Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Matilda "Matty" Webber, Wilt Bozer (MacGyver TV 2016), Riley Davis
Additional Tags: Jack Dalton Lives (MacGyver TV 2016), Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Series: Part 2 of Cairo Week 2026
Summary:
Murdoc leaves a birthday present for Mac on his doorstep. Is it really who Mac thinks it is?
Written for Cairo Day 2026 Day 2: Jack Lives
@macgyvercairo
~~
The doorbell chimed for the third or fourth time before Mac's head slowly rose from the couch and looked in the direction of his front door. It was nearly dusk, long shadows were cast across his living room. The fading sun highlighted empty beer bottles and takeout containers, various bits and bobs from abandoned projects, and papers that littered the floor.
"Go 'way," he muttered and dropped his head back down on the couch. There was no one he wanted to see, and he wasn't expecting a delivery.
Just as he thought he was being left alone, the banging started. Someone's fist pounded against the door.
That ruled out Bozer or Riley or Matty. None of them had visited him in months, and they all had a key.
There wasn't anyone else to worry about. Not anymore.
Silence came again, and Mac hoped whoever it was had given up. He was not getting off this couch for anything less than a miracle. And he didn't believe in those.
His phone dinged. Once... twice... a third time before he was able to locate it underneath one of the cushions that he was lying across.
There were three messages from an unknown number and a handful of unread messages from his former teammates.
He tapped on the messages from the unknown number.
MacGyver June Cairo Day 6! Jack Lives + Tools of the Trade
Jack lives! :D but also angst. @macgyvercairo
On AO3 :)
//
Jack had told Mac once, both of their backs against the sun warmed headstone facing Dalton Sr.’s grave, that losing his father had knocked the world off its axis. He’d then hastily clarified that he knew it hadn’t actually, that it had just felt like it had. He’d been trying to preempt some expected response from Mac, a ‘well that’s physically impossible Jack’ or ‘that would require an impact that would cause immediate mass extinction across the globe, thus making it feel like absolutely nothing’. With Jack’s shoulder against his, and a Dalton gravestone facing them, Mac let himself be uncomfortable and posed a tentative, open-ended, question instead.
Jack had a familiar, easy smile when he’d replied.
It’s being knocked off balance and never quite regaining it.
Or, Jack dies, and the world spins right out from under Mac’s feet.
This was originally started for this year's George Eads Appreciation Week, for the rubber ducky prompt.
It's still a WIP, but I actually managed to get some writing done on it today. Its still a little rough and I think Jack may have highjacked it, lol. I think it went off on a bit of a tanget.
“Please tell me they’re not real,” Riley asks, turning her attention back to Jack, one eyebrow raised as she pins him with a look.
“Now would I go and do a thing like that?”
He’s the picture of innocence as he looks back at her from the across the kitchen, and Riley huffs out a laugh and as she shakes her head in fond exasperation.
“You bought my daughter a horse, Jack. A hooves, and horseshoe’s, neighing real live horse, because she thought he was all soft and cute and she asked you to," Riley reminds her surrogate father. “So I think I’m validated in being a bit skeptical.”
“Now technically, sweetheart, Twinkle is a pony,” he says, like the height difference between the two animals takes away the point of her previous statement.
“’Sides…” he continues as he makes a show of taking the pancakes off the griddle, each flapjack flipping high in the air before coming to rest on the plate that he’s holding in his other hand.
He gives her a wink as he shuts off the stove and moves the griddle aside. He picks up a small silver shaker and with a flourish and spin of his hand dusts the tops of each pancake with powered sugar to finish up his act.
Riley known Jack a long time, and knows one of his distraction techniques when she sees one, but still can’t help but be pulled in, impressed and entertained by the showmanship.
“It’s not like I brought him home or anything,” Jack defends.
“That’s only because, your no animals allowed in the GTO policy aside, he wouldn’t fit in the back seat,” she says.
“Mmm… Yeah. I didn’t really think that one all the way through,” Jack admits. “Good thing Thorpe runs that equine therapy ranch up in the hills and let’s us board him there. But… Jack Wyatt Dalton ain’t no push over, you know. I’ve gone toe to toe with the baddiest of the bad and not broken, no way a little girl will get through my steely defenses.”
“Is that, right?” Riley asks, amused. While there is no arguing with the first part of his sentence, from the very first moment that Jack finally met his granddaughter, she has had him wrapped around her tiny finger.
“That’s right,” Jack tells her. “Like… For instance… I didn’t buy her those penguins she begged me for.”
“Uh huh... Not for lack of trying.”
“Yeah… I think retirement has seriously messed with my mojo, that aquarium dude just wouldn’t give in.”
“It’s illegal for private parties to own penguins, Jack,” Riley tells him, not for the first time.
“I’m bettin’ Matty can pull it off. Bein’ away as long as I was, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her go full Hun on anyone. Ohh… Oh, I know,” Jack exclaims, eyes wide with excitement. “Taylor… He can pull it off. He would do it a second.”
“…Russ? I don’t even know why I’m asking this. Or even encouraging you with this path of conversation,” Riley says, “But… why Russ?”
“’Cuz money… He has more than he’ll ever use,” he drawls. “Big ole donation to the aquarium. Heck, we could have an entire wing named in our honor. Little princess can go play with those tuxedoed birds anytime she wants. And… oh, I’ll get Steve to come teach her to swim, and scuba. That way she can swim along side 'em. He may be a whiny water baby, but the guy’s like a fish himself in the water. And—”
“Woah… let’s rein it in, cowboy. No. Absolutely, no. None of that is going to happen," she informs him. "You know, I think I liked it better when you and Russ couldn’t stand each other.”
Mac: I’m kind of crushing on someone, but I’m worried about telling you who it is, because you’re not going to like it
Jack: Just rip the bandage off.
Mac: It’s Riley.
Jack: Put the bandage back on.
So I had this story concept in my mind for ages without ever really intending to put it to paper, but then Cairo week came along with a bunch of Jack lives stories and @hes-being-macgyver made this gifset that ruined my fucking life and so here we are. I am so overwhelmingly swamped in real life right now so this is a very quick blast of unfiltered mental health issues, honestly, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.
Also on AO3.
..
Mac couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so exhausted. It felt like the team hadn’t had a chance to so much as sit down in months, and he’d circled the globe so many times in the last week alone that if he hadn’t been able to see the sky, he couldn’t have given even the vaguest answer as to what time zone he was in. Based on the purplish-blacks swirling above him as he hauled himself out of his car, he’d estimate that LA was currently somewhere around 11pm. It didn’t matter – it could have been midday and he would still be planning to head directly to his bed and stay there for the foreseeable future.
He also determinedly did not think about the fact that he was coming home alone. It shouldn’t still have felt strange – he’d lived on his own for almost a year now. It should have been easily enough time to get used to the uneasiness he felt when he walked into the house he’d been ambushed in multiple times knowing that no one was going to miss him for a good 15 hours. Once, he could have counted on at least one person following him through the door, firm and unyielding at his shoulder. Once, he never would have had to feel alone.
But, he reminded himself firmly as he pulled his go-bag out the trunk, he shouldn’t be thinking about such things. He was normally better behaved, able to shut down those thoughts as soon as they tried to creep in – clearly his fatigue was starting to show if maudlin memories of a partnership long gone were forcing their way to the surface. That past was gone and buried beneath a headstone that didn’t bear his name.
Dwelling on everything he’d lost wasn’t going to bring it back.
With the type of denial only available to the criminally insane or the truly exhausted, he forced himself to breathe and unlocked the door to his house. The go-bag found its usual home in a crumpled mess at the polar bear’s feet – he’d fish out his laundry later – as he made his stumbling way to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He wasn’t thirsty really, but it was the kind of thing Jack would have made him do and he was feeling self-destructive enough to indulge in that painful reflection.
If he’d had the chance, Mac would blame his exhaustion for not noticing the figure standing in his living room until he turned away from the sink, glass of water in hand. The room was dark, sure – he hadn’t bothered turning on any lights – but he knew his house like the back of his hand, and he was trained to notice anything out of place. A fully grown man standing in the middle of the room really should have counted.
He froze, sucking in a hard breath in surprise as his mind scrambled in a hundred directions for a solution, a weapon-
-then stopped. Inside and out, completely still.
Because Mac knew that silhouette. Knew the shape of those shoulders, the easy set of his stance. Knew it better than he knew his own body.
For an endless eternity, nothing moved.
Then he was collapsing forwards into the island, just barely getting his glass over the solid surface before his fingers lost their grip and he splashed water awkwardly across the wooden surface. He didn’t care. His entire focus had just been diverted to the man standing less than ten feet away.
“Jack?”
He staggered around the island, leaning his weight against it when the heart-dropping surprise coursing through him turned his knees to liquid and it was only when he reached the far side that he realised Jack hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t even moved. There was no doubt that the man standing there was indeed Mac’s partner, details lost in the darkness but looking at least whole, and yet there was no apparent recognition in him, none of Mac’s overwhelming relief at finally, somehow, being reunited.
The first thought that came to him was that he was dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time his imagination decided to punish him with images of a brother lost to him, and all of them had felt sickeningly real right up until he awoke. And hell, he was tired enough, maybe he’d accidentally reached the realm of hallucinations without noticing.
“Jack?” He said again, still breathless and strained but with an audible note of caution. “Jack, are you alright?”
God, it should have been the first thing he thought. Jack had been dead so far as Mac knew – it would hardly be a stretch to assume that he’d managed to make his way here while hindered by any number of grievous injuries. Any sort of head trauma could explain his complete lack of response.
Slower this time, with his training finally kicking into gear beneath nearly insurmountable surprise, jubilation, and visceral shock, Mac took the two steps needed to put him in front of Jack. Even with concern bubbling up through his gut, it took every ounce of willpower not to just throw his arms around him. It had been so long. He’d thought he’d never even see him again.
“It’s okay buddy,” he said slowly, telegraphing his movements as he approached and reached for Jack’s shoulder. “Whatever’s going on, you’re safe now.”
Jack watched him approach with dark eyes glittering in the darkness, but he didn’t make any move until Mac’s hand was hovering less than an inch above his shirt.
Then he lunged.
One hand snapped up to latch around Mac’s extended arm, jolting him forwards and putting him directly into the path of the fist swinging up to meet his unprotected stomach. Caught entirely off-guard, Mac could do nothing as he folded sharply over with a wheeze, every ounce of air vacating his lungs in a rush. On instinct he staggered backwards, jerking his arm free from the loose grip still wrapped around it, but then couldn’t avoid the shove that Jack followed up with, knocking him hard into the bar behind him.
Mac might not be classified as a combat agent, but he was no slouch when it came to hand to hand fighting, in no small part thanks to Jack’s own training. He was quick on his feet and clever, making up for his lack of sheer brute strength with calculated tactics. And yet, for all of that, the toxic combination of surprise, confusion, and sudden, unexpected pain managed to shut off any chance he might have had of mounting a solid defence. If he’d had a second to process things, he might have come up with something, but Jack evidently wasn’t going to give him that time.
Before Mac had even righted himself from where he’d half-collapsed against the countertop, Jack was on him, one hand gripping at his shirt collar to haul him up as his right swung in with a brutal punch to his cheekbone. Mac’s head snapped sideways, bright white light flashing briefly across his vision and that, finally, activated his instincts. As soon as Jack pulled back for another hit, Mac twisted himself sharply to the right, bringing up both arms to throw himself into Jack’s midriff and force him backwards. He didn’t have the right leverage to attempt a proper tackle, but it won Mac enough ground that he was able to dodge the retaliatory kick at his knee.
“Jack,” he tried, desperately, spinning out of the way of a haymaker. “What are you doing? It’s me!”
The only response was another strike. Mac dodged whatever he could, blocking the hits he couldn’t evade in time and wincing when he still managed to eat another two punches to the face and shoulder. Jack had always had the upper hand in CQC, but he’d never been this vicious in training; it took barely ten seconds for Mac to understand that if he didn’t do something right now, he was going to be in a world of hurt.
His best option, ultimately, was to call for help. On his best day he might have a shot at beating Jack in a fight, but not when he was already exhausted and certainly not when Jack clearly wasn’t going to be pulling any of his punches. Besides, even if he’d been a better fighter, there was no world in which Mac would want to hurt his partner.
That decided, he threw himself sideways into an unbalanced dive so he could snatch the landline from its cradle and roll back to his feet in a single motion. The move bought him a solid second of freedom, but then Jack was already back in his face. Mac ducked under one blow, then deflected a kick designed to dislocate his hip and sent Jack staggering into the mantle. Picture frames and assorted odds and ends went flying with a tinkle of broken glass.
Undeterred, Jack pushed himself off the wall and moved smoothly into a sharp elbow thrust that came at Mac so quickly, he couldn’t get out of the way in time. Freezing pain burst across his face, followed almost instantly by a scolding flush of blood spurting from his no-doubt-broken nose. He staggered backwards with a cry, losing his grip on the phone as he instinctively brought his arms up to defend himself. It didn’t help – his vision was still blinking with bright flashes of light when he felt one of Jack’s hands close around his wrist once more and twist sharply.
He tried to go with the movement, contorting sharply in a vain effort to keep his bones from breaking, but Jack wasn’t done. He let his momentum carry him forwards and with a ruthlessness Mac had never seen from him, drove his knee into the ribs beneath his captured arm. The joint came apart with a sickening pop, and there was absolutely nothing Mac could do about the sharp scream that burst out of him as lightning bolts of pain raced through him.
The next few heartbeats were pretty hazy, but he distantly registered his wrist being released and then his knees giving out as the agony only increased.
In that strange liminal space between conscious and unconscious, Mac forced himself to accept the truth of what was happening: Jack was going to kill him. Something, somehow had twisted his partner into someone he didn’t recognise, and now whoever it was who had done that was going to use him as a weapon to kill Mac. If he didn’t do something right now, then he was going to die here, in his own living room, at the hands of the man who had dedicated his life to keeping him safe. The irony was bitter enough to taste – or perhaps that was just the blood coating the back of his throat.
The threat of death should probably have been more of an incentive to get himself together and do something, but it wasn’t. Mac hadn’t really felt all that alive in years – not since Jack left and the Phoenix disbanded, if he was honest. Selfishly, and only inside his own mind, he’d recognised that burying Jack had felt like a funeral for himself as much as anyone.
But he couldn’t only worry about himself. He had no idea what Jack’s orders were, what instructions he was running on. Maybe Mac was only the first name on his list; maybe he’d go after Riley next. Even if he didn’t, if Mac died here, then who would know to save Jack? Everyone who would care enough to try was certain that he was already dead.
If Mac was going to save Jack, then he needed to live.
When he finally managed to get his eyes open again – seconds or hours or years later – Jack had already left his side. Apparently weary of bloodying his fists, he’d returned to the kitchen and was in the process of retrieving a long, large carving knife Bozer had left behind when he’d moved out. There was very little question of what he planned to do with it.
With the last of his waning strength, Mac forced himself to his feet and charged at his partner with a yell. His dislocated arm was adamantly refusing to respond to any commands, so it was a sloppy tackle at best, but he did at least manage to catch Jack off-guard. Together the pair of them slammed into the kitchen counter, knocking the wind of out Jack with a huff. They went down in a tangle of limbs, Mac scrabbling to free himself so he could grab the frying pan off the side to use as a weapon. He didn’t want to hurt Jack, but he had to get him under control.
Jack didn’t give him the chance. Even winded, the man was punishingly fast to recover and from there it was little matter to use his superior strength to drag Mac back down to the linoleum. They scuffled, half-rolling together as they each fought to subdue the other, but it was hardly a fair fight. With one arm out of commission and nearly blacking out with pain, Mac felt all but helpless as arms corded with thick muscles neatly pulled him back against an unyielding body and wrapped tightly around his throat.
He had enough warning to pull in a single, startled breath, and then his airway snapped closed. Cold panic sprung to life in every inch of him, but his training didn’t let him falter. He instantly twisted to plant his feet on the ground, balancing him where he’d been dragged on top of Jack’s supine form and giving him enough vantage to try pulling himself free. Unfortunately for him, Jack was the one that had taught him how to do that; before Mac had a chance to use his new-found leverage, Jack’s foot was kicking out so sharply Mac felt the bones in his ankle shift as it was knocked out from under him. New pain joined in the cacophony but he couldn’t even gasp.
He wanted to plead, to try to remind Jack who he was and make him see what he was doing, but he didn’t have any air left to do it. All he could do was helplessly mouth his name.
Dark spots had started to burst before his eyes, his one working hand ineffectually scratching at the arm around his neck but getting nowhere. Even with both arms in working order, Mac didn’t think he’d be able to get out of this one. It was a perfect pin.
The panic he’d clamped down on swelled, sending his thoughts fracturing in every direction even as he felt his struggles start to slow, his grasp on the world around him slipping with every passing second. The last thing he was able to think before the darkness claimed him was that he’d failed to save Jack.
..
The soldier didn’t let up on the pressure until his target stopped moving completely, a limp, warm weight pressing down against him. A second later he was rolling, shoving the body away in one clean movement and getting back on his feet. He hadn’t expected such a fight – the only information that his commander had given him was a photograph, an address, and an order to make the hit up close and personal, for whatever reason. The soldier didn’t ask questions.
He stood there for a minute or so, slowly regaining his breath and cataloguing the injuries he’d acquired. Given the evident skill of his mark, they were surprisingly few and far between. As much as the target had put up one hell of a defence, he’d made almost no effort to retaliate until the end when it became clear that he was going to die. Even then, he hadn’t tried to arm himself with anything lethal. Curious.
It shouldn’t matter – his orders were very clear that he should return to his handler as soon as the job was done – but the soldier couldn’t help the desire for answers blooming in the back of his mind. Stranger than any of it, the mark had known him. Had called him by a name and looked at him like he should have been familiar. Like they should have been friends.
He looked down at the slack, bloodied face of his target and tried to find anything in it he recognised, but there was nothing. Just a blank empty void stretching out behind him endlessly, like a dark sea waiting to swallow him whole if he dared to test those waters. The examination did at least reveal that the mark was still breathing, albeit weakly. It didn’t matter; his throat was crushed and he’d expire long before anyone found him, so it was really just giving Jack a wider escape window. At least, that’s what he told himself was the reason for the strange bubble of relief fluttering in his belly.
If the unfamiliar face wasn’t going to give him any answers, maybe something else in this place would. He glanced around the room he’d largely ignored when he’d arrived earlier beyond establishing where he could find improvised weapons should it come to that, until his eyes landed on the scattered detritus from the partially-collapsed mantle. Between him and it, a lonely photo frame lay in a pool of broken glass, face down.
Acting on an instinct he wasn’t certain he should trust, the soldier stepped towards it and carefully scooped it up. The only light in the room was the orange glow of a street light pooling in through the kitchen window, but it was just enough to see the photo looking back at him. Five faces stared back at him, two women and three men, all smiling broadly from around a fire pit he distantly recognised as the one outside. Skipping the women for now, he stared hard at the three male figures. One was instantly identifiable as his mark, one was unknown to him entirely, and one was-
-One was himself. That was his face staring out at him. Younger, perhaps, and smiling in a way that the soldier could never remember himself doing, but undeniably him.
So he and the mark had known each other once. What was it he’d called him? Jack? Was that his name? If the picture was anything to go by, his target would be the one to know.
He switched his attention to the other two people in the photo and felt himself frown. The younger of the two women did seem familiar, though he couldn’t immediately bring to mind any concrete memories of her. He couldn’t even think of a name, but he couldn’t shake the impression that he’d seen her before – of course, assuming the photo wasn’t doctored, then he definitely had met her at least once.
The final person in the photo didn’t spark that same recognition and yet when he looked at it, he suddenly remembered-
The Hun.
The thought came so quickly and with so little warning that he startled badly enough he nearly dropped the frame. Where had that come from? Was that a memory? He didn’t know if he’d recognise one if he had it; the only things he could remember were blood and pain and darkness. The hell that had crafted him. Until the mark had looked at him with kindness and an unfamiliar name on his lips, the soldier had assumed that was all he’d ever known.
And yet- That was the Hun in the picture. Matty the Hun. He couldn’t have said how he knew, but he just did. Like the knowledge of it was branded on his fucking bones, deep enough that it was the one place his handlers had never been able to reach.
It was the open door he needed.
Pain, sharp and rippling, flashed through his head, drawing a cry from him as he dropped the photo to grab at his skull. A thousand images flickered in front of his eyes, so quickly that he couldn’t make sense of any of them but so overwhelmingly familiar that a distant part of him had no idea how he could ever have forgotten. He knew the faces in that photograph, knew them better than he knew his own face, and it was only now that he finally remembered why. They were his family, the people he had loved and lost a thousand years ago, before he was the soldier. Before he was a piece of meat to be pointed at a target and let loose.
Wait, a target-
He forced his eyes to open as he spun back towards the kitchen, still crippled in pain. All he could see of his mark – of Mac, his brain reminded him fiercely – was his crumpled legs sticking out from behind the counter.
Oh Jesus, no.
He scrambled over on his hands and knees, yanking the limp form onto its back and trying desperately to search for signs of life. Mac was still breathing, just, but his skin was ashen and clammy, and training long-forgotten told Jack in no uncertain terms that he needed to get help right now.
His mind was still a tangle of uncertain thorns, so much so that he wasn’t even sure where the sudden surge of terrified desperation was coming from, but he knew that if he didn’t save the man he’d just tried very hard to kill, then he’d never get the answers he was looking for. Somehow, his mark was the key to being Jack again, whoever the fuck he might be. When his other option was returning to his handlers and the cold, uncaring pain they brought, it was hardly a competition.
But how was he supposed to get help? All he had to work with shattered, unformed memories that only occasionally made any sense at all and a handful of names that meant almost nothing to him. Except- he had Matty. Whoever she was, that name meant safety, meant support. He could have said nothing else about her, but he when he thought of her name, he somehow felt secure. It was exactly what he needed right then.
Turning away from Mac, he cast about for the phone they’d lost during the fight, finding it beneath the coffee table amongst various other bits of debris that had been spilled across the floor who knows when. He snatched it up, nearly passing out from relief when he saw that it had a built-in phonebook with a series of named numbers; it was the work of a moment to find the one called Matty and hit call.
It only rang twice and it still felt like the long ten seconds of Jack’s entire life – what little of it he could remember at least.
“I thought you said you were going to get some sleep, Blondie.” The voice was unfamiliar, but that tone of suppressed concern – it was strange. It felt almost like an old coat he hadn’t worn in years, but was still hanging on the hook, just waiting for him to shrug it across his shoulders again. In another time, another life, he thought maybe he’d used that exact tone as easily as breathing.
And then, of course, he suddenly realised he had no idea what he was supposed to say. “Matty? This is- Jack? Look, it doesn’t matter. Mac needs help.”
There was an agonisingly long pause, then, biting, “Who the fuck is this?”
Desperation welled thick and fast. “It’s Jack,” he pleaded, willing her to just take him at his admittedly shaky word. “I don’t know what’s happening, alright? I don’t have a fucking clue, but there’s this kid and I think he’s Mac? He needs help! He’s barely breathing and I don’t- Please Matty.”
He only realised he was crying when he felt the tickle of tears falling from his chin. It was a sensation with which he was uncomfortably well acquainted, thanks to his handlers, but it never really got easier. With that realisation came the awareness that he was shaking with repressed sobs, his whole body trembling out of control in a way it had never done before. His body was supposed to be a weapon, every inch of it under iron control and yet now he wasn’t even sure if he could make it back to Mac’s side without falling apart.
He tried regardless.
“You ‘think’ he’s Mac?” Jack came within a heartbeat of losing it right then and there, but then Matty’s priorities finally snapped into alignment. “Alright, never mind. He’s hurt? Okay, I’m dispatching a medical team. You’re calling from the landline, so I’m guessing you’re at Mac’s house?”
“I- I think so.” He rattled off the address his commander had given him before he’d been set loose.
“That’s the one. Are you hurt?”
“No,” he said shakily, then again more firmly to reassure her. He’d taken a couple of bumps during the fight, but they were nothing in the face of everything else.
“What happened? How did Mac get hurt?” Then, more urgently, “Are you still in danger?”
“No, it was- There’s no danger. It- It was me Matty.”
“What was you?”
He felt himself shudder, guilt and shame he couldn’t understand brimming beneath his ribs. “I was the one that hurt him. I hurt Mac.”
..
The first time Mac properly awoke wasn’t anything like the type of awakening normally seen in movies, with a series of slow blinks and a gradual return to the world of the living. No, instead, Mac was hauled bodily out of indistinct dreams to full consciousness with no middle ground whatsoever, gagging violently against the tube stuck down his throat as panic balled so high in his gut he feared he’d be sick. Tears sprang to eyes rolling wildly in his head and he thought that if he could feel it, he’d probably be aware that his body was convulsing somewhere beneath him.
“Mac!” A voice called desperately beside him, barely audible over the screaming of machines blaring to life as his vitals no doubt spiked in all the wrong directions. A familiar hand fit over his shoulder and he felt himself flinch away.
He wanted to scream, or perhaps just cry – he had no idea what was happening and the last thing he could remember was his partner’s arms around his throat. If he was here, then where was Jack? Had that really happened?
“Mac, listen to me,” the voice was pleading again, and he finally recognised Riley, “You’re okay, you’re safe. You’re in Phoenix Med.”
He didn’t care where he was. He wanted to know about Jack.
There was no way he could have spoken, what with the throat tube, but Riley somehow seemed to know what he wanted to ask regardless because her next words were, “We know about Jack. He’s here too, in the Phoenix. He’s safe.”
The relief of that was intense, but it didn’t put to rest the thousand other questions scrabbling at the inside of his skull, desperate to get out. No doubt there were some answers Riley could have given him if he’d had any way to ask, but before he could even try he felt a flush of cold in the crook of his elbow – IV port, his mind supplied – and then everything else was darkness.
..
His second waking was a little more bearable, mostly due to the fact that his throat was his own once more. It didn’t quell the sudden surge of panic or the desperation for answers that nearly drowned him as soon as he got his eyes open, but at least he wasn’t gagging helplessly. Small mercies.
As before, Riley was beside him in an instant. “Don’t try to talk,” she said immediately on seeing his eyes on hers. “Your throat is badly damaged. They’ve only just agreed to take out the tube and if you put any more stress on your vocal chords, you could end up with permanent damage.”
A very careful swallow assured him that she wasn’t joking. His entire neck felt swollen and stiff, and he didn’t need a mirror to picture the black line of bruising that must be cutting across his trachea. He offered her a very tiny nod and tried not to wince.
Seeing his understanding, Riley’s urgency softened slightly. “It sounds bad,” she admitted, “But you’re going to be okay. They were able to set your shoulder and your nose back to the way they were, although you look a bit like a raccoon right now.”
It was teasing, but Mac could hear the underlying strain. She was feigning optimism for his sake because he was injured and hurting, but he wished she wouldn’t. He just wanted answers on what had happened to Jack.
His left arm was in a sling strapped tightly to his chest, but his hand was still free for use. In slow, careful movements so as not to disturb the IV still inserted into his right elbow, he brought his hands together and signed the letters of Jack’s name in ASL. Riley watched him cautiously, then offered him an apologetic smile.
“I don’t know any sign, but I’m going to take a guess and say you’re asking about Jack?”
Another tiny nod.
“Yeah.” She breathed out heavily, sinking down in the chair at his bedside like she no longer had the strength to hold herself up. “God, Mac, it’s-” She put her face in her hands and pressed hard against her eyes as if to hold back tears. “He’s alive. Like, actually, really, alive. We buried him and he was-”
Mac wanted to reach out to her but he didn’t think he had the strength. Everything had happened so quickly that he hadn’t even begun to try to tackle the anguish that came along with knowing that the team had utterly given up on Jack when he was apparently still out there and – if he had to guess – having a pretty shitty time of things. There were only so many reasons that Jack would end up at his door with a death sentence and no idea who he was.
But right now wasn’t the time for that. Now, he wanted answers.
After a few seconds of strained silence, Riley shook herself and straightened up once more. “He’s at the Phoenix, under guard. That’s where Desi is,” she tacked on, though he hadn’t tried to ask. “A medical team looked him over – he’s got a lot more scars than he did before he left and his bloodwork showed that he was pumped full of all kinds of shit that I can’t even begin to try to explain.” She took another breath, looking slightly green. “Their conclusion was conditioning. Wherever Jack’s been – whoever he was with-”
Her voice failed and she shook her head sharply. It didn’t matter; Mac could fill in the rest of that story himself.
“The good news is that they don’t think it’s irreversible.” She scowled over the word, like it wasn’t quite the one she wanted. “He’s been getting his memories back, though it’s a little hit and miss. He recognised me and Bozer, but he’s got these- gaps. Things have been getting better now that the drugs are leaving his system.”
That was good news. Excellent really. It didn’t erase the pit of despair opening in Mac’s gut, but it did shrink it ever so slightly.
“He’s the one who called for help,” Riley added. “He saw a photograph at your house and it, I don’t know, unlocked something? He remembered your name. Suddenly realised that he didn’t want you dead.” She said it bleakly, not trying to soften the blow. There was no wording she could have used to do that. “Matty sent in medical for you, and a tac team for him. He’s been here ever since. If anyone’s come looking for him, I haven’t been able to find them on any of the usual channels, or the unusual ones. Can’t help but think it’s only a matter of time though. Someone spent a lot of time turning him into- Well.” She swallowed hard. “In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out if- If he did anything else. Hurt anyone else.”
The tears slipped down her face for real then, the sheer weight of her pain too much to bear. That time Mac did reach out his hand, shakily gripping at hers. It was all he could do. The situation felt impossible and he had no idea what they were possibly supposed to do now other than be there for each other.
Besides, Mac had a sneaking suspicion he already knew the answer to that question. If he’d had to guess, and he was unfortunately all too familiar with the insane logic of the worst of the worst, Jack wouldn’t have hurt anyone else yet. Conditioning took time and it was an inexact science. Anyone looking to control the force of nature that was Jack Dalton would have their hands full, and they weren’t going to pull the pin on that grenade until they were certain it wouldn’t go off in their faces. They would have tested him. And what better test was there than pitting him against his own partner?
..
“Absolutely not,” Matty snapped, looking at him like he was crazy for even suggesting it.
“Matty, I need to see him,” his interpreter relayed, her eyes on his hands. After several days in recovery, Mac’s energy levels had started to bounce back up, but he was still confined to a cervical collar and forbidden from speaking. To speed things up from having to constantly write on a pad of paper, the Phoenix had sourced him an ASL interpreter called Casey to act as his mouthpiece. It was an imperfect solution, but at least it was something.
“No.”
“Why?”
Matty’s eyebrows rose sharply. “You’re really going to question why I’m not going to let the person who nearly strangled you to death visit you while you’re still in your hospital bed?”
“He didn’t know who I was. You said yourself that he’s been improving now his blood’s clean.”
“’Improving’ does not mean ‘perfectly safe to be around someone who can’t even speak yet.’”
It was a low blow, but he didn’t let it get to him. “Then have the visit be under guard. Desi can keep me safe.”
Matty eyed him speculatively. Mac wasn’t sure what precisely it was she was looking for, so he just let her look. It wasn’t like he’d be able to fool her even if he’d known what to aim for. “Why do you want to see him? He nearly killed you.”
“And then he saved me.”
“I’m not sure that negates the former part of that particularly story.”
He sighed carefully, then shot Casey an apologetic look. This was likely going to take a while. “Matty, I thought Jack was dead. I buried him. Picked out the headstone and everything. Then he shows up here, so twisted up that he didn’t even recognise me.” He winced a little as some of the more movement-heavy signs tugged at his aching shoulder. “If he is back, really back, and knows who I am, then I need to see that for myself. Right now my last memory of him is him choking me unconscious. I need to know that he’s not gone for good.”
To Matty’s credit, she waited patiently through the slow, arduous process of signing and translating. Mac’s ASL was pretty good, but he hadn’t had to rely on it in a while, and the limitation of the sling really hindered Casey’s ability to accurately determine between a number of similar words. The result was a lot less smooth than any of them might like.
When he was finished, Matty’s expression was soft. She stared at him for a long moment of silence then at the ground between them. “I can understand that,” she said quietly. “When that call came through, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Even now, it’s hard to accept that all this really happened.” Her gaze returned to Mac, something settled behind her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Alright. You have a right to see him, I suppose, after everything. But I’m not having this happen without guards. Desi will be here at all times, you understand me? If he puts a toe out of line, I’m having him removed immediately.”
The smile that bloomed across Mac’s face felt like the first one he’d worn in years. “Deal.”
..
In Mac’s opinion, two tac team members and Desi were overkill when it came to controlling a single man who was already in handcuffs, but he’d agreed to follow whatever protections Matty felt was necessary. Besides, as soon as his partner shuffled into the room, Mac’s awareness of anything else in the world paled into insignificance.
The bright white lights of Medical illuminated a great many details that the darkness of the initial attack had hidden. For one, Jack looked visibly worn; his hair was greyer than it had been when he left, and his face was home to a few more wrinkles. The scraggly beard on his chin looked like it had been repeatedly hacked back with little to no care given to aesthetics. He was thinner too; still wrapped tight with heavy muscle, but with none of the softening brought about by the relative comfort he’d had living in LA with a steady supply of decent meals. Most notable of all, however, was the thick, pale line of scar tissue that cut from the outer corner of his left eyebrow all the way back along his skull to a point somewhere behind his ear. A bullet graze, Mac assumed. It must have been one hell of a wound.
He could almost have looked like an entirely different person, if it wasn’t for his eyes. His eyes were the same.
Mac instantly felt himself well up. He’d be embarrassed about it if Jack didn’t immediately do the same thing, swaying forward half a step, only to be halted when Desi’s hand shot out to latch onto his arm and hold him back. He froze in place at the touch, but the longing in his eyes only grew stronger.
“He’s not going to hurt me,” Mac signed urgently, not looking at Casey when he couldn’t tear his eyes away from his partner. “Let him come closer.”
Jack’s eyes darted from Mac’s hands, to Casey, to Mac’s throat and visibly did some quick maths. He winced heavily. “I did that,” he mumbled quietly and God, Mac hadn’t thought he’d ever get to hear that voice again. He barely even grasped that Jack shouldn’t be blaming himself for something he hadn’t really had control over; he was too busy trying not to drown under the intense wave of emotion washing over him.
“It’s fine,” he signed instead of trying to encapsulate the magnitude of that emotion into a few simple hand gestures. “Gives me a chance to practice my ASL.”
Desi managed to somehow loudly roll her eyes at Mac’s insistence he was okay, but that didn’t matter because Jack’s face had folded into pensiveness. “You learned that in the Sandbox,” he said slowly, his gaze distant. “You kept coming across soldiers with hearing loss and you wanted to be able to speak with them.”
Mac’s smile just about split his face in two, even as a fresh wave of tears started pouring down his cheeks. That was something that Jack could only have remembered by himself – Mac hadn’t told anyone else at the Phoenix about it. In place of struggling for stupid, insufficient signs, he nodded desperately against the restraining grip of the collar.
Jack took another step forward on seemingly instinct, resisting when Desi's hand on his shoulder tried to haul him back.
“Dalton,” she warned sharply
Mac flapped a hand at her, barely able to see through the blur of his tears, then signed as quickly as he could, “Let him go.”
“Mac,” Desi cautioned lowly, sending him a glare that was decipherable even when he couldn’t see clearly.
“Trust me.”
With a sharp look of warning at Jack, Desi’s hand withdrew. Jack required no further prompting to take two unsteady steps in Mac’s direction and collapse heavily on the edge of the bed beside him, cuffed hands twitching uncertainly towards him before hesitating. In all their years together, Mac had never seen him look so unsure of himself and it hurt.
Rather than look at his heartbroken expression any longer, Mac did the one thing he’d wanted to do ever since he watched Jack walk away from him with nothing more than a handshake and threw his one working arm around him for a hug. It was awkward as all hell – Mac still had one arm in a sling pinned between them and a neck brace on that allowed for very little movement, and Jack’s hands were cuffed tightly together – but that didn’t stop Mac from nearly coming apart at the seams. He pressed his forehead down against his partner’s shoulder, feeling the breath moving in and out of his chest, and Jack’s hands came up together under his uninjured arm to press carefully against his shoulder blade and hold him there. For the first time in over two years, Mac thought he might finally, finally, find some peace.
“Jack,” he murmured aloud, flinching at the sound of his own shitty, rasping voice burning through his abused throat, but then it didn’t matter because Jack only leaned in closer and replied, “I’m here, hoss. I’m right here.”
And, as they both lost themselves to their shared grief, and sorrow, and joy, that was all that needed to be said.
