Summary: Pre-series. It's Mac's birthday, but being shot at in enemy territory has a way of making one forget. Exhausted and hurt after one of the toughest missions to date, Jack and Mac go home to Jack's house for some much needed rest and recovery. But when a surprise visitor shows up at Jack's door, Mac's day almost goes from worse to worst. Almost. As always, Jack's got his back.

No pairing. Just Mac and Jack's epic bromance.

Author's Notes: I'm out of my element here, as I always am when writing for a new fandom for the first time. I rarely ever post fanfiction anymore, but inspiration struck, and here I am. I hope I've done the characters justice. Because I'm new, I kept the amount of characters to a minimal. Thornton is mentioned once, briefly, but, other than that, it's just Jack, Mac, and a surprise visitor.

My story is unbeta'd, and I apologize for any grammatical and spelling errors.

Disclaimer: I do not own MacGyver, nor the title, which is a direct quote from Supernatural season three, episode sixteen.

"Real family does not come from your blood.

It is the people standing beside you when no one else is."

—Nishan Panwar

Jack sat in quiet contemplation, absently running a finger over his lips as he watched the young man asleep on his couch. A Bruce Willis movie played in the background, muted and ignored.

The latest mission DXS had given Jack and Mac had been a close call. Too close, even for Jack—and that was saying something about the optimistic realist. In the end, neither Jack nor Mac had come home unscathed. Dark bruises colored Jack's skin in various places, and several cracked bones protested their existence—but Mac had taken a bullet to the leg, and the kid, doped to the gills, had passed out the second his head hit the pillow that Jack had placed on the couch. Jack had grinned, taking advantage of the moment to smooth Mac's serious case of hospital bedhead, because, c'mon, the kid had shuffled around like a kicked puppy ever since they'd left the hospital, and Jack couldn't resist. Mac was, dare he say it (which, no, he did not, because he valued his life thank you very much), verging on adorable.

Jack rubbed his brow, his thoughts taking a darker turn. They would have been taken by the enemy, if not for a final surge of adrenaline. They'd gotten lucky this time, Jack had to admit. In their line of business, luck was dangerous. As Jack kept watchful vigil (or, even better—vigilant vigil; Jack could practically see Mac's eyeroll, if the kid had been conscious) over his sleeping companion, he vowed that they would never rely on luck again.

Still, no matter how hard he tried, Jack could not forget the moment that they almost didn't make it home.

Bullets were raining on them from every direction as they ran—literally—for their lives. Jack plowed the way through the guerrilla soldiers sent to stop them, his gun steady in his hand despite every muscle in his body quivering with pain and fatigue. He didn't realize how far ahead of MacGyver he'd gotten until the shot rang out, and the familiar pained cry had him skidding to a halt and doing a one-eighty. Mac was down, more than thirty feet behind, clutching at his thigh even as he struggled to one-handedly claw his way to cover as bullets pelted the earth around him.

"Mac!" Jack yelled, surprising himself with the fear that laced his voice. He forced his feet to move, ducking every time a bullet whizzed only a couple inches from his head.

"Jack," MacGyver pleaded, waving his free hand at the older agent to go back, "leave without me!" Pain made his voice seem smaller, younger—which only spurred Jack to go faster and solidified his resolve to never, ever leave that kid's side again.

He skidded to a halt beside his friend, wrapping his arms around Mac's chest and hauling the younger man to his feet. "Oh, you know me, kid. No man left behind." He pulled one of MacGyver's arms across his shoulders, and the two of them hobbled as fast as they could to get out of harm's way.

"Hey," Jack panted, after several minutes of supporting most of the blond's weight as they trekked through the woods, "how's 'bout we go to the park when we get home?"

Mac, despite the pain messing with his brain, had enough sense about him to stare at Jack as if the man had sprouted another head. "What?" An involuntary gasp escaped when he stumbled, his weight falling on his injured leg. The knee gave out, but, after a few precious seconds wasted to regain his balance and a tighter hold on Jack, they were moving again. "Why?"

Jack glanced at him, a tired smile tugging at his lips. "So we can practice three-legged racing, Gimpy."

The whole idea was so absurd that Mac barked out a laugh. "I was terrible at that, Jack," he replied, his voice light, but strained.

Jack's eyes flicked down to the growing red stain on Mac's pant leg, before pushing aside his worry and forcing another smile. "Then I guess we'll just have to practice then, because, if this is going to happen every mission, then we're gonna have to brush up on our teamwork, bud."

Mac shook his head, still grinning, but a pained grimace had resettled on his face. "Let's just focus on not getting killed, yeah?"

"I have no plans on lettin' either of us die today," Jack answered, more forcefully than he intended, his Texas accent thick, as it always was when he was stressed.

Mac was silent for several moments, the levity gone. Then, in a soft, breathy voice, he murmured an appreciative, "I know."

They arrived at exfil without a moment to spare, tumbling into the clearing where the chopper awaited them, and they all but threw themselves inside. The chopper lifted above the trees as the guerrilla soldiers appeared in the clearing below. Bullets pinged off the metal underbelly of the chopper, but, within seconds, the two agents were soon out of reach, the forest blurring together underneath them.

Inside, Jack and Mac were still huddled on the floor, too out of breath and relieved to move. Jack met Mac's eyes, and they shared a look before their faces broke into large grins. They laughed, not caring if they sounded a little hysterical. They had come the closest they'd ever been to dying, but they were alive.

Jack sat up, reaching out a hand to help Mac do the same. Instead of letting go, he pulled the younger man close, hugging the kid against him. "We made it," he breathed, as much for his benefit as it was for Mac's. His fingers carded through the blond hair of their own accord, and if Jack was holding Mac just a little too tight, neither acknowledged it.

Mac returned the embrace, fisting his hands in the older man's shirt. "We made it," he echoed, closing his eyes. Exhausted, he let himself sag into Jack's hold a little more. The man practically oozed warmth and security, and Mac felt terror's icy grip on his heart begin to melt. "We made it."

Jack rubbed his forehead, shifting in his chair with a heavy breath. His gaze returned to the blond asleep on the couch, thinking, not for the first time, how close Jack had come to losing the kid. If they hadn't made it to exfil and the bullet wound didn't kill Mac, then the guerrilla soldiers would have.

Jack's CIA training, for all the good it brought to missions (heaven knows how many times he'd used it to save Mac's hide after the kid had gotten himself into trouble again), sometimes was a curse—because now, in this moment of reflection, he couldn't stop his thoughts from wandering past the if we didn't make it to the chopper.

If they hadn't made it to the chopper, they might've been captured, forced to their knees and executed right there in the woods.

(Mac would be shot first, in front of Jack, and when the gun turned on the older agent, he would close his eyes so the last thing he saw wasn't his best friend lying lifelessly on the ground, his blond hair stained with red. When the trigger was pulled, Jack would welcome death with open arms.)

If they hadn't made it to the chopper, they might've been captured and dragged off to be tortured.

(They'd torture the younger agent in front of Jack, or in the next room—always within hearing distance of the screams. And they'd ask Jack questions who are you? and who do you work for? and he'd beg them to stop please don't hurt him, hurt me and they'd grin you will tell us eventually and he'd rage at them if you touch him again, I'll kill you! and then they'd be gone, and the screams would resume. This would go on for days, until the blood loss or infection finally claimed Mac's life, or the soldiers killed him out of boredom or frustration at Jack's lack of corporation, but they'd make sure either way that Jack would watch the life drain from Mac's brutalized body, helpless to save him, unable to be the last person to touch the boy without trying to hurt him. And then Jack would be tortured, for days, maybe weeks—time would cease to exist—and he wouldn't utter a single word, because he'd gotten his best friend killed for keeping his mouth shut and he wasn't about to start opening it now. His sole reason for breathing had been torn from his life, and eventually the soldiers would realize that he would never talk. They'd put a bullet between his eyes, mumbling about wasted time.)

If they hadn't made it to the chopper, in every scenario imaginable, Mac was always the first to die, in front of Jack (his worst nightmare)—because Mac was his weakness. He knew it, the enemy knew it, and Mac—bless his pure, innocent soul—even though he knew what he meant to Jack, he would never understand it, not completely. Jack loved the kid as much as he loved his own siblings, if not more, if that was even possible.

But Jack had made a pledge to defend his country above all else—his life didn't matter, his family didn't matter, the young man knocked out on his couch from drug-induced and physical exhaustion (and gosh darn it he's too young for this line of work) didn't matter when their nation's security was at stake.

One life was not more important than the lives of millions.

Which was why Jack was determined to never let anything happen to the kid except old age. And, yeah, sometimes life happens and things go wrong unexpectedly, but Jack happens, too.

Jack scrubbed a hand down his face, forcing his dark musings to the back of his mind, where they'd taunt him in his dreams.

A knock on his front door broke the silence.

Jack frowned, looking at his watch. Who could be pounding at his door at…one thirty in the morning?

Jack stood from his seat, removing his spare gun out of its hiding place under the coffee table. Gripping it in hand, with one last glance at Mac's sleeping form, Jack crept towards the door, holding his weapon before him. The knocking came again, louder, and he cursed, hoping the noise didn't wake MacGyver.

When he came to the door, he squinted through the peephole, holding his breath. The man on the other side of the door was a stranger, not Thornton or the DXS agents he was expecting. The man stumbled around on Jack's porch before rounding to slam his fist against the door. Jack jerked away quickly, as if he expected the hand to come through the door. He tucked the gun in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, flipping the hem of his shirt over the weapon to conceal it. He grasped the door handle and swung the door open.

The stranger had his back to the house, but turned to face Jack when the porch light flicked on, tripping over his own feet in the process. Jack wrinkled his nose at the stench of alcohol coming from the man, and he stepped fully outside, shutting the door and planting himself in front of it.

Jack crossed his arms. "Who are you?"

The drunk narrowed his eyes at Jack. "Y'Dal'on?" he asked, his voice slurring.

The hair on Jack's arms prickled with warning, and he stared sidelong at the other man. "Who's asking?"

The drunk ignored him; instead, he faltered closer, pointing past Jack to the agent's house. "I wan' t'see m'son."

Jack couldn't stop himself from blinking in surprise, and the drunk's face hardened. "I know y'have 'im."

Jack's jaw dropped when he looked—really looked—at the man before him, noticing the familiar blond locks of hair, the jawline, the lean frame. He was staring at Mac, thirty years older. "You're James MacGyver?"

The man studied Jack, wary. "Yeah. Where's m'so—" His voice cut off abruptly as the drunk staggered backward before falling on his rear in the dirt. He gaped up at Jack in shock, clutching his jaw.

Jack's eyes glinted furiously in the porch light, and his voice was scathing when he spat, "You aren't going anywhere near him." Because Lord help him if he was going to let the man destroy all the hard work he put into the kid—he'd spent years restoring what James MacGyver had broken in his son. "You aren't doing this to him, not tonight. Not like this."

James's cheeks flushed, and he clambered to his feet, swaying left and right as he did. "You have no right! He's my son!"

Jack snorted. "Yeah?" For years, anger towards Mac's father had been tucked away in his heart and festered there, and now it bubbled beneath his skin, just below the surface, itching to be let out. He pointed behind him in the general direction of his living room. "I've raised that boy more in the past few years than you have in the past decade. He is my kid, and he will continue to be my kid until you get your act together and become the father he needs." Jack took a deep breath, raking a hand over his short-cropped hair. The anger left him in a rush, and all he felt now was bone-deep exhaustion. This was so not how he thought the night would go.

James had fallen silent, and Jack glanced over to see a surprisingly sober expression on the other man's face. "I know," James whispered. He twisted to the side, covering his eyes in shame. "I know." He looked at Jack, dropping his hand. "An' I am so grateful that you've been there f'him when I haven't."

Jack nodded, wary with the sudden change in the older MacGyver. "Mac's my family now," he said, slowly, daring James to argue.

But James only nodded. He understood, a sad smile curling his lips. "I know. You're more 'is family now th'n mine."

Jack's heart softened—barely—at the self-loathing in James MacGyver's voice. "Look," he sighed, rubbing at his brow. "I'm not saying that you should never be a part of his life again." He lifted his eyes to James's, making sure that he had the man's full attention. "Mac still loves you. Deep inside, he's still a little boy missing his dad." If Jack felt a twinge of satisfaction at James's wince, then, well, he wasn't going to deny it. "What I am saying, however…" He paused, spreading his hands helplessly. "Clean up. Fix yourself before you try to fix what's between you and Mac. Don't show up drunk. Don't pop up out of the blue and expect Mac to uproot his entire life to accommodate you. He may be okay with it—" Jack stopped, motioning between James and himself "—but that will not fly with me, comprende?"

James nodded, reluctantly. He turned his face to the black sky, sniffing as he blinked away tears. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it." He reached into one of his pockets, pulling out a box. He stared at it, fingering it with a softness that didn't fit the picture of James MacGyver that Jack had formed in his mind. After several moments, he held it out to Jack. "Here. I wan' you t'give this t'him." When Jack hesitated, James continued. "You don' have t'give it t'him now. Give it t'him whenever." The laugh that followed dripped with bitterness and acceptance. "I don' ev'n care if you say it's from you." James let out a shaky breath. "I just wan' him t'have it."

Jack took the box from James's hand, holding the man's gaze for a moment before Jack opened the lid to the box and looked down. He froze.

"It was 'is mother's," James explained, neither surprised nor offended by Jack's actions.

Jack lifted the worn Swiss Army knife out of the box, holding it in his palm. The knife was older, thinner than Mac's current knife. "He told me about this," Jack said, throat tight. "His mom had given the knife to him, a couple of days before she passed. He was using it one day, but he put it in a pocket with a hole in it, and he lost it. He said you and him searched for hours and could never find it. He was devastated." He raised questioning eyes to James, but the man didn't offer any explanation.

Jack sighed, placing the knife back in the box and closing the lid. "I'll hold onto it." He met James's gaze. "Until you can give it to him yourself."

Despite his earlier words, James slumped in relief. "Thanks." He turned to leave, then paused. His eyes wandered up and down Jack's house, searching for something—someone—he couldn't see, before once again fixing his attention on the agent. "How is he?" he asked, tentative and unsure.

Jack bit his cheek, wondering how much he should tell the man standing before him. "He's hurting." In more ways than one. "But healing." Darn right.

James nodded, as if he hadn't expected any less. He extended a hand out to Jack. "Thank you." The for being there for my son and for keeping him alive went unsaid, but Jack got it loud and clear.

"No problem," Jack replied, grasping the hand. The unspoken doesn't mean you're forgiven didn't go unnoticed by either man.

They broke apart, and James waved his farewell. Before he got too far, Jack's voice stopped him.

"I don't know how you know about me or found my address, or how you even knew Mac was here," Jack started, pointing a finger warningly, "but if you ever show up here again, or at Mac's house, unexpectedly…I won't give you the chance to make things right."

James furrowed his brow, old anger stirring. "What d'you expect me t'do then?"

Jack swallowed a disbelieving laugh. He simply shrugged. "Call. Or write a letter."

James shuffled his feet, and Jack saw a familiar, thoughtful look that he had seen many times before, on a younger face. "Angus always did like pen pals as a kid." He peered over at Jack for reassurance, but found none when the man shrugged again.

"It's up to you how you handle this," Jack said. "Just do it right."

James lingered a moment more, mulling over Jack's words, before he wheeled around and disappeared into the shadows.

And, just like that, Mac's father willingly walked out of his son's life a second time.

Jack blew out a breath.

But at least this time James left with the intention of returning.

And if he didn't…well, Mac would never know James was here in the first place. Jack wouldn't allow James to hurt his son again.

Jack went inside, locking his door and switching off the porch light.

"J'ck?"

Jack looked up from the box in his hands at the sleep-laden voice. MacGyver was sitting upright on the couch, hazy eyes glimmering with relief.

Jack internally cursed, knowing that he should've predicted that, of all the times to wake up, Mac would choose the moment Jack had left him alone. "I'm here, buddy." He set the box on a nearby shelf before going over to his friend.

"'S ev'rything okay?" the younger man asked, blinking against the sleep trying to pull him under.

Jack grinned. "Everything's just fine." His smile widened as he watched Mac's normally sharp-as-a-whip mind chew on Jack's answer as if Jack had just asked Mac to prove the String Theory (who was he kidding? he'd never ask a question like that,like, ever).

"Okay." Mac pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, squeezing his eyelids shut as he desperately tried to clear the thick fog in his brain. "Where'd y'go? Y'didn't answer me."

Jack's smile faded, and he sat down on the coffee table so that he and MacGyver were face-to-face, knee-to-knee. "Hey, sorry about that." Who knew how long Mac had been awake, asking for Jack, only to receive silence in response. "I just needed some fresh air." Jack paused, then inspiration struck. He flicked a finger under Mac's chin, which had begun to droop. When Mac lifted his head and focused as best he could on Jack's face, the older man asked, "You know that I will never leave you, right?"

Mac furrowed his brow in confusion, but he nodded anyway. "Of c'rse, Jack, what—"

Jack smiled and raised a hand to cut off the question, hoping to sooth Mac's apprehension. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that, or we were going to have another talk." He laughed at Mac's disgusted expression, as if the kid had swallowed nauseating cough medicine. "Aw, c'mon, man. You know you love my lectures."

Mac snorted in amusement, shaking his head. He yawned, fighting to stay awake, but both men knew it was a losing battle with all the drugs still coursing through the younger agent.

Jack placed a hand on the crown of Mac's head, tousling the blond strands of hair. "Go back to sleep, kid. I'll be right here."

Mac sighed, and fell sideways onto his pillow, gingerly easing his injured leg onto the couch with Jack's help.

Jack chuckled, watching Mac's eyes drift closed. An afterthought hit him. "Oh, and Mac?"

The younger man pried his heavy eyelids open again, staring up at Jack with a tired gleam of expectancy.

Jack grinned. "Happy birthday."

Mac huffed, closing his eyes. But a smile tugged at his lips as he buried his face into his pillow, a muffled, "Th'nks, Jack," floating up to the older agent.

Jack shook his head fondly, leaning forward to adjust Mac's blanket, until the only visible part of the kid was his golden mop of hair. Then he stood and went over to the shelf where he'd left the box James had given him. He grabbed it and, after checking that MacGyver was asleep, he walked down the hall to his bedroom. Opening his closet, he reached up and hauled out a lock box that sat on the shelf near the ceiling, blowing the dust off the lid. Setting the box on his bed, he dug in his pocket for his keys, selecting the one he needed and unlocking the box.

He lifted the lid with a tenderness that he reserved only for the things closest to his heart. He peered inside, shifting through the objects within. The box was mostly empty, save for a thick stack of pictures, his dog tags, and some of his dad's most prized possessions. His fingers lingered on his father's stuff, and he bit his cheek. His hand curled around one of the objects, about to raise it from the lockbox—then he hesitated. With a faint smile, he set the object down.

Jack placed MacGyver's gift inside with the other items, closing the lid.

Three minutes later, he was once again at his post, watching over Mac, lockbox once again hidden away in his closet. One day, James would give his son the little box, when they were both ready.

Until then, Jack only had one job: keeping Mac safe.

Jack settled deeper into his chair, finally yielding to the sleep that had been calling his name for the last few hours, a satisfied grin upon his lips. They were alive. They made it home. Tomorrow morning, he would probably have a monster crick in his neck, but—peeking over at Mac—some pains in the neck were worth bearing.

Months later, a card suspiciously appeared on his desk at DXS. It was a simple Father's Day card (which, with a glance at his calendar, Jack realized that it was Father's Day), plain, and the words printed inside weren't flamboyant. The familiar handwriting scrawled near the bottom caught his attention, and his chest swelled with warmth.

Happy Father's Day, old man.

Jack grinned, and he placed the card inside his desk, in the locked drawer where he kept all his important documents. Then he spent the next half hour tracking down the little snot, amused when he learned that Mac was trying to hide from him (a pointless endeavor—even if Mac could turn invisible, Jack would still be able to find him).

When he finally cornered the younger man, Mac raised his hands placatingly, sensing the danger he was in. "Now, Jack," he began, "it was just a—Jack, n—Jack!"

Jack ignored Mac's pleas and wrestled the kid into a headlock, mercilessly ruffling the blond hair. "Who're you calling an old man?"

Mac laughed, trying to wriggle free and patting Jack's arm. "Okay, okay! Uncle!"

Jack let him go, landing a playful shove to Mac's head as the kid straightened. "C'mon, brother," he said, with a jerk of his own head. "Let's go get something to eat."

Mac nodded. His eyes gleamed mischievously. "Maybe we can get a senior discount with our meal." He danced out of Jack's reach with a snicker, trotting a few steps ahead.

Jack glared after him, but, even still, he couldn't help but grin.

He knew he could never replace James MacGyver—never wanted to. Jack was not Mac's father, and Mac was not his son. But they were more than brothers. Maybe their relationship was a mix of both: father and son, brother and brother. Either way, they were family. They had something that James would never have with his son.

They were Jack and Mac.

Mac and Jack.

And nothing, no one—not even James MacGyver—could change that.

"Blood makes you related. Love makes you family."

—Unknown

Prompt: What if James MacGyver felt guilt over leaving his son all those years ago, and had tried to reach out to Mac on his birthday one year?

Author's Notes: So, the crossover episode with Hawaii Five-0 and the revelation of Mac's birthday inspired this fic, even if it is several weeks later. Now, I don't know what kind of a man James really is, so I took a lot of creative liberty with him. I also don't know if Mac got his brains from his mother or father, but I went with his father, who I assumed had enough intelligence about him in his sobriety to make a couple of powerful connections with the right people who could track down his son.

I would love some feedback, especially constructive criticism concerning the characters. Were they OOC? Did the dialogue fall flat? I tried a writing style that is new for me. How was it? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Until next time.