Moments


A/N: It has come to my attention that 'Scandinavian' is not a language. So as not to offend, I did some research and would like to amend my note from Undercovers: Day 2

- Scandinavian is not a language but a dialect continuum for the geographical areas of the Scandinavian peninsula (other languages are spoken there as well: Finnish, Estonian, and Sami languages); but this particular group of languages is also referred to as the Northern Germanic languages or Nordic languages

- In regards to 'pillock', per Oxford dictionary, it began its use in the mid 1500s in the dialects of northern England and was based off the 'variant of archaic pillicock'; per Collins Dictionary and a few others, this archaic Scandinavian/Northern Germanic/Nordic dialect word 'pillicock' means 'penis'

If I have in anyway offended anyone by my lack of understanding or poor explanation, I do apologize most profusely. And please do correct me on this or any other errors I might make. I am always happy to take constructive criticism.

Oh, and 'flatfoot' is slang for police officer.

Anywho, onto Peggy and Jack...enjoy!


Carter Injured


There were many 'worst moments' in his life. Most of them occurred during the war. Since then, the moment he found out Krzminski had been murdered, the moment Li was killed and he froze, and the moment he saw Dooley, well, explode had to all be up there.

But this moment rivaled them all – the moment he saw Carter get shot.

Jack had never experienced the phenomenon of watching his life pass before his eyes when he was the one full of bullet holes. But when that bullet hit Carter…He definitely saw all of their moments.

And with each one that flashed across his vision, he felt his throat closing, his blood pounding hot and icy all at once, and his chest tightening as if in a vice even while his heart threatened to pound through its expanding walls.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

Well, he could. And it was just one thought over and over and over again: 'I have to get to Peggy.'

~A~

The mission had been going well.

Wallace had gotten a tip from one of his local 'flatfoot' buddies that Mick Riley was doing a deal tonight. This coincided with the report that Sousa had gotten from the cryptographers. Some splinter group of Leviathan was in town to pick up a crate of something or other for their mass-chaos-producing plan of the week. (Chaos-production that would somehow bring about world order – their logic still escaped him.)

It was an all-hands-on-deck kind of raid at an abandoned warehouse near the docks. Unoriginal to be sure.

Perhaps, it was because this seemed to be a stereotypical deal at the clichéd abandoned warehouse, or perhaps it was because Leviathan had only unleashed their occasional Evil-Wonder-Woman and Dottie had been in the wind for weeks. But whatever the reason, they had underestimated their quarry and had come unprepared.

All angles had been covered – all except for the snipers in the vents. The very same vents that were narrow and thin, that could only fit and support the weight of a child.

Later, much later, it was learned that this splinter group did not follow the philosophy that the advantage of child soldiers was that they were malleable and easier to train into elite warriors. No, to them, children are many, expendable, chattel, and not investments for the future. It had turned his stomach to learn this even while he gained the satisfaction of beating it out of the fascist bastards.

He and his fellow agents had managed to breach the perimeter of the warehouse and to encircle their targets, but as soon as they had tried to tighten the noose – gunfire had rained down on them from above.

Donald and Niedermayer got hit. Winged and grazed, but hit nonetheless. And they were all pinned down, either by sniper fire or by the defensive barrage of both seller's and buyer's henchmen.

He dove behind a concrete pillar and returned fire, dodging sprays of gunfire and flying chips of concrete or wood.

In the midst of the mayhem, he saw Carter twenty feet away, tucked behind some stacked crates and doing her best to scan the area and locate their enemy between bursts of gunfire.

He heard Johnson bark: "Where're the nests?!"

"The vents! My ten o'clock! The other?!"

"Eight – no your 4 o'clock, Carter!" shouted back either Sousa or Sørensen.

"They're getting away!" Matthews warned.

As he peered around his pillar to double-check and fire off a few rounds, he saw that sure enough Riley and his customers making their way to the nearest and now un-blocked exit.

Before he could get done silently cursing Johnson for not taking the time to locate the getaway vehicles and disable them, Carter was shouting: "Shock and Awe on three! One!"

'Wait! What?'

"Two!"

From his quick peek around the corner, he could see her ready to yank the pin from a flashbang. 'Ah shit.'

"Three!"

She threw it – Bang! A deafening boom rang out and a blinding flash lit the dim space, stunning their retreating prey. They were stumbling all over each other. But she didn't leave it at that, because while stumbling they weren't stopping, and there was still the snipers keeping them all pinned.

She darted out behind the crates firing at the vents riddling them with bullets, and then Carter was jumping up and tossing another stun grenade into a broken covering.

Bang!

He and a few other agents tried to give her as much cover as they could. But it wasn't enough.

Despite the grenades and gunfire, the smoke from each, and the no-doubt disorientation of their senses, somehow someone got a lucky shot.

His Marge was one moment darting for another stack of crates, and the next his partner was spinning and blood was spraying as she toppled over the edge of the truck loading dock, disappearing into its recessed pit below.

With every fiber of his being, he wished to race to his partner's aid, but before he could overcome the debilitating combo of shock and his well-developed sense of self-preservation, he saw her dark head crop up over the edge and then lay cover fire for the others who were advancing on Riley's group.

Jack knew by her less than stellar accuracy that she was injured and in pain, but he also knew that his Marge would have his head if rushed to her aid like some white knight to her damsel-in-distress. So instead, he joined Ramirez and Fisher and outflanked the escaping Leviathan agents.

He did his job and he did it well.

When all was said and done, there were a few dead bodies to be bagged and tagged. Thankfully, none of their number. There were a few injured severely enough among their trussed up quarry that needed to go to the hospital before questioning. Johnson sent Wallace and Matthews to babysit them and look after Donald and Niedermayer.

Carter had escaped getting ordered to the hospital by excellent acting and by volunteering to supervise the removal of the girls' bodies from the vents.

When he walked over, she noted with quiet matter-of-factness, "'Ten O'clock' was killed by multiple gunshots. Probably mine. But 'Four O'clock', the one with the flashbang burns, looks like she chose death by cyanide."

Jack didn't look to see for himself. He was sure she was right. That, and he didn't want to be burdened with the mental images of two dead girls who somehow got caught up in the evilness of this damn depressing world. It would drive him faster to the bottom of the bottle that he was already predicting how his night would end.

Instead he focused on her, trying to assess where she had been hit.

When he didn't reply, she turned to face him, eyebrows raised inquiringly. She must have seen his anxious concern, because she tried to be reassuring with a soft but dismissive, "I'm alright, Jack."

Her shrug revealed her torn and bloodied sleeve, causing him to snap, "I can see that you bloody well are."

She rolled her eyes at his misuse of British slang, but only sighed exasperatedly, "It's just a graze. The vest took the rest."

He sucked in a hissing breath as tried to block out the images of what she would look like now if she hadn't been wearing the vest or if it had been faulty.

"Fine," he bit out. "But I'll not have you wimping out on me later due to blood loss or fever from infection. I have a first-aid kit in the car."

Despite his gruff manner, she could clearly see through him, as she acquiesced with only a token protest of, "Fine. But if you're going to be doctoring me, I want a swig of whatever you got in that little flask you have with you."

He was too relieved to object to her indirect criticism of his field dressing skills, and only replied, "Axel's."

"Aces."

~A~

She followed him to the car, counting her blessings that it was Jack who was mother-henning her. If it had been anyone else, they would take one look at her wan and pale face and insist she go to the hospital, misinterpreting her adrenaline crash and emotional exhaustion for something worse.

But Jack though, when he looked at her, he scowled and muttered but he trusted her to know her limits.

It was nice. She hadn't had that. Not since the Howling Commandos, anyways.

"Take off your shirt."

"Excuse me?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Not your pants, Carter. Your shirt. Unless, you want me to damage it more by ripping off the sleeve?"

She glowered at him, for she could see in the dim streetlight that his blue eyes were glinting with amusement, tired amusement, but amusement nonetheless. She could also see that anxious concern of his, so she did as he asked and turned around to unbutton her shirt. She did so slowly, as all her aches and pains were beginning to catch up with her, and only a muttered, "Next time, say 'please'."

She half-expected him to quip, "So there'll be a 'next time', sweetheart?" in reference to her undressing for him. But no, he was instead scowling at the dents in her vest. There were quite a few of them, which was why her ribs ached so.

When she went to say something, he just pursed his lips and shook his blond head at her, before reaching past her to grab the first aid kit from the open boot.

He did quick efficient work, and was quite gentle in his ministrations. In fact, his feather-light touch and the sight of his quick but sure slender fingers stirred something in her that had been dormant for years, and she thought would be forever.

'Crikey O'Reilly! You must still be on some kind of adrenaline high, Peg.'

Her hormonal crisis was interrupted by his stepping back, crossing his arms, and glaring at her.

"'Next time' you had goddamn better not do that to me, Peggy."

His tone and manner raised her hackles. 'I mean, who does he think he is? I was just doing my goddamn job.'

And she was going to protest, but he cut her off with a harsh and bitter: "I refuse to go to my partner's funeral, just because you've got a fucking death wish."

One would think that his profanity would have offended her further, but it, in fact, had the opposite effect. Jack never used that sort of foul language around her. His Gam-Gam and Nana Maria had done 'such a number on him' that no amount of time in the military could have corrupted him, or so he had once fondly told her.

So the fact that he did so now meant that he had been deeply terrified for her (and/or possibly by her).

While this may have derailed her fury and tugged at her heartstrings a little, she could not promise him that she would not repeat her actions. But she would promise what she could.

Raising her good arm to put her hand to his shoulder and give it a gentle squeeze, she softly declared, "If any of my colleagues' lives are in danger or the mission is at stake, I am going to do what I have to do, Jack." Over his growled objections, she added, "But, I will promise to give you more warning – as much as I can – so that you have time to provide better cover fire."

Jack stared at her for full minute, mouth agape, before letting out a part sigh and part huff of quiet laughter. Finally, he grumbled even as he handed her the promised bourbon, "I don't know whether to be offended that you are insinuating that my cover fire was less than adequate and the reason for you getting shot or amused that you assume I am going to be Man Friday to your charging Crusoe in this partnership."

She smiled a little at this and then took a sip from his flask. Handing it back to him, she asked hesitantly, "Jack?"

"Yes, Peg?"

"Is that an acceptable compromise?"

She nearly cringed at the pleading in her voice, but she really really wanted this partnership to work.

He eyed her speculatively for a moment, and then, the ass, made her sweat it out as he stowed away the med kit and shut the trunk.

When his eyes finally met hers again, they were a soft azure and his mouth was twisted into a rueful smile, as he quietly promised, "Yeah, I'll be your Man Friday."

To stop herself from getting all teary-eyed at this god-awful sentimentality, she nodded briskly in acknowledgement and then grinned, "So I bet five bucks that I can make my detainee spill his guts and turn on all his fellows first."

Jack snorted, "You're on. But loser buys breakfast."

"It's a da– Deal."