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Chapter Text

E=mc²

The equation vaulted to the forefront of his mind – smack in the middle of a damn mission – which was why it annoyingly caught him off guard.

It had been a while since he’d thought about the small handful of letters defining one of the most revolutionary theories in physics. A theory that, oddly enough, conjured memories of a sunny classroom, crayons, glue, and the bemused expression of his kindergarten teacher when he had proudly presented her with an equation that technically governed most of the known universe in lieu of the drawing of his family she had asked for.

It was a simple yet elegant theory, depicting the eternal dance of Energy and Matter – two sides of the same coin that became interchangeable, if you bounced the latter around at the speed of light. Well, technically faster than the speed of light…a lot faster. And the closer you flirted with the speed of light, the more time slowed down….

It was an odd thought, considering his current predicament, and why it chose that exact moment to spring from the recesses of his mind, was beyond him. Perhaps it was because, as a mission hurtled forward in an avalanche of light and chaos, the more the world around him seemed to slow to a crawl.

The rabbit holes his mind plunged down were always intriguing, and while he was usually content to follow a particular train of thought toward its inevitable solution, he was currently dealing with neither mass, nor the speed of light.

What he was dealing with was the speed of bullets.

MacGyver ducked and ran.

Around him, the world exploded in a blizzard of woodchips as crates and boxes dissolved in a hail of gunfire. Shouts and crashes roared across the warehouse as the Sinaloa Cartel fanned out. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he tore down an aisle of towering pallets, shoes skidding on concrete as he careened around a corner. He ducked as another round of gunfire rocketed off, the deafening crack and thud of bullets drowning everything out. A burst of speed and he was sliding into base behind a forklift, recoiling as a round pinged above him. Sweat soaked his shirt, his chest heaved as he rapidly scanned the sprawling mass of shelves and merchandise that stretched in every direction.

Harsh, guttural calls in Spanish rang out behind him, far too close for comfort. Launching away from the forklift, he plunged down the nearest aisle, barely hesitating before taking a hard left down another. Dodging between and over boxes, he hauled a right down another. And another. He ran until his muscles burned, breath catching in his chest, shoes pounding on the concrete; every twist and turn taking him deeper into the winding labyrinth.

Barreling around a stack of unused pallets, relief surged through him as a familiar alcove loomed ahead. Sliding to a stop on his knees, he breathlessly threw his back against the nearest box, eyes locked on the path he had taken, the buzz of adrenalin slamming his heart against his ribs. Muffled shouting and the snapping-crack of the destruction of crates ploughed on relentlessly in the distance.

He grinned.

They were trapped, outnumbered, outgunned…and one Angus MacGyver was having the time of his life.

“…of all the stupid, dumbass, idiotic things–!” Mac winced as a string of curse words filled his ear.

Letting his head fall back, he allowed himself a half-grin. “Relax, Jack.”

“Nope, nuh-uh, you don’t get to tell me to relax after that stunt you just pulled!” came the rant through the comms.

“I made it just fine.”

“Skin of your teeth, dude,” his partner growled dangerously. “Skin. Of. Your. Teeth!”

“Hardly.” Mac waved a hand dismissively, relieved his heart had stopped trying to jailbreak his chest.

Jack huffed. “What in god’s name were you thinking, kid? No-no don’t answer that because despite sporting that ginormous melon on your shoulders, you obviously weren’t thinking at all!”

“I’m fine,” Mac retorted, feeling a little annoyed. Jack was on a roll, and he was like a dog with a bone, and Mac could really do without the mid-mission lecture right now. “Not a scratch on me.”

There was a derisive snort. “There are a lotta definitions of ‘fine’ in this world, kid,” his partner seethed. “But I’ll tell you having a Mexican cartel bearing down on your scrawny ass ain’t one of them. I almost had to terminally ventilate a few of our new friends on account of that little jaunt of yours...for whatever the hell it is you’re building.”

“I needed the parts!” Mac protested, pushing away from the box, moving deeper into the alcove. He dug in his pockets, tossing circuitry and wire onto the worn concrete floor. The warehouse had been a treasure trove, the rare fortune of operating in the Port of Los Angeles. To say the place was gargantuan was an understatement; a Boeing 747 could have been housed comfortably inside with ample room to spare…Mac had been unable to resist doing the math.

“Oh yeah?” Mac was quite sure there was an audible sound as his partner slid from DEFCON-3 to DEFCON-2. He realized, sourly, that DEFCON-1 was just a hop, skip and a jump away. “Do me a favor, man, warn me next time before you haul off and do something that stupid! How am I supposed to watch your back if you keep putting it in places I can’t see?”

“Do you, or do you not, want to get out of here?” Mac asked.

“See, I know that there’s a trick question,” Jack said pointedly. “And don’t think for one second we ain’t talking about this when we’re done with this shitshow,” he finished ominously.

“I would never trick you, Jack,” Mac replied innocently, carefully dodging the comment, his mind already sorting through what he needed.

“I’m all for getting the hell outta here but considering the level of FUBAR we’re dealing with, I honestly think we gotta take another look at my idea.”

Sitting back on his heels, Mac cocked his head thoughtfully. “You’re going to have to run that one past me again.”

“You wound me, kid,” his partner groused. “Seriously, I’m wounded. Here, I have a clear solution to our problems for once, and you weren’t even listening.”

“Oh, I heard you perfectly the first time.” Mac uncoiled a roll of wire, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just your idea is so far outside of the realm of probability; I figured I would give you another run at explaining the logic.”

“Smart ass. It could work.”

“Debatable,” Mac muttered as he shot a mildly amused look to where his partner lay concealed on a catwalk, high above the warehouse floor.

“It’s a great plan!”

“It’s a terrible plan!”

“Beg to differ, dude,” his partner disagreed. “It’s pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.”

Mac made an indelicate sound and shook his head. “Jack, what you proposed would take out half the port.”

“Sure would take care of the sticky little problem we got going on here.”

“It would take care of us, too.”

“See? Like I said, it’s a good plan.”

 Mac pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know that’s not what I meant. Besides, I’m already working on something.”

 “Yeah, so you said, when you left that little barrel of death on the other side. But we weren’t being shot at then,” the older agent replied tersely.

“Well, we’re being shot at now!” Mac flinched as more gunfire thundered off; the sound of the cartel brazenly forcing their way across the warehouse filtered through the wall of boxes around him. “It’s always better to plan ahead.”

On the catwalk, Jack adjusted the stock of his rifle against his shoulder as he pulled his attention away from the unfolding chaos in the distance and focused on his young partner below. “See, now I’m convinced the Invasion of the Body Snatchers is a thing. Since when do you plan ahead, kid? Do I gotta to tell Matty you’re a clone and had your brains sucked out?”

Mac blinked, nonplused, then turned, and threw a glance up. “Jack,” he said suspiciously. “Have you been watching B-movie marathons again?”

Silence.

Then….

“Maybe,” came the careful reply.

“New rule,” Mac said firmly as he returned to sorting through the items on the floor. “Absolutely no – and I mean no – referencing of cheesy movies during missions.” He tipped a box of electrical connectors onto the floor. “And for the record, I totally plan ahead.”

“Sure, you do,” Jack drawled. “I can’t imagine you ever needing to improvise on the fly you know, ‘cause planning….” Jack was grinning like the Cheshire Cat; Mac could feel it through his earpiece.

“Well, I planned this time!” Mac commented tetchily as he peered around the boxes. “Think of it as preemptive improvisation, if it makes you feel better.”

 “Whatever you say, kid,” Jack answered smoothly. He stilled for a minute, the messy work of the cartel filling the silence. “You reckon your doohickey thingy is gonna work?”

“That a technical term?”

“Everything in your world is a technical term, hoss.”

A spool of electrical cable was unraveled. “Well, it’s not like we have a ton of options if my ‘doohickey thingy’ doesn’t work, Jack. I’m open to suggestions, though. You have an army up your sleeve I’m not aware of?”

“This is risky, man. Matty, sure as shit ain’t gonna approve.”

Mac chuckled under his breath. “You realize ‘risky’ is our actual job description, right? Besides, weren’t you the one who wanted to go all scorched earth a minute ago and nuke everything?”

“That was a calculated solution based on a professional assessment of the situation.”

“Again, debatable.” Mac tossed a roll of electrical tape and a handful of circuit board connectors on the concrete.

“You calling my expert assessment into question?”

“Well, I would show you the math,” the younger agent said sassily. “But I’m a little busy right now. I’m sure the City of Los Angeles would thank you for the cost of a brand-new port, though, so you have that going for you.”

“There’s more to life than just numbers and doodles on paper, kid.”

Tearing off a strip of tape with his teeth, Mac allowed himself a small, exasperated sigh. “This isn’t Delta, Jack,” he countered. “You don’t get to just blow stuff up to make it go away.”

Mac would never admit it in a million years, but there was actually a lot to be said for blowing things up to get them out of the way…. It just required careful planning and restraint – attributes that were not exactly Jack’s strengths.

In the grand scheme of things, they usually didn’t land in a well-stocked warehouse, but feast or famine, improvising on the fly was addictive. There was just no way to explain the feeling – the high – it gave him. The answers just came to him, sliding smoothly together in his head like pieces of a puzzle only he could see.

“Dude,” Jack cut in, sarcastically. “That’s literally what you do on missions.”

“I don’t randomly blow things up.” Mac’s fingers blurred, parts merging beneath his touch. “There’s always a purpose to what I do, and it usually involves saving your ass, I might add.”

“Kid, when we’re outta there, I’ll argue the fact that you’re horribly wrong over warm beer any day of the week.”

“Fine, but you’re buying.”

____________

Seconds and minutes crowded into the present as Jack adjusted his line of sight, a careful eye on the cartel carnage as it crawled closer, leveling everything in its path. Another crash rattled the walls, followed by thick cursing in Spanish. He swiveled his gaze down to Mac, working feverishly in a tangle of wires below.

“You might wanna step on it, hoss,” he murmured. “Our new friends are getting real anxious to get to know us, if you get my drift.”

“I’m working as fast as I can, Jack. Any faster and my plan will become your plan.”

Jack watched his partner work before sending a brief glance out over the warehouse, then he cleared his throat. God, how did he even put this? “You sure about this, hoss? Shit’s about to get real.” His tone was careful, edged with caution. “I mean…on a scale of sure…are you like, sure-sure, really sure, or just, you know…sure?”

He watched Mac twist two wires together. “Well, I’m quite sure you can’t get another ‘sure’ in that sentence.”

“Humor me,” Jack grunted, frowning as a column of pallets a hundred feet away, swayed, then toppled with a staccato of snapping wood, leveling a row of crates like dominos.

Dragging the back of his arm across a sweaty forehead, MacGyver chuckled. “So, just to clarify, are we establishing that Sureness is a unit of measurement, and If so, are we measuring degree of hazard versus mission success?” Coiling the end of a wire around a screw, he pulled open a screwdriver on his knife and tightened it into place. “I mean, how much Sureness constitutes one unit of Sure,” he continued conversationally. “And how are we applying that to identifiable hazards and risk-adjusted success? Without established parameters, Jack, how can I possibly answer your question?”

“Not helpful, dude.” Jack eyed the wrecking crew in the distance.

“Well, you’re the one who wanted to use a Scale of Sure.”

The smug reply grated on Jack’s nerves. He gritted his teeth and tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress the annoyance welling up. “I’d just settle for a plan about now. Seriously, man, why do you gotta nerdify everything we talk about?”

Mac twisted around and sent him a pointed look as another boom rattled off. “How can I possibly ‘nerdify’ something that has zero basis in scientific fact, Jack?”

“You always wrap sciencey shit ‘round everything, like a goddamn Einstein burrito.” Jack angled his rifle up and tweaked the focus on his scope. The small moving blobs at the far end of the warehouse leapt into sharp clarity; he started counting. “Except you can’t eat it, and it’s probably gonna blow up in your face.”

“That was one time,” Mac argued, pulling open a blade and slicing through a length of cable. “And I paid to have your kitchen repainted, I might add.”

 “It still smells weird when I use the oven.” Jack made another adjustment, his eyes narrowing as figures crawled out of the woodworks from every direction…moving, coalescing and headed straight for them.

And every last one was armed-for-spy.

He stopped counting at forty. “I think I’m gonna need an answer on this one, hoss. How sure, exactly, are we talking here?”

MacGyver hesitated. “Um, pretty sure?”

It was both an answer and a question.

Jack almost lost what little hold he currently had on his shit and muttered a few choice words. “You know my trust in you is legendary, bud, but I need a little more than probably, this time.”

“I thought you learned not to ask that question, Jack.” Mac flashed him a shit-eating grin.

 “Brother,” his partner growled, resisting the urge to abandon his post and throttle the kid. “There are a crap-ton of hostiles incoming, and it ain’t like you got a place to go when they get here.” He narrowed his gaze. “You get what I’m laying down here, slick?”

Mac ignored him, plucked a pair of capacitors from the parts in front of him, and against all probability, worked faster.

Jack watched his partner’s hands move with almost inhuman speed, but try as he might, his worry leveled up a notch – scratch that – several notches. They were pinned down, outnumbered and outgunned with no fucking exit strategy or plan, other than what he strongly suspected involved his partner throwing himself on the equivalent of a grenade. He trusted the kid, he just could not trust him to take care of himself.

He had known Mac for the better part of a decade, and in all that time the biggest battle he’d fought was with a kid so laser-focused on saving the world that his own safety became a distant second, even when half the Sinaloa cartel was bearing down on him. And much to Jack’s longsuffering and eternal exasperation, his young partner never hesitated to launch himself into the line of fire to save others.

Mac’s penchant toward self-sacrifice was graying Jack’s hair faster than he would ever admit, but Mac was family, and family was the foundation of Jack Dalton’s life, and he had been raised in a loving home by a father who had carefully imparted an understanding of the world that most would take a lifetime to achieve.

When Jack joined the Army, Dalton Sr. sat his son down and explained the value of a life, and what it meant to take one. It was something that Jack had never forgotten, and years later on long, dark nights it haunted him that he had taken so many in the name of his country; that he had carefully lined a life up in his crosshairs, then snuffed it out with the twitch of a finger.

A single life was beyond value, and Jack had held enough of them in the palm of his hand to know it. The instinct to protect those he cared about, keep them safe from harm, ran deep and fueled every part of his life. So, it spoke volumes when his young partner saw so little worth in his own and seemed hell-bent on throwing it away.

Working with Mac had been a massive paradigm shift the likes of which Jack had never experienced before. Jack’s understanding of the universe had been left in disarray, and the kid had quietly crawled past his defenses and gone from an annoying know-it-all who touched Jack’s stuff, to his top priority in a matter of months. A genius kid who saw the world in a way no one else did. A kid who hid a tsunami of pain behind his eyes yet was the first to step into fray with a piece of wire and a stick of gum. A kid who saved lives with science and didn’t take them with bullets. Because that was Jack’s job.

The scientist and the soldier.

A unique partnership unlike anything that had existed before; a two-man team designed to succeed where all others had failed. Something never done before, and Jack had scoffed at the idea. Dragging a geek into a warzone seemed broadly suicidal and reckless at a minimum. Then he had been partnered with Mac and succeed it had – beyond anyone’s wildest expectations.

So, be it with a cartel, terrorists or in everyday life…Jack watched over the blond kid he met in the desert. Mac could focus on saving the world, knowing Jack would be there, ready to take said world apart to keep him safe. And, if you distilled the essence of their relationship down to the absolute minimum, this was what Jack’s entire existence in the kid’s life was for.

A crash yanked Jack back into the present; he blinked, shook away the memories, and focused on the threat practically hammering on their doorstep. The mission had gone sideways at a speed Jack was sure was some kind of record. The cartel had stumbled across them, unfortunate but unavoidable at the time. They had barely managed to get away, and Jack just wanted to make it out alive, preferably with all his bits intact. The cartel knew they were there, they just didn’t know who was out there in the maze of boxes and pallets, and in Jack’s professional opinion, the cartel was about to be taught a class in MacGyver 101.

Exhaling slowly, he swept his scope back across the mountains of merchandise, counting under his breath. There were more than forty now. Far, far more. The invite to the party had gone out, and everyone and their uncle were coming to join in the fun.

Shit.

He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the numbers that paraded darkly across his mind. Numbers that whispered weapons specs, ranges, and magazine loads…numbers that silently reminded him some of the fully automatic weaponry he saw could fire up to 600 rounds a minute. And there was the cold realization that there was no way he could drop them all.

“You might want to move your position to the north, Jack,” Mac said, yanking him from his thoughts. “The space below you is about to get really, really hot.”

Cursing cartels and bomb nerds in general under his breath, Jack slung his rifle over his shoulder and carefully circled around to a location above and behind MacGyver.

“And, I didn’t say ‘probably’, I said, ‘pretty sure’,” Mac clarified dryly, prodding at his partner’s earlier comment. “There’s a verifiable difference with grammatical nuance and context.”

“Brother, when we get out of here, you’re gonna have to explain one that to me.” Jack maneuvered himself into his new position, unslinging his rifle.

“I never pegged you as someone interested in contextual grammar, Jack,” MacGyver said, tongue-in-cheek.

Jack set his jaw. “I’ll be interested in whatever you want me to be, hoss, if there’s a plan in it that’ll prevent us from becoming cartel chow.”

Mac dusted his hands off. “I have…half of a plan?” he replied tentatively and cast about for the pair of pliers he had scrounged up.

“Well, it better be a doozy, kid, because you gotta small army marching your way and I don’t have the rounds to put ‘em all down.” Not to mention the cartel had enough rounds to put them both down, a dozen times over. He was nearly drowned out as the noise rolled over them, crates and equipment tossed violently aside as gang members continued to systematically smash their way across the warehouse.

“Well, it’s going to get their attention, that’s for sure,” Mac murmured under his breath.

Jack allowed himself a small smile. If there was one thing he knew, his friend didn’t do simple, and he most certainly didn’t do small. In fact, Jack was quite sure, with a quiet note of pride, that there was a sliver of Texas in his California-born and bred partner.

____________

Mac gave the cable one final twist, then ran the length of it to the back wall. Wiping his hands on his jeans he turned, gaze falling on a damaged crate, its contents spilling haphazardly onto the floor.

He smiled.

This-this was what it was all about.

Spinning effortlessly into gear, his brain catalogued everything he saw, presenting options, calculating risks…predicting outcomes. Things normally dismissed as useless united smoothly in his mind, opening an entire new world of possibilities.

He could see the potential of…well, everything.

…and everything fit exactly where it belonged, as part of an infinitely complex whole….

Protons, electrons and neutrons bonded to form atoms, which became elements that coalesced into matter…which created mass, and suddenly gravity and three-dimensional space entered the equation. And that was just the start of the fun. Everything had its place…a position in space-time, and the triumvirate of math, physics and chemistry ruled it all.

And here was where MacGyver worked his magic.

Everything flowed together. Somehow, he just knew where things needed to go…and it all worked. Geometry interfaced with trigonometry, as equations for distance, trajectory and momentum wrote themselves across his mind. Circuitry and switches connected beneath his fingers, and stoichiometry calculations seemed to hover around him, almost taking on a life of their own. Everything made sense, everything interlocked, and everything worked…perfectly.

This was fun in the weirdest way possible.

And right there, holding the line, was where MacGyver knew he was meant to be….

____________

“Any time now, Mac,” Jack urged under his breath. Making a small adjustment to his scope, he glanced down to see the kid elbows deep in wires and fertilizer. A glance up told him disaster was crawling closer in a way that was making his trigger finger itch. “Mac?”

“One more minute,” came the distracted reply.

“We don’t gotta minute, hoss, these dudes are gonna be in hugging distance in under sixty, and they ain’t coming for Thanksgiving dinner, if you get my drift.” Jack’s gaze narrowed as the cartel smashed and upended their way through the warehouse to flush the intruders out.

Tightening a final screw, Mac tucked his knife away. “Jack, I need you to do something for me.”

Jack’s eyes darted down and fixed on his partner below. “Whatever you want, dude, just ask.” He watched Mac peer around a box then flinch back as a bullet smacked into the concrete a few feet away.

“You remember that barrel I placed at the south side wall?”

“The one you filled with crazy juice and told me not to touch unless I wanted it to be my last night on earth?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about it?” he asked suspiciously.

“I need you to shoot it.”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “You wanna what, now?”

“I need you to shoot the barrel, Jack.”

Jack stared incredulously at his partner wondering if he’d bounced his melon off of something during his earlier field trip. “You said even shifting that thing was bad, like ‘crossing the streams’ bad.”

“Okay, one, see my earlier comment about quoting cheesy movies during missions and, two, we were standing beside it at the time!” Mac said hotly. “It’s shock-sensitive and you’re basically a wrecking ball in places like this.”

“Selective demolition, dude,” Jack shot back. “Sometimes the job calls for it. And Ghostbusters is a classic, homie, there’s no cheese involved.”

“For god’s sake, Jack, just do it!” Mac snapped. “Then get your ass down here; and by that, I mean run!”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Jack grumbled. “You sure about this?”

“Pretty sure!” Mac threw himself to the floor as a row of bullets ploughed into a crate above his head.

“There you go again!”

“Jack!”

“Fine!” Jack said brusquely. “But if we go kaboom, you and I will be having words about this.”

“That has to be the most illogical statement you’ve made today, Jack. Congratulations, I’m impressed.” Mac scrambled backwards as cardboard box disintegrated in a hail of gunfire.

“Whatever, dude.” Jack flipped down the bipod on his rifle and adjusted the butt against his shoulder. Glancing down, he watched his partner dive behind a pallet, bullets shredding the spot he had vacated seconds before. “Get out of there, Mac!”

“Where, exactly, do you want me to go?” Mac yelled as he crawled further into the alcove. “I’m open to ideas!”

Jack swore and smoothly angled his weapon up. It was taking everything in his mental arsenal to focus and not to think about his partner taking fire below. His instincts screamed at him to mow every last one of the bastards down, but he trusted Mac’s judgement and would walk through the fires of hell without a second thought, if the kid asked him to.

He pulled in a breath, closed his eyes and the chaos faded away. The world stilled around him and when he looked up, the only thing that existed was the speck in his optics at the far end of the warehouse. He made a final adjustment, then flicked the safety off. Exhaling slowly, he lined up the shot, his finger curling around the trigger.

____________

The bullet punched through the crate as Mac flung himself to the ground, a cloud of splinters blooming in its wake. Scrambling back, he cast about frantically for cover he knew didn’t exist as the thud of boots surrounded him.

The groan of distressed wood jerked his gaze up, his only warning as tower of laden pallets swayed precariously then toppled with a sickening crack. This was getting old. Mac rolled like his life depended on it as a half-ton of merchandise slammed into the concrete and shattered. Curling away, he covered his head as a barrage of debris pelted his back. Sucking in a breath, he coughed in the dust-laden air; skin stinging and bruised, he blinked past grit and tears, pleasantly surprised to find he was somehow still in one piece.

No time to rest, he had to move. Now. MacGyver pushed to his knees as something struck, spinning and violently knocking him back to the floor. Winded, he gasped, vision blurring as a searing, white-hot pain ripped through him. He groaned between clenched teeth, gripping his arm as warm blood flowed through his fingers. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision and without waiting for the world to right itself, he dragged himself toward a forklift, a red smear staining the floor in his wake. He sagged against the machine, panting, every nerve-ending in his arm on fire. Bullets pinged off metal and the sound of footsteps sent him clambering backwards – right into a dead end.

The press of cardboard firm against his back, Mac swallowed hard. There was nothing more he could do. There was nowhere to go. No inventions, gadgets or Jack to save him. It was done. He was done. He had always known this would happen one day and realizing it was here was almost a relief.... The thought sent the pain fading into the distance, as if it suddenly belonged to someone else, leaving his mind strangely calm as a man stepped into view, and Mac found himself on the business end of an assault rifle.

Time slowed.

The man sneered, a gold tooth glinted. The weapon aimed.

Mac closed his eyes.

Time stopped.

The shot cracked and Mac jerked back, deafened and gasping. The seconds rushed back, time ticked forward, and he blinked, a rapidly growing red stain telling him all he needed to know. He stared up at his would-be killer: a man who frowned back, confused, mouth falling open in surprise, blood bubbling from his lips. The man staggered, the gun clattered to the ground, and he followed a second later, eyes vacant. Dead.

Ears ringing, Mac barely heard the second shot….

It was a thing of beauty. If shooting was an art, then Jack Dalton was Picasso. The bullet exploded from the barrel in a precise, tight spiral, curving as it ripped through the air, shredding the sound barrier and blazing toward its target. Jack was already moving as the round struck its mark, a perfect shot from a damn near impossible angle. He didn’t look back. No need to.

Jack Dalton did not miss.

Then the world ended.

Chapter Text

It began with a single, spectacular detonation that rocked the warehouse to its foundation, efficiently removing most of the south wall and sending a boiling ball of orange flame through the roof. Angry shouts turned to panicked shrieks, as gang members shoved and fought in an attempt to flee.

Then, a second explosion thundered upwards; followed by a third, fourth, fifth and sixth. The building lit up like a war zone, shuddering violently as a daisy chain of detonations roared around the outer west side. It seemed to go on forever as smoke billowed across the ceiling and an inferno roared up the walls. The ground trembled, and with a weak flicker the lights died, plunging everything into a hellish, fire-lit darkness.

Mac peered out into a scene reminiscent of his time in Afghanistan. His arm throbbed ferociously, blood soaking his sleeve, but he brute-forced his attention elsewhere – there were more important priorities at hand. Crouched in the darkness, he glanced down at his watch, ignored the slight tremble of his hands, and silently counted off.

 “Remind me not to piss you off,” a voice said dryly.

Mac smiled tightly as Jack dropped to a knee beside him. “Ditto. And I’m sure our dead friend back there agrees with me.”

“Hey, it’s what I do.” Jack grinned and shrugged nonchalantly.

Mac eyed his watch in the flickering light. Holding up a finger, he watched the seconds tick over. “You might want to get down for this,” he said with a faint smile, and flattened himself on the floor.

Jack’s gaze swept the devastation and followed up with the fact his partner was hugging the concrete. “Mac.” He frowned. “What the hell did you do?”

“Get down, Jack!”

Another detonation rocketed off, and Jack joined his partner on the concrete, as a ball of fire effectively removed what little was left of the roof. The ground trembled beneath them, and another chain of explosions enthusiastically obliterated the east perimeter.

“And you said I was trigger happy?” Jack shouted reproachfully over the din, wincing as another thunderous bellow of flame belched upward. A second later, it rained debris. “Seriously?” he demanded, gesturing wildly. “Seriously? This is half of a plan? A little overkill, don’t cha think?”

“It’s the Sinaloa cartel, Jack!” Mac yelled back as another blast rattled what was left of the building. “And I’m not taking out half the damn Port!”

Jack paused thoughtfully, cautiously raised his head, glanced around, then shrugged. “Fine.” He grudgingly agreed. “You have a point.” He nodded at a far wall of smoke and flame that just seconds before had been the closest exit. “You planning on teleporting outta here? You just blew our only way outta this hell hole.”

Mac gave a small smile, glanced down at his watch again, and thumbed over his shoulder at the back wall. Seconds later, as the debris from the last explosion rained down, a small detonation blew through the corrugated metal, leaving a smoking, man-sized, hole in its wake.

“Nice!” Jack grinned as they moved toward the newly improvised door. He glanced over his shoulder, and not for the first time admired his partner’s artistry and skill. The kid had only rigged the perimeter of the warehouse, carefully maintaining structural integrity; the detonations had been exquisitely precise, doing nothing more than blowing out the walls, effectively herding and trapping panicked gang members in the middle, along with their contraband. It was no mean feat. Even amid a dozen efficient, if not violent explosions, his friend had refused to take lives.

The distant howl of sirens loomed as they stepped out of the heat and choking smoke into the cool night air. Los Angeles traffic was a gridlocked mess no matter the time of day – or night; it would be a minute before anyone arrived. The sky glowed spectacularly as they took cover in the shadows of an adjacent building. Mac’s ‘half of a plan’, Jack noted with some amusement, had conveniently knocked out the power to half the Port, the perfect cover for them to slip away.

Jack swung his rifle around, holding the weapon low and ready as he scoured their surroundings. The Sinaloa cartel was far from stupid, and the odds of foot patrols were pretty damn high. Whether they had been scared off by his partner’s enthusiastic pyrotechnics remained to be seen.

Mac rubbed gritty eyes, then tapped his earbud. “Hey Matty, what’s the ETA on Exfil?”

“They should be pulling up any minute now,” came the acerbic reply. “Blondie, is this your idea of subtle? Do we need to go over the definition of covert? They can see the sky glow in San Diego!”

Mac opened his mouth to respond, when four sleek, black SUVs rolled in, circling, barely stopping before a Phoenix tactical team spilled out, locked and loaded.

“They’re here,” Jack cut in as he jogged over a dark-haired man at the center of it all. A former Army Ranger, Mark Phillips, was one of the best Exfil Commanders Phoenix had to offer. His team was routinely responsible for aiding agents in and out of dangerous, high-risk scenarios. And they had never failed. Not once.

“Dalton.” Phillips nodded amiably, as Jack approached. “What the hell kind of hornets’ nest did you boys kick over this time?”

“Well, we were getting a little bored, so we figured playing with the Sinaloa cartel would spice things up a bit.”

The commander raised an eyebrow. “Some light entertainment?”

“Something like that,” Jack said dryly.

“I can think of a lot of things I’d rather be doing than playing with a drug cartel.” Phillips shook his head resignedly. “Seriously, why can’t you and Mac get normal playmates for once? Maybe take up bowling or something.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jack smiled.

“Bowling balls don’t shoot back, for one,” the commander supplied.

“Not in our world,” Jack said. “Odds are they’ll blow everything in a two-block radius to smithereens.”

“Always the eternal ray of sunshine,” Phillips deadpanned, then pointed his chin at the smoldering wreck of the warehouse. “And that?”

Jack followed his gaze. “Now that, I wish I could take credit for.” He thumbed toward MacGyver. “Kid sent the place up like a goddamn roman candle and parked our cartel boys smack in the middle; all we’re missing is a big red bow.”

Phillips stared at the smoking ruins then swiveled to the young man leaning tiredly against a nearby wall. He shook his head. “Well, that explains the radio chatter. We’ve got the FBI, LAPD, Fire, ATF and SWAT incoming, and that’s just the opening volley. Webber’s going to have kittens.”

“Nah.” Jack waved him off. “I wouldn’t mind Matty too much. She’s a big softy, really, once you get to know her.”

“That’s not what you said a few months ago,” Phillips said. “Besides, I’m not sure I’d be willing to risk it. I appreciate the assist in giving my boys something to do, though. It’s been quiet of late, and they’ve been getting antsy. One can only do so many training drills before your men start to mutiny. Webber threatened to spank them the other day when she found us having chair races in one of the sub-basements.”

“And you didn’t invite me?” Jack feigned a hurt expression.

“Not sure it would have been a good look for Phoenix’s Chief Tactical Commander to be chair racing along basement hallways, to be honest,” Phillips replied wryly. “I almost feel I saved your career.”

Jack laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

____________

The Phoenix team swept and secured the area and Mac found himself not giving a crap either way. He just wanted to get the hell out of there and head home. He leaned against the wall, feeling the rough brickwork against his back, surprisingly still warm from the day. The tight coil in his chest began to unwind for the first time in days and he realized, as the adrenaline ebbed away, just how exhausted he was. He felt bruised from head to toe and his arm, not to be outdone, was chiming in with a sharp, fierce throb. At least the bleeding had stopped, so he had that going for him – a silver lining, he supposed. He let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes.

The past 48 hours had been a whirlwind.

The mission had been last-minute, with intel pointing to an arms-trafficking operation through the Port of Los Angeles. The cartel had quietly infiltrated, gaining control through an efficient combination of bribery and threats, ensuring their cargo was carefully ignored, and everyone had been none the wiser. Until now.

Overconfidence, and sloppiness from operating in the open unchallenged had led to a leak that pointed to the arrival of a massive arms shipment. Weapons destined to be on the streets in a matter of hours, if not days, so the Phoenix had had no choice but to move swiftly. The intel had been spotty at best, and they had gone in nearly blind in an effort to validate the cargo and stall any attempt at moving it until the ATF and FBI could swoop in and finish the job. The mission had gone sideways faster than a greased pig – as Jack had succinctly put it – and they’d been forced to improvise.

Mac smiled inwardly; this was otherwise known as a Tuesday in his line of work. Still, as he rested against the wall, feeling every bump and bruise, there was no other place he would rather be. After a lifetime of never fitting in, the Phoenix had given him a family, a place where he was needed and something he could happily do for the rest of his life.

“Yo, Mac!”

MacGyver blinked tiredly as Jack waved him over, reluctantly pushing away from the wall and stiffly making his way to the nearest vehicle. He had barely gripped the door handle when the crack and stutter of machine-gun fire burst overhead and the SUV lit up, sparking wildly as bullets pinged off its armored exterior.

“Shit! Take cover!”

Mac didn’t even hear the order, only Jack’s voice, diving for the ground before the words even sank in. He landed heavily on his injured arm, the pain jolting through him as he rolled away, registering as he did so that he was at his limit with dodging bullets for one night. He had barely reached cover when another round of gunfire clattered off. Heart thudding wildly, he peered around the car, finding Jack and Phillips crouched against a neighboring SUV, ducking as bullets ploughed into the ground.

“Jack!” he called out.

“Stay down, Mac!” Jack bellowed, waving him back. “Stay where you are!”

Mac recoiled, flattening himself against the car door as another barrage of bullets kicked up a thick cloud of dust.

Phillips peered over the hood of the car, jerking back as a round ricocheted near his head. “Fuck!” he muttered. “Hey, Dalton?”

“What?”

“Looks like our new friend’s got thermal.”

Jack swore. “Well, that’s not playing fair,” he growled as another round bit into the dirt, inches from his boot. “You got eyes on the bastard?”

Phillips edged cautiously forward then pulled back sharply as bullets clattered, sparking off the vehicle. “Muzzle flash. Rooftop. Two o’clock!”

“That all you got?”

“Sorry, but I left my night vision in my other jacket,” Phillips retorted dryly. “Webber asked us to haul your fat out the fire, Dalton, we’re strictly your ride home.”

“Fine. Whatever. Any of your boys got a clear shot?”

Phillips keyed his radio, shaking his head a minute later. “Negative. Our new BFF up there has us pinned.” He craned his neck, squinting in the dim light. “Besides, looks to be about 500 yards or more; none of my guys got that kind of range.”

“What’re the odds he’ll run out of ammo any time soon?”

The Exfil Commander arched an incredulous eyebrow. “You’re not seriously thinking of waiting him out, are you? He could be sitting on an arsenal up there.”

“Hell no.” Jack smiled ominously, as he slid a nightscope onto his rifle with a click. “He asked for this. Pancho wanna play? Oh, we gonna play.”

Something punched into the hood, sending a violent shudder through the car.

“Oh look,” Phillips said deadpan, as second bullet left a smoking hole in the dirt. “Our boy upgraded to armor-piercing rounds.”

Then a third slammed into the SUV Mac had taken refuge behind. The car rocked as the round burst through the door panel, mere inches from his head, slamming into the ground at his feet, setting his ears ringing. Mac jerked reflexively away, shoving himself backward. God, he was so beyond done with bullets for one night.

Jack frantically tapped his comm. “Mac! Mac, goddammit! Talk to me kid! You hit?”

Mac shook his head, blinked dust from his eyes. “Nah. Nah, I’m good,” he replied a little breathlessly, inching further down the car. His fingers twitched with the need to do something – anything. He felt so helpless he wanted to punch the ground in frustration, but there was nothing he could do but sit tight and wait. Wait for bullets to fly and someone to die.

“Fuck it! I’m ending this now!” Jack snarled as another burst of gunfire stitched a row of holes into a nearby vehicle.

“Don’t get dead on me, Dalton,” Phillips muttered. “Screw the paperwork, I’d rather have a root canal than explain that to Webber.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Jack chided as he chambered a round. “Relax, Grandma, I survived the Sandbox just fine without your nannying.”

Phillips snorted as another burst of gunfire rocked the SUV. “My faith is just fine, thank you. It’s your common sense I’m worried about. You go all Mama Bear when your cub is threatened, and that generally involves a body count.”

Jack laughed mirthlessly. “Not my fault our friend up there is feeling suicidal,” he replied with a sidelong grin as the gunfire stuttered to a halt. “Watch and learn.”

In a single, smooth motion he swung his rifle up and over the hood of the car, flicking the safety off and lining up the shot. “Come out, come out and play, fucker,” he murmured as the nightscope lit the rooftop up like daylight. “I got a nice shiny bullet with your name on it.”

Mac’s breath sat trapped in his throat as he leaned around the car, eyes locked on his partner. Watching, waiting for something that would happen in the blink of an eye. Something with shades of Jekyll and Hyde. Something he’d seen a hundred times from the Sandbox to the Phoenix, and it still fascinated and simultaneously gave him chills.

There was a change that came over Jack Dalton when he focused on a target. A change, both subtle and profound. Reality seemed to shift and reshape itself, wrapping his partner in a tight, lethal coil, poised to unwind in a way that promised death and destruction.

Gone was the cheerful, goof of a guy who enjoyed ribbing his partner. Gone was the helicopter parent who fussed over every bump and scratch. The man who rose up in their place was the perfect weapon, an expertly trained soldier and a laser-focused Delta Force operator who would not hesitate to kill for his country, or to protect those he loved. Every move was smooth, efficient and dangerous, the rifle melding against his shoulder, a deadly extension to an already lethal mix of natural talent and razor sharp skills.

And all Mac could do was sit huddled on the ground knowing it had to be done. For once, he reluctantly realized as he sagged wearily against the car, there was no other way.

____________

Jack’s crosshairs swept the rooftop, the nightscope bringing the building into sharp relief. He knew he stood out like a sore thumb on thermal, so Pancho probably had a good idea something was pointed his way, but the odds were, he would have also heard the sirens in the distance and wanted to make a quick, discreet exit. This would make for a very nervous and jumpy gangbanger which all but promised stupid decisions would be made. And while their new friend cooked and panicked, Jack could wait him out with ease. Waiting wasn’t a problem for a sniper, it was part of the job, and for someone who climbed the walls waiting for pizza to arrive, the absolute stillness with which he knelt, motionless and ready, frame taught and poised, was almost terrifying. He’d lain in wait for countless hours, and this was no different, other than the dirt beneath their feet being the good ol’ US of A. He could pace himself all night if he had to.

Then, the barest flicker of movement in the shadows, a vague shift in the darkness.

Zero hesitation – Jack sent it.

The bullet barreled lethally across the dim, moonlit night and slammed into its mark. The man dropped backward out of sight with a muffled cry.

“Tag, you’re it, you sonofabitch,” Jack muttered darkly as he lowered his rifle.

“We clear?” Phillips shot Jack a look.

“We’re clear,” Jack said, as he pushed to his feet. “Keep an eye out. Doesn’t mean there ain’t more excited moles out there looking to get whacked.”

The Tac team were already moving as Phillips dusted off. “Go check on your boy while mine clean up this mess and rustle up a ride without a hole in the engine block.”

Jack didn’t need to be told twice. He was already moving, the commotion around him forgotten.

____________

The ground was rough and sandy beneath Mac’s hands as he leaned against the side of the SUV, his eyes shut. His body was enthusiastically cataloging every ache and pain, reminding him exactly how shitty and tired he felt, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it. He was seriously entertaining the thought of just sleeping on the ground, which seemed like a very reasonable option.

Then Jack was there, crouched in front of him, a firm grip on his shoulders and Mac’s brain was forced to sputter into action again.

“Talk to me, hoss,” Jack urged, shaking him gently. “You good?”

Nodding tiredly, Mac rubbed dust from his eyes as the night filled with sweeping flashlights and the approaching howl of sirens. “I’m fine, Jack,” he murmured tiredly. “Just beat. Been a long night.”

 “Ain’t that the truth, brother.” Jack gave him a quick smile and offered him a hand. “Come on, we gotta bounce, cavalry’s almost here.”

Mac allowed Jack to pull him to his feet and was directed to one of two SUVs that, remarkably, had little more than cosmetic damage.

“Seriously, Dalton,” Phillips groused as he climbed into the front passenger seat. “Why is it that every time you two need an exfil, it turns into an epic shitshow involving three countries, a diplomatic faux pas, and six months of paperwork?”

“Hang on there, just a minute.” Jack waved a finger as he rounded the other side of the car. “Weren’t you the one who complained your men were bored? There was talk of mutiny and chair races, I recall.”

“Not that bored.”

“I think the words you’re looking for are: ‘Thank you, sir, for a fun and entertaining evening, the gunfire was particularly invigorating.’”

Phillips gave him a single finger salute.

Mac tuned both men out, climbed into the back seat and relished the feeling of cool leather as he leaned back and closed his eyes. A second later, he heard Jack slide in beside him and they moved out as sirens and strobe lights flooded the darkness they left behind.

The SUV navigated smoothly through the complex network of roads between buildings. Mac’s arm had settled into a dull, tolerable throb and he found himself sinking into the comfort of the seat, sorely tempted to slip into a light doze. But even with his eyes closed, Mac could feel the quiet vigilance of his partner. The Sinaloa cartel generally didn’t give up easily. They still anticipated more trouble, and it wasn’t until the Port fell into the dark behind them that he felt Jack silently release the tension he was holding. In the dim interior of the SUV, Mac heard his partner shift and then he felt the patented Jack Dalton stare drill into him and groaned inwardly.

“The hell?” Jack flicked on a reading light and grabbed Mac’s arm, examining the blood-soaked sleeve, the torn fabric and the raw wound underneath. “Dammit, Mac! You said you weren’t hit!”

Mac cracked an eye, firmly tugged his arm out of his partner’s grip and dropped his head back again. “I wasn’t. It happened in the warehouse. It’s just a graze, Jack, and it’s not even bleeding anymore.”

“That supposed to make me feel better? We talked about this, man,” Jack said hotly, glaring at Mac’s arm as though it had personally offended him. “We agreed you would let me know if you were hurt.”

“No, you agreed, Jack.” Mac opened both eyes and gave his partner a pointed look. “I agreed to let you know if there was an injury severe enough to compromise the mission and team safety. Big difference. A bullet graze hardly qualifies, and you know damn well it works both ways.”

“Still, you shoulda –”

“Should have what, Jack?” Mac was battered, tired and his partner’s constant hovering, however well-meaning, was getting on his last nerve. “Tell me, exactly, when we had time to have a conversation about a minor, non-life-threatening injury in that warehouse, or how about the shootout we just strolled through?” He arched an eyebrow with a small smirk. “I’ll wait.”

Jack opened his mouth to respond, then shut it, with a silent glare.

Twisting in his seat, Phillips peered into the back. “We all good back here, or do you two need a timeout?”

“Toss me a field dressing, would you?” Jack said flatly.

Mac gave his partner an irritated side-eye as a small kit was passed into the back. “Seriously?” he muttered.

His partner held the dressing to the wound and wrapped it firmly. “Humor me.”

 “I fail to find any humor in this situation,” Mac said, as he stared down at his arm. “I can still feel my fingers. You sure it’s tight enough?”

“Smart ass,” Jack retorted, slouching back in his seat.

____________

Despite the best efforts of LA traffic, the drive back to the Phoenix flew by. They moved through the back streets with practiced ease, the silence broken only by occasional radio chatter. But even at this late hour, the Phoenix was lit up as they smoothly descended into the underground garage.

Analysts worked around the clock, processing intel, chasing leads, ready to respond to anything from terrorism and military coups, to riots and chemical weapons. A steady stream of intelligence from every corner of the globe flowed through the Phoenix servers. Threats were identified and neutralized, quickly and efficiently.

And around them, the sprawling neighborhood of small businesses blithely continued to believe they shared real estate with a Think Tank, and the Phoenix Foundation was careful to keep it that way.

Mac strode slowly toward the War Room, muscles tired and protesting as Jack stomped irritably ahead. The older agent had glared silently out the window for the duration of their drive back to the Phoenix.

It was strange, Mac concluded as he watched his partner round a corner, that they could go through an evening of hellish violence and the thing that put Jack over the top was a minor injury. He sighed as he pushed himself onward, too tired to care about Jack’s over-bearing nannying; he just wanted to finish up and get some shut eye. Although, knowing their boss, the odds of that were slim at best.

Matty was scowling at a steady stream of news chyrons and live footage on the large wall screen. “Blondie, what the actual hell were you thinking?” she snapped as they entered. “The press is drooling over this! There are more media vans lined up outside the Port of LA than the goddamn Emmys! We’re going to have wall-to-wall coverage on this for days!” She stabbed an annoyed finger at the screen. “Your mission was to get in and get out. No one was supposed to know you were there!”

Mac stopped short as another Breaking News headline flashed across the screen, followed by footage of the warehouse clearly shot from one of the endlessly circling news copters, whisps of smoke rising from its smoldering ruins as firefighters and police swarmed the site. He tensed, his arm gave a sharp twinge of pain, and he had to stop himself from grasping it. In fact, aches and pains from every corner of his body were checking in with gusto and the list of complaints was steadily growing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, not entirely sure he cared what came next.

“I…,” he began, then sighed and bit his bottom lip. Screw it, he was going to get reamed, either way. He set his jaw. “The intel was raw, Matty, we all knew it. It was a calculated risk. Hell, we barely had a layout.” He pointed at the image of the smoldering ruins, surrounded by flashing lights and news crews. “That warehouse was crawling with cartel, they had a small army protecting that shipment.” His teeth clenched, he stared down his small boss. Most days it felt like staring down the barrel of a gun that didn’t so much as shoot but annihilate everything in its way. But today…today he was tired. He’d been shot at all night and the fact that his boss was feeling tetchy about the outcome...for once he couldn’t scrounge up the energy to care. “There wasn’t a chance in hell we could have avoided them. We spent half the night just trying to stay alive. We were cornered, outnumbered, and overrun.” Taking a breath, he rubbed his eyes. “l had to do something,” he added quietly. “If I hadn’t….” He shrugged half-heartedly, shoulders tired, heavy.

The silence muffled the low mutter of the newscast in the background.

Matty’s gaze drifted past Mac’s shoulder to where he knew Jack was hovering in the back corner of the room, then swung thoughtfully back up at the young agent for a long minute. “Alright, Blondie,” she finally replied, her tone softened around a small smile. “Just…next time and try to resolve things a little less…enthusiastically.” She raised an eyebrow at the smoking footage. “Your eagerness to get the job done was seen over fifty miles away, and Oversight gets testy when covert missions end up on the news and–” Her eyes fell on Mac’s bloody sleeve, registering the bandage wrapped around his arm. “Why aren’t you in Medical getting checked out?” she growled, her tone doing a one-eighty.

Mac crossed his arms, with the stubborn intent of digging in, but the whole façade crumbled as he winced, the movement tugging sharply at his wound. He was starting to think the night was never going to end. “I’m fine,” he declared mulishly. “I’ll go after we debrief.”

Jack snorted from where he leaned against the back wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“And you.” Matty skewered Jack with a glare. “Isn’t the whole point to bring your partner back without any new holes? And the red stuff, last I checked, is supposed to stay on the inside!” Indignant, Jack pushed away from the wall, ready to deliver a snippy retort, but Matty had already turned back to Mac. “Medical, Blondie. Now! Double-time it! I’m not having you leak on my furniture.”

Mac was so done. He was done with bullets, his partner, his boss, the day from Hell and the horse it rode in on. He opened his mouth, ready to launch into a full-blooded protest but snapped it shut as Matty’s expression graduated from annoyed to thunderous. He set his jaw. Medical was the last place on earth he wanted to go right now. Clenching his fists in annoyance, he scowled, turned heel and left without a word, yanking the door to the War Room shut behind him.

“Nuh uh. Don’t even think about it.” Matty waved a finger as Jack made to follow his thoroughly irritated partner. “MacGyver’s a big boy and doesn’t need a nursemaid holding his hand.”

Jack shot a dirty look at his boss who not only called him on it but raised it with a glare.

“You even think about giving me attitude, Dalton,” Matty threatened as she moved toward the door. “I’ll have you manning a desk in Alaska ‘til Christmas. Now park it.”

Clenching his teeth to stop the snarky comeback that was just begging to be said, Jack scowled at the back of his retreating boss, then flopped into an armchair with a huff, and pulled out his phone. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter Text

The glass doors slid smoothly open as Mac entered. The lights were dimmed at this late hour, bathing the various patient rooms in a soft glow. Rounding a corner, he swallowed a sigh and grudgingly headed toward the Nurse’s Station. With any luck, he would get in and out with the bare minimum of fuss.

The Phoenix Foundation, for all intents and purposes – to the world at large – was a Think Tank, filled with highly intelligent, altruistic professionals who spent their days working out how to make the world a better place. Yet, situated on the top floor was the best kept state-of-the-art secret in Los Angeles.

Phoenix Medical was a fully equipped hospital in its own right, boasting a surgical suite and around-the-clock Emergency, Critical Care, and Trauma teams, including some of the best surgeons in the world – all available at a moment’s notice, and able to meet almost every conceivable need that an injured agent, tactical or exfil team member might have.

This was rounded out by a world-class nursing team that, ironically, due to the patients they treated, had some of the highest intelligence clearances available and if necessary to protect those under their care, could disable an enemy combatant six ways from Sunday without breaking a sweat. To get her people a level of care on par with the President of the United States, all Matilda Webber had to do, was pick up the phone.

The Nurse’s Station was silent and empty. Mac looked around and smiled to himself. Things were looking up, maybe - just maybe - he could slip home and deal with things himself. He’d been to Medical, after all. Technically he had fulfilled the spirit of Matty’s orders. She hadn’t actually said anything about staying there to be treated–  

“Hello, MacGyver. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us.”

Shit.

Mac turned slowly, his heart sinking into his stomach as a young woman in blue scrubs, red hair in a messy bun, exited a room down the hall and sauntered toward him.

His spirits rose – a little. He was in luck. Stephanie Williams was one of the best – a level-headed nurse who had years of experience navigating Jack Dalton meltdowns under her belt.

She leaned an elbow on the reception desk and casually eyed his arm. He dropped his hand from where he’d been holding it, the throbbing ache he had managed to push aside for the past hour had returned with a vengeance.

“Hey, Steph.” He rustled up a tired smile.

Steph raised a curious eyebrow. “Alright, what happened this time?” She tilted her head and assessed and blood-soaked sleeve with a critical eye. “Flirting with bullets again?”

“In my defense,” Mac muttered, flushing slightly. “There was absolutely no flirting involved.”

“Well, you’re upright, your arm appears mostly functional and you’re not bleeding out,” she noted, with a wry grin. “And since you don’t appear to be overtly dying, I think we can sort you out fairly quickly.”

Mac felt vaguely stuck between the relief of a quick fix and frustration he hadn’t left a hair sooner. It was inevitable, he supposed. The lesser of two evils; but he’d take it. He gestured at his arm. “Try explaining this to Jack, would you? You’d think it was the end of the world the way he was going on.”

Williams laughed lightly. “Yeah, our boy Jack can be a bit excitable sometimes.” She looked around, the hallway suspiciously dark and silent. “Where is your fire-breathing other half, anyway? I haven’t had him looming over my shoulder in a while.”

Mac huffed a laugh. “He only breathes fire when he’s worried, which is most of the time,” he admitted honestly. He followed her gaze down the corridor to where the glass doors stood silent and closed, finding them lacking a copious amount of Jack Dalton, then shrugged. “Odds are Matty has him busy with the debriefing. She wasn’t exactly thrilled with the outcome of our latest assignment.”

“That wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain warehouse that went up rather spectacularly tonight, would it?” Williams said shrewdly.

 “Let’s just say it was an interesting evening.” Mac winced as his arm gave a sharp throb, sending a tendril of pain up to his shoulder.

Pushing away from the counter, Williams waved him toward a nearby room. “Come on, I’ll take a look and see whether I need to kick Mike out of bed or not.”

Mac trailed resignedly after her, sliding onto the exam table as the fluorescent lights flickered to life. He hissed as his shirt was carefully peeled away from the wound to reveal a long, oozing gash where the bullet had carved a thick, bloody groove through the muscle of his arm. It was far from the worst he’d had, but it still burned like a son of a bitch.

Pulling a light closer, Williams leaned in to examine the wound. “Well, it’s not pretty. But there’s good news.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mac perked up, eyeing the door. This might not be as bad he thought.

“It’s definitely going to leave you with a very cool scar.”

He glared at her. “What’s the bad?”

Ignoring his indignant expression, she gently probed the edge of the wound with gloved fingers. “Your shirt is toast, and this is going to need stitches.”

“Seriously?” Mac grumbled, frowning down at his arm; he’d had worse – a lot worse – without this kind of fuss. “That’s really not necessary–”

“Actually, it is.” She threw him a smile, peeling off her gloves, bulls-eyeing them in the trash and with a quick flick from half-way across the room. “Wait here while I go wake the doc and let him know his life-saving skills are needed.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You know, we’re running a wager to see who manages to get sent to Medical the most this year.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. So far, I’m up over a hundred dollars. Between you and Dalton, my new Louis Vuitton purse is as good as paid for.”

“Let’s just get this over with.” Mac flushed a bright red as the sound of her laughter echoed softly down the hallway.

____________

Jack sprawled languidly in the armchair. It was one of those fancy Italian leather ones that Thornton had had imported for the War Room long before Phoenix had existed, back when they were still DXS. The kind, a tired body could really sink into and feel supported in all the right spots, particularly after a rough mission. He could happily cruise in it all night and, considering he hadn’t seen his curmudgeonly partner in a while, was something he was starting to wonder might actually happen. The sound of a throat clearing yanked his attention up from the stupid little game on his phone he was losing horribly at.

Mac was leaning casually against the door jamb, a thick white bandage encircling his upper arm, eyes searching the room. “Aren’t we doing the debrief?”

Jack ran a critical eye over his partner. Mac was in his white undershirt, the ruined button-up balled loosely in one hand. To the untrained observer, he looked a little tired, maybe a bit rough around the edges, but mostly relaxed, essentially the norm after most missions. But after nearly a decade of watching the kid’s back, Jack’s skilled and calculating gaze punched through the façade with practiced ease, seeing what no one else did. A lot had happened in recent months, things that had shaken the kid’s foundation and hell, almost taken his legs out from under him. Mac was barely holding it together, exhaustion bleeding off him in waves and Jack suspected the kid’s calm exterior was likely taking substantial effort to hold together.

Jack’s phone gave an indignant squawk. He silenced it with a finger and stuffed it in a jacket pocket. “Nah, she said to get some shut-eye, and we’ll do it….” Jack flipped his wrist and glanced at his watch. “…later today.” He nodded at the bandage, eyeing the faint traces of dried blood. “You good?”

“Couple of stitches, is all.” Mac shrugged dismissively. “I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Never thought that kid.”

An amused, unbelieving stare was sent Jack’s way.

“Poison Ivy wasn’t on, was she?” Jack changed the subject.

“Nah, it was Steph. She’s more level-headed than certain other people I know.”

Jack’s expression was one of pure innocence.

“You know.” A hint of a smile curved Mac’s lips. “One of these days Ivy’s going to find out what you call her.”

“The woman is terrifying.” Jack shuddered, made a face and ran a hand over his scalp. “She’s the frigging Genghis Khan of Medical, man.”

Ivy Benning ran Phoenix Medical with an iron fist, and she didn’t tolerate crap - from anyone. Rumor had it she even had the grudging respect of Matty the Hun. She took excuses and escape attempts in stride and more often than not, wandering agents ended up back in their beds.

Mac and Jack had managed to find a special place in Ivy’s heart, along with all the shenanigans they generally dragged in their wake. Their visits to Medical were the stuff of legend, and having Poison Ivy’s personal attention generally wasn’t a good thing. When an errant agent was in her crosshairs, she smiled. A lot.

Jack shuddered again.

“Well, considering how often she’s had to deal with your colossal freak-outs over minor injuries, can you blame her?” Mac absently rubbed his arm and nodded at his partner. “You were Delta Force, man. You’ve gone up against the worst of the worst, and you’re afraid of a nurse?”

“Not just any nurse, dude,” Jack scoffed. “She’s the Head Nurse. She could flip me inside out without breaking a sweat. I would rather go fight Al Qaeda than go to Medical when she’s on. I heard Doc Phillips hid in a closet for over an hour to avoid her.”

“He drank her coffee, he had good reason to.” Mac folded his arms across his chest, and Jack caught the faint wince the movement brought. “So what are you still doing here, then?”

“Waiting for you, kid. Why else would I be here?”

“You do recall we came in separate cars, and I’m quite capable of driving myself home?” Mac sent his partner a cool, skeptical look as Jack unfolded from the armchair and stretched, joints cracking.

“What?” Jack protested, stifling a yawn. “Can’t a brother check on his partner?”

“Frankly, old man, I’m amazed you didn’t beat the doors down.” Mac stared shrewdly at him. Jack squirmed a little. He really didn’t have an answer for that. His young partner grinned. “Matty stopped you, didn’t she?”

 “Yeah, whatever dude,” Jack muttered.

Laughing, unable to conceal a lopsided smile, Mac turned to leave, sending a half-hearted wave over his shoulder. “Night, Jack.”

____________

Stretching the kinks out of his neck, Jack watched his partner disappear down a dim corridor. The kid was doing his utmost to hide it, but there was no mistaking the dark circles beneath Mac’s eyes, and the fatigued slump in his shoulders when he thought no one was looking. He was reasonably sure a stiff breeze would knock the kid on his ass right now. Mac was clearly burning the candle at both ends. Hell, knowing MacGyver, he was probably burning the candle from every angle, with a pinch of Thermite thrown in.

Family was everything to Mac and, while Jack knew the kid’s Phoenix family would always be there for him, the drive to find his only blood relative was slowly eating Mac up inside. Deep in his core, Mac craved a connection that no one at Phoenix could give him – that somewhere out in the world, someone shared the same DNA – or, as Jack liked to put it much to Mac’s annoyance, ‘them twisty little ladders’.

Jack had watched as Mac had thrown every ounce of his impressive intellect into the search for his father and come up empty, promising leads fizzling into nothingness time and again. They had circled the globe, scrounging entire continents for even the vaguest of clues to MacGyver Senior’s whereabouts, and were still none the wiser than when they started. In quieter moments, Jack entertained the dark thought that it was almost as though the kid’s father did not want to be found….

His young partner had taken every dead end as a personal failure, effectively beating himself to a pulp, and there was little Jack could do about it but watch from the sidelines. Mac had always been private about his personal life, but in recent weeks he had started keeping everyone at arm’s length; walls up, ten feet thick.

Still, Jack had tried–tried to get through; tried to explain, reason and encourage. Tried to give the kid hope, where hope was crumbling, but Mac had coolly and logically dismantled every one of Jack’s arguments and left his reasoning in shambles. And so Jack had been left on the outside, frustrated and helpless as his partner quietly fell apart.

Lost in his thoughts, Jack slid into the cab of his GTO, spun the radio dial to a classic rock station, and headed home.

____________

The blue glow of dawn was edging over the hills when Mac pulled the Jeep into his driveway. Yawning, he quietly let himself in, the silence broken only by Bozer’s soft snores as Mac headed for his room. Closing the door with a soft click, he flopped down on his bed, kicking his shoes off. The pain in his arm had retreated to a dull ache, but the headache churning behind his eyes reminded him that he couldn’t actually recall the last time he’d slept. Weeks of running on empty were starting to take their toll. Missions had blurred from one into the next, a weariness had quietly sunk into his bones, and he didn’t have the energy to care or do anything about it.

For a minute he just sat and breathed, relishing the silence, a stark contrast from a few brief hours before. Every mission, even those executed flawlessly, had an aftermath when the adrenaline faded and the body – having lived in survival mode for hours, if not days – would crash. High-risk did not even begin to cover their line of work, and their bodies paid the price.

His gaze was drawn across the room to where files and notes lay strewn untidily across his desk. Exactly where he had dropped them when Matty had called what felt like an eon ago. The screensaver on his laptop cheerfully bounced the Tyrosine molecule around, belying the seriousness of the materials that surrounded it.

Mac stared at the messy evidence of a fruitless search for a father whose very existence remained a mystery. Dozens of questions tumbled through his thoughts, but one always floated to the top above all else: if his father was alive, why hadn’t the man ever reached out? Why was this so one-sided? Sometimes, the very thought weighed so heavily on him, he contemplated throwing in the towel entirely.

As the years had passed, his mind had played out elaborate scenarios – reasons, he told himself – as to why, after all this time, he’d not heard a peep from the man who had called himself Dad. The silence was deafening, but it didn’t stop Mac’s imagination traveling to places where adventure and danger prevented a father from returning to his son. Was he captive in a foreign land? Trapped deep in the Amazon? Did he roam the Saharan desert with the Tuareg, or the frozen tundra of the Siberian plains. As childish and fantastical as each idea sounded, he refused to let go, because maybe, just maybe….

 Every spare second was spent researching leads, no matter how tenuous. He scraped together a few hours of sleep here and there, and ate when Jack breathed down his neck, but MacGyver was addicted to the hunt, his brain craving resolution and closure, and the belief that maybe, if he found his father, he would stop feeling alone in a crowd.

His body screamed for rest, and his arm, not wanting to be left out, chimed in with a sullen throb. Exhaustion, he realized, was threatening to overwhelm him, but his thoughts stirred restlessly in the recesses of his mind, refusing to settle. Somehow, the hunt – the need to know – always pulled him back, like a moth to a flame, circling the fire until he was consumed. The unfulfilled promise of answers just beyond his fingertips, and that maybe, if he tried hard enough, would give him everything he wanted.

With a soft groan, body feeling like lead and aching muscles protesting, he sank into his desk chair and tried to figure out where he had left off. His mind itched with the need for answers, and this was a means to scratch it. It wouldn’t let him sleep otherwise. His life, his job – hell, everything in his world – consisted of finding solutions to impossible problems that demanded to be fixed, with devastating consequences if they weren’t. And yet, here in this small corner of his life, he had scored a grand total of zero. He needed, no – craved – answers. He would take anything at this point. To know that for all his searching, he had taken a small step closer to a target as tenuous as fog.

Mac rubbed his eyes with the heels of trembling hands. He would have plenty of time to sleep later. Matty didn’t need them for several hours. Working for fifteen or so minutes wouldn’t hurt. Pulling a notepad toward him, he grabbed a pen and started to write.

____________

The world was shaking.

Mac vaguely wondered if there was an earthquake. It would make sense being in LA and all, but earthquakes didn’t grip you firmly by the shoulder, because….

Someone was shaking him.

The penny dropped.

Mac’s brain lurched into action, he flailed upright, a panicked gasp on his lips. Adrenalin surged and instinct, borne of years in the Sandbox and countless missions, took the wheel. He grabbed the hand with the simple intention of spinning his attacker around, locking the shoulder and bringing the owner of said hand to its knees with the offending arm wrenched above their back.

It was a move he’d executed flawlessly in the field countless times, but the hand expected it, and with a speed and efficiency his sluggish brain didn’t anticipate, Mac suddenly found himself flipped solidly onto his bedroom floor.

“Now, you should know better than to try that trick on me, hoss,” a familiar voice said with amusement.

Winded, Mac cracked an eye and squinted blearily up at the figure standing over him. “Jack?” he wheezed.

“The one and only.”

“What the hell, man? What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Jack grinned at him. “Matty’s been going off her rocker trying to getta hold of you, kid. Boze was already at the lab, so she called me.” He made a face. “Thanks for that, by the way; three hours of sleep totally made up for a night in an exploding warehouse.”

MacGyver pushed himself upright, grunted as a jolt of pain shot up his arm and slumped against the bed. His head ached and his body felt like he’d spent a night in Dante’s Inferno, which technically wasn’t inaccurate. He blinked dazedly, trying to bring his brain online. “Matty called?”

“Yeah, dude.” Jack offered a hand and pulled Mac to his feet. “She used one o’ them fancy things that people talk into that sends signals to other people.” He cast about the room. “Where’s yours, by the way?”

Failing horribly to stifle a yawn, Mac waved vaguely toward his desk as he flopped down on the bed, leaning on his elbows, face cupped in his hands. God, it felt like his head was filled with rocks and cotton balls. If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was hungover. It just would have been nice to have actually done the drinking to earn it. He blinked gritty eyes, grimacing at the bright light streaming through the windows. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.” Jack dug around, shoving papers aside until he pulled the phone out from under a thick stack of old, dog-eared documents. Leaning against the desk, he crossed his arms and frowned as Mac blinked tiredly around the room. “You good?”

“I thought Matty didn’t need us ‘til this afternoon.”

Jack shrugged. “Who knows why The Hun needs anything. You good?” he pressed again.

Mac frowned, bit his lip and tried to suppress the annoyance welling up inside. His partner was nothing if not stupidly persistent. “I’m fine,” he muttered and scrubbed sleep from his eyes. Looking up, he found Jack studying him intently. Mac groaned inwardly. He knew that look, all too well. “What?” he asked irritably.

“You wanna try that again?” Jack tilted his head a little. “Not sure I believed you that time.”

“I’m fine, Jack,” Mac snapped.

His partner leaned forward a little and raised an eyebrow. “Not sure what planet you get your dictionary from, hoss, but ‘fine’, you ain’t.”

Mac stiffened, tension tightening his lean frame. Dear god, he was barely awake and already having to deal with one of Jack’s sermons. His body ached and his arm…well, his arm felt like he’d been punched by a bullet, and falling asleep at his desk hadn’t exactly helped. He squinted irritably up at his partner. “What do you want, Jack?”

“We gotta talk, man.” Jack answered gently, his expression softened.

Mac bristled. Why couldn’t the man let well alone. His partner knew exactly which buttons to press and at that moment he was tap-dancing on all of them with steel-toed boots. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he replied dismissively, setting his jaw.

“Oh yeah?” A faint smile curved Jack’s lip. “How ‘bout you nearly getting your skinny ass plastered on the walls last night when you bolted without telling me?”

Mac bit his lip, barely stopping the angry retort that hovered on his lips; a snappy comeback that would just fan the flames. It was damn near impossible to keep his mouth shut, though, when he was being lectured in his own bedroom. He ran a hand down his face and tried to ignore the angry bubble building in his chest. “I needed the parts, saw an opening and took it. It’s what got us out of there, Jack.” He met his partner’s gaze, stare for stare. “Didn’t exactly have the time to ask your permission to save your ass.” He replied sarcastically, fists clenching the rumpled comforter he was sitting on.

“I’m there to watch your back, kid.” Jack’s jaw twitched and Mac knew he’d hit a nerve. “And I can’t do that if you just up and vanish like that.”

“I got the job done.”

“You almost got yourself killed, is what you got.” Jack’s expression had morphed into a mix of anger and outright concern.

“Obviously, I didn’t.” Mac retorted. “I don’t need a babysitter every minute of the mission, Jack. I can handle myself. It was a calculated risk, and I took it.”

Jack’s eyes widened as if some sort of realization hit him. “Whoa there, hoss,” he said quietly, raising his hands. “Where’d that come from? No one thinks you need a babysitter. I watch your back so you can do your save-the-world thing. It’s kinda my job.”

Mac didn’t reply, he pushed up off the bed and rummaged through his closet, pointedly ignoring his partner whose stare he could feel drilling into his back. He felt cornered. He needed to move, get out from under the suffocating scrutiny. He yanked out a fresh shirt and rammed a drawer closed, turning only briefly to see his partner frowning down at the piles of papers and notes.

“I thought you were gonna stop sleeping at your desk,” Jack muttered, staring down at the heap of files and papers.

“And I thought you were going to stop be such a helicopter mom,” Mac shot back irritably, as he stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

____________

Jack glared at the door, hearing hiss of water as the shower was turned on. “Touché,” he muttered darkly, as he shot a text off to their boss, knowing a tactical team would be kicking the door down if she didn’t hear from him. The woman had the patience of a toddler. “I told Matty we’d be there in forty-five,” he yelled through the door. There was no reply.

Muttering a few choice words under his breath, he wandered through to the kitchen. He needed coffee, lots of it if he was going to deal with a cranky MacGyver with almost no sleep. The kid was going to drive him to drink, and there were days he wasn’t sure his liver was going to survive this partnership. Jack liked his liver, it was a necessary part of life and generally responsible for cleaning up after shitty missions that had gone bloody and pear-shaped, after which he’d drowned the memories in warm beer. Mac, however, in recent months, seemed hellbent on pushing him right over the edge.

The kitchen was in its usual state with some sort of mechanical…thing scattered in pieces across the island. He eyed it cautiously as he passed, noting a distinct lack of smoke or movement, and allowed himself to be pulled by the rich, heavenly aroma emanating from the coffeemaker. A minute later he was parked on a stool with a mug he’d scrounged up, taking a large gulp of steaming, liquid bliss. Feeling the warmth settle in his stomach, he eyed the pot and wondered if he drank the whole thing he would have the patience to deal with his irascible partner. Probably not. He sighed, feeling the caffeine start to kick in and sent Bozer a silent thanks and decided he didn’t hug that kid nearly enough.

Hanging out in a kitchen that saw more experimentation than actual cooking, he tried to pretend for a moment that his curmudgeonly partner was having a relaxing shower that would turn his frown upside down, or that an equally cranky boss wasn’t waiting impatiently for them across town.

In recent months, things had gotten so goddamn complicated and there were days he felt he was playing a game of Snakes and Ladders on crack, blindfolded, never quite knowing where he was going to land, with Mac aiming for every snake he could find. He grunted at the thought and took another swallow of his coffee.

Jack was savoring the dregs of his second cup, pleasantly surprised that the bathroom hadn’t exploded, when Mac stalked into the kitchen like a thundercloud, damp hair combed back, dark circles under his eyes, stark against the cold, fluorescent light. He watched as his partner made a beeline for the coffee pot and filled a travel mug to the brim. Mac was favoring his arm a little, clearly not having bothered with a new bandage. Jack bit his lip and stayed silent, preferring not to have a declaration of war before they even left for the Phoenix.

 “Ready?” Jack watched over his mug as Mac set his jaw, stubbornly refused to make eye-contact and reached for his Jeep keys. Oh hell no. The kid was operating on fumes as it was, and The Hun became annoyed when agents wrapped vehicles around pesky things like phone poles or traffic lights. “Naw, I got this, hoss.” Jack jangled his keys. “’Sides, Matty said she needs to yell at me about something anyways; always a pleasure with the Boss Lady.”

Annoyance flashed crossed Mac’s face, and Jack frowned as the young man’s expression darkened into anger. With a scowl, Mac snatched up the Jeep’s keys, strode determinedly out of the kitchen and disappeared through the front door, leaving it swinging in his wake. Jack tossed back his last mouthful, slammed the empty mug on the counter and stomped after his partner, muttering a blue streak under his breath as he yanked the door shut behind him.

“Seriously, the hell’s going on with you, man?” Jack demanded as Mac headed for the Jeep.

“You’ve had the same amount of sleep, Jack, stop trying to baby me.” Mac rounded on him, his blue eyes flashing angrily, before he pivoted back to the Jeep.

“Yeah, in an actual bed; horizonal-like,” Jack yelled after him. “…and I ain’t running on empty to begin with!” He threw his hands in the air. “Dammit, Mac, you’re dead on your feet–”

 “Back the hell off, Jack, I’m fine!” Mac jerked the car door open and slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll see you at the Phoenix.”

Jack ground his teeth, counted to ten, and tried to convince himself that not driving with Mac was some kind of a silver lining because, despite being the kid’s bodyguard, he was ready to kill him. It was taking everything in Jack’s mental arsenal to not lose his shit right there in the driveway. He was seriously starting to wonder if he should ask Matty for hazard pay because the kid seemed to be meticulously pushing every single one of Jack’s buttons. At this rate there was going to be blood on the walls before noon.

“Yeah, sure ya are!” Jack shouted sarcastically as the Jeep rumbled to life. “That word should be banned from your vocabulary ‘cause even with all your crazy smarts, you still can’t figure out how to use it right!” He glared as Mac pulled out, tires squealing, acrid smoke and the smell of burnt rubber behind him.

Jack growled under his breath as he slid behind the wheel of the GTO, pausing only to fire another text off to Matty to let her know they were inbound, then peeled out after his partner.

____________

Mac navigated Phoenix’s busy maze of corridors with ease. A glance over his shoulder caught a harried analyst scurrying across the hall, loaded down with reports and he noted, with a small amount of satisfaction, that Jack was nowhere to be seen. Shaking his partner - an expert in tracking and pursuit - in gridlocked LA traffic was no mean feat and virtually ensured a pissed-off Jack would be coming in hot. Mac allowed himself a small smile. It was probably a bit childish of him, but considering his partner had been driving him stir crazy with his hovering, he figured a little distance was in order.

Matty was staring at the wall screen as he pulled the door to the War Room closed with a soft click. A small, embedded window in the top right of the screen flashed the latest headlines on the warehouse explosion the media were still gleefully reporting on. He sighed inwardly, there was no way this was going away anytime soon.

“Blondie,” Matty greeted him, arching an eyebrow. “Nice of you to grace us with your presence.” She looked rested and refreshed, leaving Mac to irritably wonder if the woman actually needed sleep at all.

“Jack said you called,” Mac replied evenly, ignoring her pointed expression.

Matty tilted her head thoughtfully, her sharp, analytical gaze boring into Mac, leaving him with the uncomfortable sensation he was being x-rayed. She narrowed her eyes, her brow forming a small, concerned frown.

“I thought you’d be interested to know the ATF arrested 52 cartel members last night.” Matty returned her attention to the screen where image after image skimmed past, evidence of what had been seized. “Along with 400 fully automatic machine guns, thirty thousand rounds of ammunition, three hundred grenades and two million in laundered currencies. Around ten or so escaped into the surrounding docks, but the ATF are confident they’ll round up most, if not all of them.” She spared her agent a small, proud smile. “This is the biggest weapons bust on US soil in almost twenty years. Thanks to you and Dalton.”

Mac stared at the screen, barely seeing the piles of weapons and cash. He was honestly too tired to care. Behind his eyes, a sharp familiar throb had set up shop like an old friend and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Matty was holding back, there was more she wasn’t sharing. This could have been a phone call. He could practically feel the other shoe waiting in the wings, ready to drop. He frowned at his tiny boss. “You didn’t bring me in just to tell me this, Matty.”

“You’re right, of course,” Matty said knowingly, with a smile. “That’s not why you’re here.” Her expression turned serious. “We’ve been read in on some intel that can’t wait, Mac. Intel specific to your expertise. Intel we need to act on immediately.”

“What’s going on?” Mac’s frown deepened as he stared at the screen, hands resting loosely on his hips. He tensed as the snap of the War Room door heralded Jack’s arrival, and he could feel his partner’s eyes on him as he stalked into the room.

Matty spared the older agent a brief nod, then swiped the tablet she was holding. A crisp satellite image of the foothills above Los Angeles appeared, then zoomed in on a crumbling, derelict structure tucked back in the trees.

“Approximately six hours ago, three teenagers, apparently ghost-hunting at an abandoned estate on some sort of dare, stumbled across an explosive device.” The image shifted to the large square wing at the north end of the sprawling building. “Fortunately, instead of poking the damn thing, they called the police. Our local bomb boys took one look at it and called the FBI. The FBI were sufficiently spooked that they reached out to their National Explosives Taskforce and were put in touch with your bomb analytics friend, Charlie Robinson. They sent him everything they had.” Matty looked at Mac earnestly. “Charlie insisted you be called in immediately, then he got on a plane to LA.”

Mac worried a lip between his teeth and stared at his boss and then back at the screen, an uneasy weight in the pit of his stomach. “So…what, you need me to diffuse it?” Surely the FBI could scrounge up someone to take care of some random device in the middle of nowhere.

“No. That’s not why Charlie wanted you pulled in.”

Mac frowned. “Then why…?

“Charlie believes….” Matty paused, a finger restlessly tapping the edge of the tablet. “…he believes he may know who the bomber is, that the device has characteristics similar to what you’ve both encountered in the past,” she said, her troubled gaze meeting his.

“Who?” His frown deepened.

“The Ghost.”

Mac’s fatigue evaporated as he stared at her in disbelief for a long moment, then shook his head at the screen. “This doesn’t even come close to his MO, Matty.” He gestured at the screen. “The Ghost always targets densely populated areas where he can maximize damage and get the highest casualty count. A bomb in the middle of nowhere with a zero-casualty count doesn’t even make any sense – it’s not something he would do.”

“I don’t have an answer for you on that, Mac,” Matty replied. “All I know is Charlie insisted you be read in directly. You. No one else. The FBI found bomb paraphernalia scattered around the room, so it’s possible he was using the house as a lab and those kids stumbled across it by accident.”

“He rarely uses just one bomb,” Mac breathed, his eyes drifting back to the decrepit estate, his mind already churning up everything he knew about one of the most prolific terrorist bombers ever known. “Did they find anything else?”

Matty shook her head. “The FBI’s bomb squad swept the entire house from end to end, twice. They even ran their dogs through. There was nothing else.”

Mac stepped up to the screen. “Show me.”

Chapter Text

MacGyver’s analytical gaze drilled into the screen as dozens of images skimmed past. The FBI had done a surprisingly thorough job, snapping photos of the device from every possible angle. Each crisp, high-definition photo added to the growing unease in the pit of his stomach. Charlie had been right, the odd, twisting configuration of wires and components was hauntingly familiar.

He had seen a similar design before.

Under the floor of his own home.

Similar, because he refused to say they were the same, and there were…differences. There was a story being told here; one he wasn’t sure how to read, and one that most definitely would not have a fairytale ending. There were tweaks to the technique; small, noticeable changes here and there, a trail of breadcrumbs leading to god only knew where. Some of it was standard, and some not so much, adding to the enigma of everything.

Then there was the core…it was like nothing he had ever seen: an ominous, shapeless form, veiled in layers of thick, gray mesh and enclosed in a web of strangely glowing circuitry; some appearing redundant while others looped around on themselves in a twisting, complicated tangle.

And finally there was something that sent a wave of chills down his spine – a tiny glass bulb tucked away at the back, cleverly disguised as a random conduit: a Mercury Switch. Anything less than an extremely thorough Bomb Tech would have missed it. The slightest movement would have shifted the liquid metal, completed the circuit and triggered detonation. And if the FBI’s initial assessment was correct and the explosive was indeed Pentaerythritol Tetranitrate, commonly known as PETN – again, something the Ghost had strongly favored in the past – there was enough to not only level the entire estate but leave a sizeable hole in the world after it had done so.

On its own, PETN was a fairly stable compound, similar to C-4. But while C-4 was as good as Playdough without a detonator, PETN was a little more excitable, fairly shock-sensitive and dropping it off a roof would make life interesting. At least the thing had been left on the floor.

Time blurred as image after image burned into Mac’s retinas. He read the files and photos a second time, then a third…angles, systems, wiring, stoichiometry, potential blast radius…all barreled through his mind. Occasionally, he’d reference a sheaf of technical reports held loosely in one hand - something the FBI had supplied, and which had so far proven to be completely useless. It almost made him smile, the Feds clearly didn’t have a clue what they were sitting on.

The soft rustle of movement yanked his attention away to find Jack standing quietly beside him, arms crossed, calmly reviewing the screen with an earnest frown. Seemingly at ease, intent, focused on the screen, he radiated taut waves of tension. It occurred to Mac that Jack had been there the entire time, watching his back, making sure no one disturbed him, letting him do what needed to be done. The thought settled in his mind before sinking into the pit of his stomach and he felt a twinge of guilt at his earlier anger.

“You reckon this is the same dude who tried to roast me in New York, and flambé your house?” Jack asked, sending him a sidelong glance.

It was an olive branch. A simple question that united them as partners, as brothers, through memory and survival. A hellish experience spanning the American continent from west to east sending the message the Ghost would find them, wherever they were. On both occasions everything Mac had cherished in this world had been threatened, and on both occasions he’d refused to give up. On both occasions the Ghost had lost.

Only this time, he wasn’t sure this was the Ghost.

He took the olive branch.

Rubbing tired, burning eyes with the heels of his palms, ignoring the sharp, aching tug on his arm, Mac sighed. “I wish I knew, but none of this makes any sense.” He pointed at the screen. “See here? The structure and design of the circuitry is similar, for one; the use of PETN for another…but it’s like someone is trying to copy him and not quite getting all the details right. And here….” The image magnified to show a conduit threaded through a convoluted nest of wires. “He’s never wired anything like this, it’s just not his style.” Mac paused, his stare boring into the screen. “Hell, he’s never used Mercury switches, for that matter. Not to mention it’s literally in the middle of nowhere.” He stopped, pulling his eyes away and meeting Jack’s gaze. “And there’s only one bomb,” he added softly. “The Ghost rarely uses a single device, he’s always got something waiting in the wings.” He shook his head. “There are shades of his work, but nothing fits the pattern.”

“Copycat?” Jack canted his head to the side, squinting at the screen.

“Honestly? It’s hard to say.” Mac rubbed the back of his neck. “Terrorists tend to stick to an established technique, like a signature. They want people to know it’s them. It’s a power trip, thumbing their noses at law enforcement. But they’re not above changing things to cover their tracks.” Mac pinched the bridge of his nose and wished the mounting sledgehammer behind his eyes would go away.

Jack swiveled his frown from the screen to his partner. “You okay, kid?”

“This….” Mac waved irritably at the screen. “…is pointless. I can’t do a damn thing staring at photos. I need to get eyes on this bomb.”

“Mac –” Jack began.

“Way ahead of you boys,” Matty said from the doorway with a serious expression. “I’m having a car pulled around, and the FBI are expecting you. I also called Riley back from her vacation; she should be here in a few hours. Bozer’s in the archives pulling everything we have on the Ghost. I’m not taking any chances. Move it, you leave in ten.”

Mac moved toward the door, but Matty held up a hand. “Just a minute, Blondie.”

She waited until Jack had left the room, throwing a curious look over his shoulder, then she turned to Mac, her smile tinged with weariness. For the first time he saw traces of the heavy burden she carried; a crack in the stone façade that was Matilda Webber – one he suddenly realized she was allowing him to see. He swallowed and shifted uncomfortably, silently floundering as a second of silence stretching into an eternity. Matty’s scrutiny made him feel like being in the principal’s office, but when he met her gaze he found only worry and concern reflected there.

“Mac,” she said quietly. “I need to know you’re okay for this mission.”

He stood, motionless, the air suddenly thin – wind sucked from his sails, unsure how to respond. He dropped into the nearest armchair, eye-level with his boss.

“Why?” Mac glared at the empty doorway. “Did Jack talk to you?” The words left his lips, harsh and tinged with anger, before he could stop them.

Matty stepped closer, pulling his tired stare toward her. “He didn’t have to,” she replied, laying a hand lightly over his. “This is nothing against you, Mac. I take care of my agents. You’re running on empty and last night wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for you boys. You have a difficult history with the Ghost, and no one would blame you if you stepped back from this mission. If this is the Ghost, or even someone remotely close in skill, there’s zero room for error.” She sighed softly. “Your life, Jack’s, and that of dozens of others will depend on you, and I’m not sending an agent into the field on such a high-risk assignment if they’re compromised in any way. I would never ask that of them.”

Mac bristled, bit his lip and looked away. He felt angry, blindsided his ability to do his job was being called into question, yet a small logical voice in his mind understood Matty’s need to know he could do what needed to be done. Lives hung in the balance.

 Leaning on his elbows, Mac clenched his jaw and stared at the floor, barely seeing the worn carpet, threadbare from the restless, pacing feet of those who watched life and death missions from afar. “I would never step up for a mission if I couldn’t do the job, Matty. You know that.” His voice was tired, resigned and somehow determined all at once.

Matty’s hand gently squeezed his and the softness, warmth and connection almost unraveled him. He dragged his gaze from the floor with more effort than he cared to admit, pushing the ever-present exhaustion aside as he met her troubled gaze. “I’m not gonna deny there are….” God, he really wanted out of this conversation. “…some things I’m dealing with right now….” He flattened his lips, unsure how to insist he was fine, leave no doubt it was business as usual, but the words faltered; he swallowed and pushed on anyway because he wasn’t the one who mattered. Not really. The people in the line of fire did and he couldn’t let them be hurt. “…but I’m good to go, Matty,” he said earnestly, “You have my word. I’m okay. I promise.”

Matty smiled, and Mac had a feeling there was more left unsaid – questions he knew he had no answers to. It was a smile that grudgingly agreed with him with no other option to choose from. “I trust you, Blondie, that’s all I needed to hear.” She patted his arm, her expression uncharacteristically soft. “Just so you know, if you ever need anything….” She stepped back and nodded at the door. Now get out of here before Jack gets bored and starts shooting tires.”

Mac smiled back. “Yes, ma’am.”

____________

Stepping from the sleek, black SUV into the hot California sun, Mac realized the satellite images had not done the estate justice. The sprawling structure was impressively large, but decades of neglect had left it a crumbling ruin, an echo of a majestic home that had once sported swimming pools, tennis courts and a garage the size of a banquet hall.

Most of the windows were long gone, shattered by vandals or weather, leaving the place dark, hollow and haunted. He felt watched. It reminded him of The Tombs at MIT. It didn’t take a genius to see why this would be a teenager magnet.

Beside him, Jack, fully kitted out in tactical gear, slid a Glock into his thigh holster. Mac raised an eyebrow as he tested his comms. “Are we going into battle? I thought we were analyzing a bomb.”

“You never know with these whack-a-doodles,” Jack said, as he slid a second handgun home in his chest holster. “I’m not taking any chances.”

Clapping his partner on the shoulder, Mac grinned. “I’m pretty sure the bomb’s not going to shoot at us, Jack.”

Jack snorted. “Stranger things have happened, and you know it.”

Mac shook his head. “Come on, let’s go say hi to the nice FBI people before you start telling me there was a second shooter on the grassy knoll.”

“You know there was,” his partner muttered.

 The grounds of the estate were abuzz with activity as FBI agents and members of various bomb squads milled about beyond a safety perimeter. Mac made a beeline for a group of men huddled around a folding table having a heated discussion over what appeared to be a large sheet of technical specs, weighted down by a few stones and a cup of coffee.

“Agents MacGyver, and Dalton?” An older man with salt and pepper hair stepped away from the table and greeted them with a strained smile, shaking each of their hands. “I’m Special Agent Wilson, and I currently have the dubious honor of being in charge of this shit show. Your Director Webber mentioned you’d be coming, and you may have some intel on the potential perp behind the device that was found. She insisted we give you full access to the scene and had some rather specific opinions on how things should be run.” The agent gave them a worried smile. “She’s a formidable woman, I’ll give you that.”

There was a quiet snort from behind Mac. “You don’t know the half of it, man.”

MacGyver choked back a laugh, turning to survey the controlled chaos that thronged around them. “I’m hoping we can help, but I’ll need to see the device first. You got any new intel?”

“Hah, no,” Wilson replied dryly. “In a perfect world, maybe. Our bomb boys are just itching to have a go, but most are willing to admit there are things on that damn device they’ve never seen in their entire careers.” With a harried sigh, he waved toward the house. “Come on, this way.”

They were guided through the throng of agents and vehicles, up an overgrown driveway and into a maze of derelict rooms and corridors.

“No Mr. Stay-Puft marshmallow suits this time?” Jack nudged his partner, as they rounded a corner. “Mind you…,” he continued as Mac opened his mouth to reply. “I think I’d go Michelin Man myself, to be honest. That dude is far more robust than some goddamn walking marshmallow.”

Mac gave his partner an amused side-eye. “You realize, Jack, neither of those figures actually exist in reality and there’s not a blast suit on the planet that’s modeled after them.”

“Eh, seminars,” Jack grinned as he stepped around a pile of rubble and broken concrete.

“You mean semantics?”

“Maybe.”

“In answer to your question,” Mac continued. “Based on the size and composition of the explosive compound, it would be a waste of a perfectly good bomb suit.” He swallowed, trying to ignore the sense of growing unease in the pit of his stomach.

“So, we talking artful splatter or pink mist?”

Mac fixed his partner with a look. “Colorful description, Jack, but no. Anything close enough would just be vaporized.”

“Sounds like a wild ride, man.” Jack grinned again. “Don’t say I never take you anywhere fun.”

____________

The north wing spilled into a dilapidated sunroom overlooking an old garden, buried under decades of thick overgrowth. It was large, dusty and walled with impressively tall windows that had long ago suffered the same fate as the rest of the place. A hot breeze spun dead leaves across cracked concrete, and an old, battered table and a few chairs, all but rotted away, lay in a sad heap in a corner, a hodge-podge of wires, bits and bobs scattered around them.

At the far end, near the north wall, circuits glowing malevolently, sat the reason why they were there. And it was far, far more menacing in person.

Despite the heat, a cold shiver slithered down Mac’s spine.

Remember, you have feelings about the bomb. The bomb doesn't have feelings about you.

The words settled in the forefront of Mac’s mind before he even realized he’d thought them. Words he lived by. Words he’d brought back from Afghanistan, even though the man who had taught them had not. Never made it because he’d been killed by an IED meant for Mac. Mac should have been the one in the ground, and a little girl should have had a chance to grow up with her father. It was a decision Fate had made on his behalf, a constant shadow over his shoulder, a measurable weight he carried - guilt without a cure.

So, he’d had no choice but to keep living, and he’d honored those words and carried them with him every day since. But as he laid bare eyes on the glowing circuitry, they felt distant and hollow; it was hard not to have feelings about this bomb. It went way past wiring and explosives. There was almost a sentience – an awareness – there and if he didn’t know better he would say it was staring back at him.

Wilson ran a hand through his hair, his gaze flicking around the room before landing uncomfortably on the bomb. “Look…I can’t stay. We’re required to limit personnel until we have a better handle on what exactly we’re dealing with here. We have a robot inbound and it’s highly irregular to permit direct access to such a device, but your Director Webber…insisted.” He pointed to the corners of the room where two small, fish-eye cameras had been mounted. “We’re monitoring remotely and have a dedicated channel on the comms if you need anything. Perimeter’s at 800 feet, but we’ll adjust out if needed. Any resources we have are at your disposal.” With a nod and an odd glance over his shoulder, he left.

Mac watched him go, not missing the subtle expression on the man’s face as he turned to leave. He’d seen it in Afghanistan, and on the faces of the men they had passed on the way in. Men twice his age with decades of experience in ordinance disposal, and here he was, looking like some snot-nosed college kid, arrogant enough to think he could diffuse what those with vastly more experience, could not.

It was hard not to justify, to explain just what he could do. Because what could a kid like him possibly know? Perhaps if they knew he’d diffused 126 of them in a day in Afghanistan, and countless more around the globe in the years since, including one beneath his house, massive enough to wipe his entire neighborhood off the map. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the experience….

MacGyver chewed on his bottom lip, firmly pushed the thoughts aside and focused on the bomb in front of him; something that felt alive, glowing with pure malice and enough explosive power to level the estate to its foundation – and then some. He knelt to peer behind it, noting the cleverly disguised mercury switch wrapped in a tangle of wires, the metal bubble hovering just millimeters from completing the circuit. The slightest nudge…and well, kaboom wouldn’t quite cover it.

His analytical eye roamed the jumble of conduits and connections, and what he saw chilled him to the bone. This was a meticulously designed death trap where a single, careless error would be a surefire way to dust the countryside with his DNA. To the unexperienced eye, it was a mishmash; sloppy work cobbled together by an amateur, but the design…oh, the design when carefully examined with an expert eye was, quite simply, brilliant. He couldn’t help but respect the level of skill needed to put something like this together. It was juicy bait dangling on a hook, designed to draw him in, convince him the shoddy-looking lump of wires and explosive in front of him was a simple disarm, to ignore the sharp, lethal edge underneath – and it would have sent him down a rabbit hole of hell.

The thing blinked innocently back at him – a tight tangle, he noted, carefully masking two redundant systems – fail-safes that had to be dealt with before the primary circuitry, the wires of which sank deep into the core of the thing itself – could even be touched. Still, as for this being the work of the Ghost…he needed a little more convincing, like a second bomb.

Mac scoured every nook and cranny, tilting his head to trace a conduit as it wrapped around the back. “Jack, you have got to see this,” he breathed, with quiet admiration. “Whoever designed this…well, frankly it’s masterful. The technique alone–”

 “It’s an evil lump of spaghetti wires, man,” Jack muttered. “There ain’t nothing about that damn thing I would ever call good.”

Mac threw an exasperated glance to where his partner leaned indolently against a window jamb, a careful eye on the dry, dusty landscape outside. “I didn’t say it was good, Jack, but whoever built this is an expert – we’re talking years of experience, here. This is not the work of an amateur, although he’s hoping we’ll make the mistake of thinking he’s one. The skill needed to build something like this…,” he trailed off, leaning over to see deeper inside the wiring.

“Just pour some meat sauce on the damn thing and call it a day, already,” Jack said as he turned away from the window. “You can start your Bomb Admirer’s Fan Club later.”

Mac blew hair out of his eyes. “This may look like a hot mess,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the bomb. “But it’s deliberate, Jack. Every light and switch on this thing was made to misdirect, confuse anyone attempting to mess with it.” He pointed to a softly pulsing conduit. “All running parallel to the live circuitry. It looks clumsy but when you get up close and truly see…well, it’s breathtaking, to be honest.”

“Maybe you two should get a room,” Jack replied with a grin.

Mac flipped him off without looking up.

“Rude,” his partner said dryly, a hand resting lightly on the handgun strapped to his thigh. “While this party has been a ton of fun, I’m gonna run the perimeter while you’re busy romancing that thing; something about this place is making my trigger finger itch. Keep your comms open.”

Mac waved a hand vaguely in acknowledgement, his mind already a million miles away, diving into the problem that lay before him and the challenge of disarming it without leveling everything in sight.

“Hey, Mac?” A familiar voice sounded in his ear.

He straightened and tapped his earbud. “Riles?”

“Yeah, I just got in. Matty has me patched in here at the Phoenix. I’m using the FBI’s mobile unit to scan for radio frequency and broadband interference. Far as I can tell, things are clear - no weird signal activity that could trigger that bomb.”

“Aren’t the FBI going to be a little pissed you’re piggybacking on their systems?” Mac smiled.

“You’re assuming, of course they’re even aware I’m here,” Riley replied smugly. “They could use some serious upgrades, though; everything is super laggy today; their systems are usually way faster than this.”

Mac’s eyebrows shot up. “Usually? Riley, just how many times have you actually hacked the FBI?”

“…a few,” came the careful reply.

“Does Matty know?”

“She may or may not have encouraged a few things.”

 He smiled grimly as he stared down at the bomb. “Well, hopefully their crappy systems don’t distract you too much. Sorry about your vacation being cut short.”

 “Nah, Mac, don’t worry about it; a week stuck with my mom isn’t something I’d call relaxing. I’m here anytime you guys need me; I’ll keep an eye on things; catch you both later.” Her voice faded, along with a subtle click, letting him the channel had reverted to its original frequency.

“You know…,” Jack’s voice wandered amiably through. “This place just reeks of zombie apocalypse potential.”

“Really.” Mac deadpanned.

“Sure. I mean, I bet there are at least a dozen dead folks out here taking a dirt nap, just ready to stretch their legs and get their munchies on.”

“The undead are not going to rise from their graves, Jack.” Mac replied dryly as he peered deeper into the wiring. “And there are no cemeteries out here.”

“You never know, dude. Stranger things have happened.”

Mac sat back on his heels and tilted his head, his eyes trailing the convoluted wiring. “Name one.”

“Well, what about the time there was that giant flying saucer over LA?”

“That was Independence Day, Jack.”

“Fine, but it could’ve happened.”

“Uh huh.”

Mac pushed to his feet, wincing as tired muscles protested, his arm twinged and the headache that hammered away behind his eyes just didn’t seem to know when to quit. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, realizing he would give just about anything for a few Aspirin.

He paced away, hands loosely on his hips but his eyes turned him back, drawn to the source of why he was there. The hypnotic pulse and glow of the thing tugged at the edges of his perception, sucking him in, silently taunting him as if it knew what his next move was. ‘Thing’ because in some ways he didn’t know how to describe it outside of pure, bloody-minded evil. He wrenched his gaze away, blinking to clear his vision.

He’d never felt this way about a bomb before. IEDs had always been cold, impersonal devices created with no purpose other than to unleash devastating destruction and death, and the only emotion he had battled was his fear of failure, fear of what would happen if he did. But this? This nagged at his senses, twisted his perception, leaving him with an unease never before experienced with any device he had disarmed. It felt like an intelligence that hovered on a razor’s edge, promising to leave a smoking hole in the world if given half a chance.

And it was in the middle of frigging nowhere.

It made no sense. None of it did.

Except for the fact that the longer it sat there, the greater the chances someone would get hurt. Or die. The longer this thing was allowed to exist, the more his stomach twisted with unease and the feeling that something was very, very wrong. But he had no choice; that had been taken from him the minute he walked into the room.

Mac moved to the nearest window, leaned against the jamb and pulled in a deep breath. Beyond the shattered frame a yard, once exquisitely manicured, sprawled dead and overgrown. A few more decades and there wouldn’t be much left to show anyone had ever lived there and it occurred to him that that might be a good thing.

He sighed resignedly. Better get it over with.

“Jack, I need you to make sure everyone’s behind the perimeter.” Mac rested his head against the rough brick and let his eyes fall shut. A moment…he just needed a moment.

“Why?” came the suspicious reply. “You gonna take that thing apart?”

Mac bit his lip and blinked tiredly at the old, peeling ceiling. This was going to end in a sermon, he could feel it. Oh well, he might as well jump in with both feet. “Looks like,” he answered.

“Why? I mean…why not just blow the damn thing up? You know…kaboom, pretty lights an’ all. Let the problem sort itself out.”

“It’s not that simple, Jack. For one, it’s evidence, and two, every bombmaker has a design style – call it a signature of sorts - and if this isn’t the Ghost, then we have a new player in town and there could be fingerprints and DNA inside.” Mac rubbed his temples, his headache was coming up with new and inventive ways to drill into his skull and he was in no mood to play Twenty Questions.

"What about the buffet of Bomb Boys outside?”

Mac grit his teeth as irritability and anger, flavored with a healthy dose of exhaustion, bubbled up. He pushed away from the window and moved to stare down at the softly glowing device at his feet. “Charlie asked the FBI to bring me in for a reason, Jack. None of those guys have a clue where the off-switch on this thing is.”

“And you do?”

“I know where to look.”

Jack snorted. “That don’t mean you can flip that switch…or you should.”

“People are going to get hurt if I don’t!” Mac snapped, clenching his jaw. “This thing could go off at any moment.”

“And you? What about you?”

“This is my job, Jack.”

“You know what I mean.”

Mac paced the room, shaking his head. “I….” Don’t matter, he almost said. He wished he could make Jack see - make him understand. “I have the best shot at this, and you know it,” he added firmly.

“Really?” Jack’s tone dripped sarcasm. “So you know for sure it’s our friendly neighborhood Ghost and you know exactly what you’re gonna do? ‘Cause if that’s the case we can all go home.”

Mac’s hands curled slowly into fists, and he glared at a nearby wall, fighting the urge to swing a punch at it. He was bone-tired, just wanted to get this over with and the last thing he needed was his ability to do his job questioned – again. “Goddammit, Jack! Stop! Just stop, will you? I’m doing this and you can either get on board, or back the hell off!”

The channel went silent.

Mac paced restlessly, running a hand through his hair.

When Jack finally spoke it was with tightly controlled calm, but Mac could hear his partner’s frustration – his anger…but Jack didn’t get it. He’d never understand. “I get your need to save the world, hoss, I do. But you can’t be the cost every time shit like this goes down. When we’re done here…you and me…we’re gonna talk about this, man. You hear me, Mac?”

And there it was, the shot across the bow. The man was like a dog with a bone. Mac had stopped counting the number of Jack Dalton sermons he’d been on the receiving end of, years ago. Most of the time Mac could shrug it off or tune it out, but today…today it rankled. It didn’t help that the first sermon of the day had come flying at him before he had been barely awake. He turned and stalked back to the window, he was too tired to deal with this shit. He opened his mouth to reply then shut it, not trusting himself with what he would say.

“Jack…,” Mac began, not even bothering to hide his annoyance.

A loud, resigned sigh floated over the comms. “Look, you do what you need to do, hoss, I got your back. You know that.” Then, Jack chuckled. “Besides, it would be just our luck that the dead do start rising out here. This place is just ripe for weirdness.”

It was such an abrupt tone shift, Mac felt dizzy, the wind taken from his sails. He wasn’t sure whether to be wildly relieved Jack had chosen to back down, or irritated zombies had once again floated to the top of a conversation. He’d take the win. “Focus, Jack,” he said tiredly. “The perimeter – now. Please.” He tapped his earbud, not waiting to hear his partner’s reply, wanting more than anything to get the hell out of the conversation. “Hey Matty, what’s the ETA on Charlie?”

“His connecting flight from Atlanta was delayed due to weather,” came Matty’s smooth reply. “It’s expected to clear fairly quickly but it’s going to put him back a few hours, minimum.”

“I’m not sure we can wait that long.” Mac said, his eyes flicking back to the bomb. “This thing’s far too dangerous to leave sitting here.”

“You sure about this, Blondie?” Matty asked.

MacGyver set his jaw. The next person who asked him if he was sure about something, was going to get their clock cleaned. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he replied with a little more heat than intended.

“Alright, Blondie, have it your way, but you better be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Do you want me to bring Dalton in on this conversation?”

Mac laughed hollowly. Dear god, that was the last thing he wanted right now. “I’ll contact you when I’m done.”

“You better, MacGyver. If you come home in bits, you’re fired.”

A faint grin touched his lips. “Yes ma’am.”

____________

Jack leaned disgruntledly against a crumbling brick pillar on the steps of the main entrance. Arms tightly crossed, he stared at the old, rotted front door, quietly simmering at what was about to go down. Around him, foliage had run amok with wild, unchecked growth swarming every surface - plants and trees having forced their way between brick and stone. The whole place felt ancient, dark, haunted and gave Jack the goddamn creeps. He wanted out of here – yesterday.

He shifted, trying to ignore the restless agitation thrumming through his body. Worry and frustration churned in an angry ball in his chest, and there was nothing he could do about it other than stand around like a human paperweight while his stubborn, pig-headed partner threw himself on a bomb. Again. Mac was driving the train on this one, and unless Jack became an explosives expert in the next five minutes, he was going to be a passenger and nothing more. The feeling of uselessness chafed.

 The whole day had had shades of the Sandbox, memories of a place where the heat cracked your lips until they bled, sand blasted your skin raw, and just because the sun took a siesta on the other side of the earth didn’t mean it cooled down one iota.

 Countless days in a blistering desert, hovering over EOD nerds as they scuttled around happily in the dirt, disarming landmines and IEDs, had left Jack silently wondering what god he’d managed to personally piss off to get stuck with babysitting a group of bomb nerds who seemed to delight in digging in the sand for something that could quite literally blow up in their faces. Tedious did not even begin to cover the endless hours staring out at the sunbaked plain, finger hovering over the trigger of his rifle. An assignment that was mind-numbingly boring. Right up to when it wasn’t.

The key difference, though, had been the enemy, which was both everywhere and nowhere…a 10-year-old boy wired with a suicide vest, an Al Qaeda patrol deep in the desert, a street vendor selling fruit with an AK47 stashed under his stand. One never knew, and that generally took some of the shine off of the boredom. A normal day could start with oatmeal in the Mess and end with mortars, gunfire and all-out war.

Some days had been better than others.

Some, not so much.

But here, in sunny Los Angeles? Jack pivoted his gaze to watch a news copter lazily circling traffic in the distance, while in the background the FBI boys bickered over who would do the next coffee run. Men milled around restlessly. There was danger in the air and nothing to be done. Jack could relate. A world away yet the same essence of boredom, with a silent threat that lurked camouflaged like a razorblade in a candy bar.

He swiveled at the sound of approaching footsteps and narrowed his gaze as Mac made his way down the cracked, uneven steps. Lines of stress and fatigue shadowed eyes that saw the world through a lens that no twenty-six-year-old should ever have to. It was hard not to notice the heavy step or the tightness across shoulders that hid an exhausted slump, or see the kid was barely holding himself together.

Despite Jack’s best efforts, Mac seemed hellbent on driving himself into the ground while holding everyone at arm’s length. The look his partner carried, however, worried him more than anything. It was a look that Jack knew all too well and told him he had probably reached a new level of screwed. It was a look that meant Mac’s mind was made up and short of a tactical nuke, there was no changing it. This was the look that said no matter how dangerous or insane the idea, Mac was planning on ploughing ahead anyway. Jack swore silently.

“Everyone clear?” Mac spared Jack a glance then turned to survey the hubbub of agents and vehicles in the distance.

“Wilson pulled his boys back another fifty feet, just to be sure, but yeah, everyone’s playing nice behind the line.” Jack unclipped his Glock from his thigh holster and pulled the slide back with a click, eyes finding the reassurance of a round in the chamber. He’d checked a half-dozen times already, but it gave his hands something to do, a way shift the nervous energy this bat-shit shell of a place somehow generated.

Mac sent him a sharp look. “You too, Jack.” He opened the cuff of a sleeve and started rolling it up.

Jack laughed with hollow, dry amusement. Considering the supercomputer Mac carried around on his shoulders, the kid could be remarkably short-sighted and stubborn to the point of stupidity. Shaking his head as his partner raised an indignant brow. “See now, hoss, that’s where you seem a little fuzzy on the details. You go kaboom, I go kaboom, remember? Not negotiable. I’m sure it’s written somewhere important, historical-like. I’m gonna be right there with you.”

Mac jerked his head up, narrow gaze meeting his partner’s stare. “No,” he said fervently.  “Not this time, Jack, this one’s too dangerous.”

Tilting his head to one side, a faint smile touched Jack’s lips. “Have you met me?”

The joke fell flat, as was the icy, blue stare Mac sent his way.

“That’s not how it works, kid.” Jack carefully sidestepped through a discussion he was not going to lose. The look in the kid’s eyes was troubling and there was no way in hell he was stepping out of harm’s way to let his reckless partner go it alone. Besides, with Jack knowingly in the blast radius, Mac wouldn’t be so cavalier about dying. It could be the one way to ensure his partner came home.

“It has to be this time,” Mac insisted, fingers rolling material up his arm in short, annoyed jerks. “I have no idea what I’m going to find in there. Just do it for me, okay? I’ll be able to concentrate better knowing you’re safe, that if I screw up–”

“Yeah, no. Not gonna happen.” Jack interrupted with a solid counter. “But tell you what, I’ll be waiting for you right here on these….” He glanced around at the overgrown slope of root-ensnared bricks and stone. “…steps when you’re done,” he said firmly as Mac opened his mouth to protest.

Mac stared levelly at him for a long minute, blue gaze cutting sharply through blond bangs as he tucked in his sleeve. “Fine,” he grudgingly agreed with what, Jack could tell, was scraping the bottom of the barrel of his patience. “But if I tell you to run, you run. No arguments, no debates. Assuming, of course, the thing doesn’t just detonate.”

“Just say the word, mon capitaine,” Jack snapped off a sloppy two-fingered salute.

Mac’s brow shot up. “Since when do you speak French?”

“Seriously, dude, what’s French got to do with Star Trek? That Q dude said it to that captain guy, Picklecard, or something.”

“Picard,” Mac corrected absently, giving his partner an odd side glance. “Jack, have you been cheating on Star Wars?”

“What?” Jack protested, making a show of being sheepish, but grateful as all hell the subject had moved on. “It was a Saturday night and there was literally nothing on.”

Mac grinned at him. “No Die Hard?”

“Come now, I can’t go wearing Bruce out, he has to keep his energy up.”

 “Uh huh, and…?” Mac’s grin widened.

“…and.” Jack found himself amused at the admission, scuffing a boot on a loose stone. “I’d kinda finished a Die Hard marathon that afternoon.”

Mac laughed and started on his other sleeve, fatigue sliding behind the levity of the moment.

For a minute it felt almost normal - banter between partners, another day on the job, but a heavy weight in Jack’s chest refused to settle. Ordinarily, he’d be able to keep his worry in check with Mac rushing head-on into these situations…but today? He heaved a sigh, hooked his thumbs in his tactical vest and stared out at dry, dusty scenery, trying to wrangle a logical way through a problem that was – literally – threatening to blow up their day, knowing full well there wasn’t a damn thing he could do, or say, to stop the momentum of this shit show. He was starting to feel more than a little like Indiana Jones with a giant stone ball on his ass, determined to make him one with the ground if he didn’t keep running. At least there weren’t any snakes.

He'd walked the grounds, and outside of the evil spaghetti monster lurking in the north wing, there were no threats. It was Mac’s job to slay the monster while he stood around like a spare part and was lucky to get to pass the pliers. But the dark ball of worry stayed in his chest, and he couldn’t explain why. Something felt…off, wrong - and wrong, in a way that set alarm bells quietly ringing. Wrong, based on nothing more than a gut feeling that screamed for him to get the hell out of there and take Mac with him.

But this was the job, and running wasn’t even remotely an option. Team Phoenix ran toward danger…they went where others feared to tread. They were the solution to unsolvable problems.

But still….

Jack cleared his throat. “Seriously, Mac,” he said carefully. “You up for this?” He tried to look past the pallor and shadowed eyes that had become a permanent fixture in recent weeks. “It’s been a busy coupla days, hoss, ain’t no one gonna think anything of it if you take a step back on this one or wait for Charlie.”

Mac’s blue eyes snapped up to meet his, a flash of anger, there and gone so rapidly Jack was almost sure he’d imagined it. Almost. He watched as the kid finished up with his sleeve, yanking at the material.

“Mac–”

“I’m fine,” Mac said tersely. He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair, and forced a smile – a smile that never quite reached tired, hollow eyes. “See you on the flip side.” He held up his fist and firmly met his partner’s gaze. Subject closed. 

Jack forced a smile of his own and bumped it with his own.

Chapter Text

MacGyver knelt beside the bomb as hot, bright sunlight lit the crumbling walls around him. Tapping his knife against a thigh, his stare drilled into a lethal tangle of wiring that was stubbornly refusing to give up its secrets. He was alone, his only company the fish-eye lenses in the corners of the room he knew the FBI were pinned to, watching his every move. He rubbed an aching temple and tried to focus on the problem at hand which, he was quite sure, was both mocking and daring him to fix it.

His thoughts kept skittering around and no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, one thought kept floating to the surface of his mind: his team didn’t think he could do his job anymore. First Matty, then Jack. Words said under the pretense of caring that cracked the foundation beneath him; the lack of faith like a punch in the chest, knocking the air out of him, leaving him hollow and gasping….

…and alone. A place he clearly deserved to be.

Were Bozer and Riley next?

Probably.

Jack’s endless nannying in recent months suddenly made sense, and Mac wanted to kick himself for not seeing it sooner. His partner’s loss of confidence extended further back than Mac realized – Jack had been doubting him for months. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, a small bubble of panic rose in his chest, as he wondered just how he’d look Jack in the eye again, knowing what his partner truly thought of him.

Mac wiped the sweat from his forehead. He needed to clear his thoughts, get rid of the mental clutter and concentrate for god’s sake. He shook his head and immediately regretted it as the room tilted gently, leaving him queasy. Well that was just adding insult to injury at this point. Resting his hands on his knees, he leaned forward and let his head hang between his shoulders. Pulling in a deep breath and using the pure brute force of thought, he rounded up the knot of resentment, hurt and anger inside him, and stuffed it into the darkest hole in his mind, he could find.

He had work to do.

An eternity later, MacGyver sank back on his heels with a tired groan. Disabling the redundant systems alone had felt like an insurmountable task, with circuits looping back, around and under, until he felt like he was seeing double. He’d figured it out – eventually – and the silver lining was he now knew what to look for.

The next challenge, however, had gleefully stepped up to the plate, and he was sure this part would be one of the most dangerous attempts to disarm an IED in his – possibly short – life, and he’d bet whoever had built the damn thing had more than fail-safes up their sleeve.

Mac held his breath, unfolded a small blade, threaded a hand down toward the core and started to painstakingly slice through the mesh casing. It parted beneath his fingers, and he got his first peek at the brain of the bomb, and it did not disappoint. He was greeted with a complex tangle of wires and glowing circuitry that made the redundant systems he’d just disarmed look like a kindergarten project, but he knew what he was working with now. Delving carefully deeper, he let his fingers run the wires, systematically cutting each one in perfect sequence, and one by one, in the heart of the bomb, lights winked out.

The world narrowed down to a point until nothing existed but the bomb. Time and space faded into irrelevance as his fingers delved into the electrical mind that told the bomb what it was – what it existed for – and what would bring it to that critical moment where it would explode into a blast wave of pure, white-hot destruction.

Sweat trailed down his temples and when he looked up again, the sun had begun to dip behind the trees. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his headache had refused to relent, and it felt like a set of bongo drums had gone to town behind his eyes. He shifted, knees throbbing from hours spent on hard concrete.

He was so close, the finish line was within reach; a few more cuts and he would be done. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he opened the scissors attachment on his knife and reached deep into the core, lined up the blades and squeezed. A soft snip.

Glowing circuitry went dark.

The bomb shut off.

A shaky breath escaped Mac’s lips, a tired, trembling hand falling to his lap. “It’s done,” he said quietly, dropping his head. “It’s disarmed.”

There was a celebratory whoop in his ear. Jack had remained silent the entire time. “Nice work, bud! No zombies out here, so we know you didn’t open a portal to hell.”

Mac laughed shakily as he slumped against the wall. “Good to know. I –” He froze as a soft, muffled beeping sound reached him. 

“Mac?” Jack’s tone was suddenly serious. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, kid.”

“Hang on…I hear something.”

Mac glanced at the bomb. It was silent. Inert. Dead. He sprang to his feet, moving to the middle of the room, closing his eyes, letting his ears tell him where the sound was emanating from.

Up.

Left.

Back of the room.

His eyes flew open, he spun and ran across the room to a far corner. Tucked barely a foot below the sagging ceiling, he could just make out a faint patch of discolored plaster that someone had gone to extreme lengths to blend and age with the surrounding wall. It was almost invisible.

“Jack,” he gasped. “I think there’s another device in the wall.”

Sprinting to the opposite corner, he pulled the old table upright and dragged it – screeching – across the room. Leaping up on the cracked, wobbly surface, he ran his hands over the plaster. The beeping was louder.

“Get the hell outta there, man!” Jack’s voice was desperate, breathless and urgent in his ear. “You don’t know what’s in that wall! I swear to god, kid, if you don’t haul your skinny ass outta there, I’m–”

“I got this!” Mac cut him off sharply. He really didn’t need his partner losing his shit right now. “I need you to tell the bomb squad we probably have a second device.” His own words chilled him as he said them. The confirmation he had dreaded.

“Fine!” came the angry, frustrated response. He could hear Jack grinding his teeth. “But you better skedaddle out of there quick-like if that thing so much as fucking twitches. You copy?”

“I copy!”

“And don’t think I’m not tearing you a new one after we’re done here!”

Mac set his jaw, not if he had anything to say about it. “I’m not talking about this now, Jack! Second device, tell them!” he shouted, his voice shaking.

“Already done. Now take care of that thing and get the hell outta there!”

The long blade of Mac’s knife plunged into the outer edge of the fresh plaster; it crumbled away easily and in under a minute, he was able to pry away a square of sheetrock, revealing a large hollow, deep in the crumbling brick wall. The sheetrock clattered loudly to the floor as he stared into the opening.

Two sizeable blocks of C-4 and a timer stared back.

It was counting down.

Five minutes and twenty-five seconds. Twenty-four…twenty-three…twenty-two….

Letting his eyes fall shut for a second, Mac pulled in lungful of air and got to work.

Hands trembling, he ran the wires, chasing where they went, all too aware of the glowing red countdown mere inches from his face. The configuration was simple; almost too simple: no fail-safe or redundancies. It was as though the bombmaker had not anticipated it being found. After the first bomb, this was child’s play.

“What’s the word, Mac?” Jack’s terse voice cut through. Angry. Frustrated and fearful; helpless to do anything other than talk to his partner. Angry because Mac had once again put himself in the line of fire. Mac would have bet a cool million it was taking everything in Jack’s extensive arsenal to not physically drag him out.

“Second device affirmed – C-4.” Mac’s eyes flicked to the timer. “Five minutes on the clock.”

“Jesus, Mac! Get outta there! We got time to get clear!”

“Dammit, Jack, I said I got this!” Mac pushed back angrily. “Keep everyone back! No one comes in here, you hear me?”

If Jack replied, Mac didn’t hear him. He switched tools again, one eye on the timer, the other on the innards of the bomb. The wiring was straightforward, but tucked in the center, yet again, was a core, wrapped in the same mesh-like material used with the first device. Switching to scissors, he ran the circuit, trembling fingers dancing along the wires, then made three cuts in quick succession. The timer froze at one minute, forty-three seconds, then went dark.

Mac released a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding and dropped his forehead against the wall, lightheaded as relief washed over him, realizing the wall was doing more work than his rubbery legs in the gravity department. The flood of adrenalin had ebbed, and suddenly, it was all he could do to stay on his feet. God, he was so tired….

“Mac!” Jack’s voice pushed desperately through the comms. “Talk to me, goddammit!”

“I’m fine,” Mac replied a little breathlessly. “It’s disarmed.” He wiped his forehead with the back of a hand that was shaking like a leaf.

“Great, now get your scrawny ass outta there for Christ’s sake and let the bomb boys take over!”

 “Okay, but–” Mac never finished the sentence as an electronic shriek cut through the silence. A glance at the timer told him what he already knew – dead – like the first device. His eyes darted over the bomb, cut wires and dead circuits, landing on the mesh-covered core. His heart froze in his chest as he reached in and yanked it open.

Another timer glowed back at him.

A Trojan horse.

A bomb within a bomb.

A third bomb, activated by disarming the second.

What the hell?

He stared at the timer. Fifteen seconds…

“Shit! We have a third device! Less than fifteen on the clock! Run, Jack! Now!”

Mac leapt off the table, bolted across the room, and threw himself through the nearest window, not even feeling jagged glass edges slicing his palms. He landed in a roll and took off sprinting toward an old maintenance shed in the distance.

Ten…

The land unfolded before him, dead plants whipping his legs as he tore across the dry, overgrown landscape.

Nine…

If he moved fast enough, he could reach the shed. Maybe. He had to. The odds of survival if he didn’t…. He dismissed the thought, lungs screaming for air and forced his body faster.

Eight…

He was vaguely aware of people scattering in the distance as he flew past trees and scrub-brush, dry branches snapping, clawing at his clothes.

Seven…

Lungs on fire, heart hammering in his chest – he struggled to pull in mouthfuls of thick, syrupy air that never seemed enough.

Six…

Shouting. Yelling. He was sure one of them was Jack. The terrain was suddenly rife with boobytraps; rocks, gnarled roots and downed trees appearing out of nowhere.

Five…

Something snared his foot, sending him sprawling to the ground, winded, pain shooting up his ankle.

Four…

Back on his feet, pain forgotten, he hurtled forward again, flying over logs and old garden fences, the crunch of dried brush and twigs under his shoes.

Three…

Every muscle was on fire, his body screaming for relief he couldn’t grant. He reached every physical limit he’d ever known. Then, pushed past them. The world spiraled into a tunnel of silence, the only sound of his own ragged gasps and the dusty thuds as his shoes slammed into the hard, sunbaked earth.

Two…

He was almost there, he could see the old boards, peeling paint and cracked windows.

One.

Mac glanced over his shoulder as the explosion erupted behind him. The world cracked apart – shook violently as an earsplitting roar cut through the air. The old manor floated apart, brick by brick, defying gravity before his eyes. Window and door frames spun through the air as entire sections of the roof blew upward. Time slowed, then ground to a halt in defiance of the laws of physics. The world hung suspended, frozen in a fraction of a second that lasted an eternity…then, stretched to the breaking point, Natural Law reasserted itself, time snapped free and erupted forward.

The blast wave ripped Mac off his feet as it thundered over him. He was thrown through the air, pelted by blizzard of debris, slammed to the ground, tossed and rolled until he smacked into a hard surface with bone-crunching crack.

A raw scream was torn from his throat as his body lit up in a blaze of white-hot agony, and for an eternity he lay stunned in the clutches of an unquenchable fire, pain searing every inch of his being. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe; it consumed and pinned him, fading the world to muted grays as he fought to simply drag air into lungs that refused to cooperate. Breathing – something he had done effortlessly his entire life – now seemed an impossible task, every gasp a battle as dust clogged his throat. He choked and coughed, blinking weakly through grit-filled eyes as darkness crowded the edges of his vision. The air hung thick and gray with dirt and smoke, and he was vaguely aware he should know why, but the pain that threatened to overwhelm him swept his thoughts away, scattering them beyond his grasp.

Every thought, except one.

“Jack?” The word, a raspy, garbled croak.

The world was silent and empty, save the faint, soft thudding as debris rained down around him.

He blinked sluggishly, forcing open eyelids that fought desperately to remain closed, clumsily flinging an arm out, trembling fingers, wet and sticky… blindly reaching for anyone, anything.

No one reached back.

“Jack…,” he gasped again, fingers curling in the dry, dead earth.

No one answered. Silence wrapped around him as thick as the murky air that billowed thick with dust and smoke.

“J’ck,” a soft, wet sob escaped him, hopelessness welling up as his hands fell still, no longer scratching desperately in the dirt.

MacGyver lay helpless and gasping, pain lancing through every inch of his being as the world around him faded, and darkness engulfed him. As the last vestiges of consciousness waned, the only thing he was certain of was that Jack was gone.

____________

Jack blinked slowly, trying to clear his vision; gray smoke curled thick and murky, shadows shifting restlessly above him, blurred and distorted. He was aware he was flat on his back, and his head pulsed and throbbed like a sonofabitch.

A dark, featureless figure leaned over him as Jack registered something warm and wet soaking his face – and that his ears were ringing up a storm. He weakly tried to elbow himself up, but a hand pressed firmly, but gently, on his chest, holding him down. He clumsily tried to slap it away, having no idea where he was or what the hell had gone down to land him hurting, in the dirt. All he knew was he had to move; there was something he needed to do…something important – he just could not remember what, exactly. Around him, everything was a dizzying, nauseating blur of dark and light. He struggled. The hand kept him on the ground. It wasn’t much of a fight.

He sagged back, feeling the warm dirt cradling him, his eyes falling unwillingly closed as his body fought pain and shock. Then an image flashed across his mind. There and gone in an instant. Then another. And another. Eyes flying wide, a shuddering cry escaped him as a slew of memories steamrolled his mind, his shellshocked brain finally catching up.

Run, Jack! Now!

“Mac!” he gasped, adrenalin surging through his flagging body as he pushed upright past the hands trying to keep him down. Fiery pain licked across his chest, and suddenly it was hard to breathe. “Third bomb…,” he wheezed, pulling weakly at the grip trying to keep him still. “There was third bomb….”

“We know, we were monitoring your comms.” A voice near his ear penetrated the ringing. “Stay still a moment, would you? You had your bell rung pretty good.”

Jack fell back as pain lanced through his side with every breath. The dirty, gray sky above spun slowly, and his mouth flooded with saliva as his breakfast threatened to make a spectacular reappearance. “Mac…,” he croaked, grabbing weakly at the hand against his chest. “Where’s Mac?” Panic surging wildly, he tried to make out the blurred visage above him. “You got him? He-he okay?”

“They’re locating Agent MacGyver now,” the voice said calmly. “We can confirm he got out of the north wing. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”

Jack shoved the hands off and heaved himself upright again. “Gotta be there,” he gasped, as white sparks danced in front of his eyes. The ground tilted and rolled nauseatingly, and he slumped sideways.

Hands caught him, guiding him carefully back down. “And do what, exactly, Agent Dalton?” The voice was infuriatingly calm and reasonable, making Jack want to shake it ‘til its teeth rattled.

He made another valiant attempt to get up, but pain sliced viciously through him, and he writhed in the dirt, gasping. The gentle pressure on his chest never wavered. He hated it when people fought logically, it was so unfair. Mac did it to him all the time. But logic didn’t dictate the need to be there for his partner. Logic couldn’t.

Blinking blearily, the last of his energy reserves fading, he stared up as the figures leaning over him disappeared in a thick gray fog, blurring and merging as his vision faded out. He was distantly aware of someone shaking him and calling his name, but it was just too much effort to respond. For the first time since he could remember, Jack’s eyes slid closed not knowing, as consciousness slipped away, if Mac was even still alive.

Chapter Text

The noise dragged Jack forcibly out of the darkness. The air thundered and shuddered around him, while the wind threatened to steal his breath away. His head was killing him, and it felt like the world was ending all over again. He cracked his eyes, blinked, and stared up at the hazy cabin of an H215 Super Puma Cas-Evac air ambulance, and the blurred visage of a flight nurse.

She said something into her headset, smiled and laid a hand briefly on his arm before reaching up and hanging an IV bag above his head he was vaguely aware was attached to him. He sluggishly wondered what strings Matty had pulled to have this medical behemoth at her beck and call.

Voices and movement further down the cabin had him struggling to sit up, finding he was securely strapped to a gurney. He managed to raise his head a little, this time to see another flight nurse and a paramedic hovering over a second gurney past his feet. Several IV bags swayed, and a wall-mounted monitor alarmed as it flashed numbers and vital signs. He dropped his head back, clenching his eyes shut as the cabin spun sickeningly around him.

A thump and loud click made him flinch as a door to his left slid closed. The air suddenly stilled, and the thundering rotors dipped to a roar. Someone on the other side of the door banged on the glass and gave a thumbs up. He was muzzily aware of the flight nurse strapping herself in, then the world lurched upward, and he encountered the familiar sensation of lift-off, something he had become very well acquainted with during his Delta days.

The chopper banked, then leveled out and Jack found himself swallowing hard as his stomach threatened to rebel again. He hovered in a twilight world, not completely awake or entirely unconscious, awash in a mix of meaningless sounds and colors. Then the nurse was back, a bandage on his forehead he had not even been aware of, was lifted briefly, and then without warning, bright light blazed into his eyes. He cried out, and flung his head sideways, sending the world into a gut-knotting spiral. His stomach, officially done with everything it had been put through, followed through with its threat and he christened the floor of the chopper with every meal he had ever eaten. When he was done and there was nothing left to come up, soft hands turned his head back and a cool, damp cloth wiped his face. An oxygen mask slid over his face, and he felt the soft movement of air. He groaned as the penlight returned, clicked to a dimmer setting and his eyelids were gently lifted.

Blinking away the afterimages, Jack called out weakly to the nurse, but his voice was lost in the churning noise of the rotors. He wriggled one arm out of the straps, his fingers brushing her arm. She turned, reached behind her and a lightweight headset settled over his ears and the roaring hum of the cabin dulled into the background.

“My partner,” Jack pleaded hoarsely, pulling the mask aside. “Mac-MacGyver, is he –?”

The nurse frowned, sending a glance down the length of the cabin, then turned back to him, gently replacing the mask. “They’re working on him now, Agent Dalton. He’s holding his own.”

Jack sagged back, unable to move an inch, his body trembling, whether from relief or shock, he didn’t care. He lay boneless on the gurney and tried to ignore the knives that dug into his skull. Nothing else mattered other than Mac was alive. Nothing.

After that, things became surreal and fuzzy. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he was roused by the bounce as the chopper landed. The door slid open, and the world exploded into noise and light once more. He turned his head, fighting the urge to hurl again as the flight crew passed the other gurney off to an awaiting Trauma team.

For the first time, he had a glimpse of his partner, and what he saw nearly made his heart stop. Disheveled, matted blond hair framed a face covered in blood; a pressure dressing wrapped tightly around his head. MacGyver’s eyes were closed, a mask obscuring most of his face. Strapped to a backboard with a cervical collar in place, he was whisked out of sight.

And then, before Jack could even properly process what he had seen, he found himself thrust out into the evening air with the rotors screaming overhead. Faces floated over him, and he was aware that he was moving, as walls slid dizzyingly past. Noise. Yelling. Lights streaked overhead. He groaned and clenched his eyes as his brain shut down, the sensory overload too much and before he even realized it, the world spiraled into darkness.

____________

MacGyver wasn’t sure where he was.

Darkness and silence cocooned him like soft velvet. It was quiet. Peaceful. He floated, untethered, in a sea of absolute calm. Vague, distorted images skimmed just beyond his reach, but didn’t bother him…a violent flash of light, pain and then…nothing. A blissful nothingness pulling him beneath the surface to where he could just forget….

Nothingness, until the hands and voices arrived. They tore open the dark and pulled him into a loud, pain-filled light that slammed into him like a physical force, and suddenly he was aware of a pitched ringing in his ears, a brutal, slicing pain that threatened to split his skull open, and his skin burned as if on fire.

He wished – begged – they would let him slip back into that peaceful oblivion, but the hands were so damn insistent, poking and prodding, igniting every flame in his body until he wanted to scream in agony, but he couldn’t so much as twitch a finger or blink an eyelid. He was weighted with lead, and everything hurt. Everything. He hurt at a cellular level, his body enveloped in a seething pain that dug its claws in. God, he just wanted to be left alone – why couldn’t they leave him alone? He had been so comfortable in the dark….

Rough, dry dirt pressed against his cheek, and he was hazily aware his face and arms were sticky and wet, his clothing soaked. A breeze rustled his hair, and he felt a cool, soothing counterpoint as the moisture evaporated. It was nice, a reprieve from the tsunami of fiery pain that threatened to engulf him.

The hands returned, followed by worried, urgent voices, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying, the words slipping away like water through his fingers. Then something slid around his neck. And tightened. His adrenalin skyrocketed. He was suffocating – he couldn’t breathe! He was going to die! They were trying to kill him.

No! No, he wouldn’t let them!

With a shuddering gasp, his body finally jerked into action, pulling on reserves he didn’t have, with barely the strength to reach up to wrench the damn thing off, but someone grabbed his arms, forcing them down, dirt riding under his fingernails as he clawed at the ground. Panic flooded his system. He writhed in pain and gasped like a dying goldfish as his lungs folded under the onslaught, the air as thin as the top of Everest.

Hands brutally held him captive - he couldn’t move…he couldn’t breathe…his body arched and screamed for air, but none came. Then something plastic slid over his face, the panic hit a critical mass, and he thrashed wildly. The assault was coming from every angle, but nothing seemed real; nothing made sense. He twisted and pulled in the grip of his captors as the world dissolved in a chaotic whorl of blinding light and yelling. They had to be stopped, it was the only way he could escape - could survive. In desperation, he kicked out, his foot colliding with something soft, followed by a muffled curse.

“Hold him!”

He couldn’t breathe….

He couldn’t breathe… and he was dying….

A voice near his ear was talking urgently to him, but it was muffled, distant, and the ringing in his head made it almost intelligible as he blindly fought the hands that held him down. “…eathe…– Gyver... – oxygen. Breathe!”

He wheezed, choked and fought, weakly trying to push the hands away until he had no fight left in him, his lungs spasming and his body clamoring for air that never came. He felt himself fall backward as a long, dark tunnel opened to embrace him and the world grayed out. Dimly, he heard yelling, and someone adjusted the thing around his neck and lifted his jaw, tilting his head back a fraction. And then his body, pushed to its breaking point, sucked in a shallow, shuddering breath.

Then another.

And another.

He lay there gasping, chest on fire, the blazing pain in his head making him want to scream in agony. Perhaps he did. Loud voices drilled into his skull as the last of his adrenalin reserves faded and he fell back, limp and boneless.

Hands gripped, moved and manipulated his body, and he almost sobbed when he realized he had no way to stop them – to fight back. He was rolled and suddenly found himself strapped to a hard surface. There was a sharp, stinging sensation in his left arm, followed shortly by another in his right. He lay helpless, feeling them do whatever they wanted, pain and confusion washing over him. The darkness reached out, tendrils twisting and beckoning, and he dived into its depths, wrapping it around himself, fleeing from the world. He let it take him under and if he had any say, he never wanted to leave again.

Only he did.

The thunder reached into the darkness and dragged him back, floundering and gasping, as the world around him shook apart, lighting every inch of his being ablaze with pain. Hands prodded and tugged. Time and again, as he began to fall back into the comfortable embrace of nothingness, they pulled him back, and he was powerless to stop them. Shadows, light and movement swiveled madly around him. He clenched his eyelids shut, not wanting to see any of it, biting his lip until the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Something pressed firmly against his forehead, then a hand pried his eyes open and shone a supernova into his brain.

He was being moved, the world tilted and shook, lights above him blazed to life, burned through his flimsy eyelids and he tried to turn away, reminded once more of the thing around his neck. Time jolted forward in fits and bursts. Voices were calling rapid-fire over him, and something tightened painfully around his upper arm. His shirt was peeled away as hands worked, icy cold air chilled his wet, sticky skin and he began to shiver uncontrollably. The pain was approaching intolerable levels. Hands were everywhere, pulling his clothes from him, lighting spikes of pure agony across his body. Someone pressed the side of his chest, and this time he screamed.

Then there were gentle hands on either side of his head, and someone was talking softly to him. He was unable to comprehend what was being said, but the tone was soothing, and his oxygen-starved lungs unwillingly pulled in another breath.

For the first time in his life, MacGyver wanted to give up, he wanted to stop existing. Everything hurt, and the pain in his head was steadily approaching a crescendo. It hurt to move. It hurt to think. The agony of mere awareness pulverized his mind. He had no urge to fight anymore; he just wanted everything to end. That dark place, where time and pain ceased to exist – where he could hide – was calling him again. The promise of dreamless peace was too hard to resist. He fled into its embrace, and it folded around him with open arms, and this time the hands could not pull him back.

____________

A soft tapping was the first thing that penetrated Jack’s awareness. It both annoyed and nagged at his senses. How the hell was a guy supposed to get some shut-eye when some inconsiderate fool was making noise. He was tired, goddammit. Was a little peace and quiet too much to ask for? He frowned and tried to drift off once more, but he was…uncomfortable, and he wasn’t in his own bed. And God, he ached. From head to toe, he hurt. His brain ruminated silently on this for a moment, then unceremoniously hauled him to the surface.

 He forced his eyes open with not inconsiderable effort, lids sticky and heavy with sleep. It was dark and quiet, punctuated only by a dull, throbbing headache that ping-ponged around the back of his skull. He blinked slowly, bringing his blurred surroundings into focus and stared around what was obviously a hospital room.

His body felt heavy with the artificial fatigue that only came with drugs, and he swore silently. That was never good. A glance to the left revealed an IV pump humming softly as it pumped him full of God only knew what, but the annoying tapping persisted, and he wanted nothing more than to sink back into that sweet oblivion. With some effort, he rolled his head and blinked heavily a few more times, the source of the sound coming into focus.

Riley was sitting cross-legged in a cramped hospital chair, her rig balanced on her lap, the glowing screen illuminating her serious expression in the dim light.

Jack shifted slightly, unable to bite back a soft groan as small spikes of pain lanced through a battered body that had clearly lain still for a while.

Riley looked up and froze. “Jack?” she said, relief flooding her face.

“Riles,” he rasped, frowning; his throat felt like sand. “Wh're–”

“UCLA Medical Center,” she replied, flicking on a small reading light above the bed. Jack winced, squeezing his eyes shut as they adjusted. “You’ve been here since last night after Matty had you life-flighted here.”

“Huh.” Jack squinted up at her and shifted again, gritting his teeth as he tried to find a more comfortable position, except there didn’t seem to be one. Everything ached, throbbed or otherwise hurt and he couldn’t help but think hospital mattresses truly sucked. In all honesty, he felt like a giant bruise.

He took stock of how utterly crappy he felt, eventually concluding that he would be absolutely fine, as long as he didn’t do anything stupid, like move – or breathe. Even basic existence was a little iffy at this point. He wanted to file a complaint with the universe about everything.

Riley raised an eyebrow. “Jack, you’ve been unconscious for most of a day, have a serious concussion, cracked ribs, a dozen stitches in your head, and more cuts and bruises than I can shake a stick at, and your response to that is ‘Huh’?” she scolded him gently with a weary smile.

Jack took a moment to mull this over; somehow ‘Huh’ seemed quite appropriate considering that he felt like he’d been tossed ass over teakettle, and his brain was wading through molasses. A shaky hand scratched a stubbled cheek, a finger hooking the nasal cannula resting there.

“Leave it alone, Jack.”

He scowled and let his hand fall back to the bed. “What happn’d?” he finally mumbled, tongue thick and unwilling.

Riley closed her rig with a muted click and ran her fingers lightly over the top. She swallowed, and when she finally spoke, her voice was soft and tired. “You made it to the perimeter, but with three explosives in the mix…the blast radius was larger than they originally estimated. A lot larger. A couple agents were a bit banged up, but the vehicles took the brunt of the impact.”

Rolling his head back, Jack blinked again and stared at the cream ceiling tiles above him. Hospitals, he decided, really were lacking in the decor department. Would it kill them to put an actual color on the ceiling? Thoughts and images moved with random sluggishness through his mind, muddled and disjointed, as he tried to sort through everything. Perimeters? Blast radius? Then, three words slammed into the forefront of his mind and slid into his chest like ice.

Run, Jack! Now!

Jack froze, breath catching in his chest, as his brain finally rubbed two cells together and gave him a swift kick in the pants. “Oh God–” Barely a whisper, the words fell from his tongue before he realized they had been said. He flung out a hand and grabbed Riley’s wrist like a lifeline. “Mac! Riley, where’s Mac?” His gaze darted around the sterile hospital room as if the answer somehow lay within reach, before it swiveled desperately back to the young analyst at his bedside.

“He’s in the ICU,” Riley said softly. For the first time Jack saw the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the exhaustion and worry that hovered there. “He was pretty out of it when he first arrived, but then he just…he stopped responding. He’s…,” her voice shook slightly. “He’s, uh…he’s in a coma, Jack, and hasn’t shown any signs of waking up. The doctors aren’t saying much, just that his condition has stabilized somewhat.”

“I…I gotta see him,” Jack mumbled as he pushed himself up on his elbows and regretted it instantly as the room did an impressive imitation of a Tilt-A-Whirl. Bracing against the pain, and the nausea climbing the back of his throat, he levered himself clumsily upright and dropped his feet off the bed. An arm wrapped around his ribs, he groaned as his body protested and slumped forward resting his head in his hand. The ping-pong headache in his skull had become a full-on ice hockey semi-final, with an empty penalty box, and someone had shot the referee.

“You better keep your ass in that bed, Jack,” a familiar voice snapped from the doorway. “Or I swear to God, I’ll have the doctor tie you to it.”

Jack blinked fuzzily, and winced as he turned to find the owner of the voice. “Matty?”

“Mac’s getting the best care in the country.” Matty’s tone softened as she stepped into view. “Bozer’s with him and he’ll let us know the moment anything changes.” She looked as exhausted as Riley, but the determined glint in her eye spoke volumes and Jack pitied any doctor or nurse who got in her way. Well, almost.

“I gotta see him, Matty,” Jack pleaded hoarsely, suddenly aware of how utterly wrecked his voice was. He blinked, the room was doing that spinning thing again; he threw a hand out, gripping the sheets to steady himself. “I gotta be there when he wakes up.”

“And you will,” she countered firmly. “But until your brain knows the difference between the ceiling and the floor, you’re staying put.”

“But–” Jack blinked hazily.

“No ‘buts’,” his boss stopped him. “You literally just got bounced by a bomb, Jack, so park your ass, I’m not telling you again. And I don’t want any more weirdness out of you either; the nurses have their hands full as it is.”

Jack rubbed a temple, his head was killing him with all this talk, and he wondered, after years of running Special Ops missions fueled by nothing more than spit and wishes, how the hell just sitting could make him so tired. There were too many moving parts in this equation – including the room. He frowned as the last comment sank in. “Weirdness?”

Riley gave him a tight smile. “You stirred a few times, rambling about zombies, and portals.”

Jack paused, flushing, then looked away. It didn’t seem so funny now.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere, Jack,” Matty said gently. “You’re not even upright yourself.”

Jack wanted to argue that point on account of him being technically upright, just not all the way, but his stomach gave an unhelpful lurch, and he swallowed. He wondered vaguely what would happen if he tried to stand, but the Jell-O sticks currently masquerading as his legs would probably object. So would Matty, and he wasn’t sure which scared him more.

The urge to fight his way to Mac’s bedside burned through him, but it was taking every ounce of his strength not to fall over. He scratched the thought as his body betrayed him, he swayed forward and would have become one with the floor if it weren’t for a firm pair of hands on his shoulders.

Biting a lip against the pain and doing his best to ignore the clamminess breaking out on his forehead, he dropped his head in defeat. If there was one thing Jack Dalton knew after more than a decade in the military, was how to pick his battles and which hills were worth dying on. He wasn’t winning this one, but he was damn sure he was gonna win the war. He sat for a minute, jaw clenched against the pain that tap-danced with steel-toed boots inside his skull, then grudgingly allowed Riley to ease him back down to his pillows. Exhaustion rushed in and he was barely aware when she slid his feet under the covers.

“Fine,” he mumbled, a touch petulantly and wondered how doing so little had left him utterly spent. Besides, he was sure it was just his pounding headache and not the threats from his diminutive boss keeping him in check.

He blinked, fighting against unbearably heavy eyelids that seemed to have their own agenda. He couldn’t sleep…he couldn’t just lie there lazing about while Mac needed him. He had a job to do – had be there when the kid opened his eyes. It wasn’t even a question, it was just a fact waiting to happen.

Mac had been abandoned so many times, his young life filled with a revolving door of people who proclaimed they cared, then walked away, and Jack had made it his mission to be the one that didn’t – prove that not everyone left. He had to be there, but no matter how hard he fought, tiredness and pain won the battle, and his voice slurred as sleep clawed him under.

“An’th’ng changes…tell me?” he mumbled hopefully, dragging his eyes open again.

Matty patted his arm. “The minute we hear anything, you’ll be the first to know,” she said quietly.

“Y’sure?” His eyes slid unwillingly closed. Damn it. For the life of him, he just didn’t have the energy to keep them open.

“Scout’s honor.”

Jack frowned slightly, his cheek settling against the softness of the pillow and god, it felt good. “You never joined th’ Scouts, Matty,” he mumbled. “Mac, said so.”

“Go to sleep, Jack,” she chided him gently.

He huffed sleepily. “Mmm ‘kay. Gonna close my eyes for a bit, then.”

 “You do that, Jack.” The words were soft and careworn. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Chapter Text

Riley froze on the threshold of Jack’s bright, sunlit room, blinked, frowned and checked her watch. She had been gone ten minutes max, if that. Long enough, apparently, for the lines of World War III to be drawn.

Loudly.

How things had gone from zero to apocalypse, was beyond her, but it was clearly an unfair fight. Jack was swaying, a death grip on the bedrail the only thing keeping him upright, facing off against – three feet in front of him and three feet down – a determined Matilda Webber, blocking his way.

It was interesting, Riley observed as she slid quietly into the room, her boss’s presence impressively filled the space, leaving Jack the one on the small side for once. She winced in sympathy, knowing who was going to win this round. Jack was toast.

The pair were well into what felt like day three of a flaming row, which seemed to have gone from zero to kaboom, in the time it took the barista in the coffee shop in the lobby, to brew a latte. The atmosphere could be described as something akin to the pause just prior to dropping a nuke.

“Get out of my way, Matilda,” Jack growled. “I swear, if I have to resign from the Phoenix to get past you, I will.”

“You do realize how ridiculously illogical that statement is, don’t you, Jack?” Matty said, with exasperation. “I think I’m going to ask the doctor to take another look at your brain scan, because I’m sure he missed whether you have one.”

Jack looked up, catching sight of Riley standing frozen near the door. “Riley,” he pleaded. “Tell her I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are,” came Matty’s snippy reply.

Riley raised an eyebrow at the myriad cuts and bruises that littered Jack’s shaking frame, the row of stitches that disappeared into his hairline and the slightly glazed expression that still haunted his eyes. “Jack, you’re swaying like a drunken sailor.” She set her coffee down on the side table. “Sorry, I’m with Matty on this one.”

Jack glared at her. “Benedict Arnold,” he muttered darkly, adjusting his grip on the rail. Pushing away from the bed, he tried a tentative step, wobbling spectacularly as his knees nearly gave out, a Hail Mary grab at the rail, the only thing stopping him from becoming one with the floor.

Matty sighed tiredly. “Jack…,” she said, her voice heavy with resignation.

Jack slumped against the bed, trembling fingers sliding on the rail, gaze falling to the floor, reluctant in defeat. Riley’s heart broke a little as a war-hardened soldier, injured and in pain, fought back tears the world normally never see.

“Matty,” he whispered softly, his voice shaking with emotion. “Please. I made a promise; said I’d be there for him…he’s been so alone….”

Riley’s gaze moved to Matty, watching the Director of the Phoenix dial her frustration back as she gave Jack a small smile. “No one’s trying to keep you from him, Jack,” she said patiently. “Your doctor will be here shortly on his morning rounds, and if he’s ok with it – and I’m confident he will be – you can see Mac.”

Jack frowned in confusion. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did,” Matty growled. “Twice, actually, but you were already invading North Korea.”

Sinking down on the mattress, Jack blinked slowly as realization set in. “Oh.”

____________

The odor of medical disinfectant was choking, like hospital smell on steroids.

Jack didn’t like to think about places like this…about how much he dreaded them, how much they got under his skin. A lot. Intensive Care was a place where the fight for life and the boundaries of modern medicine were pushed to the absolute limit; the ultimate effort to bring life back from the brink, the edge of a dark chasm from which there was no return. That, and he had been on both sides of the bed, far too many times. And every time he had been helpless.

This was a place where warriors fought a different kind of fight.

His tired eyes roamed the monitors looming over every bed, blinking numbers he would never understand. A nervous shiver ran down his spine; he looked away, his gaze unconsciously drifting to the bank of screens at the nurse’s station, under the watchful eye of the critical care team.

He was surrounded by the soft sigh of ventilators and the hum of forests of IV pumps as they delivered life-saving medications, drop by drop. The whole place was a nightmarish scenario playing out before his eyes that somehow made perfect sense to the people working there. Had Jack a choice, he would have a picked a war zone – any hot spot on the globe – than be where he was in that moment. Somewhere he could actually do something.

The whole feel of the place overwhelmed his exhausted, bruised mind, and the fact Mac even needed to be here…. Jack swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat and rubbed a throbbing temple with trembling fingers, as an ever-present headache pounded away in his skull. He sat, hunched, an arm wrapped protectively around aching ribs as Riley wheeled him through the ICU.

The wheelchair had been the focus of another argument, until his nurse had put her foot down, and given him an ultimatum: back to bed, or wheels. She had also explained how much goddamn paperwork was involved when a patient face-planted, and that the whole idea of hospitals was to get better, not expand on the injury-count…because gravity and stubbornness. He had also lost the war with having his IV removed and the bag swung gently on an attached pole above him. All in all, Jack was feeling curmudgeonly, but it all faded instantly when Riley rolled him into Mac’s room.

It was a gut punch that winded him, sucking the oxygen from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air. The world around him stuttered, bustle and noise disappearing into the background.

See you on the flipside.

The words surfaced…unbidden, surging through a storm of emotion, scattered thoughts and pain. A wave of nausea almost had him retching.

Blond hair tumbled over a thick, white bandage. MacGyver lay motionless, looking young and frail, almost swallowed by the bed and equipment walled around him. A worryingly pale cheek rested against a pillow, heavily bandaged arms limp at his sides. Mac’s chest slowly rose and fell, and Jack found himself watching each breath, willing the next to happen and silently terrified it would not.

And the rest of Mac? Jack blinked away the moisture he was grateful Riley couldn’t see. The kid was peppered with more cuts and bruises than Jack could honestly count. Not a single square inch had escaped unscathed. The kid was patchwork quilt of pain.

The flimsy hospital gown sprouted a bouquet of EKG leads and Jack’s uneasy stare drifted to the monitor over the bed. He watched silent waveforms for heart rate, breathing, oxygenation – and at least another half-dozen weird and wacky numbers that he didn’t even begin to understand – march across the screen in pristine peaks and valleys.

He tried not to think about the IV bags that hung around his partner as he distantly heard Mac’s nurse explaining that the kid was wearing something called High-Flow nasal cannula – a humidified, oxygen thingamajig that was apparently helping him breathe and stay off the ventilator. Mac was breathing on his own. The one, thin silver lining they had.

Jack had never really considered himself technically minded, although he supposed field stripping and reassembling an assault rifle blindfolded in under a minute, might be considered such. He could make a 900-yard kill shot on a breezy day without breaking a sweat.

Windage, spin drift, trajectory, elevation… numbers that made sense and could be used with understanding and sometimes, devastating purpose. Numbers completely useless at the bedside. He didn’t have a clue what was being done for the kid, so long as it worked and brought Mac back from whatever dark place he was trapped in.

A lead weight settled in Jack’s gut as the slow rise and fall of Mac’s chest drew him back. He had failed – failed spectacularly to do the one thing he’d been hired to do; the very reason he existed in the kid’s life. A failure so overwhelming that it threatened to engulf him. The knuckles of the fists clenched in his lap were white with tension his body could not – refused to – release. A gentle squeeze of his shoulder made him flinch; he didn’t deserve sympathy while his partner lay in a coma.

“It’s not your fault, Jack,” Riley said softly.

Jack’s gut writhed with guilt he knew as long as he lived, he would never get out from under. “You weren’t there,” he whispered hollowly.

“No, I wasn’t,” she conceded. “But I could hear everything, and I know Mac; he wasn’t going to walk away from that bomb, Jack. He said as much.”

“I should have done something, Riley.” The words tasted bitter, full of regret.

“Short of physically dragging him out of there in front everyone, what could you have done?” Riley perched on a nearby chair. “Then what? Not sure Mac would’ve forgiven you for that. It was his choice, Jack.”

Jack swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, eyes drawn to where his young partner lay so unnaturally still. “Mac believes, and I mean really believes, there’s a way to make the world a better place. A way without bullets and blood.” He twisted the blanket on his knees. “A way to save one life without taking another, and he’s willing to sacrifice everything to make it true. Our boy is aces at finding answers we’d never dream of, but….” He stared into the distance. “He gives until he loses himself in the solution; thinks his life is the solution.” Jack wiped a cheek he didn’t know was wet. “He loses his balance…doesn’t think he’s worth anything, or saving. And it’s my job to keep him balanced…help him see both sides….” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Remind him of the good he’s done, that the world’s a better place with him in it.” He sighed heavily, filled with tiredness and regret. “I-I should’ve thought of something.”

Riley stood up and rested a warm hand on Jack’s shoulder and gently squeezed it. “I’m gonna go find Bozer, let him know you’re here; he’s probably getting coffee – or trying to. He was trying to convince the hospital barista into doing a non-fat, triple shot almond milk latte, earlier.” She smiled faintly. “It didn’t go well.”

Jack watched her go as he thought of the one question taunting him almost since he’d opened his eyes: could he have changed the outcome? His mind played twisted little games as endless scenarios ran through his head, each one as hopeless as the next. Mac would not have come quietly, there were too many lives at stake.

Jack had to swallow the bitter truth that there was nothing he could do but watch from the sidelines, warming the seat of a wheelchair of all things. He could only be there and hope that somewhere in the darkness, Mac would know he wasn’t alone. The hand in his lap curled into a trembling fist as a feeling of helplessness burned through him in a way he hadn’t felt since….

Afghanistan.

A scorching hell where a two-pronged attack had almost taken Mac’s life, left Jack screaming at his radio and frantically digging through rubble with bloodied hands until he had been physically dragged away to allow the rescue team to take over.

It had been a simple disarmament gone ten kinds of wrong, fifteen miles south of Kabul in the sweatiest armpit of the Sandbox, and the fallout had been nothing short of apocalyptic. Shitty intel hadn’t mentioned a local power shift with the Pashtuns, and a shiny new war lord on the scene had leveled the place as a show of force.

Mac had saved an entire convoy but had been critically injured and honorably discharged from the Army. Jack’s deployment, despite his objections, ended two months later, and he had returned home to discover Mac had disappeared. Weeks of searching and calling in more favors he would care to admit had led Jack to a cabin, deep in the mountains of Northern California; a cabin Mac had inherited from his grandfather. Jack had spent months putting a broken young man, who had given up on life, back together again.

They had survived then.

They would survive now.

But the words felt hollow and meaningless in his head.

Mac’s fingers lay cool and limp beneath Jack’s warm grasp; he squeezed gently as he fought to control the tremble of his own. “Had a bad feeling about this one, hoss.” The words came thick with heaviness and unbearable regret. “Didn’t say nothing about it, though, but I should’ve; might’ve made a difference.” He gently brushed aside a whisp of blond hair. “I know there ain’t much I can do to change things, but I’m gonna nail the bastard who did this, and Jack Dalton keeps his promises. We’re gonna get him, hoss, just a matter of time.” He leaned against the bed, aching and exhausted, and he hated himself for it. Now was not the time to be weak. “So…so you take all the time you need, and we’ll be here waiting when you’re ready.” He squeezed Mac’s hand again as he silently pleaded for movement – a twitch, anything. “We got you, kid,” he whispered. “We got you…just rest.”

“Jack?” Bozer entered, two coffees in hand, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Hey, man. You’re up!” Riley sidled into the room behind him and pulled up one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs.

“Hey Boze.” Tearing his attention away from the still figure in the bed, Jack scrounged a half-hearted smile. “How’s our boy doing?”

Bozer chewed his bottom lip, and Jack could see how the young man – an eternal optimist – was struggling to reframe the impossible into the positive. Bozer finally threw in the towel and shook his head, his face mirroring the worry and fear that plagued Jack himself.

“Mac’s not woken up. Didn’t get half the mumbo jumbo they’ve been tossing around but the EEG thingy looks okay, and the brain guy said he’s got a good chance. Mac’s still in there, so silver lining, right?” Bozer was making a mad run at hopeful again, and Jack wasn’t sure if Bozer was trying to convince Jack or himself, but he appreciated the effort, even if it did nothing to lift the ten-ton weight in his chest.

“They sure about that, Boze?” Jack’s gaze was pinned unwaveringly on his unconscious partner.

The façade of optimism faltered. “No…no, they’re not.” Bozer rounded the bed. “They’re waiting for the swelling in his brain to go down, but the rest is up to Mac.” He brightened again. “But we know he’s got this, right?” Jack almost smiled as Bozer regrouped his optimism magnificently. “You know Mac, he always bounces back.”

“Yeah, man,” Jack murmured with a faint smile. “He’s got this.”

Hours slipped past, and Jack stayed firmly at Mac’s bedside, stubborn determination keeping him upright even as pain and exhaustion crept up, threatening to engulf him. He was unaware he had fallen into a fitful sleep, his head resting on the mattress, until he awoke with a concerned face leaning over him. Jack’s own nurse had hunted him down.

The argument was short and rapidly lost. Listing tiredly in the wheelchair, short, pained breaths pushing against pursed lips, an arm wrapped tightly around his ribs, his protests had promptly fallen flat. The nurse wheeled him out with a steel determination that would have cowed an entire team of tier one Delta Operators, explaining it was nigh impossible to care for a patient when said patient was on an entirely different floor, and not the bed he was supposed to be in.

Jack kept up the loud war of words until the elevator doors closed smoothly behind them. As the buzz of the ICU faded, he realized how utterly spent he was. He slumped in the chair as the aches and pains all lined up with a vengeance, at war with his need to stay with Mac. The ever-present guilt twisted knife-like in his gut…the failure to protect Mac, keep him whole and safe. He couldn’t leave him….

As the elevator started to move, he felt a hand on his shoulder. As if reading his mind, the nurse leaned down and spoke softly in his ear. “If you don’t allow yourself time to heal, Mr. Dalton, how are you planning on being there for your friend? You can’t pour from an empty cup.”

Jack stared at his hands. “Everyone he’s ever cared about has left him,” He replied quietly, ashamed of his weakness, that he had caved so easily. “He’s been alone most of his life. I gotta be there when he wakes up; he needs to know I haven’t left him.”

The nurse squeezed his shoulder. “And you will be. Your friend has a lot of healing ahead of him. He’s going you need you, but you also have your own healing to do.”

He sighed and fiddled with the blanket and silently cursed logical arguments. It felt like mere minutes later that he was sinking into his pillows, cursing himself for the fatigue and pain he felt, his body drifting off to sleep despite his best efforts. He didn’t want to sleep. His place was at Mac’s bedside for however long it took for him to wake up, and laying about wasn’t going to get anything done. But no matter how hard he tried, his eyes closed of their own accord and sleep dug in its claws and dragged him under.

The nurse smiled gently at him as she pulled the covers up and adjusted his IV. “Sleep, Jack. Your friend is in good hands.”

____________

They say the first sense to return is the ability to hear.

The first time MacGyver surfaced, he found himself adrift in a sea of sound. What started as distant whispers and murmurs slowly grew until it pulled him up from the peaceful, dark place his mind had taken refuge in; up through the surface of consciousness until a sluggish, vague awareness unfurled across his mind. His head was filled with a high-pitched ringing, but sounds leaked through…muffled voices, movement around him. He was mildly curious, his mind idling as his senses slowly stirred, but not enough to pursue it. Not enough to care….

His body ached, limbs heavy, weighted with lead, pulling him down into the soft surface he lay on, leaving him unable to move a muscle or twitch an eyelid. He floated on the edge of consciousness, feeling the roughness of material against his skin, followed by the sensation of a warm, gentle pressure on his arm and the sound of a voice….

He sluggishly mulled over the voice in his head, the tone and cadence were vaguely familiar, somehow reminding him of safety and…something else. The voice was important somehow, drawing his attention, but he couldn’t figure out why. He tried to listen, make out the words, but they slipped away, soft and indistinct.

He tried a little harder. There was something about this voice…something he should know…. But his mind felt…wrong…there was something wrong. His thoughts felt tangled, stuck; mired in a no man’s land.

Then, came the pain…a white-hot knife slicing through his head, leaving a blazing trail of agony in its wake. He sensed movement, and the brief, gentle pressure of a warm hand on his shoulder. Another voice was talking, but he could not bring himself to care. The pain was overwhelming, and he took comfort in the darkness once more.

____________

Jack shifted in the recliner and winced as his ribs protested. He ached from head to toe, his muscles reported their discomfort at regular intervals, and he sported a headache that pills barely shaved the edge off. The hours passed in an exhausted haze, time losing meaning as he sat there, watching, and waiting for any reaction, any change. Anything.

He had been discharged two days prior and, despite Matty’s loud objections and direct orders, which he had carefully ignored, he had spent virtually every waking moment at Mac’s bedside since. His young partner, however, had remained pale and unconscious.

Resting a gentle hand on a bandaged arm, he tried to ignore the slender fingers that lay unnaturally still on the sheets; something that almost never happened, even when the kid slept.

“Hey, hoss,” Jack murmured gently. “Sure wish you’d open those baby blues of yours.” He sighed and rubbed tired eyes with the heels of his palms. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep for a week. “Look, I…I know you gotta do this on your own time….” He swallowed down a surge of guilt before continuing. “We just need you to come back to us, man. You’re family…you’re our glue; without you, there ain’t no ‘Us’. Can’t save the world without you, kid.” He dropped his gaze to the floor, shaking his head. “God, Mac, I’m so sorry…I-I should’ve pulled you out. It’s my job to keep you safe, hoss…keep you balanced…and I failed. This….” He slumped tiredly, the heaviness of guilt and regret weighing him down. “…this should never have happened…and that’s on me.”

The soft tread of footfalls pulled Jack from his thoughts as Mac’s nurse entered the room, crossed her arms and stared at the monitor.

Jack glanced up questioningly, his gaze darted between the smooth waveforms marching out on the screen and the young, dark-haired woman in scrubs frowning at the screen.

The nurse narrowed her gaze and pursed her lips. “His heartrate jumped, just for a few moments….”

“That mean anything?”

She shrugged noncommittally, turning to give Jack a faint smile. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve learned over the years that there are many ways patients talk to us. But still….” She looked thoughtfully at her patient, then at the peaks and valleys, flowing silently across the screen.

____________

MacGyver floated in soft darkness. It wrapped around him, cradling and protecting him. It was quiet. Peaceful. It was a place he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave, since the only alternative appeared to be filled with pain.

But as much as he fought to sink deeper into the velvety blackness, he found himself pulled unwillingly back into the light by a voice. It tugged at his consciousness, dragging him from his cocoon of protective silence - foreign yet tantalizingly familiar. He couldn’t explain it, but there was just…something about it. He tried to listen to what was being said, but no matter how hard he tried, only muffled fragments and snippets breached the silent ocean of calm he floated in.

As though it were happening to someone else, he was distantly aware of movement and the sensation of something cool resting against skin. The voice followed him the entire time, soft and soothing, cajoling, gently drawing him up, pushing the darkness back. He breached the surface, awash in a world of sound and sensations, but once again, with awareness came pain.

What was initially a dull, throbbing ache from which he could retreat, evolved into a burning agony that blazed across his skull, sending stabbing fingers of pain to every corner of his body. The pain enveloped him, drowning out the voice, sending the comforting tones skittering to the distant corners of his mind as wave upon wave of pure fire boiled over, consuming everything in its path.

For the first time MacGyver found himself unable to willingly retreat into the welcoming abyss. He lay there as the pain swelled to unbearable heights, and he was helpless to stop it. It flowed through him like a river of molten lava, and he vaguely realized something felt different, felt…wrong. Not only did his head feel like it was splitting open, but his mind hurt. It hurt to think, his thoughts stuttered and scattered under the violent barrage of pain. It hurt to be aware, and it was all just too much. He lay helpless, overwhelmed, his body on fire, as the burning pain roared over him, scorching every corner of his existence.

____________

Jack glanced up, as the monitor above Mac’s bed blazed to life, hammering into overdrive. He watched as the kid’s heartrate skyrocketed, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Then, Mac frowned and turned his head slightly, and it was the most beautiful thing that Jack had seen in a long, long time. He was quite sure that he had never been so thrilled to see an expression on his partner’s face in his entire life. The sound of footsteps heralded the arrival of Mac’s nurse seconds later as she gazed thoughtfully at the monitor with one eye on her patient. The BP cuff whirred as it recycled, and Mac’s pressures were up.

She rested a gentle hand on the young man’s forehead as his expression twisted in pain, chapped lips parting in a silent cry as the nurse assessed the jagged waveforms now dancing across the monitor. She gave Jack a quick, tight smile and stepped out of the room, returning a minute later with a syringe that she twisted onto one of the IV ports and injected its contents. She laid another cool cloth across Mac’s forehead, watching his response. Minutes later, Mac’s vital signs leveled out, settling back to normal. He sighed, his frown slowly smoothing away.

Jack blinked up at the monitor as he squeezed Mac’s hand, his own heart hammering against his ribs. His gaze swept over his partner, then up at the nurse, his eyes full of questions. “The hell was that?”

The nurse sent him an encouraging smile. “That was evidence of discomfort…he’s experiencing pain.” When Jack sent her a confused look, she elaborated, “He’s starting to wake up.”

____________

When MacGyver was pulled up from the darkness again, the pain had dulled to a roar. He surfaced wanting to hear the voice but was instead greeted with a few distant murmurs and a soft snoring nearby.

 He lay for a long while, feeling awareness unfurl sluggishly throughout his body. He ached, but it was tolerable. He tried to move, but his body was weighted with lead, and he found himself barely able to twitch so much as a finger. So, he tried something a little lighter, easier.

It felt like an impossible task. His first attempt completely failed, and he lay for an eternity, fighting despair and panic, feeling utterly shut in and alone. The temptation to give in and sink back into that soft, dreamless place dangled tantalizingly at the forefront of his muddled thoughts, but the failure bothered him. And he needed to hear the voice again. There were things he needed to know, and he knew the voice held the answers.

He tried again, groaning in the silence of in his mind at the effort, but the thought of being trapped in the darkness alone urged him on. He tried and almost failed a second time, but his eyelids eventually parted, and he opened his eyes to dim, fuzzy surroundings. The world was a shadowy blur, filled with dark, distorted shapes that hung beyond his focus. Blinking sluggishly he shifted his gaze, seeking more but the lack of light left the world vague and surreal, as outlines and shadows merged and blended. He frowned, mildly frustrated that what he sought was nowhere to be found.

A loud chirp above his head made him flinch. Soft footfalls, movement, a light flared above him. A soft whimper escaped his lips as he weakly rolled his head away, squeezing his eyes shut as the light sliced into his brain. Panting, he felt his fingers clenching feebly at the sheets and a moment later, the light dimmed.

Then the voice – the one he had been searching, yearning for – spoke softly in the silence.

“Mac?”

There was something about it he could not explain. An instinct buried deep within him just knew the voice promised comfort…promised safety. He found himself drawn toward it, like a moth to a flame, and he didn’t know why.

Then a hand gently cupped his face, guiding his gaze upward. He hesitated, uncertain of what to do, but the soft tones coaxed him outward again and he found himself blinking slowly in the dim light.

“Mac?” the voice repeated, shaking slightly. “You with us, bud? Can you hear me?”

Mac shifted his gaze sluggishly, his eyes moving – searching – for the voice that reached through the aches and pain and somehow found a home deep in his chest. His gaze drifted, finding a blurry shape leaning in toward him. He wasn’t sure what was being asked of him, but something told him acknowledging the voice was important. His vision floated in and out, and then, with what little strength he had, he nodded, just barely.

The sleeping monster lurking at the back of his head roared awake. Mac’s face twisted in pain, a mumbled groan on his lips, and he squeezed his eyes shut, sinking into the pillows. A calloused hand gently cupped his cheek while another engulfed his hand in warmth. The voice spoke to him, a string of soothing words that the pain wouldn’t let him hear, but then it began to fade, and this time, the darkness lost the battle and could not pull him back. He sighed as he slipped into natural sleep, distant words murmuring in his ears.

____________

Jack dozed.

It had taken a minor act of God, arguing his case to the Critical Care team, but they had finally relented and reluctantly allowed him to stay the night, something visitors in the ICU were rarely allowed to do. Matty, he felt, had unfairly taken the side of the doctors, insisting he rest, rather than sit up all night.

It had been a loud, colorful discussion, but if there was one thing Matilda Webber rarely won against, it was the determination of one Jack Dalton when MacGyver was in play. And If Mac was starting to wake up, by God, Jack was going to be there for it, come Hell or high water. The kid would need someone familiar to latch onto, to ground him when he surfaced, and Jack was bound and determined to be that someone. So he found himself napping fitfully in a stiff recliner beside his partner’s bed, an arm wrapped around aching ribs, the monitor hovering over Mac’s bed filling the darkened room with a soft digital glow.

Then something on the monitor flashed, followed by a low chirp, and Mac’s nurse was there, a light above the bed flickering to life. When Jack saw the focus of her attention, his heart leapt into his throat and for a brief moment he couldn’t breathe; couldn’t pull a single breath of air into his lungs because a pair of glazed, sky-blue eyes squinted up at him in the lamplight.

“Mac?” Jack whispered, his heart hammering in his chest.

Jack watched as the kid squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering, trying to turn away from the glare. Mac’s nurse dimmed the light as Jack reached out with a hand that trembled with both hope and anticipation, cupping Mac’s face, gently running a calloused thumb over the kid’s cheek. “Mac?” he said softly, his voice quivering. “You with us, bud? Can you hear me?”

Slowly, glacially, the lidded blue gaze drifted toward him and stared, searching, for several long seconds before nodding almost imperceptibly. Jack watched as the kid sagged back, his face twisted with pain. Mac’s nurse injected something into the IV, and Jack watched the lines on Mac’s face relax and his eyes slid closed as sleep gently embraced him.

And then Jack found himself sagging as a wave of exhausted relief washed over him, his partner’s limp hand resting in his. For the first time in days his heart felt lighter in his chest, a feeling full of equal amounts of worry and hope.

Mac was coming back.

Chapter Text

When MacGyver next opened his eyes, he found himself staring at a hazy, cream-colored ceiling. Soft daylight pushed through blinds on the far side of the room, and he could hear movement and chatter in the distance. For the first time, he found himself mildly curious as to where he was. He blinked slowly, gazing upward as his body registered how it felt. The pain was a minor ache for once which was nice, but his head still felt very strange.

The room was filled with fascinating shapes, and Mac let his gaze wander, his mind finding simple pleasure in taking everything in. The world about him was hazy and unfocused, but everything pulled enticingly at his attention as his mind floated, adrift in light and colors.

“Hey, hoss,” the voice said gently.

It came from nearby, filled with warmth and encouragement, and Mac found himself instinctively tracking it. He sensed a light pressure on his arm and turned his head, his eyes coming to rest on the blurred visage of someone beside him. Someone important; this person had meaning to him, but what that was, escaped him.

He sighed. His gaze drifted back across the room, shapes and colors tugging at his attention, before he found it pulled inevitably back to the hazy figure sitting beside him. A figure that somehow, simply through its mere presence, offered comfort and safety in a way he could not begin to understand, and with exhaustion already starting to pull him back under, he wasn’t going to bother trying.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you with your eyes open, kiddo,” the voice went on, quietly. “You were out for almost a week. Docs said it might take a minute to reboot that giant melon of yours, but things are looking real good so far.”

Mac lifted a hand with some effort and looked at it, slowly flexing his fingers, curiously examining the bandages, as he turned it over. His thoughts were jumbled, he had no idea where he was or what was going on, but that didn’t bother him much. Some things seemed familiar, but when his sluggish brain feebly attempted to make sense of it all, the thoughts slipped away. Yet even in the muddled depths of his mind, he knew something had happened…he hurt from head to toe, his chest ached, and he had no idea why.

He frowned as he tried to think things through, but it made his head hurt. In a raspy, barely audible voice, he sought out the face of the familiar stranger beside him. “Tired…hurt. Why?”

____________

Jack watched with a heavy heart as his young friend with a genius-level IQ stared slowly around the room with childlike wonder as though seeing the world for the very first time. Mac looked impossibly young. Vulnerable. Fragile beneath the thick bandage around his head, the glassy, confused expression and countless swollen cuts and bruises that covered him head to toe.

Swallowing thickly, Jack tried in vain to clear the lump in his throat. None of this would have happened if he had pulled the kid out when he had the chance. The simmering guilt, a constant companion, flooded his being, rising up and taking his breath away. It would have brought him to his knees if he had been standing. Pulling a shaky breath, he looked away, clenching his eyes against the moisture that threatened to spill over. The kid was barely awake and already his brain was pushing for answers.

Where did Jack even begin? How could he explain, the reason the kid was lying in the ICU was because of his complete and utter failure to do the one thing he’d been paid to do. He sniffed wetly, traitorous tears having found another route, despite his best efforts. Looking up, he found the pale blue gaze still fixed on him, trusting and innocent, pleading with Jack to keep him safe, to lead him through the pain and confusion. Jack swallowed a small sob and tried to deliver the most reassuring smile he could, but it was piss-poor. It was the least he could do after all the damage he’d done, and he couldn’t even drum up a simple smile.

MacGyver frowned up at him as his eyes roamed Jack’s face, concern painted his features, clearly trying to understand what he was seeing. He slowly raised a bandaged hand, long fingers reaching a cheek that Jack suddenly realized was wet. Drawing his hand back, Mac stared transfixed at the teardrop on the tip of his finger.

“Sad,” Mac murmured quietly, his frown deepening as the light reflected through the tiny ball of moisture like a glowing prism. Sighing, he looked up again. “Why?”

Jack clasped Mac’s hand and rested it carefully back on the bed. “Well, hoss, you see things kinda went kaboom…,” he began, as though speaking to a young child. “And you had your noggin scrambled a bit.” He gently squeezed his partner’s fingers, watching as the confused gaze followed his every move. “It took you a minute to find your way, but you’re back with us now. Your filing room’s a little messy right now, but I know you’ll put everything back where it needs to be.”

Brushing a wisp of untidy blond hair aside, Jack watched as Mac mulled this over, searching for answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask. The kid’s eyes were heavy as he stared at his bandaged hands, then the blue-eyed gaze shifted and fixed firmly on Jack, and the older agent could see the wheels trying to turn, stuttering and failing, but trying, nonetheless.

“Okay,” Mac whispered in a small voice, accepting Jack at his word. With a small sigh, he closed his eyes and slept.

____________

The sound of a muffled thud jolted Jack awake.

The days and hours had blended into one another, the past week felt like a compressed year. Bozer and Riley visited every day, but he had waved off their offers to help. Jack was still healing himself and another heated debate with Matty had ended with him promising to take it easy and rest, where possible. But rest that didn’t come easy with a confused MacGyver. The kid’s ginormous brain had been restless and spinning and it was taking every ounce of patience and coordination between Jack and the nursing staff to keep him still. It was a battle that, in Jack’s humble opinion, Mac won more often than he lost.

 The recliner wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but somehow, he had been tired enough to nod off as Mac slept. Pushing upright, he glanced over to find an empty, disheveled bed. A stifled sob broke the silence as Jack launched himself out of the chair and around the bed to find his young partner in a tangled heap on the floor, IV lines and sheets twisted around him. One bandaged arm cradled his head, while the other wrapped protectively around his ribs. His eyes were tightly shut, his face pinched with pain.

Releasing a mildly exasperated sigh, Jack knelt down. “Geez, bud. What were you thinking?” He looked down worriedly as confused, pale blue eyes struggled to focus on him. “Hoss, you’re gonna to royally piss off the nurses if you keep testing gravity like this.”

“Head…pain. Hurt,” Mac’s voice quivered softly. “Why?” He stared around the room, then tracked back to Jack. “Lost,” he whispered pleadingly, long fingers reaching up, curling around Jack’s shirt. “Help.” His clouded, blue eyes searched desperately for answers.

And in that singular moment, Jack’s heart shattered, shaking him to his core. Seeing Mac like this was soul-crushing; as confused as he was, his bruised brain was still desperately searching, still trying to figure things out. He carefully rested his hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Let’s get you back to bed first, then I’ll explain everything. Okay, kiddo?”

He watched as Mac’s gaze darted anxiously about the room, then centered back on him again. The kid’s eyes were always drawn back to him, following his every move as though Jack was his anchor in a deep, stormy ocean. Sliding his arms beneath Mac’s lean form, he carefully lifted him back to bed, straightening the blankets and IV lines, mildly impressed that nothing had been disconnected for once. He glanced up as he finished, to find Mac frowning as he studied Jack curiously, like a child contemplating how a new toy worked. He had curled up on his side, bandaged arms held protectively close to his chest. His gaze fixed on Jack. The young man’s brow creased in concentration, his wheels turning, as if trying to process who Jack was.

“Mac, you hurting?” Jack perched on the side of the bed, a hand resting on MacGyver’s arm.

The young man glanced about, frowning, then looked up. “Mac,” he repeated slowly as though testing the word.

“Yeah, hoss, that’s you. You need something for pain?” Jack watched as the kid’s brow furrowed as Mac carefully thought it through, his normally brilliant brain struggling to process his thoughts. Jack waited patiently until Mac looked up, still frowning; he nodded slowly.

Leaning over, Jack pressed the call light and motioned to the nurse when she entered.

“Why?” A single word, said softly, that spoke volumes. Mac followed Jack’s every movement, his blue eyes questioning and filled with sad, childlike innocence. It was something that Mac – a fully functioning Mac – would never let him, let alone the world, see; the lost, abandoned boy, looking for answers, acceptance and affection.

Rubbing tired eyes, Jack sighed, “You see, kiddo, things kinda went kaboom….”

____________

The edge of the doorframe dug into Jack’s shoulder as he swallowed a mouthful of hot, bitter, hospital coffee and watched gentle rise and fall of his young partner’s chest. The peace and quiet of the room belied the seriousness of the kid’s injuries as Mac shifted in his sleep. It was a miracle Mac was even alive, no thanks to him, but even then, a tight knot of fear had lodged in Jack’s chest as he questioned the cost. Who would come out on the other side? Would Mac even be Mac, at the end of it all? Would he be responsible for them losing the Mac they all knew and loved, forever?

“He’s going to be okay,” a voice murmured quietly, as though reading his thoughts.

Jack startled to find one of the ICU physicians beside him, hands shoved in the pockets of his white coat. He followed the doctor’s gaze back to his sleeping partner and sighed.

“He’s been through hell, but he’ll get through this,” the doctor went on mildly. “His prognosis is quite good. Within reason, of course.”

“Within reason?” Jack turned to the man whose gaze stayed fixed on his patient.

The doctor gave Jack a warm but tired smile. “Neurology is a weird science. It’s part educated guess, part fortune-telling. I’m very good at predicting the future but the truth of it all, is much of the healing is up to the patient, and your boy here has a very unique brain.”

Jack huffed softly. “You have no idea.”

“He’s getting better in leaps and bounds, it just may not be in ways you understand.”

“It’s just…hard to see him like this,” Jack admitted. “Kid’s a genius – he didn’t deserve any of this.”

 “No one ever does.” The doctor agreed. “But we’re the best at what we do here. He’s going to be a little confused and loopy until his brain is ready to deal with the world again, you just gotta have some patience.”

Jack raised an incredulous eyebrow as his eyes traveled back to his sleeping partner. “A little?”

The doctor chuckled dryly. “He’s kept the nurses on their toes, that’s for sure but at least he’s not the linebacker we had in here a month ago who tried to use the staff for batting practice. The brain can do funny things when it’s injured.” He nodded at Mac. “As for where he goes from here? That’s up to him.”  

The doctor patted Jack on the shoulder and shuffled off to speak with a nurse, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Jack sighed again.

____________

It was late. The clock on the wall had left midnight behind, hours ago. Soft lighting and hushed conversations filled the silence as the critical care team went about their duties.

The man stood silently, wrapped in shadows, a barely-there silhouette hovering near the bed of the sleeping blond boy. He watched with attentive curiosity as the peaks and valleys, measuring every heartbeat and breath, unfolded across the monitor above the bed. The boy moaned softly in his sleep, eyes shifting restlessly beneath their lids. Dreaming.

A soundless step, a shift in the shadows and the man loomed over the bed, examining the boy closely, taking in every cut and bruise with an eager eye.

“We meet again, MacGyver….” The words flowed with a soft, lilting cadence in the hollow silence of the room.. “Although, I confess you do keep surprising me, and it has been quite the delightful experience, I must add. I find myself particularly impressed because, you see, no one has ever survived disarming that particular bomb before, and yet you did it, barely breaking a sweat.”

Tilting his head, the dark, shadowy presence watched as the boy turned his head, frowning in his sleep. “It was supposed to be a final gift of sorts…one I did not anticipate you surviving, and yet….” A soft, amused laugh filled the room. “Here we are.”

The man leaned over and ran his fingers lightly through the boy’s tousled, blond locks. “You are fun, MacGyver, so much so I do believe I’ll keep you around to play with just a little longer. If only because you push me to better myself like no other; it has been quite the fun adventure, I must say.”

Swathed in darkness, the man shifted slightly, then continued, his voice distant with memory. "Across the Pond…ah, well, we played in the Sandbox as children are wont to do, but now….” He leaned in, his gaze boring into the sleeping boy. “But now…now we step outside of the playground, I think, and I eagerly await until we meet again. You have more to give…so much more. I’ll be watching very closely, MacGyver, and when you’re ready, we shall play again….” He ran the back of a finger lightly down the boy’s cheek, then melted seamlessly back into the shadows.

Mac stirred, blinked slowly and stared drowsily around the room. Something had woken him and his tired, confused mind tried to disentangle the room from the shadows. He lay there feeling as though he was floating in a dream. Somewhere, in the back of his befuddled mind, an alarm bell started ringing quietly and his heart rate kicked up a notch on the monitor. Something felt wrong.

Soft footfalls entered and the smell of coffee filled the room. A steaming cup was carefully deposited nearby, then someone was leaning over him, and he gasped and flinched away. A soft light flickered to life nearby and a hand rested lightly on his arm. “Mac, what are you doing awake, bud? You need anything?”

Mac squinted in the sudden brightness, blinking sleepily up at the hazy face above him. He frowned and shook his head, his eyes slipping closed, feeling sleep tug at him again once more. He couldn’t say why but the danger was gone. The man beside him would keep him safe.

Somehow he just knew.

____________

Random images tumbled through MacGyver’s dreams…a crumbling room with a glowing box…a place filled with smoke and fire…a world leveled by devastation. Mystery faces he was sure he should know, swam tantalizingly in and out of focus. An ever-growing maelstrom of tangled memories tore through his mind in a deluge of sound and light. He gasped. He was drowning. None of it made sense…snippets, voices, random flashes that had him flinching, falling back.

Then suddenly the world fell silent, and he found himself standing in a dry, dusty landscape, filled with gnarled, dead shrubs and grotesquely twisted trees. The air hung dead and still. Turning, the crunch of dead leaves beneath his shoes was loud in the silence. He looked around, his eyes falling on a looming, dilapidated manor, windows dark and sinister. He shivered as the sky grabbed his eye, a gray nothingness that pulled at him.

He looked away, his gaze falling on a large, imposing stone wall encircling the house. It towered above him and reflected the light…wrong. He frowned. The light writhed strangely through each stone, creating an odd, pearly sheen that gave him a headache. Clearly following the laws of physics was an optional extra here. Hell, the whole place felt strange and ominous…yet oddly familiar and completely wrong, all rolled up into a confusing ball. His head hurt.

A shiver squirmed down his spine as the motionless air shifted. He turned. There were eyes on him – he could feel it. Something was watching. A shadow flitted between the trees, flickering on the edge of his vision, a whisper of darkness moving too fast for him to grasp clearly. Heart thudding, he turned again, trying to see who or what was following him. His breath catching in his chest, he backed up until he felt the reassuring rough bark of a tree against his back.

What the hell was this place?

A slow, screeching groan filled the stagnant silence. He covered his ears, the sound building to a deafening pitch threatening to bring him to his knees. The walls of the old manor were heaving and warping, mortar and shingles cracked and fell. With a groan of distressed walls and beams, and a loud crack, brick and timber twisted and snapped, and the old building began to float apart; piece by piece, thousands of bricks drifted silently upward and outward, eerily filling the space around him in clear defiance of gravity. He watched as a brick floated silently past; reaching out, he brushed it with his fingertips. It dropped instantly, landing with a heavy thud in the dirt.

The debris field grew like an exploded diagram from Hell, and he could do nothing more than watch helplessly as countless bricks, doors and windows slowed to a stop, suspended like someone had hit the pause button on an explosion.

Then, thunder growled across the gray nothingness, and clouds poured into the sky like black ink in water. Slamming into the ground with an elaborate splash, the inky darkness surged outward, ruthlessly swallowing everything in its path.

Panicked, Mac stumbled backward, his foot catching on a root landing him sprawling in the dirt as every last speck of light winked out around him until there was nothing but total, all-encompassing blackness and the sound of his breathing.

Then something grabbed him.

Hands were coming out of nowhere, reaching for him, pulling, holding him down. He screamed, kicked and fought, but it did no good. The hands won. They always did.

Around him, bricks rained from the sky.

____________

The darkness spun away and suddenly the hands were real. Panic clawed at MacGyver’s mind, filling it with menacing shadows as he thrashed and fought them off. No matter how hard he tried, there was always another hand blocking him, holding him down.

“Whoa there, hoss, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Someone gripped his shoulders as he weakly tried to roll away. He grabbed at his throat trying in vain to suck in a breath, to pull in air that never seemed to come, but his hands were pulled firmly down to the mattress.

“C’mon Mac, breathe for me.”

Mac tossed his head on the pillow, gasping and choking. The was no air, his lungs had frozen in his chest and refused to comply. The world began to narrow and dim, the voices fading into the distance.

Someone firmly shook his shoulders. “Goddammit, Angus, breathe!”

Mac’s eyes flew open, his body arching reflexively upward, as it sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. There was a warm pressure on his chest and the vague outline of a face above him. Something above his head was screeching, the noise slicing through his skull like a hot knife. More hands placed something plastic over his face and cool air brushed against his face.

Sagging back into the pillows, he clenched his eyes shut, as the trembling subsided. Then a warm hand clasped his as his breathing slowed and evened out.

“Easy does it. You’re good now, hoss, but I reckon your brain has been trying to do some filing in your sleep.”

Mac blinked tiredly at the blurry figure leaning over him, his brow furrowing because, as sentences went, that one made absolutely no sense. He shifted uncomfortably as the familiar aches and throbs set up shop around his body. The ice pick was back, drilling into his skull and he scrunched his eyes in pain, turning his face to the pillow. Then, something cool was flowing up his arm, and the pain was fading again. His eyes were so heavy they closed before he even realized it. As he drifted off, a calloused hand gently cupped his cheek.

“See you on the flip side, kiddo.”

Chapter Text

“Electonotic radiotron is carried by particles, called pohtons, which interact with elections. Depending on the experiment pohtons can behave as particles or waves.” The reader stumbled haltingly through the end of the sentence, systematically butchering every last word of it. If it wasn’t so bad, it would be art.

MacGyver frowned, as the mangled words flowed across his consciousness like nails on a chalkboard. He eased himself into a more comfortable position, tugging the blanket higher. “It’s electromagnetic radiation, photons and electrons, Jack,” he corrected quietly, without opening his eyes.

Silence.

Then a soft, uncertain question. “Mac?”

Mac cracked an eye as Jack’s face swam into focus. “Yeah?”

“You-you know me?”

Mac blinked both eyes open and frowned blearily at his partner who was – quite alarmingly – nose-deep in one of Mac’s old textbooks. Swallowing, he glanced around the room, before returning his gaze to his partner’s face, which appeared to be hovering somewhere between overwhelming relief and worry. Then, in a voice that was thick with disuse, he rasped, “Why wouldn’t I?”

Shoving the book aside, a buffet of emotion crossed the older agent’s face as he clearly struggled to find the right words. “Well, hoss, you’ve been…. Well, let’s just say you’ve been a little…forgetful for the past while,” came the eventual, cautious reply.

Mac could sense his partner hedging his bets a mile away.

“What’re you on about?” He blinked sleepily at his friend, his frown deepening.

“You don’t remember?” It was Jack’s turn to frown.

“Remember what?” Mac rubbed an aching temple. “You’re not making any sense, Jack.”

“The past week or so has been more than a little FUBAR to be honest, man.” Jack sighed, running tired fingers through his hair.

Mac let his eyes drift shut again, burrowing into the pillows as the tug of sleep pulled him down. “It’s probably because you’re mangling the fundamentals of Quantum Mechanics, Jack,” he murmured. “And single-handedly sending us back to the Dark Ages.”

“Well, in my defense, photon does begin with a ‘P’, and not an ‘F’,” Jack replied indignantly, glaring at the page, but Mac was already sound asleep.

____________

The next few days passed in a blur. MacGyver’s headaches waxed and waned, and he found himself frustrated with his inability to remain awake for more than a few hours at a time. From the moment he had awakened, it felt as though the world had been cranked to eleven…everything was too loud or too bright. More often than not, he found himself retreating into the dark, blinds drawn, buried beneath the blankets, hiding from the world, Jack, and perhaps even himself.

Jack – to  Mac’s profound annoyance – remained camped at his bedside, hovering over his every need, with Bozer, Riley and Matty passing through at regular intervals, although the details of their visits only lingered in his thoughts as concerned expressions and get well wishes. There had been an explosion, that much he knew, but Jack was being frustratingly vague about the details.

One of Phoenix’s doctors had carefully discussed a litany of injuries that Mac really did not want to hear about in the slightest. Knowing had not helped, he concluded, just layered on another frustrating reason why he was in a hospital bed and not his own. The words had flowed into his brain, and he wanted nothing more than to make them stop.

He had sustained a serious head injury – he already knew this – apparently involving a linear skull fracture, and a subdural hematoma with intracranial swelling. It had taken two CT scans and an MRI, he did not remember having, to confirm the clot was stable, and would most likely resolve on its own.

The doctor had pressed on, explaining that Mac had collected an impressive number of lacerations and bruises, along with a wrist fracture, three broken ribs, and a grand total of twenty-four stitches on his head, in two places. And to cap it all off, he had also somehow managed to shred his palms, although how that had happened completely escaped him.

The ringing in his ears was apparently expected, as was the blurry vision, but both were already improving. His short-term memory would be a little iffy for a while, but long-term…besides missing ten days of his life, his memory of the explosion was completely gone – wiped from existence. He hazily recalled the warehouse, the cartel, a confused assortment of images and impressions, then waking up, listening to Jack mangling the principles of Quantum Mechanics.

Somehow, in between all of this, he had managed to squeeze almost a week in the UCLA Neuro-surgical ICU, and a transfer to Phoenix Medical, neither of which he remembered, either. His memory – his ability to retain so much about the world around him – was full of holes, and his brain felt like Swiss cheese.

Physically, the doctors told him he would make a full recovery, but it would take time. They were more cautious about his cognitive abilities. It was a wait and see game, they said – no promises.

And in the silence of his head, Mac felt like he was losing what little he had left of his mind.

____________

“MacGyver?”

The words arrived from far away and it took a moment before Mac realized they were aimed at him. Reluctantly, he pulled his attention from the window and rolled his head toward the owner of the voice.

“Yeah?”

Dr. Michael Owens – or Dr. Mike, as he preferred to be called – Phoenix Med’s, Chief of Staff, leaned against the foot of the bed, and crossed his arms. “I think I lost you there for a moment. Do you remember what we were talking about?” he asked mildly, a slight frown creasing his brow.

Mac resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The good doctor had been droning on about the symptoms he could expect to experience for a while. The laundry list was endless and depressing…fatigue, headaches, photophobia, dizziness…all this and more, would be his happy companions for a while. Mac did not want to hear about it.

“Does it matter?” Mac replied eventually, knowing saying so would be akin to throwing down a gauntlet with the man.

The physician ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair then pulled up a stool at the bedside with a sigh. “You have a serious head injury, Mac, and not one people just bounce back from. This isn’t simply one of the many concussions both you and Dalton have managed to ignore over the years – which is an entirely different conversation that needs to be had, I might add. This is going to take time and patience, and you, above all, need to give yourself that space to heal. This isn’t something that can be rushed.”

Nodding absently, Mac’s gaze drifted out the window again, where the distant ocean sparkled under the warm California sun. He desperately wanted to be anywhere here: tired, weak, and dependent on someone for even the simplest of things. Letting his eyes slide closed, he felt a light pat on his leg as Dr. Mike stood up to leave.

“Give yourself the time,” the physician urged gently. “You might surprise yourself at how quickly you heal.”

Mac turned back wanting to dissect the sentence right down to its contradictions, but the door was already swinging shut, the silence broken only by Jack breezing in with a tray of burgers and fries that he deposited in front of his partner.

“Mike says you’re not really eating and could use some fattening up. I mean, the food here is downright nasty.” He shuddered. “So can’t really blame you there. Figured I would grab you something from that little 24-hour burger joint down the street we usually hit after a mission.”

The tray was piled high with fries and a greasy burger, oozing cheese onto the small cardboard carton. Mac’s stomach turned and he swallowed down a surge of queasiness. Sighing he rolled away, ignoring Jack’s concerned expression and stared out the window again, wishing he was anywhere but where he was.

____________

And then there were the dreams…if one could call them that.

To be honest, he was not sure what they were. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he was haunted by bizarre images that made no sense…finding himself standing on an eerie, deserted landscape, surrounded by a towering stone wall, the air filled with floating debris…or trapped in a room with a glowing box and an impossible task he could never finish in time.

And through every dream, something followed him…nothing more than a vague shift in the darkness, a glimpse of a shadow in the background, that he could never quite make out. An ominous feeling of being watched that had begun with vague unease but was growing stronger, filling his sleep with nightmares that he could never quite shake. And there were the hands. Hands coming out of everywhere and nowhere, grabbing, suffocating him, pulling him down into darkness.

He shuddered.

Outside of the dreams, his mind felt slow, stumbling and struggling with the most basic of concepts. Things that had come to him with ease before, now took repetition. The stirrings of panic were beginning to grow in the pit of Mac’s stomach as he wondered whether he would ever be the same again. Whether things would ever return to normal – the way they had been before. Would he even have a place at the Phoenix anymore? Would they even want him?

Every time he tried sorting through the clutter in his head, his thoughts locked up and spiraled. It was as though someone had sliced his mind to ribbons. His memories were a chaotic mess of confused images. It was an effort just to think, and the harder he tried, the more his head hurt. He had gone from being able to multi-task at breathtaking speeds, to barely being able to remember what he had eaten for lunch.

His headaches soared as his bruised brain struggled to meet the demanding needs of its owner, and Mac wished everyone would just leave him the hell alone to sort through the mess in his head. The energy it took to hold it all together in front of a steady flow of visitors, was driving him past exhaustion. He was suffocating and needed to get away – away from Phoenix Med and all the hovering hands and watchful eyes. He had asked – repeatedly – when he was going to be discharged, and the response he received time and again, had been a vague, ‘soon.’

____________

Jack watched as his partner turned over, cocooned in blankets, face buried in the pillow. Since he had fully awakened, Mac had been quiet and withdrawn. He slept restlessly, nightmares plaguing his dreams. He hardly spoke, barely touched his food and was found frequently lost in his thoughts, his gaze a hundred miles away. Jack’s concern for his partner was ratcheting up daily, and no one seemed able to get past the kid’s walls. Mac was determined to shut everyone out and – much to Jack’s rising frustration and worry – he was succeeding.

They had all taken shifts, making sure Mac was never left alone to struggle. Bozer had eked a smile from Mac at his jokes, but Jack easily saw it for what it was, a façade hiding a soul in pain.

The blankets shifted again, followed by a soft, painful grunt.

Jack rested a hand on Mac’s shoulder. “How you doing there, kid?”

“Headache,” came the muffled response.

“You need something for it?”

Mac squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face deeper into his pillow, then reluctantly nodded. He hated the drugs. Hated the fact that he needed them, but he wanted something – anything – to make the pain go away and stop his brain from trying to burst from his skull. He just wanted to sleep and be left alone. What he would give for ten minutes without someone hovering over him, watching his every move. When the pills arrived, he ignored Jack’s concerned gaze and took them willingly, curled up as tightly as his sore body would allow and waited for sleep to come. When it did, he welcomed it with open arms, and for once, it was blessedly free of nightmares.

____________

The room was darker when he woke. Beyond the window, the red and orange glow of dusk filled the sky. Rolling over, Mac found himself alone for the first time since he could remember. He stared at the ceiling, savoring the silence, the rare solitude. The doctors had kept him on bedrest for the most part, only allowing brief, assisted walks with physical therapy, or to the recliner. But he wanted – needed – to move under his own steam, feel that there was still some part of him that was functional – still useful.

He sat up slowly and swung his feet off the bed, muttering a low moan of pain as his body protested the effort. The world tilted madly, and he clamped his eyes shut until it leveled out. Drawing in several measured breaths, he ignored the pounding at the back of his head. He pulled the IV stand toward him and gingerly slid off the bed until he felt the cool, laminated floor beneath his bare feet.

It felt good to be able to do something, even as simple as standing, without people hovering around him, hovering over his every move. He closed his eyes as his knees trembled slightly and cursed the weakness he felt. Just a few weeks ago he had been running six miles a day with ease, and now…now he was excited he could stand. He stared at his feet, feeling the heaviness in his chest, blinking away tears; tears of frustration and…grief? Mourning a part of himself possibly gone forever….

Impulsively, he pushed away from the bed and took a step, leaning heavily on the IV stand, his broken wrist in its brace held protectively against his chest. He could do this – he could stand upright under his own steam – he could be himself again. Legs trembling, he took another step, then another. He was half-way to the window, and it felt like he had run a marathon. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and everything swam around him. The room spun slowly, and he blinked, trying to clear his vision. Almost there. He could do this.

Then the world tunneled, faded to gray, and his traitorous legs folded beneath him. He hit the floor with a fleshy thud, his vision whiting out as his broken ribs absorbed the impact. He distantly heard himself cry out as the IV stand crashed down beside him, the pump alarm screeching. The hard floor dug into his bruised body as he lay there, his chest on fire, gasping for air, the room fading around him.

Then, as though coming from miles away, he heard pounding footsteps, running, shouting and he opened his eyes to find Jack leaning over him, worried and concerned. He was saying something, but Mac was in too much pain to pay attention. His head felt like it was going to explode. Hands slid under his shoulders, and he angrily shoved them away. Hands. Always hands, prodding, controlling, and hovering over him like he was an invalid. Never giving him a moment of peace.

The room had filled with people, ready to manhandle him back to bed, but Jack held up a hand and waved them off.

“Dammit, Mac! I leave for five goddamn minutes…. What in the Sam Hill were you thinking?”

Mac closed his eyes, grimaced, and turned his face away.

“Did you hit that noggin of yours?”

He shook his head, wincing as pain crawled up the back of his skull. “Just…leave me alone, Jack.”

His partner exhaled exasperatedly. “Sure, kid. That makes complete sense. I’ll just leave you here lying on the floor, shall I? I can see the appeal, cold and hard.”

“I have to get out of here,” Mac whispered, desperation shaking his voice. “I–I can’t take this anymore. I can’t…I need–I need to…I just can’t….” his voice trailed off as he clenched his eyes shut, a traitorous tear escaping down his temple.

Jack sighed softly and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “The docs are working on that, bud,” he explained gently. “I wish I had an answer for you, but I don’t.”

Mac could feel his partner’s gaze on him as he lay on the hard, unforgiving tile. Curling up as far as his body would allow, he turned his face to the floor, fighting to hold back the sob of despair threatening to break free.

“How about we get you off the floor?” Jack said. “Trust me, the view is way better from the bed.” He reached down to take a hold of Mac’s arm, only to have his partner smack it away.

“I said, leave me alone!” Mac growled between clenched teeth. He knew he was being irrational, and lying on the floor was not an option, but just once he just wanted to have a say, to draw a line in the sand.

“Mac, please,” Jack implored him, quietly.

“Go away, Jack!”

Jack drew in a deep breath, and counted to ten, then to twenty. Then he counted another ten, for good measure. “This is not negotiable, bud,” he said gently. “Feel free to hate me later. You’re getting up off this floor, hoss, and you’re gonna let these nice nurses check you out, and make sure you ain’t rattled none of your marbles, capiche?”

Mac scowled up at Jack, but before he could respond, Jack’s arms slid under him, he was being lifted from the floor and deposited back on the bed. He shoved his partner away, dragging himself as far up in the bed as he could.

“Leave me alone!” he snarled.

“Angus,” Jack said softly. “You know I can’t do that. You’re not thinking clearly right now. We need to make sure you’re standing on your own two feet again.”

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it, Jack?” Mac spat back him. “I can’t stand on my own two feet.” He rolled himself up in the blankets and resolutely turned his back on his partner.

Jack gritted his teeth and started counting again.

An hour later, Jack sat quietly in a corner and watched his partner sleep. Mac had refused to be examined or allowed the nurses to restart the IV that had been yanked out when he had fallen. He had also rejected a CT scan recommended by Dr. Mike to evaluate whether the fall had impacted his ribs or head injury. The only thing he had accepted were some painkillers and had then buried himself in the blankets and gone to sleep.

Jack stared out the window as the first stars of the evening appeared in the sky – and worried about the young man in the bed. He was tired, still recovering himself, but he had no choice but to be there for Mac. His eyes wandered back to the sleeping form of his angry partner.

His logical, easygoing friend with a heart of gold – always welcoming, always ready to solve the world’s problems – was lost. And with every wall imaginable up, he was unsure whether he could help him find his way, but there was no question he was sure as shit gonna try.

____________

Leaning wearily against the wall outside MacGyver’s room, Jack closed his eyes. Part of him wanted to scream at the sky, and the other part wanted to shake his partner until his teeth rattled. The kid was stubborn, obstinate and debated every little thing the nurses wanted to do, usually rejecting all of it. When he wasn’t making the nurses' lives absolute hell, Mac was curled up under the blankets ignoring the world at large. No one was getting anywhere, and the more they pushed, the higher the walls went. It was a no-win standoff with the patient holding all the cards, although Jack wasn’t about to tell Mac that.

The familiar sounds of arguing floated through the open door as Jack dropped his head against the wall. The kid didn’t want to be here, and by god he was not above venting his spleen and sharing his displeasure with the world about it. The fact that Mac was arguing was probably a good sign, in a way, but Jack had a feeling there was something more going on than just wanting to escape the clutches of Medical. Something that stirred a deep sense unease inside when paired with the box of untouched paperclips that sat at Mac’s bedside. It had been there for days without the kid so much as acknowledging its existence.

And Mac wasn’t talking. To anyone. Jack had tried until he was blue in the face and received sullen, one-word answers with an undertone that essentially told him to fuck off. He was also quite sure there had been a silent middle finger inserted in there somewhere.

He sighed.

An angry, “I said, no!” reverberated from the room, followed by a small crash as something hit the floor.

An exasperated sigh caught Jack’s attention, and he looked up as Stephanie Williams stepped out of the room, pinching the bridge of her nose with frustration. Crossing his arms over his chest, Jack leaned a shoulder against the wall.

“So, that was a no-go, I’m guessing?”

 “He’s still refusing the IV, and I just endured a 15-minute dissertation as to why he doesn’t need one. The nurse sent him an exasperated look. “I felt it was best to end it when he started quoting medical literature and threatened to invoke PubMed on me.”

“Pity.” Jack peered through the doorway at the angry pile of blankets MacGyver had morphed into. “There’re a lotta things that’d help him calm down and rest if we could get that back in.”

Irritably blowing an errant strand of hair from her face, Steph rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m well aware of that, Jack, and unfortunately, so is he.”

“Has Ivy tried at all?”

Williams leveled him with a look. “We still haven’t repaired everything from her last visit. It was like Armageddon. I’m reasonably sure we’re going to have to remodel when he’s discharged. Webber had us remove every chemical in the room, right down to the hand soap.”

Jack smiled tightly. “Smart woman.”

Shaking her head, the nurse turned to go. “At least nothing has exploded or been set on fire. Yet.”

Jack sighed as the nurse stalked off, muttering under her breath, clutching the remnants of the IV kit. He craned his neck to peek into the room, noting the pile of blankets had not moved, then rolled back against the wall. Closing his eyes, he wondered just how far the kid was going to push this. Knowing MacGyver, all the way to the end and then some. God, he was tired.

“So, how’s our boy doing?”

Opening his eyes, Jack found Dr. Mike smiling encouragingly at him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his white coat. Jack replied with a tired, level stare designed to strip paint from wood.

Mike chuckled lightly. “That good, huh?”

“It gets any better, you’re gonna have to rebuild the top floor.”

“Mac certainly does have a way of making his feelings known,” the doctor agreed amiably, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Jack pushed away from the wall and peered back into the room at the pile of blankets. “I dunno how to help him, doc,” he said quietly. “Never seen the kid like this, not even in the Sandbox.”

Dr. Mike dropped a comforting hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Sometimes it’s a matter of waiting, Jack. He’s been through a lot and he’s spinning right now. We all know he hates being here and we can’t force him or make him do anything against his will. Stand back and give him some space. Sometimes patience is the answer.”

Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow. Every inch of him was thrumming with the need to be there for his partner; to fix whatever was wrong. Standing around doing nothing made him feel like he wanted to explode. He shook his head. “No offense, doc, but that has to be the worse pep talk you’ve ever given.”

The physician grinned. “But true, though, no matter which way you slice it.”

Jack found himself cursing logical arguments again.

____________

The following days saw MacGyver throwing himself into his physical therapy. He pushed himself until he felt his head would explode, and then he pushed some more. He barely spoke, picked at his food, and ignored the worried glances from his friends, stubbornly shrugging off any offered help. The ice pick was an almost constant companion now, but he was winning. He could now walk to the door unaided, and the day after that, down the hall and around the Nurse’s station.

Two days after that, Jack found his partner fully dressed, sitting on the side of the bed, awkwardly trying to tie his shoelaces one-handed.

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Where, in the name of my momma’s Sunday apple pie, do you think you’re going?”

“Home,” came the curt reply as Mac yanked on a lace.

“Does the doc know?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell him.” Mac tugged on a knot, ignoring the look he knew his partner was sending his way.

“Hoss, you really shouldn’t–”

“Shouldn’t what, Jack?” Mac’s head snapped up, pinning the other man with an icy blue glare as he worked at his laces. “You want to keep me here day after day, just staring at the ceiling?”

“You need to heal, bud.”

“I can do that at home,” Mac countered sharply. “I don’t need to be here anymore.”

Clumsily pulling the final knot tight, dropping his foot down, he paused, staring silently at the floor, his mind scrolling through all the blanks – the things he didn’t remember. Everyone was dancing around him on eggshells, and it was driving him mad.

“What happened?” he asked quietly. “…with the explosion. I don’t remember any of it; before or after.”

Jack found himself taking a step into the room before he even realized it. Every inch of his being was drawn to the kid sitting on the bed, wanting to be there to comfort and steady him in a world that had become so off-kilter he clearly didn’t know which way was up anymore. He could also read Mac better than anyone else, and the kid’s body language was all but screaming stay away.

Closing his eyes briefly, drawing on every ounce of self-control he had, Jack stepped back and leaned against the doorframe, keeping his distance. He had seen the fear and confusion when Mac had first awoken; seen him question, flounder and search for answers. Jack knew this conversation had been coming, but it hadn’t made him dread having it any less, especially within the confines of Phoenix Medical.

“Look, Mac, you sure you wanna–”

“What the hell happened, Jack?” Mac snapped irritably. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Jack bit his lip and stared calmly at the young man, his heart aching fiercely. The kid looked tired and pale but had a determined look on his face that Jack knew all too well. It was a look that generally ended in trouble more often than not. It was also a look that usually preceded explosions of some kind. Feeling the angry blue gaze on him, he sent a resigned glance toward his partner and caved.

“Some kids messing around in an old house found a bomb, and the FBI got involved. They looped Charlie in, and he took one look and asked that you be called. He thought the design was kinda similar to that Ghost dude….” His voice trailed off.

“And was it?” Mac dropped his eyes to the floor, his heart thudding in his chest, his stomach clenched in knots; the room started to tilt. “The Ghost, I mean.” An image flashed through his mind: an old room, a hole in a wall. He blinked and it was gone.

“We dunno for sure, man. You weren’t convinced, said it was too isolated, didn’t follow his MO or something. Some of the analysts were thinking maybe a copycat.”

“How many devices? One, or two?”

Jack was silent.

“Dammit Jack!”

“Three,” he replied softly. “There were three bombs. There were two in the second one.”

Mac held himself rigidly and stared intently at his feet, the air in the room suddenly felt too thin. He was feeling strangely lightheaded, like he was floating outside of himself.

A Trojan Horse.

“You disarmed the first two,” Jack went on, quietly, “but the third…had only seconds on the timer, you barely had enough time to get out….”

“Camera?” Mac heard himself ask distantly. “He usually likes to watch….”

“We don’t know, hoss. There ain’t much left for the lab folks to look at,” Jack said reluctantly, torn between escaping the conversation and keeping an eye on his young partner. “They’re still not sure who this dude is.”

Mac squeezed his eyes shut as the air drained from the room. He tried to take a breath, but there was nothing to breathe. His vision began to gray out around the edges, and he felt himself begin to fall forward.

Air. There was no air. How was he supposed to breathe when there was no air?

Hands gently caught his shoulders, easing him back; a warm, calloused hand cupped the back of his neck and suddenly Jack was kneeling in front of him, his earnest gaze filled with worry and concern. Mac wanted to relax into it, to accept the comfort the touch offered, but he just…couldn’t.

Everything felt…odd, disjointed and out of place. Including Jack. The world had shifted, changed, like puzzle pieces that had been knocked out of the picture, except he was the one piece that did not fit anymore.

“I got you, kid. I got you. Breathe, just breathe; that’s all you gotta do. You’re okay. I know it’s a lotta detail to take in at once, and that big ol’ brain of yours is still trying to clean house right now.”

Mac nodded, slowly inhaling, feeling his lungs strain to pull the air in and his body start to shake. His body and mind warred for control of his lungs as he slowly forced a shaky breath in. They sat silently for several minutes, Jack’s hand on the back of his neck, a comfortable presence soothing the tremors away until his lungs reluctantly agreed that, yes, there was indeed air in the room, and he could breathe without a vice grip around his chest. Then he straightened, and lightly pushed Jack’s hands away.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, not meeting his partner’s eyes. “I’m okay now.”

Jack felt the subtle shift, the tensing of muscles as the walls went up, and the shutters came down. He bit back a loud sigh, a frustrated mix of worry and heartache gnawing at him. For one brief moment, Mac had dropped his defenses and let him in. He cast a glance at the disheveled bed and then back at his young partner.

 “You need to be here, kid,” he pleaded earnestly. “I know you hate hospitals, but don’t do this, please. Give yourself a little more time.”

Mac pulled his gaze up, pale blue meeting warm brown. His brow furrowed, and he shook his head determinedly.

“How’re you planning on getting home?” Jack watched as Mac slumped wearily. The kid was exhausted, dark rings encircled his eyes, and he was far, far from healed.

“Well, based on my track record here in Medical….” Mac smiled faintly. “Matty threatened to fire anyone who so much as offered me a ride. So I called an Uber.” He pushed himself to his feet and winced. He moved slowly to the door where he paused, a hand protectively around his ribs. He cast one last look back at his partner. “See you later, Jack.”

Then the doorway was empty, and he was gone, leaving Jack alone.

Chapter Text

Riley was quite sure she was experiencing déjà vu as she paused on the threshold of the War Room. Another argument was well on its way to nuclear war.

“What the hell were you thinking, Jack?” Matty demanded, hands on her hips.

“What was I supposed to do?” Jack threw his hands in the air. “He’s an adult, we can’t keep him here against his will.”

“You could have stopped him!”

“How, exactly?” Jack yelled. “Tying him to the bed? Drugging him? Sure! That woulda gone down a treat! You know how Mac feels about hospitals. He was going out of his mind being stuck here!”

Matty shot him a dark look. “He’s not well enough to make his own decisions yet, Jack–”

“He was perfectly fine when I spoke with him–” Jack interrupted.

“It’s not safe for him out there!” Matty pressed on, cutting him off. “We can at least protect him here.”

 “You of all people know what world we live in,” Jack challenged her. “Nothing is ever safe. What was your long-term plan? Locking him up? Packing him in cotton balls?”

Riley blinked. “Wait-what?” she interjected. “Mac, left Medical?”

“Yes. And Dalton, here….” Matty sent a scathing glare in Jack’s direction. “…let Baby Einstein waltz right out the door.”

“He’s a big boy, Matilda.” Jack scowled in return. “His compass may be kinda screwy right now, but he can manage. You can’t smother him in bubble wrap forever.”

Matty hesitated, then released a frustrated sigh. “He can’t be out there, Jack,” she added more quietly. “He’s not equipped to defend himself right now.”

“You’re gonna have to explain that one, Boss Lady, because you lost me.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “Defend himself? Against who? He’ll be at home, for Christ’s sake! Bozer will be there, and Riley, and I fully intend on making myself a nuisance. The kid’ll have folks watching out for him. You make it sound like we’re gonna drop him in one o’ those black holy thingies and run for the exits.”

Matty narrowed her eyes, stared warily at Jack, then motioned to Riley to close the door. Once it clicked shut, she moved over to the glass wall, touched it lightly and watched as the panels frosted over, cascading down both sides of the room, sealing it from prying eyes.

She stared gravely at both agents. “Because those bombs were meant for him, Jack. The Ghost intentionally targeted him, and only him. That device was deliberately placed – staged – in that abandoned estate, with the singular purpose to kill Mac. The Ghost knew exactly what would send up the right red flags in the system, guaranteeing that it once it was reported, the local authorities would bring in the FBI, Charlie…and the one person who knows more about him than anyone else on the planet–”

“Mac,” Jack finished, under his breath. He clenched his jaw and locked gazes with his boss. “Where are you getting this, Matty? Where’s this intel coming from?”

Matty pursed her lips, then scooped up the tablet laying on the small table beside her. “None of this leaves this room. None of it. I hear one whisper of what I’m about to tell or show you outside of this conversation, you will both be terminated, and your clearances revoked. Bozer may be read in with my permission, but that’s it. Am I clear?” She pinned both agents with a sharp look.

Jack and Riley exchanged a mildly alarmed glance before both nodded cautiously in agreement.

Matty frowned down at the tablet gripped tightly in her hands, took a deep breath and tapped in a command. “When our agents unavoidably, or unexpectedly, require treatment at a facility other than Phoenix Medical, protocol demands that we monitor them closely for security purposes. Allowances, however, are always made to ensure personal privacy….”

Matty glanced at Jack, then appeared to resign herself to whatever decision she had made, swiped up the tablet and sent a dim image to the wall screen. Jack and Riley stared at the image, stunned: It was Mac, asleep in the UCLA Intensive Care Unit.

Riley stepped forward and frowned at the screen. “What is this, Matty?”

“There are many who would seek to harm or capture our operatives, if given the chance,” Matty replied evenly. “We are required to monitor the safety of our agents at an outside facility, and in emergent situations we don’t have the luxury of screening staff in advance. An injured or ill agent in an unsecured hospital environment is an easy target, either for abduction or assassination. A tactical team stationed outside the door would invite too much attention, although a plain-clothes security detail is always nearby–”

Jack cut her off, his expression thunderous. “You’ve had us under surveillance all this time?” he sputtered; outrage blooming across his face. “Every time we’re hospitalized somewhere other than Phoenix? What the actual fuck were you thinking, Matilda!” He pulled in a shuddering breath; it was taking a full-bodied effort to bite back the words that were threatening to burst out of him.

“Jack–”

“Don’t ‘Jack’ me, Matty! UCLA Medical Center…you were watching me too?”

“Of course, Jack. We had to–”

“How often has this system of yours actually worked?” Jack shot back, crossing his arms, skewering his boss with an angry glare.

“More times than you could imagine, Jack,” Matty replied, coolly meeting the glare of her fuming agent. “It’s saved both you and Mac on several occasions.” She paused, pursing her lips, “We are in the business of espionage, after all.”

“When?” Jack demanded.

She paused thoughtfully. “Lake Como…to start.”

Jack froze, his mouth dropping open, reluctant surprise dawning across his features.

“What the hell?” he sputtered. “Hang on–”

“Using this system,” Matty continued calmly, silencing him with a finger, “The Phoenix can monitor the care our agents receive and along with voice and facial recognition algorithms, know the identity of every person who is assigned to care for our people within seconds. We piggyback on electronic medical records and biometric monitoring systems to ensure our agents receive the best possible care.”

Jack snorted derisively. “You mean spy on.”

Riley turned to him. “The irony of that statement does not escape me, Jack, but just shut up for a minute will you? Let’s hear what Matty has to say.”

Jack scowled at her. “Fine. Whatever,” he muttered, in a tone that meant the discussion was far from over. “What’re we looking at?”

Matty tapped a few more keys on the tablet. “As you both know, Intensive Care Units are generally closed units – meaning limited, screened visitor access and, since someone.” She nodded at Jack. “Was at Mac’s bedside most of the time, our security team was located outside the unit.” She turned to the older agent who was scowling at the screen. “Promise me you’re not going to go batshit and chew the furniture, Jack.”

Jack narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her. “Why?”

“Just promise me.”

“I’m not promising you anything right now, Matilda,” he snapped. “Just play the goddamned video, already.”

Matty exhaled and closed her eyes briefly. Then hit play.

Jack stepped closer, his eyes pinned to the screen, the image of his partner reminding him just how hurt and vulnerable Mac had been just a few weeks prior. The room was dark, and MacGyver lay asleep, untidy blond hair framing his face. For a while nothing happened, then the shadows suddenly shifted, and the silhouette of a man appeared over Mac. A dark shape, ominous in the dim glow of the room.

Jack’s breath caught in his throat. “Matty, who–”

“Just watch.”

Jack took another step closer, his instincts screaming at him. The shadowy figure leaned over his helpless, sleeping partner and for a minute Jack thought he was going to lose his mind.

Then he heard the words, as though they were coming from a mile away.

“…I find myself particularly impressed because, you see, no one has ever survived disarming that particular bomb before, and yet you did it, barely breaking a sweat….”

A red mist descended in Jack’s brain, and he clenched his fists, trying – and failing – to control the anger and helplessness he felt standing there, watching. Knowing he had failed. Not only failed once, but twice; failed in the most fundamental purpose of his job, his whole reason for being at the Phoenix – to protect his partner. He wanted to punch something – anything!

“It was supposed to be a final gift of sorts…one I did not anticipate you surviving, and yet…here we are.”

The quiet, lilting laughter almost sent Jack over the edge. This maniac had snuck by every security measure in place and…had laughed. Jack stood there, gritting his teeth, and shaking with the effort to stop himself from putting his fist through the nearest wall.

 “You are fun, Mr. MacGyver, and I do believe I will keep you around to play with a little longer….”

The hand lightly touch Mac’s hair and the room faded into the background as blood thundered in Jack’s ears. He was distantly aware of someone talking to him, but he didn’t care, because all he really wanted to do was to get hold of the bastard and beat the ever-loving shit out of him. He wanted to put his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until he saw the life drain from his eyes. This man who had killed hundreds of innocents…for money.

 “…I eagerly await until we meet again. You have more to give I think…much more, and I’ll be watching very closely, Mr. MacGyver, and when you are ready we shall play again….”

Anger roared through Jack’s mind, vaporizing any coherent thought in its path. He watched, bile rising in his throat, as the man lightly ran the back of his finger down Mac’s cheek, then did something odd. He turned to where the camera was hidden and doffed an Ivy cap, before fading back into the shadows.

Jack finally managed to dial back the red rage enough to string a sentence together, but only barely. “He touched him, Matty! He fuckin’ touched him! I swear I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I do!” He dimly realized he’d lost control again at that point. Matty was talking to him, he could see her lips move, but he couldn’t hear her over the roar in his head. His pulse was pounding in his ears, and it took several seconds to realize he was shouting at the top of his voice.

“Goddamn it, Dalton! Stand down! That’s an order!”

“He fuckin’ touched him!” Jack bellowed again at the screen, then rounded on Matty. “Where the fuck were your fancy security measures, Matilda? Where?”

For a person who thrived on being larger than life, Matty suddenly looked small, and worried. She stared up at Jack, whose face was beet red, his chest heaving as he fought a battle for control.

“They failed, Jack,” she murmured. “For the first time in our history, they all went down simultaneously, including every single fail-safe we had in place. In fact, the hospital’s entire security system went down. The camera had tamper-proof sensors, was never touched, and was still recording in Mac’s room, but somehow, the Ghost looped the footage we were seeing. We didn’t know he’d been there until later. To this day, we still haven’t been able to determine how. We tried to match his voice to every known database, but we came up empty. We aren’t even confident that’s his actual voice, either.”

Riley stared fixedly at the screen, seemingly captivated. Then her eyes widened. “He knew!” she interrupted. “He knew everything! He must have. Where Mac was, the timing, that Jack had stepped out for coffee, the location of the camera…everything! He knew!”

Matty nodded somberly. “We believe that to be the case. We initially thought we had a leak, but after turning the Phoenix inside out for weeks, we think he may have gained access to intel from directly within the system itself.”

“Yeah, but none of it makes any sense.” Riley dropped into the nearest chair, and opened her rig, frowning. She threw a glance at Matty. “The Ghost is into explosives, IEDs. Destruction – not hacking.”

Matty stared shrewdly at the analyst. “Go on.”

“He had help. He must have. There’s no way he could have done this solo. He deals with explosives. From a cybersecurity perspective, this was a massive undertaking. No way in hell a beginner, or even an amateur, could have pulled this off.”

Matty smiled faintly. “Well done.”

Glancing between the two women, Jack was confused, thrown off-balance, the wind taken from his angry sails. “What the damn hell are both y’all on about?”

“Shut up, Jack, I’m thinking,” Riley muttered as she tapped several keys on her rig.

 Jack opened his mouth to retort. Matty waved a finger at him, and he scowled.

“There were two separate systems.” Riley’s fingers danced across her keyboard. “He would’ve had to not only hack the hospital security system, which is utterly laughable by the way, but also obtain access to the Phoenix cybersecurity surveillance system and then gain access to our servers, which are encrypted.”

Riley met Matty’s gaze, the woman knew where she was going with this.

“The feed may have been coming from Mac’s room,” Riley continued. “But it was being routed directly into a secure system here for scrubbing before it even reached a single computer to be viewed. Incoming footage is thoroughly screened to detect bots, malware or viruses piggybacking on the data stream and getting into our system.”

“Your point?” Matty raised an eyebrow.

Riley tapped something on her laptop and the wall screen was suddenly filled with streaming lines of code. “This is way, way above the Ghost’s paygrade. So far above it, in fact, I’d have to say he’s got friends in high places. There are some really impressive resources behind this, there’s no other way to explain it. I’m talking intelligence-level, pro hacking at its finest. These guys weren’t messing around. We know he’s used people before, but they’ve been foot soldiers, boots on the ground…. But this? They not only gained access to Phoenix’s cybersecurity system, but they also intercepted the feed. They controlled what we saw and when we saw it.”

Jack threw Riley a confused glance. “So the Ghost, what, hacked up a computer virus or something?”

“No, Jack,” Matty said resignedly. She gave the young woman an appraising look. “What Riley just confirmed what we’ve suspected for some time now: the Ghost is no longer working alone. We suspect that somehow he – or whoever he’s working with – hacked the Phoenix’s systems. And, since Riley recommended our security upgrades herself – our cybersecurity exceeds that of the NSA, the Pentagon, and the CIA. So yeah, I’d say he had help.”

Jack snorted and glared at the screen.

Matty frowned. “Jack?”

“So, Casper brought in reinforcements and knocked the Phoenix on its ass?”

“Casper?” Riley frowned?

“You obviously don’t watch enough cartoons,” Jack muttered over his shoulder.

“Your point?” Matty cut in tartly.

“You’ve clearly had this so-called protection system in place for years,” he snapped. “And you never anticipated someone like Riley, or one of her scary little cyberbuddies ripping it apart? You never thought it would be a weakness that would place your people – your agents – at risk? And you couldn’t trust us enough to tell us? Give us a choice in the fact that when we’re at our weakest, we’re being watched and recorded?”

Matty’s eyes hardened. “This was a Pentagon-level intrusion, Jack. It was far from your typical hack job. And as for monitoring our agents? It’s a call every Director, Thornton included, had to make,” she replied coolly. “It’s part of the job. We’ve lost good people in the past because we weren’t prepared. You remember Stevenson and Fischer. You want that to happen to Mac?”

“That’s a low blow.”

She tilted her head, sending him a critical stare. “Is it?”

“Stevenson and Fischer?” Riley glanced from Jack to Matty.

“One of the reasons this system was put in place,” Matty replied, turning to the young Analyst. “They were injured after a terrorist bombing in France. They were later abducted from a local hospital…,” she sighed, then continued. “Their bodies were found three days later, almost unrecognizable. Phoenix vowed never to let that happen again.”

Jack shook his head, grinding his teeth, still fighting to keep his temper under control. “This is a hard pill to swallow.”

“A necessary one, Jack.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this when it happened?” he demanded, although his voice was softer, resigned. “Why now? Why tell us after all this time?”

“Would you have been there for Mac and been able to focus fully on helping him heal, or would you have been out there tearing the world apart, kicking doors in and hunting for the Ghost?”

Jack bit his lip, once again cursing logical arguments knowing damn well she was right. “Fair point. Still…why now?”

“Because Mac walked out, his life hangs in the balance, and I need you to know who and what we’re up against. Going into this blind isn’t even remotely an option. I need you to deal with your anger up front, because when the time comes, you will not have the luxury to lose control.

“The Ghost’s intrigued with our boy; sees him as some sort of worthy opponent in this sick game of his.” Matty went on. “He relishes toying with his targets, and clearly he’s enthralled with keeping Mac alive to play with, at least for now.” She sent the older agent a serious look. “Food for thought, he didn’t anticipate Mac surviving, but respects his skill enough that he still planned for that eventuality. He’s not even close to done. Not by a long shot. He gave him just enough time to get out. Just enough to survive.”

For a long moment, silence filled the room.

“What can we do?” Riley finally spoke up.

Matty tapped the tablet, and the wall screen went dark. “I need you to tear the Phoenix apart, system by system if you have to, and find out how the Ghost got the information he did. I want you to follow the data – from source to storage and who our servers talk to. If there’s a back door we’re not aware of, I want it closed. Yesterday.”

Riley sat back in her chair and stared at her boss. “I would have thought Phoenix Cybersecurity would have answered that by now.”

“They did,” Matty said flatly, “but you can do it better.”

Jack stared distractedly at the blank screen, then suddenly frowned. “Wait a minute, dial back the clock here, now. What about the kids who found the damn thing? You can’t stage teenagers, they pretty much do whatever the hell they want. Ask any parent.”

Riley frowned. “Jack what the hell are you talking about?”

“The kids, Riley, the ones who found the evil glowing spaghetti box. Teenagers are walking, talking headaches and their sole purpose in life is to give the universe the middle finger. That place is in the middle of nowhere. How’d Casper get them to do what he wants and not, you know, go kaboom?”

“Are you speaking from experience?” Matty smiled slightly.

“Sister’s kids.” He shrugged, noncommittally.

“Actually, it’s easier than you think, Jack.” Riley smiled at him. “There are entire websites and chatrooms dedicated to these so-called challenges and dares. The three teens who found the bomb, signed up for some sort of ghost-hunting dare. Kids sign up for these things all the time. There are a ton of apps – some built into the websites themselves – that will send texts out to anyone who wants to participate. All he would have to do is search until he found one that fit his needs and plug in the address he wanted.”

She went on, fingers flying over the keyboard. “That house was in the foothills, miles outside of L.A., and not that easy to find either, even on a regular map. A lot of the GPS updates in that area never occurred because the subdivision was abandoned before it was even completed. The previous owner of the manor itself, vacated it almost fifty years ago before GPS was even a thing. No one has seriously mapped that area accurately in at least half a century, so the odds of dozens of kids rolling up to explore that place was pretty darn low. He still took a chance that they wouldn’t touch the bomb, but it panned out. And, like I said, setting up text alerts for these things is as easy as….” She hit a button. “...pie.”

Matty and Jack’s phones both pinged.

Jack glanced at his phone where a new text with a link, had appeared:

Riley wants you to join her on a dare….

“Well, that’s more than a little terrifying.” He turned back to his boss. “What about Mac? Where’s he in all of this? Don’t fight me on this Matty, he has a right - he deserves – to know about all of this. It’s his life at stake here. We need to bring him in on this.”

Matty shook her head. “No, Jack, I’m making the decision to keep this from him – for now,” she responded firmly, when he opened his mouth to object. “There’s nothing he can do about it, and we have no new leads or intel other than what you’ve just seen. This video is extremely upsetting just on face value, and he’s got enough to deal with right now. We all know he’ll obsess over this, he’s not in the right headspace and this additional stress will overwhelm him.

“I promise we’re going to bring him in on everything, when he’s ready,” she assured them, seeing the storm clouds rapidly build on Jack’s horizon again. “But he deserves a chance to heal and get his feet under him first. And until that time, we’re his support and protection. Burdening him with more than he can handle right now, is not a decision I’m willing to make.”

Jack sank into a chair, eye-level with his boss. “Alright.” He looked at her levelly, his gaze zeroing in on his diminutive boss. “I agree you have some valid points, but you better bring him in on this the minute he’s ready – he deserves as much.” He ran a tired hand down his face. “What do you want me to do, Boss Lady? We can’t just drag him back in here unless you want an explosion the likes of which you’ve never seen. He could bring the Phoenix down in minutes, without even trying.”

The corners of Matty’s mouth twitched slightly. “Well, I guess you’re going to have to keep an eye on things for a while, Jack; keep Blondie out of the trouble he seems to continually stumble into. I’ve had the bomb squad do routine sweeps of his house, to ensure it’s safe. I’ll have surveillance set up so we can monitor the activity and traffic in the neighborhood and anyone who goes anywhere near Mac’s house. If necessary, I’ll put a damn tactical team outside. And if all else fails, and it becomes too dangerous and we need to bring him in…well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Now, go and take care of our boy.”

Jack stood stiffly, casting one last glance at his boss before he moved toward the door. “It better not come to that, Matilda,” he muttered under his breath as he walked out.

____________

The front door closed behind Mac with a quiet click. He leaned against it, letting his eyes slip shut, relief filling him as he savored the silence and tranquility of his home. A home that enveloped him with soft familiarity. A home he had not seen for over two weeks. His home. No doctors or nurses constantly hovering, monitoring him every minute of the day, telling him what he should or shouldn’t be doing. His own bed. No needles, IVs, or medications. No helicopter Jack. His own place where he could hopefully piece his memories together, and get his brain working again. He just needed space – room to think.

A glance at the clock assured him Bozer wouldn’t be due home for hours, so he had the place entirely to himself. He made his way slowly to his room where he drew the curtains and slumped tiredly on the bed, an arm wrapped around his sore ribs. He winced, as a dull throbbing headache set up shop in the back of his skull.

It was beyond frustrating that a simple car ride had taken so much out of him. But he was home. Throwing his other arm over his eyes, he stretched out and drifted off to sleep.

____________

The mouthwatering aroma of baking greeted Jack as he cruised in through the front door, casually spinning his keys. Bozer looked up as he pulled a tray of freshly baked cookies from the oven.

“Jack!” He grinned. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He placed the tray on the counter and pulled off his oven mitts.

Jack peered casually around the living room as he sauntered up. “Hey, Boze, you seen Mac around?”

Bozer reached for a spatula, then paused and frowned. “Mac? Why would Mac be around, Jack? He’s in Medical.” He gestured at the warm cookies. “I was going to stop by this afternoon…see if I could tempt him with my famous double chocolate chip recipe.”

“Well…,” Jack began, shifting a little uncomfortably, glancing around the room. “He kinda hopped the fence today. Matty wanted me to check on him, make sure he’s okay.”

Bozer opened his mouth, closed it again and sent Jack a scathing glare across the kitchen counter, tossing the spatula down. “Why don’t I know about this?” He yanked his apron off and threw it on a nearby chair. “You know what? Never mind, no one ever tells me this stuff. Why would I need to know? I only live here!”

“All right dude, calm your horses. I’m telling you now. I take it you haven’t seen him, then?”

“That would be a negative, Jack,” the young man snapped irritably at him. “Weren’t you just listening?”

“No need to get all cranky now, keep your pants on.” Jack replied as he turned toward Mac’s room.

“Cranky? Why wouldn’t I be cranky, Jack?” Bozer muttered acidly, stamping after him. “My injured roommate is home, and no one thought, hey, maybe, Bozer should know about this? I haven’t done the laundry, picked up groceries…I mean, I don’t even know what he wants to eat. I should have washed his sheets. I have to–”

Jack spun around. “Bozer!”

Bozer froze mid-tirade. “What?”

Jack held up a finger, silencing his friend, then slowly cracked open the door to Mac’s room. The room was dim, cool and he could just make out Mac sprawled on his side, buried in the pillows, deep asleep. He stared thoughtfully at the young man, then pulled the door quietly closed again, releasing a breath he had not even realized he had been holding. At least the kid followed through what he promised to do for once – he had actually come home.

____________

Mac rolled over as the sharp, throbbing pain clawed him from sleep; the ice pick was back and drilling through his skull. He moaned, clutching his head. Dimly, he knew he needed to get up and do something about the pain, but his brain seemed incapable of commanding his body to do anything. He rolled over again, burying his face in the pillow as he floated in a vague, gray dreamworld, hopelessly trapped between sleep and wakefulness. Then a hot spike of pain blazed across his mind, and this time he cried out, hands trembling as he gripped his head.

Oh god, it hurt…. He curled into a ball as liquid fire pulsed through him in time with his heartbeat. His entire world was a blaze of pain…nothing else existed beyond the waves of burning agony that washed over him.

Then soft voices pierced his cocoon of pain, and he was dimly aware of a door opening; a sliver of bright light cut across the room and into his skull. Releasing a quiet sob, he rolled away, burying his face in the dark. The edge of the bed dipped, and he barely registered the cool hand that rested on his forehead.

“Oh, bud,” a voice murmured softly. “They figured you might need these.”

Mac whimpered as hands gently rolled him back, then eased him semi-upright; he didn’t know who and didn’t care – he just wanted the pain to stop. Two pills were pressed between his lips, cool liquid followed, and he swallowed them down, mumbling a soft sob as he was lowered back to the mattress. A cool, wet cloth was draped over his forehead, and Mac clenched his eyes tightly shut and just lay there, letting the pain sear through him. As the cloth warmed, it was replaced with another until the pain started to fade, and he surrendered as sleep reached out to claim him again.

Brushing a few errant strands of blond hair aside, Jack stood up slowly, hearing Mac’s breathing even out, the pain lines fading from his face. He pulled the comforter up, his hand pausing briefly on his partner’s shoulder. Sighing, he quietly slipped from the room.

Chapter Text

Mac had woken beneath a multitude of ceilings in his life…from Harry’s cabin to the Bozer’s home, to military bases across Afghanistan, to Jack’s apartment, and various other places over the years…but this one was by far his favorite – his own bedroom. There was nothing particularly special about it, but it covered a place he could call his own, a place where he could take refuge and shelter. It was a ceiling that he wanted to wake up beneath.

He lay, savoring the familiar comforts of his bed, something he had sorely missed in recent weeks. With the familiar ceiling arching over him and his own comfortable bed below, it was like being surrounded by a comfortable hug filled with memories, something he desperately craved right now.

Kicking back the comforter, he slowly swung his feet off the bed, gasping as his ribs protested loudly, a painful reminder that he still had a long recovery ahead. The room spun, and he sat gripping the edge of the mattress, his eyes clenched shut until the dizziness leveled out. His stomach gave a small nervous flip as he wondered if this was the new normal. Whether he was permanently damaged….

Damaged.

A word that had been floating at the top of his mind since he had fully regained consciousness, with Jack at his bedside. Broken. Unusable. The words had swirled around in his mind as he had fought to regain strength enough to walk out of Phoenix Medical on his own two feet.

Resting on his forearms, he rubbed the palm of one hand, a thumb running over the freshly healed, pink scars left behind by…something he could not remember. His gaze crept up his arm, taking in numerous scars littered across his skin, and the myriad bruises that had all but faded. Scars left by shrapnel. Scars from an event that was a complete blank in his mind. He might as well have been through a meat grinder.

He ran his fingers lightly over his arm, as though seeing the scars for the first time. In the hospital he had made a point of not looking; not wanting to see how many more ways he was broken. They would heal and fade – he had been told – and he wouldn’t notice them anymore. But that wasn’t where he needed to be fixed.

Mac sighed heavily, before pushing up off the bed and slowly making his way to the bathroom. He flipped the shower faucet on and as he turned, he caught a glance of himself in the mirror. The first real image he had seen of himself since the explosion.

A stranger stared back.

Thin. Haunted.

The new him, to go with the damage. His gaze was drawn to a thin pink scar that ran into his hairline. He was the same but…different. Displaced…and out of sync; like he didn’t fit anywhere anymore. Tearing his eyes away from the reflection, he sighed heavily and stepped under the hot water.

He didn’t look in the mirror again.

____________

“That’s not how it works, Jack,” Bozer’s voice argued, as Mac headed slowly toward the kitchen.

“That’s totally how it works, Boze,” came the glib response. “If you become a Jedi, you get a light saber.”

“That’s a ridiculously simplistic, and incorrect I might add, way of interpreting the lore.”

“Lore? What lore? You make it sound like a religion or something.”

“You ever read Star Wars Wiki, Jack?”

“I try not to.” The sound of Jack stretching was, followed a second later by the thud of his shoes landing on the coffee table. “The movies are where the action’s at, man, not some geeky chatroom.”

“It’s not a chatroom,” Bozer sputtered indignantly. “It’s an online encyclopedia.”

“Whatever floats your boat, dude.”

Bozer snorted. “I thought you loved Star Wars.”

“Oh, I see how you’re playing this. You wound me Boze. Obi Wan is my main man.”

“Then you should know there’s more than just getting a light saber, Jack. There are nuances in Jedi training.”

“It’s still true though.” Mac could hear Jack grinning. Bozer had swallowed the bait hook, line and sinker.

“Were you even listening? How come Obi Wan Kenobi had a light saber when he was still a Padawan? Riddle me that.”

The older man sighed theatrically. “That was a terrible movie, dude, even by Star Wars’ standards.”

“We’re not debating movie quality, Jack, we’re talking light saber qualifications–”

Mac stopped, his gaze tracking toward the living room as he reached the kitchen counter. Both of his friends were sprawled on the couch arguing companionably as the Death Star blew Alderaan to smithereens on the TV.

“Mac!” Jack cut Bozer off, grinning. “I need you on my side here, hoss. Bozer’s being completely unreasonable.” Bozer smacked him upside the head with a pillow.

“Shut up, Jack. Welcome home roomie!” Bozer grinned, jumping up. “You want waffles for breakfast?”

The coffee pot clinked on the kitchen counter as Mac froze in the act of filling a mug. He frowned. “Breakfast?”

Across the room, the clock on the wall blithely sliced seconds from the day. His mind slogged through the math. It had been early afternoon when he had arrived home. He had slept for over sixteen hours. It was tomorrow. Blinking, he clasped the mug and watched a whisp of steam curl upward, absently listening as Bozer puttered around the kitchen.

“…yeah, I’ve been experimenting with this new batter, the fluff I got inside these waffles is literally out of this world. Don’t tell my mom, though.” Bozer’s head popped up from behind the counter. “So, waffles?”

Mac swallowed a sigh, resigning himself to being mothered whether he wanted it or not. Sending his best friend a forced smile, he replied, “Sure, Boze, waffles sound great.”

“Excellent choice, my man!”

The busy sounds of kitchen clatter followed Mac as he shuffled out to the deck, coffee in hand. The sun had already risen, the air had a hot, baked flavor to it, and the City of Los Angeles stretched to the horizon, a hive of morning activity. In the distance, the roar of LA rush hour traffic promised a typical commute day. He stood at the railing taking comfort in the familiar view; something he had sorely missed being stuck in a hospital room for so long.

Soft, careful footfalls heralded the arrival of his partner. Mac took in a steady, careful breath keeping his gaze on the city. “Hey, Jack.”

Jack leaned against the rail and crossed his arms, his back to the skyline, his eyes serious. “You doin’ okay?”

Mac’s gaze dropped to the rail in front of him. “Better than I was,” he admitted softly. He closed his eyes in several long blinks before losing his gaze in the hazy distance again. “I was going out of my mind…in there.” Staring out at the hazy city, hearing the distant hum of activity, words slipped from his lips as though he was talking to himself. “It was as though I had lost who I was, and I wasn’t me, anymore…,” he said, trailing off.

“And did you?” Jack asked gently, gazing at his young partner.

Mac sipped his coffee. “Did I what?”

“Lose who you are.”

Mac set his mug down, then turned and rested a hip against the rail. “Why are you here, Jack?” His cool, blue stare connected with a worried frown and a pair of warm brown eyes.

Jack shrugged dismissively. “You know me, hoss, I just come and go. Besides, family don’t knock, you know that. Matty’s taken us all off active field rotation right now, and Boze makes killer waffles....”

Mac raised an eyebrow, and sent him a sharp, unbelieving look.

Jack squirmed, just a little. “That, and I brought you these.” He pulled two prescription pill bottles from his pocket and handed them to Mac. “The docs at Phoenix thought you may need something for the pain. Headaches, ribs and the like.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed, and he frowned as a memory fluttered to the top. “Last night…. You?” His eyes lifted to meet his partner’s.

Jack shrugged. “You were hurtin’ pretty bad there, hoss. I wasn’t about to let you suffer.”

Mac stared at the bottles in his hand for a long moment. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Jack gazed at the city below, then grinned. “Matty nearly lost her shit when she found out you had flown the coop.”

“I bet she did.” Mac gave a brief, lopsided smile before turning serious again. “I’m not going back, Jack. I don’t care what the doctors say. I can’t do that again. I won’t.”

Jack watched his partner clench the rail until his knuckles turned white, then rested a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “No one’s gonna make you, Mac. I sure as shit ain’t. You’re standing here, on your own two feet. You walked out of there under your own steam, just like you wanted to.”

Mac nodded, then frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Headache?” Jack frowned.

He shook his head, pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t for once. “No…. It’s just... everything is jumbled, and nothing makes sense; nothing fits together.”

Jack waggled a finger at his partner’s head. “Everything you need is in that there noggin of yours, you just have to give yourself some time, is all.”

Mac stared into the distance, his gaze tracking the colored speck of a news copter. “I’m not sure the memories survived, Jack.”

Jack absently scratched the stubble on his chin. “Oh, they survived, all right. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never forgotten a damn thing. Trust me, they’re in there.”

“I guess my filing room is still a little messy.” Mac admitted with a faint smile.

Jack suddenly grinned and chuckled, and Mac gave him a questioning look. “You’re remembering more than you realize.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Now, let’s go eat Bozer’s waffles before he starts mother-henning you to death.”

____________

They were watching Die Hard.

Again.

It was inevitable, Mac supposed, as everything in Jack’s orbit eventually gravitated toward this goddamn movie; but still he had not been prepared for his partner’s reasoning for inflicting Bruce Willis on the innocent and the injured.

Jack – in what Mac felt was the most ass-backward, illogical, pseudoscientific argument he had ever been faced with – had insisted that the screening of his favorite movie was essential to the healing process and the general harmony of the universe at large. Mac had disagreed because…well, science. Bozer, however, had egged Jack on shamelessly with the end result of Mac finding himself reluctantly parked on the couch, watching his partner dig out the Blu-ray collector’s edition with the behind-the-scenes featurettes, wondering just how much of it he would have to endure.

Slouching back into the couch cushions, Mac watched as his partner slid the disc into the DVD player with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas Eve. Jack knew the movie so well he could recite the dialogue by rote.

Die Hard, had always been a festive occasion in the MacGyver household when Jack was involved. Every time was like opening night all over again…if opening night had occurred in Mac’s living room with Jack whooping and punching the air every time John McClane took out a terrorist. It had been a reason to kick back and hang out together, with Mac pointing out the improbability of the film stunts actually succeeding in reality and threatening to prove it on paper with Newtonian physics. Jack would generally counter by telling Mac to stop nerding on his favorite movie and to let McClane do his thing. Mac had retorted that gravity was a thing and in reality, McClane would have been a pancake.

The debate would typically devolve into a commentary of the hero’s ability to bounce off of skyscrapers – gravity notwithstanding – with Jack arguing vehemently that John McClane was actually an inch taller than Bruce Willis, and Mac contending how utterly asinine his argument was. It usually got loud, animated and, technically, no one actually watched the movie. Some of the best evenings of his life had been spent watching Die Hard.

But as Mac watched his two best friends bicker good-naturedly over movie snacks, he found himself – for the first time – on the outside looking in. Staring resignedly at the screen, he felt oddly distant; watching things from afar as though he no longer belonged. It all felt like it was happening around him, but he had no part of it.

“You’re missing it, Boze!” Jack hollered as the studio logo loomed on the screen.

“You asked for popcorn, Jack,” came the snippy reply from the kitchen as the popping thud of kernels hitting a pot lid echoed into the living room. “You know I don’t do those air popper thingies. Perfection takes time. You want popcorn, or do you want popcorn?”

Jack snorted. “Popcorn is popcorn, dude, so long as it’s not burnt.”

“As if!” came the indignant reply from the kitchen.

“You want I should pause the movie?”

“Oh, hell no.” Bozer grabbed the pot by the handles and shook it lightly as the popping ratcheted up. “I’ve seen this movie so many times, it plays on its own in my head when I’m not concentrating.”

“That’s the spirit, Boze!” Jack grinned as he kicked his feet out and stretched. “You have officially reached Die Hard nirvana.”

“Not exactly what I had in mind when thinking of my life’s achievements, Jack.” Bozer shot back.

Mac stifled a yawn and found himself sinking deeper into the cushions of the old leather couch, the chatter between his friends flowing over him. Die Hard was already five minutes in, but Bozer and Jack were gleefully in the middle of a throwdown debate about whether popcorn could be considered gourmet. The Food Network was being invoked and the banging pop of kernels hammering loudly on the lid of Bozer’s pot drowned everything else out.

Leaning his head back, he wrapped an arm around his ribs trying to ignore the dull ache that was steadily becoming a sharp, fierce throb. Mac knew he was well past due for a painkiller, but he had been skipping doses, trying to taper the meds back and quietly deal with the pain on his own. His brain felt like a category three hurricane had rolled through and the pills just made it worse, leaving him in a dull, foggy haze.

It was becoming harder and harder to conceal his discomfort and the thought of admitting to the pain, having Jack go postal and fuss over everything, did not appeal in the slightest. There was no middle ground with his partner who oscillated wildly between what could be considered normal and DEFCON 1. It was exhausting.

He bit his lip as the pain dug relentlessly into his side. Gritting his teeth as it ratcheted up another notch, he shifted to get a little more comfortable. Before he even realized it, a small moan of pain had slipped from his lips.

The conversation around him screeched to a halt and Jack wheeled around.

“Hoss?” He frowned in concern. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Mac ground out between clenched teeth, more annoyed with himself than anything. The side of his chest burned fiercely.

Jack raised an eyebrow, mildly incredulous, at his young partner. “Oh, so we’re using four-letter words, are we?” He leaned over to rest the back of his hand against Mac’s forehead. “Little early for that, don’t you think?”

“I tweaked a muscle.” Mac scowled as he smacked Jack’s hand away. “And I don’t have a fever.”

“Jack?” Bozer’s concerned tone floated into the living room, followed by its owner. “Everything okay in here?”

Jack narrowed his eyes at his young partner. “Dunno, Boze. He made a weird noise and pulled a face. Says he’s ‘fine’.” He gestured at Mac. “He look fine to you?”

“He’s using the F-word already?” Bozer’s eyebrows shot skyward.

“He’s sure trying.”

Mac flattened his lips and glared from one friend to the other. He was feeling like a cornered animal as anger rose within him like a coiled snake. “I am fine!” he growled. “Just–just back the hell off, okay?”

The words left his lips and were said before he even registered them. He hadn’t meant to put so much heat behind them, but weeks of being cooped up in a hospital room and being the sole focus of Jack’s helicopter parenting had left him feeling frayed and now he was under the microscope…in his own home. He bristled. Enough was enough.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

Jack pursed his lips and sat back, arms crossed, expression thoughtful. “You’re a lot of things, bud, but fine ain’t one of them. Hell, I’m not sure you’re even on the same planet as fine.”

“Yeah, well I’ll be the judge of that.” The young agent pinned his partner with a sharp look.

“Mac–” Jack began.

“Just-just…drop it.” Mac waved him off, looking away. “Please,” he added quietly. Then, making a concerted effort to dial back his annoyance, he nodded at the TV where windows were shattering under the relentless onslaught of gunfire. “Let’s just watch the movie,” he added in what he hoped was a more amiable tone.

Readjusting the arm around his ribs, Mac released a quiet sigh through clenched teeth. Ever since he had regained consciousness, his temper – something that rarely, if ever, made an appearance – seemed to be bubbling just below the surface, and it was taking substantial effort on his part to keep in check.

Bozer wore his heart on his sleeve, his face painting every emotion that flitted through his head…something he had been ruthlessly teased about growing up. The young man’s expression was brimming with concern as he exchanged a worried glance with Jack that Mac pointedly ignored. Taking a step toward Mac, he opened his mouth to speak when a loud clang reverberated through the kitchen as the lid on the pot rocketed upward, followed a second later by the crack of metal hitting tile…and then it was rained popcorn. Cursing, Bozer tore back into the kitchen dodging hot, flying popcorn to wrangle the rogue piece of cookware.

Mac watched Bozer yank the pot from the heat and slam the lid back on, before pulling out a broom and muttering to himself as he started to clean the mess that had left the entire kitchen under a layer of fluffy kernels. The tension in the room was thick and taught, and Mac could feel Jack’s questioning gaze boring into him, but he ignored it.

The room was stiflingly hot – he needed air. He needed to be where there were no walls closing in on him. Keeping an arm wrapped protectively around his ribs, Mac bit back a groan of pain as he pushed himself to his feet and shuffled out to the deck, leaving the noise and stuffy claustrophobia of the house behind him.

A breeze ruffled his hair, and he found himself pushing the pain aside, daring to take a deep breath of the cool night air as the city came into view, sprawling bright and unruly, across the horizon, glittering in all its glory. Leaning heavily on the rail Mac closed his eyes, the chirp of crickets and the distant rumble of a city that never slept, filling the night air filling his ears.

Behind him he could hear Bozer banging around in the kitchen and the muffled sound of gunfire as Die Hard rolled on unwatched and ignored. He also heard the quiet footfalls that told him he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t surprised, but the surge of annoyance he felt was hard to suppress.

“You wanna talk about it?” The words were soft, filled with concern.

“No.” Mac exhaled and opened his eyes, finding Jack leaning against the rail, a worried frown on his face. “I just needed some air.”

“Mac–”

“Don’t start with me, Jack.” Mac said irritably. “I’m stiff and sore, but that’s it. Really.”

“Some hurts aren’t on the outside, bud.” The older agent shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sometimes no one realizes they’re there. Sometimes it helps to talk it out….”

“I said, no!”

Mac gripped the rail tightly. The last thing he wanted to do – the very last thing – was talk about the chaos tearing through his head, or the strange dreams that prowled his sleep. If he started talking, who knew what would come out. No one would understand. No one could understand. He was better off dealing with it on his own.

The other man sighed quietly. “Tell me what you need, Mac…what can I do?”

“Nothing,” Mac bit back, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. “There’s nothing to do. Like I said, I’m fine. You can go home. I just need some time to clear my head, is all.”

Jack leaned back and watched his young partner, frowning. “We’re here for you, all of us. We can’t help if you don’t let us, bud.”

“I don’t need–” Mac bit his lip, cutting himself off. With an almost inhuman effort, he dialed his frustration back, willing himself to relax. He took a breath. “…I’m okay, I promise,” he assured his partner with a steadfastness he didn’t remotely feel.

In truth, the world felt off-kilter…shaky, unstable; his foundation was cracking and crumbling beneath him, and he had no idea how to stop it. It was something his problem-solving brain couldn’t seem to fix. Opening up, having everyone see how broken he was inside, wasn’t even an option.

His frown deepening, Jack studied his young partner. “You’ve been through a shit ton of crap in the past month, kid. Admitting you ain’t okay is not a weakness.”

Staring down at his hands, Mac honestly wasn’t sure how he felt. Okay? Not okay…? There was a mad mix of colors, disjointed images and fragmented bits of memory that amounted to a tangled mess in his head. Just thinking about it set up a dull ache behind his eyes. His thoughts and memories felt as though they had been put through a blender. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

“I’m aware of that.” Mac sent him a faint, lopsided smile, hoping the man would let the subject drop. He stared out at the glowing city but not really seeing anything. “There’s no need for you stay, Jack. There’s no point in you being here.”

Slouching against the rail, Jack shrugged nonchalantly. “Naw, hoss, I ain’t got nowhere else to be. It’s kinda quiet on the ladies’ front if you get my drift.” He gave Mac an easygoing grin and winked. “Besides, I got your back. It’s what I’m here for. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

“There isn’t going to be a lot of need.” Mac changed tactics. “Not like there’s a whole lot of excitement going on here outside of naps.”

“Now naps…naps I can do,” Jack grinned. “I’m something of an expert on them, myself. But seriously, Mac, holler if you need anything. And I mean anything. If you need double chocolate chip ice cream at two AM, I’m your man.”

“I’m recovering from an injury, Jack, I’m not pregnant,” said Mac.

“Whatever, dude, just tell me….” His partner rested a warm, calloused hand on the back of Mac’s neck and squeezed gently. “…tell me you ain’t gonna go this alone.”

The warmth and security Jack represented in that moment almost undid Mac right then and there. He realized he wanted nothing more than to allow himself to fall apart, to take comfort and shelter from his Overwatch; to let Jack take up the slack so he could let go and rest….

But he knew he couldn’t – he just couldn’t. Too much had changed. He needed time – space – to think, and Jack’s helicopter hovering and fussing would never grant him that. He felt different, cut off…broken. A damaged puzzle piece that no longer fit into the picture. And no one could ever know that. No one.

Letting his eyes fall shut, Mac tensed under Jack’s touch. God, he was so conflicted. Part of him just wanted to fall back and let someone else take the reins and not have to think any more; yet another part of him wanted to yell at the sky and push everyone away until he had put the shattered pieces of his mind back together. But there was no way to do so without irreparably damaging every friendship he had. He just needed some goddamn space. Space, free of fussing and hovering. He just wanted to sort through the mental confetti his memories had become.

He had no choice but to go it, alone.

“Sure, Jack.” Mac lied with a false sincerity that he had no intention of following through on; forcing a smile, he met his partner’s worried gaze.

Easing away from the rail, he moved toward his room, but the distant metallic clang of a pot hitting the floor followed by a string of expletives that sounded suspiciously like Jack’s Army-speak, brought him to a halt.

Raising an eyebrow Mac cast a thoughtful glance toward the kitchen, then turned and eyed his partner questioningly. “Jack, what have you been teaching Bozer?”

His partner grinned and preened shamelessly. “What can I say? Bozer’s a literal sponge for ol’ Jack’s wisdom.”

Mac nodded toward the kitchen, a faint smile on his lips. “And when did you decided to share ol’ Jack’s wisdom with him?”

Leaning against the rail, Jack’s smile faltered a little. “While, uh, you were laid up in UCLA.” His expression softened. “Boze was a little restless, bugging the nurses an’ all. Helped him focus, kept him busy, outta trouble.”

“Uh huh,” Mac replied with an unbelieving look. The odds were high, it was the other way around, but who was he to argue.

“You gotta admit.” Jack grinned broadly as another muffled clang resonated in the distance. “He’s gotta a flair for the lingo. Besides, I always wanted to share my vast knowledge with the younger generations.”

Chewing on the corner of his lip, Mac sent him a wry smile. “I’m not sure teaching Bozer to swear like your old Delta unit counts, Jack.”

“I like to think I’ve expanded his horizons.”

Mac tilted his head, listening to the commentary from the kitchen. “Oh, you’ve expanded them, all right. Just don’t be on the same continent when his mother finds out.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Bozer is a lovely, open-minded woman.”

“Sure, she is, Jack.” Mac smiled over his shoulder as he slowly headed toward his room. “I’ll just leave out the fact that all the Delta training in the world won’t save you if you come between her and her cub.”

MacGyver left Jack behind on the deck, contemplating his future prospects if Mama Bozer found out he had been teaching her boy a vastly expanded vocabulary.

The bedroom door shut with a soft click and Mac heaved a sigh of relief. He slumped against it, his façade of strength falling away. He was drained, shaking and wanting nothing more than to curl up under his blankets and pretend the world didn’t exist. Keeping up appearances in front of Jack and Bozer was exhausting. Smiling, participating, and feigning interest…all of it; it kept the scrutiny – the difficult questions – at bay. If they thought he was doing okay, they left him mostly alone. He had slipped up, let his frustrations and the damage show. He couldn’t let that happen again. Jack would be watching closely and he had to keep it under wraps. He just needed time – space to sort through the tangled mess in his head. Something that was going to be nearly impossible with Jack Dalton around.

With a quiet groan he lay back, letting tired limbs sink into the softness of his mattress, his eyes sliding closed as the fatigue he had held back all evening washed over him. His side was a steady burning throb, but it wasn’t a match for the exhaustion that had settled in his bones, pulling him under. With a soft sigh, sleep engulfed him, and he drifted away.

____________

Mac didn’t know how long he’d been lost down a rabbit hole of disjointed dreams, when he jolted awake, a choked gasp on his lips. Rubbing a clammy, aching forehead, he felt the trembling in his body subside as once-sharp images, blurred and swirled away. He had been dreaming… or had it been a nightmare? Blinking blearily up at the ceiling, he couldn’t rightly say. It had been…messy. His sleep had been a muddle of images: a barren landscape…dry, dusty, and dead; a place as foreign as the moon yet oddly familiar….

Another hole in his memory.

Another puzzle piece that didn’t fit.

Then the dream had lurched sideways, a blurred mix of images and sensations, and suddenly he was trapped in a room with a malevolently glowing device he had been unable to disarm. He could still feel the wires beneath his trembling fingers; the panic that all but consumed him as the timer methodically stripped the seconds away. The realization he would fail. He had been frozen, unable to move as the last second had fallen away. The countdown had glowed zero, and then world had blazed into white nothingness.

A cold shiver went down his spine.

Mac blinked and frowned. He knew he was awake – he was sure of it – yet somehow, the dream still lingered in the forefront of his mind, beyond the veil of sleep. There had been something else…. He hadn’t been alone. His frown deepened. The thought was absurd, but there had been a presence watching, trailing him as his mind skittered through one dream after the other. A dark, shadowy figure lurking at the periphery of his mind. Something he could never quite see, no matter how hard he’d tried.

It felt real. Too real.

He shivered again.

Rolling over, he clenched his teeth, seeking a position that didn’t irritate a bruise, an ache, or his ribs, but it didn’t take a genius to realize he wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. Sighing resignedly, he rolled stiffly off the bed and headed toward the kitchen where he, surprisingly, found Bozer sitting at the island playing on his phone and sipping a beer. The clock on the wall had edged a little past two AM. A few scattered popcorn kernels had survived Bozer’s purge.

“Boze? You’re up kinda late.”

Bozer tossed back another swig of his beer. “I could say the same of you.”

Mac shrugged half-heartedly. “Couldn’t sleep.” He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and pulled up a stool. A soft snore turned him to the living room where Jack lay sprawled on the old leather couch, an arm flung over his eyes. Mac felt an odd sense of relief his partner was out cold and out of the way…he could relax a little.

“He’s worried about you, Mac,” said Bozer. He nodded at the couch. “We all are.”

Well, almost relax.

Cracking the water bottle open, Mac felt mildly annoyed. “You needn’t be. I’m fine,” he muttered.

His friend laughed hollowly, drained the last dregs of his beer and plunked the bottle down on the counter. “Brother, no one goes through the level of shit you just did and comes out the other end sparkly. It doesn’t work that way.”

“I’ll be fine,” Mac countered quietly. “I just…I just need some space, you know?”

Bozer gave an amused snort. “You and I both know Jack Dalton, don’t do space.”

“Don’t I know it,” Mac admitted with a wry smile, before turning somber. “Look, Boze…things are, I dunno…kinda messy, and I just need time to sort through stuff, you know. It’s not something that anyone can help with….” The plastic bottle crackled in his hands as he went on. “I know Jack means well, I do, but I sometimes…. It’s not like I mean to push him away. I just need to breathe a bit.” He sighed heavily and trailed off.

“Yeah, man I get it,” said Bozer. “And I think, on some level, so does he.” He rolled the empty beer bottle between his hands. “But you gotta throw him a bone, Mac. He’s feeling like it’s all his fault; that he should’ve pulled you out sooner–” Bozer cut himself off, and swallowed hard, as the realization of what he’d just said suddenly sank in.

Mac sat a little straighter. “Pulled me out of where, Boze?” he asked, casually.

“Nah, don’t worry about, Mac,” Bozer muttered hurriedly, waving him off. “You know Jack, he always takes things personally. He’d blame himself if you got a papercut and he was on a different continent.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mac murmured, his gaze drifting back to his sleeping partner. He tried another tactic. Bozer could be a proverbial well of information if you approached him just right. “The Lab find anything? Jack said there wasn’t much left after the, uh, explosion.”

“Honestly, Jack wouldn’t know where the Lab was if he had a map and a tour guide,” Bozer scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, the Lab found plenty, they’re just working on the analysis–” He stopped himself again and Mac almost grinned as he saw his friend silently curse. Boze would always be Boze.

Scooping his bottle of water from the counter, Mac turned to go. “I’m sure the Lab has it all handled, Boze. As for me…." He yawned theatrically. “I’m gonna to try catch a few more Z’s, might even sleep in.” He watched as Bozer barely hid a sigh of relief, convinced Mac hadn’t read too deeply into his comments.

Stretching out on his bed, Mac tried to push the ever-present pain and fatigue aside, listening as Bozer puttered around the house, locking up and turning off the lights before retreating to his own room. In the dark of his room, Mac stared up at the ceiling.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he had a mission.

Chapter Text

Bozer’s snores were competing with Jack’s, when Mac slipped quietly out the front door an hour later, the Jeep’s key clutched tightly in his palm. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he spared a moment to catch his breath, an arm bracing ribs that were none too happy that he was up and moving. The short walk had – frustratingly – tuckered him out, but there was no stopping, no turning back. Releasing the parking brake, he rolled silently out of the driveway, and was halfway down the hill before he allowed the engine to rumble to life.

The Phoenix glowed brightly as Mac pulled into the underground parking lot. Agents and analysts processed intel around the clock, but the Lab would probably be closed for the night. Swiping his badge, he ducked in a secure delivery entrance, using his clearance to access an elevator, before descending to one of the sub-basements that technically didn’t exist.

Mac breathed a sigh of relief. As predicted, the Phoenix Labs were silent and dark. Leaning tiredly against the wall, he tapped in the security code, pushing the door open when the lock released with a soft click. He made his way to the nearest workstation, slumping into the seat, barely holding back a groan of pain. His head was throbbing, and it was taking all his reserves just to stay upright, but he had work to do. Odds were, Matty was going to have kittens over his little adventure, but If no one was going to tell him anything, he’d just have to find out for himself.

He plunged in. File logs, specimen tags and evidence archives streamed up the screen. But there was no case information, no detail. All he could tell was there had been an explosion – no background, no location, no reason why. A pile of evidence with no story. He swore under his breath and slammed his fist on the table in frustration. Someone had sanitized the files.

Scrolling through countless images, he dug deeper, opening folders within folders. Even without a narrative, the Phoenix Lab had been exhaustive in their analysis, with every piece of rubble and debris – no matter how small – tagged and imaged. Mass spectrometry reports catalogued and detailed every chemical trace and element found, including those found at the point of detonation.

Mac’s breath caught in his throat and for a minute he was lightheaded.

They’d found PETN.

In large quantities.

Something the Ghost had favored heavily in the past. The possibility of the culprit being a copycat was slowly dwindling. All he knew was what Jack had told him before he left Medical. After that, it had been like pulling teeth – no one wanted to talk about it. Questions were dodged and answers vague. He had been reminded that the experts had it all handled, and not to worry about it. Funny thing was, the more someone told Mac not to worry, the more he worried.  

Gripping the edge of the desk, he took in several shaky breaths, before pushing away and stumbling over to the water cooler and downing a cup of water before sliding back into his seat. Every instinct was screaming at him that there was so much more…that this was the tip of the iceberg.

There had been some kind of random explosion – that much Mac knew. Possibly the Ghost. Possibly not. Everything in his head was a mess of strange impressions and images, and none of his friends were willing to talk about it. About anything, actually. He had been told not to worry, to heal first and deal with it later. Well…it was later.

Precious minutes ticked past as MacGyver peeled back layer after layer of notes and evidence codes. It was only a matter of time until Lab staff arrived for the day. He was exhausted, and had a vicious, pounding headache, but he pushed on. He knew there had to be something that would lead him where he needed to go; tell him what he needed to know.

Then he found it.

The remains of…something. Something that danced enticingly around the foggy edges of his memory.

Something he swore he had seen before.

He tapped in a command, the keyboard clicking hollowly in the silence, and an evidence locker in the wall at the far end of the room, opened with a soft click. Retrieving the small box on shaky legs, Mac placed it on the desk, pulled down a magnifier on an arm and flicked the light on.

The item was charred and melted almost beyond recognition, but to the trained eye it was a roadmap – a signature of sorts.

Adjusting the focus of the lens, MacGyver rubbed tired, burning eyes with the heels of his palms, and leaned closer, his gaze boring into the object. It lay there, glinting in the light, pulling him in with the promise of revealing its secrets. He was so focused, he didn’t hear the door to the lab open, the quiet approach of footfalls, or the soft slide of a stool as it was drawn up to the table.

“Whatcha doin’, hoss?”

Mac jerked upright to find Jack leaning on the table across from him. His partner looked tired. And pissed. A cool, controlled façade that smoothed over frustration and, yes, anger. It was made even more terrifying when Jack’s unique skillset came into play. For a brief moment, Mac realized how some of their enemies may have felt – right before Jack won.

The tweezers Mac had been using, dropped to the table with a soft plink.

“Jack?”

“The one and only.” Jack smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You wanna tell me what was so urgent you had to bounce in the middle of the night?”

Mac sighed and leaned on his elbows. “Jack, I….” Mac sent the older man a resigned look. Jack going DEFCON 1 was the last thing he wanted, but part of him was almost too tired to care.

“See, the thing is…,” Jack continued calmly – unnervingly so – In Mac’s opinion. “I just spent an hour peeling Bozer off of the ceiling after he found your room empty and your Jeep gone – considering you ain’t supposed to be driving and all.”

“And coming here was your first thought?” Mac nodded at the empty lab.

“I could ask you the same question.”

Mac ran his fingers through his hair, dropping his gaze back to the focus of his attention on the table. “I needed to know, Jack….,” he said quietly. “No one’s telling me anything…not what happened, not what’s going on…nothing.” Staring down, he slowly released fists he hadn’t realized he had clenched.

Jack sighed, his warm, brown gaze studying his partner. “’Cause there ain’t nothing to tell, hoss,” he replied gently. “The Lab nerds are all twitterpated over the left-over bits, but no one’s been able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I promise you the moment they do, I’ll let you know. We ain’t gonna get you all twisted in knots over nothing. So, how about you put this all aside for now and get some rest?”

Leaning wearily against the table, Mac stared down at the twisted, charred object in front of him. He was close - so close. He could almost hear it talking to him, trying to share its secrets…secrets that, like everything else in his life, floated just out of reach.

Glancing around at the deserted lab, Mac suddenly frowned. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten. You’ve been here a while.”

Mac’s frown deepened. The time had passed in a blink, yet….

Jack smiled at his partner’s confusion. “It’s Saturday - the Lab don’t come in unless the world’s ending.” He pushed his stool back, circled around, and laid a warm hand on Mac’s shoulder. “C’mon, kid, let’s get you home.” He held out his hand. “Toss me your keys and I’ll pick up Charlotte later.”

“Charlotte?”

“I just had her waxed and detailed,” Jack said. “You don’t think I’d let some flunky from the Phoenix drive my baby home, do you?”

“You named your car, Charlotte?”

“It’s a classy name."

Caught between amusement and frustration, Mac wanted tell Jack everything was fine - that he was fine, but a wave of exhaustion overtook him, and he swayed on his feet.

“Yup, just as I suspected.” Jack took him by the elbow and ushered him toward the door. “You sleep at all last night? Nope, don’t answer that. I know what you’re gonna say.”

“I slept,” Mac muttered. Not as much as he would have liked, but he’d spent time with his eyes closed – sort of. It wasn’t an outright lie.

____________

Mac groaned quietly and massaged his temples, as distant laughter from the living room leaked through his bedroom door. Bozer was playing his greatest hits for Jack and Riley.

In the days since Jack had found him in the lab, there hadn’t been a single moment he had been left alone. The house had been solidly filled with people around the clock, and it was steadily driving him insane. He was feeling monitored, cornered and supervised – someone always there, checking on him. He was starting to feel like he did in Phoenix Medical.

Bozer baked and cooked, and continually shoved food under his nose – food that he just had no appetite fort. Jack never actually seemed to leave, somehow always finding an excuse to crash on the couch every night.

Then, when Jack had to work on something for Matty, Riley had magically appeared. When Bozer had been called to deal with something in the lab, Jack had arrived out of nowhere. When Riley was called away, Bozer was miraculously able to leave the lab early. It was an annoying shell game that was quite possibly going to make him lose what little he had left of his mind. It had gone around and around…for days.

He had started withdrawing, spending more time alone in his room, trying to scrounge even the smallest sliver of solitude, where he could work through his muddled memories. There was no space for him to just be himself and sort through everything that had happened. There was always someone watching and checking on him – day, and night. He hid behind a carefully constructed façade of being ‘fine’, participating and even eating, where needed, in the hopes they would leave him alone. The energy needed to pull this off drained him so severely, there were days his hands shook so badly, he kept them tucked out of sight.

Whenever he tried to rest or close his eyes, the door to his bedroom would be quietly cracked open to check on him. Sleep was becoming a moving target as he would lay awake, the tension thrumming through him, waiting for the door to open…. He had contemplated locking it, but had stopped short of doing so, as he had no doubt that Jack would kick it in.

When he finally did manage to sleep, his dreams were filled with nightmares, surreal landscapes, mazes of corridors, locked rooms, and explosions. He would find himself jolting awake, his pulse jackhammering, sweat soaking his pillow.

Out of desperation, he switched tactics and tried staying up late in the hopes of finding the peace and quiet he craved when everyone was sleeping; but Jack and Bozer suddenly developed an interest in late night television, and even during the midnight hours, the muffled sounds of the TV floated through his bedroom door.

The headaches, which had started to fade, returned with a vengeance and more than once he found himself fumbling open a bottle of painkillers, the pain so bad that he was barely able to see what he was doing. Jack had zeroed in and tried to persuade him to take a trip to Medical to see Dr. Mike. Mac had shut him down so fast it had made Jack’s head spin. His partner had dropped the issue – outwardly.

Mac sighed and rested his head in his hands. He was screwed.

____________

Jack slumped on the couch and tiredly rubbed the back of his neck. Late afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen window. “I dunno, Boze, something’s up with him. I haven’t been able to get more than a few words outta him for days now. He’s all up in his head, again. Normally, I can wait him out, get him to talk, but this time….” He sighed.

Bozer handed him a cold beer then dropped onto the couch beside him, casting a worried glance in the direction of Mac’s bedroom. “How long’s he been sleeping?”

Jack flipped his wrist over. “Almost an hour. Hopefully he’ll last a little longer than yesterday.” He flopped back against the couch. “I wish I had an answer, man. I can’t figure out what’s going on with him. I’ve never been this shut out before.”

“He’s been through a lot, Jack. He was in a coma, and in the hospital for weeks. I’m not sure I would feel too chatty after all that.”

“Boze.” Jack glanced over. “I’ve seen him beaten, tortured, shot and god knows what else–”

“Thank you for that lovely imagery, Jack.” Bozer sent him an annoyed stare.

“You know what I mean. And it’s naturally taken him a while to get his feet under him again and heal, but this…I ain’t never seen him like this. I mean, walls up ten feet thick. I’ve never been totally shut out before. Never. He won’t talk to me at all. I mean, yours truly can normally get him to talk, eventually. But right now…I dunno, I’m worried, man.”

A soft moan, and the sound of someone tossing restlessly reached their ears. Jack sighed, got to his feet, headed toward the sound. He carefully pushed the door to Mac’s room open to find him tossing restlessly in his sleep. Jack crossed his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and silently watched his sleeping partner.

Bozer’s voice floated over his shoulder. “Jack, what are you–”

Jack raised a hand without moving his gaze from his partner. “Shhh, Boze, I need to see how he handles this.”

Mac rolled his head from side to side, muttering and moaning, perspiration dotting his forehead. He turned restlessly, throwing an arm out, before rolling back, dragging the sheet with him. He frowned, mumbling, his hands constantly moving and picking at the covers.

Jack watched as Mac lurched semi-upright, crying out before sinking back to the mattress with a soft sob that tore at his heart. The young man tossed his head, hair damp with sweat, throwing himself over again as the covers twisted around his legs. And then he stilled, sprawled on his side, his back to the door, a quiet sob escaping his lips. Jack stood there, motionless as the sound of Mac crying softly in his sleep reached him across the sudden silence.

Jack’s heart broke for his young partner. His hand hovered over the kid’s shoulder, torn between wanting to comfort, but not to wake. Mac was in world of hurt, and even in his sleep Jack could feel it radiating off him in waves, but he didn’t know how to help him. Hell, he didn’t even know where to start, or how to crack the impenetrable armor that Mac had surrounded himself with. It was his job to protect Mac, but he couldn’t protect him from the horrors of his own mind. It was the one place Jack could not go, and all he could do was stand by, helplessly, as his partner tore himself apart.

With a heavy heart, Jack turned to leave when a heart-wrenching sob shredded the silence. He turned around to see Mac struggling with the covers that were tangled around his legs. Struggling as though he were trapped, his breathing coming in short, panicked gasps. When the blanket wouldn’t give to his desperate pulling, he began to thrash, rolling toward the opposite side of the bed.

“What is it with this kid and gravity!” Jack muttered as he darted around the bed, arriving just a hair too late as Mac rolled off the bed and hit the floor with a thud.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Bozer muttered from the doorway.

____________

Mac was aware that he was lying on something hard; he felt as though he’d had the wind knocked out of him, as he lay there, wheezing, painfully. He was having a little trouble putting two and two together regarding this, as the last thing he remembered doing was going to bed. Taking a deep breath as his throbbing ribs protested loudly, he opened his eyes to find himself on the floor. His head ached, and for a brief, lazy second, considering the amount of energy it would take to move, he thought flirted with the idea of just lying there, but his body had other ideas. Groaning softly, he slowly turned himself over and found his vision filled with….

“Jack?”

“Hoss.”

“What’re? How’d? Where–” Mac rubbed his eyes groggily, looking around the dark room, then back at his partner leaning over him.

“You testing that gravity apple thing again, kid?”

Mac rested a shaky hand on his forehead, and peered blearily up at his partner, his brain still clearly trying to come online. “Jack, did you just state the basis for Newton’s gravitational theory?”

“Could be.” Jack grinned. “If I did, I’m gonna need you to explain it to me, though. You seem to be proving it so often I’m starting to think we should just put your mattress on the floor.” He offered his hand and Mac took it, pulling himself up to sit on the bed.

Wrapping an arm around his ribs, Mac glanced around the room, noticing Bozer hovering in the doorway. Resting his forehead in a shaking palm, he took a few deep breaths, trying to ignore his screaming ribs and throbbing wrist.

Jack dropped onto the bed beside his partner, eyeing him critically. “You hurtin’ anywhere?”

Mac started to shake his head, then sighed, and reluctantly nodded.

Jack gently nudged him to lie down. “Put your feet up, and I’ll get something for the pain.”

Mac sank back onto the mattress, an arm draped over his forehead, barely registering as Bozer untangled the blankets and pulled them up. The next thing he knew, Jack was back, helping him semi-upright and take the two pills he offered.

Mac hesitated, staring at the painkillers in Jack’s hand, before swallowing them. This was what his life was now, mothering and pain pills. Someone to supervise him and drugs to take the pain away. He was a burden, and of no use to anyone anymore. He felt his eyes moisten slightly as a small wave of despair washed over him, and he sank back to the mattress with a barely concealed whimper.

“You wanna talk about it?” The weight of a warm hand rested on Mac’s arm. Jack sighed, “Nightmares are tough, and you aren’t alone.”

Mac shook his head slightly, turning away in the hopes Jack hadn’t seen him tear up. He pulled the blanket up, hoping to bury himself in it. He couldn’t even hold it together in the privacy of his own room. He felt utterly useless. He was alone – he’d lost everything that made him who he was; that made him worthy and useful. He was lost, floating untethered, and no one could ever understand.

“I’m here anytime you need me, Mac. Always.” The warm hand squeezed his arm briefly, then Mac felt the bed shift as Jack stood up and the door quietly closed behind him, leaving him alone.

____________

MacGyver glared at the contraption sitting in front of him. It was mocking him, he was sure. It was a small ball of complex circuitry and wires that he had been working on before…well everything. He remembered holding it in his hands, working on the wiring and small motherboard, and he remembered being excited about it – about what it would do. Everything had made sense to him at the time. The…thing had a purpose; he just didn’t know what it was anymore. It sat there insolently as he ran the wires and circuits, trying to figure out what the hell he had been thinking when he had started to build it.

Before being injured, he had been busy with at least a dozen projects currently scattered around the house. Since returning home, he had examined every one of them and concluded that he must have been certifiably insane when he had built them, as there was no other word that described them other than junk. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason behind any of them. Other than being paperweights, he couldn’t think of any other use for them.

A ripple of laughter and TV chatter floated through the door, and Mac rested his face in his hands, the familiar throbbing had started at the back of his head again and was steadily kicking up a notch. He sighed and reached for his headache pills and swallowed two, dry. Turning back, he stared at the lump of wires and circuits and felt a wave of frustration wash over him.

He was broken. Damaged beyond repair. His entire purpose at the Phoenix was to improvise, think outside of the box, and he couldn’t do that anymore. He had saved countless lives because he could improvise on the fly, foresee problems, and now…now he was useless. He couldn’t keep anyone safe anymore. No one would want him, least of all himself. What would he tell Matty, or Oversight when they found out he couldn’t do his job anymore? Would he even be allowed on missions, or would they shove him behind a desk in the basement somewhere? Assuming he even got to keep his job.

He squeezed his head between his hands, his eyes clenched shut as distant laughter stirred the silence again. He had to sort this out himself, he just…needed the space to do so. He felt like he was suffocating – trapped in his own home, and the frustration and anger that had been quietly simmering in the background, suddenly roared to life.

Seizing the contraption in one hand, Mac threw it with every ounce of his strength. It shattered against the far wall, showering his bed with fragments. But that wasn't enough - he turned, feeling the anger flow through him until his skin tingled. His eyes fell on the pile of research and notes that represented countless dead ends, and months of searching for a father who clearly did not feel the need to reciprocate. His mind roared, and he swept everything off the desk, sending a blizzard of paper into the air.

He whirled angrily, eyes falling on his laptop, and all the work – stupid, wasted hours hunched in front of a screen – which had resulted in nothing but endless disappointment. Growling, he grabbed it off his desk, releasing a scream as he hurled it across the room, where it hit a wall and smashed apart with a loud clatter.

His anger erased all rational thought. He let it flow through him, feeling it fill every part of his being. As he pivoted again, his eyes fell on his Swiss Army knife, lying on the edge of his desk, the long blade unfolded. For a several seconds nothing else existed as the universe narrowed down to the knife and its grip that gleamed like blood under his desk lamp. A knife represented everything he had lost – his ability to be useful – his ability to…improvise. The memories of a hundred missions danced across his mind’s eye in an instant, each one a success in some small way – all due to what he had been able to do with that knife.

Improvising.

His mouth filled with bitterness. He was nothing without it. It was who he was…only not anymore. He was damaged. Broken. Defective.

The knife was a useless piece of metal to him now, a pointless toy he would never use again. He remembered Harry’s tender smile when he gave it to him. “With this, you can do just about anything…”

Bullshit!

Growling, he seized the knife from the desk and hurled it, sending it cartwheeling across the room; the enameled handle flashing blood-red as it spun. He turned, his chest heaving, eyes ablaze as the door opened, and Jack cautiously stuck his head in.

The knife slammed into the doorframe.

Jack swallowed, his eyes widening slightly as his eyes fell on the knife, vibrating gently an inch from his face, its blade buried deep in the wood. “Hey hoss,” he said. “You okay in here?”

Mac glared at his partner. “Fine,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

Jack looked down, taking in the smashed computer on the floor. “Your uh, laptop….”

“It fell,” Mac snarled, rubbing his temple, wishing his headache would go away. The statement wasn’t exactly untrue….

His partner raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I could see how that could happen, from across the room and all."

"Why are you here, Jack? Needed to check on me and make sure I'm being a good boy?

"What? No-!"

Mac dropped down onto the bed, and started to pull on his running shoes. He needed to get out of here.

“Hey now, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jack frowned, pushing the door all the way open and entering the room. “You ain’t going running, hoss.”

Mac laced up his shoes, yanking them tight, refusing to make eye contact. “I’m not going running, Jack.”

Jack’s eyebrows floated up. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m going for a walk. I need some fresh air.”

“If you want to go somewhere, dude, I’ll take you. Just ask.”

Mac stood up, his eyes filled with icy blue anger. “I’m not a child, Jack, I’ll go where I damn well please, and I don’t need your permission, or assistance, to do so. Now get out of my way.”

Before Jack could respond, Mac pushed past him and disappeared out the front door. Jack blinked, trying to process whether the world had gone mad, then swore quietly and made to follow. He paused, seeing Bozer frozen in the hallway, alarmed.

Jack waved him off. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him,” he muttered.

He shook his head and stepped out the door…to an empty yard. Mac was gone. He swore again and trotted down to the sidewalk, but there was no sign of his partner. He stalked back inside, slamming the door behind him. God damn that kid!

____________

Mac’s mind was ablaze. Blood roared in his ears…he had to get away. He was being smothered in his own home until he couldn’t think or breathe anymore; walls and stale air suffocating him in every direction. He slipped around the side of the house, and quickly out of sight. He was planning to head up one of the trails behind his house that led up into the hills, but not before he noticed something that made his blood boil.

First, as an EOD Tech – and later as a fully-fledged Phoenix agent – situational awareness had been pounded into him from day one. It was drilled into every trainee – Spy-craft 101. An agent who wasn’t aware of his surroundings, very quickly became a dead agent.

He narrowed his gaze as something on the periphery of his vision caught his eye. Tucked away under the trees, just a short distance down the block was a white van. Mac saw red.

They were watching…monitoring him!

He stood for a second, feeling the anger seethe inside him, then, all thoughts of walking, out of his head, he tore around the side of the house and up the hill.

____________

Riley sat cross-legged on the couch, her rig in her lap. She looked up as Jack stalked angrily into the living room, a thunderous scowl on his face.

“Can you find him? He got his phone with him?” he growled irritably, as he paced.

Riley tapped a few keys then shook her head. “He left his phone here, Jack. Surveillance, however, has him going up behind the house, most likely into the hills.”

“Hey, why not let him blow off a little steam.” Bozer shrugged, as he perched on the arm of the couch. “Mac’s been cooped up for weeks. I mean, I doubt the Ghost is going to lie in wait on the running trails up there.”

Jack stared out at the desk, gritted his teeth, and tried to dial back the ball of worry and anger that currently resided in his chest. 

Of all the stupid things that kid could have done….

Taking what he hoped was a calming breath, his gaze flicked back to his friends. “I’m not worried about the Ghost right now, Boze. You know Mac when he’s like this; our boy ain’t gonna be making good choices. I’m pretty sure that Mac’s biggest enemy right now, is Mac.” He sent a meaningful look in Bozer’s direction. “Talk to me, man. You’ve lived with him for years; you know where he likes to go....”

____________

Mac ran – no, sprinted – throwing his body up the trail. That hadn’t been the original plan – he hadn’t lied to Jack when he said he wanted to go for a walk, but running gave him the release he needed. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he could breathe again, feel the air on his face, and be free of walls that closed around him.

He hadn’t done this in weeks, and his deconditioned body screamed in protest as he brutally pushed it to it's limit. His ribs burned, and the pain in his head sliced through his skull, as he hurtled up a winding path that overlooked the city. He gritted his teeth, ignored it all, and ran harder.

The running trails wound deep into the hills, finally granting him the solace he so desperately craved. He carefully avoided the most popular routes, heading for an overgrown path that he used almost exclusively. A sharp detour off the trail at the top of the hill would eventually bring him to a rocky outcropping that was hidden entirely from view, far from the path or any passersby. It was a place he had used in the past to think and get away from everything. It was his one goal, and maybe, if he reached it, he would finally have the space to clear his mind.

Mac’s head spun and his muscles burned as he finally crested the hill. He staggered to a stop, bent over, leaning heavily on his trembling knees, gulping air as fast as his burning lungs would allow. His body shook, and sweat dripped down his face and back. His chest was on fire, and there was a white-hot pain slicing through the back of his head that was reaching near-crippling levels. But he was nearly there, then he could rest; then he could think again. He staggered off the trail into the dense trees and brush. He had never told a soul about this place. Here, he could finally be alone.

He was mere feet from his target when his legs finally gave out and he went down. Hard. He cried out as his side hit the dirt and the slow burning fire in his ribs exploded into a blaze of pain. He gasped for air helplessly, as fire from every corner of his body rolled over him. The trees overhead swayed and blurred, as his hands scratched uselessly in the dirt. White-hot pain danced through his skull until he sobbed. He knew he needed to get up, but the pain was too much, and his body was completely drained, and so he lay there, listening to the sound of the woods coming alive as the sun started to set. It was almost a lullaby as his vision faded out and the darkness claimed him.