I thought I'd post one of my old writer's block projects while I'm trying to find ways to avoid my homework... This is just a little one-shot set sometime during "The Widowmaker."

Jack Dalton placed his cap on the coffee table and lit another candle. He’d burned through three of them already, just like he’d already drank his way through two bottles of fine Irish whiskey. He still had a half-bottle of good Kentucky bourbon and a few last dregs of cheap Scotch left to get through before the night was over.

As with all things, Jack Dalton had a plan in this one-man drinking game. He’d guzzle the alcohol in order from best to worst. That way, when his head was the clearest, he’d remember enjoying the good stuff, and by the time he’d gotten really drunk, his senses would be dulled enough that he wouldn’t notice the cheap kind. The candles, on the other hand---well, those might not last him as long as the liquor would, and he didn’t feel like drinking by lamplight. Not this time.

He usually didn’t like to drink alone, either, but this was a special circumstance. In the haze of waxy candle smoke, Jack imagined that he could see two companions: Mac sitting on the threadbare loveseat across from Jack’s chair, grinning as he’d sling his arm around Mike---and Mike, with that million-dollar smile of hers, she’d wink and offer Mac another round of carrot juice. Jack would refill her wineglass as she’d laugh, and he’d maybe squeeze in another marriage proposal, just for good measure. Just to see if she’d say yes.

She’d never say yes.

Reflexively, Jack knocked back another shot of bourbon. He didn’t know why he was still bothering to use a glass, but---
No, that was a lie. He could feel his eye twitch even as the thought crossed his mind. He was still using the glass because in the back of his mind, he could still hear Mike’s voice scolding him for drinking out of the bottle. If she’d been alive and with him that night, she’d have laughed and taken the bottle out of his hands and taken a swig herself. Then Mac would have rolled his eyes and suggested a glass of milk, and the whiskey would have been all but forgotten. Because they’d have each other.

But Jack had no one. No siree. Because Mac was wallowing in some cabin up in the mountains somewhere, and Mike was dead.

Mike was dead.

If Jack hadn’t seen her body at the funeral, he wouldn’t have believed it. Her death seemed so impossible. She was young. Happy. Alive.
She was loved.

Jack had heard that Mac was inconsolable. Understandable, because Jack was, too. He also heard that Mac had been incoherent when the rescue team found him up there on the mountain. Petrified. It was hard for Jack to imagine Mac as being incoherent or petrified. But then again, it was hard for Jack to imagine the pain of seeing Mike fall to her death, too.

It was bad enough just to know that she was dead.

Jack put the bottle of whiskey to his lips and forced himself to swallow, embracing the assault of yeastiness and numbing heat.

Oh, Jack! What are you doing? You can’t drink that like you’re a sorority girl with a bottle of cheap champagne! Now, give it here!

Jack quickly corked the bottle, holding back a retch. The bottle and glass, shoved to the side as he pressed the back of his hand to his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut because he could feel them beginning to water.

Mike was dead. And Mac hadn’t called.

Jack had given a lot of thought to the notion of contacting Mac first. Jack knew MacGyver. Mac had never been able to handle death, especially when he blamed himself. Which is why, ordinarily, Jack would make the first move at comforting his friend. But something about this situation made Jack reconsider.

Jack never had any doubt that Mac loved Mike. Sure, he cared about her. He’d have done anything for her. Taken a bullet for her, even, or worse. But Mac had never loved Mike. Not the way Jack did. The marriage proposals had become a running gag for the other two members of their trio, but Jack had always taken them seriously. He meant every word.

A slow sigh escaped Jack’s lungs. Loosening his bomber jacket, he reached into his pocket for a crumple-edged photograph of one of their adventures together in South America. There was Jack on the left, grinning beneath his mustache. Mac on the right, brown eyes twinkling like chocolate-covered Christmas lights. And Mike in the middle, with Mac’s arm around her shoulders.

Yeah, sure, Mac had loved her. As a close friend and as a person. But Jack loved her as a woman[ and---if Jack had ever believed in such things---maybe even as a soulmate.

As Jack moved his thumb over the photograph of the three of them smiling together, he knew inside his heart that if Mike had ever once said yes to him, everything would have changed. He’d be her husband. He’d stop running around, stop chasing women. (What other woman could he possibly need, if he’d had her?) He’d be the father of her kids, present in their lives, unlike the father that he’d never had a chance to know. He’d even quit flying if he had to. He was willing to give up the greatest and most thrilling form of freedom that he’d ever known, all for the sake of making Mike happy.

Because Jack loved Mike, and that would never change.

The photo fell to the table. The bottle rose to Jack’s lips.

But Mike loved Mac. And that would never change.

And now, Jack didn’t even have the hope that one day, she’d give up on waiting for MacGyver and settle for him instead. Even that petty little dream had been taken away from him.

The love of Jack’s life was dead, his best friend was hiding from life out in the woods somewhere, his only companions were empty bottles, and Monday wasn’t over yet. Go figure.

Huffing to himself, Jack took off his jacket and rolled it up on the loveseat like a pillow. Out blew the candle, and he flattened himself on the cushions in search of sleep. He had gotten a job for his courier service in the early morning and his evening prayer was full of requests for the hangover not to be anything more than knock-you-down-strong coffee could fix. Unlike some people, Jack didn’t have the luxury of running off to the wilderness to punish himself for his problems. He had to push through life on his own, just like he always had.

Maybe in the morning, he’d try to get ahold of Mac.

Or maybe not. The more drunk he got, the less generous he became. A red carnation of anger was blooming steadily inside his chest. It’d be gone before long, swept away by the flood of water rushing under the bridge. Nobody could stay angry with MacGyver for long. Well, except for that long-dead psycho Murdoc, maybe, but that didn’t count.

Still, in the moments between sleep and waking, Jack allowed himself a rare moment of genuine bitterness. Why hadn’t Mac ever called? He knew how much Jack loved her. Why didn’t he call? After all, they were best friends. Didn’t MacGyver care?

Exhaustion both physical and emotional was pushing Jack away from the conscious world, but thanks to the alcohol and the dim light and the remnants of candle smoke, Jack almost believed that he could see MacGyver standing there in front of him.
“I wish that she hadn’t loved you, Mac. Why couldn’t you have just loved her back? Huh? Would it really have been so hard? She was the best, most beautiful girl in the whole world, Mac. Couldn’t you have loved her? I know you never wanna get married, but couldn’t you have done it just once, just for her?” Jack’s words began to slur. “I wish she hadn't loved you. Wish she’d have loved anybody but you. You’re my best friend, but you killed her. If she had loved me and not you, she’d still be here with us now. I wish she could’ve loved me and not you. But everybody…everybody always loves you.”

Jack drifted off to sleep then, the bitterness and empty bottles forgotten. He did not dream.

When morning came, he didn’t call.

Awww... Poor Jack.

Great job, Sanguine!

Thank you so much!

Love that you took the time to write about Jack (absent from that episode) and really delve into his feelings. There's a lot more there than the writer's showed. Great story:)

Thank you so much! You're very kind to me.

Wow! Another great piece.... I'm for poor Jack.

Dammit, that was heartbreaking. Jack's my favourite character, so...ouch!

Also: nice work.

Nice work!!