Authors Note: This has been a long, crappy few weeks and as usual I deal by taking this out on our boys. This is completely self-indulgent whump and I was pretty hard on both of them. If you hate it, just chalk it up to a sadistic streak in an overworked paramedic. Also, anyone want to be the lowest ranking member of the emergency management department of a tiny rural county during a pandemic? Burn-out is closing in fast...

At some point in a past life, he had completely and totally brought about the apocalypse. He had personally destroyed the world. That was the only reason Jack Dalton could come up with; though he had done some very questionable things under orders,he had done nothing in this life to deserve this.

He contemplated this in a detached manner, thinking that whatever was in charge of this whole crazy mess had chosen the perfect punishment for whatever his past self had done. He was no stranger to pain, had been interrogated by some of the most evil human minds ever, could take more than most men could even bear thinking about. No, physical pain would not have been the best penance for him. Sitting alone outside the waiting room, more blood on him than in him it seemed, in little more than a band-aid station somewhere in Western Africa (he was no longer sure which borders he had crossed on the way) waiting to hear if the bleeding body he had carried in what felt like hours ago was still alive. This scene, repeated more times and in more places than he could count (well, he probably could if he tried; it wasn't like each technicolor memory wasn't still inside to haunt him), had to be some sort of punishment. He was good at what he did, and nobody could be this unlucky.

Except maybe the skinny, pale, blood covered young man he had brought in. And Jack would trade places with him in a second. Without a second thought or even a first one. It was never him broken, beaten, bleeding (that wasn't entirely accurate, he knew that, but these always stuck out in his mind more), always the kid, his charge to protect. His to protect in whatever mess they were in and to help to recover every time he failed to protect him.

It wasn't the protecting, or taking care of the wounds that was the punishment. It wasn't failing at the one thing he was good at, or even watching the kid get hurt. He was a soldier, he had seen pretty much everything that could happen to the human body (even one horrible scene involving a power sander, a small monkey, and a particularly loud cartel rat) and while it's always bad, it's nothing like this.

It was caring about the kid. The damn selfless, reckless, impulsive, brilliant boy. That was his own private hell. The cruelest punishment possible for him was having to watch the most important person in his life, his son in everything but blood, time and time again, have to suffer because Jack failed to protect him.

Getting shot or stabbed or breaking his arm or leg in the course of their usual "saving the world" stuff was bad. Any time Angus MacGyver was in pain tore into his guts like nothing else. But times like this were just about more than he could take.

Times when he woke up chained to a chair (with actual logging chain, these guys knew what they were doing!), head pounding from the blow from behind, to see his boy with his arms chained over a metal pipe, stretching hard to keep his toes on the floor to keep from dislocating his shoulders keeping himself upright. Mac was wearing only the gym shorts he had left the house in today to play some basketball, his t-shirt, socks, and shoes gone. He wasn't against a wall or anything, his whole body open to whatever they wanted from him, and even at his worst "Incredible Hulk" moment, Jack could not bust through the loops of thick chain holding him to the strong metal chair.

The chains were cheating. Mac could have picked the padlock with the paper clip he kept pinned in his hair against his scalp (which was precisely why he was able to get away with wearing his hair so long) but he didn't have one, and couldn't reach the lock behind him anyway. He was completely helpless. Just leverage for whatever they wanted from Mac.

The kid was awake, but hadn't moved or spoken yet. Had it not been for a quick flash of blue out of the mostly closed eyes, Jack would have bought it. Unfortunately for them, the thick metal door slamming open showed that their captor did not. Jack hoped they moved on to him as soon as they realized the kid would die horribly before he would talk or help them or whatever.

They were never that lucky though. In short order, Jack realized two things: number one, they wanted nothing from Mac but to hear him scream. Number two, their reputation had preceded them, especially him, as being almost unbreakable. It was him they wanted information from, not Mac, and they knew that physical torture would not break him. When the massive, ugly man with a nondescript accent that Jack could not quite place asked Jack for the passcode he still knew for the CIA black ops database, he pulled a cloth off the table behind Jack. He could hear the rattling, but all he had to go on was the way the kid's jaw tightened at the sight of whatever toys their captor had. No other change showed on his expression, just the slight twitch of muscles as he clamped down to keep his mouth shut. Looking back now, Jack realized that Mac had figured it out already at that point.

Brutus, Jack has nicknamed him in his head after the huge Popeye villain, asked Jack one more time, at which point Jack had responded by suggesting he go copulate with his mother, and that was it.

Jack had what felt like an eternity to regret that remark as he realized Brutus didn't have to lay a hand on him to break Jack. He didn't even start with anything fancy, just a sharp uppercut to Mac's diaphragm, driving all the air from his lungs with a pained wheeze. He could see the death-glare his partner shot at the attacker, bravely staring him down before he turned to Jack. The voice he spoke with was hoarse, but clear. "You know you can't."

A couple more punches to Mac's ribs and torso, and Jack had fought and strained himself bloody everywhere the chain cut into his body. At the time, he didn't notice the pain, but later he would relish it. It was inadequate given what had been done to his boy, but it was better than being completely unscathed physically. Tears of rage had filled his eyes, only visible to someone who knew him inside and out and he opened his mouth to say something, insult the man bad enough to turn his anger back to Jack, but Mac stopped him, nothing but determination on his already bruising face. "Be strong! I can take it, Jack, please!"

The tears spilled over. The kid was the one taking the beating, struggling to even breathe once his feet had been swept out from under him, but he was telling Jack to be strong. He knew well who was suffering more, had been there himself. While Jack knew his pain hurt Mac too, he knew before it was over he would beg to take the kid's place. He didn't know how long he could take it, he knew him breaking in this case would literally condemn so many agents (with families and people who loved them) to death or worse. It could literally take down all of national security, depending on what information they were able to pull from the people Jack would put in the line of Fire if he saved his kid, but in the end, there was only one thing that held his tongue.

That would destroy Mac. Completely and totally break him. All the people, agents or innocents, that were hurt and killed because this human tank had stumbled upon Jack's biggest weakness… Mac would take every single one on his own head. It would fundamentally change him, killing the boy Jack knew and loved. And if he wasn't completely broken by it, he would never be able to forgive Jack for being weak, for condemning so many people for him.

Jack bit his lip to the point that it drew blood when Brutus stepped away from Mac, facing Jack. "How can you watch this?" He asked, not with surprise, rather a sadistic grin. "Look at him, bruised and bleeding. I know I felt at least two ribs break. And he doesn't have the strength to get his feet back under him." He walked closer to kneel beside Jack, facing the boy. "I don't even have to lay another hand on him. You need an anatomy lesson? Broken ribs, bruised diaphragm, all his weight on his arms? What happens if I leave now?"

Jack didn't need the lesson. He could see how hard Mac was struggling, the strain the position put him in, the weak flare of his ribs trying to pull all the air into his starving lungs that they could. It clearly wasn't enough, and Jack wasn't sure if it was the lighting or the oxygen deprivation that made his lips look so blue. Mac allowed his eyes to meet Jack's for just a moment, trying to show only his stubbornness and determination, looking away before he could expose much of the pain and fear.

Jack couldn't give in, and he couldn't sit here and watch Mac suffocate, especially after Mexico and the whole nitrogen thing. It had been months before he had been able to stand anything over his face without almost panic. Which left him with a worse idea that might possibly work. Surely Mac wouldn't buy into this crap he was about to spew, but it would be better than either alternative.

Jack pretended to consider the options, then shrugged. "Well, to be honest, I've heard it's not a bad way to go… you just pass out and die. Really, compared to some of the other ends he's come close to, this one might be a mercy." He kept his eyes fixed on the top of Mac's head where it hung down almost to his chest. If their captor saw the growing panic in his eyes, it would be over.

Finally, with a growl, Brutus stepped behind Jack, who didn't know whether this was the day that he had to watch his boy die. In a matter of minutes, a wooden platform was drug over to Mac and he was pulled, unresisting, onto it on his knees. The pressure released from his shoulders, and he drew in his first full breath in several minutes. His body slumped a little in relief, and Jack relaxed a little. He knew this wasn't over, but the threat of imminent death was out of the way. For now.

Mac kept his head down, trying to spare Jack any pain that might show on his face. Jack hated that. He knew that if he was looking away he was trying to hide pain, and if he couldn't see his face he couldn't possibly judge how bad. He thought he was helping, but it always made it so much worse because it gave his extremely vivid imagination free reign.

Both were too lost in trying to protect the other to notice what their captor was doing before the thick leather straps snapped closed around Mac's ankles. Looking back in confusion, he saw that the soles of his feet were pinned and facing out. He paled. He had never been through this particular form of torture, but he understood the mechanics to it. This was going to be bad. He risked a look up at Jack, who knew this one well. He had been through it himself, and still occasionally had residual pain in his feet when he got too cold.

Jack, meanwhile, was trying so hard to get loose. He didn't know as much about neurological pathways as Mac did, but he saw the wooden stick shaped like a blank ax handle in their tormentor's hand. Mac hadn't yet left MIT when Jack had been captured the first time. He had brushed over it when asked about his military past, but he could remember way too clearly the agony of the strikes to his feet, screaming himself hoarse as it went on for hours. Worse yet was how long the aftermath was, learning to walk again of fractured feet, forcing them to take weight so he wouldn't be incapacitated. White-hot blades of pain every step of therapy. They bones in his feet that took all his weight still aches horribly when it was cold. Or rainy. Or when he overdid it. Or got too tired…

The idea of Mac going through that, not just now but for the rest of his life, made Jack physically ill. Aside from the actual damage, he knew that blows to the feet caused the pain to radiate through the whole body. Much worse than a regular beating, Jack had to do something. "Look, let the kid go. He has nothing to do with this, and he doesn't know anything. As soon as he walks out the door, I'll tell you whatever you want."

Mac struggled with the chains, frantically trying to do something before anything happened that couldn't be taken back. "Jack, it's ok. I can take it!"

Jack's eyes met his and he could read the emotion there like a book through images tears. While whether Mac could take it or not wasn't the question. It was whether Jack could or not. "At least give him a break. Use me as your punching bag awhile. Or what you're about to do. Just, do it to me instead." While he doubted the guy would take him up on it, he had to at least try.

"No!" Yelled Mac, as forcefully as his recent brush with hypoxia would allow.

"I think I'm gonna give your boy the win on this one, Dalton. Somehow I don't think making you bleed would bring quite what I need from you. But since you want to participate so badly, I'll let you choose what I do to him next."

"Okay," Jack said quickly. "Send him home. And give him enough money to stop for a burger along the way."

Brutus laughed. "That was a good one. A sense of humor will get a person a long way. You might even survive if you stop being stupid!"

"And him?" Jack asked, not wanting the hope to worm its way into his mind. That made it too easy to consider.

A casual shrug shook massive shoulders. "Maybe. You never know. Which brings me back to your options here…"

Jack cursed under his breath as their captor walked slowly back to the table behind him and out of his sight. He couldn't turn his head around far enough to see, and Mac just looked confused. Comprehension dawned in his eyes and he winced, looking at Jack with sympathy. That was not good, for either of them.

"Jack," he forced out, rough and breathless. "This is not on you. You can't give him what he wants, no matter what he does to me. Other than that, do whatever you have to. I will never blame you for this."

Well, that wasn't cryptic at all… Again straining his neck to see, he was surprised to see Brutus carrying several implements when he came back around. Putting a second leather strap over Mac's calves, just behind his knees, he laid them out on the platform so Jack could see each clearly. And given his partner's position, it wasn't hard to see how any of them could be used.

The thick wooden ax handle. Deeply painful, with lasting to permanent damage. An inch wide leather strip. Excruciating pain, surface damage, but little risk of lasting damage. As for the third… well, any Texas boy could recognize a branding iron when he saw one. Damn, there was no way he could let that happen. He looked up at Mac, pure misery on his face.

"So, here's your choices. What do I use to finally make your boy scream? He's pretty tough, I'll give you that, but if I have to break him to break you…"

"Not happening!" Mac spit out. He wasn't immune to pain by any means, but he would fight to his last breath against helping this man hurt Jack. At least, any more than he already was. "Jack, do what you have to, I understand. It's not your fault!"

Brutus smiled, a sadistic twist to it. "Kinda hard to believe when you could stop it so easily…"

Jack's lip dripped blood where he had bitten it, but he didn't notice. "I'm not telling you how to torture him! Are you insane?!"

The sick smile grew. "Okay, then, if you won't pick…" Bear-paw sized hands picked up the branding iron and a blowtorch, and Jack's stomach contents flew to his throat. He swallowed hard and surged forward, rattling the bolts holding the chair to the floor. "Wait, no, please!"

This time Mac was the one who couldn't see, but from the reaction in front of him, it couldn't be good. "Jack, don't play his game!"

Tears fell as he shook his head. "I pick the leather. That's the one I choose."

Preparing himself the best he could, his imagination running wild over how the leather strip he had seen would feel, Mac dropped his head. Biology wasn't his thing, but he had a solid grasp of what was about to happen. This was going to hurt, probably a lot worse than the thick piece of wood, but wouldn't permanently cripple him, or even hobble him on cold days in ten years like it did Jack. A logical choice, and he looked up to give his friend a nod. "It's okay. And I'm sorry if I-"

The pain was sharp, immediate, and overwhelming, and while he had enough control in him not to scream, not being able to see the blow coming had torn a pained cry as the sharp leather bit into naturally sensitive skin. He had been beaten with a whip once, on their first mission to Cairo (the one they will talk about), and it had been bad. Painful, bloody, and he still had a few scars across his back from it. But this… he understood the scientific reason it was so bad, how primitive people had needed extra sensitivity in the bottoms of their feet to warn of danger. It was also the reason that assaults to the feet were felt throughout the body, setting every nerve on fire, and the reason the nerve endings in the feet never adjusted to pain or lost sensitivity. In fact, it got worse. After a while of this, even the brush of a finger down the sole of his foot would put him in agony.

So often, focusing on the science of something could take him away from the pain of it (had kept him from breaking so many times through electricity and water boarding) but this pain refused to take a back seat in his mind. The way he was pinned, he was completely defenseless, and all he could to to protect his feet was to curl in his toes, which only led to a cramp that could barely cut through the haze of the pain.

He could hear Jack yelling through the pounding of his heart tin his ears, though if he was trying to encourage him or curse their captor, he had no idea. His mouth filled with blood as he was pretty sure biting his cheek to keep his mouth shut had torn a piece out. He couldn't look at Jack, couldn't let Jack see how bad the pain was, no matter how bad he was hurting, he knew it would hurt Jack worse. He had to be strong, had to focus on something, anything, to keep from being an instrument or torture to his best friend. He couldn't stop his own pain, but he could not make Jack's as bad, even though he needed his strength right now so bad…

Unable to hold himself upright again, completely weakened by the pain, the pressure on his lungs was back, breaths a struggle to get in. But it was okay, maybe if he passed out a little, it would…

Jack saw the moment his tense posture drooped, and was relieved. If the kid passed out, he couldn't be hurt. Then they could get a break, or the guy would get bored and start on him and maybe even forget about Mac.

But less than a second later, Brutus turned his angle and made a devastating blow across both feet at once and Mac was jerked back into full consciousness. But in that moment between in and out and in again, his control slipped. His surroundings and situation faded leaving nothing but the pain. A scream tore from his throat and that was Jack Dalton's breaking point.

"Stop!" Jack yelled at the top of his lungs. "Stop hurting him, I'll tell you whatever you want, just stop!" Tears streamed down his face and blood streamed from practically everywhere the chains touched. "Do you want me to beg? I will, please! Please stop!"

The blows stopped, and while the pain was still near-unbearable, at least it stopped building. Shame and pain that had nothing to do with his feet shot through him. "Jack no!"

Jack shook his head. "I'm sorry, kid, but I can't watch this anymore."

His voice trembled. "Jack, I'm sorry! I can take it, don't!"

"I can't though. It's not your fault, Mac." He cleared his throat and glared at Brutus. "Let him go and I'll write it down for you."

Brutus shook his head. "Nobody leaves until I try the database."

"Not me, I'll stay right here and wait. Just drop him off at the nearest ER."

"Nope. You write it down, I go try it, then when it works you both go free. If it doesn't…"

"Yeah, I know," muttered Jack. "We will both wish we were dead."

"Well, you a little longer than him. First, you will watch me kill him, slowly, to the point where he begs for death. And then, when you watch him take his last breath, you will follow shortly."

"Just write this down," Jack growled.

"Jack…" Mac tried one last time.

His voice showed no less anger than it had at Brutus. "Dammit, Mac, I know! I'm sorry, ok? I can't take watching him hurt you like that! I'm the one being weak here, not you! It's ok if you can't forgive me, but even that is better than watching you be tortured!" He looked over at their captor, who had his phone out, and spat out a seventeen-digit series of numbers and letters. "There's your code! Now go on! Hurry so I can get him to a hospital!"

With a triumphant smile, Brutus rushes out the door, leaving them alone. Mac pulled himself up a little straighter and glared. "You know he's gonna kill us anyway!"

Jack gathered his composure. "I know. Which gives us maybe fifteen minutes before he realizes the code is a fake, and comes back here to re-enact a Quentin Tarintino movie with you as the star."

Mac sighed in relief. "So you didn't…?"

"Didn't what?" He said, dangerously low, his eyes hard as ice chips, and Mac knew that this was not his friend he was seeing, but the cold-blooded Delta Sniper he didn't let out often. "Risk half the world because this is my own personal view of hell? No, Mac, I didn't. I know it was a stupid play, but I'm not unbreakable. It wouldn't have been long until I did and this is the best I could do."

Mac winced, the idea of Jack breaking did more to his gut than the punches earlier. "Sorry. I just-"

"Nothing to apologize for, now if you could come up with a way out, that would be helpful."

Mac nodded, and Jack could literally see his brain kick in gear. Just once he would love to see the world through his boy's eyes. After a moment, he asked "Can you see how my legs are fastened? Is there a lock, or Velcro or what?"

"Looks like buckles and Velcro. No way you can break it."

Mac set his jaw again and Jack knew his plan. Any other time, he would object to the kid literally breaking his own hand to get them free, but right at the moment, it was the least painful alternative. Through the concrete room, the sickening crack seemed to be loud as a gunshot, but within seconds Jack heard the empty manacle hit the floor and saw Mac twist to try to free his legs.

He was panting through his injuries as he staggered off the wooden thing he had been strapped too, but the hiss when he first put weight on his feet was as much surprise as pain. Unable to see them, the pain had faded in the panic that Jack had given up, and he honestly hadn't thought about them being cut and blistered and covered in welts. But he regained his focus and was on his knees beside Jack in an instant.

"Are you-"

Mac rolled his eyes. "Jack, I swear if you are about to ask if I'm ok in the middle of me getting you out of here…" He found the paperclip in his hair, bent in a slight curve to lay flat against his scalp, and went to work on the padlock.

"Well, actually," Jack said, his Texas drawl made thicker by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, "I was going to ask if you were able to pick the lock with one hand swelling up like a softball and a chain still stuck on the other, but since you brought it up…"

Mac snorted a laugh. "I'll be fine!"

That wasn't the same as he was fine, but it was good enough for the moment.

Walking hurt, Mac wouldn't deny that, but he had doing his best to get to the truck Jack had found outside the building they had been held in. He had insisted Jack run ahead and get it started. He didn't think he was capable of running, and he certainly couldn't Hotwire a car one-handed, so jack reluctantly agreed. Because it would get them out of there quicker, and Mac to help.

The open field they were in held nothing but the concrete cellar they had been in, the old truck, and a few pieces of farm machinery that was so badly rusted they were unidentifiable, even to a farm kid like Jack. There was a surprisingly new and well cared for house in the other direction, but neither of them thought it was worth the risk that Brutus was holed up there, hacking into the CIA to enter a bogus code word and get shut down. So the truck it was.

Two things happened within seconds of each other. The old truck sprang to loud, squeaky life, and Mac realized he was wrong about running. It hurt, but the spattering of bullets that came from the direction of the house was an excellent motivational tool.

Brutus ran at them, reloading the rifle as he ran, and Jack slammed the truck into gear and floored it in Mac's direction. As he whipped it around to the passenger door, Mac slammed hard into the side of the truck, letting out a cry, but paused only a second as he pulled himself inside and slammed the door.

Letting out a triumphant shout of victory, Jack spun the truck again, slinging dust into the air in his best action hero move and took off in the other direction, away from all of it. He grinned from ear to ear. "We did it, kid! Well, you did most of it and I will never be able to make all this up to you. But for now, I found these under the seat." He held out a bottle that contained what were easily recognizable as prescription pain killers. "Take these. They will take the edge off until I can get you to a doctor."

Mac shook his head. The adrenaline was crashing and every fracture and bruise was aching, everything hurt. He wanted to, badly, but he knew better. He shook his head and pushed the bottle away. "No, Jack, I can't. I-"

Jack looked at him pleadingly. "Mac, number one, you are in pain. Number two, it's my fault. Number three, you know how either of those absolutely kill me." He went for the low blow, because this was his boy they were talking about, and he didn't do gentle when Mac was hurting, not even to the kid in question. "Please, Mac, if you are trying to punish me for all that, please find a different way!"

Mac winced at that. "You know I would never-! Not your fault anyway. You really think I would do that to you?!"

Jack shook his head. "Of course not. Just seemed like the quickest way to get you out of pain."

"By a metaphorical punch to the gut? Anyway, I'm not trying to be tough or anything, I just can't. It would be a really bad idea."

That was the first time the thought entered his mind. Mac would never do that to him, but something out there was obviously punishing him for something. "Why is getting you out of pain a bad idea?"

"Promise you won't freak out?"

"Dammit, kid, at no point in the history of the world, has that phrase kept anyone from freaking out. So no. Too late, what am I missing?"

Mac slowly pulled his hand out from behind his back and held it up. Blood coated the hand, the wrist, and the metal chain. "Those would lower my blood pressure too much. I'm gonna need all of it I can."

Jack's eyes widened in horror as he slammed on the brakes. "What the hell…?"

Mac looked way too pale as Jack scooted him forward and stared at the two small bloody holes in his left lower back. "The last two bullets hit as I was getting to the truck."

It had been over three hours since Jack first saw the open holes in his back. Two and a half since he had seen the kid conscious. Two since his lips and fingernails had faded to the same pale color as his skin. And exactly one hour and seven minutes since he had ran through the ER doors and yelled for help.

No one had come back since to tell him anything since they had physically blocked him from following the gurney down the hall. Two guards with rifles had moved to the door, and Jack knew he couldn't help Mac at all if they shot him dead in the waiting room. If he was even still alive. If he wasn't, he wasn't sure he wouldn't run up and slug the smaller of the two guards… The bigger one might try to fight him, but the little guy seemed more likely to simply put a bullet between his eyes, then call for housekeeping to clean up.

Something more powerful than a crazy terrorist had to be punishing him for something, and this was the the worst possible way. He didn't even know if his boy was still alive!

Just before he was ready for one of those nice coat that let you hug yourself, a woman hurried through the door to him. When she began talking, Jack wondered if his brains really had cracked before he realized he just didn't know the language. Mac knew enough Swahili to order them dinner or say "our team has you surrounded", but Jack wasn't even sure that was what she was speaking. "English?" He asked. He also tried Russian and German, but she shook her head and went back inside.

It took everything he had in him not to punch his fist through the rough cinderblock wall. Whatever she had been trying to say, it had life-changing importance to him. She could have been telling him that Mac was gone! Their phones, as well as anything that could translate for him, were back at their room where they had to have been taken. He had no idea how to ask for a phone, and at this point, no idea what to do. As he was about to play a horrible game of charades with the guards to try to ask who to go to when you needs someone dead (assuming Mac wasn't dead… If he was, that job belonged to Jack alone!), when a man in a white coat came out of the room. "English?" He asked to the waiting room.

"Me!" Jack shouted, nearly tripping over his his own boots to get to the man who was presumably a doctor. "The blond boy, shot… is he ok? Is he-" He couldn't bring himself to voice the horrible thought.

"He is alive, bullet hit vein from his kidney. Surgery was good, it's fixed now, but…". It was obvious that English was not the doctor's first language, and maybe not even his third. Struggling for the words he needed, he finally said, "No blood like his. Only a little but not right for him here."

Jack tried to put the words into some sort of picture. Was this how Mac felt when he mangled the science gibberish on purpose? Finally it clicked, and the doctor had Jack's full attention. "He needs blood, but you don't have his type!" He breathed a sigh of relief as the doctor nodded. Jack patted the inside of his elbow. "I have the same type. I have given him blood before. Take me to him and take all you need, just help him!"

The doctor looked at him to make sure he understood. "Your blood is like his?"

"Yes!"

The doctor smiled, wide and relieved. "Then your son will be okay. Come back and we get blood for him."

"And I can see him?"

"Yes."

Jack felt his whole body sag in relief. Mac was alive, and With Jack's help, was going to be okay. It might kill him every time the kid was hurt, and it just might be a punishment for something he did in a past life. But as long as he could always be there to pick him up when it was over, he would. Because he would take any and all of it, because MacGyver's friendship, brotherhood, and love were worth any amount of pain.