Curses

by MidnightMix

Summary:

Set post Season 3 but in this continuity, Phoenix is never disbanded and Codex doesn't exist.

Mac and Desi's relationship is not going well. Desi started to lash out at Mac after missions: at first just snapping at him, but lately their arguments have turned worse.

Murdoc has waited hours for that annoying little guard dog to leave so he can break into Angus's house to taunt his favorite boy scout. He finds something he wasn't expecting.

Chapter 1: There's A Fire In My Brain

Notes:

Welcome to the new fic!

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.”

Chapter 2: And I'm Burning Up, Oh My, Oh My

Mac

Macgyver stirred, the blurriness of sleep lingering like a fog in his brain. His body ached, but there was something else, something softer. A cool sensation soothed his muscles, the gentle touch of ointment or some kind of balm, and he could feel the itch of bandages wrapped across his body. They were snug but not restrictive, holding his bruised ribs and injured shoulder in place. It wasn’t until he tried to move that the soreness hit him, sharp and immediate. Mac's head spun as he tried to process where he was, but overwhelming exhaustion weighed him down.

He shifted, barely lifting his head, his chest tight with the dull throb of bruises. His eyes fluttered open and he was met with the strange sensation of someone’s hand resting lightly on his hip, fingers warm and comforting in a way that felt wrong. He blinked and tried to gather his thoughts, trying to remember the night before. The argument with Desi... her anger had been sharp, suffocating, something he hadn’t been able to handle. He’d done something wrong. He always did.

Then the pain. The bruises. Her hands on him. The last thing he remembered was feeling like the walls were closing in, the confusion and the overwhelming sense that he wasn’t enough. Not for her. Not for anyone. Maybe she'd come back, maybe she wanted to take care of him, maybe she realised he was too hurt to help himself.

But why would she help me like this?

A strange memory flickered, something out of place, a scene so odd that Mac knew it had to have been a dream. Murdoc’s voice, low and smooth, haunted the edges of his thoughts... “Stay with me, my darling, and you’ll never be alone again. All you have to do is say yes."

The rest of the dream was foggy. Murdoc, calm and oddly gentle, saying things Mac didn’t want to remember. I’ll take care of you. I want you. His heart stuttered in his chest. The idea of it, of Murdoc, who had hurt him so many times, treating him like some kind of fragile thing, tending to him, made his skin crawl, but for some reason, it also felt comforting. Safe. God how messed up did Mac have to be if his mind had tried to take refuge in the fantasy of Murdoc of all people being kind to him, especially when everything was phrased so... creepy. Why would he even feel safe in a dream like that?

Mac’s mind was still reeling, his confusion only deepening as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The warmth of the hand on his hip didn’t feel like Desi’s touch, so why did it comfort him, despite everything? His breath caught in his throat as he tried to move, but the sudden ache in his ribs stopped him cold. The muscles in his shoulder screamed in protest, the strain of the injury fresh. He winced and shut his eyes, trying to push through the pain, but when he opened them again, he froze. Murdoc was sitting beside him, cross-legged on the bed. The sight of him made Mac’s pulse spike in an instant, but his body felt heavy, sluggish, unresponsive. Murdoc’s hand was still resting on his hip, while his other hand was gently soothing Mac’s hair, fingers moving through the strands in a soft slow rhythm that felt tender in spite of the assassin sitting beside him.

He tried to sit up, but the movement was too much, and he flinched, gasping in pain. Murdoc’s hand on his hip tightened slightly, a strange mixture of support and possessiveness. Mac realised that the man didn't have his trademark gloves on, his bare fingers warm against Mac's skin, and the casualness of it unsettled him even more. There was something about the bare contact, the intimate nature of it, that made his skin crawl.

"You're awake." The assassin's voice sounded somewhat amused, "You've slept almost the entire day."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Mac's voice was rough, thick with confusion and panic, but he pushed himself to sit up a little, ignoring the stabbing pain that shot through his ribs. Murdoc moved the hand that had been carding through his hair around Mac's back, easing the blond up. The touch was surprisingly steady, guiding him with an unsettling amount of care, but the comfort of the support only deepened his unease.

"Taking care of you, of course." He shifted slightly, adjusting his position as he helped Mac lean back against the bed. Mac’s body trembled with both pain and something else, something darker. His mind screamed at him to get away, but his body betrayed him, unwilling to move more than a few inches at a time. Murdoc was so calm, so soothing. He felt like he should be waking up any second and escaping it all, but his broken body hurt too much for it to be a dream. Mac didn't realise how long he'd been silent for until the assassin's voice returned.

"I found you last night. After she left.” Murdoc's fingers tightened around Mac’s hip just slightly, a subtle, possessive gesture that sent a shiver down the blond's spine, “You were in a bad place. Bruised, battered... alone. I couldn’t let that happen, don't worry my darling you’re safe with me.”

"Safe..." Mac repeated, trying to shake off the lingering dizziness, his voice quiet and disbelieving.

"Much safer than you'd be where I left you. You’ve got bruised ribs, a shoulder injury, not dislocated thankfully, only subluxed. And don’t forget that split lip, or your black eye, or the bruises on your back..." Murdoc's dark eyes flickered with something that Mac couldn't quite name, "I'd say it'll take six weeks before you could start pretending you're not in pain with every step."

Mac's breath hitched as the realization sank in, his body tense and his heart racing. Six weeks. The weight of the words hung in the air, suffocating, pressing down on him. He hadn't even known how bad it was. He had thought he could power through it, pretend it wasn’t that serious, but Murdoc had just laid out the brutal truth. His body was broken, and it would take weeks to heal. He couldn't work at Phoenix like this...

Fuck, "I- They'll be looking for me. Phoenix had a debriefing is today I'll have missed it, I was supposed to be there."

Murdoc's eyes gleamed, a flash of amusement mixed with something darker as he leaned in slightly, his hand still resting possessively on Mac’s hip, "I’m sure they’ll have noticed you’re missing by now but not to worry, darling, I’ll take you back to Phoenix. They’ll want to know what happened, why you look like you’ve been run over..."

“I’m sure they’ll want answers. They’ll ask about the bruises. They’ll want to know why you look like you've been through hell." Murdoc leaned in, his voice almost too smooth as he added, "But, of course, if you’d rather, I could keep you here. Take care of you until you’re better, until you’re ready to face them."

Mac's heart pounded harder, the weight of his choices suddenly crashing down on him. The idea of facing Phoenix, the people who would ask what happened, was more terrifying than anything he could have imagined. Desi’s anger, the lies he’d have to tell, the judgment in their eyes. He tried to calm himself down, to be reasonable, "I could tell them you're the one who hurt me."

"Oh darling, I'll happily play the villain in whatever story you spin." The assassin ran his thumb along the line of Mac's hip, his touch deliberate, like he was savoring the feeling, "I’ll let you decide what you want them to think, even though one of your number will know the truth..."

His breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, the pain in his ribs and shoulder demanding more attention than he wanted to give it. His gaze flickered to Murdoc’s face, the dark eyes watching him with an intensity that Mac couldn’t escape. There was no judgment in those eyes. No condemnation. Just a strange possessiveness, as though Mac’s suffering, his injuries, were just part of the equation. He was right, Desi would know, would figure out that Mac wouldn't have been able to put himself back together again, and she'd still want to know where the bandages really came from. Mac wasn’t sure which thought was worse: the fear of Desi finding out the truth or the unsettling sense of safety that Murdoc’s presence brought him.

Mac’s voice faltered, "If I stayed with you... what exactly would I tell them? Sorry for disappearing for six weeks I was on bed rest with the guy who tried to kill us multiple times?"

"You could tell them I kidnapped you." Murdoc mused, "That I took you from place to place, that you only just got the chance to escape. Of course you'd probably look far too well cared for to be entirely convincing."

Mac’s lips twitched, unable to keep his defiant streak at bay, even in the face of his growing unease, “Yeah, you’re right. I’d look way too good for that story to stick. Maybe I’ll tell them you took me on a resort vacation: chained me to a daybed in Cancun and fed me nothing but caviar and champagne.”

Murdoc’s expression lit up at the banter, his lips curling into a grin that was equal parts pleased and amused. The shift in his demeanor was instantaneous, "Cancun? No my darling, I'd take you somewhere more exotic, like Fiji, or one of those delightful private islands near Thailand."

“Yeah, well, sadly for both of us I’m not really in the mood for an all-expenses-paid getaway.” Mac tried to shift again but the pain in his ribs hit him like a jolt of electricity, forcing him to stop. He winced, “Maybe next time I’ll be more into it. You know, when I’m not in so much goddamn pain.”

"There's the fire I've come to expect." Murdoc's expression softened slightly at the sarcasm in Mac's voice, but the intensity behind his eyes didn't fade, "You're not going back to them, are you? Not when you'll be expected to explain all this. Six weeks is a lot of time to figure out a good story, and a lot of time to figure out how to keep yourself safe."

Mac’s mind spun as he processed the implications of Murdoc’s words, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. Six weeks to figure out a story, six weeks to heal, six weeks where he could avoid the uncomfortable questions, the stares, and the fear of what would happen if anyone found out how exactly he’d ended up like this. Mac was quiet for a moment, his breathing shallow from both the pain and the overwhelming confusion. Murdoc’s calm presence was unsettling, and yet, strangely comforting in its own twisted way, "And if I don’t want your help? If I want to handle this myself?"

"Then I'll take you home." Murdoc replied simply, "But I don't think you want to be alone, Angus, you told me that yourself."

Mac’s gaze dropped to his hands, and he let out a sharp breath, trying to steady himself as the memory surfaced in his mind. He had said it. He had begged for someone to stay, even if it was Murdoc, and he hated himself for it. The shame from last night, the memory of collapsing into Murdoc’s arms, ate at him from the inside out. How could he have felt safe there? How could he have let Murdoc be the one to comfort him? Stay with me, my darling, and you’ll never be alone again. All you have to do is say yes.

He remembered how broken he felt, how much he wanted someone to be there, no matter how terrifying it was, Yes.

Mac pushed his self-loathing back down. His voice still rough, but laced with that sarcastic edge that had always been his defense mechanism, “Six weeks, huh? Does my stay come with room service?"

“Of course.” Murdoc replied smoothly, his voice was teasing, “Room service, full body massages, and the finest selection of painkillers you could dream of. You’ll be well looked after, Angus. I take care of what's mine, after all.”

“Oh, well, when you put it that way, how can I possibly say no?” Mac let out a bitter laugh, though it was more of a pained exhale, "There's only one problem I can see with this plan, I don't exactly see Phoenix just sitting around with one of their agents missing. What happens when they find you?"

Murdoc’s fingers tightened around Mac’s hip, and he could feel the shift in the atmosphere, that dark intensity surging through the assassin like a current, "If they find us, I’ll simply let them know you’re recovering. I’m the one who took care of you, after all. I’d like to think they’d be grateful, and if they aren't they'll surely be willing to believe any lie you concoct."

Murdoc’s eyes never wavered from Mac’s face, the possessive intensity in them only growing. There was no malice in his gaze, not like the times Mac had faced him in the past. This was something different. Something that he'd never seen before. The silence stretched between them for a moment. Then, Murdoc's voice returned, so soft that Mac found it hard to associate with the assassin, "Why would she hurt you?"

There was no edge to the question, no anger or mockery in his tone, just deep, unnerving curiosity. Mac shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Murdoc’s gaze as he tried to gather his thoughts.

"She didn’t mean to." Mac started, his voice low, rough from the rawness of the night before, "She was just... frustrated. With the mission, with me. I messed up, I hesitated, it almost got someone killed."

Murdoc's eyes darkened as he watched Mac carefully, his thumb skimming over the bandaged skin of his ribs, "But that's not what happened, is it? She hurt you because she could. You didn't deserve it, you would never deserve a thing like this."

Mac flinched, the words hitting harder than he expected, "What do you know about it? You’ve hurt me more times than I can count."

"My darling." Murdoc leaned in, his voice low, "If you cared for me the way you cared for her, if you put your trust in me, your faith in me... I would never hurt you. I would do anything to keep you from harm."

Mac’s throat felt tight. His voice came out weaker than he intended, "Why? Why do you even want to help me?"

There was no answer, not a direct one anyway. Instead, Murdoc leaned in slightly, his voice quiet but firm, "Because you’re mine, Angus. And I take care of what’s mine."

Mac forced himself to breathe through the pressure in his chest, to push through the realization that the situation was completely out of his control. It wasn’t just the physical pain that was grinding at him; it was the vulnerability, the sense that Murdoc wasn’t just present in the room with him, but in his head.

“Alright, then.” Mac finally muttered, his voice shaky as he looked at Murdoc, “You want to take care of me? Fine. But the first rule is stop being so creepy.”

“Oh come now, my darling.” Murdoc smiled, his voice dripping with amusement, as if the idea of Mac telling him how to behave was an amusing little game, “You didn’t seem to mind it last night. In fact, you seemed to like it."

“Shut up.” Mac muttered, his voice rougher than he intended, but his chest felt tight as he tried to push the vulnerability back. He hated that Murdoc was right, and the last thing he wanted was for Murdoc to see him as weak, or worse, needy.

Murdoc’s grin softened into something almost affectionate, as if he were watching a precious possession, something he was both fascinated by and determined to protect. “You must be hungry, I’ll be back soon. Rest while you can.”

He placed a lingering kiss on the top of Mac’s head, a strange mix of possessiveness and care. He felt himself flinch, but there was no immediate move to push him away. His body, still too weak to protest fully, allowed it. He felt dirty and confused, but he didn’t know how to fight it anymore. He had agreed to stay, after all. He watched the assassin leave, the door clicking softly behind him, leaving the room colder than before. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the noise of Mac’s own thoughts. He lay back, closing his eyes again, but sleep wasn’t something he could fall into easily. Every thought was tangled, every piece of his reality shifting under his feet.

The truth sank in slowly. Six weeks.

Six weeks to heal, six weeks of questions that would go unanswered, six weeks of pretending that nothing had changed. He wasn’t sure what scared him more, not going back to Phoenix or the idea of facing everyone knowing how broken he really was.

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Murdoc

Murdoc hummed softly to himself as he watched the pot of simmering chicken soup on the stove. The kitchen was warm, filled with the comforting smell of citrus, garlic, and broth. He stirred the soup with a slow, deliberate motion, savoring the simplicity of the task as his mind wandered to the earlier moments with Angus. He'd said yes. Again. His hesitation had been expected, of course. Murdoc had pushed him, prodded him with just the right words, framing the situation as one of necessity, not manipulation. The words he’d spoken earlier had been carefully crafted, designed to lead Angus exactly where he needed to go. It wasn’t a choice, it was a solution. A simple one, really.

The words Murdoc had offered up were so simple, but the weight of them lingered in the air, wrapped in possessiveness, in truth. He had watched Angus wrestle with the choice, knowing deep down that it would be hard for him to trust the offer. But Murdoc had been patient, guiding him through it, creating just enough doubt about the world he’d come from to ensure Angus saw the necessity of staying. It wasn’t about control, it was about care. Murdoc had been the only one to offer that care in a way that made sense. He had made sure Angus understood that going back to Phoenix wasn’t the right option. They wouldn't keep him safe, not like Murdoc would.

Murdoc ladled the hot soup into a deep bowl, the steam rising in gentle curls from the broth. The kitchen light glinted off the surface, casting fleeting shadows against the walls. He watched it for a moment, the warm golden hue of the liquid almost soothing in its simplicity. With slow, deliberate steps, he crossed the kitchen, the bowl of soup cradled carefully in his hands. He could already picture Angus in his mind, still fragile, still so easy to handle, even in his broken state. Murdoc’s chest swelled at the thought of the him lying there, in need of care, of attention, waiting for Murdoc to make things better.

As he entered the bedroom, he saw Angus still propped up against the pillows, looking exhausted and far too vulnerable for someone so used to bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. The sight was almost beautiful in its fragility. Murdoc’s gaze softened as he moved toward the bed, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer than usual.

"How are we feeling, my darling?" Murdoc’s voice was warm, his tone deliberately soft as he set the bowl of soup down on the bedside table. He didn’t want to rush this. He didn’t need to. Every moment mattered.

"Like I've been hit by a truck, thanks for asking." The sarcastic bite of the blond's voice was just the kind of defiance Murdoc adored. It was sharp and honest and it made something stir deep within him.

“That’s the spirit.” Murdoc replied, a grin tugging at his lips, “I've brought you something. Soup, I thought you might appreciate something comforting after your rather eventful night."

Murdoc sat beside him on the bed, deliberately leaving a bit of space between them, but not too much. Enough to maintain the comfort, to give Angus room, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. He let the silence stretch for a moment, savoring the stillness before he spoke again. Murdoc reached for the spoon, his fingers brushing against the rim of the bowl as he lifted it with careful hands. He held it to Angus’s lips, his eyes never leaving the other man's face.

"I still have one working arm you know, I can feed myself." The blond eyed the spoon like it might somehow be used to kill him.

Murdoc tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he withdrew the spoon just a fraction, "Oh, I know you can, darling. But humor me, won't you? After all, I'm just trying to be helpful. Consider it part of the experience. Six weeks of luxury service, remember? Room service, gourmet meals, full-body massages, sweet morphine, and all the attention and affection you could want."

Angus rolled his eyes, his jaw tightening as if debating whether to argue or let it slide. The defiance in his gaze was a spark, a reminder of the fire Murdoc cherished in him. Even now, bruised and battered, he still had that bite. Murdoc savored it like a rare delicacy, feeding his obsession with every sarcastic quip or reluctant glare.

"If you make airplane noises I'm throwing that bowl at your head." Angus sighed with a tone that was more frustration than acceptance.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Murdoc said, holding the spoon back out again. In truth he had considered it for a moment, if only to see more of that delicious fire in the boy scout's eyes. Angus still glared at the assassin as he leaned forward slightly to sip from the spoon.

"Good boy." Murdoc murmured almost absentmindedly, his lips curling into a small smile as he dipped the spoon back into the soup. The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he caught the way Angus stiffened and he jerked away slightly at the praise.

“Don’t.” Angus's voice was sharp, his tone clipped as he glared at Murdoc, his blue eyes narrowing, “Don’t call me that.”

“As you wish, darling. But you should know, I only say it because you make it so very fitting.”

"Why do you have to make everything weird." Angus groaned, leaning back against the pillows, "We were having such a nice hostage situation, and then you had to go and ruin it."

Murdoc schooled his features into mock sincerity, "A nice hostage situation, oh darling you flatter me. Does that mean the Stockholm syndrome has started to kick in?"

Angus let out a groan of exasperation, dragging his uninjured hand down his face, "You're insufferable. I’m lying here with bruised ribs, barely able to breathe, and you’re spoon-feeding me and acting like this is all going to turn into a rom-com or something."

“Oh, Angus, you wound me." Murdoc said, his voice dripping with faux offense, “I’m simply trying to make your recovery memorable. And I must say, you’re doing a wonderful job of keeping things interesting. A lesser man might just accept my care without all this delightful sass.”

Angus shot him a pointed look, “I’d rather choke on the soup than give you the satisfaction.”

“Careful, darling. If you keep talking like that, I might think you’re flirting with me.”

"Oh for fucks sakes why do I even bother?" The blond huffed, "Talking to you is a nightmare."

"It’s not a nightmare." He felt his heart beat faster as he took in the flickering annoyance in his Angus's eyes, "It’s an opportunity. Six weeks to rest, recover, and, maybe even learn to appreciate my particular brand of charm."

"Six weeks to figure out how to kill you in your sleep." Angus muttered, though the sharp edge in his tone was dulled by exhaustion.

"Now, now, Angus. Let’s not make threats you can’t follow through on." He held the spoon up again, a silent offering, "Eat. You’ll need your strength if you’re going to attempt homicide."

Murdoc's smile widened as the blond hesitated, glaring at the spoon like it was an affront to his autonomy. The defiance was still there, simmering beneath the surface, even through the pain and exhaustion. With a sharp exhale, Angus finally leaned forward and took another sip of the soup, "Happy now?" 

"Ecstatic."

The silence between them was heavy, filled only by the faint sound of the spoon clinking against the bowl and the soft hum of Angus’s unsteady breathing. Murdoc’s gaze never wavered, cataloging every subtle movement, every flicker of defiance in those striking blue eyes. This wasn’t about breaking him, it never had been. It was about the challenge, the dance, the slow, inevitable pull that would bring his boy scout closer to him.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” Angus muttered, his voice low, edged with annoyance, but lacking the energy for a full confrontation.

Murdoc’s grin deepened, a flicker of genuine amusement crossing his face as he leaned back slightly, his dark eyes never leaving Angus’s, “Guilty as charged, my darling. But don’t mistake my enjoyment for cruelty, I’m simply savoring the moment.”

Angus huffed, shifting uncomfortably against the pillows, his irritation evident even through his exhaustion, “I'm starting to question my fucking sanity.”

Murdoc beamed, “Oh, Angus. If you think this is bad, just wait until you see what I’ve got planned for tomorrow.”

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Bozer

Bozer paced the Phoenix Foundation's conference room, his nerves on edge. He had been to Mac's house earlier that morning to pick him up for work, but the house had been empty. The lights were off, the door locked, and there had been no sign of Mac. Normally, this wouldn’t set off alarms, Mac had a habit of getting caught up in projects and losing track of time, but something about this felt different. Off.

Matty was sitting at the head of the table, her sharp gaze fixed on the tablet in her hands. Riley sat to her left, furiously typing on her laptop, while Desi leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed, looking more irritated than concerned.

“I’m telling you, something’s wrong.” Bozer insisted, running a hand over his hair, “Mac’s not answering his phone, he’s not at home, and he missed the debrief. He doesn’t miss debriefs. Ever.”

“Maybe he just needed some space.” Desi said, her tone dismissive, “You know how he gets when he’s in his head about something. Probably wandered off to some workshop to tinker.”

"I lived with him, Desi." Bozer snapped, "I know how he gets. You're dating him, you're meant to be as worried as I am."

Matty’s sharp voice cut through the tension like a blade, “Bozer’s right.”

The room went quiet, all eyes turning to her. Matty leaned forward, placing her tablet on the table with a deliberate motion, “This isn’t just Mac being Mac. I was notified this morning that Murdoc escaped from the blacksite he was being kept in. Three days ago.”

Bozer froze mid-pace, his heart skipping a beat. He exchanged a look with Riley, “You think Murdoc took Mac?”

“It’s a strong possibility.” Matty said, her tone grim, "And if that’s the case, we’re already behind. Riley, check the security footage around Macgyver's house.”

“I’ll find him. If Murdoc so much as breathed near a camera, I’ll find him.” Riley said, turning to her laptop, her fingers flew across the keyboard. The air in the room felt heavy, every second dragging on like an eternity.

“Got it.” Riley said, her voice tense. She hit a key, and the footage from outside Mac’s house appeared on the large monitor at the front of the room.

The footage began playing, showing the quiet street outside Mac's house in the dim light of early evening. The first thing they saw was Desi storming out, her movements sharp and angry as she crossed the driveway and climbed into her car. The vehicle sped off, leaving an eerie stillness behind.

Bozer frowned, glancing at Desi, “You didn’t think to mention you were there last night?”

Desi shrugged, her face carefully blank, “I didn’t think it was relevant. He was fine when I left.”

Riley advanced the footage a few minutes, and that’s when they saw him. Murdoc. He moved with the fluidity of a predator, slipping out of the shadows and approaching the house. He paused at the door, glancing around briefly before disappearing inside. The silence in the room was deafening. Bozer’s heart pounded as he stared at the screen, his worst fears inching closer to reality.

“Fast forward." Matty instructed, her voice low and tense. Riley nodded and the footage blurred as time sped up, Bozer’s stomach twisting with every passing second. Then the door opened, and Murdoc stepped out carrying Mac in his arms. The room collectively froze, all eyes locked on the screen. Bozer’s stomach lurched at the sight. His feet stopped moving, his breath hitched, and for a second, it felt like the ground had been pulled out from under him.

Mac was awake, but barely. His arms hung limply around Murdoc’s neck, his fingers curled weakly into the assassin’s shirt as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His face was turned into Murdoc’s shoulder, but what little of it they could see was pale and streaked with tears. His body trembled visibly, even through the grainy footage, and the way he clung to Murdoc felt wrong. Broken. Desperate. The room was deathly silent and Bozer couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Mac, his best friend, his brother, reduced to this, clinging to Murdoc as the psycho carried him, tears streaking his face, his whole body visibly trembling. The Mac he knew was strong, always carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“That’s not him.” Bozer said, shaking his head as though the motion could dispel the image burned into his mind, “That’s not Mac. He's- What the hell kind of weird drugs did Murdoc use to make him look like that?”

“Drugs... that would make sense.” Riley said slowly, her voice tinged with reluctant acceptance, “It’s Murdoc. He’s probably got access to god knows what. Hallucinogens, sedatives, anything to mess with someone’s head."

The footage continued. Murdoc leaned his head down, his lips brushing dangerously close to Mac’s ear. Whatever he whispered was inaudible, but the effect was immediate. Mac’s body curled into the assassin's chest, his fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt as though he were clinging to a lifeline. The trembling didn’t stop, but it seemed to change, becoming more subdued, almost as if Mac had found solace in Murdoc’s hold. The tension in the room was suffocating as Bozer tried to swallow the bile that rose in the back of his throat.

Matty’s voice broke the silence again, sharp and decisive, “This isn’t going to be easy, and we’re already working against the clock. Riley, keep digging. Bozer, I want you to start pulling every file we have on Murdoc’s recent activities. Desi stay available. I’ll need your input if we find a trail.”

Desi gave a curt nod but said nothing, it made Bozer's heart twist, why was she acting like this. She should care just as much as he did, as much as Riley did.

Matty’s next words sent a jolt through the room, “Riley, draft the recall order. I’m pulling Jack.”

Riley looked up, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, “You sure about that? He’s still undercover, and if we pull him now-”

“He won’t stay in the field once he knows Murdoc has Mac and I know that at least one of you will find a way to tell him when you panic.” Matty interrupted, “Besides, we need every resource we can get. If anyone can help bring Mac home, it’s Jack.”

Bozer nodded, a small, relieved sigh escaping him. Jack was exactly what they needed right now. If anyone could handle Murdoc and get Mac back, it was him. Still, Bozer’s chest tightened at the thought of what Mac might be enduring right now, alone with that psychopath.

He looked back at the screen, the haunting image of Mac trembling in Murdoc's arms still burned into his mind. Bozer swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat down, “We’re gonna get him back, right? No matter what?”

Matty’s expression was grim but resolute as she met his gaze, “No matter what.”

Chapter 3: Keep Running For The Sink

Notes:

I'm having a great time writing this gang, hope you enjoy!

I just wanted to note that the name is from Curses by The Crane Wives which is a big inspiration as I write this!

Also please bear with me while I figure out how I want to handle POVs, the standard for T&T has become two povs per chapter with one scene per pov, but given the different nature of this fic I'm trialling 2 povs per chapter: one from either mac or murdoc (one to two scenes for this pov), then one scene pov from the Phoenix agents trying to find them (either Jack, Bozer, or Riley.)

Mac

It must've been the middle of the night by now and Mac was still awake, the pain throbbing through his body like an ever-present reminder that nothing about this situation was normal. Every inch of his skin felt heavy, bruised, sore, like even the air around him was pushing against his body, but more unsettling than the pain was the sense of comfort that wrapped around him. It was strange, dissonant, like being held by a warm blanket while standing on the edge of a cliff. There were soft sheets brushing against his skin, smooth and cool, and a faint scent of vanilla and coffee in the air. Mac hated that he knew that was what Murdoc smelled like, it reminded him distantly of a coffee shop Desi had dragged him to once. The place had been loud, busy, filled with people talking and laughing, the clink of cups and saucers ringing in the air. It was one of the rare moments where they hadn’t been in a rush, where Desi had smiled at him without the weight of tension between them. He hadn’t thought about it in so long, but now the memory felt so far away, almost like it had happened to someone else.

Desi had hit him before. She’d gotten angry in the past, struck him in frustration, but it had been a passing thing, a fleeting outburst. He had forgiven her, moved on, but this time, everything had been different. The split lip, the black eye, those were nothing, those were easy things, things Mac had learned to just let go. It was when he’d tried to apologize that things had truly gone wrong. He should have stayed back, should have let her cool down. But no, he’d gone after her, stumbling through the pain to chase after Desi because he’d known that everything was his fault. When he reached her, when he tried to stop her, Desi had turned back to him and he remembered for a moment feeling like he could fix everything, but it was only enough to kick him away. He remembered the sharp pain in his ribs, a sensation that stole his breath and left him gasping for air as he stumbled and fell back. He remembered his shoulder hitting the kitchen counter and then the feeling of the floor hard against his back.

Then, she'd just left, Desi hadn't even looked back at Mac as he'd curled in on himself, unable to stand or say anything through the pain. It hurt, more than the bruises or the injuries, more than the aching in his ribs or the tender spots where his muscles screamed for relief. It hurt because he wanted her, because he still believed, deep down, that they could fix it. But the memory of her walking away from him, leaving without a second glance, cut deeper than any wound she'd inflicted.

She’s angry. That's all. He'd clung to that lie, the one that kept him from falling apart. She’ll come back. She always does.

But it wasn't her that had come for him last night, was it, it was Murdoc. Murdoc who'd tortured him, who'd shot his friends, who'd kidnapped his girlfriend. Murdoc who'd called him special, who'd offered to protect him, who'd held him as if he was sheltering something fragile. Murdoc's touch had been so different from Desi's, so disorienting. Even now, Mac could feel the faint memory of the assassin's fingers on his hip, gently caressing his skin, soothing him despite how wrong it all felt. Mac shifted uncomfortably, trying to use the pain to shove away the lingering sensation. Mac had let him, he hadn’t even told him to stop. He'd wanted to, his skin had crawled at the intimacy and possessiveness in those touches, but he hadn’t stopped Murdoc.

Why didn’t I tell him to stop?

Mac knew the answer, and it had nothing to do with Murdoc’s touch or the twisted affection he was offering. His body had been craving the release, the comfort of oxytocin, the high of dopamine, the feeling of connection and safety. That was what Murdoc had provided, whether intentionally or not, and the more Murdoc offered it, the more his body leaned into it, desperate for some semblance of relief. He hated that it had worked, that it made him feel better even for a moment, but it didn’t mean he had to fall for it. Not really. As long as Mac kept his head straight, as long as he reminded himself that Murdoc was playing him, that the assassin was manipulating him, even if he had no idea what his endgame was, Mac could use it. He could use it to get through the pain and back to being himself and then he would leave and fix everything.

The pain flared again, sharp and biting, dragging Mac back to the present. His head felt heavy against the pillow, and even though his body begged for rest, sleep remained an elusive escape. He turned his head, the familiar ache of his ribs reminding him that no matter how much he willed it, he couldn’t just forget what had happened. Mac’s chest tightened again as the weight of the situation settled over him. He had no idea how to fix any of this. He didn’t know how to get back to the way things were with Desi, he didn't know if he even wanted to anymore. He didn't know how to be the person his friends could rely on, to be the guy who could take care of everything. Would they even want him back if they knew he'd let Murdoc take care of him like this.

The door creaked open, and Mac instinctively tensed. He knew who it was without looking. He could feel Murdoc’s presence before he even spoke.

"I can hear you thinking through the walls." Murdoc drawled, leaning in the doorway.

“Sorry I'll try and spiral quieter next time.” Mac muttered, his voice hoarse and laced with a bitterness he wasn’t sure he felt.

"Oh no need to apologise my darling." Murdoc's voice was teasing as he slipped from the doorway and moved to perch on the edge of the bed next to Mac, "Tell me, what's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

"Wow. Nursemaid, therapist... you're really wracking up the new jobs." Mac hated the raw edge to his tone, the one that betrayed how bad he really felt.

"Therapist? No, I’m not here for that, that would imply I want to improve your mental health." The assassin’s voice was light, almost playful, “I’m just curious how someone so stubborn can fall apart in front of me and still try to pretend they’re fine.”

"Gee thanks." Mac rolled his eyes, even as the truth of Murdoc's statement cut into him, "Let me guess, you'd rather I cry and throw myself into your arms again so you can keep playing caretaker?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I like it better when you're fighting me?" Murdoc smiled, his expression leaning toward something more dangerous, a knowing grin that only deepened Mac’s discomfort, "The struggle makes it all the more interesting."

“Yeah, I’m sure it does.” Mac said, his voice brittle as he forced himself to hold the assassin's gaze, “But I’m not really feeling up to entertaining you right now.”

"Of course not, you're in pain." Murdoc leaned forward, "Aspirin isn't cutting it, is it?"

Mac stiffened, already anticipating what was coming, “I don’t need more painkillers, Murdoc.”

“Oh, but I think you do.” Murdoc said softly, his voice dripping with that same teasing undertone, like he was sharing some private joke with himself. He held up a small vial, the liquid inside catching the light, “Morphine, the liquid kind. It’s fast-acting, and you’re clearly suffering.”

Mac could feel his resolve wavering at the idea of finally being able to sleep, being able to breathe without pain, "I said I don't want it."

"You don’t have to make it harder on yourself, darling.” His voice was gentle, pleading, “Let me help. Let me take the edge off for you.”

“I don’t want to need you.” Mac’s voice was rough, the words slipping out before he could stop them, he flinched, knowing he couldn't take them back.

“Good.” Murdoc said softly, but there was a strange edge to his words, something that sounded almost approving, “I’m glad you’re honest, even if it’s just for a moment.”

Mac’s breath caught in his throat as the familiar ache in his ribs flared again, the pain shot through him like fire, and he clenched his teeth to stifle a cry. Murdoc studied him for a moment, his dark eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, before Murdoc broke it, “You don’t have to fight it anymore. I’m offering you relief. Why keep suffering when the solution is right here?”

Mac bit his lip, a mix of frustration and helplessness bubbling up. He hated this. Hated that, despite everything, Murdoc was right. He couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine, and more than that, he hated how much he wanted the relief Murdoc was offering. Swallowing the last pieces of his pride, Mac dropped his gaze to the side, not willing to look at the assassin and turned his arm outward to allow the injection.

"Enough to numb the pain or enough to be sent to sleep?" Murdoc's voice was tinged with approval.

Mac hesitated, feeling the weight of the moment like a chain around his neck. The words, the choices, everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers. The pain in his body was relentless, and even though his pride screamed at him to refuse, his body, worn and bruised, only craved relief. It was almost unbearable, the tension building in every muscle, every joint. He hated this. He hated how weak it made him feel, but the thought of sleep, of peace, even for a few hours, was intoxicating.

He let out a slow, shaky breath and muttered, “I want to sleep.”

The assassin didn’t waste any time. With a swift motion, he set the needle against the crook of Mac’s arm, pressing it gently into his skin. The blond flinched at the initial sting, but it wasn’t nearly as intense as the ache in his ribs. The sharp, burning sensation of the liquid under his skin spread in a wave, but it wasn’t long before the warmth followed, deep and soothing. Mac’s body felt like it was melting, the pain slipping away like water down a drain. His head felt lighter, his thoughts muddled and slow. Murdoc withdrew the needle, his fingers tenderly brushing the spot where it had been. He was watching Mac closely, almost too closely, but he really couldn’t muster the energy to care. The morphine was doing its work, flooding his system, and within moments, his body was already feeling lighter, sleepier, the world around him softening at the edges. Murdoc’s fingers brushed against his forehead, a touch so light, so gentle, that it almost felt like a lullaby.

“It's alright, my darling.” Murdoc murmured, his voice soothing, “You’ll feel better soon.”

Mac’s mind felt heavy, thick with fog as the morphine began to seep into his system, dulling the pain and soothing the raw ache in his muscles. He wanted to resist the comfort, wanted to push Murdoc away, but his body betrayed him, sinking deeper into the bed, the tension in his limbs melting away. Weakly he managed to croak out, "Why do you always have to touch me."

Murdoc’s smile lingered as he continued to stroke Mac’s hair, his touch gentle in a way that made the blond want to cry but in the haze of the drug coursing through his veins he couldn't quite figure out why, “Because I want to, and because you let me.”

“You’re tired right now, Angus.” He murmured, his fingers continuing their slow, soothing motions through Mac’s hair, “But that’s alright. I’m here for you. Always, even when you're not strong.”

The words lingered in the air, wrapping around Mac like a blanket. It felt suffocating, but somehow comforting, and as the morphine dulled his senses further, Mac's body finally let go, his mind slipping into an uneasy sleep, his last thought a twisted mix of relief and dread.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Macgyver’s eyes fluttered open, the soft light of morning filtering through the window, casting gentle shadows across the room. His body ached from head to toe, but the pain was more manageable now, softened by the remnants of the morphine from the night before. His head was heavy against the pillow, but there was a strange warmth around him, something comforting yet unsettling. He shifted slightly, only to realize that Murdoc was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed. The assassin's hair was damp and hanging over his eyes and the sight made Mac long for a shower, but to be honest he didn't think he could stand long enough with help to wash himself and he wasn't desperate enough to allow Murdoc to help him shower, not yet at least.

"Good morning my darling." Murdoc chirped, way too enthusiastic for how the blond felt right now.

"Were you watching me sleep?" Mac mumbled, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“I wouldn’t say watching dearest. More like keeping you company.” Murdoc replied with a wink, making Mac’s skin crawl despite the semi-softness of his tone.

"What did I say about the being creepy?" The blond tried to push himself up and winced as pain stabbed into him, he felt stiff now as well as sore but more than anything he felt frustrated.

Murdoc immediately moved, his hand sliding under Mac’s uninjured arm and around his back to steady him, "Careful my dear."

“Yeah, yeah.” Mac muttered, annoyed, but he let Murdoc help him. His body still screamed at him to stop moving, to just lie down and forget the world and maybe sleep for a week.

"I think it's time for a change in scenery." Murdoc hummed, "Breakfast is just about ready, would you like to try walking out to the living room or shall I carry you?"

"What do you think?" He couldn't resist the urge to be sarcastic, even though

Murdoc laughed, “I think you’d prefer to walk, Angus. You have a certain dignity about you that I don’t want to strip away just yet.”

Mac snorted, “Yeah, dignity is what I’m holding onto right now, not my sanity. You know what sure, let’s try walking.”

Mac barely had time to register the weight of Murdoc’s arm slipping around his waist to help him up before the assassin’s hand rested lightly on his hip. The touch was unexpected, and even as his body recoiled slightly at the contact, his mind couldn’t help but notice how warm and steady Murdoc’s hand felt against his skin. Mac hated it. He hated how it felt nice, how it eased the pain just a little. He tried to ignore the warmth of Murdoc’s body next to him as they slowly made their way to the living room. He leaned into Murdoc slightly, his uninjured arm around the assassin’s shoulders for support. Each step was slow, deliberate, and Mac fought the urge to let gravity take him and just collapse onto the floor.

"Almost there, my darling." Murdoc said softly, his voice dripping with that weird sweetness that made Mac’s skin crawl, “You're doing so well.”

"Yeah, so well. Look at me I can almost stagger fifteen meters with someone half-carrying me." He could feel his ribs burning with every step, god Mac had had no idea how much you used your chest to move or talk or breathe.

Murdoc huffed an amused noise but didn't respond, instead the assassin gently helped Mac settle into the couch, adjusting the pillow behind him with an almost exaggerated care. The couch cushions were soft beneath him, and the scent of fresh food from the kitchen made his stomach growl, a welcome distraction from the ache in his ribs and shoulder. Maybe this was better than going back to Phoenix, they would've stuck him in a hospital for a few days where the only food Mac could eat was the chocolate pudding cups.

"Breakfast is served, dearest." Murdoc said, his voice light as he placed a tray with a plate and fork in front of Mac. The sight of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and golden hashbrowns was welcome, and he noted the bacon and hashbrowns had already been sliced into small pieces.

Mac picked up the fork and eyed Murdoc, "Does this mean I get to feed myself today?"

Murdoc’s grin was borderline mischievous as he settled into the armchair across from Mac, arms casually folded, "I thought you'd prefer it my darling, and you've indulged me enough."

Mac glared at him, "You know, you keep calling me my darling like you’re one bad decision away from making me wear a collar or something."

Murdoc got a look on his face that Mac really didn't like.

"Don't even fucking consider it." Mac pointed the fork at him like it was a weapon.

Murdoc cackled, leaning back in his chair, a devilish glint in his eyes, “Oh, Angus don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of doing something you wouldn’t at least secretly enjoy.”

Mac groaned, stabbing his fork into a piece of hashbrown, "Jesus Christ, can you just not for like five minutes?"

"Not what, my dear?" Murdoc replied innocently, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

“Be you.” Mac said around a bite of bacon, his voice heavy with irritation. He hated how good the food was. It annoyed him almost as much as Murdoc's smug presence, "Say weird shit as if I'm into it."

“Oh, but it's so fun to watch you get annoyed.” Murdoc leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand as he watched Mac eat, “Really brings out your eyes.”

Mac set his fork down with a clatter, glaring at the assassin, “I'm adding watching me eat like I’m some sort of performance art piece to the list of creepy things that I don't want you to do. You’re seriously freaking me out.”

Murdoc seemed completely unbothered by Mac's irritation, “You wound me, Angus. Here I am, ensuring you’re comfortable, and you insist on finding fault with my attention.”

“Your attention is the problem.” Mac muttered, shoving a piece of scrambled egg into his mouth, “Maybe take up knitting or something. Keeps your hands busy and off me.”

“Knitting?” Murdoc raised an eyebrow, his grin widening, “Dearest, do you want me to make you a scarf? Maybe a sweater?”

Mac sighed, leaning back against the couch cushions, “Actually, yeah a sweater would be nice. You got one lying around? Preferably one that magically doesn't require me to move my arm to put on.”

Murdoc’s expression shifted into mock surprise, one hand dramatically pressed to his chest, “Are you admitting to being cold, my darling? This is a monumental moment. Shall I alert the press?”

"Yeah sure Macgyver Gets Cold will definitely make the front page." Mac watched as the assassin got up and moved toward the bedroom, wondering why exactly he was scared of him again. It was a dangerous thought, one that filled him with a sudden rush of cold dread. He'd let himself forget for a moment who Murdoc really was. That disarming charm, the teasing banter, the stupid jokes it was all part of the act and here he was, sharing breakfast and cracking jokes like Murdoc was some eccentric neighbor instead of the man who had once tied him to a chair and taunted him with a live bomb.

You chose this. Whispered the voice in his mind that kept telling him to go back to Phoenix, to tell Murdoc he changed his mind and to take him home. Mac clenched his jaw, trying to shut that voice out. Phoenix wasn't an option right now. He wasn’t ready to deal with their questions, their pity, or worse, their disappointment. And Desi would be so angry, angry that he was useless, that he'd let Murdoc touch him, that he hadn't been strong enough to help himself, and injured like this he couldn't run away from her even if he wanted to.

The thought struck a discordant note in his mind, why was the first thing he thought of trying to escape her when he hadn't even considered the idea when it came to Murdoc. Mac's breath hitched as that realization clawed at the edges of his thoughts, sharp and unwelcome. Why was he so much more scared of Desi's anger than Murdoc's manipulation? The answer came to him far more easily than it should've, it was because Murdoc's manipulation felt good. It was comforting in its own deeply disturbing way, it wrapped around him like a warm blanket, suffocating but soft, laced with honeyed words that dulled the edges of his pain. That was the whole point of it, the assassin wanted him to feel that way, to fall into the trap of dependency and forget who he really was. Not like Desi, who made him remember exactly who he was, or at least who he wasn’t. He wasn't good enough, wasn't strong enough, wasn't-

"Angus." The feeling of the Murdoc's hand brushing over his shoulder pulled Mac back out of his spiralling thoughts. The touch was light, careful, and it startled Mac enough to make him jerk slightly, wincing as the motion sent a sharp pain through his ribs. He hadn’t even heard the assassin come back into the room, and that realization made him feel even more on edge.

"I really should stop leaving you alone with your thoughts." Murdoc continued, sliding onto the armrest of the couch, a folded dark green flannel in his hands, "You seem to have a habit of spiralling."

"Spiralling? Never." Mac said sarcastically, "I'll have you know I'm the epitome of positive mental health."

"Oh darling, think of it this way at least when I'm around you'll always be the stable one." Murdoc held up the shirt like he was showcasing a prized artifact, "I believe this should suit your current limitations. Stylish, practical, and most importantly, easy to wear with one arm."

Mac squinted at the shirt, then back at Murdoc, “That looks just like... did you steal that from my house?”

"I prefer the term liberated." He shrugged.

"Do I even want to know when?" Mac took the flannel and started trying to wiggle his uninjured arm into it without hurting his ribs again.

"Relax boy scout, I made a few stops yesterday when I was out purchasing some entertainment for you." Murdoc seemingly took pity on Mac's weak attempts to dress himself and moved the tray of food away, kneeling down, "May I?"

Mac hesitated, glaring at the assassin, but his ribs protested every time he tried to move on his own, “Fine, but no weird comments.”

Murdoc’s grin was infuriatingly smug as he carefully helped Mac slip his good arm into the flannel. The assassin moved with surprising gentleness, almost reverence, as he draped the shirt over Mac’s other shoulder, “Weird comments? Me? Perish the thought.”

“You've made three weird comments in the past fifteen minutes.” Mac said flatly biting back a wince as Murdoc adjusted the fabric around his ribs, "Whatever, what's this entertainment you're talking about: LEGO? A gun to shoot myself with?"

Murdoc’s grin widened as he reached over to the coffee table, grabbing a sleek black box from the corner and holding it up triumphantly, “Not quite, my dear Angus. Behold: a brand new PlayStation 4, along with a few choice games that I believe you’ll find engaging.”

Mac’s lip twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, “What makes you think I play video games?”

“Oh, come now.” Murdoc said, settling back into his armchair and placing the box on the table with theatrical care, “You’re a child of the modern age, Angus. Don’t tell me you’ve never spent a few hours causing delightful chaos in a virtual world.”

Mac snorted, “I haven’t played since the last time I convinced Jack to suffer through Mario Party with me. Desi always thought games were a waste of time.”

The words slipped out before he could properly consider them, and the impact on Murdoc was instantaneous. His expression darkened, the playful glint in his eyes hardening into something colder, "Desiree sounds like such a joy, no wonder you enjoy her company so much."

Mac blinked, caught off guard by the venom in Murdoc’s tone. It wasn’t just disdain, it was full-blown loathing, the kind of deep-seated anger that almost made him somehow feel protected. The thought unsettled him, but the warmth that flickered in his chest was undeniable. It felt good, too good. Like a balm to the raw, aching parts of him that had been exposed for too long.

Mac shook the thoughts away and sighed, picking at the edge of the flannel now draped over him, “Let’s not get into this, okay? I’m not exactly in the mood for a therapy session about my ex.”

“Ex?” Murdoc’s voice sharpened slightly, and Mac blinked, realising his choice in words.

“She’s not. I mean, we’re not broken up.” Mac said, stumbling over the explanation, “I just...”

"Haven't realized you deserve better yet, my darling. Don’t worry, I’m here to help you figure that out." Murdoc's eyes sparkled with dark amusement.

"And what's better?" Mac glared at him, "You?"

"Why not? I'm handsome, intelligent, caring, and completely and utterly invested in your welfare." The assassin's voice was teasing but Mac couldn't help but feel like there was a real plea somewhere under there.

The blond groaned, leaning his head back against the couch, “You’re also a psychopath with a flair for dramatics and a tendency to make everything ten times more complicated than it needs to be.”

Murdoc grinned, completely unbothered, “Ah, but doesn’t that make life more exciting, dearest? Admit it, you’d be bored without me.”

“I’d be bored and safe without you.” Mac shot back.

The assassin raised an eyebrow and gestured to Mac's current injured state, "If this is your definition of safe, then I dare say your standards are concerningly low."

Mac rolled his eyes, biting back the sharp retort sitting on his tongue. Murdoc seemed to take this as the conversation closing and held up three dvd boxes like they were golden tickets, each one showcasing vibrant cover art.

He fanned them out with exaggerated flair, holding them out so that the blond could see them more easily, “Behold, Angus, your choices for today’s entertainment: Untitled Goose Game, a delightful romp of chaos. Subnautica, exploration, survival, and a dash of existential dread, and, of course, Hitman 2, a personal favorite for obvious reasons.”

Mac squinted at the options in Murdoc’s hands, his lips twitching despite himself, “Hitman? Seriously? Did you buy that just so you could make terrible jokes about your job?”

Murdoc’s dark eyes glinted with mischief, “Oh, Angus, you wound me, I bought it because I thought you’d appreciate the artistry. Though if you’d like me to narrate your gameplay with professional insight, I’m happy to oblige.”

Mac groaned, running his hand down his face, “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but let’s start with the goose game.”

The assassin clapped his hands and went about setting up the console, “Excellent choice, my dear. A game about causing problems on purpose, it’s practically autobiographical for me.”

As the game loaded, Mac shifted slightly, testing how much he could lean back without his ribs protesting too much. The dull ache reminded him he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Still, the absurdity of this whole situation, playing a video game with Murdoc of all people, wasn’t lost on him. If someone had told him three days ago this would be his life for the next month, he would have laughed in their face. Murdoc slid onto the couch next to Mac, propping his feet up on the coffee table and holding out the game controller casually.

Mac eyed the controller like it was a ticking time bomb but took it all the same, “What, no witty remark about how I should feel privileged to play a game under your expert tutelage?”

Murdoc tilted his head, “Oh, but that would ruin the magic of the moment, Angus. Consider this your chance to impress me with your devious nature.”

Mac rolled his eyes but focused on the screen as the game loaded. The moment the titular goose waddled onto the screen with its tiny honk, Mac felt a small, unwilling smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He hadn’t realized how much he needed something as ridiculous and mundane as this.

Murdoc leaned uncomfortably close to Mac as the goose waddled across the screen, "Ah, look at that. A menace in the making. I’m positively brimming with pride."

The blond scoffed, shifting slightly and shaking his head as he directed the goose toward an unsuspecting gardener, "You would be proud of a virtual goose being a jerk."

Murdoc’s voice dropped into a conspiratorial tone, "No, no, my darling. It’s not just any goose. It’s your goose. Your vessel of mischief. Now go on, ruin his day. He left that rake entirely too accessible."

Mac couldn’t help the faint smirk that tugged at his lips as the goose wreaked havoc on an unsuspecting gardener. Every honk, every stolen object, and every toppled bucket was greeted by Murdoc’s gleeful commentary.

“Oh, oh, go for the rake, Angus.” Murdoc encouraged, his tone dripping with devilish excitement, “You must drag it into the lake. It’s poetic, really. The ultimate insult to the horticultural arts.”

“You know.” Mac said, tilting his head as he maneuvered the goose toward the lake, “I thought this would be terrible, but I have to admit that dunking this guy’s stuff in a pond is oddly satisfying.”

Murdoc leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over Mac's neck, “You’ve got a knack for this, my darling I must admit.”

The blond shifted away slightly and shot him a pointed glare, his fingers moving the controller with more confidence now, “I don’t think I’m as good at causing chaos as you are, but I’ll take my victories where I can get ‘em.”

Murdoc’s smile softened, a dangerous kind of satisfaction in his gaze, “Oh, Angus, I’ll make sure you’re the best at it yet. You’ll see, there’s always more fun to be had on my side of things.”

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Jack

Jack stepped into the Phoenix briefing room, the last remnants of jetlag still clinging to him like a thick fog. He barely remembered the flight back from Croatia. The only thing that had been clear was the urgent call from Matty, pulling him out of his assignment, telling him to drop everything and get back, telling him that Murdoc had taken Mac.

His heart was pounding as he walked in, and for a moment, he couldn’t quite place the feeling rising in his chest, anger, panic, dread, until he spotted the team. The first thing he noticed was Desi, arms crossed tightly, her jaw set in that way that made Jack know she was trying not to lose it. Then there was Riley, focused and typing furiously at her laptop, her expression a mixture of determination and worry. Bozer stood to the side, shifting on his feet like he couldn’t quite settle. Jack’s gaze moved to Matty, who stood at the head of the table, eyes locked on the screen in front of her. The tension in the room was palpable, heavy enough to choke anyone who dared to breathe too deeply. Jack didn’t even need to ask, the grim look on Matty’s face told him everything he needed to know.

“You’re late.” Desi said, her voice flat, though Jack could hear the edge beneath the words.

“And you lost Mac, guess we're even.” Jack muttered, barely glancing her way. Instead he looked at Bozer and Riley with a soft expression, "How you kids holding up?"

"About as well as you are." Riley sounded so tired and Jack knew that she would've been up all night, probably trying to develop new and even more impressive facial recognition to run over every camera in the city she could get access to. Bozer just gave him a weak look of desperation, he looked absolutely wrecked.

Matty’s sharp gaze flicked to Jack, her usual stoic professionalism barely masking the storm beneath, "It's good that you're here Jack, take a seat. Riley cue up the footage."

The moment he sat down, Riley hit a key, and the first set of footage loaded. Jack’s stomach dropped as he saw the familiar face of Murdoc slipping out of the shadows, entering Mac's house.

Matty's voice was clear as she narrated the video, "At 11:14pm last night Murdoc entered Macgyver's house, nine minutes later he left again carrying Mac who while awake was... you'll see it Jack."

Jack’s eyes stayed glued to the screen, his chest tightening as Murdoc appeared on the footage. The way the assassin moved was always methodical, precise—this time, there was no gleam of madness in his eyes. He was focused, deliberate. But it was the way he was holding Mac that made Jack’s stomach turn. Murdoc had Mac cradled in his arms, the blond’s body limp and trembling against him. Mac’s face was pressed into Murdoc’s shoulder, the movement of his body more instinctive than conscious. His fingers were clutched tightly at Murdoc’s shirt, like he was holding on for dear life. Jack could barely breathe. The camera wasn’t clear enough to catch the expression on Mac’s face, but the way he was shaking, his body trembling, was impossible to miss. The instinct to protect Mac, to rush to him, surged through Jack’s veins, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the footage.

Matty’s voice broke through the tension, keeping him grounded in the present, "We’re still working on identifying exactly what’s happening to him. The current theory is that Mac was given mind-altering drugs. His behavior, and physical state all point to some form of heavy sedation or hallucinogen."

Jack nodded grimly, the words sinking in with a hollow feeling. Mind-altering drugs. That wasn’t just Murdoc being his usual insane self. It was worse, much worse.

"Do we have anything else?" Jack asked. Matty made a motion toward Riley who pulled up footage from a different camera. His eyes narrowed as Murdoc appeared again, the timestamp put this hours later in a store. The footage was clearer, showing Murdoc walking down an aisle with ease, picking up a console from the shelf as if nothing were amiss. He paused to browse the games, taking his time, and Jack’s stomach twisted in disgust at the casualness of it all. His mind was still reeling from the sight of Mac, so vulnerable in Murdoc’s arms. But this? This was just surreal. Murdoc had taken Mac, and then went to pick out a video game like it was some errand, some simple distraction.

"This is footage from a gamestop near Huntington Park." Riley said, tapping away at her computer, "He just buys some stuff and leaves. The next footage is... weirder, Matty put some temporary cameras up inside Mac's house in case Murdoc came back. It was a long shot but turns out he did."

The footage began in the dark, showing the familiar interior of Mac’s house. Murdoc entered the frame, his movements smooth, methodical. He walked through the house like he owned the place, opening doors, rifling through drawers, as if he had no care in the world. Jack’s heart rate quickened as he watched the assassin fill a bag with Mac’s clothes: shirts, jeans, jackets.

Then, without warning, Murdoc stopped.

He froze in the middle of the room, his head snapping toward one of the cameras Matty had set up. The sudden awareness of the surveillance was unnerving. Murdoc walked closer, and Jack’s stomach churned as he leaned in to the camera, a sickeningly familiar smile on his face. He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something dark and twisted.

"Hello there Phoenix." The assassin purred, his voice was distorted slightly by the quality of the microphone. Jack's hands clenched into fists at the sound of Murdoc’s voice, his heart pounding in his chest as the words echoed in his head. Every second of this footage felt like a punch to the gut.

"I'm sure you're so very concerned about poor Angus." Murdoc smiled in a way that bared his teeth, if Jack didn't know better he would've thought that Murdoc was angry. No, not just angry, wrathful, "But you don't have to worry, dear Phoenix, I'll make sure to give him back in far better condition than I took him. If my darling boy scout even wants me to, that is."

Then, the psycho gave a little wave and wink to the camera before sauntering away. The tension in the room thickened as the footage cut off, leaving the room in a heavy silence.

"Where do we start?" Jack said, barely controlled fury and fear pumping through his veins.

Matty’s gaze flicked to Jack, her expression hardening, “We start with what we know. Murdoc’s in control, and he’s toying with us, with Mac. We need to move fast.”

Riley nodded, her fingers already flying across her laptop, “I’ve mapped out his likely movements based on the store he visited and I'm trying to see if any of his known aliases have any traffic. It’s not a lot, but it’s a starting point. I’ll keep digging for anything else that could give us a lead on where he’s holed up. He’s leaving a trail, he just thinks he’s too clever to be caught."

Matty’s eyes sharpened as she turned back to the screen, "Jack, we need you on the ground. We need someone who can follow leads and keep up with Murdoc’s pace. He’s expecting us to underestimate him."

Jack nodded, the urgency of the situation cutting through his anger, “I’ll do whatever it takes to get Mac back.”

"Good." Matty said, her voice steady but full of determination, "We’ll move fast, and we’ll hit him hard. We’re not letting this bastard slip through our fingers again."

Jack met her gaze, a silent promise hanging between them. He would stop at nothing to bring Mac back, and make Murdoc pay for taking his friend.

Chapter 4: But The Well Is Dry, Oh My, Oh My

Notes:

Kinda cute scenes today for real! Hope it's fun for you as it is for me to write.

Murdoc

Murdoc leaned against the bathroom doorframe, his posture casual, though his attention was sharp as he listened to the sounds coming from inside. Angus had insisted on taking a proper shower, and despite the fact that the blond was clearly in pain, clearly not ready for this. Murdoc had obliged, because in a way he understood, he knew the feeling of just wanting to be clean, of wanting to feel like he had control over his surroundings, and most importantly of wanting to be left alone to do it.

Angus hadn't been the only reason Murdoc had broken out of the blacksite.

The assassin's gaze lingered on the door, his fingers drumming idly against the frame as he thought about the previous day. The sound of Angus's laughter while he wreaked havoc on that pixelated village had been genuine, unforced, and it was startling. That laughter had been like a treasure, something so rare that Murdoc had almost found himself paralyzed by it. Most of the time, the blond was a mix of sarcasm and bitterness, amusing yes but also sharp and cutting. But that laugh, that sound of pure joy, made Murdoc want to protect Angus against anyone or anything that could take it away.

The interesting thing though, was that it seemed like the boy scout might let him. Angus had yet to make a break for it, there had been no attempt to run back to Phoenix. Murdoc had actually expected it. He thought once the initial shock wore off, once the morphine haze faded, Angus would want to flee, would want to return to the safety of his precious little team, his sense of order. But Angus? He hadn’t moved. Not even a whisper of an attempt to leave. Murdoc shifted his weight, his gaze turning inward as he reflected on what was happening. It must have been working. The little games, the food, the care. They were all working in ways that the assassin didn’t quite understand and hadn't quite expected.

It wasn’t that Murdoc wanted to break Angus. No, he didn’t want to crush him, not in the way most people assumed when they thought of manipulation. He didn’t want to reduce the boy to some pliable shell of himself. No, what he wanted was something far more intriguing. He wanted Angus to embrace the chaos, the darkness that had always lurked just beneath the surface. He wanted Angus to learn to trust him, to see him not as a threat but as someone who could help him get what he really needed. And what Angus needed, even if he didn't know it, was to hurt Desiree like she'd hurt him.

"I can hear you thinking through the walls." Angus's sardonic tone was muffled slightly by the sound of the shower, "It's louder than you being annoying."

"Annoying, creepy, weird." Murdoc sighed dramatically, "My darling you wound me with your cruel words. What did I ever do to deserve such treatment?"

"Do you really want me to go down the list?" Angus snorted, clearly amused even if he wouldn’t admit it, "It's pretty long."

"And yet you're still here." Murdoc somehow couldn't help but wonder why, “So surely I can't be that bad.”

"You’re definitely not that bad.” Angus muttered, “But I’m not sure that’s a ringing endorsement given the circumstances."

Murdoc leaned into the doorframe, his voice lowering just a fraction, "Ah, but that's the beauty of it, isn't it? The circumstances. If you weren’t here with me you’d probably be holed up in some sterile hospital bed with nothing but pudding cups and pity for company."

"Sounds great." Angus shot back, the sound of water trickling behind him punctuating his words, "Pudding cups are the best part of any hospital stay. Don't knock 'em until you've had the vanilla ones."

"Darling, if you wanted vanilla custard you could've just asked. I have a delightful creme brulee recipe." The assassin's offer was somewhat genuine despite the teasing tone he put into his voice.

"You’d actually make me dessert if I asked?" Angus's voice was incredulous and cut through Murdoc's thoughts.

"Of course, my darling." Murdoc’s voice was teasing, but there was a flicker of sincerity beneath it, “If you have a request for dinner tonight then please enlighten me, I'll get you anything you want."

"I’ll be honest, the only thing I really want right now is pizza." Angus replied, a little less bitter than usual, "Takeaway pizza. The kind that’s greasy enough to make you feel like you’re doing something wrong."

Murdoc blinked, the request surprising him. Pizza? He wasn’t expecting something so simple, so familiar. But the thought of bringing Angus something comforting, something that reminded him of the world outside, made something inside of him stir. Trying to keep his tone casual the assassin replied, "You want the works? Double cheese, pepperoni, more carbs than you should be able to process?"

"Exactly, and none of that thin crust stuff. Real pizza." Angus's voice was a little lighter and the sound of the water stopped, "I remember one time I hurt my leg on a mission, my friends showed up with these ridiculous, extra-large pizzas. One of them had every topping imaginable, like they’d just spun a roulette wheel of ingredients. Jack made us watch Sharknado, and Bozer kept pointing out how none of the science made sense, as if that was the point. Riley got into a fight with Jack about whether the tornado physics were even possible, and by the end, I was laughing so hard I forgot about the pain.”

Murdoc felt his chest tighten slightly, Angus had trusted him with a piece of himself, a small piece but still something nonetheless, "Pizza and movies, sounds like decent evening plan. I'll be sure to arrange it."

There was no reply from his boy scout though, and when the silence finally broke Angus sounded so unsure, "Murdoc... do I really look this bad?"

The mirror, there hadn't been a mirror in many of rooms in the apartment but the bathroom was one of the ones which did. Angus hadn't seen himself, not really, and if he'd managed to catch his reflection in something the bandages were still covering up the majority of the bruising on his chest. The bathroom door creaked open slightly, steam curling out into the hallway like a beckoning specter. Murdoc straightened instinctively, his casual lean on the doorframe replaced with sharp attention. Angus emerged, his movements slow and deliberate, one hand clutching the doorframe for support. His golden hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and a towel hung loosely over his shoulders. Despite the bruises painting his pale skin in purples and blues, he still carried himself with that infuriating resolve Murdoc both admired and despised.

“You look positively radiant, darling.” Murdoc quipped, his voice low and teasing. He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips, "A vision, truly."

"I look like I've been jumped in an alley." Angus rolled his eyes, "But thanks I guess."

Murdoc inspected the swirling dark purple bruises across the blond's chest, "Not quite, there's not enough knife wounds for getting jumped. I'd say you look more like you got hit by a train."

Murdoc's gaze lingered as Angus gave an amused huff at his comment. There was that delicious tension again, that fragile line between annoyance and reluctant trust. It was a balancing act, really, and Murdoc fancied himself an expert tightrope walker. One wrong word or gesture, and Angus would shut down entirely, but too soft, too careful, and the boy scout might think he was just a well-meaning caretaker.

Neither of them wanted that illusion, not really.

"You're staring." Angus muttered, his voice weary but pointed. He glanced up, his blue eyes sharp despite the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin, "It's creepy."

Murdoc smirked, leaning forward just enough to invade Angus's space without crowding him, "Creepy? No, darling, it's appreciation. You're a masterpiece, and I simply can't look away."

Angus let out a frustrated groan, dragging his hand through his damp hair, "Creepy and fucking insufferable, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Not really." Murdoc shrugged, "Now, unless you'd rather just try and tough it out I think it's time I patch you up again."

Murdoc reached for the first aid kit he had left open on the dresser earlier. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as he gathered fresh bandages and a salve to help reduce the swelling on Angus’s ribs. The blond sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his blue eyes darting toward Murdoc every so often as if trying to anticipate the assassin’s next move. It was adorable, really, how the boy scout’s natural inclination to assess every situation never wavered, even when his body was too broken to act on those assessments.

The assassin kept his touch light as he worked the soothing ointment into Angus’s bruised skin, though his fingers lingered longer than strictly necessary. Each brush of his fingertips across the vibrant purple and yellow bruises sent an undeniable thrill coursing through him. It wasn’t just the intimacy of the act, it was the way Angus allowed it, even with a glare that could sear steel. The boy scout trusted him, it was reluctant and bitter, but it was trust nonetheless.

“You’ll notice these aren’t just about practicality.” Murdoc started to roll the bandages carefully around Angus's chest, “A little compression, a little structure... It’s like armor for your mind. Makes you feel less like you’re falling apart, doesn’t it?”

The blond gave a soft, noncommittal sound, his eyes locked on the far wall. He was still, his body rigid under Murdoc’s hands, but he didn’t pull away. It was that reluctant acceptance, that hooked Murdoc more deeply than he cared to admit. He allowed himself a small indulgence, pressing his palm lightly over the fresh bandages, “And this way you don’t have to look at them. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Out of sight, out of mind.” Angus echoed bitterly, his voice quieter now, weighted, “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

Silence stretched between them as the assassin finished his work, creeping into the spaces between their fragile alliance and the distrust that was still apparent in Angus's every movement, every expression.

"You didn't deserve it." Murdoc kept his tone gentle, soft even, as he adjusted the bandages around Angus's ribs. His gaze flicked upward trying to catch his eye, “No one who knows you could ever think you deserve this.”

Angus stiffened, looking deliberately away from Murdoc's gaze, "That’s easy for you to say, you weren't there."

"I wasn’t." The assassin replied simply, "But it doesn’t change that I’m right.”

“Don’t.” Angus shook his head, “Don’t try to fix it, don’t try to fix me.”

“Oh darling.” Murdoc reached up to push back the blond’s hair, “I’m only trying to heal what she hurt.”

“You don’t get to say that. You’ve hurt me too. You’ve-” He broke off, his voice trembling with anger and something far more fragile, “You’ve made me feel-”

“Alive?” Murdoc interrupted smoothly, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Isn’t that what you mean, darling? I’ve made you feel alive. And that terrifies you.”

“No.” Angus snapped, his blue eyes burning with defiance, though his voice shook with every word, “You’ve made me feel powerless.”

Powerless. The word hit Murdoc like a slap in the face, powerless, that wasn't in the plans, that wasn't how he wanted his Angus to feel. Not to worry, he knew exactly how to fix this. The assassin reached for the gun in the holster at his thigh and he could see the blond's eyes widen.

"No wait, I'm-" Angus's voice was filled with fear, but he could see the terror in the blond's eyes give way to confusion as Murdoc held the gun out to the blond, gesturing for him to take it. He knew the weight of his actions, the gravity of this gesture. Angus’s wide blue eyes flicked from the gun to his face.

“I trust you, Angus.” Murdoc said smoothly, his voice low and deliberate, almost tender, “You're not powerless so long as you have a weapon, and if you won't let that weapon be me then you can at least take this.”

Angus stared at the gun for a long moment, his breathing uneven, then all at once he took the pistol and held it to Murdoc's forehead. The assassin didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, he just leaned into the cold metal and smiled.

"You're fucking insane." Angus's hand shook, "You're not afraid of me at all."

"I don't think you want to kill me, but now you can." Murdoc tilted his head, "You're not powerless, you can just get fed up and decide to end me. Isn't that fun?"

"I don't like your idea of fun." The boy scout lowered the pistol and held it back out to Murdoc, "And I don't like guns, thanks for the weird power trip I guess."

Murdoc’s smirk softened into something subtler, his dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of satisfaction and something far more dangerous, “Anything for you my darling.”

“Shut up Murdoc.” Angus rolled his eyes.

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The rest of the day passed in a blur of gaming and random taunts, until finally as the sun dipped below the horizon Murdoc left his boy scout grumbling on the couch and headed out to into the oddly quiet streets to retrieve dinner. The warm glow of the pizza place came into view, the neon sign flickering faintly in the twilight. Murdoc pushed open the door, the smell of melted cheese and fresh dough wrapping around him. The cashier, a bored teenager, barely glanced up as Murdoc approached the counter.

“Order for Murdoc.” He said, flashing his most disarming grin.

The kid blinked, clearly unimpressed, before shuffling off to grab the box. Murdoc tapped his fingers idly against the counter, scanning the menu pinned to the wall, “You know, I hear the works pizza is life changing. Any truth to that, or is it just corporate propaganda?”

The teenager didn’t respond, returning with the box and handing it over wordlessly. Murdoc took it with a mock bow, adding, “No need to thank me for brightening your evening.”

The assassin walked briskly on the way back, his footsteps purposeful as he carried the warm pizza box in one hand, the rich, greasy smell of pepperoni and melted cheese wafting upward. The apartment wasn’t far, but Murdoc had taken his time, savoring the walk and the small thrill of this entirely mundane errand. He relished the absurdity of it all, Murdoc, master assassin, infamous and feared, walking the streets like a dutiful errand boy. As he approached the building, the assassin’s mind wandered. He thought of Angus’s reluctant gratitude earlier, the way his sarcastic barbs had lacked their usual edge. Vulnerability had softened the boy scout’s usual defiance, leaving behind something raw and unguarded. Something compelling.

Murdoc adjusted his grip on the pizza box and pushed the apartment door open, the familiar creak echoing in the quiet night. The scent of cheap pizza filled the narrow hallway as he climbed the stairs, his steps unhurried but deliberate. He reached the door and paused for a moment, the faint sound of the TV drifting through the thin walls. What should he say this time, should he be over the top, or maybe he should just act normal for once like Angus seemed to want him to. That would be an interesting idea.

"I'm home!" Murdoc called, closing the door with his foot and holding the pizza box aloft like a trophy.

“Finally.” Angus shifted awkwardly to sit up straighter, “I was starting to think you got lost or decided to stage a coup at the pizzeria.”

Murdoc grinned, placing the pizza box on the coffee table with an exaggerated flourish, “Oh, Angus, you give me far too little credit. If I were to stage a coup, I’d aim for a government. Panama maybe, or Denmark."

Angus rolled his eyes, reaching for the box, “Sure, Denmark, because nothing says power move like overthrowing the land of cinnamon rolls.”

“Well you know what they say boy scout." Murdoc settled onto the couch next to him leaning back with a smug expression, "If you control the cinnamon roll supply, you control the world.”

The blond let out a snort, shaking his head as he flipped the lid open and grabbed a slice. The rich aroma of melted cheese and pepperoni seemed to lighten the atmosphere, though Murdoc could still see the stiffness in Angus’s movements as he shifted under the blanket. Every wince, every deliberate motion to avoid further aggravating his injuries, was like a tally in Murdoc’s mental ledger a reminder of just how much work he had left to do.

“Alright.” He said through a mouthful of pizza, gesturing toward the TV remote with his free hand. “You wanna grab that? I’m not letting you monopolize dinner conversation with your weird Denmark fantasies.”

Murdoc raised an eyebrow, feigning offense as he reached for the remote, "Weird? Denmark is the cornerstone of modern civilization. They gave us LEGO, Angus. Have some respect."

Angus gave him a skeptical look that gave way to amusement, “Good point. Can't say I've had that much time to put any sets together though. Not recently, at least."

Murdoc caught the subtle shift in his tone, a faint wistfulness that the assassin filed away for later review. For now, though, he handed over the remote with a flourish, "Your move, darling. What cinematic delight shall we indulge in this fine evening?"

Angus took the remote with a small, deliberate motion, his blue eyes flicking toward the screen. He hesitated for a moment, scrolling through the options before he stopped and let out a quiet sigh, “The Princess Bride, and if you say a single weird comment about me picking it then I'll beat you to death with the remote.”

"Wouldn't dream of it." Murdoc grinned, "But you know you do remind me of-."

"Don't say it." Angus groaned.

"-Westley."

"Oh." Angus blinked, "I uh... I thought you were going to compare me to Princess Buttercup."

“Angus, you wound me. Do you really think I’d compare you to someone who spends most of the story as a damsel in distress? No, no, no. You’re Westley our dashing, resourceful hero. Clever, persistent, willing to throw yourself into danger for the ones you love.” He paused, letting his gaze linger just a beat too long, “Constantly outsmarting our antagonists, able to survive anything.”

"Yeah well." The blond gave a lop-sided grin, "I guess I'm only mostly dead right now."

The room fell into an easy silence as the movie began, broken only by the occasional crunch of pizza crust or a quiet chuckle at the film's humor. Murdoc stole glances at Angus throughout, cataloging every smirk, every fleeting moment of relaxation. It was fascinating how the boy scout’s usual tension seemed to melt away, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable.

When Inigo Montoya delivered his famous line, Murdoc leaned in slightly, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, "You know, I’ve always admired his dedication to revenge. So poetic. Don't you think, my dear Westley?"

Angus didn’t answer immediately, his attention fixed on the screen, though Murdoc caught the faintest twitch of his lips, “Revenge isn’t exactly my style, but I’ll admit that he’s got a good one-liner.”

“Good one-liners are half the battle, darling. The other half is impeccable timing.” Murdoc winked at the blond who pointedly ignored him. The credits rolled, the soft orchestral score filling the apartment as the screen faded to black, and Angus looked pretty pleased all things considered, some of the tension had bled from his posture and he was looking at the television with an expression Murdoc didn't quite recognise.

"Well, that was a delight." He said, standing and gathering the empty pizza box, "But I assume our cinematic journey isn't over yet. What's next, my darling?"

Angus blinked, his focus shifting back to the present as he shrugged under the blanket, “Monty Python and the Holy Grail, you can't make that one weird."

"Oh dearest, you underestimate me." The assassin stretched and flopped back down next to Angus.

The second movie played on, their banter subsiding into occasional, half-muttered comments. Murdoc found himself watching Angus more than the screen, cataloging every twitch of his lips, every quiet chuckle. Slowly, the blond began to slump against him, his movements less deliberate, more languid as sleep crept in.

By the time the screen flickered with the film's closing scenes, Murdoc felt the weight of Angus’s head resting against his shoulder. He froze, his body unusually still as he looked down at the blond. His boy scout, bruised and battered but impossibly resolute, had drifted into sleep, his breathing soft and even. Murdoc allowed himself the smallest, almost imperceptible smile, something unfamiliar tightening in his chest as he leaned back slightly, careful not to disturb him. He stayed where he was, unmoving, feeling the warmth of Angus pressed against him. Eventually, his own eyes fluttered closed, lulled by the quiet hum of the television and the unspoken truce of shared space.

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Jack

The war room felt like a pressure cooker, the tension palpable as the footage played on the screen. Murdoc, as calm and collected as ever, strolled out of the pizza place, the box balanced in one hand. The neon glow of the storefront reflected faintly on his face, highlighting an expression that Jack couldn’t quite place.

“This footage is from a pizza joint out near Huntington Park. Four blocks up from the gamestop.” Matty informed them.

Jack crossed his arms, his jaw tightening as he studied the screen. Murdoc paused just outside the door, his grin softening into something more genuine, almost wistful. Then, inexplicably, he looked down at the ground, smiling to himself for a beat before walking off into the night. Jack’s stomach twisted as he watched the assassin disappear from the frame. That smile wasn’t like the others he’d seen from the assassin, the cold, calculating grin of a predator relishing the hunt. This was something else. Something that made Jack’s gut churn.

Riley broke the silence first, her fingers flying across her laptop as she pulled up another feed, "Okay, so, pizza? Seriously? I mean, Murdoc's traded information for high-end delicacies before. He's all about truffles, caviar, vintage wine, but this? Greasy comfort food isn’t exactly his style."

"That's because it's not for him." Jack's tore his eyes away from the screen, "The games, the clothes, the pizza, it's all for Mac. This isn't just a kidnapping, he's trying to make Mac comfortable."

"Why would Murdoc bother doing that?" Bozer asked, "If he’s holding Mac hostage, what’s the point of all this?"

"He's meant to be a psycho." Desi's tone was angry but Jack heard something else in it too, something he couldn't place, "That's the point."

"No, Jack's onto something." Matty said, she stepped closer to the screen, her gaze locked on the footage, "Murdoc’s obsession with Mac has always been intense. This isn’t just a kidnapping. He’s trying to manipulate Mac, break him down. Drugs, comfort, and lies, that’ll be his angle. Make Mac depend on him, you heard him in that video, he thinks he can make Mac want to stay with him."

Riley nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing, “God Mac... that psycho knows how to exploit people. He's going to try and brainwash him.”

Jack felt the tension in his chest growing tighter. The thought of Murdoc playing those kinds of games with Mac made his blood boil, but something about it didn’t sit right.

"We can assume that Murdoc's somewhere around the Huntington Park area. Jack, Bozer, you two take the north side around the pizza place, Desi you take the south side around the gamestop. See if you can find anything around that area that looks like somewhere he'd set up shop." Matty's voice was steady and Jack was grateful at least one of them could pretend to keep it together, "Riley you try and find any candidates online, look for purchases that could be by Murdoc: people with limited social media presence, shell companies, anything you can think of."

"Got it." Desi said, she seemed to almost trip over herself to get out of the room.

Jack nodded at Matty’s orders, but his mind was still spinning. He wanted to trust her theory, that this was just another one of Murdoc’s twisted attempts to get into Mac’s head, but the footage it didn’t feel like that. Murdoc wasn’t a simple man, his moves were deliberate, calculated. But that smile, soft, almost happy, gnawed at Jack’s gut like a warning bell.

Jack lingered as the others filed out of the war room, his hands clenching into fists as the questions swirled in his head. He caught Bozer’s arm as the man turned to leave, “Hey, Boze. Hang back for a sec.”

Bozer gave him a curious look but stayed. The room cleared, leaving just the two of them. Jack leaned against the table, letting out a sharp breath as he stared at the frozen frame of Murdoc on the screen.

“What’s up?” Bozer asked, crossing his arms. His tone was light, but the worry in his eyes was clear. Jack knew he was just as rattled as everyone else.

Jack nodded, his brow furrowing, "Something's wrong. Murdoc’s behavior doesn’t line up. The anger we saw in the camera, the way he’s talking about leaving Mac in better condition. Hell, even the pizza and the games, it’s all wrong."

Bozer frowned, “You think Matty’s wrong about the brainwashing?”

"Not completely." Jack admitted, "I’m sure he’s trying to mess with Mac’s head, but it’s not just that."

Bozer leaned against the wall, his expression concerned, "What are you saying Jack?"

"I'm saying, I don’t think he was okay before Murdoc got to him." Jack hesitated for a moment, "Desi said they'd been arguing about a mission, what happened Bozer?"

Bozer shifted uncomfortably, running a hand over his face, “It wasn’t great, Jack. Mac was disarming a bomb armed with nerve agent in tight quarters, barely enough space to work. He couldn’t see the whole setup, and he started second-guessing himself. One of the agents on the team got shot covering him.”

Jack’s jaw tightened, “How bad?”

“They thought he was gonna make it. Got him to medical, stabilized him. But the night Mac got taken...” Bozer trailed off, the weight of the words settling heavy between them, “He didn’t pull through. The info got sent out to us at about eleven.”

Jack exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face as he processed the information. It fit together too neatly, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. Mac would have taken that death hard, harder than most. Jack had seen it before, the way Mac internalized every loss, every failure, like it was carved into his soul, "Eleven, before Murdoc arrived, do you think Mac found out?"

"If he did then..." Bozer looked at the door to the war room as if someone might come in, "Look Jack, that was sixth mission that went south in a row. Mac’s been different, man. Hesitating, second-guessing himself. I thought it was just stress, you know? The usual Mac stuff, but it’s been getting worse, Mac actually got a warning after the last one. He keeps joking about being useless but they've stopped sounding like jokes."

Jack’s chest tightened at Bozer’s words. The idea of Mac spiraling, carrying the weight of not just this mission but a string of them, was like a knife twisting in his gut. He’d seen Mac in bad places before, this sounded different. And Murdoc showing up right after? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

“That’s it, Mac found out about the agent.” He took a breath, swallowing the lump in his throat, “He probably thought he was gonna get fired. Hell, knowing Mac, he probably thought he deserved it.”

Bozer stared at him, “You think Murdoc just waltzed in at the perfect time and exploited all of that? You think Mac left with him willingly?"

Jack's gaze fixed on the frozen footage of Murdoc’s unsettling smile, “I don’t know if it was willing, Boze, but I think Murdoc knows exactly when to strike. He’s obsessed with Mac. Always has been. Thinks he’s his equal, his perfect counterpart or whatever twisted fantasy he’s cooked up in that psycho brain of his. If he showed up and found Mac in the middle of a spiral, thinking he’s a failure, thinking he’s useless. Murdoc wouldn’t see it as kidnapping him, he’d see it as saving him. He’d see Mac at his lowest and think, This is my chance to prove I’m the one who understands him, the one who can give him what he really deserves.”

Bozer ran a hand through his hair, his worry etched into every line of his face, “You’re saying Murdoc thinks he’s helping Mac?”

"Exactly." Jack grimaced, "And it'd explain why he looked the way he did when he talked to us through that security footage. Mac’s been second-guessing himself, blaming himself for every little thing. That’s not who Murdoc sees when he looks at Mac, he sees perfection, he sees someone who can do no wrong. And if he thinks Phoenix is tearing Mac down and making him doubt himself then he'd wouldn't just be furious, he'd be fucking apocalyptic. It's a miracle he hasn't come after Phoenix directly."

"Not a miracle." Bozer's eyes softened, "Mac. He knows Mac wouldn't forgive him for hurting us, no matter what state he's in."

Jack nodded slowly, Bozer’s words hitting him like a gut punch, “Yeah, you’re right. That’s probably the only thing keeping us safe right now. But it won’t last, if Murdoc thinks he’s protecting Mac from us we’re not just running against the clock to get him back. We’re running against the moment Murdoc decides we’re not worth sparing.”

Jack exhaled sharply, pushing himself off the table. He placed a hand on Bozer's shoulder, meeting his gaze, “Keep this between us for now Boze. It’s just a theory. Matty could still be right about the brainwashing.”

Bozer nodded hesitantly, his brow furrowed, “Alright, Jack. But if you’re right we’ve gotta figure this out fast.”

“Yeah.” Jack muttered, glancing back at the screen, that unsettling smile still frozen in time, “Before we’re out of chances.”

Chapter 5: Every Word I Say Is Kindling

Mac

The first thing Mac noticed was the warmth. It wasn’t the smothering, suffocating heat of pain or the restless tossing that had plagued him since this ordeal began. No, this was different: steady, even, almost soothing. For the first time in days, his body didn’t feel like it was actively rebelling against him, the sharp stabs in his ribs had dulled to a faint ache, the stiffness in his shoulder less pronounced.

The second thing he noticed was that his pillow was breathing.

Mac’s first instinct was to jerk away, but the ache in his ribs reminded him that sudden movements were not his friend. He stayed still for a moment, forcing himself to breathe as he processed the situation. His head was in the crook of Murdoc’s neck, his shoulder pressed against the assassin's side. Mac realised, after a moment, that Murdoc was asleep.

His face was softened by sleep, his lips gently parted to allow for deep even breaths. His hair, usually so meticulously styled, was a little mussed, a stray lock falling across his forehead. His arms were loosely crossed over his chest, but they’d slipped down in sleep, the tension usually etched into his posture entirely absent. Mac blinked, his mind struggling to reconcile the sight with everything he knew about Murdoc, in his mind the assassin didn’t sleep, he rested like a predator, always poised, always ready. But this? This was different. Murdoc’s body was angled slightly away from him, as if even in sleep he was making an effort not to crowd him.

The weight of the moment pressed on Mac in an uncomfortable way, like the world had shifted slightly off-axis. Murdoc hadn’t wrapped an arm around him, hadn’t leaned back on him, hadn’t done anything even remotely invasive, hadn't even just woken him up and teased him about falling asleep. Those thoughts were dangerous though, Mac didn’t want to think too hard about what it meant that Murdoc hadn’t pulled anything while he was asleep. He didn’t want to think about how the assassin, for all his chaos and manipulation, had made him feel safer than he had in weeks.

Nope. Not going there. That's the way to lose the last shreds of his dignity.

The faintest snore broke the quiet, a soft, almost imperceptible sound. Mac blinked, caught off guard. It was strangely human. Normal.

He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb his ribs, and squinted at Murdoc’s face. The assassin’s brow twitched, and his lips moved faintly, as if caught in some half-formed dream. Mac hesitated, torn between letting him sleep and waking him up, if only to rid himself of the surreal intimacy of the moment.

"Murdoc." Mac said softly, his voice low and deliberate.

The assassin’s head lolled slightly to the side, his lips parting to mumble something unintelligible. His arms shifted faintly, but instead of springing into action or offering some sharp-edged retort, he merely turned his face away, as if trying to burrow further into sleep. Mac frowned. This wasn’t what he’d expected. Murdoc was supposed to snap awake instantly, fully alert and ready to say something that made him regret ever existing.

Mac cleared his throat and tried again, a little louder this time, “Murdoc.”

Murdoc groaned softly, the sound low and groggy, and shifted his weight slightly but didn’t open his eyes, "What...?"

Mac frowned, glancing at the man’s unusually disheveled appearance. The shadows under Murdoc’s eyes looked darker than usual, and his normally sharp features seemed softer, more tired.

"Hey, idiot." Mac leaned forward slightly, his voice more insistent now, "How come you’re able to annoy me at three in the morning, but you can’t wake up now?"

"Already awake..." Murdoc’s voice trailed off, his brows furrowing slightly as if trying to pull his thoughts together. He mumbled something else, the words barely audible.

Mac leaned in closer, his frustration mingling with curiosity, "What? I can’t hear you when you mumble like that."

Murdoc tried to press his face into the side of the couch, "Company. Said... didn’t wanna be alone."

Mac froze, the words hanging in the air between them. He stared at Murdoc, trying to process what he’d just heard. The memory surfaced unbidden, a fleeting, fractured moment from the night that Murdoc had taken him. His own voice, raw and trembling, pleading in a way he hated to even think about.

I don’t want to be alone.

Mac’s chest tightened. He’d been desperate that night, so far gone that the idea of being alone had terrified him more than Murdoc’s presence. He remembered the weight of it, the suffocating spiral of shame and pain, the way his voice had cracked when he’d said those words, and Murdoc had listened. Mac sat back, staring at Murdoc as the pieces clicked together. Despite the assassin’s theatrics, he’d actually listened. Every time Murdoc had left the apartment since that night, it had been brief. To grab food. To run an errand. Never far, never long. And now apparently, he stayed awake just to ensure Mac wouldn’t wake up alone in the middle of the night.

He cleared his throat again, “Hey. Wake up already.”

Murdoc stirred, his brows knitting together as he finally opened one bleary eye, then the other. For a moment, he looked utterly disoriented, blinking at Mac like he wasn’t sure whether this was reality or some strange dream. Then he shifted slightly, squinting at Mac, “You’re staring. It’s creepy.”

"Oh just doing my best Murdoc impression, dearest." Mac said dryly.

Murdoc blinked, the haze of sleep still clouding his features. His lips twitched upward in what might have been the start of a smirk, but it faltered as his expression softened. He looked almost happy.

"Hey stop, no looking at me like that." Mac jabbed him in the ribs, "You're meant to be annoying, this quiet stuff is weird."

Murdoc groaned softly, his hand brushing over the spot Mac jabbed, "You woke me up just to insult me?"

"Yeah, but now I'm regretting it, I feel like I just kicked a sleep-deprived puppy." Mac huffed, his tone softening despite himself.

Murdoc shrugged, leaning back into the couch and stretching, "Not often I sleep through the night. Bad habit. You'd be surprised how inconvenient it is to have a brain that thinks every shadow's out to get you."

“Not sure if that’s your brain or just you.” Mac said, his tone light but his gaze steady, “Doesn’t seem like you’ve had much practice at being normal.”

Murdoc laughed softly, rubbing at his eyes, “Normal is boring, darling. I’ll take hypervigilant over mundane any day. Though the blacksite wasn’t exactly conducive to restful evenings. Those lights were the worst. They’d flick on every few hours. Didn’t even mean to wake me. They were just doing their job, but that didn't stop me from waking up.”

Mac watched him for a beat, something in Murdoc’s tone catching him off guard. It wasn’t flippant or mocking. For once, it sounded honest, too honest for Mac’s liking. The man was a walking contradiction, shifting between predator and this. Whatever this was.

“Must be exhausting, being paranoid 24/7.” Mac’s words were meant to sound sarcastic, but the weight behind them was different. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it.

"Paranoia is just survival with a bit of flair, my dear Angus. You’d be amazed at what your senses pick up when you stop filtering them out." The assassin got up and stretched his shoulders high above his head.

"And how'd you learn?" Mac asked, watching as Murdoc padded toward the kitchen and started making coffee, "To stop filtering everything out."

"I didn't have to learn, I've always been stuck noticing everything." Murdoc gestured vaguely toward the window, the faint morning light filtering through the curtains, “Like how the alarm in the neighbouring apartment always gets turned off exactly three times before the bastard finally gets up, and the squeaky hinge on the bedroom door that's going to drive me insane before the week is out.”

"I could fix it for you." The words tumbled out of Mac's mouth before he could stop them.

Murdoc looked at him with a curious expression. He tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into a faint smile, “You’re supposed to be resting, healing. Not playing handyman.”

Mac shrugged, shifting slightly on the couch, though he winced at the tug on his ribs, “I could use something to do with my hands. Sitting around all day isn’t exactly my thing.”

The assassin nodded slowly, his expression turning contemplative, “I’ll pick up something while I’m out. Something engaging. And no, I’m not telling you what. Let me have my moment of mystery.”

"As if you need more mystery." Mac joked.

"There's always room for more mystery, my darling." Murdoc gave an over-exaggerated wink that made Mac roll his eyes, "Right now though it's time for breakfast and some physical therapy for your shoulder. No you're not getting out of it."

“I’m not going to argue about the therapy.” Mac called over, his voice dry but resigned, “Might as well get it over with before I have time to think about how much it’s going to suck.”

"We'll get it done before breakfast then dearest, but after coffee." Murdoc fiddled with the coffee machine.

The smell of brewing coffee wafted through the room, mingling with the faint morning chill. Mac watched Murdoc, his movements surprisingly relaxed as he handled the coffee machine. There was an odd rhythm to it, deliberate yet almost soothing. Murdoc might have been a lot of things, but clumsy wasn’t one of them. A few moments later, he returned with two steaming mugs, setting one on the table in front of Mac before sinking into the chair opposite him. Mac reached for his mug, the warmth seeping into his hands. He took a cautious sip and raised an eyebrow.

“Vanilla?” Mac asked, his voice curious, “Did you put syrup in yours too?”

Murdoc hummed, cradling his own mug and taking a slow sip, “Vanilla syrup, yes. Adds a little charm, don’t you think?”

The blond leaned back into the couch, “You really like vanilla, don’t you? You always smell like it. Well, vanilla and coffee.”

Murdoc’s lips paused at the rim of his mug, his dark eyes flicking toward Mac with a mixture of surprise and amusement, “You’ve noticed what I smell like? And you keep calling me weird?”

Mac shrugged, keeping his tone casual despite the flicker of embarrassment creeping in, “Hard not to. It’s kind of your thing. You’re like one of those fancy candles people buy and then never light.”

"I’ll take that as a compliment, my dear. But since you’re so curious, it’s technically a perfume. Found one that smelled like a vanilla latte, and I liked it." The assassin shrugged, "It's a nice change of pace to standard prison soap and laundry detergent, I like my indulgences."

Murdoc set his mug down, his fingers idly tracing the rim of the cup, “Now, finish that up, darling. We’ve got to work on that shoulder of yours before breakfast. A little stretching, a little strengthening, nothing too painful, I promise.”

Mac sighed and drained the last of his coffee, "I'm ready."

"Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with." Murdoc said, his voice softer than usual, still tinged with the remnants of sleep. He carefully took Mac’s arm, lifting it with slow precision. Mac braced himself for the sharp jolt of pain he’d come to expect, but it didn’t come. There was discomfort, sure, but Murdoc’s touch was gentle, his hands firm and steady. The faint scent of vanilla and coffee lingered between them and for a moment, Mac let himself focus on the rhythmic cadence of Murdoc’s breath and the calm and deliberate way he worked.

“You’re good at this.” Mac watched the assassin turn his arm gently, ignoring the discomfort, "Were you a physio for a hit or something?"

“No, nothing so glamorous.” Murdoc replied, “I’m just used to taking care of myself. You learn a thing or two when there’s no one else around to do it for you.”

The words hit Mac in a way he didn’t expect. He pictured Murdoc, injured and alone, going through the same careful motions, the same slow stretches, the same tedious process of piecing himself back together. No banter, no help, no one to distract him from the pain or make sure he wasn’t overdoing it. He didn't like the idea of this frustrating, infuriating, almost human version of Murdoc being left to deal with something like this entirely on his own.

The thought lingered, stubborn and unwelcome, as he guided his arm through another stretch, his movements slow and deliberate. Mac winced faintly but didn’t pull away, the pain more of a dull ache than the sharp jolt he’d been bracing for.

"I'm heading out on an errand anyway." Murdoc's voice cut through the silence and dispelled the image from Mac's mind, "Any requests for lunch? I could get anything, Chinese, Thai, Indian, more pizza, you name it."

Mac tilted his head, considering the options. He appreciated the gesture, even if he wasn’t about to admit it outright, “Thai, but surprise me. You seem to have an eye for picking out things people don’t even realize they want.”

"Thank you, Angus." Murdoc's dark eyes flickered with something that Mac couldn't quite name, "I'll make sure you like it, and if not I'll get a quadruple order of spring rolls to make up for it."

Mac huffed, shaking his head, "You think you can bribe me with spring rolls? You’ve got a lot to learn, Murdoc."

"Oh, my dear boy scout, everyone has their price." Murdoc carefully deposited Mac's arm back in his lap and got up, moving back towards the kitchen, "I'll get a start on breakfast, pancakes okay?"

"Sounds good." Mac leaned back into the couch, cradling the warmth of his coffee mug in his hands. His shoulder ached faintly, but the sharp edges of pain had dulled, replaced by something far less demanding, and it was staring at the ceiling that the realisation hit him. This was the first morning in weeks he hadn’t woken up feeling like he would be better off crawling back into bed and pretending he didn't exist. Mac let the thought settle for a moment, turning it over in his mind like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. It wasn’t just the pain or exhaustion that had eased; it was the weight of everything else: the loneliness, the anxiety, the constant, gnawing fear. Somehow, waking up on Murdoc’s shoulder, despite everything that should make it the most absurd, unsettling thing in the world, had felt comfortable. More comfortable, even, than waking up in bed with Desi had ever been.

God, that's not something Mac should think about.

Mac shook his head as if to physically push the thought aside. He had bigger things to worry about than the odd realization that Murdoc had somehow managed to create an environment where he felt less on edge. That was the manipulation talking, right? It had to be. Murdoc was playing some long con, the question was what did he want? To weaken him? To make him question everything? To isolate him from Phoenix and break him down so completely that he wouldn’t even fight back? Or even worse, what if Murdoc was trying to win him over? To make him see things his way, to convince him that there was no difference between them?

The worst part wasn’t that he knew Murdoc was trying to manipulate him, it was that it seemed to be working. Slowly, subtly, in ways Mac didn’t fully understand. The assassin’s touches, once sharp and invasive, now barely registered in his mind. Murdoc had been all over his arm during therapy, guiding, stretching, applying pressure where needed and Mac hadn’t minded. His brain had accepted the touches as necessary, even helpful, as if maybe the assassin actually did want to help him.

That thought unsettled him more than any twisted scheme or malicious plan Murdoc might have had. Because the truth, as much as Mac hated to admit it, was that Murdoc was helping him, he'd made him feel more at ease than he had in months. Not just physically, though that was certainly part of it. It was deeper than that. He felt lighter. Less like he was bracing for the next failure, less like he was waiting for the world to remind him that he wasn’t good enough. And wasn’t that something worth unpacking. With a therapist. After he gets back to Phoenix.

Or more accurately never, because there was no way he was telling a therapist any of this.

Murdoc returned with a plate of pancakes, they were drizzled with chocolate sauce and topped with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. He placed it on the table in front of Mac with the kind of flourish reserved for presenting a masterpiece.

“Breakfast is served, darling!” Murdoc declared before sitting back down next to Mac and getting started on his own stack.

Mac rolled his eyes at the over-the-top presentation, shaking his head as he grabbed a fork, “Chocolate and ice cream for breakfast? What kind of chaos are you trying to start?”

Murdoc’s grin was unrepentant as he waved a hand in a vaguely dismissive gesture, “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Angus. Why not make it memorable? Besides, you deserve a little indulgence.”

"I'll drink to that." Mac couldn’t deny the appeal of the warm, decadent pancakes. He took a bite, savoring the sweetness, and let himself enjoy the rare moment of lightheartedness, “So, what game are we playing today? Your call.”

The assassin's eyes lit up at the invitation, the rare opportunity to choose something so mundane yet meaningful clearly exciting him. He set his fork down, leaning forward slightly as if pondering the weightiest decision of his life, “Hitman. Let’s see how the boy scout handles a little creative problem-solving.”

Mac smirked at the choice, his lips twitching in amusement, “Really? You sure you want to give me ideas on how to take you out?”

Murdoc leaned back into the couch, an exaggerated look of mock offense on his face, “Oh Angus, you wound me. But don’t worry, I’ll be taking notes. You might just surprise me with that devious streak of yours.”

Mac rolled his eyes and powered on the console, his curiosity piqued despite himself. As the game loaded, he couldn’t help but glance sideways at Murdoc, “Ready to see how good I am at being bad?"

Murdoc's dark eyes sparkled with amusement as he settled into the couch, his coffee still in hand, “I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life. Show me your inner villain, darling. I’ll be grading your performance, of course.”

Mac scoffed but couldn’t fight the faint smile tugging at his lips. As the opening cutscene played, he let himself relax, just for a little while. The pancakes were sweet, the coffee warm, and the banter felt oddly natural. If Murdoc was playing some kind of long con, Mac figured he could let himself enjoy the calm before the storm.

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The apartment was silent save for the faint hum of the fridge, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo Mac’s own restless thoughts. He set the controller down, the game still paused mid-level, and pushed himself to his feet. His legs ached from hours of sitting, and even the stabbing pull in his ribs wasn’t enough to dissuade him. A short walk wouldn’t kill him, right?

The first few steps were cautious, his body protesting slightly as he moved through the cramped living room. The ache in his legs began to ease as he paced the perimeter, his eyes drifting over the sparse furnishings and minimal decoration. It was exactly kind of place he would have expected Murdoc to stay, clean but functional with soft furnishings that at least made it a little cozy. Mac ran his fingers along the back of the couch, pausing as he noticed the blanket folded neatly on one armrest and a pillow tucked just behind it. His brow furrowed.

Mac stepped out into the hallway, his eyes narrowing as he noticed the third door at the end of the hall. He hadn’t paid it much attention before, assuming it was Murdoc's bedroom. But now? Suspicion gnawed at him as he approached. His hand hesitated on the handle for a moment, the odd sense of intrusion prickling at the back of his mind. It wasn’t as though Murdoc had been particularly secretive about anything so far, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t hiding something. Mac took a steadying breath, his curiosity winning out, and twisted the knob. The door swung open with a quiet creak, revealing a linen closet.

No way.

Mac’s jaw tightened as he returned to the living room. He stared at the couch like it had personally offended him. The picture forming in his mind was both irritating and oddly humbling. Murdoc, the self-proclaimed master manipulator, the man who thrived on chaos and control, had been sleeping out here. On the couch. The blond rubbed the back of his neck, his irritation bubbling into frustration. Was this some kind of ploy? Another one of Murdoc’s games to make him feel guilty or indebted? Or was it something else entirely? Something uncomfortably thoughtful? He didn’t know which possibility annoyed him more.

The sound of the front door opening snapped him out of his thoughts. Murdoc entered with his usual flair, balancing a paper bag in one hand and a brightly colored box under his other arm.

"Ah, my darling Angus." Murdoc greeted, kicking the door shut behind him, "I'm glad to see you up and about."

Mac didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were fixed on the box in Murdoc’s hand, his chest tightening slightly as he recognized the logo. “Is that...?”

“The Artemis Space Launch Mission.” Murdoc announced, as if unveiling a priceless treasure, “You wanted to do something with your hands, behold something to put together. I got you those paperclips you're such a fan of as well.”

Mac blinked, his brain stalling as he stared at the box. He’d eyed that set for months. It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d ever expected Murdoc to notice, let alone buy for him. He glanced at the assassin, who was grinning like he’d just solved world hunger with a Lego set.

Mac let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the strange mix of emotions stirring in his chest, "Why... why did you get that?"

Murdoc’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. He glanced down at the box in his hands, tilting it slightly to examine the cover, "I don’t know. It just looked like you. Was I wrong?"

"No it's just." Mac blinked several times, "I thought you must've been looking at my browser history or something."

"Nothing of the sort my darling.” Murdoc began unpacking the bag, releasing the fragrant aroma of Thai food into the room. He lined up the containers neatly on the counter, “I'm quite pleased with myself though, it’s not every day I get to see you genuinely excited about something.”

"Yeah, thank you it's really cool actually." Mac blinked steadily as he watched Murdoc busy himself in the kitchen.

"Oh I ran into your friend Bozer on the way back." The assassin said it calmly like he was discussing the weather, "Don't worry, I acted the crazed psychopath and then knocked him out. Your secrets are all still safe."

Mac froze, his hand tightening around the back of the chair he'd been leaning on. He stared at Murdoc, who was calmly arranging takeout containers on the counter, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell into the conversation.

"You what?" Mac’s voice was low and sharp, the words practically hissing out of him.

Murdoc glanced up, unbothered by Mac's tone, "Relax, darling. Your friend is perfectly fine. A little nap on the sidewalk never hurt anyone. I gave him the full Murdoc treatment, deranged smile, menacing dialogue. The works. He’ll wake up assuming I’m just up to my usual games.”

“That’s not the point!” Mac could feel his heart beating faster, making him wince as the feeling seemed to go to his ribs. He straightened slowly, his gaze locked on Murdoc’s infuriatingly calm expression, “If Bozer was here, that means Phoenix is close. Too close.”

"A possibility I'm entirely prepared for." Murdoc just carried on dishing out lunch, "I've picked out the next safehouse, I have cameras on the corners which will let me know if any Phoenix agents are lurking about, and the escape route is practically perfect. There's only one question left: Would you come with me?"

Mac blinked, caught completely off-guard, "What? The deal was I stay with you until I’m healed, then I go back. That’s how this works."

"You're close to healed, boy scout. You're stronger every day, and Phoenix knows I have something to do with you going missing." Murdoc's gaze was intense, "I could leave you behind. Chain you to the radiator, let Phoenix find you. You could tell them I was the one who hurt you, and they’d believe you. You’d be the boy scout who endured another Murdoc nightmare. No questions asked."

Mac’s breath caught for a moment. The thought of returning to Phoenix, of facing their questions, their pity, their judgment, that scared him more than he cared to admit but Murdoc was right, the questions would be about what had happened since he got taken. Mac could lie through his teeth and Phoenix would be none the wiser. Except Desi. She would know that Mac was lying, that Murdoc was the cure and not the poison. But she couldn't tell anyone without revealing what she did to him.

He wondered, for just a moment, why he was keeping a secret that wasn't even his. The answer revealed itself from his spinning thoughts slowly, Because you're afraid of her.

But here in this apartment with the person who had been on the other side of the battlefield, who had been his enemy, whose appetite for wanton destruction had been Mac's inspiration for returning to Phoenix, he wasn't afraid, not of being hurt. There was only one thing he was afraid of anymore.

Mac took a breath, grounding himself in the moment, then looked Murdoc in the eyes, "What do you want from me?"

The assassin laughed, "What do you mean dearest, I-"

"No." Mac stated, pushing down the pain in his ribs, "You're playing a game with me and I want to know what it is. Before I decide if I'm coming with you or not."

"Ah, my dear Angus." Murdoc began, his voice low, almost contemplative, "You wound me with your mistrust. And here I thought we were making such progress."

"Cut the shit." Mac snapped, his tone sharper than he intended, "You want me to trust you? Fine. Start by telling me the truth."

Murdoc sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. For a moment, he looked almost tired, a flicker of something genuine slipping through his usual facade, “Very well. You want the truth? Here it is. I want you to see things as they are. Not how Phoenix wants you to see them. Not how she wants you to see them.”

“You’re still deflecting.” Mac said, though his voice had lost some of its earlier fire. His hands tightened on the chair’s back, a faint tremor running through them, “Tell me what you really mean.”

“I mean, Angus, that she deserves to feel every ounce of the pain she inflicted on you.” Murdoc’s words were laced with quiet venom, his tone soft but unmistakably dangerous, “I mean that I’ve been here, watching you flinch at shadows that shouldn’t scare you. Seeing you hesitate, question yourself, carry the weight of things that should never have been yours to carry. I've watched you spiral into thoughts that hurt you more than the bruises on your body. I mean that I walked here with my greatest enemy crying in my arms and you somehow expect me not to want to tear Phoenix to the ground for letting her hurt you. It's only my affection for you that means I haven't already exacted revenge on your behalf, so you're asking what I want from you?"

Murdoc leaned on the counter that separated them, his tone almost reverent now, “I want to see that I'm the one who wants to protect you. I want you to realize that the people you’ve surrounded yourself with, the ones who claim to care about you, failed you when it mattered most. And her? She doesn’t deserve your forgiveness, let alone your fear. She deserves your wrath, Angus. She deserves to feel as scared and alone as you were that night when I found you.”

Mac shook his head, his voice rising despite the pain in his ribs, “I’m not like you, Murdoc! I don’t hurt people just because they hurt me.”

“And look where that’s gotten you.” Murdoc’s voice was almost a growl, low and dangerous, “Doubting yourself. Acting as if you deserve to be in pain. Letting her live in your head while you bend over backwards trying to protect people who didn’t protect you.”

“That’s not fair.” Mac’s voice cracked, but he didn’t back down, he felt the lie catch in his throat, “I’m not- I’m not scared of her.”

“Aren’t you?” Murdoc’s question hung in the air, heavy and damning. He stepped around the counter, closing the distance between them with deliberate slowness, “Then why haven’t you told anyone what she did? Why haven’t you looked her in the eye and said, You hurt me, and you were wrong? Why, Angus?”

Mac’s throat felt tight, his mind racing for an answer that didn’t exist. Murdoc’s words cut deeper than he wanted to admit, digging into truths he wasn’t ready to face. The weight of them bore down on him, and for a moment, he couldn’t meet Murdoc’s gaze. His fingers tightened around the back of the chair, his knuckles white.

The blond could feel Murdoc's hand softly brush his hair from his face, “You can’t because she’s still in your head, my darling. She's whispering lies about who you are, what you deserve. And you let her because you’ve convinced yourself that forgiveness is strength. Even when some people just don't deserve it."

"And you do?" Mac's voice shook with bitterness.

"No." Murdoc's voice was soft, "I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I don’t even expect it. But I’m not asking you to forgive me, I’m asking you to stop forgiving her."

Mac looked up, his blue eyes meeting Murdoc’s dark ones, searching for any hint of deceit. For all his doubts, he couldn’t find any. He hated how much sense Murdoc made in moments like this, hated how easy it was to believe him, even if every instinct told him not to.

“What are you asking me to do?” Mac asked, his voice raw, barely above a whisper.

“Simple.” Murdoc held out his hand, “Come with me. Let me show you what life looks like without their judgment, their chains, their lies. Let me show you that you’re more than the broken pieces they left behind. Let me help you heal so that when you return you'll see yourself the way I do and know what you're worth."

Mac stared at Murdoc’s outstretched hand as if it were a live wire, charged and ready to shock him. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel the weight of Murdoc’s words pressing down on him like a heavy blanket. Everything the assassin said made his stomach churn because it wasn’t entirely wrong. The guilt, the fear, the self-doubt, they were his constant companions now, and he hated how deeply rooted they had become. But somehow there was Murdoc’s hand still outstretched. Steady, unwavering, waiting.

“I don’t know if I can do that.” Mac said finally, his voice soft, heavy with uncertainty.

“You don’t have to know, you just have to try.” Murdoc replied, his tone startlingly gentle, “Let me help you stand up again, Angus.”

Mac’s hand hovered over Murdoc’s for a moment, trembling faintly as doubt and fear warred within him. His ribs ached, his mind screamed at him to step back, to reject the offer, to protect what little sense of normalcy he had left. But then he thought of Phoenix, of Desi, of the endless questions that would greet him if he returned. Of how hollow and exhausted he felt even imagining it.

And then he thought of the couch. Of the way Murdoc had stayed, keeping him company through the worst of it, as weird as it was. He thought of the Lego set, the games, the pancakes, the way Murdoc seemed to anticipate every unspoken need, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. He thought of waking up to the scent of vanilla and coffee and another day's quiet chaos.

And then Mac exhaled shakily and placed his hand in Murdoc’s.

Murdoc’s fingers closed around Mac’s hand, soft and gentle, as though the assassin was careful not to spook him further, and for a moment, the tension in the room seemed to dissolve. Then all at once, the assassin dropped his hand and stepped closer and wrapped his arm around Mac's shoulders, pulling him in. The hug was startling in its gentleness. There was no mocking quip, no flourish of dramatics, just quiet, steady pressure as Murdoc rested his chin lightly against Mac’s hair. The blond hesitated, his uninjured arm hovering awkwardly before he gave in and returned the gesture, his grip on the assassin was soft and he could feel the warmth of his body settle into his bones, soothing the pain in his broken body.

And maybe for a moment, he imagined that he might not be as broken as he thought.

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Bozer

Bozer's heart was pounding as he scanned the quiet streets of Huntington Park. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that made every alley and doorway look like it might be hiding something, or someone. He wasn’t cut out for this. Sure, he could handle Phoenix’s labs, build bombs out of soda cans, and keep his friends laughing when they needed it, but hunting down Murdoc? That was a whole different beast.

Still, he couldn’t let himself stop. Not when Mac was out there, and not when every instinct in his body screamed that time was running out. Splitting up might have been a bad idea, but he’d insisted. They could cover more ground, find more leads. Jack had argued but Bozer’s determination had won out. Now, though, with the eerie stillness of the streets pressing down on him, he wasn’t so sure. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and his breath hitched. There, just ahead, a figure strolled casually down the sidewalk, bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun. Bozer squinted, his heart lurching as he recognized the gait, the too-calm swagger. It was him. Murdoc.

The assassin looked infuriatingly at ease, a paper bag in one hand and a LEGO box tucked under his other arm, like he was just a regular guy on his way home from the store. Bozer ducked behind a parked car, adrenaline flooding his veins as he tried to steady his breathing.

"Oh, Wilt." Murdoc called out, his voice carrying a sing-song quality that made Bozer’s skin crawl, "You’re adorable when you try to be stealthy, but I could hear you fumbling behind that car from a mile away. Why don’t you come out and join me? I promise, I don’t bite... not much at least."

Bozer clenched his teeth. He forced himself to take a slow breath, steeling his nerves before stepping out from behind the car, "Where’s Mac?"

Murdoc stopped in his tracks, his head tilting slightly as he regarded Bozer with an unsettling angry expression. His lips curved into a sly grin, his dark eyes gleaming with something wrathful, "Straight to the point. I like that about you, Wilt. Though I think you could use a little more experience in subtlety, learn to recognise more cues in others."

Bozer's pulse hammered in his ears, "Cut the crap, Murdoc. Where did you take him?"

Murdoc took a step closer, his movements unhurried and deliberate, like a cat toying with its prey, "You're asking the wrong question. I'll give you a hint, the right one also starts with a W."

Bozer stood his ground, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His heart raced, but he refused to let Murdoc see him falter, "Fine, let's play this game. Why? Why did you take him?"

"Ah, there it is. The million-dollar question." He shifted the LEGO box under his arm, tapping a finger against it as if contemplating how best to answer, "Now that has an easy answer: Why would an obsessed psychopath kidnap the object of his affections? Wilt, I meant you should ask yourselves why, why hasn't Angus made it back to you yet?"

"Because you've drugged him and tied him up?" Bozer offered.

Murdoc huffed out a bitter laugh and shook his head as though Bozer’s suggestion was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, “Drugged and tied up? No, I'm afraid not. My Angus is so much more enjoyable awake, coherent, and capable of throwing things at me.”

"You're a fucking psycho." Bozer spat, feeling more uncomfortable by the second, "And we'll get him back."

"Oh will you?" Murdoc's tone was mocking, "Tell me, Wilt, is the rest of your team as invested in getting your little boyscout back as you are? I'm sure his ex-girlfriend is just pacing and wringing her hands about the whole thing."

Bozer blinked, caught off guard, "Ex-girlfriend? What the hell are you talking about? Mac and Desi are still together."

"Not for long." Murdoc shrugged.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Bozer stared at the assassin who was still staring back with a disconcertingly angry expression.

"It means that you're insufferably unobservant." Murdoc said flatly, "Not to worry though, he's with someone who deserves him now, who appreciates his brilliance."

Bozer’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists, “You don’t deserve him. You’re delusional if you think he’d ever want you.”

"Ah Wilt, but that's where you're wrong. I do deserve him, because I know he's already perfect, because I would never hurt him, never let him break." Murdoc took another fluid predatory step toward Bozer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Which is more than I can say for all of you."

Bozer started to try and move away but Murdoc’s hand moved faster, a sharp sting piercing Bozer’s neck before he could react. His vision blurred as his knees buckled, the world tilting sideways.

“Sleep tight, Wilt. I'll tell Angus you said hello.” Murdoc purred, his voice the last thing Bozer heard before everything went dark.

Chapter 6: But The Smoke Clears When You're Around

Notes:

It’s a long one today gang.

Murdoc

The couch wasn’t uncomfortable, not really. The cushions were soft enough, and the blanket he’d commandeered was serviceable. Still, Murdoc stared at the ceiling, his thoughts moving faster than his body could rest. The apartment was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old wood. His senses picked up everything, cataloged it, analyzed it, discarded it. Sleep was never easy. It hadn’t been since he was young.

Tonight, though, it wasn’t just his instincts keeping him awake. His thoughts circled back to earlier in the day, to Angus's words, to the fact he'd felt the need to actually react to them.

You want me to trust you? Fine. Start by telling me the truth.

The truth. The word lingered, heavy and unwelcome, like a shard of glass lodged in his mind. Murdoc had spent years perfecting the art of evasion, of twisting reality to suit his needs. The truth was a weapon, a tool for manipulation, not something to be handed over freely. And yet, when Angus had stood there, blue eyes sharp and demanding, Murdoc had broken his own rule. He’d answered. Not the whole truth, he'd only admitted to what he wanted the boy scout to become, not what Murdoc wanted to become to him. Some truths, some fantasies, were better off left buried in the back of his mind to be taken out and looked out alone and in the dark, far away from where they could fragile their reluctant truce.

His thoughts turned back to their embrace, the moment he’d felt Angus’s arm wrap tentatively around his shoulders, the warmth of his touch, the quiet surrender in the way the blond had leaned into him. It wasn’t just the physical connection that had struck Murdoc, though that had been electric in its own right. It was the sense of possession, of knowing that for a fleeting moment, Angus had let his guard down completely, had let Murdoc hold him in a way no one else could. The memory of that moment replayed in his mind, sharper and more vivid than it had any right to be, he could still feel the weight of Angus’s head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his eyes were softer when he finally pulled away. Murdoc wanted those sharp blue eyes to light up for him, to see the assassin not as an enemy or a temporary ally but as someone he could trust, someone he could need. He wanted those eyes to narrow in determination, to spark with defiance, to soften with vulnerability, but only ever for him. Angus was a paradox: brittle and unbreakable, moral and flawed, brilliant and maddeningly blind to his own worth.

That blindness made Murdoc ache in ways he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. Angus wasn’t just his foil, he was the only one Murdoc could ever see as an equal, and somehow the world had convinced him that he wasn't worth their kindness, wasn't worth their love, wasn't worth their worship. Murdoc’s fingers twitched against the edge of the blanket, curling slightly as he let his mind wander further down that dark, alluring path. Worship. The word hung in his thoughts like a whispered prayer, taunting and intoxicating. Angus deserved it, and not from the sycophantic fools he surrounded himself with at Phoenix. No, their praise was shallow, conditional. They didn’t see him for what he truly was, a force of nature, unyielding and breathtaking in his brilliance, yet so bright in his kindness it was like staring at the sun.

A faint creak broke through the quiet, and Murdoc froze. His instincts snapped into place, cataloging the sound instantly. It wasn’t the old wood of the building settling. No, this was deliberate soft footsteps on the hardwood floor. His head turned toward the hallway just as a familiar figure appeared in the dim light.

Murdoc’s voice cut through the silence, low and smooth, "Angus, my darling. What brings you to my humble corner of the apartment at this hour?"

Angus paused mid-step, his hand still hovering near his face as if debating whether to answer or just turn around and leave. After a moment, he sighed, his voice heavy with exhaustion, "You're sleeping on the couch."

Murdoc tilted his head, "Incredible observation Angus! Tell me, what gave it away? The blanket, the pillow, or my undeniable charm radiating from this very spot?"

Angus rolled his eyes, but Murdoc didn’t miss the faint twitch of amusement that softened his expression, "You don’t have to stay out here. We’ve already slept on the couch together, it's not that big of a deal."

Murdoc stared at him, his mind catching on the words like a needle skipping on a record. Not that big of a deal.

The idea of sharing the bed, the proximity, the vulnerability, sent Murdoc’s mind spiraling. He didn’t understand. Why now? Why this? After everything, after days of cautious trust and fragile boundaries, why would Angus offer him this? The logical explanations flickered through his mind, rapid-fire. A tactic? No, Angus was exhausted, his tone devoid of calculation. Pity? Possibly, but Angus wasn’t one for empty gestures. Familiarity? The blond’s earlier reasoning, that they’d already slept on the couch together, made sense on the surface, but the simplicity of it didn’t sit right. Murdoc didn’t move, didn’t speak. His mind caught on the idea, circling it obsessively, picking at the edges like a scab. He knew this feeling, this relentless need to parse out the details, to dissect every word, every gesture, until the truth was laid bare. It was the same urge that drove him to calculate every variable, every potential outcome, until the world made sense again. But this? This defied calculation. Angus defied calculation.

"Or not, whatever." Angus sighed, "You're weird when you just stare at me you know that? You could just say no."

"Angus." Murdoc said, his voice soft but carrying a weight that even he couldn’t quite define, "You do realize who you’re offering this to, don’t you?"

Angus raised an eyebrow, "Pretty sure if you were gonna to kill me you would've done it by now."

"I wouldn't kill you." Murdoc said, although he was unsure why he was revealing this, "You were always far too interesting to kill."

"Great, thanks, now are you coming to bed or not?" Angus rolled his eyes and started padding back towards the bedroom.

Murdoc remained frozen for a moment, watching Angus’s retreating form disappear into the shadows of the hallway. Then, slowly, he rose from the couch, his bare feet making no sound on the hardwood as he followed the faint trail of warmth Angus had left in his wake. The bedroom door was ajar, spilling soft shadows into the hallway. Murdoc hesitated at the threshold, his hand brushing against the frame. His senses prickled, hyperaware of every detail, the creak of the wood under his weight, the faint rhythm of Angus’s breathing, the lingering scent of soap that clung to the room. Murdoc slid onto the mattress with practiced quiet, settling on his back as far from Angus as the space allowed. The bed shifted slightly under his weight, and Angus murmured something that sounded like Finally.

The assassin lay still, the soft give of the mattress beneath him a stark contrast to the rigid tension in his body. He stared up at the ceiling, every nerve on edge, every thought spiraling into the abyss of what this moment meant. The moment seemed to wrap around him, far too present, far too intimate. He kept his arms at his sides, as though even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile balance of the room. He should have said no. Refused. Stayed on the couch where he belonged, where he could think clearly, where Angus wasn’t within arm’s reach, his warmth brushing up against Murdoc’s carefully constructed barriers. His mind refused to settle. The urge to analyze, to understand, to break down every nuance of Angus’s offer gnawed at him. Why had he said it? What had changed? Was it trust? Was it exhaustion? Was it something else Murdoc couldn’t quite grasp?

His thoughts scattered as Angus shifted beside him. The blond moved closer, his arm brushing against Murdoc’s, the bare skin warm and grounding. Murdoc froze, his breath catching in his throat as Angus’s legs shifted, tangling slightly with his own. Then, without warning, Angus pressed his forehead against Murdoc’s arm, a quiet sigh escaping his lips as if he’d found the perfect spot.

Murdoc’s world narrowed to the small, deliberate weight of Angus’s forehead against his arm. He didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe too deeply, afraid that any shift would disrupt the strange, quiet connection between them. The assassin let his gaze flicker downward, to the soft mess of blond hair splayed across his arm, to the soft shadows falling over Angus's cheeks. It was disarming in a way he hadn’t anticipated, this unguarded closeness, this fragile intimacy. He wondered, just for a moment, what it would feel like to lean down and press his lips softly to Angus’s own, the way they might part slightly in surprise, the brief hitch in the blond’s breath before softening into the kiss. He wondered if it would taste like chocolate and vanilla from the dessert he'd insisted they eat before bed or if it would be something entirely Angus, something he couldn’t compare to anything else.

He wondered what it would be like if Angus wanted him too. If those sharp blue eyes softened just for him, if there was no hesitation, no wariness. If Angus turned to him willingly, leaning up with quiet confidence to close the distance between them. The thought made Murdoc’s fingers curl against the sheets, a brief, involuntary grasp at something he couldn’t let himself have.

Angus shifted again, curling further into his side, his breath steady and warm against Murdoc’s shoulder. The assassin’s chest tightened, the weight of the moment pressing down on him in a way he couldn’t quite name. He closed his eyes, willing his thoughts to still, and let the rhythmic rise and fall of Angus’s breath lull him into something resembling peace.

If Murdoc woke the next morning to feel Angus curled into him, his blond head tucked against Murdoc’s shoulder and Murdoc’s hand resting lightly on his waist, he didn’t let the moment linger. His breath hitched for a fleeting second, his fingers twitching against the soft fabric of Angus’s shirt, before he carefully extracted himself with the precision of a thief, slipping from the bed without so much as a creak of the old frame. He straightened the blanket, ensuring the scene remained undisturbed, and left the room with quiet, measured steps. Leaving behind only the remnants of a soft dream, one that Angus wouldn’t remember on waking.

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It was getting well past nightfall when Murdoc’s phone vibrated softly against the table, the alert pulling his attention away from the LEGO set scattered before him. He glanced at the screen and froze. The grainy black-and-white feed from one of his security cameras showed a car pulling up outside. Not just any car, one of those obnoxious black Phoenix sedans. His lips twitched into a grimace, tension rippling through him as he leaned forward to confirm the logo on the side.

He glanced toward Angus, who was perched on the couch, engrossed in his game, his blue eyes sharp and focused in concentration.

Murdoc slung his duffel bag on and brushed the blond's shoulder gently, "Time to go, darling."

Angus’s head snapped up, his brow furrowing as he paused the game, "What’s going on?"

The assassin handed him the phone to show him the live feed, "Your friends are here, looks like Dalton included."

Murdoc watched as the mention of Jack’s name made the blond’s expression shift. The sharp focus in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something softer, almost bewildered. He stared at the screen, his lips parting slightly as if trying to find the right words.

"Jack?" Angus said, his voice barely above a whisper, "He was supposed to be undercover, the Kovaks mission."

Murdoc picked up a piece of paper and hastily scrawled a note on it, "Must be trying to save his boy scout."

Angus’s grip on the phone tightened, his gaze fixed on the screen, his voice was tinged with disbelief, "He came back, for me."

Murdoc’s hand faltered briefly on the pen as Angus’s words settled in the air. The disbelief in his voice was like a jagged edge, slicing into Murdoc’s carefully constructed composure. He pressed harder, his handwriting growing sharper and more angular as he finished the note. Folding it neatly, he tucked it into the LEGO set on the coffee table before straightening. The familiar tendrils of uncertainty crawl through his chest, unwelcome and relentless. It was an old, bitter feeling, one he rarely let himself acknowledge. But now, watching Angus’s reaction, it pressed down on him like a weight.

"You don’t have to come with me, Angus." The words almost stuck in the assassin's throat as he spoke, and he kept his eyes fixed on the door, "Dalton's back, I may not like the idea of you going back to Phoenix, but he'd keep you safe."

Angus paused for a second then shook his head, his voice steady despite the tension etched into his face, "No. I can’t. I don’t want Jack to see me like this. Broken and beaten up. I can’t handle the look he’d give me."

Murdoc paused at that, his eyes scanning Angus. The blond was gripping the phone tightly, his knuckles pale. For a moment, Murdoc saw it, the vulnerability he rarely let slip. It was raw, unfiltered, and it stabbed at something deep inside the assassin. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag and straightened, his tone brisk but not unkind.

"Then we don’t let him see you like this." Murdoc said simply, "But that means we have to move now, darling. Phoenix doesn’t waste time, and I doubt Dalton’s here to chat."

Murdoc strode toward the door, his steps purposeful as he glanced back at Angus, who was still standing frozen, the phone gripped tightly in his hand. The blond shook himself out of his daze, moving with careful, measured steps to follow. Murdoc’s sharp gaze caught the wince that flickered across Angus’s face as he tried to pick up speed. The dimly lit stairs spiraled downward, their edges worn smooth from years of use. He turned to look at Angus, who had stopped just inside the doorway, his hand braced against the wall.

"Stay close to me." Murdoc murmured, his tone soft but firm, "One step at a time."

Angus nodded, gripping the railing as he took his first step. Murdoc descended a few paces ahead, then glanced back to see Angus stumble, catching himself against the wall with a pained gasp. Murdoc was at his side in an instant, his hands steadying the blond before he could fall further. They wouldn't make it out at this rate. The assassin didn’t waste time deliberating. He slipped an arm under Angus’s knees and another around his back, lifting him with practiced ease.

“What are you-?” Angus's voice was incredulous, "Put me down."

"Shh, darling. Save your energy for more important things, like clinging to your pride." Murdoc began to move fluidly down the stairs, trying to avoid jostling the other man's injuries.

Angus let out a soft, irritated huff but didn’t argue further. Murdoc’s sharp gaze flicked to the phone Angus still held tightly in one hand, its screen casting a faint glow against the dim stairwell.

"Keep an eye on that feed." Murdoc said quietly, his voice low and steady, "Let me know if they’re moving."

The weight of Angus in his arms was surprisingly light, but the tension radiating from him was anything but. Murdoc’s arms tightened slightly, his hold secure but careful not to aggravate the blond’s injuries. They reached the final landing, the dim emergency light casting long shadows across the cracked concrete walls. Murdoc carefully placed Angus back on his feet again, holding an arm around his waist to keep him from falling over.

“They’re splitting up.” Angus's eyes widened, his tone urgent, “Jack’s coming this way. He’s almost at the door.”

Murdoc’s sharp instincts kicked in at Angus’s words. His mind raced, calculating the options, the exits, the risks. The fire stairs had been their cleanest route, but if Jack reached the door first, they’d be caught in a heartbeat. His gaze darted around the landing, searching for alternatives. The supply closet at the base of the stairs caught his eye, a cramped, dusty space that might just serve as their temporary salvation.

“This way.” Murdoc whispered, his voice low but insistent.

Angus barely had time to register the shift in their path before Murdoc pulled him toward the closet. With a fluid motion, the assassin turned the knob and shoved the door open. He guided the blond inside, maneuvering him carefully into the tight confines before stepping in after him and shutting the door, jamming a disused bit of rebar into the the hinges to seal it shut from the inside. The supply closet was barely large enough for both of them. The scent of cleaning supplies and stale air heavy around them. Angus was right in front of him, his breath quick and shallow, his chest rising and falling against Murdoc’s. The assassin's arm was still around his waist, and he could feel Angus's frame shaking, likely from both the adrenaline of the chase and the pain of his fall. Murdoc pressed his free hand gently against the small of Angus’s back, pulling him closer as he leaned his head slightly to the side, his lips brushing near Angus's ear.

“Breathe slow. Focus on me.” The assassin kept his voice soft.

Murdoc felt Angus shift slightly against him, the blond muttering under his breath, his voice laced with sarcasm, "Yeah, because nothing helps me relax like being manhandled into a closet by a lunatic. I've defused bombs you know."

The assassin couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips, "You're incredible, darling. Now breathe before you get us caught."

Angus’s breathing beginning to slow, the sharp, shallow inhales easing into a rhythm that mirrored his own. The blond’s frame, tense and quivering like a wire about to snap, began to relax ever so slightly, leaning into the support Murdoc offered. The assassin’s hand remained steady against his back, fingers splayed to distribute the pressure evenly, mindful of the bruises and fractures beneath the surface.

The muffled sound of footsteps echoed beyond the door, heavy and deliberate. Dalton.

Murdoc stiffened, instinctively tightening his hold on Angus, pulling the blond closer despite himself. Murdoc’s heart pounded in his chest, but his exterior remained calm, his breathing steady and deliberate. He could feel Angus’s own breath against his collarbone, slow and synchronized with his, a testament to the his training even when in pain. The faint tremor in Angus’s body had lessened, his muscles softening as he leaned into Murdoc for support. Beyond the door, the handle rattled, the sound sharp and grating in the confined space. Murdoc’s breath hitched imperceptibly, his body stilling entirely. Jack’s muffled muttering was barely audible, the frustration in his voice evident as the door stubbornly refused to budge.

The assassin tilted his head slightly, his cheek brushing against Angus’s temple as he listened, hyperaware of every movement beyond their hiding place. Jack’s footsteps shifted, his boots scuffing against the floor as he gave the door another hard tug. The hinges groaned faintly, but the barricade held. Murdoc’s lips quirked in satisfaction, though his grip on Angus remained tight.

"Damn thing's rusted shut." Jack's voice was low and tinged with annoyance. Then, after what felt like minutes but must've been only seconds, Jack moved away, the sound of his heavy boots retreating echoing faintly in the stairwell. Murdoc waited, counting each step in his head, his breathing steady even as the tension in his muscles refused to ease. Finally, when silence settled around them, he let out a slow, controlled exhale. Still, he didn’t move right away, his instincts keeping him rooted in place. The faint warmth of Angus pressed against him was grounding in a way he wasn’t prepared to admit, but he allowed himself a moment to relish the quiet. The blond’s breaths were calm now, still synced with his own.

"Are we going to leave or is this our new safehouse?" Angus's voice was low and quiet but still had that cutting edge.

"You don't like it? Because I think with a coat of paint-" Murdoc started.

“Murdoc.” Angus interrupted, his voice a little sharper now, “We’re still in a building crawling with Phoenix agents. Move.”

"As you wish, my darling." The assassin’s grin didn’t falter, as he cracked the door open just enough to peer out. The hallway was still and silent, the oppressive weight of their narrow escape lingering in the air. Satisfied, he opened the door fully and guided Angus out, his movements deliberate and efficient.

"I thought I was meant to be Westley." The blond muttered.

Murdoc's grin softened to a smile at the reference, his grip steady on Angus as they moved through the dim hallway, “Oh, you are, darling. But even Westley needed saving now and then.”

 The stairwell’s emergency exit loomed ahead, the heavy steel door marked with chipped paint and decades of wear. Murdoc moved quickly, keeping Angus close as they approached. The quiet hum of the city beyond the door filtered through the cracks, promising freedom if they could just get outside. The cool night air hit them like a shock, sharp and bracing against their skin. Murdoc’s eyes scanned the alley, his senses hyper-alert for any sign of movement. The narrow passage was empty, save for the faint flicker of a streetlamp at the far end. He tightened his grip on Angus, guiding him toward the shadows.

"Car’s a few blocks up." Murdoc whispered, "Think you can make it?"

Angus nodded, his steps faltering but determined, "I’m fine. Let’s go."

Murdoc's steps were deliberate as they moved through the alley, each footfall as silent as he could manage. Angus kept pace, though his movements were slower, more strained. The dim light from a distant streetlamp cast long shadows across the walls, and Murdoc’s eyes darted to every corner, cataloging possible threats. He kept his grip on Angus steady, his arm still wrapped around the blond’s waist. It was only after several long strides that he realized he hadn’t let go.

More surprising, though, was that Angus hadn’t told him to.

His arm was still firmly around Angus’s waist, steadying him, but the blond hadn’t protested, hadn’t pushed him away or even shifted to put more distance between them. It wasn’t just practicality keeping them like this. Angus wasn’t bristling with indignation or muttering sarcastic jabs under his breath. If anything, he seemed at ease. Or as close to it as Angus could be in the middle of an escape like this.

He didn’t want to let go.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and insistent, and Murdoc hated the way it stuck. He hated how much he didn’t hate it. Angus felt steady against him, warm and solid despite the lingering tremor of pain in his body. It was grounding in a way the assassin couldn’t quite name, a reminder of why he was doing this. Why he was risking everything to keep Angus away from Phoenix, from the people who would never understand him the way Murdoc did.

The car came into view at the far end of the block tucked between two delivery vans. Murdoc steered Angus toward it with practiced ease, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows for any sign of pursuit. He unlocked the car and pulled open the passenger door, helping Angus ease into the seat. The blond winced as he shifted, his hand brushing against his ribs, but he didn’t complain. Murdoc lingered for a moment, his gaze flickering over Angus’s face, searching for signs of regret but all he saw was the tired determination that the assassin recognised from so many battles before. He shut the passenger door quietly, glancing up and down the street one last time before sliding into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life with a low rumble, and he shifted the car into gear, his movements smooth and deliberate. The alley blurred into the background as they pulled away, the apartment building shrinking in the rearview mirror.

The silence in the car was heavy but not uncomfortable. Murdoc kept one hand on the wheel, his other resting lightly on the gearshift. His eyes flicked to Angus every so often, noting the tension in the blond’s shoulders, the way his gaze lingered on the side mirror as if expecting to see Phoenix agents tailing them.

Murdoc spoke softly as they rounded a corner, he was taking the long way around, tricking any attempts for Phoenix to track them, “Relax, my darling. You look like you’re expecting Jack to come bursting through the trunk any second.”

Angus exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh but not entirely a sigh either, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Murdoc’s lips quirked into a faint smile, but he said nothing, focusing on navigating the winding streets. The safehouse was close now, tucked away in a neighborhood that was unremarkable in all the right ways. He'd chosen it for its anonymity, its ability to blend into the background. He couldn’t afford to take chances, not with Phoenix so close on their heels. When they finally pulled into the driveway of the unassuming house, Murdoc cut the engine and turned to Angus, “Welcome to our new temporary sanctuary. It’s not much, but it’ll keep us off their radar.”

He unlocked the front door with practiced efficiency, his sharp eyes scanning the street one last time before ushering Angus inside. The safehouse was sparse but clean. The living room was furnished with a worn couch, a low coffee table, and a single floor lamp that cast a dim, warm glow across the space. Two doors led off to what Murdoc knew were the bedrooms, and a narrow hall opened into a modest kitchen. He dropped his duffel bag near the couch, glancing at Angus, who leaned against the wall, taking in the space with tired eyes.

"There are two bedrooms so take your pick." Murdoc said, keeping his tone casual.

"Two rooms." Angus said quietly, leaning against the doorframe, his blue eyes scanning the space before flicking to Murdoc, "That’s... convenient."

Murdoc hummed, stepping back into the living room and leaning casually against the couch, "Convenient. I suppose so."

The silence between them stretched, not quite tense but far from comfortable. Angus lingered in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, his hand brushing the frame as though testing its solidity. His gaze flickered to Murdoc, guarded but searching, like he was weighing whether to say something or retreat into himself. Murdoc met his eyes, holding the blond’s gaze for just a moment too long before glancing away.

"Goodnight, Murdoc." Angus said, his voice soft.

"Angus-" Murdoc felt the words catch in his throat, the blond's eyes snapped to meet his own. Murdoc swallowed hard, his mind racing as the weight of the moment pressed down on him. Angus’s gaze was steady, a faint flicker of curiosity mingling with exhaustion. For a second, just a second, he thought about stepping closer, about closing the distance between them and saying something real, something honest. The words were there, trembling on the edge of his tongue, but he didn’t let them fall.

The assassin forced a smile, the kind he’d perfected over years of hiding behind his own defenses, "If you need anything, let me know."

Murdoc lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the darkness pressed in around him. Sleep, always elusive, felt even further away tonight. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift back to the brief, fleeting moment in the stairwell when Angus had leaned into him. The warmth of his body, the soft cadence of his breathing as it synchronized with his own, it was grounding, anchoring in a way Murdoc hadn’t realized he needed.

He held onto that memory, letting the ghost of it wrap around him like a fragile shield, willing it to pull him into the solace of sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jack

The tension in the war room was palpable as Bozer recounted his encounter with Murdoc. Jack leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, his expression grim. Riley was typing furiously on her laptop, cross-referencing data, while Matty stood at the head of the table, her sharp gaze fixed on Bozer. Desi was uncharacteristically quiet, her arms folded as she stared at the monitor displaying various camera feeds.

“So, let me get this straight.” Jack said, his voice rough with disbelief, “Murdoc looked you in the eye and said, and I quote, Why would an obsessed psychopath kidnap the object of his affections? As if that explains what the creepy bastard actually wants."

“It gets weirder.” Bozer added, his voice tinged with frustration, “He called Desi Mac’s ex-girlfriend. I told him they’re still together, but he was real smug about it. Said it wouldn’t last and called me insufferably unobservant.”

Desi’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing with indignation, "Ex-girlfriend? What the hell is that supposed to mean? He doesn’t get to act like he knows anything about me and Mac. That psychotic freak thinks he can play armchair therapist now?"

"Desi." Jack said carefully, raising a hand as if to steady the room, "You’re not really gonna take Murdoc’s word to heart, are you? The guy thrives on pushing buttons."

"Maybe he should’ve picked someone else’s buttons to push." Desi snapped, her voice low and venomous. She crossed her arms tighter, her jaw set, "Mac and I are fine and whatever twisted fantasy Murdoc’s cooked up doesn’t change that."

Jack frowned, the heat in Desi’s tone sticking with him longer than it should have. There was something off about her reaction, not just the anger, but the intensity of it. He’d seen Desi frustrated before, seen her lash out when things didn’t go her way, but this felt sharper, almost defensive.

"That actually would explain a lot of Murdoc's aberrant behaviour." Matty, ever the voice of pragmatism, cut through the tension, "His psych reports have always suggested a romantic and sexual fixation on Mac. This could be him finally trying to act on it."

"Yeah." Jack said slowly, his voice measured, "But this is Murdoc we’re talking about. He doesn’t just act on impulse. If he’s doing something this drastic, there’s more to it."

Matty raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp, "You have an alternate theory, Jack?"

Jack hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line, "No, not yet. Just saying we shouldn’t take his fixation on Mac at face value. He’s always three steps ahead. There’s a game here we’re not seeing yet."

Matty nodded, though her expression betrayed her skepticism, "Maybe. But Murdoc’s patterns have always revolved around Mac, and this behavior lines up too neatly with the reports. Until we have concrete evidence of something else, we work with what we know."

Jack didn’t argue. Instead, he shifted his weight, his eyes flicking to Bozer. The younger man was staring at the floor, his brows furrowed as if deep in thought. Jack tried to catch his eye, but Bozer didn’t look up. He wanted to know what was going on in his head, if he’d picked up on the same undercurrent that Jack had. Bozer had known Mac longer than any of them, and if there was more to this, Jack trusted him to feel it.

"Got it!" Riley’s voice shattered the tension, her triumphant tone pulling everyone’s attention to her screen. She spun her laptop around to face the group, revealing a map with a red dot blinking in the center, "I cross-referenced every possible lead, and this is it. Murdoc’s safehouse."

"Finally." Jack muttered, pushing off the table and grabbing his gear. He turned to Desi, his tone resolute, "Let’s bring Mac home."

Desi nodded sharply, her movements precise as she followed Jack out of the room. Behind them, Riley and Bozer worked quickly to set up comms, while Matty stayed at her station, her gaze flicking between the monitors with unwavering focus.

Jack could feel his heart pounding in his ears the whole drive over, unable to think of anything other than getting Mac back. When the door to the apartment Riley had flagged was locked, Jack simply kicked the door in with practiced force, his weapon drawn as he swept the room. The crack of the frame echoed through the quiet apartment, but the only response was the low hum of a television left on. Desi was right behind him, moving with equal precision, her gun raised as her eyes scanned the dimly lit space.

The room was disarmingly ordinary, and that set Jack’s teeth on edge. A half-finished LEGO set sat on the coffee table, pieces scattered across the surface. The TV screen displayed Hitman 2, paused mid-mission, the faint glow illuminating the otherwise sparse living area. There were two mismatched mugs on the takeout and a flannel Jack recognised as Mac's was slung over the side of the couch. Jack’s gut twisted at the sight of the flannel. It was such a small, innocuous thing, but seeing it here. Out of place, away from Mac’s home, felt wrong. The room was like a snapshot of something domestic, almost peaceful, but the underlying unease hummed like a live wire.

"Head down and check out the garage, they can't have made it far." Jack ordered, "I'll check the stairs."

Jack moved to the stairwell, his boots echoing faintly on the worn wood as he descended. The faint smell of dust and damp concrete filled the narrow space, and the faint buzz of a flickering light somewhere below grated on his nerves. He scanned each corner, his gun raised and steady, but the steps stretched empty beneath him. At the base of the stairs, a heavy supply closet door caught his attention. Its handle was old and rusted, the surface marred with faint scratches.

Jack reached for it, giving the handle a firm tug. It resisted, creaking faintly but refusing to budge. He pulled harder, testing the weight, but it didn’t give.

“Damn thing’s rusted shut." Jack muttered under his breath. Shaking his head, he released the handle and turned back toward the stairwell, scanning the area one last time before retreating upward.

Riley’s voice came through the comms, cutting through the tension, "Jack, anything?"

"Empty." He replied, his voice steady, "But there’s evidence they were here, and not long ago."

"Nothing in the garage." Desi's voice came through, cold and clinical in a way that made something in Jack's brain itch.

Riley’s voice crackled again, her urgency palpable even through the comms, "I'm scanning nearby traffic cameras and thermal feeds. If they’re on the move, we’ll find them. For now keep checking out the apartment, maybe there's a clue."

Jack pushed the stairwell door open and stepped back into the apartment, the quiet pressing against him like a heavy weight. His gaze swept over the scene and his eyes landed on the LEGO set again, his brow furrowing as he stepped closer. Nestled among the scattered pieces was a folded piece of paper. He reached for it cautiously, unfolding it with one hand while his other kept his weapon at the ready. The note was scrawled in Murdoc’s sharp, angular handwriting, the words almost too casual for the sinister undercurrent they carried:

Phoenix, whoever finds this take it home for Angus, he'll want to finish it. - M

He read the note twice, his jaw tightening as the weight of Murdoc’s words settled over him. The casual tone grated against his nerves, as if Murdoc had been mocking them even in his absence.

Desi appeared in the doorway, "Find anything?"

"Just this." Jack handed her the note and watched as her brow furrowed reading it. Turning away, he scanned the rest of the room with practiced precision, his instincts on high alert despite the eerie quiet. He moved toward the kitchen, opening the lid of a bin tucked under the counter. His nose twitched at the faint scent of antiseptic. Peering inside, he found used bandages tinged with the whiff of something medicinal, ointment, maybe. He held his breath as his mind raced. Murdoc wasn't injured as far as they could tell from any of the videos which means Mac was the one who these bandages were for.

Jack bent down and poked further into the bin, careful not to disturb the contents too much. His fingers brushed against something solid. He pulled out a small glass vial, its label smudged but still legible enough to read the word Morphine in faded print. The bottle was empty.

"Morphine." He muttered under his breath, his brows furrowing. He glanced back at Desi, who was now pacing near the TV, "Matty mentioned that Murdoc could be drugging him. This would keep him docile, pliable. Fits Murdoc’s MO."

"You think Murdoc’s just pumping him full of drugs and bandaging him up?" Desi asked, her tone clipped, something passed over her face that Jack didn't recognise, "When he's the one who hurt Mac in the first place."

Jack didn’t respond immediately. The theory made sense, hell, it would’ve been his first assumption too. Murdoc hurt Mac bad enough that he needed bandages, then played the doting caretaker to a Mac too out of his head on morphine to realize what was happening. It fit the sick pattern of manipulation Murdoc had used in the past, but it didn’t feel right. His mind replayed the security footage: Mac, trembling but conscious, clinging to Murdoc like he was the only thing stopping him from falling apart. He thought about the unrestrained fury on Murdoc’s face when he taunted Phoenix through the camera, a rage that burned hot and vicious, nothing like the cold manic glee Murdoc usually wielded. Then there was the encounter Bozer had described, the cold, mocking anger Murdoc had aimed at him, sharp and laced with contempt.

Instead of voicing his doubts, he glanced at Desi, her pacing growing more agitated with each passing second. He forced his voice to sound even, shrugging slightly as he said, “Weirder things could happen.”

Jack moved to the hallway, his thoughts swirling. Every step through the quiet space made his gut tighten. The place wasn’t trashed or packed up, it felt lived in, as though whoever left hadn’t wanted to leave. He stepped into the bedroom, the muted light from the hallway spilling across the small space. The bed was unmade, the sheets rumpled on both sides. On the bedside table sat a cup of water, half-drunk, and strewn on the floor next to the bed was a black shirt. Jack’s eyes narrowed as recognition hit him. The shirt was the same one Murdoc had been wearing in the camera footage from two nights ago.

The soldier stared at the rumpled bed, his jaw tightening as the implications hit him. Two sides disturbed, two bodies. One of them had to be Mac. He could see the faint outline of where someone had curled up, the impression still lingering in the sheets. The other side was equally disheveled, and Jack’s stomach churned as he processed what he was seeing. It painted a picture he didn’t want to think about. It wasn’t just that Murdoc had taken Mac. It was how. The care implied in the bandages, the note, the water. The kind of care that didn’t align with his usual brand of chaos.

The kind of care that felt wrong. Intimate.

Jack’s gut twisted as his mind circled back to Bozer’s words earlier. He called Desi Mac’s ex-girlfriend... Said it wouldn’t last and called me insufferably unobservant. The words rattled in his head, and for the first time, he couldn’t shove the growing unease aside. What if Murdoc wasn’t wrong? He hated the thought, hated even entertaining it, but the idea dug its claws deeper. Desi’s reaction back in the war room had been sharp, defensive in a way that didn’t sit right. Sure, she was fiery, quick to anger, but this had felt like more than that. Like she was protecting something. Or hiding it. The sickening possibility hit him like a punch to the gut, and Jack’s hand instinctively clenched around the edge of the bedframe. He didn’t want to believe it. Hell, he didn’t even want to think it. But the way she’d snapped, the way her voice had risen with an edge of something darker, almost panicked, it stuck with him. It felt too personal, too raw. Desi was tough, but this wasn’t just anger at Murdoc’s manipulation, it felt like fear. Fear of what, though?

The memory of the way Mac curled into Murdoc's arms after the assassin murmured something softly in his ear flashed in Jack’s mind, followed by the used bandages in the trash. Murdoc wasn’t innocent in any of this, he’d never be, but what if the injuries Mac was nursing hadn’t started with him? What if Murdoc had taken Mac, not to harm him, but because someone else already had? The sickening thought solidified in Jack's head. It would explain so much: Murdoc’s fury, the fire in his eyes when he taunted Phoenix, the possessiveness he exuded even on grainy surveillance footage. It would explain the note, the bandages, and even the strange tenderness in the assassins’s gestures toward Mac. Because for all his deranged behavior, Murdoc had always been clear about one thing: he was the only one allowed to hurt Mac and Mac was the only person that he considered worth something.

Jack straightened, his expression hardening as his thoughts raced. He needed more. More evidence, more clarity, more certainty before he could voice what was clawing at the edges of his mind. This wasn’t something he could bring up lightly, especially not to Desi. He took a breath, forcing his focus back to the present. There would be time to unravel Desi’s role in all this later. Right now, his priority was Mac. He turned and headed back into the living room where Desi was still pacing, her agitation evident in every sharp movement.

Jack’s eyes drifted back to the note on the table, then to the disarray of the room. The pieces didn’t fit the way he wanted them to.

Desi stopped pacing, her eyes locking onto Jack’s, "He’s out there, and he needs us."

Jack nodded, fighting back a grimace. His gut churned with doubts he wasn’t ready to share, not yet. Not while Mac was still out there playing a dangerous game.

By the time they returned to the war room, the weight of what they’d found, or hadn’t found, was pressing down on them like a heavy shroud. Desi stood near the head of the table, her arms crossed tightly, her frustration evident in the tense set of her shoulders.

Her voice was sharp as she broke the silence, “It was like they vanished into thin air. Halfway through a game, halfway through making coffee, and an half-completed lego set. Then there were the morphine and bandages we found in the bin. And the bed… the sheets were rumpled on both sides. They’ve been sleeping there. Together.”

Before anyone could respond, Riley’s voice cut through the tension and a grainy black and white feed popped up on the screen, “Hold on, I think I found something. It’s not much, just a second or two, but it’s them. Leaving the alley behind the apartment.”

The room fell silent as the clip played. Murdoc moved briskly through the narrow alley, one arm securely wrapped around Mac’s waist, his other hand balancing a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Mac leaned heavily against him, his steps unsteady. The blond’s face was pale and anxious, his expression tight with pain. A deep bruise darkened one eye, and his lip was split, and his arm tucked in as if his shoulder hurt him.

Murdoc’s hand on Mac’s waist tightened slightly in the footage, his head tilting as he glanced down at the blond. The expression on Murdoc’s face made everyone in the room pause. It wasn’t cruel or mocking. It was soft. Concerned.

“Look at him,” Riley said, her tone incredulous, “Murdoc doesn’t even have a weapon out. He’s too busy holding Mac up.”

The footage kept playing, Mac’s eyes darted nervously behind them, but then he glanced up at Murdoc as if to check he was still there. Leaning closer into the assassin as they walked as briskly as his stumbling gait would allow.

Desi scoffed, her frustration boiling over, “It’s a trick. Murdoc’s manipulating him, making him dependent. This is all part of his sick game.”

Matty’s voice had an undercurrent of anger as she spoke, “Or maybe Murdoc’s convinced Mac he’s protecting him from something, or someone. He’s a master manipulator. If Mac thinks he’s safer with Murdoc than with us, that’s a hell of a card for him to play.”

“Mac doesn’t look like someone being dragged along against his will,” Bozer had been quiet up to this point but now his voice was shaky, pained, “He looks like he’s trusting him.”

Jack’s jaw tightened as he turned toward Desi. Her expression was rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line, but there was something flickering in her eyes, something Jack couldn’t quite name. His gut twisted as he studied her, something was wrong here, he could feel it.

And Jack was going to find out what.

Chapter 7: Won't You Stay With Me, My Darling?

Notes:

Divinity said: Destiny can't be earned or returned.

Mac

The faint hum of the lamp filled the room, steady and unyielding, a constant presence in the heavy quiet. Mac stared at the ceiling, the soft glow of the bedside light casting uneven shadows across the cracked paint. His ribs ached from the day’s chaos, but it was nothing compared to the weight pressing against his chest, squeezing tighter with every shallow breath.

Jack is back.

The thought looped endlessly in his mind, relentless and suffocating. Mac squeezed his eyes shut, but the words wouldn’t leave him alone. They carried a weight he couldn’t seem to shake, pressing down until his chest felt like it might cave in. He wanted to be relieved, wanted to feel that familiar flicker of hope at the idea of Jack coming to save him. But all he felt was dread. He hadn’t wanted Jack to find him. Not like that. Not leaning into Murdoc, not looking weak, not looking broken. The idea of Jack seeing him like that, of meeting his gaze and finding disappointment, pity, or something worse, was unbearable. Mac pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, willing the image away, but it wasn't long until a worse thought took its place.

Jack was the one who left me with her.

The thought struck like a match, igniting something raw and bitter deep in Mac’s chest. Jack had left. He’d walked away, leaving Mac to pick up the pieces, to manage Desi’s temper, her biting words, the way she cut him down when he was already bleeding. And for what, some mission he couldn’t even talk about. Some vague sense of duty that had taken precedence over their friendship. Mac’s hand dropped to his side, his fingers curling into the fabric of the blanket. The resentment coiled tighter, hot and unyielding, burning through the cracks that Jack’s absence had left behind. He’d never said it, never let himself feel it fully, but now, in the suffocating quiet, the truth surged forward like a flood. Jack had abandoned him and now he was back as if none of it ever happened, as if he can swoop in and save the day and somehow that'll make up for the biting feeling of uselessness, of not being good enough anymore.

He blinked up at the ceiling, the soft hum of the lamp mocking him in its steadiness, its inability to falter the way he had. He could feel the spiral coming, the storm of thoughts circling tighter, threatening to pull him under. He half expected Murdoc to appear at the door, his sharp grin masking the ever-watchful gaze that seemed to pierce through Mac’s walls with uncanny precision. Murdoc wouldn’t knock, wouldn’t stand there waiting. He’d walk in uninvited, his presence filling the room like a gust of wind that slammed the door shut on everything else. He’d lean against the doorway, his voice low and cutting but strangely soothing.

"Oh darling, you look like you're trying to solve the mysteries of the universe using only your self-loathing."

Mac let the imagined words echo in his mind, a faint smirk flickering across his lips before fading just as quickly. He didn’t doubt for a second that Murdoc would come if he called. Hell, he wouldn’t even have to call, just scream, just let out one raw, broken sound, and Murdoc would come running. He’d barge in, demanding to know what happened, why Mac was upset, what needed to be fixed For a fleeting second, Mac let himself imagine it, Murdoc throwing open the door, his dark eyes scanning the room for threats before fixing on him. He’d perch on the edge of the bed, his weight barely shifting the mattress, and look down at him with that calm, unnerving softness. The kind of look that wasn’t pity, and thank god it wasn’t pity, because Mac couldn’t take that. No, Murdoc’s gaze would be something else entirely. Assessing, focused, as if Mac were a puzzle worth solving.

Mac could almost feel it, the way Murdoc’s hand would reach out, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing through his hair, tucking a stray lock behind his ear. The touch would linger, longer than it should, hovering on the edge of something too intimate, too dangerous. And he wouldn’t stop there. Murdoc would lean in, his voice low and deliberate, close enough that Mac could feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough that the weight of his presence would drown out everything else, the ache in his ribs, the knot in his chest, the storm of thoughts threatening to pull him under.

" Angus, it's alright now. I'm here, you're not alone."

Mac’s breath hitched at the thought, and the realization hit him like a slap. He was fantasizing about Murdoc. Dangerous, manipulative, psychotic Murdoc. The man who’d spent years tormenting him, the man who should’ve been the last person he ever allowed into his head. Mac’s hands dropped to his lap, trembling slightly as his jaw clenched. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. It was just stress. A byproduct of being constantly on edge, of relying on someone he shouldn’t be able to trust. That’s what Murdoc wanted, wasn’t it? To worm his way into Mac’s thoughts, to make him question everything until there was nothing left but him. It was all part of whatever twisted plan that the assassin had cooked up, he wanted Mac to want him like this.

But the thought wasn’t enough to stop the voice at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent. If he’s so dangerous then why did you invite him to share the bed last night?

The thought wound it's way around his mind and settled like a weight on his chest. At the time, it had felt logical, even practical. But now, in the suffocating quiet, that logic felt paper-thin. His fingers dug into the blanket as his mind replayed the scene, over and over. He hadn’t just said it to be practical, had he? He’d seen Murdoc on the couch, his body rigid even in sleep, his brow furrowed like he was bracing for a fight that wouldn’t come. And Mac had felt... empathy? No. He shook his head sharply. It wasn’t empathy. It couldn’t be. Murdoc didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t some victim of circumstance, not someone Mac could fix or save.

Mac squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus on the facts, on the science. He needed to rationalize this, to break it down into manageable pieces. Humans are wired for connection. In times of stress, the mind seeks comfort, even if that comfort comes from unexpected places. That made sense, didn’t it? He’d spent days teetering on the edge, surrounded by chaos, relying on Murdoc because he had no other choice. Of course his brain was latching onto that. It was biology, not desire. Survival, not trust. But the excuses felt hollow, like they didn’t quite fit. His breath hitched as another thought crept in, quiet but insistent. You didn’t just wake up in his arms, you went back to sleep there.

The memory slipped in, unbidden and vivid. He’d woken in the faint, silvery light of early dawn, disoriented for a moment before the weight of reality had settled back on his chest. And then, there had been Murdoc lying beside him, his arm draped loosely over Mac’s waist, his hand resting lightly against his side. Mac had stilled, his breath catching as the realization sank in. His head was tucked against Murdoc’s shoulder, his cheek brushing the soft fabric of the assassin’s shirt. For a second he’d thought about pulling away, about untangling himself from the closeness. But then as if he'd sensed the hesitation, Murdoc had sighed softly in his sleep and tightened his hold, just slightly, pulling Mac closer in a way that felt instinctive rather than deliberate. The assassin’s breath stirred against his hair, warm and steady, and the weight of his arm was surprisingly gentle, like a tether anchoring Mac in the here and now. The faint scent of vanilla and coffee lingered in the air, clinging to Murdoc’s skin, warm and familiar. It was a scent Mac hadn’t even realized he’d associated with comfort until that moment, until he'd let himself settle into the warmth and let the steady rhythm of Murdoc's heartbeat lull him to sleep.

Now the memory sat in his chest like a lead weight. Mac stared at the ceiling, his fists curling around the edge of the blanket as he tried to piece together what it all meant. Was he really so broken, so fractured, that the only place he’d found solace in months was in Murdoc’s arms. The thought sent a wave of shame coursing through him, hot and relentless. This wasn’t who he was. He was supposed to be better than this, stronger than this. He wasn’t supposed to need comfort from someone like Murdoc.

It’s science. He told himself, his mind grasping for rationality. Humans sought comfort in times of distress. The body craved safety, warmth, reassurance. It didn’t matter where it came from. It was biology. A survival mechanism. It wasn’t real. But the more he tried to break it down, strip it of its weight, reduce it to mere chemical processes, the less convinced he felt. It wasn’t just about needing safety. It wasn’t just about wanting someone there. It was about Murdoc. The way the assassin had kept his arm steady around him in the closet, the way he’d whispered, Breathe slow. Focus on me. like he wasn’t the most dangerous man Mac had ever known. The way he hadn't let go of Mac's waist, holding him close, keeping him stable even when the pain would've made him stumble. He wanted it to be biology, to be able to be broken down into chemical transmitters and necessity, because the alternative cut into him like like shards of borosilicate glass: sharp, relentless, and embedding itself deep where even his body’s own healing couldn’t reach, leaving behind jagged, invisible wounds.

Am I really so broken that all I want right now is Murdoc?

He tried to fight it, to push the thought aside, but it clung to him, invasive and persistent. Broken. Useless. Weak. The words circled his mind like vultures, feeding on every failure he’d buried, every misstep he couldn’t forget. He’d told himself he was doing the best he could, that the choices he’d made were the only ones available to him. But sitting here now, staring at the cracked ceiling of yet another safehouse, the weight of those choices felt unbearable. He didn’t just feel broken. He felt irreparable. He felt like nobody in the world could ever put him back together again, if they even wanted him back to start with. That thought came unbidden, sharp and cruel, and it stopped Mac cold. He stared at the ceiling, the uneven shadows flickering faintly as the lamp hummed its steady rhythm. The truth of it settled deep in his chest, suffocating in its weight. Who could ever want someone so fractured, so consumed by their own failures? He wasn’t the man he used to be. He wasn’t the bright-eyed boy scout Phoenix had counted on, wasn’t the prodigy Jack had once teased, wasn’t the person his friends had believed in. He was just... this. A mess of guilt and scars, hiding behind clever words and skills that he was too slow and hesitant to even use properly. The tears welled up in his eyes unbidden, his chest felt like it was constricting.

Mac swallowed hard, his throat tight as the tears threatened to spill over. His chest felt like it was being crushed under the weight of everything he couldn’t fix, couldn’t change. Jack was out there, searching for him, and all he could think about was how much he didn’t want to be found, how damned lonely he was, how broken he was. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to block out the tears, but the effort only seemed to make the ache worse. He couldn’t stay here, trapped in his thoughts, drowning under the weight of everything he couldn’t face. He needed to move, to do something, anything, that might quiet the relentless spiral of his mind. The decision wasn’t conscious, more instinct than intent. Mac swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body protesting the movement with a dull throb that radiated through his ribs. He pressed a hand against his side, hissing softly as he pushed himself to his feet. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he padded toward the door, his steps slow and deliberate. He felt like a ghost drifting through the quiet house, the dim light from the hallway casting faint shadows against the walls. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, where he was going, until he reached Murdoc’s door.

Mac stared at it, his heart pounding hard enough to make his bruised ribs ache with every beat. He shouldn’t be here, but the raw ache in his chest had hollowed him out, leaving him desperate for something, anything, to make it stop. His hand was on the doorknob before he could think it through, twisting it with a quiet resolve that didn’t feel like his own. The door swung open, and the dim light from the hallway spilled into the room. Murdoc sat upright in bed, his dark eyes immediately locking onto Mac’s. He wasn’t asleep, of course he wasn’t. His sharp gaze flicked over Mac’s form, his expression unreadable but far too aware.

"Angus?" Murdoc called softly, tilting his head to the side.

Mac took a tentative step into the room, then another, his voice was raw when he spoke, "Tell me."

Murdoc slid out of the bed, the sharp edges of his presence softening just enough to make space for Mac. His dark eyes stayed locked on him, their usual predatory gleam replaced by something quieter, something almost reverent. He stood there, barefoot on the worn floorboards, his posture relaxed but his gaze gentle, searching, "Tell you what, my darling?"

"Tell me I'm good enough." Mac heard his voice crack, a jagged sound that felt like it ripped itself out of his heart, "Tell me I deserve more than this, tell me I'm more than the bruises and the pain."

He could feel the tears he'd been holding back start to run down his cheeks and the plea he gave sounded as broken as he felt, "Tell me what you see when you look at me."

Murdoc didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask why Mac was standing there with his voice trembling like glass about to shatter. He didn’t make a sarcastic remark or offer one of his usual deflections. He just moved, closing the space between them with slow, deliberate steps, his bare feet silent against the floor. The assassin’s gaze softened, the predatory edge melting away into something Mac didn’t know how to name. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t even sympathy. It was understanding. Unyielding and steady, like Murdoc could see every crack in Mac’s carefully constructed walls and didn’t flinch. Slowly, Murdoc reached up, his hand brushing against Mac’s hair, his fingers threading through the golden strands with an intimacy that felt almost unbearable. His touch was light, deliberate, as though he feared pressing too hard might shatter something fragile.

“You want me to tell you what I see?" Murdoc's voice was soft, "When I look at you, Angus, I see the sun."

Murdoc’s words lingered in the air, a quiet declaration that carried more weight than Mac could fully comprehend in the moment. He blinked, his breath hitching as the tears kept slipping free, but he didn’t move, couldn’t move, as Murdoc's hand trailed down, brushing the tears from Mac's eyes. The assassin’s dark eyes locked onto his, steady and unwavering, as though he were speaking a truth he’d carried for far too long.

"The sun." He continued, his voice almost reverent, "Not just because you’re bright, though you are. Blindingly so. Brilliant, clever, and sharp enough to cut through anyone who dares to underestimate you, but because you burn. You burn with this maddening intensity that makes the world spin around you, whether you realize it or not. You pull people in, Angus. They can’t help themselves. They orbit you, desperate for your light, for your warmth."

Mac swallowed hard, the lump in his throat tightening with each word. His chest felt like it might collapse under the weight of Murdoc’s gaze, the intensity of his words wrapping around him like a blanket too heavy to throw off.

"You asked me to tell you you’re good enough." Murdoc leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper now, his breath warm against Mac’s skin, "But good enough doesn’t even come close. You’re everything. You’re stubborn and infuriating and so breathtakingly kind it makes me want to set the whole world on fire because it doesn’t deserve you. You're everything that I'm not and yet the only person that could ever match me."

“Murdoc.” His voice cracked again, raw and unsteady, but Murdoc didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in closer, his presence steady and grounding in a way the blond hadn’t expected.

“When I look at you, I see the kind of person I’ll never be.” The assassin's voice carried a weight that made Mac’s heart ache, “You’re hope and defiance and brilliance all wrapped up in a man who refuses to give up, even when the world gives him every reason to. And you deserve so much more than the people who've left you behind and the scars on your body.”

Mac didn’t realize his breathing had hitched until Murdoc’s hand was on his face again, gently tilting his chin upward. The touch was shockingly tender, his thumb brushing just below Mac’s jaw as if Murdoc thought he might break if he pressed too hard. Their eyes met, and for the first time, Mac didn’t feel the sharpness in Murdoc’s gaze. Instead, it was warm, heavy, and painfully sincere.

“You deserve more than this.” Murdoc murmured, his voice trembling just enough to betray the storm underneath, “But if this is all you think you can have, then I’ll make it everything. For you. Just for you.”

Mac’s breath hitched again, sharp and uneven, as he searched the other man's face, desperately trying to find the lie. He needed to find it, to catch the flicker of manipulation in those dark eyes, the predatory gleam that always lingered just beneath the surface. But it wasn’t there. There was no mockery, no cunning, no sign of the Murdoc who had spent years taunting him. What he found instead was raw, unflinching honesty, the kind that scared him more than any weapon ever could. The tears didn’t stop, and Mac didn’t have the strength to fight them.

"Why?" The word was fractured, uncertain, like it was asking too many questions at once.

Murdoc didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned in, his movements deliberate but unhurried, as though giving Mac every chance to pull away. When their lips met, it wasn’t the fiery clash Mac might have imagined in some hidden, shame-filled corner of his mind. It was soft. Gentle. The kind of kiss that unraveled you, thread by delicate thread, until you weren’t sure where you ended and the other person began. For a moment, the chaos of his thoughts quieted, the ache in his chest soothed by the strange, steady certainty of Murdoc’s presence. He kissed back, tentatively at first, his lips moving against Murdoc’s with a softness that felt foreign, like he was trying to navigate uncharted territory.

The pain in his ribs dulled, fading into the background as the kiss deepened. Murdoc’s hand slid from Mac’s jaw to the back of his neck, his fingers threading through the blond strands with deliberate care, as though he might break apart if touched too suddenly. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him like this, like he was something precious, something worth holding on to.

Murdoc pulled back slightly, his dark eyes searching Mac’s face with a vulnerability that was almost painful to see. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but resolute, "Why? Because I don’t want to be better, Angus. I don’t want redemption or absolution or to be saved from whatever monster I am. I just want you."

Mac stared at him, the weight of Murdoc’s words sinking deep into his chest, wrapping around the cracks in his defenses like molten iron. His throat tightened, but no words came. He felt like he was standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, one step away from either falling or flying, and he didn’t know which terrified him more.

“You’re insane.” Mac finally murmured, his voice low and rough, but there was no malice in the words. If anything, there was a faint, unsteady thread of disbelief woven through them, as though he couldn’t reconcile the man standing before him with the monster he’d spent so long fearing.

"Perhaps. But even the insane have their moments of clarity." Murdoc's arm wound around Mac’s waist, his expression open in a way that made his heart twist, "And in mine, I see you."

Mac didn't know what to say, didn't know if there was anything that he could say that could truly give life to the thoughts and feelings swirling in his mind. Instead, the blond leaned into Murdoc's chest, his breath evening out as the steady rhythm of the assassin’s heartbeat beneath his ear soothed him. He felt Murdoc’s fingers running through his hair in slow, soothing motions, "You've always carried everyone else, Angus. Stay with me tonight, my darling, let me carry you."

"I'll stay." The words settled over Mac like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of his thoughts, "Tonight, I'll stay."

When they finally moved, it was slow and unspoken, like neither of them wanted to shatter the fragile balance between them. Mac let Murdoc guide him to the bed, his body aching but his mind strangely still. As he settled into the space, the assassin’s arm slipped around his back, pulling him close without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mac rested his head against Murdoc’s shoulder, the steady rise and fall of the assassin’s chest grounding him in a way he couldn’t begin to explain. The scent of vanilla and coffee lingered faintly in the air, wrapping around him like a memory of something safe, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

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The days that followed settled into a rhythm that Mac couldn’t have predicted but found himself slipping into with surprising ease. It wasn’t something they talked about, not explicitly, but the quiet intimacy that began to fill the space between them seemed to need no words. Mornings were slow and unhurried, the soft clink of mugs against the counter marking the start of their day. Mac would sit cross-legged on the couch, his hair a messy halo of gold, while Murdoc moved about the kitchen with a precision that spoke of someone who needed control over at least one corner of his chaotic world. The assassin would eventually join him on the couch, carrying two mugs of coffee laced with vanilla syrup. He’d pass Mac his mug with an exaggerated flourish, his lips quirking into a grin as he settled beside him. Later, Mac would stretch out on the couch with a book, his fingers idly thumbing through the worn pages. Murdoc, ever the enigma, would sprawl out beside him, his head finding its way into Mac’s lap with a fluidity that left no room for argument.

"Comfortable?" Mac asked dryly the first time it happened.

"Very comfortable." Murdoc had replied, his eyes sparkling with something neither of them were willing to name as he tilted his head slightly, resting more firmly against Mac’s thigh. Sometimes, they would sit in silence for hours like this, the only sounds the rustle of pages, the faint hum of the TV, or the soft, steady rhythm of their breathing. Mac found himself growing used to the weight of Murdoc against him, the warmth of his presence grounding him.

Afternoons brought a slower rhythm, one dictated by necessity more than choice. Mac’s body was still healing, and while his bruises were fading, the ache in his ribs and the stiffness in his shoulder remained a constant reminder of his limits. It was Murdoc who had suggested their walks around the house.

"You need to keep moving, darling." Murdoc had declared, one hand resting on Mac’s back, "And if I can't take you anywhere you truly deserve to go, then we'll have to just walk around here."

Mac had smiled at that, and at the easy grin that Murdoc had given him when he rolled his eyes and agreed. The assassin's arm always found its way around Mac’s waist, steady and secure, as if he were the only thing keeping him upright. Mac leaned into him without hesitation, his hand brushing against Murdoc’s side for balance. Their steps were slow, deliberate, as they made their way through the safehouse. Then, they'd return once more to the couch and lean on each other while they watched whatever movie one or both of them deemed acceptable.

Nights were when the world seemed to shrink, leaving only the two of them. They didn’t talk about it, the way their bodies always seemed to find each other’s, how Mac’s head fit perfectly against Murdoc’s shoulder, or how Murdoc’s hand rested against the small of Mac’s back like it belonged there. Sometimes they kissed, soft and unhurried, the kind of kiss that spoke of a trust neither of them was quite ready to name. Other times, they simply held each other, the quiet hum of the night filling the spaces between their breaths. It was just them, knowing somehow unspoken what the other needed.

That's how it was for them in those soft quiet moments, they looked at each other and somehow understood. When Mac’s restless energy got to be too much, Murdoc would slide a pen or paperclip into Mac’s reach without a word whenever the tapping grew more erratic. Mac never said thank you out loud, but the softening of his shoulders, the quiet hum of focus returning to his features, seemed to speak volumes. So, when Murdoc produced a butterfly knife one afternoon, Mac's eyes couldn't help but trace the mesmerizing movements of the blade.

The assassin had tossed the knife into the air, catching it with the same fluid grace that had carried him through countless battles. For a moment, he let it hang in his hand, the blade shimmering faintly in the dim light before holding out to Mac, "Here, try it."

Mac hesitated, his gaze flicking between Murdoc’s outstretched hand and the glinting knife, “You trust me with that?”

"Of course, my darling." The assassin’s expression was patient and soft yet still laced with a teasing grin, "Now, flip it! No, no, not like that."

The blade clattered to the floor, and Mac swore under his breath, but Murdoc only laughed, crouching to retrieve it, "Patience, Angus. It’s not about strength; it’s about rhythm. Watch."

He demonstrated again, his movements smooth and methodical, then handed the knife back. This time, Mac’s fingers found a better grip, and with careful guidance, the blade spun in his hand, his movements becoming steadier as the minutes stretched on. He didn’t realize he was smiling until Murdoc leaned back with a satisfied sigh, his eyes gleaming with something softer than his usual sharpness.

"Looks good on you, you know." Murdoc said casually.

"What does?" Mac looked up, catching the assassin's relaxed gaze.

"The calm." Murdoc replied simply, his grin softening into something almost genuine, “Like you’re finally breathing properly for the first time in weeks.”

“Thanks.” Mac murmured, his voice quieter than he meant it to be. He glanced back down at the knife, his fingers brushing over the handle, before he held it back out to the assassin, “For teaching me. For this.”

Murdoc had simply curled Mac's hand around the blade, "Keep it, my darling. This one can be yours."

And if Mac sometimes spun the knife just to see Murdoc smile, then nobody else needed to know. That evening, as they sat curled on the couch with the faint hum of the TV filling the room, Mac noticed it: the flicker. The lamp in the corner had been temperamental for a while now, but tonight it was worse, the light sputtering every few seconds like a breath catching in the back of a throat. Murdoc’s shoulders had tensed almost imperceptibly with each flicker, his focus drifting from the book in his lap to the offending lamp. He didn’t say anything, of course, he didn’t, but Mac could see the way his fingers tightened on the edge of the book, the faint furrow in his brow deepening with every pulse of uneven light.

"Hang on." Mac murmured, pushing himself off the couch, biting back a wince as his ribs stabbed into him. Murdoc’s gaze flicked to Mac, one eyebrow arching in silent question as the blond padded over to the corner. 

"What are you doing?" Murdoc asked finally, his tone as casual as he could muster.

"Fixing it." Mac replied without looking up, "It’s flickering. It’s probably just a loose wire."

Murdoc tilted his head, studying Mac with a curious expression, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know.” Mac said simply, returning his focus to the lamp, “But I want to.”

He worked in silence for a few minutes, his fingers deftly stripping the cord and reattaching it with a precision that spoke of years of practice. It was harder without having full movement in both of his hands, but all the same the sputtering light steadied, casting a warm, even glow across the room.

Murdoc’s eyes lingered on the lamp for a moment, then drifted to Mac. The tension in his shoulders eased, "Thank you."

Mac glanced over his shoulder, flashing a small, lopsided smile, "It’s just a lamp, Murdoc."

"Maybe." Murdoc’s gaze flickered back to Mac, and his features softened in something that felt like it was worth more than a smile, "But you fixed it anyway."

It was five days after they left that small apartment in Huntington Park, and the morning was cool and quiet, the scent of coffee drifting through the air as sunlight spilled lazily through the curtains. Mac was perched at the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug, the other idly spinning the butterfly knife Murdoc had given him. The movements were slow, rhythmic, the blade flipping and catching with a precision that had come with days of practice.

"You’ve become rather attached to that." Murdoc remarked, his tone light.

Mac grinned, catching the knife and holding it still for a moment, "I guess it’s satisfying. Something about the rhythm."

Murdoc tilted his head, a flicker of amusement passing over his features, "Rhythm is everything, darling. Chaos only looks chaotic to those who can’t see the patterns."

Mac rolled his eyes fondly but didn't respond, instead letting the knife spin again. The silence between them was easy, punctuated only by the soft sound of the blade clicking open and shut.

Murdoc broke it, his voice casual but laced with a quiet edge, “We should move again soon, Phoenix should be catching up by now.”

The words hit like a sudden drop in altitude, sending his stomach plummeting. Phoenix. The name alone brought with it a tidal wave of emotion, sharp and suffocating. He stared at the knife in his hand, the smooth rhythm that had grounded him moments before now feeling foreign and unstable. The air seemed heavier, the quiet of the morning no longer soothing but oppressive. Phoenix should be catching up. What would they find when they did?

"Angus?" Murdoc's voice was softer now, a careful question.

Mac didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts spiraled, the knot in his chest tightening with every loop. His fingers clenched around the handle of the knife, the edge digging into his palm. Phoenix. He could already hear their voices, cold and clinical, dissecting every mistake, every failure, every moment where he hadn’t been enough. Would they even want him back?

He set the knife down on the counter with deliberate care, his hand trembling slightly as he withdrew it. He reached for his coffee instead, though the mug felt heavier than it should have. He lifted it to his lips but didn’t drink, the heat seeping into his skin as he stared into the dark liquid, his mind racing.

"Angus, what's going on?" Murdoc slipped closer to the blond, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I'm not sure they'd want me back." Mac felt the words leave him in a rush, giving voice to every single feeling he'd spent the last weeks trying to avoid.

The effect on Murdoc was immediate, he stiffened and leaned close, "Angus, why in god's name wouldn't they want you?"

Mac's voice cracked as he set the mug down, his gaze fixed on the countertop, avoiding the assassin's eyes, "Because I'm not the person who they hired. Because I’ve failed. Over and over again. The last six missions we did... every single one went wrong, Murdoc. People got hurt, people died. And it was my fault. I made the wrong calls, or I froze when I shouldn’t have. I’m supposed to be able to think under pressure, to figure things out when no one else can. That’s who I’m supposed to be. And I couldn’t."

Murdoc was silent for a moment, the air around him sharpening in a way that made Mac’s skin prickle. When the assassin finally spoke, his voice was low, trembling with a restrained fury that seemed to make the room itself shiver, “They told you this? That it was your fault?”

Mac felt his heart stutter at the assassin’s voice, “I- I got a formal reprimand after the last mission. A warning. They said if another agent died on my watch, they’d have to reconsider my position.”

“Reprimand?” Murdoc repeated, his voice turning ice cold, “A warning?”

“As if you’re some rookie screwing up basic ops? Do they even realize who you are? What you’ve done for them?" The assassin's voice rose with every word, "You’re the reason half of their missions don’t end in utter disaster! You’re the only reason they have even a shred of competence left to cling to, and this is how they treat you? Like you’re disposable?"

Mac flinched slightly at the volume, his gaze still fixed on his coffee, but Murdoc wasn’t about to let him retreat into silence, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, venomous growl that sent chills down Mac’s spine. "They reprimanded you instead of helping you? Instead of asking what the hell was wrong, why their most brilliant agent, their only irreplaceable one, wasn’t at his best? They didn't think to try and help you?"

Murdoc’s voice cracked through the room, rising to a fever pitch, every syllable trembling with an unhinged, apocalyptic rage. His hands, usually so precise, gestured sharply as though he could physically tear apart the concept of Phoenix itself, "They didn’t stop for one second to consider that maybe something was wrong with their golden boy, that maybe they should support you instead of piling on more pressure?! Idiots. All of them. Every last one of them! You don’t reprimand Angus Macgyver. You don’t warn him like he’s some mediocre desk jockey!"

“Let me tell you something, Angus. If they had dared to fire you, if those arrogant, shortsighted bureaucrats had even considered discarding you like some replaceable cog, I would have broken out of whatever cell they locked me in. I would’ve waged a war against them so chaotic, so violent, they’d have begged for you to come back just to keep me in check.” The assassin's eyes blazed with intensity that Mac had never seen before, “I would’ve made their lives hell. I’d have torn apart every mission they touched, sabotaged every operation, unleashed every secret I know until they were begging to bring you back. Not because they deserve you, but because I wouldn’t let them live in the illusion that they’re safe without you!”

Mac blinked, his breath catching at the sheer intensity of the words. His chest felt tight, but not with the shame or guilt that had weighed him down for weeks. No, this was different. The knot in his chest was loosening, unraveling under the force of Murdoc’s rage, like the assassin’s words were dragging something heavy and immovable out of the dark.

“You are not just anyone, Angus.” Murdoc growled, his voice cracking with the weight of his fury, “You’re the only person I’ve ever respected, the only mind that has ever truly matched my own. You're brilliant, you're perfect. And they treat you like this. Like you’re a fucking liability. They should be groveling at your feet for everything you’ve done for them, and instead, they have the audacity to act like you're anything other than incredible!"

Mac was still, his coffee forgotten, his pulse pounding in his ears as Murdoc’s words washed over him. The assassin’s rage was so raw, so all-encompassing, it felt like it could set the room ablaze. But beneath the sharp edges of his anger, there was something else, something unwavering and painfully sincere. For the first time in weeks, Mac didn’t feel small. He didn’t feel weak.

Murdoc’s voice cracked, his hands shaking as he gestured toward Mac, “You are everything, Angus! The only person who has ever been worth my respect, worth my time, worth anything! And they-”

Mac moved without thinking. He reached up, grabbed the collar of Murdoc’s shirt, and yanked him down into a kiss.

The assassin froze, his tirade cutting off mid-sentence. For a moment, the air between them felt electric, charged with the clash of Mac’s desperation and Murdoc’s raw intensity. Then, as if a switch flipped, Murdoc melted into the kiss with a fervor that sent Mac’s pulse skyrocketing. His hands found Mac’s waist, pulling him closer with a possessiveness that should have felt suffocating but didn’t. Mac kissed him harder, his fingers tangling in Murdoc’s shirt, anchoring himself to the moment.

Murdoc broke away first, just enough to rest his forehead against Mac’s. His hands remained firm on Mac’s waist, grounding him, as if letting go wasn’t an option, "Well, that's one way to shut me up."

"Wasn’t trying to shut you up." Mac tried to figure out the words, his breath coming ragged and uneven, "I just…you were-"

He let out a frustrated sound before surging forward and catching Murdoc in another kiss. Trying to put every feeling, every raw emotion screaming to be heard, his anger, his shame, his gratitude, all the emotions he didn’t have words for into that one moment. Murdoc responded in kind, his hands tightening on Mac’s waist like he was afraid to let go. When they broke apart again, he was breathless, his lips tingling, his pulse hammering in his chest.

Murdoc leaned back just enough to catch his gaze, his voice low and trembling with something reverent, “Tell me to stop, Angus. Tell me now, and I swear I will.”

Mac’s fingers tightened in the fabric of the assassin’s shirt, his bruised ribs protesting the movement, but he didn’t care. His reply was quiet, almost a whisper, but steady, “Don’t you dare.”

Mac’s words hung in the air for the briefest of moments before Murdoc surged forward, his lips finding Mac’s again with a reverence that bordered on worship. It was unhurried but fervent, Murdoc’s hands sliding from Mac’s waist to his back, careful even in his intensity. Then, without breaking the kiss, he shifted, guiding Mac backward until the edge of the couch pressed against the blond’s knees. The subtle weight of Murdoc’s body, the heat of his touch, grounded Mac to the moment as the world outside dissolved into irrelevance.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jack

The six days since Murdoc slipped through their fingers had been some of the longest of Jack’s life. He barely slept, barely ate, and even when he did, it was only because Riley shoved food into his hands and glared at him until he finished. The pit in his stomach only deepened as the days passed with no sign of Mac, no solid leads, and no answers to the gnawing questions in his mind.

Desi’s clipped tone echoed in his ears from their last argument: short, defensive responses whenever he asked about Mac. Her sharp retorts had felt more like deflections than genuine frustration. Bozer had noticed too. Jack wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

“You really think Desi could’ve done something to him?” Bozer had asked the night before, his voice quiet but heavy. They’d been sitting in the dim light of the Phoenix kitchen, two mugs of cold coffee between them.

Jack hesitated, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he stared at the swirling liquid in his mug, “I don’t wanna think it, Boze. But something’s not right. You saw the footage. Mac looked scared, but not of Murdoc.”

Bozer leaned forward, his voice low but firm, “Look, Jack. We don’t know anything for sure. Not yet. And if we start pointing fingers now, without Mac here to tell us the truth, it’s just gonna blow up in our faces. We’ve gotta get him back first. Otherwise, we’ve got nothing.”

Jack nodded reluctantly, but the words didn’t settle the unease gnawing at his gut, “We have to find him. Before something worse happens.”

Now here they were, him and Desi, checking out yet another lead that Riley dug up. This time they were following a car with dodgy registration that had left a few blocks away from the apartment where Murdoc had been keeping Mac. Jack felt so useless, like he was no closer to finding Mac or even finding out why Murdoc took him.

The house was an unassuming, single-story building tucked away on a quiet street. It looked like a dozen other houses they’d passed on their way there, with nothing to mark it as special. But Jack’s gut told him otherwise. Something about the stillness of the place, the way the curtains barely moved in the faint breeze, put him on edge. He reached for the door, his grip tightening around his weapon as he exchanged a brief glance with Desi. She gave a short nod, her face hard and unreadable. Jack lifted his foot and kicked the door in with one swift motion, the sound of the splintering wood shattering the quiet morning.

Jack’s weapon came up instinctively as the door swung open, the shards of splintered wood scattering across the floor. His heart pounded in his chest, a rhythm that matched the rapid fire of thoughts racing through his mind. 

“Jack?”

“Mac?” His voice came out hoarse, laced with equal parts relief and dread.

There he was. Mac stood just inside the room, his silhouette framed by the faint light filtering through the drawn curtains. He looked wrong. Jack couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about the way Mac held himself set every alarm in his mind blaring. His shoulders were hunched, his posture defensive, and his hand clutched something behind his back like it was the only thing keeping him steady. He froze for a moment, his eyes locked on Mac, scanning him with the practiced precision of someone who’d spent years in dangerous situations. His mind cataloged every detail: the bruises fading into sickly greens and yellows, the way Mac’s ribs rose unevenly beneath the thin shirt, and his split lip, still healing. But beyond the injuries, Mac looked good.

His eyes weren’t glassy or red, and his posture, though defensive, lacked the brokenness Jack expected. Something in the way he stood, the slight wildness in his eyes, hinted at defiance rather than defeat. It didn’t add up.

Then his eyes landed on Mac’s neck and the world seemed to slow down. Three dark purple marks stood out starkly against the fading bruises, unmistakable in their shape and placement. Jack’s jaw tightened involuntarily, his eyes locking onto them as his mind scrambled for an explanation that made sense.

Mac’s eyes flashed with something unrecognisable for a second before his hand flew up to his neck and his expression crumbled into something raw and devastating that squeezed Jack’s heart.

The blond’s voice broke as he spoke, his body starting to tremble, “Don’t look please don’t look. I couldn’t- I didn’t- He wouldn’t stop.”

Mac’s face twisted in anguish and his knees buckled, and he caught himself on the wall before sliding down to the floor. The sobs started loud and uncontrollable, each one ripping through the quiet room like a hammer on glass, “He made me.”

“Mac, baby,” Desi said softly, stepping forward and reaching out for his shoulder. Her tone was perfect, the kind of soothing reassurance Jack had seen her use a hundred times before. But then it happened, just for a moment, a second maybe. Mac’s head snapped up, and his tear-streaked face twisted in an expression that could only be described as pure unadulterated fucking hatred. It was seething rage and fury that was completely at odds with everything Jack knew about Mac. It was gone just as fast as it came, replaced by the same crumpled grief that had overtaken him moments earlier. But Jack saw it. He saw it, and it chilled him to the core.

This was wrong, this was all wrong. Jack’s eyes flicked around the room, two coffee cups on the counter, a book lying open on the table next to the couch, the whole place looked as comfortable and lived-in as the last safe house they found. There was too much to handle right now, he didn’t know was going on and so there was only one thing he could do right now: help Mac.

Mac leaned away from Desi’s touch, burying his face in his hands and sobbing louder, “He wouldn’t let me leave, he- he said he’d hurt you t-to teach me a lesson.”

“Is he here?” Jack knelt down next to Mac who seemed to be trying to squeeze himself into a tighter ball on the floor, still sobbing.

“He left.” Mac lifted his tearstained eyes to look at Jack, “He said I wasn’t worth the trouble. That nobody would want me because nobody would want his- his-“

Mac broke off into another howling sob and dropped his head to his knees, his whole body shaking with the effort. Jack reached out and put a hand on Mac’s shoulder, “You’re safe now Mac, we’re here. We’ll take you home.”

Jack helped Mac to his feet, his hand firm on the younger man’s shoulder, steadying him when his knees threatened to buckle again. Every part of this felt wrong. Mac’s words, his sobs, the twisted expression of rage Jack had caught a glimpse of, it all gnawed at him, setting his instincts on high alert. But Mac’s broken state left no room for confrontation, not now. He kept his hand on Mac’s shoulder as they made their way toward the car, his eyes flicking back to Desi, who trailed a step behind them. She was silent, her expression unreadable, but Jack could feel the tension radiating off her in waves.

As they reached the car, Jack turned away, just for a moment, to scan the area and make sure there were no surprises waiting for them. In the reflection of the car window, something caught his eye, and his breath hitched.

Mac wasn’t crying anymore.

Instead, he was looking straight at Desi. His expression wasn’t broken or devastated, it was calm, calculated, and dripping with contempt. Jack froze, his grip tightening on the car door as he watched in the reflection. Mac raised a hand to his neck, his fingers brushing over the dark purple marks as his lips curved into something between a smirk and a snarl. And then Mac winked.

Desi’s face twisted in barely restrained fury, her jaw tightening as her hands curled into fists at her sides. But he wasn’t done. His fingers tapped deliberately against the bruises on his neck, slow and mocking, as though he were daring her to speak, to try something, to challenge him.

Jack felt his pulse quicken as his mind tried to reconcile what he was seeing. The bruises on Mac’s neck weren’t shameful marks from Murdoc’s violence, they were deliberate, a message. And Mac was using them like a weapon, wielding his vulnerability as a shield and a sword all at once.

Murdoc put them there. And Mac wanted them there.

Jack’s chest tightened, his hand slipping off the car door as his mind pieced together what that meant. Murdoc wasn’t the monster Mac was hiding from, wasn’t the shadow that had caused the bruises or the fear or the tears. No, that role didn’t belong to Murdoc. It belonged to Desi. And Mac, calm and composed beneath his feigned grief, was daring her to try it again.

Jack’s entire body hummed with barely restrained fury. His gaze shifted from the reflection to Desi, locking onto her like a predator sizing up its prey. In that moment, it all clicked into place: the defensive way she’d acted, the coldness in Mac’s earlier injuries, the sharp edge to her voice when his name came up. She’d done this to him.

The only reason Jack didn’t grab her by the collar and slam her into the car right then and there was Mac. His little brother was playing some kind of dangerous game, a game Jack didn’t understand yet but couldn’t risk breaking. For now, he had to play along.

”Please Jack.” Mac’s voice cracked, his facade back up again, “I just want to go home.”

Jack swallowed hard, forcing himself to turn away from the reflection and focus on Mac’s trembling voice.

“Alright, bud.” He said, his tone carefully measured, steadying the younger man as he guided him into the car, “Let’s go.”

Chapter 8: When My Walls Start Burning Down?

Notes:

In Imaginary Murdoc we trust.

Murdoc

The world felt quiet in a way Murdoc had never quite experienced before. It wasn’t silence, the faint hum of the lamp still buzzed in the background, the occasional creak of the couch beneath their weight punctuating the stillness. But for once, the chaos in his mind, the constant whirl of thoughts, plans, and contingencies was absent. All that remained was the warmth of Angus’s body pressed against his and the lingering taste of him on Murdoc’s lips. The assassin's arm curled possessively around his shoulders, his hand splayed over the blond’s upper arm in a grip that was both grounding and territorial. Angus’s weight against his chest was solid, real, anchoring him to the moment. Murdoc tightened his hold slightly, as though afraid that if he loosened it, he might disappear and take this fragile, surreal moment with him.

The memory of that first kiss still burned vivid in Murdoc’s mind, searing through the haze of the past five days with an intensity that hadn’t faded. Angus, trembling like a leaf caught in a storm, had looked at him with eyes wide and raw, every crack in his carefully constructed armor laid bare, Tell me what you see when you look at me. The words had been fractured, jagged, like they’d cut their way out of Angus’s throat. He’d answered, of course, because how could he not? No one had ever asked someone like Murdoc a question like that before, not with that kind of desperate, aching vulnerability. Not with the quiet, unspoken plea that made him feel like he could crush Angus with the wrong answer. The look in those wide, blue eyes had nearly undone him in that moment. Murdoc had answered as honestly as he could, letting the words tumble out in a way he never allowed himself to. He hadn’t planned to kiss Angus. It wasn’t some calculated move or part of a grander scheme. It had been instinct, pure and overwhelming, the culmination of years of obsession and want finally crashing through his carefully maintained control.

The five days after that had been transformative. Murdoc wasn’t a man prone to theatrics, well, that was a lie, but even he couldn’t deny that these days had been some of the best of his life. The rhythm they’d fallen into, the quiet intimacy that had begun to fill the spaces between their words, felt like stepping into a life he hadn’t thought he’d ever be allowed to touch. Every moment with Angus was a revelation. The way he moved, the way his mind worked, the way he challenged Murdoc with that burning defiance in his eyes, it was maddening and addictive and perfect.

And now, this. What they’d just done was burned into Murdoc’s memory like a brand, every touch, every sound, every hesitant movement replaying in vivid detail. They hadn’t done much, a concession to Angus's still-healing injuries, but the intimacy of it, the unspoken trust in every hesitant movement, the way Angus had gasped his name in a voice so breathless it left Murdoc aching, was enough to leave him dizzy. The assassin tipped his head back against the couch, staring at the cracked ceiling as his fingers idly traced small circles on Angus’s arm. It wasn’t enough to touch him. No, Murdoc’s mind demanded more, every moment, every breath, every inch of his lover felt like something to be cataloged and committed to memory. How could he not? Angus wasn’t just anybody, he was the only person Murdoc had ever met who could match him, who could keep up with the sharp, relentless edges of his mind without breaking.

Angus shifted slightly, craning his neck to look up at him. His cheeks were still flushed, his expression caught somewhere between sheepish and contemplative, “I can’t believe we just did that.”

"Can’t believe it?" Murdoc echoed softly, "Angus, have you read my psych file?"

Angus let out a huff of laughter, his head falling back against Murdoc’s chest. The sound was warm and unexpected, a small crack in the tense vulnerability that still hung in the air, "Okay, fair. I meant more the whole you're an assassin thing."

Murdoc’s lips curved into a slow grin, his fingers stilling their gentle circles on Angus’s arm as he tilted his head down to look at him, "Ah, so it’s the assassin thing that throws you? Not the rampant obsession, the blatant possessiveness,  or the part where I’ve tried to kill you more than once?"

Angus rolled his eyes, "I mean, those are just quirks at this point. It’s the resume that really gives me pause: Professional killer, wanted in multiple countries, makes a mean cup of coffee. You can see how that might give a guy a complex."

"So you do like it!" Murdoc let an easy teasing tone slip into his voice, "Vanilla and coffee, it works. Kind of like us if you think about it. Vanilla is misunderstood, much like you. Underappreciated by those too shallow to see its complexity. Whereas I-"

Angus groaned, "Please stop before I have to file a restraining order against whatever poet you’ve been stealing lines from."

"Anything for you, my darling." Murdoc leaned down and placed a kiss on the blond's temple. He leaned back just enough to meet Angus’s eyes, a flicker of amusement dancing in the sharp blue.

"You know." Angus said, his voice lighter now, "Two weeks ago, I was at Phoenix screwing up every mission I touched. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t move without feeling like I deserved the pain I had. And now I’m here. With you. I can’t even use one of my arms, my ribs hurt every time I breathe, and somehow I feel better. Like, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like you’re some shining beacon of mental health-”

“Rude.” Murdoc interjected, though his tone was more amused than offended.

"-but somehow, being here with you, it’s like I can finally breathe again. Like I’m not carrying the weight of the entire world on my shoulders for once." Angus’s gaze dropped to where Murdoc’s hand rested on his arm, fingers brushing absently against his skin, "And it’s terrifying, you know? Because it feels good. And I don’t feel like I deserve to feel good."

Murdoc's fingers stilled on Angus's arm, his eyes narrowing slightly as he absorbed the words, "Angus, if I hear you say you don’t deserve to feel good one more time, I’m going to start getting jealous of your inferiority complex, it’s clearly been stalking you longer than I have."

The blond tilted his head to glance up at him again, his smile faint but genuine, "You know, it’s almost impressive. You made me feel better using what was basically a villain monologue."

"Not just feel better, darling, it got us here, didn’t it?" Murdoc gestured at their current situation, "I think that deserves a bit of credit, no?"

"Yeah, sure." Angus huffed, "Credit for being the most insufferable stalker-slash-boyfriend I’ve ever had."

Boyfriend.

Murdoc’s thoughts screeched to a halt, derailing like a train careening off a cliff. Boyfriend. The word ricocheted around Murdoc’s skull like a stray bullet, lodging itself in the deepest recesses of his mind and exploding in fireworks of possessive glee and terrified disbelief. Boyfriend. Angus Macgyver, golden boy of Phoenix, had just called him his boyfriend. Offhandedly, sure, with all the casual irreverence that was quintessentially him, but it didn’t matter. The word was out there, spoken into existence, and it left Murdoc utterly and unequivocally ruined.

His thoughts spiraled in chaotic loops, each one feeding the grin that tugged unbidden at the corners of his lips. Boyfriend. It wasn’t just the word itself, it was the way Angus had said it, light and teasing, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, like it wasn’t an admission that could unravel Murdoc entirely. The chaos in his mind shifted abruptly into focus, every stray thought converging on a single, startlingly clear point: He was completely and utterly doomed. He was completely and utterly gone for Macgyver in a way that defied reason, sanity, and any semblance of self-preservation. Boyfriend. That one word, spoken with such effortless irreverence, had cemented his fate. Murdoc wasn’t just enamored. He wasn’t just obsessed. He was owned, body and soul, by the man currently curled against him, oblivious to the existential crisis he’d just triggered.

“Hey.” The blond said, his voice tinged with amusement, “Did I break you? You look like you just saw God or... I don't know yourself in a mirror.”

Murdoc blinked rapidly, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to force the whirlwind in his mind into something coherent, “You called me your boyfriend.”

Angus’s eyebrows quirked upward, his mouth twitching into that infuriatingly charming smirk Murdoc would gladly kill people to see, Well, you are technically my boyfriend now... right? Or is that not how this works? Because I’m not sure what the rules are for dating your archnemesis-slash-kidnapper.”

Murdoc let out a laugh, sharp and unrestrained, a sound that bordered on manic joy. He tightened his grip around Angus’s shoulders, pulling the blond closer and pressing his lips to his hair, “Angus, my darling, my angel, you could call me the court jester of your personal trauma carnival, and I’d still be grinning like this. Boyfriend? Oh, I’ll take that title. Gladly. Enthusiastically.”

Angus's head fell back onto Murdoc’s chest with a dramatic flair that had Murdoc grinning even wider, “God, what have I done? I’ve created a monster.”

Murdoc’s fingers resumed their idle tracing along Angus’s arm, the touch equal parts soothing and possessive, “A monster you willingly invited onto your couch and, might I add, into your-”

"Stop. Right there." Angus cut him off, lifting a hand and pointing an accusatory finger without even lifting his head, "If you finish that sentence, I’ll... uh."

"You’ll what, darling?” Murdoc drawled, his grin turning sharp and amused, "Ring the police and tell them I'm disregarding the restraining order?"

"I’m not sure restraining orders apply when the other person is already in your living room, in your bed, and very much-" Angus shifted against Murdoc’s chest with an exaggerated sigh, "-cuddling you after... well, after."

Murdoc laughed maniacally, “Oh, my dear Angus, you make it sound so scandalous. What would Phoenix say if they could see you now?”

Angus’s eyes narrowed mischievously, and Murdoc could see the gears turning in that brilliant, chaotic mind of his, “Oh, I’m sure they’d say something like: Wow, Murdoc, how amazing that you managed to find time between assassinations to completely ruin our golden boy. Truly a multitasking marvel. And look at you, Mac! Choosing the human equivalent of a poorly secured tripwire to experiment with your daddy issues.”

The assassin sighed dreamily, "Remind me to send James Macgyver a thank-you card... filled with ricin."

Angus let out a huff that turned into an unrestrained laugh, shaking slightly against Murdoc’s chest, “A ricin thank-you card? Classy. Maybe throw in a glitter bomb for good measure, really round out the whole insane assassin vibe.”

Murdoc arched an eyebrow, his grin as sharp as a blade, “Oh darling, glitter is non-negotiable. Nothing says sincerely screw you like a thank-you card with contact poison and enough hot pink glitter to be found in their lungs years after their demise. James deserves the full experience.”

Angus laughed even harder, his shoulders shaking against Murdoc's chest, and the sound was bright enough to make the assassin's pulse quicken. It felt private, intimate, like they were sharing some inside joke the rest of the world would never understand. Murdoc pressed a kiss to the crown of Angus’s head, savoring the way the blond leaned into the touch, unthinking, like it was second nature.

The blond tilted his head back, his gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling, his voice quieter now but no less cutting, "You know, I think I’m done with all these bruises."

"They'll heal my dear." Murdoc soothed, "You just need time."

"I know but it's just that every time I see them it's a reminder of things I’d rather not think about." Angus continued, his voice soft but steady, "And I don’t want to think about them anymore. I don’t want to think about her anymore. I’m sick of seeing her marks every time I look in the mirror."

He paused, shifting slightly against Murdoc’s chest, his head tilting back so their eyes met. A faint smile tugged at his lips, edged with something raw, something determined, "I’d rather have yours."

Murdoc froze, his breath hitching as the words settled between them like a lit fuse. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think, his mind spinning as the implications unraveled with a kind of manic clarity. The idea was intoxicating, dizzying, and almost too much for Murdoc’s frayed sanity to process. Angus wanted him to mark him, to replace those bruises with something better, something meaningful.

Fuck. Stay calm, Murdoc. Don’t ruin this. Don’t let him see how utterly, pathetically, ecstatically thrilled you are right now.

“Are you sure, my darling?” His voice was steady, but the faint tremor beneath the words betrayed the wild, manic glee bubbling under the surface.

Don’t scare him. Don’t grab him like the unhinged lunatic you so clearly are. This is delicate, monumental. Handle it with care.

Angus tilted his head, his gaze unwavering as he grinned up at him, "Who am I to deny my favorite stalker his dream?"

Murdoc’s breath caught, the words tumbling out in a rush before he could stop himself, "God, Angus, you have no idea what you do to me."

But the assassin had no time to savor the moment, no time to relish the words echoing in his mind, because Angus reached up, his fingers tangling in the front of Murdoc’s shirt, and pulled him down into a kiss that stole every rational thought from his brain.

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Mac

The butterfly knife flipped smoothly between his fingers, the rhythm steady and precise. It was calming in a way nothing else seemed to be lately. The hum of the lamp filled the room, a constant backdrop to his thoughts. Mac stood in the middle of the living room, his mind unusually quiet. Murdoc had slipped into the bedroom to grab aspirin for his ribs, leaving Mac alone for a moment. The blade glinted in the dim light as Mac’s fingers moved with practiced ease, the weight of the knife familiar and grounding. He didn’t think much about it, just the feel of the cool metal, the way it spun and caught the light, the rhythmic click of the mechanism. It was a distraction, a moment of calm before Murdoc returned and the strange, fragile reality they’d built over the past few days resumed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his mind wasn’t racing with a thousand possibilities, wasn’t drowning in the weight of expectations and failures. He could just exist. And it was because of Murdoc, of all people. The thought almost made him laugh, but instead he clicked the knife closed and looked at it, a soft smile creeping onto his face. He wasn’t sure when Murdoc’s presence had gone from threatening to stabilizing, but he couldn’t deny that it had.

Then the door crashed open.

The sound of splintering wood shattered the quiet, and Mac’s head snapped up. He froze, his heart pounding in his chest as Jack’s silhouette filled the doorway. The weight of that familiar stance, the tension in Jack’s shoulders, it all hit Mac like a freight train. Jack’s gun was up, scanning the room, the movement practiced and precise.

"Jack?" The name slipped out unbidden and Mac felt his pulse quicken, adrenaline infusing his veins with familiar cold dread. He hid the knife all too quickly behind his back, his posture turning in on itself. Murdoc was in the room behind him, and Mac’s mind raced to figure out what to do.

"Mac?" Jack stepped further into the room, his gaze sharp and unrelenting as it swept over Mac. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The blond could feel Jack’s eyes moving over him, cataloging every injury, every shallow breath, every tremble he tried to suppress. He saw the way the soldier's eyes widened when they landed on his neck.

Mac felt the world slow around him, every detail sharpening as though his mind had been thrust into hyperfocus. The cold metal of the butterfly knife pressed against his palm, grounding him to the moment even as his chest tightened. Jack’s eyes locked on the bruises, and Mac knew exactly what his old friend was seeing. Fresh, dark marks, their edges still vivid against his pale skin. Jack was trained for this, could read the evidence as easily as words on a page. He would know exactly who put them there. This was the moment, he only had one chance to get this right.

Truth or lies.

The truth meant Murdoc, cold and alone in a blacksite cell, locked in a sterile, inescapable cage. He imagined the way Murdoc’s mind would eat at him, how the sudden bursts of light and noise would snap him awake, each time breaking him a little more. Murdoc, who was used to moving freely, used to being in control, trapped in a place designed to strip him of both. The thought turned Mac’s stomach, a cold dread settling in his chest that made his decision for him. It didn't even matter if the complicated truth came to light, if Mac grabbed Jack and screamed about what had really happened. About Desi's cold fury and even colder words. About the coffee in the mornings and the soft steady moments that had patched up wounds that carved deep into Mac's psyche. Murdoc was a murderer, a wanted criminal who had killed Phoenix operatives. His crimes were unforgivable, his actions irredeemable in their eyes. As soon as they knew he was still here, they’d bring him in. Jack would do it out of duty. Desi, out of spite.

No. The truth wasn’t an option. He had to protect Murdoc, the man standing just behind the door next to him, the man who had given him back a part of himself he hadn’t even realized he’d lost. The familiar rush of pressure and adrenaline coursed through him, but it wasn’t paralyzing this time. It was sharp, clear, like he was flying. His thoughts spun in perfect rhythm, calculating probabilities, consequences, the paths forward. He could work with this.

Mac just had to hold Jack’s attention, had to make sure neither he nor Desi searched the house. His mind raced with possibilities, but his focus narrowed in on a single, undeniable fact. He needed to make himself the story. He needed to pull Jack and Desi so deeply into his fabricated world that they wouldn’t even think to look behind the door, that they wouldn't think for a second that anything could be more important than making sure he was okay, than taking him home.

I'll happily play the villain in whatever story you spin.

That's what he'd said days ago, before the kind reality they'd built up around themselves. Murdoc would be proud of him for this, he could feel it. The assassin’s voice echoed in his head, sly and cutting yet strangely comforting: Oh, my darling! Look at you. Thinking on your feet again, and playing Dalton like a fiddle too! My beautiful, brilliant Angus.

Mac raised his uninjured hand up to his neck so quickly his ribs ached with the movement. He let adrenaline take him, let it cascade over his body leaving him shaking and raw, his face a mask of pain and anguish and his voice broken, "Don't look please don't look. I couldn't- I didn't- he wouldn't stop."

He watched Jack freeze, saw the flicker of shock and pain in his friend’s eyes, and it almost broke him. Almost. But this was a game he had to win, for Murdoc’s sake. He forced his chest to heave, let his knees wobble slightly, like he could barely stand under the weight of his own words. He knew how Jack’s mind worked, knew how to lay the foundation for the conclusion he wanted him to reach. The wall was hard against the still-healing bruises on his back as he sank down it, pocketing the knife as he went. All the pain and anguish he'd felt for months came out as he sobbed, "He made me."

Then came the soft, syrupy tone. Mac, baby. Desi's voice was all false comfort and placation, as though she could soothe him into compliance with the right word. He hadn't even seen her come into the room yet, his focus locked onto Jack, onto making sure Jack believed the charade.

Mac’s head snapped up at the sound of her voice, the weight of her words twisting something deep inside him. Mac, baby. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the way she said them. Like she hadn’t left him bruised and broken. Like she hadn’t stripped him bare with her anger and her scorn. Like she had the right to call him baby after everything.

Mac looked at her, really looked at her, and the hatred that surged through him was almost startling in its intensity. It wasn’t like the fleeting anger he’d felt before, sharp and quick to fade. This was deep, rooted, the kind of rage that came with clarity. He wasn’t afraid of her anymore. He wasn’t afraid of her sharp words or her harder fists, of the way she’d made him feel like every mistake was a reflection of his worth. That power she’d held over him, the way she’d made him shrink, was gone. In its place were Murdoc’s words, the ones that had taken root in his mind and were blooming now with a strength he hadn’t known he had.

When I look at you, Angus, I see the sun.

He let his lip quiver, let his expression crumple into something so raw it could only be described as broken. But his eyes stayed sharp, locked onto hers. He let the hatred bleed through for just a second, long enough to see her stiffen, her hands curl into fists at her sides. It was satisfying in a way he hadn’t anticipated. His body was trembling, but his mind was razor-sharp, his plan unfurling with a precision he hadn’t felt in months.

"He wouldn’t let me leave." Mac forced the sobs out of his body, his words shattering into pieces as he looked at Desi, "He- he said he’d hurt you t-to teach me a lesson."

The threat hung in the air like a blade, sharp and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Desi’s. Murdoc had said he'd hurt her, that he'd make sure she never touched him again, and now the message had been passed on. Desi's face twisted, her mask of concern faltering for a fraction of a second before she caught herself. It was all he needed. She knew. She knew exactly what he meant, and she couldn’t say a word.

"Is he here?" Jack's face was painted with concern as he knelt beside Mac, the blond drew his knees closer to his chest ignoring his ribs insistence that he sprawl back out again. His body shook with the force of his feigned sobs as he pressed his head to his knees, curling in on himself as though he were folding under the weight of it all.

"He said I wasn’t worth the trouble." Mac choked out, his voice raw and trembling, "That nobody would want me because nobody would want his- his-"

The word whore caught in his throat as he watched Jack’s face contort into a mix of fury and devastation. Mac realized instantly that using that word would shatter whatever control he still had over this narrative. If he pushed Jack too far, the man he once trusted like a brother would tear the house apart looking for Murdoc. Instead, he dropped his face into his knees and sobbed, the motions made his ribs feel agonizing, helping the tears flow freely.

“You’re safe now, Mac.” Jack murmured, his voice low and soothing, the way it had been in the worst moments of their missions, “We’re here. We’ll take you home.”

They wouldn’t be taking Mac home, not really, they’d take him to the Phoenix medical wing where it could take days for them to release him back out, and when they did there was no assurance they would even let him go back to his house. Not with big bad Murdoc out there just waiting to hurt him again.

Mac let his old friend help him up, unable to stop himself from making the comparison to how Murdoc held him up in those quiet walks around the house. He leaned hard into Jack, as if every step was difficult, as if he could barely walk from the stress and the pain. Desi trailed behind them as they made their way to the car, Jack’s hand a familiar weight on his shoulder. Then, Jack snapped to attention, scanning the perimeter, and Mac sensed opportunity.

This was his moment, the chance to deliver the final blow of his performance. Mac adjusted his posture just slightly, his body no longer hunched but deliberately trembling, a faint quiver in his movements. He let his breath hitch, turning his gaze directly onto Desi with all the focus and precision he used to reserve for defusing bombs.

She froze the moment their eyes met.

Mac reached up with calculated slowness, his fingers brushing the marks on his neck, Murdoc’s marks. The bruises that Desi knew didn’t belong to her handiwork. His lips curved into something mocking, watching as her eyes flickered with disdain, with contempt. Then, he winked.

The effect was immediate, fury seemed to arc off her, her posture and expression changing to an all too familiar spectre of rage, the same one that had hurt Mac so many times in the past. That was then, though, when he believed every single hollow insult she threw his way, when he believed that pain was the necessary consequence for any small mistake.

This Mac though, simply held her gaze and tapped one, two, three times on the marks. Letting the slow deliberate rhythm speak louder than any words could. Each one carried a message, silent but cutting, crafted with the kind of precision that Mac knew would make Murdoc proud.

The first tap was all for him, These are all mine, and now I’m his too.

The second simply said, I’m not yours to hurt anymore.

And the third? That one was for Murdoc. It whispered, I’ll keep you safe. I’ll always keep you safe, Go on, take one step towards me, you know what will happen.

Desi’s jaw tightened, the flicker of rage in her eyes now barely restrained, but she didn’t say a word. She couldn’t, Mac had ensured that. His lips twitched, not quite a grin but close enough, as he let his hand fall away from his neck and settled into the act once more.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The white walls of the Phoenix medical wing were painfully sterile, the faint antiseptic tang clinging to the air like an unwelcome guest. Mac sat on the edge of the exam table, the paper crinkling under him as he shifted. His ribs ached, his lip was still split, and his shoulder throbbed in a dull, familiar rhythm, but none of it bothered him as much as the act he had to keep up. His head hung low, shoulders slumped in a way that he hoped screamed fragile instead of strategic. The effort of feigning brokenness left him feeling like he was suffocating.

Jack’s imposing presence in the corner of the room didn’t help. His arms were crossed, and his jaw was set tight, his eyes never leaving Mac.

If Murdoc were here, Mac imagined he’d be perched on the counter, leaning against the cabinets with his long leather coat flowing dramatically around him. He could almost see it now: Murdoc twirling his gun as if it were an extension of his hand, his grin wild and far too pleased with himself. The assassin would be narrating the entire situation with gleeful delight, playing to an audience only he could see.

The doctor stepped into the room, her clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. She glanced at Mac, her expression professional but with a tinge of hesitation that made it clear she’d been briefed.

"Alright, let’s start cataloging the injuries. I’ll move quickly." The doctor’s voice was clinical, detached, though there was a slight edge to her tone that Mac couldn’t quite place, "Eleven days old: bruising to the ribs, significant bruising across the back, black eye, split lip, and a subluxation in the left shoulder. All healing well."

The doctor’s voice was calm and professional as she continued, her pen moving steadily across the clipboard, "One day old: multiple contusions along the neck, chest, and inner thigh. Most appear to be… suction or bite marks. No permanent damage they should fade in a few days."

Imaginary Murdoc perked up instantly, spinning his gun theatrically in one hand as he leaned forward with wide, manic eyes, "Shall we tell them how that one happened, Angus? Or should we keep them guessing? I know! Let’s see if the dear doctor can deduce it. What do you think, Jack? Care to take a stab at it?"

Mac bit the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh from escaping and forced his voice to crack when he finally spoke, quiet and unsteady, "Is... is that all?"

The doctor hesitated, glancing at Jack before nodding, "Yes. That’s all for now, Mac. We’ll monitor your recovery closely."

"Go debrief Matty." Jack’s voice was rough but commanding enough that the doctor tensed up and didn’t even bother to say goodbye before going right back through the door.

The door clicked shut behind the doctor, leaving an uneasy silence in its wake. Mac shifted on the table, feeling the paper crinkle beneath him, his movements careful so as not to wince too much. Jack stayed rooted in the corner, arms crossed, his sharp eyes fixed on Mac like he was trying to solve a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together.

Jack’s voice broke the silence, low and rough, his expression soft, "Mac."

He imagined Murdoc leaning in, perching on the counter now, his gun resting casually on one knee, "Oh, he’s feeling it, darling. Look at that furrowed brow, the pain in his eyes! He’s two seconds from trying to pull you into one of those big brother hugs. Can you imagine? Ugh."

Mac’s lips twitched, a fraction of a smile threatening to break through before he quickly forced it back. He couldn’t laugh. Not now. He forced himself to hunch further in on himself.

"Mac, I know." Jack’s voice carried that familiar edge of quiet determination, but this time, there was something softer beneath it. Regret. Sadness. Like he was trying to shoulder something too heavy even for him.

Mac’s head snapped up briefly before he caught himself, turning his gaze back down to the floor. He blinked, letting his shoulders tremble slightly as he made his voice crack, "Know what, Jack."

Jack took another step forward, his tone softening, "I saw you and Desi, at the car. I know what happened. I know this act is for her. Look, I’m on your side hoss, always."

Mac froze, his body tensed as he forced his body to stay small, his shoulders hunched, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. His fear of getting Murdoc hurt warring with wanting to feel like there was someone on his side, someone who knew he wasn’t broken anymore but instead healed, remade, whole.

The vision of Murdoc twirled his gun one last time before pointing it directly at Jack, "You can’t leave him hanging, my darling. He’s practically begging for it. You know he’ll never stop trying to intervene and that will get tiring very quickly. Go on, if there’s anyone who’ll listen it’s sure to be him. I wouldn't blame you."

Relaxing back his body felt like shedding a skin that didn’t fit properly, Mac’s ribs ached slightly less from having to force tension into his and he lifted his head to give Jack an easy smile, his voice back to normal yet still a little hoarse from how hard he’d made his body cry, "Hey Jack can you do me a favour and grab my butterfly knife out of my jeans pocket before someone steals all my clothes for evidence?"

Jack blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in Mac’s tone. His gaze flicked briefly to the pile of clothes in the corner before snapping back to Mac, his jaw tightening, "Your... knife?"

"Yeah, it's sentimental." Mac said, his tone light but steady as he gestured vaguely toward the corner where his jeans lay crumpled. His felt his smile soften slightly, "Murdoc gave it to me."

Jack didn’t move at first, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and cautious concern. His eyes flicked over Mac like he was searching for cracks, for the telltale signs of the brokenness he’d expected, then he slumped down, "Mac, just... tell me what happened. What really happened."

Mac felt his smile falter for just a moment, the weight of Jack's words pressing down on him like an avalanche. He blinked, his fingers brushing against the edge of the exam table as he tried to steady himself. The room felt smaller, suffocatingly so, and he let out a shaky breath. Jack deserved the truth, at least a version of it, but saying it aloud felt like exposing a wound that hadn’t yet healed.

Murdoc appeared again perched on the table next to him, this time Mac imagined him looking like he did when they just woke up, dressed casually with his hair slightly mussed and a soft teasing expression. His lips curving into a fond smile as he wrapped an imaginary arm around Mac’s waist, "Go on, darling. Tell him. Make him understand exactly what happened to you."

"You really want to know, Jack?" Mac asked, his eyes met Jack's steady gaze.

His old friend’s voice was soft but firm, the kind of tone he used when he wasn’t about to take no for an answer, “Yeah, I do. I need to know what’s going on.”

"Alright." Mac began, his voice quiet but steady, "Eleven days ago, Desi left my house in a rage. Not the first time she’s stormed out like that, not the first time she's hurt me before she has, but this time was different. She didn’t just leave. She kicked me on her way out, Jack. Sent me straight back into the counter. I hit it hard enough that my shoulder was screaming at me and the floor didn't exactly do wonders for my back. I couldn’t stand up again, it hurt too much to even try to move. My ribs were screaming, my shoulder was useless, and my back felt like it was on fire, my cheek stung from where she'd punched me. And all I could think was that I deserved it. Every second of it. Every ounce of pain."

Murdoc leaned in closer, a steadying force amidst the storm of emotions threatening to pull Mac under. The imaginary assassin’s voice was soft, "You could never deserve something like that, my darling. He knows it too, so keep going.”

He swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of the exam table to steady himself, "I wasn’t waiting for someone to help me, because I didn’t think anyone would. I was waiting for it to hurt less, or for it to end, whichever came first. And then Murdoc showed up, I didn't even realise he was there kneeling in front of me. All I think was: This is it, here I am in my worst moment and he's finally going to end me."

Jack stayed silent, his body language as tense as the still air in the medical room. Mac saw his jaw clenching, his fingers tightening on the arms he had crossed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I couldn’t even look at him at first. I heard him say something, calling me boy scout in that same damn mocking tone he always uses, but I couldn’t answer. I was too busy trying to figure out if I should beg him to make it quick, if I should tell him I didn’t want to hurt anymore. And I did, Jack.” Jack’s is eyes darkened with something that might have been horror, but Mac pressed on, "He just... stopped. I think I broke him for a second. He asked me why I thought I deserved it. And I told him everything. I said I was useless, that I wasn’t good enough, that I hesitated. That nobody wants me, that everyone leaves me, that you left me. You left me to go chase ghosts in Croatia and I felt like it was all my fault."

Jack flinched as the words hit him like a physical blow. The air between them grew heavier, thick with the weight of the admission but Mac pushed on before he lost the resolve to keep going,  "He tilted my chin up, made me look at him and he told me I was wrong. That he'd always want me, that I'm special, that I'm extraordinary. He said he liked beautiful things, and even broken, I was still beautiful to him. That I'm his and he take care of what's his, that he'd protect me."

"I did say all of that, didn't I? And I meant every word, my darling." The real Murdoc would've brushed his lips along the blond's hairline, but the spectre he'd conjured to soothe his racing mind was just whispers and air and no imagining could truly replicate the relief that small gesture would've brought him and the image faded from his side once again.

Mac tried to smile at Jack, to give the soldier some of the reassurance he couldn't have for himself, "And it's so fucked up but I believed him. Actually it's probably because it's fucked up that I believed him. Because it's easy to believe that my homicidal stalker thinks I’m perfect. Of course, he’d say that, he’s been obsessed with me for years. And I fucking broke Jack, I just threw myself into his arms and cried like I haven’t in years. Murdoc asked me to stay with him and told me I'd never be alone again and I needed that so badly that I said yes."

Mac held Jack's gaze for a long moment, letting the silence stretch between them like the taut string of a violin. He was waiting for it, waiting for the inevitable explosion of anger, the judgment, the disbelief. Jack would ask why, why the hell would you trust him, why would you go with him, why would you let him touch you? The questions loomed like thunderclouds on the edge of the conversation.

Instead, Jack’s voice was quiet, rough with barely concealed emotion, "You said yes because you needed someone, and I wasn’t there."

Mac felt his breath catch, the weight of Jack’s words hitting him harder than any punch. He hadn’t expected that. Anger, sure. Judgment, definitely. But this? The guilt in Jack’s tone, the quiet remorse in his eyes? It threw Mac off balance.

Imaginary Murdoc was back, leaning lazily against the wall now, arms crossed and his leather coat hanging open. His dark eyes glittered with that familiar, unhinged energy, but his tone was gentler than usual, “Well, well, darling. He’s taking responsibility. That’s new. Shall we give him a round of applause or hand him a tissue for his guilt? Go on, tell him what you think.”

“I should’ve been there.” Jack said, his voice rough, "I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve- hell, I don’t even know. Checked in more, stayed, done something."

Mac felt the weight of Jack's words settle in the room, heavy and suffocating, yet laced with an odd sort of comfort, "Jack... you couldn't have known. Bozer didn't notice, Riley didn't notice, hell Matty didn't notice and you were halfway across the world. This one isn't your fault."

The soldier's jaw tightened, and he looked down at the floor, his hands on his hips as if the weight of everything was finally bearing down on him. Mac studied him for a moment, unsure of what more he could say to ease the burden Jack was clearly carrying. Then, he stepped closer, leaning against the edge of the exam table, his voice soft but steady, "Mac, I need you to know I believe you. About Desi. About Murdoc. About everything."

Mac looked up sharply, his eyes searching Jack’s face for any hint of doubt, but all he saw was quiet determination.

"I started putting it together before we found you." Jack continued, his voice tinged with something between frustration and regret, "Murdoc tipped us off, in his own weird way. There was this footage we got of him in where he was talking to us through the camera, he looked so furious, told us that he'd give you back in better condition than he took you. He also dropped hints to Bozer, Murdoc made a point to mock him about being oblivious, even mentioned Desi directly, he was practically throwing the clues at us."

Mac froze, his breath catching in his throat. The thought of Murdoc standing there weaving truths in with his taunts, trying to get his friends to figure it all out, was almost surreal. His stomach twisted, a knot of emotions tangling together so tightly he could barely breathe. He hadn’t known Murdoc had done so much to try to push Phoenix in the right direction, to get them to figure out what Desi had done, in case Mac couldn’t or wouldn’t tell them himself.

"So I'm saying that I know Murdoc was trying to protect you. The thing I want to know about is how all that turned into." Jack gestured wildly at Mac, "All of this."

Mac blinked, caught off guard by Jack’s directness. For all his preparation, for all the ways he’d steeled himself for judgment, for disbelief, he hadn’t expected Jack to not only believe him but to ask the right question. Jack wanted to know, not to accuse or condemn, but to understand. He smiled at his friend, "Mind grabbing that knife for me first, I'd talk better if I have something for my hands to do."

Jack gave Mac a long, searching look before sighing and moving to the corner where Mac's clothes were folded. He rummaged briefly through the jeans pocket and pulled out the butterfly knife, its weight gleaming faintly in the sterile light. Jack turned it over in his hand once, the edges of his mouth tightening as if he was debating whether or not to hand it over.

"Here." Jack said finally, holding it out to Mac, "Just don't make me regret this."

Mac took it carefully, his fingers brushing Jack's briefly in the transfer. He felt the cold metal settle into his palm, familiar and grounding, and spun it once between his fingers. The movement was automatic, soothing, and for the first time since he’d entered the room, Mac felt like he could breathe again. The imaginary version of Murdoc faded away as the steady rhythm of the knife's clicking set in. Jack leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched, waiting for him to speak.

"It started off... weird, I guess. He got me video games. LEGO. Stuff to keep my hands busy, keep my mind from spinning. He even went out and got pizza because I said I wanted it, Jack. Pizza. And we sat there, eating greasy slices while watching Princess Bride like it was the most normal thing in the world." Mac’s voice softened, his mind drifting to the memory, "I fell asleep that night leaning against him and it was the first night I slept through for longer than I want to admit. And when we both woke up, he made coffee with vanilla syrup. Vanilla syrup, Jack. I didn't even know I liked that but right now I would kill for some."

Mac spun the butterfly knife in his hand again, the steady rhythm a grounding force as he continued, "Then I figured out that he'd been sleeping on the couch and it just didn't feel right. So after lying awake for a few hours I limped out there and told him to just come to bed and then I was finally able to sleep again. That was the last night we spent there, you guys found us the next day."

Jack stayed silent, his brow furrowed as he continued. The knife clicked steadily in the blond’s hand, a rhythmic sound that seemed to fill the space between them.

“The second safehouse had two beds.” Mac went on, his voice quieter now, more contemplative, “As soon as I was left alone with my thoughts I spiraled, Jack. Everything was too much, I felt useless and broken and I was right back to thinking nobody could ever want me. So I went to him and I asked him to tell me what he saw when he looked at me, because I knew he saw something I didn't."

Jack leaned forward slightly, as he studied the blond with quiet intensity, "What did he say?"

Mac’s lips quirked into a faint smile as he spun the butterfly knife once more, the steady rhythm grounding him. His voice was soft, almost reverent, as he answered, "He said when he looked at me, he saw the sun. The sun, Jack, and then he kissed me like I wasn't broken, like out of all of the things Murdoc could have on the planet all he wanted was me. Then it was like everything just clicked. It was like the world outside just didn't matter anymore, we slept every night tangled together because it was the only way either of us could sleep."

Jack’s expression shifted as Mac’s words hung in the air. The quiet resolve on his face faltered, replaced by a flicker of something softer, more vulnerable.

"And after that it was just easy." The words just started to flow from Mac, his voice picking up pace as the dam broke, "We'd sit together for hours, talking or just existing it didn't matter. I'd lean on him or he'd lean on me and it was like I wasn't drowning anymore. You know he wears this perfume? Coffee and vanilla, just like what he makes in the mornings, and it's the best smell in the world, Jack."

Jack’s face twisted into a mix of bewilderment and discomfort, his lips parting like he was going to say something but then snapping shut again. He blinked once, twice, before finally muttering under his breath, "Mac, I didn’t need to know what Murdoc smells like. I mean, really. That’s information I’m not sure how to process."

Mac let out a soft laugh, "Sorry Jack. Oversharing, I know but it felt important."

Jack groaned softly and motioned for Mac to continue, his expression a mix of resignation and determination to see this through.

"Yesterday, things got heavy." Mac took a breath, the words coming slower now as he processed the memory, "I was worried that Phoenix wouldn't want me back and he asked why so I told him. I told him about the failed missions, the reprimand, the warning, and he absolutely lost it. He went on this whole unhinged rant, talking about how they should support me instead of reprimanding me, about how I’m the only reason they’re not falling apart at the seams. Jack, he was furious. He called them idiots, said I was irreplaceable, and then, this is the best part, he said if they ever fired me, he’d sabotage every single mission Phoenix touched just to make sure they begged me to hire them back. Started yelling about how I was everything, and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Suddenly I could see exactly what he was seeing and I couldn't really handle all the feelings I was having about myself, about him, about everything so I kissed him and then we..."

Mac cut himself off and gave Jack a wincing smile to say Sorry that's probably too much, "Yeah, afterwards I called him my boyfriend and it was like he short-circuited and then he was so happy, like I'd just given him everything he's ever wanted in life. It was like watching his brain rewire itself in real time."

Jack stared at him for what felt like an eternity. His expression twisted into something halfway between exasperation and reluctant acceptance, the edges of his mouth twitching as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh, cry, or yell. Finally, he exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face as he muttered, "Boyfriend. You called Murdoc your boyfriend."

"I mean there's not exactly a clear word for whatever we are, but I think that's as close as we're getting to one." Mac clicked his knife shut, "So, do you think I'm insane?"

Jack took a long breath, his hands resting on his hips as he stared at Mac, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting the urge to either laugh or cry. Finally, he rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head, his voice calm but laced with the kind of exasperated affection only years of friendship could foster, "Don't know, don't care. You're alive, you're walking, you're talking, and you somehow look happy despite everything so I'm gonna just roll with it."

Then he stepped closer, protective energy and sheer disbelief radiating off of him. For a moment, he just looked at Mac, his eyes scanning his face like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then, without warning, Jack dropped his hands from his hips and pulled Mac into a hug. A real one. No hesitation, arms wrapping tightly around him like he was afraid if he let go, Mac might vanish.

"I missed you too." Mac's voice was muffled against the other man’s shoulder, a faint crack slipping into his words.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at him, his hands gripping Mac’s shoulders, his voice low but firm, "Listen, hoss. I’m with you. Whatever this is, whatever you need, I’m here. But you’re gonna have to keep up the act. At least for now. I guarantee you that going from the whole broken thing to whatever this is won't go down well."

"Can you imagine?" The blond snorted then sat up straight, giving a flippant grin and kicking his feet, "Hey guys! I was totally lying, Murdoc is my boyfriend now and he makes the best pancakes and he's totally not going to hurt me and we lived in domestic bliss for almost a week. Oh, and I'm not traumatised at all! Also Desi is the fucking worst."

Jack shook his head but Mac could see the amusement in his eyes, "Yeah they'd think either you'd been brainwashed or you're so fucked up mentally that you invented your own version of reality just to cope."

"Exactly." Mac nodded, his voice turning serious as he rested his hands on the exam table to ground himself, "And then I'd end up strapped to a hospital bed, under 24-hour observation, with Matty bringing in every shrink she can find to fix me. That’s not what I need, Jack. I need to get out of here, go home, and wait for him to find me."

"I can get that done for you, trust me." Jack's nodded, his face resolute, "But you gotta get back into character, Matty's probably gonna be here any minute."

"Really? Shit." Mac felt anxiety knaw at his gut, he held the knife out to Jack, "Hold onto this for me?"

Jack took the butterfly knife, his grip firm but careful, and tucked it into his jacket pocket with a nod, “I’ll make sure you get it back later. Just keep it together, Mac. They’re all worried about you, and I don’t think they’re ready for the full Macgyver experience yet.”

Mac gave a lop-sided smile, “Thanks, Jack. For everything.”

"You're my brother, and that means I'm always in your corner." Jack smiled back and took up a post next to the exam table, arms crossed as if he were Mac's bodyguard.

Matty arrived first, flanked by Riley and Bozer, their expressions a mix of relief and tightly controlled emotion. Then finally, Desi, looking like she'd rather be anywhere but here. The blond watched them file in, his body sinking into the familiar slumped posture he'd adopted. The sterile atmosphere of the medical wing seemed to dim under their presence, the weight of their worry palpable in the room. His shoulders remained hunched, his gaze focused somewhere around their knees. The effort of holding himself small felt suffocating, but it was easier than meeting their eyes. He pulled up his knees to his chest, as if trying to cover up as much of the obvious marks on his body as possible.

Murdoc would hate this. Hell, Mac hated this, but he stayed where he was, perched on the edge of the exam table, knees tucked to his chest as though he could shrink himself into nothingness. His performance had to be flawless, everything counted on making sure they believed exactly what he wanted them to.

Matty stepped closer first, her sharp gaze softening just enough to betray the concern she carried for him, her voice carried an undercurrent of warmth, "Mac, how are you holding up?"

Mac made himself flinch ever so slightly, as though the sound startled him. He tightened his arms around his knees, pulling himself further inward, a quiet, almost trembling whisper escaping his lips, “I... I'm fine. I just want to go home.”

Matty’s brow furrowed at Mac’s response, her sharp eyes scanning his posture like she was trying to find the cracks in the facade. The tension in the room thickened as Riley and Bozer shifted uncomfortably, their worry palpable in the silence. Even Desi lingered near the door, her arms crossed and her gaze flickering briefly to Jack before settling on Mac with a cold neutrality that made his skin crawl.

"Mac, you don’t have to pretend for us." Riley said softly, as if she didn’t want to startle him. Her voice was warm, careful, and Mac felt his chest tighten at the sincerity in it, "We’re here for you. Whatever you need."

He breathed hard and tightened his grip on his knees, his fingers pressing into his skin hard enough to leave faint marks. He forced himself to look small, fragile, his voice trembling as he whispered, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

The air felt heavy, like the sterile medical wing had absorbed every ounce of tension and held it suspended above them. Mac could feel the weight of their gazes, each one filled with concern, confusion, or something sharper, like pity edged with anger. He hated it. Hated how small he felt, how carefully he had to calibrate every twitch of his fingers, every tremble in his voice. His body ached, not from the injuries cataloged earlier but from the strain of holding himself together.

Riley looked for a moment like she might reach out but pulled her hand back at the last minute, "Mac, we just want to help."

"I know you do." He murmured, his voice breaking just enough to make it believable, "But I can’t... I can’t talk about it."

"You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to." Bozer offered, his voice warm but tinged with helplessness, "We’re just... we’re glad we got you back, man. That’s what matters."

Matty's voice was calm, placating even as she cut in, “Mac, you’ve been through hell but-"

Mac conjured up his imaginary version of Murdoc. The assassin leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and expression dripping with amusement, "Oh look, it's apparently time for a barely disguised interrogation from the master spy! Showtime, my darling. Make me proud!"

"-we need to know what happened to you." Matty kept her voice gentle.

"I don’t want to talk about it." He shook his head again, letting his voice turn pained.

"She'll push you, Angus." The assassin would be right next to him, eyes sharp as he catalogued the threats in the room, "She wants to get the right response from you. Composure is the enemy here."

Matty took a breath, "I know, Macgyver, but he's still out there and-"

"Leave me alone!" Mac let the raw scream explode out of his chest, pushing every single bit of his anger at being here into it.

The room fell into stunned silence, the echoes of Mac’s outburst lingering in the sterile air like a tangible weight. Everyone froze. Matty’s words halted mid-thought, Riley’s hand recoiling as if burned, and Bozer’s expression flickering between shock and hurt. Jack, standing off to the side, stayed still, his gaze steady on Mac, his posture unwavering. Desi even had the decency to look somewhat shocked.

Mac dropped his head to his knees, letting his voice turn desolate, as if the hope and will to fight had been drained from his body, "He's not coming back. Not after... after what he said."

The room seemed to contract, pulling every ounce of tension into the small space until the air itself felt suffocating. Mac felt their gazes burning into him, heavy with concern, anger, and the pity that he hated more than anything else. The silence after his outburst was deafening, the kind that begged to be filled but carried too much weight for anyone to dare break it.

Jack was the first to speak, his voice low and calm, the familiar steadiness in it soothing even as Mac fought to keep his composure, “Matty, he's been through enough. He was alone when we got there, and from what Mac told me then... look he wants to go home? Let me take him home."

Mac kept his head buried against his knees, the muffled sound of his breathing filling the room as Jack’s words hung in the air. The tension seemed to stretch further, a taut line ready to snap at any moment. Matty’s gaze flicked between Jack and Mac, the wheels in her head clearly turning. She took a breath, measured and deliberate, before she spoke, her voice calm but tinged with the quiet authority that always carried weight, "Alright, Jack. Take him home. But I want eyes on him, constant check-ins. If anything seems off, anything at all-"

"Then I'll bring him in, I promise." Jack's voice was steady, "Mac will have everything he needs."

He let out a small, broken-sounding exhale, as if Matty’s concession had taken the last of his strength. Mac felt Jack’s steadying hand on his shoulder, keeping his body still as his mind raced to keep the act airtight.

“Let’s get you out of here.” Jack said. In the background there was a shuffle of movement that must've been the rest of the team heading for the door.

"We'll check in tomorrow, Mac." Riley had a softened tone but underneath he could hear something that sounded like anger.

Mac didn’t lift his head as the door clicked shut behind them. He stayed curled in on himself, waiting for the sound of footsteps fading down the hall before he let his shoulders relax just slightly. Jack’s hand on his shoulder tightened briefly, grounding him, a silent acknowledgment that the room was finally clear. The blond groaned and stretched, "You have no idea how much that hurts my ribs."

"I'll bet, I've never seen someone manage to make themselves look that small." Jack snorted, stepping back, "You're a hell of an actor."

Mac sighed as he unfolded himself from the hunched position, his muscles protesting the change as he swung his legs over the edge of the exam table. He scanned the room to try and find something to wear, he really didn't feel like walking out of here in his underwear. His eyes landed on a stack of folded clothes on a nearby chair. They weren’t his, they were hospital-issue sweatpants and a plain gray t-shirt.

“Great.” He muttered, pulling on the pants and then staring in barely contained anger at the shirt, "Jack can I borrow your jacket, our gracious hosts seem not to understand how hard it is to put a shirt on when you can only use one arm."

Jack laughed softly, already shrugging off his jacket, “Sure thing. I’ll even try not to make fun of you for looking like a kid wearing their dad’s coat.”

Mac rolled his eyes as Jack draped the jacket over his shoulders, the worn leather heavy and familiar against his skin. It smelled faintly of gun oil and aftershave, Jack’s version of comfort, like a security blanket in disguise. He slid his good arm into one sleeve and let the other hang loose, the jacket oversized enough to keep him covered without adding more strain to his battered body, "Guess I better hope Murdoc didn't steal all of my flannels."

"Don't worry I'll get you more." Jack put his arm out and waved at Mac, "Come on we gotta have you looking like shit on the way out, so you’re gonna be clinging to me until the car.”

”I’ll try to make it look like if anyone tries to pry me off you I’ll die instantly.” The blond pulled the jacket close to him and fell in step with Jack as he yanked open the door. Keeping his head firmly down at the ground and his face turned in as they made their way out of Phoenix. It wasn’t until they were both in Jack’s car and the building itself was out of sight that Mac relaxed again.

”Fuck!” Jack slapped the side of the steering wheel, “The cameras. Mac there’s camera all over the inside of your place. Matty put them there, they’ve got a live feed to Phoenix.”

Mac froze as Jack’s words registered. His stomach twisted violently as the realisation kicked in. Phoenix could be watching him every second, he’d have to keep up the act and if Murdoc came looking for him there then he’d be caught too.

”I’ll take them down.” Mac could hear the annoyance in his own voice, “I’m not letting them spy on me in my own house. I’ll take them all down, and if they question me, I’ll play the trauma card. What are they gonna do? Call me a liar?”

“Actually I got a way better idea. You can sit on the couch curled up looking like you want to die while I go around and pull them all out myself. Nobody can accuse me of being anything other than overprotective.“ Jack huffed in amusement, “Never thought I’d see the day I’d work against Phoenix.”

”Yeah, me neither.” Mac leaned his head hard against the window, “I just can’t stand the idea of being watched all the time, and if Murdoc came then…”

”Don’t worry about tall dark and crazy, he’s the reason I know Matty put the cameras up.” Jack’s voice lightened, “It was my first real clue that something was up with this whole mess. Murdoc goes around stealing your clothes then freezes up like he somehow senses there’s a camera. Then he walks right up and gets all angry-creepy at us before he leaves. I’m still trying to figure out how he knew the camera was right there.”

Mac could feel himself smiling, “Of course he did. He told me about it, his brain can’t filter out the background noise. He probably saw a blinking light in the corner of his eye or heard the electricity moving through the wire. It stops him from sleeping properly, except when he’s with me I guess, and then he wakes up he’s all hazy like he’s still dreaming it’s kinda-“

“Don’t say it.” Jack pleaded.

”-adorable.”

Jack groaned loudly, slapping the wheel again for good measure, “Why’d you have to say it? Now I’ve got that image burned into my brain. Murdoc, adorable. That’s it, I’m done. You broke me.”

Mac snorted, his head falling back against the seat, “Hey, you’re the one who wanted the full story. Can’t pick and choose, Jack.”

“Yeah, well, some things you just can’t un-hear.” Jack shook his head, his tone caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement, “I’ll be lucky if I don’t have nightmares about this.”

“You’ll survive.” Mac grinned, a faint laugh escaping him despite the lingering ache in his ribs, “You’re tougher than you look.”

Jack gave him a real smile back, “I could say the same about you, I’m proud of you Mac. You’re a real survivor.”

Mac relaxed slightly, smiling at Jack’s words, replaying them in his head until they pulled into his driveway and the act resumed. Jack holding him close until he could deposit Mac on the couch where he curled up at the end, glancing around before wrapping his arms around his knees and putting his head down.

It took what must’ve been only a few minutes of anxious waiting, hearing Jack moving around the house, before he felt a tap on his shoulder. The blond looked up to see his friend put a finger to his lips, gesturing to stay quiet, and pointed at a bag on the floor which must’ve been the security cameras.

Mac raised an eyebrow, trying to convey Why are they in a bag on my floor?

Then, Jack held up a hammer waving it gleefully. The message came through loud and clear: Wanna beat the shit out of some surveillance equipment with a hammer?

Mac blinked, his initial confusion giving way to a small, conspiratorial grin as he glanced from the bag to Jack’s eager expression. The hammer gleamed faintly in the soft light of the living room, like some absurdly dramatic call to arms.

“Seriously?” He whispered, his voice low enough not to get picked up by the camera’s not-very-sensitive microphones, “You’re just going to destroy them right here?”

Jack shrugged, his grin widening as he twirled the hammer in his hand, “Figured it’d be therapeutic. Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

Mac bit his lip to keep from laughing, his real voice dry and soft, “You know what? Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

Chapter 9: This House Says My Name Like An Elegy

Notes:

Short chapter today!

Murdoc

The bedroom was silent save for the faint, muffled hum of the car engine as it pulled away, taking Angus with it. Murdoc stood motionless in front of the door, frozen in place. For someone whose entire life is defined by action, by being calculated and deadly in every circumstance, doing nothing had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Letting Angus go, letting Phoenix take him, had gone against every instinct and desire Murdoc had, only one thing had stopped him from storming out there: the fact that Angus was lying to keep him safe. 

It wasn’t the act of lying that had affected the assassin so much as the lie itself: every gasping sob, every half-coherent confession, the sound of raw pain and loss that had been perfectly designed to keep all the attention on Angus. And god had he played it beautifully, he had made himself look so broken that nobody would question him, rather they would cradle him close, take the golden boys crying words as gospel truth. The man who had refused to go back home because was he couldn’t stand the thought of the people he cared about believing he was broken, had twisted himself into that role. It made Murdoc almost irrationally angry to imagine Angus who blazed so bright looking into his friends eyes and seeing only pity.

A thought crept unbidden into his mind, slinking through his defences and curling around his chest.

What if he stopped wanting me?

What if the past days they shared lost their meaning to the boyscout when faced with the reality of who Phoenix expected him to be, who they thought he was. Dalton was there now, and with him came over a decade of trust and a moral compass that only ever pointed north, he wouldn’t leave Angus’ side, not when he was like this. And under his well-meaning interventions and Phoenix’s endless righteousness, maybe the careful structures of dependency and trust that they’d built up would crumble like dust and Angus would remember exactly what Murdoc had been to him all of these years. Not the man who made him coffee in the mornings or held him as he slept at night, but the monster in the shadows wreathed in blood and fire.

And if that happened, if Angus remembered the weight of Murdoc’s crimes, the blood on his hands, he would leave. He would have to. Because Angus was good. And Murdoc was not.

The thought made Murdoc’s blood run cold, he wouldn’t allow it, couldn’t allow it. Not when only a few hours ago he had held everything he wanted in his arms, not when his hair was still tangled from where Angus had pulled him down for a kiss he had drowned in. No, Phoenix would burn to the ground before Murdoc let this get taken away from him.

The weight of the emptiness surrounding the assassin started to creep in, the house no longer feeling like anything more than brick walls filled with ghosts of warmth and laughter. Murdoc’s movements were methodical as he traded in his casual attire for his black coat and gloves. He strapped his weapon holsters to his chest and tights, the familiar weight of them a macabre reassurance. By the time he slung his bag over one shoulder, Murdoc had settled back into the skin of a predator. He didn’t glance back at the house as he slipped out the back door. It was just a house now, nothing more.

The storage locker wasn’t much, there was a mattress pushed up against the corner, a meagre collection of medical supplies in a cabinet, and a small book of contacts concealed under a desk. It was a place to put things and occasionally try to sleep, and that was all Murdoc needed it for. The call rang out the first few times, but information was always worth waiting for and after only a few hours of tracking down the necessary brokers and a small wire transfer from a bank account registered in Mauritius, he had an address.

The faint hum of the apartment complex’s central air filled the silence, but Murdoc’s mind was far from quiet. He moved with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel, dissecting every element before continuing forward. Every counter-surveillance measure, every little tripwire and motion sensor that Desiree Nguyen had thought of may have been effective against most people, but not him. By the time the assassin had unravelled the security system completely and begun to go through her apartment, he’d been disappointed. Her paranoia was so predictable, so utterly standard to spies and security experts that getting through them was the same dance he’d done a hundred times before.

On the other hand, Angus’s flagrant disregard for security systems had been so much more interesting. The blond had always seemed to understand that you can’t truly stop the monsters from getting in, it’s only what you do once they’re there that matters. That had always been one of the more fun parts of their games, Murdoc’s mind wandered to the time he’d just managed to slip in through one of his windows and Angus had thrown a wrench at his head and tried to set him on fire with what appeared to be a home-made flamethrower. It was spectacular.

It was dark for at least an hour before the front door opened with a soft click. Murdoc had ended up dragging a chair from the kitchen over to the centre of the room, just out of sight of the front door, and sat leaned back, one leg draped casually over the other, with his arms crossed and a polished black handgun held loosely pointed at the hallway. The moment Desiree saw him, her sharp eyes locked onto his, and she shifted her stance immediately to reach for the weapon holstered at her hip.

“Ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you Desiree.” Murdoc tapped the metal of the gun’s barrel. Her expression was all sharp edges and suppressed rage, but Murdoc could see the flicker of hesitation in her dark eyes. That brief, telling moment where she calculated and realized she wouldn’t win this fight. Not here. Not with him.

Murdoc’s grin widened, slow and deliberate, as he leaned his head back, propping it lazily on one hand. The other rested the gun casually against his thigh, his finger drumming against the barrel with an infuriating rhythm, “So predictable. You know I’ve been in your apartment for hours and I’m bored already. Motion sensors? Tripwires? Reinforced locks? You can’t honestly think that can keep the real monsters out. That it can keep me out.”

“What do you want.” Desiree spat, her body twitching with barely contained rage and the frustration that came with knowing you were outplayed. Murdoc drank every bit of her discomfort in like a fine wine, savouring the moment.

“Why Desiree, I want a lot of things, but first of all I believe I would be remiss not to thank you.” The assassin‘s tone turned syrupy sweet, laced with mockery, “After all, without you, I never would’ve had the chance to make Angus mine in every way. If you hadn’t broken him so beautifully, torn him down so thoroughly, he never would’ve fallen into my arms, looking for someone to put him back together.”

Desi’s hand twitched toward her hip again, her fury barely contained as her eyes narrowed, “You’re sick. Whatever you think happened, whatever twisted fantasy you’ve convinced yourself of, we both know the truth. Mac didn’t-“

Murdoc cut her off with a sharp cold laugh, “Oh Desiree let’s save both of us the trouble. Angus lied. Magnificently. Beautifully. He shaped their pity into a weapon to weird against you, and that was glorious don’t get me wrong. But you know what I enjoyed most about that little show of his? It wasn’t the lie itself, though I’ll admit, I’ve rarely seen a performance so flawless, it was the fact that he sacrificed everything. His pride, his reputation, all of it. For me. That’s what really burns you, isn’t it? That he picked me over all of you.”

Desiree snapped, lunging forward, her hand going for her weapon, but Murdoc moved faster. The chair clattered as he stood, his gun leveled at her in a heartbeat. His other hand grabbed her wrist, twisting it with a force that made her hiss in pain and drop the weapon to the floor with a heavy thunk.

The assassin’s grip tightened on Desiree’s wrist, his manic grin widening as he loomed over her. He kicked her weapon across the room with a casual flick of his boot, the sound of it skittering across the floor echoing in the otherwise silent apartment, “How appallingly predictable. Dalton never would’ve attempted anything as idiotic as that, honestly it’s no surprise your missions keep failing if you’re who’s watching out for Angus. He must have to spend half the time stopping you from getting yourself killed.”

Desiree jerked back, her dark eyes blazing with fury as she struggled against his grip, but Murdoc was unmoved, his strength a solid, unyielding wall against her efforts. He tilted his head, studying her like she was a particularly fascinating insect trapped under glass, “So predictable. So boring. He’s the most brilliant creature to walk the face of this earth and you’re just… ordinary. You never deserved him.”

Her lip curled, “And what do I deserve, Murdoc? To be another one of your victims? Another notch on your psychopathic little belt?”

”Oh no.” The assassin shook his head, his grin turning predatory, “You don’t deserve to die at my hands. You deserve to live long enough to see Angus kill you for me.”

“And when that day comes.” He continued, his voice turning almost wistful, “I’ll be there to see it. I’ll hold him in my arms and remind him that he’s not a monster for doing what needed to be done. That he’s not broken, no matter how much you tried to convince him otherwise. And he’ll let me hold him because when he kills you that’s the moment he’ll belong to me completely.”

Desiree’s lip curled as she jerked her wrist again, but Murdoc held firm, his manic energy radiating off him in waves, “But enough dreaming about the future, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? You’re going to tell me where he is. Not Phoenix’s official line, not whatever lie Matty Webber cooked up to keep me out of the loop. Where is Angus right now, Desiree?”

Desiree’s composure cracked, her eyes narrowing as she snarled, “You’re insane.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Murdoc grinned, releasing her and stepping back abruptly, his arms outstretched in mock triumph, “I know you haven’t had the chance to really see me in my full glory before so it’s nice to see you catching on! But I don’t need to be sane to be effective, do I? All I need is one piece of information from you. Just one. And then, Desiree, I’ll be gone.”

She didn’t answer, her jaw clenched so tightly that Murdoc almost thought she might crack her teeth. He stepped back with a mock sigh, spinning his gun idly in his hand. The movement was calculated, casual, a reminder of the power he held in this moment.

”Let me consider your options. I could simply kill you if you don’t tell me what I want to know, or I could take you apart piece by piece. Angus wouldn’t even blame me for it, he’d probably throw himself into my arms and give me an enthusiastic reward for taking care of his problems.” Murdoc stopped spinning the gun and pointed it lazily in Desiree’s direction, “I’m not asking you again. Where. Is. He.”

Something about his expression must’ve sliced through Desiree’s defences and what was left of her defiance cracked. She swallowed hard, her voice low and strained, “Phoenix released him.”

Murdoc raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully blank, “Go on.”

“They took him to his house.” She admitted reluctantly, her voice bitter, “Jack’s with him. Watching him. He’s not allowed to leave Mac’s side since he ripped out all the security cameras.”

Dalton removed the security cameras? He shook the thought off, that was not his concern.

”Thank you, now was that so hard?” Murdoc spun the gun one last time before lashing out and knocking Desiree on the back of the neck with his pistol. The woman crumpled to the ground and Murdoc took a careful step over her body and towards the door.

“Back to Dalton, hm?” The assassin murmured to himself, holstering the gun with a fluid motion. His hands trembled faintly as he adjusted his coat, his mind already racing with possibilities, contingencies, and the ever-present fear that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.

What if he doesn’t want me anymore?

The thought was as loud as a scream, as quiet as a whisper. Murdoc shook his head sharply, forcing it back into the shadows where it belonged. He couldn’t afford to think like that. Not now. Not when Angus needed him more than ever.

Because Angus did need him. Murdoc was certain of that. He just had to remind him.

——————————————————————————————————————

The window slid open with a soft snick, the faintest whisper of sound against the stillness of the night. Murdoc slipped through with practiced ease, his movements fluid and deliberate, as though the shadows themselves parted to make way for him. Angus’s bedroom was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. It took Murdoc a moment to orient himself, his sharp eyes sweeping the space with the precision of someone cataloging every detail. Empty.

The bed was made, the nightstand clutter-free save for one thing. Murdoc’s gaze locked on the butterfly knife, gleaming faintly in the dim light. His chest tightened, a flicker of something raw and unnameable clawing at the edges of his composure. Angus had taken it with him when Phoenix dragged him away. The fact it was here now spoke volumes.

He’s waiting for me.

The thought unfurled in his mind, settling into his bones in a way that was simultaneously thrilling and oddly soothing. Murdoc straightened, his gaze flickering to the door, half-expecting Angus to walk in at any moment. When nothing but silence greeted him, he let out a breath and shrugged off his coat, folding it with precision before draping it over the chair by the desk. His gloves followed, tucked neatly into the pocket.

What followed was a series of small, deliberate rituals. Shoes off, set neatly by the wall. Holsters adjusted, the weight of the guns against his chest and thighs familiar and grounding. Yet even as he went through the motions, his mind remained fixed on Angus, on the quiet but deliberate way he’d called Murdoc to him without a single word. The bed creaked slightly as the assassin sat on the edge, his fingers threading through his hair. He tousled it with care, his movements quick but deliberate, recalling the way Angus had reached for it before. That’s better, he thought with a smug grin, fluffing the dark strands until they looked perfectly imperfect. Satisfied, he leaned back, reclining on the bed with one arm draped lazily behind his head.

The faint creak of floorboards downstairs caught his attention. Murdoc tensed for the briefest of moments, his hand instinctively twitching toward his thigh holster before he caught himself. Relax. It was Angus. Of course, it was Angus. The assassin exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from his body as he listened to the soft footsteps ascending the stairs. Each one was deliberate, unhurried, the sound growing louder until they reached the landing.

Murdoc tilted his head toward the door, his grin sharpening as it creaked open. And there he was: Angus. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire.

Then, the assassin leaned forward slightly, propping himself up on one elbow as his grin turned downright wicked. His voice was smooth, playful, laced with just enough arrogance to make his presence impossible to ignore, “Miss me, darling?”

Angus blinked at him, his lips twitching into something caught between a scoff and a grin as he stepped into the room, “Miss you? Please, Murdoc. I’ve been living the dream without you. You know: flashing lights, interrogations, pity stares. It’s been a blast.”

Murdoc raised an eyebrow, “Ah, yes, the Phoenix experience. A real luxury getaway. Tell me, how was the catering?”

Angus rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to keep up the charade. His steps quickened, and the faint flicker of sarcasm in his expression gave way to something far more genuine. Relief.

“Catering was fine.” Angus said, his voice light as he took a few strides across the room to settle on the edge of the bed, “I especially enjoyed the fine selection of hospital-grade jello. Really brought the whole interrogation aesthetic together.”

“Ah, a fine vintage of artificial fruit flavoring. How exquisite. And yet…” Murdoc tilted his head, “Here you are, back in your quaint little home, with me. Almost like you couldn’t stand being apart.”

Angus crossed his arms as he leaned back on the bed, “Or maybe I just didn’t want to deprive you of the chance to sneak through my window like some kind of dramatic lovesick teenage serial killer.”

”Dramatic? My darling you wound me.” Murdoc clutched his heart, “It’s your dramatics that I’m far more interested in. The sobbing, the wailing, it was simply masterful. Would you be interested in giving me a private performance?”

Angus arched an eyebrow, “Seriously? You want me to perform my trauma-for-your-amusement routine? You’ve got some nerve, Murdoc.”

The assassin just tilted his head, waiting for him to start.

”Fine, for you.“ The blond rolled his eyes and took a breath. His face shifted, the smile vanishing as his expression fell into something fragile, cracked. His body sagged just slightly, his hands trembling as he brought them up to his chest, curling inward like he was holding himself together. Then came the voice: soft, broken, shaking with barely restrained anguish, “Please… I didn’t want to… I tried to fight… I couldn’t stop him.”

Angus straightened right back up again, smile returned, “And scene.”

“Bravo, my darling.” Murdoc purred, his tone dripping with admiration, “You’ve truly outdone yourself. I’ve seen masterpieces of deception in my time, but this… this was art. You’ve never been more beautiful than when you’re lying.”

Angus froze mid-motion, his head snapping toward Murdoc with a look of fond exasperation, “You really had to make it weird, didn’t you? Creepy bastard.”

Murdoc grinned wider, utterly unrepentant, “Oh, come now, darling. I think we’ve covered that you like me when I’m creepy.”

“Fine.” Angus muttered, leaning back on his hands, “I’ll admit it. I find your whole weird, homicidal thing mildly endearing. But don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, too late for that.” Murdoc replied smoothly, his voice a low purr as he shifted, propping himself up on his elbows, “You’ve already fed my insatiable ego. There’s no stopping me now.”

Murdoc felt his heart skip a beat as Angus rolled his eyes, the banter crackling between them like electricity. The blond leaned back further, his weight shifting lazily onto his elbows as if he hadn’t just admitted to finding Murdoc’s homicidal tendencies endearing. It was the kind of moment Murdoc wanted to bottle up and keep forever, light and sharp, full of Angus’s brilliance and their shared understanding of how utterly unconventional they were.

“I swear, you’ve got this whole chaotic evil boyfriend aesthetic locked down, don’t you?” Angus said, his tone dry but laced with amusement.

“Locked down and perfected, darling. Though, if you’d prefer chaotic neutral, I could adjust. But only for you, of course.” Murdoc let his tone soften slightly, “You know I was worried all this time with Phoenix might make you regret the whole chaotic evil boyfriend thing.”

”Regret?” Angus echoed, then gave Murdoc the kind of smile that made him feel like he was staring directly into the sun, “Please, you’re better than jello and pity stares any day. Besides if you’re meant to be chaotic evil and Desi’s meant to be lawful good then maybe neither of those things really matter.”

Murdoc felt something twist in his chest at Angus’s words, a raw flicker of satisfaction curling at the edges of his thoughts. He wouldn’t call it relief, Murdoc would never admit he was afraid of losing someone like that. But knowing Angus still saw him, still chose him despite everything, made the gnawing tension in his chest ease, if only slightly, “Careful darling, with that kind of talk you might convince me to reconsider my moral framework.”

Angus snorted, “Pretty sure a reformed Murdoc would break the laws of reality.”

“I’d happily break any laws for you, my sunbeam.” Murdoc winked, then dipped his voice lower, “Speaking of breaking things, darling… why don’t we break down these walls between us? Metaphorically, of course. Though, perhaps a few literal layers, too?”

Angus gave him a bemused look, “You know, if you’re trying to be cryptic, it’s not working. Just say whatever creepy thing you’re about to say.”

Murdoc sat up straighter and lowered his voice to a near whisper, “I want to strip you down, Angus. Every last barrier, every layer gone. I want you right here, pressed against me, where I can feel you breathe, where I can map out every inch of you with my hands. No distractions. No noise. Just us.”

Angus blinked, “Uh, okay. That’s… a lot. But sure, Murdoc. Let me just take a moment to process the fact that my homicidal boyfriend is apparently in his feelings tonight.”

The assassin shook his head, a faint laugh slipping out as he stripped off his thigh holsters and placed them carefully on the nightstand. Next came the one across his chest, the weight of the weapons leaving his body as he moved with a precision that seemed almost ceremonial. When the last strap was set aside, he turned to Angus, his expression softening in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see.

“It’s not that complicated.” Murdoc said, his voice quieter now, more grounded, “I just want this. Us. Like last week. No dramatics, no plans. Just… this, you, my sunshine.”

The blond hesitated for only a fraction of a second before leaning into Murdoc, his movements uncharacteristically tentative. The assassin wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close until their bodies were flush against each other. Angus’s head rested on Murdoc’s chest, his breath warm against the assassin’s neck. The familiar weight of him, solid and grounding, settled something deep inside Murdoc’s chest that he hadn’t realized was still uneasy.

They stayed like that for a while, the stillness between them stretching into something comfortable, something unspoken. Murdoc let his head tip back against the headboard, his gaze trailing over the cracked ceiling as his fingers traced absent patterns against Angus’s arm.

“Do you think I’m insane?” Angus’s voice was quiet, almost tentative, breaking the soft silence.

Murdoc tilted his head to glance down at the blond resting against his chest, “Considering I’m listed as mentally unstable by the FBI, CIA, and a variety of other alphabet agencies I don’t think I’m the best person to ask about that, my darling.”

“I’m not going to argue that you’re sane but… you won’t lie to me.” Angus’s words were steady, even as his voice remained soft, “I just need to know. Do you think I’m insane?”

“Insane? Well, that depends on how you’re defining it, darling.” Murdoc’s voice was steady but thoughtful, the faintest edge of humour beneath it, “Between your pathological need to save everyone at your own expense, those delightful self-destructive tendencies, and the fact that you’re currently cuddled up with me, I’d say your sanity is questionable, at best.”

“But here’s the thing, Angus.” He continued, his tone softening, “Sane or insane, it doesn’t matter to me. You could plunge headfirst into the deepest depths of madness, you could set the whole damn world on fire, and I’d still want you. You’re mine, that’s all that matters.”

Angus didn’t respond right away. Murdoc could feel the tension in his body, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he processed what had just been said. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, “You know most people would try to convince me I’m okay.”

Murdoc let out a short laugh, shaking his head slightly, his fingers pausing their movements on Angus’s arm, “Most people lie to you because they think that’s what you need to hear. That doesn’t work for me though, Angus. I’ve found that the easiest way to manipulate you into trusting me has always been to tell you the truth.”

Murdoc paused, his words hanging in the air like a live wire. He could feel Angus stiffen slightly against him, just enough for him to notice but not enough to pull away.

“Manipulate me into trusting you?” The blond’s tone was even, but there was a faint, almost amused edge to it, “You realize most people would leave right about now. Like, they’d remember exactly who they’re cuddling and make a run for it.”

”I believe we’ve already covered that neither of us are most people.” Murdoc smiled softly. Angus leaned up a bit to look at the assassin, studying his features with a curious look before breaking into a smile.

“You know.” Angus said finally, his voice quiet but steady, “You’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

Murdoc blinked, caught off guard, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Angus replied, amusement sparkling in his blue eyes, “You try so hard to be this calculated, mysterious mastermind, but when it comes to me? You’re the kind of guy who would panic if I didn’t text back fast enough.”

Murdoc stared at the blond, his mouth opening slightly in protest before closing again. He blinked once, then twice, trying to figure out if there was any defence against this. Angus’s grin widened as he watched the assassin’s brain short-circuit, clearly enjoying every second of his victory.

“Oh my god. You really would panic.” Angus said, leaning back against Murdoc’s chest, “You’d have an existential crisis about if I still liked you before I could even type a response.”

“Alright, fine.” Murdoc admitted, his voice tinged with reluctant humour, “You’re right. I’d panic. But let’s be clear it’s not because I’m insecure. It’s because you would probably forget to send a smiley face or one of those infernal little heart emojis, and I’d spiral into thinking you’ve been kidnapped or decided to leave me for… I don’t know, Dalton.”

Angus burst out laughing, “That’s your worst case scenario? I leave you for Jack!”

”It could happen!” Murdoc’s voice made an indignant squeak that the assassin hated, which seemed to only spur his boyfriend on.

“You’re ridiculous.” Angus’s whole body shook with laughter, and the sound caused a smile to creep onto Murdoc’s face.

“Yes but you like me ridiculous.” He teased.

”I do.” Angus tilted his head up to look at Murdoc, “God help me I actually do.”

”Speaking of Dalton, I should leave before your guard dog comes up here and takes exception to my presence.” The assassin sighed, “As much as I’ll miss you.”

”No need, he already knows.” The blond said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Figured the whole thing out, how do you think I managed to get back here?”

Murdoc froze, his mind racing to try and process this information, “Dalton knows and he’s just… okay with it?”

”He helped me get out of Phoenix custody, pulled all the cameras in the house out and smashed them to bits with a hammer.” Angus said, his tone betraying his continued surprise at that statement, “Jack decided he’s helping me and I think that’s that.”

”Well, I must say that’s a very pleasant surprise.” The words were unfamiliar on Murdoc’s tongue. The assassin had always had a particular kind of respect for Jack Dalton, both for his uncanny ability to keep Angus alive in situations where they both should’ve perished and for the cunning and tactical awareness that he displayed on those fun little missions Murdoc would listen in on when he was bored.

“Understatement of the year.” Angus snorted, “Speaking of how I got here, how did you get here. Phoenix protocol would’ve had me in medical for at least two more days, were you planning on just sitting in my room waiting for me for two days?”

Murdoc had assumed the question would come eventually. He wrapped his arm a little tighter around Angus’s waist, ”I paid a visit to Desiree.”

The room was silent for a beat before Angus spoke, his tone tentative, “Is she… alive?”

”And mostly unharmed.” The assassin confirmed, “I assumed you would be against me killing her, and dead Phoenix agents would make finding my way back to you much harder.”

Angus seemed to consider this, his body stilling as the wheels turned in his head, ”I don’t know how to put this, but I think… if you had killed her before I got to say what I need to say to her, then maybe I would’ve regretted it. So thank you I guess, for not killing her.”

“Of course.” Murdoc leaned his head down to rest against the blond’s, “Anything for you, my darling.”

Chapter 10: Echoing Where My Ghosts All Used To Be

Notes:

Hiatus over!

Jack

Jack had woken up in a lot of strange places over the years. War zones. Hostile territory. A half-collapsed safe house in Damascus. That one time in a burning brothel in Prague. But nothing had prepared him for waking up in Mac’s guest room, wandering bleary-eyed into the kitchen, and finding Murdoc cooking breakfast while singing in fluent French like they were in some kind of deranged indie romance film.

And Mac… Mac was laughing.

He stopped dead in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame as he took in the scene before him. The sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows cast the whole thing in an almost normal glow, which only made it worse. Murdoc stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with effortless ease, his assassin gear still fully intact save for his gloves and coat. His holsters, his actual, real, assassin holsters filled with guns and knives, were sitting neatly on the counter, right next to the syrup like they were part of the breakfast spread.

“What the hell is going on here?” Jack’s voice came out flat, too tired for the level of bullshit he was currently witnessing.

“Ah, Dalton. Just in time. Have a seat, coffee’s fresh, although you had no syrup so it’s not quite as good as it could be.” He gestured vaguely toward the coffee pot, still humming under his breath.

Mac chimed in, his voice laced with amusement, “I wouldn’t drink it if I were you, Jack. It’s probably laced with something.”

Murdoc let out an exaggerated sigh, flipping another pancake onto the growing stack, “Angus, my darling, I’m hurt. What kind of man do you take me for?”

“A homicidal lunatic with a god complex.” Mac deadpanned, stabbing a bite of pancake with his fork, “And a questionable sense of morality.”

“Christ, I need caffeine before I deal with this.” Jack made his way toward the coffee pot, pointedly not looking at the holsters next to the maple syrup.

“Really, Angus. I’ll have to go grocery shopping after I pick up my things from storage.” Murdoc made an exasperated sigh, “You don’t even have vanilla extract in this house.”

“Sorry I didn’t organise my pantry to cater to your highly specific assassin coffee tastes.” Mac replied, rolling his eyes, “Next time I’ll get an itemised list of your preferences before you kidnap me.”

“Need I remind you that it was a consensual kidnapping?” The assassin huffed.

Jack groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, “You cannot just say shit like consensual kidnapping like it’s a normal thing, Murdoc.”

Murdoc tilted his head, expression thoughtful, “Why not? It’s technically accurate. I didn’t force him. I simply… removed him from an unpleasant situation and provided superior accommodations.”

Jack let out a slow, suffering sigh, grabbing the coffee pot with a little more force than necessary, “Yeah, okay, sure, let’s go with that. Superior accommodations. The luxury package of hostage situations.”

Murdoc, ever unbothered, simply smirked, “You see, Dalton, that’s where you misunderstand. I am the luxury package.”

Mac, who had been shoveling pancakes into his mouth with all the grace of a man trying to ignore the actual insanity in his kitchen, finally glanced up, “Yeah, sure, Murdoc. Nothing says five-star experience like waking up every morning to you watching me sleep.”

“I prefer to think of it as vigilantly standing guard over my most prized possession.” Murdoc corrected smoothly, tilting his head in that eerily snake-like way he did when he was particularly pleased with himself, “It’s a sign of devotion, really.”

Mac groaned, dropping his fork onto his plate with a clatter, “Why do you always have to make it weird?”

Murdoc gasped, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest, “Angus! How dare you malign my deeply romantic gestures? Do you have any idea how many people in those dreadful romance novels would kill for a lover who watched over them with such care?”

Jack, who had been midway through pouring himself a much-needed cup of coffee, slammed the pot back onto the burner with a loud clack, “Murdoc, I need you to listen to me real carefully, okay? And I mean really take this in. You’re not a romance novel protagonist.”

Murdoc just gave him a slow, knowing smile, “And yet, here I am, sweeping my Angus off his feet, cooking him breakfast, whispering sweet nothings in his ear… I am the dark, brooding antihero every tragic love story dreams of.”

“You’re a walking red flag with a knife collection and a god complex.” Mac corrected dryly, leaning on one elbow as he shoveled another bite of pancake into his mouth, “There’s a slight difference.”

Jack, cup of coffee now successfully acquired, dragged out a chair at the kitchen island and dropped into it with a heavy sigh, “I swear to God, I thought yesterday was the peak of my nightmares, but nope. Turns out that was just the preview.”

Murdoc beamed, “Oh, Dalton, my dear old friend, I’m delighted to know that the horror of my domesticity haunts you.”

Jack scowled over the rim of his coffee mug. “Don’t call me dear old friend. We are not friends okay? Get that into your psycho brain.”

Mac, the absolute traitor, grinned at him, “Well, you are enabling our whole situation, so, y’know. Lines are getting blurry.”

Jack shot Mac a look so deadpan it could have stopped a lesser man in his tracks, “You lied to our entire team, spiraled so hard you made me complicit in a full-on cover-up, and now you’re eating pancakes made by a literal contract killer who, by the way, still has several loaded firearms sitting next to the maple syrup. The situation is quite frankly, fucked.”

“Jack, the situation was fucked before Murdoc got here.” Mac said pointedly, “This is the less fucked situation.”

“Mac, buddy, I’m not about to argue that this is somehow the more fucked situation.” Jack took a deep breath and a long drink of coffee, “What I am saying is that Phoenix currently thinks Murdoc assaulted you and traumatised you so bad you can barely think and we don’t have a way to deal with that situation.”

“Oh… fuck.” Realisation dawned on Mac’s face, “I’ll be honest I didn’t think that far ahead.”

Jack let his head thunk onto the counter with a dull thud, “Of course you didn’t. Why would you? Why would you, Mac? Why think ahead when you can just vibe your way through the aftermath of a goddamn federal cover-up?”

“I did think ahead.” Mac countered, stabbing at his pancakes with unnecessary force, “I figured I’d just… fake it. Keep the act up, go through the motions, make them think I’m healing, and then reintegrate. Easy.”

Jack lifted his head just enough to shoot Mac a withering glare, “Easy?”

Mac shrugged, “I mean, yeah? Phoenix already wants me to be okay. If I start playing along, they’ll convince themselves it’s working.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, long and slow, like he was actively restraining himself from flipping the table, “Mac, you were already on thin ice before Murdoc did his whole deranged knight-in-shining-bloodstains thing. The six failed missions? The hesitation? That agent who got shot covering you? The decision isn’t even in Matty’s hands anymore, it’s gone all the way up to Oversight.”

Mac’s smile disappeared like someone had cut the power to it. His fork stilled in his grip, “He pulled through.”

Jack hesitated. There was no sugarcoating this, “He didn’t. He died twenty minutes before Murdoc got to you.”

The air in the kitchen changed instantly. Mac went very, very still, his knuckles tightening around his fork like he might snap it in half. Jack had seen Mac spiral before, seen him start picking apart every decision, every fraction of hesitation like he could reverse time by sheer force of self-loathing, but this was something else. This was the moment before an explosion, a sharp inhale before the detonation.

Jack braced himself.

Murdoc, however, had an entirely different approach. Before Jack could even think of something to say to try and fix any of this, the assassin wrapped an arm around Mac and said, quite firmly, “My darling, it’s not your fault some useless faceless Phoenix grunt failed the bullet dodging competition. He was expendable, you on the other hand are not. You’re irreplaceable, Angus, and if Phoenix was willing to fire you over something as small as that then I will happily burn them all to the ground.”

Jack had always known Murdoc was dangerous, but in that moment, he saw something else, something more terrifying. Murdoc wasn’t just obsessed. He wasn’t just a man driven by chaos or bloodlust. No, what Jack was witnessing now was a man who genuinely believed that Mac was the only thing in the world that mattered. The only thing worthy of his focus, his loyalty, his every twisted breath. Murdoc wasn’t just making these threats out of some desire to control; no, he meant every word. The way he looked at Mac, the way his arm held him, was nothing short of possessive, but not in a way that felt wrong, not from Murdoc’s perspective.

And it worked. Mac’s expression softened from rapidly encroaching self-loathing to something Jack could only describe as somewhat amused exasperation, “Murdoc, are you genuinely trying to make me feel better my calling my dead coworker expendable?”

“I do have a way with words, don’t I?” Murdoc purred, brushing a stray lock of hair from Mac’s forehead with exaggerated care, like he was a prince in a far-off land and Mac was his precious, fragile treasure, “But truly, Angus, it’s all relative, isn’t it? A little loss here and there for the greater good… besides, what’s a single life when compared to yours?”

Mac let out a groan, leaning back in his chair like he was sinking into an abyss of uncomfortable truths, “Murdoc, please don’t start this.”

Jack watched the exchange, part of him still amazed by how the dynamics between them worked. Murdoc had that unnerving ability to manipulate a situation in ways that made Jack want to either laugh or punch something. But what was really unsettling was how Mac responded to it. He wasn’t just playing along, wasn’t just tolerating the insane shit Murdoc said. No, Mac was engaging with it. As if it were normal. And for a moment, it felt like Jack was the one who didn’t belong.

Taking a long, deliberate sip of his coffee, Jack refocused. He needed to ground himself before he went down the mental rabbit hole of how this situation had come to be. He couldn’t even wrap his mind around the fact that this was what Mac’s life had come to. The absurdity of it all was maddening. Murdoc was standing there, completely unfazed by the fact that he was literally cuddling Mac while making bizarre, possessive declarations, and Mac was just… going with it. And to top it off, Jack was here, watching it unfold, unable to do a damn thing except offer coffee and snark.

Jack took a long drink of his coffee and sighed, “For the love of God, can we keep it to the pancakes and Mac’s absurd rebound relationship and talk about how we fix this? Mac, what do you want to have happen?”

“I want…” Mac trailed off, frowning in a way Jack knew was him trying to organise his thoughts, “I want everything to go back to the way it was before you left Phoenix to go on the Kovaks mission. I want to go around saving the world with you and Riley and Bozer… and I want to keep Murdoc as well.”

The silence in the room was deafening as Jack processed what Mac said. It was so little to ask for, to just do his job and have Murdoc climb in through his bedroom window at night. And the thing that broke Jack’s heart was that he couldn’t see a way to make it happen. Then Jack made the mistake of looking at Murdoc.

The assassin didn’t look manic or cold or triumphant in that moment. He just looked heartbroken for the man sitting next to him, and the sight of Murdoc’s sad, almost mournful expression made his gut twist. Murdoc, the chaos-incarnate, the man who could rip through a room with his manic energy, now looked almost human, vulnerable even. It unsettled Jack more than he cared to admit.

“What if we simply walked through the front door.” Murdoc suggested, “You and me, my darling. We could tell them the truth, make sure they’re so caught up in what Desiree did to you that they thank me for keeping you safe. If Dalton understands us then surely the rest of your team would too.”

“That’s not a plan, Murdoc.” Jack said, his voice tired but firm, “It’s a death sentence. Phoenix is a machine, whether you like it or not, their rules don’t change just because you walk in and throw a tantrum about it. They don’t care if you ‘kept Mac safe’. They’ll rip you apart just to make an example of you.”

“That’s if they believe us at all.” Mac sighed, “Jack what are the chances they think I’ve had a full trauma-induced psychotic break or that Murdoc brainwashed me or both?”

Jack gave a long, exhausted sigh, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face, as if hoping the pressure would push all the absurdity from his mind, “If we were to put it to a vote, I think they’d go with the brainwashing angle first. It would be easier for them to digest and a hell of a lot better than thinking that you were getting hurt this whole time and they didn’t notice.”

“Then what the hell do we do Jack?” Mac sounded frustrated, “I’ve backed us all into a really fucked up corner and I have no idea how to get out of it. Phoenix wants to fire me, I don’t have any way to stop them. Telling the truth will get me in a padded cell and continuing the lie will only make things worse.”

Jack could feel the weight of Mac’s words hang in the air, thick with frustration and resignation. Silence stretched over the room until suddenly Murdoc made a slight humming sound and tilted his head, “Oversight.”

“Oversight?” Jack echoed flatly, narrowing his eyes at Murdoc as he took another sip of coffee, savoring the bitter comfort, “You’re seriously suggesting we take on Phoenix head-on? As if you haven’t already caused enough chaos?”

“No, not that.” Murdoc grinned in a way that made Jack feel mildly uncomfortable, “You said that Angus’s employment is out of Matty’s hands. If we can get to oversight, whoever that is, then we can threaten them into keeping my darling with Phoenix, reassigning Desiree, and rehiring Jack.”

Jack blinked, lowering his coffee mug slowly as he processed Murdoc’s suggestion. He leaned forward slightly, placing the mug on the table, his voice calm but threaded with disbelief, “Murdoc, you’re suggesting we threaten Oversight. Oversight. The guy who practically runs Phoenix. I mean, sure, I’ve seen you do some stupidly bold stuff before, but this? This is…next-level suicidal.”

“It’s only suicidal if the plan fails, Dalton,” Murdoc said smoothly, as if discussing the weather. He leaned back in his chair, utterly unfazed, his sharp grin practically dripping with confidence, “And I don’t fail when it comes to Angus.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. He glanced at Mac, hoping for some semblance of reason, but Mac just stared at his plate, swirling the remnants of syrup with his fork. The blond’s expression was caught somewhere between frustration and resignation, a faint crease forming between his brows. Jack exhaled, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Look,” Jack began, trying to ground himself in the absolute madness of the moment, “Oversight isn’t just some faceless bureaucrat. He’s-“

“He’s my father.” Mac’s voice was flat.

Jack felt his breath catch mid-sentence, his mind grinding to a full stop as Mac’s words settled over the room like a goddamn bomb going off. He blinked once. Twice. Then let out a slow exhale, setting his coffee cup down with deliberate care, because he needed a free hand for the incoming migraine.

Murdoc, on the other hand, stopped moving entirely.

For the first time since Jack had known him, Murdoc was completely, utterly silent. No dramatic quip. No delighted cackle at the sheer soap opera of it all. Just… absolute stillness.

Jack had exactly three seconds to appreciate the blissful silence before Murdoc finally spoke, “I’m sorry my darling. Can you say that again... slower.”

Mac sighed, pushing his plate away like he’d lost his appetite, “Oversight. Is. My. Father.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, Murdoc started laughing. It was a slow build, starting as a quiet chuckle before escalating into a full-blown, near-manic cackle. He braced a hand against the counter, his shoulders shaking, his head tilted back like this was the single most hilarious thing he had ever heard in his life.

Jack, ever the unfortunate witness to whatever fresh hell this was, simply sat there, pinching the bridge of his nose with all the exhaustion of a man who had reached the absolute limit of his patience, “Jesus Christ, Murdoc, get a grip.”

“You mean that the shadowy figure who sent you on suicide mission after suicide mission with no regard to your sanity is your father. Oh that is good, that is just too good.” Murdoc’s grin sharpened into something lethal, as if Mac had just given him a highly personal assassination target wrapped in blood red ribbon, “Angus, darling, my sunshine, tell me. What is it with you and abusive authority figures? Because at this point, I’m starting to think you collect them.”

Jack let out the longest, slowest sigh of his life, tilting his head back toward the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. Of all the insane, catastrophic, batshit revelations this one was up there. Murdoc was still laughing, which only made it worse.

Mac, however, looked unimpressed. He propped his chin on one hand, watching Murdoc like someone indulging a child throwing a tantrum, “Are you done?”

“Oh, my darling, not even close.” Murdoc wiped a nonexistent tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning, still manic. “I mean really, Angus. Your father. Oversight. The same man who’s been watching you burn out and sending you back into the fire like a good little soldier. The same man who fucked off when you were a child to avoid having to raise you.”

Jack grimaced. Yeah, that part was a sore subject.

Mac exhaled sharply through his nose, stabbing at the last remnants of his pancake, “And yet, I’m still here. Somehow not completely traumatized.”

Murdoc arched an eyebrow, tilting his head, “Angus, darling. I say this with the utmost care and adoration: You are the walking embodiment of trauma with good hair.”

Jack groaned, rubbing his temples as he stared down at his coffee like it might offer him divine wisdom, “Alright, let’s take a goddamn breath here, okay? We are not turning breakfast into a full-blown psychological dissection of Mac’s childhood trauma.”

Murdoc, who had clearly never been told to take a breath in his entire life, just grinned wider, “Oh, but Dalton, I love dissecting Angus’s trauma. It’s like an endless puzzle box. Just when you think you’ve uncovered the most tragic detail, surprise! There’s another one lurking just beneath the surface.”

Jack turned to Mac, face blank, “You seriously want to keep this guy around?”

“If it makes you feel better we can blame my unresolved trauma.” Mac sighed.

Jack let out a groan so deep it felt like it came from his soul, dropping his head onto the kitchen island with a thunk, “Y’know what, sure. Why not. Let’s just threaten your emotionally unavailable, morally bankrupt, head-of-a-shadowy-organization father and hope it works out. This whole situation already has the life expectancy of a dumpster fire on an active minefield, might as well commit.”

Mac exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, “The problem is we can’t threaten him with a scandal or some big public reveal. That won’t work. My dad doesn’t care about emotional appeals or blackmail. He cares about control.”

Murdoc perked up immediately, eyes gleaming like a cat spotting something small and fragile to toy with. “Now that is interesting. So we don’t need dirt on dear old dad. We just need to prove we can take something from him. Something he values.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, “Murdoc, I swear to Christ, if you say Mac’s life like this is some melodramatic hostage scenario, I’m gonna throw you out of this house.”

Murdoc looked deeply offended, “Dalton, please. Give me some credit. I would never threaten Angus’s life. I am the only one allowed to put him in mortal peril, and only under the most affectionate circumstances.”

Jack groaned, dragging his hands down his face like the sheer weight of the nonsense he was dealing with was physically pulling him into the abyss, “Murdoc. I need you to listen to me real carefully, okay? And I mean really take this in.”

Murdoc raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with Jack’s attempt at gravitas.

Jack took a deep breath, “You are not the main character.”

Murdoc placed a dramatic hand over his heart, expression wounded, “Jack, my dear friend of course I’m not the main character. I’m the irresistible love interest.”

“Oh for fucks sakes-“

“So.” Mac finally interjected, setting his mug down with an easy confidence that suggested he wasn’t still mentally spiraling over the fact that his father was now the key to their entire survival, “The way I see it, we have two options.”

Jack sighed, already bracing himself, “Do I even want to know?”

“One: I fake a miraculous emotional recovery, go back to work like nothing happened, and just… ignore all of this.” Mac gestured vaguely between himself and Murdoc, “Until we figure out a longer-term solution.”

Murdoc made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, “Absolutely not. Boring. Next.”

Mac rolled his eyes, “Or two: We make it clear to Oversight that he only has two choices: he lets me do what I want, with Murdoc, or I do what I want without Phoenix. And if I do what I want outside of Phoenix? That ruins their whole damn image.”

Jack let out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck, “So, the threat isn’t exposing them or blackmailing your dad. It’s you going rogue. You becoming what they’re always afraid you’ll turn into.”

Mac nodded, sighed, and then took a drink of coffee, “Exactly.”

Murdoc, now looking far too pleased with this turn of events, clasped his hands together like a delighted villain, “Oh, Angus, my brilliant, beautiful boyfriend. You’re telling me the plan is to become a national security risk? Dalton please tell me you’re enjoying the drama of this as much as I am.”

Jack gave him a deadpan look, “Murdoc, I hate drama. I have spent years trying to reduce the amount of drama in my life, but Mac has gone and picked you as his emotionally unhealthy rebound so drama is inevitable.”

“I heard that.” Mac muttered.

Jack ignored him. He set his mug down, fixing Mac with a look that meant he was serious, “Alright. I told you once that if we do something stupid, we do it together. And I meant that.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I hate this plan. I hate all of this. I hate that we’ve even arrived at a point where let’s strong-arm a shadowy intelligence agency is the best move on the table.” He continued, gesturing between Mac and Murdoc, “But, seeing as my other option is sitting back while you two idiots self-destruct in different ways… yeah. Fine. I’m in. But if this goes sideways, I swear to God, I’m haunting both of you.”

Mac exhaled, rubbing his jaw like he was still processing the sheer insanity of the morning, “Okay. Then we need to figure out how to get him here. He doesn’t just show up unless something goes really, really wrong.”

Jack frowned, considering, “What if I suggest it at the debrief? Matty’s still got the team under her wing, but they all know this decision is out of her hands. If I say Oversight should come down and talk to you personally, make sure you’re safe or whatever bullshit phrasing makes them bite, he’ll have to come. He won’t want to, but if it’s framed like he’s the only one who can reach you and keep you under control, he won’t pass it up.”

Mac rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly from the pain of the movement, “And then what? We just… lay it all out? Hey Dad, here’s my hitman boyfriend, either you let me keep him or we burn Phoenix to the ground?”

Murdoc grinned, “Oh, I love the way that sounds.”

Jack scrubbed a hand down his face, “Jesus Christ. Listen, Mac. We don’t tell him outright that you’re with Murdoc. We imply things. Let him think the worst without us saying it out loud.”

“We let him figure I’m a ticking time bomb and that giving me what I want is easier than trying to handle me.” Mac took a long breath, then nodded, “Yeah, that’ll work I think. There is one thing though, I can’t afford for either of you to be there when I do this.”

Jack set his coffee down with a slow, deliberate motion, as if placing it carefully on the counter might somehow prevent the aneurysm he felt coming on, “Come again?”

“Angus, dearest, you can’t possibly want to face your father alone.” Murdoc expression mirrored how Jack felt.

“I don’t want to, I have to.” Mac insisted, “I-“

“Let me lay out your options for how this could go terribly wrong.” Murdoc interrupted, “Option one: he decides you’re brainwashed and sends you straight to a mental facility filled with FBI deprogrammers. Option two: he decides you’re a national security risk and locks you in a blacksite so deep underground you’ll be closer to hell than civilization. Option three: he tries to bring you back into the fold with some manipulative fatherly concern nonsense, only to turn around and put a bullet in the back of your head when you least expect it.”

“Exactly, that’s why neither of you can be there.” Mac said like it was somehow entirely obvious what he was thinking.

Murdoc exhaled slowly through his nose, leaning back slightly, eyes sharp and calculating, “Explain.”

Mac shifted, resting his elbows on the counter, fingers laced together, “If this goes wrong, if I go in there and it all blows up in my face, then we need you on the outside. You’re our backup plan. If they put me in custody, if they try to ship me off somewhere or worse, you’re the only one who can get me out.”

Jack sucked in a breath, realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. That’s why Mac’s pushing this so hard. He’s already accounted for the worst-case scenario.

Murdoc was still, eyes narrowed, like he was carefully measuring each of Mac’s words. His fingers drummed idly against the counter, slow and methodical.

“So let me get this straight.” Murdoc said, his voice so light and conversational it almost masked the lethal edge beneath, “Your plan is that in the event you’re taken, you’re relying on me, your deranged, homicidal, deeply unhinged boyfriend, to single-handedly dismantle a classified government blacksite to retrieve you before they make you disappear forever.”

“Yes.” Mac didn’t blink, “There’s one person who could take on a fully staffed Phoenix blacksite and win. That’s you Murdoc.”

Murdoc let out a long breath, then grinned at the blond, “I think that might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. On the other hand I don’t see why Dalton couldn’t go with you.”

“Because if Jack is implicated in this then he’ll be under surveillance at best and in the blacksite with me at worst.” Mac sounded like everything he was saying was incredibly reasonable and not somehow cause for concern, “And if we don’t have someone inside, then even you might not be enough to get me out.”

“So your plan is that you go in alone, and if it goes sideways I feed Murdoc the info necessary to break you out.” Jack sighed, “I hate the fact that plan would probably work.”

Murdoc grinned like a man who had just realized he was everyone’s worst-case scenario, “You know, it’s fascinating how much faith you both have in my ability to commit high-level acts of government terrorism.”

Mac, the reckless son of a bitch, just nodded, like that wasn’t the most insane thing that had ever been said at this kitchen table, “You’re the contingency plan, Murdoc. That’s all.”

Murdoc preened, “Oh, my darling, flattery will get you everywhere. Do continue.”

Jack shot Mac a deeply exasperated look, “Mac. Buddy. Just to be clear, your entire survival plan hinges on Murdoc, of all people, being the rational one in this scenario?”

Mac gave Jack an amused look, “I’m not banking on Murdoc being rational. I’m banking on Murdoc being Murdoc.”

Jack groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Mac, you cannot just say shit like if they throw me in a blacksite, Murdoc will rescue me like that’s a normal plan.”

Mac arched an eyebrow at him, “Jack, be real. If I get thrown into a highly classified prison filled with government agents or some FBI agent reprogramming centre with Phoenix unwilling to help because they think I’ve been brainwashed, leaving only you and Murdoc to save me, then what’s the plan?”

Jack let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing his temples like he was trying to physically massage the stress out of his skull, “The plan is obviously that we let Murdoc do what Murdoc does best, which is commit wildly excessive acts of violence. I just want us all to admit how insane the plan is.”

“You’re more than qualified to assist in the excessive acts of violence if you would like to join me.” Murdoc offered, “Two assassins going and saving our darling boy scout. It’s not like we’d lose.”

Mac’s fork clattered against the plate as he turned sharply toward Murdoc, eyebrows furrowing, “Two assassins?”

Jack froze.

“He doesn’t know?” Murdoc blinked, looking genuinely confused for the first time since this entire mess started. Then turned to Jack with a confused slightly indignant tone, “You didn’t tell him?”

Jack sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “Mac, I thought you already knew. It’s not like I hid my skill set. You’ve seen me shoot, for God’s sake. You really never put it together?”

“I knew you were a sniper. I knew you had insane accuracy. But I assumed it was combat experience. Not that you were literally out there working government-sanctioned hit jobs!” Mac’s voice had risen slightly, his hands gesturing in that way he did when he was processing and spiraling at the same time.

Mac turned to Murdoc, as if expecting him to mock the situation, gloat about it, something, “And you! You’ve known this whole time?”

Murdoc finally spoke, his voice surprisingly even, “Of course, darling. It was… obvious.”

Mac stared at him, “Obvious?”

“Dalton’s technique, his habits, his tells? They’re trained. Not just any soldier, a specific kind of soldier. I just assumed you knew.” He sounded genuinely puzzled.

Mac groaned, dragging both hands through his hair as if physically trying to process the absolute absurdity of his life, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why do I attract assassins? Is it my cologne? Do I give off some kind of energy? Do I just scream Hi, my name is Angus MacGyver, and I’m looking for a morally flexible, highly trained operative to completely derail my life?”

Murdoc, still far too pleased with himself, tilted his head with faux contemplation, “Well, darling, you do have a certain je ne sais quoi . A kind of magnetism, if you will.”

Jack, who had clearly given up on keeping a straight face, let out a long-suffering sigh, “Yeah, I hate to say it, but you kinda do have a type, Mac.”

Murdoc beamed, delighted, “Oh, this is my favorite conversation we’ve ever had.”

Mac shot him a look, then turned back to Jack with an expression of deep, personal betrayal, “You are not agreeing with him right now.”

“Mac, buddy. Look at the evidence. Your best friend? Me. A former CIA assassin. Your current boyfriend?” He waved vaguely at Murdoc, who gave a small, pleased bow, “An internationally wanted hitman with a god complex. And let’s not forget the ex who started this whole damn mess: Nikki Carpenter.”

Mac narrowed his eyes, pointing a finger at Jack, “That is not the same thing.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, “Isn’t it? Let’s review: Nikki betrayed you, faked her own death, and left you emotionally wrecked because she was a double agent for an underground criminal organisation. Then it turns out she was actually a deep-cover CIA triple agent and she double crossed them as well.”

Mac exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head, but Jack wasn’t done.

“Then you stalked Nikki after she betrayed you, because her being a psycho double agent was somehow not a deal breaker for you.” Jack continued, voice bordering on smug, “Remember that? You were obsessed with getting her back.”

Mac lifted his head just enough to shoot Jack a glare, “I did not stalk Nikki.”

Jack scoffed, “Mac. You hacked every known alias she had, tracked her across three different countries , and spent months trying to get her back.”

“Oh, that’s priceless. So not only does my Angus fall for killers, but he can be just as obsessive as I am.” Murdoc let out a delighted hum, “Darling, I hate to break it to you, but you might have unresolved attachment issues. ”

“That is-“ Mac started, then faltered, his brain catching up with the sheer weight of the accusations being leveled at him. He pointed aggressively at Jack, “That was different. I loved her.”

“Uh-huh. And what do you think this is?” Jack gestured toward Murdoc, who, to his credit, looked positively radiant with satisfaction.

Mac’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. He blinked rapidly, processing, before he finally exploded, “ This is not the same thing! ”

Jack just shook his head, “Mac, it’s exactly the same thing, except somehow better and worse at the same time because you’ve upgraded from an ex who betrayed you because it was her job to a boyfriend who would rather die than betray you but who is also, you know, Murdoc.”

“I’ll take the compliment.” The assassin in question shrugged.

“Of course you will.” Jack sighed, “Alright let’s recap: I’m going to get oversight down here, Mac is going to go in alone and threaten to go rogue if he doesn’t get what he wants, then if it all goes sideways I feed Murdoc information and he goes and sets himself loose on whatever poor fuckers are standing between you and the exit. Is that right?”

“Yep.” Mac nodded.

“Any plan which involves me saving Angus is a good plan to me.” Murdoc grinned.

“Great, perfect. Okay.” Jack closed his eyes and scrubbed his hand over his face, “While I work on getting Mac’s dad down from his shadowy tower we still have the rest of Phoenix to deal with.”

“Let me guess, we keep up the charade until I can spring the whole threat thing on dad.” Mac sighed, “And the charade needs to involve me becoming more unhinged.”

“You should start acting delusional.” Murdoc mused, “Or angry, either of those would work to make everyone incredibly concerned. Perhaps you start acting like nothing actually happened, that would put everyone into panic mode.”

“Delusional will get you locked up, angry though we can work with. Angry makes you a potential danger.” Jack clicked his fingers, “We need to finish fleshing out your story for what happened after Murdoc took you. It has to be something that makes everyone feel bad for you but explains all the things Phoenix saw on our side. Half the reason Matty is suspicious is we got this camera footage of Murdoc looking genuinely concerned for your wellbeing and Mac you’re looking at him like he’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.”

“Shit, that doesn’t exactly fit in with the broken victim aesthetic.” Mac grimaced.

“Yeah neither does the LEGO, the video games, the medical assistance…” Jack trailed off, “Murdoc why did you have to be a such a nice kidnapper.”

“I was concerned for my darling’s wellbeing.” Murdoc put a hand on his heart, trying to put his most sincere expression on, “Although an easy way to explain such things would be if I was actively trying to manipulate Angus into trusting me. Maybe it worked until such time as I decided to take payment for my services so to speak.”

“I hate how much that makes sense.” Jack muttered, rubbing his temples, “So to recap the plan is we’re going to pretend that Murdoc here is some kind of villainous mastermind who manipulated you into trusting him and then up and decided to assault you. That doesn’t explain the oldest injuries without outright stating Desi is the one who gave them to you and it doesn’t explain why you’d willingly go with Murdoc instead of back to Phoenix.”

“What if I didn’t remember how I got these bruises. Then Murdoc could’ve lied and said he rescued me from some terrorist organisation and that somehow going back to Phoenix was too risky.” Mac offered, the gears turning in his brain.

“I gave you morphine for your pain, it’s easy to convince people high on narcotics of practically anything. We can pretend I kept you on it until you already believed me.” Murdoc gave a wolfish grin.

“I feel like I should be concerned that you said that.” Mac sighed, “But instead my brain is just like wow my boyfriend is so good at thinking up schemes.”

Jack glanced between Mac and Murdoc, the weight of the absurdity of the situation pressing down on him like a lead blanket. He let out a long breath and set his coffee mug down with a soft clink, feeling the exhaustion creep in from every angle.

“Alright.” Jack started, his voice firm, “So, we pretend Murdoc is this villainous mastermind who manipulated you, and you’re the helpless hero who, through some convoluted series of events, ended up trusting him because of the morphine-induced haze. It’s believable, it’s simple, and best of all it fits in with Phoenix’s view of Murdoc.”

“And we sell it.” Jack said, his voice steady despite the chaos swirling in his mind, “ We sell it hard. We make Phoenix believe every second of this. Murdoc, you need to lay low until Oversight gets here because right now the idea we’re selling is that you don’t care about Mac when he’s not a danger to you, so you gotta let him heal up first.”

“As long as my sunshine is with me I am more than happy to hide in the shadows.” Murdoc leaned down and pressed a kiss to Mac’s hair.

“And Mac, you’re switching from sad traumatised Macgyver to angry traumatised Macgyver. You’re going to need to act bitter and distrustful to everyone except me.” Jack sighed, thinking about how hurt the rest of the team will be by the whole charade, “You play the part and we make them believe every damn second of it. It’s too early for you to tell the story we cooked up since you screamed at everyone yesterday but you need to sell the sentiment.”

Mac gave him a half-hearted smile, “Easy. Totally easy. I can definitely lie to the people I care about without them noticing.”

“That’s the spirit, kid.” Jack grinned, then his smile faltered as he realised he had to dispense the news, “First show’s gonna be tomorrow. The whole team is coming over to check up on you.”

“Wow great.” Mac’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, “Can’t wait to have everyone staring at me like I’m a zoo exhibit.”

“I suppose I’ll do my duty and hide upstairs so that nobody sees me.” Murdoc mused.

Mac sighed, “Can’t wait for the absolute circus this is going to be. All I need now is a plushie to hold so I can look pathetic enough to sell this whole act.”

Jack’s eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face, “Oh, a plushie would be perfect. You know what, I’m totally on board with that. You could hold it while acting like the world’s greatest martyr.”

Murdoc’s face lit up at the idea, his manic grin wide, “Oh, what a delightful idea. We could even have one specially made, a plush Phoenix perhaps. Something soft and cuddly that you can cling to when things get tough.”

Mac’s voice dropped to a flat, deadpan tone, “I was joking, if you get me a plushie I will burn it.”

Jack, who was caught somewhere between laughing and questioning his life choices, cleared his throat, “Yeah, okay, so no plushie. We’ll settle for a blanket, right? You can sit there on your pathetic little throne, wrapped in a blanket, like some tragic hero.”

Mac threw his hands up in mock exasperation, “Fine. Blanket it is. Can’t wait to look pathetic in front of all of my friends.”

Jack watched as Murdoc enthusiastically clapped his hands together, clearly pleased with the decision, “Ah, much better! A blanket, something that will make you look just pitiful enough to sell the act without crossing into outright theatrical territory.“

Mac slumped with a dramatic sigh, “Right, I’ll be the picture of misery. Make sure everyone knows how much I’ve suffered for the greater good. A real martyr.”

“Exactly.” Jack smirked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “And while you’re at it, maybe throw in some tearful eyes. You know, the kind that say I’ve been through hell, but I’ll survive.”

“Right.” Mac’s voice was dry, “I’ll try and tear up enough to keep the act going.”

Murdoc, ever eager to play his part, leaned forward with an eager glint in his eye, “You’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand, Angus.”

Jack stifled a laugh, his exasperation with the whole situation only growing, “Mac, you’re going to have to play this up hard tomorrow. No cracks, no hesitation. You’ve got to sell it, or the whole team’s going to sniff out something’s off.”

Mac nodded, his expression shifting from sarcastic to serious, “I know. I’m aware. I just… can you get me some comms? Just short range, so Murdoc can talk to me while I’m doing the whole pathetic routine. It’ll help, I promise.”

Jack had to admit, it was an idea that had merit. He knew Mac wasn’t asking for comms for any nefarious reason, he was just trying to make the whole charade easier on himself. And with Murdoc on the other end, ready to throw in some chaotic commentary, it might make the whole thing a little less torturous, “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Jack. Really.” Mac sighed, “Now let’s actually enjoy a day of peace before all this shit starts up again.”

Murdoc brightened up, holding up his spatula, “Marvellous idea my darling. More pancakes?”

—————————————————————————————————

Jack could feel the weight of the morning already pressing down on him. He had been up for hours, making sure the lie was airtight, double-checking the stories he had to tell. By the time he reached the meeting room, his stomach was in knots, a cocktail of exhaustion and dread sloshing around inside him. It wasn’t just about the upcoming meeting with the Phoenix team, it was about Mac, about keeping this whole house of cards standing for just a little bit longer.

As he walked through the door, the team was already settled around the table, and their eyes all snapped to him. Matty was the first to speak, her voice even, measured, as always, “Jack. You’re late. What’s the status on Mac?”

He gave a tight smile, forcing his voice to stay calm, even as his mind churned with conflicting thoughts, “Status on Mac? Well, let’s just say he’s not okay, but we already knew that, didn’t we?”

The room was still, everyone waiting for him to elaborate. He couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit of satisfaction at the edge of discomfort in their expressions. They had no idea what kind of web he was about to spin.

Jack took a deep breath and walked over to the table, slinging his bag onto it with a heavy thud. He opened it, then pulled out the notebook he had asked Mac to fill out, the one filled with meticulously crafted plans for revenge, a document so ridiculous and twisted that Jack was half convinced he might burst out laughing just reading it aloud. It was Mac’s handwriting but it’d been a solid three hours standing around a whiteboard with Murdoc of all people to workshop it out. Between his CIA training and the assassin’s insane fixation on poisons and experience in the criminal underworld it’d been shockingly easy to come up with.

With deliberate care, Jack tossed the notebook onto the table. A few people stiffened, recognizing the weight of what was coming. He could already hear their minds working, trying to piece together what had happened to Mac since he was pulled from Murdoc’s influence.

“Mac gave me this.” Jack flipped open the notebook to one of the pages, scanning over the absurdly detailed plans. Hallucinogenic compounds, acid, psychological torment, the works.

Matty picked up the notebook and flipped through a few pages, her eyes narrowing as she scanned over the text, “What is this?”

“These are Mac’s plans.” Jack said, voice colder than he intended, “He’s been spiraling, coming up with all sorts of ways to hurt Murdoc. He’s been going manic happy, coming up with different ways to torture him. It’s all in there, he even made it colour-coded.”

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching their reactions. They flinched, just as he knew they would. A small part of him hated this, hated that Mac had to lie about all this, but the rest of him knew that it had to be done.

“He keeps saying horrifying shit.” Jack continued, his voice low but steady as he pretended quote his friend, “It’s gonna be beautiful, Jack. I’ve got so many ways to make him pay. I’m gonna watch his face as the last bit of humanity drains from him. He deserves it. He’s the reason everything’s broken. He’s the reason I’m broken.”

A hush fell over the room, the weight of Mac’s fake confession sinking in. Riley looked up at him, her brow furrowing, “This doesn’t make any sense. Why would Mac-”

“Why? Because he needs to think something can fix him.” Jack cut in, his voice firm, “And it’s easy to convince yourself revenge is the answer. But here’s the thing: Mac is the smartest person in this team, he always has been. He’s calculating, but the thing is, if he wanted to, he could easily go rogue and find Murdoc himself. Hell, I’m the only reason he hasn’t already. You think he’s content to sit around here playing the victim? He’s not.”

He felt a flicker of guilt in his chest but buried it deep, focusing instead on the plan.

“I told you all.” Jack continued, pacing, “If he goes rogue, Phoenix will lose him. He’s already far too valuable to let go. But if Murdoc isn’t handled, Mac’s going to do it himself, and if that happens, there’s no turning back.”

He took a breath, then threw in the final piece of his proposal, the one that would change everything, “We need Oversight. The head of Phoenix. He has to come down here and talk to Mac. But not as Oversight. He needs to come as Mac’s father.”

Matty frowned, “Are we certain this will make anything better?”

“He needs his father, Matty.” Jack’s tone was quieter now, but it carried weight, “If we’re going to handle this, we need him to handle Mac. I can’t deal with this. I can’t keep him safe from himself. James Macgyver on the other hand might be able to.”

As the team digested this, Jack couldn’t help but think about what was really happening behind the scenes. Mac wasn’t spiraling, he was thriving. In the past few days, he’d seen Murdoc and Mac together, joking around, laughing, and yes, even cuddling. Their weird domestic bliss was unsettling to Jack, but it was also comforting in a strange way. He’d never seen Mac this genuinely happy before, and maybe it was wrong, maybe it was all fucked up, but Jack couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, Mac was finding himself again. The soldier couldn’t completely ignore the manipulation and darkness that came with Murdoc’s affection, but he could see the way Mac was different now, he was himself in a way he hadn’t been since… god if Jack was being honest since before Nikki betrayed him. And Jack knew this: he was going to do whatever it took to keep this version of Mac intact. If that meant playing along with this lie, protecting Murdoc, and even threatening Oversight, Jack was all in.

“I can get him here.” Matty said slowly, but Jack could hear the reservation in her voice, “But I’m not sure how much of an effect it’ll have. Mac’s already pushed back so much.”

“I know.” Jack tried not to laugh at the ridiculous lie he was about to tell, “But if anyone can talk sense into him, it’s his father. Oversight is the authority figure in Mac’s life. If anyone can get through to Mac and make him realize how much we need him back, and alive, it’s him.”

Bozer’s stared at Jack, eerily quiet, scanning his face as if he was looking for something. Jack stared back before finally dropping his eyes as Matty started talking again.

“If you think this is what he needs, Jack.” She nodded, “Then we can do it. For now you should get back to Mac, if he’s really spiralling like this then we shouldn’t leave him alone for too long. You’re all dismissed.”

Jack didn’t take the time to talk to Riley or Bozer like he usually would, he just nodded and left. For better or worse, Mac and Murdoc’s chaos was starting to feel like the only thing that made sense.

He opened the door quietly and stepped into the low hum of the house. It felt like the world was on pause here, like time slowed down once he crossed that threshold.

As Jack stepped inside, the scene before him felt like the calm after a storm. Mac, sprawled out on the couch with his head resting comfortably on Murdoc’s lap, was fiddling with his butterfly knife, the familiar rhythm of the blade’s flip and flick distracting him, but not in an anxious way. No, Mac looked completely at ease, a sense of peace that was almost unnerving, given everything going on.

Murdoc, ever the enigma, was watching Mac with that familiar bemused grin, his fingers brushing through Mac’s hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes flickered to Jack as he walked in, offering a small, unbothered wave.

“Hey, you’re back!” Mac chimed, sitting up and giving Jack a wide grin. It was the kind of smile Jack hadn’t seen from him in ages, genuine and unreserved. Mac even gave an exaggerated little wave as he continued spinning his knife, “How’d the meeting go? Did Matty buy the story?”

Jack let out a slow breath, his lips curving up in a tired half-smile as he walked toward the fridge. 

“She bought it alright.” Jack muttered, grabbing three beers from the fridge. Murdoc’s grin sharpened, and Jack could see the pride in his eyes. It didn’t escape Jack that Murdoc was a hell of a manipulator, and in his own twisted way, he’d somehow helped shape the narrative to work in their favour.

Jack cracked open the first beer and took a long drink, the cool bitterness of it grounding him as he walked back toward the living room. As he passed by, he tossed the second beer to Murdoc, who caught it effortlessly with a grin. Jack popped the third beer down in front of Mac before settling into the armchair, his eyes flicking between Mac, who was still fiddling with his butterfly knife, and Murdoc, who seemed far too comfortable for someone who was constantly on the run from Phoenix.

“Alright. It’s been a long fucking day.” Jack started, leaning back and letting out a long breath, “Die Hard, anyone?”

He half expected to be met with groans or eye rolls, but instead, Murdoc’s face lit up in that way only he could pull off. The assassin was far too pleased with the suggestion.

“Absolutely!” Murdoc cracked open his own beer and taking a sip, “Nothing like an action-packed Christmas classic to get into the right mood. It’s practically a masterpiece of cinematic brilliance, right up my alley.”

Mac snorted, shaking his head, “You can’t be serious.”

Murdoc raised an eyebrow, his grin widening, “Oh, but I am, darling. Absolutely serious. What’s not to love? A building full of hostages, explosions everywhere. Perfect weekend fare.”

Jack grinned, shaking his head, “Mac, I hate to admit it but your boyfriend has good taste. Maybe you could learn a thing or two about movies.”

“I regret ever introducing you two,” Mac muttered dramatically, his gaze pointed at the ceiling as he twirled the knife between his fingers, “You’ve become friends, and now I’m stuck in the middle of your weird, homicidal bromance.”

“Well I’m stuck in the middle of your weird, homicidal romance so I think we’re even.” Jack pointed out.

“So you do admit we’re friends, Dalton!” Murdoc beamed.

Jack groaned, rubbing his temples, “Yeah, fine. We’re friends. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still the poor bastard stuck having to deal with your insane plans.”

“Ah, but Dalton, that’s where you’re wrong!” Murdoc leaned forward, one hand cupping his chin as if he was lecturing Jack, “You’re not just having to deal with our plans. You’re part of the team! You’re in the middle of it all now. The game’s changed, my friend, and you’ve unwittingly joined our cause.”

Jack shot him a glare that was half annoyance, half exhaustion, “Sure, whatever you say, man. Just don’t expect me to start getting Team Murdoc shirts printed.”

Murdoc only smiled wider, “Now that is an idea.”

“I can’t believe this is my life now.” Mac said, his voice tinged with incredulity, “If anyone had told me a year ago I’d be sitting here, watching you two get along, barely, while I’m stuck in the middle of whatever the hell this is, I would’ve thought they were crazy.”

“Oh, I know the feeling.” Jack muttered, raising his beer again, “Crazy is an understatement.”

“Even I’m not crazy enough to have expected this.” Murdoc sighed happily, “Hoped? Yes. Dreamed? On occasion. Expected? Not in a million years.”

Mac laughed, his fingers still playing with the butterfly knife as he flipped it effortlessly between his hands, “Well, we all know this whole situation’s a one-way ticket to insanity, so might as well enjoy the ride, right?”

Jack settled back into the armchair, the beer cooling in his hand as the weight of the day finally started to dissipate. He glanced at Mac, then at Murdoc, and for a moment, the surrealness of it all hit him again. This wasn’t what he’d signed up for, hell, this wasn’t even close to anything he’d ever imagined, but somehow, despite everything, it felt… normal.

The steady rhythm of Mac’s knife flicking and Murdoc’s casual presence filled the space with a strange, uneasy comfort. Jack knew they were all on borrowed time. This façade wouldn’t last. But for now, for this moment, he could relax and pretend it wasn’t all falling apart.

“Alright, sure.” Jack muttered, leaning back, trying to forget that they were all playing a dangerous game, “At least I can say this: I’ve never been so simultaneously irritated and amused in my life.”

Murdoc raised his beer with a grin, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Mac just snorted, shaking his head, but there was an unexpected lightness in his smile.

“Cheers to the chaos.” Jack said with a grimace, clinking his bottle against theirs, knowing full well it would only be a matter of time before the next big problem reared its ugly head.

Chapter 11: There's Still Cobwebs In The Corner

Mac

Mac curled into himself on the couch, his arms wrapped tight around his knees, gaze fixed on the floor. It was an easy thing, this performance. He’d done it before, let his shoulders hunch, let his hands tremble just enough, let his breath hitch at the right moments. He knew exactly what they expected to see: a broken man, too frayed at the edges to hold himself together.

Jack had been the one to lead James Macgyver into the room, his expression unreadable. Mac could tell he was holding something back, maybe frustration, maybe anticipation, but he didn’t linger. He played his part perfectly, closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh, "I’ll be outside."

And then it was just Mac and his father, alone, with his friends footsteps sounding further and further down the hallway.

For a few seconds, silence stretched between them, thick and weighty. Mac made sure to keep his breathing uneven, his fingers digging into his sleeves. Then, when the moment was right, he lifted his head just enough to meet his father’s gaze, voice raw and hesitant, "Why are you here, dad?"

James Macgyver exhaled slowly, stepping further into the room, his eyes scanning over Mac like he was taking stock of damage. Calculating. Assessing the condition of his investment.

Mac kept his expression carefully shattered, his posture tight with manufactured tension. He watched, waiting for something, anything, to flicker through his father’s face that wasn’t cold disappointment. Something more than just the resignation of a man who had been forced to clean up a mess. Something human. Something that might mean, for even a second, that James had ever given a damn about him outside of his usefulness.

"I’m here because you need help, Angus. Because whether you want to believe it or not, you’re in over your head." His father's voice was measured, controlled, like he was speaking to a soldier who had lost his way, not his son.

Mac let his eyes flicker over him, searching, grasping for anything other than the familiar weight of expectation and disappointment. For a moment, he let himself entertain the possibility that James might see more than just a broken asset in front of him, that maybe instead he could see his son, but there was nothing.

No anger. No grief. Just calculation.

And that was all Mac needed to know.

The exhaustion in his body wasn’t feigned when he exhaled sharply and uncurled himself from his forced position. His back straightened, the tension in his limbs melting away into something far more natural. He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders as the broken facade slid off him like old armor.

"That’s about what I expected." Mac muttered, voice dropping into something far more steady, far more real. He lifted his gaze to James and finally let his own disappointment show, "I told Murdoc this is how it would play out. I knew you wouldn’t surprise me. But I guess I’m still disappointed."

James’ posture barely shifted, but Mac saw the flicker of unease. His father had always been the one in control, the one who dictated the flow of every conversation, who prided himself on predicting the battlefield before a single shot was fired. But Mac had changed, and that uncertainty, that hesitation in James’ stance, was enough to make something curl satisfyingly in Mac’s chest.

His father recovered quickly, "You’ve always had a dramatic streak, but let’s not waste time. If you’re not going to accept help, then tell me what you want, and we’ll see if it’s even worth discussing."

"Dramatic?" Mac let out a humourless laugh, "I don't think you get to call shots about dramatic, anything dramatic I do we can chalk up to your... can we even call it an influence if you weren't there?"

James’ expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened. It was the kind of cold, restrained anger that had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with control. Mac had seen it before, directed at agents who failed missions, at politicians who made deals James didn’t approve of. But never, not once, had it been aimed at him. Maybe that was another thing that had changed.

"I was there when it counted." His father’s voice was clipped, professional, as though Mac was nothing more than a difficult operative, “And I’m here now.”

"When it counted would've been my tenth birthday." Mac said flatly, "Or my eleventh, or my twelfth, or when my grandfather died and I had nobody left, or maybe my high school graduation or- you know I think you should be starting to see a pattern here?"

"Enough." James said, his tone still calm, but edged now with something colder, "We’re not here to rehash the past."

"Well now I want to." Mac leaned forward, "Come on, it'll be a trip down memory lane except I have to go alone because I don't have many memories of you."

James exhaled sharply, his patience fraying at the edges, "This isn’t productive, Angus."

"You're right, but it is fun." Mac offered.

His dad didn't indulge him. His gaze sharpened, the momentary lapse into frustration vanishing as quickly as it had surfaced, replaced once again by that same distant calculation. It was like watching a machine recalibrate itself, stripping away unnecessary variables until only the mission remained. Mac hated it, every second of it, the brutal reality that he didn't really have a father and he probably never did.

“Fine, we'll skip the heart-to-heart." Mac sighed, shaking his head, "You’re going to call off every single initiative to hunt Murdoc down. No task forces, no blacksites, no neutralization efforts. You want me compliant? You let him go."

"You’re wasting your breath." James huffed, he had a tone which was normally reserved for small children and not high-value government agents, "Even if I agreed, even if I personally pulled the plug, there are people far above me who won’t. You think you can dictate the rules of engagement? You think anyone will let Murdoc walk free just because you asked nicely?"

Mac tilted his head, watching his father with something approaching amusement, "No, I think they’ll let him walk free because you’ll make them."

"And why would I do that?" James asked, still measured, still calm, "What possible reason could I have to let a monster like him slip through my fingers?"

"Because if you don’t, I walk. You put me in chains or you let us go. Those are your options." Mac let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. The whole conversation was tiring him in a way that made his heart ache to stumble back into the safety of Murdoc's arms and rest there.

James exhaled through his nose, something barely resembling a scoff, "That’s not an option."

"It is. Because you know exactly how much of a mess things get when I go rogue. You think I’m bad now? You think I’m spiraling?" Mac let the smile slip, let his voice drop into something colder, "Try coming after Murdoc and see how much worse I can get."

James held his silence for while before finally speaking, voice edged with something between disbelief and quiet resignation, "So that’s it. That’s the hill you’re willing to die on. Murdoc."

Mac didn’t hesitate, "Yes."

Something dark passed through his father’s gaze, something bitter and restrained, "Do you even hear yourself? Do you understand what you’re saying?"

"I understand it better than you ever could." Mac shot back, leaning forward, the weight of his exhaustion bleeding into his voice now, "You don’t know what happened. You don’t get to stand there and act like this is some irrational decision I made on a whim."

"Then tell me." His father said, voice deceptively calm, "Tell me what justifies throwing your entire life away for that man."

Mac’s breath came slow, steady. He wasn’t sure why he even bothered answering, his father would never really understand. But maybe a part of him wanted James to at least know. To hear the words and sit with them. Because maybe if he was going to tell the truth he might as well start with the person that was meant to protect him. Because maybe some part of him just wanted to curl up and tell his dad what happened to him.

"You want to know why?" Mac leaned back slightly, his body still aching but posture far from weak, "Desi hurt me."

James’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a tightening at the corner of his mouth, something almost imperceptible but still there.

"She hit me before. A few times." Mac held his father's eyes, watching for any real reaction, "And I let it go. Thought it was stress. Thought it was my fault. I mean, I must have done something wrong, right? Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe I pushed too hard."

"Murdoc found me." He continued. The ghost of Murdoc's voice whispered in his mind, telling him how untrue that was, how his Angus was worth more than anything else on this planet. Mac tilted his head, smiling in a way that was simultaneously predatory and caught in fond memories, "He took care of me. He didn’t have to, he didn’t need to, but he did. He saved me and if there's anybody on Earth I'm going to protect, it's going to be the people who protected me."

Mac eyes bored into James Macgyver's, unwavering despite the leaden weight in his chest. The man was impassive, calculating, but Mac had spent too many years peeling apart people’s facades to miss the cracks forming beneath the surface. That tiny flicker of something that wasn’t pure dismissal, but recognition. He knew. Maybe not the whole truth, but enough. Enough to understand what Mac was implying. Enough to know that if Mac was bringing Desi into this, it wasn’t a bluff.

"That brings me to the second point, Desi is gone." Macgyver kept his voice even, "Fired, reassigned, sent to some black ops black hole somewhere, put on a deep cover mission, I don't care. She leaves."

James didn’t react immediately. His expression was unreadable, but Mac had learned to look past the surface, to see the shifts in muscle tension, the flickers of thought behind calculating eyes. And what he saw now sent something sharp and ugly slicing through his chest. His father wasn’t going to do it.

It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t uncertainty. It was the kind of cold, quiet certainty that meant James had already made his decision, long before this conversation had even begun. Mac’s stomach twisted.

"That's not possible, Angus." His father exhaled slowly, like a man preparing to deliver an unfortunate but unavoidable truth, “We can't afford to lose Nguyen, she's a good agent. She gets results.”

Mac clenched his jaw, staring at him in disbelief. She gets results. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it? Not the fact that he'd had woken up for weeks half-expecting to feel her hands on him, not the fact that he’d flinched the last time Bozer had grabbed his wrist too suddenly. Not the fact that he’d had to sit through briefing after briefing with Desi sitting right there, calm as ever, like none of it had happened.

The realization sank in like a slow, bitter poison. His father wasn’t just refusing. He hadn’t even considered it, he hadn’t given it a second of deliberation. He'd just weighed the prices he was willing to pay and come to one fundamentally horrible calculation: That Desi was valuable, and Mac was not. He felt it like a physical blow, like something inside him cracked wide open under the weight of those words. His father wasn’t going to do anything, he wasn’t going to fix this, wasn’t going to protect him, wasn’t even going to pretend to give a damn about what had happened.

She gets results. The sentence rattled around in Mac’s skull, hollow and damning. She gets results. Like he was some equation that could be balanced out. Like his suffering, like his goddamn survival, was just another acceptable loss in the grand scheme of Phoenix’s objectives.

Mac could feel his breath coming too fast, something clawing up the inside of his ribs, something ugly and shaking and furious. But the thing that made his fingers curl into fists so tight his nails nearly broke skin was that Murdoc had actually believed in Phoenix more than Mac had.

"Their most brilliant agent, their only irreplaceable one."

Mac’s stomach clenched, nausea curling in his gut because he realized, very suddenly, horribly, that it was Murdoc’s voice in his head keeping him standing. Murdoc’s faith that Phoenix would make the smart call. Murdoc’s belief that Mac was too important for them to just throw away. And somehow, some part of Mac had actually known better, known that this was ridiculous, had arranged to ensure that Murdoc and Jack could save him from whatever hole his father threw him in.

Yet here he was, looking at his father, at the man who had spent his entire life teaching him exactly what he was worth. Watching as James Macgyver made his final calculation and came to the same goddamn answer as always: That Mac was nothing but a tool, and when that tool stopped functioning the way he wanted, it was easier to discard than to fix.

She. Gets. Results.

Mac realised with sudden and alarming clarity that this is exactly what he was afraid of, this is why he didn't want to go back to Phoenix. He had been afraid of people thinking he was broken, he'd been afraid of people looking at him with pity.

But somehow all of that had paled in comparison to the fear that he didn't allow himself to think about. The one that Murdoc had always arrived to snap Mac out of just before it could invade his mind fully, the one that he would willingly drown himself in any other thought or sensation to avoid. The fear that they would look at Mac, then look at Desi, and decide that Mac didn't deserve their help. That Mac wasn’t worth enough to tip the scales. That Desi gets fucking results and that a broken or unstable Macgyver wouldn't.

"Not even gonna pretend, huh? Just gonna look me in the eye and tell me I don’t matter?" Mac’s voice was raw, the venom in it barely restrained. He didn’t recognize his own tone, the sheer rage burning through every syllable. It wasn’t the sharp, controlled anger of a man used to bending his emotions into something useful. This was something unfiltered, something bitter and guttural, something that felt like it had been building for years.

James Macgyver still didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil, didn’t second-guess. He just looked at Mac like he was an asset already slipping out of his grasp.

"Angus." His father exhaled slowly, "You’re upset. I understand that. But-"

Mac snapped.

"Oh, fuck you." The words tore out of him, venomous and loud enough that the walls seemed to vibrate with them. He surged to his feet, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned, "No, you don’t understand. You have never understood. You’ve never even tried to understand me! You think I’m upset? You think this is just me acting out? You ruined me, you piece of shit! You made me- you built me into this! And now I’m standing here, looking you in the eye, telling you what I need, and you’re still acting like I'm the problem!"

Mac's breath was ragged, chest heaving with the sheer force of everything that had been locked away, rotting inside him for years. His voice cracked with the weight of it, but he didn’t care. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to carve through the room like a blade, to shatter the illusion that there had ever been anything worth salvaging between them.

"You had a choice!" Mac roared, stepping forward so quickly that James barely had time to straighten, "Every single time, you had a choice! And you chose to leave. You chose to ignore me. All because it was easier than dealing with the inconvenience of having a son!"

James didn’t retreat. He stood firm, his hands flat at his sides, but Mac saw the flicker of discomfort in his gaze, the momentary shift in his stance. He had expected anger. He had expected cold detachment, sharp words, and sharper orders. He hadn’t expected this.

"You’re emotional." James said, like it was a fact. Like Mac, like his own fucking son, wasn’t coming apart at the seams right in front of him, "You’re not thinking clearly."

Mac let out a harsh, ragged laugh, "Oh, you don’t get to fucking say that to me. You don’t get to stand there like some detached authority and act like I’m just emotional, like that’s some irrational failing on my part."

Something vicious clawed its way up his spine, his head spinning with the sheer audacity of the man in front of him. His father wasn’t even flinching, wasn’t even attempting to pretend to give a damn. This wasn’t about reason. It was about control. Mac felt something break loose inside him, something raw and ugly and finally, finally unchained.

"I begged for you!" His voice cracked, the weight of every year, every disappointment, crashing through him like a goddamn tidal wave, "I spent my entire childhood waiting for you, defending you, convincing myself that I wasn’t good enough, that if I was just smarter or better or more useful, maybe you’d actually fucking want me!"

His father just watched.

Mac took a sharp step forward, his vision blurring at the edges, “And then I grew up. And you still didn’t care. And I let it go, because I thought maybe, just maybe, you respected me in some way, that maybe I was valuable as an asset if nothing else. But no. Even that was a lie, I’m not even as important as fucking Desi to you.”

Mac had spent his entire goddamn life molding himself into something James Macgyver could be proud of. He had spent years jumping through hoops, exceeding expectations, becoming indispensable. And yet, when it came down to it, when the mask finally cracked, when Mac stood before him, furious and unraveling, his father still looked at him like he was just another mission gone sideways.

And that? That was the final goddamn straw.

He surged forward before he even knew what he was doing, his body moving like it was working off pure instinct, off raw, seething rage. His fist connected with his father’s face with a sickening crack.

James stumbled back a step, one hand immediately flying up to his nose, blood already welling between his fingers. But Mac wasn’t looking at him anymore, his attention had snapped to the door, where the rest of the Phoenix team now stood, wide-eyed and frozen in place.

Mac’s eyes landed on Jack first, who Mac abruptly realised was only pretending to be shocked. He could see it in the way his lips were twitching like he was trying not to smile.

Then Mac looked at Riley, at Bozer, at Matty, all of them standing there, staring at him like he’d just set fire to the entire room. Their expressions ranged from horror to disbelief, but it was Bozer who really looked shaken. Like he didn’t recognize the man standing in front of him anymore.

It should have hurt. It should have sent some spike of regret slicing through him. But it didn’t, something about finally being free of the shackles of trying to make his father care about him was a balm soothing wounds he had spent years trying to pretend didn’t exist.

Mac lifted a hand, flexing his fingers as if testing the weight of what he’d just done. His skin tingled with the aftershock, with the sheer, visceral satisfaction of finally taking back something for himself, and then he laughed.

It bubbled up sharp and raw, slicing through the stunned silence like a blade. He laughed because of course this was how it played out. Of course he had to break something, had to burn it all down before he could finally feel free. Mac turned, breath still uneven, that manic energy thrumming through his veins as he locked eyes with Bozer.

That was when he heard it.

A whisper, barely breathed, like Bozer was afraid to even say it out loud, "He looks just like Murdoc."

Mac froze for just a second. Then, his lips split into a grin, something sharp and dangerous. He tilted his head, gaze flickering across their stunned faces, then took a step toward Bozer, leaning in with his voice low like he just learned a secret, "Good."

Bozer, his closest friend since Mac was a child, actually flinched away. As if it hurt, as if he was afraid. And in that moment Mac knew what Bozer was seeing, what all of them were seeing. The lie Jack had woven for him made real.

The dangerous, obsessed, vengeful Macgyver who wanted nothing more in the world than to hurt Murdoc as badly as Murdoc had hurt him. The man who had been broken and beaten down and who was turning into exactly the monster he was meant to fight.

Macgyver not just broken but irreparably shattered.

Jack was still looking at him, still holding his silence in the back of the room, his expression carefully schooled into something unreadable. But Mac saw it. The flicker of realization, the exact moment Jack understood what Mac was about to do.

Because Mac could fight this. He could force them to see the truth, to recognize what had really happened, what Murdoc really was to him. But that would put Jack at risk. Jack, who had protected him from the start, who had built this lie to shield him. If Mac tried to claw his way back now, Jack would get dragged down with him. And Mac would not let that happen.

So he doubled down.

"He won’t help me find Murdoc." Mac spat, pointing at his father, "But you will, won’t you? You guys always have my back. You’ll find him and then let me do what needs to be done."

Matty was the first to speak and she did so slowly and cautiously, "Mac-"

"You’ll find him for me, won’t you?" Mac interrupted, voice sharp and sickly sweet, his eyes locked on hers, "You can put me in a cage, send me to whatever blacksite you want. Fine. But Murdoc still exists. I can feel it. Like rot in my bones. Like a toxin in my bloodstream. A taste I just can’t get out of my mouth and I need he- I need him gone."

Mac played off the stutter in his words with a bitter sharp laugh, some effect of his madness but the truth cascaded through Mac’s mind in a way that was hard to ignore. He’s been about to say her, all of that venom and somehow midway through saying it, the whole thing had become about Desi. The thought tasted bitter as medicine and sweet as liquor at the same time. Like the kind of regretful addictiveness of absinthe.

I want to kill Desi.

Then with some amount of shock, Mac realised he didn’t just want to kill Desi, he wanted to kill Desi himself. Not just for what she did or because it would be justice. But because something in him needed it.

And suddenly, all the words, all the venom, all the vicious, cloying desperation he’d poured into this performance felt too easy, because it wasn’t all a performance, was it?

He looked up at Jack, and in that moment he saw in his friend’s eyes that this wasn’t what Jack had wanted. He had built the lie, but he had never meant for Mac to throw himself into it so completely. But it was too late.

Because the performance wasn’t just for Phoenix, it was for his father too. It was an offer, a deal that James Macgyver could take or leave.

And Mac could see the calculation ticking away behind his father’s eyes. This was the easier story. The cleaner story.

A Macgyver who had lost himself to vengeance? That was something he could work with. A son who had broken completely, a former asset that needed to be contained, handled, and kept out of play. It was neater than the truth. No uncomfortable revelations, no messy emotions. Just a simple, tragic fall from grace.

Mac could see him coming to the decision in real-time. He was taking the deal.

His father exhaled, slow and deliberate shaking his head as turned to Matty, "I’m sorry, Director Webber. He’s too far gone. There’s a facility out-"

"A facility!" Mac continued playing his part, "You’re going to just lock me up? None of you understand, I need this. I-"

He looked at Jack, "You understand, right Jack?"

Mac had ensured his father would never suspect Jack. He had ensured that when Phoenix locked him away, Jack would still be there, free to keep moving, to keep fighting. Or free to just live his life, letting the feral scared creature he’d once called his best friend fall away.

Jack had woven the first thread of the whole charade, but Mac had tied the noose around his own neck to keep Jack safe.

And that? That was the moment Mac saw it, the exact second Jack realized just how much of himself Mac was willing to break apart for the people he cared about. Not just Murdoc. Jack, too.

Jack had just watched Mac pull himself apart for the chance of Jack’s safety, had watched Mac turn himself into a monster to save him. Because Mac could always wait for Murdoc to come save both of them from whatever pit they got dropped in but this was better. This was Jack got to have a choice, even a small one.

"Jack?" Mac let his voice turn pleading, "You understand, right?"

With grief in his eyes, his friend answered, "I’m so sorry Mac, but I can’t let you do this."

Mac exhaled a shaky breath, letting the smile slip from his lips, letting the fire in his eyes dampen just enough. He leaned forward, something desperate threading into his voice as he whispered, "You promised me."

Jack’s jaw tightened. It was good. The hesitance, the grief, that would sell it.

"I know." Jack said, voice low, rough, like it was being torn from him. He shook his head once, twice, "I’m so damn sorry, kid."

Mac heard his father moving behind him and then a sharp pain in his neck. The feeling of something cold moving through his veins.

"This is for your own good, Angus." His father’s voice barely sounded regretful. As if he wasn’t even capable of that much.

Mac barely had time to turn his head, to blink through the slow, sinking sensation pooling in his limbs, before the world tipped sideways. The pain in his neck was dull now, fading under the weight of whatever his father had dosed him with.

Figures swam in his vision. Riley’s pinched expression, Bozer’s hollow stare, Matty’s quiet, guarded grief. And Jack. Jack, who looked like he was being forced to watch a man die.

Mac tried to hold onto something, to stay upright, but his body was already failing him. His legs buckled, and Jack was the one who caught him. Of course he was. Jack, always there to break his fall, always the steady hand, even when Mac had just ripped himself to pieces to protect him.

"You son of a bitch." Jack muttered, cradling Mac’s body closer.

Mac’s head lolled to the side, his breath shuddering. He forced his lips into something that might have been a smile, but it felt weak, distant, like even that was slipping away from him. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a slurred whisper, "Love you too."

Jack inhaled sharply through his nose, tightening his grip. His arms were steady, but his fingers dug into Mac’s shoulder like he wanted to hold on, to stop this, to fix it, but it was too late. Mac had made sure of that.

His father stepped forward, brushing past them without sparing Mac another glance.

"Secure transport." James said, his voice cool, efficient, "Get him ready for relocation immediately."

Phoenix moved like ghosts around them, too quiet, too careful. Matty gave a nod to someone Mac couldn’t see. Riley swallowed hard but said nothing. Bozer still looked at him like he was gone. Maybe, in a way, he was.

Mac’s vision blurred further, black creeping in at the edges. He should have been afraid. He should have felt some clawing panic at the idea of being locked away in whatever hole his father had chosen for him. But all he could think, as his consciousness slipped away, was that it didn’t matter.

Murdoc would find him. Murdoc would burn the world to the ground to get him back and Jack was still free.

Mac let the darkness take him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Murdoc

The message came through at 2:13PM. A simple set of statements that read like a mission briefing, the kind of thing that was sent when someone was holding themselves together.

Dalton: plan failed, oversight sedated him, cover not blown, tracker placed and live

Murdoc stared at the words, something jagged and ugly unfurling in his chest. He should have expected this. He hadn’t expected this. Why hadn’t he expected this?

His hands were already moving before he could stop himself, fingers flying over the screen.

M: What happened.

The response was nearly instant.

Dalton: must’ve gone south, punched his old man, broke his nose
Dalton: phoenix saw him, you know how he is
Dalton: gave them the version of him they wanted to see, screamed about revenge, let them believe he was too far gone, doubled down to protect me
Dalton: they’re sending him away, somewhere quiet, somewhere permanent
Dalton: he trusts us to come get him

Murdoc’s grip on the phone tightened, jaw clenching as something deep, something vicious coiled in his ribs.

Angus.

Of course, he had looked at a losing game and stacked the deck against himself just to keep someone else standing.

Of course, he had played the role they needed him to play, let them tear him down and call it mercy, let them carve him into the shape of their fears so they didn’t have to face the truth.

Hadn’t they spent years standing beside him? Hadn’t they watched him hold the world together with nothing but wit and desperation? Hadn’t they called him their friend?

And yet, when it came down to it, they had chosen the easier story. They had looked at the sun itself, at his Angus’s blinding, brilliant light, his intelligence, his endless, aching goodness… And they had turned away.

That was not a betrayal Murdoc could tolerate.

A low, bitter laugh curled in his throat, sharp and ugly. He had never been an optimist. Hope was a fool’s game. And yet, against every goddamn survival instinct, he had hoped. Murdoc remembered his suggestion from when they made their plan, his naive idea that the truth would‘ve worked, that they would've understood, how Angus and Dalton had both looked at him like he was insane for even considering it. Murdoc had scoffed at their skepticism then, waved it off like it didn’t matter. But now? Now, he saw it for what it was. A failure of judgment.

Not theirs. His. For thinking that anybody else could ever be trusted to love Angus the way he deserved. Murdoc would not be making that mistake again.

He forced his fingers to relax, to stop clenching around the phone like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Angus was out there. Drugged, restrained, locked away somewhere quiet. Somewhere permanent. Somewhere James MacGyver thought he could disappear his own son without consequence. How quaint.

Murdoc exhaled, tilting his head back against the worn leather of his chair, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. He could feel it now, the way the world had sharpened around the edges. The way the weight in his ribs had settled into something far more useful. A quiet, deliberate rage. One that burned colder than ice and spread through his veins like bitter poison. He let it settle, let it take root. Let it become something steady, something useful, something that would help him get Angus back. Dalton had done his job, now it was Murdoc’s turn.

M: Understood. I’ll find him. Stay in place. Keep them blind. This will blow Mac's remaining cover. Get ready to run if necessary.
Dalton: i'll make it count, just get our boy back

A slow, dangerous smile curled across Murdoc’s lips as he read Jack’s final message.

Our boy. How fascinating.

Jack was clever, Murdoc would give him that. He had played his role well, stayed one step ahead, maneuvered himself into the exact position needed to keep Angus’s escape viable. And for that, Murdoc supposed, Jack was owed a measure of respect. A concession. For his assistance Murdoc would allow Jack to delude himself all he liked. Would let the soldier tell himself that his loyalty mattered, that he still held some claim to Angus, that Angus still belonged to the world in any meaningful way. Jack could have his fantasy of shared ownership, could whisper our boy into the dark and let it soothe his conscience. Murdoc knew better.

Angus wasn’t theirs. He was his.

His brilliant, radiant, beautiful Angus. All his.

A low exhale left Murdoc’s lips, something dangerously close to a sigh of satisfaction, because, really, hadn’t this always been the inevitable conclusion?

Angus had tried so hard to be good. To fit himself into a world that never truly deserved him. And where had it left him? Drugged. Bound. Locked away like a rabid thing. They had looked at his Angus, the brightest, sharpest, most exquisite mind Murdoc had ever encountered, and they had thrown him away.

So now? Now, Murdoc would have everything.

No more half-measures, no more compromises, no more silly notions of sharing. No more Phoenix. No more friends who claimed to love Angus and still let him be buried alive.

They had given Angus to him. Gift-wrapped him in chains and sedation and bureaucracy and called it justice. And wasn’t that just poetic? The world had taken his brilliant, blinding fire and decided it burned too hot, too wild, too bright. So they had smothered him, convinced themselves that the flames were the problem instead of the people who had never known how to warm themselves properly.

But Murdoc had never feared the fire. He had worshipped it. Had let it sear itself into his bones, let it turn him to ash and build him back into something new, something theirs. He had basked in it, let it consume him, let himself orbit around that impossible gravity of light and intelligence and ingenuity and warmth.

And god Angus wasn't just warm he was kind. Genuinely, sickeningly, overwhelmingly good. And Murdoc needed him to stay that way, he needed Angus to keep believing in something, needed him to still hold some ember of hope in that ridiculous, wonderful heart of his. He didn’t want a hollowed-out shell of a man. He didn’t want him to lose everything inside of him. He wanted his sun. The blinding, burning, raging star that had pulled him into orbit and refused to let go.

And to keep that fire alive Desi had to die, Angus had to kill her. Not because it was justice, not because she deserved it though she did, not because it would balance some cosmic scale that Murdoc had never given a damn about. Angus had to because he needed it, because Angus could not live in a world where Desi breathed and still believe in goodness and because until he did he would keep on breaking off pieces of himself in order to justify her continued existence.

Murdoc couldn’t abide that. Wouldn’t abide that. Angus had already given too much, his time, his trust, his brilliance, his soul, and Desi had taken all of it with a greedy, grasping hand, never satisfied, never full. She had stolen from him, had taken the most precious thing Murdoc had ever held in his hands and cracked it apart, leaving behind fractures where there should have been fire. And Angus, his brilliant, wonderful, devastatingly stubborn Angus, had let her. Had convinced himself that she deserved the chance to hurt him. Had excused it, endured it, swallowed it down like poison and let it eat away at him.

But not anymore, because Angus had given himself to Murdoc. Fully, completely, irrevocably.

Oh, maybe he hadn’t meant to. Maybe he hadn’t realized what it meant when he had chosen Murdoc over his own father, over Phoenix, over every tether that had once bound him to the world. But that didn’t matter. Because the moment Angus had spoken his name like it was a vow, the moment he had thrown himself into the fire and trusted Murdoc to catch him, that was the moment he became Murdoc’s.

Not just in the way that rivals belonged to each other. Not just in the way that obsession made monsters out of men.

Angus had given him everything. His trust. His mind. His body. Oh, and wasn’t that the most exquisite part? The way Angus had let Murdoc touch him, let him take him apart, let him press bruises into his skin like love letters written in violet and blue. No, not just let him, asked him, with a teasing smile on his lips and eyes full of trust. Murdoc hadn’t dreamed of ever having something so perfect, so utterly and completely his.

And now? Now they had taken Angus away.

Murdoc exhaled, slow and measured, rolling his shoulders like a wolf shaking off the remnants of a snare. They thought they could keep Angus from him? That they could lock him away, sedate him, erase him from the board like he was nothing more than a rogue pawn? They were fools. Every last one of them. Murdoc had spent years haunting this world as a wraith, a legend, a monster that slipped through the cracks. No prison, no facility, no father with a god complex would keep Angus from him.

They had made their first mistake the moment they let Angus fall into their hands. The second, when they dared to believe he could be contained. But the third? The third was the worst of all. They had given him a reason to stop playing with his food.

Angus was his. He had always been his. And now, it was time for the world to remember exactly what kind of monster Murdoc was.

He stepped over to the weapons case, fingers ghosting over the cool steel of his favorite sidearm, the weight of it grounding, familiar. It had been a while since he’d gone full-scale slaughterhouse. But if they wanted to play god with Angus’s life, then Murdoc would show them what hell looked like.

He strapped the gun to his hip, checked the clips, slid a blade into his boot, and shrugged on his jacket. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, he could still hear Angus’s voice, This is excessive. Do you really need to bring that many knives?

Oh, my darling. If only you knew.

M: Hold position. Eyes open. You’ll know when I have him.

The hunt was on.

And when he found Angus, when he tore through whatever fortress they had foolishly locked him inside, he would not just be taking him back. No, Murdoc would be leaving a message, carved into the very bones of the world: You do not touch what belongs to me.

The tracker blinked red on Murdoc's phone he slipped into the night, the digital heartbeat of Angus guiding him with unwavering precision. He was already moving before he could think, before the weight of it all could settle too deep into his chest. There was no room for reflection now, no space for anything but the cold purity of violence. Murdoc had spent years perfecting the art of death. He had killed with precision, with patience, with intent. But tonight? Tonight wasn’t about patience. Tonight wasn’t about efficiency. Tonight was about punishment.

The first body hit the floor at 10:17pm. By 10:21, the halls ran slick with blood.

Murdoc moved through the facility like a storm given form, silent, swift, and inevitable. The first man had barely registered his presence before a blade slid cleanly between his ribs, puncturing the lung before he could scream. The second had time to flinch before a silenced round kissed the back of his skull, sending him crumpling to the ground with barely a sound.

He had warned them. He had sent Mathilda Webber the message, given her the opportunity to fold before he tore apart her house brick by brick. Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.

If I cannot bend the will of heaven, then I shall raise hell.

This is where the slaughter begins. Murdoc has never been one for unnecessary carnage, not without purpose, not without reason. But this? This is not unnecessary. This is reclamation. This is a lesson carved into every broken bone and severed artery. This deprogramming center had been designed to break minds, to scrub away the inconvenient truths and leave behind only compliance. He knew exactly what kind of doctors they employed in this place, men who didn’t heal, but erased. Men who looked at suffering and called it treatment. They would try to cage Angus, to sedate him, to smother his fire. And now they would know exactly what kind of monsters walked the earth when the sun was locked away.

The so-called doctors fell first, their blood staining the sterile white walls of the deprogramming center like grotesque modern art. Murdoc watched the life drain from their eyes with clinical detachment, barely sparing a moment before moving on to the next target. The guards followed swiftly, their training proving utterly useless against a force like him. They had been prepared for violent patients, for desperate men clawing at their restraints. They had not been prepared for Murdoc, nobody in this facility was.

By 10:25pm, the alarms were screaming, but no one was answering them. He had cut the power within minutes of entry, reduced security’s communications to useless static. This wasn’t just an extraction. This was a purge. The facility had been built for silence, the kind of place where things disappeared, where ghosts of men walked in and never walked out. But tonight, it was anything but silent. The wet sound of bodies dropping, the muffled gasps of final breaths, the occasional crack of a silencer kissing bone, this was Murdoc’s symphony, his aria of vengeance played in blood and breathless terror. He moved with purpose, with an efficiency that was art, the kind of brutal, precise violence that was done not for chaos, but for reclamation.

And somewhere inside, Angus was waiting.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mac

Mac sat perched on the thin bed in the cell that the people who ran this place had the audacity to call a room. His back was against the cold, metallic wall and his wrists were still aching from where they had been restrained. The drugs had finally worn off, leaving only simmering anger and the gnawing certainty that Murdoc was coming.

The guard stationed inside his cell, likely to make sure that Mac didn't immediately break out of here, barely spared him a glance, the flickering overhead light casting sharp, erratic shadows across the room. Mac let his gaze drift lazily over him, cataloging details with the precision of someone who had spent his life evaluating threats and weaknesses. The man was solidly built, mid-thirties, a military background, judging by the way he carried himself. His grip on his weapon was steady, his stance careful but not cautious enough.

Mac lifted his head, fixing the guard with a knowing smile, "You know... you really should start running."

"Excuse me?" The guard muttered, sparing him a brief glance before returning his attention to the reinforced door. His posture was relaxed, but Mac could see the way his weight shifted, the way his fingers flexed against the grip of his gun. There was doubt creeping in at the edges of his mind.

Mac let the smile curl a little wider, let the exhaustion in his limbs settle into something steadier, something that looked too much like certainty. He tilted his head, voice smooth and deceptively casual, "You should start running, otherwise you’re going to die here."

The guard scoffed, barely sparing Mac more than a flicker of irritation, "Yeah? And why’s that?"

Mac exhaled slowly, shifting against the cold steel of the cot, feeling the last remnants of sedation fade beneath something sharper, something thrumming just beneath his skin. It was strange, this clarity, not just awareness, but an absolute certainty in what came next. He met the guard’s eyes, steady and unwavering, and let his voice drop into something quiet, "Because Murdoc is coming."

The guard let out a short, sharp breath of disbelief, "Yeah? That so?"

Mac didn't look away. Didn't blink, "Yes, and when he gets here, he'll kill you."

The guard shook his head, shifting his stance. There it was. The first crack in confidence. A man who had been briefed, who had been told Murdoc was dangerous but not this dangerous. They always underestimated him. Everyone did, until it was too late.

"You really think one man is gonna get through this facility?" The guard sounded incredulous, but Mac could hear it now, the edge of unease creeping into his tone, "We've got security measures in place. We've got-"

Static crackled to life on the radio at the man's hip.

“Checking in.” Came a voice, clipped and professional, "Any movement in Room 3?"

The guard pressed the button on his radio, "Negative. Subject is still contained."

"Not for long." Mac murmured, almost absently, watching the flicker of unease deepen on the guard’s face. The man scowled, shifting his grip on his weapon.

The guard glanced at his radio as if something was wrong, then pressed the button again, "Control, negative on movement in Room 3. Subject is still contained. Confirm intel received."

No response came, only static. Then, something new. A low, slow hum, distorting through the frequency. It took a moment for Mac to place it—a melody, eerily off-key, lilting in a way that sent something cold curling through his stomach. And then in a sing-song tone came Murdoc’s voice, "Oh, Anguuuus…"

The guard visibly stiffened, his grip tightening around his weapon as the distorted melody seeped through the radio. Mac could see it now, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his fingers twitched over the trigger. He was afraid.

Mac sighed happily, letting the moment settle, letting the guard hear what he already knew deep in his bones. Murdoc was here.

"My sunshine, my darling, my brilliant Angus." Murdoc’s voice practically purred through the static, and Mac just rested his head against the wall, listening to the melody of Murdoc's voice. To the sound of safety. To the sound of inevitability.

The guard, however, did not share in Mac’s contentment.

“Fuck.” The man hissed, fumbling for the radio at his hip, thumbing the button with increasing urgency, "Control, do you copy?"

Static. A beat of silence. Then the sound of soft, distorted humming, "They keep trying to get in the way my love, but don't worry I’m coming."

Mac’s breath hitched. Not from fear, not from panic, but from something else entirely.

Murdoc had said my love. He had never said it before, had almost seemed careful not to say it. Not even when they had danced around each other in a stitched together mixture of manipulated tension and soft intimacy. Not when Mac had let Murdoc press him down, when he had arched into the assassin's hands and met sharp teeth with sharper smiles. Not even when Murdoc had whispered promises, threats, devotions, all tangled together in that dark, possessive way of his. But now? Now, Murdoc had finally said it, through the crackling static of a stolen radio, through the distorted hum of a half-mocking lullaby.

Mac should be unsettled. Should be repulsed. Should be calculating his next move, sorting through what it meant for Murdoc to finally say it. But he wasn’t thinking about any of that.

No, instead, Mac was thinking about how he wanted Murdoc to get here faster so he could say it back.

The realization came swift and sharp, slotting into place like it had been waiting for him to catch up. Mac almost laughed, almost let the sound tear free from him in the dim, sterile air of his cell. Because of course this was how it happened. Not in some grand, whispered confession under moonlight, not in the quiet space between breaths when they were tangled together in a mess of stolen moments and satisfaction.

No, Murdoc had told Mac he loved him for the first time while slaughtering his way through a black-site facility, speaking through the hijacked radio of a man who Mac knew was already dead.

The static crackled, then Murdoc’s voice again, so sweet it almost sounded gentle, “Oh, Angus. I can feel you waiting for me. Does it feel good, sweetheart? Knowing I’m coming?”

“Yeah.” Mac breathed, closing his eyes, “You know it really does.”

The guard looked at Mac like he’d lost his mind.

“You-“ The man’s voice faltered, his composure cracking wide open under the weight of the realization settling into his bones, “You’re actually happy about this.”

Mac smiled, slow and sharp, dragging his gaze away from the ceiling and pinning the guard in place with a look that was far too steady for someone in his position, “I told you, you should’ve run.”

“You’re insane.” The guard swallowed hard, eyes flicking between him and the door.

“Jury’s still out for me, I think.” Mac tilted his head to the side, “But Murdoc definitely is.”

There was no time for the guard to respond, no time for anything but the sharp inhale of breath before the reinforced door behind him groaned, before the steel bent inward from the force of something colliding against it like a battering ram.

A second impact. A third. And then it gave.

The door slammed inward, nearly taking the guard with it, but the man twisted at the last second, stumbling back with a curse, his hands coming up, his gun raised. But it didn’t matter.

Murdoc moved fast. Faster than the guard could process, faster than Mac had expected, even knowing what he did, even after seeing the assassin in action before. One moment, he was a shadow in the broken threshold, a silhouette carved from violence. The next, he was on the guard, blade flashing once, twice, before the man’s body hit the floor. Blood pooled rapidly beneath him, spreading like an inkblot, but Mac barely spared it a glance.

Because Murdoc was here, and Murdoc was stunning.

Mac had seen him covered in blood before, but never like this. Not like a nightmare given flesh, not like a deity of destruction tearing his way through steel and sinew. His dark clothes were slick with it, the crimson sheen catching the flickering overhead light in ways that made Mac’s breath catch. Beneath the scent of cordite, of death, of burnt gunpowder and sharp, metallic blood, there was still that smell. Vanilla and coffee. That grounding, impossibly soft scent that Mac now irrevocably associated with Murdoc, with safety, with home.

“Miss me, darling?” Murdoc asked, an echo of the last time he’d had come to find him. When the assassin had been reclining in Mac’s bed with his sharp edges softened and his hair fluffed up just the way he liked it. Some part of Mac still wanted to sit there and pretend he didn’t, or to throw some sarcastic comment at Murdoc but there was something about this situation that demanded clarity, demanded something real.

Vanilla. Cordite. Coffee. Blood.

“I love you.” Mac felt more than heard the words slip out of him.

Murdoc stilled, the relentless energy of the massacre snuffed out in an instant. Then he took a step toward Mac, eyes full of something holier than devotion and darker than possession.

”Angus.” Murdoc’s voice was impossibly soft as he reached down and caressed his cheek, the action leaving a stripe of still-warm blood just under his eye like some kind of sacrament, “My love, you have no idea how much I’ve longed to hear you say those words.”

Then before Mac could reply he moved, lips pressed against his own, soft and coaxing in an impossibly gentle way. Murdoc kisses Mac like he owned him, as if each caress and soft motion carved his name into the blond’s bones and further down still into his soul. It was desperation wrapped in kindness and possession wrapped in care and Mac let himself be taken. Because Murdoc had come for him. Had torn through walls and men and god knows how many government-sanctioned obstacles just to pull him from the wreckage of his father’s betrayal. Because Murdoc had never looked away. Not once. Not for a second. Because Murdoc saw all of him, saw the worst, saw the broken pieces, saw the jagged edges, and still looked at him like he was something brilliant. And Mac, god help him, wanted to be looked at like that forever.

He surged into it, fingers tangling in the fabric of Murdoc’s shirt, pulling him closer, always closer, as if by sheer force of will he could make sure they were never taken away from each other again. Mac answered Murdoc’s claim with acknowledgement, with acceptance. The feeling of the assasin’s hands threading through his hair was intoxicating as they tilted his head back to deepen the kiss. Mac let out some small broken needy sound that two weeks ago he’d have wanted to kill himself at having made, but today Murdoc hummed and wrapped an arm around his waist and that was all Mac needed.

The sound of distant gunfire and the static-laced crackle of a failing intercom system cut through the moment, and Murdoc pulled back just enough to exhale against Mac’s lips.

"It’s cold outside tonight." He murmured, almost absentmindedly, like this was any other evening, like they weren’t standing in the center of a massacre.

Mac felt the weight of Murdoc’s coat before he saw it, heavy across his shoulders, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. It smelled like him. Like home.

Murdoc straightened the collar, smoothing his hands down Mac’s arms before slipping one around his waist, guiding him toward the door.

"Let’s go home, sunshine." Murdoc murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, with certainty, like there had never been any other option.

Mac exhaled and let himself be led out into the night.

Chapter 12: And The Backyard's Full of Bones

Notes:

I'm back baby.

Mac

The safe house was warm.

Not just physically, but in a way Mac couldn't quite explain. It wasn’t the musty warmth of a place in deep neglect, nor the artificial heat that permeates placed that aren't lived in. It just felt... right.

That thought alone made something in his chest twist. It shouldn't feel right, not after what Murdoc had done, not after everything Mac had spent years convincing himself he was, yet he let Murdoc steer him towards the couch anyway. Not because he needed to be guided, but because it didn’t matter enough to resist. Resistance was for people who still had lines they wouldn’t cross, for people who still cared enough to believe they deserved better. Mac wasn’t sure he was one of those people anymore.

Murdoc was in one of his extra-dramatic moods, where every movement was weighted with self-indulgent flair, but Mac didn’t have the energy to call him out on it. The couch was soft beneath him as he exhaled slowly, the last threads of adrenaline finally unraveling as he sunk into it's warm embrace. The exhaustion wasn’t the sharp, dragging kind he’d grown used to over the past months. Instead, it had settled deep in his bones, becoming almost comfortable, like sinking into the inevitability of gravity.

Murdoc lingered a beat too long, standing over him, watching. Mac felt it, even with his eyes closed, the weight of his attention, the intensity of it. Not calculating, not smug, just steady. Waiting. There was a time when that would have put Mac on edge, but right now, he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

Mac cracked an eye open just enough to be unimpressed, "If you’re waiting for me to have a moral crisis, you’re going to be standing there a while."

Murdoc’s mouth quirked, but he didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, like he was waiting. Waiting for Mac to flinch. Waiting for the moment Mac would sit up, shake off the comfort settling into his limbs, and realize exactly what Murdoc did for him.

Mac did realize, that was the thing. He was coming down now, from the anger, the adrenaline, the lingering drugs Phoenix had pumped into his system, and for the first time in months his head was clear. There should have been something else waiting for him in that clarity, doubt, hesitation, guilt. That creeping, cloying feeling that he’d made a mistake, that he should be anywhere else, anyone else.

Yet there wasn’t. Instead, there was a warmth. A steadiness, like suddenly for the first time in months, maybe even years, Mac felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Not because it was safe, not because he had nowhere else to go, but because this was the first time he had ever felt like someone truly believed he was worth everything. That last thought was dangerous, it cut deeper than it should.

Murdoc just committed mass murder for him. For him. Not for revenge. Not for power. Just for him.

Mac let the thought settle. It should feel wrong. He should recoil from this, push it away, shove it into a box labeled things Murdoc does that I should never think too hard about. But he didn’t, the guilt never came. There was no weight pressing down on him, no sick realization clawing at his stomach. Instead, just a feeling of stillness as though he’d stopped fighting something a while ago, and only now was noticing.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t new. Murdoc had always been a force of destruction, tearing through anything and anyone that got in his way. The only difference was that this time, Mac wasn’t in his way, and wasn’t that just the most pathetic thing? That it only felt wrong when he was the one in danger. That it was easy to look away when Murdoc was someone else’s problem. That the second Murdoc pointed all of that chaos and fury at Mac’s enemies instead, Mac let himself sink into the warmth of it instead of pulling away.

He exhaled, slow. There was no point fighting it now, so he simply muttered, voice edged with lazy amusement, "Stop standing there like that, I already told you it's weirder when you're not talking. Now go shower, you have other people’s blood in your hair."

Murdoc blinked, slow, like he was recalibrating. He tilted his head, something flickering in his expression, too brief to be anything Mac could put a name to. And then, as if coming to some grand realization, Murdoc grinned, "My darling. It seems when I kissed you I got other people's blood in your hair as well. You should shower first, I insist."

Mac sighed through his nose. He could already see the smug satisfaction lurking just beneath the surface of Murdoc's expression, the way the assassin was settling in for a battle of wills that Mac did not have the patience for tonight.

"Murdoc."

"My love." Murdoc crooned, entirely unrepentant.

Mac lifted his head just enough to level a look at him, unimpressed and utterly exhausted, "Go. Shower."

Murdoc let out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back just slightly, like the weight of such a demand was simply too much to bear, "But I worked so hard for you tonight. Slaughtering your enemies, braving the horrors of Phoenix’s incompetence. And now, instead of a reward, you wish to banish me to-"

Mac cut him off with a groan, dragging a hand down his face, "For fuck’s sake, I’ll just shower with you."

Murdoc lit up like a cat that had successfully conned its way onto the kitchen counter, following Mac to the safehouse's small bathroom with an odd look on his face.

The shower was hot, steam curling around them as the blood spiraled down the drain in diluted ribbons of red. Mac let it run over him, eyes closed, head tipped back as the water soothed the tension from his muscles. He could feel Murdoc beside him, practically vibrating with energy, as if the adrenaline hadn't quite worn off of him yet.

Lifting a hand to his hair, he grimaced as his ribs twinged. His shoulder was still a mess, making his movements slow and careful, and every time he tried to run his fingers through the tangled mess of blood and water, a sharp sting shot through his side. His patience, which had already taken massive hits today, was rapidly dwindling.

Without a word, Murdoc plucked the shampoo bottle from Mac’s hand. He moved in close, closer than necessary, but that was a given with Murdoc. Mac should really stop him. Should really say something.

He didn’t, shocking.

Murdoc poured a generous amount into his palm before running his fingers through Mac’s hair. Mac sighed, more out of resignation than anything else, and let him. That was becoming a pattern, wasn’t it? The warm drag of Murdoc’s fingers against his scalp was annoyingly pleasant, his touch both methodical and unhurried, like he was savoring the moment. Like he wasn’t just washing Mac’s hair, but laying claim to something intangible. 

It was nice, really nice actually.

Mac let his eyes drift shut, shoulders loose under the pressure of Murdoc’s fingers. His ribs still ached, his shoulder throbbed, but for the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn’t feel like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. He didn’t have to, Murdoc could handle it tonight.

And then, naturally, Murdoc had to ruin it.

In a tone of quiet reverence, he murmured, “You look magnificent like this, you know. Like some tragic hero, carved in marble, blood still staining your skin. Weary, but victorious. Standing tall despite the ruin.”

Mac groaned, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, "Why do you say things? I should ban you from like, the English language."

Murdoc hummed, utterly unrepentant. And without missing a beat, he murmured something in Italian, which was already a bad sign, “Amore mio. Dovresti sapere che sei il peccato più bello che potessi mai commettere. Ogni curva, ogni cicatrice, ogni parte di te è come... un invito a cedere.”

Mac's brain tripped over itself trying to process that sentence. Murdoc had just switched to Italian, and not just any Italian, but the kind of Italian that... yeah, no. That wasn’t casual. That wasn’t a throwaway comment. That was deeply obscene in a way that could get a man excommunicated.

Murdoc had just decided to drop a line straight out of the filthiest depths of his mind, with zero knowledge that Mac had understood it all. Every. Single. Syllable. And then, as if he hadn’t already crossed a dozen lines, the assassin sighed dreamily and murmured in the cadence of a love poem, "Mi rendi un uomo religioso. Se me lo chiedessi, cadrei in ginocchio senza esitazione, la mia unica preghiera è il tuo nome, la mia unica fede è la tua pelle sotto le mie mani-"

Mac could feel the moment Murdoc's smugness reached terminal velocity and cut in, in fluent Italian, before the assassin could make more of a fool of himself, "Murdoc for the love of god stop saying obscene shit."

The effect was instantaneous. Murdoc froze. Not a dramatic, calculated stillness. Not his usual theatrics. He just outright blue-screened. Mac could see it happening, could see Murdoc’s mind desperately replaying everything he had just said, trying to calculate just how much damage he had done.

Mac tilted his head to the side, "What? Didn’t think I spoke Italian?"

Murdoc still hadn't moved, like a system error was actively processing in real-time, Mac could practically hear the dial up tones.

"Murdoc." Mac said, voice almost pitying, "Did you just full-send into some dramatic, horny monologue thinking I didn't understand you?"

Murdoc blinked. Slowly. Then, as if his entire personality had just finished resetting itself, scoffed and immediately doubled down, "Well, darling. You didn't seem to be stopping me."

Mac groaned, he could feel his soul attempting to leave his body, "I literally stopped you."

Murdoc grinned, "Yes, but not at the first obscenity."

"Shut up, Murdoc." Mac let the water run over his face in a long, defeated rinse, because this was his life now. This was his future. Not grand schemes or moral debates or the existential horror of his own choices. No, his future was this. Standing in a shower with a mass-murdering assassin with intimacy issues, while said assassin waxed poetic about him in multiple languages like some unhinged Renaissance poet.

And the worst part? Mac wasn’t even mad about it. He was content.

Murdoc took a slow step back, letting his hands slip from Mac’s hair like he was relinquishing something sacred. He was watching Mac again, not with the sharp, calculating amusement he usually carried, not with the indulgent smugness of a man who always knew how the game would end. No, this was something else. Something quieter, raw in a way that Murdoc didn’t usually do. Mac should tell him to stop looking at him like that.

Instead he raised an eyebrow, shaking water from his hair, "Oh, great. Now you’re doing the longing stare. Go on, then. Let’s hear it. What profound nonsense are you brewing up now?"

"You’re not afraid." Murdoc's voice was almost distant, like the words weren’t fully tethered to him. His hands flexed at his sides, like he was grasping at something intangible, "You saw what I did. What I do. And yet, here you are. Standing in my shower, telling me to shut up like I didn’t just single-handedly depopulate a government facility for you."

Mac blinked at him, slow, exhausted, "Yeah. And? It's fine."

Murdoc made a strange sound in the back of his throat, something too close to bewilderment to be anything else.

Mac didn’t jump to explain himself. Didn’t offer justifications or reasons or moral debates. Because he wasn’t afraid, he should be. He should be panicking, should be shoving Murdoc away and reminding himself of every single reason why this was wrong. Instead, he felt nothing at all. That was almost worse.

"You really believe that." Murdoc murmured.

Mac shrugged one shoulder, the only one that still moved right, and turned back toward the water, "I’m too tired to lie about it."

His voice, when it came, was low, quieter than usual, like the walls might listen in. Like he didn’t want to hear himself say it, "You’re good, Angus. Heartbreakingly good. And I'm not. I'm not, and I don’t understand how you're still here when you know what I've done for you."

Mac tilted his head, water dripping down his temple. Really? We’re doing this now?

“Murdoc.” He said his name flatly, letting it sit there, letting it weigh on the space between them.

Murdoc’s mouth pulled at the corner, something bitter threading through his usual arrogance, "You know I'm right."

He squared his shoulders, ignoring the pull in his ribs, the ache in his bones. He looked at Murdoc, really looked at him, this man, who had torn through Phoenix like an act of god, who had ripped apart an entire facility without a second thought because Mac was inside. And now he was standing here, in the same room, unsure. And that? That pissed Mac off more than anything else.

"God, are you always this bad at getting what you want?" Mac felt a tone of incredulity creep into his voice.

"I don't-" Murdoc blinked rapidly, "Angus, I don’t think you understand-"

Mac rolled his eyes, “Oh, I understand perfectly. You think I’m supposed to have some kind of moral crisis over what you did. You think I should be reeling, questioning my choices, making meaningful eye contact with my reflection while I ask myself if I’ve become complicit in some great, tragic downfall."

The blond made dead eye contact, "Jack’s done worse getting me out of places."

Murdoc blinked.

Mac shrugged one shoulder, the other still too stiff to move properly, and kept going, "Sure, he didn’t do it while talking to me all creepy over the radio, but he did do it. And I didn’t exactly have an existential crisis about it then, either."

He watched the assassin closely, seeing the flicker of movement in Murdoc’s throat, the brief clench and flex of his fingers, the way his expression shifted through a dozen micro-adjustments before settling into something unreadable.

"For fuck’s sake, Murdoc." Mac muttered, "This isn’t complicated. You kill people for money. You do it for fun, because you like it, that's weird, that's creepy, but that's no different from CIA assets I've had to work with before. My problem has always been that you’re a creepy bastard who wants to own me and has made trying to kill me and my friends into a goddamn Olympic sport.”

Murdoc sucked in a breath through his teeth, but Mac wasn’t finished. He squared his shoulders, ignoring the way his body protested, and leveled Murdoc with a look, all sharp-edged certainty.

“You say I’m good?” Mac gestured to himself, "Sure. I want to do the right thing. I want to help people. But if I had a problem with people killing for me, I wouldn’t be an agent. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing here with you."

Murdoc tilted his head, slow, almost thoughtful, as if Mac had just become the most interesting thing in the world. Which was ridiculous, because he had always been the most interesting thing in the world to Murdoc, but this? This was different. This was him reckoning with something.

Mac could see it in the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides, the way his mouth opened, closed, then opened again. Like words were trying to form and failing. It was weird. A little unsettling, honestly.

"You really believe that." Murdoc said finally, voice almost low enough to be drowned out by the shower, "That what I did was-"

"Do you know what happens when I blow up a building with people inside, Murdoc?" Mac interrupted, "They die. I've probably taken out that many operatives at once with a few well-placed charges, yes it's fine."

Murdoc's gaze flicked over Mac’s face like he was waiting for the punchline, "You’re serious."

"Murdoc, I’m too damn tired to be anything else." Mac leveled the assassin with a look, "You kill people. So does Jack. So has Matty. So has every damn extraction team that’s ever had to pull me out of a bad situation. The difference is, you won’t pretend you didn’t like it."

The assassin’s mouth pulled into something sharp, self-aware, "Guilty."

Mac rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, water sluicing over his fingers, rinsing out the last traces of blood.

Murdoc let out a slow breath, tilting his head, watching Mac like a puzzle he still hadn’t figured out. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then, "And what about the other thing?"

The blond realised he was not going to get out of Murdoc's spiral that easily, "You're going to have to be more specific."

"You said your problem with me was never the killing. It was, well we'll call it my possessive streak." Murdoc said.

Mac should roll his eyes and tell Murdoc to go to hell, make some offhanded joke about restraining orders. About how normal people don’t act like this, about how this wasn’t even remotely okay. But the words didn’t come, because, truthfully? Mac didn’t have a problem with it anymore. Somewhere along the line, he’d let himself be claimed, gradually, piece by piece, and then, god help him, he’d wanted it. Wanted Murdoc’s hands on him, wanted the all-consuming certainty of it, wanted to be held so tightly that there was nothing left to question. So he’d given in. He’d handed over the last pieces of himself, willingly, because in the end, what did it matter?

He should feel something about this. Should recoil at the realization that he hadn’t just let this happen, he’d wanted it. Should be disgusted with himself for craving the way Murdoc held onto him like he was something sacred, something unbreakable.

Murdoc watched him, gaze sharp, calculating in a way that wasn’t cruel, just searching. Like he was trying to pin down what had just shifted between them. Then soft realisation bloomed in the assassin's eyes, "You think this is surrender, that giving yourself to me means you've lost something."

Murdoc tilted his head, studying him like Mac had just missed something important, something obvious, "But that’s where you’re wrong, my darling. You haven’t lost a thing. You could never lose anything, because it's you. Brilliant, vibrant, alive in a way the rest of the world could only hope to be."

Mac wanted to laugh.

Wanted to call bullshit, to tell Murdoc that he wasn’t vibrant, wasn’t brilliant, wasn’t even close to the person he used to be. That Macgyver, the one who could fix anything, save anyone, who always had a way out, that Macgyver was long gone. Instead, Mac stood there, letting Murdoc look at him like he was still that person.

Mac shook his head, just slightly, not quite disbelief, not quite refusal. He didn’t trust his voice, didn’t trust himself to say the right thing, to shove this moment back into something manageable, something he could control.

And then Murdoc did something Mac hadn’t expected. He took a step back.

Dropped his hand. Gave Mac space.

And then, softly, like it was a confession, like it was something only Mac was allowed to hear, "That's why I want you, Angus. That's why it's always had to be you."

The words hung between them, heavier than they should have been, pressing into the space where Mac had once kept something fragile, something untouched. He closed his eyes but when he opened them Murdoc was still there, still looking at him like Mac was something to be sought after, something to be wanted.

Wanted.

Mac’s breath caught, sharp and sudden. It wasn’t fair. Murdoc shouldn’t get to say things like that. Shouldn’t get to say things that settled so neatly into the hollow spaces inside him, things Mac had spent years pretending he didn’t need to hear. Murdoc saw it happen. Of course he did. His lips parted just slightly, his eyes flickering with something almost reverent, like Mac had just given something away, something Murdoc had been waiting to see.

Mac dropped his gaze. He could still hear Desi’s voice in the back of his head, sharp, cutting, reminding him of all the ways he wasn’t enough. The ways he’d failed. The ways he was too much, too difficult, too soft when it mattered and too hard when it didn’t.

Murdoc’s voice cut through all of it. Steady. Certain. Inevitable, "You think you lost yourself to me, that I took something from you. But Angus, you don’t understand."

Mac swallowed. It felt like there was something in his throat, something sharp and unmovable.

Murdoc exhaled, almost like he was steadying himself. And then, with a quiet certainty, he said, "I belong to you."

Mac’s heart stuttered, he blinked, looking at Murdoc like he’d just spoken something impossible, something that shouldn’t exist.

Murdoc smiled, slow, something softer than his usual arrogance, something almost dangerous in its sincerity.

"You think this is about possession? You think I want you because I won?" Murdoc shook his head, almost fond, "Angus, I don’t think you get it at all. I don’t want you because you're a game to play or a prize to win. I want you because you could ask me for anything, and I’d give it. I want you because you already had me, mind, body, and soul. And giving yourself away is excrutiating when you have nothing in return."

Mac stood there, unmoored, weightless, feeling something crawl under his skin, something like realization, something like fear.

I belong to you.

The words shouldn’t matter. Shouldn’t mean anything. But Murdoc didn’t say things just to say them. He didn’t offer himself without calculation, without knowing exactly what effect it would have. But there was no victory in his voice. No gloating, no manipulation, just truth. Like Murdoc always gave him.

Mac swallowed hard, his ribs aching with the motion. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if testing for something, searching for a feeling he should have, for something solid. He wasn’t supposed to have this. Wasn’t supposed to be wanted like this. Not as a tool, not as a soldier, not as a mission asset. Not for what he could do. Just for him.

When had anyone ever wanted him for the simple, blasphemous fact of being himself?

It settled like an ache in his chest, like something curling under his ribs, making space where there shouldn’t have been any left.

He had always been alone. Even surrounded by people, he had always been alone, but Murdoc was here and he wasn’t leaving and Mac should push him away. Should let the isolation take over, let it swallow him whole the way it always had.

But god, he was so fucking tired and Murdoc was still looking at him like he was something holy. Like he was worth it. Like he had never been a mistake.

"Angus, my darling." Murdoc stepped closer, but still didn't touch him. His eyes ached with sincerity, as if the words pained him to say but had to be spoken into existence anyway, "You could burn me to the ground, and I would still be looking for you in the ashes."

Mac let out a breath, slow and unsteady. His ribs ached with it, his body telling him to stop, to fight, to push back and reclaim something of himself before it was too late. But it was already too late. It had been too late since the first time Mac had reached for Murdoc instead of away. Since he had chosen comfort over isolation, again and again, until there was no choice at all.

Murdoc was still standing there, still waiting, still looking at him like Mac had already made his decision. Mac could feel the pull of it now, the slow, inevitable gravity of Murdoc’s presence, of not being alone, of not having to carry himself alone. His fingers twitched, barely a movement, but Murdoc caught it, of course he did, and his expression shifted, softened, like he was bracing for something.

Then Mac let himself fall. It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t desperate. There was no moment of hesitation, no final reckoning with himself, no grasping for a way out. There was just this, the pull of gravity, the pain softening as he let himself lean into warmth instead of the cold.

Murdoc caught him, of course he did, he always would. Mac exhaled, head tipping forward until his forehead pressed into the curve of Murdoc’s shoulder, the heat of his skin grounding, solid. A place to land. The assassin's breath stilled, like he’d been waiting for this moment, hoping for it. And when his hands rose, one sliding slow over the nape of Mac’s neck, the other curling at his hip, it wasn’t a victory. It was a comfort.

And with the last of the fight draining from his body, Mac murmured his own confession softly against Murdoc's skin, "I want to kill her."

Murdoc's breath hitched. Just for a second, just barely, but Mac felt it, and then, slowly, like he was handling something fragile, something precious, Murdoc’s hand traced up Mac’s spine, fingers pressing, grounding. Not possessive, not claiming. Just there.

Mac should feel something about that. Should feel repulsed, should pull away, should fight against the raw, aching truth of what he had just said, but all he felt was content. Like somehow with every second spent in Murdoc's arms the old version of himself was creeping back in. Not the moral compass or the golden boy, but the version of himself that didn't doubt, that just threw himself into the line of fire knowing that the rewards outweighed the risks.

Murdoc hummed, a low, indulgent sound, fingers tracing idle patterns along Mac’s spine, "Of course you do, how could you not?"

Mac exhaled, pressing his forehead harder against Murdoc’s shoulder, like he could ground himself there, like the weight of another person could keep him from slipping any further. It should have been suffocating. Instead, it felt solid. Unshakable.

Murdoc shifted just enough to press his lips to Mac’s temple, the touch warm and lingering, before he whispered, "Tomorrow, my darling, we’ll figure it all out tomorrow, when you’re feeling like yourself again."

Mac closed his eyes, let the words settle. When you're feeling like yourself again.

He would. He knew he would. It wouldn't be the self that would recoil from this, that would be ashamed, that would want to take it all back before it was too late. Instead it'd be the version of himself that was certain, that saw the world in sharp, clear lines and took the path that made the most sense. The version of himself that didn’t regret, didn’t doubt, didn’t hold back.

Mac breathed in slow, the scent of soap and blood and heat filling his lungs. Murdoc’s hands didn’t tighten, didn’t press for more, just stayed, steady against him, a silent confirmation of what they both already knew.

Mac wouldn’t regret this. Not the warmth, not the quiet inevitability of it, not the way it all slotted into place like it had always been waiting for him to accept it. And tomorrow, when the weight of it settled, when the exhaustion gave way to something clearer, something real, he knew exactly what he would do.

He wouldn't be too slow. He wouldn't second guess himself.

He'd be Macgyver again, and Macgyver didn't hesitate.

Macgyver gets results.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Riley

Riley sat at her station, fingers flying over the keyboard as the chaos around her buzzed like white noise in the background. People were moving in and out of the war room, voices low but tense, punctuated by sharp orders and clipped responses. The entire facility was gone, slaughtered in less than an hour.

And Mac? Mac was missing.

Not dead, not found bleeding out somewhere in the carnage. Just… gone. Taken. And they all knew exactly who had taken him. Murdoc.

The entire facility had been systematically erased, security footage corrupted beyond recovery, electronic records wiped, backup logs missing. The only thing Murdoc had left behind was a single, deliberate message sent to every operative in the compound.

Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo. If I cannot bend the will of heaven, then I shall raise hell.

Riley exhaled sharply and turned back to her screen, pushing down the unease creeping into her spine. She couldn’t afford to spiral, not yet. Instead, she pulled up every remaining trace of data she could salvage: text logs, surveillance feeds, operational directives. Anything that could tell her exactly what the hell this place really was.

Most of it was gone. Files shredded, classified intel locked behind encryption that not even she could break. But there were breadcrumbs, tiny fragments of reports, partial internal communications. The kind of thing the government buried six feet under and hoped no one would come digging for.

And Riley? She was a professional digger.

Her eyes flicked over the recovered scraps of intel, heart hammering the further she read.

“Subject conditioning results show minimal resistance, high success rates projected with prolonged exposure.”

“Behavioral restructuring protocol in effect. Compliance expected within six weeks.”

“Reclassification pending: psychological destabilisation confirmed.”

Riley’s stomach twisted. This hadn’t been a classified inpatient care center, this wasn’t even a standard black-site holding facility. This was a deprogramming center.

Her fingers stilled over the keyboard, her pulse roaring in her ears. They weren’t just holding Mac. They were trying to break him. The words on the screen burned themselves into her retinas, clinical and detached, the kind of language that turned a person into a problem that needed fixing.

The fluorescent lights above her buzzed, the sounds of Phoenix’s scrambling operatives fading into background noise. This was more than a facility for high-risk detainees. They had been planning to erase Mac. The thought made Riley feel sick, that she had let them take him away like that, that she'd believed, really believed, that they would make him better, that whatever was going to happen would bring Mac back to them.

Riley’s pulse thrummed in her ears as she yanked her headphones back over her head, scrolling through the remaining data. If any footage could be recovered, she had to see it first.

Her decryption program had only salvaged one file, audio only, from the room where they'd been holding Mac. Her hands hovered over the keyboard. She should report this, but who would she report it to? Matty had just signed off on sending Mac to somewhere he might never come back from.

She took a breath and pressed play.

A burst of static came first, then a voice she didn't recognise: "You- you're actually happy about this."

Mac’s voice came next, steady, almost casual,"I told you, you should’ve run."

Riley’s breath caught in her throat. That wasn’t panic, that wasn’t Mac stalling for time or playing along until he could escape, that was certainty.

"You’re insane."

"Jury’s still out for me, I think. But Murdoc definitely is." The sound of Mac's voice was easy, the same slightly snide tone that he'd used on missions.

Then there was the sound of something heavy hitting metal, steel groaning. A door crashing open. A sharp curse and then a thump that could've been a body hitting the ground.

Another voice came through the static, a voice Riley had heard far too many times in Phoenix’s debriefs, in reports of failed containment efforts, in junkyards and taunting messages, "Miss me, darling?"

She braced herself for the fight, for the screaming, for the sounds of people struggling to overcome one another, for whatever would happen next.

"I love you."

She had braced herself for violence. For the sick, brutal sound of Murdoc’s taunts met with Mac’s defiance, anger, hatred. Mac wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t cursing, wasn’t shouting for help, wasn’t playing along in some desperate bid for survival. Instead he sounded relieved.

"Angus. My love, you have no idea how much I’ve longed to hear you say those words." 

Riley replayed it. Once. Twice. A third time. And every single time, it was the same. No hesitation. No distress. Mac wasn't being taken, he was being rescued. And god now she knew where Phoenix had sent him, Riley couldn't help but feel like maybe Mac had needed to be rescued. She felt relief creeping into the edges of her thoughts but it was overwhelmed by something else, realisation.

Mac wasn’t kidnapped, he left. He wasn't afraid of Murdoc, he didn't hate him, he was in love with him. Mac had lied to them and they had all bought it. Riley tore the headphones off, dragging her hands down her face as the weight of it settled deeper. The lie wasn't just from Macgyver.

Jack had been the one who told them everything. That Mac had been spiraling, that he was consumed by vengeance, that he wanted Murdoc dead, that Mac needed to be stopped before he did something irreversible. But it was all bullshit. Mac never wanted Murdoc dead.

Jack just wanted them all to believe he did. The only question now was why?

Her hands hovered over the keyboard.

She should report this. She should tell Matty, tell Bozer, tell anyone, but then what? What would happen next?

They would track Mac down. They would drag him back. They would throw him into another blacksite.

She could hear it already, the way they would spin this: Murdoc manipulated him. Mac isn’t thinking clearly. He’s a victim. We can fix this.

No. Riley swallowed, pushing her chair back, pacing the length of the dimly lit room. She wasn’t going to let them do that. Because Jack didn't lie for no reason, especially not about something this big, which meant that this was a lot more complicated than she could figure out on her own.

Mac had lied. Jack had lied. And now, as Riley scrubs the audio file from existence, she made the decision to lie too.

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair, forcing her mind into focus. She could panic later. Right now, she needed to figure out where Mac was.

Murdoc had scrubbed every trace of the extraction. No security footage. No logs. Nothing to even prove Mac had walked out of that facility alive except for the bodies left behind.

And the text. Her eyes flicked back to the words Murdoc had left behind. Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo.

She knew Murdoc. Knew how he worked. He wasn’t sloppy, but he was dramatic. He liked to make a statement. And that text? It was his signature, and no one could send a message without a source.

Riley’s fingers flew across the keyboard, her breath coming in slow, measured inhales as she traced the origin of the message. Murdoc had covered his tracks too well, encrypted and rerouted his digital footprint through so many false trails that it should have been impossible to find them.

But impossible was her job.

The phone had pinged again after the escape, once, moving away from the facility, but not in the direction of Los Angeles. Riley narrowed her eyes. They weren’t running toward a city, they were running into the wilderness. She pulled up highway surveillance footage, cross-referencing time stamps, filtering out false positives. Phoenix had cameras everywhere: at intersections, along major roads, even at gas stations. If they’d taken the main roads, she could track them.

It took seven minutes for the program to return a hit, it was blurry, barely a glimpse of movement caught on a low-resolution highway camera, but it was enough.

Riley zoomed in, enhanced, adjusted contrast, a familiar process, muscle memory taking over as her pulse hammered in her ears. The vehicle was unregistered. No plates. No easy tracking. She’d have to follow it manually.

The car disappeared from the highway cameras almost immediately after leaving the main roads. That wasn’t surprising. Murdoc wouldn’t be stupid enough to drive straight into another surveillance net. But if they weren’t on the main roads, they had to be somewhere.

She switched tactics, pulling up satellite imaging. Most Phoenix analysts wouldn’t waste their time with this kind of thing. There weren’t any real geospatial analysts working at Phoenix and there was too much ground to cover, too many false leads, but Riley wasn’t most analysts. She started cross-referencing timestamps, tracking the last known direction of movement. If she were Murdoc, where would she go?

The answer came faster than expected. An old dirt road, barely visible on satellite, snaking away from the highway and vanishing into dense forestry. She adjusted the imaging, switching to infrared satellite feeds. There. A small house just off the beaten track. It wasn’t large, wasn’t extravagant, just an old house, still hooked up to the grid, still connected to the water lines. She had them.

Riley reached for her phone, fingers hovering over Jack’s contact. She could call him, tell him what she found, give him a chance to explain. But Jack already had his chance.

Mac was the one she needed to hear from. She turned back to her laptop, destroying as much of her history as she could and encrypting the rest, making sure no one else in Phoenix would be able to track what she just found. Then, with a sharp exhale, she pushed her chair back, grabbed her jacket, and walked out of the war room.

Her heart pounded as she walked through the cool afternoon air to her car. Riley had lied for Mac before. Little things. A mission parameter bent here, a classified file pulled there. But never like this. Never something that could get her thrown right back in the supermax. She forced a breath through her nose, cutting through the adrenaline humming in her veins as she climbed into her car and slammed the door shut behind her. The moment she turned the key, the dashboard lights flickered to life, the low rumble of the engine grounding her just enough to stop shaking. One last glance at Phoenix’s headquarters, a monolith of steel and glass behind her, then Riley shifted gears and hit the gas.

The city melted away faster than she expected, the lights of Los Angeles blurring into the background as she hit the highway. She barely felt the speedometer creeping higher, her hands tight around the wheel, muscles locked with a tension she wasn’t ready to acknowledge yet. The sheer adrenaline from fear and betrayal and emotions she didn't so much as find herself unable to name but more couldn't hold onto long enough to feel were a godsend as they warped her sense of time. According to the clock she left the highway twenty minutes later, tires kicking up dust as she veered onto the dirt road she’d pulled from satellite imaging. No streetlights. No markers. Nothing but darkness and trees pressing in on either side.

This was it. Her fingers curled tighter around the wheel, forcing down the uncertainty clawing at her ribs. Riley pulled up to the safehouse, engine cutting off with a quiet thud. The silence that followed was thick, humming with something too close to anticipation, too close to dread. She climbed out, shutting the car door with deliberate care. No sudden movements. No mistakes.

There was already a car parked outside of the place. Confirmation. Murdoc was here. And so was Mac.

She approached the door, pulse thrumming under her skin, knuckles hovering for a second too long before she knocked. The sound was sharp against the night, echoing in the quiet space between her and the door. Riley forced herself to breathe, steady and even, as if her heart wasn’t trying to claw its way out of her chest.

"Mac." She called, voice firm, certain, "Phoenix isn’t here. It’s just me."

Silence. Then, movement. The sound of light footsteps, deliberate but unhurried, approaching from the other side of the door. Riley braced herself, forcing her breath to stay even. She wasn’t sure what she expected, Mac with his guard up, Murdoc with a gun raised, both of them ready to bolt at the first sign of a trap.

Instead, when the door swung open, she was greeted with something so completely wrong that for a full second, her brain refused to process it.

Murdoc. Shirtless, barefoot, holding a cup of coffee that smelled so strongly of vanilla it was offensive.

Riley blinked. The last time she had seen Murdoc, he had been in full unhinged, blood-soaked, terror-inducing assassin mode. But this? This was something else entirely. His hair was fluffed up, messy in the way that only happened when someone had just woken up or spent too much time in bed. And the look he was giving her? It wasn't amused, instead it was cold, but in a way that felt almost protective. His body shielded the rest of the room from view and his eyes scanned her for weapons. The truth of it settled like a missing piece of the puzzle slotting into place. He was protecting Mac, he'd been protecting Mac this whole time, and in his eyes she was the enemy.

"Phoenix sent you to negotiate?" Murdoc exhaled lazily and took a long sip of his coffee, "And here I thought the powers that be would at least put a few more bullets between us before resorting to groveling."

"They didn’t send me." Riley said simply, swallowing down her fear and standing up straight, "I came alone."

"Oh my, don't tell me you lied to Phoenix and came after Angus all by yourself." Murdoc’s eyes lit up with something that looked almost like glee, but Riley knew better. He was still pissed, not in the loud, snarling way most people got angry, but in the quiet, lethal way that made her stomach twist, "Now that would be interesting."

Riley held her ground, forcing herself to meet Murdoc’s gaze without flinching, "Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises."

Murdoc hummed, taking another slow sip of coffee, "I’ll bet."

The tension between them stretched tight, heavy and unspoken. The silence heavy enough that Riley didn’t expect Murdoc to let her in, but he did, stepping aside with a flourish that would’ve been theatrical if not for the sharp, assessing way he watched her as she crossed the threshold. She turned as she entered, planning on keeping her eyes on Murdoc, but then she saw him. Mac had been standing just out of sight, leaning against the wall next to the door, arms loosely folded over his chest. He looked different. Relaxed wasn’t the word, not quite, but he wasn’t tense. Not like she'd expected him to be.

Instead Mac looked exactly like he used to. Not the Mac she had last seen, the one with fraying edges and hollowed-out exhaustion, the one that Phoenix had locked away and deemed a liability. Not the Mac who'd been failing mission after mission, who'd turned in on himself the day that Jack left. No, the man standing in front of her now was something else entirely. Something impossible.

Casual, knowing smile, easy posture, the sharp, clever glint in his eyes that had been missing for so long it made her stomach twist to see it again. It was like stepping back in time.

Riley swallowed, forcing her voice into something even, "Mac."

Mac tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement, "Hey there, Riley. Didn't expect to see you so soon."

Murdoc stepped further into the room, still watching her like a predator evaluating a threat, but his expression had shifted into something lazy, indulgent. Like he was enjoying the show, waiting for her to catch up.

"You should sit." Mac said lightly, stepping past Murdoc and settling himself onto the worn couch like they were just here to chat, like this wasn’t the most terrifyingly surreal moment of Riley’s life, "I get the feeling you didn’t come all this way to stand around awkwardly."

Riley sat down across from him, carefully keeping her hands visible, not wanting to spook either of them, not that Murdoc seemed remotely nervous. If anything, he looked bored.

Then, after a long sip of his coffee, Murdoc hummed, voice slow, indulgent, dangerous, "You get one question, ask the right one and you get everything."

Riley’s stomach twisted. She knew what this was. A game. A test. One wrong move, and Murdoc would shut her down. Hell, he’d probably throw her back out into the dirt before she could even blink.

Murdoc’s eyes gleamed with amusement, waiting for her to fumble, to ask the wrong thing.

Mac, though wasn’t playing. He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gave Murdoc a flat look, "Murdoc stop being petty on my behalf."

Murdoc looked hurt, "I'm not being petty, my darling. I'm looking out for your best interests."

Mac scoffed, but before he could protest again, Riley leaned forward, locking eyes with him.

One question.

Murdoc thought she’d ask about the murders, the escape, Phoenix, their next move, things that would matter to Phoenix, to Matty, to anyone else. Riley didn’t care about any of that. She cared about why Mac had lied, why Jack had lied, what they were protecting, what Mac wanted. But that wouldn't the right question either.

Because the question wasn't supposed to matter to Riley. It had to matter to Mac, it had to be something that nobody had thought to ask him, something that meant something.

Riley exhaled, steadying herself. Mac would tell her the truth anyway, or at least she thought he would. But to be able to prove she's here for the right reasons? That she genuinely wants to understand? She only one shot at that. Murdoc was watching her with that sharp, amused glint, like a cat waiting for the mouse to make its final mistake.

But Mac? Mac was waiting too. He didn’t look wary. Didn’t look defensive. He was watching her with something else entirely, something curious.

He wants to see if I get it.

She inhaled sharply, held his gaze, and asked the only question that mattered, "What did Murdoc save you from?"

Murdoc stilled, lips parting slightly in surprise. It was the first time Riley had ever seen him caught off guard. His fingers flexed around the handle of his coffee mug, and for a split second, something flickered across his expression. And Mac? Mac breathed in sharply. Not enough to be obvious, not enough to be called out, but enough that Riley knew she had landed a direct hit.

Riley kept her breathing steady, forced herself to not react, to hold his gaze without pushing. She didn’t let herself shift, didn’t let herself fidget, didn’t let any of the tension curling inside her show. Murdoc had given her one question, she had asked the right one.

And now she was waiting for Mac to answer.

Mac's fingers curled against his knees, like he was testing his own resolve, before he finally answered, "Desi."

Mac let the name hang in the air, let it settle between them. Then, finally, he exhaled, shifting his posture, stretching out on the couch like the weight of it had left his bones too tired to sit up straight. His fingers flexed against the fabric of his jeans, and when he looked at Riley, there was no hesitation, no delay. He had already decided to tell her the truth.

"You were right, you know." He started, voice even, "About Desi. You always hated her."

Riley flinched at the directness of it, but Mac wasn’t wrong. She had hated Desi. From the moment she walked into Phoenix, from the moment she tried to replace Jack. But she had convinced herself that it was petty, irrational. That it wasn’t a warning sign.

Mac must have seen it on her face because he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, "Don’t do that, Riley. Don’t sit there and feel guilty, we're way past that now."

He exhaled, tipping his head back against the couch, fingers flexing idly against his knee, like he was feeling it all again but from a distance, "She hit me. More than once. A lot more than I should've let her."

Murdoc shifted beside him, not speaking, not pushing, just there, like a silent barrier between Mac and whatever reaction Riley might have had. His arm curled around Mac’s waist, an easy, unconscious motion, like this was natural. Like it had always been this way.

And Mac leaned into it. Not stiff, not hesitant. He leaned into Murdoc’s touch like it was reflex, his breathing slowing slightly.

"I'm guessing you want to know why I didn't tell you." Mac's words were measured in the way that only someone who had rehearsed this in their head a thousand times could say them.

Riley nodded, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t want to interrupt, didn’t want to give him a reason to stop now.

Mac exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he was piecing together the words as he spoke them, "Because if you noticed, that would mean I failed."

Riley blinked, brows furrowing, but she didn’t interrupt.

"I was hiding it." Mac continued, voice quieter now, but steady, controlled, "I was supposed to be good at that, right? The mission. The cover. The deception. I thought if I could just keep it together long enough, if I could hold the cracks in place, then it wasn’t real. If no one saw it, then it wasn’t happening. Not to me. Not like that."

Mac huffed a quiet, humorless laugh, "I was convincing, wasn’t I?"

Riley flinched, then in a soft voice admitted, "You were."

Mac’s fingers curled against his knee, restless, but he didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look disappointed. Just tired.

"I wasn’t mad at any of you for not noticing. That wasn’t your failure, that was my success." He met Riley’s gaze, steady, unwavering, "You weren’t supposed to know. I didn't want you to know."

Mac inhaled sharply, forcing the next words out, "It started with small things. A shove. A slap when she thought I wasn’t taking something seriously. And then-"

Mac’s fingers flexed against his jeans, his voice cutting off as if his own throat had closed around the words. His expression didn’t crack, but Riley had spent years watching Mac, knowing when he was hiding something, knowing when the words were too much. And right now, he hated this. Hated explaining it. Hated the way he had to drag it all into the light.

Before she could say anything, before she could even shift under the weight of it, Murdoc made a low, exasperated sound from his place beside Mac.

"Oh, for god’s sake, darling, you don’t have to do this." His voice was smooth, sharp, slipping into the conversation like a knife between ribs, "You’ve already done your little confession scene for Dalton. There’s no need to rip yourself open again for another audience."

Mac exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. Riley caught the flicker of relief in his posture, the way his shoulders dropped just slightly, like he had been bracing for something painful. He didn’t argue. Didn’t insist on telling the story himself. He let Murdoc take over. Murdoc’s lips curled at the edges, slow and knowing. His gaze flicked to Riley, sharp as a knife’s edge.

He spread his arms as if setting the stage, "Dear Angus, the golden boy, the ever-capable hero, was home that night, minding his own business. Well, as much as one can when they’re sobbing into their own carpet."

Murdoc’s lips curled, but the amusement didn’t quite reach his eyes, "In walks yours truly to find something unexpected. Not my usual defiant little boy scout, no fire, no sharp words waiting to be thrown like knives. No, instead, I found him curled up on the floor, shaking like a leaf, eyes red, breath coming in sharp little gasps. Bruises blooming along that lovely skin of his and a shoulder that wasn’t quite sitting right in its socket. He expected me to finish the job, was shocked when I didn't."

Riley felt her stomach drop, "Mac-"

"I don’t need your pity, Riley." Mac’s voice was quiet but firm. He didn’t look up, instead he leaned slightly further into Murdoc's arms.

"Oh, believe me, pity is the last thing he needs." Murdoc smiled again but it was different now, colder, edged with something sharper, "I had half a mind to tear that woman apart right then and there, but my Angus was too busy convincing himself that he deserved it."

Riley forced herself to breathe, to keep her expression steady, "So you took him."

"No no no Riley, you don't understand, my darling agreed to come. I didn't take him." Murdoc's voice dipped lower, something possessive curling in the words, "He said yes."

Murdoc looked at Mac with something close to reverence but that made Riley's skin crawl, "You see, Riley, I don’t need to steal things that already belong to me."

Mac exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was resisting the urge to physically shove Murdoc off the couch, "Why do you always have to make it weird."

"Because my darling, you like it when I'm like this." Murdoc tilted his head and grinned, "I told you before, I wouldn’t dream of doing something you wouldn’t even secretly enjoy."

"Murdoc please tell me that conversation isn't a treasured memory for you." Mac squeezed his eyes shut like he was trying to avoid remembering whatever this was about.

Murdoc grinned, eyes gleaming with something sharp and smug, "Oh, but it is, my love. A treasured moment indeed, the first time you let me take care of you without arguing."

Riley exhaled slowly, pressing the tips of her fingers into her temples. There was too much to process, too much coming at her all at once, and yet she had to hold herself together. Had to pretend for a few minutes that this wasn’t the most insane conversation she'd had ever had.

"Not to interrupt... this." Riley swallowed hard, gesturing with her hand in large circles at the two psychopaths while trying to keep her voice steady, "But I still want to know, why did you lie? Hell, why did you pick something that fucked up to lie about?"

"Riley, come on. I had to think real fucking fast to make sure Jack and Desi didn’t catch Murdoc and I didn't exactly have many options." Mac tilted his head slightly, considering her words before sighing, like he was already exhausted by this conversation, "It was the only story I could make fit, if only for long enough to keep him safe."

Riley took a breath, her pulse a steady thrum beneath her skin, "So this whole time, while watching you fall apart, you were playing us?”

Mac huffed a breath, shaking his head, "It wasn’t about playing you, Riley. I was keeping him safe. I was keeping Jack safe. I was making sure Phoenix thought I was dangerous enough to be bargained with, but not dangerous enough to be eliminated. You were never the target, I needed Oversight out in the open so that I could try and force him to let me back on the team, but he decided Phoenix was more important than his own son."

Murdoc sighed, exasperated, "And I had to sit back and watch as my darling let himself get thrown into a glorified lobotomy ward. It was excruciating."

Riley stared at Mac, trying to wrap her head around the sheer weight of what he was telling her. He had planned this, all of it. The slow unraveling, the spiraling out of control, the desperate, vengeance-obsessed man hunting Murdoc down, it had all been a goddamn act.

And Jack had known, Jack had helped him.

"So let me get this straight." Her voice came out sharper than she intended, and she didn’t bother to soften it, "You didn’t actually lose your mind. You didn’t actually want to kill Murdoc. You weren’t actually turning into some revenge-obsessed monster."

Mac grinned. It was the easy, familiar grin she remembered but with something sharper hiding underneath it, "I never said that last part was a lie."

"I just changed the target." Mac said, voice light, almost teasing, "And now? I've decided to get a little justice."

Murdoc looked ecstatic. Practically vibrating with satisfaction, his fingers curling against Mac’s shoulder like he was barely restraining himself from outright celebrating.

Riley swallowed, the implications settling into her ribs like lead. Desi. He was going to kill Desi, and now he was telling her about it.

Mac leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes sparkling as his voice dipped into something conspiratorial, "Wanna know how I’m gonna do it?"

Riley inhaled, slow and controlled, forcing her mind to keep up. This was another test. Mac wasn’t actually asking if she wanted to know the plan, he was asking her to pick a side.

Mac or Phoenix.

And there was clearly a wrong answer.

Riley inhaled, slow and steady, keeping her voice smooth, even, like she wasn’t making the most dangerous decision of her life.

"Of course, Mac." She said, tilting her head slightly, voice almost amused, almost teasing, like this wasn’t a life-altering moment, like she wasn’t betraying everything she was supposed to stand for, "I’ve got to hear the plan if I’m gonna help you with it."

Murdoc stilled. It wasn’t a dramatic pause, not one of his usual theatrical flourishes, but a real, unmistakable moment of surprise. Riley barely had time to register the shift before his lips curled into something slow, sharp, delighted. Then, he breathed it, his voice an acknowledgement that felt too much like respect, “Clever girl.”

Mac was watching her too, and he wasn’t surprised. If anything, he looked pleased. Like he had expected her to get it. Like he had been waiting for her to catch up ever since she got that first question right.

Riley took a deep breath, trying to let her new life settle into her bones, “So, what’s the plan Mac? You gonna get poetic with it or do I need to start taking notes?”

For a moment, Mac didn’t say anything. Just looked at her. Like he was measuring something, considering something, deciding what to do with her now that she had passed the test. Then, he moved. Mac got up, stepping forward with the same slow, easy confidence he used to have on missions, the same certainty that had been missing for months. Riley barely had time to register it before his arms were around her, pulling her into a hug. Not an act. Not a trick. A real, genuine fucking hug.

Riley stiffened, just for a second, just long enough for it to hit her, Mac trusted her. He believed she had made the right choice, that she wasn’t here to drag him back, that she wasn’t Phoenix’s last attempt at reclaiming him.

"I missed you." He murmured, "I really did."

And that was when Riley knew she had made the right choice. She let herself exhale, her arms moving slowly, deliberately, before finally returning the hug, "I missed you too, Mac."

Mac stepped back, giving her space, but his expression remained open, the sharp edges of amusement softened into something quieter. Something real. Murdoc, on the other hand, looked thrilled.

"Isn’t this just heartwarming?" He practically purred, sipping from his coffee like this was a perfectly normal conversation, like Riley hadn’t just committed career-ending treason, "I do love a good family reunion."

Mac rolled his eyes and flopped back onto the couch next to Murdoc, leaning into him. The assassin took another slow sip of his coffee, watching Riley over the rim of the mug like a cat that had just decided to tolerate a new houseguest. Then, with a pleased little hum, he set it down on the table with deliberate care, "Well, darling, it seems you have yourself a proper little accomplice."

"I don’t need an accomplice." Mac looked at Riley, something knowing in his gaze, something steady, "I need a friend."

Riley met his eyes, and for the first time since she walked through the door, since she’d left Phoenix behind, since she had made the choice that would change everything—she wasn’t afraid of what she saw there.

"Good thing I’m both." She said simply.

Murdoc grinned, sharp and delighted, like she had just given him a gift. And Mac smiled back, and for the first time in what Riley realised was months, it actually reached his eyes. How had it been so long since she'd seen him smile like that?

Then just like that Mac clapped his hands together, still smiling, "Alright Riley, you’re going to love this."

Notes:

Wouldn't be my beta reader reading this entire thing in a Scottish/Welsh/Irish/British accent.

Chapter 13: Won't You Stay With Me, My Darling?

Murdoc

There were moments in a life like Murdoc's, violent, untethered, lit by the flickering streetlamp glow of memory and blood, when the world tilted perfectly into place. The right gun in hand. The right exit memorized. The right kill lined up behind the glass like a stained-glass window begging to be shattered. But none of that compared to watching his sunshine settled at the kitchen table, explaining how he was going to kill someone. One hand gesturing with a pen, the other idly flipping the butterfly knife Murdoc had given him open and closed, the motion fluid and automatic, like his brain needed something sharp to orbit around while it planned.

There’d been a time, not long ago, when Murdoc thought that moment in the hallway, dripping blood, his boots tracking over corpses, the smell of sterilized death clinging to his coat, would be the last straw. Then Angus, his Angus, had rolled his eyes and told him that what he did was okay, had said Yes it's fine as though it wasn't even a question. And Murdoc would never understand how someone that good could say something like that and mean it. Instead, he was here, glancing at Murdoc with fond exasperation as the assassin messed with the hem of Angus's shirt.

"My darling." Murdoc rested his chin on his hand as Angus marked an intersection with a little cross, "You have no idea how beautiful you are like this."

Riley gave Angus a look, something along the lines of Are you really okay? If she looked at him like that one more time, he was going to have to start gnawing furniture, or bite Angus just to reestablish territory, or maybe hiss. You know, something subtle. Not because he didn’t like her, Murdoc had truly been impressed when she'd asked and answered the right questions and that earned her an amount of affection, but because it was annoying.

Angus rolled his eyes, "I'm planning a mission, Murdoc."

"A mission? My darling, this is a hit." Murdoc voice syrupy with admiration, "A hit born from vengeance, precision, and traffic analysis. It’s so you."

"I’m not assassinating a diplomat." Angus replied flatly, "I’m causing a car crash."

Murdoc let out a delighted sigh, draping himself dramatically across the back of the couch, "A crash that just so happens to erase Desiree off the face of the earth. Call it what you want, sunshine, but the corpse doesn’t care about semantics."

Riley looked like she wanted to crawl into the walls and dissolve. Angus just tapped the map again, unbothered.

"She always runs late." He said with a small hm, as if mentally he was being proven right in some old conversation, "So she speeds. And she always takes this street. It’s fast, but if this light hits early and this one’s delayed by even five seconds, then she gets hit. Side impact, high velocity. The other driver’s not going to see her, either. She’s in a hurry, they’re looking at the green, and boom."

"That’s not boom, dearest." Murdoc leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "That’s crack, crumple, neck snapping sideways and a mouth full of blood."

Angus didn’t flinch, just spun the blade once, snapped it shut, then flicked it open again with a little snick that sounded like punctuation, "Crumple is right, she drives a sedan. If the other car’s big enough, it’s going to fold like a cheap lawn chair."

"Now that's imagery." Murdoc leaned in, "Here you are, guiding fate with a wrench and a red light."

"Fucking kill me." Riley muttered with the tone of someone regretting their life choices.

"It’s not fate, it’s math." His sunshine countered.

"Even hotter."

Angus didn’t look up, "You’re exhausting."

"You’re magnificent." Murdoc countered, cheerfully, "You do realise, of course, that when this works you’ll have orchestrated a death so elegant it would make any contract killer weep. There’s art to this, Angus, and you're painting the Mona Lisa."

"Murdoc." Angus gave him a look without lifting his head, "Tone."

Angus didn’t recoil, he never did anymore. Murdoc had spent years being too much. Too loud, too sharp, too red in a world that wanted blue, but Angus let him be, let him wrap his weird metaphors around corpses and still sit across the table sipping coffee like it was normal, "My tone is adoration, sweetheart. My tone is reverence. My tone is-"

"Creepy?" Riley supplied.

"Uncalled for." Murdoc muttered, straightening his collar, "And I had a metaphor about saints and slaughter prepared."

"Put it back where you found it." Angus said.

"But it had alliteration." Murdoc whispered, mock-wounded.

Angus huffed but Murdoc noticed the corners of his mouth twitching up, and there it was, the half-smile that Murdoc would kill for.

"You’re smiling." Murdoc said, delighted.

"I’m not." Angus said, fully smiling now.

"Okay!" Riley cut in, pulling up a traffic log on her tablet and turning it to show them, "If I reroute the green for the northbound lane, you’ll need the eastbound delay to look like a sensor misfire, not a manual override."

"Exactly. And if anyone checks the logs, I need you to cover for me. Rewrite the signal data, scrub any signs that anything was tampered with." Angus gave one of the self-assured grins that Murdoc recognised from being on the other side of Phoenix operations. The sight practically took Murdoc's breath away. That grin was the first time Murdoc had seen Angus look like himself again. Not shattered, not cautious, not clinging to the shape of the man he used to be. Just confident, dangerous, Angus Macgyver ready to ruin someone's best laid plans using a paperclip and sheer audacity.

And, Murdoc supposed, an improvised explosive or two, but that only made him more incredible.

"You’re not worried she’ll survive?" Riley asked, still scanning the traffic grid overlay, "I mean, it’s a car crash, it'll be a rough one sure, but people can still live through those."

"She won’t." Angus finally clicked the knife shut and set it on the table, "Look, on the balance of probability, she either dies on impact or shortly after. She doesn’t wear a seatbelt properly, she half-twists around to mess with her bag in the front seat. The other driver will be accelerating, distracted, not braking. Her car doesn’t exactly have a five-star safety rating, and even if she’s still breathing by the time she's settled in the ICU then Murdoc will handle it."

"Air embolism. Quiet, subtle, efficient, the most common cause is iatrogenic but it's unlikely anyone will be checking for air embolisms in an ICU patient." Murdoc clapped his hands together, "Oooh this is fun, being part of the team, making plans. Don't I sound like a proper Phoenix agent?"

"You sound like you hear voices." Riley said flatly.

Murdoc didn’t miss a beat, "They tell me he’s perfect."

Angus didn’t look up, "That’s new. Usually they tell you to kill someone."

"Oh, my Angus." Murdoc sighed fondly, "They used to tell me to kill you."

"What the fuck." Riley whispered.

"He’s just doing a bit, Riley. He doesn’t actually hallucinate."

“Only on mescaline.” Murdoc confirmed cheerfully, "Or with over seventy hours without sleep."

Angus ignored that and flipped to a new page of the traffic log and circled a second intersection, "We're going to need to make sure to hold the light green long enough for her to get through but not long enough for anyone to follow her into the crash."

Murdoc squinted at the second intersection, the tip of his finger hovering just above the map, there was something that the others were missing, too caught up in logistical elements. Far be it from Murdoc to act as if he truly was a normal human being, but human behaviour? Now that was something he understood, something he studied.

"No, you can't hold it open. If the light lingers green too long, Desiree might notice something's off or god forbid slow down. You actually want to shift the timing of the green light entirely so it intersects with the start of the next light cycle. Make sure she feels she's about to miss her window." Murdoc looked at Angus and Riley with a grin, "It's a cognitive bias called Loss Aversion. If she thinks she has time she might not worry about the lights, but if she’s about to miss her shot to be on time she’ll floor it."

There was a beat of silence. Delicious, weighty, reverent silence. Angus blinked once, then again. Riley made a faint, stunned noise.

Murdoc just beamed. He would bottle that moment if he could, the way Riley’s brow furrowed as she suddenly remember half the reason the intelligence agencies of the world weren't able to identify the assassin for years, the reason he'd had an almost one hundred percent success rate before running into the radiant clever little engineer next to him. Angus bit his bottom lip like he was trying not to look impressed.

"That’s good." Angus' eyes lit up in that way that made the blue in them seem that much deeper, "That’s really good."

Murdoc preened, "Of course it is."

"Okay, I’m not saying I like you, but that was..." Riley hesitated, visibly upset by the words forming in her mouth, "A genuinely good insight."

"Thank you, Riley." He let his voice turn sing-song and sickly sweet.

Riley pressed her fingers to her temple, exhaling like the very concept of Murdoc was a migraine, which he found faintly amusing, "Alright, I’ll rewrite the eastbound controller algorithm, make the misfire look like it came from a corrupted cycle in the junction box. If anyone checks, they’ll think it was a firmware glitch."

Angus nodded, "I’ll use a passive inductor coil to delay the signal relay. Five-second stall, no wires, no tampering. The sooner we can get this done, the better. I'm hoping to hit that route tomorrow or the day after. If it doesn’t go off clean then we abort, regroup, and aim for Plan C."

"What's plan C?" Riley raised an eyebrow.

"Plan C is very simple." Murdoc let the poetic facade melt off, "I set up on a rooftop and put bullet between her eyes from three hundred metres."

"We're trying to avoid plan C." Angus added.

Riley glanced between them as if trying to figure out if it was worth weighing in, sighed, then pointed to the final corner of the route, "This turn’s the last risk. If she cuts it tight, she might avoid the full force of the collision. We need to be sure she’s not nudging over a second too early."

"She won’t." Angus said again, firm this time, "The cross traffic only gets a second to move before she enters. I’ve timed it out. They’ll be at full speed, she’ll think she’s beating the amber, and she’ll hit the turn too fast. Driver’s side takes the impact. If it doesn’t snap her neck, it collapses her lung, there’s a fifty percent chance she bleeds out in the car. No plants, the other driver has to be real or else there's too many loose ends. There'll be more than enough candidates at that time of morning on that intersection, trust me."

Murdoc’s smile had teeth in it now. The good kind, the kind Angus used to mutter about being creepy but now rolled his eyes at while trying not to blush. Murdoc wanted to kiss him, he wanted to slide across the table and sink his fingers into his sunshine’s hair and say, Yes, darling, you’re mine, you’re perfect, you’re terrifying and glorious and I would watch you dismantle the world brick by brick with that cocky voice and your atrocious handwriting and I would cheer.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair with a content little sigh, watching his darling draw death out of road maps.

"I love it when you plan murders." Murdoc said dreamily.

"I’m planning a traffic accident."

"Tomato, vehicular manslaughter."

Angus gave him a look that was half fond and half please shut the fuck up, which Murdoc treasured equally. But then Riley stood, flicking her tablet off, her expression unreadable except for the tension still coiled in her jaw.

"I want to talk to Mac alone." She said, clearly bracing for a fight.

Oh, no. Not this again. Not the sister act, with the whispered confidences and the tragic little therapy session. That wasn't for Riley to do, that was his job now. Murdoc tilted his head and gave a cocky grin, "Oh? Do you want to confess something? Because if you’re planning on telling him you’ve secretly been in love with him this whole time, I’m afraid that window has closed. I’ve licked him so he's mine."

"Jesus Christ." Angus muttered.

"Not currently present" Murdoc said cheerfully, "But I can take a message."

"I’m going to talk to him now." Riley said flatly.

Murdoc bared his teeth in something that would have been a smile if it had been offered by anyone other than him, then gave a wink to Angus and slipped away. He did not, however, go far. The thing about older houses like this was that they had vents. Murdoc had already memorized every acoustic shadow in this one, marked out the soft spots in the drywall, mapped how voices carried from room to room like secrets hunting for a good ear. He stood beside the narrow hallway vent, head tilted, eyes closed, listening.

Inside, Riley was already starting, "Mac, are you really okay?"

A pause.

"Do you mean am I really okay being with Murdoc." Angus said, low and dry, "Or am I really okay killing Desi?"

"Either."

"I'm fine." Angus said, "I'm tired and angry. But I’m not breaking anymore."

Another pause. Then: "Do you love him?"

Murdoc had excepted some kind of pause, a moment of thought, at least to figure out how to break it to Riley. But instead the answer came immediately.

"Yes." Angus said, "I do, and before you ask no I haven't forgotten who he is. He likes to remind me constantly by saying odd shit, leaving his weapons on the counter... slaughtering an entire deprogramming centre and kissing me with blood on his hands."

Murdoc smiled, leaning in a little closer to the vent, breath held just long enough to savor the sound of that voice saying yes without hesitation. It wasn’t the word that undid him, it was the ease, the total lack of fear.

"And I've realised, it’s not as simple as right and wrong, or spy and assassin." Angus continued, "I used to think it was. I believed that the world was made up of lines you didn’t cross, that there was an us and a them, and people you didn’t turn to if you didn't have to. But I was standing there, trying to figure out if I'm still me, if I'm still the miracle worker, someone who does the right thing, who saves people, if I was still Macgyver. And I realised the answer was yes, but not because I hadn't lost anything, because Murdoc was there to make sure I didn't break. And it works, doesn't it? He doesn't have to be good, I don't have to be bad, it's just... I save the world, and he saves me."

I save the world, and he saves me.

Angus, that perfect, impossible, beautiful disaster. Only he could choose someone like Murdoc and then frame the whole damn moral scale in a sentence like that, not because it was easy but because it made sense. Like the universe had tilted correctly for the first time in years, like the monster got to be loved and the golden prince got to break the rules and still be golden.

God, Murdoc wanted to do a dozen things at once. Kill everyone who had ever hurt Angus, hold him tucked against his chest and stay there until the sun rose, light something on fire, cry, throw up, propose. There were fireworks and then there were mushroom clouds, and right now, Murdoc couldn’t tell the difference and didn't care to figure it out.

Riley left not long after that. She didn’t say much on her way out, just gave Angus a proper hug and one of those smiles that screamed I'm not sure how I'm meant to feel right now, then gave a Murdoc a brief look, like she was wondering whether it was too late to shoot him. It was, obviously, and she seemed to understand that. Murdoc gave a cheerful wave, Riley didn’t wave back. Rude... but understandable.

Once the door closed and Riley’s footsteps faded, Murdoc pivoted on his heel with a grin that could split wood. He found Angus in the kitchen, staring down into a mug of coffee like it held the meaning of life. Murdoc leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely and voice sweet, "So, are you sure you want it to be quick?"

Angus looked up at him and gave a small nod, "Yep."

"No slow cuts, no catharsis, no little finale where she realizes the horror of her sins?"

Angus raised his eyebrow and snorted, "I don’t need her to suffer, Murdoc. I just need her gone. She doesn’t get to be important, she doesn’t get to matter. She dies because she made a dumbass decision with shitty brakes and a shitty car and that’s it."

Murdoc tilted his head, curious, "No artistry? No little revenge monologue?"

"She’s not the main character." Angus said, and it was calm and cutting in a way that made Murdoc’s mouth go dry, "She doesn’t even get a death that’s hers. She dies the way she lived, by doing something stupid and thinking no one would stop her. That’s all, lights out."

Murdoc should’ve mourned the loss of spectacle, but he didn't. Because Angus wasn’t playing this for revenge, he was playing it like mercy, like it was a kindness to just remove a problem from the world and be done with it.

He's still so good. Murdoc thought, He's still Angus, and still mine, and he can wield his goodness like a weapon sharp enough to kill with.

Angus took a sip of his coffee then frowned at it as if it personally offended him, "Out of sheer morbid curiosity, how would you do it?"

Murdoc straightened, "I’d take her quietly, maybe tranquilizer in the water bottle, maybe just a chloroform rag. Something that doesn’t bruise but gets the job done."

Angus didn’t interrupt, just poured out the offending coffee and leaned back against the counter to listen.

"She’d wake up restrained." He continued, bouncing a little on his heels, "Not fully restrained mind you, because I need her to be able to move just enough so I can give her exactly the same injuries I found on you that night. Then I’d hold her for a day, or maybe two days? Long enough for the bruises to bloom properly."

"Then I’d snap her neck and I’d lay her out back in her own apartment. Arranged artfully, of course." Murdoc stepped into the kitchen proper, "And above her, on the wall? I’d paint, clear as day, She Gets Results."

Angus squinted at Murdoc as if he'd just recited his grocery list instead of laid out an objectively serial killer-esque revenge plot, "You paint that with what, exactly?"

"Red acrylic. Blood is terrible to try and paint with, and also doesn’t photograph well in low light. But that’s not the point, darling, the message is for your father. Phoenix can scrub the walls clean, but he won’t forget it." He smiled and cupped the blond's face with one hand, he leaned into it slightly.

Angus sighed, "Okay, see, it’s when you say shit like that and I like it that I start wondering how much trauma I’ve repressed."

Murdoc pressed a kiss to his forehead, "Oh, sunshine. You’ve repressed so much."

He stepped closer, reached around Angus without needing to be told, grabbed the correct bottle of vanilla syrup and poured a long stream into the empty mug Angus had abandoned in protest. Fixing the coffee up properly this time, the way he liked it, with just a little more milk and syrup than Murdoc did.

He set the mug down in front of Angus with a little flourish, "There you go, my darling. Properly sweet, like you."

Angus picked it up, sniffed it, and then shot Murdoc a look, "You used half the bottle, didn’t you?"

"Of course I did. You like it better that way."

That got a snort. Angus leaned back against the counter, sipping the coffee slowly now, like it was a benediction instead of an overly sugary drink. Murdoc just watched him, shamelessly. Cataloguing the faint curl of Angus’s hair where it dried messy around his temple, the edge of a healing bruise just visible under the collar of his shirt, the soft sound he made when the coffee hit just right. Murdoc memorised every piece like he was afraid someone would take them from him, like if he didn’t burn them into memory, he might wake up alone again.

"You’re gonna get weird again, aren’t you." Angus muttered, sipping again.

"I’m always weird." Murdoc said, stepping closer, "But right now, I’m weird and in love."

Angus looked up at him, face soft around the edges, eyes wide and sharp and exhausted and steady, "Murdoc. I know that look."

"Do you?"

"Yeah." Angus’s tone was exasperatedly affectionate, "It’s the one you get when you're deciding whether you want to kiss me or write my name on the wall in blood."

Murdoc stepped in, "My darling, why choose when I could do both."

Angus didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, didn’t warn him off. Just stood there, coffee mug half-raised, like kissing Murdoc was the most obvious next move in the world. And when Murdoc leaned in and pressed their mouths together, slow and careful, he felt it, that heady high feeling that resolved into a single word. Mine.

Angus tasted like vanilla and coffee and safety and sin. Like Murdoc's favorite things in the entire world, the things he'd chosen to surround himself with, the things that were home and belonging and peace. Murdoc pressed close, just enough to feel Angus lean into him, willingly, naturally, until the lines between them didn’t matter.

When they pulled apart, Angus was still holding the mug, like he hadn’t even noticed his own hands.

"You taste like you're mine." Murdoc sighed happily.

"Oh my god." Angus muttered into the mug, "You managed to make it weird."

"And you like it."

"Unfortunately." Angus set the coffee down on the bench and gave him the kind of smile that ruined Murdoc's brain chemistry, "I do."

And as Angus pulled him closer, there was no blood between them. Just warmth and pressure and the sweet curl of coffee between their mouths. And the absurd, giddy knowledge that somehow, against every odd, this wasn’t a tragedy yet.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bozer

No one said Mac’s name anymore, not since yesterday morning when an entire compound was found dead and Mac was the only thing missing from the ashes. As if somehow saying it might make the walls bleed, or summon Murdoc straight through the ceiling tiles.

Even Matty didn’t say it now, who just said the asset. As if removing his name from things could just erase the fact that in three weeks they'd gone from a team that was struggling to keep Mac afloat, to a team that didn’t have Mac at all. If they could even call whatever was left of them a team. But Bozer couldn’t do it, he heard Mac’s name in every silence and saw him in every empty chair. And as the silence stretched it only made it harder to believe he was really gone like that.

Bozer wasn’t stupid, the story didn’t add up. Mac doesn’t just snap, he doesn’t lose it, and beyond all of that Bozer had seen Jack’s face. Had seen him stand unmoving when Mac hit James, had watched him let the sedative go in. People thought Jack was all duty, but Bozer knew that wasn't true, Jack was all loyalty. Jack once pulled Mac out of a collapsing building on nothing but grit and fury because the backup team was two minutes too slow. Jack had never, not once, left him behind.

If Mac had looked him in the eyes and said I need Murdoc dead, if he’d begged, broken and bleeding, for one thing to make him feel safe again then Jack would’ve done it. Would’ve killed Murdoc himself, right there, and called it justice. Would’ve grabbed Mac and run without a single second of hesitation, but that’s not what Jack did. Jack had let it happen.

Which meant whatever Mac had said to him in that room? It wasn’t the truth.

Bozer turned the words over and over in his head like they might rearrange themselves into something better. He thought about the surveillance reports, about the debriefs, about the way Mac’s voice had sounded when he said Murdoc had hurt him. It hadn’t been a story he told, exactly, it had come through implication. Hazy mission notes. Unsigned reports. Jack filling in the blanks for them with them a patient pained voice while Mac sat silent and hunched over, eyes fixed on the floor.

Bozer had believed it, hell all of them had because how else could you explain it? How else could you justify Murdoc showing up at Mac’s house, taking him away, and returning marked up like a possession. You say Murdoc did something unspeakable, you reason it out as just another fucked up psychotic thing that the assassin that haunts your nightmares has done.

Now though, Bozer couldn't stop thinking about the one conversation he’d had with Murdoc back when they were still scrambling to find Mac, back when Bozer had thought maybe he could threaten his way into saving his best friend. Murdoc had stared at him with cold wrath and an unhinged smile that seemed to be a performance.

Ah, Wilt, but that’s where you’re wrong. I do deserve him. Because I know he’s already perfect. Because I would never hurt him. Never let him break. Which is more than I can say for all of you.

At the time it had fit so neatly into the theory he and Jack had started piecing together. Mac crumbling and spiraling under the weight of failure and loss, and then Murdoc stepping in and taking him away like some kind of fucked up savior. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Murdoc might’ve been a sadistic, unhinged monster but he didn’t lie. Not about Mac. Not about what he wanted. He didn’t pretend to be anything other than fucked up and obsessed.

Bozer slammed the brakes too hard outside Jack’s apartment. He took the stairs up two at a time, then knocked on Jack's door as if he was trying to break the damn thing down.

The door opened and Jack stood there, barefoot and exhausted, half-lit by the orange hallway light. One look at Bozer’s face and his expression dropped.

"Boze?" Jack hazarded.

"What the fuck is going on." Bozer demanded.

Jack didn’t answer.

Bozer pushed into the apartment without asking, his hands were shaking and his heart was pounding in his chest. He could hear Jack closing the door behind him and turned to see him holding out his hands in a placating gesture.

"Look, how about you sit down." Jack tried.

Bozer crossed his arms tight, "I am not sitting down. You're going to tell me what you know about Mac right now, because none of this makes sense and I'm sick of waiting for someone to tell me the truth."

Jack exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that meant he'd had this conversation in his head a hundred times and every version ended badly, "It’s not my story to tell."

Bozer saw red, "No. That's not fucking good enough Jack. I need to know."

Jack flinched at the sound of Bozer’s voice, but he didn’t back down, just stood there and let the words hit him.

Bozer took a step forward, fury pulsing behind every word, "You’re the only one who saw it, Jack. You looked him in the eyes and let them take him away, and I know you. I know what it means when you let something happen. So don’t stand there and act like you didn’t know what he was doing."

Jack closed his eyes for a second, took a slow breath in and out, and with the severity of someone dropping a nuclear bomb said, "Of course I knew, it was Mac's plan to blackmail oversight but it was my lie that Mac was doubling down on."

Bozer reeled back a step like he’d been hit, "What?"

Jack just stared at him, the same grave, resigned expression Bozer had seen on ops where they lost someone, "I lied about Mac spiraling. I told Oversight he was broken, that he was out for revenge, that we needed to try and stop him before he went rogue. I needed to get them alone in the same room so that Mac could make his demands. Full reinstatement, Desi off the team, and that the Murdoc manhunt get called off. That was Plan A, in theory oversight wouldn't be willing to risk it and would just give Mac what he wanted."

Bozer's head was spinning, not just with how complex this whole plot was, no his mind had snagged on the part where Mac's demands included get rid of Desi and stop chasing Murdoc.

"Plan B was less of a plan and more of a contingency for if things went wrong." Jack continued, "Mac knew if things went south it'd end with him in some kind of blacksite or mental hospital, and so he told Murdoc that if that happened it was his job to come get him, to bring him home."

"Desi off the team, and that the Murdoc manhunt get called off." Bozer repeated, slowly like he was trying to make the words mean something else. Something that didn't feel like barbed wire coiling around his heart, "Jack I'm going to need you to tell me what happened, the truth."

For a second, Jack looked like he might lie again. Might stall, pivot, throw up another wall of vague half-truths like he had been since day one. But then he exhaled hard, "Murdoc saved Mac. From Desi. She was hurting him, Mac hid it, she convinced him that he deserved it. The older injuries? Those were from her. Murdoc picked Mac up off his own kitchen floor, took care of him, put him back together."

Bozer was shaking his head like the facts didn’t fit the shape of the world anymore, "Then he came back and pretended that Murdoc was the problem, he didn't even try to tell us what actually happened."

"Yeah." Jack said softly.

"Because he thought we wouldn't believe him." Bozer realized, "He thought we wouldn’t believe the truth, so he gave us a lie we already expected."

Jack looked away, "He lied because he didn't think we'd let Murdoc go if he tried to convince us, then he kept lying even after I found out because he thought everyone would think he was insane. Or... that they'd take Desi's side."

Bozer reeled, "Jesus Christ."

"Yeah." Jack rubbed a hand down his face, "You wanna know the worst part? He wasn't entirely wrong, oversight did exactly what Mac was afraid of."

"His own dad." Bozer took a step back and dropped onto Jack’s couch, not trusting his legs to keep him up, "We were supposed to protect him."

"I know."

"We were supposed to be his family."

"I know, Bozer."

He dropped his head into his hands and let out a barely-muffled scream of anger-laced grief. He could feel Jack's hand tentatively resting on his shoulder. He stayed there for a while, breathing like it hurt to exist. His voice came hoarse after a moment, not quite steady, "Okay. Go on. Tell me the rest."

Then the door slammed open with a bang that rattled the frame, and Riley stormed in like she’d kicked it down, her hair a mess and her tablet bag still slung over one shoulder.

"Jack Dalton, what the actual fuck have you been hiding from me." She yelled before she even made it halfway into the room, "Did you know they’re planning a murder?"

Jack rocketed upright, "Riley- what?"

"Murder. Jack. They’re planning. A. Murder." Riley snapped, "Mac and Murdoc! They’re going to kill Desi and I just helped them figure out the traffic pattern to make it look like an accident and I have no idea how the fuck we got here but I know we need to talk about it now!"

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Bozer, still frozen on the couch, turned to stare at her. Slowly.

Riley blinked, registering him for the first time, "...Bozer?"

"You helped them what?" Bozer said, faint and sharp and rising by the syllable.

Jack, straightened up, "Riley, slow down."

"Slow down? Slow down!" Riley shouted, "You lied to me! And Bozer, why the hell are you here, what do you know?"

Bozer stood up fast, "I just found out that apparently Murdoc saved Mac and there was some fucked up plot going on to blackmail oversight. And now you're telling me he’s... what the fuck do you mean murder!"

Riley shoved her bag down onto the kitchen bench like she was offering it up as evidence, "They’re staging a traffic collision, they’re timing the lights so that when Desi speeds through them she gets killed in a fucking car crash. If that doesn’t work, Murdoc’s apparently going to sneak into the ICU and finish the job!"

"How long have you known!" Bozer was unable to get the accusation out of his voice, "How long have you known that Mac was lying?"

"Eight hours!" Riley shot back, "Eight fucking hours. And I only found out because the one recoverable audio file from that deprogramming centre has a recording of Mac telling Murdoc he's in love with him on it."

"What the fuck do you mean in love with Murdoc?" Bozer said, voice climbing toward panic.

Riley blinked, eyes darting between them, like she was just now realizing where the lines were drawn, "Wait. Did you not get to that part yet?"

Jack looked like he was trying to calm down from a panic attack, "No Riley, I was giving it to him in digestible pieces so I hadn't gotten to the Murdoc is Mac's boyfriend part yet! Fuck, I didn't even know Mac had actually said I love you."

Bozer couldn’t speak. He was too busy watching the last of his reality implode like a fucking neutron star.

Mac was in love with Murdoc. That was what she’d said. In love with him. Like the world hadn’t already come apart at the seams, like Bozer wasn’t still trying to process Desi hurt him, like he hadn’t just learned that Jack had known and lied, and now Riley was standing there shouting about murder and sounding like she was losing it

Bozer inhaled sharply, "Okay. Okay, how long do we have to stop Mac from committing actual homicide?"

Riley gave him a look. It was not the look of someone alarmed. It was the look of someone forced to listen to a coworker misread a situation for the eighth time in a row.

"Speak for yourself." Riley snorted, "I passed Murdoc’s weird do you actually give a shit about Mac test. I’m helping with the homicide. I just needed to vent about the fact they're planning it."

Bozer made a noise like a dying animal and put his face in his hands.

Jack sighed and dropped into the armchair like a man defeated by life, "Okay. So we all know now. That’s good. That’s...step one."

"Step one of what?" Bozer demanded, "The intervention? The exorcism? What is step two in this scenario, Jack!"

"Step two is that they're coming over here tomorrow at about seven." Riley said, like that was a normal fucking sentence to say out loud, "Desi’s scheduled to hit the intersection between 8:12 and 8:17 depending on her driving habits. We’ll be here because Mac and Murdoc want to wait it out with me and Jack, and I guess you too Bozer since you know now."

Bozer stared at Jack, "Come on Jack, we’re not letting Mac commit murder right?"

Jack didn’t answer immediately.

Bozer’s voice sharpened, rising in pitch, "Jack."

Jack scratched the back of his neck, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the universe, "Look, Boze. You know I used to work for the CIA. I was mostly in recon, but I was a very well trained Delta sniper so occasionally I had other roles."

Bozer blinked, "Wait, what the hell does that mean?"

Jack shrugged helplessly, "It means if I’d found out what Desi did before Murdoc got there, I would’ve killed her myself."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"He means he was an assassin." Riley had her tablet open and was looking at something, "I figured it out ages ago, it's not hard when you have personnel file access."

Jack sighed, "Point is, I haven't killed her myself because I'm about third in line."

"You’re third in line." Bozer repeated faintly.

Jack nodded, completely deadpan, "Mac’s got first dibs for obvious reasons, Murdoc’s second because of boyfriend privileges, I’m third. I figure if neither of them pulls it off, I’ll step in."

"This is the worst day of my life." Bozer felt a sick sense of dread and horror, "Murdoc’s an international terrorist. Mac’s planning homicide. You’re casually admitting you used to kill people for a living and now you're-"

“Fourth.” Riley interjected.

Bozer turned to her slowly, "What?"

"I'm claiming fourth place." She said, crossing her arms, "I mean I'm technically helping with Plan A, but I'm still taking fourth."

Bozer looked at Jack, then Riley, then back again, "You’re ranking murder privileges."

Jack gave him a deeply unhelpful shrug, "You gotta respect the queue."

Bozer stared at the ceiling for a full three seconds hoping maybe god would send him a sign, then when that didn't work out his shoulders slumped and his gaze flicked down, "I just... I just want my best friend back."

Riley flopped on the couch and sighed, "That's the worst part, he is back. If it wasn't for the contract killer draped over him, you'd think you were seeing Mac from three years ago."

Jack made a soft noise of agreement from the kitchen and came back out taking some kind of tablets with a glass of water, "He’s clear headed. Got that focus again. You know that Mac thing he used to get in the field where you couldn’t shake him even if the whole damn op went sideways? The one where he'd still figure out how to crack a joke even if he was real injured"

Bozer didn’t answer, didn’t move. His hands were still curled into fists at his sides, but the panic and anger and fear were draining out of him, "They’re coming here tomorrow?"

"They wanted to wait it out with people they trust." Riley said, too casually to really be casual.

Bozer looked at her, something unreadable in his eyes, "People they trust."

Jack turned around, arms crossed, leaning back against the counter, "It’s not brainwashing, Boze. He’s not a hostage, he's just... Mac. You’ll see it when you see him."

Then Bozer let the last of the tension drop out of his body, "Guess so."

There was a beat of silence where no one moved, the weight of it settling over all three of them.

Jack clapped his hands together once, too loud in the quiet room, "Okay. It’s like one in the morning, and we’re all clearly about five minutes from a collective existential meltdown, so... food?"

Bozer was caught off guard, "What?"

"You guys can crash here. I’ll get some food delivered, we’ll deal with tomorrow when it gets here."

Riley raised an eyebrow, "What’s even open right now?"

"I know a Thai place that delivers until three." Jack pulled his phone out and tapped away, then he looked up at them with a small smile, "Mac told me about it."

Chapter 14: When This House Don't Feel Like Home

Mac

Jack’s apartment looked exactly the same as it had two years ago, warm light spilling out of the living room, the faint smell of coffee baked into the walls, furniture arranged just enough off-kilter to make him suspect Jack had moved things around out of boredom rather than need.

It was weird how something could feel safe before you even stepped inside.

Jack opened the door before they could knock, and Mac was halfway through an easy, Hey stranger smile, hand half-raised to wave at Riley over on the couch, when his brain registered the other person in the room.

Bozer.

Mac froze just inside the doorway, smile dropping, eyes snapping to Jack in the universal what the hell look they’d been using since their twenties before going back to Bozer, "Boze?"

His friend stood up too fast, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. For a half-second Mac thought he might lunge for him, which would’ve been a problem for several reasons, not least of which being the six feet of territorial contract killer standing right behind him.

Murdoc leaned past Mac’s shoulder with a grin so delighted he could feel it without looking, "Oh, look at this. Has the unobservant best friend finally decided to join us in reality? Tell me, Wilt, did you walk here or did someone point you in the right direction?"

Bozer took three steps toward him like he was crossing open water. Then his arms were around Mac, tight, solid, just careful enough to avoid hurting him, and for a second he forgot how to breathe. His body remembered before his brain did, arms wrapping back, the same way they had in high school after bad days, after missions gone wrong, after Mac's grandad had gotten sick.

It was the kind of hug that didn’t ask permission, didn’t offer a choice. You were getting hugged and that was it.

"Glad to have you back, man." Bozer muttered against his shoulder, and Mac could hear the but before it landed. Bozer pulled back just far enough to look at him, hands still on his arms like he might need to keep him there by force, "But also, what the hell, man?"

There it was.

Mac let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, "You’re gonna have to be more specific, Boze."

"More specific than lying to all your friends, shacking up with a known international terrorist, and then showing up looking like..." He made a vague gesture, somewhere between healthy and possessed, "And the fact Riley told me you're- Mac you're going to kill someone."

Mac opened his mouth to respond and immediately felt Murdoc’s hand rest warm and possessive at the small of his back, just enough pressure to remind him who was standing there. Bozer’s eyes flicked down to the contact and then back up, and Mac could see the math happening in his head. The kind of math you couldn’t un-solve once you’d solved it.

A year ago, hell, maybe even a month ago, he’d have eased sideways, smoothed the edges, done the Calm down, this isn’t what it sounds like routine until Bozer could swallow whatever judgment he was choking on. Now? No.

"Boze." Mac said lightly, like they were talking about a busted carburetor, "You know I’m an engineer. I solve problems. Desi’s a problem. This is just a solution with a higher velocity impact."

"It’s one of the things I simply adore about him. Focused. Goal-oriented. Willing to, how did you put it, sunbeam? Apply targeted kinetic force to a vulnerable chassis."

"It’s not murder, it's traffic safety." Riley called out from the corner, "And she deserves to die."

Mac could feel Bozer staring at him, that mix of disbelief and the kind of moral horror people only really felt when they were still deciding whether to forgive you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just didn’t feel the weight of it the way Bozer wanted him to. He’d thought about this for days now, turning it over in the quiet moments between maps and traffic light algorithms and the way Murdoc’s voice dipped when he said her name. Every time he tried to imagine what it would feel like after, after the plan worked, after she was gone, it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t guilt. It was space.

Like clearing out a storage room you didn’t realise was full of dead air until you stepped inside and could finally breathe. Like ending a relationship that had rotted down to obligation. No screaming, no fight, just the slow awareness that when the door closed for the last time you wouldn’t feel anything except lighter.

Murdoc’s hand pressed firmer against his back and before Mac could even drag his attention fully to the present, Murdoc kissed him. Full on the mouth. No flourish, no taunt, just the unmissable, deliberately public kind of kiss that landed like someone planting a flag.

Bozer made a noise halfway between a scoff and a stunned choke.

Mac’s brain did a neat little swan dive from This is my exit strategy for emotional trauma straight into Oh god my murder boyfriend is feeling possessive.

Murdoc pulled back just enough to grin at him like they’d just shared some unspoken joke, eyes bright and utterly unapologetic, "Just making sure no one in the room forgets where your loyalties lie, my darling."

"Yeah, because the subtle territorial display wasn’t obvious enough." Mac groaned, "You couldn't last one minute in public without making it weird could you?"

Jack didn’t even look up from his mug prep, "You two done marking each other for the morning, or should I make an extra pot?"

Riley snorted from the couch, "Make the extra pot. It’s gonna be a long day."

Bozer dragged a hand down his face like he’d just walked into a sitcom that didn’t realise it was a crime drama, "You’re all insane."

"Correct." Riley said, not looking up from her phone, "But we're also all functional."

Jack moved past Mac to pour boiling water into the French press like they weren’t having a debate about whether homicide counted as problem-solving.

"Coffee?" Jack offered, like it was the most logical next step after So you’re going to kill someone.

Bozer sputtered, "Coffee? This is not a coffee moment, this is-"

"A coffee moment." Jack said firmly, sliding a mug toward him, "Trust me, Boze. You want caffeine for this conversation."

Mac eased further into the kitchen on autopilot, drawn in by the smell and the warmth and the way Jack’s apartment still had that same slightly-worn, lived-in comfort it always had. He didn’t miss the way Murdoc shadowed him in, orbit tight, hand still ghosting between his shoulder blades like a reminder. Or a tether.

Bozer was still staring at him like he was trying to recognise a face in an old photo, "Do you even hear yourself right now? The Mac I know doesn’t plan hits-"

"Boze." Jack said, voice just shy of warning, "You want to spend the morning pacing in moral outrage, that’s fine, but you’re not gonna change his mind by breakfast."

"I’m not pacing." Bozer's eyes flicked past Mac, narrowed, and landed squarely on Murdoc, "You’re loving this, aren’t you?"

Murdoc’s smile went feral around the edges, "Oh, Wilt, I’ve been loving this since the moment you threatened me in that parking lot. You remember? You puffed up like a little guard dog, all loyalty and teeth, and told me I didn’t deserve him. And here we are! I got the boy, and it turns out I was right all along."

Bozer’s jaw worked like he was chewing over a dozen responses, each one sharper than the last, "You’re still a psycho."

"Maybe so, but I'm Angus's psycho." Murdoc tilted his head like a cat inspecting a mouse that hasn't realised it's dead yet, "The psycho he trusted to keep him away from you when he was hurt. Because he didn't want your help or your pity."

You could've heard a fucking pin drop.

Of course Murdoc had just lobbed an emotional grenade into the middle of the room for the sheer sport of it. That was half his conversational style, load a truth like a bullet, fire it straight into the most volatile patch of ground, and then stand there looking delighted while everyone scrambled to figure out if they were bleeding. Mac should have been annoyed, he was annoyed. But right behind that was the treacherous, unhelpful urge to grab the front of Murdoc’s shirt and kiss him until the smug burned out of his grin. Or worse until it didn’t.

Bozer’s face had gone tight in that way that meant the words were coming, the ones he couldn’t walk back. Riley glanced between them like she was already calculating whether to stop him or let him swing. Jack kept right on pressing the plunger down on the French press like a man who’d seen this movie too many times and knew the fight scene was going to be in the next act no matter what.

Mac decided he wasn’t giving Murdoc the satisfaction of a follow-up explosion. He slid the nearest mug toward himself, poured, and let the smell of coffee cut through the static in the air, "Thanks for the assist, Murdoc. Nothing like starting the morning with group therapy via landmine."

"Anything for you my darling."

Bozer’s eyes were still locked on Mac, sharp and hurt all at once, "Is that true? You didn’t want us?"

Mac took a sip, let the heat sit on his tongue before he answered, "Gee Bozer, of course I wanted you to see me broken and beaten up and at the lowest emotional point in my life. That would've been great for me emotionally."

Bozer flinched like Mac had slapped him, and for a second Mac almost regretted letting it out with that much bite. Almost.

"Mac..." Bozer started, like he was about to do the wounded friend speech, the I would’ve been there for you if you’d told me one. The same one people always thought was comforting but really just made you feel like a bad person for not performing your pain on their schedule.

Mac cut him off before the guilt could gather momentum, "It’s not about you, Boze!"

That landed like another slap. The room seemed to tilt just slightly, Bozer recoiling, Riley glancing up from her phone, Jack’s stirring spoon clinking against the side of his mug. Murdoc was still, watching him with that faintly predatory calm that meant Go on, sunbeam.

Mac set his coffee down, not because he didn’t want it but because it was hard to keep it steady with the heat crawling up the back of his neck, "You think this is about choosing between you and Murdoc? You think I was sitting there, flipping a coin over whether to come home or stay with my favorite assassin?"

Murdoc made a pleased noise at favorite that Mac deliberately ignored.

"I didn’t choose not to come home. Home wasn’t an option. Not like that." He saw Bozer’s mouth open, probably to argue, but barrelled on before he could, "Because the second you saw what happened, you wouldn’t have seen me, you’d have seen a victim. And you can’t take that back once it’s in your eyes. Once people look at you like that, they never stop. It would always be Poor Mac. I would never be able to earn back Mac the Miracle Worker. It'd be Mac the Victim, or if someone decides to be nice about it Mac the Survivor. As if that one thing gets to define who I am, what I am, my entire life. But it would because that's all I'd be allowed to be ever again."

Bozer’s mouth tightened like he’d just bitten into something sour, but he didn’t speak. Riley set her phone down with a quiet tap, eyes fixed on him now, like she was filing away every word for later.

"You told me I looked like Murdoc. Before they took me away. And I liked it because it is better to be feared than pitied because fear can be turned into something else and Pity. Is. Just. Pity." Mac's hands flexed at his sides, "Do you pity me right now, Bozer?"

Bozer for a second looked like he was going to have a meltdown right then and there, but then all of a sudden he sighed and the fight seemed to go out of him, "No. I’m worried. I’m a little mad. And I’m relieved you’re here. But no, Mac, I don’t feel sorry for you."

It landed better than Mac expected. Not perfect, Bozer still looked like he’d swallowed a live wire, but better. Like maybe, just maybe, they were going to get out of this morning without another screaming match.

"That’s all I wanted." Mac reached across the narrow space between them and held out his hand, palm up, steady. An offer, not a demand.

Bozer hesitated just long enough for Mac to feel the weight of it, then his shoulders eased, and his hand settled into Mac’s like it had a thousand times before. Warm, solid. Familiar.

Mac gave it a single squeeze and let go, "Great, now let’s have brunch and watch my ex get hit by a truck."

The sound Bozer made in response was the exact same one he’d made in high school when Mac first suggested using thermite to get into a locked trunk, equal parts exasperation, disbelief, and the dawning realisation that yes, Mac was serious. Murdoc, of course, was radiating pleased ownership like a goddamn space heater. His hand still hovered at Mac’s back, not pressing now, just there. The tether again. Mac didn’t even have to look at him to feel the smug satisfaction pouring off him in waves. He was loving this, not just the fight itself, but Mac winning the fight. Holding his ground.

The tension in the room seemed to ease as  Jack muttered something about eggs under his breath and turned back toward the stove. Murdoc followed him in like a man who had just been handed the keys to the kingdom, sleeves pushed up, scanning Jack’s counters with the same focus Mac had seen him use on a weapons cache. He didn’t ask if he could help. Of course he didn’t. He just reached past Jack for a frying pan and pulled open the nearest drawer like he’d lived here for years.

Jack glanced sideways, spatula poised mid-air, "You’re not..."

Murdoc was already at the cutting board, chopping capsicum like he was auditioning for a cooking show no sane person would watch.

Jack groaned, "Fine. But you’re not touching the seasoning."

Mac slid onto one of the kitchen stools, letting the mug warm his hands and watching the show. Bozer was still planted beside him, silent, but his head turned just enough to track Murdoc’s every move. Riley had twisted around on the couch, phone in hand, eyebrows drawn together in a look Mac privately translated as What the actual hell.

"Dalton, do you have any fruit?" Murdoc asked without looking up.

Jack blinked, "What?"

"Fruit, Dalton. My Angus prefers sweet breakfasts."

Mac smirked into his coffee at the confused expressions on Riley and Bozer's faces.

Jack actually gave Murdoc a lop-sided conspiratorial grin, "Don't worry I remember. Check in the fridge, I ordered mango sticky rice last night when I was feeding this lot."

Murdoc froze, knife still in hand, and for a second the expression that crossed his face wasn’t the predator-grin he wore like armor. It was dangerous how soft it was, "You did?"

Jack shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, "It's his favorite."

Mac felt something twist low in his chest. Back before Desi, back before things got ugly. 3AM runs for Thai food after long ops. Him and Jack and a city that still felt like home. He didn’t know whether to thank him or change the subject before the nostalgia got teeth. Murdoc didn’t hesitate. He put the knife down, went to the fridge, and retrieved the container like it was treasure. Within seconds, he’d plated it into a bowl with infuriating precision, rearranging slices of mango until they met his invisible standard. Then he crossed the kitchen and set it in front of Mac like an offering.

"Courtesy of Dalton but delivered with adoration." Murdoc said, voice pitched low for him alone. Then, louder, to the room at large, "And no, none of you get any."

Mac arched an eyebrow, but the rice did smell exactly the way he remembered, sweet, coconut-heavy, and sweetened from the mango. He dug in without ceremony. The sticky warmth hit his tongue and for a second he was twenty five again, elbows on Jack’s kitchen counter at two in the morning, running through calculations on a napkin while Jack tried to teach him poker.

"Alright, Riley." He said around a bite, gesturing vaguely with his spoon, "Talk me through the delay window one more time. I want the variance under three seconds, and I don’t want some underpaid city tech wondering why the signal pattern looks like it’s drunk."

Riley perked up immediately, twisting sideways on the couch so she could face him fully, "Already accounted for the normal cycle jitter, and I masked the eastbound fault as a corrupted firmware update. No alarms, no manual ticket. Even if they go digging, it’ll look like a random node misfire."

Mac felt his mouth twitch into a smile that had nothing to do with the mango, "That’s perfect. Ready to trigger when she's in range?"

"Already queued. I just need your final go." Riley sent finger guns in Mac's direction.

Murdoc, from the stove, hummed like he’d just won a bet, "See, Wilt? Look how lovely family brunch can be when you stop hyperventilating over semantics."

Jack slid a plate of eggs onto the counter with a thunk, "It’s not semantics, Murdoc. It’s Bozer trying to wrap his head around the fact that his best friend came home with a boyfriend and a body count."

Mac swallowed another bite of rice, licking coconut from his spoon before deadpanning, "Only one of those is new."

Riley snorted hard enough to choke on her coffee. Bozer stared at him, somewhere between scandalised and reluctantly amused. Jack simply rolled his eyes. And Murdoc? Murdoc looked at Mac with the awe normally reserved for watching the sunrise.

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Desi

Desi didn’t check the clock. She couldn’t.

The only number that mattered was the one climbing on her dashboard, the needle ticking higher with every block.

If she could get to Phoenix, she’d be fine. If she could get through the front doors, past security, into the building where the cameras still worked and the glass walls kept things clean, then she’d be untouchable.

Because if she wasn’t there, if she was still out here, then they could get to her. He could get to her.

Her grip on the wheel tightened until the leather bit into her palms. The streets blurred past, Los Angeles painted in streaks of grey and amber. Every red light felt like a countdown, every yellow a dare. She caught sight of a man in a dark coat on the corner and her heart tripped. She scanned him: black hair, but he was the wrong height. She looked away and back again, and he was gone.

Another figure appeared in the reflection of a shopfront: tall, still, watching. Murdoc’s frame. Or maybe not. Maybe it was no one. Maybe she was losing her goddamn mind.

She couldn’t tell anymore.

The light ahead flipped to amber. She pressed harder on the gas, chest tightening as the car surged forward. If she slowed down, if she stopped, they could close the gap. They could be in the next car over, in the alley to her left, in the crowd waiting to cross. Her eyes flicked to the side street. For a heartbeat, she swore she saw someone. Desi tore her gaze back to the road. The next light turned green just as she hit the intersection. She barely registered it. Her focus tunneled, all she had to do was keep going, keep moving, keep ahead, until Phoenix swallowed her up.

She didn’t notice the way the cross-traffic timing shifted. Didn’t see the SUV rolling into the junction at full speed, the driver glancing at their own green light. She only had time to think, He could be anywhere, before the world went white with impact.

The hit slammed through her car like a hammer through glass. The sound was deafening. Steel folding, glass shattering, something deep and wet cracking inside her chest. Her body whipped sideways, seatbelt biting into her ribs, head snapping against the frame. The airbag blew, smothering her in the smell of scorched chemicals and burnt fabric.

Her ears rang. She couldn’t breathe right, every inhale caught on something sharp, lungs stuttering against the pressure. There was blood in her mouth, metallic and warm. The driver’s side door was crumpled inward, jagged metal where the window used to be. She tried to turn, but her neck screamed in protest. One leg wouldn’t move at all.

Somewhere outside, brakes screamed. Voices called out, too far away, too muffled. Her vision tilted. The streetlight above blurred, its green halo fading into a dirty yellow. She thought she saw someone for a moment. Someone she recognised.

Her chest hitched, but the air wouldn’t come. Then the darkness closed in.

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Murdoc

Murdoc could always tell when Angus had been pacing too long. It wasn’t just the sound, the soft tread over Jack’s uneven floorboards, it was the way his shoulders had gone tight again, the faint protective curl to his body as if the ache in his ribs and the mess of healing muscle in his shoulder had decided to form a conspiracy against him.

He let it go for another twenty seconds, long enough to enjoy the view, the way Angus’s jaw set when he was irritated, the way his hands moved when he was talking to himself in that low, dangerous tone, and then decided he’d indulged it long enough.

"My darling." Murdoc called, leaning back into Jack’s couch like a man expecting service, "Come over here and sit with me before you start undoing all my careful repair work."

Jack’s eyebrow twitched. Riley didn’t look up from her laptop. Bozer looked like he’d bitten into something sour.

Angus shot him that a delightfully flat look, the one halfway between exasperation and reluctant amusement that only Murdoc seemed to be able to bring out of him, but he came anyway. He always did. Murdoc’s hands were already there, catching his hips, guiding him down into his lap with the kind of care that was possession dressed up as comfort.

Across the room, Riley cleared her throat, "EMT’s report just hit the system. She’ll be dead from internal injuries within the next ten hours. Massive hemorrhaging. They’ve already called it non-survivable."

Angus didn’t say anything, but Murdoc could feel the way the tension in his body shifted, not gone, just waiting.

Murdoc tilted his head toward the second laptop propped on the arm of the couch, the one he’d been keeping an eye on all morning. The grainy black-and-white feed flickered with the motion of people entering a hospital room. He smiled, sweet and thin.

"Aww." he drawled, nudging Mac’s chin toward the screen, "Look, her family’s coming to say their goodbyes."

Jack was watching Mac over the rim of his coffee mug. Riley’s gaze was flicking between the screen and Mac’s face. Bozer just stared, like if he looked long enough, the person sitting in Murdoc’s lap might turn back into the best friend he remembered.

But Murdoc wasn’t watching them. He was watching him, the set of his mouth, the subtle shift in his breathing, the precise moment when calculation replaced irritation.

Angus leaned forward a fraction, eyes narrowing at the feed, "They’re not leaving. They’re settling in. Bags on the chairs, jackets off. They’re making themselves comfortable."

Murdoc followed his gaze. Yes, the brother was dragging a chair closer to the bed, the mother fussing with a blanket over Desi’s legs. And the brother... oh, Murdoc knew that face.

"Perfect." Angus muttered, the word bitten in half, "Because what we really needed was three witnesses. And that-"

He jabbed a finger toward the screen "Is her brother. Who’s supposed to be in fucking Missouri. He’s a medical examiner. He’ll see the IV bubble coming from a mile away."

Murdoc’s smile sharpened as the picture came into focus, "Ah. So that’s her play."

"What?" Riley asked without looking away from the screen.

"She called them in." Murdoc said, his tone shifting to that pleasant, almost conversational register as he watched the brother adjust the IV stand, "All the way to L.A. Not to say goodbye, but to tuck them neatly under Phoenix protection... she thought I’d go after them."

Jack’s eyes flicked over from his coffee, "Would you?"

Murdoc grinned like a man with a pocketful of yeses and only one he was willing to spend, "Not today."

Angus sat back slowly, but the line between his brows didn’t smooth. His gaze stayed fixed on the feed like he was tracing a fault line only he could see.

"Plan B is still going to work." He said finally, voice calm in that way that meant it was anything but, "But I’m going with you."

Murdoc stilled. Oh, that was interesting.

Across the room, three heads snapped toward him like he’d just announced he was going to start juggling lit Molotovs.

Riley broke first, "Wait. What?"

Angus didn’t look away from the screen, "I can get them out of the room. All of them. Her mother, her brother, that cousin lurking by the damn door. If I walk in, they’ll follow me out. Even if it’s just to yell. You get your window, you do what you do, and we’re gone before anyone’s the wiser."

Jack’s voice was low, the kind of low that was all spine and warning, "Mac, the hospital’s going to be crawling with Phoenix. You step foot in there, it’s over. They’ll put you in a room and throw away the key."

Angus shook his head, "You’re missing the point. I’m the only one who can actually lure them out. Friends don’t get a private moment with the family to talk about power of attorney. Boyfriends do."

"Do we even know how much she’s told them about... all this?" Bozer gestured vaguely between Angus and Murdoc like he was trying not to picture it. Tragic.

Riley was already pulling her phone toward her, fingers flying over the keys, "Give me a second. No calls to her family in the last week, but... lots of texts. Looks like she never told them about Mac being taken away. According to this, he’s healing slow. She’s been talking about how hard it is to see him like this, and that’s including texts sent after Murdoc decided to commit a massacre at a blacksite."

Murdoc let out a short laugh. Of course she had.

Riley kept scrolling, "Her family came into town last night. She hadn’t gone to see them yet. So no, they’re not up to date. They still think Mac’s a poor, broken victim, heroically trying to recover from his ordeal with Murdoc."

Murdoc hummed, long and satisfied, and slid his hand just a little higher on Angus’s back, "Oh, that’s delicious. They’ll clear the room for you in a heartbeat."

Jack’s jaw was tight. Bozer still looked like he was chewing glass. Riley was already half-smiling like she’d solved the proof on a chalkboard.

Angus finally tore his gaze from the screen, looked at Riley, then Jack, then Bozer, "So, they’re still in the narrative. Still think I’m fragile, traumatised, and desperate for their comfort. Which means all I have to do is walk in there and-"

"-bleed pathetic all over them?” Murdoc supplied cheerfully.

"Bleed pathetic all over them." Angus confirmed, the corner of his mouth twitching, "Shaking, clutching papers, maybe a doctor’s printout. I tell them Jack said I could come instead, but I wanted to do it in person. The second I see her, I start to lose it: I can't see her like that oh noooo."

His hand gestured a vague, trembling retreat, "They follow me into the hallway, Murdoc goes in, puts the bubble in the line, and leaves."

Bozer made a noise like someone had stepped on his foot but didn’t say a word. His eyes stayed on Mac like maybe silence could keep him from making this real.

Jack’s brows went up, and Murdoc caught the spark there. He was impressed, "It’s a solid plan. Clean. Simple. No one sees Murdoc go in. They'll only figure out it was us during the footage review... or if Phoenix catches up."

"Except, we still have to get in and out past the Phoenix guards outside her room. She’s not just in ICU, she’s in our ICU. Whole floor’s on lockdown." Her fingers were already flying over her keyboard, windows popping up on her screen, "I can map you a path around them, but you’ll have maybe sixty seconds between checkpoints."

Jack set his mug down, "Matty’s been blowing up my phone for an hour. I’m already gonna get burned on this op, I can walk you in. Murdoc goes in as a nurse, you as yourself. No one stops a nurse with the right badge and I'll spin some short-term lie about you actually being kept hidden from Murdoc by faking your disappearance. It's shaky but we only need what, ten minutes tops?"

Bozer had gone entirely quiet by this point, just staring despondently into his little coffee cup.

Riley’s keys clicked in staccato, "Sure sounds great. But we need to talk about getting out. You can’t exactly stroll down the visitor elevator after she flatlines. Phoenix will lock the floor down so tight you’ll choke on recycled air before you find the exit."

"Oh, I’ve already thought about that." Murdoc said, as if he were talking about what wine to serve with dinner instead of post-murder egress. He slid one hand up Mac’s spine, felt the way the muscles eased at the contact, "My initial ex-fil plan involved using the vents but between Angus' pre-existing injuries and Dalton's tragically broad shoulders, I doubt that will work here. Luckily, there's more than one way out. I still take my path, but the others will have to take the emergency stairs down to the laundry level." 

"And Dalton." Murdoc added cheerfully, "Can claim to any guards present that you’re securing Angus's emotional safety, they'll buy it. Obviously. Because Jack Dalton prioritising Angus Macgyver is more of a personality trait than a hobby at this point. Then all you have to do is poof down the stairs, out the dock, and off you go." 

Jack’s mouth flattened into something halfway between agreement and resignation, "And you’re confident we can all make it out that easily?"

"Jack, I’ve been killing people in traction so long it's practically an art form." His hand smoothed idly over Angus’s back, fingers brushing the line of his spine, watching as he twitched, trying not to arch into it, "Phoenix will be slow to mobilise, the doctors told them she could die at any time, they'll be too busy watching to see if she gets resuscitated to call it in properly."

Then Angus leaned back just enough to look at Jack, the decision already fixed in his eyes, "You get us in, Riley keeps the path clear, Murdoc goes in after I pull the family out, and we’re gone before they’ve stopped hugging in the hallway."

Jack nodded once, slow, the soldier’s way of signing off on an op, "Ten minutes in and out. Anything past that and we’re burning the plan."

"No, we're improvising." Angus replied. Murdoc could feel the hum under his hands sharpening into focus. It was intoxicating. The same current that ran through Angus in the middle of a build, when the pieces were finally locking together. The same look he’d worn over maps and bombs. That dangerous, radiant mind seemed even more vibrant like this. Of course it wasn't days ahead building a clever little complex plan where his boy scout truly shone, it was this. The eleventh hour, the last minute, piecing together a success from what would otherwise be failure.

Murdoc let his thumb trace a slow, proprietary arc over his lover's hip, "Don’t worry, Angus. By the time we’re done, she won’t have ten hours left to waste."

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Mac

Jack’s voice was pitched low, just shy of classified-briefing, the tone you used when you wanted people to listen and not ask questions.

"This intel is need to know." He told the two guards posted outside the ICU door, "If it gets out Macgyver’s in the building, you’ll be answering to Oversight personally."

Mac kept his head down, chin tucked, shoulders rounded inward like the weight of the power of attorney papers in his hands might fold him in half. They were perfect fakes. Riley’s work, printed on just the right heavy stock so they’d feel important when someone touched them. His fingers dug into the edges anyway, making the paper bow under the pressure.

He didn’t look at the guards. That was the trick. Broken people didn’t meet your eyes, not the kind who’d been dragged into a hospital for the kind of goodbye no one wanted to give. And if you didn’t look, you didn’t see the armed escort, or the fact that one of those escorts was Jack Dalton, moving with that calm, watchful weight that said he’d kill someone if he had to.

"I’m here to talk to her family about medical decisions." Mac made his voice sound choked, "And to... say goodbye."

One of the guards shifted, the faint squeak of his boot on the polished floor cutting through the ICU hum. The other glanced at the papers in Mac’s hands, scanning the heading without actually reading it. The pity landed exactly where Mac wanted it to, right in their eyes. It struck him that this was an agent he recognised, someone he pulled out of the radius of a shrapnel mine moments before it'd gone off.

"Go on." The first guard said, softer now, "We’ll keep the hall clear."

The latch clicked, and the door swung open. Cold, recycled air brushed against Mac’s face, sharp with the tang of antiseptic and the low mechanical hiss of oxygen lines. He stepped inside, every motion calibrated to look hesitant, like he might change his mind at any second. They looked up immediately, Desi's mother, her father, and her brother. All the same expressions: weary, defensive, and just a little wary.

Mac very suddenly remembered that he'd never met these people except over the phone, some random face-time calls here and there that Desi had showed him off on. They were seeing him for the first time in person, and he made sure they saw exactly what they expected. Pale. Tired. Shoulders caving inward like the air in here was too heavy to breathe.

"Mac." Mrs. Nguyen said, her voice breaking on the single syllable.

They saw him as a stranger, and he needed them to see him as something else entirely. The Nguyens were about to lose a daughter, it became incredibly clear that pity alone wouldn’t peel them out of the room. He had to give them something bigger to cling to. Something urgent enough to drag them into the hallway.

Mac let his gaze sweep over them like it cost him, the pale hospital light catching on the shadows under his eyes, the hollow angles he’d honed in the mirror before they came in. He let the corners of his mouth pull down, shoulders curling tighter, as if the sight of Desi in that bed had just punched the air out of him.

"I..." He started, and let the word break in half. His grip on the papers tightened until the edge bit into his thumb, "I have all her legal documents. Her will, her medical directives, everything. But they put me in protective custody because of..."

He let the sentence die, eyes flicking toward the floor like he was stuck seeing something he couldn't handle. Desi’s mother was already halfway to standing, her brother glanced at the papers, at the official letterhead Riley had mocked up, then back at Mac.

 "...what happened." He finished weakly, as if forcing the words through his teeth hurt, "I can’t sign for her anymore. If I could be here without risking it I would but... You need to take this. Both of you."

He held the papers out like they weighed a hundred pounds, hands trembling just enough to make them look difficult to keep steady. The protective-custody line had landed, he could see it in the brother’s eyes, the quick flicker to the door like he was imagining what it would be like to be the one hunted instead. He himself look at Desi in the bed and the breath he dragged in felt too sharp in his chest. It wasn’t just the act anymore, not entirely.

The oxygen mask fogged faintly with each of Desi’s shallow breaths. Tubes snaked from her arms into clear bags, the monitors throwing up green peaks that felt too steady for what he wanted. But it was the bruises that caught him. A dark bloom along her cheekbone, fractured and ugly where the airbag must've caught her. Her shoulder was angled wrong under the blanket, not quite sitting in its socket, the fabric shifting just enough when the ventilator made her chest rise. The same shoulder she’d wrenched on him. The same pain he’d carried for weeks.

Sheer luck had kept her alive through the impact, and somehow sheer luck again had done... this.

It was almost poetic enough to distract him from the part where he needed to keep the Nguyens moving toward the door. But it looks like something about his expression had made them less urgent to be there. Mrs. Nguyen’s hand closed over the edge of the papers, careful like she was afraid they’d crumble before she did. Her husband moved closer, looking over her shoulder at the forged signatures and seals.

"Can we do this outside?" Mac added, letting a tremor slide into his voice, one he didn’t have to fake, "I can’t... I can’t do this in here." 

She rose, gathering her coat tighter around her shoulders as if she’d just realised how cold the room was. Her husband followed, one hand hovering at her back, steering her toward the door. The brother lingered just a beat longer, eyes resting on Desi like he was memorising the shape of her breathing, before he moved too.

They filed into the hallway with Mac at their side, the door clicking shut behind them, the mechanical hiss of the ventilator cutting off like a switch had been thrown. Out here, the air was just hospital air, recycled, over-bright, smelling faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee from some nurse’s abandoned cup.

"Out here’s fine." Mac said quietly, the words almost swallowed by the hum of the ICU. He offered the papers out again, letting his shoulders round further, body folding in like this conversation was costing him.

Mrs. Nguyen’s hands were shaking. Whether it was from cold or the weight of the papers, Mac couldn’t tell, but it worked for him either way. The brother stepped closer, scanning the first page with a clinical efficiency that didn’t quite hide the tightness in his jaw.

"You’ll want to sign over to me." Mrs. Nguyen said softly, but there was an edge to it. Not unkind, decisive. Behind her Mac could see a tall nurse with black hair and pale skin, Murdoc, give him a cheerful little wave before slipping into Desi's room.

The brother was already nodding, folding his arms across his chest, slipping into that professional cadence Mac had heard a hundred doctors use, "You’ll need two witnesses. One can be Dad. I can be the other, I can witness statutory declarations in this state."

Perfect. Everyone in the hallway, heads down, attention locked on the shuffle of papers between them. The clipboard Jack had pressed into Mac’s hands earlier appeared like it had always been there, pen clipped neatly to the top.

Mac loosened his grip, just enough for Mrs. Nguyen to take the stack, "Okay. Let’s get it done."

They clustered tighter, a little island in the corridor. The scratch of Mac's pen on paper was louder than it should have been. Mrs. Nguyen hovered for a moment over the signature block before she signed with a flourish that trembled at the edges. The witnesses had just finished their signatures when the sound started.

The ventilator alarm went first, a sharp, high-pitched wail that sliced through the low hum of ICU noise. It was joined half a heartbeat later by the flatline from the heart monitor, the two sounds layering into a single, urgent scream that turned every head in the corridor.

It started as a change in rhythm. A hitch in the steady, artificial whoosh of the ventilator.

Mac didn’t move. Didn’t even look toward the door. He knew better than to break the spell while the Nguyens were still bent over the clipboard. Then the rest of it came in fast, the monitor’s steady green peaks stuttering, the first sharp, electronic shriek from the heart-rate alarm, the ventilator’s hiss cutting short into a clipped, irregular gasp.

Mrs. Nguyen’s head snapped up, "Something’s wrong-"

Her husband was already moving, shoving the clipboard into Mac’s chest without even looking at him. The brother was two steps ahead, the stat-witness calm gone, every stride eating up the distance back to the door. The ICU swallowed them one by one, the alarms screaming louder as the door swung open. Mac caught a flash of Desi’s body jerking against the restraints, the rise and fall of her chest uneven, desperate, and then Jack’s bulk filled his peripheral.

"Come on." Jack’s voice was low, urgent. One hand on Mac’s elbow, turning him away before anyone thought to look back.

Mac let himself be steered, letting the clipboard hang loose in his grip. The Nguyens didn’t notice them go; their backs were to the hall, clustered tight around the bed, blocking the view entirely. By the time they cleared the end of the corridor, the alarms had become part of the air itself, a constant, wailing backdrop to the clipped shouts of medical staff rushing in.

And Murdoc must have already been gone. Not a single black hair left out of place. Somewhere above the tiles, in the narrow, dust-lined crawlspace, he’d be grinning to himself, listening to the chaos below as the air bubble did exactly what it was meant to. Mac didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The sound of the alarms chasing them down the hall was enough.

Stairs, two flights down, then through short hallway that smelled like bleach and laundry starch. The laundry dock’s rolling door was already half-up, letting in the cool slap of LA air and the faint diesel rumble of trucks on the next street over. Jack kept the pace steady, not rushed, just three people with somewhere to be and no interest in hospital coffee. The guards at the dock were too busy signing in a linen delivery to even register them as a problem. By the time they hit the edge of the lot, the alarms were nothing but a memory swallowed by distance.

Jack’s truck sat where they’d left it, tucked into the corner where the shadow from the next building bled over the hood. The passenger-side back door was already cracked open.

Murdoc was inside. Still in scrubs, still in the surgical cap, lounging across the bench seat like he’d been poured there, one leg stretched out, the other bent just enough to brace against the door. He looked, god help Mac's sanity, like he was auditioning for Undercover Assassin’s Monthly, all lazy recline and smug satisfaction.

"Do you like it?" He asked, voice sweet as anything, as he plucked the cap off and shook out his hair like a shampoo commercial, leaving it messy and falling into his eyes, "I call this my angel of mercy look."

Mac knew exactly what that meant, not the biblical kind of angel, but the other kind, the one who decided for you when it was time to die. And god help him, it shouldn’t have been hot. It really shouldn’t have been hot. But here he was, still running on adrenaline, staring at Murdoc like the alarms from the ICU had rewired his brain.

Jack glanced in the rearview, caught Mac hesitating, and rolled his eyes so hard he looked like he was going to give himself a stroke.

Mac chose to slide in beside him, abandoning Jack to the front seat alone. Murdoc’s arm came up instantly, hooking across the backrest, casual as you please, but his hand settled lightly against Mac’s shoulder, not shoving, not pinning, just there. Like a tether. Like he’d been waiting for him to get in so he could breathe again.

Jack didn’t say a word as they pulled away from the hospital, just merged into traffic with that steady, deliberate confidence that kept cops from looking twice.

Mac couldn’t stop watching the rearview until the glass-and-concrete bulk of the building was gone. Only then did he let out a breath that felt like it had been wedged under his ribs for weeks.

It hit him all at once. Not the sterile machinery scream of the alarms, not the way the Nguyens had folded toward the bed like gravity itself had shifted, but the knowledge underneath all of it. That it was done. That Desi was gone. He tried to keep it quiet, tried to keep it contained, but the edges frayed faster than he could hold them. Words tumbled out before he could stop them, half-formed, overlapping, every thought jagged and sharp in his mouth:

“She’s gone..." Mac swallowed, "She can’t hurt me again, she can’t twist it, she can't hurt anyone again. I'm-"

It cracked, splintered, and turned into something else entirely. Not grief. Not shock. Relief. Bone-deep, all-consuming relief that left his chest feeling hollow and weightless. The first laugh tore through his throat by accident, choked and wet, and before he could tell if it was actually a laugh or just the wrong kind of sob, Murdoc’s hand curled against his shoulder and pulled. Mac didn’t resist. Didn’t think. Just folded sideways into him until his forehead hit the curve of Murdoc’s neck.

The smell of him, vanilla syrup over clean cotton and the faint bite of antiseptic from the scrubs, was grounding in a way that made the rest of it spill out. Mac’s breath hitched hard, and then he was sobbing. Not broken, not raw, but like every knot inside him had just been cut loose. The kind of sobbing that shook his shoulders but left him lighter with every inhale.

Murdoc didn’t say anything. Just tightened the arm around him and let him have it, thumb moving slow against the back of his neck. Mac’s mouth brushed fabric, skin, then the line of Murdoc’s jaw before he even realised he’d moved. And then he was kissing him, quick at first, almost clumsy, and then firmer, surer, the relief translating itself into something molten and certain. Murdoc caught it without hesitation, cupping his face like it was the most natural reaction in the world to murder.

"Mac, I'm really happy for you." Jack’s voice cut in from the front, dry as sandpaper, "But for fucks sakes, stop making out in the backseat."

Mac pulled back just enough to laugh, a real laugh this time, bright and unbroken, the kind that left him breathless but buzzing, "Sorry Jack."

Murdoc’s eyes caught the sound like it was a gift, his smile blooming slow and wide, besotted and unbearably pleased.

Chapter 15: This Tired Old Machine Is A-Rumblin'

Notes:

I'm soooo back.

Murdoc

Murdoc took the stairs like they were nothing, weight light on each riser, already mapping the echoes, the blind spots, the way the banister could take a body if it needed to. It should have been just another hallway, another building, another unremarkable slice of architecture, but Angus was in front of him, and that meant the whole world was doing that trick again where it narrowed down to one person and everything else became set dressing.

Jack went first, keys in hand, shoulders squared in that habitual I'm-not-worried-but-I'm-ready way that made him a useful buffer. Angus followed, one hand skimming the wall as though he was just steadying himself on autopilot. Murdoc brought up the rear, which he always liked best. It gave him the view. The line of the blond's back under the jacket, the curve of his neck where a bruise was just barely fading, the soft bounce of blond hair with every step.

He could still taste him.

The last ten minutes in the car had lodged themselves under Murdoc's ribs like shrapnel he never planned to remove. Angus collapsing against him, breath shaking apart in his chest, and then that kiss. Long, sweet, easy. Landing like he had finally decided there was no one else worth reaching for.

Murdoc had killed for less. He'd killed for nothing, for boredom and the satisfaction of watching cause and effect unfold exactly the way he'd calculated. But this? This he'd killed for and would again, without hesitation, not just because Desi's death was necessary, but for the collapse, for the feeling of Angus safe, laughing through the catharsis of knowing he can never be hurt again.

"Almost there, hoss." Jack threw over his shoulder without looking back, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Angus didn't answer. His breathing was even enough, a little too controlled if Murdoc was honest, and that was how he knew. Third step on every flight, the blond's left foot landed just slightly slower. Fourth step from the top, his shoulder tightened, the bad one, the one Desi had wrenched out of position hard enough to set the pain deep. It wasn't visible if you weren't looking for it.

Murdoc was.

He saw the way the blond's hand flattened against the wall for just one heartbeat too long, fingers splaying like they were stretching the ache out without drawing attention. He saw the micro-twitch at the corner of his mouth, something that might have been a grimace if Angus hadn't slammed a mask over it years ago. He saw the weight shift in his hips, the tiny adjustment that spared his ribs a jolt at the cost of putting more pressure on his thigh.

Oh, sunshine.

There it was, that warm, mean little curl of possessiveness in his stomach. Not the ugly kind. He never wanted Angus to hurt, not anymore anyway. It was the opposite. He just wanted to be the only one who was allowed to see it. He wanted it in the way he wanted fingerprints on glass and names carved into bone. The secret map of a body only he could read.

He closed the distance by half a step, fingers brushing the hem of Angus's jacket like it was an accident. Angus didn't pull away, permission in their language. Murdoc slid his hand up, palm firm and warm at the small of his back just below the ribs.

Angus glanced at him with an expression that told Murdoc he knew exactly what the assassin was doing and made a quiet, breathy huff that might have been annoyance if it hadn't been followed by the almost-imperceptible way his weight shifted back, just enough for Murdoc to take some of the strain.

From Jack's perspective, if he bothered to look, it would just be Murdoc being handsy. Which, to be fair was entirely in character.

"God can you two at least wait until we get inside before you get clingy." Jack tossed over his shoulder, as if the complaint had been waiting in his throat.

Murdoc smiled, sharp and sweet, "Jealousy doesn't suit you, Dalton."

Jack muttered something under his breath that might have been a prayer and took the last few steps a little faster. Murdoc was about to make some devastating comment about the sanctity of stairwell fondling when Jack's shoulders went rigid.

He stopped so abruptly that they nearly walked into him.

Murdoc heard it a moment later, beneath the buzzing of fluorescent light, Angus' breathing, and the traffic noise outside, was the muffled sound of raised voices on the other side of the door. Not the TV, it was too sharp. Voices hitting that particular pitch that meant someone was either about to cry or commit a felony.

Jack's hand went to his hip before his brain finished the thought. The familiar scrape of leather, the glint of matte black as he pulled his gun free. It was all one motion, instinctive as breathing.

Murdoc's fingers were already closing around his own weapon before the adrenaline had time to fully bloom. The comforting weight of it slid into his palm, the metal cool and ready. His heart didn't even bother to speed up, it just narrowed his focus.

He angled his body to move in first, "Evil before beauty, sunshine."

It was automatic, the urge to put himself between Angus and the unknown. Not because he thought Jack couldn't handle it, Jack was irritatingly competent, but because if something ugly was waiting on the other side of that door, Murdoc wanted it to go through him first. That was his job now. Monster, shield, scalpel. Whatever shape the situation demanded, he'd wear it, as long as Angus stayed intact.

But the boy scout didn't move. Didn't even flinch. He turned his head just enough that Murdoc could see the line of his jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth.

"No." He whispered back, tone knife-clean, "You go behind me."

"Really? We're doing this now?" Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.

Murdoc's fingers flexed on the grip of his gun, "Angus."

"If it's bad, they shoot me first." Angus hissed, voice still barely more than breath, "They hesitate before they shoot me. They don't hesitate with you. Get behind me."

It was obscene, the rush that went through him. Oh, he hated it. Hated the calculus of it, the way Angus was weighing his own body against Murdoc's odds of getting out with the kind of purity that could have stripped paint. But god, he loved the principle. Because under all the logic, under the ruthless accuracy of Angus's assessment, there was that instinct. Not Phoenix's, not Oversight's. Angus' stupid good self-sacrificing instinct to protect people even if it hurt him, and that instinct was aimed at Murdoc.

"Stop being dramatic." Jack said flatly, "It's my apartment, I'm going first."

Jack huffed something that sounded like a curse and pushed the door open with his shoulder, gun up in that tidy, textbook sweep that must've made every federal instructor who'd ever met him proud.

The first thing that hit Murdoc wasn't the sight, it was the sound. Matilda's voice, already at full burn, cut off mid-tirade, "-you two are going to tell me right now what the hell has been going on in this apartment or-"

She broke off like someone had yanked the plug.

The tableau was almost theatrical. Matilda stood in the middle of Jack's living room, blazer unbuttoned, arms crossed. Riley and Bozer were on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, both with the wide-eyed, faintly scorched look of people who had been under sustained interrogation for some time and were starting to wonder if they'd ever be allowed to blink again.

Jack's television was still dark. Even the room seemed to be holding its breath.

Murdoc could only imagine what they looked like. Jack, arm fully extended, sights already on Matilda's center mass. Angus, just inside the threshold, curls mussed from where Murdoc's fingers had been, eyes too bright. And then Murdoc, a half-step behind his sunshine, gun loose but ready at his side.

God they must make a striking pair.

Matilda's gaze tracked along the barrel of Jack's gun, up his arm, then slid past him like he was a minor inconvenience. It snagged on Angus and caught there, hard, taking in the living, breathing contradiction of a man she had personally signed off on sedating and disappearing less than twenty-four hours ago.

Her eyes narrowed. Her mouth did something complicated.

Angus, to his eternal credit, didn't flinch. He just took in the room, and said, in that perfect dry way he used to when Murdoc would threaten him, "Well... I guess the cat's out of the bag."

Murdoc's mouth was already moving before his better judgment, what little of it he had, could catch up.

"Oh, I don't know,. he said lightly, stepping just far enough into the doorway that the lamplight caught the edge of his smile, "I think the cat has been out of the bag for quite some time. I'm fairly sure it moved in, rearranged the furniture, and started drinking your coffee, Director."

He felt it more than saw it, the tiny shift in Angus' posture beside him, the subtle drag of muscle at the corner of his jaw. An eye-roll so practiced it didn't even need the actual eyes.

Murdoc savoured it.

Because that was new too, wasn't it? There had been a time when that eye-roll had come sharpened with fear, with defiance, with the brittle edge of a man trying not to break. Now it was something softer. Familiar. Irritated and fond in equal measure.

He would kill for that, too.

"Jack." Matilda said, very calmly, very precisely, "You're pointing a gun at me."

Jack blinked, as if only just realising his arm was still extended. He lowered the weapon slowly, safety clicking on with a little resigned snap, "Sorry, Matty. Occupational hazard."

Her gaze cut from him to Murdoc in one clean motion, then back to Mac. The boy scout who was definitely not in a medically induced coma, definitely not in a blacksite, and definitely standing very much upright in Jack's doorway looking good. Clear-eyed. Alive in a way he hadn't been for months.

"I should have known after the blacksite." Matilda said finally, each word landing like a nail in a coffin that wasn't quite closed, "Phoenix operatives don't vanish into thin air, and Murdoc wouldn't tear down a deprogramming centre for you if you were telling the truth."

Ah. There it was. A woman who could do pattern recognition.

"You're a better liar than I gave you credit for." Matilda added, something like reluctant respect and deeply unwilling fury braided together.

Angus put a hand to his heart and gave the smallest, neatest bow Murdoc had ever seen outside of theatre.

"Thank you." He said sweetly, "I do my best."

Murdoc clapped once, delighted, "He's a prodigy, isn't he? I keep telling you people that, but do you listen? No. You drug him and ship him off to be lobotomised. Terrible pedagogy."

Matilda's eyes cut to him, sharp as broken glass, "You slaughtered an entire facility."

"Details." Murdoc waved a hand, "If they wanted to live, they shouldn't have taken my boyfriend."

He felt Angus flinch at the word more in muscle than movement, a little electric jolt that ran up his spine and settled warm in Murdoc's chest. Boyfriend.

Matilda's gaze swept over all of them again, settling like crosshairs and audit reports rolled into one. Jack, standing too close to Murdoc for this to be some kind of hostage rescue. Riley and Bozer, very much not tied to chairs, very much not gagged, looking guilty in a way that screamed voluntary treason. Angus, calm and upright and leaning ever so subtly into the touch at his back.

Then, very calmly, she asked, "Do any of you know where Desiree is right now?"

The room shifted. Riley's fingers tightened around her phone. Bozer's shoulders went rigid. Jack's jaw clicked.

Angus didn't miss a beat, "In hospital. Everybody here knows she's in hospital. I'm the one who put her there."

Riley's head whipped toward him, "Mac!"

Bozer actually threw a hand up like he was trying to block the words from reaching Matilda, "Dude, you cannot just say that in front of-"

"Trust me." Angus cut in, not even looking away from Matilda, "If she hasn't already put it together, she'll figure it out from the security footage of Murdoc killing her while Jack and I distracted her family in the hallway."

There. There it was. Sharp, clean, merciless. Murdoc felt something inside him purr.

Matilda's expression didn't change much, but he saw the tiny exhale, the way she closed her eyes for half a second like she was updating a file in her head. The box labelled Macgyver had just been moved. The box labelled Murdoc was leaking.

Murdoc couldn't help himself. He beamed.

"Oh, Angus." He crooned, stepping a fraction closer like he was being pulled into orbit, "You make it sound so transactional. While you and Jack distracted her family. As if that wasn't the most exquisite part."

Riley made a strangled sound, "Please don't-"

"No, no, let him." Angus muttered, but there was a ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth, "He'll say it anyway if you try to stop him, and it's better to just get used to him making it weird."

Murdoc spread his hands, saintly, "I mean really, Director. Imagine it. A daughter's last breath, slipping away not in some lonely, empty room but in the middle of a crowded ICU. Her own blood standing ten feet away, signing the papers that say yes, it's time to let go. It's practically poetic. Like being killed by gravity while everyone's too busy looking at the stars."

"Murdoc." Jack warned.

He ignored him.

"And the best part is that it was never really about me at all." Murdoc went on, voice dropping into something soft and delighted, "I didn't choose her street. I didn't pick the time. I didn't move the lights. I'm just the lucky man that Angus trusted to finish what he started."

He tilted his head, and sighed wistfully, "If that's not love I don't know what is."

Bozer looked half sick, half horrified, "Do you hear yourself?"

"Oh, all the time." Murdoc replied, "It's very entertaining."

Matilda's eyes had gone flat. Not shocked. Not scandalised. Just calculating. He could almost see the branches spooling out in her mind: how many laws, how many protocols, how many ways this could go wrong if she moved too fast.

"You're all admitting to conspiracy to commit murder." She said finally, tone almost conversational, "In front of the director of a federal intelligence agency."

Riley snorted without meaning to, then winced, "With respect, Matty if we're already at murder, I don't think adding conspiracy to the list is really going to be what sinks us."

Murdoc actually clapped, delighted, "See? This is why I've always liked you, Riley. You have such a refreshing grasp on scale."

Matilda's gaze cut to her, then to Bozer, then back to Jack, "You realise I should arrest all of you right now."

"You realise you can't." The assassin smiled when he said it, like he'd been waiting all morning for this exact line, like Christmas had arrived early and wrapped itself in government-grade wool and Matilda Webber's spine.

Matilda's gaze snapped to him, sharp enough to cut, "And why is that?"

Murdoc shifted his weight, letting his hand settle back to its familiar place at the small of Angus's back. Not pushing, not pulling. Just there. A reminder. A guarantee.

"Because I'll kill you." He said pleasantly.

Jack's fingers twitched where they'd locked onto the edge of the kitchen counter. Riley went very still, which was her version of alarm. Bozer's eyes went wide, mouth opening like he wanted to argue on principle and couldn't quite find the words.

Matilda just looked at him. Took him in. He saw the roll call pass behind her eyes: known kill count, prior escape history, footage from that blacksite painted in arterial red.

"Do you really believe," Murdoc went on, tone still maddeningly civilized, "That you could stop me?"

He let the question hang, then spread his hands in a gesture that took in the whole room, "That anybody here could stop me?"

Matilda's chin lifted a fraction, "You certainly seem confident."

"I have data." Murdoc shrugged, "You sent an entire operation to contain me. It ended with you needing a mop. You shipped Angus off to your little brainwashing spa, and I walked him out over a floor of corpses. You are a very smart woman, Matilda, but are you willing to bet your intellect against someone like me."

She didn't blink, "If I die, three people replace me by the end of the week. The machine doesn't stop, Murdoc. It consumes you regardless."

He almost laughed.

"I don't need Phoenix to stop." Murdoc replied, tipping his head, watching the little flex in her jaw, "I just need it to be slower than me."

He meant it. He could see it so clearly, her dropping where she stood, that surprised little widening of the eyes, Jack shouting her name like it mattered, Riley scrambling for a tourniquet that wouldn't help, Bozer's horror. Angus turning into him, hot and shaking and alive, thanking him with his hands in Murdoc's hair for cutting off one more pair of strings.

His fingers had already found the hilt of the knife in his coat before he registered the motion, the familiar press of leather and steel against his palm. The scrubs under the fabric rustled faintly, a reminder of exactly where he'd been while Matilda was pushing paper and clicking her tongue over clean little reports.

All it would take was one step and a straight line.

He shifted his weight forward-

"Murdoc." Angus' hand was warm on his arm, "I still need her for something."

It was ridiculous how fast that worked. Need.

Oh, he hated that word when it came from other people. When it came from bureaucrats and clients and men with too much money and not enough imagination. But for Angus, the knife stayed in the coat.

"Pack up. It's time to go." Angus said, louder this time, for the room. Riley had been stuffing electronics into her backpack she'd lost Matilda's attention.

Murdoc let his fingers ease off the hilt, flexing his hand once to bleed off the tension. Her throat was still right there, inviting in that infuriating way people had when they thought they were untouchable. But Angus had asked and Murdoc had always promised himself that if there was one leash he'd accept, it would be the one he'd wrapped around his wrists himself. He stepped back half a pace, just enough to make it clear he was standing down. For now.

Matilda saw it. Of course she did. Her eyes flicked from Murdoc's coat, to Angus's hand on his arm, and something cold and amused slid into place in her expression, eyes still calculating.

Jack went to the cabinet in the corner, "Boze, go grab the duffel bags out from under the bed in my room, both of them."

"Y- yeah you got it." Bozer practically tripped over himself on his way out of the room.

"Well." She tilted her head, "That's… instructive."

"Instructive?" Angus echoed questioningly.

"I always thought that you were meant to be this bloodthirsty wildcard." Matilda's gaze locked sharp on Murdoc like she was pinning him to a slide, "Tell me, do you sit this quickly for everyone who scratches behind your ears? Or is this just what being Mac's pet looks like?"

For a heartbeat, Murdoc didn't hear the room.

He heard concrete, he heard fluorescents buzzing in a ceiling with no corners, cuffs clinking, that particular metallic whisper they made when you shifted just enough to remind your nerves they still existed. The bland bureaucratic cadence of men who introduced themselves as handlers and commanding officers, but never as people. He heard laughter as he's hired by men too rich to care what they're paying for, the taste of metal from biting his tongue instead of ripping theirs out. Under it all, Amber's voice layered over it, sweet as rot.

You're beautiful when you obey, baby. You're so much easier when you just do what you're told.

Asset. Containment subject. Prisoner. Contractor. Pet.

Murdoc didn't remember deciding to move. One second he was standing with Angus's hand warm on his arm, and the next the world had narrowed down to a single point in space: the hollow at the base of Matilda's throat. The part of his brain that looked after angles and force and timing was delighted.

He lunged. It would have been neat, just a clear red line across her throat, one soft surprised sound and then silence and arterial spray on Jack's ugly rug. He could already see the way her eyes would widen, just once, at the precise moment she realised the world didn't bend to her after all-

"Murdoc!"

The hand on his arm pulled. He'd forgotten, for half a second, that Angus was still holding onto him. That his boy scout had wrapped fingers around his sleeve to lean into him.

Angus jerked back hard, all that righteous stupid strength coming through one arm and a battered shoulder. It wasn't enough to stop him, not really. Murdoc was stronger and already committed, momentum pulling him forward like gravity. But it was enough to ruin the line.

His foot slipped on the stupid rug, his balance went, weight pitching forward. There was a moment of airbourne suspense in which Murdoc's mind cleared enough to think Oh, this is going to be undignified, then the floor came up and hit him in the chest hard enough that his ribs protested, he made an ugly wheezing sound he would deny until the end of time. The knife skipped across the rug, spinning once before hitting the leg of Jack's coffee table.

And then there was weight.

Angus came down on top of him, all elbows and knees and startled breath, landing sprawled across Murdoc's back. For a heartbeat, all he registered was the ridiculous intimacy of it: his chest against cheap floorboards, his boy scout draped over him like an overly dramatic backpack, the warmth of him seeping through two layers of fabric and one entirely avoidable tactical mistake.

"Fuck-" Angus breathed, a hand braced to the side of one of Murdoc's shoulders, clearly trying not to crush him, which was sweet, if unnecessary.

It would have been funny if it weren't for the fact that Murdoc could still see Matilda Webber's shoes from this angle. His eyes dragged upward, along pressed black slacks, up the line of her body, and he met her gaze from the floor.

If looks could kill, there wouldn't be enough of her left for Phoenix to bury.

She was staring at them with something between horror and calculation, like she'd just watched a tiger try to take her throat out and someone had managed to jam a steel door in its jaws. Her right hand, the one that had been hanging loose at her side, started to move. Not fast. Not jerky. Just a slow, casual drift toward the back of her waistband. The kind of motion that said I'm not a threat while screaming I'm about to be.

Murdoc saw it. From the goddamn floor, cheek pressed to the boards, Angus draped over his back, he saw the way her fingers curled.

There was the sharp, unmistakable click of a safety clicking off, "Don't."

Jack's voice had gone flat and dangerous, all the warmth stripped out of it. When Murdoc craned his neck, just enough, he saw the barrel of Jack's gun trained squarely on Matilda. Two hands, steady stance. No hesitation.

"Hands where I can see them, Matty." Jack said, "Right now."

Her hand stopped. Then, with deliberate care, she raised both arms, palms forward.

"Jack." She said, in that terribly calm way she had when she was about to flay someone with administrative process instead of bullets, "You are pointing a firearm at your commanding officer."

"Yeah well consider this my letter of resignation." Jack replied, "I like you alive, Matty, but I'm not above shooting you in the leg if you get stupid."

"Matty." Riley said gently, "I'm just going to take that, okay?"

She didn't wait for permission. Matilda's weapon was tucked into the back of her waistband, and Riley plucked it free with quick, precise fingers and stepped back, out of reach.

"Sorry, Matty." Jack said quietly, and for quick as a flash he moved in and flipped the grip of the gun to cracked the butt of the pistol against the side of her head with a sharp, efficient motion that would have made any field instructor proud. The sound was a dull, solid thunk, bone meeting composite in a way that was deeply satisfying. The director's eyes rolled back, consciousness dropping out of her like someone had flicked a switch. Her knees buckled and she went down hard, dead weight and good intentions hitting Jack's ugly rug.

The adrenaline haze in Murdoc's head was clearing, sounds and sensations trickling back into awareness one by one, and the first thing he clocked was the noise Angus made.

A breath punched out of him, sharp and strangled, followed by a low, bitten-off groan. Not the offended little huffs he gave when Murdoc was being dramatic. This was wet and involuntary, dragged out of him by something that lived under bone.

Murdoc pushed up on his hands, ribs lodging a mild complaint at the sudden movement, and twisted to look.

Angus was half-curled on his side beside him, one hand braced on the floor, the other clamped over his ribs. His face had gone white around the edges, a thin sheen of sweat already starting along his hairline. His bad shoulder was twisted just enough that Murdoc wanted to kill gravity.

"Sunshine." Murdoc's voice came out sharper than he intended, "Talk to me."

"I'm fine." Angus lied, posture stiff in what was a sure sign he was not fine, "Just moved wrong. Ribs don't like being a crash mat, turns out."

He tried to push himself upright and his breath hitched, muscles in his jaw jumping as he swallowed the sound.

Matilda was unconscious. Breathing, unfortunately. Bozer was frozen in the doorway with the duffels, Riley looked like she'd just watched a live grenade bounce off the coffee table, and Jack was halfway between going for Murdoc and going for Matty's pulse.

Murdoc triaged on instinct.

"Dalton." He said slowly, not taking his eyes off Angus, "You and the children go on ahead."

Jack stared at him like he'd grown a second head, "Excuse me?"

Murdoc twisted just enough to bare his teeth at him, "Take Matilda's gun, take your duffels, take Riley and Bozer, and get to the meet point. Angus and I will follow in my car."

Riley shifted, eyes darting between Angus's hand on his ribs and Murdoc's expression.

Angus sucked in a breath, tried again to sit up, and this time managed it, barely, "Jack, we'll meet you there. I promise."

Bozer opened his mouth, "Mac, are you sure, because you look-"

"Like I might be a minute getting up and we're gonna need to take two cars anyway." Angus said flatly, "Go, I'll be fine."

The trio filed out in a stumbling little procession, trying not to look at Matilda and failing. Jack was the last one through, hand on the doorframe, eyes flicking between Murdoc and Mac. There was a question there. Are you sure?

Murdoc rolled his eyes, "We're not going to have sex in front of your unconscious boss, Dalton. Go."

Angus made a face like he'd just been force-fed bleach, "Why are you like this."

Jack, blessedly, did not ask for clarification. He just muttered something that sounded a lot like, I'm not dealing with this and vanished out the door, pulling it shut behind him with a solid, final click.

The apartment went quiet.

For half a heartbeat, Murdoc didn't move. The silence pressed in on his ears, and with it came the sharp, nauseating little thought he'd been keeping at bay with bravado and threats and internal promises of future violence.

I got him hurt.

If he hadn't gone for Matilda's throat, Angus wouldn't have had to tackle him. Wouldn't have twisted mid-air to land first. Wouldn't be sitting there, white-knuckled and sweating, fingers dug into his ribs where Desi's handiwork had already carved purple into bone.

If Angus decided, right now, that this was too far, that Murdoc equalled pain and all of this wasn't worth it then… Murdoc had absolutely no idea what he would do, and that alone was terrifying.

He turned his head, slow, like any sudden movement might send the moment one way or another, "My darling, I…"

He didn't get any further.

Angus exhaled all at once, a shuddering, wrecked sound, and folded sideways as if someone had cut his strings. Murdoc barely had time to open his arms before he had an armful of boy scout. The blond slumped into him, all warm weight and shaking muscles, his good shoulder thudding against Murdoc's chest, his face tucking into the space between Murdoc's neck and collarbone like it was rehearsed.

"Fuck." Angus breathed against his skin, one hand fisting in the assassin's shirt, the other still hovering uselessly over his ribs, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

Murdoc stared at him for a beat, brain doing the equivalent of a hard reboot.

"Am I-" He repeated faintly, then found his footing and his tone in the same breath, "Sunshine, I hit the floor and you have still managed to injure yourself more than me. I'm annoyingly healthy. You, on the other hand, are leaking pain onto my shirt."

Angus huffed a tiny, miserable laugh, then groaned when the movement tugged at his ribs, "Yeah, well. Poor life choices. Add it to the pile."

Murdoc's hands finally remembered what they were for. One slid around Mac's back, palm spreading warm over the line of his spine, careful to avoid the worst of the bruising. The other settled over his ribs, fingers splayed, measuring the rise and fall of each breath.

"Deep breath." He ordered, voice gone soft and clinical, "Slow. In. Out. Tell me if anything feels like it's moving that shouldn't be. Other than your terrible sense of self-preservation."

He obeyed, because of course he did. There was a faint hitch halfway through the inhale, a sharp little staccato catch under Murdoc's palm that told him exactly where the worst of it was, but the structure held.

"Nothing new. Just… louder." Angus turned his head just enough that Murdoc could feel warm skin against his throat, "Thanks for getting them out of here. I did not have it in me for the full Concern Chorus."

Murdoc's mouth curled, teeth flashing for no one but the crown of Angus's head, "Of course, my darling. If anyone is going to fuss over you until you squirm, it's going to be me."

"Really? Now?" Angus groaned, then added, quieter, "Seriously though. I appreciate you making them leave."

Murdoc tilted his head, chin brushing damp hair, "Because you didn't want them to see you hurt? Or because you wanted me all to yourself?"

"Both."

Murdoc's heart did something deeply undignified in his chest. He let that possessive warmth swell, didn't bother to hide it, didn't even try to tamp it down. Why should he? Angus Macgyver, miracle worker, golden boy, man the agencies would kill to keep intact, was choosing to bleed in his arms instead of anyone else's. He got the shaking breaths, the bitten-off curses, the moment where the mask slipped and the pain came through.

He stroked his thumb slowly along the edge of a bruise, just enough pressure to soothe, not enough to harm, "Good. I want every version of you. Laughing, plotting, telling me that you love me while I redecorate in red. It seems only fair I also get the sad kitten version."

"Sad kitten?" Angus wheezed, but there was a thin, hysterical little laugh tangled into it.

"Mm, because you're adorable but still able to scratch my eyes out if you wanted to." Murdoc grinned against his hair, lowering his voice into something indulgent and awful, "I enjoy knowing you could hurt me and choose not to. It makes my ribs feel very cherished."

"You're so fucked up." Mac muttered, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he let more of his weight sink in, as if his body had decided it was done pretending it wasn't screaming.

Murdoc let himself hold him a little tighter at that. Carefully, just enough to keep his boy scout where he belonged, cradled in his lap, not enough to jostle the bruise he knew was blooming under the shirt. His hand stayed right where it was over Angus's ribs, feeling every breath, cataloguing every hitch so he could punish himself with the memory later if he felt like self-flagellation.

"Are you sure." He said after a beat, "That you don't hate me just a little bit?"

Angus huffed against his throat, the sound hot and damp, "For what, almost killing my boss or making my ribs mad at me?"

"Both." Murdoc said lightly, too lightly, "Primarily the second. The first was, I think we can both agree, deeply satisfying."

He felt the mini-flinch at the word hate and despised how much it mattered.

Angus was quiet for a moment, his pulse evening out under Murdoc's palm, the edge of shock smoothing down into something slower.

"If I was going to hate you, I've got much better reasons." The blond said slowly, "I don't get to be mad at you for tackling a problem the way you always do and then forgetting I was built out of duct tape."

Murdoc's mouth twitched, relief knifing through him so fast it almost hurt, "Oh, my darling, you are built out of titanium and spite. The duct tape is purely aesthetic."

"Murdoc."

"Yes, my love?"

"Shut up."

Murdoc felt completely unrepentant. He'd take being told to shut up over being pushed away any day. The boy scout could bruise his ribs, scramble his balance, ruin his clean kill line and Murdoc would call it foreplay if it meant Angus was still choosing him in the aftermath.

He let the silence sit a little longer, just breathing with him. In. Out. Soft drag of cotton, faint antiseptic tang under the usual coffee-vanilla. Matilda's body on the floor was already background scenery. She would wake up eventually. Or someone would find her.

The important thing right now though was that Angus's breathing had stopped hitching and settled into that rhythm that meant his brain had stopped screaming and started thinking again. Murdoc could feel it in the way his fingers loosened slightly in his shirt and clenched in time with thoughts instead of pain.

"All right." He said finally, "We should probably get moving before the director stops playing dead."

"That'd be awkward." Angus huffed something that was half a laugh, half a wince, and pushed his hand weakly against Murdoc's chest, "...I'm gonna need a little help on the stairs."

The way he said it made something ugly and protective unfurl in Murdoc's chest all over again. The assassin smiled, "Of course, my darling."

Murdoc shifted his grip, one arm sliding firmly behind his shoulders, the other sweeping under his knees. He stood in one smooth motion, lifting his boy scout clean off the couch like he weighed nothing at all. Angus' startled little inhale hit the base of his throat.

"Murdoc." Angus protested, hands flying to his shoulders on instinct, "I didn't mean pick me up."

"I know, my darling." Murdoc felt satisfaction curling through his chest, "This part is for me."

Angus made a face at him that would have been more effective if he weren't half-cradled in his arms like some sort of morally compromised bride, "You are impossible."

"And you are portable." Murdoc said cheerfully, tightening his hold the tiniest fraction, careful to keep Angus's ribs pressed against his chest instead of dangling, "It's one of your many charms."

Angus' fingers curled in the fabric of Murdoc's shirt as he ducked through the doorway, the frail little lobby feeling suddenly far too small and satisfying, "You realise if Jack sees this, he's never going to let us live it down."

"Oh, I hope he does." Murdoc purred, kicking the apartment door closed behind them, "It will be good for him to understand that I'm the one who gets to hold you when you can't pretend you're not in pain."

The stairwell gaped below them, concrete and echoes and a banister that had seen better days. Murdoc adjusted his grip automatically, forearm braced along Mac's spine, other hand locking just above the back of his knees. He could feel every flinch his boy scout didn't let show on his face as they took the first few steps.

Angus clenched his jaw, breath catching once when Murdoc's boot clipped a riser and sent a mild jolt up his frame, "Okay, yeah, I'm officially glad I'm not doing this upright."

"See?" Murdoc said, smug and soft all at once, "My way is better. It usually is."

"Murdoc I swear to god if you say I told you so while I'm being carried like an invalid, I will make you sleep on the couch." The blond muttered, but he didn't loosen his grip.

"So spiteful, Angus."

He took the stairs slower than he had on the way up, not from caution for himself, he could have sprinted them blindfolded, but to savor the moment. They hit the ground floor and the air changed, cooler, full of distant street noise and the faint, stale scent of the building's shared laundry. Murdoc shouldered open the exit door with his hip, tightening his grip as the shift in angle made Mac's body adjust against him.

Outside, Jack's truck was already gone. Good. Let them hurry to the meet and gnaw their fingernails down wondering if Murdoc had decided to adopt homicide as a hobby again in their absence.

His car sat where he'd left it, he carried Angus all the way to the passenger side before he let himself stop.

"All right, precious cargo." He announced, lowering him carefully until his boots touched concrete, "Down you go. Try not to swoon, I'd have to catch you again and then you might not want me to let you go."

Angus rolled his eyes so hard Murdoc was surprised they didn't fall out, but he held onto Murdoc's sleeve a moment longer anyway, "You are unbearable."

"And yet, here you are." The assassin opened the car door and hovered, willing to help him in it was necessary.

His gaze flicked up to Murdoc's, and he gave a half-smile, "Yeah. Here I am."

Murdoc heard the click of the door shutting rounded the hood, slid into the driver's seat, and for a moment just watched him. Angus had his head tipped back against the rest, eyes closed, hand resting over his ribs like he'd forgotten it was still there.

"Seatbelt." Murdoc sing-songed, "Or I'm not making you coffee tomorrow morning."

Angus cracked one eye open, narrowed it at him, and very slowly, very carefully, dragged the belt across his body, "You are not allowed to weaponise coffee."

"Incorrect." Murdoc started the engine, the purr of it humming through the frame, "I am allowed to weaponise anything you let me touch."

Angus made a noise that could have meant anything and turned his head to look out the window instead. They pulled away from the curb, fell into the slow churn of traffic that didn't yet know one of its own had died for crossing the wrong man.

For a few blocks, the only sound was the engine and their breathing.

The assassin let it stretch, then glanced sideways, catching the way Angus's fingers were drumming absently on his thigh now instead of his ribs. Not anxious. Thinking.

"You're quiet." Murdoc said, which for him counted as gentle inquiry, "Tell me what you're building in there, my love. I can hear the gears turning from here."

The blond smiled, eyes flicking over to meet his own, "You really want to know?"

"I always want to know what you're planning, my darling." Murdoc felt his heartrate kick up with interest, "It's like listening to music. The murdering-people-in-power kind of music, but still."

Angus huffed, some hybrid noise between a scoff and a breathy laugh, "Okay. So. Right now, Phoenix thinks this is a mess of bad choices, poor judgment, and you being yourself."

"Accurate." Murdoc agreed pleasantly.

"But we don't have to leave it that way." Angus turned more fully towards him, bracing his elbow on the edge of the door, that clever light sharpening, "We can make it look like a pattern."

There it was.

Murdoc eased off the accelerator just enough that conversation could stretch into the spaces between streetlights, "Go on, sunshine. Tell me how you're going to lie to God and make him pay for the privilege."

"They need a story." Angus continued, "Something that makes sense of all the bits that don't add up. Me falling apart. Desi. You. The blacksite. Oversight rocking up to personally juice me. Matty going along with it."

"Because obviously, people are more comfortable with a conspiracy than the truth."

Angus's mouth twitched, "Why believe a messy truth when you can believe an elegant lie?"

"Here's what they're going to believe." He contiued, "Oversight and Matty were corrupt. Not in the cartoon sense, no moustache-twirling, just quiet. Controlled. They've been using Phoenix to run their own side game. The usual stuff: black ops off the books, asset manipulation, whatever scares the right people most."

Murdoc laughed, low and delighted, "Darling, you're going to fabricate a shadow cabal out of your father and your boss."

"Yes." Angus said simply, "They're perfect for it. Oversight is an old ghost who abandoned his own son and then, as you put it, sent me on suicide missions for years. Matty's the scary director with too much latitude and not enough oversight… no pun intended."

"No, no, keep the pun." Murdoc said, "It'll make the auditors twitch."

Angus ignored him, but the corner of his mouth betrayed that he'd found it at least a little bit funny, "So somehow, and we'll workshop that part later, I find out. That's our starting point, me figuring out what they're doing and putting it together."

"Then they panic because their favourite toy figured out what game they're playing."

"Yeah." Angus shrugged, then winced as his shoulder objected, biting the inside of his cheek until the muscle spasm fluttered out and Murdoc had to physically restrain himself from pulling over and checking it, "So what do they do? They don't pull me off the board, I'm too useful, I'm downright necessary, people would ask too many questions if Phoenix's favorite spy stops showing up for work. They keep me on, but they keep me scared. Who do they use for that?"

Murdoc smiled, sharp and slow, "Desiree."

"Exactly." Mac's fingers tightened on his thigh, like he was feeling the pattern click into place as he spoke, "They get Desi to lean on me. At first it's just pressure. Intimidation. Reminders that Phoenix can ruin me if I step out of line. But it escalates, because that's what this kind of thing always does. Threats, then shoves, then bruises."

Murdoc's hand flexed on the wheel. He forced it flat again, nails biting into vinyl instead of his own palm.

"In this story, it's not just that my performance drops because I'm anxious or burned out." Angus went on, eyes bright and hard now, "It's because I'm worried that every mission I'm on is secretly to do with the corruption."

His voice stayed level, but Murdoc felt the words in his own ribs.

"That's why I started hesitating." Angus continued, "Why missions started going sideways. And when they see it happening Oversight pushes Matty, Matty pushes Desi, Desi hits me."

He shifted in his seat, pulling in a shallower breath, "So. The night of the argument. Desi storms out of my house. In this story, it's because I told her I have proof, and that I'm taking it to the Secretary of Defense."

"The whistleblower act." Murdoc purred, "I like it. Very civilised."

"She panics." Angus said, "We already know how that part plays out. She hits me. Kicks me. Breaks my ribs and wrecks my shoulder to make sure I understand exactly what happens if I follow through. Then she leaves, because she thinks I can't move, or because she thinks she scared me enough."

Murdoc remembered that living room. The way Angus had been folded around his own pain on the floor. The silence after Desi's footsteps had faded. He felt his own smile go thin, "It's a believable scene."

The blond's eyes flicker with something before getting more excited, "Then there's you."

"My favourite part." Murdoc said lightly, even as something in his chest tightened.

"Instead of just showing up at the best or worst possible moment." Angus leaned his head back against the rest, lips quirking, "See, Murdoc's file has that little note. The one that says the Phoenix asset he hates most is Matilda Webber."

"Oh, I like that annotation." Murdoc said, pleased, "One of the few things your people ever got right."

"So, since the next annotation down is Obsessive Fixation on Angus Macgyver, I use it." Angus's smile turned razor-edged, "I call you. Back when Desi's intimidation is just starting. I tell you I've got something you'll want, proof that Matty and Oversight are dirty. I tell you that if things go south, I'll send a signal and you come get the evidence, and me, if I'm still alive."

Murdoc's fingers tightened on the wheel, just enough to make the leather creak.

"Oh, Angus." He breathed, "You romantic."

"Yeah, that's what this is. Flowers, chocolates, calling my favourite attempted assassin for backup." The blond rolled his eyes, "Anyway, in this little story. I text you the signal as soon as things go south. You're already watching, you're already close, because you hate Matty enough to be curious. You show up just as Desi's leaving. You get me out. You grab the proof on the way. Clean, efficient, plausible."

"Deeply flattering." Murdoc said adoringly. He wanted to carve it into the walls of Phoenix, frankly. A brass plate in the lobby: WHEN MACGYVER COULDN'T TRUST ANYONE ELSE, HE CALLED MURDOC. The thought put a pleasant little fizz under his tongue.

Angus's hand resumed its rhythm on his thigh, tapping out a precise little pattern, "Everything after that is just them trying to kill us or put us away quietly."

"Do go on, sunshine."

"I get taken in, I have to lie through my teeth to make sure Phoenix doesn't throw me in a blacksite, Jack helps out. You get another kill order." Angus said, voice going lighter instead of heavier, which was how Murdoc knew he was having fun, "They can't say the quiet part out loud, that you rescued their favourite asset from their pet attack dog, so they have to take it for now."

The blond continued on, building momentum, "Then they send me to that facility. But in the narrative we give them, not because I snapped, but because I know too much and they finally make an excuse. You and Jack kept me away from Oversight long enough that he had to change tactics. They drug me, ship me off to the brainwashing spa, and hope they can scrub the truth out before I wake up."

Murdoc hummed, low and pleased, "You make them sound so quaint when you put it like that."

The blond glanced sideways, eyes bright in the dashboard glow, "We don't have to prove any of this. We just have to make it fit better than the version where everyone was just reacting all the time with the fulcrum being human emotions."

"So in the version we sell," Murdoc said, catching on faster than he'd admit out loud, "You play to your reputation inside the intelligence agency: the good uncorruptable boy scout. And I play to my old reputation, the pre-Phoenix one, the efficient highly skilled contractor, not the unkillable insane wildcard."

Angus grinned, "Exactly."

"What about the blacksite?" He asked, because he wanted to hear it from Angus's lips, "Because as much as I enjoy being known for a little light mass murder, it doesn't exactly scream Intelligence community's boy scout and unlikely ally fighting corruption."

The blond's eyes lit up in a way that bright, sharp, dangerous glimmer. The I have solved a problem and I'm brilliant way, "The only recoverable data was what Riley got, and she scrubbed it from the system. Right now it only looks like you massacred a building because I was missing and you threatened them in Latin, but that's not your M.O."

Murdoc's thoughts stuttered and started drawing love hearts in air as he drove, "My darling… Are you telling me you've analysed my past hits?"

"For starters, you've never used Latin before." Angus replied, smug, "Not once in almost a decade. Your thing is showtunes and nonsense. Riddles and musicals. Not Virgil."

Oh, that was obscene in how much he liked it.

Angus knew his patterns. Not the agencies, not Matilda, not Oversight. Angus. And now he was going to stand in front of them and explain Murdoc like a lecture on physics, with that steady voice and those capable hands, and they were going to listen.

"And then there's the other part, you've never broken in or out of anywhere and left a mess. The highest kill count on a facility was 3 guards killed with a razor blade." Angus continued, clearly pleased, "We tell them you broke in quietly. Killed the guard in my room yourself, snuck me out. The massacre? Cleanup job. Oversight's people trying to tidy up loose ends after you made them look incompetent and made them scared they'd lose their brainwashing centre."

Murdoc laughed, delighted, "You're going to say they frame me?"

"Right now the only people who know what really happened are in this car. This whole thing's a fiction held together with fear and paperwork."

"Fear, paperwork, and my reputation. Which you are now kindly repurposing."

The thought sat in his chest with a hot, possessive weight. Angus was going to take the monster they'd made of him on paper and twist it, wring his dossier out like a rag until it said what Angus needed it to say.

Murdoc wanted to kiss him until his lips bruised just for the idea.

"And once they believe all that." Murdoc prompted, "I'm guessing you intend to rip Phoenix leadership out by the roots?"

Angus's eyes glittered, "Exactly"

"I love when you talk gardening, Angus." Murdoc said, absolutely sincere, "I want to know which weeds to fertilise with their bones."

"I'm not even gonna say it." He muttered, then continued anyway, "Matty and Oversight are the rot in our narrative. So when everything comes out, they're the ones who get thrown in a blacksite, not us."

Murdoc could see it now: James MacGyver and Matilda Webber escorted into some deep, anonymous hole in the ground. There would be no need for him to lift a finger. Angus would walk them in with his evidence and righteous little face, and the machine would eat them.

It was almost arousing.

Angus went on, "We give them a whistleblower case. A pretty one. Brave agent discovers corruption. Gets intimidated, abused, saved by a rogue asset, found, loyal friend recently returned from overseas assignment tries to keep him safe, he gets shipped off to be brainwashed, saved by the rogue asset again, and the rest is history."

The assassin's grip on the wheel tightened and eased, a slow pulse of arousal and pride. His boy scout, tailoring him a part like a bespoke suit, cutting the fabric of his monstrous reputation and stitching it into something useful. For Angus. It made something territorial and ugly and worshipful curl under his tongue.

"And Matilda and James." Murdoc prompted, because he wanted to hear it out loud, "What happens to them in this little morality play?"

"They're the rot." Angus said, so calmly it made Murdoc's teeth ache with delight, "The ones at the top who abused their positions and their people. When this comes out, they don't get internal discipline. They get disappeared. Quiet blacksites. No access, no oversight, no clearance to talk about it without admitting it happened. They become the cautionary tale."

Murdoc exhaled, slow, savoring the image like a good vintage. James Macgyver and Matilda Webber swallowed by the same kind of hole they'd tried to throw Angus into, except this time nobody was coming for them. The machine turning on its own bones.

"You see why I needed her breathing." Angus added, rolling his head against the headrest to look at him, "If they replace Matty with someone external, someone clean, before I lay this out? I lose my leverage. I can't seed the story from inside Phoenix if the person I'm accusing is already gone. They'll write it off as sour grapes."

Murdoc bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile, "So you left your director unconscious on Jack's carpet because you need her in the chair when you light the match."

"Exactly."

He said it like he was explaining the steps of building a bomb. Of course he did. This was just chemistry on a larger scale. Pressure, container, ignition point.

"But if you tell the government every level of Phoenix's upper ranks is corrupt…" Murdoc let the words spool out slow, watching Angus from the corner of his eye, "When the dust settles, they'll shut Phoenix down. They'll cut out the infection by amputating the limb. No more humanitarian missions for your enrichment, no more fun missions for me to interfere with."

It came out a touch more petulant than he'd meant, but honestly, he was allowed. He was envisioning years of entertainment going up in bureaucratic smoke.

Angus didn't flinch. He just stared out the windshield for a moment, watching the city slide by, then lifted one shoulder in the faintest shrug.

"Yeah. That's the part I'm… working on." He admitted, "I don't exactly want to go work for another alphabet soup that's just as bad, just with a different logo. I am not interested in being re-assigned like a piece of equipment."

Murdoc hummed, low in his chest, "No, you're mine."

It slipped out before he could dress it up, but he didn't regret it. He watched Angus' fingers pause mid-tap, felt the air in the car tighten for a heartbeat.

"And since you're mine," Murdoc continued, breezing past it like he hadn't just said something that made his own pulse kick, "We can't just let some other agency swallow you up like carrion. There's always private contracting."

Angus turned his head, giving him that sideways look, half sharp, half amused, "Are you asking me to go freelance with you?"

Murdoc shook his head, "Oh, no, my darling. You're so much better than that."

"I'm an assassin." He went on, happily damning himself, "I kill for money and for fun, you on the other hand have your heart on your sleeve, and I love that about you. I adore that you don't want to be like me. I'd be horrified if you did."

Angus snorted, though a bit of the tension slipped out of his shoulders, "Yeah. Me too."

"So no." Murdoc said, "I'm not trying to drag you into my hobby. No, you'll figure it out, you always do. You take scrap metal and bad intentions and somehow turn it into miracles. Besides, I already get the most important parts of you."

"Which parts?" Angus asked warily.

"The part where I get to keep you, the part where you're mine." Murdoc said, "For the quiet moments as well as the loud ones."

"I love you too." The blond said softly.

Murdoc's hands tightened fractionally on the wheel, just enough that the leather sighed. For all the worlds he'd broken open, all the bones he'd cracked and throats he'd slit, those four words hit harder than any of it. It was absurd, really, that love you too could feel like being gutted and saved in the same breath.

He let the silence stretch, just long enough to taste it. Then he smiled and turned the car off the main road, headlights cutting through the dark as the city began to give way to trees.

"Good." Murdoc said softly, voice low and smug in that way only he could make sound like reverence, "I'd be put out if you didn't."

Angus huffed as if the idea was amusing, then settled in as the road hummed under the tires and the night closed in around them.