Work Text:
MacGyver wasn't really sure what he'd find back in the dungeon under Wintergreen's theater. The police had already come through, drained the pool, taken anything that could be evidence. There was nothing left to see, unless Murdoc had somehow managed to drag himself out of the pool and hide in the walls themselves.
MacGyver grimaced at the thought. He wouldn't put it past Murdoc to actually try something like that.
The dungeon was barren and empty, black as soot now without the fires in the pool. MacGyver's flashlight could show him patches where the beam fell, but it cut off his peripheral vision— a fact MacGyver was painfully aware of. If Murdoc wanted to attack him, well… this was the time to do it.
MacGyver carefully crept around the edges of the pool, making sure to keep far away from the gaping, dark chasm in the middle of the room. There was enough room to walk, but now that there was no water to hide the depths of the pit, it suddenly felt much, much narrower. MacGyver didn't know how deep it actually was, but he sure didn't want to find out.
– – – –
Murdoc wasn't entirely certain what he was looking for in MacGyver's houseboat. It was not the first time he had broken in, and it would not be the last. He didn't even know if he was trying to find any object in particular. He had gotten into a bit of a habit, over the years, of breaking into the place without taking or destroying anything. Just to find weaknesses, Murdoc told himself. Just to see if there was anything he could use against MacGyver.
His enemy was away; probably would be for some time. Murdoc had heard him take a phone call earlier, and he knew that when MacGyver left, he wouldn't be back for a while. It was one of the pitfalls of constantly being so very willing to help people.
It was useful, though. Murdoc could make his way through the boat and, so long as he didn't mess with anything too much, he could leave and MacGyver would be none the wiser. Murdoc had gotten very good at this. This time, though, it was admittedly a bit harder: his right leg burned and its metal brace still squeaked with each step.
Murdoc trailed a hand absently along the cabinets in MacGyver's kitchen, his eyes drifting over the rest of the room. It was all familiar, at this point. More stable than any shitty hotel room or HIT-run safe house he had stayed in. It was almost funny, Murdoc thought— how was this the closest thing he had to a home?
– – – –
MacGyver ducked around the cage Murdoc had locked Pete in, flinching when it let out a loud, harsh creak. He froze, waiting, holding his breath, but no one came. He hadn't seen any police upstairs when he broke in, but that never meant police weren't around. Luckily, it seemed the walls were too thick for anybody to hear the squeal of rusty metal. Made sense, considering Murdoc had been able to build all this right under Wintergreen's nose.
MacGyver reached the other side of the dungeon and let himself relax, just a little, staying far away from the steep drop of the pool's edge. The tension in his chest didn’t release much, though— he was still at risk of attack.
The console Murdoc had rigged at the back of the room was still there, each crevice and chip made stark by the flashlight beam. It was pretty impressive work; MacGyver had to take a moment to appreciate how much Murdoc had gotten done by himself in such a short amount of time. If there was one thing he could say about the killer, it was that he was definitely efficient.
Crouching down to look, MacGyver put the back end of his flashlight between his teeth so that the beam was shining in front of him, freeing both hands to work. Slowly, still trying to make as little noise as possible, he used the screwdriver in his Swiss army knife to remove the panel on the console’s back. When it came away, he switched the flashlight back to his hand and placed the metal sheet quietly on the ground beside him.
Time to look inside, then. In the belly of the console was a network of wires and plugs, trailing off to connect to their respective mechanisms. None of them were functional anymore; at least, MacGyver hoped so. If they weren't defunct already, they certainly would be by the time he was done with them.
– – – –
Murdoc kneeled next to MacGyver's small bookshelf, stifling a grunt as pain flared in his leg. Damned Widowmaker. Even a year after the fall, after surgery and physical therapy, his legs still hurt. He was starting to sincerely doubt the pain would ever go away entirely. Of course, the fresh electricity burn under his brace didn’t help any.
There was a battered, well-used screwdriver on the ground next to the shelves. MacGyver must have been working on something or other and forgot to put it away. Without thinking, Murdoc picked it up to put it back and was struck by the sudden, visceral mental image of plunging it deep into his own arm, watching the metal break through skin and muscle and bone.
He placed the tool on the shelf among the books. He didn't really want to hurt himself— at least, he was fairly sure. It was difficult, at times, to tell which thoughts were his and which weren't, an issue which proved particularly concerning when he was waving around a loaded gun. He didn't tell anyone, though, so no one knew what he was thinking, and no one bothered him about it, even if his mind were forcing him to vividly imagine what it would feel like to slit his own throat.
Murdoc turned his attention away from the screwdriver. Best to ignore it.
– – – –
MacGyver cut through the mess of cables, pushing them out of his way. All of this, everything Murdoc had done with Cleo Rocks— MacGyver turned the events of the past couple days over in his mind. He should have figured it out. He was kicking himself, now, that he didn’t pick up on Murdoc’s ruse earlier. But Penny had finally landed a role, and Murdoc was supposed to be dead… Was it so bad that he had just wanted something to go right for his friend?
Yes, MacGyver reminded himself, it was so bad. In this case, at least. Penny nearly died; Wintergreen did die. Because of Murdoc’s sick obsession, and MacGyver’s own naivete. Innocent people caught in the crossfire of their personal war. Of Murdoc’s twisted vendetta.
A spray of sparks from one of the wires pulled MacGyver from his troubled thoughts and he hissed with pain, recoiling from where the sparks burned his hand. That answered one of his questions— there was still some current of electricity flowing through the machinery. Which made MacGyver’s plan a little harder. He hadn’t brought any kind of gloves with him, especially not rubber gloves, because this trip had been more a spur-of-the-moment idea than anything else. A hunch that maybe if he returned, he could find something that everyone else missed. What that was, though, he still didn’t know.
He’d have to go without gloves for now, MacGyver decided. He probably wasn’t in too much danger of being electrocuted— the memory of sparks, burning flesh, and Murdoc’s scream flashed briefly through MacGyver’s mind— so long as he was careful. More cautiously this time, MacGyver went back to clearing away the cords under the control panel.
– – – –
Murdoc leaned against the counter in MacGyver's kitchen, wondering vaguely if the faucet was still faulty. Out of curiosity and the knowledge that MacGyver would never know, he turned on the tap, which let out a series of monstrous and guttural groans. Murdoc snapped it back off— so the answer was yes, then.
It was only two more minutes or so before Murdoc admitted to himself that it was probably time to leave. He had no real goal here, and he wasn't enthusiastic about the idea of any of MacGyver's idiot friends showing up at his doorstep and finding his sworn enemy standing in the common room. Especially not Penny Parker, after her rather unfortunate attraction to Jacques Leroux. The friends were a little less predictable than MacGyver— Murdoc didn’t know when they might decide to drop by MacGyver’s place for some reason or another. He had almost started for the door when something caught his eye from across the room.
– – – –
MacGyver cleared the last cord and pushed it away, opening a path to an empty space at the back of the compartment. He was working faster now that most of the wires were clear and he wasn't in as much of a position to get fried. Plus, Murdoc hadn't attacked him yet— MacGyver was beginning to feel fairly confident that his enemy wasn't around, at least for right now.
In the hidden area behind the wires, just like MacGyver's theory, there was a collection of objects, probably kept safe so that Murdoc could find them later if he needed. MacGyver shifted awkwardly in front of the opening; he could feel his legs cramping from a lack of movement. Only a little longer.
He put his flashlight back between his teeth and gripped the top of the console with one hand for support, removing objects with his other and placing them beside the discarded front panel next to him. The first thing he found was, unsurprisingly, a gun. MacGyver held it carefully but firmly, deliberately keeping the barrel pointed away from himself and his finger off the trigger. Nothing would happen. He was fine. He was the only one in the dungeon, anyway.
The next few things he retrieved were similarly predictable for Murdoc— a couple knives, a grenade, a few extra rounds for the pistol. The last object MacGyver found, however, threw him for a loop.
– – – –
Tapes, Murdoc realized when he picked up the box. Cassette tapes, ones that hadn't been there the last time he had broken into MacGyver's houseboat. Each was marked with a different song in MacGyver's familiar handwriting, with the length notated underneath the title. Murdoc flipped one of them in his hand, trying to identify their purpose. If the tapes had always been there, why hadn't he seen them before? Was it just music?
No, not just music. Murdoc glanced back at the other side of the room, where MacGyver's old guitar was leaning against the wall, and the pieces clicked in his head— they were recordings of MacGyver. Why he had recorded himself and whether he was good, Murdoc didn't know, but he didn't need to know. He didn't care. Possessed by something sick and undefinable, Murdoc tucked a couple of the tapes into his pockets.
Only two. MacGyver wouldn't notice if only two were missing.
– – – –
Tapes. A small wooden box of them, kept more carefully hidden and safe than even the weapons. What would Murdoc of all people possibly want with cassette tapes?
MacGyver switched his flashlight back to his hand to steady it on the contents of the box, flicking through the tapes. It was only on the fifth or so tape that he pinned down what they were— Cleo Rocks was scrawled in Murdoc's handwriting across the top. They were tracks for Jacques Leroux's rock opera.
It made sense. Penny had been cast, Wintergreen had been funding them, so of course Cleo Rocks had been a fully written musical. But MacGyver hadn't yet really connected the dots to the idea that Murdoc had been the one to write it. It was hard to imagine the assassin taking the time to sit down and construct a musical from the ground up, score and all.
That being said, MacGyver could imagine Murdoc doing just about anything if it meant killing him.
But MacGyver's hang-up was, why hide them? If they were just the audio tracks for the musical, it stood to reason that the tapes would be heard eventually, and maybe even used in rehearsal, if Murdoc were committed enough to have run regular rehearsals for the show. It was a strange choice, to keep cassette tapes in a wooden box in the death dungeon under the theater.
Well, they weren't police evidence, MacGyver reasoned. He had found them, fair and square, and it wasn't too bad if he took them. Police weren't going to do anything with them, anyway. He could take the tapes and get Pete to run some tests to see if anything was off about them.
As for the weapons he found… MacGyver peered over the edge of the drained pool, struggling to gauge how deep it was. It went down far enough that he couldn't see the bottom, just deep, boiling blackness, even with the flashlight beam. He carefully separated the grenade from the rest of the weapons and kicked everything but the bomb into the pool, swallowing the anxiety that stirred in his chest when they clattered on stone far, far below. The grenade went into the box with the tapes— MacGyver could dispose of it or use it for a better cause a bit easier when he got out of the dungeon.
– – – –
Murdoc stopped in front of the door to the hotel room he currently called his residence, gripping the doorframe and leaning against it as though that would alleviate the pain in his legs. The right was burning worse than ever, and the left had started to ache as well; Murdoc hissed out a thin breath through his teeth. He had dealt with pain before. He could keep dealing with it now.
The hotel room, when Murdoc came in and closed the door behind him, looked precisely the same as when he had left it. It looked, to him, exactly the same as every other room he had stayed in when working a job: sallow, dull, lifeless. He supposed it was good for keeping a low profile, but it made everything feel the same, and it made it so nothing ever really felt like home.
Upon reflection, that was likely another intention of the Board of Directors, Murdoc thought. If their employees never had a home, HIT became the next closest thing. It ensured a strained sort of loyalty. Murdoc would do the same thing, if he were in charge.
He pulled off his jacket and flung it onto the bed, limping over to the sink pressed into an alcove in the wall. The water here ran clear, at least, so Murdoc wet his hands and splashed it on his face, ignoring when the water darkened the cuffs of his sleeves. He needed to focus. He was on an assignment; he never should have even taken that little detour to MacGyver’s, but MacGyver was always so… distracting. It was impossible to think about anything else when he was involved. No one else at HIT seemed to realize it, and it drove Murdoc mad. How could they act like MacGyver was just another, normal target? He was exceptional. He always had been. Wasn’t that obvious to them?
– – – –
MacGyver paused when he got home. It looked the same as when he left, but something felt bizarrely off. He had the strange sensation that someone had come in when he was gone, rearranged the furniture, then meticulously put it all back the way they found it.
No. No, that was ridiculous. MacGyver shook his head, sliding the small wooden box onto the counter. He was just being paranoid. Something about his expedition— or maybe what he found on it— must have struck a nerve. Everything was in the same place as when he had gone off. No one had changed anything.
He’d have to call Pete to send in the tapes for research and the grenade for storage, maybe drop Penny a call to see how she was doing. She seemed pretty shaken by the whole Cleo Rocks situation, especially after finding out the truth about her director. MacGyver was a little worried about her— this hadn’t been the first time they were in a dangerous situation together, but it was the first time Murdoc had been involved. And Murdoc had a habit of leaving quite the impression on people.
MacGyver shot a sidelong glance at Murdoc’s abandoned cassette tapes, contemplating them. He had to admit to himself that he was curious beyond what the Phoenix Foundation might be able to learn from them, and it’s not like Murdoc would have planted some kind of bomb in the tapes on the off-chance MacGyver found them and decided to take a listen.
Actually… that did seem like the kind of thing Murdoc would do.
But it was unlikely. After all, Murdoc had never been one to willfully ruin his own image, and MacGyver had a suspicion that those tapes were something Murdoc held fairly close to himself, given how much care he had taken to hide them. It gave him a brief flash of guilt as he walked over to his couch; maybe it was a bad idea to check out the tapes. It was personal information, and Murdoc might not want MacGyver to hear.
Though Murdoc sure didn’t have any trepidation about making MacGyver hear him in the past. And besides, Murdoc wouldn’t ever find out if MacGyver listened to one song of his. He probably wouldn’t even care if he somehow did find out.
MacGyver crouched next to his bookshelf, shifting away an old screwdriver to find his cassette player. Strange; he didn’t remember putting the screwdriver on the shelf. He must have done it automatically the last time he needed the tool. There were probably several discarded tools lying around that he had forgotten he put there. A tiny lapse in memory didn’t mean anything.
– – – –
Murdoc rifled through the first-aid kit kept under the sink, finding a few painkillers and swallowing the pills dry. It wouldn’t do much, but it couldn’t hurt. Hopefully, they would kick in right around the time he needed to leave for HIT’s newest assignment. He wasn’t overly thrilled by the concept of carrying out a job with blazing pain in his bones.
The tapes he had stolen from MacGyver were still in the pockets of his jacket. He hadn’t checked what the songs were, though Murdoc discovered he didn’t much care. He didn’t have a great amount of time before he needed to leave, but the tapes weren’t long. He could spare a few minutes— and something hungry inside him furiously, desperately wanted to hear MacGyver’s voice again.
There was a tape player in the corner of the room, slightly rusted and covered in a distressingly thick layer of dust. Murdoc doubted for a moment if it was even going to work, but nothing seemed to be broken upon inspection. It would do fine for what he wanted it for.
– – – –
MacGyver loaded the first track for Cleo Rocks and reclined back on his couch. The audio was grainy and it was difficult to understand Murdoc’s introduction of the song through his feigned French accent, but the sharp ring of piano cut clearly through. It was somewhat surprising; MacGyver hadn’t expected to genuinely like Murdoc’s voice. He didn’t seem to be putting on the fake accent in the song. It sounded… actually good, MacGyver found. Maybe Murdoc really did have talents beyond killing.
– – – –
Murdoc chose a tape at random and inserted it into the cassette player, laying back on the bed. Taking the weight off his legs helped with the aching, burning pain, but didn’t erase it entirely. The audio quality of the player was complete shit, rough and blurry and filled with excess noise. It was all Murdoc had, however, and he could make out the recording well enough, so he would have to deal with it. It was only MacGyver and guitar on the tape, completely raw, but it was nice. It was a moment in time, a moment that Murdoc could have, a moment he could almost reach out and touch. It was not his moment to possess, no— but god, he wanted it anyway, and he would hold it for as long as he was able to. A moment stolen and kept.
– – – –
MacGyver closed his eyes and tried not to imagine that Murdoc was there with him.
– – – –
Murdoc closed his eyes and tried to pretend MacGyver was there with him.