A/N: At work on Jeux when this happened.

Big Swamp

Chapter Eleven: Far From the Wicked

I'm standing still, lost in thought, worry, excitement, all spinning in an internal blender. Sarah notices, reaches down, and takes my dangling hand. Her wide smile widens. "Take me. Take me to my Chuck's."

The banter's not done. I squeeze her hand, I can't stop myself, despite an urge to resist her. Reason and passion self-division cause. Somebody said that, not me, but I say it to myself. It doesn't change anything, but I say it to myself.

Self-division.

I lead Sarah in the direction of Chuck's. It's just down about half a block and a street over. She's light on her feet. The impression that she's skipping I can't shake, although I know she's not. But there's an ebullience, a youthfulness, in her movements today, in her, that I haven't seen before. It's as contagious as her smile and I swear I start to feel a little like skipping myself.

Except she lied to me and I don't know why. I don't know why she was at Briggs and Stratton with Wylie, why they spoke to Wade Peterson, why she changed her clothes.

She stops me with a tug on my hand after we cross the street. "Hey, are you okay? You seem preoccupied."

I smile self-dividedly, hoping she can't see. "Sorry, just thinking about a case."

She gives me a look. "No work for the next little while Chuck Bartowski. Just me. Only me." Her wide smile returns. "And my Chuck's."

I can't resist and don't want to. "You seem particularly hungry."

Her smile becomes a smirk. "Whetted my appetite last night..."

"Whetted?"

She tosses her head and tugs me into motion. "Seems like the right word."

Oh, it's the right word. I feel its rightness all around my circulatory system before my blood begins to pool in the right — and wrong — area. I try not to think about the word, Sarah's damp, warm body in my arms at the pond. No success. Whetted.

I take the lead again and we turn into a short alley that opens onto the back of Chuck's parking lot. An old screen door guards the rear entrance. On both sides of it are high stacks of wood for the barbeque. A trace of smoke wisps out of the chimney that stands over the roof, and the tangy smell of BBQ fills the air.

Sarah stops me again and she inhales, long and slow. "God, that smells good!"

I chuckle, forgetting my self-division, and now I tug her. "C'mon, and keep God in mind."

"What?" She says in a giggle as I pull her forward.

We don't use the rear door. I want her to see the restaurant's sign. We walk around the side of the building, between the building and the parked cars, and emerge on the front. I point to the sign. It's tall, and white letters spell out Chuck's Bar-B-Que. Beneath the white letters is a gold-lettered slogan: You never had it so good!

She looks at the sign for a second and I clear my throat, commenting with marked formality and humility: "You see before you, in golden letters, the unanimous sentiment — note the exclamation mark, note it well — of those who've had Chuck"s."

She shakes her head at me, grinning happily, and looks again at the sign. But her grin loses its shape and her body language changes subtly. She nods at the sign. "Interesting quotation."

Like lots of businesses in the South, Chuck's almost always has a verse of scripture on the sign. It changes now and then on a schedule I've never understood. I hadn't paid any attention to today's. I'd been anticipating the slogan, how it would fit into our banter. But I look now and read: The Lord is far from the wicked. Proverbs 15:29.

I turn back to Sarah. She's staring at the sign.

"You okay, Sarah?" I ask softly.

She stares at the sign a little longer. "Do you see that movie, a remake, I guess? True Grit? Not the John Wayne one; I've not seen it. The other."

"The one with Jeff Bridges?"

"Yes, I guess that's the actor. I don't see many movies. Anyway, do you remember that bible verse, the epigraph at the beginning? The wicked flee where none pursueth…"

"Right, right," I offer, trying to gauge the sudden shift in her mood, the shadow that's fallen on her, "that's Proverbs too, probably. Proverbs has a lot to say about the wicked."

She reorients on me, blinks. I can see her trying to rally, recover her high spirits of a minute before. "I suppose. I can't say I've read much of the bible. A little, here and there, of course. Bored in motel rooms or assigned it in a college lit course."

Changing the subject, I nod at her shirt. "So, was USC college for you?"

She looks down at her own shirt as if she'd forgotten what she had on. "Oh, yeah, I was there. I...I never graduated, but I was there."

Sarah's mood's shifted again. I'm not sure what happened with the sign, but the mention of USC makes her wistful. "I liked it there. Liked the classes, did well. But mainly I liked having a dorm room, a place of my own. Home."

She looks up from her t-shirt. "Sorry," she attempts a grin and I can see it become more sincere as her mood continues to shift. "So: You've never had it so good, huh?"

I nod, resuming my earlier formality and humility. "Indeed," I respond meekly but with raised eyebrows.

Her smile's seasoned with desire as she stares into my eyes: "I'm all anticipation."

Hiding my gulp, I bow and gesture toward the door. "No time like the present."

Her sudden, surprised laugh marks the return of her high spirits. She bounces to the door and I catch up and open it for her. She makes a slight bow of thanks and we go inside.

Entering Chuck's in the summertime resembles descending into Plato's Cave, — if the fire in Plato's Cave were used to cook BBQ. It's dark, they keep the blinds closed in the summer, proof against the heat, and the scent of BBQ not only fills the air, but it has sunk deeply into the walls, the booths.

Morgan once remarked that a sliver of the walls would taste like chipped pork.

There's a regular menu on one side of the seating area and a list of specials on the facing side. A line, always there near lunchtime, runs behind the first set of booths and turns left to continue between the first and second set. A few moments inside add cold to dark. I've never quite figured out how they manage to keep it cool with the pit fire going constantly.

We join the line — it's not too long — and Sarah gawks around. "Wow," she whispers, leaning close to me, the light scent of her fruity shampoo contrasting with the heavy tang of the pork, "this is the South." I nod.

The roomful of trucker caps and sleeveless shirts turns to stare at Sarah, blue-eyed, blond blue-state beauty standing in the midst of a red state stronghold. Sarah notices the stare. "Do you think it's my shirt?"

I laugh noiselessly. "Sort of."

She looks down at the logo again and then back up at me. She blushes deeply enough for me to see it in the darkened room. "Oh."

The stares finally die down and we make it to the counter. I order my usual, a chipped pork sandwich and plain chips. Sarah tells the woman behind the counter to make it two. The woman's face, when she stops her routine to look at Sarah, mixes sudden admiration, annoyance, and envy.

We take our receipt to a booth in the corner and sit down, Sarah across from me. I reach up and crack the blind, and streaks of sunlight decorate our table.

Sarah sighs. "This is nice."

"Even in the shooting gallery?"

It takes her a minute to understand that I mean the stares. She shrugs. "You get used to it."

I raise an eyebrow. "You do. I've never known the struggle."

She laughs quietly. "That's because most women stare more artfully."

Chuckling, I ask: "'Artfully'?

She grins. "I have spoken."

So she has.

There's a pause in our conversation and the woman at the counter calls out our order number. I get up and get it, stopping at the corner of the front counter to fill two styrofoam cups with sweet tea.

I bring the tray to the table and Sarah takes her share. She unwraps the sandwich and delicately lifts the bun, looking under it. "Did I order the pickles and the slaw?"

"It comes on the sandwich. You have to not-order it."

She nods and drops the bun. She lifts the sandwich to her mouth. I expect her to take an exploratory bite but she dives into the sandwich, a mouthful. When she realizes I am watching, she puts her hand in front of her mouth. After a minute, her hand still in front of her mouth, she says. "You were right. My Chuck's delicious. So, so good."

Pleased, I unwrap mine and start to eat too.

We eat in silence. As she finishes — she's done before I am and she ate my pickles — I gesture at the ruin of the wrapper, empty chip bag, and used napkins before her. "You were hungry."

She picks up one of the napkins and wipes her lips again. She leans toward me as she puts it down, her beautiful face striped by sunlight. "I was. But there are different types of hunger. A woman cannot live by bread alone, Chuck."

She chuckles as I blush.

"So, you just lazed around the house this morning?"

She looks out the cracked blinds then back at me. "Yeah," she says without elaboration, her tone not inviting me to continue with that topic.

"I took Morgan and we went out to Briggs and Stratton this morning."

She braces slightly. "This morning?"

"I mentioned it last night."

She makes a face, trying to remember. She does. Evidently. "You did. I forgot. Other things from last night stood out for me."

She glances out the blinds again, thinking. "So," she says, the word taking the place of the exploratory bite I expected from her before, — it's an exploratory 'so', "did you find anything interesting?"

"Morgan went inside. I stayed in the car. He got some more information on Bill Peppers, but it's not of much interest. The date he was hired: a year or so ago. His particular job: he's on the custodial staff. Solid but not remarkable worker."

She nods but changes the subject. "So, Morgan went in? That's right — you said that the man who runs the place likes Morgan."

"He does. Big Jim Sutton."

"I'm surprised anyone likes Morgan."

"Including me?"

"Yes, you seem so nice.."

"Nice?" Helluva a word for a working PI.

She nods vigorously as if defending her comment. "Nice."

Letting that description go, I ask: "But Morgan seems not-nice?"

She screws up her face. "No, not mean, or threatening, just…"

Morgan's floating discussion of Sarah's gloved hand forces itself back into my mind. "Creepy?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I understand. He seems that way. My sister would absolutely agree with you. She calls him 'it' — a shortened version of Itt — two t's. Cousin Itt from the Addams Family."

"Who? I saw that new True Grit but I am not a pop culture girl. I think you only get to be that by having friends, sharing pop culture at a certain age."

I nod sympathetically. "And you moved around too much to have friends then?"

She looks at me. "Yes, that was a big part of it…But I don't want to think about that time. You were going to tell me more about Morgan."

"Right. Morgan does seem creepy. He's never quite figured out what thoughts he should share and what thoughts he shouldn't. You were lucky he kept his mouth shut when you were in the office."

She shudders. "I'm sure. He seemed very interested in my shoes."

"Um, yeah, that's a thing. But, really, he is harmless — he intends no harm. If he'd ever had a girlfriend, she'd likely have gotten him straightened out quickly."

She nods. "But until he gets straightened out…"

"...He'll never have a girlfriend."

"No chance."

"I know, I know. I've told him, I tell him, but he…"

"...keeps creeping?"

"Yeah. But here's the thing: my parents got killed in an auto accident, an eighteen-wheeler, and Ellie and I were a mess. Ellie suddenly had everything on her, me most included, and she's at Auburn, majoring in pre-med, and Morgan comes to the house — we hadn't really been buddies before — and he keeps me busy, takes me to his house, introduces me to his mom, Bolonia, I told you about her, and they take me in. Feed me, let me stay over, go swimming. Give Ellie some space and time to adjust. He's been a fixture in my life since then, and I apologize for him but...I can't give him up, creeping and all."

She sits for a moment, contemplating what I've said, then she gives me a gentle smile. "See, you're nice, Chuck."

"I guess that's going to stick."

She gives me a direct glance. "Me too."

We gaze at each other, then both of us look out the blind. The parking lot's emptied, as has the seating area. The line's gone.

"Can I ask you something?" I manage the words while feeling as if I am holding my breath. I don't give her a chance to answer although she tenses. "What did you mean about a different life last night?"

She blows out a breath and ponders the tabletop. When she looks at me, her eyes are damp. "I'm not proud of the person I have been — maybe still am. My youth was, as they say, misspent. — Did you notice we only use that word in that way? — Misspent, wicked." She laughs weakly. "Far from the Lord…"

She stops to lift a clean napkin from my stack and wipes her eyes. She turns from me, her whole body, and looks out the blind. "Anywhere you go, you take the weather with you," she comments quietly. "Do you think that's true?"

I ought to push her, ask her point-blank about this morning. But I'm caught in her current mood, and I'm in love with her, and I can't bring myself to do what I ought.

I stand and move around the table to her side of the booth. I slide in, slide to her. She leans back into me, still facing the window. "No, Sarah, I don't."

She nods. "Thanks, Chuck." She turns and takes my hand, kisses it. The kiss is so unexpected I am unable to respond for a moment; my mouth hands open. She laughs, that laugh that always kills me. "Let's go, okay?"

We leave holding hands. She doesn't drop my hand until she reaches her Porsche. It's dustier than the last time I noticed. It no longer looks like it belongs to a different order of beings than does my Camry.

She gives me a warm but brief kiss. "So, babysitting on Friday night?"

I nod, remembering. "Yeah, if you really want to."

"I do. I really want to."

I watch her drive away, angry at myself and not angry at myself all at once.

I'm in love — yes, I noticed that too when I realized it earlier. I'm in love with a client I barely know, who's lied to me, who I trust but shouldn't.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing and yet I feel clearer about myself than I ever have.

Morgan gives me a wild look as I come inside. He gestures with a shoulder toward my office and spits out one word, spits it: "Shaw."

Shit. Shit. The door's closed so I take a breath before I go in.

When I open my door and go inside, I find Daniel Shaw seated behind my desk, in my chair. His navy sport coat is open — his hands are finger-laced together behind his head — and I can see the holster at his side, beneath his shoulder. He gives me a catbird-seat grin. It occurs to me he probably has great abs.

I close my door.

"Chuckles, Chuckles. Some name. The name for a clown, not a detective."

For Shaw, that's cerebral humor, scintillating.

"Daniel, get the hell out of my chair. You don't belong there." I walk to the front edge of my desk, allowing it to emphasize my height. Shaw can probably take me, but he'd pay for it, pay a lot. I want him to know that.

He looks up at me, then gets up with a smirk. "Too small, anyway."

We trade places, circling opposite ends of the desk. I sit back down but do not invite Shaw to sit. He leans down on the desk.

"So, a client of mine thinks you were following him this morning, Bartowski."

I look up at him and deadpan: "You're lying."

He glares. "How do you know what Wade said?"

Moron. Makes Morgan look like Sherlock Holmes "I meant you are lying because you have no clients. But I guess you do, Wade Peterson." This is a fascinating piece of news. I feel wheels turning all around me.

Shaw understands his error and his face reddens. It makes him hate me all the more. "Fuck you, Bartowski, you and all the other smart boys. Look, I'll make this short. Stay the hell away from Wade Peterson. He's a law-abiding citizen, and if he sees you behind him again, or if I do, I'll make sure you and your stupid secretary both pay, do you hear me?"

I'd love to say the threat is idle, but I know Shaw, know his PI history. He's as much a strongman, an enforcer, as he is an investigator. More, actually. He's hurt people in the past and he's good at it, good at getting away with it. I'm not afraid for me, but I am for Morgan. It's vintage Shaw to bring Morgan into this, although perhaps it was Peterson's idea. He saw us both at Briggs and Stratton. The wicked flee where none pursueth...

"I hear you, but I'm going to do what I'm going to do, Daniel. And if you touch Morgan, I will dedicate my hours and my big brain to making sure your life goes wrong, wrong in ways you'll suffer but be unable to understand."

He blinks, not understanding. But he gets that he's been threatened back, despite not getting the threat.

"Watch your step, Bartowski. I'll be watching it too." He wheels and yanks the door open. He pauses by Morgan's desk, looking back to make sure I witness it, then snarls. "I'll hurt you, you creepy little shithead."

He leaves.

Morgan waits for the outer door to close then he runs and locks it. "Jesus, Chuck, what's going on? What have we stepped in?"

"I don't know, Morgan. But this morning kicked something into motion. Don't worry about Shaw, Morg."

He gives me an earnest look. "Why would I worry about Shaw when you're on my side, Chuck?"

He's creepy, sure, but I love him.

I call Ellie to tell her that Graham will visit tonight. I'm hoping she will know why he's visiting, but she has no idea either.

I look at the clock on my desk. 2:45 pm. It'll take me about 45 minutes to drive to Wade Peterson's house. I can be back in time for dinner. Might as well pluck the chicken while he's clucking.

Someone said that. Not me. I chuckle anyway and tell Morgan to take the rest of the day off.

A/N: Thought I'd get to Graham but not in this chapter.