Chapter Text
“...all I’m saying is if the Mrs. Skywalker was really dead at the end of Revenge of the Sith, Jedi Magic was the reason Leia could remember her mother, then why couldn’t Luke?”
The comm in Mac’s ear squelches as if a punctuation at the end of Jack’s long-winded rambling, and he winces, tugging at the device but not breaking his stride through the corridors of the embassy. He keeps his voice low as he responds, but for once it’s not because he’s trying to hide his unauthorized presence.
“Well, first of all, it’s called The Force, not magic. Second, maybe Leia was more Force sensitive than Luke. We don’t know. And third, I think it was… what?... twenty years between the original trilogy and the prequels? Maybe they just didn’t pay attention to one line from a movie made twenty years prior. And if you’re going to be nit-picky about that–” Mac keeps talking so Jack can’t “–let’s talk about Obi-Wan hiding Luke on Anakin’s home planet with his step-brother, using the last name Skywalker. Or Leia quite literally under Vader’s nose as a senator and he couldn’t sense her presence.”
“Well, I suppose no one expects a diplomat to be hiding that kind of secret,” Jack chuckles, then turns serious. “All the same, if someone stops you, don't start insulting the way they smell or their breathing apparatus. Just send out a signal and ol’ Jack-nobi will come rescue you from your diplomatic mission.”
Oh. Okay. That explains the sudden Star Wars discussion. Not that Jack needs a reason to talk about Star Wars.
While Jack will often cast himself as Obi Wan Kenobi or Han Solo this is the first time he’s cast Mac as Princess Leia. Mac shakes his head with a small snicker and refrains from reminding Jack of Obi-Wan’s fate on that rescue mission. “Got it.”
“You’re all grown up and on your first diplomatic mission and I didn’t even get a photo.”
“It’s not really a diplomatic mission. I’m just the courier.” Mac tugs on his ear again, wondering if he accidentally grabbed someone else’s comm when prepping for this mission. It seems to fit okay but it keeps buzzing like maybe it’s not seated properly in his ear canal. He can’t wait to grab the diplomatic pouch and make a bee-line for the airport.
“Don’t get used to being able to just walk through the front door like this, hoss.”
“Half of the time I do walk through the front door.”
“I mean like welcomed through the front door, under your own name, and just handed the information you’re there to collect. I’d miss you too much if you joined the diplomat corps.”
“I think I use too many explosives for that–” Mac falters mid-sentence. The slight ringing in his ears from a moment ago explodes into a cacophony of noise and pain. He tears the comm from his ear, so furious at the tech that it falls from his hand and bounces down the hall. And it doesn’t help.
Mac claws at his head, fingertips digging into his scalp. He doubles at the waist, curling in on himself as though that would offer some sort of protection from the assault. Pain keeps coming in unfurling waves. Dashing him into jagged rocks. The long hallway blurs like smearing oil pastels on a canvas. A shape ahead of him that was once a person collapses onto the floor, writhing.
This, whatever this is, isn’t just him. It’s not a stroke or a seizure. Not his own body betraying him.
Color leaches from the world as shadows encroach in concentric circles.
His fingers twist in his hair, pulling. Harder. It doesn’t help. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to stop.
The urge, the base instinct to flee has him stumbling with jerky movements of muscles that don’t cooperate, Mac crashes solidly into the wall.
He knows he's yelling, shouting from the pain. Can feel the scream tearing through his throat, the only sound he hears is the deafening shriek that somehow seems to originate inside his skull.
Bright red ink spots drip onto the floor in an otherwise darkening, monochrome world.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Oh.
Blood.
His blood.
Coursing over his lips. Spattering onto the floor. Racing toward him.
And then, nothing.
ID at the ready, Jack approaches the embassy. Not that his identification will do anything more than confirm that he’s a US citizen. He’s not expected here. Mac was the only one tapped to enter the embassy and they still run around the globe all willy-nilly without any type of badge or authority. Declaring oneself a government agent without an ID to back it up doesn’t usually go over well.
Mac went radio silent fifteen minutes ago.
Not entirely radio silent. He yelled first.
Screamed.
And kept on for a good ninety seconds. Ignoring any of Jack’s pleas to answer.
Then, horrifyingly quiet.
Mac’s not one to yell.
Scream.
Something is wrong. Which is an understatement. But even apart from Mac’s yell… scream… something is wrong when he approaches the embassy.
Someone should have clocked him already. He should feel eyes, maybe a scope trained on him as he walks right up to the gate.
Someone should be stopping him.
There’s a grunt and a groan on the blind corner of the guardpost. A marine staggers around the corner, bleeding from his nose. Jack resists the urge to reach for a weapon at the sight of what reads as an ambush. Except there’s no immediate evidence of a firefight. No bullet holes tearing up the guardhouse. The air is clear of the acrid bite of gunpowder.
The Marine is dazed, squinting against the daylight, but squares his shoulders when he notices Jack’s approach, preparing to bar the gate. The closed, intact gate. Aside from the bleeding guard there’s nothing to suggest trouble.
But Mac yelled. Screamed.
“What happened here, Marine?” Jack puts on his best Sergeant Dalton voice, eyes flicking to the name on the uniform: Stewart. Much as he wants to bulldoze the entrance and find Mac, he needs to know what he’s walking into and if the marine is in any condition to help him if necessary.
“I don’t know, sir,” Stewart’s voice retains the stoicism of his training, though the edge is softened with confusion. He winces as he speaks.
“You posted here alone?”
“Uh… no, sir,” Stewart blinks, throws a thumb halfheartedly over his shoulder as though he gave up halfway through the motion. “Silkowski’s over there. He’s bleeding.”
“So are you,” Jack nods.
Stewart touches his upper lip, pulling his hand away in surprise.
“Anyone come through here?”
“I don’t– I don’t know. I don’t think so, sir.”
“What do you remember?”
“There was a– a noise. Kind of a clicking? And then… Loud. High-pitched. Buzzing. And a– pain in my head.” Stewart reaches up, massages his temple, then lets his hand fall back to his side. His gaze wanders across the front lawn. “I didn’t lose consciousness but I couldn’t– couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t think. Or move. Or– do– anything.”
Jack nods, feeling a creeping dread. He too runs an eye across the lawn and the front of the embassy. He glances over his shoulder, studying the empty, unassuming street.
Stewart’s description is distinctive. Matches the strange clicking he heard over the comms moments before Mac’s shout.
Mac’s not here to argue with him about their existence. And Jack was with the CIA. Officially, energy weapons capable of disrupting brain function might not exist outside of a scifi movie but… Jack was with the CIA. He’s done things. Seen things.
“Stewart,” Jack claps a hand on the man’s shoulder, commanding his attention. “I know you’re hurting. We’ll get someone here to relieve you. But for now, I need you to keep an eye on the gate. No one goes in or out until I get back.”
It confirms Jack’s suspicions when Stewart doesn’t question his authority, merely replies, “yes, sir.”
Jack crosses the lawn. “Matty, it’s official. There was an attack on the embassy. I don’t know how many wounded yet, or how badly, but I’m going to need help here.”
“I’m deploying a unit from the local military base. They should be there within the hour. What are we looking at, Jack? Are there hostiles on site?”
“First blush looks like an energy weapon of some kind.” Jack pushes open the door, peering inside. “No hostiles that I’ve seen.”
“Jack–”
“I know. I know, they don’t exist, energy waves don’t work like that, I’ve heard that whole sciency spiel from Mac but I got folks wandering around looking like zombies, bleeding from their noses, complaining of a high-pitched noise, and pain in their heads.”
There’s a long pause.
“MacGyver?”
“Haven’t found him yet.” Jack’s jaw clenches.
“CIA is going to want the scene, especially if they think it’s an energy weapon.”
“I don’t care. Let ‘em have it. I just want Mac.”
“I’m telling you that if you want Mac, you need to move quickly.”
“Copy.” Jack stalks down the hallway. He spares a sympathetic glance at the woman on her knees, rocking gently. Hair falling loose from a bun, fingers entwined in long locks. Any other time he’d try to help. Further down the hallway, a man staggers, eyes wide but he doesn’t seem to see Jack. Blood smeared across his face.
Striking in broad daylight was bold. Up until this point all unsubstantiated accounts of an energy weapon attack happened at night. Easier to deny. Someone waking from a sound sleep with a headache and ringing in their ears could be told it was a bad dream. The stress of the job catching up with them. Jack’s passing by witness numbers nine and ten who were ostensibly going about their daily activities when they were assaulted. Papers litter the floor, dropped during the attack. Harder to deny their claims when you can’t tell them it was a dream.
Despite his belief in the existence of energy weapons, Jack doesn’t know what to expect.
Finding Mac curled into a slump, leaning heavily against a wall? Unfortunately, yes.
An apparently unaffected figure looming over him? Reaching for his neck? No.
Jack’s pulse leaps, readying to throw his body into the fray of a fight. Defense of his partner.
“Hey! Get your hands off him.” Jack pulls his gun as he stalks the hall. He can’t see a weapon on the other man, but if he’s responsible for this chaos then he probably thought he wouldn’t need a traditional weapon. No one in the building is awake or aware enough to stop him.
Rather than jump away from Mac, or swing around with a weapon in hand like Jack expects, the man fires back his own questions. “What happened here? Did you release a biologic? A neurotoxin? If it tore through here this quickly you’ve been exposed too. You’d better start talking.”
Experience means that Jack doesn’t blink as the response deviates from the expected script but that doesn’t mean his mind isn’t racing with possibilities and more questions.
“I said ‘hands up’,” Jack scowls, eyes flashing in anger and over the scene.
Mac makes no attempts to escape. Takes no action to defend himself. Doesn’t seem to react to Jack’s voice or the instinctual threat of the man standing over him.
“No. You said ‘hands off’.”
It’s said with a flippant sarcasm that makes Jack growl.
“Up. Off. You wanna keep those hands, you'd better show ‘em to me.”
“This man, all these people, are my patients, so I’ll keep my hands where they are, thanks.”
This time, Jack does blink. “You’re a doctor?”
A doctor who is checking on his patients, or an evil doctor checking on his victims and the results of his supervillain-type weapon.
“For the embassy.”
It’s ballsy if it’s a lie. Easily disproved, especially if Jack isn’t also an intruder. So, he must belong here enough that he would at least recognize anyone on staff or who had business in the building.
The alleged doctor tips Mac’s head back for a better look. Jack shifts uncomfortably. Letting this stranger lay hands on Mac goes against every instinct Jack has spent the last decade honing.
Mac has the same bloodied nose as nearly everyone else Jack has come across.
Except for the man in front of him. Why not him?
“I’ve answered your questions–”
“No, you haven’t–” Jack argues.
“– now you answer mine: who are you and what are you doing here?”
The guy won’t know the name, even if he does work for the embassy so either he’ll say he doesn’t know it, or lie and say he does. It’s a gamble, Jack’s been in the game long enough to know.
“Jack Dalton. I’m with the US Government.”
“I don’t recognize the–”
Yep, there it is. Except it could be a double bluff. Saying he doesn’t know the name leaves Jack in the position of needing to defend himself and his right to be here. Which, technically, he doesn’t have, except for the fact that Mac is slumped against the wall.
The alleged doctor’s words trail off as he straightens. “Dalton?” he turns, looking over his shoulder at Jack, then back down at Mac. His jaw goes slack, he looks like he might need the wall holding him up just as much as “... MacGyver?”
Jack’s eyes narrow. “How did you…”
“Gardez. Twenty-twelve?”
A chill prickles on Jack’s spine. They weren’t in-country very long in twenty-twelve. Most of that time is full of memories he’d rather forget. He shifts his weight. “Who–?”
“Pierce,” the man points to himself.
“Hawkeye.” The word comes out in a whisper as a barrage of Jack’s worst days return to him in a flash.
“Yeah, thanks for that. It’s followed me since.”
“Army doctor named Pierce? Can’t believe I’m the first to come up with that.” Jack matches Hawkeye’s smirk for a second before turning serious.
“He’s alright?” Hawkeye asks, moving to squat beside Mac again. “I mean, before this? Walking? Talking?”
“Better than alright. Still too smart for his own good. And best of all, he doesn’t remember any of it. Doesn’t know that’s the nightmare that keeps me up. And with that long mop you can’t even see the scar.”
As though he can’t help it, Hawkeye smooths Mac’s hair away from the raised ridge of scar tissue. Even all these years later, he knew exactly where to find it.
“I’ve thought about you guys. No one thought he’d even make it Stateside.” Hawkeye’s expression goes distant, like he’s watching the scenes of the past play out again and again.
“You did.”
Hawkeye gives a small shrug. Shrugging off the words, or the memories. “I was just a small part of that relay. You got him back, and then you got him home.”
“Mac’s good at beating the odds.” Jack’s voice takes a hard edge. Right now, just like back then, Mac doesn’t need Jack’s emotions, he needs Jack’s strength.
“What was he doing here? And why weren’t you affected?”
Jack breezes over the first question. “I was offsite when Mac yelled.”
Screamed.
“You heard him? How far offsite?” Pierce asks.
“Radio,” Jack answers smoothly after a moment’s hesitation, pointing to his ear. Noticing that Mac’s earbud is missing, he surreptitiously scans the hallway searching for the elusive device. “But the Marines outside got hit too.” Whatever this is, it’s got some range to it. Jack shifts, suspicion rising again, making his brow furrow. “Why aren’t you affected?”
“Not sure until I know what we’re dealing with. So far, everyone I’ve come across is dazed. Most are bleeding from the nose. I haven’t heard of a hemorrhagic fever sweeping through that fast and no bleeding from other orifices that I’ve observed, though there is petechiae around the eyes.” Hawkeye carefully peels back Mac’s eyelid.
Mac flinches but not enough to pull his head free from Hawkeye’s exam.
“Did he say anything before it happened? Did you hear anything?” Hawkeye asks as he tips Mac’s head back, peering into his nostrils, blood still drips steadily, then palpates his cheekbones, sinuses, and the bridge of his nose for fractures.
This action, to Jack’s relief, Mac does protest, pulling away with a grumble and furrowed brow.
“MacGyver, can you hear me?”
Mac’s eyes open to narrow slits and he scowls, gaze drifting over the hallway.
Jack steps closer. “Hey, Mac, you with me?”
Mac’s head snaps toward the sound of Jack’s voice. His whole body jerks, hands sweeping out, clawing at the wall behind him as his eyes slam closed.
“Mac!”
“Are you dizzy, MacGyver?” Hawkeye asks. He presses his fingers to the pulse point on Mac’s neck again. “Heart rate’s clipping along.”
Mac swallows convulsively. His fingers claw at the wall for support, fingertips blanching white with his ineffective effort.
Jack lowers himself into a squat beside Mac. He reaches out, gripping Mac’s wrist, feeling for himself the steady, if too fast, beat of his heart. The tremor of muscles flexed into iron bands. After a moment, Mac’s grip on the wall seems to loosen though his eyes remain clenched tight.
As Mac begins to settle, Jack relays his side of the events.
“There was a clicking noise over the comms." Jack palms Mac's elusive earbud with skill borne of years. "Thought maybe the signal was getting interrupted. Then Mac stopped talking mid-sentence and– screamed. Didn’t say anything else. Didn’t reply to me. That’s when I headed here. Everybody I’ve seen looks just like that, too. The Marine outside confirmed a loud noise followed by an excruciating pain in his head.”
Hawkeye turns from his patient to study Jack. “You think energy weapon? This is Havana syndrome?”
Jack shrugs, keeping his face neutral. “Been told that an energy weapon like this doesn’t exist.”
“Me too.”
“You still made the jump there awfully fast.”
“I’m a former combat Army doctor, currently stationed at a US embassy on foreign soil. I’ve been told a lot of stuff doesn’t exist. Been told to forget a lot too.”
“You’ve seen this before?”
Pierce ignores the question as he muses. “Could explain why I didn’t get hit. Infirmary is downstairs. Thick walls and an MRI suite. Magnet could have interrupted the pulse. Does anyone else know about the attack?”
“Called it in to my superior. She’s trustworthy even if she’s not onboard with the energy weapon theory. A unit is coming from the local base to secure the embassy. CIA will be arriving to take over the scene.”
“You’re CIA?”
Jack changes the subject. “How is he?”
“Pulse is steady even if it’s fast. He’s coming around but I’d feel better if he was verbally responding. It’s concerning that he hasn’t attempted but he seemed to recognize your voice. There are no obvious signs of injury but I want a CT, make sure he’s not bleeding in his brain. MRI too, eventually, see if there are changes.”
And turn him into a guinea pig if the CIA gets their hands on him.
Jack scrubs a hand over his beard. “Can I move him?”
Pierce opens his mouth and then seems to pause. “You got somewhere to take him? Someone who can look him over more thoroughly? Monitor symptoms and intervene if necessary?”
“Maybe.” Jack shifts his weight. “Can he fly?”
“I’d want to see the CT scan first.”
“You said you’ve got a scanner downstairs?”
Pierce looks down the hallway. Jack can see the way he tallies the number of potential patients in the building. He has a duty, a responsibility to all of them. Jack has a responsibility to one.
“They’re all going to have to be scanned. Might as well start. Get him downstairs. I’ll go warm up the scanner.”
Jack watches him go, wondering who he’ll be calling this in to, what the chain of command is for a doctor in an embassy. He trusted Hawkeye– Pierce with Mac’s life before. And he doesn’t have much of a choice but to trust him now. Jack turns his attention back to Mac. ”Hey, kiddo, you with me?”
Mac grunts.
“You’re worrying me.” Jack resists the urge to cup Mac's chin or examine his bloodied nose. He doesn’t have anything on him to clear away the blood. He can't quite keep himself from brushing Mac's hair away from his forehead. Mac sighs at the action.
“Dizzy.”
It’s one word, and though it confirms Mac’s discomfort, it helps ease the tightness in Jack’s chest. He’s able to answer. Maybe aware enough to know they weren’t alone before and the safety of keeping quiet, keeping his symptoms under wraps. That could be a stretch, but Jack has learned to never discount Mac.
“Yeah, I can tell. We need to go.” Jack allows himself one more sweep through Mac's hair.
“‘Kay.” Mac swallows hard.
The trust in Mac’s voice cuts through Jack like a knife, following Jack’s lead even as he’s struggling. Jack ducks under Mac’s arm. Wrapping his own arm around Mac’s middle, Jack grips Mac’s belt over his opposite hip. “Alright, buddy, up we go. Hold onto me.”
Mac’s face goes white as they stand. The hand not firmly attached to Jack’s shoulder shoots out as though to steady himself, fingers splayed. Beads of sweat erupt on his forehead and upper lip. Mac breathes thickly through his blood-crusted nose.
“You gonna pass out?
“No.” It sounds like Mac has to fight to get the word out.
“Well, I don’t believe that for a second.”
“‘M good.”
It’ll have to do.
Mac’s fingers dig into Jack’s shoulder. He’s going to have finger-shaped bruises.
“‘ goin’?”
“Get you checked out and hopefully on a plane outta here.” Or a safehouse if Pierce says they can’t fly. But Jack would like to get some miles between them, the embassy, and the incoming CIA.
Mac grumbles.
“Yeah, sure, you’re fine. You’re always fine.” Jack interprets, dragging Mac down the stairs like he’s an oversized duffel. Going up later is going to suck. Must have an elevator somewhere. Maybe there’s an underground garage attached in case an injured patient needs to be transported somewhere else.
Pierce sticks his head out of the imaging suite as Jack drags Mac down the hallway.
“In here,” Pierce directs. “Sit him there.”
Mac grips the edge of the CT bed as though it's the only thing tethering him in place. Maybe it is. Jack steps closer, offering support. Covertly he surveys the room. There’s the door they came through and the door to the control room. The glass of the observation window is tinted and he can’t see what lies beyond but experience would assume there’s another exit from the control room if they need it.
“Well, he looks more aware. Take his blood pressure for me,” Pierce nods at the portable vital signs monitor. When Jack doesn't immediately move, Pierce continues. “You want me to tell you guys can disappear before the CIA shows up? If he can fly? Get a BP.”
“Yeah, okay,” Jack agrees after a beat, keeping one hand on Mac as he wrestles the cords free from where they hang on the monitor.
“Look right at my nose,” Pierce instructs Mac before flashing a penlight into his eyes. Mac flinches hard enough that Jack uses both hands to steady him. “Can you tell me your name?”
Mac's eyes flick to Jack.
Jack feels a flush of relief along with a coil of dread. It’s worrisome that Mac doesn’t remember if he can use his real name but he knows enough, remembers enough to know that there are times when he shouldn’t. And problem solving by looking to Jack for help. Jack gives a small nod as he wraps the blood pressure cuff around Mac’s bicep.
“MacGyver.”
“Good. Follow my finger with your eyes. Do you know where you are?”
Mac’s gaze drifts across the room, eyes narrowing. He tightens his grip on the scanner bed. “Hospital?”
Pierce gives a noncommittal hum. “What year?”
Mac frowns. He folds his lips over his teeth and bites down.
“You gonna be sick?” Pierce asks, grabbing an emesis basin.
“No,” Mac whispers even as the furrow in his brow deepens. His gaze flicks to Jack again before he whispers with the edge of confusion that’s been in his voice since he started answering questions. It's the same confusion Jack witnessed in the Marine at the gate. “Not twenty-twelve.”
“Hey, you recognize him?” Jack tries to keep his voice neutral as he gives a nod toward Pierce.
“Army. Put– put your shoulder back in.” The vestige of a smile twitches at the corner of Mac’s mouth.
“Yeah, he did.” Jack flashes an encouraging smile at Mac, grateful that while it might have been an uncomfortable procedure for Jack, it's otherwise not a traumatic memory that it could have been.
“Not in the Army anymore.” It’s not quite a question, but there’s still that edge. That need for assurance. He's confused and he knows it, he just doesn't know how bad.
“That’s been a few years for all of us,” Jack agrees. He got Mac safely home from Afghanistan. Out of the Army. Like he promised. Only they went out and managed to find themselves a pair of jobs that are just as dangerous.
“Dalton,” Pierce interrupts, eyeing the clock on the wall meaningfully.
“Right. Hey, Mac, gonna interrupt this reunion here. Gonna get a CT scan and then we’re gonna get out of here. Head for home.” Or more likely trade this medical suite for the one at the Phoenix.
Mac eyes the scanner, and Pierce, suspiciously. Jack doesn’t blame him. He’s not sure how much Mac is tracking; how much he’s remembering from before the attack. Mac’s never taken well to anything that’s messed with his memories or perceptions or grasp of time. Not a concussion. Not anesthesia.
“What happened?”
Jack's not in the habit of lying to Mac, even when things are bad, but telling Mac that he thinks the source of his pain and confusion is an energy weapon is not going to go well. Mac's been through enough today. He doesn't need to be thinking or arguing or worrying more than he already is.
"Looks like you took a blow to the head," Pierce answers quickly. Jack is grateful. And it's not a lie. Later, once he has Mac safe, secure, and recovering, Jack can admit there wasn't someone running through the embassy cracking everyone on the head and punching everyone in the nose. Later they can start arguing about the existence of energy weapons.
Mac’s hand reaches for his forehead. “Feels like I did.”
"We'll get you scanned and then like Jack said, send you safely off to home." Pierce directs Mac to lay down on the scanner’s bed.
Jack tries not to feel overcome with emotions at the way Mac looks to him before he complies.
With a pat on Mac's shoulder once he's horizontal, Jack reluctantly follows Pierce into the control room. He ignores Pierce's offer of the other rolling chair in the small room, electing instead to stand in the doorway. From there he has eyes on Mac, on Pierce, and glimpses of the images on the screen. While he's been shown a single frame captured from similar scans, seeing images of Mac's brain in real time makes him feel flushed and chilled at the same time.
“Well?” Jack asks, folding his arms over his chest.
"No bleeding," Pierce points to the screen. Jack refrains from looking directly at it. "No swelling or bruising."
“So we’re good?”
"At least good enough to get out of here. Get him home." Pierce taps another button on the control panel. "I assume you have a doctor you trust? One who will listen about what happened here? Who will believe you if you say this is Havana syndrome? It's not recognized by the medical community. There isn't a treatment plan."
Jack opens his mouth, hesitating for only a second before answering. “He’ll believe me.”
"If it's that, MacGyver'll need a lot of support."
"He'll get it," Jack vows.
"I know you won't stop until he has everything he needs." The images on the monitor go dark as Pierce removes a thumb drive. "This is the only copy of MacGyver's scan. There's no other evidence that he was here." Pierce– Hawkeye hands over the drive.
Jack closes his fist around the small device. “Thank you.”
“Now you’d better get him out of here before the CIA shows up.”