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shieldedreams · 2 years ago

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a little dream come true (e.u.)

summary ⇾ eggsy remembers just how he met you–be it chance, be it fate–and remembering it every now and then brings a smile to his face (yours too) details ⇾ 1,715 words / eggsy unwin x data-analyst!reader / gn!reader / 🌸 fluff / merlin being the biggest shipper of you two (we do not talk about the golden circle...)

the kingsman headquarters grow quiet in the thick of the night, as it always does. eggsy finds himself down one of the hallways, making his way towards a specific office to find his favorite person. he slows down when he passes by a door that looks familiar. backtracking a couple of steps, he looks through the small window and the sight refreshes his memory. his memory of when he first met you.

heavy breathing. loud ringing in eggsy’s ears. he can’t hear or think straight. he’s about to lose his god damned mind from all this intense training but he knows he’s got to get a grip. he’s made it this far–top two–there’s no fucking way he’s stopping now. he came so close to being ran over by a train; if he can pass that, he can surely pass this.

he finds himself in a small room with nothing but a person tied to a bomb. there’s no door, no window, nothing. he’s torn in this situation, unsure of how to go about this when it seems like there’s only one path to doing what’s right. he’s gone as far as to make sure you’re safe but the only thing left is the bomb to diffuse. as far as his prior background experience goes, he’s only got thirty seconds to spare. there’s no way out, no form of help apart from his conscience and the bag over your head to cover your whimpers.

he manages to grip onto your shoulders, telling you to find your way out as soon as the bomb goes off and that it wasn’t your fault. none of this was. though he knows you can’t comprehend it with the onslaught of tears and whimpering, eggsy’s said his piece. he throws himself with the bomb as far away from you as possible despite the lack of space to begin with.

with his eyes clenched shut and quivering lips along with the image of his mother and baby sister in his mind as his fading thoughts, the impact... comes in a form of a sweet voice cooing him from his imagination. he flinches when the bomb stops ticking and instead of exploding him to bits, it... shuts down? he blinks a couple of times to make sure he isn’t dreaming but when he comes face to face with you, the bag now off of your head, eggsy sucks in a breath.

“congratulations, eggsy unwin. you’ve passed the test.”

his brows are furrowed, accepting your hand up to his feet as he blinks at you, “w-what?”

a doorway suddenly appears, the simulation-like room disappears to a simple bedroom with wooden walls... as they remain contained in a glass cube. it clicks in eggsy’s mind that everything wasn’t real, though his heart giving out just may be it.

he still doesn’t know what to say, how to react. a part of him thinks this isn’t real but when you lure him out of the glass box, towards the bed, he immediately flops down to take a seat. with a small smile, you offer him a cup of water he accepts, still confused but he knows an explanation is coming as you take a seat next to him.

he appreciates how you allow him to take a couple of breaths first. though, he’s uncertain if it’s because of what he just went through that’s making his heart somersault like this or if it’s the proximity between the pair of you. it doesn’t help that he’s able to look at you up-close, watching you watch him. it’s... a weird feeling. comforting, yet it’s making him nervous.

“as a kingsman, it’s important to put others before yourself. in that moment, when you decided to take the bomb with you and step away as far from me as possible, you’ve passed the test.”

eggsy chugs down the water, eyeing the bag on the glass floor he’s certain was over your head. you chuckle when you match his line of sight. “oh, that’s transparent, by the way. i could see everything.” you reach to take his emptied cup when he looks like he’s done with it. your fingers brush over his gently, almost electrifying his body upon contact that he tries not to flinch. he’s obviously failed when you snort.

“i’m sure merlin will give you brownie points for positive reassurance. not many would know how to comfort another right before their demise.” you rise to your feet. “he’ll be here in–”the door cracks open and it changes the course of your intended sentence–”right now, as it seems,”

“there’s my favorite member of staff,” merlin greets, stepping in just as you turn to face him, “y’know, i’m sensing a little bias here.”

merlin gasps, “me? biased? no, can’t be.” the two of you laugh it off, leaving eggsy very confused but he doesn’t interrupt just yet.

“i’ll be off then. congratulations again, eggsy.” you raise the cup at–”merlin,”

he salutes you playfully, “y/n.”

when the door closes along with your leave, that’s when merlin notices how quiet eggsy has been. merlin carefully sits next to the young man, patting his shoulder, “you alright there? not quite like you to be stumped over something like this when you were more than ready to get run over by a train.”

the first thing that eggsy asks is: “who was that?”

merlin chuckles, pulling his hand back from eggsy’s shoulder, “that’s y/n. they’re one of our top data analysts but they’ve got some experience from field. they saved me once, hence, the reason why they’re my favorite but don’t tell no one, alright?”

eggsy nods quietly, still staring at the direction you left. he notices he’s quiet when merlin has this shit-eating grin on his face, clearly understanding that you left an impression on him.

“if you say anything about this, i will personally chop your balls off, merlin.”

“oh, i wonder why would you do that when i could give you a reason to see them?”

“...merlin, if you’re serious i will love you forever.”

merlin was indeed serious. that day was the first unofficial date you went on with eggsy merely minutes after meeting him for the first time. eggsy still remembers it like it was yesterday despite it being a couple of years ago. the fond memory lives in his mind and–”best have someone familiar in your mind when you look through that specific window.”

it seems you’ve snapped him out of his reverie when his shoulders flinch just a bit. he turns to you, that cheeky smile forming from a small one, to a wide grin as he makes the move to walk towards you. despite being in public, eggsy has never shied away from showing you his affection.

his hands almost immediately reach for your waist, even if you try to swat them away with we’re in public! his response is always nah, don’t really care, and you feel the security wrapped around your waist and the adoration kissing the side of your head as eggsy hugs you. although it’s late in the kingsman headquarters, it doesn’t mean that it’s completely empty. there’s a potential risk of someone coming by (even though the entire bloody corporation knows by now) and it still makes you shy every now and then.

you’re about to succumb into his embrace, until a peek over eggsy’s shoulder allows you to meet with–oh–”not in the hallways, kids. pack it up and move somewhere private.”

with a muffled huff, you’re about to push eggsy away but he remains firm, locking his arms around you as he calls off to merlin who promptly walks past, “oh piss off, merlin. don’t act like you weren’t rooting for us in the beginning.”

merlin looks like he’s about to let it go, but he backtracks so that he can get a glimpse of you, “oh yeah, forgot to tell ya, lover boy over here has been head over heels since day one. and i’m not talking about the first date.”

merlin only sticks around enough for it to hit you, and then he’s winking at eggsy before he’s off. when it’s just you and eggsy again, you turn to face him and he’s effectively avoiding eye contact, arms shifting around your waist.

“is he talking about your test? that’s the first time?”

you watch as eggsy’s mouth open and close a couple of times, before he musters up: “l-look, merlin’s just talking straight out of his arse–”the slight raise of your brow and small pout is all it takes for eggsy to crack”–and–oh for fuck’s sake, yes. that’s the first time!” you press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing, it’s harder when eggsy pulls away with a scoff.

“might’ve been gassed out of my mind but i know a pretty thing like you when i see one. just so happens it’s one that makes me feel all sorts of things even before i get to know them.”

patiently, you wait until he’s done with his little rant and he notices you’re waiting. oh, how polite. he looks at you with a sigh, “go on, make fun of me already. call me a hopeless romantic and all that bullsh...”

eggsy only processes what had happened when you’re a couple of steps away. sure, the two of you have kissed and gotten intimate plenty of times already since getting together but it’s the small moments like these that truly create an uproar in the butterflies in his stomach. your hushed giggle, the soft yet urgent kiss planted to his cheek, that giddy buzz that surrounds you as you quickly pull away. it’s... the smallest things that rile him up the most, and it’s working.

“again...” he says, now walking towards you as you walk away, “again! come back here!”

you squeal as you try to make a run for it, eggsy hot on your trail as he chases you back towards your office. merlin scoffs a laugh as he’s waiting for his coffee from the machine nearby, shaking his head but well-aware he’s the reason for all of this to begin with. he’s mighty proud when he gets his drink, making his way towards his office and notices the happiness radiating from both eggsy and you down the hall.

#eggsy unwin #eggsy unwin x you #eggsy unwin fanfic #eggsy unwin x reader #kingsman eggsy #eggsy unwin fanfiction #eggsy x reader #soz idk what this was #but it was in my drafts and whenever the word count is there it usually means its done???#so its done LOL #ANYWAY #here it is <3 #:)#hope any eggsy lovers out there still can enjoy this!#<3

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justsomerandomfanfic · 2 years ago

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pedro-pedrito-pascalito · 2 years ago

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it's cuffing season....

#i sure as hell want him in my bed and soon #pedro pascal #<3 #this one lowkey is for the sweet anon #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #myedit #agent whiskey #give me a pedro pascal please #agent jack daniels #whiskey #kingsman #kingsman the golden circle

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the-blind-assassin-12 · 6 months ago

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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.

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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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lady-bess · 7 months ago

Text

Fallout - Chapter 1 "Into The Ether"

Jack Daniels x F!Reader Explicit/18+ (Minors DNI please) Chapter Word Count: 6.7k Chapter Tags: Description of Injuries, Graphic Description of Injuries, Canon-Typical Violence, Comatose Patient, Grief, PTSD Referenced, Medical Equipment Mentioned (Not Graphic Detail), Angst, Golden Circle Fix-It, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Deceased Character, Discussion of Death, Hallucinations.

Series Masterlist | A03 Link | Tumblr Masterlist

<- Previous Chapter (Prologue)

Four months after his accident, Jack is finally showing some signs of life. Clara and Jane work to stabilise him, but his welcome back to the land of the living is not as smooth as they'd like.

3:27am. February 8th, 2018.

It had been like any other evening. Quiet, fairly boring, and with nothing more than a soft hint of jazz music filling the crisp, white room. Aside from whenever agents needed urgent care, the lab was usually a peaceful place; but the night shifts were the best for it. Nothing but silence for hours at a time, filled only by a soft hum, pen tapping, or one of Statesman’s workers mumbling along with whatever tune the radio played. It went down like this most shifts.

Until tonight.

A shrill ring came from the other side of the room – nothing overly loud, but in the dead silence of the room it was jarring enough that it made people jump slightly. Working away at her desk, the noises piqued the interest of the lab assistant, Jane, who was working the night shift. Normally her shift was a quiet one, tasked with monitoring anyone who was in stasis and just maintaining the equipment. It was her boss, Clara, who mainly used the machinery during the day.

Monitors sprung to life next to one of the stasis chambers in the Statesman labs. A higher heart rate than normal was picked up, a faster flow of oxygen was being delivered to the patient in question, and the chamber itself was registering small movements up and down their body. Standing from her seat, Jane went down to the stasis chamber that was making all the fuss, her heels clacking on the linoleum floor as she paced towards it.

It wasn’t very often that Statesman needed to keep anyone in stasis – not long term, anyway. Most agents would be in it for an hour or two, potentially overnight if their injury was severe, and the nanites would do their job and get people fighting fit almost immediately after waking. But this case was unique.

There was only one chamber in use at the moment, so finding the suspecting noise wasn’t too difficult. It wasn’t uncommon for this machine to spring to life on occasion if certain components needed adjusting to best support the life that laid within it, so Jane initially didn’t think much of the noises.

Jane stood at the foot of the chamber, which laid horizontally, plugged in to all manner of monitors and Statesman’s versions of life support machines (everything being significantly more technologically advanced than what even the best hospital in the world could offer, of course). She squinted at a panel that was fixed to the end of the chamber, trying to make sense of the numbers it was giving. This would always be the first thing to check; the panel in question gave out readings for inside the chamber, things like temperature, oxygen levels, and there were sensors littered throughout that would tell her if the patient had moved even a millimetre. It never yielded much information, and had so far only been useful at letting either Jane or Clara know what might need adjusting – but today those readings were very different, and she almost couldn’t believe her own eyes.

“It can’t be…,” she whispered to herself as the panel told her there was movement being registered up and down the patients’ body. Nothing major, but their muscles were slowly starting to shift inside the chamber. It wasn’t enough to warrant being concerned by most patient’s standards, but this one was different. In the four and a half months since this chamber had been occupied, there hadn’t even been an eyelid twitch. Aside from their breathing, which in itself was being aided by an oxygen tank, many would look at the life within the chamber and deem the patient to be deceased.

Jane moved down to the head of the machine, which had all the heart rate monitors, brain scanners, and life support machines set up. She glanced up at the heart rate monitor and gasped; for the first time since September last year it was actually registering the patient as having a steadier, stronger, heartbeat. The brain scan was also picking up more activity than usual, synapses firing properly for the first time in months. Their frontal lobe specifically was active, and activity was registering in areas of the brain that correlated to memory and executive function. Both the left and right lobes were firing up, indicating that movement would soon be noticeable on both sides of the body. A relief, really, considering what they went through…

Jane turned to the chamber and looked in through the glass panel which ran down the length of the chamber. Her eyes widened at what she saw; the patient who had laid borderline dead for over four months was now starting to twitch. It was barely noticeable, but after monitoring for so long the whole lab had gotten used to the fact this guy just never moved a muscle. At first she only noticed his hand move slightly, but the longer she observed the more movement she saw. His fingers spasmed, his legs kept making small jumpy movements, and then as she looked at his face she noticed his eyelids were flickering.

“Holy shit,” she said to herself, then promptly left the bedside of the chamber and headed back to the desk. She picked up the receiver of the phone which was there, and dialled her boss’ emergency line. Since this patient had come in, Clara had given Jane and all the other lab assistants strict instructions that her direct emergency line only be used in this very scenario. With shaking hands, Jane pressed the phone to her ear and waited for the click on the other end.

“Jane?” came Clara’s voice down the line. Jane breathed a sigh of relief at the sound – she knew what to do when the patient awoke, but she also knew it would probably be better if Clara were here. Not for her sake, but for the patient’s.

“Clara! Thank heavens. It’s happening; he’s waking up,” she said, then looked back over the machine. An even louder noise had just started up, indicating more significant movement. Jane couldn’t help but smile slightly – everyone had been waiting for this day since he came in. It was all a little surreal to think that it was actually happening.

“Are you sure, Jane?” Clara questioned, disbelief laced in her voice. It wasn’t that she doubted Jane, but rather that by now she’d written off this day as ever being possible. Jane nodded, still looking at the machine, until she realised Clara would have no way of knowing that she was moving her head. Clearing her throat, she looked away from the machine and paid attention to the call again.

“Yes, I’m positive. There’s movement, Clara. I can actually see it, too. It’s not just one of the machines playing Hell,” she explained.

“Alright, I’m on my way. Keep him stabilised. If you think he’ll wake up properly before I’m there, let him. It could be dangerous if we keep him under any longer than he’s already been. Don’t wanna risk another four months of nothing,” Clara explained.

“Got it; see you soon!” Jane said, and hung up the call. She headed straight back over to the machines and started monitoring, fiddling with some dials as she went to make the waking up process a bit more pleasant on him.

“Alright cowboy, let’s get you back with the living,” she muttered to herself as she worked away diligently.

After four months being in a comatose state, former senior agent Jack Daniels was finally waking up.

4:23am. February 8th, 2018.

“Jane?” Clara said, bursting through the door of the lab, hurriedly throwing her lab coat on as she strode towards Jack’s bed. “How is everything?”.

Jane turned to see Clara walking through the lab, her eyes slightly wide in a kind of shock she’d never seen on her face in all the years she’d been working here. She smiled faintly, taking her reading glasses off momentarily while she spoke with her boss.

“We’re good, don’t worry. His movements are getting more frequent, and stronger, same with the brain wave frequencies. But he still isn’t awake yet,” she explained, handing Clara a digital chart of the patient’s progress. Clara mulled over the data, swiping through the various statistics to see how fast the rousing process was looking to be, attempting to estimate when he might be fully conscious. She nodded slowly as she took it all in, huffing out a breath of air as she finally let herself calm down. She’d made it in time, and that was what mattered.

“Alright, let’s have a look at him,” she said, heading over to the opposite side of the stasis chamber. She analysed every machine, even though she knew Jane would have already looked over everything with a fine tooth comb. But it was the only thing she could do to put her mind at ease, the nerves for Jack waking up rising in her chest, and a sickening swirl presenting itself in her stomach. She steadied her breathing as she looked over the tests, eyes widening as she saw for herself that this was really happening.

“I’ve been thinking, Clara…,” Jane said, snapping her out of the little trance she’d been pulled into while her fingers danced over dials, wires, and tubing.

“What’s that, Jane?” she asked, looking over at her younger assistant. Jane chewed her lip slightly and nervously tucked a stray strand of her mousy brown hair behind her ear, knowing she was about to say what would be on most people’s minds once he was awake.

“When he wakes up…he won’t know will he? That you’re no longer Ginger, and that he’s no longer Whiskey,” she asked.

Clara sighed as she placed the chart Jane had handed her on the side, then shook her head solemnly. These last few months had been tough – with Jack in the med-bay this whole time, completely out of action, Champ still deemed it appropriate to hand over his moniker to Clara. She’d been reluctant to take the title at first, not wanting to step on any toes – but, as Champ pointed out, “He’s no agent of ours now, even if he does survive this”. So, she threw her hat into the ring.

That had been the one thing to make the decision slightly easier; Champ had been dead set from the second he had his accident that Jack would no longer be on the payroll as soon as he woke up. He intended for the former agent to heal up, and then he’d be sent on his way. A new identity, and far away from here, left to fend for himself and deal with the consequences of his actions.

Clara had taken over all Jack’s previous duties since the moniker became hers last September, including the training of new agents alongside Tequila. With Kingsman suffering heavy losses last year, and with Statesman resources backing their British cousins, a whole new generation of agents were being cherry picked from across the world to eventually be part of the new Kingsman regiment.

It had been a lot of work, albeit rewarding, but that didn’t stop Clara from having a hand in the labs. It was how she came to be here in the first place, and without these labs she’d never have had the hands-on expertise to even shoot for Jack’s old job. That and, having now got his moniker, there was an element of responsibility that she still felt for her old friend.

She hated what Jack had done, and his rationale for trying to derail Harry and Eggsy’s mission; but he still didn’t deserve this. Even the British agents had agreed that things went too far, and they hoped just as much as she did that he would soon recover – although it was almost a hell of a lot worse. Clara couldn’t bear to think about what could have happened if he hadn't been pushed so far over. If his head had tipped back just a little further, sending him into the machinery instead of clipping the outside of it – knocking him unconscious.

Shuddering slightly at the thought, Clara turned back to Jack. The head wounds he’d sustained were basically healed now, thanks to the Statesman developed alpha gel and nanites, but no doubt there would be memory loss and a stack of physical rehabilitation for him to go through. Statesman tech was good, but it wasn’t physically possible to prevent muscle atrophy in its entirety. Jack had a long road ahead of him.

But a complication in this road, she’d found, was Champ’s sudden change of tune. For weeks he’d been bitter about what Jack had done, as was everyone else in the organisation who knew him personally. They all knew about his strong feelings towards drug use, but never in a million years did anyone see it manifesting how it ended up. At worst it had caused a bit of tension between Jack and Jefferson (better known as Agent Tequila) whenever he mentioned using a narcotic substance recreationally, but the feud never went beyond a shouting match and aggressive eye rolling.

Lately, though, Champ had started wondering if Statesman were inherently to blame for Jack’s outburst. Agents went through routine psychological intervention, making sure that they were always fit for duty, but the tests stopped there. Previous trauma was never really considered, and with the exception of an on-site psychologist for when agents needed intervention after a mission, there was nothing in place for the team to use as an outlet for anything else they might have been struggling with.

Jack’s outburst highlighted a fundamental flaw in how agents were screened before going out into active duty, and Champ had begun to carry a lot of guilt on his shoulders as a result of this. Procedures could be changed, differences could be made going forward, but that didn’t undo any of the damage which had already been afflicted. He wondered how fair it would be to punish Jack indefinitely for something which could very well have been prevented by the organisation in which he worked for.

While Clara agreed that perhaps there was a better course of action than just sending Jack on his way once he was better, that did rather leave things in a sticky situation right now. He was slowly waking up, and he had no idea that life had changed for him quite so dramatically. Handling this would surely be difficult.

“No, Jane. He’ll have no idea,” she sighed, again. “I honestly think we can worry about that later, though. If he calls me Ginger, don’t correct him. Let’s get him awake and stable; then we can bring Champ in for a full debrief,” she said. Jane nodded, folding her arms across her chest as the two women just waited for time to pass. That’s all this was now – a waiting game.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A plush duvet surrounded Jack as he gently stirred from a good night’s sleep. The bedding had been freshly put on last night, and he always loved the first morning after changing the bed. The pillows were nice and fluffy, the sheets were all neatly tucked in, and everything smelt of fresh linen. Aside from sharing this bed with the woman he loved, there was nothing which could improve how he woke up feeling on mornings like these.

Jack’s eyes slowly began to open - nothing major at first. Just a faint flicker to establish it was actually daytime - sunlight streamed through the cracks in the curtains in the master bedroom, lighting up the solid wood furniture Jack had spent so much time painstakingly crafting for him and his wife.

He felt a warmth next to him, and a slight stir of movement. He rolled towards the shifting weight, his arms reaching out to touch the body of whom lay next to him. His hands felt soft skin and he smiled, humming in contentment, all while his eyes were still partially closed.

“Jack?” a woman’s voice said. Her breathy voice filled his ears, making his entire body prickle with goosebumps. Her voice was always so calming, and the sound of his name coming from her lips filled him with a warmth that enveloped him entirely. It was something he could never get sick of.

He opened his eyes more and smiled as he came face to face with his wife. She smiled down at him, leaning up on her elbow in bed. Her long, dark brown hair cascaded over her face and shoulders, brushing against his cheek. Jack smiled and chuckled as her hair tickled his face slightly.

“Good morning, my love,” he said, reaching up to caress her cheek softly. His thumb stroked her soft skin, a stark contrast to the roughness of his own hands. She smiled and leant into his hold, her own palm moving to sit atop his fingers.

“Morning, pumpkin,” she giggled. Jack smiled, his hand sliding down the woman’s tanned skin, down her shoulder, and across her arm.

“When will that nickname be dropped, Lela?” he asked. She giggled again, sticking her tongue out flirtatiously.

“Never! The day you agreed to marry me was the day you agreed to a lifetime of silly name calling,” she teased.

Jack chuckled, slipping his arm across his wife’s waist as she slipped down back into bed with him. She was right - he had agreed to that the day they got married, but he wouldn’t trade this life for anything else in the entire world.

“Alright, that’s fair enough,” he smiled, “Did you need something, my love?” he asked. Lela had got into the habit of waking Jack slightly earlier in the morning if their baby boy was moving around a lot - at first it was accidental, she would wake him when she couldn’t settle. But after a couple of instances he insisted that she just wake him, not wanting to miss a single precious second with his wife or unborn son. He always had a horrible feeling he’d miss something if he wasn’t awake and present for every second with her.

“It’s time to wake up, Jack,” Lela said, smiling softly. Jack furrowed his brow, confused.

“Lela, we are awake?” he said, chuckling softly under his breath. She smiled faintly, tears prickling her eyes.

“No, Jack. I mean really, wake up,” she said softly, sitting up in bed. Jack wondered if she’d had another bad dream and was still slightly confused, so he sat up with her. He wrapped his arm around her waist and squeezed her slightly, comforting his wife.

“I am awake, doll. We both are, we’re just still in bed. Everything is alright,” he said, planting a kiss to Lela’s cheek. She smiled softly at his touch, but sniffled. “What’s wrong, sugar?” he asked.

Lela turned to face Jack, her eyes now red from holding back tears. His heart pounded in his chest, now concerned as to what was upsetting his sweetheart so badly. She had seemed fine just minutes earlier…

“You’re not awake, Jack. Not really. None of this is real,” she said.

“Not real?” he said, clinging slightly tighter to Lela’s body. He didn’t want to believe a word she was saying.

“Think, Jack. Really remember. What happened to me?” she said.

Jack screwed up his eyes, a splitting headache shooting through his head, causing him to cry out in pain. Lela shifted on the bed, her hands holding either side of Jack’s head.

A phone call. That’s all he remembered. A phone call that changed his life. But how-

“I died, my love. This isn’t real,” she said, answering the lingering question at the front of his mind.

Jack opened his eyes at last to look back at his wife, nausea filling his body and a migraine coming on that made him feel like he was going to pass out. As he opened his eyes, everything around the two of them had fallen away to nothingness - only each other remained. There was no ranch, no comfortable king size bed, no hot mugs of tea on each other’s nightstand. Just each other in the vast abyss of nothingness.

“You…,” he began, not entirely sure what to say. If she was dead, then where was he?

“You got it,” she said, smiling taut.

“Where are we, Lela?” he asked, his fingers curling around her wrists as he desperately held onto her in case she left him. In case whatever vision of her that was clearly before him dissipated into the ether like everything else around him had. She shrugged.

“I’m not entirely sure. I haven’t fully figured it out, truthfully. I’ve been here a while, but I wasn’t expecting you to join me any time soon,” she said. Tears ran down her face as she spoke, and by now her words were almost choking her in the back of her throat.

“Why do I need to wake up?” he softly cried. Lela kissed her husband gently, tasting the salt from their tears as her lips touched his.

“Because it isn’t your time. Not yet, anyway, Jacky,” she said.

“But I don’t want to wake up. If I do, if I go - you won’t be there,” he sobbed. Suddenly the memory and pain of losing his wife came flooding back, overpowering Jack’s emotions. Wherever he was, he wanted to stay. He couldn’t go through that again. For so long he’d worked to repress what happened to Lela, never being able to cope with the fact she and their unborn son had been taken from this world.

“I don’t want to say goodbye again - I can’t, I won’t!” he pleaded. Lela smiled softly.

“I know you. And I know you’ll stay strong. At least, this time, I get to say it,” she said.

“Say what?” Jack asked, his grip tightening on skin that slowly felt like he was losing his grasp on.

“A proper goodbye. We never got one last time,” she said.

“Lela, please, don’t!” he said. In spite of his grip, Lela slipped away from him with ease.

“Jack, don’t make this any harder than it already is,” she cried, “But you’ve got to wake up”.

With the words ‘wake up’, his vision became even less clear. Wherever he had been, he was slowly slipping away. He braced himself as best he could for whatever was about to come next. The only thing he knew for certain was that Lela would not be where he was heading.

“Goodbye, my love,” he said, wiping his eyes of tears.

“Goodbye, Jack,” she smiled, then whispered, “Wake up”.

Jack’s eyes slowly began to open.

5:39am. February 8th, 2018.

It was over an hour before there was any more significant movement from Jack. Jane and Clara had done all they could, and since she’d arrived at the lab earlier this morning, the two women had just been making sure that he would be comfortable when he eventually woke up. The side effects of being comatose for over four months would still cause havoc, undoubtedly, even in spite of the Statesman technology making the transition a more pleasant one.

Blindingly bright lights – that was the first thing he noticed. That and a very dry mouth. Like, painfully so. Jack grunted slightly, trying to move his body and get a feel for where he was.

What had even happened?

His eyes felt heavy as the lids fluttered open, Jack grimacing as the blinding white of the room he was in flooded his senses. Mumbled voices filled his ears, and in a way it felt like it was the first time Jack was actually hearing anything.

“Wh-what- where am I?” he muttered, but he wasn’t actually sure if he was loud enough for anyone to hear.

His vision was blurry as he slowly began turning his head, trying to see where exactly he now found himself. All he could surmise thus far was that he was in a bed, and somewhere clinical, judging by the lack of colours shining out at him in the room. He could feel something up his nose moving as he turned his head, and with each movement a tube rubbed against the skin of his cheek.

Was he in a hospital? The Statesman med bay? And why did he have a ventilator tube inserted?

Jack blinked a few times to try and clear his eyes, and slowly the film began to dissipate across his pupils. Blurry masses of shapes began focusing somewhat, now making way for discernable objects. Monitors, IV bags, other beds further down the room.

And then, running past his line of sight quickly, was Clara. She barrelled over towards him just as a wave of fatigue came over Jack, and a piercing screech came from one of the machines around his head. He screwed his eyes up, cursing inwardly at the noise, but when Clara muted the mechanism he found it hard to want to open his eyes again.

All he knew was that he wasn’t with Lela anymore. He wasn’t sure how long he’d actually been with her, in whatever kind of purgatory dream-like state he’d found himself in, but every fibre of his body longed to be back there. He didn’t know exactly how he ended up there, how he ended up here either, but he didn’t greatly want to be anywhere other than by her side again.

Back where he belonged.

“Jack?”.

The faint muffled voices of Jane and Clara managed to break through to Jack, and in spite of his best efforts to try and force himself back to the land of the dead, he just couldn’t. Slowly he began opening his eyes again, refocusing to the bright light and the face of Clara now leaning over him by his bedside.

“Ginger?” he said, croaky and hoarse as he forced his words out.

“Jack, stay with us, we need to stabilise you,” Clara said, frantically messing with the controls on the panel closest to her. Without even realising it, he was panicking as he adjusted to being awake again, and it was sending all the readings way out of sync; she needed to get him under control before he flatlined again. His heart rate was off the charts, and his blood pressure was joining it.

“Where am I?” he asked, breaths speeding up as worry set in, causing his chest to tighten in the process. He hadn’t been breathing autonomously for months, and his increased breaths was putting undue pressure on the ventilator which had kept him alive all this time. The more he woke up the more a tightness made itself known across his chest, sweat collecting on his brow as he panted, slowly feeling every wire and IV line that was inserted into his body.

“You’re in the med bay. Calm down, Jack, it’s going to be alright,” she reassured him, administering procainamide to him through one of his IVs to try and return his heartbeat to normal.

Jack felt the effects of the drug given have an effect almost immediately, and that weight left his chest in mere seconds. His breathing began to regulate, and the blood rushing through his ears from a pounding heart gave way to the sound of a gentle rumble of the machines behind his head.

But then, like someone turning on a light switch, Jack’s mind went blank.

“Whe-who…who am I?” he stammered.

“Shit,” Jane said. “Clara, his amnesia has already set in!” she exclaimed. Clara looked down at Jack, his eyes darting around the room frantically. They had worried that this would happen, that the amnesia often experienced by agents in the stasis chambers would rear its ugly head before they could properly stabilise him.

“Get the photograph,” she said bluntly, her hands still working away at the machinery.

“But you said-,” Jane began protesting.

“I know!” Clara yelled, tears pooling in her eyes, “It might fuck him up for good, Jane, but we can’t have him forget who he is, or else there’s no going back. There’ll be no saving him. We’ve got to use it,” she explained.

Clara didn’t want to use the photograph of Jack’s wife for this - not after the grief of her death, and his subsequent actions, were the reason he was even in this position to begin with. But things had moved too quickly for him to be stable, for another prompt to be used - they didn’t have the time they needed to let him sit with something else, a new trigger, and hope it worked. He was crashing, and if he forgot who he was then it would be game over.

Agents forgetting their own identities was not uncommon. The same happened with Harry only 18 months ago. But, unlike with Harry, Clara surmised that the trauma that would be needed to bring Jack back after a complete memory lapse would be too severe to safely recreate. They had to just work with what they had, and restore him as much as they could, before that became the reality.

“Alright,” Jane said before rushing to Clara’s desk. Flinging open the desk drawer, she began pulling out a stack of paper files. Clara had made sure to keep all of Jack’s personal information nearby in case of an emergency, so anything people needed to know about the former agent sat in these brown envelopes.

Flicking through the papers, a photograph fell out. A small polaroid, with a woman’s portrait on it. She was young, early twenties, and had long dark brown hair. She was smiling in the photograph, taken on what looked to be a birthday, in a local bar that was still operational now, over twenty years later. Jane grabbed the picture and headed back over to the bedside.

“Jack, I’m sorry,” she whispered as she reached the bedside, holding the picture over his chamber.

“Oh…oh who-who’s this lovely lady?” he asked, the first smile in months spreading out onto his face. It hurt, he noticed, and for a brief moment he wondered why. But his eyes remained locked onto the image of the young woman, and slowly a searing pain started making itself known to him. Like a hot, burning migraine, gradually taking over his head as he tried to piece things together.

Who was she? Why is she familiar?

“She’s dead, Jack,” Jane began, steadying her breathing as she allowed Clara to continue to work away. Her boss gave her an approving nod before she continued her monologue, “Cops said ‘wrong place, wrong time’,” she said.

Jack’s eyes widened as everything, everything, came flooding back to him. Clara managed to just stabilise his vitals before the visceral screams started, filling the room and ringing in the ears of everyone around.

Jane withdrew the picture as Jack began to yell, his voice hoarse and screams cracking from not using his vocal chords in so long. But it was too much to bear as everything came flooding back; his wife, losing her, him joining Statesman, and every decision he had made which led him to where he now found himself; plugged into machines with a serious head wound. He had no idea how much time had passed, or how much of his life he’d lost in these four walls.

The heat he felt from the oncoming migraine soared across his head, almost burning at his temples as he sat bolt upright. Anger filled his body, raising his heart rate higher than what it had been in months. Clara’s eyes darted from Jack to the monitors, worried about her friend immensely. After waiting so long, this couldn’t be what ended him; she wouldn’t let him die like this.

“JACK!” she yelled, leaning forward and holding him by the shoulders and trying to get him to lay down again. “You’ve got to calm down, come on!” she pleaded. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders, bracing his frame in her hold. She nodded towards Jane who administered a higher dose of his IV medication, all the while allowing Clara to comfort him. He needed to lay down, or else he’d risk passing out and having to go through this rigmarole again.

Jack’s breathing remained fast, the panic searing through him as he remembered everything that had led to this moment. His splitting headache shot through him again, beginning to feel like a pulsing sensation behind his eyes, which momentarily snapped him out of his anger fuelled haze for a moment to screw his eyes up and drop his head into his hands.

“That’s it, come back to me,” she said, soothing him as she lay him down gently.

“She…she’s dead…and I-I almost…I almost killed millions,” he sobbed, tears streaming down his face. They stung as he cried for the first time in years, Jack never being the kind of man to show much emotion, even before the accident. He looked up, catching eyes with Clara.

She almost broke as she looked into them, dark brown pits which were laced with torment and anguish, bloodshot red and petrified. It was a look she had never seen before in Jack – he always was the one who kept things in check, never let anybody in, never let anybody show if he was suffering. She supposed that was where the fault lied with, really – the fact that he had never let anyone in on the fact he was clearly suffering with so much that it ended up bleeding into his work. His principles. His morals.

“But you didn’t, Jack. They’re alive. Eggsy and Harry stopped you,” she said. There was no point sugar coating what had happened – the truth would come out eventually. Her hand moved to gently caress his thick brown, and slightly greying, hair. She soothed him softly, comforting him as he came back to them.

“Th-they did,” he said, voice quiet as he tried to piece together the entire chain of events that lead to him having a head wound this serious that it put him in this state for so long. “In September?” he asked. Clara nodded.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, still holding him in her arms.

“What month is it now, Ginger?” he asked. Jane caught eyes with Clara, a look of sympathy on her face briefly – it was expected this would happen.

“It’s February, Jack. You’ve been out cold for four months,” she said, choosing for now to ignore him using her old moniker. A more appropriate time would come where he’d find out that now was no longer her title, and that instead she now carried his.

He slowly nodded, wiping a hand down his face. He felt that his signature moustache had remained, a sign that someone had clearly cared a great deal for him personally while he’d been out for so long.

“What was I thinking?” he said quietly, pressing the heels of his hands in his eye sockets. Clara sighed slightly, pulling him into her. Instantly he dropped his hands and wrapped his arms around her body, clinging to her for dear life. He knew that if it weren’t for Clara, there was no way he’d still be alive. He didn’t fully remember what exactly happened during the fight, what in particular got injured and how, but he knew for certain that she would have been the reason he would live to tell the tale. For that, he would never be able to thank her enough.

“You had a psychotic break. Or, at least that’s what we think. Unchecked psychological issues caused you to go rogue, Jack, and that should have been something we caught much, much sooner,” she explained.

Jack slowly released Clara from his arms, sighing to himself as he steadied his breathing and tried to collect himself. He knew he would undoubtedly have a long road ahead of him now, and no doubt a severe punishment to boot. His body felt weak the longer he was awake, and if he had truly been out cold for as long as Clara said, he would need to do a lot to recover from being almost dead for so long.

But all that could wait, as far as Jack was concerned. He’d pay the price physically every day of the week if it meant that what he originally intended never came to fruition. But the thing he needed to know the most was what would happen now he was back.

What was his punishment?

“What damage did I do? What’s gonna happen to me?” he asked.

“Jack, I need you to just calm down. You’ve got a long road ahead of you both physically and mentally. Last thing I need right now is for you to be getting agitated. You just woke up from a coma,” Clara said, almost a chuckle in her tone.

“Clara,” he said, voice cracked and broken, “Please,” he pleaded, “I need to know”. Clara shook her head, but a pain in her chest tugged hard at telling those pleading eyes ‘no’..

“It ain’t my place, Jack. Champ will be down here later today though. Rest up, we’ll get you some solid food, and you can freshen up a bit if you can manage to sit for a prolonged period of time. That’s all I want you to do today,” she said.

“Clara, I-,” he began, but she turned around and cut him off before he could continue to speak.

“Are we clear, Jack?” she said sternly, a tone she didn’t like taking, but one she could if needed.

Jack’s breathing hitched as her voice tore into him, piercing his skull as he still adjusted to sounds again. He rarely heard Clara use that tone, and from those four words alone it answered to him any lingering questions he had about the severity of what was to come - even if it was Champ who would deliver the punishment, it was no doubt going to be harsh, albeit just.

He nodded slowly as he settled back down into the bed he’d laid in for months, his arms loosening around Clara’s torso as her comforting embrace came to an end. She was right; all he had to focus on now was resting up, and seeing what his body could cope with after so long being comatose. The rest to come would unfold, and he’d come to learn about the fallout of his actions.

“Yes. Perfectly clear.”

Clara nodded and smiled faintly as she began explaining a few details to Jack about the condition he was in, and what rehabilitation might look like. But he wasn’t listening; not really. Her words got lost into muffled speech as he slowly began dissociating, the gravity of the situation dawning on Jack.

He worked for years to become the hard outer shell people knew him for; the stern agent who never complained, and never faltered. He repressed his wife’s passing for so long he almost could convince himself that it never happened in the first place.

But now, after over two decades of burying and hiding behind the facade, Jack now had to finally open himself up to his reality. He would at long last have to face the music, and accept his suffering.

A single tear rolled down his cheek as his eyes fluttered closed, heavy and tired after his body had to fight so hard to keep him stable and alive once he awoke. Clara wiped his cheek gently as she allowed him to slip away to sleep, happy he was stable enough to do so, then headed towards the phone.

She picked up the receiver and dialled her boss’ number. She knew Jack would need time before proper questioning, or punishment even, but she had to let the relevant parties know.

Taking a few deep breaths while the phone rang out, Clara’s hands stammered slightly with nerves and the anticipation that rose within her as she awaited for Champ to pick up the phone. Soon, the reality of Jack’s actions were about to become painfully clear - and it terrified her for what was next to come.

The receiver clicked on the other end, and Champ’s familiar southern drawl filled her ears, paired with the fatigue from the early morning nature of the call. Clara would normally mock Champ for such a trait, but today there was no time.

“Champ, it’s Whiskey. Jack’s awake, sir,” she said.

“He’s alive.”

Series Masterlist | A03 Link | Tumblr Masterlist

Next Chapter (Ch. 2 - A Curious Affair) ->

A/N: Aiming to release new chapters every Wednesday! Comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💕 Thank you for reading!

LadyBess xox

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fartthepart · 6 months ago

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#agent whiskey #whiskey #agent champagne #champagne #ginger ale #ginger #golden circle #kingsman #statesman #kingsman golden circle #happy pride month :3

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tickle-bugs · 1 year ago

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The Ol' Kentucky Welcome

Summary: Eggsy’s attitude gets him into trouble at Statesman HQ. Whiskey and Tequila show him how they handle mouthy recruits with too much pride.

Anon: Hey! Love your work. I was trying to think of something I haven't read. So, kingsman and golden circle. Maybe eggsy, whiskey, and Tatum s characters get real drunk one night, start teasing each other and a full out brawl of a tickle fight happens!!! You can do it!!! Thanks!

Loose handwaving at and spoilers for Kingsman: The Golden Circle.

Becoming a Kingsman had done wonders for Eggsy’s impulse control and sense of self. He’s got restraint now, and better judgement—he doesn’t blindly chase a whim without considering the consequences first.

This is what he tells himself as he poaches a bottle of premium Statesman Reserve whiskey from a supply closet rather ominously labeled ‘This Ain’t For Sharing, Friend’. He makes sure to shuffle the bottles to disguise the large gap left behind on the shelf.

He settles in at the Statesman briefing room table, loosening his tie and shirt collar. He unbuttons his jacket and, in a rare flash of bad manners, kicks his feet up onto one of the nearby chairs.

The thought of Harry scolding him for it tugs at chest.

“Now what do we have here?” Whiskey whistles lowly, ducking into the doorway. Tequila fits in beside him. Eggsy gives a mocking salute before popping the cork on the bottle. He grabs a polished crystal glass from a platter on the table and pours himself a hefty bit.

“Looks to me like we’ve got a thief, Whiskey.” Tequila arches his brow. “Y’ain’t learned your lesson yet, Galahad?”

“Gentlemen.” Eggsy smirks and lifts his glass. The sharp kiss of the liquor burns his tongue, but it washes back with a smoky smoothness unlike anything he'd ever tried. He smacks his lips loudly, enjoying the slight twitch of Whiskey’s eyebrow in response.

“Thought you fancy-types were supposed to be polite.” Whiskey puts his hands on his hips.

“And I thought you brutish types couldn’t make something so delicious.” Eggsy angles the glass in the light. The liquid seems to glow.

Tequila ducks past Whiskey and takes a seat at the table, helping himself to a glass. He clinks glasses with Eggsy and they share another sip. Both of them sigh in unison, sinking deeper into their chairs. Whiskey throws Eggsy’s feet off his chair and takes a seat.

“You’re lucky I ain’t reportin’ you to Ginger Ale for theft.” Whiskey fixes himself a glass. He takes off his hat and rests it on the table. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair.

“Report me for what?” Eggsy cocks his head. “You fine, upstanding gentlemen cracked open a bottle of your own reserve to share with your guest and I just had to say yes. Would hate to be impolite.”

Whiskey glares. Eggsy sips innocently.

“I like this motherfucker, Whiskey.” Tequila laughs, muffling himself in his fist. Whiskey shifts his glare.

“‘Course you do. You can’t keep your mug outta trouble to save your life.”

“Least my mug ain’t ugly,” Tequila grumbles. Eggsy snorts. Whiskey turns to fish for a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. As he leans forward, a silver shine peeks out of his pants pocket. Eggsy gently plucks a shiny lighter from Whiskey’s pocket and tucks it into his own.

“Champagne mentioned you’re a cheeky bugger.” Eggsy knocks shoulders with Tequila and winks.

“I dunno what that means.” Tequila frowns. They both watch Whiskey fumble around for the lost lighter and keep smooth, straight expressions.

“You get into shit. He’s fond of you?” Eggsy gestures at him. Tequila nods.

“Yeah, well…he wasn’t always. I’ve always been a bit of a firecracker. Didn’t make the best choices. Got people hurt. Built up a reputation for bein’ a problem, and Champagne started makin’ me own it.” Tequila watches his whiskey swirl in his glass. Eggsy hums thoughtfully.

“Sounds like Harry. He didn’t let me get away with shit. If I did something reckless, it was my arse on the line. But sometimes it paid off.” Eggsy smiles and thinks of stealing Harry’s cab on his way out of initiation.

“To good mentors.” Tequila inclines his head respectfully and raises his glass. Eggsy clinks their glasses together.

The three of them pass the time draining the bottle and looking out over the twinkling lights of the distillery buildings. A boyish mischief settles into Tequila, one that grows as the liquor in the bottle sinks. Whiskey starts to slur his words, but he maintains a hunter’s focus.

“Tell me somethin’, Eggsy. What brought you to Kingsman?” Whiskey watches him over the rim of his glass. His stare is piercing.

“Hm. Harry did. Not so different from Tequila, I reckon. I’d made a right fuckin’ mess and Harry saved me from it. Gave me a job. He saw something in me that no one else did.” Eggsy traces his fingers along the edge of his cup. He glances absently towards Harry’s cell and sighs quickly. Whiskey follows his gaze.

“Did your lepidopterist friend teach you to have sticky fingers, or do you just like causin’ problems?” Whiskey holds his hand out. Eggsy rolls his eyes and hands over the stolen lighter.

“I’ve always been good at nicking things. S’fun.” Eggsy grins and produces Whiskey’s wallet. Whiskey grumbles under his breath and snatches it.

“Feels like you’re the only one of your people that ain’t all hoity-toity. What other secrets are you hiding?” Tequila leans forward. The question grates against Eggsy’s better instincts. He searches Tequila’s face for the slightest bit of ill will. All that sticks is the way light catches softly on his eyes. Eggsy hums and turns his eyes to the ceiling to think.

“Well, my girlfriend bein’ a princess isn’t much of a secret anymore, so…I was a gymnast for a bit.” Eggsy grins. Tequila’s eyes light up and he starts snapping in Whiskey’s direction. For each snap, Whiskey gives a disgruntled hm until eventually they’re just swatting at each other.

“Whiskey, don’t we have them flippy bars down in the gym?” Tequila sniffs, blinking as the liquor hits his sinuses. Eggsy perks up. A spark of excitement picks up atop the warm flush of liquor in his stomach.

“We do. For Statesman agents. Y’know Rum and Cognac get real touchy ‘bout their stuff.” Whiskey raises an eyebrow.

“Well, we’re workin’ together now, ain’t we? ‘Sides, Rum and Cognac ain’t here. Let’s walk him down there. I wanna see what he can do.” Tequila claps Eggsy on the shoulder. Eggsy gives his best winning smile. Whiskey grumbles, then downs the rest of his glass.

“Fuck it. Fine. Five minutes.”

…

They stumble down to the Statesman training facility, passing by a very tired Ginger Ale who opts not to ask why Eggsy’s wearing Tequila’s hat (pretty simple, it’s ‘cause he nicked it). Whiskey puts his thumb to a scanner and the wall unfolds for them.

The lights click on in rows, lighting the industrial space. Eggsy gasps like a kid on Christmas morning.

Sophisticated weight training and combat equipment sit in neat rows. Eggsy locks in directly past that, drifting unconsciously towards a heaping pile of chalk bags. Pommel horses, beams, bars, and hanging rings sprawl out on a spring mat, all in pristine condition. A few launchpads and trampolines lay near the equipment. Eggsy laughs incredulously as he takes it in. Nostalgia flutters in his chest.

Eggsy immediately unbuttons his shirt, folding it cleanly and crisply. He shoves it and the cowboy hat into Tequila’s arms, adjusts his tank top, then works to unlace his shoes. The moment his feet are free, he sprints for one of the springboards. He hits it clean, just like he’d learned, and pushes off the vault, twisting through the air. His landing is a bit messy, but it’s functional, and he takes off to the parallel bars next.

The alcohol writhes in his system, but he doesn’t care. How can he? It’s been years. Coach’d told him he was good enough for the fucking Olympics and he hadn’t touched a set of bars since. The flex of the bars is a comfort to him. He flips and twirls, holding crisp handstands and tucks through muscle memory alone.

He dismounts beautifully from the parallel bars to the pleasant thrum of adrenaline and a smattering of applause.

“Hoowee, that was somethin’!” Tequila ruffles Eggsy’s hair, destroying the last hold of the gel on his head. Eggsy laughs and swats him away.

“Hats off to you, kid. Takes a lot of skill to pull that off.” Whiskey nods in respect. Eggsy returns it.

“I ain’t gonna lie, I thought you were gonna fall on your ass. I’m impressed.” Tequila slugs his shoulder with a brassy laugh.

“Thanks, Tequila.” Eggsy grins roguishly. “Mind givin’ me a boost?”

“Sure.” Tequila follows Eggsy over to the high bar. Whiskey loudly clears his throat.

“Boys, this has been…eye-openin’, but we really should get goin’. Early start tomorrow, I imagine. And this one’ll be fit to collapse when the time difference catches up.” Whiskey inclines his head towards Eggsy.

“Sorry, bruv? Can’t hear you all the way over there.” Eggsy gestures to his ear with a cheeky grin.

“I said—“

“No, no. If you have something to say, come whisper it in my fucking ear.” Eggsy snickers, hearing Merlin’s voice in his head. Whiskey rolls his eyes and saunters over.

“Look, I respect you ‘cause Champagne respects you. Other than that, you’re still a brat that oughta fall into line. Let’s turn in for the night. Both of you.” Whiskey raises his eyebrow. The honey tones of his voice make his annoyance all the more amusing.

“What’re you gonna do about it? Get me with your skipping rope?” Eggsy smirks. Tequila mutters a quiet aw hell and takes a step back.

“Maybe I will, you little shit.”

Eggsy comes to terms with a number of things about himself in that moment, and he puts them all away to process sober. Instead, he gestures for Tequila to give him a hand and reaches up for the bar.

Tequila picks him up by the waist, and it’s not the smooth, assisted lift he’s used to. It’s the clumsy grip of a drunk surprised by weight. Tequila does lift Eggsy up to the bar, but at the cost of his dignity— he spasms and makes a high-pitched noise when Tequila’s fingers press into his waist.

In hindsight, he should’ve seen the way Whiskey’s eyes narrowed at that.

“What the hell was that?” Tequila squints up at him.

“Nothin’. Thought you were gonna drop me. Bugger off.” Eggsy kicks weakly in Tequila’s direction. He backs up, hands raised. Whiskey steps in, hands on his belt.

“Get off the bar, Eggsy.” Whiskey sniffs authoritatively. The logical Kingsman agent buried in Eggsy’s brain sets off warning bells, but Drunk Eggsy, who is obviously of much sounder mind, ignores it.

“Make me, Whiskey.” Eggsy starts to swing in the space he has. Not enough to kick anyone, but enough to look like he will. He manages to rotate clumsily around the bar once, then hangs back down in front of Whiskey.

“You want me to embarrass you in front of your new friend? Okay.” Whiskey steps up to Eggsy and makes a show of sizing him up. Then, quicker than the draw of his pistols, his hands latch onto Eggsy’s sides and squeeze until he’s screaming and plummeting off the bar. Eggsy’s short life flashes before his eyes as he falls bodily into Tequila’s arms.

“Are you fucking mental?” Eggsy goes to shove Whiskey, but Tequila holds him back.

“Woah, watch that mouth of yours!” Whiskey laughs, eyes glittering. “You told me to make you. Your wish is my command, friend.”

Eggsy kicks, trying to break Tequila's hold, and he catches Whiskey right in the balls. He makes a noise like a wounded donkey and folds over. Eggsy snickers. Whiskey whips his reddening face up and glares.

“Now you’ve done it. Tequila!” Whiskey tosses something his way and he catches it. Eggsy barely has time to react before his arms are bound and hoisted in the air above his head. His toes brush the ground. The bar above him creaks in protest but does not give.

Whiskey puts his hands on his hips again. Eggsy wonders if that’s a cowboy thing or an American one.

“Skippin’ rope, bitch.” Whiskey grins, sharklike. “Now…you done with the whole insubordination routine or am I gonna have to give you the ol’ Kentucky Welcome?”

Eggsy snorts derisively. He tests his bindings. They hold steady. Fear starts to pierce through his liquid courage.

“I’m honored, bruv, but I’m in a committed relationship—“

Whiskey clicks his tongue and crowds into Eggsy’s space. He immediately steels himself for violence—what else would there be besides violence? He’s been jumped before. He’s no stranger to the predatory tilt of Whiskey’s head. He sets his jaw and glares.

“When Tequila first joined up, he carried a bit of them clownin’ instincts with him. That didn’t fly with Champagne. We had to figure out a way to take him down a few pegs without hurtin’ him. So, the Kentucky Welcome was born.”

“Aw, fuck you, Whiskey. Seriously, man.” Tequila pipes up from behind Eggsy.

“What does this have to do with me? I know you Americans love to hear yourself talk, but I’m not interested.” Eggsy tries to pull free. Nothing. Whiskey’s gaze gets softer, more mischievous. The change is deeply unnerving.

“Well, you remind me of Tequila. You’ve clearly got a good head on your shoulders, but you’re a little shit. So I’m gonna deal with you the same way we used to deal with him. Last chance, kid. You comin’ quietly or are we gonna have to drag you?”

Eggsy flinches when Whiskey reaches for him—years of habit die hard—and prepares himself for the hard crunch of knuckles into his ribs. Instead, he’s met with a gentle and persistent scritching.

A confused noise bubbles up at the back of Eggsy’s throat, quickly chased by a wobbly smile. He ducks his head and bites his lip.

Oh what the fuck?

Kingsman had taught him to resist the most painful and stressful of scenarios, but they’d never taught him what to do about this. Tilde’s maybe the only person who knows that he’s ticklish, and even then…he can convince her to let him go by kissing her senseless. Eggsy doubts that’ll work here.

“Uh oh, Galahad. Don’t tell me something’s botherin’ you?” Whiskey presses an insincere hand to his heart. Eggsy’s brain stutters for a moment as he realizes that Tequila’s the one scratching at his ribs.

“Fffffuck you.” Eggsy exhales sharply through his nose and closes his eyes--nope, that’s worse. So much worse.

Whiskey tickles under his arms and Eggsy yelps, bright laughter tumbling after. It shouldn’t be this bad—Tilde’s done far worse to him in jest, but somehow the teasing grin of his begrudging allies gets under his skin. His arms flex as he tries to pull himself up and away, but his strength collapses with every breath.

“Aw, y’all are twins.” Whiskey leans around Eggsy to smirk at Tequila.

“Whiskey.” Tequila’s languished tone being hilarious really doesn’t help things. Eggsy’s entire face scrunches as he tries to find his way back towards composure. A hiccup sneaks into his chest, and then he’s giggling incessantly. His chest feels like the sparklers he’d run around with as a kid, bright and fizzling and dissolving with every breath.

“Y’know, I wish I had tried this when I first caught y’all. Prolly woulda gone a hell of a lot faster.” Tequila’s voice floats past Eggsy’s ear. Eggsy manages a giggly growl and a halfhearted headbutt in his direction. Tequila tuts at him and folds his fingers into Eggsy’s waistline.

He makes a noise at a pitch that threatens to shatter every lightbulb in the room. Tequila’s calloused fingers strum Eggsy’s nerves like guitar strings and it tickles, fucking shit—

Tequila hooks his fingers just so and Eggsy kicks. Whiskey snags his ankle before a second devastating impact can occur. They make tortuous eye contact.

“Whiskey—“ Eggsy attempts to appeal to the cowboy’s humanity with what Merlin fondly calls his nuclear puppy eyes.

Grinning wickedly, Whiskey shakes his head and reaches for his trapped foot.

Eggsy’s eyes bug out of his head.

He wrenches his leg free, twists his hands, and flips upwards. Managing a gold-worthy handstand into a dismount, he frees his wrists and lands smoothly. Eggsy playfully curtsies. Tequila starts to clap. Whiskey smacks him upside the head.

“Alright, I’m done playin’ around. Grab him. If we’re caught down here at this hour it’ll be my hide.” Whiskey gestures for Tequila to step in. He does so, still a little off-kilter from the liquor.

Eggsy rushes in, expecting a clumsier rendition of the fighting style he’d been so painfully introduced to. Instead, Tequila smoothly blocks his blows and hoists Eggsy over his shoulder like a sack of fucking potatoes. One of his arms locks behind Eggsy’s thighs as they start to walk for the door. It takes him a moment to even process being upside-down. The sway of Tequila’s gait shakes some blood into his brain.

“Aw, y’all are twins.”

“—deal with you the same way we used to deal with him—“

A lightbulb clicks on in Eggsy’s head. He shouldn’t…but he could…but he shouldn’t—

He shoves his hands under Tequila’s arms. Before he can blink or breathe, they’re in a heap on the ground. Tequila’s cackling dead weight presses the air from Eggsy’s chest.

“Thought you’d put up more of a fight, bruv.” Eggsy’s eyebrows raise. Tequila shrieks at him in response. Eggsy manages to wiggle free and hop lightly to his feet as Tequila gathers his wits.

“There’s one of you and two of us. Be wise.” Whiskey cracks his neck. Eggsy looks over at Tequila and smirks devilishly. Tequila pales.

“I like those odds.”

The flurry of motion as they charge each other sets off the ‘fight’ center in his brain, but there is some comfort in knowing no harm is on the table. Eggsy flips and twists out of their grasp, taking advantage of his flexibility to pull off increasingly ridiculous dodges. He neatly sweeps both Whiskey and Tequila’s legs out from under them.

“Little help?” Whiskey gestures lamely at Tequila.

“Nah, I’m done. Y’all are nuts.” Tequila lays on his back, putting his hat down over his face. He folds his arms behind his head. Whiskey curses at him. Tequila gives him the finger.

Whiskey grabs Eggsy by the back of the shirt--really, he should know better--and Eggsy sweeps him again. Whiskey’s ready for it this time, though, and he manages a pin faster than Eggsy can roll away. Whiskey plants himself on Eggsy’s back like he’s settling on a bull.

“Aren’t you tired? Goddamn.” Whiskey sighs. Eggsy winces at the texture of the mat against his cheek.

It reminds him of Roxy and agonizing training sessions, of hours of sweat and bruising and his face stinging from being slammed into the mat. Even past the wave of grief, he remembers the shape of her smile when she would lecture him about letting her pin him on his stomach.

“Indefensible,” she’d say, prodding the back of his ribs. “You’re a sitting duck like this.”

And every time he’d roll his eyes, hooking his fingers behind her knees--

Oh. Hm.

As best as he can, he reaches back and latches onto Whiskey’s thigh, squeezing just above his knee. Whiskey hollers and tries to phase right through the floor. Eggsy rolls them over and pursues, squeezing and squeezing until Whiskey is a wheezing pile on the floor.

Eggsy flips onto his feet. He knows he’s imagining the fond, ghostly squeeze on his shoulder, but he puts his hand on the spot anyways.

“Now I’m tired. Goodnight, fellas.” Eggsy salutes with a wide grin, stepping over both cowboys. He gathers his belongings and saunters for the door, whistling pleasantly.

Whiskey rubs a hand over his face as he stares up at the ceiling.

“Kid’s fuckin’ lucky I like him,” Whiskey grumbles, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

“Might not wanna speak too soon. He took your hat.” Tequila puts his own ten-gallon back on his head and gestures towards the door with a whistle. Whiskey growls and shoots to his feet.

“Motherfucker! Eggsy!”

#my fics #this fic truly wrote itself. i blacked out and it just happened #and then i realized i didnt properly read the prompt and then rewrote it lol #is this good? *vague mumbling and shrugging*. did i have fun? absolutely #kingsman #ticklish!eggsy #eggsy unwin #ticklish!whiskey #agent whiskey #ticklish!tequila #agent tequila #<- contenders for some of my silliest tags #theres an au in my head where roxy merlin eggsy and harry play cowboy with the statesman agents for a while #mostly bc i want cowboy roxy...#anyways ive wanted to write kingsman forever! thx for the prompt hope you enjoy <3 #also anon 'you can do it!!! thanks!!!' has been in my head since you sent the prompt. like yea i CAN do it!!! thank YOU!!!!

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