A/N: A new tale. Romance and feel-good silliness through-and-through. Putting this first chapter up to see what folks think.

Chuck vs. The Romance Novel

Chapter One: Hair, Headaches and Twinges

The End.

Ellie Woodcomb typed the words and slumped in her wooden desk chair.

She'd done it; she had finished her third and final novel in her epic romance trilogy, Chin, Chest, and Bottom. Taking a sip of the cold coffee remaining in her cup, she waved the cup at the empty air, celebrating. The coffee had been hot three hours before, at dawn, when she got up to write, but cold coffee would do for a celebration.

The End.

Done. Time to be a just doctor and wife again. Done.

It seemed crazy that she had written one novel, much less three.

She had written the first on a lark, a semi-dare. She had fallen and sprained her ankle, a serious sprain. Stuck at home, her husband, Devon, was working long hours at the hospital, she had been desperate for something to do, a way of filling her days.

She knew she would return to the hospital soon but until then she longed to do something other than watch television or read pulp fiction. One day, as Devon went out the door, he had noticed an open romance novel face-down on the arm of the couch beside her and nodded to it, smirking.

"You should write one instead of reading one."

You don't smirk at Ellie Woodcomb. She found a legal pad and a pencil and she wrote the first paragraph of the first chapter of her first book a few minutes later.

A knock at her door interrupted her recollections.

The knock was familiar. It repeated.

"Come in, Chuck! It's open!"

She heard her brother laugh and the door opened.

He was dressed as usual: an old t-shirt emblazoned with Stanford, the t-shirt so often worn and washed that the cardinal red had faded, leaving only a faint memory of its former shade. He had an old black backpack on one shoulder, the same backpack he had been carrying since he was at Stanford. He had on jeans and his trademark Chucks Taylor hightops. He grinned at her as he shut the door and slid the backpack off his shoulder, placing it on the floor.

Ellie studied her brother. He was gaining weight, looking less skinny. He was normally lanky, tall. Lately, Chuck had seemed even taller because of his weight loss.

The weight loss resulted from the chemotherapy he had undergone and only recently completed. He had been diagnosed with Hodgkin's Disease. The illness had been caught very early — one advantage of having a sister and brother-in-law who were doctors. He was now cancer-free and his prognosis was positive. He ought to live a long, healthy life. His hair was beginning to grow back, but it would be weeks yet before his wavy hair returned.

She looked above the grin he gave her, at the blue Dodgers cap, the post-chemo addition to his usual attire. He had started wearing it because he was self-conscious about his hair loss.

His hat still on his head, he plopped down in an armchair near Ellie's desk. "So, how's it going?" He looked at her laptop. "I trust loins are throbbing, molten desire running course?"

Ellie picked up a paperclip from her desk and tossed it at him. "Hey, little brother, at least I use words. You just draw." Her brother, Chuck Bartowski, the cartoonist.

He ducked the paperclip and his grin widened. "Untrue! I write captions. And each is a study in brevity and wit. Jane Austen would be duly impressed."

"Jane Austen!" Ellie wrinkled her nose. "That old stick in the Pemberley mud?"

"You don't like her because she can hold her reader without mentioning anybody's loins."

Ellie stood up and closed her computer. "I'll have you know I just finished the third book, and the word 'loin' never occurs in it. Not once."

Chuck gave her a skeptical smirk. "What about the phrase 'his swollen male desire'?"

Ellie blushed. "You have read my books!" She swatted at him and he ducked again.

He sat up and put on a look of fake self-consciousness, spoke in a loud whisper. "Yeah, when your sister is a purveyor of softcore porn, it's a good idea to make sure you have a sense of just how soft it is. In case someone mentions her at a party..."

"My books are not softcore porn and you know it. They explore the romantic yearnings of my readers."

"How many men read your books, Ellie?"

"Counting you?"

He nodded.

"One."

Chuck rolled with laughter.

"Go ahead, little brother, yuck it up. But you know the film rights to the first two novels are sold, and the studio will surely buy the rights to this one. I've made more from these books than I was making as a neurologist. — How well are your drawings paying the bills?"

Chuck's laughter slowed and he ducked a third time. "I'm eating, as you can see, and I have a roof over my head, but, you're right, I'm minor, you're major, I'm not in the league you and J. K. Rowling play in."

"J. K. Rowling? Jesus, Chuck, I'm a writer of successful romances, heavy Harlequins, not the creator of Harry Potter. I'm not in Rowling's league. And, all kidding aside, your cartoon is doing well and I know it. The series you did as you went through chemotherapy made all that so difficult stuff so relatable, found such humor in it. People at the hospital talk to me about it all the time. The cartoons are taped up on people's office doors. Who knew all that doodling would pay off?"

Chuck's comic was a descendent of Jerry Van Amerongen's The Neighborhood and Gary Larsen's The Far Side, except that it was less bizarre, much sweeter. There was also a central character, Chuck's version of himself, Charles Carmichael, who showed up regularly, as did a few other minor characters.

When Chuck had been sick, he had chronicled his illness as the illness of Charles. The comics he created during that difficult time were heartfelt, sad, joyous and always, always funny. They had been carried in many California papers. Ellie knew that Chuck had been approached about a book of those cartoons, but he hadn't shared that with her officially. She'd peeked at an open envelope on his drafting table the last time she visited. A sisterly prerogative.

He had shared that he had been approached about national syndication. He was still mulling it over. Ellie was still surprised that her computer-engineer brother had turned into a cartoonist, and such a gifted one, but she was a novel-writing neurologist, so perhaps it was not so strange after all. Anyhow, her brother was standing on the threshold of his future, of major success.

She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it, glad that his body temperature felt warm instead of feverish as it often had during his treatments. She loved her brother and she wanted him around to be Uncle Chuck to her children.

Ellie's turn as a novelist had not kept her from continuing her work as a doctor, but it had put her and Devon's plan to have a baby on indefinite hold. Ellie had promised herself that when the trilogy was done, she would stop writing and start work on getting pregnant. She had something lacy hidden upstairs since she anticipated finishing soon, and wanted to surprise Devon...

"I didn't know it would pay off, the cartooning," Chuck commented, interrupting the formative stage of Ellie's fantasy about her coming evening, "but I'm glad it did. I like my work; I like it a lot."

Ellie blinked then grinned at him. She crossed her arms, raising one eyebrow.

He gave her a frightened look. "Don't start, Ellie. Don't."

"Oh, come on, Chuck! You're successful, you have a great apartment, you're smart and handsome. I listed those in the wrong order, but you know what I mean. It's time. Stanford was a long time ago. She was a long time ago. Five years. Isn't it time to move on? You're well, so you can't use that as an excuse anymore. You need someone in your life. No one has more love to give than you, Chuck."

"Evidently, I can't give it away."

"Huh?" Ellie said, her brow creased.

"That came out wrong. I haven't been trying to give my love away, that sounds...uh...bad. Like a bad pop song. I just mean no one seems interested. Maybe when my hair comes back..."

"Alice, that cute radiologist at the hospital, she's interested. She asked me about you just yesterday. She's definitely interested."

Chuck pushed his hat up, revealing the crew cut-length hair on his head. "She's nice, Ellie, and she's attractive, but, I don't know, she...she just doesn't interest me."

Ellie uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, staring into her brother's eyes.

"Chuck, stop comparing everyone you meet to her. You thought you two were made for each other; I get that. But, — and I'm sorry to be blunt, little brother — you were wrong about that. She left you and she never looked back. It's way, way past time to deal — and move on, find love again. Maybe for the first time."

"You don't think I loved Jill?"

"I think you thought you loved Jill. And maybe you did love her, as much as a man like you could love a woman like her. But I'm convinced there's someone better for you out there, Chuck, and that when you find her, you'll change your mind about Jill, about what happened, what it all meant."

They had traveled this circle before, like an English roundabout, — but since the illness, Chuck seemed willing to think about the future, his future. He had been sunk in romantic nostalgia for years. Perhaps the threat of cancer, the recognition that the future was uncertain, that it could be lost, had changed his perspective. He just needed to keep moving forward, not backward. Ellie would provide the necessary push.

"Maybe so," Chuck said. "But I did not come to talk about that, the past. I came to talk about tomorrow: I came by to see if you wanted to come to my place for dinner tomorrow night. I haven't had anyone over since...well, you know," he pointed to his short hair, "and I thought it was time to be social again."

"Sure, Chuck, that'd be great! Devon's off, so we can both be there. Anyone else?"

Chuck seemed hesitant. "Morgan, maybe?"

Ellie sighed. "The Necessary Evil."

"The little guy isn't that bad, El."

"He's every bit that bad. You do remember I once found him stealing the lint from our dryer's lint trap after I dried a load of my underthings, don't you."

Chuck grimaced, glanced away. "He's doing much better these days."

"He'd better be. And if he makes one crack about me and him and static cling, I will order Devon to break him."

"Don't worry. I'll talk to Morgan. As long as we can keep him from sousing himself with grape sodas, he'll behave."

"Who can drink that stuff? It's foul." Ellie shivered at the thought of it.

"Don't look at me," Chuck responded, his hands out, his palms up. "I don't drink it."

"Okay, Okay. I'm going to get a quick shower and go to the hospital. — Anything else you need, Chuck?"

"No, I just wanted to invite you over. I've got a long day of paper, pen, and ink ahead of me."

"Think about what I said, Chuck. Get back into circulation. You're lonely and I know it."

Chuck pulled the bill of his hat down without responding. He hugged Ellie and picked up his backpack.

He smiled at her, waved and left.

Ellie studied the computer screen, her new patient's file. After a moment, she looked up at her new patient.

The patient was a tall blonde, strikingly pretty, with a smile unusual for Burbank — beautiful but not dentist-assisted perfect. Her blue eyes were alive with intelligence as she watched Ellie.

Her name was...Ellie looked back at the screen...Sarah Walker.

"So, Sarah, if I may," Sarah nodded at Ellie's implied question, "you were in a car accident, is that right?"

"Yes," Sarah said, gesturing with the sling her right arm was in, "I was. My car was totaled but I wasn't. Not completely, anyway. My shoulder was sprained but not torn. It's sore but I shouldn't be in this for too much longer."

"Right," Ellie said, glancing back at her computer, "but you've been having headaches?"

"I have. And sometimes they are...severe. Over-the-counter medications help but sometimes the headaches go on for a while."

"Have they been getting worse when they occur or are they occurring more frequently?"

"No, they are bad enough but not getting worse, and they haven't been more frequent. Maybe they are even less frequent. Once or twice a week. It took me a while to get in to see you."

Sarah looked at Ellie and blew out a breath, then gave Ellie an embarrassed smile before adding: "Part of the trouble is that I am new in town; I don't know anyone. And so it's just been me, my arm, and my head. Maybe the headaches aren't that bad but they seem worse when I'm just sitting in my unsettled apartment..." Sarah blushed. "I suppose that's not your sort of problem…Wrong kind of head doctor." She chuckled softly and nervously, then crossed her ankles the other way.

"I see you were in DC before you moved to LA?"

Sarah nodded. Ellie stood up and moved behind Sarah. "I'm going to put my hands on your neck, move your head gently. Let me know if you feel even a twinge."

Ellie moved Sarah's head and Sarah made no sound. "So, none of that hurt?"

"No, it was all fine. Do you think it's anything serious?" Ellie did not immediately respond. She went on to examine Sarah for several minutes more. Then Ellie sat back down.

"I looked at the MRIs that were sent over, at your records and so on. Nothing looked problematic. I suspect the headaches will continue to become less frequent and less severe. It's probably inflammation that's been slow to recede. Stress, tension and...other factors may be aggravating things. But in the meantime, I will prescribe you something a little stronger to help you with them. Call my nurse immediately, though, if the headaches become more severe or more frequent.

Sarah nodded and Ellie looked back at her computer. "I've sent the prescription to your pharmacy. Is there anything else?"

Sarah sat for a moment without answering. Ellie thought for a moment then leaned toward Sarah a little. "You know, Sarah, being alone may not just be making the headaches seem worse; it could be the cause of them. We all need interaction, conversation, friends. In fact, it's time for me to grab some lunch. Would you like to come with me? There's a good place just around the corner."

Sarah smiled but then frowned. "Are doctors allowed to interact with patients, be...friendly?"

"Yes, I'm your neurologist, not your psychiatrist. There's no professional ethics problem; doctors have long had dual relationships with patients, both doctor and friend. Of course, all the medical stuff is confidential, only between us.

"And to tell the truth, I've been so busy with work and with my husband and my brother, it's been a while since I've been able to just spend a few minutes with a friend, woman to woman, so to speak. So, what do you say?"

"I'm free. That'd be nice, Ellie. Thanks, thanks a lot. I'll wait for you in the hallway."

"Sounds good, Sarah. Be there in five minutes."

Ellie drove home that evening in a buoyant mood.

She had a big evening planned for Devon and herself, although he did not know that.

And she also had a big evening planned for Chuck and someone else the next night, although Chuck did not know that.

Ellie liked Sarah, liked Sarah immediately. She hoped lunch had been as therapeutic for Sarah as it had for her. They had talked and laughed through lunch. Although Sarah was reticent about herself, Ellie still had the best feeling about her. As lunch ended, it occurred to Ellie that Sarah was perfect for Chuck and that Chuck would be perfect for Sarah.

So, she invited Sarah to Chuck's for dinner. She did not ask Chuck. She would spring it on him tomorrow, but in vague terms, to keep him from weaseling out of it.

It was underhanded, tricky, to be sure, but it was a sister's prerogative.

Ellie reached down to turn up the song on the radio. Her trilogy was done, Mission: Baby was about to commence. Mission: Chuck would commence tomorrow. Mission: Chuck would be like writing a new romance novel, only with flesh-and-blood characters. She could plot her brother's love life.

A sister's prerogative.

She sang along with the radio as she finished her drive.

Sarah's head had not bothered her that night. No headache.

Maybe Dr. Woodcomb, Ellie, was right about needing someone to spend time with, talk to. Lunch had made Sarah feel much better — and not just physically. Ellie was great: smart, funny. And not just a doctor, a writer of romance novels.

That was odd but certainly interesting. Sarah never read romance novels; she was not a romantic. But Ellie had insisted that Sarah follow her back to the office, where Ellie had given Sarah a copy of the first volume of Chin, Chest, and Bottom. The volume was entitled Heaving Nights. Sarah picked it up from her nightstand where she had put it and settled carefully onto her bed, protecting her shoulder.

The book's cover was what Sarah expected — a muscular man, shirtless, his powerful arms wrapped around a woman whose breasts were one pant away from revelation.

Sarah shook her head. Her last boyfriend, really her only boyfriend, Bryce Larkin, had been sort of the romance-novel-cover type — if perhaps a bit too short, a bit too pretty. He had certainly fancied himself the type.

Bryce had been her editor at Spy magazine, where Sarah had been a writer, a specialist in long-format, investigative articles. She had begun to acquire a reputation, to get interest from DC newspapers, when a big story, recently published, fell apart. A trusted source lied to her and her story, a technicolor splash over a year in the making, reduced to a weak puff of gray smoke.

Bryce had been livid. Spy was humiliated. Bryce had not fired her but he furloughed her. Sarah had ended things with him a couple of months before, and that made him less willing to support her or to end her furlough. Vindictive ass.

Eventually, Sarah had enough. A smaller, competing magazine in LA, Inquest, had pursued her in the past, wanted her to write for it. So Sarah called the editor, John Casey, and even though he knew about the fate of her recent Spy article, he hired her for Inquest on the phone.

A month and a couple of days later, just after she had moved, a joy-riding teenager rear-ended her car.

She glanced around her bedroom. Most of her few things were still boxed. That was true of her office at Inquiry too. She had yet to get started on a new article, a new investigation. She just could not seem to get started, despite the change of place. Maybe it was the accident. Maybe it was just a generalized sense of dissatisfaction that had been gnawing at her in DC and that made the trip cross-country to LA.

Sarah sighed and stared at her bedroom ceiling.

Accepting Ellie's offer to go to her brother's for dinner seemed a good idea at the time, but Sarah was wondering if she should back out.

Ellie had stressed that it was casual and that her brother always cooked enough for an army, but Sarah was not good in social situations generally. She was uncomfortable in large groups, unhappy talking about herself. Still, the lunch with Ellie had been fun and low-pressure. And Sarah had gotten through the evening with no headache.

She would go. It would be okay.

She opened Heaving Nights.

Chapter One

Alina felt his hungry eyes as he rode his sorrel horse past her. She had bent over to straighten a seedling in the flower bed, and his eyes were on her like strong, rough hands. His name was Rex Thurston and he had been eyeing her for days. Alina looked up and Rex looked away, his strong jaw and dimpled chin pointed not at her, but ahead of him, down the dusty lane. Still, she knew he had been consuming her with his eyes, and she felt a warm twinge low in her stomach. She wanted him to consume her...

...Sarah closed her eyes and shook her head. She hoped Ellie was a better neurologist than a writer, although, as Sarah turned out the light, she thought about that phrase, 'a warm twinge low in her stomach'. Her toes curled as she rehearsed the phrase in her mind.

She could not remember the last time she had felt a twinge like that.

A/N: If I continue, I will say more about the inspiration for this novella. Love to hear from you; please leave a review.