A/N: I don't say this very often, mis compadres, pero this has to be one of my favorite chapters so far. And I'm just a bit proud of it. I must be because LOOK AT THE SIZE OF IT. LOOK AT IT. It's a monster. It verily is. If you guys hate it, don't even tell me. Because I will surely cry. Sob, even. I revamped it, elongated it, added some punch (spiked punch, if you must know), and I am just really happy with it.

That being said, to everyone who has read, reviewed, sent me messages and/or tweets, I am so grateful to every single one of you. I cannot say it enough, so I will just keep saying it. Constantly. Over and over. Repeatedly. Again and again. TIRED YET?

Summary: In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

Disclaimer: "Chuck" is not mine. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Last time in the SteamVerse: Sarah Walker, the Ice Queen, had her steampunk Disney princess moment (thanks to Arya's prayers for that particular description) in the Buy More, surrounded by gadgets and gizmos a'plenty. "Look at this stuff. Isn't it neat?"

And good ol' toy maker Chuck asked her out on a date. You go! Granted, she had to nudge him a bit. That's alright, though. It happens. It's Sarah after all. That is kind of her thing.

But what will happen on this date? You don't know! You have to read it! I don't know! Well, I do know. But I'm going to discover it again with you!
Let's ride! ...or read. Rather.


A Chuck straightened his tie and propped his boater over his curls, he hoped he looked more like Charles Irving Bartowski the Gentleman, rather than Chuck the Toy Maker. Or Chuck the Mechanic. Or even Chuck the Inventor.

The more he looked in the mirror, though, the more he second guessed the tie and thought he might borrow his brother-in-law's cravat. But was the cravat too much? What was more, if he did go downstairs to borrow the cravat, his sister would stall him another half hour asking for every last detail about Sarah Walker. ("How did you meet her? Is she pretty? Not that it matters at all. What does she do? Is she a suffragette?")

He could not afford to answer all of those questions. It would cause him to be late and he especially did not want to start things off on the wrong foot with Sarah Walker.

Chuck could not put his finger on it, but there was something about her besides her celestial beauty that made her exceptional. He hoped he might discover what it was tonight.

Swallowing a bit nervously, he fixed the sleeves of his suit jacket, ran his hands down his front, and hurried out of his room, moving as quietly as possible down the stairs. He snuck past the living room window of the Woodcomb residence and hurried down the street. It took fifteen minutes of walking at a brisk pace to get to the bus stop where he agreed to meet the lovely Miss Walker.

As she had indicated she was not familiar with how to get around the city, Chuck suggested they take public transportation to help her familiarize herself with the routes. He promised her an adventure, which is why he realized now how foolish a cravat would have been. No, his black tie was the perfect accessory to his dark brown suit, tweed vest, and boater.

Chuck approached the omnibus waiting area with a bit of a skip in his step, his nerves dissipating as his confidence increased. There wasn't even a smidge of a smudge on his clothes, face or hands. A beautiful woman had asked him to give her a tour of the city. Him.

And by golly, as strange as it was that a woman as beautiful as Sarah Walker might ask him of all people, he would embrace the opportunity with both arms wide open. He was not going to let nerves or inexperience in courting bring him down.

Although thinking about his inexperience in courting did cause a spike in his nerves.

In an effort to distract himself, the young man peered up at the zeppelin slicing through the smoke in the sky over head, its steam engine humming in the night air, the propellors beneath its belly spinning madly, its nose tipping upward as it ascended, moving away from the port where it had taken off.

As a boy, Chuck had always imagined the great flying aircraft that loomed over the Los Angeles skyline were massive creatures with living brains and hearts who adhered to the command of their masters, the pilots. They were gargantuan mammals, like the sea creatures called whales that he had seen in picture books. They were magnificent whales that swam through the sky instead of the ocean.

He used to wonder what would happen if one of them decided to mutiny against its captain and just fly up, up, up…past the smoke layer, through the clouds, and straight into the sun.

Chuck shook his head with a small, sardonic smile. Forcefully yanking himself out of his own head, he strolled to the nearest lamppost, tipped his hat to an elderly woman passing by clutching her burgundy carpet bag in a metallic, makeshift hand. Her great coat covered her arm, but it was more than likely manmade as well. She gave him a brass-toothed grin before facing forward again and determinedly hobbling by to go about her business.

Fishing his watch from his vest pocket, he saw that he was three minutes earlier than their meeting time.

The night was clearer than it had been for many days and he took it as a good omen. Unobscured moonlight was said to be just the thing for romance, because it was such a rarity. The smoke layer usually dimmed it, leaving the streets to be lit primarily by lamps, even on nights with a full moon.

As he let out a long breath, his eyes dropped from the dark blue sky and the black zeppelin sailing through it to peer down the sidewalk.

His gaze immediately latched onto the stunning woman who stuck out in a crowd far more easily than anyone he had ever met in his life. Sarah Walker met his eye and smiled quite cheerfully. There was a glint of something in her gaze that he couldn't place, a bit of mystery that sent a thrill through him.

It had dissipated by the time she gracefully came to a stop beside him. "Good evening, Mr. Bartowski. What a fine hat that is."

He blushed. Upon casting a cursory glance her way, Chuck took in her black riding skirt with gentle ruffles sweeping along the sides and the matching, fitted blazer with a wide lapel and turned up collar, buttoned over a white blouse. Oddly enough, she wore no hat, and instead piled her vibrant hair in an elegantly messy (for he truly could think of no other way to describe it) bun behind her head, leaving meticulous blond wisps of hair to frame her face.

An interesting cameo brooch was situated on the lace over her throat, drawing his eyes to the graceful, unblemished skin of her long neck and finally to Miss Sarah Walker's face. The very same face he had been thinking of all afternoon and part of the evening.

"Good evening," he chirped with what he knew was a giant grin. He would not be able to wipe it off of his face if he tried.

He swept his hat off of his head and looked at it, turning it over in his hands. "Uh, and thank you. It keeps my head warm."

She giggled lightly but it was overtaken by a cacophony of sound. The omnibus they were awaiting pulled up, clanking noisily, huffing and puffing as it pulled up next to the waiting area. It was a horseless contraption run on steam and absolute luck.

And as it stopped, the thing spewed steam and sank closer to the ground. It reminded the toy maker of the time he was chased by one of the mistresses at the orphanage, her hefty middle and advanced age slowing her pace significantly so that by the time she caught up with him and stopped, she deflated a bit like a faulty weather balloon, her breath wailing out of her in a pained, angry groan.

Chuckling in amusement at the memory, he held the fare for both Sarah Walker and himself in his palm and made to walk up to the vehicle, but found the space beside him empty. As he turned around with a puzzled look on his face, he saw that his companion for the night had not budged an inch, and was in fact staring at the omnibus as though it had reared up from the track on its hind wheels and tipped its hat to her with a jaunty "Howdy-doo".

"Miss Walker?" he tried. "Are you alright?"

She shook her head a little and looked at him through her eyelashes. "You aren't making me climb onto that thing? Truly?" Her tone made it sound as though she was hoping to goodness this was some sort of joke and he would lead her to a horse-drawn omnibus instead.

Chuck inwardly chuckled. She certainly was not accustomed to the city, as New York, the District, Chicago, San Francisco, and Boston were all moving toward primarily steam-powered public transportation rather than relying on the horse-drawn variety. "I won't force you if you feel uncomfortable. But I was planning on taking you on the steamnibus. Rather like an adventure, don't you think?"

She gave the heaving contraption a dubious side-eye, then pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin a bit haughtily. "Alright, then, Mr. Bartowski. Since tonight is about adventure, I suppose we may as well start now."

His heart beat faster when she flashed him an excited, but slightly nervous grin. It turned into a mischievous smirk when he offered her his arm. He had to take a deep breath to settle himself as he escorted her to the front door of the bus, because they had only just begun the night and he was already feeling like he was way out of his depth with this woman.

And Chuck Bartowski wasn't much of a swimmer.

She grabbed the front of her riding skirt, hiked it up, and climbed the steps with inherent grace in spite of the shaking vehicle beneath her. Chuck followed quickly behind, dropping both of their fares in the proper receptacle before guiding her towards the back where there was one seat left.

Sarah spent the next few minutes of the ride sitting, clutching onto the arm rest for dear life with one hand and trying to keep her hair neat with the other. Chuck stood beside her, his arms wrapped around the pole, his hat bouncing around on his head. He attempted multiple times to smile down at Miss Walker as the steamnibus jolted down the road, greatly disturbing its occupants, but Chuck nearly bit his tongue straight off and decided not to repeat the gesture again.

Once he even caught Miss Walker trying not to laugh at the gentleman across the aisle attempting to read his paper. He had already torn the thing clean in half after a particularly nasty bump.

They finally disembarked at their stop, the smell of the docks drifting in through the open windows of the vehicle. Chuck's legs felt a bit leaden after the steamnibus ride, but he kept a close eye on Sarah to see if she was alright. When she stepped down, she had to adjust her skirt, jacket, and hair. But then she turned back to look at him expectantly. "The docks?"

"Yes, I thought we might fish for our dinner." He waited for her to gape or start or anything other than what he got, which was an amused smirk. "You are not very easy to tease, Miss Walker."

"Oh, were you teasing?"

Chuck's eyes bugged and he made a soft choking sound, then covered his mouth with his hand. He shook his head at her with a sheepish smile when she laughed softly. "Alright, you win. We are not here to fish. But I do have one question for you." She raised her eyebrows in response. "Do you like pies?"

He realized belatedly that he should have asked before he brought her here. He might improvise something else if she didn't like pies. Because at Mother Harriet's, the entertainment and atmosphere were worth eating even a terrible pie. It was just an extra treat that her pies were the best in Los Angeles.

"Fruit pies?"

"Any and all pies."

"I love pies."

Relieved, Chuck grinned and offered his arm for her to take again, leading her the block and a half towards the nearby pier. Mother Harriet's Pies sat at the end of it, part of the run-down but still charming building jutting off the edge, supported by massive wooden beams caked in black mussels. The sloped roof of the restaurant was covered with piles of seaweed and smears of bird droppings. The wooden walls were almost slanted, as though the place was going to collapse into the bay at any moment.

Even from fifty paces away, before even stepping onto the wooden pier, they could hear music blaring out of the wide open glass windows. It was some sort of jaunty tune and in spite of his lack of dancing abilities, Chuck couldn't help but walk with a bit of a bounce to his step.

Sarah Walker didn't seem as impressed as he was, but she had not been inside yet. And she had not had one of Mama H's pies. So far his stunning companion had proved herself game for a good number of things.

For instance, during the bumpy trip over, Sarah had given up her seat to an elderly woman and had to cling to the pole Chuck had been holding onto as he reached up to clutch the leather strap hanging from the roof of the vehicle. As they stood rather close together, Chuck decided to strike up a game.

"Miss Walker, would you do me the honor of looking over my right shoulder at the gentleman in the bowler sitting directly behind the driver?"

"The man with the quizzical brow and caterpillar over his mouth?" she asked out of the side of her mouth. Not that anyone could hear them anyways with the noisy clattering of the steamnibus.

Chuck laughed and nodded. "Give me a number."

He thought perhaps he had been taking a risk dragging Sarah Walker onto the foreign steamnibus in the first place, but she had taken it in stride. Then he wondered if he was taking another risk playing this game with her, but when she immediately teased about the man's overly bushy mustache, he felt all of the tension leak from him.

"Seventy-three."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oddly specific." She beamed and he felt a little hot under his collar. "Alright. Seventy-three. Good number." With a surreptitious glance over his shoulder at the man he had pointed out, he pursed his lips and turned back to her, leaning closer to her but still keeping an appropriate distance between them. "Our friend has exactly seventy-three hairs on his head under that hat."

She threw her head back and laughed. It was a magnificent sound, echoing off the walls of the bus, causing a few grumpy passengers to glare at her over their bifocals. Pleased at the way she didn't even bother acknowledging the nasty looks, he laughed himself.

"Alright, I think I see how the game is played. Numbers, is it?"

"Or colors."

"Colors? Hmm."

She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. The young toy maker had to look away for a moment, afraid he would be caught with some sort of look on his face that he could not control. She was truly beautiful, and thrilling to be near. "Give me a color, then, Mr. Bartowski."

"Magenta." His answer was so immediate that she wrinkled her nose and smirked. It was so endearing that he almost said so, then blushed when he had to bite his tongue to keep it inside, covering the entire array of emotions with a shrug.

"The color of his unmentionables under that fashionable tweed suit," she chirped.

His uninhibited laughter (and it had to be said, the vibrant flush of his cheeks and ears) lasted for a good five minutes.

And now they approached the entrance of Mother Harriet's Pies. It was a set of dingy green doors, the paint chipped away by the harsh sea air. A fishing net hung above the door, wooden fish threaded through it.

"Allo, Mista Bartowski," the Brit at the front door greeted, tipping his gold colored bowler hat at the pair and flashing a set of gold capped teeth.

"Evening, Goldy," Chuck shot back, shaking the other fellow's hand. He saw the genuine surprise in the older man's green eyes when he looked to Miss Walker, then obvious appraisal, an attempt to cover it up, and finally a wink in Chuck's direction.

The young man couldn't help but clear his throat at the implications that resided in that wink and instead guided Sarah through the doors Goldy opened for them.

They stepped into the restaurant slowly.

There was a bit of a crowd, but nothing unruly, thankfully. Chuck had been to Mama H's on truly terrible nights. Gangsters and thugs alike fighting, drinking, causing trouble for the waiting staff. Those situations were cleared up by Mama H herself, usually, who would come out of the kitchen waving a knife covered in pig blood. That tended to settle the crowd immediately.

The band onstage finished their song and raucous applause followed, lasting even after the band bowed and cleared the small stage.

In front of the stage were numerous tables with black cloths draped over them. A massive, dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling directly in the middle, the gaslight emitted from the lamps on the walls and the candles at each table glinting off the crystals and casting interesting lights all over the room, like tiny dancing spirits. The wood floors were dented and chipped. They had taken advertisement posters and layered them along every inch of the walls, creating a makeshift wallpaper, over which they hung steel clocks of all shapes and sizes, and even a few oil paintings with themes that paralleled the dark interior of the restaurant.

The waiters maneuvering through the tables wore shoddy maroon suits with fishing hooks jabbed into the sleeves.

They were led to a table further away from the stage and Chuck insisted she take the chair facing the entertainment. The menu had meat pies and fruit pies alike and he was surprised and mildly impressed when Miss Walker ordered a slice of apricot pie "to begin with". Their waiter was a thin young man with a thick waxed mustache curled at the ends and a friendly pair of violet eyes, and he looked more than happy to get the beautiful young miss any type of pie she desired, and then some.

"A dessert pie for supper, Miss Walker?" Chuck asked once the waiter reluctantly left their side.

"Is there something wrong with that? Food is food, I always say."

A slow grin started on his face until he feared his jaw might crack. Chuck found himself sincerely boggled by how much he liked her. "I have to admit, you have just made me a little ashamed for ordering a meat pie."

"Oh I'm sure your meat pie will be delightful. Especially because it's pig."

He snorted, pinked when she raised her eyebrows teasingly, and turned around to face the stage as applause sounded.

A tall, thin man wearing a bowler cap and a tight-fitting black suit with coattails strode out onto the stage, holding his hands up for quiet. He wore a wily grin beneath his thin black mustache with its ends curled. And he had a monocle propped in front of his right eye.

"We havin' a lady tonight, Jack?!" one of the audience members bellowed.

Onstage, Jack smirked at the disruptive fellow. "If it's a lady you want, Bub, Madame H is in the kitchen and she would be happy to sing you a song." As he swiped his thumb across his throat slowly, the men in the house guffawed and clapped in an uproar of drunken glee.

"Mother Harriet's is proud to present, from New Orleans, Louisiana, Gadget Gil and his Orchestrioperatic Wonder!" The host swept his arm out as the curtains opened, and he backed off of the stage and onto the wings.

A wooden, box-like contraption that stood about six and a half feet tall and seven feet wide sat in the middle of the stage. There were sliding panels, one on each side, and in the center was a glass case in which resided what looked like an organ pipe chest, a harpsichord rail, two drums and two cymbals. Mounted in front of the pipe chest were metal bell bars, a tambourine, and a triangle.

Gadget Gil, a middle-aged bearded man wearing a fine silk suit of purple, a matching purple top hat, and an off-white cravat, slid the wooden panels open to reveal two large cylindrical rolls of parchment with rectangular holes punched in it. A few of the ratty gents in the front let out an 'oooo' and an 'aaahh' to mock the inventor on the stage, but received only a wink and a tap of the side of his nose with a gloved finger as he stepped up to face the audience.

"Would any of you handsome devils in the front here like to participate in the demonstration?" Gadget Gil asked, smoothing a hand down his beard a bit mysteriously.

Chuck stole a glance over his shoulder at Sarah Walker and met her gaze as it dropped from the stage to him. He smiled a little and received a grin back. His heart all aflutter, he turned back to the stage to watch as a man about his age stood up from his table, straightened his expensively cut suit, and swaggered up the side steps onto the stage. The man's friends let out cat calls that probably weren't entirely appropriate with a lady like Sarah Walker present, but he thought it might be even more offensive for him to say anything about it. She was a grown woman and she would make it known if she was bothered.

"Have you a coin, young sir?"

The volunteer seemed a bit put out having to cough up a coin, a coin that probably belonged to his parents in the first place, but he fished in his trouser pocket until he produced a small bit of brass. He handed the coin over and was thanked by Gadget Gil, who proceeded to then walk back to his Orchestrioperatic Wonder.

With an excited grin, he waved the volunteer off the stage, causing the toy maker in the back of the room to chuckle a little, along with some of the other audience members. The young swell was most certainly used for his coin and did not look very pleased about it.

Gadget Gil dropped the coin in a small slot beside the glass case of the machine, pulled a large lever, and stepped completely off the stage.

There was a soft clicking noise, the clanking of the coin moving through the machine, and then the cranking sounds of gears moving in the body of the large box. Suddenly a jaunty tune blasted from the box, the keys of the harpsichord bouncing up and down as though an invisible man were playing. At the end of the tango-like bar of music, the cymbals clashed so suddenly that everyone in the audience jumped. Laughter rolled across the room when the drums joined in, the mallets banging against the tight skin of the drums. The laughter increased when the music paused just in time for the metal stick to hit the triangle just perfectly, before the harpsichord swept in again.

Chuck had somehow managed to turn his chair towards the stage without realizing it, he was so entertained by the Orchestrioperatic Wonder. When he chanced a short glance over his shoulder at Miss Walker, she was looking right at him, her blue eyes shining in the lamplight, her lips turned up in a soft smile.

It was a little unsettling and he wondered how long she had been watching him, or if it was just a coincidence that they had looked at each other at the exact same time. But there was something about her, a bit of mystery veiled by wit and sweetness. It drew him to her while making him a little nervous at the same time.

Her eyes flicked up to the stage as she grinned at him, and he took the hint. Watch the show, Bartowski.

As exciting as the wondrous mechanical orchestra box was, it had nothing on the power of the beautiful woman sitting behind him. But he turned back to the stage anyways.

Suddenly, the music slowed and two panels that Chuck had not seen before at the top of the machine slid open to reveal two heads, both brass and having rudimentary human features. One wore a woman's hat with a ribbon hanging down past its chin, and the other wore a bowler cap and had a dark, bushy mustache above its lips. The eyes of both heads opened simultaneously but had no pupils or human-like qualities. It was a bit creepy, Chuck had to admit.

But nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

The woman machine's jaw opened with a soft creak and the audience was silent, the music fading in a diminuendo until a heavenly, albeit tinny soprano came straight out of its mouth.

A sharp pain suddenly seized Chuck's head for just a moment, causing him to grasp at his trousers on his thigh, gritting his teeth. He saw the projected images behind his eyelids. A strange looking machine about the size of a household sewing machine with a large metal horn coming out of the top, a gloved hand turning the crank on the side. A regal-looking fellow speaking into a small cup with some wire attached to it. A man asleep in an armchair next to the same type of crank device, the cup with wires loosely griped in his hand on his lap. And then a close up of the man's throat where burning red rope marks mottled his skin and broke his neck.

When Chuck sat up straight again, he blinked repeatedly, the cacophonous sounds of the room coming crashing back to him and almost knocking from his seat. The male machine had since begun singing, accompanying the soprano singer with a tenor voice. When had that started? And where had he just been? What had he just seen?

He felt something squeeze his arm and whipped around. Sarah pulled her hand away from him quickly, as though she had been burned. "Ch—Mister Bartowski, are you quite alright? You look white as a sheet," she said, leaning close over the table.

The depth of concern in her tone and in her eyes was what finally shook him out of his stupor. "I-Yes. I'm terribly sorry, Miss Walker. I had a sudden ache in my head. The lighting in here gets to me sometimes."

She did not seem very convinced, but did the polite thing and nodded with a smile.

The music finally died down and the audience roared their applause, becoming even louder when the inventor stepped onto the stage in a blur of purple pride. The curtain shut and the riotous sound of the room lessened to the typical din.

Chuck turned his chair to face his companion and found that both of their pies were sitting in front of them, similar wisps of steam rising from the delicious-smelling food.

"How in the world do you suppose he got those heads to sing that way? I wasn't expecting it," she said conversationally, gracefully opening her napkin with a quick flick of her wrist and placing it in her lap, before digging into her generous portion of apricot pie.

"There is a phonograph behind the music box—or perhaps inside, I couldn't quite tell—which records a voice by speaking into a receiver, traps the voice in a glass bulb called a diaphragm, and a few odds and ends are fiddled with and replaced, which allows the voice to be played out of the horn mounted on top of the phonograph," Chuck answered without preamble, and a bit mechanically, so that he hardly even knew what he was saying until it came out of his mouth.

Chuck and Miss Walker blinked at the same time, and then she uttered a soft, "Oh." She ate another mouthful of pie, then smiled at the still befuddled toy maker. "Well, you seem familiar with the ins and outs of the, er, phonograph, was it? Have you made one before?"

"Never in my life." Her brow furrowed at that. "I mean I—I read about it. In books. I'm afraid no one but the queen, the royal family, and our state politicians would be able to afford such a contraption. I certainly could never." He shook his head, a bit in awe of his knowledge. Truth be told, he had heard tales of devices which were capable of projecting music, but never had he read books about it as he had just told Sarah Walker. Nor did he know anything about a 'phonograph'.

After the series of images that had flashed through his mind—as he was sure that was what it had been now, another 'flash'—he knew that phonographs were a large part of counter-terrorism measures that were used by the Imperial Bureau of Machinery and Defense. The man dead in his armchair, a phonograph beside him—he must have been speaking into it, recording something, when he was strangled to death by a rope. A rope someone had been holding. Was he an agent with IBoMaD? Or was he one of the terrorists?

"How would Gadget Gil be able to afford a phonograph? He is none of those things."

"When he was a young man, Gadget Gil—or Agent Gilbert Jamison as he was called then—was involved in some of the most secretive government intelligence circles in the world. He was dishonorably discharged after stealing a bit of extra payment from a drop in Jersey straight out of the case he was handing off. Seems Gadget Gil took something else from his employers on his way out. Probably a bit of extra compensation."

"Really?" There was something in her eyes, something that made him wary for a moment. Hunger, or perhaps just insatiable curiosity. He shook his head a little as he realized what he had just said.

"No. I-I am teasing," he lied a bit poorly. "Quite convincing though. It's most likely plausible. Though I suppose I read too many penny dreadfuls in my free time." He chuckled a bit nervously and she seemed to laugh it off, the unsettling desire for information gone from her beautiful features as they both settled in to eat again.

"Well, you have an imagination," she replied. "And I think that's important, especially for a man in your line of work."

"This is true."

"If you had the money, would you be able to make a phonograph, do you think, Mr. Bartowski?" she finally asked a few minutes of companionable silence later.

"I'm not sure I could. Though I have never thought about it before. I have built music boxes. You know, for jewelry. You pop the lid open like so and a sweet, tinkling tune comes out of it."

She smiled and opened her mouth to say something, but then she paused and drew back into herself.

"What is it?" he prompted, eager to know more about this fascinating woman.

She bit her lip and looked at him with unsure eyes for a moment, then she seemed to come to a decision and let out a self-deprecating, pretty little smile. "When I was a little girl, I saw someone with a music box like the ones you say you have built. She was sitting on the curb a bit of a ways away from me, but I could still hear the music when she opened it. It was very soft and very lovely. And I remember there was a dancer who popped up to stand when the lid was opened. It was beautiful."

Chuck was suffused with warmth, from his head to his toes. It was such a wonderfully candid moment, and he found himself cherishing it, and slotting it away in his brain to remember for as long as possible. "It sounds like quite the thing."

She giggled. "It certainly was." Then she leaned a little closer. "And I don't believe you are giving yourself enough credit. I think you would be able to make a contraption like the Opera—Orchestra—Whatever that unholy mess of a machine was called," Chuck laughed at that, "if you really gave it your all."

His ears burned a bit. "Well, thank you for your confidence in my abilities, and I don't mean any offense, of course, but you have only seen me fix a watch, Miss Walker."

She drew back and made a face. "You built your android, did you not? The strange little man with the beard. And he seems much more complex than the toys I saw onstage a few moments ago."

Chuck's blush raged over every part of his body, he was sure, and she must have noticed because eyes softened and her smile widened. He nodded a bit, unable to think of anything to say to that, then dug into his pie with gusto, eating a bit more voraciously than was fitting with propriety.

It was just that it was such fantastic pork, the juices of the fat seeping into the sauce and moistening the crust. And it had been too long since he had the money or a reason to visit Mother Harriet's Pies.

"The truth is, Miss Walker, if you don't mind me expressing my opinion, that is…" He paused and she smiled a bit, almost as though she was laughing at him. He tried not to blush, but felt the burning of his ears anyways. Again. "Ahem. Right. I…Well, you see, I find the prospect of building a machine to play music a bit…" He huffed, trying to find the right words. "Well, to keep in theme with the fact that we are eating food…I find the idea of an orchestrion, or any kind of recorded music, really—Well, I find it unpalatable."

"Unpalatable? You don't like the idea of an instrument playing itself? Why is that?" She leaned her elbows on the table, not seeming to care about the impropriety of the action. Not that Chuck minded a lick.

"Watching a musician, someone who has studied and practiced his whole life to be able to pick up an instrument and create music…I suppose I find that to be a sacred thing. And incredibly beautiful. I believe people with that kind of talent are rare in today's world. Just as skilled artisans are becoming passé."

She tilted her head in curiosity, which he took to be a cue for him to continue.

"One hundred years ago, shops like mine were everywhere. Not just clocks and toys and that sort of thing, but blacksmiths and seamstresses…"

"Machines do all of that now, in factories, is what you're saying." She stirred her fork in some of the mushy apricot that had seeped out of the side of her pie slice. "And you think this is a bad thing."

"I build machines, myself, so I cannot say that without seeming hypocritical." She smiled at that. "But I think having machines do everything for us will eventually make us lackadaisical. Lazy, even. And perhaps less intelligent. When you can get a machine to take care of every facet of your life, you don't have to use your brain anymore. You don't have to have any skills, any talent. And everyone on this dried up planet would turn into…" His eyes roved around the bar and settled on a swell in his mid-thirties, swaying drunkenly to no beat in particular, a half-empty mug of ale sloshing about in his unsteady hand. "…That fine fellow."

Sarah Walker followed his gaze, saw the man, and choked a little on her tea that she had just taken into her mouth. She patted her mouth with her napkin daintily and pursed her lips to keep a smile at bay. She was unsuccessful.

"Well, I never thought about it that way. Or maybe I never thought about it at all. What about the people like you who build and repair the machines that people use to do everything for them? You would still be using your skills, your God-given talent."

"There would only be a few of us. And everyone else would become, pardon me for saying it, but they would become brainless simpletons. I apologize for saying that."

She leaned closer and put her tea down, looking at him for a long while. He started feeling a bit uncomfortable under her piercing blue stare. "Mr. Bartowski, do you always apologize for the things you say?"

He was speechless, having been unprepared for such blunt candidness. She must have recognized it because she grinned and that bit of mischief was back in her shining face.

"Alright, you do not have to answer that, but only because you are being awfully nice in giving me a lovely tour of the city."

He chuckled. "Are you enjoying your—" Chuck's voice choked in his throat as he glanced down and saw that the giant slice of pie she had ordered was gone. When had that happened? Granted, she had only ordered a slice, as opposed to his small meat pie.

"It was delicious," she giggled with an adorable flush. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I ate rather like an animal. I lunched a bit earlier than usual today."

Chuck took a chance and leaned forward with a small smirk. "Miss Walker, do you always apologize for having a hearty appetite?"

She laughed at that and leaned back against her chair, shaking her head. "Fine. I see what the rest of the night is going to be like."

"Oh, please. You have been teasing me a great deal more than the singular time I teased you. If we were tallying points, you would be losing."

"Winning, you mean."

Chuck let out an amused huff and made a face at her, finishing his pie and gesturing for the waiter to return. When the moony-eyed young man returned, he had a hard time keeping his gaze from drifting to the pretty young woman sitting across from Chuck. It was difficult not to notice, and Chuck was chagrined to find that it irked him a little. To her credit, Miss Walker seemed amused more than anything.

"I'll have a slice of apple with a few fingers of cream, please. Also, a cup of Mama H's brew of the day. And for you, Miss Walker?"

"The same, please."

The waiter bowed and disappeared again, leaving the couple to rest back against their chairs comfortably and enjoy the atmosphere. A rowdy group of dock workers cheered loudly when their pies came, toasted Mother Harriet who most likely had flour up to her elbows as she rolled dough in the kitchen, and guzzled their mulled wine.

"You must be a frequenting customer here, then," she continued after the men simmered down. "Since the doorman, Goldy was it? Since he knew you so well."

"Not frequent enough," he said with a grin as their pie was set down in front of them again. He poured his cream over the pie generously and could not help but lick his lips as he saw the steam rising from the hot apple filling.

"Ah, so you are a brilliant mechanic and inventor, and even a man who saves little boys from being shot down in the street by corrupt patrolmen…but you're not much of a baker."

He grinned and ducked his head, shoveling a bit of pie into his mouth. "You have just told my entire life story, Miss Walker. I am definitely not a baker. I leave that to my sister, and then I siphon it through her kitchen window when she isn't looking." He winked, causing her to giggle into her coffee cup. "No, truthfully, were I a professional thief, I could not steal from that woman." He missed Sarah Walker's eye twitch as he looked down to skewer a slice of apple and smear it in the cream on his plate. "She has eyes in the back of her head. In fact, she is the one who tricks me."

"Oh?" She seemed awfully amused.

"Mm. 'Tis a sad tale," he said, affecting a British accent, before folding back into himself a bit bashfully, realizing he was forgetting himself a little in front of her. "The headmistresses at the orphanage Ellie and I lived in as children always saw much more potential in me than they did in her. They thought I was the smart one, and they pushed me to study and do well in my schooling. But the one with all the smarts is good ol' El." He beamed and rubbed the back of his head a little embarrassedly, not realizing that he was mussing his hair a little. "She bakes something delicious. Cocoa cake. Or biscuits. Nut tarts. Those sorts of things. And then she opens the vents so that the smell lures me into her kitchen. Just before I get my hands on a hot biscuit, she catches me and makes me repair something her husband broke."

Sarah gave off a tinkling laugh. "She didn't withhold the baked goods from you, though, did she?"

He shook his head and grinned. "No. She's never done that, thank goodness."

Chuck belatedly realized he had just subtly hinted at the fact that he lived in the same building as his sister, but if she noticed, she didn't say anything about it, or seem to be bothered by the prospect.

"You are close to your sister?"

"Very."

She smiled at that. "I hope you don't think me rude for asking, but your sister is a nurse, is she not?" He nodded. "I remember you told me after I found you bleeding in the alleyway the other day." She paused to gracefully eat a bit more of her pie. "What I meant to ask, really…I wasn't aware that you grew up in an orphanage."

"I did." He smiled in an attempt to reassure her that he was not put out by her topic of conversation, nor was he offended, or even upset in the slightest. He and Ellie had long ago come to terms with their upbringing by the severe mistresses at the orphanage. It was better than fighting to survive on the streets.

"How did your sister come to be a nurse? Usually the women who end up in those positions go through special schooling, do they not? And without parents, a woman has less of a chance to…make her way in the world on her own. That is not how it should be, but that's the way it is. It just seems…implausible? Oh, I am being rude."

Chuck shook his head vehemently and put his hand on the table, meaning to slide it over to lay on top of hers. But he stopped, realizing he might be overstepping, and instead wrapped his hand around his mug. "No, please. That isn't rude at all. My sister is a very special woman—person—and she has never been one to take no for an answer."

"Interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Yes. She must be incredible."

If at all possible, the beautiful, fascinating, witty woman sitting across the table from him rose even further in his estimation. "She is. But I am starting to wonder if you aren't also incredible, Miss Walker."

Her fork scratched against the plate and she lifted her gaze from her food to his face, a small smile stretching her full lips. "Thank you for that."

"You're welcome."

"Speaking of incredible, there is a band setting up on the stage, and if I'm not mistaken, I do believe there is a bit of a dance floor in the middle of the room just there." She gestured to the center of the room, her eyes flashing in excitement.

Chuck turned and looked over his shoulder, absolute panic—no, sheer terror rocketing through his system. He felt his blood run cold. "H-How does this relate to 'incredible' again? Because I'm afraid dancing is not my forte."

"There are many things that are not my forte, Mr. Bartowski, but I do them anyways because I must." She raised an eyebrow a bit like a schoolteacher, then put her napkin on the table. "Come. You're going to dance with me, Sir."

"I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that I'm going to embarrass you something terrible, Miss Walker. Please, for your sake, don't make me dance."

"I wonder what dance they'll play. Oh, look. A few couples are already on the dance floor. Come, Mr. Bartowski, I'm not taking no for an answer." When she moved to stand up, Chuck's chivalrous nature overruled his self-consciousness and he leapt from his seat to move behind her chair and pull it out for her, taking her hand in his and helping her to her feet. "That's more like it," she chirped.

"Miss Walker, I beg of you. Do not make me dance."

"The polka!" Her grin widened and excitement practically buzzed in her startlingly mesmerizing face. Chuck had no bloody idea how she managed to deduce that the band was going to play a polka, but he had bigger fish to fry, as the saying went.

"I have no idea how to dance the polka."

"I'll teach you, then. Never fear."

How could he refuse her?

Even though Ellie had proclaimed him hopeless when it came to dancing, as she and Devon both had attempted to teach him to waltz, two step, polka—all to no avail. If he lost the interest of this marvelous woman because he fell on his rump during the polka, it would not be the worst failure of his life, he supposed. He had lost a woman to worse than a bad polka. Granted, he still was not entirely convinced he had Sarah Walker's interest now. As it were.

She guided him out to the dance floor and took his left hand with her right, holding their clasped hands beside them and looking up at him through her lashes. She was so attractive. And her hand was so warm in his.

She placed his right hand in the middle of her back between her shoulder blades and he swallowed thickly, giving her a weak, crooked smile that was certainly shaky at best. Then she stepped close so that there was maybe half a foot between them.

The trumpeter let out a few wailing blows, the tuba sweeping in to cover the bass. Just as he turned to listen to Sarah's instructions, a pain shot through his head and images of couples dressed in their finery, hopping to and fro, twirling in circles, bowing, flitted across his vision.

He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head.

"Mr. Bartowski? …Chuck?"

His eyes snapped open at the sound of her voice and he focused on the concerned look on her face. "Are you alright? Do you need to sit down?"

"No! No, I'm perfectly fine. I think perhaps today's blend of coffee was a little strong for me. Or the lighting again. No, I'm—"

"You lot gonna dance or just stand here?" a loud-mouthed patron asked as he swung his partner in a circle past them. The man seemed to be teasing more than anything, but it spurred Chuck into action.

His confidence built as he stepped close to her again and the bouncy rhythm of the banjo and piano working with the brass section seeped into his limbs. An unknown power made him hop twice to the right, then twice to the left. With the skill of someone who had been dancing for years, he turned Sarah in a circle and hopped again.

In no time at all, they were skipping along the dance floor, laughing joyously, stepping apart again to hop in place. Then they would step into each other's embrace again and strut past the other couples, waggling their heads at one another as they moved their feet in accordance to the beat.

Chuck raised their hands and let her duck under his arm, spinning her before he pulled her back into him. From there they hopped twice to the right, then twice to the left again.

At one point, Chuck grabbed the lapels of his own suit jacket took a couple skillful dance steps while Sarah stood back and watched, clapping to the beat and laughing uproariously.

When the band blasted the very last note of the song, the banjo player quickly strumming and grinning beneath his boater hat that was jauntily tilted forward over his brow, Chuck and Sarah slid their hands away from each other and stepped back. He bowed solemnly at the waist while she bowed her head and gently dipped into a graceful curtsy.

The applause was deafening as Sarah grabbed his sleeve and rushed them off of the dance floor. They ignored the hooting and hollering of the other patrons in the restaurant. As Sarah attempted to tug him past their dinner table, he held fast and fished into his pocket. He dropped the proper amount on the table, along with a tip that was not overly generous thanks to the waiter's inappropriate fixation on Chuck's female companion.

Chuck rushed past the pristinely outfitted youth at the door who was proffering his boater with a grin that was flattering in its awe. Chuck snagged his hat with a wink, ignoring the dizziness he felt now that the adrenaline was wearing.

He allowed her to lead him out of the restaurant and into the night air which wasn't entirely fresh, but at least it was cooler than inside. His equilibrium was slowly returning.

Sarah laughed and reached up to straighten her own hair (not that much of it was out of place because she was perfect), pulling her black gloves out from where they had been tucked inside of her jacket and slipping them back on. "You said you couldn't dance!"

He couldn't. Not until a few minutes earlier he couldn't.

As confused and uncomfortable as that made him, he shook it off because Sarah's eyes were bright with what looked suspiciously like admiration. "I-I suppose I can. I just…"

"You're shy, Chuck. It's alright. But you needn't be. I'm thoroughly impressed."

She said it so nonchalantly and easily, as though it wouldn't make him feel like floating up into the smoke layer and off into space forever. As though it wouldn't make him feel like dancing again.

But what had happened to him once the music started? It was like some unknown power had overtaken his body, stripped him of control, filled him with confidence, and given him the ability to dance.

Chuck shook his head and let out an amused huff at himself. Or perhaps Ellie and Devon's lessons had stuck after all.

As Sarah Walker beamed up at him and held onto his arm, walking at his side up the pier and back onto the docks, Chuck found he didn't much mind either way.

Just so long as she kept looking at him like this.


A/N: Oh, that was fun. If anyone is interested, the Orchestrioperatic Wonder came out of my head, but it is based on an actual mechanical music machine that was invented and reinvented through the 1800s, called an orchestrion. It's quite possibly the coolest thing ever. Google it on youtube.

Also, I made Chuck and Sarah do the polka to some brassy jazz, which might not have been a thing in our world, but in the SteamVerse just about anything is possible. And because Chuck flashing on the polka is something that needed to happen somewhere. So I made it happen.

Review! You know I love it when you do!

Until next year!

Hahahahahaha! Kidding.