Javi, Jack Daniels, Din Djarin with ADHD vibes Freader Fic Recs???
I'm sick today and also simultaneously having the worst mental health day, super overthinking and forgetting things, feeling shit cause I never finish anything, switch between hobbies and interests so frequently and cant manage my emotions well in this state and it affects my partner in negative ways.
Sorry TMI, but if anyone has any comfy + smutty fics featuring the above Pedro men and female reader that they think might cheer me up I would love and appreciate it so much.
warnings: reader is able bodied, no physical description for reader. she gets stuck on the side of the road
words: 964
a/n: yay day 3! charming and cute Jack as always, and so helpful too! Main Post Directory
[ID: picture of an evergreen mountain, bisected by a line of fog with snow covering the top. Green text reads "December." End ID]
🌨️🌨️🌨️
This was the last thing you needed, to be stuck on some back-country road because you tried to take a shortcut on the way to your boss’ country club because the brownies you made for the potluck took longer than you thought because you tried out a new recipe trying to be fancy instead of sticking to the one you had been using for years.
You had tried everything you were supposed to try, the cardboard, pushing, even the kitty litter that you had had in your trunk for the last ten years just in case you had ever gotten stuck. Apparently, you were too stuck for any of them to work. Or you were doing it wrong.
Either way, you were contemplating waiting for a new idea to spark and possibly freezing to death or calling roadside assistance and having to pay some expensive fee for it.
Figuring that you’d think better with some sugar zapping through your blood, you turned off the car and opened the door so the interior lights would come on and you could see the brownies better. They were still a little warm and the chocolate melty so you knew they’d be fucking delicious.
You took a bite and sighed in utter bliss. Okay so maybe the fancy new brownie recipe was worth it, so long as you didn’t die of hypothermia out here. Not that it was that cold. Even with your door open a bit you were okay for another minute.
Relaxing for the moment, you laid your head against the headrest, rested your eyes, and ate more of the brownie. A particularly chocolatey and rich last bite had you moaning in satisfaction just as you heard the crunch of snow under a shoe.
“That sounds appetizin’,” a low voice drawled as your eyes moved up the body of the lean and well-muscled man that was standing just beyond your open door. He was practically smirking and that drew your eye to his plush lips and full mustache. They were inevitably drawn higher to his big, aquiline nose that made your tummy flip and then up to these deep, chocolatey eyes that gave your brownies a run for their money.
When you didn’t say anything back, he smiled and said, “I thought you were stuck in the snow, but if I’m just interruptin’ a snack break I’ll let you be.”
That broke you from the trance his pretty face had put you in. “No! I mean, yes, I am stuck. I just needed a little energy boost to try and think of a way out of here.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” he nodded and then you had another good idea.
“But if you can get me out of here then I’d happily pay you in brownies,” you told him with a smile, holding up the tray for him to see. “Not all of them because I’m going to a work thing, but the rest of this row.”
He grinned and said, “That’s the best bargain I’ve heard all year. I’m Jack, by the way, darlin’.”
The pet name flustered you a bit but you were able to say yours and shake the hand he held out for you. His grip was firm and warm but he also smoothed his thumb over the back of your hand in a way that made you feel all fuzzy inside.
In about ten minutes, Jack had identified the problem (a big chunk of ice stuck under the center of your car), found a solution (his tire iron and some strategic stabs to the ice), got your car to move again (hallelujah), and completely charmed you (maybe you’d give him your number as well as the brownies).
You were bent over your front seat to find napkins in your center console that you could use to wrap up the brownies, hoping that perhaps Jack was taking a look at your ass while you did so. But just as you turned around with the brownies, Jack got a phone call.
With a purse of his lips, he checked who was calling and said, “Sorry, darlin’, gotta take this.”
You nodded as he answered and turned to the side, which did give you time to admire his profile. It was a very, very nice profile.
After a few seconds of ogling him you caught the actual words he was saying, “Okay, yeah, I can be there in ten, I’ll leave right away.”
He turned back to you with an apologetic look and then told the person on the phone, “Hang on a second.”
Holding the phone against his upper chest, he said to you, “I’m sorry to dash off, but it’s an urgent thing with my ranch’s water main. Can you head out first so I know you’ll be safe on your way?”
The fact that he was even thinking about your safety while he seemed to have some sort of emergent situation going on was very endearing. You could’ve kissed him right then but you had to make this goodbye quick so he could deal with his own stuff. “Of course, thank you again, here’s the brownies. I hope everything’s alright.”
You pushed the brownies into his free hand, putting your hand over his wrist for a brief second and he smiled, “Thank you, darlin’, I think it will be.”
With that, there was nothing else to do but get into your car, start it up, and drive off with a wave. Jack waved back and turned to get into his truck and you sighed, wishing you had written down your number and tucked it in with the brownies right from the get go. Now all you had was half a tray of brownies and the memory of his handsome face.
Hello my dear!!! Eee what a cute idea, I love it!! And you know I love this cowboy.
Let's see what I can pull out of the magical writing hat...
~*~
It all happened on a Saturday.
You had gone out to enjoy some nice weather, content to sit by yourself outside a coffee shop, warm cup in hand. This street always had foot traffic, and you were plenty practiced at keeping yourself entertained people watching.
Your plans got entirely bowled over by a dog.
Quite literally.
A dog ran up to you, little more than a black and white blur, and nosed under your hand, tail wagging a mile a minute. Your startled noise made soft-looking ears perk and then fold down in concern.
"Hi there," you said, blinking at the dog, which blinked big brown eyes back at you. "Uh. Where's your person?" You rubbed the dog's head slowly, and the tail only wagged harder.
"Blackberry!" The sharp snap made you and the dog both look. A man strode towards you, cowboy hat a little akimbo, frowning thunderously at the dog. She tucked her tail. "I am so sorry, ma'am. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you assured him with a little smile, moving your hands so he could grab the dog's collar again. "She just ran up to say hi."
"Even so. She knows better." He frowned at the dog again.
You smiled at the sight of the huge brown eyes, the dog clearly begging for forgiveness. "Really, she came to the right person. I love dogs, and she's very pretty and sweet."
His frown softened at that, and he turned a far too charming smile on you. "Well, that's mighty nice of you," he murmured. "Say, can I buy you a fresh one for your trouble?" He nodded to your drink.
Normally, you would have said no thank you and went about your business. But he was polite, and he still had a tight hold on Blackberry, and she was very cute... "Only if you get her a pup cup too."
He laughed, grinning at you. "You got yourself a deal, sugar," he agreed. "Name's Jack."
You smiled and gave him your name in turn, even as he produced a leash and finally clipped it to Blackberry's collar.
"Be back in a moment, sugar." Jack paused and then handed the leash to you with a wink. You laughed quietly as you watched him go.
Somehow, you didn't think the rest of your day would be boring.
The Rhythm of the Rain - When the rain forces you and Jack to find a room, you have some fun
Long Distance - Jack’s been gone for too long and you’re missing him. He comes up with a way to help you out from across the world.
Casual - A miscommunication between you and Jack, leads to you finally admitting your situation is more than casual.
After the Rain - The rain finally relents, letting the sun shine (GN!Reader)
pairing: jack "whiskey" daniels x gn!reader
warnings: nsfw, impact play, misusing his whip, fwb type of vibe
a/n: cmon we were all thinking it
"What else can you do with that whip?" You had asked him, mostly as a joke and because you were genuinely impressed by the fact that he caught you by the leg with it.
That turned out to be a damning question to ask your colleague. Especially in the context of your dynamic and the relationship you had with each other that went a little beyond strictly business talk. Part of it was the work you both did - places like Statesman operated within a grey area, you were used to having ambiguity.
Jack, as you'd come to know him after years of working together, loved a grey area and pushing its boundaries to fulfill his own will. He enjoyed flirting with limits, whether they were explicitly stated or implicitly followed. Part of that hobby included his collaborative efforts with you, in particular.
He was supposed to be completely professional, maybe get away with making a few and far-between quips that could've been double entendre, and get the job done with whoever was tasked to do it with him. Yes, the job got done. The rest of those things he didn't take quite so seriously. If you were his teammate, Jack's sweet talking was dialed up and yet still within the territory of a joke.
But you both knew he wasn't treating everyone like that. Sure, he made suggestive comments around anyone but not the way he did it around you. And you'd never let any other motherfucker continue breathing if they came onto you like that, only Jack could get away with it because you let him. Besides, you played along with it when you knew no one in charge was around to hear.
You had a few missions where you two got very close, to death and to each other, so it was difficult to explain what exactly you two were to each other. Just that you were close and understood each other in a different way. Which was why you felt comfortable throwing out that whip comment while Jack was messing with you.
He didn't forget that joke since the moment it slipped from your tongue, and he was happy to show you the answer. Exactly how and when to bring it up again was his dilemma every time you crossed his mind, which was very often. Jack waited for an opportunity to present itself, as he often did with challenging missions, and then took action.
While you stepped out of a training room, you set your practice weapons back into place and glanced across at the others available at your disposal. The boss did want everyone to be proficient in using a wider variety of weapons, so maybe you could start practicing with something besides your favorites. Your favorite collaborator happened to be passing by when your fingers brushed the handle of a whip.
"Tryin'a steal my job, sugar?" He called, drawing your attention away and making you pivot around.
You smiled, "I don't know, haven't tried my hand at it. How hard can it be, though, if you do it?"
He brought a hand over his heart and made a dejected expression, "Now, darlin', you can't go sayin' that to a man's face. You can think on it and say it behind his back, but not to his face."
With a laugh, you reached to shut the weapon safe's door, only for Jack to step right up beside you and hold it open. You glanced at him in confusion. He felt that the moment was right, that he'd been presented a perfect opportunity just outside a private training room to bring up your joke from the other day.
"You wanna learn? I'll teach you." He offered, reaching for the whip and leading the way back into the training room.
Maybe it wasn't the wisest decision, but you followed him with a knowing smile after closing up the safe. You could sense where this was going, and you went along with it. First, a little bit of showing off on Jack's part, then him getting real close to you to "fix your form" when you practiced. By the end, the whole teaching thing would be forgotten, but you'd both leave the room looking like you'd been practicing.
And you were right. He wanted to show you that the techniques really worked. You stood in front of him, braced, while he let you feel how each strike would land. Lightly, of course, compared to the strength he used against a rival. That was the segue into him roping you up in a standing position and striking your bare skin with the tail of his whip.
"It's not so bad like this, less force behind the movement." Jack spoke, continuing to still partially sound like he was trying to instruct. "All about how much you put into it."
The whip cracked from somewhere behind you, then you felt its sting along your backside. You trembled slightly through aftershocks of the impact but let out a breath to get your body to relax again. Jack stood a comfortable distance away, making you feel exposed and almost isolated; his touch was too far, so all you received were words and lashes from across the room.
But it was kind of thrilling, in a way. The sudden jolting of your whole body. Your heart jumping as you gasped. Burning warmth through the skin struck by each impact of his whip. It was too much yet, also not enough. The shocking sensation cleared your mind of anything else. There was just this, here and now, with him. You were alive, you were together, and you were about to christen this training room.
Eventually. Well, whenever Whiskey decided he'd had enough of watching you tremble at the end of his whip and instead wanted to drink you in like he did his code name. You were trained to be patient through any kind of trying conditions, this one would be simple. Especially since Jack was easily influenced by you and whatever you asked of him. One call of his name, and he came running, loosening the ropes to let you free just for you to tackle him to the floor and shove his old blue jeans down.
pairing: jack "whiskey" daniels x fem!reader
warnings: nsfw, praise, tiniest bit of angst, & mention of death/poisoning
a/n: i did give reader a code name (absinthe) to fit in better but reader DOES NOT have a name in this or any description of appearance
"Well hey there, darlin'," a twanged and honeyed voice called from behind you, "now, don't you look like a nice glass of cool sweet tea on a hot Ju-ly day..."
You rolled your eyes, "Whiskey, don't you know it's unprofessional to flirt with your co-workers?"
"'Course I do, Absinthe." He acknowledged, slowly approaching you with a smoldering look in his deep, brown eyes. "But I know you like it, and I just can't help myself wantin' to get a reaction outta you."
"Can't tell if you're kidding or not," you remarked and changed subjects: "Now what do you need from me? Cyanide pills? White phosphorous rounds?"
"Nothin', just came up here to see you."
You gave him a scrutinizing look, "Uh-huh... no ulterior motive?"
"No, ma'am." He grinned with a tip of his hat. "Nothin' work-related."
"Oh, so this intrusion is personal?" You inquired, smiling and playing along with this cat-and-mouse game.
"Don't think I'd call it an intrusion, 'specially when you haven't kicked me out."
"Yet," you added, "I'm afraid you aren't on my schedule today."
His big, brown eyes rounded with faux innocence, "Oh, now I do apologize that I'm droppin' in on ya. Do you have time in your schedule for me today?"
"Hmm, let's see..." You trailed off, pretending to glance over your calendar. "I think I can fit you into an hour slot right now, does that work for you?"
"An hour of your time is very generous, ma'am. Can I speak to you someplace more private? Your chemical-lab-pharmacy ain't exactly the kinda place for this."
You raised a suspicious eyebrow, but assented to his request. Whiskey followed your lead back to your private office adjacent to the lab area. Stepping around the door, you tried to kick away the door stopper for some privacy to discuss whatever he needed to. He stepped inside but paused with his hand set over the back of your visitor's chair.
The door to your office shut and you started to walk around your desk to sit across from him. But Whiskey caught your wrist first. A faint shake of his head and creasing around his eyes told you there was more here than you anticipated. Familiar, unsettled warmth was roused in the pit of your stomach. Your cheeks burned as your brain tried to stop this from progressing.
"What are you doing?" You spoke, not even really needing to hear the answer to know what it was.
Whiskey clasped his hand around yours gingerly before lifting it to his lips, a pleading look in those puppy dog eyes as they stared at you the whole time.
That was enough of an answer. You sighed but didn't tug your hand away or clear him out of your office. This had happened before, and you loved it, but there were only so many more times it could happen before you and him would have to seriously discuss it. Relationships made work complicated. You didn't want complicated, but you did also want him.
"Tryin' to get some more sugar from you, darlin', and give some in return," he spoke softly, "if you're in a mood for it."
You crossed your arms firmly over your chest, "Whiskey..."
"I know, I know," he interrupted, setting his hands gently over your upper arms, "we work together, and you don't want no trouble. I won't give ya none, I promise."
You tilted your head to one side, "You're trying to mess around in my office. No trouble, huh? It's one thing on a mission, but this is different."
"No trouble, Absinthe. Guarantee it." He smiled, charming as ever.
Foolish as it might have been, you allowed it and trusted that you'd both be mature about it. You thought about it for a grand total of three seconds, then you leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. Whiskey grinned, chasing as you pulled away but redirecting his aim to your lips. From there, it was all a blur: clothes strewn across the floor, panting breaths, hands exploring, bodies tangling together against the walls or your desk.
"Been thinkin' about you since that time in Switzerland, you know that?" He muttered against your neck, his hands groping at your ass. "You remember? On the yacht?"
"I remember," you nodded, laying back over the desk, "can't believe you still think about that."
"'Course I do. Seein' you like that," he kissed down your chest, "layin' out in the sun, off the high of a mission accomplished... can't forget that, sugar."
"Oh, so this is all because I don't do field work anymore?" You teased.
"Nah, it ain't like that. You're so smart," he kissed down below your beating heart, "and capable," he kissed your upper abdomen, "and dangerous," he kissed above your belly button, "that I just can't help myself. You were sexy bein' by my side on that mission, and when you're here every day mixin' things that could kill a man 'fore he could blink."
You grinned at his compliments, watching as Whiskey parted your thighs over his shoulders so he could continue the line he was making.
"You got power, baby," he breathed over your center. "I admire it, and I wanna keep you happy. You can poison me if I'm ever slackin'."
He spoke those words so earnestly, matched with his big, brown eyes staring across at you so reverently. You wanted to believe him, and you almost did. But Whiskey was an infamous sweet talker, everyone knew it.
You let him get away it for now, reminding yourself not to take it so seriously. Soaking in the praise of his words for now, as his mouth worked over your clit and his fingers warmed you up just a little lower. It was the rush you craved from field work, something to feed that still-burning sense of impulsiveness. Your fingers raking through his dark hair as he came up to kiss you with your taste in his mouth.
"Taste like fuckin' sugar," he sighed blissfully, his palm pressing to the side of your face before planting a wet kiss to your mouth. "You ready for me, darlin'?"
"I can tell you are..." you quipped, pushing up your hips to give some friction to the bulge barely restrained by his briefs.
Whiskey hissed through his teeth but made no objection, "Please, baby? Lemme take you right here, you're killin' me..."
You wrapped your legs around his middle and tugged him in closer, "You've got less than an hour, agent, do your worst."
"Yes ma'am." He nodded, taking it as a direct order.
Whiskey swiftly shoved off the briefs and surged his hips forward to fill you. His lips kissed you hard, muffling your moans and his own whimpers at the feeling of your walls engulfing him. The desk was rigid against your back, but it was far from the worst place you'd ever fucked and you had probably the best partner you'd ever had along with you.
"You feel... jus' like heaven, baby. Temptin' and pretty as sin, but you feel like goddamn heaven..." Whiskey cooed, caressing your skin and somehow making a quickie in your office feel a little romantic.
aaaaaaaahhhh please tell me you’re going to write a part 2 for the agent whiskey x single mom fic!!!! It was so sweet I can’t
honestly i think i might! charlie who talks too much + stern mom reader are such a perfect match for whiskey. i think the next chapter should be devastating, maybe have whiskey injured in the line of duty and he puts reader down as his :( next of kin :( even only after 8 dates!!!!
word count: 6.9k, sorry this got out of hand WAYY too much | requests are open | about me + masterlist | harry castillo x singlemom!reader here if anyone is interested....| a joel miller x single mom! reader if anyone’s interested here.
reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :)
summary: it's simple really, jack daniels is alive, and lives a boring life. exiled from statesman's intelligence operations, he works in the financial department of the distillery. he has a merger to go to, but the first class seat falls through on a mixup, and his window seat given to him as a concession is taken by a girl with bright eyes, and her exasperated mother too :)
warnings: no warnings....FLUFF. SO MUCH. TOOTH ROTTING. FLUFF. SO MUCH FLUFF OH MY GOD. actually well yes warning of death, jack's high school sweetheart and your husband died too. i think i use y/n once.
authors note: HI HOW IS EVERYONE DOING!!! is the agent whiskey fandom alive and well....i love him i love him so dearly i wanted him to be my husband when i first watched the film <3 i just want him to have a happy ending!! im back on my bullshit with another single mom fic!!! out of the several single mom fics i have sitting in my drafts!!!! ohh my god i am NOT WELL I AM NOT WELL THINKING ABOUT AGENT WHISKEY and how he should have had like. life. he deserved love. i started wiritng this in mid august n then life got in the way. god everything is EVIL but here...a single mom fic for all the enjoyers <3 this is a stream of conciousness fic, i got posessed and started writing it like whilst i'm running a fever....live laugh love again. i should start wearing a coat to places, summer is OVER. WHISKEY IS A GIRLDAD. TO ME. i know he is...also he met his match with a four year old child and her exasperated mom. ALSO! the little fake family moments are going to make me SICK!!! i loved going in the cockpit when i was younger btw!! pilots just do let you do that sometimes!!! OK ITS 2AM. which means...as per usuall....im posted fic!! and then im immediately PASSING OUT!!!!! goodNIGHT!
flying comes with its own can of worms, he’s convinced. the plane is a little too tiny for him, economy seat boxing him in just a little bit. he's not the frequent flier type. not anymore, after the incident with kingsman, he’s taken a grounded role in the business side of statesman. one that doesn’t have him flying around the world on a private jet with lethal weapons on him. he’s usually in the dallas office, pushing papers, but today he’s flying up to chicago for a merger. it’s mostly champ or tequila who deal with the out of state stuff, but champ has to take it easy after his surgery, and tequila’s sister had him as a groomsman for her wedding, and he’d said he was willing to help set up her flower arrangements.
when he got to the gate, he’d been told it had been overbooked. his first class seat somehow given to the other person. he’s given a choice to stay and wait for the next plane out of dallas the next morning, or sit in the economy seat instead.
and so here he is now, settling into the economy seat the lady at the counter told him he’d be sitting in, no reason to overextend statesman resources and time after another year of being in the black, the distillery not doing as well this year. 32A. he’ll be fine, he tries to calm himself, it’s just six odd hours from dallas to chicago, and this plane is much safer than half of the ones he flew back in his agent days. he can handle sitting in an economy seat for those four hours, read a book, scroll on his phone. the usual.
32A is a window seat, and he’s one of the first few onto the plane. ginger always told him he’s got a classic case of ‘airport dad’, where he’s getting to the gate an hour before boarding even starts. that memory always makes him smile. it’s nice that she still stuck with him, even in the after. his small suitcase is locked away overhead, and he keeps his laptop bag in front of him, not that he’ll use it anyway.
as the plane fills up, he notices that the seats next to him are suspiciously empty, and he puts the laptop bag in the middle seat (propping his stetson up on it). happy that there’s nobody sitting next to him for the next few hours.
he straps into his seat, and mentally plans to lie down lengthways to get over how cramped it is in here. cabin crew call out for final boarding, and he’s putting on his headphones, listening to some johnny cash before the plane sets off.
a small hand taps on his shoulder all of a sudden, and he blinks open his eyes to see a small girl of about four, big glasses perched on her nose, with her hair tied in two bunches.
“hi!” she says, all too bright for a flight at 6:20am, behind her glasses are some wide brown eyes, “you’re in my seat!”
she gives a small grin, and he can see one of her teeth are missing from the front. a stumble from behind her, but he looks at the boarding pass in his hands. 32A is a window seat.
“charlie!” you chastise behind her, and he sees the same hair as that of the girl beside him, tied into a low bun, escaping the scrunchie. you look just like her, obviously her mother, all frazzled and sleep deprived. dark circles under your eyes, the yellow summer dress you wear hangs by your ankles. too bright and sunny to match how tired you look.
the girl pouts and sits back down on her seat with an angry huff. he sees you try to stuff the backpack up in the overhead compartment (it slips down and falls on you twice) before giving up and just putting it in the seat in front of your aisle one
“i’m so sorry sir,” you scrub your hands over your face with a sigh, hair coming loose from the bun it was held in, “charlotte knows better than to lie, doesn’t she?”
there’s still that smile on her face as she peers past him through the window, the plane hasn’t left the airport yet, hasn’t even started to move and yet all she wants to see is outside.
“no it’s fine sugar.” he says after a moment, his voice is all gravelly and rough, and he tries to be as gentle as possible, but you look embarrassed, face pale, the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease. he used to call pretty women sugar all the time, back when he was an agent.
“it was funny darlin’, really.” he waves a hand away, opening his phone to text ginger that his plane was leaving on time. the window seat is cramped, and the girl keeps scrambling on his arms to try and lean over him to look outside, pushing her face against his shoulder to push her glasses back up.
and it is funny, really. he was a secret agent once, deadly with a gun and electric whips. and here he is now, worried that this tiny child would muddy his stetson that had fallen to the floor. how times have changed.
“charlie!” you pull her back, hands gripping her shoulders firmly. he doesn’t know much about kids, never had the chance to have a kid of his own.
his son would have been in his teens now, he thinks, if he’d ended up surviving.
he doesn’t think about it, tries to put the grief behind. he’d been drowning in it for years before the incident, like a wound that healed wrong. the scar on the side of his head prickles, the one that he’d got after being shot. hidden by his curls, nobody else can see it, but he can feel it. in moments like these, when he remembers. at least he got help in the nebulous after, hours where he sat in the hospital room, with physical and emotional therapists.
he doesn’t have any kids, but he knows how they are at this age. all questions with no patience to listen to the answer. he can’t help but laugh when he sees you try and wrestle your daughter into her seat, having to put her seatbelt in. it distracts him from the past.
he’d never been on a plane at this age, but he guesses he would be as annoying as this kid, probably even worse.
the cabin crew turn on the seatbelt sign, and the captain makes an announcement that they’ll be taking off soon.
“please can we swap seats?” your daughter frowns, giving him the saddest brown eyes he’s ever seen in his life. all wide and big and teary, with her bottom lip wobbling. “pleaaaaseee?”
“why?” he asks, eyes flicking to her and then you, busy unpacking the bag full of food for her. fruit snacks, dried mango that actually looked good this early in the morning. you look like you aren’t listening, too exhausted to pay attention, he can see your fringe curling over your forehead, framing your face.
she frowns, biting her lip nervously, “jus’ like looking at the clouds.” her voice is all high pitched and sweet, all too excited for 6:30 in the mornings, “i like the colours.” she adds, “like candy-floss and stuff.”
it seems so mundane, ‘like candy-floss and stuff’. whatever that means. her glasses are the same colour of purple that the sky is. she doesn’t have any baggage to carry, no past weighing her down. just clouds that look like candy-floss.
“oh,” he manages a smile, he’s barely spoken to kids after his wife and son died. there wasn’t a reason to, it hurt too much, like he would carry the guilt of not interacting in them. carry the guilt that he lived and they didn’t. but it doesn’t feel guilty here, speaking to your daughter, charlie, he reminds himself. “remind me never t’ play poker with you little birdie.” he laughs, and your ears burn with shame and embarrassment for your kid talking a mile a minute, and also at his laugh.
his laugh sounds nice. good natured enough to humour your daughter instead of putting on the headphones he had placed on his knee.
charlotte frowns, and then digs her shoes into the back of the seats, you can almost see the cogs in her brain move “but i get sick in the middle seat, if i don’t look outside.”
“charlotte.” you say, sharply, hand stilling her knee. being sick or not, the window isn’t her seat, you can’t have her ousting the (admittedly very handsome) guy out of his seat.
“i get very sick.” she says, oh so matter-of-factly, legs swinging on her seat and the guy seems to be listening, and throwing glances to the laptop bag and the cowboy hat on the floor.
he shoots a look at you, and you give a small smile, apologetic, but damn does your daughter run a good hustle.
“she doesn’t.” you mouth, placing a stilling hand on your daughter’s shoulder again. “charlotte, please let that man just sit in the window seat in peace.”
she tries again, with her huge eyes, and he grimaces.
“yeah kid, those puppy eyes are workin’ “ he sighs, and then unbuckles his seat, “we swappin’ seats or what ?” his voice is smooth, as it always is. he was a secret agent for the lord’s sake, and yet….you’re pretty.
with your tired eyes and the homemade sandwiches you’ve packed for your daughter sitting in the bag on your lap. you’re not the bombshells he used to chase when he was an agent, pretty in the way that seemed real. which makes him a little flustered. “this window seat is a little too small for me anyway.”
“i didn’t want to say it, but it’s true.” charlie nods solemnly, and you see the man put the hand over his heart, wounded.
then his brown eyes meet yours again, and he jerks thumb to the side, “swapping okay?”
you frown, and then realise he means the two of you, have your daughter move to the window seat, you move into the middle, and he has to do the awkward shuffle of going all the way to the aisle.
before you can even process his words, your daughter is already clapping her hands and nodding. “yes! thank you mister!!!”
she’s already standing up on her seat and he stands up so he’s in the tiny space between the seat and the one in front of him. charlotte more or less just leaps into the seat, and you just stare at her with raised eyebrows.
“i’m so sorry sir, she isn’t like this usually.” you stifle a laugh, and then notice that he’s standing in front of you. tight jeans, a white tshirt that looks like it’s been ironed before he got here. the person in front of him pushes their seat back, and he’s pushed forwards with an “oof”, strong arm holding him upright, hand pressed against your seat’s headrest.
your faces are incredibly close, there’s no space on an aeroplane anyway. and he pulls back as soon as the person pulls their goddamn seat back. but it’s too late, he’s already seen the specks of gold in your eyes, felt your breath on his face. you smell of fresh flowers, you smell good.
“that’s dandy.” he says, as nonchalantly as possible, he almost introduces himself as whiskey, all flashing grins and charm. he bends down to pick up the stetson off the ground, and places it in your lap as he hurriedly shuffles over to the aisle seat. “the name’s jack.”
he’s pretty sure he got the window seat because the airline felt bad for messing up his first class ticket, but that kid looks so happy that he doesn’t bother bringing it up.
“now, want me to handle that for ya?” he picks your bag up from the aisle seat, and dangles it above you. you nod as you watch him put it up. embarrassed still but you’re. well. you’re. it’s. it’s a handsome stranger on a plane, a cliche and you’ve fallen right for it. with his tight white shirt that you could see his muscles flex through as he put the bag overhead.
“oh, my name is (y/n).” you hold out your hand for his, “and that one there is charlie. squirt’s four and acting up like this all her life.”
he takes it, his hand so much bigger than yours, warmer too, “good to know darlin’.” he grins, all teeth, you’re quite frankly overwhelmed by how flashy the smile is, “kid’s a spitfire alright.”
“she loves planes.” you say gently, a hand stroking her back as she keeps looking out of the plane, “always wanted to go on one, last time she was on one of these she was a toddler.
“peach wouldn’t remember a thing then, would she?” he tilts his head to see her, the seatbelt sign is back on again, and he sees her fumble with the belt before you stop to click it in.
“she doesn’t” you turn back to him, with a sigh, “that’s why she’s super excited to fly this time…and wanted the window seat.”
“hustled me out of prime real estate that one.” he huffs, but his words aren’t sharp. not by the way there’s a smile tugging at his handsome lips, that your eyes keep being drawn to.
“yeah, she hustled a real life cowboy.” your eyes linger on the hat, the engines of the plane start growling, and your jaw tenses. it’s slight, but he’s a spy — was a spy. had been taught how to read people. your daughter may be at home on this flight, but you were decidedly not.
your hands grip the bag of food you have in your hands, knuckles clenching. he has half a mind to offer you his hand to squeeze, but he isn’t a secret agent charming ladies at the bar anymore.
the plane takes off with a jolt, and you squeeze your eyes shut. your daughter’s face is plastered against the window, hands on both sides. he hears you muttering a little prayer, and you’re both thrown backwards in your seats when the plane leaves the ground.
you let out a sigh, and the relief softens your frame. “thanks again,” you rub your eyes, “she would have actually made the flight a living hell otherwise.”
“fair trade.” he gives you a small smile, “this way everyone’s happy, she gets the window, ya get some peace and quiet and i get a chance to stretch these legs before they cramp up.”
his voice is charming, you decide. all sweet, like honey. and he’s so kind, moving from his window seat that you’re sure he paid extra for. you blush, scrunching up your eyes, hiding your smile before your hands. the tote bag full of food is heavy on your lap, and you put your hand inside, bringing out a pack of dried mango.
“here,” you pass the small pack to him, and he can smell sugary goodness in there, “a thank you.”
it’s strange, he thinks. he’s eaten at restaurants with michelin stars, and he’s eaten freeze dried rations and yet being handed this tiny bag shocks him. you’re too kind for him, he thinks, with the weight of the past that he carries. with the sparkles in your eyes, and the softness of your smile as you pass a bag of dried mango fruit snacks for him. obviously packed for your daughter.
“you sure?” he asks, but you shrug and tilt your head to your daughter, stil staring at the clouds with that look on her face.
“she doesn’t even like mango, and i overpacked so much stuff, just in case.” you laugh, face flushed with embarrassment, “please take this as a thank you, i don’t think i’ll be able to tear her away from the window.”
you settle into a rhythm, feeding your daughter pieces of dried fruit when she finally pulls away from the window. you idly scroll through the books app on your phone, ill-prepared for this flight. saving money on subscriptions had you on a flight with nothing to do.
except maybe look at the man next to you, same white t-shirt, stetson jacket over it, and the cowboy hat at his feet… and maybe laugh at the absurdity of it all. a handsome cowboy, wearing a $600 jacket, sitting next to you of all people.
as the plane starts to rise, your daughter tugs your collar, and her mother – you – turn around, your eyes sparkling with the same softness, your phone is forgotten on your lap. he’s a spy (was a spy), he’s been taught to observe, and he observes the way you sit with your daughter, talking to her about all the things she can see down below. the large green fields, little cities with little buildings. the world looks like a miniature model below, and both your faces look with bright eyes and smiles.
the warmth. the warmth that seeps through the little bubble, through to him. there is some warmth left to spare. and you pick up your phone again after a few minutes, when the green fields and red farmhouses turn into white fluffy clouds. your daughter is content in staring outside, out into the blue of the sky and the grey of the clouds.
he unlocks his phone too, not to scroll through some downloaded book like what you’re going through, he’s looking at distillery profits and losses, which drinks did what. flicking through powerpoint slides that people in his department made for the quarterly budget. finance things, stuff he’s been resigned to after champ gave him a second chance at life. he’s got glasses on his face, not the statesman ones he’s been used to for the past two decades, with cameras and microphones and the ability to join meetings, just normal ones with the same wire frame, helping him read better.
your eyes flick to his on your right, and you think he looks rather good, with his glasses. less of the cowboy, with what the hat that’s under his feet, and more of the charming man who her daughter convinced to let him swap seats with.
clearly there is a point in the fifteen minutes where your daughter stops caring about the outside, turning away from the window with a dramatic sigh, and back to you on your phone and him on his.
“are you a real life cowboy?” she asks, all inquisitive big brown eyes, her foot pressing against the seat in front of her, “i mean, because you got your boots and your hat?”
you look up from your book at that, and turn to him, and he can see two pairs of matching faces looking up to him, your daughter with curiosity, and you with a small smile on your face, as if you can feel him getting flustered by your gaze.
he’s been a real life cowboy, several times. wore a stetson, boots with spurs, and he’s charmed a thousand women with his twang. lassoes and whips and the secret service. he had been a cowboy and lived a whole life before now.
the question throws him off kilter, so point blank it’s almost funny. “uh, i’m as real as a cowboy can be.”
charlie squints at him, as if she doesn’t believe him, but you judge her with an elbow, “we’re flying out of texas charlie, we’re bound to see a cowboy or two.”
“but wha’s the point of a cowboy.” she says it, all as one word, blending all the vowels together, and you pick up the bag by your feet to pull out a juice box for her, “we got the cars.”
you look at him from under your hair, strands falling over your face, “she makes a good point, cowboy jack,” the nickname makes him laugh, huffed out from behind his hand, “we do got the cars, no need to ride horses.”
“yeah,” they do have guns, but he still used electric lassoes, they do have shoes but he still wore cowboy boots, “this is just how we do it in kentucky, got more horses than cars.”
“mm.” she hums, in that sharp, pitched way, like she still doesn’t believe him but she’s got no counter arguments, then she’s looking outside the window again, at the way the soft morning light hits the clouds, making it a rainbow.
“mom, can i have the phone?” she holds out a hand, and you double tap on the camera app before handing it to her. he was a spy, he can’t help but see what you were reading, and it’s a page from pride and prejudice.
“hope she didn’t put you on the spot.” you sigh, watching her try and take a photo of the clouds, “she’s always a bit too chatty.”
“she’s fine, darlin.” he says the nickname before his brain realises, and you give another laugh, it’s rough from how early it is in the morning and so unlike the high pitched laughs he’d been hearing in bars all his life.
“you really do have the southern charm,” you sigh again, before turning back to him, he can see your eyes with sleep still hanging in them, how frazzled you are from the way your makeup is fading and your hair is coming loose from the bun, “what’s a gentleman like you doing in economy?”
you’d noticed the jacket, and the hat, both stetsons.
“last minute mixup,i work in the financials of a local distillery, but mixup means i’m flying coach on this red eye.” keep it vague, he thinks, she doesn’t need to know about your past, he thinks.
he tips an imaginary hat, like he’s used to doing it “and now this cowboy is at your service.”
you nod back at him, and before you can make a witty quip with the handsome man, your daughter pipes up from her seat, without even looking, “i want juice.”
“bubs, i just gave you juice.” you sigh, pushing the unopened juice box at her on the tray table.
“that’s apple juice, i hate apples.” she says, not even sparing you two a glance. you look at the juice box, and sigh.
“how can you hate apples? they’re such a normal fruit.” jack drawls, from the aisle seat, shocking you. that makes charlie turn around, and frown.
“jus’ dontlike ‘em.” she scrunched up her face, “only like orange juice.”
“i haven’t packed-“ you start, feeling your daughter’s tantrum coming along, but he’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, “i’ll get us some orange juice, three cups, unless you want something else?”
oh. your heart stutters, and your daughter gives a thumbs up, a stranger with a cowboy hat who moved for your daughter is now getting the three of you orange juice from the plane’s galley.
you unbuckle your seatbelt too, desperate for a little walk around the plane, and your daughter hastily jumps out of her seat too.
“charlie, you don’t have to walk if you don’t want to.” you bend down, murmuring in her ear with those soft tones, he doesn’t know how long you two have been walking for, 6am flights, two boarding passes stuffed into your passport holders. she holds up her hands for you, and you sweep her up easily, she curls around your neck, fitting on your hip.
“okay, let’s go bubs.” he leads the way to the galley, and you follow, your daughter who can’t be any more than four chatters away, talking about the clouds and the sky.
“rainbows, they happen when a ray of sunlight goes through a prim-sm,” she babbles, tiredly “or raindrops, that’s why we can’t see any? because we’re above the clouds right now.”
it’s a small space, the small corridor where the two of you stand, with your daughter hanging off you. you can see him much better, he’s taller than you, but his eyes are so rich and brown it’s hard to tear yourself away.
and you. you look like a woman he’d never think about. with a child, so much and yet so little like what he lost. a woman he wouldn’t dare to look at, reminding him of the son and the wife that never came back.
and then he remembers, nor did he.
“could i have three orange juices please ma’am?” he looks away from you, talking to the flight attendant, the blonde with wide blue eyes, her emerald ring sparkling on her finger, matching her earrings. a part of him pangs, asking you where your ring is, your finger bare and your ears with small purple butterfly studs in them, matching the flowers in your daughter’s ears.
“uh-“ you hold out your arm, “can I get a tea instead, orange juice is a bit too acidic for the mornings.”
something so plain, so ridiculously, hopelessly, stupidly normal. no orange juice in the early mornings because of acid reflux, and the life you lead is so much less complicated than the one he had lived.
“tea for the lady then, ma’am.” he says, all southern charm and manners, and soon you have two cups of orange juice and a steaming cup of tea with a shot of milk for you.
you start to put your daughter down, but she curls into your neck, “i don’t wanna get down.” her face is in a tiny frown, and jack hates to see that. he doesn’t have any kids (had, had one. almost had one.) but he isn’t cruel.
“here, let me.” he offers his own hands, and if it wasn’t this early in the morning, you’d never let charlie out of your sight. but it’s 6:40am, you’re swaying on your feet, and with narrowed eyes, you hand your daughter to the cowboy in front of you.
you hold the three cups in your hands, and watch him walk to the seats, before gently placing your daughter into her seat with barely a snuffle. then he steps aside for you, and you open the tray tables for the cups.
“can’t believe she asked for the juice and she fell asleep in th’first place.” he drawls, but you can’t stop replaying the wat he gently placed your daughter in her seat. so gentle.
“have you done that before?” you blurt out, and he can say a thousand things. he can say the thing he’s told fifty women before you, at a bar.
he tells the truth.
“seventeen years ago, i was twenty, lived in the bad part of austin with my wife. painted the nursery blue and everything, practiced holding a baby f’ months. but then she stepped out for some things, eggs, i dunno. and the next thing i got was a phone call to identify the body.”
he keeps it short, clean. as if he didn’t suffer fifteen years of revenge and hatred after it. as if he didn’t die and kill for peace.
you frown, not a spy, not a woman at a fancy bar. your hair in a low bun, falling over your face as you try and brush it away from your eyes. so…not those women he’s seen, so much like the woman he saw eighteen years ago. when they were both twenty.
you are frazzled, and harried, and not as polished as a spy would be. no facade to hide behind, you just look at him with sympathetic eyes, and a hand on his broad shoulder.
“i’m sorry.” you offer, swallowing thickly, you look at him with such clarity in your eyes. it’s almost laughable, how easy you are to see through, in another life he would have called you a bad asset. but in this one, he lets your hand linger on his shoulder.
“her dad too,” you close your eyes, leaning against the headrest, “he. it was a hit and run, he never saw it coming.” you shake your head, “i always said he was selfish for leaving me seven months pregnant with her.”
you blink your eyes open, like you’ve begged with fate to not tell this story a hundred times, and still you still told it to him. your loss cuts sharp, couldn’t be any more than five years old. he had fifteen years to stew, but you had four years of a daughter to raise.
“ ‘s life isn’t it, darlin?” he says, lazily, hiding behind bravado, but you take it anyway, wiping away the tears from your eyes with soft fingers.
“course, course, cowboy jack,” you sip your tea, and he takes a sip out of his orange juice, “you got a last name or will i have to call you that every time?”
there’ll be more times? the part of his brain that’s as eager as a dog almost wags its tail. but of course she doesn’t want someone as damaged as you, his rational mind supplies. a traitor.
“daniels.” he musters.
“jack…daniels?” you frown, almost choking on your tea, “you’re a goddamn cowboy, from the south, called jack daniels?!”
“i can show you my id if you want,” and he pulls out his god honest drivers license. the one he never shows women at bars or at festivals or dates. this is him, without a cover. this is jack daniels not agent whiskey.
he won’t tell you about the agent whiskey thing either, that would just scare you off. but he knows you’d laugh, and he takes that imagined laugh, and keeps it close to his heart.
“huh…you weren’t lying.” you shake your head, “your parents weren’t joking when they named you?”
“no ma’am” he mock salutes, “daniels family for years, just liked the name jack, thought i looked like a bean.” that gets a laugh out of you, the simplicity of this moment not lost on you.
“goin’ somewhere far?” he asks, and you can tell it’s probably because of the dark bags under your eyes.
“uh yeah, seattle to sacramento, sacramento to dallas and then finally, dallas to chicago.” you sigh, scrubbing your eyes with the heels of your palms, “long travel journey.”
he knows it’s to cut costs, he doesn’t say it though.
“i’m travellin’ on business, not pleasure -” he blurts out, and you smile at that.
“when did i say you were?”
“i’m just sayin ma’am, travelling for business.” he nods.
“well, uh-” you smile again, “thanks for letting me know.” and it completely short circuits him, like you’re filing the information away for later, he’s desperate to see your smile again, over and over again. you wouldn’t have to do three flights to get from one place to another, if he spoiled you, he had a house in the suburbs that was too empty for him alone.
after a few hours, the lights have dimmed, window shutters closed. the sun is up in the sky but half the people on the aircraft are exhausted, himself included. your daughter, charlie, charlotte, has exhausted herself from the window, from your phone, from talking to you and annoying him. she’s fast asleep by the window, small enough to curl up on the seat comfortably. her little toy bear is in her hands, clutched tight, he remembers she still grumbled for it before you pulled it out of your bag.
she places her legs along her mothers lap, your lap. your hands stroke over her ankles with gentleness. still holding onto her, even as you sleep.
because you’ve fallen asleep too. somewhere over the second hour you’ve fallen fast asleep, eyes closing as you kept holding onto your daughter. you rested your head on the headrest, but your daughter kept squirming and you weren’t tall enough for the absurdly high headrest.
he sees your head tip, and then feels your cheek press against his shoulder. it’s soft, you’re light against him, but he knows if he stays like this you’ll get a crick in your neck. he’s done this far too many times — and so he adjusts himself, pushes himself a little further down so that you can rest on his shoulder better.
he thinks you look nice like this, in your sleep, the lines on your face smooth out and he can see what your face would look like in peace. all soft, like his entire heart depends on it.
you’re out like a light, but all he can think of is you. jasmine shampoo in your hair, your cheek against his shoulder, you resting on his stetson jacket. it’s too much, it makes his fingers tingle in a way nothing quite has for seventeen years, as if you’re forcing life from you to him.
the plane rocks gently, through some mild turbulence. not enough to wake you, but enough to shake you against him, and he holds out a steady arm to catch you if you fall.
you don’t, but you do list sideways, and he keeps you upright. it’s this sort of softness he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in years, doesn’t feel like he deserved to feel it in years.
he doesn’t even hear the flight attendant walks up to your seats, the same one that the two of you met in the galley, with the green stone in her ring and in her earrings.
she looks down at jack, and then at the empty cups, “i’ll take them.” and jack nods, finishing off charlie’s untouched juice that had turned lukewarm in the hours since. all three cups go in the trash, and then she turns to the three of them.
“would you like anything this morning?” she asks, all polite and proper, and he hums, “yeah, could I get some coffee?”
she pulls out the coffee thermos, and pours into a cup, and hands it to him, “and anything for your wife and daughter?” she says, like it means nothing.
his breath catches against his chest, it doesn’t mean nothing. it means everything, like a life he didn’t believe he’d have. he should just correct the attendant, this is not my wife and that’s not my daughter, but then the attendant smiles all so sweet and adds, “she has your curls you know?”
“oh i…” he doesn’t know how to continue, freezes in his seat. that’s the life he could have had, and his life feels like these two are what fills the holes in his heart. suddenly it does look like charlie’s curls are a bit like his, suddenly it does look terribly domestic with your head on his shoulder.
he doesn’t know what else to say, so he just says, “thank you.” and then swallows, “i’ll take a muffin for the kid if you have it.”
she passes him a sealed packet of a muffin, worse than what he gets in first class usually, and worse than the fruit snacks he knows that are in your bag, but still he takes it and places it on the tray table in front of you.
he doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up as soon as you stir on his shoulders. you pull your head away, and he sleepily blinks his eyes, clearly letting you have you space.
“oh god, i’m so sorry…” you mumble, yawning, stretching your shoulders, “i didn’t realise-“ you yawn again.
“don’t worry,” he brushes down his hair, “things happen.”
let them happen. a small voice in his head says. let them happen.
your daughter gasps next to you, as she grabs the muffin in the packet. “mom, they had muffins when we were asleep?”
“say thank you to mr daniels, okay?” you nudge your daughter, and she nods at him solemnly, before taking a huge bite out of the muffin.
“m’ku m’th ‘aniels.” she sprays crumbs everywhere when she talks, but it makes him laugh, and it makes you flush.
“charlotte, close your mouth when you eat.” you close her jaw with your hand, and then shake your head, as if to say children, am i right.
and jack would agree with you with whatever, he doesn’t have any children of his own. but your words are like gospel to him, and he’ll listen to anything you’ll say.
the plane lands smoothly, and he’d say he’s lying if his brain wasn’t filled with you and charlie, munching away at a muffin. chicago is big and full of people. charlie looks at him like he hangs the moon and the stars, all so bright, with her brown eyes staring at him, talks to him like he’s a wonder. he’s given her his window seat, talked to her about being a cowboy, even told her if she asks nicely, him and you can go take her to see the pilot.
“can we really?!” she asks, wide eyed, grabbing onto your arms as she kicks her feet, “see where they drive the plane from!”
“it’s called a cockpit,” you softly correct her, she’s easily excitable, “but i have no idea you’re going to ask the cowboy here.”
he rolls his eyes, “it’s just jack, sugar.” and then whispers to your daughter — “but don’t you worry about that peach, we’ll show you the cockpit real soon, okay?”
the three of you wait until the plane is empty, and then she shrieks as she runs towards the front of the plane. jack’s pulled down your bag from the overhead cabin, as well as his little suitcase, and he’s dragging it down the aisle, trying to keep up with you two.
it’s terribly domestic, he thinks, but he doesn’t think he’d get much more than this. not in this life.
the co-pilot is in there, and he grins as charlie starts asking a hundred questions, like “what button makes the plane fly (that one) can you make the plane do a loop? (no) can i flick that switch (wait…yes okay, that’s the light switch.)
you blush behind your hands, your daughter too loud for a four year old. always has a head in a book about planes, and the pilot strolls into the cockpit, seeing the scene. jack, holding onto your daughter’s hand as he talks to the copilot, your daughter, yammering away about something planes do, and you, watching this all with a hand on jack’s suitcase and your backpack on your back and a little tote bag on your arm.
“oh, how did you know we let the kids in the cockpit, barely anyone knows we do this.” he says.
“yeah um, jack said usually pilots did this, so we just came and tried our luck.” you almost stumble over the words.
“lovely family you have there,” he mentions, offhandedly to you, and you freeze, inadvertently in the same position jack was two hours ago, “good to know your husband looks out for your daughter, she loves planes.”
and she did love planes. that wasn’t the point. but that was the point, because charlie loved planes and jack showed her the cockpit, instead of just glaring at her for ruining his day with her mouth than ran a mile a minute.
you bite your lip. “thanks…c’mon peanut, we gotta start walking now.”
chicago is a big city, he worries about you getting lost in the crowd, worried about everything really. and so as you step off the plane, he holds out his hand for charlie to step over the steps easily, and to stomp onto the airbridge.
“charlie,” you gently say, kneeling down to her level, “peanut, we’re going to have to say goodbye to mr daniels now, okay? we need to get our bags and meet aunty ria, okay?”
her hands grip his tightly, and she pouts her lip, “but i want to stay with cowboy, he shows me planes!”
“charlie-bee,” you say softly again, trying to untangle her hand from his, “we gotta go, aunty ria made you that cake, remember? coconut just like you like?”
a pause, and his heart thuds in his chest. there is nobody quite like you, is this his last chance for redemption?
“are you still in chicago thursday evening?” he blurts out, far too loud for his own good. but you pause, and frown.
“…yeah, why?” you frown, “not free though, i got charlie with me.”
“i was wondering if you wanted to grab some…coffee.” he frowns at his own words, he’s never sounded this keen before.
he’s a older than you, not your usual type, with his crows feet and his greying hair, his soft arms and the cowboy tshirt. but have you even had a type every since your husband passed away?
“coffee would be nice, okay.” you smile, “do you want my number?”
“i’ll…i’ll write mine down sweetheart—“ he says it earnestly, looking for a pen or a napkin to scrawl his number onto. very old fashioned, perhaps a decade older than you, but you just laugh as as you tap your phone with his to get your contacts to be shared between each other.
“that was quicker, wasn’t it?”
“full of tricks.” he grins, and it’s true, you have bewitched him. and he smiles as he waves at both you and your daughter, and walks out to chicago, finally feeling like a new man.
taglist! for people who were interested...sorry this is 1 month and 3 days late...i blame [ gestures vaguely at everything but specifically the grandparents visit with no wifi and a 9 hour road trip and then a pile of undone physics worksheets ] i hope this taglist works. yayyyyy :
