Here he was again. And much like the last time, he felt utterly numb. So bereft, that there was nothing left to feel, because there was nothing to hold onto.
Oh, how he hated hospitals. The chair he sat on was cold and hard and the sickly sort of burnt orange that said it couldn't be on purpose, must have resulted from the manufacturer mixing the ends of other lots to save money. And why shouldn't the place be terrible colors, stark white tile, and nauseas antiseptic smells. It was where you went to suffer, whether in a bed yourself, or on behalf of someone in one. Or worse, someone who no longer needed one.
He shoved the thought aside with a shuddering breath. When his mom had gotten sick he spent so much time in one of these places, sitting with her while she got her treatments. She used to read to him, he thought more to distract herself than anything. Then when she was too sick for that, he read to her. It was good to bury himself in a book. By that time, he'd already learned to hate the place.
When she died, he sat in a chair, just like this one, his feet swinging a good six inches above the floor, and he could hear, through the closed door of the room in which his mother … used to be mother … was, his father's inconsolable howling sobs. His grandfather had sat with him, weeping silently, occasionally whispering to him that everything would be alright, that he still had people who loved him, and that they would always be there to take care of him. Time had made a liar of that good and honest man.
Mac took a ragged breath, turning the chain that was dangling off his fingers over so he could see the medallion. Saint Therese. Patron Saint of Pilots. If only he had been in the air.
The hollow sounding speaker of the PA system sounded far off down the hall. 'Angus MacGyver please come to the Front Desk.' Not now. I can't now. I have to sit here and be sorry, he thought.
People passed by him as though he wasn't there. A ghost in a hard plastic chair. He was uncomfortable; it was vaguely reminiscent of the feeling of being restrained in that sub-basement for however long. Cold, hard, unforgiving, and he couldn't leave. No one had come for him yet. Jack hadn't come, and wouldn't be coming.
The weight of the thought hit him hard and he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently, as though that might somehow make it untrue, might allow him to take back what had happened. As though it might give him back time to, instead of shutting out his partner … his best friend … who was he kidding, the closest thing to a dad Mac had had since he was still counting his age on his fingers, look up from his contemplations in Paris and just say, "Jack, I'm sorry I ditched you, man. I'm scared of what this is going to be like and I don't like being scared in front of people. And you know I can never hide that stuff from you." But you didn't get time back. No one had, as yet, learned to traverse the fourth dimension. And Mac was more of an applied physics guy. He stopped shaking his head, it was making it go all swim-y again, and he wasn't going to wind up in a bed here. Jack didn't get to be taken care of, so neither did he.
'Angus MacGyver please come to the Front Desk.' No, he thought again. I'm waiting for something. Waiting for this to make sense.
The bright white of the tile with the bluish-pink lights overhead glaring off them were giving him a pounding headache. It was the way his head had been aching when Murdoc had been taunting him, laying the groundwork for truly torturing him. Mac had been so sure Jack was coming for him, that he could endure torture if it gave Jack time. And he'd said so.
He'd known what Murdoc was going to say the second the words left his lips and that oily smile appeared on the killer's face. "To find us?" Murdoc had smiled, eyes boring into Mac's and he'd known, wanted to scream. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen. I took care of Dalton when you brushed him off in Paris, my dear boy. He was so distracted by how you mistreated him, it gave me the perfect opening. So … thank you for that."
Mac realized vaguely that he couldn't really remember how he had gotten here to the hospital where … where the body was. Only that he was here, holding Jack's stuff, waiting for … something.
'Angus MacGyver please come to the Front Desk.' I said no, damn it! I don't want to talk to anybody but Jack, and now I can't, I can't ever again, and it's my fault, my fault …
When his mother got sick, his grandfather had told him everything happens for a reason. And he'd stuck to that belief on just about everything that followed. So, if Mac believed that his grandfather had possessed a certain wisdom on all things people related (and since he believed that Jack had and Jack said the same thing … had said) and Mac realized he sort of sucked at the whole people thing an awful lot of the time, then he had to believe that there was a reason for this, too.
And the reason was that he had taken his friend for granted.
Mac's head dropped so he was looking at the floor. Feet passed by him, people going to see loved ones, doctors and nurses on their way to take care of patients, wheelchairs carrying the recovered toward the exits.
"MacGyver please." He ignored the page again.
Mac looked at the bloodied medallion between his fingers.
He stared past in to the floor.
There were feet standing in front of him. Feet in black shoes, a long black coat of their wearer nearly touching them.
"MacGyver."
Then he realized the floor was no longer white. It was dark, dirty.
He looked at his hands. He was still holding the medallion, but he realized his hands were still cuffed at the wrists.
"Mac!"
The stabbing, aching, miserable pain in his arm was back. He was cold, miserable, exhausted.
"Mac!"
Murdoc was shoving him back against the chair. "You don't get to close your eyes to this, MacGyver. This is on you."
He stepped aside, so Mac could see Jack's lifeless body, slumped in a chair across from him, still wearing the ridiculous hat he'd had on in Paris. A hat he'd probably gotten just so Mac would smile and give him a hard time. No physical torture Murdoc had devised could have broken Mac more completely in that moment. The choked sob he had been holding onto, found its way out of his chest, "Jack."
At least he had no idea where Cassian was being held. Only Matty knew that. So, no matter what Murdoc did, the damage would stay in this room. And, it didn't matter now anyway. "Jack," he whispered again.
"MAC!"
Mac bolted upright on the exam table he'd dozed off on, nearly sliding off. If Jack hadn't already been standing next to him, trying to shake him awake, he would have. He gasped for breath for a minute and just let Jack steady him, closing his eyes against the tears of relief that very much wanted to fall, but that he had no intention of shedding.
Jack dreamed of dying all the time. If Mac told him he'd dreamed it, too, the Human Helicopter was going to get a complex. Mac thought about opening his mouth an apologizing about Paris, but knew if he did he would definitely lose it a little. Jack leaned down to get a good look in his eyes. "How you doin', bud?"
Mac took another breath before answering. "Okay. Sore all over. How did I get here?" He paused. "Wait I sort of remember … Car came for me after I fell … you and Evan."
Jack nodded slowly. "What else do you remember?"
Mac puffed out more air, blowing hair out of his face. "That once I slept the whatever it was off … Dr. P and probably Matty and definitely you are all gonna want to be pains in my ass?" He grinned at Jack. "And I'm really glad you're here to do that."
Jack didn't even care now that Mac looked and sounded like himself if the kid got mad at him, he wrapped him in a fierce hug, although he was careful of the places he knew Mac was hurt. To his surprise Mac just hugged him back.
"You ready to deal with those other pains in the ass?"
"Yeah. I want to get Murdoc. Before he pulls anything else. I'm not letting him hurt …" Mac swallowed hard. "Anyone."
"Alright, kid. I'll be right back."
