A/N: Yeah, I got done a little quicker this time.

This chapter is for those who wanted Chuck's reaction to their first encounter.

There will be changes in the format of this story starting in the next chapter. Not completely sure what those changes will be at the moment, but we'll see more advancement in the plot.

Thanks to michaelfmx my beta. Any errors remaining are my responsibility.

Also, thanks go to Zettel and Grayroc for their observations and suggestions.

Don't own Chuck et al.

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Chapter Four: Him

I don't know what to make of her. She confuses me.

No, that word isn't strong enough. She bewilders me.

Where's the charming, smiling woman I saw with that little girl?

Where's the heartbroken woman who was crying her eyes out just a few moments ago?

Instead, all I'm seeing now is this…blankness…in her eyes, in her expression. Not a flicker of emotion that I can detect.

Is this the real her? Galatea untouched by the gods? That cold, lifeless perfection that I'd earlier tried to convince myself she was? Someone capable of turning off her emotions like flipping a light switch?

Perhaps the two incidents I witnessed were nothing more than aberrations of some sort. Or acts she put on, although for what possible purpose I can't begin to fathom.

I'm not used to that. With Ellie, Morgan and Devon—the most important people in my life—you always know where you stand. If they're happy with you, they let you know. And if they aren't, they let you know that as well. Although to be fair, it'd taken me a while before I was able to distinguish between Devon's jovial approval and his jovial disapproval.

But, with this woman, I'm completely baffled.

And, on top of that, she scares me.

I'm in some real danger here. Beauty—and this woman makes the descriptive power of that word sound so grossly inadequate—can blind. Has blinded me.

After Jill, I swore that I wouldn't let myself be taken in again. That I would not waste another moment of my life pursuing facsimiles of real women possessing only facsimiles of real feelings.

Stop. Just stop.

I'm spiraling. Piling conjecture on top of assumption.

Even though we haven't even exchanged a single word, even though I've spent less than five minutes in her company, here I am, presumptuously pegging her as…what? Some sort of semi-sociopathic Ice Queen?

I'm doing to her what most customers have been doing to me for all these long years at the Buy More. Summing me up with a glance. Labeling me. Pigeonholing me.

They don't know me. And I don't know her.

Maybe underneath this…this…whatever this is…she's royally pissed with me. Coldly furious. Maybe I was right about catching her crying.

If that's the case, I can't say that I blame her all that much. I remember the time when I was thirteen, the last time Ellie caught me weeping. I was devastated about some girl who'd not only rejected my invitation to the school dance, but who'd also sneered, making it quite clear that she wouldn't let me accompany her to the end of the hallway, let alone to the dance.

I remember ashamedly slinking away, her laughter in my ears. Fleeing to my room. Throwing myself on the bed. When Ellie had come in unannounced, I'd shouted at her to go away and leave me alone.

I don't shout at Ellie, but I did then.

I take a fresh look at the woman standing in front of me.

Is this how she shouts?

I have to know. At the very least, I have to try. If I walk away without doing so, I'm no better than all those who've dismissed me without making even the slightest effort to know the person behind the pocket protector.

But, damn, it's not going to be easy.

I swear that her unblinking, unyielding, unsettling stare—her eyes that cold blue you sometimes see in glaciers—could freeze ice.

I know. It's already frozen. But I think you get my drift.

Her freeze vision certainly works on my power of speech. My tongue feels like a frigid, immovable, unresponsive lump.

I'm reminded of those street performers who pretend that they're statues. Standing rigid, immobile, even for hours on end.

She puts them to shame. And thoroughly unnerves me.

I'll do what I can to break the ice, but if my efforts fall on deaf ears, I'll call it a day and take my leave.

It isn't easy, but I manage to force some words out. I apologize. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."

That seems to catch her off guard. Although her arms remain crossed and she doesn't move, she does blink. Her eyes change, soften—warm—for just an instant.

There she is. The woman I saw.

It's one of those blink and you've missed it moments, but it's enough to thaw my tongue.

Of course, that means I do what I pretty much always do when I'm nervous.

I babble. About her red blouse. How the light hit her. How she and Hyak communed. How amazing and beautiful that was. How I couldn't look away.

I say the words so quickly that it's as if I'd been brought up in an alternate universe where pausing was outlawed. All the while contemplating my shoes or the floor or the window or the stairs. Definitely not her.

When I reach the part about why I came over to her, I don't use the word cry. I just admit I saw her...upset.

My cheeks flush.

No response. It's like she's some dispassionate scientist examining a bug under a magnifying glass.

To hell with it. I take a deep breath, stand straight and look right at her.

I apologize—again. "Look, I know you're upset. I should've walked away then, given you your privacy. I know. But I just couldn't do it. I'm sorry."

Still nothing.

Well, if I'm gonna crash and burn, I might as well do it spectacularly.

I grin, awkwardly, I'm sure, using humor in an attempt to lighten the situation. A trademark of mine. I try to be hopeful, but I've got the feeling that'll also fall flat.

"It seems I had both tissues and an appalling lack of control over my feet."

Then I make some inane comment about not wanting her to ruin her blouse.

If I hadn't seen her talking to the little girl earlier, I'm sure that, by now, I would've been asking myself if she'd been rendered mute by some sort of accident or sickness.

I feel my grin slipping away.

There's the slightest shift in her posture. She's thinking. I suspect she's getting ready to tell me to get lost.

She blinks again, and in that instant, her eyes change. The glacier blue is gone, replaced by…

I remember in the ninth grade trying to impress some girl during an art class debate about the color blue. I thought I might get her attention if I was decisive, firm. So I took a stand, adamantly declaring that blue by its very nature can only be a cool, frigid color, none of its shades capable of conveying any sort of warmth.

It was only afterward that I'd realized that she had blue eyes. Judging by the icy glare she gave me when we left class—which, by the way, would've nicely backed up my argument—I had gotten her attention, just not in the way I'd wanted.

However, the shade I'm seeing right now, though I can't put a name to it, conclusively proves how wrong I was.

It's glorious. An impossibly blue sunrise. Radiating warmth.

It certainly warms me.

She smiles. Just a little one. But it transforms her entirely. She lives and breathes.

"Thank you. I didn't want to ruin this blouse either. I do like it."

Hallelujah! She speaks.

I like her voice.

I'm so relieved that I idiotically launch into a TMI explanation of how Ellie always made sure I had tissues in case of some sort of minor emergency. Like I'm an eight-year-old too dumb to take care of himself.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She doesn't call me on it, though. Instead, she inquires, her voice suddenly sounding cool, "Ellie?"

After I tell her that Ellie's my sister, she seems to relax, just the tiniest bit.

What's that all about?

Of course, I don't have time to dwell on it, because after we agree that Ellie's advice was sound, I keep on nattering.

"Although I sometimes think she still sees me as a gangly thirteen-year-old, always tripping over my own feet or bumping into stuff."

She looks at me, an odd, contemplative expression crossing her face. I see the hint of a quickly suppressed smile.

In a flash, I realize she's imagining me as that clumsy teen.

Part of me is embarrassed, sure, but there's a bigger part of me that's pleased she's engaged enough to let her thoughts go down that path. Maybe she's even mildly amused.

I stare at her, my mouth agape. "Oh, my god! You're picturing me the same way, aren't you?"

I look skyward, palms raised. "Will this humiliation never end?"

She laughs, nodding. Not some polite titter over a joke she doesn't find amusing, but a real laugh. From the heart. With those lovely blue eyes.

I think I could easily fall in love with that laugh.

She speaks. "Guilty as charged."

Humor seems to be working, so I shake my head and roll my eyes.

"Smooth, Chuck, really smooth. Great way to impress a beautiful—"

I feel the sudden heat in my cheeks. I'm well acquainted with the taste of canvas and rubber, but I do believe this may be the first time I've had the chance to savor my shoelaces as well.

Idiot. On top of possibly the world's clumsiest self-introduction, now she'll probably think I'm trying to hit on her, telling her how beautiful she is. Like every other guy. Next thing you'll know I'll be asking her if it hurt when she fell from heaven or some such drivel.

I'm floundering, the water just about to close over my head when she throws me a lifeline.

"Hi. Chuck, is it?"

I reward her act of kindness with a nervous prattle. "Yes. Chuck. Definitely Chuck. That's me. Chuck Bartowski. Of the Burbank Bartowskis."

I wince. Way to go, Chuck. Tell her your name over and over like she has some sort of short-term memory problem.

And what the hell was I thinking with the Burbank Bartowskis?

If she has even the smallest instinct for self-preservation, she'll surely head for the hills. Now.

But she doesn't. Instead of doing the smart thing, she replies, with just the slightest hint of amusement in her voice. "Well, Chuck Bartowski of the Burbank Bartowskis, I'm Sarah. Sarah Walker. Of the Washington Walkers."

I'm floored. Not only has she not run away screaming, but she's also joking with me. Covering over my clumsiness.

Who is this woman?

Sarah. It suits her. I like it. It feels…real. Especially when compared to the excessive number of Brittanys, Kimberlys and Tiffanys that'd surrounded me during my school years.

She uncrosses her arms, offers her hand.

"It's good to meet you, Chuck."

That's the third time she's said my name. I think I could it hear a thousand times more from her lips and never tire.

I take her hand slowly, a little tentatively at first, unsure how much pressure I should apply. Too little and I'll come across as a wimp. Too much and it's like I'm trying to prove my masculinity.

Stop. Don't overthink it.

Morgan once had this theory that you could tell if a woman was "The One" by what happened the first time you touched her hand.

If there was a spark, the hum of electricity flowing back and forth, you just knew.

Disillusioned, fresh off of my latest rebuff, I'd dismissively told him that kind of stuff was nothing more than a static discharge.

He'd disagreed. So, the next school day he started randomly approaching girls in the hallways and touching their hands. All part of his effort to gather empirical evidence.

As far as I could tell, the only sparks that flew were numerous and vociferous outbursts along the lines of, "Get the hell away for me, you creep!" And two slaps to his face. And a dressing down from the Vice-Principal who'd happened to be walking by.

Later, when I'd asked what that'd accomplished, he'd shook his head at my lack of comprehension. Clearly, none of them were "The One", thereby proving, by the lack of positive response, the truth of his supposition.

He wanted to carry on with the experiment, but I'd managed to dissuade him.

But at this moment, I'm beginning to feel that I may have been wrong in completely dismissing Morgan's flight of fancy. Because something does happen at the moment I touch Sarah's hand, as I feel the controlled strength in her grip.

Hum? Spark? Both words seem so weak in describing the crackling energy which fills me, right from my head to my toes.

I'm almost trembling, suffused with excitement and yet, at the same time, I feel unnaturally calm. That doesn't make any sense, does it?

I want to believe that she's affected as well, but I'm wary of projecting my emotions onto her. Still, I think I see, I feel…something.

I look down at our joined hands. They seem to fit together so well.

I bring my eyes back to hers, surprise myself with the quiet assurance I hear in my reply.

"It's nice to meet you, too, Sarah."

I realize I've been hanging onto her hand a little too long, so I gently let it go.

I'm not sure what to say next. I don't want to presume, make the situation—Sarah—uncomfortable by bringing up what may—or may not have—just happened.

We fall into one of those little, awkward silences.

Which she breaks. "By the way, thank you for making that clear."

I'm puzzled. "Making what clear?"

"Your family line. For a moment, I thought you might've been part of the Boston Bartowskis. I hear they be can quite the snobs."

She's still playing along. You could knock me over with a feather.

I wonder if she realizes just how kind she's being? Using her gently mocking humor to rescue me once again.

I reply, following her lead. "Yes, you're right. They tend to be. Our distant branch is much less formal. More hamburger than haute cuisine."

She tells me she is, too.

I may be wrong, but she seems a little surprised at her admission, as if she's unused to sharing stuff about herself.

I tell her that I'll keep that in mind. And I will. Definitely. In my newly minted mental file. The one with the tab Walker, Sarah.

There's a lull again, but this time I'm determined to be the one who'll speak first.

I swallow heavily, some nervousness creeping back in. My request may not seem like such a big thing to some, but it is to me. The next step from where we are, delightful as it's been, to something more.

"I hope I'm not being too pushy," I take a deep breath, "but how would you feel about going on a walk…with me? I'd planned to go around the seawall after my visit here."

She hesitates.

I'm such an idiot. Just because she was alone when I first saw her doesn't mean she doesn't have friends up here. After all, Seattle's only a few hours down the road.

She's thinking. I'm quite certain she's being kind again, trying to figure out how to let me down easy.

I give her an out. "That's okay. You're probably meeting someone, aren't you?"

"Yes."

I feel like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

"I understand—"

Gently, she cuts me off. "No, Chuck, yes. I'd like to go on a walk. With you."

I can breathe again. I'm not sure taking in oxygen ever felt quite this marvelous before.

"And no, I'm not waiting to meet anyone. Not now, not later."

I hear the amazement in my voice.

"Really?"

She nods, slowly. "Really."

I grin, hugely, maybe even stupidly, in my relief. I don't care.

All's right with the world. Sarah Walker has agreed to accompany me on a walk.

"Great, because the seawall is one of my favorite parts of the city. Especially on a day like today."

"You've been here before?"

I reply, "Yeah, a couple of times. Your first time?"

"Uh-huh."

She gives me a big smile, tilting her head to one side as she looks up at me.

"Maybe you could…show me around?"

Sarah Walker is flirting.

With me.

Chuck Bartowski.

I blink a few times, stunned into silence.

It's official. I'm a goner. Signed, sealed, delivered. I'm yours.

She needs to know her offer has been accepted. Enthusiastically accepted.

I find my voice. "Well, Miss Walker, prepare to be guided. However, I'll warn you in advance that, due to various and sundry budgetary constraints, my experience is limited to the more affordable pleasures of this fair city."

Damn. I probably shouldn't have added that last part. Most likely, she's used to being taken out on the town by men who'd think nothing of dropping a week's worth of my wages on dinner.

She takes a moment to slip on her jacket and settle her purse strap on her shoulder. A moment during which I wonder if I've blown it.

No. Despite my latest gaffe, she's enthusiastic in her reply. "Well, Mr. Bartowski, that sounds fine to me. Guide away."

I manage to contain my joyful relief as I gesture to the stairs, indicating she should go first.

It's only after I do so, that I realize she might think I'll use the opportunity to check her out from behind, safe from observation. A move that Morgan had highly recommended after reading about it on some stupid website.

I told him then the idea was sleazy and disrespectful. It would be hypocritical of me to now behave otherwise.

So, even though she can't see me, and even though it isn't easy, I make sure to keep my eyes up, focused on the back of her head.

Her gently bouncing blonde hair is quite enough of a distraction, thank you.

…

Just as we near the gift shop, someone calls out Sarah's name. It's the little girl I saw with Sarah earlier. She's lined up with her class near the exit.

After getting permission from her teacher (who keeps a close eye on the proceedings), she rushes over, excited.

Eagerly, she asks, "Did you see the Orca underwater, Sarah?"

"Yes, Sam, I did. Hyak came right up to the glass to look at me. It was amazing."

"Really?"

"Really."

Once again I'm charmed by the interaction between them. The shared smiles, the mutual enthusiasm. Sarah's so good with the little girl that it almost makes me wonder if she has children of her own.

It takes a few moments before the girl notices me, almost as an afterthought. I imagine this may be the norm when average people are in the presence of Sarah Walker.

She introduces me. "Sam, this is Chuck."

Sam tilts her head back to look up at me. Way back. She's thoughtful, intense. "You're really tall. I don't know any boys named Chuck."

I manage to hold in my smile. "Yes, I am, and no, it's not the most common name."

She takes that in, then asks, "Did you see what Sarah saw?"

When I assure her I did, she replies dejectedly, "I wish I could've."

She's disappointed. I hate seeing that.

I crouch down to her level. I smile, putting what I hope will come across as reassurance in my voice. "The next time you're here, maybe he'll come and look at you."

She's not convinced. "Maybe."

"I'll give you a tip. Wear something red. Hyak seems to like red."

That seems to strike a chord. "Like Sarah's blouse?"

"Yes. And there's something else you can do. Bring a picture of an Orca with you to show Hyak. I read somewhere that he's curious about pictures of other Orcas."

Her excitement is back. "Do you think that'll help?"

I'd like to tell her that it's a guarantee, but I know from personal experience that few things in life are certain. Aside from the old death and taxes thing. Oh, that and getting double-crossed by Buy More upper management.

Not that I'm going to tell Sam that.

No, I won't mislead her. "I can't say for sure, but it's worth a try. Hopefully, if Hyak's in a good mood next time you're here, he'll come and see you."

She nods, thinking. "I'll talk to my mom." Then, with no preamble, she asks, "Are you Sarah's boyfriend?"

Out of the mouth of babes. I feel my ears redden.

Do not look at Sarah. Do not look.

She's probably laughing, at least on the inside, over such a preposterous idea.

I'm too scared to look, to confirm my fears.

But what if she isn't laughing?

That thought's almost as scary.

Don't look.

"No, Sam. We just met a few minutes ago."

Sam leans in closer and whispers, loud enough for Sarah to hear every word, I'm sure.

"Maybe you could try to be? She was all by herself before. And she's really pretty."

Did you ever see one of those old World War II photos of the placards the Germans used to put up to inform people they were about to step onto dangerous ground? You know, the one with the skull and crossbones along with the words Achtung Minen.

I really wish life gave you signs like that, because Sam's words, with absolutely no warning, have dropped me right in the middle of a minefield.

One wrong step and…

I take a couple of breaths, desperately searching for a safe path.

"If Sarah wants to be alone, there's nothing wrong with that, Sam."

She nods. "I know, but I think she's lonely."

Sam's right, of course.

Sarah as much as told me outright. "And no, I'm not waiting to meet anyone. Not now, not later."

How come I didn't see it? I know the answer even as I ask myself the question.

If someone as extraordinary as Sarah Walker winds up alone, it doesn't bode well for my own chances now, does it?

I push the thought aside. "You'd have to ask her about that. But here's what I can do. Sarah and I are going for a walk, so she won't be by herself for the next little while. Is that okay with you?"

She's not happy with the compromise. "I guess so."

Just then, Sam's teacher calls her back to the group.

I stand straight, offer my hand. "It was really good meeting you, Sam."

Her little hand is almost lost in mine, but she shakes it firmly nonetheless. "You, too. Bye, Chuck."

She quickly turns to Sarah, hugging her around the waist. Looking up, she quietly says something to Sarah that I don't catch. Sarah's eyes shift, ever so briefly, my way before she replies just as quietly.

Were they talking about me?

They say their goodbyes.

Sarah and I watch and wave as the class files out of the building.

There's an awkward silence between us again.

Is she having second thoughts? Maybe Sam's blunt questions have made her feel pressured. I know I feel a little uneasy.

I'll understand if Sarah has changed her mind about the walk. I won't try to persuade her.

But I hope she hasn't had a change of heart. Really, really hope. I believe I'd be more disappointed about that than I was at having my project—my idea—stolen from me.

Her next words will tell the tale.

"That was a nice thing you did for Sam."

I'm warmed—and surprised—by her praise, but, at the same time, a little puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Encouraging her. Giving her tips about how she might get to see Hyak up close."

I shrug. Of course, I'd help. It was simply the right thing to do. "She wasn't happy. I just wanted her to feel better."

For a second, it appears that Sarah wants to ask something of me, but instead she simply says, "I'm sure she did."

She pauses before deftly changing the subject. "The stuff about the photos of other whales was fascinating. Where did you read that?"

I'm not sure. I tell her it was maybe in the paper the last time I was here.

I grin, feeling a little sheepish. "Useless information like that seems to get stuck in my brain."

She shakes her head, her voice firm. "No, Chuck, not useless. It gave a little girl hope. That's far from being useless in my book."

There's a furrow in her brow, a look in her eyes, a shift in her body language, that tells me we're not just talking about Sam anymore.

Sarah Walker is no stranger to disappointment.

My heart goes out to her.

I reply quietly, my eyes fixed on hers. "All of us can use a little hope, don't you think, Sarah?"

She returns my gaze. "Yes, Chuck we certainly can."

There's a sudden feeling of rapport that passes between us. Maybe, as hard as it is for me to believe, even an…intimacy of sorts.

I sense in it in her open, honest eyes. Hear it in her open, honest words.

I only hope she senses the same in me.

I know there's no guarantee about where this is heading, but I promise myself that I'll do everything in my power to make Sarah Walker happy. To help her push away her loneliness. Even if it's only for the few hours that I may be granted.

I grin. "You ready for our walk, Miss Walker?"

She grins back. "I am, Mister Bartowski."

The exit doors close behind us as we step out into the sunshine.

TBC

—

A/N: Next chapter, The Walk. (Not the title.)

As an author I respect and admire once said about his characters, we need to keep in mind that they're imperfect. They're not omniscient. They're prone to jumping to conclusions, making mistakes based on incomplete knowledge. As does Chuck in this chapter.

For example, we know Sarah meant Washington, D.C., not the state, but he doesn't. Not yet, anyway.

Thanks for all who've followed along and especial thanks for those who taken the time to comment.