why do i keep posting chapters in the middle of the night? this is never a great idea. at any rate! im writing faster now, and feeling great about it, we're getting into what in my notes is 'the good part'.
as always thank you for your lovely words and please continue letting me know your thoughts!
Once the door closes behind him, cutting Mac off from the trio left standing outside in the hall, the office feels as if it gets colder by degrees. His arms prickle and Mac wants to look away, anywhere but at the stony face of the Director. Since the moment the job started, he knew this was coming. Things went wrong from the word 'go', and review was inevitable. That doesn't mean he has to be excited about it. No matter how many times he goes through this process, it makes him unspeakably nervous, and this is the worst part. The part before the review itself begins, and it's just Mac and James, alone in a room. A silent, tense room.
When Mac was a kid, his grandfather used to take him to museums. The old man would bring along a book or several different morning edition newspapers, and park himself near the lobby, and just let Mac roam on his own. He was never disruptive, well-behaved and quiet, enthralled in the exhibits, and so he was allowed to continue doing this, spending as much time as he liked at whichever exhibits really caught his eye.
There had been one that had unsettled him so badly he'd never gone back to that particular section of the museum, one on natural sciences. It held grand halls full of bones and preserved specimens from the many large parks surrounding their area of California, from Joshua Tree up through the Redwoods, and back behind all of that was a small, lesser-visited corridor that Mac wandered down one day when he was maybe eleven or twelve years old.
It was an exhibit on butterflies and moths, and he was never able to shake the sight. It rattled him deeply and inexplicably, looking up at the wide, tall cases of monarchs and swallowtails, polyphemus and codling moths. He'd dreamed about them periodically since seeing them that day. Hundreds of pairs of delicate wings pierced by long, thin pins, splayed out and trapped, silent and helpless. He imagines that maybe this is how they had felt, those trapped butterflies, skewered to specimen boards under bright lights, curious eyes boring into them. No chance for escape, even if they had been alive.
Mac feels pinned now, James staring at him with the same sharpness he'd imagined those pins had, attention intense and focused solely on him. Mac's mouth feels dry, and the underside of his right hand itches. The edges of a piece of crumpled paper poke into the skin of his palm, reminding him of the odd handshake Riley had left him with, the folded secret she'd pressed into his hand, out of the sight of Matty and Jack. It's something of an odd comfort now, hidden away in his hand where James can't see it, and Mac focuses on that now, concentrating on the paper rather than on his father as the review finally starts.
James doesn't yell. He does sometimes, voice pitching up and down though a furious tirade on some problem Mac should've solved faster, a civilian injury he should've prevented, some embarrassment DXS had suffered at his hands. This time, though, is one of the times he doesn't, his voice remaining even and calm as he starts in on their recent trip to Rio. He doesn't sound angry, though Mac knows for a fact he is, and it's somehow worse than if he had clearly showed it, been upfront and transparent with how badly Mac had screwed up this time.
Mac would prefer it if he was yelling. Yelling is superior, given the choice between the frying pan and the fire, to this cold stillness. Still waters run deep, so the saying went, and the calmer James appeared on the surface, the more incensed he was inside. It's been this way all Mac's life and it's left him constantly off balance, wondering even when the man seemed happy with him if it might all be a ruse, a decoy hiding the true nature of James' fury.
They're playing one of James' favorite games today, the one where he acts like he doesn't know what happened while Mac's team was offsite, and needs to be filled in on what it was, exactly, that didn't go according to plan. It's a way of forcing Mac to outline his own mistakes and faults himself, picking apart his own conduct and pulling out pieces to find dissatisfactory. If he misses something, James' jaw will go progressively tighter, his eyes narrowing, until Mac fishes around to find what it is the man thinks he's left out. If he still doesn't find it, he'll be subjected not only to an explanation of what James was actually waiting to hear, but a stern lecture about how hiding faults doesn't make them go away, and if they don't review what happened, there's no way he'll do better next time. So yeah. Mac would prefer if he just started yelling – at least that part is straightforward.
Of course, this time, Mac knows exactly what it is that James is waiting to hear. Before he can get there, though, he has to go through the rest of it, outlining their lack of an analyst on the ground with them, Amos Bright's assignment to Moscow at exactly the wrong moment. Of course, these things had been outside of Mac's control, but he goes through them anyway, hoping at least that once they're laid out, they can move on, and James won't manage to find some way to make them his fault. He doesn't, actually, though Mac supposes he's probably more focused on the real point of this meeting rather than finding other things to twist until they were a matter of Mac's personal failings as an agent and a person.
"And then what happened when you and Dalton called to update home base on the issue you were facing?" James' voice is still that cool, calm tone, and Mac hates it. He grits his teeth, holding the folded paper from Riley just a little tighter.
"I let the situation get the better of me," he says, forcing the words out through a throat that feels tight and hot. "I let my emotions control my behavior, and I acted out. It was unprofessional and there's no excuse for it." Though the situation may be different, the wording is familiar. Mac has been down this road many times before. He's always been too anxious, too emotional, lacking in control and decorum. Lacking in sufficient deferential respect for his superiors and specifically James.
"That's right," James says, voice going fractionally louder, and Mac knows they've reached the point, the bit his father's been waiting to get to all along. "There is no excuse for your behavior on this mission, Angus, I'm disappointed. I wish I could say I'm surprised too, but I'm frankly not at this point. You are a part of me, here, an extension of-"
"I'm not you, though." It's a mistake, and Mac knows it is from the moment he speaks, the first syllable punching its way out of his mouth uncontrollably. He couldn't help it. The assertion James is fond of making, that Mac is supposed to function like a copy of him, allowing James to essentially be in two places at once, frustrates Mac as much as it scares him.
A beat of silence reigns, and James stares at him, hard. Mac thinks of the pinned monarch, the inescapable bright light over its display.
"When you are here," the man says, the words icy and immaculately articulated, "you are to function as an extension of me, Angus. That's what you've been trained for. It's what you're here for. You are an extension of me and you are expected to behave accordingly."
Mac swallows, choking down a second protest before it can land him in hotter water. The pot he's already in is scalding as it is. He nods, chin dipping once and stilling.
"I shouldn't need to be babysitting you on assignments," James goes on, never mind that his conduct while Mac and Jack had been in Brazil couldn't be accurately termed anything near 'babysitting'. The only way he could've been more hands off is if he'd given the briefing over, as he sometimes did, to Matty entirely. "And you need to control yourself, do you hear me? You're not a child, you can't let your temper run away with you like that, especially not in front of other people. In front of our work colleagues. You disrespected me today. You shouted at me and swore at me on that call like some drunk and disorderly frat boy."
"Yes, sir," Mac mutters. He knows what the pause in James' lecture was for, and he can't afford to ruffle any more feathers by missing it. "Sorry, sir."
"And not only did you do this, you did it in front of your partner and my Deputy. Do you understand what that does to your reputation? Do you understand what that does to my reputation, if I have an agent cursing at me and questioning the way I choose to lead this agency in front of subordinates?"
Another deliberate pause.
"Yes sir. Sorry sir."
"Your partner," James says, and somehow, impossibly it seems, Mac gets more tense. For some reason, the idea of James dragging Jack into this, somehow bringing him up in this review, is one that makes Mac bristle. Jack does not belong in this conversation.
"What about him?" Mac asks. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from going on further, insisting that he hadn't done anything wrong, that the problems had all been Mac, the disrespect all Mac. None of it had been Jack. It wasn't his fault.
"Dalton needs to respect me."
Mac bites down harder. The taste of copper spreads over the side of his tongue and his eyes sting, but he doesn't let up. He can't afford to have an outburst right now.
"If he doesn't, if he was to learn somewhere that respecting me and the authority of my office is in any way optional, then he and I are going to start to have a problem. You know what that means."
Indeed Mac does know what that means, and he nods, wordless. He doesn't want to lose this partner. He's already had too many, faces cycling into and out of his life like dramatic wildlife portraits on the pages of a tourist trap store calendar, and he doesn't want to get used to another, less than three quarters of a year after meeting this one. More than that, too, it isn't just that he doesn't want to lose another partner to James' temper. He doesn't want to lose Jack. It's a realization that makes him feel cold and afraid, because it makes him vulnerable. It puts another weapon into James' hands, to hold over his head in moments like this one, and it gives Jack the ability to hurt him as well. Probably best to curb that kind of thought, that Jack might mean something more than the last guy did, or the woman before him, before the feeling roots itself in him too deeply to excise.
"So, going forward," says James, indicating that if anything, at least today's review is going to turn out to be a relatively short one, "what is it we're going to keep in mind, then?"
"I am to speak to you with respect, alone and in front of others, and especially in front of my partner," Mac says numbly.
"And?"
"I function as an extension of you. It's important that I act like it, and on this mission, I didn't."
It's unclear if James finds this conclusion satisfactory, scrutinizing him intently with flinty blue eyes. Mac feels fourteen years old again, waiting to see if his groveling and self-flagellation will be accepted or if more will be demanded of him before he's allowed to make a quick, desperate escape from his father's study. Eventually, James must come to the conclusion that no more is necessary at the moment, breaking eye contact and looking away from him entirely. When James moves, he does so abruptly, and it's difficult for Mac to reign in the instinctive flinch at the unexpected step. He turns and merely goes back and sits down behind his desk, returning to his chair and pulling a folder out of his inbox, leaving Mac feeling incredibly foolish.
"You're dismissed," James tells him, without looking up from the task he's moved onto. "Go home."
Before James can change his mind, as he does sometimes, remembering something else and calling him back to do the whole thing over again, Mac makes a break for it. He slips out through the door, closing it softly behind himself. The last thing he needs right now is for the entire hall of department chiefs to see him get loudly scolded for slamming a door.
As he walks down the hall away from his father's office, Mac tries not to think too hard about what had just happened. It's stupid to ruminate on, because really, what had just happened? Nothing, materially. Sure, it had been humiliating and degrading to stand there and be lectured about his faults, to go over for the hundredth time how the training James had invested so much time and effort into hadn't resulted in the agent Mac was supposed to grow up to be. Sure, it stung (more than stung, hurt beyond his ability to describe the feeling) to have it reinforced once again that he was a disappointment, as an operative and a son, but what of it? Isn't this exactly what James was always trying to drill into him? That feeling didn't mean anything, nothing without something real to back them up, that Mac was an oversensitive child when he needed to grow up and get his act together, start proving his worth.
Mac plants his shoulder into the door and opens it with a hard shove, scrubbing a wrist angrily over his eyes as he goes. James' words, from today and last month and last year and all of the twenty years before that one play around and around in his mind. Grow up. Grow a spine. Get it together. Calm down. You're overreacting. You're making a scene. You're embarrassing me. It's nothing. It's nothing. It's nothing.
The evening air is crisp and still cooling, reminding Mac that it's turned November, and though they enjoy a temperate climate here, not even Southern California is immune to the relative chill of winter. He shivers a little as he breathes deliberately deeply and slowly, trying to quell the feeling in his chest like his lungs have been spiderwebbed over inside with fiberglass, itchy and painful and upset. It's standing there, staring out over the rapidly emptying parking lot, that Mac remembers something that has a great deal of importance when it comes to what his next move is going to be. His car is not in that lot.
It feels like it was several days ago that Jack had picked him up that morning, driving them both in to work together. In reality, it hasn't been very long at all, less than two days in total, but that didn't change the fact that they'd left Mac's car behind, where it still presumably sits dormant and useless in the driveway. And, since Jack went with Matty to drop Riley off at her temporary residence, Mac is now left with no way to get home.
He tries to squash it, the way that thought leaves him immediately feeling colder, small and alone. For reasons Mac can't quite identify and doesn't really want to try too hard to understand, he suddenly wishes with a ferocity that takes him utterly by surprise that Jack were here with him right now. Not even just for the ride home. Just because Mac doesn't want to be by himself, and somewhere, somehow, at some point, Jack had become an alternative that felt safe.
It's not safe to let someone in like that, not beyond what it takes to work together. Hadn't James spent years trying to teach him that? Hadn't Walsh been enough, the boogeyman that had haunted Mac's father's thoughts for years, motivated his every move even now?
And still, here he is, wishing Jack would show up and take him home. James is right. Mac needs to get a grip and stop projecting more onto this relationship than is there. It's embarrassing, and it isn't what Jack signed up for.
Nothing else for it, Mac steels himself to turn around and go back inside. He'll have to ask James for a ride home. If anything, maybe the request will do something to appease the man, take the edge off the anger Mac knows is still simmering. James is slow to forgive and never forgets, and maybe having to walk back in there with his head hung and grovel for help is the answer to getting the process to move faster. For all that he expects Mac to be faultless and hypercompetent at work, he and his father's relationship looks markedly different when it comes to the personal. Half the time Mac could swear James thinks he's still an elementary schooler having trouble tying his shoes by himself.
There's an odd, satisfied glint that James gets sometimes when Mac needs his help, like he's just had a point proved and been made to feel needed and important in the same move. Sometimes, Mac has a hard time figuring out what's asked of him today - robotic perfection or helpless incompetence? It's a life of constant, warring contradictions and though it's a tough balancing act, Mac has at least been doing this long enough to get pretty good at it.
Before he can actually set foot back in the building, a sound cuts into Mac's awareness, abrupt and startling, causing a hard flinch to seize through his body and sending his heart thundering in his chest. He whips around, looking for the car whose horn has just beeped at him, and does a further double-take when he sets eyes on the offending vehicle - or, more accurately, who is driving it. Jack. The person who'd honked at him is Jack.
Mac squints at him through the growing dark, and walks a few steps closer to the car. He can't seem to wrap his mind around having just been thinking about Jack, wishing he'd been there to get him away from this building and the man somewhere inside it, and then there he was, idling by the curb.
"What, thought I forgot I was your ride home?" Jack's voice is as easygoing as the light smile on his face, and Mac looks down and away. He can't bring himself to admit that no, he hadn't thought Jack had forgotten, he just didn't think it really mattered. Luckily, Jack doesn't seem to have a lot of expectations right now, conversation wise, and merely leans over to pop open the passenger's side door.
The drive from DXS to Mac and Bozer's house is quiet and calm, and as he sits there in Jack's car, Mac can feel his body begin to ache. This happens after missions, especially ones where he has to do a review afterwards, times when stress and tension has left the muscles in his shoulders and back a knotted mess. Whether it's the warmth of Jack's car, the distance from the office and from James, something about Jack's own presence, Mac doesn't know. All he knows is that, as he relaxes minutely, the pain arrives, his body receiving the message that it doesn't have to be on high alert any more, and can begin to relax and feel again. There's a throb in his jaw that reminds Mac of the last time he'd been to a dentist and told he would need to stop grinding his teeth or he'd damage them.
They reach the driveway without Jack making any mention of how tightly wound Mac seemed, coming out of the building after the review they both know had taken place, and Mac is grateful for this. He doesn't want to explain why going over his mission mistakes with his father makes him feel like his insides are twisting into painful snarls, why even on the best of days being stuck in a room by himself with James was an outcome he wanted to avoid at all costs. It's not like he'd been in any danger, had any kind of justification to be sitting here feeling like he's been on the edge of a panic attack for more than an hour, and that's something he doesn't want to try and explain to Jack.
"Thanks," is all he says, and Jack doesn't respond out loud, just smiles and nods, something a little troubled about his expression.
Halfway up the short walkway from the drive to the front porch, Mac suddenly remembers something. He stops, shoving a hand into the pocket of his pants and fishing out the paper he'd been given when Riley insisted on giving him a handshake when they'd separated earlier in the day. It's small and looks like it was torn out of the edge of someone's notebook, cramped handwriting that he assumes to be Riley's scrawled out over it. The message is short and to the point, and Mac squints to read it in the dim illumination of the porch light.
Gave me a temp phone. Here's the #. Riley.
Mac would think it wasn't what he was expecting to see written on it, but that would imply he'd had any reasonable idea of what to expect at all. It's certainly interesting, and he makes a note to send the number on the paper a message when he gets inside and has the chance to get settled. Mac has a good feeling about Riley, though he can't imagine she's having a very easy time right now, alone and pitched into a new life she never could've predicted was coming just a day earlier. As he opens the front door and looks around, surrounded by the familiar sights, smells, and sounds of home, he begins to get an idea.
