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heaven-s-black-box · 28 days ago

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Luck- Wash x Fem!Ex-Freelancer!Reader

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Recovery date: January 8th, 2025

Description: Hiya!!! When I saw your requests were open I just had to as for a Agent Washington from RvB(could be a short scenario or a full fic) because out of the very few writers put there for him I think that you are by far the best!!

Notes: CW Reader is vaguely implied to be suicidal (not wearing her armor in a war zone) This work was recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contribution. Went for a different route with my freelancer reader this time, she defected with Tex instead of being sent to Blood Gultch.

Word count: 1 181

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Y/n pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long and tired sighed.

She was standing in a doorway of… it didn’t really matter. Nothing really mattered to her in this moment. Not the concerned and questioning stares of the New Republic soldiers as she walked around without her armor, not the strategic questions Kimball bombarded her with, and certainly not the dog pile in front of her.

Griff seemed to be on the bottom, she’s pretty sure she sees his armor peeking out, and Simmons is directly on top of him. She assumes Griff decided to sprawl on the ground in protest of something and this was Simmons’ way of getting him to move, because Tucker is on top of him like they were trying to make it uncomfortable. Then Caboose is on top, and she’s not even surprised.

She pities Kimball, putting her faith in these morons right now. But more than anything she pities them, the reds and blues- No. Tucker, Caboose, Griff, and Simons. The reds and blues includes Sarge, Lopez, Donut, Wash, Carolina, Church, and Doc. They are not the reds and blues, not right now.

Griff continues to yell incoherently, drowned out by the pile above him and everybody else yelling.

“Would you please,” Y/n yelled, shutting them up, “try to behave yourselves.”

Everyone was facing away from her, but Caboose craned his neck awkwardly until he could kind of see her.

“Y/n! Where’s your armor?”

“Being repaired.” A lie. She still had her freelancer armor, it was more durable than anything these guys had and that was why she wasn’t wearing it. “Caboose, get up. Same with the rest of you.”

Caboose practically jumped to his feet and ran over to her, locking her in a strong hug– he’d been doing that more recently since they got separated from the others.

Separated, that’s what she kept telling him. It’s what she kept telling all of them, but she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore herself. Did she ever really? She’d seen so many miracles that maybe her luck had finally run out.

Luck.

Wash did not believe in luck, and if he did his was definitely shit. York was always the lucky one, and he was dead so clearly the well of luck must be running dry. But in this moment, he could only hope that whatever drops might be left land on him.

Him, or her? Y/n. Who really needed the luck right now?

He watched Sarge grill some poor Federal army soldier on weapon maintenance while Donut cheered him on in the background and Lopez seemed to be commentating in Spanish. Was this making him miss the blues? He’s not sure, but he definitely misses Y/n. Or as Tucker so kindly puts it, the other brain cell.

Not only does he miss her, but he’s worried about her. Does she know he’s alive? He hopes she does, but the only way to know for sure is to see her. So he has to get this goddamn rescue mission off the ground.

“Sarge! He knows what he’s doing, let him work!”

“How do you know that? You weren’t there for his training, we gotta make sure this mission goes off without a hitch! We gotta save your princess in a tower! You know, operation rescue Simmons! And if Griff accidentally dies, then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“La princesa te matará por eso,” Lopez replied,and for once Donut’s translation was on the mark.

“I agree with Lopez, Sarge, I think Y/n might kill you for that.”

“Why? Princess’ can kick ass, you ever seen Xena: Warrior Princess? Or Wonder Woman, she’s a princess! And that Princess from the Italian plumber game, sure she keeps getting kidnapped but when she fights she kicks ass.”

Wash isn’t sure if he’s more baffled by Sarge’s take on princess Peach or just his list of pop culture princesses. He wasn’t even sure if Xena counted as pop culture.

“Just,” Wash sighed, waving his hands in surrender, “leave the poor guy alone.”

How far apart were they, on this strange planet?

They’d definitely been further apart, they’d been so far apart after the project fell. He’d refused to leave, becoming a recovery agent, and she’d been one of the first to defect. He would have left if she’d asked, but that wasn’t her style– in that sense they were the same. They were the worst, the most timid, barely scraping by it seemed while everyone else flourished. Wash only stayed to help Epsilon and the AI, but if Y/n had asked him to leave, to join the fight from the outside, he wouldn’t have hesitated.

That was her strength, always the negotiator, and his strength, she’d always called him a jack of all trades; a strength that had saved them time and time again, whether he realized it or not.

As if bound by an unseen force, both freelancers return to their rooms.

They collapse into their stiff beds, and Wash groans as his helmet bounces off the metal slab of a cot. The back of Y/n’s head hits the sweater she’d folded up as a pillow, and it barely cushioned her from the stiff weave of the collapsible cot. Her armor was piled in the corner of her room, the helmet set on top staring at her.

Wash closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then begins adjusting his radio signal.

“Y/n? Carolina?” He calls into the empty room. He’s on the old freelancer channel, but he gets no reply, so he changes the channel again. “Y/n? I know you’re out there.” Wash stares at the empty ceiling, it’s an old channel that the MOI didn’t monitor. Good for late night gossip with the others, but it had long since fallen into disuse.

In the New Republic base, Y/n rolls onto her side, cushioning her head with her arm and stares at her armor. The dark visor stares back, and the scratches and chips in the paint remind her that they have survived so much already.

“I’m coming for you. We’re, coming for you, all of you. I’m worried about you, you know, so just hold out a little longer, please.”

Groaning, Y/n pulled herself from her cot and dragged herself over to her armor. She picked up the helmet and dropped back onto her cot, holding it above herself at eye level.

Wash took another deep breath, opening his eyes for a moment to make sure no one was in the room. He closed them again and let out the deep breath.

“I love you, and I’m telling you in person when we come save you. I think… I should have told you a long time ago.”

Y/n lifted her head and pulled the helmet on, starting up the systems and watching the hud light up. She flicked through channels until she landed on the old freelancer channel.

“Wash? Carolina? Are you out there?”

There was no reply.

#researcher s's recovery #red vs blue #rvb x reader #red vs blue x reader #david washington #rvb wash #agent washington #agent washington x reader #rvb wash x reader #x reader #female reader #slight angst #oneshot #rvb oneshot

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lady-bess · 8 months ago

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Fallout - Chapter 4 "Confinement"

Jack Daniels x F!Reader Explicit/ 18+ (Minors DNI please) Chapter Word Count: 6k Chapter Tags: Descriptions of injuries, description of recovery, description of exercise, talk of grief, talk of death, implied suicidal references, Jack Daniels, Agent Tequila, physical descriptions of Jack (long haired Jack, save me), use of nicknames.

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<- Previous Chapter (Ch.3 - "Out Into The Light")

Placed on house-arrest, the road ahead for Jack is long and uncertain. But he's determined to right his wrongs and make it up to the team he let down - and it looks like Champ has plans for the former agent much sooner than he expected.

2:45pm, April 17th, 2018.

Therapy was exactly what Jack needed, that much was clear. Even he could see that, in spite of the fact he’d been raised with the mentality that you just shut up about your problems and get on with your life. Keep things to yourself, don’t let others in; showing your struggle is a weakness. An old fashioned view instilled in him by his old man, and even after his death Jack clung to it like a lifeline.

But there was only so long this mentality could go on for. Jack needed help, and he needed it now. Being given this second chance was something he was oddly excited about - not many people would have been so lucky, and he knew the sacrifice Champ had needed to make to make his return a possibility.

That wasn’t to say that he enjoyed the therapy sessions he had, however. Each one would leave him in shambles as Loretta, the counsellor Champ had hired for the agents in light of The Golden Circle disaster, would tear him down piece by piece so they could try and put him back together. Each session was like spilling pieces of a half-completed jigsaw puzzle out onto the floor, only to then scramble to make sense of how the pieces had fallen.

In truth, he didn’t like the revelations that they were finding together. He hated how his confidence, borderline cockiness, was nothing more than a defence mechanism he’d carefully crafted over the last two decades without even realising it. Something that he for so long believed was just part of who he was, something he was proud to be, and the reason people respected him. To learn it was all a sham, a facade; an illusion - not only to himself, but to others. He’d broken down that day.

But there were some positives that he’d drawn from his sessions. While he was entirely learning again who he was, that meant he was able to this time consciously build himself from the ground up. He could carve out the kind of man he aspired to be, and prove to those around him that he was worth not giving up on. He could finally be a man worthy of being part of Statesman.

His sessions were spread out so as not to overwhelm him, and he went to see Loretta every third day. On the other two he would focus on physical rehab, with Clara keeping a close eye on all of his vitals. He’d got out pretty lucky in that things were not as bad as they could have been. His first week getting back onto his feet was pretty brutal, with a heavy reliance on the ventilator still, and numerous instances where he’d passed out from over exertion. But gradually he’d been able to do more and more, and with the aid of Statesman’s technology he was set to make a full recovery in no time.

He still didn’t fully understand how he was as okay as he was, but he wasn’t going to question it. Jack already knew better than to question Clara as to how her machines worked, so he just accepted where he was at physically and prayed to any God out there that things would keep improving. And, so far, it looked like they were.

He’d been discharged from the labs two weeks after waking up and moved into a section of the Statesman compound. It was a small gesture from Champ to give him a sense of freedom, but he still had strict rules to live by. Attending all appointments was mandatory, and aside from pre-approved movement he was not permitted to leave the compound.

But if this was the price to pay to atone for his crimes, then he was more than happy to pay it.

Today was one of his therapy appointment days with Loretta and, as usual, it had left him in shambles. Jack wiped his eyes once he got back to the safety and comfort of his apartment, something which was built to originally be used for rehabilitating agents who had come back from missions seriously injured. There was a block of five apartments, one next to the other, along the ground floor of the east wing. Jack had spent countless nights in any of these apartments, but always begrudgingly, yearning to go back to his house outside the grounds.

But now he no longer had that same desire. Being here and atoning for his crimes changed how Jack viewed the world. He was always in such a rush to get out, to leave behind one mission in search for the next one, constantly looking for ways to keep ploughing forward.

As he’d come to learn, through his therapy sessions, that this was nothing more than a way for Jack to shut out the rest of the world. Outwardly he might have had friends, colleagues he was close to, and lovers. But everything he did was in her memory; and with getting to be by her side as a priority.

He always wanted to rush home, not because he didn’t want to partake in whatever the team might be up to after hours, but rather because the home he fled to was theirs. The home he lived in with his wife, before her passing. Untouched for two decades, it was a time capsule to their marriage, and a reminder for Jack about what he was fighting for.

Her.

He would flit from mission to mission, putting his life on the line without a second’s thought, because to Jack his life didn’t matter. In his eyes his life had ended the day Lela was ripped away from him so suddenly. Even though he hadn't realised it at the time, subconsciously he was trying all that he could to get back to her.

“Jack, have you ever thought about ending your own life?” Loretta asked him this afternoon.

The question still rang in his ears, and tears flowed from his eyes as he thought about the response he gave.

“Not intentionally, but I guess I never really considered what harm I might have been subjecting myself to while on missions,” he’d said.

“Do you think you were subliminally trying to cause harm to yourself, to be back with Lela?”.

That had been the last straw for Jack in today’s session. Because, deep down, he knew Loretta was probably right in her assessment. He had for so long wanted to be back by Lela’s side, however that looked. He’d never really thought about the fact that in order to do such a thing, his own life must cease.

Jack sank down onto the slightly stiff mattress once the door closed behind him, the barely used metal springs of the bed only slightly dipping under his weight. He buried his face in the palms of his hands as he steadily sucked in deep breaths, utilising a technique Loretta had taught him in his first session as a way of calming himself down when everything felt too much.

They’d discovered together, although it wasn’t really a surprise to Jack, that he had become very good at burying his feelings. He’d shut down when things got too much, or if a situation got a little too close to home. The deep breathing was her way of trying to get Jack to ground himself and act in situations appropriately, rather than either lashing out or storing away the upset for much later, and choosing to ignore it.

He screwed up his eyes behind the heel of his hands, now slightly dampened by fresh tears that had escaped the confines of his eyelids. His breathing was slow but steady, and in the silence of the apartment Jack allowed himself time to process today’s session, applying the much needed brakes to the whirring engine that was his mind.

There was safety in this apartment. Lela wasn’t here, and for the first time since her passing Jack could actually begin to imagine what his life might be like. What he could achieve now that he had the tools to do so.

What he could prove to others he could achieve.

Composing himself eventually, Jack lifted his head and wiped the tracks of salty tears off his cheeks. He sighed to himself, inhaling sharply before pushing off the bed and standing, running a hand through his hair once he was upright. His days were slowly merging into one, and he’d found keeping a routine had helped with making sure he didn’t go completely insane. Jack settled on spending the rest of the afternoon heading into the gymnasium after he’d made himself something to eat.

The apartment he was in was small, but it did the job, and within about ten steps of getting off the bed Jack was already in the kitchenette. Apartment was a bit of an overstatement, really - this place was more like a studio, in terms of size. But still, it sufficed, and Jack had rather come to like the simplicity of his new home.

Unlike the home he had lived in with Lela, the same house he’d refused to sell these last two decades, there wasn’t enough space for a void to be created. There wasn’t enough room for empty chairs, cold beds, or extra coffee mugs left out by the sink. It was just him in here, and the size of the place made it incredibly obvious. The bed was only cold if he had left it; there was only one loveseat in the lounge part of the apartment to be left empty; and there were barely enough dishes in the whole kitchenette for him to leave dirty ones lying around.

Every corner of this apartment had become Jack’s world, and the longer he was here the better he felt for it. Part of him wondered, as he set to making his lunch, if he could potentially get used to being here on a more permanent basis. Champ’s punishment had been given no end date, so he figured there was no harm in accepting that this would be the place he called home for the foreseeable future.

Jack ate his lunch and set to clearing up his dishes before he got changed for the gymnasium. After being comatose for a long time, he was still dealing with some muscle atrophy and the effects that had on his overall strength. But now, two months after waking up, he was finally at a point where he could be unsupervised in a gym setting to be able to regain some of what he had lost. He’d made it part of his routine to always go on days where he’d had therapy, and use that time and the clear mind he got when exercising to properly process the session. It had helped tremendously, alongside journaling, to make revelations about himself and come to accept his new reality.

Tidying down the kitchenette, Jack changed into his gymwear. He’d still not yet had much from his home delivered into the apartment, so for the most part he was cycling through the same four outfits, and was using Statesman issued clothing for working out. It wasn’t the most flattering clothing - navy blue sweatpants and a white t-shirt which was two sizes too big, and some old black trainers. But it did the job, and for Jack it was another way he was able to not think about his old life by being surrounded by the clothing he once wore.

Once changed, Jack slipped into the same routine he always did if ever he wanted to leave the confines of the apartment. Pressing an intercom button by the front door, he was connected straight through to Champ.

“Jack? Heading to the gym again?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Permission to leave?” he asked.

“Granted. You’ve got ninety minutes,” Champ said, and with that there was a clicking in the door mechanism as the entrance remotely got unlocked.

Jack opened the front door to his apartment, grabbing a water bottle on the way out, and headed towards the gym. He’d been put on a strict workout regime at first to help him regain some of his strength that he’d lost, but these last two weeks he felt like he’d turned a corner at last, and was really making progress.

Now that his initial loss of strength was not so prevalent, he was able to use exercise as a form of therapy itself. A way for Jack to clear his mind, and for just over an hour every few days his focus was solely on that. Getting faster at running, stronger at lifting, and increasing his endurance.

Today was no different, especially after today’s session. Jack had come to accept that Loretta was likely correct in her deduction, and now he just had the task of moving on after learning this information about himself. That, even after all this time, the reason he threw himself into every mission without a care in the world was not because of his desire to make good by the organisation he worked for - but rather to potentially get him closer to meeting Lela again.

Closer to meeting death herself.

Jack always ran on the treadmill first each time he got to the gym - his cardiovascular health still needed improvement, but as his condition was so fluid from one day to the next, he’d more gotten used to starting with this exercise as a way of gauging how he was physically doing on that day. If he got out of breath fast, then he knew it was a session to take slower. If he did alright, he could try and push himself with his endurance, or a later strength building exercise.

But today, he just needed to run. To physically run without actually metaphorically running away from the revelations he’d made today. To process and break down the man he once was, and try to see clearly the kind of man that could rise from these ashes.

He started out slow, jogging at 8km/h until his heart pumped blood fast throughout his body. Exercise was the closest thing he had to the adrenaline that being on a mission would once give him - the closest thing he had to feeling alive.

Once the sweat began to run down his brow he increased the speed and began to run. Jack would pant and gasp for air, borderline passing out before he allowed himself a small breather. It was an exercise he’d been doing to increase his endurance and stamina, and thus far it had proved immensely successful. Each time he came he could go longer and faster on the treadmill before needing a break, and Clara was happy with the progress he was making. Even if she didn’t quite approve of his method to push his body almost to the limit every time, she also understood that Jack was never likely to back down from this.

He’d found something that kept him going. A small glimmer of hope in a very dark situation which showed him some light at the end of what would be a long tunnel to pass through. Any progress he could make made him feel alive, and like he would one day be able to prove to those around him that he was worth taking a second chance with. That he wouldn’t be a screw up anymore, or the arrogant man in dark blue denim who once stalked the halls of Statesman. He wanted to be an agent that others would be proud to work alongside - not dread, fear, or despise.

That was the one thing he had to hold true this entire time. While he may have had subliminal reasons for being so reckless on missions when it came to his own life, he couldn’t deny that he craved the adrenaline he would get from them. The exhilaration that came with each success, every piece of information that was attained, every target that was successfully located. Throughout all of this, Jack deep down was highly motivated by the missions themselves. That was the one thing which was keeping him going, the one thing that gave him hope at the end of all of this - deep down was an agent who wanted nothing more than to uphold peace.

He kept running for as long as he could tolerate before slamming his palm over the red ‘STOP’ button on the machine. Jack bent over and coughed as he gained his breath, sucking in gulps of air as sweat poured from his hair and dripped onto the treadmill below. His skin felt hot to the touch as blood rushed through him, but once he’d composed himself there was a faint smile left in place of the grimace which he wore while running.

Standing up, Jack read the machine and smiled to himself as he laid his eyes on the statistics for that run. He’d never paid much attention to the timer while he ran - that wasn’t the purpose of today, anyway. But in his haze of coming to terms with who he once was, and what he would do, Jack had unintentionally set himself a new record.

Hopping off the treadmill, he leant down and grabbed his towel and water bottle which were next to the machine. He took a big swig of his drink before wiping his face down with the towel, removing the worst of the sweat. Still panting slightly, he then reached for his phone and opened a text to Clara. He couldn’t help but feel quite proud of himself, and the new record was something which had given him a much needed boost after one of his toughest therapy sessions.

Jack

“Hey, Clara. Set a new PB for my run time! Hit fifty-three minutes and I was running steadily for most of it!”

Hitting send, he tucked his phone back in his pocket before heading out of the gym, sipping his water as he walked back towards the compound.

Jack returned back to his apartment before his time was over, as usual. As an agent he would have probably pushed Champ’s boundaries a little, extending his stay if it was what he wanted to do; but that had all changed now. He knew that any slight slip up, as small as it may be, would be marked against his name. The last thing he wanted was anything that could jeopardise a potential return to the team.

“This is Jack, checking in. I’m back,” he said into the intercom once he had closed the front door behind him.

“Roger that. Thank you, Daniels,” came Champ’s voice down the other end, before a loud clang could be heard as the door locked behind him.

He sighed to himself at the sound, the harsh reminder of what his life now consisted of. But it would be too easy to sit and dwell on what life was, and through his sessions Jack had come to see that this was no way to live. He’d had a good session at therapy today, even if it didn’t feel like that right now, and he’d just set a new personal best with his physical rehab. These were the things he had to focus on.

Pushing himself off the door, he headed over to the bedroom part of the studio, and began undressing. A cold shower post-gym was just what he needed now, something he’d become accustomed to having fairly regularly. He stripped off his sweat-clad t-shirt and dropped it in the laundry basket, followed by his shorts and boxers, then headed into the shower.

Cool water cascaded down Jack’s skin, a feeling initially so unfamiliar, now gave him comfort. When his mind ran away from him, with thoughts of his wife and how he’d lived as a widower for so long, there was nothing that silenced him quite like this. The cold calmed him like water quelled a fire that was out of control, vanquishing it into nothing more than smoke and ashes.

He sighed in contentment as the sweat pooled off his body and down into the shower drain, followed by the amber-scented soap suds that he had lathered across his frame. The aches and pains of his workout replaced the twinges he’d become used to feeling as a result of his injury and older age, and Jack groaned softly as he stretched his sore muscles out, letting the water beat down onto his skin and provide some relief.

It was a good kind of pain though, one he could be content with feeling more often as opposed to the twinges and cries from his body that he got from just existing. Clara had warned him that there could well be long term side effects to being in the coma, including his body just never feeling like it used to. It was a tough pill to swallow, and some days he felt like a stranger in his own body - it didn’t move how it once did, heal how he was used to, feel the way he remembered. The simplest actions like touching surfaces, balancing, or judging distances, all felt foreign for quite some time.

But two months after waking up, most of those side effects had fortunately worn away. There were still lingering concerns Jack had, but he’d made enough progress that he wasn’t worried that they’d be around forever.

He shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, tousling his hair with a towel before wrapping it around his waist to dry off. He wiped the bathroom mirror of condensation and then took a good look at himself. His job had noticeably aged him, he’d seen that before, but being out cold for the latter part of last year had done a number on Jack. His eyes now seemed more sunken in, a darkness under his eyes that wasn’t going away particularly quickly.

And then there was a scar. On the left side of his head, right on his temple, was a mark that would forever remind Jack of what he’d done. Of the pain and suffering he had tried to inflict, and the subsequent consequences to those actions. He’d never be able to truly move on from what he tried to do, and he could never expect everyone involved to be able to forgive him; but with the scar as present as it was, it became a constant reminder to him about his previous shortcomings as an agent. In a way it would make it impossible for him to ever be able to consider forgiving himself, even if by some miracle those around him managed to do the same.

Jack made his way out of the bathroom and into the main living area, padding across the open space towards his dresser to get clean clothes out. He had no more plans to leave the apartment today, so he just opted for a clean pair of Wrangler jeans and a black t-shirt. Long gone were the days of always parading around in the tailored denim suits - for as much as he hoped those days could return, for the time being he was able to enjoy the simplicity of his current wardrobe.

Once dressed, he roughly towel dried his hair a bit more. Again, just as with his suits, his hair was something that once got far more attention than it did now. He’d kept the same cropped brown hairstyle for two decades, maintaining the short trim and covering the greys right up until the accident. But with less purpose, Jack had begun embracing a more natural look. His hair was still a dark brown, but now there was grey littered around his temples, and in the months that he’d not been able to colour it there were entire streaks interwoven through the mass of hair.

He’d also been less precious about keeping it short, trading in the former ‘prim and proper’ look for allowing his hair to grow a bit longer. He’d never have it too long, but it was now just enough that his natural curl pattern began to show through - thick, luscious curls that crimped at the base of his skull, dancing down the nape of his neck.

The moustache though? No, that had to stay.

Satisfied with how much he had bothered to put himself together, Jack sank onto the small sofa in the apartment and reached for the book he was currently engrossed in. His fingers rubbed over the leather binding of the book, and he smiled to himself before opening the pages up. Reading was something Jack used to enjoy, but given his job he often had very little free time for it. But now he was here, on house arrest, he had no excuse but to start working through some of the books he’d wanted to read for a long time.

Clara had mentioned he should get a ‘Goodreads’ account to keep track of his to-read list, but Jack didn’t quite see the point in that. “If I can’t keep track of what I’ve read by memory alone, then it clearly ain’t a book worth my time,” he’d remarked, which made Clara genuinely laugh. The first moment of joy the two of them had shared since before the accident - a moment Jack held dear, in the vain hope that it could signify a turning point in his dynamic with his former colleagues.

Time flew by once he’d got his nose into a book; so much so that he didn’t even register it had been two hours when a knock at the door pulled him out of the trance he was in. Jack jumped slightly, startled at the noise, before setting his book back down on the coffee table.

He stood up and headed over towards the door, wondering who might be calling on him for the day. There were no tests he was awaiting on from Clara, and he’d already spoken with Loretta today. He shrugged before reaching the door, setting his palms on the metal surface as he leant forward. Jack looked through the porthole on the front door and sighed to himself as he saw Tequila standing on the other side of the door. He had a key for the apartment in his hand, but wasn’t letting himself in.

“Jefferson?” Jack said, “Is everything alright?”.

Tequila looked towards the small porthole on the other side and smiled, knowing that Jack would be on the other side looking out.

“Just wanted to check you were decent before I let myself in, Daniels. There’s something I gotta talk to ya about,” he said.

Jack’s heart began pounding in his chest at Tequila’s words. The two men had not spoken much since Jack woke up, and quite frankly he was terrified to deal with him. Aside from feeling like he’d let Champ down, Tequila was someone whom he also respected immensely. The fact he’d fucked up, and the things held tried to do, haunted Jack.

“Sure, come on in,” he said, stepping back to allow Tequila the space to unlock and open the door, swallowing hard as the metal lock on the other side disengaged.

Jack stood to attention, his hands behind his back and standing tall, as he waited for Tequila to enter. The door got pushed forward, and Tequila’s boots clattered against the wooden floor of the apartment, a heaviness Jack was once so used to bearing himself, that now felt so unfamiliar.

Jack smiled faintly as Tequila nodded his head towards Jack, before closing the door behind him. He removed his signature light brown hat, hanging it on a hook by the door. Jack felt a tightness in his chest as the two men stood in an eerie silence for a few moments, his heart pounding at the unfamiliarity of the situation. Not much had ever made Jack nervous before his accident, but now he was working to make it up to those around him he was finding just the presence of others was enough to make him unsettled.

“It’s good to see you, Jefferson,” Jack said, his voice cracking slightly, betraying the strong composure he was trying to put on display. Tequila smiled, nodding again, before gesturing towards the couch in the apartment. Jack nodded, shifting on the spot and heading over to the couch, taking a seat.

“It’s good to see you on your feet again, Jack. How have you settled in?” Tequila asked, sitting next to his former friend.

Jack nodded, smiling taut. It was strange still adjusting to talking with people he once spent every day with, in such a close knit environment, now be reduced to idle small talk. But this was all just part of what he had to endure to earn back their trust.

“I won’t lie, it was difficult at first. But I’ve come to like the place. It’s simple, but has everything I need to be able to live and not feel like I’m under lock and key,” Jack said.

“Is it difficult to still not have your freedom?” Tequila asked. Jack shrugged, then leant back into the couch, moving to rest one leg atop the other crossed.

“Some days it is. It almost drove me mad the first few days, too. But the longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve got into a routine with when I can go out, it makes it easier to fill the time I’m here. Gives me a lot of time to really reflect, too,” Jack admitted.

“Champ said your sessions with Loretta had been fruitful,” Tequila smiled, “And I’m glad, Jack.”

Jack smiled back towards Tequila, his nerves now beginning to settle ever since he arrived at the apartment. He wasn’t too sure what he should have expected from his former colleague, but it was certainly not the civilised conversation that the two men were having now. He at the very least expected some ice from the younger man, a cold shoulder which Jack had most definitely earnt given his actions.

“Thank you, Tequila. But something tells me you didn’t come here just to see how I was doing,” Jack said, and Tequila chuckled.

“Still sharp as ever, I see?” he joked.

“Gotta try,” Jack smiled, laughing through his nostrils. “So, out with it then. What can I do for you?”

“Champ sent me. He would have done this himself, but he’s up to his eyes in paperwork today,” Tequila said, then paused before sighing, turning to look at Jack, “And he also thought we would both benefit from having a talk.”

“Champ’s always scheming something, ain’t he?” Jack chuckled, which even managed to get a low rumble of laughter from Tequila.

“Oh you ain’t wrong there, cowboy,” Tequila said.

Jack’s breathing hitched at the use of the nickname Tequila once would always use for him. Having lived on a ranch the entire time the two men had known each other, Tequila always regarded Jack as being an actual cowboy, not just because of the Statesman get up. He would use that name far more than his actual moniker, Whiskey, and hearing him use it once again gave Jack a sliver of hope that things would one day be back to how things were.

“So, what’s he planning now then?” he asked. Tequila relaxed back into the couch, now bringing himself to be level with Jack’s eyeline.

“He wants to give you a purpose, Jack. He isn’t sure when, or what he wants to see from you before he lets you back. But, over time, he wants to bring you back onto the team,” Tequila said.

Jack nodded, biting his lip nervously. He didn’t miss how his heart began pounding in his chest again at merely the thought that he would potentially be an agent again one day. He wasn’t sure if it was a kind of excitement or anxiety at the prospect, but he knew that right now he was not remotely ready to consider going back.

“Alright…and how does he envision it might look?” Jack asked. Tequila shrugged, sighing slightly to himself. He really wished Champ would have been the one to have this conversation.

“I ain’t too sure on the finer details yet. To be honest I’m not entirely sure he knows,” Tequila chuckled. “But, from what I know so far, he’s thinking about bringing you onto the business side of things. If that goes well, and if he feels we can trust you again, then potentially you could come back as an agent”.

Jack nodded again, taking it all in. The business side of Statesman, the whiskey distillery front of the organisation, was something that had never really appealed to him. He knew why it existed, and couldn’t deny that without it the agents would not be able to do the work they did, but other than that he had limited interest in it.

But, he figured, that if this is what he needed to prove his commitment to Statesman again, he’d do anything. Hell, he’d be content mucking out the horses in the stables on Champ’s ranch for the next decade if it meant he might gain back a sliver of trust.

“If that’s what Champ wants, I’d be more than happy with that arrangement,” Jack said, smiling over at Tequila.

“You ain’t mad that he doesn’t want you as an agent again?” Tequila asked, his brow furrowed. Jack shook his head, then inhaled sharply.

“What I did was wrong, and I’ve got a lot of work to do to make things right around here. I’m more than happy to take things slow and win back y’alls trust. Besides, I ain’t sure that I’d be the best agent at the moment, all things considered. I got a lot of work to do before I’d feel comfortable going back out into the field,” he said, gently tapping the side of his head.

Tequila nodded, smiling taut as he listened to Jack's words. He couldn't help but be surprised by what he said - he'd expected to come in and face issues with giving Jack the news. But to hear that he was understanding about Champ's decision made him see that perhaps he really was able to change and make amends for what he did.

“I haven’t forgiven you, Jack. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to, either,” Tequila said, his voice cracking slightly. Jack nodded, reaching out to gently pat his former colleague on the shoulder with the palm of his hand. .

“That’s understandable, Tex. I don’t know if I could forgive myself either if the tables were turned,” Jack said, “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna give up on doing the right thing. Statesman is like a family to me. I know I’ve fucked up, but that won’t stop me from tryna’ do right by y’all now.”

“It means a lot to hear that, Jack. And all this is to say that I will try,” he smiled, “It's just gonna take time.”

Jack smiled, a few tears prickling in the corner of his eyes as Tequila rose to his feet to head on his way. He quickly dabbed his eyes, waiting until the agent had left the confines of the apartment before releasing the streams of salty tears down his cheeks. A wave of relief washed over him and he sighed out loud as a weight felt like it had been lifted from his chest.

Jack knew that rebuilding these relationships would take time, but for the first time since he woke up he finally felt like he was one step closer to doing so. He’d been treading on eggshells around everyone for weeks, but now there was an end in sight to how he’d been feeling. It was a long road, for sure, but at least Jack could now see that there was a path in sight.

For the first time in his life, Jack felt like he had a purpose. Something greater to work towards than just himself and his own gain. These last few weeks had made him see how much he had always inherently cared for the team he’d worked with for years, and that his betrayal had cut deep wounds in people he deeply loved.

He took himself off to bed that evening with a twinge in his heart and a warmth in his stomach. For once, he could tell himself that everything might actually be okay.

And for the first time in years, he believed himself.

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