James knew he couldn’t get drunk.

But it never stopped him from trying. He could down bottle after bottle and not even feel the burn of the alcohol.

You didn’t like drinking. You didn’t like drunks, or alcohol. Nothing good happened when people got drunk, nothing good came from it.

He did, however, know he liked you. And he knew you didn’t like alcohol, or people drinking, or how easily he could go through alcohol.

So he cut back. He drank less, he didn’t quit completely, but he knew one glass every once in a while was fine.

He was sat in the compound late one night, at the large table in the dining room. One of the pieces of furniture that showed they were more a family than a team.

He had a pen in his hand as he wrote out a mission report, one he had to hand in to Steven in the morning, and a glass of whiskey beside him.

He didn’t look up as the door to the compound opened, continuing to map out what had happened during yesterdays mission.

“Hi, Jamie,” you said quietly, kissing his temple gently. You could smell the whiskey in the glass on the table.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he replied softly, looking up from the report as you sat beside him. “How was the mission?” He questioned, grabbing the glass and taking a swig before setting it down.