According to a recent poll, four out of five dentists say that I don't own Chuck. And I wouldn't believe the fifth. He just likes to mess with people.

Chapter 2

"Life does not suck for the Carmichaels."

This passed through Chuck's head as he stepped off the yachtamaran and examined his surroundings. The pier led them past sandy, white beaches and up to an ornate, two-story building. Arches surrounded the white walls of the hotel, and above each he could see a balcony connected to what were apparently the guest rooms. "How much is this costing the NSA?" he whispered to Sarah.

"Your tax dollars at work."

They followed the porter into the hotel, and found themselves in front of a modest sized lobby. The porter nodded, and returned to retrieve their bags. Chuck and Sarah stood by a small fountain, and watched the koi swim back and forth. Remembering that they had to get 'in character,' Chuck grabbed Sarah's hand.

"You two are spies."

The statement caused Chuck to whirl around in surprise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah reach back for her holster.

The face studying them caused Chuck to relax. The girl looked to be about ten or so, with her reddish-brown hair tied into a ponytail. She wore a t-shirt, white shorts, and sandals. Her freckled face looked up at them with a mildly amused expression.

"What makes you say that?" Chuck asked, somewhat uneasily.

The girl shrugged. "Wishful thinking. Nothing exciting ever happens here, so I figured you could be secret government spies." After a pause, "You aren't spies, are you?"

"No." Chuck flashed a quick smile. "Do I look like a spy?"

"Eh, not really." The girl glanced at Sarah. "She kinda does, though."

Chuck put a hand on Sarah's shoulder. "Believe me, my wife is no spy."

"Ok. I guess I'll just have to pin my hopes on that guy." The girl pointed at a man walking through the atrium. Chuck's eyes narrowed as he recognized Strassburg, and he felt Sarah's grip tighten in his hand. "I think he's in Witness Protection. On the run from the mob."

"I don't know," Chuck responded. "I'm thinking he's more of a time traveler from the future. Here to steal all of the natural resources on your island."

"You're making fun of me," the girl pouted. "That's not nice. But you can still be spies for me, though, right? Or jewel thieves, or…"

"Emily!"

They turned to see a middle-aged man hurry over towards them. A few beads of sweat on his face betrayed his otherwise immaculate appearance. His deep-set eyes were glaring at the girl. "What have I told you about disturbing the guests?"

"I wasn't disturbing you, was I?"

"No no, she's quite charming," Sarah replied.

"Well why don't you go charm the staff for a little while, so I can welcome the Carmichaels to the Grand Royale Hotel."

The man watched the girl stomp away, and then extended a hand to Chuck. "Kyle Marston. Proud owner of this little slice of heaven. I hope your trip in was ok."

"Of course," Chuck decided to affect a slightly haughty manner, figuring that Charles Carmichael might be a bit of a snob. "Everything has been quite…adequate so far."

"Oh Charles, please. Everything has been quite excellent so far, Mr. Marston." Sarah flashed a smile at the owner. "This place is beautiful."

"Thank you, thank you, it's my pride and joy. Ah!" The porter had brought in the bags, and Marston handed him the key card.

"So have you been here before?" Chuck asked as they followed the porter down the hallway.

"No, never. I've had the chance to stay in a few places like this on past missions though."

"With Bryce, I'd bet," Chuck thought to himself.

"Usually, I haven't been so lucky, so it's nice to get one of these missions on occasion. Mostly, I get sent to more mundane places."

"You mean like Burbank?" Chuck muttered.

Before Sarah could respond, the porter stopped moving. He slid the key card into a slot inside an oak door, and motioned for them to enter. They found themselves in an airy, spacious room. Chuck could see the beach through the balcony door. A spacious bathroom with a whirlpool tub was off to the side. He coughed slightly when he realized there was only one bed in the room. He turned to see the porter looking at him expectantly. Chuck fished out a twenty from his pocket. "Here you go, my good man."

"It's good to be the Carmichaels!" Chuck said after the porter left. "Why can't all our missions be like this?"

"It's still a mission, don't forget!" Sarah said from inside the bathroom.

"Yeah, I know. So uh, the NSA's going to…"

"Reimburse your expenses? Yes, Chuck, you'll get your twenty back."

"Ok." Chuck popped open the suitcase, and leaved through the clothes. "Wow," he said to himself. He guessed that the various outfits cost about as much as his first semester at Stanford. "The government picked out all these clothes?"

"I did, actually."

"No kidding." He could see how the clothes would fit Charles Carmichael, but they definitely weren't Chuck Bartowski. They certainly weren't the traditional gear for a night of gaming with Morgan.

He wondered if Sarah would prefer if he dressed like this. He figured Bryce probably could pull these outfits off without any trouble. Chuck was sure he'd taken her to places like this on occasion. No wonder she didn't want to share in their brief suburban fantasy.

"Chuck!"

"Hmm?"

"You'd better get changed. We need to go down for dinner, and see if we can figure out what Strassburg is up to."


Chuck had never taken French. Usually, this didn't present a problem in his day-to-day life. But it made reading the Hotel Grand Royale's menu a bit of a problem. He quickly realized he'd have to fall back on Sarah.

"So, what looks good, Mrs. Carmichael?"

Sarah looked up, smiling. "Oh, they've got quite a lot here. I'm quite partial to the Poulet à la Normande." Seeing Chuck's confused expression, she added, "Chicken."

"Ah. Works for me." Chuck took a sip from his wine glass. The hotel's restaurant was decorated in a simple but elegant manner. The room was lit only by the bay window at the far side, and the ensconced candle at each table. The room was partially filled with diners. Chuck recognized the woman from the boat seated alone at one side. She was studying the menu intently, her leg wiggling back and forth as if she was nervous. A few tables over, a man was staring at his cell phone. His white polo shirt was barely covering a tattoo on his arm. He was also wearing sunglasses inside the restaurant, which struck Chuck as being odd.

An older woman was deep in discussion with the waiter at another table. Chuck couldn't tell what she was saying, but she seemed to feel fairly strongly about it. Occasionally, her hand would move to her graying hair, as if in concern that the indoor fan would blow it away. The waiter stood awkwardly by the table, waiting for her to finish.

Strassburg was also in the room, seated with a woman at a table at the corner. From the biographical details he'd gotten from Sarah, Chuck assumed the woman was Strassburg's wife. The woman's blue dress seemed to be fulfilling its concealment obligations through willpower and luck alone. Occasionally, she shook her head while talking, which caused her questionably authentic red hair to fall in her face. None of this seemed to impress Strassburg. His deep-set eyes were darting around the room suspiciously, and he barely seemed to notice his wife. Chuck had thought he'd seen him studying their table earlier but couldn't be sure.

"Anything triggering?"

Chuck turned to Sarah, and shook his head. "Nothing, nobody here seems to be Fulcrum."

"Well, there may be somebody coming later, or it could be somebody we don't know anything about. Keep paying attention."

They were interrupted as the waiter approached their table. "Have you made your selection?"

"Uh, I'll have the…" floundering, Chuck looked up at Sarah.

"He will have the poulet à la Normande, and I will have the saumon d'ecosse label rouge."

"Excellent." The waiter's face betrayed a slight smile. "So are you folks enjoying your stay?"

"Oh, absolutely," Sarah responded. "My husband and I were thrilled to get a reservation." She gave the waiter a conspiratorial look. "So would you mind filling us in a bit about our fellow guests? We'd love to know who we are sharing our holiday with."

The waiter glanced around a moment before quietly stating, "Well I'm really not supposed to." Then after half a second's hesitation, "But sure, why not?"

The waiter leaned in. "I'm sure you know the guy over there." He pointed to the man in the white polo. "Alex Rogers? You know, the quarterback?"

"Oh sure." Chuck said. "Devon talks about him all the time," he pointed out to Sarah. "Apparently, not all that awesome." Sarah giggled.

"Yeah, that's they guy. He's cost me quite a few dollars this year, let me tell you. Now the woman there," he pointed to the young woman that had been on the boat, "I hear is some sort of Florence Nightingale. Not the type you'd think would have a lot of cash to afford this place." The waiter was clearly warming to the subject. "But I hear she helped care for some really rich guy, right before he croaked. Left her a whole bunch of money in his will."

Chuck heard Sarah make a "Hmmph" sound.

"I don't know a whole lot about the guy over there. Seems to keep to himself, but I think he's some kind of German businessman. His wife is quite a dish, though."

"What about her?" Chuck gestured towards the older woman.

"Oh yeah," the waiter rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Armstrong. She's a handful. Been here before, with her husband. I hear she divorced him, took him for everything he was worth. Probably cheated on her, not that I could blame him." The waiter looked around. "So that's about it. I believe there are a couple of other people coming to the island later tonight. Some Japanese suits, I think. Then there will be some more people tomorrow, I think. It's kind of slow this time of year."

"Well thank you for the scoop…" Sarah paused.

"Brent."

"Thank you, Brent."

"Sure, any time. Just let me know if you wanna know anything more. And I'll be back with your dinner." The waiter winked, and walked away.

"I'm not sure our new friend Brent is buying us as a couple," Chuck commented a moment later.

"It's ok, Chuck. Just remember not to overdo it. You needn't ham it up like you did earlier."

"What, are you questioning my acting skills? I'll have you know I was the hit of my fifth grade geography pageant. They said I brought an unexpected level of gravitas to my role as 'Missouri' that brought tears to the audience's eyes."

"Oh really?"

"Well it also didn't hurt that 'Mississippi' freaked out and ran away right before me."

"Morgan?"

"How'd you guess?"

Sarah flashed one of her high-wattage non-cover smiles at Chuck, and he smiled back. He gazed at her for a bit longer than he meant to, and Sarah's eyes looked down. Chuck sighed, and grabbed the wine bottle.

"Chuck, you might want to ease off on the wine. We need to be ready for anything here, and that's not going to help."

If Brent were here now, he'd definitely believe we're a married couple, Chuck thought to himself.