Turns out that having writer's block for two months really makes you want to write. A lot. I've been writing all day, even when I probably shouldn't have, so here you guys go. Also, I've tried writing from Peggy's point of view, but for some reason I just can't get the hang of it. So this is in Jack's point of view, like most of my other stories.
Enjoy.
"Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much." -Oscar Wilde
He'd never seen her so damn happy.
That was the problem; Carter had always had wit to her, but she usually kept it hidden under layers of such stoicism that he had a hard time reading her most of the time. But in Russia, with the 107th regiment, she looked so content to just be sitting by the campfire with her former team.
Jack supposes that this is the first time she's seen them since the Captain's death. He watches her as she laughs, her eyes crinkling in delight as she sips from the bottle, passing it from one man to the next. Even from his spot across the campfire, her features are illuminated.
He's propped up on his own side, with a cup of liquor in one hand. He takes a sip, the drink searing down his throat as he observes her, observes them – she's so different out here, it's unnerving.
Jack hears one of them call out about an abominable snowman, and he watches the kind teasing that follows. The young man next to him couldn't have been more that twenty-four, yet he fit in well with Carter and the 107th.
Jack clears his throat when he sees a chance to enter the conversation. "So," he starts, "what is the difference between a yeti and an abominable snowman?" He tries not to wince at his own tone, awkward and rough compared to the rest of their easy movements.
"One's real and one isn't," the boy replies, meeting Jack's gaze. Her laughter spills across the circle again as Dugan shakes his head. "What?"
Jack leans back again, his eyes flickering between Dugan and Carter, watching their familiarity come with unparalleled ease. Then she's turning her gaze towards him as well, watching him with the flicker of a smile across her features.
She tilts her head up at him. "So I hear they have mermaids in Japan," she states, eyeing him with the quirk of her eyebrow. "You see any of them when you were out there?"
He shakes his head at her words, ignoring the slight tightening in his chest. "I got nothing you guys ain't heard before. Did a lot of ground work, dug a lot of trenches." He takes another sip, feeling the liquid burn a path down his throat.
Jack thinks that that's the end of the conversation, but then Carter's words reach his ears. "They don't give out navy crosses for digging trenches," she calls, her voice bleeding with curiosity. He feels the attention of the circle shifting to focus on him, and his eyes flicker back up to lock with Carter's.
He swallows, ignoring the all-too-familiar flash of guilt shoot up his spine. "Navy cross," he starts, voice rough. He can feel her gaze on him. "Alright. 1945. Sukoon Island, nothing detail. Fall asleep on the night shift."
The memory of that night plays in his mind; the terror he had felt when he had seen those enemy soldiers. The pure instinct of his muscles moving into actions, shooting down several men before he could even think.
"I wake up, six Japanese soldiers walking into my camp, just waltzin' in the dark. One of them bends down over my sleeping C.O." He stops then, swallowing thickly. "One more second, and he woulda slit his throat. I snapped to, shoot 'em in the back. Shoot 'em all, before they even knew I was there; before my last man was even awake."
There's something close to pity in Carter's eyes, so he clears his throat and looks away. He can see the rest of the men staring at the ground, reliving their own war memories.
"Truth be told," Jack starts, trying to clear the tension, "I liked the kid's yeti story better." He takes yet another swallow of the drink.
The kid hands him the bottle, and he meets Carter's eyes as he takes a swallow. He can feel her staring across the circle, but he won't look up – he can't look up. He won't accept her pity or her pride, whatever the hell she feels.
There's tightness in his chest as he knocks back the bottle again.
Jack wakes up early the next morning to see that there is still darkness filtering through the clouds in the sky. His eyes scan the circle as he gets up, before narrowing when he realizes that Carter's spot is empty.
He gets up slowly, stepping around the sleeping men. Miraculously, the fire is still going, so he knocks the wood over with his foot, the ashes sizzling with the motion.
"That's nice," he hears, and he tenses, hand immediately going down to the knife in his pocket. But then he hears a chortle and relaxes, because he knows that laugh. He turns, meting Carter's gaze from across the clearing. She's quirking an eyebrow at him, already dressed in full tactical gear with her weapon on her arm.
Jack stares at her for a moment, watching, before clearing his throat. Her hair is bunched in a low band at the back of her neck, so different from her curls last night. "Startled me, Carter," he calls out, still keeping his voice roughly low. "You should stop doing that."
"And have the fun cease?" she replies, and one of the men turns in his sleep at the sound of their voices. "Oh, I could never do that."
Jack steps out of the clearing and towards her, walking towards the woods. He feels her gaze on him as he brushes by, his elbow knocking against hers.
He's a few feet away before he hears her voice again. "Going somewhere?"
He scoffs, stilling in his tracks. "You're not my mother Carter, and unless you'd like to see me take a piss, I'd suggest that you wake the rest of the men."
He can almost feel her gaze sharpen at his back. "I am not a den mother," she snaps back, and he hears the crunch of her boots against the grass. "If you wish the men to be woken, then by all means, wake them yourself."
Jack spits on the ground, continuing through the trees. He can feel the flare of anger rising in his middle, but he bluntly ignores it. She will not bother him – he cannot let her bother him.
But by the time he gets back the rest of the men are roused and sleepy eyed, though by the absence of Carter, he suspects that she had nothing to do with it. By the time he's handing out the orders she's back and they're ready to go. She challenges his orders, but even after hearing her idea he admits (not to her, of course) that it's better, and they move out.
He's leading his team behind the building when the shots ring out. He jerks to attention, motioning for the men to follow him as they run in the direction of the noise. They arrive in time to see one man dead on the floor and Dugan pulling a knife from his chest. His eyes meet Carter's as she nods, motioning for them to follow her.
But then –
He freezes up in the firefight. The crippling feeling of fear and guilt are screaming in his head; he can hear the voices of all those dead soldiers he had killed and the overwhelming reminder of pain that he had fought to hide. He's flashed back the battlefield, when all of the men nearest to him were shot down as if they weren't anything more than cattle. He remembers running for his life, his head down and blood roaring through his ears.
Faintly, he hears Carter shouting for him to get up, but he can't do anything. He feels numb as his eyes dart around blindly, everything around him moving in slow motion. But then she's at his side, hands on his shoulders. "Snap out of it, mate," she bites, her voice low and commanding. "Get your ass into gear."
Her voice snap to something inside him and suddenly he's gasping for air, taking in breathes that he didn't even know he was holding. He's trembling as his fingers curl around her wrists, pulling himself up. "I'm up," he breathes as he scrambles to his feet. "I'm up."
They bolt of there and he's in the truck before he can even think, arms pulling him up. He collapses into the corner, shoving his hands into his pockets to prevent the other men from noticing his trembling.
Carter's in a moment later, catapulting herself over the barrier and tumbling onto the floor. He watches as she struggles to catch her breath, coughing as she does so.
The Russian doctor eyes her, stating, "Not bad for a girl."
Jack watches as the corners of her lips turn up. "I hate you all," she tells them, and he chokes back a laugh from bubbling out of his chest.
He's the first one out the truck and into the plane, still shaking. He hears as Carter says her goodbyes as he tucks himself into the corner, staring out the window. The other men ignore him as they step on the plane; Carter is the last one on, with the corners of her eyes crinkling in delight as they take off.
He stays in the corner, shoving down the red-hot searing of embarrassment that fights to shoot through him. He avoids looking at Carter as the noise of the plane fills the air, content to look out of the window for the rest of the trip back.
But then she's sitting down a few feet from him, her hands pressed under her thighs; her hair has slipped down from it's tied position, instead taking refuge in loose curls around her cheeks. The doctor and the other agent have long since succumbed to sleep since the plane took off a few hours ago, but he hadn't been able to take that luxury.
"You alright?" she asks, keeping her tone low. He closes his eyes for a moment; he didn't want to have this conversation with anyone, let alone her.
Something in him stirs (again) though, but he doesn't look at her when he replies. "Yeah." He pauses. "You saved a lot of necks back there." His response is short enough, but he doesn't stop, turning to stare at her. "You saved mine."
She looks briefly away for a moment before returning her gaze. "Not bad for a code breaker," she quips.
He looks back out the window. "Pretty bad for the navy cross winner." The words taste bitter in his mouth, and he half-wishes she would stop the conversation.
But she isn't a mind reader, and she stares at him point blank. "Everyone freezes sometimes. You recovered, that's the most important thing."
He can't force himself to look at her. The urge to tell someone what really happened all those years ago bubbles from his chest, the ache that had settled there desperate for escape. He swallows, taking ample time before responding.
"They were carrying a white flag," he whispers, ignoring the stinging in his eyes that those words bring. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her expression melt into one of confusion. "The soldiers that came into my camp in Okinawa." He swallows thickly. "The ones I killed."
He pauses then, fighting the lump that is forming in his throat. He looks at her dead on when he speaks again, his eyes glazing over and his voice just above a rough whisper. "They were coming to surrender." He shakes his head. "I just didn't realize it until it was too late. I buried – the flag. Before anyone else saw it."
Her lips part in disbelief, and his eyes flicker to the window again. He grinds his teeth together. "Everyone thinks that I am this guy that I never was," he manages to say. "And everyday, it gets harder, and harder, to live with." His face scrunches up, the ache in his chest loosening.
He can feel the scars on his wrists, the ones that line up in neat little rows on his arms, the ones that he had made after returning the United States with his dead buddy's knife. His mind flashes to all those nights where his fingers had just been inching to pull the trigger, to end the agony of pain that he dealt with. The war had done a row on all of them, and each man's pain was his own to bear.
He didn't know why he was dumping all of this on Carter. He knows that it could just be because she was there, or because she was a woman, or even just because he was so tired of holding it in for so long.
But she had saved his life when he had frozen – he owed her that much.
He forces his mouth to open again, the trembles starting beneath his skin. "I've been trying to tell – that story, since I came home from war." He keeps his gaze pinned to his mud-covered boots now, unable to look at her.
She must think he is disgusting. She must think that he is completely vile – but then again, he was never much nice to her in the first place.
But instead, he hears, "You just did." Her voice is soft as she says this and his head jerks up to meet her gaze, his Adam's apple bobbing. He takes another deep breath, sealing his lips shut.
This time, it's her who looks away, and he's glad. The rest of the trip is spent in silence.
They're back in New York within another seven hours. He had managed to get two hours of sleep, but every damn time he drifted off the plane would jolt with noise and he would jerk awake.
He changes back into his suit and tie in the locker room, this time all-too-aware of Carter on the other side. He changes slowly this time, taking time to slip over his white undershirt and pressed beige jacket that he keeps in his locker.
He and Carter are the last ones in the changing room by the time he finishes, and he pauses as putting things into his bag, stilling at the movements. He can still hear the zipping up of her own bag on the other side.
"Carter?" he calls out, and the noise stops. His voice seems to echo around the room, and he winces, something strange flickering up inside his chest. He presses his hand against the cool metal of the locker as he closes it, his mind flashing once again to Russia.
"Thanks," he says shortly, before hoisting his bag over his shoulder and walking out without a second glance behind him.
He doesn't see the small, curt smile that she gives him, but he can imagine it.
The report to Chief is simple and brief; Carter joins him just as he's saying his opening sentences.
"Agent Lee died honorably, in action," he starts. "It's my sworn duty as his commanding officer to deliver the condolences from the United States to his family." He always hates doing that; he hates knocking on their doors, being the bearer of bad news. Sometimes he's greeted by little children who are looking for their fathers; other times it's the wife who answers, and the moment he takes off his hat with a seldom face their expressions crumple into tears.
The Chief brushes past the news. "No Stark," he grunts, "and no Leviathan." He sounds disappointed, and Jack clenches his teeth.
"No, sir." He pauses. "But Agent Carter was able to acquire intel bout Leviathan from Dr. Ivchenko about the enemy's possible end game." Out of the corner of her eye, he sees her head snap to look at him. She clearly hadn't expected him to give her any credit.
But he isn't expecting her to speak either. "We," she states, putting emphasis on the word, "were able to retrieve him from a Leviathan prison. He's very eager to cooperate with the SSR in any way he can." Her voice tilts up at the end.
"But he doesn't think Stark's connected to the Leviathan?"
"No," she replies bluntly, "and I don't either."
Jack's head snaps to look at her, and the Chief's mouth tightens. For a moment, he thinks that the man is going to fire Carter on the spot, and he tenses up.
"Noted," the Chief snaps back, before looking back at him.
Jack tells the rest of the story and the Chief dismisses them after a few minutes, telling them to let the doctor in. His arm brushes against hers on the way out and he jerks away from her, an odd tingling feeling skittering up his spine.
But he hears the Chief say, "Good work, Carter," and Jack watches from a few feet away as a smile flickers onto her face.
She stands tall as she replies, nodding at him. "Thanks – sir," she says, adding in the last word belatedly.
Jack picks up a few things from his desk before slipping his key into the lock on his drawers. He tosses his extra jacket over his arm, finger skittering along the brim of his hat as it settles on his head.
"Sousa, you coming?" he calls as he turns around, but his eyes flicker to Carter standing nearby. She looks happy from the recognition – just like she had in Russia, surrounded by the 107th. He doesn't know what spurs him to speak again, but he does. "Come on, Carter," he says, and he can almost feel her shock from across the room.
He turns around, dipping his head down. "I owe you a bourbon."
"I'll be right there," she says as he turns again, making his way out of the bullpen.
The men spill out of the building, chatting and laughing about their day. Their voices spill into the night, loud and rowdy, as he tags behind.
A bone-weary tiredness sinks through him, and he suddenly has the urge skip tonight out and go crawl on his pillow. He'd never done that before, but considering he hasn't slept very well in the past few days, maybe he should take this night out.
But then he catches a glimpse of Carter behind them. She looks steady in her facial expressions, but her eyes betray her slight nervousness.
He opens his mouth. "Carter," he calls, and her head snaps up to look at them. He tips his hat at her. "Come on, I won't bite – that is, unless I get a few drinks in me."
She lets out a dry laugh at that, and quickly steps up to match his pace. They walk in silence for a few moments.
"It's nice," she starts, keeping her voice low. She wouldn't have needed to anyway though; the agents ahead of them are plenty loud enough.
"What is?" he asks, keeping his fingers tight around his coat. That feeling again creeps up his spine; it's not a bad feeling, but it isn't exactly good either.
"Being home," she states simply, eyeing the bright lights of the building around them. "New York is such a darling place – I never would've thought that the tallest city in the world would have been such an interesting place."
Jack looks at her. "How old were you when you joined up?" He didn't know her exact age, but she looked young – twenty seven, twenty eight?
She laughs then, but it is more of a dry laugh than anything. "I joined British Intelligence when I was twenty," she tells him. "After rescuing a few – important people, they sent me down as a liaison for the British government when the war broke out. Honestly, I think that they just waned to get rid of me, but it worked out in the end. You?"
He keeps his gaze ahead. "Eighteen," he says softly. "I was so excited to go to the war – until I actually got shipped out. Most of the soldiers in my unit ended up dead."
She's silent for a moment before responding. "The price of war." Her voice has almost taken a bitter tone.
He eyes her. "What's your angle, Carter?" he asks, taking care to still keep his tone down. "Why are you doing this? Why are you still here?"
She stills on the sidewalk for a moment, the sound of her heels coming to a halt. "Still where, Agent Thompson? At the SSR?" He nods sharply, and she purses her lips. "Agent, I am here because I deserve to be here. I am here because I worked my arse off to be there. I am sorry that you seem to have a problem with that." She's eyeing him now with the infuriating look of hers.
He's stopped too, fingers tapping by his sides. "You're not happy here," he argues back at her, and watches as her eyes narrow. "I saw you, in Russia, with the 107th. Why didn't you stay with them?"
She raises an eyebrow. "You would've like that, wouldn't you?" she snaps at him, "And what I choose do is none of your bloody business. What are you asking me anyway?" Carter looks pointedly at him, waiting.
He stands there for a moment, silent and still. Those same chills are going up his spine, and he's not sure what they mean.
"I don't know," he finally says. "But you never answered my question."
"And you never answered mine," she finished, staring at him with an undeterminable emotion flickering across her face. "But right now, I need a drink." She takes a few steps forward, tilting her head. "Coming, Agent Thompson?"
He follows her in, her words echoing in his mind.
Hope you liked.