A/N: This chapter grew to be a monster. After much thought (and advice from WillieGarvin), I've split it into two chapters. Sorry about the buildup I may have given some of you in PMs or on Facebook, but this chapter needs to be told before the next one. Since it's the holidays, the next one will arrive sooner than normal. I hope.

Disclaimer: I bet Kwai Chang Caine he couldn't snatch the Chuck ownership pebble from my hand. I was wrong. So, now, I don't own Chuck. I make no money from Chuck. Caine snatched my wallet, too.

Chapter 16 – It's My Party

November 10 – Sarah's Birthday

Chuck was a little put out. Coach Graham had told them after the inter-squad game, the previous day, that there would be a 'team building' activity hosted by Coach Casey today, Sunday. Attendance was mandatory. He wouldn't say what the activity was, just that everyone had to be in the parking lot adjacent to the baseball field by 1:00pm Sunday afternoon. First, he and Morgan had missed Saturday's football game and a chance to sit with the Songbirds having fun, due to their practice baseball game. He couldn't complain too much, since the coaches had made their priorities clear at the beginning of fall quarter and Stanford ended up losing the game to Colorado. Then, today, Chuck had to forego his usual Sunday morning swimming workout. Instead, he and Morgan had woken up, showered, dressed, and eaten brunch in the dining hall, then hustled to get to the parking lot on time to avoid upsetting the coaching staff. He had no idea how long the activity was going to last, so he'd texted Sarah the details he did know and apologized that he couldn't hang out with her on her birthday. Now, Chuck was standing with the rest of the team on the side of the parking lot closest to the field, when a charter bus pulled up. The coaching staff came up from the direction of the diamond as soon as the bus came to a stop and opened its door.

"OK, people," Coach Graham announced. "This activity is being run by Coach Casey. Give him your undivided attention. Listen to what he has to say and do what he tells you. Understand?" A loud chorus of 'Yes, Coach' followed.

"Outstanding," Casey growled. Some of the upper class players snickered a bit. They had a good idea what was coming. This year's edition of the new player rite of passage. "Every year, since I've been on staff here, we've gone on a team building exercise during the fall quarter. It's a way to do something outside of baseball. Get to know each other better in a different setting. Clear?" Another chorus of 'Yes, Coach'. Chuck figured it was going to be one of those team challenge kinds of things. Like they used to do in Boy Scouts from time to time. Casey started to speak again, so Chuck focused on what he was saying. "Excellent. This year, like previous years, we're going to go to the Los Altos Rod and Gun Club and spend the afternoon shooting. There'll be opportunities for you to try your hand at trap shooting, rifle, and pistol. Don't worry if you've never handled a shotgun, rifle, or pistol before. There will be short lessons and safety discussions before anyone takes hold of a weapon and steps to the line. The aim of the game is to have some fun and do some shooting. No dumbass horsing around will be tolerated. Now everyone, get on the bus. Times a wastin'." Oh, no, Chuck thought as he shuffled along in the crush of people trying to board the bus. What was he going to do? He looked around, while he waited his turn to board the bus, and saw Casey sliding a number of long cases, carrying bags, and boxes into the storage area under the bus. Now Chuck knew who was providing the weapons and ammunition for today's fun times.

Casey was doing a headcount when a car drove into the lot and parked next to where the rest of the coaching staff was still waiting. People got out, but due to the high backs on the bus seats, Chuck couldn't see how many people or who they were. What he did see was the coaching staff get into the bus, followed by the newcomers. Casey had finished his headcount and was returning to the front of the bus. Nodding to Graham, Casey took a seat. The other coaches followed suit, leaving Graham standing in front of the people who'd arrived in the car.

Stepping out of the aisle, Graham gestured to the people who'd been behind him. "Stanford rules dictate that we bring medical staff along for any school sanctioned activity. Particularly, if we go off campus, like we're doing. It goes double for this activity due to the potential for injury from being around firearms. To that end, Dr. Steve Heslin and Nurse Jill Hopkins are joining us. They're both trauma trained and ER experienced. Dr. Heslin is in the Army Reserve and has served combat tours. That'll help, for obvious reasons, if we need it. Heaven forbid. Accompanying them today are two Stanford medical school students who are along to observe. Let me introduce Devon Woodcomb and Eleanor Bartowski. Yes, Miss Bartowski is Chuck's sister. You will give her and Mr. Woodcomb the same respect you give Dr. Heslin and Nurse Hopkins. Do anything less and I'll turn you over to Coach Casey. Are we clear, gentlemen?" The 'Yes, Coach' chorus sang out once more. The medical staff found seats in the front of the bus with the coaches. A number of players were looking at Chuck. He just closed his eyes. This kept getting better and better.

Antony 'Tony' Palone was the proud owner of the Los Altos Rod and Gun Club. Well, to be honest, he was whatever he needed to be to keep things running smoothly on any given day. Range master, safety instructor, chief cook, or bottle washer. Even janitor. At least, today was going to be a good day, for two reasons. First, it was time for John Casey's annual 'team building' activity for his Stanford baseball players. Tony chuckled to himself. It was more like John Casey's time on the playground. Anyone who knew him knew that Casey was one dedicated shooter. He guessed the old saying was true, you can leave the Marine Corps, but the Marine Corps never leaves you. And John Casey was a prime example. The second reason today was going to be a good day was that Tony's daughter, Lou, was taking time from her studies at Stanford to lend him a hand at the range. She'd man the office and security cameras while he and some of his staff were busy dealing with Casey and his players. He heard the bus drive past the office toward the parking near the picnic area.

Tony turned to his daughter, "Look alive, sweetheart. Today's the day for the Stanford baseball team shooting exercise. I've got to help them run it, so you've got the office and the security cameras. OK?"

Lou looked at her father in surprise. "The baseball team is here today? Now?"

Her father nodded. "Yeah, why're you so surprised?"

"I just had a brain freeze. I know some of the guys on the baseball team, but I didn't think of putting two and two together that they'd be here today to shoot." Lou frowned at herself.

"Well, do you want to come out and meet them, then? It's alright if you do," Tony offered.

"No, I'll stay in here and watch on the monitors. Let them have their macho man moment." Lou giggled.

Tony chuckled at her. "You know you could out-shoot the lot of them and not break a sweat." Lou didn't say anything, just lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug and gave him a Cheshire cat smile. He was still laughing when he went out to meet the bus, along with Bill Everett, his range master, and Sally Titshaw, the safety instructor.

He drove his Gator utility vehicle over to where the coaches were standing outside the bus talking with a team of what looked like medical personnel, based on the bags and satchels they were carrying. When he approached the group, he saw Casey break away and move to greet him. Bill and Sally went on ahead and drove their Gator down to the pistol range, where Bill got out and waited while Sally drove back up to where the others waited.

Getting out of his Gator, Tony greeted his friend. "Hello, John. I see you've brought some friends along this afternoon," he grinned, holding out his hand.

"Hi Tony. Yeah, another year, another crop of babes in the woods. Time to see what our first year guys are made of," Casey chuckled as he shook Tony's outstretched hand. He turned to the coaches and called out. "Look alive, coaches. We could use some help humping the guns, gear, and ammo over to the Gator. We'll take care of introductions when we get down to the trap field." Coach Graham got the players off of the bus, while the other coaches were tasked with carrying either a gun case or a crate of ammunition. Having a bunch of baseball players shooting took a fair amount of ammo. When things were ready to go, Casey got everyone's attention.

"OK guys, here's how we're going to do this so it doesn't take us until next year to finish it. We're going to break you up into three groups. One group per type of shooting: trap, rifle, and pistol. The man next to me is Tony Palone. He owns and runs this place." On hearing the man's name, Chuck and Morgan looked at each other wide-eyed. Was this guy related to the Lou that they knew? Knowing his luck today, the answer was probably. Could this day get any better, Chuck thought? "He's going to be down at the trap field showing you the ins and outs of trap shooting. Listen to what he says. I'll be at the rifle range doing the same thing. Tony's range master, Bill Everett, will be showing you the ropes there. The nice lady over by the Gator is Sally Titshaw. She's the safety instructor for the range. She's also trained in first aid. She'll be with our medical team on that Gator ready to come to aid anyone who needs it. Let's make sure no one needs it. Right?" More 'Yes, Coach' yells. "OK, let's have some fun." Casey quickly divided the players into three groups and gave each group their initial destination.

The access road for the range was perpendicular to the main road they'd entered from and ran alongside the various ranges: pistol, rifle, and trap in that order as you got further from the entrance. It was just narrow enough to prevent the bus from driving all the way down to the trap field, since there was nowhere for a vehicle as big as a bus to turn around. That meant the players and coaches walked. The medical team rode in Sally's Gator. Casey and Tony rode ahead to unload the proper firearms and ammunition at each location. When they were finished, Tony drove down to the trap field and Casey jogged over to the rifle ranges.

The first-year players were all in one group. Since the upper class players had done this before, Coach Graham tasked the assistant coaches with accompanying those groups, while he took charge of the new players. Given their presumed inexperience around firearms, the medical team stayed a short distance away, too. When the players arrived at the trap field, Tony was waiting for them. Once everyone was arranged where they could both see and hear him, he began to talk. What he said was being echoed by Casey at the rifle range and Bill Everett at the pistol range.

"OK guys, your Coach Casey has been generous enough to lend us two of his trap shotguns for today's shooting. We've got two Remington 870 Express Trap pump actions for you to use. With pump action shotguns, after you fire a round, you reload the weapon by working the pump that's under the barrel. We're using them for trap shooting. In trap shooting, a machine will send out a clay target. Unlike other forms of clay target shooting, like skeet or sporting clays, trap machines send the clay target away from the shooter. Your job is to track the target and hit it. Let me demonstrate how to use the shotgun, it's pump action, and how to track and hit one of those flying clays." Tony donned his ear protectors and shooting jacket then proceeded to show the players the proper way to handle, load, and safe the shotgun. Then he demonstrated trap shooting using an electric trap machine. After his demonstrations, it was the players turn. Each player was required to show Tony that he had listened to the instructions and prove it by mimicking what Tony had done. Once he was satisfied, they donned ear protection and shooting jackets and were allowed to try their hand at shooting one of the clay targets as it flew from the machine. Most were not very successful, but there were some who had either prior experience or a good eye that managed to hit their clays. When it came time for his turn, Chuck demurred.

"I don't really like guns," he said softly.

"Have you ever been around firearms before?" Graham asked with concern. "Do you have any experience, at all, handling them? Are you afraid of guns?" The last question was asked very quietly.

"Yes, Sir, to both of your first two questions. I've been around guns before and fired them … More than once, in fact. No, Sir, I'm not afraid of them, just don't like using them, is all," Chuck replied neutrally.

"OK, Bartowski," Graham replied. "We'll skip you for now, but you're not off the hook." Watching from a distance, Ellie's face wore a worried frown.

The same pattern was repeated at each of the other two stations. Casey safe handling and use of the two rifles he'd brought along, a Remington 700 bolt action and an AR-10 semi-automatic. After his lecture and demonstration, the players stepped up to give it a go on both the 50-yard and 100-yard ranges. Again, Chuck begged off. Graham's frown deepened and Casey joined him. Some of the players were whispering to each other. Ellie's worry increased.

Finally, Chuck and his teammates arrived at the pistol range. It had targets set at 7, 15, and 25 yards. Here they listened to Bill Everett give his instructions on handling the two available pistols, a Sig Sauer P365 and a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. Both were 9mm handguns. The players were particularly attentive to his lecture and demonstration since they'd seen that the targets at the 7-yard range were the famous police target silhouettes. Everyone wanted to see what they could do with those targets. Well, almost everyone. Once again, Chuck repeated his dislike for guns and requested not to be made to shoot. Graham's normal patience with Chuck's situation was wearing thin. Chuck's refusal had blindsided him. Didn't he understand that he couldn't be allowed to beg off from a team activity that literally everyone else, even his friend Grimes, was taking part in? If he wanted any chance to be a part of the team, he had to do this. Forget about being any type of leader. Graham was afraid that Chuck could risk being ostracized by refusing. Given the mindset of young men, they'd likely think him a coward. Or worse.

By this time the other groups had made the trek back to the pistol range and joined the other players. They all stood watching Coach Graham talk to Bartowski. Thinking he knew what was wrong, Casey walked up and put his arm around Chuck's shoulders. They walked back toward the trap range, while Casey talked to him in a low calming voice. Unbidden, the rest of the team and coaches followed. When they reached the trap range, Coach Graham joined Casey by Chuck's side.

"There really isn't any way out of this is there?" Chuck asked quietly. It was so silent that everyone heard what he said anyway.

"I'm afraid not, son," Graham squeezed his bicep.

"Come on, man," Morgan pleaded. "You can do this, Chuck."

Ellie started to say something, but Devon touched her arm and shook his head when she looked at him. Dr. Heslin nodded his agreement that Ellie needed to stay silent. This had to be Chuck's decision.

"Do you remember the instructions, Bartowski?" Casey questioned. Chuck gave him a flat look.

Unable to resist any longer, Shaw snarked, "Come on, Bartowski, don't be a pussy." A smug grin was plastered on his face.

Chuck stared wordlessly at his assembled teammates. Then he looked down. When Chuck looked back up his demeanor had changed. His face was entirely expressionless and there was no light in his eyes. It seemed his brown eyes had darkened all the way to black. The team drew back in surprise. There were a few gasps. The only person at Stanford who'd seen Chuck wear this face, before now, was Bumper Allen.

He stalked over to the firing line, grabbed a set of ear protection and snapped them over his head and then shrugged on one of the shooting jackets. Picking up one of the 870s, he checked to see if it had a shell in the chamber. Tony nodded to him to let him know that it was fully loaded. Thumbing off the safety, he called out, "I'm live!" Verifying that Tony had his finger on the machine switch, he tucked the shotgun into his shoulder and barked, "Pull!" Chuck tracked, fired, and shattered the clay into powder. Wracking the pump, he spoke again. "This time give me two." Reseating the weapon into his shoulder, he barked, "Pull!" Tony pressed the switch two times in succession. Chuck shattered both clays. "Two again," he growled. "Pull!" Two more clays disintegrated. Chuck took a breath. "Clear!" he called. Thumbing the safety back on, he finally said, "Safe!" Stepping back from the firing line, he removed the ear protectors. He carefully placed the shotgun back on the table along with the ear protectors and jacket. Without looking at anyone, he marched off in the direction of the 100-yard rifle range. Somewhere along the way, Shaw had lost his smug grin.

"Bar-," a voice called out from behind him.

"Shut it!" he yelled and continued walking.

Arriving at the rifle range, he picked up a set of ear protectors and put them on, along with one of the shooting jackets nearby. Then he picked up the Remington bolt action and checked the magazine. Satisfied, he marched over to one of the shooting stations on the 100-yard range. "On the line and live," he called as he flicked the safety and settled into a comfortable firing position. Casey took a spotting scope and sat at the next station. Chuck adjusted the sights and fired a test shot. Casey looked through the scope and called out the location of the hit on the target. Chuck readjusted the sights, worked the slide, and fired again. Casey confirmed the bullseye. Chuck fired off the rest of the magazine, working the bolt and the trigger in quick succession. Casey confirmed three more dead center shots. Chuck nodded, pulled the bolt back and left it open signifying that he was empty, before setting the safety. After calling out "Safe!", he stepped back from the shooting station and removed his ear protection and jacket, again. Casey took charge of the rifle and Chuck moved off to the pistol range, holding up his hand to forestall anyone asking him any questions. They followed him in silence, more than a little stunned, if not intimidated.

At the pistol range, Chuck donned ear protection for the last time. He chose the Smith & Wesson M&P Shield. Before he left the prep table, he grabbed three extra magazines filled with ammunition. Walking over to the 50-yard targets, Chuck went through the safety process. Then he took aim and slowly and carefully fired off the 7-shot magazine. Even from the firing line it was possible to see that his shots were tightly grouped in the center of the target. Ejecting the empty magazine and slamming a new one in, he repeated the process at the 15-yard targets. Again, there was a tight grouping of shots in the center of the target. Finally, he stood in front of the 7-yard range and the police target silhouettes. After a few seconds, one of the police targets had a gaping hole in the middle. Loading the last magazine, Chuck moved to the next 7-yard target and rapidly fired the pistol until it clicked empty. Calling "Safe!" one final time and removed his ear covers, placing them and the secured pistol on the prep table along with the four empty magazines. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, but stood looking out over the range as the assembled crowd stared at his back in trepidation.

Tony, who had been following in Chuck's wake and gathering his targets, rushed out on the pistol range to secure the final four papers. Glancing at them, he quickly moved over to Casey and showed them to him. Upon seeing the last target, Casey let out a low whistle and showed it to Graham. Graham's eyes widened in shock before he handed it back to Casey who proceeded to show it to everyone else. The last target, the one Chuck had rapidly fired into, had one shot in the middle of the forehead, one in the middle of each eye, the mouth, the middle of the chest where the heart would be, and one each in the areas indicating where the kidneys would be. People's mouths were hanging open. Stunned wasn't a strong enough word.

"Holy shit, bro," Morgan squeaked out.

"What the fuck, Bartowski? Do you care to explain yourself?" Casey demanded.

Chuck turned around and faced everyone. "Just because I don't. Doesn't mean I can't," he said in a tight growl.

"That doesn't explain anything," Casey barked. "Where did you learn to shoot like this?"

"Quigley Down Under," Morgan muttered to himself.

"Chuck?" Ellie exclaimed despite Devon trying to stop her.

Chuck's shoulders slumped as he heaved a huge sigh. He fixed his gaze on Casey. "Does the name Cole Barker mean anything to you, Coach?" Ellie's eyes showed she recognized the name and she gasped. Chuck heard her. Shit! This wasn't how he wanted Ellie to find out about this. Actually, he was hoping that she wouldn't find out about it at all. Too late for that now. Great. Just great.

"Yeah, it does. What does that have to do with anything?" Casey replied.

"Who's Cole Barker?" Morgan asked. Apparently, his friend had been keeping secrets from him.

Casey answered for Chuck. "Cole Barker is the guy who led the SAS team that stormed the Iranian Embassy in London back in 1980 after a week-long stand-off. Saved a bunch of hostages." Chuck was nodding. "How do you know Cole Barker, Bartowski?"

Chuck explained, "He's a friend of my maternal grandfather. My grandfather was in the service for a long time in special operations with the 1st Special Operational Detachment - Delta. They had some joint operations and training exercises together. That's where Granddaddy met Mr. Barker."

"Your granddad was in Delta Force?" Chuck nodded. "Was he one of the plankholders?" Chuck nodded again. Casey gave another low whistle.

"What's a plankholder, Chuck?" a voice in the group asked.

Casey answered before Chuck got the chance. "Plankholder means that Bartowski's grandfather was one of the original members of Delta Force." Morgan's eyes grew big. So did a lot of other peoples'.

"That's very interesting and all, Bartowski, but what does all of that have to do with you shooting like that?" Casey prompted.

"What it means is this, Coach; I went to school in England for two years. While I was over there, I lived with Mr. Barker and his wife. I was having a hard time. Really struggling with being so far away from home and anyone I knew. In a foreign country, even if it was England. And struggling with some other things, too. Cole took me under his wing. Started teaching me the exercises and breathing techniques that went along with the martial arts and shooting training the SAS go through. He thought it would help me concentrate and deal with my issues better. He was right. It was a big help." Chuck finally took a deep breath and sighed. "From there it just sort of evolved into him teaching me how to shoot and do martial arts."

"You mean to tell me that you spent two years getting private lessons in SAS martial arts and shooting techniques? From one of the most famous and decorated members of the SAS, ever?" Casey sounded and looked incredulous.

"Yeah, coach, that about sums it up." Chuck nodded.

"Well, damn. Bartowski, you are full of surprises. You're one fine shot, too, by the way." Casey was laughing now. "Son of a bitch, remind me not to get you mad," he said and laughed harder. More than one person joined him.

Ellie sidled up to Chuck and whispered in his ear, "We need to talk. Let's have dinner tonight. No excuses." Chuck sighed again, but he nodded his head.

In the office, Lou finished making a copy of the security footage of Chuck on the shooting ranges. She couldn't believe what she had just seen and she knew that once she showed that footage to the Songbirds, she wouldn't be the only one.

Sarah felt like she was floating in the clouds. It was her birthday. Her nineteenth birthday! And her mother had just given her the best present she'd ever gotten. They had just finished up a phone conversation where Emma had told her that three envelopes had arrived for her the day before, on Saturday. Three letters on the same day! Letters from three of the schools that she'd been waiting to hear from: Stanford, USC, and San Diego State. Her mom had waited to tell her until it was her birthday, expecting good news. Sarah had begged for her mom to open them and read her what they said, no matter what. All three were acceptances! All three! There were still three other schools they were waiting to hear from, but Sarah didn't really care. The important school had responded and said yes! Stanford! She got in, she got in, she got in! Three more years! Three more years at Stanford. She couldn't wait to tell Chuck. Three more years with him! It looked like life was finally opening up for her. Sarah could scarcely believe it was happening. Her joyous laughter could be heard up and down the dorm hallway.

Being careful of her ankle, still, Sarah was just 'chair dancing' when she wanted to be dancing for real. Maybe even dancing with Chuck. There was a knock on the door. Being closest, Zondra opened it to find Lou standing there with her laptop in one hand and a thumb drive in the other. Without waiting to be invited, she rushed into the room.

"Wait until you get a load of this!" Lou exclaimed.

"Get a load of what?" Carina asked.

"Chuck Bartowski on a shooting range shooting up the targets like he's Clint Eastwood or something." Lou was so excited that she was bouncing in place.

The CATS were confused, so she explained, "I was spending the day helping my dad at his shooting range. It's down outside of Los Altos. I was manning the office and watching the security cameras. Dad was outside dealing with the Stanford baseball team. They come to the range every fall for a 'team building' exercise. My dad says it's just an excuse to let the boys come over to be macho and shoot guns," she giggled, only sobering when the other girls didn't join in. She cleared her throat. "Anyway, the baseball team was there and I watched them on the security cameras. It looked like Chuck was trying to get out of handling the guns. He kept putting it off until the end. Then they made him shoot. I didn't hear what was said, because our cameras don't have sound. I mean who wants to watch videos full of the sound of guns being fired?" Lou shook her head. "Anyway, Chuck gave in. Something changed and he started shooting like he was Rambo. Shotguns, rifles, and pistols. He's a crack shot with all of them. Dad told me that he learned from some English guy when he was over there going to school."

"Wait! What?" Sarah yelped. "Chuck went to school in England? When? For how long?" Lou was surprised that Sarah had focused on that, instead of the fact that Chuck appeared to know a lot about guns.

Lou shrugged, "I don't know when. I asked, but Dad said that Chuck didn't say, but he did say that he was over there for two years."

"Well, well. Chuckles in school in jolly old England. Rather. I do say. Cheerio. Pip, pip and all that," Carina teased in a terrible English accent.

"Cut it out, Red," Sarah scolded. "Let's look at the security recording. I want to see this." Turning to Zondra, she added. "Z, boot up your PC. We might have to expand our Chuck school search across the pond."

"On it, Sarah," Zondra said, opening her laptop and turning it on.

"OK, Lou, let's see your footage," Sarah requested. "I want to see what Chuck's been up to." Were they finally getting a break trying to find something out about Chuck? She hoped so.

Lou had just plugged the thumb drive into the port on the side of her computer, when the door burst open again and Amy came in. She was out of breath.

"Sorry … Sorry," she gasped as she tried to catch her breath. "I … ran … all … the … way … up … the stairs."

"What's got you all in a tizzy?" Sarah asked. It took Amy a few moments until she could speak clearly without gasping.

"Would you believe that I saw Chuck Bartowski driving a car out of the lot next to our dorm?"

"Chuckles snuck a car onto campus? The little scamp!" Carina laughed.

"No, he didn't sneak it onto campus. It had an A level parking sticker on it." Amy said as her eyebrows shot up. "You know that sexy, dark blue BMW that we've oohed and aahed over in our lot since the beginning of school? The one that doesn't move very much? The one with the A level parking sticker? Yeah, that one," Amy nodded. "Chuck was driving that one."

"How can that be?" Sarah wondered. "Freshmen can't have cars on campus?"

"But he's got one, Blondie," Carina's eyes narrowed. "He's got a car with a parking sticker, so the powers that be know about it. You know what that means, don't you?"

"He's not a freshman," Sarah's happiness over her Stanford acceptance was forgotten in that instant. She went from calm to mad to white hot in about a second. "Sonofabitch! He lied. What else has he been lying about? Has he been lying to us the whole time? Here I was thinking Chuck was different from Handsy Hank. Turns out he's just the same." Sarah thought for a second, then looked over at Zondra. "Z, did you ever ask your dad about getting access to the government databases like we talked about a while back?" Zondra shook her head no. "Well, please give him a call. I'd like you and your dad to find out everything there is in those databases about our Mr. Charles Bartowski." She was so mad; she was sure there was smoke coming out of her ears. "I want to know everything there is as soon as possible. We're going to have a little chat with our mascot," Sarah said with icy determination. Her friends shared worried looks. What if this wasn't what it appeared to be and Chuck hadn't done anything wrong?

"Are you sure about this, Blondie?" Carina asked. "Are you sure he lied? It's possible I jumped to the wrong conclusion just now. I don't remember if he ever told us he was a freshman or not. Maybe, he was borrowing that car and it isn't even his. Calm down and think for a second."

Sarah was hurt and couldn't help feeling disappointed and a bit betrayed, but she did hear what Carina was saying. Taking a deep breath and calming herself, she spoke quietly, "Let him prove it. It's time for Chuck to tell us his story. Past time." When Carina heard her friend, she felt better, but only a little. What had she done?

And just like that, Chuck's web of secrecy tore open. It was almost Shakespearean, except instead of the lack of a nail for a horseshoe bringing down a king, it was a parking sticker on a car that led to Chuck's undoing. What Zondra and her father uncovered over the next few hours, as surprising as it was, seemed almost anti-climactic, in Sarah's mind, to that original fairly mundane revelation. To her it wasn't mundane at all.

Chuck had been too preoccupied, with worry about his coming dinner and inevitable 'conversation', to notice Amy standing on the curb by the parking lot when he pulled out to drive over to Ellie's place. He was pretty sure it was going to be more like an interrogation than an actual, casual conversation. First the shooting range and now this. It just kept getting better and better. What a day. And he still wasn't happy about missing out on seeing Sarah on her birthday, so he could wish her a happy birthday on the actual day. What a concept! And there were the presents he'd wanted to give her. Oh well, that would just have to happen tomorrow. Ellie had wanted to have dinner and talk, her 'request' didn't leave him any room to do anything but accept it.

He parked in a spot in Ellie's complex. In keeping with the rest of his luck that day, the closest available spot wasn't close at all, so he had a bit of a hike to get to her apartment. It wasn't the longer walk itself, but it was just one more thing added to an already shitty day. By the time he knocked on her door, Chuck was in a pretty rotten mood. He had only knocked one time, when the door flew open to reveal Ellie standing there staring at him wide-eyed, her face showing a kaleidoscope of emotions.

"Come in. Dinner's almost ready," she said brusquely as she turned back toward the kitchen. "We need to talk," she said over her shoulder. Chuck glanced over at Devon, who was sitting on the couch out of the way. He made an 'oh boy' face complete with anxious eyes as he shook his head at Chuck. Devon mouthed the word 'warpath', looking in the direction where Ellie had gone. Fantastic, Chuck thought. Just what I need.

Trying to diffuse the situation, Chuck walked over to the entrance to the kitchen and stopped. Sniffing the air, he thought he smelled a familiar scent and smiled. "You're making a Dad special, aren't you? Sloppy Joes. Manwich from a can? Fritos, too?" Despite the situation, he found his mouth watering. So many fun childhood memories featured this particular meal.

Ellie graced him with a small grin, "Yup, you got it in one. One of Dad's culinary masterpieces. There's a salad, as well. We picked the stuff up at the grocery store on the way home after your 'incident'." She gave him a pointed look. Chuck nodded his head in acknowledgement of the day's activities and his part in them.

"Can we eat first, El? Before you tear my head off?" he asked, twisting his lips and giving her a pleading look.

"I'll agree to that," she nodded. "Come on and serve yourself. You know the drill. I made plenty, like always." She moved aside and Chuck noticed two bags of hamburger buns, two big bags of Fritos, and enough salad to feed all three of them for a week. There were two skillets on the stove full of bubbling sloppy joe mixture. Boy, he thought, Devon wasn't kidding, she must really be upset. Ellie had made twice what they needed. People did all sorts of things when they were stressed. Ellie Bartowski cooked. She saw that he wasn't moving and gave him a look, "Your plate won't serve itself. Come on in here. I won't bite you," she paused. "Not until after dinner, at least." Her lips twitched with the ghost of a smile, but Chuck's concern didn't really diminish one bit, although he was smart enough to follow her directions and began filling his plate with food.

"Thanks for this, Ellie. First Mom, then Granddad and Gommy, and now Dad. You're running through the tried-and-true family comfort food meals. What's next up on the trip down food memory lane?" Chuck was thankful and hoped his little tease was taken in the spirit he meant it. Given the situation, he wasn't too sure.

"I'll let you figure that one out, little brother," Ellie said, not unkindly. "I've made three meals for us. Next time it'll be your turn in the kitchen."

"Uh … OK … what would you like me to make? Another of our family standards?" Chuck gave Ellie a questioning look. She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she and Devon took their places at the table, said grace, and began to dig into their sandwiches. Chuck was busy with his own food when Ellie finally addressed his question. "I'm not sure what I want you to cook, Chuck. Maybe not a family recipe. I'd like to see what that big brain of yours can come up with," she gave him an appraising look. He wasn't sure if it was about him cooking or the 'other' thing hanging over the table.

"OK, I'll give it some thought and let you know. There might be some logistical issues to figure out with y'all in class and me not living here, but we'll figure it out," Chuck said between bites of one of his sloppy joes. "In the meantime, these are really good, El. Just like Dad's. All that's missing are his terrible jokes and puns." He smiled at the memories.

"It's ground beef and stuff from a can, Chuck. Not haute cuisine," Ellie snorted before giving him another small smile. "Thanks for the appreciation, just the same." Chuck saw Devon raise his eyebrows at him, but he kept silent. Ellie's boyfriend really was getting to know her pretty well in a very short time, Chuck mused to himself.

The remainder of dinner was spent in somewhat stilted conversations about everyone's academic activities and Chuck's baseball practices. His inter-squad games that he was now playing added a little variety to the discussion. It wasn't until Chuck let slip that today was Sarah's birthday and that he'd missed it because of the team outing and having dinner with his sister, that Ellie brought up the shooting range.

"You missed Sarah's birthday because of that stupid shooting range nonsense?" Ellie glared at him. "How could you do that, little brother? Sarah's special and she deserves better than that!"

Chuck looked at his sister like she'd grown two heads. "I didn't arrange that thing, Ellie! I didn't even know what the activity was until Morgan and I got to the field. None of us did," he paused. "Well, none of the first year players knew anything and the upper class guys didn't let on, either. How was I supposed to know? Besides, no matter what it was, it was a team activity. A mandatory team activity," he stressed the word 'mandatory'. "I had to go no matter what. I had no choice. Then you commanded that I have dinner with you. I remember you saying something about dinner and no excuses. Otherwise, I might be back at my dorm, right now, giving Sarah her presents." That brought Ellie up short.

"Oh Chuck, I'm sorry. I had no idea. Why didn't you say something to me back at the range?" Ellie had the good graces to look guilty.

"Yeah, sure, El. After what had just gone on, I was thinking so clearly just then," Chuck shook his head in frustration. "It sounded to me like you demanded I come and talk to you. We're moving in a good direction, or, at least, we were, so I listened and came over. Yeah, that means I pushed Sarah to the side to do what you wanted," he huffed out a breath.

"You still could have told me, Chuck. I mean, it's Sarah. She's your friend." Ellie shared a look with Devon. "What I want to talk about could wait for you to help her celebrate her birthday," she concluded sheepishly.

"Like I said, El, I wasn't thinking clearly. You demanded I come over and you got what you wanted," his voice hardened. "You always get what you want."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ellie retorted her voice sharp. "If that were true, you never would have been at that shooting range and shooting those guns." She glared at her brother. "Where did you learn how to do that anyway? I bet Mom and Dad don't know about that. They'll be so pissed when they find out," she shook her head.

Chuck stared at her. "Where did I learn …? Were you not listening this afternoon, at all? You were right there," he looked between her and Devon, "Both of you were. I told the entire story. That's it. There's nothing else to tell."

"Why guns, Chuck? You know how I feel about guns," she whined. He certainly did know all about her feelings on the subject. The aftermath of the mugging the family had come upon years ago after a Dodgers game was burned into his memory, too.

"It wasn't about you, Ellie. It had nothing to do with you. It was me. I needed help. No one was there with me in England to help. Not Morgan. Not you. Not Mom. Not even Dad. I was alone," he frowned. "Cole was there. He saw I was struggling and offered to help." Ellie gave him a side-eye look that meant 'guns?'. "It didn't start with the guns. He started out with breathing and concentration exercises. Meditation. The martial arts came next. The guns weren't until the end. And it isn't about guns. It's about concentration and control. Mental control and muscle control," Chuck looked her in the eye. "I was struggling. Drowning really. Almost overwhelmed. The stuff I'd been doing up to that point wasn't working anymore. I was barely keeping the headaches at bay."

"When did you start to have trouble? I always thought that you had figured out how to deal with it pretty early on," Ellie said.

"I had. Or so I thought. It was back in Boston. After Dad left," his anger flared. "After you demanded that he come back home, because you needed him. As always, you got what you wanted."

"That's not fair," she protested weakly.

"Isn't it?" Chuck questioned harshly. "You've always gotten what you wanted. The most popular girl in class. In the middle of every activity and event. Valedictorian. Homecoming queen. Captain of the girls' soccer team. Friends. Parties. Boyfriends. Dates. Hanging out. Having the time of your life. Then UCLA. Now medical school at Stanford. Devon." He looked across the table. "No offense meant, Captain."

"None taken," Awesome replied softly. He was being very careful to stay out of the line of fire, because he knew that this was an important conversation and he didn't want to be collateral damage. Chuck smiled briefly, before turning back to his sister.

He resumed speaking, "You've been in the middle of everything. Always. Miss Popular." Ellie was getting red, but Chuck could tell it was anger and not embarrassment. She had that look in her eye. "And I was alone. In Boston, after Dad left. And in England. Truth be told, I've always been alone. Even at home, before Boston. Except for Morgan, but even he doesn't get it. Not really. No one does. No one lives inside my skin, but me," he shook his head and held up his hands. "And I don't wish this on anyone. This is a curse," he looked over at Ellie again. "I know you resent me, El. You do. Everybody does. It's OK. I understand," he gave her a sad smile. "It's tough having a younger brother who can do things you can't do. You wish sometimes that you could trade places with me, but you're wrong. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy." Ellie's anger was gone. She could see and hear the anguish in his voice. He was right, she had no idea about his life. Not really.

"Oh, Chuck," Ellie whispered. "I'm so, so sorry. You're right. I have been jealous of you. For years. You're also right that I have no idea what you go through every day," she reached out and squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry. Truly sorry for the things I've said and done in the past."

"I know, El. I know and I forgive you. If you can forgive me," he squeezed her hand in return and she nodded, sniffing. "And you have to know that I didn't want to be there this afternoon. Didn't want to shoot those guns. I would have been happy to live my entire life and not have anyone know about that," Chuck looked from Ellie to Devon and back. " Before you ask, yes, I've been shooting since I've been back from England. Believe it or not, keeping the skill up and the concentration it requires helps me. But you need to know that it's only ever on a range at clays or targets. Never anything else. Honest. And, just so you know. Mom and Dad both know already," he looked at Ellie sheepishly. "No, I didn't tell them, Granddaddy did, before I even came home." A rueful chuckle. "They were most definitely pissed, but it was water under the bridge and all that. Not much they could do about it after the fact. And, yes, we didn't tell you because we all know your stance after that old … um … event. Sorry, for not telling you." Ellie wiped her eyes and got up from the table to enfold him in a hug. It lasted a while. Neither one of them noticed Devon smiling and quietly nodding his head. Awesome, he thought.

"He what?" Sarah was incredulous. How many secrets did Chuck Bartowski have anyway? It had taken Zondra and her father a good bit of time to comb through the government databases that he had access to and run a series of queries to locate whatever information they could find on Chuck. After the fairly fruitless searches she'd previously conducted on the public internet, Zondra was more than a little surprised to find anything on the government systems. Not just anything, more like something. Something important. And amazing.

"Chuck has five patents. Five. Patents. His name is on all of them, as the patent holder, along with some company named CIB Technologies," she thought for a moment. "CIB, hmm? I wonder if that stands for 'Charles I-something Bartowski'? Has he ever told us his middle name?" Her question was greeted with a chorus of nos.

"What does he have patents in, anyway? Good God, five patents? And he's just turned nineteen? Chuckles has been a busy, busy boy," Carina teased. Sarah frowned at her.

Zondra looked at the different patents. "I'm not one hundred percent sure. These patents look more like legal stuff as far as I can tell," she shook her head. "I think that there's one that talks about programming something or other and two that talk about stuff that goes into a computer. You know, chips and memory stuff." She scratched behind her ear. "The next one talks about nano-machines, if I'm reading it right." Her suitemates looked at each other in astonishment, before she continued, "And the last one is talking about either physics or chemistry. I can't tell which, but it says something about nano-something or other and signal transfer via chemical blah blah WTF? I don't know." She looked again. "I was wrong about that last one. It's not a patent yet, just a patent application. It's dated a couple of weeks ago."

"Holy shit!" Carina exclaimed. "Chuckles was working on a patent here at Stanford? Maybe even while we were practicing? The little sneak." Carina laughed. She'd forgotten momentarily why they were looking on the government systems in the first place. Sarah's sad expression halted her laughter. "Those aren't lies, Sarah. He never talked about them and we never asked."

"Yeah, I know," Sarah sighed. "I just hoped he would trust us enough to talk to us. I guess I was wrong."

"Give him a chance," Carina encouraged. "He's not a bad guy. Actually, a pretty good guy. I'm guessing that there's a really good reason he's not told us any of this stuff."

"Look at this," Zondra interrupted pointing at her screen. "It seems like he just published an article in a journal of some kind. The journal's name is ACM Transactions on Database Systems and the title of the article is 'How Partitioning Strategies for Indexes and Data Impacts Cache Performance for Parallel Queries in a Multiplex Data Warehouse'. It was Zondra's turn to laugh and shake her head. "I have no idea what any of that means."

"It means I was right. Chuck isn't a freshman. No freshman writes articles like that. No freshman has four patents and one on the way," Sarah's eyes welled up. "Why didn't he tell us?"

"I'll tell you something," Amy spoke up. "I bet that the company listed on those patents, CIB Technologies, is Chuck and it's how he monetizes those patents." She noticed her three friends looking at her. "My parents deal with companies like that all the time at work. Chuck's not hurting for cash, is all I'm saying."

"Well, he did say his family could afford to send him here without a baseball scholarship," Sarah agreed. "And he might own that nice car you saw him driving, so yeah. Probably not hurting," she nodded. "I still wish he would talk to me." Her friends noticed that her voice had softened and she didn't even bother trying to hide the fact that she wanted him to talk to her. Not them so much. That thought made their eyes dance when they looked at each other.

Carina tried one more time. "Give him a chance, Sarah. Talk to him. Ask him your questions. Let him know how disappointed you are that he hasn't trusted you. How friends should trust each other." Sarah looked over at her and nodded. "You can do it at practice tomorrow. You know he'll be there. Especially since he couldn't hang out today on your birthday because of that baseball team thing at the shooting range."

"Maybe, you're right, Red," Sarah admitted. "I do need to talk to him. I want to and practice tomorrow seems like a good time." She thought for a moment. "Do you think it should be just me or maybe just us. Should I ask the others to wait outside while we talk to him?"

"That's a good idea, Blondie," Carina agreed. "Maybe just the four of us. He's spent the most time with us, with you. We're closest to him after all. Unless you want to give him the Spanish Inquisition and he certainly won't be expecting that." She smirked. The CATS looked at each other grinning maniacally.

All four girls yelled, "NO-body expects the Spanish Inquisition!", before doubling over laughing, the mood considerably lighter. Sarah beamed at the redhead.

"Thanks, Red, for pulling me back from the brink and making me see sense," she gave her friend a tight-lipped smile and nodded. Carina hoped Sarah still felt the same way tomorrow afternoon.

A/N2: Chapter title comes from the song by Lesley Gore. This is the famous 'it's my party and I'll cry if I want to' song.

A/N3: No comments from the peanut gallery. Titshaw is an actual time-honored last name. There was a young southern lady with that last name when I went to university.

A/N4: Morgan's Quigley Down Under comment is a reference to the final confrontation between Tom Selleck and Alan Rickman's characters in the 1990 film. Quigley (Selleck) says something similar to what Chuck does after he's done shooting. Yes, that scene in the movie was the inspiration for my scene in this chapter. Some TMI, the Los Altos Rod and Gun Club really exists. Google it, if you're interested to see what it looks like.

A/N5: Chuck's database paper isn't fiction in any way. The topic it covers is out there in the real world and has been for some time. If anyone is having trouble falling asleep at night, drop me a line. A little bit of that data warehouse stuff and you'll be sleeping like a baby in no time.

A/N6: WillieGarvin, thank you so much for the help you've been giving me all through this story. Extra kudos must go out to you for your help and encouragement with this particular chapter. I couldn't have done it without you. What I'm saying is it's all your fault. J/K. Maybe.

A/N7: Thank you for reading. Please drop me a PM or leave a review. Let me know what you think. For those of you who have left reviews or PMs previously, thank you. I appreciate each and every one of them.

A/N8: If you enjoy Chuck fan fiction here on the fanfic site, go over to Facebook and join the Chuck Fanfiction group that's there. You'll find nice folks who share your interest in our favorite spy couple. You are not alone.