#jack daniels recall

[remnants-of-his-last-resort]

Do you guys like my slightly blurry Lost textposts

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Recall - Part 3

UN(F*CKING)BELIEVABLE

A/N: Here's the part where I ask you to pretend it hasn't been MONTHS and MONTHS since the last update. I have no excuses for how long its taken me to get this part written other than it hurt. Thank you to everyone who has been on this ride with me from the beginning or from any point along the way, especially @something-tofightfor for the constant encouragement on this story. I've known how it all shakes out for a while now, and after this there are only two parts left. I hope you all like where it's headed, because it's full steam ahead from here on out!

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: language, mention of death and loss, Jack has a lot of Trauma stored in his noggin and in his heart

Summary: Merlin helps shed some light on the mysterious Project Aster. Jack awakens from the Recall program... And you find yourself even more involved in this mission than you already were.

Series Masterlist

To his credit, Champ didn’t keep you waiting long at all, and for that you were thankful. 

“Talk to me, Ginger Ale. What in tarnation is goin’ on with our man Whiskey? And how bad is it? No sugarcoatin’.” 

He strode into the lab, dressed the same as he would be for a boardroom meeting - stetson to bootsoles - and fully alert, despite the late hour. You glanced down at your watch as the lab door slid shut behind him, frowning as the numbers there dwindled further. 

00:28:19 REMAINING 

We’ve gotten nowhere. We… He’ll be awake soon and we have no real idea what’s wrong.

“We’re not entirely sure, Champ.” Ginger’s response called your attention back to the conversation at hand. “Physically, everything is fine. The Alpha-gel is doing its job. The wound is almost completely healed, his vital signs are all within normal limits, and the Recall program booted up and ran without issue.” She gestured to the various monitors that displayed proof of what she’d just said, Champ nodding along as he looked them over for himself.

“Well that’s a good start,” he mused, crossing his arms over his chest. “So where’s the hangup?” Without taking his eyes off the screens in front of him, he tilted his head in your direction. “Maraschino? Fill me in.” 

He’s asking me? 

Your eyes widened in surprise as he addressed you, and you quickly looked over at Ginger for reassurance. She gave you a small, encouraging nod, and mouthed the words go ahead. 

“The problem isn’t with J-” You cut yourself off before you could break protocol in front of the head of the organization himself. “-with Whiskey. It’s with his file.” Champ turned his weathered visage on you then, even deeper creases forming over and between his unruly eyebrows as he frowned. “There are some inconsistencies in his chart. Things that were never updated. But it’s more than that. It’s-” 

You winced, stepping up to the computer screens to pull up the hidden files that Merlin unearthed. It’s potentially much worse than that. 

“What the devil is Project Aster?” Champ’s mumbled confusion confirmed what you and Ginger had already suspected - that he was just as in the dark about the surreptitious op as you were. 

Ginger sighed. “We were really hoping that you could tell us, boss.” She shook her head and lifted her right hand up to resituate her glasses. “We can’t access any of the records on it. Merlin is working on that as we speak. But we do know that there has been crossover with the Recall Program and this Project Aster.” Gesturing at the screen, she indicated the flags in Jack’s decrypted file that showed where the two operations coincided in the past. “Most of these incidents date back to before you took over from the last Agent Champagne.” 

“Most?” One eyebrow arched in question as he turned to face her. “You mean to tell me that this malarky-” He pointed to the screen with one hand, the other going to his hip. “- has been goin’ on under our noses? On my watch?” He clicked his tongue, a look of pure disappointment in himself crossing his face. “How?” 

“That’s what we need to figure out,” Ginger responded, sympathy and urgency woven through her tone. “And we need to know if Whiskey was the only one involved or if this affects any of the others.” 

You knew that was true. You had to rule out an agency-wide problem, and going through every operative’s file with Merlin’s fine-toothed comb would take time. But something in the center of your brain told you that it was too big of a coincidence - the Project and the flower Jack had tattooed on his chest sharing the same name - for it to apply to anyone else but him. He got that tattoo because it was his wife’s favorite flower. He told me that. It’s… A metallic taste filled your mouth as you glanced over at him and finished your thought. I don’t know how yet, but it’s connected. It has to be. 

“When did you last hear from Merlin and the Galahads?” Champ asked. “And what’s the status of their mission?” 

Their mission. Right. 

In the chaos of dealing with Jack you’d almost forgotten what had preceded his arrival in the lab. A chill raced down your spine as you reminded yourself what was at stake if Eggsy and Harry weren’t able to pull it off without Jack’s help. You looked over at Agent Tequila. What little of his skin you could see through the dome of the recovery bay was struck through with spidery blue veins. They crept up the side of his throat and over the cut of his jaw, the poison in them threatening to spread through his entire bloodstream if the antidote wasn’t administered soon. You knew that there were millions of others in the same danger, and that most of them were not fortunate enough to receive the technologically advanced medical care that you and Ginger had been able to give him to slow the effects of the tainted drugs. You knew that thousands of people had likely already succumbed, and countless more would soon follow if The Golden Circle wasn’t stopped. 

They will be. They have to be. 

Ginger tapped on the keyboard to pull up a map showing the GPS tracker that was located on the Statesman plane they’d let the Kingsman Agents borrow. It showed that it was still in the air. “They haven’t landed yet,” she explained in answer to his second question. “And they- oh.” 

Oh? Your eyes darted from the map to the woman, and then back to the screen as she pulled up a message from Merlin. Oh.

Ginger Ale - Still working on cracking these files. Each one has a different key so it’s taking some time. From what I can see so far, it looks like Project Aster had something to do with memory restoration, specifically restoring the intensity of a memory. Possibly a precursor to your Recall program? I’ll have a better idea once I crack more of these flagged events. Forwarding the two decoded files now. Let me know if anything stands out to you, otherwise I’ll touch base again when I have more. - Merlin 

You frowned at the screen and read the message a second time, your grip on the chairback in front of you tightening. Restoring the intensity of a memory? The furrow between your brows deepened as you pondered the implications of a procedure like that. Sharpening the details of a memory, ensuring that nothing was forgotten and that time didn’t numb the subject’s initial thoughts and reactions certainly had its place in an agency like Statesman. But if they were running Project Aster in conjunction with Recall… Your eyes strayed from the screen to the manilla folder on the countertop, honing in on the silver paperclip that you knew was only securing a single item - a polaroid. Oh, shit. Your heart thudded to a full stop and then plummeted into your stomach as you put two and two together. 

“His wife.” The words came out in a breathless whisper, a sour taste filling your mouth as you turned to face Ginger. “Ginger, does that mean… If Aster and Recall were mixed, does that mean that the memory that they were-” You winced. “- intensifying, is the memory of losing his wife?” 

Ginger’s eyes went wide as she inhaled deeply through her nose. A handful of seconds ticked by without a response, and you knew that meant that she was trying and failing to come up with a way to easily dismiss your hypothesis. When nothing came to her she looked to Champ, the man’s weathered features reflecting the heaviness you felt in your own heart. 

“How on Earth could that be somethin’ worth puttin’ a man through?” Champ’s question broke the silence, but it was clear in his tone that he didn’t doubt what you’d proposed. He frowned, and the glint of compassion you saw enter his eyes made your heart break even more, because you knew he cared for Jack as a friend first and foremost. “Like he’d ever forget how he felt on the worst day of his goddamn life.” 

You swallowed down the tears that were threatening to spill as you shook your head. “I don’t know, Champ, I can’t…” Can’t imagine how that constitutes anything but fucking torture. Squeezing your eyes shut, you gave up on answering his question because you weren’t sure it had one. Instead, something else occurred to you as you returned your focus to the screens once more. “Ginger, can you pull up those dates again? The ones that were flagged for both programs?”

“Sure,” she replied, already moving to find the information you asked for. “They’re right here.” 

You quickly found the entry for the incident that Ginger had pulled up - the one that left Jack with a gunshot through his chest. Your blood ran cold as you cross referenced it with Merlin’s file and found it to be one of the double flagged events. “Shit. Look. Right before he got the tattoo. It… he…” You sighed heavily. “It makes sense that if that memory was being enhanced while he was going through the Recall system that he’d suddenly be inspired to get a tattoo honoring his wife directly after. And if there’s a chance that those two programs being run simultaneously causes lapses in short term memory or even reordering of current memories…” You trailed off as Ginger nodded.

“Then he wouldn’t have thought to report the tattoo because he thought it was always there. You’re right, Maraschino. I think…” She nodded again, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose and requiring a small shove back into place. “I think that’s the only explanation, actually.” 

“But why?” Champ asked again, crossing his arms and bringing his left hand up to smooth out his mustache. “Why sharpen that memory?” He clicked his tongue. “And if I wasn’t the one authorizin’ it, and neither of you were the ones implementing it, who the hell was?” 

Static started buzzing through the portion of your brain where logic normally resided, but luckily Ginger had an answer to the first half of Champ’s questioning. “Well, since Whiskey’s trigger image is a photo of her..? Maybe ensuring that that memory in particular stays… intact, was somehow crucial to ensuring that the Recall program would work every time?” 

It was something, though you weren’t sure it answered the second part of Champ’s question - about who was actually running Project Aster. And perhaps more importantly, how. 

“Maybe,” Champ muttered. “You should get in touch with Merlin. Let him know what Maraschino just puzzled together. See if you can get him to focus on only crackin’ the files that coincide for now. Maybe there’s more clues that we’re missin’.” 

Ginger immediately did as he asked, filling her Kingsman counterpart in on what the three of you had just discussed. As she finished, so did the countdown on your watch, three long beeps coming from the device on your wrist. Whipping around towards the recovery bays, you took a breath and held it as you watched the visor lift… 

…And the man beneath it start to sit up. 

–  –  –  

A fizzy sort of disorientation greeted Jack as his eyes opened, the feeling akin to waking from a nap he hadn’t meant to take and not quite knowing how long he’d been asleep. It wasn’t unpleasant. If anything, it was nice. A few seconds with no pressure, no expectations, just the hum of consciousness taking back over. A reprieve of sorts, short-lived as it was. 

By the time his boots hit the floor it was already over, the pleasant fizz in his brain consolidating into a clunky mass of confusion.

Where the hell am I?  

He blinked, clearing the slight blur around the edges of his vision as the hum sharpened into sounds and then words. There were people - three of them - talking, and it took him a few seconds to realize that they were talking to him. 

But who… And how did I get here? Last I remember I was… 

Before he had a chance to blink again, a woman with dark eyes behind winged glasses stepped up next to an older man with sandy gray hair. Despite the somewhat regretful expression she wore, she was gorgeous, and Jack was just about to tell her so when she beat him to the punch once more, extending her hand and what she was holding, out to him. “I really hate to do this to you, Jack, but I need you to look at this.” 

Alright? 

He lifted his hand to take what she was passing him. As soon as his fingertips made contact with the glossy finish of the photo paper though, he felt something at his core telling him to pull back - like the slamming of brakes at 65 MPH or the tug of a chain attached to a heavy anchor. It was strange, a bit unsettling, but he was willing to chalk it up to the confusion still taking up most of his brain space, so he ignored the alarm and looked at what he was holding. 

A young woman - a beautiful young woman - smiled up at him from the photo, her ruby lips catching his eye right away. “Well now, who is this pretty lady?” 

The other man in the room clicked his tongue, Jack looking up at the sound. “You really don’t remember her, Whiskey?” 

Whiskey? What? He gave a small shake of his head. Do I know her? He felt that slam again, that thing inside trying to pull him back, but he looked back down at the picture. She does look… familiar. “Remember… what about her, exactly?” 

The third person in the room was standing just out of Jack’s line of sight and slightly behind the man, but Jack heard a gasp come from their direction at his question. 

The woman who handed him the photo let out a deep sigh then. “I’m so sorry, Jack.” She frowned. “She’s dead.” 

She’s dead. 

Those two words fell through him with the crushing weight of a lead anvil. He dropped his eyes back to the photo, and as he did he felt his memory spin like the cylinder of a pistol, flashes of moments flying by with each empty cylinder. 

Click. A quarter dropped into the coin slot of a jukebox. The press of a button to select a song. His hand extended out to her and her smile as she let him lead her in a dance. 

She’s…

Another click. Her simple white dress, his borrowed suit. The last rays of sunlight and the exchange of rings. Elation as the words “I do,” were spoken, and a kiss that mirrored their intent. 

My wife, she’s… 

The final click that found the loaded chamber. One hand on her hip, the other on the slight bump of her belly. “Just running to the store for milk, Honey, I’ll be right back.” “Alright, Sweetheart, be safe.” 

He blinked at the photo again, the motion of his eyelids like the pull of a trigger in his brain. 

She’s gone. 

Suddenly it all fell painfully into place. Who he was, what he lost, his training with Statesman, the mission he’d been on when - he lifted his fingertips to the side of his head, finding a gauzy bandage applied near his temple - when he’d been shot. Bringing the photo up to his lips, he pressed a kiss to the glossy image of his wife, his highschool sweetheart, the love of his life, the mother of his child, the woman who was ripped from his life when she got tangled in the web of a drug related shooting.  

When Jack lifted his eyes to the woman who had handed him the photo, he could feel that they had darkened. “Ginger.” He handed his trigger image back to her so she could slip it into the file for the next time it was needed, and then shifted his focus to the man standing beside her. “Champ.” 

The older man sighed, relief rolling off of him in waves as he did. “Welcome back, Agent Whiskey. Had us worryin’ there for a spell.” He clapped a weathered palm to Jack’s shoulder.

The contact was meant to be comforting, compassionate. But with it came another sharp pulse of memory - anger and rage, deep seeded and violent. The image of a vial in his hand, and then the business end of a pistol meeting his gaze, the man behind it wearing an eyepatch. A loud bang and then nothing. 

I was close. To completing the objective. I was close, and then - 

He hissed under his breath, subtly shrugging Champ’s hand off of him. “Goddamn butterfly guy shot me.” 

“What?” Ginger Ale’s bewildered tone matched the questioning expression on her face. She gave a small, jerky shake of her head. “Why would he-” 

Jack felt another pulse of anger flash through him, and it forced him to cut the woman off. “Well I’m guessin’ it’s because you didn’t fix’im right.” The woman recoiled slightly, Jack narrowing his eyes. 

This is… strange. 

The emotions he was experiencing didn’t feel like his own. He respected Ginger. And Champ. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever spoken to either of them with the same amount of vitriol that he tasted on his tongue with every word he let loose now. 

Somethin’ ain’t right. 

He knew it at his core. He’d done this same dance several times before, but never had he woken up so agitated, so hell bent on shoving blame onto anyone but himself. But he also knew that the mission he was on had to be seen through, and he knew that he needed to be there to ensure that it was. Swallowing the thickness in his throat, he took a second to calm himself  down, eyes moving from Ginger’s frown to the screen displaying the GPS location of the plane carrying Eggsy, Harry and Merlin to Poppy’s hideaway. 

But in transition, they landed somewhere else first. 

They landed on the pair of eyes belonging to the third person in the room, and when they did he felt something else. Something warm and soft, like the sound of the music coming from that jukebox. Like the gentle glow right before sunset. Like the promise of home and someone to share it with. 

He knew his wife was gone. In the depths of his soul, he knew. But in that moment, when his eyes locked with that third pair - with yours - he felt a connection that he couldn’t explain. 

“Sweetheart?” 

– – – 

His voice cracked on the word, and you watched the daggers he’d been shooting from his eyes clatter to the ground as he shifted his focus to you. 

What? You sucked in a breath and held it as your heart slammed against your sternum. He’s never called me that. He only… That particular term of endearment belonged to someone else. Someone who you knew you could never replace, nor would you ever try to. You wet your lips with the tip of your tongue before speaking. “It’s me… It’s Maraschino, Agent.” 

At the mention of your codename he blinked, dropping his eyes from your face, down to where your necklace lay atop your shirt. The tips of your fingers came involuntarily up to touch one of the pearls strung along the chain. When his gaze lifted it had changed again. Still softer than what he’d treated Ginger and Champ to. But not as wistful as it was when he first looked your way. Oh, Jack.  A deep ridge cut through the center of his forehead as his eyebrows came together, and then he took a step towards you, clearing his throat before speaking again, a hint of apology in his tone as he said your name. “Darlin’ I-“ 

You shook your head, cutting him off before he could finish. “It’s alright, Agent.” You could have sworn you saw him wince as you dropped your hand from your necklace back to your side. What’s that about? Giving him what you hoped was a small but encouraging smile, you tried not to let your mind leap to worst case scenarios, ones in which the reset hadn’t fully taken, leaving him caught in confusion. No, that was just a blip. Happens sometimes. He just needs a few more minutes to settle. “Just glad to have you back.”  

Because losing you would be awful, Jack Daniels. I… I can’t lose you. 

“Back.” Jack repeated the word, eyes finally finding clarity and moving to their intended target -  the screen displaying the map. Moving towards it, he pointed at the Kingsman Agents’ destination. “I need to get back to the mission. If Galahad Senior’s brain is still scrambled, Eggsy could be in danger and the whole damn mission could be at risk.” 

Though it didn’t necessarily surprise you that he was so eager to get back in the field, the idea of him barreling back into the fray without any answers about Project Aster was not one that you were comfortable with. At all. Wait. Your heart sped up as you turned in Ginger’s direction. We can’t let him go back without even telling him what Merlin found in his file, right? You caught her eye and pleaded silently with her. He needs to know. He could still be at risk if something’s not right, and-

“Hold your horses just one minute there, Agent.” Both you and Ginger turned at the sound of Champ’s voice, his hesitancy to agree with Jack giving you hope. “There’s somethin’ you need to know first before we decide if we can send you back out. Might be better to get Mezcal on it, he’s still in Tokyo so -” 

That was not what Jack was expecting to hear, which was made extremely clear by the incredulous look he shot Champ’s way. “No, what you need to know is that that one-eyed wonder Harry is liable to snap again and shoot this whole operation to shit. Briefing Mezcal and arrangin’ travel will take too long.” He took a step closer to the Agency’s leader. “I’m already familiar with the mission. I can get myself there in the Pony.” He gave a small shake of his head. “You know I’m right, Champ.” 

You glanced sidelong at Ginger, the woman doing the same, both of you seemingly holding your breath to see what Champ’s response would be. 

He clicked his tongue and muttered a swear under his breath and you felt your heart sink. He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna send him back out even though - “Well, you’re not wrong, Jack. But!” He held up a finger and cocked his head to the side. “Galahad the Elder might not be the only one scrambled up here. Tell me, Agent, you ever heard of Project Aster?” 

–

Project Aster? 

Jack instantly recoiled at Champ’s question, one hand coming up to his chest where beneath the jumpsuit he still wore, a bundle of three flowers sharing a name with the operation was tattooed on his skin. 

They were his wife’s favorite flower, symbolic of love and devotion. He gave her a bouquet of them on their first date and on the day he asked her to marry him. She had them in her hair at the wedding. She grew them in the garden of their home. Asters had been a part of Jack’s life far longer than Statesman had. And as far as he knew, he’d never been involved with a project of that name. 

“What the fuck is Project Aster?” 

Over the next few minutes, Ginger Ale showed him hidden entries in his file that corresponded  to the mystery project. She explained that whatever it was, it seemed to be linked to sharpening or enhancing specific memories - and that it was being used in conjunction with the Recall Program. Something like a dark shadow lurked in the back of his mind, telling him that whatever concerns Ginger had brought up were valid. But even as she laid it all out to him, including how much was still unknown about why and how Aster was being implemented without Champ’s authorization, and what it could possibly mean for his own health and safety if there were any dangerous side effects, Jack had simply no prior knowledge of taking part in it. 

“I don’t know what to tell you about this, Ginger,” he said with a shrug of both shoulders. He glanced your way, the empathy in your eyes damn near breaking his heart. Oh, Darlin’, don’t be sad for me. He swallowed his knotted emotions and returned his focus to Ginger and Champ. “But I do know that if I don’t get back on this mission, millions more people will die because they got caught in the crosshairs of some psycho, just like my Sweetheart did.” He looked directly at Champ then, pleading to the one person in the room he’d known the longest. “And that I cannot abide while there’s still something to be done about it.” 

Champ held his gaze for a handful of seconds before clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Fine.” He raised one shaggy eyebrow. “But you might not like the one condition I’m allowing it under.” 

– – – 

Champ had been right - Jack did not like the condition. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely not, Champagne!” He roared, eyes darkening and nostrils flared wide. He looked right at you then, and you saw something flicker just beneath the surface before he whipped his attention back to Champ. “For one, I do not need a fuckin’ chaperone. And even more importantly, Maraschino should not have to risk her life in the field when she’s not trained and-” 

“And it’s the only way you’re going, Whiskey.” You’d never heard the tone that entered Champ’s voice as he shut down Jack’s protest before then, and it was enough to make you suck in a breath and straighten your spine. Oh, shit. “Now you just told me that we don’t have much time to lose here. Do you really want to lose more of it arguin’ with me on this? Because you will not win.” 

The condition, though it was sprung on you and Ginger in the same moment that it was presented to Jack, was that he would be allowed to resume his part in the mission to stop the Golden Circle - so long as you accompanied him to observe him for any side-effects or signs that Project Aster was interfering with his cognitive function. Which, as someone who never considered taking a job in the field, came as a shock to you. 

But not as big a shock as it was to him. It was clear that Jack wanted you nowhere near the mission, and you couldn’t really blame him. I’d be a liability. He’d have to watch both of your backs and that would mean taking attention away from what he was there to do. But… You hated to admit that it was the only way. He needs someone there with him to make sure he’s still on target and it… It has to be me. 

Ginger needed to stay to monitor Tequila’s recovery and to continue to correspond with Merlin. Champ had the entirety of Statesman to run, several other ongoing missions to oversee. But you were the one who not only knew the most about the Recall Program among the rest of the lab assistants thanks to your research, but you also knew the most about Jack. You knew him as an Agent and as a man, and you would know best if he were acting off in any way. 

“It’s okay, Jack.” You knew that you should have used his codename. Protocol and all of that. But you also knew that you could reach him more deeply if you shirked protocol and showed him that you were in if it could give him a better chance at safely finishing this. 

You watched the fight drain from him as you agreed to Champ’s terms. His eyes went soft and his full lips formed a slight pout as he looked at you, taking a breath that filled his lungs before slowly letting it out. He took two steps closer to you, gaze flicking down to your chain once more before coming back up to meet yours. “You sure about this, Darlin’?” 

Wetting your lips with the tip of your tongue, you nodded. “I’m sure.” Trying for a moment of lightness, you gave him a tiny smile. “Besides, you always said you wanted to take me for a spin in the Silver Pony.” 

It didn’t make him laugh or even crack a grin. Instead, to your dismay, the look on his face only grew more grim. But he nodded once and turned to Champ. “Alright.” 

It was the last word he spoke until you were in the air, Ginger showing you how to strap into your seat and going over the controls in your headset before takeoff. Jack continued to keep his lips sealed for the first half of the flight. When he finally broke the silence, it was with your name, static crackling in your headset before his voice was in your ear. You froze at the emotion you heard there, recognizing it instantly despite the fact that it was the first time he’d displayed it to you. Fear. He’s… You swallowed down a thick knot. He’s scared. “Darlin’? You read me?” 

Shit. Clearing your throat, you pressed the button that allowed you to respond. “I read you, Jack.” You waited a beat, heart slamming at your ribcage as you stared at the back of his seat in front of you. “Everything alright?” Well that’s a dumb question that I already know the answer to. 

He let out a small humorless laugh that sounded far too flat to have come from the man you knew. “Oh, just peachy.” You winced, closing your eyes and focusing on his voice. “Listen, I know Champ and Ginger want you to stick with me on this one. But I…” He swore under his breath. “I need you to stay with the Pony when we land. Can you promise me that?” 

What? Your eyes flew open, brow creased with confusion. “That’s not…” You shook your head even though you knew he couldn’t see you. “Jack, that would be a violation of a direct order. Think about what you’re asking me to do. I can’t-” 

“No, I can’t,” he spoke over you, that uncharacteristic fear still present in his tone and sending a chill through you. “Can’t lose you, too, Darlin’. Can’t have you become another picture in my file of someone I lo-” 

Your mouth dropped open and you inhaled sharply as he cut himself off mid-word. Someone he… The rushing sound that filled your ears then had nothing to do with the fact that you were traveling at Mach speed, and everything to do with what you were damn near certain he had just stopped himself from saying. Was he going to say someone he loves? You blinked, fingers digging into your thigh as you waited for him to continue. 

“Someone I lost.” 

You let go of your held breath in a single burst as you thought about the way he looked at you back in the lab, when he first woke up and called you Sweetheart - like he’d been reunited with someone he’d been missing, someone he’d been looking for but who he never hoped to find. Like he thought I was… A deep ache twisted through your chest and you had to work to fight off a sob. Like he thought I was his wife. 

Whatever shit Aster had dragged up in his memory, whatever edge that time had worn down that the experimental project had sharpened was clearly playing painful games with his heart. And yours was getting cut up in the process. “You won’t lose me, Jack.” And I won’t lose you. 

“Just promise me,” he said again, adding your name. “Promise me, please. I’ll leave my wrist comm open and connected the whole time. Anything squirrely starts happenin’, you come runnin’. But… long as everything’s alright, can you please tell me you’ll stay back?” 

It went against your better judgment. It went against your loyalty to Statesman and the agreement that you made with Champ and Ginger. But the crack in his voice, that look in his eye back in the lab… you knew that if he was too worried about your safety it would put his own at risk. So you made the promise he asked you to. You stayed with the plane when it landed, Jack pressing a too-quick kiss to your lips before he went dashing off into certain danger. 

“I’ll come back to you, Darlin’,” he’d said. “I swear it.” 

But you heard and felt what he was really saying with that kiss, with those words. I love you, too, Jack. “You better, Cowboy.” 

And then he was gone.  

Ten minutes ticked by, going on eleven when your watch beeped and you twisted your wrist to read it, three messages from HQ coming in rapid succession. 

IMMEDIATE CONTACT REQUIRED RE: PROJECT ASTER 

NOT WHAT WE THOUGHT. PROJECT ASTER WAS NOT INTENDED TO SHARPEN MEMORIES. ITS INTENT WAS TO CREATE THEM. 

As chilling as both of those were to read, it was the final one that drove an icy spike through your heart. 

WHISKEY NEVER HAD A WIFE. 

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.

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[world-of-wales]

LAURA WARSHAUER SHARED SNIPPETS FROM HER TIME AT ST ANDREW'S WATCHING WILL & CAT FALL IN LOVE ♡

Laura Warshauer had a front row seat as a result of her close friendship with the pair. Whether it was William helping to carry her luggage, Kate comforting her on a night out, or just having a quiet drink in a cosy corner of a pub together, those memories live on.

Her interactions with them are something few can share – teaching Kate how to play the guitar, William buying her first ever Jack Daniel’s and Coke, eating takeaway food together or laughing and joking during road trips.

Speaking about her time at uni she said :

‘I graduated from school a year early and then spent what would have been my senior year at high school in St Andrews. It was a beautiful moment in time.

I wound up getting a front row seat to the very beginning of what would become one of the greatest and most iconic love stories of our time. It’s great to see Will and Kate, the same people they were then, on the world stage.’

Talking about their form life, she recalls that she'd her mother’s lasagne recipe and her aunt’s toffee – for William and some of his friends as well as chatting with him during meal times in the ‘Harry Potter-style’ dining hall.

William & Laura sitting together for the art history 02 class photo (fun fact william changed his course like 2 weeks later to geography)

She said:

‘Will lived down the hall with two of his friends from Eton. Kate lived on the floor below.

‘I met them the same week they met each other. I was struck by how normal Will was. You could talk about anything – the most mundane things.

'Coming back from a trip home to New Jersey with my big luggage, Will would grab my bag and take it inside the dorm.

‘We were all just trying to find our way. Even if you’d been at a boarding school like Eton, people were still in a new environment.’

‘I remember I made dinner for everyone on my birthday in December and Will brought me a gift – a stuffed animal from Tesco.

It’s a seal with a blue backpack with stars on it. It’s in a place where I can see it every day and I’m like, “How cool”. It’s adorable.’

Laura said Kate and William had instant chemistry and fell for each other months before the 2002 fashion show where Will saw Kate modelling and described her as ‘hot’ :

‘We went to a party at a castle. It was a Harry Potter theme and they did an auction for charity where people were bidding to win a date. Will bid £200 to win a date with Kate.’

This is the Glamis Castle Birthday party from 01 where Catherine was pictured with Olivia Bleasdale

While Ms Warshauer doesn’t know what they eventually did for their date, she remembered Kate’s reaction was effortlessly cool – showing she was unfazed by titles and comfortable around him.

She spoke about Kate extricating William from an uncomfortable encounter:

‘It was early on when Will and Kate were getting to know each other. This girl was talking to Will, and he was being polite, but it was obvious he needed a way out .

‘All of a sudden Kate walks up from across the room, puts her arms around him and enables him to turn to this other girl and be like “I’m sorry, I have a girlfriend”.

‘And then he turned to Kate and silently mouthed the words “Thank you”. I remember thinking at that moment that no one but Kate could have done that.

‘They had just met each other but it was clear they had a connection.’

Speaking about her friendship with The Princess of Wales she said :

‘Kate saw that I was upset one night while we were out. I was walking ahead so people couldn’t see that I was upset and she came up and put her arm around me and said “I hate seeing people I care about upset”. You remember these moments.’

A photograph of Kate and Laura taken in the town’s camera shop in 2001 shows their friendship. A trip taken to find equipment for Laura's CBS audition tape filming:

‘As you know, Kate loves photography, she loved it then. Even in her dorm room I remember the beautiful photos.

‘She and I went to the camera shop together to get everything we needed and then she filmed the audition for me.’

Laura had shared a photo on social media of herself and Kate – taken at a 19th birthday party during their time in St Andrews – in a show of support for the Princess following her treatment for cancer.

This party seems to be Oliver Baker's birthday. He's one of W&C's close friends and one of George's godparents.

Speaking about it she said:

‘The interest is even greater now than it was the first time.’

Reminiscing about the party where the photo was taken, she remembers that she had just been to Paris to visit her sister who was studying there. The outfit she has on in the snap is one she bought during that French adventure.

Even that trip to Paris had started with another cherished moment with WillCat. She said:

‘Kate and I were supposed to ride a taxi to the airport together but then Will gave her a ride so I got in on it. I love how he offered her a ride and that’s how I got to go.

‘It was so cool to arrive in Paris and be like, “So guess who gave me a ride to the airport?”

‘The radio was on and Will was like, “Laura, you can sing with the radio”. It was just like popular music. It was sweet that he made that reference to me as a singer.’

[stars-obsession-pit]

I feel like someone must have suggested this sort of thing before because it feels obvious, but I can’t recall seeing it so…

DP x DC prompt:

Vlad Masters thinks his bank accounts could do with a bit of a boost, and decides to use ol’ reliable (overshadowing a rich person and “transferring” a bunch of their money to him)

And as for his target? Some rich himbo from Gotham, a city already known for its crime and corruption. Quite frankly, he’s astonished no one has robbed the guy already.

Hell, he’s even hosting a charity gala that he could use as an easy way of getting close to him and that would allow him to show off to Maddie and Daniel!

Maybe he could even get one of the city’s Rogues to kill Jack while he’s at it!

Truly, it’s a perfect situation.

What could possibly go wrong?

[thebarroomortheboy]

Speaking of fabulous characters, England has produced a bumper crop of them. But don't forget, over here in the colonies, we've managed to come up with a few of our own. How about Paul Bunyan, Pecos Bill, Johnny Appleseed, Black Bart, Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone and, of course, the one and only Ichabod Crane. Old Ichy, if you recall, was the country schoolmaster dreamed up by Washington Irving. Oh, he had a way with the yarn, good Mr. Irving.

THE ADVENTURES OF ICHABOD CRANE (1949) | dir. James Alger, Clyde Geronimi and Jack Kinney

[radiance1]

Vlad owned a cookbook.

Keyword, owned.

But you see, it was far from an ordinary cookbook.

It was a bit magical in nature, not on any purpose of Vlad's part, despite being the one to make it. It was created a while after Vlad stopped having an obsession with Maddie and became on somewhat better terms with Jack, in which he decided to entirely ignore one Daniel Fenton.

Instead, he focused on creating the perfect cookbook that has ever graced the mortal plane. Made from the highest leather, the best finest paper and bound together with the best thread he could find.

All helpfully sourced from the Ghost Zone.

Of course, after all of that he had to, well, fill it with recipes.

He had multiple duplicates scouring the internet for various recipes, and since it's for personal use he doesn't have to care for copyright or whatever since it won't be used by anyone but him. While also looking around in the Ghost Zone for specific types of ghosts.

Mostly grannies.

Overtime and with help from his multiple duplicates his cookbook has quickly become filled up, though for some reason there seemed to be an endless number of pages left unfinished, doesn't matter since it's just more space.

Then he started to encounter the spirits of witches, wizards, warlocks, shamans. You get it.

He took recipes from them too, because when he meant this would be the greatest cookbook, he meant it, and what is potion making if not Alchemy, and what is Alchemy if not cooking?

So, after some time, with blood, sweat, and tears being poured into his book with recipes from everywhere and his own personal recipe along with few decorations here and there, making it look less like a common book and more like the prized treasure it truly is, and Vlad's work is finally complete.

The greatest cookbook to ever grace the mortal plane.

He went to sleep happy, woke up the next day happy, used his newfound cookbook happily and was overall having the greatest of times.

He also found out that his cookbook became sentient. Which is nice, because he can just call out a page and it'll flip right through to it, but he doesn't recall how it became sentient.

He's been watching it carefully before completion, and every time it came in contact with ectoplasm it never became sentient like the food the Fentons produce (And yes, living food is indeed within the endless pages of his book), so it maybe had something to do with the more magical recipes contained within.

Not that he cared, really, since it served it's purpose extremely well.

Except, a few months later, with a visit from the Fentons to his mansion, he finds he lost it.

Vlad, predictably, is in shambles.

Is it because his cookbook is a genuine danger to society if in the wrong hands?

No.

Perhaps because contained within its pages are high level alchemical recipes?

No.

Or maybe because there was a recipe to create some kind of potion to kill an immortal, make someone immortal, or reverse death? (Honestly he didn't even remember where he got that one)

Fuck no.

He's in shambles because he didn't even get to use a quarter of the recipes that weren't even his own.

Also, because it's became his technical technically both his son and best friend.

Who does he accuse first?

One Danny Fenton.

Because it only disappeared after Danny came to visit, and while he wouldn't put it past Jack to do something incredibly stupid, the man was nowhere near his book at the time!

Danny, predictably, is not at all amused.

Vlad then pesters him to go out and search for his missing greatest creation and doesn't stop until Danny agrees.

So, now Danny has to find a cookbook that can and probably is a genuine danger to society if someone decides to use the far less than normal recipes.

Also, why the fuck did Vlad even have them??

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

Cory interrupts him by shoving the burger in his face for a taste. Sean's eyebrows raised, nevermind. He takes the burger and gives it to Jack so he can try. Jack refuses. No, no. I have a modeling career now. Beef goes right to the hips. -Danielle

Now. Wait, Rider, I was thinking about this during, am I recalling this right? Weren't you a vegetarian at this point? -Will

May have been a veggie burger. -Danielle

I think I remember you saying like it can't be beef. Like I remember having you having this discussion about.. - Will

 I was never that picky. I think if Ben wouldn't have eaten a a veggie burger, I would've just eaten the beef. -Rider 

I think Ben would've eaten a veggie burger. -Danielle 

It must've, I'm guessing it was a veggie burger. -Will 

I'm gonna bet it was a veggie burger. -Danielle 

I think if they had asked, I would've been like, yeah, if it can be a veggie burger and if, yeah, but I, no, I wouldn't. I dunno. I was never that picky. I would cheat all the time, you know?  Not all the time, but yeah, I was never like super, it was just, yeah. -Rider 

[penvisions]

i'd give anything for more time {jack daniels x f! reader}

Pairing: Jack Daniels x F! Reader (Retired! Agent Whiskey x F! Reader)

Summary: He's nowhere, not really. Stuck in the ambient space of a random coffee shop. Doesn't know what he's looking for, until you walk in.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: angst, yearning, mild language, kissing, time loop weirdness, mentions of heath issues, grief

A/N: i'm gonna be real with y'all, i....struggled with this. had something FAR more angsty outlined for the role-a-trope challenge the moment i got the trope assigned to me. but i'm tired and wanted something a little more happy and this was the result. i hope this is kinda on point @burntheedges. mine was time loop / groundhog day with jack daniels and man i hope i did it justice after all this time!! cause i know this is hella late and i apologize for that

-> navigation

The coffee shop is bustling, the grinding of beans, the buzz of many voices, the dings and mechanical sounds of the register, of the phones in people’s hands, music over speakers, the steam want of an espresso machine working away.

And Jack is standing in the middle of it all, for what feels like the millionth time.

He’s not real, at least…he doesn’t think he’s real.

The first few times he was here, it seemed like he just appeared amidst the hustle and bustle of a weekday morning. He’s confused, he was just in the middle of a meeting. Asking if he wanted to pick up a job even though he’s retired. He faintly remembers an argument. All heated words and half responses that had turned into forlorn words. His tall legs carrying him out of a door, out of an entryway lined with frames photos and art, a colorful catchall dish by the door containing keys. He had dug them into his palm as the door closed behind him, he looks at it now though there are no marks or redness.

He had left something behind, someone behind. Even if he can’t recall their figure or face.

All he knows is the hectic space he occupies now. Though even when he stands in line to order, resigned to the task he’s spaced out in the middle of doing, he feels like it’s familiar too. No one seems to care that he’s in line, they walk in front of him like he’s not even there. But he lets it go, mind busy with trying to reclaim the events that led him here.

The job he had taken doesn’t even register, he’s unaware if this is a part of it. Staking out, searching for someone, searching for information. He has no clue how he got here, why he’s here or why the cheery barista behind the counter doesn’t seem to hear him when he saunters up to the register to finally place his order.

She steadfastly ignores him, even as he leans over the counter and tips the hat atop his head. He’s in his typical ‘blend in with the civilians’ outfit, tight jeans, nice dark boots that match his leather jacket over a plain white shirt. His amber sunglasses hang from his collar and his belt buckle clinks against the edge of the marble as he leans closer.  His smile falters as she sees right through him and begins to talk to the woman behind him. Easily taking her order and then moving onto the person behind her.

Shoving off from the counter with a frown, he raises a hand to thumb at his bottom lip. Stretching a hand over the small partition between the display case and the public, he snags a pastry. But no words of ‘hey, sir you’ve got to pay for that!’ or other reprimands color the air.

He wanders around the shop, looking for someone out of place. Looking for someone who could be undercover like him. But everything is normal. Everything down to the minutes ticking by on the large clock, the to go cups placed on the pick up counter and then being swept away by impatient hands to the conversations that he begins to sift through with almost burning ears.

Everything is normal.

Except for the fact that he’s invisible.

Just as suddenly as he found himself in the coffee shop, his vision faded, and he was gone from it too.

-

He tries talking to different people, each time he opens his eyes from the abyss that claims him. But no one ever responds, no one acknowledges that he’s a real living and breathing person. And Jack begins to question if he even is anymore…surely he would know if he experienced a painful death as an agent on a mission?

He’s retired now, he thinks so at least. He doesn’t recall anything recent, nothing beyond the countless times he emerges from darkness to find himself in the middle of the coffee shop. This time though, when he realizes where he is there’s a pull in his navel that has him turning on his heels to face the door just as you walk through. Remnants of a heated interaction flare in his memory and he grasps at the tendrils before they fade. But he’s too slow or a loud noise interrupts and sends him spinning in that direction in alarm.

His heart flutters fast, almost painful. His chest twinging in a way a cramped muscle would even as he sees you approach.

“Excuse me, are you in line?” Your voice is sweet like honey, welcoming and making him feel at ease like a soft breeze of air on a summer’s day. He looks around and expects someone else to answer but you repeat the question with a note of concern and when you’re hand reached out to gently touch his he startles- because he can feel the pressure from your touch.

And he’s gaping at you, because finally, someone is acknowledging him.

He shakes his head, unable to form a polite answer and gestures for you to go ahead of him.

“Oh, it’s alright. You look a little off, how about I order with you, and we can have a sit?”

The way your eyes rake over him has his entire body lighting up- you’re gorgeous and sweet and he wants nothing more than to do exactly what you’re suggesting. As you two order, he keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. Wary that this is all fleeting, and he was right to worry because as soon as you both settle into a set of chairs around a table everything fades once again.

-

It happens again and again, the same way. But you look different each time. Different clothing, different hair styling, despite the conversation being the same. Someone who sees him and offers a kind smile and help towards someone who appears far too confused and out of place.

Then one day he notices the wrinkles beside your eyes, the dark circles beneath them. The weight you drop and the chapped, chewed state of your lips. A once polished and bright woman, now appearing ragged and stressed. He decides to ask if you’re okay the next time he comes to consciousness in the coffee shop, but you don’t show up. He’s back to being invisible and loss pangs harshly in his chest.

-

He doesn’t materialize in the coffee shop after that, the scene he’s damned to visit every day the same entry way he had first recalled what seems ages ago. For what seems like years before his steps allow him to cross over into an empty bedroom. It always feels wrong, the blurred photos along the walls tugging at him though they never clear enough for him to see what they depict. He thinks he can make out the faint outline of you, so fresh from his memory in the coffee shop, the same interaction time and time again drilled into him though it doesn’t do a think to take him back there and see you.

How the way he seems to exist altered the moment he wanted to change things up and reach out, to ensure you were okay. He feels less real now that no one is in this setting, a home that feels anything but. Echoes of a life lived and tainted by a dark feeling he can’t shake.

He's allowed to peel back the covers of the bed this time, his body taking up the space in the bed like he belongs there. The other side cold and empty haunting him. He's grateful to be able to softly snooze off instead of darkness consuming him to end the moment.

-

He’s afraid to open his eyes, to see the empty bed beside him. A lonesome reprieve he had settled into the last time he was aware of himself. He had woken peacefully, of his own accord and it was a blessing to not suddenly find himself standing amid blurred photos and a dark entryway.

But he can hear the soft breathing of someone else, can almost feel the weight of their body as it’s almost close enough to touch his own. He’s shifting, eyes flying open and all he feels is euphoria as he sees you fast asleep beside him.

Your face scrunches up, nose wrinkling and hands coming up from underneath covers to rub at your cheeks and forehead. An eye peeks at him from underneath one and he swears his heart stutters.

“How many times I gotta tell you to stop starin’ at me?”

“Couldn’t help it, you’re as beautiful as a fresh morning bathed in early sun.” The warm words spring from him, praise very much real and his fingers itch to reach for you.

“Pfft, Jack.” You groan, though there’s no real annoyance in your tone. It’s bashful, if anything. But its far too early for his poetic waxing, you haven’t even checked the time yet. But based on the darkness behind the curtains, there’s hours yet until its time to rise for the day. Your thoughts stall as he slides across the bed. Arms tangling tightly around your middle and pulling you into him.

“Roll your eyes all you want, but it’s true.” He’s determined for you to know, to hear, to feel seen by him.

“Such a goddamn sap.”

“Yeah,” He breathes, the smile that breaks out over your face making his chest feel light. He recalls the feeling when you had first made eye contact with him in the middle of the coffee shop and warmth blooms in his chest.

The endless cycle of his dreams that give him vertigo and existential dread quickly fading from his mind as he realizes that’s all they were: dreams. Because he’s here with you and the scar you trace over in the center of his chest tells him that it was all a side effect of the sudden palpitations that had taken over his heart and the way his body coped with the healing he struggled to do afterwards.

He had indeed met you in that coffee shop, his mind taking him back to that moment again and again as he had laid in a bed for months, a coma taking his consciousness after an infection settled into his body. His mind trying to ease him in some twisted way as you sat by his bedside day in and day out. He can only imagine the turmoil you must’ve experienced as everything comes rushing back to him, dizzying him with the onslaught of out of body experiences and how you must’ve felt so lost and confused without him by your side.

But he’s here now, you’re here now and he’s dropping his lips to yours in reassurance when he sees concern fill yours at his solemn recognition of the situation. He's determined to be present, to be aware, and to shower you with everything he had to make up for the time he lost with you.

[hedgiwithapen]

SG-1: Instead of breaking the time loop, Malikai succeeds in figuring out time travel, and SG-1 wakes up just before the beginning of the series.

(episode: Window of Opportunity) “I lost my son,” Jack said, pity winning more than his anger, more than his frustration. “I know…and as much as I…I could never live that over again.” He looked at Malikai. “Could you?” “Yes,” came the answer, but not from the alien scientist. Jack turned to stare down Daniel. Daniel was not cowed.  “I could. For another minute, just one minute even… one more chance to tell her I loved her.” “You understand. Help me,” Malikai pleaded. “Daniel,” Jack warned. Daniel  ignored him. “One shot’s all we have, he’s going to be very grumpy about this,” Daniel said. “ let me see these markings-- I think-- this one… maybe?” “No, no, I’ve tried that one,” Malikai said. “But not in conjunction with these two, am I right?” Daniel beamed, touching the buttons. “So all we have to do is--” his hand came down. The alter lit.

Teal’c turned over in a bed he had not slept in in many months. His body remembered it better than his mind. He sat up, breathing in the smell of Chulak’s trees. They were like the trees of Earth-- of Tauri.  But they were not the same. He was home. And yet he was not. “Teal’c?” his wife asked, leaning up on her elbow. “You are troubled?” “I am not,” he said. It was a lie. “I am confused.” he amended, sensing that she had sensed his deception. “By what?” she asked. He paused, then plunged. “ I feel as though I have slept for many days. What is today?” She told him. Teal’c bit his tongue. He would be called soon, to go up past the Chappa’ai. Apophis still thought him faithful, and would send him to guard and choose from the captives that would be brought. Select a host for Amaunet. Kill the rest. His friends. They were not yet his friends, if they did not recall. What if they had not been affected as he had by the machine of Malakai?  But then, it would make logical sense for Jack O’neil to recall, as he too had been within the loop. And should he not… Teal’c would have to hope. “My love,” he said, quiet. Thinking. How he had longed for the chance to see things different. “I must ask you to do something for me, and tell no one of it.” “What?” she asked. “I go to attend Appophis.  When the sun is highest, take our son and wait, concealed, near the Chappa’ai. Stay back from it. Then you must wait for me, and trust me.” “Why?” “I cannot tell you why. All I can do is ask, and if you have any love for me, you will do this. Do you understand?” “I do not. But, for you, I will do this.” Teal’c leaned his forehead to touch hers. “I love you. I will return.” He might save his wife and child, and still doom his neighbors. But no. This time, the Stargate program could be aware of the threat the system lords would pose to Chulak. They might intervene. They would intervene.  All he had to do was wait, and hope.  The prisoners from Abydos would arrive soon. And from there… The gods were false, so there was no one to pray to that the people he had once considered family would risk their lives for a woman who was not Sha’re of Abydos. He had killed her twice. He could not do so again. 

[pluckyredhead]

For your Fourth World reading do you have a reading order you could share with us? Or recommendations on where to start? Sorry if this has been asked before

No need to apologize! I've been meaning to write up my Fourth World recs so thank you for the reminder. Also it is unfortunately a short list lol.

The Fourth World by Jack Kirby:

Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen: Kirby wrote and drew issues #133-148. This is where he launched the Fourth World, and where we first saw Darkseid and a number of other characters and concepts. It is a little tangential to the main Fourth World storyline (and some of it, like the two Goody Rickels issues, is REALLY weird and not necessarily in a good way). I would say if you are interested in the Fourth World from a comics history perspective, you should read Kirby's Jimmy Olsen, but if you are interested from a blorbo perspective and just want to read about Orion or Scott or whoever, you can skip it.

New Gods (1971): This is Orion's series. An absolute must, this is the heart of the Fourth World. The original run is issues #1-11 (there are a couple series that pick up the numbering, but the first 11 issues are the real deal).

Forever People (1971): I would say this is the other book that is really central to Kirby's magnum opus and the themes he was exploring. Again, less interesting from a blorbo perspective (I'm sure Mark Moonrider is someone's blorbo...) but it's only 11 issues so I would recommend reading it for the historical/thematic value. Do it for Kirby!

Mister Miracle (1971): The other blorbo! Kirby's original run is #1-18.

New Gods (1984) #6: In 1984 DC reprinted the original New Gods run as double-sized issues (so #1 contains the original #1 and #2 from 1971, etc.). Issue #6 reprints the original New Gods #11 and then adds new material to "conclude" Kirby's story. But you'll want to continue and read...

The Hunger Dogs (also called DC Graphic Novel #4): This was Kirby's conclusion to the Fourth World saga. It's not his original vision, but it's the most DC would allow him. He is not quite at the heights he was in 1971, but it's nice to see him get a chance to conclude his tale, and it's a must-read if you ship Orion and Lightray.

The Fourth World by people who aren't Jack Kirby:

New Gods (1995): This is Rachel Pollack's run and it's excellent. The art is extremely 1995 but the writing makes up for it. The last three issues of the series are written and drawn by John Byrne instead, and they're fine - you can read them or skip them, doesn't matter.

Orion (2000): Walt Simonson's run, AN ABSOLUTE MUST-READ. RUN DON'T WALK. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE READ THIS. Orion suffers so much and it's so delicious to me.

Solo #7: There are only two pages of Fourth World content in here but it's Orion betting Scott he can come up with a death trap Scott can't escape and then literally just trying to kill him for fun while Lightray has a panic attack. Orion and Scott are both lunatics and I love that for them. Brothers of all time.

Both of DC's YA graphic novels about these characters, Mister Mircle: The Great Escape by Varian Johnson and Daniel Isles and Barda by @ngoziu, are excellent.

AND UNFORTUNATELY THAT IS IT. Scott and Barda are in JLI which I will always recommend, but it's not strictly speaking a Fourth World book. Orion is in Grant Morrison's JLA which is a classic, but he doesn't have a huge role in it as I recall. You should already be reading Kelly Thompson's current run on Birds of Prey because it's perfect but Barda is especially perfect in it.

The nice (?) thing about the Fourth World is that every writer basically completely ignores all previous writers except Kirby so there's not a lot of continuity to track. If you read Kirby, you can encounter the characters anywhere else and know everything you need to know.

Happy reading!

[mylittleredgirl]

Hello friend! A friend of mine is doing a Stargate SG-1 rewatch and lamenting the slim pickings of fic on AO3. Do you know where she can find fic that perhaps is still on some old archive of yore? Or have any recs? She's mostly interested in Jack/Daniel and Jack/Sam. Ty!!

oh my. with all the love in the world to your friend visiting us from a very different fandom tax bracket than i have ever had the fortune to participate in (those two pairings have well over 6k fics each on ao3), i'll see what i can do!

[several hours of looking around later] bad news!! not much!

most of vintage sg-1 fandom was wiped out by expired domains, struck-through livejournals, ff.net's porn ban, yahoo lists, etc. some pages are still preserved in the wayback machine for heliopolis, the massive het-and-gen archive, and area52, the slash counterpart, but with the search and directory functions pretty much toast, they're almost impossible to navigate.

fanlore has an old list of archives (including plenty of jack/daniel ones). some smaller archives might yield wayback paydirt, especially if they were hand-coded. samandjack.net is still alive!

and, hate to say it, this was peak era for ff.net and they have like 30k fics over there... but all the explicit fic is gone.

i recently learned some people are still doing het-reccers (user-submitted fanfic recommendations, LJ archive is here). i don't know if any slash equivalents are still around (and i haven't looked at this site for genuinely fifteen years, so i can't speak to the quality of recs).

some sam/jack recs of mine; some of these authors multi-ship:

nanda: her resolution series especially should not be missed and i can't stress that enough. smut and action. fics great fics across the board.

it's kind of difficult to express how popular Salr323's fics were (under a different name) back in the day. i'm told that archive servers would crash when she posted something new. low on smut, high on PINING. rec: it was admittedly 1 am but as i recall this one made me feel like i'd just seen the fanfiction mona lisa

there are quite a few multifandom wonders who cut their teeth in this fandom, including missparker (rec: a small crime)

this cassandra fraiser fic dealt me some damage: nobody dies tonight by isawet

someone who's still in touch with her please harass splash_the_cat for writing 99 sg-1 fics and then walking away without cracking 100. lots of fun little snacks in there including this one

everything anr touches is gold <3

starting to get stressed out about who i'm missing!!!!

if your friend likes D/s this one is fun by tremontaine

lol read my stuff (i never wrote smut for sg-1 though)

hey everyone, please add recs in the notes/reblogs, especially jack/daniel recs because that's out of my wheelhouse but we aim to serve

[loslentesdepedrito]

I'm Your Wife- Chapter Three

Pairing: Jack Daniels ‘Agent Whiskey’x Spanish-speaking f!reader and Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Previous Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Two

Next Chapter: I'm Your Wife- Chapter Four

Word count: 9.6k+

Chapter summary: Jack faces the consequences of his actions, and his past once again, haunts him and you. (Picks up directly from ch. 2. The flashback scene is bold and italicized.)

Rating: 18+ no explicit content but I'd rather not have minors read these types of subjects. Warning contains spoilers, but please read if you'd like!!! They are below the cut, but if you don't want to read them, the story starts after the Whiskey bottles.

Warnings: ANGST, language used by the characters is harsh and contains strong emotions, mentions of cheating, toxic marriage, no explicit content, but suggestive, pregnancy, divorce, and childhood disease. (I hope I didn’t forget anything, it’s been years since I wrote this.)

A/N: Some of 2017 references. Huge, huge, huge apologies for the late chapter! Long story short, a colleague had to take emergency leave, and I stepped in to manage a project that will be presented in two weeks. My work is pre-written, this one in 2017, but I have to add the translations, and I love making the graphics, even if it takes me way too long. I'll be out of the country for the presentation, but I'll try my best to upload something before then. Thank you to everyone for their patience, and I hope you enjoy this part!

She's pregnant?... She's pregnant... Jack's mind whirls with a mix of surprise and jealousy, the revelation hitting him like a freight train and igniting an uncontrollable fire within his chest. 

"Did you fuck him while we were married?" The question escapes Jack's lips, driven by irrationality and a mix of hurt and anger. If he were more collected, he would have realized the insensitivity of such a question, but his emotions are spiraling out of control.

He doesn't even get to hear what you have to say because, in an instant, Jack gets up from his chair in a sudden burst of emotions and sends it flying backward into the wall. 

His thoughts and emotions collide, just like the chair and the wall, and he feels like he's drowning in a storm of feelings he can't control. Jack constantly thought about you and his child, but without knowing the gender or having a name, his child remained an elusive figure in his mind. A fleeting thought that now lingers is how he always referred to your child as his little angel, never imagining how close to the truth it was.

Just as he discovers the existence of his son, he's confronted with the harsh reality that you've moved on. In the purest sense of the word, you have moved on. She's truly moved on, he repeats in his mind. The pain is overwhelming as he realizes you married Javier, probably raised Ángel with him, and now you're expecting another child—a child that belongs to another man. 

Jack had hoped that maybe, just maybe, there was a slight chance for him, you, and his child to form a family together. But that hope has been crushed. He knows deep down that you would never leave the family you've built, especially not for someone who treated you like an afterthought.

His heart aches at the knowledge that you have built a life without him. You're carrying another man's child, and it cuts deep into his soul. The thought of you and your husband raising a family, laughing and sharing moments together, stabs at him like a knife. 

It's a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that he missed out on so much. That he wasn't there to witness the joy of your pregnancy, to see your belly swell with the life you both created. He can only imagine the moments he lost, like not being able to go to the obstetrician with you, to witness the miraculous sonograms that reveal the tiny life growing inside you.

Tears sting his eyes as he recalls the sonogram of Ángel that you had given him, and how he carelessly threw it to the floor in a fit of anger. The regret now gnaws at him, realizing he'll never be able to relive those moments he cast aside.

A heartbreaking sense of loss envelops him, knowing that he wasn't there to hear Ángel's heartbeat resounding in the clinic. He wasn't there to hold his son for the first time, and thank you for giving him such an extraordinary gift. It's like watching a movie of his own life, but he's only a viewer, a stranger to the beautiful moments he should have been a part of.

He knows he hurt you, and Jack knows he doesn't deserve your forgiveness. But he can't help but wish for the chance to make things right, to be there for you and Ángel, to be the man you need him to be. Yet, deep down, he knows that ship has sailed.

Ya treated her like gum stuck to the sole of your boots, a cruel voice whispers in his head. Why would she ever wanna be with ya again?

As the emotions continue to swirl inside him, Jack glances at Javier, your husband, the man who has taken his place in your life. The sight of the wedding band on Javier's finger is a cruel reminder of the life they've built together.

That coulda been me, Jack thinks bitterly. I coulda been the one to marry her, to raise our child, to create a family.

But it's not him, and he can't change the past. He can't go back and be the man he should have been. All he can do now is face the consequences of his actions and accept that he missed his chance.

His heart weighs heavy with regret and sorrow, knowing that he let go of something precious. Your laughter, your smile, your love—all lost to him now. 

But amidst the storm of emotions, there's one thing that remains crystal clear: he has a son, Ángel, a part of him that he didn't know existed. And while he may not have the chance to be the father he should have been from the start, he can still try to be there for his son now.

Jack knows that he can't change the past, but he can choose how to move forward. He can decide to be a father his son deserves, to be a better man, even if it's not the fairytale ending he once dreamed of.

"I meant it. I'll get tested." Jack finally says. It's a small step, but it's the first one toward building a relationship with his son. He knows it won't be easy, and there will be obstacles to overcome, but he's willing to try.

You look at him, your eyes filled with tears. Honestly, when you first contacted him, you didn't know what to expect. But the fact that he's willing to take this step means something to you.

Jack replies, his voice resolute, "I want to be there for him, even if it's late. I want to be a part of his life."

Javier, still seething with anger, glances at Jack cautiously. He's protective of you and Ángel, and he won't let anyone hurt you again. But he also knows that this is a difficult situation, and he's willing to give Jack a chance to prove himself.

"I hope you mean it," Javier says, his voice stern but not without understanding. "Ángel deserves a father who will be there for him."

"I do," Jack says. "Sorry, I overreacted. I've been going to therapy, I swear." He lets out a dark chuckle. "I'm just... it's hard."

"Of course, I'll get tested, and I hope to God- I'm a match." He adds sincerely.

"Thank you, Jack," you say, your voice softening, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have implied in any way that Ángel's illness is your fault because it's not. But thank you for doing this- it means a lot to us."

Just then, Dr. Navarro enters the room, breaking the tension. "Woah," he exclaims, looking at the scraped wall. "I never noticed that before. We'll have to get maintenance to fix it."

After Jack agreed to get tested, Dr. Navarro sent him to get a physical to determine if he was in good condition to donate stem cells. Jack passed the tests with flying colors and was then sent to get tested for HLA markers. The doctor explained to Jack that this would determine if he was able to donate his cells to Ángel.

As he leaves the pathology department with his sleeves rolled up and a cotton ball taped to his right arm where the puncture was made, he's taken by surprise to see you waiting for him at the front desk. With his grey suit coat draped over one hand, he quickly tries to adjust his appearance, but the look on his face betrays his attempt to appear composed.

"Here." You say, handing him a red heart candy lollipop.

"Where did you get it?" He laughs, touched by the sweet gesture. Jack reaches out to take the lollipop, his fingers brushing against yours briefly.

"From Mrs. Kroos." You say, pointing behind you.

His brows furrow, giving away his confusion.

"The lady that works at the front desk loves Ángel, and she knows he loves these candies. So she always gives him a few whenever she sees one of us. But be careful, don’t drop it. I won't give you another one.” You warn.

"I'll guard it with my life, sugar." Jack clutches the candy tightly, cherishing this small token of kindness from you. His eyes soften, and a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. It's as if, for a brief moment, he's transported back to the early days of your relationship.

To steer his thoughts in another direction, he examines the lollipop's wrapper, fingers absently tracing its red heart shape. But his eyes instinctively draw to your stomach, where the faint curve is evident beneath your clothes. It's a closer look than he's had before, the first time he's seen it up close since learning of your pregnancy this morning. His eyes linger there, and you can feel him searching for words to say or questions to ask. 

"How far along are you?"

"Five, almost six months." You reply, your hand instinctively resting on your baby bump.

He stays silent, unsure of what to say.

"Oh," he recovers, "Do you know what you're having?"

"Another boy." You answer with excitement.

"Oh." He clears his throat, trying to hide any hint of disappointment. 

"That's good. Congrats." Jesus, Jack, can't ya quit bein' an ass for just one minute?

As you stand before him, Jack can't help but feel a pang of pain. It's envy and jealousy, but it's also the sadness for what he missed out on with you and his son. The family he could have had, the love he could have shown and the joy he could have shared are now experienced by Javier, not him.

"Excuse me for a moment." He says suddenly, and you hear his voice trembling. He nearly runs to the restroom, needing a private space to let his feelings pour out.

Inside the stall, Jack allows himself to cry, and release the pent-up emotions. The tears are a mix of sorrow for the time lost and the regret of not cherishing the moments he had with you and your first child. Memories of the past flood his mind—moments he should have cherished, words he should have spoken with love, and gestures he should have made to make you feel valued. It's a cathartic moment, a release of the pain and the realization of what could have been.

As he wipes away his tears, Jack takes a deep breath and leaves the stall. He washes his hands and gets a good look at himself through the mirror. He prays you won't comment on his red and puffy eyes, but as expected, your concern for him is evident as soon as you see him exit the restroom.

"Everything alright?" You ask, worried about his sudden departure.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Jack replies, his voice still shaky but trying to regain composure.

Shortly after, you both take a deep breath and in a moment of eagerness on Jack's part and haste on your own, you attempt to speak at the same time, your words overlapping:

"Can I mee-"

"Do you want to mee-"

Jack's desire to meet Ángel is unmistakably clear in your eyes.

After a moment of contemplation, you speak first. "Yes, you can meet him," you say, voice filled with caution, "But we have to be careful about how we approach it. I think we have to take it slow with the official introduction."

Jack nods, understanding the need for caution. "Yes, ma'am. I get it. I don't want to do anything that might upset him."

"We'll take it one step at a time. Maybe we can start by introducing you as a friend, someone special to us. We can see how he reacts and take it from there. But you have to promise not to push him away," you continue, your gaze locking with his, "As a parent, I know the love one has for their children. I know you will always love the baby boy you lost, but you cannot compare him to Ángel. Each child is special and deserves their own place in your heart."

Jack takes a moment to absorb your words, realizing the truth in them. "You're right," he says, his voice softer now, "I don't want to make the same mistakes again. Ángel deserves better than that."

"He does," you affirm, "And I think you'll be a positive influence in his life. Just take it one step at a time, be patient with him, and be there for him. It won't be easy, but I think it's worth trying."

Jack nods, grateful for your understanding and guidance. "Thank you," he says sincerely, "I really appreciate you giving me and Ángel a chance."

"I want what's best for my son," you say, your love for Ángel evident in your eyes, "And if that means having his biological father in his life, then I'm willing to support it."

"Thank you," Jack repeats, his heart feeling true hope for the first time in years.

"C'mon. He's on the 16th floor." You say guiding him to the elevator. 

This time Jack is more collected in the elevator. Not that he's any less nervous, in fact, his heart is pounding with anticipation. Because he can't believe that after all these years, he has the opportunity to meet his son.  

As you guide Jack down the hospital corridor towards the elevator, he takes in his surroundings. The fluorescent lights above cast a sterile glow, and the muffled footsteps echo through the hallway - that's what Jack tries to focus on. Ideally, he would reach out to take your hand in his, and that would settle his racing heart. He gives it a little more thought and correctly assumes that you would probably smack him, so he decides against it, not wanting to upset you. Again. 

You can sense his nervousness as you walk beside him, and it amuses you how, in the past, you would have done absolutely anything to make him feel better. Yes, a part of you feels for him because there was a point in your life when you were in love with him more than anything, more than you had been with anyone. But another part of you is screaming, Don't care, don't let him in, remember all you went through?

The truth is, it feels almost unfair that you still have the instinct to comfort him when he never extended the same care or compassion toward you. It's a reminder of the one-sided nature of your past relationship, where you gave your all, but he held back. You hate that reminder. You hate how he made you feel. You hate how he made you act. You hate how he still makes you feel when you think about your past. 

You try your best to settle your thoughts as you walk together toward the elevator. Therapy had been helpful after the divorce, but it took a backseat when Ángel got sick. Now, considering how you feel around Jack, you realize it's time to prioritize your emotional well-being again. You make a mental note to schedule an appointment with Dr. Ordoñez soon, even if it means being on the phone for an hour and sitting on an uncomfortable hospital chair during the session. 

You'll soon be co-parenting with Jack, and you want to get to the stage where you don't appear like you want to kill him. If it weren't for your son, you would have been just fine never seeing Jack again, but you don't want your son to resent you or miss out on having a relationship with his biological father. 

Ángel already has a father and a wonderful father at that. Javi has been a fantastic father as well as a good husband. He loves Ángel, which is why, when you discussed Jack, he felt that his son shouldn't be denied the option to have another parent. 

You both keep walking, and when you make it to the elevator, you press the button, and the polished metal doors slide open with a soft ping. Jack places his hand on the door, and with a gracious gesture, he extends his other hand, signaling for you to walk through first. It's a small gesture, but it stirs a mix of memories and emotions within you. Before the divorce, you would have melted at such chivalry. His southern charm seemed to vanish right after you married. You had hoped that Jack would return to the man you were once head over heels for, but now, with hindsight, you can see a field of red flags that you had overlooked, perhaps purposely. Looking back at your relationship with Jack, there are moments when you can't help but cringe at your own behavior, realizing you held on desperately, not wanting to let go. Your yearning for him to love you was so intense that you settled for the bare minimum, hoping things would change. But as you stand there pressing the button to take you to the 16th floor, you can't help but acknowledge how much has changed, how much you've changed. You've known how you felt about him for years, but looking at Jack now, without any remnants of love in your heart, brings you a sense of liberation.

As the elevator door glides open with a soft ping, you step out, and Jack follows closely behind, his footsteps echoing lightly as you lead the way down to the front desk. The receptionist warmly smiles as she recognizes you and, with a press of a button, she buzzes you in without any need for further verification or questions. This special perk is granted due to your frequent visits to receive food and welcome visitors.

Unfortunately, you know the path to Ángel's hospital room like the back of your hand. You could be blindfolded and make it to room 43 without bumping into any obstacles- that's how long your son's been here. 

You make your way through the corridor, the hallway branching into two sides. Rooms 1-20 are on the left, and rooms 21-45 are on the right. You direct Jack to the right, to room 43, where Ángel is.

The walls are adorned with a burst of bright colors, courtesy of the children's paintings. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the left, where three adorable minions holding bananas are doodled. Next to it, a watercolored rainbow stretches across the length of the wall.

As you continue to room 43, your gaze shifts to your favorite artwork on the 16th floor- a bright red bear wearing a dapper top hat and a crooked, thick mustache. One eye is bigger than the other one, but you love it. To the left of the bear, there are princesses in their glitter-covered gowns. The last piece of the row is Spiderman. He's shooting webs, and his hand is drawn in the classic pose - his right hand extended with his index and middle fingers bent, touching his palm.

I haven't seen this one before, you think, as you notice mouthwatering donuts, likely drawn by an older child. Each donut has different glazes and toppings, so realistic that they almost look good enough to eat, leaving your taste buds tingling. Weird pregnancy cravings.

Every inch of the corridor is decorated with these precious works of art. The sight brings a smile to your face as you think about the children who must have carefully crafted their art with love, making this corridor bearable to walk through.

As you walked past the 30's, admiring the colorful artwork adorning the walls, Jack's mind was filled with thoughts of his son. ' Does he have her hair or mine? Whose eyes does he have? Lord, I hope he has her nose.' He couldn't help but subconsciously trace his nose's bridge.

You steal a glance at Jack while walking to Ángel's room, and his expression says it all. His brows are slightly furrowed, and his eyes dart around. His neck seems a bit tense, and you can see his jaw clenching and unclenching. Esta comiendo ansias. (He's worrying too much.) You think, looking at the mixture of eagerness and anxiety written all over his face.

"We're almost there." You tell him, your voice gentle, as you approached the 40's.

43. Jack's heart skips a beat as he sees the number on the door. It's as if time stands still for a moment before his heart starts racing with nervous excitement. A million thoughts rush through Jack's mind, and he can feel tears welling up in his eyes. I'm going to meet my son. All those years of longing, of wondering what his child would be like, of yearning for a connection he thought he might never have - it's all happening.

As you reached for the doorknob, Jack's hand was slightly trembling. Don't trip, don't say something stupid, he mentally coached himself, trying to calm his nerves. With a mix of trepidation and hope, Jack stepped into the room behind you, taking in his surroundings. The room felt a bit cold, but the soft sunlight streaming in from the window cast a gentle glow over everything.

The room had that familiar hospital scent, a combination of antiseptic cleaners and the comforting aroma of fragrant flowers placed in vases around the room. 

He hears a movie playing in the background and looks at the TV to see little yellow characters with overalls he doesn't recognize. The animated movie's sounds mix with the soft beeping of medical equipment. He can see Javier getting up from the couch to the right of his son's bed, and your husband sends Jack a small, discreet nod of acknowledgment. You step in front of Jack, giving him a reassuring look, and he waits for your cue, staying near the door.

From this angle, Jack can't see Ángel; he only sees you and Javier to the right of the bed. He moves slowly, staying hidden beside the wall, not wanting to startle his little boy. He can't help but feel his heart pounding in his chest, his emotions swirling in a mix of excitement and anxiety.

"Mi niño, estas despierto?" ("My boy, are you asleep?") You call out in a soft, tender voice.

"Sí, no se quiere dormir. Quiere minions." (Yes, he doesn't want to sleep. [He] wants minions.) Javier replies playfully, his eyes widening with a playful expression as he tickles Ángel, eliciting sweet laughter from the boy.

That sound, Jack thinks, it's the most beautiful sound I've heard. 

"Se llama Despicable Me, Jav." ("It's called Despicable Me, Jav.") You correct him with a soft smile.

"Es lo mismo." ("It's the same.") Javi playfully groans, earning a swat from you.

You look at your husband, and he knows what you need to do. Javi gives you a smile and gives your hand a squeeze. With his reassurance, you turn back to Ángel.

"Papi, queremos que conozcas a alguien." ("Baby, we want you to meet someone.") You tell your son as you gesture toward the corner where Jack is waiting.

You send Jack a look, and with a deep breath, he steps forward. His eyes immediately draw to Ángel, like a moth to a flame. Time seems to stand still as Jack takes in the sight of his son. He's perfect, Jack thinks. 

Ángel is a sweet little boy, with jet-black hair that curls gently at the ends. Behind his black-rimmed glasses are a pair of brown eyes that mirror Jack's. At that moment, Jack feels an indescribable connection, an everlasting bond. He's the perfect combination of both of us, but I think he resembles me a little more, he thinks, his heart happy that his phenotypes seem to have won.

As he steps closer, he notices Ángel's nose and lips, traits that are identical to yours.

A rush of emotions overwhelms Jack as he looks at his son. His heart swells with love and joy, but there's also a twinge of sadness at the time he missed. His eyes start to water, blurring his vision a bit, but he tries to blink the tears away, wanting to see Ángel clearly, to memorize every precious detail.

"Hi!" Ángel cheerfully says, and that breaks Jack's dam. He starts crying, unable to contain his tears.

"Mami," Ángel whispers, leaning to your side, "¿Por qué está llorando el señor?" ("Mommy, why is the man crying?")

Jack's voice wavers with emotion as he speaks, "Sorry," he says, his voice cracking slightly. He tries to wipe his cheeks and regulate his breathing, "I'm sorry."

"Ángel, this is Jack. He's a family friend." You introduce.

"Hey, buddy," Jack manages to say, his voice still trembling, "Sorry 'bout the tears, I just... I found out a lot this morning."

Ángel stares for a second and then reaches for his bedside drawer. He pulls out a mini-wrapped Crunch bar and extends it towards Jack, saying with a caring tone, "It's okay, Mr. Jack. Here, this will make you feel better. I love chocolate, and this is my favorite candy." He smiles warmly as he extends the mini Crunch bar towards Jack.

Jack is touched by Ángel's kindness and accepts the chocolate with a grateful smile, "Thank you, Ángel." Pull it together, Jack, don't start cryin' again. He mentally lectures himself, fighting back the feelings threatening to rise again. "This is my favorite chocolate too." He says honestly.  

"Here, I brought this for you." Jack says, his heart pounding with anticipation. He removes the jacket from his free arm, revealing a medium-sized gift bag that he had kept hidden underneath. Damn, how long has he been hiding that? He's had the coat in his hand since I saw him after the blood draw, you think, touched by Jack's thoughtful gesture.

Ángel turns to look at you and Javier for permission, and you both give him an encouraging nod.

Jack hands his son the red gift bag, and Ángel eagerly receives his present. Excitement dances in the little boy's eyes as he quickly removes the tissue paper. Jack can't help but overthink, What if he doesn't like it? Is he too big for-

Ángel gasps, and Jack's heart sinks for a moment, fearing the worst. But then, a radiant smile lights up Ángel's face as he pulls out a teddy bear, dressed in overalls and a black cowboy hat. The bear's dark brown coat is fluffy, and there's a heart stitched on the front pocket of the bear's overalls, right in the middle.

"Cool! Thanks!" Ángel exclaims, clutching the teddy bear to his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Jack's worry melts away as he watches Ángel kiss the bear's hat. "It's perfect!" Ángel shouts, looking up at Jack with gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you so much!"

Relief washes over Jack, replaced by overwhelming joy at the sight of his son's delight. It's as if Jack's heart has grown tenfold, witnessing his son's happiness.

Jack's heart swells with happiness as he sees the joy on his son's face. He can't help but smile back, his eyes glistening with tears of joy. "You're welcome, Ángel," Jack says, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm glad you like it."

"My dad gave me a Spider-Man teddy, now Spidey has a cowboy friend!" Ángel cheerfully exclaims, proudly showing off the Spider-Man build-a-bear that Javi had gifted him earlier this year. You don't miss the way Jack's face falls a little at his son calling Javier his dad.

Ángel shares all the details of when Javier gifted him with the Spidey teddy, and you watch as Jack listens attentively to every word. A mix of emotions is evident in his eyes - happiness at finally meeting his son, but also a hint of sadness and longing for the title of "dad" that Ángel has already bestowed upon Javier.

You give Jack a reassuring smile, silently telling him that it's okay, that Ángel's heart is big enough to love both of them eventually. Jack sees your expression and shifts his focus back to his son. He may not have the title of "dad" right now, but he's building a connection with his son, and that's what matters most.

After finishing his story, Ángel immediately turns to you and Javi, his eyes filled with hope. "¿Se puede quedar para c-o-m-e-r?" ("Can he stay to e-a-t?") He spells out the word, not wanting to vocalize it in case his parents don't agree, and wanting to avoid any potential disappointment for Jack. He doesn't want Jack to feel unwelcome or like he's being kicked out by not being asked to stay for lunch.

You can sense that Ángel has taken a liking to Jack and wants to spend more time with him.

Javi smiles warmly at his son, understanding Ángel's hesitation. "Claro que sí, mijo." ("Of course, my son.") He says, not wanting to deny his son this request. You notice the joy that lights up in Ángel's eyes, grateful for the opportunity to spend more time with Jack.

Turning to Jack, you extend the invitation, "Jack, would you like to stay for lunch?"

"Of course, thank you." Jack replies, and Ángel's face lights up even more at his response.

"Danny and Heidi dropped off Pozole earlier." Javi informs.

Pozole, why does that sound familiar? Who are Danny and Heidi? Jack thinks.

You exclaim with delight, "I love your cousin and his wife, and I love Pozole!" 

"And Ángel does too. He gets that from you," Javi says, giving you a small kiss on the cheek before going to the table across Ángel's bed. He reaches for the bag with the Tupperware containers, clearly eager to eat.

As Javier opens the bag, he can't help but playfully tease, "You know I'm more of a menudo guy."

"I know. Your only flaw…" You jest.

Jack observes the easy love between you and Javier, feeling a bittersweet sense of heartbreak. He can't help but compare the deep connection you share with Javier to the time when he was your husband, witnessing the loving moments that once belonged to him.

Javier opens one Tupperware, and the air fills with the rich, savory scent-a tantalizing blend of chicken broth, hominy, and a mix of earthy spices and aromatic herbs. Suddenly, the smell transports him to a distant memory, back to a time when he was your husband.

It was a cold winter evening in December, one of your favorite times of the year when you could savor warm and comforting food and drinks. Tonight, you had finally convinced your husband, Jack, to try Pozole, one of your favorite dishes. You gathered the ingredients and set to work in the kitchen, hoping to create a special meal for him.

The pot was filled with water, and you added onions, garlic, salt, and chicken, allowing the savory aroma to fill the room. In your blender, you carefully blended the sauce, a perfect mixture of chile ancho, chile guajillo, garlic cloves, onions, vegetable oil, oregano, and salt, mindful of not adding too many chilies so it wouldn't be too spicy for Jack, just enough for flavor.

As the broth boiled, you took the time to prepare the fresh toppings, washing and slicing the lettuce, jalapeños, white onion, lemon, cilantro, and radishes. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of the simmering Pozole and your music was playing softly in the background.

With the hominy added to the pot, the Pozole was nearly ready. You carefully ladled it into bowls, adding the toppings to each one, making sure to skip the jalapeños in Jack's bowl to avoid any spiciness.

When Jack came home, you could tell he wasn't having a great day. He didn't greet you, not that he usually did, and there was a hint of frustration in his expression. But you hoped that your efforts would brighten his mood.

"Hi, Love. Welcome home." You said with a smile, hoping to receive some affection in return.

He glanced at you briefly, barely acknowledging your presence. "Yeah." Was his only response.

You tried not to let his lack of enthusiasm affect you and continued, "I made something different for dinner tonight. Pozole, one of my favorites. I hope you'll like it."

Jack glanced at the simmering pot on the stove, but his expression remained indifferent. "Right, you said you would."

As you took the bowls to the dining table, you couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. It seemed like no matter how much effort you put into making him happy, he rarely showed any appreciation or love in return.

He sat down to eat, and you watched eagerly for his reaction. But as he took the first spoonful, his face turned red, and he exclaimed, "You said it wasn't spicy!"

You insisted, "It's not, honey! I made sure to adjust the spices for you."

"Well, Darlin'," he emphasized mockingly, "I can't feel my tongue." He grumbled, looking at you like he was angry, and you rushed to get him some milk to ease the heat.

"I'm so sorry, Jack. I really thought it wasn't spicy." You apologized, feeling disappointed in yourself. The excitement and anticipation you had felt earlier were quickly replaced by a sense of sadness as your efforts had once again fallen short.

"I'm never eating that again." He declared, pushing the bowl away, leaving you with a sinking feeling in your heart. You had put so much love and effort into preparing the meal, hoping it would bring a smile to his face, but instead, it seemed to have added to his frustration.

Feeling hurt and upset, you excused yourself to the kitchen, wanting to give him space to cool off. The music playing in the background continued. ‘Miro tus ojos y no eres feliz. Y tu mirada no sabe mentir. No tiene caso continuar así. Si no me amas, es mejor partir. Desde hace tiempo ya nada es igual. No eres la misma y me tratas mal. Y ante mi Dios te podría jurar. Cuánto te quise y te quiero, todavía. Adiós amor, me voy de ti. Y esta vez para siempre. Me iré sin marcha atrás porque sería fatal. Adiós amor, yo fui de ti, el amor de tu vida. Lo dijiste una vez, me lo hiciste creer. Cómo me duele perderte. Me resignaré a olvidarte. Porque me fallaste’ ('I look you at your eyes and you're not happy. And your gaze doesn't know how to lie. There's no point in continuing like this. If you don't love me, it's better for me to go. For a long time, things haven't been the same. You are different and you treat me poorly. And before my God, I could swear to you. How much I loved you and I love you, still. Goodbye, my love. I'm leaving you, and this time for good. I'm leaving without turning back, or else it'd be fatal. Goodbye, my love. I was the love of your life. You said that once, you made me believe it. What a pain it is to lose you.I will resign myself to forget you. Because you failed me')

If only you had paid more attention to the lyrics and your feelings, maybe you would have confronted the problems earlier. But at that moment, all you could do was try to salvage the evening and find a way to communicate with Jack.

Knowing it would only take a few minutes, you decided to make Tennessee Meatloaf. On one of your early dates, he had mentioned it was one of his favorite dishes, and you had learned how to make it, even though you weren't particularly fond of the smell. But if it could bring a smile to his face, you were willing to endure it.

The Instant Pot hummed with gentle pressure, and you took a moment to close your eyes, relishing the memories of how Jack used to love this dish. The way he'd smile and compliment your cooking, his eyes filled with warmth and appreciation. But those moments felt distant now.

When the timer beeped, you carefully released the pressure from the Instant Pot, eager to serve the meatloaf to Jack. As you lifted the lid, the hot air brushed against your fingertips, causing you to unintentionally scream, "Fuck!" You rushed to run your hand under cold water, trying to soothe the burn. In a hurry, you grabbed the first aid kit and quickly tended to your wounded hand, the pain causing your eyes to sting.

After handling your injury, you quickly retrieved the meatloaf from the pot – tender, juicy, and with its strong aroma enveloping the room. Placing the dish on a nice plate, you added a generous drizzle of your homemade barbecue sauce, its tangy and smoky scent blending with the meaty smell.

With the meatloaf now ready, you gathered your courage and returned to the dining table, placing the dish before Jack. As he glanced at the meal and noticed your injured hand, a flicker of recognition, concern, and guilt passed through his eyes before he quickly masked it with indifference.

You sat down next to him, your heart pounding with nervous anticipation. He glanced at you, and though his anger had softened slightly, he still seemed guarded. Nonetheless, he gave you a small thanks, a brief glimmer of acknowledgment that you held onto like a lifeline.

"I'm sorry about the Pozole," you said, trying to break the silence, "I really wanted to make something you'd enjoy."

"It's fine." He mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

You reached for his hand, and he didn't pull away, but there was a noticeable lack of warmth in the gesture, a warmth that hadn't been present in your relationship for a long time.

You felt a knot forming in your chest, wanting to reach out and connect with him, but it seemed like he had built an impenetrable wall around himself. Still, you couldn't bear the thought of leaving things unresolved.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to gently probe, "Is everything okay, Jack?"

He let out a sigh, seeming almost annoyed that you brought it up. "I just had a rough day at work. It's nothin'."

Your heart sank. This was the pattern, the wall he always put up whenever something was bothering him. You felt like you were constantly walking on eggshells, never knowing how to approach him without setting him off.

"I wish you would talk to me, Jack. We're supposed to be partners, and I want to be there for you." You said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He glanced at you, his eyes softening for a split second before the coldness returned. "I ain't need you fixin' everythin' for me, okay? I can handle my own problems." His jaw clenched, and you knew he was struggling with his emotions.

"It's not about fixing everything. It's about being there for each other, supporting each other through the good and the bad. That's what a marriage is supposed to be."

He scoffed, pushing his plate away. "Yeah, well, maybe I don't need that right now."

Your heart ached at his words, feeling the distance between you grow wider. You tried to hold back the tears, not wanting to show him how much his indifference hurt you.

He stood up and walked away, leaving you sitting at the dining table, eating by yourself.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, and began clearing the table, putting away the uneaten Pozole and the Tennessee Meatloaf you had made with so much hope.

After tidying up the kitchen, you mustered the courage to follow Jack to the bedroom. As you entered, you found him sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly showered, staring at the floor. He seemed lost in his thoughts, distant and closed off.

You went to his side and gently massaged his shoulders, "I'm sorry about earlier. I'm here for you, no matter what. I love you, Jack," you said softly, looking into his eyes with love and concern, "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

He looked up at you, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. But just as quickly, he shut down again. 

His response was unexpected and detached, "Get on all fours. Face down."

You knew you could say no, but you didn't want to. You wanted his love, even if it meant emotionless on his part. Your brow furrowed, but you did as he commanded anyway. 

After both of you were done, he told you to go pee. When you came out of the bathroom, Jack was already asleep. He slept with his back towards you.

As you lay in bed that night, you cried yourself to sleep. Silently, not wanting to wake him up. You were in a deep sleep as a result of your body being overworked, the stressed cooking made you, and from crying. You thought you felt him wrap his arms around you and heard him mumble a sorry into the top of your head, but you were sure you made it up.

Out of all the things Jack was, he wasn't oblivious. He knew how much he hurt you. He knew he was an ass, but he couldn't bring himself to reflect on how much he hurt you tonight. 

He heard your stifled sobs earlier, and each one was like a dagger in his chest. The pain he inflicted on you was a weight he could hardly bear. But when the sobs finally ceased and silence settled, he assumed you had drifted into sleep, offering him the opportunity he needed.

With cautious movements, he shifted closer to you. In the darkness, he could make out the contours of your face, the lines of worry etched by his actions. Gently, he rolled over and reached for you, pulling you into his arms. Seeking solace from the very person he had hurt. 

Wrapped in your embrace, he stroked your head lightly, his fingers tracing soothing patterns through your hair. He pressed a soft kiss onto the top of your head, his lips lingering there, trying to convey all the apologies he couldn't find the words for. At that moment, he wished he could erase the pain he had caused, the detachment he had shown.

"Sorry," he huffed out, "I'm so sorry, my love." He whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. He wished he could be better for you, offer you the love you deserved, but his own monsters held him back.

Yet, even as he murmured his apologies in the darkness, his touch carried a tenderness that spoke volumes. It was as if he sought redemption through this secret exchange because he wasn't ready to confront the reality of facing you in the light of day. He wished he could hold you close, to make the pain he inflicted vanish with a simple embrace. But he knew that true healing required more than just whispered words; it needed a change he wasn't sure he was capable of making. 

After his silent confessions, he released you from his gentle hold, allowing the fragile connection to slip away as he turned. He rolled onto his previous position. The weight of his guilt and remorse remained, but so did the weight of his fears. And as he lay there, his back turned to you, he faced his own darkness, unsure how to bridge the gap between the man he was and the man he needed to become.

You start talking with Javi about the food, and Jack watches you converse with your husband as you serve the food together, and his heart hurts watching the domesticity.

At the same time, you're caught in a whirlwind of memories, and the rush of them makes your movements stutter. In your distraction, you accidentally cut yourself with the aluminum foil, and some loose lemon juice gets in your wound. A small sound of pain escapes your lips, and Javi immediately drops what he had in his hand, rushing to your side. He gently cradles your hand in his, concern etched on his face.

"Amor!" ("Love!") Javi says, his voice laced with worry. His eyes flicker between your wound and your face, trying to gauge the severity of the cut.

Jack's heart clenches seeing you in pain. He wants to rush over and take your hand in his. He wishes he could be the one to hold your hand and soothe your hurt, but he knows that's not his place anymore, and it kills him.

"Mami, ¿está bien?" ("Mommy, are you okay?") Your son asks, equally concerned as his dad. He moves closer, his little brows furrowing.

"Yeah, sweetie, I'm just overreacting." You brush it off, though your eyes betray the pain you're feeling. You're trying to hide the memories that caught you off guard, not wanting to ruin the atmosphere for your son and Jack.

"You're not, you got hurt." Javi insists, his eyes fixed on your wound.

"Sit down." He commands, his tone still gentle but leaving no room for argument. He guides you to a chair, his larger hand engulfing yours, and he reaches for a nearby first aid kit. His fingers move with practiced ease as he cleans the wound with antiseptic, his touch gentle and attentive. He then wraps a band-aid around your finger, his movements unhurried, not wanting to leave anything to chance.

Your eyes start to water, the flood of memories of Jack and Javi overwhelming you. You can't help but recall the countless times Javi has taken care of you, both the physical and emotional wounds, much like he's doing now. His actions carry the weight of all the love and comfort he's provided over the years. He's always been there for me. Not like- you stop yourself before full waterworks begin.

"Mi vida, ¿te duele?" ("My love, does it hurt?") Javier asks, his voice full of care, taking your hand into his. His brown eyes search yours for any hint of pain, and his brows furrow with genuine concern.

"No, nomás me acordé de algo. I'm okay." ("No, I just remembered something. I'm okay.") You whisper, trying to assure him, your voice barely above a breath. It's not just the cut that's causing your distress; it's the memories that were triggered by the simple act of serving food. You had moments like these, but they hadn't been present in a while. 

"Segura?" ("You're sure?") Javier asks, his concern palpable, his gaze unwavering. He wants to make sure you're truly okay.

"Ya se me pasó. I'm okay, I promise." ("It already passed.")

Javi knows you well enough to sense when you're not entirely okay, but he also knows that this is something you'll want to talk about later in private. For now, he respects your need to maintain normalcy in front of your son and Jack. He leans in and gives you a gentle kiss, his lips warm against your skin, a silent promise of his support.

"No te muevas. I'll serve the food, cariño." ("Don't move. I'll serve the food, dear.")

You nod and then turn to the reason for your tears, "Jack, are you sure you want Pozole? I don't know if you remember, but you already had it once."

Jack's face drops slightly, his mind racing, Oh God, she remembers what I did. He approaches you, whispering an apology, his voice laden with regret. "I do want it. I'm so sorry." He murmurs, looking like he might cry.

You can't bear to look at him right now, so you shift your gaze to Javier. 

Javier adjusts the hospital bed table to Ángel's height and gets ready to serve. He starts with Ángel, ensuring his plate is prepared just right, with no onions, just as he likes it. He places the bowl before him, "Provecho, mi niño." ("Have a good meal, my boy.")

"¡Gracias papi!" ("Thank you, Daddy!") He was going to wait for everyone to start eating, but his hunger for having a light breakfast gets the best of him.

Javi quickly arranges the larger table, despite your offer to do it. He only guided you to sit at the table and served you a bowl of Pozole. The sight of the soup with radish on top made your mouth water. 

“I'll give him some of Ángel's container. Ours has four Chiles de arbol," Javi says to you, glancing over at Jack. "It’ll be too spicy for you,” he smirks.

Jack takes it as a challenge. “I’ll have some of yours.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Remember what happened last time? It was too spi-“

“No really. It’s fine,” Jack insists, a determined look on his face.

Javier serves his and Jack's food and all eyes shift to Jack. Ángel is eating his Pozole with ease, but his gaze flickers between his meal and Jack's reaction.

As Jack takes the first spoonful, he tries to maintain a facade of composure. However, within moments, his face turns a noticeable shade of red, and beads of sweat form on his forehead. He manages another spoonful, but as he swallows, a sudden fit of coughing overtakes him.

You quickly move to the refrigerator, grabbing a carton of milk for Jack. 

As Jack's face turned redder, Angel looked worried. "Are you okay, Mr. Jack?" he asked with genuine concern.

"I'll be fine, bud." Jack managed between coughs, his pride momentarily overshadowed by his son's concern.

Observing Jack's struggle, Javi's expression remained calm, a knowing look in his eyes as if he had anticipated this outcome. He leaned towards Jack, "Told you you couldn't handle it." He doesn't say it loudly, only loud enough for Jack to hear, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Jack ignores Javier and rasps thanks for the milk, and quickly drowns it. His tongue stops throbbing, and he goes for a third spoonful before Ángel stops him.

"Maybe you should try some from my Tupperware. I only want one bowl," Ángel kindly suggested, not wanting Jack to suffer from the spiciness of the food his dad served.

"Yeah, I think that's the best idea." You quickly chimed in, turning to Javi with a decisive look that left no room for argument.

Javi got up and served Jack another bowl, this time from Ángel's portion so it would be less spicy for Jack. If it were entirely up to Javi, he might have made Jack eat the spicy pozole, but Ángel's compassion for Jack was clear, so Javi complied.

Jack nodded to Javi and then turned to Ángel, his voice sincere as he said, "Thank you, buddy."

This bowl was spicier than the one you had prepared for him in the past. Jack's mind had become clouded by anger, causing him to exaggerate and latch onto your cooking as an excuse for his emotions. If he were to eat the pozole you made exactly as you had prepared it before, he would have no issue. It was as if his anger demanded a tangible reason to be directed at you, and this distorted perception had twisted the reality of your dish. Now he realizes his mistake, and it makes him hate himself all over again.

Ángel was engrossed in the movie he was watching, providing Jack with the perfect opportunity to voice something that had been on his mind for a while. “He has your nose. Good,” Jack chuckled.

“Yeah, and let’s hope this one also has her nose,” Javi said, his hand gently caressing your stomach.

"Hey," you interjected, "Both of you stop hating on your noses, right now. It's ridiculous."

As Jack glanced at you, memories of your past flooded his mind. I remember when she used to tell me how much she loved my nose whenever I said I hated it.

"Right. I almost forgot how much you love my nose." Javier said suggestively, breaking Jack's train of thought.

You felt flustered by Javier's comment, and Jack's emotions churned into a mix of fury and jealousy. He couldn't help but feel anger at the casual way your new husband had commented on your sex life. Jack's hands clenched slightly under the table, his fingers flexing as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He averted his gaze, focusing on his plate as a way to regain his composure.

Ángel's laugh pulled him out of his trance, and Jack's head instinctively turned to him. 

"Look," Ángel said between laughs, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "the security guard from Binky Nelson Unpacified kinda looks like you, Mr. Jack!"

Everyone's gaze shifted to the subject of Ángel's amusement, and soon, laughter filled the room as the uncanny resemblance became evident. Jack couldn't deny the similarities: the mustache, the sideburns, the pair of boots, and a cowboy hat. Jack got up from the table and took a seat next to his son's bed. 

"You're right," Jack chuckled, "Even the cowboy part is spot on, but I've got a ranch." He shared with a hint of pride in his voice.

"Actually?" Ángel's amazement was noticeable.

"I ain't kiddin'," Jack responded with a grin.

Ángel gasped in delight, exclaiming, "I love ranches!"

"Well, maybe once you're out of the hospital, we can all go," Jack suggested warmly, glancing at you and Javi. He made sure to add, "If it's okay with your parents."

The idea seemed to energize Ángel, and both you and Javi agreed. Your son's face lit up.

Your son cheered before a realization struck him. "But we have to go before or after Coco because I haven't been to the movie theaters in so long, and I really, really want to watch that movie," Ángel's words tumbled out in excitement.

"You can come with!" Ángel extended the invitation, his excitement contagious. "Mami? Papi?" ("Mommy? Daddy?") Ángel turned to you and Javier, seeking your approval.

"Yeah, if Jack wants to." Javi responded, giving his approval.

"I'll be there. You just name the time and place, bud." Jack assured Ángel with a genuine smile.

Jack's attention shifted back to the TV, and his eyes zoned in on the cowboy hat. "Oh! You need a hat like mine." Jack suggested.

"I do?" Ángel's curiosity was piqued, his eyes widening as he considered the idea.

Without hesitation, Jack reached up and took hold of his own Stetson, lifting it from his head. "Would you like to try it?" he asked, enthusiastic about sharing a special moment with his son.

Ángel's face lit up with a mixture of surprise and delight. "Can I really?" he asked, his excitement practically palpable.

"Of course!" Jack replied, his smile widening. Jack carefully placed the hat on Ángel's head. He was mindful of the size difference between his head and his son's, so he adjusted the hat to ensure it wouldn't slip over Ángel's eyes. The hat found its place at a jaunty angle, mostly resting on the back of Ángel's head.

In Ángel's excitement to grab the mirror from his bedside table drawer, he moved a bit too quickly, causing the Stetson to slip down over his eyes. The weight of the hat threw his glasses off his face, and Ángel exclaimed, "¡Ahh, mis lentes!" (Ahh, my glasses!")

Ángel's muffled laughter came from beneath the hat, as he tried to push it back up. "It's heavier than I thought." He admitted with a sheepish grin, his glasses now resting on the floor beside him.

Jack picked up Ángel's glasses and handed them back to him, he thanked him with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Jack."

Jack settled back into his seat, his smile lingering. "We'll just have to get you a hat your size."

"I'm so ready to get out of here," Ángel remarked, his excitement apparent.

"Speaking of getting out of here, I'll be back," you announced, rising from your seat. "Ángel ran out of towels, and it's better to go up to the housekeeping desk."

"I'll go get them." Jack offered.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry, I'll go get them." Jack reassured you.

"I'll be back, buddy." Jack told Ángel, his voice soothing as he shared a brief exchange of smiles with his son.

Jack left the room and was on a hunt for towels. He had no idea where the housekeeping desk was, but his eagerness to be useful had spurred him to offer to pick up the towels.

After a short search, he spotted a desk and rushed over. A teenager in a bright blue polo shirt, wearing a badge reading 'volunteer', caught his attention.

"Good afternoon, sir, what can I help you with?" The boy asked politely.

"Afternoon," Jack began, almost instinctively tipping his hat before remembering it was with his son, "Would you happen to know where I can get some things from housekeeping?"

"I can help you with that, sir." The volunteer responded, a touch of enthusiasm in his voice as if Jack had just made his day.

“Perfect! My wife asked for towels for my son. He's in room 43.” Jack stated, happy that he wasn't completely useless.

The volunteer tapped away on the computer keyboard. “For Ángel Peña?”

Jack swallows hard and nods. Fuck, Jack thinks. It should have been Ángel Daniels. My son should have had my last name. 

The boy leaned back in his rolling chair and opened a cabinet. He retrieved three large towels and handed them to Jack. Thanking the teenager, Jack turned and walked away. Lost in thought, he looked down as he walked, and when he turned the corner, a familiar voice reached his ears.

“Oh, I didn’t know you remarried. Again. Because surely you’re not talking about my girl.” Javi said with his jaw clenched. “She’s not your wife anymore, Jack. She’s my wife.” 

Please feel free to comment and reblog! I truly do love reading them! I promise I'll try to engage more!

Taglist: @kchavez666 @ttupelohoneyy @mishasminion360 @ilovetaquitosmmmm

The song used in this chapter is called Adiós Amor. I was obsessed with Christian Nodal in 2017, and when I wrote this, that song was extremely popular.

If you've read this far, thank you, and have a great day 🤎 (I hope this uploads because I had everything ready to go until I accidentally hit undo. I wasn't able to recover my draft, yay! I definitely did not want to throw my computer for a while :)

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Recall - Part 2

WHAT THE F*CK IS PROJECT ASTER?

A/N: Not me sneaking this in under the radar while we're all riding the high of Pedro's SAG win. <- Actually, exactly this. I never meant for there to be such a long lapse between chapters but here we are and here this is - even if it is 695 years later. If you need to refresh your memory (I know I needed it) or you're just starting this series, you can catch up here. And if you want to come chat about this story or these characters, my inbox and messages are always open and I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts!

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: language, mention and description of gunshot wounds, even more angst than part 1, Jack Daniels and his Charm

Summary: You race back to the lab after receiving Ginger's message, only to be met with more questions than answers regarding Jack's progress.

You practically ran from the housing complex back to the lab, heart pounding and blood rushing in your ears the whole way. 

Something is wrong. 

Ginger’s message flashed behind your eyes with every blink. You had no idea what she meant, and that was what scared you the most. Despite the fact that Statesman had been developing and working on the Recall program for years before introducing it into standard protocol for all Agents, it was still relatively new technology. Preliminary studies were done on lasting effects of the nanites, of course. But the truth of the matter was that the program wasn’t old enough for there to be any real longevity data. Which meant that if there was a threshold for how many times the Recall program could be run successfully without causing damage, you didn’t know what it was… or if Jack had surpassed it.

How many times has he…  

You were vaguely aware of one of the other Agents - Absinthe, maybe - waving hello and using your codename, but you were too lost in your thoughts to respond. Instead you kept walking, trying desperately to remember how many times Jack had gone through the restoration process. This was the second time since you had taken the position with Ginger, but you knew there had been others before then. You concentrated as hard as you could, trying to reconstruct the page in Jack’s file that had that information on it in your mind. That tactic had worked for you during exams in college and grad school - you’d close your eyes and picture your notes and pick out the answer you were looking for from memory. But the stakes weren’t nearly as high then as they were now. No matter how seriously you took your studies, adrenaline never coursed through your veins during a bio-chem midterm quite like it did as you made your way toward the elevator, and for all your concentration you simply couldn’t find the fact you were searching for. 

Something else shook loose, though, as you stepped into the car and slammed the close door button - a memory of one of the countless times you’d shared that same space with Jack. It wasn’t just a random moment, though. As the doors slid closed and you felt the jolt in your stomach that told you the car was descending, you were struck with the memory of how it felt to hear Jack address you by your codename for the first time. 

It was only your third day on Ginger’s team when the Silver Pony came in from New York, and you smiled to yourself as you watched it land smoothly on the runway.

He’s back.  

The last time you saw Agent Whiskey, you were still working in scheduling and he had just been cleared to return to duty after being wounded on a mission. Duty, as it turned out, had meant an extended trip up north to meet with investors and sign off on some financial paperwork on Champ’s behalf. It was the type of work you imagined that an Agent like Whiskey hated. Not that you knew much about him. But from the very first interaction you had, you got the impression that he was a man of action, someone who preferred to be in the thick of things when things got thick. 

And they certainly always seem to. 

You didn’t know the full details of the injury that had taken him out of commission prior to the New York trip, but you knew that it must have been serious if the first thing he’d been assigned to upon his return had essentially been busy work. Though you didn’t like the idea of him - or any of the Agents for that matter - in danger, you were glad to know that he was back at HQ because it meant that he would be getting back to the kind of work that he joined Statesman for. The work that he did so well. 

The path you were on, the one that connected the employee housing complex to the main building, joined with the path that led to the airfield, and just as you reached the juncture, you were joined by a pair of boots and the cowboy wearing them. 

“Well ain’t you a sight for sore eyes? First face I see when I get back happens to be one I was actually lookin’ forward to seeing.” 

What? Me? 

He grinned at you, and the heat that you felt climbing your cheeks had nothing to do with the springtime sun. “Howdy, darlin’.” 

Me. Okay. 

Recovering as quickly as you could from the unexpected attack of his charm, you cleared your throat. “Welcome back, Agent Whiskey.” You returned his smile as he fell into step beside you. “Was being in New York so awful that you actually looked forward to scheduling your training and testing sessions?” 

He tilted his chin and leaned closer to you. “Schedules have nothin’ to do with it. I am genuinely glad that the first person I saw this morning was you and not Tequila or Vermouth.” 

That made you laugh, but it also gave you the perfect opportunity to tell him what he’d missed while he was away from HQ. “Well -” You thanked him as he held the door to the lobby open for you, letting you enter the building first. “That’s good, because as of three days ago, you’ll be making those schedules with someone else.” 

Glancing over, you saw his eyebrows jump, an intrigued glint flashing in his eyes. “Is that so?” 

Another Agent - Absinthe, from the sound of their voice - greeted Whiskey from across the room, and you saw Merlot throw him a smile and a wave as she continued to speak to someone on her earpiece. Even though he acknowledged both of them, his focus remained on you as you responded. 

“It is.” You grinned as you reached the security turnstile that restricted access to the elevators. In your previous position, this would be where you’d have to tell Agent Whiskey to have a good day before heading down the first floor hallway that housed the non-classified offices. But not anymore. Pressing your palm to the scanner atop the turnstile, you waited for the blue light to flash before looking back up at the man standing beside you. “You’re looking at Ginger Ale’s new assistant lab tech.” 

You stepped through the gate as it opened, turning in time to watch him place his palm on the reader. He broke into a smile then that reached his eyes, the corners of them crinkled with the force of his genuine excitement as he followed you through. “Well hot damn, darlin’, that’s great!” He bumped your elbow with his, the brief touch sending a jolt through your stomach. “Congratulations.” 

Letting out a flustered little laugh that you hoped didn’t give away the effect his proximity was having on you, you reached out to press the button to call the elevator. “Thank you, Agent.” You reigned your smile in despite the fact that you were still over the moon about your promotion and everything that came with it. “I’m really looking forward to learning from Ginger.”

The elevator to your left opened, the two of you moving towards it. “And I’m sure she’s just as happy to have the help.” He held his hand up to keep the door from closing as you stepped inside, then joined you. The door stayed open for a few seconds longer, but even though no one else came through it and there was no need to, he stood close to your side, the scent of his cologne hitting you as you inhaled. Goddamn he smells good. 

You swallowed and selected your floor, the lab level lighting up on the panel. Hand still hovering near the buttons, you tilted your head to the side, silently asking what floor he needed. But instead of answering and letting you press it for him, he reached in to do it himself, the position of his arm further caging you close. His fingertips grazed your knuckles on their way to the buttons and you had to stop yourself from gasping at the electric feel of his skin meeting yours. Pressing the button for the floor that Champ’s office and the boardroom were located on, he withdrew his hand. As he finally took a step back, you could see the hint of a smirk playing on his lips that told you he knew exactly what he was doing. Shameless flirt. 

That didn’t come as a big shock. Though you hadn’t worked closely with any of the Agents yet, you knew that some - if not most or all of them - had reputations around the HQ offices. Tequila, though capable in the field and loyal to the Agency, was known to be somewhat of an overgrown frat boy with a penchant for drinking games and strange dance moves. Merlot mainly kept to herself, unless you were to get her talking about her most recent needlepoint project, which seemed far too tame a hobby for someone with as severe a stare as she had. There was Absinthe, the toxins and poisons specialist who, it turns out, could have had a career in comedy had he not joined Statesman, and Bourbon, the quiet one whose quirk you hadn’t learned yet. And then there was Whiskey, the shameless flirt. 

But where others rolled their eyes at his syrupy compliments and quasi-pick up lines, you found yourself charmed by his southern antics. And by him in general. 

As the elevator car began to move, the man sharing it with you spoke, his eyes widening in realization as he looked at you again. “Wait. Hold on a minute, darlin’. If you’re part of Ginger Ale’s team now, does that mean that you’ve got a-” 

Your groan cut off the rest of his question. “A codename?” Wincing, you wrinkled your nose and let out a laugh that was part sigh, part scoff. “Yes. Or, rather, Champ is trying to get me to go by one. I’m not sure it’s going to stick.” Because there’s too many jokes to make about it. 

He cocked his head to the side, one hand resting on his popped hip just above the coiled lasso that hung at his belt. Your focus was involuntarily drawn to the sight of his thick fingers curled casually around the synthetic rope, but you snapped your eyes back to his at the sound of his voice again. “Oh no?” He tipped his hat back, pushing the underside of the brim with two of the fingers you’d just been staring at. You swallowed and shook your head. “Well maybe I can help give it some traction. Care to share that moniker with me? I like knowing how to properly address the people that I-“ 

“It’s Maraschino.” You pressed your lips together to keep from smirking at the way his jaw dropped open almost comically. 

“Maraschino?” Recovering quickly, his mouth quirked to one side, pulling his mustache with it. “Like the cherry?”

You rolled your eyes. “Like the cherry.” Glancing up at the numbers above the door, you saw that you still had a few floors to travel before your stop. 

“And just what about that name makes you hesitant to use it?” 

Laughing, you turned to face him more fully, resting one hand on the rail that ran around the inside of the car. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe I’m not looking forward to being asked if I can tie a knot in a stem with my tongue.” A brief scowl crossed your face as you recalled a moment from the previous day. “I already overheard Agent Moonshine mumbling something about popping cherries...” 

You weren’t sure why Whiskey was the one with the bad reputation for being a flirt, when Moonshine’s watercooler talk was as uncouth as it was. 

That turned his tone serious, one brow raised as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that so?” You shrugged and nodded. “In that case, it might be time to remind Agent Moonshine of his manners.” 

You were just about to wonder if you’d said something you shouldn’t have when the lights above the door changed again, and the car began to slow to a stop - yours. “I… it’s fine, Agent, really, you don’t-” 

“Jack.” You blinked as he said his name with a lopsided smile. “If you’re gonna be part of Ginger’s team then you’ll see my file sooner or later anyway, and I’d rather give it to you than have you read it off some screen.” 

You sucked in a breath as the doors slid open, feet temporarily glued to the floor under Jack’s gaze. This is me. I need to get off. I have to- Your tongue slipped out to wet your lips as you finally responded. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jack.” 

“Pleasure’s mine, Maraschino.” He winked. “And for what it’s worth? Call me old fashioned, but… I like it. I hope it sticks.” 

Warmth rose in your cheeks and flooded your stomach as he addressed you by your codename, and right then and there you decided to keep it, Moonshine be damned. Though it sounds like that won’t be a problem for much longer. 

Before you could respond, you heard Ginger’s chipper tone from the hallway calling you. “Right on time, Maraschino! Come on into the lab and we’ll get started. I want to show you the Alpha-Gel protocol.” You watched her press her ID card to a pad on the wall to open the lab doors, and then she was gone. 

“Better not keep her waitin’ or she’ll get antsy.” Jack grinned. 

“Right.” You laughed, bringing one hand up to absently roll one of the pearls on your necklace between your fingers. “You have a safe day, Agent.” 

With that you left the elevator, feeling his eyes on you until the doors closed.

The memory from just over two years earlier vanished as the elevator jolted to a stop, the doors opening on the lab floor. The only thing you felt as you stepped through them was a cold shiver down your spine that you knew wouldn’t leave you until you were certain that Jack would be alright. Taking a deep breath, you prepared yourself as much as you could before using your ID card to enter the lab. 

The lock panel beeped, the door sliding open with a whoosh, and as soon as possible your eyes were on him. Your ribs could hardly contain your heart as it pounded against them, the beat thudding in your ears, too. But to your immediate relief, he appeared exactly as you left him only a few hours before, and a quick scan of the monitors displaying his vital signs assured you that medically he was fine. Oh, Jack. 

“You’re here. Good.” Your attention snapped to the sound of Ginger’s voice, the other woman adjusting her glasses as she crossed the room to where you stood. “That was fast.” 

Grabbing for your lab coat, you thrust your arms into the sleeves and shook your head. “I came as fast as I could. What’s going on, Ginger? He looks…” Your forehead furrowed in confusion as you swallowed a tight knot. “Tell me what’s up.”

She nodded, deep creases cutting between her eyebrows to match the concern written on your face. “Remember when I told you that I had some files from Merlin to go over?” She pointed at the work station she’d been using when you entered the lab and started heading towards it.

“Yeah.” You nodded, following her at a clipped pace over to the main bank of monitors. But what does that have to do with… 

On the largest screen she had Jack’s file pulled up, the page listing all of the programs, projects and missions he’d been a part of displayed alongside his Statesman I.D. photo. Many of them were from before you started working with Ginger, and therefore before you gained the level of clearance that you currently had, so you were in no way involved with them. 

But I recognize some of those names because they were major milestones for the Agency. 

Scanning the list, you took a moment to mentally tick off the ones you knew about. Project Rodeo. The São Paulo job. The Recall Program. Operation Card Shark. Project Whiplash. Jack’s file read like a textbook or a training manual on the most important discoveries and victories in the last twenty years at Statesman. You glanced over at the recovery bay to where he lay, still unconscious and connected to the machinery that would bring him back from the brink of death, and your chest ached. 

He’s done so damn much for this place. 

Not that you needed to read his file to know that Jack was an exemplary Agent, or a good man. There was a reason Champ had made him the youngest Senior Agent in Statesman history, just like there was a reason that you had let him into your heart. Turning your focus back to the screens in front of you, you vowed for the hundredth time that night that you would make sure that he pulled through. But just as you were about to question Ginger about what the files Merlin sent over had anything to do with Jack’s situation, something on one of the smaller screens caught your eye.

Wait a minute. That’s not right. 

“This is…” Eyes narrowed, you shook your head as you looked over the information listed in the identifying features section. Every Agent’s file contained a catalog of scars, birthmarks, tattoos and other unique markings. It was used to keep track of injuries, to ensure that no one could easily impersonate an operative and infiltrate the organization, and - though you hated thinking about the final reason, you knew it was an important one - to identify an Agent in the event that they were killed in the line of duty in such a way that left them unrecognizable. 

Looking quickly at the diagram, you realized that it was incomplete. 

“Ginger, this isn’t right. It’s missing information.” You stepped closer to the bank of monitors and pointed at the diagram. It showed the scar on the inside of his right leg that he’d had since childhood, the smattering of freckles dotting his neck that you’d mapped with your lips, and a few other markings that you were aware of. “He’s got another scar right here.” You moved your fingertip to the area near the figure’s temple, tapping it twice. “And…” Turning to face the woman beside you, you let out a breath. “He’s got a tattoo on his chest. On the left side. I’ve… I’ve seen it.” 

Her eyes widened behind the frames of her glasses. “A tattoo? Of what? When did he… Why wouldn’t it be listed in his file?” She shook her head, sending her short hair swinging about her ears. 

“It’s a bundle of three wildflowers,” you responded, throat tightening as you remembered the last time you traced the delicate lines of those petals. “Asters. And-“ You shrugged, looking back over your shoulder. “I don’t know how long ago he got it, I just…” Trailing off into a frown, you watched Ginger pull up another tab from Jack’s file. “What are you d-“ 

You gasped at the image that appeared once she’d stopped typing, your right hand flying up to cover your mouth. Oh, fuck. A chill trickled sickly down your spine and you felt your heart plummet as you stared at a photo of the man you loved - his eyes lifeless and glazed over, a bullet wound blown through his chest. Jack… 

Ginger must have heard your sharp inhale, because she immediately turned to you, apology clear in her expression. “Shit, Maraschino, I’m sorry I should have warned you. You weren’t… You didn’t see him like this when it happened.” 

She gestured to the screen and you forced yourself to look again. Doing your best to bypass the graphic image of torn flesh and spilled blood, you focused instead on the date stamped on the upper left corner of the photo. It was from three months before you started working in the lab, and without having to ask, you realized that this must have been the incident that preceded the temporary transfer to New York that he had just returned from when you told him the news about your promotion. I had no idea that this even happened. He never told me about this and- 

Despite your best efforts, your eyes slid back down to his chest - or what you could see of it - and you realized something else. The wound was situated just to the right of center, meaning that the skin of his left pectoral, though stained red with his own blood, was visible. There’s no tattoo there. There’s… he must have gotten it after this happened. 

Minimizing the photo so that it was no longer the only thing on the screen, Ginger confirmed your conclusion by crossing the room and cutting open the snowsuit that Jack was still wearing lying in the Recall bay, revealing the delicate design of the three black and gray wildflowers inked there. “Shit.” She muttered the word under her breath, then turned to face you. “This is worse than I thought.” 

Concern crowded your thoughts then, making logic difficult. What? It’s just a tattoo. How could… what does she mean? Stepping up to the other side of the bay, you swallowed. “Ginger, I don’t understand. What am I missing?” 

She sighed and used one hand to adjust the arm of her glasses. “Agents are required to report any and all new identifying features including scars and tattoos. And Whiskey knows that. He’s the agency’s top ranking operative and currently our only senior Agent.” She shook her head. “He didn’t get to that position by ignoring protocol.” 

She’s right. You sucked in a breath. “So you’re saying…” 

“That he didn’t realize he hadn’t reported it. Or possibly that he thought he already had.” 

Your eyes widened and your heart dropped like an anvil. Fuck. In your research you had theorized that issues with an Agent’s cognition - specifically the reordering and manufacturing of memories - could occur with repeated use of the Recall program, but you had yet to identify any symptoms or warning signs that would flag you or Ginger to the problem. Fuck, Jack. Your fingers twitched at your side and you had to physically stop yourself from letting them brush over the hair at his temple. What’s going on in there? 

Steeling yourself for more bad news, you looked back up at Ginger. “What did you find in the files from Merlin?” 

She met your gaze with a concerned expression of her own, and then crossed back over to the bank of monitors with you in tow. “Okay, well, you pretty much just confirmed what I was afraid of but…” There was a pause as her fingers flew over the keyboard and Jack’s Statesman file expanded to full screen view again. “So this is the file that we have on record for Agent Whiskey.” 

You scanned it, rereading the same operation names and missions that he was a part of, nothing seeming off. “Okay?” 

The keyboard clacked again with a few more strokes, and then an almost identical file popped up in a split screen view. “And this is the file that Merlin sent me.”

Immediately you noticed a difference. At the end of the list of missions there was one on Merlin’s copy that did not appear in the official Statesman record. Project Aster. As Ginger clicked through the pages, you noted several entries where the mystery project was referenced, including, to your horror, three instances where it looked like the Recall program was used in conjunction with injuries he sustained in the service of the clandestine op. The signature on all of the entries was an old one, and you realized that it wasn’t Champ’s, meaning that these entries, this project, pre-dated Statesman’s current leadership. “What?” You tried and failed to make sense of what you were looking at. “Ginger. What the fuck is Project Aster?”

She gave you a tight-lipped frown. “Right now? Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve never heard of it. And-” She attempted to open one of the tabs with notes under one of the entries, but the page wouldn’t open. Instead it displayed a message that sent a hollow feeling through your bones: 

ACCESS DENIED. HIGHER CLEARANCE LEVEL REQUIRED. 

It made no sense. There was no higher level of clearance. You sunk into one of the desk chairs in front of the monitors. This is bad. “How did Merlin find this?”

Pulling out the second chair with a sigh, Ginger sat beside you. “He said that he wanted to know as much about us as he could since we were the ones who brought Galahad back. I guess a healthy dose of skepticism is his M.O. and… and I guess he has good reason for that. I offered to let him look into our files since our organizations are working together now, but he said he preferred to access them on his own. He was able to hack our network, and it turns out that these files - our files? They were encrypted. That’s why Project Aster doesn’t show up on them.” 

The full weight of the situation settled in your stomach. This could mean that Statesman is compromised. Or that Jack is. Or that- You squeezed your eyes shut against the onslaught of sinister theoreticals and tried to focus. “Well can he decrypt the rest of it?” Opening your eyes again, you pointed up at the screen. “Merlin. Can he-” 

Ginger held up one hand, palm facing you. “He’s working on it now.” 

You nodded, letting out a shaky breath that didn’t do much to steady you. “We need to get Champ in on this. See if he…See what he knows or-” 

“He’s on his way here now. But I can’t imagine he knows anything about this.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t condone hiding information this important. Not if it has anything to do with the Recall program, and especially not in regards to Whiskey. They came up in the agency together. Champ was the former Senior Agent, they… No. He’s going to be just as in the dark about this as we are.” 

You felt utterly helpless, a hurricane of information swirling through your head and none of it falling into place. Checking your watch, you saw that there was less than an hour left on the countdown, meaning that whether or not you solved the mystery of what Project Aster was or why it was hidden internally, Jack would be waking up soon. For the first time since he went down, you wished you had a little more time to figure things out before his deep brown eyes opened again. Because if there’s something going on that we don’t know about, he could be in danger. 

If the combination of Project Aster and the Recall Program had altered Jack’s cognitive function or rearranged his memories, it could mean long term brain damage. It could also mean that he had become a danger to Statesman. And if the files surrounding Project Aster are encrypted… You swallowed. Then we have no idea if any of the other Agents are affected. 

Shit. 

The only thing you could do until Champ arrived or Merlin was able to get through the encryption, was wait.

.

.

.

Thank you for reading! If you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist, please feel free to let me know or you can fill out the form on my masterlist.  

tags: @something-tofightfor @paracosmenthusiast @cannedsoupsucks @dihra-vesa @littlemisspascal @hellovanessax @mishasminion360 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @practicalghost @tanzthompson @harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth @swtaura @trickstersp8 @princessxkenobi @imtryingmybeskar @wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80​ @writeforfandoms​  @theredwritingwitch​ @silverstarsandsuns​ @competentpotato​ @pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @hannahkatharine @novemberrain221 @chiyo13 @myloveistoolittle @Noisynightmarepoetry​

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Right Place - A Pedrotober Drabble

Day Sixteen of Pedrotober: Whiskey Pedrotober Hosted by @norththelemon and @alyssamariag. View the full prompt list HERE and view my entire Pedrotober drabble catalog HERE.

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x f!reader

Rating: Nothing explicit here but there are depictions of an explosion and injuries that may incur in the event of one.

Word Count: 1259

a/n: I love Whiskey, but like I love Whiskey in the movie and that's as much as I need to love Whiskey (sorry) and I very much am glad this is my first and probably last time writing him (sorry again). I do love the Statesman bourbon though. That should be noted.

Insufferable.

He is insufferable. The heat is insufferable. The crowd is insufferable. In fact, everything about this situation is insufferable.

"Jack," you hiss under your breath as he swings you back into his arms, your body held tightly against him as he leads you on the dance floor. "We have to get closer."

His hands, splayed against your waist, dig into your skin. "I know, but how exactly would you like me to do that?"

You take in the mass of other wedding guests that block the path between you and your target: the bride whose wedding you've very much crashed.

How you'd ended up here, you're entirely unsure. One minute you're minding your own business preparing to infiltrate the grandiose event alone, very much without his help, and the next you're being twirled around by one Jack Daniels.

"Just...I don't know...get closer."

Jack grunts in confirmation, guiding you toward the target one turn at a time. The beat of the music pounds in your head, but you're focused. The same way you always are when on a mission. The same way you know Whiskey isn't.

The on-again, off-again relationship you've shared with your partner over the last few years feels like it's coming to an official end. At least, that's how it's felt for the past few weeks. He's been distant. Distracted. More unfocused in the field than usual, and it's beginning to take a toll on your partnership both in and out of work. Prior to this weekend, when the team had insisted that you both attend the wedding to sell the idea that you're a couple in love, you hadn't seen him in weeks. Not since the argument that had made you angry enough to kick him out.

Where he'd been, you had no fucking clue. But "couple in love" you very much were not.

He hadn't even apologized.

It only makes you more determined to ignore the way he slides his fingertips along the bare skin of your back, the dress you've squeezed into revealing far more than you're used to. Instead, you keep your attention on the bride out of the corner of your eye. You pretend not to notice when he leans in to breathe in your ear, too intent on what the groom is whispering to the woman in his arms to hear what Jack is saying to you. And yet, when he draws you closer and says your name, you slip. Just for a second.

A second is all they need.

When you come to, your ears are ringing. There's no memory of what happened. The firm touch of Jack's hands around your waist is the last thing you can recall. As you fight the urge to groan, lifting your aching skull from the hard ground, it's Jack that comes to mind first.

You scream his name, the sound of your own voice muffled. There must have been some kind of blast because there are multiple guests scattered on the ground, all thrown back from a central point on the dance floor. And, you note immediately, the bride and her groom have vanished seemingly into thin air.

There's still no sign of your partner as you try to stand, wincing when you realize that your ankle is twisted at an odd angle. You call out for him again, your hands moving to faintly trace the skin of your leg, itching to move lower to try and repair the damage you have no idea how to fix.

Panic grows under the tent as others regain consciousness. It overwhelms you, fear settling in your chest when you realize that you're trapped where you are. You can't move. Not with a leg that won't support your weight.

When strong arms wrap under yours, your instinct is to fight, but with your ankle screaming in pain and your senses still dulled from the blast, there's no fight left in you. And then you realize just who is lifting you into their embrace.

"Jack?" you cough, instinctively clutching to the lapels of his jacket.

He says something in return, but you don't know what. All you do know is that the world feels like it's spinning, and then you only see black.

There are muffled voices.

You aren't sure if you're dead or alive, really, or if this is just some kind of in-between where you're neither. There's the faint beep of a machine, you think, and pressure in what you know is your leg.

That and the feeling of someone's fingers laced with yours.

The whisper of your name is repeated over and over, drawing you slowly back to the surface. It's clearer with each repetition and, yes, you're certain now that there's someone at your side.

Jack.

"Hey," you whisper, fire consuming your throat, your blurry vision confirming what you already know. You try to sit up, but he stops you with a gentle hand to your shoulder.

"Woah, woah, woah, take it easy," he drawls, sounding like he hasn't slept in days. Or weeks, you suppose. However long it's been since the wedding. "You've gotta take it slow."

His orders are easy to follow, and you let your head rest back against the pillow. "Wanna tell me what happened?"

Jack breathes out slowly, his lips pursed so a light whistle can be heard as he does so. "You want the good news or the bad news?"

"Bad, first," you reply instantly.

Your eyes fall shut as he details the outcome of the failed mission. Your target escaped easily, although where the blast originated and how were still being determined. Incredibly, no one had died, but it had put you quickly back at square one, and it's frustrating. The way you've spent months preparing for this operation only for it to go south so quickly, and you decide that no matter what, there cannot possibly be any good news if things went that badly.

"You're alive," he says firmly when you ask for the good anyway. He's continuously rubbing your ring finger, focused on it in the way he's never focused on anything. "I just..." he whispers before asking the remainder of the doctors and agents that have been hovering for the past ten minutes to get the fuck out.

"I genuinely thought I was going to lose you," he whispers when you're alone.

"Before or during or after this mission, Jack?" you return bluntly, the anger you remember from before fueling the fire in your veins. "Because I was pretty goddamn sure I lost you a long time ago."

He's quiet, a rare occurrence for the man you know so well. He avoids your gaze, still focused on the spot where you once wondered if he'd put a ring.

"I'm not her," you remind him, the validity of the statement ringing true in every sense of the word. Because you aren't her. He'd lost in his life, and so had you. It's how you ended up where you were. How you ended up here.

"But you almost were."

You can't argue with that. The simple fact of the matter was that you had almost been taken from him the same way she had. You liked to pride yourself on your independence, but the reality was if Jack hadn't been there with you, you'd likely be dead now, so you couldn't even try to promise him that nothing would happen to you.

Because it already did.

The difference was that this time he was in the right place at the right time.

[siphonyx]

Books From a Non-Human Perspective

I've seen discussions on books going around the alterhuman community, and it caused me to recall some of my own favorite books from a non-human perspective. The most memorable of these were from a non-human perspective, and focused more on nonhuman existence, than supernatural or fantastical elements.

I've noticed that I tend towards books that are more realistic- not to say that I only read realistic books, but many of the stories I like are focused on the animal's point of view, aren't really shapeshifting focused, and are more focused on being "practically nonhuman". Like, you'll see what I mean if you check out the books 😉

(I've added descriptions and images from the books to the post, all credit goes to Google/Amazon.)

Child of the Wolves - Elizabeth Hall

Granite, a Siberian husky puppy, is all alone in the Alaskan forest after escaping from his kennel. Each moment of his life is threatened until Snowdrift, a great white wolf, welcomes him into a wolf pack. But Granite must earn his place among the wolf tribe by facing vicious attacks from the other wolves, the human wolf hunters, and the constant challenges of the frozen forest.

Lexi's Tale - Johanna Hurwitz

Can Lexi, the street-smart squirrel and his friend PeeWee, a well-read guinea pig, make a difference in the life of a man living hungry and friendless in Central Park?

The Werewolf Club and the Magic Pretzel (series) - Daniel and Jill Pinkwater

Everyone knows people turn into werewolves if they are bitten by a werewolf, but did you know you can turn into a werewolf by:

1.Thinking about werewolves

2.Reading a book like this one

3.For no reason at all

Norman Gnormal didn’t know this until someone signed him up for the Werewolf Club at school. Raised as a puppy (he’s pretty sure his parents wanted a dog but got him instead), he never quite fit in with most kids at school, who don’t growl at people or dig holes in the lawn. But in the Werewolf Club he finds home with other kids who like running on all fours and howling at the moon.

When the club learns that their teacher has been cursed, the only way to cure him is with Alexander the Great’s magic pretzel. But will the club be able to find the pretzel? And can Norman, the only non-werewolf in the club, keep up?

Lionboy (series) - Zizou Corder

When his parents are kidnapped, what's ten-year-old Charlie Ashanti to do? Rescue them, that's what! He doesn't know who has taken his parents, or why. But he does know that one special talent will aid him on his journey--his amazing ability to speak Cat. Charlie calls on his clever feline friends--from stray city cats to magnificent caged lions--for help. With them by his side, Charlie uses wit and courage to try to find his parents before it's too late.

The Call of the Wild - Jack London

The Call of the Wild is a novel by Jack London published in 1903. The story is set in the Yukon during the 1890s Klondike Gold Rush—a period when strong sled dogs were in high demand. The novel's central character is a dog named Buck, a domesticated dog living at a ranch in the Santa Clara valley of California as the story opens.

Stolen from his home and sold into the brutal existence of an Alaskan sled dog, he reverts to atavistic traits. Buck is forced to adjust to, and survive, cruel treatments and fight to dominate other dogs in a harsh climate. Eventually he sheds the veneer of civilization, relying on primordial instincts and lessons he learns, to emerge as a leader in the wild. London lived for most of a year in the Yukon collecting material for the book.

The story was serialized in the Saturday Evening Post in the summer of 1903; a month later it was released in book form. The novel’s great popularity and success made a reputation for London. Much of its appeal derives from the simplicity with which London presents the themes in an almost mythical form. As early as 1908 the story was adapted to film and it has since seen several more cinematic adaptations.

White Fang- Jack London

White Fang is a novel by American author Jack London (1876–1916) — and the name of the book's eponymous character, a wild wolfdog. First serialized in Outing magazine, it was published in 1906. The story takes place in Yukon Territory, Canada, during the 1890s Klondike Gold Rush and details White Fang's journey to domestication. It is a companion novel (and a thematic mirror) to London's best-known work, The Call of the Wild, which is about a kidnapped, domesticated dog embracing his wild ancestry to survive and thrive in the wild. Much of White Fang is written from the viewpoint of the titular canine character, enabling London to explore how animals view their world and how they view humans. White Fang examines the violent world of wild animals and the equally violent world of humans. The book also explores complex themes including morality and redemption.

Return of the Wolf - Dorothy Hinshaw Patent

Clarion author Dorothy Hinshaw Patent is well known and highly respected for her natural history books. "Return of the Wolf," her first work of fiction, draws on her extensive knowledge of wolf behavior, based on first-hand observation. In the course of a year, Sedra, a young female wolf, establishes her own territory, finds a mate, and begins a new wolf pack. Quick-paced, dramatic, and told from the wolf's point of view, this story contains fascinating details of wolves' life in the wild: their communication, the birth and training of pups, and the pack's strategies for hunting and survival.

Frightful's Mountain - Jean Craighead George

Sam Gribley has been told that it is illegal to harbor an endangered bird, so when his beloved falcon, Frightful, comes home, he has to let her go. But Frightful doesn’t know how to live alone in the wild. She can’t feed herself, mate, brood chicks, or migrate. Frightful struggles to survive and learns to enjoy her new freedom. But she feels a bond with Sam that can never be broken, and more than anything else, she wants to return to him.

Runt - Marion Dane Bauer

DEEP IN THE Minnesota forest, where only the strong survive, four regular-sized pups—Leader, Sniffer, Runner, and Thinker—are pushed into the world. Then one last, very small pup is born into the wolf pack. He is called Runt.

From the very start, Runt struggles in the harsh wild world of the wolves. He tries learning along with his brothers and sisters, but makes serious mistakes. It’s hard pleasing his father, King, and the other wolves. If only Runt could prove himself to his powerful father and family. . . .

The Puppy Sister - S. E. Hilton

Nick and his parents get more than they bargained for when their newly adopted puppy, Aleasha, decides she'll have more fun with her new "family" if she becomes human, too. So begins a laugh-out-loud adventure told from Aleasha's point of view, about her transformation from puppy to girl.

Alien in a Bottle - Kathy Mackel

If Dinn Tauro hadn't shot Tagg Orion off the Inter-Dimensional Wheel, Tagg and his sidekick, Squeeto, would never have crashed on that nowhere planet called Earth. And Sean Winger would never have found the two extraterrestrials in a bottle on the beach.

Without the aliens Sean wouldn't have a hope of entering a glass sculpture in the Hollis Art Fair -- and winning a scholarship. That's all Sean really wants in this world. Sean just needs two things -- glass and fire. He knows his parents won't help. So when Tagg offers Sean three wishes in exchange for protecting him from Dinn Tauro, how can Sean refuse?

Could two extraterrestrials really hold the answers to Sean's yearnings? Or are they only taking him on an extraterrestrial ride?

We3 (comic) - Grant Morrison and Frank Quietly

Writer Grant Morrison and artist Frank Quitely deliver the emotional journey of WE3 - three house pets weaponized for lethal combat by the government - as they search for "home" and ward off the shadowy agency that created them.

With nervous systems amplified to match their terrifying mechanical exoskeletons, the members of Animal Weapon 3 (WE3) have the firepower of a battalion between them. But they are just the program's prototypes, and now that their testing is complete, they're slated to be permanently "decommissioned," causing them to seize their one chance to make a desperate run for freedom. Relentlessly pursued by their makers, the WE3 team must navigate a frightening and confusing world where their instincts and heightened abilities make them as much a threat as those hunting them - but a world, nonetheless, in which somewhere there is something called "home."

[kryptid-writes]

Chapter 3 - Intruders and Trenchcoats

Unable to get answers from Lucifer, Y/n tries to take her mind off her worries. She is soon interrupted by an angel in a trenchcoat.

(2.1k)

I wake up to a pounding in my head and a pain in my lower back. This time it doesn’t take me long to recall the memories of the previous night. The searing pain, the screaming, the fight. All of it sends a shiver down my aching spine. I hug my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth, my mind running a hundred miles per hour. No. No. No. This can't be real. I’m going to wake up in my crappy motel any moment now. 

“Ah, you’re up!” Lucifer clasps his hands together, flashing me a cheery smile, rising from the chair sat a few feet from the bed.

I don’t respond, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of an answer. His eyes squint, my silence clearly bothers him, but he doesn’t mention it. 

“Right, well I got you something.” He snaps his fingers and a tray of fluffy waffles with sliced strawberries and drizzled syrup appears in his hand. He places it in front me, taking a seat at the end of the bed. “Come on, it's your favorite and you haven't eaten in nearly 24 hours.”

“How could you possibly know that? Have you been stalking me?” I snap, taking the fork to pick at a ripe strawberry on my plate. I hate to admit it, but it smells amazing, my mouth waters. 

“No,” he scoffs. “Well, yes, but that’s irrelevant. I already know everything there is to know about you Y/n. Your favorite weather is rainy days in the summer, Jack Daniels is the only brand of whiskey you drink, you chew on a strand of your hair when you’re focusing, and your favorite book is a cheesy romance novel you’ve read thirteen times,” he says with a sly smile.

I recoil, feeling taken aback. It’s true, every word he said was spot on. He must have been watching me for a long time to pick up all of that. 

I casually tuck the fork away in my sleeve, careful not to draw attention to it. 

“So you’re a psycho and a creep? Charming,” I reply in a sarcastic tone.

He smiles a twisted smile. “I guess you could say that.” He scooches closer and I could feel that familiar soft buzzing feeling pulling us together, it's almost soothing but I fight it off. 

Feeling repulsed, I drop the tray of waffles on the floor, kicking it across the room. I don't care if it came off as juvenile or that my stomach was practically begging me to eat something, I wasn’t going to give in that easily. I make harsh eye contact with him, crossing my arms to show my defiance. 

He looks disgusted at the scattered food, sticky syrup dripping on the floor, then turns his attention back to me, the feathers on his wings frilled out like an angry cat. “You humans always were so childish.” He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “You’ll change your mind. in time you’ll learn to trust me.”

“I will NEVER trust you! You violated me!” I try to yell but my voice cracks, still sore from the screaming and sobbing the night before.

“Oh please, don’t be so dramatic, Y/n. I told you the pain was temporary and now you’ll be better off. You can thank me later.” He winks, sending a rush of fury through my veins.

“What did you do to me?” The words drip from my tongue like venom.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it my beloved.” He pats my head, running his fingers through my knotted hair. 

“Let me go,” I demand, my head held high. “I promise I won't tell anyone what happened if you let me go home.” It takes all the strength in me to keep my voice steady. Now is not the time to appear weak. 

He glares at me, disappointment clear on his face.

“....please,” I ask him nicely this time.

“This is your home Y/n.” He gestures around the room, feeling slightly frustrated. “With me.”

I stare him down, hate evident as I fight the tears that begin to well up in my eyes. I'll be damned if I let myself cry in front of this monster ever again.

A tall woman with striking black eyes knocks on the bedroom door and enters the room, slipping inside in a snake like fashion. She’s dressed head to toe in dark clothing with long straight black hair that falls to her shoulders. 

Lucifer looks clearly annoyed by the intrusion. “What?” He snaps at her coldly. 

She walks closer, shutting the door behind her, covering her mouth with her hand and  leaning in close to whisper in his ear. 

He scowls and for a second I swear that his eyes turn a darker red, much like the way they were in my dreams. “Very well.” He shoos her off with a flick of his wrist and yet again, we're alone. 

Me and the Devil, face to face.

“I have some business to attend to, i'll be back in a bit, my love.” He strides up next to me, placing a gentle kiss on the top of my head. 

I don’t dare say a word. Any time away from him is a blessing. Maybe I can devise a plan to get out of this poorly disguised prison.

 “Feel free to explore, but don’t try anything stupid, I have this place surrounded by my demons.”

Demons, of course she was a demon. On a typical day learning that demons are real would be greatly distressing to me, but considering the turn of events in the past 24 hours, it doesn’t phase me much at all. 

He pats me on the head, a gesture that I'm sure he intended to be caring but came off as controlling to me. There's a loud sound of wings flapping and then he’s gone in the blink of an eye, leaving me alone to stew in my own thoughts.

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After what felt like hours sitting on the bed, running through all the possible scenarios in my head of what the fuck I've gotten myself into, I push myself out of bed, cautiously exploring the extravagant room around me.

 The soft carpets under my feet are black and fluffy, made of a wool material that was most likely harvested from some expensive animal. 

Embedded in the charred brick wall are colorful stained glass windows, displaying scenes of dark biblical stories, all of which starring the fallen angel, Lucifer, himself. They portray the story of his fall from heaven and his triumphant rise to power in Hell, one pane at a time. It's no wonder an egotistical man like himself would choose to bathe in his own greatness in such a way.

 I open the drawers of a black wooden dresser and to my surprise they’re fully stocked with clothes all in my size and style, even down to the specific local shops I prefer to buy from. Some of them have odd little holes in the back of the shirts, but I don’t waste my energy focusing on such miniscule details. There’s more important things at hand.

 Finally, I reach the large shelves on the wall that tower far above me. They’re filled with hundreds of hard covered books, fitted together like pieces of a large abstract puzzle. I run my hands down the spine of the books in front of me. Half of the shelves are stocked with aged leather bound books that are written in different languages, most of which I don’t recognise and labeled with symbols I can’t quite put my finger on. The rest of the books are brand new, all of them are titles that I have either read and enjoyed or plan to read in the future. 

How could he possibly know what books I plan to read? I had never even written that information down. 

 I grab a book that has been on my reading list for quite some time, Good Omens by Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, hoping to find some sort of comfort in the pages. The story did little to take my mind off things considering the main characters were an angel and a snarky demon, a stark reminder to my current situation. 

Just as I had started to get into the story, mindlessly flipping through the pages, a loud BANG sounds outside the room and I scramble to my feet in a panicked hurry.

Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s changed his mind. He’s come back to kill me after all. 

I rush to the door, peaking my head around the crack, being as silent as I possibly can. To my surprise, Lucifer was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there is a full out battle taking place in the kitchen between a group of 5, what I assume to be Lucifer's demons, and a scruffy man in a tan trench coat. He presses the palm of his hand to the forehead of a demon and the light inside him flickers, before the demon screams in pain, dropping dead on the floor as the battle continues. 

His lifeless eyes stare at me, charred holes burned into his skull where the eyes once were. 

Although I feel thoroughly shocked and confused, I use this chaos to my advantage and make my escape. I rush past the fight, leaping over the bodies of demons littering the floor. Their blood forms sticky puddles that squish under my bare feet. I’m almost at the door when I feel strong hands wrap around my waist pulling my back.

“Where ya going girly?” The nasally voice of a demon whispers in my ears. His breath reeks of cigarettes and booze. He let out a low startling laugh that shook me to my core.

 I struggle for a moment, before pulling out the fork I had stashed away in my sleeve from breakfast. I whip around in his arms, using my full force and stab him directly in his wretched black eye. He lets out a wailing scream, dropping me to cradle his deformed eye, fork still plunged deep inside. 

With no time to think, I push myself up and start running, slamming the door shut behind me.

The house is surrounded by thick woods, trees covering every line of sight. Completely secluded. He was smart to choose a place where no one could possibly find me, not that I would have anyone looking for me in the first place. 

I just can't seem to bring myself to care at the moment. The only thought on my mind is that I need to put as much distance between myself and the house as I can. This may be the only chance I get and I'm not gonna waste it. I run as fast as my legs will take me, running on sheer willpower and determination.

The foliage is so thick that very little light shines through at all. Every movement in the shadows starles me, my mind conjuring up all sorts of nightmarish explanations. The pine needles and tree roots twist under the soles of my feet, it hurts like a thousand repeated stab wounds simultaneously breaking the skin, but my adrenaline keeps me moving. The sound of birds chirping that would usually soothe me on a sunny day like this sounds more like an alarm that danger is nearing closer. A world that feels so familiar, yet suddenly so hostile.

The house is far out of sight but I don't dare stop running. I made that mistake last time, I won't allow it to happen again. My heart drops to my feet as I hear the familiar sound of the rustling of large wings behind me. 

Of fucking course he found me! I was foolish to think I could ever escape Lucifer. I’m suddenly stopped in my tracks, unable to run any further as an invisible force pulls me back. What the actual fuck is going on? 

Every ounce of strength in my body is nothing compared to the grip of the force keeping me in place. It's like thick ropes are bound around me, tightening the more I struggle, completely immobilizing my body.

I hear the slow crunch of leaves under shoes behind me as the angel gets closer and closer, approaching my frozen form. The forest gets quiet as if the whole world is holding its breath. My body starts trembling with fear. I refuse to look behind me, afraid to see his furious red eyes staring back at me. 

There's a touch of two gentle fingers to my temple, and once again the world goes black. I slip into a familiar darkness that seems to be calling my name.

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