This is a sequel to the story "The Pain Means I'm Still Alive" by stars28. You don't have to have read that one first, though I highly recommend it because the story is great! All you need to know is that Jack has been sparring every night at an underground fight club because it's the best way he knows to deal with his raging emotions. Enjoy!


The pain had never been pleasant—that wasn't the point—yet it had seemed more manageable before those two started poking their righteous little noses into things.

Sousa had been easy enough to fool. For now. Carter, on the other hand…

He straightened his suit jacket, careful not to bump the bruises festering underneath.

Ever since that encounter with Peggy in his office from who knows how many days ago—honestly, time was an illusion these days—Jack had found himself on the receiving end of her infamous knitted brows. She was too clever, too cunning to fool, and honestly, he didn't know why he even tried.

Lying was easier than explaining things most days, and the exhaustion constantly punching the back of his eyes reminded him that any sort of explanation he could come up with wouldn't satisfy Peggy until she had pulled the whole story out of him.

So, yeah, lying seemed easier. And since the story of his black eye had spread around the office after he'd forced himself to regale one of his subordinates with the tale, Jack felt pretty confident in his ability to slip through the day without mishap.

After all, the basement fight club awaited him, an enticing reward for a work day well done. Who are you trying to fool, Thompson? Your work days haven't been "well done" in ages.

Not for the first time, he sat down at his desk and felt like an imposter. How many endless hours had he spent wishing he could somehow bring Chief Dooley back? How many moments had he wasted sitting with his hands clasped in front of his face, praying this was all some sort of sick dream?

But Dooley's death had been ages ago, and yet it still felt like just yesterday…

Emerging from his office for coffee was risky business, but the slow afternoon hours were grating on him and his eyes refused to stay open if he didn't give them some sort of wake-up call.

With a stretch, he made the trek out to the coffee table, careful not to jostle his wounds too much.

Who are you trying to fool? You did this to yourself.

You did it on purpose.

Right, as the throbbing in his ribs wouldn't stop reminding him.

He hadn't been at the station a moment before she came up beside him.

Great. It took all his self-control to keep from rolling his eyes.

"Thompson," she greeted with a nod.

"Carter," he returned, keeping to their usual exchange. Perhaps if he turned his face far enough away from her, she wouldn't—

"Goodness, what happened to your face?"

Too late. Suppressing a wince, Jack grabbed a cup.

"What? You mean Sousa didn't regale you with the tale of this shiner?" He gestured toward his black eye for effect, stealing a few seconds to refresh his memory on the lie he'd sold Sousa. "The story's been all over the office for days, I'm surprised—"

Her expression interrupted his ramblings long before any words even dared. "Not the eye," she clarified. "That nasty cut above your brow."

Oh.

Yep. Forgot about that one.

As if on cue, the sliced skin chose that moment to pulse its mantra of agony.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

All deserved.

Don't forget that.

You deserve it.

Why…?

You know why, coward…

"Oh, this?" Despite the throbbing, Jack's hand flew to the wound, as if to make sure it was still there. "It's nothing. Just a cut from a few days ago. I honestly can't even remember how I got it." A shrug. "Probably from the renovations I'm doing in the kitchen. Did I tell you about that?"

No. Why would you, liar?

"Really?" There was that raised brow again, that If you think I'm falling for your crap, you're delusional stare he'd come to despise over the last week. Sometimes, everything seemed simpler when they had been enemies. Enemies couldn't care less about cuts and bruises—hell, they usually put them there.

No, enemies don't care about you like friends do.

At least, that's what they seemed to be as of late. Sort of.

The papers held captive in her fist fluttered as she crossed her arms. "It looks rather fresh."

Fixing a smirk on his face, Jack finished pouring his coffee, savoring the warmth of the cup against his chilled fingers. "You're looking pretty fresh yourself, Marge. That outfit new?"

It was the perfect comeback, only she didn't seem fooled. She didn't even seem to be irritated by the remark, narrowing her eyes in suspicion rather than disgust.

Oh, to go back to the good old days when something like that would turn her off his case in a heartbeat.

"Any new leads on the case?" A distracting question was as good a trick as any, yet Peggy didn't seem distracted—or pacified—by his falsehood.

"If I had a lead, you and I both know we wouldn't be milling about having a cup of coffee." Her narrowed gaze seemed to stare right through to his soul. What a comforting thought. "Are you sure you're all right, Jack?"

Jack.

Not Chief, or even Thompson.

And in public too, Marge. Didn't know you cared so much…

"Good luck on the case, Carter." And with that, he gave the conversation a swift death.

Only…

To get to his office meant pushing past Peggy…

Great.

Gripping his coffee cup, he stuck out a hand, gently shoving her out of his way.

That's when a bolt of pain struck his chest. White hot, the pain exploded like a hand grenade as he collided with an agent rushing by in a hurry. Jack vaguely registered the sound of coffee splattering on the floor and the hasty apology from his assailant. A promise to send someone to clean it up and Peggy's muttered confusion.

The hiss and choked cry drown out any other sounds for an excruciating few seconds.

His vision became the solar system with stars sailing out of control, whipping his world around and around. A dull buzz clouded his ears, joining the spasms in his chest and side in an orchestra of pain.

"Jack!" That was Carter, he supposed. Some part of his mind wondered where the clumsy agent had run off to—and who it was so he could give the man a proper talking to about running in the halls. "Are you—?"

"Fine," Jack ground out through clenched teeth, even as he wrapped his arm tighter around his middle. "I'm fine, Carter, just—"

The coughing started next, a stupid side effect of a few cracked ribs he'd learned about over the last day or so. His office had never seemed further away than it did at that moment, nor the safety of its closed door more unattainable.

"Get someone to clean this up," he ordered between coughs, brushing past her and into the nearest available—and empty—room.

The interrogation room.

Just perfect…

Coughing hurt like hell, rattling his insides until he was certain he'd hack up both his lungs.

Yet, he couldn't stop.

Though a chair stood near the viewing window, the best his body could do was slide down the wall, his knees smacking onto the floor and further aggravating his bruises.

By the time he had managed to calm the coughing fit, turning it into little more than ragged breathing, he heard footsteps coming down the hall.

It hit him too late that it probably would've been a good idea to lock the door.

Idiot.

"Jack?" The feminine gasp sent his heart racing and he struggled to stand.

Large hands—too large to be Peggy's—eased him back down.

Enter Daniel Sousa.

Great…

Before long, she was kneeling in front of him, Sousa hovering somewhere behind her.

"All right, Thompson, spill it. What's wrong? And no lies this time."

For her, he forced a smirk. "Who said I was lying?"

"Jack, this isn't a joke."

He swallowed, trying desperately to keep the coughing at bay. "Was I laughing?"

"Maybe we should call a doctor."

Thank you, Daniel, for your ever present words of wisdom.

"No," Jack shot back, "it's fine. I just… need a minute."

Peggy pursed her lips, eyes darting this way and that in a vain attempt to uncover his injuries.

"What's wrong with your chest?"

A mere shake of his head was the best he could offer.

Sousa heaved a sigh, his exasperation palpable—along with his worry. "Come on, Jack. Don't make me have to undress you in front of a lady."

Peggy shot the man a raw look at that comment, earning an apologetic shrug from Sousa and a poorly hidden snicker from Jack.

A snicker that morphed into a few more coughs.

With those evil brows of skepticism, Peggy stared him down.

Oh, to hell with it.

There wasn't any use in playing the game now.

You're too far gone.

There's no smooth-talking your way out of this one, Thompson.

"Just…" Sucking in a breath, Jack tried for a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "Just a few fractured ribs, maybe two or three…? They'll heal on their own, don't worry."

"Don't worry?" Peggy balked. "You break three ribs sometime between yesterday afternoon and this morning and you have the audacity to tell us not to worry? Jack, how on earth did you—?"

He shook his head. "The 'how' isn't important, all right? Look, I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. Whoever brushed past me just bumped them a little. Made them angry, I guess."

Their faces told him this was most definitely not the time for humor.

"Did you wrap them, at least?" Again, points to Sousa for bringing up all the topics Jack didn't want to talk about.

"… Yeah."

Peggy furrowed her brows. "You hesitated, so I'll take that as a no."

"I'll do it when I get home."

Peggy's tone was so firm, Jack began to wonder why he even bothered to argue. "You'll do it now. I'll go get some bandages. Don't go anywhere."

"Yes, sir," came the sarcastic reply, earning him a dark look edged with worry.

When Peggy disappeared out the door, Jack blew out a sigh of relief.

A sharp click echoed through the small room as Sousa locked the door.

Well. At least one of us has our head on.

Heaven forbid any unsuspecting fools burst in and find their chief in such a weak and vulnerable state.

Because we can't be seen as weak, right, Jackie boy?

Though his chest continued to rebel against him, he held out a hand to his unwanted companion.

"Help me up." When Sousa only eyed him, Jack grit his teeth. "That's an order from your chief, Sousa. Help. Me. U—"

But Sousa was shaking his head. "I don't think Peggy would like that. She'd have both our heads if you weren't here when she got back."

"So you're gonna listen to her instead of—" Another cursed coughing fit possessed his lungs, and though short this time, it did nothing to help his case.

Slipping his legs out from under him, Jack heaved a sigh and leaned back against the wall.

Sousa knelt down in front of him, his gaze soft, concerned.

Well. Jack didn't need concern. He needed control. He needed to fight.

"How'd you really get that black eye, Jack?"

"That's not important right now. Look, I'll go along with your little game and let you two play nurse if it means we can all get back to work, but you have to promise me one thing."

"What?"

"You won't let Peggy do the wrapping."

Sousa cocked a brow. "Come on. Out of all of us, she's probably the best at it."

"Why?" Jack forced a smirk. "Because she's a girl?"

"No, because she's Peggy."

"Yeah…" He blew out another sigh. "No kidding. And that's exactly why it has to be either you or me."

"Why?"

"She'll ask too many questions."

"And I won't?"

Another smirk, a softer one this time. Almost a smile. Almost. The pain wouldn't let him truly smile…

"You're easier to fool, Sousa. Don't fight it. Just face it and accept it."

"Okay. Ouch. Thanks for that."

"Just speaking truths over here."

Sousa pursed his lips—his best imitation of Carter, Jack supposed—but eventually, he gave in. "Fine. I'll do it."

Jack shrugged. "Or you two could just let me do it. I mean, it is my chest."

Coward.

"That you broke. Somehow." Sousa furrowed his brows. "I'll keep Peg off you if you tell me what happened."

Jack tried for his best angry chief glare, but he could feel it fall short. "That's not fair."

"No, Jack, what's not fair is you keeping secrets from your friends and then scaring them half to death. That's not fair. So, unless you want Peggy to chew you out as she wraps your chest, you'll tell me what happened." Sousa's gaze softened then. "We only want to help you…"

Sighing did nothing but aggravate his lungs more, so with great reluctance, he unbuttoned his vest and shirt. For the first time, he regretted the fact that no one wore undershirts anymore. It would've been one more protective layer concealing his secret. Damn Clark Gable and his influence on men's fashion.

He could tell Sousa was trying not to react, but Jack didn't miss the way his dark eyes widened.

Jack didn't let himself look. He knew what he'd find. A constellation of blues, purples, and yellows, all mixed and matched in what the general public had termed bruises. A few cuts framed the splotches, particularly near the fractured ribs.

But it was fine.

You deserve them.

After all, the pain reminded him that he was still alive. That he could still function—mostly—as not only an agent, but a human being. It more than just reminded him, the pain kept him alive.

The prospect of the basement fight club was the only thing that pulled him through the drudgery of each day.

Sousa didn't say anything, cupping a hand over his mouth instead and swallowing.

"Now," Jack said, shoving down a grimace, "you know why I don't want her to see."

The handle of the door jiggled, the only warning that someone on the outside was trying to come in, followed by a muttered curse.

"Don't want me to see what?" came a muffled, but very familiar voice. A few rushed knocks told them that, yes, Peggy did, indeed, want to come back in.

Jack had started rebuttoning his clothes the second he'd heard the knob jingle. To his utter dismay, Sousa struggled to his feet, hand hesitating only a moment over the lock.

"Don't you dare," Jack hissed, just loud enough for Sousa to hear.

"You need help, Jack," Sousa replied, flashing him those pathetic worried eyes. "This goes far beyond a few broken ribs."

Jack bit out a curse as the door swung open, revealing Peggy in all her avenging glory. He had barely buttoned the last of his shirt when she knelt back down before him.

"All right, Thompson, no more games."

He cracked a grin. "I wasn't aware we were playing any—agh!"

He'd expected her fury, expected the unbridled curiosity and concern. He hadn't expected her to give his chest a few pokes.

"Damn it, Carter! What was that for?"

"Testing the waters," came her curt reply. "Now, open up."

"Getting a little intimate here, are we?"

Her brows nearly collided, she knit them together so hard. Words, he could've handled. He could combat anything she came up with, but the silence…

He couldn't stand the way she just sat there, eyeing him with those… those eyes. Those eyes that said I'm right, you're wrong, and you know it.

"Look, I appreciate the bandages, but I can dress my own wounds."

It was worth a try. In the end, Peggy threatened him with another jab to the ribs, her finger poised like a dagger. It was more than enough to earn his surrender.

"Fine." He threw up his hands. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Where Sousa had kept silent, Peggy did nothing to hide her gasp.

"Jack…"

"All right, let's cut to the chase, okay? I already heard all that from him." He jerked a thumb at Sousa. "Let's get to the part where you fix it—because you want to, for some reason—and we all get back to work."

A weighty silence pressed upon them.

"Okay?" Jack added, hating the unwanted tremor in his voice.

Face pinched, Peggy nodded, quietly beginning the wrapping process.

A few minutes in, she flashed him a look. "You should see a doctor. This looks like a lot more damage than one little renovated kitchen could cause."

"It's nothing."

Her brow arched. "This appears to be the most painful nothing I've ever seen."

Coward.

Always taking the easy way out…

Jack clenched his teeth against the pain and criticism. If only his mind would stop taunting him…

Easy…

You think this is easy?

Peggy wouldn't stop staring at him. Neither would Sousa.

Cowar—

"All right," he bit out, shutting the voice away. "Fine. You just… Well, whatever's said in the interrogation room stays in the interrogation room. Right…?"

Both agents nodded.

So, after no small amount of persuasion, Jack told them about the basement fight club. About his lack of sleep—centering on that instead of his gnawing lack of confidence. Because it's easier.

And they didn't need to know everything, but he told them enough to satisfy their curiosity and concern meters.

By the time he had finished, Peggy was tying the last of his bandages. He hated to admit it, but she did a far better job than he ever could have done.

"Why?" To be fair,, it didn't sound like another probing question—Sousa did look genuinely puzzled. "I mean, why would you do something like that to yourself?"

Why, indeed…

"Why does anyone do anything?" He shook his head, swallowing a sigh. "I… I miss him." The confession was never meant to come out; never meant to be heard by anyone other than his bedroom walls.

Yet, here we are.

"I'll never…" Sucking in a breath, Jack turned his attention to the dark ceiling. Because it's easier. "I'm not good at this, not like he was… I can't… I'm just not… Why anyone would follow my lead is beyond me."

The tears burning the backs of his eyes were entirely unwelcome. Peggy's hand on his shoulder was not.

Neither asked who he was talking about. They just knew.

Sousa brushed his nose, a vain attempt to hide his sniffle. "I miss him, too."

Sitting back on her heels, Peggy gazed at him, her eyes clouded with emotions he couldn't decipher. "Angie and I are hosting dinner tonight for a few friends. I want you to come."

Jack was already waving a dismissive hand, using the other to button his shirt. "I appreciate it, really, but I wouldn't want to impose."

"Last I checked, an invitation is not an imposition." With that, she smiled, holding out a helping hand as she got to her feet. "Dinner's at five. Drinks are at six. I'll see you there?"

Oh, what the hell.

His resolve was already fading by the time he glanced up at her. "Sure, Carter. I'll be there."

And with that, he grabbed her hand and held on tight.

"In the meantime," she continued, "I want you to remember one thing: you're a bloody good agent, Chief Thompson, and an even better leader. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise—especially not yourself."

Yes, the pain reminded him that he was still alive.

But his friends reminded him that there was always hope.

That, no matter the situation, there was always a way out.