A/N: We reach the end of our second arc, Three's Company.


The Missionary


You're sending me tulips mistaken for lilies
You give me your lip after punching me silly
You turned my head till it rolled down the brain drain
If I had any sense now I wouldn't want it back again

New Amsterdam it's become much too much
Till I have the possession of everything she touches
Till I step on the brake to get out of her clutches
Till I speak double dutch to a real double duchess

— Elvis Costello, New Amsterdam


Chapter Eleven: Office


After the talk with Ellie, Chuck went to his room and sat down at his desk.

Zarnow's phone was still on the desk but powered down.

Like Zarnow — and Zarnow's mother.

Casey walked into the room and gazed at Chuck for a moment, although Chuck did not face him. The bed creaked under Casey's weight as he sat down. Chuck could hear Sarah talking in the living room. Her phone rang before Casey came in, even before Chuck sat down.

Casey gestured vaguely toward the front of the apartment. "Walker's arranging for another car. They'll drop it at a distance and she'll walk to get it. — How are you doing?"

"I have no idea. I inadvertently downloaded a computer program designed to create superspies. Poof! I'm suddenly valuable. I'm lied to and manipulated, threatened. By the very people who are now supposed to be on my side. They are willing to kill for me. Other people are willing to die for me. Zarnow. His mom. — Why would Zarnow do that? Why would he sacrifice himself and his mother? Why not alert you and Sarah to what was happening, and ask for your help? Alert me somehow? Why walk into the crosshairs, why let his mother die?"

Casey leaned down, stationing his elbows on his knees. He lifted just his head after a moment, frowning with one side of his mouth.

"You may never know the answer to that. I knew Zarnow at the Lab, knew him to nod at him, and speak to him once in a while, you know, about the West Virginia weather. Strange man. It was obvious that the Intersect was his life. He was hard to read, closed off, or focused, maybe both, — but he seemed decent. He took care of his mother; she loved him, evidently."

Casey stopped for a moment, his eyes out of focus, then he started again.

"My guess? Reboot Hill. All those dead volunteers. Zarnow continued the program, I assume Graham insisted, but I'm guessing they weighed on Zarnow, heavy. All those volunteers died for Zarnow, for his research, so he was probably asking himself versions of the questions you just asked me. Is the Intersect valuable enough?

"Graham might be sure the answer's yes but I'm guessing Zarnow had doubts, dark nights of the soul. — You might justify those graves, kid, if they can be justified. If you work, if you make a difference, then that piney graveyard isn't a memorial to a failed research project, proof of Graham's frustrated ambitions, or Zarnow's baffled desire to know. If you work, then that graveyard matters, those lives matter. My guess is Zarnow sacrificed himself because you gave him hope that his life, and so maybe — in a way — his mom's too, might be justified by you.

"Guilt can make you do strange things. Heap enough of it on a man and all bets are off."

Casey spoke like a man with authority.

Chuck frowned, modulating his response respectfully. "But, isn't it ultimately just two more dead bodies, if not on Reboot Hill, then somewhere else, but, still, just two more?"

Casey raised one eyebrow. "Ultimately, we're each one more dead body. Unless some sweet chariot swings low, we're all headed below ground. Nothing wrong with wanting the final planting to mean something, is there? I've seen plenty of people die, soldiers and agents, some of them still practically kids, most dying to mean something. — And, as long as their deaths meant something to them, who's to say that meaning doesn't remain, even after they're buried? Meaning doesn't decompose, does it?"

Chuck did not answer; Casey wasn't expecting an answer. You live answers to questions like that, you don't speak them. Chuck studied the floor.

Casey stood, shaking off the mood. "You're not a volunteer; you were press-ganged, like old-day Royal Navy sailors. Now, you're at sea, aboard a ship, cannon booming, the fog of battle all around, bodies in the water. It's no wonder you feel lost, seasick as hell. Just hang on, you'll get your sea legs. — I'll make us a fresh pot of coffee."

Casey's massive hand gripped Chuck's shoulder hard before Casey left the room. It wasn't clear if the grip expressed fellow-feeling or briefly demonstrated impressment.


Saturday passed away.

Sarah made the walk to her car, then drove it to her apartment to shower and change, and returned.

Beckman called to tell them that the office in The Marshall Building was almost equipped, almost set up. It would be ready for Sunday's unveiling to Ellie.

The three of them ate delivery pizza. Chuck set the table, Casey opened the beers, and Sarah served the slices — there was a rhythm to it. They sat at the dining room table, discussing the cover, agreeing on the story, to certain details that would lend the story authenticity.

Sarah had come back from her apartment in a peach sundress, wearing white canvas tennis shoes, her hair up in a messy bun.

Chuck blinked when he saw her, unable to reconcile that woman with the woman of the night before, the one with the gun in her hand.

He was beginning to understand what Graham meant when he called Sarah protean.

Chuck also was slowly accepting what was happening to him. Since Sarah had kissed him outside the El Compadre, everything that happened to him seemed impossible, impossibly good, that kiss, impossibly bad, all the rest.

But he had always been resilient, relaxed but springy: his dad had once called him stouthearted.

Jill and Bryce seemed to have taken that stoutheartedness from him once, but they had only taxed it. He had not really lost it, and he had been getting it back, reclaiming it.

And all that had happened since Sarah walked into his life did not, oddly enough, seem to have caused any regression, it seemed to have hastened progress instead.

For all that had happened, he felt more captain of his fate than since Ellie drove him and his boxes off of campus in Palo Alto.

That was crazy, given his situation. Crazy but true. He felt composed, poised. Ready.

He was going to survive this somehow. He was going to find a way to make the sacrifices of the volunteers on Reboot Hill, and of Zarnow and his mother, mean something.

Their sacrifice wasn't going to just decompose.

He looked at Sarah and Casey as they argued about their cover.

They both frightened him. He knew that he would be a fool to trust either one. Neither of them cared about him, Chuck Bartowski, per se. They cared about what he carried inside him, about the Intersect.

But he wasn't just along for the ride — as if he were accidental and the Intersect essential.

He could feel that that was not false. The Intersect worked in him, and in no one else — so far. He was as essential to it as it was to him: he and it could not be separated into component parts.

He was the Intersect but the Intersect was him — that lanky guy, curly hair, from Burbank, the guy with no girlfriend, no apartment of his own, and little savings. Chuck Bartowski, that very guy.

He was a technological scandal of particularity.

The Intersect became flesh, my flesh, it took on a first and last name. The Intersect now has a sister, an address.

He looked again at the agents at the dining table.

Chuck was frightened of Sarah and Casey but he had seen each looking at him when each thought he was not looking at him or her, each wondering what Chuck knew, what he could do. Neither of them was used to being known. They were frightened of him too.

They were undoubtedly better at hiding it — but fear was there. It would out, eventually. Neither of them had reckoned with Chuck yet. They were too focused on protecting him to face what they were protecting: a man who knew all their secrets.

Of course, he hadn't mentally gone through their files — yet.

He was saving that for later.

The Intersect enabled him to defend himself, but his real power was knowledge. He needed to call that knowledge to consciousness.


By Sunday morning, it seemed unlikely that Collier's plot against the Intersect had any other moving parts, that there had been any other team.

Graham and Beckman's verdict, given in a brief video conference Saturday evening, was that the rogue group of spies inside the CIA now knew that an Intersect existed. That was bad. But they did not know who he was, or even exactly where he was. That was good. Good enough.

Burbank was big enough to hide the Intersect in a small office.

The orders Sarah and Casey received had been sent from Graham and Beckman to the agents with no intermediary, no paper copies. Officially, on paper, both agents were overseas, Sarah in Greece, Casey in France.


It was about 10 am when a knock sounded on the apartment door.

Chuck and Sarah were ready to go to the new office and she was sitting in the living room as Chuck slipped on his tennis shoes.

Sarah bristled, her hand slipping into her purse, but Chuck stood, gesturing at her. "No, no. I know that knock; it's no threat; it's Morgan. I texted to invite him to the office, for the surprise, but I thought he might show up here. He loves surprises but he can't wait for them. He and his mom open Christmas gifts on the 21st."

Sarah looked at him. "You mean the 24th?"

"No, the 21st. Morgan's been slowly pushing the date forward for years and his mom doesn't have the stamina to resist him."

Sarah shook her head. "I hate surprises. If I celebrated Christmas, there'd be no presents."

Chuck looked at her for a long moment.

Then he shook his head. "Maybe you should hide in my room. We have enough to explain — and explain away — as it is."

Sarah nodded and grabbed her purse, tiptoeing toward Chuck's room as he went to the front door.

Morgan was standing by the fountain, his back to the door, his hands deep in his pockets. When he heard Chuck open the door, he turned, a look of betrayal on his face.

"Hey, man! So, here you are, quitter," Morgan said, his voice and posture aggrieved.

Chuck stood aside so that Morgan could walk inside. "You knew I'd been thinking about it, Morg.

Morgan walked in, nodding. "I did, but thinking, not doing. I figured we'd have some late-night heart-to-hearts before you made the final call. Give the decision the serious consideration it deserved. Brews and subs."

"Sorry, Morgan, but I was just done. And grape soda doesn't count as a brew."

Glancing around at the apartment as if he were puzzled by it or something in it, Morgan sat down. He studied the room, then Chuck.

"It was her, wasn't it. The blond. The angelic visitation."

Chuck had forgotten that term. He thought of Sarah on top of him, twice. If you only knew, Morgan. "It was her, indirectly."

Chuck intended to go on, to start working on the cover, but Morgan hunched forward, eagerly.

"That woman was…she was…she was everything, Chuck. Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. Kelly McGillis in Top Gun. That blond Nazi in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade…"

Chuck broke in, "Elsa?"

"Yeah, Elsa. That blond was Elsa in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. She was Lady in Lady and the Tramp. She was —"

"Enough, Morgan. I get the idea. But, Morgan, it didn't exactly work out."

"Exactly? I don't understand. I saw her with you. I saw her look at you, man. She was into you — like on-the-spot-hot into you, Chuck. I know a woman moistening when I see one. I figured I hadn't heard from you because you were having one of those lost weekends. You know, that for once you put the gentleman on the shelf and unleashed the beast.

Chuck gulped, thinking of Sarah in his room, almost sure she could hear Morgan, who was talking loudly.

"That woman could tame a savage beast, even one, like yours, that's been hidden like a monk for years. What a way to end a vow of abstinence."

Chuck blushed, imagining Sarah overhearing that, but luckily Morgan was on too much of a rhetorical roll to pay attention to his audience.

"I never took any vow, Morgan," Chuck insisted.

"Could've fooled me, and little Chucky. All work and no play makes little Chucky a flaccid boy."

"Morgan," Chuck growled.

Morgan pulled himself up short, recognizing the tone as one Chuck rarely used. He looked at Chuck and calmed himself. "What do you mean it didn't work, exactly?"

Chuck knew it was time to lie. Again. He tried to do what Casey said — just talk.


Sarah was listening. Professionally, of course. As a spy. That's what spies do; they listen.

Sarah blushed crimson as she listened, despite being alone, suffering a version of the common fate of eavesdroppers: hearing what she did not want to hear.

What is Morgan talking about? On-the-spot-hot? Moistening?

Me, into Chuck? That's false.

But the part of her that was conscious of her choice on Friday night, of her choice to shoot those two men, that the part that owned it, owned this too: Not false. True.

She had reacted to Chuck from the beginning. She did not notice, both because he was so out of touch with herself and because he had been so in touch with, so intent upon, her mission. She had understood what she did and felt as part of her seduction, treated it as if the seduction explained it. But genuine attraction could explain it too. Caught between two competing explanations, she chose the one she believed correct, but she had been wrong.

The explanation had been genuine attraction. She used the mission to keep herself from knowing that. Although she had had hints, hints in the Buy More and later in her apartment getting ready, and at El Compadre. But she missed the hints, studiously.

Her reaction to Chuck in the Buy More was as unacknowledged as her sadness on the plane.

But that woman on the plane was not wrong then. Morgan was not wrong now, not even if Sarah hated, as she did, the word 'moist'.

When that lingerie was hanging between Sarah and Chuck in the Buy More, Sarah had been as busy imagining wearing it as Chuck had been imagining her wearing it.

She had not noticed it at the time. She noticed it now in memory. Hence the all-alone, crimson blush.

What am I supposed to do now, knowing this?

How could she want a man who hated and feared her?

She shut her eyes, trying to ignore what she had realized, to blind herself to it, asking the inner, the eye of her mind, to ape the outer, her bodily eyes. She wanted to unsee what she had seen.

Chuck was talking.


"There's something I haven't told you, Morgan. A secret I've been keeping, hoping it would work out. It's connected with my quitting. A while back, several weeks, maybe two months, a woman came into the store — it was on a night you weren't working.

"Anyway, I helped her with her phone and we started talking. It turns out she's wealthy, a tech entrepreneur named Cassandra Seil, and we started talking about tech stuff — programming, and apps. I liked her well enough that I told her a little about myself," Chuck slowed, "about Stanford."

Morgan nodded; he knew that was information Chuck did not share.

"We hit it off — not romantically but in a businessy way. She stood and talked to me for a while. When she left, I didn't give the conversation much thought. It was pleasant; it made for a better Buy More night than I expected.

"Except she came back and talked to me again. And then, a couple of weeks ago, she came back with an honest-to-God business proposal. She wanted to start a small company designing phone apps, and she wanted me to be the primary guy, the programmer."

Morgan had been listening, his mouth hanging more and more open. "She offered you a job?"

"Yeah, she did. And a small office space in which to get it started."

"Can you get me a job too, Chuck?"

"I don't know, Morgan. You use apps but you can't create them."

"A mere detail. — But, wait, what does any of this, cool as hell as it is, have to do with the angelic visitation?"

Chuck inhaled. "When Sarah — that was her name — picked me up, we went to El Compadre."

Morgan nodded approvingly. "Solid choice. Excellent salsa. Strong margaritas."

"Right. And it was all going well until I found out what brought Sarah to town. She'd been hired to be an assistant at a new tech start-up…"

Chuck watched Morgan's face as he connected the dots in real time. "No. No! No way! You got asked out by your assistant?"

Chuck channeled all his very real dissatisfaction with the date into his expression.

"My luck sucks. She doesn't date men she works with, and she decided that, although we were having a great time…up until we weren't…that she and I should only be friends."

"Wow, friend-zoned while on a date at El Compadre. That's like, cosmically cruel. And by her, the blond who is…everything. So, now I have to congratulate you and offer condolences all at once?"

Chuck exhaled. Morgan believed it. The very strangeness of it helped the story along. Truth is stranger than fiction, so if you create a fiction strange enough, that can be its ring of truth.

"My whole weekend had been mixed up like that," Chuck said, thoughtlessly, in the midst of his relief.

But Morgan wasn't really listening. "So the surprise is the new job?"

"Yes, and the office. I want you to be there, as I told you, at 2 pm. Ellie and Devon will be there. It will be a surprise for them."

Morgan bit his lip, thinking. "So, now you have to work with Sarah. Can you do that, given what happened?"

Chuck heard Morgan's question a different way than Morgan meant it, but answered as if he didn't, shrugging.

"I guess we'll find out."


Casey stayed behind at the apartment complex. He had been installing security safeguards around it, going door to door, introducing himself as the new on-site manager. He still had more apartments to visit.

Sarah drove Chuck to The Marshall Building after Morgan left the apartment. They wanted to get there early, both to pick up the office keys from the janitor, who had an office in the basement, and to get a look at the place, familiarize themselves with it, before Ellie and Devon and Morgan arrived.

According to Graham and Beckman, all was ready.


The janitor was a small, muscular black man, his white hair seeming wrong for his compact, powerful physique and his balletic movements.

He jumped up from his chair when Chuck knocked on the open door's frame. An ancient transistor radio on the crowded desk was hissing John Coltrane and static.

The small room was decorated with Bruce Lee posters.

"Hey, hey, is that you, Mr. Bartowski?"

"Yes, it's me. Call me Chuck. This is my assistant, Sarah Walker. They told me to call you…Murphy. Is that your first or last name?"

Murphy looked up at Chuck, then at Sarah in her peach dress. "It's just my name. Think of Sting, but without any sting. The lady on the phone said you two would be coming, and would want keys. I got them here somewhere."

He rifled through the pieces of machinery and hamburger wrappers on his desk, eventually locating two shiny, fresh-cut keys. "Here they are. Fourth floor, office 4030. Take the elevator there," Murphy pointed by nodding, "and get off on Four. Go down the hall and turn to the left. The office is at the end of a short hallway."

Murphy tossed the keys and they parted in mid-air. Sarah caught both of them in one hand. Murphy's eyes widened. "Sorry, that wasn't supposed to happen." He gave Sarah an appreciative glance, no leer, all respect. "You want me to go up with you? Never seen anyone furnish an office so fast, with so many people working inside and outside, even on the windows, and with all those machines. It's like a science fiction movie. Gadgets, gadgets, gadgets!"

Chuck laughed. "No, Murphy, thanks. I'm sure we'll see each other around."

"Oh, yeah. I practically live here. My wife's dead, kid's in the service, in Colorado. I come down here to listen to music. Can't get this station in my apartment; I can only barely get it here."

"If you had a computer, you could probably listen to it online."

Murphy shook his head. "Nope, not for me. I like the hiss. Reminds me of being a little boy in Georgia, trying to listen to the Braves on the radio. Got used to the static, I guess. Some people, I hear, prefer LPs to CDs."

"Yeah, they do, Murphy. Thanks for the keys. Today we're showing the place off. Tomorrow we start work. If you're free later, come up. There'll be coffee and cake."

"I might just do that, Mr. Bartowski. Ms. Walker. Have a good one. Here's my card if you need me." He handed one to Sarah and one to Chuck.

"Hope the new business is successful."


They rode the elevator in tense, anticipatory silence. Each seemed unduly interested in the elevator's floor, although they both looked up at the numbers above the door when the tinny voice announced: "Fourth Floor."

They exited the elevator and followed Murphy's directions. They turned left in the middle of the hallway. Recessed about ten feet — was a heavy wooden door with an inset of frosted glass. Something about the glass provoked the Intersect.

"Bulletproof," Chuck said, "and the door's been cunningly reinforced."

Sarah nodded once and walked to the door. She slipped her key in and turned it. A heavy bollt moved. She opened the door; it swung inside. The weight was well-balanced but it was even heavier than it looked.

"Serious door," Sarah said as she turned to Chuck.

He smiled tightly. "An armored threshold. Just the right sort for a spy. Maybe I should carry you over it?"

Chuck intended it as a joke but it did not land as one; his inflection was all wrong, his expression too. Sarah looked away, but not before he saw a lightning flash of hurt in her eyes. He had not known she could be hurt.

He started to apologize but she walked into the office without another backward glance. "Murphy was right," Sarah commented, her voice flinty, "gadgets, gadgets, gadgets."

Chuck closed the door.

The small front room was decorated in solid metal and leather furniture, the metal gunmetal gray, the leather black. A couch stretched along the wall opposite the door. Two matching armchairs stood in front of it, between Chuck and the couch. Sarah was nearer the couch, standing between the chairs. The room stretched to the left, where there was a desk and chair, the desk supporting a state-of-the-art Roark desktop computer. Farther left was a huge window, the glass thick and slightly tinted. The desk was in front of the doorway that led into the rear room of the office. Chuck walked to the desk. Beside the computer keyboard was a set of buttons in a panel built into the desk. Chuck looked at them, then pushed one.

The window glass immediately became opaque. "Smart glass. Seen it online but never in person."

Sarah walked to the desk and glanced at the button Chuck had pushed. She pushed it and the glass was transparent again. Chuck wandered into the rear room. He reached out and flicked the switch.

It was like the room came to life. Not only did overhead lights come on, but a massive computer bank against the left end of the room began to blink. Monitors at work stations, two of them, lit up, each station comprising a desk and a chair. A heavy oak table, long and narrow, was in the center of the room. Four chairs, two on each side, flanked it. There were no windows.

On the right end of the room was a huge monitor attached to the wall. It came on, showing Graham and Beckman, split-screen, each in his or her office.

Graham smiled widely. "Welcome to Appocalypse Enterprises." For a moment, Graham and Beckman vanished and a logo flashed on the screen, black block letters superimposed on a rising — or was it sinking — sun, the first three letters of' 'Appocalypse' slightly larger than the others. Graham and Beckman reappeared. "We'll have a sign in the lobby and in the office early tomorrow, the final touches. We can discuss the office and the equipment tomorrow. All that's visible I trust is familiar to Agent Bartowski. The equipment is much like the equipment that you used in the lab at Stanford, except newer, the latest models with all the upgrades available. All that's not visible I trust will be familiar to Agent Walker, weapons and ammunition, and so on. But we can talk about all that tomorrow. Today, your sister comes to visit and we begin our operation. We wanted to wish you good luck. How do you feel, Agent Bartowski?"

Chuck was still finding the 'Agent' distracting but he tried to hide it. Before he could answer, Sarah did.

"Morgan Grimes came to the apartment earlier this morning, unscheduled. I hid in another room as Agent Bartowski talked to him. He did well. Grimes believed him. If he does as well in a few minutes, we should be good."

Her praise after his wounding remark struck him. But it also struck him that she had heard what Morgan said. Damn.

"Excellent," Beckman said. "Well, we will leave you to it. We will talk to you tomorrow."

The monitor went dark.

As it did, Chuck wondered about the other day, when he made an Apocalypse joke to himself in his James Earl Jones voice. Surely, the Intersect had not anticipated this?

Chuck shelved the question and explored the room. Sarah went back out front and sat down at her desk.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and a man in a hat and apron, the apron with the name of the bakery down the street, Staff of Life. He had a cardboard coffee container and a plastic bag hanging from one hand and a cake box balanced in the other.

They took the items from him, tipped him, and he left. Chuck helped Sarah unbox the cake, arrange the coffee cups, the creamer, and sweeteners, the napkins, plates, and forks. The cake was chocolate, with the words 'Good Luck' in white icing on the top. In the bottom of the plastic bag was a card.

Chuck opened it and put it beside the cake.


Wish I could be there too, my dears!

Cassandra


Another knock at the door was accompanied by Morgan's loud voice.

"It's the family, Chuck!"

Sarah motioned Chuck toward the door. He took a deep breath and went to the door.

He opened it to find Ellie, Devon, and Morgan. Ellie and Devon looked more tan than usual. They were still wearing vacation clothes, t-shirts and shorts, and flip-flops.

Ellie peeked inside. "Where are we, Chuck?"

"The office where I work. Appocalypse Enterprises. There'll be signs tomorrow. — I didn't mean that as a pun."

Chuck backed away from the door and the three walked inside.

Sarah turned to face them.

Chuck looked at her and she gave Ellie and the others a wide, warm smile.

"Hi, I'm Chuck's assistant, Sarah."

Ellie looked at Sarah in stunned incredulity. Then she wheeled and looked around the office.

"Morgan told us — but I didn't believe him?"

Chuck gave Morgan a look but felt secretly relieved. "You told?"

Morgan colored. "I ran into them outside. I didn't want the shock of all this," Morgan indicated the office but more indicated Sarah, "so I told them — a little. But I couldn't have prepared them for it all."

Sarah walked to Ellie and Devon. "I've met Morgan. It's very good to meet you too, Ellie. Chuck's told me a lot about you, and fed me some of your delicious casseroles."

Ellie stared at Sarah and mouthed "Casserole?" silently. Devon stepped up. "Awesome to meet you, Sarah. This place is great. — What do you do here?"

"We're working to create and market phone apps. Chuck met our owner, Cassandra Seil, and she was so impressed with him that she hired him to be the lead programmer here. I'll be helping with the programming but mainly working on the marketing. I've just moved back out here from DC, but I got my degree from UCLA — I understand we are both Bruins?"

Devon grinned a GQ grin. "Bruins?" Without warning, he broke into a boisterous song.

We are Sons of Westwood
And we hail to Blue and Gold
True to thee our hearts will be

And Sarah joined him in the last words:

Our love will not grow old,

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

"Awesome!" Devon boomed. Ellie stared at Chuck; Chuck tried not to stare at Sarah.

Seeing and hearing her sing the UCLA fight song had temporarily shut down Chuck's cognitive function.

When Chuck regained the power of thought, he invited everyone into the studio, as he decided at that moment to dub it. They followed him in and provided choruses of oohs and aahs to his verses of explanation.

He kept it simple, partly for them and partly for himself. He was familiar with the equipment in older forms, but he would need time to acclimate to these cutting-edge versions.

As they left the studio, Chuck passed close to Sarah, behind the others, and he looked at her.

"Fight, fight, fight?" he whispered.

She shrugged and gave him a mysterious smile. "I do my homework."

Devon shook his head in front of them. "Chuckster, Sarah, dudes, this is so damn awesome! Appocalypse!" He clapped his hands.


Ellie hugged Chuck several times and kissed his cheek, repeatedly congratulating him on the new job and repeatedly congratulating Sarah.

Ellie saw the card on the table and asked to know more about Cassandra. Chuck told her a little, avoiding any physical description and talking more about her wealth, her reputation.

Morgan, listening from one of the armchairs, took out his phone. He typed for a moment and then held the phone out. "Here's an article about her online. Tech Swashbuckler, it's called."

Chuck laughed. "She's not got a big Internet presence for a tech entrepreneur; she likes her privacy. She's known for starting small companies that grow fast. Usually, when they get to a certain size, she sells them and moves on to something else. She's got a record of success."

Chuck was amazing and sickening himself in equal measure.

He was one day into his life in falsehood and he was lying his ass off, improvising, adding details or comments that he knew would make Ellie, Devon, and Morgan more likely to believe, make their belief more complete.

He was manipulating people he loved, lying to the people who were true to him.

He never imagined doing that. But there he stood, over a lying chocolate cake, speaking falsehoods end-to-end as if they were facts, speaking a kind of moral double-dutch.


It was clear that Ellie was more interested in Sarah than in the gadgets or in Cassandra Seil.

After the cake was cut and coffee poured, Ellie sat down beside Sarah on the couch, each balancing her cake on a knee, coffee in hand.

Sarah had been watching Chuck and the others. They all clearly believed Chuck. Of course, the setting and Sarah helped; she and the gadgets were there, the office was there, none of that could be denied.

Sarah had been curious to meet Ellie. She found herself wishing that all this — the cover — were true, that she was new in town, and that she had a chance to become friends, real friends, with someone like Ellie. Sarah had never so longed to belong before.

"So, Morgan tells me that you and Chuck went out — on a date — before you realized you were going to be co-workers. Is that going to make this complicated?"

Sarah smiled. "No, I hope not. Chuck's great, but I've had…bad luck…with office romance in the past. He understood. I think we'll be able to put it behind us and be a great work team." Sarah was looking at Chuck as she spoke. When she focused back on Ellie, she saw a smile leaving Ellie's face.

"Keep it professional, right?" Ellie said. "Devon and I tried that at med school and it worked for about twenty-four hours, and then we made unauthorized use of a storage closet."

"It looks like that worked out for you two. But, as you can see, we don't have a storage closet here."

"No," Ellie said, "but this couch is nice."

Sarah felt her blush climb her neck, unable to stop it. On-the-spot-hot. Moistening. Her imagination made rapid, vigorous use of the couch and of Chuck — the couch was always horizontal but they weren't.

Ellie cleared her throat softly, and Sarah's imagination cooled. "Sorry," Ellie offered, "didn't mean to embarrass you."

"It's okay. Chuck and I both have plenty to do, business-wise, to keep us occupied."

Ellie's responding smile was less than convinced. "So, you moved here from DC? What did you do there?"

Sarah kept the lie near the truth. "I worked for the government. Programming, data entry, that sort of thing. But I missed the sunshine, and I wanted to use my marketing skills, so I answered an ad that Ms. Seil posted, and, well, long-story-short, here I am!"

Ellie had been listening but watching her brother. Chuck was talking with Devon, eating cake, frowning, oddly, on his big day.

Ellie turned back to Sarah. "Well, it's great to meet you. And I'm so happy for Chuck, about all of this, about you. — But look, please be careful with Chuck. He doesn't fall easy, but when he falls, he falls hard."

"Oh, believe me, Chuck hasn't fallen for me. Believe me. We had a nice time, but I'm certain I liked him more than he liked me," Sarah said, smiling.

Ellie raised one skeptical eyebrow. "Okay, I won't go on and on. If it's behind the two of you, it is. But I just have to say, if I'd met you before the date, I would have predicted that nothing short of you trying to kill him could have kept him from falling for you."

Ellie shook her head at herself and laughed.

Sarah somehow managed to keep her smile in place, but she couldn't laugh.


A/N: And so we end the arc. The first arc was an extended prelude. This arc was to set the scene. Our three spies get to work in the next arc, and our overarching plot comes back into clearer view. I'm busy with many things at the moment, so the pace may continue to slow.

— How about dropping me a line?