MacGyver's House

9 days since rescue

Midnight-ish

-Mac, finally-

He honestly intended to finish the bike one day.

It was never supposed to become a grown-up erector set, but it seemed that's what it had turned into over time. It kept his hands busy, kept him from focusing too much on what he couldn't control, couldn't solve, couldn't change.

And…it had been his dad's, so. There was a bit of poetic justice in his perpetually working on something that seemed destined to never truly be complete.

Bozer's room was on the other side of the house and Mac could usually keep his nocturnal activities quiet, muffled even. But his hands weren't quite steady, and it was hard to sit hunched over for long periods of time. So he eased the bike out onto the deck, breathing shallowly as the effort pulled at the wound on his side. He could sit in one of the deck chairs to work on the bike and not wake his roommate.

He was returning to grab his toolbox when he heard Bozer's voice. It sounded like he was on the phone with someone. He froze, standing in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, and listened.

"…just got out of the hospital, man. He should be resting. Letting me bring him food and binge-watching Netflix, y'know? Yeah…. Yes. I tried—don't you think I tried to tell him?"

Mac exhaled on a four count, keeping his heartrate steady.

It was true; Bozer had tried to tell him to take it easy. He'd been attentive and caring and completely smothering in his mother-hen routine. Mac had just spent eight days in a hospital for children with the most attentive nursing staff on the planet and his partner literally never leaving his side.

He just wanted to breathe.

What he hadn't counted on, however, was the complete, suffocating panic that overtook him the minute he was alone in his room, the dark closing in around him like hand on his throat.

"Look…I'm just saying he listens to you, is all. He's not sleeping. No. No, Jack. This is the second night he's been home and he has yet to spend time in his bed, in his room."

Mac bent slowly to retrieve his tool box and backed out of the room onto the deck. He could breathe on the deck. And he could sit without pressing against the wound at his side. He could still feel the phantom sensation of the wound drain in his side and found himself rubbing at his ribcage to rid himself of it.

He glanced at the clock on the wall next to the doorway. Midnight. Jack was probably less than thrilled that Bozer had called him so late. Sighing, Mac tried to push the thought away and sat down to work on the bike.

"No, I won't back down," he sang softly, distractedly. "I won't back down. You could stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won't back down."

"Never knew you were such a Tom Petty fan."

Mac jumped violently at the sound of Bozer's voice, sweat breaking out across the back of his neck. He held very still, afraid for a moment that he would turn to look and not see his friend.

"Mac?"

"Boze?"

Footsteps, the rush of air as a body passes, the smell of coconuts and Old Spice.

Mac lifted his head and exhaled when he saw Bozer standing by the handle bars, the moonlight reflecting off of his white T-shirt.

He was there. He was real.

He wasn't just a voice inside Mac's head.

"You okay, man?"

Mac nodded. "And uh…I'm not really. A fan, I mean. I just…can't get that song out of my head."

Bozer nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "You want to talk about this?"

"It's just a song, Boze," Mac waved him off, returning to the bike.

"Not the song, man. You. This."

Mac licked his dry lips, noticing how his hand shook when he tried to fit the wrench over the lug nut. Food. That's what he needed. Had to rebuild his strength.

"Nothing to talk about, really."

Mac pushed to his feet, swallowing the grimace as the world shifted slightly around him and the stitches in his side pulled. He started around the bike and back toward the living room.

"Hell there ain't!" Bozer followed, close on his heels.

Mac fought the instinct to push Bozer away. He didn't want him gone. He didn't want to be alone. But he felt trapped. Like he was being backed into a corner when all his friend was doing was showing concern.

Bozer's actions were logical; Mac's were not.

And he had no idea what to do with that.

Mac reached the kitchen with Bozer still close behind, spouting evidence of Mac's poor choices and need to rest, to heal. He put his hands out, resting his palms flat on the counter and leaned forward, his head hanging down. He didn't speak, didn't answer.

Couldn't answer.

"Mac, c'mon, man," Bozer slowed his verbal attack, his voice softening—probably because of the barely controlled tension Mac knew had to be visibly rippling through his body right now. "You haven't been this…this messed up since your dad left."

"That's not what this is about," Mac said, his voice rough.

"Yeah, I figured, but…," Bozer sat heavily on one of the stools next to Mac. "What is it about?"

"I can't…I don't…."

The words caught against a wall of resistance, shredding inside of him until they lost all depth, all meaning. He couldn't even explain to himself what was going on, let alone spell it out for Bozer.

"You're tired, man," Bozer concluded. "I can see it—it's practically bleeding out of you. You gotta sleep, Mac. You're never going to get better if you don't."

"I'm hungry."

Bozer pulled his head up. "Okay. That I can do something with."

"Pancakes," Mac said, trying very hard not make it sound like an order.

"Midnight pancakes happen to be a specialty of mine," Bozer said, moving around to the kitchen and turning on the lights. "Of course, it's usually for someone of the feminine persuasion, if you know what I mean."

"Bozer," Mac smirked. "Everyone knows what you mean."

Bozer tilted his head, grimacing. "Right."

He turned to the stove and started to mix up the pancakes. Mac watched him without seeing him, his mind turning inward, the filing cabinets in his mind rearranging themselves until he could pull out a file and begin scanning the contents.

Harry had told him to pay attention—to everything, all the time. His hyper-awareness got him into MIT while he was still in high school. It kept him alive in Afghanistan. It kept him alive as a government agent.

But, it was exhausting. And incredibly hard to turn off.

"…said that I'd be going with you, so there's that."

Mac tuned back in to Bozer's words as he mentally refiled the memory of Harry's gruff voice softening as he told him when good people cease their vigilance, evil men prevail.

"Going with me where?"

"Next mission," Bozer said, sliding two pancakes onto a plate Mac hadn't even realized had been set in front of him. "Were you listening to anything I said?"

"Sure, Boze," Mac agreed, digging into the food without waiting for butter or syrup. "I think it's great. You're more than ready."

"Uh-huh," Bozer said, chin up, eyes doubtful. "Did you hear the part where I said Matty wanted me to take lead?"

"You never said that," Mac replied.

It was a total guess, and he was basing it both on Bozer's tone of voice and the likelihood that Matty would ever put him in the lead, but he knew if he didn't pass Bozer's test he'd be subjected to another ten minute lecture about needing sleep.

"Damn," Bozer sighed. "I really thought I had you that time."

"These were good, Boze," Mac said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Bozer blinked. "Did you literally inhale those?"

"Told you I was hungry." Mac pushed to his feet, pleased when he didn't so much as waver. "Look, I'm going to work on the bike. I promise, when I get tired, I'll sleep."

"You got plenty of time," Bozer reminded him. "Matty's got you on leave for another week. At least."

"Yeah," Mac sighed. "I know. But you're up tomorrow, so you better get some rest."

"At least take a blanket out there," Bozer requested.

Mac huffed a brief laugh. "Why?"

"Because I know you're not going back to your room tonight and if you fall asleep out there, I don't want you to get cold, all right?"

Mac nodded, honestly touched by his friend's concern. "All right."

He started to turn away, heading for the deck once more.

"Mac?"

He turned to see Bozer leaning against the counter. "Yeah?"

"When you were missing…and we thought you were dead," Bozer's voice was pitched low, his voice quavering with emotion. "It was the scariest three days of my life. I couldn't…think. I couldn't figure out how to…just…do regular stuff. Like eat. Or tie my shoes. I would end up at places and have literally no idea how I got there."

Mac swallowed. "Boze…."

"I just…I want you to know," Bozer pushed away from the counter, standing up straight and looking Mac directly in the eyes. "I get that you're going through something. I know I can never understand what it was like for you there, how you're feeling now. But you also gotta know, man. You're not alone. Losing you…it's the worst thing that's happened to me. And you know that means something."

Mac nodded, unable to find his voice.

Bozer turned off the lights in the kitchen and headed for his bedroom. Mac turned slowly back toward the deck, thinking about what Bozer said. The emotion in his voice. The concern for Mac's well-being.

He wasn't being logical. He knew that. And he couldn't keep ignoring his fear in an effort to dismiss it—Gray was right. This was going to run him into the ground.

Before he could change his mind, he rotated on his heel and headed to his room. He opened the windows and left the door open so that it didn't feel so…small and closed in like that horrible control booth.

Toeing off his Converse, he stretched out on his bed, letting his tense muscles lengthen with the relief of not having to hold his body upright. Grabbing the edge of his comforter, he rolled it around himself and closed his eyes, breathing in the soft, California night air as it slipped on a zephyr through his opened window and caressed his face like an old friend.

It took less time than he'd anticipated to sink into sleep. He wasn't even conscious of the moment it happened; it was simply a moment of clarity and then a confusing tangle of dreams. The logical part of his mind—which seemed to have been the part most bruised by the bullet's impact—recognized the illogical sequence of the dreams.

But the part that often found itself consumed by emotions was swiftly overrun.

He was wandering down a paved road overgrown with weeds, cracked and uneven, causing him to watch his footing. On either side of him where various-sized filing cabinets—some old, some wooden, some metal. He wanted to open them, explore their secrets, but he was…afraid.

What if he found out something he couldn't deal with? What if he found out something he wasn't ready to know?

He started walking faster. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something swinging toward him and he ducked, going to his knees and looking up, over his shoulder.

It was a body. Attached to a rope. By its feet.

He gasped. This was his snare. He had done this. He had caught this man…only…only it wasn't a man. Long dark hair shaded an oval face and wide, dark, empty eyes stared at him with accusation.

"You let me die."

"Zoe?"

"You weren't quick enough…smart enough. I drowned. In the cold. Alone. Because of you."

Mac scrambled away from the swinging body, his breath coming in rapid bursts when water began to pour from the mouth, slipping over the eyes and soaking the hair, dripping onto the broken cement. He continued to back away until he ran into something solid. Turning he realized it was a person—the legs sturdy and strong…and encased in an EOD bomb suit.

Oh, God, no….

Alfred Pena stared down at him, half his face gone, the other half weeping.

"You didn't pay attention."

"No, I…I didn't know…." He made it to his knees, staring up at Pena's ruined face.

"You could have saved me. You could have stopped it."

"I didn't know!" Mac stumbled to his feet and began to run.

On either side of the road, filing cabinets began to open, files spilling out, becoming tangled, papers flying through the air like giant confetti. Walking toward him through the storm were several young girls, their long, dark hair covering their faces, their arms gray with death and rot.

Mac tried to change direction, but every way he turned, the girls where there. They spoke to him in one voice.

"You could have saved us. You didn't pay attention. You looked in the wrong place."

"No, I didn't mean…I wanted to…."

He couldn't breathe right, his chest tightening, pressing against his heart, like hands shoving on him.

"Stop, please," Mac begged, fisting his hands at the side of his face. "Arghh…focus…focus, dammit."

"You lost focus."

Mac whipped his head up at that voice, one he was never really sure if he wanted to ever hear again. The shadow of a man walked toward him, the papers and files suddenly falling down around him as though weighted. Mac caught his breath.

The papers turned to ash and drifted away in small puffs of clouds in the wake of the man's steps.

"You lost focus, you lost people, you lose…everything."

The man drew closer and Mac couldn't quite make out his face, but he knew. He knew who the man was.

"This is why I left."

"No!" Mac shouted. "No. Stop." He curled his hands into tight fists, feeling them shake against his sides. He had to focus. He had to think. "Lion…hydra…stables…bird…."

"Jesus, Mac, c'mon!"

Wait…that voice wasn't here. In this place of pain and ash. It didn't echo in his head like an accusation.

"Wake up!"

It was real. It was real, and close and scared.

The next thing he knew, Mac was gulping air as though he were surfacing from a deep pool of water. He was sitting up in his bed, the comforter twisted at his waist, his T-shirt soaked with sweat, his body shivering. His hands were fisted in something thick and soft.

"That's it, you're okay."

Jack. It was Jack's voice. It was Jack's shirt his hands were currently gripping.

"'m…sorry, I'm s-sorry," Mac gasped, not quite able to uncurl his fingers. He blinked, surprised to find tears tenting his lashes, his face wet with them. "I'm sorry, Jack."

Jack put his hands over Mac's and gently pried his grip loose. Mac felt his hands tremble in Jack's. He couldn't seem to get his breathing to calm down.

"Easy, you're okay," Jack said softly. "Just one easy breath, kid."

As though to illustrate his command, Jack pulled in a long, slow breath, nodding slowly to encourage Mac to follow. He did, pulling air in and letting it out on a four count each time. After a few more, he felt his trembling slow and Jack released his hands.

Mac reached up and dragged a hand down his face, brushing away tears he hadn't even realized he'd let fall. He needed to get up, out, away. He struggled with the comforter for a moment before freeing his legs and launching himself out of his bed and into the hallway.

It took until then for Mac to realize it was daylight.

"What…what time is it?" he asked, instinctively knowing that Jack would be behind him.

"It's almost noon," Jack replied.

He'd slept almost twelve hours.

"Wow," he said, stumbling forward, rubbing his sweaty hair and sinking onto one of the stools at their kitchen counter. "Guess Bozer was right…I did need rest."

"I wouldn't call that rest," Jack retorted, taking position on the other side of the counter.

Mac felt heat climb his chest, skipping over his still-racing heart, and wrap around his throat. Jack was here. He was here, now. Which is what he'd wanted. It's what he asked for every day he was trapped, hiding and hurting and desperate, in that control booth.

So why was he so angry?

Jack looked at him, his dark eyes soft and full of sympathy. He'd been next to Mac's bed every day he was in the hospital. He'd been the one to wake Mac from his nightmares and to remind him that he was safe, that he was back, that Jack had him.

And yet Mac felt his hands curling into fists at his sides.

"Talk to me, Mac. What is going on with you?"

Mac felt his heart tremble and hung his head, too hollowed out and wrung dry to push back. "I don't know." He was acute aware of how fragile his voice sounded; it reflected the state of his mind.

"You went through something awful, I know—"

"No, see," Mac backed away from the counter toward the living room. "That's just it. You don't know. You can't, because you weren't there!"

He turned to the side, eyes scanning the empty space where his bike had been parked, seeking something familiar, something solid and seeing only a small, dirty floor, scattered debris, paint chips, blood. He could hear the low murmur of the mercenaries, the aborted cry of the men he caught in his traps. He could smell the heat and the pain and the hopelessness that bled from him.

"I waited for you…," he rasped, not seeing Jack straighten from his side of the counter. "I heard you. Every day. But…you weren't there."

Hearing Jack's boots shift, Mac looked toward him. The wave of pain that swept Jack's features felt like a hit to Mac's solar plexus. For a moment, his breath was frozen. Jack looked away, his jaw working, then turned back to Mac, his eyes hot and hard.

Mac swallowed and brought his chin up, his arms wrapping around his mid-section in a gesture of protection born of pure instinct. He knew Jack wouldn't hurt him, but with that look the world suddenly seemed to yawn wide, tipping him dangerously over a jagged-edged precipice that would cut him apart until he shattered the moment he reached the bottom.

"Angus," Jack said, his voice as serious as Mac had ever heard it, "I need you to hear me right now. I never wanted to leave you there. And I'm sorry it took me so long to find you. I am more sorry than I can ever tell you."

Mac swore he could hear their hearts beat in the quiet of the room. Something pressed down around him, like the pressure of a coming storm. He felt his breath began to pick up, his body stretching with the force of it.

"You are right," Jack continued, moving slowly around the edge of the counter, his hands up in an I come in peace gesture. "I wasn't there. But you survived it. You did that."

Jack continued to approach him, slowly, voice low and measured. It struck Mac that he moved as though he were calming a skittish horse or a cornered animal; the way his heart was pounding, his breath hammering from between his lips, it wasn't far off.

He suddenly felt like he was made of glass.

"I'm proud of you, man," Jack said softly, finally getting close enough to put a hand on Mac's shoulder. "You didn't back down."

Mac huffed a weak laugh. "Can't get that damn song out of my head."

"Tom Petty?"

Mac nodded, feeling his eyes burn. He pulled in a breath, his body tensing as though bracing for an explosion.

"Same here, brother," Jack said, his smile gentle. "In fact…it was that song that helped me remember where you were."

Mac frowned. "Remember?"

Jack shrugged helplessly.

The image of Jack, pale and bleeding, hanging limp in the arms of the exfil pilots, flashed across Mac's vision and he gasped in a quick breath, stumbling backwards, away from Jack. His mind began to categorize all of the impacts Jack's wound would have had on his system—and loss of memory was at the top of the list.

A sudden clarity hit him like a punch: Jack hadn't left him—he had almost lost Jack.

"Oh, Jesus, Jack," he breathed, one hand going out in a desperate bid for balance as the world seemed to drop out from under him.

Jack grabbed his arm, pulling him forward, saying his name, but Mac couldn't focus on him. Instead, all he saw was the blood covering Jack's leg, the bodies of the girls left to die inside a box truck, the faces of Zoe, Pena, the Ambassador's son…his father.

The weight of loss was like an anvil on his chest; he couldn't breathe. His vision swam.

He didn't register having gone to the floor until he felt Jack's arm across his back, holding him up, his other hand splayed across Mac's chest and a voice in his ear telling him slow and easy, that's it, just breathe.

"Jack—" he gasped, his chest hitching, iron bands twisting until he felt like his ribs were breaking. "Jack…I can't…."

"Yes, you can," Jack was saying, his voice solid and certain. "You got this, Angus. Just breathe. With me, here, like this."

Jack filled his lungs and Mac felt the motion, trying to mimic him. He blocked out the fear and the pain and the realization that he'd almost lost his partner; his whole world became just one more breath.

"There you go. It's just us here now. I got you."

He felt nauseous and sweaty and completely without strength. He leaned against Jack.

"One easy breath, that's it."

Mac forced himself to follow Jack's instructions and finally, finally felt the world reform around him.

"What happened?" he asked weakly when he could breathe again.

"Think they call that a panic attack," Jack said quietly. "Your head is like a minefield right now."

"I feel terrible," Mac groaned, trying to sit forward. Jack eased him up. He felt tight and transparent and strangely like he wanted to cry. "I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't mean…I wasn't thinking."

"Well, that's a first," Jack said, a smile evident in his voice. "Pretty sure the opposite is true. You're thinking too much."

"I mean…I didn't…," he let his head fall forward into the hammock of his hands. "You could have died. I actually…for a while there, I thought you had."

"I'm here, brother," Jack rested a hand on his back. "I'm right here, and I'm okay. And all those voices you heard back at that Hell…that was just you making it through one more day. That's all it was."

Mac let out a shaky breath. "I want to…I don't know," he shook his head helplessly. "Put all this…this stuff that's tangled up inside me somewhere. Just…put it away so I can deal with it later."

"Don't think it works like that, man."

"Harry told me," Mac said, rubbing the back of his neck and grimacing at the gritty feel of his skin, "that I had filing cabinets in my head. Said my dad did the same thing."

Jack looked down and Mac became more aware of how they were sitting: his body curled up, legs crossed, positioned between Jack's splayed-out legs in the middle of his living room where his bike was once parked. He imagined it looked like someone had just dropped them in a pile from the sky.

"You compartmentalize like no one I've ever met," Jack acknowledged. "It's probably the only way you can organize all that information you pull up at a moment's notice to save the day."

Mac looked at his hands. He didn't feel like he'd been saving much lately.

"But, like I've said before…sometimes you just run out of storage space. Even real filing cabinets have to get sorted sometimes, y'know? You can't just put everything away in a box somewhere and never open the lid." Jack ducked his head, catching Mac's gaze. "You do that for too long, the lid gets blown off."

"I've…I messed up, Jack. A lot, lately."

"How so?" Jack pulled his head back, his frown fierce.

Mac shook his head, worrying his lower lip, the walls of his glass heart growing thin. "The Ambassador and his family. Zoe. Those girls. My dad." He took a breath. "You."

Jack dropped a heavy hand on Mac's shoulder. "Mac, there's always going to be those we can save, and those we can't. You know that. You've told me that."

Mac nodded, biting the inside of his lip. He felt emotion coil like a ball at the base of his throat. He did not want to let it free; he wasn't sure he could control it if he did.

Jack reached inside the neck of his black Metallica T-shirt and, to Mac's surprise, pulled out a set of dog tags. Upon closer look he realized they were his dog tags.

"Where did you get those?" Mac asked, holding out his hand as Jack pulled the chain over his head and dropped them into his upturned palm.

"Found 'em in your room," Jack said. "For a while there, I…I couldn't remember what happened to you, but…I knew you weren't dead. I knew it, Mac," he thumped two fingers against his sternum, "in here. I knew you were fighting; you wouldn't leave me like that."

Mac looked at the pieces of metal in his hand, at once capturing everything and nothing about him.

"When I finally remembered, it was like…having those dog tags meant you were with me. Pushing me to think bigger, to look around the corners and see the other side of the picture like you always do."

Mac sniffed, his chin shaking slightly.

"You haven't messed up with me, kid." Jack's voice was quiet. "Not once. Not ever."

A tear tracked down Mac's face, leaving a cool trail on his hot skin.

"And your dad, man…," Jack sighed. "He's the one who messed up there. Not you. Never you."

"I keep seeing him," Mac confessed, his voice cracking with emotion. "In this dream I have where everyone I didn't save…turns to…to ash," his voice hitched and he felt more tears slip free, "and he says that…that this is why he left." He looked up at Jack, his friend's face wavering through the bend of tears. "Because I don't save them."

He sniffed, his chest tight with the need to release emotion. Jack's face folded with care and he smiled.

"You remember that day in Farah when you dug me out of that building?" Jack asked, seemingly out of the blue. "You found me because you rigged up that beeper thing?"

Mac nodded, confused.

"You saved me. You. Because of that freaking amazing mind and the fact that you just don't quit." Jack shrugged. "You don't, man. You've saved all of us. So many times."

Mac looked down.

"Your dad is missing out on knowing one of the most amazing human beings on the planet, bud." Jack rested a heavy hand on the back of Mac's neck. "I'm absolutely serious. The world is a better place just because you're sitting here. Breathing," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Mac chuffed, wiping at his tears with the back of his hand. Jack's phone buzzed and he shifted, pulling it from his pocket. After glancing at the screen, he smiled slightly.

"And if you don't believe me, I got someone I want you to meet."

"Who was that?" Mac asked, curling his fingers around the dog tags in his hand.

"Our pal, Isaac Gray," Jack said. "I asked him to look something up for me. Think you can get up? Grab a shower?"

Mac nodded, but accepted Jack's help pulling him to his feet. He was weak and dizzy. Jack kept hold of him until he found his balance.

"Clean up a little and I'll have a sandwich waiting for you when you get done," Jack told him.

Back in his room, Mac draped the dog tags on his lamp once more, glancing at the watch he'd positioned under the magnifying lamp. He realized hadn't told Jack why he'd taken his dog tags from his personnel file. He figured that story could wait for another time.

Standing in his bathroom, he regarded his lean face as a stranger might. Butterfly bandages closing a cut across his forehead that would no doubt scar, smudges of exhaustion beneath eyes that seemed too blue at the moment. Cheekbones casting shadows.

Taking a breath, he showered quickly—avoiding the stitches in his side from the both the bullet graze and from where the wound drain had been inserted—and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a blue flannel shirt, all a bit too loose on his frame. He headed back to the kitchen, his stomach growling at the smell of grilled meat.

"I thought you said you were making a sandwich."

Jack shrugged, and set a large cheeseburger in front of him. "A cheeseburger is a sandwich."

"A cheeseburger is a cheeseburger," Mac argued, simply for the sake of poking back at Jack.

His partner smirked, clearly enjoying their usual banter. "Well, you need to eat about seventeen of these a day for the next two weeks to get back to where you started, so I don't want to hear anything outta you but chewing noises, capiche?"

Mac grinned and ate, feeling more balanced with each bite. The minute he was done, Jack handed him his jacket and gestured toward the door.

"Where are we going?"

"Let me worry about that," Jack replied. "You just soak up this amazing L.A. sun and fresh air."

Those were easy enough orders to follow. Mac sat in the passenger seat, window down, arm on the doorframe, and closed his eyes, letting the air push warm fingers through his hair. He listened to Jack sing along with the classic rock station with a half grin on his face.

When they pulled off the highway and took several switchbacks through the mountains, paralleling the shoreline, Mac sat up a bit straighter, paying attention to this surroundings.

"Jack, what is this?"

"I asked a favor of our boy, Isaac Gray," Jack said, turning into an empty car park area above the beach.

Well, nearly empty—there was one car parked at the far end. A non-descript Toyota with two people sitting inside.

"What kind of a favor?" Mac asked, frowning as Jack turned off the GTO's engine, the lack of music making the quiet of the shoreline deafening.

"Remember what I said back at that house," Jack started, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes on the horizon, "about knowing there are those we can save and those we can't? It's the first thing I learned in combat. And it's not a lesson anyone ever wants to learn."

Mac nodded, feeling the walls of his glass heart thin further.

"I wanted you to see that sometimes even when we can't save someone," Jack looked past Mac to the car on the other side of the lot, "we can still do a helluva lot of good."

Mac looked over at the car, and watched as the two people exited and stood on the same side, facing Jack's GTO. A man and a woman, both Hispanic, looking to be about Jack's age. Mac swallowed hard, his hands flinching against his pant leg, his fingers needing something to keep them busy as his mind spun through a thousand scenarios.

"C'mon," Jack said, climbing out of the car and heading around to the other side.

He paused, waiting for Mac to exit, then began walking toward the man and woman, Mac trailing behind, his heart hammering in his chest so hard he was pretty sure it was about to shatter. They stopped about five feet away from the couple, and waited as the man led both of them over to meet in the middle.

"Mr. Hernandez?" Jack asked, holding out a hand for the other man to shake. "My name is Jack Dalton," he tipped his head to the side, "and this is Angus MacGyver."

Mr. Hernandez shook Jack's hand and then stepped directly in front of Mac, his dark eyes tracing the marks and bruises on Mac's face, then tracking down his thin frame before bouncing back up to meet Mac's gaze.

"You are the one," Hernandez started, his voice accented and thick with emotion. "The one who found our Elaina."

Mac couldn't breathe. His eyes burned, his hands trembled. He could only nod.

"Thank you," Hernandez held out his hand, which Mac took instinctively, his trembling masked by the man's calloused palms and strong grip. "Thank you for sending her home to us."

"I'm so sorry—" Mac started, his voice catching as tears burned his eyes. "I'm sorry I couldn't save her."

"But you see…you did what I could not," Hernandez said, tears leaving tracks as they raced each other to his goatee. "Elaina had been lost to us—I could not find her, I could not bring her home. We feared we would never know what happened to her, that she would be out in the world, forever missing, and our hearts would be hollow with the pain." He put an arm around his wife, who had not taken her eyes off of Mac. "Now, they are broken, but they are also full. We can bury her near us, and that is because of you."

Mac sniffed, trying to hold his emotion in check. Mrs. Hernandez stepped forward and put her hands on either side of Mac's face. Staring up at him, she whispered, "Gracias," then pulled his face down to her and kissed his forehead over his wound.

Nodding, Mac straightened up, his tears slipping free as Mrs. Hernandez released his face. With that, the couple turned and climbed back into their car, then drove out of the car park and down the road. Mac exhaled an unsteady breath and faced the shoreline, the late afternoon sun turning the water to diamonds and dazzling his eyes.

After a moment, he reached up and dragged a hand down his face, wiping at the tears. He took a slow breath and felt the walls of his glass heart begin to solidify into something closer to what they'd been before that moment in the box truck when he was confronted by the worst of humanity.

"Thanks, Jack," he managed.

Jack slung an arm over his shoulder, the warmth of his body as he pulled Mac against his side almost like an embrace.

"You're welcome."

They stood side by side for a long time, staring across the water, watching the sun slip lower on the horizon. Mac knew that it would be a while until he, as Jack put it, was ready to take on the world again.

It would be a while before he was able to get through a night without seeing people he couldn't save turn to ash. It would be a while before his heart felt sturdy and solid.

As Jack turned them back to the car, whistling Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down," Mac knew that it was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.

Because he wouldn't be going through any of it alone.

a/n: Thank you for reading. If you've felt compelled to review, thank you for that, too. To be honest, I never expected to write one MacGyver story let alone three (and I actually have an idea for another in this 'verse…we'll see…I may wander fandoms a bit). I've enjoyed playing in this sandbox; I hope you were entertained.