It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.
Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…
Chapter 2: Homecoming
Our flight out of Dulles International Airport was aboard a CIA chartered Gulfstream G550. Bypassing airport security had been easy enough—it's amazing what you can do with a CIA badge and the right clearance. Since I knew Dulles' protocols better than Larkin did, I'd gotten to the plane first and waited at the base of the airstairs while the pilots circled the craft for their preflight inspection.
My hair fell loose about my face, lashing my cheeks as frigid wind whipped across the tarmac. I drew up the hood of my navy-blue parka, closing my eyes against the sting … but it didn't help much. The icy chill cut straight through my coat, then gnawed its way through the skinny jeans I should have known better than to wear on a day like today. Shivering under the weak November sun, I welcomed the thought of California's balmy winter weather.
Soon, I'd be on the plane and warm enough. With just myself and Larkin aboard, sans the pilots, I'd have plenty of time to delve further into the dossiers on both Bartowskis and commit their family history to memory, making sure I used just the right approach to insert myself into their lives and come up with an effective cover story. Our introduction had to look like happenstance … completely organic. This might be an unsavory assignment—both Chuck and Ellie seemed like innocent marks whose only sin was falling into Graham's web courtesy of their genius, albeit negligent father—but I had never failed a mission and I wasn't about to start now.
I had to suppress a chortle when I looked up and saw Bryce crossing the airfield, struggling with multiple pieces of luggage. He'd brought so much, he'd had to pile it onto a baggage cart, which was threatening to get away from him as the wind buffeted it this way and that. The guy reminded me of the Buster Keaton skits my father used to enjoy. You'd think he was preparing to invade a small country … or maybe to survive the end of the world. The spectacle only confirmed what I already knew to be true. One: he was so wet behind the ears that I half-expected him to ask when we were going to meet up with Q for our spy gear. And two: if I didn't start teaching him how things really worked in our world, he was going to blow the whole damn operation.
I got on the plane first, thanks to Bryce's overzealous packing habits, so I had my pick of the beige, high-backed leather seats. I could've stowed my luggage, as I usually did, but instead I decided to put the carry-on in the seat next to mine … just in case Larkin got any ideas. Then I slid into the adjacent window seat, dug in my bag for the files Graham had given me, and prepared to read.
A moment later, Larkin made his way onto the plane. He started stuffing his various carry-ons into the luggage compartment, which gave me time to count them. He had five bags in total, and from the looks of them, they were all expensive.
Was he for real?
He wedged the last one inside and then his gaze fell on me—notably, on the roll-on perched on the seat next to mine. "Is that all you brought?" he asked, his eyebrows creeping up toward his hairline.
I shrugged. "I always travel light. Never know when you might need to leave on a moment's notice. Keeps things simple." Then I put the folder on the table in front of me and flipped it open, hoping he would take the hint.
No such luck. He dropped into the seat opposite mine and insisted on trying to strike up a conversation every five minutes once we'd taken off, breaking my concentration and forcing me to reread the same pages over and over. Finally, on his third attempt, I decided to give up and use his impertinence to pick his brain. It was why he was here, after all.
"So, Agent Larkin …" I began, but he cut me off mid-sentence.
"Please, Sarah … like I said before, you can call me Bryce." He gave me an ingratiating smile. "There's no need for formalities. We're partners now."
"Interim partners," I clarified, "but fine—Bryce it is. So, tell me everything you can about Chuck and Ellie. What are they like? You can get only so much from a two-dimensional dossier crafted by a bunch of desk jockeys."
He stood, taking a moment to grab a bottled water out of the mini-fridge before answering. "Well, I'm not sure how much help I can offer with regards to Ellie," he said, slipping back into his seat. "I only met her a handful of times. I will say that she's the matriarch of their little makeshift family and a real ballbuster. She practically raised Chuck and mothers him to death. You definitely don't want to get on her bad side or this operation will be over before it starts."
Ballbuster—really? Such a sexist term for a strong woman who'd singlehandedly held her family together while managing to earn her MD despite essentially being an orphan. I contained my disgust, but it took considerable effort. "I see she's dating another doctor—a cardiologist. Have you met her boyfriend, Devon?"
"Just the one time at a Stanford football game, back when we were juniors," he said, glancing out his window as if bored with the topic. "He was okay, I guess. Kind of a meathead, if you know what I mean. A real jock, health nut, and thrill-seeker, from what Chuck's told me. I just remember he was a bit loud for my tastes."
What did that even mean? Did Larkin prefer to spend his evenings listening to classical music and smoking Cuban cigars? With luck, I'd never have to find out. "What about Chuck?" I said, holding up the folder. "What can you tell me that's not in here?"
He cracked his knuckles, thinking. "Well, besides his intelligence, the first thing you'll probably notice when you meet him is his wicked sense of humor. The guy can be hilarious when he wants to be—especially when he's nervous … or around pretty girls. It's like some kind of defense mechanism he's built up over the years—a way to stave off some of his more deep-seated insecurities." Crossing his legs at the ankle, he took a swig of his water. "I never really understood why he had so many, to tell you the truth. The guy is brilliant, after all, but you'll see he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve so you'll always know what he's feeling. His friends and family are the most important things in his life. He's loyal to a fault and about as naïve as they come, too."
Now that was interesting—and maybe something I could use. "Naïve? What do you mean?"
Larkin shrugged. "Just that he sees the best in everyone he meets, even if they haven't earned it. Trust me … that should work to your advantage. You should be able to play him like a fiddle. He doesn't stand a chance against the likes of you."
A moment ago, I'd been thinking how to leverage Chuck Bartowski's supposed naïveté against him … but Larkin's last sentence chilled me. When I spoke, my voice was glacial. "I'm not sure I catch your meaning."
He smirked, as if this was a joke that we were in on together, and I was just refusing to play along. "Come on, Sarah … just look at you. Chuck's shy around most girls, not just the pretty ones. And forgive me for saying so, but you are by far the sexiest woman I've ever laid eyes on. Trust me, that's saying a lot. When he sees you he won't be able to form a coherent sentence, must less resist you. Let's face it … compared to you and me, he's a bit of a loser."
What I felt after Bryce finished speaking was as foreign to me as anything I'd ever experienced—and somewhat frightening, too. The acidity of my reaction recoiled in my stomach, waiting to be spat out in vulgar words I would normally never consider speaking in a professional setting … except I didn't just want to speak them, I wanted to screech them with every ounce of breath my lungs could summon.
What the hell was wrong with me? I'd never even met Chuck, and here I was, wanting to defend him. Only through the grace of God and every ounce of training I possessed did I tamp down the flames long enough to respond with my last remaining shred of civility.
"Thank you for your insight, Bryce," I said, willing myself not to grit my teeth. "That should do for now. This has been very … enlightening."
Bryce gave a curt nod, his lips forming a knowing smile. "Any time. Hey … perhaps when we land I can take you out to dinner and we can discuss this further. You know … a little pinot, a filet, some candlelight and, of course, the company of a beautiful woman. Sounds like a great opportunity for us to sit back, relax, and get to know one another better. What do you say?"
It was time to nip these kinds of thoughts in the bud.
"Listen, Agent Larkin." I held up my hand to stop him from interjecting once again. "Let me make one thing painfully clear to you. When we land, you and I are not to be seen together in any way, shape, or form. That's how covers are blown and missions fail. As a matter of fact, you should limit your time out in public to that of necessity—and even then, in disguise. I have a perfect record for a reason." I paused to let that sink in before I continued. "I suggest you start following my example by keeping your head in the game and your eye on the ball. We'll have plenty of time to get to know one another."
Undeterred, he pressed on. "We could always order room service." The innuendo that dripped from his tongue matched the look in his eyes. He actually had the nerve to try and reach for my hand, only to jerk it back like it'd been scalded when—in a silver flash—my knife pierced the middle of the table, separating the two of us.
"What the hell—"
Bryce's face fell faster than a corpse in cement boots. His skin turned gray, his mouth hung open, and his eyes sprang as wide as they could stretch. I didn't bother to respond. My expression spoke for me—as did the dagger I slipped back into its sheath beneath my skirt. His eyes wouldn't meet mine any longer, but I saw the desired effect within them as I returned my attention to the files: Fear.
For the rest of the flight, until we landed at Los Angeles International Airport, Agent Larkin decided to strike a different tone with me.
Silence.
OoOoOoOoO
It was late afternoon, California time, when I finally pulled up in front of Echo Park in the black, slightly-used Jeep Grand Cherokee I'd rented at LAX. I'd picked it to go along with the cover story I'd nailed down by the time we landed. Bryce, being Bryce, had chosen the only sports car available—a brand-new, candy-apple-red Corvette convertible. God, he was insufferable and about as inconspicuous as a drag queen in a Mormon temple.
Despite the incident on the plane, he'd reluctantly agreed that we should meet at his apartment tomorrow morning to go over our mission parameters. A CIA team had installed surveillance throughout the Echo Park complex as well as inside the Bartowskis' apartment this morning, while they were both at work. Hopefully that was still the case, as I liked to suss out my surroundings before being thrown into the deep end. I'd far prefer to explore the apartment complex and figure out the best way to accidentally-on-purpose encounter the siblings, than stroll into Echo Park and run into either of them taking out the trash.
My work had sent me to a lot of places—from the ghetto to the lap of luxury, and everywhere in between—and I'd learned to adapt. Echo Park was a pleasant surprise. I'd Googled it, of course, but coming from the nasty, frigid Virginia weather, where the trees had long since dropped their leaves and the cold gnawed at my bones, it was still refreshing to step out of the Jeep and take a deep breath of the warm California air, bearing the scent of evening primrose.
Dusk was falling as I made my way up to the white columns that flanked the entrance to Echo Park, and the small lanterns that topped the columns had come on, lighting my way. I walked through the open wrought-iron gates and passed beneath the giant palm fronds that formed a natural arch over the entryway. The path to the apartment complex meandered under another arch—manmade this time—and deposited me in a flagstone courtyard, planted with lush greenery. At the center was a two-tiered fountain bordered by an elaborate basin. The apartments were all accessible from the courtyard, and had the sloping Spanish-tiled roofs that I'd seen on most of the houses en route from LAX.
It was a nice place, all right. Cozy without being claustrophobic, verdant without feeling overgrown. I could see why the Bartowskis had made their home here.
But it wasn't my home, I kept having to remind myself—just a temporary pit stop. I hadn't had a real home in more years than I could remember. Fighting back the emptiness that had somehow clawed its way into my chest, I wheeled my carry-on over the cobblestones to the apartment Graham had assigned me, dug out my keys, and stepped inside.
The apartment wasn't lavishly appointed, but the CIA had struck a nice balance of understated yet dignified. With its two bedrooms and one bath, I had more than enough space to settle in for the long haul. They'd even had the foresight to convert one of the bedrooms into a workout space with a heavy bag, treadmill, and elliptical trainer, with just enough room left over for my daily tai chi regimen.
I wheeled my carry-on into the other bedroom and placed it in the closet, not bothering to unpack. Besides the sleek, modern bedroom suite that actually matched my tastes, a smallish desk stood in the corner near the window. I walked over to inspect it. A computer tower was tucked underneath. Dual monitors sat on top, next to a leather case and a manila envelope. Opening the clasps of the jacket, I began to read.
I'd hoped for more intelligence on the Bartowskis, but the contents of the envelope were just as vital: information on the surveillance setup. My eyebrows rose as I scanned the pages. The CIA had spared no expense—the surveillance was state of the art and linked directly to the watch that they'd put in the leather case, along with a set of earbuds.
I opened the case to take a look, weighing the watch in my hand. It was black, with a thin band—as understated as the apartment's décor and simple, like a diver's watch … something that wouldn't draw the eye, which, of course, was the point. Apparently, it could also be used as a remote device for the perimeter alarm. The linked earbuds provided real-time audio from bugs planted throughout Casa Bartowski, and the watch controlled them as well. I'd never used a gadget like this before, and it was always fun to have a new toy—especially one as versatile as this.
Strapping the watch to my wrist, I woke the computer and logged in with my credentials. The surveillance program was minimized on the desktop, but still running in the background—most likely with a hard-wired encrypted feed to the analysts in Langley as well as to Bryce's apartment, given that this was his responsibility per Graham's orders.
I maximized the window and got my first look at the Bartowski residence's inner sanctum. The first camera feed I clicked on was pointed towards the dining room, which—inexplicably—had a conga drum in the corner and a poster of some kind of comic book characters on the wall beside the pass-through to the kitchen. I clicked on the next square and got a close-up of the kitchen … countertops cluttered with a toaster and coffeemaker, plus an abandoned to-go mug. The window over the sink was framed by a frilly curtain with small flowers embroidered on the edges—Ellie's touch, I assumed.
When I clicked again, I found myself looking at what had to be Chuck's bedroom. Here was the stamp of his personality. There was a bookshelf full of CDs, a guitar leaning in a chair. I panned around the room and found stacks of comic books, vinyl records, and a movie poster for something called 'Tron.' Action figures in various poses were strategically placed throughout the room. Bryce had been right; Chuck was a nerd of the first order. Still, there was something endearing about the objects with which he'd chosen to surround himself. His room—the whole apartment, really—was a reflection of the people who lived there. Sure, unlike my CIA-appointed residence, some of the furniture was mismatched and dated … but the apartment was also vibrant, alive in a way mine never would be. Mine was a temporary base of operations; theirs was a home.
I rubbed my chest, trying to dispel the strange, discomfited feeling that had taken up residence there—the same one I'd felt when I'd first walked into the courtyard. This wasn't like me. I got in, got the job done, and got out again. I didn't get nostalgic for what I'd never had or defensive on behalf of a man I'd never met. Something about this mission felt different, and I didn't like it one bit.
Lost in thought, I almost didn't register the high-pitched noise emanating from my watch, alerting me that motion had been detected outside the gates of the complex. I glanced at the computer monitors. On the left screen, a single box flashed. I clicked on it, bringing it into focus. The box enlarged into an image of Ellie Bartowski, stepping out of her car with a satchel slung over her shoulder. She balanced a paper bag of what looked like groceries in each arm, both full to the brim, the contents on the verge of spilling to the pavement.
Showtime.
I had to time it just right. Dashing to grab my coat and keys, I exited my apartment just as she set foot on the flagstones of the courtyard.
When I stepped out, she looked over, her eyes wide. Then her expression of surprise faded, replaced by relief.
"Oh, thank God," she said, huffing out a breath, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. Her picture didn't do her justice. With her large hazel eyes and warm, bright smile, she was as beautiful as she was intimidating … just as I'd imagined.
"Excuse me?" I said, a little shocked—and curious as to why she was so happy to see a total stranger.
Her gaze fell to the ground and she shook her head, as if trying to decide what to say next. "I'm so sorry," she finally replied, looking back up. "I'm sure that was a bizarre way to meet one of your new neighbors. It's just the last person who lived in that apartment—Mr. Atkinson—was an old curmudgeon and about as ill-tempered as they come. Constantly going on and on about how loud everyone was—threatening to call the cops if he heard the slightest peep coming from any of the other apartments. After he was evicted—for what, I'm not sure—I just prayed that whoever took over his old place would be of a different ilk, if you know what I mean."
I couldn't help myself. "I do, and as long as you keep it down, we won't have any problems."
Her laughter was as infectious as it was heartwarming, and we soon found ourselves smiling at each other. "Hi, I'm Sarah Walker." I held out my hand, then remembered her arms were still full. "Sorry. Here … let me help you with those."
She surrendered one of the bags to me, then gave me a dazzling smile as she shook my hand. "I'm Ellie … Ellie Bartowski. I live with my little brother right across the way. Please allow me a second chance to make a good first impression by welcoming you to the neighborhood. Do you maybe want to come over for a cup of coffee or tea … maybe something even a little stronger? Unless you're heading out, of course. We could always do it another time."
I felt a pang of guilt for what I was about to do, but this was my assignment and I needed to stop having these kinds of feelings. A mark, I reminded myself. She was just a mark that had given me as good an opening as I'd ever gotten starting out a mission like this. It was almost too easy.
"It's nothing that can't wait," I said. "I was just going to run out for some supplies. A cup of tea actually sounds wonderful. I haven't had a chance to stock up just yet, but it's on the list."
"Well, follow me, but please," she paused to give me a pointed look, "excuse the mess. My brother can be a bit of a slob sometimes."
Ellie unlocked the door and we stepped inside. The first thing I noticed was the scent—somewhere between freshly baked cookies, laundry detergent, and something else I couldn't quite place. It was comforting, reinforcing the sense of hominess I'd felt when I looked at the surveillance footage.
I followed her to the kitchen, put the bag of groceries on the counter, and watched as she filled a tea kettle with water. Placing it on the stove's back burner, she started putting away the food.
"So tell me about yourself, Sarah Walker. What brings you to Echo Park? Are you originally from Burbank, or are you new to the area?"
Here we go. Time to put on my game face and sell it.
The lies that I'd used for most of my adult life—first as a grifter and then with the CIA—were close enough to the truth to pass just under the radar, or else so big you'd never dream a person could make up such things. The half-truths tended to warp reality, making me leery of trusting others—after all, how did I know they weren't lying to me too? The big lies were all about shock and awe, rooting me in fear of discovery and putting my primal brain in charge. Once I went into survival mode, a muzzle clamped down on my higher thinking, and concepts like altruism, charity, and decorum became whispers among the anxious screams of the falsehoods I depended on to stay alive.
My heart started to beat faster. "No, I'm from the East Coast, actually. Washington, DC, to be exact."
"DC, huh?" Ellie stopped what she was doing, a loaf of bread in her hand, clearly taken aback. "That's a helluva hike. What made you move all the way to the other side of the country? A job?"
A little faster, still. "Not so much a 'what' brought me out here as a 'who.'" I let an eyebrow climb just a tad.
Ellie's face crumbled as if she'd just heard a terrible piece of news. "So, a boyfriend, then?" Her shoulders slumped. "What am I saying? You're absolutely gorgeous. Of course you have a boyfriend."
Now my heart was slamming against my chest. "Ex-boyfriend." The words turned to vinegar, stinging my tongue and souring my stomach. "It was a really abusive relationship that ended over six months ago. An ignored restraining order and a trip to the hospital were about all I could stand before deciding I needed a change. A big one. Plus all of my friends were his friends. I just felt like I needed to start over."
A look of shock bathed her features, and her hand covered her mouth. Tears filled her eyes, making me feel horrible. Real empathy for my well-being was not something I was accustomed to. The fact that her concern was all based off a lie made it ten times worse. I'd never hated my job more than I did in that moment. What the hell was I doing?
In a blink, she was hugging me, shaking like a leaf. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that, Sarah. No one should have to deal with that kind of pain and heartache. Trust me … I know what that looks like firsthand. My brother … well … never mind." She pulled back, holding my shoulders at arm's length. I melted under the warmth of her gaze. "There's one good thing I think we can take away from all of this."
Nervously, I laughed. "What's that?"
"I can help you start over by being one of your first friends out here on the West Coast," Ellie said, a look of hope in her eyes. "Maybe even one of your best friends?"
God, I really liked this woman. I couldn't help myself—a smile nearly split my face in two. Even though Bryce was probably watching right now, I didn't care as I hugged her again, and we both broke into laughter.
The kettle started whistling, breaking us from our reverie. Ellie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and walked over to turn off the burner. "What are your Thanksgiving plans for tomorrow?" she asked, sniffling as she poured our tea. "Do you have family in the area?"
Once again, Ellie was making my job way too easy … and extremely hard at the same time. This was the lie that I'd spent hours on the plane concocting, designed to manipulate and coerce the Bartowskis into not only trusting me, but confiding in me about their father. The premise was simple: Make myself a bird of a feather and a kindred spirit—by using the memory of their horrible past against them.
My heart cracked a little as the words sprang forth of their own accord—practiced to the point of autonomy. "I don't have any family, Ellie," I said, hitting rock bottom. "My mother died in childbirth and my father gave me up to social services when I was seven. I guess he couldn't handle the responsibility or something … or maybe he just didn't love me enough—I'm not sure which. I've tried to find him over the years, but he just vanished—no trace of him anywhere. For all I know, he could be dead, too."
Ellie's eyes started watering again as her head hung low. I'd officially become the biggest asshole to ever walk the Earth.
She looked up again, gesturing for me to follow her out of the kitchen and into the dining room. When I did, she sat our cups across from each other and sank down into a chair. Taking the seat opposite her would put my back to the door—a position no spy would ever choose on their own, but what could I do? Sitting down, I waited, knowing that she was about to make me feel even worse than I already did.
She didn't disappoint. "You poor thing," she whispered, her voice trembling. "No one should ever make you feel like you weren't loved. You dad's sins are his and his alone. Chuck and I—"
My breath hitched when she was cut short, mid-reassurance, by the sound of the front door opening. I could hear keys rattling but didn't turn my head to see. I was not prepared to meet Chuck right now. Emotionally spent—a sensation that bemused me, given that I made up cover stories all the time and had never felt much remorse one way or the other—I focused on the swirled grain of the wooden tabletop. It felt like a mirror, reflecting the chaos inside me.
Chuck Bartowski's voice shattered the last of my defenses when he entered the apartment and got a good look at his sister—tearstained face, shaking hands, and all.
"Ellie … oh my God … what's wrong? Are you okay?"
His footfalls came closer and closer, each one pushing me toward the abyss. Holding out for as long as I could, I finally looked up … and fell, tumbling end over glorious end.
His picture hadn't done him justice, either. Here were those dark curls, falling in disarray over his forehead, and those chestnut-colored eyes. What the photo hadn't captured, though, was the kindness in those eyes, a deep sincerity that made me understand why Larkin had called him naïve. I felt as if he could see right through me—like he saw all of my flaws, and accepted me despite them. I felt warm, and safe, and loved.
Which was ridiculous. He might be radiating those emotions, but they were intended for his sister, not me. I was the spider luring him into my web. I didn't deserve his kindness, much less the way his face changed when his eyes met mine.
I was used to guys staring at me—leering at me, even. It made me feel disgusted, annoyed, or just plain tired, depending on my mood. But the way Chuck Bartowski looked at me was different. The expression of concern he'd had for his sister disappeared, replaced with awe—like it had been raining, and the sun had just burst from behind a cloud. His mouth fell open and he tried to speak, but no words came out.
God help me, but I thought it was adorable as hell.
I smiled at him, and he smiled back—a beautiful, innocent smile that made me want to rescind everything I'd said to Ellie. More than that, I wanted to rewind time and pretend I'd never accepted this assignment. I wasn't worthy of that smile. I knew I never could be.
Chuck shook himself—literally, like a dog coming in from the rain—and his gaze slid from mine. "Ellie?" he said again.
When I glanced over at his sister, she was grinning. "I'm fine, little brother. We were just having a little girl talk. You know how it goes. This is Sarah Walker, our new neighbor. I was just about to invite her to join us for Thanksgiving."
"That's great, sis," he said, then turned and held out his hand to me. "Hi … I'm Chuck."
"Sarah," I said, taking his hand in mine. His skin was warm, sending a shiver through me that I shifted in my seat to conceal.
I had no idea how I was going to complete this mission; no idea how to continue treating these people like marks; no idea of how I was going to betray their trust by using them to lure their father out of hiding, only to be pressganged into servitude by the CIA.
But there was something I was absolutely sure of.
I was in a hell of a lot of trouble.
A/N: Thoughts? Should we keep going, intermixing these updates with the updates for ASITHOC? We'll leave it up to you.
As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.