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Staring at the engraved white marble stone Angus “Mac” MacGyver felt the tears roll down his face to wet the collar of his shirt. Swiping his hand across his face he stared, face forward, as the men in uniform folded the flag and presented it to him. Accepting that folded flag was the hardest he had done since burying his mother and Grandfather.

Taking the flag of his husband.

And yet with a still hand he accepts the folded red, white, and blue stripes that his husband lived, fought, and died for. He would have too except for a fluke in their schedules that day.

The ceremony over the guards left, their duty done, the folded flag gifted. One by one the people, the friends and people that Jack Wyatt Dalton had saved, left. Except six unmoving people. They stood like statues as they watched the mahogany coffin get lowered into the cold and rainy ground.

This was their friend, their colleague, their parent and husband. This was the least they could do.

Their tech savvy one, Riley, leaned into Mac’s side, the image of a hug greatly needed.

When the final thud of dirt landed on the already soaked ground the spell was broken. The small group began to walk away, always together but broken just a bit. A space by Mac’s side was where a person once stood, never filling, always alone.