#(the first time mac is awake enough to send jack away when they want to change the dressing)

[impossiblepluto]

Okay can I pls hear more about the como scar reveal???

Thanks for the ask, pal! I've been slowly working on a longer, early season one fic from Riley's POV and to help get into her head I've been trying to write some scenes for her. Because I love a scar reveal, I've been working on a fic where Riley learns more about Lake Como and what happened there. (And I haven't decided what Mac is fiddling with so it's denoted as [XK] to fill in later)

~~~

Steam bursts through the bathroom door as soon as Mac opens it, wafting around him like a shroud as he steps into the cooler air of the hotel room, a pair of basketball shorts hanging low on his hips, focused on the [XK] in his hands.

Riley looks up from the bed furthest from the door that she claimed as her own, sprawled in exhaustion, and turns her attention back to the rig in front of her, absently checking the running search as though she didn’t just finish scrolling through the results so far. She smirks a bit that he apparently brought [XK] into the bathroom with him. 

She doesn’t really know where to look. Dripping hair. Bare chest. Shorts that are hanging just the other side of too low. She barely knows him. Tries not to look, doesn’t want him to think she’s staring when he finally tears himself away from the device. Tries to act like she’s not actively trying to not look. 

Mac reaches up, scrubbing a hand through his hair, sending water droplets flying. After a moment, he sighs and tosses [XK] onto the bed. Her bed.

Riley shifts out of the way as it bounces. 

Mac takes a step back, blinking in surprise as though he’s forgotten she’s here. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” 

“That’s usually my-” he gestures to the bed and stops.

“I can move.” Riley sits up. They didn’t really talk about the sleeping arrangements. 

“No.” Mac waves away the suggestion. “Jack just always takes the bed closest to the door as though those extra three steps would keep me safer. He’ll want you there.” 

“Wouldn’t it be just as likely that someone would enter through the window? Isn’t that what a secret agent would do?”

“I wouldn’t bring that up.” Mac shakes his head.  “I don’t know what Jack’s response would be, but I’m too tired to try to argue about it tonight. Here, let me-” he motions to the [XK].

Riley scoops it up and passes it to him, keeping her eyes carefully on his face.

“Sorry for throwing it at you.”

“I suppose I’ll believe that you weren’t trying to maim me,” she says magnanimously with what she hopes is a twinkle of teasing in her eye. They haven’t had much conversation outside of the mission and work but she sees the playful banter he has with Jack. It’d be nice to cultivate that type of friendship. Any type of friendship.

“Well, not everything I build blows up. Don’t believe everything Jack tells you,” Mac grins.

“I don’t even believe a third of what Jack tells me.” 

The grin erupts into a chuckle. He tosses the [XK] between his hands before setting it on the bedside table, and flopping onto the other bed. 

A wince flitters across his face so quickly she almost misses it. Would have missed it if she hadn’t caught vestiges of pain that blink in his eyes for a second before they're gone. 

“Guess I forgot that it wasn’t just me and Jack. I’m not used to anyone else being with us.”

She doesn’t know why but she half-expected him to blush or stammer, maybe scramble to grab a t-shirt when he realized she was here, not stretch out comfortably on the bed.

(Maybe it’s the way he always looks like a kid wearing his dad’s clothes and trying to appear grown up, multiple layers under collared, button-up shirts and the leather jacket. Half of Jack’s t-shirts don’t have sleeves. Half of them are gaping holes between scraps of fabric barely holding together. )

“Well, Nikki.” 

The teasing smile leaves Mac’s face. Riley almost regrets bringing her up, shifting uncomfortably as Mac’s face clouds, but as the analyst’s replacement, she can’t ignore the curiosity or the warning that prickles in the back of her mind. Walking the line of getting answers and not rocking the boat. She can’t help but wonder what their relationship was like. What led Nikki to make the choices to betray her partners. How it could have happened under the noses of what seems like two very capable special agents. Personal life getting in the way of judgement? She tells herself she wants to avoid the same pitfalls that caused Nikki to turn traitor but she also needs to know if she has any hope of ever really fitting into this duo of Mac and Jack. Will they trust her and more importantly can she trust them? And she finds herself continuing to poke a stick into this painful situation to get answers and just to see how they react.

“Most of the time the op didn’t require her on site.” 

“She didn’t come with you?”

“Not as often as you’d think.”

“Don’t worry, Mac. I don’t think you were using government resources to take your girlfriend on trips around the world.” 

“With as much trouble as we run into, those wouldn’t be the mood-setting romantic vacations she’d be looking for,” Mac chuckles. 

The wary tightness in Riley’s chest loosens.

 “But when I said ‘not as often as you’d think’  I meant based on your experiences with us. You’re already in the field a lot more than Nikki was.”

“Really?” That’s… surprising. And concerning. Are they keeping her closer because they worry they can’t trust her? 

“Looking back, it’s become startlingly clear how often she was around for the really bad ops. Makes me wonder exactly how long she was working the other side. Selling intel. Using– us.” Absently he raises his hand to his chest, the way she’s only seen him do when he’s feeling upset or vulnerable. But only when Jack isn’t around to see it. And now she lets herself look, and sees why.

A raised weal of puckered skin, pink and fresh the way a just-healed wound looks, scores the muscle of the left side of his chest. 

The bullet wound that he was still recovering from when they arranged her release. The one they don't want to talk about. The one that nearly ended his career, and his life. 

Aside from these furtive touches and carefully hidden winces that she suddenly understands, he doesn’t move or act like he almost died three months ago.

No wonder Jack gets a little protective.

[refinedbuffoonery]

Looking Through A Window (5)

macriley married undercover au

masterlist.

Admittedly, this is kind of a filler/transition chapter, but I have big plans for this story, and I’m really excited for y’all to read what happens next. Expect an update every weekend this month! 

*****

The nightmare sinks its claws deeper as Mac tries to dislodge it. He knows it’s a dream, and Mac tosses and turns as he grapples for control of his mind. 

The images in his mind persist. He's back in the Sandbox, but this time Bozer is with him, and Bozer's dying from a bullet wound before Mac can carry him to safety. Mac's had the dream a million times, and it always ends the same way. 

I know you won’t let me die, Bozer says. But seconds later, his eyes turn glassy when his soul leaves his body. 

Mac’s throat closes, cutting off his oxygen supply, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to follow Bozer into the afterlife. 

It’s just a dream. He’s just lucid enough to remind himself of that. Wake up, Mac commands his body. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. 

The nightmare won’t let him. 

Suddenly a different set of claws grip Mac’s shoulders, and the voice ordering him to wake up isn’t his own. He tries to jerk away, but the claws dig in. 

Not claws, Mac realizes. Hands. Slender ones, with long fingers. Nails biting into his skin through his worn t-shirt. 

He knows those hands. 

“Wake up,” Riley hisses, and it’s enough to finally yank Mac from his dream. Mac’s eyes snap open, automatically scanning his surroundings. The bedroom is pitch black, but Mac can just make out Riley kneeling above him, her tired face twisted in concern. Her hands are on Mac’s shoulders, but not pinning him to the bed like he first thought. Her touch is light, and her thumbs make gentle sweeps across his collarbones. Mac’s own hands find Riley’s forearms, but he doesn’t push her away, nor does she lay back down. “You okay?” she asks. 

Mac tries to play it off. “Yeah, bad dream. That’s all.” It’s a bit of an exaggeration, considering that he’s drenched in sweat and the final and most disturbing seconds of the dream are lingering longer than the rest. He knows it’s not real, but Mac can’t quite shake the sick feeling. 

Riley exhales, and Mac finds himself mirroring her breathing automatically. Sliding a hand down to her wrist, he presses two fingers into her skin, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse. It’s faster than he expects. 

Almost as if in explanation, Riley says, “You scared the shit out of the dog, not to mention me.” 

Mac winces, feeling guilty. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Slowly, Riley releases him and lays back down, leaving plenty of space between them. Mac misses her touch the instant she lets go. “Want to talk about it?” 

That throat-closing feeling returns as Mac contemplates what to tell her. Part of him wants to share, but a bigger part hesitates when the explanation dies on his tongue. “Not really,” he finally says. 

“Okay.” Riley says, pausing. “You’re wide awake right now, aren’t you?” 

This, at least, he can admit easily. “Yep.” 

There’s another long pause, filled only with the soft sound of their exhales. Just when he’s about to tell Riley to stop worrying about him and go back to sleep, she says, “Come here.” 

Mac stills. That weird tension still lingers between him and Riley, causing awkward silences and stilted conversations. So this…this is unexpected. 

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But, her voice is soft and reassuring, and who is he to turn down a free opportunity to cuddle with the woman he loves? Even if it might be a mistake. 

As soon as Mac scoots across the bed, Riley pulls him into her side, guiding his head to rest on her non-injured shoulder. Riley’s side of the bed isn’t nearly as warm as his, but her body is soft and Mac likes how they fit together. Mac can’t help but sigh in contentment as Riley lightly scratches his scalp, and he lets an arm settle over her waist. They’ve fallen asleep together plenty of times over the years, but she’s never held him. Not like this. His heart pounds at the intimacy of it all. 

But as Mac slowly starts to relax, the pulse in his ear doesn’t slow like it should. Because it’s not his heartbeat he’s hearing. 

It’s hers.

Does that mean…?

“So,” Riley says, breaking the silence. “It’s later.” 

The realization feels like a slap to the face. That’s why her heart is beating so fast. Not because of their close proximity, but because it’s later and there’s still that unresolved thing hanging between them. Mac’s fleeting hope that Riley’s racing pulse meant something else is nothing more than a fantasy in his head. 

Swallowing his disappointment, Mac starts, “Riley, I really am sorry—” She cuts him off. 

“Stop. You don’t need to apologize again. I forgave you the first time.” Her fingers sweep behind his ear, making him shiver slightly. “It’s my turn.” Riley takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry for not listening to you. Like, really listening. Your concerns are legit, and I shouldn’t have brushed them aside and followed Matty blindly.” 

Oh. 

“I hate this situation just as much as you do, and I’m sorry if I made you feel otherwise.” Her voice catches slightly. “Also, I lied to you this morning, in the car. I knew I needed to apologize. I just didn’t know how to say it yet.” 

Pointedly ignoring the intimacy of the gesture, Mac brushes his thumb over her ribs in a way he hopes is reassuring. “It’s okay.” 

Riley tenses beneath him, and Mac freezes instantly. “It’s not, but thanks for saying that anyway,” she murmurs, relaxing again. Her fingers resume their path through his hair, catching on the occasional tangle. 

Mac doesn’t know how to reassure her that it really is okay. So instead he confesses, “Sometimes I hate this job.” 

She’s quiet for a few long seconds before responding. “Me too.” 

It’s weird voicing it aloud. They’re all painfully aware of the downsides to the job, but rarely does anyone directly mention it. Maybe Riley is on a similar page as him after all. 

Mac questions, “Are we doing the right thing? Playing along and letting innocent people get hurt just so we can take down the whole organization at once?” He needs to know her answer…needs confirmation that this whole op isn’t just one massive wrong choice. 

“I think the good we do outweighs the bad,” Riley says after a few moments. “At least that’s what I tell myself so I can sleep at night.” She shifts, and for a brief, exhilarating moment, their hips press together before she pushes her knee uncomfortably into his thigh. Mac squirms, trying and failing to find a good position, ultimately taking a chance by slotting his leg between hers. Riley inhales sharply, but she doesn’t push him away. Mac tries not to read into it. Lying like this is intimate and intense and yet so easy. So right.

Mac pushes the heady feeling aside, ignoring the way it crackles in the background, threatening to consume him. They need to have this conversation, without distraction. Even welcome ones. 

“Riley, we helped them kill people,” he says, and Riley’s hand stills in his hair. 

“We can’t save everyone, Mac." 

The thrumming in his body stops so quickly Riley might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water on him. 

His heart cracks as she softly repeats, "We just can't." Like maybe she's breaking her own heart too by saying it. 

He wants to kiss her chest—to press his lips to her heart in an attempt to soothe the ache there. 

Mac understands all too well. It’s not the countless lives they have saved that stick with him, but the few they couldn’t. Zoe, the researcher who drowned in the Arctic to save her students. Jill, who fell victim to one of Murdoc’s murderous games. Charlie, who sacrificed himself so Mac wouldn’t have to choose between saving his friend and saving hundreds of innocent people. Lasky, the nuclear plant engineer who was just doing his job. Mac’s father. His aunt. Jack. 

Riley clears her throat. "So, yeah. I think we are doing the right thing. It just sucks.” 

Mac agrees, even though he can hardly admit it to himself. But there’s still one thing he doesn’t understand. “I don’t get how Matty seemed so okay with all of this,” he says. 

“Come on, Mac. You know Matty hates this just as much as we do. She wouldn’t ask us to play along if she didn’t think it was necessary.” Riley’s fingers resume their steady, sweeping path through his hair, and Mac takes comfort in the gesture. 

He sighs. “You sound like Jack.” 

“I learned from the best. Don’t tell him I said that,” Riley warns, but Mac can hear the smile in her voice. 

He tilts his face toward the ceiling, imagining Jack looking down at them from whatever afterlife he found himself in. “You hear that, old man? She admitted to learning something from you.” 

Riley snorts, giving Mac’s hair a sharp tug. “Oh shut up.” She means it to be playful, but it sends a bolt of desire through his body. 

It’s too much, with her hand in his hair and their bodies intertwined, and the intimacy may very well burn Mac alive. Every nerve in his body goes on high alert, and his grip on Riley’s rib cage tightens automatically. 

“Sleep,” she murmurs, clearly mistaking the tension in his body as coming from somewhere—anywhere—else. Riley is one of the smartest, most perceptive people Mac knows, and yet she has no idea how he feels about her. Maybe that’s a good thing, he reasons. It’s easier that way. Less complicated. 

Although full-on front-to-front cuddling isn’t not complicated. 

It doesn't take long for the gentle pressure of Riley's fingers to win out, and Mac melts into her touch, letting his body grow heavy. Sleep beckons, and his eyelids flutter shut of their own accord as Riley wraps her free arm around his back, pulling him closer. Again, he thinks she feels like safety. 

In his last moments of consciousness, Mac mumbles, “I like this,” before drifting back to sleep.

*****

For the first time, Riley is already out of bed when Mac wakes, and he’s positive it has something to do with the fact that he’s still on her side of the bed. 

Cuddling with her was a mistake. Even if it led to the best sleep he’s had in a long time. 

Burying his face in Riley’s pillow, Mac takes a deep breath. It smells like her. He hears the front door open and close, and then Riley’s muffled voice fills the apartment. Mac can’t quite pick up what she’s saying, but he thinks she’s on the phone rather than talking to Harley. 

Suddenly getting up seems like a daunting task. 

Not caring if it makes him a coward, Mac stays in bed, taking the opportunity to study the bedroom decor. This is day nine of the op, and before now Mac never bothered to appreciate the work someone put into setting up the safe house. It’s too modern and minimalist for his taste, but he has to admit it looks nice. The bedroom walls are a soft light gray, with a handful of paintings of different sizes and framed photos of him, Riley, and Harley scattered throughout. More of the photos Bozer took are in the hallway, but Mac’s never given those more than a cursory glance. 

Across from the bed sits the single, expensive-looking dresser, with overstuffed drawers that don’t quite shut all the way. One of Riley’s drawers is completely open, and the t-shirt she wore to bed last night hangs haphazardly over the edge. 

Mac’s eyes catch on the photo sitting on top of the dresser, beside the plant he keeps forgetting to water. It’s one of the wedding photos, and it’s the only photo Mac has really paid attention to, since he stares at it every day while getting dressed. The photo is of Riley and him slow dancing, and she’s looking at him like he hung the moon. And he’s looking at her the exact same way. 

More than anything, Mac wishes it was real. 

The bedroom door creaks open, and Mac cranes his neck to see Harley’s fluffy head peek through. She doesn’t enter. Instead, Harley watches him cautiously, almost like she wasn’t expecting him to be awake and is now unsure what to do. 

Mac pats the mattress. “It’s okay. Come on.” When she doesn’t move, he adds, “I’m sorry I scared you last night.” His apology must be enough, because Harley jumps on the bed with him. She stands between his outstretched legs as Mac rakes his hands through her fur, scratching her butt the way she likes. “How about I get you a new toy to make up for it?” he asks. Tail wagging, Harley licks his face in approval, and Mac laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Riley raises her voice—she’s complaining about something, although Mac still can’t determine what—and both Mac and Harley turn their attention to the sound. 

Harley looks back at him, and Mac starts to think that he wasn’t far off the other day when he noticed Harley playing protector. He smiles softly. “Go check on her.” 

Harley jumps off the bed immediately, surprising Mac when she glances back at him on her way out the door. 

Still smiling, Mac gets up to start his day.

By the time he emerges from the bedroom, Riley is playing fetch with Harley in the living room while she’s on the phone. Surprised the call has lasted this long, Mac raises his brow, silently asking who she’s talking to, and Riley holds up a finger. One second. 

While he’s waiting, Mac wanders into the kitchen in search of breakfast. 

Riley’s next throw ricochets off the wall, and the tennis ball hits Mac’s thigh. “What do you mean he’s not in the database?” she shrieks. “Bozer, practically every criminal in the world is in that database.” 

Mac freezes midway through unwrapping a muffin. 

Riley pinches her nose. “Then run the sketch through the DMV database. The guy who tailed me has to exist somewhere.” 

He swallows. “Tailed?” 

“Hang on, Boze. Mac just walked in.” Exasperated, Riley moves her phone away from her face. “I took Harley for a walk while you were still asleep, and some guy tailed me. Don’t worry, I lost him long before returning to the apartment.” 

Mac bristles. Riley had been in danger, and he was asleep. Why didn’t she tell him where she was going? He tries not to think about all the bad things that could’ve happened. “You think this guy is part of the Patriots?” 

Shrugging, Riley says, “That makes the most sense. But it’s hard to know for sure when we don’t have personnel records.” 

That’s just one of many problems with this op—no official list of known members of the Patriots. Mac and Riley have no choice but to learn about people the old-fashioned way. 

Pinning her phone between her cheek and her shoulder, Riley retrieves the tennis ball from under the couch, her voice muffled as she asks, “Got anything, Boze?” A few seconds later, she groans, but Mac can’t tell whether it’s because of Bozer’s answer or the amount of hair now stuck to the visibly soggy tennis ball in her hands. He makes a mental note to vacuum again. “Thanks for trying,” she says before hanging up. 

Treading carefully, Mac asks, “Well?” He doesn’t need to be a genius to know that she’s still rattled, no matter how much she tries to downplay it. 

“His name is Peter Morrison, and he has three speeding tickets. That’s it.” Still holding the tennis ball, Riley’s shoulders slump as she sits on the arm of the couch. Confused why she stopped playing, Harley stands between Riley’s legs and whines, nosing Riley’s hand in an attempt to get her to throw the ball again. 

When Riley doesn’t oblige her, Mac asks, “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” Riley says, but her voice is tight and she bristles when he moves closer. He knows she’s lying—they’ve both been lying a lot recently—but what Mac doesn’t understand is why. He knows why he’s lying, but why does Riley still feel the need to hide how she’s feeling from him? 

It’s like the intimacy of last night never happened. 

Mac takes the wet, hairy tennis ball from her hands and throws it for Harley. “Do you want a hug or help kicking someone’s ass?” The question earns him a small smile, one that makes Mac’s heart flutter in his chest. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of punching someone in the face, but I suppose we can kick them too,” she quips. Mac laughs, and the corners of Riley’s eyes crinkle as her smile widens. 

“Sounds like a plan.” Harley brings the ball back and drops it at Mac’s feet. “Last throw,” he tells her, knowing full well it won’t be. Turning his attention back to Riley, he asks, “How’s your shoulder?”

Absent-mindedly, Riley’s fingers trace the outline of a bruise peeking out from beneath her tank top. “It hurts. You grabbed it in your sleep last night, and I almost screamed.” 

Mac grimaces. “Sorry.” He wants to ask about last night and make sure they’re okay, but the words refuse to form. “I’m going to call Conrad and make him explain, okay?” 

“Okay.” Riley nods. For a second, it seems like she wants to say something more, but she ultimately doesn’t. Honoring her implicit request for space, Mac briefly squeezes her arm as he walks away. The gesture is a promise: I’m here.

*****

“This is unacceptable,” Mac growls at Ethan, later that day. After giving Conrad an earful over the phone, apparently Mac made a big enough fuss to warrant a visit from the leader of the Patriots himself. They meet in public—neutral ground—at a park not unlike the one across the street from Mac and Riley’s apartment. It feels wrong to use the term safe house, since it’s not as safe as they thought. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way, James,” Ethan placates. “It’s simply standard business procedure. I’m sure you researched us before formally offering your services.” 

Mac barely stops himself from making a face. Oh they researched the Patriots, all right. “Of course we did.” He really should do a better job of holding his snark at bay, but Mac lets it tint his words anyway. “But we didn’t invade individual members’ privacy or threaten anyone’s personal safety.” 

“My employee did not and would not have hurt your wife. She was never in danger, I can assure you.” 

“And how was she supposed to know that?” He’s borderline yelling, but Mac is too pissed to care. The more Ethan tries to convince him the situation is okay, the more Mac wishes they were closer to the playground so he could strangle Ethan with the chain from the swings. He snarls, “Explain that to me.” 

Ethan, it seems, is at a rare loss for words. Mac waits, forcing the other man to fill the silence. “I suppose she wouldn’t have,” Ethan finally admits, although he shows no sign of backing down. 

Mac stands. “Don’t let this happen again.” He starts to walk away, content with having the last word, but Mac stops dead in his tracks when Ethan calls after him. 

“If you won’t comply with the way we do things, then I guess we’ll just have to find someone else.” 

Mac spins on his heel. “That’s bullshit,” he spits. “You need us. You won’t find anyone better, at least not that you can afford, and we both know it. Your organization is small potatoes right now, but with our support, the Patriots could join the big leagues. So it’s up to you to decide whether you’re content with throwing your money at a pipe dream or if you want to actually accomplish something.” Ethan is taller than him, but Mac manages to look down at him anyway—something he learned from Matty. “The choice is yours. Let me know when you’ve made it.” 

Without waiting for a response, Mac shoves his hands in his pockets and walks away, praying he didn’t just ruin the whole op.

.

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[fourthwallhateclub]

Help me

Description: Emma is with Phoenix when she is kidnapped, can Bravo set aside their emotions in time to save her, or will they be too late...

A/N: I wrote some things like this over on Ao3 under “FourthWallHateClub”, this will eventually have a second part but with my ADHD I don’t know when that will happen 🙃 please feel free to send feedback on the fix, I know it’s shit but I live for shit so 🤭

@rebelreblogs

Emma's POV

Darkness... Floating... Silence... My eyes fluttered open and started to adjust to the light... where was I? The door slammed open,

"You're awake!" Was that... was that an Afghan accent? Then it all came back to hit me like a freight train...

48 hours before hand

"Sup Dalton." I said.

"Shut it Hayes." He said pissed off.

I turned to Mac with a questioning look, "Who pissed in his coffee?"

Mac smirked, "Don't take it personally, he's not pissed with you, he's pissed with Maddie. He was on his way to a football game with one of our old delta buddies when he got the call."

"It's..." I glanced at my watch, "1300 hours?"

"We we're gonna have a few beers!" Dalton groaned.

'More than a few.' I mouthed to Mac, he just coughed to stifle his laugh.

Matty walked in, tapping the glass creating a privacy screen, and clicked a button bringing an image up on screen. "Amir-Botzwat-Asharu."

"10 of clubs..." I breathed out in disbelief.

"International arms dealer, drug trafficker-"

"and grade-A prick." Jack stated matter-of-factly.

Mac snorted, "You can say that again."

"The guys been evading Phoenix since it was OPS, us personally for years, why are we concerned about him now?" I wondered.

"What's this got to do with us, CIA took over the case, why now?" Jack asked.

"If you’d let me talk, you’d know,” Matty said sarcastically, “He recently kidnapped and murdered an American. Phoenix have had him on our radar for a while now as you’re aware but the higher ups refused to green light the op to take him out, saying CIA had it handled. That all went to hell when their undercover agent was exposed, they shot him and put a bounty on everybody CIA affiliated."She said.

"We're on their SOS list Matty, we outrank some shitty little 'bounty' list." I said.

"Regardless, you, Dalton and MacGyver leave for the Middle East at 1600 this afternoon so you arrive at night, get your affairs in order because the big men upstairs say you don't leave till the jobs is done. You'll be properly briefed on the plane, but there are more pressing issues, you guys have up to date parachute qualifications right?"

"I don't like where this is going..." Jack mused.

"Me either..." Mac agreed.

"As much as I hate agreeing with you two shmucks, me three..." I said.

"Well whether you like it or not your jumping from that plane, there's no where for it to land where you'll keep your cover. Unless you want to walk 13 miles to where you'll be staying?" She challenged.

"WE'LL JUMP!!" We said in unison.

She smirked, "That's what I thought."

"Okay... where exactly are we going in the Middle East, and where are we staying?" I asked.

"You are going to Afghanistan."

"Fucking Trashcanistan?!? You've got to be kidding." Jack screeched.

Ah Dalton and his hatred for that place... he would get along with Uncle Sonny, man has a fear of bloody everything...

"SHIT!!" I yelled.

All heads snapped to me, "What's wrong Hayes?"

"Um... where exactly would we be staying?" I asked biting my lip.

"Navy base in J-"

I laughed nervously, "Would that be in J-Bad by any chance?"

"Yes, why?" Matty asked.

"We have a little problem..." I mumbled.

"And what would that be..." She mused, raising an eyebrow.

"My uh- my family was spun-up there a few weeks ago." I said.

"What do you mean Em?" Mac asked.

"I mean my family, is Bravo team. They are currently in the Middle East, and are stationed in J-Bad for the foreseeable future. What do we do?"

"I'm assuming that they were not among the people you told about your job?" Matty asked.

"No ma'am. Mac, Dalton, Bozer and Riley are the only ones who know..." I answered.

"You arrive at night anyway, you cover your tracks and stay as hidden as possible, don't talk to anyone and stay away from the sailors. Nobody is to know what you're doing there or who you are... to them you three are Black Rose, Hunter, and Eagle." Matty said.

"Yes ma'am."

"Well... get out of here."

We didn't need to be told twice, we were running out the door and to the squad room.

"What the fuck do I do?!?" I yelled as we entered the room.

"Want a hug?" Mac asked opening his arms. I nodded and walked into him tucking myself into his figure, "You'll be ok."

Jack's POV

"Wait! Is your dad the Jason Hayes, like Bravo 1, the legend?!?" I screeched.

"Uh- yeah.." Emma said pushing away from Mac and scratching her head.

"That explains a lot..."

"What do you mean?" She was confused.

"I mean, having worked with your father, I see where you get it from."

She laughed, "You are so old."

I gasped, "You mean we are so old. Mac and I worked together in the Army."

“No. You? You're old enough to be my dad. Mac? Is old enough to be my big brother." She laughed.

"Yeah, and we'll protect you like it too." I said hugging her shoulder.

"You won't have to do anything if my family spots me. I'll be on the first plane out of there and back home, complete with a tracker and navy seal protection detail. They'll never let me out of their fucking sight." She grumbled.

"You'll be ok. Let's get ready to rak out." I said.

"You're right."

I walked into my office and grabbed my rucksack and duffel. I met them back in the main room.

"List it Hayes."

She groaned, "Why???"

I smirked, "We're acting like the older brother and dad we are."

She rolled her eyes but spoke anyway, "I made sure my camping gear, fatigues and survival gear was in my bergan, along with Guns, ammo, knife and spare phones," we looked at her weirdly, "What? I'm sick of Mac breaking my shit. Dalton and I spend way to much fucking time at the Genius Bar creating new and inventive covers to explain what Mac does as is."

Mac raised his hands, "You got me."

She smirked, "I know I do, anyway, I grabbed my go-bag, passport and fake ID's."

"What's in your go-bag." I quizzed.

"Toiletries, Clothes, Cash, Raincoat, Matches, Lighter, Laptop, Flashlight, MRE's, water purification tablets, rope, duct tape, whistle, batteries, knife, and First aid kit. Why do we keep doing this?"

"Good, and we do it because we care." Mac said kissing her head.

“Ugh! Let's go." We headed out to Mac's truck and dumped our stuff in the back. She hopped in the back and we drove to Mac's place.

"Bozer!" Mac called.

"Sup guys." He said bro hugging Mac.

"We're heading out, I need you to take care of some stuff for us." Mac asked.

"Yeah ok, let me grab some paper." He said.

We walked into the kitchen and told him what we needed, Mac didn't need to worry because he lived with Bozer, so Em went first, "My rent is due first of the month, it auto pays but I need you to check on the seventh if I have mail just in case it didn't go through. I need mail collected on the 7th, 14th 21st, and 28th. Plants need to be watered but that can be done when you grab my mail, if anything happens there is a contact sheet folded in the draw of my desk, it'll tell you who to call, in what order. You good with that?"

"All good Em." He said with a smile.

"Thanks Boz."

"Your welcome, Jack anything you need." He questioned.

"I live next to Emma so same as her just no plants to water, if you could check on my place when you water Emma's plants that would be great, and there is a contact list in the box on top of the CD rack."

"Cool, I got it."

“Thanks Boz." Mac said walking back into the room with his bag.

"It's all cool man." He said.

We walked to the door before he called out, "Be safe, I want you back in one piece."

"We'll try Boz."

~Time skip brought to you by Sonny’s Bam-Bam~

We'd been briefed and where currently in our hammocks grabbing what sleep we could before we hit the ground running.

"Drop zone is up in 35."

"Let's go kids." I commanded with a laugh.

We packed up our hammocks and pulled on our jump suits. I strapped my duffel to the bottom of my bergan and grabbed my chute. Strapping my Bergan to my back I pulled the parachute over the top. I walked over to the ramp and waited for Mac and Em to join me.

"2 minutes to the drop zone"

"Ready ladies." I yelled over.

"We're coming." Mac laughed.

We attached to the central line and clipped in, we watched as the light turned on and the ramp lowered,

"5...4...3...2...1..."

The light turned green and we jumped. My drill instructors voice went through my head. Breathing Dalton... in for 2... hold for 4... out for 3... parachute in 3, 2, 1. Pull the cord. Release the parachute. Move your body vertical. Feet pointed down. Legs slightly apart. Hit the deck in 3...2...1. Land crouched. Bend knees and run forward 20 yards. Unclip and pull.

Emma and Mac landed next to me and we packed up our chutes.

"Base is roughly 1 click 228 degrees north east." I said.

"Comms up?" Mac asked.

"Yeah they are." Matty answered.

"Good." I said. "Let's go."

We moved our bergans to our fronts and held our duffel bags. We broke out into a jog eager to get out of the heat. Arriving at the 'base' we were met with our assigned CIA handler.

"Agent Jayden Riggs." He said offering his hand.

I shook it, "I'm Eagle, this is Hunter and she's Black Rose."

"Real names?" He asked.

"That's need to know." Emma answered.

“What do you mean, I'm your handler?"

"Look Riggs, we don't like spooks ok. We work alone, off our own intel. It's important our identities remain a secret." She answered shortly, that's my Hayes.

"Alright then, let's get you set up in cabins, Black Rose, you'll be separated from the men." He said as he started walking away.

"What?" I said.

"Gender sensitivity. Men and women are separated." He said like it was obvious.

"Yeah no, she stays with us. We don't care about gender sensitivity." Mac said before I could, reel in the big brother before you get yourself in trouble Mac.

"It's protoco-"

I cut him off, "Screw protocol, Black Rose stays with us."

"Of course." He relented.

He led us to a cabin as a humvee pulled up, out climbed 6 men and a dog, all in fatigues, before I could see anything else Emma pushed us into the cabin and slammed the door shut behind us as we collapsed onto the floor.

"What was that??"

"That! Was my family." She helped us up.

Jason's POV

We were on night patrol in a neighbouring town to J-bad, we'd been out for 6 hours and it was 0300. I decided it was time to head back.

"Let's move out."

We walked back to the humvee and climbed in. We'd been driving for about 15 minutes when we saw three figures drop from the sky.

"What the hell is that?" Sonny asked.

"I'll find out." I said keying my comms, "Havoc base this is Bravo 1, we've got three parachute jumpers coming towards base."

"Copy that Bravo 1, I'll find out." Blackburn answered, a few minutes later he keyed his coms again, "Stand down, their friendlies."

"What do you mean their 'friendlies'?"

"I'll find out."

I rolled my eyes, cryptic much. We watched as they landed about 5 clicks ahead of us and packed their chutes away, then started running towards base.

"We're not far out now. We'll talk when we get in." I said.

We got to the base gate and rolled through, getting out I saw three figures standing outside a cabin glance at us before one pushed the others into the cabin and slammed the door. Weird. After we dumped our gear in the shed. We walked into the team room where Eric and Mandy were waiting.

"Who were they?" I asked.

"Apparently they work for some government agency, they're following a lead on a case." Mandy said.

"Which agency?" Brock asked.

"I don't know guys. I don't know..." Eric said.

"Why did they jump Eric? Why not just land on the airstrip?" I quizzed.

"Apparently they're meant to be discreet. Nobody was supposed to know they're here." Mandy said.

"Well they did a crap job of that." Ray said.

"Actually Ray, you guys weren't meant to be out tonight, had base been on routine nobody would have seen them come in." Eric spoke.

"Well that's creepy." Clay said.

"What do we know about these guys Mandy?" I asked.

"Two guys, one girl actually." She stated hint of amusement in her tone.

"A girl?!?" Sonny yelled.

"What? Don't think women can do the same jobs as men? Or are you just worried she's going to outshine you." Lisa interrogated.

"No but if she gets snatched we'll be the ones collecting her." He grumbled.

"So? If she's snatched it's going to be for bad intel, and unfair conditions. Not because she's a woman." Lisa challenged.

"Enough! What do we know about them?" I yelled.

"Their handler couldn't tell me much, mainly because he didn't know a great deal. However, their code names are Black-Rose, Hunter and Eagle. Their handler doesn't know their real names and I suspect that's by design." Mandy spoke.

"Ok. First off those why do those code names ring a bell, Second what do we know about the organisation they work for?" Clay asked.

"Honestly? Nothing. None of my bosses know who or what they are and the further up I went the more I was told to stop digging." Mandy said.

"So what do we do?" Trent asked.

"We stay away. We don't talk to them, not only for your safety but for theirs too. You see them walking you say nothing, although I suspect given all the trouble they went to so they weren't seen while getting here, we won't be seeing an awful lot of them." Eric mused.

"Alright then." I said clapping my hands, "We need to sleep." I turned to Eric, "I trust if you find anymore information that could be of use you'll speak to us?"

"Of course." Eric said nodding curtly before walking out of the room.

[senselessophia19]

A friend who isn't on Tumblr asked for a "first kiss" fan fiction for Christmas! And I did my best.

«I told you Mac! Christmas is an invention of the multinationals! "

Jack seriously asserts, moving a finger in front of the boy's face next to him, as if to underline the point and at the same time teach him a lesson. Mac chuckles as he plays with a plastic bottle he picked up from the side of the road. It has always been like this, for as long as he can remember, for others, for normal people, abandoned objects are just "rubbish" for him they are an opportunity, games and in more extreme cases, lifesavers.

"It's absolutely not like that and you know it too Jack!" Mac retorts absently as he examines the plastic bottle in the sunlight.

Their footsteps and voices echo in the silent alley. The noises of cars and the shouting of people is far away. In that narrow alley, with rough asphalt and some buildings under construction, there are just the two of them and the guys they have to watch.

It's a pretty simple mission: to observe and report.

"Santa is a chubby fucking testimonial!" Jack almost yells, excited by the discussion and annoyed (in a good way) by Mac's sly smile.

"Actually Jack isn't like that ...." Mac tries, in a low voice and with a conciliatory tone, but the hint of amusement doesn't leave his lips.

"Oh don't try!" Jack warns him, looking at him from under his yellow aviator goggles. His gorgeous brown eyes, Mac notices, and he gulps down, suddenly finding that dirty, damaged bottle he's holding in his hands interesting again.

"You make up Mac stories, you always do!"

Mac pulls his lips into a smile and runs a hand through his short hair that he has decided to let stretch. It wasn't that he didn't like that haircut, in fact he found it quite comfortable, but Jack had said something about his long hair one day and he had somehow decided to please Jack. It's pretty silly Mac thinks, as his earlobes turn pink, without him having a modicum of power about it.

"Hey Mac? Are you listening to me?" Jack suddenly asks, worried by the boy's silence that had gone on for a little, too, long. Mac blinks suddenly brought back to the present and shakes his head to chase away the last remnants of the vision he had in his head; a rather satisfied Jack running a hand through his blond hair.

"I'm here. Sorry… ”Mac's voice is embarrassed, he tries a lopsided smile that turns into a grimace when he sees Jack's still worried and confused face.

"Our targets are moving, we should hurry ..." Jack's voice is full of urgency and the boy nods as he drops the plastic bottle which makes a thud and Jack, just in case, takes the safety off his gun.

And then it happens.

With hindsight, Mac probably muses, there would have been a thousand other more viable options than that, but his brain hasn't thought about, or wanted, anything else. His lips are on Jack's. Wedged against a cold wall of a building under construction.

Jack has a shocked expression, but he doesn't do anything to get the Mac out of the way, or put an end to that, which surely (according to the Mac's already blacked mind) is a mistake.

The kiss is slow, controlled, almost static. And most importantly, it has its effect. The targets cross the lane, see them and pass by. Some throw disgusted looks that Mac notices and can't ignore.

He shivers in his brown leather jacket and pulls away from Jack, letting go of his companion's jacket, which he hadn't even realized he was still holding.

The knuckles are white from the effort it took.

Mac clears his throat. He says nothing, not yet; he doesn't have the guts and doesn't trust his voice enough to do it, but neither does Jack and Mac begins to believe he's messed things up. He cannot stop the panic that is creeping into his chest which threatens to send him directly into a spiral. Then Jack says something; his voice is firm, hard.

"They went away ..." He says, putting an end to the awkward silence that had formed between the two.

Mac nods and apologizes, "I improvised!" He just says, Jack nods. His voice has trembled, but he tries hard to ignore it. He has to do it.

They no longer speak. They don't talk about it during the return to the Phoenix. They don't talk about it after the briefing that kept them busy for two hours. By telling over and over the information they gathered and how they did it. They obviously skip that part.

They don't talk about it, until Mac's house is on the horizon, getting bigger and bigger with each meter ground by Jack's GTO.

"We should talk about what happened during the mission ..." Jack suggests, turns off the car engine and takes his hands off the wheel, placing them on his lap. He seems thoughtful, perhaps worried. At least he's not angry he thinks Mac, who has a crumpled face, almost as much as his intestines. He has the feeling that his stomach is closing in on itself, engulfing him.

"can't we just pretend nothing has happened?"

Try Mac and that feeling of dread returns. He would like to be anywhere but there. Jack sighs and nods. A sort of sorrow and resignation hovers over his face. Mac takes advantage of it and rushes out of the car, with a wave of his hand as a greeting and a whispered "see you tomorrow" in a hurry. Mac doesn't see Jack's frown and doesn't even see the sadness in his eyes.

it's 3:00 in the morning. Los Angeles is eerily quiet, well as it can be a city of millions that never sleeps. Jack rings Mac's doorbell insistently.

Bozer is at the Phoenix, a team has requested facial implants, he has to oversee this and Jack knows. For the first time, perhaps, Jack is grateful that Mac is home alone.

What he is about to say, he doesn't need spectators.

Mac's door is slow to open and he contemplates, for a moment, using the spare key he carries with him, but then Mac appears in all its glory. Sleepy and swollen eyes, confused look. She still wears her white Henley.

Mac rubs one eye and holds a yawn as he tries to figure out if he's dreaming or ...

"What are you doing here Jack? Are you OK? Are you hurt? "

Jack shakes his head and passes Mac, almost ignoring him. He stops in the dark living room and Mac follows him, tired.

"We need to talk about that..." Jack exists and Mac swallows hard. He is suddenly awake. His hyperactive brain starts working again.

"Kiss" concludes the man who walks up and down following an imaginary circular path.

"I thought we should forget ... we were on a mission!" Mac offers again. Jack swallows, for a moment, just a moment, hesitates but then gets closer and closer. Slow, sinuous, almost calculated steps. Mac would like to back away but remains motionless, almost blocked. He doesn't want to fight, he doesn't want to lose Jack.

"What if you don't want to forget?" Jack whispers an inch from his crumpled face, he'll never admit it, but some tears are threatening to roll down his cheeks. He rubs his eye, almost angrily.

And then for the second time that day their lips come together.

Jack's lips are fresh and moist and Mac can't resist the temptation to nibble them. It's a different kiss than the afternoon kiss. It's messy, passionate, intense.

Their languages ​​touch and explore each other. Jack wraps around Mac's waist and holds him tight and Mac feels himself on fire. His heart gallops in his chest and he fears he will die.

"Jack what..." he whispers, panting breath.

"I've wanted to do it for a long time ..."

[elyreywrites]

do you know who you are?

a fic written for Pride Month 2020!! (yes, i know pride month is over, but i posted this on AO3 on June 30th so.) this is a projection fic. it’s not an exact projection of my experience, nor is it meant to be a generalized representation. this isn’t everyone’s experience.

warnings: slight mention of Jack and Janet Drake potentially being homophobic, and discussion of compulsory heterosexuality

thank you to my betas in the Capes & Coffee Discord - Bumpkin, ZulieTheProgrammer, and Oceans!!

title is from Moana’s “I am Moana”!

please REBLOG - DO NOT REPOST

AO3 Link

Teen 1,678 words Bart Allen & Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent slight one-sided Tim Drake/Jason Todd - as in, tiny-Tim has a crush on Robin-Jason

Summary:

He’s twelve and watching Robin fight. He’s seventeen and staring up at the ceiling. He’s nineteen and text-spamming his best friends.

Tim’s growing up and finding himself, and he would really appreciate if the Realizations didn’t happen when he’s trying to sleep. Kon and Bart would probably appreciate that as well.

- - - - -

It starts as he’s watching the second Robin knock out some muggers. It’s not the first time Tim has seen Jason’s Robin take down a group of criminals, but it’s the first time that he nearly gives himself away as he squeaks.

 Jason’s so strong, and cool, and pretty, and – oh. Ah. Okay.

He calls it a night at that, bright red from the questions that are swimming around in his head. He spends most of the trip home lost in thought. When he’s sitting on his bed, one of his best pictures of Jason’s Robin sitting in front of him, he gives them a voice. Talking usually helps him get his thoughts in order. “Okay,” he whispers, “do I like boys?” He doesn’t dislike them – not at all. But does he like them? Maybe, but… how is he supposed to know? “Is that too big of a topic?” he wonders aloud to the picture. “Let’s start with this: Do I like Robin? Jason-Robin.”

That doesn’t turn his brain into a jumbled mess like the previous question did. Of course he likes Jason-Robin. He’s absolutely amazing, protecting people and checking on the working girls and kicking criminal ass! He’s only a couple years older than Tim is, but he does so much more! And he’s real in a way Dick isn’t.

Jason’s just a kid like Tim, though they have such different backgrounds. Dick was a trained acrobat, with skills Tim never really believed he could learn. Jason seemed closer. He was still more amazing than Tim could ever hope to be, but it wasn’t an entirely impossible stretch like it was with Dick.

“And he’s so passionate, especially when it’s a kid that’s in danger. And every time he smiles, it just makes me so happy that I kind of want to giggle and—” Tim stops babbling. He doesn’t need to anymore, after basically answering his own question. Yes, he does like Jason Todd, the current Robin. As in, he has a crush on him. Tim falls back on his bed to stare up at the ceiling.

“Well,” he says, “that explains the weird, squirmy feeling I get in my stomach every time I imagine talking to him.” That feeling is always accompanied by a fierce blush and Tim hiding his face for a good two minutes. He thinks he probably should have caught on sooner. Deciding that was enough Realizing Things for the night, Tim quickly locks the picture of Robin up with the rest and collapses on his bed to sleep.

The next day – a Saturday, which is Mrs. Mac’s day off – Tim hops on the computer and starts researching. He has a crush on one boy, but Tim still thinks girls can be cool. Batgirl is pretty awesome, after all! After a few hours and a lot of new information, he settles back on his bed again. He’s bisexual, and sexuality can apparently be really fluid. In all honesty, it didn’t take him hours to find the term, he just fell into a rabbit hole of researching sexual orientation and gender identities. Tim’s fairly secure in his gender, but he’s glad to have learned. It’s something to keep in mind about other people – to not assume anything based on appearances.

He’s bisexual, with a crush on a boy, and his parents will still expect him to only date girls. At least the boy was Robin and completely unattainable.

- - -

Years later, Tim is laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling once again. It’s a different bed by now, in his own apartment at seventeen. The thing is, he’s pretty sure he has no interest in romance. And now his brain was mixing everything up in a tangle of thoughts and feelings again.

“Holding hands is nice,” he admits. “I like cuddling. That was fine.” He hasn’t gone further than making out with anyone, so that’s about the limit of his physical experience. It’s the implication of emotions that makes him want to skitter away. Specifically, emotions of the romantic variety. Now Tim’s reassessing every romantic relationship he’s had, though he’s only ever dated women.

At the time, he had thought he was happy while in each relationship, but… it’s becoming much more likely that it’s because he was previously starved for affection. He suddenly got that affection while dating someone. That thought makes him want to hide from everyone he’s ever dated. Stephanie is the only one he really still has to see, and that has him burrowing under his blankets.

It sounds awful, honestly. Like he was using the relationship to get the affection he so desperately wanted. Logically, he might be overthinking this. He just wishes his dumb brain would tell that to his anxiety and the ingrained societal expectations. “I didn’t mean to,” he mumbled into the blankets.

Romance, dating, being happy in a relationship? He has no other experiences to reference! He didn’t know that something wasn’t right.

Hell, he’s only having this Realization because a woman was flirting with him at a gala and asked if he would like to get dinner together sometime. A romantic dinner date with a woman he wasn’t close to. The entire scenario would be romance with no physical affection, and that didn’t sound pleasant in the slightest. It did, however, make him realize that he might need to think things through again.

So, here he is. Thinking things through. No romance – if he’s remembering his research correctly, the term is ‘aromantic’, similar to ‘asexual’. Asexuality was something he’d heard more about over the years, but he rarely heard of aromanticism. It had just stuck out because while the terms were similar, their meanings were pretty different.

Now he’s glad it stuck in his mind. It gives him less reason to panic about being confused. So, he was bisexual and aromantic. That’s fine! He’s a vigilante, romantic relationships would be difficult anyway.

- - -

A year and a half later, Tim’s fingers fly across the screen of his phone, sending text after text without waiting for a response. Either his friends would wake up or they wouldn’t. Hopefully they would.

Tim: Oh my god. Guys, wake up, I’m an idiot. Bart, Kon, please. I’m so dumb. How the hell am I this oblivious? I’m not bi-aro at all. I’m just fucking gay. It’s 5 am and I can’t sleep, and I just want a boyfriend. I want to do couple things, like cuddle up while watching movies.

Clone Trooper: dude, it’s the middle of the night. why do you do this to us?

Tim feels no sympathy for his friends – he’s been running on less than six hours of sleep for years. Sometimes less than four hours. High school and vigilantism don’t mix well. Anyway, they can deal with waking up to deal with his Realization.

Sonic: bro we cuddle up when we watch movies are we not good enough for you anymore

Tim: Yeah, but that’s platonic, Bart. And yes, I’m aware of the time. I’d like to be asleep too, but I’m lonely and sad and having Realizations! Suffer with me.

Clone Trooper: … suffer how? are you expecting us to have an existential crisis too, or is this just suffering by being awake?

Tim: Being awake. It’s not an existential crisis, it’s just a Realization.

Sonic: its the middle of the night i think it can be deemed an existential crisis

Tim: But seriously, someone please tell me how I jumped passed the logical conclusion I should have come to of “I’m just not attracted to women” and directly to “I have no interest in romance at all”? How did that make sense to me?

Sonic: society conditioned u to like women

Tim blinks at his screen. Bart isn’t wrong, but Tim has absolutely no idea where he’s going with that. He already had the Realization about societal conditioning, thanks.

Tim: Okay? I’m aware, but I’m not sure how that translates to how I didn’t think of the logical conclusion.

Sonic: dude. for years it was a fact – since you were a kid u were so conditioned that u should like women it was just a fact

Clone Trooper: think of it like this, tim: as far as you knew, you liked women. later, you figured out you like guys, but you still think you like women too.

Tim: We’ve established, yeah.

Clone Trooper: so, suddenly something is weird. the only really new thing is that there is romance involved. so that’s clearly gotta be the issue.

Oh. He stares so long the screen goes dark. He drops his phone on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, turning that over in his head. So. He jumped to not wanting romance because it was so deeply ingrained that he was supposed to like women? His exhausted brain seems to accept this explanation enough to calm the edge of self-recriminations.

Tim: That. Makes sense, I guess. But still, it really seems like I should’ve realized a while ago. Also, I’m kind of surprised that you aren’t teasing me for being oblivious.

Sonic: oh thats coming but teasing is saved for when u arent having a crisis

Clone Trooper: later, we’ll absolutely laugh about that jump in logic. but right now it’s too early and you’re already having A Time.

He’s not sure if he has wonderful friends or terrible friends. Tim suspects that he’s still going to hear about this in a few years. It’s the kind of thing they won’t let die for a while.

Tim: Fair enough.

Clone Trooper: great, glad we got that cleared up! now tim...

Tim: What?

Clone Trooper: please. GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP.

Snickering, Tim plugs his phone in and smothers his face in the pillow. He’s still lonely and he still wants to analyze every missed evidence over the years, but he’s also exhausted. The chat with his friends did get his brain to shut up enough that he might actually be able to sleep. He can rethink his entire life again after he wakes up.

[splat-dragon]

These Broken Wings Can't Learn To Heal

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21063878 @whumptober2019

Micah had tried to get him to show him his wings, more than once.

‘We’re both Sons of Dutch, and that makes us brothers.’

People tended to show their wings to family. After all, who else could you bear your literal soul to? 

He wasn’t entirely sure what Micah’s endgame was, but he knew it wasn’t anything good. The man had even flashed his own at him, once or twice, ‘accidentally’ letting him get a glimpse of his Lammergeier wings. And even those few second glimpses were enough to set unease deep in his stomach.

You never killed someone without it leaving a mark deep on your soul. Never lost someone without it showing on your wings. It was just a part of their lifestyle, a part of being an outlaw.

Yet Micah’s wings were flawless. Black and cream feathers were unmarred, as smooth and unharmed as a young child’s. He had seen, perhaps, a dull patch near the joint, where the feathers had fallen out and failed to grow back right, but it could just has easily been a trick of the light.

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he had shown someone his wings.

His mother used to coo over them, he remembered, over their rich brown color. But then she’d died, and a great wound had torn his right wing from tip to scapula, and the color had dulled. And his pa had taken to snarling at him, telling him he had no right to still be bleeding, and he’d taken to hiding his wings.

He’d joined up with Dutch and Hosea, and they walked around with their wings out. Some part of him knew it was an attempt to put him at ease, to show they trusted him, and to some extent it worked. It took years before he felt comfortable to unfold his own wings, let them ripple into visibility—and it was the first time he had seen them since he was a child.

He’d been groggy, blinking blearily into the campfire. Funny enough, it had been a lazy day. Their camp was set next to a lake, and they’d spent it fishing. He had no adrenaline in his veins to keep him wide awake, to keep him from sleeping, and his stomach was full with Hosea’s catch.

It had been a sharp inhale, an intake through clenched teeth, that had drawn his attention. He’d looked up to see Hosea looking pointedly at Dutch, barely able to make out a hissed ‘stop staring’, realizing that Dutch wasn’t staring at him, but something behind him.

Behind him.

His wings.

His wings?!

He stiffened, looking between Hosea, who had averted his gaze, and Dutch, who was trying to look away but kept darting his eyes back. They had their wings out—Dutch, with his patchwork, too small Magpie wings, and Hosea, with his too big, tufted Albatross wings. Both of them showed the scars of their past, yet they had allowed him to see their souls since the moment they took him in.

So, clenching his fists in his thread-bare jeans, he turned to look at them.

They weren’t as dull as they’d been. Weren’t almost black, and far less greasy. And his wound… his wound had stopped bleeding. The feathers around it weren’t even stained with blood, it had healed, scarred over to nothing more than a thin white line, bare of feathers. It was hard to believe that, last he saw, it had been the span of his hand.

He didn’t take to walking around with his wings out. Would let them show when he was comfortable, or drunk, or drowsy, but not for no reason at all.

As their gang grew, he showed his wings less and less. He showed them to Bessie, and Annabelle, once or twice, before they died, and it was inevitable that Susan and John saw them. But Javier, Bill, Lenny and the others, they didn’t even know what type of wings he had.

He knew that Javier’s wings were those of a robin, and Bill’s those of a rhea. Knew that Sean’s were a blue jay, Uncle a seagull, the O’Driscoll (“I’m not an O’Driscoll!”) a ruby crowned kinglet, and Marston was a red-tailed hawk. But none of them knew that he had the wings of a golden eagle.

As members came and went, they left marks on his wings. Samuel and Melissa Jones—a clump of feathers torn out of his left wing as he buried them—Robert McKinnley: a bend at the tip of his wing when he saw him at the head of the group of lawmen charging into their camp. Young Jackson Hewitt, a thumb size gash in his right wing as he wasn’t fast enough to shoot the noose.

Eliza and Isaac, a break in his right wing so severe it left the tip dragging along the ground.

And then Mac, crumpled feathers, and Davey, a small gash in the center of those. Jenny, ruffled feathers along his alula, and Sean, when he thought the boy was dead, bent secondary primaries on his right wing. And then, as Sean folded to the ground, still grinning, those secondary primaries tore free of his wing, leaving a wide, bleeding wound.

He showed his wings to Hosea one time, went hunting with him in search of a giant bear. Dozed off next to the campfire, half drunk on beer, relaxed for the first time in ages, just he and his pa like it had been years ago.

But he’d been woken up by a choked gasp, reaching for his gun, thinking someone was hurt. It was just Hosea, though, he’d realized quickly, his eyes wide and pained, hand over his mouth. “Hosea-?” he’d started to ask, before catching movement out of the corner of his eye.

His wings were out, and Hosea’s eyes were locked on them, beginning to glass over.

He’d hidden them, and they hadn’t spoken of it again.

Arthur had taken pains to hide his wings from his pa’s as best he could after that; he never wanted to see that look on his face again—on either of their faces.

But he couldn’t help but to punish himself, stare into the mirror and unveil his wings, remind himself of how he had failed to protect every last one of those scars.

And then Kieran had died. Well, he’d discovered that the man had died. At the time, he had been a little preoccupied, first with fighting off the wave of O’Driscolls, and then with sending the man off to be buried. It hadn’t been until he’d been washing himself off, stopping to look himself over in the mirror, that he’d seen a decent sized bald patch on his left wing.

Huh.

He hadn’t realized that he’d cared about Kieran that much, had expected nothing more than some ruffled feathers. Yet the wound ached, and itched, and there was nothing he could do but wait for it to heal.

Hosea died, then. He’d never felt such pain, as his wing crumpled, hollow bones shattering, giving way as though someone had taken his wing in their hand and squeezed it as tightly as they could. And he had seen Javier cower, clearly in pain as well, Dutch’s face blanching in that way it did when he was trying to hide his pain. But they hadn’t been able to suffer their pains, too busy trying to escape, and then Lenny died and that pain, too, the awful tearing as a strip of primaries was yanked out of his wing, blurred in with Hosea’s.

Things began to grow tense, and people turned on each other. Bill became more aggressive, Javier began to snap at him. And Dutch… his only remaining pa… began to distrust him, too. Was beginning to slip, had murdered an old lady in cold blood back in Guarma. His wings began to dull, again, so dark he could mistake them for black tinted brown. And the sicker he got, the duller they became, and the tearing pain from Hosea became a jagged throb that never quite went away.

He never much liked Miss O’Shea, but he’d grown to trust her. So when she claimed to have betrayed her, a fistful of his marginal coverts bent. And when Susan shot her, they crumpled, grasped in an invisible fist.

“Dutch… I need help!”

Yet Dutch had walked away, and his wing had exploded into pain. If he hadn’t known it was impossible, he would have thought that one of the soldiers had stomped on it, had shattered his wing into so many tiny little pieces that he’d never be able to put them all back together.

Eagle Flies saved him, at the cost of his own life. The boy died, and a scrape tore at his scapulars; his heart, his wings, ached for poor Rain Falls as he heard the man cry out his pain, could only imagine the agony in his wings, the scar that had been left on his soul after the loss of his wife and both sons. The break in his wing from Eliza and Isaac, his girl and his son, ten years later still ached; he couldn’t imagine the pain that Rain Falls was in.

And then he thought John died, and he couldn’t breathe through the pain. He’d watched John get shot, watched him fall off the train and out of sight. His wing had itched, begun to ache more in his primaries, as though preparing to break, although he’d told himself ‘He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s fine. He’ll come riding up on Old Boy and laugh at you for fussin’.’ But Dutch had rode up, saying that there was nothing he could have done, and his wings had exploded, he could feel his crooked wing, ruined from Eliza and Isaac and Dutch but not from Hosea, tear open, a wound that spanned the entirety of the inside of his wing, splattering blood on the ground that no one could see.

Dutch shattered the last shreds of hope he had in him, dismissed Abigail as ‘just a girl’ and abandoned little Jack to be an orphan, and the pain was dull, and weak, little more than a small ache that didn’t come close to standing up to the one in his chest, in his throat, as some of his secondaries came loose—some part of him, some morbid, self-hating part of him, wanting to look at himself in the mirror, see how crumpled his wings were, how bald, how much blood they splattered on the ground, how much of them dragged as he walked. But he was sending Tilly and Jack off to wait for the boy’s mother, and he and Sadie were riding off to save Abigail.

John was alive, and his wings didn’t hurt so much. He could feel the wound seal up, flesh knitting together, feathers regrowing exactly as they’d been before, bald where they’d been bald, scarred and crumpled and ruffled and dull, but feathered all the same.

When Dutch pulled a gun on them, sided with Micah, it shouldn’t have hurt. His pa’s betrayal had been a long time coming, and some part of him had known that, no matter what he said, Dutch would still stand by Micah. He had never been good at admitting that he’d been wrong, and he’d been so wrong, the consequences had been so bad, there was no way he’d take the fall. Never admit that Mac and Davey, Jenny and Sean and Lenny, Kieran and Molly and Susan (oh, god, that had hurt, he’d known her since he was young and his wing had torn open), and poor, poor Hosea had all died because he’d thrown his lot in with the wrong person.

Even still, a wound had torn into his wing, a gash the length of his palm that burned like nothing else, and left him panting for breath as he fled with John, barely feeling the bald patches form as Javier and Bill sided with Micah, as well. It was expected, but they’d been brothers, once, and it still hurt.

He was dying, and Dutch did nothing. Was staring at him, no, staring beside him, eyes glistening.

Arthur looked at his side, and couldn’t help but to laugh. He couldn’t feel his body anymore, everything tingled, only the pain in his soul, in his wings, telling him that he wasn’t yet dead. He didn’t know when he’d lost control of his wings, but they had rippled into existence at some point, stretched out on the stone beneath him.

They were a truly ghastly sight, and some part of him mourned that he had failed, yet again. He’d tried, he had, to keep his pa’s from having to see his horrid wings, yet here they were on full display before Dutch.

It was impossible to tell what species of wing he had, he could have been an over-sized crow or a particularly dull kite. There were great swatches that had gone completely bald, only irritated, pink skin left behind, only a few patches of feathers left between those and the bleeding wounds. Blood dripped and oozed onto the ground, vanishing the moment it touched the stone, some of his few remaining feathers breaking loose and doing the same.

They were barely recognizable as wings, besides. So crumpled and bent, like they’d been crushed in a fist and stomped on by a horse.

When… when had this happened? Dutch remembered when Arthur was young, when his wings were handsome and gleaming, a shade of burnt caramel that had fit him perfectly. Only the scar from his mother to mar him. And now… now his soul was broken, was destroyed.

“Oh, Dutch,”

And, just for a moment, Dutch slipped, and Arthur could see his magpie’s wings. Dull, too, dull, and ragged and bent and scarred, and he knew which wound was Hosea’s because it was still wide and open and weeping, yet he must have been seeing things because, as he watched, the man’s face blanched with pain, and both of his wings snapped at the joint, hanging limply as his had done when it was just Eliza and Isaac.

Eyes wide and glassy, wings dragging behind him and dripping blood that dissolved as soon as it hit the ground, Dutch staggered away.

Micah screamed yet, somehow, Arthur knew that, if he could see his wings, they would be unchanged, and stormed away. Even as his wings folded, crumpled inwards by an invisible hand that grabbed him and clenched tight, forcing his wings towards his torso, uncaring that they couldn’t bend in such a way, he couldn’t help but to laugh, beginning to drag himself to the edge of the cliff.

Arthur Morgan died, his wings still dripping blood and shedding feathers as they glowed gold and faded away.

[asflowersfade]

Ficlet: Jack’s Christmas Miracle

A what-if MacGyver ficlet. What if Mac got shot throwing that dart in ep 211? Jack’s POV.

Jack hates it when Mac’s somewhere he can’t get to him, be it in the hands of terrorists or some psycho - or the LA police. Maybe that’s even worse because he can’t just bust him out, guns blazing. And that helplessness is making him all… antsy.

And now, not only is the kid still accused of murder and domestic terrorism - seriously, Angus MacGyver, of all people! - there’s a cartel killer after him on top of that! If those-those... doofuses who arrested Mac in the first place won’t keep him safe from that guy, it’ll be adding insult to injury and Jack will have to kick some ass!

Fortunately, when they arrive at the police station, engines roaring and tires screeching, Jack and Cage and their small army in black, cops get out of their way. Either Matty called someone or their little merry band looks official enough for the police to accept that they actually have a right to be there.

Jack really doesn’t give two damns because in that moment, he hears the loud pop of a controlled explosion from somewhere inside the building and if he isn’t completely mistaken, that’s one of Mac’s. Which could only mean that the killer got to him, after all!

He must look truly fierce and resolute because when he barges into the station at the head of his people, the cops - who all appear a little wild around the eyes - simply point down the hallway and down the stairs, in the direction of the basement. Jack wonders fleetingly what’s Mac doing in the basement, but then he pushes the thought aside and follows the pointing fingers.

Bodies, that’s what he finds first; FBI agents by the look of them. And the smell of cordite hanging heavily in the air. Then an open door and a half-finished room, the black detective holding their killer at a gunpoint, the other cop, the older one, bleeding from a gunshot and…

Mac. On the floor, with his hands pressed tight against a dark red stain on his stomach, a stain that’s quickly spreading, blood soaking into his shirt, pooling around him, turning gooey mixed with plaster dust…

“Mac!” Jack yells, crossing the room quickly. He doesn’t pay attention to anyone but the kid as he drops to his knees by Mac’s side. He pushes his semi-automatic back, letting it dangle from its strap, as he reaches out for his partner.

Mac lets his head loll to the side and blinks at Jack dazedly. “Hey,” he whispers, blood staining his lips already and trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“Cage, call it in,” Jack shouts over his shoulder without taking his eyes off Mac. “We need an ambulance here, now!” Then he gently pulls Mac’s hands away from the wound to check it. And winces. Yeah, better keep pressure on it.

A field dressing is passed over his shoulder and he glances back. Cage, on the phone, is handing him a bundle of gauze that she pulled out one of her many pockets. He nods at her gratefully. He covers Mac’s wound with it and presses down hard, cringing inwardly when he hears Mac moan in pain.

“Jesus, kid,” Jack whispers. “Didn’t I tell you to sit tight? That we would leave here together? Couldn’t you have waited five minutes with your stupid heroics?”

Mac gives him a wan smile. “S-sorry.”

Jack glares at him. He glares because he’s scared. He’s downright terrified because Mac’s always been the palest kid Jack has ever known but now he’s turning downright gray and that’s not good, that’s not good at all.

“Yeah, well. This time, you follow my orders and stay awake, you hear me?” Jack says when he sees Mac’s eyes flutter and close, flutter and close. “Hey, Mac. Stop that!” he snaps and reaches out with one hand to pat Mac on the face, leaving bloody fingerprints all over his cheek. “Mac!”

“T-tired,” Mac slurs.

“I know, buddy, I know, but you have to stay awake, you hear me?” Jack demands sharply. “Listen to me, Mac!”

Mac doesn’t listen.

They let Jack ride with Mac in the ambulance; there’s very little anyone can do to stop a determined Jack Dalton, especially when he’s wearing tactical gear and holding a weapon. He goes where Mac goes!

In the hospital, though, he was to wait outside, in the waiting room, just like everybody else. But patience’s never been his forte, so he paces up and down the hallway, looking grim and scaring everyone with his guns and bloodstained hands. He really doesn’t care.

It’s not until the others arrive and Matty orders him to calm down or else that Jack finally unstraps his semi-automatic - the pistols he keeps, thank you very much, who knows what psychos could be lurking out there! - agreeing to take a quick shower in the doctors’ restroom - he’s not leaving here! He also accepts the change of clothes that Riley picked up for him at home.

“This should’ve never happened, Matty,” Jack states after he comes back. He’s standing at one of the windows in the waiting room, staring out across the dimply lit hospital parking lot.

Matty who joined him there, nods. “I agree,” she replies quietly.

He glances down at her, then back out again. “No, I mean it. We do our job and not because of the big bucks or the fame. We do it because it’s right and we go where you send us. We risk our lives every day and we deserve more than to be disavowed the moment the situation gets hairy, especially on US soil.”

He shakes his head. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Mac didn’t do anything wrong and yet, they hung him out to dry. I didn’t expect anything less from the CIA - they’re all bastards who would sell their own grandma to cover their asses, we both know that - but not from us. Not from the Phoenix Foundation. Not from the Oversight! This wasn’t right!”

“I agree with you, Jack,” Matty reiterates and this time, something in her voice makes him really look at her. “I agree that’s why I scheduled a meeting with the Oversight first thing tomorrow. If we’re to work on our home turf, then we need a better protection, especially in cases when bad intel from other agencies leads to a screw-up. If anyone is to be held accountable, it won’t be my people!”

Jack stares at her a moment longer, then he just nods because his throat’s too tight for him to speak. He’s always known that he could count on Matty Webber, but it’s one thing to know it and it’s another thing completely to hear it said out loud.

Then the door at the end of the hallway opens and a doctor walks out, asking for the family of one Angus MacGyver…

It’s Christmas Day and they should all be home, well, at Mac’s house, unpacking gifts and bickering and making fun of each other. Instead, Jack’s in the hospital, sitting at Mac’s bedside, watching him sleep.

He sent the rest of their team home - they didn’t want to go but Jack insisted, promising to call the moment anything changes; they were all exhausted after the week they just had. But they promised to come back in a few hours. They wouldn’t be dissuaded from that and Jack didn’t blame them.

But now, he’s alone here, in Mac’s private hospital room - working for the Phoenix Foundation does come with some merits - and he’s just soaking up the fact that Mac’s alive. Because from what the doctor said, it was touch and go there for a while. Gut wounds are always tricky. But so far, Mac’s holding his own. Jack’s very own Christmas miracle.

There’s a movement in the open doorway of the room and when Jack turns his head, he sees that cop, the older guy, Detective Greer, standing there with one arm in a sling. Oh right, he was shot, too.

Slowly, with one last glance at Mac to make sure he’s still asleep, Jack gets up and joins the cop in the hallway. 

“Detective,” Jack greets him neutrally. Deep down he understands that this man was just doing his job, that he is not the bad guy here, but if he’s here to arrest Mac again, to make trouble, Jack will punch him, shot or not.

Greer nods at Mac. “How is he?” he asks and he seems genuinely concerned.

“The doctors think he’ll pull through, given a little luck,” Jack replies, still wary.

The detective nods. “That’s good. I’m glad.” Then he pauses, and clearing his throat, he continues. “I came here to thank him for what he did down there, in the basement. He saved our lives.”

Jack keeps quiet, his face unreadable.

Taking a deep breath, Greer continues, “And also to tell him we’re dropping all charges against him. Considering all the evidence, we would’ve done it anyway but we received a very... hm, strongly worded email from upstairs, ordering us to leave you guys alone.”

Ah, so Matty did rip the Oversight a new one. Nice. He’ll have to invite her for a drink.

Greer stares at Mac for a long while, frowning a little. Then he opens his mouth only to close it again, only to open it once more and turn to Jack with a question. “Who are you, guys, actually? Who is he?” He nods at Mac, still lying asleep in his bed, surrounded by blinking machines keeping track of his vitals.

Jack looks at Mac and smiles a little. “Someone very special,” is his only answer. Then he claps the cop on his uninjured shoulder and says, “Goodbye, detective. And Merry Christmas.”

And with that, Jack returns to his vigil by his partner’s bedside. After a moment, Detective Greer departs, leaving him and Mac alone again with just the hush of the hospital around them.

[whumppile]

How about a MacGyver fic where Mac and Jack are trapped somewhere. Mac is injured, and Jack has to talk to him the whole time while they're waiting to be rescued to keep him awake and his mind off the pain.

First off, I’m soooo sorry this took so fucking long for me to finish. I promise I was working on it since you sent it but I had zero inspiration for it. I kept going back to it and seeing if I could but I finally got it finished. So, I really hope you like it and please let me know what you think. Thank you for sending the prompt I actually really like how it turned out. I’ll also post it on my ao3 and ff.net accounts it;s called “Holed up.” (lol its like a pun cause theyre hiding and laying low but also mac has a bullet hole in his side, okay anyway) 

Jack cursed again as he pressed harder on Mac’s side, in anattempt to stop the bleeding. He looked back up to the kids face when he hissedin pain, and apologized for the hundredth time.

“Sorry, sorry, but I have to get this bleeding stopped.”

Mac panted, teeth clenched shut against the pain. “It’sokay.”

But it wasn’t okay, not really. Because there was a certainway they did things, and Mac getting hurt was not supposed to be one of them.In every mission they went on, no matter how dangerous, Mac was always supposedto find a way out. Because he was still a kid, because he was a hero, becauseJack couldn’t stand to lose him.

The older agent pressed a hand to his ear, voice harsh andworried as he spoke to the rest of the team back at headquarters.

“We need an evac, right now! He’s not going to be walkingout of here; we can’t make it to our ride.”

Mattie would usually tell him off for yelling at her likethat, but she was just as worried as he was, and she remained patient with him.

“That’s going to take a little time, Dolton. We can’t getanyone in there to help until the storm passes, you’re just going to have towait a while.”

Jack’s voice cracked as he yelled once more. “Dammit,Mattie, he’s bleeding out!”

Mac coughed, scrunching his eyes shut against the pain ashis chest rattled horribly. He’d been shot a few times before, and it justwasn’t something you got used to. But he knew that he’d be okay because Jackwas there, and Jack always had his back.

He lifted a hand to the one Jack had pressed to his side.“It’s okay, we’ll…ugh, we’ll figure it out.”

They’d been trying to retrieve stolen information, from somecyber terrorists, and although they’d successfully recovered the data, Mac hadbeen shot in the process and the criminals had gotten away.

Jack didn’t care about the mission, he only cared about hisfriend, and at present his friend was bleeding out in the dirt. He’d never beengood at handling Mac getting hurt, it made him panic and freak out and hecouldn’t think of anything but saving his team mate.

Mac coughed again and groaned in pain, body shaking underJacks blood slick hands. He needed to get him off the ground, and somewheresafe. They couldn’t stay out in the street, especially not if a storm washeaded straight for them.

He blinked through his wet eyes and looked around, spottingthe cyber terrorists abandoned hide out. He turned back to the kid on theground.

“Okay, I’m going to get you inside that house, and it’sgoing to hurt to move but we have to. So, just hold on to me and let me do allthe work okay?”

Mac nodded. He didn’t want to move at all, even laying stillhurt and he didn’t want to think about how much it would hurt to stand or walk,but Jack was right, it had to be done.

Jack offered one last apology before carefully gathering theyounger agent in his arms. He took the kids arm around his shoulder and pressedthe other to the wound. He wrapped his own arm around Mac’s waist and got tohis feet, dragging poor Mac with him.

The kid was tough but having a bullet stuck inside you hurtslike hell, and he let out a series of whimpers and curses as he tried to stayon his feet as they made their way to the house.

Riley’s voice came through the coms just as Jack managed toget Mac onto a couch, she sounded scared. “Mac? Are you going to be okay?”

Jack looked down at the blonde, his eyes were tightly shutagainst the pain and he was struggling to get a decent breath in. He wouldn’tbe answering Riley’s question anytime soon. Jack tried to sound as if he wasn’tlosing his kind with worry.

“He’ll be okay, Ri. I’ll take care of him, don’t you worry.”

First thing to do would be…stop the bleeding and keep Macwarm. It was really hard to concentrate with your best friend’s blood all overyour hands, but unfortunately it wasn’t the first time Jack had done this for afriend.

He had spent too many nights washing the younger agents bloodfrom his hands, or waiting for him to wake up, the incessant beeping of theheart monitor driving him mad. He had done it before, but god, it never goteasy.

He always managed to convince himself it would never happenagain, that he would protect him; but now Mac was just another name on the listof people he let down.

Mac panted beneath him, and Jack hated it, but he needed toleave for just a second.

“Mac, stay awake okay? I have to go get supplies, but I’llbe back, I promise.”

The genius barely managed a nod, and although Jack was thoroughlyworried, he had to leave anyway.

The agent pulled Macs hands up to the wadded-up shirt overhis side, hating the wet squelch it made when he pressed those weak hands downonto it.

“Hold that tight, kid. Keep pressure on it.”

Mac’s fingers curled a little, into the makeshift bandages,as his eyes blinked sluggishly. Jack sighed; it would have to do. “Good enough.”

Jacks feet hesitated as he went to leave, because Mac wasalready looking like he was going to pass out, and he knew that if those eyesclosed, they may never open again.

“Mac, I always forget how the table of elements goes, canyou sing it to me again?”

In reality, Jack could almost manage it, he’d heard it somany times, but Mac had always liked singing it to himself when he needed adistraction, and it would mean Jack could keep him awake and hear him whereverhe went in the small hide-out.

Mac blinked at him, smiling a little. “I love that song.”

Jack smiled and tapped his coms. “I know you do buddy, andRiley and I would really love to hear it. Right, Riley?”

Riley quickly answered, sounding amused, which Jack wasgrateful for. He hated hearing her worry.

“Uhh yeah, I’d love to hear it, Mac.”

Jack moved to the doorway. “You start singing, and I’ll lookfor some supplies but I’ll be listening, okay?”

Mac’s words were slower than usual but the kid still had hisgiant brain working as he started singing.

“There’s antimony, arsenic, aluminium, selenium. And,hydrogen, and oxygen, and nitrogen, and rhenium.”

Jack smiled a little to himself as Mac continued, as helooked through the house for anything he could use. It had been used as atemporary hide out for the cyber terrorists, so there wasn’t much to work with.He wished he could just get the kid to a hospital, but since they were operatingon foreign soil without permission, that would be a no go.

He found some duct tape, and a few clothes, but not muchelse. Mac fumbled over a word and stopped singing.

“And nickel, neodymium, neptunium, germainimom…haha I said mom.”

Jack smiled, unable to help himself when Riley startedlaughing through the coms, and called out to their wounded team mate. “Keepgoing, Mac! I still can’t remember them all!”

“Umm…Oh germanium. And Iron, americium, ruthenium, europium,zirconium, lutetium-“

Jack went into another room as he shook his head to himself.“Damn, how many are there.”

Riley’s voice was that amused warm, that let him know shewas smiling smugly, with just a hint of love. “One hundred and eighteen.”

“Jesus.”

Mac let out a giggle. “Jesus is not an element, Jack.”

The older agent laughed, and picked up a bundle of blanketsfrom a pile of the hackers abandoned things.  

“I know that! Keep singing, Mackie, I’m sorry for interruptingyour little talent show.”

The singing continued, as Jack searched the rest of therooms.

“-Vanadium, and lanthanum, and osmium, and astatine, andradium, and gold, protactinium, and indium and gallium.”

When he’d found all he could, he came back to where Mac waslaying on the couch, head leant back and singing. From the amount of blood, he’dlost, Jack was surprised Mac could say all the complicated words, let alone rememberthem. But then, who else could remember something so ridiculous in such aserious situation.

He smiled when he saw him, but it quickly turned into afrown as he saw Mac’s side. The kid could remember the entirety of theelemental table, but had forgotten to keep pressure on the bullet wound he wasbleeding out from. He quickly dumped the stuff he’d found and rushed to the kid’sside, pressing a fresh towel to the wound.

“Mac! You were supposed to press on this, what happened tothe plan, my man?”

The blonde looked up at him, then down at his side, liftinghis hand to look at the blood dripping from it.

“It wouldn’t stop, anyway. And it hurt to push on it.”

Jack was trying to keep calm as his forehead creased inconcern. “I know, but it’s important okay? I gotta keep pressure on this but Ineed my hands free to take care of you so, look what I got.”

He kept one hand on Mac’s side, holding the towel over thealready soaking shirt, while he picked up one of his dropped supplies and heldit up for the other man to see.

“Duct tape! Your favourite.”

Mac smiled, as he watched Jack use it to tape the compressesto his side. “I love duct tape. Did you know NASA has stored it on board every missionsince the early Gemini era? Because it was used to save the Apollo 13?”

Jack frowned as he concentrated on his work, wincing insympathy as Mac let out a small grunt of pain. “Yep, I do know that because you’vetold me a hundred times. You’ve also told me that it was first invented tosolve issues the military had with bullet storage, and everyone called it ducktape at first.”

Mac smiled and patted Jacks shoulder with a clumsy hand. “Hey,you do listen to me.”

“Most of what you say is dorky science nonsense, but whenyou say something enough times, I can’t help but remember it.”

Mac frowned a littlebit, as Jack secured the duct tape and towel. It wasn’t great, but again, it wouldhave to do.

“S’not nonsense Jack. It’s science, and that makes it cool.”

Jack reached back to his supplies, picking up a waterbottle. “Whatever you say, little man. You want something to drink?”

“No.” Mac went to wipe his eyes, but Jack stopped him beforehe could smear blood all over himself, wiping the kids hand on an extra towel.

“Well, too bad, you need to keep your fluids up, you knowthat. Here.”

He handed the bottle to him, frowning when Mac pushed itaway before it even got to his mouth.

“Mac, drink it!”

The kid shook his head, tired eyes just a little amused. “No,Jack that’s not water.”

The agent frowned, but brought it to his nose and sniffedit, quickly pulling it away. “Woah, that it is not. Those hackers really likedto party. This house has barely anything in it, but Vodka they have?”

He took a quick swig from the bottle, making a face at thestrong spirits. “Damn, that’s definitely the cheap stuff, but it’ll kill germseither way.”

Matty spoke up from the coms, reminding Jack that she wasstill listening in. “And what exactly was the purpose of trying it, Jack?”

“Well, boss, what if it was something else? What if it wasnail polish remover or-“

Mac narrowed his eyes. “If it was you’d be throwing up.Also, did you know that acetone poisoning makes you have a ‘fruity’ odour? Isn’tthat weird?”

Jack frowned and began unravelling the duct tape andbandages from Mac’s side. “Yes, Angus that is very weird, and really unhelpfulright now. I’m gonna clean this out, and it’s going to really hurt, so hold myarm really tight okay? Think about something that’ll keep you calm and happywhile I do this.”

Mac obediently took Jacks arm, loosely holding his bicep ashe thought. “Hmmm, my motorbike. Or the elements song. I really like that song.”

Jack didn’t want to remove the bandages and risk morebleeding, but he didn’t want to risk infection either, and since they wereusing anything but bandages, that likelihood was high. He needed to do it, butit really was going to suck.

“Just pick one and focus on it. Try to hold still. I’m sorryman, here goes.”

The bandages were peeled back, revealing the bullet woundand causing blood to flow down his side quicker; and then Jack poured the vodkaover it.

Mac screamed in pain, before grinding his teeth and tryingto muffle the sound. His hand squeezed Jacks arm so tight his knuckles turnedwhite, and Jack could feel the bruises forming.

Jack winced but kept going, making sure it was properlyflushed out, trying to hold the kid down with his one free arm.

“Almost finished, Mac…There, breathe. All done.” He pulled thebottle away and set it doused the crappy, homemade bandages they were using,before setting the bottle down on the floor and tying the compress back to Mac’sside.

“Shouldn’t be any bugs in it now, but I don’t want to takeany chances with infections, so I’m gonna keep a close eye on you okay? Hey,breathe.”

Mac was panting, eyes closed as he rode the waves ofexhaustion and pain that came after something like that. He stopped squeezing Jack’sarm but didn’t let go, only opening his eyes when he felt Jacks hand across hisforehead.

“You feel a little cold, probably from the blood loss, but atleast it’s not a fever.”

He went to stand, only to be stopped by Mac’s and on hisarm, tugging him back down. Jack looked to Macs face, those big eyes asking whathe couldn’t say out loud. Don’t leave me.

Jack patted his hand and knelt beside him again. “It’s okay,I aint leaving ya, I’m just getting a blanket and some actual water.”

Mac slowly released his arm, but closely watched him as hemoved back to his supplies pile, grabbing a blanket and another water bottle.

He shook the worn quilt over the kid, tucking his feet inand pulling it high up on his chest, before grabbing the bottle and taking alittle sip.

“Yeah, this one’s water.”

He gave the bottle to the other agent, watching himcarefully until he was satisfied he’d had enough.

Once he was done, Jack sat on the ground, next to the couch,and turned to his friend as Mac took his arm again. His tone was tired, andmade him sound younger, more vulnerable.

“It hurts.”

Jack sighed, and patted his hand, taking his fingers, andsqueezing them gently. He wouldn’t admit to holding his hand, but that’s whatit was.

“I know, we’ll get you home soon.”

Riley spoke this time, a little worried but trying to reassure.“Storms passing overhead, looks like it missed you completely. Medevac shouldbe there in thirty minutes.”

Jack cursed softly, because he didn’t know if they had thatlong. Mac had lost too much blood already and he couldn’t afford to lose anymore; but he knew they were all doing their best, and it certainly wasn’t Riley’sfault they couldn’t get there faster. He swallowed his frustration and managedto keep his voice level.

“Thanks, that’s good. You hear that Mac? You’ll be feelingbetter soon. We’ll get you on those good drugs and you can sleep the whole ridehome.”

Mac relaxed into the couch, and turned his hand in Jack’sgrip so they were properly holding hands. Jack had cleaned Mac’s hands, but nothis own, and the blood stained the blondes skin once more.

“Thanks for taking care of me, Jack. You��re the best.”

Mac’s eyes were full of more words, bigger ones, that would definitelymake Jack cry. He squeezed the kids hand and smiled.

“No problem. You know I’ll always be here for you, Mackie.”

It was a nice moment, until Riley’s voice came throughagain. “You guys are adorable, but why can’t you just say, ‘I love you’ and getit over with? We’re all family, it’s not weird.”

Jack rolled his eyes and held a finger to his earpiece. “Shutup, Ri, he knows I love him.”

He didn’t turn to look at him, but saw Mac smile out thecorner of his vision. “Love you too, Jack.”

“I love you guys too!” Jack frowned, confused, at the voice comingthrough the coms.

“Bozer? When did you get here?”

The happy voice came back, making Mac smile at the sound ofhis friend. “Just now, when you guys started being all adorable. What did Imiss?”

Mac and Jack were picked up twenty-five minutes later, andJack stayed with his partner the whole way. Cause even though they got into sometrouble, and maybe had some minor issues with saying how they really felt, they’dalways be family, and always have each other’s back.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: Don't You Forget About Me (Ao3 Link) Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow, Irish Mythology Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: After Len, nothing seems to be going right for Mick. He keeps going listlessly -

- at least until something cold as death starts crawling into his bed.

(In which Mick Rory braves the Sidhe to win back his True Love)

A/N: For @jq-piccadilly - happy birthday!! (also special mentions to @ice-whisper who inadvertently gave me the idea and @oneiriad, for who this fulfills another Coldwave Bingo Board entry)

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After Len died, everything sort of stopped, for Mick.

Oh, he kept going, kept fighting, kept up with the great and noble mission to which he had been consigned by destiny and by Len. The flesh of him kept right on going.

It was the spirit of him that came to a halt.

He stopped caring about the things that made him happy, before; stopped caring about the game, or food, or even fun; stopped caring all too much about being alive.

But he kept going and time, wicked time, starts healing even his most dire wounds.

Mick had a chair in his room - big, comfy, just the way he liked it. It was good that it was so comfy, because he slept there, now, forsaking the bed in his cabin.

The bed that had been his and his Lenny's both.

Not even Kronos had dragged on his soul like Len's death - a hundred years and a day disappearing like a wink in the salt of Len's tears, but no salt would save him from this loss. Nothing but time could help.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

He remembered with terrible clarity how it was, that bed, a touch too small for two grown men but comfortable regardless. Reminded them both of a prison bed, when they'd first seen it, and it had made them laugh.

They shared that bed, just like they'd shared all their beds. Mick always went to bed first, pointedly, because Len's brain whirled so fast and so hard it needed to see good behavior to model it, but he liked to stay awake, dozing, until Len crawled into bed with him, cold from the air outside the bed, and wrapped a chill arm around his chest.

Len liked to put his icy fingertips – terrible circulation, that man – under Mick’s shirt, to warm his hand on Mick’s heart. It was one of the things Mick loudly complained about but secretly enjoyed.

It’s one of those thing Len will do no more, because he’s dead.

Mick doesn't sleep in the bed.

Mick kept on with the Legends. They treated him badly, and he let them. He encouraged it, even, playing up his stupidity, his brutishness, his uselessness, wanting the emotional spikes of pain under his nails, under his skin. He would never harm himself physically - Len would turn over in his grave, if he had one - but he could torment himself in other ways.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

Time passed, and passed, and passed, until he was lighting a year's time candle for Len and watching a false version of the man disappear like the illusion he was.

"Do you think he sleeps uneasy, what with no grave?" someone asked at one point.

It may have been Mick, come to think about it.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

But in that year, time passed and time healed and even the worse wounds can become scars, and at any rate when Mick swore to Len's ghost that he'd care for the team that Len'd died for, he'd meant it, and he took such oaths seriously. Keeping the Legends intact was a trip and a half, and more work than he'd ever done before, and it just didn't stop.

The work he let himself be made to do, the abuse he'd once invited and now resented -

He was tired, damnit.

And one day, a day after he lit that blasted candle that he can still see gutted on the desk, a day he should’ve had for grieving but instead spent out fixing yet another stupid aberration, he's so tired he just staggers right into his room, eyes barely staying open, and he collapses in the bed where his feet and his friends - Ray, he thinks, though it could be Sara - help him, and he curls up in the bed, which is sweet and perfect.

If he'd fallen straight asleep and never repeated the act, well, he might've fared better.

He doesn't.

He has just enough time to realize he's in the bed, the bed and not the chair, and he yields to his exhaustion and doesn't rise up and leave.

Time heals all wounds, he thinks blearily, thinks sadly, thinks regretfully, and he closes his eyes and he sleeps.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to a footstep.

A single one, but even in his exhaustion, watchfulness is part of who he is, and so Mick is awake if still reluctant to move.

It's probably one of the Legends, looking for something and not bothering to knock.

Another footstep.

The blanket lifts behind him.

Mick expects to be roused with a shove.

He isn't.

A cold body crawls in with him, cold as ice, cold as - Len - and Mick shivers. He doesn't turn. He doesn't want to. It would ruin the illusion. The dream.

The nightmare.

A chill arm wraps around his body, and the hand finds his heart.

Mick knows that hand, knows that arm, knows that chill, and he would weep for the fact that he's clearly gone and lost it at last, but he doesn't want to disturb the dream.

He closes his eyes and dreams -

He dreams of blue.

The next morning, he's more tired than the night before, but he's upright, he's mobile. The Legends will have to make do with that.

"Wow, Mick, you look like shit," Sara says, eloquent as always.

Mick grunts and grabs the coffee. He has it Irish, of course. He's Irish.

"You do look positively haggard," Amaya says.

Mick grunts again and ignores them both.

He doesn't expect it to happen again.

It does.

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Mick Rory's ma was Irish even in a town filled with Irishmen. She was a proper mac something-or-other, some other child told Mick solemnly once; she might even be descended from a queen.

She certainly carried herself like one, marching through town with a straight spine and steel in her gaze, making pennies stretch for miles, raising her gaggle of children - six all together - with no family around to lend her aid, and not too shy to challenge even the big department stores when she felt she wasn't getting her money's worth. She was tough as dirt and just as practical.

Except, of course, when it came to the faeries.

The aos sí, the daoine sídhe, Tuatha de Danann, or whatever they were called.

Ma Rory's boys went around with salt in their pockets and iron nails, too. No one else did, but Mick's ma insisted.

And, to be fair, there were some moments where it seemed the rest of the town didn't disbelieve as big as all that.

See, Mick's ma was the seventh daughter, with six older girls that had nearly bankrupted her poor father, and Mick her sixth son, sons all in a row. There was talk in town, anticipation, when she got pregnant again.

"A seventh son of a seventh daughter; that's powerful magic," one of the children at school tells Mick. "A seer, a mage. A portent of great things."

He looks at Mick, then, all beady-eyed. "Not that you really matter," Mick is told. "No one ever pays attention to the mage's older brothers. Except where they fail first, of course - but that's usually in threes."

There are sighs of relief and disappointment when Mick's ma gives birth to a girl instead.

When Mick turned ten, his ma ordered his brothers away, sends her husband out with his baby sis, and brought him into the house.

"Michael," his ma says.

Mick blinks, indignant. "I didn't do nothing!"

For once, it's even true.

His ma sighs. "It's not about what you've done," she says. "It's about what I've done."

Mick frowns. That's not how the lectures usually go.

"Before I married your da, I got myself in trouble," she says bluntly.

Mick's eyebrows go up. He's always heard that nice girls ought to about that mysterious pre-marriage 'trouble' as much as they should. Of course, he never thought of his sharp-tongued, bull-headed ma as particularly nice...

"It were a boy, too," she says. "Sickly, he was, but he survived, and the nuns at the convent took him away. But he was mine. My first boy. After that, my parents took me around and I met your da, and I came here."

Mick nods. "So Jacky ain't the eldest." That'll show Jacky, who's always boasting about it and claiming it gave him special privileges.

"Jack is my second," she confirms. "And you, my baby boy, are the seventh, not the sixth."

Mick frowns. "But ain't a seventh son supposed to have the Sight?"

His ma chokes back an unhappy laugh. "My baby boy," she says, and it annoys Mick that that's the nickname she picked for him for all that it's technically true. "I wouldn't have told you about this, 'cept for the fact you need to know it. Weren't you telling me just last week about how you stopped your big brother from going to rescue the horse from that flooded river, all 'cause you saw it had gills?"

"I thought it were like in the comic books," Mick says. "Radioactive."

His mother shakes his head. "We call 'em kelpie. Horse-spirits that drag boys to their deaths. You saved your brother that day."

"I got sent to bed without dessert!"

"You did punch him in the face. And a year ago, do you remember the day you went up to the governor's house with your school? And you got lost and went to the kitchens and spent a few hours with the cook and the cobbler and the handyman, all of 'em complaining about how their wages been cut? And the governor got all pale when you mentioned it?"

Mick nods.

"They cater at the governor's house," she says gently. "They don't have a cook."

"But -"

"T’were the brownies, my boy."

"Is that why they liked my chocolate?" Mick had felt bad for them, their wages all cut, and he'd given them the chocolate bar in his pocket, all cut up in equal size portions, just enough for all of them if he didn't take one for himself. He'd regretted it - a chocolate bar of his own was a rare indulgence which he'd saved up two months' allowance for - but they'd been so happy he couldn't bear to keep it for himself.

"I think they liked the milk in the milk chocolate," his ma says. "But that's why I'm telling you now, you've got to be careful. You've got the Sight, just like everyone said, and people with the Sight get themselves in trouble."

"I get in trouble all the time."

"You just keep telling me if there's anything weird," she instructs. "Right off."

Mick sighs, but he's a good boy, and he obeys.

Well, he tries.

"We should take him to see a shrink," his da says, watching him guiltily clean up after another fire.

"Won't help," his ma says. "The fire comes from inside of him."

When Mick is ten, he starts getting into fights. He has broad shoulders that he'd grow into one day, but right now he's still skinny as a rake and his fists aren't strong enough to defend his temper.

The boys at school jump him after school, strip him bare, and pitch him into the local pond, hollering insults the whole time. Mick hollers them right back, but what's he to do? They ran off with his clothing, and he's got to get home before dark.

Mick grits his teeth against the slight. It won’t be too bad, getting home; it's getting cold as the summer draws to a close, but it’s not so cold as to hurt. He's embarrassed, sure, but embarrassment won't hurt him. Not on the outside, anyway, only in the soft gentle parts inside of him, and men weren’t supposed to have those anyway.

He's walking home, head held high because why not, when he sees the cat.

Big and black and beautiful, she is, with eyes as wild as stars, and she's got six little babies curled right up at her side, nursing, and a mate at her back, smaller, licking at her shoulder in homage.

She's near as big as a dog, she is, with a white stripe dead center on her chest.

One little runt is sitting not far from the others. It ain’t nursing or anything, but it looks fine.

Mick smiles a little at the cats. He likes cats.

Somehow, they notice him looking and all of a sudden the big cat starts to wail, and the little cats all wail, too, and the mate, too, all of them, all but the little runt who starts to cry, softly, instead.

Mick feels cold, all of a sudden, scared. "You stop that, right now, you hear me?" he snaps at them, and suddenly three more kittens run from the mama, what keeps a-wailing. The little kittens scatter off, sticking together, but they don’t go anywhere near the runt.

The fear is still there. He runs the rest of the way home, pride be damned.

"Mickey, my darling, what's happened? Where are your clothes, and why are you so scared?" his ma asks.

He tells her everything, and his ma goes pale as a ghost.

 "What was it, ma?" he asks.

"The Cat," she says. "Oh, that ain't no good, no good at all."

She gnawed at her lip. "Only one runt, all alone," she says. "Crying where the others are wailing."

"Until I said something," Mick corrects her. "Then there were four."

"And I'm glad you said something. The Cat Sidhe is a collector of souls. Did the kittens run together?"

"No, the runt was still alone."

"And so alone you will be, my baby boy, but you have saved all their lives."

His ma sends away his baby sister to her parents, his brothers whoever she could. The oldest ones laugh at her fears and refuse to leave so close to the harvest, but the youngest she can insist upon better. In the end, she sends away two boys and the girl.

That's why they don't die in the fire.

Mick hates his Sight for not letting him save more.

He ain't all too fond of cats after that, neither.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Mick always did wonder why he'd started seeing Len those days before the false version came to him. It wasn't grief, like Stein claimed; he'd never seen visions in his grief before. It wasn't what was in his head, courtesy of the thrice-damned time-stealers, the fickle monarchs in their palace three steps removed from the regular flow of time.

In Ireland they spoke of people who'd gone sideways into the hills, and how they never returned the same.

Mick's not impressed. He went sideways, as sideways as you get, and they tried their absolute hardest to make him forget who he was so that he'd stay with them forever - but he rejected them.

Oh, Mick swore himself to them, he played the role of the Knight, but when a hundred years and one had passed, his Tam-Lin Len had grasped his soul tight, grasped him hard through rage and pain and hate, had offered up his life and so won Mick's freedom.

And the time-stealers had no hold on Mick anymore.

He's not the same, no, but he's not as different as all that.

He's still himself.

"The story's supposed to end with a wedding," he tells himself, a year of death come and gone. The ring of platinum - spell-cursed silver that it was - was warm beneath his clothing. "The story's supposed to end with a wedding after the rescue. Not a funeral. Even I know that much."

No one responds, of course.

But every goddamn night Mick goes to sleep in that bed, and every goddamn night something crawls in beside him and curls that cold chill arm around him.

"You look sick," Jax says. "Have you gotten checked out by Gideon?"

Mick rolls his eyes, but Jax is not so easily deterred.

In the end, Mick admits that he has - sure, it was only because Sara insisted at knife-point, certain that that zombie disease was coming back or something, but it isn't his fault his eyes have bags under them large enough to steal something in, or that his skin's gone grey with exhaustion.

He sleeps every night in his bed.

Every night.

"You should go again," Jax says.

Mick goes again.

Gideon returns a clean bill of health - but for the exhaustion, which she cannot explain, and the fact that everyone around him can see that Mick's dying.

They make him sleep in the med bay that night.

Mick doesn't want to. He can't sleep anymore, not without that arm curled around him - him, who used to sleep anywhere and anytime! He can't even nap anymore.

Not without Lenny.

Oh, it's not Len, Mick knows it can't be Len. He held the hope of Len's resurrection in his hands and he let it go, and he put that illusion back on the road to perdition where it belonged, because he couldn’t let a Len live that lived under that type of brainwashing.

He didn't tell any of them that he knew that the mind-wipe would fix the brainwashing, where nothing else would. He didn't see why it mattered.

He didn't want to sleep anywhere but the bed.

Their bed.

The Legends made him. "Your skin is grey," they said, "your eyes are red, you look as though you're a corpse risen up."

"If only, if only," Mick says.

They looked uncomfortable. "Corpses can't rise up," Stein tells him, using different words, fancy words, but the meaning is clear enough. "You know that best of all."

It's a lie, of course. Many a corpse has stood once more - monsters, the lot of them, but standing tall and proud. Mick’s ma told him all about those, and she told them their names: the red cap, the washer-woman, the screaming in the dark.

The Legends make Mick sleep in the med bay.

But joy of joys, that night he feels the chill hands on his shoulders, spreading down the blanket, crawling in, wrapping the arm around him.

Putting a hand on his heart.

Mick smiles and sleeps.

The next morning he looks even more wretched than usual.

Gideon has nothing.

No explanation, no cure, nothing.

Mick wouldn't take it if they did.

The Legends give up and let him go back to his room.

Mick sleeps in his own bed.

And smiles at the cold.

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"Mick."

Mick grumbles. He's tired, damnit. Let a man sleep.

Sure, it's all he does these days, but really, people should accept that.

"Mick."

Mick has thirty years of training to drop everything and respond to that insistent nasal whine.

He sighs and opens his eyes.

Len is perched on his goddamn chest, straddling him, peering down at him.

"Y'weigh a fucking ton," Mick tells him, slurring with sleep. "Gerroff."

"Can't," Len says, not without regret. "You're almost dead, you know."

Mick murmurs agreement. He'd accepted that already, hadn't he? Why is Len kicking up a fuss about it now?

Wait, since when have his hallucinations started to talk again?

"I'm not a hallucination," Len grumbles. "I wasn't then, either; I stole a mirror to talk to you, all those times."

Seems like a Len thing to do.

Len prods at him. "Mick."

That one means 'Pay attention to me'. Mick is very familiar with that variant of his name.

He forces himself more and more awake, or as much as he can, nowadays. "What issit?"

"You're almost dead," Len repeats, as if that's important. "I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop being almost dead, of course," Len says snippily.

"Can't," Mick says, because it's true. The Legends have tried - fancy future doctors, changing locations, even took him to see John Constantine, who had taken Mick aside in private and told him "if you want to die, it's easier to blow out your brains, you know", which hadn't been all that helpful and so Mick had declined his offer of an exorcism.

"Exorcism wouldn't have helped anyway," Len says. "I'm not a ghost."

Mick's not too tired to pull up his cheeks in a bit of a smirk. "Not a hallucination or a ghost. What are you, then?"

Len blinks down at him, inhumanly blue eyes luminous. "I'm a hag."

A what?

Mick wakes the rest of the way up, all at once, and he stares up at Len. Len, who doesn't look like any of his neat hallucinations, like his brainwashed former self, nothing.

Len, with glowing blue eyes with pupils shaped like stars, with teeth that are long and filed to a sharp point, whose skin is grey like a corpse but for the black shine of his long and deadly claws, his beautiful fingers curving into terrible talons, his clothing dirty rags that fall off his frame.

Dirty, but familiar. He'd been wearing that outfit when he'd gone to the Oculus, over a year and a day before.

It had been exactly a year and a day, in fact, when the dreams had begun.

"Bean sidhe," Mick gasps.

"That's a woman," Len sniffs. "I'm still male. Well, non-binary with a preference for masculine pronouns, whatever. Not like the Underhill cares."

"You've been?"

"The Time Masters were something of a renegade bunch," Len says, baring his sharpened teeth. "Changelings all, you know; they trapped a Queen in a labyrinth so she could fashion them more of the same. We met her, remember? In that orphanage, where we put our past selves within her grasp."

Stolen children from all the ages - of course.

Of course the bastards were changelings. Human-born but raised beneath the Hill, who aped mastery of magics they could never hope to truly control. Jealous, bitter creatures; they helped steal more of their kind to spread the misery further, hoping it would be lessened and failing to understand why it didn't help. All they ever wanted was for someone ranked lower than themselves to step on.

Somehow Mick's unsurprised that they ended up forming a bureaucracy.

"And you?"

"They went too far," Len says. "A Queen more or less - well. There are Queens in every nook and cranny, you know; male and female, strong and weak. You get enough followers willing to call you a Queen and a bit of land, that's good enough. But they weren't satisfied with that. They wanted the power to raid and rule the Hill itself."

Mick knows enough of his folklore. "They wanted the power of the High King."

Len grins. "They wanted his throne. I don't think they entirely understand the concept of an elected monarchy, but in fairness, Oberon ruled a thousand years in his time. They might've gotten confused."

"What happened?"

"I unbound the wellspring they'd created. A cat jumped across my corpse and snatched my soul - same cat as what tried to warn you before, as it happens - and the King built me a new body of straw and silver. It's silver what runs through my veins now, Mick, not iron. That dream that the changelings all wanted, and he gave it to me - to spite them, I think."

Mick swallows. "And you're - what are you?"

"I'm a hag," Len says. "The mara, the banshee, the night-mare - whatever you want to call me."

A night-hag, bearer of nightmares, who rides you in your sleep and drains your soul - and indeed, Len is perched upon his chest, a crushing, draining weight, and Mick may have been talking but his arms lie paralyzed by his sides.

"I haven't had nightmares," Mick says, his only protest.

Len looks at him like he's lost his mind. "Of course not," he says. "You're my partner. I took the nightmares, and gave you dreams of peace."

That was always the way of Len: throwing himself in front of the bullet he himself fired at you.

As fickle as Fae, Mick had thought before, amused.

Not so amusing now.

"Why can I see you now?" Mick asks. "When I couldn't before?"

"I have the strength, now," Len says. "I've drained you near to death."

Mick nods. That makes sense.

"If you weren't who you were," Len continues, "it might still have not been enough. You shut your eyes to the Sight long ago - but the Sight doesn't forget you."

"What's the purpose of this visit?" Mick asks, because Sight or no Sight, he knows his partner.

Len's waiting for him to ask.

Len gives a sigh of contentment, tension relaxing; he must have needed Mick to ask the question. Probably one of the strange laws of the Sidhe that Mick doesn’t know about.

"I'm a hag and shall remain so till the tides come no more," Len says, wrinkling his nose at his own poeticism - undoubtedly words of ritual, based on his expression. "But a hag is not a lord, and may be bound into service - and taken from the Hill."

"Taken," Mick says, his heart leaping in his mouth.

"You're no singer, and your violin playing would scare away dead souls," Len says dryly. "But you're the seventh son of a seventh daughter, and though it has been hidden from sight and memory, there have been six such generations born before you. If you die now, there will never be a seventh, and magic throughout the land will be the weaker."

Mick frowns. "I don't have -"

Len makes a face that says he's trying not to laugh. "Did you really never think about the consequences of sperm donation, with your family line?"

Oops.

"Six daughters you have sired - their families are very grateful, just so you know, the kids are great, all very happy, and those with mental illness are getting it seen to properly - but you will never sire a seventh if you die now."

Mick raises his eyebrows. "You asking if I'll trade my kid for you?"

"Like I would ever agree to suggest that," Len replies, rolling his eyes. "No - we give you a chance to win me back, if you promise that, if you are successful, you'll go about having that seventh kid. What you do with her beyond that is all on you. Free will, you know, that sort of thing. Magic loves it."

"And I'll have you."

Len smiles, and his teeth are sharp and pointed and shine in the light. "If you still want me."

Like that's a choice Mick has to think hard about.

But Mick's ma was Irish, in a land filled with Irishmen, and she didn't raise a fool.

"I think," Mick says, "that I'd like a written contract, if you will. And I'd like my lawyer to look at it first."

Len throws back his head and laughs.

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Mick knows the stories, well and good. He’s no singer to charm the Lords of the Sidhe to give back what he’d lost, and – as Len so succinctly put it – his violin skills would scare off spirits of the dead, and not in a good way. But he’s the seventh son of a seventh daughter, and his mother a seventh daughter of a seventh son, and so on and so forth, hidden from Sight by magic and from memory by lies, and his child will be a marvel should she ever be born.

Marvels can also be terrors, of course.

No wonder John Constantine offered him the path of the bullet.

Mick sleeps three days and three nights in his bed, overriding Gideon to lock his door, and each night at the stroke of midnight, Len comes to him. The second night, Len brings a negotiator, a woman so pretty that it hurts Mick’s eyes even to look at her; but Mick’s heart belongs firmly in Len’s pocket and he declines her overtures in favor of negotiating long and hard into the night. When they finally reach an accord, she offers him a hand to shake, grudgingly impressed, and Mick refuses: Len came once to make the offer, twice for the negotiations, and so the bargain would be sealed on the third night, not the second.

She's even more impressed with that.

That night Mick writes down all he can remember of their agreements and made Gideon send it to Lisa with strict orders to get it back to him before nightfall. It’s all he can manage before his bed drags him back into the arms of sleep.

He wakes up, once, to Gideon telling him that he has a reply. Lisa took his contract to all the lawyers they knew, and the sharpest minds out of the lot pointed out a few clauses that Mick might want to be wary of – after all, the Underhill does so love its tricks, and giving a man his every wish while denying him his hearts’ desire is their favorite.

Mick considers the matter, and slips back into sleep.

Midnight comes again, and with it Len and his negotiator, who today was a hideous crone wearing a cloak of crows’ feathers and yet was the same as yesterday – Mick suspects that if she had come with Len the first night, she would have been a child – and Mick lays out his requirements.

“A what?” the negotiator says blankly.

Len howls with laughter.

“A best efforts clause,” Mick repeats. “Means you gotta try your hardest to make it live up to the spirit instead of the letter.”

“We don’t agree to those!”

Mick shrugs. “I was willing to let the hag –” He doesn’t use Len’s name; he’s not so stupid. “– sit on me for months and months before agreeing to hear you out. You want this, bad as I do; I figure we ought to meet all equitable.”

Her eyes glow like the moon. “And if we refuse, and claim you for our own without relief for your insolence?”

Mick smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “I’ve spent a hundred years and one beneath the Hill,” he says. “Kronos, they called me, 'cause they could not break my true name; a hundred years and one as a Knight before my true love held me fast and pulled me out. You cannot claim me – you’ve already tried that, and failed. You want my magic to reach its fulfillment?” He points at the contract. “Then sign.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I go tell all the bards I know that the Lords of the Sidhe no longer keep true to their deals - and are cowards, too.”

The negotiator laughs, a wretched thing, long and lolling and gruesome, but she plucks a crow’s feather from her cloak and she signs the contract with her own blood. Then – much to his surprise – she offers him the same feather.

“Didn’t know we were on such close terms,” he says, accepting it. You don’t turn down a gift kindly-meant from the aos sí.

“Any man, seventh son or no, would can out-stubborn the Morrigan deserves blood-brothership,” she replies gleefully, and really, if Mick had realized he was negotiating with the goddamn goddess of war maybe he wouldn’t have been quite so rude, but he’s not going to say no.

He cuts his hand – a prick at the base of the thumb, which has no impact on mobility, rather than on his fingers, which he actually uses – and signs his own name besides hers.

“Well done,” the Morrigan says. “I wish you the best of luck in the battles ahead.”

Mick inclines his head in thanks.

And so they go –

- and so he awakens.

He gets up, dresses, and walks to the bridge.

The Legends all gawk at him: standing tall, hearty and hale and flushed red with the blood of a goddess.

“I need to borrow the ship,” Mick tells them. It’s not a request. “Strap in.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Mick goes first to visit John Constantine.

“You freed yourself from a haunting,” Constantine observes. “That’s rare.”

“I need a map to the Underhill,” Mick replies.

“Oh hell no.”

Mick shrugs. “I’ve got seven days and one to make it to the meeting place. Want to see my contract?”

“You contracted with the buggers? You’re right fucked, you are,” Constantine says, but he takes the contract.

After he reads it, he squints at Mick. “You’re a seventh of a seventh and you never thought to mention it?”

“A what?” Jax asks.

“Seventh of a seventh of a seventh,” Mick confirms, ignoring him. “Six times over.”

“And I suppose you’ve got seven of your own?”

Mick smirks. “Six, apparently.”

Constantine groans. “Now I see what you have to trade that they’d want.”

“Is someone going to explain this to the rest of us?” Sara asks.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” John asks, following Mick’s lead and ignoring her. “Even though you get to keep the kid, the Gentlemen are going to have a vested interest.”

Mick shrugs. “I’m on my way to rescue my True Love who has been transformed into a night hag.”

“…I take your point.”

“Wait,” Ray says. “Mick’s fallen in love? When?”

Mick isn’t even going to engage with that.

Constantine gets him the map.

“Really?” Mick says dubiously. “A strip mall?”

“Don’t doubt the value of liminal spaces,” Constantine says. “Also, have you seen those places at night? Even I think they’re creepy.”

Mick shrugs. “I’d say thank you,” he says, “but I don’t do that.”

“Because you have no manners?” Stein suggested.

“Wise man,” Constantine says. “You keep up with that, especially if you're playing games with the Fair Folk. And if I ever need something that requires a drop of blood from a seventh of a seventh, I’ll call you. You have no idea how many useful things call for that.”

“I have some,” Mick – who had totally been kidnapped a few times by foster parents with an eye towards genealogical records, albeit ones who hadn’t read the fine print of ‘disturbed juvenile arsonist’ and had no idea what they were getting into – replies. “Guess I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re going nowhere without my agreement,” Sara puts in. “How’d you even get Gideon to bring us here, anyway?”

“He’s a seventh,” Constantine says, stressing the syllables. “And you’re in a time ship.”

The Legends all blink at him.

“Think adoring puppy dog and someone who smells of bacon.”

Any technology sufficiently advanced will be mistaken for magic, Mick thinks, amused; looks like the other way is true as well.

Time ships always did answer to him particularly easy when he was Kronos, a matter of some great frustration to some of the other bounty hunters...

Map in hand, ignoring the Legends' protests, Mick goes on the next leg of his trip.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

This place had no name, no place, no time - by those that knew it, it was the Floating Market, but ask any of them what that was and they'd deny they'd ever heard of such a thing.

Indeed, many said it was impossible to describe, even if you were willing to spill its secrets.

Mick thought of it as a time traveler's Mos Eisley.

The greatest collection of thieves and vagabonds in the timeline.

Today, it was in Rome.

Mick doesn't actually pay much attention to where and when - no togas and no t-shirts, so somewhere in the 1000s - because it didn't matter, not really. You don't find the Market by looking for it, you find it with a dowsing rod reserved especially for the purpose.

Mick's never needed one.

"The Floating Market is one of the places that even Captain Hunter feared to go," Gideon tells him.

"Probably because Time Masters aren't treated like gods there," Mick says.

More like pests to be stomped out, actually; their arrogant and high-handed ways had no place in the Market. The Time Masters' bounty hunters, on the other hand, were welcomed as fellow-travelers.

Mick likes the Market.

"I wouldn't go, if I were you," he tells Sara. "They'll peg you for the League in a minute and black-ball you."

She frowns. "They know the League?"

"The League picked a fight with the Market once. I'm pretty sure the League calls that period of time the Great Disaster."

Sara's frown deepens. She recognizes the name. "Why are you going there now?"

"I need to see a man about a cat," Mick replies.

His favorite of the Market's watering holes, of which there were an infinity, is still there. Mick's sure that for some of his fellow travelers, he only stepped out for a minute; such is the way of things.

Underhill's not the only place that knows how to play with time.

He heads in with Jax at one side and Sara - who never listens - on the other. The others were guarding the ship: they'd already gotten six offers to purchase it, and two attempts to steal it.

"Good to see ya, Kronos," one of his old drinking buddies calls out. He's big and tall, wearing black leather pants and a matching vest. His shaggy black hair is as wild as his smile. "The Main Man missed having a challenge."

Mick can't help a smile.

"Lobo," he says. "Just who I wanted to see."

"How can I help ya?"

"I'm looking for Cat Anna," Mick tells him. "I need to know how to care for a hag, once you've got one to care for."

Lobo belches from his beer and roars in laughter. "Cat Anna! Care for a hag! You'd better not be getting romantic on me, Kronos - and even if you were, Jenny Greenteeth or Canrig Bwt is far more, heh, feisty."

"Canrig Bwt eats brains, Lobo," Mick reminds him.

"So? Who needs 'em?"

Mick grins. He likes Lobo. "You got me a lead on Cat Anna?"

"Oh, sure. And you're in luck, too - she's just about to make the switch to Black Annis. Look for her by the witches' feet."

Mick nods acknowledgment. "Good hunting, Lobo."

"And you!"

Mick drags a gaping Jax and Sara out of there. He's not sure what the big deal is.

Kali always has that many skulls tied onto her belt.

The witches' feet is another part of the Market, best identified by the bunches of chicken's feet at every stall, done the same way hookers hang red lanterns.

Finding Cat Anna is easy enough. Not many black cats are being given the royal treatment.

"I wanna talk to you," Mick says to her, ignoring the way Sara seems to be doubting his sanity and how Jax appears be considering purchasing some newts' eyes for some godforsaken reason.

Cat Anna stretches, long and lithe, and in a blink of an eye she becomes Black Annis, the one-eyed, long-haired, sharp-toothed hag of the hills.

"You've been ridden hard," she rasps. "But gentle. That's not like a hag."

"I'm seeking my true love," Mick tells her.

She snorts. "You and the rest of humanity."

"He's the hag."

"Now that's interesting! Human-born, I take it?”

Mick inclines his head.

“Well done, well done. And what need you with Black Annis, then?" she bares her teeth. "Lest you've got some children you don't need."

"He ain't for sale," Mick says, swatting her reaching hand from Jax. "I need to know how to care for one. What'll you charge me? And you can get your own kids."

She snorts. "Oh, hell, I ain't gonna charge you, not for bringing another hag into the world - assuming you manage it. Tell you what, m'boy - you wrestle your hag out of the sidhe and you'll have all you need to know, and all I'll ask is to spread his name."

She looks at him expectantly.

"Captain Cold, they call him," Mick tells her.

She cackles. "Oh, that's a fine one! We ain't never had a Captain before."

She shoves her wrinkly hand at him and Mick kissed it in thanks. He feels the knowledge settle into his mind where it ought to be, locked away until he's fulfilled the conditions on his side.

Getting the Legends out of the Market before they spend every penny they have and some they don't is yet another battle.

And with that done, their eyes still dazed, he goes to claim himself a hag.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The stories don't differ.

Oh, some are charmers, some are singers, some are poets, but in the end the job's the same.

You want to take something out of the sidhe, you'd better grab it tight and hold it to your heart, no matter how it burns you.

Lucky for Mick, he has plenty of experience with things that burn.

The Legends follow in his wake, silent and unjudging, less as support than as witnesses.

He’s warned them not to eat or drink and not to say their names to anyone, but to accept any gift they are given. He hopes that they’re wise enough to listen, but his focus has to be on his challenge.

The strip mall at night becomes a Queen's Court - one more in the style of Mab than Titania, if Mick had to guess. The bean sidhe coo when they see Mick and a familiar cat the size of a dog - all black but for the stripe of white at her heart - brushes by his feet, all approving.

Len's his prize and his challenge both, and he stands at the center of the .

"Welcome, Kronos," the Queen says. "Seventh son of a seventh daughter, Hunter of the Timeline and Rover of the Waves, Knight of the Summer’s Shadow, Victor of the Battle of Bet-Adon, Trieste, and Atlantis-Ouest, Master of The Leviathan, Destroyer of the Renegade Court –” By which Mick assumes they mean the Time Masters. Nice to know that that’s been added to his list of titles. “– and guest at our court.”

“Don’t forget Heatwave,” Mick reminds her.

The Queen inclines her head gravely. The Lords love etiquette more than anything else; the best way to get the upper hand is to point out a flaw in their approach. This must be a young Queen indeed.

“Heatwave, Supervillain, Member of the Rogues, Enemy of the Flash, Commander of Absolute Heat,” she recited. “I did not forget; I was unsure if you had reclaimed those titles.”

“I have,” Mick replies, just as solemnly.

Though not without worry. The stupid “Rogues” idea Len had actually comes to fruition?

Ugh.

Mick would say he’s having second thoughts about winning this contest, but he can’t even joke about that; the wound is still too fresh.

Len grins as though he knows what Mick’s thinking, because he’s a dick. He’s totally going to take advantage of this to make Mick join his stupid Rogues.

But on the other hand: he’ll be around to do that.

Mick will take it.

“You will face three trials,” the Queen says. “To rescue a soul from the Sidhe requires love and hope and faith. We will try all three.”

Mick nods, unsurprised.

She waves her hand, and suddenly there’s a dozen Lens standing there, all the same.

“Tell us which of these is your true love,” she demands. “For love will know love, even in disguise.”

Mick gnaws on his lower lip, staring at them. “Might I test them, your Majesty?”

“You may,” she replies haughtily. “Ask your questions.”

Questions? Mick doesn’t need questions. Besides, changelings-constructs have the same memories as the original. Questions won’t help, as the Queen well knows.

No, love needs a different test.

Mick pulls out a hammer.

The collected Court withdraws from the stench of iron, which causes them pain even at a distance.

Mick steps forward, puts his hand on a nearby surface – a squat barrel which he suspects spends its daylight hours as a garbage can – and spreads his fingers wide. He lifts the hammer up high.

“What are you doing?” the Queen asks.

“My love gave up his hand for me,” Mick says. “Seems fair.”

He brings the hammer down, as hard as he can.

The iron never touches his flesh, caught instead by one of the Lens darting forward, his face flushed with rage. He ignores how his own hands sizzle at the touch of iron, too focused on Mick, too focused on yelling, “What the fuck are you doing?! You don’t need to smash your own hand, you - you - you asshole! We already had it out about the hand! What the fuck?!”

“This one,” Mick says to the Queen dryly.

“Well played,” she responds, equally dry. A wave of the hand vanishes the remainder.

Mick pries the hammer out of Len’s hands before they burn any more. “I’m not going to smash my hand,” he assures his partner.

“You’d better not!”

“The next of your tests is this,” the Queen says, and she waves her hand. A table appears, with a wooden cup filled to the brim.

Len’s eyes go wide. “What? No!”

“Drink of the forgetting water,” the Queen says. “It washes away all care, and with all care all memory.”

Mick raises his eyebrows skeptically. “So I’m supposed to drink away all my memories?”

“All your cares,” she corrects. “If your love is true, then have no fear: you will remember him. But if not, you will leave without him and without the memory of him; and ne’er will you meet again.”

“Damnit, he’s already been brainwashed enough!” Len snaps. “And he hates it, too; that’s a terrible test.”

The Queen frowns thoughtfully. “If he will not trust to his own love, he cannot pass the test. And yet I have some sympathy to your plight: it is indeed an old wound. Very well: swear to me your services for three tasks of my will, and he may forgo the drink.”

Mick reaches out and takes the cup.

“Mick!”

“The test is for both of us,” Mick tells him. “And you know it.”

Len falters, just long enough for his brain to start to work – logic overcoming concern, his cold heart overcoming the heat of his emotions.

“I see,” he says. “She can’t bind a hag to her will without their oath, and I ain’t giving her no oath – not for anything but this.”

“She’d trade it and then laugh at us for failing her test,” Mick agrees. “You’ve got to trust me that I can do this, and I’ve got to trust in myself. That’s what hope is.”

“Then go ahead,” Len says. He looks like he’s regretting it.

Before Len can say another word more, Mick lifts the cup to his lips and drains it.

It is –

A blaze of flame surrounds him but does not burn him, soothing his innermost pain, the oldest of all his friends. It welcomes him, calls him to rest, a peaceful slumber.

It wipes away all cares: the old hurt of his parents’ loss, the newer stings of the Legends’ cruelties, even his disagreements with Len over all those years.

But Len is more than just a care, more than just a worry, more than just a disagreement.

He's everything.

Mick opens his eyes. “You ought to market that as an antidepressant,” he observes. “What’s the third test?”

Len punches him in the shoulder, smiling. “They’re still looking to get FDA approval,” he jokes.

“Well done,” the Queen says, ignoring their levity. “Your hope and love is true. And now there is only the test of faith.”

She says no more.

That’s fine.

Mick knows what to do.

He reaches for Len and he takes him into his arms and he holds on.

Holds on through leopards and foxes and spitting cats, through flames and blistering cold, through hurricanes, holds on as his hands hurt and his gut feels like it’s been ripped out, holds on, holds on, holds on –

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Is anyone going to explain what just happened?” Sara asks, a little plaintively.

They’re back on the Waverider.

Len is by Mick's side, where he belongs.

He has on that wretched blue parka that Mick would've sworn was lost on some time-traveling jaunt - and indeed that might be so, because this parka gleams subtly in Mick's sight like maybe it wasn't made of fabric from this plane. Also like maybe it could hold off a bomb.

Mick reluctantly approves. He’s in favor of Len being bomb-resistant.

Len also has a bag that seems to contain more things than it really ought. He says he won it off - someone.

He refuses to give more details than that.

His smile is still too sharp, his pupils still star-shaped, but his eyes have returned to their original shade and his talons have reshaped into familiar fingers and at any rate judging from the way none of the other Legends have commented, Mick is pretty sure that he's the only one who can see Captain Cold in his full, newly-inhuman glory.

Mick is -

Mick is content.

No.

Mick is happy.

He's also getting a shit ton of information on the care and feeding of night hags - 'mara' is apparently the preferred name for the singular, Len was just being a dick - so he's not really in the mood to answer the question.

"I'm back," Len says in belated response, when it becomes obvious that Mick has no intention of answering. "Obviously."

"And it's the you we knew?" Jax asks cautiously.

"Mr. Blow-Yourself-Up, in the flesh," Len confirms.

"Oh," Jax says. "Uh. Good to see you again?"

As if that's the switch, the rest of the Legends start crowding around with greetings and smiles and introductions to Nate and Amaya, stories and comradery and all that. Several of them step around Mick to do so.

"I'm a little tired," Len says pleasantly. "As I'm sure Mick is. Perhaps later?"

Human or not, Len's charisma is a force of nature.

They are left alone.

"You're back," Mick says, finally letting himself believe - really believe - that it's true.

Len smiles, his secret, honest, hidden smile, that only Mick and Lisa get to see. "You saved me."

Mick snorts. "You saved yourself, with my assistance."

"Maybe," Len concedes.

"You have plans already, I take it?" Mick asks. He knows that look in Len's eyes.

It's so familiar, so wonderfully familiar, that his chest hurts.

"Oh, yes," Len says. "Many - the Rogues, of course, and finding you just the right woman to bear our child -"

Because of course it's their child.

Mick objects not at all.

"- and maybe having a bit of a snack off our dear friends the Legends, who seem to have grown disrespectful of you in my absence," Len continues. "But that's for later. For now I have other plans."

"I'm all yours," Mick says.

Dangerous words, to say to one reborn among the Sidhe.

Mick finds he can mean it no less. Everything he is, the flaws, the virtues, all the powers he was born to, the full sum of him - it's all nothing without Len.

Len's eyes glitter with pleasure and he takes Mick's hand, and he leads him to the bed.

The bed where they slept together when Len was still a man, the bed that Mick avoided so much that year they were apart, the bed where Mick gave himself, body and soul, to the hungry nightmare Len has become.

Mick smiles and climbs into the bed.

Behind him, a cold body climbs in.

A chill arm wraps around his body.

A hand rests upon Mick's heart.

"Sleep," Len whispers in Mick's ear. "I'll watch over your dreams."

Mick closes his eyes.

And sleeps.

[wolfypuppypiles]

MacGyver fanfic: Young and foolish

Another bullet ripped through the wall, right next to MacGyver, making him flinch as Jack returned fire.

“Have you found the bomb yet? Cause there’s only five minutes left on the clock.” Riley’s worried voice came through the coms, and Jack replied as he shot back at the terrorists.

“Well, they could have been bluffing when they said they activated it. Maybe they just wanted to scare us?”

Mac pulled Jack back from the corner of the wall they were hiding behind, as another barrage of bullets fired their way.

“I don’t think terrorists bluff, Jack. Riley, we know where it is, we just have to get past a few people to get to it.”

“Well, hurry up. We don’t have much time and the police can’t evacuate the whole building with so little time. There are thousands of people in there.”

Jack ducked down to reload his gun as he grumbled. “Yeah, thanks for the extra pressure, Riley. We know how serious this is, we don’t need your commentary.”

Macgyver looked around, knowing they were quickly running out of ammo and needed an alternate route.

“Shut up, Jack. I think I know a way around.”

Jack turned to the younger man and lifted his gun.

“Well, hurry up then, I’m almost out of ammo!”

As it turns out, Mac’s brilliant idea was to use the vents, which Jack did not like given his size. But it got them around the terrorists and to the bomb. The room they were keeping the bomb in was heavily fortified, with guards posted at the door, as well as a pile of weapons for defending their plan. Jack took them out from the vents and took as much ammo as he liked, when they jumped down. MacGyver was less happy; the bomb was big and complicated. They had about two minutes left on the clock and he would need almost all of that time to disarm it.

“Jack, you got incoming.”

Jack posted himself at the door, with a table for cover, to take out the guys trying to kill him while Mac did his thing.

And MacGyver was usually very good with bombs, but it’s a little hard to concentrate when you’re bleeding out.

Mac leant over the bomb and reached in a hand to inspect it further, when something ripped through him. He let out an involuntary cry and stumbled, falling against the crate the bomb was in. His mind was white with pain as Jack’s voice came, worried but distracted.

“You okay, kid?!”

MacGyver looked down at his side, where blood was quickly blooming through his shirt. He cursed and pressed a hand to it as he replied.

“Yeah, I’m good. The bombs just…bigger than I thought.”

Jack seemed to buy the excuse, mostly because he still had four guys shooting at him.

“Okay, well get to it. We don’t have much time left.”

Mac nodded and quickly grabbed the sheet that had been used to cover the bomb, and ripped it into the crappiest bandages ever. He balled a piece up and pressed it to the wound, wrapping another strip around his waist and tying it tight, biting his lip to stop from making any noise through the pain. He knew it wouldn’t stop the bleeding very much but it was something and he didn’t have time for anything else.

The hot pain of the bullet threatened to cloud his mind, but he’d been in tough spots before and he knew he needed to compartmentalize. Ignore everything but the bomb. His old CO’s voice came to his mind, gruff and authoritative.

“You’re in a warzone with an armed bomb, what do you do?”

Mac’s breath came in shallow pants as he remembered his answer.

“Focus on what can kill you now, deal with everything else later.”

“And what can kill you now?”

“The bomb.”

“Then get to it soldier!”

His side screamed in pain but Mac got to his feet and got back to the bomb, ignoring the feeling of blood spreading over his skin, and soaking his shirt. He didn’t even have time to check for an exit wound, but he knew if he had one, the bomb would have blown. That meant that the bullet was still inside him and for now, that was advantage. He wasn’t so sure about later but he didn’t have any longer to worry about it.

The clock was counting down and everyone in the building was counting on him to save them. He had been trained to disarm bombs, had done it a hundred times before. He could do this.

Jack was firing off shot after shot, filling the room with noise as MacGyver tried to concentrate. He never liked guns but he had grown used to the noise in his many years of experience with them.

He took a deep breath and cleared everything from his mind until all there was only the bomb and how to disarm it. His fingers were clumsier than usual, slippery with his own blood, but he ignored the red smears on the wires and kept going, hearing Riley give updates on the coms.

“They’ve got reinforcements coming your way. They really don’t want you disarming that bomb. You have disarmed it, haven’t you? Clocks down to less than a minute.”

Mac gave a short answer and tried to ignore how hard it was to breathe.

“Almost there. Can you send back up for us?”

“Yeah, but its gonna take a few minutes.”

Jack fired another round of bullets as he chimed in. “I can hold them off till then, just send them. Mac, keep going.”

MacGyver tried, but it was getting harder to ignore the pain. It was burning, tearing pain, that stabbed its way through his concentration. Not to mention the blood that was quickly soaking through his shirt and down his side. He could feel it dripping onto the floor but didn’t have the extra hands to put pressure on it.

His head was growing light and it was getting harder to breathe, every inhale whistling through his teeth as his, now, shaking fingers pulled at some wires.

When he finally got the bomb disarmed, the clock pausing on the flashing red numbers, he heaved a sigh and let his weak legs drop him to the floor, sitting against the crate as he panted.

“Bombs, disarmed.”

Riley sighed with relief, fingers still tapping over her keyboard.

“And with twenty seconds to spare, good job, Mac. Jack, you still good?”

MacGyver had almost forgotten about their other problem, and mentally groaned as Jack answered.

“Yeah, but their buddies just arrived and I can’t hold them off on my own. We're gonna need that back up. Mac, you got any bright ideas?" 

Angus was finding it hard to just breathe, but he needed to help jack. The terrorists would kill him faster than the bullet would so he’d concentrate on that first. He grunted out a yes, and looked around the room once more, head clumsily filling with ideas. 

It was so hard to think and he pressed a hand to his side, wincing as the pain became sharper. 

He attempted to lee his voice steady as he spoke but jack was too busy to notice anyway. 

"Yeah, I think I can make a grenade or two with pieces from the bomb." 

Jack ducked back behind the table. "Well get to it then." 

He was already so tired and he knew it would hurt to move again but he sucked in as deep a breath as he could and attempted to get to his feet. 

The room tipped and spun but he gripped the edge of the crate and hauled himself up, biting back a groan of pain. He took a moment to breathe once standing before pulling his pocket knife back out and pulling materials from the bomb. 

He'd have to be careful but he really only needed the wires, he'd use other, less sensitive, explosive components from the bottles of cleaning supplies around him to make the rest of the grenade. He was just lucky they were in the supplies cupboard of the hotel they were shooting up. 

His legs were getting seriously wobbly so he slumped back to the ground to make his mini bombs, trying to keep one hand on his side when he could. There was way too much blood on the floor now. And he was shivering with cold. He was going into shock and he knew it. 

By the time, he'd finished building the grenades, he could barely move his arms so he just rolled them over to jack. 

Jack swore as he took the grenades off the ground, too preoccupied to look in his partners direction. 

"Damn mac, be careful with these." 

Mac blinked his tired eyes as he watched jack throw the first grenade, cheering as it blew up in the hallway where he threw it. Picking up the next one however, he paused. The grenade was covered in blood, and was staining his hands with it as he held it. He paused, confused before finally looking over at Angus who was falling asleep against the crate. Blood was soaked through his side and his jeans, forming a dangerously large puddle on the floor. 

"Mac!!" 

Jack threw the last bomb, it bothering to see if it hit its mark as he sprinted over to his partner. 

His heart pounded in his chest and his stomach dropped as he knelt beside his partner, hand flying to his com. 

"Riley, I need an evac now! Macs been hit." 

The hacker started tapping away again, voice small and scared as she replied. 

"On their way, and backups just arrived. Is he okay?" 

Mac barely reacted when jack stripped off his jacket and pressed it to the kid’s side, voice shaking as he pressed his fingers to that pale throat. 

"He's lost a lot of blood and his pulse is weak, I think he's going into shock. Mac, can you hear me? I need you to stay awake, buddy." 

Angus' eyes were barely open but he tried to obey as he heaved in ragged breaths. His weak, blood soaked fingers, coming up to tug at Jacks hands.

"I know it hurts but I have to stop this bleeding. Damn kid, when were you hit?" 

Mac opened his eyes enough to see Jacks worried face, and pointed to the ceiling where they'd jumped down from the vents. 

"Dammit Mac! Why didn't you say anything?" He knew why, but that didn't make him any less scared. He’d been bleeding out for a good twenty minutes now and he was fading fast.

Jack had been in some bad spots but he was never so scared as when Mac got hurt. He wasn’t just a friend, he was family, and more than that, he was a kid. He shouldn’t be bleeding out on some dirty floor, away from any chance of help.

Jack’s hands were slick with blood now, and he felt them shake as he pressed them to his partners wounded side.

“Just hold on, okay? We’ll get you out of here.”

Mac’s eyes rolled a little in their sockets as he fought to stay conscious, breaths coming in gasps as he tried to speak.

“It’s okay.”

Jack’s heart squeezed in his chest as he shook his head.

“No, Mac. I know what you’re gonna say but just don’t, all right? I’m getting you home so just be quiet.”

The kid was insistent and squeezed Jacks hand weakly.

“It’s okay, Jack. We saved everyone. You’ll be okay.”

Jacks lip started to wobble and his eyes grew blurry. He knew it was bad, he knew that if Mac fell asleep they would lose him, but he didn’t want to accept that just yet.

“I know I will be because you will be too.”

“Jack-”

“No, you aren’t going anywhere, you hear me?”

MacGyver could feel himself grow cold, and he needed to say something even if Jack didn’t want to hear it.

“Thanks for always being there for me. You’ve always taken care of me, and I need you to know that it isn’t your fault okay?”

Jack just shook his head, throat clogged with emotion. He could hear back up arrive and take out the terrorists in the background, but all he could focus on was the blood still pouring from beneath his fingers.

“Can you look after Bozer for me? Just be there for each other.” A sniff and a sob came through the coms and Jack almost let one out himself, at the knowledge that Riley could hear all of this. Her small voice came over the earpieces and Mac felt awful about her having to hear him die.

“Mac, just hang on, okay? The medics are almost there. You’ll be okay. Don’t leave.”

He wished that he could stay, he didn’t want to leave his family, but his vision was swirling and filling with black spots. He could barely see Jacks face as he continued to say his goodbyes. His words were slurred and he was running out of time.

“Hey Riley, you make sure Jack doesn’t do anything stupid when I’m gone okay? And I know we don’t say this very much, but I love you guys. You’re my family and I wouldn’t trade a second with you for the world.”

Jack finally found his voice as Mac’s eyes threatened to close.

“Stop it Mac, you are not dying on me! Keep those eyes open and keep your goodbyes ‘cos I aint sayin ‘em.”

Riley sobbed again, voice cracking as she forced it through. “I love you too, Mac.

Jack cursed and pressed his hands tighter to his partner’s side, panicking at the blood still coming.

“Shit, Mac, please. Just hang on, the medics are almost here. Why won’t the blood stop?”

MacGyver managed to squeeze Jacks hand one last time before his vision faded and his chest seized. His heart was too tired and his body too cold. Jack started yelling as the kids eyes closed, the medics arriving just as his chest stopped moving.

“Mac, don’t you dare! Stay with me! Open your eyes! Mac!”

Riley was sobbing over the coms, seeing everything through a hacked security camera.

Medics poured into the room as tear finally fell from Jacks eyes. He was pushed away as the EMT’s took over, and fell to the ground a few meters away, watching them work on his little brother. Because he was like a brother, sometimes a son to him, and he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost him.

(Sorry this is actually so bad therw ill be more tho and you can find this and all my other works on Ao3 and fanfiction.net using the same author name as my url on here.)

[colourmylearning]

When minimal fuss is what you want from your everyday computing and your primary tasks are based online then one of these cost effective low maintenance Chromeboxes or nettop boxes is your thing.

Yes, Google’s little thin client is still alive and kicking. With the recent launch of ASUS Chromebox 3, the mini PC takes centre stage once again and this time with 4K UHD support and practical power over USB type-C connector. But is it enough to convince more users to jump on the bandwagon?

Chrome Box For School

The mini Chrome OS based computer has always been a favourite with the education sector especially small institutions and schools with a limited budget. The low cost of ownership makes these thin client machines a no-brainer. However, you will need to approach this with caution. Unless you are a school that is heavily invested in Google for Education especially Google’s barrage of online apps under the G Suite umbrella, there is not much else outside of the browser. Yes, you can install apps on the browser and perform some offline tasks but this still relies on what is available on Google Play, Google’s App Store. Note that this now extends to Android Apps as newer Chrome OS now supports it but again there are limitations as to the app’s window size and the type of interface as these Android Apps are designed for mobile devices first.

Chrome Boxes can also be used as presentation station or information kiosk in an education setting. The low power consumption, silent operation and low heat dispersion makes it ideal as an energy efficient machine to have anywhere in the school.

If neither students nor staff are familiar with Google’s G Suite for Education, a suite of productivity tools designed to help teachers and students interact seamlessly and securely across any devices, then your investment in Chrome Box must include training and in-house brochures to get them up to speed. There are loads you can do on G Suite alone, manage your class, distribute assignments, offer quizzes, and send feedback apart from collaborating on the different office like applications for documents, spreadsheets, forms and presentations. On a personal level, teachers and students can manage their email, to-do list, task reminders and calendar as well as build their own website.

Chrome Box For Home

With most family members having their own laptops and tablets for work, college and school, there is really no need for a full fledge desktop. But, if you still prefers a full size display, keyboard and mouse, a small investment will bring you desktop back to life. I don’t mean upgrading your existing machine but replacing it. You can keep your keyboard, mouse and monitor, that should save you some money as all you will be replacing is your slow PC. The cost of which is only about half the price of a standard desktop.

The device is fast enough to do anything and everything on the Internet. With a simple browser interface, there is really nothing that can go wrong with. So, if the bulk of your time on a PC is spent on a browser, including working on Microsoft Office document online then save yourself some of your hard earned cash and get a chrome box. With the purchase, you also get additional online storage for your files. The only downside is the ability to print. While there are USB ports, Chrome OS does not support the installation of drivers so you can’t just connect any printer and expect it to work.

Chrome boxes can also double as media centre for the living room. The new generation devices are capable of 4K and will let you stream movies, TV shows and music via the browser or over apps from Google Play store.

Not being able to print is not a bad thing. Think of all the trees you are saving. If you absolutely must print then invest in a network (wired or wireless) printer that supports Google Cloud Print. If you have an old USB printer, hooked up to a computer, you will need Chrome browser installed on a Windows or Mac then set up Google Cloud Print using these Print from Chrome instructions.

1. ASUS Chromebox 3-N017U Mini PC with Intel Celeron and 4K Support

First with 4K support, the ASUS Chromebox 3 is the latest Chrome OS mini PC with more power, storage and memory and uses the new Type-C port. Design wise, it is not very different from its predecessor, the Chromebox 2 albeit thinner. It is however, instantly recognisable by its brushed aluminium effect instead of just plain black plastic finish. The Chromebox 3 is fast at booting up, browsing the web, streaming content in Full HD or 4K UHD as well as streaming music. If you have to, use the Keep Awake chrome extension so the device does not go to sleep and avoid being cut off from enjoying your movie, TV show or music mid-way. Given its size, you can tuck it away easily behind the monitor (mounting plate and screws included) or TV or even keep it in the drawer if there is a way to wire your keyboard, mouse or at least your monitor to it.

ASUS Chromebox 3 on Amazon

Intel Celeron 3865U 1.8GHz dual-core processor with 4GB DDR4 RAM and 32GB M.2 SATA SSD

Integrated Intel 4K UHD graphics and dual monitor support via HDMI and DisplayPort over Type C

Full support of Android Apps from Google Play on Chrome OS

Share files or stream your favorite media with Intel 802.11ac Wi-Fi, Bluetooth 4.2, and USB 3.1 Gen 1 Type a & Type C Ports

For Internet connectivity, use the onboard Gigabit LAN or integrated 802.11ac WiFi

As with all ASUS systems, the build quality is good and connectivity is great. The front panel offers two USB 3.0 ports, 3.5mm micro/headphone combo jack and micro SD card slot. On the back, you have three extra USB ports (2 x USB2, 1 x USB 3) plus a USB Type-C port. This is a multipurpose port that can carry both data and video signal as well as power up devices with is power over type-C capability. On top of that, there is a HDMI port for video output. With the right cable, you can hook up two monitors and run this simultaneously, a first for a Chrome mini PC.

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ASUS Chromebox 3 on Amazon

If you are looking for something with more processing power and memory, consider the N018U or N019U models with Intel Core i3 processor. You can also upgrade the memory and storage if you don’t mind opening up the box. There is a free SO-DIMM slot and you can replace the M.2 SATA SSD with say a 128GB or more storage. The latter requires you to have a Google’s Chromebook recovery Tool USB stick handy as you will need to re-install Chrome OS on the new hard drive.

ASUS CHROMEBOX 3-N018U Mini PC with Intel Core i3-7100U dual-core 2.4GHz with 4GB RAM, 32GB SSD

ASUS CHROMEBOX 3-N019U Mini PC with Intel Core i3-7100U dual-core 2.4GHz with 8GB RAM, 32GB SSD

  2. CTL Chromebox CBX1

The compact mini computer has everything one wound need to run ChromeOS smoothly and quickly. Using the same Intel Celeron 3865U 1.8GHz dual-core processor found on the ASUS Chromebox 3, the CBX1 is available with 4GB memory, 8GB memory or 16GB memory. Storage wise, you get the 32GB SSD which is sufficient when most of your files and data will be in the cloud anyway. The system includes a built-in dual-band WiFi, allowing for fast streaming HD media and seamless web surfing, Gigabit Ethernet LAN port, plenty of USB ports (2 x USB2.0, 3 x USB3.0) and dual video output in the form of HDMI and 1 x USB Type C port. We can only assume that as it shares the same processor and platform with the ASUS Chromebox 3 that it supports 4K output but we cannot be sure.

CTL Chromebox CBX1 on Amazon

3. ASUS Chromebox 2 G095U Mini Chrome OS Computer

The previous generation Chromebox 2 from ASUS is still on the shelves and is available at bargain prices. If you do not have a need for 4K Ultra High Definition output and do not intend to get a UHD display anytime soon then the cheaper, even more affordable Chromebox 2 is for you. Powered by Intel Celeron 3215U, an energy efficient mobile processor running at base frequency of 1.7Ghz combined with 2GB or 4GB RAM and 16GB M.2 Solid State Drive, it offers instant boot-up, access G suite, websites and apps. The box is VESA mountable so it an be fitted to the back of a compatible monitor or TV. If one display is not enough, you can also hook up a second monitor as it supports dual display via the HDMI and DisplayPort, just not 4K. Like the new Chromebox 3, this little machine can stream Full 1080p HD videos without any lag from YouTube, Netflix, Google Movies and Amazon Prime as long as you have a good enough broadband connection and strong WiFi signal.

ASUS Chromebox 2 on Amazon

4. Acer Chromebox CXI2-4GKM Desktop with Keyboard and Mouse NO MORE

Powered by Intel Celeron 3205U clocking in at 1.5Ghz with 2 or 4GB DDR3L SDRAM and 16GB SSD. Unlike the ASUS Chromeboxes, the Acer has a standing profile. A rectangular rather than a square footprint, the unit has a plastic stand to hold it up. On the front of the device, you have your power button, two USB 3.0 slots and a full size SD card slot. On the rear, you get two more USB 3.0 slots, one headphone and microphone combo jack, one DisplayPort and one HDMI port. There is also an Gigabit Ethernet LAN port and a Kensington security slot. For wireless connectivity, the unit spots 802.11ac WiFi and Bluetooth 4.0. Acer has also included a USB keyboard and mouse as well as a VESA mounting bracket with the system. Everything you need to get up and running, simply add your own monitor or TV screen.

Acer Chromebox on Amazon

5. ASUS CHROMEBIT CS10 Stick-Desktop PC

Not only is Chrombit the smallest, it is also the cheapest in our line-up. Powered by a mobile chip, the stick based PC runs a RockChip 3288-C processor with 2 GB LPDDR3L memory and 16 GB eMMC storage. It may not have the processing power, memory or storage to compete with other Chromeboxes in the market but the form factor does have a lot of potential for those to want a discreet computer to add to their living room TV, information kiosk or foyer information display. Google Chrome OS ensures that the HDMI based computer dongle operates smoothly and quickly supporting up to Full HD resolution making it great for both productivity and entertainment. For wireless connectivity, you get dual-band 802.11ac WiFi and Bluetooth 4.0. If you need extra storage, use the full size USB2.0 port at the opposite end to the HDMI port to add external storage. The dongle is powered by a dedicated DC adapter and not via the USB port.

ASUS Chromebit CS10 on Amazon

We recommend the Logitech Wireless Touch Keyboard K400 Plus with integrated touchpad should your Chromebit CS10 setup be used as a media centre.

Top 5 Best Chromebox PCs – Nettop mini PC that just works When minimal fuss is what you want from your everyday computing and your primary tasks are based online then one of these cost effective low maintenance Chromeboxes or nettop boxes is your thing.