A/N: OH GOD BUT THIS TOOK FOREVER TO EDIT. By the end, I was yelling at it like a madwoman. Which fits, I suppose.

Thanks for all of your patience, readers. I have been posting other things and put this on the back burner. But it has returned! And thank you to everyone who has been so receptive and kind to me concerning the SteamVerse. It felt like a risk posting this monster of a story that I've been babying for over a year now, and you've all made it so worth it! So thank you!

Also, there was a large portion of this chapter I took out because it just had to go. It didn't move the plot forward like the rest of the scenes did. Just a bit of world building and dialogue. But I see it still as a part of the universe, a deleted scene if you will. So I still have it in tact, and I am posting it on my tumblr. If you would like to take a gander, go to my About Me. The link is there.

Summary: In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

Disclaimer: "Chuck" is not mine. It's characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

Last time Chuck showed Sarah the rag in his bowie knife (wot?) and Sarah discovered a mysterious telegram Chuck's assistant, John Casey, is sending to Langley, Virginia. Just what is that Friendly Fred up to?

The Ice Queen grumbled to herself as she stood beneath a tattered tarp that was probably at one time a passably decent awning for the smith shop, but now spilled rivulets of dirty rain over the sides and through the rips and holes in the material.

Even so, it was better than standing directly in the rain. She cursed whoever decided lace parasols were a good idea. Then again, she understood that this particular parasol that she shook in front of her was more of a protector against the summer sun, and less for rain.

But it was all she had in her residence, and it was all she had now, so she would make do.

She frowned then as she heard a familiar sound. A grunt, it was.

Deep, unamused. She had heard it somewhere before. She turned to look out to the street, her eyes sweeping the tarp-covered wagons and vendors—business slowed a bit when it was raining, but they still carted their goods out in the morning because they had no other choice.

And then she saw him.

The bulky frame, the short-cropped hair under a newsboy cap. And when he turned his face to nod to the fellow next to him, she knew immediately that it was Chuck's new assistant. The mystery that was Mister John Casey.

She had been to the Buy More only a few times since she trailed him to the post office and read the telegram he sent to Langley. Every time, he was sitting at his work station, tinkering with something, so focused on his task that he never bothered to acknowledge her presence when Chuck led her into the workshop.

Sarah Walker knew her good looks tended to draw attention. Add to that her inherent knowledge of how to dress and carry herself, and the ability to play to the tastes of whomever she was attempting to impress, and she had just about anyone in the palm of her hand. Her acknowledgement of her attributes had nothing to do with ego. They were tools. A way to get ahead in her chosen profession. And it was a fact that most men found her appealing.

Which was why she wasn't offended that John Casey paid her little mind whenever she dropped by. Though it did make her curious as to what his situation was. Family? Wife, children? Or perhaps he had a one track mind and was focused on his work. Then again, maybe he just had a different type of woman he found appealing. Which was highly likely.

But ever since she read that telegram, she felt uncomfortable if he was in the room with her and Chuck. Who was GB and why were they paying John Casey? Why did he care if Chuck had a woman friend? And what in God's name sort of "move" was the man waiting for Chuck to make?

There were times when she felt the mystery assistant's gaze on her. It didn't feel like the admiration and warmth that she experienced from Chuck. No, John Casey was more curious, as though she were an equation he was attempting to figure out.

The fact of the matter was that they were both attempting to find out what the other was doing hanging around Charles Irving Bartowski, and Sarah felt confident that she was a step ahead of him—whoever he was.

As she watched him walk away from the vendor and across the street towards her, the confidence woman decided to utilize the element of surprise. It might tip the scales in her favor and she could somehow squeeze something out of him.

Sarah walked towards him and raised her parasol over her head, silently cursing it again even as she plastered a friendly smile on her face. "Mister Casey? John Casey?"

He spun to face her fully, his eyes a bit wide but his lips still pressed into a thin line. His shoulders went rigid and his jaw clenched as he touched the bill of his hat respectfully and grunted.

"Sarah Walker," she informed him. "I am Chuck Bartowski's friend. I come in from time to ti—"

"I know who you are, Miss Walker." But something in his eyes told her he had absolutely no clue who she really was, and he knew there was more to her than met the eye. It made her slightly unnerved.

"Are you running an errand for Chuck?" she asked innocently, receiving a wordless shrug in return. "I was just headed to the Buy More, as a matter of fact. Is that the way you're headed? I would love to know more about how you and Chuck met. He always says such nice things about you. Apparently you're a hard worker." She turned to walk in the direction of the Buy More but he stayed put.

"I'm not working today," he said in an even tone. "You have a pleasant afternoon, Miss Walker. Tell the boss I said hello." His toothy grin and the way he tipped his hat was unsettling, and she stared at him with a frown as he left her side, walking in the other direction.

He was certainly an odd character. Though she had been rather annoying with her pushy stream of conversation, and she assumed John Casey wasn't much of a conversationalist, let alone with a woman who asked far too many questions.

Then again, he was hiding something. There was something about him that she did not trust—and that was before he had sent that telegram to Langley, even. Now she had even more reason to mistrust him.

What did he want with Chuck? And who was he working for? Was he an agent?

Shaking her head, she stepped over a puddle and continued on her way, lost in thought.

She wasn't so lost, though, that she didn't feel the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It had nothing to do with the chill, for she was wearing a thick coat. This was the feeling she had whenever she was being followed or watched. It was the same feeling she got in the Buy More workshop when John Casey stared at her over his work.

He was following her.

Sarah pulled her handkerchief out of her dress sleeve and glanced at it for a moment, lamenting the fact that she may very well be ruining the piece of lace with what she was about to do it. With a sigh, she dabbed at the mist on her face, then pretended to accidentally let it slip from her fingers.

It fluttered to the ground and luckily just missed the large puddle, but she did have to step on it with a muddy boot to keep the wind from picking it up. As Sarah bent to retrieve it, she chanced a very quick look over her shoulder, her trained eyes sweeping the scene behind her, looking for anyone who might be staring at her, or someone darting behind a wall or a cart or another person to keep her from seeing them. There was no one like that. And disappointingly, no John Casey.

When she stood again with her handkerchief clutched in her hand and began walking, the feeling returned, and she continued to feel it the entire way back to the Buy More, all the way until she swept into the door and found Chuck and Morgan sitting behind the cashier, discussing whatever dime novel it was that was clutched in the toy maker's hand.

}o{

Sarah found sitting in the passenger seat of a horse drawn carriage much more pleasant than bouncing around on the metal seat of Charles Bartowski's steam car. Her own seat had been bruised for a day or two afterwards. It made working her shifts at the Aviator's Timepiece less than comfortable.

They finally stepped into the brightly lit foyer of the Carlyle, one of Los Angeles' finest clubs, situated in a grandiose mansion up in the Los Angeles hills, built maybe fifty years earlier. According to Chuck during the drive over, the first and second floors of the mansion were both made up of club rooms for smoking, billiards, gambling, and drinking. The food in the third story restaurant was apparently "gourmet".

He had said that with a tinge of pride and excitement as he guided the horse and buggy towards their destination.

She gushed as much as was appropriate for her role, telling him she had never had "gourmet" before, and oh, did that mean the food would be French? It was a simple thing, lying to him about something so trivial, considering she had eaten gourmet food in nearly every country of the world—at least each continent a few times over.

There was nothing exciting about a place like the Carlyle. The women who passed by her wore the latest fashions, their hair piled on their heads, glittering jewelry adorning their powdery skin. And the men wore fine suits that stayed in mint condition even as they caroused. Although…it was early yet.

Of course, the women weren't allowed in the club floors—only the restaurant, and even that was only if accompanied by a male escort.

It was the same in all of these sorts of places, and it was nauseating. The smell of perfume and stale cigar smoke permeated the foyer and Sarah would have choked if she were not used to these sorts of places.

As for Chuck, he was not so lucky. She saw him subtly cough into his closed fist once before sweeping his top hat off of his head, the same top hat that seemed not to fit him as well as he would have liked. At least, that was how it seemed to Sarah, considering how often he took his hand from the reins during their drive to adjust the top hat over his curls. Tilting it at different angles. Never satisfied with it.

Although, the far more likely reason was that it was a brand new hat, and a style he was not used to. It was a formal top hat, certainly, a bit taller than he would normally wear, especially considering how tall he was without it.

Sarah watched him uncover his dark hair. He had made some semblance of an attempt to flatten the soft-looking curls atop his head, and they were neat enough, but he certainly did not fit in at the Carlyle. It did not matter that his suit was brand new and fit him extremely well.

Better than she had expected, actually.

He wore black and grey pinstripe trousers with a soft yellow—almost gold—dress shirt tucked into them, a black silk vest buttoned over that with a maroon knotted tie, and a black dress jacket with long coattails that went halfway to his knees. Chuck's hands were even covered with white gloves, gloves that he kept tugging at, as though they were too short for his long fingers. She had to admit that Chuck Bartowski cleaned up very nice, but there was still something very unassuming about him. She was clueless about what it was that made him stick out like a sore thumb here. And she vowed to pay attention throughout their dinner so that she might pinpoint the reason by the end of the night.

Sarah Walker was nothing if not persevering.

They were led to the back of the foyer, where an elevator awaited them. Her hand tucked into the crook of Chuck's arm, Sarah felt a bit uneasy about stepping into a three foot by three foot box, having someone close it on her, and being mechanically raised in a small shaft for over forty feet.

When she glanced to her right at the man whose side was rather unceremoniously shoved against hers, the doubt was suddenly shoved to the back of her mind. Because Chuck was peering up through the wooden gate covering the entrance, his face set in awe like a little boy as he studied the mechanisms hoisting them up to the third floor.

He must have noticed her looking at him strangely, because he stood back a bit again, a soft smattering of red on his cheeks. "I apologize if I seem overly exuberant. It's just that I don't usually have much reason to go into a building with an elevator. They have been around for so long, but it's been rare indeed when I have gotten to actually stand inside of one. A moving one, no less. I shall endeavor to behave myself better once we get to the restaurant."

She just smiled. "There's no need to apologize. It is fascinating." Although she found it less fascinating and more nerve-wracking, the way it shuddered beneath her feet. She hated these mechanical and steam powered devices because she couldn't control them. While riding a horse, Sarah could control her mount by tugging the reins a certain way. Machines took that control out of her hands and it was more than just a little unsettling.

They were finally led into a sprawling dining hall, no less than four massive chandeliers shimmering in the electric light as they hung from the ceiling. The glow of the lights created a golden aura about the room. They sat at a small table near the edge of the room beside what Sarah suspected was a counterfeit plant.

Chuck politely pulled her chair out for her, then moved to sit across from her. She was pleasantly surprised by his poise and impeccable manners as he ordered one of the more inexpensive wines from the list.

The live orchestra played a quiet but vibrant tune in the back of the room, sitting with their instruments in front of a massive window that also acted as a vertical sundial. Sarah wondered how well the thing actually worked, considering how rarely they saw the sun in Los Angeles anymore. Perhaps it worked on windy days.

Although if she read the plaque on the wall beside the entrance correctly, the Carlyle was a private residence at one time, built in 1847 by an affluent family with plantations in Mexico.

The atmosphere was subdued, the quietude interrupted by soft conversations and eating utensils being knocked and scratched against chinaware, decadent cups being set in saucers with a clink.

The conversation flowed as easily as it always did between them, and Sarah found herself having to fight to not get caught up in the romance of the place. She had been in this situation so many times, and usually it was punctuated by some gaudy piece of jewelry presented to her that she would have to fawn over. And then she would sell it later for a steamship ticket to the next big city, the next con.

She knew that this was different.

Chuck was not a mark. He was a man just like the rest of them had been, surely. But he was moving a bit choppily as he ate, leaning his face far over his soup bowl as he ate. He was being careful. Not for the first time tonight, she pondered over how much the toy maker had spent on the suit. But the way he was eating with unnecessary caution made her think it was more than enough.

The other men she had eaten expensive meals with in clubs much like the Carlyle could buy suits like Chuck's without blinking an eye—dozens of suits, even, although theirs were tailored specifically to fit their builds. Chuck was being careful about where to lean his wrist against the table's edge.

His eyes darted around the room every so often, as though he was afraid someone would see right through him, hoist him away from the table forcefully, and toss him out to the street. She knew he was acutely aware of the fact that he did not belong in an establishment such as this one. And if she were honest with herself, that was more endearing to her than it should have been.

But he was keeping up with her conversation all the same, and his smiles were just as sincere as always.

By the time they finished all three courses of their meal and had finished the entire bottle of wine, Sarah felt loose and warm. She was acutely aware of the way it felt to have his warm chocolate eyes on her as she spoke, and she was less aware of the flirtatious lilt to her voice as they conversed.

Or perhaps she was aware and just didn't care as much as she knew she should.

Because allowing herself to enjoy the meal and the company didn't mean she had not seen the color of the man's ascot sitting to her right, or the fact that one of the waiters' mustaches twitched when he was unsatisfied with a tip left on the table. If there had been a threat in any way, shape, or form, Sarah Walker was more than prepared to neutralize it.

"You know, someday I am going to need my deck of cards back," Chuck was saying, breaking through her reverie as he pulled his money out of the inner pocket of his formal jacket. He was extremely fast about counting it out, keeping his eyes on her for the most part.

"I think it might be in your best interest if I keep the cards, Chuck." She leaned her chin on her palm, her elbow propped on the table top, and smirked.

He sent a faux glare in her direction and she heard a melodious giggle bubble up from her chest and escape through her mouth, completely unpracticed and surprisingly sincere. She gave him a close-mouthed smile and leaned forward.

Suddenly the orchestra struck up a fluid waltz, one Sarah recognized well. The last time they had danced, the rousing polka had left her laughing and breathless. For Sarah Walker the Ice Queen, dancing was more often than not about persuasion—letting her mark turn her and tilting her head back to reveal her perfect neck, a neck that begged to be adorned by a necklace that cost more than what her life was worth. Hooded eyes and a soft smile granting her access to a man's wealth, and then she would rob him blind before he could even lay a lecherous finger on her. But dancing had never been about enjoyment. Music had never called to her the way it so obviously did to others.

But that night in the shack by the sea, hopping and skipping and laughing, so hard that she found herself rocking forward and clutching her belly at times—It had felt amazing. Although Chuck wasn't the type who would be a good dancer. His sister, absolutely. Eleanor Woodcomb seemed to be the type of woman who was talented at everything she put her mind to. And she had a grace and elegance that her younger brother perhaps lacked. It wasn't his fault, really. His priorities were different. And fitting into society did not seem to be one of said priorities for the toy maker.

Ellie seemed to be a social butterfly by nature, and especially considering all she had learned about the young woman from trailing both her and her husband. Sarah would be lying if she did not admit it was purely because she was curious about them both. Chuck's protection had little to do with it. She was especially curious about Devon Woodcomb, who seemed to be a devoted man, not just to his wife but to his brother-in-law as well. And from Chuck's descriptions of his hobbies, he was a rather odd gentleman.

Both of the Woodcombs fit well into all walks of life. She supposed it went with the profession of being a doctor where Devon was concerned, and as his wife, Ellie must have learned as well. But more than that, Sarah suspected the nurse of using her social aptitude in order to further her cause. That was the only thing Sarah knew undoubtedly and absolutely (besides the woman's deep affection for her family): Eleanor Woodcomb wanted more than anything to be a professional doctor, and not just a nurse.

Sarah shook her head a little and watched Chuck as his sparkling brown eyes followed one of the couples crossing to the dance floor to participate in the waltz. No, Chuck simply could not be a good dancer on his own. There was too much grace in the way he moved during the polka, a seriousness to his steps even as he grinned and laughed with her. He must have accessed the Intersect before the dance started. How, she could not even begin to guess.

Curiosity flooded through her and she felt a tingle in her limbs as she shifted a bit on her seat in an antsy fashion. Because she wanted to see it again. This time she would be prepared. She would watch him closely. Did he know it was happening when he used the Intersect? Was he using it, really? Or was it using him?

That sent a chill right up her spine and she shivered.

She leaned forward, her movement catching his eye and causing him to look at her. "They're playing a waltz. I don't suppose that's in your repertoire?" Is the waltz in the Intersect?

Chuck's cheeks bloomed red for a moment and he gaped a bit, his eyes flicking to the couples moving into the middle of the room before darting to the table where his hands were folded. "I-I never learned to waltz, I'm afraid."

"I can teach you. It went quite well last time."

Despite the situation, she saw a pleased glimmer in his eyes, as though he was remembering how much he had enjoyed the dance that night. But then there was also a flicker of confusion and doubt, interestingly enough. She was not sure what that might mean.

"But this is—The people here are…" He sighed. "This is the Carlyle. You either know how to waltz or you stay at your table. I sincerely don't want to embarrass you and I know I shall. Or I might break your foot. Either way, this night won't end as well as I had hoped."

What exactly was he hoping for at the end of this night? She couldn't help but wonder.

Shaking her head, she pushed that thought to the side. "Come. We will dance. You were wonderful last time."

"That was the polka."

"Yes, and this is the waltz. Perhaps next we will try a quadrille." She raised her eyebrows. The gentleman was supposed to extend the invitation to the lady and the dance was only moments away from beginning. It was now or never.

He finally huffed and shot to his feet, so fast that he almost seemed a bit dizzy. She supposed if she was over six feet tall, she might have the same reaction after standing that quickly.

And then his hand was in front of her face, palm up, his fingers bent softly. She was surprised by how inviting it looked, so warm and strong but gentle at the same time. The healed cut on his index finger and the calluses…

The hand of a man who didn't merely shuffle papers around a desk. No, Chuck Bartowski's hand was that of a man who created things, whittled wood and put together toys and machines. A self-made man's hand.

Clearing her throat, she put her own elegant hand in his work-hardened one and smiled up at him, letting him pull her from her chair and guide her out to the dance floor into a small space on the outskirts of the dance floor. She thought he did that on purpose, so that he could have easier access to the exit when he failed at waltzing. It made her smile a little harder.

But then her smile dimmed as she concentrated on him. He was looking anywhere but at her face as he moved his hands into position, one on her waist, the other clutching her own hand. Just before the whine of the violin in which the first step was to start, she watched the toy maker's eyes lose focus.

Stepping a bit closer, she felt a shudder go through him, his eyelids flickering, a soft moan exiting through his lips, breathy and pained. And then his eyes snapped open completely, he shook his head, looked at her in confusion, and swayed on his feet.

"Chuck?"

She pulled her hand from his and clutched onto his shoulders tightly, moving him away from the dance floor, supporting a lot more of his weight than she let on as they neared their table.

"Pardon me, Madame. Is your companion alright?" a waiter she had heard approaching asked once he reached their side.

"Yes, thank you." She shooed him away with authority, meeting his green eyes steadily. He nodded quickly, hurrying off to leave her with Chuck, who now seemed to have regained his footing. "Are you alright, Chuck?" she breathed, purposefully lowering her voice in an attempt lessen his embarrassment. He was already looking nervously over her shoulder at the other guests, most likely imagining the whispers and disparaging frowns at his disruptive behavior. "Chuck?" she repeated, about a half second away from grabbing him by his chin and forcing him to meet her gaze when he did it on his own.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah. I don't know…" He swallowed. "We should perhaps skip the dance."

"Of course," she rushed, threading her arm through his and walking him through the tables. No one took much notice of either of them, and with the way Chuck seemed to have regained his equilibrium, his eyes sharp and focused (albeit mortified), it was not long before the young couple was outside in the crisp night air.

Sarah held his hat in her hands, playing with the brim as he attempted to slip his gloves back on. His hands were shaking too hard, though, so instead he shoved them in his inner coat pocket to hide it from her.

He honestly looked as though he wanted nothing more than to melt into a puddle and slide into the gutter. She set a gentle hand on his shoulder and offered him his hat a bit hesitantly.

"Oh," he murmured. "I-I forgot that inside. I'm glad you thought of it. Thank you, Sarah."

"That's quite alright."

He nodded politely, but refused to meet her gaze, so she slid her hand from his shoulder and wound her fingers around his arm to squeeze gently. "Chuck, are you alright? I thought I might lose you for a moment there."

"No, I-I'm alright. Thank you for your concern. I suppose the wine hit me suddenly, on top of being…" He stopped and his blush deepened. She couldn't help the small spike of concern in her breast. "Do you think we might walk for a bit before I take you home? The fresh air might be just what I need. Are you cold?" He finally met her eye and she saw confusion and embarrassment, and a twinge of worry. But Sarah had a feeling that the worry wasn't about whether or not she was cold, but the strange occurrence during the dance. "Would you like my jacket?"

"No, thank you. I'm very comfortable with just my cloak. Let us walk. It would set my mind at ease."

Even though he seemed to be moving just fine, she kept her arm tucked in his. It was good for the cover. The Sarah Walker he had gotten to know over the past few weeks would be concerned, even if she assumed it was from too much wine.

They walked quietly for a minute or two around the mansion and towards the back where there was a large garden and expansive grounds perfect for a night stroll when the moon just so happened to be shining through the soot clouds.

Finally, she felt Chuck tense a bit beneath her arm, his muscle twitching. And then she heard an intake of breath. "I really do apologize for my behavior inside. I don't quite know what came over me."

"There's no need for you to apologize. I forced you to dance. What happened anyway, if you don't mind my asking?"

She knew exactly what had happened. Well, not exactly. The inner workings of the Intersect were a complete mystery to her. How so much information could be stored in one man's brain…How did it get there? How did it fit? How was he still a lucid, functioning human being instead of thrashing about in an asylum? No matter how many questions she had asked Agent Larkin when he first told her about the Intersect and Chuck Bartowski, the IEL agent had no answers. It made sense in an automaton. There was nothing human there to impeded it. Just a compartment for the Intersect's vessel to fit into. But for a human to absorb all of the secrets. There had been something else, though. Something Larkin was not telling her, something that had seemed to worry him greatly. And he left before she could get to the bottom of it.

"No, I—Of course I don't mind. Not a bit. I think…This is so humiliating but I don't go to places like this very often. In fact, I've never been to the Carlyle, or anything even close to it, to be honest." He looked up at her and pursed his lips, his eyebrows knit in embarrassment. "A toy maker has no use for a place like this."

She was right, then. He had bought the suit specifically for the occasion. As well as the hat and the gloves and most likely the shoes and coat as well. Sarah wished the confusing pull inside of her chest would go away.

"Anyways, I think I might have been so out of my depth in there, I wonder if I made myself so nervous that I, well, almost fainted." He ducked his head in shame and she boggled for a moment. She wasn't sure what to think. There was a chance that Chuck had no idea that something was happening to him. Surely, he knew nothing about the Intersect, but had he put the pieces together about the strange contraption Bryce had brought into the Buy More all those weeks ago? Had he made that connection?

If there was one thing she knew about Chuck Bartowski, it was that he was brilliant and incredibly logical.

But if he knew Bryce's automaton had done something to him, was he really making up a story about almost fainting out of nerves because of a silly restaurant filled with stuff-shirts? She was confused, but determined to get to the bottom of it.

Perhaps not tonight though, considering how much the Intersect had already affected him. She wasn't sure how safe it was to force it on him twice in one night.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of, Chuck. I have never been to a place like this before, though I have to admit, I was more excited than nervous."

"Well, either way, you weren't on the verge of fainting like I was."

"What can I say? I have a very strong constitution. It's from growing up on the farm." Her voice halted and she quickly let out a breath, looking away from him and licking her lips. She was panicked, terrified even.

Chuck walked on, not missing a step. "That's right! You told me you moved here from the country."

She shut her eyes in relief momentarily, having forgotten part of her cover was that she had moved to Los Angeles from the country. But it came out just the same, and it had been so easy, so commonplace. So comfortable.

Sarah decided she had to get a grip on herself. And she had to figure this man out, or he would figure her out first. He was smart. Brilliant, even. It wouldn't be long, and she had to be careful. She had to be.

They came to a small clearing in the trees and stopped at a fence built with wooden beams that seemed to be a couple of decades old. The ocean lay exposed before them, moonlight flickering over its surface. The sounds of the Carlyle behind them, drifting out of the club's open windows, were drowned out by the crashing of the waves on the cliffside beneath them.

But Sarah still heard Chuck perfectly when he turned to her and spoke. "You know, in the past few months I've gotten into the habit of standing on the shore and looking out at the ocean. Night and day, it doesn't matter. I don't know why. I was never much of an admirer of ocean growing up. But lately I have wondered about what's out there, you know?"

She turned and stared at his profile for a moment, taking in the agreeable curve at the end of his nose, his full eyelashes, and the curls poking out from beneath the hat that sat a bit crooked atop his head. "It is very peaceful, the ocean," she finally replied and a small smile, one that seemed slightly melancholy and certainly out of character, tilted the side of his mouth.

"It certainly is. Well, for us. Perhaps it isn't quite as peaceful for the courageous souls who willingly brave Mother Nature's fury to ship goods to far off shores." He paused, his eyes taking on a soft look, his irises so dark out here where there was no electricity, no flickering candles or lamp light. "I wonder what it's like to be out there. On a boat, I mean."

"What do you mean, 'you wonder'?" she asked, tilting her head. She realized exactly what he meant right after she asked, and she cursed herself a bit when he seemed rather bashful and embarrassed. "You've never been on a boat?" she asked quietly. "That's a shame. It's quite the experience."

Her friendly tone did nothing to alleviate his embarrassment it seemed as he ducked his head and scuffed his fist on the fence. And then he gave a bit of a self-effacing shrug and pushed back from the rail, reaching up to straighten his top hat, pouting slightly when it slumped down to a tilt again as though he hadn't even touched it. It would have made him look a bit rakish if she did not know that Chuck Bartowski hadn't a rakish bone in his body.

Then she thought of the suit he bought, the way he had saved up his money to take her to the Carlyle, how he pulled out all of the stops with the horse and buggy. It wasn't necessarily rakish for him to be hopeful of what might come at the end of the night when he dropped her back off at her room. It was what any unattached young man who had been seeing an unattached young woman would come to expect after weeks of easy report and flirtation. She had led him to believe she would be receptive to his advances. And so she would make the best of whatever happened.

But then she noticed he seemed uncomfortable.

"Oh, I am sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, Chuck. It's just that you live so close to the sea, I thought perhaps for the Buy More or just for pleasure even, you might have taken a boat out at some point. I don't mean to assume and I apologize."

"No, please. Don't apologize. Please. I just never had any reason to go onto a boat. It costs a small fortune these days, more than I can afford at least. And…" He sighed. She was acutely aware of the ease with which he discussed his lack of fortune, and she wasn't sure if it was because he was confident about his lot in life, or if her company made him comfortable enough to do so.

"And what?"

"Well, I was born here, raised here, and I'm assuming I'll die here. Someday."

Someday.

If only he knew how much danger he would be in if anyone knew about what had just happened on the dance floor inside. The information waiting dormant in his brain. It was probably even dangerous for him to know about it. But she told Bryce she would protect him. And she would.

She told herself it had everything to do with blackmail, and with the payment she expected to receive when this was all over. It would be the same if anyone was standing here beside her. It had nothing to do with Chuck himself.

"But would you like to hear something even more preposterous than that?" She was glad to see him grinning now, even though it was a bit sheepish.

"Oh, I surely would," she played along.

"I've never flown, either."

"Really?"

"Mmm." He nodded once, emphatically, his lips pressed together.

"Well, you're just full of surprises, Chuck Bartowski." She threaded her arm through his again and leaned close, looking out at the dark horizon and siphoning a bit of his warmth for herself. It was getting rather chilly.

He must have noticed, because he laid a hand over hers on his arm and patted it gently. "Why don't we head back to the front and get the buggy? The breeze seems to be picking up."

"It's because we're standing on a cliff at the ocean," she mused, allowing him to lead her back along the path through the clump of trees and back onto the mansion's main lawn. She looked up at the lit windows, pushed wide open, seeing the rowdy gentlemen with their ties loose and their jackets off, holding pool cues and drinks, laughing raucously at each other's most likely ill-conceived jokes. And she found herself infinitely glad that she, as a woman, was not allowed into that part of the clubhouse.

When the valet came around with their buggy, Sarah bypassed the cocky young man attempting to help her into her seat and instead let Chuck do the honors. It was as though he knew she was capable of doing it herself, and was merely going through the same motions that any gentleman would, with the way he outstretched his hand and let her control how much she would use his support.

Not for the first time since she met him, she caught herself smiling, for no one's benefit at all. It was just a smile. Something that didn't happen very often to Sarah Walker the Ice Queen. She quashed it immediately as the buggy rocked under Chuck's weight as he hoisted himself into the driver's seat.

"Ready?" he asked. "Would you like my coat now?"

"No, thank you." Even as she said it, she felt goose pimples rise on her arms.

"Alright, Lady Stubborn," he chuckled, reaching behind the seat and producing a fantastically thick, wool blanket. "Here. I insist."

She decided not to argue, and instead took the blanket with a smirk, wrapping it around her and carefully smoothing it to cover her lap. "Thank you, Chuck."

He tipped his hat a bit jauntily and flicked the reins, the buggy surging forward with a bit of a jolt and nearly causing his hat to tip right off of his head and into his lap. When Sarah reached up to right it again, they were both grinning, an endearing blush on Chuck's cheeks.

They bounced along in silence for a few minutes as Chuck expertly guided the horse pulling them through the streets, until Sarah accidentally bumped his arm with hers and turned to apologize. Her voice caught in her throat when she realized he had not even noticed. He seemed lost in thought, a deep line between his eyebrows, his lips pursed, his nose flared. Then he clenched his jaw a little and took a deep breath, causing Sarah to wonder if he was trying to decide whether or not he should say something.

Was this the moment where he professed his undying devotion, like most of her marks did?

She was confused by how vehemently she didn't want that from him. Though she chalked it up to the fact that she wasn't sure how long she could keep up the ruse if it progressed too quickly. She fought back the disappointment and gently set her fingers to his wrist.

He spun on her, eyes wide, the line on his forehead disappearing. "I'm sorry, Sarah. Did you say something to me?"

"No, Chuck. I didn't. Though something seems to be bothering you. Are you sure you're alright?"

Chuck licked his lips and looked half-ready to stop the buggy on the side of the street, but when he took in his surroundings, he seemed to think better of it and continued along, turning the next corner.

"I think I am. I think I'm alright," he said quietly.

"You think?" She scooted a bit closer. He really was warm.

He shrugged, tilting his head, his hat tipping again. With a frustrated growl, he reached up, whipped the hat off of his head, and dropped it behind the seat, running his hand over his hair and mussing it a bit, then loosening his tie just enough to make it easier for him to breathe. "Sorry. That hat has been bothering me all night."

"Yes, I noticed."

His grip tightened on the reins and he licked his lips again. She found her eyes staying there for a moment. "Sarah, I don't want you to think I'm mad."

Her blue gaze snapped back up quickly. "What? Mad? Why?"

"I mean, not angry mad. Just…I don't want you to think I'm insane, is what I mean."

"I know what you mean, but why would I ever think that?"

"I'm going to tell you something that you can't tell anyone else."

She felt cold suddenly, and she forced herself not to make any assumptions, instead just nodding silently, and this time she was the one licking her lips.

"What happened to me tonight, before we were going to dance, I wasn't going to faint. At least, not for the reason I said. I was nervous, but I like to think I have a stronger constitution than that, even though I didn't grow up on a farm like you." He smiled a little at her, still driving on.

She smiled back, trying her best to keep it from being a nervous smile.

"It's happened before, but never so much that I almost fell over like what happened tonight."

He paused so long, she wondered if he was expecting her to say something, so she cleared her throat daintily. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"I asked my sister about it a few weeks ago. See, it isn't just feeling overwhelmed or dizzy. There are these images—"

Suddenly Chuck was forced to tug on the reins, barely keeping the horse from rearing up onto its hind legs as it cried out in alarm. A man dressed in rags stood in front of the horse, yelling loudly, a large metal pipe in his hand. "Money!" he yelled, kneeling down and banging the pipe on the ground.

The man's face was red and bloated, his hair stringy, a scraggly beard clinging to his face, his clothes draped over his gaunt vulture-like figure.

"Money!" he repeated, continually banging the pipe on the ground.

Chuck reached under his seat and proffered his top hat. "Here!" he interjected, causing the man to look up, his eyes wide and jaundiced as he peered through the hair hanging about his face. "Here, take this."

"That innit money, ya jackass!" the man belted.

"It will keep your head warm. And you'll look like the governor."

A smile broke out on the man's face, showing his less than full set of teeth as he snatched the hat and put it on his head. But then he went back on the offensive, brandishing the pipe like a weapon in Chuck's face.

Sarah had to hold herself back, because she wanted so badly to leap over her companion, grab the man's pipe, and knock him out. But she had a cover to protect, and until Chuck was really and honestly in danger, she could not break character. "Chuck, give him this," she said, unwrapping the blanket from her and putting it in his lap.

When Chuck didn't move immediately, his eyes only flicking to the side, she thought perhaps he hadn't heard her. Or perhaps he was scared stiff. But then with lightning speed, he knocked the beggar's arm away with one hand and tossed the blanket over his head with the other, grabbing the reins and galloping them away from danger and around the corner.

They rushed along in silence, and Sarah wondered exactly what Chuck was going to say before the homeless fellow attempted to hold them up with a pipe. The fact of the matter was that it was not entirely a rarity to be accosted by those who lived on the streets and had been ravaged by hunger long enough that they had been driven mad. She was struck suddenly with the realization that Bryce's assumption of Chuck's innocence—a life lived in a safe bubble—was not the reality of the toy maker's existence. He grew up here, was faced with these things all of the time. She was a bit surprised, and mostly just glad. Glad that Bryce was wrong about Chuck. The con woman wasn't sure why she was as glad as she was.

It made her job easier, certainly.

She tried to push the image of the beggar's yellow eyes out of her mind, and was successful by the time they pulled to a stop in front of Mister McLeod's house. She rented a room, a kitchen, and a washroom from him. The house was wedged between his two story home and a hatter shop.

Chuck hopped down from his seat and rounded to her side, not leaving her any room to attempt to continue the conversation they had been having. He had said something about images. But the look in his eyes made her decide not to broach the subject again. At least not tonight.

There was time enough for that.

He helped her down and she turned to face him. "Will you be alright getting back alone? No residual illness from the Carlyle?" she asked with concern lacing her tone.

"Oh, I'm fine," he said quickly. "Let me walk you back."

She paused, eyeing him closely for a moment, then nodded, taking his proffered arm and walking side by side with him along the stone path, past Mister McLeod's house, through the gate, and around the small vegetable garden to her door.

Sarah was prepared for this. She had been prepared all night, ever since she realized how much money and effort Chuck had put into the outing. She knew he would make his move. They always made their move after an extravagant outing. There was always an endgame.

She knew there was no way for her to deny him this without it disappointing him. And she couldn't afford for things to be awkward between them. She couldn't afford for Chuck to feel unwanted. She would lose the only way she could spend time with him, and how would she protect him otherwise? She felt ridiculous stalking him when she wasn't working shifts at the Aviator's Timepiece or spending time with him at the Buy More and elsewhere. But Bryce had given her a task. And she would do what she had to in order to make things easier. Stalking the toy maker was not easy. And she knew eventually she would be found out if that was the only way she could keep track of him.

So she turned to him at her door, fishing for her key in her pouch, then looking at him expectantly when she found it and clutched it in her palm. "This was a lovely night, Chuck."

"Barring the waltz incident and the madman attempting to hit me with a pipe, you mean," he said a bit self-consciously.

"You had no way of controlling the 'waltz incident' and I thought you handled the madman with the pipe heroically." He blushed a bit, puffing his cheeks out and rubbing his hands down the front of his coat shyly. "I still had a magnificent time," she added, smiling rather flirtatiously as he pinked further. "As did I. Thank you for being so understanding." He swallowed thickly and reached out to take her hands, gently squeezing her fingers. "Goodnight."

She blinked, then schooled her features into a small smile. That's it?

"Thank you, Chuck. I can honestly say that this has been one of the best nights I can remember having. Ever." She did her best not to think about how true that was, and instead marveled on the fact that he had not kissed her. He wasn't being bashful or nervous, as though he was considering it and just didn't have the courage. No, instead, she suspected it had not even entered his mind as being an option.

Instead of being offended as she would have been with her usual mark, she felt…disarmed. Because Chuck Bartowski was absolutely the most singular person she had ever met. It was no secret that he admired her; he thought she was pretty. She had seen the way his jaw dropped and his hat slipped from his fingers, simultaneously, when she opened her door to meet him on her front stoop. And the small glances she saw out of the corner of her eye when he thought she wasn't looking. He was attracted to her, and it was no wonder. She had spent years honing the art of being attractive and charming.

Yet, he seemed to expect absolutely nothing from her in return.

And she had never experienced anything like it. Not from anyone ever in her entire life.

"It was my pleasure," he said with a smile. "Shall I see you soon?"

She watched him begin to back off of her front stoop, pulling his coat a bit tighter around his body as the breeze picked up. "I hope so," she admitted, sticking her key into the lock and turning it. "Goodnight, Chuck," she said over her shoulder with a warm smile as he grinned back and tipped an imaginary hat. Since the one he had started the night with now sat on the head of a now slightly warmer beggar.

She forced a giggle out, still too stunned by his inherent sweetness to really giggle at his antics, and stepped into the darkness of her home.

}o{

Chuck got to the end of the pathway, feeling a bit breathless, his head still aching dully from his earlier attack in the club. But when he stuffed his hands in his pocket, his finger brushed over a lump and he halted suddenly, realizing he still had the locket he meant to give back to her.

She had brought it in a few days earlier because the latch was busted and he offered to fix it, but she was rushed and could not afford to wait for him. So he brought it with him tonight, intending to give it back when he dropped her off at the end of the night.

Turning around, he hastened back to her rooms and loped up onto the stoop, raising his hand to knock. His hand stalled when he heard a loud thump and then the chilling crash of breaking glass.

"Sarah…" he breathed, his heart racing. "Sarah!" He grabbed the handle and turned it, whipping the door open and stepping inside, his eyes sweeping the candlelit room to make sure she was alright.

His tall form halted just inside the door when he met with an improbable sight.

Sarah Walker was sitting on John Casey's chest. The larger man had a death grip on her wrists, straining to keep from having his face pummeled by her fists. Suddenly her head lifted to see him and her eyes widened. "Chuck!"

Casey turned bulging eyes to him as well, but used Sarah's momentary distraction to shove her off of him. She flew back into the dresser and grunted in pain, landing hard on her shoulder. Casey was on his feet, lifting a foot to stomp down on her face. Chuck almost cried out in warning, but it came out as a squeak when Sarah caught Casey's boot in both hands, simultaneously twisting his foot with a snap and sweeping his other leg with speed that seemed impossible in such a full skirt.

"Son of a bitch!" Casey growled in pain midair, slamming onto his back, the air whooshing out of his lungs in a wheeze.

And then Sarah was above him again, straddling him and punching him hard so that the back of his head slammed against the wood floor.

Sarah was bucked off of him again, but managed to scramble to her feet this time, wiping her hair out of her face as she and Casey circled each other.

"What is happening?!" Chuck whispered, stunned still, unable to do anything but watch as the woman of his dreams and his surly assistant battled.

"Who are you?" Casey growled.

"Who are you?" she snapped back.

The bulky man swung at her.

Sarah batted Casey's fist away, then brought up her other elbow to crunch into his face. Blood spurted from his injured nose and he staggered back a few paces. "You stupid bitch," he growled, reaching into his coat.

Before Chuck knew what was happening, both Casey and Sarah were brandishing knives. Where Sarah had gotten hers, he had no way of knowing. But that wasn't the most important thing at the moment. Casey made to slash at Sarah with his knife

"Sarah, watch out!"

But she ignored him, intent on disarming her foe. While she wasn't successful at disarming him, she at least parried his attack, starting a flurry of swipes and dodges.

Chuck's frantic eyes darted around the room, looking for something, anything, he could use to help her. He couldn't let her get hurt. "Sarah!"

"Chuck, you have to get out of here! Now!" she barked, her piercing gaze never leaving her attacker's. The tone of her voice should have spurred him to follow orders, because he had never heard it from her before. But he couldn't—he wouldn't budge.

"Chuck! Damn it! Go! Please!" she said, desperately, barely parrying Casey's swipe in time. As it was the edge of his blade tore a small slice in her dress. Chuck saw bit of red against the fabric as she cried out and staggered back, clenching her jaw in determination, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Chuck! Go!" she ordered through her teeth.

Again, Casey used her momentary distraction to swing his leg around and knock the blade from her hand. It clattered across the room as Chuck watched it bounce along the floorboards.

Then he saw Casey move towards Sarah. "NO!"

They crashed to the ground together, Sarah crying out in pain when her shoulder hit the hard floor again, but she reacted in time to catch Casey's wrist before he could bring his knife down into her throat.

The strained, desperate whimper coming from her mouth was what did it. And the way Casey's other hand was squeezing her throat tightly—so tightly.

Chuck Bartowski saw red, and he moved without consciousness.

It was only a handful of seconds later when Casey's head snapped, his eyes crossing and his grip loosening around Sarah's throat and the knife he threatened her with.

"Aw hell," he grunted, before slumping forward onto Sarah.

She tossed him off of her like a sack of potatoes, choking and gasping for breath, swiping her hair out of her face as she looked up at Chuck.

He stood gaping, staring with unbelievably wide eyes and a deathly pale face between her and Casey. He held in both hands his makeshift weapon, one of the drawers he had desperately tugged straight out of Sarah's dresser, a few of her undergarments spilling over the side. He raised his eyes to hers, blinking once.

"…Sarah?"

A/N: The horse dung has hit the dirigible propellor. I think it's safe to say.

I would love to know how you liked this chapter! Thanks, everybody!

And I'll see you soon, of course!

SC