Author's Note: A surge of inspiration hit today and I decided to punch out the next chapter for this story. It doesn't really get much into the plot, but it does set thegroundworkfor the rest of the story. I also decided to add dates so that you, the reader, will have a less difficult time of keeping the timeline straight. Thanks for your reviews!

March 21, 2008

Sometimes, very often in fact, Chuck Bartowski couldn't stand Charles Carmichael. He was everything Chuck frequently wasn't. Charles Carmichael was confident, he was suave, and he was articulate. He could drink vodka martinis, dance the tango, and drop a $100,000 on roulette, lose, and not worry about the consequences. Chuck couldn't help being a little jealous of Charles Carmichael. He got to wear fancy clothes, and go to fancy dinners and even fancier parties. He got to have Sarah hang off his arm and instantly make any man within a 100 yard radius green with envy. Charles Carmichael was, by all measurable means, much more awesome than Chuck Bartowski ever was.

Tonight, though, was not very often. Tonight, Chuck wasn't envious or hateful or even resentful of Charles Carmichael, because Charles Carmichael was sitting at the bar, nursing a martini, alone, as Charles Carmichael was only getting in the way of Sarah shamelessly flirting with the Russian arms dealer over by the craps table.

Chuck didn't even like martinis.

To express his current unhappiness with the world in general (he had earned a 'Woe is me' pity party, damnit), and with the stupid mission in particular, Chuck downed his martini in one swift gulp as if the act itself was a cosmic middle fingers to the Fates, God, whatever sick bastard was in charge of ruining his life. Surreptitiously, which of course was not very surreptitious at all, Chuck looked out of the corner of his eye to see Sarah practically attached at the hip to the loquacious, mountainous man that was Yuri Petronovich. She was talkative, her hand was resting lightly on his upper arm, and she was smiling.

Chuck needed another goddamn martini.

One would have thought that by now, Chuck would have gotten used to seeing Sarah with another man (she certainly expected him to), but Chuck just wasn't wired that way. He wasn't a spy; he was just some schlub who worked at a Buy More for barely more than minimum wage. His best friend was a video game addicted, boundary challenged, gnome-like creature of a man. And he lived with his sister. His life was simple, or at least it had been. Seeing his Sarah, and he couldn't help but think of her as his even if it was painfully obvious that she was most definitely not his, would probably kick his ass for even thinking such a possessive thought (not that he actually thought she belonged to him, he wasn't stupid), and probably never would be his, acting like the sun shined out of some piece of Eurotrash's ass, was enough to drive any man to drink.

So Chuck ordered another martini.

It was so unbelievably depressing. Oh he knew she was just acting, painfully well, and that she didn't mean it, thank God, but that didn't stop the pain, like that would ever happen, and it definitely didn't make him love the job, he'd die first. He had learned his lesson from the embarrassingly tragicomic Kirk incident. He hadn't complained or whined or even gave her the 'hang-dog, looked like somebody just kicked his puppy' look, he'd just headed straight to the bar (because that's where she told him to go) and started drinking. In hindsight, probably not the brightest idea he'd ever had. He could already hear the complaints. First Casey would glare at him with disgust, call him an idiot, and manhandle him into the car. Then Sarah would express her disappointment; oh she would be gentle about it (yet still insistent), but the disapproval and unhappiness would be written clearly in her eyes. But what other choice did he have? It's not like they should expect him to watch everything unfold sober. That was just cruel.

Chuck downed his second martini in two gulps.

Sometimes, he wondered why they even made him come on these types of missions. It was all so pointless. What good was a cover as man and wife, or boyfriend and girlfriend, or, dare he even consider, as just fuckbuddies (not that he'd ever think of Sarah in those terms, because she was so much more than that, he wanted her to be so much more than that), if she ditched him at the drop of a hat as soon as they made their mark? What would ever happen if they ran into somebody they knew? There were only so many times you could use the 'It's L.A.' excuse (the 'It's L.A.' excuse being there are more stunningly hot blondes in L.A. than Scientologists (the fall back position being, of course, 'Oh she just has one of those faces' (which in itself was totally ludicrous as Sarah most definitely did not have one of those faces))). Of course, Chuck was willing to concede, that maybe he was biased about the whole thing.

Chuck ordered a third martini.

Yuri Petronovich wasn't that good looking. Sure, he had muscles (but muscles weren't everything), and sure he was rich (small consolation that all his money came from selling weapons illegally), and okay, so he seemed kind of charming (Sarah was being a little too convincing with the touching as far as Chuck was concerned), but damnit, Chuck was nice. Wasn't that what all girls wanted? The nice guy? Chuck groaned loudly and almost rammed his head into the bar top. He only stopped himself from face planting into the mahogany wood by realizing how utterly ridiculous he'd look. And he certainly wouldn't want to draw attention to himself. Not any attention at all.

Chuck took care of the third martini without even realizing it.

He wasn't bitter. He really wasn't. He just didn't like feeling so completely useless. Being told to scram so that the grownups could do grownup work was not exactly an ego boosting experience. What were his alternatives? Wait in the car? Get squirreled away to some undisclosed underground location for the rest of his life? No thank you. At least this way he got to spend "date time" with Sarah (no matter how fake), got to see her in sexy dresses and watch her smile (although not always for him), and be the kind of person he had often dreamed of being. All in all, maybe it wasn't such a raw deal.

Chuck ordered a jack and coke instead.

Things could be worse, he could be Casey. The thought brought a stupid grin to his face (most likely helped by the alcohol) and he sipped on his new drink carefully (he did need to pace himself). Chuck wasn't sure how useful being a valet was, but apparently, Casey's go-to waiter outfit was at the cleaners. Or so Casey had hinted. Chuck figured he was just tired of serving overpriced champagne and barquettes (and other various French crap (Chuck was too uninterested at the moment to remember what delectables were on the night's menu) bathed in truffle oil) to sanctimonious rich people. Maybe it was just the cars.

Chuck stared at the dark brown color of his drink.

He just wanted to go home. He was tired. He'd had a very long day; there were only so many Jeff and Lester schemes a man could foil before he just got fed up with it all (he'd like to know how they even got the washing machine to do that). He hadn't eaten much all day, his sister had been driving him crazy all week about the wedding (he loved Ellie dearly, but she could be so overbearing sometimes), and he thought he was starting to come down with a cold. This was not the perfect recipe for mindless obedience and a happy disposition. He wasn't a professional (as everyone liked to point out to him frequently) so who cares if he decided to rebel a little with help from his friend Jack? He was getting to the point where he was actually willing to risk Casey's ridicule in order to ask him to let him leave. He'd done his job, he'd made his rounds through the swarm of people, and he'd flashed, wasn't that enough? Of course he already knew the answer to that.

Chuck was in the process of raising his drink to his lips when he was rudely interrupted. "You look like you could use a drink."

Chuck looked at the woman to his right, then down to the drink in his hand, and then back to the woman to his right (when had she even sat down?). He blinked and felt his face slacken a little, more than likely conveying to the woman that he was an idiot. He honestly didn't know what to say.

"Ah, not a fan of ironic humor I see."

Chuck barked out a laugh and took a long pull from his drink. He placed it down on the bar and gazed at the woman sitting next to him. He gazed openly and without reservation, far too tired and intoxicated about potentially embarrassing himself at the moment (besides, she had initiated things). "My whole life is based on ironic comedy."

The woman, who Chuck was just starting to realize was rather striking in a dark, somewhat smoldering way, politely laughed. At least Chuck thought she was being polite, he really hadn't been joking. "My name is Eve."

Of course it was. Chuck did a mental inventory: dark hair, check, petite, check, brown eyes, check, seemingly interested, quite possibly check. The exact opposite of Sarah? Most definitely. It was just like Lou all over again, he clearly had some kind of sickness. "I'm Chu – Charles. I'm Charles." Chuck nearly slapped himself silly for making such a stupid move. He looked down at his jack and coke like it had tried to stab a knife in his back and pushed it far away from him.

"Well, Charles, what's got you searching for happiness at the bottom of a drink?"

Chuck looked down at the bar, everything that he had just been railing about coming back to the forefront of his mind after a brief reprieve. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was his normal friendly attitude, but he found himself answering Eve without actually meaning to. "Long day." He smirked and patted himself on the back (not literally, that'd just be weird) for giving such a laconic response. Sarah and Casey would be so proud.

"Ah yes, the long day, the standard response of bar patrons everywhere."

Chuck rubbed a hand along the side of his head and did his best to look at Eve more critically. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Ever since the Intersect had downloaded into his brain, he'd become much more skeptical of beautiful women expressing interest in him (not that he'd had much experience with them before the Intersect). He tried not to be, but it was hard not to see every potential person as someone who wanted to use him for nefarious purposes.

Eve smiled easily, her eyes bright, and she leaned forward a little bit to place her hand on Chuck's knee. Chuck stared. "I don't mean to pry, but I don't often see men who look as good in a tux as you do at an event like this sitting alone." Chuck blushed. "I told myself, that's a man I need to talk to. So here I am."

"Uh – well, thank you, but I'm not really – I mean, thank you." He wasn't sure why he hadn't mentioned Sarah yet, but he figured the alcohol was impairing his basic survival instincts. Then he thought of what Sarah was currently doing. Then he got angry. It wasn't fair. Was he not allowed the opportunity, the freedom to pursue someone who was actually interested in him? Was Sarah the only one who got to have any fun (if he was thinking coherently, he might have realized that Sarah despised this part of her job)? He was tired of being alone.

"So why are you sitting alone?"

Unfortunately, despite his new resolve to get some, he was still Chuck Bartowski, and he still had Chuck Bartowski's ingrained inability to lie (or at least lie convincingly). "Actually, I'm not here alone." A war was raging inside him. On one side was Horny Chuck, and on the other, Smart Chuck. Smart Chuck was winning the war, but losing the current battle. He knew he had to fight dirty, so he pictured a naked Sarah and everyone was happy. "I'm here with my girlfriend." He loved saying that word, if only he could actually mean it.

"Your girlfriend?" The disappointment was clear on Eve's face, but she quickly recovered. "She's either very confident or very dumb."

"Sometimes, I think it's a mixture of both." Chuck didn't try to stop the bitterness that seeped into his tone.

"Problems?"

Chuck arched his eyebrows and screwed his face into a comical, dumbfounded expression. He almost felt tempted to spill his guts, simply because the woman's curiosity was so unusual. He had become way too comfortable with the people around him keeping everything to themselves that it was actually unusual to meet somebody who was interested in hearing about the problems of someone else. He didn't speak a word. He'd only end up saying that Sarah wasn't his girlfriend, but he was in love with her anyway, that he wasn't really Charles Carmichael the software engineer, but that he often dreamed he could be. Life was far too complicated. "Just your typical relationship drama. Just feeling sorry for myself I guess."

"Well, Charles, if you ever stop feeling sorry for yourself, give me a call." Eve reached for a bar napkin and wrote her number on it, passing it over to Chuck.

Too surprised by the fact that he had somehow picked up a woman without having to actually do anything, he could only just stare at the napkin in front of him. Eve had written her number with a spectacular flourish, and Chuck found it oddly endearing. If only Sarah wouldn't give him an earful for endangering their cover, he might actually consider keeping the napkin and calling her.

He reached out and scrunched up the napkin in his hand. He moved his hand to his pocket and as he was tucking his way inside, a hand landed on his shoulder. Eve was still sitting next to him, so it couldn't be her. Then the hand registered; it was warm and firm, it squeezed his shoulder in a familiar manner. It was Sarah. He looked up and it seemed from this angle that his blonde protector looked even more like an Amazon goddess than usual. He blushed a deep red and averted his eyes immediately; he felt like he had just been caught doing something wrong. He felt like he had somehow just cheated on Sarah by taking Eve's phone number (even though he had every intention of getting rid of it).

"Hello." Sarah sounded exceedingly polite. She had both hands on his shoulders now.

Eve looked decidedly unimpressed. Chuck was suitably recovered enough from his embarrassment to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. If Eve only knew. He felt a flush of pride at knowing that Sarah could kick any ass in the room. "I'm Eve."

"And I'm Emily." Chuck wasted several seconds processing the reason why Sarah was not Sarah anymore. "Charles's girlfriend." There was more than a hint of obvious possession and warning in her voice, but Chuck only assumed she was just acting. Wasn't it always just acting?

"Charles was just telling me about you."

"I was?" He was? Chuck was having trouble remembering exactly what he'd said.

Sarah's grip on his shoulders tightened considerably and Chuck winced. Neither women were paying any attention to him at the moment. So he reached out for his poor, ignored drink and brought it to his lips. It had diluted quite a bit since he last touched it but it still had the desired effect.

"Thank you for keeping him company, but I need to borrow him for a little bit."

Eve smiled sweetly, almost innocently. "That's okay, I've said everything I wanted to say." She squeezed Chuck's knee, got up and leaned close to his ear (Sarah was squeezing extremely painfully now) and whispered to him, "Call me." Eve then walked away.

Chuck was completely bewildered and he couldn't help but watch her leave. It wasn't that he was so enamored by her that he couldn't take his eyes off her, it was just that he had no idea what the hell had just happened.

As soon as Eve disappeared from sight, Sarah swung around and took up the seat Eve had just evacuated. "What the hell were you doing?"

Chuck winced, Sarah was most definitely not pleased. Chuck was both ashamed and angry at Sarah. She had just been flirting with some loser and she was upset with him for doing the same? Totally not cool. "I was just talking. Don't worry, I didn't compromise my cover." He took another drink.

Sarah immediately fixated on the drink in his hand and took it away from him angrily. Chuck knew then he was in big trouble now. "What about my cover, Chuck? Did you even think about that? Or were you too drunk to care?"

Chuck knew she had a legitimate right to be angry, that he shouldn't have been stupid and had so much to drink. But it wasn't like he was drunk; he knew what he was doing and what he was saying (for the most part). He was not a total incompetent moron, at least not anymore, and he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. He couldn't screw up if he never said anything. And he hadn't said anything incriminating (he was pretty sure). It wasn't fair for Sarah to get mad at him. She had sent him here, he hadn't wanted to go to the bar, but she had insisted, and now she was angry with him for drinking? He couldn't believe that she really thought that he would ever do anything to put her in danger. He would die first. "I didn't say anything. She was just flirting with me."

"You have no idea who she is."

"Neither do you!" Chuck frowned; his retort had come out a little too loud.

Sarah looked like she was about to continue arguing with him, but quickly shut her mouth. She stood up, grabbed his arm, and pulled him off the stool. "Come on, let's get you home."

Chuck only wanted to go home if Sarah was going to be coming with him. But he was exhausted, and his stomach was just starting to bother him, and he knew how pointless it would be to argue with her anymore. He just nodded his head and let her lead him outside.