Mac felt like they'd been waiting around the X-Com infirmary for hours. Jack was still on pretty aggressive pain management. Mac gathered that his friend had come away from the incident at the warehouse in Inglewood with a couple of screws stabilizing his spine, but that no one thought he'd have much in they way of permanent damage. Which was great. Mac was thrilled to hear it. But at the moment, with the heavy pain medication necessary, Jack was down for the count. Mac would have appreciated some of Jack's usual chatter. He was starting to get legitimately edgy.
Granted, as far as hospital rooms went, this one wasn't terrible. The TV was nicer than average. And he'd been mostly left alone by the staff once he and Jack were settled in. But he knew he didn't still need to be here at all. His surgery had been minor, his leg hurt, but it wasn't unbearable, and he was twenty-three and healthy, recent illness notwithstanding.
No reason, under normal circumstances, he shouldn't have been discharged as soon as he woke up in the other hospital and there was someone on duty who could cut him loose. He'd nearly balked when he'd woken up for the day and been informed he and Jack were both being transferred back to the office's infirmary. But he hadn't.
He got the impression from Jack, early this morning when he was still half asleep, that Jack was maybe in some hot water because of him. And that maybe he was in the soup, too. He also got the feeling that he was going to finally find out what was really going on, which he definitely wanted to know.
He figured Thornton wanted to know where to find them, and she wanted to talk to them together. Keeping him admitted to the hospital was actually a nicer gesture than throwing him in some holding cell because he'd tumbled to some secret government bullshit. Mac sighed. That's what this obviously was, too.
He was almost trying to be pissed off about it, to get angry at Jack, because that would have been easier than the worried guilt that was currently dominating his emotions relative to his former overwatch. Jack was occasionally whimpering softly even in his sleep and every time he did, Mac flinched.
Jack was generally tough as nails, or as one notable CO had put it sort of congratulating Mac for ringing Jack's bell so the medic could do his job that one time, the man was hard as woodpecker lips, at least when it came to tolerating pain. Now Jack was in enough pain, even on pretty aggressive mid-morning sleep inducing medication, to be making sounds like a little kid in his sleep.
Mac knew it was his fault.
Part of him wanted to argue that Jack had known what he was getting into, that it was pretty clear that Jack worked for well-trained, well-equipped people at a dangerous and demanding job that he was doing totally voluntarily, not unlike he had been when they'd met. That part of him wanted to say that Jack was the one with the secret file on the Mazari and that he'd been going to investigate that warehouse anyway. And he hadn't told Mac any of it.
Mac sighed again. The rest of him knew that wasn't much of an argument. For starters, maybe Jack was dealing with classified material and trying to figure out what he could share. Mac understood what classified meant. Mac had a job in the Army he couldn't talk about. Shit, telling people they'd guessed right was against the rules for some of what he'd done.
He also knew that Jack took his work, his patriotism, pretty damned seriously; more seriously than Mac ever had. And if he was fair, Jack had dropped little hints that there was more going on, which told Mac all he needed to know. Jack hadn't liked keeping something important from him.
Mac hadn't asked, even after the revelation that the "think tank" they worked for kept a trauma doctor around even though the guy was a total prick that nobody really liked, because … well, because he knew Jack didn't like him not knowing everything, but he also knew Jack wouldn't just break the law and reveal something classified. Or worse, if he did, just because he didn't like keeping secrets from him, it would be bad, like potentially federal prison bad. Mac didn't want to put him in that position.
Jack made another soft sound of real discomfort. Mac sat in his own bed, frowning at the older man. If Jack had actually gone to investigate that warehouse independent of Mac, Mac knew he wouldn't have gone alone. Or if he had, he never would have gotten caught. When they were working together in Afghanistan, Mac never knew where the hell Jack was unless Jack wanted him to know. Jack would have been armed. And he could have called in backup.
The only reason Jack was lying in that bed right now, recovering from both a bullet wound and a spinal injury that had required significant surgery was that Mac had gone into the situation armed with nothing more than curiosity and a freaking Swiss Army knife, and Jack had felt the need to run in and save his ass. Mac shuddered at the thought of how much worse things could have gone, for Jack and for him. Jack was in pain, and facing months of it as he recovered, but he could have been paralyzed, or even killed in that fall.
And Mac … he had no illusions about where he would be if Jack hadn't shown up. If O'Neill and his buddies had taken Mac with them, he'd either be dead already, or he'd be chained up somewhere wishing he was.
That was it. He couldn't sit around here waiting for Thornton to come talk to them. Jack was in no position to debrief anything. The man couldn't keep his eyes open for ten minutes at a clip yet. And frankly, Mac was about fed up with this bed, this room, and the idea of being Patricia Thornton's prisoner. He didn't care if that was his own fault at the moment. He'd gotten himself into this situation, and he was going to get out, damn it.
He carefully got himself out of bed and propped up on the crutches the nurse, Tony, (who had, in Mac's eyes, totally redeemed himself for his failure to be decent at drawing blood) delivered to him upon request (along with his belongings) almost immediately after their arrival this morning. With a furtive glance at the sleeping Jack, he hobbled over toward the bathroom, scooping up the plastic bag with his clothes on his way by.
He puffed out a long breath, remembering the the leg of his pants was sort of covered with blood and kind of shredded. Then he levered himself over to the room's closet, hoping that maybe … Yes! … He reached in and snagged the pale blue cotton gift from above off the shelf. Sure, they were hospital pajama pants, but they were still pants, so he could get out of here without anyone else getting a look at what color boxer briefs he favored.
By the time he managed to get dressed, he sort of regretted refusing any more pain medication. But at the same time, he needed to take care of this, talk to his boss, and see what he could do to absolve Jack of any responsibility for his actions. He knew Jack liked to call him 'kid'. Hell, by most people's standards he still sort of was one.
But deep down, where it mattered, where responsibility came to rest, Mac hadn't really much thought of himself as a kid since he was six years old. He figured the first time somebody got sent to their room for crying (and it didn't matter that the accusation had been that it was for no reason - the reason was his mother had died and you didn't just bounce back from that in a day or two), the first time they got told to 'suck it up' over something huge, was the moment being a kid started to be over. He'd just gotten a head start on most people in that regard.
He took a deep breath, looking over at Jack, guilt washing over him again. He had acted like a kid. No denying that. He'd been selfish, impulsive, and reckless. If Jack wanted to call him 'kid' for the rest of their lives, Mac didn't think he had a real right to complain about it. But even if that was the case, he was going to do the right thing now, the adult thing, and go take responsibility for this.
He went to the door and cracked it open, peeking out to see where everyone was. He wanted to go talk to Thornton quickly, not argue his way there through five layers of medical staff, most of whom kept offering him pain meds and he assumed it was because Thornton wanted him to stay put, not because he needed them. He shifted forward to get a better look down the hall at the small central station. He accidentally shifted too far in the wrong direction and sucked in his breath through his teeth, sinking back onto the crutches fully. "Sssssst … Ah, goddamnit," he hissed.
Okay, maybe the meds weren't just being offered because the boss wanted him pliable, but damned if he was going to own up to that now. He took a few slow deep breaths to get on top of the pain and once it faded to a tolerable ache, he prepared to go out the door and to the right. He thought he could make it to the elevators without garnering any attention.
He silently promised Jack that once he'd set the record straight with Thornton he'd come back down here and leave the hard way, with a pile of bandages and discharge instructions, and probably prescription bottles. Just not right now.
He leaned on the crutches and reached out to pull the door open, but the door beat him to it. He had to backpedal to avoid getting smacked by the door and by a starkly neat, and incredibly severe looking Patricia Thornton. He learned quickly that using crutches backward was a lot like ice skating backward at high speed. It took practice.
He almost went right over on his ass, but his brain liked maintaining his dignity more than it cared about the fact that he currently felt like someone was holding a lit cigar to his leg, and he corrected by putting both feet on the floor to step back. The bloom of pain was so sharp, so bright, that it set his ears ringing and for a second his vision just greyed out.
He felt hands on him, knew he moved, but it took leaning against the bed for a minute, panting through the feeling for his vision to return and spots to stop dancing in front of his eyes. When he refocused, he became aware that she was talking to him, but it took another minute to move past the hurt, the fact that he was now sweaty and a little sick.
"Mac ... Mac … MacGyver, are you alright?" The question was almost sharp.
He closed his eyes. "Mmmm. Yeah, I'm fine."
He pried them open again when she put a hand on his shoulder, "What were you doing out of bed? I know no one told you that was a good idea yet."
He nodded. He knew that. No point pretending he'd asked. "No, ma'am. But I wanted to talk to you and I didn't know how to reach you without …"
"Alerting the medical staff?" she asked with what could almost have been taken for amusement. She stepped back, taking him in. The rumpled t-shirt and flannel, the leather jacket, the slightly bloody boots, and of course, the pajama pants. She cocked an eyebrow at him, smile almost forming at one corner of her mouth against her better judgement. "Nice outfit."
Mac flushed and looked away for a second, then he forced himself to meet her gaze. "I figured it was better to look half dressed than like an extra from a zombie movie, ma'am."
"What would have been better was following my directive to wait until I came to speak with you both," she said cooly, pulling up the black plastic chair nearest the bed Mac had recently vacated, arranging herself gracefully in the seat, and giving him a significant glare indicating that she expected him to sit down on the bed again.
Mac did sit, but with a shake of his head. "This isn't about us both, ma'am. This is about me screwing up and getting Jack involved in that screw up and I was coming to see you because it's not fair that he …"
Thornton held up her hand to stop him. She drew a folder out of the bag she'd brought with her and took out a white form with black writing. "This is a binding non-disclosure agreement that I want you to read and sign before this conversation goes any further."
She held it out to him and he took it, reading it quickly, so quickly that if she hadn't seen all of the results of the cognitive testing his parents had done when he was just a boy she might have thought he hadn't really looked. He signed it and passed it back.
Then he picked back up where he left off. "It's not fair that Jack's job, or security clearance, or rank or whateverthehell is in jeopardy with whoever or whatever you represent because I screwed up."
She gave him a very speculative look then. "So, I assume you don't believe you're employed by X-Com, the privately funded global humanitarian endeavor, underwritten by the …"
"You can go ahead and assume whatever you like, ma'am. But I'll just tell you plainly. I suspect that the think tank is a cover. I think you guys are some arm of the intelligence community. I had enough experience running up against CIA bullshit when I was deployed … Apologies ma'am; there was no call for foul language."
Patricia just tilted her head. "I've seen other people in your position, Mac. And I must say, your response it … is unique. You're worried about breaking protocol and swearing at your boss, and you're also going out of your way to take responsibility. Because you're worried about Dalton and his job, not you and yours."
Mac raised an eyebrow and moved like he might stand back up. "Am I fired?"
Her face was almost expressionless. "I haven't decided yet."
Mac sat back down, not sure what to say next.
Thornton pinned him with a hard stare. "Regardless, I have a series of questions about this incident that I expect you to answer, truthfully, completely, and accurately to the best of your ability. And I'd like to be clear, you are required to do so by law."
This time it was Mac whose head tilted. "Required by whom?" he asked.
"Mac, you've been collecting a paycheck from a U.S. Government agency for several months now, and it's really hardly like you changed jobs since your Army days. The U.S. Department of Defense would take your failure to cooperate with this … let's just call it an investigation … somewhat personally."
That's sort of what he'd begun to assume, but hearing it out loud made him swallow hard. Instead of challenging her any further, he gave a short nod. "I'll do my best, Director Thornton."
What followed was an unexpectedly long stream of questions that Mac was surprised never really repeated the same question twice. He'd gone through security interviews for the Army and the necessary clearances for EOD and there was always the classic interrogation technique of repeated questions. But not this time.
She even asked him things that were in no way related to the warehouse incident. He answered anyway, because it seemed there was, a glimmer at least of, hope that maybe he wasn't going to drag Jack down with him. Finally, she asked a not strictly fact based question. "Why did you break into Dalton's filing cabinet?"
Mac looked down at his hands. "I saw that scrap of paper with the phone number … I have a friend in that area code. I know who he works for." He raised his eyes. "And I know who Jack used to work for. I knew he'd been investigating all this for me, but he hadn't said anything … I felt like he was trying to protect me from it … I don't need that … I didn't ask him to …"
He trailed off and sighed. Clearly he did need someone to protect him from it, because if Jack hadn't jumped in and done it, he'd be … Not here, patched up, and reasonably certain things would work out one way or another. He lifted his head to look directly in her eyes.
"I broke into his filing cabinet because I was curious. I wanted to know what he'd found and he didn't tell me. The truth of it is I do things without thinking sometimes, ma'am. And sometimes those things are not as smart as they ought to be given my capabilities. This was one of those times."
She nodded. "What made you call a cab and go to that address by yourself?"
Mac actually thought about it.
"Some of it was more curiosity … But … I didn't want to involve law enforcement or Jack or anyone if it was nothing. When they hit our patrol and … everything that happened after … No one believed that O'Neill was still alive … Told me I was wasting government resources … talked to me like I was falling apart …" He bit his lip. "I didn't want to go to anyone without evidence. I didn't just have a smartphone back in Afghanistan … but I did when I went to that warehouse. I was going to take pictures if I found anything, call Jack, call the police … I shouldn't have given up so easily in Afghanistan. I guess … I just didn't want …"
"You didn't want the people in charge to think you were irrational?"
"No!" he snapped. "I wanted to believe them. I think I knew deep down that if O'Neill was alive like I thought, like I kept dreaming … That would mean he betrayed us … I didn't want to face that. I needed to see him with my own eyes."
Thornton leaned back in her chair. "Alright. I believe that. I also believe that Dalton did his job and made appropriate efforts to protect any truly classified information. You didn't see much that couldn't have been acquired through the Freedom of Information Act, to be honest."
Mac felt himself relax a little, but he decided to keep quiet.
"You screwed up," she said flatly. He just nodded. "And you nearly got yourself taken prisoner. I don't know if you realize this, MacGyver, but you still have information in your head …"
"I know that. It was all I was thinking about when they tied my hands. That … Everybody talks." He took an uneven breath. "I would have done my best, but that's never good enough. It doesn't matter who you are."
She nodded, almost surprised that had crossed his mind, but she couldn't help looking a little pleased. "You would have been killed. And you nearly got Dalton killed, not to mention putting a number of other members of this organization in jeopardy."
His head dropped a shamefaced fraction, then to cover it, he nodded. "I know it. I'm sorry. I'll be saying that a lot to Jack over the next few months while he recovers from my poor judgement, I expect, ma'am."
Now she let a smile actually lift one corner of her mouth. Her assignment here was to see if he had the emotional maturity to do the job she was meant to offer him. He clearly did. "And though you got involved through that poor judgement, you saved potentially millions of lives, Mac."
He blushed again and smiled slightly. "I'm just glad something good came of it, Director."
She stood up, moved in front of him. "So am I." She paused, then smiled just a little more visibly. "You're not fired."
Mac grinned. He couldn't help it. This was just the beginning of the talk he needed to have with her, with Jack. He had a million questions, a hundred thousand simultaneous ideas of what it might mean, but what he said was, "So who do I really work for?"
She extended her hand. "Welcome to the Department of External Services. DXS. We don't exist, so if you don't mind, your paycheck is still going to say X-Com."
Caught completely off guard, Mac stood again to shake her hand, immediately regretting it, gasping in a pained breath, and dropping back down to sit. "Ah … I … okay … thanks," he stammered through gritted teeth.
She shook her head. "Back to bed, Mac. I don't mind if my lab techs only half take care of themselves, but once you're in the know, all sorts of job opportunities open up."
He frowned, not quite processing what that might mean. "Job opportunities?"
"Well talk soon. When your fashion sense is a little less questionable."
He laughed a little. "Hey, if you let me limp as far as my gym locker, I can get actual pants, and we can go talk in your office in less than five minutes."
She turned to go. "I believe I already said 'back to bed' once. I don't like my orders being ignored, MacGyver. And when it comes to my staff I trust my medical personnel's judgement implicitly. And the doc says that's where you belong probably until tomorrow morning."
"Foster's an ass and he's still pissed off at me about …" he began, sounding just a little bit heated.
"Dr. Foster is no longer on your case. He just accepted the transfer this morning. Dr. Anderson made the recommendation. You got shot. Remember?" She arched an eyebrow at him.
"Only a little," he grumbled.
She laughed. "Now you really sound like Dalton. I'm not going to debate degrees of how much you got shot. Doc says you're staying, so the boss says you're staying. Capiche?" she asked with a very wry expression.
He managed a smile back. "Now you sound like Jack." She tipped her chin at the bed he was leaning against. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed, mostly because he had an awful lot to think about, and he was kind of hurting too much to do so clearly.
She gave him an approving nod and exited the room. Mac took off his jacket and flannel, but couldn't quite manage to bend to take off his boots without his wounded leg making him want to throw up. He heaved a sigh and just stretched out on the bed, boots and all. He glanced toward Jack's bed, his partner still apparently dead to the world. Mac smirked. "You were awake that whole time, weren't you."
Without opening his eyes, Jack cracked a smile. "Maybe a little."
"Thanks for letting me face Jaws the Home Game all by myself," he snickered.
"Ah, she didn't even use her scary voice at all, bud."
"Coulda fooled me."