tis the season, and by the season i mean time for me to branch into Yet Another Fandom. i'm over here with like three more fics in progress for h/c bingo, and instead what am i doing? an episode tag to an episode that aired last year. anyway. let me know what you think, especially if you'd like to see more out of me with these folks!

Wilt Bozer is smarter than people generally give him credit for. He's known for a while now that there's more to the 'think tank' than just a think tank. (When he finds out where Mac actually goes on 'business trips', it isn't anything he'd been prepared to hear, but a part of him figures it was a matter of time coming. He never says anything but he knows something isn't kosher from the jump.) The point is, Bozer is smart, and the night his roommate screams them both awake for… not the first time in recent memory, is just another nail in the think tank's coffin.

In a contest between light and heavy sleepers, Bozer has always found he lands somewhere in the middle. He doesn't wake at every sound, but he won't sleep through earthquakes either. The likely explanation for Bozer's sudden departure from the land of nod on this particular night makes itself apparent when the second hoarse cry filters in from the living room. Bozer knows, a knowledge born of instinct and experience, exactly what that sound is before he's had the chance to consciously wonder. This awareness sends him out of bed, nearly tripping over his own pant legs, and out into the hall. The bleariness of sleep is quick to leave him once he's headed to the source of the sounds that woke him.

Mac, asleep on their couch still wearing the clothes he'd come home in the day before, gives another muffled shout right as Bozer steps into the room, followed by a rending, heartbroken sob.

"Mac," Bozer calls softly, keeping his distance. He's learned enough times by now not to shake his roommate awake unless afforded no other option by which to rouse him. It never ends well, and he would like to avoid that outcome, if at all possible. Things seem like they're going to be bad enough already. "Mac, man, c'mon. It's just a dream. Wake up." When there's still no response other than a shift of the tormented form on the couch, Bozer raises his voice. "Mac!"

That does it, sending Mac abruptly awake in less of a cinematic bolt upright and more of a disorganized shamble into something resembling a vertical position, accompanied by yet another hoarse yell, this time of a name. A name Bozer recognizes, one that worries him immensely. He sits down cautiously on the couch next to where Mac now slumps, face buried in his hands and trembling violently.

"Mac?" It's the fourth time Bozer has said his friend's name in the last couple minutes, this time with a soft, questioning bent. Mac's only response is a choked, aborted sound, half lost in his hands and all indecipherable.

Things get bad, sometimes, Bozer is no stranger to that. He knows his best friend is anything but sunshine inside, has seen for himself his share of thunderstorms. This one, though, this is something different. Something deeper than usual, something that has Bozer verging on scared. In a sudden burst of motion, Mac jumps up off the couch and, as Bozer watches with widening eyes, leaves the house onto the back porch. He paces and rakes his hand through his hair, and despite the gloom of the night and the distance now between them, Bozer can see Mac's shoulders heaving with panicked breaths.

Making a split second decision, Bozer turns not out towards where Mac whirls around the deck in a fit of anxious energy, but in towards his own bedroom. His phone is waiting where he was expecting it to be, plugged into the outlet and sitting dormant on the bedside table where he'd left it. The screen is almost blindingly bright in the dark room, and it takes Bozer's eyes precious seconds to adjust enough to navigate the screen. He's painfully aware that every moment he stands here fiddling with his phone is another second his friend is alone outside with whatever torment is tearing his mind to pieces this time. This is important, though. He has to make this call. There's nothing else he knows to do. Bozer only hopes that the recipient will answer this late at night.

When someone knocks on his door in the middle of the night, Jack is only a little surprised to open it and be met with Riley Davis, brushing past him inside like she owns the place. He isn't afforded the time to ask her what's going on before she's immediately on the defensive, crossing her arms and glaring at him, albeit with a fraction of the heat a glare from her usually contains.

"I'm not worried," she says, and Jack raises his eyebrows.

"Oh-kay."

"I was not worried, and I did not come here to check on you, or whatever you think." Jack graciously doesn't respond by pointing out that he hasn't had the time to think anything, much less accuse her of feelings she may or may not be experiencing in his direction. "I'm just here because-" And this is the point where Riley's bravado peters out as she realizes that she doesn't actually have an alternative explanation to offer up. "I was in the neighborhood, and I was bored. That's it." The explanation is lackluster at best and completely implausible at honesty, but again, Jack lets it go. After the day they've all had today, he figures they've earned some leeway, a little permissive kindness.

They end up milling about Jack's living room, the tv on in the background mostly for white noise, talking about nothing in particular, and pointedly not talking about the part of their day that involved Jack nearly getting blown sky-high. He sits on the couch and Riley perches on the opposite arm, and he doesn't point out the tiny smudges in what's left of today's makeup, the way her hands were trembling a little when she first got here. They're still now, hanging loosely across her lap, and it lights a warmth in Jack's chest that he doesn't quite know how to express, having her here.

Shortly after Riley's arrival, Jack's phone rings, shattering the semblance of easygoing camaraderie they've established. The late hour and the existingly short list of people who call Jack Dalton's cell phone on a regular basis leads both of them to be worried before he even checks the caller ID.

"It's Bozer," he mutters, frowning and answering. "Hey, is everything okay?"

"No, it's not, Jack," says Bozer on the other end. The clarity of the speaker gives disturbing detail to the stress, the worry in his voice. "It's Mac. Something's seriously wrong. He was dreaming, some kinda nightmare, woke up yelling. For you, actually. I could hardly make it out but he was yelling your name, and I think you should get over here. I don't know what to do."

"Yeah," answers Jack, putting a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly, then tells Bozer, "I'll be over as soon as I can. Keep an eye on our boy until I get there." Neither he nor Bozer bother with pleasantries, and Jack hangs up the phone, worry growing heavy in his chest. It's not like he wasn't expecting this, from the moment he and Mac collapsed next to each other on the back of that fake police rig. Jack had seen, just for a flicker of a moment, the terror of the near miss, the anguish of what could have happened, the fear at the core of Mac's personhood that at the end of the day, everyone he's ever loved will leave him, by choice or by chance.

Honestly, Jack was expecting the fracture to happen sooner than this.

"You up for a little field trip?" he asks, and Riley's face creases deeper into concern.

"Mac?" she guesses accurately, and Jack grimaces.

"Yeah. Coming?"

"Try and stop me."

Thanks to the lack of traffic on the street and Jack's familiarity with a route he's driven too many times to count, they're at Mac and Bozer's house quickly, Jack letting them in the front door with his copy of the key. If Riley has commentary on the fact that he has one, she keeps it to herself, choosing instead to follow him silently inside. There's no one in the main part of the house, the living room and kitchen sitting eerily empty and quiet. A light has been left on for them, courtesy of Bozer presumably, and the man himself makes an appearance shortly, walking in through the back door and closing it gently behind him.

"I'm so glad you're here," Bozer says, shaking his head and walking over to Jack and Riley. The fact that he barely acknowledges her presence except by a small, tight smile and a nod, leads her to believe that whatever's going on, it's serious. "He's out back."

"Thanks Boze." Jack claps him on the shoulder as he passes, and exits the house without another word, leaving Bozer and Riley alone in the mostly-darkened house.

They look at each other for a few moments, then out towards the back of the house. It looks like Jack is talking, approaching Mac slowly where the blond stands by the rail, but neither of them can hear what's being said.

"Something happened today." It's not a question, it's a statement. This is Bozer more serious than Riley has ever seen him, and it's sobering. She looks at him for a few seconds then nods, once, short and sharp. "What… Something happened to him, and it's got him all messed up. What…" He can't quite get the whole question out, and she's shaking her head already anyway, stopping him before he can get that far.

"It's not my story to tell," Riley says quietly, still looking out at the pair of figures on the back deck. Her face is troubled and there's something heavy in her eyes. Bozer sees that weight in Mac more often than he'd like, and catches himself wondering sometimes what kind of toll it takes, carrying that around.

Then, he supposes, following her gaze out to where Jack has got Mac by the shoulders, silhouette barely illuminated by the light from inside the house, tonight is as clear a look as any at exactly what that toll is.

Not my story to tell. "Okay," Bozer replies, voice just as soft, and doesn't push any farther.

If she edges closer until they stand shoulder to shoulder, if he leans to the side just enough for them both to be propping the other up, neither Riley nor Bozer says anything about it. They both need this right now, for whatever reasons they may have, and tonight isn't the night to look any deeper into it than that.

Outside on the deck, things are not going quite so calmly. Mac has been pacing with the frightened energy of a cornered animal, and Jack stands a few feet away, hands outstretched, palms up, trying to convey who knows what - maybe safety, maybe an invitation, maybe just a plea to calm down. Jack has tried talking to him, tried asking him what's going on, what's wrong, what happened, but none of it has drawn an answer. At least, not until now.

"You died!" It's the first coherent thing that's come out of Mac's mouth since Jack got here. "You went into the back of the van and took your foot off the plate and- He killed you. Right in front of me, he- You-"

"Hey," Jack interrupts, stepping around and catching Mac by the shoulders. The Mac's eyes are wild and frantic, and Jack can feel him breathing under his hands in quick, sharp bursts. "Hey, come on now, just take a breath, alright? I didn't die today. I'm here, I'm alive. I didn't die."

It's a turn of events that he wasn't expecting, that Mac moves first, a swift duck forward into Jack's chest, a hard impact that almost knocks the breath out of him. Mac's grip is tight, almost desperate, and Jack can feel it now more than ever, the way he's shaking. With a sigh, Jack settles a hand against the back of his young friend's head, fingers brushing over blond hair, other arm coming up in a protective curl just under Mac's shoulders.

This is not what Mac does. He doesn't move first, doesn't seek out affection for all that he soaks it in like a sponge, practically basks in the light of positive attention, an observation that has led Jack to doing his best to be as demonstrative with the kid as possible. As much as Mac will let him. Mac doesn't ask for reassurance, for comfort, either verbally or through action. This, though, this is different.

"Please don't die." The words are almost lost in the muffling fabric of Jack's worn flannel shirt, the one he'd shrugged on as he walked out his front door such a short time ago. It's a heartfelt plea, a young voice in a lot of pain, almost begging. "Please, please don't die. Don't leave."

"Oh, buddy," Jack sighs, pressing his palm a little harder to the back of Mac's head. It makes his heart ache, like a bruise jammed into by careless fingers, purple and pulsing with a dull, deep pain. There are days he wishes he could track his partner's father down and throttle the man, for his disappearing act, for the poor excuse for a parent he'd been before that, if the conclusions he's drawn from what little Mac has said on the matter are at all accurate. "You know I wouldn't do that, you know I'm not gonna turn my back on you."

"And if you don't have a choice?" Mac sounds on the verge of sliding back into hysteria, and Jack has to think fast to catch that before it happens.

"I can't promise I'll always make it out in one piece. What I can promise you is this. I will do everything I can to come home alive, because there's way too much coming down the line that I don't wanna miss out on. I've got plans, and I'm not about to give those up."

The words come to him almost without thinking, and before he knows what he's doing, Jack is telling a story. His voice is soft and even, a Texas-hued rumble that floats through the still Los Angeles air. As he speaks, he feels Mac's breath shudder, a brittle exhale that seems to take some of the tension with it. Mac has relaxed, just a fraction, still held tightly in an embrace that feels like a promise, an oath conveyed through the feeling of hands on him, guarding him from anything possible. From some things that aren't.

"First, I plan to be right where I belong, watching your back, keepin' you in one piece, for as long as I possibly can. Right till the day they drag me out the door. Then, I'm going to retire. Scout out some good hiking spots for when I want a taste of nature, plan barbecues, read all the books that've been sitting on my shelves for years gettin' dusty. I'll expect to see you by at least once a week for dinner. Bring Bozer with you, Riley too, they'd miss me too much if you didn't." There's humor in his voice, and Mac huffs a tiny laugh in response, the sound damp and still half hysterical.

Jack smiles and shifts a little, maintaining his hold on Mac as he does. His voice has gained an even, conversational tone, a hint of that smile in his words when he talks. He sounds like he's telling a story at Thanksgiving dinner, a story of family and home and contentment, the kind of story Mac used to imagine when he was a kid and everything real was too big and scary to comprehend.

"Maybe someday you'll meet someone, fall in love. If you do, you bring 'em by, introduce 'em to the family. Maybe then you'll decide to have a couple kids with hearts too big to hold down and brains too smart for their own good, and I'll try and get 'em to call me Uncle Jack, but we both know they'll end up calling me grandpa."

This time there's a real laugh, a quiet but happy sound that makes the world Jack talked about, a long future of home and kindness and love, feel like a reality. Like something already within his grasp. It's this thought, the idea of how he wants this just as much as Mac does, that prompts Jack to continue.

"Now don't you go thinking I'm just gonna check out on you first chance I get, that I'm gonna catch a bullet without putting up one hell of a fight. Cause I'm really looking forward to pretending I'm too young for some blond kid with his dad's eyes to be callin' me grandpa, you hear?"

Mac's response is one Jack feels rather than hears, a slightly hesitant nod against his collarbone.

"Good. Because you and I both know I'm a man of my word, Mac."

At this point, Jack falls quiet, and lets Mac decide when to break contact. When the young man steps back, Jack lets him go easy, squeezing his shoulders briefly before letting go, looking Mac in the eyes.

"You good?" he asks, smiling just a little. He knows the answer before Mac gives it, but feels a small amount of satisfaction when it does come, honestly.

"Not really. Not for a bit, I think. It's all too…" Mac looks away, out over the city, hand waving a bit as he tries to find the words to articulate what he means. "It's raw. Like someone took a cheese grater to something I thought had scarred over." It's quite the mental image, and Jack winces. "But I think I will be."

Jack nods. "Good."

"Cause I'm looking forward to that too." The words are almost inaudible, riding on a breath. It was endearing, the admission, and Jack's smile breaks into a grin. He slings an arm back around Mac's shoulders, looking with him at the lights of Los Angeles.

They stand there together, side by side, looking at their city, Mac trying to internalize the feeling of his partner next to him, solid and alive, and Jack content to stand there as long as necessary, until they can go back inside, face questions from Riley and Bozer, face the next day with less sleep than was ideal, face whatever it was the future has in store.