Don't you like my jacket?

Oh my poor Zachy boy…

Zach’s mad. He’s furious with Cam. He’s pissed at her.

But not for the reasons we think.

Zach is the one who gave Cammie the idea of running away. He said so in OGSY. He told Cam that they should run. That they would keep each other safe. And Cam told him no. Cammie told him that that was not an option.

And what does she do? She leaves without him and she runs.

Zach doesn’t know where she is. She didn’t leave a note for anyone, she didn’t say goodbye, she’s just gone.

Zach has nobody. He can’t go home. He can’t go to his mom. He can’t go back to school. He doesn’t know if Cammie is even alive until they find her in Switzerland. And during that time he has Bex. And Bex is the only constant in his life that summer. She is the only one keeping his feet on the ground and keeping him from doing something stupid. Because if he can’t find Cammie, what does he have left? Joe’s in a coma for goodness sake.

And then to make matters worse, Cam comes back and she’s different. She can’t remember anything from that summer. He doesn’t even want to think about what she could’ve endured. He doesn’t want to process that. Between the sessions with Dr. Steve, the weapons incident, the memory loss, the fact that the Circle is still out there…

He tried to find Cam and he failed.

relationship: liz sutton x bex baxter

summary: “Liz sits comfortably on her own legs, wringing her hands in her lap. Bex sits beside her, one of her long arms resting on the couch behind the blonde’s head, with her other hand trying to calm Liz’s fingers.It isn’t that different from how they used to act, really. Well, there was an added intimacy to it, but otherwise, it was just Liz and Bex. As they had always been. Cammie wonders if they notice it too.” Or the one where they get together.

notes: back @ it again with the gg fics! anyway, started this one back in 2017, based (loosely) on this headcanon. edited by the ever lovely @lun-aria who mocks my spelling mistakes like no one else 😘

Curiously, I’ve gotten this question a couple of times recently, so I find myself uniquely prepared for this analysis.  I’m starting on pg 143 of the US hardcover edition, for those who would like to follow along:

Let me preface this by saying that, in my opinion, there’s really only two options here: either someone breeched Gallagher security or the alarm was pulled on purpose.

Never apologize for it.  She’s amazing in every capacity and I’ll die by that.  More Tabby from this list of prompts.  Y’all are suckers for ‘em, and I’m here for it, because I am also a sucker.

It wouldn’t be as much of a problem if he hadn’t just spent the morning cleaning the kitchen.  

And true, it isn’t his kitchen, but perhaps that is even more reason for his rapidly building concern because his kitchen would never have been in such a state to begin with.  Days old dishes and stains on the stovetop.  Backsplash that is more splash than not, and a series of small plants in desperate need of a good watering.  Abigail Cameron is, unambiguously, an absolute slob.

But somehow he doesn’t mind so much.  Truthfully, it gives him a sense of routine and clears his mind while he waits for their omelettes to settle.  There’s not enough credit given to the calm of running water, or the back-and-forth squish of the sponge.  He’s never been a man of meditation, but if he were, it would come to him in the form of morning dishes before a lazy Sunday breakfast.

And it certainly helps that, upon waking up to coffee and bacon and a freshly bleached sink, a certain sort of smile always crosses over Abigail’s lips.  It helps that when the sunrise inches through her sparkling high-rise apartment, she seems to melt as though the world is just a little bit warmer.  He’d wash any dish that earned him even an ounce of her attention, and he’d wipe down a thousand countertops, just as long as she promised to sit herself on top of them.

She has her legs wrapped around his hips.  Pulled him in nice and close.  “You don’t have to do my dishes, y’know.”

She’s taller than him, up here, and her fingers fiddle with the collar of a Six shirt that’s been stretched with age.  Green eyes bare into him, far too intense for so early in the morning, and there’s a moment when he nearly tells her that he knows.  He knows he doesn’t need to do them.  He simply wants to.

But the vulnerability of the words puckers like lemons on his lips.  “Well,” he says instead.  “Someone has to.”

“Always the charmer, Townsend,” she says, and dawn brings out a sleepy tenderness in her that stands in stark contrast to the desperate and unsettled want of her evenings.  Her sunrise kisses are that of a softer, steadier nature than those at sundown.  “But since you made breakfast, I guess we can let it slide.”

He’s not usually one to complain—really, he’s not—about the lingering peppermint affection of someone so unfairly beautiful as Abigail Cameron, except that he did spend the morning cleaning the kitchen, and she has just spilled some coffee.

It’s really not that much.  Just a splash of an ambitiously full mug.  It’s not that hard to ignore.

Especially given that she’s made her way across his jaw, now.  Leaves behind an entire trail of kisses down his neck and settles at his collar bone.  It’s one, two, three pecks before she squeezes him in closer.

And the coffee drip, drip, drips down the side of a mug that reads World’s Best Aunt.  It’s going to leave a ring at the bottom.

But she’s fussing with his shirt again, and only good things happen when she starts fussing with his shirt.

Although if they leave the coffee, it could stain the countertop.

But she’s whispering in his hear now.  “Earth to Townsend.”

And he’s looking over her shoulder, towards a nearby rag.  “It’s just...”

“Hmm?”

“I’m just going to—”

“Oh for Pete’s sake.”

She pulls her sleeve over her hand, leans back to reach her mug and gives it a swipe.  Then, without so much as a moment’s hesitation, she gives the counter a good dry as well.  The coffee stain joins the collection at Abigail’s cuffs and, for a moment, he thinks that she must be able to read minds.

But, of course, she can’t.  She’s just a very good agent.  “Better?”

He looks at the now clean countertop, then back to her.  “Thank you,” he says.  “I’m good now.”

With that, she grins.  “You’re good now?”

“You said you like it when I use Americanisms.”

“No, no, no,” she says, and at some point, his hands have landed on her hips.  At some point, her arms started hanging from his shoulders.  “I said it was cute when you use Americanisms.  Like how a puppy is cute when they can’t walk on grass.  Or how a baby is cute when they can’t roll over all the way.”

Her hands ease into the hair at the base of his neck, and there’s a shiver that bubbles in his back—the warm kind.  The good kind.  Everything about her is good.  “Is that so?”

“Is that so,” she mocks in a faux accent.  Then, in her own voice, “You heard it here first, folks.  Townsend is a big ol’ baby.”

“And this, after I cleaned your kitchen.”

She shrugs.  “Did you see what I just did there?” she says, pointing at the admittedly clean spot.  “I helped.”

“Helped?”

“Big time.”

And despite himself—despite the person he’s always been, and the person he thought he’d always be—he laughs.  He laughs with his whole body.  “Oh.”  It’s a warning, more than anything else.  “If you want to see help, I’ll show you help.”

“That doesn’t even make any—”

In my version of things, I think he does! Mostly because, when you look very closely at Zach, he is outrageously bad at being alone.  Sure, that’s the persona he likes to give off—mysterious boy, lone wolf, runs alone, etc.  But this is the same boy who followed Joe around like a lost puppy for years, who found a girl he liked in an elevator one day and went “yep, this one, good.”  He’s the unofficial leader of a Lost Boys™ triad and when Cam disappeared in the midst of his mentor’s coma, he latched on to the nearest Baxter and they punched each other for a little while, just to feel something other than outright and perpetual fear.

In my wholly unprofessional opinion, I think there’s some level of a defense mechanism to Zach’s constantly cool and uncaring front.  The boy’s got walls—that’s no secret.  But once you break them down, he’s hopelessly, endlessly at your side, because the truth of the matter is that Zachary Goode has spent his entire life desperately trying to find community.

literally not one person:

relationship: Elizabeth Sutton x Rebecca Baxter

summary: When you’re a super spy in Britain, but your girlfriend goes to college in the States and only visits you on breaks because she wants to get a degree or something.

notes: this has been in my drafts for four years (meant to be part of a longer series but i have no inspiration) so i figured i might as well post it during quarantine. not edited by the lovely @lun-aria but only because it’s trash so why waste her time? 

(nsfw if you squint)

Liz is caught somewhere between dreaming and waking when she realizes the feeling of a strong arm wrapped around her waist. She sleepily moves her own hand to run along the arm, her fingers skimming the muscles of the forearm and interweaving with the hand against her hipbone. The body behind her shifts without waking and suddenly the blonde feels much more alert.

She blinks a few times, taking in the sights and sounds of her surroundings. Her suitcase sits by the chair across from the bed - she hadn’t even attempted to unpack last night. The evening had been too full of a hundred other things that deviated from packing. Liz frowns at the pink case, already feeling the need to organize her stuff accordingly to avoid unnecessary stress later. But then the arm around her waist shifts again, moving down closer to her thigh, and there’s a chin resting on her shoulder, so she forgets about the usefulness of organization.

Instead, she turns herself around as delicately as possible, putting herself face to face with a very much still asleep Bex. The new position brought them further apart so Bex’s instincts pull her closer, the arm now resting at the small of her back. Liz feels herself smile, resting her hands at the base of the other girl’s neck, not entirely sure if she wants her to wake up just yet.

Her hands slip down, almost unconsciously, with her fingers running the length of Bex’s collarbone before following the natural V of her pajama shirt. She catches herself along the edges of the fabric, an expensive burgundy satin (a Christmas gift from Macey) that suited the other girl’s dark skin so well. Liz rubbed one of the buttons on the shirt, thinking about Bex complaining about her own pajamas last night. To be fair, she hadn’t been planning on packing one of her night gowns for the trip but she couldn’t deny how comfortable they were.

As nice and quiet as Bex’s apartment was in the morning, Liz didn’t feel like wasting any more time alone. So she does the only thing that can always wake up the other girl, no matter how tired she is. Liz pokes her. Incessantly.

Immediately, Bex scrunches up her nose like she’s been awake all along. As if in retaliation, Bex’s hand moves from Liz’s waist and into her hair. She pulls the smaller girl forward, kissing her like its equivalent to breathing. The blonde smiles against her lips, a silent good morning.

The kiss lasts a moment longer before Bex pulls back. She pecks Liz’s lips a few times for good measure, but then meets her blue eyes, looking completely awake. Liz’s hands have found their way back into the folds of her shirt.

“Hello, you,” Bex hums, stretching her vowels while her hands move to grab the hem of Liz’s gown. She pulls it up teasingly along the other girl’s thighs.

Liz is sure she is blushing when she responds, “Hi.”

“You sleep alright?” She moves a hand from the girl’s waist in order to curl a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. While she waits for a response, Bex cups Liz’s face in her palm.

She leans into the gesture, fighting to keep her eyes from closing.

“Of course,” Liz says, happily, leaning forward into the crook of Bex’s neck. “I always sleep well with you.”

Bex chuckles, kissing the top of the other girl’s head. “If only there was some way to keep that going for an extended period of time.”

“Do not, Rebecca,” she pretends to be annoyed, burying herself further into the other girl’s embrace. She definitely didn’t want to have another ‘You should just move to London’ conversation this early in the morning.

Surprisingly, Bex doesn’t press the issue. At least for now.

“You want coffee or anything?” Bex moves out from under the blankets, robbing Liz of her warmth.

“No,” the blonde whines, reaching for her across the empty side of the bed. Bex was already pulling on a pair of jeans, turned away from her.

She turns around just to smirk at Liz, “Coffee for one then.”

Liz rolls her eyes, snuggling back into the sheets alone. She ignores Bex, even when she abruptly turns on the overhead light, blinding her. In protest, she pulls the sheet over her head to block out the light.

Time passes slowly after that and yet it seems like only moments later when her girlfriend returns, mainly to pick her up lightly off the bed and carry her into the kitchen.

Her arms lock around Bex’s neck, refusing to let go until she recognizes the smell of scrambled eggs. And then she’s much more focused on that than being a nuisance. So she let’s go and settles into the chair.

“You didn’t have to make me breakfast, Bex,” she admits, though it seems like a lie when she pulls the plate closer to her.

“Oh, I didn’t,” Bex shakes her head while sipping from a smoothie. “I just overestimated my own hunger. You are having my leftovers, love.”

“You’re such a liar,” she mumbles with a smile. “But thank you.”

“I’d say 'any time’, but you don’t live here, so…” Bex slurps her smoothie purposefully before turning around to fix herself a cup of tea.

In response, Liz sighs dramatically, before focusing on her food. Which was delicious and exactly what she needed.

After her tea was made and steeping, Bex didn’t move from her perch at the counter. This only starts to bother Liz once she’s done eating.

“Come here,” she complains, realizing with an internal laugh how whiny she’s been all morning. To be fair, she still felt jetlagged and also absolutely needed to spend every possible second with the girl slowly making her way to the table. So she didn’t really mind.

Of course, when she’d called Bex over, she had meant just to sit at the table. But, Bex being Bex, decided to move right next to Liz’s chair and crouch down next to her. It was one of the few instances where Liz was, technically, taller than her.

The other girl tilted her head to the side as if to say 'What?’ But instead of replying, Liz just leans forward to kiss her lightly.

“You know you’re not going to convince me to move to another country on my one week break from college, right?”

Bex stands up again and rolls her shoulders back. “That sounds like a challenge.”

Liz laughs and gets up to put her dishes in the sink. “It definitely isn’t.”

Her girlfriend sneaks up behind her and wraps her arms around her waist. Liz leans into the gesture, feeling her eyes close unwillingly.

“I’m very good at challenges,” Bex’s voice is almost a whisper and Liz can hear more than see the smirk she’s probably wearing. “I wouldn’t bet against it.”

“Shush,” she breathes out, fondly, just as Bex presses her lips against the top of her spine. Liz has to grip the counter to keep from swaying.

“Now,” Bex says, voice back to normal. “What do you want to do today?” She releases her hold on Liz so the shorter girl can turn around and meet her gaze.

Liz thinks over the question. And she wishes she could say something fun and exciting and utterly British given where they were and all. But honestly, for today, she just wanted one thing.

“Can we just sort of…hang around here today? Order take out? Watch movies?”

“Well,” Bex says, shrugging, “That doesn’t sound too awful. And no tourists, so that’s a plus.”

Laughing, Liz grabs the other girl’s hand to drag her into the apartment’s small living room. Bex flops on the couch and Liz finds a way to lie on her so that they were both comfortable.

Never apologize for it.  She’s amazing in every capacity and I’ll die by that.  More Tabby from this list of prompts.  Y’all are suckers for ‘em, and I’m here for it, because I am also a sucker.

It wouldn’t be as much of a problem if he hadn’t just spent the morning cleaning the kitchen.  

And true, it isn’t his kitchen, but perhaps that is even more reason for his rapidly building concern because his kitchen would never have been in such a state to begin with.  Days old dishes and stains on the stovetop.  Backsplash that is more splash than not, and a series of small plants in desperate need of a good watering.  Abigail Cameron is, unambiguously, an absolute slob.

But somehow he doesn’t mind so much.  Truthfully, it gives him a sense of routine and clears his mind while he waits for their omelettes to settle.  There’s not enough credit given to the calm of running water, or the back-and-forth squish of the sponge.  He’s never been a man of meditation, but if he were, it would come to him in the form of morning dishes before a lazy Sunday breakfast.

And it certainly helps that, upon waking up to coffee and bacon and a freshly bleached sink, a certain sort of smile always crosses over Abigail’s lips.  It helps that when the sunrise inches through her sparkling high-rise apartment, she seems to melt as though the world is just a little bit warmer.  He’d wash any dish that earned him even an ounce of her attention, and he’d wipe down a thousand countertops, just as long as she promised to sit herself on top of them.

She has her legs wrapped around his hips.  Pulled him in nice and close.  “You don’t have to do my dishes, y’know.”

She’s taller than him, up here, and her fingers fiddle with the collar of a Six shirt that’s been stretched with age.  Green eyes bare into him, far too intense for so early in the morning, and there’s a moment when he nearly tells her that he knows.  He knows he doesn’t need to do them.  He simply wants to.

But the vulnerability of the words puckers like lemons on his lips.  “Well,” he says instead.  “Someone has to.”

“Always the charmer, Townsend,” she says, and dawn brings out a sleepy tenderness in her that stands in stark contrast to the desperate and unsettled want of her evenings.  Her sunrise kisses are that of a softer, steadier nature than those at sundown.  “But since you made breakfast, I guess we can let it slide.”

He’s not usually one to complain—really, he’s not—about the lingering peppermint affection of someone so unfairly beautiful as Abigail Cameron, except that he did spend the morning cleaning the kitchen, and she has just spilled some coffee.

It’s really not that much.  Just a splash of an ambitiously full mug.  It’s not that hard to ignore.

Especially given that she’s made her way across his jaw, now.  Leaves behind an entire trail of kisses down his neck and settles at his collar bone.  It’s one, two, three pecks before she squeezes him in closer.

And the coffee drip, drip, drips down the side of a mug that reads World’s Best Aunt.  It’s going to leave a ring at the bottom.

But she’s fussing with his shirt again, and only good things happen when she starts fussing with his shirt.

Although if they leave the coffee, it could stain the countertop.

But she’s whispering in his hear now.  “Earth to Townsend.”

And he’s looking over her shoulder, towards a nearby rag.  “It’s just...”

“Hmm?”

“I’m just going to—”

“Oh for Pete’s sake.”

She pulls her sleeve over her hand, leans back to reach her mug and gives it a swipe.  Then, without so much as a moment’s hesitation, she gives the counter a good dry as well.  The coffee stain joins the collection at Abigail’s cuffs and, for a moment, he thinks that she must be able to read minds.

But, of course, she can’t.  She’s just a very good agent.  “Better?”

He looks at the now clean countertop, then back to her.  “Thank you,” he says.  “I’m good now.”

With that, she grins.  “You’re good now?”

“You said you like it when I use Americanisms.”

“No, no, no,” she says, and at some point, his hands have landed on her hips.  At some point, her arms started hanging from his shoulders.  “I said it was cute when you use Americanisms.  Like how a puppy is cute when they can’t walk on grass.  Or how a baby is cute when they can’t roll over all the way.”

Her hands ease into the hair at the base of his neck, and there’s a shiver that bubbles in his back—the warm kind.  The good kind.  Everything about her is good.  “Is that so?”

“Is that so,” she mocks in a faux accent.  Then, in her own voice, “You heard it here first, folks.  Townsend is a big ol’ baby.”

“And this, after I cleaned your kitchen.”

She shrugs.  “Did you see what I just did there?” she says, pointing at the admittedly clean spot.  “I helped.”

“Helped?”

“Big time.”

And despite himself—despite the person he’s always been, and the person he thought he’d always be—he laughs.  He laughs with his whole body.  “Oh.”  It’s a warning, more than anything else.  “If you want to see help, I’ll show you help.”

“That doesn’t even make any—”

The first pride was a riot, more specifically a riot against police violence. Trans women like Miss Major and other people of colour paved the way for the celebration of pride today. You cannot celebrate your pride this month, or any month if you aren’t also supporting Black Lives Matter and the riots going on against police violence right now. Us white LGBTQ+ need to stand up for our black siblings and their rights, their struggles. We need to amplify their voices and show any support we can. (Edited to add links and make the image clearer)

Extensive BLM Google doc including places to donate to, education resources, etc

List of 75 things white people can do right now

You know, Preston Winters is something of a sleeper favorite for me. If you asked me straight out who my favorite character was, I’d probably go for Cammie or Macey (duh) or Matt, and my brain would skip over him as an option entirely, but if there’s any one thing that this re-read has reminded me of it’s that I really do love Preston Winters.

See the thing is— that highlighted paragraph is everything. That’s everything you need to know about Preston Winters, neatly packed into three sentences. When Preston, the child of a career politician, is introduced his identifying characteristic is sincerity. He’s earnest and upfront and very much himself (which is a very difficult thing to be as a teenager, especially one in the national spotlight) and I think that’s probably the thing that really makes Preston stand out in this whole series. Every single other male character is hiding something, or running from something, and usually they’re a spy and therefore by definition hiding many things at once, and running from something seems to be a part of that package. I mean—

Mr. Smith literally, physically changes his face every summer because he’s got so many people who are still gunning for him that he can’t even enjoy his summer vacation without extensive plastic surgery.

Zach has a lot going on but most notably: he doesn’t mention his mother once until after she’s introduced— he doesn’t even say her name out loud until the end of OSOT, nearly two years after he and Cammie first met, and he avoids talking about any part of his childhood unless absolutely necessary. Like, “world war three might have just started and we need somewhere to lay low they won’t find us NOW” necessary.

Don’t even get me started on Joe Solomon. Joe’s arguably the best spy in the entire series, which is very impressive given who comprises the rest of the main cast. Of course he’s hiding things. His secrets have secrets. Joe Solomon is a walking, talking burn bag, is what I’m saying.

Even Josh, the quintessential, all-American boy next door, is hiding something: his unhappiness with the life that his parents have been steering him toward since the cradle.

And the point of laying all that out is— Preston Winters is refreshing to be around. For Cammie and for us. Preston doesn’t have a complicated life or background. Well, not one that he knows about, anyway. Which isn’t to say that I don’t absolutely love the rest of them, but Preston provides a sort of necesary counterweight to all the secrecy everyone else is bringing to the table. In this, he and DeeDee are a lot alike. But that’s another post.

Preston is one of the most steadfast characters in the whole series. He’s introduced as polite, genuine, and someone who employs humor to lighten the mood (and it’s never at anyone’s expense but his own) and he is still all of those things when he leaves to go back to Rome near the end of UWS.

Preston’s grown since his introduction, certainly— there’s actually a lot of rough stuff that happens to him that he isn’t trained or at all prepared to deal with beforehand, and we can see the effects of that at a few points (most notably: “I still dream about it sometimes.” He made a slow circular motion in the air with one finger. “I see the helicopter—the way the shadow spun on the roof. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that spinning shadow. And the way the two of you didn’t seem afraid. And that woman—” At the mention of his mother, Zach went horribly still. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that woman.” Preston shook his head and looked at Macey. “I think about it all the time.” Out Of Sight, Out Of Time, ch. 25)— but he is so grounded in himself that he survived those events (almost dying about three times and being sent to prison without a trial, among other things) and came out the other side still recognizable as the Preston we first met. And I think that’s pretty remarkable.

Tl;dr: I really love Preston Winters and hope he’s having a good day.

The boy shrugged and smiled, looked at her with that thousand-watt grin.

My reflexes knew what was happening before I did. The terrorist aimed a potshot at me–at the middle of me, the most important part of me as of two weeks ago–and and my instincts sent me into overdrive. Pain exploded in my right side as I took the hit in a place I definitely wouldn’t have otherwise, forcing a scream of pain out of me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Zach turn, worry masking his face. I broke the man’s wrist and drove a fist in an uppercut before jabbing his solar plexus; his eyes rolled back and he feel like a ton of bricks.

“Cam, are you okay?” Zach asked, picking across the dead or unconscious bodies to get to me. “That was…sloppy?” He sounded almost shocked.

“I know, I know.”

“What happened? You never lose it like that, why did you take the hit there?”  His questions felt relentless, and I felt nauseous.

“I just–don’t worry about it. What matters right now is searching these bodies–”

“Doesn’t matter? Not to derail our mission but I’m fairly certain you at least have a bruised muscle down there, hon, that’s not gonna just fade overnight. I’ll have to stick to your right side now.” His voice grew heated, like it always did when he was worried. “It’s not like that was some new move or something; I can’t remember the last time something caught you off guard. What were you thinking, going out of your way like that? It’s not like–”

This was not how I had planned to break the news to him, but considering circumstances it was the way I was gonna do it anyway. I grabbed one of his gesticulating hands and pressed it to my stomach, locking eyes with him. “That is what I was thinking.”