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The smell of fish is overwhelming as Mac cautiously steps through the abandoned cannery. Every little noise is amplified inside the place, which ironically reminds him very much of a giant aluminum can like the kind they use here. The wind rattles the walls and he has to resist the urge to jump every time old machinery or floorboards creak.
Murdoc’s really outdone himself with the creep factor here. Although Mac would’ve thought that the smell would be as off-putting to the assassin as it was to him. If this has to do with shitty fish puns, Mac swears to God, he’ll–
“Mac?”
“Bozer?”
“Mac!”
“Bozer! I’m coming, don’t worry! Did he hurt you?”
“Surprisingly enough, no. Well, he hit me a couple times, but otherwise, no.”
“Son of a–” Mac mutters through ground teeth, but then he hears that godforsaken tune and stiffens. In his head, he tries to calculate Murdoc’s approximate position based off of the building’s size, the speed of sound, the properties of the cheap metal this place is built fro–
He wheels around just in time to see Murdoc, grinning madly, swoop in and hit him in the chest. No, wait, he didn’t hit him…
As Murdoc tackles him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him, Mac realizes that he’s stabbed him.
No, that’s not right either.
He looks down and can’t help but gasp, less in pain and more so in disbelief when he sees a hook embedded in his shoulder.
“What the–?” he wheezes, still trying to catch his breath as the pain of being knocked over and, apparently, impaled, begins to compound.
Murdoc kneels over him, pinning him down with one arm across his chest as the other digs the hook in deep and Mac can’t help but clench his eyes shut and cry out. “Hook, line, and sinker!” Murdoc giggles, picking himself up.
“Mac!” he hears a panicked Bozer cry from somewhere else in the cannery. He doesn’t have the voice to call back and assure him he’s –well, he’s not fine , but…
“Seriously?” Mac coughs. “Fish puns?”
“Couldn’t help myself,” Murdoc says, still laughing. “I knew Wilt was the perfect –well, bait – to get you here.”
Groaning, Mac reaches up and wraps his hands around the hook, ready to pull it out and suffer the surely blackout inducing consequences. But Murdoc’s booted foot grinds down on top of his hands and the hook, simultaneously crushing his hands and driving the hook in deeper. He groans loudly, biting back a scream.
“Ah, ah, ah, Boy Scout. I don’t catch and release.”
He rolls his eyes and groans. “If you’re about to make more fish puns, just spare me and kill me now.”
Murdoc tuts. “Oh, no, we’re just getting started! Don’t rush me, MacGyver!” With that, he steps away, out of Mac’s view, and before Mac can even try once more to pull the hook out, he feels the line –shit, there’s a line – pulling taught and the hook digging in and the pressure in his shoulder growing…
And then all at once, he’s hoisted up into the air.
Mac scrambles to find a grip with his hands on the line in order to hold himself up and take some of the weight off his shoulder. Murdoc yanks the line a few more times, bringing him up a good five to ten feet off the floor. Each time, Mac’s grip falters and the hook jabs into the meat of his shoulder and causes spots to dance in front of his eyes.
“Leave him alone, you sick motherfucker!” he hears Bozer scream from somewhere far, far away.
“Oh, but the sounds he makes are just so delicious !” Murdoc cries back, sounding absolutely giddy.
Sounds? Right, he’s probably screaming.
No, he’s definitely screaming. There’s no way he isn’t.
Unless he’s already gone hoarse from it?
“They say there’s plenty of fish in the sea, but there’s none quite like you, MacGyver.”
Mac sucks in a shaking breath and looks skyward. He closes his eyes and tries to steady his breathing to fight the pain.
He isn’t sure how long he’s been hanging here. Only moments, surely. Maybe minutes, but it feels like hours. His arms are shaking, but he forces himself to keep holding onto the line, pulling himself up, in order to minimize the pain and damage that the hook is causing.
But just when he thinks he’s figured out a system to keep himself conscious and control the pain, a hand pulls at his feet and tugs. A yelp escapes past his lips.
Don’t let go. Don’t let go, he desperately tells himself, blinking away the dark and strange constellations dancing across his field of vision. His arms shake, but he clings to the line like his life depends on it. And, well, it kind of does.
Even so, the hook claws deeper into his flesh and the strain increases. Mac whimpers, gripping the line with white and shaky knuckles. He doesn’t realize until after Murdoc speaks again that it’s because the psychopath has begun to slowly twist him around by his feet, increasing the tension. Mac fixes his eyes on the cable above him, clenching his jaw and heaving breaths in and out. His hands are getting sweaty and clammy, making it harder to hold on. Don’t let go.
“Go on, Boy Scout, don’t hold back on me now! Let it out!”
Mac would very much like to tell him to fuck off, but it’s either mouth off to Murdoc or try not to black out. And he really needs to not do that, if not for his own sake then for Bozer’s.
Stay awake.
Stay calm.
Stay quiet.
Don’t give Murdoc the satisfaction. Don’t give Bozer the nightmare fuel or the guilt.
Panting, Mac focuses every bit of his attention not on the fucking lunatic below, but on keeping himself in line with the hook so it doesn’t dig into him as he turns like a goddamn rotisserie chicken.
He can hear the way his best friend’s voice breaks as he calls out, trying even in his own overwhelming fear to comfort Mac. “Mac! Hold on, man, the team’s comin’ for us, okay?”
Mac closes his eyes and sighs, feeling a pang of guilt. This’ll traumatize the poor guy forever. He’d do anything to spare Boze from it.
“Ugh, don’t you just hate it when the parents come to pick you up and you’re not ready for the fun to end?” Murdoc calls up to him with a petulant huff. “We’ll just really have to make our time left together count, then, won’t we?”
If Phoenix doesn’t ruin the ‘fun’, Mac himself certainly will by passing out. He’s close, he can tell. Too much experience. He feels the familiar lightheadedness, the ringing in his ears, the tunneling vision.
“–just yet, Boy Scout,” Murdoc’s voice suddenly floats up to him, distant and tinny. Also not a good sign. Not just because of the quality of the sound, but also because Mac’s apparently missed something he said. Murdoc jostles his leg.
Mac scrunches his eyes closed and bites down on his lip, but not before a small yelp slips out. He hears Murdoc laugh.
“These are the most exquisite sounds I’ve rendered from you yet, Angus.”
God, what he’d give to punch Murdoc in the fucking jaw right now. But even if he weren’t hanging like a sliced pig on a meat rack in a butcher’s shop, Mac knows he wouldn’t be able to do it. He’s all cold and sweaty and his extremities are starting to go numb. He keeps flexing his fingers around the cable to keep the blood flowing, but it also makes his grasp slip.
His breathing, though, is by far the most concerning. The harsh and shallow breaths are only making him feel even more breathless with each inhalation.
C’mon, Mac, count it out, he tells himself, although his inner voice strangely sounds a lot like Jack. Le’s go, hoss. In, 2, 3, 4–
“ MacGyyyyyyyver !” Murdoc sings, breaking Mac’s concentration. “I can see you retreating into that big brain of yours! Very rude to ignore me when I’ve made such an effort for us to spend time together!”
Mac gazes skyward, closes his eyes, and begins again. That’s it, bud, you’re doin’ good. Now hold it for 4–
His eyes snap open as he feels Murdoc take hold of his ankles and tug them back. His heart hammers in his chest and his stomach roils as he realizes what Murdoc’s about to do and that there’s absolutely nothing he can do to stop it.
As soon as he has Mac pulled far enough back, he gives a push and–
Pain rips through his shoulder, he feels his fingers slip, and then everything goes dark.
The next thing he’s aware of is a hand slapping his cheek.
“ MacGyyyyyyyyverrrrrrr , wakey wakey!” a familiarly distressing voice sings.
Mac can’t help but wish for the darkness to swallow him again. He’d much rather be there than here, still with Murdoc.
“I know you’re in there, Boy Scout. Rise and shine!”
And then he gives Mac a brutal slap that sends his face smacking into the concrete beneath him.
Wait…concrete?
As he comes back to himself, Mac realizes he’s no longer suspended in the air but lying on the floor again. He can’t help but be a little relieved.
Groaning, Mac begrudgingly opens his eyes and squints up at Murdoc who wears a delighted, twisted grin. His dark eyes gleam with a sick, primal satisfaction.
“Feel free to doze off in a moment, darling. Just wanted to say ta-ta before I go! I look forward to our next play date.”
He gets up, having been straddling him up until now (and Mac shudders to think about just how long it was between Murdoc taking him down and waiting for him to come around), and then blows him a fucking kiss .
Mac stares after him, horrified and bewildered and most of all, wishing he could run after him and kick his ass for hurting his friend before locking him up in a dim, dank cell where he belongs to rot.
But Mac barely has the strength to keep his eyes open, let alone get up off the floor and give chase.
“Mac, he gone?” Bozer asks.
He tries to answer, but when he takes a deep breath it turns into a hacking cough that short circuits his brain for a hot minute. He lets out a pained whine.
“Mac? You still with me, man?”
He knows not answering is only going to make Bozer’s panic skyrocket, but he just doesn’t have the strength to answer.
About five minutes later, he hears car doors slamming, harried footsteps, and voices. “Mac? Bozer?”
“Jack! We’re here!” he hears Bozer call out from the other end of the cannery.
They find Boze first, as he’s closer to where they entered and also because he’s able to actually call to them and tell them where he is. Mac listens, relief flooding him even as he begins to shiver. Ah, that would be the shock setting in.
If he had the strength and the voice to call out, he would, but his throat feels raw and every breath is a labor as he fights to just stay conscious. All he can do is lay there and wait, hearing their voices and footsteps get closer until finally–
“Oh my God,” Desi mutters.
“Holy shit,” Riley gasps.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ skin the bastard!” Jack seethes as he drops to his knees beside Mac and clasps one of his clammy hands in his. “Shit, kid, hold on. We got a medical team right behind us.”
“Do we have to keep that–that hook in him?” a shaken Riley asks.
“Unfortunately, yeah. We could do more damage trying to remove it ourselves,” says Desi from somewhere above his head. Mac’s faintly aware of the sound of cutting. She must be cutting the hook from the line so the medics can more quickly get to work on him.
She’s extremely careful, but the line still tugs at the hook a few times and makes him flinch, suck in a sharp breath.
“I’m so sorry, Mac.”
“‘S okay,” he thinks he tells her.
“Hey, man, don’t talk. Your throat must be killin’ you,” says Bozer from somewhere up above him.
“Just focus on me, bud,” says Jack, tone as soothing as always. Mac squeezes his hand as tightly as he can, eyelids fluttering as he searches for his partner’s face. “There ya go,” he helpfully announces once they do. “It’s okay now, I gotcha, Mac. I gotcha,” Jack says as he carefully pulls Mac’s head into his lap and brushes damp hair clear back from his forehead.
He hums at the comforting and familiar touch, eyes sliding shut.
“C’mon, man, don’t close your eyes yet!”
Bozer’s panicked voice cuts through the sleepy haze falling over him sharp enough that Mac pries his heavy lids back open a sliver. “‘m tired,” he mumbles, or so he thinks. It probably just sounds like an unintelligible, whiny groan.
“I know, bud. You can sleep in a minute, but Boze is right. Just stay with us ‘til the medics get here, can you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
“Atta boy,” Jack says with a warm smile. Mac lazily smiles back.
As another group of hasty footsteps approach, Mac figures he’s waited long enough. His eyes slip close as he feels himself lifted gingerly up onto a stretcher and strapped in.
The last thing he feels before the pain and the exhaustion pull him under is the sweep of a calloused thumb across the back of his hand.
“I’ll be here when ya wake up, hoss.”