#matthew morgan

[averagejoesolomon]

Coming soon to a tumblr/archive near you. See you Sunday 🍼

[gildengirl]

Matthew Morgan aka Nebraska

Joe Solomon aka Wise Guy

Abigail Cameron aka Bombshell

Rachel Cameron aka Ace

Character mood boards inspired by Full Circle by @averagejoesolomon

[bryn-not-brynn]

Full Circle "1978" (Joe)

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “Your name is Ezekiel, but everyone else has a cool nickname, so I don’t see what the big deal is—”

“No,” he says, quieter this time. Matt’s at the very top of the rope, and Zeke is at the very bottom. They couldn’t be farther away from one another, and yet Matt still feels like they’re whispering from mere inches away. “My name is Joe.”

@averagejoesolomon

[g-girlshavingfun]

December Prompts

8) A sous chef - Morgan family

Almost a decade before LYKY, Rachel is feeling under the weather, so Matt and Cammie try to make her feel better. (2,399)

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“And then Mrs Trawford said that cause I got the best score in the spelling test, that I could chose the book for story time.” His daughter’s mittened hand was clasped tight around his own, little body tugging against his as she punctuated her recount of the week with tiny skips and hops in the snow. “Billy said that’s not fair cause I always get the best test score, but Auntie Abby said that I can’t help it if I’m best.” Matt chuckled at that, picturing how his sister-in-laws nose would’ve crinkled in defence of her niece’s achievements. “Mommy said that’s not the point and that I should let someone else pick the book next time, but Auntie Abby said that if they want to pick the book they should be better at spelling.”

Grinning at the scene he could picture in his head, his wife frowning as she tried to guide their daughter towards a kind, selfless choice, glaring at Abby when she interjected in defence of the teacher, already believing that her niece was kind enough and that she deserved to be spoiled endlessly by everyone. Matt didn’t disagree with her. He knew his daughter deserved the world, choosing all the books at story time included, but apparently parenting a child like that led to narcissistic tendencies and superiority complexes. Or so the parenting books told him.

His daughter was gazing up at him now in question, eyes wide and trusting, waiting for his verdict.

“Hmm, I’m gonna have to side with your mother here Cam,” Her little shoulders slumped, bottom lip jutting out in an adorable pout. “Imagine if you tried really hard every week and did really well on your tests, but someone else just beat you because they were sooo amazing and clever. And they always got to pick the book for story time even though you tried just as hard, that wouldn’t feel very fair would it?”

Feet kicking back and forth in the snow as she waited for him to unlock the front door, Cammie appeared to contemplate his words, head tilted to the side and nose wrinkling up like a bunny. She looked so much like Rachel when she was thinking hard.

“I guess.” She scurried inside, wiping the snow from her boots and shaking it from her coat. “Next week I could ask Sara what book she wants to read? She always gets second best.”

“I think that’s a great idea.” Kneeling down to help her remove her shoes and coat, he pressed a loud kiss in the middle of her forehead, falling in love with her all over again when the giggles burst out of her mouth, whole body quivering with them. “I’m very proud of you Cam.”

Smiling wide, she launched herself into his chest. Her arms clung round his neck like a banshee, squeezing tighter and tighter until he nearly couldn’t draw air into his lungs. A little murmur made its way from her mouth to his ears. “Missed you daddy.”

Well now he really couldn’t breathe.

He had only been gone a week. A relatively short assignment for most operatives he knew, Joe having been across the Pacific for nearly six months now, Abby’s last deep cover op taking her to Europe for nearly a year, but he knew for his daughter a week could feel like a lifetime. He had missed so much in such a short space of time, as made apparent by the magnitude of stories she had managed to tell him as they walked back from her school. In an effort to not leave her alone, to not let her feel abandoned, to not do to their precious daughter what he knew Rachel and Abby’s parents had done to them when they were young, Matt and his wife had tried to negotiate a system whereby they wouldn’t be in the field at the same time. It wasn’t always possible, sometimes having to send Cam to his parent’s ranch for a month or two, often having to call up Abby for a few days of babysitting if she was around, but by taking only a small hit to their careers they had made it so Cammie was never left alone. Still didn’t make it any easier being the one who was away.

“I missed you too Cam,” He squeezed her tight, not wanting to let her go again, “I love you.” Wriggling out of his arms, she threw herself into the play room, instantly tracking down her puzzle books, Matt watching her with a heartbroken smile.

Spying his wife’s briefcase on the kitchen island, her heels and coat in the closet, keys hanging up on the wall, he frowned. Her car wasn’t parked out front, and she hadn’t come to greet them as they arrived like she usually would. She wouldn’t be in the office without her briefcase, wouldn’t be in the barn/gym without a set of keys, and anywhere else in the house she should’ve heard them arrive.

“Rach?”

Telling Cammie to stay in the playroom, he jogged up the stairs as he called for his wife, thinking that she had treated herself to a hot shower or bath when she got in from work, a reprieve from the cold. Instead he found her in their room, curled up in bed and tucked under the covers, fast asleep. Face pale as the snow falling in sheets outside, breath laboured where it fought its way out of her chest, and beads of sweat dancing in lines across her forehead, Rachel was quite obviously sick. He laid the back of his hand across her forehead, feeling the heat pulsating from her, the other lightly caressing her cheek and teasing open her eyes.

“Hiya darlin, you feelin okay?” Accent thick with worry, he knelt by her side, face knitting together in concern and stomach knotting in anxiety. The fluttering of her eyelids and a congested hum were his only answer, a slight smile the only thing keeping him from panicking completely. “You been sick long?”

A sniff and a swallow. She braced herself to form the words necessary for a brief conversation. “Since this morning I think. I dropped Cam at school- Is she okay? Did you get her?”

“She’s downstairs darling. She’s fine.”

“Hmm. Thought I could work through it but Roswell made Abby bring me home.”

Rachel wasn’t one to be taken out by illness. Before they got married she caught a bug from her sister and tailed a group of Hungarian dignitaries with a 100 degree fever for almost a week. When their daughter was a baby and catching every virus under the sun, she organised and oversaw month long international operations with any number of coughs and colds biting at her lungs. Even the various injuries she had picked up over the years hadn’t bound her to their bed the way her current fever seemed to.

“She left?” On the one hand, Matt couldn’t imagine Abby leaving her sister alone in such a vulnerable state. On the other, Matt couldn’t imagine Abby being able to stick around and watch someone she loved suffer if there was nothing she could do to fix it.

“Told her to go, she was hovering. Plus she has a date.”

“Oh?”

“Richard Liston? From R&D?.”

“Hmm, maybe you should’ve told her to stay.” She laughed at that, knowing that he thought the man to be as dull as anything. “Did she at least feed you before she left?” A shake of the head. “Probably for the best, I like our kitchen, I’d hate to have to re-do it.” He pressed a kiss to her head when she gave another light chuckle. “I’ll make you something.”

“Is Mommy okay?”

Christ.

Spinning on his toes where he knelt by his wife’s side, he saw his daughter lingering in the open doorway. He hadn’t heard a peep out of her as she crept upstairs, no padding of her feet on the carpet or creak of the doors she must’ve opened. Either he was loosing his touch in his old age or his daughter was a natural sleuth. Given her family line, namely her mother’s side, Matt feared it was the latter.

“Don’t let her in Matthew, she’ll get sick.”

Knowing his wife was right, he surged to his feet, sweeping his daughter into his arms and squeezing tight. “Mommy’s not feeling very well Cam,” She stretched her hands out over his shoulder, reaching for her mother as Rachel disappeared behind the closing door. “Want to help me make her feel better? You can be my sous chef?”

“What’s sous?”

“It- never mind. You can be my little helper.”

“Like Santa’s elves?”

“Exactly like that, c’mon.”

He carried her downstairs and into the kitchen, setting her down on a stool in front of the sink while he rummaged through the fridge. Rachel had once confessed to him that her father used to make them soup from scratch whenever her or her mother was unwell, Abby being too young to appreciate it tended to get spaghetti hoops instead. Ever since, Matt tried to keep the ingredients necessary for such a dish on hand, just in case his wife had a bad day and needed something warm to cheer her up. Eyeing his daughter out of the corner of his eye as she washed her hands, Matt was suddenly struck by the hope that when she was older, she would know she deserved someone who would cook her favourite childhood meals for her if ever she felt sad, and and that they would feel grateful to be able to do it. He hoped he was like her mom that way. He hope she was like her mom in almost every way.

“Alright Cam, your first job is to wash the veggies okay? Just put them under the water and give them a scrub until any dirt is gone, then I’ll chop them all up”

One way Matt hoped she wasn’t like Rachel however, was her cooking skills.

He knew that Caroline Cameron was not an avid cook, and that after their father died the girls mostly survived on sandwiches and takeout. Abby wasn’t terrible in the kitchen. Under Matt and his mother’s tutelage she had learned to make plenty of simple meals without much harm done, although the state she left the kitchen in after any such cooking left much to be desired. Rachel however was a risk to both herself and others anytime she attempted something more than cereal. For a woman highly trained in the use of knives as weapons, causing and preventing explosions, and poisoning select targets, when it came to cooking she was extremely prone to cutting herself or others, setting everything on fire, and giving everyone food poisoning at the end of it. Matt would steer Cammie clear of any real cooking today, just in case she inherited her mother’s talents.

Once everything was chopped up and seasoned, he put it in the oven to roast, wrapping his arms around his daughter and tickling her until she screamed as way of saying thank you.

He loved her laugh. High pitched and girlish, it was the carefree giggle of a happy child, everything he ever wished her to be. Despite everyone commenting on how much she took after him, his hair and eyes and smile, her contagious joy was certainly taken from Rachel. Rare as it was to elicit from his wife, her most carefree laugh was just like their daughter’s. He could listen to it all day.

Pressing a hundred kisses all over his giggling daughter’s head, the ache in his chest knowing it would never be enough, he instructed her to take two slices of bread and put them in the toaster while he started on a cup of tea. Rachel much preferred coffee, as did he, and the tea bags they had were largely reserved for when Abby was in a mood, but the sweet camomile would do wonders for her throat.

He was helping Cammie mix in the perfect amount of honey when the fire alarm started going off.

Heart pounding, he grabbed his daughter and hurried her to the sitting room, opening windows on his way. Peeking at the kitchen as they left it for possible causes of the alarm, Matt spied a trail of smoke wafting from the toaster. With no sign of an actual fire, he left Cammie near an open window by the couch and told her to stay there, running back to the kitchen to unplug the toaster and waft a tea towel through the smoke. The damage was just beginning to clear when a loud bang came from the oven. Tendrils of smoke were leaking out of the door, and through the glass panel he could spy a small flame burning away. Leaving the door closed, he calmly turned the oven off as well, hoping the flame would be suffocated and would naturally quench itself.

“Matthew?” His wife’s croaky voice caught his attention. She looked awful. Beautiful, but awful. Leaning her entire body weight against the stairwell, wrapped up in a blanket, eyes glazed over and body shivering from fever. His trusty sous chef had abandoned her safety post and was now burying her head in her mother’s legs, eyes blinking owlishly at him and hands clenched tight over her little ears. Rachel was running a soothing hand over the back of her head, the other clenched half around the blanket encircling her and half around the bannister. “What happened?”

What did happen?

Eyeing the toaster, he saw that the settings had been adjusted to max heat, clearly the cause of the blackened toast and cloud of smoke. A quick peek back in the oven revealed a still-flaming melted mess of plastic hiding amongst the vegetables. If he had to wager a guess, he would bet it was the carrot-shaped soap dispenser that was mysteriously missing from the sink.

He looked at his daughter.

Not only had she inherited her mother’s skills in the kitchen, and her aunt’s propensity for causing trouble without him noticing, but she’d managed to pick up the notorious Cameron skill of never being able to make him mad.

“Oopsie Daddy.”

He sighed. If he ever disappeared on assignment for more than a month again he genuinely worried his girls might starve.

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Authors note:

Apologies that this one is late, the next one might be done today or it might not appear until tomorrow, I’m not sure yet.

Baby Cammie never staying when she’s told to stay, seeking out her parents like a little duckling, causing havoc in the kitchen, and generally being a little menace is my new fave.

[tortoisesshells]

126, 200, 394

[incorrectgallaghergirlsquotes]

Matt: *Introducing Rachel* This is my better half. Matt: *Introducing Joe* And this is my bitter half.

[dancurtisowesmemoney]

Dark Shadows' Hottest Character?

ROUND 1

[cammie-morgan-goode]

Speaking of epilogues, can you make a lil blurb about what happened when Zach and Cam got home after the engagement? Thank you 🫶

The ring on Cammie’s finger felt so heavy and yet light at the same time. She found herself staring at it, tilting her hand so that the stone would catch the light just right. She was speechless.

“You okay over there, Gallagher Girl?” Zach asks as he parks the car in front of their apartment complex. He turns off the ignition and looks at her.

Cammie nods and unbuckles her seatbelt. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She asks and Zach laughs.

“I mean, you’ve been pretty quiet over there. You haven’t said a word since we left the mansion,” Zach takes off his seatbelt, directing his full attention to his new fiancé.

Cammie’s eyes widen as she realizes she hasn’t talked to Zach the entire ride back to Georgetown. (Which was exactly 65 minutes and 37 seconds with minimal traffic) God, what an amazing girlfriend—-fiancé—-she was.

“Sorry!” She blurts out, making Zach arch a brow. “I just… I was just thinking.” She says.

“Thinking about…?” Zach asks. He looks at her, worry settling in his stomach. Was she going to break off the engagement? Did she realize that this was a mistake? Was she worried that—-

“My dad.” She says softly.

All of Zach’s worries drifts away in a flurry of emotion. How could he have been so careless?

“Who’s going to walk me down the aisle, Zach?” Cammie says seriously. “You’re supposed to get his permission and he’s supposed to give my hand to you with tears running down his face. He’s supposed to be…”

Zach watches as tears form in her eyes. She meets his gaze, the tears falling down her cheeks in a quiet stream. He reaches a hand out, catching one with his thumb. “He’s supposed be here, Zach…” Cam whispers.

Zach takes a moment to even reply because he’s speechless, just like she was only moments ago. He pulls his hand away and reaches for hers. He looks down at the ring that Macey and Bex helped him pick out. “I asked your mom before I picked this out. She was so excited she was jumping around. I thought it was only fair since I couldn’t ask your dad for his permission, that I asked her. You know what she said?” He looks up at her, searching her face. “She said that if he were here he would have said yes without a second thought and that I was welcome into the family long before I dipped you in the middle of the foyer at school…”

Cammie pulls away and wipes her tears away. She goes to speak before he cuts her off again. “I did ask him though…” And all the air is gone from her lungs. “When I said I got called away I wasn’t lying. I really wasn’t here. I was in Rome.” His voice is soft and if there’s anything that Cammie needs in that moment it’s this.

Zach had flown to Rome. He had gone back to the grave that they searched so hard to find all those years ago. Even though there was a newer cemetery with a headstone that actually read gone but never forgotten… Even though he didn’t need to…

Out of all the things that Zach has given her and done for her, this meant the most.

Neither of them says anything as they climb out of the car and go inside. Neither of them is hungry so instead, they grab a bottle of wine and Zach pours the two of them a glass. Zach leads Cam over to the couch in the small living room and the two of them sit down. Zach kicks his feet up on the small table and Cammie curls up beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

They turn on Covert Affairs, content to just enjoy each other’s company. It’s quiet. It’s perfect. It’s not so lonely anymore.

Even though Zach didn’t know Matthew Morgan, he still definitely won some brownie points for this.

(Written by: @cammie-morgan-goode)

[lovingmilkshakeninja]

Matt: God, give me patience.

Joe: I think you mean 'give me strength'.

Matt: If God gave me strength, you'd be dead.

[willie-loomis-deserves-love]

Matthew Morgan's Ghosts

Music video for Matthew Morgan because I do what I want.

But also Thayer David made me do it.

Audio is "Dilaudid" by the Mountain Goats

YouTube Link

I was watching the beginning of Dark Shadows for the first time and challenged myself to make a video about a character I didn't really feel much for.

Matthew's not a good person. But he is a good character.

And his eyebrows are *chef's kiss*.

It's been a rough couple of months. But I finally found the motivation to finish this.

Thank you to the Dark Shadows discord.

[superblycaffeinated]

For more Nebraska, Ace, Bombshell and Wise Guy stories (and other Gallagher Girl fics), see my GG Masterlist

summary: The one where Matthew Morgan and Rachel Cameron share a turning point moment in their relationship (aka, Rachel makes really bad coffee and steals Matt's shirt)

2.5k words

A/N: This is still one of my most favorite things I've ever written - was originally posted on my old account // it has been edited slightly since my original writing - I appreciate any new notes left for it! 💙

Is That My Shirt?

Rachel Cameron / Matthew Morgan

The thing is, they’re all tired. 

Maybe that’s why he’s met his end with the virtue of patience. Maybe that’s why if Rachel blows a bubble of her gum one more time, snapping it loudly, he’ll shove his head in between the couch cushions. Maybe that’s why he flicked Joe in the temple when he ate the can of baked beans without asking if he wanted any. Maybe that’s why he accused Abby of cheating at cards or why he said what he said about Rachel’s coffee. Maybe it’s because the four of them haven’t been alone together, in this small of a space in a long time. 

They just don't do missions like this together anymore. Sure, he goes on almost all of them with Joe. Him and Abby still pair up occasionally. Him and the girls together - less frequently, but still. Hell, even him, Abby, and Joe have been on a few together. 

But rarely all four of them anymore, and on top of that, it did not end the way it was supposed to. It did not go the way these sorts of things are supposed to go. Joe’s got a cut to his temple, Abby a dislocated shoulder, Matt’s got bruised ribs, and Rachel has a cut down her side that could have been a lot worse if he hadn’t been there ( even though his being there resulted in the aforementioned bruised ribs). The point is though, that they’re tired - broken in the physical and emotional sense and he notices the hatred they’re all starting to feel for one another. 

Matt can’t handle being in the same room as Abby and Rachel at the same time anymore. Between Abby’s lips that are either constantly sucking on a tootsie pop, talking a mile a minute and Rachel’s eyes that seem to pierce straight through his heart. Then suddenly they’re fighting about something, turning to him and asking him to choose a side. He’s left to flounder like a fish that’s been out of water for too long. They look at him with those eyes and say his name with those lips and he’s desperate for air and to leave the situation he somehow keeps finding himself in. He’s just always sitting between the two of them, both exits blocked - a metaphorical dock that the only way out is to flop around hope for the best. 

And if it’s not them, it’s Joe and Abby looking at each other over their mugs or their books or whatever it is they’re pretending to be interested in instead of each other. 

But if Joe isn’t preoccupied with making eyes at Abby, his mouth is working at Rachel. The two can’t last five minutes, nope, at this point, five seconds without a snide remark meant to sting directed at each other. It’s eye rolls and glares that could freeze hell over. It’s deep sighs that say a whole lot when nothing is actually being spoken between the pair. And like clockwork, Matt’s just left in the middle, both of them turning to him in search of validation, and he’s left gasping for air, falling for the bait yet again. 

They may be the three people he cares most about in this world, but my god, he’s really tired of looking at their faces and hearing their voices. He’d gladly take the 4am wake up calls and milk cows for the rest of his life if it meant he could get out of that shack finally. 

It has to be how tired he is, that’s making him so heartless, that’s making his straws disappear until he’s left with his last one to lose. But maybe he wouldn’t be so damn tired if Rachel would just let Joe make the coffee. 

Which is exactly what started the argument. She insists on making it when Joe is sitting right there and could make it ten times better. He doesn’t know how it happened, but somehow they all agreed to let her keep making it and it has been days of it and today was it, he’d had it - the last straw. Joe had the beautiful can of coffee in his hands and she took it, declaring she’d make it instead. 

Which is when the comment slipped out. Something along the lines of “...so stubborn. Lord forbid we all have a decent cup of coffee for the first time in two weeks.”

Rachel had clutched the coffee pot in her hand with a grip that made his palms sweat. Abby had run for cover into the bedroom and Joe had muttered something about showering. 

She set the pot down and crossed her arms and Matt can only think about how he wished he’d had a chance to taste his mama’s potatoes one last time before Rachel Cameron kills him. 

“You don’t like my coffee Morgan?”

He absolutely does not.

“I don’t not like your coffee…Joe just makes-”

“Well, if my coffee is so bad, why have you been drinking it for two weeks?”

He asks himself this every day, but she doesn’t think she’d actually like an answer as she keeps drilling into him.

“Why haven’t you asked your precious Joe to make your coffee for you, huh? What? Afraid to hurt my feelings? I’m a girl, right, so you can’t-”

“Now, hold on a minute,” he interrupts her, leaning over the counter. Face and voice heated as he continues, “I was afraid to hurt your feelings, but not because you’re a girl, because you’re my friend.”

Her mouth shuts, their faces close together and he takes advantage of her silence to keep going, “Have I asked Joe to make coffee? Yes, yes I have. He has refused because he also cares about your feelings, but more likely he likes being alive. But Rachel, and I say this with all the love in my heart, you have to let him make it because you make the most awful coffee I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.”

As the words tumble out of him, he instantly regrets them. Matt realizes then that there’s this uncanny resemblance in the look Rachel’s giving him with a bull that’s charged him on the farm, but he really doesn’t think now’s a good time to mention that. 

Other than those eyes, nothing gives away what she’s thinking or what she’s feeling. Rachel just clears her throat and takes a step away from the counter and yells, much too loud, “Joe! Get out here!”

The tiny one bedroom safe house shakes and moans. Matt knows that logically, it’s from the wind and not her voice, but he can’t help but think that Rachel Cameron could move mountains and crack the earth open with her bare hands if she wanted to. 

Joe stands in the kitchen entrance, face devoid of an expression but Matt knows he’s equally annoyed and terrified as he cocks his head and says, “You hollered?”

Rachel levels him with a stare that would make even Han Solo cower, he’s sure of it, but Joe stands tall and folds his arms, matching her equally. 

“Can you show me how you make your coffee?”

Matt wants to warn him - tell him it has to be a trap, but he’s far more desperate for even a chance at his coffee and at this point he’s willing to let Joe risk his life for it. Especially when Joe hesitates briefly, but steps into the kitchen and grabs the can. He is practically drooling as he listens and watches Joe go through his steps. He barely registers that Rachel is watching carefully, studying, like it’s just another test she has to pass, another thing for her to become the best at. She watches the way Joe scoops the coffee, pressing a curl behind her ear, but never removing her eyes from his hands like it’s something she will need to study, practice, and remember for years to come like a skill for a mission. 

Matt doesn’t see the look on her face when Joe pours a mug, sliding it across the counter and he swallows it down in the three gulps, not caring in the slightest that it’s burning him. He slides the empty mug  back over for more instantly, he could cry it tastes so good. 

When Abby peeks around the corner and Joe hands her a mug, the three of them devouring it, Rachel stands there stunned. That’s when he notices the sadness flash across her eyes - like they’ve all been lying to her. 

Rachel turns and leaves the room quickly and Abby starts to follow. Matt shakes his head, setting the mug down regretfully, patting her shoulder. “I got his one. It’s my fault.”

Rachel Cameron is many things. She’s smart. She’s patient. She’s tenacious. She’s a leader - and a damn good one at that. She’s kind and loyal and one of the best friend’s a person could have. Sure she can be abrasive and blunt, but she’s always right even when you don’t want to admit it. But for the first time in two weeks, for the first time in perhaps all their years together, Matt notices a lot more about her than he has before. He feels like he’s failed Joe, his number one lesson, but if he’s being honest with himself, he’s failed Rachel. 

It’s only a few seconds, a knock of his knuckles on the door and her head turning to look over her shoulder before ducking back down, but that’s when he takes it all in. 

Rachel is tired. He can see it in the way her eyes don’t shine as much, creases underneath and the color just a little dim. Rachel is scared. He can see it in one of her fingers, where the skin is picked raw around her nail. Rachel is sad. He can see it in the damp skin in the corners of her eyes and the way her nostrils flare, like she’s trying not to sniffle. But more importantly, he notices Rachel completely. He notices the air that’s always around her, has shifted without him realizing. It’s thick with worry and sadness, so much of it that he can’t believe he didn’t feel it sooner. And then, there’s the most curious thing he failed to notice - the shirt Rachel is wearing, the shirt she has been wearing since yesterday morning, meaning either she slept in it or put it back, but either way , is not her own. It hangs loosely off of her shoulders, swallowing her - it’s a man’s shirt. It’s black and faded and he sees the tiny rip at the collar.

“Is that my shirt?”

Rachel doesn’t lift her head again, she just continues to unpack and repack her bag, double checking she has everything. 

“Don’t you have coffee to drink, Nebraska?”

She shifts, and he sees just enough of the light saber to know for sure. 

Rachel Cameron is wearing his shirt. Rachel Cameron is wearing his favorite and most lucky shirt. And Matthew Morgan’s head feels like it’s not quite attached to his shoulders anymore from the sight of her in it. Or maybe his head is swimming because he’s impressed she swiped it from his bag and has been wearing it for who knows how long without him noticing. 

She turns to face him fully, arms crossing over Luke’s face as she raises her eyebrows. “What? Most delicious cup of coffee got your tongue?”

Rachel Cameron looks good in his lucky t-shirt. Matt’s head feels fuzzy, his tongue feels too big for his mouth, his chest is tight and his heart starts pounding when his brain, against his will, starts to imagine her in just his shirt, those blue jeans she has on are long gone and-

Heat blooms underneath his cheeks and he looks down, clearing his throat. “He really does make delicious coffee, Rachel. It wasn’t anything against you, honest.”

Her bare feet cross over each other as she clears her throat too, gazing at the same spot on the floor. “Well, I’ll try to do better next time if coffee is that important to you Matthew.”

He looks up at the use of his name and those damn eyes don’t just pierce him, they rip at him, devouring every thought and feeling he’s ever had and he doesn’t even try to fight them off. Rachel’s lips twist up slightly as he gestures to the shirt, his cheeks definitely pink and growing darker. “It…it looks good on you. By the way.”

Her lips stop fighting the twist, revealing the rare and wonderful Rachel Cameron smile, if only for a second, before returning to her classic smirk. The one that tells you she knows more than you do. The one that pulls you in just to tease you. The one that makes you want to take those lips that are smirking and just press yours to them in a deep, and passionate-

“What, this old thing?” She fingers at the hem, looking down and then back up at him, blinking innocently. 

“You know that’s my lucky shirt, don’t knock it. Why’d you steal it, anyways?” He takes a step towards her. 

Rachel takes her own step towards him, the air around her, around them, changing again. It’s like that perfect moment between the sunset and dusk in the summer. The sun is just at the horizon line and everything is a little heavy and lazy, everything moves a little slower, basking in the last moments of golden and warm light. It’s perfect and fleeting and most people let it pass every day without truly noticing it, but that’s what makes it even better when you finally do. 

Matt watches her gaze bounce over his face, he listens and watches the deep breath she takes, he can feel the words leaving her lips, practically tasting them as they float through the air on a whispered breath. 

“Well maybe I was hoping to get lucky.”

Without realizing, they had taken another step closer, their bodies almost touching. His fingers gently pull at the hem, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. She tilts her head up to look at him. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he’s not mad about it in the slightest. 

Matt swallows, stealing a breath when Abby shouts, “Hey! We got news from Langley!”

The sweet moment pops like the bubbles Rachel blows with her gum. It’s night now, the lazy summer sun dipped below the horizon, the moment over, the world a little cold again. They each blink at each other, his fingers drop and they both take a step away. 

He follows her out of the room, watching her walk away from him until she steals a glance over her shoulder as she rounds the corner.

Maybe he’s just tired, and that’s why he thinks Rachel Cameron looks damn good in his Star Wars shirt.

But, the thing is, he’s had three cups of Joe’s coffee now and he doesn't feel all that tired anymore.  

[averagejoesolomon]

We're back, baby! Or maybe I should say, we're back WITH a baby!! Welcome to Full Circle 1988, aka: the Cam installation. I am beyond excited to share how these kids handle parenthood. Thank you, as always, for joining me. I know this says chapter one, but Full Circle doesn't start here. I recommend starting on Ao3 with Full Circle: 1978. CW: A pretty significant content warning for this one. We're going to see Rachel in labor throughout this chapter and there are visuals of blood. Things also don't go according to plan, and the line of medical consent gets blurry with Rachel's birthing plan. If that's likely to trigger you in any way, feel free to skip this one. I won't mind one bit.

Chapter One

Matthew Morgan is no stranger to kicking down doors.

And he kicks down this particular door with the kind of force he’d usually reserve for mobsters and arms dealers, rather than the well-intended EMT meeting him on the other side. He hears a smack, then a groan. Matt probably broke the guy’s nose—lucky they’re in the exact right place for that sort of thing.

“We’re having a baby,” he announces to no one in particular. “Right now.”

Three nurses look up from their station, dressed head-to-toe in green and blue scrubs. One waves him over, which is the only cue he needs to dash across the waiting room and blurt out every piece of intel he has. “Her water broke twenty-three minutes ago and her contractions are four minutes apart—”

“Matthew.”

“—but she’s been having them for a couple of hours now and insisted we stay home until they were closer together—”

“Matthew.”

“—and then we stopped for Little Tavern on the way over because we heard you guys don’t let her eat once she’s admitted and she’ll be damned if she’s going to deliver this baby on an empty stomach—”

“Matt.”

He almost forgets Rachel is there at all, which is maybe a little ironic given the reason for today’s visit. Even at thirty-nine weeks pregnant, she weighs next to nothing in his arms. The last time he had this much adrenaline in his system, he was scaling a Lithuanian embassy in the dead of winter without any cleats. 

“Take a breath,” she orders, starting a low, long inhale. Matt follows her lead on the exhale. “Good,” she says. “Now put me down. It’s a baby, not a broken leg.”

Matt’s been trained to take orders in high-pressure situations, especially when Rachel’s the person doling them out. The husband part of his brain gives in to the part that serves at the pleasure of the president and answers to a rigid chain of command. “Yes ma’am.”

He guides her legs to the floor, holding her steady as she searches for her ever changing center of gravity. When she finally finds it, her hands fall away from his neck and she stands tall as ever. Matt still keeps a hand at her back, even though she doesn’t need it.

“Now then,” she says, approaching the nurse’s station. “My husband has all of the information you need for my admission paperwork and, given that my water is broken, I trust you won’t need to check for dilation before admitting me to a room. I’ve already called ahead for Doctor O’Brien, who is on call this evening but expected to arrive within the next hour. My husband and my sister will both be in the delivery room with me—though, my sister is on a plane from Peru and may be a while. Since I’m a first-time mother, I expect we still have some time before that becomes an issue.”

If Matt weren’t so wound up, he might let loose a laugh when a nurse’s jaw actually drops. He knows that look. He’s worn it plenty. In his head, he silently calls it the Rachel Morgan effect—the moment someone is struck by the absoluteness of Rachel’s cool, easy command. She has a plan for everything, and being a first-time mother won’t stop her from being the smartest person in her own delivery room. She’s read all the books. She’s done all the research. Like everything else, she knows exactly how this is supposed to go.

Blind to her own influence and impatient for an answer, she looks around at the stunned nurses. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Were there questions, or…?”

This seems to snap the nurses into action. One of them sputters out a, “No,” and rounds the desk. “No, you’re just very—first time, you said? Let’s get you into a room Mrs…”

“Morgan,” Rachel answers, and the name is still new enough that it sends a joyful jolt across the frayed edges of Matt’s nerves. “Mrs. Rachel Morgan.”

Matt swears it only takes a wave of Rachel’s finger for the EMT to return, this time with a wheelchair. Matt thanks him, apologizes for the nose, and follows close behind as a nurse pushes Rachel past a set of swinging doors. 

“Matthew?”

“Right here, Ace.”

Rachel’s perfectly at ease as he leans in to listen, voice even and classy as ever. “If I don’t have drugs in my system in the next ten minutes,” she warns, “I am going to burn this entire building down, do you understand?”

It’s immediately clear that these aren’t the words of a laboring woman. These are the words of a trained operative who knows all the finer parts of arson, and ain’t far from denouncing her allegiance to all things good and just. “Understood.”

He relays this sentiment to the nurse, using a friendlier tone than Rachel might opt for. Truthfully, it ain’t much different from their usual operation—Rachel keeping the mission objectives front and center, while Matt charms informants into allies. In some ways, they’ve done all this before.

“We’ll have to see how far along she is before we administer an epidural,” the nurse tells him. When Matt insists, the nurse replies, “Really, Mr. Morgan. It shouldn’t take long.”

“More or less than ten minutes, do you think?” he asks.

“Definitely more than ten minutes,” says the nurse.

Matt glances toward Rachel, calm as a wheatfield before a storm, and gets the impression that the winds are about to shift. He spots a name typed across the nurse’s swinging badge and tries a different angle. “You’re the boss, Julie,” he says. “But if I could make a recommendation, as a fool who doesn’t know anything about all this, but knows his wife pretty well?”

Matt read all the same books Rachel did and is every bit as prepared, but what Julie don’t know won’t hurt her. She perks up with a slim smile when Matt calls her the boss, happy to be the expert in an environment that rarely treats her like one, and somewhere between the midwest accent and his own humility, she decides to like him. “I’m listening,” she says.

“The closer we can get to ten minutes,” he says, “the better this is gonna go for everyone involved.”

Years ago, when they first started living together, Joe agreed that Matt’s greatest gift was his ability to disappear into a crowd. In the same breath, Joe also said that his second greatest gift was his likability, and that he’d only waste it by asking questions about how it happens. Like every other bit of advice Joe’s ever given him, Matt lives by this. It’s why he doesn’t question the glint in Julie’s eye. He doesn’t question the way she trusts him just a few minutes into knowing him, or why she feels so inclined to help him. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

When it comes to people, Matt doesn’t need to work hard. Never has. And it might have been one of the great mysteries of his life, had Joe not seen it coming a mile away and insisted Matt not waste his time on wondering. As things are, Matt uses every drop of natural-born talent to make Rachel’s life a little easier during what’s sure to be an awfully hard night. “You’re a saint, Julie.”

He doesn’t question the way she smiles at him, the same way everyone does when they think he likes them back.

They roll Rachel into a private room and, true to her word, Julie makes quick work of her assessment. They’re joined by an entire team of nurses, each moving with confidence as they put Rachel in a gown, lift her into bed, prep their instruments, and place heart monitors for mom and baby both. Someone sticks a clipboard in Matt’s hand, burying him in a list of check boxes. Matt dutifully adds Rachel’s name, social security number, date of birth, and everything else Langley would usually redact.

He breezes through the forms. Rachel made flashcards of her family history in week nine, and Matt’s been studying them ever since. Right after he details Diana’s cancer and just before he can check off Henry’s history of headaches, Julie calls out, “Mr. Morgan?”

Matt snaps his attention upright, keying into the room the way Joe taught him. Two windows, sealed shut. Four nurses, all attending to Rachel. A heart rate of 115 and a glance from Julie, sitting at the foot of the bed. Her lips are in a tight line. Her brow is furrowed. A sheen of sweat starts to form along her hairline.

Something in Matt’s training sends his heart straight into his stomach. 

Julie waves him over, trying to keep her features steady. It’s a valiant effort, but ultimately made pointless by Matt and Rachel’s combined decades of experience reading people just like her. People who do hard work and sometimes have to deliver hard news.

Matt joins Julie at the end of Rachel’s bed. She lifts the gown from Rachel’s knees to reveal a growing spot of blood against white sheets. “That’s normal, isn’t it?” he asks her, because he’s pretty sure he read about this. “To bleed a little?”

Her answering look makes it instantly clear that all his books and research are gonna be just about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. He suddenly wonders if any of his intel will hold up in the field. In a hushed tone, Julie says, “I wouldn’t classify this as a little, Mr. Morgan.”

From the top of the bed, Rachel listens in. “What?” she says, eyes glancing toward Julie, then landing on him. “Matthew, what is it?”

All at once, Matt loses any kind of desire to be a voice of authority. He feels like every bit the fool he claimed to be earlier—though one truth still resonates. Matt still knows Rachel, better than he knows just about anything else in the world. And he knows Rachel is at her best when she’s sure, certain, confident.

So he does his best to spare her this uncertain pit sitting at the base of his own stomach. “You’re bleeding.” He presents it like the simple truth it is, the way she taught him to. Composed. Withdrawn. “The nurses are trying to figure out why.”

“Bleeding is normal,” Rachel replies and to untrained ears, she still sounds like an expert. But to him, she sounds anxious, with a jagged edge poking at the end of her sentence. She’s leaning on facts, trying to find the answer to a question she doesn’t even know yet. “Spotting is common.”

Matt glances back down at the blood. It ain’t spotting, and he tries not to notice if the stain has gotten bigger. “You’re right,” he says, landing all of his attention back on Rachel. “Some bleeding is normal. I’m sure it’s fine.”

Julie lets Rachel’s gown fall. “Regardless, Mrs. Morgan,” she says, “we’re going to do an ultrasound, just to check everything for the doctor.”

Rachel nods as though she expects nothing less, but her heart monitor gives her away as her pulse inches up from 118, to 120, to 122. Matt finds a place at her bedside and takes her hand in his, lifting her fingers to meet his lips. He plants affection along every icy knuckle.

She looks up at him, curls spiraling, ringlets starting to stick to her temples, her neck. “You have a terrible tell.”

“So I’ve heard,” he mutters across her skin. “Mostly from you.”

“What’s wrong?” she needs to know. “What is it?”

He sighs softly, breath rolling across her hand until he lowers it once more. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth of it,” he says. “Could be nothing.”

“But it could be something?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “It could be something. But if it is, you’ll know what to do.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Don’t gotta,” he promises. “I know you.”

Without warning, her features twist against a contraction and all the surrounding monitors pick up their pace. Nothing resembles an alarm, so Matt doesn’t worry just yet. Instead, he joins Rachel for a fresh breath, letting her squeeze the absolute Hell out of his hand. 

“I thought we had an understanding,” she grits, “about my drugs.”

“On their way,” Matt assures her, and he steals a glance at Julie to keep him honest. Only problem is, Julie ain’t looking at him. Julie’s looking at an ultrasound monitor, and that furrow in her brow is back. 

She cuts him a glance, stands, then leaves the room. When she comes back with a doctor, white coat and stethoscope included, Matt gets the feeling that everyone in the room knows something he doesn’t. Spy training or not, that’s a bad place for a fella to be. 

The doc examines the image frozen on the ultrasound. Consults the nursing team. Not even Matt, with all his training can make out the words as the man mutters back and forth with frenzied staff. He starts to think maybe spies have met their match in doctors.

Finally, the doctor raises his voice above the clatter of the room. “Mr. Morgan,” he says, glossing over Rachel’s presence entirely. “I understand you’re still waiting for your doctor to arrive, but I’m afraid we’re facing a fairly significant complication.”

Rachel beats Matt to the first question on his mind. “What?” she says, sitting up straight—or as straight as anyone can expect, given the circumstances. “What kind of complication?”

The doctor explains something about placenta, and compromised oxygen, and premature detachment. Matt doesn’t catch it all, distracted by the taste of rust along his tongue, dropping in like an old friend—but he thinks it’s odd anything could be premature when Rachel’s already carried to full term. He hears Rachel chasing down answers, the way she always does, and Matt finds the conversation just in time to hear the doctor say, “We’re recommending an emergency C-Section under general anesthesia, immediately.”

“General…” Rachel starts, but she can’t find the end. “No. No, it’s supposed to be an epidural. We just had an appointment the other day to confirm our birth plan.”

“I understand,” says the doctor, and Matt realizes he doesn’t even know this doctor’s name. “But that’s not a possibility any longer. A vaginal birth could take hours. An epidural could take up to thirty minutes to take effect. Every moment we don’t take action is another moment your baby isn’t getting enough oxygen, and it’s another moment you spend bleeding out.”

“Bleeding is normal,” Rachel argues.

“Mrs. Morgan,” says the doctor. “This is not normal. You’re hemorrhaging.”

“I can handle a little bl—”

She doesn’t finish the thought before the monitors pick up their pace again, another contraction building. Her jaw tightens against the noise, her hand squeezing Matt’s tight once more. Her breath doesn’t come as easily this time, and Matt thinks she might be even paler than usual.

With Rachel out of commission, the doctor turns to him. “I’m afraid it is a matter of life and death. For both of them.”

Matt deals with life and death on the daily, but he’s usually got Rachel in his ear, taking in the world from the top down, watching out for all the corners where death lurks. It’s where she likes to be. Rachel makes the calls. Rachel always sees the road ahead.

But she’s too close to this one. Matt can see it, even from his place down in the dirt. This is going to be one of those rare occasions when Matt has to look at the whole map and make the final call.

All it takes is one nod from Matt for the nursing staff to move in, and he figures Langley could learn a thing or two from how seamlessly this team flows, code words flying back and forth, trained hands working without hesitation, one nurse supporting the next, supporting the next, supporting the next. They operate like a stealth team deep in enemy territory, no one soldier complete without the other.

Hands overwhelm Rachel’s body, adjusting monitors, prepping for IVs, clearing the remnants from her ultrasound. She pulls away at each touch, defensive and raw. It’s lucky for everyone that she’s not operating at her full capacity, otherwise the whole room would be brought to their knees in a matter of seconds. Her words are sharp, her protests vicious, but the nurses carry on through the trenches.

Not getting anywhere with the nurses, Rachel promptly turns to Matt and begins to plead her case. “This isn’t part of my birthing plan.”

“I know,” he says.

“I have a plan. I have a birthing plan—”

“I know. I know you do.”

“My doctor isn’t here. Abby isn’t here. Abby’s on a plane.” There’s an urgency to her, needing to be heard. Begging to be heard. Her heart rate climbs as her wide eyes meet his own. “This isn’t how this is supposed to go.”

Matt reckons she’s had nightmares like this, where the whole word seems to stray from her perfectly laid plans. He sees the way it plays out in her stuttered breath. Feels her panicked grip along his arm. Matt’s been trained to read people, which means he sees every speck of hurt on his wife’s face as the moment she’s planned months in advance finally arrives, betraying her with each passing second.

So he reaches for her, holding her face in his hands and hoping it blocks out every other unwanted touch. His forehead presses into hers when he says, “This is how it’s going.” She’s burning up. He feels it in his palms, in the way her heat settles into the lines along his hands. “And you are—look at me—you can do this. You do hard, unexpected things all the time.”

She shakes her head, tears breaking at the corner of each eye. “I’m supposed to be awake. I want to be awake.”

“They’re going to take good care of you,” he reminds her. “I’m going to make sure they take good care of you, and the baby.”

“I’m supposed to be awake.”

“You’re not going to be awake for this.”

“Matthew—”

“I’m going to take care of you.”

“Matthew.”

“Let me take care of you.”

“I have a plan.”

He leaves a kiss at the crown of her head, then catches her gaze. Forces her to really look at him. To listen, the way she’s made him listen so many times. “And now we have a new one,” he says, putting on his best Rachel Voice. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to be right here the whole time, even if I have to break down the door to the operating room, alright? That much is still part of the plan.”

Her grip is still wrapped around his arm, growing weaker. Pulse slowing. Her eyes skip between his, searching for a way out, before she finally says, “Don’t let them ruin me.”

It’s the first and only sign in the entire nine months that Rachel is really, honestly scared of what’s to come. Matt can hardly blame her. When it comes to Rachel, one moment is never just one moment. This one moment changes how she planned to meet her child. It changes how she planned to go home, how she planned to care for a new baby, how she planned to get back in the field when all is said and done. With Rachel, one moment leads into the next, over and over again until one ruined moment becomes a ruined lifetime, everything she ever wanted tied back to her expectations for here and now.

“They couldn’t if they tried,” he tells her. “And I’ll be damned if they get a chance to try at all, okay?”

Another one of those code words bounces between the nurses, setting more movements into motion. All at once, they lift the locks on Rachel’s bed and begin to roll her away. She reaches for Matt’s hand once more, but she’s already too far gone.

Matt follows after, two steps behind all the way to the operating room.

[gildengirl]

Matthew Morgan

[bryn-not-brynn]

Full Circle "1978"

Cooper takes control again, pulling all of Matt’s attention now. “That’s what we’re talking ‘bout, Morgan,” he says. “You’ve got the instinct, and you’ve got the talent. I’ve spent years recruiting boys with half of what you’ve got. And it’s your choice of course—it ain’t gonna be easy—but this is a great opportunity, and your country sure could use you.”

@averagejoesolomon

[g-girlshavingfun]

December Prompts

4) Saltwater - Morgan family

In her first winter as headmistress of The Gallagher Academy, Rachel takes a moment to remember warmer and happier times. (1,882)

———————————————————————

With a stern look and a final word of warning, Rachel gestured for the junior sat opposite her to make her escape. Poor Sophie Miller squeaked out one final apology before scurrying out the office, letting the heavy oak door swing closed behind her, trapping Rachel inside with only her thoughts and memories left for company. When she had agreed to take the position as headmistress of The Gallagher Academy, desperate to remain close to her daughter, aching to escape the empty townhouse they shared with Matthew, searching for somewhere new - or old - to call home, she had forgotten how challenging teenage girls could be. It’s not like she didn’t get plenty of practice with her younger sister, who snuck out to go to parties and go out with boys and generally cause trouble whenever she saw fit. Rachel could only hope that Cammie would be less trouble when she grew up.

A quiet sigh betrayed her tiredness, the week’s activities beginning to wear her down. Her body ached for rest, to curl up in the too-empty bed that sat beyond a hidden door adjacent to the office’s small kitchen. A gale of wind blew in from her window. Cold beat at her skin. As a child she hardly registered the freezing temperatures the old stone academy buildings succumbed to in the winter, but now she was aged and weathered from a lifetime of injuries picked up in the field, and she could feel the ice creeping into her muscles, her bones, the titanium plate that held her ankle together. All she wanted was to curl up in the warmth and sleep until the ache in her head, her chest, her life, began to subside.

That wasn’t true. All she really wanted was the one thing she could never have again.

Besides, she still had tomorrow’s staff meeting to prepare for, reports to read, trustees to write to. Dinner was to be served in the dining hall in an hour; she had to make an appearance not just as headmistress, or the leader of her staff, but as a mother. Cammie would come looking for her if she sensed something was wrong, and the last thing Rachel wanted to do was upset her.

Upset her more.

It was December 4th today. Two weeks since she had curled up on the sofa with her daughter, holding her as she sobbed, pressing her nails into her own skin so hard she nearly bled in an attempt to control her own tears. Held Cammie as she wept for her father, wept for the first time his birthday passed without him there, wept for the knowledge that this time wouldn’t be the last.

Rachel could remember from her own childhood that the firsts were the worst. Could remember her father’s birthday passing in near silence only a few weeks after he died. How her mother refused to leave her room, leave their bed, leave the ghost of him behind. Could remember the first Christmas passing in agony several months later. How Abby had loudly proclaimed for weeks that she knew Santa wasn’t real, but shyly told the man at the mall that all she wanted for Christmas was her father to come back so her mother would be happy again. Could remember her own birthday passing in floods of tears the following spring. How she collapsed in the room she shared with her best friends and bawled her eyes out, betrayed by the realisation that her father would never know her at 16.

It was easier when her mother died. It was expected, planned for, even, and they weren’t as close as she had been with her parents as a child. She was older, an adult now, with a husband and a child of her own. She had work to fall back into during the day, and Matthew’s arms to fall into at night. But the firsts still left her reeling, cold shock seeping into her skin and a paralysing emptiness leaking into her chest.

The firsts were the worst.

In 3 weeks it would be their first Christmas. Matthew’s parents had of course extended an invitation for them to spend it in Nebraska, but Rachel wasn’t sure she had the strength to survive it. To not fall apart the second Richard wrapped her up in one of his bear hugs, to not break and tell them no, your only child didn’t die in a car crash, I don’t even know for sure that he’s dead, the second Margaret sat her down and asked how they were doing.

She didn’t want to fall apart, she couldn’t. She had to be strong for Cammie, to look after her. That was her only job now.

Rachel took a deep breath. Another gust of wind rattled through her office, sending shivers down her spine and knocking over one of the few framed photos displayed on her desk. With the frequency that she had students and staff alike in here, Rachel was very careful which loved ones she left on display, and which she held closer to her chest, either for their safety or her own. No pictures of her husband adorned the room. Rachel didn’t think she could remind herself of that particular pain in the presence of the girls, so she left that part of her heart in her bedroom. A candid from their wedding sat on her dresser, Matthew and Cammie on her first day of 1st grade sat on her bedside table, and her sister draped over his back as he carried her through the Ranch during a flood looked back at when she gazed in the mirror. A much younger Abby holding Cammie as a baby was pinned beside it, but none of Abby were displayed in the office, her sister being an identity she needed to protect, to hide. Similarly, her favourite picture of Matthew and Joe, taken when they were young men, almost boys, was hidden in her desk, along with one of her and her little sister when they were still children themselves. Those were the pictures she reached for on her hardest days, to remind her of when things were so much simpler.

For now though, she leant forward and picked up the picture that the wind had displaced. It was taken by Matthew, his lack of skill as a recon photographer advertised by the presence of his finger in the top right corner. Laughter bubbled out of her chest, overwhelmed suddenly with love for a man she couldn’t hold, for a daughter’s joy she worried wouldn’t come back, for a memory she couldn’t forget. Eyes closing, she rested her head back on her chair, clutching the photo of her holding her baby girl close to her chest, waiting for the happiness she remembered feeling when it was taken to seep back into her heart.

The winter after Cammie turned 7, Matthew had grown sick of travelling all over the world and so rarely being accompanied by his wife and daughter, so he had surprised them with a trip to Athens in the week between Christmas and the new year. Traversing across the city, taking Cam up the Acropolis, into the ancient temples, the museums, encouraging her to try the new cuisine, to run along the beaches, to paddle in the lakes. It was one of Rachel’s favourite weeks.

Pictured in her arms, immortalised in paper and ink as it was in her soul, was the day they went to Glyfada beach.

Rachel could still feel the sun beating down on her skin, pulling out the freckles that normally lay dormant in the winter months and pinking the flesh of her cheeks, her shoulders. Lathered up in sun lotion as she was, the weather had hardly made a dent in Cammie’s pale skin, but Matthew had got back in the cab that afternoon with a peeling nose, streaks of red on his neck, and a blister building on the tip of his ear.

She still could smell the sea, the sand, the ice cream that melted all over their hands and faces. It dripped down their skin and clung to their nails, the sand beneath their feet adhering to the sticky mess, forcing them to run into the ocean to clean off.

She could still picture the castle they had made in the sand, the shells that lined its moat and the lopsided tower that Cammie insisted on constructing herself. The image of her husband and daughter digging a 3 foot pit in the sand brought another laugh tumbling through her tightening chest.

“We’re gonna dig our way back home Mommy!”

She could still hear her daughter’s laugh. Light and perfect, it had resonated around them on a near endless loop that day. Giggling at her father when they splashed about in the water, chuckling to herself as she performed cartwheel after cartwheel for her parents. Loosing herself in laughter when Rachel targeted her in tickles, wrapping her arms around her tight and bringing the two of them to the sandy ground below, both oblivious to the man with the camera, a single finger obscuring the lens.

She could still taste the saltwater as it was splashed into her face, rivulets trickling down her face and finding purchase on her lips. Cammie had swallowed a small mouthful, gagging on the salty taste and dunking her father under in revenge for his laugh.

She could taste the saltwater even now.

Sitting forward with a pained gasp, an overwhelming pressure forcing itself onto her chest, Rachel’s eyes shot open.

She could taste the saltwater even now.

For a brief moment, she thought she was going insane. Worried that she was having some form of hallucination, the product of a psychiatric break or a terrible brain tumour. Worried that her worst fear was coming true and she was about to leave her daughter all alone. A pitiful cry lurched out of her mouth, she choked on the air trapped in her throat, jerked forward as though a puppeteer had yanked on her strings.

And then she realised. And she laughed.

Tears flooded down her face, seeping past her running nose and trickling onto her open mouth. Saltwater carved lines into her skin, burned the crevices in her lips and dripped off her chin onto the frame that triggered them. Rachel’s body heaved, gasping for air around her laughter and her sobs. Something like a howl burned in her chest, pained and raw and echoing off the walls of her office. Clutching the photo tighter, tighter, until the corners of the frame dug into the flesh of her hands, the skin between her ribs, Rachel collapsed forward, longing for the feeling of sand and Cammie and Matthew beneath her. When she was met only with the grand oak of her desk her sobs just grew in intensity.

She wanted to go back.

Please let me go back.

She buried her face in the darkness between her curled up knees and her open drawer, forehead pressed to the cool of the wood, and prayed that the sound of her heart breaking would be drowned out by the growling of the wind and the storm brewing outside.

She didn’t want Cammie to hear that she’d been crying.

———————————————————————

Authors note:

Sorry?

[tortoisesshells]

(ds: 39, 45, 85, 126.)