warnings: bastardized com-movie-verse. teeny bit of violence. teeeeeny slashy hint (but you could take it as bromance, if you want, because Cougar's cool enough for most guys to have a raging man-crush on). language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s*** and f***).
pairing: hints of Cougar/Jensen pre-slash (or man-crush, whatever).
timeline: pre-movie/comic.
disclaimer: the Losers belong to Detective Comics/Vertigo.
notes: 1) the cougar/puma/mountain lion is a scary-ass cat. in north america, they get pretty effing big (over two meters with tail) and are exceptionally good jumpers. north american cougars have a tendency to eat large animals like horses, cattle, and elk, and were one of the many dangers in the urbanization of the southwest. 2) a favela is a Brazilian slum. the buildings tend to be crowded together in a way that makes roofs almost better than streets for getting around (if you're brave). 3) if you've been living in a hole, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is a fantasy/martial-arts film with a hell of a lot of wire-work.
Flight
It was maybe three months after Jensen joined the Losers that he got to see firsthand how much Cougar hated the cold.
Jensen thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, and he wanted everyone to know it.
"This is hilarious," he said.
Roque glanced sidelong at him. "You better watch yourself, kid. He comes over this fire at you, I ain't stopping him."
But Jensen couldn't help it. He waved a hand before using it to squeeze his marshmallows to see if they were done. "Look at him!" he snickered. "It's barely below freezing, and he's acting like it's a fucking ice age, man! He looks like a little kid. Besides, it's a big fire, I think I'm safe."
Cougar glared miserably through the gap between scarf and hat, but didn't bother to respond.
"You know how he got his nickname?" Roque asked idly, turning his coffee cup to warm it evenly.
Jensen shrugged, enjoying the sheer silliness that was their bundled-up comrade. "Figured it was either some embarrassing boot camp story or a dark tale of Black Ops gone awry."
Roque snorted. "Ranchers in the southwest states can tell you all about how a cougar hunts. Lies in wait, low down in tall grass, sometimes for hours and hours without a sound, practically invisible. Then something big enough, tempting enough, and stupid enough comes along, and bam!" He snatched up the little tin cup of coffee. "A cougar can go from belly-sprawl to airborne in an instant, tear a man right out the saddle."
"I don't…" Jensen began, shaking his head. "I don't get it."
There was a moment of silence, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the sound of Roque sipping his coffee. "Wait until we have a job in an urban setting, and you will."
Jensen just dismissed the subject, still amused to have finally found an environmental hazard that made Cougar as miserable as jungle heat made the rest of them. "I, for one, could get used to being sent into mountains instead of deserts and rainforests. This is kinda like New England in winter." And he nibbled happily on a toasted marshmallow.
Two weeks later, Jensen was sprinting full-tilt over the roofs of some crappy little favela in Brazil, trying to make the extraction point with some bad guy's dinosaur of a laptop that felt like it was made of lead. He was a decent free-runner, in his own opinion, and he could have made the jump any other time. As it was, with the extra weight, he missed his grip on the edge of a roof and ended up clinging to a crack in the masonry a foot down.
"Crap, crap, crap, crap," he grunted, trying to find a foothold. The twenty-foot drop didn't look like something he wanted to experience without space to roll.
When Cougar went sailing over his head, he kind of stopped to stare.
"Oh, wow," he mumbled, ever-so-slightly (completely, fanboyishly) awestruck. "Like a ninja. A fucking Mexican ninja-sniper, how hot is that? My geeky charm can't compete with that shit, I'm never gonna get laid around this guy. Worst. Wingman. Ever."
Then the sniper leaned down to drag him up. He was saying something in Spanish.
From the relative safety of the roof, Jensen shook his head and tried to catch his breath. "Yeah, no. Spanish is one of the ones I don't speak, pal. No comprende."
Cougar rolled his eyes and shoved Jensen toward the extract. "I said, 'stop dicking around and run.'" And off he went, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Pouting to himself, Jensen followed. "See you try that Batman shit with this brick strapped around your neck," he grumbled.
And then Pooch pulled the chopper around from nowhere, and Cougar went for it without even breaking stride.
Jensen skidded to a halt. "Oh, hell no!" he gasped, when he saw the gap.
"Five armed men are chasing your ass, what the hell are you waiting for?" Pooch called over the radio.
"Wings to grow out of my back, mother-fucker! Bring it closer!"
"Nag, nag, nag…" Pooch snorted, but hovered a few feet nearer.
A bullet thumped into the side of the chopper, and Jensen decided Pooch had pulled in close enough. He winded himself against the edge of the floor and banged his shin on the runner, but he managed to get inside without getting shot or dropping the payload.
"What the hell was that?" he complained when they had left their pursuit behind. "Maybe Cougar can fly, but I sure as shit can't! Next time, how about you put a gap marginally narrower than the Mississippi between the building and the chopper?"
Pooch made a derisive noise. "You're the one who said you were 'nimble as a gazelle.' I could set it down a foot away for ya, like I do for little old ladies."
"Yeah, well, nobody told me this smug fucker could soar through the air with the greatest of ease," he retorted, jerking his thumb at Cougar, who just sat there and smirked.
"Roque said he told you how Cougs got his name."
"No, Roque gave me some cryptic bullshit about wildcats pulling ranchers out of the saddle. I thought it was about patience and lying in wait and shit, not—not fucking Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon!"
Pooch poked the bobble-head on the center console. "Well, there's three things cougars do better than lying in wait: sprinting, jumping, and climbing."
"We also swim," Cougar put in.
Jensen hugged the stolen laptop and sulked. "Fucking flying cats. All right, Superman, I won't make fun of the cold weather thing again. But you seriously looked like a little kid, all bundled up in a million layers like that."
"Mm-hm," said Pooch. "You don't mess with Cougar about the cold, and we won't tell the Colonel how the 'nimble gazelle' flopped onto the chopper like a stunned salmon. By the way, that's pretty much how Cougs always gets aboard a chopper."
"I haven't even been with you crazy bastards half a year, and already prison is starting to look nice and comfy by comparison…"
.End.