Matthew Morgan has always had connections.

He'd joked about it, as a teenager who had resigned himself to accepting the attention that comes from being a big fish in a small pond. He was a star athlete and student, his family was one of the oldest and most respected ranching families in the area, and his mother was the town librarian. He joked, with a charming smile and a self-effacing laugh, that there would always be someone who owed him a favor simply because he was Matthew Morgan.

He'd done the same thing in college. His friends were numerous and eclectic—nearly every sports team, student club, and classroom at Georgetown had someone who knew and liked Matthew Morgan.

His own extracurriculars weren't extensive in college, but focusing on his studies had paid off. He took the risk of enrolling in a 300-level history course as a freshman, wrote one little fifteen-page long research paper about the foundation of the CIA, and then received one politely worded invitation from Mary Callaghan, Ph.D. (Gallagher Class of 1964) of the political science department. Then suddenly, Matthew started to meet some interesting people who started to owe him some favors too.

Instead of having the star quarterback or the freshman class president as people he could count among his friends, Matt became best friends with a trained assassin. And then, after graduating from Georgetown and starting field work, he befriended assets and allies all over the globe.

And he wasn't afraid to use them.

"How?"

"I'll take it to my grave, darling." Matthew answered, kissing his wife's cheek.

His wife.

Phineas Cameron might have called in some favors to get an incredibly beautiful and incredibly secure mansion as the venue for his elder daughter's wedding, but Matt called some favors in for the honeymoon.

"Who?"

"I'm not going to tell you just because you rephrased your question."

"It's just that you shouldn't be able to afford this—"

"Are you really going to start off our honeymoon by discussing our finances? I don't think that's very auspicious, Rach."

"And that's not to mention that this hotel is very popular, and even if you booked this the very day that we got engaged, over five months ago, it couldn't have been easy to get a room."

"I have a very good travel agent."

"Matthew—"

"They gave me a very good deal."

"Matthew—"

"Rachel. A friend owed me a favor, and they got us a free room for our honeymoon."

"A free room at the Shangri-La Hotel in Paris? For ten days?"

"The champagne is free, too."

The two of them were on the terrace of their luxurious hotel room, which had a magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower. Rachel was sitting on Matt's lap, her legs twisted sideways and thrown over the edge of the chair, while her head laid on Matt's shoulder. It was November—a week after Matthew's birthday and only two days since they'd said their vows in front of their friends and family and the Director of the CIA—and the two of them were wrapped up in a heavy wool blanket, leaving only the hands that held their flutes of champagne exposed to the chilly night air.

"You really shouldn't keep secrets from your wife, you know?"

His wife.

Matt smirked.

"What?

"Say that again, please."

"What? You really shouldn't keep secrets from your wife, you know?"

Matt's smirk grew into a wide, cheesy smile.

"Yeah. I really like the part where you refer to yourself as my wife."

"Well, you are my husband." Rachel said, bringing her other hand from out from under the blanket to trace her fingers along Matt's jaw.

"Yeah, that sounds really nice too. Maybe even better."

"You're a dork, Matthew Morgan."

"You married me, Rachel Morgan."

"I did."

The two of them smiled and searched each other's eyes for the sign that they were each as happy as the other. Rachel realized that Matt hadn't stopped smiling. Matthew thought that Rachel was glowing.

They kissed, slow and warm, as they were both distracted by their need to remember that here they were, in the city where they met, together, on their honeymoon. They broke apart only once they saw, through their eyelids, a bright flash of light.

Together, they turned to watch as the light at the top of the Eiffel Tower lit up and spun across the city, and as the lights that decorated the crossed metal beams of the structure glittered.

"How did you get this room?" Rachel asked again, after a moment. She was both in awe and totally suspicious.

"The King of Adria pulled some strings for us."

"Matt."

"An asset who just happens to be an international art thief set it up."

"Matt."

"Do you want the truth?"

"Yes."

Matt sighed.

"I had a meeting with a cutout here, in the lobby. It was a while ago… I think it was only my third or fourth time out in the field as a full agent. Everything went perfectly well. Then I stopped to use a phone in the lobby to get in contact with my handler, and just as I was leaving, all of the lamps near the front desk went out. I—well, I eavesdropped on the concierge trying to get in contact with an electrician, but they were all busy. So I lied and told the concierge that I was involved in construction, and that I could take a look at the wiring for her if she wanted. And it was a good thing that I did, because an agent from—well, that's classified—was in the maintenance closet directly behind the lobby's front desk, and accidently displaced a wire while they were trying to plant some bugs. Then there was a bit of a, well, kerfuffle, and then I tied the enemy agent up with the cord on a vacuum. Then I fixed the wiring problem and handed the enemy agent over to some friends from the Paris field office, and even though this was three or four years ago, the concierge remembered me and gave me a deal."

Matt smiled sheepishly as Rachel began to giggle.

"Matthew Morgan. Are you joking?"

"No, I'm not."

"That's so typical of you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that not only do you interrupt an enemy op on accident, you offer to help someone and then earn their eternal gratitude by helping them with an electrical problem in their very expensive hotel."

"Is that a problem?"

"You know it's not. I love you Matthew Morgan."

"I love you, Rachel Morgan."

After sharing a silly smile between them, Rachel rested her head on her new husband's shoulder. Together, they watched the Eiffel Tower until the lights stopped glittering. Once the lights remained steadily on, Rachel asked quietly,

"So if the concierge asks how the construction business is going—"

"Oh, I think it's going very well." Matt kissed Rachel gently on the crown of her head as his free hand escaped from under the blanket and grabbed the bottle of champagne on the table beside them.

She watched as he refilled their glasses, before answering, "Really? I think so too."