Work Text:
Murdoc pauses, the snow crunching underfoot, his arm supporting the pressure of MacGyver’s weight. The wound is bad, but not fatal. The engineer had simply collapsed, trusting his pursuer to become his temporary nurse.
“Look, Angus.” Murdoc gestures with his free hand at the russet ribbon below. “The sediment-laden stream. Like a vein split open upon the white skin of the world.”
Mac leans his head against the assassin’s shoulder, gaze tracing the serpentine flow. “A beautiful kind of gore,” he murmurs, easing his strained breathing. “A scar that sings of the earth’s fever.”
Murdoc smiles, a rare, genuine upturn of the lips. 'Yes,' he thinks, 'this MacGyver, the MacGyver who finds poetry in disaster, is the MacGyver worth keeping.'