Inspired by the poem "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas.
Big thanks to only-some-loser for shouting with me over this fic, and also for letting me spam her with messages over on tumblr. You're the best, hon.
I've wanted to write something for this poem for quite some time, so this is almost a relief to get out. I would suggest having tissues nearby when you read this, though.
Warnings: angst, implied violence, angst, minor character implied death, angst, minor character death, angst. Did I mention angst?
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Jack watches his father deteriorate slowly, watches a disease that can't be defeated slowly destroy him. He watches, furious, because he can't fight this enemy, can't protect the man that means so much to him.
"Jack," his father says, and beckons him closer to the couch that he's resting on after a particularly painful bout of chemo.
Jack walks closer, taking a seat by the older man. "What's up, Pop?"
His dad grins. "I noticed you were looking a bit down. What's going on?"
Jack tries to paste on a smile that matches his father's. "I'm good. Don't know what you're talking about."
The older man's grin slips, fades, slowly. "Son, I know something's the matter. Tell me."
Jack's smile falls, shatters. His father only ever calls him 'son' when he's serious about something. The younger man stares at his hands, admitting, softly, painfully, "I don't want you to die."
There's a shuddering sigh from the man before him, and then, "Son, look at me."
Jack looks up, reluctantly, and watches as his father rests a hand on his shoulder as he says, "I don't really want to leave you either, but this is the hand we were dealt. This is what happens in life. We can't do anything against this other than what we're already doing." A pause, and then, "It's not your fault, Jack, there's nothing you could've done to prevent this."
Jack pitches forward then, clutching at the back of his father's shirt as the tears come, pushing past the dam he's built up over the long, painful months.
As his tears wet his father's shirt, the older man whispers, "I'm not going to give up, though. I'm not leaving you without a fight."
And that's so much his father, that's what his father's life has been- nothing without a fight, nothing gained nor given easily. Jack smiles a smile that belongs in the old days, before the pain, and for a moment, everything's fine.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Mac watches, silently, as his grandfather slowly fades. He's old, he's lived a good life, and his grandson is almost- but not quite- through high school.
Will he be there when Mac graduates?
A soft voice calls him away from his thoughts, the only voice that's capable of bringing him out of the rabbit hole,* at times. "Angus, it's your turn."
Angus. Only his mother and grandfather ever called him Angus. His father called him 'Gus,' his friends, 'Mac.'
Angus shakes his head and looks down at the chess board. His queen's in a tight spot, but if he moves it- just so- then- "Angus, my boy, you've gotten me in checkmate."
The blond blinks. Looks at the board. It's true. For the first time in his life, he's managed to beat his grandfather at chess.
Something feels wrong, cracked, broken, like the marble chess piece he dropped on the floor when he was five. His mother had been so furious with him, but his grandfather had smiled and told her not to worry about it.
Something hot trails down his face, followed quickly by two- three- four- five more somethings. "Angus, what's the matter?"
Dully, the teen realizes that he's crying. He brings his hands up to dash away the tears as they drop onto the white linoleum of the hospital floors, but more take their place. He ends up burying his face in his hands and trying to muffle the painful sobs that wrack his body.
His grandfather stretches out a hand from the bed and touches his knee, bringing his grandson's attention to him. "Angus, look at me."
Accustomed to obeying the man before him, the younger man lifts his gaze to meet the calm blue eyes of the ailing patient. "Oh, Angus, it's been a hard life for you, hasn't it."
The faintest hint of an Irish accent- the accent of the man's native country- colors the words. Mac, with a great effort, forces enough air into his lungs to say, "Well, it hasn't exactly been easy for you, either."
It's true- the man before him barely escaped Ireland with his life, and, once he'd reached America, he'd had to work hard his whole life. One of the few bright spots in his life had been seeing his daughter married.
No parent should outlive their child.
The man on the bed seems to consider Mc's words before saying, "That's true. And I've never given up, have I?"
Wordlessly, his grandson shakes his head. Mac's grandfather continues. "I've never given up, and, even though I've never changed the world, I helped you get through it until now. And you should know me well enough by now to know that I'm not going to leave this world without a fight."
Angus can't help but feel relief at the familiar, feisty words of his grandfather.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Patricia Thornton pushes down on the gunshot wound of the man lying in front of her. Bullets whistle around the pair, with echoing fire from their own soldiers answering the enemy.
Patricia chokes back a sob at the pained groan of the man underneath her bloody hands. Brown eyes look up through slitted eyelids to meet brown eyes. The man says, his voice cracking with pain, "Patty- I-"
He breaks off, gasping for breath. The woman hushes him, her voice breaking in turn."Don't try to talk, just save your energy, we can get you to medical attention-"
The man's voice, a shell of the deep baritone it had been mere moments ago, says, "No. Have to- have to tell you. Not gonna make it."
A strand of dark hair, torn free from a tight braid, falls in front of Patty's face. He reaches up, gently, and brushes it away with a shaking hand. A streak of blood is left on her cheek, but neither agent pays it any attention.
He continues. "Hey, hey, it's okay. I knew what I was doing."
He draws in a final breath, the air rattling in his chest. With his final dredges of energy, life, as he fights against the coming darkness, he utters the words he has stayed alive for. "I love you."
The light fades from his eyes and his hand grows limp in her grasp.
Patricia returns to her agency with a deep sorrow. She puts away the wedding dress, buries it deep in her closet. She sets the ring in her safe, somewhere she won't see it.
She is cold, distant.
And then she remembers her love's words.
Patricia carries her head high and lives her life to the fullest, because he didn't give his life for her to not have one.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Alfred Pena is a good man, Mac thinks one night in the desert. The blond watches the man as he runs a thumb over the picture of his pregnant wife, as he does every night. Then Pena lies down in his bedroll, a few feet away from Mac, just as he does every night.
Mac smiles to himself at the thought of Pena's soon-to-be-born daughter. The older man's already extended an invitation to the younger to see his newborn when Mac has a chance, and the blond's looking forward to doing so on his next leave.
The next day, Mac's working on a bomb when Pena approaches. "You doing okay?"
Mac nods, looking up at the older man and wiping sweat from his forehead. "Yeah. Just- ready to catch this guy."
Pena nods in turn. The Ghost had claimed more victims the day before,and the entire army has developed a grudge against the man- or woman, as the case may be. "We'll get him. Don't worry."
Mac grins up at the older man, reassured by his confidence. With the two of them against the world, what can go wrong?
Later that day, Pena goes into a building instead of Mac. He doesn't come out.
Mac is sick the first time he thinks of Pena's daughter, now fatherless. Just a few short hours ago, he was enthusiastic at the thought of new life. Now, however, he wonders to himself if the world knows what they've lost.
He drifts in the time that passes after Pena's death, watches the sands blown about by the wind. Such is nature, such is life.
He carries anger, frustration, loneliness, until he meets Jack.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Jack stands, numb, disbelieving, as his friend clasps his shoulder with a shaking hand, and then the friendly gesture turns into a weak shove in the direction of the jeep.
"Joe," he says, voice pleading, begging, with the man that he's close enough to that they're practically brothers. "Joe, you can make it, too."
Joe shakes his head, his eyes half regretful, half sad, and all determined. "Someone's gotta stay behind, Jackie-boy. I'm dying anyway. Might as well be me."
It's logical, that's true. Joe's dying, hit by a bullet that had been dipped in a poison they don't have an antidote to, and he's got only a few days left.
Love isn't logical.
Jack draws Joe into a hard hug, and then- in one of the most painful moments of his life- he pulls back. Joe sends him a quick smile, a brief salute-
And then he's turning, picking up his gun, and facing the enemy.
He's gonna die, but he can choose how, and this is what he chooses. Standing, fighting, defending those he cares about. Defending those that he doesn't know. Defending his brothers. Defending Jack.
Jack's pulled away by one of his fellow soldiers. He watches, staring out of the back of the jeep, as the tall, muscular form that is his friend- his brother- is pulled away by distance and the time that passes all too quickly until the figure fades from a black speck against the neverending tan of the desert to nothing but a memory.
He knows that this will be the last time they'll see each other alive, but it doesn't hit home. Not yet.
When the reports come in, when Joe's awarded medals posthumously, that's when the pain hits. It crashes against him, wave after wave after wave, and he flails, struggling for a lifeline.
The pain ebbs and flows, sometimes unbearable, sometimes a deep ache that picks away at him, but it stays. It always stays.
He carries the pain with him until he meets a young blond kid by the name of MacGyver that reminds him of Joe. The aching in his chest dissolves, bit by bit by tiny bit, until he visits Joe's grave.
Closure comes. So do tears. Mac's there, though, and picks up his pieces and puts them back together, and helps them to stay that way.
They've known people, many people, but none of them go gentle into that good night, no. They rage against the dying of the light.
*the rabbit hole: a term that refers to the way scientists can sometimes get- and writers and artists too, I suppose- when they're so focused on something that they forget everything else, even eating, drinking, and sleeping.
oh look i almost made myself cry