A/N: We continue in Atlanta.

HER GIFT

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

High and Low

Bryce slid into the corner booth across from Gregory. "Sorry, I'm a few minutes late. Couldn't be helped."

Gregory nodded. He wasn't sure why Bryce had wanted to meet in person. After their initial meeting, all their interactions had been by secure texting app. "Ok," he said, not meaning it. "Why are we meeting?"

Bryce started to answer but the blond barista showed up at the table. She handed Bryce his cup, and Gregory noticed that the cup not only had 'Bryce' written on it, but also a phone number.

Shit.

Bryce picked up the cup and took a sip, then he noticed the phone number. He stared at the blonde's butt as she walked away. "Nice smile, nice ass. I approve of symmetry," Bryce said, turning back to Gregory. "We're meeting because I want to be sure that WI finds nothing on me, that Casey finds nothing on me. I want you to guarantee it to my face."

Gregory wanted to spit. Gregory had trekked across town on a Friday night — when he might have been able to see Amber — to sit in a coffee shop just so Larkin could repeat what Gregory already understood and was already working on.

"Christ, Larkin," Gregory groused, "I told you already. I'm on it. They won't find anything."

"So, all the traces have been erased?"

"I think so. It's been more complicated than I thought. Casey assigned Amber Kitchens to help me."

"Amber? Amber?" Larkin repeated the name, then smiled. "Oh, right. Nice, tight little figure. Generous lips." Bryce licked his.

Gregory nearly grabbed Larkin across the table, but instead, he put both hands around his coffee cup, strangling it instead. Bryce noticed but he did not care.

"That's her." Gregory hissed, his jaw tight. " Anyway, she's no hacker, but she's also no dummy. I've had to work carefully. But I should have it all done by midweek. She suspects nothing so far and I — and you — want it to stay that way. — Why didn't we do this early right away, erase the traces?"

"Because there was a chance I'd need more than I had. No reason to erase twice, and no one had any suspicion until Cyclops Walker closed-circuited me." Bryce looked frustrated with himself, obviously a foreign emotion. "But we have what we need now, I'm sure, so…" He took a sip of his coffee.

"Well, I'm getting it done." Gregory snapped, finally showing his annoyance plainly, still simmering about Bryce's lip licking a moment before.

Bryce smiled and sipped his coffee again. "Calm down, Gregory. Here." Larkin had taken an envelope from his interior jacket pocket, and he slid it to Gregory. Gregory picked it up and opened it. It was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills.

"Call it a bonus. We're happy with your work."

"We?"

"Yes, we. But don't ask. No names. Take the money, see if you can get Miss Kitchens to show you her Easy-Bake Oven." Bryce laughed at his own remark, then took a long drink of his coffee. Gregory stared at him.

Bryce got up and buttoned his jacket. He dumped the rest of his coffee into Gregory's cup, causing it to overflow. "I want to keep my cup," Bryce explained, shrugging.

He left, smiling at the barista, and showing her the cup. Her Hollywood smile trailed Bryce out the door.

Gregory got up and left the coffee mess on the table. He checked his phone. 9:25 pm.

He had time to go to Walker Insurance and work without Amber beside him.

As he went out, he noticed that the barista didn't notice. Gregory did not care much.

He was wondering about something Larkin said: Cyclops Walker closed-circuited me…

What the hell did that mean?

Chuck blinked his eyes, rubbing sleep from them.

Sunlight streamed yellow through the triptych of ornate, arched leaded glass windows on one end of the room. He grabbed his watch. 7:08 am.

He was prone on his bed in the Eaves, his room atop StoneHurst Place, still in his clothes from the night before. He had made it from the Fowler Suite, and Sarah, up to the Eaves, in a state of mind as confused as any in his life, and instead of thinking, he collapsed like a condemned building. His confusion was worse even than the days immediately after the accusations at Stanford. At least there, he had known himself, his own mind, known he was innocent. He had that to hang onto through the storm.

But he was finding handholds scarce on the plane and in Atlanta.

What a day yesterday had been!

A plane trip, a burgeoning closeness with Sarah, then the drive, the city, StoneHurst Place, the lingerie, a sudden distance with Sarah, the signing party, Roan Montgomery, Mr. Jaeger, another drive, StoneHurst Place, an awkward dinner, a practical joke, Carina, Sarah at the door, the lingerie again.

And there was the strange code-speak of Roan's: 'sire', 'Special Projects', 'contracts, plural'.

Chuck even thought he heard Roan refer to him as Longfellow to Briana. Longfellow? Like the poet? Chuck sighed — he was a programmer, not a cryptographer. He had no idea what Roan had been on about or why it had made Sarah angry.

Chuck thought about the words again. 'Contracts' — that was the only one that made any real sense. Roan had prepared the contract Chuck had signed as Sarah's Personal Assistant. But why did Roan talk about contracts? Chuck had signed, had seen, only one. It had contained clauses about bonuses, but there had been nothing about Special Projects. But Roan was not talking pointlessly, even if Chuck did not see the point. Sarah did. All those words meant something, added up to something.

Speaking of words, the day also included the word 'love'. Mr. Jaeger believed Chuck was in love with Sarah. Chuck had feelings for her, yes; he realized that on the plane. But love?

Love?

Chuck had not had time to do anything with the word except deny it when Mr. Jaeger used it, but now Chuck turned over in the bed and he tentatively tried it on.

Do I love Sarah Walker? I've only known her for a week.

Chuck thought back to the beginning of the week, meeting Sarah for the first time. He had been thunderstruck, felt high, drugged. When he touched her, his life changed. He liked Hannah; he really liked Amber. But Ellie had been right — his thinking about them was unlike his thinking about Sarah. He didn't think about Sarah, exactly: she was a presence in him and to him, a convergence point, his ultimate destiny, as if she were True North and he was a compass.

Maybe that was what it was to be in love, what it was like to be in love. Chuck was not sure. For all that he had felt or believed he felt for Jill, she had never been like that. Hannah was not like that. Amber was not like that.

Sarah was singular in his experience. Incomparable.

But what did it matter? Sarah Walker was not for him. She had no feelings for him. Her dating days were behind her, despite Carina's practical joking. Chuck rode an old motorcycle with a sidecar; he lived in a shoebox apartment above a garage filled with electronics and engine parts and bonsai trees. Sarah Walker rode in a Bentley, lived in a penthouse apartment, and worked in a penthouse office.

He was still waiting for his first check from Walker Insurance. She owned the company.

Sarah Walker was not for him, even if he did love her. It changed nothing.

Chuck Bartowski had no business loving Sarah Walker.

With a low groan of submission, Chuck roused himself and headed for the shower.

Sarah woke up twisted, twisted in her white covers and her lavender lingerie.

She disentangled herself and got up, carrying the lingerie. She folded it and put it deep in the side pocket of her suitcase, a puckish genie stuffed back in its bottle.

Her phone's screen showed it was already 7:38 am. She had overslept, overslept fitfully.

Her dreams had been sweet, then heated, swinging crazily from G-rated to NC-17. Chuck was the leading man no matter the rating.

Sarah had spent the night with him in her dreams. She was about to spend the day with him in Atlanta. Fear and excitement embraced inside her and she trembled.

She found the clothes she had packed for the day and hurried up the steps, brushed her teeth and hair, and dressed. When she came back down the stairs, she heard Chuck's knock on the door.

She answered the door barefoot. She felt a spike of nervousness as she saw Chuck. "Hey, Chuck, good morning!"

He seemed to have been waiting for her reaction to decide how to react. He smiled. "It is. I thought with the cool weather last night it would be cool again today, but it isn't."

Sarah nodded and left the door open. "I need to put on my shoes. The car's scheduled to be here in just a couple of minutes."

Chuck walked inside but left the door open. Sarah sat on the bed and put on her socks and shoes, the low boots she had worn on the plane the day before. She had on an old Harvard sweatshirt and a pair of faded jeans.

Chuck was wearing a red hoodie zipped over a blue t-shirt. He was also in jeans and wearing a pair of high-topped Chuck Taylors. Sarah grinned at his shoes.

The jangle of her nerves was now concordant excitement.

She stood up and grabbed her bag. "Ok, I'm ready!"

Her plan — and Chuck's feelings — and her feelings — were all entangled — but she would worry about that when she got back to LA. She had not had a day off in forever. And maybe never with better company. Sunlight was streaming through the door, lighting Chuck from behind, making his curls glow.

She was going to enjoy this holiday.

Chuck responded to her obvious excitement with a larger smile.

He turned and looked out, blinking in the sunlight. "Oh, there's the car."

Their driver was the same as the day before, and, after a hearty greeting, he started for the address Sarah gave him.

Sarah smiled at Chuck as the car started, and he thought for a moment that she looked a little like Clara, their coloring so similar, and Sarah's smile so eager, so childlike The stop-and-go awkwardness of the night before had vanished between them, and Sarah was literally on the edge of the rear seat, chatting with the driver so freely and cheerfully that the driver made eye contact with Chuck and gave him a "What's the change?" look.

Chuck shrugged and smiled. He did not try to keep up with Sarah's conversation. Much of it was about the list of things she wanted to do, and he was happy to find out about those as they happened.

The car stopped, about 45 minutes later and the driver announced: "Alchemist Trading Company. You'll have to tell me about this place, Ms. Walker. I've heard about it but never been inside."

"We'll bring you something," Sarah said, smiling. She and Chuck got out of the car and went inside.

Chuck stood just inside the door and whistled softly.

The interior of the Alchemist Trading Company was a fairyland of whim. On the back wall was a large gold nugget, shaped much like a coffee mug. It was surrounded by blue and black paint, interspersed with white specks, making it seem that the nugget-cup was suspended in outer space, among stars.

A melting clock stood on a display case, and the bar was inlaid with amethyst. The whole place seemed gleamy and shimmery, to drift between consciousness and subconsciousness.

"Wow! It's like going out for coffee with Salvador Dali!" Chuck soaked it all in and, grinning a little madly, he wheeled to look at Sarah. She watched him with enjoyment.

"They serve Dutch coffee here," she told him. "It's a slow-brew method like cold brew, but it's supposed to be even less acidic, very chocolatey. But it's one-and-a-half times more caffeinated than an espresso shot. They also serve breakfast."

They went in and sat at the bar. An older man came to wait on them. "What would you like?'

Sarah grinned at Chuck. "I've got this. We'll have two iced Dutch coffees and two egg egg sandos, two avocado toasts."

"Yes, ma'am," the man said and left them. Chuck turned to Sarah. "You already had decided on an order?"

"I had Mrs. Bennet get a menu for me, and called for recommendations." Chuck shook his head and Sarah giggled, pleased. "I hear the sandos are great. Homemade egg salad. And the avocado toast is supposed to be the best."

The man came back with the coffees and put them in front of them. "Here you are. Sandos to follow."

Sarah gestured to the coffee. Chuck picked it up and sniffed it. Sarah chuckled at him. He took a sip. It was thick and smooth and it tasted deeply of chocolate. He put the glass down. "I'm not used to cold coffee in the morning unless it's leftover, but that is sublime."

Sarah sipped hers and closed her eyes. "Oh, yes, that is so good."

They sat for a moment and sipped coffee. Sarah gave Chuck a curious look. "How'd you sleep?" The question did not seem to be as rhetorical as that question normally was.

"Me? Okay, I guess. I got to my room and — what's that phrase? I got to my room and gave up the ghost. I collapsed. I woke up in my clothes, I'm ashamed to say. I didn't even dream. — What about you?"

Sarah reddened. "I dreamt. Restless. Yesterday was busy, and I drank a flute of champagne too many. Roan is bad about encouraging overconsumption, sometimes just by example. And then I had the wine."

"He seems a force of legal nature, Roan. Must be good to have him on your side?"

Sarah sipped her coffee. "Roan's on Roan's side, first and foremost. He's a damn good lawyer, as clever as any, cleverer than almost all, but he's too clever for his own good."

The egg egg sandos and the avocado toast arrived. Chuck took a bite of the sando and shook his head, closing his eyes prayerfully. "That's not a sandwich, that's a religion."

Sarah laughed out loud, then sampled the avocado toast. "Oh my God, have I never had avocado before? This is a ravishment."

"Ravishment? That's great. I love words like that," Chuck said, egg sando on his face, in the corner of his mouth. Sarah picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth for him. The gesture was so natural that it had passed before Chuck realized it had happened. Sarah did not seem to realize it had at all.

"So, Sarah, what was that strange Gertrude Stein joke of Roan's about. I feel like I spent a lot of yesterday as the butt of jokes, none of which I was in on. I'm happy to laugh at myself, really, if I get the joke."

Sarah filled her mouth with avocado taste and glanced away. Chuck thought he saw a hint of panic in her eyes.

She finally finished her bite and she sighed. "Roan's another person who's not a fan of my dad, or of what he thinks is my dad's effect on me. Roan thought that I shouldn't hire you. Not because he didn't think you could do the job, but, after I told him all about you, he thought we would…clash. That you and I wouldn't be able to get on the same page." Sarah wiped her mouth.

Chuck listened, nodding. "Okay, okay, I won't take that personally, but how's that get us to a string of 'sires' or that business about Special Projects?"

Sarah bit her lip. "The 'sire' thing is a joke between Roan and me, private, one I'd rather not share. The Special Project jibe — that's Roan's name for whatever it is that is supposed to eventually come between us, to make us clash."

"Why would he think we'd clash?"

Sarah took another bite. After a moment, she answered, seeming to change topics, talking through an uncomfortable smile. "My dad would have called you a 'target fish', Chuck. When I was talking to Roan yesterday, that's sort of what he was telling me, reminding me of."

"Target fish?"

"The fish in the aquarium that other fish, the prized fish, take their aggression out on, instead of each other."

Chuck put down his avocado toast. He had been about to take a bite but did not. "Jeez, that's not…nice."

"Roan was telling me something similar — not quite the same. He rates you as too nice to do…what I might ask you to do, the job I hired you for. Insurance can be cutthroat; you have to make hard decisions, stick to your guns, or your actuarial tables." Sarah smiled weakly. "Roan was warning me that you might have a hard time doing that. My dad drilled it into me — decisions are made by percentages, by columns and rows, not by feelings."

Chuck ate some of his toast. It was as good in its way as the sando. He wiped his mouth after he swallowed. He was unsure about what he planned to say. "Mr. Jaeger told me something…interesting yesterday." Sarah looked at Chuck, waiting to hear it. "Basically, he said he hired WI because you hired me. He was worried about you — thought you lacked the human touch. That was his phrase. But he thought you hiring me showed that you had it, or at least valued it. So, what Roan, or your dad, would've rated a liability turned out, at least in this instance, to be a plus."

Sarah loved the Alchemist Trading Company, the coffee, the sando, the toast. She loved sitting at the bar with Chuck. But she did not love the conversation.

She did not want to spend the whole day in half-truths. She tried to hug the truth as she lied, to stay close to it, so that her feeling of being close to Chuck, a feeling that started in her Suite and continued in the car, to the bar, would not disappear. She was no longer dating — and today was no date — but she could enjoy its datelikeness.

What Chuck told her about Jaeger stung her. It was not that she had not heard such things before. She knew her employees called her Ice Queen. She knew, despite Carina's efforts to keep her from knowing, that at Harvard she had been All-Look-No-Touch Walker. But it stung that Jaeger had said it to Chuck: lacked the human touch.

How could Chuck take me seriously as a would-be mother if I lack the human touch?

Sarah pulled herself out of her internal spiral in time to realize that Chuck was defending himself for having the human touch.

"Of course it's a plus, Chuck. I said that to you, if not in those words, when I hired you. I knew you had impressed Jaeger. I'm glad that hiring you put me in a positive light. I guess someone who values the human touch can't really lack it altogether, huh?" Sarah bumped shoulders with Chuck.

He smiled at her, pleased. "No, and I told him, Sarah, I told him that you have a good heart."

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Sarah soared. Chuck's simple comment moved her. "That's sweet, Chuck. Thank you."

She wanted to kiss him but she did not. Instead, she put her hand on his arm. He looked down at it and up at her. "You're welcome. And I meant it. I know my Jill story may make this seem false, but I'm a good judge of hearts. Really, I am." He put his hand on hers.

"More coffee?" the man asked, stopping in front of them. They both turned, parting hands, shaking their heads in unison.

Then Sarah said — "Oh, wait. We do need coffee and an avocado toast to go." She grinned at Chuck. "For our driver."

"Robert," Chuck said, "I asked his name when we were waiting for you yesterday."

Sarah took Robert the toast and coffee.

He sipped the coffee, complimenting it several times, as he drove them to their next destination.

Sarah faced Chuck in the backseat. "So, we should arrive just about as the High Museum opens. They've got a photography exhibition, Picturing the South, that looked interesting. Would that be okay with you?"

Chuck laughed. "Sure, Sarah. Anywhere with you is fine. I mean, you know, whatever you want."

She felt her face heat. "Good. There's some Sally Mann photography I'd like to see. And I thought it might be a way of seeing the South in panorama without leaving Atlanta.

"You're a photography fan?"

"Yes, I took a couple of classes at Harvard. My professor, Dr. Kelsey, thought I had talent, but I gave it up. No time after college."

Chuck nodded. "I haven't mentioned it to you, but I rent an apartment, it's really a room over a garage, from a USC professor of Religion. He keeps bonsai trees in the garage."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mention it just because he finds time for the trees, despite being a terrific teacher and researcher. A hobby can be…therapeutic."

"I suppose. But it's hard to run a company and find time for anything else, including yourself. My dad used to say…"

"What did he think of your photography?" Chuck asked, cutting her off gently.

Sarah stared at him for a moment. She hadn't thought about photography for years, not until planning this trip.

"I never showed him any of it," she admitted after a silence. "He thought the classes were a waste."

"If you still have any photos, I'd love to see them."

Sarah nodded but did not speak. Then she did, abruptly. "Actually, you probably have seen one. That picture on the wall — in the hallway outside my office — the one of Conklin Tower at night. I took that. But I've never told anyone I did. I just had it framed and put there."

"That's a great photograph!" Chuck said with real feeling.

"Thanks, Chuck, thanks," Sarah replied, her eyes outshining the outdoor sun.

Ellie dropped Clara off at daycare and then she stopped at the Buy More. She had a few minutes before work and she needed more batteries for the camera in her apartment. And for her TV remote.

The camera ate through batteries (the battery icon showed them low that morning) but had so far revealed nothing except glimpses of Clara, Chuck, and Kitty. Since she was thinking about it, Ellie stopped just inside the Buy More door, got her phone from her pocket, and called up the camera app.

She almost cried out. Ricky was in her washroom. He was rummaging through a stack of her folded washing, clothes she planned to put away that evening, after work. He stopped and pulled out a pair of green panties. He put them against his face, sniffing them. Ellie gagged a little. Then, Ricky opened the dryer. He ducked into it and out of sight for a moment, then he stood. He had the lint from the lint trap in his hand. Treating it like gold, he put it into the panties and rolled the panties around it. He put the panties in his pocket, then peered out the back window.

A moment later, he was out of the apartment.

"Hey, Ellie!"

Ellie looked up, only then remembering where she was, she had been so engrossed in what she saw. Morgan was walking toward her. She shoved her phone in her pocket.

"Hey, Morgan, what's up?"

"Missing Chuck. Other than Stanford, I'm not used to him not being around."

"Me either."

"Are you okay? You seem upset."

"No, no, just a lot on my mind. How're things going with Alex?"

"We went out again last night. Saw a movie. It's good." Morgan's smile told the whole story.

"I'm glad, Morgan. Really glad. I like her a lot."

"Me too. Can I help you with something?"

Ellie almost told Morgan what her camera showed her, but she decided against it. As she told Morgan when she first mentioned it to him, Ricky would kill him. Ellie had a better idea about who might deal with Ricky.

"Just some batteries. Any on sale? I could use quite a few."

Casey had gotten up Saturday morning, early, and went for a run. After a shower, he went to Walker Insurance.

He was still energized by the date with Ellie, and he wanted to take some time and chase Larkin on paper, to look at the times Larkin had entered or left the building after hours, back during the time Larkin was an employee. Casey had gotten so focused on the computer stuff that he had not thought to check the front desk log. It might be a waste of time, but maybe not.

The log for last night was still at the desk. Casey was about to put it away and look at an older one when he noticed that Gregory had signed in last night at about 10:15 pm. He stayed until almost 2 am. Odd. Gregory was not an overtime guy, not of late, anyway. Casey's first impulse was to salute Gregory's renewed work ethic when he realized that there was an angle he had missed. Larkin was smart, capable — but he was no hacker.

Casey has assumed Larkin had help, but Casey assumed it was help from the outside.

But what if Larkin had inside help?

Chuck fought himself as he and Sarah strolled slowly together through the photography exhibition at the High Museum.

Sarah was enraptured, particularly by the Sarah Mann photographs, the Motherland collection.

Sarah kept touching Chuck, drawing his attention to various features of the photographs, explaining orthochromatic film and nineteenth-century barrel lenses, how they worked, and what Mann was trying to achieve by using them.

"See," Sarah said, pulling Chuck to her, pressing the length of herself against him, and pointing at one of Mann's 1996 Untitled photographs, a scene of trees made ghostly by Mann's process, "see, how it seems like we're standing in the present but looking into the past. She was too when she took the photograph."

Chuck looked and admired as best he could, but he was about to swoon. Not because of Mann, great as she was, but because of Sarah Walker, because of her hands on him, because of her body against him, because of her total lack of self-consciousness, making her compelling beyond anything Chuck had ever known. He was besieged by her perfume, encircled by her smiles.

Do I love Sarah Walker?

— Oh, God. Oh, God.

He was helpless; it was hopeless. He tried to belay his heart, slow his fall.

It was a shame — so low in the High.

A/N: Chapter Nineteen ends our Atlanta arc. Drop me a line, please!