[MacsChick]

Don’t Forget Part Two
Rated: PG

The doctor shone his penlight into MacGyver’s deep brown eyes, studying their reactions.

“His pupils look normal and are responsive,” he said. “Another good sign that his head injury isn’t more severe. Unequal pupil size would have indicated a more serious condition.”

The piercing, unbearably bright light in his eyes awakened MacGyver again, causing him to screw his eyes shut tightly to block it out, releasing an agonized groan, the pain in his head excruciating, worse than any migraine he had ever suffered. He clutched his throbbing head in his hands only to touch the tender, sensitive wound on his forehead that caused him to groan in pain again. When he opened his eyes again, adjusting to the light, he saw two glowing, blurry forms that were surrounded by auras standing over him, speaking in some unintelligible language. The images spun rapidly and he grew momentarily nauseated as if he was on some wild carnival ride, almost thinking he would vomit, but the dizziness soon subsided. Eventually, the unidentifiable shapes came into focus as Pete and a doctor, their words starting to make sense in his bewildered, disoriented mind.

“How are you feeling?” The doctor asked him, his voice sounding like a distant echo to MacGyver’s ringing ears.

“Hurts…sick…” he managed to say, wincing and writhing on the bed.

Pete looked at the doctor and then at MacGyver, relieved to hear him say actual words, even if they were monosyllabic.

“That’s understandable,” the doctor said. “You have a serious concussion.”

MacGyver moaned and whimpered, his movements becoming increasingly agitated as the pain in his head became more intense.

“Try to stay still,” the doctor said, gently holding him. “Look at me. Can you look at me? I need to ask you something. I’m trying to help you.”

“Hurts…”

“I know, and we’ll take care of that, I promise, but for now I need your attention. Can you try to focus for me? Look at me, please.”

MacGyver opened his eyes and looked at the doctor. They were glazed with pain. Pete almost thought he saw them moistened with tears. He couldn’t imagine how much torment his friend was going through to actually be crying from the immensity of the pain. He wished there was more he could do to alleviate his suffering.

“Good. Now, I know it hurts, but I need you to listen carefully. Do you remember who you are? What’s your name?” The doctor asked.

Pete closed his eyes, waiting for the answer and hoping MacGyver’s memory hadn’t been erased by the shot to his head.

“MacGyver.” His voice was faint, filled with exhaustion and pain, his expression pinched with discomfort.

Pete opened his eyes and smiled at MacGyver, taking his hand again. “Oh, thank God!” He said.

“Hello…Pete…” MacGyver said, blinking slowly, his eyelids heavy.

“It’s good to see you,” Pete said. “You really had me worried there for a minute!”

“Do you remember what happened to you?” The doctor asked.

“No.”

The doctor looked at Pete. “That’s common after a head injury, especially a concussion,” he said. “The victim often doesn’t remember events leading up to the trauma or the events that occurred afterward.”

“Was…playing hockey…”

“That’s right. You were accidentally hit in the head,” the doctor said. He looked at Pete again. “Most of his memory appears to be intact. He needs more rest and monitoring, but when he’s feeling a little better I’d like to run a series of tests designed to measure his cognitive functioning. So far, I think he’s going to make a slow, but steady recovery.”

“That’s good news,” Pete said, gently rubbing the back of MacGyver’s hand. “It’s good to have you back, friend. You really scared me this time!”

A small sound escaped MacGyver’s lips, sounding like a sigh of contentment despite the pain he was in, and he drifted back into unconsciousness.

“I’ll prescribe some painkillers that will be safe for him to take,” the doctor said. “I suggest that he remain here for a few more days before we release him.”

“Keep him here as long as you need to,” Pete said, squeezing his hand. “I want him to be fully healthy again before he goes home.”

***

Once MacGyver was rested and lucid enough, the doctor subjected him to his battery of neuropsychological tests, asking him questions while he remained reclined and comfortable in his hospital bed. Pete left the room while the doctor conducted his research in order to keep MacGyver free from distractions. He waited, hoping once again for another good outcome.

“His results are good,” the doctor said, meeting Pete in the hallway when he was finished. “He was slow to respond and inattentive at times, but that’s to be expected with his condition. I see no reason why he can’t leave the hospital soon.”

Pete smiled with relief. “Can I go back in there and see him now?” He asked.

“Of course.”

When Pete entered the room, he found MacGyver dozing.

“You have to understand that he went through a great deal of mental exertion and his faculties are not completely functioning at their peak yet,” the doctor whispered, smiling at his sleeping patient. “That was a lot of work for him, and he’s still in a great deal of pain. The tests must have thoroughly exhausted him. I wouldn’t worry. As I said, it will take him a little more time. When you do take him home I want you to watch him carefully in case more serious symptoms occur; however, don’t be shocked if his balance, coordination, and concentration are still awkward. Inappropriate displays of emotion and some irritability might also be present—also normal. His lingering symptoms should fade within a few days. Be patient and gentle with him.”

Pete sighed, and then smiled, almost laughing slightly. “After all I’ve put up with from him over the years, I’m nothing if not patient,” he said. “Don’t worry, Doctor. He’ll be in good hands.”

The doctor looked at Pete and saw the love and sincerity in his eyes. He could tell the bond between the two men was strong, and that they had endured a lot together. “I’m sure he is, Mr. Thornton,” he said, smiling.

***

“Pete, stop mothering me, willya? I can walk by myself,” MacGyver said, his voice a petulant whine, his expression sullen and pouty like a tired, cranky toddler in need of a nap. He stumbled around his house boat, Pete still guiding him despite the numerous times he wrenched angrily away from him.

“Well, now that you’re home, what would you like? Anything? I can get you something…whatever you want,” Pete said, ignoring MacGyver’s hostility and trying to remain cheerful, knowing his grumpy attitude had more to do with his concussion than anything else. He knew his usual charming, friendly disposition would return within days.

MacGyver groaned, partly in pain and partly in annoyance. He held his sore head between his hands, careful to avoid touching his stitches. He sank onto his sofa, battling another bout of nausea and dizziness.

“Maybe you’d like to get some sleep, huh?” Pete asked, trying to encourage him to make a decision, hoping he didn’t sound too much like a parent talking to an uncooperative two-year-old with a temper tantrum. “Would you like me to help me upstairs to your bed?”

MacGyver looked up at him through a haze of pain. “No thanks, I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said tiredly.

“I don’t see how you’ll be comfortable here.”

“Pete, I do it all the time.”

“I know, but the frame on that thing looks as hard as a rock. It won’t be very supportive to your head. I really think you should rest it on something softer, or you could make it hurt even worse.”

“Fine, I won’t go to sleep yet!” MacGyver snapped.

“All right…how about we just relax and watch one of your westerns,” Pete said in a conciliatory tone, offering another suggestion, feeling like he was in a peace conference making concessions in order to reach a compromise.

“I don’t care,” MacGyver muttered, staring blankly at the floor.

“Well okay, I’ll put one on,” Pete said. “You choose.”

“I don’t care. Just pick one, then.”

Pete chose one and popped it into the VCR. He turned on the TV, but he didn’t see any images on the screen. “Uh, it isn’t working,” he said.

MacGyver released another groan and rubbed the back of his neck, the pain in his head seeming to extend all through his body. “You need the remote,” he said groggily. “Don’t worry—I’ll find it.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you shouldn’t move around too much right now.”

“Pete! I’m fine! Now leave me alone and let me find it!” MacGyver shouted, rage burning in his eyes.

Pete stepped out of his way, watching him as he ripped apart his sofa searching for the remote, throwing his cushions across the room with strength he didn’t know his friend had at that moment. He tried to remain calm as he watched him, knowing he didn’t mean to yell. It was as the doctor had described—he was moody, and his mood swings were out of control for the time being, his emotions escalating over things that normally wouldn’t bother him to such an extent. He heard a sniff, and he realized MacGyver was now sobbing. Tearfulness and displays of emotion inappropriate to the situation were presenting themselves, also just as the doctor had predicted.

“Damn it! I can’t find it!” He said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I...I don’t understand why I can’t find it….” He collapsed onto his gutted sofa, burying his face in his hands, his body rocking with sobs.

Carefully, Pete approached him and sat beside him, rubbing his back to comfort him. Even though it was only the aftereffects of his concussion causing him to behave that way, Pete still felt tremendous compassion for him, rarely seeing him cry. It was as if his usual reserved nature had completely broken down, the wall surrounding him crumbling to release his carefully guarded feelings into the open. He wondered if they were merely emotions influenced by his concussion, or if something deeper in his subconscious was being expressed, some long forgotten tragic memory surfacing.

“It’s all right, Mac,” he said calmly. “We don’t have to watch anything. Why don’t you just try to get some sleep? I’ll make up the couch for you, just as you want it.”

Wiping his eyes, MacGyver looked sheepishly at Pete, obviously embarrassed by his unbridled expression of emotion. “What’s…wrong with me?” He asked. “I mean…why did I get so upset?”

“The doctor said it might happen, as a result of your concussion,” Pete said. “It’ll be all right. Just get some rest.”

Pete stood and began calmly reassembling MacGyver’s scattered, disordered sofa, placing the cushions back in their spaces.

“Lemme help,” MacGyver said, picking up a cushion.

“No. I want you to take it easy. I’m almost done. I’ll get you a blanket, okay?”

“Sure. There’s one in my linen closet.”

“Okay. Lie down, and I’ll be right back with it.”

Pete fluffed up the pillow that came with the sofa as best as he could, still worried that it wouldn’t be soft or comfortable enough for MacGyver’s pain-filled head. He retrieved a blanket from the linen closet, one that he felt was soft and warm enough. When he returned to MacGyver, he found that he was already asleep. Smiling, he covered his friend’s limp form with it, and quietly snuck away to let him get adequate rest.

***

MacGyver dreamed for the first time since his concussion. It was vague, unlike most of his dreams which were usually vivid and realistic. In this dream, two shadowy figures were whispering in conspiratorial tones. No matter how much he strained to hear them or identify them, he couldn’t, unable to understand what it was they were saying. Flashes of The Phoenix Foundation building were interspersed between segments of the conversation, and he was unsure why, thinking there had to be some connection but he couldn’t make the link. The images were followed by the devastating blow that struck his head and ended his world for a time. A blinding white light followed, and then he saw nothing but blackness.

To be continued…

[Lothithil]

Watch out, Mac! That couch is a transportation device to other worlds!!

[MacGyverGod]

I can see them busy in the houseboat. Pete has more work with Mac than with anything else of the Phoenix Foundation.