This is one of those rare stories that break both of my two (sort-of-)rules: no AU, and no multi-chapter. And those rules aren't in place because I hate those kinds of stories - most of my favourites fit into those categories - but because I always really struggle to write them. But what was fun about this idea is that it got stuck in my head a few weeks ago, and I started writing, and then - voilà! Chapter one is finished. So I hope you guys enjoy.

I'm in exams now, though, and what I should have been doing instead of writing this is studying for the Calc exam tomorrow... But procrastinate today, right? Don't leave it until tomorrow.

(This is why, if anyone's curious, I love Ellen Degeneres.)

But essentially, updates are going to be a little slow starting out, considering my free time is next to nil right now (or, it would be, if I was actually doing what I'm supposed to be doing). Just forewarning. But I'll be trying to update as much as possible.

All mistakes are mine; I'm still looking around for that beta, so for now, I'm self-editing.

Disclaimer: Don't own Chuck. Still wish I did, though. Title/lyric credit goes to Admiral Fallows' "Squealing Pigs".

Make a cup with your hands to take a drink.

SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007
10:07 AM

"Bartowski!"

With a groan, Chuck buried his face in the stack of papers before him. He knew that "Bartowski!" and that "Bartowski!' indicated the soon-to-be-presence of his loud, mildly intimidating boss. The man obviously knew exactly how to choose the worst possible time, as the files before him were piled so high that even if Chuck wanted to procrastinate and fool around on the computer for a while, he couldn't even see the monitor.

For a guy who made his living working on the aforementioned computer - one of six scattered throughout the office - his disrespect to it seemed kind of sacrilegious.

He turned his face to the door.

And, right on cue, the Director of the CIA walked into Chuck's office, four slightly shorter, tuxedo-clad men in pursuit.

Politeness and respect for his superiors consistently ingrained in him, Chuck hopped to his feet... and ran his knee into his desk before him at the same time. With a quick hiss of breath and Graham's unimpressed (and unsurprised) "Get yourself together, Bartowski," he shot his left hand out, leaning over and grabbing his knee with his right.

"Director Graham, sir," Chuck wheezed, after he realized his error and switched hands so the right-handed Director could shake without any more confusion than Chuck had already caused. Finally, he straightened. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Chuck's one-person office was barely big enough to fit the two-by-four desk, a single filing cabinet, and Chuck himself, but he finally managed to move around enough to offer the Director one of the spare camping chairs he kept in the far corner of the room for the other visitors. Although the Director had visited the office on more than one occasion, and had, in fact, sat in that very camping chair as though as he actually owned it, he still gave it a slight grimace before sitting down.

Brown eyes burned into Chuck's as he stood awkwardly. "We're going to have to upgrade your office, I see," Graham finally said, after a prolonged silence.

At that, Chuck shrugged, sitting down in his own plastic office chair. The four men hovered in the door for a moment, glancing at Graham, until the affirmative head nod came from his direction and they retreated, closing the door behind them. Chuck suspected - based on movies, naturally - that they remained outside the door, hovering. "It's comfortable."

The Director eyed him for a moment, glancing at his computer suspiciously. He was a tall man, almost imposing, sharp brown eyes taking in his surroundings. According to his file (and Chuck had memorized most files), he'd been a corporal in the army before his recruitment to the CIA, and his stance portrayed just that: rigid back, arms tucked at the sides, impeccable posture.

He ruined it, though, by leaning forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. "Are you comfortable, Bartowski?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Chuck had read, once, that this was a method of interrogation: keep your voice low, and people have to strain to listen. Bam, focus on the words maintained.

The question surprised Chuck and he opened his mouth a little before answering, mulling over his words. "Comfortable is a... debatable question, sir." And then, as was the norm, the floods opened: "Are we talking comfortable job-wise, because that's... no problems there, sir. Socially, I mean, there've been some incidents in the last five years or so that may be perceived as less than comfortable, but you know, perceptions, and all that jazz. And physically, well, I've been more comfortable, but my mattress is kicking out, so that's bound to-"

Even after a solid five years of adjusting to Chuck Bartowski's full-on babble, Graham raised his right hand to his forehead and rubbed at it, closing his eyes in frustration. Chuck - who kept talking, despite his observations - could almost see him counting to ten in his head. "Agent Bartowski!" he finally interrupted.

Chuck promptly shut up.

The Director took his time finding the words, and Chuck suspected that there was more to this meeting than just recon. "You've been here four years, and that's more than most agents can say."

Chuck mumbled something that sounded distinctly like "Most agents actually leave their six-by-eight office," but it was quiet enough to earn him nothing more than a sharp glare.

"Your work with Intersects has been impeccable, Bartowski, but the budget's getting tight and the..." For a second, Graham grappled at attempting to find the word he was looking for, and finally settled on, "Problems?" before Chuck chimed in with a helpful:

"Glitches." At Graham's raised eyebrow, he clarified: "That's the word the boys in IT and I settled on, considering Intersects are kind of like compu- You know what? Not important."

Graham scowled irritably. "The glitches, then, they're getting out of hand. Half of our best agents are out of the field and in the psych unit for clairvoyant dreams and severe neurological trauma. The rest are pretending that there's no pain going on, but they're effing up their missions when they can't flash without... whatever the hell goes on." The rigid posture returned. "Fact remains that as the son of the creator of the original Intersect, you're the only one qualified to stop all this..." He cleared his throat. "Stuff."

"Sir, I'm doing the best I can-"

"And you're doing a damn good job. But everyone's got an Intersect, Bartowski - it's the Walkman of the 21st century - and only the CIA's best are showing up in the psych ward of the hospital."

"It's a problem with the programming, there's too much information going in. We'd have to rework the system, figure out how to remove the two-points-ohs and input an entire new coding database-"

Graham did not appear to be listening anymore. He stood, a grand 6' 5" at his full height, and stuck out an uncomfortable hand to carefully (and in what Chuck supposed was intended to be a playful manner) punch Chuck's shoulder. "CIA's best and brightest - and I mean it, Bartowski, best of the best - is showing up in your office this afternoon. You fix her."

"There's a list of agents already in the psych ward to go throu-"

"Fix Agent Walker. Use her as a prototype, rework the system, make her out to be a guinea pig. I don't out what the hell is going on with Intersects these last few months. All CIA resources are at your beck and call." A pause, and then: "And, for the love of God, get the 2.0 fixed before Roark Instruments offers its worldwide release in January."

And then, in classic CIA fashion, he yanked down his sunglasses and left the room.

SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007
1:09 PM

Chuck's fingers skimmed across the keyboard. Agent Walker's file was on the screen, a basic list of aliases, birthdays used, missions attended, some of her basic traits and what she was best trained in. He recognized the name, of course - she'd been Bryce's partner for the last two years - but her accomplishments were astronomical. 'CIA's best of the best' didn't even begin to describe her.

He was sitting there debating whether her stats made her more comparable to Agent 99, or to Sidney Bristow, when there was a knock on the door. For a second, he considered looking up - it couldn't be anyone of high status, they all announced themselves with a loud "Bartowski!" halfway down the hall - but he recognized the voice that greeted him.

"Hey, Chuck." Bryce Larkin's suave voice drifted through the office, smooth and deep. If he wasn't Chuck's best friend, Chuck'd have to hate him for the voice alone. Of course, the appearance and the actual-agent status could have still done it.

"Hey." He kept his eyes glued to the screen for a fraction of a second longer before closing the file. He looked up to see Bryce leaning casually against the doorway... and a very feminine presence standing to his left.

Not just feminine: beautiful. Bryce's perfect female counterpart, it looked like - long blond hair, bright blue eyes, high cheekbones, the whole shebang. Her facial expression, though - she didn't look mad, exactly, but there was an outline of annoyance within the politely-pleased-to-be-here façade she was trying to portray.

Realizing that he was probably staring, he was on his feet again in one swift move, thankfully without the bruised knee. Ignoring Bryce momentarily, he crossed the room and stuck out a hand to what he assumed was- "Agent Walker. I wasn't expecting you guys for at least another- You know what? It's all good, I was just, uh, just going over your file, it's really impressive, sort of an Yori-Sarah Connor hybrid, with some Lara Cro-" He cleared his throat. "Now would be a good time to rewind five minutes. Anyone have a phone booth handy?"

Ignoring the tail end of Chuck's entire conversation with himself, Agent Walker grasped his hand in a firm handshake (firm may have been a little lenient; Chuck cringed) and said, "There's nothing wrong with me, Agent Bartowski, so I can assure you, this will be quick."

When his hand was finally released, Chuck glanced sideways (well, after shaking out his hand subtly) at Bryce for confirmation. Bryce rolled his eyes as her.

"Sarah, you passed out on a mission." He cleared his throat and added, smirking slightly, "While you had your foot against the count's throat."

She glared at him, and Chuck had the sudden impression that he was in Siberia; he shivered involuntarily. "Dehydration," she spat.

"You can't flash without looking like someone punched you in the stomach."

The glare intensified. "Gee, Bryce, maybe that's because I'm flashing while someone punches me in the stomach."

While Chuck himself would have been crying a little bit if anyone - let alone a beautiful CIA agent - looked at him that way, Bryce seemed more amused than fazed. "You don't sleep."

"I slashed someone's throat with a pencil last week, and then used that pencil to write out a suicide letter. I'm allowed to have nightmares." Her eyes flashed dangerously. "And if you keep talking, I'll see what I can do to youthat'll give me the same kinds of nightmares."

Bryce opened his mouth to retort again, but she whirled around to look at Chuck, fists balled at her sides. "If you want to continue this meeting, Agent Bartowski, I would appreciate it if you would kick Bryce Larkin here out."

And while Chuck had a feeling he'd be safer with Bryce in the room, he shot his friend a pleading look - a combination of both please don't leave and good lord, man, I want to live, and it's probably a bad idea for you to be murdered on government soil, so go do something that's not here.

Bryce interpreted the second half, it would appear, because his smirk finally fell a fraction before returning to life. "I'll just be getting myself some coffee, then. Good luck, Chuck."

He slapped Chuck on the back, looking amused. Good luck suddenly seemed like something actually necessary to be said, and Chuck was not a believer in luck.

He watched - a little fearfully - as Bryce turned around and walked away.

SEPTEMBER 14TH, 2007
1:31 PM

Once Bryce's footsteps had slowly disappeared down the hallway, Chuck closed the door to his office, gulping down his momentary fear and walking around Agent Walker to grab her one of the camp chairs. When he turned back around, there was an excited, challenging look in her eye that told him he was about to emasculated in some way.

He raised one leg slowly, bracing himself to hop into the Morgan, but Agent Walker surprised him by sitting obediently in the chair with a polite "Thank you," her eyes still wild and excited.

Things had just gone into uncomfortable territory. "So, Agent Walker, is there-" he started, but the blond interrupted him as soon as his mouth opened.

"I want you to remove my Intersect." Then, like her mouth was moving faster than her brain (a sentiment Chuck, of all people, understood): "And you can call me Sarah."

And while Chuck had never been all that socially capable, his voice - or rather, his babbling - had never failed him before. But he genuinely couldn't think of anything to say to that. Instead, a rather unfortunate, guttural noise escaped his throat.

She didn't look perplexed; on the contrary, the excitement in her face only grew. "I need you to remove my Intersect, just like you removed yours, Agent Bartowski."

The noise stopped. Of their own volition, the words, "Chuck. Call me Chuck," escaped his throat, before his mind decided to actually contribute to the conversation and say, "Wait, what?"

"Chuck," she stressed, yanking out the one-syllable word into six or seven, a feat he deemed oddly sexy, considering it was something he used to do when his mom wouldn't buy him the Obi Wan Kenobi action figure. Her fingers played anxiously over her knees, blond hair falling over her shoulders. "You don't have an Intersect, do you?"

The fact was, while Chuck may have been tempted to be honest with her, she was a spy. She'd tell Graham. Then again, she'd notice him lying.

To be fair, working with a Class Two project without an Intersect wasn't technically illegal. Admittedly, he'd been hired on the basis that his Intersect was a two-point-oh with little to no problems, allowing him 'round the clock protection, and was capable of retaining information like nobody's business. And contained in-depth information on the workings of the Intersect.

Which had been true at the time. For the most part.

Okay, so he'd been lying a lot since the job had been offered, but his reason were valid. Chuck had never been one to lie unless, say, three hundred million people were in danger if he didn't. And if he told the truth, he'd be fired - which, considering the information he knew, would mean either bunker, or straight-up death. Sometimes working for the CIA sucked; he'd almost rather he still work at the Buy More.

His mouth, ever the accomplice, chimed in to overdrive before Chuck's brain could contribute to anything (or, at the bare minimum, come up with a way to not appear too obvious).

"I- wuh? That's- Intersect is way up there, hanging out, chilling with the best of them, you know, mulling over details and being awesome and intersecting info - hey, that must be where the name comes from! Of course it is, I already knew that, Dad made the original. Did I tell you that- huh?" He cleared his throat slowly, deliberately, choosing his next words carefully. His hand flew behind the desk in the least subtle way possible, grasping for his white-noise generator. "I don't know what you've been told, Agent Walker-"

"Sarah."

"-Sarah, but I have an Intersect. It's CIA protocol." To his dismay, her grin intensified. She had looked oddly amused throughout his babbling frenzy, but her excitement appeared to have reached new levels after the last sentence. She leaned forward slowly, and, for the strangest of seconds, Chuck thought she was going to kiss him - and, more surprising yet, he thought he might let her, and while Chuck wasn't a prude, he generally wasn't one to make out with complete strangers, let alone women who actually made him think there was a genuine possibility that he'd crap himself - but she just reached for exactly what his hand had been grasping at: the white-noise generator. She flicked it on and leaned back in her chair.

"You don't have an Intersect."

"I do so." Even his protest sounded weak.

"Fact one: you didn't flash on me when I walked in."

His mouth popped open awkwardly. "How... How else would I have known your name?"

"You were reading my file. And according to reports, your Intersect is specialized with name, face, and voice recognition for everyone in the agency. You don't have any reason to look at files, unless you're adding them to the database inside your head."

"I-"

"Fact two: you're Class Two, so it's mandatory to have 2.0 stashed up there. 2.0, in times of extreme duress, should ensure that the babbling is kept to a minimum when you feel like you're under attack, so you're not talking while the Intersect goes to work. But it didn't."

"That's totally irre-"

"And fact three: you're the worst liar I've ever seen."

His mouth clamped shut. Victorious, she leaned back in her camping chair, perfect posture and all. Her black-on-black-on-black ensemble suddenly made her look like a ninja. That's it, he decided. She's a freaking ninja.

Because if the Director of the CIA had failed to notice those clues, there really was no other explanation. Chuck had been sloppy, but only marginally so; enough for a ninja to notice, not quite enough for the rest of the CIA to do so.

Finally, after an agonizingly long pause in which she sat patiently, smirking at him, finally he found his voice. "Whuh?" he said intelligently.

Her smirk intensified.

"And I need you to take mine out now."

This time, real, honest-to-god surprise shocked the word out of him: "Why?"

The smirk fell. "Can you do it?"

Stubbornness coursed through Chuck. "Tell me why you want it done."

Of course, Chuck had seen enough spy movies and had spoken to enough real-life spies - himself excluded, of course, because the agency refused to actually send him out into the field - to know that they were just as stubborn as him. "Can you do it?" she hissed.

"This is going to go on until the apocalypse." He contemplated for a moment, then added: "Zombie apocalypse, maybe, because I can't see either of us backing down for something as petty as seas of fire."

She was probably the first woman ever, Chuck decided, to not look in the least fazed by his tangent. "If you'd just answer my question, we could avoid waiting that long."

And, in a surprising twist of bravery, Chuck was the one to smirk and say, "I don't think you're really in the position to argue, here, Sarah."

Her hands curled into fists again. The playful excitement in her face was long gone; she looked terrifying. Chuck had the impression that he should probably have gone to the bathroom before this meeting, just to make sure he didn't have any unfortunate problems.

She half-stood, as though she had the intention to leave, before her eyes closed for a fraction of a second. He could almost see the debate going on in her head, and he contemplated just giving in. Then they opened, and she sat back down, looking almost pitifully like a four-year-old who didn't get her way.

"I don't want to be an agent solely because of the computer inside my head, okay?"

"You don't want to rely on anything."

With one swift turn of her head, she was glaring at him. It kind of reminded Chuck of Gollum. But in a good way.

"I was good beforethey came into the CIA."

"Weren't you eighteen when they went into worldwide production?"

She shrugged in that casual, What are you trying to tell me? way that agents had a tendency to develop. Chuck had decided, once, on an off day, that it was his inability to do that particular shrug that ensured he'd be the only field agent in history who had never gone into the field.

"Doesn't matter." A challenging look showed up in her expression, and she added, "1.0 was bad enough, but 2.0? 2.0 is probably the worst thing to have been invented." She sent a smirk his way again, which essentially told him that she knew he was the major creator of the 2.0. Too bad she didn't know everything, he decided - telling him the 2.0 sucked was more of a compliment than the insult she intended.

He considered her for a moment, taking in her very agent-esque appearance. There was something in her eyes, though, and although he'd never been very good at persuasion or knife-yielding or kung fu without the aid of an Intersect, he did know how to read people. So he said: "Yeah, I can remove it."

He was definitely going to jail for treason.

That's what this was, too; it wasn't directly in Chuck's contract, or anything, ensuring that Intersects remained in all agents' heads. But removing them himself was kind of the same thing as extracting information from agents for use outside of the CIA.

In fact, that's exactly what it was.

And creating the mechanism that could remove the Intersects - creating the mechanism that had removed his own Intersect? And could retain all the information in a single five-gig USB?

He'd go to jail. And Ted Roark would continue taking all the credit for something only the Bartowskis had ever been capable of doing. He started sweating a little at the thought - the last five years? Pointless?

But he'd made the mechanism for a reason, and the perfect example of that reason was standing before, headaches and nightmares and near-death experiences and all.

And so, in a rare spurt of bravery, he repeated himself: "I can remove it. But there are some conditions."

There was a really subtle, almost-invisible (okay, maybe not) shout-out to one of my - and, it looks like, everyone else's - favourite Chuck story on the site. Anyone catch it?