#agent whiskey reader insert

The painting fell with a nudge from the barrel of your gun, revealing the safe tucked into the wall. A 10 digit keypad with a small screen kept it locked. You leaned in, making sure your broach was pointed at it. “Ginger?”

“Got it Amaretto. Analyzing.” You could picture the woman typing away, executing different commands as she analyzed the image you broadcast back to her computer. You knew she was using possible heat signatures, wear on the numbers, oil deposits, not to mention the tech you didn’t understand to crack the code. You could hear Whiskey shifting around the room behind you as you waited.

“7298,” Ginger instructed. You entered the code and the lock clicked, the door swinging ajar.

“Thanks, Ging.” You acknowledged before addressing Whiskey. “We’re in.”

“And?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at you, but keeping himself angled out into the room in case of trouble.

You pushed the safe’s door the rest of the way open seeing a large, black briefcase inside. If the intel was right, inside it would be counterfeiting plates. A small time counterfeiting ring had somehow paired up with a large terrorist ring, laundering the fake money into real profit to fund their plans. Taking down this ring would be a big, although likely temporary, hit to the terrorists.

You pulled the briefcase out of the safe, setting it onto the desk. There were no locks on the briefcase, just the latches keeping it closed. While that should have been suspicious, your excitement of completing the mission had you pushing forward. You unlatched and opened the lid.

Before you could see what was inside, something shot out of the case. You were sprayed in the face and neck with a cool, goopy liquid. You yelped in surprise, wiping frantically at your face to get it off. You stumbled backwards into the wall, falling onto your ass.

You heard Whiskey call for you the same time Ginger did through the earpiece. Whiskey was beside you quickly, pulling your hands away from your face by the wrists. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t know.” You stuttered, feeling him wiping at your face and hands with some fabric. “I opened the case and it shot out at me.”

“Ginger?” Whiskey called out.

“I’m checking the footage now, running it through our databases.” The tech responded, voice level as always. “Keep a sample, but find some water to get it off her. I’m sure it’s some kind of safety measure.”

“Stay here.” Whiskey ordered before he left your side.

You nodded, trying to remain calm as the substance started to sting your eyes. You relayed that information back to Ginger.

“What else can you tell me about it, Amaretto?” She asked.

“It’s viscous. Like syrup.” You told her, feeling the slimy coating it still left on your skin after Whiskey had tried to wipe it away. “Cool to the touch. Smells like… flowers? Definitely floral.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s helpful. Anything else, let me know. It will help us identify it quicker.”

Whiskey returned as Ginger spoke. You jumped at his sudden presence beside you.

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “Got the water and a cloth.” He narrated as to not spook you when the wet rag touched your skin.

“Flush out her eyes and get out of there.” Ginger instructed as your partner wiped your face clean. The cloth disappeared and Whiskey’s large hand was on the back of your head, leading you to lean over.

“I’ve got you. We just gotta wash out your eyes.” He kept talking, although you couldn’t quite tell if it was to keep you or himself calm. “Open.” He instructed.

You listened, opening your eyes and whimpering at how much it hurt to do so. The room seemed so much brighter than it had been before. You only had a moment to think on this before Whiskey was pouring the water into your eyes. You reached out for him, steadying yourself with your hands against his chest.

When the flow of water stopped, you told Ginger. “Light sensitivity. Add that to the list of symptoms.”

“Got it.” She responded. “Whiskey, grab that case and get to the jet.”

Your partner’s hands were on your arms, helping you to stand. He left you momentarily and you heard the briefcase snap closed. His arm wrapped around your waist as he led you away from the wall. You stumbled a few times over the bodies on the floor, but Whiskey did a good job of leading you. Any misstep you took or slight fumble, he never let you fall. You were lucky the two of you had dispatched everyone in the house before making it to the office. There was no one left alive to stop you as you left.

“It’s really starting to burn.” You told them, feeling tears falling from your eyes. The burning was also translating into a headache as the pain spread. It was getting harder to focus on Whiskey as he navigated the two of you out of the house.

“Stick with me, pick up your feet. I got ya.” Whiskey continued to instruct as you moved.

You knew you’d made it outside the second the sunlight hit your face. Even through closed eyelids, the light was too much to bear. You cried out in pain, shielding your eyes with your hands. You would have fallen to your knees if not for Whiskey’s firm grip on you.

“I can’t.” You cried, holding your head in your hands. “It’s too much.”

Whiskey cursed under his breath before you felt something slip atop your head and you were lifted off the ground. “Keep your head down,” Whiskey ordered, the vibrations of his voice moving through his chest against you. You could feel the bouncing of his footsteps as he ran. You removed your hands from your eyes to hold onto him, and you assumed you were wearing his hat by the way it kept the sun off your face. You buried your head into his neck to shield your eyes even more from the light.

“We’re almost there.” He promised as you trembled in his arms. 

When Whiskey had landed the jet earlier, it hadn’t seemed too far from the cabin - far enough to not alert them to your presence of course, but the trek there hadn’t seemed far. Now, it felt like he might as well be carrying you to Canada as the pain grew worse. You could hear Whiskey and Ginger talk, but it grew harder to hear them over your own groans of pain and the blood rushing through your ears. You were crying in earnest into Whiskey’s shoulder, fighting the urge to claw at your eyes.

You felt his gait change as he ascended the stairs into the jet. You could hear his voice but the words were lost on you as he set you down into a sitting position. Without him to grip onto, your hands flew to your eyes. Your arms were quickly restrained, making you yell and thrash. It was too bright. It hurt too much. The stinging was unbearable now.

You felt a single hand wrap around both wrists as you pleaded for him to let you go. You needed to do something to stop the pain.

You barely felt the pinprick to your neck. As it got harder to fight him, you realized he must have given you a sedative. He dropped your arms as your muscles grew sluggish and you felt him buckling you safely into the seat. You tried to mumble a thank you to him, but you couldn’t be sure if the words made it out of your brain as you lost consciousness.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Your surroundings came to you slowly. The feel of the stiff cot under you, covered with scratchy linens. A few quiet beeps from different machines. The sensors attached to your chest and your arms - you must be in the medical wing back at Statesman HQ. It took you a moment to remember what had landed you in medical but once you did you were pleasantly surprised to not feel any pain. 

You couldn’t remember anything after stepping outside the cabin. The last vivid memory you had was the sun hitting your face and excruciating pain shooting through your head. Whiskey must have gotten the two of you back safely.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting a dark room. You were thankful for that, remembering how severe the light sensitivity had gotten. Introducing you to light slowly was a good idea.

“You’re awake.” The voice made you jump, even though you quickly recognized it to be Ginger. You didn’t expect her to be waiting in the dark for you. “How do you feel?”

You heard the heart rate sensor beep a little quicker as you clutched your chest from the scare, laughing softly. “You scared me. I feel okay, actually. No pain.”

“That’s great.” You could hear the relief in her voice. “And your vision?”

The question gave you pause, wondering how you were supposed to test your vision in the dark. “Turn the light on and I’ll tell you.”

“What?” Ginger’s voice was clipped, fallen from the relief it held moments ago. You weren’t sure exactly what the tone was but you knew you didn’t like it.

“Turn the lights on, Ging.”

“The lights are on.” She explained. You could hear the clicking of her footsteps and the rustling of her clothes as she moved closer. A hand on your right arm made you flinch.

“That’s not funny.” You scoffed.

“I’m not joking.” She replied seriously. She was silent for a moment, the faint rustling of fabric moving again before she asked “you don’t see that at all?”

“See what?”

“I’m shining a flashlight into your eyes.”

“No you’re not.”

“Ginger!” You heard Whiskey’s drawl, echoing like it was in a different room. Footsteps, heavier than the ones you had just heard, accompanied his voice as you figured he must be entering approaching your room. “She awake yet?”

“Whiskey, tell Ginger to stop joking around.” You begged, starting to freak out. The increased beeping beside you accompanied the anxiety you were feeling spread through your body.

“What’s going on?” The cowboy asked, worry coating his voice as it moved closer.

“She can’t see anything.” Ginger admitted, her hand leaving your arm. You heard Whiskey exhale to your left, a loud breath that sounded like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“Why not?” He demanded.

“I don’t know.” Ginger admitted. “We’re still analyzing the substance. So far all we know is it seems to be made from orange blossoms and some kind of berry-”

“It won’t be permanent, right?” You asked, cutting Ginger off. Your voice sounded so small compared to the other two in the room. There wasn’t an answer right away, footsteps approaching from the left before a large, warm hand covered yours.

“We’ll figure this out, sugar.” Whiskey told you as he laced his fingers with yours.

“We will.” Ginger confirmed. She sounded confident, and you knew she was nothing if not capable, but you still felt tears roll down your cheeks as the fear crashed over you.

You heard Whiskey tut beside you before he was brushing your tears away, his large palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed your skin.

“I’ll get to the lab. See if we’ve got anything new.” Ginger excused herself and you could hear her footsteps fade as she left the room.

As the two of you were left alone, you felt the cot shift underneath you as Whiskey sat down. He pulled you into a hug, letting you cry into his shoulder. She rocked you gently back and forth, telling you it was going to be okay. He let you cry until you felt numb, like there were no tears left. He didn’t move away until you lifted your head.

“I’d offer you my handkerchief, but it’s in the lab too.” Whiskey told you, voice light like he was trying to make you smile. He shifted away for a brief second, leaning back as you felt him press a scratchy fabric into your hand, which you quickly identified as a tissue. You used it to blot at your cheeks and nose.

You thanked him, your voice hoarse from crying. “Not just for this,” you waved the tissue in the air. “For getting us out of there.”

“It’s part of the gig, sugar.” It sounded like he was grinning when he spoke. You hoped he was. Even more, you hoped you’d see the grin for yourself again soon.

The next several days revolved around tests. Scans of your head and eyes, tests being done on the limited amount of the substance the lab had collected from Whiskey’s handkerchief and the briefcase. You didn’t even realize there were that many different tests they could perform, but everyday they brought you new results. Unfortunately, none of the results so far had led to any answers about why you’d lost your sight. As the lab identified more ingredients of the goo that had sprayed you, they tried different medicines and remedies but nothing had changed. They also told you how the substance had left you with a light rash on the skin of your face and hands where you’d been exposed. You were hardly worried about the rash. They said it was fading naturally. You wished your sight would return naturally too.

Between tests, you were hardly ever along. Whiskey visited you more often than not. Ginger spent a lot of time with you during tests as well as socially for meals. The team of doctors and junior agents working with her to help heal you all came and went. Tequila, Champ and other Statesman agents came by to check in on you when they could.

It was getting easier to identify who was coming as you started to hear differences in their footsteps. Whiskey had a long, slow gait, his boots slapping the floor with a dull thud. Tequila’s steps were quicker, and his boots snapped a little lighter against the floor. Champ’s steps were slower, like Whiskey’s, but there was an irregularity to the pattern. His left hip making him have the slightest limp that you had never noticed by sight alone. Ginger was easiest, being one of the few women who came to see you. Her steps clacked as her heels hit the floor.

You were also surprised to start noticing the different scents everyone held. Tequila, bless that boy, smelt obnoxiously like axe spray deodorant, reminding you of a high school boy’s gym class. Champ smelt of vanilla, cloves and the cigar smoke that clung to his clothes. Ginger smelt like clean linens, a hint of tropics in her detergent but seemed to be content staying largely scent-free, no perfumes that you could pick up on.

Whiskey’s smell was more complex, but maybe that was because he was the one who would sit next to you on the bed, giving you a chance to really breathe it in. Hints of spiced citrus hung to his clothes, along with the smell of leather and smoke - not smoke like Champ, but the kind from a freshly fired gun. When he got close enough, his musk had you remembering being cradled in his arms as he carried you away from the cabin, his hat atop your head.

You were thankful for the ways you were picking up to identify people. Your years as an agent had you trained to survey your surroundings, to avoid being caught off guard. It was unsettling to have your primary sense for that taken away from you. Most people were learning to announce themselves as they approached your room, giving you a heads up someone was nearing. Not everyone did. Tequila was particularly bad at it, and you suspected he enjoyed watching you jump.

You expressed your worries to Champ when he came to visit, on the fourth day of no progress. He chuckled and patted your back in a fatherly way.

“Let’s give them some time to figure this out, Amaretto. We don’t need to start plannin’ a retirement party just yet.”

You supposed he was trying to help you worry less, but it didn’t help. Would you have to retire if your vision wasn’t restored? You could hardly imagine a position at Statesman that you could easily navigate without sight. If you ever learned braille, and how to type, maybe some kind of administration or archival job, but who knew how long it would take you to master those skills. It was hard enough to accept what this meant for your career, let alone the rest of your life.

The agents that came to visit tried to help take your mind off of it, but it was hard when there was no true reprieve.

“Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

“You know, I’m startin’ to remember why I wasn’t so fond of this book in school.” Whiskey interrupted his recitation. “How Mr. Twain managed to turn the absolute boredom of paintin’ a fence into the written word with such lucidity is an artform in itself.”

“Oh stop,” you laughed, reaching beside you to swat at him. It was an easy thing to aim for, feeling the warmth of him on the bed next to you, his arm pressed to yours.

“I’m just sayin’ that I’ve had better adventures before breakfast than these so called adventures of Tom Sawyer.” He complained.

“Tom Sawyer wasn’t a senior agent of a secret spy organization.”

“And good thing too. He’d have burnt this place to the ground by now with his behaviour.” He harrumphed, making you laugh.

“Just keep reading.”

He sighed, a long, annoyed sigh.

“Please.” You sang, smiling up at him as you leaned into his arm. These were the moments you could really smell the spice and leather on him.

He was silent for a beat. Although the two of you were joking, you almost worried he wouldn’t keep reading. It was much harder to read people’s moods without seeing their facial expressions. No smile or eye roll to go by had you guessing by voice tone alone. Silences had you absolutely puzzled.

“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business—she ’lowed she’d ’tend to de whitewashin’.”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a minute. She won’t ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head-

“I’d be able to follow a lot easier if you did different voices for the different characters.” You interrupted.

“Don’t push your luck.” He grumbled, but you were pretty sure you could hear that grin in his voice again as he kept reading.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Keep your eyes closed.” You were instructed by Tonic, a junior agent who worked under Ginger. You felt the dampened towel being lifted from your eyes. You’d just spent 40 minutes laying back, letting the medicinal solution on the towel soak in. You had done the same thing the day before, and would likely be doing it again tomorrow.

“Just dimming the lights. Hold on.” Tonic explained as you heard his shuffling footsteps through the room. It was a good thing he had a knack for medicine because he’d be an awful field agent with the way he never picked up his feet.

“Okay, open.”

You did as instructed, blinking as your eyes adjusted to being open again. Just like the day before, you only saw the familiar inky blackness.

“Nothing.” You shook your head.

“That’s okay.” You could hear the forced optimism in his voice. “Ginger said it could take up to five treatments for this to work. We’ll do it again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” You gave the poor kid the best smile you could muster, but you were definitely losing hope. It had been nearly a week now with no progress. It was getting time to face facts.

“Don’t worry, Agent Amaretto. We’ll figure it out.” The boy told you, a soft pat on your shoulder accompanying his attempt at comfort.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen Tonic around Statesman. You might have walked by in passing, but you were never introduced. It was weird to be spending this much time with someone and having no idea what they looked like. You were almost tempted to ask, but kept it to yourself. You'd have to get used to not knowing what new people looked like.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You shuffled out of the bathroom with your hand on the doorframe to help guide you. You had showered - your first true shower on your own, not just a quick wash-up in the sink or a sponge bath - and it made you feel slightly more human again. The robe was soft and plush against your skin, wearing only a tank top and underwear under it. The towel you had half-heartedly wrapped your hair in was falling out of the twist - you hadn’t quite mastered that skill without seeing yet.

You opened your mouth to dismiss the junior agent who had been tasked with waiting for you - sitting outside the washroom in case you needed to call for help - but you were interrupted.

“I sent her on her way, sugar.” You immediately recognized Whiskey’s twang. He was the best so far at announcing his presence, and you truly appreciated it. You still jumped slightly, not expecting him to be here. “Sorry.” He chuckled.

“I’ll get used to it eventually.” You waved off his apology, not actually knowing if you would ever get used to it.

“C’mon, none of that.” Whiskey tutted. Your uncertainty must have shown on your face. “Want a hand?”

“Yes, please.’ You confirmed, holding your arm out towards his voice. You heard him approach, footsteps and fabric, before he looped his arm around yours.

“Where to?” They had set up a table and chairs for you in the room, trying to make you feel more at home than in a hospital room. All it did was reaffirm that you weren’t any closer to finding a solution and that your stay was going to last even longer.

“The bed, please.”

He led you to the bed easily, not taking his arm away until you were sitting comfortably. You felt the towel fall even further off your head as you sat.

“Can you pass me the brush?” You asked him, holding your hand out.

You waited, hearing Whiskey move around, but instead you felt him pull your hair free from the towel. With your wet hair falling down your back, you felt him run the brush through it.

“What are you doing?” You chuckled.

“You just relax, sugar.” He ordered. He started at the ends of your hair, brushing the tangles out before moving closer to your scalp.

“I can brush my own hair.” You argued even though you were grinning.

“Just let me take care of you, Rhett.” He huffed, smacking you on the shoulder with the flat side of the brush.

“Fine, Whisk.” You huffed playfully in response, leaving him to brush your hair.

He was surprisingly gentle, only once did your hair pull painfully at your scalp to which he mumbled a quick apology. You hadn’t had someone brush your hair for you in a long time. Outside of a hairdresser, it probably hadn’t happened since you were a child. As much as you were trying to maintain your independence with your new loss of sight, it was very relaxing.

You hadn’t expected it when you felt him part your hair into sections and start weaving them together.

“Are you… braiding my hair?” You asked curiously.

“Yes, ma’am.” He hummed, clearly concentrated on his task.

“Okay, the brushing I could let go, but are you going to tell me how you know how to braid?” You laughed.

“I’ve made my own whips before, sugar.” He explained, his drawl even more pronounced as he spoke slowly, keeping his focus on the hair. “Part of that is just fancy bradin’.”

“You make your own whips?” That surprised you.

Whiskey chuckled, his fingers brushing lower and lower on your back as the braid progressed. “Not the ones I use on missions, but I have some at home I made. I’m not too up on the electricity part, but a good ol’ fashioned bullwhip? I can throw one of those together in a few days if I have the time.”

“So which came first? Using the whip or making them?”

“Been usin’ them since I was a boy, on the family farm. Started makin’ em ‘round the same time, maybe a few years between. Although those first ones were nothin’ to celebrate. I got better at it. Decent hobby to have, if you’ve got scraps of leather hanging around.”

You felt him end the braid as he spoke, tying an elastic around the end. You lifted your hand to your hair so you could feel the braid. It was surprisingly sturdy and didn’t feel like there were any messes of bumps.

“Thank you.” You turned, smiling in his direction.

He was silent as he pushed the braid over one shoulder, his fingertips grazing your neck as he did. The sensation left goosebumps on your still-damp skin.

“I also used to braid my wife’s hair.” He admitted quietly. “Especially when she wasn’t feelin’ well. Braided it up to keep it out of her face.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. You knew a bit about Whiskey’s past, about his high school sweetheart and that she’d died, but it was hardly ever discussed between the two of you. Before you came up with something to say, he continued.

“When we found out she was expectin’,” he grunted as you felt the mattress dip. You scooted over to make room for him to sit. “I was braidin’ her hair all the time. For one, the mornin’ sickness that first trimester, hoo-” he chuckled softly, lost in the memory. “It really kicked her ass. Spent most her time huggin’ a bucket or praying to the porcelain gods. But before we found out she was carryin’ a boy, she wanted me to practice. ‘Case we had a little girl.”

You bit your lip, reaching in Whiskey’s direction. You wanted nothing more than to take his hand in yours, but you fumbled in the air clumsily. He brought his hand up to yours, letting you grip it tightly.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

“Thank you, sugar.” He answered back. “Was another life. Wasn’t meant for me, I guess.”

You gave his hand another squeeze, really wishing you knew what to say. Something to make the pains of his past a little… less. His hand stayed in yours, but you heard something rustling off to the side.

“What are we readin’ tonight? We’ve still got some of Tom Sawyer’s adventures to go through, or we can start Pride and Prejudice.”

You leaned back, getting comfortable in the bed. “Tom Sawyer. Besides, you can’t tell me you actually want to read Pride and Prejudice.” You grinned, letting him change the subject.

“I could be persuaded, but if the lady requests Tom Sawyer…” He trailed off, likely picking up the book based on what you heard. He got settled in beside you and you heard the pages turning as he found where the two of you had left off. As he read, his hand stayed firmly in yours.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Lean back.” Ginger instructed. You did so, keeping a firm grip on the arms of the chair to keep your equilibrium. They had uncovered a new piece of whatever had attacked you, leading them to coming up with another possible cure. Ginger had explained this to you as she prepared you for the eyedrops. You were glad they were eyedrops this time because last time it had been a gel. Even without your sight, the feeling of gel in your eyes was incredibly unpleasant. That being said, you’d do it everyday for the rest of your life if it meant you could see again.

“Ready?” She asked, placing her hand on your shoulder.

“Mhmm.” You held your eyes open as much as you could, waiting for the liquid to hit them. If you thought eyedrops were bad before, they were worse now that you couldn’t see them coming.

The first drop hit your eye, making you jump despite being ready for it. You felt one more drop in the left eye before she moved to your right.

The cooling effect was almost immediate, the strange tingling making your eyes water. You fought against blinking until Ginger gave you the go ahead. You kept your head tilted until a tissue was pressed into your hand.

You leaned back upwards, wiping the residual drops from your cheeks. There were tears too, your eyes watering from the sensation.

“How does it feel?” Ginger asked as you heard her click a pen.

“Tingly.” You told her. “It feels like minty, maybe? Like chewing mint gum with my eyes. Or menthol.” You tried to explain. You heard her scribble something down as she hummed in response.

“Let me know if anything changes. It could take up to an hour to work.” She explained.

You blinked continuously, having no choice as the reflex tried to deal with the feeling in your eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant or painful, just very foreign.

Ginger ate lunch with you while you waited for something to happen, but nothing did. You swallowed down your thoughts of ‘I told you so,’ instead agreeing with her that maybe the next thing would work.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“We gotta start making plans, Champ.” You told him plainly, hands clasped in your lap. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“‘Course not!” The man agreed with gusto. “Forever is out of the question.”

You sighed, knowing he was deflecting. “Nothing is working yet.”

“Somethin’ will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“What if it does?”

“Agent Champagne-”

“You sound like my wife.” He snarked.

“Your wife calls you Agent Champagne?” You asked with a smirk. You couldn’t resist taking that bait.

“A gentleman wouldn’t kiss and tell.” He joked, but it did little to lighten your mood. “But what I mean is the tone of voice. That’s the voice she uses when she thinks I’m being as dumb as a bag o’ hammers.”

You wouldn’t have quite put it that way, but you did think Champ was avoiding dealing with the situation at hand.

“So I’m gonna tell you what I tell her when she starts usin’ that particular tone of voice.” He took a pause and you waited for him to continue. “Trust me.”

You sighed, dropping your head. “I trust you, Champ.”

“Then why are we havin’ this conversation? Is it Ginger and her team? Do you not trust Ginger?”

“Of course I do-”

“You don’t trust Statesman or Statesman technology or medicine?”

“That’s not what I’m saying-”

“Then you stop worrying ‘bout what we’re gonna do with you, and focus on gettin’ better.” He instructed, his tone firm. His accent grew thicker as he went on. “I won’t hear anymore about plannin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re going to get back out there, Agent Amaretto. This piss poor attitude ain’t helpin’ nothin’! If we thought this was a lost cause, we’d tell you. You’d get a gold watch and we’d set you up with a good pension and probably a little desk job at some library somewhere to keep you busy, but that’s not in the cards for you.”

You couldn’t help but tear up as Champ went on. You weren’t even totally sure why. You felt so alone, like no one was hearing your concerns - but at the same time, it sounded like Champ had been thinking about possibilities. A librarian? You didn’t want to end up a librarian. You almost wanted to go back to not talking about the future.

“You, missy, are a Statesman Senior Agent. Now, I’ve already got Tequila climbing up the walls and causin’ trouble, I can’t be worryin’ about herding two cats. Suck up that booboo lip and act like the Agent you are. Understood?”

“Yessir.” You mumbled.

“I didn’t hear you, Agent Amaretto.”

“Yessir.” You repeated, louder this time.

“Good.” You could hear the finality in his voice before the ice in his drink clinked together as he took a sip. “‘Cause if that didn’t work… well, the next tactic I use on the Missus is a little inappropriate to try with you, Agent. No offense.”

Now that did get a laugh out of you.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The podcast played from the speaker beside you, but you were only half listening to it. You were thinking of taking a nap, more out of boredom and lack of anything better to do than tiredness, when you heard familiar heavy footsteps approaching your room. You couldn’t help that it lifted your spirits to know Whiskey was on his way.

“‘Rhett.” He greeted, that signature tone in his voice letting you know he was grinning.

“Whisk.” You responded with a sigh. “You know, if anyone else called me that, I might have to kill them.”

“Not interrupting, am I?” He ignored your warning, stepping into your room.

“No. Wasn’t really listening to this anyway.” You told him. You turned your head in the direction of the speaker and asked it to stop. The room fell into silence as you sat up on the cot.

“That better not have been a book on tape.” He warned.

“Now why would I listen to one of those when I have a real life book on tape at my beck and call.” You smirked.

“Walkin’ talkin’ book on tape, huh? If that’s all I am to you, I think I might just take this present back home with me then.”

“Wait!” You stopped him, hearing his feet retreating back towards the door. “You didn’t say you had a present.”

“Thought that might change your tune.” He chuckled.

You scooted to the side of the cot, patting the mattress beside you. It only took him a second to sit next to you, that familiar spiced citrus and leather scent taking over your senses.

“Hands out.” He instructed. You held your hands in front of you, waiting impatiently for them to be filled. He placed the gift in your hands, but you had no idea what it was yet.

It was circular, but it seemed to vary in width - no, it wasn’t circular, it was just looped. You ran your hand over it, feeling the smooth pattern adorning it.

“What is it?” You asked, finding the end of it - a strong, heavy piece, the texture similar to the rest of it, although the pattern was different. The very end came to a bulbous tip.

“That’s a bonafide, one of a kind, handmade by yours truly, bullwhip.” He explained, taking your hand in his and wrapping it around the handle to hold it properly.

“For real?” You smiled, feeling what you now knew to be leather under your fingers.

“For real.” He chuckled.

You tested the weight of the handle, feeling the drag as the rest of the whip pulled against the sheets. Your fingers ran over the design, following the lines of the handle carefully woven and etched throughout. You regripped the handle and ran your other hand over the tail of the whip, pulling your hands apart to get a feel for how long it was.

“What does it look like?” You asked, leaning into him.

“It’s brown. Medium brown, the colour of gingerbread, maybe. Right along here,” he took your hand holding the handle and guided you in tracing the designs. “It’s stained red, just to make it pop. Not blood red, just tinged red with the stain. Gives it some detail, you know?”

“What else?” You asked, feeling breathless as he helped you to see the details with your hands.

“Well you can probably guess it’s made of leather.” You nodded. “But it’s actually made of kangaroo leather.

“Kangaroo?” You asked in shock. “Where’d a farm boy get kangaroo leather?”

You felt Whiskey’s laugh against your side. “I made this one a year or so ago. Just so turns out that kangaroo hide is one of the strongest in the world and well, when you have a hobby that requires leather, you start gettin’ creative with what kind of leather you’re usin’. Gotta keep it excitin’.”

“You don’t get enough excitement at your day job?” You teased.

“Nah, I’ve got this great partner who always has my back.” His voice made you shiver, despite the fact that his comment had your face heating up. He was leaning heavily against you now, his breath fanning over your cheek.

You swallowed the lump that had appeared in your throat, finding your voice to ask him to tell you more.

“About my partner? She’s a great gal. I’m sure I’d be dead twice over if she wasn’t there to pull my ass outta trouble. She’s a great shot, and there ain’t nothin’ sexier than a woman who can handle a pistol.”

His hand was on your opposite cheek, turning you to face him. The gentle touch made your breath stutter in your throat. 

“She’s got this amazing smile that can make a mark fall in love from 40 paces, and it can light up a room from even farther.” He continued, the breath from his voice dancing across your face. His breath smelt like the spiced Whiskey he was named for, and a slight hint of cherries.

“She deserves better than me for her partner, that’s for damn sure. A broken man with a messy past who’s been too scared to tell her how special she is. I thought it was best to keep it professional, but I don’t know if I can anymore.” His nose brushed against yours. You gasped softly at how close he was.

“She’s always in danger, we both are, but once she was in danger I couldn’t help her out of… that made me realize how important she is. If she’ll let me though,” he whispered. You could feel his lips brush against yours as he spoke, his mustache tickling your upper lip.. “I’d like to spend all my time makin’ that up to her.”

“Jack-” Your whisper was cut off as he pressed his lips to yours gently. It was so gentle, almost hesitant. The man was such a loud, boisterous personality and this kiss was so contrary to that. 

You dropped the whip, bringing your hand up to rest on his hand on your cheek. You followed his arm past his shoulder and up his neck to tangle in his hair. You felt his breath hitch from the light tug on the strands.

“I’m gonna stick by her side,” he muttered, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “No matter what happens. I’m gonna do everything I can to help you.”

You pulled him into another kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips together. He hummed softly into the kiss, brushing your cheek lightly with his thumb. His other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, like he was scared you would disappear. You nipped his bottom lip, trying to reassure him you weren’t going anywhere.

He hissed softly at the sensation and your tongue darted out to soothe the skin. His own tongue met yours, his moan at the contact matching your sigh.

He pulled back and you chased his lips. You were stopped as his nose brushed against yours, his shaky breath flitting across your face.

“Say it again.” He requested, so quietly you almost didn’t even hear.

“Say what?”  You hummed, distracted by his nuzzling and the strong urge to have his lips against yours again.

“My name, sugar.” He was close enough that you could feel his cheek flex with a lopsided grin. “I ain’t ever heard you call me by name before now.”

You smiled in return, biting your lip. It was true. You’d called him Whiskey most of the time. Agent Whiksey when you were being formal. Whisk when he annoyed you. Numerous different names while undercover…

“Kiss me, Jack.”

He growled, low and deep in his chest, before he obliged. Now this was the kiss you expected from Whi- from Jack Daniels. His tongue, pressing past the seam of your lips. It felt like he was marking his territory, all you could do was let him. He swallowed your moans as you matched his hunger. He kissed you with passion, both experienced and unrefined. Unbridled. He kissed you breathless, until you had no choice but to part.

You pulled back, panting softly as you leaned your forehead against his. You wished you could see him. See if he was just as affected by the kiss as you were.

You slid your hand from his hair to his cheek. His skin was warm, you could almost imagine it tinged pink, flushed from being so breathless. You continued exploring, finding his mustache next. The coarse hair felt askew, likely mussed from kissing and not the neat, groomed thing you were used to. You felt the uptick of his lips in that signature grin, and you couldn’t help but feel those too. They were warm and moist. You wondered if they were swollen, like yours felt.

Jack held your hand still, kissing each finger tip one at a time. The tickle of his mustache made you giggle.

“I mean it, sugar.” You could feel his lips move against your fingertips, his voice vibrating through your hand. “I’m here with you. Whether they figure this out or not. We’ll get through it.”

It was the first time someone other than yourself acknowledged that your sight may never return. It didn’t bring about the hollow defeat you’d been feeling anytime you thought of being blind the rest of your life. It finally felt like you had someone in your corner. Of course it would be Jack. He’d had your back for years, working together in the field. You should have known it would be him, in the end.

“Thank you.” You dropped your hand from his face to wrap both arms around him, hugging him as you rested your head against his chest.

You felt him press a kiss against your forehead before he pulled you to lay down. He held you, cradled into his side as you burrowed your face into his neck. You heard something fall, probably the whip that had been forgotten on the sheets.

“Oops.” You winced, not having meant to be so careless with his gift. You moved to sit up, wanting to pick it up, but he held you firm.

“Leave it there,” he instructed. You relished the way his deep voice vibrated against you. “It ain’t gonna fall any further.”

“I don’t want something to happen to it.”

“If it does, I'll make you a hundred more.” He promised.

“Fine.” You ceded, snuggling back into him with a deep inhale. Leather and spice.

The arm that was draped over your waist left your side. You felt his muscles move under his shirt as he stretched out. It only took a minute before the released, relaxing again. You heard the fluttering of paper before he started to read.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. 

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The pressure from the device around your head was unpleasant, but not unbearable. The way it pressed down on your eyes made you want to squirm. Instead, you squeezed frantically at the stress ball Ginger had offered you before you’d been strapped in. You knew Whiskey was standing with her as she ran the test, but you wished he could be here. You’d take his hand in yours over the foam smiley face any day.

“Almost done, Amaretto.” Ginger’s voice echoed through the speaker, barely audible over the hum of the awful machine.

“You’ve got this, sugar.”

“Whiskey, don’t tou-”

“-tell me not to-”

“-my lab, my buttons-”

“-OW!”

The bickering coming through the speakers was almost enough to make you laugh. The clicking of the microphone engaging and disengaging had you picturing the two fighting over whatever button turned the feed on. The two had spent hours bickering the past two weeks, Jack becoming increasingly more involved in your treatment as the two of you shifted from partners to...  well, there was no set term put on it yet, but you were very fond of kissing him. You couldn’t quite imagine the cowboy in the other room being called a boyfriend. It felt very middle school.

It was another few minutes of the machine humming, pressing awkwardly against you, until Ginger finally announced you were done. You heard the door between you and them open, two sets of footsteps approaching. One set of hands started to release the device from your head, while the other took the stress ball away. It was replaced with a large, warm hand that lifted yours until a kiss was pressed to your knuckles. The mustache prickled against your skin.

“Okay, you can sit up. Go slow, though.” Ginger instructed once you were free. You did, feeling your head swim.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack asked.

“Light headed.” You answered honestly, waiting for the feeling to pass. You leaned into Jack, letting him support you through the dizziness.

“Almost done.” He cooed, petting your braided hair. “We’ll get you back to your room soon.”

You heard Ginger moving around the room before she came to a stop in front of you. There was silence for a beat.

“Any change?” She asked.

You blinked a few times, but there was nothing. “No.”

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump with defeat, but Jack stayed strong next to you.

“That’s okay.” He hummed, not letting on any disappointment he might be feeling. He never tried to dictate how you should feel about your condition, but he stayed strong for you throughout. It was still so hard to deal with that you may never see again, but he made it a little easier. “Let’s get you back to your room. I for one am dyin’ to know what happens to Elizabeth next.”

You scoffed as he helped you to stand. “Sure you are.” His hands held you steady until you found your footing, his arm wrapping around you to guide you out of the lab.

“I am.” He argued. “I’m invested in it now.”

“Oh, well I guess I didn’t need to ask Champ to track down some Louis L’Amour books.”

“To hell with Elizabeth.” Jack declared, making you laugh.

You roused slowly. It took you a moment to realize you had fallen asleep while Jack read. The last thing you remember in the story was the caravan was going to be attacked. You wondered how long Jack had read for before realizing you’d fallen asleep. You were pressed tightly to his side, you could feel his warm body next to you. His head was leaning against yours, his deep breaths tickling your ear. He let out the tiniest snores anytime he exhaled. It made you smile.

“Jack, wake up.” You hummed, pressing a kiss to his neck. He hummed in response but didn’t fully wake. You called his name again, nuzzling into him.

Your name left his lips in a soft moan as he told you to go back to sleep.

“You’re going to have an awful kink in your neck if you keep sleeping like that. Come on.” You argued quietly, poking him lightly in his side as you sat up.

“Alright,” he groaned. You felt his body stretch out beside yours before he too sat up. You felt something hit your leg and you instinctively opened your eyes to see what it was.

You saw the book had fallen off Jack’s lap-

You saw.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

tagging: @wickedfrsgrl​ @driedgreentomatoes​

It was late on a Tuesday evening, almost two months to the day that you arrived in New York City. The sun was beginning to set over the skyline, casting a golden orange tinge over the office that you shared with Jack. He was already done for the day - had been hours ago, in fact - and had opted to lean back in his chair and pout until you were done too. You could feel his warm brown eyes lingering on you as you moved about the office, darting between you and the door. It was open as usual, which meant acting like you were just colleagues and definitely not in a deeply complex, what the fuck are we doing? situation.

"It's getting late," Jack commented. "Are you almost done for the day?"

You glanced up from your computer. "Not even close, I'm afraid."

"What are you even doing?"

"Analysing the IP address of thousands of encrypted messages to try and get a location on one of Calahan's men," you replied. "Right now, I have his location down to...Russia."

"I forgot that you're good with technology," he quirked an eyebrow. "It's quite hot, actually."

"Jack!" you hissed. "That door is wide open."

He took a step towards you, arms resting on the opposite side of your desk as he leant down to peer at you. The action itself was completely innocent but the tension that weighed down on you underneath his gaze? Oh, boy.

"Nobody suspects a thing, sweetheart," he quietly said.

"They will if you keep looking at me like that," you reminded him. "Now keep it your bloody pants and sit the fuck back down...Whiskey."

"Okay, Percival," he shot back, giving you a wink. "But obvious sexual tension aside, you need to take a break soon."

"Jack," you sighed. "I'm fine. I promise."

"Did you even eat lunch?" he continued. "I don't think I saw you have anything."

"Honestly? I just forgot," you admitted. "I'll have something big for dinner though."

He gave you a short nod. "As long as you look after yourself, sugar."

"I will," you said. "And we all know that if I don't, you will."

Jack smiled at that. You'd made leaps and bounds in that respect since you first met; rather than arguing whenever he made you food or ran you a bath, you'd just let him do it. Because damn, you'd gone your whole life watching your own back and it was nice to have someone doing it for you this time.

"You know it, honey," he said. "I'm gonna go grab some coffee. Do you want some?"

"Yeah, can I have-"

"- a medium oat cappuccino with vanilla syrup and an extra shot of espresso?" he cut you off. "Of course."

--

The rest of the evening was a blur after that. You remembered drinking your coffee, and then having a caffeine crash, and then you'd laid your head on the desk for a second and now...fuck. Had you fallen asleep? At work?

Okay, so it wasn't a massive deal. You'd woken up in the Kingsman offices at your desk plenty of times before. It was the reason why you'd started keeping a spare change of clothes in your locker and in your car. Common sense, this really.

This time when you woke up, you weren't still at your desk. Instead, you could feel a pair of strong arms beneath you and someone's chest supporting your back. Your head was nestled in the crook of their arms, the soft material of their shirt smelling faintly of a familiar aftershave. Jack.

You slowly blinked your eyes open, becoming familiar with your surroundings. He was carrying you down the hallway to your apartment - you could see from the windows that the sun was fully set now. What time even was it? When you fell asleep, it had just gone 9PM. You'd been beyond tired at that point, but after staring at a screen for hours, your brain must have just given out.

"Jack," you softly murmured. "What time is it?"

"Just gone 1AM," he replied. "I went to print some stuff about midnight and I got back and you were dead to the goddamn world."

"I'm sorry," you said.

"Don't apologise," he glanced down at you. "Frankly, I'm just fuckin' thankful that your dumb-ass is getting some sleep."

He gently placed you on the floor, before reaching into his pocket to retrieve the keys. The apartment, having not been occupied all day, was cold and unwelcoming - the air felt empty and the floors were like ice beneath your feet as your shoes came off.

"Why are we at mine?" you asked. "I basically live at yours."

"You're running out of clothes, remember?" Jack replied.

You fell back against the wall, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. You'd missed the feelings of his lips against yours; they were always soft and warm, with the lingering taste of his namesake drink never quite gone. It was almost hard to work with him now, because even when you were together all day, you couldn't do anything remotely...couple-y. You could have closed your office door and fooled around, but you would never do so on company time. That, and also Champ and Tequila were fucking terrible at knocking.

"Oh, yeah. That." you murmured against his lips. "I could always just wear yours."

"To work?" Jack pulled back and quirked an eyebrow. "Because that wouldn't be suspicious, would it?"

You let out a groan. "You are so difficult to flirt with."

"Well clearly something worked," he grinned back at you.

Jack pulled you into another kiss, large hands with a stronghold on your hips. Even though you were shattered, his presence gave you enough adrenaline to stay awake a little longer. Maybe that was why you liked him so much - he made you feel things you'd never felt before. And it wasn't in just a honeymoon phase way, because there was an emotional side to it as well. It was well-balanced, which was exactly what you needed when your job was so batshit.

"Jack, I..." you trailed off, pausing for a moment.

Before you could say anything else, there was a loud crash from your kitchen - you both jumped back, instantly drawing your guns. Jack grabbed you and pushed you behind him, using his body to shield yours. If you hadn't been fearing for your life, your heart probably would have skipped a beat at that.

"Whoever the hell you are, come out with your hands up," Jack warned. His tone had completely changed from before.

"Calm the fuck down, it's me!"

Both of you dropped your guns at the sound of a familiar voice.

Eggsy Unwin emerged from the kitchen, hands in the air - one was holding a sandwich and in the other, the TV remote. He had ketchup smeared down his chin and his hair was sticking up in a thousand different directions. Really, it wasn't that far from how he was in London: turning up out of the blue to steal your food and use your electricity.

"Eggsy!" you sighed. "What the hell?!"

"I wanted to come and surprise you!" he defended.

Jack glanced between the two of you. "I'll leave you two-"

"- you certainly fucking won't!" Eggsy cut him off. "You both need to give me a bloody explanation for whatever the hell that was!"

Your breath caught in your throat. In all the relief of not having a home intruder - at least not a scary one - it had completely forgone you that Eggsy might have witnessed the conversation between you and Jack. And the kissing. And the flirting. And the fact you very close to make a grand statement to the cowboy that you'd never be able to take back (but more on that later).

"How much did you hear?" you asked.

"All of it!" he said. "Oh Jack, let me wear your clothes! Oh Jack, let me flirt with you! Oh Jack, let me make out with you even though you're old enough to be my dad-"

"- Gary Unwin!" you interrupted him. "Watch your damn mouth!"

"You watch yours!" he shot back.

"Okay, seriously, I'm gonna head out," Jack sheepishly interjected.

"Just...go wait in the bedroom," you huffed. The cowboy gave you a nod, before backing away slowly and disappearing inside the room across the hall. "That was completely out of line, Eggsy."

"Was it?" he thinned his eyes at you.

"Yes!" you snapped. "You don't get to just turn up here and get mad at me for making choices about my own life! You need to back off."

"But..." he trailed off. "He's your boss and you're...you."

"What does that mean?"

Eggsy dropped his sandwich to the floor, scratching the back of his neck. He knew that this was going to happen one day - that you were going to meet someone and eventually find a long-term relationship. Even more, he knew that he couldn't always be the most important person in your life. You would never, ever replace him but it wouldn't be healthy to be stuck at the hip forever.

"It's just...you've always looked after me," he murmured. "Stuck up for me in school, picked me up from the police station, kept me off the streets. I s'pose I'm just terrified that if you find someone more important than me, that you might forget about me, and I'll be alone."

You almost felt your heartbreak at that. It was nearly enough to make you forget the fact you were mad at him.

"Eggsy," you softly sighed. "No matter what happens - no matter who I marry or where I end up - I will always, always have your back."

He gave you a soft smile. "I know. It's been hard enough just to have you gone for a little while and I never, ever want us to grow apart."

"We're gonna have to one day," you gently reminded him. "We'll always be best friends but you have to understand that things won't always be how we were when we were young. You'll go places and I'll go places, but they just might not be the same ones."

"Right," he nodded.

"So you get it?" you replied. "I'm happy with Jack and I'm not going to stop seeing him just because you don't approve."

"I know," Eggsy said.

"I love you, Egghead," you gave him a lopsided grin. "But I love Jack too and I have to do this for me."

"I love you too," he replied. "Are we good?"

"We're always good."

"I'm glad. And since we're on a sweet note, is it okay if I crash in your spare room? I lost my hotel key."

"Of course," you snorted. "Goodnight - and thank you for surprising me."

He gave you one last quick hug, before picking up his strewn sandwich and heading into his respective bedroom. That was absolutely not how you intended for him to find out about you and Jack, but that was when it dawned on you that you had never planned for him to find out. The whole thing was supposed to end after New York - then you would go home, and no one would have to know about it.

You knew now that it was much more complicated than that.

Leaving the sandwich remains for the morning, you hung up and your jacket and headed for your own bedroom. Jack was already sat inside on a chair in the corner. He was staring out into the distance - you didn't blame him. Your apartment overlooked the Lower East Side, with Brooklyn glinting hopefully in the distance.

"Hey, Jack," you greeted him. "I'm so sorry about what Eggsy said-"

"- you love me?" he suddenly turned to face you.

"What?" you frowned.

"I heard you say it out there," he stood up, crossing the room to meet you. "I love you, but I love Jack too."

Fuck. It hadn't even occurred to you that you'd said it. It had just slipped out - and didn't that usually mean that you meant it? If you didn't have to think about it or give it much thought, it made it just one of things that...was. Something that didn't need to be explained or even understood.

"I do," you replied. "I love you, Jack."

You’d never been to Italy before, and part of you wished that you could stay longer than necessary to complete the mission, but you had the antidote now and Statesman was practically calling you back. You made a mental note to come back to Italy one day as you ran up the stairs, Whiskey at your heel, toward the gondola. Charlie was hot on your tail and you needed to get out quick.

Harry, from down at the control room, had the door closed in seconds and you sighed, relaxing against the glass wall of the gondola.  The antidote was held tight in your hand. It was the only one you’d managed to grab before Charlie had realised that something was wrong. He’d never seen either you or Whiskey before, but you knew him from photos that Eggsy had shown you.

“Fuck, that was close,” you breathed, opening the top pocket of your ski suit and slipping the antidote inside. You spotted Charlie waving, clearly annoyed, from the outside of the lab. He’d been too slow and you were glad.

Whiskey, at your side, chuckled softly and crossed his arms. He, originally, hadn’t been too fond of you joining him on the mission, but when Champ said that Harry would have to come along Whiskey was all for you being at his side. He knew you were more than capable as an agent – he’d watched you kick ass on more than one mission – but he also knew that he didn’t want you hurt, and the chances of this mission going wrong were high.

But this also meant he got to spend more time with you – the only agent in the entirety of Statesman that he actually didn’t mind spending much alone time with. It helped, of course, that he’d been crushing on you since you pretty much became a member, but still. If letting you tag along on this mission to Italy potentially increased your chance of feeling the same way about him as he felt about you, he was all in.

“You all good, Harry?” You asked, looking around at the beauty of Italy as the gondola slowly made its way down the wire. You couldn’t wait to get out of this thing. Heights were not your thing.

Harry nodded. “All clear, I’ll meet you at the bottom–” He suddenly went quiet.

You frowned and glanced at Whiskey, who was looking extremely unimpressed. When you were about to inquire as to why Harry had suddenly stopped talking, Charlie’s face appeared on the screen in the gondola. Shit.

“Kingsman was quick with picking new recruits, I see,” he smirked. “Enjoy the ride.”

The gondola jerked and you both stumbled before it suddenly began spinning. You cursed as Whiskey grabbed one of the handles from the roof to steady himself and jumped up to grab one yourself. This was not good, not at all.

Pairing a spinning gondola with your small, yet terrifying, fear of heights? You let out a shaky breath. “Whiskey, what the hell are we supposed to do? Can we stop this? Harry – can you stop this!?” You were already beginning to get dizzy and the gondola was still getting faster and faster.

Whiskey threw you a worried glance and a muttered shit.

Your other hand moved up to grab the handle as the spinning got faster and your feet lifted off the ground. Whiskey looked the same and it was getting harder to concentrate as you tried to hold yourself up. If you let go or slipped off this thing, it would hurt like hell.

“All the buttons are dead, control’s gone,” Harry’s voice appeared in your ears. “Everything’s in shutdown. Whiskey, Brandy – you’re on your own.”

You were dizzy, so dizzy that you barely registered Harry’s words. The gondola was spinning and suddenly you were falling backwards. The handle had snapped from the roof and you and Whiskey were thrown back against the glass walls. You wished desperately that you could close your eyes and wake up from this horrible, horrible nightmare, but closing your eyes would make it worse.

Whiskey didn’t look comfortable either. He was flat against the opposite wall of the gondola, though his eyes had stuck to you the whole time, as if he was afraid to look away from you at the chance that you’d disappear if he did.

It was getting harder to stay conscious and you knew that you were going to faint if this didn’t stop soon – you were dizzy, dizzier than you’d ever been in your entire life, and Whiskey was blurry across from you. Your vision was going black at the edges and– oh, God, you were going to die. You didn’t even register Whiskey electrifying his lasso and cutting a whole in the side of the gondola to sever the wires above you. It was only when you started to fall that you noticed.

You were woken up from your dizzy stupor as you fell, screaming as you moved closer to the other side of the gondola. At the last second, the gondola jerked back and you fell to the back of the wall, Whiskey at your side. He grabbed onto you to steady your fall, though it didn’t last long and you catapulted forwards, almost hitting your head on the glass as you slammed into the other side of the gondola.

Whiskey momentarily grabbed your hand and went to say something to you as the gondola slid through the snow, though he was cut off quickly as it hit the tower, snow flying and metal breaking, causing the both of you to lose your balance again.

You were unaware of the tower starting to fall as Whiskey helped you to your feet, grabbing your arms to steady you. It was only when you glanced backwards that you saw it, the large metal structure falling, as if in slow motion, towards you.

“Whiskey,” you muttered, “This is not good.”

His grip on your arms disappeared as the gondola moved quicker on the snow, just missing the tower as it fell but sending the two of you slamming into the glass once more. You felt your head hit the glass and winced in pain as you moved to sit up again.

That’s when you saw it. A house or a lodge of some sort – and you were sliding towards it at a speed faster than light. You glanced at Whiskey and saw the same look on his face. Terror and worry. “Shit,” he mumbled.

You began to nod in agreement when the thought came to you. You had parachutes, both you and Whiskey had ski-suits with them installed. And he’d cut a hole in the glass. You spun around, placing your hands on his chest, and pushed him with all your strength up to the hole in the wall. He looked confused and was about to ask what you were doing when you tugged on the string that set his parachute loose.

The American flag parachute appeared behind the gondola and immediately began to slow it down. But you were still coming in much too quick. Whiskey screamed, and you couldn’t help but scream too as he reached down and grabbed your arms to make sure you didn’t fall. The gondola began to slow down and you squeezed your eyes shut, expecting to feel the impact when– you slid to a stop.

The parachute fell onto the snow behind the gondola and the two of you stood for a moment to breathe. Whiskey detached himself from the parachute as you bent down, putting your hands on your knees. You were dizzy and you did not feel well at all. Oh, God.

Whiskey was at your side in an instant, hands moving to grip your shoulders. “Agent Brandy?”

You shook your head, but the movement made you feel even worse. Instantly, you wished that you had some sort of tablets that could combat this, like sea-sickness tablets, but you very much doubted that there were tablets that could cure the aftermath of falling through snow in a gondola, paired with dizziness and possible concussion.

You couldn’t stay here, though. You needed to get to the emergency rendezvous point and meet Harry – there was no way that Charlie and Poppy hadn’t send in reinforcements already, and staying here just meant that you were putting the other people, that you’d almost killed, at risk again. You hadn’t even had a moment to look and see who they were.

So, instead of focusing on just how sick you felt, you focused on trying to control your breathing. You squeezed your eyes shut and sat your head between your knees, breathing in and out and trying to calm down. Whiskey’s hands were still on your shoulders, and he was saying something that you couldn’t quite hear.

Whiskey didn’t know what you were doing, but he was worried. You could have had a concussion from hitting your head on the way down, and it was clear that you were dizzy. Even he was dizzy, but that didn’t matter right now. What mattered to him was making sure that you were okay.

He cursed under his breath. This was exactly why he didn’t want you to come along with him on this mission for. He’d just known that you’d get hurt and he knew back then that he couldn’t take it. And here you were, barely responding to a word he said and barely even moving. He didn’t care that he needed to get you out of here as soon as possible. What he needed was for you to be okay.

Finally, you sat up, finally having managed to get your breathing under control, and glanced up at him. He was staring down at you, worry clear in his eyes. His hands hadn’t moved from your shoulders at all. You let out a deep breath.

“Are you okay? How do you feel?” Whiskey suddenly asked. His voice was full of the worry that you had seen in his eyes and you couldn’t help the smile that came to your face at his words.

He was worried about you. And even that fact alone made your heart sing.

No matter that you were still vaguely dizzy, your head spun at the thought of Whiskey being worried about you for a reason different to what was probably real – he didn’t want this mission being ruined by your sickness.

He raised a hand to help you and you gratefully took it, letting him lift you up from the ground of the gondola. The dizziness hit you again as you stood up and Whiskey caught you as you stumbled, instantly wrapping a hand around your waist to steady you.

“Hey, now, don’t you faint on me, darlin’,” he muttered as you raised a hand to your forehead.

You were definitely going to have a nasty bump or bruise where you’d hit the glass.

“My head hurts,” you sighed as he moved to the door of the gondola and pushed it open. The gondola was broken and he struggled to get it open with one hand, but there was no chance he was letting you go for a second.

Whiskey frowned. “You hit your head, we’ll get you checked out by Ginger the second we’re back.” He suddenly realised that he wished he had some sort of knowledge of medicine. The idea of not being able to help you in that capacity hurt him more than he cared to admit.

He lifted you out onto the snow and moved his arm back around your waist. He nodded briefly at the men and women of the retirement home and began to help you walk down the hill. In the time you’d been incapacitated, he’d told Harry to meet you at the rendezvous point.

“What about you?” You asked, suddenly realising that you didn’t know if Whiskey was okay.

Whiskey chuckled and shook his head. “Darlin, I’m more than okay. However, I won’t be if you faint on me or get hurt again, so how about you focus on keepin’ yourself upright and alive, yeah?”

You laughed softly and nodded briefly. “Sounds good.”

The two of you kept silent as you walked through the snow towards the cabin where you were to rendezvous. You could see it in the distance. You weren’t dizzy anymore, but you didn’t want to tell Whiskey that in fear that he’d stop holding you. You had decided long ago that you wanted to keep his hand around your waist for as long as possible. In your mind, you decided that he felt the same.

Whiskey only briefly let go of you to open the door of the cabin and check that it was empty. His gun was raised in both hands as he scanned the place, and as soon as it was clear he ushered you inside and closed the door behind you.

You moved to sit down on a small seat by the fire. You were exhausted, and clearly Whiskey was too as he moved to sit across beside you. You let out a breath, grateful to have a moment of quiet to gather your thoughts and rest from the gondola.

“I thought we were going to die up there, you know that?” You breathed, knotting your hands together and leaning on them. “I was sure that was it. And all these regrets for things I’d never done just came into my mind and I just– oh, God.”

He sighed as he watched you. He knew the feeling. “Well, you’re not dead. And you’re not gonna die any time soon, sweetheart,” he assured you as he moved to light the small fire in the cabin. You were cold, your hands were trembling. The snow had not done either of you any favours.

“I’m not immortal,” you smirked, glancing over at him as a small fire began in the fireplace. You immediately shuffled closer to it, feeling the warmth almost instantly. Oh, God bless him.

Whiskey met your eyes. “Pity,” his lips quirked up into a small smile.

He let you sit in silence and warm your hands by the fire for a moment or two before he asked the question that had been on his mind ever since you’d brought up the word regrets. Whiskey cleared his throat and leant in closer to you. “You mentioned somethin’ before – regrets. What on earth do you have to regret not doin’, darlin’?”

You glanced over at him, suddenly feeling as if you couldn’t breathe. There weren’t regrets. It was one regret. The one regret that, if you could manage to find some courage somewhere, you could fix. Whiskey was looking at you, his gaze strong, and you could tell that he was really and truly interested in hearing what you had to say about it all.

“It’s nothing,” you shook your head.

Whiskey wasn’t buying it, not at all. He shuffled his seat closer to you, so your knees were almost touching. He could see the look in your eyes, the hesitance, the worry, the– was that what he thought it was? He shook his head. “It is not nothin’.”

You dropped your gaze to the floor. Any of the sickness that had left your system after walking it off after the gondola suddenly returned, yet this time it was different. This time it wasn’t sickness from being dizzy or being slammed against a wall, this time it was sickness from nerves. Sickness from the feeling in your stomach and the look in Whiskey’s eyes.

He tentatively reached out and took one of your hands in his. It was warm, and his own heart filled with warmth at the thought that you were warm because of the fire he lit for you. At the contact, your eyes flicked up to meet his again.

Months and years of pining had led to this moment. This moment of silence, of want and of need. He’d been a friend for longer than he’d been a crush, and some part of you still knew, deep down, that he still saw you as a friend, no matter how hard you’d tried to push it down. No matter how much you tried to convince yourself that there was a possibility he loved you too.

A friend would be worried if you were injured. A friend would help you walk if you were injured. A friend would take your hand and tell you to tell them what was wrong. A friend would not look at you with that look in their eyes.

Everything seemed to go into slow motion. The fire crackling in the background, the wind on the cabin outside. The only two people in the world were the both of you— you and Whis– no, you and Jack. That’s what he’d told you to call him when you first met. The fact that Harry was on his way to meeting the two of you had slipped your mind completely, and the only thing that mattered was the way Whiskey was holding your hand and the look in his eyes.

And so, you didn’t think twice as you let go of his hand and moved yours to the nape of his neck. As you leant in towards him, taking him completely off guard as your lips met his. His lips moved against yours only seconds after you kissed him, and his hands moved to your waist. The two of you were standing now, the chairs being a completely impractical place to kiss.

His arms moved around your waist as your hands moved to tangle in his hair. You both poured every single fibre of your being into the kiss. This had been years in the making, years of looking at one another across rooms and trying to act as if you weren’t jealous when they looked at someone else the same way. As Jack pulled you close to his body, you felt as if you didn’t ever want to leave this place. Every thought of the mission itself had left your mind, you’d even forgotten the antidote in your top pocket.

You were the only two people in the world.

A knock on the door broke the two of you apart and you both glanced toward the door and then back at one another. You were breathing heavily, and you could see from the look in his eyes that he just wanted to leave the door unanswered and scoop you up in his arms once again, but he couldn’t. You were on a mission, after all.

You laughed softly and looked toward the door again. “Harry,” you muttered.

Whiskey nodded and took a step back towards the fire. You grabbed his jacket to stop him. “Jack,” you whispered, voice quiet so that Harry wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. “I don’t regret anything anymore.”

Whiskey had always been very vocal about how much he hated you going shopping to the grocery store on your own. You’d always told him that you would be fine, and you mostly always were, but something in the back of his head told him otherwise.

He knew that it was because of Lela. Because of the way he lost her and his son. He tried to tell himself that it would never happen to you. That bad things didn’t happen twice like that. But when he turned on the news and saw that a grocery store had been robbed and that guns had been fired, he was terrified.

He was up and off the couch in seconds, grabbing his phone and keys and sprinting out of the door. He’d only taken note of the name of the store, not of the specific one and as he pulled out of the driveway he knew he’d made a mistake – which one had you gone to?

He used the car to dial your number and cursed loudly when you didn’t answer. The drive felt like hours even though he was speeding a little. He’d decided to go to the shop that the two of you always went to, guessing that if you were anywhere, it’d be there.

When he pulled up out the front of the shop, his heart almost stopped. The street was lined with cop cars, tape was being hung up around the front and police were everywhere. He called you again. You didn’t pick up.

The worst of his fears were realised when he saw two paramedics wheeling out a gurney with a white sheet of it. He didn’t even know if it was you or not, but he couldn’t get the feeling out of his mind that it was.

He ran his hands through his hair and began pacing, glancing at the store every few seconds to see if you were anywhere. He called you again once, twice. You didn’t pick up any of the times and he was terrified he could lose you.

He glanced again over at the door and his heart stopped. You were walking out, wrapped in one of those shock blankets. There was a paramedic beside you to make sure you were okay as they walked you over to the ambulance. Whiskey was running to you instantly, pushing past the police officers to get to you.

He was at your side in seconds, wrapping his arms around you. He hadn’t even noticed the tears starting to stream down his cheeks. The paramedic was trying to talk to him but he wasn’t listening. All he could focus on you. Alive. Well. Here.

“I thought I lost you,” he muttered, his breathing heavy. You’d wrapped your arms around him too, burying your head into his chest as he held you close. He was crying, something you’d never really witnessed before. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

You held him close. “You didn’t. You won’t lose me.”

Whiskey made plans to never let you go, though the paramedics insisted that they check you out. He kept a hold on your hand as they made sure you were okay. You smiled weakly up at him and rubbed his hand. “I’m okay, Jack. I’m more than okay.”

“I thought–“ he started again, his voice quiet.

You squeezed his hand. “I know. You won’t lose me, ever. This was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s not going to happen again. You’re stuck with me forever and you know it.”

Whiskey doesn’t know who you are, all he knows is that you’re hurt and he wants desperately to run after all of those men who were taunting and hurting you. Instead, he drops to his knees on the ground and asks if you’re okay.

You glance up at the strange man, not even noticing that he’s incredibly attractive, and nod in reply to his question. You’re terrified, yes, and seconds ago you’d thought you were going to die, but you’re okay. Or, at least, you will be.

He looks away at the men, still running away from the scene where they’d knowingly caused so much hurt. Whiskey wishes he could pummel them, knock them to the ground and give them what they deserve.

“Why are you shaking?” You manage, your voice weak and quiet.

Whiskey looks at you, eyebrows furrowed, and then down at his hands. They’re clenched in fists and, as you said, shaking. He squeezes his hands tight and shakes them out. It’s from the anger, the adrenaline of needing to follow them and take them all down.

He shakes his head and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “It’s nothin’.”

You don’t believe the man, but you don’t want to push him into telling you something that he clearly doesn’t want to. You glance down at the ground, knowing that you need to get up and leave soon. It’s getting late and you can’t stay here with this man forever, even though he seems considerably nicer than the men before.

Whiskey glances at the empty alleyway again and sighs. The men are long gone and he’s disappointed. He stands up, stretching his legs, and looks down at you again. He offers you a hand, which you gratefully take, and you stand up. You’re a little shaky but he keeps hold of your hand to steady you. You smile in thanks.

“So, you’ll be okay to get back?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets again. He can feel them start to shake again with the anger in his system and doesn’t want you to have to worry about him and his damned shaking hands.

You nod slowly, though your nod turns into a shake of the head soon after. “Please don’t let me be alone, not right now,” you mutter. “Just… can you walk with me? Into town?”

Whiskey chuckles. He had planned on tracking down those men in any way possible, even if it meant using Statesman technology, but he can’t turn you down. He nods and extends an arm to motion for you to walk ahead of him. You thank him and tell him your name.

It wasn’t often that you and Whiskey fought, but when you did the fights were explosive. They were always over the silliest things, too, like you coming home late from work when Whiskey had been waiting at home all evening. It wasn’t like you could help the amount of paperwork you had.

Tonight, however, was one of the worst. You stood, arms crossed, and glared at him from across the room. “Why are you so sure that I wasn’t working? Don’t you trust me?” You asked, eyebrows raised.

Whiskey sighed and threw his hands up in the air. He let out a breath and chuckled softly, clearly amused and annoyed by your attitude after he’d asked what he thought was a simple question: Where have you been all night?

“I’m your wife. You need to trust me, okay? Why the hell would I ever want to hurt you?”

He shook his head and turned his back to you. “Oh, I don’t know. Didn’t I say the first time we ever met that you seemed like that kinda girl?” He frowned. He was lying and he knew it, but he was just trying to get a rise out of you. It worked.

You rolled your eyes, seething. “You’re so full of yourself, Jack. You know that?” You shook your head and moved to grab your coat from the hook by the door. “I’m going out.”

That seemed to get his attention, but you couldn’t care less, you grabbed your phone and wallet and headed straight to the door, throwing it open and slamming it behind you. It was cold as hell outside but you couldn’t care less as you stormed down the steps of your house.

Whiskey was out the door after you, eyes wide. “Wait, fuck, no,” he muttered, hurrying after you.

You ignored him, shoving your hands in your pockets and continuing to walk. He wasn’t worth your time. Sure, you loved him, but you needed some time alone to cool off without him around.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asked, gaining speed. “It’s not safe out here.”

You took a deep breath and stopped dead, turning around to face him. “Says who?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Says me. Just– just come back inside, babe.”

You stared at him, not moving your gaze from his eyes. “Why should I?”

Whiskey didn’t take long to come up with a good excuse to get you back inside. It seemed to come pretty naturally to him. “Because I love you, darlin’, and I don’t want you to leave. And I feel like fuckin’ shit for bein’ an ass to you.”

“So you should,” you muttered, glancing down at the ground.

He stepped closer to you, tentatively raising his hands to cup your face. “Just–please. Please.”

You knew that you should turn around and continue walking, but the look in his eyes told you that he was really sorry. You knew that your fight had been over something stupid anyway, so you nodded slowly. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to disturb me for the rest of the night. Even if I love you. Just… I need to cool off, okay?”