The Little Things

by Mikki13

It's the little things that count. One-shot.

Disclaimer: Not mine. If it were, it would be coming back a lot sooner than March.

Dedication: This story is dedicated to my wonderful betas, Arty Esbee D'arc, Creedog VanDrey and XmarisolX (in alphabetical order). Thank you all for helping a new Chuck fan break into writing for the fandom. Your advice has been invaluable.

~*~

It's the little things that count.

Like when he smiles at her when she's had a bad day. And she knows he's not just smiling because he thinks it'll make everything okay, like kissing a toddler's pretend wound or comforting an acquaintance who's had a bad break. No, he's smiling because he really understands her . . . truly understands her . . . and somehow, deep inside, he knows she needs to see that goofy grin.

It's that way today. Outside, the April rain is coming down in sheets, battering against the window panes and leaving dark, reflective puddles in the street. The blustery wind sends leaves scuttling across the parking lot, causing a heavy chill to permeate the air and any potential customers to hunker down inside their homes.

She's working at the Orange Orange, feeling as if the chill from outside is permeating through her own skin, despite the heater warming each corner of the small shop. Her muscles tighten against the cold as she feverishly polishes each available surface, scrubbing down counters and scouring sinks. Her biceps are pounding, her knuckles going raw, and bits of sponge are beginning to flake off from overuse. Subconsciously, she wonders if maybe she just scours hard enough, last night's failed mission will rub off in the process.

Two days before, Chuck had flashed on Aleksander Kaminski, a known Russian arms dealer who had been smuggling weapons into the U.S. for over three years. Eager to seize the opportunity, Beckman had immediately ordered the team to stake out Kaminski's hideout. With Casey as backup, Chuck and Sarah were to enter the lair and attempt to flash on anything important. After that, the mission had been simple: Chuck was to return to the car and Sarah was to capture Kaminski and get out alive.

But the unexpected had occurred. And something had gone horribly wrong.

Sarah hadn't noticed the armed man behind her until it had been too late. Motioning to the well-hidden Chuck to leave the building, she had been captured and dragged off to what she assumed was the torture chamber. Gritting her teeth in anticipation, her only solace had been that at least Chuck had gotten out alive. But just as she was being forcibly strapped into a chair, Chuck had quite conspicuously entered the room. Tripping over his own sneakers as if they were two sizes too big, he had fallen into a metal stool, which had capsized with a resounding crash.

Sarah's throat still hurt from the scream which had ripped free when the bullets from Kaminski's gun sailed cleanly into Chuck's chest.

One.

Two.

Three.

Within seconds, Chuck had gone limp and toppled over, his eyes rolling upward into the back of his skull.

For a moment, all Sarah could do was stare numbly at Chuck as salt water clouded her eyes and her chest twisted painfully. But then the CIA agent in her took over, and she found herself breaking free of her binds, jumping out of the chair and ferociously pummeling anyone within reach. Her vision was blurred, her breathing was harsh, and all coherent thought seemed to escape. Nothing but thoughts of the fallen computer nerd broke through the haze.

Chuck. Unconscious. Chuck. Shot. Chuck. Hurt. Chuck . . .

Sarah wrenches herself back to the present, clenching her fists tightly around the sponge. The soapy water that trickles over her knuckles stings slightly, and she closes her eyes, almost relishing the new sensation. She's about to return to her attack on the counters when the bell over the door chimes metallically.

He's walking into the Orange Orange, droplets of water trickling from his curly brown hair and into his gentle brown eyes. As he rubs his arms furiously, his saturated shirt clings tightly to his lanky frame, accentuating the muscles of his upper torso and leaving little to the imagination.

Including the purple-black bruise which rests nastily just above his heart.

Sarah's stomach clenches as she takes in the injury, and for just a moment she has to wrestle with herself to keep the memories from reemerging.

Chuck. Unconscious. Chuck. Shot. Chuck. Hurt. Chuck . . .

She quickly diverts her eyes from his chest to his face and forces her lips upward into a smile. Unfortunately, that smile doesn't quite reach her cloudy blue eyes. "Hey," she says tightly.

At her words, he steps closer to the counter. "Sarah Walker," he intones seriously, a mischevious glint highlighting the grave expression in his eyes. "I'd like to negotiate a ransom for your counters. They're really too young to die." He pauses for a heartbeat, and then his face splits into a wide, goofy grin.

Rolling her eyes, Sarah can't help but chuckle. Even if her still-raw throat smarts from the vibrations. "Cute," she replies.

"I thought so," he agrees, then stares pointedly at the sponge.

She does not relinquish it. Instead, as the moment fades, her line of sight drifts unbidden to his chest. The bruise is still visible through the soaked white shirt. "How's your chest?" she asks quietly.

"Fine," he says, absentmindedly fingering the injury through his shirt. "Actually, Casey says I should be proud. Something about it being my first war wound." He hesitates, clearly not quite sure whether he should find this humorous or ludicrous. Undecided, he smirks instead.

"Chuck," Sarah chides, her gaze darkening. "It isn't funny. You could have been seriously injured. Or even . . ." But her breath hitches in her throat, and she cannot continue. Her hand tightens around the sponge and she quickly returns to feverishly scrubbing the counters.

Chuck's shoulders slump at her renewed assault on the linoleum. "Hey," he says softly, reaching up and placing his hand over Sarah's. He curls his fingers gently over her raw, tender knuckles, forcing her to stop her brutal scouring.

His touch is gentle but firm and causes tiny jolts of electricity to course from her hand up into her forearm. Momentarily distracted, she stares at his hand, watching as his fingers softly rub her exposed skin. When she glances up at him, an unfamiliar vulnerability flits across her face. All too soon, however, she blinks and her expression returns to its usual stoic veneer. "Chuck . . ." she protests, quickly removing her hand.

A shadow of disappointment flashes across his own face. "It really doesn't hurt that badly," he says, seemingly groping for words. "Besides, I was wearing a bullet proof vest."

"A vest that I didn't know about," Sarah says sharply, her icy blue gaze penetrating. "And that still doesn't make it all right. You were supposed to –"

"Stay in the car," he finishes, sighing heavily as he studies an interesting speck on his shoe. "I know."

"Then why didn't you?" she demands. "Why don't you?" The spoken challenge hanging fresh in the air, she leans forward on her palms, studying him.

"I thought you were in trouble," he says softly, gradually raising his head and gazing into her eyes. "I wanted to help."

The response is simple, innocent. And she is reminded again of all the reasons she has dedicated her life to protecting this man. But at the same time, for the same reason, her fists clench, her anger building. How dare he put his life in jeopardy simply to help her? Doesn't he get it? Doesn't he know how important he is?

"It's not your job to help," she says coldly, narrowing her eyes. "It's your job to listen."

"Sarah, I'm –"

She cuts him off. She's on a roll now, the tension from the past twenty-four hours finally unleashed. "Don't you get it?" she spits, her knuckles turning white as her fingernails dig into the palms of her hands. "Chuck, you could have been killed." The word causes her heart to skip and the sponge to become little more than a tightly wadded ball rolled up in her crushing fist. She can feel her defenses wavering, the protective mask slipping away. Cursing herself for her weakness, she takes a few deep breaths. Wills the mask to slip back into place, the defensive walls to become refortified.

She can't allow him to see her like this. Can't allow him to see her so vulnerable. Vulnerability is a luxury she can't afford . . .

Not even for him.

"I'm sorry," she finally says, her stoic mask firmly back in place.

"Me, too," he murmurs, kicking at an invisible crumb on the floor. "I guess I should have stayed in the car."

"Yeah," she agrees vehemently, grateful for the sudden return to status quo. "You really should have." She pauses, then continues in a softer tone of voice. "Chuck . . . I'm here to protect you, not the other way around. Don't do that again."

"Okay," he nods. As their eyes meet, her shoulders visibly relax.

She's about to say something else when his expression suddenly shifts. "Now, listen," he says, a faux stern tone coloring his voice as he leans toward her with a strict countenance. "Hand over the sponge and no one gets hurt."

Completely offset by the change of topic, Sarah blinks at him before her lips slowly form into a small smile "Chuck . . ." she chides.

"No, I'm serious," he continues, his face schooled into a grim expression. "I'm fully prepared to call in back-up. The counter police will be very interested in the state of your counters, Agent Walker."

In spite of herself, she can't help but laugh. Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, she throws the sponge at him, hitting him square in the chest. "Happy?" she demands, crossing her arms and quirking her head.

"Very," he nods, pocketing the treasure. Clearly pleased with himself, his mouth flits into his trademark grin.

Suddenly, her own smile becomes much more pronounced. And as the warm air from the heater above finally starts to permeate her agile frame, she reflects on just how much she needed to see that smile. Because that innocent, goofy grin upon Chuck's face proves one thing . . . he's okay, and maybe she hasn't failed him after all.

~*~

It's the little things that count.

Like when she's sitting alone in her hotel room, clinging tightly to her chest as she stares blankly at the wall in front of her. Outside, a cacophony of sounds fills the busy street as people shuffle noisily about their everyday existences. Inside, an emptiness fills Sarah's chest as she realizes just how quiet her own life has become. Her mind drifts slowly to thoughts of Chuck, their conversation from six days before still fresh within her head. For a moment, the image of his grinning, rain-soaked face flickers through her thoughts. But then she purses her lips and quickly forces the image away.

This is ridiculous. There are other things she should be focusing upon. She made a choice a long time ago – a choice that entailed empty hotel rooms and a silent life, and giving up anything that might even remotely constitute a regular existence.

A choice which Chuck himself has commented upon on more than one occasion.

But that doesn't stop her from wondering what it would be like to spend today, of all days, with the man she can't seem to get out of her mind. Nor does it stop the fact that there's a cupcake lying on her dresser. Or a single birthday candle and a lighter directly by its side. It doesn't stop her from wishing that just this once, she could have a regular day. Go out, have fun. Share herself with another human being. Be normal for a change.

Normal. The word catches her attention for a brief moment before she realizes that the very thought is laughable. She's a CIA agent, an assassin trained in the art of skewering the enemy with sharp knives, and she's sitting around her room thinking about being normal.

She really has to cut this out. Shaking her head violently, she forces herself back to the present. She has work to do. There's a mission dossier sitting in her briefcase, waiting to be read, and several throwing knives in desperate need of sharpening. Squaring her shoulders, she reaches for her briefcase, her thoughts fixed solely on the impending mission.

And then she hears a light knock on her door.

Her eyebrows arch in surprise and she freezes halfway to picking up the dossier. She stares at the door for a moment, wondering if maybe she's hearing things. But then the knock sounds again and a telltale ping of hope skirts across her chest.

Pushing herself off the bed, she walks slowly to the door and peers out the peephole. Chuck is standing in the hallway with an optimistic expression on his face, his hair tousled and his lips curled into an expectant smile. Gone is the stark white shirt with its accompanying gray tie and pocket protector (something she's amused to discover that she can't help but miss), but in its place is a blue t-shirt which accentuates the smooth line of his lanky frame.

If she notices the slight curvature of his muscles underneath the blue fabric, she shows no signs. Instead, she molds her expression into one of pleasant surprise and opens the door. "Chuck," she greets him lightly. "What are you doing here?"

The moment he sees her, his smile broadens into a grin and he holds up a bag which smells strongly like it's carrying some sort of Italian cuisine. "Did someone call for room service?" he asks cheerfully.

Quickly averting her eyes from that dangerous smile, she takes in the bulging plastic bag. "Italian," she states, nodding toward the bag. "Nice."

"I thought you might like some dinner," he replies, stepping into her room as she holds the door open. "It may not be sizzling shrimp, but Vinny cooks a mean ravioli." He pauses, then turns to her with a furtive look. "Just don't tell Morgan. I wouldn't want to be christened a Shrimp Traitor."

"A Shrimp Traitor?" Sarah repeats, smirking slightly as she inconspicuously throws a towel over her cupcake. "We wouldn't want that."

"Oh, this is no laughing matter," Chuck replies seriously, although his lips are twitching slightly. "You have no idea the kind of torture it entails."

"Torture?" Sarah questions, falling easily into the banter. For a moment, she reflects on how natural it is to talk to Chuck. Almost as if she's talking to a part of herself – the innocent, playful part she thought she lost long ago.

"Mmm," Chuck affirms gravely, nodding wisely. "Brutal torture. Of the most archaic type. We're talking hot pokers, rats, purposeful drowning." He leans toward her, then whispers conspiratorially, "Sometimes even name calling."

"Wow," Sarah replies, an expression of mock seriousness playing across her face. "I had no idea Morgan could be so vicious."

"Don't underestimate the little bearded man," Chuck cautions.

"Well, don't worry. My lips are sealed," Sarah promises earnestly. She hesitates for a moment, glancing toward her work. But then she quickly looks back at Chuck, pushing all thoughts of spy dossiers from her mind. "So what was this you said about Italian cooking?" she asks, casting a curious look at the parcel in his hand.

In response, Chuck grins and lifts the bag. "My dear Sarah, prepare to be impressed," he replies. "You haven't tasted real Italian cooking until you've tasted Vinny's raviolis."

"I can hardly wait," she replies, stepping over to her small dining table and folding herself into a chair.

The emptiness which had filled her chest only moments before suddenly starts to dissipate as she watches him concentrate on spooning ravioli onto paper plates. As he hums an unrecognizable tune while he finishes the preparations, her muscles relax in time to the music. When he places an empty wine glass in front of her and uncorks a bottle of Merlot, she leans back in her chair and smiles at him contentedly, her long blonde hair brushing haphazardly against his arm as she meets his eyes.

Unfortunately, their gaze connects for a moment too long and Chuck forgets to stop pouring the wine. "Oh, crap!" he says as wine begins to pool onto the table and drip down onto the floor. When she feels the liquid start to flow onto her lap, Sarah jumps up from her chair and looks around for a nearby towel.

But it seems Chuck has beaten her to it. Casting his eyes wildly around the room, he finally settles on the plain white towel she had so inconspicuously placed over the birthday cake. Her eyes widen as she watches him stride quickly across the room. "Chuck, wait!" she cries, holding out her hand to stop him.

But it's already too late.

Chuck dashes to the dresser and quickly removes the towel, then turns and starts to rush back to the puddle now dribbling onto the floor. But halfway there he stops and does a double take, his foot frozen in mid-air. Twirling on the spot, his mouth drops open and he stares at the vanilla-frosted dessert. "Sarah," he says slowly, "Why is there a cupcake, a candle and a lighter on your dresser?"

Sarah searches frantically for some excuse to explain why she would have purchased such a treat. For a wild moment, she considers telling him the truth. But she quickly dismisses the idea as the possible repercussions spin throughout her head. In the end, the only excuse she can think to mutter is, "Just . . . because."

The moment the words are out of her mouth, Sarah grits her teeth and feels an urge to kick something. Ten years of CIA training and all she can think to say is just because? Ten years of covert ops, dodging gunfire and saving the country, and she's going to blow her cover over a stupid cupcake? Disgusted with her weakness, she tenses as her fingers ball themselves into fists.

Before she can cover her faux pax, however, a shocked and delighted smile spreads across Chuck's face. "Sarah . . . is it your birthday?!"

"Of course not," she replies offhandedly, as if the very idea were ridiculous. "I just –" But Chuck interrupts before she can deliver a better excuse.

"Then what's with the dessert?" he asks, pointing toward the dresser.

Her chest tightens as she narrows her eyes, glaring at him reproachfully. "Chuck, just because we have a cover relationship doesn't mean you have the right to pry into my personal life."

Unfortunately, these words seem to have little to no effect as the delighted look on Chuck's face simply becomes more pronounced. "It is your birthday!" he exclaims with glee. But Sarah's frown only deepens, her glare becoming more intense. Under the weight of her cold blue stare, Chuck's smile begins to falter. "I mean . . . it's okay that it's your birthday," he stutters, suddenly much less sure of himself. "I'm not going to notify Fulcrum or anything."

"It's not my birthday," Sarah states rigidly, crossing her arms over her chest. The wine soaking into the carpet is forgotten by them both. "And if it were, there would be no reason for you to know about it." Chuck's face falls at her words, and a slight shiver of remorse runs down her spine. Still, she holds her ground.

"Sarah, listen," Chuck pleads, looking at her beseechingly. "It's okay. I'm not going to tell anyone. I just . . . it's nice to know something about you. Something real."

He looks so eager to make things right that Sarah sighs, her expression softening the most miniscule amount. "Chuck, you don't get it," she says seriously. "You can't know anything real about me. The minute you do, you're in even more danger than you already are." Her heart skips at the thought, and she quickly looks away under the guise of searching for a towel to clean her sodden lap.

Chuck's quiet for a long moment. When he finally does speak, his tone has become gentle yet firm. "So it's not your birthday," he says, stepping over to the dresser and placing the towel over the cupcake once more. "But we can still celebrate. You know . . . just because."

"Just because?" she repeats dubiously, quirking a brow as she meets his softhearted gaze.

"Sure," Chuck nods wisely. "People do it all the time. Just ask Hallmark."

Sarah smiles slightly at the remark, but quickly turns serious again. "Chuck –" she begins, but he interrupts her before she can finish.

"No, really," he continues, rushing ahead. "Do you know how many people Hallmark employs just to come up with fake holidays? I mean, Valentine's Day? Come on . . . why do we need to celebrate that?" He finishes, flinging his hands outward for emphasis as his eyes sparkle with unshed laughter.

Something about his rampant desire to please her, to pretend as if nothing has actually happened, causes Sarah to begin to relax. "So we're doing this to appease Hallmark," she says, a hint of amusement underlining her tone.

"Exactly!" Chuck exclaims, nodding fervently. "Do you know how much money we can make simply by being the creators of 'Just Because' day? We can finally quit our day jobs."

"Wow," she drawls, grinning slightly, "I'll have to notify General Beckman immediately."

"See?" Chuck replies, quirking his head. "Things are looking up already." Then he pauses and casts her a charming smile. "Sarah Walker," he intones, holding out his arm, "will you celebrate the First National Just Because Day with me?"

His smile sends a thrill of warmth coursing through her veins, and her muscles finally relax as she uncrosses her arms from her chest. "Charles Irving Bartowski," she intones, "I would be honored to celebrate Just Because Day with you." His answering grin makes everything worthwhile, and a tender gleam enters her eyes as she accepts his proffered arm.

"Uh," he says as they walk back to the table, "I guess we really should clean up this wine."

Her eyes widen at the sight of the wine soaking into her pristine floor. "That's probably a good idea," she murmurs, a soft laugh escaping her throat as she goes in search of a new towel.

And just like that, a disaster is averted.

When Chuck finally leaves, Sarah stands at the door for a long while, replaying the events of the evening they have just shared. The uneaten cupcake remains concealed by the plain white towel, and she thinks wistfully about what Just Because Day can never be. But before she can allow herself to linger too long on the thought, a knock on her door pulls her back to the present.

Furrowing her brow, she reaches out to open the door, wondering what Chuck could have forgotten. But Chuck is nowhere in sight and neither is anyone else. Immediately, Sarah's spy training kicks into effect and she backs into the door frame, angling her body to minimize any potential threat to herself. Her eyes sweep the hallway and eventually settle on a small package.

Frowning slightly, she leans forward to grab the tiny blue bag which has been placed directly in front of her door. Shaking it lightly, she finally reaches a hesitant hand into the parcel, feeling along the edges. A few seconds later, her hand emerges clutching a pair of turquoise shell earrings – earrings which she recognizes as having come from her hotel gift shop.

A sense of awe washes over her and her heart skips a beat when she notices the note attached to the present: For Sarah. Just because. - CB

~*~

It's the little things that count.

Like when she's staring down the edge of a cliff, watching the ocean waves beat rhythmically against the shore and the seagulls dip beneath the surface of the water. Attempting to shut her mind off against the deluge of impending thoughts, to forget the newest piece of intel and simply return home, calm and collected. Unchanged.

But something about her situation keeps her sitting here, unable to move from the precipice of the rocky crag.

Pursing her lips and narrowing her stormy blue eyes, she crosses her arms tightly against her chest. Her body aches from the pent-up emotions warring incessantly throughout her core; every muscle so tight that it feels like it's on fire. She won't let herself go, won't let herself feel . . . won't let herself cry over a man who failed her when she was no more than a child. Whose crazy schemes caused him to abandon her when she was still only a teenager.

Even if that same man was arrested no more than five hours before. Even if it is she who is partially to blame.

Added to this is the incessant battle she's been having over her feelings with Chuck. Chuck, who was there when she received the news; who looked at her as if he didn't know whether to offer her solace or ask how she could have let her father get arrested. It doesn't help that her birthday earrings are dangling from her ears, nor that she's been having dreams about him for the past two weeks.

Closing her eyes, she allows the sound of the ocean to wash over her, attempting to clear her head of these interminable thoughts. She doesn't know how long she's been there, nor how much time has passed. It is only when she feels a presence behind her that she abandons her ruminations and tenses, reaching to her ankle for a knife. But before she can pull the blade from its sheath, she's stopped by the sound of a familiar voice.

"Oh, hey," he says, and she turns to find a wide-eyed Chuck Bartowski holding up his hands. "No reason for knives. I come in peace," he folds one hand into the Boy Scout emblem as that self-same goofy grin slowly spreads across his face.

Releasing a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her hand automatically inches away from her ankle and its concealed blades. "Chuck," she says, the surprise evident in her tone even as she ignores the sudden increase of her pulse. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugs and comes to sit beside her, confident now that he won't be meeting the wrong side of a knife any time soon. "It's a good place to think," he replies, folding his lanky frame onto the cliff and gazing down at the ocean. "Well," he continues after a moment, his smile turning sheepish, "that, and I tried ten other places first."

Shaking her head, Sarah can't help but allow herself to laugh. "Ten other places?" she asks incredulously. She's not sure whether to be amused or extremely touched. But the latter might take her to places she knows she cannot go, so she quickly opts for the former and says: "We really need to work on getting you a life."

"I have a life," he returns quickly. "Just not a very conventional one."

"So, you have a super computer stuck in your brain and two spy handlers dictating your every move," Sarah responds, her voice slightly playful. "Is it that unconventional?"

"Not altogether, no," Chuck replies, shaking his head. "But I'll let you know if society changes its tune."

"You do that," she says easily, grateful for the momentary interruption. After a moment, however, the conversation dwindles and she's left staring blankly at the ocean, her thoughts once again threatening to overwhelm. And Chuck's proximity does nothing to quell the undercurrent flowing through her mind. Finally, she can stand the silence no longer. "So really, what are you doing here?" she asks again. This time the question is direct, leaving little room for dodging.

Chuck is quiet for a moment before he looks at her seriously. "I was worried," he says significantly, and his tone causes her to shiver and divert her gaze.

"There's nothing to be worried about," she replies softly, dismayed to hear the vulnerability encompassed in her voice. Steeling herself, she takes a deep breath and forces her next words to come out stronger, more forceful. "I just came here to think," she continues, gazing at the waves lapping against the shore.

But when Chuck turns his head to look at her, she has the uncomfortable feeling that he's looking past the words and directly into the emotions she has so carefully buried beneath the surface. "It's not your fault, you know," he says, placing his hand upon her arm.

His touch causes a jolt of electricity to race across her exposed skin, but she ignores the sensation and grits her teeth instead. "I told Beckman that he was back in town," she states, her voice betraying her deep-seated anger. "I told her he was planning to take me to that concert."

"Yeah, you did. But you had to do that, Sarah," Chuck replies, his tone beseeching. "More than anyone else, I know how much it sucks to follow orders. Believe me. But Beckman asked you directly."

Orders. For an instant, Sarah feels like pushing herself to her feet and screaming at the top of her lungs. Crying out for solace, for a reprieve, for anything that will allow her to turn her back on this life which has stripped her of so much already. But the sentiment quickly fades and she's left contemplating Chuck's words, feeling emptier than she had a moment before.

"I alerted him last time," she finally admits, staring blankly ahead of her. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she's shocked that she dared to voice them. It isn't something that she would have ever told Chuck before; it isn't something that she would have ever told anyone before. But somehow, sitting here with Chuck as the water crashes against the coast, she's feeling more open than she has in a long time.

Chuck's next words jar her back to the present, causing her to blink in surprise. "I know," he confides.

She opens her mouth to ask him how, but he continues before she can speak. "But you can't keep saving him from himself, Sarah. There comes a point when you have to let him go."

The statement causes her chest to constrict. "He's my father," she protests feebly, still staring unseeingly at the ocean below.

"And you're his daughter," Chuck returns, turning to face her. "You're the kid here, Sarah. Well . . . sort of," he adds as an afterthought, and the statement actually brings a peachy smile to her face. "The point is," he continues, "you're always looking after him. Maybe it's time that he look after you."

Chuck's assertion gives her pause, and she turns for a moment to look at him. She can feel her façade faltering, her mask slipping out of place. Like the ocean as it crashes upon the shore, she can feel the lines between herself and Chuck becoming blurred. "Right," Sarah finally responds, a slight vulnerability penetrating her words. "I'll just ask him to pencil me in between his con jobs. Well," she continues, "That is, if he isn't too disappointed that I'm a CIA agent."

Chuck suddenly looks at her with such intensity that she shivers slightly and wraps her arms more tightly around herself. "He's proud of you, you know," he finally reveals, his tone steady and sure.

"Why do you say that?" Sarah asks, her brow furrowing.

"He told me so," Chuck states, a tender gleam entering his brown eyes. "The last time he was here. He figured out that you were in law enforcement, and he told me that he was proud of you."

Sarah swallows hard, her eyebrows quirking in response. "I . . . don't really know what to say to that," she says truthfully, and she realizes she can't remember the last time she'd heard those words. In fact, she reflects, she doesn't think her father has ever told her he was proud of her. The thought, though foreign, causes a warmth to fill her chest.

"You don't have to say anything," Chuck responds, shrugging. "I just thought you should know."

Sarah studies him for a moment, taking in the expression reflected on his face. It's earnest and gentle, solemn and caring in equal parts. "Thank you," she says quietly, giving him a small smile.

"You're welcome," he responds, his lips quirking upward to return the gesture.

She knows she shouldn't. Knows what might eventually happen if she allows herself to succumb. But somehow, sitting here with Chuck, a sense of peace has pervaded her otherwise unyielding façade. And before she knows what she's doing, she's leaning over and placing her head on his shoulder.

He slowly drapes his arm across her body in response. "It's really not your fault," he repeats gently.

She pauses for a long moment, allowing that statement to wash over her. Finally: "I know," she says softly. As she says it, she feels a sense of relief wash over her agile frame. Because as the words fall from her mouth, she realizes that this time she really believes them. And the fact that he believes them, too, makes her all the more sure.

Instinctively, she snuggles tighter against Chuck as the waves continue their rhythmic beat against the shore, which suddenly seems a lot closer than it had mere moments before.

~*~

It's the little things that count.

Like when he smiles at her when she's had a bad day, and deep down she knows the world is a little better for it. Or when he shows up at her doorstep unexpected and, for just a moment, makes her feel as though she's a human being and not some hardened CIA agent. Or when she's on the precipice of a cliff, unsure how to move away, and his gentle reassurances help to guide her back.

It's the little things that count. The little things that truly matter.

Because each little thing combines into one monumental, unshakable truth: Detached, career-driven CIA agent Sarah Walker has fallen for Chuck Bartowski, a computer nerd with a heart of gold.

And while it may be something she is not ready to accept, a truth she is not ready to acknowledge, it exists nonetheless. And with every little thing he does, she is getting closer to the moment when she can embrace that life-changing reality.