She loved how he kissed. Loved how he held her tight like she was something—someone to be treasured. Loved how he always tried to make her smile even when they were thousands of miles apart or if he had managed to sequester her alone in some room of the Kingsman headquarters, or in her townhouse—or even that one time when he’d managed to get her alone in Champ’s office last week when she was needed stateside for a mission. He stole a kiss then, too, feeling like mischievous teenagers hiding from too-strict parents.

It was…good.

Better than good, actually. It was all much too sappy to say out loud but she felt happier than she had in a long time. Like she had shed some sort of heavy coat made of metal and wool and she could move and breathe without restraint. She would never tell Whiskey—his ego was already insatiable—and she had a feeling he might have an inkling he knew how she felt.

“I’ve never seen you smile like that, Sunshine. Do it again.” As she thought: insatiable. And it felt like they had readily settled into some idyllic relationship that a person could only dream of having. They spoke as often as they could, about anything and everything—Jack even told her about the discussions he had with his therapist and she spoke about the nightmares that sometimes plagued her in the dark. They bickered, of course—they were human, but it was usually few and far between and over trivial things (like which agency had the best tech or Bela’s favorite movie) and over before they really began. It was good. But at the moment, she had just finished a mission in Singapore and expected to hear her phone ring with Jack’s Skype call. They kept tabs on each other’s missions and always called one another when they came home. Bela zoomed down the staircase and leapt on his little legs into her outstretched arms. Her dog-sitter, a Kingsman technician, happily reported Bela behaved himself while she was away before saying goodnight. She pressed a few kisses to Bela’s fur and locked up the doors and windows before pulling her phone from her pocket, ignoring her suitcase for a bit longer. Bela settled on her lap as she pulled up the app and was just about to dial Jack’s number when Ginger’s face appeared on her screen with an incoming call. Ginger was back stateside to assist Statesmen with some sort of kidnapping ring and had been giving Sunny updates every few days. She answered it quickly. “Hey! I’m about to-” “Jack’s been shot.” “What-” “Let me finish,” Ginger said in her usual calming tone. “He’s going to be fine. But he wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry he couldn’t make your usual call.” Ginger’s lips picked up in a small smile, probably trying not to laugh at her fellow agent’s mortified expression. “For a pair of agents, you two are very bad at keeping your relationship a secret.” And then Ginger did laugh. “He’ll call when he’s cleared by medical. Okay?” She pushed out a breath and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” “He’s fine, Cap. I promise,” Ginger said, old moniker slipping by her lips. A few more words of encouragement were given, mission details were traded, and eventually they hung up. Her appetite gone, she eventually wandered upstairs to her bedroom and simply stared at the ceiling. Bela was asleep on her chest, giving her a little comfort. And she knew Statesmen had some of the best medical team and technology available. She knew Jack would be fine. But it still… hurt. Worry bit at her bones and pressed at her already-buzzing mind. There would be no sleep tonight.

                                                **

Whiskey did not like the smell of the medical wing. He did not like the bright white lights. He did not like the stupid paper gown they insisted he wear after sewing him back up. And he definitely didn’t like watching Champ settle into the chair next to his bed with a frown.

“Ain’t you supposed to be the one leadin’ the charge, Whiskey? Grenadine said you were distracted-”

“I was fine, Champ. I had it handled-”

“You’re in the medical wing. Did you forget that? Or did you hit your head, too?”

Whiskey felt his lip start to curl in a snarl. “My head’s fine and you know it.”

Champ’s frown deepened before he let out a sigh, pulling out a silver flask from his blazer jacket. He grabbed two of the small plastic cups from the bedside table, usually meant to hold medications, and poured two shots of amber-colored liquid. He slid one toward Jack before quickly downing his and putting away his flask. “You’re a good agent, Jack. A fine Statesman.”

Jack quickly grabbed the offered shot and drank it, knowing no conversation that started with compliments like that was ever good.

“But you want more than that.”

“Champ-”

“I’m old. Older than you and I’ve worked my entire life to save the world and the people in it—usually from themselves. And I got squat to show for it outside my big office and nice car. But you-” he pointed a finger, “-you have a chance at something real. Another chance. Those don’t come around every day. And you two have been tip-toein’ around each other for years.”

And, for a moment, Jack Daniels didn’t have a word to say. It was embarrassing to realize that everyone seemed to know they had moved past the fellow-agent relationship. But it was also strangely calming to know that people beside him and his Sunshine wanted them to be happy—together.

“You’ve saved the world enough. I know you’ve been thinkin’ about retiring anyway.”

“I-”

“Give it a little more thought. Visit your lady, yeah?” Champ said as he stood and patted his chest. “Take the next week off. I’ll have Grenadine handle the debrief.” 

“Champ-”

But he was already out the door.

                                                **

She wiped at her eyes, trying to press a bit of exhaustion out of her head with limited success. But Harry had accepted her debrief and then let her go for the rest of the day. “

Mordred, you’ve nearly fallen asleep twice just sitting here. Go home.”

Not her finest moment but she wasn’t going to say no to a nap. Maybe if she was asleep she could ignore that she still hadn’t heard from Jack. Ginger did say he would be fine but it still didn’t sit right with her and-

“Hey, Sunshine.”

She dropped her keys.

There he was, posted up against the side of her house, one foot kicked up behind him on the white-washed wall with his stupid Stetson pulled low over his eyes. She leapt at him and pulled him close, sagging into his grip as he wrapped his arms around her. He was so warm and wonderful and here. His familiar, expensive cologne touched her nose as she breathed him in, laughing at how he pressed his lips against her neck, mustache tickling her skin.

“You’re here,” she said as she pulled back.

He stole a quick kiss with another smile. “I am. Champ gave me some time off. I guess I should get shot more often.”

She quickly grabbed at his face. “No. That’s not funny-”

He kissed her again, smiling against her frowning mouth. “Are you going to invite me in or do I have to hang outside your door like a lost tomcat?” Jack bent and scooped up her keys and pressed them into her hand.

“You drive a hard bargain.” She slipped from his grasp and moved toward the door, undoing the three locks and stepping inside, Jack right on her heels. She closed the door behind him, only just noticing the small bag slung over his shoulder before he kissed her again. She would never get tired of kissing him.

But now was the first time in six months since she was alone with him—six months since Edinburgh. Six months of only stealing kisses and wandering hands when others were around and not having a moment truly to themselves. But work came first. Saving the world wouldn’t stop because she wanted to kiss him and hear his laugh.

And she really loved the sound of his laugh.

But then she yawned right in his face when he broke away from her lips to breathe.

“Now, Sunshine, you truly know how to cut a man to the quick.”

She laughed and leaned her forehead against his chest. “I’m so sorry. I got no sleep last night.”

Jack wound his arms around her and pulled her tight again, uncaring that they were still right beside her front door, barely a few steps inside. “And why not?”

“Ginger told me what happened and then you didn’t call. I was worried.” Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing against the buttery soft leather of his jacket. “Stupid in our line of work, right?” Her laugh was soft but sharp with self-deprecation. And she knew it was stupid. Knew that her line of work that nothing really was promised. That her time with Jack, no matter how much it made her smile, was never guaranteed.

“I never meant to-”

“It isn’t you, Jack. It is just… me, I guess. I think I worry too much.” She stepped back as she yawned again. “Sorry, jeez.”

But Jack just smiled. “Tell you what, Sunny. I’m here all week. I’ll let you worry about me all you want.”

“A week? Jack, you know I want to but I have to wor-”

Her phone chirped.

“Shit, sorry.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and frowned when she saw the message. It was from Roxy and it simply said;

Have fun! See you on Monday. ;)

It took a moment, but if finally dawned on her what it meant and she tossed her phone onto her couch with a smile. “It seems that I’m not expected back in the office until Monday.”

Jack let out a holler and all but started to drag her toward the staircase. She had to slap his hands away to lock her door before she let him grab at her sides and strong-arm her upstairs. Her laughter finally woke Bela from his mid-morning nap and he poked his head out of the guest room to let out an indignant huff at their noise before retreating again. Jack knew where her bedroom was, having been there for a total of ten minutes after Scotland, and he basically dragged her inside and plopped her onto her overstuffed mattress, rumpling the blankets immediately. And she happily let him crawl over her and pressed her down into the welcoming softness as he shucked his shoes and jacket. Hers soon followed with fumbling limbs and they both laughed as Jack continued to kiss her lips, her cheek, her nose, her neck—anywhere he could place his lips was quickly kissed. 

She let him pull his shirt off and divest her of her own and they both scrambled with their jeans and trousers before falling back against the pillows in a pair of matching, tired huffs. Maybe she should have been a little more demure about this casual near-nakedness—it was the first time they’d bared this much skin with each other—but all she felt was comfort when he looked at her. Some beautiful, gentle warmth bloomed in her chest as she looked at him.

Jack leaned forward to press a slow kiss against her lips as one of his hands landed on her hip, thumb tracing the lacy edge of her panties.

And she might have let him continue—let herself finally know what it was like to be touched by him in that way—but she yawned again and her eyes caught the fresh scar on his shoulder. Her fingers brushed against it, feeling how the skin was raised and twisted, something even Statesmen’s tech couldn’t stop with some injuries.

Jack’s hand stilled on her hip. “I’m okay, Sunshine. I’m right here with you.” But then he touched the mark across her stomach, the one she’d gained from their time in Italy. His fingers trailed to the scar on her chest and then down to another zig-zagging twist of puckered skin on her side. She shivered at the contact, nerves alight. “And you’re with me, yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m with you.”

“Good.” He smiled, soft and tired-eyed. “Let’s get some sleep.” He reached back and managed to pull her sheets and blankets down enough for them to slide underneath and then slid an arm under her shoulders so he could bring her to his side as she closed her eyes. And she fell asleep to the quiet beat of his heart.

                                              **

She found Jack liked Hyde Park, free museums, and having tea. “It ain’t sweet tea, Sunshine. But it’ll do.”

And he never pressed her for more than a few heated kisses and she never swatted at his wandering hands, even when they seemed to always gravitate toward her ass when they were alone—he did have the sensibility to keep them above the waist when they were outside her house.

Again, she was struck with how easy and domestic it all ways. No one was shooting at them. No one was trying to poison them or use them for information. All they wanted from each other was each other.

It was just her and Jack and Bela and the occasional autumn rain sliding against the windows. And she let herself believe that her life could be like this—simple and fulfilling and quiet. They both had enough money in the bank to live very comfortably if they both wanted to leave—but she was definitely getting ahead of herself. In the grand scheme of things, she didn’t even know if Jack wanted that. What if he wanted to live out the rest of his life as a Statesmen, retirement be damned? Did she want to be in Kingsman for the rest of her life? Those thoughts didn’t stop her from realizing that her house finally felt like a home when he was inside it.

But when Jack’s lips found her neck as she finished drying the last pan from breakfast and his still-damp-from-the-washing hands wrapped around her waist, wetting her pajama shirt, all thoughts disappeared. All there was—was Jack.

“What are you up to?” She asked with a smile, turning in his grip to wrap her arms around his neck. His hair was still mussed from sleep and he had on only his boxers and a t-shirt, but he was handsome—so handsome in the low morning glow.

He didn’t answer but grabbed at his phone on the countertop and pulled up an app behind her back and soon Johnny Cash’s voice started to croon over the small speaker and flood the kitchen. She instantly recognized the tune and had to laugh. “Really, Jack?”

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” he sang along, letting his fingers trail along until one of his hands was wrapped around her waist and the other was holding her hand against his chest.

She grasped his shoulder and let him lead her in a swaying, mellow version of a dance as the sunlight trickled through her kitchen window and painted everything in a hazy yellow while the air still smelled of sticky syrup and pancakes.

“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,” he sang, slightly off-key, the words muffled into her cheek, but they made her heart leap all the same. “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

“This is a sad song, you know,” she said without making a move to change it.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied. And he sounded sad, too.

And that just about did her in. Well, that and the fact that he was set to be back in New York tomorrow. She pulled out of his grasp and grabbed at his phone, switching to another song with a forced smile. But the smile became real when he laughed at her choice, low and rumbling in his chest.

“Dolly and Kenny?”

“This song is a classic!” She argued, letting him pull her close again and she tried to follow him in an abbreviated two-step jaunt that had her laughing and pressing a kiss to his perfect, single dimple. But the song eventually ended, fading into another and then another. And their steps slowed too, once again simply swaying on her cool tile floor. “I don’t want you to be sad—not with me.”

His next breath was slow but his grip tightened. “I think you make me the happiest I’ve ever been, Sunshine.”

“You make me happy, too.” She turned, murmuring the words into his chest like a secret, like if she said it too loudly it would be used as a weapon. “We really wasted a lot of time, didn’t we?”

“But we turned up exactly where we’re supposed to be.” He turned to press a kiss to the top of her head. “You know I love you, right?”

And her heart sprouted wings in her chest while the smile splitting her face almost hurt. “Yeah.” She turned her head just enough to look up at him, seeing him already looking down at her. “I love you, too.”

Easy. It was so easy. And they continued to sway to the music even as he turned his head just enough to catch her lips again in a kiss that so sweetly stole the breath from her lungs. Her lips were slick and tender from his ministrations but it was an ache she would gladly live with, especially when he gently grasped her face in his hands to angle her face just-so, leading the kiss until she was unmoving in his hold. Her hands circled his wrists and she sighed against his mouth. A different kind of heat was starting to curl in her stomach like perfumed smoke that left her whining when Whiskey pulled back to breathe.

“You look so pretty like this, darlin’. I’ve never seen you look like this before.”

“Like what?” Her voice was hoarse.

“Like you want me to eat you alive.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest at the dark, hungry look in his eyes. Heat took root in her stomach, clenching her muscles and her hands unconsciously fisting the soft material of his shirt. “Oh.” She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “You…you want to?”

And he laughed and kissed her again—god, she could never get enough of his lips. “You gonna let me?” His warm hands slid down to grab at her hips and he tugged her a little closer. “Huh? You gonna let Jack eat that pretty-”

Her hand pressed against his mouth as she bit back a laugh. “Don’t refer to yourself in the third person if you want to get anywhere near me.” And then she felt him smile against her fingers. “I mean it.” The words were stilted with her laugh which only grew when she felt his lips pucker so he could kiss her fingers.

He reached up to gently remove her hand, the hungry look in his eyes now sparkling with a bit of mischief. “You drive a hard bargain.” His fingers tangled with hers and started to tug her toward her staircase. “But I accept.”

The pair was quiet as they retreated to sun-soaked haven of her bedroom. Warm hands slipped beneath her shirt and dragged it up to just beneath her breasts but then stalled, a quiet question in his eyes that was quickly answered with a swift nod. He pulled her shirt up and over her head and tossed it aside—his shirt quickly followed. He moved to brush a kiss against the scar over her chest as his palm settled over the scar on her stomach, like he was trying to wipe it away. She reached out to cradle his face and pulled him up, smiling against his mouth as he sighed.

“I’m here,” she said as she stretched to brush against the faded scar at his temple. “We’re just fine.” Her skilled fingers curled under the elastic band of his boxers and shucked them down his legs before he shuffled her backward. Her knees hit her bed and he pushed her back to make her bounce on the mattress. It was then that she allowed herself to truly admire him—strong legs and chest, a little soft around the middle, but still very capable. She found herself licking her licks—a little unconsciously—as she eyed his cock as it curved up toward his stomach. “Are you just going to stare?”

“Well, you are such a pretty picture.” But he climbed over her anyway, mouth slanting over hers with a passion and curl of his tongue that had her moaning and delighting in how he almost shivered under her hands as they trailed down his chest. He pulled away from her mouth to let out a groan of his own when her warm hand encircled his hard cock and squeezed. “Don’t be cruel, Sunny. I want to get to the main event before I make a mess.” Jack shuffled back, pressing wet kisses against her throat, her chest, her stomach, before he huffed out a long breath against her sleep shorts and it was her turn to shiver. He slowly pulled them down her legs and he pressed a kiss against the lace of her underwear before he pulled those down, too, tossing them over his shoulder. “So pretty for me,” he murmured, mostly to himself as his hands around her legs to pull her open, exposing her to the warm air of the room and his greedy gaze.

She curled her fingers into his thick hair as he dragged his nose along her folds, breathing her in. He had barely begun and she already felt like she was floating, held down to the bed just by his strong hands on her thighs. His tongue finally—finally parted his beautiful lips and he licked, strong and firm.

And she keened, hips lifting from the bed only to be pulled back down by his unyielding grip. And the bastard had the audacity to laugh and glanced up at her, mustache wet and glistening in the low light.

“Be good, darlin’. I wanna treat you real nice.”

“If you don’t finish-” The next words stalled in her throat as he licked another firm stripe before sucking her clit between his smiling lips. “Fuck!”

And then he truly began—a ravenous mix of tongue and plush lips moving against her and stealing any sort of coherent thought she might have had. He didn’t stop when she thrashed in his grip with her first. Didn’t stop when she tugged on his hair with the second. Didn’t stop when she wailed and panted and pleaded for a bit of a reprieve as the third started to crest and the damp spot beneath her legs continued to grow. But he let it build, continued to let her writhe under his hands until he was drinking her down like ambrosia again.

“J-Jack, please! Enough,” she begged, tugging on his disheveled hair. Her sigh was a little broken in her throat when he finally raised his head, smile glistening. He was such a pretty sight, bracketed between her thighs. A shiver shot down her spine as he pressed a kiss to her hip. “You… are something else, Jack.”

He chuckled and pressed another sticky kiss to her other hip. “I’ve been wanting to know what you tasted like for years, Sunshine.”

She slid her hands down to frame his face, letting her thumb brush against the edge of his mustache letting just a bit of slick coat her thumb before bringing it up to her mouth and sucking. His mouth dropped and a guttural groan pushed passed his shining lips as he watched. The sharp tang of herself was lost to her as he suddenly reared back onto his knees and he climbed over her, legs pushing against hers to spread her wide and hands dropping to either side of her head on the rumpled blankets. The feel of him pressing against the crux of her thighs made her moan, soft and breathy as he loomed above.

“I never thought you’d be a tease.”

“I just wanted to know what the fuss was about,” she shot back, fighting a smile, but it bloomed just as Jack’s did and he laughed before pressing a kiss to her lips and she tasted herself again.

He dropped to his elbows so he could gently cradle her face. “You got one more in ya? Just about did me in like a teenager.”

She laughed and let her hands pull through his hair again. “I think I can try, for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wanna know what the fuss is about,” she repeated, smiling into his lips as he bent down to kiss her again with a laugh of his own.

“Be kind to me, darlin’. I’m half-cocked already, finger on the trigger.”

“Oh?” She wiggled her hips and tried to bite back a smile when his eyes fluttered shut as she let herself glide against him. “I think you’re more than half-cocked.”

His hands suddenly grasped at her cheeks and he stole the breath from her lung with a vicious sort of ease despite the smile she still felt him pressing against her mouth. “Mean, baby.”

One hand slipped down and her entire body jolted as she felt him push the tip of his cock up and down, up and down along her folds before catching against her opening. Then, in one slow, delicious push, he slid inside. Her entire body seemed to catch fire as he bottomed out, curls at the base of him scratching against her skin. The stretch burned but she didn’t care—she didn’t care because he was there. Her Jack. And she was so deliciously full. Her hands scrambled to grab at his shoulders again and she barely managed to sigh out a heated “move” before he slipped his arms around her back and was dragging in and out with a slow, harsh thrust that had her choking on every breath while he pinned her down. Every sense was Jack—touch, taste, sound, sight, smell. All of it was him.

And that was sending her careening toward another orgasm at an embarrassingly quick pace. To finally have Jack, the man she’d been in love with for years, made it all the more terrifyingly lovely and erotic.

“You feel like heaven,” he grunted. “Tight, beautiful heaven.”

“Oh please,” she breathed, shaking hands reaching down his back, feeling his muscles flex as he continued to thrust. “Please.”

“I wanna feel ya, Sunshine. Wanna feel ya gush for me. Can you do that?” His slow drag continued and he buried his face into her sweat-slick neck, tongue sliding against her pulse.

“I want to feel you too, Jack.” Somehow she managed to find the words she needed through her buzzing mind. “Give it to me. It’s okay.”

He pulled one of his arms from around her back and slipped it between their tightly bound bodies, finding her clit like he had done it thousands of times and rubbed quick, firm circles that had her crying out and turning her head to kiss him, catching his jaw with her lips. “You first, Sunshine.”

And she erupted, one more time, shaking and shuddering in his grasp as white light flashed behind her eyes. But then she heard Jack’s beautiful, broken groan as his hips stilled, flush against hers, and warmth flooded as he gave a few small thrusts, chasing the last bits of his high. Her lips pressed against his neck, his cheek, finally finding his panting mouth. Her fingers traced his spine as they both tried to catch their breaths, bodies still reeling from the aftershocks. The afterglow was quiet and warm and perfect—sticky, syrupy, sweet. When Jack went to pull away, she tightened her grip on his back the slightest bit, uncaring of the slick she felt trickling down to puddle beneath them. “Stay a little bit. I like how you feel.”

His breath was warm against her skin, smelling of syrup and mint. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

                                             **

“Call me when you land.”

“It’ll be late-”

“I’ll be awake. Just call.” She tried to press a smile to her lips but she was sure it looked withered. With all the years of subterfuge and espionage she had under her belt, it still seemed like she now couldn’t lie with him. Maybe her heart just couldn’t take it anymore. It refused to go back to pulling into frowns or impassivity.

Jack brushed his lips against hers with a sigh. “I’ll call. I promise.”

She sucked in a breath as her hands pressed against his chest, feeling his warmth and steady heartbeat. “I kinda got used to having you all to myself, Whiskey.”

And then he was quiet, face pulled tight, before he wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her close and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “Let me see what I can do, Sunshine.”

“Jack-”

“Because I got used to being able to kiss you whenever I wanted. I got used to saying I love you whenever I wanted—”

“We just started saying that yesterday,” she grumbled, half-pleased, half-despondent.

“I got used to being able to kiss you any time I felt like it.” And then he stole another kiss. “But I’ll be back soon.”

“Promise?” She whispered.

“I promise that I’m very hard to get rid of.”

She liked the sound of that.

                                               **

Two years later:

“Bela! No!” The corgi had stolen a piece of toast from the counter—how did he even get up there?—and tried to scamper away with the large treat.

Jack had been planning for weeks. His Sunshine had taken an assignment in Prague alongside Ginger Percival and Lancelot and was due back home in just a handful of minutes. He wanted everything perfect. The perfect flowers, the perfect music, the perfect meal (breakfast for dinner was a favorite of hers).

Perfect—until the dog stole a piece of toast.

It had been a year and a half since he had stepped back from Statesman, becoming a consultant for more complicated missions and only stepping into the field for end-of-the-world scenarios. He had shown up on his Sunny’s doorstep with a bag in hand and she had welcomed him inside without blinking.

She was…she was everything. His love. His second chance. His Sunny, filling every part of his scarred heart with warmth like sunlight sparkling on a skyscraper, sending beams of light into every dark corner and alley.

And living with her? It was so easy. His own slice of paradise on this wretched earth. They were a family—him, her, the dog. But he had definitely wanted more and he knew she did, too—they’d talked about it during more than a handful late-night phone calls and when they were wrapped up in each other under her soft blankets. And maybe they could have that. Maybe they could have a little more of this beautiful paradise.

He heard the door open and Sunny greeted Bela. “Hi, baby. Where’d you get toast?” She walked into the kitchen, carrying the corgi who was still chewing on the pilfered toast with his tiny, sharp teeth. She smiled as she looked at him and quickly pressed a slow, soft kiss to his mouth. “Hi, handsome.”

“Welcome home, Sunshine.”

She bent to set Bela on the ground and then gave him another kiss before looking around at the kitchen, seeing the spread of food and the large bouquet of her favorite flowers. “I will never get tired of coming home to you.” She plucked a piece of toast from the plate and took a bite and he watched as she smiled with crumbs on her lips.

For a moment—just a moment—the small box tucked in his back pocket could wait. He wanted to look at her a little longer.

A/N: And that’s all she wrote, folks! Please let me know what you think! Thank you all for reading. I love you. Period. The end.

You think it’s hilarious just how stereotypically American the Statesman agency was. Besides the front of it, a Bourbon whiskey distillery that just happens to have racehorses (you never understood that part) on a large expanse of land and have a large influence on the liquor industry all over the US, the agents that were a part of it were just so in-your-face full-blooded American. Hell, even your equipment reflected that, with electric lassos and souped-up sawed-off double barrel shotguns, to cowboy boots with razor sharp spurs and Stetsons designed for stealth and espionage. Statesman was 100% committed to proudly showing off their roots. But you couldn’t really shit on them too much since you were one of their agents as well. That would be severely discrediting you and the work you do.

Even if some of the agents teasingly call you a city-slicker. 

Although you were a Statesman through and through like your mother before you, you had been raised on the less… southern half of the country because of where she was mainly stationed. Good ol’ New York was a whole different territory than Kentucky. She had still made sure you kept up with your training and be ready at a moment’s notice to take over for her. Statesman were proud of their line of agents, names often passed down from parent to child. Built in loyalty, you supposed, and a good way to keep an eye on those who knew secrets. As the world expanded and keeping the peace grew harder by the minute, they’ve strayed far from that tradition, and the organization grew to include people that had no prior connection to it. Your mom had been insistent she at least stay true to that part of Statesman, and often showed you how to watch over New York from the high rise building to groom you for the position in the future until you graduated from your unofficial codename of Ice Tea. But you had moved south to live on a small ranch a few miles from the distillery after she had died on a recon mission instead of staying up north in the concrete jungle. You inherited her position and her moniker as Agent Brandy, supervisor of the intelligence part of the agency and relocating to home base at the same time, but Agent Whiskey had taken up position up in New York in your stead. 

Speaking of Whiskey, there he was, sauntering up to you with a smile playing on his lips as you flicked through reports on your tablet. You spare him a quick glance and a polite smile before you turn your attention back to the reports and mission debriefs, hoping that was enough to leave you alone, but instead he leans against your desk and crosses his arms, and you try your damndest not to look at how his arms make the seams on his jacket strain.

There’s no animosity between you and Whiskey at all, and you’ve said as much when Champagne informed him he would be taking over the New York territory instead of you. You didn’t feel guilty or mad or anything really that you decided to move closer to Statesman because it was your choice, and Whiskey had taken it in stride. You two were just doing your jobs, and that was all. You would even go to say that you were close friends with him, giving him pointers about the secrets of New York while he told you all the gossip about the other agents. The work he did would make your mother proud. 

But why was he so insistent on hanging around at the Statesman headquarters in Kentucky so much?

“Your mission debrief isn’t scheduled until Tuesday, Agent Whiskey,” you say, eyes roving over your calendar before swiftly swiping it off your screen to pay closer attention to Tequila’s report. That man was awful with writing. Did he even have the spell check on? You click your tongue and run the editing software, intent on letting that run in the background while you browsed through various agent requests (there was Gin asking if you could fashion a 200 proof liquor), but Whiskey puts a hand on your tablet and pushes it out of your view. 

“I know, sugar,” he says in that damn Southern accent that manages to make your ears burn. “Just thought I’d come down here to see my favorite intelligence supervisor.” You roll your eyes, but can’t help the smile that threatens to split your face. You turn your tablet off and put it down.

“Do you know many intelligence supervisors?” you ask, but your efforts to get him to leave are already an afterthought at the back of your mind. Every time you hold a conversation with him, the amalgamation of your New York and Southern accent sounds crass compared to the honeyed drawl of Whiskey. Two completely different regions. You suppose he might feel the same whenever he’s in New York. Perhaps you two had more in common than you had initially thought. 

You’re off track. It’s maddening how easily he is able to pull a smile or a laugh from you and completely derail you. Even on the worst of your days, he’s able to ease you with just a reassuring smile or touch. Whiskey shrugs and shifts where he sits. 

“You got me there,” he laughs. “But that don’t mean I can’t come see you, does it?” You rest your chin on your hand as you fiddle with your tablet pen. He’s trimmed his mustache, you note.

“I suppose it doesn’t, Agent Whiskey,” you say. Anytime he flies over to the Statesman HQ, you usually see him the same day he lands, if not, you’re the first thing he goes to see. It’s sweet. 

“What does it take for me to convince you to call me Jack, sweetheart?” Whiskey asks, nearly whines, really. He’s been insisting you call him by his real name in private recently, insisting that you were far past those formalities. 

“When you stop calling me those pet names of yours,” you retort back. He looks mock-offended. 

“That’s never gonna happen,” Whiskey says. You raise an eyebrow. 

“Then there you have your answer,” you say simply, and go to pick up your tablet again when it chimes, but Whiskey stops you and pushes it back down flat against the desk. 

“You work too much,” he says, as if that was a decent enough reason to interrupt your work. “Pay some attention to me instead.”

“And I’m starting to think you don’t work enough,” you sigh, and slide the tablet out from under his hand and you turn it back on and check over the editing software. “God knows you spend enough time pestering me.” You don’t tell him that you don’t mind. In the hectic pace in your lives, Whiskey is a nice constant that you find yourself falling back on. 

The software has managed to fix most of the typos and obvious grammar issues, but it’s mangled the nuances of Tequila’s informal writing. You sigh again and swipe the report onto your computer screen to manually edit it before you can send it to Champagne. Whiskey hops off of your desk, and he walks around it to lean over your shoulder to skim the report as well. 

He’s close enough for you to smell his cologne. Smoky, mellow, and warm. 

“Why don’t you just send that off to Ginger to edit? Or Soda?” he asks, voice rumbling in your ear. “‘m sure you have other things to do other than grade Tequila’s piss poor work.” You clear your throat and try your best not to become too distracted. 

“They don’t have high enough clearance to read this report,” you answer. “Nor do I think they have the patience to. Besides, Ginger is tech and Soda is medical. They’d either shoot themselves or shoot me.” Whiskey laughs and leans in a little closer. 

“But I have the clearance to read this as you edit?” he asks, voice low. “You flatter me, Brandy.” You blink, then gasp, whirling around in your chair and narrowly missing clipping his chin with the back of your chair as you push him away from you and back around your desk, smacking him as you do.

“You are a menace!” you exclaim. Whiskey just laughs, humoring you and letting you push him when it would be frightfully easy to just stand there. He blocks your hits and eventually grabs a hold of your wrists to stop you. 

“You love it,” he says, and your face flushes as you try to scowl at him. 

“Get out of my office so I can finish this report,” you order, pointing at the door. Whiskey pouts, but makes his way to the door. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he sighs. He tips his hat at you. “You be a good girl while I’m gone, sweet thing,” he says in a sing-song voice, and the door clicks shut behind him before you can do some serious bodily harm to his person. 

---

You don’t really know what constitutes being “a good girl”, and you don’t really have the chance to find out because you meet with Whiskey again a few hours after he had barged into your office when Champagne calls you up to discuss some technicalities that he had remained vague on.

It’s a short underground tube ride to the Statesman office building a few miles outside the distillery, and an even shorter elevator up to the top floor. Whiskey is already there when you walk in, so you go ahead and take a seat across from him, pulling up your notes in case anything important pops up. You give him a small wave, and he tips his hat at you with a smile. You turn to the man sitting at the head of the table.

“Well, Champ,” Whiskey says, “why’d you call us here?” Champagne fiddles with the lid of a decanter of whiskey before he smacks his lips together and leans back in his chair. 

“Statesman is considering adding another location in California, and I need your expertise,” he announces. He motions to you. “Sent the plans to your tablet, Brandy, but here’s the gist.” The t.v. screen at the other end of the table switches from Statesman stocks to a blueprint of a high rise located in San Francisco, alongside some smaller buildings scattered over the city. “I’m planning on sending Chardonnay over to oversee construction, but this is only the third location to be located in such a large city.” You skim over the notes. Although they wouldn’t be building a distillery, there would be a sub-HQ over there, as well as some Statesman-sponsored bars to keep up surveillance. “The first one being New York, and the other in Nevada.”

“Is there something we should keep an eye on?” you ask, scrolling through various material requests. While the other could handle the usual materials, you would have to put in a special order for the military grade stuff. “What’s the occasion?” Champagne shrugs when you glance over your tablet. 

“It’s been something I’ve been thinking about,” he says. “Stocks are doing good, and there's no looming threat- seems like a good time as any.” You nod. 

“Then why us?” Whiskey asks. “I think Brandy is more than capable of handling this herself.” Champagne furrows his brows. 

“You are in charge of our New York office, aren’t you?” 

“Brandy grew up preparing to take over for it,” Whiskey says. 

“Well--”

“He’s right, sir,” you pipe in. “Whiskey’s about to go in for a mission anyways. There’s no point loading his already full plate. I can handle it.” Champagne presses his mouth in a hard line, but eventually taps the table. 

“Alright then. Brandy, I’ll let Chardonnay know you’ll be taking part in it so he can refer to you with questions. Agents, you’re dismissed.”

Whiskey moves for the door, but pauses when you don’t follow him. You wave him off. “I’ll catch up with you; just need to talk to Champagne about something.” He nods, and leaves. You back around to face Champagne with narrowed eyes. “What are you up to, old man?” He tilts his head and pours some whiskey into his glass. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Bringing Whiskey into this,” you clarify. “You know I can handle this project by myself; why try to rope him in?”

“Thought it be a good experience,” Champagne says, taking a sip and swishing it around his mouth before he turns to spit it out into the spitoon. You wrinkle your nose. 

“For Whiskey?”

“For the both of you,” he corrects. “Whiskey gets to learn more about the technical aspects, you get to, well, spend time with him.” You raise an eyebrow.

“And I want to spend time with him because…?” 

“Don’t you know?” Champagne asks. You shake your head. 

“What? We’re good friends, but we’ve got different jobs,” you say. “So I don’t see a reason why I should be spending time with him outside of what’s necessary.” Champagne just hums with a pensive look on his face. 

“Alright then, girl.” He waves a hand at you. “Off to work.” And Champagne doesn’t elaborate any further. 

---

You are far too busy trying to sort out the semantics of some sort of stirrings of a coup on a Chilean website to go and debrief Whiskey when Tuesday rolls around, so you send Ginger in your stead. She accepts without complaint, but you can see how she frowns when you tell her so. You’ve never gotten the details as to why the two never seem to get along, but Ginger is the most capable person you can think of to take care of things when you’re not able to. 

It takes you a solid 45 minutes to try and go through the Chilean Spanish compared to the Castilian variant you know, but you determine that the rumors of a coup bears no real weight and all it is are empty threats despite the traction it’s gained so far. You suppose you could’ve run the translation, but there were too many nuances and codes that couldn’t be translated over. Just to be sure, you set up a surveillance bot to continue to track the progress and alert you if anything significant happens. By the time you do, Ginger walks in, looking a little frazzled. You frown. “You good, Liz?” Ginger just puts down the debrief folder on your desk as she plops down in the chair across from you. You raise an eyebrow, but slide the folder over and survey the notes she’s taken during the debrief. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just Whiskey complaining that he has to fly to Spain to deal with some black market firearms dealers that have gotten too confident. Apparently last time he was there, some sailors tried to swindle him. There’s some quotes of his with choice words in the margins saying so, accompanied by a doodle of him with an angry expression. “Whiskey give you a hard time?” you guess. She nods and takes off her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. 

“I honestly don’t understand how you can stand him sometimes,” she says. You shrug. 

“He treats me fine, if not a little persistent,” you note mildly. Ginger snorts and puts her glasses back on. “Hasn’t given me a reason to dislike him. Yet.”

“That’s ‘cause he likes you,” she says. Your stomach flutters at her comment. Then after a moment of pondering, Ginger says, “Think he was in a bad mood because you weren’t the one debriefing him.” You frown. 

“Would it have mattered if I did?” you ask. “You’re perfectly capable.” 

“It’s not capability,” Ginger sighs, leaning forward and resting her forearms on your desk. The motion jostles the cup of pens on your desk and you reach to adjust it back to its place. You click a few things on your computer to pull up the flight details for Whiskey. Scheduled for 5:50pm, an overnight flight that lands in a remote location in Madrid where then he would be promptly escorted to Andalucia. 

You wonder if he’ll come visit you before he leaves. 

You shake the thought out of your head before you go back to look at Ginger, who’s looking at you curiously. “If not capability, then what?” you ask, fighting to keep down the blush that’s threatening to overtake your face.

“You really don’t know?” she asks, almost critically. You furrow your brows. There’s that question again. 

“Is there something I should know?”

Before Ginger can answer, a knock resounds at your door. You give Ginger an apologetic look before you call out, “Come in!” You don’t know why you’re surprised, but it’s Whiskey, again, with a bright smile on his face before his eyes darken at the sight of Ginger. She bristles.

“I’ll see you later,” she says, reaching over and giving your hand a small pat before she gets up to brush past Whiskey, and she closes the door behind you. Whiskey seems to relax at that, and takes the seat she was in. 

“If you’re here to complain about going to Spain, Agent Whiskey, I can’t do anything about it,” you immediately say before he can get a word in. He takes off his hat and puts it on your desk, running a hand through his hair. 

“I wasn’t here to complain,” Whiskey says, chuckling. “You wound me, Brandy.” He puts a hand over his heart and stares at you with a woefully sad face, looking at you with big, warm brown eyes, akin to a kicked puppy. “Missed my favorite intelligence supervisor at the debriefing.” You throw a pen at him, but he just catches it and puts it in with the rest without breaking eye contact. 

“Doubt you’re here just to see me,” you say. “Shouldn’t you be packing for your flight?”

“I’ve got time,” Whiskey says. “If I remember correctly, it’s not until 6:00. Gives me a little under 2 hours until I gotta leave.”

“5:50,” you correct him automatically. “So less than that. You’ll wanna leave in an hour or so to account for traffic.” The grin that spreads across his face makes your heart beat a little faster. 

“You keepin’ track of when I’m ‘bout to leave?” he purrs, leaning forward. You scoff, but think in the back of your mind that there’s some truth to that. 

“I’m the one that booked your flight with Triple Sec,” you say dryly. “Be weird if I didn’t know what time exactly, Agent Whiskey.” Whiskey hums, but leans back in his chair and spreads his legs in an almost obscene matter that leaves you thrumming in your skin. 

“Jack,” he says.

“Hm?”

“My name is Jack.” You laugh. 

“I know what your name is, Agent,” you say. “It’s kinda my job to know everybody. Feel like we’ve already talked about this about a million times by now.” 

“Still, it’d be nice to hear you say it,” he says, almost absentmindedly as he picks at his nails, brows furrowed in a vulnerable expression. Your face falls at his soft tone. To be honest, your refusal to say his name was more because you perceived it as a game. Whiskey would press you to actually call him by his name, and you would coyly refuse, and he would leave with a promise that he would get you to say it one way or another. But something is clearly bugging him. 

You reach a hand forward, towards him, touching the other edge of your desk. Close enough for him to reach for it. His gaze snaps to your hand, and something tells you that Whiskey wants to. There is some kind of longing in his eyes that the firm, hard line of his mouth is trying its hardest not to betray. “You okay?” Whiskey’s fingers twitch. Something holds him back. 

He clears his voice, forcing a smile on his face, and the moment is broken. “Right as rain, sugar,” he says. “Pre-mission jitters, I suppose.” You suppose that’s not totally unwarranted. Whiskey would be going on into the field on his own due to the delicacy of the mission, the only backup available being Triple Sec piloting the plane. And, well, Whiskey didn’t exactly blend in with the typical Madrid population with his loud voice and louder personality. Statesman didn’t have a base out in Europe either. You give him a reassuring smile, and you try not to think too hard at how the tension seems to melt out of him at that. 

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” you soothe. You retract your hand, and honestly at this point it seems as though Agent Whiskey has taken up permanent residence in your mind because you swear you spot some sort of deep emotion as his eyes trail after it. “Just like you always do, Whiskey.” The muscles in Whiskey’s jaw work as he clenches his teeth together before he claps his hands and stands up, that same charming smile on his face but not quite reaching his eyes. 

“Well I suppose that is some improvement!” he says. You tilt your head. 

“What do you mean?” Whiskey pulls the flask off his belt and takes a swig. 

“Got you to say my codename without all the preamble, now, didn’t I?” he says, winking at you. You stammer and flush red with embarrassment. He holds up his hands in surrender. “Now before you start wailing on me like last time,” he says, “I’ll see myself out. Like you said, I still need to pack. I’ll see if I can bring back a souvenir for you while I’m across the pond.” You cross your arms. 

“That won’t be necessary.” Whiskey shrugs and heads for the door. 

“Can’t stop me, can you?” You smile at him. 

“Guess not,” you say, almost to yourself, then your gaze falls to his hat still sitting on your desk. “Wait, Whiskey, your--” He holds up a hand. 

“Hold on to it while I’m gone, ‘kay?” he asks. You nod. “Good girl. Give me something to look forward to when I come back.” You make a motion to grab a pen, bursting out laughing when he moves to catch it when you feign a throw. He smiles, too, more genuinely this time. “See you in a couple days, darling.”

And you can’t help but start to miss him when the door clicks shut behind him. 

---

As much as you want to, you can’t find the power to visit Whiskey while he’s recovering. He’s fine, obviously, with the medical advancements and Soda’s expert skill, he’ll be up in no time. But every time you stand in the elevator, hand hovering over the button for level sub-4, you feel sick.  You retreat back to your office and ignore the video calls from Ginger and Soda. You’ve even gone as far as to shove Whiskey’s black Stetson in a cabinet under your desk, and you consider doing the same to the necklace he had given you, but instead opt to just wear it and tuck it into your shirt out of sight. It weighs heavy against your neck, but it makes you feel the slightest bit better. Maybe you can just ignore everything until you finally grow a pair and do something about the worry that’s been nagging at you. 

You, however, cannot ignore Ginger and Soda when they walk into your office unannounced. 

“Can I help you?” you ask tiredly, taking off your Statesman issued glasses to rub your eyes. 

“What's wrong with you?” Soda asks bluntly, and Ginger smacks him. “What? I’m being honest. You’re holeing yourself up in your office more than usual.” Ginger rolls her eyes. 

“What he meant to say,” she stresses, “is that you’ve been… down ever since Whiskey came back Saturday.” You sigh and put your glasses back on. “We’re worried. This isn’t like you.”

“I’ve been working,” you say. A total, complete lie, and they know it too. “There’s a lot of paperwork that comes with severe injuries sustained in the field.” Not a lie. “Besides, why would… There’s no reason for me to go to the medical wing.” The biggest lie. 

“Brandy--”

“Whiskey’s been asking for you,” Soda blurts out, and Ginger smacks him again. “Ow! Quit that!” You tense and crumple a paper in your hand as anxiety swells in your chest. Well, there goes the contingency plan mock-up you had made for Ale’s mission. 

“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Ginger stops her harassing to stare at you incredulously. 

“Seriously?” she sighs. “You don’t know?” You throw your hands up in the air. 

“Once again!” you say, almost hysterically. “What am I supposed to know? Everyone keeps asking me that, I really don’t know what the fuck--”

“For an intelligence supervisor, you’re really fucking stupid,” Soda says, and Ginger doesn’t hit him this time, instead nodding in agreement. You’re taken aback. 

“Excuse me?”

But Ginger and Soda are soon manhandling you out of your office and shoving you into the elevator, paying no attention to your complaints as they head to sub-4 and practically drag you to Whiskey’s recovery room, ignoring the curious stares that follow the three of you. They push you in, and shut the door, and your heart leaps to your throat when the lock clicks. You bang against the wall. 

“Let me the hell out!” you shout, but all you can hear on the other side of the door are the receding footsteps of the traitors you call friends. “I swear to God, I will make your life a living hell when I get out of here--”

“Brandy?”

If your heart was hammering before, it completely stops at the sound of his voice. There’s the shuffling of sheets behind you, and you slowly turn around with wide eyes as the blood drains from your face as Whiskey strains to sit himself up, looking much worse for wear that you had initially feared. You really should stop him from overexerting himself, but you’re glued to the floor. “What are you doing here?” he asks. His voice sounds so tired, and it’s only made worse when he tries to crack a smile. “Here to see little ol’ me?” he rasps, but dissolves into a coughing fit, holding his ribs as his face contorts in pain. Once he calms down, he looks up at you again, and frowns. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I think I should be the one asking you that,” you finally say, voice small as you slowly make your way over to him. You keep a good distance away from him still. 

“‘m better now that I’ve seen you,” Whiskey says, running a hand over his face. He motions to the chair next to him. “Take a seat, darling, you’re making me anxious.” Your eyes dart over to it, and then back to his face, and eventually lower yourself into it. 

“What happened?” you ask. Whiskey winces. 

“Dealers somehow found out I was there to take down their operation,” he explains. “Got ambushed, got the shit kicked out of me, got the hell outta dodge.” He chuckles. “Told ya I didn’t want to go back.” You play with the impeccably white trim of his hospital blanket.

“Why didn’t you tell us as soon as you got on the plane that you were hurt?” you whisper. Whiskey runs the hand not stabbed full of IVs through his greasy hair. 

“I knew you would worry.”

“It was irresponsible of you.”

“And it was irresponsible of you to not take care of yourself,” he says sharply. “Seltzer’s been telling me how you’ve locked yourself away since I got here.” You curl inwards and lean away from the bed. Whiskey sighs. “I do apologize, sweetheart,” he says after a moment. “I’m going crazy from being stuck in here. Didn’t mean to snap at you.” 

“It’s fine,” you mutter. You’ve had your fair share of bedrest, and it is not fun. He shakes his head. 

“No, it’s not,” he says. “There’s no excuse for treating you like that.” A beat. 

“I said that you didn’t have to get me anything,” you say to change the subject. 

“And I said that you couldn’t stop me,” he laughs, but it wheezes out. Whiskey slowly reaches a hand out, pausing when you tense up, but keeps going when you don’t stop him. He loops his forefinger under the chain that’s peeking out of your collar and pulls it out from under your shirt. “You like it?” he asks, and he sounds uncharacteristically nervous, and he’s playing with the collar of your shirt instead of pulling his hand away. “I know-- Well, I don’t see you wearing any fancy jewelry or nothing, but I saw this and thought the opportunity was too perfect. Like, c’mon, it’s a braided chain--”

“‘Made of finest silver from the north of Spain’?” you finish. You’ve gotten countless jokes about the song, but it’s endearing when it comes from him. He quirks a smile. “Andalucia is technically Southern Spain, Agent Whiskey.” His smile drops. “N-not that I mind,” you stammer, afraid you’ve said something horrifically wrong. 

“I know you don’t,” Whiskey sighs. You purse your lips. 

“Then what’s wrong?” He shrugs. 

“I guess I dreamt you saying my name in the elevator,” he says, following it with an empty laugh as he looks away. “Ain’t that the cruelest trick the Sandman could play? He’s always been a son of a bitch to me. It had sounded so sweet...” You swallow and grab his hand where it rests on your collarbone, and you scoot your chair closer until your knees press against the edge of the bed. You hear his heart rate jump up on the monitor. 

“I… It wasn't… It wasn’t a dream.” Whiskey turns your hand over until he can lace his fingers through yours. 

“No?” he murmurs, and he brings your hand to his lips as he presses a kiss to it. He closes his eyes and keeps your hand there for a moment before letting it rest in his lap. “Mind reacquainting me with the way my name sounds coming from your lips?” Your mouth is suddenly very dry, but you lick your lips and the way you feel warm with how his eyes watch you is enough to give you the little push you need. 

“Jack.”

It’s barely audible over the rapid beeping of the monitor, but a pained noise emanates from his chest, and the hold on your hand tightens. “Again.”

Then louder this time, “Jack.” A disbelieving laugh. 

“Again.”

“Jack.”

And Jack Daniels yanks you closer to him until you’re halfway on the bed to bring you in a bruising kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, an arm wrapped around your waist as he presses as much of his body to yours as he can without yanking the IVs out. His heart rate is through the roof, rapidly beeping on the screen next to him. Jack’s mouth is warm and yours is pliant as he nips at your bottom lip, digging his fingers into your side. His voice is growling when he says, “Good girl,” against your lips.  

You’re one second away from slinging your leg around his hips to straddle him when Vermouth bursts in with wild eyes and a flushed face. 

“Whiskey! What’s wrong-- Oh.”

You nearly throw yourself out of Whiskey’s embrace, but he keeps you close as he glares daggers at the cowering medical assistant standing in the doorway. “You ever hear of knocking?” he drawls. Vermouth’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. 

“It’s just that-- Well, your heart rate it, um, we thought that you were, uh-- We thought you were in danger,” they stutter. Whiskey motions around the room. 

“Do you see any dangers here?” Vermouth makes a ‘kind of?’ motion with their hands. 

“You really shouldn’t be overworking yourself--”

“Kid, I’m fine,” Whiskey interrupts. “Now, shoo,” he says, “get,” and waves his hand at Vermouth, who has never looked more eager to leave the situation. And they’ve seen a lot of shit. You bury your head into his shoulder as you sigh. While Vermouth wouldn’t be coming back any time soon, you know they’re blabbing about what they’ve seen to anyone and everyone. 

“That was so embarrassing,” you whisper.  

Whiskey just laughs, pets your hair, and lets you keep your head where it is, only moving when you slide in the narrow bed next to him when your leg goes numb. The worry that’s been constricting around your heart starts to loosen with every breath he takes in, and he must sense that because he holds you as close as he can, minding the bandages and stitches and his bruised ribs. “You’re mighty affectionate today.” 

“I’m allowed to be after the emotional trauma you put me through,” you mumble. “I still have your hat.” Whiskey just hums and runs his fingers over the skin of your upper arm. He clears his throat. 

“Brandy, I… I have to tell you something,” he says, and there’s that nervousness from the day he was scheduled to leave. His heart rate picks up again, and he presses kiss to your hair to give him a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Whiskey says, “what you mean to me, and I know I’ve been a real ass sometimes, but I promise you, it’s all in good humor.” You’re glad you’re not hooked up to a monitor because your heart is pounding in your ears. “And… and I can’t promise anything, not after--” His voice catches, and he clears his throat. “But I, um, what I’m trying to say is--” You take pity on him and reach up to kiss the underside of his jaw, rough with stubble. 

“Don’t you know, Whiskey?” you say. “I already know.”

---

Forever Tag: @mabelleen @mando-vibes @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore @lavenderl3mons

You’re stuck in your office doing paperwork and sorting through various agent requests nearly the entire time Whiskey is gone, and you thank whatever higher power is out there because you can’t help but rerun the memory of the tangible fear that flashed through his face when he visited you in the office right before he left. You looked through the mission debrief again an hour after his flight’s scheduled departure, skimming for any notable information that you might have missed, even if you could recite it by memory. The only notable thing is that Ginger had written down that the arms dealer had a branch in the drug trade-- something that apparently Whiskey knew due to some run-ins prior to his assignment. You knew of his past with drugs and his family, the memory of the first time you read about it in his file making your heart ache for him. Other than that, you don’t know what had gotten him so riled up. He’s gone on much more dangerous missions before, and it’s not the first one that had dealt with drugs. You had requested Ginger to let you know if anything important pops up while she supervises Whiskey’s mission as casually as possible, knowing that if you had asked if you could keep up with him yourself it would look highly suspicious. But Ginger had nodded with that knowing smile of hers and told you that you would be the first to know if something happened. 

So here you are now three days later, running on cat naps and coffee for the fear that you might miss something, once again denying Gin’s request for 200 proof alcohol. Every now and then your gaze flicks over to the black Stetson still sitting on your desk. You won’t lie that the urge to put it on has plagued you once or twice, but you haven’t given in to it. You jolt when Ginger’s request for a video call pops up on your screen, and your heart sinks as you accept it. 

“Ginger, what--”

“Whiskey is coming in hot with injuries,” she says, voice breathless and she types something on her computer. “Headed straight for medical. Triple is keeping it contained and under control, and Club Soda is on standby at the hangar to wheel him straight into theatre for emergency operation.” Your nails dig into the wood of your desk. 

“How long until he gets here?” you dare to ask, voice shaky as you give a once over to the medical report that Soda is typing up in real time on your second screen to see the extent of his injuries.

Multiple gunshot wounds. 

Fractured/bruised ribs. 

Fractured left tibia. 

Broken left fibula. 

Dislocated both hips. 

Poss. punctured lung. 

Poss. concussion/head injuries.

Risk of--

And you swipe the screen away as you feel nausea rolling in your stomach with each line that Soda fills out. 

“9 minutes and counting,” Ginger says. You clench your jaw. 

“Why didn’t we hear about this before?” you grit out. “Madrid is 9 hours away at most--”

“They’re coming in on the Blackbird,” she interrupts. “Fastest plane we could get in Spain, and they brought a doctor on board. He’s been holding steady for 4 hours.”

“That doesn’t explain why we didn’t--”

“Whiskey had requested the information remain private until he was close enough,” Ginger says. “He… he didn’t want to worry you.” You swear, and slam your fist on your desk, unconcerned with how Ginger could construe it. Agents come in hurt all the time. It came with the job and plenty of agents were bull-headed. Whiskey was just another agent coming in from just another mission with another run-of-the-mill complication.

You know in your heart that’s not true. 

“I’m meeting him in the hangar,” you say sharply, and you end the call just as Ginger starts protesting. You grab your jacket and sling it over your shoulders as you practically sprint down the hallways. The hangar was at least ten minutes away from your position in the intelligence wing, and Whiskey was, by now, seven minutes away. 

You somehow make it in five. 

Soda is already there in his scrubs with three other attendants with a gurney ready to wheel Whiskey away when he arrives, and the four are in a hushed, serious conversation that stops immediately when Tonic spots you storm in. She steps in your path to try and stop you.

“Brandy, what are you--”

You push past her and walk straight up to Soda, which sports a scared expression when you shove a finger in his face. “Did you know about this?” you demand, you voice echoing in the hangar. “Did you know he was coming in hurt?” Tears burn in your eyes that you quickly blink away. 

“No, no!” Soda stammers, hands up in surrender. “I was told, like, 15 minutes ago, I swear!” You’re about to rip him a new one when the hangar starts to buzz as the Blackbird starts to fly in and prepare for landing. Soda snaps to attention, barking orders at Tonic and Seltzer to radio in the theatre and prep for the incoming patient, and waving over Vermouth to help him with the gurney. Air whips around you as the four work with brutal efficiency, climbing up the stairs to the plane before it fully locks in and carrying Whiskey down with Triple Sec and what you assume is the doctor stumbling after them, blood smeared all over their hands and clothes. You immediately rush over as Vermouth is putting an oxygen mask over Whiskey’s mouth. 

Frankly, he looks like shit. 

There’s blood and dirt all over Whiskey, his suit torn open and messy from the patchwork job done on the plane. His moaning something unintelligible, slurred with pain as the one eye not swollen shut glazes over, and he fumbles around in disorientation. You barely keep up with the gurney as they wheel him fast as possible through the underground hallways, shouting at people to move out of their way, and you stumble once or twice when you don’t dare to take your eyes off of him. Soda practically punches the button for the emergency elevator that takes them deeper underground to the medical wing, swearing to high heaven about how they should build a medical center on each level, and Soda actually does punch the button for the floor of the medical wing when the elevator doors open and they shove everyone in. 

Whiskey’s eyes are fluttering, hissing in pain when Seltzer keeps firm pressure on the largest wound on his side, blood sluggishly dripping to the floor. He’s reaching around, looking for something, even as the other attendants try to hold him down. There’s an awful feeling building in your chest as you watch him struggle. Whiskey eventually lands a hand on your arm, digging his nails in, but it falls as he keeps searching. You call his name, softly, grabbing ahold of the hand that’s been flailing around, warm and wet with his blood, and bring his hand up to cup your face. You don’t mind that it paints you red.

“Jack.”

And Whiskey calms down. His grip tightens a fraction in yours, and he lolls his head to look at you, eyes just the slightest more focused than they were before. 

“Darling,” he rasps. Despite the obvious discomfort, Whiskey reaches into the pocket that lines the inside of his tattered jacket and pulls something out, and he presses it into your hands just in time before the elevator dings and the doors open. His hand slips from yours, unable to keep a hold with the slick blood, and he’s gone down into surgery before you can properly react. The last thing you see of him is his eyes slipping shut.

The doors to the elevator have already closed by the time you unfreeze, and your fingers ache as you force them to unfurl to see what Whiskey had given you. 

Even covered in blood, the thin, braided silver chain shines in the light of the elevator, a small pendant with a moon carved into it. There’s a crumpled up slip of paper in your shaking hands as well, and when you manage to unfold it, you can barely make out Whiskey’s handwriting past the bloodstains. 

For Brandy, my finest girl. 

It takes Tequila calling the elevator back to the main floor to finally find you collapsed against the furthest wall.

---

“Alright, honey,” Ginger murmurs, sweet and low in her throat, “let’s get you cleaned up.” 

After Tequila had discovered you with drying blood over your clothes, he had practically carried you to Ginger’s office with some kind of knowing look on his face that’s rather uncharacteristic of someone that regularly goes square dancing for the hell of it. But you’re too caught up in your head to really process anything except the last glance you got of Agent Whiskey, bruised and battered from a mission gone awry over and over again. Tequila knows he’s got god-awful bedside manners, and has resigned himself to standing by in case you start to tip over. Again. You’ve got a bruised knee to attest to that. 

You’ve long since given up trying to get the two to leave you alone. Ginger wipes the bloody handprint from your face with a warm wet rag, tilting your chin with a gentle hand, glancing at you every now and then from where she kneels in front of you. 

“Ginger,” you sigh. “I’m fine, really.” She fixes you with a hard stare that screams Yeah, right. “Seriously.”

“If you’re fine, why are you shaking?” she asks bluntly. You frown, but clench your fists to try and ground yourself. Ginger shakes her head and sits back on her heels. “Brandy, it’s okay to be worried.”

“Who says I’m worried?” you say much too fast. She motions to your face. 

“You get a little indent right here between your brows when you fuss,” she says. You scowl and reach up a hand to feel for it, but she grabs your wrist before you can smear the tacky blood on your face. You lower it back to your lap and let her wipe off most of the blood. 

“I’m just… pissed I wasn’t informed because Whiskey was afraid he’d hurt my feelings,” you say bitterly. “I’m the intelligence supervisor, these agents are under my protection, and if I don’t know everything that’s going on, and someone gets hurt, that’s my fault.” You clench your jaw. “How am I supposed to do my job if someone’s trying to put roadblocks in front of me? They need to understand that what I do is in their best interest, and that I’m perfectly capable of pushing aside emotions to deal with the problem. They need to trust me.”

“You think we don’t do things in your best interest either?” Tequila asks. You look at where he’s leaning on the wall with his arms crossed. “Trust is two-way street, Brandy. It sounds more like you don’t trust Whiskey to get shit done.” You open your mouth to argue back, but he holds up a hand and keeps talking. “If Whiskey had told you that he was coming in, in that serious condition, no less, that you would’ve been able to keep your head straight on your shoulders to keep working until he got here?” 

“Yes!” you answer incredulously. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Really? You wouldn’t have been running around like a headless chicken if you had heard that by the time he got here, he very well could’ve been dead on arrival?” You balk. 

“Tequila,” Ginger hisses. 

“Medical would’ve taken care of him,” you grit out. 

“That’s if they got here on time,” Tequila says. “Face it, Brandy. You would’ve freaked the fuck out if you had been told as soon as he radioed in.” 

You laugh humorlessly. “You’re a real son of a bitch, Tequila.” You stand up abruptly in your chair and shove past him, leaving red marks when you open the door. 

---

Forever Tag: @mabelleen @mando-vibes @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore @lavenderl3mons​