he hadn't yet.
"Your friend is going to come and pick you up," Dr. Reynolds told him two days later. "You will need to return four days a week for PT, at least for the next month. Need to rebuild your strength."
Mac sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt someone had dropped off for him. He was listening to the doctor, but staring at his shoes, uncertain how he was going to get them on—he still couldn't bend over without his side hurting, and his hands shook too much to tie the laces.
"I'd really like you to stay longer, but…you're not resting here, that much is obvious," Dr. Reynolds continued, "and your boss promised to keep you on house arrest until you passed a physical. No assignments. We're talking couch poe-tay-toe."
Mac glanced up at him and smiled softly at the stretched-out word. "Yessir," he promised. "Is Tasha coming in today?"
Dr. Reynolds shook his head. "She's off for the next three days," he said. "I'm sure she's sorry she missed your departure."
"Yeah," Mac nodded. "Me too. She, uh," he smiled softly. "Tell her she kept me going. I…I'll never be able to thank her enough."
Dr. Reynolds put one hand at the side of his mouth and leaned close to say in a stage whisper, "She loves Scotch and Pearl Jam."
"Woman after my own heart," came a voice from the doorway.
Mac glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, Boze."
"Wassup?" Bozer lifted his chin in greeting.
It amazed Mac.
His friend walked in as if it hadn't been four days since he'd kicked them out of his hospital room. As if everything between them was fine. As if Mac hadn't been an absolute asshole to him after Bozer had spent two weeks of his life doing everything in his power to keep Mac anchored in the here and now.
"I'm going to go make sure we have the paperwork handled," Dr. Reynolds nodded at Mac. "I'll send someone in with a wheelchair when you're good to go."
"Thank you, Doc," Mac said, looking up at him. "I mean it. Thank you for everything you did for me."
The man lifted a shoulder. "All in a day's work," he said with a smile, then tilted his head. "Although in your case it was like…many, many days…." With that, he tipped a quick salute to Bozer and left the room.
Bozer sat on the chair opposite Mac and pulled out his phone.
"What are you doing?" Mac asked, watching him.
"Texting Matty," Bozer told him, not looking up. "Pearl Jam's touring again with their new album."
Mac grinned. "Tickets?"
Bozer nodded, then shoved his phone back in the pocket of his hoodie. "Yup. And a bottle of Macallan."
"Nice touch."
They sat in silence for a long moment. Mac was impressed that his typically fidgety friend was perfectly still the entire time.
"Boze, I'm sorry," he began. "I…I was a total jerk to you the other day, and…I…."
"Mac, look," Bozer began, taking a breath and dropping his shoulders as he exhaled. "I can't know what all this has been like for you. I know you…you don't believe us. About Jack, I mean."
Mac looked off to the side, unable to meet Bozer's steady gaze.
"I know you've lost too many people in your life—"
"Boze…."
Bozer held up a hand. "No, now, hold up," he broke in. "I get the floor right now, man. I think I've earned it."
Mac swallowed and nodded, squaring his shoulders and forcing himself to look back at his friend.
"You've lost too many people. Your mom, granddad, hell your aunt, father…even Charlie," Bozer leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "No one should have to lose that much. And Jack…he's always been there for you. Been there when I wasn't, when I couldn't be. Been there when you didn't know you needed someone. Been there when you did. I mean, shoot, man," he sat back, resting his hands on the arms of the chair, "I'm man enough to admit I was jealous there for a while. He's more than your partner—he's your best friend. In a way I could never be."
Mac felt his throat tighten. His eyes burned, and he had to look down, away from Bozer's too-knowing gaze.
"I know you don't believe me, and man…, y'know, that's okay. We can work around that," Bozer nodded. "Long as you're here with me, Mac, we can work around that."
"I'm here," Mac choked out, sniffing back his tears. "Really'd rather be home, but…I'm here."
"Lemme ask you something," Bozer took a breath, squaring up his shoulders. "What are you going to do when you get home?"
Get online, figure out how to get back to Panama, find Jack…, Mac's brain immediately supplied.
When he didn't answer right away, Bozer shook his head. "Yeah, thought so." He leaned forward again, forcing Mac to meet his eyes. "I want you to promise me something, Mac."
"What?"
"No, you say I promise first," Bozer pushed. "I need to hear it."
Mac dropped his chin, watching Bozer through his lashes. "I promise."
"Give me a day."
"A day to do what?"
"Does it matter? I just want one day of you home before you go running off somewhere to try to get yourself killed," Bozer leveled his eyes on Mac.
After a beat, Mac nodded. He could do a day. He wasn't sure if he could get his damn shoes on, but he could give Bozer a day.
"One day."
"Great," Bozer clapped his hands on his knees, looking over Mac's shoulder. "Looks like your ride's here."
"Uh, Boze?" Mac shifted uncomfortably. "Think maybe you could help me with my shoes?"
Being in his home felt somehow both foreign and familiar.
Bozer helped him inside from the car and eased him down on the couch before he headed out to get him some groceries and pick up his prescriptions. For several minutes, Mac considered just curling up on the couch and sleeping until Bozer got back, but there was something restless in his gut. Something keeping him from breathing easy.
He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, one hand against his tender side, and made his way carefully around the couch and to the hallway. Running a hand along the wall to balance himself, he opened the door to his room and headed inside. The neon light was on, his bed was made, and his workstation was neatly arranged by tool and organized by size.
The shine of something metallic caught his eye and he made his way over to the architect's table he'd rejiggered as his workstation. His SAK was there—slightly worse for wear, the red plating chipped in a few new places, but the same one his granddad had given him—which made him smile. He'd had it on him in Panama, he was sure of it. Somehow it had survived and made its way back home. He was pretty sure he had Bozer to thank for that, too.
When he set the SAK back down, his finger brushed against a chain looped over the extendable bar of his lamp. Turning the lamp on, he frowned as he picked up a set of dog tags. He didn't typically keep his out in the open—they were in a box with his granddad's personal effects. He turned the metal tags over in his hand and felt the world around him come to a standstill.
Dalton
Jack W.
380-42-661
O NEG
No Pref
Mac couldn't breathe. The world began to narrow to nothing more than the two pieces of metal in the palm of his hand, which seemed to be heating up the longer he held them. Why would he have Jack's dog tags in his room? Jack never took them off. They were as much a part of him as that black wristband.
But then…an image of Jack, kitted up in his Army fatigues, rucksack over his shoulder, standing in the war room, looking at Mac with tears in his eyes popped into Mac's head.
"You just keep thinking, Butch. That's what you're good at."
"Guh," Mac staggered backward, his wounded side bumping against the raised worktable.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His ears were buzzing, and sweat was running down his spine. He reached blindly for his bed, trying to find balance, but the room was starting to spin around him. He closed his eyes tight and against the black of his eyelids he saw the mouth of a cave, and he was following Jack inside…only he wasn't.
His memory slipped and skidded and suddenly Jack was gone, and he was feeling his way along the cold, damp walls of the cave alone, listening to his ragged breath sawing in and out of his mouth, his body trembling from the cold as he looked for driftwood to make a fire. And then he was being dragged to the back of a truck, the tarp heavy and suffocating as he was tied up and tossed inside, alone.
Dropping the dog tags, Mac staggered toward his bathroom, getting to the toilet just as everything he'd eaten that day made a violent reappearance.
His abdominal muscles clenched, burning with the ragged spasms. His throat was on fire, and he suddenly felt the chafing rub of a metal ring wrapping around his neck, heavy and hot as though the bomb it was attached to generated energy. When there was nothing left in his stomach, he dragged his arm across his mouth and crawled toward his shower.
Without bothering to undress, he edged inside the tile-covered stall and turned the water on cold, sitting sprawled on the shower floor, letting the water chill his suddenly over-heated skin. Closing his eyes he was back in a small, cement-walled room, his body a river of pain, unable to move, calling for Jack even though he knew…he knew Jack wouldn't hear him.
No. Just…NO.
Jack couldn't be dead.
He couldn't be…just, gone. He couldn't have left like that. Just walked out of the war room on some fucking heroic, doomed mission, and never come back.
He wasn't supposed to…to die. That's not how this was supposed to end for them. They were too smart for that.
"You go kaboom, I go kaboom," Mac practically growled. "Well, I'm still fucking here, Jack."
He pounded the wet, tiled wall with a clenched fist.
It hurt. And it felt good. So he did it again. And again. And again.
Until he cracked the tile. Until his skin split. Until the water stung his bleeding knuckles. Until he was shaking so hard he could barely catch his breath.
"Mac!"
He heard Bozer, but he couldn't call out. He couldn't move, couldn't speak.
"MAC!" Bozer sounded slightly frantic, and Mac could tell he was getting closer to the bathroom.
When the door banged open, bouncing off the opposite wall, Mac lifted his face, water plastering his hair to his forehead, and looked out at Bozer. He saw his friend holding Jack's dog tags in his hand.
"Oh, Mac," Bozer breathed.
Mac just shook and stared at him. Bozer crossed the room and turned off the water.
"C'mon," he huffed, reaching for Mac. "Let's get you dried off."
"Wh-why…B-Boze," Mac stuttered, shivering as Bozer helped him stand. "Why d-do I h-have those?"
Bozer stuffed the dog tags into his jeans pocket and grabbed one of the towels hanging from the rack, wrapping it around Mac's thin, shuddering shoulders.
"How about we get you warm and changed and I'll take you somewhere it'll all make sense, okay?"
Mac just nodded. He needed the world to make sense again.
As though on autopilot, he followed Boser's directions—moving his arms when told, standing up when told, sitting on the closed toilet lid when told. Bozer was efficient and gentle, drying him off, stripping him down, and helping him redress with little fuss or fanfare.
When he was in clean, dry jeans, socks, and his MIT T-shirt, Bozer led him slowly back to the kitchen. He helped him sit on one of the stools at the counter and then got him some water.
"Drink," he ordered. "And take these," he set some pills in front of Mac.
Mac complied without asking what they were.
"You're going to get some food in your belly, and then we're going on a drive."
Mac didn't even ask where. He didn't ask anything. He simply sat and watched Bozer move around his kitchen, expertly whipping up pancakes and setting them in front of Mac.
"Eat," Bozer ordered then pulled out his phone. "I gotta check on something really quick."
Mac ate. He didn't taste anything, but he knew from memory that Bozer's pancakes were amazing. He drank the full glass of water Bozer refilled for him.
And he stared at the countertop. Thinking. Remembering.
"Okay, we're good," Bozer tucked his phone in his back pocket. "Let me get you some shoes."
Mac let Bozer help him with his shoes, let him grab the leather jacket he'd been wearing for the last two years—Jack's black leather jacket, he now remembered, traded in from his dad's brown one—and let him help him put it on. He followed Bozer out to his car and sat docile and quiet in the passenger seat as Bozer pulled out of his driveway.
"I had to make sure of something, but…I think when we get to where I'm taking you, things might start to make sense for you again."
"Nothing makes sense," Mac argued, his voice low and rough.
"I know, man," Bozer sighed. "I know."
They drove for a while; Mac didn't pay attention to the directions or the highway signs. He just stared out through the window. Blanking his mind.
If he didn't think, it wouldn't hurt. If he didn't think, he wouldn't have to know. If he didn't think, it wouldn't be real.
Because he wouldn't survive this one. Not this one. Not him, too.
When Bozer slowed the car and turned down a long, winding drive, Mac looked around for the first time. When he realized where they were, he choked back a sob.
"Boze," he groaned. "No."
"C'mon, Mac," Bozer encouraged him. "Trust me, okay?"
He pulled the car to a stop, then got out and walked around to Mac's side. He opened Mac's door and waited as Mac tried to slow his breathing and get his shaking hands under control by curling them into fists. Bozer simply stood next to the car. He didn't cajole or encourage—he simply waited.
After a moment, Mac was able to climb slowly out of the car.
"I had to call Matty to make sure it was here," Bozer told him as they walked slowly along closely trimmed grass. "Took longer than I thought it would to get it placed."
Mac had to breathe slowly, planting his feet carefully so he didn't stumble. He knew they were getting close. He and Jack had walked this path many times when Jack needed time with his Pops. When Bozer stopped, Mac mimicked him but didn't turn. He kept his eyes on the ground.
"Huh," Bozer said. "I didn't know about the quote."
At that, Mac looked over and his breath caught in his throat. A simple stone marker, no elaborate designs. The earth had been turned over around the base and was packed down, indicating it had just recently been placed.
Jack W. Dalton
February 1975 – June 2021
Soldier, Brother, Son, Friend, Protector
"We all die. The goal is not to live forever, the goal is to create something that will." – Chad Palahniuk
"Who's Chad—"
"He wrote Fight Club," Mac interrupted him. His voice was hoarse, the words cracking around the breath he couldn't draw in.
"How 'bout that," Bozer mused. "Guess I thought he'd've had something from Die Hard. Y'know, like yippee-ki-yay—"
He broke off when Mac went to his knees, unable to stay on his feet for one more second. He couldn't catch his breath, his lungs trying to keep up with his racing heart. He leaned forward unsteadily and put his hand on the cold stone, his fingers tracing Jack's name.
"It's real," he gasped.
Bozer was quiet next to him.
"I…I th-thought…," Mac dropped his hand from the gravestone and sank back on his folded knees, keeling to the side a bit until his hip hit the grass. "God, Boze…I swear he was there. I thought he was with me…."
"I think…maybe he was, in a way," Bozer offered. "He woulda never let you do that mission on your own."
"I could…I could feel him, talk to him, answer him, I—" Mac lifted his eyes to meet Bozer's, and as he did, the tears held at bay slipped over the edge of his lashes and traced a path down his cheek. "He was tied to that post with the C4 around his neck."
Bozer crouched down next to Mac. "That was you, Mac."
Mac dragged a hand down his face. "Were you there? When they found me?"
Bozer shook his head. "I was in the War Room. Watching."
"How'd they—"
"If you'd have been able to see it, you'd have disarmed it," Bozer told him. "You were just…you were in rough shape, Mac. I honestly didn't know if you were still alive when they found you. It was the scariest moment of my life."
Mac turned back to the gravestone. "Yeah."
"I know it feels fresh, like…like you lost him all over again," Bozer acknowledged.
Mac looked at the date on the stone. "June," he exhaled. "What month…?"
"It's October," Bozer reminded him.
"Shit," Mac shook his head, dragging his hand down his face. He swallowed hard. "I mean…just…. Shit."
Bozer sat next to him in the grass. "It's been…hard, not gonna lie," he told Mac. "I mean, Jack hasn't been here for almost two years, but…we still knew he was out there, y'know?"
Mac nodded, sniffing, his eyes on Jack's name.
"Don't know if you remember how things have been since his service…?"
Mac shook his head. "Not really," he confessed.
"You and Desi have been off-balance," Bozer told him. "I don't think you're seeing each other right now."
Mac looked over in surprise. "We were…together?"
Bozer huffed a small laugh. "Yeah, but…I kind of think it was a matter of…lack of options, not really a good match. Don't know how Jack would feel about it."
Mac nodded, looking back at the stone.
"Riley's been fragile," Bozer continued. "She's strong, and she keeps moving forward, but…it's hard for her. Jack was bedrock for her, and she's trying to find her balance again."
Bozer took a breath, then cleared his throat. "And then, there's you."
Mac looked over at him.
"You've been burning boxes of two-ended candles, Mac. It's like…you've been afraid to stop moving, 'cause if you stop, you feel. And whenever I asked you about it, you said you're fine—'cause of course you do. You'd say he was gone for two years, Boze, like having him not around us was the same as having him dead."
Mac felt his chin shake and he pulled in a trembling breath. As Bozer talked, he seemed to be stripping away layers of darkness in Mac's mind, revealing with each sentence, each word, another memory, another emotion.
"You should never have gone on this mission by yourself, man," Bozer shook his head. "You knew it—I know you knew it. But something was burning in you—like you needed to punish yourself for something, or…and I hate to even say this out loud…like you didn't care what happened to you."
And there it was. The truth that he'd been avoiding. But Bozer had seen it: he'd given up trying.
"I don't think I did," Mac said softly.
Bozer nodded. "When my brother died, I kinda felt like that—you remember?"
They'd been so young. Only ten. But as much as a ten-year-old could give up, Mac remembered Bozer feeling that way.
"And you gave me something else to focus on—I mean, we were kids, so it was like rebuilding your GameBoy, or whatever, but still. It worked. And then there was something else, and something else, and after a bit…I started wanting to try again."
"How long?" Mac asked brokenly.
"Until what?"
"Until you got over it?" He couldn't find a point in his life when he'd gotten over the loss of his mom, his granddad, his dad, Charlie…but he had kept going, so he must have…right?
Bozer sighed heavily. "Thing is, Mac? You don't. You know this better than anyone I know. When we lose someone…we grieve forever. We never get over it. We just…learn to live with it. We…heal and we kinda build a new us around it."
Mac swallowed hard, looking away from Bozer.
"You'll be whole again—just like you were after the others you've lost. But you're never gonna be the same. And…I kinda think you shouldn't be, y'know? You don't want to be. 'Cause they mattered that much. They changed you with their life and with their death."
Mac felt the wave of emotion he'd been holding at bay surge up with Bozer's words. He wrapped an arm around his middle, trying to hold himself together, and covered his mouth with his other hand, but the sob broke free and with that sound, he was lost. He curled over his arm, bending forward until his forehead was almost touching the gravestone, and cried.
He cried for the times Jack saved him and for the times he'd made him feel as if he had a home and family and for the times they laughed together and the times they were afraid and the times they were heroic. He cried for what Jack had survived, what he'd suffered, and how he'd never given up.
At some point, he felt Bozer's arm snake around his shoulders, and he leaned against his friend until his tears were wrung from him and he was simply weak and shaking from the force of his grief. He let himself just breathe for a bit, then wiped his face dry with the palms of his hands and pushed himself upright, away from Bozer.
"Sorry, man," he sniffed.
"Don't be," Bozer said, resting a hand on Mac's shoulder. "I think that was a long time coming."
"I still don't…I don't remember everything. I remember the dog tags," he said, sniffing again and looking over at Bozer. "And I know he's gone, but…I don't remember the months you're talking about." He huffed a bit. "I kinda don't remember Desi, if I'm being honest."
Bozer raised an eyebrow. "How about we save that complicated, uncomfortable conversation for another day."
Mac gave him a half-grin. "Agreed."
They sat in silence for a bit, both looking at Jack's gravestone.
"You're a good friend, Boze," Mac said quietly. "Always have been. I don't deserve you."
Bozer scoffed. "You deserve every friend you've got, and then some. You just need to remember that you do have them. We're here for you, Mac. You just gotta let us in."
Mac nodded. "I don't know what to do now," he confessed. "I mean…I kicked you guys out of my hospital room. Can't imagine Riley's too happy with me."
"Hey, I came back, didn't I?"
"Yeah," Mac smiled, looking down at the grass and pulling at the blades. "Yeah, you did."
"They will too," Bozer assured him. "Soon as you let 'em know you're ready."
Mac nodded, thinking. "I don't want to go yet," he confessed.
"Yeah, I figured," Bozer nodded. "So, I thought…, maybe you two catch up."
Mac blinked, confused for a moment, but then Bozer pushed to his feet, resting a hand on Mac's shoulder.
"I'll be over there when you're ready," he said, gesturing toward his car.
As he turned and walked away, Mac almost called him back, feeling momentarily uncertain and off-kilter. He looked back at the gravestone and took a breath.
"Hey, big guy," he started, tracing Jack's name with his eyes. "It's…uh, it's been a while. Too long, really. But, uh…I've missed you."
He smiled softly, thinking of Jack's grin, his way of giving affection and shrugging it off at the same time. Thinking of how often the man put himself in the line of fire just to make sure Mac got home in one piece. Thinking of his goofy sense of humor, his love of rock and roll T-shirts, and '80s movies.
Thinking of how different his life would have been if he'd never met Jack Dalton.
"So, I gotta catch you up on some things, man. You're not going to believe this one—well, maybe you will, come to think of it. Look, I know what you're thinking…and you'd be right. I did have too much explosive this time…."
He talked to Jack until the sun sank low on the horizon, and Bozer came to help him to his feet and take him home.
a/n:
380-42-661: John McClane's SSN in Die Hard
Mac's dreams are scenes from my MacGyver Ambassador Series.
We've all experienced loss in some way. Since 2013, I've lost my father, mother, a sister, and two friends—one of whom I have known since I was 12. It's never easy, it's never right, but ironically…it's life. Writing this for Mac was a bit cathartic for me as I processed my most recent loss, just this past April.
Plus? I was never satisfied with how Jack's departure and off-screen death were handled and wanted there to be more of an impact on Mac. I don't know where I'm going from here, writing-wise, but I have to admit…it felt good to put this out there.