Chapter Text
Some encounters, as bumpy as they started and as full of prejudice as they were, could forge relationships for life and make you find what you didn't know you were looking for. It was these relationships that filled gaps in one's life, the existence of which one only felt at the time of that very encounter, when the pain they caused flared up to the forefront of one's consciousness. It was these encounters that forged a bond for eternity and were a lifeline to hold on to when the storms of life had a firm grip on you.
Mac didn’t foresee any of it when he jumped out of the chopper that was supposed to drop him off at the base where he was assigned to a new team, and his heavy boots hit the hot desert sand of said base camp in some God forbidden corner of the Sandbox, which probably wasn’t even registered on any of the official maps they were working with. No one was expecting him and he didn't know where to report either. He had the name of the commanding Chief, but that was it. None of the tents looked official enough as if a Chief of Command would have set up his office there. But then again, the circumstances of his assignment were rather dodgy. He had been told that his skills were needed for another team. Nobody had told him who and where. He didn’t even know what for. It all smelled like a secret operation of a special unit, but that was only a guess.
He shielded his eyes from the burning desert sun with his hand and squinted into the direction with an assortment of tents. Not knowing any better alternative but with courageous steps, he strode towards the biggest tent, assuming that the Chief could be found here.
Mac’s way was blocked by a broad-shouldered man with blond, shaggy hair and grim face. With his arms crossed over his chest and an expression that screamed ‘don’t mess with me’ he looked Mac up and down before he asked him where he wanted to go.
“I want to report to the Commanding Officer, Sir,” he replied, not budging an inch when the demeanour of the man in front of him grew broader and more aggressive.
“And you are?” Deacon asked, not sure what to make of the kid in front of him.
“Angus MacGyver, Sir, Specialist Angus MacGyver.” This elicited a gurgled laughter from Deacon because the army seriously has had to become fucking crazy if they now took in children to become specialists.
“Specialist for what?” he therefore asked critically, because seriously, sending children to war that was what the warlords in Congo and Uganda did, this was what Taliban did, but all he knew the United States of America hadn’t sunken that low in their desperation as to resolve to a children army. Mac was very aware of Deacon’s reservations and very familiar with it too, because this guy wasn’t the first one who saw Mac and considered him a greenhorn without experience in life or war, freshly jumped from Mama’s lap to play adventure in the army.
“EOD, Sir. I’m disarming bombs and as far as I’m informed, this camp asked for an EOD Specialist, so here I am,” Mac replied unchallenged. Deacon gave him credit for that, because the kid has had to have guts to stand there with the self-confidence of a CO. Hence, Deacon nodded and led the way to the Commanding Officer who thought that this was nothing but a prank, when Deacon introduced Mac as the EOD specialist they had requested. Without even a word said to the EOD specialist, Dalton grabbed the phone.
“This must be a fucking joke!” he barked into the phone, “I requested an EOD specialist, preferably the best you have and you’re sending me a kid?”
“You asked for the best man we have and we sent you the best. Take him or go kaboom,” was all answer Jack received before he dropped the phone and then turned his attention back to the blond teenager who stood in his tent and was all indifferent to the scene that had played in front of him, because yes, it hadn’t been the first time. Mac was convinced it wouldn’t be the last. The first three times had annoyed him, irritated even. Now, he had gotten used to it like he had gotten used to search his boots for hidden scorpions or other insects before he put them on. It was just another routine he had to put with.
Jack eyed the kid carefully and then exchanged looks with Deacon who helplessly shrugged his shoulders. Who was he to tell whether they were pranked or not? Jack stepped forward. The kid was skinny. Too long hair, definitely. If the army tolerated this haircut, then maybe the man on the other end of the line hadn’t lied. Jack was very familiar with the tolerance policies: the more valuable you were for Uncle Sam, the more tolerance you received. Nobody had an interest in putting off a valuable asset. Still, the kid looked like he hadn’t even learnt how to shave. There wasn’t even a hint of the first beard fuzz.
Jack circled Mac like a predator circled its prey before it jumped at its throat. Irritatingly the kid remained unimpressed by Jack’s demeanour. It was so obvious that the kid had an issue with hierarchies and authorities. Mac, if asked, would whole-heartedly admit to it. In the field, he was the one who had to decide whether he could disarm an IED or not. He had to decide life or death, Eden or Hell. There was no room for letting others take over who barely understood a glimpse of what he did all day. So, seriously, no he didn’t tolerate hierarchies and authorities. He put up with them.
“A fucking kid,” Jack then muttered under his breath, “Uganda, Iran, Syria, yes everywhere children soldiers, but in our own ranks?” It was this moment in which Mac pointed out that no, he was no kid anymore because he was certainly over eighteen by now. He wasn’t responsible for his looks, thank you.
“Under the law of the United States of America, are you allowed to drink?” Jack then huffed.
“No, Sir.”
“See, still a kid.” With this statement, Mac was dismissed to find himself an unoccupied bunk and to return later for the briefing. They would have to get out before dawn the next morning. Deacon cast his boss a look that was somewhere between bemusement and scolding. Jack caught it and understood. There was no room for antipathy and quarrels. Their operations were not only high secret but also highly dangerous. They demanded the highest level of commitment from each team member, not only for the country but for the team itself. Trust was the basis. Without it, nothing worked and every operation was deemed a death sentence without it. This was also true in relation to newcomers and rookies. It was clear to everyone involved that it was a masterpiece of interpersonal skills to create in only twenty-four hours what had taken years to grow within a team and had been harvested as the fruit of trust. It took time, experience and then or other hell bent operation to make a newcomer part of the team. All this in only twenty-four hours was impossible. But, somehow, they had to make it happen. They had no other choice.
However, the ground on which this trust was supposed to grow had to be destroyed first when Jack saw the greenhorn fiddling with his rifle. He blew his top when anger made his pulse speed up a 100 miles per second. He marched straight up to the boy sitting on his bunk, snatched the rifle out of his hand and shouted: "What on earth are you doing? Are you trying to kill me?"
"Nope, you would have done it yourself with that bent barrel," the kid deadpanned Jack, totally indifferent to the older man’s anger about the encounter. This got Jack’s pulse speed up only more. He threw his rifle on the bed, grabbed the kid by the collar of his t-shirt and pulled him forcefully up to look him straight into the face before he told him through gritted teeth: “Rule number one: never touch Jack Dalton’s stuff, got it?”
“So, you prefer shooting yourself?” Mac asked him smugly and yes, Jack wished he could kill that damn kid right then and there. His grip around Mac’s collar tightened. Mac was very aware that he wasn’t diffusing but rather escalating the situation, but he had also learnt that he had to mark his territory to make his point clear if he didn’t want to be pushed around by the other Neanderthals that considered themselves as elite soldiers, but possessed the brain power of a guppy. Jack looked right through this act and had declared it his very own personal mission to put the kid in his place which was under his command, silent and without snarky comments.
“Now you listen to me and listen carefully you little smart-arse. This is my camp, my troop and my responsibility. The only reason you're here is because the Taliban have paved the area with explosives in such a way that our friend Fitzy can't keep up. You're here to prevent us from going kaboom and that's the sole reason you are here for. Got it? So, leave everything else alone and do your job.” Mac huffed.
“What good is it to a loud-mouthed knuckle-dragger like you that I save you from being blown up by a booby-trap if you shoot yourself at the next best opportunity, huh? Ever thought about what would happen to your troop, your camp and your responsibility, then?” It was this which broke the camel’s back. Jack saw red, because this kid seriously questioned his authority, his rank. He couldn’t let this one slide if he didn’t want to cause a mutiny. He had to put the kid in its place, fast.
Jack let go off Mac’s collar with one hand, drew this one hand back as far as he could and with unknown speed it propelled forward. His fist connected with a cheekbone. The cracking sound could be heard in the tent on the other side of the camp. Mac’s head snapped back with the sheer force with which Jack had punched him. He bit his lip at the moment of the impact. The world swirled around him, making him dizzy. He saw bright white stars dance in front of his eyes. He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision. When he tasted the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, he spit out and then slowly turned his head back to see that fucking arsehole of Dalton straight into the face. There was no remorse visible in the older man’s eyes. There was not the least bit of fear or respect to be seen in those cold blue eyes that already had taken in the surroundings, cataloguing everything that was within the blond’s reach and putting a tack on it with what it could be used for.
Mac’s cheek throbbed like hell and the stinging sensation told him that the guy has had enough force in his punch to make the skin split. He felt a small droplet of blood roll down his cheek. Mac had really thought he had left this sort of bullying behind when he had left high school at the age of fifteen. Well, nobody had ever told him that forty-plus-years-olds were smarter than sixteen-years-old. Mac decided that the world sucked. He pushed the longing for a peaceful place for himself, where he belonged to and could live his life back, into the small box that he treasured in his mind for the quiet moments of solitude. Instead, he raised the defence-walls even higher. Jack saw the corner of the boy’s mouth curl to a one-sided smirk, before he told Jack: “Are you done marking your territory and can we now start being the professionals that we are?”
That was too much for Jack’s nerves that suffered a serious case of irritation. He prepared for the next punch, which Mac foresaw. Thus, he ducked away when the arm was once more propelled towards him. He ducked under the arm with one step positioned himself behind Dalton who reacted immediately, turned around to get his hands on the kid, but directly walked into a fist. Mac’s knuckles rattled when they met the cheekbone. He couldn’t suppress the wince that escaped his lips, because seriously, it damn well hurt like hell. Jack, sobered quickly. He grabbed Mac by his shoulders, slammed him against the frame of the bunk bed and then onto the floor. The impact drove all air out of Mac who only in time rolled to the side when Jack was about to punch him in the face again. A well-aimed kick at the ankles and Jack lost his balance while Mac got a chance to get back onto his feet. With a swift move, Jack hauled himself back onto his feet either. He grabbed the skinny kid around his chest, ready to throw his bones back to the ground where he belonged to, but Mac made use of the momentum and his weight and slammed his body into Jack’s, sending them both down, where their fist fight was supposed to go on until one of the stubborn morons was ready to give up, if not Deacon and Worthy had entered the tent to see what the commotion was about and then separated the two brawlers. Jack fought Deacon’s tight grip around his chest until he saw with satisfaction that the blond kid was still down, catching his breath and spitting blood.
“What the fuck, Jack! We’re supposed to work together with him, not to kill him,” Deacon yelled at Jack whose nerves slowly calmed down. He dusted off his trousers and his shirt before he replied to his comrade: “Then he better doesn’t mess with our stuff,” and then he marched off, followed by Deacon who cast Worthy, who stayed with the newcomer, a concerned look. No, they couldn’t use any of these discords.
“Well, that cheek of yours looks nasty. We should make sure that the bone’s not broken. The Chief does know how to throw a good punch,” Worthy told Mac who by now had caught his breath and was sitting down, still a little too dizzy.
“Nothing’s broken, nothing to worry about,” Mac told and then got up followed by Worthy who had kneeled down next to him. He watched the kid closely. He didn’t sway, held himself rather steady on his feet after the beating he had just received.
“Well, do you come to have a medical degree as well?” Worthy asked sarcastically.
“Nope, but had a broken cheekbone. Doesn’t feel like it,” Mac said and with this left a puzzled Worthy standing in the middle of the tent. Mac had no intention to bond closer than necessary with any of these guys. It was of no use anyway. A life’s lesson which he had learnt earlier than he probably was supposed to was that nobody ever stuck around. At some point everybody left, either voluntarily like his father when they had better things to do or involuntarily by death like his mother or grandpa, comrades and friends. That was why he was all by himself when he received his high school diploma and then went to Cambridge Massachusetts, hoping to start over again.
When Mac joined the team for briefing, the story of the fight between him and Dalton had already been around the whole camp. They looked at him and the bruise that was forming on his cheek. Fitzy handed him wordlessly an icepack which Mac took, because damn that thing hurt. Jack eyed that kid. He had guts, he had to give him that. He didn't cry. He didn't run crying to mummy like a little girl. Jack was aware that he had crossed a line here and if the boy wanted to, he could get Jack into serious trouble by telling on him. But the boy had no interest in that. What for? That would only push someone into a misfortune, the extent of which Mac could not measure beforehand. He wouldn't gain anything from it. Revenge was not something worth striving for.
They sat together while Jack explained his team what they would do the next two days. Tomorrow they would have to search the aera for IEDs and preferably disarm them. The day after they would move further into the country to find and destroy the Taliban nest. Nothing new, apart from the fact that they very likely would find more IEDs than they fancied.
“Everybody understood what his or her task is?” Jack asked around and everybody nodded, “Alright, any concerns you want to let me know about before we start tomorrow?” he then asked his team. The team knew the sincerity that was behind this question. Still, nobody had any concerns.
Jacks stopped Mac who was about to call it a night and nurse his still throbbing cheek. Jack met well-guarded eyes when he asked Mac whether he had any concerns.
“No, Sir. I would’ve expressed my concerns if there were any,” Mac told Jack and then marched past him. Jack sighed, because seriously, working together with this kid could be a tough piece of work for his nerves and patience.