Author's Note: It's George Eads Appreciation Week over on tumblr! In honor of that I word vomited this angsty dramatic pre-series Jack Dalton metafic. I head canon that Jack was in a pretty dark headspace when he first met Mac. He was a scary dude, who did some scary things. (title comes from Bar-ba-sol by David Cook, which, along with "Demons" by Imagine Dragons was my soundtrack while writing)
The world fades out.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
Ba-
He releases half a breath
-dum.
His finger squeezes the trigger in one smooth motion.
Through his scope the scene turns red.
One shot.
One kill.
He releases the second half of that breath.
"Target confirmed."
Jack Dalton has killed people. He's pretty sure they all deserved it.
A good ol' southern boy, with down-home values. He loves his momma, and his country, and fought with his pop when he told his family he joined the military.
He's a country song and an enigma.
Leaving that small town life is the hardest thing he's ever done. He wishes he could say that was still the truth.
He learns, quickly, how to take orders. He makes his way through basic training, and not to say that it was easy, but he knows he can do more. That he's better, stronger, has got more fight in him.
He's always cared about people. The military took that and molded it. He loves the men in his unit like brothers. He would do anything to keep them safe, to bring them home alive. If he can help it, he'll never see a single one of them go home in a box.
A promise he can't guarantee. But when he makes it, he's young and invincible and he believes it, right up until the day his buddy dies in his arms, in the sand.
Facing that mortality changes him. It spurs him to action. Gives him a righteous anger. It gets him noticed.
He takes every opportunity that comes along. Each one more special, more covert. He believes in what he's doing, in the lives he's told he's saving.
And he is very good.
He makes a name for himself. He's a man who can get the job done. Any job. Anywhere. He's a weapon to be used. Wind him up and point him at the target. He'll take care of it. He catches the attention of powerful men in high places. He's offered more secret missions. More opportunities to hone his unique skills. He can make sure men and women make it back home to their families.
That's a mission he can believe in. The chance to save the lives of his fellow soldiers. To keep civilians safe in their cities and homes.
So it's easy to ignore the twist in his guts when the orders come down that don't sit quite right with him. The red flags when he's asked to do more than he's comfortable with.
Time marches on. Years pass. Lines blur.
He's tapped for missions, his skills always in high demand. Shunted around the world, passed between task forces and special ops teams. He's been on more black sites than he ever dreamed existed, and he's been a sniper, or Delta or CIA since he graduated high school, and an overactive imagination and a love for movies. It's not like in the movies. It's never over after the mission. There's always another. And another.
It takes it's toll. All this death. All this destruction left in his wake. Somewhere along the way, he loses his soul.
It's not all at once.
He would notice if it were all at once. His pop's analogy about a frog in a hot kettle, turn up the heat slowly and the frog never notices he's being cooked, the one that Jack hated when it was pulled out for lectures about the consequences of his actions and life choices, rings in his ears. When he lets it. It rumbles through his thoughts, reminding him of the arguments before he left home. Telling him that he'll never measure up to the man his pop was. He'll never have that kind of honor or integrity.
Because Jack doesn't notice this slow and steady decline into darkness.
It starts the first time he didn't question a mission when everything felt wrong.
It's better, and worse, the second time. Warnings still flash in his head that something isn't right, but its harder to speak up now. He set a precedent.
It's the acts of violence that he can't justify.
It's when he's tortured.
It's when he's been the torturer. Maybe he didn't pour the water over covered faces, or flip the electrical current but he brought those men to this fate, and he sat there and watched and hoped they'd betray their brothers for relief.
It erodes him.
The way his gun cracks against his shoulder in a recoil. The way red explodes, and the face is so clear through his scope he can see the surprise written there.
Jack has killed people. Sometimes it's hard to know the ones that deserved it, and the ones that didn't.
Matty is worried when Dalton is selected for Angus MacGyver's Overwatch. She doesn't know what James is thinking. She wonders how much time he spent looking over the files of the candidates, or did he hand that job over to Jonah.
She's known Jack for years, bordering on decades now. She's trusted the man with her life, and the lives of loved ones. There are few, if any people she would trust more, even with all their history. He's reliable. If Jack takes on a job, he'll see it through. Doesn't mean it will be pleasant for anyone involved.
He's efficient, deadly, and covers it all with humor and southern charm designed to make people underestimate him.
Or he used to.
He doesn't try to camouflage himself as much anymore. He's too tired to hide behind the facade. Years of wetwork have taken their toll. He's still quick with the joke, but the smiles don't reach his eyes anymore.
Matty has no doubt Jack will take on this mission with the same fervor he does each of his others, but he's only got about nine weeks left in country. Matty knows he's anxiously counting the days. It seems cruel to subject the younger MacGyver, with everything he's been through in his short life, to Dalton's particular brand of protection. Especially now, with Dalton teetering on the precipice of the abyss.
She can't see a purpose for pairing them together like this. Neither of them need the added stress of dealing with the other's baggage.
Luckily, for both of them, it's only nine weeks.
In the midst of missions, and operations, and her own life changes she loses track of what becomes of the unlikely partners. It's just as well. She doesn't want to be watching when the whole thing inevitably explodes in James' face.
Jack doesn't make requests about assignments. He goes where he's told. He does what is ordered. He's a weapon in the hands of men who have no qualms about using him. Just point him at the target. He'll fulfill whatever role is required of him.
There's not much he can do now that's worse than what he's already done, so it doesn't really matter where they point him now. It doesn't really matter where he's assigned for these last few weeks of his tour.
He's counting down the days.
Days until he goes home. He'll kiss his momma. He'll watch a Texas sunrise. He'll try not to totally disappear into that darkness that's staked its claim on him.
He's not going to try to fool himself. He knows he's not going to ever forget the things he's done. He'll spend the rest of his life doing penance for that. He just hopes his momma can't see how lost he is. Can't see the way he's been carved out and hollow inside.
He just needs to make it through these last few days.
He almost laughs when he's assigned as Overwatch. After all these years, all the missions and the kills, and it ends with a babysitting gig. It sits heavy in his chest when he gets those orders.
Those EOD techs are perhaps the only true noble role in the military. They are protectors, saving lives of brothers in arms and civilians. Exactly what Jack thought he was doing in those early years.
There's something fitting, somehow, that his final acts as a soldier will be protecting those protectors. Watching over them so that they can do their jobs, they can disarm bombs meant to destroy.
And Jack Dalton never did anything by half. He keeps every single one of his bomb techs safe. No one is going home in a box on his watch. It's his new mission. That single mindedness makes him hard to work with. The techs appreciate his role, doesn't mean they appreciate him. They're terrified of him, like they can look through him and see the death and destruction he's wrought.
He likes it this way. He's just here to ride out the last days of his tour. He's not here to make friends. He keeps them on edge and uncomfortable around him. He's still quick with a joke but the humor is biting. And if he's purposefully unpleasant enough to be around, maybe everyone will just leave him alone, let him finish his job, and let him go home.
Angus MacGyver is not properly terrified of him. Damn fool kid. Not old enough to be here. Not old enough to drink or to shave every day.
Jack doesn't ever remember being that young. Doesn't think there was ever a time where he had that kind of light in his eyes.
This bomb nerd stands toe to toe with him, eye to eye, not giving an inch. Matches him hit for hit.
Mac stalks off after the fight. Hands curled into tight fists. Jaw clenched. He breathes in slowly, through his nose, and pushes the breath out between tight lips.
He's not sure where he's headed. There aren't too many places to go on the base. He just has to get away. Away from the barracks, and the prying eyes, all of them ready to watch another brawl and bet against him. He'd held his own, damn it. He's strong and wiry. Scrappy, ugh, not scrappy. He isn't a puppy or a sidekick.
He surprised himself though. Surprised the knuckledragger too. He'd gotten a few good hits in. Being the smaller guy in the fight is all about using physics and leverage. He's not sure he could have taken the other guy... Dalton... but if he tells Bozer about his new Overwatch, he might stretch the truth and tell him that he did.
He probably won't even waste time telling Boze about him. By the time he does, Dalton will be long gone, back home. No one wants to work with the kid who got his training officer killed.
No one wants to work with Dalton either. He's heard the stories around the base. The guy's got issues. A tour or two too many. It's messed with his head.
It's his first tour, but Mac can relate. It's already a tour too many for him too.
He hopes they can at least form an uneasy truce and get through the next nine weeks.
He gives as good as he takes, the wunderkind. Doesn't back down, especially when he thinks he's right. Jack admires that.
Mostly.
Deep down.
Deep.
Not that he'd ever let Carl's Jr. know that.
The kid balks at every order Jack gives him. He questions everything. The kid probably drove every drill sergeant, every CO, every training officer crazy. He probably spent so much time in the stockade, did so many extra push ups, ran so many extra miles for running his mouth.
This kid is going to get himself killed.
It was almost lights out for the dumbass bomb nerd today, scampering off because he had a gut feeling. To be fair, he was right, he found an IED. Mac also found four hostiles and if Jack hadn't made it into position when he did he would have failed his mission. His tech would go home in a box.
There's rage simmering just under the surface on the drive back to base.
Kid looks even more like a kid today. Slouched in the front seat. He keeps glancing over at Jack like he wants to break the silence but doesn't want to make Jack mad. More mad.
Jack's mouth twitches. He recognizes the awkward silence, and slump to the shoulders in the seat next to him. He'd been in a similar position a time or twenty, getting dragged back home after doing something spectacularly dumb. Though in his case it wouldn't have left him in the hands of hostiles and his execution live streamed.
He feels the kid shift next to him, and open his mouth.
"Don't." Jack warns, his tone terse.
It's not like the kid's ever listened to him before, why should he start now.
"How did you get up there so fast?" That wasn't what Jack was expecting.
"Not everyone is as slow as EOD."
Carl's Jr. takes a breath. "Thanks for following me. I know not everyone would have."
Jack's jaw clenches, he stares straight ahead, through the windshield. Kid's right. He hopes that whoever is assigned to the tech would follow him. Next guy might not be fast enough, or good enough to take out all four guys with two shots before they could lay a hand on the kid. The thought twists in his guts.
"You're gonna have to remember that; you hear me, kid? I didn't keep you alive today to have you ruin it by running off on someone who ain't as good as me and getting yourself killed," Jack growls, his hands tightening against the steering wheel.
It bothers him, the idea of handing off this kid's safety to someone else. He shoves that thought down. Deep down. He's known the kid like a month.
Two weeks from home and this is how it's going to end.
He's been berating the kid to be careful for weeks. Ever since that heart stopping moment where he thought he might not make it in time to keep the kid breathing. Figures if he tells him enough maybe it'll stick even after he's left.
They've fallen into this easy camaraderie. Not quite friends, the date Jack ships back home still looming over their heads and keeping either one from wanting to get too close. They've both lost too much already. But there's easy conversation when they roll out every morning. He's learned more about chemistry than he ever picked up in high school. Maybe when he gets out the kid should think about being a teacher.
He still doesn't know a lot about the kid's history, but gleans enough to know he was dealt a pretty shitty hand in life. And that there's really no one waiting for him at home. That breaks his heart. Or it would if he still had one. The thing that's kept Jack going all these years is the knowledge that people are waiting for him. Explains why the kid sees himself as expendable.
The kid is teasing him about being careful now. And that feels so right. Like pieces of his life clicking back into place after years of being broken and painful.
A half a second later Jack stumbles onto the bomb they were looking for. Literally.
He's yelling for the kid to get out, and the words have barely left his mouth when that dumb bomb nerd is walking up behind him.
There's a recklessness to MacGyver that Jack recognizes in himself. The persistent drive to keep the people around him safe. If he's not careful someone else is going to recognize that too, and use it, twist it. Like they twisted Jack.
He hates to think of anyone manipulating the kid the way he was. Of this kid losing himself in the darkness that Jack's called home for so long.
It's not going to happen if Jack has anything to say about it.
He doesn't know where that thought comes from. It's not the first time that thought has come barreling into his mind in the last fifty days. He tries to tamp it down with a ferocity, tries to rip it out, but it's already had a chance to take root.
It makes him talk all the more about Texas, about going home, to quell that prick of his conscience that he's not done yet. It's been years since he's heard that voice. It tends to disappear when you stop listening.
It's shouting at him now.
Angus MacGyver is a genuinely good person. Jack doesn't know the last time he met someone like that. And somehow, he looks inside Jack, sees through the darkness and past the broken pieces and decides that Jack is worth the effort. No matter how hard Jack tries to push him away, how much he talks about going home to Texas the instant his tour is up. No matter how prickly and unpleasant Jack tries to be.
"You watch my back. I watch yours," MacGyver says matter of factly, as the clock ticks down.
"You are the world's slowest bomb nerd, dude. You're not going to have enough time to disarm it before I go kaboom."
Mac shrugs, not turning, not moving from where he's studying the components. "You go kaboom, I go kaboom."
Those words play in his head on repeat. They will for years.
Jack jokes, when he decides to stay, that he needs to stick around to keep MacGyver safe. That he needs to keep him alive because he's too important to the US government.
The truth is, in those sixty four days, he's become too important to Jack. He's given Jack a purpose, he hasn't felt that in years. Without knowing it, Mac's pulled Jack back from the edge, kept him from losing himself completely.
It's not a redemption story. Not for Jack Dalton. He knows what he's done. He's killed people. Some deserved it. Some didn't. He doesn't tally them into groups. He doesn't count them. He doesn't need to. Each one took a piece of him. Each one left a mark on his soul that he carries with him every day.
He can't atone for his actions. He can't unspill blood or make amends to families.
He'll never be free of that darkness, but somehow he learns to live with it. Find a balance, his darkness, Mac's light.
And he'll keep that darkness from encroaching on Mac. Keep him from getting lost, in the world, in his own head.
Jack's been a weapon for most of his adult life. Been a weapon longer than this kid's been alive. Mac might be the first, the only person who can wield him properly.
The only person Jack can trust with that power.
And maybe, help Jack find a way to be more than just a weapon.