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wardenparker · 5 months

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New Year's Surprise

Jack Daniels x plus size female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Rating: E for Explicit! 18+ Word Count: 18.7k Warnings: Cursing, alcohol, internalized fatphobia, self esteem issues, pining, meddlesome friends, unwanted attention from a male coworker, light spanking, praise, fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, Jack likes being scratched up, reader is described as having fingernails long enough to scratch (no specific length given), the love is requited they're just idiots. Summary: Ginger has a plan to get you and Jack to admit you have feelings for each other. She did not anticipate just how well it would work... Notes: Happy almost New Year everyone! Enjoy a little more winter seasonal smut and fluff from us to you 🥂🍾✨

"You're sure it's not too much, Ging?" Turning in front of the full-length mirror in Ginger's apartment, you inspect the glittering black cocktail dress that your friend helped you pick out at the mall during all those after-Christmas sales she promised you that you would find something at. She was right, like she always is, but now that the dress is on you, you're wondering if you haven't made a mistake. If it's not too revealing, or too short, or too tight.

Whoever in HR came up with this insane Cowboys and Flappers theme for the company New Year's Eve party deserved to have their head examined. You're not the femme fatale agent that gets sent out to seduce men and collect their secrets. Few men out there in the world are ever really seduced by the chubby girl in any given scenario, but it did tend to make you invisible. Invisible women can slip in and out of buildings in literally any kind of uniform and get through security without ever being harassed, and that works to your advantage on almost every case. Unfortunately, it also means that for the five years you've been a Statesman agent, you've also been fairly invisible to the man you've developed feelings for.

It’s perfect.” No matter how many times Ginger Ale tells you that you are sexy just the way you are, that insecurity gets the best of you. “I’m telling you, you will have every eye in the place.”

“I doubt it.” You sigh in the mirror and smooth your hands over the sequined dress one more time. “But that’s okay. I don’t want every set of eyes…”

“I know what set of eyes you want on you.” Your taste in men is your own, and Ginger won’t fault you for it, but she wonders why Jack. “It might do the man good to know that he’s got competition.” You don’t believe her when she says that it’s more telling that Jack doesn’t hit on you, but it’s the truth.

“He doesn’t, though.” Shrugging, you turn away from the mirror and decide to just go on with the night. Wishing won’t make it real and Jack Daniels barely looks at you. Even though you’ve partnered on cases, spend time together in and out of the office, and are arguably friends in every true sense? You’ve always wanted more with him. The only person who knows is Ginger, though, and you prefer to keep it that way since Jack will never return your affection. “And that’s…it is what it is. Even if you’re the only person I dance with tonight, it’ll still be fun.”

“Wearing that dress?” Ginger snorts as she pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I’ll have the faith for both of us, how about that?” She knows that Jack won’t be able to resist you tonight, not when she’s lined up a few of the junior agents to dance with you already. It’s time that Jack settles down and finds some happiness, and what better time than the New Year?

******

While you easily could have had the party at Statesman considering the size of the grounds, Champ wouldn’t hear of it. He’s hosting the damn thing himself come hell or high water, in his favourite suit with his wife dressed to the 9’s in her flapper dress, and more caterers than you’ve ever seen in your life all making his early twentieth century coal baron’s mansion look as resplendent as the day it was built. The place is palatial, with a ballroom so big that the band he’s hired looks tiny in one corner despite being six-men strong. It’s music and liquor and appetizers passing by on trays when you and Ginger walk through the door, and you gasp at how nice it all looks.

“I know he does it every year,” you sigh to your best friend. “But the theme is always different and I swear somehow the house always looks better on new year’s.”

“Champ does know how to throw one hell of a party.” She agrees, snagging two glasses of champagne from a waiter as she walks by. Her own sleek flapper dress is a vivid purple, making her beautiful skin glow and for tonight, she’s wearing contacts. Her short hair is perfectly styled, a cap like illusion, highlighted with the crystal headband she’s picked. “To a New Year we will never forget.” She hands you one glass and adds, “or regret.”

“You’re certainly optimistic.” You flash her and grin and tap the rim of your glass against hers. “Finally going to talk to Alicia or is this just positive vibes?” It’s been two years since Ginger started crushing on the woman who supervises Statesman campus tours and visitor experience, but she hasn’t made a move yet. Being frozen in place with someone you care about is something the two of you have in common.

“Positive vibes.” She huffs, rolling her eyes and trying to change the subject. “Look! There’s Tequila!” She waves the younger agent over to where you are standing. “You made it! Didn’t think you were ever gonna get back from Brazil, or if you wanted to.” She adds with a grin.

“Those are two very different questions.” Tequila agrees with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. Did he have to come back? Sure. But did he want to leave the comfort and luxury of that beautiful woman’s bed? Not at all. “But I would not have missed dancing with you ladies for the world,” he adds with a wink. He’s very much in on Ginger’s plan, after all, and is looking forward to the fireworks it will bring.

You fluster slightly at his words, but Ginger knows that you don’t have your cap set on Tequila. You just don’t handle compliments well. “You’ll have to get in line.” Ginger warns him with a smirk. “As good as Rye looks tonight, every man in here is going to want a dance. After I dance with her first.”

“Well I reckon I’ll have to be second, then.” Tequila puts in a playful pout. “But only because I would never deny Miss Ginger Ale gettin to be first.” He smiles again and tips his hat, having opted to wear his best Stetson with an elegant Kingsman suit. “You don’t have to,” you insist, knowing Tequila always has more choices of dance and bedroom partners than he could ever feasibly make his way through. “I’m sure you have other people you want to dance with tonight.”

“No one important.” Tequila smirks as he drags his eyes up and down your outfit and whistles slowly. “And no one nearly as pretty.” He promises.

“Liar.” Though you roll your eyes at him, you don’t protest anymore than that. He’s your friend, after all. And if he wants to waste his time dancing with you, you’ll just enjoy it. Tequila’s a fantastic dancer, after all.

“Never lie to you, honey.” Tequila croons, taking your hand and lifting it to his lips. “Lie about what?” The voice comes from your left and all eyes swing that way.

“Jack!” Normally you know he’s coming. The smell of earthy, expensive cologne and the tap-click-shuffle of his boots on polished floors. The soft humming he gets up to when he’s pleased with himself, not quite melodic but endearing because it means he’s happy. But you sensed none of that just now, too caught up in the band playing and the fragrant flowers and the tickle of bubbly in your nose and throat. “Nothing. We were just talking about dancing…” He looks like a dream, and it makes you sick to your stomach and elated all at once. Another night of watching him fawn over every woman but you is what you’ve resigned yourself to putting up with, but it’s just rude of him to look so damn handsome in that black velvet double breasted suit and sleek black Stetson while he does it.

“Dancing, hum?” His eyes narrow slightly at the grip Tequila has on your hand and he wants to reach out and slap it away, but he just shoots everyone an easy grin. “Ready to cut a rug tonight, eh?”

"I guess so." The shyness that threatens to shoot straight through you is knocked off kilter by Ginger, who hoots in response. "She's got her dance card all filled up already, Whiskey. Should've gotten here earlier," she tells him with a smirk.

His mustache ticks, it’s the only change to his facial expression. “I’m sure Rye can squeeze me in.” His dark amber eyes slide over to you and swipe up and down your body. “Can’t you, sugar?”

"Of course." You'd throw over the whole goddamn list for him. Besides, you have no idea what Ginger could possibly mean by saying your 'card' is full. One dance with her and one with Tequila isn't a full anything. "Of course I can."

“Good. Then how about I refresh you ladies’ drinks?” Jack asks, slapping Tequila on the back a little rougher than necessary. “Come help me with that.”

"Sure." Tequila grunts, throwing you a confused expression like he can't figure out why the hell Jack needs help getting champagne when waiters with trays are everywhere, but he shoots Ginger a secret smirk before following Jack into the next room where the open bar is set up.

“Tonight will be perfect.” Ginger predicts with a smug grin as she watches the two men walk towards the open bar. .

“What the hell are you doin’, flirtin’ with Rye?” Jack’s easy grin falls away and his brows knit together as soon as his back is turned to you. “You know that girl ain’t your type.”

"I can't be nice to my friend?" Tequila asks, pretending to be positively aghast that Jack would suggest he's up to anything else. One hand ever goes to his chest with a dramatic gasp.

Jack’s eyes cut towards the other agent, a frown on his face. “It’s one goddamn thing to be nice, it’s another to flirt.”

"When did I flirt?" The younger agent counters, knowing full well that's what he was doing but not about to admit it because he wants to make Jack stew.

“You were flirtin’ the second you can outta your momma, but you gotta learn there’s certain girls you don’t do that shit with.” Jack growls, stopping in front of the bar and holding up two fingers. “Double 62 Triple Barreled.” He orders, wanting one of the rare whiskeys that Champ had broken out tonight. “And two champagnes.”

"Now, why is that, Jack?" Tequila hums, looking down at his friend. Jack isn't too much shorter than him, but just enough to annoy the older agent on occasion. "Why is Rye one of those girls?"

“Because…” that’s where his argument ends, because there’s not really a reason beyond his own feelings. “It’s…unprofessional.” He decides. “She’s an agent for Christ’s sake.”

Tequila snorts at this string of logic, accepting his drink from the pretty bartender with a wink and sliding a large bill into the tip glass on the bar top before looking back at Jack. "That's a load of horse shit and you know it, Daniels. You fucking know it."

He does know it, but he snatches his own drink up and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He hates that his stomach twists and he wonders if you had been flirting back. Looking over his shoulder at where you are standing, he clenches his jaw at the tassels that are swaying every time you move. “Don’t get her damn hopes up.” He takes a sip of his whiskey. “We both know you ain’t gonna fuck her.”

"Nor does she want me to." This is gonna be a hell of a lot easier than he and Ginger thought, if Jack is always so fuckin wound up over you and he only just arrived for the night. "I ain't the one she has her eye on and everybody with eyes knows it."

Jack ignores that, huffing to himself as he tries to hid the fucking jealousy that curls in his gut at whoever you do have your eye on. Lucky son of a bitch. “No fuckin’ talkin’ to you, hardheaded S.O.B.” The champagne glasses are in front of him and he downs the rest of the drink to slap the crystal glass down and snatch up the flutes. Turning around without another word and stalking across the room towards you and Ginger.

It's only one room he has to cross, but by the time he gets there, Agent Brandy has sidled up beside you and Ginger and has his fingers ever so subtly on your elbow while bends his head and puts all his focus directly on you.

Halfway across the room, Jack jerks to a halt and growls, shaking his head as he resumes the walk and forces a moderately friendly smile on his face. “Didn’t think you’d be back from Korea, Don.” He interrupts as he arrives back at your group.

"Two days ago." Brandy flashes a smile in Jack's general direction but keeps his focus on you. "Glad I made it back in time, too. Champ throws a hell of a party."

His eye twitches but Jack nods. “Yeah he does. Shoulda brought that little gal you were seein’. Brandy. Brenda right? Or was it Bambi?” He shrugs. “Maybe all of them at once, knowin’ you.”

"Now don't be unkind, Jack." Brandy's eyes cut over to the older agent and Brandy offers what could be considered a modestly dramatic pout. "Or Rye might think the worst of me and throw me over for that dance I just got promised."

Jack seethes beneath the smile on his face. “Would hate for that to happen.” He lies, handing Ginger one of the glasses and then offers the other to you.

The glass is offered with a smile and you thank Jack, savoring even the tiniest moment of contact between brushing fingers as he hands it over. It's probably bordering on pathetic, how long you've carried this torch for Jack, and it seems like Ginger is really trying to encourage you tonight to come out of your shell tonight but you just don't know. As nice as everyone is being, it doesn't feel right. The only thing that feels right is when you're around Jack. It's just a damn shame that he doesn't feel the same.

It’s almost painful how the simple, innocent touch affects him. Now visceral his reaction is. Only the training that Statesman has given him keeps him from showing anything. “Well,” he hates to tear himself away, but he can’t be around you for too long. “I better go talk to Champ about some cases he wants worked tomorrow.” He offers.

"It's a party," you remind him, smile flickering as he steps back. Obviously the small touch that you'll be savoring for the rest of the night has had the opposite effect on him. But there's no need to show that. Not when it's fully expected that he doesn't want to be around you when there are plenty of other people to talk to and women to dance with. "Don't work too hard, okay?"

“Never do,” he nods at everyone and turns around and skedaddles over to Champ like his pants are on fire.

"Come on," Ginger loops her arm through yours and lends Brandy a smirk that you don't notice — you're too busy trying not to look after Jack. "Let's go dance, honey. The night is young and we are looking far too good not to show off."

Champ eyes Jack as he stops by his side. “Figured you’d have a gal in your arms by now.” He huffs as he reaches out to shake Jack’s hand. “Losing your touch?” Jack snorts. “When have I ever lost my touch?” He asks, pointedly refusing to look back over towards you. “Just surveying my prospects.”

"And how is Agent Rye this evening?" Champ doesn't even have to look to know that that's where Jack has just come from. He blew into the room so quickly that it's the only explanation for the fire in his heels.

“Don’t you start with me.” Jack groans, shaking Champ’s hand and huffing. “Far as I know, she’s dandy.”

"Why should I not start?" Champ knows damn well why not, but he enjoys riling up his friend. "Somebody beat me to the punch?"

“Every-goddamn-body here tonight is actin’ like they’ve never seen the woman in a dress.” He snorts, complaining about it even though he has already memorized the way the damned sequined dress clings to your curves and enhances them in ways that should be criminal. “It’s damned ridiculous and borderline workplace harassment.”

Smirking, Champ pours two glasses of his preferred Statesman 1972 Select, savoring the smoked cherry notes from that particular year. He hands one cut crystal glass over to Jack with his tongue set firmly in his cheek. "You know you'd be a hell of a lot less mad if you just asked the lady to dance your damn self."

The glare Jack cuts Champ is withering and he turns his head as he takes a sip, refusing to rebuff the remark. It seems like everyone is taking the piss with him tonight as Eggsy would say. (edited)

"She's allowed to have fun, ya know." Champ goes on, humming the thought as though the glare Jack just shot him wouldn't have struck a lesser man dead in his tracks. "Damn shame she hasn't set her cap on anyone. Big family dreams, that gal has. Always has. It'll be a damn shame when she finally decides to hang up her pistols and have a family, but I won't let her get farther than the training ring. Too good of an agent to just let her retire."

“Is there a point to your ramblings?” Jack grumbles. “Or are you just spouting shit tonight?”

"Do what I want in my own house." The older man chuckles heartily and claps Jack on one shoulder. "Got a couple of jobs to start the new year with. Come see me tomorrow and we'll figure out which one's yours."

He’s being dismissed and since Champ is also giving him hell, Jack quickly nods and walks off. Trying to walk around the ostentatious ballroom without looking at you. “Hello handsome.” A perfectly manicured hand drapes itself over his shoulder and the scent of gardenias and sandalwood fills his nostrils. “Tiffany.”

Like a bloodhound on a trail, you spot it from across the ballroom without even trying to. Twirling around with Ginger, your eyes catch sight of the gorgeous, skinny, leggy blonde who has let herself drape over Jack's side and you sigh. Deflate is probably the right word, but you remind yourself it was never going to happen anyway and just hold on to Ginger as the song comes to an end.

“What’s a tall, dark, handsome drink of water like you doin’ all by your lonesome?” She purrs, making him hide the wince he had at the put on accent of hers. She’s as southern as tofu and yet she tries to make it sound like she’s grown up around here. Still, she’s a distraction and the best part about it is that there’s no emotional strings. “Looks like I should be buyin’ you a drink, darlin’.”

"I wish you would," she puts on a too-high giggle and bats eyelashes heavy with mascara and augmented with false hairs. Laying it on thick, she pushes in even closer and lets her body fit against his with nothing left to the imagination.

Jack doesn’t feel anything but he paints a cocky smirk on his face as he turns to her. “Then let me go get something for you, what do you want, darlin’?”

“Champagne, of course,” she simpers, never once considering the fact that she’s at a party for a whiskey distillery. Hell, she hadn’t even dressed for the theme.

Tiffany hangs out at the bar Statesman regularly hangs out at. A groupie because she knows everyone there makes good money. He’d bet his bottom dollar she conned Scotch into bringing her.

“Some party.” Is her attempt at conversation, putting more effort into showing off her cleavage than completing sentences. “You distillery boys sure know how to treat your gals.”

“Of course we do.” Jack’s smile is wicked, but it’s a part of the persona he adopts when he is working a target, it’s not real. “Any gal of mine deserves to be treated right.”

“Is that an invitation?” She knows who Jack is. Knows the civilian job title he’s been at Statesman Distillery. Even if she knew what it was all a front for, she likely wouldn’t care. She might just try harder if she knew the real wealth being flung around between a lot of these people.

“Now sweetheart, I’m good for a night or two.” Jack drawls. “But I’ve got a lot of leavin’ left to do.” He hums, quoting the country song.

The pout on Tiffany’s face is both dramatic and pronounced, but seeing that he’s immovable in that point — and knowing his reputation — she makes a small sound of frustrated disgust before flouncing away. Apparently annoyed at having wasted her time on a line cowboy.

The huff that Jack lets out is one of pure relief. Happy that he won’t have to deal with her again for at least half the night. She might make her way back around depending on successful she is. It’s shameful to say, but most of the agents here have dallied with her, including Jack. However, he had only taken her home to satisfy a physical need. He slowly makes his way back to the bar to order another drink, not champagne.

His line of sight is unfortunate as he saunters back toward the open bar. Looking back out to the dance floor, he can see Tequila twirling you around and the two of you laughing as the younger man holds you close and mock-sings along with the band.

Jack’s frown is deep, furrowing his brow as he cuts his eyes away in a jealous huff.

It goes round and round like that for most of the night. One dance partner after the next sweeps you across the dance floor but never the partner you want. One beautiful woman after another sidles up to Jack and bats their eyelashes but none are the woman he actually wants at his side. It’s a three-ring-circus. A whirlwind. But you never seem to get close enough to each other to see that neither of you is actually having any fun.

It’s easy to have an arm around a woman, easy to smile and flirt. His eyes continuously find you on the dance floor. Ginger had been right apparently, you had a damn dance card that was slap full. He hisses under his breath, wondering how many of those men knew you bit your thumb when you were working out a problem or that your eyes changed to a lighter shade when you were feeling slightly bashful.

There isn’t a single night of your life where you’ve gotten this much attention from this many different men — or this many different people period — and while it’s fun in a whirlwind sort of way, you do find yourself clock-watching. Wondering why your fellow agents all seem to be paying you so many compliments tonight and why you sort of feel like Cinderella at the ball without a hint of the real Prince Charming, the closer it gets to midnight the more you’re thinking of just going home. The last thing you want is to glance across the ballroom at midnight and see Jack tangled up in a midnight kiss with some petite redhead or statuesque model with perfect curls. You’ll be happier skipping out early and being in your pjs with a book at midnight than you will be witnessing that.

It’s fucking infuriating to have so many people come between him and you. Every dang time he untangles himself to break in on your dance with some partner, Ginger, Tequila or Champ waylay him. He’s never had such a hard time getting to chat with you and it’s making him slowly unravel his temper. “Ah Jack, there you are.” He sighs and paints on a smile when Champ claps his back and shoves a drink in his hand. “Forgot to mention somethin’….” His eyes slide away from you laughing as you are spun around, bitter to be stonewalled again.

“Well if it ain’t the gol’dern Belle of the Ball.” The voice you hear behind you is the one person you were hoping to avoid tonight, and as you’ve just finished dancing with one of the guys from the technology department who you didn’t even think knew your name, there’s no escaping. Agent Vodka is one of those older men who doesn’t realize that James Bond is just a character and that no one drags that persona into their everyday life. He routinely ‘flirts’ with you like he’s bestowing you a huge goddamn favor for even looking in your direction, and you were genuinely hoping to avoid him tonight.

Vodka is handsome in a classical sense, some would say a silver fox, if he had a better attitude. As it stands, there’s a confused tilt to his Stetson adorned head and he rakes his eyes up and down your body in a very calculated gaze. “You musta cleaned up for hours. Getting ready for a good night.”

“Sure. I guess so.” You nod, tone polite but dismissive. Vodka has a tendency to interpret friendly as begging for hands to be put on you, and the last thing you want to do is encourage him. “Happy new year, Vodka.”

“Seems like Whiskey and I have been the only ones not with you tonight.” He intones, smirking slightly. “Guess you was savin’ the best for last, huh? Since Jack’s hangin’ all over the ladies, I’ll step in and claim this dance.” He doesn’t ask for permission, just stepping up to you and grabbing your waist.

“That’s really okay.” Reeling backward, Vodka is strong but your self-defense training is a hell of a lot better, and you twist in his grip to make sure he can’t get a solid hold on you no matter how hard he tries. “Appreciate the offer,” you huff, trying to push him away. “But I was just heading home.”

“Oh don’t be that way.” Vodka huffs and manages to pull you close. “Believe me, dancin’ ‘s just a prelude to what we can do later.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t want to dance with you.” You push back against him again, leveraging your elbow against his side to loosen his grip with a sharp shot to his liver. This has gone too far and is hovering on ruining the night — which has been fairly fun despite its lack of your favorite cowboy and coworker.

“Jack-“ Ginger doesn’t bother apologizing as she taps his shoulder and points out to the dance floor. “Why don’t you go save Rye?” She huffs.

At this point it’s obvious that it’s a struggle. People are giving you extra space on the dance floor as they realize what’s happening but for whatever godforsaken reason, no one has stepped in yet. Probably because they’re too shocked that Vodka has finally crossed the line into being physically inappropriate instead of just saying uncomfortable things.

“Sugar, I’m sorry I’m late for our dance.” Jack slaps his hand down on Vodka’s shoulder and digs his fingers into the fleshy muscle. Getting satisfaction from the immediate change in the man’s stance. “Don’t mind if I interrupt, do ya?” His tone is friendly, but there’s a warning woven in the words. Dark eyes turn towards you as you quickly step back from the other man’s grasp.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d keep a dame waitin’.” Vodka mumbles, all sheepishness and apology now that he realizes he’s infringed on another man’s territory.

Jack doesn’t rip into the man like he wants to, everyone else is starting to relax and resume the party. “You probably need to lay off the liquor.” He tells the other agent, not really caring for the man either.

“You forget who we work for, Daniels?” Vodka huffs, giving Jack the stink eye. “Not like you go easy, either.”

“Last time I checked, I took no for an answer, Robbins.” Jack turns his back after letting Vodka go and sweeps you into his arms, effectively dismissing him.

The room damn near erupts into applause, chattering all around you erupting out of uncomfortable silence, but you don’t hear it. You don’t even see Tonic and Champ escorting Vodka out of the ballroom with the utmost immediacy so the dressing-down can be vocal and private. All you see is Jack, and all you hear is Jack. Even as quiet as he is, the huff he gives as he scoops you up and twirls you away speaks volumes. “Jack, you—you didn’t have to—” Of course, if he hadn’t, you’re not sure you could’ve gotten away so cleanly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t think a thing of it, sugar.” Although he has a few harsh words rolling around for everyone who didn’t step in. It’s like they were waiting for something. Alcohol’s done made their brains addled. “Although my own apologies for manhandling you to get you outta that sticky situation.” Even though he’s apologizing, he starts to lead you in a dance.

“I really don’t mind.” And that is the understatement of the goddamn year, as you instinctively melt against Jack the second he starts to move.

“Still…..” There’s finally a bit of happiness to the evening and he smirks down at you. “Now you can say your dance card has been filled.”

“Could’ve left Vodka off it completely,” you grumble lightly, but you still end up smiling. When Jack looks at you in almost any way you just light up from the inside. It’s instinctual.

“Don’t know what got into him.” Jack huffs, even though he’s saved you from encounters like that before.

“His namesake, most likely.” He had smelled like it, at least. A fact which added no charm whatsoever to your encounter. “Really, Jack. Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Jack nods. “Sugar, you know that I know you are a capable agent. You coulda mopped the floor with him, but I’ll always give you whatever help you need.”

“I prefer not to bring hand-to-hand combat to Champ’s front door if I can help it.” If you let yourself really chew on the fancy, you could imagine Jack as rescuing you like a knight in armor. Like you were his to protect. “Not sure how much he’d appreciate that, regardless of how capable I am.”

“I think you’d find Champ more forgivin’ than you think.” He snorts, reminding himself of his own major fuck up just a few years prior. Champ had forgiven him and allowed him to regain the trust and confidence that he had destroyed through his own bling grief and rage.

“Maybe.” Jack certainly knows your boss better than you do even after several years with the agency, so you’ll differ from him. “But I’m glad to not have to find out. And…” The rest of the thought gets swallowed, and you cut your eyes away from him in embarrassment. There are some things better left unsaid and normally you’re so good at keeping your mouth shut.

“And?” Jack frowns slightly, not liking that you are holding back with him. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

“It’s nothing,” you promise him, shaking your head and acting like it isn’t the biggest, most honest confession in the world from you that sets your cheeks on fire and makes you even more bashful around him. “I’m just…glad I got to dance with you. That’s all.”

“You didn’t think you were going to dance out the old year without ole Jack now, did ya?” He sounds pouty that you would even think that.

"Honestly?" Shrugging slightly even with one of his hands splayed across your back and the other holding yours tenderly against his chest, you wonder how ever you ever manage to keep a damn thing to yourself with him around when your mind just sort of seems to melt in his presence. "I was going to split and ring in the new year in my bed with the book I've been reading."

Jack frowns and shakes his head, not agreeing with your plans in the slightest. “Now that seems like a waste.” He draws. “Mighty fine night to spend readin’ a book. You should be doin’ other things.”

"Not a lot of other options to pick from," you mumble, trying to force your mind away from immediately conjuring the mental images and repeated daydreams of doing just about everything under the sun with — and to — him.

Jack wants to protest that, but the song starts to close out and you almost stop in your tracks. Obviously believing that he will end the dance now that Vodka is gone and the set is done. Instead of dropping your hands, he pulls you tighter against him. “Is that why you wore a dress like that, sugar? ‘Cause you didn’t have any options?”

"Ginger picked it out." Wrongly assuming it to be an indictment of the choice, you frown reflexively and wonder why he's still holding on to you. The trouble is over and the song is done. Shouldn't he be finding someone better to spend his time with? "I know it's...it's not right. Flapper dresses are designed for women who look the opposite of me. But she insisted on sticking to the theme."

“Opposite of you?” He makes a face of utter confusion. “What are you talkin’ ‘bout? Dress looks good, fits you.” Maybe you have a shit ton of pins in the dress? His sweet wife would always have to pin her dresses to get them to fit right. Nearly every night they went out, he was helping her pin it just so.

Skinny is what you meant, but instead of saying so you just chew your lip and shake your head. Voicing that out loud would really just cement the ruination of the night and you don't want to do that. "Never mind," you insist instead. "I'm glad you like it." Even if he's just saying it to be nice, which you're sure he is, it's still nice to hear.

There’s something bugging him about the way you continuously quit talking and get around what you mean. The next song starts to play and Jack moves to that slightly faster tempo. “No one’s breakin’ in yet, sugar. So I’m keepin’ you unless you need a break?”

"No." Not from him. You would never, ever ask for a break from him. "No, I'm good." In fact, you've been so distracted by the rescue that you haven't noticed midnight creeping ever-closer. "I don't want a break."

Jack smiles, not the cocky smirk he adopts or the charming playboy facade that he uses on women like Tiffany. This is a genuine smile, one that makes his dimple show with a flash of white teeth and the crow’s feet around his eyes appear. “Then let’s dance, sugar.”

Champ chuckles when he sidles up beside Ginger with a fresh glass of champagne for each of them and his wife on his other arm, all ready to lead the midnight countdown after this song is over. "Took all damn night," he laughs to his co-conspirator. "And ya had to pull out the big gun with Vodka. But look at 'em."

“Man huffed and puffed at being used.” Ginger rolls her eyes and curls her lip. “But I promised him the Antarctic assignment. It will seem like punishment to everyone else and apparently he’s romancing one of the scientists down there.” Personally, she doesn’t see why anyone would be romanced by Vodka, but to each their own.

"It's for a damn good cause." Champ stifles a guffaw and even his wife looks amused at the way everything went down. "Everybody deserves to be happy, don't they? Even Vodka." It earns another snort from the older man and he aims a smirk at Ginger. "So what's the plan from here, Ging?"

“If Jack will get off his ass, there should be a kiss at midnight.” Ginger grins. “And maybe, just maybe, the dumbass will realize that it’s okay to want her. She wants him too.”

"Of course she does." Everybody knows that. Everybody with eyes and sense in their head, anyway. "He's just been stuck in the whole of his own grief for far too damn long. It's about time he broke free. Which is exactly why I went along with this plan of yours."

“I’m glad you did. Jack’s felt so guilty about actually developing feelings for Rye that he’s convinced himself that it’s wrong to flirt with her.” She takes a sip of her champagne. “When he breaks, it’ll be entertaining.”

"Entertaining for all of us." Grinning, Champ holds his glass out to his partner in crime in salute. "I sure as hell hope it happens right here for all of us to see."

Unaware that he’s being plotted against, Jack continues to hold you in his arms, taking you around the dance floor and trying to keep from asking too many questions that would potentially ruin his easy relationship with you. “Have you had fun? Other than Vodka? Your feet have to be killin’ you, all the dances you’ve been movin’ to.”

“It’s alright, I’ll have a hot bath and soak them. Aside from the one little interruption, everything’s been so nice.” This is the best part, without a doubt. Attention from other people is a novelty, the compliments and laughter a kind change of pace. But any time spent with Jack will always out do any other experience.

“A nice hot soak and a drink is always good to unwind.” Jack hums. “If other activities aren’t available.” The comment is warm, almost suggestive as he twists you around and then pulls you close again, feeling your softness against him and enjoying it.

It’s the worst kind of gut punch, hearing a comment like that from Jack, and your eyes are downcast when you curl back into his arms. It’s too unkind to be deliberate, but at the same time it’s such a careless comment that you just want to scream. He would never be intentionally cruel to you but the flirtatious tone of the comment is too much. “Maybe I should’ve gone with Vodka, then.”

Jack stiffens, frowning immediately and his blood pressure rises in anger. “What the fuck?” He hisses, the moment making him grip you tighter, almost the point of hurting you. “Why- you?” He’s at a loss for words right now.

“Well it’s the only offer I’ve gotten in…a year? Maybe more?” You shrug dismissively but his grip on you doesn’t allow for it, making your tone turn even more bitter in the process. He doesn’t get to get mad about who offers when he has no interest in himself. “Definitely more than a year, now that I think about it.”

“That wasn’t a goddamn offer.” He snorts. “It was a cowboy playin’ grab ass when his partner wasn’t willing.” He reminds you, dark eyes flashing angrily. “Otherwise known as assault.”

“And yet it’s still the only time any man has looked at me twice in more than a calendar year,” you hit back, practically hissing under your breath as embarrassed tears sting at your eyes. “Nobody’s exactly lining up to spend time with the fat girl except tonight which is Ginger’s doing. I know it is.” (edited)

The two of you are hissing back and forth, so preoccupied with your emotions that neither one of you are aware of the fact that the countdown for midnight has begun. The crowd around you starts to chant down from ten but Jack's too busy growling at you in anger. "Why are you so fuckin' quick to insult every goddamn person who decided to dance with you?"

“Because I know I’m right.” The two of you have never once torn into each other like this and while it breaks you’re heart, you’re so angry that lashing out is happening by instinct. It hurts so much more to be doubted by him and you can’t even express why. It’s devastating. “Do you even know what assignments they give me, Jack?” You hiss back, not hearing the shouts around you. “The ones where they need someone to be invisible! If they need someone plain and ignorable, they come straight to me. Do you know how much that fucking hurts? Because I’m good at it and that’s even worse than them just assuming. I’m excellent at not being noticed. At not being desired. It’s my fucking superpower. So no, I don’t think for a second that any of these dances were genuine moments of interest or offers for literally anything else. Because why would they be?”

His heart breaks and he's simultaneously enraged that you view yourself that way. "Five! Four! Thr—" He reaches up and grabs the back of your neck to yank you forward so your nose is less than an inch from his own. "You want a goddamn offer?" He snarls, losing all sense of reason when it comes to you and ready to prove how wrong you are. "Here's your fuckin' offer." Without another word, he drags you forward to plaster his lips against yours in an angry kiss.

It should feel terrible. It should make you so angry you slap him. It should make you feel a hell of a lot of nasty things, but instead what you feel is the undeniable melting of your own self against him, finally getting the only thing you’ve wanted since the day this infuriating cowboy sauntered into your life. Jack is firm under your hands, burning hot and intoxicatingly inviting in the way he does not pull away. You must have gotten so mad you blacked out, because this is impossible.

When you don’t push him away, when you don’t slap him, Jack growls. Using the soft sigh that you give to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth with another groan as the cheers and sing of Auld Lang Syne happens all around the two of you.

Either you’ve burst a blood vessel from being so angry and ashamed or this is the best dream you’ve ever had. Jack wraps both of his arms tight around you and you cling to him, fists dig into the arm of his suit jacket and the hair on the nape of his neck as you silently beg this hallucination never to end. You can live and die in this moment and tell yourself that it was more than a dream. You can imagine this is exactly how fiercely Jack kisses when he really wants to. When he wants someone.

The kiss has turned from an angry mashing of his lips against yours to a passionate mingling of your breath and tongues. You whimper and his entire body tighten with need. Overriding the portion of his brain that is screaming that this is a bad idea, that he is bad for you and continuing to kiss you as everyone else has moved into dancing now.

Neither one of you has realized that his hat has been knocked off, or that he’s drawn you so close your back has bowed, or even that you’ve entirely given up on needing to breathe in order to never have to stop kissing him. Years of repressed desire and soul-crushingly unrequited love are just being poured into every second you spend drowning in this impossible fantasy.

“Well damn.” Champ chuckles from his position on the dance floor with his lovely wife. “Didn’t expect that long of a show. Boy don’t stop soon, he’s gonna devour her right there in the middle of the floor.”

“That’s what happens when you repress your feelings for six goddamn years,” Ginger snorts in amusement. “Should I go interrupt them?”

“No.” Champ decides with a shake of his silvery head. “Leave ‘em. Don’t want the boy to get spooked before he makes up his mind what’s gonna happen next.”

“And he will.” Ginger agrees with that completely. Jack spooks faster than a newborn foal.

“He would, where she’s concerned. Boy has his heart in it and he’s been fightin’ it.” Champ agrees as his wife chuckles. “He will figure it out.” She promises. “Rye won’t let him walk away from this with a smile and a handshake.”

“I think she’d rather die than let him go, at this rate.” The smile on Ginger’s face is soft. Glad that her friend is finally getting everything she — you — have ever wanted. It really is only oxygen that makes the two of you pull apart, panting for breath with fingers curled into each other’s flesh and clothes like you’re hanging on for dear life.

Jack’s eyes are dark and searching as he looks at you. Looking for the answer to a question and when he finds what he’s looking for, he grabs your hand and starts to drag you off the dance floor.

“Jack?” The realization that that really just happened ignites a small panic in your chest and a riot in your mind, and the fact that Jack hasn’t let go of you or run off in disgust is only confusing you more.

He doesn’t speak, he can’t speak right now. The people on the floor just seem to part, moving out of his way as he guides you off the floor. He does squeeze your hand though.

“Jack?” The longer he goes without saying anything the higher the panic rises, but you cling to his hand all the way to the front door of Champ’s house where the front room has been transformed into a coat closet.

Jack doesn’t answer and spins you around to press you up against the wall, kissing you again. “Get your fuckin’ coat.” He demands roughly.

It’s a much briefer kiss but it leaves you breathless all the same, and the determination in his eyes makes you shiver and rush to obey. If this is what you’re going to get with him — just a few demanding kisses before he decides it was a mistake and turns you away? Then you’ll take it.

His hat is missing, Jack realizes when he goes to readjust it and frowns. Patting his head and looking around to see if it fell off around here, but it’s nowhere in sight. It’s a small price to pay, but he runs his hand through his hair as you rush back to his side. “We’re leaving.”

He doesn’t seem angry, but for the life of you there is no version of tonight that goes any further. Not in your mind. A conversation about how you shouldn’t have kissed him — or at least kissed him back, since you have a dim memory of his hand pulling you to him right before your mind went blank — or at least about how it was a mistake is bound to follow.

The second your hand is in his again, Jack is dragging you through the doors and down the stairs of the house to his Bronco. He’s parked close, thank god and he can barely get the door open before he’s grabbing your waist and practically throwing you up into the seat.

It shouldn't be a thrill to be lifted up and tossed around as though you weigh next to nothing, but there is something in Jack's singular determination and focus that tells you not to question or fight it. If he wants to manhandle you a little before whatever uncomfortable confrontation is bound to happen? Well, it's not as though you haven't literally fantasized about that scenario. At least now you have a frame of reference.

He’s holding onto his control, barely. Racing around the front of the vehicle and jumping in beside you. He can’t even talk to you as he starts the engine. Thankful that his place isn’t too far away as he throws the Bronco into gear and slings gravel as he spins out.

The most surprising part might be that he reaches for your hand as he drives. His fingers curl through yours and hold onto you on top of the gear shift, not letting you do your usual thing of shifting away or curling in on yourself in uncertainty.

There’s only two miles left to go. He grunts as he slows down to make the turn and your hand moves the shifter with him, making sure that he doesn’t squeeze it too hard as he goes through the gears.

He's driving to his own house. You've done this route yourself more times than you can count for a thousand different reasons. The apartment that you rent with your ample Statesman salary is well on the other side of Louisville and Ginger lives closer to you than to Jack, so it's not like you have any doubt where he's headed. When he pulls the Bronco down his long and winding driveway toward the large farmhouse he's called home for a decade already, your hand tightens slightly in his, nervous and wondering what will come next.

When he cuts the engine, there’s a half a second before he opens the door. Almost speaking but he doesn’t. Instead, he’s climbing out to walk around the truck to open the door.

"I wish you would say something." Even if he's helping you out of the car and holding onto your hand, you can't figure out what's going on in his head. Not having any clue is making you a little panicky the longer it goes on.

Jack stops, two steps away from the path to the front door. “Do you want to come inside?” There’s a fear that you don’t want this. That you are not on the same page as he is.

He's not angry. Or upset anymore, that you can tell. But the determination in his gaze is still there for something that you can't quite put your finger on. "Yes," you decide, nodding as you step toward both him and the house. "I do." Whatever happens, you're hopeful it won't be bad.

You said yes. Your words spur him on again and he’s off like a shot, dragging you behind him. The biometric lock is a godsend. There’s no fumbling for a key at the door as he hustles you inside and slams it behind you both, pressing you against it as he attempts to devour your mouth once more.

This was not the reaction you expected. Not in any way. Not even when he had kissed you twice at Champ’s house before hauling you over to his place with the fires of hell scorching his toes. Anybody else might have read the signals, but not you. Not with the surprised squeal you let out or the soft moan that follows it — both completely outside of your control.

You’re alone now and this time, Jack doesn’t keep his hands on your waist. Both hands grab firm handfuls of your delightful round ass and squeezes as he presses into you. His painfully hard cock grinding into the soft pouches of your hips.

Because of the complete blanket of disbelief you're living under, it takes you longer than you're proud of or will ever admit to realize what is pressing against your hip. It's the first throbbing twitch from under his perfectly tailored suit that has your eyes flying open and both of your hands pressing firmly on his shoulders, breaking the kiss as you gasp in surprise.

“What- I thought-“ Jack’s frown is one of utter confusion as he drops his hands and steps back from you. Hating the feeling of rejection and suddenly wondering if he’s made a fucking fool of himself by getting twisted in knots by a woman who doesn’t actually want him. “‘m sorry.”

"Why?" The incredulous question is out of your mouth before you can stop it, and the confusion marring both of your faces makes you suck in a deep breath. "I—I just—I'm surprised," you admit, as damned foolish as that makes you sound. Fucking shocked is what you are, but you don't want to be labor the point and ruin whatever is happening.

He feels foolish and embarrassed, like he’s been caught with his hand in a candy jar. Reaching up and running his hand through his hair, he blows out a breath. “You said you wanted to come in.” He reasons. “I- what did you think would happen?”

"I—I don't know," you admit, feeling even more ridiculous than he does. Your back is still against his front door, crying out loud. "I ruled out you still being mad at me after you kissed me again but I didn't think..." Gesturing at him lamely, you blow out a breath and rub at the back of your neck. "I'm not saying I want to stop, I was just surprised." If this is the only chance you're going to get with him? You're going to take it and run with it as long as it lasts.

He frowns again, wondering how you could want him and yet be surprised when he wants to take you to bed. “So what do you want, sugar? Because I’m feeling like a penny at the bottom of a pan, rattled.”

The expression cracks the tension, at least for you, and an unexpectedly bright and beaming smile graces your lips as you reach for him boldly and find to your own delight and continued surprise that he doesn't draw away. "What I want is...a long shot." It's more than that, but you're downplaying your own fears to a rather extreme degree right now. Trying to be brave. "But...what are the odds you were thinkin' about taking me upstairs?"

“House odds.” Jack rasps out, knowing that the odds are always in the house’s favor when playing at a casino. “Pondered the idea of strippin’ you down right here and making you squeal against the door, but then tossin’ you over my shoulder and haulin’ you to my large, luxurious bed also has its merits.”

You genuinely have to shut your eyes to steady yourself, exhaling long and deep and praying you aren't actually moaning out loud like you are in your head. As it stands, both images he paints have your knees weak and your body shivering. "Eith—um—either one," you manage to stammer out, eyelashes parting so hesitantly that they flutter like wings. "Either one is good."

“Sexy as you look, sugar….” Now that he knows that you are on the same page as him, a little bit of the cocky swagger is back. “Thinkin’ it’d be a goddamn shame not to spread you out.” Despite your stature, Jack tucks his shoulder and scoops you up over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, bolting for the stairs.

"Holy hell, Jack!" A nervous shout and a squeak escape you when he picks you up, and you cling to his jacket as he carries you through the house you've visited innumerable times before.

Chuckling, Jack slaps your ass with his free hand as he ambles up the stairs easily. “Don’t be nervous, sugar, I won’t drop you.”

This time you definitely do moan out loud, too taken by surprise to stop the sound or swallow it before it can come out of your mouth and you know Jack heard.

He grins to himself, slapping your ass again and is rewarded with another moan. “Mmmmhm.” He chuckles. “Rye likes a little bit of light spanking. Noted.”

"Pretty sure I'll like anything you do," you admit ruefully, though you're quickly feeling the constraints of embarrassment fall away as he reaches his bedroom door. This is real. This is really happening.

"I'll keep that in mind when I hogtie you to the bed and lick whipped cream off your body." He teases, kicking open the slightly ajar door and striding into the room to toss you down on the bed like a character in a romance novel. Right now, he doesn't know if he's supposed to be the hero or the villain, feeling a bit like both as his rough handling of you as him immediately reaching for your ankles to pull off your shoes in his eagerness to see you naked in his bed.

“See?” You huff at him, heavy breathing coming from nothing but an undeniable surplus of desire. “That actually sounds sexy coming from you.” Everything does, but his quick fingers are divesting you of your shoes and that reminds you how your Spanx is part of this undressing process — which is the single least sexy thing in the world.

Jack rips off his tuxedo jacket and tosses it down on the floor. Climbing up onto the bed and over you to press against you fully, pinning you down to the bed with a groan. Quickly capturing your lips again in a frenzied kiss.

It makes no damn sense to you, but you’re not going to question it anymore. If Jack could have literally anyone in the world but for tonight he chooses you, then you’re just going to make sure he doesn’t regret it. That decision on your part sort of pulls you out of your nervous shock, and all at once your hands are pulling open his tie and fumbling with the buttons on his shirt with enthusiasm.

“There we go.” Jack groans when you stop acting shocked and start acting. Your hands on his body makes him shake and he can’t help but rock his hips forward. “Sugar.”

He could probably call you whatever he wanted and you would just go with it, but hearing him call you Sugar — that sickly sweet name he favors so much yet seems to bestow on you so rarely? It feels like you might melt so deeply into his plush mattress that you will never get up again.

Moving from your lips takes sheer willpower but he wants to explore more of you. One hand bracing on the bed and the other sliding up to squeeze your breast as he kisses down your chin and to the soft, vulnerable skin of your throat. “Driving me crazy, baby girl.” He coos, voice rough and lusty. “So goddamn pretty.”

No one who has ever met Jack would be surprised to learn how mouthy the cowboy is in bed. He’s mouthy in every other aspect of his life so frankly it would be pretty strange if this was the exception. Still, to hear those words said to you is beyond your wildest dreams. It’s surreal in the most sensational of ways. Even when you had dreamed of being with Jack, you had never dreamed of him praising you.

He groans when your fingernails bite into the skin on his chest as you hastily push the shirt opened. “Tigress, huh?” He growls, squeezing your tit again, a little harder this time and his hard cock pulses against your inner thigh. “Don’t worry, sugar. I’m just as goddamn eager as you. But ‘ole Jack likes a bit of wildness.” He bites down on your shoulder as he chuckles. “We’ll have ourselves one hell of a rodeo tonight.”

If you even knew where half this boldness came from, you might be a little embarrassed. But given the fact that you never thought this would happen, it mostly just feels like you're telling yourself not to waste the chance. Lightning never strikes the same place twice and this is your lightning strike, so you're going to lean into the whole thing if that's what he really wants. Your nails strike a path down his chest but get caught in his undershirt, a fact which makes you huff in frustration and search blindly for the hem to tear off that layer of clothing as well.

Jack groans and finally decides to give you what you want. Pulling back long enough to finish pulling his arms out of the shirt sleeves, he tears the undershirt off and throws it off the side of the bed to reveal his chest. Unable to resist pulling your dress down to pop your breast out and diving back down to wrap his mouth around a nipple.

"Oh fuck." It's a move you weren't expecting, but your back arches off the mattress instinctively to push your chest up and invite him to take and take and take — just as much as he wants to. If you were coherent enough to suggest it you would try to start wiggling out of your dress but as it is the only thing you can focus on is the heat of him surrounding you and the way every place he kisses you seems to catch on fire immediately at the press of his lips.

He suckles, bites and then licks the hard nub in his mouth like he’s gorging himself on you. Because he is. Hands searching for the zipper to your gorgeous dress. It’s beautiful, but it needs to be beautiful on his floor.

"If you want it off, you have to let me sit up," you manage to huff out, barely able to do more than pant at the way he's clearly trying to devour your tits first.

Groaning in protest, his lips are twisting in a pout as he pulls away. Panting breathlessly as he itches to launch himself at you again. “Hurry up, sugar.”

Your hands are shaking when you reach for the zipper, pulling it down and carefully undoing the clasp at the top before letting the heavily sequined cocktail dress slip off of your arms so you can maneuver it over your head. Half-naked in Jack's bed with panties so soaked you could probably wring them out is not how you expected to end this night, but here you are.

“Fuck.” Jack frowns at the tight shapewear he’s met with. “My present’s a little too wrapped for my liking, baby girl.” He hisses, curling his fingers under the layer to start stripping it off of you. “Want you naked.”

"It was the only way that dress was gonna look halfway decent," you mumble, shifting under him and definitely avoiding looking him in the face while he peels the Spanx off of you. It's a little bit too intimate even for the man you've wanted to be intimate with for years — to the point of making you feel completely naked even when you still have your bra and panties on.

He scoffs, nearly ready to whip his knife out and start slicing the material. “Bullshit.” He huffs, happy there’s just the bra and he uses two fingers to flick the four hooks open. “You don’t need nothin’.” Instead of explaining, he’s diving back into your tits while one hand dips into your panties.

“Fuck, Jack!” Instead of a tight reaction of shock, this time he’s rewarded with a moan and your legs falling open for him as the fingers of one hand dig through his thick hair to scratch along the base of his scalp. If he wants you to be bold, you’ll be bold. You’ll be whatever Jack wants as long as you just get to be in his bed for one night.

Jack moans against your tits, incredibly turned on by the pure moxy he’s always loved in you. Despite your utterly untrue view on yourself, you are sassy, sweet and sexy. That’s why he’s unable to resist now that he’s tasted you. Once he’s teased one breast enough, he switches to the other. “Gonna eat you up, sugar. Devour you whole.”

"All yours." It's sort of unintentional, the vow-like nature of the thing, but you're just being honest. You've really been Jack's since the day you met him. Even if it's taken so many damn years to get the two of you into this situation together, it's still the truth. "Whatever you want, handsome."

He groans, fingers sliding through the sweet slick that is covering your folds. “Want you.” He mumbles as he starts to slide his finger deeper, pressing against your entrance.

It's not even in your mind to ask why when he's splitting you open on two thick fingers like that, and you swear if that's how this night is starting you might actually ascend directly to some higher plain if you get to actual sex. "Ha—fuck— you have me."

“Mmmmmm.” He licks your nipple “Not yet.” He pouts, pulling his fingers back out of you to plunge them in again. “But I will, sugar. Cum for me and then I’ll have you like I’ve been dreamin’.”

The curse you groan out is nearly incoherent, more of an agreement than anything else but you'll be damned if you let this moment be anything less than memorable for both of you. Jack hovers over you and you wind your arms around him to encourage him to continue sucking on your tits while his fingers piston in and out of your pussy with determination. You know it won't take too much longer before your legs start to shake, and as if Jack knows it just as intuitively, he curls his fingers inside you and you gasp out a moan of his name.

His teeth nip at your sensitive flesh as he hisses. Feeling how tight your pussy squeezes his fingers and imagines his cock inside you. Tight and fucking scorching hot, just like he had imagined with his hand wrapped around his cock in the shower. “That’s it, pretty girl.” He coos before he sucks on your nipple again. Moaning when you arch up, writhing under him and making the prettiest, most desperate sounds he’s heard in a long time.

No one who has ever been in this bed has ever left it with any remaining doubts about Jack’s skills as a lover, and while you knew that before? Now you understand it oh-so-very deeply. His fingers pump into you mercilessly, curling at just the right angle to make you cry out in pleasure in every pass, and yet somehow he’s managed to keep the angle of that curl perfect while still holding them apart — stretching your eager pussy open and making sure you’re ready to take every inch of him. All of those intricacies combine with the dedication attention he is lavishing on your tits, and when the tense coil of restraint in your belly snaps it explodes into a thousand white-hot stars behind your eyes as you cum for him.

You’re gorgeous when you fall apart, just like he knew you would be. Keeping his fingers moving, he watches, enthralled with you as you cry out his name in a pitch that has his cock throbbing. The hot gush of your pleasure makes his fingers squelch inside you and he groans out your name while he starts to slow down the rhythm of his hand, letting you float down from your orgasm, drawing it out for you.

“Holy hell…” When your eyes open again you’re completely boneless beneath him, giggling softly at the light-as-air feeling in your body that never ever feels lighter than anything.

Dragging his wet fingers out of your cunt is his own personal kind of hell, but the urge to taste you is too great. Watching you with dark eyes as he slips his two fingers into his mouth with a lusty groan.

“Take your pants off.” The way you groan it is nearly an order but you definitely meant it to be begging, though at this point you don’t care. Especially when he arches an eyebrow at you and smirks. “Take your fucking pants off, Jack.”

Chuckling, he shuffles off the bed to oblige you. “Never let it be said I don’t follow orders, sugar.” He winks as he kicks off the tuxedo pants and hooks his fingers into his boxer briefs. “These too?”

“The fact that you even wear underwear is a shock,” you tease, motioning for him to continue stripping and trying — but probably not succeeding — to not stare.

He smirks. “Had to contain the beast for once.” He winks as he drags the tight material down. “Don’t wear ‘em normally.”

The Beast is probably as good a name as any, and you have to swallow a groan when he frees his throbbing cock — already damp with precum. It’s a wonder he can contain it, and you’re caught in between wanting to bend forward and taste him or just lying back for him to have his way with you. Curiosity and a curtain of lust win out on the short struggle, and you lean forward to take the purple head of his cock in your mouth just after he climbs back onto the bed.

“Fuck!” Jack moans out loudly and pushes your head away gently after a moment. “Baby, baby…” he pants. “You keep that up and this rodeo will be over before it starts.”

“Sorry…” Embarrassment burns your cheeks, and you shift back to get under his blankets. “I just had to know…”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Jack huffs. Kneeling on the bed and pulling the covers away as you hide your body away from his eyes. “Just don’t want to embarrass myself by blowing my load because of your pretty mouth before I can hear you scream my name.”

“I already have,” you remind him, a softness in your tone belied by the heat in both of your eyes. “Guess I might have to be a little louder this time.”

“Only if it’s right in my ear.” Jack wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it as he reaches for your thigh. “Buried deep inside that little cunt and feeling like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

It goes without saying that you’re both clean. All Statesman agents are required to have clean bills of health in order to be on the roster for missions and you’re both active agents. “I—have an IUD.” Is what you tell him instead, shivering a little at the reality of what is about to happen.

Eyes lighting up in delight, Jack’s lips curl up. “Oh sugar, it’s not my birthday yet, why are you showerin’ me with presents?” He coos, sliding his hand up and down your ample thigh. “Pretty as a damn picture.”

The real answer is that you’re desperate to feel him, but you just smirk instead, not wanting to get your heart more involved than it already is. “Because I don’t have a condom and I’ll be damned if we stop now because of it.”

“If you want me to get one…” Jack motions back to his pants. “I have one in my wallet.”

“I don’t want the barrier,” you admit, biting your lip at the extremely vulnerable nature of that confession. “If it’s okay with you.”

His smirk turns into a wicked grin. “You read my mind, sugar. I want to feel all of you.”

You could make a joke about how much of you there is to feel, but just this once you stifle the urge. Opting instead to reach out and gently cup Jack's cheeks in both of your hands before pressing a soft, earnest kiss to his lips. "Then what are you waiting for, Cowboy?”

As you lean back, Jack follows you. Climbing up your body and groaning as he settles between your thighs. “You want to cum again, pretty girl?”

"Not without you this time." The reality of Jack is better than anything you thought so far. Since this miracle is surely once in a lifetime, you want it to be as amazing as possible.

Jack groans your name, pressing his lips to yours in another hot, wet kiss. Passionate and consuming as he pushes an arm underneath you. “I’m right here with you.”

As impossible as it seems, he really is. He is right there with you, taking you in his arms and making you feel delicate and desirable for the first real time in your entire adult life.

He doesn’t rush, although he wants to. Every kiss is slow and thorough. Reaching down between you to take hold of himself to notch at your entrance. “Hold on, sugar. See if we can ride for longer than eight seconds.”

“I’m not gonna buck you, Jack.” You can promise him that, because you know damn well you’re going to hold onto this moment for dear life and not question the gift that it is. This one little shining moment is just for the two of you and you’re never going to forget a single second of it.

His eyes are watching, burning into yours as he starts to slowly rock his hips forward. Breaking you open with the first inch of his cock and swooping in to kiss you again when you gasp.

The world slows down, motions stretching into time and blending together in ways that you can’t quite wrap your head around so all you know in this moment is Jack. Every time he thrusts forward again your moans get that much deeper, until on the final experimental rock of his hips, he is seated fully inside you and you feel so spellbound and grateful for the moment that you’re all but sure you could cry. Instead you pour yourself into kissing him, rocking your own hips slightly to take him more comfortably and adjust to the weighty feeling of having him inside you.

“Fuck, baby girl.” Jack inhales sharply, stealing your breath as he tries to rein himself in, throbbing violently inside you. If it weren’t for the fact that he had promised you a rodeo, he would be cumming, overwhelmed by how hot and tight you are. You’re perfect, just like he always imagined. “You be a good girl and take my cock, m’kay?”

Good girl is another one of those sticking points for you just like getting your ass slapped, and if Jack had no idea before, he certainly does now, from the way your cunt just spasmed around his length and you moaned like you were coming all over again.

“Ohhhhhh.” Jack’s eyes nearly cross and he gives a particularly sharp thrust when you clamp down around him. “You like that.” He pants out. “You’re my good girl?”

“S’not fair,” you huff, throwing him a playful pout that gets cut by another shaky moan. “You’re finding all the buttons I like pushed way too easily.”

“You haven’t - fuck - figured out my buttons yet, sugar?” Jack ducks his head down and slides the arm not underneath you down your hip and thigh to pull it up higher. Sinking deeper into you with a moan of your name.

“Liking to have your cock sucked doesn’t—fuck!— count,” you tell him, back arching as he hits a new angle inside you.

He chuckles and licks at your pulse before he nips at your skin with his teeth. Fingers digging into your pillowy flesh and groans when you clench around him again.

Finding a rhythm is as easy as breathing. Being with him is so much more natural and intuitive than you dreamt it would be. Your natural tendency to be a little rougher is equaled by his enthusiasm for making the bedroom a loud and raucous experience. There’s no hiding from each other or demurring, not once you get going. It’s like something inside you has finally been unlocked after a lifetime of waiting — waiting for Jack to come along with the key that would open you up.

If it surprises Jack that you are wild in bed, it’s probably the best goddamn surprise he’s ever gotten. His back burns from the raking of your nails when he hits deep. He fucking loves it. Your wildness makes him go absolutely feral over you.

It’s the opposite of who you are in everyday life. A version of you just for him. A version of you that leaves your worries outside the circle of your bodies and embraces sex as something carefree. Which, if you’re honest, isn’t really how you’ve felt about sex with anyone besides Jack. (edited)

His lips and teeth map every inch that he can reach as he pumps in and out of you frantically. Trying to keep the pace hard and fast because every time your cunt clenches, his hips stutter from how fucking tight you are. “Fuck, my good girl.” He growls. “So fucking tight.”

“So fucking big,” you give back, starting to pant heavier and more unevenly. There’s a whine forming in the back of your throat that you can’t hold back and you bite down on the juncture of Jack’s shoulder as your legs threaten to shake all over again. You’re so close to cumming but you don’t want this to end.

Jack changes the tempo, slowing down and grinding his pelvis against your clit. “You gonna cum for me, baby girl?” He rasps out. “Cum on Jack’s big ‘ole cock and soak me?”

"So—oh, fuck—close, baby." The way you feel right now, you might actually fall apart at the seams when you cum again, but it will be worth it. It will be worth just knowing first hand how gorgeous Jack looks when he follows you over the edge. "Don't stop. Don't fucking stop, Jack."

“Never.” Jack growls, smashing his teeth together and hissing at the way you claw and writhe under him. It’s like taming a feral cat in a pillowcase and he loves it. Your thighs are crushing his hips and all he can do is imagine them around his head. “Cum for me.”

A half dozen thrusts later, your cunt is clenching down on his cock and pulsing with a fierce orgasm that has your thighs tensing at his waist and your back bowing off the bed. Everything seems to be happening at the top of however it possibly could, and that includes the way you cry his name into the night before collapsing back into his sheets with your arms and legs still around him, willing him to follow you to bliss.

Jack moans your name, pants it again against your lips. His brow knitted in concentration as he tries to last. His body tightening and tensing as his pleasure builds to that almost painful precipice. His heart pounding, but not because of the physical exertion, but because of the almost loving look on your eyes. “Love you.” He moans, right as his lips crash against yours and he breathes it into your mouth again. “Love you.”

You freeze under him, but Jack is too caught in his bliss to tell. Like a bucket of water has been splashed over the bubble of this night and popped that shell keeping you separate from the world. Did he just...? There's no way. There's just absolutely no way at all. You must have imagined it. Wished for it so desperately that you hallucinated the words. Because otherwise you're not quite sure what you'll do — because Jack has never lied to you. But he's also never given you any reason to think your feelings might be requited.

Caught up in his orgasm, Jack rides wave after wave of complete bliss as he empties himself into you, metaphorically and physically. Giving you every bit of himself as he finally acknowledges the truth of why he has always kept you at arms length. His love for you terrifying him, but right now, he’s flying. Collapsing into your arms and panting out your name as he catches his breath.

There's nothing you can do with this shock except bury it, holding him and gently stroking his hair while he catches his breath with his head on your chest. You imagined it, you remind yourself silently, blinking back tears at how much you wish it was true.

The whiskey, the emotions and the exertion have Jack cuddly and sleepy as he comes down from his orgasm. “Fuck, baby girl.” He hums, kissing your neck as he slowly pulls out of you and shifts to your side to roll you over with him. “Wore me out.” He chuckles. “But gave a hell of a ride.”

He tucks you into his arms to be his little spoon, not letting you get away for even a second. Any other time? This would have been thrilling. "Get some sleep, baby." Returning the pet name seems innocent enough, and you reach back to run your fingers through his hair gently. "You earned it."

His eyes are closed when he shoots you a sleepy grin. “Talk when we wake up, sugar.” He promises, fingers stroking your skin softly.

That promise might be why you sleep so fitfully in the night to follow. Why you're so wound up that when your Statesman issued phone chirps from your purse on his floor around 6:30 in the morning, your eyes open immediately. Jack has turned over in the night, sleeping on his back now with one arm still around you but not so tightly that you can't extract yourself to answer the message. That phone is used only for missions and confidential communication, meaning you absolutely cannot ignore it. Incoming Message: Agent Rye report immediately for mission briefing. CODE BLACK. Code Black. You curse under your breath, careful not to wake Jack, and rub one hand down your face in dismay. That level of secrecy in a mission assignment means you can't even wake him up to say goodbye. You're supposed to speak to no one, just proceed immediately to the nearest Statesman branch for your mission briefing. With a sigh and another, more colorful curse, you shake your head and glance back at the bed where Jack is sleeping soundly. There's nothing to do but get dressed and Walk of Shame your ass into the office. You just wish you could wake him up to say goodbye.

It’s been years since Jack has slept so well. Deep and dreamless, none of the nightmares that often plague his rest. The soft scent of you surrounding him and soothing him like nothing he’s had in a long time. When his eyes open, he’s feeling like he’s had the best sleep of his life. Frowning when he doesn’t feel you next to him. Calling out your name softly in case you were in the bathroom. “Rye? Sugar?”

There's no trace of you anywhere. He may as well have come home alone last night, except for the scent of you in the air and the scratches on his back. It's almost an insult when he sees a fallen sequin on the rug where your dress had been tossed.

“Fuck.” Jack’s slipped out of plenty of beds, ducked out and kept walking. The walk of shame was never shameful when there was a little bit of pep to his step, but right now, he’s pissed. Pissed you didn’t have the fucking balls to wake him before you slipped off like a thief in the night. Snatching up his pants, he digs into the pocket for his phone, dialing your number and ready to have it out with you.

"Hi! Sorry I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I'll call you back as soon as I'm able!" Your voicemail message is insultingly chipper when it picks up right away, almost taunting him. Like you aren't willing to talk, when nothing could be farther from the truth.

“Fuck!” Jack shouts, throwing the phone and scowling angrily. Pissed that you aren’t here, that you apparently don’t want to talk to him. “Fine, you regret it? Fuck you too.” He growls and stomps into the bathroom to shower. If you wanted nothing to do with him after he had let down his walls last night, he wants nothing to do with you either.

******

"What's got you all chewed up and spat out today?" Tequila raises an eyebrow at Jack when he comes huffing into the office, a little late and a lot pissed off. He had expected Jack to be in a stellar mood.

“Not a goddamn thing.” Even though his feathers are ruffled, Jack practically refuses to even think about you. To the point where he had thrown the sheets and the costly Tom Ford tuxedo away. “Whadda we got?” Desperate to concentrate on a mission, he jumps straight into business.

"Wingman prep." Tequila tells him, tapping the folder on his own desktop. "Somebody got tapped this morning and Champ wants us to comb some old mission files to prep for an extraction. Plan B sorta shit." And since all of the mission-ready agents on the Statesman payroll are top notch with years of experience under their belts, anyone potentially needing an extraction from a mission is a big fucking deal.

“Who got tapped?” Jack asks, grabbing a file and flipping it open with a frown on his face. “Scotch?”

"I thought you'd know already." Tequila's eyes snap back up to Jack in concern. "It was Rye."

Jack freezes and slowly lifts his eyes from the file to find Tequila frowning at him, confused by how he doesn’t know. “Why would I know that?” Jack asks after a moment. It explains why your phone was off, but you had still slipped out without saying a fucking word.

"Because...you went home with her last night?" Everybody knows that you and Jack left the party. Absolutely everyone. There was a whole extra celebration after you left. "Figured you woulda known by her getting up this morning and all."

There’s a split second where Jack wants to snap that you had left him to wake up alone, but he doesn’t. What comes out of his mouth instead, is to deny the whole thing. “Took her home.” Jack shrugs, lying easily as if he couldn’t care less. “She wanted to soak in a bath and read some book.”

The frown on Tequila's face deepens measurably, pure confusion marring his usually chipper face. "Bullshit," he huffs, leaning back in his desk chair. "I saw you kiss her. No way."

“Believe what you want.” Jack snaps flatly. “Where are we in planning the back up plans?” The hurt is soothed slightly by you being called away, but it doesn’t make it nonexistent. You hadn’t even left a goddamn message for him. He could have seen not waking him if you had left some sign that you didn’t regret the night even happened.

"Early stages." Knowing better than to poke the dragon when he's mad about something, Tequila defers to work like Jack clearly wants. "Tell me what you think, but I think me on the ground and you in the Silver Pony is the best bet." Whatever happened between you and Jack, the man is clearly hurt, and Tequila makes a note to go and talk to Ginger when he gets his next chance. If you had said anything to anyone, it would be to her.

“Whatever.” Jack practically rolls his eyes and shrugs. Usually he loves the opportunity to fly and show off in the Silver Pony, but he’s so worked up over you that he doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Guess that’s the plan. If needed.”

“If needed.” All Tequila does is nod, but damn he really needs to talk to Ginger.

******

Jack holes up in his office, barely answering the phone and not leaving it all day, not even for lunch. Catching up on paperwork that is normally never done as he works through not being at home. Not remembering how you tasted and sounded last night. He’s even refused to pull up your camera footage, not wanting to see what you are doing. He’s miserable and is determined to stay that way.

“Thought I’d find you in here.” Champ’s gruff voice cuts through the silence long after everyone else has gone home for the night. He knew exactly where Jack would be. Especially after Tequila said the senior agent was out of sorts. “Come up to my office, Jack. We’re gonna have a drink.” It’s not a suggestion or a request. This is a direct order from this commander, and Champ turns around and heads back down the hall knowing Jack will follow.

Jack sighs and sets his pen down, ripping the reading glasses off his face and tossing them down on the folder. He had stayed cooped up in his office so he didn’t take his bad mood out on anyone so he doesn’t see why he needs to be called out onto the carpet. Still, he pushes back from his desk and follows the older man to the conference room Champ preferred over his official office. The bar cart in here was better stocked.

“Pick your poison.” Champ tells him, motioning for Jack to sit down at the conference table as he strolls over to the cart to grab a bottle and two glasses.

“Whatever your havin’.” Jack wonders what this is about, but he doesn’t ask. Just waits patiently for his boss to get to the reason in his own sweet time.

Champ grunts slightly, grabbing a bottle of ‘74 Reserve, and brings it to the table. He pours two fingers in each glass and slides one over to set in front of Jack before sitting down beside him and taking a sip from his own glass. “You’ve been hidin’ today,” he assesses after a moment of silence. “But I hear you damn near took Tequila’s head off this morning when you got in.”

“Can’t have a bad day?” Jack asks, picking up the whiskey and staring at it before taking a sip. “Woke up wrong, that’s all. I’ll apologize to the crybaby later.”

“He’s not a damn crybaby,” Champ huffs, covering his own amusement with a scowl. “I walked by your damn office, fool. And when he did come talk to me about it, it was because he was worried about you.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jack scowls and shakes his head. “I had a bad morning. I’m fine. Not gonna go off and try to kill all the drug users again.”

“Not saying you would.” Holding up his hands in a show of innocence, Champ leans back all the way and stares down his nose at Jack for a second longer before he shakes his head and shrugs. “But between you and me just these walls? Just thought you might wanna know that Rye got sent off Code Black, is all.” He isn’t supposed to say. Black is black. It’s too priority and top security. But you’d been so torn up this morning and Jack’s been so out of sorts in his own way that Champ has rightfully assumed that something fairly big must’ve happened after you left the party.

His jaw nearly drops. Champ never gives information away like that. He frowns, looking back down at his glass again and feeling relieved. If you had gotten a Code Black, you couldn’t wake him up. It would have been against protocol. He swallows and finally nods. “Good to know.”

“Just don’t want you stewing over it.” The older man says, watching carefully as he sips from his glass again. “You wanna be upset with anyone, it’s me. Not her.”

“Right.” Jack drains the rest of the whiskey and the crystal hits the table slightly harder than normal. “Anything else?”

“Nah. That’s it.” There’s nothing more that Champ can really say, and now Jack needs to process. That’s just how these things work. “See ya in the morning, Daniels.”

Jack stands. “‘Night, Champ.” He walks out of the room and back down the hall towards his office, looking down at his feet as he goes.

******

It’s two weeks before Tequila and Jack are given a stand-down order and told their rescue mission won’t be necessary. Mission success, they’re told with authority, even though it took longer than expected. They don’t get more than that, though, and Jack is walking past Ginger’s lab on his way out of the office late that night when he hears your voice again for the first time in weeks. It’s tired, and quiet, but unmistakable. “Can we just get this over with, Ging?” You ask your friend quietly, knowing that decontamination and a full physical are extremely necessary considering where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing. But you want to get the hell out of here and finally go talk to Jack.

He would never admit it, but he’s been living at Statesman. Barely going home to change and often refreshing the outfits that he keeps in his office for unexpected late nights. On call the entire time in case you needed him. Now you are here and Jack feels like running away. So much self doubt had built up over two weeks, he’s driven himself crazy over every little thing. Obsessing over the details of New Years.

“Once you have a clean bill of health, you go storm the ranch or whatever it is you’re going to do.” Ginger teases, full of warmth. “But I would try his office first.”

Jack frowns slightly and wonders what the hell Ginger is talking about, storming the ranch. He almost pushes the door open, but he doesn’t. Just wants to see what you will say if you know that he’s not listening.

“It’s been two weeks, Ging.” The pops and hums and beeps of her equipment punctuate your voice from inside the lab. “Every single second I haven’t been thinking about this mission I’ve been reliving that night. And I could kill Champ for sending me away Code fucking Black before I could even tell Jack how I feel about him.”

“I know it was bad timing.” He hears Ginger sigh. “But hopefully it gave you some time to think about what you’re going to say?”

Jack’s stomach twists and he feels nauseous. Wondering if you’ve decided that it was a mistake. He swallows harshly and whirls around, not wanting to hear how you plan on letting him down or friend zoning him.

“I’m going to tell him the truth,” he misses hearing you say. “That I’ve been in love with him for six years, and that I’m done being a coward about it.” This mission so easily could have killed you every single day that it became something of an eye opener. Getting back to Jack had become the most dominant and driving force in your mind at times.

Walking down to his office has Jack twisted in knots. He’s never been a coward before but he damn sure feels like running. Playing back that night in his head over and over had made him realize what he had said. More importantly, what you hadn’t said back. Walking over to his bar cart, he pours himself a heavy double and bolts it down. He’ll get wasted after you crush his hopes but that was needed so he doesn’t beg like a pathetic wretch. He needs to keep his pride somehow.

It’s twenty more minutes before he hears footsteps in the hall and hears your tentative voice calling his name. “Jack?” There’s nerves in it, anxiety hovering around you despite your triumphant mission. But you appear in his doorway looking worried and chewing your lip. “Hey…you’re still here.”

“Work’s never done.” Jack huffs, plastering on a friendly but not too friendly expression. “Haven’t seen you around in a few weeks. Mission go alright?” It’s painful to see you in that doorway, looking tired and beautiful. Reminding him of how you looked before he had fallen asleep and lost you.

“I’m home and in one piece.” It’s what you always say, but at least it’s true. He doesn’t exactly look happy to see you, though, and that makes you falter a little. Not enough to shake your resolve, but your optimism that he’ll respond with joy cracks right away. “Do you…can we talk a little?”

“Sure.” He takes off his reading glasses and stands. Moving over to the alcohol again. “Want a drink?” He asks, not looking over his shoulder at you. He sees the worry on your face and knows you are concerned about your working relationship. What he will do will be accept your wants, wish you well and promise that he will not let what happened affect your professional relationship. Then he will demand a transfer to the New York office, permanently. You nod and he pours out two drinks. “What’s on your mind, Rye?”

“Well…you are.” It seems like such an obvious answer that it almost feels silly saying it, but he won’t even look you in the eye so staring at the beginning seems like a good idea.

“Oh?” Turning around is hard, but he manages to look curious instead of sick to his stomach. “Now why would I be on your mind, sugar?” The endearment slips out and he nearly bites his tongue as he carries them over to the small sofa area.

The message is loud and clear: it really didn’t mean anything to him. Regardless, though, you have to power through. If he really didn’t mean what he said and has no interest in being with you, you’ll request a permanent transfer. Chicago, Dallas, Los Angeles — anywhere but here or New York. Swallowing a sigh, you accept the glass from him but just hold it in your hands while you gather your thoughts. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk before I had to leave,” you start, trying not to let the warmth and proximity of him get under your skin so easily. But you can’t really help it. “I did the best I could for a message to let you know what had happened, but it wasn’t much. And I’m sorry for that, too.”

His facade cracks, the scowl as quick to vanish as it appears and he scoffs. “Message received, Rye. A lone sequin on the floor. Practically like it was a dream, except for that.” He tosses back the whiskey. “Can you just get to the part where you tell me it was a mistake, you don’t want to ruin our friendship or work relationship? Or whatever bullshit excuse you’ve settled on to tell me you regret it?” His eyes are dark and pained when they finally land on you, barely resisting the urge to flee.

“On the floor?” Your brow furrowed instantly, a frown painting itself on your lips, and you set the glass in your hands aside to shift closer to him on the little couch. “Jack, I left a sequin on your nightstand.” The choice was even more horrible than you had worried it would be, apparently, because he looks so hurt he could actually cry. A fact which makes you instantly want to cry as well. “A black sequin was the best I could do for a signal. It—it must have…blown off. Stupid fucking flapper dress with all that fringe. It must have gone flying when I left the room.” There was no other breeze, no window open or fan blowing. Only you could have sabotaged yourself like that.

He doesn’t believe you and shakes his head. “Why would you leave a black-“ he trails off when it hits him. Black sequin - Code Black. Trying to tell him that you had wanted to leave a message but couldn’t. Champ had broken protocol by telling him about the Code Black and apparently you had tried to signal the same thing. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” You shake your head in resignation, blowing out a shuddering breath. “I didn’t want to leave. Especially not after…” Another shaky breath leaves the rest of you shaking in turn, and you shove your hands under your legs on the couch. This is the most terrifying thing you’ve ever asked a person in your entire life. “Did you…mean it? What you said?”

Jack bites his lip, wanting to ask you what you’re talking about but he can’t do that. You look distraught that he had thought you had just disappeared. “Yeah.” Jack admits quietly. “Look, I know that it’s not something you were expectin’ ta hear, and you don’t feel the same.” He rolls on with the emotions that he needs to get out. “I won’t be mad, or take it out on you. But that night….fuck.” He blows out a breath. “I got to touch you. Just like I fuckin’ dreamed of. And I couldn’t just let you think it was a heat of the moment thing for me.”

“Why do you think I don’t feel the same?” With your heart beating wildly and your shakiness only increasing, there’s a sort of explosive quality in your mind and body that you can’t quite figure out how to control. Like all you want to do is launch yourself at him for a kiss but you know you need to talk first. To get it all out in the open. To be honest with each other. “I—I honestly had no idea you thought of me as anything but a friend. I was…well…shocked is a bit of an understatement.”

Jack snorts. “I know my reputation. Hell, I crafted it. But I couldn’t flirt with you. It’s too- shit- you had me from the first time we met. I was fucking hooked and it wouldn’t have been right. You were a junior agent and -“ he shakes his head. “I was running from the kind of commitment you were made for.”

“Your reputation was built by a man who had loved his wife so deeply that he couldn’t bear the thought of loving and losing again,” you remind him quietly. You sure you hadn’t known that right away, but when you had learned about his wife and son, you understood implicitly. “But it…it never stopped me from falling in love with you. Even when I thought I’d never be more to you than an acquaintance. I considered myself damn lucky to eventually become your friend. I just thought…I thought the fact that you never, ever flirted with me…meant that it was unrequited. So I made myself okay with it. Until two weeks ago.”

“I respect you, Rye.” Jack murmurs quietly. “I didn’t want to make it seem like you were everyone else, because you weren’t.” It’s backwards and twisted, but no one ever said that he had defeated all his demons. “When I broke- I gave you everything.”

“More than you know.” A soft huff of a laugh escapes you and you shake your head again, willing your nerves to calm down even a little. “Just…please understand, Jack. That I’ve been in love with you since the second I met you. And the only reason I didn’t say it back the night we slept together is because I was so shocked to hear it from you in the first place. I thought I’d hallucinated what I wanted to hear, and then before I knew it we were asleep…and then I woke up to a Code Black.”

“I was upset.” Jack admits quietly. “Really upset.” He flushes slightly. “May have been thinkin’ some not-so-polite things until Tequila told me it was you who was slated for the mission.” He won’t tell you that Champ had broken the rules. “Convinced myself that you had run off to go save the world so you wouldn’t have to tell me that you’d had too much alcohol and that’s why you let me take you home.”

“Not at all.” Taking a chance, you reach for his hand and practically sigh in relief when he slots his fingers through yours. “I pretty much thought I’d died and gone to heaven, if I’m honest. I just kept thinking…if this only happens once, I never want to forget a single thing.” You squeeze his hand gently, wishing you could have said all this two weeks ago. “I’m sorry my message didn’t work. That’s…you have every right to think nasty things about me. I’m so sorry.”

“No I don’t.” Jack protests. “Not if you meant to be here. Not if you wanted to be here the next morning. Then it’s just a bad misunderstanding and I’m sorry.”

“Then I guess we’re both sorry.” He’ll never know that you cried all the way to the office that morning at having to leave him, you decide right now. It would only make him feel even more guilty and he doesn’t deserve that. “But I’m not sorry about what happened between us.”

“You aren’t?” He tightens his grip on your hand, relaxing slowly as you talk and he understands that this was one giant cluster fuck. He’s used to those, he can handle those. “That’s good, sugar. Because New Years was probably the best night of my life.”

“God, I hope you mean that.” Your shakiness is for more than one reason, although you needed to have this conversation first. Whatever the two of you decide will happen next is a decision made by both of you, not just you alone. “Because…Ginger couldn’t clear me…after my physical. I can’t go back on the list.”

Jack frowns, brows pulling together. “Why can’t Ginger clear you? What’s wrong?” There’s a number of things that can be fixed by Statesman tech and he’s worried that it’s something bad.

Your stomach churns with worry, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. The unmistakable advances of Statesman tech can do things that most doctors absolutely cannot, thanks to Ginger Ale, and you’re not sure whether to thank her or curse her. “It’s not that something’s wrong, technically,” you admit, giving another worried squeeze to his hand. “But we probably ought to have used that condom…”

Jack’s eyes widen and they drop to your stomach, discerning the meaning of your comment. You aren’t a liar and Jack would believe you if you said you didn’t sleep with someone else, but he’s confused. “Sugar- how?” He chokes out. “I got snipped when I joined Statesman.”

“When was the last time you had your sperm count checked?” You had made Ginger do the test three times, but the result was always the same. Your birth control failed and Jack’s second kid is already growing, if very slowly. “The chances of a vasectomy failing are less than one percent, but it can still happen.”

Jack frowns and then rolls his eyes and groans. “The chamber.” He remembers. “When I got shot and then- uh, put back together.” He shakes his head. “Ging said I might need to get it checked but I dadgum forgot.” He bites his lip and tries not to freak out over the fact that you are pregnant after your one and only time together. “What do you want, sugar?” He asks.

“Not more than you’re willing to give freely.” The answer is that you want all of him. Every single bit. Love and a life and a family. But you know that even if Jack does love you, he’s never loved anyone the way he loved his wife. And losing Maria nearly destroyed him, so he may not be willing to take that chance again. “But I…unless you really object…I’m keeping the baby. Even if you don’t want a commitment or anything. I just…you’re right about me. I want a family and if this is my only chance I don’t want to give that up. Especially not if I get even the littlest piece of you with it.”

“You think I would-“ he shakes his head. “No, I would never force you, one way or the other.” He frowns. “I was asking if you wanted to have a baby. And if you think I’m gonna sit back and let you raise it by yourself, you must have hit your dadgum head.”

“I want this baby.” It had only taken about ten seconds after learning it existed to determine that, even if you’re still grappling with the reality of it. “And I want you.” You inch closer to him on the couch. “However you want to be together. That part is up to you.”

“It’s been a long damn time since I’ve thought about being a daddy, sugar.” There’s a slight smirk on his face but he doesn’t make the obvious crude joke. “But I’m pretty traditional when you break it down. I’m not gonna want to be apart from you and our baby.”

He might not have made the joke but you still laugh, having made the sugar daddy connection in your mind easily enough. “I know it’s a lot, Jack. And we didn’t plan it. But…” All you can do is shrug your shoulders slightly, looking up at him with such obvious hope and even more obvious water behind your eyes. “But, I love you.”

“I meant it, baby girl.” He promises you, reaching out to caress your cheek and then cup it. “I love you. I love you so much, sugar.” Licking his lips, his eyes drop down to yours. “Can I kiss you?”

"I wish you would." practically beaming at him, you lean in and let the moment wash over you. Jack's lips against yours. His hands on your skin. His baby - your baby - is already starting to grow.

Jack pulls you close, pressing his lips against yours and groaning softly. “Sugar, you’re gonna have my baby.” He whispers against your lips in awe. “Just the one time, one time between your thighs and you are carrying my baby.”

“One time is all it takes.” You can’t help the broad way you smile, giggling softly against his lips as you steal another kiss.

“I don’t regret it.” He promises. “I don’t regret you.” He smiles as he kisses you again. “We really did shake things up for New Years, didn’t we?”

“Just a little bit.” Another laugh escapes you, and you lean into his side only to be rewarded with Jack’s arms encircling you and holding you close. “I don’t regret any of it. Except maybe not making my message a whole lot clearer.”

“We’ll get better at communicatin’.” Jack promises with a smile. “We’re partners now.”

“Do you want to go get dinner, maybe?” The end of a mission can be crazy even when it’s successful, and you just want to try to relax tonight. Especially with everything changing in your personal life too, apparently. “My treat?”

Jack scoffs and shakes his head. “You ain’t paying, sugar.” He huffs. “Not while you’re with me. If you want dinner, we can go out, or I can take you home and throw some steaks on the grill.”

“I kind of want to celebrate,” you admit, feeling silly about it even though it’s the truth. “If that’s okay?”

“Then we’ll go out and celebrate.” Jack promises before he frowns at something you had said. “Why would you have thought I would never be interested in you?”

“Because…” It feels sillier than the celebration thing now that you know the truth. Silly and even a little pointless, but he asked so you’ll tell him. “Because you flirted with every woman in the world besides me. Which Ginger said is how she knew you were interested in me. But I didn’t believe her.”

“You know you’re wrong, don’t cha?” Jack asks you. “When you said that you get sent on assignments to be invisible? You’re sent on the assignments you are given because you get the job done. Champ knows that if he gives you a task, it will be done.”

“Whatever the reason is, he’ll have to do without me for about a year.” It isn’t worth having a debate over your lack of self esteem with him right now, and you especially don’t want to ruin the mood by crying anything other than happy tears, so you just redirect the conversation altogether. “This baby is my top priority.”

“Our top priority.” He corrects you. He’s nervous, terrified really, but there’s no one he’d rather have a happy accident with than you. “Our New Year’s baby.”

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Jack Daniels #Agent Whiskey #Jack Daniels x reader #Jack Daniels x you #Jack Daniels x female reader #Jack Daniels x f!reader #Jack Daniels x plus size reader #Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels #Kingsman Golden Circle #new years eve #new years fic #idiots in love #pining #the love is requited they're just dumb

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oonajaeadira · 1 year

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This Will Be The Day That I Spy - Part 1: Blindsided

Fandom: Kingsman: The Golden Circle / Jack Daniels

Pairing: Jack Daniels x f!reader

Reader: Bold, smart female, not easily fazed, always open for an adventure. Has a chemistry degree and is a spirits distiller by trade. No physical descriptions, no use of y/n.

Rating: T

Warnings: darkness, enclosed spaces, and Jack Daniels being a flirt.

Summary: A blind date with Jack Daniels does not go according to anyone’s plan…and that’s what makes it interesting.

A/N: For my March entry for Year of Tropes as part of @yearofcreation2023 we’re going for BLIND DATE+. The + is there because I couldn’t decide between two tropes for this fic, so there will be another one tackled in part two.

It was the construction that pushed you in the door to the swanky Manhattan high-rise. Ginger wasn’t kidding, this guy must be loaded. Not your usual fare, rich guys, but Ginger assured you he was a sweet, Southern gentleman…if you could get past the hokey name. And the corny compliments. And something about a belt buckle….?

“I’m not looking for a sugar daddy, Ginge,” you’d pleaded over the video call. “If that’s what he’s expecting–”

“It’s not. Believe me. I only suggested he meet with you to springboard your network in New York and look over your portfolio. He’s impressed with your background and your work at Herlot Watt, but…” your old friend’s lips pressed together in an otherwise controlled flickered moment of frustration, “then he saw your picture and asked me what you were like when we were in college and I figured I’d just cut to the chase and set you up. One thing you should know about Jack is that he thinks he’s being subtle. But that man is never subtle.”

“So you’re saying he’s rich but tedious and you think that’s a good match for me.”

“No! I’m sorry. No.” She adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses, doing her best to hide a knowing smile. “Jack is…he tries. He’s a romantic at heart. He really is. But he’s been alone too long and I think he knows it.”

“Wait. Is this that CEO that flirts with every woman he sees? That one boss that irritates you to hell???”

Ginger let out a long, measured breath. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“You forget that I was trained in a multitude of forensics. And I know when you’re lying.”

“You know when I’m lying because we shared an apartment and you’ve held my hair while I was puking.”

“That too.” Ginger was never known for having a tender heart, but every once in a while, she’d let you see it. “Listen, dearest. I promise you, his personality fills up a room. But I’ve known him long enough to see that it’s a diversionary tactic. He’s got a deep core of honor in him. And if you meet him and sparks don’t fly, he will still open doors for you in the distilling biz, I promise.”

“This is the Manners Maketh Man guy, isn’t it.”

“I didn’t realize I’d told you so much about him.”

“Less told and more complained. You’re throwing me to the wolves here, Ginge. At least tell me he’s good looking.”

One sly corner of her mouth raised. “He does alright. I think you’ll find him acceptable to your tastes.”

“What’s that look for??”

“Nothing,” she cooly mused, “I’m just curious to see if my hypothesis is correct. Friday night, 7pm, rooftop restaurant of the Calgary Suites. I’ll send you the coordinates. Enjoy.”

As she leaned forward to end the call you told her to “wait–I’m not one of your experiments!” but with a click she was gone, nothing but a white afterimage on a black screen in glorious negative relief.

Well. If nothing else, he sounded like a challenge. And you like a good challenge.

So on a balmy Friday night you found yourself gaping up up up the reach of the Calgary against the twilit sky, towering over Central Park at your back, smelling the reek of a life too expensive for your tastes and instinctively turning on your heel to walk away.

What stopped you was the restoration scaffolding enclosing the building under which you were standing. Or rather, the way it shuddered. And the way a large pole fell on its end with a clang to the sidewalk where you’d just passed a moment ago, tipping slowly out into the street. Nobody was hurt but the screams and concrete crack and sudden blaring of horns spelled out a true disaster in front of you.

Where someone else might have been rattled and shocked, all it did was give you perspective.

Fuck it. Let’s do this. Can’t be a worse disaster than this, right?

“I can call up for you, ma’am. What suite?” The doorman at your elbow brings you back to the moment.

“Uh, no, uh, I’m sorry. Daniels? I’m actually meeting him at the rooftop restaurant.”

“This way, ma’am. So sorry about all of this.” He seems nervous, a little shaken by the victimless accident outside, anxious to put all to rights and it looks like you’re something he can fix. You follow him to the elevator bank, letting the sleek extravagance of the lobby wash over you.

Once an elevator arrives, there’s a swipe of a key card, a little door opens to a small button that gets tapped, a friendly nod, and the doorman backs out of the elevator, smiling as the door quietly slides shut.

Well. That decides that then. Might as well just ride this out.

Looking at your reflection in the polished doors, you try to see yourself for the first time. Are you shoddy looking? At least clean and tidy? Would you ever find yourself really fitting in at a place like this? A little lip tint might help, if for nothing than confidence…

In an attempt to look at anything but yourself, you reach into your purse to find a gloss or lipstick or balm, something with some color, and are so occupied that when the elevator stops and the doors open, you simply step back and to the side to let the new passenger in.

Once you’re in upward motion again, you find what you’re looking for, turning to apply it in the reflection of the polished wall. Finishing and taking in the final effect, a smooth baritone rolls from behind you.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but are you–”

You just start to turn–just enough time to catch a black Stetson and tie, a charcoal blazer and painted-on denim, just enough time to register the deep chestnut hair and mustache, just a fleeting twinkle of a dark eye and a silver buckle–before the world goes black.

A jolt shakes the box you’re in and it comes to a rude halt, then another harsher one as the generator initially kicks in but fails before it’s begun, and you feel yourself stumbling backward through a pitch black void, banging your shoulder and then head against a polished metal wall.

“Owwwwww.” A bright light pierces the blackout; not from the spark of pain but rather a phone flashlight. “Hey!”

“My apologies,” your fellow passenger says and the light swings out of your eyeline. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just…surprised.”

“Okay, that’s good. Hold on a minute, sugar.” The light goes out, replaced by the display backlight shining onto the man. It’s dimmer, but you can make out his thumb tapping out a few numbers and the line of a strong jaw as he lifts the phone up to his ear. “We’ll see what’s spooked the horses.” A few distant rings. A few more.

Sugar? Sugar?? Excuse him??? Wait. No. Wait. Is he–

A distant answer through the phone. “Sir?”

The man is calm and steady, respectful and patient. “Howdy, Jones. I’m in elevator 3 with another passenger and we’re in a stall and blackout. What’s the situation?”

“I’m so sorry, sir! We think it might be the construction outside, perhaps a wiring issue. There was an accident. We’re working to get it fixed as soon as we can. Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, we’re fine. No worries. You wanna call up top and let them know I’m going to be late for my reservation?”

“Of course Mr. Daniels. Although, they’ll be in blackout too; the whole building is… Oh! Your guest was just–”

“Yes, she’s in here with me. I believe…” He turns to face you in the shadows as if he can see you past the light of his phone.

The silence that follows is a bit too long and fills itself with the collection of regrets–the outside accident, the elevator stop, the darkness, being stuck in a box with the potential employer slash begrudgingly blind date that you’d rather meet under literally any other circumstance. What a disaster.

And then you realize that the silence is too long and it’s your fault, that he’s waiting for you to confirm who you are and you stutter out a “Yes. Yes, it’s me, I’m…I’m your–” just as he is about to ask you again.

“Yeah, it’s her, Jones. I got ‘er.”

“I guess that’s both a good and bad thing, sir. But at least you both have company, right?”

“Jones.”

“Sorry, Mr. Daniels. Just trying to make light. Ha! No pun intended!” The doorman’s laugh roars and then awkwardly fades through the receiver. “We’ll do our best to get you up and running again, sir.”

An abrupt return to absolute blackness comes when the call ends and you hear a small shuffle as he puts his phone back into his blazer pocket. Then there’s a beep--like a notification--but he doesn’t answer it. “Well shit, you went through the effort to put the last shine on the boot and I don’t even get to enjoy it.”

“The…boot?”

“The lipstick? Your face.”

“Excuse me?” Ooof. This guy really has some kind of cowboy schtick going on.

A chuckle in the darkness. “I’m Jack. Ginger’s told me a lot about you. Said you had some bite.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Daniels,” you say, hoping your voice carries a smile rather than the tingle in your spine. “I assure you I’m harmless. If there was light, I’d shake your hand.”

“I prefer Jack. And if there was light, I’d most likely kiss your cheek in a gentlemanly manner.”

Wow. Wasting no time in the flirtation then. From any other strange man in close proximity, this should be too forward. But incredibly, intuitively, you know he means no harm. Ginger wouldn’t hook you up with anyone who was a threat, and obviously he knows that any bad step on his part would be reported.

But it is his voice that gives you calm. His voice in the dark. Deep. Mannerly. Steady. With a twang that is on track to becoming a big distraction.

You’re self aware enough to realize you made a mistake on your way here. You had already decided that the date was a minor hurdle to get through in order to meet your networking goal, that these business types weren’t your style and that you’d shake hands and leave with nothing more than a little professional support.

It had been a subliminal, foregone conclusion. At no point had you seriously expected to have your head turned.

But he’s said all of a few sentences to you–all of them polite, gentle, and smoothly southern…

…And it’s working on you.

You can feel your face start to burn and even though it’s impossible to see anything in any direction, you still smile hard in the direction of your shoes. It would be nice to be kissed on the cheek by a man with that voice. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all?

“You still with me, darlin’?” It’s smooth and sweet, a perfect balance of charm and attempting not to be a threat or take up the whole room, even as tiny as it is.

“Hmm? Oh, yes… I was just wondering,” you peer in his direction out of habit, trying to find him in the void, “what brought you here.”

The careful calm cracks and a little cornball shows through. “Well you did, sugar. I believe we had a blind date. Although, this is awfully literal.”

You can feel your face squinching up, suppressing a laugh–a hopeless endeavor that fails–and it’s pleasantly surprising at how instantly you are won over. “I meant Manhattan! I assume you’re not from here…your accent…”

“Ah that,” he purrs, laying it on thicker for your benefit. “I am a Southern boy born and bred. But someone had to run Statesman’s New York branch, so I slung myself into the saddle, and here I ride.”

“I suppose the cowboy act is helpful for the brand….charming investors…subliminal suggestion of authenticity…”

There’s a sharp intake from his corner. “Sweetheart! I can assure you there is no act. I grew up on a fair few ranches and have one myself.”

“Really? With the horses and everything.”

“With the horses and everything. Did you say ‘charming?’”

There’s something so freeing about knowing your expressions are masked. But no doubt the delight comes through. “Can you do lasso tricks?”

“I might know a few.”

How does he do sincere and suggestive at the same time? Ginger said he wasn’t subtle, but he certainly has nuance.

The sudden image of a tall, dark, handsome cowboy and his lasso running around New York sends your imagination rolling though. Clapping a hand over your mouth to hide your sudden smile isn’t necessary, just a reflex. Thank god he can’t see what a giggling mess he’s making of you.

He’s ridiculous.

And you love it.

What on earth has gotten into you?

Too fast. Too fast. Calm down.

“So..has this happened before?”

Your question hangs in the darkness.

And then....keeps hanging.

He’s been quick to respond up until now. Did you say something wrong? Is he thinking back? It’s hard to say why, but his pause raises the hair on the back of your neck.

But it’s only a matter of seconds before he gently eases the silence open. “What do you mean by that, sugar?”

“Ah…the elevator? Does it break down like this often? You don’t seem particularly stressed out by it.”

“I would point out that you seem pretty calm yourself.”

You shrug needlessly. “There’s no reason not to be. There’s ventilation. Standard codes will have a secondary cable system in place and there’s no way we can fall unless the cords are severed, which is unlikely. Worst case scenario is that we have to hand pry the door open and either crawl up or drop down… I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that, but I’m sure the both of us could handle it. The only reason I’d have to be afraid is because I’m trapped in a lightless box with a man I don’t know and might need to defend myself.”

“And I bet you could defend yourself.” His drawl deepens when he’s delighted.

Noted.

“I have a feeling I’m not going to have to.”

“No, ma’am.” There’s a shared, sweet and nervous laugh between you and you have a distinct image in your mind of those dark eyes crinkling at the edges. You’d wager he has a beautiful smile. You’d wager more that he has a cowboy grin–lopsided and dopey, but somehow just as charming as that twang. And just as you’re reminding yourself to slow down your flirting again, it seems he’s had the same thought. “These old buildings do have their quirks. A breakdown isn’t unheard of. So...how does a master distiller know so much about elevator mechanics?”

“Well, first of all, just ‘distiller.’ I’d like to be a master someday. Furthest I’ve been is head distiller. Secondly, I’m sure Ginger told you that we were undergrad together, started off on the same track, but I stuck with the chemistry and she went into the physics… we kind of learned a lot from each other. I don’t remember talking about elevators specifically? But it’s funny what just happens to stick in the memory banks.”

“I see.” Strange. He seems slightly perplexed with that answer and lets his reaction drag as if he’s formulating his follow up question. “And then you took off for Herlot Watt.”

“That’s right.”

“What sticks in your memory banks about that?”

Ah. He’s switched to the more professional side of the questions. That can be appreciated. After all, Ginger did say that he could help you along even if the date didn’t go well. And since it seemed almost certain to go well, it’s gentlemanly for him to save it for better lighting–with a table and a meal between you--and spend this trapped time getting the dryer and safer questions out of the way.

“Well, my postgraduate studies were–”

“Oh I know about your studies. I’ve read. I’m talking about your time in Ed-in-burrow. Did you enjoy it there? What’s something you learned that wasn’t taught in their books?”

“Edinburgh is beautiful. The history, the shadows and light…I can still smell the bitter florals of the old perfumery from the little side street I lived on…I guess I learned… well, I mean, the air is in the whiskey there. And I learned that you can’t force a spirit to be what it’s not. Every spirit you distill will have its history in it–the local water in the wash, the particular ions in the soil that grow the barley in your mash, the sweetness or bitterness of the wood used for the barrels…even those change from forest to forest in the same region. If you pay enough attention, you can see the thread of the chemical makeup in each spirit as you drink it, each one unique, even if you don’t have the knowledge of its path to the present, you still know there’s a signature experience there…”

Another long silence.

“Sounds like you’re pretty perceptive to your senses and your surroundings.”

“Your cologne has cedar and tonka in it, I can tell you that.”

An amused chuckle that ends in a drawn out note, “Well shit. Thus ends the interview section of our meeting. I’m sure Statesman can put your talents to good use.”

“Oh, I’d love that–”

“But tell me. Did you ever get out of the city? Go exploring the countryside?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. If I was too wound up in studies, I’d pick the closest castle on the map I hadn’t gone to yet and go take a drive out to the country. It was gorgeous. That became like my little pastime and reward all wrapped up in one.”

“You ever visit the North Berwick area?”

It takes you a moment to scan your mental map. “On the coast? Yes, actually, Tantallon Castle was kind of a go-to place when I needed to get out of the city and spend some time by the sea. Do you know it?”

“I do, actually. So you’re familiar with the area.”

“Oh yeah. There’s a little abbey hotel I booked a few long weekends in that had the best meat pies I’ve ever had. The woman who ran the place had this little Westie she’d dress in a tartan that she’d allow me to walk in the mornings on my roamings…” It’s a happy memory, one you wish had more time to pour over, but don’t have the advantage of reading his expression to know if it would be boring or not. “Wow. I haven’t thought about that place in a while.”

“You think you still know how to get around?”

You blink in the dark. An odd question. “I…think so?”

“Would you like to go back?”

Something’s wrong, and your eyebrows know it as surely as you do, pulling together as you try to keep your voice casual and innocent. “I…guess I wouldn’t mind a visit? Why? Would Statesman Distillery require me to have more training?”

Tilting an ear to him, you listen hard. A shift of feet or a shallow breath or a change in speaking tempo can belie a lot and he’s suddenly being strangely persistent in this questioning line.

“Not exactly. Ginger said you were pretty good with the dialect in that area.”

“It’s thick, but it’s not like it’s Glaswegian.”

“But she said you were a good mimic.”

“That’s…weird. Why would she tell you that?” Your senses go on full alert.

“You ever ramble on through the caves in the cliffside there?”

“I heard there were caves, but I’d never gone, don’t want to get sucked in by high tide.” What the hell kind of questions are these?

“You ever meet a man at the University name of Barclay–”

“What?”

“No. You stop! I’m ending this.”

The sharp retort is an abrupt change in character from the urban cowboy you’ve just started to get to know, and you naturally step back and put your hands up in a defensive stance. “I…what? Did I say something–”

Your companion’s voice suddenly gains an edge, authoritative, impatient, an irritation gradually salting the earth. “Yes, I can see that. Listen, I can trust your word on this but you know patience is not my main quality and she’s not dumb. Look at her. She’s seein’ through all of this already so I would appreciate the opportunity not to beat around the bush this one time. Yes, I know! But this is my assignment now and drawing this out is not the way to build trust–”

“Ah…excuse me? You can see what, exactly?”

“--no signs of stress, high perception, the skills are there! I know what I’m about and the damage is done. Turn on the damn lights, Ginger.”

Squinting against the sudden brightness as the elevator lights flicker on, you catch sight of Jack Daniels across from you in full for the first time. You weren’t mistaken, he is decidedly handsome and well-kempt, big hands on slim hips, head tilted back and watching you intently with dark eyes through the bottom of his glasses…

You don’t remember seeing the glasses.

“Over speaker, Ginger. She can’t hear you though the tech.”

Your friend’s tense voice reverberates from above. “Yes, thank you I know.”

“Ginge?” you ask into the air. “What the hell.”

“My old friend…I’m so so sorry about this. This isn’t really how I wanted this to go. I promise you there’s an explanation. I need you to breathe. And relax. You’re going to break that railing, sweetie.”

You suddenly take stock of your back pressed against the metal walls of the elevator, hands gripping the brass railing that runs along at waist height like you need to brace yourself, a contradiction to a fight or flight response. “Wait.” Your gaze bounces to the four corners of the ceiling searching for a camera. “You can see me?”

Jack taps the frame of his glasses and the notification sound you’d heard earlier in the dark pings again. Sliding them off his face, folding them in a huff and jamming them in his breast pocket he smirks, “Not anymore, she can’t.”

“Whiskey–”

“Dammit, Ginger… You gonna do this, or am I?”

There’s a tense moment as Jack glares you down and your friend heaves an audible sigh.

“Jack is going to explain some things. It’s going to be a lot, but I’m going to need you to trust him. Like you trust me.”

“I don’t understand–”

“I know, dearest. But you will.”

Turning to Jack Daniels, you find him easy, smiling, and extending a hand across the small space toward you, putting on all the charm. “Let’s start over. Howdy. I’m Jack Daniels, CEO of the New York branch of Statesman Distilling, and high-ranking operative for the covert espionage agency it covers. Code name: Whiskey.”

You find yourself reaching for him through your shock, propelled by Ginger’s assurance, Jack’s return to confidence and warmth, and your own curiosity kicking in. “Espionage…. You’re a spy?”

“Yes ma’am,” he winks as his fingers curl around yours. “Ginger too, if you can believe it. And–wouldn’t you know it–we’re recruiting.”

“They just called in a reboot of the whole building system,” Ginger warns. “It will probably be fifteen minutes before that takes. I can reliably give you ten. Without interruption, Jack should be able to tell you what you need to know, so keep your questions for the dinner table. I’ll scramble the mics and be back right before go.”

Dropping your hand to tap a button on his overlarge watch, Jack nods. “In ten, copy. Now then, sugar,” he hums at you, “let’s begin with Statesman.”

Over the following ten minutes, Jack explains the agency that coexists with the whiskey business, as well as its several fraternal organizations throughout the world, how Ginger came to be a part of it, why she had to keep it a secret from you, and will continue to do so if you decline the invitation to join–memory wipe, painless, no big deal, done right here in the elevator and the date continues as if none of this happened. But the background checks and paperwork are all done, you’ll need minimal training, and there’s time for that before you depart for your mission in Edinburgh–

“Mission? Wait. What? I thought you wanted me to work in the distillery–”

“Of course,” Jack explains, “there’s that too, but we need your skills and expertise and boots on the ground for this one. You know the area, as an alum you have an in at the University. You don’t have to do anything tactical. Not to worry, that’s my department and I’ll be right there with you–”

“So this was all some elaborate set up for what? To feel me out? Some kind of stress test?”

His thumbs hook into his belt loops as he settles into one hip, his chin chasing a raised eyebrow. “Why? Do I cause you stress, darlin’?”

Oh shit. That pulls your reins up short. You have no answer to this. Well. None that you’d like to admit out loud anyway. His chest is so broad. And it’s right there. And his shirt pulls against it when he stands like that…

Beside the point. Focus.

“But…why on earth would you want a spirits chemist on a spy mission?”

A wry smile pulls at one corner of his mustache as he catches you looking. “You said so yourself; there’s a lot of useful stuff in that memory bank of yours.”

“Yes, but–”

“Are you seriously underestimating the importance of chemistry?”

You might have protested further, made him understand that chemistry is noble but that you can’t wield it like a weapon; you use it for mixing compounds not for unveiling secrets. But the gentle swagger with which he closes the gap between you stops the words from coming. And the smooth and measured way he pulls you into the circle of his arms stops your head from thinking. All this just before he presses his lips to your cheek….

In a gentlemanly manner.

Ah. That chemistry.

“Is this…still a date?” You don’t mean to whisper, but your voice seems to be on an inconvenient hiatus.

His cheek hums next to yours, honeyed twang circling your ear. “Seems a shame to waste a good dinner reservation. And good company. You disapprove?”

“No. But,” pulling back an inch or two, you swallow and do your best not to look him in the eye at this close proximity. Somehow, that’s supposed to keep him from hearing your heart booming. “I thought you said you’d wipe my memory before this continues as a date.”

“I never said the two scenarios were mutually exclusive. There’s no rule says agents can’t co-mingle. And if there were such rules…well, shit,” tipping his head down to hook your eye, “They’ve never built a fence this buck can’t jump.”

“Seems unprofessional.”

“That’s what makes it fun, sugar.”

“Jack! I leave you alone for ten minutes–” Ginger’s chiding echoes from the speaker above. “You’re deviating from the plan.”

He steps back to assess your bemused smile. “I beg to differ. I told you I’d be flirtin’ to get what I want. Never specified that ‘what I want’ stopped at information.”

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea so soon–”

“I do, Ginge,” you call into the air while holding Jack’s steady gaze. “How did you put it? ‘Acceptable to my tastes?’ You know me better than anyone. I find it hard to believe that you’d trap me in a box with a sturdy, handsome man of mystery and expect me not to rise to the challenge.”

In the short silence that follows, you can almost hear Ginger fume. You can certainly see Jack grin.

“Jack. If you mess this up or hurt her, I will replace your entire glandular system with a colony of pigeon ticks.”

He gives a stoic nod, mostly for your benefit. “Odd choice of pest, but copy that. In the meantime–”

He makes it official by stepping forward and offering an elbow.

And you seal the deal by looping your arm through it.

“--order up. One box of Whiskey and Rye to the rooftop patio.”

You can’t recall the last time you gave over to the power of “well hell why not” like this. There’s something about him that is instantly trustworthy and you can’t wait to find out what it is. In the meantime, the reflection that you two make in the elevator doors tells you all you need to know; it’s a story in itself, an epic meet cute, an adventure in the making.

There’s a lurch as the elevator begins to climb, but this time you stay steady on your feet; he makes sure of that.

As the doors slide open, the picture of you on the arm of this new challenge splits to reveal a quiet patio restaurant under the stars. All the tables are empty but for the one in the center–a lone candle burning, and a setting for two.

“An arranged elevator stall. A fully reserved restaurant. The offer of a job and possible espionage. What else do you have up your sleeve, cowboy?”

As an answer, he flexes slightly, his bicep pushing at the blazer fabric under your hand. “Possible espionage? You still havin’ doubts? You hold onto these guns, sugar, and follow my lead. I will happily persuade you.”

Stepping out into the night together, you close your eyes and let him guide you to the table. “You know what, cowboy? I think I might happily allow you to.”

A chuckle. “What do you reckon? Best blind date ever?”

“Best blind date ever.”

________

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

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