A/N:If you readers could do a personal favor for me: I am beta-less and have dyslexia just severe enough to be a pain. Please, please, if you spot errors, be a nit-picker and tell me exactly where they are!

And thanks for the comment, Kathy! With no further ado...

"You're a piss poor tail."

Mac blinked. The glare vanished so fast, he was sure he had imagined it. But the posture stayed the same, now highlighted by a stare so scrutinizing that Mac had to resist the urge to straighten his shirt.

Anyone else might have missed the way that the kid's shoulders tightened when he didn't respond. Mac didn't.

"Seriously." His voice was huskier than it was at the park. Mac had the sudden impression that there were more bruises than he could see. "Who the hell are you?"

Mac forced himself to relax. Boxed in or not, the kid was right to be suspicious of him. He frowned a shrug, not wanting to risk the sudden movement of using his shoulders. "Thought we introduced ourselves Saturday."

The kid's—geez, he had to figure out this kid's name—mouth thinned to a firm line. He slipped something out of his pockets, his gaze never leaving Mac, not even when he tossed the object on the ground in front of them.

Mac's wallet flipped open on the coarse gravel, openly displaying his ID. He flicked a glance down at the wallet, spotting the two fifties he always kept tucked inside, before latching his eyes back on the kid.

He shrugged, a hint of that cocky smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. "I thought you were a bit too interested—and too smart—for someone just going for a walk in the park. Turns out—" he tapped his mouth, mimicking Mac's thoughtful expression from two days before, "— 'Troubleshooter Angus MacGyver…' Angus? Really?"

Mac felt his eyes widen before he could stop them. "How did you—"

"I know someone who's good with computers. Quit dodging. I gave you the chance to be honest. Now you tell me. What the hell do you want?" The kid never raised his voice—but the message was clear.

Mac sighed, holding up his hands in defeat. "Breakfast?"

The kid's mouth tightened.

"Come on. It's six-thirty—freezing too, by the way—I'm famished. You couldn't have eaten. I know a good diner. It's fate."

"Riiiight. Bit informal for a first date, don't'cha think? And you don't even know my name." Light words, for such a sharp tone.

Mac shrugged—with his shoulders, this time. "You could fix that."

He wouldn't have guessed it possible, but the kid's eyes narrowed more. Message received—no personal questions. That was going to make this a lot more difficult, but Mac could deal. He had always had a knack for kids, though he had a feeling this one would be tough to crack.

"Look…" Mac sighed, holding up his hands in surrender. "You call the shots—just call me a goodie-two-shoes busy body who got his curiosity spiked." And a troubleshooter that worked primarily as an freelance agent for the government, but that was neither here nor there. But he knew that fact was taken into consideration by the kid, who was in the process of raking him over with that scrutinizing stare.

After what felt like an eternity, a muscle jumped in the kid's jaw. "Shit."

Mac blinked at the language, but didn't respond, waiting as the gears turned in the kid's head. He swore, the boy never blinked. Like Mac would be able to cross the distance between them in the span of the millisecond it would take. But he could feel the boy's attitude shift, slight as it was.

"Fine. But you walk in front of me. You don't turn your head. And if you so much as breathe funny, you're gonna be singing seprano in the girl's choir for the rest of your life. Got it?"

Mac thinned his lips, considering his options. Which were… none, at this point. He doubted the kid would let him out of his sight even if he said he would go on his merry way. He bobbed his head. "Roger that."

The kid stepped aside, jutting his head in the direction of the alley's mouth. "After you. Angus."

Mac never believed in the concept of laser eyes. But if he did, this kid could give Superman a run for his money.

He felt those eyes boring a hole between his shoulderblades through the entire walk. The sun rose in the time it took to get to the diner, dim gray light over the rim of ramshackle buildings the only indication of its presence. But Mac thought it fitting to the current mood when he glanced to the east while crossing a street. The kid still following, about two paces behind him.

Good Lord, why didn't the kid just pull out a gun and jam it into his ribs already? As it was he had to resist the urge to interlace his fingers on the top of his head. He did make sure to keep his hands in view as he walked, as far as that was possible while still looking casual. He itched to slip his hands into the pockets of his jacket, but somehow he doubted the kid would appreciate that. And from what he could tell, his threat hadn't been an idle one. Whether or not the kid would be capable of pulling that little trick off, was another matter. Either way, Mac considered it best to just concede to what he wanted. At least for now.

After all, Mac hadn't been lying. He was just a person who got his curiosity spiked. Now, the goodie-two-shoes part might have been a touch exaggerated—not that Jack would be likely to agree, but that was another matter.

When he caught sight of the diner's sign in the distance, he barely caught himself from sighing in relief. It was far from a relaxing walk. Not to mention a long one. Mac didn't dare to trek back to his jeep. He knew the kid would likely have run off if he had. Which left them walking for thirty minutes. He was used to pressure, but that was pressure in the span of a five-second count down. Not a thirty minute hike after a whole night of searching for a missing wallet.

He did sigh in relief, though, when he saw that the diner was open. Because it would have been unbearable to wait outside in the time it took them to unlock the door.

The bell hanging over the entrance gave a merry little jingle when he pushed it open, highlighting the sound of a car skirting through a puddle in the street. He risked a glance at the kid when he stepped up even with Mac. He was still tense, but he was hiding it pretty well. The main thing that gave it away was those big apple eyes flitting across the whole room. But then they settled, just as fast as they started, and a little tension drained out from the kid's shoulders.

Holy crap. The kid scoped the joint.

Mac didn't realize he was staring until he was on the receiving end of a withering glare. The kid raised his eyebrows in expecation, his message clear.

Right. Mac was the adult. The adults picked the seats. And he did agree to walk in front of the kid.

He cleared his throat, stepping along a row of deep red vinyl booths before he settled in the back—in the seat facing away from the door. A little olive branch, if the kid even noticed.

If he did, he didn't show it. He slid into the booth across from Mac, the bruises on the right side of his face illuminated in stark relief by the gray light streaming in through the window beside them. They were new, no more than a few hours old, mottled purple spreading out from four distinct pressure points on his right cheek, and one on his left. A handprint of someone with what looked like one hell of a grip.

If Mac had any appetite before, it vanished when his stomach twisted. What the hell had this kid gotten himself into?

Their miniature staring contest was interrupted when a waitress came to hand out two menus. She looked around early forties, with laugh lines just beginning to show at the corners of her eyes. She had a ready smile when she approached, but Mac could tell the instant she caught sight of the kid. That was, when the smile slunk back into a mix of concern and, if Mac saw right, motherly wrath.

Crap. Just the kind of extra complication he needed.

Mac was just opening his mouth—without knowing what the hell he could say to make this seem alright, when the waitress cut him off by passing the two menus to him with a little extra force than necessary.

"Can I get you anything?" Her voice was thick with concern, those big brown doe-eyes were drilling into the kid.

Mac half-expected a glib comment, half-expected some sort of incrimination. The kid had the perfect opportunity to get Mac away from him. But just as his mind started to heat with overextertion, it shuddered to a stop.

The kid looked up to flash a wide smile at her. "No ma'am. I'm good, thanks. Unless you have a free milkshake for a kid about to be grounded till he's thirty."

The waitress—Millie, her tag read—turned a tight smile on Mac, a question in her eyes.

"Fight at school," Mac said. But really, it wasn't much of her business. Not that he could fault her for being suspicious of a kid walking in with half his face the wrong color.

"Right," she said, a little flush coming to her face. She tapped her pen against the notebook that appeared in her hand. "You ready, or do you want a few minutes?"

Mac spared a glance for the kid—who was giving him a smug smirk. It didn't take more than a second for him to realize that he was being kept on his toes. He sighed. "Morning special for the kid with some orange juice. I'll just have some coffee—in the biggest mug you have."

The woman tapped her pen against the paper when she was done scribbling, and gathered up the menus that neither of them had glanced at. But she didn't leave without shooting the boy a warm smile and a promise to "see about that milkshake."

The kid's face flattened when Millie walked out of eyeshot, turning a level-eyed glare on Mac. When Mac didn't offer a response, he sighed and spread his hands. "So? You wanted breakfast."

Mac just watched him, seeing the freckles that splattered his nose for the first time. It made him seem so much younger—widened his eyes, opened his expression—despite the tight mouth and the lines that marred his face. Lines that had no business being on a teenager. They only hardened the longer Mac took to respond. Until a muscle in his jaw ticked, and Mac knew he was testing patience that was already paper-thin.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked. And yeah, he knew the kid didn't want to answer that question. And Mac could see the protest rising to his open mouth before he cut him off. "Come on, man. It'll make this a whole lot easier. Just a first name."

The kid's expression shuttered again, just like it did back at the park. Mac was careful to hold the boy's gaze, careful to keep his expression open as he was examined. He must have passed some sort of test, because the kid let out a huff of air. He rubbed his eyes, the guesture far too old for someone so young.

"Dean," he sighed. And God, but the kid looked tired. Mac had the sudden urge to pull him into the biggest bear hug he could. But the odds weren't high that it would be appreciated at this stage.

So, instead, he just leaned forward, and put his elbows on the dark wood of the table in between them.

"Where're your parents, Dean?" The name felt strange coming off of his tongue, but right. It fit the kid.

All of Dean's fury seemed to be draining away, like someone had pulled the plug. The suspicion still remained, shrouded as it was by the exhaustion that plagued the young man's face.

Dean shook his head, his gaze falling to the table.

Mac bent his neck, lowering his gaze to catch the kid's eye. He only raised it again when he was sure the kid's gaze would follow. Watching emotion after emotion swirl in those green orbs despite his stoic expression, Mac knew—there was no way he'd just be able to walk away from this one.

He didn't get the chance to say anything before Millie came back though. She seemed sweet, but geez, she had horrible timing.

"One morning special—" the plate rattled still in front of Dean, heaped with waffles, eggs, and bacon, "—orange juice… and coffee." Once she had dumped the dishes and utinsels on the table in a semi-neat fashion, she flashed an awkward smile before retreating back to the kitchen.

Mac was about to repeat the question, when he caught the hungry glance that Dean shot at the food. It was his turn to rub his eyes—only, unlike Dean, he had coffee to reach for.

"Eat your breakfast."

That was all the encouragement he needed. Mac sipped on his coffee and tried his best not to stare as Dean started inhaling the plate after a hesitant glance in his direction. His gut started to twist when the kid showed no sign of slowing down, and he had to start forcing himself to swallow his coffee when the glances started. Like Mac was going to tell him to stop.

It wasn't until the kid had finished scraping the last egg off his plate, and had drunk half of his orange juice, that he stopped long enough to breathe. As hard as Mac was trying to school his features, something must have leaked out, because the boy's face turned a little pink under all the purple. He sipped his juice, choosing to stare into the liquid rather than look up at Mac. Most people would have used this opportunity to ask him again, but he was figuring out that another tactic worked best with this kid.

Silence.

"My dad's a bail enforcement officer." He might as well have been speaking to the orange juice, for the tiny glance he spared Mac. "We hop around a lot whenever he's got a job. But he always leaves me a few towns over if he thinks its serious enough."

Mac's brow furrowed, absorbing that information. "Your mom?"

Dean looked up at him, freckles all of the sudden so much starker for his big eyed stare, that all but begged not to make him say it. That was something Mac understood.

He sighed, leaning back. The cheap vinyl squeaked under his weight. "Y'know… most people would call CPS."

Fear crashed into Dean's face so fast it almost left him sputtering. He seemed frozen, like a deer stuck in headlights. Mac held up his hand before the protests started.

"I said most people."

Dean's mouth thinned again, determination steeling his features. "And are you most people?"

Mac regarded him for a long moment, wondering how much damage the kid's clothing hid. "I'm still deciding."

"Well, you better make up your mind real fast. Cuz I promise you—you whisper a word to the police, or the frickin' 'child protective services—'" damn, the kid even put in air quotes, "—I will take off. And you won't be able to find me."

Any doubt that the kid was telling the truth was eradicated when he kept his gaze for a second longer. Someone trained this kid. Made him into a soldier. Then left him. They weren't here to clean up whatever mess Dean had gotten himself into.

Mac was.

He blew out a breath, like he was considering his options. "Well… then I suppose we're gonna have to make a deal."

One eyebrow inched up on Dean's forehead.

"I keep this off the record, and you let me help you out of whatever fine mess you've managed to get yourself into."

Dean scoffed.

"Come on." He smiled. "Troubleshooter…" a sigh, "Angus MacGyver at your service. Seriously. It's a good deal. Usually my rates are a whole lot higher than this."

Dean gritted his teeth. "I am not some snot-nosed kid that needs their ass pulled out of the fire. I can handle this on my own!"

Mac shrugged. "You really want to, though?"

That made Dean pause. Mac watched as different emotions warred over Dean's expression, like the kid was too tired to keep his thoughts behind closed doors.

"Man…" Dean shook his head, "you don't know what you're getting into."

"I promise, I've had worse."

Dean's scoff was out of disbelief this time, a world-weary smile crossing his face. Mac waited.

Silence.

The kid sighed. "You're gonna regret this."