A prompt from Amy L. made its way in here, and will be posted at the end.
I've been wanting to write something for this quote for quite a time, so when the words started coming, I didn't really fight them, lol.
Title and quote from Hamilton, by Lin-Manuel Miranda.
Warnings: talk of death, on-screen character death (only canonical, though), and war. Nothing above a pg-14 rating though, in my opinion, and y'all know I generally warn for anything that I think needs it.
Tissue advisory.
Death doesn't discriminate
Mac learns of death early on, when his mother dies young. He thinks, then, as a five-year-old, that maybe Death- because it's a person to him, a monster to be feared- only takes the young, and if you make it past a certain age, you're safe.
His father leaves when he's eleven, and he walks into the driveway to see the car peeling out and his father not even giving him a glance, his grandfather standing tall and proud and alone on the porch.
When Mac's eighteen, his grandfather dies. That's the clinching point. He drops out of college, enrolls in the army, and his thoughts are an endless cycle of why mixed with anger that the people that cared about him are gone, while the man that walked out of his life is perfectly fine.
(He doesn't wish harm on the man, he just-
He wants his grandfather back, he wants his mother to hold him one more time, he wants his family together again.)
Between the sinners and the saints
The desert is harsh, unrelenting, dangerous, deadly. The sand is piled high in glaring piles that stretch endlessly in all directions, and in the dark moments between battles, he can't help but think that this is going to be what kills them all: nature.
He's wrong though, so very wrong.
A kid that he trained is sent to his squad. He's young and fresh-faced and filled with fierce determination and eyes that look out of place and old underneath sandy blond hair that blends into the desert around them.
Pena closes his eyes and murmurs a prayer to the God to Whom he's dedicated this tour. He prays that this kid, this kid that he loves like his own, will be safe.
And then they're disarming bombs and falling into an easy pattern, and Pena's heart just aches every time the kid looks up at him with those eyes full of admiration and seriousness and the knowledge of a heavy responsibility that rests square on the blond's skinny shoulders. He does his best to make sure the kid's safe, but-
They're in war. And war, war is hell. War takes all that is precious and good and crushes it in heavy, careless hands and leaves behind broken hearts, broken families, broken lives.
Only the strongest survive, and sometimes it doesn't matter how strong one is.
They chase a man that aids War in its monstrous work, one that's been taking lives that could've been saved if only he hadn't set bombs at sites, and Pena has to admit that he gets caught up in the chase, in the rightful anger that aids him whenever his energy flags.
They're taking out a bomb, a normal sweep, and Pena goes in instead of the kid. He can't say what tells him, urges him onward and fairly pushes the words out of his mouth. His last sight of the kid- though he doesn't know that, not consciously, but maybe in the back of his mind, somewhere, the thought that this could be the last time he disarms a bomb surfaces- is of a wide smile, eyes flashing with the rare laughter that shines brighter than the sun striking the sand at midday.
He talks, as he enters the hut, and he realizes that Mac isn't answering his comments. It could be that the kid's just nervous, though, and so Pena keeps talking. He talks about his wife- the most beautiful woman in the world, the love of his life- and his daughter, the bundle of joy that Pena can't wait to see.
He sees, out of the corner of his eye, a movement, and he knows in his gut that it's the Ghost, perhaps caught unawares by Pena, perhaps behind schedule. All that matters is that he's here, and Pena knows in his gut that this is the last few seconds for both of them.*
Then there's pain, and in the second before he leaves this life, he spares a moment to thank God that it wasn't Mac, wasn't the kid that had fairly become his son.
It takes and it takes and it takes
Mac watches as his friend, his brother is wheeled into surgery, looking limp and strangely small on the cold metal that reflects the harsh lights.
He turns, shaking off the hands of Riley and Bozer, and goes to talk to Matty. He asks her, at first, to send him out again. She tells him to wait. That he's not in a condition that's fit for the field. He yells at her, then, for the first time. Only after he spits out the words, full of anger and vehemence and frustration, does he realize that he's been telling her that she needs to send him out so he can fix this, as if bringing in some other criminal will fix the fact that Jack's in a surgery that he might not survive.
Matty looks at him with eyes that hold an emotion that he thought was foreign to her, one that looks a bit like sympathy and sorrow and pity, and he doesn't want that.
So he leaves.
He goes to the last place he saw Murdoc, and, even though there's a voice in his head that sounds strangely like Jack's, he finds the burner phone that he thinks Murdoc might've put there, the one that he hopes to find.
Sure enough, it's buried in dirt, with a note wrapped around it.
Are you ready to play the game?
Mac grits his teeth and hits speed dial, free hand curled tightly into a fist, shoulders tense.
It picks up on the first ring. Murdoc's voice slithers through the speaker, silky smooth and disgusting as a slug's slime.** "I see you've decided to accept your fate, MacGyver."
MacGyver snaps through the line. "Whatever, Murdoc. Where are you? I'm going to take you down anyway, so you might as well make this easy on yourself."
He finds himself hoping that Murdoc won't go along quietly. He needs an outlet for his anger, something to rage at that won't look at him with pity in their eyes. Murdoc hesitates before answering, and when he does, his voice sounds disappointed. "My, my, MacGyver, aren't you tetchy today. You sound angry."
MacGyver snaps through the phone, "That's none of your business."
Murdoc speaks again, and Mac can hear the smile on his face. "I'm afraid it is. Now, you're obviously not going to tell me what it is. I'm guessing one of your precious teammates was hurt."
There's a beat of silence, and Mac doesn't answer. Murdoc speaks, his voice gaining a triumphant edge to it. "Oh, I see. Now, you'd be distraught over an injury to any of them, but since you're calling me, no one's stopped you. I think I'll have to go with the injured party being Jack."
A surge of anger wells up in Mac as the assassin spits Jack's name out so casually, with contempt, even. "Shut up. Shut up and tell me where you are so we can end this."
Murdoc's voice goes hard, then, and he says, "No."
Mac's thoughts stutter to a stop, and he blurts out incredulously, "No? You've been wanting to kill me for months, now. What changed?"
Murdoc's voice is lilting, taunting. "Nothing's changed. I just want a worthy opponent, not one that's blinded by rage."
The blond doesn't know what to say to that, and before he can cobble together a suitable response, there's a click, and the line goes dead.
He shouts in frustration and flings the device away from him. It hits a tree and cracks, the back flying in one direction, the front the other. He slumps to the ground, burying his face in his hands
His own phone lights up with a text from Riley. Two words: Jack's awake.
He sees Jack sitting up in his bed, tired and pale and furious. Mac steps closer, drinking in the sight of his friend alive and well, and feels a weight leave his shoulders.
He almost stumbles back when Jack grits out, "You're an idiot."
Mac stops in his tracks. "Excuse me?"
Jack's face twists in anger, more than it already has. "You went after Murdoc, didn't you."
Mac doesn't answer. Jack takes that as confirmation. "You- the only reason you're still here is because of luck, I'm sure."
Mac doesn't reply, and Jack's voice cracks as he continues talking. "I woke up, and you weren't here, and no one knew where you were. I thought- I thought you were dead, man."
Mac stumbles over to the chair by the bed, sinking down into it and burying his head in his hands. "I- this is my fault- I'm sorry, Jack. I'm so sorry."
The older man reaches for the younger, and, by sheer determination, manages to rest a comforting hand on his knee. "Mac, it's not your fault. It was the man that shot me that did this, not you. You understand?"
The sheer conviction in Jack's tone, the way he speaks the words firmly and without hesitation, is what convinces MacGyver more than anything. He nods, shakily, and Jack leans back on his pillows, fighting to keep his eyes open. Mac pokes him, gently. "Go to sleep."
Jack rolls his eyes. "You gonna sit here and blame yourself some more?"
Mac's silent for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, I don't think so."
Jack smiles. "Good."
Mac watches as Jack succumbs to slumber. Somehow, his hand finds its way into Jack's, and when a nurse enters the room, the blond is slumped over the bed, head resting on the bed by a hand that's clutching the older man's like a lifeline.
She's a mother, and she's seen her sons make up more than once.
She smiles, and leaves the two to sleep.
But we keep living anyway
*This is set in a slight AU verse where the Ghost died in the same explosion that killed Pena.
**no offense meant to slugs, of course.
Prompt from Amy L.: Jack is hurt on a mission. Mac blames himself. Mac forces Matty to send him out solo, but he is seriously injured. When he gets back, Jack forces him to talk.
I changed it quite a bit, but I couldn't get my mind going for the original context of the prompt. I hope you still like it!