A/N Tomorrow is going to be a busy day for me, so I decided to post this today instead. Thank you all for the AMAZING reviews! You all inspire me to be a better writer! :-D Special thanks to Gib and Ridley C. James for all of your wonderful input and suggestions for this story! :-D I made some last minute (small) changes just before posting, so please let me know if you notice an error/typo. And I apologize in advance if you do! ~Kelcor

A/N 2 Next chapter should be posted by Wednesday. :-)

CHAPTER SIX

James MacGyver slowly pulled the t-shirt over his son's head, unfastened the jeans and eased them off. As he tossed the clothing onto the floor, he felt like he had been transported back in time, then he was suddenly back in the present and the all-too-familiar feelings of guilt threatened to consume him.

His therapist would tell him that he should face up to the guilt, but he didn't have time for that.

He had to protect his son, no matter what the cost. If James had been there for the past 15 years, instead of allowing the all-encompassing grief at losing Ellen consume him and push him into the tiny bubble he currently called his life, he and Angus would never have found themselves in this position.

His barely conscious son mumbled incoherently, sounding young and innocent… vulnerable. And, once again, James' mind flashed back to when Angus was 12-years-old… only this time, he wasn't able to come back from the memory. He stared down at his son, saw the heavy-lidded blue eyes of his little boy gazing up at him with only a vague awareness, and the past 15 years dissolved as if they had never happened.

A small part of James recognized that something inside him had broken, similar to when Ellen had died. Back then, he had sought out therapy because he'd wanted to be fixed so that he could return to his son, but that level of healing had never occurred. Although his therapist kept telling him that he was close, he'd stopped believing her years ago, finally accepting the fact that he would likely never see his boy again.

But all that changed when this opportunity for a reunion had basically fallen into his lap. This time, he didn't want to be fixed; he didn't want to return to his real world— because that world didn't include his precious Angus.

Which was why he continued to tuck the blankets around the small frame he saw on the bed, and then pulled his son forward and sat in behind him. Gathering him into his arms, he slipped one hand beneath Angus' knees and adjusted him so that he could cradle him on his lap.

He'd always longed to do this, but he'd had no such experience to draw on and fought the instinctual need to protect and nurture the same way his own father had ignored those instincts with him… now, he was being given the chance to right the wrongs of the past and he latched onto it for all he was worth.

No longer coherent of the fact that his mind had taken him over a decade into the past, he carded his hand through the blond hair, kissing the slightly fevered temple, holding his son close and never wanting to let go!

"Shhh," he whispered when a distressed Angus murmured weakly, trying to pull away from the hold. "It's okay. Daddy's got you."

Riley typed frantically into her laptop, fighting to bottle up her emotions while she attempted to track the white van using various traffic and highway cams in the Las Vegas area. It took a few minutes, but she finally found the van and followed it through a couple checkpoints before the footage disappeared from her monitors; someone else was hacking into the cams, trying to block her access! As she battled it out with a hacker who seemed to have skills to rival her own, Riley heard Jack's voice in the back of her mind - C'mon, Ri, just boopity-boop it! She smirked. As much as that man annoyed her, she still loved him! He really was the closest thing she'd ever had to a father and they were just now starting to get to know each other again. She couldn't lose him now. She just couldn't.

As she clicked mouse and keys, her mind drifted back to the first night in Bozer's hospital room after the Organization's attack on Phoenix.

ONE WEEK EARLIER

Riley sat at Bozer's bedside, praying that he'd just open his eyes already. The doctors told her that it was going to be touch and go but the next 48 hours were most critical. She smirked as she remembered their amazement that their patient was even still alive after losing so much blood. Apparently, Bozer was stronger than everyone gave him credit for—even her, she thought critically.

"C'mon, Bozer," she said, gripping his hand tightly through the bed rail. "You just agreed to be my friend, like, a week ago. You can't leave me now. True friends are hard to come by," she added with a sad smile.

BANG!

The sound of the car backfiring on the street outside Bozer's room had Riley flashing back to the Phoenix server room! She'd fought him with all her might, using all the moves she'd learned from both Thornton and Jack, but nothing seemed to work; he kept getting the upper hand. She scrambled forward on her belly, reaching for the gun, but felt herself yanked back by her ankles!

"I'm gonna try real hard not to take offense to that."

The computer hacker snapped back to the present and wiped hastily at her damp cheeks before turning to see Jack standing in the doorway to the room. "Huh?" she asked, grimacing slightly at her less than articulate response.

At her continued look of confusion, Jack's concern increased as he reminded her gently, "You just said 'good friends are hard to come by', and I said that I'm gonna try real hard not to take offense."

Seeing the worry on his face, she forced a grin and cleared her throat. "Don't try too hard, old man," she quipped. "You might hurt yourself."

Riley found a bit of sincerity leaking into her grin. Despite her current mood, she was happy that she and Jack now had a banter that didn't rip open old wounds.

"You're a funny girl," Jack countered as he sauntered into the room, the smile on his face small but true. "My plan was to come here to talk you into going home to get some rest," he started, raising a hand to stop the protest that came to her lips. "But I knew that wasn't gonna work." He held up a bag for her to see. "So, I did the next best thing. I brought 'home' to you."

Riley's head canted to the side in silent question. Home?

"Well, my home," Jack clarified as he freed the contents from the bag and shook out the Dallas Cowboys snuggy that Mac had given him for Christmas. "So, maybe, the next-next best thing. Anyway," he added, dismissing the clarification because it was making his head hurt, "I figure, this way, you've got both me and Mac here for you even when we can't be here in person."

"Thanks," Riley said softly, accepting the snuggy and feeling her suppressed emotions welling up inside.

"And that's not all," Jack added excitedly, pulling a DVD from the bottom of the bag. "Matty made sure that Bozer got all the trimmings with this room, so I figured we could pop this here movie into the DVD player and watch it together. You know, get our minds off everything that's happened."

Riley gazed at the DVD cover—The Gladiator. One of her favourites. "Maybe later?" she requested, not wanting to hurt Jack's feelings but also not able to watch anything with blood and violence just yet.

"Right," Jack replied, chagrined. "Sorry. Probably not the best genre, considering."

She reached out and grabbed Jack's hand firmly. "It's the thought that counts," she told him sincerely, before looking towards the door. "Where's Mac?"

"Oh, you know Mac, he was upset that he didn't have a gift for Bozer to wake up to," he explained with a shrug. "I told him he should make something, and he got that 'look' in his eyes. Last I saw him, he was buying a few rolls of duct tape from the janitor." He jutted his chin towards Bozer. "How's he doin'?"

"The doctors say the next 48 hours are critical."

"Well, 24 now," Jack corrected her, gentling his voice like he used to when she was a little girl.

"It's been a day already?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, taking the snuggy from her hands and wrapping it over her shoulders.

A scent caught her attention and she pulled the fabric up closer to her nose.

"Sorry," Jack winced. "I didn't have time to wash it first."

"Ewww," Riley said, because that's what was expected. Still, she breathed in deep through her nose, flashing back to her and Jack playing video games together when she was little; the rare occasions that she let him read her a story and tuck her into bed, as she pretended to only tolerate his presence while secretly loving the attention. "Thanks, Jack," she whispered, her voice breaking on his name.

"How about you? Are you okay?"

"Of course," she said, unable to meet his eyes for fear that he'd see that she was lying through her teeth. Suddenly, the backs of his fingers were brushing at her cheek; the pad of his thumb caught a stray tear that had pierced her well-erected barriers without her even noticing.

"C'mere," was all he said before pulling her into his arms, snuggy and all.

She tried to hold back the remaining tears, she really did, but the memories from the server room came flooding back again—BANG! She felt Jack's hand come up to cup the back of her head, fingers sifting through her hair, his other arm still wrapped firmly around her back. And that was all it took for Riley to feel safe again. The tears streamed down her cheeks and her shoulders shook with sobs. Jack didn't even shush her. He just pulled her closer, as if sensing that she needed this release in order to heal.

Maybe Jack was smarter than everyone gave him credit for.

PRESENT DAY

Mac woke in small increments. His head was pounding like nobody's business, making it difficult to think. He was in a strange bed, blankets covering him up to his chin. The only light in the room came from a small nightlight plugged into the wall between bed and nightstand. Odd.

The room didn't look like any place he'd ever seen before, and he wracked his memory for the suspiciously missing details of how he had gotten there, not to mention where exactly 'there' was.

Things started to come back to him in small snippets. The road trip to find his dad; singing Achy Breaky Heart with Jack on a Vegas Karaoke stage; getting way too drunk… again; Jack draping him over his shoulders for the trip back to the hotel room; Jack comforting him after his nightmare; Jack holding him while he got sick… Jack!

MacGyver jackknifed into a sitting position, almost crashing back to the pillow when he was hit with an acute dizzy spell. But, even as his world tilted on the outside, it completely fell apart on the inside as the most recent memories flashed through his mind like a flood worthy of Noah's famed Ark—Jack being shoved into a white panel van; the hat with what appeared to be a knight's helmet as the logo; having an argument with his dad; the dizziness…

Swallowing back the nausea building in his stomach, MacGyver rubbed at his forehead to stave off the headache forming behind his eyes.

Thinking that maybe it had all been just a dream, he glanced about the room for a sign—any sign that Jack had been there. Nothing. Somehow, he knew that Jack wasn't watching his back, even from a distance… which only made Mac all that much certain that Jack being taken was not a dream!

He'd been abandoned in the past, but never by Jack. In fact, his friend had proven to him over and over again that he never would be, and MacGyver could only hope that Jack knew that oath went both ways.

Mac's gaze slowly found the only window in the room, but it was covered by room-darkening blinds, making it impossible for him to know how much time had passed since Jack had been taken. MacGyver's heart rate increased exponentially, causing his vision to blur.

How many hours had passed? What were the chances that Jack was even still alive? And why did Mac feel like he was fighting the worst hangover of his lifetime?

His gaze stuttered upon a framed photo on the bedside table. The glow from the nightlight revealed a nine-year-old Mac sitting between his mom and dad.

The juxtaposition of seeing that picture while in his current predicament was jolting. He slowly looked back at the nightlight and belatedly realized it was the same one his mom had put in his room when he was little. He hadn't seen it since his seventh birthday when his father had declared little Angus was too old to be entertaining the ridiculous idea of monsters hiding beneath his bed.

More memories popped up from MacGyver's subconscious—the milk and brownies; his father's utter lack of surprise at his son's dizzy spell, then being carried into the house like he was still the little boy who'd been left behind all those years ago… Then, all the pieces of the puzzle grudgingly fell into place.

His own father had drugged him?! Which meant James was involved in Jack's kidnapping! But, that was crazy, wasn't it? What could his dad possibly have against Jack? What did he have to gain?

Mac glanced at the photo again and abruptly realized that he was the reward his dad wanted. It was the only scenario that made sense. A hard knot formed amidst the worsening nausea in his stomach.

Mentally reviewing the events after their arrival at his dad's house, he decided the drugs had to have been in the brownies or the milk… more than likely both, to cover a situation where Mac had refused one or the other.

Not surprising, really. James MacGyver always had been an 'all or nothing' kind of guy. And, judging by the vertigo Mac had experienced just moments earlier, his dad had stayed true to form and gone all out with whatever drug he'd seen fit to slip him because it was still wreaking havoc on his system!

When a shiver yanked Mac out of his internal musings, he first thought the chill came only from within, then he lifted the blankets—and saw that he was wearing nothing but his boxers!

That was just wonderful! For the second time in less than 24 hours, Mac had been stripped down to his shorts while he was unconscious! At least, the night before, it had been Jack. Because, despite his mortification, deep down he'd known his friend was just trying to take care of him.

But this time, even though it had apparently been his father, it was just… creepy. The man had theoretically changed his diapers—though, Mac suspected that had been more often a task his mother took care of—but he hadn't seen him in years. Father or not, he was practically a stranger!

Mac glanced about the room but was unable to see his clothes anywhere in sight. He had to get out of there and save Jack, and the first step towards that goal was finding his clothes! And, hopefully, his phone!

He stood up, balancing himself with one hand against the nearest wall and wobbled over to the closet at the other side of the room. Before he could open it, he heard a key inserted into the lock on the bedroom door.

He'd forgotten the man's near-obsessive need to have a key for every lock in the house.

All their years apart had allowed MacGyver to remember only the good stuff—trips to the playground; picnics with both his mom and his dad; horseback riding at the farm just outside of town. But then his mom died and everything changed.

Forcing himself back to the here and now, he backed away from the door, hating the feeling of trepidation coursing through him when his father came into the room carrying a tray of food. The fact that Mac was currently in just his boxers made him feel that much more vulnerable.

"What's going on? Why am I here?" he demanded, swallowing his deep-seated fear of his father with dogged determination.

"I'm trying to keep you safe. If you're here, you're safe."

"Where are my clothes?"

"I made you something to eat," James said.

"Where. Are. My. Clothes." Mac's voice became dangerously lethal.

"You promise not to go after this friend of yours, and I'll give you your clothes."

Not a chance, Mac thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "Sure. I promise."

James watched him a moment, head canted slightly to the side, seeming to calculate his trustworthiness. MacGyver wanted to laugh at the irony but kept his expression neutral.

"You're still a horrible liar, Angus," his father said casually.

"I go by 'Mac', now," the blond growled in response.

"Your mother and I named you 'Angus'. That's the name on your birth certificate. That is what you will go by from now on."

The fact that his father seemed to be planning to keep him here for the long term, only served to up the ante on the creep-factor. But Mac didn't have time to think about that.

He quickly decided to pick his battles and tried another tac for the truly important one. Forcing a pleading tone into his voice, he said, "Dad, I need to find Jack. Whoever took him could be dangerous; he could end up dead. You do get that, right?"

"Better him than you."

"What?"

"Jack Dalton is not my concern," James shrugged, setting the tray of food down on the nightstand. "You are." He reached out for him, but Mac flinched away from his touch. Seemingly unaffected by his son's revulsion, James stood back to study him again. "I'm so happy to have you home with me again, Angus."

"You're the one who left," MacGyver challenged, feeling his strength ebb. He locked his knees, no way was he going to show weakness around this man ever again! "This has never been my home."

"Home is where the heart is," James said with an annoying calm.

"If that's true, my home is with Jack; not with you."

James stared at him for a long moment, then turned to leave. "Eat your supper, Angus," he said simply as if Mac should follow his orders without question.

Mac's gaze moved to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and the tall glass of milk next to it. "Are those drugged, too?" he asked angrily.

"Of course not." James spun back to face him and had the gall to look offended at the accusation. "Why can't you understand? I only did all this to protect you, Angus!"

"Yeah, at the expense of my best friend," Mac accused.

"Why? Why would you want to sacrifice yourself for the likes of him?"

MacGyver's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Excuse me?" he demanded, gaze toxic now.

"I know his type," James told him loftily.

"His type?" Mac bit out. "You have no idea the kind of man Jack Dalton is!"

"That's where you're wrong," James said, puffing his chest out like a proud peacock. "I could tell plenty just by looking at him! He's not too bright, is he? Probably shoots first and asks questions later? You're better off without that kind of role model."

MacGyver's responding laugh was without humour. "And, what? I should look up to a man who abandons his 12-year-old son; then drugs him 15 years later and keeps him prisoner on the pretense of keeping him safe?"

"Trust me, you'll thank me for this someday."

"You really are delusional, aren't you?" The question was posed in such a matter-of-fact tone, it almost wasn't a question at all.

James turned to leave once again.

"You can't keep me here!" MacGyver insisted.

"Let me know when you're finished eating your supper, son."

"Son?" Mac growled, wanting more than anything to pummel this guy into the ground, even at the risk of another dizzy spell. "Don't you dare call me that! You have no right to call me that!"

"I have every right!" James exclaimed, whirling back around, eyes flashing with anger. "I'm your father!"

"Jack Dalton has been more of a father to me than you have ever been! And he is ten times the role model you could ever hope to be!" Mac swiped tears of rage from his eyes before they could escape, not wanting his father to misconstrue them as weakness. If anything, the tears fueled the fury raging inside him in that moment. "Whatever deal you made wasn't to protect me! You made it for yourself; so that you could tell yourself that you did it for me, like that makes you a hero or something! Well, Jack is the only hero in this story, Dad! Not you; Jack!" MacGyver stared at his father, whom he had missed so badly for close to 15 years now, and chastised himself for allowing his nostalgia to blind him to the man's true intentions.

Regardless, Mac was satisfied to realize his words had finally hit home. He supposed the stricken look on the other man's face should have made him feel bad… but it really didn't.

He saw the flicker of emotion a split second too late, as the back of James' hand caught him full in the face! All the helplessness Mac had felt as a child came soaring back to the surface. Well, he was not a little boy anymore.

He lunged toward his father, but his reflexes were still not a hundred percent and he was quickly overpowered as the barrel-chested man twisted him around and wrapped his arms around him from behind. Mac kicked and struggled but the drugs still coursing through his system made his efforts fruitless.

His legs gave out on him as the room began to spin and the nausea threatened to rear its ugly head. Mac felt James take all of his weight in his arms, and he wanted nothing more than to push the man's hands away—unfortunately, he was having a difficult time getting any of his limbs to follow commands at that moment.

James practically carried him back across the room and eased him down onto the bed. He left the room for a moment, and Mac eyed the open door longingly. He tried to get up off the bed, intending to finally execute his escape but, instead, collapsed to the floor! Frustrated with his lack of strength, he stubbornly bit back the sob pushing for release.

His dad sauntered back into the room. He stopped and stared down at Mac for a moment, hands on his hips. That, combined with the look of disdain in his eyes, reminded Mac of the many times that he had been disappointed that his son didn't make it onto one of his school's many sports teams.

Mac watched him set something down on the nightstand, then tried to shrink away but could do nothing as James scooped him into his arms for the second time that day and deposited him back onto the bed. MacGyver squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed to feel the hot tears track down his face.

Why didn't he listen to Jack? He should have listened to Jack!

He was yanked back to the here and now when something was pressed down over his mouth and nose. His eyes snapped open. The sickeningly sweet smell from the white cloth beneath his father's hand brought bile to Mac's throat as he tried with all his might to get away, but already the little strength he had remaining was rapidly dissipating.

As darkness began to encroach on Mac's vision, James pushed one hand through his hair in a fatherly gesture that the blond had spent years longing for, but which now made him want to puke. "You need to rest, Angus," his father told him gently, finally lifting the cloth away from his face.

Even at the ripe old age of 27… Mac seriously wanted to bite him. But all he could do was lay there as darkness overtook him. He vaguely felt his father lift one of his wrists just before all awareness left him.

The next time Mac woke, he was surprised to find one wrist handcuffed to the bedpost. At first, he was confused but the drug-induced fog in his brain faded more quickly this time around, and memory of the day's events promptly returned. He stared silently at the closed door for a moment, wondering how he and James MacGyver could possibly share any DNA, then started searching for a way to escape.

His gaze found the tray of food. Unfortunately, James had had the presence of mind to make a meal that didn't require any cutlery—then again, he'd never been a great cook when Mac was a kid, that duty had always been left to his mom; and, later, his Grandpa Harry. Maybe that was just another thing about his father that hadn't changed.

Just when he was about to dismiss anything on the nightstand as being remotely useful, his gaze found the framed photo again. He quickly snagged the frame with his free hand. His eyes locked on the image of his mother for a brief second, then he flipped it over. On the backing was a metal attachment, allowing the picture to be hung on the wall if desired.

Mac didn't much care where the photo was kept; he just wanted the small piece of metal located inside the hinge mechanism on the back. Ironically, it was only a bit thicker than a paperclip… and almost as flexible.

Making quick work of the lock on the handcuffs, Mac stood—and then his butt promptly smacked back onto the mattress as another wave of vertigo threatened to render him unconscious again. This was really starting to get on his nerves.

He stood up from the bed. Very slowly this time. It took much longer than he would have liked, and he figured getting dressed would be even less fun. He tried the bedroom door, unsurprised to find it locked, then moved over to the closet. Inside, he discovered a single straight-backed chair, presumably used to access the attic above. Quickly dismissing that route as a dead end, he instead grabbed the chair and braced it beneath the knob of the bedroom door.

It wouldn't stand up to too much effort, but it would at least give him a bit more warning if his father decided to come back before Mac was ready. Returning to the closet, he retrieved his clothes, along with his Swiss Army knife, the two cell phones—Jack's and his own—and Jack's gun! Clearly, his father had not expected Mac to be able to free himself from the cuffs—and, clearly, he did not know his son. At all.

Mac turned his phone on to call for help but there was no signal for some reason; same with Jack's phone. Mac couldn't remember if that was the case when he and Jack had first arrived, but his memory was still fuzzy, at best; only picking out the most important things, leaving the rest for estimates and guesswork for the time being.

After easing into his clothes with all the speed of a ninety-year-old man on too many painkillers, MacGyver once again slipped the gun beneath the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, pocketed the two cell phones and headed for the window he had zeroed in on the first time he'd regained consciousness. He was not looking forward to that climb, praying he wouldn't get dizzy and sprain his ankle when landing on the other side. The last thing he needed was something else to slow him down.

As an afterthought, he returned slowly to the bed. Opening the frame, he tore one-third of the photo off, gently folded the picture of himself and his mom and placed it into his wallet, then tossed the image of his father back onto the bed, next to the now separated frame.

Not missing the thematic statement in that action, Mac returned to the window. He had a best friend to find! He yanked the blind clean off the window—only to find it had been painted shut.

Mac slammed his fist against the wall! NO!

His panic increased as he gazed up at the steadily darkening sky. He and Jack had arrived early that morning, and it now appeared to be late afternoon, at least! Possible even early evening. Either way, several hours had passed since Jack was tossed into the back of that van! There might still be time to find him, but only if Mac could get out of this homemade prison.

"Come on, Mac," he muttered to himself. "You can do this. You've gotten out of tighter situations in the past." He did his best to ignore the part of his brain that saw fit to remind him how he usually had Jack covering his six while he got out of those particular situations.

Suddenly, the door behind him shook in its frame! "Angus!"

He'd been so lost in his thoughts, he must have missed the click of the key in the lock. Knowing it was his own stupidity in hitting the wall that had drawn his father's attention, MacGyver's gaze danced about the room, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. But there was nothing.

The door shook again, harder this time. The chair rattled against it. "ANGUS JAMES MACGYVER! OPEN THIS DOOR NOW!"

Mac jumped a bit. How was it that the use of your full name continued to hold so much power, no matter how old you were?

Upon first inspection, the room had seemed like any other. But, now, he saw that it was oddly bare. Other than the bed, the nightstand, the photo, and the chair he'd found in the closet, there was nothing else – no desk, no dresser, not even a mirror.

The last Mac was happy about because he did not want the haunted and fearful look that was surely in his eyes right now to be staring back at him through his reflection.

Revisiting his earlier analysis of his predicament, he realized that maybe his dad had merely underestimated the usefulness of the picture frame. He likely had left the photo of happier times as a kind of psychological warfare more than anything else.

Which would mean, his dad knew him after all. Mac had always been an extremely bright kid, but he hadn't really thrown himself into his DIY experimental projects until after his father had walked out on him. He'd needed something to block out the pain of abandonment, the loneliness, the feelings of inadequacy—and his schoolwork, his experiments, his brain, had offered a perfect sanctuary.

So, how was it possible that his dad knew about his skills and talents 15 years later?

Not willing to take the little time he had left to examine the implications the answer to that question might reveal, Mac tried harder to think of another route of escape, but his mind wasn't operating at full capacity right then.

The room continued to spin languidly around him like he was on a Tilt-a-Whirl that was slowly coming to a stop. And he prayed it would stop soon because he didn't know how much more he could take before the nausea took over completely.

He moved as fast as he could to the only two pieces of furniture in the room. There had to be something he could use. He desperately yanked open the drawers of the nightstand. Empty. The bed was a different story; he tried but was too weak and exhausted to lift the box spring and mattress out of the way.

He extracted his Swiss Army knife from his pocket, as his gaze returned to the nightstand—the tracks the drawer rolled on could prove useful, but he didn't have time to detach them. The knife itself could feasibly be used as a weapon, but that would require Mac to be in close proximity to his father, and his limbs had already shown him that they couldn't be trusted in hand-to-hand combat in his current state.

"ANGUS!"

This time his father's voice, although still filled with rage, was further away. Likely getting something to use to knock the door down. Apparently, several tools were available to him, Mac thought scathingly.

Soon there was a soft scraping noise at the door. Mac recognized the sound and wracked his brain trying desperately to decipher it… a screwdriver!

A few seconds later, the doorknob fell off, bouncing off the wood of the chair before hitting the floor and rolling up to MacGyver's feet. The door itself was instantly swung open with force, slamming the chair back against the wall with a loud THUD. Mac suddenly felt like he was 12 years old again, having his father come home to find he had done something wrong and flying into a blind rage.

His father barged into the room and made a beeline for him. "You need to learn to do as your told!"

MacGyver took a hesitant step back, legs still wobbling a bit beneath his weight.

James' gaze locked onto the picture frame on the bed, then the torn photo. He abruptly changed direction, picking the photo up and turning his eyes back to MacGyver — the dark orbs flashed with something other than anger now. Pain. Devastation. "What did you do?" he whispered so softly that Mac could barely hear him.

"I-I'm…" Mac was about to apologize but then realized he had to squash down the terrified little boy inside and stand up to his father like he'd never been able to as a child. "I'm going to find Jack now," he said resolutely, using his anger at what his father did to Jack to fuel the fire.

The rage returned to his father's eyes. "Like hell you are!" he exclaimed, starting for Mac again.

In that moment, MacGyver found himself wondering, 'What would Jack do?' Feeling the cold metal at the small of his back, he knew exactly what Jack would do. Reaching behind him, he pulled out Jack's Glock and took an almost-steady aim at his father. "Don't come any closer," he said sternly.

James jolted to a stop. "We both know you're not going to use that, Angus! You hate guns."

Seriously, how the heck did his dad know so much about him? "My best friend—the only person who has always been there for me no matter what—could be dead because of you! There's no telling what I might do!"

That seemed to at least give his father pause; until his dark eyes took in Mac's slightly wavering hand. "You can't even hold it steady," he said.

Mac shrugged, feeling like some of Jack's cocky attitude had leaked into him through the gun. "See, the thing is, I just want to wound you, but the way my hand is shaking, I might actually kill you by accident."

He felt the cool mask of indifference slip into place, just like when he'd been impersonating Murdoc a couple weeks earlier; judging by the doubt in his father's gaze, he saw the change, too.

"Or you'll just shoot the wall."

"Do you really want to take that chance?" Mac asked, glancing at the handcuffs hanging from the bedpost. Not waiting for a response, he motioned with the gun for his dad to move over to the bed. "Attach the cuffs to your wrist."

"Angus—"

"Do it!"

James slowly did as he was told.

"Now, toss me the key," MacGyver ordered, holding out his hand.

Scowling, his father reached into one pants pocket and threw the key ring over to his son. Mac placed the key on the floor, just barely out of reach. He didn't want the man to starve to death; he only wanted to give himself enough time to escape so he could find Jack.

With his dad no longer an immediate threat, Mac replaced the gun to the space at the small of his back, then walked the short distance to the door, which felt like several miles to his weak legs.

"Angus, please," James begged.

The new pleading tone brought Mac up short, causing him to lock eyes with his father.

"He'll kill you. I know, he will."

"Who, Dad?!" MacGyver demanded once again, hopeful that maybe, just maybe he could get through to his father this time. "Who took Jack?"

Instead of answering, James continued as if Mac hadn't spoken at all. "Please, just stay here until this is all over. Then, I promise, I won't try to stop you from leaving. Please. I just don't want you to die, son. I'm begging you. Stay with me."

MacGyver's eyes, usually blue like the sky on a bright summer day, became more like ice reflecting that same sky off the smooth surface of a long-frozen lake. "That's what's different about you and me, Dad. I don't leave the people I care about behind."

Without another word, he backed out of the room, unable to completely block out the pain his words inflicted in his father's gaze, but not allowing that to stop him from starting his search for Jack.

James MacGyver had lost any chance he might have had at being at the top of his son's list of priorities—that spot was reserved solely for Jack.

Still, Mac had been telling the truth, he didn't want his father dead. Which was why, as soon as he rescued Jack—and he would rescue Jack — he would do everything he could to ensure his father got all the professional help he needed.

Mac tossed the gun and both cell phones onto the passenger seat of the GTO. He finally managed to hotwire the car—taking longer than usual because his fingers were numb and tingly—and sped away from James MacGyver's house. He had no idea where he was going. Just that he had to find Jack!

He'd only driven a few miles when his body suddenly started shaking, and darkness began to encroach on his vision once again. The car swerved under the control of his tremoring hands. A loud horn alerted him to his pending headlong collision with a large semi.

Mac yanked the wheel hard to the right but overcompensated and the GTO headed straight for the shoulder of the road—and the ravine below! He wrenched the wheel to the left, and ended up back in the middle of the road, with horns honking all around him!

Finally, he managed to straighten the vehicle and pulled over to the shoulder, breaths coming in short gasps, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. He gripped the steering wheel tightly in both hands. Pressing his forehead against his knuckles, he tried desperately to control his breathing.

Despite his efforts, the darkness continued to close in. No! He didn't have time for this. Jack didn't have time for this! But his body didn't seem to care about time, or best friends, right then; only that it needed to shut down for a while.

So, very much against his will, MacGyver lost consciousness and tipped to the side across the seat, not even noticing when his topple resulted in the gear shift ramming into his side hard enough to leave what was sure to be an impressive-looking bruise.

TBC