FIC: [Agent Carter] Control - Sousa/Thompson, R
Um, okay, these went unanon earlier than I was expecting. So I wrote this. I have no particular idea where to post, this, so if anyone knows any communities that would be good.
I usually try not to divert from canon this much unless writing a specific AU, but I kind of screwed up, and by the time I realised it would have been impossible to disentangle the story before the deadline, so the background timeline is skewed. Still, sex pollen!
TITLE: Control
AUTHOR: roseveare
RATING: R/Mature
LENGTH: 6,050 words
SUMMARY: Agents Sousa and Thompson both fall afoul of one of Howard Stark's more lunatic inventions as SSR investigate the aftermath of the scene in the movie theatre. Slightly modified canon.
NOTES: Written for Paperclipbitch in M/M Rares 2015.
THANKS: to Rabbitt for beta-reading!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no profit, yadda, yadda, yadda.
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Control
Daniel Sousa stared into space while Agent Thompson animatedly detailed the fight that had brought them to their current physical state, letting it roll past him. "Big guys, yeah, just attacked out of nowhere! Three of 'em against two, and with Sousa a cripple, too, those stinking cowards--"
Sousa's leg ached in that persistent, crawl-out-of-his-brain way that told him he'd asked far too much of it. The rest of his body wasn't far behind. The movie theatre smelled worse than the worst flop-house Sousa had even been in (it had been scientific curiosity, more than anything else). The other SSR agents' faces were painted somewhere between entertainment and disgust at the scene. There was still the occasional humiliated and sobbing... or dopey and grinning or giggling... civilian being led away in various states of undress.
Howard Stark -- only Howard Stark--
"So what weaponised use does this one have?" Sousa heard his voice crack as he tried for the right tone of incredulous levity and didn't make it.
"Oh, I don't know," Agent Carter tossed over in that clipped manner that said she wasn't really all that amused, English accent more pronounced than ever. "If the enemy are too distracted by... availing themselves of each other, why, I very much suspect that leaves an attacker to do as they like."
Sousa couldn't help but imagine there was a question in there. Carter was a lot more canny than the men in the office gave her credit for.
Her voice seemed to cut through Chief Dooley's distraction and he turned, face reddening and expression cycling through a morass of changes in the space of a second before he said, "Carter, scram. Jeeze! This is no sight for a respectable woman." He rubbed his forehead and Sousa could see him mentally berating himself for the oversight up til now.
Carter didn't look amused, either way.
"Look... We should try to catch the trail of those three big guys that left," Sousa said, picking up Thompson's story with a trace of desperation. He eyed the other agent, who was describing the hulking brute who'd used his face for a punching bag while Thompson threw himself in manfully to protect his 'weaker' colleague. Thompson's arms spread wide like he was indicating the biggest fish no-one had ever caught. "Carter can pitch in with us."
"Yeah, yeah," Dooley said, shaking his head, wafting a hand, reaching for a cigarette. "Too rich for your liver, too, Sousa? I get it. Get off the premises."
"Thompson--!" Sousa called insistently over the tall tales, willing the other agent to get on board with this and flee the wretched scene.
The bruises on Thompson's jaw were already beginning to recognisably form into the shape of a handprint.
"--Captain America could take some tips, that's for sure," one of Thompson's audience was studiously mocking him.
The blood and scrapes on Thompson's knuckles could attest to how he'd indeed fought sufficiently to justify a tale, if perhaps not one so elaborate as this.
Sousa had those, too. He still couldn't quite believe that the way their clothes were particularly scuffed and pulled out of shape hadn't drawn attention to the reality. "Thompson. You saw those goons, are you coming to see if we can catch up to them?" He drilled the thoughts down through his gaze. Come on, come on Jack, come on! Don't be an ass, they're going to figure it out.
Daniel Sousa, he reflected grimly, already a cripple and thus less than a man in the eyes of his co-workers, could probably live with himself, with this too going around the office. Dooley's golden boy, he suspected, almost certainly couldn't.
"Alright, Susan, don't flip your lid," Thompson threw back glibly.
Agent Carter was looking at them both with a fixed intensity that made Sousa pretty damn sure at this point that she saw.
"Get her out of here," Dooley said again, pointing. "Maybe she can swing the fight your way if you run up against those thugs again. Thompson, take them both out. Go. Go. Go." He clapped his hands impatiently.
Sousa stopped himself from letting out an audible sigh of relief.
Thompson leaned in close to him as they moved to leave the theatre, Carter walking in trite little steps behind them on her ladies' shoes. Sousa would swear that little click-click-click was judging or mocking them somehow.
"No-one ever finds out about this," Thompson hissed, his breath short, and Sousa could hear the lump in the back of his throat and his absolute panic. The beating pulse in his neck was so damn close to Sousa's face, right now, and he could smell Jack, earthy and masculine and still heady with the sharp tangs of the physical exertions in which they'd both just engaged. It was almost enough to make his own senses reel and send him spiralling down that road of madness again.
--Maybe it hadn't completely worn off yet.
That thought sparked a panic of Sousa's own. He swallowed. "Thompson--"
"No-one. Not now, not ever."
Thompson's hand on Sousa's shoulder was tight and nobody could have mistaken the self-loathing in his voice and in every line of his body.
"Sure, Jack," he muttered. "Wouldn't do me any favours, either. You do know that?"
Carter's eyebrows were up, seeing them this close, seeing this uncharacteristic little huddle of collusion between them, and surely any mere suspicions that she had had were confirmed now.
But they were walking out of the movie theatre, down the steps, away from the harsh artificial lights, away from the suddenly threatening presence of the rest of the SSR, into the covering safety of the night.
"Do you want to hazard a guess as to the direction or destination of your exceptionally large fugitive men?" Carter asked crisply. "Or would you like to simply take a car back to the office?"
She flipped her hand out, a small object nestled in her palm which made a sharp click in time with the gesture. Sousa jolted, nerves still on edge, at first thinking it was a weapon she held. It wasn't.
It was one of those compact little mirrors that ladies carried, with some kind flesh coloured -- he was guessing flesh-coloured -- thick paste or powder inside.
Carter demanded, "Shall we?"
***
They'd been investigating the doors leading into the areas at the back of the theatre, more in the pursuit of rounding up the last of the oversexed crowd than to find the perpetrators of the whole farce, when a clunk and a hiss sounded at Sousa's opening of what turned out to be a storage closet. With a large, spherical device in it. Which he'd just knocked over while fumbling between his crutch and the handle to open the door. A little fluid dribbled out of the overturned device. Sousa tried to manoeuvre and snagged against a tube leading from the... canister to a drilled hole in the door.
"Oh, Christ, Thompson--" he started in warning.
"What'd you trip over now?" Jack craned his head over Sousa's shoulder. He sniffed, like he'd detected an unfamiliar odour.
"You ass," Sousa said, horrified beyond maintaining the veneer of politeness. He looked beyond Jack and could see Peggy Carter not far away, picking her way among the top of the seating stages -- wading through discarded clothing, for the most part -- with a pinched look on her face. He hadn't realised Carter was still there. A wave of need broke through him, tightening his pants uncomfortably and placing Carter's figure in a sort of red haze that was focused, primarily, on parts of his fellow agent's anatomy that made him feel painfully, distractingly improper. "Oh my God, Thompson."
He yanked Thompson into the cupboard and slammed shut the door. Wedged it.
"Sousa!" Thompson howled, like he couldn't quite believe that had just happened, though actual anger would surely follow.
Hauling the taller man around hadn’t been the best idea. With his balance offset, to his horror, Sousa found they were both toppling to the floor before he could even try to do anything about it. A pile of brooms and wash buckets shifted, making a din, and the false leg hit the large, spherical canister on the way down, sending him lurching even more out of control for the fall. Thompson landed on top of him.
"Nice going. Even for you," Thompson griped, and planted an elbow -- deliberately -- in Sousa's gut as he moved to rise. Sousa curled a hand in his collar.
"Don't."
"--What the hell?"
Sousa palmed Thompson's head around until the metal sphere was in his line of sight. "That," he said. "What would you say that is, Thompson? Look like a Howard Stark Original to you? You really want to be out there, if we've been exposed to the same thing the rest of the people in this place were? Or would you rather lock yourself in here until you're sure you're safe?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I feel fine, and even if I got exposed to a little of that, well, I'm not going to turn into some animal like--"
"Too above the rest of humanity, huh? Even chemicals respect the superiority of Jack Thompson?"
"Screw you, Sousa. Get off." The elbow returned, harder and more like a blow this time. Thompson's knees were straddling either side of Sousa's hips as he moved to rise.
"Carter's out there!" Sousa said. "You want to share this with her? Like the ladies out there?"
The whole department might know that Sousa was soft on the female agent, but he had an inkling he wasn't the only one. Jack, after all, mostly didn't respond to the people he didn't think about. He made enough unsolicited remarks to Carter to indicate he'd at least noticed her.
"Uh..." Thompson's face had filled with doubt. And something else. "That skirt she's wearing looks... really good... today. Around her--" He blushed furiously and stopped, and put a hand over his face. Sousa understood exactly what he was thinking; he had that red haze back himself, Carter's curves recalled vividly by the almost filthy undertone in Jack's voice, the way his tongue flicked out and his mouth formed a shape that was practically vulgar, without intending it. "Damn it, Sousa, this is your fault!"
He didn't dispute it, though he told himself that whoever had searched this area would have been as likely to find the device, perhaps as likely to disturb the last of the gas and infect themselves. He could make up for the mistake by ensuring he didn't become a part of the problem. Or at least that he didn't humiliate himself and the agency in all new ways. It would be Thompson he'd dragged into this, though.
Thompson's hands rested, shaking, on his shoulders. He used that grip to push off and rose to as full a height as he could on his knees, and Sousa could see that other parts of his body -- presented pretty much full-on at his own eye level now -- had stood erect in response to the situation. Thompson half-twisted from his waist, looking around frantically, his hands clenching into fists. There wasn't a lot of room for him to stand, and nothing for leverage except Sousa. "How're we -- fuck you, Daniel! -- how are we supposed to lock ourselves in this God damn cupboard?! How's one thin little door gonna hold us back from her? Because I gotta tell you, right now it feels like I am this far from wrenching that door open and--"
Sousa was getting that same feeling, that increasing loss of control. "We need to -- need to shove everything we possibly can in front of it. Fast."
Thompson laughed at him. "Right. You idiot, Sousa! We should've gone out there, got to Dooley, told him so he could've had people subdue us, hold us down, knock us out. Now it's too late."
"We can ride this out!" Sousa hissed. "We have to. You really, really would have wanted Dooley and everyone else to know about this? Watch us being infected by it? Those people out there--" Bad to remind himself. He'd seen the women and men with their clothes ripped off, bruises on their skin from how desperate they'd been to -- to -- to fall on each other in their lust.
"We have no choice!" Thompson shifted position to get up, for a brief moment mashing their lower bodies uncomfortably together... The contact sparked off all Sousa's nerves and set up a fire that couldn't -- that he couldn't allow to -- be satisfied. Thompson jerked to his feet in the narrow space, planting a knee in Sousa's face, and started kicking and thrashing at the contents of the cupboard, hauling it all between the door and themselves with a fierce lack of care.
"Keep the noise down! Last thing we want is for Carter to investigate. Who knows how far we'd go before anyone could stop us? At least the women in the original aerosol gas release, they were affected too."
Looked like they'd had fun, as well, the treacherous thought slipped through. Thrown off the coating of polite respectability and unleashed the passions within. God, he could show Peggy that kind of fun. He scrambled as much to his feet as space and bum leg would allow and reached to pull a wedged broom from Thompson's barrier, wanting to be out there.
"Daniel!" Thompson slapped him, then grabbed him and slammed him against the back wall of the closet. He waved a fierce finger in front of his face, himself sweating and face bright red. "...Stay." He set about wedging his barrier further, grabbing Sousa's crutch and adding it to the collection. Wasn't as though he needed it in this confined a space. On all sides, he could practically reach out an arm and lean on the wall.
"Thanks," Sousa said quietly.
"Don't mention it." Thompson loomed shakily and stared at him, whites showing around his eyes, crotch jutting, sweating and flushed. "We need to keep each other under control. Fight each other if we have to. We can not allow either of us to get through that door."
He looked glorious.
"--Oh," said Sousa, feeling like all the air had been thumped out of him. Perhaps he hadn't ensured that they were both safe from the gas, after all. "Jack... Jack..." He tested the word on his tongue, liking the taste of it. He was pretty sure that there was more of Jack he'd like the taste of even better. "Thompson, come down here." Barely knowing what he was doing, he was groping at his fellow agent, trying to pull him closer. Sousa wasn't completely on the floor -- Thompson had sort of yanked him up straighter when he shoved him around -- but he was still sagging compared to Thompson's rigidly straight posture. "Jack, I've got to -- we can--"
Sickened realisation spread across Thompson's face. "Oh, you have got to be kidding." He palmed his face and his eyes gleamed like black beads when he uncovered them again. "You -- we're not doing this."
He turned back to the barrier and Sousa kicked his ankles with his good foot, knocking both his legs from under him. Thompson fell on top of Sousa's bad leg, which hurt, but that was a dull kind of pain, in the back of his mind, barely registering beneath what felt important right now...
"We're not getting out of that door," he grit. "What we've got is each other. Maybe that's a good thing! Who knows what happens if the people affected by the gas don't get to -- don't -- What if they explode or something?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Thompson spat. "Get off me, you pervert." There wasn't any room in the closet to be anywhere but all over each other, and since Thompson's fall, they were both mostly on the floor. His breathing was harsh and he didn't care what damage he did to Sousa in the process as he twisted until his feet were under him and started to pry himself up, leaning on the piled up debris over the door. "Got to -- got to get out of here. Get to Carter... at least Carter..."
Sousa was in a great position to haul his legs out from under him again, and did. Jack crashed down again amid the clatter of objects from the barrier. This time, he responded with fists and violence, fury taking over. Sousa wasn't sure if it came from his panic over the lust that had stirred between the two of them or his desire to get to Carter on the other side of the door, or if it was just the simple fact of needing to expend the energy building up in him doing something physical, even if that was punching out. Sousa let himself be taken by the urge to fight back. This close quarters, it was like the leg didn't matter. Especially right now, when he didn't even care about the pain as the damaged limb was twisted around in the small space. He was stronger in the upper body than Thompson, and took every advantage of that. It was easy to fight Thompson -- it surged up in him, that burning, animal desire to beat the snot out of the other agent was something he'd harboured for a long time...
That fire was in both of them, but it wasn't long before the focus of the touches was, well, more focused, if not necessarily less violent. They groped, shoved, thrust against any body part that moved and offered itself at convenience. Thompson even spent several seconds humping the false knee. Jack gasped into his ear as Sousa got hold of him through the thin, negligible protection of his pants, and Sousa craned his neck and without thinking -- thinking had been turned off several minutes back -- shoved their mouths together, instinctively searching for greater intimacy.
Thompson choked as the move snapped them both out of it, brought them both back to themselves enough to realise what this was, where they were, what this wasn't-- "Sousa, I knew you were desperate, but I want no part of you to sexually touch any part of me," Jack grated.
He bit Sousa's lip and pulled back, wrenching them apart and holding them at arm's length from each other. "We're going to stand up. Both of us, we'll stand up, and you'll go in that corner, I'll go in this one, and we'll -- We can do this. We can outlast this. Damn!"
He was already almost purple in the face and looked ready to burst from need.
Sousa was enough back in control of himself to help him out, though he suspected that he'd got the heavier dose in that first face full of the gas trapped in the cupboard. "Trust -- trust Howard Stark to come up with something like this," he said, shakily, letting go of Thompson and backing off to the closet's opposite side.
They were still only just far enough away that they couldn't reach out and touch each other. Leaning forward just a little would put them in reach again. Which was no use at all, really, to combat the need pounding in the back of Sousa's brain. "This isn't going to work."
"It's working fine," Thompson grit out, folding his arms around himself and hugging into the wall and, actually, managing to make himself look a lot smaller than Sousa would have thought possible.
"No, it's--" He shut his eyes against the pull, and made his mouth shape the words with logic and reason. "We're not going to be able to resist. We'll lose control again. Out there--" He pointed, his voice rising too loud for a moment before he pulled it back. "Out there, those people just turned into convenient holes for each other, in some uncaring violent urge to take or be taken." He knew he'd normally be blushing furiously at his own crudeness, but here and now it couldn't make any appreciable difference to how blood-flushed and unbearably overheated his whole body was. "But we have an advantage those people didn't have -- we know what this impulse is, where it's come from. We have that much control. What if we... just get on with it. Decide what to do, just how far to go, and do it. Maybe once we've got this out of our system... Maybe it's just the act. We need to sate each other."
"No. Thank you." Thompson hissed the words. "Sating nothing on you."
At least they weren't trying to get out of the door again. It seemed to Sousa that their fumbling on the floor, the modicum of release it had provided, had salved the need, reinstated a degree of sanity. But he could feel it all trying to come back. "We have to do it," he said, reasonably -- as reasonable as that high, strained thread of a voice that must be his could have possibly sounded, anyway. "We want to keep this between us. This way no-one else has to know. If we choose what to do, we don't end up tearing each other's clothes off and doing... what all those people did. Jack..." He choked. "There's no other way. Let me--" He slipped down the wall awkwardly. He couldn't go to his knees, not properly, but like this, leaning one shoulder against the wall, he could support himself at the right height and stick the bad leg out in front of him. He gestured with his hand, reeling Thompson in. "Closer..."
Thompson took wooden steps, drawn despite himself. "I don't want you to do this," he said, dully, but something in his eyes said, But at least it's you on the floor and not me.
Sousa didn't care, he just needed to touch and be touched, and right now, it had almost ceased to matter who was his partner in the endeavour. Right now, Jack Thompson looked perfect anyway, fine features and lithe, strong body still cased in his suit, the slightly jaunty touch of patterned red suspenders making their addition to the ensemble today. Sousa reached up and slid his shaking hands to undo buttons. He wanted to see all of Jack, unclothed before him, but he’d settle for a small part.
Or not so small, then. Eyes pinned hungrily on what offered itself before him, springing free when released with such undeniable eagerness, Sousa licked his lips and dived in. The taste was initially offensive, but not so much as to make him care. The thought of what he was doing, for another man -- right now he couldn't care less. He hadn't had anything with anyone since he'd left the hospital and paid for a prostitute the week he was out, trying to figure out how to deal with his injury, what it meant. What it meant for him with women, what it meant for him in bed. She'd pitied him, and seeing it had made him avoid taking that route for his own release again. Obviously there'd been no other encounters. But she'd done this for him, and he remembered it; every move she'd made, every part of that last, humiliating sexual contact had emblazoned themselves on his brain, and it rolled them back out again for Agent Jack Thompson, under Sousa's hands and mouth, now.
"Oh my God, Susan," Thompson groaned, his voice high and tight, tight, tight, not wanting but wanting, and he curled his hands over the top of Sousa's head, weaved his fingers through his hair, and after a moment, started to guide his movements.
Which wasn't comfortable. But it seemed like the rough contact of those forceful hands as they grew in confidence went straight to Sousa's groin, and he groaned, feeling it. Jack cursed and shoved a foot -- a foot! -- between his legs, pressing it forward, hard, not so pitiless after all, and letting Sousa move against him, pushing back, grinding down, as he almost forgot to focus on what was happening with his lips. But that didn't matter, because Jack was hauling on his head now anyway, controlling those movements.
Whatever was in the gas made the arousal tenacious. Thompson kept thrusting for an insanely long time, and when he finally came, it took them both off guard. Cursing, Jack made a noise of distress and managed to pull out before he'd spilled too much into Sousa's mouth. "Oh, fuck, Daniel. I'm sorry! Daniel!" Thompson was falling down between his knees, yelling and pulling at his face. In between struggling not to choke and recovering his breathing, Sousa did remember there was some pressing reason they should be trying to keep quieter than this. "Are you-- I didn't mean -- you idiot! Damn it, you're the one who started this! I wouldn't ever-- I'm not some--"
That was all fine and good: Jack Thompson was a human being in there, perhaps even had traces of a decent one, but right now Sousa didn't care. Sousa only cared that humping a foot wasn't enough. He wanted more. He made an inarticulate noise and fixed a sick smile on Thompson. Pulled on his dragging hand. Guided it to his crotch.
"Oh, God," Thompson said, sickly.
Sousa had the unpleasant suspicion that Thompson had come out of it now. Maybe not absolutely all the way, but certainly well on the road back to normal. He hadn't had the wherewithal to tuck himself back into his pants, and his cock hung spent and damp there. Sousa's eyes zeroed onto it, but there was nothing for him to do there now. He himself hadn't come, might've been stronger affected to start with, and all he could think about was the release. He jerked fumbling fingers at the fastenings of his pants and pushed, insistently again, at Thompson's hand, which had stayed frozen where it was, forcing Thompson's fingers to apply pressure where he wanted it. "Please..."
Jack made a long, thin whine and shook his head and then, like a man possessed, not only wrapped his fingers hard exactly where they were needed most, but fell to the floor, folding his form up with a limberness that wasn't wholly unexpected, and bending his mouth down to...
Sousa pulled at him. He didn't have to... His hand, with those clever, thin fingers, was sure to be enough. Thompson had to know that was an option, that he could, at least, first try that way out. After all, he wasn't some self-flagellating, damaged fool, whose first thoughts went to regurgitating his last meaningless and painful sex act with anyone else. But maybe Jack Thompson wasn't going to be owed that much by anyone -- if Sousa had goddamn done this for him, then by God he'd return in kind.
Except Sousa had been half crazed -- and still was, because he couldn't wrap his thoughts around the concept of dissuading Jack any more -- while he was doing this, and Thompson wasn't.
He gave in to it. Couldn't do anything to stop it. Too much temptation, too much. Soon he was thrusting into Thompson's face with as much fervour as the other man had, before, pulling that bowed head down further onto him, revelling in the curve of Jack's shoulders and back crouched over his lap. At least some part of his brain wanted to smugly replay over those bowed shoulders each insult offered him over their work in the office, but that part was relegated to a corner of shame he steadfastly tried not to acknowledge.
Dimly, he had enough core of coherence to already be sure that, after this, they were both going to want to die as soon as ever look at each other again.
***
The two of them were struck almost dumb by the terrible fact of the secret between them being uncovered so quickly, but they did manage to climb into the car, which beckoned a modicum of privacy for the discussion and proceedings. A streetlight above gave Jack, in the driver's seat, just enough visibility to look in the small mirror and fade out the fingerprints around his jaw. "Goddamn it, Sousa, you've got a grip," he mumbled unhappily as he finished. His complexion, though now covered up by the powder, visibly darkened anyway, even in the half light.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" Peggy leaned forward from the rear of the motor vehicle, an elbow over each of their shoulders -- rested on the seat backs, not quite touching -- and her tone insistent as she asked, once again, for answers they both had to be pretty sure she already knew. Sousa was sure.
"Aw, Marg..." Thompson groaned.
"Yes, Jack," she acknowledged crisply, then carried on. "Because field-testing Howard Stark's inventions is, I should imagine, seldom comfortable for those involved. But I suspect that some swiftly applied damage control could do wonders for those so unfortunately afflicted."
--And Sousa had to side with Thompson, for once. What did Peggy know? She might be more competent than SSR wanted to acknowledge, sure, but she hadn't-- And she was a woman, besides, and they couldn't just-- "I'm not going to talk about the effects of that damned gas with a lady, Peggy. You heard Dooley. I don't plan on talking about this with anyone, point of fact. That's all you need know."
She merely cleared her throat and kept her gaze flickering between the both of them, stolidly, until they caved. Sousa caved.
She was never going to look at him the same way again. But then, she barely looked at him anyway, and she already knew. She knew, and this was pointless. "Doesn't matter, Peggy. We locked ourselves out of the way. Dealt with it together. Made sure no-one got hurt, not even by reputation."
"Sousa!" Jack snapped.
"Toge--" She didn't finish. She leaned back in the centre of the seat, rolling her head and massaging her neck with a sigh. Both Thompson and Sousa turned and leaned into their opposite doors, to keep her in view. "So. There really were no three heavies, even of regular human size, only Daniel and Jack and the suspect canister. Which was not, unlike advertised, dropped as Jack chased said perfectly ordinary heavies off 'like Steve Rogers', I believe was the phrase being tossed around."
Thompson tipped a shoulder, growing surly. "Had to tell them something."
"Yes, and if you're going to tell a tall tale anyway, why not make it a self-aggrandising one?"
"It seemed to work on Dooley and the rest just fine," Sousa defended. At least, Jack's elaborations had had the effect of throwing them off the scent, making them question those parts and not the core of the tale... and maybe Thompson was smarter than he was tempted to believe, too. "We're just fine, Peggy. It's all done with now. Thank you for the... cover up." He gestured at the compact in Thompson's hand. "We just need to put this behind us."
Thompson made a choked sound, but when Sousa looked at him, only held up the compact and asked, "You want this?"
Sousa felt his face. He could see it in the wing mirror, angled right. "I don't think I'm--"
"You should keep it, Jack," Peggy said, her voice heavier. "Daniel only looks like he's been on a losing end of a fist fight, not on the receiving end of some... prisoner's welcoming initiation."
Thompson's face screwed up. "Hey, it's yours, I couldn't--"
"I've got more." She tipped her head, and there was compassion in her face, now she'd thoroughly wrenched the truth out of them -- and the graphic truth to which she was cogent, called up by the words she'd spoken, stunned Sousa. She rolled her eyes at him. "Contrary to what SSR believes, I did fight and I do know what happens in war -- and do not forget that this gas, however absurd, was designed by Stark for warfare. You both only need keep in mind that you protected each other and your fellow agents, and the reputation of the SSR, in dire circumstances -- and there is no shame in that."
Sousa shifted uncomfortably and Thompson surprised him, turning his voice all soft and low and -- like a different freakin' person entirely, really -- and saying, "Thanks, Carter."
She didn't lay a hand on them, but she touched the back of each front seat again, gently this time with her fingers curled, near to their shoulders. "Now, are you two boys going to be able to sort this out between yourselves, or do I need to stay around to ensure it doesn't turn to fisticuffs again? This is the fault of Howard and whoever planted that device in the theatre, after all, and that you must remember." She grimaced. "I should very much imagine that there was at least one psychological side application in mind for this particular gas. It could handily ruin any ability even the tightest knit group of soldiers had to work and fight together. And the two of you--"
There was the trace of a question in her voice.
Thompson's expression was very odd as he looked away from her, flicked his eyes very briefly to Sousa, and said, "No. Sousa and I are good."
"--Daniel?"
Sousa groaned. "Look, if you have to know, I -- it was mostly me. It was my fault. So no, I'm not going to blame it on Thompson. My God--"
Jack reached out and gripped his arm, hard, an earnest sincerity in his eyes that was, for the briefest of instants, on the verge of something else.
The gesture stopped the breath of everyone in the car, even Jack, when he realised it. Air hissed out through his teeth and he let go. "Sorry. I didn't--!" He flung his hands up. "Just don't blame yourself. Except for tripping over that damned thing in the first place and setting it off, because that was all you, Stumpy. But for what happened and what we did, we both carry that, check? Doesn't matter, anyway. You heard the broad. If she can say it doesn't matter--" That oddness, again, burned in his eyes, like he was trying to tell Sousa something by telepathy but, not being receptive enough, Sousa had no clue what it was.
Peggy was smiling, though. "I'll leave you both to it, then. Thank you, Jack." She did pat his shoulder, this time, and then she shuffled out of the car and cast a final -- oddly entertained -- glance at Sousa before she slammed the door.
Thompson moaned and slumped in his seat, a lot of the rigidity and poise he'd managed to maintain thus far apparently having been for Peggy's presence.
Sousa slumped, too. He supposed it didn't matter what was revealed between the two of them, now.
After interminable minutes had ticked by, Thompson offered up, with a forced jocularity that almost verged on manic, "How about that Carter, huh?" He rubbed his head and just remembered in time not to run his hand over the repair job on his complexion.
"I know she thinks she's helping -- hell, maybe she did help -- but that was uncomfortable," Sousa agreed. After a beat, thinking he'd misunderstood, he added, "She sure is something."
"Something!" Thompson mocked. He shook his head and straightened, shaking something off. "Aw, hell with it, Daniel, she's right. We're tit for tat, and can't say fairer than that. No call to let this hang over us til' we're old and grey and can't remember what sex feels like anymore to make the whole thing redundant. We can tell Dooley some other story in the morning. Let's ditch early and go get a drink."
"You're-- We--" Sousa had never expected to be forgiven. Not by, of all people, Jack Thompson.
There was still a slight flush visible even under the make-up on Thompson's face as he reached over and clapped Sousa's shoulder. "MacEarley's, over by the docks. No respectable SSR agent would be seen dead in that dive. Except my cousin's the bartender, black sheep of the family. We can hole up there safely and drink ourselves stupid. C'mon--"
"S-sure, Thompson..." Sousa stammered.
What else was there to say? Certainly his leg was starting to ache fiercely enough that he could use the anaesthetic.
Jack started the engine.
END
Or read on AO3.
I usually try not to divert from canon this much unless writing a specific AU, but I kind of screwed up, and by the time I realised it would have been impossible to disentangle the story before the deadline, so the background timeline is skewed. Still, sex pollen!
TITLE: Control
AUTHOR: roseveare
RATING: R/Mature
LENGTH: 6,050 words
SUMMARY: Agents Sousa and Thompson both fall afoul of one of Howard Stark's more lunatic inventions as SSR investigate the aftermath of the scene in the movie theatre. Slightly modified canon.
NOTES: Written for Paperclipbitch in M/M Rares 2015.
THANKS: to Rabbitt for beta-reading!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, no profit, yadda, yadda, yadda.
---------
Control
Daniel Sousa stared into space while Agent Thompson animatedly detailed the fight that had brought them to their current physical state, letting it roll past him. "Big guys, yeah, just attacked out of nowhere! Three of 'em against two, and with Sousa a cripple, too, those stinking cowards--"
Sousa's leg ached in that persistent, crawl-out-of-his-brain way that told him he'd asked far too much of it. The rest of his body wasn't far behind. The movie theatre smelled worse than the worst flop-house Sousa had even been in (it had been scientific curiosity, more than anything else). The other SSR agents' faces were painted somewhere between entertainment and disgust at the scene. There was still the occasional humiliated and sobbing... or dopey and grinning or giggling... civilian being led away in various states of undress.
Howard Stark -- only Howard Stark--
"So what weaponised use does this one have?" Sousa heard his voice crack as he tried for the right tone of incredulous levity and didn't make it.
"Oh, I don't know," Agent Carter tossed over in that clipped manner that said she wasn't really all that amused, English accent more pronounced than ever. "If the enemy are too distracted by... availing themselves of each other, why, I very much suspect that leaves an attacker to do as they like."
Sousa couldn't help but imagine there was a question in there. Carter was a lot more canny than the men in the office gave her credit for.
Her voice seemed to cut through Chief Dooley's distraction and he turned, face reddening and expression cycling through a morass of changes in the space of a second before he said, "Carter, scram. Jeeze! This is no sight for a respectable woman." He rubbed his forehead and Sousa could see him mentally berating himself for the oversight up til now.
Carter didn't look amused, either way.
"Look... We should try to catch the trail of those three big guys that left," Sousa said, picking up Thompson's story with a trace of desperation. He eyed the other agent, who was describing the hulking brute who'd used his face for a punching bag while Thompson threw himself in manfully to protect his 'weaker' colleague. Thompson's arms spread wide like he was indicating the biggest fish no-one had ever caught. "Carter can pitch in with us."
"Yeah, yeah," Dooley said, shaking his head, wafting a hand, reaching for a cigarette. "Too rich for your liver, too, Sousa? I get it. Get off the premises."
"Thompson--!" Sousa called insistently over the tall tales, willing the other agent to get on board with this and flee the wretched scene.
The bruises on Thompson's jaw were already beginning to recognisably form into the shape of a handprint.
"--Captain America could take some tips, that's for sure," one of Thompson's audience was studiously mocking him.
The blood and scrapes on Thompson's knuckles could attest to how he'd indeed fought sufficiently to justify a tale, if perhaps not one so elaborate as this.
Sousa had those, too. He still couldn't quite believe that the way their clothes were particularly scuffed and pulled out of shape hadn't drawn attention to the reality. "Thompson. You saw those goons, are you coming to see if we can catch up to them?" He drilled the thoughts down through his gaze. Come on, come on Jack, come on! Don't be an ass, they're going to figure it out.
Daniel Sousa, he reflected grimly, already a cripple and thus less than a man in the eyes of his co-workers, could probably live with himself, with this too going around the office. Dooley's golden boy, he suspected, almost certainly couldn't.
"Alright, Susan, don't flip your lid," Thompson threw back glibly.
Agent Carter was looking at them both with a fixed intensity that made Sousa pretty damn sure at this point that she saw.
"Get her out of here," Dooley said again, pointing. "Maybe she can swing the fight your way if you run up against those thugs again. Thompson, take them both out. Go. Go. Go." He clapped his hands impatiently.
Sousa stopped himself from letting out an audible sigh of relief.
Thompson leaned in close to him as they moved to leave the theatre, Carter walking in trite little steps behind them on her ladies' shoes. Sousa would swear that little click-click-click was judging or mocking them somehow.
"No-one ever finds out about this," Thompson hissed, his breath short, and Sousa could hear the lump in the back of his throat and his absolute panic. The beating pulse in his neck was so damn close to Sousa's face, right now, and he could smell Jack, earthy and masculine and still heady with the sharp tangs of the physical exertions in which they'd both just engaged. It was almost enough to make his own senses reel and send him spiralling down that road of madness again.
--Maybe it hadn't completely worn off yet.
That thought sparked a panic of Sousa's own. He swallowed. "Thompson--"
"No-one. Not now, not ever."
Thompson's hand on Sousa's shoulder was tight and nobody could have mistaken the self-loathing in his voice and in every line of his body.
"Sure, Jack," he muttered. "Wouldn't do me any favours, either. You do know that?"
Carter's eyebrows were up, seeing them this close, seeing this uncharacteristic little huddle of collusion between them, and surely any mere suspicions that she had had were confirmed now.
But they were walking out of the movie theatre, down the steps, away from the harsh artificial lights, away from the suddenly threatening presence of the rest of the SSR, into the covering safety of the night.
"Do you want to hazard a guess as to the direction or destination of your exceptionally large fugitive men?" Carter asked crisply. "Or would you like to simply take a car back to the office?"
She flipped her hand out, a small object nestled in her palm which made a sharp click in time with the gesture. Sousa jolted, nerves still on edge, at first thinking it was a weapon she held. It wasn't.
It was one of those compact little mirrors that ladies carried, with some kind flesh coloured -- he was guessing flesh-coloured -- thick paste or powder inside.
Carter demanded, "Shall we?"
***
They'd been investigating the doors leading into the areas at the back of the theatre, more in the pursuit of rounding up the last of the oversexed crowd than to find the perpetrators of the whole farce, when a clunk and a hiss sounded at Sousa's opening of what turned out to be a storage closet. With a large, spherical device in it. Which he'd just knocked over while fumbling between his crutch and the handle to open the door. A little fluid dribbled out of the overturned device. Sousa tried to manoeuvre and snagged against a tube leading from the... canister to a drilled hole in the door.
"Oh, Christ, Thompson--" he started in warning.
"What'd you trip over now?" Jack craned his head over Sousa's shoulder. He sniffed, like he'd detected an unfamiliar odour.
"You ass," Sousa said, horrified beyond maintaining the veneer of politeness. He looked beyond Jack and could see Peggy Carter not far away, picking her way among the top of the seating stages -- wading through discarded clothing, for the most part -- with a pinched look on her face. He hadn't realised Carter was still there. A wave of need broke through him, tightening his pants uncomfortably and placing Carter's figure in a sort of red haze that was focused, primarily, on parts of his fellow agent's anatomy that made him feel painfully, distractingly improper. "Oh my God, Thompson."
He yanked Thompson into the cupboard and slammed shut the door. Wedged it.
"Sousa!" Thompson howled, like he couldn't quite believe that had just happened, though actual anger would surely follow.
Hauling the taller man around hadn’t been the best idea. With his balance offset, to his horror, Sousa found they were both toppling to the floor before he could even try to do anything about it. A pile of brooms and wash buckets shifted, making a din, and the false leg hit the large, spherical canister on the way down, sending him lurching even more out of control for the fall. Thompson landed on top of him.
"Nice going. Even for you," Thompson griped, and planted an elbow -- deliberately -- in Sousa's gut as he moved to rise. Sousa curled a hand in his collar.
"Don't."
"--What the hell?"
Sousa palmed Thompson's head around until the metal sphere was in his line of sight. "That," he said. "What would you say that is, Thompson? Look like a Howard Stark Original to you? You really want to be out there, if we've been exposed to the same thing the rest of the people in this place were? Or would you rather lock yourself in here until you're sure you're safe?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I feel fine, and even if I got exposed to a little of that, well, I'm not going to turn into some animal like--"
"Too above the rest of humanity, huh? Even chemicals respect the superiority of Jack Thompson?"
"Screw you, Sousa. Get off." The elbow returned, harder and more like a blow this time. Thompson's knees were straddling either side of Sousa's hips as he moved to rise.
"Carter's out there!" Sousa said. "You want to share this with her? Like the ladies out there?"
The whole department might know that Sousa was soft on the female agent, but he had an inkling he wasn't the only one. Jack, after all, mostly didn't respond to the people he didn't think about. He made enough unsolicited remarks to Carter to indicate he'd at least noticed her.
"Uh..." Thompson's face had filled with doubt. And something else. "That skirt she's wearing looks... really good... today. Around her--" He blushed furiously and stopped, and put a hand over his face. Sousa understood exactly what he was thinking; he had that red haze back himself, Carter's curves recalled vividly by the almost filthy undertone in Jack's voice, the way his tongue flicked out and his mouth formed a shape that was practically vulgar, without intending it. "Damn it, Sousa, this is your fault!"
He didn't dispute it, though he told himself that whoever had searched this area would have been as likely to find the device, perhaps as likely to disturb the last of the gas and infect themselves. He could make up for the mistake by ensuring he didn't become a part of the problem. Or at least that he didn't humiliate himself and the agency in all new ways. It would be Thompson he'd dragged into this, though.
Thompson's hands rested, shaking, on his shoulders. He used that grip to push off and rose to as full a height as he could on his knees, and Sousa could see that other parts of his body -- presented pretty much full-on at his own eye level now -- had stood erect in response to the situation. Thompson half-twisted from his waist, looking around frantically, his hands clenching into fists. There wasn't a lot of room for him to stand, and nothing for leverage except Sousa. "How're we -- fuck you, Daniel! -- how are we supposed to lock ourselves in this God damn cupboard?! How's one thin little door gonna hold us back from her? Because I gotta tell you, right now it feels like I am this far from wrenching that door open and--"
Sousa was getting that same feeling, that increasing loss of control. "We need to -- need to shove everything we possibly can in front of it. Fast."
Thompson laughed at him. "Right. You idiot, Sousa! We should've gone out there, got to Dooley, told him so he could've had people subdue us, hold us down, knock us out. Now it's too late."
"We can ride this out!" Sousa hissed. "We have to. You really, really would have wanted Dooley and everyone else to know about this? Watch us being infected by it? Those people out there--" Bad to remind himself. He'd seen the women and men with their clothes ripped off, bruises on their skin from how desperate they'd been to -- to -- to fall on each other in their lust.
"We have no choice!" Thompson shifted position to get up, for a brief moment mashing their lower bodies uncomfortably together... The contact sparked off all Sousa's nerves and set up a fire that couldn't -- that he couldn't allow to -- be satisfied. Thompson jerked to his feet in the narrow space, planting a knee in Sousa's face, and started kicking and thrashing at the contents of the cupboard, hauling it all between the door and themselves with a fierce lack of care.
"Keep the noise down! Last thing we want is for Carter to investigate. Who knows how far we'd go before anyone could stop us? At least the women in the original aerosol gas release, they were affected too."
Looked like they'd had fun, as well, the treacherous thought slipped through. Thrown off the coating of polite respectability and unleashed the passions within. God, he could show Peggy that kind of fun. He scrambled as much to his feet as space and bum leg would allow and reached to pull a wedged broom from Thompson's barrier, wanting to be out there.
"Daniel!" Thompson slapped him, then grabbed him and slammed him against the back wall of the closet. He waved a fierce finger in front of his face, himself sweating and face bright red. "...Stay." He set about wedging his barrier further, grabbing Sousa's crutch and adding it to the collection. Wasn't as though he needed it in this confined a space. On all sides, he could practically reach out an arm and lean on the wall.
"Thanks," Sousa said quietly.
"Don't mention it." Thompson loomed shakily and stared at him, whites showing around his eyes, crotch jutting, sweating and flushed. "We need to keep each other under control. Fight each other if we have to. We can not allow either of us to get through that door."
He looked glorious.
"--Oh," said Sousa, feeling like all the air had been thumped out of him. Perhaps he hadn't ensured that they were both safe from the gas, after all. "Jack... Jack..." He tested the word on his tongue, liking the taste of it. He was pretty sure that there was more of Jack he'd like the taste of even better. "Thompson, come down here." Barely knowing what he was doing, he was groping at his fellow agent, trying to pull him closer. Sousa wasn't completely on the floor -- Thompson had sort of yanked him up straighter when he shoved him around -- but he was still sagging compared to Thompson's rigidly straight posture. "Jack, I've got to -- we can--"
Sickened realisation spread across Thompson's face. "Oh, you have got to be kidding." He palmed his face and his eyes gleamed like black beads when he uncovered them again. "You -- we're not doing this."
He turned back to the barrier and Sousa kicked his ankles with his good foot, knocking both his legs from under him. Thompson fell on top of Sousa's bad leg, which hurt, but that was a dull kind of pain, in the back of his mind, barely registering beneath what felt important right now...
"We're not getting out of that door," he grit. "What we've got is each other. Maybe that's a good thing! Who knows what happens if the people affected by the gas don't get to -- don't -- What if they explode or something?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Thompson spat. "Get off me, you pervert." There wasn't any room in the closet to be anywhere but all over each other, and since Thompson's fall, they were both mostly on the floor. His breathing was harsh and he didn't care what damage he did to Sousa in the process as he twisted until his feet were under him and started to pry himself up, leaning on the piled up debris over the door. "Got to -- got to get out of here. Get to Carter... at least Carter..."
Sousa was in a great position to haul his legs out from under him again, and did. Jack crashed down again amid the clatter of objects from the barrier. This time, he responded with fists and violence, fury taking over. Sousa wasn't sure if it came from his panic over the lust that had stirred between the two of them or his desire to get to Carter on the other side of the door, or if it was just the simple fact of needing to expend the energy building up in him doing something physical, even if that was punching out. Sousa let himself be taken by the urge to fight back. This close quarters, it was like the leg didn't matter. Especially right now, when he didn't even care about the pain as the damaged limb was twisted around in the small space. He was stronger in the upper body than Thompson, and took every advantage of that. It was easy to fight Thompson -- it surged up in him, that burning, animal desire to beat the snot out of the other agent was something he'd harboured for a long time...
That fire was in both of them, but it wasn't long before the focus of the touches was, well, more focused, if not necessarily less violent. They groped, shoved, thrust against any body part that moved and offered itself at convenience. Thompson even spent several seconds humping the false knee. Jack gasped into his ear as Sousa got hold of him through the thin, negligible protection of his pants, and Sousa craned his neck and without thinking -- thinking had been turned off several minutes back -- shoved their mouths together, instinctively searching for greater intimacy.
Thompson choked as the move snapped them both out of it, brought them both back to themselves enough to realise what this was, where they were, what this wasn't-- "Sousa, I knew you were desperate, but I want no part of you to sexually touch any part of me," Jack grated.
He bit Sousa's lip and pulled back, wrenching them apart and holding them at arm's length from each other. "We're going to stand up. Both of us, we'll stand up, and you'll go in that corner, I'll go in this one, and we'll -- We can do this. We can outlast this. Damn!"
He was already almost purple in the face and looked ready to burst from need.
Sousa was enough back in control of himself to help him out, though he suspected that he'd got the heavier dose in that first face full of the gas trapped in the cupboard. "Trust -- trust Howard Stark to come up with something like this," he said, shakily, letting go of Thompson and backing off to the closet's opposite side.
They were still only just far enough away that they couldn't reach out and touch each other. Leaning forward just a little would put them in reach again. Which was no use at all, really, to combat the need pounding in the back of Sousa's brain. "This isn't going to work."
"It's working fine," Thompson grit out, folding his arms around himself and hugging into the wall and, actually, managing to make himself look a lot smaller than Sousa would have thought possible.
"No, it's--" He shut his eyes against the pull, and made his mouth shape the words with logic and reason. "We're not going to be able to resist. We'll lose control again. Out there--" He pointed, his voice rising too loud for a moment before he pulled it back. "Out there, those people just turned into convenient holes for each other, in some uncaring violent urge to take or be taken." He knew he'd normally be blushing furiously at his own crudeness, but here and now it couldn't make any appreciable difference to how blood-flushed and unbearably overheated his whole body was. "But we have an advantage those people didn't have -- we know what this impulse is, where it's come from. We have that much control. What if we... just get on with it. Decide what to do, just how far to go, and do it. Maybe once we've got this out of our system... Maybe it's just the act. We need to sate each other."
"No. Thank you." Thompson hissed the words. "Sating nothing on you."
At least they weren't trying to get out of the door again. It seemed to Sousa that their fumbling on the floor, the modicum of release it had provided, had salved the need, reinstated a degree of sanity. But he could feel it all trying to come back. "We have to do it," he said, reasonably -- as reasonable as that high, strained thread of a voice that must be his could have possibly sounded, anyway. "We want to keep this between us. This way no-one else has to know. If we choose what to do, we don't end up tearing each other's clothes off and doing... what all those people did. Jack..." He choked. "There's no other way. Let me--" He slipped down the wall awkwardly. He couldn't go to his knees, not properly, but like this, leaning one shoulder against the wall, he could support himself at the right height and stick the bad leg out in front of him. He gestured with his hand, reeling Thompson in. "Closer..."
Thompson took wooden steps, drawn despite himself. "I don't want you to do this," he said, dully, but something in his eyes said, But at least it's you on the floor and not me.
Sousa didn't care, he just needed to touch and be touched, and right now, it had almost ceased to matter who was his partner in the endeavour. Right now, Jack Thompson looked perfect anyway, fine features and lithe, strong body still cased in his suit, the slightly jaunty touch of patterned red suspenders making their addition to the ensemble today. Sousa reached up and slid his shaking hands to undo buttons. He wanted to see all of Jack, unclothed before him, but he’d settle for a small part.
Or not so small, then. Eyes pinned hungrily on what offered itself before him, springing free when released with such undeniable eagerness, Sousa licked his lips and dived in. The taste was initially offensive, but not so much as to make him care. The thought of what he was doing, for another man -- right now he couldn't care less. He hadn't had anything with anyone since he'd left the hospital and paid for a prostitute the week he was out, trying to figure out how to deal with his injury, what it meant. What it meant for him with women, what it meant for him in bed. She'd pitied him, and seeing it had made him avoid taking that route for his own release again. Obviously there'd been no other encounters. But she'd done this for him, and he remembered it; every move she'd made, every part of that last, humiliating sexual contact had emblazoned themselves on his brain, and it rolled them back out again for Agent Jack Thompson, under Sousa's hands and mouth, now.
"Oh my God, Susan," Thompson groaned, his voice high and tight, tight, tight, not wanting but wanting, and he curled his hands over the top of Sousa's head, weaved his fingers through his hair, and after a moment, started to guide his movements.
Which wasn't comfortable. But it seemed like the rough contact of those forceful hands as they grew in confidence went straight to Sousa's groin, and he groaned, feeling it. Jack cursed and shoved a foot -- a foot! -- between his legs, pressing it forward, hard, not so pitiless after all, and letting Sousa move against him, pushing back, grinding down, as he almost forgot to focus on what was happening with his lips. But that didn't matter, because Jack was hauling on his head now anyway, controlling those movements.
Whatever was in the gas made the arousal tenacious. Thompson kept thrusting for an insanely long time, and when he finally came, it took them both off guard. Cursing, Jack made a noise of distress and managed to pull out before he'd spilled too much into Sousa's mouth. "Oh, fuck, Daniel. I'm sorry! Daniel!" Thompson was falling down between his knees, yelling and pulling at his face. In between struggling not to choke and recovering his breathing, Sousa did remember there was some pressing reason they should be trying to keep quieter than this. "Are you-- I didn't mean -- you idiot! Damn it, you're the one who started this! I wouldn't ever-- I'm not some--"
That was all fine and good: Jack Thompson was a human being in there, perhaps even had traces of a decent one, but right now Sousa didn't care. Sousa only cared that humping a foot wasn't enough. He wanted more. He made an inarticulate noise and fixed a sick smile on Thompson. Pulled on his dragging hand. Guided it to his crotch.
"Oh, God," Thompson said, sickly.
Sousa had the unpleasant suspicion that Thompson had come out of it now. Maybe not absolutely all the way, but certainly well on the road back to normal. He hadn't had the wherewithal to tuck himself back into his pants, and his cock hung spent and damp there. Sousa's eyes zeroed onto it, but there was nothing for him to do there now. He himself hadn't come, might've been stronger affected to start with, and all he could think about was the release. He jerked fumbling fingers at the fastenings of his pants and pushed, insistently again, at Thompson's hand, which had stayed frozen where it was, forcing Thompson's fingers to apply pressure where he wanted it. "Please..."
Jack made a long, thin whine and shook his head and then, like a man possessed, not only wrapped his fingers hard exactly where they were needed most, but fell to the floor, folding his form up with a limberness that wasn't wholly unexpected, and bending his mouth down to...
Sousa pulled at him. He didn't have to... His hand, with those clever, thin fingers, was sure to be enough. Thompson had to know that was an option, that he could, at least, first try that way out. After all, he wasn't some self-flagellating, damaged fool, whose first thoughts went to regurgitating his last meaningless and painful sex act with anyone else. But maybe Jack Thompson wasn't going to be owed that much by anyone -- if Sousa had goddamn done this for him, then by God he'd return in kind.
Except Sousa had been half crazed -- and still was, because he couldn't wrap his thoughts around the concept of dissuading Jack any more -- while he was doing this, and Thompson wasn't.
He gave in to it. Couldn't do anything to stop it. Too much temptation, too much. Soon he was thrusting into Thompson's face with as much fervour as the other man had, before, pulling that bowed head down further onto him, revelling in the curve of Jack's shoulders and back crouched over his lap. At least some part of his brain wanted to smugly replay over those bowed shoulders each insult offered him over their work in the office, but that part was relegated to a corner of shame he steadfastly tried not to acknowledge.
Dimly, he had enough core of coherence to already be sure that, after this, they were both going to want to die as soon as ever look at each other again.
***
The two of them were struck almost dumb by the terrible fact of the secret between them being uncovered so quickly, but they did manage to climb into the car, which beckoned a modicum of privacy for the discussion and proceedings. A streetlight above gave Jack, in the driver's seat, just enough visibility to look in the small mirror and fade out the fingerprints around his jaw. "Goddamn it, Sousa, you've got a grip," he mumbled unhappily as he finished. His complexion, though now covered up by the powder, visibly darkened anyway, even in the half light.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" Peggy leaned forward from the rear of the motor vehicle, an elbow over each of their shoulders -- rested on the seat backs, not quite touching -- and her tone insistent as she asked, once again, for answers they both had to be pretty sure she already knew. Sousa was sure.
"Aw, Marg..." Thompson groaned.
"Yes, Jack," she acknowledged crisply, then carried on. "Because field-testing Howard Stark's inventions is, I should imagine, seldom comfortable for those involved. But I suspect that some swiftly applied damage control could do wonders for those so unfortunately afflicted."
--And Sousa had to side with Thompson, for once. What did Peggy know? She might be more competent than SSR wanted to acknowledge, sure, but she hadn't-- And she was a woman, besides, and they couldn't just-- "I'm not going to talk about the effects of that damned gas with a lady, Peggy. You heard Dooley. I don't plan on talking about this with anyone, point of fact. That's all you need know."
She merely cleared her throat and kept her gaze flickering between the both of them, stolidly, until they caved. Sousa caved.
She was never going to look at him the same way again. But then, she barely looked at him anyway, and she already knew. She knew, and this was pointless. "Doesn't matter, Peggy. We locked ourselves out of the way. Dealt with it together. Made sure no-one got hurt, not even by reputation."
"Sousa!" Jack snapped.
"Toge--" She didn't finish. She leaned back in the centre of the seat, rolling her head and massaging her neck with a sigh. Both Thompson and Sousa turned and leaned into their opposite doors, to keep her in view. "So. There really were no three heavies, even of regular human size, only Daniel and Jack and the suspect canister. Which was not, unlike advertised, dropped as Jack chased said perfectly ordinary heavies off 'like Steve Rogers', I believe was the phrase being tossed around."
Thompson tipped a shoulder, growing surly. "Had to tell them something."
"Yes, and if you're going to tell a tall tale anyway, why not make it a self-aggrandising one?"
"It seemed to work on Dooley and the rest just fine," Sousa defended. At least, Jack's elaborations had had the effect of throwing them off the scent, making them question those parts and not the core of the tale... and maybe Thompson was smarter than he was tempted to believe, too. "We're just fine, Peggy. It's all done with now. Thank you for the... cover up." He gestured at the compact in Thompson's hand. "We just need to put this behind us."
Thompson made a choked sound, but when Sousa looked at him, only held up the compact and asked, "You want this?"
Sousa felt his face. He could see it in the wing mirror, angled right. "I don't think I'm--"
"You should keep it, Jack," Peggy said, her voice heavier. "Daniel only looks like he's been on a losing end of a fist fight, not on the receiving end of some... prisoner's welcoming initiation."
Thompson's face screwed up. "Hey, it's yours, I couldn't--"
"I've got more." She tipped her head, and there was compassion in her face, now she'd thoroughly wrenched the truth out of them -- and the graphic truth to which she was cogent, called up by the words she'd spoken, stunned Sousa. She rolled her eyes at him. "Contrary to what SSR believes, I did fight and I do know what happens in war -- and do not forget that this gas, however absurd, was designed by Stark for warfare. You both only need keep in mind that you protected each other and your fellow agents, and the reputation of the SSR, in dire circumstances -- and there is no shame in that."
Sousa shifted uncomfortably and Thompson surprised him, turning his voice all soft and low and -- like a different freakin' person entirely, really -- and saying, "Thanks, Carter."
She didn't lay a hand on them, but she touched the back of each front seat again, gently this time with her fingers curled, near to their shoulders. "Now, are you two boys going to be able to sort this out between yourselves, or do I need to stay around to ensure it doesn't turn to fisticuffs again? This is the fault of Howard and whoever planted that device in the theatre, after all, and that you must remember." She grimaced. "I should very much imagine that there was at least one psychological side application in mind for this particular gas. It could handily ruin any ability even the tightest knit group of soldiers had to work and fight together. And the two of you--"
There was the trace of a question in her voice.
Thompson's expression was very odd as he looked away from her, flicked his eyes very briefly to Sousa, and said, "No. Sousa and I are good."
"--Daniel?"
Sousa groaned. "Look, if you have to know, I -- it was mostly me. It was my fault. So no, I'm not going to blame it on Thompson. My God--"
Jack reached out and gripped his arm, hard, an earnest sincerity in his eyes that was, for the briefest of instants, on the verge of something else.
The gesture stopped the breath of everyone in the car, even Jack, when he realised it. Air hissed out through his teeth and he let go. "Sorry. I didn't--!" He flung his hands up. "Just don't blame yourself. Except for tripping over that damned thing in the first place and setting it off, because that was all you, Stumpy. But for what happened and what we did, we both carry that, check? Doesn't matter, anyway. You heard the broad. If she can say it doesn't matter--" That oddness, again, burned in his eyes, like he was trying to tell Sousa something by telepathy but, not being receptive enough, Sousa had no clue what it was.
Peggy was smiling, though. "I'll leave you both to it, then. Thank you, Jack." She did pat his shoulder, this time, and then she shuffled out of the car and cast a final -- oddly entertained -- glance at Sousa before she slammed the door.
Thompson moaned and slumped in his seat, a lot of the rigidity and poise he'd managed to maintain thus far apparently having been for Peggy's presence.
Sousa slumped, too. He supposed it didn't matter what was revealed between the two of them, now.
After interminable minutes had ticked by, Thompson offered up, with a forced jocularity that almost verged on manic, "How about that Carter, huh?" He rubbed his head and just remembered in time not to run his hand over the repair job on his complexion.
"I know she thinks she's helping -- hell, maybe she did help -- but that was uncomfortable," Sousa agreed. After a beat, thinking he'd misunderstood, he added, "She sure is something."
"Something!" Thompson mocked. He shook his head and straightened, shaking something off. "Aw, hell with it, Daniel, she's right. We're tit for tat, and can't say fairer than that. No call to let this hang over us til' we're old and grey and can't remember what sex feels like anymore to make the whole thing redundant. We can tell Dooley some other story in the morning. Let's ditch early and go get a drink."
"You're-- We--" Sousa had never expected to be forgiven. Not by, of all people, Jack Thompson.
There was still a slight flush visible even under the make-up on Thompson's face as he reached over and clapped Sousa's shoulder. "MacEarley's, over by the docks. No respectable SSR agent would be seen dead in that dive. Except my cousin's the bartender, black sheep of the family. We can hole up there safely and drink ourselves stupid. C'mon--"
"S-sure, Thompson..." Sousa stammered.
What else was there to say? Certainly his leg was starting to ache fiercely enough that he could use the anaesthetic.
Jack started the engine.
END
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