A/N: I'm so sorry for taking forever with this chapter, haha. Unfortunately, I won't be able to post for the next two weeks too as my exams are coming up next week. Anyway, here's chapter two, and I must warn you that there's a tad bit of swearing in this, though pretty mild. And by mild, I mean, it appears a few times, not because it's light swearing. Hence, it's rated T. Anyhoo, how did you guys like Chuck vs The Honeymooners?

I love you guys so much for taking the time to read/review my stories, thank you (:

Disclaimers - theprincess1511 just informed me that I didn't own Chuck. Sigh. At least I've got an awesome beta. (:


Location Unknown, Los Angeles
19:52PM – Previous Day

In the shadows, she's practically a ghost, floating through the darkness; hiding from the light of the world – hiding from the sheer number of patrols that swarm around her position, all of them attempting to catch a glimpse of the person who had tripped their alarm. She grits her teeth as the culprit's voice crackles in her earpiece, demanding to know if she's still with a pulse.

A beam of light hits several crates, metres away, and she ducks lower, resting on her stomach as she rolls into a tiny crevice beneath two balancing crates, taking pride at the fact that she manages to fit, albeit snugly. Replying her partner would force her to give away her position, but not replying the other agent would force her to abandon their entire operation. And she didn't really feel like dying.

Instead, she presses the button on her watch strategically, aware that the static would travel to her partner's ears in Morse code. She grins as she acknowledges her presence, but the annoyance still burns in her chest at Carina's recklessness.

She keeps her hand on her gun, taking comfort in the cold metal that presses against her skin, reassuring her that she could shoot just about anything that crossed her path at any given time. She shakes her head, attempting to clear it. She wasn't normally this violent.

Her earpiece crackles to life again. "Walker, I'm gonna cause a distraction. Cover me."

She takes the chance, whispering softly into her watch. "About damn time..."

Gunshots resonate through the vicinity, and she grins as the beam of light disappears in an instant. She rips the gun from her waistband, rolling out from under her cover and surprising the poor bastard whose back faced her. He hardly had time to even lift his gun, when the bullet hits the back of his head, dead centre.

Another two gunshots ring in her ears and two more thugs fall to the ground in agony, writhing around as the bullet ruptured the arteries in their necks, one of the only chinks between their armour of Kevlar vests.

She jumps forward, over the growing pool of red liquid beneath the fallen bodies, with adrenaline still pumping wildly through her veins. This – this is the best part of being a spy, she decides. The feeling, the thrill, makes her feel like a drug addict getting his fix. Redbull might give you wings, but this gave you the power to fly.

It's ironic, seeing as how they were about to apprehend one of the world's most elusive drug dealers, Carlos Fernandez. She'd been eager to work with the DEA again; it gave her a chance to catch up with one of her only real friends in the world of espionage – Carina Miller, the wildcard of an agent. She'd vouch that most of Carina's "improvisations" had landed them in multiple pickles throughout their working life.

In other words, she saved both the world and their asses on a regular basis. But hey, she wasn't the CIA's best for nothing.

Strings of curses fill her ears as Carina begins to display a vast array of colourful, vulgar phrases that she hadn't even known existed. She takes down another thug with the mere force of her clenched fists, smirking as a particular Polish phrase drifts into her earpiece. Chuckling slightly, she speaks into her watch. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. The bastard just took me by surprise, is all."

"Geez, Carina, you should probably wash that mouth of yours, I'm not sure where it's been."

"Wow, Walker, did someone just make a dirty joke? That was bad."

Her eyes dart toward the doorway of the derelict factory, and she tightens her grip on the trusty Smith & Wesson, pausing for a second to reload the handgun with a fresh magazine. She picks off another patrol with a lethal combination of her fists and gun and admits silently to herself, with new-found pride, that she was absolutely badass.

"That maybe so, but at least I'm not the one who tripped the freaking alarm."

"Pshh, bitch."

A fist slams into her face and she staggers backwards, wincing as the burning sensation flows through her nose, along with a thin trickle of blood. She bites back a curse as she comes face to face with the burliest man she's ever encountered in her life. He smirks, revealing a set of blackened crooked teeth.

"I might need some help here," she calmly whispers into her watch, not giving the man, whose built could very well have been that of Arnold Schwarzenegger's, the satisfaction of witnessing her nervousness.

"Still can't fight your own battles, huh, Walker?"

She feels her face muscles twisting into a searing grin; she hears the teasing smirk in Carina's voice. Side-stepping another punch, she applies a perfectly executed roundhouse to his temple, and it's his turn to stumble backwards. As far as his contorted expression of anger showed, he wasn't going to back down that easily.

As he charges forward again, she lunges to the side, listening to the sweet sound of his body slamming into the crates behind them. The man lets out a feral growl, and he continues to pounce at her ungracefully, over and over again, landing only an occasional lucky punch or two, though landing nowhere near enough to cause serious pain.

It's the sudden emergence of her gun that causes him to stop moving completely. She double-taps the trigger, putting another round into the back of his head before moving cautiously towards her partner. "Warehouse is clear, where's Fernandez?"

"Got him right here."

As if to prove her point, a body collapses at her feet, a gun aimed straight to his occipital lobe. Carina prodded the gun against Fernandez's back, forcing him to his feet once she had slapped a pair of hand-cuffs over his wrists.

"Well, that's done," she chimed, before smashing the man's face with the butt of her gun, knocking him unconscious.

Sarah had to grin at that. "Did you call for the pick-up team?"

"Nah, I figured we could handle it."

She raised a skeptical brow, folding her arms across her chest.

"What? Don't look at me that way. We came in separate cars, remember? Your Porsche is much faster than mine, so I'll just go ahead and take those keys –"

"Don't you dare..." She hissed, her voice low and menacing. "Portia is mine, you got that?"

"Temper, temper," Carina shook her head gently, but smiled nonetheless. "Fine, I'll take my jeep. I'll see you later, Walker!"

At that, they loaded the unconscious Fernandez into the back of Carina's jeep with little effort. ("Skinny bastard, this guy.") Ensuring that the seatbelts gave him little chance of movement if he ever woke up, she hugged her friend with much vigour, giving her a peck on both cheeks before the other agent drove off.

She returns to the dilapidated warehouse, walking cautiously through the blue wooden door that hung haphazardly on its frame; its hinges, rusty and old. She pulls out her cell phone, alerting the CIA for a clean-up team to dispose of the multiple bodies littered around the compound.

She froze, her hand already reaching behind her back to where her gun rested. Gripping it tightly, she whirled around to face multiple barrels of guns. Only one hand was absent of a gun, and it reached out to stroke her cheek. She scowls at the man's gall, and instinctively, she knew that they had captured the decoy.

"Such a pretty face," he coos with a perverse smile that immediately hardens as she slaps another advancing hand away. "You could hurt someone with that gun, you know."

"Fernandez," she spat, with much venom in her voice. She discreetly places the gun in line of his crotch which she notes, with sickening awareness, swelled beneath his skin tight jeans. She feels the bile rise to her throat.

"Yes," he nods with a chuckle, completely bypassing her anger. "I am Carlos Fernandez. Can I help you?"

"It'd be great if you could stop kidnapping those little girls as mules."

He lets out another bellowing chuckle, his raspy voice echoing through the near-empty warehouse, save for the lifeless bodies and the scattered crates around them. His bodyguards begin to laugh along. She hides a shudder as the goose-bumps break out on her arms.

She laughs as she presses the trigger. Once, twice, three times. She laughs as she runs swiftly toward her car, hearing the sound of Fernandez's tortured cries behind her. She laughs as she jumps into her car, speeding off as bullets ricochet off the beautiful paint job that she had gotten for Portia – she lets out a whimper at that.

She laughs, until she feels the searing pain at the side of her hip. She stares down at the growing patch of blood on her blouse. "Fuck."

She's not sure how she's made it to the hospital, but all she wants to do is slump down into the comfortable leather seats and sleep. She convulses with a gasp and a moan that could rival a zombie's as a striking, searing pain shoots through her entire body. She tenses up, wincing in pain, as she hears nearby voices. She frowns, imploring them to just let her sleep.

And suddenly, she's in someone's arms, rushed into the bright, fluorescent lights of the hospital. All she sees are his eyes – those warm chocolate eyes – and it makes her want to sleep again. Everything goes by in a blur, but she feels his hand squeezing hers so tightly, and she stays awake diligently, smiling as she squeezes it right back.


West Side Hospital
06:28AM - Present Day

Planting himself onto the plastic, too-cold-for-comfort chair in the waiting room, he buried his face into his cupped hands. His tired eyes squeezed themselves shut involuntarily as he took in a deep gulp of breath, letting it out with a breathy shudder. It's a flashback to his first surgery, he realizes – he'd thrown up after, and spent a day or two inhaling enough coffee to keep a small town awake. And he'd been hyperventilating for God knows how long.

His sister stood over him, concern etched into the worry lines that creased her face. She rested a hand on his shoulder, speaking gently as his shivering reached her. "Chuck, honey, you okay?"

Inhale. Exhale. "She had gunshot wounds," he narrowed his eyes into slits, whispering in disbelief. Inhale. "Three, to be exact. She almost didn't make it." Exhale.

"But she did, and you made sure of that. You saved her life."

"No, I didn't," he stared up at her with weary eyes. Smiling, he nodded toward her. "You did. You heard her cries for help while I stupidly dismissed them as a zombie attack."

"You spotted her, Chuck. I didn't," she shot him a smile, finally moving to sit beside him. She patted his hand. "I think you should take the rest of the day off, and maybe get out of those clothes…"

He looked down sheepishly at his coat and collared shirt – the browning patches of blood stains. He swallowed thickly, holding back a retch. He nodded shakily, immediately unbuttoning his soiled clothes. He hadn't even cared to realize that it had been his favourite shirt that had been ruined. "See you later, sis."

He barely heard her well-wished farewell over the sound of his thumping heart as he walked back toward the Oncology department where his office was located. He'd even garnered some horrified, shocked double takes from various staff members as they breathed the stench of iron that radiated off him.

"Hey, Chuck."

He nearly jumped an inch into the air as he finally noticed the two new companions that flanked him. Jeff and Lester gave him a once-over, shaking their heads in sync and whistling a downright "you look like shit" tune.

"Can I help you guys?" He sighed, tucking his hands into his pocket. Then, as though he had been burned, he took them out again, wincing at the patch of blood that had seeped through.

"No, no, nothing much going on right now…. Although, I just heard that you operated on this hot babe who got shot?" Chuck winced again, cringing at Lester's choice of words. He increased his pace slightly.

"Maybe she's a super spy, gone rogue and hiding from the government, and the only way she could've escaped was to shoot herself," Jeff offered, his blank expression breaking out in a smile that could've only been described as perverse.

"Are you drunk? Is he drunk?"

"No... No, he is not," Lester smiled, patting him heartily on the back.

"I don't really think there's a difference, Lester..."

"So, about that bombshell –"

He sighed, hand already reaching out to grip the doorknob to his office. "I'd really appreciate it if we didn't talk about patients that way. And I need to get out of this," he gestured toward his dishevelled outfit.

"Oh yeah, what up with the blood, dude? Are you on your period?" A series of snickers filled the corridor.

Jeff grinned, "I've tried wearing pads before."

He slapped a hand to his face, face-palming as he fought the overwhelming urge to punch his colleague in the face. Managing to keep his composure, he forced a smile before he slammed the door in their collective faces.

He let out a breath that he had unconsciously held, fully unbuttoning his doctor's coat and shirt. Thankfully, he had always believed in keeping an extra set of clothes in his office, in case of an all-nighter shift that was usually compensated with a shower and a fresh set of clothes. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. He grinned at the thought.

He showered mutely, allowing the warm liquid to wash away every trace of DNA that had stuck itself to his body throughout the day. He rid his arms of the crusty dried blood, ignoring the fact that at the base of the shower drain, the water had been tainted a light red.

As he stepped out of the shower, skin glistening with water droplets, he felt... exactly as he had before, much to his dismay. He wasn't even sure of what he was feeling – was it guilt? Or simply the unusual events that had taken place mere hours ago, taking its toll on him? He towelled off.

It was puzzlement, he decided. Confusion, over the blonde enigma whose life he had saved. There she was, lying deathly still on a hospital bed, forced into a medically induced coma, with three gunshots wounds and a whole lot of stitches to her name. And to be honest, he hadn't even a clue what her name was.

She was beautiful, that much, he'd noticed – as did Jeff and Lester – and he swore that if Jeff weren't so ridiculous all the time, he might just believe his crazy theory about her being a rogue government agent. He shook the thought out of his head and scrambled to get dressed. He decided to pay her a visit before he left.


"Dr Bartowski, I'm afraid I can't let you go in there." She shielded the door with her own body, staring up at him with fierce, determined eyes. He was, to say the least, impressed that she had not flinched once at their vast height difference. Despite the fact that he towered over her, she had matched his height with her empowering presence.

"What? Why not? I'm her doctor," he protested, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, lest he wanted to piss his superior off.

To be honest, before he'd joined West Side as an intern, he'd been pretty skeptical about working with his sister and Devon, whom he dubbed – rightfully so – as Captain Awesome. He'd been mostly doubtful, due to the petite, yet menacing lady, who ruled the hospital – Dianne Beckman.

As the hospital administrator, she was The Boss, The Bitch, The Unsympathetic General. And he was been pretty damned afraid of her. Her ginger hair made her all the more intimidating, though he wasn't sure why.

"The details are... sensitive," she narrowed her eyes as his own began to widen. "But you are no longer the active doctor for this patient. Besides, you're the Head of the Department of Oncology – you have far more important responsibilities to shoulder."

"But –"

"About Daniel Shaw..." He fell silent was pinned with another glare for interrupting her. "He has been suspended until further notice."

"Okay, but –"

"There is nothing left to discuss, Bartowski. My decision is final." He felt his shoulders – and every bit of his confidence – beginning to deflate as she turned to walk away from him.

In an instant, the tiny bearded man was by his side, as he should've been. Morgan patted Chuck in a comforting gesture as the downcast atmosphere reached out to grab everyone around them.

"Details are... sensitive? What the crap was that? Honestly, the least she could've done was to give the guy warning before they pulled your plug. I mean, did you see that girl?"

"Thanks, Morgan. That makes it so much better."

"Hey, you know, I thought it was rumour. But wow."

He spotted Jeff and Lester, ramming their heads together as they peered through the window of herprivate room, fighting for more viewing space. He sighed, patting his best friend on the back as he moved toward the door.

"Jeff, Lester," he greeted, watching in amusement as they scrambled into inconspicuous positions by the door. "What's up, guys?"

"Nothing of your concern," Jeff folded his arms across his chest.

"Keep moving, Bartowski. Nothing to see here."

Jeff stared pointedly at him – and he wasn't sure if he had imagined it – slipped an occasional wink into his gaze. "I heard Beckman, Chuck. Your girl is totally a government spy."

"Wh-why would you say that?"

Lester stepped in, smirking. "Knowledge is power, Charles. What do we get for telling you?"

"Uhh, it's a simple question – one that I'd like an answer to."

"My mum used to say knowledge is powder."

"That's, uhm, super, Jeff."

"No can do, Chuck. It's deal or no deal."

He glanced wistfully through the panel of glass in the door, watching the distinct rise and fall of her chest as she took steady breaths in her sleep. He noticed every little minute detail of her appearance, from the golden waterfall that was her hair, to the graceful contours of her cheekbones.

"No deal."

And he walked, with silent and heavy footsteps, out of the sliding glass doors of the hospital and toward his car, detouring toward a garbage bin to empty his vacant stomach. It growled vehemently in protest as he settled into the driver's seat, not making it past buckling himself into the seat before his eyelids began to droop.