Moments
Intervention
Jack bit out a curse and slapped the side of the radio, but to no avail. All he got was static.
"You're not going to be able to hear Teddy's match. The signal isn't strong enough here," Carter informed him, her voice filled with tiredness and regret, as she sat down companionably next to him at the table in the break room. "I tried last week too."
Jack bit back a curse, and instead took a sip of his very Irish coffee.
"Bad day?" Peggy noted.
At his 'no shit, Sherlock' look, she held up her hands in defense, stating, "I'm just surprised is all, as usually you are less of a grouch and more of a strutting bastard after you close a case."
He raised his eyebrows at her salty language, but decided to let it go, (for now), and chose to answer honestly if a bit cryptically.
"It was a nurse."
"A nurse killed those mafia lieutenants?" Carter asked in surprise, more so probably that a woman in the helping profession was a killer than the fact that she was of the fairer sex.
"Yeah, she would walk up to them and smile before placing her electrified gloves to their chests," he explained before taking another long sip of his coffee.
"An electric shock to a stopped heart jolts it into action again – "
"But a shock to a healthy heart stops it stone dead," he finished with a shiver. Little Miss 'Do-no-harm' tried to use it on him in her attempt to escape.
"What was her motive?"
"Her brother, who was her only surviving relative, was killed in a turf war between the Nobilis and Paguros, so she decided to use the mad skills that her late inventor father gave her to 'hand' out some justice for her and other victims and their families that she came into contact with at the hospital," he explained darkly.
Peggy watched him quietly for a few moments before observing knowingly, "It was one of those cases, where you are left wondering if justice was done at all, huh?"
"Yep," he agreed bitterly, before bestirring himself to ask, "So how about you? I heard that you closed that auction house case too."
"Yep," she answered, sounding just as happy as he did, as she went to remove the whistling tea kettle from the stove. "The auction house party-crashers were actually robbing the joint, all three times, but they were just stealing back what had already been stolen from them. Apparently, the auctioneer is a fence for local stolen goods, and my thieves were 'reclamation artists'."
"You sympathize with your Robin Hoods, even though they can be classified as bio-terrorists, don't you?" he needled with a smirk.
"A little," she admitted with a shrug.
He eyed her for a moment, before shrewdly pointing out, "But that is not is what is bothering you. Well," he amended, "it is bothering you enough for an extra strong cup of tea, but not so day-ruining that you get foul-mouthed with your name-calling towards me."
A short bark of laughter escaped her cherry red lips before she pursed them in mock thoughtfulness. "It could be that you just bring out the worst in me, Jack. Did you ever think of that?"
"I have thought of it," he declared smugly, "and I have come to the only conclusion possible."
"Oh?"
"You realize deep down that unlike me none of those gents on your team have the fortitude to take the full force of one of your tongue-lashings, not even dear Daniel."
He had mentioned Sousa to gripe about the fact that her team had been assigned to his Chameleon-Maker case (they solved three cases to his team's two last week), but something flashed in her eyes at the mention of his name, and he knew whatever was bothering her had to do with him.
Peggy went no-doubt to sharply comment on his 'fortitude', but he cut her off with, "No, don't think you can derail me, Carter. Daniel said something to you, that's got you all bent out of shape. Spill."
She huffed with annoyance at his 'chief' voice, but sat down across from him anyways, mumbling, "Well, you're gonna hear about it anyways."
"What am I gonna hear, Carter?" he asked more sharply than he meant to, but an overwhelming sense of dread was hitting him in the solar plexus.
"Rose-called-him-and-Johnson-set-up-a-sting-and-captured-Dottie," she blurted out in one breath.
"Bloody fu- orking hell!"
Johnson, Johnson, of all SSR chiefs got the glory of catching that bitch. Johnson!
He gave up all pretense at that and whipped out his flask, dumping over half of its contents into his mug to truly Irish it up.
Peggy arched her ever-expressive eyebrows at that, dryly declaring, "I have got to convince you of the wonders of tea, as it is certainly easier on your liver."
"I am an American. Tea just ain't gonna hack it, sweetheart, especially after a day like today and news like that," he retorted.
But like a dog with a bone, she did not give up.
"You need to talk to someone," she declared, with more soft concern than abrasive bite, as was her typical tone with him.
Not wanting to be pitied, he bit out, "Like you do?"
His voice had been dripping with skepticism, because he truly didn't believe that lone wolf and stiff-upper-lip Peggy talked about 'feelings' to anyone. He certainly couldn't imagine her on some shrink's couch.
But to his amazement, she readily admitted, "Yes, like I do. I talk to several someones – Angie, the Jarvises, even you occasionally, to name a few. Now granted not one of you gets the whole picture, but I share just enough that the demons don't need to be drowned out by a bottle every night. Can you say that?"
He nearly snapped 'Of course, I do' to her challenge, but then he knew she would ask who. And the name that came immediately to the tip of his tongue was hers. Exhibit Z: this very conversation. Exhibit A – Y: all the other times he had talked with Carter and how much easier it had been for him to sleep those nights.
He was not about to tell her that, of course. He was not some pathetic sap in a romance novel.
After a few moments too long, he growled out vaguely, "Occasionally."
When Peggy shot him a look as doubting as biblical Thomas's, he snapped peevishly, "Your concern is duly noted."
He also silently promised to look up old Frankie Allen, his platoon's chaplain and his friend, who he had heard had returned to civilian priesthood once out of service and his parish was local. Perhaps, he could have a nice confessional chat to unload all of his baggage of guilt, that only a Catholic born-and-raised boy could carry for so long.
To change the subject, he asked, "So how did this long overdue takedown happen?"
Peggy sighed, "They let Dottie have access to a bank vault before locking her in there and releasing knockout gas."
He let out low whistle, "That's mighty expensive. That kind of modification to the bank's security system would have taken quite the loosening up of the budget purse-strings, I imagine."
At Peggy's sniff of disapproval, he grinned at her and teased, "You're imagining how you could have done it for a tenth of the cost, aren't you?"
"A hundredth," she declared with the exact same amount of confidence when she had a stellar hand at poker.
If this had been a card game, he would have folded. But as it wasn't, he called her 'bluff'. "Oh? How would you have done it?"
After taking a sip from her now perfectly made cup of tea, she asserted hotly, "I would have waited in the vault and then clobbered her with bags of all that gloriously heavy capitalist coin that she so despises. Thank you very much."
"Oh Marge, if I had been chief, I would have let you."
~A~
A few weeks later, Peggy noticed that Jack was looking far more rested and that she was catching him less and less often sneaking 'coffee' breaks in the agents' lounge or anywhere else for that matter.
Before she got a chance to ask him about it, she overheard Vega complain, "Thompson, how can you be so fresh and effing chipper this morning? It's a goddamn Sunday morning at that!"
It was all hands on deck, because the Red Radio had broadcasted again on a pirate frequency last night, and the Powers-That-Be were demanding that they be found and shut down yesterday. The Powers-That-Be didn't seem to grasp the intricacies of time-travel.
Her own Sunday-morning-brain's loopy thoughts were interrupted by Blackwell's juvenile snickering, "Thompson's finally gettin' somethin'-somethin'. If you know what I mean?"
For some reason, that set her teeth on edge, and she began to reach inexplicably for her stapler.
Jack kept his cool though, which was uncharacteristic for him, and he simply ordered, "Get your mind out of the gutter, Blackwell." But then, with far less indifference (and with a significant glance in her direction), he explained, "I just came from mass. You should try it some time. It's good for the soul."
While everyone else gave him a hard time about 'getting religion', Peggy found herself smiling contentedly.
Jack Thompson had taken her advice. And he had in his own way let her know that she was right.
There was hope for the man yet.
And for some reason, knowing that she had made that small of a difference in one man, that man, meant more to her than catching her merry band of Robin Hoods and the other dozen or so criminals these past few weeks combined.
It was inexplicable.
On a logical level at least.
