#ghostabsinthe

It would have been their wedding anniversary today. 7 years of marriage. He should have been celebrating with her, showing her how much he adored her, how glad he was they had wed.

Yet here he was, in a distillery trying his best not to revert to the alcoholic drunk state he'd spent the past year in. The alcohol numbed the pain of losing her, filled in part the hole left behind. The Sara shaped hole.

But he wouldn't revert to that. He'd gone almost 4 whole months without touching tge stuff, he couldn't relapse.

But the pain...

           She cannot believe this. She does not need help in a fight. Never has. This is what she’s trained to do, and she’s in the middle of neutralizing a target when some glorified neighborhood watch member whose picture is all over the news swoops in and knocks him out like she’s some kind of goddamn damsel in distress who can’t handle the situation on her own. And he’s acting like he helped her? Playing around? She doesn’t do that, and she certainly doesn’t need the publicity that his presence can draw.

           “Why did you do that?! I had questions for him.” She snaps. “Now I’ve gotta wake him up and hope that he doesn’t have a concussion that’s going to mess with his memory.Read the damn room next time.”

                                             Goddamn, she hates New York.

it would be a lie to say he wasn’t a bit shocked by her reaction. normally he’d be thanked or something, but she snapped at him for helping ? at first glance of the situation, facial recognition wasn’t picking up on the lady with the moves. nothing in the criminal database, so his first assumption was she wasn’t the bad guy. there was still no i.d on the woman after he knocked the bad guy out and she didn’t work for the anyone he’d think mr. stark would hire, so he narrowed his gaze, which the suit mimicked.  

                “ i did warn you that if you try to use a lasso, you either fail or you fail horribly. ” whiskey had tried hard not to laugh as absinthe had gotten the loop caught around her feet and toppled her over. for the most part, he refrained from doing so, but there was still that slight smirk on his lips.

I love you. She says it over and over again. I love you. Every time she leaves after having told him the things they did together and how he made her feel. And the MORE she tells him, the more he finds he has no reason to hurt her other than she works for Statesman. Statesman, who he MUST KILL. Oh, but what if it’s all just a PLOY? What if it’s fake? How is he sure that what she tells him is real? Or is what he thinks he remembers fake?

He can’t trust a god damn thing.

I love you. Jack isn’t entirely sure why she tells him she loves him. ESPECIALLY after the way he’s treated her. Isn’t love supposed to be for people who treat you... well, better? The past him might have treated her well, but this present him? Not so much. It’s only recently that he’s begun to think about it, too. Love. All he remembers about love is that he feels none of it. Not anymore. And he can’t fuckin’ figure out WHY she loves him.

“I asked myself that question quite often. What if, on that day, hadn’t gotten into the car that drove to Savile Row? What if I stayed at university and got my degrees, what if I didn’t fall down the stairs when I was seventeen and broke my leg? What if something had gone differently, just a minimal detail?

But the question is, if I could do something else, right? I don’t know. There isn’t a fixed idea. Ballerina? Sure, but at 33 I am nearing the end of my career, and staying in as an instructor wouldn’t do it for me. Of course, the next plan was to be an Astrophysicist, and although going back to Cambridge when I stood on a difficult ground at Kingsman has reinkindled my love to science and the stars, I don’t know if I’d be capable to stay in science for my whole life. I’m too restless. 

But then again… we don’t know how I would think about this if Kingsman had never happened. I think it speaks for me if I say I couldn’t imagine another life, right?”