Title : Finding Where You Belong

Author : peaceful_sands

Written for the Romcomarama challenge

Film: Pretty in Pink

Fandom : The Losers

Characters : Jensen/Cougar (eventual), Pooch, Clay, Roque and various OCs

Word Count : a little over 43,000 in total

Rating :T (but please note warnings)

Warnings : some violence and bullying, threatening behaviors and victimization of individuals for sexual orientation and just because someone was an outsider. . . References to death of a team of soldiers (non-canon characters) – this takes place before the story starts.

Author's Note: The story started with the premise from 'Pretty in Pink' of someone from one social group liking a person from another social group and there being 'issues' in dealing with that dynamic and the fact that not everyone truly fits in the group in which they find themselves.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Thanks : I have a special group of friends who have all helped tremendously with making sure that I tackle as many of my own writing fails as possible – typos, consistency, American v Brit language, continuity. Without them this story would not be what it is today – that said, errors are all mine. Thank you to all of them for their help, their support and guidance.

Chapter One

Clay walked into the kitchen of the house he currently had his team housed in. Pooch was sat at the table, poking around the inside of . . . Clay wasn't sure what it was but it looked filthy and like it belonged outside in the garage and not on the kitchen table. He cleared his throat and Pooch looked up. He glared and Pooch ignored him, turning his attention back to his task. Clay sighed as if it was just what he'd expected to happen, then asked "Where's Jensen and Roque?"

Pooch shrugged then added, "PT . . . again!"

"What did Jensen do this time?" Clay asked wearily as he opened a cupboard searching for a clean cup to pour himself some coffee.

"When Roque got to post for his medical, the new doc was expecting a woman . . ."

Clay leant forward letting his head bang against the cupboard as he let out a strangled half laugh. "There are times I wish that kid would learn, but fuck if I know what to do to get the lessons to stick," he groaned.

"Apparently he was bored . . . I'm just waiting to see what other shit hits the fan before I relax."

Clay grunted in acknowledgement of that fact, sipping at his coffee. He looked up as the doorbell rang and moved to answer it. Standing on the doorstep was a delivery guy with a huge bunch of red roses. Clay stopped and stared at him. "Er . . . I'm looking for . . . Wilamena Rock?" the guy said.

"Wrong address," Clay answered blandly. "No one by that name lives here." He stepped back already closing the door, when the guy asked if he had any idea where she did live.

"No idea," Clay shrugged. "Can't help, sorry, bye." He shut the door firmly, not waiting for the guy to actually leave. Walking back into the kitchen, he said, "Death wish . . . Suicidal . . . No sense of reality . . . How the hell did he get through all the training and get dumped on my doorstep?"

"What's Jensen done now?"

"Ordered a very, very large bunch of red roses for Wilamena Rock apparently," Clay sighed leaning back against the kitchen counter. "Thank fuck they tried to deliver them while Roque and Jensen were out! That kid has a death wish, he really does. There isn't a single grain of common sense in his head, not one! Not even a very lonely one!"

Pooch laughed. "Any news on a new guy yet?"

Clay sighed and shook his head, "Apparently there's no one suitable available. In the meantime, we'll either manage without or have a loan sniper. Like a fuckin' lending library! They'll have 'em stamped with return dates and everything the way they're going. With fines for returning them late or damaged!"

Pooch agreed, before turning back to the oily insides of whatever it was he had on the table that Clay still hadn't managed to identify. "Make sure that's gone before anyone starts thinking about food," Clay grumbled, heading out of the kitchen.

Jensen staggered dramatically in through the door, with gasps and groans that drew everyone's attention. His big shit-eating grin was still firmly plastered on his face, despite the red flush of over exertion to his cheeks, the definite panting for breath and the sweat that had soaked through his clothes completely. Once he'd got everyone's attention, he gave a bow and then said, "Ladies and Gentlemen! I give you . . . Wilamena Rock!"

Roque followed him in through the door, a look of clear disgust on his face just before he clipped Jensen round the back of the head. "You've been warned, Jensen!"

"Here she comes," Jensen panted semi-tunefully, "Walking down the street, She gets the funniest looks from everyone she meets. Hey hey it's Wilamena! People say she –" He was cut short when Roque got right up close in his personal space and growled. "Woah! And I'll leave it there, I think folks . . . I'm going for a shower, after that little work out."

He was just heading out of the kitchen, when he turned at the last minute and ostensibly addressed Pooch and Clay when he said, "I'd be careful . . . P.M.S.!" He nodded sagely before retreating to the sound of Roque growling his name again.

Clay looked at his irritated XO, "So I see another extended P.T. session really did the trick this time!"

Roque grunted, "He should be on fuckin' latrine duty for the whole fuckin' Army! Little Asshole! Do we really have to keep him? Can't I kill him? Friendly fire?"

"No," Clay answered calmly. "What did you do to provoke this latest bout of inappropriate conduct? Do I need to fill out another shitload of forms about his insubordination?"

"What's the point? Little shit just hacks in and changes them all anyway!"

"He doesn't actually or at least if he has, he didn't get rid of them all or make them less outrageous last time I looked," Clay sounded slightly bemused by the admission as if he'd have believed the same. "And back to my question, what did you do to provoke the backlash – this is more than just boredom. . ."

Roque shrugged, accompanying it with a somewhat guilty sounding "Nothing." Clay frowned and Pooch snorted in disbelief.

Clay turned to Pooch and raised his eyebrows, knowing that Pooch would spill the beans. "The nothing involved Roque, gun oil, blood, engine oil and Jensen's new t-shirt – I think you probably get the picture." Pooch grinned at both men.

"Soldier's got no right to wear a fucking candy pink t-shirt!" Roque grunted defensively. "Thought it was a rag . . ."

Clay sighed, shook his head and turned to leave the room. "If he's strained a muscle again, you are going to pay!" He warned as he left the room.

It was later in the day when Clay climbed back into his car, not so fresh from his latest 'briefing' with the Brass at post. He ran a hand wearily through his hair, thinking how somewhere along the line someone had missed the meaning of the word 'brief'. He wouldn't have minded so much if half the information they had given him would have been of any use to the actual mission. Two weeks before they shipped out on this one, more than enough time for Jensen to come up with something that would actually be useful, or at least so he hoped.

He drove off post and joined the slow-moving traffic, trying not to give any thought to what havoc Roque and Jensen would have wrought while he'd been gone. He looked forward to a day when they weren't trying to rile one another up. Mind you, Jensen wouldn't be too bad for the next couple of weeks as he submerged himself into finding all the information he could for their upcoming mission. That would occupy most of Jensen's time, all Clay needed to do now was find something to keep Roque busy and away from goading the tech.

Maybe he could enlist his help in the attempts to track down a replacement sniper. Since Hanniger had left the team, they hadn't been able to find a permanent replacement. Hanniger had at least stuck around a while, but like so many operatives he hadn't really fit into the team in the way he or they needed. He'd not been able to stand Jensen, couldn't see beyond the loud mouth and bright obnoxious t-shirts to the intelligence underneath. He'd wound the tech up and not in a good way. It hadn't been funny to watch, not like watching Jensen and Roque play out their little arguments.

Clay could trust Roque; he hadn't been able to trust Hanniger in the same way. He wasn't afraid for Jensen, was probably more concerned for Hanniger in truth because Jensen had a long reach. Jensen wasn't going to succumb to the physical assault that was Hanniger's most frequent route. Jensen would give as good as he got on that front when he was pushed, but it cost too much in hassle and replaced furniture or medical center trips to allow it to continue and then there was the mop up afterwards of Jensen's technological retribution.

Turning up for a medical to find you'd been listed as a woman was nothing to the retribution Jensen had taken on Hanniger. There'd been the diversion of paychecks into charitable organizations, the siphoning off of bank accounts toward disaster relief, the sudden apparent demotion, the calls to jury duty repeatedly and in different states, states that Hanniger had never even set foot in. If they had downtime, it was pretty much guaranteed that Hanniger would get a summons somewhere that he would then have to go through all the rigmarole to try and prove that he didn't have to actually serve.

Hanniger hadn't gotten along with Roque either, constantly butting heads with the XO as if trying to take his place. His experience might have been only slightly less than Roque's, but Clay wouldn't have promoted him even if Roque had been the one to leave. Hanniger was a good enough sniper, not the best Clay had ever met, but he was a fuckin' useless team member. Too self-interested for their line of work.

So Hanniger was gone and now they had no sniper and they needed one; they really needed a permanent one.

With Jensen focused on the forthcoming mission and Roque helping with the attempts to locate a suitable replacement sniper, things were in fact quieter. Roque and Jensen still snarked at each other, but the two of them were grinning and enjoying themselves, there was no untoward heat or weight behind their words. This Clay could live with.

McDonald was short and stocky, a loud mouth. Not your typical sniper was Clay's first impression as the guy seemed to be a bundle of pent-up energy. Still he was the best available and at first glance he seemed to be a fit for the team.

McDonald spent the last few days before they shipped out, getting to know the team, laughing and joking with Roque and Pooch and teasing Jensen mercilessly. It didn't seem like a problem. Clay wondered if maybe this time he'd found the one to complete the team.

Time soon proved Clay wrong on that score. Initially it seemed that the mission was running pretty well, no serious problems to delay them in their objectives. Jensen and Roque were both on site; Jensen stripping data from computers while Roque covered his back. McDonald was hidden on the roof of a nearby construction site to provide retreating cover fire if it were needed. It should have been fine . . .

Roque was able to take down the first guy who happened to wander aimlessly into the room where Jensen was hacking the system; managing to knife him before he could make a sound to alert anyone else to what was happening. It moved the timeline up, Jensen trying to work quicker to get as much information as possible before Roque pulled the plug and insisted on them leaving.

After an actual guard found them, Roque decided enough was enough and they were leaving, before the pile of bodies in the corner grew any larger. The two of them were making their way out of the building when they were challenged by security. They managed to maneuver their positions so that they were within sight of McDonald's position. It should have been fine; it should have been straightforward. . .

The two of them were at gunpoint.

Clay and Pooch listened over the comms to Jensen's attempts to distract and talk down the guards, dissuade them from shooting. They waited, breath held anticipating the first gunshot, for McDonald to take the shots that would give their team-mates the time to get out.

When it came, it was accompanied by exactly what they didn't want to hear – the sound of one of their own men hurt. There was a sudden grunt of shock, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground, further gunshots and Roque shouting for Jensen. It only took moments and then there was silence.

It didn't last long before the silence was broken by Roque. Over the comms, they could hear him ranting at Jensen to help him, not to just give up and lie there. They could hear him struggling to lift Jensen when there was a sudden groan of pain and clear signs of Jensen waking to everyone's relief. Clay was out and running to help already and Pooch was moving the van closer. No one asked what McDonald was doing, assuming he'd be either keeping up the cover in case of further security intervention or packing up his gear and heading for the rendezvous depending on how far Roque had managed to move Jensen.

Pooch was surprised when, rather than head for the rendezvous point, McDonald had actually joined him in the van with the comment "Saw you move, figured this was easier than heading to another point to pick me up!" There was a certain anxious tone to his words that Pooch couldn't explain but he wasn't worried, if the guy was in the van, it meant they could get Jensen to help quicker and that could only be a good thing.

"Did you see what happened?" Pooch asked, worried that although he could hear that Clay was now with Roque and the two of them were supporting Jensen out, no one had indicated what kind of injury Jensen was suffering from.

"Jensen was in the way. Asshole kept moving, I couldn't get a clear shot quick enough," was the bizarre answer.

Pooch turned his attention back to the sight of Clay, Roque and Jensen as they rounded the corner in front of him, wondering what exactly had happened, because while they all knew how much energy Jensen generally buzzed with, their tech wasn't stupid, he knew when to keep still, how to keep still when someone was going to be trying to shoot past him.

Clay pulled open the rear door and McDonald stepped forward to help pull Jensen inside. Clay was shocked to see him there, "You? How'd you get down so fast?" Pooch looked back over his shoulder suddenly struck by the fact that McDonald hadn't even been out of breath when he arrived at the van. The guy ishould/i have just run down about twelve floors of the construction site opposite the compound that Jensen and Roque had been in, he certainly hadn't rappelled down because he wasn't wearing his gear. Whichever he'd done, he should at least have been breathing heavily.

"What the fuck did you do?" Roque suddenly snarled, now his arms were empty of Jensen's weight. He turned as if to lunge for McDonald, only for Jensen to cough, gasping for breath and groaning. McDonald was forgotten about as Roque and Clay both turned their attention to trying to assess and stabilize Jensen's condition as Pooch floored the pedal and sped away towards safety.

McDonald hadn't lasted beyond the return to post. Jensen had been deposited in the medical center and while they worked on him, Roque had taken matters into his own hands before there was time for an official inquiry. McDonald had needed his own hospital visit before Roque had finished.

When they finally picked apart the truth of the events, McDonald didn't fare well, but it wasn't quite as bad as Roque had first assumed . . . Not that he had any intention of apologizing for the retribution that he'd already exacted. McDonald hadn't bothered to climb as high in the construction site as he'd been supposed to, saying that the likelihood of them really needing back-up was minimal. Not having achieved the height, he then didn't have such a good view of where Jensen and Roque were and hadn't been able to see past them to the guards they'd lured round hoping he had them covered.

He hadn't, as Roque had supposed, actually shot Jensen, although he had been responsible for the first shot that had caused Jensen to go down. It turned out his shot had hit the gravel in the parking lot which had then ricocheted up and hit Jensen, causing him to stumble forward with several pieces of gravel embedded in his ass! The resulting furor had been that the guards threatening Jensen and Roque had reacted to the sound of gunfire and Jensen's forward movement by shooting Jensen. They'd been bad at their jobs fortunately and most of the bullets had missed with just a couple hitting him as through and throughs in his arm and leg and in the end not too serious, but at the time, it had floored the tech and had caused them all more than a little anxiety.

Clay had not been happy about the unnecessary damage to the tech, who hadn't been at fault for once, nor for the resulting pile of paperwork that followed it. A further annoyance on the top of that was the fact that they were sniper-less . . . again.

Carlos Alvarez stared blankly at the wall opposite his bed. The room was peaceful for the moment, no nurses fussing round, no brass trying to accuse him of being at fault for his injuries and even better none of his 'team'.

This wasn't what he'd imagined life in the Army would be like. Not the getting injured part, he'd known that would always be a risk, but he'd imagined a team, people working together for the greater good. Not some mad battle to trample one another to the top of the heap. He didn't expect anyone to pull his weight for him. He knew his strengths. Seriously all through basic training, he'd managed some of the highest acclamations for his skills. He'd been handpicked for special forces training.

But it had been a long time since he'd been accepted, been part of one of the teams he'd worked with. He'd done everything they'd asked of him and more and been met with disinterest at best and hostility even more often. High school had been easier than this. He knew his faults, he was quiet, didn't find it easy to put himself out there and be noticed, but the few times he'd tried had only made matters worse.

There were times he wished he'd never signed up to serve, never listened to the recruitment officers who'd visited school. He didn't belong here anymore than he'd belonged when he'd been in school. He was a loner, but not by choice. He'd had his one chance at being part of a team and that had been taken away from him in the worst possible way. He'd begun to believe he'd never have another chance.

He heard a noise in the corridor outside the two bed room in which he was lying. It sounded like they would be bringing someone new into fill the other bed. He wondered for an instant who it would be, where they'd been when they got injured or whether it was something else entirely.

The staff wheeled in a gurney, Carlos watched as they worked together to shift the sleeping figure over to the bed alongside his. Two nurses drew the curtain round the bed as they settled the man in, while the other two rolled away the gurney. It didn't take long for the nurses to open the curtain again, smiling warmly at Carlos in greeting as he watched them.

"He'll be out of it for a while, but you'll have someone to keep you company for the next few days at least once he's awake. Apparently," she stepped closer as if about to confide something. "Apparently we should appreciate the time he's asleep because he doesn't shut up when he's awake or so his team said. I guess they'll be by later to check on him." She frowned, "You've not had any visitors yet today?"

Carlos looked away as he shrugged. "I'm between teams," he said quietly.

The nurse sighed, moving to pull a chair closer and sit down for a chat, much to his chagrin. "Carlos . . . Did you file a complaint?"

"No." He wished he hadn't been here so often, wished that he'd been able to hide more of the injuries that he'd got while not on missions with this last team.

She reached for the hand that lay on the cover nearer her. "Carlos, we'll back you up. We've got your records."

"I'm fine. I don't need to file anything." He pulled his hand away from her grasp. "I'm not with that team so . . . leave it . . ." His voice dropped even quieter as he added, "Please."

She sighed again, Carlos knew she was weary with this old argument, hoping that this time he'd be transferred to a better team, before she saw him back in her care with the results of an organized Code Red as opposed to the persistent minor injuries that resulted from the hassling abuse he'd been receiving ever since his time with Major McKee and his team. They both knew that even though Carlos had moved teams again, he wasn't really any better off. She pushed herself back up and said, "I'll come by later and check on you. If you need anything, just call." She picked up his chart on the pretense of noting down information but he watched as she spent longer just looking to see what information there was as to who he'd been working with last. He didn't suppose that it would be any surprise to find it was a Major who had a similar track record for ill-disciplined behavior from his team as McKee.

Carlos let himself relax a little as she left the room, turning to look again at his sleeping companion. The man looked young in his sleep, blonde hair mussed by the movement from gurney to bed. He was propped on his side, face towards Carlos, pillows behind him to keep him in place and another under the arm that was bandaged and positioned carefully in front of him. There was no sign of the pain of his injuries as he slept.

He was an attractive man. Carlos wondered if his personality would match that of most other attractive men that he'd met. Not that it would matter, he was a soldier, not the kind of person that Carlos would let his thoughts consider. If he was lucky, the man in the bed alongside would be a distraction from the boredom of his confinement while he waited for his injuries to heal, amiable enough that they could get along. There would be nothing more, Carlos knew not to expect friendship at this point in his career.

Jensen came round slowly, consciousness slowly re-asserting itself, the smells and sounds of a medical facility . . . disinfectant, rolling gurneys, the curt clip of nursing staff shoes, the awkwardness of his position . . . not how he usually slept . . . and voices . . . unfamiliar ones, but quiet, not threatening.

"I've nearly done for today, Carlos. This is healing well. It won't be long and you'll have both arms back in action."

"And the leg?"

"Be patient. It's going to be fine, but it's going to take a while."

Jensen's eyes finally opened, his usual curiosity overcoming the urge to let sleep reclaim him. When his vision cleared, he was disappointed to find not a view of his surroundings, but a view of a typical hospital curtain around the bed beside his and the voices quiet from behind that closed curtain.

He shifted, thinking to relieve the discomfort of the position he was in, only to suddenly gasp as he was reminded of exactly why he was in the medical center in the first place. The sudden intake of air caught him by surprise and he began to cough as well.

He couldn't help but be grateful when the curtain alongside suddenly moved and a nurse was at his side, gently rubbing his back to calm his coughing before reaching for a jug of water and pouring a little into a cup and slipping a straw into it then holding it where he could sip and ease the last of the remaining tickle in his throat.

"Take it easy there, soldier," she smiled. He gave a slight grin as his breathing calmed and he felt himself ease back down onto the bed, grateful as she helped him get comfortable.

"Hey," he said hoarsely.

She smiled gently, "Hey there, you. Good to see you awake, Corporal. So coughing and choking aside, shall we run through why you're here and what the situation is?"

"Sounds . . . riveting? Is it good?"

"The best. Let's start simple. . . gunshot hit you in the arm. You fell and apparently put your hand out to stop the fall, so we've strapped up your wrist. It's not broken but it did swell impressively for a while. We iced it and all the usual. Now we've got you propped up on your side because the doctors had to do . . . umm . . . a little digging . . ." Jensen's eyebrows shot up in alarm before registering the nurse's smile. "Apparently, you had gravel in the back of your leg and your . . . "

Jensen was mortified as he realized where else he'd had gravel. "H- how . . .? Fuck! No, don't . . . just never mention it again, ever! You hear me! Fuck!" He tried to bury his burning face in the pillow below his head.

"Aw, Corporal . . ." she smirked. "don't be like that. Apparently, gunshot hit the gravel, shattering it into smaller pieces which then hit you."

"Tell me no one else knows this? Please?" Jensen pleaded quietly.

"Sorry, I can't do that. You've been out a while and there were certain actions that had to be taken. Your commanding officer had to know because there were imminent charges of insubordination pending and he wanted to start the ball rolling."

"I didn't do anything, I swear! Fuck! I swear I did exactly what we agreed. It wasn't my fault." Jensen seemed genuinely horrified at the prospect and at the first sign of his growing agitation, the nurse sat down on the edge of the bed with him and tried to calm him.

"Hey, sssh! Don't get so worked up, everything's fine and it – it wasn't you. He wasn't filing them against you. Sssh, Jake, sssh." She made a mental note to add his extreme reaction to his chart.

Jensen eased back, bringing his good hand up to scrub against his face, "Fuck! It's all screwed up, isn't it? What the hell happened?" He seemed to have realized that his reaction was over the top and tried to laugh it off, "Hell, wouldn't be the first time I had charges of insubordination. I just like to know what I've done first."

"Apparently, it was a team-mate who hadn't followed orders, put you and your XO at risk? Of course, that's just what I've heard on the grapevine, nothing official yet."

"That only leaves Pooch and McDonald . . . Pooch was with Clay last I heard so . . ." Jensen let his voice trail off before resuming, "So how long am I going to be in here?"

"Few days and you'll be fine. Good as new. Well almost! You did get hit by the enemy in the lower leg. It'll heal with a little time and some rehab, but you'll need to be on crutches for a while and you won't be going out on any missions until you get the all clear."

"Swell," he replied with just a hint of sarcasm.