Chapter Text
Murdoc
It starts, as many things do, with Murdoc’s knife at Macgyver’s throat.
There’s shouting. Jack’s voice, distant but rising, Riley screaming something about a bomb she just disarmed that should not have been ticking, and Bozer yelling both their names like he’s the only one who notices they’re about to tear each other apart in the middle of a thunderstorm.
Macgyver doesn’t flinch from the blade.
He shoves back harder, elbow locked against Murdoc’s collarbone, driving him a step off-balance as wind screeches down the valley and rips at his jacket like claws. The air stinks of ozone and blood. A few feet behind them, the detonator casing lies split open like a silver insect, and beneath it something is humming, something is wrong.
"You absolute bastard." Macgyver snarls, eyes locked to Murdoc’s, their foreheads nearly touching, "You set this up. You led us right into-"
"I did not." Murdoc hissed, incredulity creeping into his tone at the implication, "But god, if I had, I’d have made it a little more aesthetic."
The hum turns into a howl, the earth buckles, and for one breathless instant, Murdoc sees it. The sky splits open above them like torn cloth, white light bleeding through the seams, a jagged seam of impossible color blooms in the air, fractals, too many angles, geometry that just looks dead wrong and then a concussive shockwave throws all five of them off their feet.
Murdoc manages to grab Macgyver's jacket on instinct, somewhere to the side the rest of the boy scout's little band of misfits is tumbling through the portal, but before he can process much more the world collapses inward like a trap snapping shut.
The assassin doesn’t remember landing, not really. One second he’s spiraling through incomprehensible geometry, white light and fury burning the inside of his eyelids—and the next, he’s facedown in dirt, half-choking on moss and mud and rage.
Something cold and wet drips onto his cheek. He flinches violently, slapping at his face like it's on fire, only to realize it's a leaf. A soggy, perfectly normal leaf. From a tree. A real tree, judging by the creaking overhead and the distant screech of something that sounds like a crow.
A second later, he heards Macgyver groans behind him.
"Don’t." Murdoc wheels around and jabs a finger at the other man’s face, "Do not start. I swear, Macgyver, if you say one word-"
"Where are we?" Macgyver croaks, hauling himself upright with the kind of slow, precise motion that makes Murdoc want to hit him even harder. The blond winces and brushes twigs out of his hair, already taking in the surroundings like he’s calculating air speed and trajectory.
Murdoc sits up fully and the first thing he notices is that the trees are wrong. They're too tall, too quiet, too sharp at the edges and they lean, like they’ve got opinions about him already. The air tastes like metal. The sky above the glade is pale grey-green, overcast and shivering. He stares up into it, teeth clenched, breathing hard through his nose. His chest aches. His fingers twitch. He does a fast, panicked inventory, no injuries other than whatever bruises he had from fighting and from the landing, knives still there, his rifle is lying a few feet away, close enough to grab.
"What the hell did you do?" Macgyver snarls.
"Me!?" Murdoc scrambles upright in the leaf litter, hair wild, coat streaked with mud. He nearly slips again, "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to be sucked into whatever the hell this is? Sorry to disappoint boy scout but whoever did this? Wasn't me."
Macgyver’s already pushing himself up, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the woods like he expects something to leap out and maul him. Murdoc follows his gaze instinctively, even as he scoops his rifle up from the dirt and slings it over his shoulder.
"I had a plan. A timeline. I was going to finally kill you, vanish, drink champagne in a non-extradition country, see my son, have a movie night, and cap the whole thing off by dancing on your grave. And now I don’t even know what plane of existence we're on let alone what continent! My ears are ringing, I think my ribs are bruised, and I swear to god I just saw a tree blink at me." Murdoc kicked a nearby rock for emphasis. It bounces pathetically into the underbrush. His boot is now damp.
Macgyver doesn’t respond to the tangent. Just rubs a hand over his face and says, low and serious, "You’re really not responsible for this?"
Murdoc throws his hands up, "No! I’m a lot of things, Macgyver, but I do not have access to portal technology!"
The blond eyes him like he’s calculating the odds of that being a lie, but before he can respond, something swoops. Both men flinch, Macgyver drops into a half-crouch like he’s ready to roll under a collapsing building, and Murdoc instinctively raises his rifle. But it’s not a monster, it’s paper. Two sheets of it, fluttering down from the canopy, one lands in front of the assassin's feet and he crouches down to pick it up.
The paper is aged like parchment, with fancy little borders and something that looks suspiciously like blood in the corner, though Murdoc’s not sure if it’s decorative or just some attempt at setting the tone. There’s a big title at the top in elegant black script.
Murdoc (Level 4 Warlock – Hexblade)
Race: Variant Human
Background: Urban Bounty Hunter
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral
Patron: Angus Macgyver
Pact Boon: Pact of the Blade
Hit Points: 32
AC: 17 (black leather coat = Mage Armor: 13 + Dex 4)
Spell Save DC: 15
Spell Attack Bonus: +7
Spell Slots: 2 (2nd level)
Ability Scores:
Strength: 12
Dexterity: 18
Constitution: 10
Intelligence: 18
Wisdom: 8
Charisma: 20
Skill Proficiencies:
Deception
Insight
Intimidation
Investigation
Stealth
Tool Proficiencies: Thieves’ Tools, Playing Cards
Eldritch Invocations:
Improved Pact Weapon
Arcane Gunslinger
Pact Weapon – Sniper Rifle
Attack: +8
Damage: 2d8 + 5 Piercing, Magical
Cantrips:
Mage Hand
Prestidigitation
1st-Level:
Hex
Shield
Wrathful Smite
2nd-Level:
Misty Step
Mirror Image
Murdoc’s eyes skim the page, fast at first, practiced, almost clinical. Then he freezes, the whole sheet trembles faintly in his hands. He blinks once. Twice. The wind whistles overhead, rustling the trees. His hands do not shake, because he is fine, actually. He is composed. He is entirely in control of the situation. Angus Macgyver is not his warlock patron, no way in hell, this is not how this works.
Macgyver, because of course he does, is already unfolding the other parchment. He takes a deep breath, "We’re in a fucking game."
"No, we’re in hell." Murdoc mutters to himself as he sinks down to the ground, trying to will himself back to where he came from.
"I’m a Paladin. Level four. Oath of Redemption." Macgyver squints at the sheet like it’s a lab report, "Variant Human, Lawful Good, AC seventeen, three spell slots, high Int and Dex, oh wow. Twenty Intelligence. I took Skill Expert and Skilled. Wait, what's patron bond-"
"Macgyver, no." Murdoc's eyes snapped open.
Then Macgyver makes a noise like a strangled car alarm, "Are you kidding me right now?"
Murdoc flinches but doesn’t move from his spot at the base of the tree.
Macgyver’s voice cracks halfway into a curse, "No. No. This is not how this works!"
Murdoc doesn’t answer, he can’t. He’s curled in on himself, parchment forgotten on his knees, head bowed like something sacred just snapped in half. His breathing’s shallow, chest twitching like he’s trying to suppress a laugh or a sob or some abomination of both.
Macgyver starts pacing at the edge of the clearing like he’s trying to figure out a way out of this. One hand runs through his hair over and over again, the other clutches his character sheet like he might physically tear the ink off the paper through sheer force of will. Murdoc on the other hand just sits, because this isn’t a joke. This isn’t one of his twisted dreams where everything explodes into gore and chaos and then resets with a laugh. This is real. The world feels real. The cold is real. The bruise on his ribs is real. The static buzz in his skull when he looks at Macgyver is real.
Macgyver is his patron. They're stuck in a damned DnD game and the boy scout is the source of his magic power.
He finally lifts a trembling hand and starts tearing through the pockets of his coat, the lining, the seams, he finds a paper tucked behind his hip holster like it’s meant to be there. A contract, of course it’s a goddamn contract. It’s written in the same elegant script as the character sheet, but this one pulses faintly with warmth under his fingertips.
Macgyver notices. Stops pacing. His voice is thin and wary, "What is that."
Murdoc doesn’t answer. He’s already reading.
Pact of Service And Bond
This document certifies that the undersigned, henceforth known as "The Warlock" (Murdoc), has entered into an irrevocable magical contract with the entity henceforth known as "The Patron" (Angus Macgyver).
Let it be known that this Pact is not forged by consent, but by obsession. This bond does not require love, loyalty, or admiration. It is sealed in the truth of the following oath:
Only the Warlock is permitted to kill, maim, harm, or psychologically torment the Patron.
No entity, mortal or divine, shall supersede this claim.
If any threat to the Patron’s life arises that is not instigated by the Warlock, the Warlock is compelled to intervene lethally.
In turn, the Warlock shall gain from this bond:
A weapon formed of vengeance and precision.
Power drawn not from admiration, but from relentless obsession.
Protection granted not from affection, but from possessive intent.
The pact shall persist until the permanent death of the Patron.
The Warlock is empowered to protect or destroy the Patron at their discretion.
If the Warlock should kill the Patron, the act will be considered fulfillment of purpose, and the contract will expire.
Signed in conviction and binding hatred by the spoken oath: Nobody Gets To Hurt Macgyver But Me
Murdoc’s fingers twitch once on the contract and then go still. The paper pulses again, warm as blood, and he wonders, absurdly, if it would scream if he tried to burn it.
Macgyver’s voice is razor-thin when it finally cuts through the static, "You swore that, didn’t you."
The assassin huffed out a humorless laugh, low and shaky, "Told you before, didn’t I? Nobody gets to hurt you but me."
"You meant it." Macgyver said with what sounded like a mixture of horror and dawning realisation.
"Do you have any idea how many times I almost lost you to someone else?" Murdoc lifts his head, just enough to shoot a sideways glance Macgyver’s way, eyes fever-bright, "It was never going to be anyone else. It had to be me, always me."
Macgyver doesn’t say anything for a long time, he just stands there like he’s been hit in the chest with a freight train, hands clenched at his sides, flannel rumpled and eyes wide. If he were anyone else Murdoc might’ve made a joke about that face. Something mocking, something cruel, something with teeth. But right now, Murdoc can’t find it in himself to be smug. He feels like someone peeled his skin back and wrote commandments on the bones underneath.
"I’m not your fucking patron." Macgyver finally says, voice low and brittle, like he's trying to keep it from cracking wide open.
"Do I look like I'm happy about this?" Murdoc hissed, "I had you back there, I had you, my knife was literally at your throat, I could've killed you right then and there and now we're here."
The air shifted. Not the wind, though that too had begun to still, heavy with pressure, but the atmosphere. Like the forest itself was holding its breath, all watching with those not-quite eyes, waiting to see which one of them would snap first.
Then there was a sound, something different from the rest of the forest. A soft sighing noise, like the wind warping itself to sound like singing, a breathy, melodic echo that twisted and circled them, threading through the trees like smoke.
Murdoc’s head jerked up, pupils narrowing. Something was moving at the edge of the glade, half seen, half felt, like mist curling just out of reach. For one second, he thought it was fog, or tricks of the light in this too-pretty, too-wrong forest.
Then he saw it shift. A glowing blur, floaty and pale blue-green, drifting between the trunks like a jellyfish made of candlelight and teeth.
Murdoc stumbled to his feet, rifle in hand before he’d even processed the motion, "Nope! Nope, nope, nope. What the hell is that?"
Macgyver was already pulling his staff from his back. He hadn’t even drawn it before, hell Murdoc hadn't even noticed it before, and now he held it like it was a live thing. His expression was pure instinct. Hyper-alert, jaw clenched, shoulders set, "I don’t know, but I really don’t like it."
More of the things were appearing. Drifting in from every angle. Some glowed faint silver, others a soft gold, but they all pulsed faintly with a shimmer that felt wrong. Like they weren’t quite touching the world in the right way.
And then one opened its mouth. No teeth. No tongue. Just a wide, yawning hole in its face and from it poured a sound that made Murdoc’s vision shiver. A musical note that didn’t match the air, like violins playing underwater, or whispers in reverse. Every hair on the assassin's arms stood up.
Macgyver said nothing, he just stepped forward, shifting sideways to put himself between Murdoc and the nearest one.
"What are you doing?" Murdoc whispered, hefting his rifle.
Macgyver didn’t answer immediately. He just gripped the staff a little tighter, knuckles white. His body moved like muscle memory, slow pivot, one hand raised in warning, feet set just a little apart, "Buying us time."
"Oh my god." Murdoc hissed, "You’re doing the paladin thing. You just found out you’re my patron and now you’re out here trying to shield me with your body? I hate this."
"Believe me." Macgyver said without looking back, "So do I."
The banshee-things, wisps? Wraiths? Nightmares made out of shimmer and grief? Drifted closer, their light pulsing in eerie rhythm, as if matching some distant, unhearable drum. The clearing around them dimmed slightly as the sun, or whatever passed for a sun in this plane, faded behind clouds, turning everything greenish and warped.
The first one struck.
Murdoc saw it move, barely, a blur of phosphorescent silk and a jaw that didn’t open so much as unfold. It lunged with the grace of a ghost and the impact of a truck, and Mac barely managed to bring his staff up in time.
Attack roll: 1d20 + 4 = 17 (Hit)
Damage: 4d8 = 19
Macgyver HP: 38 - 19 = 19
The wraith’s strike clipped Macgyver across the side, sending him stumbling back with a yelp of pain, eyes wide, "Nineteen! That’s, fuck, that’s real!"
“Yeah, no shit!” Murdoc shouted, already bracing, rifle drawn, stepping back to get better range. There were two more banshees, further back closer to the treeline, but there was a different feeling sinking into his ribs now, a simmering hatred for the one that had just hurt his Macgyver. Something crackled down the barrel of his rifle and under his breath Murdoc felt himself mutter, "He's mine."
Just like that a glowing red dot appeared like a laser sight on the banshee, and Murdoc realised with a jolt that it was his hexblade's curse. He'd just cast his hexblade's curse using sheer possessive hatred at the idea of anything else hurting Macgyver.
God this is fucked up.
Sniper rifle up, breath steady, Murdoc's movements clicked into place like a trigger mechanism.
Attack roll: 1d20 + 8 - 5 (Sharpshooter) = 16 (Hit)
Damage: 2d8 + 18 = 7 + 4 + 18 = 29
The shot cracked like thunder, cutting clean through the banshee’s head, or what passed for its head, and for the first time, one of the shimmering horrors let out a sound that didn’t feel like it belonged in a haunted symphony. It shrieked, a high, raw note that bent the air around it and sent the other two into a frenzy.
The banshee Murdoc shot reeled backward, if the floating horror even had a backward. The glow around its form stuttered like a dying bulb, flickering in and out as motes of ghostlight shed from its surface. It didn’t fall it dissolved, dissipating in a slow spiral of unraveling threads like it had been stitched together by light and hate and someone just ripped a seam.
Murdoc grinned, all teeth, "Did you see that Macgyver?"
Macgyver, still gripping his side, scowled as he staggered back toward him, breath ragged, "That thing hit like a freight train.”
"I know. You took nineteen, sunshine." Murdoc shifted his rifle to aim at another one, "Which means another hit like that and you’re on your way to being my ex-patron."
Macgyver didn’t dignify that with a response. He was frozen, as if somehow he couldn't do anything yet, and Murdoc realised with horror that he couldn't shoot at any of the encroaching spirits either.
"Macgyver, we're stuck in initiative order." The assassin tightened his grip on his rifle and his pulse quickened, "This is so fucked."
As if summoned by the sheer dawning horror of their situation, the next banshee made its move.
Attack Roll: 1d20 + 4 = 19
Murdoc lifted his rifle in some instinctual attempt to try to block the hit and-
Reaction: Shield.
The shimmering arcane barrier lit up just in time, runic light blazing as the banshee's claws screeched across it, skidding like talons on bulletproof glass. Murdoc staggered from the force, but the impact didn’t break through.
Murdoc made a ragged laugh halfway between disbelief and sheer triumph, adrenaline flooding through his veins. The banshee let out that same warped music again, its shriek a discordant violin note sawing straight into the back of Murdoc’s skull.
Macgyver breathed out shakily, dragging his fingers down his flannel shirt, where the fabric had been sliced clean and blood was seeping from a long gash in his side. He pressed a hand to it, then jerked his head toward the other two banshees that were still floating at the edge of the trees, "They’re circling."
“No shit!” Murdoc tried not to look at the blood for too long, "Lay on hands yourself or something."
"I can’t, it looks like I don’t go yet." Mac bit out, voice strained from the pain, "I must've rolled badly."
Murdoc resisted the urge to scream in frustration, "I really hate this."
As if on cue, the third banshee surged forward.
Attack Roll: 1d20 + 4 = 23
Damage: 4d8 = 6 + 7 + 3 + 5 = 20
Murdoc HP: 32 - 21 = 11
Murdoc barely had time to curse. The shimmering thing carved through the air like a blade, its glow warping with speed, and then impact. A searing jolt of pain ripped across Murdoc’s side as the banshee’s claws slashed through leather and flesh like paper and he screamed. Not a dramatic movie villain scream, this was real, sharp, animal. Blood sprayed across the leaves, and the world tilted as he flinched into himself.
A faint shimmer rippled outward from Macgyver’s outstretched staff as the spell triggered, light coalescing in a sudden flare behind his eyes.
Reaction: Rebuke the Violent
Wisdom Saving Throw: 1d20 + 1 = 7 (Failure)
Damage: 20
The banshee that had struck Murdoc jolted mid-air. The glow around it fracturing like glass under pressure and it screeched in agony. The kind that got into your teeth and bones. Its body wavered, twisted, staggered in the air like it suddenly couldn’t remember how to float.
Murdoc, clutched his side and stared at Macgyver, whose eyes still glowed with a soft golden light that remind the assassin of watching the sunrise, "That was..."
"Just try to stay up." Macgyver stepped into his space without asking and a warm hand landed on Murdoc's shoulder.
The assassin flinched, ready to tell the boy scout to get off him but then he felt it.
Not warmth like body heat or rage or fire. Something else, something older, something real. Like sunlight pouring through stained glass and settling straight into the marrow of his bones. Like forgiveness he didn’t earn. Like being known, the worst and best parts of him, laid bare and still met with softness. Like Macgyver had reached past his broken skin and found some part of him Murdoc didn’t know still existed, something so used to being alone it didn’t know what to do with this kind of light.
He looked up. Macgyver’s face was focused, as if healing Murdoc was the same as being in an impossible situation and improvising something new out of broken parts. The glow in his eyes faded, turning the metallic patterns in his irises from golden constellations back to steady silver and blue.
Action: Lay On Hands
Murdoc HP: 11 + 20 = 31
Macgyver stepped back like nothing had happened, blood still damp on his side, flannel torn open, but his eyes locked on the banshees with a focus that could cut glass.
Murdoc was breathing hard, not from the injury anymore, though that had sucked, but from the aftershock of whatever that spell had been. It wasn’t just magic. It felt like being seen, and he hated it. He hated how it settled into the cracks of him like it belonged there. He didn’t even have the energy to hiss about it yet.
But there were still two left.
The third banshee, the one that had gotten its face full of radiance just moments ago, was still glitching in the air like corrupted software. It tried to realign itself, and Murdoc wasted no time lining up his next shot.
Attack Roll: 1d20 + 8 - 5 (Sharpshooter) = 13 (Hit)
Damage: 2d8 + 18 = 6 + 2 + 18 = 26
The crack of the rifle tore through the glade again, and this time the bullet passed straight through the thing’s chest and the light unraveled like someone had pulled a thread loose. It shrieked once, dissonant and final, then collapsed inward on itself in a spiral of fading light.
"Just one more boy scout." Murdoc felt, for one moment, like they were going to actually get through all this.
Then the last banshee moved, but instead of trying another hit on Murdoc it went straight for Macgyver instead.
Attack Roll: 1d20 + 4 = 17 (Hit)
Damage: 4d8 = 7 + 6 + 5 + 3 = 21
Macgyver didn’t have time to lift his staff. The banshee slammed into him like a grief-stricken hurricane, a rush of spectral claws and distorted lullaby shrieking into his soul. He gasped, his whole body jolting from the impact, eyes wide for half a second, and then he went down. Hard.
His body hit the mossy earth with a dull thud, flannel bloody and torn, staff rolling from his grip to land in the dirt a few feet away.
Murdoc froze. His breath stalled in his chest, his heartbeat skipped like a broken metronome.
The rifle in his hands hummed like it had a heartbeat, and the world narrowed to a single point of hate. A single thread of rage, every thought in his head twisted toward the singular knowledge that the spectre in front of him needed to die, and that it needed to die screaming.
Attack Roll: 1d20 + 8 - 5 (Sharpshooter) = 16 (Hit)
Damage: 2d8 + 18 = 5 + 8 + 18 = 31
The bullet seared through the banshee’s center, and for a moment it looked confused, like it didn’t understand the concept of pain until that exact second. Then it convulsed. Light shattered off it in jagged arcs, pulsing and fraying in midair as the form lost cohesion. Its mouth opened in a final, mournful shriek that dragged every shadow in the glade inward and then it simply ceased.
Gone. No echo. No corpse. Just a strange aftertaste in the air, like static and mourning.
Murdoc didn't remember dropping the rifle. One second he was bracing from the recoil, pulse hammering in his ears, rage crackling under his skin like an electrical storm, and the next, he was kneeling in the moss beside Macgyver’s crumpled form. The staff lay abandoned in the dirt nearby, its soft magical glow already flickering, and the blond was pale, blood running from his side in a river of red that soaked into the torn flannel and leaf-litter.
Murdoc’s hands hovered over the wound, shaking with fury. Not at the banshee, not at whatever nightmare hellscape they were stuck in, but at the way Mac's body was slack. At the silence. At the fact that he couldn't hear that infuriating, analytical voice muttering theories under its breath anymore.
"This isn't... This is not what you do." Murdoc hated the raw edge of panic in his voice, "You're supposed to be impossible. You're supposed to be- mine."
He pressed both hands down over the wound. There was too much blood. Too much.
"Come on, Macgyver, don’t you dare. You don’t get to die like this. I didn’t spend the last two years chasing you around the globe just to watch you get taken out like this." He tilted the blond’s head back carefully, eyes darting between blood flow and breathing patterns, checking for pupil reaction, listening for any rasp of breath. His hands moved without conscious thought, pressure here, adjust the angle, keep the chest from collapsing. Somewhere, something in his mind clicked.
Medicine Check: 15 (Pass)
Macgyver is Stabilised
The words shimmered faintly in the air, a whisper across his vision that vanished as fast as it had come. Murdoc blinked, breath catching. He had stabilized him, he had saved him. And it felt wrong.
He looked down at Macgyver, at the blood still cooling on his own palms, and something twisted inside his chest. Not the tightness of possessiveness, not the fire of obsession, but a deeper, rawer ache. The kind that made his stomach hollow out, the kind of realisation that was a threat to the ongoing sanity of the kind of person who would have it.
He didn’t want Macgyver dead.
Not because he hadn’t done it himself. Not because it wasn’t on his terms.
Because if Macgyver was gone, there’d be nothing left to chase. No counterpoint. No maddening, brilliant mind to claw at with his own. No sound of soft footsteps, no frantic improvising, no infuriating speeches about redemption and people mattering.
Murdoc curled his fingers against the blond's shoulder, just enough to feel the pulse flutter weakly beneath the skin.
"I’ll kill you." He whispered, throat tight, "If you ever almost die on me again."
His voice cracked. Just a hair. Just enough for the moss and the wind and the stupid blinking trees to hear. He stayed like that for a long moment. Just kneeling in the ruins of the glade, his breath fogging faintly in the cold air, Macgyver’s chest solid under his hands. The rifle lay forgotten behind him. The banshees were gone. Murdoc exhaled slowly. His hands were still wet with blood.
"I’m not leaving you here." The assassin muttered, barely audible, even to himself. It was the kind of declaration that might’ve been made with grandeur or melodrama under different circumstances. But with only the trees to hear it, it was nothing more than fact.
He slid one arm under Macgyver’s shoulders, then another under his knees and lifted him with more difficulty than he thought he would, "God, Macgyver. You’re lucky I’m in love with the idea of killing you myself or this would be your problem."
The trees watched as he staggered across the glade, muttering curses with every uneven step. He found one that didn’t look quite as malevolent as the rest, just tall, and slightly crooked, and dropped down against the trunk with a sigh that sounded like it hurt. He settled Macgyver in the grass beside him, carefully angled so he was tucked under Murdoc's free arm, with his head resting against Murdoc's shoulder.
Then the assassin leaned his head back against the bark, staring up into a sky that was too green, like a watercolor painted by someone who had never seen the real thing. The branches above creaked softly, almost sympathetically.
He didn’t sleep, he didn’t dare. Resting meant letting go. Meant letting his guard down. Meant being vulnerable in a place where glowing banshee spirits showed up like they were on a fucking schedule.
So he sat there with his eyes fixed on Macgyver. Fingers twitching every time the blond’s breathing hitched or shifted, and decided to simply wait for his patron to wake up.