A/N (1) Previously on Chuck versus The Journey: After Chuck and Sarah enjoyed a mostly carefree Friday afternoon at the beach, they will spend their second night in the honeymoon suite.

With the twilight colors falling
And the evening laying shadows
Hidden memories come stealing from my mind,
And I feel my own heart beating out
The simple joy of living
And I wonder how I ever was that kind.
There are nights I don't remember
And pain that it's been forgotten
And a lot of things I choose not to recall.
There are faces that come to me
In my darkest secret memories
Faces that I wish would not come back at all.
"Like A Soldier" (John R. Cash)

Chapter 22: Chuck vs. The Enforcer

(Flashback: CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia, a couple of years ago)

"Good morning, Director!"

"Good Morning, Agent Larkin!"

Larkin sat down after being invited to do so.

"Agent Larkin, your records are excellent-"

"-thank you, Sir-"

"-and you're ready for the next step in your career. I will assign you a permanent partner."

"Sir? Was anything in my solo performance unsatisfactory?"

"On the contrary, Larkin. We aim to set up two-member male-female teams, and I very much would like to see how you perform under such conditions."

Larkin politely coughed.

"Not the blonde girl waiting outside?"

I'd love to show her how I can perform, but not as Graham means it. Yet to work with such an apparent green girlie is out of the question – I am not suicidal.

Langston Graham turned his monitor around, ignoring Larkin's question altogether.

"Do you know what that is?"

The screen showed an icon-type drawing of an ancient shield, in its middle a Greek helmet with the typical helmet crest.

"The Spartans!" Larkin exclaimed, as surprised as nervous. "So it's true!"

"What do you know about them?" Graham asked.

"There are rumors that we have a group of agents whose foremost assignments are to terminate a target no matter what, and that unit was codenamed The Spartans."

"Exactly, Agent Larkin," Graham confirmed. "As the ancient Spartans said, come back with your shield or on it. What you don't know is that we gave up on the idea of the unit. There are only two of our Spartans left. All eleven others died in the line of duty."

Larkin looked uneasy. He was an excellent agent, but he was talking with the most dangerous man in the CIA. Langston Graham decided about life or death with a few words, a few letters typed into his smartphone, the snip of a finger, the nod with his head – not spectacularly or dramatically, but silent, oblique, and out of the gray of the service.

"The best Spartan I ever had-" Bryce sensed there was a reason Graham switched from "We" to "I" but he did not give away that he noticed "-is sitting outside to be teamed with you."

Larkin's eyes widened in disbelief.

"The blonde … agent is a CIA Spartan?" he asked to be sure.

"Yes, Agent Larkin. I am disappointed that you failed to see the signs. I need to look into her eyes only once, and I see that her middle name should be Death."

Yes, director, my fault. I took everything in except her eyes. No time when being rushed through your office by the secretary to take note but the most essential features. 34-24-35, I'd guess.

Graham leaned back and smirked, unamused, before delivering the next punch.

"Ever heard of Sarah Walker?"

This time Larkin turned back to the door and dumbly pointed at it, momentarily speechless, before addressing Graham again.

"I'm sorry, Sir. That… that's Agent Walker? The Enforcer? The Ice Queen? The-"

"You better not call her that when you're working together. She vehemently does not like these names, and I do not recommend getting into a fight with her."

Bryce was close to sputtering like an excited child. "Is it true what they say about Walker? Paris? Moscow? Peru? Pakistan? Werrington Downs? "

Graham could not lean back any further, but he offered Larkin the slightest wry smile. "No, you don't get it. Every rumor you heard is not even half of the truth. She is much better than all the rumors about her."

"And… Miami?"

"You forget about Miami and never mention it again in your life, Larkin. That's an order." Graham's voice was calm but left no options.

"Yes, sir! - But why does someone like her need a partner?"

"She's been a killer for too long now."

She looks much too young to be an agent at all for a prolonged time! Bryce thought.

"The list you mentioned is just the tip of the iceberg, Agent Larkin. Walker needs distraction before she burns out, but I wouldn't waste her on low-profile missions. Every assignment you will receive will be of top priority."

Larkin knew that Graham was not a man of many words and that the director's time was limited. He was just an agent. A very good one, clearly above average, but a career step like that would propel him into the Olympus of the CIA.

"Sir, it will be an honor to serve with Agent Walker."

"One more thing before I call her in, Bryce…" Graham said, and Larkin stiffened. The director addressed very few agents with their first names and never had called him anything else than Larkin. As Graham got up, Bryce stepped forward as if the two men would share a secret.

"You'll be the agent in charge of your team. Don't misunderstand this. Agent Walker should be the one leading the team, but I decided to lift some of the burdens off of her shoulders. She shows signs of exhaustion, and I don't want to add the responsibility for another agent to her duties."

Larkin sensed that Graham, all his lauding words, aside, valued Walker higher than him, and wasn't sure the reason given for his leadership was the truth. The Director looked him coldly into the eyes as he continued.

"If you ever encounter any serious complications with Agent Walker - call her Samantha Lisa, remind her to be a good girl, and that she would regret it otherwise."

"Sir? What does that mean? Is she conditioned? How were the Spartans trained?" Larkin was at a loss.

"That, Agent Larkin," – Bryce noted how Graham changed back to his last name with something that reminded of a devilish grin – "means that Sarah Walker hears her master's voice calling her to obey, and not yours, and that's all you need to know."

•••••••••••••••••••

(Today; back to Chuck and Sarah after their afternoon at the beach)

When finally back from the beach, Chuck offered to let Sarah have the bathroom first, but she insisted that he go. They back-and-forth-ed to yield to each other the bathroom until Sarah asked him if they should settle it in a wrestling match. Aside from his knees, suddenly almost too weak to stand, Chuck relented. He eventually realized that Sarah needed a few minutes for herself when she stepped out onto the terrace and sat down in one of the dark-brown rattan armchairs.

The door had hardly closed when Sarah first heard the shower and then Chuck weirdly singing. His voice was pleasant, but what he sang sounded weird. She put her hands over her mouth and laughed. A year ago, the CIA's top agent had not known what pure mirth meant. Soon she found out that Chuck Bartowski was genuinely funny.

It took me all of my willpower not to fall from the kitchen stool when he gave me the 'famous Bartowski eyebrow dance' in front of Roan Montgomery. How could something so simple almost crack me up?

She pleasantly shivered while remembering the moment they were ordered to make out by Roan. The kiss Chuck had pulled her to himself for was a toe-curling experience. Even the great Montgomery applauded them with Bravo, but he didn't know half of it what Chuck's kiss provoked in Sarah.

She shook herself. I need to get out of this mood as Chuck will be back in a few – and we will again share the bed.

The opening door ended her musings when he came out again, dressed in boxers and a light-blue T-shirt. The curious smile on her face appeared naturally.

"What was that?" She pointed towards the bathroom.

"A Best Of of my Bathroom Mixes, actually a Best Of The Early Years," he grinned mischievously. "I opened-"

"Opened?" she snorted, amused.

"I opened," he began again with a sterner voice, "with an instrumental."

"You sang an instrumental? What … words do you sing to an instrumental?" Her question came bubbling with jauntiness and was met with mock indignation:

"Miss Walker, does that mean you didn't recognize, and did not recognize immediately, the Simpsons soundtrack? It's one of my best early works, a clever arrangement for one. For those not privy to the secret, I may mention that it's a rather challenging piece as an orchestra originally played it. I'm especially proud of the sax break."

"I can use a break too!" The mental image of Chuck impersonating a whole orchestra turned her snicker into laughter.

"There is a play of words I can hardly resist right now," he said wryly, his face making clear that he, of course, would politely resist. Sarah understood that he was connecting her wish for a break with the sax break he mentioned.

"Aren't we pretty blunt tonight?" she answered stiffly. "Do you think I really can be impressed with such a low come-on?"

His face fell, and an insecure expression crept into his eyes. After a few seconds, a giggle told him he had been played, and a relieved smile was Sarah's reward.

"Wanna sit out there any longer? Should we order some cocktails?" Chuck asked.

"No, thanks, I've had enough," Sarah replied warmly. "But you certainly found the proper drink for me today. What was the name of that faked Pina Colada?"

Chuck snickered. "It's called Chi-Chi. It replaces Rum with Vodka."

"That was just the sweet closure of a lovely day, Chuck. I never heard of it before, not that I would be an expert, but I wonder that they had that on their menu."

Chuck looked like he would shout out, I'm glad that you ask!

"They didn't have. I told 'em to mix it for you especially."

Sarah was stunned. "How did you know that I'm a Vodka girl? You didn't flash on my favorite drinks, did you?"

Chuck laughed as he shook his head in denial. He would claim that achievement to himself, as humble as he was, because it was the truth. He cared, therefore he noticed.

"No, we had one or the other drink in the past year, so all I needed was to be attentive. I thought you'd like the pineapple and the coconut being bolstered up with the strong, clean, discreet taste of vodka instead of the sweet power of rum."

She looked at him with evident satisfaction. She should leave for the shower before it got any warmer in the room - or was it in her heart?

A man who knows what I want. I don't even know that myself most of the time. A man who is thoughtful and notes what preferences I have. A man who has such fascinating eyes and untamed curls. A man with such a big heart. Should I buy him a house, take care of the bread and butter of his life, and contract him to read all my wishes from my lips indefinitely?

"I think you'd make a good spy after all. Are there any more fake drinks with vodka?" she asked instead.

Chuck tilted his head to the side. "Hm. Out of the blue, there's a Caipirovska who replaces the Cachaça in the caipirinha with vodka. Plus, of course, there's the vodka martini."

"We'll try the Caipirovska tomorrow if we find the time," Sarah said while getting up. "OK, I'll be back soon."

She left Chuck for the bathroom, with a million thoughts that he had barely begun to sort out in that same comfortable armchair when the door opened again, and she was back much faster than he anticipated.

Chuck didn't know what he had expected. There was no need for flimsy, sexy nightwear tonight. They simply could rest and hope that this night would be uneventful, so they would be ready for the third day of the mission. He felt warmth rush to his face as he watched her. Sarah stood in the doorway to the terrace, the brighter background in the room making her hair-ends glow as if on fire. She dressed comfortably, but it still made him worry about how much more of Sarah his overworking heart could stand after a day on the beach.

Chuck could not claim he was used to the sight of her by now, and he knew he would never be.

She wore baby-blue, tight, very short panties. While there was a narrow hem of lace of an even lighter blue, they were definitely of the sporty type. The tanktop matched the panties, featuring a slightly deeper blue and the same lace. As she stepped into the room, he realized how form-fitting it was and how it hugged her curves. She looked him into the eyes with a mysterious expression. He ruminated that his whole world turned blue - literally. Her nightwear and her eyes combined to a universe of blue shades. He wanted to stare into these eyes as long as the universe would last. And he himself wore that light-blue t-shirt right now, which he selected because he had grown fond of the color blue in all its variations.

He quickly averted his gaze.

"You don't need to look away," she said softly. "I'm not wearing some sexy lingerie. I dressed for a comfortable evening with a friend."

Sarah bit her lip immediately and bowed her head in dismay.

That's not what I meant, Chuck. I didn't try to keep you at a distance by calling you a friend. It just came out the wrong way again. But being my friend is much much more than any other man could claim, just to tell you that. And it would be much better if I speak these words aloud, but there are moments when even I am a coward.

She looked up again and found him as friendly as ever.

"Everything looks sexy on you, Sarah, if you allow me to say that in a strictly friendly manner. "

"Why yes," she responded relieved, confused that there was no hurt in his eyes, and added with a thoughtful look: "Sometimes I think friends are much more honest than lovers anyway."

"Why's that?" he perplexedly wondered about her logic.

Sarah kept herself from biting her lower lip.

Is this where his and my world collide? Where they aren't compatible? Or am I the dysfunctional one? Am I too distrusting in any- and everyone? Isn't it in my spy DNA not to trust?

She decided to have a go at her lower lip again.

Chuck has pretty normal and sane views - and what do I really know about friendship and love? Perhaps… possibly… if I open up a little bit about my view of things, he will help me understand?

"'Cause friends have no ulterior motives if they say something. A lover always may have something else in mind, try to manipulate you."

He furrowed his brow and turned to look at her.

"From one friend to another, your legs look very nice, sticking out of your surely comfortable nightwear. And where did you get the impression that a lover would manipulate you?"

She checked her bare legs and seemed to agree, as she moved into the bed for good, pushed a pillow behind her back, her legs under the duvet and made herself comfortable - and gained some time for an answer or possibly find a way to bypass the question.

"Don't people manipulate each other all the time?" she asked, deflecting the issue away from her own person as she realized he waited patiently for her answer.

"The only thing a true lover, who would be your lover, your friend, your companion-" did he pick up on my "friends" quip? "-would try to achieve is making you happy, Sarah. If you think that treating you lovingly, expressing his love to you in many ways including -" he coughed blushingly "-making love to you, is manipulation, then either you have the wrong lover or your views on love are warped."

"So I'm warped? Some nice friend you are!" she tauntingly laughed.

"No, no, no, I didn't say you're warped, I just said if-"

"Sshhh," she soothed. "After all, it was me who brought that up, so don't panic."

Sarah looked long and pensively at him, obviously in a decision-making process, then scooted away a bit to make room and patted on her edge of the bed. He obediently sat down and nervously wondered what was to come.

"Chuck, I am warped," she emphasized after taking a deep breath. "In the worst way. At least for regular people like you… I did horrible things, and while I am good at forgetting, many memories will stay with me forever."

"I know," he simply said in a decidedly unagitated tone. His face had become serious and concentrated as if he knew what was coming up.

"No, you don't," she curtly denied and took another deep breath before speaking to him in a cold and harsh tone.

"I'm a killer, an executioner, an assassin. And I'm the best."

"How to break it to you gently? But, Sarah, I know a bit more about you than you'd probably expect," he said, and she looked at him like he had grown twice as many curls in the past millisecond. Then something terrifying dawned on her.

"Chuck," she began insistently, "how often have you flashed on me?"

"Elana Truffaut," he simply said, and it sounded not like a single name, but more like the beginning of a list of names.

Sarah was taken aback. They had briefly discussed that episode of her spy life a year ago, but tonight the context was different. Back then, he simply had thrown that name out and what he saw. She had registered his utterings, but her mind had been focused on the Zarnow mystery. "Casey told you if I remember correctly?"

Chuck looked embarrassed.

"Yes, Casey mentioned that name, and I flashed, which led me to connect the dots to the soufflé you made a year ago. The soufflé that was first set on fire and then drowned in the shower - a definitive kill, albeit not a clean one. I should have shown more mercy and done it quicker."

Sarah stared at him disbelievingly. He had kept that torturous memory with him all this time, and now he was joking. She was too disturbed to tell him that this was no subject to joke about. But she knew that people revert to humor to deal with challenging situations. People. Not her. She gritted her teeth when she had been challenged in her life, and drove on even harder. Possibly she could learn from Chuck to be funny.

"You really thought I was going to poison you and everyone else? Chuck, beg your pardon, but that was silly! If... if..." -she had trouble getting that sentence out- "I wanted to kill you, trust me, there would be no collateral damage."

Chuck was not impressed as he saw it from a different perspective and wanted to get his message across.

"You said back then that you asked me to trust you, not to believe you. But Sarah, these things go hand in hand. One doesn't work without the other. That, beg your pardon, was pretty silly of you."

She ignored the last bit, unable to continue that part of their conversation, but wanted him to answer an urgent question.

"Anything else?" She fixed him with her eyes. No streak of emotion should pass her by.

"You killed two men and then shot the surveillance camera."

She was at a loss, and it was apparent.

"Oh my," Chuck sighed. "You did that more often, I know. I've flashed on you, killing two bank clerks in Chechnya, then you shot the security cams. Also, I flashed on you, killing a man and a woman by running over them with a truck in Beijing, and you destroyed the traffic cam."

Sarah gaped at him, breathing hard. "There's so much blood on my hands. I killed so many people-"

"Often in self-defense!" he threw in.

"Often in self-defense," she conceded but continued: "But often enough, simply killing someone by order. Everybody in the agency is afraid of me. They call me the Ice Queen, Graham's Wild Card Enforcer, and other stuff I don't like."

She waited, almost hoped, to see shock written all over his face. Thrown off-track, she realized that his beautiful brown eyes rested on her patiently and lovingly, albeit a bit insecure. How can he look at me that way? Everyone else would at least scan the room for the nearest escape! What is wrong with Chuck Bartowski?

"Most of my solo missions were lonely and in the shadows, doing what they found out by chance I can do best."

It was Chuck's turn to look lost.

"Found out by chance? You were trained, they must have known alright how good a… a… how good you were at what you're doing?"

"I can't tell you, but believe me, while I received the full training, I was not selected as a killer right away."

"That Russian dissident who was reported to have been poisoned by Putin's agents, that was you," he rattled off another incident. "Why would you kill, or try to kill, someone opposing our enemy?" he confusedly interrupted himself.

"Chuck, that's politics. We know Putin. We know how he works. Russia is a huge country. We cannot foresee who will be in power if he's gone and what that will mean for the United States. Imagine we would have some unpredictable, erratic person, as our president. It would have interesting side effects, but we run our country on the premise that we are predictable too, at least to a certain degree. Our friends and enemies can roughly estimate our reaction to almost everything that can happen, and we can do the same about them. It keeps them and us from making idiotic moves."

She paused to let it sink in. That logic always had sounded so natural to her, but explaining it to Chuck made her wonder how crazy it was.

"In the end, we kept the powers in Russia safe and predictable in office while we undermined their credibility in the rest of the world. I can assure you he's giving each of our agencies headaches as he is a clever old fox who more than once made us – the USA – look like fools. And I didn't kill the dissident. He survived, but not by chance or by his doctors' skills – the poison was low-dosed, so he would suffer but live to point his finger at the Kremlin. I also planted the necessary faked evidence."

Chuck shrugged uncomfortably, slowly beginning to feel numb as kind of a psychic self-defense measure.

"But yes, I see what you're thinking – I poisoned an innocent man... If anyone who gets himself involved in games like these can be completely innocent, I don't know," she said, peculiarly detached as her face became longer and her expression bleak.

"I flashed on three other occasions where you killed people," Chuck said without further explaining, seeing the struggle on Sarah's face, which spilled over to him.

"And this is all in that poor head of yours?" she heavily sighed and put a hand on his forehead. There was no use in denying it. She found with a strange relief that she could talk to him. It didn't matter anymore. She wasn't sure if she saw shock on his face – he obviously knew for a long time, but to hear her confirming it without any other emotion than relief to be the surviving part of these encounters still seemed to have an unsettling effect on him.

"The weight of knowledge is too great for one mind to absorb," she whispered sadly. "And that's only the proverbial tip of the iceberg. You would have nightmares if you know all the cases I… closed successfully."

Those brown eyes transmitted so much sympathy that she felt softening from her resolve to explain the utter mental devastation that a life of violence brought.

"I know," he confirmed in the same friendly and unagitated tone as before. It made Sarah fidgety.

"No, you don't. You don't know how many lives I took for whatever reason-"

"…so that ordinary people like me can sleep peacefully." He shrugged. "Well, excluded guys with a computer in their head. But the rest of the country can live in a peaceful world they can never really appreciate. They don't know what you, Casey, and many others, in uniform or not, do to allow us our frivolously innocent way of life and keep our small world intact. That's a sacrifice that can't be valued highly enough, and I feel privileged to know you. I salute every old Grandpa who wears his World War II cap, and I salute you, Sarah Walker."

She leaned over and touched his cheek gently, her eyes shimmering and the corners of her mouth tentatively, hopefully, ever so slightly turning upwards. If someone painted a picture of her that moment, whether in oil, acrylic, watercolor, or tempera, they would title the painting "hope".

Could it be that I underestimated Chuck Bartowski? Or is he too shocked to haul ass?

"That's very sweet of you, and don't give me that look when I say sweet. I know that you don't say these things without meaning them, and I'm honestly touched - me, Sarah Walker, agent, and… still a human being… at least I hope I am."

She could not decipher the look she received first, but then she rushed out just in case: "No, no, I'm not hiding behind my agency persona. As you know, my real name is not Sarah Walker, but I've never used it since I joined the agency and won't use it anymore in my life."

"Why not? What about when you retire?"

Leave it to Chuck to sidetrack out of the blue, but Sarah was glad he gave her the opportunity to drive home one fact about herself. A point he possibly knew but ignored purposely. Even if she stayed with Team Bartowski indefinitely, all the killing, naturally, meant that she could be on the wrong side of a weapon someday.

"Agents get retired with a bullet, or sharp steel, or something similar," she said matter-of-factly before her voice distinctively turned disgusted and upset. "And even if I survive to retirement, I won't use my real name again."

This time Chuck looked deeply shocked. They had been through many dangerous situations but never had anything hit home the cold truth of spy work as hard as her impassioned words. Also, he was taken aback by how much she must dislike her real name – or the things that happened to make her hate it. She sensed at least the first part in his silent but nonetheless strong reaction, so she soothed him.

"Don't worry. I have no plans to die anytime soon. It's... the statistics are against us field agents. I'm a killer. Who knows if I'll face someone tomorrow who, like in the old west, is faster than me? I look at my hands and sometimes feel they should burn to a cinder and fall off from all the things I've done."

Sarah had to ask him. "Why did you never tell me?"

He replied immediately, sure of his answer.

"A, I didn't want you to close up on me totally, and B, I tried to understand you. I had the chance to at least understand your business life. Much of it is hard to swallow. But that's why my speech about your sacrifices is my sincere opinion."

She eventually let go of his head, and in doing so, the outside of her hand gently stroked his cheek. "You poor guy. This shouldn't have happened to you."

He wasn't finished, and he was undeterred like only Chuck could be.

"I admire you even more, as brutal as these flashes were. Not only for your badassery but also for how you stayed a wonderful human being and didn't turn into a monster."

Her vocal cords almost failed to serve her. "You've seen all that and don't think I'm a monster? Doesn't it make you uncomfortable to be alone with me? You don't freak out being with me in the same room?"

He casually gestured at her in the bed and him at the edge of it. If it took him any effort, she didn't see it. "Well, we're here in the same bed – no innuendo – and you just touched my cheek in commiseration as only a true friend would do. What should I be afraid of?"

"Hm. I could be a Praying Mantis after all," Sarah objected, knowing that things usually aren't what they seem to be.

Chuck willed himself to lift up her mood and performed the infamous Bartowski eyebrow dance on her. "And eat me alive? … Oookay! But first, you would need to have sex with me."

"Ah," Sarah nodded, reddening. "So that wasn't such a good comparison, right."

"Yeah, but I'm sure it would be worth it," he dared to quip. Getting afraid of his courage, he quickly proceeded, not giving her a chance to cut in as he didn't know what to make out of the sly smile that began to appear on her face. "Still, I know where you're getting at, and I trust you."

He took her hand.

"I really don't need to know everything. But can you get it that I want to understand you? That I don't ask out of plain curiosity, but because I want to be the best friend I can be?"

She didn't say anything but instead looked like a deer in the headlights. She was the CIA's best for a reason, and she sensed out of pure instinct what question was coming up.

God, will he still be my friend if I tell him? What about my hopes for the future? Will I crash those myself when I tell him?

"Sarah, don't tell me about any other missions I didn't flash on. I've seen enough blood and death. I think you're the personified killing machine."

He stopped and waited for Sarah's reaction.

By the holy halls of the CIA, this can't be real. He's still not fleeing. But he will soon. I am going to drive him away myself, and there is no escape.

"Chuck, you still got a question, I can see it, I can feel it, smell it!" she croaked.

He was perplexed. "You can smell it?"

"I can't explain it… if I look at you, all of you, I see more than your face, I…" Sarah trailed off, failing to explain her spy instincts.

Chuck giggled. "You are flehming."

Sarah looked at him, lost again. "I don't know that word."

"It's when cats take in their surroundings. It's so much more than smells and sounds and images. It's a sixth sense. You are Sarah Cat Walker."

She was torn apart between smiling and the knowledge that Chuck Bartowski did not forget a question that was on his tongue.

"Well, I mean, I just think.." he commenced. "I keep wondering… no one is born as a killer."

She had been right. Like only he could, he single-mindedly found the sore spot - bringing them directly to the worst of all of her mission memories. How would she deal with that?

"Let me say first that I flashed on some CIA memos as well, so…"

"What, Chuck? What? Spill it!" she requested to get over it.

"Something happened in Miami. I'm absolutely clueless what, but it gave you a nickname… The Enforcer."

"There's only one living person who knows what happened in Miami, and that's me," she replied, shocked that he even knew as little as he did.

If you hear my story, you'll spend an hour in the bathroom, worshipping the porcelain god. And then you dash off to your Deep Space Forty-Two station as fast as you can. No, 42 was a magical number in another story. Was it Deep Space Sixty-Nine? Ooops, no, can't be, they wouldn't have this on TV.

Sarah banned Chuck's nerdy influences from her mind and decided she was not ready to lose him. She was going to protect him from the brutal truth and not tell him. She admitted that she also was too timid to find out how he would take her story. In the worst case, all they had - or never had, but only held the hope for - would be lost when she told him.

"It was incredibly good talking to you, Chuck, but I can't tell you that. I don't pull a cheap need-to-know excuse on you. It's about me. I can't talk about it. ... Yet."

"It's OK," Chuck replied as if taking an oath. "I won't insist and won't bring it up again. But if it is such a weight on your mind that you think you can't talk about it… let me remind you that your… personal baggage handler is standing at attention whenever you need him."

Sarah smiled shyly. It was all a bit too much. The conversation had taken an emotional toll on her, yet she felt some of the weight on her shoulders lifted.

Chuck does not know all of it, but he knows enough to assess me. He understands what I did in the past years. And, a real miracle of the nerd, he is still here.

Sarah felt that she was done for the night. She wasn't ready to confess anything more.

"Chuck, it was a long day. Who knows how many hours we have to observe the rich and the beautiful tomorrow. I'm a little tired."

He nodded good-naturedly and got up. He walked to his side of the bed, looking like a lost puppy suddenly. And way too cute to have him standing there any longer.

He definitely will offer to sleep on the couch in a moment.

"Since there's nothing to pretend on the cover-front tonight, I'm gonna take the couch," he muttered as he grabbed a pillow.

"Will you cuddle up again tonight?" she burst out, afraid he might be gone, so far away on the couch, if she didn't stop him. Your warmth would be wasted a million miles away, your arms would be empty and devoid of my body, my feet would be cold, and my heart would be lonely.

His beaming face was answer enough.

"I mean, only cuddling, Chuck." Sarah knew that sounded like she expected him to take advantage of the situation, so she was driven to add a positive message to it. "I felt wonderfully warm and fuzzy last night."

"Well, you found 'im." He poked a finger at his chest, dropping the pillow.

"Whom did I find?" she laughed before he even delivered the punch line. He was so funny. Only Chuck Bartowski could take her mind off of her horrible past with fewer words than she had fingers on a hand. What did the trick for her every time was his timing, his delivery, and his natural charm. He didn't need to come up with a knee-slapper. He was genuinely entertaining if he wanted to. "Whom?"

"Let me introduce you," he announced as he slipped under the duvet, pointing at himself with a playful, boyish swagger, "to the myth-enshrouded Californian Cuddle Bear."

Yep, she thought, as I expected. So damned charming and cute! If he knew what his cuteness is doing to me, he would not dislike the term.

Sarah could not ponder that thought as he swiftly pulled her next to him with amazing yet gentle force. She mockingly huffed for good measure as he shifted and wiggled and squirmed until her back perfectly fit against his chest. She mused when they became so naturally comfortable with each other. He reached for the light switch, and it went dark, but in her heart, a small flame was glowing and getting stronger.

"Goodnight, Sarah!"

She squeaked as he gave her a wet kiss on the nape that was so overdone that she instantly knew he wasn't trying anything. He was as glad as she was to merely nestle.

Her sigh was content and free. Scratch one of the list. One of her biggest fears had not materialized - Chuck Bartowski understood about the wet work she had done much more than she would have told him in a first conversation and wasn't scared of her. Or at least he bravely pretended so. Whichever way, he was still here.

"Goodnight, cuddle bear."

And then her phone rang.

"Not now," her vexed voice objected as the phone rang again, and the display blinked annoyingly. It emitted that harsh light that clearly said that an obnoxious jerk was calling. After all, it was a smart phone.

"I have to get this. It's probably important. It better be!" Sarah sighed grumpily, leaving his embrace. "You exactly stay as you are! I'll be back in your arms in a jiffy!" she ordered and then froze momentarily. My God, what impression did that give!

She grabbed the phone, checking the caller id.

"It's Bryce!" she exclaimed, accepting the call.

•••••••••••••••••••

A/N (2) Werrington Downs: Don't feel guilty if you don't know the background on this, because this one is for the freaks: Werrington Downs is the Sydney suburb where Ms. Strahovski was born.

A/N (3) The weight of knowledge is too great for one mind to absorb: John Steinbeck, East of Eden.

A/N (4) The weight of reviews is not too great for one mind to absorb: Johnny Ray Chandlett, Chuck vs The Journey. In other words: I am glad to hear your thoughts about this chapter, so feel free to leave a review.