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prolix-yuy · 9 months

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Chapter 1: I Once Had a Different Path

Pairing: Jack "Whiskey" Daniels x F!Reader "Sugar"

Summary: It's only been a year.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: T, discussions of a bad relationship, drinking, little bit of angst, will be E in later chapters so full series is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: Welcome back to Westworld Whiskey! Almost the moment I finished Cognitive Dissonance the idea for this fic leapt into my head, and I've been trying to figure it all out since! The outpouring of love for this story makes me unreasonably giddy, and I am so excited to share what Jack and Sugar have been up to.

This story takes place exactly a year after the events of Cognitive Dissonance. Honestly, the Westworld timeline is confusing as heck, and so much happens that the public wouldn't know or see, so in terms of the show it's taking place after the fall of the Delos theme parks early in season 3. I'm taking some liberties with how Westworld and the world around it works, but we should all have a good time because of it. For those not as familiar with later seasons, the "real world" takes place in 2053 in a modern futuristic setting.

Cross-posted on AO3

Decoherence Masterlist || Whiskey & Westworld Masterlist

The glow of sun on your back, baking into your skin and spreading golden through your limbs, makes today feel like a really freaking good day. You’re wearing your favorite outfit, your shoes are comfy on your feet, and the air is just warm enough that you don’t have to wear a heavy jacket. When the door to the coffee shop schicks open, the uplifting scent of dark roast and cinnamon sugar practically dances on your tongue.

Strike that. A fantastic day.

Lacey is already at her favorite sitting spot, a low table with two high-backed armchairs jammed in a corner far from the automated baristas and hiss of milk froth. She catches sight and waves, bright peony pink in her chiffon dress. Curled in the chair she’s akin to neapolitan ice cream, and just as cool when she gestures to your waiting cup. Not before jumping up to give you a hug, though.

“I’m so glad to see you! It’s been too long!” she exclaims, a sentiment you’ve often heard from long-lost acquaintances but Lacey puts every ounce of honesty behind it. You give her another squeeze before settling in your proffered chair, cradling the thick retro ceramic mug in your hands.

“Well you’ve been pretty busy, Mrs. Hughes,” you sing-song, back, knocking your shoes off so you can settle more comfortably. “How was the honeymoon? The photos were gorgeous.”

You descend into vacation chatter, looking at photos on Lacey’s phone and laughing over whatever little anecdote she shares. The coffee buzzes pleasantly in your veins, bittersweet on your tongue. The sun streams in the café window and drapes warmth across your shoulders again.

It feels like the perfect day.

"How's married life treating you?"

Lacey smiles, bright enough to crinkle her whole face, and the radiance of it blooms in your chest.

"Not much different really, which is probably for the best," she says, taking another sip of her coffee. You're prepared to ask her something else, some follow-up question, when she reaches over and squeezes your hand.

"You look really good, too," she says, her eyes softening. "I know it was hard, with the wedding and everything going on with Eric at the same time, but...you look so much happier."

Your throat tightens, but it's a welcome feeling for once.

"I am. Much happier."

She’s right. It was hard. Once you were alone with your thoughts, your decision made, all of the terrifying reality had crashed down on you. You’d sobbed in your car, half curled in the driver's seat, trying to will yourself to go inside and face Eric.

It didn’t get any better once you finally did. The shouting, the accusations, the tears, and shockingly a chair kicked against the wall so hard it left an ugly dent. He never laid a hand on you, but the anger raked across your pounding heart, the cruelty sinking into your flesh like teeth. You grabbed just enough of your things to escape, his bellowing voice following you as your hands shook.

What the fuck do you mean you’re leaving?

What the hell did Lacey say to you?

Are you fucking serious?

After all I’ve done for us?

I can’t believe you’re being so selfish.

What has gotten into you?

The words echoed between your ears while you laid in your motel room bed, too raw and ashamed to call anyone for a place to stay. You woke stiff and silent and achingly alone, and regret welled in your throat.

Were you being stupid? Were you giving up the life you were supposed to have?

But then the day passed, hours spent driving aimlessly with the radio on low, long walks on bike paths lost in your thoughts. And while failure burned behind your eyes, the dreaded whispers of why didn’t you try harder creeping into your brain, the vice grip in your chest began to unwind. A lightness you hadn’t felt in years began lifting your shoulders, your head, even the corners of your mouth.

The neverending ache was finally gone.

You slept better that night, and in the morning you called Lacey. She drove out to pick you up, her tight embrace ushering in a new flood of tears.

“Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry,” is all she says at first, rocking you back and forth like when you were both young and upset about a schoolyard fight. Then more pointed questions, her face hardening as you detail the slow descent into unhappiness you’d been hiding from her for years.

“He never did anything bad. I just…I couldn’t…” You struggled to voice all the fears that still lingered until she squeezed your hands.

“He didn’t have to treat you badly to not treat you the way you wanted. And if he can’t change, or doesn’t want to change, then this isn’t right for you.”

A fresh wave of tears followed the well-worn tracks down your face.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

She rubbed at your face with a crumpled tissue.

“Everything is going to be okay.’

It took a few days before the tornado of Lacey’s true feelings pulled to the forefront. Later she’d tell you she barely kept her cool while you cried in her living room, Alan instructing her to punch it out at the gym rather than overwhelm you. But barely settled into your temporary housing, she rang you in the middle of the day.

“We’re getting your stuff.”

“What…?”

“Eric is at work, Alan did a drive-by and checked. He’s waiting with the truck. I’m picking you up and we’re getting your things, then we’re going to leave your key on the table and never go back.”

She was chatting in low tones with Alan when you answered the door, face lined with concern. The stern expression melted into dismay when she took in your tired eyes and sloped shoulders.

“That motherfucker should be ashamed of himself for doing this to you,” she spits out, crushing you into a hug that almost suffocates you.

“Lace, I was the one…” you tried to say, but she cut you off with a sharp chop of her hand.

“I’ve got plenty to say about Eric and what I think about him when everything settles, but I’ll tell you this - I fucking hate him for making you feel like this. And we’re going to get your things and never see him again.”

So you did, emptying your drawers and shared closet - always less room allocated for you than him. Lacey shuffled through mail and tossed in anything that had your name on it in a bankers box. Later you’d have to disentangle your lives, but for now you could take solace in having your toiletries back, and placing your photos and family heirlooms safe in Alan’s truck. He helped move your grandmother’s hope chest into the truck bed, and silently drove as Lacey let you lean on her shoulder. Your childhood stuffed dog sat in your lap, and its gentle weight gave you a moment of relief.

Eric’s shouting through the phone later that night sliced across your chest, but only for a brief moment. You’d left the ring on the counter, and that thankfully shut him up.

The following months had been a blur of canceled engagements, severed services, broken agreements and bitter voicemails. Eric tried a few times to entice you back, forgiving you for having cold feet and wanting to get dinner, coffee, to talk. Your heart tugged at the softness in his voice.

We can still make this work.

But then the cold reality of the situation crept in. He wanted the picture-perfect life he thought he deserved. He wanted to have everything without working for it. And most of all, he wanted you to be grateful for him giving you everything he thought you deserved. Not what you wanted, but what he decided you should want.

That was never going to change.

Lacey and Alan helped where they could, but you didn’t want to taint the excitement of their upcoming nuptials. So you told them you were fine and signed a lease on a modest apartment while you picked out the barbs of Eric’s latest outburst. You picked out a dress for her wedding and were secretly grateful that she didn’t make you a bridesmaid. You didn’t think you’d be able to keep it together in front of all her family and friends. You drank too much champagne and considered a tumble with one of Alan’s single friends but instead threw up in your hotel room toilet and woke up fully clothed on top of the bed. The first thought that greeted you once you could see through your headache was, “Thank fuck I’m not getting married.”

The giggles were sharp against your sore stomach, but with that you finally felt something in you begin healing.

“...and I know I wasn’t around as much as I could have been, and it kills me that you were going through it alone, and on my bachelorette for crying out loud, how insensitive was that…”

Lacey’s diatribe brings you back to the café and your cooling coffee and Lacey’s earnest grip on your hand. You shush her with a few squeezes.

“You were a big part of why I finally got up the courage to leave. And I am so fucking glad I did,” you say, earning another smile that glitters with morning light.

“I think someone else also had some influence,” Lacey says, looking pointedly over her cup as she takes an innocent sip. Your brow furrows briefly before the implication of her tone slams into your chest.

Jack.

“That was a year ago…holy shit, today,” Lacey exclaims, twisting her wrist to verify on her smart watch.

“Wow, yeah,” you say weakly, swirling the dregs of coffee in your cup.

Yet again, Lacey isn’t wrong. Jack did open your eyes to a world that could offer the care and comfort you were yearning for. But you’d been forced to push memories of him to the back of your mind.

Weeks after the breakup, with Lacey lying on your brand new bed in your half-empty apartment, you told her about your weekend with the suave yet gentle cowboy. She interjected with excited “I knew it!” and “Holy shit yes!” exclamations as you recounted the cattle run, the innocent lie, the dinner, and the lust-filled night (heavily redacted, met with disappointment). Once the story was told you laid beside each other, silence stretching until she finally said, “I’m so happy Jack helped you realize you deserve more.”

So were you.

“Did you ever think about booking another weekend?” Lacey asks, placing her cup down so she can more fully watch you, playful smirk making you roll your eyes. “I mean, before all the stuff in the news about them.”

Guests injured in the park. A veil of silence and NDAs falling over Delos. An uncertain return.

You chew on your answer for a moment. It’s easy to chalk up not going back to the current state of the park, but in recent weeks you had been thinking more and more about Jack. Maybe it was some old movie you caught late at night, horses riding across gloriously wide plains. A cowboy hat or two you swore you saw in a crowd, only to be tricked by perspective and light. Strong, broad silhouettes that reminded you of large hands, a clever mouth, a warm embrace.

Tell her the truth.

“No,” you finally sigh, putting your cup down a little firmly.

You couldn’t.

“Why not?”

“It’s all fantasy, I’m not into that more than once.”

You couldn’t bear to see him again.

“Not even a little more fantasy with a certain cowboy?” Her eyes drop to your left hand, and you realize you’ve been slowly rotating the turquoise band she gave you on your ring finger. When you returned the engagement ring it became a comforting weight replacing what you’d given up. You fold them instead under Lacey’s watchful eye.

“It’s not real,” is the excuse you give.

He’s not real, and you can’t have him.

Lacey shrugs, looking at the time again and gathering up her coat.

“Real enough that you changed your whole life over it,” she observes, not unkindly. You stand up as she gathers her purse.

“It was a perfect weekend. Going back would have ruined it.”

Him not remembering you would have ruined it.

Lacey sighs but acquiesces, giving you a hug and confirming your next coffee date in a couple weeks. They’ve become a sweet schedule you look forward to more than you thought.

Once she breezes out the door, all summer blush and cosmopolitan chic, you join the line to get a coffee to go. The machine at work is dismal, and you’d much rather spend the four dollars. You enter your order on the cool blue holoscreen and step to the side to wait. The warmth of a good conversation bubbles in your veins, a beam of sunlight caressing your back. Even the brief memory of Jack you allow - his hands soft on your skin, the tender brush of his nose on your cheek, how safe you felt in his arms - fills your heart to bursting. A smile plumps your cheek. Today really is an exceptional day.

But oddly enough, your toes are wet.

Looking down, you can’t help but let out an exasperated, “Oh c’mon you idiot,” as you realize you didn’t put your shoes back on, and have now stepped in someone’s spilled beverage. So maybe not the perfect day, but you’re close enough to home to swing by and grab a new pair of socks. Shaking your head, you spin on your heel to retrieve your abandoned shoes.

You could have done it a breath sooner, or later, and never been the wiser. Or you could have kept your damn shoes on - do we live in a barn, your mother’s voice echoes in your ears - and avoided the issue in the first place. But today, on an exceptionally perfect day, you turn and take a step just as someone passes behind you, propelling your frame into their broader form. You almost bounce, but the stranger catches you by your shoulders, large firm palms wrapping around your biceps.

“Whoa there,” a deep voice says, laced with a southern drawl. It tickles something in your brain, neurons firing at memories close to the surface.

“Shit, sorry,” you mumble, stepping back to apologize properly to the man you almost bowled over. As your eyes begin their ascent the voice is clearer, sharp as a bullwhip crack.

“You okay Sugar?”

Your breath freezes in your throat, eyes snapping to the man’s face. He swims in your vision before the soft curl of his brown hair, the delicate trim of his mustache, the hawkish curve to his nose comes into focus. If that wasn’t enough for your short-circuiting brain to manage, his plush lips part in concern, deep chocolate eyes darting across your face.

Jack?

“I - oh,” he says, his grip tightening on your shoulders. You wrench back, stumbling a half step away, still locked on his face.

Jack Jack Jack Jack Jack

People are looking at you now, agape and struggling to pull in a full breath, your brain tumbling like Alice down the rabbit hole.

Can’t be.

Jack.

Not real.

Jack.

How?

Jack.

“I can explain…”

Then the whole world shifts, and you’re falling.