Maaaaaan I am so sorry that this took forever. I graduated from college this past spring, and in the interim, I've spent so much time trying to find a real, grown adult job (hahahaha ugggggh. I wish that were a joke) and it wasn't going super well. Add to that every kind of problem, including computer issues, issues with my account, my not-a-real-job-job getting in the way, and the fact that I've been working on countless WIPs for totally different fandoms (mostly Fallout 4 and a few Dishonored fics, so if the two whole people whose interest overlaps with Gallagher Girls and Fallout, check out my page, I guess?) I just didn't have it in me to finish this. But do you want to know the kicker? I literally just had to write 2/3 of this chapter, because the final two chapters were the very first chapters that I wrote for this fic, almost a year ago :/ :/ :/ Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

I am really sorry. But hey! Once I post the next two chapters (I'll probably post them together, in a couple of days from now) this fic will be 100% complete!

Matt and I had been seeing each other for about four months when he let it slip that his birthday was approaching.

"It's Saturday. November 19supth/sup." He said, almost sheepishly.

We had stopped by a bar that was halfway between our separate apartments after work. We'd gone to catch up with each other, as our missions had taken us both abroad for nearly three weeks. This had inspired a discussion about how our job makes normal, everyday things very difficult—like making and keeping your appointment at the dentist, and finding the time to go grocery shopping. This led Matt to mention that I needed to renew his employee ID card soon. Renewing your ID card meant a whole slew of polygraph tests to check your loyalties and physicals to check your health, and it was something that every agent was required to do every year, within the week after their birthday. I, of course, demanded to know when his birthday was.

"We should do something."

"No, no, it's okay." He cast his eyes away, and shook his head. "I don't need a fuss."

We hadn't told our friends and family that we were seeing each other just yet, and we were both more than happy not to be the subject of the Langley gossip mill just yet. Neither of us enjoyed that sort of attention. That was why I couldn't be at all upset with Matt when, after I asked why he hadn't mentioned his birthday sooner, he replied.

"I'm not really comfortable with all of the attention of a birthday party. I got a lot of it as a kid, since I'm the baby of the family, but I'm a born pavement artist. I don't like it."

"I'd still like to do something with you." I said, stirring the little straw in my drink. "It's our first special event since we started seeing each other. It doesn't have to be an ordeal, but I want to do something nice." I reached over and placed my hand on top of Matt's, as he was spinning his half empty beer bottle around the by the neck. He stilled, and quietly sighed.

"Well then Joe is going to be—actually, I don't know where he's supposed to be. But he's supposed to be leaving for an op on Saturday morning. Why don't you come over to my place, I'll cook, and we can just have a quiet night in."

"Are you sure? Because I could—"

"Rachel—"

"I was going to suggest that I order takeout."

He shook his head, and smiled.

"No, that's fine. I'll cook."

"Then I'll take care of the cake. I promise, I won't try to bake it myself. I'll find something for that horrible sweet tooth of yours."

"Please no candles?"

"No candles."

"That sounds perfect, Rach."

The morning of Matt's birthday, I was just out of the shower when the phone in the apartment that I shared with Abby rang.

"Hello?"

"Rach. It's Matt."

"Hey. What is it?"

"I'm at work—I had to turn a report in, and I just heard. Joe's op has been canceled—something about a compromised asset."

"Oh… Does Joe want to do something for your birthday, then?"

"No, no. We went out for drinks last night, since he thought he wasn't going to be here today. But, well, he'll be hanging around. I could always kick him out, or we could—"

"No, no." I echoed his protests. "I'll have an easier time getting Abby out of the apartment than you will Joe. I'll figure something out."

He took a deep breath, the phone crackling in my ear.

"Alright. Same time, then?"

"Same time. If there's a problem getting Abby out of the house, I'll call you."

"Alright."

We said goodbye, lingering on the phone for just a few more seconds than really necessary. After hanging up, I leaned, headfirst, against the wall.

Abby was out for a jog, and as kids, we made a pact never to install listening devices with to listen in on each other (neither of us had broken that pact yet, so I was hopeful Abby would never know about this conversation. Or, god willing, the next one.

Linda was on a mission to Greenland, and Grace had just left to return to MI6's headquarters after weeks of being stationed in DC. Matt, of course, would be busy with me, and if I asked Joe to get Abby out of the way for a night, he would call Abby and ask her to dinner or to a museum or something, and then halfway through their fun platonic outing, he would compromise the mission and tell her that he was just doing a favor for me. What Abby's friends from Gallagher were up to, I had no idea, and I would never, not in a million years, ask dad to get Abby out of our apartment for the night—no matter what I told him, he would be too suspicious and he'd call in all sorts of favors to have a dozen of Langley's best stationed around our apartment to figure out what I was up to.

Which left one feasible person.

Christine had just gotten back from a mission yesterday, when I was getting ready to leave Langley for the weekend. She'd sighed and huffed and poured herself a cup of coffee before her standard debrief, because she knew she would have to come into the office today, on a Saturday, to finish up the paperwork.

I picked up the phone again, called a pizza place and asked for a DC special pizza, extra large, and was put on hold—I then entered my twelve digit passcode, was reconected with an operator, and kindly asked to be connected with Christine.

"Rachel?"

"I need you to do me a favor—a very important, and personal, favor—and get Abby out of our apartment tonight, from six to at ten or eleven. Can you call our apartment in half an hour and ask Abby to go on a girl's night with you? I will tell you why—" I nearly stuttered. "Next week."

Now, don't get me wrong. I love Christine—her father was friends with mine and Abby's, and the three of us had spent a lot DC garden parties together, years before any of us went to Gallagher. But, really, the girl was a gossip, and always had been. So this was a risk—Matt and I had been talking about the fact that it was time to start telling people we'd been seeing each other, but this gave us a deadline. Christine would tell everyone, and within hours, all of Langley would know Matt and I had been dating for weeks.

But that was exactly why I was bargaining with Christine. She was a gossip, but that didn't mean she couldn't handle some delayed gratification. If Rachel could give her some brand-new gossip, she'd agree.

"Okay." Christine said, with only a heartbeat's hesitation. "You said to call in half an hour?"

Christine called as soon as Abby was finished with her post-jog shower. I was the one who picked up the phone, and I made inane small talk with Christine as I waited for Abby to towel off and take it off of my hands.

At ten till six, Abby was zipping up her boots and pulling on a jacket, and was out the door not a minute later. There were still nine minutes until Matt was set to arrive when I pulled the bottle of wine I'd bought after work the day before out from under my bed.

And so there we were, later, hours later than when he'd called. We were sitting on the couch that Abby and I had spent an hour and a half arguing about in the store, trying to decide if the color coordinated with the carpet. Matt had made salmon and roast potatoes and asparagus—nothing fancy, he insisted, as if he wasn't talking to someone who has set two microwaves on fire in her life—and together, we ate and drank wine and recounted stories of past birthdays. I told him how I was always unlucky enough to get sick on my birthdays, and that I'd opened plenty of presents while tucked up in bed. He told me about the parties that had half of the town cramming into the Morgan family ranch home, filled to bursting with people that were more his parents' friends than his own.

It was really nice. Of course, all of the time that we'd spent together, alone, was nice. It was really effortless, spending time with him. I never felt like I needed try and impress Matt, and he never tried to impress me. We didn't need to impress each other, not in our line of work. We could relax, and that was so much more important to me. But it was different, to spend time with him in my apartment. We'd spent more time in nondescript, crowded bars and on missions scattered all across the globe than we had spent time together somewhere quiet. If we did have the chance to meet somewhere quiet and private, it was usually his apartment, because Joe was gone more often than not. But being here, in my home, rather than a tiny bachelor pad basement apartment, talking and sharing wine and stories—it was nothing short of the perfect way to spend a night.

And then things went from perfect and quiet to not.

The second I could hear someone—Abby, it had to be Abby, if it wan't some ex-KGB hit man coming to kill me—putting a key into the door to unlock the first of four locks, I turned to Matt and whispered "Hide." He stood up and, silently, bolted across the tiny living room, down the slight extension of the living room that supposedly counted as a hallway, and into my bedroom. I, meanwhile, took our dirty plates from the coffee table in one hand, and the wine glasses and bottle in the other. I was in the kitchen by the time the mysterious-person (hopefully Abby, but dad had the spare keys to our apartment, and Langley had copies as well) had unlocked three out of four locks. On an impulse, I threw everything—plates, glasses, forks and all—into the garbage can beneath the sink. I'd fish it out later, if I had a chance.

The front door pushed open as soon as I walked through the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Abby walked through, her eyes cast down, her face sour.

"Hey—"

Abby looked up at me, her sour glare softening somewhat as she smiled, but her smile wasn't real—it was self deprecating. It was then, that I noticed what had gone wrong.

The front of Abby's white shirt was stained, a giant reddish orange splotch that stretched across her stomach.

"Oh." I said, trying not to look at all surprised as Christine followed in behind Abby, shutting the door behind her.

"So our waiter decided I needed to wear the tomato bisque, rather than eat it." Abby explained, rolling her eyes as she shrugged off her coat and dropped her handbag to the ground. "Not that I'm angry at him, you know, but it wasn't even my tomato bisque—we'd already finished our dinner. The soup was for this nasty lady at the table behind us who complained about everything—the service, the free bread, the music. Anyway, I'm going to chance my shirt, and then we're going to catch that new movie, you know the one." She walked over to the hallway, towards her own bedroom, and out of sight. "The one with that cute British actor, what's his name."

Once Abby was out of sight, I turned to look at Christine.

I'm so sorry. She mouthed, her face totally panicked. I tried to call, but there wasn't a phone.

I shook my head, trying to be reassuring. If she and Abby leave as soon as she changes her shirt, everything would be fine. I can wash the pans and dishes from dinner—tell, I could do that after pulling them from the garbage can, and then—

"Hey Rachel?" Abby called. "Did you know that there's a fully trained government operative hiding under your bed?"

There was beat, as Christine's face snapped to mine.

I took a deep breath, and then Abby's face appeared, leaning out from the hallway.

I took another deep breath, and then Matt appeared over Abby's shoulder, looking totally casual.

I took another deep breath, as both Christine and Abby looked at me, their eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

And then I swore—I'm not sure what language it was, but I certainly said a swear word.

"What were you doing under my sister's bed, Matt?" Abby asked, never looking away from me.

"Oh, you know. Hiding."

"You spend a lot of time hiding under my sister's bed?"

Matt hummed, and thought about it for a moment.

"You know, I can't say that I do. However, if you don't mind, I'm just going to go back, and, uh, hide some more. Because, no offence, but I don't really feel like sharing my birthday cake with either of you two." And then Matt turned on his heel and left.

Leaving my two of my sisters staring at me, there, in our living room, with increasingly narrowed eyes and threatening smiles.

I swore again.