Matty was worried, and she hated worrying. She'd always been able to maintain a separation, a distance from her team. People called her a hardass and a bitch and Matty the Hun to her face, so she knew what they said behind closed doors was worse.
But this team had wormed their way through her defenses, and they were hurting. She could see it in the dark circles under Mac's eyes, the shaking of Riley's hands when she typed, and the way Bozer's enthusiasm had decreased tenfold. They came to every briefing with large cups of coffee, sat quietly, spoke softly, and followed her orders almost without complaint.
She blamed one Angus MacGyver for getting under her skin. He was a man who exuded confidence and vulnerability, often simultaneously, and she had no damn idea how that worked. He was a genius with enough childhood issues to fill the Mariana Trench, and he was the most capable operative she'd ever met.
And she blamed one Jack Dalton for making her care. He cared so much that it rubbed off on her, and now he was gone. Dead. As much as she teased him about retiring or a foolish mistake costing him his life, she didn't actually want him dead. Well, there were certainly times when he'd shredded her last nerve, and she kind of did. But those times were few and far between.
About three weeks after Jack's death, she gave the team an easy mission that turned into a nightmare. Everything that could go wrong did, and as she stood in the doorway of Mac's room in Phoenix Medical, watching him sleep the drugged, yet uncomfortable sleep of someone in a lot of pain, she vowed to do something.
