Okay guys, I'm back! As I said before, my life has been hectic, but I think things are beginning to slow down enough to where I can come here, enjoy the company, and bring you some more fanfic!
I started this one way back in January during my move to Colorado, and I'm finally getting around to posting the first part! So, here you go...
After Deborah Part One
Rated: PG
Anna finished reading the file her people had compiled on MacGyver and tossed it aside. She looked up at the man who had prepared it for her.
“Quite a piece of research,” she said in her soft, pleasant British accent. “It’s very detailed. You seem to know everything about MacGyver, right down to how many moles he has. I must say I’m impressed with your homework.”
The man didn’t respond. He stared at her with cold eyes, his face a stony mask.
“One thing that bothers me,” Anna said, “and this could become quite a problem, is this incident.” She picked up the file again and opened it, pointing to the information she was referring to. “Two months ago, a woman named Deborah was hired by the Knapp Marina people to perform a hit on MacGyver. That hit, obviously, was not successful.” Anna glanced up at the man, who remained expressionless. “She became romantically attached to him to manipulate him so that she could get closer and easily make her hit.”
The man standing in front of her slowly began to grin, the grin distorting his angular features. It looked more like a vicious leer. Anna looked away, returning to her file.
“What I’m asking you is this,” she said, looking back up directly into his eyes. “How am I supposed to gain this man’s trust after something like that, and only after two months since it occurred? He’s going to be more cautious than ever, and definitely more suspicious of people, especially women.”
For the first time, the mysterious man in front of her spoke. “You’re a clever girl, that’s why I hired you,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
***
The burning in MacGyver’s eyes had subsided, but the emotional pain was still very raw. He couldn’t stop thinking of Deborah and what she’d done to him. Nights were the worst for him. He thought the welcome oblivion of sleep would erase the pain and shock that pervaded his conscious thoughts constantly, but he found that his thoughts crept silently into his nightmares where his subconscious mind would continue to torment and haunt him with what had been of their relationship. Images of them kissing were abruptly replaced by the fireball that had temporarily blinded him and almost killed him.
“You know, you’re the only woman I’d ever consider marrying,” he told her.
She smiled at him and then pulled out her switchblade, lunging at him, stabbing at him repeatedly.
These nightmares had become a regular occurrence for MacGyver, so much so that Pete worried about his health. Many nights MacGyver spent tossing and turning in his bed, creating a sweaty and twisted mass of sheets as evidence of his chaotic brain. His sleep was always cut short by reliving the explosion or the chilling sound of her switchblade snapping up, ready to perform its deadly duty, ready to cut out the heart that had so foolishly fallen for her.
He awoke with a start, crying out into the darkness, terrified by visions that were no longer there. Trembling, he sat up, rubbing a hand over his sweaty face and hair, which was partly matted with sweat and partly wildly disheveled. He couldn’t sleep anymore, but his waking thoughts weren’t any more pleasant and provided him with little relief, preoccupying him to the point of maddening distraction. He performed the same routine he did every sleepless night since he discovered the harsh truth about Deborah, heading downstairs to the kitchen to drink some juice, swallowing it hard and feeling like the utterly blind fool he had been, feeling completely used and betrayed.
“Look, it’s not your fault,” Pete had told him. “We all easily fell for her charms. She was a professional. You had no way of knowing. Stop blaming yourself!”
“Pete, my senses were dulled. I should’ve felt that something was wrong, but I didn’t. I can’t let my guard down like that ever again.”
He never would, he told himself as he stood there by his kitchen counter, stoic and morose, mulling over his grim thoughts. He slammed the juice glass down hard on the counter; surprised he didn’t break it with the force of his anger. Or maybe he had, and later he’d find the remaining juice leaking all over his counter, but he didn’t care. He walked over to his sofa and pulled out his guitar. As he sat down and prepared to play, he flinched momentarily, remembering how he used to play for Deborah, giving her a private concert. But even she couldn’t keep him from enjoying his music completely, so he sighed softly and began strumming.
He was interrupted by the sound of a loud crash outside, followed by screams.
“Help! Oh my God, help!” A woman shouted, her voice panicked and in distress.
Quickly, MacGyver dropped his guitar and ran outside to see what happened.
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
