An AU take on the events of S3 E08, The Widowmaker (a little bit of dialogue adapted from there as well). Jack-centric and without Murdoc.
For my dear writing friend and co-author. I hope this is what you're looking for. Happy birthday!
Loneliness is random; solitude is ritual. - Pearl Cleage
Her grave's located on a bluff, presenting a stunning view below of the river cutting a graceful path through the city she called home.
"Fat lot of good it does you, huh Mike?" Holds up a bottle of vodka, pointing it at the gravestone. "Here's to ya, kiddo. Hope you're climbing, now. All the way up to the Pearly Gates."
Takes a long pull, gazes out at the view. "Good thing you never wanted to be buried back in Minnesota, is all I can say," he says softly. "This sure beats the frozen prairie to hell and gone."
Sitting by her grave all night, drinking Stoli and now daylight was coming. Thinking about the dreams that had been plaguing him since the funeral. That had driven him here.
Night after night, seeing the rope give way. Her fingertips barely grazing against his. The astonished look on her face as she disappears from view.
There's an old climbers' saying: It's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop at the end.
Jack Dalton feels like he's falling himself. And hasn't ever stopped.
He's never considered himself particularly brave. Sneaky, devious and a touch foolhardy, perhaps. More than enough to land him in hot water multiple times over. Yet time and time again he somehow manages to land on his feet.
Heights have never bothered him any. Wouldn't have become a pilot otherwise.
Unlike, say, a certain troubleshooting buddy of his, who bowed out when Michelle Forrester invited them both for a weekend climb in the Colorado Rockies:
"Aw c'mon, Mac. Didn't you say once you were looking for a way to get over that fear of heights? Sure you're not just chickening out on us?"
"Course not, Jack. But with Becky in my life I've got other commitments these days. This weekend's already booked solid."
"Funny. I'd never thought I'd see the day when my good buddy goes all domestic and whatnot on me. Where's your sense of adventure? What happened to that will-o'-the-wisp guy I know and love?"
"He's spending the weekend with about twenty teenagers, chaperoning Becky and the rest of her choir on a retreat. Told her teacher last month I'd help out."
"So babysitting kids takes priority over an outing with your nearest and dearest, huh?"
MacGyver looks a little put out. "C'mon, Jack. If it were any other weekend-"
"And anything other than climbing one of the most dangerous mountains in the Rockies-"
"Aw, it's not like that. I'd love to go climbing with you and Mike. You know that. But I promised Becky; she'd be really disappointed if I backed out now."
"And you wouldn't want to let your princess down."
"...Well, no. Sorry."
"Hey, don't worry about it. I'll tell Mike it's just a party of two this weekend. Go and have fun with Becky and her choir; maybe you'll finally learn to sing. We'll send you a postcard from top of the Widowmaker."
In retrospect, maybe he should've insisted MacGyver ditch his prior commitment, join him and Mike on one last big adventure.
Maybe Mac would've been able to save her life, in the end.
Certainly not cowardly Jack Dalton, so paralyzed with fear it takes a chopper team to get him off the ledge.
"Nikki?"
"Yes, Pete?"
"I really hate to ask, but could you do me a favor?"
"What is it?"
"Locate Jack Dalton. Ever since Mike Forrester's funeral he's been on a continuous drunken bender. "
"...Not to be too blunt about it, Pete, but why aren't you asking MacGyver? I barely know the man."
"Under other circumstances I would, but I've got this assignment for Mac and I need him focused. Besides, I'm afraid that if he catches a glimpse of his best friend like this-"
"He might fall into the same guilt-induced trap. And he's got Becky to look after."
"Unfortunately Dalton doesn't have any other family to turn to for support, what with his Uncle Charlie off who knows where and Nelson Davies still locked up in a mental institution. I'm worried that one day soon he'll decide to get in that junk heap of a plane, fly back to Colorado-"
"And crash it right into that mountain," Nikki finishes for him.
"You read my mind. According to Dr. Morgan, MacGyver would be devastated if he lost two of his oldest friends within such a short span of time. He might even be inclined to run off in a fit of guilt, abandoning Becky when she needs him most."
"Three lives ruined for the price of one. The worst kind of bargain." Nikki sighs. "All right, I'll see what I can do. Any instructions for when I find him?"
"Get him as far away from that plane for as long as possible. Until he's ready to face the world clear-headed again. Or at least as much as he ever gets." Pete goes to his desk and pulls out a jangling set of keys. "I've got a cabin in the Sierras, near Ridgemont. Take him there, make sure he has supplies, lock the door."
She takes the keys, though dubiously. "You sure isolation's what Dalton needs? He strikes me as a comfort-loving guy; not inclined towards solitude and asceticism by any means."
"Better that than driving MacGyver to distraction, at least for now."
Dalton's lying on the ground by Mike Forrester's grave, curled up alongside like a deflated balloon. So pitiful.
Hard to believe this is the same guy known around the Foundation for his wild and crazy antics and get-rich-quick schemes. Nikki finds herself feeling sorry for the poor guy, and at the same time afraid of what he might bring himself to do.
All her years as an agent, and she's not even remotely prepared for this.
She kneels beside the huddled figure, taking his pulse, sighing with relief. Still breathing.
Rests a hand on his trembling shoulder, shaking him gently. "Jack," she says softly.
Red-rimmed eyes stare at her from a gaunt, dirty face, bushy mustache drooping. Straight brown hair- so strange to see it uncovered by that peaked aviator's cap- sticking up in a dozen different directions. Clothing disheveled and filthy.
Looks like he'd put himself through a wringer. She can't help worrying about what he'd be like, all alone in Pete's cabin.
"Mike?" His voice is raw. "That you?"
She sighs. The man's so far gone he's taken her dark hair for Forrester's. "No, Jack. It's me, Nikki Carpenter."
"Nikki? What the hell're you doin' here?"
"Pete sent me to check up on you. Worried you might do something drastic, like fly your plane while drunk and suicidal."
"Knew he liked me after all. Whatta guy." Offers the vodka bottle in a toast, whines when he discovers it empty.
"Dalton. What's going on with you?"
"Leave me alone," he grumbles. "Gotta mourn my friend. My foster sister. My Mike-" Begins sobbing again.
"Hey. It's okay." She reaches out, awkwardly strokes his back.
Slowly he regains some of his control and pulls away from her, looking at the ground, embarrassed. "How'd you know where to find me, anyway?"
"Found a police report on you, from a nearby saloon. Drunk and disorderly. After the bartender refused to serve you any more alcohol, you'd gotten hold of somebody's revolver, threatened bodily harm, then split out the back door when the cops arrived."
Dalton grimaces. "Aw, hell. Not my finest hour. I probably scared the crap out of him."
"You did, but Pete managed to smooth it over. You're all right now though, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." He stands slowly, looking down at his wet, disheveled clothes. He's starting to shake from the cold. "Tip-top shape, you betcha."
"Well, to me you look more like something the cat coughed up." He gives her a dirty look but she doesn't miss a beat. "And you're freezing. You need hot coffee, a hot shower and some sleep. Then I'm supposed to take you to Pete's cabin. His orders."
"Aw, c'mon. Does Poppa Thornton really think I'm that much a menace to society?"
"Jack-" She allows a hard edge to come into her voice, similar to her arguments with MacGyver.
Men, really. So irrational. No wonder the world's as screwed up as it is.
"Yes ma'am," Jack says meekly. "Just need a minute."
"Sure." Nikki starts walking down the path toward the car. Hears a soft sob behind her.
Dalton's standing so still, looking down at the grave and wiping his eyes.
"I love you too, Mike. Sorry I didn't tell you in person."
Nikki drives away with a wave a couple days later, leaving Jack alone with just himself, his misery, and two cardboard boxes' worth of cheap food and liquor, purchased from Ellard at the general store.
Perfect.
Pete's cabin is a pretty basic affair. A boxy, board-and-batten structure, about fifteen feet wide and roofed with shakes. A porch stretching along the front, a Kennedy rocker and an Adirondack chair flanking a curtained window and the front door.
Inside there's a small living area, kitchen, and adjacent room barely big enough for a queen-size bed and chest of drawers. Knotty pine furniture. Rag rugs. Riverstone hearth. Rudimentary electricity and plumbing. Quaint in an almost-get-back-to-nature sort of way.
The whole place evokes a feeling of isolation simply by what it lacks- no telephone, no radio, no TV.
Miles away from an airport, to boot.
The darkening late-afternoon sky and the autumn chill in the air reminds him of more immediate needs. A fire in the hearth with logs from the generous stack of wood outside sets the room aglow. The practical business of unpacking and sorting supplies keeping his fears at bay.
Saturday night. Ordinarily he'd be curling up on the couch at MacGyver's place, with his best friend nearby and Becky sitting between them, a big bowl of popcorn on her lap. Pop The Shining into the VCR, watch Jack Nicholson isolated at the Overlook Hotel, slipping slowly into a menacing madness. Giggle whenever Becky shrieks and tucks her head against her uncle at the really scary or gross parts.
Instead he eats canned chili with crackers and feed enough logs into the fire for the flames to take on a brilliant life of their own. Outside the wind gains speed.
He hates being in the wilderness, unless it's to hunt for buried treasure or pan for gold in a mountain stream. So why the hell did he agree to Pete's suggestion, take a self-imposed sabbatical away from the city, away from his beloved plane?
An irrational need to be in the air arises. Fly off to Colorado, die in a blaze of glory on the Widowmaker. Just like the fire.
Just like Mike-
He quickly clamps the thought down, hard.
Pete's right, he'd be a flying menace in his condition right now. Best to stay grounded for a while.
He stares into the darkness outside a long time, the fire flickering amber on his reflection in the glass. The cabin seems to creak a bit, nestling closer to the earth for the night.
Hard at first to identify other sounds, unveiled as they are by the eternal white noise of city traffic. Is that mice nibbling in the kitchen? An owl cooing in the trees? A gust of wind blowing stray pine needles against the roof?
He pulls a faded, creased photo out of his jacket. Himself, Mac and Mike back in the day, pointing and laughing at something off camera.
The Three Musketeers, forever sundered.
"Hey, Mike?"
"Yes, Jack? Is there a problem?"
"Oh, nothing. Just hanging around down here, you know. Not a foothold in sight."
"Yes, there is. Think up. Waist high, over to your left about three feet. There's a good hold. See it?"
"Yeah, I see it."
"Just pull yourself up. That's it. You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Oh sure, having the time of my life."
"That's it, keep going. Good, there you are. Nice job, Jack."
He huffs and puffs his way onto the ledge. "Hey, piece of cake. Bet MacGyver would've loved this, if he hadn't been roped into chaperoning a bunch of teenagers this weekend."
Mike chuckles. "Come on over here. We'll do lunch. How's he doing with Becky, by the way? First time I met her was after you guys rescued me in Dinoto. Nice kid, but it sure surprised me when he took her in after Allison died."
"You and me both. Never thought Mac was really the surrogate-father type, but there ya go." He wipes chalk dust off his hands before accepting his bacon sandwich. "They're doing okay, all things considered. She's a real sweetheart, you know? Keeps him grounded. Speaking of which, thanks for hanging on to me back there."
"Anytime, Jack. You know, I've spent half my life hanging on to you."
An awkward silence.
"Oops. She's getting suggestive, and he's getting uncomfortable."
"Mike, we've been friends a long time. And you're my foster sister, to boot. Don't tell me you've developed a crush on me when I wasn't looking or anything."
"Maybe I have, over the years." She says it softly. "Maybe I'm tired of one night stands, and relationships that don't go anywhere. I want more, and not from someone else."
"From me? C'mon, I'm dopey Jack Dalton! Fly-by-night ladies' man. And you're one of my best friends. You and Mac, ever since Mission City. C'mon, we're the Three Musketeers! We've always been there for each other. Isn't that the most important thing?"
She sighs. "You are a big dope, aren't you? All those women in your life and you never learned a thing about relationships. Can't appreciate what's right under your nose."
"Mike, it's not like that. You just threw me for a loop, is all-"
"Look, forget about it. I mean, no sense in ruining a beautiful friendship, right?" She briskly stashes her lunch away, grabs for the dangling rope. "We'd better get going, Gotta make Widow's Ledge and Broomstick Crack before we lose light."
"But Mike-"
"No time for chit-chat. Clip in, I'm on belay."
"Hey, wait a minute-"
"Belay on."
"...Climbing."
"Climb on."
Then before he has time to register the rope gives way. He makes a grab for her hand but narrowly misses, the mere brush of her fingertips against his before she's gone forever.
"Mike? Mike!"
Jack wakes up screaming in the night, her name on his lips.
And a ton of regret in his heart.
Time passes. How long, he doesn't know. And honestly doesn't care.
One morning Jack cracks an eye open. Finds himself slumped halfway off the couch, a puddle of his own drool staining the faded fabric.
Somewhere outside the cabin birds sing and squirrels chatter, just like any other day.
He sighs, thinks about making himself breakfast for once. Bacon, eggs, toast. Or at least corn flakes with milk.
Finds himself retching at the idea of solid food, reaching for the half-empty bottle of tequila on the coffee table instead.
Blessed liquid oblivion. Takes away all the pain, or at the very least dulls it just enough to endure another day without Mike.
Without the woman he could've been happy with for the rest of his life, the only one who understood him and accepted him for what he was. If only he'd just let himself love her.
If only.
Another morning. Jack sits straight up in bed, blinking sleep away. Head's clear for the first time in days and he's starving.
Hunts for a late breakfast, only to discover crumbs and nibbled corners. The mice must've gotten to the whole stash.
(Either that, or he didn't buy as much solid food as he had alcohol. He can't seem to remember that far back.)
Also discovers Nikki locked him in the cabin, took the keys with her. The nerve. She won't be back to pick him up until next Monday, either.
Fortunately he finds the spare key on a bookshelf, lets himself out.
The darn woman took the car, too. And it's a good day's walk to the general store and back.
To distract his rumbling stomach, he walks around the cabin, to the back door. Finds spare fishing rods and tackle left over from the last time Mac came up this way.
The guy goes fishing all the time. How hard can it be, to catch a couple trout?
Problem is, MacGyver makes everything look so darn easy. Including catching lousy, uncooperative fish.
And he's still so blasted hungry.
He could go hunting for mushrooms and other edible stuff in the woods, but without Mac around to tell the difference he wouldn't know what's safe and what might kill him on the spot.
(He may be foolhardy but he's not feeling suicidal. Not any more.)
It's a nice day, though. Pretty surroundings, Jack has to admit that much.
He stands up from sitting for a whole hour on the dock, stretches. Supposes he has Pete to thank for granting him this peace and quiet.
The fish weren't biting, but he was able to get some serious thinking done, despite his empty belly. About relationships, past and present.
Time to reconnect with a few ladies, maybe. Like sweet Katie, from the Wingman Bar. Wonder what she's doing these days-
A roaring sound comes from overhead, sending the birds on the water scattering.
Jack automatically looks up, catches sight of an aircraft as it passes above him. Cessna 185 Floatplane, a real sweet ride just like his own. Better condition, though.
The Cessna slowly veers east; his body automatically leans in the same direction, out over the edge of the dock.
God, he can just taste sitting in that cockpit, with the freedom to fly wherever he wanted. Just himself and the clouds. Holds out his arms, as if reaching for the control yoke-
Loses his balance, falling into the lake with a loud splash.
Flails around, because geez, what a time to remember he has no idea how to swim. Always refused to- even growing up in Minnesota, land of ten thousand lakes. Preferred dreaming about the sky to splashing about in the water, with god-knows-what lurking underneath to bite at his toes.
(Not Mac and Mike, though. They were fearless, especially Mike. God, he wanted to be so much like her sometimes.)
The water closes over his head. He fights for the surface, clearing his mouth as he does, only to have his throat fill with water as he tries to breathe inches too soon.
He's not giving up completely, but soon realizes it's futile anyway, what with his sodden clothing dragging him down, into the murky depths.
Gradually Jack feels his limbs growing sluggish and unresponsive. Death from hypothermia soon, if not from asphyxiation first. Can't even get enough breath to cry for help.
One last thought before the darkness closes over him for good.
Save a place for me in front of St. Peter, Mike. I'm right behind you.