Home

By: SKewedViEW

Rated T because: Minor language, mentions of alcohol abuse, breaking the law, and a not-so-perfect childhood.

I have never felt as though I have a home. A place I can go to and feel safe. A place where I can lay around in sweatpants and watch TV without feeling as though I am seconds away from the fight of my life. But at the GallagherAcademy, with Cammie and Jo, that was the closest I have ever come.

Growing up I was trained to fight the day I was born. At five, when my mom got ousted, I became used to a life on the run. We rarely stayed in one place for more than a week and when we did settle in for the long-haul—a month or two—I was instructed not to touch anything. Shattering a glass or breaking a window usually ended in a slap or two.

Blackthorne was even worse than the houses my mom and I had inhabited. It's a cold place, eerily similar to my mother's heart. With night drills, target practice, and military-like living conditions the mere thought of sweatpants and TV was laughable. Friends, or at least the closest thing to them I have ever had, makes it far more bearable, even fun from time to time, but it still never felt like a home. Or what my idea of home is. Considering I only vaguely remember having one, I may have glorified it a bit. But the fantasy has kept me going through the worst of times.

I've known since the day my mother was issued a Burn Notice that she wasn't a squeaky-clean agent. The moves and occasional MSN headlines about bodies found near one of our previous dwellings confirmed that. But I tried to stay out of it. I don't really know why, but for some reason my curiosity seemed to dwindle every time I was near my mother. Maybe it was boredom of hearing she and her friends rant about the "good old days" and "returning to power" or maybe I was just scared of learning more about her—scared of finding out all of her flaws, scared of knowing all she had done, scared of completely losing the mother I had always wanted her to be.

But the summer after my stay at the GallagherAcademy I found my curiosity peaked for some reason. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or more likely straight-up delusion, but as I thought back on the corny speeches about sisterhood and duty I thought that maybe my mother wasn't as bad as I had feared. How could she be, growing up and attending a school like that?

It was one of the rare times in my life when I let my emotions control my actions—a slippery slope I didn't see coming as I turned the TV off in the living room and untied my shoelaces. Shoes are noisy, bare feet are dangerous. Socks are the way to go in houses with wood floors. As usual there was a group of people sprawled around the kitchen. A fruit bowl sat in the center of the table, a bowl of chips with a smaller bowl of salsa beside it sat on the granite counter-top. There were two half empty bottles of wine and multiple glasses scattered around—some sitting unattended and others being nursed. My mother, I could tell from her smeared lipstick and slightly raised voice, had already downed a few.

"She's the secret to it all," my mother said as I peaked around the dark brown doorframe. "We need her to get back on top."

Normally that would have been enough to make me to roll my eyes and retreat. My mom and her (mostly) ex-spy pals coming up with a new scheme. What else was new? Taylor Swift had a new boyfriend? Selena and Justin broke up? Maybe Grossman threw another interception resulting in yet another Redskin loss. I was over it. But like I said before, I was just starting to toe the mud slide of emotions-over-logic so I stayed where I was and listened for longer than usual.

"But can we get her?" one of the men wondered. "She's said to have gotten her dad's elusiveness. She may not be fully trained but we don't want to underestimate her or her protection."

"We won't," my mother said, sounding fully self-assured. "After all, I was a Gallagher Girl myself, wasn't I?"

That got my attention. I had heard of other people they thought could solve all of their problems—Sarah McPhee was found at the bottom of a lake, Mark Johnson was killed in a theatre shooting, Eric and Melissa Davidson were later said to have died in a murder-suicide to name the ones I remember—but hearing them talk so casually about a place I had just been—a girl I had no doubt met—that was new. Everyone else had been strangers.

Whether it was impulse or instinct I don't know but something made me turn and walk into the kitchen. They didn't stop talking when I entered and only my mother seemed to recognize my presence.

"Zach honey," she said and I was almost glad she was too under the influence to sensor her words. Almost. "You had an exchange with the GallagherAcademy." I nodded, pretending to be more interested in my chip than her words. "Did you meet Cameron Morgan?"

"Oh yeah," I said after purposefully pausing to think. "The headmistress's daughter."

"What did you think about her?" she asked and I knew that she meant tactfully. The day my mom gave a shit about my personal life would be the day the CIA let her back in, which is to say (hopefully) never.

"She's alright," I said modestly. "Nowhere near my training," okay, maybe not so modestly. "She was decent in most of the classes but it was nothing impressive."

"You see," my mother said triumphantly. "We can get her."

And with that my stomach dropped and my hands froze. When you enter directly into a situation decompartmentalizing should be automatic, especially when the situation involves extreme emotions. As soon as I stepped into the kitchen I kept my emotions on the right side of my brain and used the left side to collect data I was going to sift through later. But no matter how good you are at decompartmentalizing there are times when the unintentional informants analyze and connect their comments for you—presenting you with the information in a way that doesn't allow your brain to separate it. When that happens there's really nothing you can do except try to stay standing while you smile and act as though you are as oblivious and uninformed as you were seconds earlier.

But even as I stood at the counter with an impassive face my memory was working double-time. Bringing me back to D.C., back to the elevator, the look on her face in the museum, our conversation by the gazebo, and the kiss I hadn't gotten out of my head since I left. Sure, it may not have been the hot make-out session I had fantasized about but it was different. She was different.

Her name—her dad—had been brought up during these meetings a few times and I knew that my mom hated everyone associated with the names Cameron and Morgan (this had resulted in a black eye for an unfortunate cashier at Giant only a month after my mom was burned) but Cammie didn't match up with my mom's rants about the family and, when she really got going after a few too many drinks, Cammie herself. I knew more about her and her family than I had ever wished to.

But as my mother's rants and the dead bodies associated with them flashed through my head I suddenly knew what I needed to do.

Who could help.

Who would help.

Who my mother trusted but wasn't in the room.

Jo's words from my first night at the Academy came back to me:

"She's not like what you've been told Zach."

"My mother hates her whole family," I had pointed out skeptically.

"You're mother hates a lot of people," Jo replied calmly. "A lot of good people."

"Is she good?" I asked, not sure I wanted the answer.

"I think you already know that answer," Jo evaded the question, now watching Cammie carefully.

"And Cameron's dad?" I pressed, knowing that this conversation could never be repeated, especially to my mother. Jo paused before answering and I knew he was debating whether or not he should be honest. It was a rare occasion that I could read Jo and I knew that, for whatever reason, he was letting his emotions shine through. He wanted me to know what he was thinking.

"He was my best friend," he finally said, his eyes softening as he looked over at Cammie again and watched her laughing with her classmates. "He was a good man, an irreplaceable person."

"But you aren't supposed to care about his daughter," I said, certain that I was right. Jo hesitated again (this time real hesitation) before he surprised me by being honest to the point where I knew I held his life in my hands.

"That depends on who you talk to," he said. "I made Matt a promise to take care of his girls and I will until I am physically, mentally, and emotionally unable to. But in regards to your mother you are right—I'm not supposed to care. Get to know Cameron, Zach. Make your own judgment based on your own experiences. I would bet my life that you aren't like your mother."

"I'm pretty sure you already are," I said dryly, wanting desperately to see him squirm. Unfortunately I didn't.

"Is she worth it?" I asked curiously.

"That's for you to decide," Jo said and for the first time since I committed her to memory in D.C. I let myself study her. When her eyes met mine I didn't bother hiding my smirk. I wasn't about to turn Jo over to my mom but there was no way I would ever put my life on the line for that girl.

But, as I was jolted back to the present by my mother's voice after I had mentally retreated, I knew that I was wrong. That I was about to prove Jo right, hopefully before my wounded pride could take over and talk me out of it.

"I want wiretaps, hacking, and research," my mother said now. "We'll make a snatch and grab plan when we meet in two weeks. I will notify you of my location."

Everyone stood up at her obvious dismissal and she let them show themselves out while she started gathering the glasses.

"I'm going to the store," I told her, a plan forming as I spoke. "I need a few things."

"Use the black car," she commanded and not for the first time I was grateful that she had such a hands-off parenting approach. "Don't speed and pay with cash."

I nodded and walked into the garage, hotwiring the owners car and pulling out of the garage. The piece of evapopaper Jo had written his safe-house address on was still in my pocket and I waited until I was a few back roads away from the country house my mom had taken over to check it. I couldn't risk plugging it into the GPS and was grateful that I knew the general direction. As I got closer I put on a Virginia Tech baseball cap I found in the back and stopped at a gas station to get directions. There was only one thought on my mind the whole way: I have to tell Jo.

He had promised to protect her.

He knew what my mom was capable of.

He would keep her safe.

And I would help.

My mom was crazy.

Cammie didn't deserve this. I may not have known the complete history of our two families but I knew Cammie. And I knew my mom. And I knew it was high time I accepted the latter revelation. I could only claim ignorance for so long.

Fantasy land was gone.

I was going to see Cammie again. I was going to recognize and stop the monster that had given birth to me. But most importantly I was going to follow Jo's lead and choose my own future.

One that wasn't decided by my school or her. One that Jo, really, had been a trail-blazer for. After all, this all started with him.

He became a teacher at my mom's old school. He helped organize the exchange. He promised to protect a girl my mother had now marked for torture and death. He made sure I got to know her. He made me realize that the ordinary antagonist was really a not-so-ordinary girl. He made me care. He set me up. He forced me to grow up. And now he was going to have to back-up all of his talk.

I parked the car and rushed up the stairs. My mom would be passed out on the couch for a few hours so I knew I had a bit of time but driving the speed-limit didn't help me release any of the urgency I was feeling. Running and banging on the door helped a bit. Jo didn't look the least bit surprised when he saw me but I wasn't present enough to feel disappointed or annoyed as I desperately blurted,

"She's going after Cammie."

Jo's eyes flashed when I first said it but almost immediately they turned to calculating as he took in my messy clothes, panting breath, and desperate look—begging him to do something. For a second I thought I saw him start to smirk but he decided against it and instead sighed, opening the door wider to allow me to enter.

"I knew this would happen some day," he said quietly. "I was hoping it would be after she finished her training but…" I think he was talking more to himself than to me but I also knew that, at this point, it didn't matter what I heard.

Someone once said that people with happy families don't become spies. As Jo started talking I knew they were right. Unhappy families may be unhappy in their own way but happy families are all alike. They don't have spies in their mix.

Cammie was going to be okay and my mother was going to be taken down.

Like Jo, I knew that logically I shouldn't care. But like Jo I didn't give a damn about my mother's bullshit anymore.

She wasn't my mother. She never had been. Her "logic" and ideas were useless. I was done with Her way of life. I liked my own better.

A/N: It's been a long time since I wrote anything for Gallagher Girls and this came to me randomly when I was up late babysitting. I love Zach and I've always wondered what was going through his head and what he knew about his mom and her little organization and Cammie and Mr. Solomon and, well, this is what I came up with. It's as cannon as I could make it without the books in front of me so REVIEW and tell me what you think of it all!