Title: Rabbit Punch
Fandom: Agent Carter
Author: sholio
Rating: PG
Length: 3300
Content notes: period language and attitudes
Author notes: In boxing terminology, a rabbit punch is an illegal punch to the back of the head.
Summary: In which Jack Thompson learns a very valuable lesson: don't mess with Sousa.



Jack's favorite boxing gym was a place called Tony's. It was a man's kind of gym: dark and smoky, smelled like sweat and leather, held bare knuckle nights on Tuesdays and Thursdays. No women allowed; also no palookas, limeys, jerries, or anybody else that Tony didn't like. "Guess I can't say no wops," was Tony's favorite joke, being Italian himself. He was that kind of guy, and Tony's was that kind of place.

It was, consequently, exactly the kind of place Peggy Carter would shoehorn herself into somehow, which meant Jack had started checking the dim corners every time he walked in, even looking around the locker room just in case. But for now, this last bastion of New York manhood had remained free of the waft of Carter's perfume.

He discovered, however, that it wasn't free of something else, when he went in one day -- contrary to his usual habit -- in the morning. The gym wasn't officially open before noon, but informally, Tony's regulars and friends were welcome to use the facilities while it was closed, in return for a little help sweeping up and mopping down. Jack had never done it himself; better by far to go in the evening, when the regular boys were there, and when he could get sweaty and mussed without having to clean up and make sure all his creases were pressed for work. Besides, he'd done enough swabbing in the Navy.

This particular day, though, he'd been up all night on a stakeout, and when he finally decided their guy wasn't going to show, the sky was already growing light and the city beginning to stir. He'd already cleared with Dooley to take the morning off and catch some shut-eye, but now he found himself wide awake in a kind of buzzing fatigue haze. Good time to work himself tired and then catch a nap before going into the office in the afternoon.

It was just a little past six, but the back door of Tony's was unlocked. Someone was around, then. Jack let himself in and ditched his suit in the locker room, swapping it out for loose pants and a sleeveless shirt. Still absently wrapping his hands, he walked around the corner and stopped short at the sight that greeted him: Sousa, doggedly pumping iron while his crutch and -- disconcertingly -- his artificial leg leaned against the wall beside him.

It was the first time Jack had ever seen him without it, and something about it gave him a funny little jolt. Sousa's pants leg was knotted around the stump of his leg -- it ended mid-thigh, and Jack realized he'd never known that ... hadn't actually wondered about it, to be honest. The artificial leg was wearing a sock and shoe, which Jack was pretty sure was part of what was giving him that unpleasant quiver in the pit of his stomach. It looked like a detached limb, and he wished he didn't know quite so well what those looked like.

Sousa set the weights down with a thump, sat up, and froze, staring at Jack. Then he shook his head, and slowly swung his legs -- the whole one and the gimp one -- around to the side, and reached for the crutch without looking. Despite the early hour, he'd clearly been in the gym for a while; his hair was plastered to his forehead and his T-shirt soaked with sweat. "Figures," he said.

Jack managed to snap out of his startlement. He'd meant to go for the punching bags, but that meant going past Sousa, at least without obviously going out of his way to avoid him. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to avoid him, because this was his own place, damn it, and now it felt a little less so.

Rather than venturing over that way, he reached for the nearest of the free weights. "Didn't know this was your kind of scene, Sousa. Never seen you in here before."

"Yeah, well." Sousa hoisted himself to his feet, then hesitated fractionally before untying his pants leg, hiking it up, and settling the stump into the socket of the artificial leg. Jack tried to watch out of the corner of his eye, trying not to look like he was interested. He'd never seen the process before. Snugging it down into the padded leather cradle, Sousa said without looking up, "Company's usually better in the mornings."

"Wounded," Jack said as he glanced around the echoing, empty gym. "I'm wounded."

Sousa dropped his pants leg to hide the artificial one, and suddenly he was a little closer to everyday Sousa, though still panting and sweat-stained in a way Sousa never was. "Have fun, Jack," he said, putting his hand through the loop of the crutch.

"You don't have to leave," Jack tossed off, starting some curls with the weights. "I smell funny or somethin'?"

"Whole damn place smells funny," Sousa said as he crutched off, taking the long way around the boxing ring. He at least had no compunctions about avoiding Jack.

"Hey, Sousa," Jack called, and Sousa stopped and looked over at him. "Wanna go a round?"

Sousa gave him a long, level look, as if trying to figure out if he was being made fun of. (Which, in fairness, would be at least mostly true.) "Not today, Jack," he said finally.

"Yeah. No sense anybody getting embarrassed."

"Guess not," Sousa said, and left.

Jack shook his head. Funny old world. He headed for the punching bags.


***


It wasn't the first time he saw Sousa in the gym. Their paths didn't cross that often, since Sousa never came in during the gym's open hours. But with the erratic hours everyone was pulling on the Stark case, Jack found himself in the gym more than one morning, and after the case, it kept happening.

It was a friendlier sort of meeting these days. At least, Sousa didn't immediately duck and run. They'd give each other a nod of acknowledgment and then move along to their own workouts. Jack didn't often catch more than the tail end of whatever Sousa was doing, but he couldn't help taking curious glances while he drilled on the bag. It was unusual stuff sometimes, like fancy-footwork Jap kind of moves.

"Whaddya call that, anyway?" he asked after watching Sousa go through a series of moves, sidestepping and sweeping the crutch in front of him. Now Sousa was sitting on the edge of the boxing ring, rubbing his gimp leg like it hurt, with the crutch resting beside him. They were, as usual, the only people in the gym at this hour.

Sousa glanced up. "Call what?"

"Whatever you're doing. It ain't boxing."

"No, it's not really anything. I used to be a pretty solid boxer when I was younger. It's my own version, I guess."

"You used to box?" Jack said, surprised.

Sousa smiled crookedly. "I wasn't born with one leg, Jack."

"Yeah, I get that, but ..." Jack knotted his mouth on whatever he'd meant to say, then said, "You still know how to throw a punch?"

"Is that a trick question?"

Jack grabbed two pairs of gloves and swung up into the ring. He threw the other pair toward Sousa, sending them skidding across the canvas. "C'mon. Show me some of those fancy moves."

"You are serious. All right." Sousa took a deep breath and eeled under the ropes, then stood up, pulling the crutch after him. There was a moment's silence while they laced up their gloves -- or, in Sousa's case, glove. He only put on one, leaving his other hand free for the crutch.

"You're makin' me feel bad about this."

"Bad about what?" Sousa asked.

"Punching out a cripple."

Sousa looked up, a cold glint in his eye. And Jack got that stomach-punched feeling which usually meant Shit, Thompson, is that really how you wanted that conversation to go? He wished he'd used a different word. Too late now, though, and Sousa merely tightened the lacing on his glove before saying, "Then the show'll be over soon enough, won't it?"

Jack nodded to the crutch. "Don't think that thing is ring legal."

"I can't stand up without it, Jack. You want to box sitting down, be my guest."

Jack snorted. "All right, I'll give it to you, since I guess I owe you for the cripple crack. Want me to pull my punches?"

"Up to you," Sousa said. "I won't be."

He moved forward carefully, and Jack saw that the rubber tip of the crutch had a tendency to wobble and slip on the ring's canvas floor. Jesus. It really was like shooting fish in a barrel. But, hell, maybe Sousa would learn a valuable lesson from all of this. Maybe it'd save him from biting off more than he could chew and getting his face kicked in later on.

Jack danced a little, practicing his footwork and feeling out his own moves. He hadn't been doing much sparring with the guys these days, and hadn't been to one of the bare-knuckle bouts in ... he didn't even know how long. Maybe Sousa really did have a fighting chance, if Jack went and tripped over his own feet or something.

Sousa made a clumsy attempt at a sidestep. God. There was no way Jack was ever going to tell anyone about this. He had a reputation to maintain, after all, and punching out gimps really wasn't the kind of thing he wanted getting around.

And he really didn't want to mess up Sousa's face too much, anyway. He liked Sousa. He'd genuinely meant it as a friendly offer.

Suddenly he felt sick at himself, and he just wanted to get it over with. He swung a slow version of his usual roundhouse. Just enough to tap Sousa's jaw, maybe make him realize what he'd walked into --

And Sousa's face wasn't where it should have been. Instead Sousa slid gently but swiftly to the side, almost falling, and then compensated with the crutch, moving it forward to rebalance his weight in a casual way that just happened to bring it in the way of Jack's feet.

Jack, startled, took a quick sidestep to avoid it, and the next thing he knew, his face exploded in pain and his vision in stars. He hit the ropes, reeled, and found himself on his ass, blinking.

Sousa, grinning, offered him a hand up, which Jack ignored.

"You lousy cheater," Jack gasped when he had at least some of his breath back.

Still grinning, Sousa shrugged. "Show me a rule I broke, and I'll concede."

"You tripped me, you fucking lunatic. How is that not cheating?"

"I have to swing the crutch out wide to avoid falling over," Sousa said cheerfully. "It's not a leg, Jack. It's not directly under me. Besides, you didn't trip; you just stepped out of the way, and took your eyes off my uppercut while you were at it. Bad form, there."

"Fuck me." Jack shook his head. His ears were still ringing.

"You okay?"

Jack glared at him and scrambled to his feet.

Sousa took a long, crutch-assisted step back. "Best two of three?"

"Yeah, but the absolute hell you're keeping that crutch this time."

He was expecting Sousa to come up with some back-alley lawyer explanation for why he needed to keep it, but instead Sousa just shrugged and leaned it against the ropes, shifting his weight so he was balanced on his good leg. He gripped the ropes with his ungloved hand to stay upright.

Jack scowled at him suspiciously. "This is a trick, isn't it?"

"What kind of trick? Are you seriously telling me that you, Jack Thompson, can't KO a man with one leg?"

Despite his baiting, Sousa actually did look ... not nervous, perhaps, but very serious. His main trick, as far as Jack could tell, was the "wounded bird" routine. People underestimated him, and, okay, Jack had fallen into that trap himself just now, but now he was on to the little bastard.

Jack brought his gloved fists up. "For God's sake, put on your other glove. I feel like enough of an ass as it is."

Sousa half-smiled. "Kick it to me. I can't reach it."

The glove was on the edge of the ring, under the ropes. Jack kicked it Sousa's way, and then had to come over, pick it up and hand it to him when it turned out Sousa couldn't bend over to pick it up himself. (Or possibly he wanted Jack to think so. Jack wouldn't put anything past the sneaky little son of a bitch anymore.)

"Okay," Sousa said, leaning against the ropes, his face tight with (feigned?) pain. "Let's go."

Jack did a quick sidestep and then realized it didn't quite feel right against an opponent who wasn't moving at all. "What am I supposed to do, just punch you in the face?"

"That's kinda the point, Jack."

"Fine," Jack muttered. Sousa had it coming at this point. He drew back and threw a haymaker that would've made his old boxing mentor kick his ass for leaving himself open. But, for God's sake, how fast could Sousa reposition himself for a punch when he wasn't even --

-- wasn't even where he was supposed to be, shit he was a fast little bugger. Sousa dodged to the side, and while he couldn't recover in time to avoid a bad landing, he wasn't even trying; instead, he drove his glove hard into Jack's stomach as he went down, a blow Jack wasn't braced for. While Jack toppled, choking for air, Sousa landed awkwardly on his good knee, with his bad leg twisted out to the side.

They both sat there for a little while, Jack because he couldn't breathe, Sousa because he'd twisted his artificial leg and looked like he was in a lot of pain. He unlaced his gloves to get things straightened out again.

"I think I've figured out your strategy," Jack wheezed.

"Do share," Sousa muttered, massaging his thigh.

"Complete and total lack of self-preservation."

Sousa laughed tightly. "You're fighting a man with one leg and you're just now figuring that out?"

Jack considered sucker-punching him in the face while he had his gloves off, but that would definitely be a blatant violation of boxing etiquette, and he didn't want to give Sousa the satisfaction. Besides, at this point he wasn't entirely confident it wouldn't end up with him flat on his face, nursing even more bruises.

Instead he said, "For the record, you were definitely cheating, which means I win by default."

"Hey, if you can point out specifically how I was cheating, I'll concede your point."

Jack undid the laces on his gloves with his teeth and peeled them off. "Gimme time. I'm sure I can come up with something."

"Don't want to go for three of five?" Sousa asked. Despite the forced levity, his voice was tight; Jack got the impression he was in more pain than he wanted to let on.

Jack was sure as hell in more pain than he wanted to admit to. On the bright side, the fact that it now hurt every time he inhaled was a good distraction from the ache in his jaw every time he opened his mouth.

Also ... shit. If there was a visible bruise on his face, he was going to need to explain it. Preferably in some way other than "Sousa kicked my ass."

He hooked a hand on the ropes and hauled himself up. "Hell, no. I do have some self-respect."

Sousa looked like he was thinking about saying something, but apparently thought better of it. Instead he slid under the ropes and down to the floor, crutch first, and got his balance carefully.

It really wasn't an act. Jack was watching more closely now, and Sousa hadn't been feigning infirmity in the ring; he really did have that much trouble moving around, or close to it. He'd just learned to work with it. To use it. He might fall, but if he fell, he was going to do it in a way that took his opponent down too. And, in this case, without technically breaking the rules.

It was a damn good trick.

Jack swung down to the floor, and said, "I was thinking about grabbing some breakfast. There's a pretty good diner down the street."

Sousa glanced at him. "If it's the Crossroads on the corner, I know it. Best hash browns in town."

It wasn't quite a yes, but he didn't complain when Jack fell into step with him, matching Sousa's slightly slower-than-usual pace back to the lockers.

"So, you worked this out on your own, did you," Jack said. "The Sousa boxing school." He thought about those times Sousa had gone out in the field. He hadn't quite thought Sousa couldn't handle himself -- well, all right, maybe he had. Maybe they all had.

Maybe, at some point, it had seemed like Sousa was one of those guys you just couldn't reason with, the sort who had to find things out the hard way. Like Jack had thought at the start of their boxing match: Maybe this will teach him a lesson. Except it hadn't quite worked out that way this morning. Same as Sousa turning out to be a perfectly competent field agent despite all the perfectly logical reasons to the contrary.

The son of a bitch had saved his life, after all.

"Not quite on my own." Sousa retrieved a dry and comparatively unwrinkled shirt from his locker. "Like I said, I used to box. Tony and my old man were friends from way back. I figured it could help me get back in shape -- not in the competition rounds in the evening, of course, but Tony didn't mind me coming in when no one was here, and he works with me a little on weekends when he's got time. Hooks me up with friends of his who can show me new ways to use what I've still got to work with."

"Like I said, cheating," Jack said, faintly jealous. The gym owner hadn't offered him private lessons. Apparently all you had to do was get a limb blown off.

He had a fleeting recollection of Sousa's leg, the stump with the pants leg tied up beneath it, and got a faint echo of the stomach-punched feeling.

Sousa shrugged, and toweled off his hair. "Never pass up an advantage, that's all. God knows I haven't got a lot of them when it comes to a fight." He paused for a moment, then said, "Loser buys breakfast?" There was something faintly resigned about his tone, as if, even after Jack extending an oblique invitation beforehand, he thought it all still might turn out to be another joke at his expense. Which, Jack figured, was something he had coming too.

"Only if I get a rematch and a chance to win back my losses later."

Sousa gave him a level, curious look, and then a slight, crooked smile. "Don't know if I can handle another round with the illustrious Thompson anytime soon."

"I was thinking more on the order of sparring than punching the shit out of each other," Jack retorted, examining himself in the mirror. His jaw was definitely going to bruise, damn it. "Look, none of those kids in the evening can give me a good workout. If those are Tony's moves, I wouldn't mind learning a few of 'em."

"You said it yourself, Jack. It's lack of self-preservation."

"And yet somehow you seem to preserve yourself in the field just fine," Jack said. "Not to mention ... me." They'd been talking around it, ever since what had happened in the hangar. He was pretty sure he'd never actually thanked the guy, not in so many words. "So -- you going to make me ask again?"

"You still haven't said if the loser buys breakfast."

"Sure," Jack sighed. "Loser buys breakfast."

And Daniel's crooked smile warmed a little. "Sold."