A/N: Welcome to our third arc, Revaluations.
The Missionary
Oh man, look what the cat drug in
It's got the dress, though the color's gone
That I gave my one true love on
Oh man, look what the wind blew home
Never had this much stimulation
Since her low down elevation, but
Oh, don't look in those eyes
Bluer than blue
Her rule's on the rise
And if I wear apathy's crown
Don't call me highness
It's a long way down
Michael Penn, Long Way Down
Chapter Twelve: Sexual Furniture
Ellie adjusted her book in her lap, then reached over and picked up her lemonade.
She had a rare day off, and even rarer, a day off that did not overlap with a day off of Devon's.
She missed him and would've preferred spending her day with him, but simply sitting in surprising warm October sunshine, vegetating, and listening to the fountain, was lovely.
Not working on a Monday was lovely.
She'd worked almost continuously since she and Devon had returned from their getaway to Santa Cruz. Although she hid it well, working to do so because of Chuck's good news, she had returned to Burbank disappointed. She had expected a proposal and gotten none.
Devon's grandmother's engagement ring had been hidden in an empty jug of Muscle Milk Powder Devon kept in the kitchen. Ellie loathed the stuff, but during a bout of furious September cleaning — Ellie was possessed by the cleaning demon regularly, and the only easy exorcism was to polish the apartment to a high-gloss shine, even the rugs.
She had picked up the jug to wipe under it and it clunked. She knew enough about Muscle Milk, beyond its foul taste, to know it did not clunk. Upon opening the jug, she discovered an old jewelry box in a sealed Ziplock bag.
Her curiosity had the bag unzipped, and the box opened, before Ellie understood what she was doing — spoiling her own surprise. Still, her thrill of excitement made up for it.
The ring was beautiful; it had been cleaned and restored; the diamond was mountainous and it sparkled as if it was alive, trying to communicate. She put it back in the bag, the bag back in the jug, and that very evening, Devon had asked her about the trip to Santa Cruz. She had been sure the ring was the purpose of the trip. But, although they had a great time, spending the holiday either in bed or on the beach, Devon had not produced the ring, had not proposed.
Ellie intended to say yes. Her certainty about that had heightened her disappointment. For a few days, after they returned, the shock and excitement of Chuck's news had kept her from dwelling on Devon's failure to propose. But it was creeping into her thoughts now, a little more as days passed but the ring never appeared.
She sighed. The ring was still in the jug. Eventually, Devon would propose. But she did not understand the delay.
She pulled her bookmark from the inside back cover of her book and used it to mark her place. Ellie was reading Jane Austen's Persuasion and the heroine's worry that she was past her prime, that she might never marry, was spooking Ellie a little.
John Casey, the new complex manager, was walking toward the fountain, a large ring of keys dangling from his larger hand. Ellie liked him well enough but he puzzled her. His bearing was military, although she hadn't pried into his past. Despite his oafish manner, and often dull expressions, Ellie was convinced he was smart, alert, and capable. He seemed a little like a Rottweiler that someone tied out to guard a flower garden — overkill. But he was nice to her and, quite strangely, he and Chuck seemed to be slowly becoming friends. John Casey, though, was The Anti-Morgan. How her brother could be friends with both boggled Ellie.
As Casey neared her, each of his steps made his key ring jingle. Ellie smiled to herself at the effect, then sent the smile to Casey along with a wave. To his credit, and her surprise, his eyes did not linger on her long bare legs, her shorts, or her bikini top.
He grinned and waved back and stopped on the other side of the fountain from Ellie, at Mrs. Klonsky's old place. He hunted for a key on the ring.
"Hey, John," Ellie called out, "did someone finally rent that place? I can't believe it's been empty for so long. No one's even looked at it."
Casey did not explain himself, just answered, "Yes. It's been rented. You know the renter, she works with your brother. Tall blond."
"Sarah? Sarah Walker?"
Casey opened the door and then turned around, still standing outside. "Yes, that's her. She came by the other day. You were at work." He went into the apartment.
Ellie tried to understand, to fathom the news. Chuck had mentioned that Sarah's current living arrangement was temporary, that she was looking for a permanent place, but he had not said anything about her looking here.
It wasn't that Ellie objected; in fact, the thought of Sarah nearby was welcome and intriguing. It was welcome because Ellie liked Sarah. She had liked her that first day, and again when she had seen her at Appocalypse, the couple of times Ellie stopped by, deliberately unannounced.
It was intriguing because Ellie was nearly certain that Sarah Walker was interested in Chuck, not business-interested, but romance-interested. Sarah might have resolved that she and Chuck were only to be friends, but Ellie was unsure if Sarah could keep that resolution.
Ellie could not point to anything in particular to support her near-certainty, other than Sarah having asked Chuck out, other than that odd first date that neither of the principals seemed in a hurry to talk about, other than Sarah's perhaps placatory comment about liking Chuck more than he liked her — but there was something about the angle of Sarah's attention to Chuck, her awareness of him — something that made Ellie believe that Sarah had feelings for Chuck, feelings of some sort. Ellie had gotten Morgan to tell her his version of Sarah's meeting with Chuck. Morgan's versions of events were rarely the most trustworthy, but Ellie trusted this one: on Morgan's telling, it seemed like a meeting destined for romance.
Except. Except Chuck seemed oblivious to Sarah's interest and sometimes more than oblivious, even for him. Sometimes he seemed so indifferent to her that his indifference felt quiet hostility. Chuck did not do indifference, much less hostility, and so Ellie kept casting about for an answer, some glimmer of understanding of what was…off…between the two of them.
Sarah seemed closed off — there were times when it seemed to Ellie like Sarah's comments were scripted, and that if the conversation got off-script, Sarah just shut down, tried to drift away from or out of the conversation.
Chuck seemed more care-worn than Ellie had ever known him to be. More, even, than when he first was kicked out of Stanford. But that did not seem to explain how he was with Sarah, not any more than her occasional closed-off-ness did. Besides, Sarah was in a new place, with a new job, surrounded by new people; it made sense that sometimes it might overwhelm her a bit. She seemed introverted by nature.
But Sarah at least wanted to be friends with Chuck. Chuck seemed to treat Sarah antagonistically sometimes and the rest of the time as if she were a hardly more than a stranger.
That made Ellie more curious about Sarah's decision to move into Mrs. Klonsky's old apartment.
As things were, Sarah and Chuck were only together at the office. Now, they'd be close, if not together, all the time. How did either of them really feel about that?
Ellie sipped her lemonade, ruminating. She had two mysteries now to occupy her: Devon's slowness in proposing, and the truth about Chuck and his mysterious assistant.
Ellie turned her head: she heard the sound of a truck backing up, the tell-tale beep, beep, beep. A royal blue moving truck was reversing up to the complex parking lot curb, and a man in royal blue coveralls was gesturing to the driver. Ellie could only see the driver as a dim silhouette in the side-view mirror. The truck stopped; the engine shut off.
Casey came out of the apartment and waved to the coveralled man, who had turned to survey the complex. The driver jumped out of the cab of the truck. He was also royal blue.
Ellie closed her book, put her lemonade down, and stood up. Casey might not ogle her, but she didn't feel like providing a floor show to The Blue Man Group.
She folded up her chair, grabbed her glass, and went inside.
The sign, Appocalypse Enterprises, was on the wall outside the main entrance, lettered on the Directory next to the main elevator, and it was stenciled on the office door.
Inside the office, Sarah put the half-eaten pizza slice down and she sipped her cola through a straw, frowning around it.
She was looking at her computer screen, double-checking a document Chuck had typed. She shifted her focus on her screen so that she was no longer looking at what it displayed but at what it reflected: Chuck. He was behind her, seated at a workstation in the Studio (as they were now calling the larger room), typing.
This had been their workday for most of the past two weeks. Seated, backs to each other.
Each morning a huge, top-secret email document was waiting for them, sent from Graham and Beckman, encrypted. In it, compiled, were the headlines from all the major news services, the last twenty-four hours of intelligence chatter, bits and pieces from files and reports, video surveillance footage, and selected items from social media.
Chuck sat down with his coffee — he always brought two, one for Sarah and one for himself, although he never had coffee with her. He drank it slowly while he decrypted the email and began reading through it. Every now and then, she'd hear a sharp intake of breath or the shift of weight in his chair, and that meant (she now knew) that the Intersect had been triggered.
After each trigger, he would highlight the triggering data, and, beneath it, relate the content of his Intersected vision.
As he finished each section, headlines, chatter, whatever, he sent the section with highlights and comments, to Sarah. She reviewed each of them, checking for intelligibility (sometimes the Intersect visions were so vivid Chuck had a hard time remaining comprehensible), and assigned them initial priority rankings.
She then encrypted them and sent them back to Graham and Beckman for final review, and to use as they, the CIA, the NSA, saw fit.
Appocalypse Enterprises, small office that it was, each day became a vast Amazon Warehouse of intelligence, turning around a huge amount of data each day. The Intersect was making a difference, foiling plans, and advancing US agendas.
The two of them typically paused for lunch, ordering something in or eating Ellie-cooked leftovers, but, as he did when he drank his coffee, Chuck ate alone.
Today, he had finished before her and gotten back to work. He insisted on ordering the pizza the way she liked it but he would not eat it with her.
He rarely talked to her at all, although she caught him looking at her sometimes, but always with a faraway, calculating look in his eyes, a look that spooked her. She was sure that at such moments he was rummaging, mentally, through her file. It made her feel strangely naked, exposed like she had died and was standing before The Judgment Seat, and she always wondered what fresh reason for damning her he was finding. But he never told her, never shared, no verdict, no sentence.
He brought her coffee each day, and sometimes lunch. He was careful to call her 'Agent Walker'. He would make conversation if what they were working on demanded it, but mostly he just worked in silence.
The work cost him, so she made allowances. A massive bottle of Tylenol stood on his workstation, and he usually took a handful twice a day. But he never complained. He reported the pain, and the medication, to Graham and Beckman during video conferences, but he never attempted to elicit sympathy. He only reported because they asked. Once, without thinking, she had offered to rub his shoulders, seeing how stiff and hunched they looked, but his immediate no was so acidic it could have eaten through steel.
Her phone buzzed beside her and she picked it up. Casey had texted her.
Furniture and belongings delivered.
Keys in my apartment.
I've looped you into the complex security.
More tonight.
She sent back a thank you.
She heard Chuck get up and walk to the Studio door. She turned to him, holding up her phone. "My stuff arrived at the apartment. As of tonight, it's home." She felt a tiny upsurge of joy using that word, but Chuck did not seem to notice her small smile.
"Oh, right. Forgot that was today. I should have prepped Ellie, but she'll be glad of it. She likes you." He said the last as if it were a fact that troubled him.
"I like her too."
His nod suggested and pursed lips suggested that he did not believe her. "Well, don't get her too attached to you, please. She's real. She'll really be your friend, and be willing to do anything for you. It's not fair; she's not your mark and she is my sister."
"She's not my mark, Chuck, and neither are you. I regret the cover, the lying, but it is for her sake, and Devon's. But if you don't want me to get to know her, I can steer clear, discourage her," She paused. "I'm not the easiest person to get to know anyway, and she doesn't know quite what to make of me."
Chuck did not immediately react. When he did, he put up his hands. "Just remember who you are. I'm guessing that eventually — maybe sooner than later — you'll get your wish and get transferred out of here. I get that this is not your style."
Sarah made a face. "My style?"
Chuck glanced at her, shrugging. "You know, …private jets and Ralph Lauren tuxedos and expensive cocktails, those silver Halliburton attache cases."
Sarah scoffed and shook her head. "Do not listen to Casey. About me. Ever. He has some fantasy of what it is to be a spy that he thinks I get to live and he doesn't. But I guarantee I've spent as much time as he has in cold cars and drinking colder coffee, going undercover in squalor, not glamor. Grit, no fantasy."
Chuck listened but shook his head. "You don't look like grit or squalor."
She sighed. "The way I look, Chuck, is CIA-created, another weapon." She stopped, realizing that what she was saying was taking her on a path she did not want to travel with him. She changed direction. "Ask Casey about his seduction training. He and I had the same teacher." She stood up to walk to the trash can, to dispose of her lunch when she heard Chuck's hissing intake of breath. "Chuck?"
He was staring at her purse beneath her desk. She tucked it there every morning.
This morning, she had put a furniture sales page from the newspaper in her purse.
On a whim, she had decided to buy a few pieces of furniture for herself, furniture that the Agency had not supplied. All her furniture in DC had been supplied to her. The weekend she spent in Chuck and Ellie's apartment had made her want to try to personalize her apartment a little if she could. The sales page was there to look at later in the afternoon, during the time Chuck normally took a nap.
They had figured out quickly that Chuck could not abide TV or radio or newspapers. Alone, each day's file fatigued him. Random stimulation by news or commercials just made getting through the day's files harder. So, they had no TV and no radio in the office and took no newspaper. And Chuck normally needed a nap once he'd finished the day's files; he would take some Tylenol and stretch out on the couch. But Sarah had not thought the sales page was any particular danger, and she had put it in her purse, under the desk.
But when she turned, she realized the top of the sales page was sticking out of her purse. A cartoon man was holding a cartoon sign: "Ask me about BEDDING!"
"Chuck, what?"
He pointed at the cartoon although his eyes were squeezed shut. "That man, he's not a furniture dealer — well, he is, but he's also an arms dealer. At least, it's very likely. Patterns. Too much to explain. Massive shipment, furniture warehouse; here in LA."
Chuck opened his eyes and reached out with one hand to grab the door frame, steady himself. "We need to talk to Graham and Beckman, tell Casey."
Sarah nodded. She threw away the things in her hands and then walked back around to her desk chair. She picked up her phone.
She sent Casey a text, then she called Graham.
Casey had returned to Sarah's apartment after the movers finished and he set up her access to the handlined network.
He had installed cameras, cutting-edge, disguised by color and shape, at various vantage points around the complex. He could now see almost the entirety of Echo Park and the parking lot on his apartment's computer monitor.
Unbeknownst to Bartowski, Casey had also put bugs in Bartoswki's apartment; he wasn't actively monitoring them. They were there just in case.
He was glad that Sarah was moving into the complex. It would give him more freedom, a few more chances to get away, grab a cigar and a coffee and forget spying for a while. But he was mainly glad because he now knew that she could do the job. The worst part of having the skirt around was her increased access to the kid and his sister. Casey knew that events had played out in his favor, that Chuck trusted him, to the extent he did, more than he trusted Sarah. And Casey had found getting to know the kid, and spending time around him, less annoying than he expected. If they had been in high school together, Casey would have been Bartowski's tormentor. But now, as grown men, those adolescent categories, that adolescent jostling, seemed utterly childish. And he had seen what the kid had done and could do. The work being done at Appocalypse was already making a material difference to US national security — as long as that was true, Casey was all-in. The kid might not be a juggernaut but Casey had been wrong to call him a pussy.
He left Sarah's apartment and glanced toward the fountain where Ellie had been seated, sunning herself. Casey shook his head. He didn't blame her for going inside when the movers arrived. She would have been the main attraction — the kid's sister was a powerfully attractive woman.
Attractive.
Casey had never been able to get that attractive thing down. He knew he wasn't ugly, but he also knew he dressed like a failing used car salesman and that he stank of cigars too often. He was also blunt, and acerbic. Not a combination of traits that had women lining up to spend time with him. Except one. He didn't see her often, but when he did, chemistry for days.
Casey's phone buzzed. He expected nothing more than a Thanks from Walker, but, although it was from her, that was not what she said. She told him to prepare for a video conference.
Bartowski had discovered something, something happening in LA.
Graham dialed Beckman reluctantly.
Having to include her was wearing on Graham. But, for now, he was stuck with her. Graham had the distinct impression that somehow Casey had managed to get closer to Bartowski than Sarah had. Even given what had happened, that surprised Graham. When Sarah turned on the jets, so to speak, he did not think there was a straight man alive who could resist her. Bartowski should have had no chance. And yet. Graham thought he detected a reluctance in Walker, a reluctance to turn on the jets. Why? The sooner she established herself with him and gained control of him, the better.
Bartowski too was proving to be more troublesome than Graham anticipated. He not only seemed able to resist Walker, but he seemed able to withstand the rigors of the Intersect. He was having headaches — and napping (as Sarah had reported to Graham) — but otherwise, Bartowski seemed fine.
Graham did not want Bartowski to be having difficulties, but he wanted the Intersect to seem enough of a burden that Bartowski would want to lean on Graham, the Agency, to help him carry the weight. Graham did not want Bartowski to feel quite so equal to the Intersect as he seemed to feel. Zarnow's visit had been intended to facilitate that, but it didn't seem to do so. Instead, in some odd, unpredictable way, it galvanized Bartowski, stiffened him.
Just my luck: not only does the Intersect end up in a non-spy, but it ends up in a non-spy with moral convictions. What antiquated nonsense!
The Intersect was not designed to contend with moral convictions.
And now there was an arms dealer in LA. A damned furniture mogul. How did we miss that?
It was time to put this team to the test, outside the office, in the real world.
Graham wished the test were of a different kind.
"Seduction, ma'am?" Sarah asked, sinking. "Is that necessary?"
Beckman smiled tightly. "Yes, our target, Mattress Bob, as Agent Bartowski pointed out, seems to have earned his nickname not only from mattress sales but mattress use. He's on the make, evidently succeeding at an improbable rate with the tall, leggy blondes he hires to appear in his commercials, his Kittens, as we're told he calls them." Beckman's contempt for the man and his phrase was audible.
Sarah ground her teeth. Damn it all to hell. Casey, on one section of the three-way split screen, shook his head and grinned.
Beckman went on. "The man has multiple warehouses around the city, serving his five stores. We don't know where he stores the arms (he evidently rotates the warehouse he uses). As you heard when Agent Bartowski briefed us, the next shipment is due to arrive within seventy-two hours. We need you to do what you do so well, Agent Walker."
Sarah could feel Chuck's eyes on her and she suspected he was looking at her in the same tone of voice Beckman used for Mattress Bob.
"So, I'm supposed to go to see him, intent on becoming a Mattress Kitten?" Sarah's sinking feeling sank further. "My God, this is 2022, post-Me-too."
"I know and I'm sorry, Agent Walker, but yes. Men like Bob can hear hashtag Metoo only as a request to be next. He's obviously a son-of-a-bitch. — We need you to get him to slip up, to indicate the warehouse he's using or his timetable or both."
Graham gave Sarah a look and she made sure the frown she was feeling did not make it to her lips. "Yes, ma'am. Will Agent Casey be my backup?"
"Yes, he will be outside, on comms, when you meet Mattress Bob. Bob. I'm not using that word again. Agent Casey will be outside, as will Agent Bartowski."
One of Sarah's hands, the one away from Chuck and Casey, curled into a tight fist. "Why do we need Agent Bartowski?"
"For training, Agent Walker. If he is an Agent, he has to learn to do the job on the job, and there's a lot the Intersect can't teach him and you and Casey can. You aren't in Burbank to only protect the Intersect, you are there to educate him as well, to turn him into one of you."
All that Beckman said knotted Sarah's insides.
She did not want Chuck as an audience for her seduction of Mattress Bob. And, despite what Chuck had done to save General Stanfield, the cool head he displayed in the face of the bomb, she had hoped that Chuck would be a paper agent, working in the Studio, not in the field. She knew how much lying to his sister cost him; he had no idea how much more the spy life might exact from him, how much corruption he might not only observe, but be forced to participate in.
How much have I participated in over the years?
She had not asked herself that question before, but having Chuck near seemed to force her into self-awareness.
She didn't like it, the self-awareness. Especially with Mattress Bob in the offing.
Self-awareness and seduction did not mix, not for her.
"Alright, ma'am. When do we do this?"
"This afternoon. Bob is due to be filming a new commercial at his new LA store, not that far from you. Good luck to all of you. Graham will expect a report later tonight, Agent Walker. We will have an LA team ready to hit the warehouse as soon as it has been identified."
Sarah shook her head. The screen in the Studio went black, Beckman, Graham, and Casey all gone. Sarah turned. Chuck had been looking at her but he looked away as she turned.
"Alright, Chuck, please review everything the Intersect has on…Bob. I want your information at my fingertips when I'm interacting with him."
Chuck smirked. "Interacting. Curious euphemism."
Sarah fought back her immediate anger. "Seduction doesn't mean what you think it means, Chuck."
"Seducement — 'The means employed to seduce; the arts of flattery, falsehood and deception.' That's Webster's. Is that right? Seems to cover it." He didn't wait for an answer. "Of course, I have real-world experience and not only a dictionary definition to rely on. Nothing that happens with Mattress Bob will be a shock to me, Agent Walker."
"It's my job, Chuck, and now it's yours too." The smirk disappeared and a more circumspect expression took its place. The change was enough to appease Sarah's anger, even as it made her feel herself sink further yet.
"Well, let's shut the office down and you can begin my lessons, Mistress." He inflected the last word hard, and Sarah made herself ignore the double or triple meaning of the word, as well as its near-rhyme with 'mattress'.
She'd give Chuck credit — he was clever, even if it was at her expense.
Chuck was relieved to find a note from Ellie on the kitchen table. She'd gone to meet Devon when his shift ended, and they were going to have sushi.
Chuck went into the bathroom, washed his face, and changed into a clean, black t-shirt. He had no idea how to dress for a spy mission, but that seemed like a decent guess — dress like you were heading to a funeral.
When he came out of his apartment, Sarah came out of hers. They had parted company at the fountain earlier, without any parting comment.
Sarah was in a blue-green casual romper — it was the only word Chuck had at his disposal, and he disliked it. The romper tied at the waist, its neckline plunged, and Sarah's legs extended far, far from the shorts that resembled a short skirt. Her shoes, high-heeled with small bows, matched the color of the fabric.
Chuck felt like she had punched him below the belt. He tried to disguise her effect on him by shaking his head. "Bob will be impressed."
She huffed. "That's the point, Chuck."
Casey pulled up in a dark van. He motioned for Chuck to get in with him. Sarah walked to the driver's window and Casey handed her a pair of comms. She walked to her car.
Chuck stood on the sidewalk and watched her go, then realized Casey was watching him watch her. He hurried into the passenger seat.
"You had your chance, Bartowski. Now you can see happen to someone else what happened to you."
"Goody," Chuck said through tight lips. Sarah got in her car and pulled away. Casey followed her in the van, a few cars back.
Mattress Bob ran a small Southern California chain of furniture stores, Bedroom Dreaming. Sarah pulled up to the store and sneered at the sign, the same as the one on the sales page.
A black Cadillac was parked massively in a space marked 'The Boss'. Sarah pulled in beside it, looked at the sign, and frowned.
She looked in the rearview mirror, fluffed her hair, then actually looked at herself. She hated doing this; she realized she always had. But she had found a way to isolate herself as she did it, to isolate what she did so that it did not seem to be incorporated into who she was.
She seduced while absent, not while present. She used her body without inhabiting it.
She saw Casey's van pull in. She put the comms in her ears, making sure her hair covered them, then she got out of the car. She deliberately reversed her frown into a smile, feeling like she had to will each muscle to shift.
The sun was setting, sinking, as Sarah had been sinking seemingly all day.
The front door of the store opened and she saw Mattress Bob holding the door for her, leaning toward her. a leer already locked into place.
She felt Chuck's eyes on her as she carefully placed one heel in front of the other and swayed toward Bob. Her legs felt barer than they ever had, absolutely naked. She was present in her body, present to the seducement, and she hated herself.
As she neared Bob, she realized that the newspaper's cartoonist must have had a simple task. Bob looked more like a cartoon than a man.
"Hey, honey! Look at you. Welcome to Bedroom Dreaming. You're just in time."
Sarah forced herself to smile as if she was delighted to see his leer.
A/N: Some years ago now, a former student of mine returned to campus to visit me. She had been unique as a student, sui generis. As she sat in my office chatting, she happily revealed that she had recently gotten married, brandishing her shiny rings. I asked what her husband did for a living. She replied, matter-of-factly: "He designs sexual furniture." I didn't ask; she didn't explain. We pursued other avenues of conversation. But I do owe this chapter title to her.
More next time as this new arc continues.
