Now we're sitting here

Waiting on the port side of hell

While we're staring down the barrel of a

Dark steelwell

Can we sink ourselves

Just to sleep for a spell?

"El Capitan"

The Steelwells

September 30, 2021

Burbank, California

Stephen C. Bartowski sat by himself in the living room of his house. His parents were in the kitchen—his mother was cooking dinner and his father was helping her. This was commonplace, especially when he and his sisters were doing their homework. Currently, his sisters were upstairs practicing violin, something they needed to do away from any place where conversations were occurring. His friend Griffin had been here earlier, while just his Aunt Corrine had been home with them.

What bothered him now, at least in this moment, was the way they were talking while they were cooking. His father had been all smiles and teasing, but Stephen was sensitive enough to see when his father was forcing something. His mother was just naturally quieter, generally more subdued, usually until his father pulled her in with some silly game or song or something else that tended to lighten her up. Now his mother's back stayed turned away—as she talked to his father without facing him. Always, he would lean closer to her, speaking against her ear. And when he would pull back, his face showed what Stephen knew was worry. His father was worried.

Stephen understood there were just adult things that his parents talked about when they were alone. It made logical sense to him. But for perhaps the first time in his young life he understood something more profound—some of those conversations were private because his parents were the ones worrying. Keeping him, and of course his younger sisters, from ever knowing anything was wrong. Keeping them safe.

Instinctively he recognized how much his parents loved both him and his sisters. And at nine, he unconditionally loved his parents. He understood what they did for them, how safe they made him feel, how loved and accepted. It had been a concept slow to build as his mind matured. His sisters weren't there yet, were too young to possibly understand that, and he deduced this too. But they would eventually know what he knew now as they aged as well.

He remembered his father, near tears in the exam room at the hospital. Most upset because he thought Stephen would grow up too fast. He remembered being smaller than he was now, wishing with all his heart to be bigger, taller, stronger, older. How could there have been a "too fast?"

But that had probably been when he was five or six. At nine, he had at least some idea why that would upset his father. Every new thing he learned pushed something cherished to the back of his mind; every day that passed by, he traded for one more day he would never have again. The impermanence of life was now well ensconced inside him. He remembered turning nine just days ago, wishing the time away so the day would just arrive. But he found the days now passed just as quickly when he wanted them to last. And even if he wanted to pause, he couldn't. He'd at least realized he had no need to be in a hurry. Time moved fast—like the beginning of summer to the end, no matter how he tried to savor the days.

Perhaps the hardest lesson had been that being grown up was harder than he could know. He knew the other kids his age didn't think this way, not even his best friend, Griffin. They all wanted to just grow up, get to do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted. All of those things sounded fun and cool, but at least Stephen grasped along with that came responsibility. Worrying. Like his parents worried.

Worrying, he thought. This was worse, so much worse than what he would consider normal adult worrying. Something was completely and absolutely wrong. The NSA had followed him and his mother home from archery. Of course his mother had tried to explain. But then again the next day, they were following him and the twins to and from school. What exactly could be the issue with their father's computer firm—even one that worked against cyber terrorism—that was so bad that they were all in danger?

He reached for the dog's soft blonde head, scratching behind Chewie's ears. The dog was seated at his feet, lifting his head back to regard Stephen with a flopping tail wag. Stephen swore Chewie always knew when something was wrong. He had learned about how sensitive a dog's nose could be. That the dog knew each of them by their scent. Could he smell sadness? Or fear? Or worry?

Curious as always, Stephen started to wonder what fear would smell like. He could almost imagine it. Metallic, like the way railroad tracks smelled after a rainstorm. Like the way blood tasted in his mouth after the dentist cleaned his teeth. Why did he think that? he wondered, curious and nervous at the same time. Such a strange string of thoughts that he couldn't quite place in real time.

He shivered, shaking it off his shoulders like a dog shaking off water. He knew he was thinking too much. His mother told him that sometimes—less thinking, more feeling. But feeling was harder than thinking. His thoughts he could control–his feelings could overwhelm him. And no matter what Chewie could smell, Stephen knew what worry looked like. He even knew what color it was. When he squeezed his eyes closed tightly, he could see it pressed against the inside of his eyelids. How strange–it was always the same color as his father's eyes, a dusty green swirled with stripes of brown.

He saw it now, every time his father glanced over at him, when he actually thought Stephen wasn't looking.

XXX

Chuck answered the door when Hartley rang the bell. He swapped a look of genuine concern with Chuck, having noted the security that gauged him and his appropriateness of presence. He raised his thick gray eyebrows, even as his ice blue eyes warmed at the smiles he received from Chuck's children.

"Hello, Love," he called to his wife, who sat between both little blond girls who were talking over each other to converse with her.

"Darling," she called, her emerald eyes alight with happiness at his entrance.

"Welcome to our home," Sarah called, a comic lilt to her voice as she pulled the chicken out of the oven. "Never a dull moment around here," she laughed.

Hartley was walking into the living room area when the dog rushed up to him, hustling down the hallway, obviously having come from upstairs. Chewie lumbered along, blocking his path, super excited at the company. "Oh, yes, hello, delightful," Hartley grumbled, scooting out of the dog's way, always a little tentative around the dog, mainly due to his size, as for temperament he was sweet and docile.

Chuck snapped his fingers at the dog, who responded by dropping his ears back and tucking his tail lower as he moved away to sit on his bed spread out in front of the fireplace. When Chuck looked back at them, Hartley was leaning over the back of the sofa to kiss his wife. He watched his daughters giggle, then scoot over to make room for Hartley to sit next to Corrine.

"Chuck, where is your son?" Hartley asked, wondering why he wasn't downstairs. Stephen was always downstairs when there was hubbub in the house like there was now with company.

Chuck's confused face caught Sarah's attention from the kitchen. Before he could ever ask, she called, "Chuck, he's upstairs. Can you go get him? I called him down five minutes ago."

He nodded, jumping up the stairs two at a time with his long legs, at the same time calling his son's name. At the top of the stairs, he could see the light in his son's room through the cracked door. He called again. Normally, Chuck would have dismissed this as Stephen being either lost in schoolwork or some other interest of his, and been a little frustrated. But today, after everything, he was giving his son a little leeway.

He moved to the door, grabbing the doorknob and leaning into the room. "Hey, kiddo. Dinner," he said briskly.

His son had been standing at the dormer window, peeking out the side of the curtain. The sound of his father's voice startled him severely, and he jumped back, banging into his desk chair and actually knocking it over hard onto the floor. His blue eyes were wide with alarm, even at the same time that he started to calm, realizing he had overreacted. "Dad, you scared me!" he hissed, reaching down for the chair.

Before the chair was upright, Sarah was right behind Chuck, moving into his bedroom, panting like she had just run from downstairs. "What was that noise?" she demanded. "It sounded like you were coming through the ceiling."

"Just the chair, Mom," Stephen told her, his own voice slowly returning to normal, though he now regarded them through narrowed eyes.

"What were you doing?" Chuck asked him, reaching back to put his hand on Sarah's forearm, a way to tell her he thought something was up.

Stephen looked away, then at the floor, yanking his sleeves down over his hands as he fidgeted. As his parents waited, he looked back at them, his face twisted with nervous fear that Chuck felt as if it were his own, running in his veins like a stimulant. "The NSA. They're protecting everyone, aren't they? Us, Aunt Ellie and everyone, too, aren't they?"

Sarah had been right, of course. Chuck had been waiting for this since she'd mentioned it, but it still seemed to carve out a chunk of his heart at the notion, worrying what he would say to his son. He felt Sarah behind him, reaching her arm around his waist from his back, resting the side of her face against his tricep. "Yes, they are, Son," he admitted. Sarah felt his entire body tense.

"Why?" he asked, so child-like in the asking, yet full of trepidation far beyond his years.

"You remember what we said, on Monday, at the hospital with Aunt Ellie, right? About keeping your secret?" Chuck asked.

"I know, Dad. I didn't say anything. I would never say anything," he swore, another innocent belief that he thought would suffice.

"We know you didn't. None of this is your fault," Chuck said, cursing himself for not saying that sooner. "We found out…that some people who we thought didn't know…about you, or me…actually do know the truth. Some bad people. Uncle John is helping to keep everyone safe, until they can find the people and stop them."

Chuck broke away from Sarah's grasp as he saw the terrified look on his son's face. He felt like an iron hand was clenched around his heart, causing pain when he breathed. He second-guessed his word choice, his decision to tell him anything. He lunged forward, dropping onto his knees in front of his son, the difference in their height diminished, Chuck only now less than an inch taller compared to his son. He pulled his son into his arms, crushing his head against his chest with his hand. A lump rose in his throat as he felt Stephen shaking. "What if he can't? What happens then?" his son asked nervously.

"Uncle John has never, ever failed us. Ever," Sarah swore with conviction, meeting Chuck's anguished eyes as he spun slightly on one knee.

"You're safe, do you understand me?" Chuck asked him, letting his breath out as he felt his son relax in his arms, snuggling his face against his father's chest. It pulled at Chuck on the inside, bringing back memories of when he had been so much younger. "That is the most important job we have. Keeping you and your sisters safe."

"But…you're worried," he replied, his voice sounding so small, making him seem even younger than he was.

Chuck gulped, just as Sarah jumped in. "There is always something for us to worry about. Big things, small things. You're extra sensitive, so you see it probably more than your sisters do, or maybe even more than Griffin sees it about his parents. But all adults worry sometimes."

Stammering slightly, Stephen spoke against his father's chest. "Griffin worries sometimes. When his parents fight. He tells me that sometimes."

"Parents disagree sometimes, and sometimes they have arguments. That's normal, Stephen," Sarah reassured.

"You guys don't," he said sharply, pulling back to take them both in with his gaze.

"Everyone has disagreements. Everyone gets angry. Even us," Sarah told him. "You may not see it. But it's normal."

The room was completely quiet for almost a minute. "Are you ok?" Chuck finally asked, breaking the silence with a whisper. He felt his son nod against his chest.

Noises from the hallway attracted everyone's attention. "Dad," Abby said from the doorway of Stephen's room. "Aunt Corrine asked me to feed the dog. It's Stephen's turn!"

Sarah turned around to see her daughter, hands on her hips in irritation, almost tapping her foot. "Abby, just go do it please. He'll do it twice in a row for you, ok?" she told her.

She actually growled, her little face pinched. "He'd better," she taunted wickedly, huffing and crossing her arms as she stormed off. Sarah turned back, watching Chuck slowly rise to his feet, keeping his arm around Stephen's shoulders. She saw her son's face clearly–he was about to say something, ask a question, or speak about an observation. But he noticeably stopped himself. Seeing he felt better now, she left it alone, reminding herself to ask him about it later.

Chuck waited until Stephen was far enough in front of them before he leaned closer to Sarah, telling her sotto voce, "Maybe you should remind Andrea to not fight with Jim in front of her kids."

She gave him a crooked smile, keeping her thoughts to herself. And have to explain how she and Chuck really didn't fight? Not like that, anyway. Andrea already thought they were unusual. What was one more oddity?

October 1, 2021

Carmichael Industries, Los Angeles, California

Chuck pulled off his headphones just as the altercation at the door of his office caught his attention.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but you can't just barge in there–" Chuck heard his administrative assistant, Gina, trying to be polite, but nonetheless slightly irritated.

"Uh, Chuck, sorry to interrupt," Cole said as he smirked apologetically over his shoulder to Gina. "But I have information." He tilted his head as an invitation for Chuck to follow.

"It's ok," Chuck told her, rising to follow Cole before she was even done talking. Chuck could hear the intensity in Cole's voice, his British accent clipped.

Sarah was already waiting at the conference room door. "Casey's already here," she told him, her face still and unreadable.

Chuck went into the conference room first, hearing the angry and terse end of a conversation Casey was having on the phone to someone. He was on the encrypted line, Chuck fathomed. Casey's face was grim when he looked up to greet Chuck, no words escaping his mouth once the phone was clicked off.

"Casey?" Chuck heard Cole quickly ask behind him.

"He's dead," Casey said flatly, an ominous tone to his voice. Casey curled one hand into a fist, pounding it once on the table top before relaxing his hand.

"Who? Who's dead?" Chuck asked in alarm, crossing the room to stand next to Casey.

"The courier," Casey growled.

"Bloody hell," Cole grumbled behind him, falling down hard into a chair on the other side of the table.

"He was in custody!" Chuck shouted, as he looked wildly between the two men.

"Someone got to him. Scrambled the security feed for just the right amount of time. They found the dead guard early this morning. He was in solitary, but no one heard anything," Casey told them.

"Damn it, Casey! Interpol turned him over for protection! He would have been safer if they'd had left him in Great Britain," Cole hissed at him.

"That was max security. Impenetrable. It was a professional hit. Someone on the inside. Had to be," Casey defended.

"That doesn't change the fact that now our only source of information has been eliminated. The last bit of information we received from the team in England, while they were following up on Chuck's intel, indicated he was headed to the U.S. with that information. He had a contact here in the states," Cole said. "And now we know they have operatives here as well."

"So now what? What's the next step?" Sarah asked, walking up to the table to stand next to Chuck.

"Carina and Zondra are following up on a lead. That's all I know now. We only communicated briefly," Cole told them all. "But there's more bad news, I'm afraid."

XXX

Carter never heard Vivian knock on the door, completely engrossed in his work. He was using his computer, but also two white boards, positioned side by side, that blocked the view through the glass panel. She didn't startle him though–she couldn't. He was sensitive to the scent of her perfume, like a fresh cut rose, whenever she was close by. He knew she was there, but kept his head down, waiting, afraid if he looked up too quickly she would see how light-headed he was, how she was affecting him. After several deep breaths, he looked up and smiled as she walked to his desk.

"Chuck is talking to General Casey. They've been in there a while. I thought I'd check, see if you needed anything," she said gently.

"Another white board," he chuckled, rubbing his eyes as the wall of numbers blurred in his fatigue.

Vivian took a step back, crossing her arms, squinting at his work scribbled in black and red dry erase marker. "Good lord," she muttered to herself. "I don't know how you can make any sense of that at all."

"You have a degree in economics. It's not like this is Greek," he scoffed.

"Economics is broad. Abstract even. I understand basic finance, things like that. But this," she sighed, placing her fingers across her lips. "It requires intense concentration for longer than I think I would ever be able to maintain."

"Even more than you think, when you factor in how rusty I am. I haven't used any of this since I took this job," he said with a smile.

"If this is rusty, I fear what this would look like on your A game," she teased, tilting her head to a 90 degree angle, as if somehow the numbers would make more sense from that angle. She felt him staring at her, turning her head slowly to look at him.

"How did you end up here, working for Chuck?" he asked her. She thought he looked nervous, but he held her gaze, and swallowed down whatever mumbling comment he otherwise would have made.

"Quite a long story, actually," she said, smiling shyly. The truth, all of it, was bizarre. Almost unbelievable.

"Because of this," he said, gesturing to his computer, the boards, his office, and all the surrounding environment. "I know he couldn't tell me everything. But I just wonder." He reddened, adding quickly, "I'm sorry. You can't probably tell me."

"The short version. Chuck and Sarah had every reason to hate me. Honestly hate me. But instead Chuck chose to forgive me. Risked his life to help put my family back together. And then he asked me to help him grow his business," she said with a grin.

Carter quietly absorbed what she said. "What happened to your family?" he asked again, his voice hushed. She noted how he resisted the urge to ramble afterward. He just looked at her, his eyes fixed on her, genuine curiosity and interest on his face.

"I never knew my mother growing up. She was…estranged from me, and from my father as well, for my whole life," she told him.

"Really?" he asked, his eyes widening. "I would never have guessed that. Your parents are so…sweet…when they're together. Like an old married couple should be, you know?"

He saw her smile, sweet, even with the hint of sadness in her eyes. "Love wins out, right?" she said, sounding unsure of her words.

He chose to ignore the question that was deeper than just rhetorical. "I guess I never really thought about it before, but Chuck really hired himself a strange group, didn't he?"

"What'd you mean?" she asked.

"Come on, we're like the Lonely Hearts Club Band or something," he laughed.

"Does that make Chuck Sgt. Pepper?" she laughed, amusing herself with the picture he had painted in her mind. "I'm going to tell him you said that, you know," she teased.

He rolled his eyes, biting down on a hearty laugh. "You said it," he countered. "I was only commenting on the lot of us. Chuck grew up without his parents. Sarah has a similar, although far more mysterious, story. I never knew my parents. And now I guess it's you too."

"You didn't?" she asked him, the smile slipping from her face. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to make light of that," she said sincerely.

"I know you weren't," he interjected quickly. "They…uh…they died in a car accident when I was three. I was passed around between grandparents and alcoholic aunts most of my childhood. School was the way out. I got a scholarship and never looked back."

"Just you?" she asked.

The look on his face made her almost kick herself. His eyes were crystalline blue, masking a deeper pain, when he finally looked up. "I…I had a sister, three years older than me. She died in the same accident. I don't have very many memories of her. Or my parents, for that matter." His head twitched, like he shook it off, then looked back up at her with a light smile creasing his mouth. "Enough about that, though, honestly."

Vivian never really knew what she had thought before, but in that moment, like a lightning bolt passing through her, she felt she understood him. Sarah had always tried to tell her how he was just introverted, quiet and private. She had always just assumed his distance was because he was disinterested. His history seemed more aligned with hers than she had ever expected. She had been alone her entire childhood–privileged, taken care of, but with money, never with love. She had learned to rely on herself, even as she had puttered along without purpose. Looking at him, she knew how she must have appeared to those who didn't know her well.

She quickly looked away as she noticed his discomfiture, realizing she had been staring. "Are you making any progress?" she asked, shifting her eyes back to his numbers.

"Some," he said, folding his hands under his chin. "These are legitimate accounts. Associated with a legitimate business. Everything balances. But it's a front. Flimsy. Someone is siphoning huge amounts of money out of this account and trying to cover it as legitimate business expenses. The tax IDs are contrived." Almost to himself, he spoke quietly, "The question remains. If this is all criminal activity, why have any record of it at all?"

"Al Capone," Vivian muttered, as she gazed into the distance.

"What?" he asked, not sure he had heard her correctly.

"You know. 1920s in America. Organized crime. He went to jail for tax evasion. It was the only crime they could ever prove he was involved in. They're trying to appear legitimate to distract attention from themselves. Is that crazy?" she asked him.

He tilted his head, thinking. "Not crazy, no. But you're making me think. Evil cabals, as Chuck likes to call them, as a rule aren't worried about accounting. At all. Unless," he said dramatically, as he wrote something furiously on his notepad next to his computer. "There is something above boards that they need the dirty money for. Something that has the potential to attract attention." He jumped up from his chair, moving quickly to one of the white boards. "Vivian, could you read off those numbers for me?" he called over his shoulder.

She sat down in his desk chair, oddly comforted at the warmth remaining there after he had risen. The scent of his cologne on the fabric of the chair was intoxicating, as she found her concentration slipping away, even as she heard him asking for the next sequence.

Hours passed as they worked together quietly. He was serious, work focused, but every now and then he would say something with extreme sarcasm she couldn't help but laugh at. And when she laughed, he would smile. She knew he hadn't really ever smiled all that much, maintaining that persona in her head of the serious accountant. But he had an almost movie-star smile, made more attractive somehow because he was so nonchalant about it. He had no idea how handsome he was. She never saw his face when she laughed, how he closed his eyes, turned away from her, losing his place in what he was doing while he collected himself.

That was where they were when Chuck knocked and opened the door. His face was ashen and he looked unsteady on his feet. "Oh my God, what, Charles?" Vivian asked immediately, knowing something was seriously wrong.

He stepped in and shut the door. Carter stopped what he was doing to listen. "I don't know how to say this other than just say it," he blurted. "We just got a report from Interpol. They have an unidentified dead man they pulled out of the Thames early this morning. They're checking dental records, but the CIA is fairly certain it was Liam. I'm so sorry," he added, cutting off the last word as he watched all the color drain from her face.

Before Chuck could say anything else, she bolted past him, running full speed through the door. The moment she ran, Carter dropped his markers and took off after her, brushing lightly against Chuck as he ran out into the lobby, and followed her out through the front door. "Vivian!" he called, watching her fall onto her knees on the sidewalk.

She was hysterically weeping, though inside all she felt was empty. As she had told Sarah, she was never really sure how she had felt about him. He had romanced her, at least pretending to be sweet and charming. She had felt at least a little like she made some kind of difference to him. Finding out it had all been a lie hurt, leaving sickness in the pit of her stomach at the intimate memories, what she had shared with someone so undeserving of it.

He had never pleaded with her when she had told him she couldn't continue with him. Instead, she had seen a flash of what she knew must have been his true self–angrily grabbing her by the elbows and bruising her with the fierceness of his grip, until she had stomped his foot and shoved one of her elbows into his stomach, throwing him out of her apartment and threatening to call the police. Then he had just disappeared, apparently running to England to report what he had been sent to find out in the first place.

She didn't wish him dead, would never, not after how close she had come to becoming a murderer herself, misguided and lost as she had been. But it was awful, tragic, both for what had happened, and what it meant for her and the people she cared about. She was still in the process of asking herself why she was so upset when she felt strong, yet gentle hands pull her up by her arms, enfolding her in an embrace once she stood.

Instantly, she relaxed into his arms, a relief to him that she didn't in the slightest bit resist him. He felt her shaking, even as her crying calmed, realizing it was shock or her nerves, making her teeth almost chatter together, even in the warm sunshine. He whispered softly, soothing her jangling nerves. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She heard the sympathy in his tone, and felt the need to clarify. "I'm not...I'm not upset, not how this seems," she said in a stuttering voice. "He used me to hurt people that I care about. I never saw him for what he really was. There's no justice, no answers, just a huge hole where I feel caved in. How could I be so stupid?"

"Loving someone is never stupid," he told her, an odd, painful burning inside his chest as he said it.

Urgency flared, still sure he was thinking the wrong thing. "I didn't love him," she admitted. "That's why it's so horrible. All that…and deep down, I still knew it wasn't right. And I couldn't figure out what to do. I'd never been in a…relationship like that before. Pitiful, at my age, I know, I just–"

"Vivian, stop," he said, the pain in his chest flipping, the hollowness of loss to the ache of longing in one instant. "You are…an incredible woman. Smart, beautiful, funny, caring. Don't let this make you think that somehow you're less than that. You're amazing." The words had come from deep inside him, his guard at last down, even as the air around him seemed to be slowly thinning as it became harder and harder to breathe as he waited.

He felt her breathing change, how she held it in, then slowly let it out until she was almost gasping. Her face against his chest became more than just friendly comfort, the heat in between their bodies amplified, as he was nearly dizzy from her perfume filling his lungs. He looked down at her, angling his eyes to look at her through his eyelashes. The urge to stagger backward almost overwhelmed him, when he realized what he saw on her face as she silently regarded him.

She reached up her hand, pulling it back several times before she placed it against his cheek. She felt her heart start to beat faster as she watched how he reacted, leaning into her hand and closing his eyes. Her forehead touched his neck, and she felt him turn his head, gently kissing the side of her temple. His heartbeat thumped against the ear still in contact with his chest. She searched internally for the dent she had described, the one she had told him about, and realized with a start that she couldn't feel it any more. Before she lost her nerve, she reached up quickly, wrapping both arms around his neck and kissed him, sighing as he responded almost instantly.

Neither Vivian nor Carter noticed through the window, Chuck and Sarah, turning away as she'd kissed him, out of respect for their privacy. The rest they had seen, sighing in relief that despite the absolute desperation of their current situation, at least something had gone right.

XXX

Chuck had only been back in the conference room after seeing Vivian for a few minutes before they were interrupted again. Cole was seated, Casey standing, Sarah in the doorway behind him, when he saw Morgan in the conference room door, a panicked look in his blue eyes. "Something's wrong, Chuck," Morgan said harshly.

"What, Morgan?" Chuck asked direly.

"The firewall. Skip is pretty sure it's been breached. And that's on his end, away from, you know, this," he added, taking a huge breath in between, gesturing to the assemblage in the room before him.

"Oh my god," Chuck said quietly, running out through the door and back to his office. He saw the lines of script on the screen, slowly disappearing. He felt his stomach flip inside him, listening to the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. "Damn it," he cursed, skidding to a stop in front of the keyboard, quickly realizing he was being locked out of his secure server.

His mind flashed quickly onto the thoughts, wondering how much was lost, as he leaned out of his office door, screaming, "Skip! The mainframe. Shut it down, now!"

Morgan was there, pale, but keeping the situation under control. Skip knew the tone in Chuck's voice well enough to know it meant move now, ask later. In two strides he was at the IT closet. He opened the door, reached inside the doorway at the control panel, and, using both index fingers at the same time on the sensors, shut down the entire server. Every computer in his office winked off. The ensuing silence was eery and unsettling.

What broke the silence was Casey, out of the conference room and now in the hallway close to him, saying very softly, "Oh, Chuck me."