Ficlet: Hanging On The Telephone
Reposted to my lj for archiving, but originally written as commentfic for
surreallis , based on the pic.
Mac pushed the hair back from his face, and wished for the fiftieth time that morning that he'd packed for the tropics. Something cool and airy - something that wasn't tight blue denim, dammit. Of course, he hadn't known his plane was going to be hijacked by crazy rebels, and he hadn't known that he'd have to crash-land it when one of the rebels he was disarming tripped and shot out some of the instrument panels, and he hadn't known that the rebels would then escape into the jungle whilst he was still unconscious from the knockabout landing, leaving him, twelve schoolkids, three guys on a fishing trip, and two elderly sisters to hack, hike, and haggle their way across what felt like half of South America. If he'd known...
...Well, he would have brought his sunglasses, at least.
"Okay," he said, sighing wearily and trying his rusty Spanish again, "how about a telephone? Have you got a telephone? Can I please use your telephone? I want to call a friend." The two men with guns (had he mentioned recently that he hated guns?) continued to stare blankly at him, unmoving. Mac put his hands on his hips, and reverted to English. "Am I screwing up the accent, or do you just not want me to use your telephone?" he asked, somewhat acidly.
"Mateo," called a voice. "Alejandro." The men both turned, coming to life with startling suddenness. "¿Quién es éste?"
A woman strolled out of the compound, with such self-assurance in her walk that Mac would have been in no doubt who was in charge here, even if the guards hadn't been so puppyishly keen to explain the situation to her. He caught enough of their explanation to know that their impression of him wasn't favorable. "Hey!" he said, interrupting. He glared at the guys, and then nodded respectfully to the woman. "Name's MacGyver, ma'am," he drawled, and gave her what he hoped was a charming grin. Quite honestly, though, he suspected he wasn't looking so charming at the moment. He was dog tired, and pretty hacked off about almost everything that had happened for the past 24 hours. "Me and some friends -" he waved to indicate the others, standing warily in the treeline, "got stranded out here. Our plane went down 'bout fifteen miles back thataway. You wouldn't happen to have a phone I could use, would you? I'll pay you back for the call." He held up a hand. "Scout's honor."
The woman tilted her chin up, and surveyed him slowly and lingeringly, feet to forehead. Then she took a step back and pursed her red lips. Then she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder, and stepped around him, still surveying him. Mac began to feel a little like a prize stud. A hot, sweaty, tired prize stud. A prize stud who could really do with a shower and a nice lie-down in a darkened, air-conditioned room.
The woman completed her circuit, and gave him one final glance. Then she grinned, looking unexpectedly impish. There was something mischievous but friendly about that smile, and it was welcome as a cool drink of water after miles and miles of miserable trekking. Mac couldn't help it: he grinned back.
"You have a nice ass," she said, clearly and carryingly. "You may use the teléfono."
She turned and strolled back into the compound, hips swaying invitingly. Mac hesitated for a moment, looking at the guards, who were looking distinctly jealous. He shrugged at them.
"My grandfather always told me: boy, never argue with success," he told them - and went after that telephone.
surreallis , based on the pic.
Mac pushed the hair back from his face, and wished for the fiftieth time that morning that he'd packed for the tropics. Something cool and airy - something that wasn't tight blue denim, dammit. Of course, he hadn't known his plane was going to be hijacked by crazy rebels, and he hadn't known that he'd have to crash-land it when one of the rebels he was disarming tripped and shot out some of the instrument panels, and he hadn't known that the rebels would then escape into the jungle whilst he was still unconscious from the knockabout landing, leaving him, twelve schoolkids, three guys on a fishing trip, and two elderly sisters to hack, hike, and haggle their way across what felt like half of South America. If he'd known...
...Well, he would have brought his sunglasses, at least.
"Okay," he said, sighing wearily and trying his rusty Spanish again, "how about a telephone? Have you got a telephone? Can I please use your telephone? I want to call a friend." The two men with guns (had he mentioned recently that he hated guns?) continued to stare blankly at him, unmoving. Mac put his hands on his hips, and reverted to English. "Am I screwing up the accent, or do you just not want me to use your telephone?" he asked, somewhat acidly.
"Mateo," called a voice. "Alejandro." The men both turned, coming to life with startling suddenness. "¿Quién es éste?"
A woman strolled out of the compound, with such self-assurance in her walk that Mac would have been in no doubt who was in charge here, even if the guards hadn't been so puppyishly keen to explain the situation to her. He caught enough of their explanation to know that their impression of him wasn't favorable. "Hey!" he said, interrupting. He glared at the guys, and then nodded respectfully to the woman. "Name's MacGyver, ma'am," he drawled, and gave her what he hoped was a charming grin. Quite honestly, though, he suspected he wasn't looking so charming at the moment. He was dog tired, and pretty hacked off about almost everything that had happened for the past 24 hours. "Me and some friends -" he waved to indicate the others, standing warily in the treeline, "got stranded out here. Our plane went down 'bout fifteen miles back thataway. You wouldn't happen to have a phone I could use, would you? I'll pay you back for the call." He held up a hand. "Scout's honor."
The woman tilted her chin up, and surveyed him slowly and lingeringly, feet to forehead. Then she took a step back and pursed her red lips. Then she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder, and stepped around him, still surveying him. Mac began to feel a little like a prize stud. A hot, sweaty, tired prize stud. A prize stud who could really do with a shower and a nice lie-down in a darkened, air-conditioned room.
The woman completed her circuit, and gave him one final glance. Then she grinned, looking unexpectedly impish. There was something mischievous but friendly about that smile, and it was welcome as a cool drink of water after miles and miles of miserable trekking. Mac couldn't help it: he grinned back.
"You have a nice ass," she said, clearly and carryingly. "You may use the teléfono."
She turned and strolled back into the compound, hips swaying invitingly. Mac hesitated for a moment, looking at the guards, who were looking distinctly jealous. He shrugged at them.
"My grandfather always told me: boy, never argue with success," he told them - and went after that telephone.