A/N I remember doing a small amount of research for this chapter, trying to find a bunch of synonyms for 'drunk', that I could sprinkle throughout. I found some sites with lots of synonyms, which I mostly didn't use in the end, but I managed to find a use for 'Yeltsined'. 'Intoxicnineded' is a word I heard years ago, in a comedy sketch by Victor Borge, called 'Inflationary Language'. I think this is also the first time I describe how they contact each other on the TV communicators. I was glad to give Devon a somewhat more active role in the story, too.

I'm not sure if it was stated somewhere in canon that Morgan always slept naked, even before Hawaii, but since the joke only works if it's a surprise, I made it a surprise. This is also the first sign that he wasn't as much of a failure in Hawaii as he was made out to be in canon. Whatever business pressures in S3 forced them to put everybody back into the Buy More were not here, so I was able to treat him with a little more respect. Beckman, too, is treated as more a real commanding officer, and less like a plot device. Maybe scriptwriters have to resort to caricatures and tropes, but I'm not a scriptwriter.

It wasn't easy opening the door to the house while supporting a completely boneless wife, but they don't hand out Awesome points for nothing. If it was possible to have more than three sheets to the wind, Ellie had them there, and Devon wasn't about to leave her in the car while he unlocked the door. She flinched a little when he turned on the lights, burying her face in his neck as he carried her to the bedroom. It was almost romantic except he could smell the alcohol coming out in her sweat and that wasn't romantic at all. Ditto the undressing part once he got her into bed.

Once she was all tucked up he went out to the kitchen and put together a plate of hangover special: two aspirin, two B-Complex, and two Vitamin C, and left them on her bedside table with a glass of water. He gave her a kiss on the forehead and a soft "Good night, Babe" before turning off the light and leaving the room.

He dropped a pillow and some blankets on the couch, but didn't unfold anything yet. Instead, he turned on the TV and set it to channel 0. "General Beckman." The screen didn't light up immediately, but the progress bar told him something was happening. It was pretty late, after all. She could be asleep or something. Do Generals sleep?

The screen lit, so the answer was apparently 'No.' Or maybe it was yes, she was in her robe. "Yes, Ellie, what can I—Oh. Good evening, Dr. Woodcomb. To what do I owe the pleasure? Where's Ellie?"

"My wife is fine, General, a bit snoggered though."

"I wasn't aware that she drank."

"She doesn't, General, that's why she's snoggered." Under other circumstances, he would have smiled. "She and Sarah had a little bonding episode at a local watering hole that got out of hand."

"Out of hand? Sarah?"

"Well, not Sarah so much, I guess those alcodote pills of yours really work, but she was still pretty tipsy by the time we got there."

"You and Chuck had to retrieve your wives from a bar? How is this a matter of national security?"Why are you calling me this way?

"It isn't, but something happened during the fight–"

"You and Mr. Bartowski got into a fight?"

"Well, no, not exactly. There were these goons, they thought our girls were ripe for the picking–"

"And they were understandably upset when you two came along and disrupted their plans for a romantic interlude. I'm glad you weren't injured but I fail to see how this is a matter of national security either."

"I wasn't in the fight, General. Sarah took a guy down in three moves–"

Beckman sniffed. "She must have been Yeltsined, then. I would have expected one."

"Chuck took his guy down in one. Less than one, really."

Apparently that was a matter of national security, at least as measured by the verticality of Generals. "Explain that, please."

Devon slammed a fist into his open hand. "He caught the guy's punch, General. Aikido-d him on to the table and left him on the ground."

"Chuck did this?"

Devon nodded. "He wasn't looking either."

Beckman almost smiled. "This is excellent news, Doctor Woodcombe. Your wife has been working to return his fighting skills, and it looks like she's succeeded."

Devon grimaced. "Not entirely."

"No?"

"After the fight, he didn't seem to remember he'd done anything. Ellie asked him how he did it, and he said 'Did what?'"

Beckman considered this for a while. "Make sure Ellie knows about this in the morning, please, Doctor. We've seen other cases of memory loss from a fight. It's possible it's just a glitch in her program. It's possible it's something more, but let's not borrow trouble."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

"You're welcome."

The TV blinked out, leaving Devon sitting there looking stupid. He sat back, grabbed his blankets and spread them over himself. He turned out the lights and lay there, looking at the ceiling. "Yeltsined?"

Morgan opened the door and stood to one side as Chuck carried his wife inside.

"Thanks, Morgan. Let me get some pills into her, while you get some blankets and stuff. Bedroom's over there." He gestured with his chin as he carried Sarah over to the kitchen counter. A plate of the same pills that Devon laid out already waited there, and Sarah was awake enough to take them before she went to bed.

Morgan was coming out as he brought her in. "Couch patrol, mon capitain?"

"Oui. We have a guest room, but no bed."

"Not a problem, dude. I've been exiled from the bedroom plenty of times, believe me, and yours looks a lot more comfortable than the monster in my…our…her living room."

"Good night, Morgan."

"Night, Chuck."

Chuck kicked the door shut and carried Sarah to the bed, got her undressed, and tucked her in. By the time he got in himself, she was already asleep, and he kissed her lightly on the top of her head. "Good night, Mrs. Carmichael."

The alarm went off with a sound of chimes, and Chuck woke with a headache. Typical. She did the drinking and he got the hangover. Sarah rolled her body over his and turned off the alarm, a much more pleasant sensation to wake up to. "Good morning, Mrs. Carmichael!"

"That's Bartowski," she said smiling, "And don't you forget it." She got out of bed.

"What, no kiss?" Headache gone, he rolled out of bed and followed his scantily-clad wife to the bathroom.

"Maybe you don't mind kissing someone who's breath could peel paint, but—Aiee!" She screamed.

Morgan, lying completely naked on the couch, sat bolt upright. "Ahhh!"

Chuck lunged to the front, ready to take—"Ahhh!" He turned, pulling Sarah's head in to his chest to shield her eyes as Morgan threw himself over the back of the couch. It didn't help much, since the couch was at an angle, but at least he tried. "Morgan! Since when do you sleep naked?"

"Dude, do you have any idea how hot it gets in Hawaii?" Chuck heard a fumbling sound. "Alright, it's safe now."

Chuck turned, to see Morgan wrapped in the throw from the couch like a toga. Great. More laundry. He stepped a little to one side, allowing Sarah to glare at her husband's best friend. Morgan moved behind the couch a little bit more.

Sarah grabbed Chuck by the collar and dragged him off to the bathroom. The sound of yelling was clearly audible through the walls, but only the word 'Hell' sounded like English. Morgan walked away and occupied himself with other things. Like getting dressed.

Sarah stalked out of the hall. "You!" He stood, awaiting his sentence. "Two words." She grabbed the throw from the floor and pushed it against his chest hard enough to hurt. "Laundry."

He raised a hand to hold the cloth. "What's the other one?"

"Apartment."

"Gotcha."

Chuck came out of the hall. "What is that wonderful smell?"

"Breakfast," said Morgan. "I know I'm not a breakfast chef but it's just a little something to say I'm sor–"

"You're forgiven," said Sarah. Without the alcohol in her system she was aware of how hungry she was, and fell upon the plates of eggs, bacon, and even pancakes like a wild woman.

Chuck clapped his friend on the shoulder with a smile. "Good work, little buddy." He looked up. "Hey! Save some for me."

Sarah caught up to her crossing the parking lot. "Hannah, hi! You're here early. Sucking up already?"

"All my friends are here."

Sarah swallowed a groan at her thoughtlessness, and determined to focus on the bright side. "I'm hearing a plural in there. So you're settling in all right?"

"Well enough. I was sort of hoping we could have done something to celebrate, last night…"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was out with a friend. We were planning my wedding." Sarah frowned. "At least, I think we were planning my wedding, I had kind of a lot to drink last night. I may have beaten somebody up, too."

Hannah laughed. "I'd believe that over the wedding. I thought you were already married."

"I am. Dead of night, hush-hush. I'm trying to make it more…real." Sarah looked down. "Thanks."

"I hope it's not so classified I'm not allowed to be there."

"If I have to leave off the President to invite you, I will."

"You know the President?"

"No, so that makes it easier."

"You're late."

"I had to come in by the back entrance, for my cover. Some of the guys decided to schmooze."

"Slackers. Okay, so let's get started. Sit down, Chuck." She reached over her desk and pressed a button as he complied. She sat opposite him. "This interview is being recorded for General Beckman's eyes only, do you understand?"

Reflexively he looked around, spotting the cameras. "I…understand but I don't know why."

"Chuck, can you tell me what happened last night?"

"Without causing undue embarrassment to wives and sisters who know where I live?"

"No one cares, Chuck."

"Then why the interview? It's okay you and Sarah got a little drunk, Ellie…"

"This isn't about us, Chuck. Tell me what happened last night. Now, Chuck!"

"You went out with Sarah, got intoxicnineded*, called us—which was a really good thing to do, by the way—and I got Devon so we could pick you up and bring you…home?"

She made notes. "Who called you, Chuck?"

He hated it when she made notes. "Sarah?"

"Was Morgan there?"

"Yeah, he had to drive my car back while I drove Sarah's Porsche." He gasped. "Please tell me I didn't hurt her car–"

"Focus, Chuck." She waited until he settled down. "What happened when you went into the bar, Chuck?"

"We went to your table, helped you stand—you were really hammered, sis—uh, and we got you outside and drove home."

"You were holding onto Sarah?"

"Of course."

"Which hand, Chuck?"

Chuck was right-handed, and he raised that one automatically. Then he stopped and raised his left hand instead. He stared at his hands, moved his arms up and down, as if muscle memory would help him decide.

"How much money do you have in your wallet, Chuck?"

He left off staring at his hands. "Same as I always, do, sis, I didn't buy anything yesterday."

"Count it, please."

Chuck pulled out his wallet and riffled through the bills. "That's not right." He fingered them again. "I'm twenty dollars short."

"You weren't around anyone who would take just twenty dollars from your pocket without telling you, were you, Chuck?"

"No, just…just family." He frowned, shook his head.

"What's the matter, Chuck?"

"I can't remember, sis. I got to your table, saw all those drinks, and I knew they were trying to get you guys vulnerable, and I—I got so angry, even though I knew Sarah could…but what if she couldn't, you know, and then we were outside." He looked up at her in fear. "Please tell me I didn't hurt anyone."

She smiled at him, not that she felt like smiling. "You didn't hurt anyone, Chuck. In fact you chose the least hurtful method of having a bar fight I've ever seen."

"The least hurtful method of having a bar fight is to not get into one, sis. Barring that, 'strike first, strike hardest.' The Han Solo rule."

"Okay, next least."

"What's wrong with me, Ellie?"

"I'm sticking with 'up' for the moment. 'What's up with you, Chuck?' Because I refuse to believe there's anything wrong. If there was something 'wrong' with you, that bar wouldn't still be standing. This concludes the interview." Ellie reached over and pressed one switch, and then another. "Annie? I'm going to need that time slot."

Chuck groaned. "Not the MRI again."

"Full work-up, little brother. Nothing goes 'up' with you without my permission."

Dimples looked up. "Agent Carmichael. I did as you asked. Tough Guy's off the punishment detail."

"Actually, Chief, I'm thinking I made a mistake, yesterday. I was wondering if I could be a part of the process, help him learn some control over what he's doing."

"If you could just get him to stop that'd be a blessing, Agent. He's like a machine in there."

"I'd like to see what he's been doing, if you don't mind."

"No problem. Let me call Pebbles."

Chuck's phone trilled as he staggered down the hall. Today's modern diagnostic methods may be non-invasive, but they left him sleepy as hell. "Hey Casey. What's up? I'm not working today."

"I'm just looking for some intelligent conversation at this point, Bartowski, but I can't get Walker to pick up."

"I'm tracking her down now, so we can get lunch."

"It's all right, moron, you'll do. Anything's better than these pinheads in Castle."

"What'd they do this time?"

Casey sighed. These clowns weren't worth a grunt. "Tried to open Manoosh's little box without putting it in a containment unit first."

Chuck laughed. Casey wouldn't have called if there's been a real problem. "So what was in it?"

"Shaving cream."

"I hope they thanked you."

"Of course not. They're all trying to reacquire the target before he gets—what the hell?"

"What?"

"There's a car full of Ring agents lying unconscious by the loading dock. You, get that footage! Scramble the team, lock those guys down. Gotta go."

Chuck wandered into IM, following the tracker in his watch. He checked the boss' office, but no one was there, not even the boss. He followed the sounds of some people sparring back in the ring, so he went there. Maybe he could get in on some of the action after all.

Sarah was in the ring, dancing around Pebbles. She was getting in some good hits but he was so big he shrugged most of them off. He was too slow to hit her but she had to tire sometime. Chuck stood and watched, enjoying the sight of his wife's body in motion. Skill, grace, and power.

Then she executed a maneuver that had caused him endless trouble, and in fact still couldn't get quite right. Watch and learn, Bartowski. Oh, yeah, Pebbles felt that one. He applauded.

Sarah stopped. "Chuck?"

Pebbles couldn't stop. Chuck saw the blow la—

"Chuck, stop!"

He stood over Pebbles' crumpled body, breathing slightly hard.