#macriley | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mayfieldss · 1 month

Text

12 hours - Angus Macgyver

Synopsis: when you are taken hostage, Mac has to figure out a way to find you, though with feelings involved it's not like any other case.

Warnings: violence, kidnapping, mentions of blood, torture/drugging, angst, fem!reader

You're front door flung wide open was Mac's first warning. The lack of your presence in the home was his second.

When he'd arrived with coffee in one hand, and his car keys in the other he hadn't expected it, and as a frown set deep into his features, the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

His voice rang out, oddly loud in the empty house, only to hear no answer back from you. Silence, from every room. Mac wouldn't have been so concerned had you been different people entirely, but you weren't, and what you did for work warranted a need to watch your back at every corner. Mac wasn't so good at watching his own back, but watching yours had always been his specialty, which is why the fact he didn't see this coming, cut so deep.

The broken lampshade in the living room, and the crimson that had long ago soaked into the carpet brought more fears to Mac's mind than he could count, and the speed at which he raced around the house looking for you was unmatched to any pace he'd set before. The first phone call he made was to your cell, which rang in the upstairs bedroom without you to answer it. The second was to Jack, who picked up after the third ring with an irritated groan.

"It's eight in the morning man, what d'you want?"

"Listen, you gotta calm down. You can't think straight when you're like this, and we need that big brain of yours if we want any chance of finding her." Jack has a calloused hand placed firmly on Mac's shoulder as they stand in your empty bedroom. Mac doesn't need a reminder on the importance of staying calm. It's how he's survived his whole life, how he's managed to keep Jack alive to this day, and how he's managed to save you more times than he can count.

But he isn't calm, at least not now. Mac's gaze is locked on the top drawer of your dresser, where you'd allowed him to move in some of his things the month before. Some trinkets, a few shirts, though he can see one of them strewn on the floor in the corner after a rushed discard of it in this very room a few nights before.

"Did I ever tell you we were moving in together?" his voice comes quiet, distracted as his eyes scan over the room. Before he can spiral further Jack's hold on Mac's shoulder grows tighter and he spins the blonde around to face him

"Quit using that past tense bullshit." The man snaps his fingers, loud, in Mac's face, cutting through the harsh thoughts running rampant in his mind. "Y'all are moving in together whether you like it or not, and when we get her back, you better start packing your shit."

Mac can feel the pain welling in his chest, before he pulls himself out of Jack's hold. He takes one deep breath in and holds it for a moment, the air in his lungs one thing he can control. And then he's focused enough to think, and to plan. He's ready to find you.

You can feel a dampness on your clothes, and while you're unsure if it's water or sweat, it brings a coolness to your skin. There's a sound akin to dripping somewhere to your left, and faint traffic in a direction you can't quite make out. It's dark, and it stays that way even after you open your eyes.

You're not at home anymore, that much is clear, but you're not alone either, and as your eyes adjust to the black you can make out the picture of a figure before you, leant against the wall in waiting.

"Tired?" it asks, voice full of enjoyment. A sharp plastic digs into your wrists, and if you were to hazard a guess, cable ties would be the closest you could get to what was restraining you.

You don't respond to whoever sits across from you, and despite the fear begging you not to, you close your eyes again.

Faking sleep is better than being forced into it by a harsh hit to the head, something you assume happened earlier by the aching you feel. And it's certainly better than torture or interrogation—something you can see coming from a mile off.

"No, no, I don't have the patience for games." The voice has come closer, though you hadn't heard the footsteps, but before you can even out your breathing, sell the lie, your nervous system forces you awake. Water, ice cold, covers every inch of your body, weighing you down as you gasp from its contact.

Your eyes are open again, and you can see your captor, which isn't any luck on your part. It's almost a definite that you'll be disposed of now, once all is said and done.

A singular light is on above you, a bright, irritating presence. And now, as you cast your gaze to your surroundings, you see the various tools displayed on a tray across the room. A scalpel winks at you, as do many other shiny metals.

You wish you'd never woken up.

Mac sits in the war room alone, scanning through security the footage Riley had gathered hours ago. He can't see a thing—or rather, he can't see you—in any of the frames.

On the quiet Suburban street where you lived, cameras weren't needed. Which rendered almost every tape Riley had pulled from the systems closer to town useless. And the more Mac looked through each one, his eyesight began to blur. Perhaps the footage wasn't the problem. Maybe it was Mac himself.

Angus MacGyver had never not had an idea in his life. He was a quick thinker and always had been. Yet, here he was—trapped in the large expanse of a government owned building and surrounded by technology that should have been assisting him—with no plans worth speaking aloud.

Mac found himself standing from his chair, heart beating at a furious pace. It was as though he couldn't get air into his lungs, and the breaths he did take seemed to burn, his anxiety acid to his insides.

He can hear his own gasps for breath in his ears, frantic and rapid, and for a moment, he thinks he might be dying. He can see his phone light up on the rooms center table, next to the bowl of paperclips, now half empty. But the phone makes it all worse, as with the notification and the device lighting up, he can see you.

Trapped in the phone, you sit grinning on a couch, Mac beside you with your legs in his lap. The lock screen is a moment in time, yet he can still remember everything that happens after. He remembers Bozer snapping the picture, and can recall his own hands, pulling you into his lap moments later. Mac remembers you, laughing into his lips, tasting of beer, and the icing from Jack's birthday cake. It feels like his chest is shrinking now as he sinks into the memory, mind sucking him into it before pushing him back out into the now. He doesn't know where you are, if you're alive or dead, and the burn of panicked tears comes quickly. His gasps increase in volume as he slides down the wall to the floor, and with the blood pumping hard in his ears, he can hardly hear the door open.

"Woah, woah, Mac!" Jack is on the floor with him in moments, a firm grip on both his shoulders. "Breathe man, in and out."

Mac tries, he really does, but everything inside him spills over. He's an overflowing sink and it's so unlike him, as if grief has taken hold long before he can confirm he's lost you for good.

"I don't know where she is, Jack." There's anger in his words, fear forcing it out of him, and in his peripheral, he can see Riley and Maddy in the doorway.

"I know, man. It's tough, but we're gonna find her." Jack's support does nothing to soothe him, and Mac finds himself pushing the man back, scrambling to his feet.

"Really, Jack? Because it doesn't feel like it. We don't even know how long she's been missing. How long did it take before I even realized she was gone?" Mac has forced himself to face the window, as if he can hide himself—his pain, no matter how clear it is—from his coworkers. His friends.

"Mac, this isn't on you. There's no way you could have known what was about to happen." It's Maddy, though Mac still refuses to face her. He can hear someone step forward, and by the rustle of a leather jacket, he knows it's Riley.

"This was never your fault, Mac."

"I didn't know she was missing. I should have known." He can hear the crack in his own voice as he tortures himself from the inside out. And then he yells, an agonizing sound full of anger and resentment as he turns, swinging his hand out to knock the glass bowl of paperclips to the ground. It shatters, as does Mac, and his friends rush to hold him up before he can fall.

Maddy sends him home after that, though that doesn't stop his racing train of thought. Bozer orders him take out that he can't bring himself to eat, and he waits for you, as if by pure will he can cause you to form in the doorway.

He tried to wrap his head around who would have taken you, but the list of suspects is too long. Was it revenge on you they were seeking, or was the plan to cause Mac pain in this very way? Was it something to do with the foundation as a whole or one singular person? Every mistake Mac has ever made forms in his mind, but none of them fit with the story he's put together.

The open door, the blood on the carpet, the broken household items. Your phone left behind, coffee pot empty as you waited for Mac to arrive. Your bed wasn't made, and Mac could picture the day you would've had had things gone right. It's dark out, but Mac can't sleep. he stands, and despite Maddy's orders, leaves the house.

You're cold, shivering in a shirt that isn't yours. It's one of Mac's, checkered and blue, paired with pajama shorts that do nothing to conserve your body heat. But having something of his right now gives you comfort, a reminder that he will be looking for you.

The room has looked the same for all the hours you've spent within it, and you have no concept of time in its confines. Whether it's night or day, you can't tell, but no one told you that the scariest part of being held captive, sometimes is the fact that you don't know how long you have been.

When you see the man again, your vision is blurred and you can hardly bring yourself to speak. There's something in your bloodstream now, a drug given to you by the stranger, that keeps you weak. A hallucinogenic that makes it almost impossible to decipher what is real and what is not.

"Do you remember me?" the stranger calls. He's organizing his tools across the room, black gloves making gentle sounds with each movement.

It's hard to breathe, let alone to speak. "No."

You're sure that's not the answer the man wants, but it's the truthful one you can give to him. You can hear his footsteps now and they echo loud in your eardrums, increasing the headache you already have.

"Think a little harder. Look at me, go on."

You raise your head, though it feels too heavy for your neck, and do as he says.

"Do you remember now?" there's a lack of emotion in his features, like he's made of metal and wires beneath the skin that pulls him together. But you can't put his face into full focus. Maybe it's the drugs, or the tears of frustration that pull themselves to the front of your eyes, but you can't remember seeing a face like his.

"No." It's a struggle to keep eye contact, but you hold out. "I don't remember a single thing about you."

The man lets out a grunt—at least that's what you make it out to be—before wandering back to his cart of metal devices. They're all surprisingly clean, and in between the items, you can see a syringe. A fresh dose of whatever drug you're already pumped full of.

You think the man is going to reach for it, but instead he picks up one of the many other tools. It's sharp, and you can tell it's going to hurt.

"Here's someone we both remember. Angus MacGyver. Does that ring any bells for you?" he's brought the knife, if you can call it one, over to your side, but you flinch at Mac's name more than the cool touch of the metal.

"Who?" You can hardly keep your head up, but if there's one thing you won't do, it's betray the man you love the most.

The knife stings as it digs into your bicep, and burns further as it's dragged all the way down to your forearm. There are tears and screams that leave you along with it, but you doubt anyone can hear. The sleeve of Mac's shirt has been torn in the wake of the cut, and your blood will stain the fabric forevermore.

"Angus MacGyver," the man speaks the name again once your screams have subsided to mere whimpers. "now, a little birdy told me a secret about you and him. D'you wanna know what it is?"

"I don't know any man by that name." You're curled in on yourself as far as you can go with your hands restrained behind you, the pain unbearable as it courses through your arm.

"Forgive me if I'm overstepping here, but you don't look like the kind of woman to buy oversized men's plaid." He tugs at the fabric of your shirt, pulling you back to sit upright. "There is of course, this too."

Slowly, you peel your eyes open. The man has pulled his own chair up to sit in front of you. It's made of old, splintering wood, and you don't understand how you hadn't seen it before. In his gloved hand, he holds a picture. Printed on glossy paper is an image of you and Mac, and unhelpfully, the photo has captured him, kissing you as though his life depends on it. Which he did often.

You're stood in an alleyway, Mac's hands gripping you tight as your own are tangled to great lengths in his hair. Next, the man shows an image of Mac, seated on a barstool with you in his lap. You both hold half empty beers with grins wide on your faces. You are shown picture after picture of you and Mac together, holding hands, kissing, laughing, and even fighting, all taken from some unknown point of view. But the last photo is one you recognize. It's shows Mac in the same blue check shirt you wear now, holding you close. He's looking down at you in the picture with the utmost affection, whilst you send a toothy grin to the camera. The photo is aged, with fuzzy edges, well loved just like the people it holds. It's the photo that has sat on your bedside table for years, and now it lies in the hands of someone who doesn't deserve its memories.

"Now we're all caught up, let's talk about our mutual friend." He's picked up the knife again, your blood still dripping from the blade.

"I don't know that man." you don't know why you're persisting when all the evidence lies in front of you on hard concrete flooring. You're buying time at best.

"Well you know his tongue at least. What, with it having been down your throat and all."

You don't respond to that, and a laugh escapes the dimly lit figure in front of you. He's moved back to his cart, eyeing up each and every violent item he could use to pull the words he wants from you.

"MacGyver knows me, even if you don't." The man picks up a cloth and wipes your blood from his gloves. His pace is slow, teasing. "He's a hard man to hurt, with no mother, father, siblings. So how do I get my leverage?"

The silence presses down on the both of you, and he's waiting for something. His eyes cast over you expectantly in a way that makes your skin crawl.

"Do you wanna take a guess?" He asks finally, brandishing now a new weapon, this one worse than the last. You don't answer, head sinking down in defeat, the drugs are wearing off, but you're still tired, and the feeling of your own blood flooding out of you isn't easy to handle.

The man takes his seat again, with the new blade in one hand and syringe in the other. "Men like him are weak for the women they love."

Mac had ducked under crime scene tape many times in his life, but doing so to enter your house was something he had never done before. It was dark in every room, Mac fumbling his way up the staircase in the black. He knew his way around the place by now, and he'd slammed into every door throughout his years of being your lover. He could probably recall how his back felt pressed to the wood of each one, whilst you kissed him fiercely, from memory.

When he makes it to your bedroom he reaches for the light switch, the bright yellow making everything clear. Your bedsheets, creased and pushed to the edge of the mattress, some of your clothes in a pile on the chair. Mac hadn't noticed before though, the empty picture frame on the bedside table. He can't remember a time when the frame wasn't taken up by his favorite picture of you, and now the lack of it jars him.

He's moves fast once it registers, and picks it up delicately. The frame is perfectly in tact, but it lacks the presence of your smile within it and it doesn't take long for Mac to race his newfound evidence to the phoenix foundation. When he arrives, what should be a dark, lifeless building, is lit up with people bustling about inside. The doors are unlocked and Mac isn't stopped on his way down to the lab like he thought he would have been.

"Hey, Mac!"

Jack. It's always Jack.

"Maddy sent you home amigo." He catches up fast, chasing Mac down the hall, though Mac can't stop. He slips into the elevator hoping to leave Jack behind, but the man pushes his way inside right after him. "What you got there?"

Mac has the lightest hold on the object in his grasp, afraid to damage what little information could save your life. "It's a picture frame, from Y/N's. Whoever took her could have taken the picture that was inside." It sounds so inconsequential when he says it out loud, the 'could have' in the sentence echoing out.

"So you're thinking you can check the thing for fingerprints." Jack confirms, nodding as the doors to the elevator open up to the lab floor. Bozer and Riley sit at one of the desks, scanning through what looks to be even more security footage.

"Mac," Riley's eyes are wide, and Mac can tell by the way she's scanning over him that he doesn't look well. His hair is disheveled from how many times his hands have anxiously raked through it, his eyes tired yet somehow wide awake. "We didn't think you'd be back till tomorrow."

Mac doesn't answer but instead places the frame down on the table. "We need to check the fingerprints on this, now."

But before any of them can make a move to do so, Bozer takes a sharp breath.

"Jack, you need to get Mac out of here." His eyes are fixed to the computer screen in front of him, and when Riley slides her wheeled chair over to peek at screen, she stands abruptly.

"What? What is it?" Mac pushes forward, but Riley blocks his view.

"Mac, I really don't think you should see this." She's placed her hands on his chest, trying to coax him backward, and without need for explanation, Jack grasps onto Mac's shoulders. He's trying to tug him out of the room, Mac realises.

"If you've found something, I deserve to know what."

Jack's fingers dig deep into Mac's shoulder blades, grounding him to the spot. "I don't know what they've found either, brother, but if they think you shouldn't see it, I stand by 'em." He tries to guide Mac away again, and the look on Riley's face tears him apart. Her brown eyes hold sympathy and a kind of fear he had yet to see from her.

"Riley," Mac's voice is surprisingly steady considering the waves he feels inside. "Just tell me one thing. Is she dead?".

She looks over at Jack, and they exchange silent words, though, Mac can't tell what exactly they are. "I don't know, Mac. I don't know."

There are tears that well in Bozer's eyes when Mac glances to him, and in a second, he's broken free from Jack's loosening grasp. He slips past Riley toward the computer, and he's choked for air the second he sees it.

It's a video file, sent to Bozer's email, currently paused. In the frozen image, you sit slumped in a chair, the rest of the room dark around you. There are cuts and bruises littered on every inch of skin that Mac can see in the dim light, and behind you, pinned to the wall is a collage of photos. Mac can just make it out from the blurry footage, the picture that had once been in the frame beside him stuck right in the center, above your limp body.

"Play the video, Bozer."

Mac can all but whisper it, his voice caught in the silence that lies between every pair of lungs in the room.

Bozer does as he's told despite hesitation and shaking heads from both Riley and Jack, and in moments, the footage is rolling.

Gravely words come from somewhere behind the camera, anger within them, and a kind of amusement too.

"She's not dead. I know that's what you're thinking. But she's not. Yet. Every cut was carefully placed, painful, yes, but not immediately fatal. She's losing blood, Macgyver. So it won't be long. 12 hours. Trace the email if you want. Take the easy way out. I won't be here either way. For what it's worth, I hope you don't make it in time. Then you'll know how I felt."

The audio cuts out, and the video comes to an abrupt end, the screen embraced in black.

Mac allows himself time to stand there, to think it over. His hands shake as he runs one through his hair, and he feels Jack's grasp on him once more. Mac flinches, a rage once unknown to him boiling in his stomach.

"You were right," he says finally, cutting through the quiet. "I shouldn't have seen it."

Thanks to Riley, Mac knows exactly where you are in minutes. He doesn't give the others time to stop him once he knows, and he's never raced down the Phoenix halls quite so fast.

He's burning rubber on the drive over, and when he finally makes it to the abandoned subway station, he doesn't think about the danger he's in. It's clear whoever has you really wants him, and he has nothing but an army knife on his person. Not that that had ever stopped him before.

He runs down every passage and checks every maintenance room he can find, tripping his way down every staircase. The hallways echo and groan, and with every sound he flinches, wondering if it could be you.

When Mac reaches the end of the station, he's at a loss for words. You're not here, or maybe he's missed something. Maybe Riley was wrong. He crouches down in defeat at the end of the tunnels, head bowed and breathless. He doesn't know why he does it, but he shouts, voice hoarse and dry. He's done a lot of that over the past day, even though he doesn't have the time to. His own voice echoes back to him, bouncing off of every surrounding wall. It sings down the tunnels and into the darkness, and it's all Mac has left. He leaps off the platform and onto the tracks, daring to walk down with only the light of his phone to guide him. The subway no longer runs, the tracks dusty after years of no use, yet it still seems dangerous.

Mac scans his phone's torch light over every crumbling wall, more than one rat squealing as they run from his fast-paced steps. He dares to call your name into the darkness over and over, hoping the sound of you will be a guiding light. He's hopeful, and with that hope comes pain. He doesn't hear you shout back like he prayed you would, even when he does so again and again.

Silence. Other than his own steps and the sound of his desperate breaths. Silence. Other than the crunch of dirt and debris under his boots. Silence. Other than the scream. The scream that finally echoes down the tunnel, pounding Mac at full force. Silence. Other than the sound of you.

His name echoes out of the black, your voice pulling him into a sprint as Mac continues to call to you, begging for your answer. He's closer now, close enough to hear your sobs behind the stone. You're behind the walls, Mac realizes, and he can't find the way in.

He's pummeling the solid rock, as if with his fists alone, he can break it. There's nothing he can use to help him, unlike many missions before. He's improvising with himself and himself only.

There is blood on Mac's knuckles from each slam of his fists when he decides to try a different approach. The bones in his hands still ache as he slides his palms along the wall, pushing on every crack he can find in the dark. He calls to you again, just to make sure you're still with him. Still alive. But this time you don't answer. It feels as though his heart may be constricting in his chest, like the ribcage that holds every important part of him has shrunk two sizes. He calls out again and is met with another round of quiet.

When Mac feels air, cold against his hand he knows he's found it. The way to you. He pushes hard against the stone that blocks his path, and the weight on his chest decreases, if only for a moment. And then he's in yet another tunnel, though this time he can see a light at the end. It's dim and seems to fade in and out as he moves. And when the tunnel opens out into a room Mac has never seen, the light sits like a halo above your drooped head. You're covered in patches of red. Blood, some dry, and some still dripping from the open parts of you.

"Hey, baby, can you hear me?" Mac is now knelt at your feet, Swiss army knife slicing easily through the ties that bind you. He fears for the worst when he places three fingers against your neck, checking for a pulse that is there, but weak. With every touch Mac's hands become coated in a new layer of your blood, warm liquid coming from behind ice cold skin.

"That's it, open those eyes." His voice is soft as you begin to stir, fear layered beneath his quiet tone, and Mac is tearing up his shirt in seconds for fabric to bind your wounds.

For a moment, he allows his gaze shifts to the wall behind you, where hundreds of photos seem to be pasted to the wall. Along with the one from your bedroom, the pictures contain nothing but you and Mac together. Every date night, fight and hidden moment not so private anymore.

Your eyes are open now, though your gaze is foggy, and Mac watches the tears run silently down your cheeks. He's trying his best to stop the bleeding of every cut and gash in your skin, and forces himself to focus entirely on the movements of his hands.

"You know, it's not as bad as it looks."

Mac is moving frantically to preserve what should be inside of your body when you say it, and when he looks back up at you, your eyes have closed again.

"Eyes open baby," He squeezes your hand as he continues to work, "keep them open for me." It's occurring to Mac now that he can't possibly cover all of your wounds, and that soon, he's going to have to carry you out of the room, whether you're bleeding or not.

"When were you gonna tell me you have a bunch of holes in you, huh?" He tries to send you a smile with the joke, but his voice cracks midway through the words.

"oh, I didn't notice." your chest rises hard with what Mac hopes to be a laugh, though a pained one. "I'm sorry for getting blood on your shirt."

"Shirts', plural" Mac corrects, gesturing to the pieces of fabric he has now wrapped around your wounds. "But don't worry about that, c'mere."

He's up on his feet now, and reaches out to pull you into his arms.

It's hard, and the howl of agony that leaves you in your attempt to stand is piercing, even with all of your weight held up by Mac. You're panting heavily, even after the majority of the pain has subsided, and Mac feels guilty about the next step in his pitiful plan.

"Just keep breathing, honey." his grip on you is tight, despite the fact his fingers press down on your injuries. "I'm going to pick you up, okay? On the count of three, bridal style."

"I was hoping we could save that for the wedding." The joke doesn't quite land, considering the sobs you mutter it through, but Mac forces a chuckle anyway. He adjusts his hold on you, placing a kiss to your temple as he does.

"On three, ready?" Mac can feel you grip him tighter as he says it, and his own heart races at the thought of hurting you. "One, two—" The three is lost amongst your cries as Mac lifts you into his arms, and he doesn't flinch even as your teeth sink into his shoulder out of sheer pain. Sobs wrack your body as Mac takes the first few steps out of the room, trying to be as careful as he can.

"I know, I'm sorry, you're doing great. Deep breaths, baby. Deep breaths." He knows he can't put you down now, not until you're safe and outside, but without torchlight to guide the way Mac is seeing blind. He walks with caution through the darkness, wasting time with the snails pace he takes, and just when he thinks he's going to have to re-evaluate this plan of his, go back and make a headlight from the scraps in the room, Mac hears something up ahead. The sound of many shuffling feet, conversation, and then finally the calling of Mac's name and yours. It's his friends, Jack, Riley and Bozer, with their own torches some way up the tunnel.

"We're over here!" Mac shouts, desperation breaking the notes he speaks. "I've got her, we're here!"

Mac can feel your cries of relief into his chest, and as the lights up ahead get closer, Mac can't help but shed tears too. He's relieved, and as the beams shine brighter, he spares a glance to downward. You're looking up at him when he does, gasping through your own sobs, with a smile on your lips. And he smiles back, genuinely this time.

MACGYVER TAGLIST: @ash5monster01

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!!

AN: I was supposed to post this two days ago for our boys birthday but that plan kinda went out the window when the doubts crept in.

96 notes · View notes