Work Text:
Fandom: Marvel
Prompt: “Am I too late?”
The first thing Jack remembers is waking up with a weight on his chest.
Properly waking up, that is; apparently he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for about a week. He doesn’t remember anything of those. He’s certain a couple of them were accompanied by vivid fever dreams, a mix of Japan, New York, L.A., and a particularly strange one about Belarus.
He remembers one particularly vivid image and it makes him laugh. Well, huff painfully through the weight on his chest. It was soon after he’d gotten out of surgery, coming out of the anesthesia. Carter and Sousa came into his room, worried about him. He scoffs at the mere thought that they’d do anything other than making sure he’s alive and then get right back to work. Not out of any obligation to him personally—he’s been a pain in their asses for far too long for that—but just because an SSR Chief got shot and that was a serious breach in security. But that’s not what he remembers, just a quick poke of their heads around the door and then silence.
He remembers Carter sitting on his left, tucking her hand under his limp hand, holding it tight. He remembers Sousa leaning over his body, before taking a seat on his right. He held his hand too. He remembers it being warm, the rough calluses grounding him in a way that helped soften the pain of the fading cloud of anesthesia.
Jack shakes his head a little, frowning. No use for dreams when he was awake.
“Jack?”
Jesus, he just said no more room for dreams, why is his brain trying to make him believe Sousa’s here?
“Jack Thompson if you are awake, you’d better open your eyes right this instant.”
“Jeez, Carter, can’t a guy catch a break?” Well, Jack tried to say that. The only thing that comes out is a broken wheeze.
“Don’t try to talk just yet,” Dream Sousa says in a rush, “you’re still recovering from the shot.”
Ah, yes. That’s what happened. Some bastard shot him on the way out of his hotel room.
“Come on,” Dream Carter says, running her hand over his arm, “open your eyes.”
Jack wants to. He really wants to. But there’s the overwhelming chance that he’s just gonna be alone and he wants to indulge himself in the fantasy of having Carter and Sousa here with him for a little longer. Give him a break, he did just get shot.
“Maybe it’s too bright,” Dream Sousa says, “close the curtains?”
See, this is what he’s talking about. There’s such a considerate note in Dream Sousa’s voice and underlying it is this tiny little note of worry he’d never hear from real Sousa. He pictures Sousa hovering anxiously on his bedside, his hand next to Jack’s head on the bed, gaze flicking back and forth between Carter and Jack. If this weren’t a dream—or if the dream were more intense—he’d open his eyes, see Sousa’s concerned look for himself, and maybe—
Nope. Okay, there was an acceptable level of indulging himself, and then there was…that.
He knows what he is. There were names for people like him.
Plus, he’s blocking out another part of that earlier dream, where Carter and Sousa held his hands. They were holding hands too. He’s happy for them, really. Daniel’s one of the best men Jack’s ever known, and Carter could run the world and make it look easy. If she were a man, she’d be doing it already, though knowing her, that won’t stop her for long. They’re the best damn team to come out of the SSR.
He can pretend they’re worried about him a little longer.
“Jack Thompson, I’m about to get very cross with you,” Dream Carter says, the smallest of tremors in her voice.
“Peg…”
He imagines Carter giving Sousa a look and returning her gaze to Jack in the bed. He imagines her fingers twitching and her hand sliding carefully into his. He imagines how warm her hand feels.
“Now’s not the time to be stubborn, Jack,” Dream Carter says, softer this time and now Jack knows his subconscious must be taking pity on him, “open your eyes.”
“Maybe we should offer him something,” Dream Sousa says and god Jack can picture how he leans against the bed, that fucking smirk on his face, “Thompson’s not really a something-for-nothing kind of guy.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Well, there’s always the promise I made that next time he came to town I’d take him to the Frolic Room Bar,” Dream Sousa says, “might as well cash that in now, hmm?”
A drink with Sousa sounds great, it’s a pity that doing anything to actually fulfill that dream would involve waking up, coming to terms with the fact that none of this is actually real, and trying very awkwardly to ask Sousa for a drink when he’s got his hands full with cleaning up Jack’s mess.
“I’m not sure alcohol is the best idea right now,” Dream Carter says, “perhaps later.”
“You’re probably right,” Dream Sousa sighs, “what d’you have in mind?”
“Well, I’d start off by telling him he’s very lucky. The bullet missed everything important. It embedded in the chest wall and didn’t even come close.” Dream Carter gives his hand a squeeze and wow, his imagination is better at this than he thought. Or it’s just…you know, trying to make up for the lack of anything he’s actually going to get by giving him all it can while he’s still floating. “He’ll have some pain, shortness of breath, and be very angry—“
“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Dream Sousa says and the fact that it’s fond and not bitter makes the weight on Jack’s chest shift.
“—but he’d probably be back to full speed in just three to four months,” Dream Carter finishes.
“You haven’t said how that’s gonna get him to open his eyes.”
“I’ve just told him he’ll make a full recovery, you think Jack Thompson is the type to just sit back and wait patiently for his body to cooperate?”
“He’d try and recover in two just to show it who’s boss.”
The easy nature of the banter, the quips being thrown back and forth almost makes him feel like he’s back in the New York SSR office again. With Sousa rolling his eyes at whatever stupid thing he’d managed to dig up this time, with Carter kicking them in the rear from Queens to Brooklyn, with night shifts where he’d drag himself out of the chief’s office just to sit at his desk, his old desk, and work quietly. Watching Carter and Sousa chuck things at each other through the blinds, rare smiles on both of their faces. Real smiles, not those half-assed polite things they wore, nor the satisfied smirk of a job well done. They looked happy.
As Dream Carter and Dream Sousa stand at his bedside, Jack imagines they look happy too.
And that’s the issue he’s been avoiding during this dream, isn’t it?
Vernon told him that when the history books were written, there were things that wouldn’t be included but that people would remember. When they wrote the book on how the SSR saved the world, they would focus on the woman that bent the world back into shape, who didn’t let anything stop her. A fighter. A survivor. A warrior. Agent Peggy Carter. They would focus on the man that refused to let himself be defined by his circumstances, one of the best investigators ever to serve his country. Another fighter. Another survivor. Chief Daniel Sousa.
They wouldn’t focus on him. The person who almost broke everything.
Carter and Sousa deserved the world. He wasn’t completely sure it deserved them.
Jeez, they really gave him a lot of painkillers, didn’t they?
His mind starts wandering, away from the dream of Carter and Sousa, towards the shadows, the darker places. Frantically, he tries to claw them back, back to his bedside, back to him, come back—
But no. Now all he can hear is Vernon’s voice in his ear, telling him that there were always consequences. This was his consequence.
A lonely hospital bed because whoever shot him couldn’t fucking shoot straight.
And you know all about not shooting straight, Vernon chuckles, don’t you, Jackie-Boy?
Look at you, just lying here, wallowing in self-pity. Is this the man I taught you to be? Waiting on the sidelines while other people do the work and then you swoop in? You could never have your eye on the ball the way you need to, always distracted by such meaningless things. You cling to the scraps you’ve been given because you’ve never known anything else. You had a place in my new world, in the world you were gonna help me build and you threw it away. The world is changing, Jackie-Boy, whether you like it or not. And you decided you would rather be squished under its remains.
Jack doesn’t want Dream Vernon. He wants Carter and Sousa back.
Oho, you know better than that, Jackie-Boy. You’re already one type of criminal, why would you readily confess to being another?
There are names for people like you.
He knows.
Your pretty face won’t save you this time.
He knows.
Vernon always called him pretty.
“Jack?” Someone’s pushing on his shoulder. “Come on, Jack, stay with us.”
“Be careful, Daniel, don’t jostle him too much.”
“I know, I won’t. But I can’t just let him go!”
“Thompson, it’s awfully hard to have a conversation with you when you won’t open your eyes.”
Oh. Dream Carter and Dream Sousa are back. They don’t sound as comforting anymore. He wants the other ones back. He doesn’t think he can handle having them being angry at him right now.
Or disgusted.
Fuck off, Vernon.
“You’re being very rude right now, Jack,” Dream Sousa mutters, “just…just open your goddamn eyes, okay? I know you can hear us.”
“Please, Jack.”
Nope. Dream Carter being sad is worse. Way worse. Because he wants to listen, so bad. He wants to open his eyes and see both their faces break out into happy smiles and tell him they missed him, that they’re so glad he’s alright. That they won’t leave him behind in the chaos he’s created for them. That there’s room in their new world for him.
But he’s sure the reality would kill him.
He should’ve realized it sooner. He should’ve helped them more. He should never have tried to go after Sousa. He should never have tried to go after Carter. He should never have come to LA.
His subconscious is really trying to kill him because it feels like Sousa’s hand is on his face.
“Don’t cry, Jack—“ shit what the fuck is happening— “please, don’t cry, just open your eyes.”
Between Dream Carter being upset and Dream Sousa all but pleading with him, he’s not sure how much more he can take. It hurts. It hurts, everything hurts.
Of course, it hurts, he’s been shot in the chest.
It’ll hurt if he does nothing and they keep talking to him like that, disappointing them all over again. It’ll hurt if he opens his eyes and they vanish, never to be seen again, except in the darkness of night in the privacy of his head.
It’ll hurt when he has to see them, the real them, and see them happy without him. He’s blown his chance, he knows he has. He’s too late to catch up with them now.
“Shh, shh,” Dream Sousa says, and jeez he is trying to kill Jack, “let’s get you something to drink before you try to talk again. Peggy—“
“Here.”
Jack startles when there’s something bumping against his lips.
“It’s just water, Jack,” Dream Sousa—wait, how is a dream holding a cup of water? It must be dream water—soothes, “drink, come on.”
Obediently, Jack opens his lips and tries to drink, expecting just to meet empty air. He splutters.
“Easy,” Dream Carter says, “not too fast.”
He tries again, slower, letting the water run down his throat. After a moment, the cup pulls away.
“I’m not about to have you puke all over the bed,” Dream Sousa chuckles when a bereft noise escapes Jack’s throat, “but I’ll take that as a sign that you can talk now.”
Talking to an empty room? Jack’s not sure he wants to tick off that many boxes on the crazy sheet. But then again he did just drink water from a dream and it made his throat feel better.
“Am I too late?”
“Too late for what, Jack?”
He can’t put it into words, even to a dream, so he just repeats the question.
“You’re not too late,” Dream Carter reassures, squeezing his hand, “I promise.”
He wants to believe her. God he wants to believe her.
“Why don’t you open your eyes, then,” Dream Sousa says. Ah. He must have said that out loud.
“You did.”
Fuck.
“Such language, Chief Thompson.”
“Leave me alone,” he mutters on instinct, only to frantically try and scramble the words back into his throat. They can’t leave. Please don’t leave.
“We’re not going anywhere,” comes Dream Sousa’s soft voice, his hand never leaving Jack’s, “why don’t you open your eyes and see for yourself?”
Jack’s had enough. If he lets the hope in his chest build up anymore, having it snatched away is going to kill him.
He opens his eyes.
The first thing he remembers is waking up with a weight on his chest.
The second thing he remembers is seeing Peggy and Daniel huddled around him, happy smiles on their faces.