Author's note: for full details see my profile, but the short version is, Mac's stuck in a dark angsty coffee shop AU.
All the rest of it just followed from there...)
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Triple-shot expresso, with a dash of butter.
Nikki Carpenter always times her visit for when the shop's empty, in the early-morning lapse between dedicated fishermen and the white-collar office workers who can afford to sleep later. They used to just nod at each other; now they chat, in the few minutes she allots him out of her busy schedule.
She's always considerate, and he fancies her a little but she's way out of his league- a successful career woman, in the executive branch at a big-name nonprofit downtown. Whereas he's a nobody just trying to make the best of his mother's coffee shop, and not too well at that.
"The butter thing's catching on," Mac tells her. "I had two people asking me for it yesterday."
"Try it yourself sometime. It adds a whole new dimension to the flavour."
"Uh-huh. Maybe I'd try it, except I don't actually drink coffee."
Nikki smiles with wry amusement. "And you work here? Ironic, isn't it?"
All this time and she still thinks he's just an employee? Ouch.
But there's no point correcting her- it'd be a shame to put her off her stride this early in the morning, and no doubt Nikki's got something important happening next. Helping people. Something that actually matters.
"Sure. Sure."
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Root beer- and don't forget, three sugars!
"Mon amie," Jack Dalton says, smirking as he finishes the terrifying concotion. "I've done it."
"You've said that before." The taxi-driver's enthusiasm inevitably outstrips reality: the only question is by how much. Though life wouldn't be the same without his perversely humorous outlook, and dedication to cheap money-for-nothing schemes (Mac can understand the appeal, rather too well).
"No, but this time I really have. Traded in the car, all my cash and just about all my worldly goods for that Tri-Pacer I was drooling over last month- Mac, I'm finally going home."
"Jack, that's amazing! Well done."
"Shaking off the dust of this crummy town once and for all. Back to Texas, baby! Just think of it! Sunshine, great steaks, all the cheap Mexican tequilla I can drink."
"How soon?" Oh lord, Jack's been talking about this for years: epic plans to get hold of a pilot's license and a plane, by any means necessary. Literally for years, so why's it throwing him so badly now it's happened?
Because I never thought you'd actually go ahead and do it...
"Delivery in two weeks, once they finish plastering duck tape over the holes. Don't worry, I'll be around for a few more of your Western video nights."
"That's good, I was gonna put on a Leone next. There isn't any room for a mechanic, is there?"
"I'm sorry, Mac," Jack says, sounding atypically embarrassed. "No, there isn't. It'll have to be footloose and fancy-free...the next one though, I promise."
"Huh. You sure there's going to be a next one? Not gonna crash it like you did that one in the flying club?"
"That was insured." He waves a hand, dismissively. "This one's got my whole future riding on her. I'll gentle her along like a baby."
"Try better than that. Remember that time you dropped Becky, and I had to catch her?"
Jack frowns. "You gonna keep bringing that up until doomsday? Sheesh, tonight of all nights I thought you'd be happy for me."
Well, he will be. But not yet. Not until this wave of jealousy calms down enough for him to see straight.
He turns away, starts putting away the clean cups. "C'mon. Course I am."
"Mac, there's more to being a good liar than not having an eye-twitch."
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Medium skim-milk latte, two hundred and twenty degrees and one ice cube, with a shot each of hazelnut syrup and chocolate syrup and peppermint syrup- oh, no, that's not right. Let me see, a medium skim-milk latte...
Lunch rush doesn't: a whole hour goes by with only three customers. Bad for business- he's never exactly been raking it in, but it seems to have been getting worse these last few years, or maybe that's just his general ineptitude starting to show. Good for reading, though: time enough to work through a couple of back issues of "Popular Mechanics". Thank god for the library's subscription. And that nice lady with the copper-framed glasses, who lets him smuggle them home.
Two o'clock is his usual time for lunch. Tuna fish, wheat bread. Nothing spectacular, but at least it's cheap and fast. (He'd tried going vegetarian for a few years, until a niece had shown up on his doorstep. After that...well, once he'd taken out a fishing license to supplement the straitened grocery budget, it'd seemed silly to make the effort.)
Just as he's finishing up, Penny Parker comes in, cheerful and tripping over her own two feet as usual. She's an interesting conundrum. Her drink orders drive him up the wall (never even the same two days running!), but she's so sweet about how she announces them. Plus she has a trust fund big enough to make her the best tipper in town, which doesn't hurt.
"You're so clever, running a coffee shop like you do,"- this, as he stirs in the fourth syrup shot. "I'd never be able to do all that stuff."
"Hey, you've got lines to remember, don't you? Same deal."
"Well...sometimes. When I don't forget them."
The one person he hopes won't ever get out of Mission City; she's always talking about going to Los Angeles to try her luck as an actress, but he's seen her in community theatre and she's...well, terrible isn't the word. Just about competent enough for the local crowd (who are sympathetic, and know full well there'd be no play at all without her financing behind it). But no way is she Hollywood-worthy material, not in a million years.
If she doesn't know, she'll break her heart one day. If she does know...
"There we go. All good?"
"Oooh," Penny says, sipping and making a face. She puts the drink down. "You left out the peppermint syrup, and this is just awful without it."
"Did I? I'm sorry." There goes his tip. Dammit.
"It's okay," she says, leaning over the counter to grab the syrup bottle. He cringes for the inevitable spill.
But it doesn't happen. Somehow, against all probability, Penny's managed to retrieve, use, and put back a glass bottle without smashing anything.
"See? It's perfect now!"
"Huh, and they say the age of miracles is past. Want anything to go with that?"
"Sounds wonderful. Which one of the desserts is your favourite?"
"Oh...uh, the brownie, probably. Chocolate with chocolate chips, I get them from the bakery across the road." This is a new one on him. She's never wanted food before.
"Perfect! In a bag, please?"
"Sure, no problem."
She pays up without a murmur (same tip as usual, he notices). Takes out a pink pen and scrawls "For Mac" across the brown paper.
"Here, enjoy it. It's such a nice day out, I wanted to get into the spirit of the thing."
It's one of those drab, dead-grey days when everything looks dead, even the stuff that wasn't alive to begin with. Hers must be a fun kind of insanity.
"Hey, thanks," Mac mumbles around a mouthful.
"Glad to make your day nicer. And don't forget, my next rehearsal's Saturday!"
On her way out, she collides with a lamp and breaks it. Now, that's more like the day he was expecting.
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Lapsang Souchong. And if you let a drop of milk come anywhere near it, I'll shatter you like a dropped ice lolly.
Smells like a forest fire, tastes even better. Mac usually makes himself a surreptitious cup from the used leaves afterwards, and even that's still pretty strong.
He tries hard to be friendly with everybody, even the rudest customers, but Murdoc doesn't make it easy. Not so much that he's rude, or inconsiderate, or argumentative.
More...insidious, than that.
There's a lot of odd stories about him in town. That he's a freelance photographer, blacklisted for taking incriminating photos of someone too powerful to cross. That he's a heftily titled English aristocrat, bribed by his family to do anything or go anywhere as long as he stays out of the country. That he's an international assassin who's picked this spot for his vacations, because none of his enemies would dream of looking for him here. Murdoc always smiles at the rumours, and never denies a one.
"Unusually terse today, are we? I hope that means you're having second thoughts. All that anger should find its target, it'd be such a waste of natural talent otherwise.."
"Okay, then," Mac says from the floor (he'd better be handy enough to fix this lamp, the shop can't really do without it). "Who did you have in mind for me to kill this time?" A sort of game, that Murdoc had started and he'd responded to from boredom-sharpened curiosity. He sure hopes it's a game.
"Oh...let's vary the parameters a little. Try coming after me, perhaps? After all, no doubt I've have been a cruel and unusual man. You could go ahead and kill me without guilt."
"Even then, I'd still have to say no. I mean, I dunno what you're like the rest of the time. Maybe you're secretly one of the good guys or something."
"You do make this so exasperating," Murdoc says, downing the hot liquid with no sign of concern. "You wouldn't succeed, of course, I'd run rings around you- but I'd accept a reasonable attempt. Just think of the perks. International travel, an inexhaustible expense account, and all for the low, low price of your immortal soul." He has a viciously refined smile. "Think about it."
"Want any sugar in your refill?" That's done it. He switches the lamp on: a little wobbly, but still shining.
"For heaven's sake, I thought I'd made my preferences very clear!"
"And so did I, I thought."
Maybe he oughta ban the guy from coming in.
Nah. He can't bring himself to hate the only other tea drinker in Mission City.
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Hot milk, with a sprinkling of nutmeg and chocolate sprinkles.
"Hiya, Unc," Becky says. "Got time for a cuddle?"
"Always," he says, hugging her. "What's up today, more volunteer work? Friday night partying?"
"I wish," Becky says soberly, as she lets go. "No, gonna go upstairs and hit the books. I've been slacking off a bit since I got that Western Tech scholarship."
"Don't worry about it. You deserve some time to relax and enjoy yourself."
"I know, but I've had a whole two weeks of that now, and I don't want to get out of the habit. Besides, it's really all your fault."
She's grinning, but the comment stings more than it should. "Who, me?"
"Sure. Bribing me with candy and no chores just for studying? It worked. These days, I can't even go out for a pizza without thinking about geometry, the Renaissance and organic chem."
Parents and brother dead, moving halfway across the country, having to live in this- well, dump, to be blunt about it. Yet she's grown into this cheerful, curious scholar, more likely to laugh than cry. If there's anything he's proud of in his life, it's her.
"I'm gonna miss you so much this autumn," he says quietly. "My brave little Becky."
"I know it won't be the same- but we'll have letters, and phone calls, and maybe I can come back for holidays. And in a few years, when I've graduated and found a good job- somewhere nice for us, I promise. You'll never have to put up with another cold Minnesota winter."
He lets the silence stretch out a little bit. She drinks her milk down, in a few quick gulps.
"I sure hope so," Mac says, softly.
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Irish coffee, heavy on the whisky.
"You know what I like," Ellen says, dry and fragile as ever.
His ex-wife never shows up without a litany of regrets in waiting, lingering in the air even when they stay unspoken. If only, if only. If they'd waited a few years instead of convincing themselves that a high school romance was the stuff of marriage, if there'd been a child. If her stint working as a local news anchor hadn't failed so pitifully, if he hadn't bankrupted them with that stupid patent fiasco...if only they'd tried harder, in short.
Mac's never been sure if he feels more guilty or relieved that they didn't.
"Comin' right up." Terse again. The less he says in this exchanges, the better.
She watches as he prepares it, drumming her fingers on the counter in a mock impatience that is no end annoying (which is, of course, why she does it). There's another bruise on her neck today- expertly disguised with makeup, but then the makeup's the obvious tell. Someone really needs to convince her to get out of her second marriage, before the abuse gets any worse (I know I wasn't the best husband, but you left me for that?)
Though he can hardly tell her. It'd take a friend to say it, and Ellen doesn't have friends. A Rolodex of useful contacts isn't the same thing.
"I don't get why you keep coming in here, after all this time."
She shrugs indifferently. "You still make the best damn cup of coffee in town, Mac."
"Y'know, I wonder sometimes if it wasn't the swearing that broke my patience. Especially once I noticed you got me in the habit."
"What? I was talking about the coffee, you dope, not you."
"Ellen, you're missing the point- no. We're not rehashing these same old arguments again, we're just not." (He really wouldn't put up with this, if she wasn't so punctilious about her tipping.)
"And as it happens, tonight I did have something in mind. My congratulations on your niece's college acceptance."
"Uh, thanks? She's busy studying right now."
"Don't worry, I don't want to see her any more than she does. But we're still family of sorts, so I've talked to my dressmaker about arranging a fitting for her. If only so the poor girl can go to college with a few decent outfits."
"You mean, tailored and everything? I- look, I just can't afford that kind of thing."
"Of course you can't," Ellen says, thoroughly enjoying herself now. "Don't worry about it, my husband never pays any attention to the petty cash. And believe me, by his standards this is petty."
If he called Becky down now and explained the whole story, she'd probably throw the coffee in Ellen's face. He spends a moment enjoying the picture.
And then Mac bites his tongue and thanks her, because after all, it's his Becky involved. She's worth a few sacrifices.
Even getting gypped on the price of a cup of coffee, he notices afterwards.
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Ten to nine. He's looking forward to closing up; this has been a hell of a day.
But of course, of course there'd have to be one last customer...
"MacGyver, is it?"
He actually has to take a second to think about that. It's been ages since anyone called him by his full last name, the way he prefers it. (At least nobody calls him Angus these days. That was a small victory.)
"Uh huh. What'd you want to order?"
"How about just a cup of coffee? Plenty of milk, plenty of sugar- don't tell my doctor." The man laughs, with a pleasant ease that suggests a well-used sense of humour. A little of Mac's irritation dissolves. Good vibrations, maybe.
"That I can do." Actually, it's a blessing in disguise; that last cup won't have to go down the sink after all. "Want anything else with it?"
"I wouldn't mind a bit of conversation. My name's Pete Thornton. But you might as well call me Pete, everybody else does." He holds out his hand.
This is weird. Most customers don't ever notice there's a person behind the counter, even most of the regulars.
Weird, but nice: Mac shakes hands with a smile. "So, who mentioned my name? Only I'm kinda curious now."
"Nikki Carpenter- do you know her? She says she comes here every morning."
"Oh, Nikki! Yeah, yeah she does. You're one of her colleagues? Phoenix Foundation?"
"I certainly am! Came by to ask you...well, a favour. There's another regular of yours, I think? Name of Murdoc?"
"Not exactly a regular. He comes and goes a lot."
"That sounds like our man...all right, I'm going to tell you the whole truth now, see what you think, and I'll understand if you don't feel up to participating. Among the Foundation's other activities, we help out with international security operations. That man is a very dangerous criminal. We'd like your help setting up a sting operation for the next time he comes in."
Oh god.
Oh, god.
So Murdoc really could deliver on all those promises? High-falutin' jet-setter lifestyle, money to burn, never a dull moment, everything he's ever wanted. Still wants now, so very badly. How many times has he laughingly turned the assassin down? Six? Seven?
There's a tightness in his throat now; he hopes it won't show. "Sounds kinda dangerous, huh?"
"Oh, we wouldn't arrest him in here. You'd have a panic button-"
"Standard police model, or something more sophisticated? I always wanted to know what the frequencies were."
Pete stares at him. "That's not the sort of question I expected from a Minnesotan barista."
"I try to keep up, best I can. Um- is there a reward, or something?"
"Well, of course we'd see to it that you'd be compensated for your time and effort..."
That's not good enough. That's the government-think tank-whatever-it-is disappearing back into the shadows afterwards, leaving him stranded. No. No no no.
Dammit, MacGyver, think! You're never gonna get another chance like this!
"I've got a better idea. You're after HIT, aren't you? Homicide International Trust?"
"Murdoc told you about that?"
"Told me a lot of stuff. Even invited me to join them, I was thinking about it- I bet you'd like the whole gang, wouldn't you? Not just one assassin who might not spill under pressure? Say I take him up on the offer and get all their intel." He can't keep the pleading out of his voice any more. "Double or nothing. In six months you'll either have the lot of them or I'll be dead."
"You'd be dead," Pete says automatically.
"Hey, I'm willing to take that chance. And if a trained assassin thinks I'm worth his time, I must have something, right?"
It's a bluff. He has a damned good idea what kind of partner Murdoc's really looking for, and it isn't one to match him in marksmanship.
But Pete's looking at him with a thoughtful expression. Maybe he's buying it.
"It's not protocol, of course, but...you really think you can pull this off? Untrained? Nothing to go by except your own wits?"
"Sure I can. The kind of life I've led, my wits are about all I've had."
"If this goes wrong, the board is going to wring my neck," Pete mutters to himself. "But Nikki's been keeping an eye on you, and it takes a lot to impress her...what about that niece of yours? Suppose something happens to you, what about her?"
"She'll be in a freshman in college in the fall, and besides...Becky would understand."
Pete toys with his empty cup. "Double or nothing, you said? Two options. First is that you forget this conversation ever happened, we leave, and you keep on being a coffee shop owner with some funny side hobbies. No hard feelings."
"Not that."
"Second one, from now on you're under our daily surveillance. One of these days Murdoc will be back, and so will we- and if you two somehow manage to get out of the ensuring crossfire alive, there will be a dead drop in readiness for any info you might pick up. Deliver us names and addresses for HIT's top men, and we'll call that your trial by fire. Even let you come on board as an official Phoenix agent...it'll be merry hell with the paperwork, of course, but I'll fix it up for you if you get that far. You're really that keen to burn your bridges, are you?"
Pretty perceptive guy. "Yeah. Yeah, I am. Do I get the impression I'll be just as much a target as he is?"
"Oh yes," Pete says calmly. "Think about it this way. If you get killed in the first five minutes of an attack you were forewarned about, you were the wrong man for the job anyway."
In a whole lifetime's worth of bad luck and bad decisions, this has to be the worst one he's ever made.
MacGyver smiles. He ought to be dazed and confused, by the speed of events: instead he's just calm. Confident even, in a way he hasn't been in years.
"Can't wait to get started."