DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to MacGvyer or any of the characters associated with this series. No infringement is intended and I will receive no monetary gain from this story.

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

Chapter One: Plans

Welcome to the headquarters of an international murder ring. The room before you is dark, the temperature cold and the atmosphere tense. At a table along the farthest wall there sit three figures cloaked with shadow. In front of them stands a slender form . . . the form of a killer. He is renowned the world over for his expertise in assassinations and his presence here means only one thing - he has come for an assignment. . .

"You understand what you must do?"

"Yes." This single word was said in a complacent tone. An unimpressed and undaunted look followed, betraying the killer's self-confidence.

Beneath their cover of darkness, the three forms grew apprehensive.

"Sir, I hope you realize the gravity of this mission. If you fail, all that our organization has worked to build, will be lost."

A twinge of irritation flashed across the man's aloof face. Being second guessed was not something he typically experienced and the occurrence vexed him. "I understand," he snapped impatiently. "I can assure you, there will be no failure."

Shear cold-blooded determination had never been declared so boldly. It seemed to cut through the air with an icy chill. Even the CEOs' of murder had to flinch at its power.

"Please forgive any trace of doubt, sir, but our apprehension in this matter is high. As you know, all too well, this one has escaped before."

"There will be no escape this time." The easy, self-assured lilt returned as an evil smirk contorted the man's features. "This time MacGyver will die."

XXXXXXX

You know, I've learned a lot of things in my life. Some of the most important came from my Grandpa Harry. He was a master of good, down-to-earth wisdom and advice. One of the most valuable lessons I ever learned from him was 'always be prepared'. Okay, I know, that's not exactly original; but Harry's the one who let me in on it, so in my book he gets all the credit. Anyway, with the kind of messes I manage to fall into, this bit of advice has helped me more times than I can count. Take now for instance. I was sound asleep, happily buried beneath my covers, when suddenly I wake up. Now, for someone who leads a normal life this might not sound like much of a problem, but in my case . . . well let's just say I don't lead a normal life. For me, a sudden awakening can mean only one thing: Trouble. Now, when trouble shows up uninvited, you better 'be prepared' for anything - and thanks to Grandpa Harry, I am - more or less. I just hope whatever is out there, isn't more prepared than me!

MacGyver laid very still. There seemed to be no immediate danger, so a little quiet reconnoitering became the first order of business. Toward this end, he began an auditory investigation. Given that he was in a motel room, the sampling of noises to be had were quite extensive. After a few minutes of analyzing, however, all squeaks, ticks, creaks, and hums were appropriately isolated. Taking each in turn, Mac mentally deduced their source of origin - a laundry cart, an alarm clock, an un-oiled door, a heating unit, etc. As none of these fell into the unfriendly category, it was on to a new tactic. This time MacGyver concentrated on his olfactory senses. There were nearly as many scents to be found as there had been sounds. Again each was taken individually and examined. Though some were rather unpleasant, none appeared to be hostile. Despite this, Mac still sensed that something was wrong. The hair on the back of his neck had begun to bristle and he had the most disconcerting sensation that he was being watched. Since this mysterious enemy had apparently arrived with no sound and without smell, it would now be necessary to attempt a different approach. Ever so cautiously, therefore, MacGyver cracked open one eye. Peering out from behind a thin veil of lashes, he initiated an optical assessment of his surroundings. This sensory search, unlike the previous ones, was an instant success. Upon spying the intruder, Mac fairly collapsed his tense alert body.

Sam!

There, not ten feet away, sprawled comfortably in an old high-back was MacGyver's son. The young man sat perfectly still with eyes trained on what he presumed to be his still sleeping father. His hyper-alert optics seemed an ironic contrast to his liquid limbs which fell loosely about the chair.

Mac took in the sight before him and rolled his eyes beneath their lids.

I've got to get used to being a regular person again. I haven't messed with any really bad guys in months. For the first time in years I can honestly say that no one is hot on my trail trying to help me leave this earth just a little bit faster. After all, I'm a father now and I'm not a Phoenix agent.

As if to back up this assertion, Mac began repeating the last phrase over and over to himself.

I am not a Phoenix agent. I am not a Phoenix agent.

Amid this brainwashing session, the former troubleshooter again pried open one eye. Slowly a mischievous smile spirited across his lips. MacGyver had an idea.

From his vantage point, Sam examined the lump of covers that concealed his father. Impatience began to leak out of the young man's body in the form of drumming finger tips.

"Aw, come on Dad . . . wake up already. . ."

As if in response, the mound of blankets leapt into the air. Appropriately combined with an unintelligible shout, this action was enough to send Sam reeling with a yell of his own. The expression on his face instantly changed from impatient boredom to shocked terror. Holding this fear only briefly, his visage soon took on a look of feigned annoyance.

Now, while MacGyver was famous for his quick disarming smile, he was not a man given to much laughter. Soft chuckles, or dare they be called giggles, were occasionally permitted, but only in moderation. Upon witnessing Sam's reaction to his upheaval, though, such conservatism was hard to maintain. Mac's soft, but hearty laughter soon filled the air.

"Oh so you wanna' play huh?" This jovial retort was accompanied by a bombardment of pillows. Where Sam had stored this arsenal, Mac didn't know, but the supply seemed interminable. Shielding himself from the first few blows, Mac soon began retrieving the missiles for a round of return fire. Laughter and dull thuds quickly escalated to intermittent screeches and louder thwacks.

Sam advanced closer to his target for better accuracy, but soon discovered that this was a bad maneuver. Upon landing a solid blow to his father's midsection, he found his arm instantly captured by the enemy. With one hardy pull, MacGyver landed his quarry. The two collapsed upon the bed causing it to squeal in protest. Taking advantage of his present 'high-ground' position, Mac upped the ante from pillow assault to tickle attack. Sam laughed and screamed and for those few minutes time stood still - responsibilities and maturity completely forgotten.

When time began ticking again both men crumpled onto the bed, thoroughly spent. They lay side by side on the now bare mattress, gasping for air between snorts of residual laughter. Their hands wiped away tears from their red faces and held their aching sides.

MacGyver inhaled deeply and cleared his throat. "Good morning son." Though this greeting started out in a controlled monotone, it ended with another ripple of amusement.

"Good morning yourself," Sam grinned retrieving one last pillow to toss in his father's face.

Mac raised an arm to deflect the incoming blow. He then swiftly disarmed his opponent and harnessed the artillery beneath folded arms. With his son's weaponry thus disposed of, MacGyver prepared to open the discussion.

"So what's up?"

Sam rolled to one side, angling himself so that he could see his father. "Huh?"

"You've got something on your mind, or at least you did. I saw that look on your face. You couldn't wait for me to get up so that you could . . . What?" MacGyver left this question as a sort of fill-in-the-blank and waited for the reply.

Jolted back to reality, Sam sat up. The 'look' returned and he began to explain. "I wanted to tell you, that I've decided where to go next. It's my turn to pick, you know."

"Right you are," his father returned enthusiastically. "And we'll go wherever you say, just promise me we're not going deep sea fishing again."

Sam made a face. "Hey, that little excursion was your idea, remember?"

"How was I supposed to know that instead of just sailing along enjoying the view you'd actually want to catch something? We didn't go out there to fish you know, just to bum a free ocean ride from an old friend of mine."

"But as long as we were there. . ." Sam shrugged expansively leaving the rest of his sentence unfinished.

"Yeah, as long as we were there," Mac mimicked. "And you loved it!" His tone was ladled with accusation.

"And you didn't?"

"I enjoyed every minute of it - until you almost went overboard."

Sam colored at the memory. "Now don't go exaggerating. It wasn't that bad."

"It was, so that bad! When that whatever-it-was . . ."

"Marlin, Dad."

". . . grabbed your line, you went head first over the rail." MacGyver had continued his sentence without taking note of his son's interruption. He knew it had been a marlin, but since the incident his anger toward that particular creature was such that he refused to utter its name.

"Okay, I'll admit my equipment had a slight malfunction."

"Slight?" Mac raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, slight." Sam leaned in with an air of confidentiality and continued. "That whole 'headfirst' thing wasn't supposed to happen."

Knotting his still risen eyebrows, MacGyver watched as a smile began to tug at the corner of Sam's mouth. "Son, I know I'm not your boss; and I know that trying to keep you out of harm's way is impossible. . . you've got too much of me in you."

Mac made this last rueful statement mostly to himself, but Sam caught the words quite clearly. He then watched as a self-deprecating expression creased his father's face.

"Trouble magnets - the both of us," Mac muttered beneath his breath. He then sighed, as one succumbing to an unchangeable situation, before setting his jaw firmly. "But, I'll be darned if I'm gonna' let you get stolen by a fish."

Sam laughed out loud at this statement and rolled back on the bed. "Okay, tell you what, from now on we only go fishing where we're bigger than what's in the water. Deal?"

MacGyver nodded approvingly, "Deal." Slapping the bed like a judge dismissing a case, he then reopened their original discussion. "So, where are we going?"

"Los Angeles."

"Los Angeles? Why there?" MacGyver's voice held no disapproval, just curiosity. After all, L.A. had been the starting point of their road trip . . . surely they hadn't run out of other cities already.

Sam understood his father's tone, but for some unexplainable reason he became embarrassed. Absently he traced the stitching along the mattress cover as he searched for a way to begin.

"What's on your mind?" Mac prompted gently.

"Well, it's almost Christmas, Dad and I'd . . ." Sam's voice faded, but soon he tried again. "Well, I'd like to go home for the holidays." Abandoning the trail of stitches, he looked up at his father. "You see, Mom and me, we never really had a home to spend Christmas. She didn't have any close family and with all of our traveling, we celebrated at a different place every year." Sam paused arranging his next thought carefully. "Don't get me wrong - I love rambling around, seeing the world, but somehow . . . I dunno. It just seems like Christmas should be spent in a place that's special. A place that's warm where you're surrounded by things and people that you care about. You know, a home." Sam's obsession with the mattress stitches returned as he continued. "I guess since L.A. is where I found you and where we spent our first few weeks together, it just seems like that should be our home. At least it's the closest thing I could think of." Sam glanced up briefly. His father's face was awash with an unreadable emotion. Unable to determine exactly what MacGyver was thinking Sam launched into an explanation of the plans he'd made. His face soon became bright with animation as he spoke. "I know you don't have the lease on the apartment anymore so I called Mr. Thornton. He said he had a cabin outside of town that you used to stay in sometimes and insisted that we go there. He's even arranged to have some of your stuff pulled out of storage so that it will really feel like home." The energy and rapidity of Sam's speech came to a screeching halt as he suddenly ran out of things to say. "So . . . what do you think?"

MacGyver propped himself up on one elbow. His mind and soul seemed to have been thrown into confusion and he was struggling to regain control. At the mention of Christmas, Mac's stomach had tightened. It was that old empty feeling rearing its head again, but why? True this season used to be hard for him. Guilt and loss had always suffocated the holiday cheer, but events over the past couple of years had changed all that - hadn't they? He had finally started to let go of his pain . . . finally begun to enjoy Christmas just a little - that is until now. Why had it all come rushing back? Mac didn't know. All he knew for certain was that the old emotions suddenly felt raw and fresh. Slowly he took a deep breath becoming conscious of his son's worried gaze. Those eyes were staring at him again. Sending a hand to work through his shaggy hair, MacGyver tried to soothe his upended emotions.

Come on - its been years since Mom passed away. It's time to put the past behind you. Your son is in the here and now. He is the one you should be thinking of, not yourself and not Mom. This is important to Sam. He needs, no deserves to be at a real home for Christmas. You've got to give him that.

With this lecture to bolster his effort, Mac suppressed his true feelings and forced a smile. It was weak and a little bewildered, but it was a smile.

"Well?" Sam's tone betrayed his trepidation. With the unexplained silence that had followed his announcement, the young man had grown concerned that he'd said or done something horribly wrong.

A remaining moment of indecision passed before Mac spoke. "Son," he began, placing a hand on Sam's neck, "I think that's about the nicest plan I've ever heard."

A wave of relief washed over Sam's face. He appeared ready to burst out at any moment with an 'Awesome!' or possibly the predictable 'Cool!'. Instead, though, he simply grinned widely and placed a hand on his father's shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

Mac swallowed hard. "Merry Christmas, son."

The two sat still for a moment, each considering the other's face. Neither spoke, but somehow in that brief time, they said volumes. Finally Sam gave his father a light clap on the shoulder and stood up.

With an air of excitement he announced, "You know this will be the first real Christmas I've had in years."

This statement caught Mac off-guard. Sitting upright, he fell to pondering how to respond. At last he came up with a question.

"What do you mean?"

"Since I lost Mom, I haven't exactly had one."

"The friends that took care of you - your godparents - they didn't celebrate Christmas?"

Sam looked confused. "No," he began and then smiled. "I guess I never told you. They're Jewish."

MacGyver's face lighted with comprehension and he raised a self-reproaching hand. "I shoulda' known that. You mentioned their name was Schwartz. My mistake."

Sam shrugged. "No not really. I've never told you much about them. Besides, they didn't work very hard at being Jewish. Of course Mom and me never worked very hard at being Irish Catholic either."

As if he hadn't been listening, Mac plunged in with another question. "But you're not Jewish - why wouldn't they let you have Christmas?" Mac suddenly felt a flash of anger. He directed his anger toward the Schwartz', but in reality it was self-hate. Granted celebrating Christmas wasn't exactly his long suit, but for Sam . . . If only he'd known, his son would never have had to miss a Christmas.

Noting the hostility in his father's voice, Sam was quick to respond. "It's not their fault, Dad. They tried to get me to participate in the local Christmas parties and things, but I didn't feel right about it. I just couldn't enjoy myself being away from the Schwartz'. They were the closest thing I had to family and I wanted to be with them. I knew they couldn't take part in Christmas with me, so the next year I asked to participate in the Hanukkah celebrations with them, instead." Sam contemplated his father's face. He could see the anger quickly giving way to embarrassment.

"Oh, I see," Mac's tone was apologetic. He had been wrong to automatically shift the blame and irritation he felt onto the his son's godparents. Obviously they had done the best they could for Sam. As he dwelled further on the situation, Mac began to feel a strong sense of pride. It had taken a lot of respect and understanding for Sam to leave his own traditions and join in with those of his godparents. Very few ten year olds would have had the character do such a thing. "You're quite a young man, you know that?" Mac complimented, looking every inch the proud father.

His son gave an enigmatic expression, half embarrassed and half beaming with pleasure. "Thanks, Dad. You're not so bad yourself."

Mac scoffed at this observation and then seemed thoughtful for a moment. His mind meandered back to Sam's original statement and he fell to contemplating the irony of it all. "You know, I guess this makes us kinda' even."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I haven't really celebrated Christmas since I lost my Mom either."

Sam looked puzzled. "How come?" he asked easing himself back onto the bed.

MacGyver searched his feelings trying to find a good way to answer that question. Me and my big mouth. Now what am I gonna' tell him? Mac ran his tongue along one cheek and uttered a philosophical 'hum'. I don't enjoy Christmas because everything about it just serves as a horrible reminder of guilt and loss. I failed the Mother who was always there for me and I did it on Christmas Day. That's why. Another 'humph'. Fine MacGyver. Way to put the past out of your mind. Great thing to tell your kid, too. Try again. Curbing this mental tumult, Mac punted. "I guess it just didn't feel right enjoying Christmas without her."

Sam nodded and seemed to accept this as a reasonable answer.

Relieved, MacGyver pulled himself to a standing position. "But this year," he began brightly. "We're gonna' celebrate. We may not have our Mom's anymore, but we've got each other. Right?" Mac forced more cheer than he ever hoped to muster and smiled broadly.

Sam responded with enthusiasm. "Right!"

"Now - you go turn in our motel keys. I'll get dressed and load up the bikes," MacGyver ordered briskly.

"You got it." Sam vaulted from the bed and after scooping up both sets of keys, disappeared through the door way.

Alone at last, Mac slouched down onto the mattress and allowed himself to fold backwards. Covering his face he attempted to blot out the gnawing apprehension. The hands that touched his eyes, however, refused to cooperate. They felt cold and sweaty. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Mac mumbled heaving a sigh. "Man, I can't wait for Christmas to be over."

XXXXXX

The small roadside motel was quite a specimen. To look at it from the outside, one would think it belonged on the set of a 1950s TV show. An ancient bill board, shaped like a plunging comet, decorated the front. It's faded lettering indicated that the facility's claim to fame was actual color television sets and air conditioning units in each room. Now while these attributes would obviously have been quite a selling point for customers back-in-the-day, they were somewhat lacking by 1992 standards. The quasi-abandoned retro theme was also apparent in the structure's paint job. Done in an art deco color scheme, the bedraggled covering appeared to have been part of the original construction. In addition, the dirt-gravel mix parking lot added a route-66-cloud-of-dust type feel to the place. All of these elements piled together, made up quite a picture.

Sam had wanted to stop at this particular location because he said the place had 'character'. Being a photojournalist he tended toward the aesthetically interesting as opposed to the practical or comfortable. MacGyver had held no objection, however - being somewhat of a romantic himself - and so it was here that they had spent the night.

The area surrounding this monumental hovel was dusty, flat and thoroughly uninviting. Desert land seemed to stretch interminably toward the horizon. Miles rambled out in all directions and aside from the occasional tumble weed, they lay without disruption. Though this terrain might appeal to some, it was hardly ideal for an assassin that wished to remain undetected. The emptiness of it all made it impossible to approach without being spotted . . . but then, as a wise man once said, "the best place to hide something is in plain sight".