#whiskey reader

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.

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