Wow! Thank you everyone for their reviews, and for all of those who put me on Author/Chapter alert. I'm so happy about all of the responses I have been getting. Keep on reading, and please keep taking the time to review. I love reading what you think, and it motivates me to keep writing. So keep it up!
Love
Bansheila
A/N: Keep a close eye on the names of the hospitals Mac and Jack are in, they are key to understanding what is happening through this chapter.
Chapter 4 Release
There were voices.
He could hear them whispering.
It was warm.
And soft.
It had been so long since he'd felt comfortable….
The voices….
What were they saying?
He tried to turn his head, to listen to what they were saying.
A name…
MacGyver.
He knew that name.
Mac, his friend.
Wait, what? What was that? What did they say?
Dead? Mac?
No.
No, no.
NO!
"Mac…."
September 20th, 1971
18th Surgical Hospital
"Both of those boys were very lucky." Dr. John Cunningham said to the on-duty nurse as he looked over the file of Jack O'Neill, the man in the bed next to him.
"Yes, they were." Nurse Nancy Walton said her face a picture of concern as she stared down at the young man unconscious on the bed. "I can't imagine being in the hands of those… people for nearly a month."
"Yes, nurse. I can't express the amount of sympathy I have for them. The injuries they came in with…. It was just horrible." The doctor said, his kindly face staring down at his patient.
"That one boy, Private MacGyver, the poor dear; why, he was mostly dead when they brought him in for surgery. I'd never seen someone…." A slight groan from the bed made her pause. "Doctor," She exclaimed. "He's waking up!" Doctor Cunningham moved quickly to the side of the bed, pulling out his pen light, prying open Jack's eyelids and checking his reaction.
"Lieutenant? Lieutenant, can you hear me?" The doctor called out.
Jack began struggling slightly, his head turning back and forth, hands gripping the sheets. His mouth opened and closed, trying to talk.
"He's trying to say something!" The nurse cried, happy that the young lieutenant was waking up. The doctor leaned closer.
"Jack? If you can hear me, try and answer me." The doctor tried again. Jack's eyes slit just barely open, the chocolate brown peaking through; a lone tear trailed down the side of his face, disappearing into his hair. He took a deep breath, letting it out in one desperate sounding whisper.
"Mac…."
"Lieutenant, are you in pain?" The doctor leaned over his patient, staring at his face, looking for any type of reaction or response. "Jack?" The doctor sighed. The young lieutenant had fallen back asleep.
September 21st, 1971
10th Surgical Hospital
Nurse Taylor gently wiped the face of the young private just transferred in, who was unconscious in the hospital bed. She smiled sadly, looking down at his battered face.
'How horrible it must have been.' She thought. 'To be in the hands of those monsters; and, for so long…'
Re-wetting the cloth, she ran it over his brow, and couldn't help but think of her own son, stationed somewhere miles south of the hospital, fighting for his life. She leaned closer to her patient.
"Don't worry, now, Angus. You are safe. And, just think… When you wake up, you'll be going home." She said, continuing to give MacGyver his sponge bath.
23rd Surgical Hospital
One week later…
Jack drifted peacefully into awareness. It was comfortable, warm and all he wanted to do was stay in that warm and comfortable place.
But, soon, other noises began to intrude on his peaceful place.
People talking in hushed voices.
Hurried footsteps, the clank of metal against metal.
Slowly, he cracked his eyes open, and blinked.
Jack turned his head to the side, and saw a row of sparsely populated hospital cots. He turned his head to the other side, and saw the same. Sucking in a deep breath, he brought his hand up to his face, trying to rub the sleep out of eyes.
Only, his hand was wrapped in a thick layer of gauze, with just the tips of his fingers poking out the edge of the bandage.
It was then the pain hit. A deep throbbing ache in his hand, a sharp stabbing pain in his side, and a feeling of fire in both of his legs made him groan and squeeze his eyes shut.
"Lieutenant?" A female voice called out quietly. "Lieutenant O'Neill?"
Jack cracked one of his eyes open and peered up at the middle aged brunet hovering over him. She smiled gently down at him.
"Welcome to the land of the living, Lieutenant." Jack snorted and closed his eyes again.
"Thanks, now could you do me a favor and kill me?" The nurse laughed lightly, while grabbing his chart from the end of his bed and making a note in it.
"I know you are in pain, Lieutenant. I'll go and get the doctor. He can give you something for that." She said, putting his chart back and smiling again. She turned to leave, when Jack called out again.
"Hey, nurse…" She turned, a questioning look on her face. "When they brought me in…. were there any other… survivors?" He asked, remembering what he had heard before, but hoping he was mistaken.
The pleasant expression on the nurse's face faded into reserved sadness.
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. You were the only survivor that came to this hospital."
Silently, Jack's heart broke. He grieved for all the men lost in the camp he was in, but his soul wailed for the one man he had grown the closest to.
Chocolate eyes darkening in grief, Jack nodded wordlessly. Giving her own sad, understanding smile, the nurse turned and left to fetch the doctor.
And in the quiet, Jack let one tear roll down the side of his face, not quite understanding why the death of his friend was affecting him so much, only knowing that he would never be the same.
Two weeks later, back in the US….
Jack's rehab was slow in progress. At least in his own opinion. He wanted to be up and running again. Instead he was forced to crawl.
"C'mon, lieutenant. You can do better than that!" The jubilant voice of his therapist called from the other end of the mat. Jack, on his hands and knees, looked up at the man only a dozen or so feet away. The look on his face said more than words ever would. "Aw, c'mon Jack. Don't give me that look. I know you want to get out of here, but to do that you got to give me 110%. I know you can do more! Now, move it lieutenant!"
"I'm tryin' here, alright! Geeze, Larry, give a guy a break." Jack said gruffly, the words snapping a little more sharply than he intended. Larry looked at him with a knowing look on his face.
"You dreamt about him again, didn't you. About Mac." It was a statement, not a question. Jack sighed a little, as he continued his way across the mat.
"Yeah." He said softly.
"Ya wanna talk about it?" Jack finished his crawl and all but collapsed at the end of the exercise mat. As Larry began helping his through his stretches, Jack was silent. Larry waited patiently, and it wasn't long before the words came tumbling out.
"We were… back there, in the prison camp. We'd been there maybe, a week? I don't know. The days kinda blurred together. But, me 'n Mac, we were talking, like always. Tryin' to keep out minds off of where we were…..
"You can't be serious!" Mac gasped out between bursts of laughter. "You really did that?"
"Yeah." Jack said, a big smirk on his face. "I'll tell you know, ol' Mr. Garvey was pissed when he came out and found that we had TP'ed his whole yard. Took him weeks to get it all down. God, I think we used like twenty rolls. It was great!"
Both young me sat giggling like school boys for a good fifteen minutes, one picturing the events in his head, the other remembering the event fondly.
The joviality of the moment was crushed, at the tell tale metallic clank of the door leading to their block of cells was opened.
Both men stiffened at footsteps echoed down the hall. Four men stopped at Mac's cell and four at Jack's. Black sacks were tied over their heads, then they were lead out of the dank cell block.
They eventually made their way outside, the bright sunlight sneaking its way through the threads of the sack over his head.
He was forced to his knees, and felt someone else, Mac maybe, forced to their knees beside him. Words spoken in Vietnamese gibbered, and from what little he knew, Jack caught the word "Execute".
His heart jumped into his throat, choking him as panic rose up inside of him. He felt struggles to his left and heard shouts in both English and Vietnamese, so others must have understood what was being said as well. Jack began to struggle as well, only to feel two strong hands grasp his shoulders and forced him to hold still.
Eventually, the monologue ended, and Jack heard the ominous sound of a rifle being loaded. He cringed, and tensed, waiting for the impact, not wanting to die and yet welcoming the freedom it would bring from the hell-hole in which he was imprisoned.
The loud reverberation of the gunshot echoed loudly in his ears, and yet there was no pain. Jack blinked rapidly as the bag was pulled from his head.
Almost immediately, his eyes were drawn to the body laying face down in the mud beside him. It was impossible to tell what the young man had looked like, as the majority of his face was gone, but when Jack looked around and there were no other prisoners in the courtyard, he knew it was his friend.
Mac.
No….
No!
NO!
"MAC!" He shouted…..
"It's the same damn dream every time!" Jack exclaimed. "No matter what, Mac ends up dead. Because of me! Because I couldn't protect him. Because I didn't do anything to protect him!" Jack slammed his fist against the exercise mat, frustration and grief making his chest ache.
"Now, Jack. Don't talk like that. You know it wasn't your fault that Mac died! In fact, from what you've told me, that man you saw wasn't Mac, it was another prisoner. Mac had already been taken back to his cell and was waiting for you." Larry said, looking his young friend in the eyes.
Jack scowled and nodded sharply.
"I know, but I thought it was him….." Jack huffed a frustrated breath through his nose. "Ya know what, Larry? Ya know what the worst thing is? That, in the month we were in prison together, not once, did I ever see what Mac looked like. I think that's what haunting me the most. In my nightmares, his face is just….gone." Jack rubbed his hands across his face, trying to block the image of a dead body with a mutilated face from his mind. "God, I don't even know how he died! Was he in pain? Was it quick? Did he suffer? God help me, but I almost wish that he had been the one who was shot, if only to know that he went quickly and didn't suffer, that he wasn't tortured to death."
The only thing that Larry could do was squeeze Jack's should in comfort. He knew it wasn't enough, but understood it was all he could do for the suffering young man.
Same time, 10th Surgical Hospital
Sometimes, Nurse Taylor loved her job.
Oh, it went without saying that it was a tough job, helping care for the wounded soldiers, sometimes not being able to do anything but comfort them through their pain, or hold their hand as they realized they had lost one, or more, of their limbs. It was a very tough job. It was brutal, working three days straight, with only two hours rest, and living on rations. It was a horrifying job, having to change uniforms more than once a day, because the other had become so drenched in blood, the metallic odor was overpowering.
But, on days like this, Nurse Taylor absolutely loved her job.
She watched as the doctor performed the last of the neuro-checks on one Private Angus MacGyver, as he woke from his near four week coma.
She watched as he passed with flying colors, and the doctor announced that he was well enough to be transferred back to the states to continue is recovery in a more suitable hospital.
She smiled when Angus looked over at her, and grinned, giving her a little wave.
She cried, when she spoke with the young man for the first time since she had been caring for him. When he told her he remembered her talking to him, when he expressed his sympathy for her son, who had died in combat a week earlier.
Yes, on days like this, Nurse Taylor loved her job.
Private Angus MacGyver shifted a little anxiously as the doctor finished his tests.
"Alright, Private. Aside from typical muscle weakness, you are good to go. You will be transferred back to an appropriate facility in the States for rehabilitation. You should be back on your feet in a few months." The doctor said, smiling down at his patient.
Mac grinned back, though it really didn't reach his eyes.
"That's great, Doc." Mac cleared his throat, and asked the question that had been on his mind since he woke. "Hey, Doc? Can I ask you somethin'?"
"Certainly."
"When…. When I was brought here. Were, were there any other prisoners? Any other survivors?" He asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer. He was afraid of what they might tell him. The doctor looked at him almost apologetically. Mac felt his heart sink.
"I'm sorry, Private. You were the only survivor brought to this hospital."
Inside, something broke irreparably. Some part of his soul cried out in anguish at the news, as he realized that Jack, his friend and the one that helped him through the hell they had all went through, was dead.
He nodded quietly and the doctor took his leave.
Brown eyes filled with grief looked up as Nurse Taylor stepped up to the side of the bed. Her eyes were filled with empathy, and one lone tear made its way down his cheek.
"Oh, sweetie…" Nurse Taylor whispered. Slowly she reached her arms up and around his shoulders, and cradled his head to her chest and held him.
But Mac let no other tears fall; he simply leaned into the quiet strength, and knew that he would never be the same again.
To be continued...
September 20th, 1971
