AN: This fic is in part inspired by all of the great, cute, Rachel/Matthew one-shots that exist in the GG fandom, and it also inspired by the Jason Robert Brown musical (and the movie adaptation, which stars Anna Kendrick) The Last Five Years. In TLFY, the two main characters tell the story of their doomed relationship, with the woman telling the story backwards, beginning with a divorce and ending with her meeting her husband, and the man tells the story starting with the meeting, moving forward the way linear time does, and they alternate scenes. I've stolen the format only—there will be no song and dance numbers in this fic, since, you know, it's written.

I'm not sure why, but I naturally started writing Rachel's scenes in first person, and it felt best to write Matthew's in third person, so that's what I did. Sorry if it seems jarring, but that seemed like a good way to differentiate between the scenes.

This story is mostly complete, and I'm going to use posts as a way of motivating myself to finish the rest of it.

Please note that I publish on both and AO3. If you want to read this story as one piece, you'll probably want to hop on over to AO3 so you don't have to continuously load new pages.

It was sunny. Devastatingly sunny. It was noon, there wasn't a cloud in the late spring sky, nor was there a single tree to be seen from here to the horizon.

I know that it's childish of me to be so angry about the weather, but I didn't want it to be sunny.

It was raining, a few days ago, in Arlington, when Joe called. He knew the perfect time to call—in the little window of time after Cammie went to school, and before I was supposed to leave for Langley. I had enough time to cry, break some things, and bring myself together again before driving to Cam's school and pulling her out of class.

The Agency had put me on bereavement leave. I had flown to Omaha with Cam at my side. I knew that an empty coffin had already been shipped to Nebraska, and had been delivered to the sole funeral home in the tiny town near the Morgan family ranch the day before we arrived.

And here we are. In the graveyard that stretched around one of the four churches in town, standing around a fresh grave next to those that held Matthew's grandparents. The minister, the same one who had baptized Matt, spoke of Matthew as a boy, and as a young man—of how bright he was, how he spent his afternoons in the public library, how he was the star of his football and baseball teams. How he made his family proud.

I was the only member of the Morgan family who knew just how proud they should be of Matthew.

Cammie will know, some day. She knows instinctually that her father is a hero, but someday, she will be able to see the evidence, read the reports, and know just how much her father deserved her admiration.

But no one else will know.

Matthew's parents knew he worked for the Agency, but they thought he had a desk job. His brother, so much older than him, knew he had an important job in the government, but didn't really know what. His sister-in-law didn't care, his niece and nephew simply knew him as the uncle who left for the east coast, his cousins just knew of him as the boy who got a scholarship to Georgetown. They all thought he'd been killed in a mugging, that he had been so horribly injured that I demanded a closed casket service.

I'm not sure if I've ever felt so horrible about telling a lie as I when I told Matthew's parents that their son's body was in that casket.

I couldn't stop myself from thinking about what we would do if we ever found Matthew. Dead or alive. What do we say? Do we say anything? Do we continue to hide the truth? If, months or years from now, we found Mathew in a prison or enemy safehouse somewhere, beaten and bruised and starving but alive, will his parents feel the same overwhelming relief that I've been hoping that I will feel?

If there was one thing that the sun made me thankful for, it was that it gave me reason to wear a giant hat—mom always wore a hat, everywhere she went. I felt better, hiding under the wide black brim. I felt better hiding. There were a handful of friends and colleagues who flew all the way to Nebraska for the burial. Joe was at the back of the crowd—he was ready to leave for a mission almost immediately—and so were Thomas, and Lisa, and Dave, and Christine. I wasn't alone in this deception.

Abby's not here. I asked Joe where she was—he just said that she couldn't come.

God.

I wanted Abby. I wanted Abby to be here so much. She understood. We had buried our mother together as children, and as adults at the beginning of our lives and careers, we had buried our father together. Why couldn't Abby be here for me? For Cammie?

I took a deep breath. Despite the concerned looks from my coworkers and the skeptical looks from my sister-in-law and the kind, murmured words from my mother-in-law and all of the town church ladies, who all told me that it's okay to cry, dear, I refused. I was not going to cry.

We had reached the part of the service where we were supposed to place flowers on top of the (empty) casket. Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, I stood from my chair in time with Cammie. I wanted her to be the first person to place a rose on her father's (empty) casket. She slowly walked forward, her chin set defiantly (just like Matthew's) as she took three careful steps from our plastic folding chairs to the grave. I stayed back as I watched her gently place the perfect white rose on top of the casket with all the care of an agent diffusing a bomb. As she turned back to me, I could see that her eyes (blue, just like Matthew's) were red and bloodshot, but she was not crying. Not right now, not anymore. Some of her dark blonde hair (just like Matthew's) had escaped from the French braid I'd done this morning, but she didn't even flinch as the wind blew it into her eyes.

She is stubborn and strong and stoic, and part of me (most of me) hated Matthew for making our daughter suffer. I had been preparing for this moment since the first time we kissed, but how could he do this to Cammie? Our daughter, who, since the age of five, has been hiding behind couches and sneaking into our bedroom at night just to check that we were safe? How could he make her worst nightmare come true?

I set my rose on top of Cammie's.

One by one, Matthew's family steps forward to place a rose on the empty casket.

Then it is lowered into the ground.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Immediately after, there's a luncheon in the church's basement, which had signs that said it doubled as a tornado and nuclear fallout shelter. The food was provided by the church ladies, the town librarians, the wives of Matthew's old baseball teammates.

Neither Cammie nor I eat. We're not hungry. We mingle with the crowd of mourners, people who loudly tell wonderful stories about Matthew in high school and then, in a whisper, share their condolences.

I didn't know what to say to them in reply. Madame Dabney had never covered the art of graciously accepting condolences for the death of your husband in Culture and Assimilation. It's a bit of an oversight in Gallagher's curriculum, I think.

I honestly cannot remember a single conversation that I had during that meal. Professor Buckingham had never taught us how to remain vigilant while at the funeral services for your missing husband in CoveOps. Another oversight.

The only thing I remember is that I did not let go of Cammie. I always had one hand on her shoulder, on her back, one hand holding her own, or brushing her hair away from her face. I wasn't holding onto Cammie because she needed reassurance—I was holding onto Cammie because I did.

That night, in the guestroom we shared at the Morgan's ranch, (the one that was always supposed to go to Matthew's brother after his father's death, it was never going to be Matthew's, so it's certainly not home to me—but I'm struck by the memory of Matt's retirement plan—he wanted to retire to an old stone house on the plains, with nothing to hide behind for miles around, and I never cared for Nebraska as much as he did, but I wanted that for him so much), I talk to Cammie.

I'm going on a mission.

The Agency has given me bereavement leave, but I've gathering intel and talking to my assets for over six months, preparing for this one job. I needed to see this through. I need to be busy. I tell Cammie I'm so, so sorry, but I need to go.

She will stay with Matthew's parents.

I don't tell her that it's because I don't want her back in DC, where every monument and museum and ice cream shop will remind her of her father. I tell her that it's because it would help her grandparents feel better, if they can spend time with her. If they can see her, Cammie, who looks so much like her father, their second son, Matthew, ("But only in the obvious ways," he always said, "I see a hell of a lot of you in her") they will feel better.

Cammie knows I'm lying to her, but she accepts it all the same.

Sometimes I think she's a better daughter than I deserve.

I tell her that this mission will be my last job in the field a very long time.

I've accepted a new mission.

In August, I'll be going home to Gallagher. She'll be coming with me, and we'll be going on our very first mission together.