This fluffy little piece (taking place years before the end of the world in Ad Astra) is thanks to a three-word prompt in a post on the fanfiction subreddit. No mention of Jack O'Neill and co. in this one, but could still fit in either of my Domestic Adventures or Ad Astra AUs. Enjoy!
-1988-
MacGyver toes his right sneaker off and crosses his legs, regarding the offending foot in disgust. Why the heck did he have to be benched just because of an in-grown toenail? Painful to be sure, but not as bad as the other injuries he's risked during an assignment. It's not like his leg's broken or anything, for crying out loud.
Out on the ice the Zamboni chugs along doing its thing, preparing for the big event. It had taken Mac months to arrange this charity game of fellow Phoenix employees and friends from various government agencies versus players from the L.A. Kings, one of the best teams in the league. He'd been really looking forward to playing, and now he can't because Coach Brooks had deemed him too incapacitated to participate.
To make matters worse the team doctor's insisting he needs surgery as soon as possible. Mac scowls as he slips the sneaker back on, already regretting the time that'll be wasted in recovery, sitting on the sidelines instead of being in the thick of the action. He doesn't do bored well, as his niece and best friends can attest.
Jack Dalton plops down beside him, juggling a large bag of popcorn, equally large soda, and a giant dill pickle. "Man, I love concession stands," alternating between bites and sips of all three. "Never mind those modern yuppie ones that offer sushi or fancy sandwiches on artisan bread or what have you. Give me the classic stuff every time."
Mac wrinkles his nose, the pungent smell of garlic brine assaulting him even from where he's sitting. "Jack, you know none of the junk food they sell remotely qualifies as healthy, right?" His friend has a skewed sense of logic when it comes to looking after himself.
"Hey, you only live once. Might as well enjoy what's good." He tosses a handful of kernels into the air with abandon, only a couple landing directly in his mouth. "Wanna share my cheesy popcorn?"
Mac shoves away the offered bag with his elbow. "No, thanks. I shudder to think what kind of chemicals they're putting in the artificial flavoring these days."
Jack shrugs. "Your loss, amigo."
"Unc, be nice," Becky chides as she sits on Mac's other side. "He's just trying to help." She leans forward in her seat, bringing up a thermos and four camping mugs from home. "Care for some hot chocolate? I followed Grandma Ellen's recipe. And later for supper we'll have French toast with the extra dollop of buttermilk, the way you like it."
He ducks his head, feeling more than a hint of guilt. Here he is acting like a boneheaded jerk because he's neglected his own self-care, not that she'd ever mention it out loud. "Real thoughtful of you, Beck. I'd love a cup."
He blows on the steaming liquid and takes a sip, savoring the richness of dark chocolate and creamy milk on his palate, the depth of brown sugar and the merest hint of cinnamon. Tastes fantastic, just like Mom used to make on bitterly cold days for the kids after hockey practice. Warms him all the way through. "Thanks. Guess I needed a pick-me-up after all."
She smiles, a brownish smear on her upper lip. "I know this doesn't really make up for missing out on the game but I thought chocolate couldn't hurt either. Whenever I felt awful and not sick to my stomach Mom always had some ready and I felt a lot better. Besides, Dr. Chen at the Foundation says it boosts serotonin levels and eases anxiety."
"Bacon sandwiches usually work for me, but cocoa sounds great too," Jack remarks. "Pour me a mug, kiddo?"
She rolls her eyes. "Later, okay? Not that your stomach will be happy with that combination of popcorn, soda and dill pickle churning around."
Pete joins them, almost collapsing into his seat next to Becky. "Sorry I'm late, had a last-minute crisis at the office. Did I miss anything?"
On the ice Mac notes the Zamboni's gone and the referees are skating around, testing suitability for game play. "You're just in time, Pete. Looks like the game's about to get started."
Becky pours Pete a welcome mug of hot chocolate before closing the thermos tight and placing it back on the floor. She then pulls out a large blanket, unfolding it and tucking around her legs and Mac's. Since moving in she's become expert at compensating for his crummy moods after being injured, through her pampering and considered tenderness. Though an in-grown toenail hardly counts as a major infirmity in his book.
Jack marvels at her, flecks of cheesy artificial flavoring dotting his mustache. "Wow, Beck. Looks like some of my tricks as a smuggler have washed off on ya."
She just grins and shrugs. "I used to get cold watching Uncle Mac at hockey practice, that's all. Helps to come in early before everyone else shows up, too."
"Planning ahead's a family trait. Your mom was the same way," Mac notes, affectionately rubbing her shoulder. "Sorry for being rude earlier," he adds to Jack who waves what's left of the pickle in an absolving gesture, his mouth full of popcorn.
The referees give a thumbs-up to the control booth and Mac sits back with a grin of anticipation. This is gonna be great.
Though nothing beats the thrill of playing his favorite sport being benched this time doesn't seem so bad after all. Especially with family around to share in the excitement.
And hey, there's always next time, right?
The three words were "zamboni", "pickle" and "in-grown toenail." Who knew they'd be so inspiring?