A/N: Appears that once a month may be the best I'm going to manage. Thanks to all who continue to follow along. Feel free to leave reviews.
Thanks to Zettel and Grayroc (I've met both of them now, in the flesh. A very stimulating, most enjoyable time was had by all.) for their encouragement and thoughts. And, of course, the continued support of my beta, Michaelfmx.
Any errors you see are the responsibility of the writer.
A little more backstory for Sarah. Some canonish moments.
Don't own Chuck et al.
—
SECOND CHANCES
Chapter Seven: Giving
Sarah sits in the driver's seat of her Explorer, leaning her forehead on the steering wheel, her eyes closed.
What have I let myself in for?
She remembers the time she'd traversed five miles of rotting jungle with a twenty-pound pack on her back. How, on another occasion, she'd swum two miles through shark populated waters to a remote private island. And the time she'd scaled a sheer rock face during a winter snow storm. She's done all those things, and many more, in order to carry out the often profoundly distasteful tasks Graham had assigned her, but never has she felt quite so drained as she does right now.
And all I've done is talk.
Thinking back, she's quite certain she's gone entire weeks, months, without using as many words as she has in the past twenty-four hours.
But she knows that's words are not the sole reason for her current state of mind.
I'd forgotten people could...feel..so strongly. So vehemently. About anything. Or anyone.
And that I could feel the same.
…
Preoccupied with her rehabilitation, it wasn't until her return to Langley that Sarah had realized that her career had flatlined. Banished and embittered, her own taciturn, introverted nature had taken care of the rest, pretty much guaranteeing that her private life would follow suit.
She had continued to take care of herself, more out of habit than anything else. So, on those times that necessity required her to leave her cubbyhole of an office and travel the sparsely-populated lengths of pipe-lined corridors, she'd been noticed by the few men who had occasion to be in her area.
She'd felt, and ignored their frank, appraising stares, but had also sensed their puzzlement as they wondered who she was, and why someone who looked like her was so isolated from the main-stream.
One day, as she'd been leaving work behind, she'd overheard two men talking about a seldom seen, almost mythical, mysterious beauty inhabiting the corridors of Langley's sub-basements, had known they were speaking of her.
It was about then that the trickle turned into a small torrent of male agents who manufactured some reason or other to be in or around her office.
The less savvy ones had approached her and asked her out, unaware, at least initially, that they were potentially attaching themselves to someone whose star was definitely not in the ascendant. Others, whose idea of attachment was of a far more temporary and much more carnal nature, had also vied for her attention.
Neither group had ever had the slightest chance of succeeding. The very last thing she'd wanted in her life was a pale imitation of Bryce Larkin (assuming it was even possible to be a pale imitation of a man who had been nothing but a pale imitation himself) so had turned them all down.
Tersely. Firmly.
The result was that, as word got out, both of her diminished stature and her repeated, increasingly cold and blunt rebuffs, they stopped coming, stopped asking.
(She'd also suspected that, as details of her life in the CIA leaked out, there may have also been a measure of physical fear of what she might do if they pushed too much.)
Carina had been somewhere on a deep, long-term undercover mission. So even their sporadic communication had come to a halt. Completely isolated once more, her life thereafter had settled into a dull, aimless pattern.
Sleep. Eat. Work. Eat. Read. TV. Sleep.
Repeat.
Gradually, almost without her realizing it, nothing meant much anymore. No highs. No lows. Flat, stretching off to a featureless horizon that never varied as the weeks and months slipped by.
Eventually, she'd surrendered herself to that existence. Convinced herself that she was at peace with it.
And so she'd slipped into the quiet. The darkness.
Waiting for the day the CIA would be done with her.
The life of Agent Sarah Walker.
…
Some life.
I gave up. Let myself die. Presided over my own funeral. Bore myself to my own grave.
Peace and quiet?
That's a sick joke.
Only quiet because I said nothing, thought nothing, did nothing.
And peace?
Resignation, yes. Capitulation, yes.
But never any peace. Not really. I know that now.
The truce she'd made with herself was nothing but a self-deceptive fallacy, shattered by the single day she's spent in Burbank.
Never again, Sarah. Never again.
She raises her head from the steering wheel feeling an odd mixture of anger and gratitude.
Angry at herself for that spiritless acceptance of her mind-numbing, so-called life back in D.C. And for the years she threw away.
Grateful that Alexandra Forrest had mucked up this assignment so badly. Otherwise, she would never have been sent out here. Might've never gotten the boot up her ass she so desperately needed.
The chance to start caring, to start living once again.
Casey. Forrest. Ellie. Each, in their own way, part of the butt-kicking brigade.
But especially Chuck. In just a few short hours he'd given her something to live for. Something worth fighting for.
A good man. A brave man. A worthy man.
She looks at her watch. With whom I have I date within the next few hours.
Just as a friend, of course.
A little voice nags at her, telling her she's fooling herself, but she pushes it away.
Refocuses.
I've got a lot to do before then.
Determinedly, she sits back, buckles herself in and takes out her phone. She'd automatically memorized the number on the For Rent sign, so calls it now. After making an appointment with the property management company, she starts the car. After punching in the address she'd been given, she eases the vehicle out of the parking spot.
As she drives, she muses over the encounter with Chuck's sister.
Casey's earlier apprehensions are certainly more understandable now.
How had he put it?
Royally pissed.
Succinct. Very Casey-like, she suspects.
And very, very accurate.
The woman had been willing, no, eager to take on all comers. Anyone who had been a threat to her brother's well-being (Forrest, Casey) or who might be a threat (Sarah) was fair game. Targets for her fierce protectiveness.
It was just as well that Forrest hadn't shown up this morning. If she had, Sarah's almost certain the two women would've come to blows. Honestly, she's not completely certain that Forrest, even with her training, would've won that contest. And if they'd told Chuck's sister that the woman had tried to eliminate him, Sarah's fairly certain the room would've witnessed, at the very least, an attempted murder.
But Sarah could hardly fault Ellie for that.
How can I when I feel the same way?
…
The older, grey-haired man takes one last careful look at the contract on the desk before him.
"Thank you, Ms. Walker. That should do it." He hands her two sets of keys. "You're sure you don't need to check out the apartment before taking possession?"
"No, I'm fine. The photos looked good. And I've had the chance to see a couple of the other units. If this one is up to those standards, I'm certain I'll like it."
He nods, smiles kindly. "I assure you it is. Our cleaners have just finished today. Minor repairs and painting will take a couple more days. You have a place to stay until then?"
The thought of remaining in that awful green room, even for a few days more, mildly repels her, but she nods. "Yes. I do."
"Good. Then there's just the matter of the damage deposit and the first month's rent."
"Of course." She opens her wallet and starts to reach for the credit card supplied to her by the CIA, but stops. Instead, she takes her own personal card and hands it to the man.
My place. Not theirs.
"Thank you." He stands and takes the card to the desk of his assistant who processes it quickly and then hands it back to him.
Walking back, he gives the card and a receipt to Sarah, then holds out his hand. "Welcome to Los Angeles, Ms. Walker."
She shakes it, briefly. "Thank you, Mr. O'Connell ."
Sarah starts to turn toward the door, but stops herself.
"Just one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I would like it painted in bright, pastel colors. Nothing dark."
"Any specific preferences?"
Sarah suddenly realizes she has no idea of how to decorate a place. Aside from her pitiful efforts as a child, she's never had to think of it before
She shakes her head."No. Nothing too garish, of course."
He nods. "Of course."
"But no green. Definitely, no green."
He looks curious, but simply nods once more. "We'll take care of it, Ms. Walker."
"Thank you."
…
The office is on the second floor of a large mall, so, as she heads back to her car, she passes by a number of women's clothing stores.
I'm gonna need some more clothes. Can't wait until they get around to shipping my stuff out here.
She stops before one window. Notices a mannequin displaying a blue blouse with little buttons.
I think Chuck would like that.
She shakes her head.
Get ahold of yourself, girl. Since when do you buy clothes based on the idea of someone else's approval?
I like it because it'll set off my eyes, nothing more.
She purchases it. With her own credit card.
…
A good portion of the afternoon is spent at the local CIA office arranging for the conversion of the former Orange Orange into her new cover business. At first, the woman in the Logistical Support Section balks at her request, so Sarah asks her to contact Langley directly. While Sarah's not exactly been given carte blanche for this assignment, it seems that the powers that be are willing to expedite matters in order to make sure she doesn't have any thought of a return to D.C. The approval is given quickly. She's told they'll need a week.
Sarah politely thanks the woman and returns to her vehicle. She then calls Casey to keep him up to date with developments.
Things having gone better than expected, Sarah suddenly finds herself at loose ends. Seeing a large furniture store coming up on her right, she pulls into the parking lot.
I'm going to need some.
She wanders through the display area. At first, an eager salesman focused on his potential commission (and likely on her as well), follows her closely. Until she turns to glare, pure ice, at him. He then retreats quickly, mumbling about some other place he needs to be.
Good to know that still works.
But after looking over the almost dizzying multitude of styles, Sarah finds herself no further ahead.
I have no idea what I want. What suits me.
She thinks back to Ellie's place, how she liked it at first glance.
I'll have to ask her for advice. Could be a good icebreaker.
She walks out, leaving the disappointed looking salesman behind.
…
It seems her first thought about the blue blouse was correct, for when Chuck opens the door at her knock, he can't seem to find any words. Instead, he just stands there immobile, staring, not impolitely, for a handful of seconds.
Finally finding his voice, he smiles widely and says, "Wow! Sarah, you look incredible. That blouse looks amazing on you. It really brings out your eyes." He stops, flushes, seemingly embarrassed by his transparent admiration.
She smiles back. "Thank you, Chuck. I'm happy you like it."
Truth is, she's very glad he likes the way she looks.
She'd been more excited during her preparation for this evening than she recalled having ever been with Bryce.
In the end, she'd opted for only the barest touch of makeup. She had worried a bit about her hair, trying a few different styles, but in the end had chosen to leave it down, softly curled, as it was last night. Her new jeans, while not being ridiculously tight, set off her long legs to advantage. The night being reasonably warm, she'd left her jacket in the car, allowing him to appreciate the full effect of the blouse.
Looking him up and down, she notes the dark jeans, the black shirt and, of course, his chucks.
"You look good, too."
He flushes at her praise. "You can thank Ellie. She was…excited…to help me pick out what to wear after I told her I was taking you out to dinner."
There's that honesty again. How many men would admit their sister helped them to decide what to wear?
He glances down at his feet. Grins. "Except for the shoes. Had to fight her on that one."
She grins toothily back. Reaches up and brushes a tiny piece of lint off his shoulder. "Well, she may have helped you pick the clothes, but you're the one making them look good, Chuck. And I like the shoes."
He flushes even more. "Thank you, Sarah." He glances over his shoulder, stage whispers, "We should get going. I get the feeling she's listening in on us exchanging compliments."
From somewhere back in the apartment, they hear Ellie's voice. "I heard that, Chuck."
Closing the door behind him, he offers Sarah his arm. Taking it, the two of them walk, laughing, to her vehicle.
…
The restaurant, with its somewhat cheesy Mexican decor and traditional Mariachi group, hovers dangerously close to being a monument to kitsch, but Sarah doesn't mind. In fact, she's enjoying herself more than any time in recent memory. Or even non-recent memory.
Certainly, the food passing by them looks and smells good, whetting her appetite. And the Margaritas (as Chuck had said) are excellent. But, while both are factors, the main reason for her enjoyment is the man sitting across the table from her.
The tired Chuck. The angry Chuck. The resigned Chuck. All those Chucks, the Chucks of last night have vanished, almost as if they never were. This Chuck sitting across from her is a man seemingly reborn, given a new lease on life.
Energetic. Funny. Relaxed. Even though the afternoon's interrogation session must have been, in many ways, quite trying, none of it shows in his words or in those lovely brown eyes.
He's happy. Truly happy for probably the first time since the cursed Intersect was brutally inserted into his mind and his life.
And I'm happy. Why?
It takes no more than a moment's thought.
I'm happy because he's happy.
For almost as long as she can remember, Sarah has been taught to be the custodian of her own emotions, repeatedly warned that genuinely responding to the feelings of others may not only lead to failure (bad enough in itself), but that doing so could also place her in serious danger.
Looking back, she's certain that embracing that idea, on both their parts, had been a major reason why there never had been anything of real consequence between her and Bryce. How could there be, without any real effort to empathize with what the other was experiencing, good or bad?
But no longer. It appears the dam she'd patiently built to contain her feelings, one weakened by the last couple of miserable years, has finally collapsed.
There's more happiness in giving than receiving. Sarah had heard that before, but hadn't really understood it until meeting Chuck.
Her father's unofficial motto had always been more of a take what you can get kind of thing. Then try and take some more. Giving of himself, even to her, had never been high on his list of priorities. And, even when he did, it'd all seemed somewhat perfunctory, a duty to be carried out, with no real meaning behind it.
It was scarcely any different with Bryce. Each took what they wanted from the relationship while giving very little of themselves back. Constant withdrawals, but very few deposits.
But not with Chuck. Even though she honestly feels her part in what happened today wasn't all that critical, it made her feel good that she was able to give what she could. To play her part in freeing him from a life rife with deception.
To let him be who he really is.
This engaging, charming man with whom she's privileged to be sharing a table.
…
She takes a sip of her drink. "Chuck, I'm curious. Why did you call Devon, 'Awesome'? Aside from his tendency to use that word, I mean."
"Did I? When?"
"This morning. When you asked him and Morgan to be patient."
He's embarrassed. "You're right. I did. I'm glad Ellie didn't seem to notice. She hates it when I call him that. Even more when I call him Captain Awesome."
Sarah laughs outright. "Captain Awesome?"
He chuckles in turn. "Yup. Like a superhero. He's got this physique like some Greek god, which, by the way, comes not only from working out, a lot, but also from these truly nauseating health-food drinks he whips up." He grins conspiratorially at her. "Sooner or later, the more you hang around our place, he's going to offer you one. When he does, I strongly suggest you tell him you have an acute algae allergy."
She grins. "Come on, Chuck. They can't be that bad."
He shudders, dramatically. She laughs again.
"Trust me. If he offers you any sort of green liquid, run! Run like your life depends on it. Which it does."
She shakes her head, smiling. "Is that it, just the physique thing?"
"No, no. There's more. Much more. The man is absolutely fearless. He could be the poster boy for extreme sports. Skydiving, river rafting, rock climbing. You name it, he's done it. Perfectly.
"But the most courageous thing he's ever done is take on my sister. You've seen what she can be like. She's family, so I didn't have any choice, but he voluntarily entered into a relationship with her. The man had to be nuts."
Sarah has no trouble seeing, despite the words, his deep, abiding love for Ellie and his brother-in-law.
She reaches over, places her hand gently on his. "He sounds like a great guy."
Chuck's suddenly serious. "That he is, Sarah. He really loves Ellie. Would never stray." He pauses. "I'm sure he'd be willing to die for her if that's what it took to keep her safe."
I wonder what it would be like to have someone feel that way about me?
His quiet words interrupt her thoughts.
"He's the bravest man I know. Well, him and Casey." She can hear the note of envy in his voice.
No, Chuck. You're wrong there.
She looks him in the eye. "You know, Chuck, you're pretty brave yourself."
He waves it off with a self-deprecating smile. "You only think that because you haven't heard my girlish screams in the face of danger."
She shakes her head. "No, Chuck. None of that. I know better. Remember, I've spoken with Casey."
He glances down at the table. "I really wasn't that brave, Sarah."
Sarah's unused to genuine modesty. Bryce had tried out the, "aw, shucks, ma'am" routine a couple of times when they'd first been assigned as partners. She hadn't bought it, knowing full well his reputation as an agent who'd always made sure that everyone knew, at least in the general sense, of his accomplishments.
But not Chuck Bartowski; the spokesman for hiding one's light under a basket.
"So, disarming the bomb at the hotel wasn't brave?
"Sarah, I had to do it. If I'd done nothing a lot of innocent people would've died."
"So, you're trying to tell me that running towards a bomb because you had to do it somehow makes what you did not an act of courage?"
He gapes at her, appears to be stumped. "No. Yes. I…I'm not sure."
"And you're also saying it wasn't courageous when you left the car all those times to help out Casey? And Forrest, a woman whom you don't even like?"
"She's still a person, Sarah. She didn't deserve to get hurt. Or worse."
Slightly shamed by her strong antipathy towards the woman, she agrees. "You're right, Chuck."
Sarah squeezes his hand. "Chuck, I could go on and on, but I won't. Instead, I'm going to ask you to think about what I'm about to say. Objectively, if you can."
"I'll try."
"Good. Chuck, if you'd heard about a man who'd done all the things you've done for others, all the lives you've helped save, who'd put himself in harm's way again and again to help good people, what would you think of such person?"
"Sarah, I know where you going with this, but it's not the same thing."
"Give me one good reason why it isn't, Chuck."
He looks away, doesn't answer.
"I'm waiting, Chuck."
He snaps back, shame in his eyes. "Because I was scared crapless pretty much the whole time I was doing all that stuff. I know it may have sounded like I was joking, but I really meant the thing about the girlish screams."
She replies flatly, "Is that it?"
"What do you mean, 'Is that it?'"
"Just like it sounds. If that's all you got, I'll have to say it isn't nearly enough to convince me that Chuck Bartowski has ever been a coward."
"Sarah, I hope this isn't the point where you give me the whole cliched, 'Son, I'm always scared before I go into battle. It's nothing to be ashamed of,' speech."
"No, Chuck, I won't. I can honestly say that I've rarely ever been afraid while on a mission. Cautious, yes, but rarely afraid."
"And this is supposed to make me feel better, how?"
"It should. Remember, I've spent years training and preparing for situations like you've faced. I considered all the ways things could go wrong and practiced over and over how to respond when they do. You, on the other, had no training of any sort. You were thrown in the deep end with no warning or preparation.
"The point is, afraid or not, you still got the job done. That's what counts, not how you felt while you did so. You did what was asked of you, and well beyond. Without faltering."
She gives him a little grin to ease the seriousness of their conversation. "So you see, in the end, your girlish screams meant nothing."
He's wavering, but not quite convinced.
"Chuck, you said Devon would be willing to die for Ellie, right?"
He nods. "I'm sure of it."
"Then here's the question. Would you?"
There's no hesitation. "Yes. In a heartbeat."
Sarah hears the passion in her voice, but doesn't try to tone it down. "Don't you see, Chuck? That's real courage. Real love. The willingness to give up your life for someone else. It's not how many times you jump out of an airplane, or scale a rock-face. Or take down some bad guy."
He looks at, wonderingly. "You really believe that, don't you?"
"Damn right I do. And so should you."
He sits up straighter. "I'll try, Sarah."
"Promise?"
Nodding, he replies, "Promise."
He squeezes her hand, earnestly says, "Thank you, Sarah. I've never had it laid out quite that way before."
"Hey, that's what friends do for each other, right?"
Hearing his own words echoed back to him, he grins and says, "Yes, Sarah. It is."
At that moment their food arrives. And as they eat and drink, they tacitly agree to move on to lighter topics of conversation.
He starts to tell her about Morgan.
...
Her fork halfway to her mouth, Sarah stops, gapes at him. "Tell me you're not serious, Chuck!"
"Nope. Deadly serious.
"Morgan actually took Ellie's pillow to the junior prom?"
"Yep. He was, to put it mildly, fixated on my sister."
"How? Did she somehow encourage him?"
"No, not unless repeatedly telling him how much she loathed him worked as some sort of reverse psychology."
Sarah stops, trying to imagine a young Morgan Grimes (Beardless? She'll have to ask) pursuing an older and much taller Ellie Bartowski.
She puts her fork down, shakes her head. "What did he do with the pillow?"
He smirks. "He had a photo of Ellie silkscreened onto a pillowcase which he used to place over hers."
"No!"
"Yes. Then he'd propped it up on the chair beside, with his arm around it. Later he danced a couple of slow dances with it held tightly against him. Of course, I only learned of these disturbing details after my late arrival."
She puts her hand over mouth, her eyes wide. "Oh, my god. I can only imagine with the other kids thought of him."
He chuckles. "I didn't have to imagine. Everyone knew he was my friend so told me what they thought of him, quite candidly. Usually, I defended him, but this time he was on his own. When I found out what he'd done, I put a stop to it, made him take her pillow back, right then and there." He pauses, thinking. "I believe she burned it."
"Did he embarrass you a lot?"
"Yeah, he did. But I love the guy. Besides, having Morgan Grimes as a friend had no negative impact on my status in school." He pauses, gives her a serious look. "You should be aware that I wasn't always the suave lady-killer you see before you today. In fact, as hard as it may be for you to believe, I was considered to be a bit of a nerd, definitely not part of the cool crowd. An outsider."
He grins in response to her amused snort, but Sarah's almost certain there's a touch of ruefulness in his eyes.
"But what about you, Sarah Walker? I'd imagine your prom experience was much more pleasant. I'd guess you needed a pretty big stick."
"Stick?"
"You know, to beat off all the boys wanting to dance with you. Or just be around you."
Sarah doesn't answer right away, instead takes a sip from her second (and last) Margarita in order to give herself a few seconds to think.
She's tempted to laugh it off, give him some sort of vague answer and move on.
No. I won't do that. Not any more.
"Chuck, I never attended my prom."
He's surprised. "Why?"
"Mainly because no one asked me."
"Excuse me. I'm not sure I heard you correctly. Did you say no one asked you?"
"Yes."
He shakes his head, clearly confused. "Were all the boys in your school total idiots? Or blind? It must have been one of the two, otherwise, it makes no sense."
She's increasingly embarrassed by his well-meaning inquires. However, she knows he means well, so patiently replies.
"Chuck, I went through an awkward phase in high school. Braces, bad hair, you name it. You would never have even noticed me."
It seems he finally realizes he's been putting her on the spot.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. It's clear that Ellie's not the only member of my family who sticks their nose in where it doesn't belong."
"It's OK, Chuck. Just one of those times in my life I don't like to talk about too much."
"I'm with you there. Got more than enough of those myself."
He pauses. "I think you're wrong about one thing, though."
"What's that?"
"I hope this doesn't sound as if I'm giving myself too much credit, but believe I would have noticed you."
"Why, Chuck?"
He captures her eyes with his. "Because there's a quality, a...beauty...in you that I don't think all the bad hair and braces in the world could ever truly conceal. A beauty that time," he pauses, "and...events...have been unable to erase. I believe I would've seen that, would've offered to be your friend. And been proud to have you as mine. As I am right now, right here."
His soft-spoken, gentle words are the kindest, most perceptive ones that anyone has ever said to her. She swallows heavily, feels the immediate sting of tears.
Sarah slides over, lurches to her feet, manages to choke out, "Excuse me. I have to use the washroom. I'll be right back."
She manages to blink back the tears during the short walk to the back of the restaurant. Fortunately, there's a box of tissues beside the sink. Equally as fortunate, there's no one else in the washroom to see her cry.
She grabs a few tissues to take up the freely flowing tears. After a couple more minutes she looks in the mirror, tries to dab away the damage done. She looks long and hard at her image, trying to find in the reflection what he saw in her, but is unable to do so.
What is he seeing?
She's been told she's beautiful more times then she can remember. By men eager to spend time with her. By men who'd believed, mistakenly, those words would be the tipping point, the final nudge needed to get her into their bed.
Intellectually, she could look in the mirror and see what they saw. What the CIA had created. A physical beauty far above the norm. But, as the mission count had mounted (and the body count along with it), she'd looked in her mental mirror and seen something else.
A whitewashed grave, full of dead men's bones.
She first heard the verse courtesy of one of her father's cons. A con that had bilked a lonely Sunday school teacher out her modest inheritance. Her father had made Sarah attend the woman's classes for a few weeks in order to draw her in, telling her that his daughter needed some spiritual guidance, what with losing her mother and all.
She'd thought she'd forgotten those words, buried them along with another one of her multitudinous identities. But years later they'd come back to haunt her.
Sarah Walker had become nothing but a dazzling, eye-catching shell. One that had, lurking just below its surface, a surfeit of skeletons.
She firmly believed that any man who could not see that was either guilty of willful self-deception or had all the perceptive powers of a cantaloupe. (She had been in the produce aisle when one of the latter had tried to hit on her.)
Neither group was worthy of her attention, or even her contempt.
But Chuck is nothing like them. Yes, he knows, in general terms, at least, who she is, what's she's done. Yet, he still finds her beautiful. All of her. Inside and out.
And the most amazing thing is that when he says those words, she feels beautiful. Inside and out. No one had ever managed to generate that type of response within her. Until now.
She shakes her head, perplexed, but deeply touched at the same time.
How? How can he say that? Believe it? What does he see in me?
Then it happens. She catches her wondering, unguarded reflection in the mirror. The face looking back at her is, for a moment, almost unrecognizable.
Soft, not hard. Innocent, not jaded. Open, not closed.
The face of a little girl just about to embark on what she believes will be a wondrous adventure with her loved, but seldom seen father.
The face, it seems, she's been showing Chuck all this time without her even being aware of it.
She dashes fresh tears from her eyes.
Hello, Samantha. It's been a long time
…
When she walks back to their booth, he says nothing, even though she's quite certain the damage from the tears (and her epiphany) is still evident. She doesn't care.
He just softly smiles, watching her approach.
Chuck's clearly surprised when she joins him on his side of the booth. He's even more surprised when, without a word, she leans in and kisses him, briefly, softly, on his cheek. He blushes.
"Thank you, Chuck."
It seems to her that he's unsure exactly why he's being thanked, but, perhaps sensing her mood, doesn't spoil it with any sort of protest.
"You're welcome, Sarah."
"Chuck, is there someplace quiet we could go? Private? There are things I want to tell you...about myself."
"Yes. There's a special place. A place where I went to get away from…everything."
He chuckles, quietly. "You'd be right if you guessed I've been there a lot in the last couple of years. Whenever I could escape her clutches that is."
He's serious again. "It's my private place, Sarah. No one else knows about it."
She quietly asks, "Will you take me there, Chuck?" Hastily, knowing the importance of what she's asking, she adds, "If it's not too much to ask?"
He shakes his head. "No, Sarah. Not too much to ask. Not at all."
He looks into her eyes for a few long seconds. "Part of me has been wanting to share it with someone for quite some time now."
TBC
—
A/N: Thank you. Just where will the special place be? And what will Sarah tell Chuck?
Tune in next month.