Jensen never shuts up in public, so it stands to reason that, in bed, he's the noisy motherfucker on the planet. And it's not even breathy moans and occasional swearing like most people — no, he has to talk the entire time. In graphic detail. About everything that's happening to him. Or that he wants to happen. Or just the same words, repeated over and over, enough to make even the hardiest prostitute in the roughest dockyards blush.
It got to the point where Jo made him pay for an extension above the garage. A very sound-proofed extension above the garage. With its own entrance. Because while Jo likes to think of herself as a liberal easy-going single mother, there are a few things she'd really prefer her four-year-old to not repeat. And "Mommy, what does 'cocksucker' mean?" is definitely one of them.
So he has his own little bachelor pad at Jo's house. And everyone's grateful when they get some off time near New Hampshire, because then there are no angry hotel managers, no freaked out next-door-neighbors, no intimidated privates whispering about the communal showers, and no generals holding their heads in their hands before barking to Clay "Just go, okay? Get your team out of here."
Soundproofing. It's a wonderful thing.
Jensen didn't believe he was that noisy. He just figured it was his normal conversation skills, at a normal conversation level, just slightly more profanity-tinged and lewd than he normally does.
Pooch ended up finally setting up a voice recorder in their hotel room, because the Pooch was not down with losing sleep. Especially right after a mission where he had to rebuild an engine under heavy gunfire. He had done his part, and he wanted some goddamned sleep. Sleep uninterrupted by Jensen shouting "Oh Christ, Cougar, ram your big fat cock inside me, yeah, make me fucking lose it all over your dick."
Jensen still didn't believe him. And kept on replaying bits, convinced it wasn't his voice.
Everyone was sick of Jensen's voice by that point.
Clay finally tried to talk to Cougar about it. He didn't like doing domestic shit like this — everything worked better when all he had to talk about was the mission. Or how many beers he was gonna drink when they hit the nearest bar. Simple stuff. Not "Cougar, I'm not asking, and you're not telling, but do you think you could possibly keep Jensen a bit quieter when you're — not necessarily, and as I mentioned, I'm not asking and you're not telling — having sex?"
And that bastard just smirked, tipping his hat back slightly. Cocky son of a bitch.
That night, everyone discovered that Jensen could — and would — talk with his mouth full.
After the chopper, everything was quiet.
Everyone was pretty fucked up, so no one noticed at first. Too busy focusing on finding jobs or finding a way home or just coping with the screams of metal and the stench of fire that stayed with them no matter what.
But the quiet soon seeped through, bleeding into their daily routines. The quiet wrapped around them at night, smothering them with wrongness, of things having changed so drastically that nothing seemed right, or good, or real.
Cougar and Jensen still shared a room, and everyone assumed they still shared a bed, but that all-encompassing quiet, thick and bitter in the back of their throats, told them how it was.
So when, in the Houston scrapyard, after Cougar saves Jensen's ass — yet again — and Jensen shows them the money trail and everyone's feeling a little better about this whole fucking thing, Jensen and Cougar both disappear into the trailer they've claimed as their bunk, and it starts rocking furiously, suspension creaking under the movement, and Jensen's voice is travelling through steel and glass and cheap wallpaper, those tensed-up muscles in everyone's shoulders relax, just a little.
And Aisha looks at them all, then looks at the trailer, just as Jensen yells "Oh fuck yeah, Cougs, take it all in, you fucking filthy slut. God, you look so fucking amazing riding my dick like that." She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it, her eyebrows raised as she looks back at Clay.
Clay shrugs. "Not asking, not telling," he says, before turning away.
This The Losers story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at http://www.dymphna.net/fanfic/. And you can feedback her at dymphna@dymphna.net.