#kingsman reader

“I can manage myself, agent. Thank you.” You say very quickly but mean every word of it as you pick up the medic bag and move in the direction of the bathroom. Or what you presumed must be a bathroom. The chances of an abandoned cabin in the middle of the woods having a functioning plumbing system would have been a pleasant surprise, to say the least.

You don’t make it far, however, before you feel Galahad’s hand enclose your wrist rather firmly. “I’m afraid I must insist.” There again with that voice. You wondered if he even needed any weapons on missions. He could just say things in that voice and people would probably just lay down arms right away. “Agent.” He completes with particular emphasis on the word and you can’t help but turn and meet him.

He’s standing there quite dishevelled compared to his usual state of utter decorum – hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, specks of blood on his face, suit discarded, red streaks on his white shirt and yet his eyes haven’t lost their composure. They’re still calm and piercing at the same time. But you do see something else you don’t recognize that you can’t quite place either.

All you do is swallow dryly and nod. His grip relaxes as he guides you to an old table that’s collecting more than dust now. You wince as you hoist yourself on it with his help. Your shirt blooms red again. Galahad inhales as his hand instinctively comes to the spot on your middle where the blood comes from. “I’ve had worse.” You laugh with a few breaths, trying to reduce the tension but then, pain, sudden and sharp, forced you to shut up. “I think.” You say weaker now.

Galahad ignores this as his hands move to the buttons. “May I?” He asks, very softly as if mere sound would cause you to bleed some more and you nod, giving up entirely. You realize that you now found you didn’t have the strength to move your arms. It required more effort than you could spare. And Galahad was being so nice, the part of you that you normally kept under reigns was now slowly winning.

His fingers move deftly through the buttons and in a few seconds, you have shed your shirt. Your undershirt is clinging to you and much more red than you had imagined. You sense Galahad tense next to you and you desperately want to ease his worry. Whether that was for your own sake or his, you couldn’t tell. He doesn’t even ask before he lifts your undershirt out of your trousers and vey carefully brings the hem up to your chest, exposing the wound. You look at it for the first time: it’s a rather deep laceration on the side of your waist. But you know it hasn’t penetrated anything internal. The bleeding was purely superficial.

“Can you hold this for me?” You take the hem of your shirt from him and roll it so that it stays around your chest, giving him room to work. He finds clean gauze and dips them in running water before cleaning the area around the wound. You don’t want to look at the rest of process. You hear him open up the bottle of spirit and bite the inside of your cheek when he dabs the liquid. Tears form at the back of your eyes. When he’s done you look back and it is now significantly less scarier than it was before. You take a few breaths and he bends down closer to inspect it.

“I think I’m going to have to stitch it up, Y/N.” Both the suggestion and the fact that he just used your proper name make you whip your head around to face the man. He looked almost as pained as you. You gulped. “Do you really?”

He brought his fingers to the edge of the wound and felt it. Yiu didn’t know if you tensed because you were bracing for pain or because of the contact. This was all very distressing. Absolutely not. “I don’t mind waiting for help, Galahad.” In the midst of all this, saying his name still felt weird to you.

“I don’t think we can afford that.” He doesn’t wait for your response as he finds a chair and grabs the suture kit. Leave it to Kingsman to perfectly equip a medic bag.

And all of a sudden, you are now horizontal, on the table, he’s now very much in your space, one elbow resting on your thigh for stability, as he starts applying the stitches. You have been given a belt to bite on and you use it gladly. Every movement feels like a thousand hot needles piercing your flesh and the tears roll down your cheek endlessly. Galahad whispers soothing words as he works. At one point, he even stops to let you breath as he brings his hand and smooths the hair on your head, which feels so comforting you relax into it. You stupidly pray that he somehow, remembers none of this when it’s all over.

When he’s finally done, and he’s applied bandages to the wound, your head falls back with a thud on the table and you close your eyes, exhausted. Your skin is drenched in sweat bjt it’s cool and you find yourself drifting off. You don’t know if you’re hallucinating or if Galahad gave you some pills for the pain but before you fall asleep, you feel someone press a soft kiss to your temple, very lightly as if they’ll wake you if they’re ot careful. You don’t know it but you fall asleep with a smile gracing your features and Galahad is very slightly red in the cheeks looking at that.

*******

When you come to, it’s dark. The only light comes from a little bulb hanging above you and the fireplace. You turn to see your clothes stacked neatly on a chair. On your left, Galahad is fast asleep on another one. He looked very worn out. Glasses askew, hair even messier than before, sleeves rolled up and stained red on the edges, tie completely absent. He clearly hadn’t meant to fall asleep but couldn’t help himself.

You suddenly feel very thirsty and look around for something to drink apart from the bottle of spirit menacingly staring at you from the medic bag. You spot a bottle of water next to the supplies bag and you think you can handle that journey. You slowly get up, noiseless, and let your feet dangle a bit before placing them carefully on the floor and moving your weight. Big mistake. Sharp pain shoots through your side and you hiss as you brace yourself against the table.

Instantly, Galahad is at your side and helps you up again. “What do you think you’re doing?” You know he’s trying for composed, but the way he says it sounded more concerned and had more panic in it than anything else.

“I was thirsty.” As you say it, your voice is raspy, and Galahad immediately retrieves the bottle for you and hands it to you opening it. You take several gulps and hand it back, thankihg him. He just stands there next to you, not moving.

“Are you hungry? I think it’s quite alright for you to eat.” You shake your head and try to smile. “Trust me, food’s the least of my worries right now.” He nods and goes to inspect your bandages.

Maybe now that the pain had subsided or that you had got water in your system, you felt very exposed. You were wearing next to nothing and seated in front of agent Galahad while he tended to your injuries. The intimacy of this setting was nothing your training had prepared you for. He may be used to this but you certainly weren’t.

He had removed the bandages to inspect the stitches and once satisfied, he carefully applied them again. You were once again suddenly very aware of his fingers on your skin. Good, Y/N. You almost die of blood loss and the thing you’re worried about now is the awkward physical contact with a fellow agent. Priorities clearly well sorted.

“I’ve phoned base and Merlin’s promised a vehicle soon. They can’t seem to get through the storm, I’m afraid.” You nod and he steps back, not meeting your eyes.

“Y/N”, there it was. Your proper name.

“Why did you do it?” You blink at first, before you realize what he is referring to. He means ‘Why did you jump in front of me like a maniac when that gun was fired? Where was your common sense?’ Truth is, you don’t know. You don’t know why. It was a reflex.

“Because somebody was firing a gun at you?”

He stares at you. Daggers again. Okay. Clearly not in the mood for jokes.

You sigh. “I don’t know. Alright?” You find you can’t meet his gaze anymore. You’d rather address the rest to his knees than to him. “I just saw a gun; saw you and then I jumped. I don’t usually have common sense in general, if that makesyou feel better.”

He laughs. Not loudly. And it doesn’t last long. It’s more of a huff. “It doesn’t.” He moves to the table and leans next to youm “It makes me rather concerned for you.”

You look at him and he’s looking back at you, almost fondly. You shrink under him and smile looking away. You really wish you weren’t so exposed right now. It’s making you very self-conscious and you were already tired from the everything else. On top of all of this, Galahad is being very nice to you and you just can’t handle it. Maybe you should’ve let the bullet him. At least you wouldn’t be the one shirtless right now. Please don’t start thinking about agent Galahad without a shirt now, Y/N. Not when he’s right next to you and looking at you like you saved his life. Oh wait..

“What?” He snaps you out of your spiral.

“Nothing.” You say too quickly. You hear him sigh next to you.

“I just –,” you begin but you find you’re unable to formulate thoughts. “I-,” you can’t articulate anything. You want to thank him for looking after you and tending to you. You want to tell him to stop looking at you like that. You want to grab a sheet and cover yourself even though you know he’s not looking anywhere but your eyes right now. You want to forget about your injuries and run away into the cold of the night, barefoot like a woodland creature and never return to Kingsman. How is somebody supposed to put all those thoughts into words?

He blinks once and you realize you’ve been staring at him for several minutes and not speaking. “Y/N, are you alright?”

And that does it. This man is still making sure you’re alright because he feels guilty and because he cares about you or whatever and you no longer have the energy to worry about anything else. So, you do the thing you’ve been thinking about all this time and bring your hand to his shirt and pull him doen to you, lips meeting his, deliberately. He starts at that and almost loses his balance but he steadies himself on the tabl, placing one hand on the flat surface next to you as his other one comes around you, holding you. You’re grateful because you’re not sure if you’d have stayed upright if he didn’t.

He kisses you very carefully, but with intent. You have no idea what you’re doing or where this is supposed to go so you don’t pull away until you need air again. You immediately rest your head on his shoulder and his arm around you holds you tighter, gently going up and down your back. You then feel his cheek resting on the side of your head.

You slowly move away and look at him properly. He’s not hesitant or apologetic. In fact, he looks relieved almost. “Was that alright?” His hand on your back slows.

He leans down and kisses you again in response. It’s a bit longer before you pull away this time and his hand comes to rest gently on your waist. “I just ran a needle through you several times and you’re asking me if this is alright for me?” You laugh softly at that and ignore the pain that comes from it.

He then lowers his head to your shoulder, placing a kiss on the skin over your collar bone. You bring your hand to his hair and smooth it a little. “Besides, I think I owe you much more than a few kisses for saving my life.” He says it so softly that you feel your cheeks heat up as you lightly swat his head for that.

“Are you saying I did it for the money, agent Galahad?”

He pulls away just enough to look at you properly. “No, I think you did it for much nobler reasons.” At which you shyly look away. “Even so,” he brings a finger under your chin and you look up at him. “I’m afraid I have rather very few methods at my disposal, to show you my gratitude.” Your eyes widen at his bold demeanour and you can’t help but bite back a smile and look away.

Before you could move, he had finished clearing up the space and dragged his pocket square over the floor once. It was as if nothing had happened. Why did that very slightly make your blush darken?

Your hands suddenly felt clammy. "Thank you." You got out, small and barely audible. You thanked the floor.

You heard a huff and watched the tip of his shoes come towards you. You struggle and look up. Big mistake. His eyes are already on you, a twinkle in them. You smile sheepishly and gently sway on your heels. Even worse, he smiled back.

"Let's get on with your training, shall we?"

All you can do is nod quickly as you place your hand in his outstretched one, hopelessly praying it's less clammy than it was a second ago. His other hand finds the spot under your shoulder blade, coming around you, and you inhale subtly before placing your hand on his shoulder. He nods once, approving.

You suddenly hear the music from the corner and wonder who turned it back on before realizing it was playing this entire time. His eyebrows go up and you realize you are about to start. He takes a step forward, leading, and you follow.

It does not come easily. You were never a good dancer - always opting out of dancing at parties, never taking missions that involved balls or any activity that required that skill you so fervently avoided. The only dancing you ever did was in your room, alone, possibly resembling the mating dance of a T-rex. If they even did mating dances. Which is why, when you were put on this mission against your will, Agent Galahad was tasked with giving you the prep required to survive one night of polite dancing. And here you were, mid-lesson, wondering if T-rexs involved in mating dances or not. A keen student, certainly.

Galahad stumbles a little and you snap out of your thoughts. You had just stepped on his foot. He grips on to you for support and you steady him. The hand on his shoulder, finding his elbow and pulling him forward to stop him from knocking over another precious vase in another corner.

He steadies himself and sighs. You feel more heat in your cheeks. "Sorry", you almost whisper.

"It's alright." His voice is much softer than what you were used to. He brings his hand down to your waist once more and you can't help but feel that this time it's slightly lower than where it was first under your shoulder blade. Focus, Y/N!

"When I first started dancing lessons, I nearly catapulted my teacher into a cupboard." You exhale a laugh and look at him. He's looking at you with the most calm expression you've seen. You relax and nod. His fingers shift slightly at your waist, and the music takes over.

When Arthur first suggested you take dancing lessons with Galahad you wanted to protest. In fact you wanted to sail away to a foreign country. Galahad was a good dancer and a good teacher. But he was not like Merlin. He was not usually warm or gentle. He was always curt and to the point. Having to do dance lessons with him resembled, to you, having to learn swimming from a whale. It was its habitat, something that came naturally to the whale. It may not have the patience to teach a land mammal its lifestyle. You could not have been more wrong.

You were moving now, both of you, to the rhythm. No casualties had occurred for the past few minutes. It was actually quite nice once you got the hang of it. You even began to enjoy it. The two of you had drifted closer over time and suddenly you found yourself unable to look at your partner. Your eyes focused everywhere else, noticing little details about the room you had never noticed before - the design of the wall lights, the pattern on the curtains, the golden hue of the window sill under the evening light and one particular point in your partner's sleeve - it all seemed much more interesting suddenly.

"You know, it's a custom to have polite conversation with our partners."

He pulled you out of your fleeting thoughts. Your eyes met his for the first time in these few minutes. They were... surprisingly warm.

"Or at least look at them every now and then." An amused smile formed on his lips as you smiled yet again apologetically.

"I realized I had never noticed the pattern on that curtain before. It's quite nice." You shakily said. He obliged and turned around slightly, never breaking the rhythm, looking at the curtain properly.

"Yes, very intricate detailing. I've never noticed it before either, to tell you the truth." He turned around and looked at you again, the smile widening. You ducked your head, unable to decide if he was being sincere or not.

"Then again, I'd notice details like that if I too found my partner so intolerable that I couldn't bear to look at them."

You instantly looked up meeting his eyes. Defence already forming in your mouth. "That's not what I-" Why weren't the words articulating? "You're not-" Help. Human malfunctioning. And you look at him properly. He's still smiling, softer now, clearly enjoying himself instead of feeling sorry for the trouble he's caused.

You smile back slowly and nod. "You're trying to get me to relax."

"And failing horribly, if I may say so." You laugh softly and shake your head. "It's not your fault. There's a reason I do better in combat missions." You try to brush it off, the insecurity, and focus on the steps. You just can't look at him after that blow. And he doesn't press. He adjusts his hold on your hand and guides you again through the room.

It's not that you were incapable of having fun. It just so happened that you were most in your element when you were working, and nothing more was there to it. Sure, that made you miss out on gatherings and actual socializing, but you had friends a plenty. You only agreed to do this this time because Arthur had pressed and said you needed to do more on missions than just fight people and leave quietly afterwards. "Versatility," he'd hissed at you.

"You know -" Galahad's voice brought you back yet again "- some people consider fighting a form of dancing." He was no longer smiling but his eyes were intently focused on you. You nod a little. You've heard the idea before. Something stops you from embracing it however.

"I guess it's easier to relax around someone who's trying to kill me."

The music stopped. The dancing stopped. The room stood still. What was that? Oh, well done Y/N. You suspected a psych-evaluation was on its way soon after this. You manage to look up at your partner whose expression was conveniently unreadable.

You didn't even try to explain yourself. You just stood there, exposed but unapologetic. As if he completely understood you, Galahad just took your hand again and resumed the training.

"Then use your imagination." He whispered.

You blinked in surprise. "Imagine you're trying to kill me?"

His eyes did something dangerous. "Exactly."

You nod and use your imagination. He's a trained assassin; you're a trained spy on a mission to thwart his plans; you don't realize you're his target and invite him for a dance; something dangerous passes between you two and you forget your respective missions; you steal away onto a balcony underneath the moonlight - oh no. This was not helping. You've never imagined stealing away with someone you were fighting before.

Suddenly, your foot loses balance. The floor was slippery. Your shoes weren't conducive. Your legs were tired. All these excuses rattle through your brain as you fall back. All at once. Nothing behind you for you to knock into nor, to your dismay, to stop your fall. Until he catches you, both arms coming around you, yours going around his shoulders for support. You are now halfway to the floor beneath Galahad, who's bent halfway himself.

"Thank you," you say, breathless, feeling heat rise up through your entire face. It did not help that his was merely inches away from yours, the two of you almost nose-to-nose. He was breathing audibly, too. His eyes had lost their usual sense of composure and were wider than normal.

"And that's what we call a dip", he said, in between breaths. A small smile graced his lips. You huff and nod, embarrassed beyond measure. You felt your core screaming and wondered how long a traditional dip lasted.

Your question was answered immediately when Galahad adjusted his arms and gently brought you to an upright position. Your arms were still very much around him as were his. Neither of you looked at each other as you caught your breaths. You hear him exhale with a small laugh.

"I think you've had enough training for the day, don't you, agent?"

You nod, laughing a little yourself as the two of you extricate yourselves from each other. When you bid your good nights and say your thank yous, it's rushed and curt and always to the floor. You're the first to walk out of the room briskly, never looking back. Your head keeps replaying that moment all the way to your room and, once inside, you slump down on your bed, suddenly remembering that when the two of you were inches apart from each other, there was a moment when his eyes had flicked to your lips. Just for a fraction of a second. The blink and you miss it kind. You groaned into your pillow and tried your best to let sleep take you.

*********

The day of the mission, you were to go alone. It was nothing heavy-duty really. Just routine recon work. Only this time, it was at a dance-party and only you managed to procure an invitation.

The reflection looking back at you in the mirror was... absolutely done with everything. They had hired a professional to help you with your outfit and everything but you still looked out of place. Even alone, in your room. You attribute it to your general sense of awkwardness and brush something off your sleeve. Your watch tells you it's time and you try very hard to not imagine the night ahead of you. It was only a few hours and you were prepared. Well, more or less.

You open the door with full force, mentally steeling yourself and you almost knock into agent Galahad.

"I'm so sorry I didn't-"

He shakes his head carefully and smiles.

"It's alright. I just thought I'd come see my star-pupil before their big debut."

There it was. That twinkle in his eye again. You roll your own playfully and let him in.

"Your star pupil is experiencing some mild abdominal discomfort currently and hopes that won't hinder their performance for the evening." You get back to your things, checking off everything you need. You put in your earpiece and realize you didn't get an answer and turn back only to find Galahad looking at you, mildly taken aback.

"You look..." he trailed off and you can't help the distressed expression on your face.

"Is this not how I'm supposed to-"

"No. No. I mean yes- I-" he cleared his throat and breathed once.

"You look more than appropriate for the evening." A polite smile.

Your eyes dropped unbeknownst to you as you nod. Of course. He was being courteous. And suddenly the room feels small and quiet.

"Any last-minute pointers, agent Galahad?" You laugh a little nervously.

He smiles warmly, and you find yourself smiling back at him. "You'll be fine tonight. I promise."

And that did more than any possible tip or reminder to watch your feet might have. You find yourself going to him and stopping abruptly. Why had you gone to him? You've got to do something now. You can't just stand there. You slowly put out your hand and he takes it gingerly. You shake it once and say "Thank you, agent Galahad, for everything."

He nods and lets go. As you're walking out together, he very quietly says "Just one more thing."

You stop and look at him, listening carefully.

"Call me Harry."

***********

You have made a huge mistake. You should not have come here. The crowd is very polite and generally well-behaved but everyone is dancing and being giddy and you are not good at either one of those things. You fall while walking on flat road. The floor was especially polished and slippery tonight. You notice your target sitting by himself and this is your opportunity. However, your feet refuse to comply. Merlin's voice comes through your earpiece.

"Agent, this is it. That's him. You won't find a better window."

Oh you could find one. The one to your left seemed like the perfect window to jump out of. You clench your purse in your hand and stare at the man.

"Y/N?"

Harry's voice this time.

"Are you alright?"

Why did that floor you? He just asked if you were alright. Not for your hand in marriage. You bring your phone to your ear and assure him you are.

"Good. You can do this. Remember, use your imagination."

You nod once and move. Everything after that is a blur. You dance exceptionally ordinarily, no casualties tonight. Your target even asks you for a second dance and you graciously accept. Harry's voice comes through your earpiece occasionally, giving you encouraging remarks and you survive.

Back at the agency, there's a victory celebration - not because the mission was victorious but because you had not once stepped on your partner's toes throughout the evening and everyone in the compound had watched at least a clip of your dancing. You are red when you shyly accept their victory toast and raise your glass. When your eyes find Harry, he's not beaming, not proud. Just happy. And you mouth a 'thank you'.

Later when everyone has cleared the room and it's just you, Merlin and Harry, you are finally able to relax.

"You know, you really shouldn't be helping clear up after your own party." Merlin says as you hand him another forgotten glass.

"I hardly deserved one." You shake your head and look everywhere but at Harry.

"Maybe not. But it was high time for a celebration." Merlin teased and you nodded agreeing. Harry was awfully quiet but it didn't surprise you. He was not the talkative type.

When you're done the three of you bid your good nights and clear the room. A small part of you expected or rather hoped Harry would pull you aside and tell you how proud he was of you. Or at least congratulate you as a joke. But nothing of the sort happened and he was well on his way to his room. Why did that stir something in you? You step inside yours and exhale, leaning against the door, disappointed. And that's when you realize. You were disappointed, of course.

You grab your shoes, put them on and walk quickly. Finding his room, you knock on the door. Your heart was racing but if you couldn't handle a mild arrhythmia by now, what were you doing with your life?

Harry opens the door and looks surprised. His hair is slightly ruffled. He's discarded his suit and he looks very different to you.

"I realize I never thanked you properly." You are fiddling with your fingers now, muscles in your forearms tense.

He blinks once and moves aside, inviting you in. He looked like he was trying to do some horrible calculus in his head before he clears his throat and shakes his head.

"No, no. That's completely alright."

"No, it isn't." You're firm on your ground tonight and he shuts up.

You gingerly take a step forward and extend your hand to him. He takes it, unsure, and you place your other hand on his shoulder. Realization washes over his features and he breaks into a small smile, his hand finding you as he does.

"Y/N, we don't have to..."

But you're already swaying to no beat whatsoever and he follows. This time, it's relaxed and slow. The both of you move around the room as if you've practiced many times before. You feel at ease. And this time you don't focus on the curtains and it's partly because they're quite plain if you're being honest.

"Are you thinking my curtains are rather plain?"

You startle and look at him and he's got that twinkle in his eye again. This makes you laugh and you shake your head while laughing.

"No.. the curtains don't interest me tonight."

He makes an 'o' with his mouth, taken aback and just quietly continues dancing. You realize the effect your bravery had and feel very much not brave yet again.

The two of you slow to a stop and suddenly can't look at each other yet again. You pull apart and struggle to form sentences.

"So, did you imagine he-" Harry cleared his throat for the third time that evening.

"Did you imagine he was trying to kill you?"

You laugh quietly. "No.. actually." You speak to the floor yet again.

"No?"

"No, I imagined something else."

"Ah" No further questions apparently. "Well, you found your system then. That's good."

You don't know why but that frustrated you just a little.

"I did imagine something." Something fluttered inside you as you took a step towards him. You fixed your eyes on his. You were not backing away from this now.

"Oh?" Harry's expression remained calm.

Irritating.

Another step and another until you were inches away from each other and the hem of your dress brushed against his shoe.

You're sure your heart has stopped beating entirely when you carefully reach up, chest lightly brushing his, and slowly press the smallest of kisses to the corner of his mouth. He had gone entirely still. You pull back only slightly and add, "I imagined I was dancing with you."

You suddenly felt like somebody kick-started your heart again and it had gone into overdrive. You could hear it beat and you suddenly felt your legs begin to give way. You were not built for intimacy. You withdraw, an apology forming in your throat when Harry catches you, hands finding your waist and keeping you there as he bends down and kisses you properly. You don't respond at first but you catch up quickly. It's deliberate and soft at the same time and you can't believe what's happening. His nose brushes your cheek as he dips further into the embrace. Your hands have somehow wound themselves around him and rest on the nape of his neck.

You pull apart after what seems like ages and he rests his forehead on yours. Your eyes are closed but you know for certain that he is just as pink as you are in the face. You smile and quickly give his lips a light peck again.

"This is certainly one hell of a thank you." He breathes out and you laugh, slow and warm.

"Well, you were one hell of a teacher." He laughs with you now and pulls you in for another kiss.

"I think we're way past that relationship, don't you think?" He teases and hides his face in your neck, unbelievably tender. You blush and bring your hand to his hair. You'd finally put your imagination to good use, you think.

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. 

---

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