Chapter Text
Mac
The house was dark except for the faint glow of a single lamp in the corner, its light casting long, jagged shadows on the walls. Mac was on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his temples, trying to quiet the looping thoughts that clawed at his mind. Pain radiated from his ribs with every shallow breath, a sharp, insistent reminder of the kick that had sent him sprawling earlier. He wasn’t sure if anything was broken, but the way the ache flared when he tried to shift even slightly made him worry it was more than just bruises. His left shoulder throbbed with a dull, constant burn, a hard shove into the edge of the counter had seen to that. His back ached where he’d hit the floor, a deep, bruising pain that made it impossible to lean against anything for relief. The pounding in his head wasn’t just from the blows, it was the culmination of everything. The shame, the guilt, the endless cycle of feeling like he wasn’t enough.
You’re supposed to be better than this. Stronger than this. The words echoed in Desi’s voice, but they didn’t feel like hers anymore. They felt like his own, he’d let her down, he’d let the team down. And worst of all he’d let himself believe, just for a moment, that he deserved better than this.
This is my fault. The words carved into him as deeply as any blade could. If I’d just been faster. If I hadn’t hesitated.
The lamp flickered slightly, and he startled, his battered body jerking involuntarily. The sharp pain that shot through his ribs stole his breath, and for a moment all he could do was choke on it, his hand flying to his side as though he could hold himself together by sheer force of will. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He could disarm a bomb under enemy fire or build a radio out of scraps, but he couldn’t stop himself from falling apart in his own living room. What was even the point of being part of Phoenix if he couldn't think on his feet, if he couldn't keep it all together. The lamp flickered again, and his gaze drifted toward it, unfocused. Maybe he’d tinker with it later. Fixing things was what he did, after all and machines were so much easier than people ever were.
He pressed his forehead against his knees, trying to block out everything: Desi’s voice, the pain, the guilt, but it was no use. It was all there, a cacophony in his head that wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let him rest. A shaky breath escaped him, and a sound followed. Soft, broken, he barely recognized it as his own sob. Once the tears started, though, it was like a dam broke. His whole body shook as he gasped for air, the sobs wracking through him with an intensity he couldn’t fight. It wasn’t just the pain, it was the unbearable weight of failure. Of thinking, for just a second, that he might have deserved the life he’d built with Phoenix, the friendships, the moments of peace. But now, sitting in the wreckage of all of it, the truth was as sharp as the ache in his chest. He wasn’t enough. Not for them. Not for anyone.
The thoughts clawed at him, unrelenting. Jack left because of me.
He’d never said it outright, but Mac could see it in his eyes those last few weeks, the way his gaze lingered on the ground instead of meeting Mac’s. The way he’d stopped cracking jokes at Mac’s expense, like he didn’t even have the energy to pretend things were normal, I wasn’t enough. I wasn't enough. I wasn't enough.
The words spiraled endlessly in his mind, each repetition heavier than the last, until they felt like chains dragging him down, pinning him to the floor. Mac squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears, trying to silence the storm inside his head, but it was no use. The only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the lamp, its steady rhythm mocking the fractured mess he’d become.
In the silence, broken only by his ragged breathing, the faintest creak of a floorboard went unnoticed.
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Murdoc
Murdoc lounged in the shadows, idly twirling a butterfly knife between his fingers. His patience had worn thin an hour ago, but he was nothing if not persistent. Watching Desiree storm out of Angus's house was almost worth the wait. She moved with the kind of fury that left destruction in its wake, and judging by the tension in her shoulders, she’d been playing her usual role of the disapproving girlfriend.
It struck the assassin how ungrateful she was. If Murdoc was in her position he would have far better things to do than throw tantrums. After all, Angus was extraordinary. A walking contradiction of brilliance and naivety, strength and fragility, defiance and obedience. The kind of person who could drive Murdoc to distraction with a single glance or an infuriatingly righteous quip. No, if the assassin were in Desiree’s place, he wouldn’t waste a second berating Angus, instead he’d make sure the blond's attention was solely on him. His dark eyes gleamed with something between amusement and longing as he imagined it... Angus’s gaze fixed entirely on him, not out of obligation or necessity, but want. That same raw, unfiltered intensity the blond poured into saving the world, turned toward him. The thought alone sent a shiver of delight down Murdoc’s spine.
Murdoc banished the fantasies from his mind with a sharp click of his butterfly knife. Angus was just inside, after all, and had been so cruelly abandoned by Dalton. The corners of his mouth twitched into a grin, his knife folding into his palm like a secret as he crossed the yard with the silence of a predator. Abandoned, vulnerable, and ripe for torment, the man was practically gift-wrapped for him tonight.
He paused at the front door, his fingers brushing the handle. His chest tightened with a familiar, almost giddy anticipation. The last time they’d crossed paths, Angus had looked at him with fire in his eyes, that potent mix of fury and resolve that set Murdoc’s blood aflame, he found he craved that look like others craved air. Their game would begin soon, and this was the assassin's opening gambit. He eased the door open, his movements fluid and deliberate. The house greeted Murdoc with nothing but heavy silence and an odd metallic scent in the air, blood mingled with something else... desperation, fear, weakness.
He took a step forward, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and the knife in his hand unfolded and folded again, an almost unconscious motion. His pulse quickened, imagining the shock and indignation that would light up Angus’s face when he appeared. He considered what he should say, tossing up between something simple Did you miss me, darling? or more cutting Oh boy scout, how curious you're all alone, shouldn't Dalton be here?
But as Murdoc turned the corner into the living room, the words died on his lips. Angus was there, but not the way the assassin had expected. The man was crumpled on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest, his body trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. His golden hair that Murdoc so adored was clung to his forehead in damp, tangled strands, and his breath came in shallow, uneven gasps. The faint glow of a flickering lamp cast jagged shadows over his features, highlighting the purpling bruise on his cheekbone, the dried blood at the corner of his mouth, and the raw, shattered expression in his eyes. He didn’t even seem to register Murdoc’s presence.
It wasn't difficult to figure out what had happened, Angus enters his house with Desiree perfectly fine then hours later she leaves and he's like this. There was one thought that screamed louder than every other swirling emotion in Murdoc's mind: How. Dare. She.
Angus was supposed to be his. His to challenge, his to break, his to admire. The thought of anyone else even daring to lay a hand on Angus, to hurt him, filled Murdoc with a venomous rage that threatened to boil over. He’d spent years perfecting the art of tormenting Angus, pushing the blond to his limits, but there had always been an unspoken line. He would never break Angus Macgyver, because Murdoc did not break his toys.
Murdoc could hurt Angus, play with him, make him question his golden idealism and frail morality, but nobody else had that right. Nobody.
Murdoc knelt slowly, his movements deliberate, predatory, until he was close enough to hear the faint, broken gasps slipping from Angus’s lips. The sight was visceral, raw, and it twisted something deep in Murdoc’s chest, a blend of fury, possessiveness, and something darker. How dare anyone reduce his Angus to this?
The ragged sobs were enough to send Murdoc’s mind spinning into violent fantasies, visions of tearing Desiree apart piece by piece, of breaking her, mind and body, of making her regret she ever went near his Angus. Somewhere from the back of the assassin’s mind came a whisper, Wouldn’t it be more exquisite to watch as he did it for you?
Murdoc’s breath caught as he turned the thought over and over in his head. His Angus, the paragon of morality and goodness, taking revenge… the thought alone was intoxicating.
”Angus.” Murdoc breathed, reaching to brush back the blond’s hair, “What a sight you are.”
The soft touch of Murdoc’s hand against Angus’ damp hair made the blond flinch, a sharp intake of breath breaking through the quiet sobs. But he didn’t pull away, didn’t lift his head. He just trembled harder, his shoulders shaking under the assassin’s gaze. Murdoc’s expression softened, “Come now boy scout, surely you have something to say to your dearest enemy?”
“Please.“ Angus’ eyes were bloodshot and tearstained as slowly lifted his head to face the assassin, “Make it painless, I know I deserve it but I just don’t want to hurt anymore.”
Murdoc froze, for a moment he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, or thought perhaps he’d misunderstood, but no. His Angus, always defiant, was now reduced to… this. It was unacceptable, it made Murdoc’s hands tremble with barely contained rage.
“Angus.” The assassin repeated, voice softer now, almost tender, “My sweet boy scout, what could possibly make you think you deserve that?”
“I’m useless.” Mac whispered, his voice trembling and hoarse from crying, “I wasn’t fast enough. I hesitated. She’s right. I’m not good enough, not for Phoenix, not for anyone. Nobody wants me. They- they’ll leave me like Jack did, like everyone does.”
Another sob ripped free from the blond before he put his head back down. His voice was muffled and raw, more of a plea than a sentence, “I don’t want to be alone.”
Murdoc shifted closer, Angus’s words reverberating through his mind. Nobody wants me. What a ridiculous notion, his boy scout reduced to thinking that nobody wanted him. But the predatory part of Murdoc could sense the opportunity in the blond’s broken state. The assassin reached out a gloved hand and tilted Angus’s chin up to look at him.
”My darling, how wrong you are.” His voice dropped to a low murmur, eyes fixed on the other man’s tear-streaked face, “Your friends may be foolish enough not to know what they have… but I will always want you.”
Angus breath hitched at the words, his brow furrowing, confusion etched into his tear-streaked features, his voice cracked as he spoke, “You’re lying. You hate me.”
”Hate you?” Murdoc ran his thumb along Angus’s jaw, causing the blond to shiver, “If I hated you, then you would be dead. No, my dear, I don’t hate you, I want you. I like beautiful things, and even seeing you broken like this… you’re so beautiful.”
Angus’s eyes widened, a flicker of something like disbelief flashing through his tear-filled gaze. Murdoc leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, intimate and insistent, “I don’t play games with just anyone, my dear. You’re special. You’re mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”
“Let them leave you. Let them walk away, thinking you’re not enough. They don’t see you the way I do. They don’t see how extraordinary you are. But I do.” The assassin’s hand slipped from Angus’s chin to cup his jaw. The blond trembled at the touch, his eyes watering. Murdoc leaned closer, “Let me take care of you, Angus. Let me protect you. I’ll make sure she never touches you again.”
Angus’s trembling body gave way, collapsing into Murdoc who caught him easily, pulling him closer with an almost possessive tenderness. He felt the full weight of the blond sink against him, the tremors of his sobs echoing through Murdoc’s own chest. For a moment, he simply held him, his fingers carding through Angus’s damp hair in slow, soothing motions. The intimacy of it sent a shiver down his spine, but he kept his touch steady, comforting. The assassin rested his chin lightly against Angus’s temple, his voice dropping into a low murmur, laced with venom meant for another, “She’ll regret it, you know. I’ll make sure of it. But tonight, it’s just you and me. Stay with me, my darling, and you’ll never be alone again. All you have to do is say yes.”
Murdoc felt Angus’s head shift faintly against his chest, the trembling slowing as the blond took a shaky, uneven breath. For a long moment, there was only silence, broken by the quiet hum of the flickering lamp until finally it was broken by a small and pained yet unmistakably clear, “Yes.”
The single word was like a spark igniting something primal in Murdoc. Triumph and something far darker curled in his chest, “Good boy.”
The blond gave a soft whimper of pain as Murdoc collected him up. The assassin carried Angus as though he were made of glass, his usual careless swagger subdued by the weight of the man in his arms. Murdoc’s grip tightened on Angus as the man shifted in his arms, the pain still coursing through him. But the assassin didn’t mind. He wasn’t supposed to mind. He wasn’t supposed to care, but with every passing second, he found himself feeling more and more connected to the broken man in his arms. He couldn’t help but grin as he walked out of the house and into the darkness, knowing that the game had just changed. And this time, there was no going back.
“It’s alright, Angus.” Murdoc murmured softly, his voice like a possessive caress against the other man’s ear, “I’m here now. and I’ll take all your pain away.”