So here it is, the next piece of the story! First, to all my lovely reviewers: Thank you! It really pushes me to keep writing, and also makes me smile. As usual, I don't own Chuck; AC (lifeislikeaboxofbertiebotts) owns AJ, and I own Beth. AJ's story is posted under AC's account, and you should totally check it out!

I hope you like this chapter-it was really fun to write...now, onto the story!

Moving all my stuff into the apartment wasn't as difficult as I thought it'd be. Granted, there was a lot of things to move in, and putting my room together was a task. But not because it's hard to put a room together. More so because my room was previously used to hold all of Casey's 'babies': his pistols, rifles, and other weapons he'd collected over the years and therefore had to be moved out before I could put anything in or paint. As if the man really needed practically two of everything—I mean, how many hands did he have to shoot with?

Well, no matter now. I scanned the room once more, looking for anything that needed last-minute straightening before I headed to the kitchen to put away some baking pans and groceries I had bought earlier. Well, non-perishable groceries; all dry goods, so I didn't have to worry about putting them up as soon as I bought them. A brilliant idea, if I say so myself. Room set, I started hauling kitchen goods. Thirty minutes later, I looked around the kitchen, satisfied that everything was put up, but still not happy.

It was bland. Plain walls, characterless chairs, a blank fridge, and no personal items whatsoever. This could not be. I started raiding my odds-n-ends box, looking for…aha! Found it. I hung up a mini-plate rack first; the three plates depicting silhouettes of western vistas. And once that was up…I went a little crazy. I added my magnets to the fridge, and hung a shelf with pegs by the entry to the kitchen so I could hang my aprons and place my plants (an African violet and a spiny cactus with a red flower). I replaced his plastic Tupperware for my sunflower canisters to hold the flour, sugar, coffee, and tea bags, and set out my three piece John Wayne 'American Hero' statues. Needless to say, by the time I was finished, the house had officially been Bethified.

That done, I looked at the clock. I had no idea when Casey was getting back to the apartment, so I started to bake. I couldn't tell you why, it was just something I did. When in doubt, bake. Bored? No problem; bake! I had just finished the lattice crust for the peach pie when the door opened, and I heard it. And by 'it' I mean a huge thump. Whatever Casey was carrying was heavy. I only hoped it wasn't a gun; I couldn't actually be too sure on what he'd think about the apartment, he may just shoot me. Well, I'd soon enough find out. He had walked into the kitchen, and was flipping his view from the sunny canisters, colorful aprons, to his rather overcrowded fridge. I swear, the vein in his head may have been protruding. He must have been speaking while I was debating how long it would take him to blow up because in one minute he was standing at the kitchen's entrance, and the next he was right in front of the island.

"Well?"

I looked at him, trying not to crack a smile at how imposing he was trying to be. Really? I mean, he was gruff and I had no doubt he was a vicious fighter, but c'mon, the man was gonna be my roommate and partner; he couldn't really kill me, could he? Well, I hoped not, in any case.

"Well what?"

"What—is—this?" He practically spit each word out as if they were some foul-tasting offense he wished to rid of soon. I pretended to think for a moment, then started picking some of my things up.

"This—is a genuine first edition Elvis bake ware collectable. And this—well, it's an apron, but it has a matching pot holder hanging up over there somewheres. Now, this here," I picked up my pie, "is a peach pie, made from scratch; the peaches were canned last year by my Mama. Now, is there anything else you need an explanation on?"

I will admit, my tone grew rather sarcastic by the end of my spiel, and I had a feeling by his growl that he could tell, and wasn't pleased about it.

"I know what it is. The question is what is it doing in my apartment?"

"Now, now, you know, I'm paying for half the rent. You're gonna have to get used to my things. Because they're not moving."

He stepped around the counter and stood in front of me. "Yes, they are."

Stepping closer and doing my best to look tall and vicious (I may have accomplished the latter, but there's no way I could grow half a foot in five minutes), I glared up at him. "No, they're not."

He growled again, but I stood my ground. Like hell I'd move my things; what, did he expect me to live in some characterless and bland apartment, as if there was nothing connecting me here? That's not how I'd ever lived, and I wasn't about to start now. We were at a standstill; neither one of us willing to back down.

"Look," I finally spoke, "I know you're not used to having another person living in the apartment; I'm sure you have your way of doing things. But look on the other side; I wasn't expecting to live with someone either, especially a man. We're both going to have to make adjustments. I'll make you a deal; the kitchen: everything I've put in here stays. Plain and simple. But if you want me to move my knickknacks and from the living room, I'll move them. The pictures stay, though. It's not a home if it looks as if you can pack up tomorrow."

"Spy's life."

He said it as if that one statement explained everything. But it didn't. Not to me, anyhow. I ran a hand through my hair, already frustrated. Just because you're a spy doesn't mean you have to be a ghost. I took a breath.

"Spy's life my ass."

Whoops. That's not what I wanted to say. Well, actually it was, I just meant to say it a bit politer. Well, gotta roll with the punches, I guess.

"Just because you're a spy doesn't mean you can't have an identity. It doesn't mean you have to live like some sort of ninja, unattached to the entire world. You can't live life like that. And I won't. So it's either my compromise or my stuff stays, as is."

"Compromise? That wasn't a compromise."

"Oh really? You wanna throw out an idea of how to make this a lil' more even? Cause so far it's just been you growling at everything."

He growled again, and I gave him a look that said, 'see, I told you!' He glared at me, and I smiled.

"Well?"

"Fine. Compromise: Elvis stays in the kitchen, everything else gets the hell out, and none of your…girly stuff…in the bathroom."

"That's not a compromise! That's just you dictating everything."

One annoyed grunt, three barters, and a growl of my own found us in no better a place than we were in before. I sighed. The man was infuriating. I was actually starting to hope the box he brought in was ammunition; I'd use it to shoot his ass.

"Look, we're not going to get anywhere unless we compromise. So, I'll start. All my, 'girly things' as you called them will stay safely in my two drawers in the bathroom, so you won't be plagued or traumatized, deal?"

I waited for an answer; during the time of silence I was able to stick in the peach pie (which in all honesty, I had forgotten about). After a few minutes, he finally nodded.

"You can keep your…kitchen things out."

"And my pictures? And the John Wayne figurines?"

He spoke as if the words caused him pain. "…they can stay too."

Boy, you'd have thought I'd shot him by how upset he seemed. An angry pain. Like someone stole his candy. Except I wasn't actually sure if he ate candy. Hmm, as if somebody stole his guns. He'd be pretty angry then.

I smiled brightly. "See? That wasn't so bad! You know, if you added a couple knickknacks, or some pictures…it'd look like you lived here too."

A grunt which I was going to number four (because I like the number four) told me that he didn't really want it to look like he lived here. Psh, his problem, not mine. He left the kitchen with the unknown box and I went back to baking. Hmm, what to make? I sifted through the cabinets and finally decided to make a batch of gingersnaps. Those sounded pretty good. Alright, gonna need cinnamon, nutmeg, a little bit of ginger, some

"BETH!"

Awha! I jumped about five feet in the air, glad I hadn't grabbed the glass measuring bowl; it would have been broken in my attempt to fly. I cautiously made my way to the sound of Casey's voice, which was talking. Well, growling really. In a rather low and violent tone. Hmm, maybe I should grab some protection? Something to defend myself with…a helmet. Cause he didn't seem to happy. I walked down the hallway when I realized what he was yelling about.

He stood in the doorway of my room, his face dark with fury. He narrowed his eyes at me and pointed to my walls.

"What the hell is this!"

I bit my lip. Oh hell, must not laugh. Must not laugh. But…oh, it was too funny. I coughed to try and cover my giggles, and sought to explain. "Well, it's called paint. You can buy either water or oil based…it comes in a variety of colors…usually sold at places like Home Depot or Menards. Mine was actually a Do-It-Best hardware store."

If he frowned anymore, his mouth was gonna drop off. Oh damn, funny image! Can't laugh. No, don't do it Beth. Don't—I couldn't help it. I started laughing. A lot. He didn't even crack a smile. Oh damn, I was gonna crack a rib if I kept laughing. I dodged past him and collapsed on my bed, laughing to the sky. Once my laughter had mostly subsided, I swiveled into a sitting position.

"Alright, Mr. Gruffy. Hmm, would that make you McGruff?" The mental image of Casey as the Crime fighting dog did me in, and I laughed some more. "Ahem, sorry. Anyway, Mr. Gruffy, the apartment rules clearly state that it is acceptable to paint the rooms, so long as they're able to be painted over. I know for a fact this color can be. And granted, it is a bit bright. It just adds to the flair of the house. It wouldn't kill you to paint, you know. Then again, I'm sure you have something to say about that—probably means you'll stay longer or something, right?"

He scoffed. "No. when would a spy have time to paint? It's too much work. McGruff?"

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that. Eh, painting isn't that hard! And McGruff. You know, he's a crime fighting hound dog who teaches children that crime is wrong and the police are your friends. He teaches children the basics of home safety."

A blank stare met me. "Or…you know, just forget I called you McGruff. It's gonna be too confusing to explain."

He kept looking at me, and I started to fidget. It was unnerving. Why was he looking at me? I mean, granted, I had just called him McGruff. And that was kind of odd. But did he have to keep staring?

"Um, Casey…you're kind of…staring."

He grunted cryptically, and headed to his room. Well, alright then. Glad we got that taken care of. I mean, he didn't kill me. That was something. Pity the man didn't talk more—I always felt like I was talking to a brick wall with him. And I didn't like talking to brick walls. Not that I talked to brick walls often. John Casey was an intriguing man, I'd have to say. I mean, he never talked. Never. I'd only known the man for three days, and even I picked up on that. Sure, he grunted, growled, and made snarky statements, but he didn't talk. He didn't tell about his day, or connect something that happened to something that happened before. He didn't chat about the weather or the news or even how Ronald Reagan was a better president than JFK anyday. And it was probably going to drive me crazy. Because I talk. A lot. Well, the man was just going to have to learn to open his mouth. No way was I going to sit there chatting with some bump-on-the-log. And it was gonna start now. I was going to get the stoic John Casey to talk, whether he liked it or not.