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Too much fun to stop... another 1300 words or so.
Previous parts are here.
Buried Dreams
Part Two
"What's this? What's all this, then?"
Professor Blake was just how MacGyver remembered him; stout, fussy, his bald head fringed with an obstinate frill of snow-white hair, and his faded blue eyes keen and sharp.
"Hello, Professor. Remember me?" MacGyver extended his hand, smiling in as friendly a way as he could manage after an hour in a truck with someone who wasn't speaking to him, and who'd landed in his lap three times when the bumps in the rough track had played Cupid. He felt bruised, inside and out, and very, very tired. When had he last slept, anyway? Proper sleep for more than an hour at a time, in a bed that stayed put, and a space that wasn't filled with dozens of people talking, moving…
He should have been used to the breakneck pace of his life, but sometimes he craved just a little bit of peace, a little time to relax…
The blue eyes narrowed suspiciously, peered, and then brightened. "Good Lord!"
And the professor was English. Very English.
"Well, well, well! MacGilligan!"
"MacGyver."
"Yes, yes, of course!" The professor waved away the correction with an irritable, airy flap of his hand and glanced around the courtyard of the house the dig was using as a base, catching the eye of several workers, all of whom looked tired. "Redfern!" he called out to a thin-faced man in his late forties lounging against a wall, smoking a cigarette with a moody concentration. "This is the man I told you about once; the one who--" He broke off to give a whoop of laughter. That whoop had reminded MacGyver of a strangled cat the first time he'd heard it, and it hadn't changed. "Ha! Ha! Fixed up an alarm clock on that dig in Greece using -- what was it? Pots and pans, sand and rocks? Incredible contraption! Pure Heath Robinson!"
"It worked," MacGyver said, shrugging. The sand had fallen, filled, tipped, triggered a cascade of pebbles to drum against a piece of tin… simple.
"Well, of course it worked, my dear chap!" Blake beamed at him. "When they said they were sending someone, I imagined it'd be a frightful Yank --"
Redfern gave an acidic smile, tossed his cigarette to the sand at his feet and ground it out. "Wouldn't that have been a calamity?" His accent was pure New York and the look he gave Blake before he turned and walked away was cold.
"Hey, I aman --" McGyver began indignantly.
The professor wasn't listening. "But this is just splendid."
Daniel had been standing a yard away, his face having done what Mac's grandfather used to tell him his would do, and stuck that way. In this case, 'that way' was a frowning pout that looked less sulky than thoughtful. Hostile, but thoughtful. He spoke up as the professor paused. "Professor --"
That was as far as he got. Not bad for a beginner, but as it got him the professor's attention it might have been more of an error in judgment than a triumph.
"Jackson! Where have you been, where are the supplies, and where in the name of all that's holy, is the Jeep? Eh? Eh?"
"I've been to get the supplies, they're in his truck, and the Jeep broke down."
MacGyver blinked, impressed. A whole sentence. Wow.
"Broke down? What do you mean it broke down?"
Daniel seemed to have as deep a dislike of that form of rhetorical question as Mac did, because his face creased in a grimace that didn't take away an ounce of its startling attractiveness. MacGyver could appreciate a good design when he saw it, and Daniel's face qualified. Big time. "I mean it stopped working. The engine died -- sand in it -- and we couldn't fix it."
"'We'?" MacGyver was impaled on a sharp glance. "A bit of sand and you couldn't fix it? You?"
Put that way, it did sound unlikely. Pete wouldn't have bought it in a million years.
"Well, there's only so much a man can do with a Swiss Army knife, you know." MacGyver smiled, projecting relaxed ease. "And that Jeep was pretty old…"
"Old? Fiddlesticks! Stuff and nonsense! It's younger than me, and I'm still going, aren't I? I'm still going!"
"Looks like you're going strong," MacGyver said politely.
"I certainly am." Blake twisted on his heel and glared at Daniel. "You! On your bike, laddie. Take the spare truck and a worker and get that Jeep back here. Off you go, boy."
Boy. Laddie. MacGyver winced, deciding to apologise for his own use of at least one of those words the next time he was alone with Daniel.
"It's getting dark," he said before Daniel could reply -- and it would've been a humdinger judging by the way his face was flushing. "Can't do anything tonight, but tomorrow I'll go back with some tools, and --"
"Tomorrow? Pshaw! It'll be gone by then! Thieves! Rampant!" Blake looked sly and knowing, winking at MacGyver in what he probably thought was a discreet gesture. "We all know that, don't we? Tonight."
"No," MacGyver said firmly. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and it can wait. It's not going anywhere, I can promise you that."
Not until he replaced the spark plug currently nestled in his pocket, reconnected the coolant hose, and reversed half-a-dozen other little 'fixes'. He might have given Daniel time to check his passport, but disabling the Jeep had been a job well done.
And way harder than fixing it would have been, but he'd wanted the chance to sound out Daniel once he'd realised he was from the dig. Of course, he'd thought they'd have exchanged some actual words on the trip to the camp…
"Humph." Blake hesitated, his eyes going between Daniel and MacGyver, and then shrugged and nodded. "More important things to do. Yes. Quite."
"The burial chamber?" Daniel said eagerly, his face lighting up. "Did I miss the opening?"
"What? Oh, that room of yours, yes, yes you did. Opened it after lunch." Another wave of Blake's hand relegated the chamber to its proper place in the scheme of things. "Empty, boy, empty, just as I thought. Can't imagine why you thought that was what it was. Entirely the wrong position. Probably a storeroom." He blinked, his shoulders curving inward. "Storeroom, yes…"
He wandered off and Daniel kicked a stone with a release of pent-up energy and an impressive, muttered string of curses, each, as far as MacGyver could tell, in a different language. He counted thirteen and then Daniel ran dry.
"Don't hold back," MacGyver said mildly. "Tell me how you really feel."
Daniel stalked over to MacGyver's truck and began to pull the supplies out, stacking them in an untidy heap. "That was how I feel. If you didn't understand it, that's not my problem."
"No, I don't suppose it is," MacGyver agreed, lending him a hand. "What is?"
Daniel swept his hair out of his eyes, leaving a dusty smear across his forehead. "Why do you care?"
Not going to tell you… "Let's just assume I do, and leave it at that."
"That chamber isn't a storeroom."
"How can you be so sure?"
"He said it was empty."
Daniel dropped the last box on MacGyver's foot and gestured at some native workers huddled around a fire in the corner, calling out to them in Arabic and getting a laughing riposte as they stood, brushing the sand off their robes, and came over to the stores.
"Think about it," Daniel said sweetly and walked off faster than MacGyver, with what felt like three broken toes, could follow.
Part Three
Previous parts are here.
Buried Dreams
Part Two
"What's this? What's all this, then?"
Professor Blake was just how MacGyver remembered him; stout, fussy, his bald head fringed with an obstinate frill of snow-white hair, and his faded blue eyes keen and sharp.
"Hello, Professor. Remember me?" MacGyver extended his hand, smiling in as friendly a way as he could manage after an hour in a truck with someone who wasn't speaking to him, and who'd landed in his lap three times when the bumps in the rough track had played Cupid. He felt bruised, inside and out, and very, very tired. When had he last slept, anyway? Proper sleep for more than an hour at a time, in a bed that stayed put, and a space that wasn't filled with dozens of people talking, moving…
He should have been used to the breakneck pace of his life, but sometimes he craved just a little bit of peace, a little time to relax…
The blue eyes narrowed suspiciously, peered, and then brightened. "Good Lord!"
And the professor was English. Very English.
"Well, well, well! MacGilligan!"
"MacGyver."
"Yes, yes, of course!" The professor waved away the correction with an irritable, airy flap of his hand and glanced around the courtyard of the house the dig was using as a base, catching the eye of several workers, all of whom looked tired. "Redfern!" he called out to a thin-faced man in his late forties lounging against a wall, smoking a cigarette with a moody concentration. "This is the man I told you about once; the one who--" He broke off to give a whoop of laughter. That whoop had reminded MacGyver of a strangled cat the first time he'd heard it, and it hadn't changed. "Ha! Ha! Fixed up an alarm clock on that dig in Greece using -- what was it? Pots and pans, sand and rocks? Incredible contraption! Pure Heath Robinson!"
"It worked," MacGyver said, shrugging. The sand had fallen, filled, tipped, triggered a cascade of pebbles to drum against a piece of tin… simple.
"Well, of course it worked, my dear chap!" Blake beamed at him. "When they said they were sending someone, I imagined it'd be a frightful Yank --"
Redfern gave an acidic smile, tossed his cigarette to the sand at his feet and ground it out. "Wouldn't that have been a calamity?" His accent was pure New York and the look he gave Blake before he turned and walked away was cold.
"Hey, I aman --" McGyver began indignantly.
The professor wasn't listening. "But this is just splendid."
Daniel had been standing a yard away, his face having done what Mac's grandfather used to tell him his would do, and stuck that way. In this case, 'that way' was a frowning pout that looked less sulky than thoughtful. Hostile, but thoughtful. He spoke up as the professor paused. "Professor --"
That was as far as he got. Not bad for a beginner, but as it got him the professor's attention it might have been more of an error in judgment than a triumph.
"Jackson! Where have you been, where are the supplies, and where in the name of all that's holy, is the Jeep? Eh? Eh?"
"I've been to get the supplies, they're in his truck, and the Jeep broke down."
MacGyver blinked, impressed. A whole sentence. Wow.
"Broke down? What do you mean it broke down?"
Daniel seemed to have as deep a dislike of that form of rhetorical question as Mac did, because his face creased in a grimace that didn't take away an ounce of its startling attractiveness. MacGyver could appreciate a good design when he saw it, and Daniel's face qualified. Big time. "I mean it stopped working. The engine died -- sand in it -- and we couldn't fix it."
"'We'?" MacGyver was impaled on a sharp glance. "A bit of sand and you couldn't fix it? You?"
Put that way, it did sound unlikely. Pete wouldn't have bought it in a million years.
"Well, there's only so much a man can do with a Swiss Army knife, you know." MacGyver smiled, projecting relaxed ease. "And that Jeep was pretty old…"
"Old? Fiddlesticks! Stuff and nonsense! It's younger than me, and I'm still going, aren't I? I'm still going!"
"Looks like you're going strong," MacGyver said politely.
"I certainly am." Blake twisted on his heel and glared at Daniel. "You! On your bike, laddie. Take the spare truck and a worker and get that Jeep back here. Off you go, boy."
Boy. Laddie. MacGyver winced, deciding to apologise for his own use of at least one of those words the next time he was alone with Daniel.
"It's getting dark," he said before Daniel could reply -- and it would've been a humdinger judging by the way his face was flushing. "Can't do anything tonight, but tomorrow I'll go back with some tools, and --"
"Tomorrow? Pshaw! It'll be gone by then! Thieves! Rampant!" Blake looked sly and knowing, winking at MacGyver in what he probably thought was a discreet gesture. "We all know that, don't we? Tonight."
"No," MacGyver said firmly. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and it can wait. It's not going anywhere, I can promise you that."
Not until he replaced the spark plug currently nestled in his pocket, reconnected the coolant hose, and reversed half-a-dozen other little 'fixes'. He might have given Daniel time to check his passport, but disabling the Jeep had been a job well done.
And way harder than fixing it would have been, but he'd wanted the chance to sound out Daniel once he'd realised he was from the dig. Of course, he'd thought they'd have exchanged some actual words on the trip to the camp…
"Humph." Blake hesitated, his eyes going between Daniel and MacGyver, and then shrugged and nodded. "More important things to do. Yes. Quite."
"The burial chamber?" Daniel said eagerly, his face lighting up. "Did I miss the opening?"
"What? Oh, that room of yours, yes, yes you did. Opened it after lunch." Another wave of Blake's hand relegated the chamber to its proper place in the scheme of things. "Empty, boy, empty, just as I thought. Can't imagine why you thought that was what it was. Entirely the wrong position. Probably a storeroom." He blinked, his shoulders curving inward. "Storeroom, yes…"
He wandered off and Daniel kicked a stone with a release of pent-up energy and an impressive, muttered string of curses, each, as far as MacGyver could tell, in a different language. He counted thirteen and then Daniel ran dry.
"Don't hold back," MacGyver said mildly. "Tell me how you really feel."
Daniel stalked over to MacGyver's truck and began to pull the supplies out, stacking them in an untidy heap. "That was how I feel. If you didn't understand it, that's not my problem."
"No, I don't suppose it is," MacGyver agreed, lending him a hand. "What is?"
Daniel swept his hair out of his eyes, leaving a dusty smear across his forehead. "Why do you care?"
Not going to tell you… "Let's just assume I do, and leave it at that."
"That chamber isn't a storeroom."
"How can you be so sure?"
"He said it was empty."
Daniel dropped the last box on MacGyver's foot and gestured at some native workers huddled around a fire in the corner, calling out to them in Arabic and getting a laughing riposte as they stood, brushing the sand off their robes, and came over to the stores.
"Think about it," Daniel said sweetly and walked off faster than MacGyver, with what felt like three broken toes, could follow.
Part Three