A/N: So, I started watching this incarnation of MacGyver like, a week and a half ago. Did not think I was at the fanfic writing phase yet, but I found out Jack is universal donor three hours ago, and here we are.
This was was written in roughly an hour, it hasn't been beta'd, and I really shouldn't be posting it yet, but. I got excited. So, yeah. If you see any typos, help a girl out and let me know, yeah?
Takes place a few months after Jack re-enlists.
"We stood side by side, each one fighting for the other;
We said until we died, we'd always be blood brothers."
Bruce Springsteen, "Blood Brothers"
The explosion rattles Jack's bones, the shock wave knocking him backward.
When he opens his eyes again, the dust is settling and the sky is clear again. He sits up. There is a thought trying to surface in his brain. Something important. He shakes his head and flexes his jaw against the ringing in his ears. He had a job to do, a mission, he—
Mac.
He's scrambling to his feet in an instant, head swimming, feet stumbling in the sand as he screams his specialist's name. At least, he thinks he's screaming. He can't actually hear anything beyond the shrill, warbling tone searing through his skull.
The heat radiating from the fresh ruins hits him before he makes it within fifty feet. His head is clearer now, the ringing in his ears not quite as deafening. "Mac!" He halts, desperately scanning what's left of the building, praying to see his bomb nerd come staggering out from behind the pile of rubble, swiping at the dust and complaining about smoke inhalation.
He doesn't.
Jack jogs around the smoldering heap, eyes flicking to and fro for any sign of Mac in the debris.
He doesn't have to go far. There's a hand peeking out from beneath a pile of bricks and metal sheeting, and he's skidding to a halt and falling to his knees beside it. The hand is upturned and limp, the curled fingers coated in desert dust. Jack is speaking, squeezing the hand, making promises he's terrified he can't keep. Then he's on his feet again, clearing away bricks until he can lift away the sheet of steel. It falls to the sand with an empty clud.
Mac lies on his back, arms and legs splayed loose and twisted, his head flung to one side. His eyes are closed. Blood trickling down the side of his face. Staining his scarf.
Jack again finds himself on his knees, tearing off his gloves and feeling down the back of Mac's neck for breaks. Then he takes the kid's face in his hands, patting it, pleading with him to wake up and be okay.
Mac doesn't wake up, and Jack chokes on the same smoke and sand that burns his eyes as he frantically searches for injuries. His hands still over Mac's right side. The bit of shrapnel isn't large, but blood is pooling around it at a rate that makes his heart stutter. He prods at it gently and swallows. It's wedged deep. Red is blooming in the sand around them.
"Oh, no you don't, kid. Not today. No dying until you've seen The Expendables. We agreed on this." He continues talking, meaningless chatter, as he carefully gathers Mac in his arms and climbs to his feet, taking care to jostle the kid as little as possible.
The ride back to base is agonizing. Jack is grateful for streets that are nearly deserted for once, as his eyes keep cutting from the road to check his unconscious partner. He drives with one hand on the wheel, his right pressed to Mac's increasingly pale neck. Blood staining his uniform, the seat, the floor.
At base, he doesn't wait for medics to reach them. Mac is white as a sheet now. Almost gray. Jack jumps from his seat and runs around the Humvee to extract his partner, handling him as cautiously as if he were a priceless china doll. Then he's racing to the MTF as fast as his feet will carry him.
Doctors and nurses pause in their work when he bursts through the door, staring at him. Mac's blood drip drips on the white tile, and then they're swarmed by medics. They're trying to pull Mac away from him and he fights them for a moment on instinct before his senses kick in. Someone has brought a gurney and Mac is gently settled on it, strapped in, and then they're running down the white hallway and Jack forges his way against hands that attempt to restrain him to stay at his kid's side.
They say he needs blood. Jack knows his type. AB Negative. He also knows it wouldn't matter if he were A Neg or B Pos or any other type, because Jack is O Neg. He's sitting down and rolling up his sleeve before anyone has time to ask.
A nurse swabs the crook of his elbow with antiseptic and he watches the kid's face as they cut away his gear and his uniform. Then he watches the blood travel from his own veins into the bag hanging over Mac's bed and from there into the kid's thirsty veins.
They bring him Gatorade when it's over and he takes a few swigs as they check him over for injuries of his own. When they're satisfied, they leave him with his partner. He watches him sleep. He sips his Gatorade. He prays. He dozes.
He wakes when Mac stirs, stiff sheets rustling. The light has changed, the room lit almost pink in the waning daylight. Mac swallows and grimaces and shifts again.
Jack leans forward. "Hey, kid. You with me?"
Bleary eyes crack open and the tousled blond head turns to look at Jack.
"Welcome back, Carl's." Jack is smiling, a lump burning his throat.
Mac frowns. "What—" He clears his throat and tries again. "What happened?"
"Bomb went off while you were inside."
Realization dawns on Mac's face. "The timer—there was a second timer. Hidden. It was a trap." He swallows again.
Jack grits his teeth. The ringing is almost gone, now. "Docs say you're one lucky dog. They're right, too. If you had landed in a different spot, I woulda had to start calling you Hardee's."
Mac's frown deepens.
"Haven't you ever had one of them charbroiled burgers?"
"Those."
"Hm?"
"Those charbroiled burgers. You said them."
"Seriously? You nearly get blown up, get stabbed by some truly nasty shrapnel, lose a liter and a half of blood, and you're still correcting my grammar?"
Mac looks at him sharply. Then his eyes travel over the disconnected transfusion equipment, Jack's half-empty Gatorade bottle, and then over Jack himself. He watches Jack's face for a long moment and Jack begins to squirm.
"You gave me blood?" Mac's voice is low, raspy.
Jack shrugs, feeling suddenly sheepish. "I'm O Neg. Universal donor."
"I know."
Jack nods. They sit in silence. It's awkward. Mac breaks it.
"Thank you. For getting me out."
"Aw, come on, kid. You know I wouldn't leave you behind. It ain't in my blood."
Mac stares at him incredulously. "Are you making puns right now?"
"Sure am. It was a bloody good one, too."
Mac groans. "If you're gonna keep this up, you may as well have let me die."
"Come on, man. Don't B Negative."
"Yeah, that's it. I'm going to sleep."
He does. Heavy lids slip closed and a moment later, Mac's breathing deepens.
Jack smiles softly. "Sure kid." He brushes his hand over the still-dusty hair. "Sweet dreams."
It's not until later that it occurs to Jack. When he shares his realization with Mac, he grins and huffs and shakes his head, but he meets Jack's outstretched fist with his own.
They've been a reluctant team. Then partners. Eventually, friends.
Now?
Now they're blood brothers.
A/N: Thank you for reading, beautiful soul.