#Morgan Townsend

[g-girlshavingfun]

December Prompts

9) Mismatched socks - Abby x Townsend

6 and a half years after UWS, Abby and Townsend face an early winter morning with the twins. (CW: implied postpartum anxiety)(3,491)

———————————————————————

For potentially the thousandth time in a row, Abby was awoken by crying.

Groaning into her husband-shaped pillow, she rolled over in bed, sneaking one eye open to peer at the clock which glared at her from her bedside table. 3:46 am. Her mental processing was slow, stalled by the early hour and sleep deprivation, meaning an arm had wrapped around her waist, chest pressed against her back, nose nuzzling sleepily into the crook of her neck before she could think to drive an elbow into his stomach.

“Your daughter’s awake.” Her whisper was met with a lazy grunt, thick arm tightening around her, pulling their bodies flush with one another.

“My daughter?”

“She’s being loud and annoying.” Abby would feel bad about saying it if it weren’t true, would apologise to Morgan in her head if she could hear herself think.

“I ask again, my daughter?” Another elbow to the gut and another protesting grunt. She felt her husband smile into her neck, huff a low chuckle, press a light kiss to her skin in apology. “I’m sure it’s your turn.”

She shook her head, trying to pry his arms from around her, “Nope, I fed them a couple hours ago. Your turn.”

“There’s no bottles left, if she’s hungry I can’t-

“-I just said I fed them two hours ago.” Successfully yet reluctantly removing his arms from around her waist, she rolled back over in bed and began pushing against his chest, turning to bury her face back in his pillow. “She’s not hungry, just wants some attention.”

He huffed as her hands displaced him from his spot in bed, his below-his-breath mutterings softened by the small smile tugging at his lips. “My daughter you say.”

“Just go, before she wakes up Matty.”

Edward laughed as he rolled out of bed, stumbling in the dark for a moment before he found his footing, footsteps light against the carpet as he snuck out of their bedroom and towards the nursery.

Keeping an ear out for the lessening of her daughter’s cries, for the soft tones of her husband soothing her back to sleep, for the inevitable waking of her son the second Morgan starts to dose off, Abby curled back up under the covers of their bed, already missing Edward’s warmth. It had been 3 months since they had brought the twins home from the hospital, and though they had been 3 of the most beautiful months of her life, she was also absolutely exhausted.

All the time.

Throughout their careers, her and Edward had gone through countless sleepless nights, often in a row. There were nights spent tailing subjects whose movements were more suspicious under the cover of darkness, nights spent on lookout casing infiltration targets or searching for suspicious activity. There were nights spent undercover, dolled up in everything from ballgowns to miniskirts, nights spent planning their next move, evaluating their last. There were nights spent in the comforts of each other, Edward holding her tight as she cried for her brother-in-law, her niece, her sister, nights spent screaming at one another, furious over his concealed past, hurt over her seemingly indifferent actions. And of course there were the countless nights when sleep was the furthest thing from their minds, too wrapped up in the heat and want and need of one another to pay any mind to the aching tiredness in their bones.

Through all of those sleepless nights however, none had left her quite so exhausted as the past few months had, and she knew he was in a similar state.

It turned out having two babies, yes at the same time Townsend, that’s what twins means you big baby, was infinitely harder than having one. Not that either of them had experienced raising one child, her husband not knowing about his eldest son for the first 18 years of his life and the closest Abby coming to children up until now being her niece, who she certainly saw a lot of and helped with as an infant but didn’t live with. It turned out, with twins, everything was twice as difficult. When one woke up screaming, the other tended to follow suit, and holding both babies securely at the same time was a challenge both parents were too anxious to attempt. They could each only feed one at a time, change them, bathe them one at a time, and as soon as both twins were settled from one problem, another reared its head in quick succession. Initially Edward had planned to have partly returned to work by now, and Abby was going rejoin desk duty in the new year, but both of their return dates had been pushed back as they realised that this whole parenting thing was a lot harder than they anticipated.

Their family had offered them plenty of help. Zach was already quite taken with his younger siblings, him and Cammie often making an appearance to offer a helping hand. Assistance mainly came in the form of cleaning the apartment in Cammie’s case, cooking in Zach’s, as although they both enjoyed their time spent cuddling the babies, neither of them were leaping to volunteer to change them. Rachel on the other hand was a godsend, dragging Joe over to their place every weekend to give one of the parent’s a day off in bed, to give advice when Edward swallowed his pride and asked for it, to hold Abby through her tears when she worried she was failing, that she was screwing everything up. Joe tried to be more distant with the twins, as he was with Cammie when she was young, babies making him uncharacteristically jumpy and nervous, uncomfortable in his own skin in a way Abby imagined he hadn’t been since he was a child himself. When Rachel brought him over, he tended to quietly tidy up their place, to restock their cupboards, to cook them meals they could easily reheat, until Abby grew frustrated with him and dumped one of her children in his arms, wanting, needing them to have an uncle who wasn’t scared of their existence. Macey had even been over a handful of times. Never staying long, she tended to pop in with a bag of new gifts to spoil the pair with and lingered just long enough to hold them both, to check in with how Abby was doing, to give her updates on what the outside world looked like before clearing off again.

So yes, they had plenty of help, and it was greatly appreciated, but they were still exhausted.

And yet, despite her bone-deep, soul-crushing, mind-numbing weariness, Abby couldn’t fall back asleep. Couldn’t escape the empty space in her bed left by her husband, the December chill biting at her hands and feet, the burning in her ears, her head, her heart from her daughter’s cries. Pushing back the couple tears burning at the back of her head, tears of frustration and exhaustion all at once, she climbed out of bed and into her slippers, wrapping one of Edward’s sweaters around her as she went.

In the nursery, he was stood by the window, Morgan cradled to his bare chest as he bounced her slowly back and forth, head bent to hers as he hummed the last Christmas song they heard on the radio to try soothe her back to sleep.

Abby’s teeth clasped around her bottom lip.

The first couple months after giving birth, she hadn’t wanted anything to with sex or anything close to it. She hadn’t felt less attractive since she was a child, long before she discovered boys and how to keep their attention. She hadn’t felt less attracted to other people since not long after that, when she started discovering boys and girls, and how the pretty ones could make her heart race. Even during the late stages of her pregnancy, when she began to look and feel like a beached whale, Edward had still found a way of looking at her and making her feel desirable. Then she had the twins and suddenly she was cringing away from him the one time his hand strayed below her waist, levelling a glare at him the one time she caught him staring at her legs.

Rachel had assured her that it was normal, that she was the same after Cammie. That her body had quite literally been torn in two, she was exhausted and somewhat tearful, she suddenly had very innocent ears in the next room, and more often than not she was victim to at least one bodily fluid soaking through her clothes or into her hair. Edward had never even mentioned it. He never let his hands drift beyond that first time, he pressed kisses solely onto her hair, her forehead, her cheek, called her beautiful and strong and perfect all in one glance.

And then a couple of months passed, and she started to feel like herself again, and she started noticing that her husband looked extremely good when he was holding babies. Especially when they were their babies. And he was shirtless.

Trying to remind herself that it was 4 in the morning and there were crying infants in the room and that this was not the time, she walked up behind them, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face to his bare back. Taking a deep breath, the heat from his sauna of a body started to chase the cold from her bones, the smell of him soothed the anxiety drumming around her head, the feel of him pressed up against her, their daughter in his arms and their son sleeping peacefully behind them slowing down the pounding of her heart.

Propping herself up on her tiptoes, she peered over her husband’s shoulder at their still snivelling daughter, frowning as her face scrunched up in displeasure. Gently, she ran her pinky over Morgan’s tear stained cheek, smiling into Edwards neck when her tears paused, head turning into her mother’s hand.

“You should go back to bed love, get some sleep.” He turned in her arms, forehead leaning against hers, whisper getting caught in her hair. “I’ve got them I promise.”

She nodded. She knew. She knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to them, but all the same…

“Can’t. Baby hormones are making my brain stupid again.” Sighing through his soft smile, he pressed a long kiss to the top of her head and passed the crying infant over, rolling his eyes at her smug face when she immediately quietened down. “Besides, I’m her favourite.”

Only a couple days after bringing the twins home, Rachel had taken one look at Abby and started warning her and Edward about how much worrying was too much. Abby had rolled her eyes at the time. She had always been carefree, never a huge worrier, tending to go with the flow and make things up as she went, a stark contrast to her control freak husband and her backup-plans for her backup-plans sister. Of course, like usual, Rachel proved to know her better than she knew herself, as Abby spent the next few nights completely unable to sleep, consumed with fear that one of the twins would stop breathing, that someone was going to break in and take them from her, that if she fell asleep she’d wake up in an apocalypse where Edward and their children were ripped away from her, leaving her all alone again. She couldn’t handle that. It would kill her. All completely rational fears given their history, Abby felt, but apparently her husband and her sister and her stupid doctor felt differently.

Able to breath a little easier now that she was holding her daughter, Abby bent her head forwards to inhale the baby’s scent, pressing a featherlight kiss to her head, smiling as her little eyelids began to flutter closed.

“Goodnight Mo,” She whispered into her skin, eyes momentarily catching Edward’s in the reflection of the window, his soft eyes and loving smile snatching her breath away for a singular second. Then, just as predicted, she saw the telltale signs of movement coming from their son’s crib, a little fist waving in the air, feet kicking at his surroundings, a hitch in his tiny chest. “Matty’s awake.”

“Bloody hell.”

At only a few months old, the twins were already proving themselves to be unique from one another. Like her father, Morgan was a terrible sleeper, waking up several times a night. She also hated being alone, so she tended to cry each time she woke up and there wasn’t a grown up immediately attending to her. However she was easy to soothe back to sleep and content to entertain herself when she was awake, enjoyed letting her parents flit around the nursery or the kitchen as long as she good still see them. Matthew on the other hand was a heavy sleeper, waking only for food or if his sister’s cries disturbed him. Unfortunately, once he was awake he screamed anytime he wasn’t being held, a trait Rachel claimed he got from his mother. Worse, he was near impossible to put back to sleep. Abby and Edward had struggled with him for weeks until Matthew Senior’s parents had come round for a visit and recommended taking him for a drive to calm him down, a move that apparently worked on their son for years.

He nearly started to screech now, but quietened as soon as he spotted his father leaning down to swoop him out of the crib.

“Good morning bud, not planning on letting your poor parents sleep huh?” He rocked him in his arms, a delighted giggle squeaking out of the little boys lips, announcing to them both that he was already wide awake. Edward sighed, shook his head at his youngest child, looked at her and smiled sadly. “What do you want me to do?”

There were two options really. Edward could take the little boy out in the car, drive him around for half an hour or so until he dozed off, then bring him back home and hope that Morgan stayed asleep for long enough that the two of them could get some rest. Abby could even feed them both before the boys headed off, maybe get the twins to sleep until the sunrise. Or, one of them could get up with Matty, keep him entertained and quiet until he eventually grew sleepy again, by which time Morgan would probably wake up and demand their attention instead. Her husband would insist on him being the one to stay with them, Abby knew, would tell her to get some sleep. She needed to sleep.

Abby swallowed. Bit her lip. Tried to breath through the panic gripping her chest.

Edward needed to sleep as well, she knew. She should tell him to put Matty in the car just long enough to tire him out, then come back home and get some rest himself. But the idea of her son leaving her sights, of him and her husband out in the cold and the dark, of them being on the road when she didn’t know if it was safe, if it was icy, if there was someone out there waiting for them, gripped her heart in a vice and squeezed. She felt sick just thinking about it. If any one of them left her, if she lost them, she’d never recover.

Watching her carefully, her husband just nodded, her silence giving away her desires. He looked exhausted, hair fussed and eyes dark, but he smiled at her all the same, pressed a kiss to her head, her temple, her cheek. “Can you hold him while I put something warmer on?”

Nodding, she gently lowered Morgan into her crib, whispering a small love you into her head as she went. Then she took their son in her arms, pressed a wet kiss to his cheek, letting Edward go. Abby never thought she could do this, never thought she would love something this much. Didn’t think it was possible for her to love someone more than she loved her sister, her niece, her husband. And then the second line on the test appeared, and the doctor confirmed it, and she split her body in two bringing them into the world, and they ripped her heart out and held half of it each in their tiny fists when she did. Sometimes she lies at wake at night trying to calm her racing thoughts, thinking of Rachel and Cammie and those months when she was missing, when The Circle had her, when Catherine had her, and she realises that her sister is infinitely stronger than Abby had thought for the simply fact that she didn’t utterly break. Sometimes she thinks of Catherine. Of Catherine and Zach and Cynthia and Macey and wonders how anyone could be so cruel to their children, so indifferent to their pain. Sometimes she thinks of her own mother and wonders if she ever loved Abby this much, if she ever felt Abby deserved it.

Strong arms encircled her waist, a cold nose nuzzling into her neck. Her husband reached down with one hand to soothe the tiny frown adorning Morgan’s brow, to offer a finger for Matthew to grasp onto, the other tight around her hip.

Abby breathed deeply again.

She turned around, ready to thank him for being patient with her, when she took in his bedraggled appearance and had to fight a grin off her face.

Her husband was the world’s most formal man. He addressed most of their family and friends by their full legal names, and everyone else by their titles and surnames. He spoke the Queen’s English and texted with proper grammar, punctuation and all. He was always smartly dressed and well kept unless his legend demanded otherwise, the only other exception being when he went to bed. Even when Abby was in labour, all 46 hours of it from the first to the final contraction, even in the days immediately after the twin’s birth, he kept himself clean shaven with his hair combed. He adorned himself in belted slacks, plain black Oxfords, and a shirt, adding a sweater if he got cold. She’d never tell him, but she found it kind of adorable.

Now though, his exhaustion was starting to show.

He had slipped out of his pyjama pants and into grey sweatpants she didn’t even know he owned. A dark hoodie that lived in her closet was tugged over his bare chest. The hoodie wasn’t even hers. She had stolen it from Cammie months ago, who had stolen it from her mother before that, though based on the size of it Abby assumed it initially belonged to Joe. His hair was unkempt from a combination of sleep and her hands, his skin sunken and pale. Dark bags weighed down his eyes and a weary tired sept the mass from his muscles. Anyone would have thought he was unwell. But the cause of her grin was his feet, the left covered by a striped pink number printed with world’s best aunt in golden text, the other a bright red and green checkered pattern with Merry Christmas emblazoned in cursive letters. Similar enough to be confused with one another in the dark, the mismatched pair of socks was enough to send a now delirious Abby over the edge. Ducking her head, she tried to contain her laugh in her son’s skin, heart soaring when his little giggles harmonised with her own.

“Shhh baby, your sister’s sleeping.” Cheeks hurting from the smile that tore her face, she pushed back the tears of happiness biting at her eyes.

God she loved this man.

There was a time when she was sure Edward Townsend couldn’t have handled a knife and fork that lacked matching engravings, couldn’t have handled the tiniest bit of mess, couldn’t have handled her. Now he stood before her scruffy in his tiredness wearing mismatched socks, eyes locked on hers as he took their son from her arms.

She kissed him.

Long and gentle, very aware of the tiny body pressed between them, of the sleeping baby just behind her, she pressed her smiling lips to his and practically purred into his mouth. With Matty secure in his arms, she reached up to wrap one of her hands around his shoulders, the other tracing his unshaven jaw, cringing slightly at the way it rubbed against her hand, her mouth. Laughing into her, he pulled back, an apology for his state dancing on his lips. She shook her head, stepping back to admire him as he settled into the old rocking chair, a gift from Matt-the-elder’s parents, one eye on their daughter in her crib, the other on their son cradled in his arms.

“Go get some rest love, we’re all good in here.”

She kissed him again.

“Thank you.” For everything.

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Authors note:

Joe Solomon is scared of children pass it on.

3,500 more words of Tabby! Perhaps a tad OOC and slightly less lighthearted than planned but postpartum anything is both a bitch and extremely common. These two are potentially not the most connected with their emotions, spent years hunting down crime lords and terrorist organisations, then watched one of those terrorist organisations hunt down, kidnap, and torture Abby’s niece. I reckon adding unexpectedly new parents to twins into that equation is bound to cause some anxieties. Unfortunately one of the best ways to manage PPA is good sleep, which is surprisingly quite difficult to come by with newborn twins.

[gildengirl]

{Rachel getting a team together for a mission}

Rachel: What do you consider to be your best quality?

Matt: Well, I'm a real people person.

Joe: I don't answer stupid questions.

Townsend: I speak Swahili.

Abby: My eyes. Oh, and I guess my hair, too.

[incorrectgallaghergirlsquotes]

Do you think Townsend asked permission from Rachel and Cam before marrying Abby?

Not really? I don't really think Townsend is the type and I'm not a big fan of the asking for permission regardless of gender roles. People aren't other people's belongings, the only person you need to ask permission if you want to marry someone is the person you plan on marrying. I'm not saying I think it's bad to do or if you like it, I personally just don't really get it. Like Joe talking to Cammie makes sense because that's her mom and her dad is dead, but someone's sister and her niece? I don't see the point in the gesture.

[walterkov]

Devin Townsend - Order Of Magnitude, Empath Live Volume 1 - Behind the Scenes [x] requested by @flyinyoursoup

[theboysfromaustin]

"What's your type?"

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW."

[cammie-morgan-goode]

Seeing all the townsend-zach ask makes me literally BEGGING for you to please please please write even just a blurb about some of their dad-son bonding uwu

Zach looks around the campus of Georgetown. He knows that Cammie is in the building by the university’s hospital. Which is on Torndorf Road. Which is approximately 5.5 miles from the library walk.

“You know she’s fine, right?” A voice sounds from behind him.

Zach turns around, noting that he had been sloppy. How long had Townsend been standing there? How long had Townsend been tailing him?

Townsend shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t look so shocked. I’ve only been here for 90 seconds.” He says with a shrug.

Zach sighs and then raises a hand to rub the back of his neck. Before he has a chance to speak, Townsend beats him to it. “Walk with me,”

Zach follows him across the campus, following him away from Cammie. He knew that she was taking a test right now which is why he wanted to see her. He knew she had a routine. They’d go north west on O Street. And then on Wisconsin Ave, right on the corner is Cafe Georgetown. She would order a hot chocolate, even though it was 85 degrees outside. And she’d order a grilled cheese panini for lunch. And they would sit and talk and she would ramble on about whatever it was that she was learning in class. And she’d smile at him. And he’d finally breathe.

“Did you even hear a word I just said?” Townsend asks, taking a right towards the statue of John Carroll.

Zach rolls his eyes. “There’s a possible threat in Moscow. Rogue asset on the run from a possible splinter group even though my girlfriend and I have been systematically wiping them out for the past several months. So yes, Townsend. I did hear every word you just said,”

Townsend huffs. Of course the boy is good. Otherwise the CIA wouldn’t want him. Of course the boy heard everything he said. He was Solomon’s protege. He’d been trained for this. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

And Townsend hated that that thought sent a pang of worry through his gut.

“Anyways, it’s your call.” Townsend says. Like he always does.

“And what did Cam say?” Zach asks. Like he always does.

“She said and I quote, ‘you got it but I’m making the calls first.’ Whatever that means,”

Before Townsend even finished, Zach is laughing. Of course Cammie wouldn’t let him live Berlin down.

Townsend rolls his eyes. Those crazy kids. They remind Edward of Abby and him. And he kind of loves them for it.

“Oh Townsend?” Zach says before Townsend can disappear. Townsend pauses and looks over his shoulder.

“There’s a turkey croissant with mustard in your bag. And some cash for a hot chocolate. On me. Learn to take a lunch will ya?”

Zach looks down at his crossbody bag and watches Townsend fade away before opening it. Sure enough there’s a sandwich and some cash in the ziplock bag.

How he managed to pull that off will always be a mystery. But Zach was grateful to have someone look out for him the way that Townsend did.

Even if he could be annoying about it.

(Written by: @cammie-morgan-goode)

[doodle-do-wop]

Who's hotter for you- joe or townsend?

Ha

Haha

HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA

AHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHA

You wanna know who's hotter?!

YOU WANNA KNOW WHO'S HOTTER?!

MR FUCKING MOSKOWITZ THAT'S WHO

I have never met a man in all my days who has off the charts rizz, beauty, and over all wet kitten vibes other than that man.

Goddamn he's one hell of a lad. Look at him!

But if I HAVE to pick between Joe and Townsend I honestly can't say I've got a solid answer. Townsend is pathetic enough for me to date but he just reminds me of the rat from Flushed Away.

Joseph is sad enough for me to date and he's got the hot rolled up sleeves to add to his already enormous advantage of not being British but also he likes fish and I don't.

Joe's wife however-

I guess Townsend just cause he's pathetic

[cdd-swag-bracket]

round 1 poll 6

Jack Townsend VS. Francis York/Zach Morgan

(click the names for propaganda)

[missanthr0pist]

i have two types of men…

pale and beautiful

[otherworldly pretty, romantically mysterious]

rough and tough

[also pretty but can actually break your bones]

[superblycaffeinated]

stories with Matthew Morgan, Rachel Cameron/Morgan/Solomon, Abigail Cameron (And Edward Townsend), Joe Solomon, and Catherine Goode

"You Get Me Too" - the one where Abby is pregnant

"Stay, If You Want" - the one at Matthew Morgan's funeral

"That's Depressing" - the one where Abby finds out Townsend's never had Mac & Cheese

"It's Matt" - the one where Cammie finally loses it on Joe Solomon

"There's Something About Luke Collins" - the one where Joe Solomon sees Matthew Morgan in everyone around him

"Is That My Shirt?" - the one where Matthew Morgan and Rachel Cameron share a turning point moment

"Cooking Is An Artform" - the one where Rachel and Joe celebrate their wedding anniversary

"Rachel's Secret" - the one where Matthew Morgan almost didn't make it

"It Was Maroon" - the one where Abby, Cammie, and Rachel deal with missing Matthew Morgan in different ways | #5 - spotify wrapped request

Everything Begins - the one where Joe Solomon meets Bex Baxter

Various Headcanons and Misc.:

Thoughts About Rachel & Zammie

[g-girlshavingfun]

A sister’s vigil: 5 times Rachel visited her sister in hospital, and 1 time she didn’t.

4/6

Word count: 5,978

When Rachel arrived at the hospital, there was a man holding her sister’s hand.

Holding wasn’t quite the right word. Cradling, grasping, or clutching was probably more accurate. His hand engulfed hers, probably could’ve wrapped itself around both of them, and it was clenched so tight white spots appeared on his knuckles. He wasn’t squeezing though, he seemed almost afraid to apply any pressure at all in fact, so Abby’s pale simply lay limp in his grip.

It was enraging.

———————————————————————

Chapter 4

When Rachel was fifteen, her mother received a phone call from a Mr Nula with the CIA’s human resources department. He informed her in apathetic tones that Micheal Cameron’s task force had encountered unexpected resistance on their assignment in Berlin, that her husband had been gravely injured in the line of duty, that she and perhaps her daughters should make their way to headquarters where they would be transported to the hospital he was taken to. Rachel wasn’t present when the call was made, too busy reading her sister a bedtime story, but her mother recounted the phone call to her several times as they sat in the hospital waiting room, Abby curled up sleeping in her lap.

Over two decades later, Rachel was called into a meeting at Langley with Agent Gordon, a man only a few steps down from the director. With Matthew, Joe, and Abby all out of the country, there was no one to wind her up about disciplinary action, nor anyone to talk her down from ruminating about the last mistake she made on an assignment, so she made the trip to level 20 in a state of general unease. The conversation was short, and almost impersonal, as Agent Gordon informed her that her husband had now missed 3 call ins. That agents, including Agents Solomon and Cameron, had been dispatched to his last known location to orchestrate a search. That she could not tell anyone without level 5 or above clearance, but that Matthew Morgan was officially considered missing.

The next few weeks consisted of lying to her daughter, taking afternoons off work to search through Matthew’s notes and files, resisting the urge to fly to Europe and look for him herself. But Matthews parents couldn’t be clued in to what was going on, and with Abby already in Rome there was no one left that Rachel truly trusted to watch her daughter, not when she didn’t know why Matthew was missing. She had nearly convinced herself everything would be fine. Two of the best agents she knew were out there tracking him down, and they all knew Matthew couldn’t stay away from his family for too long, but then she got a knock on her door one afternoon.

She doesn’t remember much of the conversation with Joe and the senior agents who came to deliver the news. An agent’s memory is their first line of offence and defence, but Rachel can only remember the crushing feeling of despair that swept over her, the air freezing in her lungs, the pit cracking open in her chest. She remembers her vision of Joe’s clenched jaw and averted eyes blurring as someone uttered the words “declared dead”, the sound of his shaken apologies as the others agents saw themselves out, the feel of his arms cradling her when her knees gave way the second the door closed. She remembers thinking this is it, nothing can be worse than this.

How am I gonna tell Cammie?

All in all, Rachel was used to receiving bad news from the agency, and she knew how they went about it. A meeting was bad, and a home visit was worse, but a phone call wasn’t terrible in comparison.

Something she tried to remember as she received a phone call from an unknown number in her office one Thursday evening in Spring.

“Identify yourself.”

Rachel didn’t think that was completely necessary given they called her, and Langley are fully aware aware of the fingerprint ID needed to answer this particular phone.

“Rachel Morgan, headmistress of The Gallagher Academy.”

“…”

“Former CIA agent.”

Her voice neither broke on the word former, nor rose in the tone of a question, but it took a lot of Rachel’s willpower to stop it doing either.

“Is this line secure?”

No, the headmistress of the largest and most secure clandestine school in the country operates from a bugged office with a tapped phone line. Rachel didn’t resist rolling her eyes, its not like the mystery man on the other line could see her.

“It is.”

“This is Agent Lockwood, badge number 41098234-PY, clearance level 8. I’m calling in regards to an incident in which a fellow agent was injured in the line of duty. You are listed as their emergency contact.”

Rachel’s heart fell out of her chest.

She was the emergency contact for two agents. She had been Joe’s ever since Matthew had disappeared, had died, partly because it made more sense to nominate his friend who spent 35 weeks of the year in the same building, partly because his only other friend was not known for her reliability. She had been Abby’s since she first joined the CIA. There was a brief period where Abby and Matthew had secretly changed them to each other because Abby thought you’d appreciate it, we just didn’t want to worry you if anything went wrong darling! A sharp look to her husband and a stern lecture-turned-argument with her sister had them changing back pretty quickly.

She was the emergency contact for two agents, both of whom Rachel knew were on assignments. Joe was on an off-the-books wild-goose-chase to an undisclosed location looking for a trail from either her husband or the terrorist organisation they suspected had a hand in his disappearance. He had left a coded note on a piece of evapopaper taped to the underside of the postbox she could see out her office window, as per his promise to Matthew to stay in touch should something happen to him. Abby had been on a collaborative deep-cover assignment with someone from Six in Argentina for months. She had called one of Rachel's burners in the middle of the night and left a voicemail when she predictably didn’t pick up, honouring the promise she had made two years prior to keep her sister in the loop, but tactfully avoiding any kind of emotional confrontation or goodbye.

She was the emergency contact for two agents, for two people she loved, and one of them was hurt. Badly. Langley didn’t inform emergency contacts unless it was bad.

“…yes?”

Rachel’s willpower was wavering, voice ever so close to choking on the glass in her throat.

“The agency were informed last night of an incident in Buenos Aires-”

Rachel’s vision began to swim, blood pounding in her ears, and she hated herself slightly for the second where she wished he would’ve named some arbitrary European city instead of where her little sister was stationed.

“-involving Agent Cameron and an MI6 operative. The operative’s primary mission objective had been met when they received a tip about unrelated and undisclosed clandestine activities in the area. Despite being advised to wait for backup on account of injuries already sustained on their assignment, Agent Cameron opted to investigate. Yesterday morning she carried out a lone infiltrative opera-“

“Lockwood.”

Cam joked that her Mom voice had become an even scarier teacher voice when she took this job. That she so easily commanded the attention of her staff and students, got them to confess to their wrongdoings with a single word, and had the girls of the school hanging off everything she said, because she had spent Cammie’s entire life practising.

Grace had laughed when she heard this, stating that Cammie and the girls obviously didn’t know that her operative voice had come first. Matthew had always said that it sounded remarkably similar to her wife voice, at least the one which he didn’t like. Of course all of them failed to remember that before she was an operative, a wife, a mother, or a teacher, she was an older sister. That the sharp tone which cut through Agent Lockwood’s account of an assignment gone awry originated as a big sister voice.

“Where is my sister now?”

“BAMC. She was airlifted there this morning. She’s stable at the moment bu-“

“I’ll be there in 4 hours.”

With that she hung up the phone and tried to make a plan.

She needed to charter a plane. She could catch a flight out of DCA but that was a good hours drive away where the nearest airfield was 10 minutes down the road. San Antonio was a few hours away by private jet, but Rachel was pretty sure she could convince Langley to foot the bill for the journey by reminding them of her missing husband and the funds they refused to put towards extending a search for him.

She needed to inform Patricia. Not least because someone needed to run the school in the few days to weeks she planned to be absent, nor just because of the fondness Rachel knew the former MI5 operative had for her wayward little sister. No, Rachel needs to speak to Patricia because she may know what to say to slow the racing of her heart, ease the aching in her chest, relieve the pounding behind her eyes.

Or maybe she should call Joe.

Should she tell Cammie?

No.

Cammie had enough to worry about. She had a Culture and Assimilation exam tomorrow, and an ongoing disagreement between Bex and Tina to navigate, and the endless trauma of turning 15, and her Father was already gone. She didn’t need to worry about her aunt on top of all that. That’s been Rachel and Abby’s thinking for the past couple years, ever since Cammie became acutely aware of how fragile the lives of spies are. Since she fully understood what exactly her family did for a living. Since Abby started dedicating almost all her spare time to looking for leads on Matthew and coming up empty handed. Cammie didn’t need to know how futile it was, how much danger her aunt put herself in, how close she’s come to losing another member of her already too small family.

She would get Patricia to tell Cammie that she was pulled away on something for an old case and that she’d be back sometime next week. She wouldn’t question that. They could reschedule Sunday dinner for when she returns, maybe Rachel would give her an update then, depending on how bad it is.

Charter a plane, speak to Patricia, get to the airfield, leave a message for Joe, get to her sister. That was her plan, one step at a time, Abby would be fine.

Rachel prayed that she was right.

———————————————————————

When Rachel arrived at the hospital, there was a man holding her sister’s hand.

Holding wasn’t quite the right word. Cradling, grasping, or clutching was probably more accurate. His hand engulfed hers, probably could’ve wrapped itself around both of them, and it was clenched so tight white spots appeared on his knuckles. He wasn’t squeezing though, he seemed almost afraid to apply any pressure at all in fact, so Abby’s pale simply lay limp in his grip.

He looked tall and broad, though Rachel couldn’t be sure at the moment. He sat hunched in his chair, back slouching and shoulders tucked into his chest. Bowed head and rounded neck, he had essentially curled himself around the air above Abby despite looking like a man who usually sat pinpoint straight. Like he usually had a wooden cross nailed to his spine, pulling his shoulder blades back and and pushing his chest out, propping his head up and jutting his chin outward in a pompous manner. Right now he appeared to be a marionette with his strings cut, tired and lifeless.

His trembling jaw gave the impression of a couple morning shaves missed, and his dark hair was overgrown on top but badly clipped around his ears, like someone had taken a pair of kitchen shears to his head. Rachel remembered Joe coming home from a mission with a similarly bad haircut once, and when asked about it he just scowled and asked how a woman who spent her formative years receiving lessons on both needlework and blades training could be so bad at using scissors. Rachel wondered if the man hated the trim, he looked like a man who went to the same Barbour for the same haircut whenever he could manage it, but looking at him now he didn’t seem to care.

His eyes were sunken. Blue, from what Rachel could make out. Not a bright blue like her husband’s and daughter’s, but something deeper and darker, the evening sky before a storm, complete with redness carving through the whites of his eyes like lightning. Bags sagged at the skin beneath his lower lids, and the dampness of recent tears glistened on long eyelashes decorating the upper.

He was clearly exhausted. And devastated.

It was enraging.

Rachel shut the door behind her with more force than necessary, enjoying the way the man flinched, how he rapidly let go of her sisters hand though didn’t move far enough that his pinky didn’t touch hers. Immediately, it was like life was injected back into him. The marionette strings tightened on his spine, pulling him straight and tensing his muscles. His knuckles relaxed, his jaw tightened, and his eyes cleared. He almost looked like an agent as he angled his head slightly towards her and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Mrs Morgan.”

It wasn’t his nationality that surprised her, she had assumed that this was the MI6 agent who Abby had been working with, so the English accent didn’t surprise her. Nor did the subtleties in the accent. Beyond the mixed veil of exhaustion and Queen’s English that she presumed he picked up at some fancy boarding school and strengthened at Oxbridge, Rachel could detect a slight lilt. Not like Abe and Bex’s London twang, nor like Grace’s northern twang, but something subtle that suggested he didn’t grow up where the rest of his demeanour suggested he did. But Rachel had assumed that too. She had encountered plenty of men who grew up with status, and by the time they were this age they forgot to act like it, losing their good posture and surface level manners to the novelty of sweatpants and sleazy pickup lines. In Rachel’s experience, it tended to be men who grew up ashamed of how little they had that ended up presenting themselves like this man.

So it wasn’t the man’s accent that surprised her, but the fact that he knew her name. She supposed it shouldn’t, she knew her and her sister shared a strong resemblance, and that Abby wasn’t unlikely to mention her existence to someone she half-trusted, but Rachel didn’t know who this man was. She didn’t like that he knew her on sight when she didn’t have a name to attach to his face. Didn’t like that she was starting this conversation on the back-foot.

The man must’ve seen something in her eyes that reflected unease, or maybe he felt uneasy himself at the silence that stretched before them, because he angled further towards her and continued talking.

“Agent Townsend, MI6. I’m your Abigail’s- I’m her- We’re-“

Rachel felt the frown on her face deepen as he stumbled on his words. His cheeks didn’t pinken; he wasn’t embarrassed. He didn’t seem like a man who was unsure of himself or his words, and yet he couldn’t quite figure out how to express how he knew her sister.

“Your sister and I worked together on this assignment.”

Townsend was a name that did ring bells. If Rachel thought back to years ago, she could remember her sister returning from a cover in Romania complaining about some British upstart who nearly blew her operation, how she ended up having to work with the arrogant bastard for weeks. Could remember her bringing him up unprompted for the next couple of months, earning a few raised eyebrows from Matthew and hidden sniggers from Joe. They had worked together a few more times over the years, Rachel remembered. Sometimes joined by Abe, who described the man as cocky but dependable, and once by Matthew, who coined him as formality personified, but good.

No matter how much Rachel knew to pay more attention to her sister’s actions rather than her words, how much she trusted the opinions of her friend and of her husband, something about Agent Townsend wasn’t sitting right with her.

“Really? I was told that this was the result of a reckless solo infiltration.”

Another flinch tore through the man’s body at the words, though he showed no signs of admonishment at her tone, nor at the single eyebrow that rose in a questioning sneer.

“If the two of you were working together, how come she’s half dead in a hospital and you’re sitting here perfectly fine?”

Like a child, Rachel couldn’t resist a mocking imitation of his accent as she spat his words back at him, the anger in her words shielding the break in voice. Instead of shrinking back at her condemnation, Agent Townsend bristled and twisted his face into something cold, though nothing could hide the gleam of guilt in his eyes. His reply was stern and dark, voice deepening in intensity and rising in volume, but his words were pleading, begging for absolution he wouldn’t find in her.

“I told her not to go, begged her even. I told her it was reckless and stupid-“

“Dont talk about her like that!”

“-and that she’d just get herself hurt!”

“You should’ve gone with her. You’re her partner you should’ve-”

“She said she wouldn’t do it."

“And you believed her?”

“She promised!”

“You should’ve stopped her-“

“She drugged me!”

“What kind of agent lets someone drug them?”

“One that trusts his parter?”

“Well there’s your first mistake. God how naive-“

“She was looking for your husband!”

Now standing, Rachel could see that Agent Townsend was indeed tall, almost towering over her from the moment he lurched out of his chair. His chest heaved in angered gasps, and he levelled her with a pained glare, the intensity of which was only weakened by the shine still present in his eyes. One fist lay clenched at his side, muscles shaking with furious adrenaline running up his arm and along his shoulders and chest, spreading down his body to legs that looked ready to bolt, but his other arm remained limp. His hand still lay beside Abby’s, one finger overlapping with hers, almost disconnected from the rest of his body.

Rachel was sure her posture mirrored his.

She had prowled forward during her assault, and now she stood almost chest to chest with the man before her. Her shoulders shook with enraged terror, and the breaths escaping through her constricted throat were rapid and laboured. She felt her nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed, her face flushing, tears burning in the back of her skull. One hand jabbed accusingly in Agent Townsend’s face, steady in it’s fury, and the other rested gently on her sister’s leg, stable in it’s reassurance.

Rachel had been seconds away from grabbing the man’s crumpled collar and shaking the self-righteousness out of him when he screamed his final retort, stealing the insults and allegations out of her mouth. Some of the fire left her lungs, and she felt the tension begin to seep out of her muscles as a devastating understanding began to wash over her.

Agent Townsend continued in a softer, yet still resolutely angry tone.

“We received intelligence that a splinter Circle group were meeting with a local gang for some kind of exchange. Abigail suspected one of the group members was linked to Agent Morgan’s disappearance, wanted to infiltrate the handover to see if she could get any info for a lead. I told her it was too dangerous but-“

His voice caught for a moment, but hardened again, eyes cutting between the two sisters in a near identical glare.

“-but she didn’t care. It’s not my fault she thinks her life is less important than chasing a ghost!”

Rachel felt like she’d been shot.

Agent Townsend must’ve known how his words would cut through her, the angry clench to his jaw suggesting it was done on purpose. He must’ve seen the blood drain from her face, the hitch in her breath, the flinch that tore through her soul, but he remained resolute in his anger, his glare settling solely on her now. He looked at her like she wanted this, like she wanted her little sister to risk her life over and over again for the sake of finding her husband’s body, like there was any universe where she would trade Abby’s life for information of what happened to Matt.

She wanted to scream at him. At the world. At Abby. To scream that Matthew was dead and they all knew it, that they would probably never know what happened to him, that she had accepted that. That her and Cammie had spent the past three years trying desperately to move on so why wouldn’t anyone else? Why wouldn’t they let them? Why does Abby, and Joe for that matter, still not understand that she doesn't need them to find out what happened to her husband, that knowing how and when and why he died wouldn’t help her or her daughter, that all she really needed was for them to be there. To be safe.

She wanted to scream all of this at Agent Townsend. At a man who until 10 minutes ago wasn’t a part of her life, or her family’s as far as she was aware. A man she didn’t know, but who was clearly in love with her sister. A man who had no right to stand there and accuse her of loving a memory of a dead man more than she loved Abby.

She wanted to scream so that she didn’t cry, but looking at her sister properly for the first time since she entered the hospital room, she found she didn’t have the energy for either.

Blackened bruises painted their way across the side of her face, streaking over her nose and both eyes, fingerprints dancing across her jaw and around her neck. Deep gashes cut through her cheek. One grazing through her eyebrow and the other stretching down to her chin, partially hidden by the oxygen mask covering her mouth. The cuts looked a few days old at least, held together by sutures still but already beginning to heal, so Rachel figured she picked them up before she decided to go rogue, but the bruises were fresh. Those she earned chasing down Circle members. Looking for Matthew.

The arm that wasn’t lying limply beneath Townsend’s hand was strapped to her chest, a cast extending from her hand to over her elbow. A set of similar casts covered her left leg, one around her elevated ankle and the other disappearing under the thin hospital blanket, likely stretching up to her hip to cover up where a stray bullet had lodged itself. Rachel wondered her femur had broken along the same crevices that had been carved out when she was a child. If the bone’s memories of snapping when Abby tumbled out of a tree had never quite healed over. If any of their old wounds ever truly healed, or if they hid away, dormant, waiting to be opened up again.

Tubes and wire decorated the hospital bed and wove themselves in her little sister’s body, ensnaring her in a web of IV lines and catheters and drains. One drain snuck its way under her gown and into her side, sucking out the blood that was filling the space around her lungs, and other did the same to her abdomen. Her breathing was shallow and loud. Oxygen forced itself into her throat and rattled around her fractured chest, carbon dioxide seeping out of it in a trembling sigh.

Rachel could see the borders of bruises peeking out from beneath the blanket, bruises that she knew covered Abby’s cracked sternum and broken ribs, bruises that didn’t just come from fists and kicks and explosions, but from the chest compressions noted in her medical file. Rachel wondered if it was Townsend’s hands that pressed on her sister’s chest, sustaining her in some state between life and death until the ambulance arrived, keeping her blood pumping when her own heart couldn’t. When Rachel first learned how to do CPR, she was told that it wasn’t effective unless bones were breaking. She wondered if Townsend had been told the same. Wondered if he was thinking about that as he broke Abby’s ribcage.

“The doctors think she’ll be fine.”

His voice voice was soft now.

“It was touch and go for a while but…”

He looked pained to do so, but he began to remove himself from Abby, stepping away from the chair perched by her head and slowly, hesitantly, taking his hand with him. His fingertips lingered on hers a moment longer, and his gaze never wavered from her face, but eventually he made space for Rachel by her sister’s side.

She filled it willingly, unconsciously, instantly. One hand smoothed back greased hair from Abby’s bandaged forehead, the other gently squeezed the tips of her fingers, dancing around the cannulas in her hand and grasping in-between the bruises perched on her knuckles. Her thumb traced the red rim that encircled her wrist, cuff marks, and pressed into the pulse that beat gently through her wrist. Bending forward, she pressed a featherlight kiss to her brow and settled herself into the chair.

“Are you staying?”

Townsend had crept closer towards the door, a weight still settled on his shoulders and in his face. He nodded slowly at her question, seemingly unaware he was doing so, and settled his body against the closed door as if he were blocking it, guarding it, guarding them from anyone who may try gain entry without his approval.

“I’m good here. You should rest.”

She resented being told to do anything by this man, and was half-tempted to tell him so, but he looked as exhausted as she felt, and she felt a wave of pity wash over her. It was a tiresome thing, she knew, to be so wholly in love with someone who put everyone else, their family, their job, the world, before themselves. He had probably spent the past 72 hours fighting, with Abby, with the Circle, with death itself, he could likely to with a slight reprieve. So instead, she relented without argument, laying her head next to Abby’s and slipping off into sleep.

———————————————————————

Rachel woke again to the sound of a door closing.

Straining against the protests made by the crick in her neck, she peeled her cheek off Abby’s shoulder, her head off the pillow they shared, and peeled her eyes open. The room was shadowed, the moon shining through the window and the monitoring equipment that stood next to the bed casting a soft glare across the walls. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did she quickly registered the glaring absence in the room, the lack of a six-foot-something guard posted by the door, and the red hue that lined her sister’s open eyes, the sliver of a tear that crept down her nose, oxygen mask discarded on the pillow next to her.

“Hey,”

Abby’s eyes jumped to meet hers in response to the whisper.

“He couldn’t stay huh?”

Rachel smiled sadly at the small sniffle her sister let out, the way her eyes, dazed as they were from exhaustion and painkillers, blinked and hardened, the way her fingers tightened slightly around Rachel’s own.

“He was just dropping me off anyway, making sure I didn’t die and all that. Didn’t want the extra paperwork…”

Her voice, scratchy and hoarse, trailed off when she felt Rachel wince, fingers squeezing again in apology. Abby’s tone was casual, and her smile was dismissive even as it tugged at her stitches, but her breath was shook as it brushed her trembling lower lip, the remnants of tears still shining on her eyelashes. Normally Rachel would push, dig at the crevices in her mask, pull apart the story she’d fabricated until Abby relented and spill the details on whatever boy trouble she was having. Looking at her now though, tired and fragile and small, Rachel decided to ignore the heartbreak in her sister’s eyes for the time being. Let her believe she had hidden it from her for just a bit longer.

“You didn’t have to come-”

Rachel’s eyes were rolling before Abby even finished her sentence.

“-no really, I’m fi-.”

“You’re not fine.”

Heat burst from the anger boiling in her gut, bubbling out her eyes in a fierce glare that cut through her sister’s words as they hung in the air between them.

“You nearly died Abby. Technically you did die!”

“Technically I didn’t.”

“You were dead. Your heart stopped, did you know that?”

“I heard.”

The whisper was soft and breathy. Her eyes flickered towards the closed door again, glazing over mournfully. Teeth closed over the skin of her top lip and tugged hard. She swallowed thickly. Unsure. Rachel mimicked the gesture, sighing through her frustration, struggling to stay angry when Abby looked so devastated. Her words escaped her in a plea.

“How could you be so…” Reckless. Stupid. Selfish.

“I had to! Catherine Goode was spotted getting on a boat in Montevideo a few days ago, I knew she was going to be at the exchange. I’m sure she was involved in Matt’s disappearance Rach, I thought I could-“

Single handedly bring in a woman who’s evaded arrest for over a decade. Get the answers to questions we’ve been asking for years in one night. Bring a man back from the dead.

“I thought I could find him.”

Rachel didn’t ask whether Abby meant find him, or find his body, not wanting to know how much delusional hope her sister was still holding onto lest some of it spread to her. She couldn’t afford to think that Matthew was still alive. She had a life and a school and a daughter that she knew she had to put first.

“Why didn’t you just wait for backup?”

“It would’ve been too late.”

She sniffed again, voice breaking, more tears trickling down her battered face. Rachel knew she shouldn’t be fighting her over this, knew she was exhausted and in pain and had probably just had the same fight with Agent Townsend, but she needed her to listen for once. To understand that she couldn’t just keep throwing herself into the line of fire and thinking her family would thank her for it.

“I didn’t want to be too late again.”

Fuck.

“It’s not your fault Abs.”

But Abby just looked away from her again, mouth wobbling and eyes clouded in guilt. Rachel sighed again, combing one hand through her sister’s hair and brushing the other up and down her arm.

No matter how many times Rachel repeated the assurances that still fizzled in the air around them, Abby refused to believe them. She still clung to her self-condemnation and flagellation, to her overwhelming guilt and displays of penitence. Rachel wondered how much of that was her fault. How much the words that she hurled at her sister one evening in Italy, mere days after her husbands funeral, had stuck with her. The blanket of misplaced anger and grief and devastation that settled over Rachel’s memories meant she barley remembered the fight, had no idea what she had said that meant Abby avoided her for months and refused to meet her eyes for even longer. She wasn’t sure how much of the guilt that was crushing Abby was her own, and how much of it Rachel had inadvertently placed on her in an explosion of grief.

There wasn’t a single cell in her body that blamed Abby for Matthew’s disappearance, if only she could get her sister to believe that, to feel the same.

“How’s the squirt?”

Ignoring the obvious subject change, Rachel smiled at the question, heart lightening at the thought of her daughter.

“She’s great. All her teachers are pleased with her, she’s close as anything with Grace’s daughter and their roommate, and she hasn’t even been distracted by boys yet. Much less trouble than you were at her age.”

“Hmmm, give her time.”

Rachel laughed nervously at the thought, still hopeful that her own influence had tempered whatever sneaky habits Matthew and Abby had instilled in Cammie throughout her childhood. Abby breathed a slight chuckle with her, wincing at the way it tugged at her cracked ribcage. Under normal circumstances Rachel would take the opportunity to cajole her sister into visiting Cam. Into spending the summer with them in Nebraska, or a Sunday evening with them at the academy, into breaking through the haze of guilt and regret she was trapped in and letting her niece see her instead of just checking up on her from a distance.

Rachel knew she worried that Cammie would see the guilt in her eyes, in her smile, seeping from her pores and dripping from her tongue. Worried that Cammie wouldn’t need her when she couldn’t be the fun-aunt, would hate her for not getting to Rome faster, would wish that it was her who disappeared, died, instead of Matthew. Somehow her sister had got it in her head that they were better off with her staying away. Happier. Safer. No matter what Rachel said, she hadn’t managed to dissuade her of any of that. Under normal circumstances, Rachel tried again almost every time she saw her.

These were’t normal circumstances though, and Rachel figured she had been pushed enough today already.

She’d try again in a few days. Tell her that they missed her, that they didn’t blame her, that neither of them needed her to be fun and grief-free, that they just wanted her around.

For now though, she just stroked her sister’s hair, and lay her head beside her’s once more, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“You should go back to sleep, get some rest.”

“Yeah.”

Rachel’s heart clenched at the quick resignation, at the way Abby’s eyelids fluttered and voice cracked, at how her head lulled on the pillow, relaxing against her own.

“Don’t know how you expect me to sleep in these circumstances though.”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t bring Monty!

Her thoughts strayed to that stupid sheep, it’s age-worn fur and missing eyes. Last she had seen was in Cammie’s wardrobe, her daughter having found it and the stuffed wolf from Rachel’s own childhood in a box in the attic. She had been enthralled when Rachel told her where they came from, immediately retrieving the stuffed horse Abby had gifted her as a baby, affectionately named Neighy once she could talk. Matthew had sent her into a a fit of giggles by putting on a show with all three of them, mocking Abby’s deadpan yet teasing tone, Cam’s child-like pitch, and her own strong city drawl. Rachel remembered laughing with her, loving how even at 10 her daughter could be so entertained by what was essentially a puppet show as long as her father was at the helm.

For once, such a memory didn’t feel like a gut punch, like the air was being ripped out of her, like she’d never breath again. Instead she felt lighter, the joy she remembered so vividly filling her heart once more.

She wondered if this was what healing felt like.

Rachel hid her growing grin in her pillow, elated by the sound of her sister’s laugh, how it reminded her so acutely of their mother’s airy chuckle and her daughter’s lively giggle all at once. She didn’t want the moment to end, the joy and the lightness and the love, but her own eyelids were growing heavy again, and even laughter couldn’t keep the pained shadow off Abby’s face for long.

“Just shut up and go to sleep you.”

And so they did.

Maybe they could laugh again when they woke.

———————————————————————

Authors note:

Okay so that was both longer than planned and took much longer to write than I thought it would. Oops.

Rachel and Townsend are similar in that they’re pretty stubborn, overthinkers who think they know best, prideful, and did I say stubborn? Rachel, who’s pretty protective of her family meeting Townsend, who’s angry and scared and not wanting to feel any of that, for the first time when Abby’s injured was not going to go brilliantly.

They grow on each other though (they bond over a common source of headaches).

Maybe one day I’ll write the Tabby argument that took place while Rachel was asleep. Or Tabby fight that happened in when Abby decided to go after Catherine. Or maybe even my entire version of Buenos Aires…

(Also it became too long to include Joe so sorry for lying about that, rest assured he will be in the next chapter by which time we will have caught up to canon…)(his cameo was gonna be Rachel using this as a way to manipulate convince him to teach at Gallagher next term)

[gildengirl]

“Run. It's what people have been telling me to do all year, and now I think it's time I really listen. ... Please don't look for me. Please don't worry. And most of all, please don't think of this as me running away, but of me running toward. Toward answers. Toward hope. Toward wherever I have to go to finish my father's mission and stop this thing, once and for all. ... I'll be back. And when I am, I promise I'll have answers.”

- Ally Carter, Only the Good Spy Young

[incorrectgallaghergirlsquotes]

Joe: Have you been yelled at by Rachel yet? Townsend: I'm not scared of her. Joe: So, that's a no.

[tv-moments]

The Crown

Season 5, “Annus Horribilis”

Director: May el-Toukhy

DoP: Rasmus Videbæk

[hannahwatcheshorror]

CONTRACTED: PHASE II (2015)

A sequel that answers as many questions as the first. No questions. And it leaves with a cliffhanger like we want to sit through another one of these movies. One star for acting, half for the actions in the movie. 

⭐.5

Sam is toast, Riley is being tested for every STD. He lasts WAY long. A bunch of cryptic shit is happening, what the fuck? He removes a bunch of maggots, which is useless. Hospital scene, the dude bro who started all this is here, bomb on chest, everyone is sick and now Riley is dead. Come back for a third installment, huh? (shit)

[wellesleybooks]

Another great list of books shortlisted for an award. First presented in 2016, the Mark Twain American Voice in Literature Award honors a work of fiction from the previous calendar year that speaks with an “American Voice” about American experiences. Congratulations to all the authors and their publishers.