But what if the great secret insider-trading truth is that you don't ever get over the biggest losses in your life...grief is so frowned upon, so hard for even intimate bystanders to witness that you will think you must be crazy for not getting over it.
June Drabbles 2022
Days 23 & 24 - Buttons & Pearls
A/N: I have been wanting to challenge myself to write a drabble a day for a whole month for quite some time now, and I finally decided to just go for it. The goal is to fill every prompt on this list by @creativepromptsforwriting with a short one shot (500 - 2k words) by the end of June. Can I do it? I do not know. But let’s find out! - HAHAHA the answer, as we have come to find out, is no, I cannot. But I am not letting failure stop me, because I, my friends, am stubborn. After this one there are 6 to go (I’m doubling up a few of the remaining prompts to get through them... and because they fit well together) and then it’s back to the stories I’ve been neglecting for far too long, I promise. Speaking of wips I’ve been neglecting... this one goes along with the things I’ve written for Recall, and is the last “teaser” before the main story starts, which means I no longer have an excuse not to move my ass with that story and get it written. Writing for Jack just makes me nervous!!
Word Count: 2,195
Warning: language, brief mention of gunshots, injury and death, steamy thoughts that don’t belong in the boardroom or maybe they do.
Summary: Jack Daniels didn’t get promoted to Senior Agent at Statesman for nothing. He’s one of the agency's most dedicated operatives, and has been for years. Which is precisely why he can’t let anything distract him from doing his job... unless it’s too late for that.
“Good morning, Agent Whiskey.”
Jack’s head swiveled in the direction of your voice to find you exiting the elevator to his right, his eyes drawn immediately to your cherry- red lips as his code name left them. Hot damn. His own lips quirked up, mustache twitching as he grinned and reached for his hat to remove it. “‘Mornin’, Maraschino.” He nodded before settling the black Stetson back on his head, pausing to let you fall into step with him. She is prettier than a picture.
He used the half-second it took you to reach his side to fully take you in. You had on your long white lab coat over a loose-fitting navy blouse, which you wore tucked into a pair of tan trousers that were held up by a soft brown leather belt to match your ankle boots. The only bit of jewelry you wore was a gossamer thin gold chain strung with round salt-water pearls that were spaced out by an inch or so, the necklace hanging low enough around your throat that it disappeared beneath the wide lapels of your shirt. Your hair was pulled neatly back and fastened in a tight bun at the nape of your neck to keep it off your shoulders and out of your way while you worked. In your arms you carried a touch screen tablet along with a few physical files, and with your glasses perched on your nose to frame your sharp eyes you looked every bit the part of your new role alongside Ginger Ale on the medical research team. And smart as a hard crackin’ whip to boot.
It had been a long time since Jack let himself be drawn to anyone for longer than a night - a few hours, really, the time of day didn’t matter much, so long as he was off-duty. But since meeting you last year upon his return from a stint in the New York office, he couldn’t deny the way your smile pulled at his own. Or the tug of your laughter on the stubborn muscle trapped in his chest. Reel it in, Daniels.
He knew he shouldn’t feed into his growing attraction to you. You weren’t an agent, so it wasn’t outright forbidden for the two of you to become involved in a relationship of any kind outside of Statesman, but the rules for interdepartmental fraternizing were slightly foggy. They stated that no one in the organization should form a relationship that could potentially get in the way of their job performance. Agents were often paired on missions depending on what specific skills were needed to complete them, meaning that there were no permanently assigned partners. Though a large majority of those missions went as smoothly as they were meant to, there was always some level of risk involved, always the slim chance that something could go awry and lead to an operative being injured, captured or killed. Hell, you don’t make it to Senior Agent without at least two of those things happening, and I’ve technically had all three.
Thanks to the Alpha Gel technology, Statesman saw very few irreversible deaths, but the fact that there was still a chance that agents could die in the line of duty meant that romantic involvement between them stood as a threat to the integrity of the mission at hand. Agents were expected to follow protocol down to the punctuation to complete the initiative, even if that meant leaving their fallen partner behind. It was harsh, but it was what they had been trained to do, and having been on both sides of that coin through the years, Jack understood why Champ had drawn such a hard line when it came to agents dating one another.
But scheduling? Medical research and development? Day-to-day employees of the distillery? So long as there was no interference for either party when it came to doing what they’d been hired to do, and so long as they didn’t use classified information to advance the other’s position in the organization, there were no strict rules against agents being involved with members of the lab team. In fact, interdepartmental dating was preferred over forming relationships with civilians - no cause for concern over confidential information falling into unqualified hands that way. On paper, if Jack wanted to get close to anyone, you were the perfect candidate. That doesn’t mean I should, though.
With only one serious relationship under his belt - one that still devastated him some twenty odd years later - he wasn’t sure if he was capable of starting something that he would be able to curtail enough to effectively do what was required of him. He wasn’t sure if he could stay level headed with a gun to his head if he knew he had you to come home to. And a relationship like that would be… frowned upon.
Ignoring the warning that he issued himself whenever you were close, he walked with you down the hall towards the boardroom and Champ’s office, your sweet citrus and honeysuckle perfume filling his nose. “What brings you to this neck of the woods, doc?” He used one hand to point at the things you carried, the other going to his hip just above where his lasso hung in a coil. “Ginger got you runnin’ errands instead of experiments?”
You let out a short laugh and scrunched your face. “Little bit of both, actually.” You lifted the files. “Champ needs to sign off on these to clear Vermouth and Absinthe to return to the field.” He hummed - both Agents had been hurt on their latest mission, Vermouth needing extensive surgery on his shoulder and Absinthe requiring the aid of the nano-technology in Alpha Gel to repair a bullet wound to her head. “And I also need him to approve my research on memory restoration.” You wet your lips and continued, clearly proud of the work you were hoping to be able to do. “I think I found a way to improve memory recall in Agents who have had to use the Gel multiple times.” Like me. “I think we can make it faster and less… traumatic.”
His eyebrows jumped up under the brim of his hat. “Well, as someone who’s had his noggin’ blown open more than once, I can tell you that would be a welcome development.”
You cleared your throat, frowning slightly at his words. “I hope so. I know he’s got a briefing with all of you right now, but I figured I could wait for him, catch him as he comes back from that and maybe get him while he’s in a good mood.”
Before he had time to retract his statement regarding how many times he’d been reawakened in Ginger’s lab, the two of you had reached the end of the hallway and the two doors that you were headed for. Not that it’s a secret, she’s seen my file. But despite knowing that he and a handful of others in the agency had clinically died in the line of fire, that knowledge seemed to weigh on you more heavily than it did on Ginger or Champ or even Whiskey himself. He wanted to reassure you that all agents knew what they signed up for when they took their code names, that it wasn’t a secret that their jobs involved danger. Instead, he opted for chivalry and simply opened the door leading to Champ’s office.
“Lemme get that for you.” You thanked him as his hand curled around the thick bronze handle and pulled, two more agents walking behind him and making for the door opposite the one he held open. “See you in a minute Tequila, Moonshine.” He nodded over his shoulder to his associates who acknowledged him with a nod, and then turned back to you, your face turned up to him and a smile back on your bright red lips. Damn, she’s gonna make this hard, isn’t she? He swallowed, jaw ticking as he did, and then gave you a smile of his own. “Good luck with your pitch, Maraschino. I hope he gives you the green light.” You deserve it.
“Thanks, Agent.” You wrapped your fingers around the edges of the files that you held. “I’ll see you around.” With that, you headed into Champ’s office, stopping by his secretary’s desk to touch base with her, Jack keeping his eyes on you until the door shut again.
Across the narrow hall, the other door swung open, Tequila sticking his head out, a shit-eating grin the likes of which only he could wear stretching over his face. “You plan on joinin’ us anytime soon there, Whiskey? Or you just gonna flirt with Ginger’s new assistant all mornin’?”
“I am simply holding the door open for a lady, Tequila, or perhaps you forgot our motto?” He released his grip on the handle and turned to face the younger agent, crossing his arms over his chest. “Manners maketh man, remember?” Clicking his tongue, he tilted his head. “Maybe you skipped that day in trainin’, I seem to recall that you have a penchant for partying and-”
“Shit, I was just teasin’, Agent,” the other man said with a chuckle. “Don’t get your whip twisted.”
Grumbling something under his breath about twisting his whip around Tequila’s neck, he followed his occasional partner into the boardroom where Champ and the other Statesman agents who were present at the Kentucky location were seated at the long wooden table. He took his spot near the head, where a thick leather bound portfolio sat waiting for him with the details of the next mission he’d be sent on - he would be partnering with Merlot this time, according to the first page. But as the meeting got underway, Jack found himself unable to focus entirely on what was being discussed, distracted by thoughts he knew he shouldn’t be having. Curling his hand into a loose fist, he brought it up in front of his mouth, absently biting the side of his knuckle in hopes that those thoughts would subside so that he could dedicate himself to what was happening in the room.
“Glasses, Whiskey.” Champ’s gruff voice came from behind him, a gnarled hand clapped to the soft brown patch on Jack’s shoulder to remind him to don the eyewear that would connect him to the agents elsewhere in the world - Brandy and Schnapps, as well as Olive, Ginger’s counterpart in London, Curaçao in New York, and Mezcal who was currently in Tokyo.
Reaching into his pocket, he took out the pair of black rimmed glasses and slid them on, blinking to activate the projected holographic representations of those missing from the room. But even as he listened to what was being said about the upcoming missions - he and Merlot were being sent to infiltrate a casino that was being used to launder large amounts of drug money - Jack was only half-way present. He had other things on his mind that had nothing to do with his next target and everything to do with you.
Like the way it would feel to let you pull at the knot in his tie or undo the buttons of his shirt so that your palms could slide over the skin of his chest. The way it would feel to let his own rope roughened fingers roll the smooth, off-white gems on your chain between them. How you would look wearing only that necklace, its length hanging low between your breasts. Or perhaps how you’d look wearing the shirt you’d just taken off of him, the hem trailing down to your knees and the cuffs rolled up so that they didn’t cover your hands, the buttons left unfastened so that he could still see your body between the open sides. He was just getting around to wondering what you’d sound like moaning his name - his real name, not his Statesman alias - when that same moniker rang through the room in a tone that couldn’t be more different than yours.
“Are you with us, Agent Whiskey? Or do I need to send you down to Ginger for a check-up?”
He snapped his head up to find several pairs of eyes on him, Champ’s narrowed and regarding Jack closely as the older man sniffed the cigar in his hand. Fuck. “No sir. My head’s just fine.” This is why I can’t… why I shouldn’t get involved with her. “Apologies, Champ. I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ out there with Merlot again.” He nodded towards the woman seated across the table and diagonally to his left, and she returned the acknowledgement before flicking her eyes back down to the open portfolio in front of her. Shit. I should - He looked down at the still shut booklet and flipped it open to find the information he should have been reading all along. Clearing his throat, he frowned, turning his attention to the material before him, Champ resuming the briefing and walking the agents through their various assignments.
Reel it in, Daniels. He sighed, turning the page to a blueprint of the casino he and Merlot would be working in. Reel it way the fuck in.
.
.
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Not to be human on main, but I re-watched an interview the other day in which M described GAoG as "not illegal, but frowned upon," and honestly sometimes I feel like I occupy the same space, technically permitted to exist but on thin ice. It's a strange place to be.
