Author's Notes:
Starts off like the original episode (but minus Mac's first encounter with Jules, which was confusing and made no sense in the original anyway). We're picking up from the scene in Carol's house, with one critical twist…
"For all we know, I could be a criminal."
Days like these make perfectionism worthwhile, Lancer thinks. He had a perfectly solid, functional plan - allow Jules to go in and trash the place a bit, shoot Jules, use MacGyver as the fall boy for the bombing later - but he's eavesdropping on the target just to be diligent, and that one line changes everything.
If the man's such an amnesiac that he can't remember what his basic morality is, well, maybe he can be helped along in that belief.
He goes and grabs Jules just before the action starts. "Change of plans. We're not killing MacGyver."
"We're not?" The other man looks disgusted.
Lancer ponders whether it's still worth killing Jules here and now, and decides it isn't. Too messy, too difficult to explain. It'll take time to break their latest recruit into killing as an art form.
"Get back to the camper and switch to plan B. You'll have to finish the job solo, I'm going to need Tara tonight to roll out the red carpet. If we can get this man on our side, it'll make the payout for our bombing look like pin money…"
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The part where he's called MacGyver sounds right. At least he has his name back.
All the rest makes him feel worse.
"Criminals, freelancers, occasional CIA operatives," Lancer says, handing him a cold beer out of the fridge. "Troubleshooters. I was surprised when you called us for backup. To tell you the truth, you're known for being a loner."
MacGyver takes a sip from the bottle, has to fight down an impulse to spit the mouthful out again. The stuff's incredibly bitter - why would anyone drink this voluntarily?
But Lancer's waving him over to the camper's cosy table nook with an air of easy familiarity, as though they've done this before. That's a reassuring idea. Maybe it's an acquired taste.
"We've worked together a few times. Helped you get the Phoenix Foundation off your tail more than once - any chance you remember Thornton? Have a look."
The reserved, not-giving-anything-away figure in the photograph doesn't tell him anything. "No."
"You'll have to. Pete Thornton, ex-DXS agent and one of the wiliest old birds in the intelligence business. His speciality is brainwashing." Lancer opens his own beer and drinks, with apparent enjoyment. "No ploy too devious. He'll rely on any means, no matter how unscrupulous, to turn a man inside out until there's nothing left but a shell bawling the praises of his own kidnappers."
"I've lost my memory. Can't remember a thing. You don't think he got to me, do you?"
A thoughtful nod. "That could very well be the case. In which case, he'll be trying to recapture you again."
Lancer watches MacGyver's expression subtly alter: a slight tightening about the mouth, a moment of smoldering anger in those calm brown eyes. He'd only been intending to make Thornton sound too scary to approach, but the man's quick-witted. Enough to invent explanations that make more sense than humdrum truth.
If he can control that wit, turn it to purpose, they'll really have something.
"They say that familiarity can help with amnesia, sometimes," Tara says. She's monitoring a scratchy radio, waggling the antenna back and forth. "Do you remember the address of your safehouse in Las Vegas? You never did tell us where it was."
"No. No, I don't."
"Don't tell me you've forgotten your numbered Swiss bank account," Lancer chuckles, then stops at the lack of response. "Have you?"
"None of this sounds at all familiar," MacGyver says, stolidly. "I've got a knife and the clothes I'm wearing, and that's it. Guess I'll have to start from scratch."
"Heyyyy. Hey hey hey, don't think we'd do that to you," Tara coos. She carries the radio over to the nook, slips her arm around Mac's shoulders in a comforting gesture. "This camper can carry four, no problem. Not much cash left in the kitty, but you'll never have to go panhandling as long as we're around." The radio wheezes and gives up altogether; she shakes her head at it in despair.
"Lemme see that." MacGyver grabs the radio and rips off the exterior panel, working with near-desperate intensity. "I bet I know how to fix this, it's probably just a loose connection-"
The radio crackles into perfect life again. "…a bombing near the Westside Cemetery, killing six officers at a military funeral today. The police investigation is ongoing…"
"Looks like you're already earning your keep," Lancer says warmly.
Tara nods, cuddles up against him.
MacGyver smiles and takes another sip of beer. Could be he's imagining things, but it really does seem to taste better this time.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Ex-military, like me," Jules says.
He's practicing with his pistol in a lazy sort of way, allowing whole minutes to go by between shots. But hitting the paper plate he's hung up for a target every time.
MacGyver's watching, and honing his SAK. If this is all he has to show for half a lifetime's work, he's going to take care of it.
"But Lancer had me try out his gun this morning, and I'm a terrible shot. What makes you think I'm a vet?"
Jules snorts. "For one thing, because you told me."
"Oh," MacGyver says, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry. It's hard to get used to other people knowing more about me than I do. Keep going."
"You were drafted too. Into a damn stupid war, ordered by damn stupid idiots in Washington, who didn't give a shit about how many kids they killed in Vietnam as long as they got to make their little speeches about how we're fighting the brave fight against those scary Russian Commies. And what the hell happens? Half the country stays Communist anyway, we didn't even make a difference over there." He empties his gun in a rapid-fire burst, reloads quickly, and empties it all over again. "When I got back, that was it with me and the system, and I kick its teeth in whenever I get the chance. You told me you did pretty much the same thing."
Makes sense. Makes a lot of sense.
Without thinking much about it, MacGyver throws his knife at Jules' target. It tears straight through the red X at the centre, lands quivering in the grass beneath.
Jules looks at him with far more respect. "Hell. That was smooth."
"It's a weapon," MacGyver says softly. "Guess I didn't think of that."
"Of course it's a weapon. It's a knife, you dumbass," Jules says with affection. He retrieves the red SAK and tosses it back. "If you can hit the mark with that thing every time, no wonder you gave up on guns. Forget silencers, that is the definition of discreet."
They experiment with a kitchen knife from the camper, then Jules' military-issue bootknife. It goes quicker once he starts remembering the muscle movements, in a faint bubbling up of recall: years of practice, casually chucking his SAK at trees, fences, whatever, whenever he had a spare moment. How many knives did he get through that way? Dozens?
By the end of the day, he can hit Jules's target dead on three times out of five, and gets pretty close the rest of the time.
"No guns," he tells Lancer. "I don't think I need one anyway."
Lancer looks less than happy. "Jules…"
Jules shrugs. "You heard the man. He doesn't."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"I don't feel right about this," MacGyver says, jamming his hands into his pockets. "Taking handouts. It's bad enough I've got to rely on you guys just for food and somewhere to sleep at night."
"Mac, you've got to stop thinking that way," Tara tells him, as they enter the shopping mall. "Call it an investment, if that makes you feel better. You're one of the best in the business. Once you've got your head straight again, you'll more than make this back for us."
"Yeah, but in the meantime I'm just a deadweight."
"And here I was hoping you'd have gotten over that. You'd think amnesia would wipe the slate clean."
"It's not total amnesia, I can still remember the chemistry I need. Political situations, all the tradecraft. Just not what I've been doing with it for the last twenty years." Food court, candle store, pharmacy. Department store. He's dreading this. "Gotten over what?
Tara grabs a cart and takes him firmly by the arm, so he can't run off. "Every time we've met, you've always seemed so lonely. Most of us are in this trade, but it's as if you never even heard of friendship. This is a second chance for you. For us," she says.
What an awful picture she's painting. He thinks of the companionable dynamic they've built up in just a few days - arguing over pancake recipes with Jules, discussing their future plans with Lancer, showing Tara herself how to rewire ordinary transistor radios into rather less innocuous objects. Already it's a bond he wouldn't surrender easily.
Then he considers what it'd be like trying to run from the Phoenix Foundation all alone, and finds himself shuddering.
"Now if we don't leave this store with at least two hundred dollars worth of purchases, I'll have to tell Lancer you've been very uncooperative."
"Oh, heaven forfend. Actually, this isn't bad." He checks the price tag on a nice motorcycle jacket: expensive, but gorgeous. "How about this?"
"Leather? Weren't you saying you thought you might be vegan?"
"Forget that," MacGyver says with satisfaction. "This is going to look terrific on me, look." He demonstrates.
"Oh, wow, you weren't kidding," Tara says in admiration. She nestles up close, gives him a quick kiss.
"First time," she whispers. "For luck."
Maybe she's right.
Maybe this whole amnesia business isn't as scary as he first thought.