-Mac-

He couldn't stop replaying that day in Farah. It was on a loop in his mind, like a movie reel stuck on its track. The image of the crumbled building and Jack's limp hand and slack features covered in dust beneath rubble burned into the backs of his eyelids.

He didn't even know what made him think of it—and something had him wanting to ask Harry, but…he knew Harry was gone, so that instinct didn't even make sense. It was as though multiple timelines were overlapping and twisting in his mind, his memory skipping from one to the other without plan or purpose.

The pain didn't help.

It slipped through his system like razorblades, stabbing him viciously when he inhaled, twisting through him when he exhaled. Jack had always been so good at controlling the really bad pain. He'd holler like he was being flayed alive if he got a paper cut and yet barely speak when he was bleeding out from a bullet wound.

Mac wanted to take a lesson, to be stoic and brave, but God, it hurt. Everything, everywhere. And he felt like he was burning up from the inside out.

When Jack ran toward the Russian agent, tackling him into the snow, Mac panicked. It was the only word for it. Fear like he'd not known in years gripped his heart and a voice inside him spoke with absolute certainty that if he did not do something his best friend and partner was going to die.

He'd stumbled forward, his weakened body wavering and taking his steadiness from him. He landed hard on his knees when he heard Isaac Gray scream, "No!"

Jerking his eyes up to the blinding light against the white and pink-tinged snow, he saw Isaac grabbing the big Russian off of Jack and his partner slumped in the snow gasping and coughing, clearly dazed. Reality took on a strange, sepia-toned hue, time slowed, and MacGyver began to move on autopilot.

He didn't really register picking up the RPG and lifting it to his shoulder. He didn't register shouting to the three men or trading threats with the FSB Agent. The first thing that penetrated the cloudy haze of his perception was Jack's voice.

Soft, but with a weight that only Harry's voice had ever held for him before.

"Mac."

"I'm not losing anyone else, Jack," Mac told him. Pleaded with him. "I can't."

"There's always another way," Jack reminded him.

With that, Mac felt his body give in. He released the burden of the weapon, the world coming back into stark focus, the brilliance of the snow searing his eyes and scolding him for even thinking he could have pulled that trigger. When the explosion brought the mountainside down, he wasn't even surprised. His only thought was to get his team to safety.

He registered Jack grabbing him, pulling him. He registered Isaac putting up the fastest make-shift barricade in history. He register the snow slamming against the cabin, and he wanted to engage. He wanted to roll through a plan of escape and evade.

He wanted to get them out of there. But his body wasn't interested in what he wanted.

And before he knew it, he was on his knees, one hand pressed helplessly to his burning side, the other reaching desperately for Jack, trying to anchor himself.

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Jack said, his cold hand wrapping around Mac's. "Right here, bud."

"Holy shit," Gray was saying, his voice thin and breathy with pain and shock. "It buried us."

Mac ached, from the inside out. He felt sick and scared and angry and strangely like he wanted to cry. He looked over as Jack knelt next to him, the older man's hands at his shoulders, his brown eyes scanning his face as though Mac was the only worry in his world right now. As if a bomb Mac had built hadn't just caused an avalanche and buried them in the Canadian wilderness.

"Talk to me, Mac," Jack said, his hands going to Mac's face, cupping it at his jaw. The cool touch of Jack's palms on his heated skin made Mac shiver. "What's going on with you?"

"I didn't…I wasn't…," he breathed.

He couldn't seem to land on a word. They slipped out of his grasp like fireflies, his mind too busy replaying lost scenes of his past and tossing up random bits of information like confetti. He could see the formula for mixing a bomb from a flare, the mess of wires beneath a pressure plate, the mathematical equation for the distance light travels between the sun and the earth.

He could hear Harry's voice saying his name and Jack's desperate sob of anguish at Whiskey's fate. He could feel the sensation of falling from the tree and the spike of fear when he saw the big grey wolf staring at him.

It all collided and spun around him, everything happening at once and yet seeming to stretch out until the light around him sagged and gapped like taffy pulled too far.

"…need you to breathe with me, bud, okay?" Jack was saying to him, calloused palms pressing against Mac's jaw. "We're okay—you're okay. Just take a breath. One breath."

Mac blinked, realizing that at some point he'd reached up and was gripping Jack's wrists, staring at his partner with eyes blurry from unshed tears. He pulled in a breath and felt a tear spill, tracking down his wind-burned face to the corner of his mouth. He exhaled slowly and tasted the salt on his lips.

"Atta boy," Jack smiled at him, looking for all the world like that one breath was the difference between them dying cold and alone and walking away from all of this. "One more, okay? One more and I'll quit harping at ya."

Mac took another breath and forced himself to loosen his grip on Jack, his hands stiff to the point of creaking.

"I didn't mean to bury us," he said finally. His voice sounded crusty, as if he'd put it away a long time ago and was just getting out now because he had nothing else to use.

"You didn't bury us, Think Tank," Gray panted, peeling his coat off his bloody arm. "I did."

"You good, bud?" Jack asked, his hands sliding back to Mac's shoulders. "I gotta help out our new friend, here."

Mac nodded, and as Jack released him and stood up, he sank back, resting against the wall. He needed to focus, to get his thoughts to line up and behave. It didn't do him much good to have almost-perfect recall and genius-level intelligence if his gifts turned his brain into something that would have made Jackson Pollock proud.

"Yeah, Ivan did a number on you, man," Jack said, using Gray's knife to cut away his sleeve. "Looks like a through-and-through, though. So, there's that."

"Yay me," Gray ground out through clenched teeth.

Mac watched numbly as Jack went to the broken window and scooped up some of the snow spilling through the opening, using that to both clean and numb the wound. Gray grit his teeth, holding on to the back of the chair so tightly Mac could see his knuckles turn white.

"Want me to use the safety pins?" Jack asked; Mac picked up on the teasing lilt in his tone.

Gray simply glared at him.

"I take it that's a no," Jack muttered. "How about honey?"

"Honey is good," Mac spoke up, his brain gaining traction. "It'll protect the wound, draw fluid out."

Jack grinned over at him like he'd just won the Nobel Peace Prize. "Yep!" He moved over to the shelf to retrieve the honey bottle as Gray sank down to sit in the chair instead.

"How…," Mac tilted his head looking between Gray and Jack. "How did you know about honey?"

"'cause our friend the former medic over here used it on you," Jack told him, heading back to Gray and bandaging up his arm using the honey and the leftover clean scraps of MacGyver's sweatshirt.

Mac pressed his hand to his side, feeling the heat there through his clothes. "Oh, right."

"How's that feel?" Jack asked the CIA Agent.

Gray flexed his hand. "Okay. My fingers are a bit numb, though. That's probably not a good sign."

"Sorry, man. I left my Neurology degree in my other coat," Jack shrugged.

Mac rolled his eyes with a drowsy grin, and then winced as his side pinged a stab of pain up through his torso to the base of his skull.

"We need to figure out how to get out of here," Gray muttered, still flexing his hand.

Jack turned away from Gray and crouched down beside Mac. "We got a few minutes," he said. "I want to check your bandage, Mac."

"'s okay," Mac replied, his tongue feeling sluggish and oddly heavy. Jack ignored him and reached for the sweatshirt bandage around his side, brushing his fingers against Mac's heated skin. "He's…mmmrphhh," he arched his neck, pressing his head against the wall behind him as he tried to hold back a pained shudder. "He's right, Jack."

"I know he is," Jack replied with forced casualness. Mac sensed the Jack Panic Meter bury itself in the red—it was Jack's way of trying to convince anyone in his vicinity that he had everything under control when in fact he was terrified. "Just think this time we go out there with an actual plan."

"I'm a fan of plans," Mac breathed, trying to not pant from the pain as Jack pulled his sweatshirt back down over his bandage.

Jack arched an eyebrow at him. "Whatever, Mr. I'm Making This Up As I Go," he scoffed. "Name one plan you've made."

Mac swallowed, willing to play the game if it kept Jack calm. Especially as their banter was helping him focus, quieting the chaos in his head.

"El Noche, escaping prison, with the batteries and salt," Mac replied.

Jack pushed himself to his feet. "Oh, 'cause that worked out so well." He grabbed up a canteen and sloshed it to make sure there was water inside, then handed it to Mac.

"You didn't say it had to be a successful plan," Mac pointed out, accepting the canteen, and taking a drink of the tepid water. He nodded toward Gray and handed the canteen back to Jack.

His partner moved over to where the CIA Agent sat slumped a bit over his wounded arm. Mac registered their voices, but not their words. His eyes had caught on to the maps of the area tacked to the wall on his left. Eyes tracking the darkened lines marking logging trails, predator territories, and wildlife safe zones, he began to think about the map Matty had given them, where he'd marked out the grid for them to follow when looking for Gray.

"Jack," he said suddenly, trying to get his legs under him.

Jack stopped mid-sentence, Mac not even sure what he'd been saying, and moved over to him, easing him to his feet. Once vertical, Mac leaned heavily against his friend, discovering immediately that he lacked the strength to balance on his own. He nodded toward the maps on the wall.

"The predator trails," he said, hating the way his voice wavered.

"What about them?"

Mac looked over at his friend, seeing exhaustion and worry painting bruises under Jack's eyes this close to him. "Remember our grid?"

"You mean, the one that ended up getting me shot with ketamine?" Jack growled, tossing a glare over his shoulder toward Gray.

"Exactly—they line up with the predator trails on this map," Mac nodded.

"How the hell do you know that?" Gray exclaimed standing up and peering at the map with them.

"Doesn't matter," Mac waved a clumsy hand at him. "I just do. Point is, look—"

He tried to point to a place on the map but pulled up short as the motion seemed to set his wound on fire. Pressing a hand against his side he closed his eyes and leaned against Jack.

"Easy, kiddo," Jack said softly, holding his elbow, and helping him sink into the chair Gray had just vacated. "Just…use your words, okay? No need for show and tell."

Mac narrowed his eyes at Jack, but let the youthful references go simply because he didn't have the strength to argue…and he knew Jack was scared. And when Jack was scared, he reverted to helicopter parent mode.

"See that juncture there where the heavy black line and the thin green line intersect?" Mac asked. Jack pointed on the map. "To your right, yeah, there."

Jack kept is finger in place, then glanced down at Mac. "Yeah, so?"

"That's our exfil."

"Holy shit," Gray muttered, moving closer. He dragged his finger down a bit from Jack's to a red triangle that looked like a yield sign. "This is the ranger cabin."

"Exactly," Mac exhaled. "If we follow the predator trails," he grit his teeth, forcing out the rest of the words, "we'll be at the exfil in under an hour."

"Assuming we don't get eaten by wolves," Jack said, dropping his finger, and tipping his head in concession. "Think they'll wait around for us?"

"I sure hope so," Gray muttered. "Where's this grid map of yours?"

Jack pointed to the contents from the pack and Gray made his way over to dig out the map.

"We still got one problem," Jack pointed out, fingers resting on his hip bones. "We're kinda trapped in this damn cabin."

"Are we?" Gray challenged, standing with the map in his hand. "I mean, sure the window's covered with snow, but maybe it didn't completely cover the door?"

"Be my guest," Jack gestured to the door.

Gray arched a brow, handing Mac the map, and moved over to the door. It took him a moment to shove the table aside, the remaining 'Pinterest bomb' rolling from the top and to the floor to come to a rest against Mac's boot. Jack helped him move the cot aside from where he'd jammed it against the wall, then stepped back as Gray tugged the broken door open.

The sight that met their eyes wouldn't be soon erased from Mac's memory.

The big Russian had survived.

Curled up to protect himself from the force of the snow, he was pressed against the door, his body having made a small cave in the snow completely covering the doorway. When Gray stepped back out of shock, the FSB Agent tumbled inside the cabin, lying still at first, then slowly uncurling.

"Son of a bitch," Jack breathed. "He's like the Energizer Bunny."

"Get a gun on him," Gray ordered.

Mac tore his eyes from the recovering Russian to see that Gray was on the other side of the room from the weapons they had left. Jack crossed quickly in front of Mac to get to where he'd left his Glock on the floor, and as he turned, Mac saw the Russian push up to his elbow, looking slowly around the cabin.

The man's face was a mess—crushed nose covering his mouth and chin with blood, lacerated forehead spilling blood into one eye. His pale eyes sighted in on MacGyver and he spit blood onto the floor.

"Маленький волк," he growled.

Mac heard Jack bring his weapon up as the Russian got slowly to his knees.

"He said that before—what's he saying?" Jack demanded.

"He called me little wolf," Mac replied, feeling oddly breathless with the FSB Agent's eyes on him. He could see the man's hand was also broken, the wrist bent at an odd angle.

The Russian struggled to his feet, his breathing raspy and wet, blood splashing from his lips. As the three men stared in shock, he staggered close to Mac.

"Hey! Hey, you stop right there," Jack ordered, training his Glock on the man.

The Russian ignored him, and Mac felt himself pulling back against the chair as the Russian shuffled forward and then fell to his knees in front of Mac.

"Ты не мог меня убить," the Russian whispered.

"What's he saying?" Jack demanded, his voice clipped and anxious.

"He said that…I couldn't kill him," Mac managed, feeling as though there was a hand at his throat as the man's eyes raked over him.

The Russian reached for Mac with his good hand and Jack moved forward immediately, pressing the muzzle of his weapon against the Russian's temple, stopping the man's hand part-way to Mac's face.

"Not a chance," Jack growled.

"You…should…have," the Russian matched Jack's tone in halting English, never taking his gaze from Mac.

To Mac's horror, the man twisted his good wrist slightly and a blade ejected smoothly from his sleeve. Before the Russian was able to follow through with whatever he'd planned for the blade, Jack pulled the trigger and the FSB Agent fell in a lifeless heap at Mac's feet. For several heartbeats no one moved, then Mac heard Gray exhale harshly from across the room.

"Mac?"

"'m okay," Mac replied to his partner automatically. He couldn't tear his eyes from the dead man's face. "I'm fine."

He was shaking from the inside out, his heart like a bird trapped in a cage. His hands trembled, his lips shook with the force of his breath. He knew it was just adrenalin, it was biological, it was normal, but it made him lightheaded and he had to grip the heavy wooden seat of the chair to balance himself.

"It's over," Gray rasped. "They're…it's done."

No one replied; Mac registered that Jack was staring at him, not at the body on the floor like everyone else. He looked up and met his partner's calm, brown eyes. Jack may be a bit of an emotional basket case at times, may have an unhealthy obsession with Bruce Willis films, and may behave like overwatch extended to all areas of Mac's life, but when it came to being a soldier and doing what needed to be done to keep his team safe, Jack Dalton was as steady as they came.

"I'm good," Mac said quietly, willing that lie to show in his eyes.

Jack shook his head. "Naw, you're not," he said. "But you'll make it."

Mac swallowed and nodded. Jack turned to face Gray and Mac realized the CIA Agent was struggling a bit himself. He stood stiff and still, his wounded arm close to his body, his eyes on the dead FSB Agent. Jack slid his Glock into his waistband and crossed the room to stand in front of the other man, their sizes matching to the point Jack looked him square in the eye.

"It's not done yet, man," Jack said, ducking his chin but maintaining eye contact. "You hearing me, Isaac?"

Gray nodded shakily.

"We may have found some wolf trail to get us back, but we've got a mountain full of snow on top of us and two wounded soldiers," Jack said, his tone clipped and serious. "We need all of us on this."

"I…y-yes," Gray nodded again. He cleared his throat. "I'm here. I'm with you."

"Good," Jack turned and eyed the cabin's interior.

Mac felt the man's eyes slip over him as though cataloging him—mostly likely as a liability at this stage. He could feel the fever settling into his joints, thrumming at his side. He knew he was bleeding again, but there wasn't anything they could do about it at this point. He had to think; there was always a solution.

And then the possibilities began to light up behind his eyes like fireworks. Scenario after scenario played out through each potential ending as though he was reading a Choose Your Own Adventure book at high-speed. Eyes darting around the cabin at what they had available, he pulled in a breath.

"Uh-oh," Jack said, side-eying him. "I know that look."

"I got an idea," Mac said.

"But…?"

Mac grimaced, looking up at him. "You're not going to like it."

Jack arched an eyebrow. "You're going to have to break his phone this time," he said, jerking his thumb at Gray. "I left mine at home."

Mac had forgotten about the phone. "Okay…I've got two ideas."

It was as simple as it was crazy. He knew it would work, but…convincing Jack was going to be the trick.

"How many bars you got, Isaac?" Mac asked, trying to push to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. He sank back down and looked up at the other man.

"Zip," Gray replied, grimacing.

"'s okay," Mac replied, slightly breathless. He wasn't sure why he was so weak, but he felt his heart slamming once more against his chest. He caught Gray looking at him careful. "'m okay."

"We got any water left in those canteens?" Gray asked.

Jack immediately moved to check. One was half-full.

"Drink it, Mac," Gray ordered.

"'m fine," Mac protested, but couldn't seem to get his lips and tongue to work in concert.

"You're dehydrated, suffering from exposure and extreme exhaustion, losing blood, fighting an infection, and no doubt have several hairline fractures to go along with the bruises on your body," Gray replied, his voice growing stronger as he listed out Mac's injuries. "Drink the damn water."

Jack's eyebrows went up and he obediently handed Mac the canteen. Mac drank in several short gulps, his hand shaking the canteen against his lips. He had to admit he felt a bit steadier when he handed the now empty canteen back to Jack.

"'kay, look," Mac said, pointing to the human-shaped cave that the Russian's body had made in the snow packed against the door. "If we dig a bit deeper—say, ten or twelve feet—we can bury the last bomb and blow ourselves an escape route. Once we get out, I can use the trip wire and the last of the MREs to boost the signal from Isaac's phone and reach the Phoenix."

Both men stared at him for several seconds in silence. Mac blinked back at them, waiting.

"You want to…blow up…the door to the cabin," Jack repeated, slowly.

Mac shook his head. "No, I want to blow up the snow blocking the door to the cabin."

"So, who is going on the suicide mission to light the fuse?" Gray asked.

At this, Mac grinned. "You can do more with guns besides fire them," he replied. He looked at Jack. "You trust me?"

"Always have, always will," Jack replied immediately.

"Okay, then…let's start digging," he tried to stand once more and grabbed a breath when the world tilted abruptly to the left. He felt Jack's hand at his elbow and had to blink hard to clear his vision.

"Sit your ass back down before you pass out," Jack barked worriedly. "Without you, Gray and I are just two grunts in a buried cabin."

"'m okay," Mac mumbled, leaning sideways to prop his elbow on the table, his head in his hand. He felt terrible. "Gimme all the guns and ammo."

"That just sounds so wrong coming from you," Jack muttered, but nodded toward Gray. "See if Ivan still has his Makarov on him."

Gray obediently pulled the dead man's body to the side, searching it for weapons and ammo. The gun was gone, but he found several rounds of ammunition, which he added to the pile Jack was making on the table next to Mac. He also found three ketamine darts and held them up to Jack.

"Guess they all were packing," he said, "not just the one whose clothes I, uh…borrowed."

"Just…just, how about you set those down nice and slow," Jack grumbled, tapping the air with his gloved fingertips. "If I don't see another green tassled-dart for the rest of my life it'll be too soon."

Gray grinned slightly, and he set the darts down. He then pulled the slim pack off of the FSB Agent's back and emptied its content onto their pile of dwindling supplies. Grabbing the bigger pot, he dug some of the snow out of the window, he set it on the stove to melt.

"Okay, guess we get to diggin'!" Jack clapped his hands together. He glanced at Mac and grinned. "It's a good plan, man. I'm excited to be part of it."

Mac felt the side of his mouth tip up appreciatively. His partner could always read him. And right now, he was walking a pretty fine line between holding on and letting go.

Reaching over his head carefully, he tore off a section of the map from the wall, then took out his Swiss Army knife and began to carefully remove the casings from the bullets, separating the primer, powder, and projectiles into three piles, sifting the powder onto the map so that it didn't slip through the cracks in the table.

Mac tuned everything out—the sounds of Jack and Gray digging through the snow, the chill in the room as the fire died, the increasing claustrophobia that came with being buried—and focused his considerable brain power on the simple task of gathering all of the primer caps and gunpowder he could. His hands trembled, making it hard to work the casing off without slicing his fingers, but he was determined.

When he'd finished with all the ammo from the Glock and Beretta and had started in on the rifle, he looked up, turning his focus on his two companions. Jack was sitting on the floor just inside the door, panting, sweaty, and utterly exhausted. There was an impressive pile of snow beneath the window—some of it pink-tinged. Gray was filling a canteen and telling Jack to finish the one in his hand.

It occurred to Mac then that Jack was the only one capable of climbing through the snow tunnel to dig deep enough and plant the bomb. He could barely stand without passing out and Gray's arm stopped him from doing much except pulling the snow away from Jack.

"Jack?" he called, surprised by the rasp in his voice.

"Right here, man," Jack panted.

"You good?"

"I'll be better when we're outta this place," Jack tipped his head back against the wall. "Whew! Who knew snow was so damn heavy!"

"How far back are we?"

Gray crouched down and peered into the snow tunnel. "Maybe ten feet from the door."

Mac started to calculate the concussive force of the bomb and the amount of gunpowder he had and shook his head. "We need a few more feet," he said, "if we want to be sure there won't be blast back at us…but, I don't think we're going to have enough gunpowder for a fuse longer than…twelve feet."

"Twelve feet it is," Jack panted. He started to push to his feet and Gray held out a hand.

"We've got time," the CIA Agent stated. "You need fuel."

"Think we tapped out the hearty beef stew," Jack sighed, drinking more from the canteen.

Gray grabbed the last MRE and tossed it to Jack. "Eat up."

Mac watched Jack consume the MRE as though disconnected from the scene around him. His body felt like it belonged to someone else, his hands heavy weights at the ends of shaking arms. If he could get his mind to stop slipping its grasp on the here and now, he might be able to gain control of his body, but as it was, he was feeling lucky that he hadn't slid off his chair into a puddle of pain on the floor.

"You still with me, Mac?"

Jack's voice startled him, and he jerked slightly, focusing in on his partner's face.

"'m here," he replied.

"Good, 'cause you look about a thousand miles away right now," Jack noted, staring at him. "How are you doing on those bullets?"

Mac looked back at the table and then at the rifle bullet in his hand. "I'm good, Jack."

Jack took a couple more bites while Gray started to go through the pile of supplies.

"What do you think Harry would say about all this?" Jack asked suddenly.

"Something wise," Mac replied, with a slight grin. "Something that I'd spend hours trying to figure out how it applied to the situation only to realize he was just trying to distract me from worrying."

Jack stood up and rolled his neck, stretching his arms then put his gloves back on. "Like what?"

Mac focused back on the bullet in his hand, working off the casing. "Oh, something like…empty cans make the most noise. Or, it's better to go slow somewhere than to go fast nowhere."

He split the bullet parts and picked up another one, noting how Jack and Gray had become a two-man relay with the snow and kitchen pots.

"What else?" Jack called as he passed back a pot full of snow.

"You don't make mistakes, your mistakes make you," Mac remembered, "or, some people walk in the rain while others just get wet."

The pile of gunpowder grew, and the pile of bullets dwindled.

"That all?" Jack asked, handing back another pot of snow.

It finally dawned on MacGyver that Jack was pulling a Harry. He smiled. "Yeah, Jack. That's about it."

"Good, 'cause I think that's about twelve feet."

Mac swallowed and nodded. "We need another barricade," he said looking at Gray.

"Roger that," the other man nodded.

It felt odd to stay sitting while he instructed Jack how to set up the bomb and leave a trail of gunpowder through the snow so that the spark would ignite the fuse, but Jack was adamant that he not try climbing back there himself.

"It'd be like a kid in those damn jungle gyms at the fast food places," Jack muttered, gathering up supplies, "and I'd just have to climb in there after you to get you out."

The bomb placed, the primers positioned to spark, and the gunpowder trail laid all the way to the back of the small cabin, Gray pulled the table over and layered it with the cot, moving the remaining firewood to the back wall so that it wasn't turned into projectiles. He helped Mac to his feet and eased him to the floor behind the table while Jack crouched by the gunpowder fuse.

"Hey, Mac?" Jack said without looking at him.

"Yeah?"

"If this doesn't work," Jack glanced to the side, "I want you to know that it's been an honor to know you."

Mac felt his throat close up for a moment. "It's going to work."

"Yeah, but…y'know. If it doesn't."

Mac heard the tears pressing against Jack's words.

"Same here, man," Mac replied quietly.

"Well, hell," Gray said quietly. "I hope it works. Because I do not plan on dying today."

"I hear that," Jack nodded and raised a fist toward the other man. Mac smiled when Gray bumped his fist against Jack's with barely a pause. "You boys ready?"

Both Mac and Gray nodded, and Gray grabbed the protruding legs of the table to further brace it. Jack used Mac's knife to hit the primer creating a spark that scrambled down the path of the gunpowder, then he ducked back behind the table next to Mac.

They waited; Mac counted the seconds.

Just when he felt like it had taken too long and the fuse had been defeated by the snow, the bomb exploded and the cabin shook, snow blasting inwards and upwards, peppering the cook stove, the table barricade, the FSB Agent's body, the walls, the shattered window. The men behind the table ducked and covered their heads and Mac heard Jack shout.

It was over in a minute; the men sat still for a beat, then looked up and around. Jack barked out a laugh, then looked over at Gray who poked his head over the top of the table.

"I see sunlight!" he shouted triumphantly.

"That's my boy!" Jack cheered, hooking an arm around Mac's neck and pulling his head to his shoulder. He rubbed Mac's hair, then released him, standing up. "Oh, ain't that a pretty sight."

He reached down and helped Mac to his feet; Mac leaned heavily against Jack and grinned at the sight of the sun streaking down through the opening and into the snow tunnel.

"We gotta get outta here," Gray said, moving to the FSB Agent's now-empty pack.

Jack helped Mac to the chair and then began to load up the pack with anything salvageable from their pile of supplies. They each put on their cold weather gear—Gray's stiff with dried blood both on his back and his arm—and Jack handed Mac his coat.

"I'm not coming with you," Mac said quietly, holding his coat in his lap.

Jack froze, turning slowly around to face him. "I think that explosion messed up my hearing, man, 'cause it sounded like you just said you weren't coming with us."

Mac swallowed. "I'm…I'm hurting, Jack," he confessed. "I can't make it across the room without passing out, let alone to the exfil."

Jack practically stomped over to stand in front of his partner. "You have to be eight kinds of crazy, you think I'm leaving you here."

"I can show you how to rig up the phone. You can…you can get to the exfil, have them send someone back for me," Mac offered, looking from Jack to Gray, hoping for backup in his logic.

"That's at least another twenty-four hours, Mac," Gray was shaking his head. "You don't have enough food and water here to make it another six. And with the way you look now…."

"You're coming with us," Jack declared, starting to turn away. Mac snagged the edge of his partner's coat, halting him.

"Jack," Mac tried, finding it hard to keep his voice steady.

His heart was skipping frantically in his chest, his side was throbbing, and the fever had turned his joints to lava. He could literally feel every muscle along his back, and his ribs…whatever hairline fractures had been there before had turned into breaks by now.

"You know this is the best way," he argued. "You're the one who said I was the smartest guy in the room."

Jack scoffed. "That was before your brains were being fever-cooked. You're coming with us."

"Jack— "

"No, man," Jack barked, making Mac jump from his tone. The older man dropped to his knees, grabbing Mac's wrists, and holding the younger agent's arms steady. "You think I'm going to let you drag my ass across the Canadian wilderness just to walk away from you now?"

"That was different," Mac argued. He was wearing down; he needed to convince Jack to leave soon so that he could pass out in peace.

"No." Jack shook his head adamantly. "No different." He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, moving his grip to Mac's shoulders. "I am not walking away from you, kid. I know every person who has ever mattered to you in your whole damn life has left you. I will not."

Mac sat stone-still, caught off-guard by the vehemence in Jack's tone. His eyes burned, and the blur of tears softened Jack's angry features.

"You get me, Angus?"

"I get you," Mac replied, a tear escaping as he gasped in a quick breath.

"Now," Jack released him and stood up. "Get your damn coat on and let me and Gray figure out how we're going to carry you."

Mac slid his arms through the sleeves of his coat, feeling numb. He listened to Jack and Gray talk about trading off carrying him, using the Russian spy's coat to make a sling, avoiding his wounded side and Gray's wounded arm and he suddenly realized Jack had stated the answer minutes prior.

"The cot," he said, interrupting what he was sure would have been a highly amusing argument about physics between the two agents if he'd been listening. "Use the cot."

Jack and Gray exchanged a glance.

"Was going to be my next suggestion," Jack muttered.

He pulled the cot over to Mac and they looked at it from each angle, before Mac instructed how to take apart the frame and turn it into a travois. While Jack got to work, Gray gathered what Mac needed to boost the cell phone signal. Then, with one last glance back at the FSB Agent's body, Gray crawled down the tunnel and up through the hole, leaning back in for Jack to send up the cot-travois and pack.

"Okay, you're up, bud," Jack turned and helped Mac to his feet, one arm around his waist, as Mac clung to Jack's shoulder with his other. "We'll take it slow, okay? Got all the time in the world."

"Famous last line," Mac gasped as they reached the door.

"Yeah…didn't think about it that way," Jack muttered.

Mac started to crawl through the tunnel, forcing himself to breathe steady, groaning helplessly with the ache in his body, the tremble of his limbs. Ahead of him was sunlight, behind him his partner. He could do this. He could do this.

He could do this.

He reached the ragged hole the bomb blasted through the snow and shifted to his hip, staring up to where Gray hung down with his good arm extended.

"Need a hand?" Gray asked.

Mac nodded, shifting to his knees, then reaching up for Gray. He felt the man clasp his forearm in a solid grip, then Jack pushed from beneath him, lifting him from the snow-packed earth. The motion stretched his abused muscles, pulled his wounded side, and Mac shouted, helplessly. He could hear Jack below him, hear Gray above him, but his world shifted and narrowed until there was only pain.

For a stretch of time, there was nothing but the hiss of white noise in Mac's ears and the dark of his closed lids. The first thing he was aware of was his own hammering breath, followed closely by his heart choking him. There were hands at his waist, hands on his face, and he was shaking. He could feel his body tremble around him.

"…do this to me, man, not now. C'mon, I got you, okay? I got you, Mac."

Jack. Jack's voice, constant and steady and sounding scared to death.

"'m here," Mac croaked. "'m okay."

"Hey!" The smile in Jack's voice was unmistakable. "There you are!"

Mac blinked his eyes open, slamming them shut once more as the sun speared his brain. He felt the coolness of a shadow move over his face and he cautiously opened his eyes once more to see Jack's anxious face looming over him.

"What happened?" he rasped.

"Well, we…uh, kinda broke you a little bit," Jack winced, his hand still at the side of Mac's face. "Gray's fixing up your bandage best we can."

"Broke me?" Mac squinted, trying to see down to his waist where Gray bent over his hip.

"Your wound…your ribs…," Jack winced again. "You're a mess, bud."

"Patched you up best I could," Gray said, sitting back on his heels and holding his wounded arm. "When you're ready, we sure could use that amped up phone call."

Mac swallowed, nodding. He shifted his eyes to Jack. "Help me up?"

"You got it, brother," Jack said, shifting around behind Mac and easing him up off the snow until he sagged back against Jack, his head on his partner's shoulder, his back against Jack's chest.

Gray handed him the cell phone and supplies he'd asked for. Pulling his gloves off with his teeth, Mac broke open the casing of the cell phone, plucked out the battery and began to hook the aluminum wrapping of the MRE to the slim wire. He then connected that to the circuit board and turned the phone on, handing it up to Jack.

"Get us outta here," he breathed.

"Roger that," Jack replied, and Mac felt him pull his gloves off and dial.

As Jack waited for a connection, Mac allowed himself to close his eyes, absorbing the relative security of Jack holding him up. He heard Jack start talking, but couldn't find the energy to focus in on the conversation. Bits came through—Isaac's name, the FSB, Mac being wounded, an avalanche, but he couldn't fit the puzzle pieces of words together to form a picture.

He felt Jack hang up the phone and say something to Gray, but his head was muddled. None of the words connected to reason or meaning. A sound stilled his partner and he heard Gray catch his breath. A mournful howl, somehow both wild and heartbreaking at once, echoed across landscape completely changed by the snow. Mac waited to hear the answering cries and wasn't disappointed.

"Shit," Jack breathed, an arm wrapping around Mac protectively.

Mac opened his eyes, turning toward the sound, and saw the grey wolf standing on a newly exposed rock ledge, twenty feet away. He stared down at them and Mac felt himself smile.

"He made it," he said softly.

"Whassat, bud?" Jack asked.

"Was afraid the snow got him, but he's still here," Mac continued, his eyes on the wolf.

As they watched, the wolf turned, nosed a darker member of its pack, and then took off into the trees, along the very trail they were planning to follow.

"Is that the wolf you said was watching you?" Jack asked him, his voice hushed.

Mac nodded against Jack's chest.

"Little wolf," Gray murmured. "No wonder."

"What?" Mac stared at Gray. "What do you mean?"

Gray looked at him, his blue eyes bright in the sunlight. "There's a Russian fairytale—called something like the Firebird and the Grey Wolf…I think. It's been a long time since I heard it, but basically, a grey wolf saves a young prince and helps him get the girl. The prince's brothers kill him out of jealousy, but the wolf is able to save his life."

"Sounds…complicated," Jack replied.

But Gray hadn't looked away from Mac. "The big Russian saw you crash against a boulder, haul your friend for miles, get shot out of a tree…and every time, that wolf was watching you."

Mac nodded. Little wolf. Who couldn't kill the Russian spy.

And was only alive because of his partner.

"Jack…."

"I know, bud," Jack rested his hand on Mac's head. "I know."

Gray laid the cot-travois flat and Jack helped Mac climb on. Using the straps of the pack, Jack shifted the harness they'd made over his shoulders and Gray led the way, Jack close behind, Mac on the travois.

"The wolves marked it for us," Gray said over his shoulder. "Unbelievable."

"Just keep your eyes out," Jack ordered. "Matty said the chopper would be at the exfil in an hour and would wait."

Mac closed his eyes. He could hang in there for an hour. He could last that long.

At some point, though, he slipped off the edge of awareness without realizing it. Confused, he found himself staring at the figure of his father in a maroon Members Only jacket walking next to the travois, arguing with Harry on the other side of the travois about the true validity of Newton's Third Law.

He tried to break in and explain to his father why a system could not 'bootstrap' itself into motion with purely internal forces—that it must interact with an external object to achieve acceleration, but then Jack stepped in and confused him even more.

"He's burning up," Jack said, talking to someone over his head. Maybe it was his father. Maybe he'd found them and was going to take them home—after all, he would be a prime example of an external object. "It's not your dad, Mac. Just me, okay? Jack."

"What is he talking about?" That was a different voice.

Not his dad's, he didn't think. But then, it had been so long since he'd heard from his dad, he didn't remember what he sounded like.

"Friggin' genius and your ginormous brain," Jack was muttering and Mac felt something cold slide over his lips and he opened his mouth, letting the melting snow trickle down his throat. "Only you could try to argue physics when you're delirious."

"You lead," said the overhead voice. It was familiar…but it wasn't Dad. Or Harry. Or Jack. Mac wanted to draw away until he figured out that voice. "I'll watch him."

"What are you going to do? Cool him down with your CIA super powers?" Jack practically growled. Mac shivered. Jack was mad. "Not at you, bud, okay? You're good. You just hang in there. Keep talking to Harry."

The light was changing. He could feel it on his face. It felt like the world was moving around him.

It stroked is skin with fire-like fingers. It made him forget the cold. The cold that had almost taken Jack from him. The cold that Zoe had drown in. It was heat that had haunted him for so long. Heat from the bomb that took the Ambassador and his family in Argentina. Heat from the desert. Heat from so much fire it could melt sand to glass.

He felt cool wetness on his lips again and he swallowed when asked, not realizing that he called for Jack almost continuously. Not realizing that he was talking, exposing the fears of the heat, anguish of the losses, the helpless weight of guilt that pressed his heart flat and made it impossible to breathe most nights.

He just wanted to stop hurting so much. He felt like he'd been hurting all his life.

"I know, bud," Jack's voice filtered in as the world kept moving. "I'm going to make it stop hurting, I promise. You just gotta hang in there with me a little longer."

Time seemed to slip a bit then. He couldn't feel the world anymore. Couldn't feel the haunting heat or the aching cold. Couldn't hear Jack's voice. It should have scared him, this vast nothingness. But instead he felt peaceful, calm. Even his mind was quiet for a moment.

But then a shout. A press of air against his face, a sharp pain in his arm and suddenly the world was moving again. And there was noise.

So much noise.

"…hear me, Agent MacGyver?"

"Jack…," he wheezed, his throat raw, his lips cracked.

There was a mask over his face and the person leaning over him was a stranger. He tensed, swinging his arm up and pushing the face away. The noise was deafening and he needed to get away but holy hell his side was on fire and someone was trying to press down on it and he couldn't move, couldn't back away—

"Mac! Mac, hey, easy, kiddo. It's okay, it's all good."

He felt a sharp point stab him in the arm and something swept through his system like syrup, sliding around the frayed edges of his nerves and cooling the fire that slipped around his chest and easing his struggling breaths. His eyes rolled, looking for Jack, trying to balance himself in the ebb of panic and flow of something like sugar sliding around his perception.

"Jack?"

"Right here, bud," came Jack's voice and Mac realized the man's hand was gripping his. He rolled his head to the side until Jack's face came into view. "I'm right here. Not going to leave you. I promised, didn't I?"

"What…?"

"Exfil, remember?" Jack told him, and suddenly the noise had meaning and substance and he was able to put the disjointed puzzle pieces together. A helicopter, taking them away from the cold, away from the snow, away from the wolves and the Russians.

"We'll send someone back for the bodies, don't you worry," Jack was saying to him.

He wasn't sure what was out loud and what was in his head. He needed to stop talking before he said something he needed to keep quiet.

"You mean, like you knowing more about Newton's Laws than your dad or Harry combined?" Jack chuckled. "You say whatever you need to say, kid. Helps me know you're still breathing."

"Isaac?" Mac rasped.

"I'm here," Gray replied from somewhere to Mac's right. "Glad to know you remember me, though."

He remembered. That was the problem, really. He always remembered. He remembered it all.

"I know you do, bud," Jack said, his voice sad and soothing at once. He tightened his grip on Mac's hand, patting the top of his head. "I know."

Whatever had been in the shot they gave him eased his panic to the point of near relaxation and Mac let his eyelids droop, falling to sleep with Jack's hand in his. The next time he woke the world was moving again, but he was too tired to figure out where it was going. There were lights overhead and strange faces peering over him and urgent voices saying words he recognized but couldn't apply meaning to.

And then he was gone again. Slipping down into a place where awareness meant nothing to him.

It took an incessant beep and the steady cadence of Jack's voice to bring him out of that place. He opened eyes gritty with sleep to see Jack sitting in a chair next to his bed, booted feet propped up on the side of the mattress, an Auto Week magazine in his hand, reading an article about Mustang Shelby engines out loud.

"…to this very day," Jack read, "Shelby's undeniable charm and irresistible brand of straight-talk-replication, Texas-barbecue-sauce smothered hucksterism is what drives the popularity of the brand that bears his name." Jack grinned and looked up. "See that right there is the truth, brother, because—" He stopped mid-sentence. "Well, hey there, sleepy-head. Good to see those baby blues."

"Hey," Mac managed, his throat bone-dry.

Jack dropped his feet from the side of the bed and sat forward, grabbing a plastic cup from the side of the bed, using the bed controls to tilt Mac's head up so that he could take a drink. He felt the coolness of the water slide through him like silk. Leaning back to take a breath, he looked around the room, feeling clearer and more alert than he had in…well, he wasn't sure in how long.

"What day is it?" Mac asked, looking at the various IV's in his arm.

"Wednesday," Jack replied, lifting an eyebrow.

Mac blinked. That information meant nothing to him. "Okay, so…when did we hit the exfil?"

"Sunday," Jack said. "How about you ask the question you really want an answer to?"

Mac smiled, dropping his head back to his pillow. "Okay. What the hell happened?"

Jack nodded, then shifted the side rail down so he could sit on the bed at Mac's hip. "Well, since you asked," he said, then cleared his throat. "It's not the first time, you've asked, by the way. You've been awake off and on, but you were never really with it."

"Seriously?"

Jack nodded, crossing is heart with his index finger. "Serious as a heart attack. But, your eyes are clear and you're moving like an actual person and not like some marionette with its stings cut, so I'm going to go with you really being with me this time."

"I'm with you," Mac promised.

He noticed Jack's color was much improved from the last time he'd seen him. He looked rested, and definitely like he'd had a steak dinner and a shower. He hitched one leg up on the bed so that he was turned part-way toward Mac, but he looked to the side.

"Once you got us able to hook into the Phoenix, you…basically tapped out," Jack told him. "Don't know how much of that trip you remember, but your fever spiked and you were rambling about your dad and Harry and Newton's Law…."

Mac did actually remember some of that, but it was a confusing cobweb of reality and dreams.

"You called for me the whole time—didn't believe I was there. Didn't believe I was me," Jack huffed and shook his head. "We got to the exfil and you started seizing."

"I don't remember that," Mac said softly.

"Can't imagine you would," Jack replied. "They managed to get you stabilized and you seemed clearer, but then you passed out and nothing I did got you to wake up." Jack shook his head. "Scared me to death, I don't mind saying. Turns out you were pretty beat up, Mac. Internal bleeding—not sure if that was from the boulder or the swan-dive from the tree, but either way it went a long time without treatment. Infection. Broken ribs. And I'm pretty sure there isn't a place between your shoulders and your hips that isn't bruised."

He felt sore, but credited the meds he could feel coursing through his system for keeping the worst of it at bay. He shifted stiffly in the bed, sitting up straighter. He could feel the catheter—an obvious necessity for someone who decided to sleep the last three days away—and the pinch of IVs, but other than that, he wasn't as miserable as he knew he should be.

"Thanks for getting me out of there, Jack," he said sincerely. "I don't know how…," he paused, trying to find the words that would mean as much as he needed them to. "You know you're the reason I'm alive, right? Not just this time, but—"

"Hey," Jack held up a hand. "Pretty sure we're even in that department. I'm just glad you're going to be okay."

"How about you? With the ketamine?" Mac frowned, remembering that long, awful night as though it were yesterday.

"I'm good," Jack waved a hand at him. "You did everything right. Shocker." Jack grinned at him disarmingly. "Got me some fluids, some food, and some rest and I'm good as new. Gonna avoid animal tranquilizers from now on, but…I'm good."

Mac exhaled slowly, not realizing how much he'd needed to hear just that. "They say how long I have to be in here?"

Jack shook his head. "Waiting on you to get done napping," he replied. "But, I think if you behave yourself, you'll get out soon enough."

Mac nodded and dropped his head back. "I talked about my dad, huh?"

"You talked about a lot of stuff," Jack told him, looking down at the palms of his hands. "Some stuff…I'd kinda suspected."

The heat, Mac remembered. The heat, the loss, the weight…that crushing weight of defeat and helplessness and of not being enough. He hadn't wanted Jack to know—hadn't wanted to ask his friend to carry that load with him.

"You know," Jack dropped a hand on his knee, looking at him askance. "I'm not just here to keep you in one piece."

"I know," Mac answered automatically, wanting more to soothe Jack's feelings than to actually take him up on his offer.

Jack squinted his eyes and tilted his head slightly. "No, I don't think you do. I don't have to have been abandoned to know that it sucks, Mac."

Mac brought his head up quickly, blinking in surprise. He'd never used that word to describe what his father had done to him, but hearing it in Jack's voice felt as if a missing piece slipped into his heart.

"And... some of the shit that we survive, man," Jack shook his head. "Some of it feels impossible. Feels like it couldn't happen. But it does. And people die. Good people—people we try to save."

Jack looked over at him; there was a story in his dark eyes that only someone who had lived what they'd lived could read. It was a weight that Jack was both taking from him and asking him to carry.

"You're going to have to find a place to put it. Somewhere inside of you where don't have to think about it every day. Because it's the only way you're going to be able to make it through all the days that are stretching out ahead of you," Jack squeezed his leg. "And it's the only way you're going to be able to save all the people you're still meant to save."

Mac swallowed, looking down at his hands. "I know," he whispered. He didn't know how…but he knew what. They sat quietly for a moment. Mac took another drink, then considered asking Jack if he could rest, when a thought occurred to him. "Hey—how's Isaac?"

Jack smiled. "He's good," he replied. "Got his arm all patched up, got him to some CIA dudes Matty trusts to make his report." He reached into the pocket of the jacket he had draped over the back of the chair. "He sent you something."

Mac took the slim book from Jack and stared at the cover curiously. Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird and the Grey Wolf. In Russian.

"It's a Russian fairytale," he said. He flipped through the first few pages, a grin suddenly breaking across his face. "It's the one he was telling me…." He opened to the front page and saw an inscription written in Russian. "Think Tank," he read aloud for Jack, "Since you're not going to forget Crazy Ivan anytime soon, thought maybe a story about a heroic Ivan might be a good balance."

Mac closed the book and smiled, thinking of the impossibility of them having survived that mission, the wolf the bear the snow the hill the boulder the cold the tree the enemy the friends….

"It's all a bit too ying-yang zeny for me," Jack shrugged, glancing at him, "little wolf."

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Mac laughed. It was a broken thing, fragile edges of sound tripping around the room and teasing the air between them, but it was still a laugh.

Until it shattered and collected into sobs.

Without a word—as though he'd been waiting for this exact moment—Jack leaned forward, resting his calloused hand at the back of Mac's neck and pulled the younger man toward him until Mac's forehead was pressed against Jack's shoulder. Almost helplessly, like a drowning man reaching for a rope, Mac anchored his hands in Jack's shirt and felt the man's other arm wrap gently around his bruised back. His sobs wrenched from his sore chest, a strangled, smothered sound in the quiet room.

"It's gonna be okay," Jack whispered against Mac's head, his lips in Mac's hair. "It might take a bit, but you're gonna be okay, man. I promise. I promise you."

"I'm so sorry, Jack," Mac cried, the words tripping on themselves as they fell from his lips.

"It's not your fault, man," Jack soothed. "It's not your fault, okay?"

Jack's arm tightened around his back as Mac spilled the pain from losing the Ambassador, from watching Zoe drown, from watching Pena blow up, from being unable to find his dad, from his dad walking away, from the loss of so many for so long. He cried until he was limp, exhausted, and Jack had to ease him back against the pillows.

He caught his breath, the tears drying on his face as he saw Jack wipe his own tears away. It made him smile slightly, his exhaustion almost overpowering him.

"Hey, you should know by now you don't cry alone when I'm around," Jack huffed out a small laugh.

"Thank you," Mac replied softly.

Jack nodded, clapping Mac on the knee, then standing from the bed. "Hey, I got me an idea."

"What's that?" Mac asked, feeling his eyes growing heavy.

"How about I tell you when you get out of here?"

"'Kay," Mac agreed, letting his eyes close, feeling lighter than he had in months.

Los Angeles, two weeks later

-Still Mac-

Two weeks of rest—which in the eyes of his friends included several days' inundation of the entire Star Wars saga, more pancakes than he ever wanted to see again, and a crash course in how to hack into Russian servers, with a few Bruce Willis movies thrown in for good measure—hadn't been enough to keep Mac from walking up the stairs of the old newspaper building like he was edging on eighty instead of staring down twenty-seven.

"This isn't where I went the last time," Mac said breathlessly to Jack as they hit the top of the stairs, tugging on the edges of his leather jacket.

"He moves around a bit," Jack said. "That way some of the older guys who can't travel really easily can still make it in."

"If they can get past those stairs," Mac groused, but followed Jack down the dimly lit hallway and into a cavernous, empty room where a slim black man was setting up a circle of metal chairs.

"Freddie, my man," Jack called, stepping away from Mac and crossing the room.

Freddie Tillerman straightened after setting down the chair in his hand and looked up to grace Jack with a wide, genuinely happy grin. "Jack Dalton," he said, grabbing Jack's reaching hand and pulling the surprisingly smaller man in for a tight hug before releasing him. "It's good to see you!"

"You, too, man. You're looking good!"

Freddie drew his head back, scoffing at Jack. "Like that was ever in question."

Still grinning, Jack turned and gestured to Mac, who had lingered in the doorway. "Meet my friend, Angus MacGyver," he said.

Mac made his way stiffly across the room, his lingering soreness evident to anyone who watched him move. He held his hand out to Freddie, who shook it without the exuberant hug he'd offered Jack, for which Mac was eternally grateful.

"We met a little over a month ago," Mac reminded him. "I mean, kind of," he shrugged. "I didn't really say anything."

Freddie nodded. "I remember. EOD specialist, right?"

Mac's eyebrows went up. "Yeah, I used to be. Good memory."

"You fella's here for group?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah, Freds, about that," he cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. "Mac and me…we served in Afghanistan together—I found him after you left, actually—but, uh…the work we do now isn't exactly…," Jack frowned, looking for the words. "It can leave the same marks, but no one can know where they came from. You get me?"

"I get you," Freddie nodded. "EOD Specialist, Delta Force Overwatch," he nodded at them.

"Thanks, man."

Freddie eyed Mac. "You look like you've been wrung out a few times, kid," he said. "How about we grab a coffee before the rest get here?"

Mac nodded, glancing back at Jack who waved him forward before grabbing more chairs from the rack and continuing to set up the circle Freddie had started. Mac took the Styrofoam cup of coffee Freddie handed to him.

"How's things?" Freddie asked.

"Good," Mac replied. Then he hesitated. "Well, I mean…they're better than they were a couple weeks ago."

"What were they like then?" Freddie asked.

Mac pressed a hand against his side, looking down into his coffee. "Jack and I were buried in an avalanche and I was bleeding out from a crossbow wound."

Freddie nodded. "Yep, this is definitely better than that."

Mac gave him an appreciative half-grin.

"That what you're here to talk about?" Freddie asked.

"Tell you the truth," Mac sighed. "I don't know why I'm here. Except that…I know I'm not…not good and…," he shrugged, "and I trust Jack and…well, he trusts you."

"Okay if I touch you?" Freddie asked. Mac nodded, appreciating the fact that Freddie had been trained to handle soldiers dealing with PTSD and trauma. The taller man rested a hand on Mac's shoulder. "How about you don't worry about why you're here just yet. Sometimes being here is enough. The reason will come when it's supposed to. Yeah?"

Mac nodded as three men and a woman stepped into the room. "Yeah, okay." He tossed his cup into the plastic trash can and made his way to Jack, sitting down next to his friend.

Jack pressed his elbow against Mac's arm, offering reassurance. Mac smiled tightly, sitting back against the metal chair, eyes on the people in the room, trying to relax, his hands rubbing nervously along his jeans.

"Hey," Jack said quietly, eyes on Mac.

Mac looked over and frowned in confusion when Jack held out a closed hand to him. At first, he thought he wanted a fist bump and he tilted his head.

"Gimme your hand, man."

Mac opened his hand and almost laughed out loud when Jack dropped four large paperclips onto his palm.

"Knock yourself out, kid," Jack grinned, settling back to listen to Freddie.

Mac let his fingers work the metal, his mind able to calm itself by working on multiple things at once. Freddie talked, Mac listened. Others in the group talked, Mac listened. Jack talked, Mac listened. When the hour was over, Mac hadn't said a word about what chased his dreams at night, but he felt his burden had decreased somewhat. Jack shook Freddie's hand and Mac nodded at the other man, saying he would see him again.

"You good?" Jack asked as they stepped out of the large room and headed slowly down the stairs.

"I'm getting there," he said, following Jack to his car and climbing into the passenger seat.

As Jack fired up the engine, Mac set the paperclips on the dashboard: a snowflake and a wolf.

Jack grinned as he pulled out of the parking lot.

a/n: Freddie Tillerman is based loosely on the character Curtis Hoyle from Netflix's The Punisher in that they are both former soldiers who run a Veteran support group. I loved that character and felt like paying homage.

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you were entertained, as I may come back to this sandbox.

Not sure where I'm going next—I have some Daredevil ideas, and have been asked to consider a Supernatural one-shot. I'm going to wait to see what the muse opens up for me.