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The bathwater was teetering on the edge of too warm as you cautiously dipped in a toe, hissing as you retracted it to instead perch on the edge of the elaborately decorated tub. It almost made you reconsider why you were here, but with the promise of your favorite agent popping by any time soon you knew you’d be sticking around. The room was silent save for an old, crackling speaker high in the corner of the opposite wall playing a Marvin Gaye song, the rhythm slow and hypnotic as you stared at the ripples in the water.
Giving it a few more minutes, you finally stood to unwrap the towel around you, folding it once, then twice before placing it on the dry spot you were previously sat on. The meticulous action was the result of the butterflies fluttering in your belly that you hoped would calm once you settled in the bath.
It reminded you of the only other time you’d felt like throwing up around Agent Whiskey; when you met for the first time to discuss slipping classified information to the Statesman agent nearly four years ago. But this was a different kind of nervousness; this was the same feeling you’d had when you broke up with your long-term partner, with the knowledge of letting go of a person you held dear, of your grip slipping on the hopes of what-could-have-been. It’s the uncertainty, the fear of making the wrong decision but still needing to make it.
You step into the water, letting the heat wash away your doubts the deeper you sink down until you’re sitting on the tiles at the bottom and the water is tickling your chin. Your head is cushioned on the towel, and it’s then you notice the smell of lavender from a shelf above the taps, the steam from the heat wafting it towards you. It relaxes you until your shoulders feel weightless and your head empties.
And then you tense up at the sound of the sliding of the door being pulled aside somewhere behind you, and the patter of bare feet on stone struts your way. There’s no doubt in your mind that it’s your agent, coming for his monthly chat and a bit of a flirt, before leaving with whatever he wants. Whatever you’ll give him.
He doesn’t speak, and you don’t open your eyes to greet him. His towel is thrown carelessly on the ground and then he’s getting into the bath with you, placing himself on the opposite end, legs spread until his toes are touching either side of your thighs. It’s on purpose; it’s cheeky and inviting, waiting for you to tell him off in the way you’ve always dared to. He would never admit it but he looks forward to these visits. He doesn’t have to pretend with you, not like he does with the others.
“Why’d you pick this place?”
You roll your lips in thought and feel the cracked skin. You haven’t been using enough lip balm, too focussed on the task at hand. You sigh.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
Whiskey grunts in displeasure. “The places you choose don’t mean somethin’?”
You blink open your eyes and focus on the man opposite. He looks no different than usual, except for a deep cut at the front of his hairline. You could ask about it, but you wouldn’t get a straight answer. It was the number one rule of the game; never ask anything personal, and he’d never have to lie to you. But you’d learned ways to skirt around that rule.
“You good?”
Whiskey fingered the scar, his lips twitching halfheartedly into a smile.
“All good. Still alive, ain’t I?”
You nodded solemnly. You drew your knees up to your chest and rested your chin on them, hugging your legs in a position that drew Whiskey’s brows into a frown.
“We met for the first time next door.” You motioned behind him, in the general direction of the tavern that shares the building with the bathhouse.
“I remember,” he chuckled softly, “thought you were gonna puke all over the place.”
“Yet you kept plying me with alcohol.”
“Had to calm your nerves somehow.”
You enjoyed the pregnant pause as you basked in the memories of your first meeting. The unstable tabletop you kept knocking your knee into, and the strong smell of cheap alcohol being placed in front of you. The cowboy that had turned up to meet you kept throwing you one-liners that you were only half listening to as you fiddled with the edges of a piece of paper you’d printed off at the office earlier that day. You remember giving yourself half a dozen paper cuts because of your nervousness, but one large, calloused hand covering yours as you slid the sheet across the table had your heart rate returning to normal, and the shaking of your fingers steadied. Whiskey usually had that effect on you; whereas others shook in his presence, you calmed.
“Why do I have the feeling’ something’s up with you today?”
He was looking at you in concern, but there was a hardness to his voice that urged you to get to the point.
“I don’t have anything for you,” you admitted. But whilst you thought he’d be mad, he simply opened his arms to rest his elbows on the edge of the bath, seeming to relax.
“As much as I love seeing you, this is dangerous, and you know it.”
You nodded. You did know it. You’d been spying on your superiors for years, but the boss had been sniffing out a rat in the business for a few months now. It was only a matter of time before he started suspecting you, despite perfectly playing the part of a devoted employee. One day he would have someone follow you to one of these meetings and all hell would break loose. But that wasn’t the sole reason you were here.
“I want out.”
Anyone else would have thought the agent hadn’t heard you. He didn’t move, and neither did the water around him. But you knew him better than that, and you spied the left side of his jaw twitch at your announcement. You’d noticed the habit long ago when you had to deliver bad news to him. However, it still didn’t tell you what he was thinking. Was it a sign of surprise, or anger? Was it involuntary, or was he allowing you to see the man underneath the ‘agent’ persona?
You waited patiently until he was ready to respond. You leaned back, head resting on your towel once more. He could take as long as he wanted. You weren’t going anywhere.
“Why?”
“They’ve already closed some branches in the south. They’re getting restless, they know someone’s leaking information-”
“If you’re worried about your job-”
“It’s not just that-”
“I gave you my word, that no matter what happened I’d keep you safe.”
You breathed slowly through your nose, annoyed at his interruptions. Replaying your excuses in your head, you realized they were just that - excuses. Whiskey was a lot of things, but he’d never lied to you, and he’d always kept his promises, no matter how small.
“Why can’t you tell me why you want out?”
Your bottom lip trembled, the honest answer on the tip of your tongue threatening to burst out.
Whiskey was a lot of things. He was frustrating, he was charming, loyal when you demanded it, reassuring in moments like these where you wobbled and almost cut it quits, patient beyond what you were used to, and so very kind. More kind than what was required in this kind of 'relationship’. When he found out what your preferred choice of wine was you got a subscription service delivered to your door every month. His way of saying 'thank you’, you supposed, but it only made you realize how deeply you’d fallen for this enigma.
That was why you had to stop this. It wasn’t about the job and the work you’d been doing to burn it to the ground. It was all about the man sat opposite, who was watching you curiously as the silence dragged on.
“I can’t do this anymore, that’s all.”
Whiskey took a deep breath, as though carefully taking in your lack of an explanation. He looked disappointed, which hurt you more than if he had been upset with you. It made you wonder if everything was an act with him. If you really were just an informant and nothing more, as you suspected.
“That’s all,” he echoed, thumbing the short hairs of his mustache as he pondered his response.
“I don’t want to let you down, Whiskey.”
“You’ve been good to me, all these years of sharing information with me. But if I’m honest with you, I thought I’d be having this conversation four years ago.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I didn’t think you’d stick it out. Most informants last a few months, the real good ones? Not even a year,” with the kind of stealth only an agent held, Whiskey leaned forward and straddled your thighs, hands resting either side of where your head lay against the bathtub, “but you? I knew you were special the second time I saw ya. You were so much more confident than the first time, your head held high like you knew you were somethin’ special.”
Whiskey’s nose bumped yours as he moved to press a kiss to your forehead. Despite the combined heat of the hot water and the atmosphere between you, you shivered at the long-awaited contact of his lips on your skin.
“Whiskey,” you breathed, not knowing what else to say.
“Jack.”
“Hm?”
“My name. It’s about time you knew it.”
His eyes bore into yours intensely, your lips searched for his automatically but before you could close the gap he pulled back.
“You’re out. I accept that. But this ain’t the last you’ll see of me, darlin’,” and with that, Whiskey - no, Jack - was climbing out of the bath, grabbing his towel and disappearing into the darkness.
If he was any other man you’d have taken his words as a threat, but the softness of his voice told you it was a promise, and one you welcomed with open arms.