A/N: This chapter is late by design (though I didn't quite intend for it to be this late). I took some double shifts at work the past two-ish weeks in an attempt to get some time off, but that backfired rather spectacularly. (Understatement.) Thus, while I've been writing 3k-7k words a week, it hasn't been for this. The current cycle at work's almost done (thank God—3-4 more weeks), which means that this story will be updated more frequently soon. In the meantime, however, the next chapter will probably be just as delayed as this one—if I can officially backburner this for a few weeks, then work will get done faster, which means I can get back to this faster. Who knows, though. Miracles might happen.
Notably, the lack of thank yous for the reviewers from the last chapter was not by design. Apologies, and they'll be on their way within the next week. In general, thank you for your continued reading, reviewing, general awesomeness, and patience. The amount possessed of each attribute by all of you far surpasses that of my own, as you are undoubtedly aware. I made this chapter a little longer, in honor of everyone's collective awesomeness and my severe negative awesomeness.
The last chapter was slightly down tempo on purpose—you'll probably see why by the end of the chapter. This one may be kind of similar for a little bit, but as a whole: time for the fun to start. As it does, keep the usual gambit of disclaimers in mind, as they continue to be in effect (like the one about typos).
-.-.-.-
Day 11: Monday
The restaurant was big enough to give its patrons a degree of anonymity, but small enough to foster a degree of closeness. Its dress code was formal enough to keep out shirtless beach-goers, but causal enough where jeans and a button-down would easily pass muster. Menu selections were plentiful and diverse, the food good and affordable.
Chuck was too busy looking out the large plate window to notice inside, thoughts patently divided between the date and nagging doubts about the virus coding for work. Tipping his head back to get every last drop of coffee, he stifled a half-yawn with one hand while pitching the Styrofoam cup into a nearby trash can with the other.
That would have been the perfect place for dinner—"Shady's Glen." Hmmm, interesting name. I wonder if there's any way that we can sneak out of here and over to there, casually glancing toward the door. This really is the day that never ends. It just goes on…and on…and on…
He wasn't actually in Shady's Glen. He was across the street from it, inside of another food-based venue—a bakery. The excursion was unplanned, complements the economic downturn. And Ellie, he mentally noted. …really, not so much on the downturn. It's all Ellie. She'd discovered that her and Awesome's wedding cake bakery was among the casualties. The result was a panicked "Wedding Emergency" call to Chuck in order to choose a new one.
His older sister's call was fortuitously timed. Mere minutes before, he'd poked his head into Sarah's office to ask about tonight's plans. After dealing with the ramifications of him nearly being blown up all day, she was in no mood to entertain the thought. The conversation had not been going in his favor until the phone call, summoning them to a bakery a few blocks away from Fort Knox that Ellie had extensively scoped out.
He'd gotten his night out after all, albeit an imperfect one. There was no arguing with an Ellie summons, let alone an Ellie wedding summons.
Sarah knew that much. I think I'd have better luck convincing Beckman to sanction our relationship, she thought with an aggravated eye roll. Her tacit acquiescence, however, in no way meant she agreed with it. She'd been hyper-alert since the moment they'd walked out of her office, watching for anything out of the ordinary.
Maintaining that level of readiness with no backup was fast taking its toll on both her energy reserves and patience.
Of course, it'd help if we weren't in a room with a window the size of six normal ones, she thought as they all waited in the smaller, front portion of the bakery while the baker finished up her previous appointment in the larger, rear room that contained the ovens, baking racks, and office. But, for that matter, it'd help if he weren't standing in the MIDDLE of the damn thing.
Slowly prodding at a kink in her neck, Chuck's none-too-subtle glance toward the bakery door, in junction with their conversation prior to Ellie's call and the large window, pushed her to the breaking point. She silently moved such that she was standing next to him.
"Absolutely not," she hissed under her breath. It was the first they'd spoken since he'd hung up with Ellie. "Don't even think about it."
"What? I'm just looking at the fine craftsmanship of the door!"
Thankfully, the baker emerged with her previous clients, cheerfully inviting them all back. Turning to follow the others, Chuck gave one last half-glance out the window. It unexpectedly turned into a longer one as he noticed the patrons milling outside Shady's Glen, presumably waiting for other members of their dining party. Wait, that's weird. Unconsciously, he squared off with the window again.
Having nearly walked through the open doorway into the larger room, Sarah realized he wasn't in tow. That's it. When I need him to stay put, he moves, and when I need him to move, he stays put. I'm going to kill him. Closing the distance between them with a handful of large strides, she all but growled when she drew even with him again.
"Chuck. Let's. go."
She punctuated the statement with a stern pull on his tie, prepared to drag him, if need be. Lurching toward her from the unexpected tie tug, she instinctively reacted, hands moving to his chest to keep him upright. The action worked, but not before she ended up with her back to the wall perpendicular to the front window, Chuck close aboard.
Still too irate to notice how they'd landed, she did notice that Chuck had no sooner regained his balance by bracing against the wall before leaning back to look out the window; the view from their position was obscured by a large, elaborate fake display cake. His puzzled intensity spurred her own, placating some of her anger.
"What?" she quietly asked, amused to note that he started when she spoke.
"Uh, well, I thought Marilyn said she was working late tonight?"
That sounds ominous. As a result, Sarah's voice took on a cautionary tone when she replied.
"She did." Marilyn had said as much when they'd run into her on their way out of the office, en route to their wedding emergency. "Why?"
Looking back at her, both seemed to notice their position at the same time. Thickly swallowing, Chuck elected to snap his head back toward the window in the interest of self-preservation. Sarah chose to turn her head in the opposite direction.
The sight outside made his eyes go wide with basic understanding. Hide hide hide hide hide! His previous attempt at self-preservation was discarded as he shuffled closer to the wall, effectively hiding them both behind the fake display cake, but at an obvious cost. He spoke without blinking, eyes still pointed out the window, head inclining only slightly towards it.
"She's standing right there. And some friends of hers just arrived. Look."
You're kidding me. Sarah let out a slow breath, allowing her to focus on conundrum across the street and not her own. Could anything else possibly happen today? Lips pressing into a thin line, Sarah channeled enough control to lean into Chuck enough to clear the pesky display cake.
Sure enough, Marilyn was on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant, making small talk with the tallest man in a group of four. All five were ostensibly people watching and admiring the architecture of the nearby buildings, but did so in a subtle, methodical way. The stylized blatancy of the motion, clearly a front for taking stock of the surrounding environment, screamed CIA or NSA.
At least that explains why we're hiding behind a fake cake, she thought with narrowed eyes. Three of them independently scrutinized the interior of the bakery within seconds of one another, searching for possible curious on-lookers.
What it didn't explain was why Marilyn was standing across the street, talking to what were almost certainly four spies, when a mere 30 minutes before, she had mentioned how much work she had to do.
It also didn't explain the thoroughness with which they were all examining the vicinity.
Ominous is an understatement. This doesn't feel right.
Chuck's thoughts were similar as he watched the quintet begin to head inside the restaurant, Sarah's silence confirming his initial reaction. Oh, this is not good. But, hey, no flashing. That means this is probably the biggest coincidence ever. Let's go with coincidence. Coincidence is easy to deal with. Yeah…coincidence.
He was about to make a vague comment aloud with a similar sentiment when the tall man reached over the others to hold the door open. In doing so, the sleeve of his sports coat rode up enough to expose a narrow tattoo on his forearm that started at his wrist before disappearing under layers of clothing. Even at a distance, the way in which it bisected the face of the man's wristwatch created a shape sufficient for the familiar tingle to take hold before triggering a flash: a voting booth, a picture featuring the tattoo/watch combination prominently, military fit reps whose redacted content suddenly became readable, the seal of the NSA, a voting booth.
"I only recognized the tall guy," he muttered, resting his forehead on the wall over Sarah's shoulder. "Tim Cook. Air Force Reserve, currently with the NSA, stationed in DC. No clue as to what he's doing here. Nothing to indicate…uh, not-niceness. Worked a lot with Retborn when they were both NSA."
She acknowledged the information with a small nod, but slid her hands up to lift his head up from its sudden perch on the wall, closely scrutinizing his expression with a perceptible degree of concern.
"You alright?"
Aside from the whole being watched/nearly kidnapped/blown-up thing? Oh yeah, completely solid. Totally not freaking out. He was careful to keep his voice low when answering.
"Oh, yeah, yeah. Fine. Totally fine. But, I mean, come on, that," tilting his head at the window, "that's a, uh, coincidence. Right?"
Awesome chose that moment to lean out from the back room.
"Hey guys, Ell…whoa, mixin' it up in the bakery—awesome!" Unfazed by the sight, he went on without missing a beat. "When you're done, Ellie's asking for your opinion on the proper decorative flower-to-cake size ratio," eyebrows shooting up with several serious nods in an attempt to convey the gravity of the debate before disappearing into the back room.
The look Sarah gave Chuck right after Awesome's exit said it all.
There's no such thing as coincidences.
-.-.-.-
Across the street at Shady's Glen, the five spies sat in a secluded corner booth, each nursing his or her beverage of choice. The conversation had started with talk of Justin, providing 10 minutes of discussion. It subsequently moved to the more pressing issue. Having just finished recounting the recent tribulations of Chuck Bartowski from 0617 on Sunday morning to 45 minutes prior at Fort Knox, Marilyn downed her second rum and coke in a single gulp, signaling for another without flinching.
Only Tim reacted to the story's content. The three others remained silent, as they had been since arriving 15 minutes ago.
"Someone tried to blow him up? You sure?"
"Pretty damn, yeah."
The others took small, staggered swigs from their first beers as silence fell over the table when the server brought Marilyn's refill. She promptly took another pull, swallowing half of it effortlessly. Tim spoke again once the server had left.
"That's kind of…wow. How did you sneak away? I thought you said you had to work late tonight."
"They'd just left before you called. Figured it was a good time to duck out fast, what with Abigail still occupied with the almost-assassin." Another quarter of her drink disappeared in the blink of an eye.
"Fair enough. Is there anything we," Tim gestured towards himself and the others, "can do to help with Abigail's San Francisco contingency, since Walker and Casey can't go?"
"Only if you know people in San Fran that can unofficially watch out for him this weekend." Tumbler now empty, she raised again to indicate another refill.
"I don't, no." Tim tipped the neck of his bottle toward the silent trio. "What about you guys? Have any San Fran connections?"
Waiting again for the server to come and go with Marilyn's fourth drink, one of the trio finally broke their collective silence.
"I have a few friends up that way. I know they'd be glad to help out if I asked. Just send me the travel packet once you get it. If you're alright with telling me all of that, of course."
Sipping at the drink, Marilyn rolled her eyes.
"If Justin thought you were all trustworthy enough, that's good enough for me. And what the hell'd you think I've been doing all day? Best cover and set of travel plans I've put together on short notice." Her eyes never left the liquid sloshing about in her glass as she listed the details verbatim without hesitation, Tim nodding appreciatively at their soundness.
Neither noticed the sinister, knowing grin that the trio exchanged as Marilyn spoke.
-.-.-.-
Day 12: Tuesday
Come on, do I really deserve the evil eye for that! It's totally not my fault!
Chuck decided to say something aloud, since half of them were sporting one, if not two, evil eyes.
"OK, guys, look—I'm sorry that they want me to go to this conference. I think any of you are much more deserving. Really."
Scattered around the team's lounge—and impromptu conference room—on some high-numbered floor at Symantec, the dozen or so members of Chuck's new team toned down their evil eyes. Some of them actually looked like they believed him, and were hesitantly exchanging looks with the others, as if to say, "he's really not all that bad, who said he was impossible?" The ones whose stares hardened, Chuck was willing to guess, were the ones that he'd argued with on Sunday morning.
Ha, we're now down to only two or three of them wanting to kill me. Progress! Though they'll have to get in line.
Cell phone vibrating, he looked down to see yet another picture text message of a potential wedding cake from Ellie. It was the sixth of the day. Thinking about all of last night, complements of the prospective cake, prompted another sentence that earned him a brief sympathetic, knowing glance from the hold-outs before contained chatter erupted from the others to discuss the point.
"…aaaaaaaaaand my fiancée isn't that crazy about the idea. So—please, one of you go."
San Francisco and the conference had been the semi-staged, semi-real discussion topic after the unsuccessful bakery visit. Sarah brought it up during the drive home, vaguely mentioning Abigail's allegedly 'brilliant' plan. Suffice it to say, it had resulted in a tense exchange that abruptly ended as soon as the ride home did.
They hadn't talked since—she'd headed over to Casey's under the auspices of "checking in," and he'd managed to pass out before she got back. When he finally woke up that morning, she'd already been out for a run, and was showered and dressed. The silence between them included the ride into work that morning, when she'd wordlessly dropped him at a very imposing, secure-looking Symantec before heading off to Fort Knox.
The funny part was he agreed with Sarah. He didn't want to go to the conference, either, for every reason she could list aloud and all the ones she couldn't. Their conversation, and its suboptimal result, seemed to be the product of the day's events rather than the actual topic.
Their inability to talk about it wasn't making matters any easier.
Judging by her expression that morning—her gaze flicked from tenderness to frustration to a shade short of agent mode in a matter of seconds once he'd stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast—the check-in with Casey didn't go well, either. He was afraid to ask what she found out, if anything.
But, of course, that presupposed that if he asked, she'd answer; it presupposed that they were talking to one another.
At least we're both fed up with recent events. Maybe if we can finagle a meeting over at Casey's, we can talk. That might help. Worth a shot, at least.
Intent on thinking of a plausible reason to spend time at his neighbor's, Chuck didn't notice that the room had become quiet until someone loudly "ahem"-ed and threw a pen cap at him.
He nearly hit the deck and crawled under the end table next to his chair, but managed to stop himself when he noticed the figure in the doorway—the team's immediate boss, Grant Daniels. Coincidentally, the same man had personally ventured to the Buy More to hire Chuck the Monday before last.
Not so coincidentally, the same man was walking towards Chuck, now that the ex-Herder was actually paying attention. He lightly tossed a folder onto the end table next to Chuck before turning and leaving.
Hesitantly curious, and aware of the 12 sets of eyes on him, Chuck used one finger to lift the cover enough to peek inside.
All the credentials for the conference? With my name on them? Ohhhhhhhhh no no no...
He quickly jerked his hand back, rocketing up out of the chair and calling after his boss.
"Whoa, hey, Grant. We—the team, all of us—just talked, and decided that it'd really be more fair if one of them went instead of me."
Already a few steps down the hall, Daniels poked his head back into the room, a semi-bemused expression on his face. His body followed a beat later, leaning up against the doorway to silently assess Chuck.
"Not that I'm not appreciative that you've asked me to go," Chuck quickly amended, unconsciously fixing his tie before sliding his hands into his pockets and shifting a bit from foot to foot. "But, like I was telling your secretary when she called yesterday, these guys are much more qualified, and they've been here longer. And they'd really like to go. That's…all, really."
"I know, she told me," Daniels answered, laid-back, amused expression not changing.
"…oh. I didn't realize that s…wait. If you knew that, then what's with…?" Chuck pointed a confused thumb back over his shoulder, toward the conference credentials.
"I was considering your request—surprising, considering that these guys," nodding his head toward the rest of the room, expression still not changing, but something in his tone did, "dragged you out of bed on a Sunday morning only to fight with you."
Chuck's eyebrows shot through the roof, just as everyone else's head snapped to him to accusingly glare at him. Wha…how did hear about that? I certainly didn't tell him! He was about to issue a placating statement when Daniels continued.
"That aside, I was still considering your request up until 20 minutes ago when the Sunday morning virus mutated. As you rightly noted, the fix suggested by certain of your teammates would have created an exploitable vulnerability. The mutation exploits that vulnerability."
No one uttered a word. Oblivious to the comment about the fix, something wasn't sitting right with Chuck about the mutation; the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.
"Everyone except us coded their virus fix in that way," he calmly continued. "We are currently the only antivirus software with a good virus definition. Our stock price has gone up 2% already, and is projected to increase more before the market closes in an hour. So, in considering who to send to the industry's top conference on computer security, you'll excuse me if I send the only person who's coded two sound fixes in as many weeks."
The mention of the other virus did it. Chuck's eyes went wide, and without acknowledging Grant's explanation or the others' super-evil eyes, he bolted out of the lounge, toward his half-cubicle, half-walled office. A few frantic mouse clicks, and one iPhone check, later, his suspicions were confirmed. He fell back into his desk chair, hand over his stunned expression to prevent any audible utterances.
Don't freak out don't freak out don't freak out don't freak out don't freak out, but OH MY GOD FREAKING OUT. They're…
-.-.-.-
"…the same," he babbled as soon as the call connected. "They're the same people…guys, whatever."
"Come again, Mr. Bartowski?" Beckman asked, a forced undercurrent of tolerance evident in her query. Casey seconded the general's sentiments with a low growl-grunt.
Is absolutely no one with me on this one?
Chuck risked a quick glimpse over at Sarah as he took a few calming breaths. She was standing between him and Casey, all of them standing in Casey's front room. The way that she met his gaze full on with a knowing look, combined with a single raised eyebrow, implied that she was already there. He took one more deep breath and forced himself to focus on the TV in Casey's apartment to get the other two caught up.
"The virus. The people that wrote the one from two weekends ago—the one that stole files? They wrote the one I've been dealing with since Sunday. There are some really unique chunks of code in both of them…identical chunks, actually—the stuff that Reed wrote. I've never seen it anywhere else. I noticed it on Sunday and Monday, but it didn't click until today. Until the mutation."
The general was suddenly listening with rapt attention, and was looking at Chuck intently, waiting for him to continue. Sarah waited as well, recognizing the Chuck-pondering face. Casey, far less patient, went for the unsubtle prod.
"I take it that's bad, Bartowksi?"
Chuck looked around Sarah to shoot Casey a look, sarcasm dripping from his words.
"Very good, Casey!—it is bad." He ignored the menacing scowl from the NSA agent, voice becoming thoughtful and slightly worried. "The new virus, its mutation…the whole thing does weird things."
"What kind of weird things, Chuck?" Sarah asked, noticing the shift and not caring for it.
"Eh…the first version was just a line of text. White 8-bit letters, black screen, and then randomly restarted the computer, leaving it no worse for wear after. Harmless. This new version has an 8-bit drawing of a watch face below the text. The pseudo-image's size is bigger than it should be. It's…a placeholder, or something. Like using a fire hose to fill up a water bottle—overkill. Big time."
Though I can't figure out what that means, he thought with some frustration, itching his head with a displeased squint, falling back into Casey's chair without thinking. After he had noticed the weirdness, he had spent the rest of the work day trying to figure it out…and was no closer to solving the mystery than he'd been at the start…
…but ominous knuckle cracking from his right pulled Chuck out of his reverie. …oh God, he realized, I'm sitting in Casey's chair. The chair the chair. Like-a-king's-throne the chair. Slightly fearing for his well-being, one particularly loud pop spurred him to disclose the lone tidbit of information that he'd gleaned that day.
"I think it might mutate again. But I don't know to what. I don't even know why it changed in the first place—the thing restarts computers. It doesn't even steal anything, like the last one did."
Sarah let out a small, tired sigh, heard only by Chuck and Casey. Forgetting about the Chuck in the chair, Casey added a small grunt of sympathy, and Chuck simply let his head fall back in agreement.
"If the authors are indeed the same, this might have national security implications," the general finally said.
No shit, Sarah thought. From the look on Casey's face and Chuck's snort, they were thinking something similar. At least we're all on the same page for that one.
Casey was the next to speak up.
"Yeah, well, it might not be a problem after all. Tracked down almost all the names discovered at Reed Associates. They're all getting together this weekend for a little chat. Could take them all down, force them to stop…whatever he's talking about," jerking a disdainful thumb over at Chuck, earning him an eye roll from the younger man.
Beckman immediately replied, eager to hear some good news.
"Do it, Major: go to this meeting, interrupt it, and capture its attendees. I'll leave the details up to you, but I expect to be briefed fully once you have come up with a plan. However, your first priority—as you have taken to reminding me repeatedly this week—is to keep your new covers intact. Do I make myself clear?"
Both agents answered in the affirmative. Chuck started to give a half-hearted wave of acknowledgement, but the call ended as he was in mid-wave. The call had no sooner ended before Chuck was pulling Sarah down onto the arm of the chair. She couldn't help but look at him curiously.
"…you know, Casey's standing right over there," she offered after a moment, simultaneously surprised and secretly happy at the borderline bold move.
"He won't do anything to me. He likes this chair too much to get blood all over it."
"Don't count on it Bartowski," Casey growled, taking one step closer to the chair. "You blew up my car today. AGAIN. And if you and Walker weren't sl…"
Chuck cleared his throat as Sarah cut Casey off in mid-sentence.
"Don't even, Casey." Her tone was deadly serious, as was the glare she shot him. "One minute, alright?"
He gave another small growl, but surprisingly acquiesced, heading into the kitchen to clamor around for 60 seconds—he had implicitly pushed for them to be together, for everyone's sake…and for everyone's sanity. Anything else might undo all my hard work, and I am not Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil damages my calm.
Watching Casey's tactical retreat, she leaned into Chuck with a long sigh, letting her eyes fall shut as some of the tension drained from her body. He tugged her into a more comfortable position, with the end result being her across his lap, with her head on his shoulder.
Neither moved or spoke for the better part of their allotted 60 seconds, both content with the tension-reducing silence serving as the apology for any recent, craziness-induced behavior.
"So, not to upset our very nice, quiet, Casey-free moment…" Chuck reluctantly started.
Here it comes, she thought, opening her eyes to calmly look at him, pointedly ignoring the particularly loud clang of pots from the kitchen.
"…but you're going to have to pull some of your kickass spy stuff if I need to be on this mission over the weekend, because they're making me go to San Francisco. I tried to get out of it, believe me."
She didn't have the energy to be mad at him, but had enough for ever-so-slightly annoyed.
"Exactly just how hard did you tr…"
"Alright, Walker, time's up," Casey loudly announced, walking back into the room. Catching the tail end of their conversation, he stopped in place. The sudden change in Casey's gait prompted Sarah to sit upright and re-perch on the arm of the chair. She did so fast enough to see Casey's eyes grow suspicious.
"…did Romeo just say San Francisco?"
Unencumbered, Chuck popped up to his knees and turned around in the chair, putting his back toward the TV.
"Hey, I'm sitting right here, you could just ask!"
"Quiet, moron. Walker, did he say San Francisco?"
What the hell?, she thought. Am I missing something, for the umpteenth time this week?
"Yes, he said San Francisco. Why?"
Casey folded his arms over his chest, and coolly regarded her.
"Why San Francisco?"
Waving his hands around wildly, Chuck answered in Sarah's place.
"Helllllllllllllllllo, I'm right here!"
"He's supposed to go to a conference for work," she answered, not liking where Casey's questions were going. Spy senses were starting to seriously tingle, driving her to stand up and mimic Casey's stance. "Why, Casey?"
"Our virus friends are meeting in San Francisco this weekend. Under the auspices of a computer security conference."
Sarah could feel some of the color drain from her face as the sickening feel in the pit of her stomach took root.
"My conference?" Chuck's voice had jumped two octaves. It seemed to remind the two spies that he was in the room, because they both slowly turned to face him.
Noticing his partner's pale complexion, Casey answered to give her time to recover.
"Dipstick, you're not going anywhere this weekend for work. You're with us."
Damn right he is, Sarah mentally agreed. He's not leaving our sight.
Instead of looking pleased, Chuck looked increasingly puzzled.
"How's that going to work? All the Fort Knox people think you two can't leave LA this weekend."
Casey's eyes bugged out at Chuck's disclosure, face turning an interesting shade of red.
"WHAT? How the hell do they know that you were THINKING about going anywhere! And why the hell didn't I know about any of this! Walker, did it occur to you that it might be a very very LARGE PROBLEM?"
"God, don't even ask," Sarah said wearily. After their argument-by-proxy last night over the same topic, she hadn't brought it up when she'd gone to talk to Casey. After the argument, though, she was pretty sure that Chuck was going to get out of it, eliminating the need to bring any of it up.
Could anything else possibly happen, she thought. This man is going to give me a heart attack before this week's over.
Next thing she knew, Chuck was standing up next to her, urgently calling her name. He had one arm wrapped around her back, as if he was getting ready to catch her, with the other stroking her cheek.
"Sarah! Sarah?" Her eyes came into focus, and relief flooded his own. "You OK?"
Confused, she noticed Casey hide the slightest bit of worry.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Did I miss something?"
Like how it is that we're standing this close and Casey's not making any move to comment or shoot anyone?
"Sar…you…Casey's been talking to you for the past 30 seconds. You totally spaced. You sure you're fine?"
Surprised, she took a cautious breath and let it out, checking for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing felt out of place.
"Like I said, I'm f…" Chuck's description of her behavior registered then. "Wait, what did you say?"
"That you spaced out for a minute…?" he cautiously offered, not sure how to interpret her tone.
She stared at him for a moment more, the look of dreadful clarity intensifying across her face, just as it had in the gala conference room and at the fountain before.
Oh God. No. Not again. Please let me be wrong…
"Uh oh, what?" Chuck asked with trepidation, noticing the look.
"Casey," she fired off, pointing at one of his computers, "I need you to get the security footage from Shady's Glen. It's a restaurant down the street from the firm." Wheeling back to Chuck, she pulled him toward Casey's other computer, sitting him down and facing him toward the monitor. Out of habit, he pulled the keyboard within typing range.
"Chuck, I need you to hack our server again."
She noticed a slight hesitation in Casey's typing before it resumed its normal cadence. Chuck, however, couldn't help but turn around to look at her.
"Why am I hacking Fort Knox's server again when we know it can be done?" he slowly asked.
Spinning him around again to face the computer, she kept her hands on his shoulders to prevent him from turning around again while she quickly explained.
"It was your comment about spacing out. Marilyn had the exact same expression."
She could feel Chuck try to turn, but held him still and backtracked to explain as fast as she could.
"It was after the presentations yesterday, when the others were ready to kill one another. Someone brought up Justin. She had the spaced look." Sarah had noticed only because it struck her as out of place. Not to mention that she was still trying to stay out of the fray, at that point. "Trust me, the look's produced by thoughts of a significant other. They were at least dating."
"Ugh, lady feelings," Casey muttered, noticing the goofy grin on Chuck's face and Sarah's slight smile. In hyper-focus mode, she rolled her eyes at Casey while gesturing at the freeze frame of the secluded corner booth displayed on Casey's monitor, providing the next link of her theory.
"Marilyn-and-Justin as a couple is problem, because the only person Chuck flashed on was this one," pointing toward the tall man seated at the table in the freeze frame, "Tim Cook. Everything suggests that he's not Fulcrum. Not concerning. But, he also worked with Justin. That's not a coincidence, bec…"
"Yeah yeah yeah, Walker I'm there," Casey interrupted with a slam of the mouse in aggravation, unintentionally starting the video. "If Marilyn was dating Justin, and this guy's friends with Justin, and if Justin was Fulcrum, it suggests that Marilyn's involved in something, and so is this guy and everyone else at the table."
"Hey hey hey, guys, you're going to want to see this," Chuck stammered after Casey had finished, pointing at his own screen.
Displayed were the damning emails back and forth between Marilyn and Tim about the surveillance. Without being asked, Chuck hacked into Justin's account, providing the super-smoking gun—the emails between Justin and Fulcrum about the same topic.
It wasn't the intelligence community grapevine that was interested in why Sarah and Casey were in LA. Fulcrum was. Apparently with a few unaware participants.
This is totally, definitely, super super super BAD BAD BAD, Chuck thought, but was prevented from saying anything aloud when talk of San Francisco unexpectedly piped over the speakers from the restaurant security video. Chuck looked over at the screen in time to see the man who'd just offered to 'call his friends' look right at one of the security cameras.
That triggered the flash.
"That one," Chuck leaned over to point at Casey's screen to point at the man. "His retinal scan's in the Intersect. Fulcrum. Fulcrum Fulcrum Fulcrum." Casey and Sarah exchanged knowing glances, but froze in place as Marilyn rattled off Chuck's entire, no-longer-secret itinerary.
No one moved.
"Uh, am I allowed to freak out now?" he asked nervously.
Silence.
"Huh, let me see if I get this," Casey started, pausing the video after the trio exchanged sinister looks, instantly marking them all as Fulcrum. He turned his chair to face Sarah with a displeased scowl-growl.
"Your coworker is a traitor who just unknowingly sold out your boyfriend to Fulcrum. Your boyfriend, coincidentally, happens to be the Intersect, which is why we just told him that he needs to come with us to San Francisco this weekend, since Fulcrum seems to be gunning for him because you're cover marrying the dummy. But, oh, wait, we can't be in San Francisco this weekend, because then we'll blow our new covers because of your pain-in-the-ass cover job!"
He paused before ending the sentence on a faux cheerful note that was more sarcastic than anything else.
"Did I miss anything, or does that hit all the big points?"
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sarah stoically massaged her temples. Had to ask, didn't you, Walker—of course something else could happen. I hate this new cover. And I hate Fulcrum. And I hate Marilyn. And I hate this wedding. And I hate San Francisco… Her litany silently continued on.
Chuck's knee started bouncing up and down under the desk as Casey's question remained unanswered. Unable to take the quiet anymore—Or Sarah's death grip on my shoulder. Holy crap!—he decided to break the silence.
"Sooooooooooooooooooooooo, Team Chuck. Chuck's Team. The Team of Chuck. I think we might need to figure out a plan. A really really good one…yet again. Suggestions?"