For a change everything had gone smoothly. Scouting the security arrangements in Dublin ahead of an … important … visitor from the U.S. had revealed no inherent flaws in the system. Despite credible threats that the opponents of that particular visitor's stance on Ireland and Brexit, wanted to upset that particular applecart (violently), nothing had turned up.

The State Visit had concluded early, with the official jet departing at about tea time, according to the local more casual measure of what part of the day you were in. Mac found that particular quirk oddly charming. The locals, the ones they had dealt with anyway, seemed to keep time by the sun, which meal was on its way, and more than half of them, the chime of the bells from the nearest cathedral.

Their exfil wasn't scheduled until ten the following morning, when the official visit was supposed to conclude. So, for a change, instead of running toward the nearest friendly means of conveyance away from the bad guys, Mac and Jack were enjoying the change to slow down for a minute.

They'd headed to their respective rooms to grab a shower with plans to meet up and discuss dinner possibilities. After standing under the hot spray for a few minutes, Mac was contemplating begging off, ordering room service, and watching the All-Ireland Club Football Championship.

The more he thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. Streets were getting a little rowdy if the noise he'd heard through his cracked window before he'd come in to get cleaned up was any indication. And Mac was honestly just ready for a night in; something nice and quiet. There wasn't a chance in Hell Jack was interested in hanging out and watching soccer, and if how hard he'd been flirting with the pretty redhead at the desk was any indication, Jack had very specific ideas about his evening already.

He'd just finished dressing and was about to head into his small single room to call Jack and say, "Sorry not sorry because I'm beat and I feel like being boring," when he heard that it was too late.

"Mac! Yo, Mac! You ready or what?"

Rolling his eyes, with a little smirk, he opened the bathroom door. That was Jack's 'I want to go party and maybe I've been pregaming a little' voice. Mac just crossed to his bed and sat down on the end by his shoes, looking at the TV a little longingly and wondering if he could get himself off the hook tonight. It was too nice to finish a mission, have it go exactly as planned, and not be all dinged up and miserable afterward to want to go courting a hangover just so Jack Dalton could get laid.

A litany of excuses ran through Mac's head, and not a single one struck him as something Jack would buy. He decided to go the direct route and see where it got him. "Jack … I was thinking …"

"Oh no you don't, young Angus. The lovely lady who upgraded our rooms wants to have a drink at the pub up the block when she get off at seven."

Mac gave him the look. The single cocked eyebrow was more than enough to tell Jack he was going to have to keep going to get Mac to put on his boots. "So? Go have a drink with … Ali?"

"Ailbe, actually. Her sister is a waitress at that pub," Jack explained.

"That's nice. Are they twins? Is that what this is about? Because I definitely don't want to to sit in a booth across from you and watch you make out with two of the same person. Ever again."

Jack grinned. "Very funny. It's her younger sister. Who she thinks would just love the hell out of … how did she put it … shorter, shyer Captain America."

Mac smiled and shook his head. He could feel his face color just a little. Always nice to have somebody think you were cute, but there was nothing worse than knowing you were meeting someone who'd already probably had an unflattering candid pic texted to them and all manner of speculation exchanged before you'd ever breathed the same air.

"I honestly don't feel like going out Jack. There's a match on I was hoping to catch tonight even if we were at the embassy, and since we're aren't …"

"Madagascar, Mac. C'mon. Don't let's make that kind of luck a once in a lifetime thing, huh?"

Mac felt a grin of his own start to spread. That was a memorable couple of days, to say the least. He was almost ready to capitulate when Jack added, "Besides, dude, it's Saint Patrick's Day! We're in Dublin! We gotta go tear it up a little!"

"Ugh, Jack, no. I haven't gone out to a bar on March 17th since Smitty made me my freshman year and it was loud, obnoxious, and we nearly got busted for having fake IDs. I vowed I would never do it again. Besides, Americans in Ireland, going out and getting hammered on a national holiday. Feels like cultural appropriation to me."

Jack gave a dismissive wave. "C'mon, Mac, be a little less Millenial for a minute. Besides, Dalton is an Irish name and …"

"Dalton is actually a Norman name that took root in England sometime after the 7th century where it evolved from the Old English Dole, meaning valley or dale. Dalton didn't make its way into Ireland until the …"

"My Pop's family is from Ireland. That's good enough for me," Jack said with his characteristic feigned irritation at one of Mac's unnecessary explanations. "And Angus MacGyver that's sounds plenty Irish, so …"

"Both are Scottish names Jack. Angus means lamb …"

Jack snicker-snorted at that and Mac just sent a glare his way.

"And MacGyver comes from old Norse patronymics from the name Iver and was eventually adopted as a clan name in the Argyle region of Scotland near 1300 CE and is now primarily associated with the clan society based in Fife."

This time Jack was the one who raised an eyebrow. "Are you done, Professor?"

Mac just shrugged. "Anthroponomastics is really pretty interesting …"

"Just put your damned boots on, Mac. And let's go drink too much with a couple of pretty girls, and have a holiday just like guys who have regular not crazy assed jobs do, okay?"

At Jack's pleading look, Mac just started pulling on his footwear.

"Erin go bragh, I guess."

0-0-0

The night started in the pub up the street, which had a much better than average kitchen. Jack was ecstatic to be getting some real Irish food instead of the corned beef and cabbage being served at home. He ordered two helpings of Irish bacon (which Jack said was just fancy ham) and some sort of potato dish that Mac didn't hear the name of over the din of the patrons and the live band.

He stuck to chicken and leek pie, and that's where he was going to leave it, but their very attractive dinner companions, Ailbe and Saiorse (who made sure to tell him her name in what felt like an almost affected accent - saying she knew American boys thought it was cute or exotic or something) started ordering stouts left and right. Mac was pretty close to ready to call it a night, because he was about half past too buzzed for his personal taste, although Jack seemed to be having a great time. His impromptu date got up to use the ladies room.

Then Ailbe said, "Hey Sersh, get Seamus to fix these boys a proper American Saint Paddy's drink, to celebrate their visit, wontcha?"

Saoirse raised her eyebrows. "Already, then, Al, my girl?"

Her sister nodded, with a small smile and lidded eyes.

When Saiorse came back with a tray of dark beer, she set one down in front of Jack, then Mac. When he didn't immediately pick his up, she slid it toward him.

"I think I'm all set, Sersh."

"C'mon, don't be like that, then," she said in a distinctly cajoling voice. She picked up her own beer and took a long drink. "It's a party, lovey."

Jack was half way through his own beer already. "He knows how to party. He plans killer ones."

Mac smiled, just a little. His dinner companion, with unusually clear green eyes and black silky hair, took another sip of her beer and gave him and encouraging nudge with her elbow.

He shook his head and picked up his beer, took a sip and nearly spit it out. "What the hell is this?" he asked, wrinkling his face in a way that said he wasn't sure he hated it, but it sure as hell didn't taste right.

"That's a car bomb, love. Stout and whiskey. Americans came up with that one when The Troubles were at their worst. You know what The Troubles are, then?"

Mac took another tentative sip, followed by a longer drink. "I do. Things have been better for a while though, right?"

"Depends on who you ask," Ailbe answered, putting her arm around Jack and pulling him toward her. He didn't take a lot of convincing to lean his head against what couldn't quite properly be termed her shoulder.

"Whoo," Mac said widening his eyes a little. "How much whiskey did your friend put in this? I feel kind of …" He trailed off, closing his eyes, trying to find the word for the sensation he was feeling, and hoping it would be written on the backs of his eyelids.

When he opened them, he groaned and closed them again, bringing a hand up to cover them and keep out the light. He was lying flat, ostensibly on a bed because it felt reasonably soft. Well, sort of. There was nowhere he didn't hurt at the moment, and that was especially true for his head.

Jesus, he thought to himself. If you were going to let a girl get you so drunk that you felt like you had double decker bus tire tracks across your forehead, the least your brain could do was let you remember why she'd thought it was worthwhile.

He was pretty sure that's how he got in this sorry state anyway, because under the sheet that was all that was over him, he could tell he'd parted ways with all of his clothes at some point. And the light told him it was at least late morning, if not early afternoon.

He was alone in bed, but he had at least vague hopes that Saiorse was around somewhere. Maybe getting him some all important coffee and hopefully an entire bottle of aspirin. He forced his eyes open. He took in the room for a second, then he scrambled up to sitting.

"Jack! Jack! Wake up!"

His partner, who was in identical circumstances in a bed a few feet of way, moaned softly and rolled onto his side.

"Ah! Son of a bitch," he growled, as he opened his eyes into narrow slits. "Oh my God, Mac, look at yourself!" Jack forced himself to sit up, too, with a hiss of pain.

Mac tried to focus for a moment and realized what had Jack trying to open his swollen and bruised eyes. Mac's whole torso was covered with bruises and by the feel of it, so was his face. He frowned at Jack though. "You're bleeding, Jack."

It was true. A cut that ran from one shoulder to the bottom of his rib cage on the opposite side of his body was still weeping blood. It had been deep by the look and feel of it, but it was also probably at least eight hours old.

"What the hell happened?" Jack rasped, his voice sounding hoarse, like someone with a bad cold, or someone who had been screaming. For a while.

"Better question," Mac said, gingerly tipping his chin in the direction of the window opposite them at the bare countryside spread out before them on a bright grey day and the sea in the distance. "Where the hell are we? And, more importantly right now ... " He gestured at the entirely empty room. "Where the hell are our clothes?"

0-0-0

Jack came back out of the bathroom, bed sheet draped around his hips since there weren't even any towels in this place. He'd assessed his injuries, and since the bruising and possible fractures where a problem for later as there was nothing to be done, he cleaned the cut on his chest with water and made a makeshift bandage out of part of the sheet he was currently wearing.

It probably needed, he glanced down at where the blood was seeping through the cotton already, roughly eight million stitches, but since they didn't have so much as a bar of soap between them in this whole room and adjoining bathroom, this would have to do.

He heard the doorknob and looked up in time to see Mac slipping back inside, carrying the sheet he'd slunk into the hallway wearing, clothed in what could only be described as a stereotypical old Irish man's outfit. Tweed jacket, tailored shirt, tan trousers, and brown loafers that looked to be about three sizes too small. For an average sized guy, Mac had ridiculously large feet.

Jack sunk down onto the bed, squinting at Mac, hoping for something resembling good news. "Please tell me you found some clothes for me, too."

Mac smirked, although it was an effort with his split lip. "You were the one who wanted to party, old man. Toga! Toga!"

He tossed the sheet he was carrying at Jack.

Jack was relieved when it landed on his lap with a little weight. "I knew you wouldn't let me down, bud," he said with the closest thing to a smile he could muster. Then he unfolded the sheet and glared at his partner as though Mac had just handed him a note that said he had to find his way home naked.

"Seriously?" Jack grumped, as he took out a grey custodial-looking uniform and heavy black shoes.

"It was the only thing I could find that was big enough for you, Jack. And I had to move fast. The lady of the house was in and out of the laundry room the whole time I was in there."

"Any idea where we are?"

"Unfortunately, yeah. This is Raithlin Island. One ferry a day back to the mainland. And we missed it."

"That doesn't really help, bud."

"We're on a remote Irish island, Jack. I saw Scotland when I went outside. So I guess one item off my bucket list. It's not fighting Vlad Putin in space, but it's not nothing."

"What else do you know about it?" Jack asked, glossing over Mac's teasing. His head still hurt too much to tease back.

"We're about fifteen kilometers away from the Mull of Kintyre, there's a rare hare here that has blue eyes and a golden coat … Mmmm. Oh and Robert the Bruce retreated here after being defeated by the English at Perth."

Jack frowned at his partner. "I meant anything useful to our situation, brainiac."

"Oh," Mac said, sounding almost surprised and reaching up and rubbing the back of his head absently. "Sorry ... I know we're in the oldest inn at the northernmost point of the island, so we're probably better off trying to get to Scotland than we are trying to get back to the Irish mainland if we want to get out of here today. The water's rough and the ferry might take the sea okay today, but none of the little fishing boats I've seen around belong out on the open water in this weather. And it looks like darker clouds are rolling in from the south. Ferry won't be back until noon tomorrow."

"And you don't think we should just wait here, call Matty and take the ferry back and get a new exfil."

"It's Wednesday, Jack."

"What?!"

"Yeah. I know." Mac rubbed the back of his head again. "Two days. And I don't remember a damned thing. So no, I don't think we should wait here where whoever they were, and I'm guessing not a concierge and her barmaid sister, left us. Besides Mrs. O'Malley is going around collecting the bills in between loads of laundry. And they didn't just take our pants. But what was in the pockets, too."

"Damn," Jack said more to himself than to Mac. He didn't really want to move. Right now if it would get him a couple of vicodin and permission not to so much as roll over for about twelve hours, Jack would have welcomed a bed in Phoenix Medical, no matter who was on duty. "So you stole us some clothes and you're fidgeting to beat the band. I'm guessing you have some idea of how to get us to Scotland?"

Mac grinned. "Go get dressed."