Grandma didn't keep much food in her suite. A Taser and about seven different kinds of duct tape, sure, but not a lot of food. There wasn't much point. She spent the majority of her time in her office or in the classrooms, and most of the food she ate was prepared by five-star chefs. All she kept in her room was a few late night snacks, so when Dad and I had dinner together, he usually had to get... creative.
"It could totally work!"
"Dad. Rice cakes and a can of tomato soup is not dinner."
"I'm not saying it'll be a pleasant dinner," he said, sticking the can and the crinkly wrappers back into the cupboard above the sink. "But it could work—can't be anything worse than what Grandma serves you at the safe house."
He leaned over the fridge, using the door to prop himself up as he searched through the contents. "You know," I said, falling back into the couch. "All the cool dads pick up McDonald's when they're on the way to their daughter's super secret spy school."
Dad huffed, switching to the freezer now. "Then I guess I'm not a cool dad," he said. "Which I'm totally fine with. I'd much rather be a good dad. A safe dad. A responsible—ooh, there's ice cream in here. Do you want ice cream for dinner?"
"Dad."
"Fine," he said, shutting everything back up. "I'll go see if Chef Luis wants to supply us with any leftovers."
"And if he doesn't?"
He shrugged. "Then I guess I'll just have to put these covert skills of mine to good use, won't I?"
I though about just how talented Chef Luis was with a spatula and exactly what he did with it when someone tried to take his food. "Good luck."
Dad grinned, a smile made up of pure mischief. Challenge accepted, he seemed to say, and with that he was out the door and I was alone. I was alone. I can't even begin to describe how great it felt to be alone.
Knowing my father, and knowing Chef Luis, it was going to take a while for Dad to get back, so I took advantage of the comfiest couch in the world and stretched out. It took a few tries for me to find a position that worked with my shoulder. Scout had been right. I'd made it worse. I had to wonder if sacrificing health for knowledge had been worth it. I hadn't even gotten the chance to shoot off more than three bullets. Child's play. I needed to practice more. I needed to get back to Blackthorne.
Maybe this would be the night I asked him. Maybe I'd finally work up the courage to ask my father if I could go back. If I could take my place among my peers. He, of all people, could understand the importance of practice. Or maybe if I told him that I was Captain now, he'd be so proud that he'd drive me to practice himself.
Yeah, I decided. Tonight would be the night.
When had the couch gotten so comfy? And how long had it been since I'd last slept? I didn't know, but the combination of the two questions made for one answer—I was dozing off, so I pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around my shoulders, not allowing myself to go unarmed while my guard was down.
I never used to sleep with the blankets on. Dad always talked about how crazy it made him when I was a baby. I used to kick them right off and he would come in and throw them on again, only to find that they were back on the floor five minutes later. "Then just leave them off," Mom would tell him when he grumbled about it, but Dad would always argue, saying that I was going to catch a cold.
Ever since the dock, I'd gained a real appreciation for sleeping with the blankets over my shoulders. I didn't know what it was. Logically, I knew that they provided no real protection. A knife could pierce through cloth just as easily as it could skin, and yet I still felt safer underneath the covers.
I don't know how much time I spent asleep. Sometimes when I blinked, I'd be more twisted up in the blanket than I had been the last time. Occasionally, when I opened my eyes, I knew in my gut that time had passed, but I had no idea how much. It was just a catnap, recharging my battery in preparation for the oncoming battle. Of course, I had assumed that the battle would be with my father, fighting against the inevitable push-back I'd receive after asking to leave the mansion. Little did I know, there was a whole different kind of battle brewing that night.
I was sent catapulting upright at the sound of a crash coming from the room next door. I threw the blanked away, terrified at the thought of facing an attack that I wasn't ready for. Where was Dad? Macey? How much time had gone by? What if they were dead?
I was on my feet before I could even register what it meant to stand, relying on these ears of mine to finally do me some good and get me out of there. I heard a door slam, then open again, followed by footsteps and a cry of, "Charlotte, just wait."
It was Mr. Hughes and the first thing I felt was confusion. What was he doing here? I checked my surroundings, making sure that I hadn't magically left the Gallagher Academy. That I wasn't missing time again. Sure enough, I saw my grandmother's suite surrounding me. Nothing new here. Just a made up bed, a kitchenette with not much more than a sink and a hotplate, and a closet full of dresses with more stories to them than I could imagine.
Dresses. Prom. Of course. Mr. Hughes had told me he was visiting this week. "Okay, okay. Charlotte. Please wait," he pleaded once more.
Transcription of Intercepted Intelligence
Transcribed by Operative Morgan Goode
WOODS: I'm done waiting, Blake. We're done. I'm done.
HUGHES: Don't say that. Charlotte just—just stop!
WOODS: Let go of me!
//: The footsteps break. Woods has stopped, but the intensity remains. The Operative catches herself holding her breath. :\\
HUGHES: If you would just let me explain myself before you go running off like a mad woman—you're so irrational all the time.
WOODS: Do not speak to me that way.
//: Woods is yelling—not yelling. Screaming. The mysterious CoveOps professor shows no concern with keeping any secrets. :\\
WOODS: I'm so sick of you telling me what I am and what I'm not. I get to decide those things. I get to figure them out.
HUGHES: So do the people who love you. We get to learn them together, remember?
WOODS: No, Blake. No. I get to learn them. You get to support me. That's how this works.
HUGHES: I have always supported you. I have always been there for you. I love you more than anyone else does and you can't deny it.
WOODS: People who love each other don't. keep. secrets.
HUGHES: Charlotte, just listen for a—
WOODS: If you lay another hand on me I swear on my life that I will break it.
//: She doesn't scream this time. She whispers. Which is so, so much scarier. :\\
WOODS: You know, there's something I tell my kids, Blake. One thing that I tell them—girls, boys. It doesn't matter. I tell them all the same thing, do you know what that is?
HUGES: What are you—?
WOODS: Notice things. I tell them to notice things, Blake. It's what the best of the best have always told me, and now it's what I tell my students. It's good advice, so maybe I should start practicing what I preach.
HUGHES: Charlotte. Calm down.
WOODS: I've been noticing a lot of things about you, Blake. A lot of weird things. Your name just keeps popping up where it shouldn't, but I've made excuses for you because—
//: Woods stumbles over the words. :\\
WOODS: Because I love you, Blake. I love you. So I need you to tell me that I didn't waste the past five years—oh my god, Blake. Five years! Longer, really. Ever since we were kids. Tell me that it wasn't all wasted time.
HUGHES: I never wasted a second with you. I promise you that.
WOODS: I've spent the better part of my life with you, Blake Hughes. We've been in each other's lives for fifteen years. That's a long time. It's really hard to keep secrets for that long, Blake.
HUGHES: Charlotte—
WOODS: How did you know about the Kasey kid?
//: Bill. They're talking about Bill. The Operative covers her mouth, not daring to let her words betray her—praying that she can breathe quietly enough that no one knows she is listening in. :\\
HUGHES: He was one of my best students. I've been keeping an eye—
WOODS: No. You don't get to chalk this up to "keeping and eye on him." You don't get to do that.
//: She lowers her voice even more. The Operative has to get closer to the door just to hear. :\\
WOODS: 24 hours ago, an attempt was made at William Kasey's life. His medical staff decided to keep it classified, limiting the knowledge to the doctors working on his case and to Headmistress Morgan. She then informed exactly three people. Myself, Zach, and Joe. So tell me, Blake. How do you know about the attempt made at William Kasey's life?
HUGHES: Alex told me.
WOODS: And how does Alex know?
HUGHES: She's in constant contact with the Gallagher doctors. I'm sure word has gotten around.
WOODS: So if I call Alex right now and ask her about Bill, she's going to know what I'm talking about? She's going to know that there was an attempt?
HUGHES: I'm sure, but let's not worry about that—ow!
//: Various sounds of distress come from the hallway, all from Mr. Hughes. :\\
HUGHES: You just broke my hand!
WOODS: Someone on the inside had to do it, Blake. Someone with access to the mansion. Either someone already within its walls or someone who the guards would let in—tell me Blake. Did the guards let you in today? Did they recognize you? I bet they did.
HUGHES: You broke my hand.
WOODS: I want to know why he said your name. Will, Maggie, Hughes. That's all he says. Why does your name make that list, Blake?
HUGHES: He knows me. I saw the kid every day. I cared for him. I like to think that I've made a connection with all of my student's, but clearly I've made a stronger on with him—honestly Charlotte, I think you broke my hand.
WOODS: Maybe you're right. Maybe he just cares about you, but you know what I've noticed? Will and Maggie are the only ones he knows were at Dock Twelve that morning.
//: The air is electric, the sound of accusation in her voice. There is no hint of the lover. Of the friend. This is the agent, through and through, stating her case as clear as day. :\\
WOODS: I wonder who else he saw.
HUGHES: Now you're just being ridiculous.
WOODS: Am I?
HUGHES: How could I have been there? How would I have known what was going on? This is a serious accusation and I don't appreciate it.
//: Woods begins to yell again. :\\
WOODS: Well I don't appreciate attempted murder, either, so—
DAD: Hey! What the hell is going on here?
<t>End Transmission</t>
Dad was back, the sound of some mysterious food clamoring in a box as he walked. "I can hear you two from the other side of the mansion," he hissed, his own voice at a level that he perhaps expected them to match.
They didn't. It was Hughes who spoke up, his volume very much at the same level as before. "We were just at a disagreement. It's nothing—"
"I wasn't asking you," Dad barked, giving up on the whisper. "Char, what's going on?"
Woods was suddenly quiet, all of her words melting into the hot air. It was as if she couldn't quite bring herself to commit to her accusations. As if she couldn't quite face the possibility of being wrong about Mr. Hughes or, maybe, couldn't face the possibility that she was right. "It's nothing," she said. Her voice was still quiet, but the viciousness was gone. "Nothing."
Even through the silence, I could hear that my father wasn't buying it. His voice was tense. Strong, as he turned to Mr. Hughes. Any venom that had left Woods had now found its way into Dad and he had no reason to hold back. "I think it's time for you to leave."
"But—"
"Now, Blake. Before I break your other hand."
I heard Dad's footsteps approach the door and I sprinted back to the couch, trying to act like I hadn't heard a single word. "You," he said, and for a moment I thought I had been busted. At least, until he said, "With me. You're eating dinner with us tonight."
"I am?" Woods asked. "But isn't that sort of a family thing?"
"She was supposed to have dinner with me tonight," Mr. Hughes cut in.
"Goodbye, Blake," was all Dad had to say.