Matt knew that he had no reason to be nervous. Not really. Getting married was no riskier than working for the CIA, or taking on an unofficial mission to dismantle a secretive terrorist organization that's been operating in only the darkest of shadows since the end of the American Civil War.

But here he was, standing in a small annex room of a fancy mansion in DC that Mr. Cameron had pulled some strings to rent for his daughter's wedding, wearing the nicest tux he'd ever worn, rocking forward onto his toes and back onto his heels as he considered everything that could go wrong.

They could be attacked by the Circle of Cavan.

They could be attacked by any one of the 800 separate terrorist groups that Matt had clearance to know about.

Phineas Cameron could realize that his prodigious daughter was too good of a spy to marry someone like Matthew, and then prevent the wedding from ever occurring with the full might of the CIA behind him.

Phineas Cameron could walk into the room, reveal that he knew that Matthew and Rachel hadn't waited until marriage to have sex, and then kill him immediately as punishment.

Rachel could come down with meningitis at any moment.

Matt could come down with meningitis at any moment.

Rachel could just decide that—

"Stop it." Joe said, rolling his eyes. He was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed.

"Isn't this the point where you hand me the flask you have in your pocket?"

"I would, but it's full of gin."

Matt groaned.

"Bastard. You know I haven't been able to drink gin since that job in Manchester. You did that on purpose."

"I did—this is for me and Abby to share. Come on, Morgan. You don't need alcohol. Everything is going to go off without a hitch, or there will be heads rolling across the swanky parquet dance floor."

Matt, seemingly having already moved beyond Joe's sarcastic comment, stared at a slightly dirty spot on the plaster wall for a moment.

"Phineas Cameron is going to be my father in law." He said.

"And Abigail Cameron is going to be your sister in law, and Rachel Cameron is going to be your wife. That's how marriage works." Joe said, taking a few slow steps closer to Matt, and slapping his hand onto Matt's shoulder. "Although, speaking of which, there are a lot of people in the office betting pool who are upset that Rachel's changing her last name instead of hyphenating. Cameron-Morgan sounds very nice."

Matt cast him a dirty look—because Joe should really know that Matt had nothing to do with Rachel's decision—and then checked the clock on the wall.

"Do you have the rings?" He asked, staring absently at the clock's pendulum. There was an old clock with a pendulum at home, in the kitchen in Nebraska—he used to like to watch it swing back and forth, when he was young and angry or anxious and needed something to calm him down. It wasn't helping now.

"Left inside pocket, which you already know—you looked at the wrinkle in my tux the minute I walked in the room."

"Yeah, I was just holding you accountable. Do you have your best man speech for the reception?"

"No, I was just going to improvise. I was going to see what Abby says and then copy her tone."

"She's going to mock Rachel and I mercilessly."

"That's what she said when I asked her about her speech. But I'm not sure if she's going to follow through."

"Abby always does."

"I might have bet Dave $20 that Abby's going to end up saying something very sentimental and start sobbing in front of all of your guests, so I'm not as certain."

For a moment, Joe's eyes unfocused, and then he flinched.

"Sorry, Phoebe." He looked back to Matt. "Abby has just informed me that her speech is going to be the funniest Maid of Honor speech anyone has ever given, and that she is certainly not going to cry."

"Are you really on comms right now? Why am I not on comms? This is my wedding—that means this is my operation."

"It's just Abby, the wedding planner, and I on comms, Matt. I think it would still count as being bad luck if you were to talk to your blushing bride on comms before the wedding."

Matt snorted.

"You really think Rachel counts as a blushing bride?"

"She's on her third glass of champagne, so she is a little flushed."

"What, she's allowed to drink and I'm not?"

"Rachel needs to come to term with the fact that she's marrying down. You, on the other hand, are marrying up."

It took a moment for him to react, but Matt sighed and nodded with a silly, dreamy smile on his face.

"I know. I'm still going to beat the shit out of you for saying that the next time we're at the gym together."

"You're going to need all of the motivation you can get if you think you're going to beat the shit out of me. Now, come on. Your dad and your brother had some sage advice they wanted to give you."

After checking his appearance in the mirror one last time, Matt strides out of the dressing room, clapping his Best Man on the shoulder as he went. He could breathe easier now.

"Thanks, Joe."

"Anytime, Flatwater."