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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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Find the list of March Prompts I’m participating in here - I hope you join in! I love seeing all the different stories people come up with from the same words I actually cried writing this?? But maybe I'm just emotional about these guys together and that girl specifically 💙 This would have spoilers for Gallagher Girls and The Listen Series

CW: descriptions of car accident/burning/death - PTSD from an actual car accident/hallucinations

Charlotte Woods & Zachary Goode

“I can’t do this,” she muttered, kicking at the gravel in front of The Gallagher Academy with the toe of her docs.

“You don’t really have a choice babe,” Ellie murmured out the corner of her smiling mouth as Madame Dabney continued to point out all the exits of the average, four door, Gallagher Academy Driver’s Ed car.

“No,” Charlotte eyed the vehicle, and wiped her sweating palms on her jeans. “I mean, I really don’t think-”

“Oh good, Miss Woods, you can go first.”

Madame Dabney held the keys out to Charlotte, smiling kindly, unaware of the inner turmoil happening inside the girl in front of her.

It’s not like Charlotte hadn’t been in a car since…

It doesn’t matter. She’d been in cars, okay?

But never behind the wheel. Never responsible for the other people inside the car.

Never with the burden of being the one who made sure everyone who got in it, also got out safely.

“Dear?” Madame Dabney hoisted the keys higher, “Ready?”

A nudge from behind pushed her forward, and somehow she was nodding and somehow she was taking the keys and opening the door and getting into the car.

The cloth seats smelled familiar, flowery, like a perfume she couldn’t quite place, though a little off.

Three doors slammed, four buckles clicked, and the flowery scent was changing. It was burnt, it was closing in on her. The air in the car suffocating - hot.

“Now,” Madame Dabney touched her wrist gently and she flinched at the touch. Madame Dabney smiled, and paid no mind to the reaction, and gently guided her wrist towards the ignition, “Don’t worry dear, the first time is always a little scary. But you’ll do fine! Won’t she girls?”

Twitters from the back were drowned out by the car coming to life, by metal crunching, by screaming.

“So, once you’re adjusted and ready, we’ll go down the drive, take a left, and drive up the hill into town and-”

“I ca-can’t,” Charlotte gasped, unable to breathe, every inch of her body burning. French words she couldn’t quite hear, but only her name over and over again-

“Charlotte.”

The voice broke through it all, and big, blue eyes blinked at her in the rearview mirror, more worried than they had ever looked.

Madame Dabney’s hand was in the air, silencing the back, four faces looking at her with pity as her hands fell from where they had been covering her ears. The scratch in her throat telling her why the screaming had been so loud.

“I’m-I’m sorry.”

Charlotte flung open the driver’s door and started running, the sounds of her name being called and other doors opening were nothing compared to the sound of her brother screaming.

“Hey, kid,” Zach mumbled around a bite of an apple as he approached Charlotte laying on a blanket in the grass. Her Countries of The World essay flying across the page in front of her.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

She didn’t look up.

“Talk about what?” Zach stopped in front of her textbook, nudging it with the toe of his sneaker, “I have something more fun than homework that I need your help with.”

She didn’t stop writing, and she made no move to get up.

Until he took another loud crunch out of the apple and said, “It’s either help me, or help Rachel with dinner.”

She was following Zach around the corner of the safe house a minute later. She would do what she was asked, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it.

Her arms crossed and her mouth pouted, as she dragged her feet behind him.

“What are we doing?”

“Well,” Zach stopped in the driveway and Charlotte froze as he threw his hand out to the thing that was not normally parked there. “I need help with this.”

“I said I didn’t want to tal-”

“So don’t,” Zach shrugged. He squinted at the puke green car straight out of the 80’s, its hood open, doors off, and a collection of tools laying around it on the ground. “I just need someone to hand me stuff. Keep me company.”

He started to walk towards it, and then spun, two finger guns pointing at her with raised eyebrows, “Oh, and someone to put some music on.”

Zach grinned as Charlotte stormed into the garage and harshly threw in a Rolling Stones tape into the stereo, cussing him out under her breath in French.

A week. She’d been sitting outside in the undisclosed location’s heat for a week, handing Zach Goode tools he had no clue what to do with while he sang off key and asked her about school and Ellie, and boys before she threatened to let the car fall on top of him.

“Why are you even fixing this?” She finally asked, handing him a wrench as he fiddled with things under the hood with a crease between his brows.

Zach shrugged, keeping his eyes on fingers twisting and wiping some sort of brown sludge on his shirt. “I don’t know. I like figuring out puzzles that aren’t under pressure like time, or you know, the world’s safety. Keeps my hands busy. And-” He grunted as he tugged on something, blowing his breath out when it popped and he grinned. “I get to drive the thing when I fix it all up, knowing it was me who got it running again.”

Charlotte frowned at the ugly car and quipped, “Yay?”

“You bet yay. She’s a classic.” Zach smiled as he twisted a new piece on, eyes on another part, “I’ll know this baby from the inside out. I’ll know each part and what it does and why it matters to make the car work. And I’ll feel that much better when I’m driving it, if something were to go wrong.”

Her jaw clenched when he looked up at her, eyebrows raised.

She pushed the next tool into his hand, harshly, then crossed her arms. “Nice try.”

“Ready?”

Her fingers adjusted the rearview mirror, then the dial of the radio, playing her music. They smoothed over the steering wheel’s leather, up and down and back up to ten and two as she rolled her shoulders.

It had happened slowly.

She kept helping Zach with the car all Summer, learning more about it. A piece he couldn’t reach needed a smaller hand - then another, and another - until she was leaning over it all by herself. Then he came in one morning and tossed the keys in the air with a grin and asked if she wanted to come with. Slow, backroads, no other cars. Windows down and his fingers drumming on the wheel and grinning when she said it was okay if he drove it faster. Shakes and burgers at drive in restaurants, a drive to a beach with Cammie, and the view of it out the front windows every night, shining in the moonlight.

Then Zach drove her to an abandoned factory lot. He said it was potentially going to be used for something with Gallagher - it was huge. Fenced in. No traffic - pedestrian or vehicle. Hills, parking lots, speed bumps.

It was her own closed course, and she could go as slow as she wanted. She could sit in the driver’s seat and listen to the music and have the windows rolled down and not even drive that day if she wanted.

And eventually, she did it.

Now, her trunk was in the backseat and she had Joe’s sunglasses on and her new leather jacket Cammie got her for her birthday, her junior year on the horizon and Zach in the passenger seat, holding out a Red Vine and frowning at the stereo.

She took it and grinned around her bite, and pushed the car into drive.

“I’m ready.”

#gallagher girls #gallagher girls series #gallagher girls fanfiction #the listen series #charlotte woods #zach goode #I'M SO SORRY #THIS HURT AND HEALED ME #IDK #Zach Goode loves The Rolling Stones and you can't tell me different #and Charlotte does too but she has to pretend she doesn't or Zach will get a big head

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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oh my favorite trope? two people who go through something so unique and agonizing and entirely beyond words that they have no choice but to create a bond that transcends all other types of love, thus acting as the sole point of understanding for the other person in a world that cannot fathom what they’ve been through

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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OKAY

one more spicy fic to post, and today's march prompt and then I'm caught up aside from the daily prompts for March, and All's Goode in Love & War ANNND So Far, So Goode that will hopefully be sticking with a semi-regular schedule from now on.

Thanks for being here with me! I'm having SO much fun writing these guys again 💙

Also so sorry I'm blowing up the tags on here and Ao3, I promise I'll chill haha

#gallagher girls #gallagher girls series #gallagher girls fanfiction

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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What Happens At The White House, Stays At The White House:

A/N: originally posted on my old account // it has been edited slightly (okay, just fully re-written) since my original writing - I appreciate any new notes left for it! 💙 It was originally inspired by an NSFW post that said: “Somewhere along the way, the pair vows that they will somehow, someway, hook up in the White House. It happens at a dinner when they’re thirty-seven.” which then lead me to think about their age in The Listen Series by @averagejoesolomon and well, here we are. This, in my mind, takes place the day before the first chapter of "Listen Between The Lines", the first book in the series.

summary: The one where Zach & Cammie hook up in The White House, finally, when they're thirty-seven years young. | NSFW - this is 18+ ONLY, Minors DNI please

🎵 For your listening pleasure: Pressure by Martin Garrix, Tove Lo

Cammie Morgan / Zach Goode

Dinner is over.

A dinner he didn’t want to be at, and a dinner she insisted they attend.

It’s that time of the evening, when mingling is boring, laced with privilege, and scented with sharp liquor and tobacco. The time when he’s desperate to get the hell out - out of the room, the building, the suit he’s been forced to wear.

But now that he’s here…he’s finding it difficult to not think about a certain promise Cam and he made many years ago. Vowing to do something, somewhere, somehow, in this place.

By this place he means, of course, The White House.

He wonders if Cammie remembers it too, as he holds a glass of a fancy Scotch that a fancy man bought from a fancier man in a fancy place.

Zach tries, he really does, to listen and pay attention to the story the ambassador from Croatia is telling, but that exact moment is when Cameron Goode walks past him again.

It’s not his fault that his listening skills aren’t up to his usual performance level, when she leans against the bar across from him.

The group around him laughs, and he laughs too, not hearing a word though. He can’t hear a damn thing when Cammie’s leg is exposed like that.

She had to have done it on purpose.

The color, for one, was bright red. Sexy red. Cam hasn’t worn red like that since Spain, fifteen years ago.

He likes Spain.

It’s really not his fault, when she crosses her ankles, and he gulps down a generous swallow of the Scotch. Because the movement opens up more of the slit.

The slit is definitely on purpose. His wife doesn’t wear dresses with slits. Except that one, for things like what they did in Moscow that one time - the black dress.

Zach loves the black dress.

He knows it’s on purpose, when fingers glide up the slit, the dainty bracelet (which just also happens to be a laser cutter strong enough for steel) he gave her for their anniversary last year dangles from her wrist. The wrist attached to the fingers that glint from her wedding ring as they travel up, up, and up until a curl is being pushed behind her ear.

He can’t breathe, when she eyes him over the rim of a champagne glass, and smirks.

Zach starts to make his apologies, his requests to be excused, setting the glass on a tray as he makes his way to the bar, but when he looks back towards it, his wife is gone.

Why, why did he have to marry a woman who was so good at disappearing?

It’s easy to slip out into the hallway, to scan the few groups, and know she’s not there anymore, but close.

He quietly, casually, walks to the end of the hall, like he’s supposed to be, like he isn’t searching for his wife who he’s certain is driving him crazy on purpose now.

“Cam,” he hisses as he rounds the corner, only to find an empty corridor. “I don’t think we-”

Fingers tug on his collar, and before instincts can kick in, he’s being dragged into a room and a door is closed swiftly and without sound behind him.

His eyes adjust to the dark closet, his hands land on hips that push against his as her voice floats through the air.

“Took you long enough.”

Boxes surround them, packages, and various bottles of high end cleaning products.

“Well," he drawls, “If I had known this is where you wanted to meet me, I would have gotten here so much sooner honey.”

Cammie rolls her eyes as she backs away from him. She leans against the wall, and bends her leg like she’s freaking Mrs. Smith.

Now he really can’t breathe.

Her finger lifts his chin, as she murmurs, “Best I could do on short notice. And bathroom sex is dirty.”

Zach’s heart is racing, but he plays it cool, his hands landing on the wall on either side of her head.

He leans down, lips ghosting over her skin with each word, “If I recall correctly,” he kisses the dip between her shoulder and neck, smiling when she sighs. “And I typically do, since, you know,” he pauses for dramatic effect and points to himself as he whispers, “Spy.”

“Zach-”

“We conceived Matt in a bathroom.”

His lips find that spot right below her ear, that makes her fingers tug on his tie, that makes her eyelashes flutter.

“Don’t,” she tilts her head back, so his kisses can travel down her throat and back up, “Don’t talk about the kids before we have sex.”

“Why, want another one?” He nips at her other ear lobe, and she laughs.

He catches her lips as she shakes her head, her fingers slip down his lapels, around his waist.

His fingers skate over skin, fingering the edge of the slit as his tongue slips over her bottom lip teasing. Languid movements shared between mouths until she pulls him closer by the belt loops.

She gasps around his lips, “We - we need to hurry, we-”

He mouths at her jaw, hands grabbing at her waist as he sighs. “I know. If we’re not out of here in the next ten minutes, we’re gonna miss that plane and not make it in time for Mag’s bir-”

“We have three minutes and twenty eight seconds,” she catches his lips again, fingers moving swiftly on his belt.

“Wh-what?” He swallows harshly as she shoves at pants and boxers. The power positions shifted, quickly and unexpectedly.

“To have sex,” she says, like it’s obvious, like she’s not guiding his hands to her ass and wrapping her legs around his waist like she does it all the time.

Zach laughs into her mouth, “Baby,” a kiss, then another one, trying to remain some sort of fraction of their normal dynamic, “I’m fast but not that fast.”

He moans as she wraps her fingers around his length and lines herself up, sinking down on him and silencing him with her kiss.

“Cam, I-” he breathes harshly against her mouth, having no idea what has come over this woman.

“Zach,” she grips the back of his head and tugs, mouthing at him needy, desperately, hungry. Her eyes blink, wide, unwavering from his gaze as she begs, “Fuck me. Please.”

Kissing Cammie, having sex with Cammie, Cammie herself - is not fast, and hard, or filthy, or like this at all.

“Two minutes,” she breathes, continuing to blink at him, waiting for him to make a decision.

The air is thick with unspoken words, tension, heat pressing down and around their bodies. Taut muscles flex, gripping one another, ready.

He doesn’t know what to do except do exactly what she asked for, because that’s all he ever does.

It’s primal, it’s messy, it’s grunts silenced by passionate mouths. Teeth biting into lips and tugging, tongues slipping together as he starts thrusting. Hands tangle, they grip and tug in dark brown curls and fingers leave bruises on hips that circle, that bounce in a frantic rhythm. Slick walls grip him, as he practically growls, pushing her up against the wall for better leverage.

A brutal pace, building pressure that neither can deny they want more of. It’s all a little dirty, and wrong, and so not like them. Her back arches against the cold cement, but she tugs him as close as she can, noses bumping with each of his thrusts up into her. She gulps, panting for air around their kissing as she breathes his name out like it’s a promise and a plea all at once.

“Zach.”

He swallows it, feels it latch onto something inside him, never ever letting him go. His senses, everything he is, belongs to her.

“Cam-I-shit, I-”

Cammie nods, mouth parting in a gasp against his lips, furrowed foreheads pushed against each other as they come together, the pressure exploding suddenly, blissfully. A wave breaking, washing over both of them until her legs are shaking around his waist and his arms are doing the same around hers.

He practically collapses against her, both using the wall to support themselves. His lips graze over the sweat slick skin on her neck.

“Well,” she laughs, the back of her head hitting the wall behind it, “Mission accomplished.”

He groans at the bad joke, but laughs too, squeezing her hips that wiggle against his.

“I don’t want to go, but…”

“Yeah, I know, forty three seconds,” he exhales sharply against her jaw. A chaste kiss pressed right behind it, before he slips out of her with a wince.

She rips open a bag of towels with her teeth. Tossing one to him that he catches with his mouth as he latches his belt. Like a practiced team, they clean themselves up as if it’s been done hundreds of times, except it definitely hasn't.

“Cammie,” he starts, something not feeling right as she adjusts her dress in front of him.

She looks up at him with a smile and lifts a hand to adjust his hair. Her fingers laced with his, and they were slipping out the room as quickly and quietly as they had entered it.

Footsteps approached sure and quick as Cam grabs him by the tie and presses her lips to his. A movement forceful enough she falls against the wall and he has to brace his fall with two hands on it.

But a kiss shared that was slow, heated, and saying a lot more than she could with words. Making him feel a lot better about the situation. His hands cupped her jaw, thumbs grazing cheeks as he exhaled into her inhale.

This is what he was used to. This was the kind of kissing that didn’t make him worry about a thing in the world except why there weren’t enough hours in the day to always do it.

A throat is cleared, as a voice tinged with laughter calls out behind him, “Folks, you’re going to need to head back to the party. This is a restricted area.”

“Sorry,” Cammie apologizes with a gasp as she breaks away from him, eyes sparkling. “We didn’t know.”

He turns to find Macey McHenry standing in front of him with her arms crossed over her typical service uniform of a sleek pantsuit and heels, accessorized by a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Hey Mace,” he coughs.

“Goode,” she nods. Eyes coolly assessing the situation before her - like the lipstick on his lips and the gelled curls sticking every which way. “Having a good time?”

“Of course. It’s always a great time at The White House” he grins, looking around, “Preston here?”

“Afraid not,” she tilts her head and points down. “Might wanna tuck that in.”

Black lace dangles from his pocket and he quickly shoves it and his fist deep down, hidden from her despite being absolutely caught in the act.

Cammie hugs her, whispering something in her ear. Macey rolls her eyes at Zach over her shoulder, but her lips twitch.

“Uh-huh. You owe me.”

She nods to him, a smile, quick and barely caught, but he does. She shoos them both off around the corner with her fingers, before she’s speaking into her cuff with an eyeroll. “Left wing secure.”

Cam laces her fingers with his as they walk out the front doors. She tucks herself into his arm, nose nuzzling his shoulder as they make their way down the steps.

“Cam,” he stops, eyes searching hers as he holds her hand. “What just-”

She kisses him, thumb swiping over more lipstick on his bottom lip when she pulls away.

“I just wanted to do something we’ve talked about doing for a long time. Maybe we don’t have many of these dinners left.”

“God, I hope not,” he grumbles, hands settling against her shoulders as she smiles.

“Plus, you, Zachary Goode, are typically a man who likes to take his time…”

“You make that sound like a bad thing, Gallagher Girl.” He leans in closer, thumb dragging down her neck. He doesn’t care that they’re at The White House and this goes against protocol. Letting his lips tease over her skin, lightly, not letting her get what she wants.

“It’s not,” she promises, hands pressed to his chest. “But tell me that wasn’t a little fun?”

Zach’s fingers flex against her neck, tilting it back how he wants so his mouth can slip over her throat. His lips press one, soft kiss at the base of it, before he whispers against her skin.

“It was, but you know what’s more fun?”

“A-a,” her eyelashes flutter as his tongue drags over a collarbone in a filthy, and not at all acceptable way to do when security is ten feet away. “A ten hour plane ride and two hour drive to get there in time for Maggie’s birthday?”

His lips skim over pebbled skin until they’re at her ear.

“Don’t talk about the kids before we’re about to have sex.”

“We-we just -”

“It’s a ten hour plane ride, Cam.” He kisses her jaw, “Oh, and a private one.”

She laughs, a little nervous, a little bit like a giggle - like she’s not his wife or thirty-seven.

“And I intend to take all ten of those hours to show you…” he trails off, kissing over her skin repeatedly, slowly.

His lips are precise hits, strategic and skilled in leaving lingering kisses that leave her satisfied yet somehow wanting more. Until she’s got her arms around his neck, practically bent backwards as he leans in, and hovers over her lips.

“That taking your time will always be more fun.”

No kiss to the lips is granted. Not then, when he stands up straight and tugs on her fingers like he didn’t just do all that teasing. Not once on the ten hour plane ride, while kissing between her thighs instead. Not until they’re in bed, and he’s kissed quite literally every other inch of her body, and he’s asking her if taking their time is really so bad, if taking their time wasn’t way more fun.

She doesn’t get to answer, with his lips pressed to hers finally.

#gallagher girls #gallagher girls series #gallagher girls fanfiction #cammie morgan #zach goode #zammie #the listen series

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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Find the list of March Prompts I’m participating in here - I hope you join in! I love seeing all the different stories people come up with from the same words This technically contains spoilers for the original Gallagher Girls series if you haven't read all of them

A request on my old blog for how Zach told everyone he was going to propose - and okay this isn't technically everyone, but this is what poured out of me and I hope it's okay - thank you so much for requesting and thank you even more for your patience 💙 Personally, I'm not in the category of reader who thinks the ten year reunion epilogue proposal is canon despite it being so, and I even wrote a totally different proposal fic called "They'd Be Happy" (you can read it on Ao3 right now only), so that's what I'm working with for this as an FYI

Zachary Goode & Joe Solomon

He paced back and forth outside of Rachel Morgan’s office, very much the opposite of covertly, and probably the furthest thing from calmly.

Zach’s gaze roamed over the door, like he could see her sitting in there, waiting, through the wood, and he ran a hand through too long, too unprofessional curls and he cursed under his breath.

Idiot. Should have gotten a haircut for this conversation.

He looked sloppy, he looked like a kid, he looked-

“You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The man wasn’t wrong. His white button down was wrinkled, his black tie was too short, his pants - jesus christ he was wearing jeans. With a tie. What kind of early 2000’s boy band trash did he think he was?

He didn’t need to look at the man leaning against the banister to know that Joe Solomon was watching him pace with a perfect poker face opposite of his lacking one. He didn’t need to look at him to know they were both thinking the same thing.

Rachel Morgan would smell his nerves on him the second that door opened and she’d eat him alive for whatever he was about to tell her.

But if Zach did look up, he’d have noticed the ever so slight twitch of Joe’s lips. He’d have noticed the look in the eye of the operative, the mentor, the partner who knew exactly what this restless energy was all about.

“Zachary,” Joe began.

His head whipped up and he finally stopped pacing. He frowned, he pouted. He got this little wrinkle right between his eyebrows that amused Joe to no end. Like a kid told he can’t stay up another hour, or have the chocolate cake before dinner. Like he wasn’t the twenty-two year old, graduate, and professional he is today.

“What?” Joe asked, innocently.

“You,” Zach ran a hand through his hair again, before he gestured to Joe, accusing, “You never call me Zachary.”

“Well,” Joe shrugged. Joe smiled, “This feels like a serious moment.”

Zach blinked. He took a deep breath. His mouth parted, but words failed him. Joe blinked. His smile grew wider and he rubbed at his jaw, like it was sore from trying to hold back his delight.

“Shit,” Zach groaned. His palms dragged over his cheeks.

God, he should have shaved too. Jesus Christ this was a mess.

“Zach,” Joe started again. He waited, with his arms crossed over his chest, until the boy - the man - finally looked up at him. “Just go ask-”

“But-”

“No. Whatever things you’re out here convincing yourself are reasons to not do it today, is your imagination, nerves, and something false running away with you.”

Joe waited for the words to sink in just a bit, before he hit him with, “What’s your gut telling you, kid?”

Zach exhaled a big breath and he looked at the ceiling as he muttered, “That I should have asked her two years ago.” His head fell back down, looking a little bit like the nervous kid still as his cheeks flushed and he admitted, “That I wish I had asked her two years ago. Because she would have said yes, and we’d already be married.”

Joe didn’t say anything, just waited. He waited until Zach spun on his heel, his knuckles knocked on the door and Rachel called out, “Come in!”

Zach pushed the door open, slowly, painfully, and Rachel sat behind her desk. She looked up from paperwork, she grinned at him.

“Hey, kiddo. What’s up?”

He spun, looking at Joe who gave him the tiniest of smiles, a small thumb’s up, as Zach took a deep breath and closed the door.

If he had turned around just a second sooner, he’d have seen Joe holding up his left hand, mouth ‘Oh my god’ to Rachel, and would have found the biggest grin he’d ever seen on the man’s face.

#gallagher girls #gallagher girls series #gallagher girls fanfiction #zach goode #joe solomon #rachel morgan #zammie

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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Find the list of March Prompts I’m participating in here - I hope you join in! I love seeing all the different stories people come up with from the same words This would have major spoilers for the original Gallagher Girls series if you haven't read all of them OKAY AND TECHNICALLY NOT SPOILING ANYTHING FOR THE LISTEN SERIES BUT -

I had a thought. About Mary (the soon to be nun in OSOT) - what if her name wasn't Mary? And maybe that was a cover. Or maybe her name was Mary. IDK. And what if this Irish, Strawberry Blonde, Blue-Eyed , NOT TOO FAR IN AGE FROM CAMERON ANN MORGAN , Angel was more than met the eyes? - my head is swimming with theories and headcanons now and I'll be yelling at @averagejoesolomon later about Mrs. O'Reilly A request from my old blog, for more about when Cammie was captured and set free before OSOW - thanks for asking, and thank you even more for your patience 💙 CW: slight descriptions of torture, hallucinations, and injuries // slight religion/God talk

Cammie Morgan & Catherine Goode & "Mary"

It was getting harder and harder to think straight.

What day was it?

Where was I?

Why did I come here?

The pain in my wrists drew all of my attention, the shift of my weight to keep off of my ankle making me suck in a ragged, weak breath.

I fought against the heavy pull of my eyelids, the bed in the corner, the initials in the stone hidden, but there.

He was there. It was real.

A sob shook my body, every part of me crying out in pain with it.

“I admire you, Cameron.”

Cameron.

Nobody calls me Cameron. Mom when she’s upset. My professors sometimes. Dad.

Dad called me Cameron.

She calls me Cameron.

Black heels clicked against stone. Hips swayed. Fire. The room was on fire.

A pale and slender finger brushed under my chin, lifting my head to look at her and I recoiled and she tsked, a pout of an insincere frown on her lips.

“It’s been admirable, dear, this search for answers all by yourself…”

Answers. I needed answers. They wanted the answers.

“That’s a nice song,” she whispered behind a smile. “Zach always -”

“Don’t.”

The word came out coarse, my throat burned, the fire surrounding me inside of me now, burning me alive.

She hummed, a soothing, comforting noise as she ran a hand over my hair, “I know, he feels sorry I’m sure. He didn’t mean to give you up, when he came to see me.”

She’s lying, Cameron.

It was his voice.

Not Zach’s.

Dad’s.

“You’re,” I coughed. That bitter, warm iron ran over my tongue and filled my nostrils as I spat out, “Lying.”

She gripped at my jaw, forcefully until I cried, her eyes almost caring, almost kind.

“I wish I was, babe,” she shook her head, remorsefully. “It was smart - misguided - but smart, to assume we had you already.”

Gallagher Girl, don’t listen to her.

“Just showed his hand too early, and then we knew we could find you first. Alone. Just like your dad, aren’t ya kid?”

I sobbed, fighting against the grip she had against my cheek, against the restraints, voices of people not there clawing at the inside of my ears, telling me to not listen, to fight, to not give up. To notice things, to trust my gut, to never go anywhere without backup.

But it was too late.

Their voices drowned in the music, the music was so loud, louder than the fire, demanding to be heard, demanding to be the only thing I could focus on until a softer, quiet voice told me to go.

“Go find him, Cameron. Go see if he still cares about you, it’s been a long time.”

I collapsed to the ground, suddenly no longer held up, and something told me to fight, and something bigger, louder, told me to run.

Cammie. Run.

So I listened.

I pushed, I crawled through the flames, I gasped for air until I couldn’t breathe, until my head hurt.

Until the fire took me, and I wasn’t burning anymore.

She decided she liked the cold.

It quieted her brain.

This place, these women, had a purpose, a calling, and perhaps she could learn to find hers here as well.

It was lovely, to walk through the snow, and be so close to the sky above and hear the river below, but be far from it.

To disappear.

She felt connected to something stronger, bigger than herself, in this quiet piece of the world.

It felt like decisions, paths of life, pain, logic, grief, uncertainty, did not exist here.

Each crunch of the snow beneath her boots led her further away and closer at the same time.

Something drew her deeper and deeper and further and further, until she was certain there was a reason she had walked this way, until she knew that a God must be real.

Until she saw the girl who seemed to be just as lost as she felt, be embraced by a woman who could only be her mother.

Until the Mother Superior told her it was time to go, to do what she needed to do.

To find the answers she needed to find.

#gallagher girls #gallagher girls series #gallagher girls fanfiction #cammie morgan #catherine goode #sorry I'm sorry I'm

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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Find the list of March Prompts I’m participating in here - I hope you join in! I love seeing all the different stories people come up with from the same words This is a very loose depiction of righteousness - I went with the definition: "Righteousness is a feeling or way of life that is all about doing the right thing." This contains spoilers for the fanfiction series The Listen Series by @averagejoesolomon

Morgan Goode / Luke Collins

Luke Collins is infuriating was not a new thought for my brain to stumble over, but a rare occurrence these days.

Kind? Yes. Attentive? You bet. Patient? Undeniably. Slight tendency to hover and helicopter on occasion? Annoyingly so lately.

But infuriating? I hadn’t needed to use that word until right now.

“Morgan, no.”

No.

No is not really a term in my vocabulary, it never has been, and if it’s told to me, it’s not something I listen to often. Especially when accompanied with my name like that, like he’s scolding, like he can’t believe I’d be so stupid like-

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Nope,” I popped the ‘p’ as I continued to tape my hands.

Sometimes, I was still a little shocked to look down and see the scars, flexing a stiff hand and watching how they caught the light on more than a few occasions. To suddenly tune in to how different my two legs felt from one another.

I wouldn’t say I admired my scars, or found beauty in them usually (unless Luke was kissing them and whispering things he loved about me against my skin, but that’s a different story). But when I stretched out my arms and saw the swirling pattern extend up both forearms, I did draw some sort of courage from them, I think.

Not fueled by spite, or anger, or hate, though those were easy to fall into from time to time - easier not to with each passing day - but from peace, from clarity, from trusting my gut that I had done the right thing two years ago.

“I’m not doing this,” Luke exhaled in a tone riddled with finality, one with zero room for argument.

It was a nicely delivered command, strong, confident, and anybody in their right mind would have heard it, looked at the strong set of his jaw, his squared off shoulders, his arms crossed over his chest, and accepted defeat and walked away.

But see, I’m not normally in my “right” mind, and I knew what others didn’t - that when it comes to me and Luke Collins, there was always room for an argument.

“Oh,” I laughed, squinting up at him in the harsh noon light, “I get it. You’re afraid to lose to a girl.”

Luke’s temple pulsed, that familiar crease furrowing his forehead as he tried to continue to be three steps ahead, to figure out where I was planning to take this.

A horse snorted in the pasture to our left, a chip crunched between teeth up on the porch to our right, a breeze carried a faint melody in the air, and Luke’s heartbeat thudded calmly despite the tension he carried in his body.

“When have I ever been afraid to lose to a girl, Morgan?” Luke gritted out, taking the bait easily, taking a step closer.

“Can think of at least one time you were worried about losing to a whole team of them,” I cracked my neck as I cocked an eyebrow at him, “Broke your nose about it.”

He huffed a breath out of that crooked nose as he narrowed his eyes at me in an old, familiar, challenging way.

We weren’t the same kids who fought because we had to.

I had new pain and trauma, new experience, new weaknesses and strengths. I had new patience and drive and passion for the work I was born to do. He had scruff on his jaw, and new muscles in his arms, new scars, new stories, a new (and entirely too attractive) confidence and determination at work, new, bold and unapologetic public displays of affection towards me.

But apparently also a newfound moral dilemma about fighting me.

In the two years since I’d woken up in that overnight room in the hospital wing at Gallagher, Luke Collins had refused to throw a punch my way.

I hadn’t noticed at first, because I was so focused on learning how my new body would and could work. I was determined and hellbent on getting better, one step at a time. So caught up in the feeling of finally being able to hit and kick and fight, that I hadn’t noticed that every time we sparred, Luke was back to his tried and true defensive approach when it came to me.

“It’s okay, Collins,” I let his last name hang in the space between us, poking, prodding, baiting, “Should have just realized you were a chicken.”

He rolled his eyes, and scoffed out a cold laugh, “I’m not a chicken.”

Too easy.

“Asking for a fight,” I pointed to myself, then him as I called out louder, “Doesn’t want to fight me. If it acts like a chicken, and sounds like a chicken…” I clucked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Twitters from our audience had a smirk pulling at my lips.

Luke took another step towards me, shaking his head once, then twice. Slow and determined, just like his breath.

“Nice try, I’m not five years old Goode.”

I threw my arm out towards the porch, my voice growing louder, “Charlotte has hit me. Several times.”

“Morgan, I’m not-”

“Jasons, has hit me, Jasons!” I exclaimed, excitement pulsed through me as his foot shifted, as his arm twitched.

“Stop-”

“My dad has hit me!”

Our chests heaved in sync, in anticipation as his gaze dotted over my face. I heard his swallow, I heard his inhale, I heard the gravel beneath his toe, and I heard the lack of breath from everyone watching.

“I know you have this moral code, some righteous compass you have to follow, but I need you to punch me. And I need you to fucking mean it.”

“Morgan,” his voice came out strained, like he was fighting every instinct in his body, “Stop. Talking.”

A familiar heat licked up my spine, it pricked at something on the back of my neck, it sent electric charges down my arms and into my fingertips.

For the first time in a long time, I felt excited about punching something. Someone.

I exhaled, I lifted my jaw in defiance, and I let a breath carry the dare past my lips.

“Make me.”

The sound of my hand catching his fist before it hit my jaw was only slightly muffled by the cheering and whistling from our right.

And if I ended up with a punch to the gut because I was too distracted by Luke’s smile at the sound of Scout Jasons yelling at my brother that he owed him twenty bucks, then so be it.

#I love it when these two fight #gallagher girls #gallagher girls series #gallagher girls fanfiction #the listen series #morgan goode #luke collins

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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Hiii are you still following your schedule of fics you posted a few days ago 👀👀 haha im so excited to read your writing!

Hii! Yes I am 🫣 I just had a busier weekend than I planned on and didn't have everything uploaded like I wanted to.

I shall be posting days 2-4 of the March prompts and two nsfw 18+ things tonight!

Thanks for your patience! And thank you so much for letting me know you're excited, I am too! 🥰🥰🥰

#superb asks 💙#gallagher girls #gallagher girls fanfiction

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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March prompt ask?

"Old shoes" Joe/Rachel😊

Oh absolutely!! I'll tag you, but keep an eye out on March 24th 💙

Thank you for requesting!

#superb asks 💙#gallagher girls #gallagher girls fanfiction

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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My dad is really dead.

I know, Cammie. I have always known.

How?

Because death is the only thing that could have ever kept him from you.

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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Townsend: I disagree.

Abby: You usually do.

#incorrect gallagher quotes

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superblycaffeinated · 2 months

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We're back and ready to share the new and re-written story! I hope those that were reading the original So Far, So Goode are still with me, and for those of you that are new, welcome 🧡 I can't wait to hear what people think and I hope you enjoy it! Head on over to the So Far, So Goode masterlist here for information on the story, general warnings, and last, but certainly not least - the music. I'll be posting here and on Ao3 (under superbcoffeedrinkersubparwriter) - but you need to be a registered user to read over there. CW: description of guns

Chapter One:

To be honest with you, I used to think I was the furthest a person could possibly be from lonely.

Which, I suppose, is because I had never really been alone long enough to ponder the true depth of all that surrounds the word, feeling - state. The more I think about it, the more I start to doubt if I’ve even touched the surface of what it means to be alone.

I’m a triplet, so I haven’t been physically alone even before birth, save for the one minute and forty seven seconds both my brothers were out in the world before I arrived. Also, not only am I a triplet, but one of five Goode kids. Plus, there are my two cousins, and all of the Goodes that aren’t Goodes, but hell, yell the name in a room and they’ll all be turning their heads (a phenomenon I’m told goes well into the past). Long story short, I have a lot of family, making it almost impossible to ever be alone.

Since there are so many of us, I guess I should clarify which Goode I am for the official record or whatever? Believe it or not, I haven’t actually written a formal CoveOps report before this. Despite receiving a superior education in the field I wish to enter, I’ve never once encountered any training on how to write one of these things. My educators (and family) claim paperwork is the worst part of the job, so maybe they hold off until it’s too late and it just never gets taught? I don’t know. All this is to say, don’t judge me it’s not up to, like, professional standards, okay?

My name is Joelene Macey Goode, but everyone calls me Joey or Jo. I know most people hate nicknames, but I honestly prefer it over my full one. Not that Joelene is a bad name, but you try living eighteen years with people singing terribly offkey at you while you stand there awkwardly. So, no offense to Dolly, but I can’t hear Jolene without wincing now (but if you read this Ms. Parton, from one Gallagher Girl to another - you rule!).

And yup, that’s me. A Gallagher Girl. My identity, my cover, my school - all for the last five and half years of my life.

Since you’re reading this, I’m sure you know exactly who we are and what we do at The Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women, and you may be thinking you know all there is to know about us Gallagher Girls, but I am no ordinary one.

I’m a legacy, a fourth generation one to be exact. Meaning, a lot of Goodes (in one form or another) have walked those hallowed halls. They slept in the same rooms, they took the same classes, they ate the same creme brulee and then crushed records or did impressive enough things to end up with their pictures in our hallways and their names in our history textbooks (the ones that tell the real history that is). And they did it all before graduating.

It’d be one thing if it was just their accomplishments to live up to, but it’s the footsteps attached to the person attached to the name, that I’m truly scrambling behind.

Because, yes, you’ve been reading that last name correctly.

Goode.

Maybe you’ve heard of us? The best family in the biz, as Grandpa likes to boast.

I don’t like to phrase it quite that way too often as Grandpa usually gets a look from Grandma and mom that could kill him. And I mean, literally kill him, if Peter and I hadn’t accidentally broken the specific pair of glasses meant for such a thing on our fourteenth birthday.

Because, as I’m sure you’re very aware of, by the “biz”, Grandpa and I mean that martini shaking and pouring while dodging a bullet, running from the explosion in a suit hand in hand with a girl in heels, passionate kiss or dramatic monologue before jumping out of the moving train kind of stuff.

Spy craft.

Espionage.

The cool shit.

But don’t worry, I know that stuff doesn’t really happen and it’s all for the cinematic experience.

Why my Grandpa gets the looks, is because saying that “we’re the best in the biz” goes against everything my parents have told me and my four siblings our entire lives. That the name doesn’t mean we carry and wield this magical power. Being a Goode doesn’t allow us to assume we’re the best without working towards anything.

My parents weren’t wrong, and I’ve never, ever, once taken my last name to mean I could do what I wanted with zero consequences. In fact, it’s made me believe the exact opposite. It isn’t zero consequences when we mess up, it’s an astronomical amount. Because, when you’re a Goode, you’re not just messing up, all Goodes are too.

Instead of skating by on the merit of the name, I’ve spent my entire adolescence feeling as if I need to rise and thensome to earn the name that was simply just given to me because of my blood.

Oh you’re their daughter? So you can do this like that? Why yes, as a matter of fact I am the daughter of agents Morgan and Luke Goode, and while I can do it like that, I’ve been forbidden from doing it in the house, or from using it on my brothers, thanks for asking.

Also, yeah, you read those names correctly too. The best agents (in my totally unbiased opinion of course) the CIA has ever seen, are my parents.

So, you see, I’ve got Goode blood, and not just any. I have to do this. I have boots to fill and make my own impressive steps with - a name I have to live up to.

I’ll admit though, that the name, the legacy of it all, the movies I love, the training - none of it compares to the real reason I have to be a spy.

It’s a word, pretty well known around these parts, maybe you’ve heard of it?

Classified.

Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone tells me I can’t know or that I can’t do something, I cannot rest until I know all the information or I do the thing.

I’m told this lovely trait of mine comes from my mother, and a little bit of my dad, and potentially a whole lot from a great grandmother I’ll never know. So, I take breaks. I've learned when it’s time to take a step back - a breather - before I let the need to know or do swallow me whole. But I can’t let it go fully, not really, not until it’s done.

Which is why I have to be a spy, and not only a spy, but the best. Because if I’m the best, then that word is never going to be in my way again. Knowledge is power, and power is privilege, and privilege is responsibility.

So, when my mother was home for my entire Summer break, I knew it was my responsibility to -

Hold on. Let me backup. I don’t think that came out with the emphasis it requires to get my point across.

My mother, current and working agent Morgan Goode, of The CIA was home, doing “nothing”. All. Summer.

Something stunk, and it wasn’t just Andy and Peter’s disgusting socks that quite literally could have been radioactive.

All summer, the feeling that my great grandpa - Grandpa Joe - always tells me to never ignore, sat heavy in my gut.

A spy’s gut is their number one weapon, Joelene, and the longer mine felt off, my nerves frayed and sparked until the slow, incessant heat of something wrong, finally caught fire and I couldn’t ignore the burn any longer.

As mom took hushed phone calls and locked herself in the office of our safe house for hours, I felt the inside of that room and its contents calling to me like a flame does to a moth, or in my case, the opposite. I was the flame, engulfed, consumed by my need to know and that office and what was happening behind its closed door was the moth I was destined to devour.

And that was all before she used that awful, horrible, no good for shit word.

The classified of it all would have tipped me over the edge regardless, but it was the fact that it was my mom who said it that really sealed my fate.

I can count, on my two hands, the total number of times my mother has said that something was classified to me, without my dad prompting her to do so. She’s always been a little…shall we say looser? with information. She is the one who always sort of half answers our questions until dad is stepping in. He’s constantly reminding her that her children are not supposed to know that she stopped a bomb in Brazil or saved an ambassador to France and that she’s, “making us think it’s okay for them to sneak out of their heavily guarded and safe schools and fly to foreign countries when it is absolutely not okay and don’t even think about it.”

I’ve heard dad’s speech so many times, that I promise you, even if I wasn’t trained to recall intimate details and information, I would still be able to tell you it verbatim.

That speech wasn’t gonna stop me because it never has, and, as I’ve previously stated, I have that trait that makes it so I can’t let things go.

My dad shoved puzzles and code-breaking books at me all Summer. I beat Peter and Andy at Super Mario Brothers (the old one, from the 80’s, as Luigi - do you know how hard that is?). I beat Grandpa at Scrabble twice (which, okay, wasn’t that hard to do), and was forbidden from playing Monopoly with Peter inside the house ever again. I watched twenty-two spy movies, sixteen rom-coms, and five westerns. I learned the dance to Push It by Salt ‘n’ Pepa, mastered the Swift maneuver (that’s Taylor, by the way) and none of it worked.

At my wit’s end is when mom caught me staring at a vent in the hallway between bites of Fruit Loops. Calculations and assumptions of what would stand between me and the other side seemingly apparent on my thinking face as my milk turned pink and the cereal turned squishy, because mom shook her head slowly without lifting her eyes from a newspaper.

While, when she did lift her gaze, there was a distinct glint in her green eyes that could have you believing she was amused, her tone told me all I needed to know when she said, “Don’t even think about it if you love your eyebrows.” Which I really do (I have part of my namesake to thank for that - she never once let me take a tweezers to them no matter what the trends said) so, Operation Vent was out.

But a threat such as this was an obstacle of child’s play proportions. Potential eyebrow removal standing between me and information? It was fuel to an already raging fire, a carrot in front of a bunny, a tailored suit and a shaken not stirred martini before the finest double o seven.

So, on the morning of my mother’s birthday, the day before me and my brothers were to head off to school for our Senior year, I knew it was my last chance.

I was careful to avoid the creak of the floorboard directly to the left of my bed as I semi-rolled off of it.

Landing on socked feet, I held my breath as I glanced up at the bed across from mine. The eldest of all my siblings and us Goode kids, my sister Collins, was still asleep. Her chest rose and fell evenly under a buttercup yellow duvet and flat palms, her straight brown hair fanned over her pillow and framed her peaceful face.

She looked like a goddamn Disney princess even in her sleep and I’ve hated her since we were kids for it.

I hated her even more when my fingers had barely touched the cool metal of our door knob and her whisper sliced through the silence sharper than any knife my Grandpa had taught us to throw.

“Whatever it is you’re about to do, it’s not a good idea and you should go back to sleep.”

“I’m just going pee,” I lied easily.

She rolled her gorgeous eyes from her pillow, still laying on her side.

Collins, of all my siblings, is the most made to be a pavement artist. She is a natural at blending, at becoming whoever she needs to be, but her eyes have always given her away. They’re a soft and warm brown most of the time, but depending on what she’s wearing or the lighting around her, touches of green and blue come out. But no matter what color they are, they’re far too expressive.

Amusement and maybe a little pride shown in them then, her hands roamed under her cheek and her legs tucked up under the sheets as she spoke. “You have your lucky shirt on, and your lock picking set in your pocket. But sure, you’re going to the bathroom.”

“You never saw me,” I whispered, and practically somersaulted (to avoid the door hinges squeaking) out of the closest thing either of us had known to a childhood bedroom.

Spies aren’t totally devoid of feeling and emotion like the movies and novels would like you to think. They’re humans too, and crave and need a place to call home - they just need to be more careful about it, is all.

Growing up, we moved around DC a lot, but I’m sure our actual address was in California or Idaho or something. Grandma and Grandpa took care of us quite a bit when we were really little. One of my earliest memories is Grandpa teaching me the signs for when grilled cheese is ready to flip while also teaching me the exact spot to press with a precise pressure that makes your enemy release without control (a method he so humbly calls The Zach Attack, by the way) at their ranch in the Midwest.

There, and here, are the only two safe houses I’ve returned to. This one, close enough to school and DC, but not too close, is my childhood home if the life of a spy allowed such a thing. Sometimes, when I think about this place, I’m filled with an undeniable grief that makes my chest ache with something heavy. Because I know that one day, and maybe one not so far off, I’ll never return to it.

This is not where, if I choose to have them, my kids will take their first steps. A boyfriend won’t show up on this doorstep with flowers and a handshake for my dad. There aren’t lines of mine and my siblings' heights tracked, there aren’t framed photos hung on the walls, there is no attic full of boxes of baby clothes or memories too fond to get rid of.

Sure, there’s still little touches of our family here though. A dent in Andy and Peter’s room from where I flung open the door repeatedly hitting the knob into the wall. Peeling stickers of rock bands Peter and I plastered on the underside of the shelf in my closet. Scratches and scuffs on the hardwood from chairs being pushed away from the huge gathering table. A bright blue nail polish stain on the carpet in mom and dad’s room where Leia and I spilt it. We all give the fridge an extra bump with our hip to make sure it stays closed and we hit the top of the entrance to the living room as we pass underneath it.

It’s my home. And like any girl in her home, and like any spy, I know its sounds, its tricks and secrets, its shadows.

And sure, Collins caught me before I even left the bedroom, but that didn’t matter. If I avoided certain floor boards, if I kept low, and I worked slowly, I was convinced I could break into the office without anyone, particularly my mother, ever knowing.

I had managed to slip down the entire hallway without a hitch, and was knelt in front of the office door with my compact lock picking set (an actual compact with the ability to unlock anything, thanks to my Aunt Macey) when I heard something.

Hearing something, in the early hours of the morning, before the sky has really even transitioned from black to indigo, isn’t out of the ordinary.

But hearing something, at a remote safe house, when your entire family should be asleep, is out of the ordinary.

While I noticed the noise outside, I had failed to notice things, plural - my family’s number one rule.

Because I failed to notice the lack of a competing snore with Peter’s and the smell of cinnamon, I’m not proud to admit I jumped when my mother’s figure slipped around the corner from the kitchen and her voice calmly and quietly asked me, “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” I answered immediately, because I knew if my mother was clarifying if she wasn’t alone in hearing something, it was serious. There would be time to discuss how I was literally caught in the act of breaking and entering later.

My mother stood at the end of the hallway, a steaming cup of coffee nestled between her hands. I snort and roll my eyes whenever anyone tells me I look like her. My mother is gorgeous, undeniably so, and while I may have her dark brown curls and green eyes, there’s no way I look like her.

Especially then, when she looked so much like a regular mom. My dad’s old SIX sweatshirt hung from tense shoulders. Worn navy fabric engulfed her frame, slightly covering rumpled pajama pants covered in penguins. Her brown curls were piled high on top of her head, loose pieces falling free and erratic.

But I knew about the scars under the sleeves, and the prosthetic beneath the penguins, and the look behind the green eyes. She was the furthest thing from a regular mom, especially when a louder thunk happened outside in what could be considered our driveway.

Mom knelt slowly, her gaze on the front of the house that I couldn’t see, as the door knob in front of me started to twist. Before I could even tell her, she calmly and quietly just said, “Dad.”

I’ve always known my parents were good spies, but I never thought I’d see it in action, like this.

The office door slowly opened, and dad barely looked at me, completely unphased as he called, “Morgan?”

He was equally fresh from sleep. A Blackthorne shirt pulled tight across his chest where letters faded and his plaid pajama pants wrinkled, looking so exceptionally dad, except for the black pistol in his hand.

I was suddenly and acutely aware of a real threat. This was not CoveOps. This wasn’t P & E. This wasn’t a fun field trip Grandma had taken us on to Roseville with Uncle Matt. The gun without a safety ready to shoot in my father’s hand spoke the words I’d been fearing for years - this is real, and you’re not prepared, are you Joelene?

“Here, I’m fi-”

Two doors at the end of the hallway opened, cutting her off.

My brothers blinked, heavy lids opening and closing sleepily but awake enough to assess the severity of the situation. Shirtless torsos tense as they both stared at the gun in my father’s hand and then at me with matching hard frowns. Their expressions were the beginning and end of their similarities. Peter’s brown hair was disheveled, curls flattened in some spots and sticking straight out in others. Andy’s blond was slightly less askew, if only because it was shorter. His green eyes landed exactly two inches taller than Peter’s brown, but his shoulders took up far less space in the doorway than Peter’s broad frame. One made to slip in and out of places he wasn’t supposed to and the other to barrel into anything that got in his way in the process.

Collins, who must have determined I’d need the assist, was dressed for the occasion in all black and glaring at me from her spot crouched in our doorway.

“I told you it was a bad-”

The front door knob rattled and my father was pushing me behind him as he stepped out of the office fully. He quickly made his way down the hallway, and I felt more than heard the steps of three of my siblings backing me up.

Dad made to grab for my mother until she held her hand up, all of us freezing at her silent command.

I’m convinced my parents have two different bodies.

There’s the mom and dad bodies. The soft spot on my dad’s chest that’s perfect for a cheek to rest while listening to him read Shakespeare. The hands my mom gently runs over our heads, carefully detangling my curls. Arms and hands that twirl bodies around the kitchen in time with old music, heads that throw back in laughter with ease.

Then, there are their highly trained take no shit I’ve seen things you can’t even imagine spy bodies.

I hadn’t really seen these versions of my parents until then. Sure, I’d seen them fight, we all have dad to thank for our own stances. But this was different. These were shoulders and hips that stood with purpose, strong, planted, but ready to move. Arms that held a gun steady and sure. Eyes that communicated with each other without mouths saying a word. Bodies that were inherently made to protect, to fight.

To kill.

It was in less time than it took me to blink that their bodies transformed back into their mom and dad versions.

The gun dropped to my dad’s side, their shoulders fell, tears quickly made my mom’s eyes glassy and both of them breathed out a name in the way only parents can.

“Leia.”

I’d never seen my dad move so quickly, disappearing around the corner before my mom could.

A quiet and familiar giggle burst out from the entryway, thick with tears as she whispered, “Hi, daddy.”

The four of us barreled down the hallway, tripping over each other and shoving, not believing it was her without seeing it for ourselves.

Mom disappeared next, accompanied by the voice that couldn’t possibly be there, louder, and happier than her first words, “Happy Birthday!”

“What is wrong with you? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you tell us? Your dad could have -”

“Because it was a surprise,” my other sister interrupted my mother in a way I’ve never been brave enough to do so and I knew it was really her. Here. Especially when she said, “Where are the idiots?”

If Collins was made to blend, Leia was born to stand out. Even in an olive green t-shirt and camo government issued pants, Leia Goode sparkled, she glowed. Her blonde curls were pulled into a uniform low bun, and I had never seen her so tan, or her muscles so defined. Her green eyes practically glittered when the four of us rounded the corner, and her dimple poked out on her cheek and her freckled covered nose scrunched as she smiled.

Collins managed to reach her first, but we all slammed into her, tripping over the two large green duffles at her feet as we all fell to the ground in a laughing and crying heap of chaos - our speciality.

Leia winced under all of us, quick and quiet enough that if we weren’t who we all were, if we weren’t all still a little on edge, we wouldn’t have noticed.

“Are you hurt?” Collins pushed all of us out of the way, gaze roaming over Leia protectively. Nurse Collins activated and assessing.

“No,” Leia shrugged. But not the kind of shrug that admits you’re lying, the kind that, delivered properly, and with the right expression she currently wore, made you think you were crazy for asking. Of course she wasn’t hurt, why would you think such a thing?

Normally, this expert lie delivery could win awards, and I’m sure Leia thought she was in the clear, on her way to The Academy to collect hers. But, the thing is, our parents are not normal parents. And while many parents seem to have this, like, engrained skill to suss out a lie, spy parents are worse.

Way worse.

Each of them took a step closer, crossing their arms as they stared down at Leia like they weren’t thrilled to have her home.

It was a shared look we’d all come to know extremely well. Without moving or saying anything, they seemed to circle you, pulling out your lie with only their eyes, making you spill your guts easily.

They were good and highly trained, and we were no match for them. We all knew it was easier to fold - don’t lie when you’ve already been caught, don’t lie to the people who know your tells better than you do.

But Leia stood with ease, and smiled. She shrugged again and looked at my parents without wavering.

“I’m fin-”

“Don’t,” my mom narrowed her eyes with the word. She sucked in a breath, and I knew a speech was coming, but Leia threw her hands up in the air with a groan.

“Alright! There was a tiny incident. It’s already healing.”

Andy’s fist clenched at his side, his jaw pulsing as he asked, “What happened?”

Leia pinched the bridge of her nose with her forefinger and thumb, closing her eyes in the process so she couldn’t see how my mom’s lips twitched in the fight of a smile or how her gaze made pointed contact with my dad’s.

It was something we’d all seen him do a hundred times at least and before Leia could answer, Peter snorted, hands covering his mouth as his shoulder shook.

Collins bit her lip, unable to hide her grin. Andy shivered, muttering “That’s scary.” I sucked in a breath, fighting a wheeze and Peter fell against me, laughing harder.

Leia’s eyes flew open, looking around with a frown. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” my mom shook her head, tucking one of Leia’s stray curls back behind her ear, “What happened?”

Leia frowned, placed her hands on her hips and huffed.

“It’s classified.”

Mom snorted and we all lost it. Dad grinned and kissed Leia’s forehead right above where her eyebrows knit together as she whined about how she didn’t get it and that someone needed to tell her what was so funny right now.

It didn’t matter why she was home, or that she hadn’t answered the question, not really. It didn’t matter that I still didn't know what was going on in the office all summer. It didn’t matter that my dad had a gun and had been ready to use it.

All that mattered was that we were laughing, and safe, and together for the first time in a long time.

#we're back baby #gallagher girls #gallagher girls series #gallagher girls fanfiction #the listen series #so far so goode #goode intentions

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