A/N: I left you lot on a bit of a cliffy last time. So here we continue right where last chapter left off.

BUT FIRST, thank you to all of my reviewers. All of my friends. At the moment there are only a few people reading and reviewing, which is alright with me because you guys are QUALITY reviewers. You're all incredibly special to me. Thanks so much.

I'm sure some of you are wondering when the action is going to happen. I warned you that this story was going to move a little slowly, especially for readers who like to get to the point. But now...we have some action.

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.

Chuck just walked in on Sarah Walker and John Casey battling to the death, and only through semi-conscious action was Chuck able to put Casey out of commission, thus rescuing his lady fair from the dragon. But oh how things get turned on their head because I'm a nasty meanie! Hehe!

Enjoy, steam-readers!

Sarah didn't take her eyes off of Chuck for even a moment as she pushed herself to her feet, wincing at the ache in her side. She slowly moved her hand up, trying to calm the young man standing in front of her. His eyes were popping out of his head, his entire body seemingly frozen.

"Chuck?"

His eyes were fastened on John Casey who still lay unconscious on the ground at her feet.

The toy maker wasn't responding, but his mouth was moving like that of a fish out of water.

"Chuck, look at me."

He blinked once, then raised his tumultuous brown gaze to her blue one. "Is he dead? Did I k—" His voice caught in his throat and he swallowed, his eyes shutting for a moment as he seemingly attempted to compose himself, an effort she appreciated at the moment. "Did I kill him?" When his eyes opened again, there wasn't just panic, but anguish. It was unexpected.

"No," she answered immediately, attempting to reassure him. "He is unconscious, but still alive. Chuck, everything is al—"

"AH!" She had seen Chuck's eyes lower to her intimates still in the drawer clutched in his grip, but had not entirely been prepared for him to yelp and throw the drawer to the ground as though it had spontaneously combusted. It crashed to the ground and turned over once before stopping against the wall, leaving a trail of Sarah's undergarments on the floorboards. She watched as his eye twitched before he looked purposefully in the other direction, his face bright red. "S—I'm sorry. About your things. That—I didn't—Oh my God," he whimpered, putting his hands on his head. "I can't breathe. The room is spinning and I can't breathe."

"Chuck…" she said in a calm voice, hoping that repeating his name would calm him in some way. She was way out of her depth at the moment. This was not supposed to happen. And certainly not this soon. "Are you alright?"

"Uh…What? Wha—Um. Why?" His voice suddenly shot up to an increasingly high and feverish pitch. "Why is my assistant in your room? Why was he attacking you? He almost—Oh God, he tried to kill you!" Chuck's eyes surveyed her from top to bottom.

And suddenly he was close—very close—his hands hovering near her as though he was worried he might hurt her if he actually touched her.

She was surprised by a few things: the first being that his own confusion and terror had very quickly taken a backseat to his concern for her well-being, and the second being that he had not moved to alert the patrol yet. She appreciated that more than anything else, and silently congratulated him on his level-headedness. There was nothing the patrol could do in this situation, and certainly there was no guarantee she and Chuck would not get the short end of the stick from a corrupt lawman. She had already killed one to save Chuck's life when they first met, and she did not particularly relish killing another. Unless she had to. And she would prefer not to have to.

Certainly not in front of Chuck. He was already reeling from what he had just witnessed.

"Sarah, did he hurt you? Of course he did. He was—" Chuck shook his head and clenched his jaw as if annoyed at himself. "Are you alright? Can I—I can take—Ellie! I can get Ellie. She can—"

"I'm fine, Chuck," she broke into his stream of nonsensical blabber, reaching out to close her fingers over his wrist, seeking his gaze, trying to keep him grounded. "Really. I am fine."

She feared for a moment that he would hug her, the way his body rocked forward a little bit, but then he rocked back again. "He had a knife," he continued. "Did he…?"

His eyes dropped to the small nick in her dress where there was a bit of blood. She could barely feel it now, it was so insignificant. "Sarah, you are injured!"

The look he shot her was almost accusatory, and she found herself becoming impatient. It wasn't entirely fair. But who knew when John Casey would awaken? And what if Mister McLeod heard the tumult and was on his way over? He would certainly get the patrol, and what would she and Chuck do then?

Sarah was not so sure she could best John Casey in a fight again. In fact, she was sure he had bested her, and had even been in the process of killing her. He would have succeeded if Chuck had not knocked the drawer against the burly fellow's head.

She started as Chuck began dropping to his knees, all thoughts of propriety apparently having flown from his mind in his concern over her injury. Before he could get all the way down to inspect the wound, Sarah lost her patience and caught him under his arms, hoisting him back to his feet, ignoring the ache in her limbs at the effort. She wished for a hot bath and some herbal tea.

There was no time for that.

"Chuck, no. I'm alright. We have to move. Right now."

"But you need a doc—"

"I'm better off than he is. I promise. It's honestly nothing more than a paper cut." "Paper cuts are incredibly painful," he whispered, and her annoyance suddenly flew out the window. Because there was such softness in his amber-colored gaze, and then the way his brow furrowed as though he wasn't even sure of what he had just said, and realizing that Chuck had just hurt someone he'd once trusted in order to save her life…all of those things came together to make her feel a bit like the rug had been pulled out from under her feet. She had no ground to stand on.

He was so innocent. So concerned—not knowing how much worse she had been through in her life and still survived. Though, no one had ever saved her life using a dresser drawer. It seemed such a random and silly thing to use as a weapon, considering there was a candlestick right beside him. But he had yanked a drawer straight out of her dresser instead. It would be laughable if it had been in a penny dreadful. And yet, it was real life. Chuck was real life.

Paper cuts are incredibly painful.

It wasn't the time for mirth, but it truly was the last thing she had expected him to say, and it caught her by surprise. Ignoring the urge to laugh, she pursed her lips and looked down at his untidy suit jacket until the urge passed.

She reminded herself of the mess they were in now, and the decision she would have to make very soon about what to tell him. Much much too soon for her liking.

That sobered her immediately.

"Thank you for saving me." She met his gaze and patted his chest gently. "I appreciated the drawer."

Chuck just nodded, gulping loudly. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, and she moved her hands to his biceps, squeezing a bit to reassure him. When his eyes opened again, the confusion was back, but at least he seemed less apt to faint as he looked down at John Casey's still prone body.

"What was he doing here? Why did he attack you? And—And what do we do now?"

Sarah was encouraged by the fact that he was taking a step in the direction of solving the problem instead of panicking, so she let go of his arms and attempted to fix her hair as much as she was able. "First thing is first. We get out of here at once. I don't know why he was here or what he wanted."

It had been an automatic response to lie to him. Her entire life—her livelihood and survival—was based upon not telling the truth, or at the very least, distorting it. But she suddenly realized that this would have to be different. Things couldn't go on with Chuck in the dark. He wouldn't stand for it. She knew it with absolute certainty.

Because as much as Agent Larkin obviously had not seen it, Chuck Bartowski was anything but a pushover. He was innocent, näive, thoughtful to a fault, perhaps even drastically selfless—but he was not a pushover. She would not be able to continue this lie.

Sarah Walker, the sweet, innocent girl from the country, was no more. She had no time to mourn her cover's loss, though she was haunted by the small possibility that perhaps it wasn't as much of a cover as she had meant for it to be.

She stared up at his furrowed brow, the way his hands on her shoulders were squeezing, as though he was unconsciously using her to find some semblance of calm.

It was possible Chuck would believe her if she tried to continue the charade. She was relatively sure she had him wrapped around her little finger, as the phrase went. But could she puppet him back into control, the way it was always so simple to do with other marks?

Sarah was not so sure and that set her on edge. She always had a handle on things like this, but he was so different. He was disarming, hard to peg.

The only thing she could rely upon at this point was his understanding nature. His kindness. And even that was not without risk. If she told him the honest to God, absolute truth, would he be able to digest it? Or would he snap? Would he pull away? He would be hurt. She was certain of that.

She had been privy to a lot of the government's tricks for years, considering how many had been utilized in attempts to capture the elusive Ice Queen. Even with that knowledge, Agent Larkin's explanation of the Intersect left her gobsmacked. Hundreds of years' worth of information in one small energetically charged cube—this was already difficult to digest. How was it even possible? And that it was somehow transferred into one man's brain, Chuck's brain, was even more difficult to come to terms with. It was all like a dream—no, a nightmare. A terrible nightmare. For Chuck, especially.

And he had absolutely no idea.

If nothing else, didn't he deserve to know the truth about what was happening to him? She could not imagine what the Intersect did to him on a daily basis, and how terrified he must be not knowing what it was. But with the way he had slumped over in a near faint tonight after an episode she was certain had been triggered by the Intersect, she couldn't help but want him to know.

Part of her also wanted Chuck to realize that Bryce Larkin was not the American hero he had apparently portrayed himself to be all these years while he was an agent with the government. As much as Bryce seemed to want to protect Chuck, his misunderstanding of his boon companion was evident. Maybe the IEL agent had not meant to harm Chuck. Maybe he was willing to risk just about anything to keep Chuck safe. But she knew Chuck was better off knowing the truth about his old friend and just how much he had done to ruin the toy maker's life.

Because Sarah could not imagine that the Intersect wouldn't end up ruining Chuck Bartowski's life. At the very least it would vastly alter his existence.

And with that sobering thought in her brain, she gently tugged on his tie to get him to look away from his unconscious assistant. "Chuck? Will you do something for me?"

"Anything."

She ignored the immediacy of his answer, and the way he had met her gaze steadily. "Go into the bottom drawer of my dresser—"

"Y-Your dresser? What?" She saw his gaze drop to the trail of undergarments again, his face purpling.

"—And bring me the length of rope that is there."

"Rope?" He frowned, and she withheld the urge to roll her eyes at him, instead turning Mister Casey onto his stomach and crossing his wrists at the small of his back, looking up at the toy maker pointedly. Chuck seemed to understand her request and gave himself a shake. "Rope! Of course! Good idea."

Chuck hurried to the dresser and opened the last drawer, pulling the rope out and walking it over to her. He got on his knees and starting trying to do it himself.

"Just—give it here," she breathed after an excruciating moment of watching him struggle.

"No, I—"

"Chuck!"

"Here."

She had Casey properly tied in less than half a minute and stood up again, wincing at the pain in her limbs. "We have to go, Chuck. Now."

"Right. You can stay in Ellie and Devon's guest room, where he won't be able to find you. And they'll treat your injuries."

"Chuck, I'm not staying with your sister and her husband."

He merely blinked. "I have a small guest room, but I thought it would be inappro—"

"We have to leave the city," she interrupted.

He stopped and frowned. "What?"

"We don't have time right now for me to explain."

"But we got him. John Casey can't hurt you anymore. He's right here, tied up."

"This isn't just about him, Chuck. It's complicated. But we have to go now." She began to gather her things quickly, feeling the tension in the room, and the way his confusion and rising fear emanated from him.

"Why?"

"I'll tell you on the way."

"On the way to where? Where are we going?"

"Away."

"No." She spun to fix him with raised eyebrows. He didn't flinch even a bit. "I have the Buy More to manage, Morgan needs to be taken care of, my sister is probably going to be home from her shift in the morning to hear about how tonight went with you and—I just said that out loud, didn't I?" His face collapsed into an incredibly miserable and mortified look. At any other time, she would have smirked.

"You have no choice. It isn't safe here." She began shoving her clothes into a knapsack hurriedly. They were wasting so much time. She just had to get him on the train and then they could talk, but until then, Chuck was not safe here.

"What do you mean it isn't safe? Do you think Casey could be working for someone else? If that is his name. It could be an alias. I have no idea who he really is. And he was working in my store all this time."

"I don't know who he is, either, Chuck, but it doesn't matter. Either way, I don't trust him farther than I can throw him," she admitted, still rushing around the room to collect only what she would need.

"Judging by what I walked in on, you can throw him pretty far," she heard Chuck murmur under his breath. She smirked inwardly at the hint of admiration in his tone.

She spun on him, her face grave again as she made sure she caught his eye. "We really do not have time for me to explain, but my first priority is making sure you are safe."

"Me? He attacked you."

"You are who he was after. And if I'm going to protect you, it means getting you out of Los Angeles."

"To where?" he asked. She went to her trunk and popped it open, feeling him walk closer as she lifted a revolver from inside and shoved it into the knapsack, along with a smaller silver gun that was the size of a doorknob, and plenty of rounds for both. She heard a choking sound behind her and ignored it, instead answering his question.

"San Francisco."

"Were those guns?!"

"Sh!"

"Guns," he said a bit more quietly. "You just put guns in your bag."

He was beginning to lose his calm. She saw the panic in his eyes as they darted to the bag she still had open. But because they didn't have the time for her to comfort him again, she decided to speed along the process and hope he didn't snap before they got to the safety of the train.

She turned back to the task at hand, pulling out a mahogany box and propping it on the dresser. She opened it and extracted five throwing knives, slipping them into the holsters of a knife belt she pulled from the trunk. Then she went to the armoire and took her black leather duster out. She attached the knife belt inside the lining and shrugged the duster on over her shoulders.

"Sarah?"

"Let's go," she breathed, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the door.

"But…Sarah, I…"

She finally stopped, spinning to face him, looking up into his tumultuous features. "Alright, Chuck. I know you're confused, scared—"

"Scared? I'm not—"

"—But I'm asking you to please do something for me, just one thing."

"I—But I—You—" He sighed. "What?"

"Trust me, Chuck. I'll tell you everything soon. We don't have time now, though. You can wire Ellie when we get to San Francisco."

"What?!" he exclaimed, pulling his hand out of hers and taking a step back. "Look, Sarah, I know it takes two days to get to San Francisco by train. If I disappear for two days without a word, my sister will burn down the city of Los Angeles looking for me. I'm all the family she has, Sarah. Our parents left us in a God forsaken park when we were kids. I can't leave her, too. I won't. Not without telling her."

He was serious, strong, the tone of panic gone from his voice. She knew he wouldn't budge until she compromised.

"Alright. We hurry back to your house, leave your sister a note, and then we will go to the train station. But nothing more." She spun on her heel and moved to the door, ripping it open and stepping onto her front stoop.

Chuck followed behind her. "And what do I write in this note, exactly? I'm going to San Francisco with the woman I just met less than a month ago. I'll see you in—Wait, how long do we have to stay there? That's—That's if I go."

She ignored that last part because it was non-negotiable. There was no way he wasn't going. If she had to knock him out and drag him onto the train, she would. "Chuck, I am completely in the dark about why John Casey went after me."

"But you know I'm not safe."

"Neither of us is safe, Chuck. I can't explain it right now, for God's sake! Just come with me!"

"What about my family? Are they safe?"

"They are safe here, Chuck."

Sarah finally led Chuck onto the street and they moved along the buildings in the shadows. She was grateful that he was at least following her.

"Sarah, what is happening?" Chuck finally asked, hurrying his steps to walk beside her. His long legs covered a lot of ground and she found herself having to walk a little faster to keep up with him. His tone was lost, desperate. But she couldn't tell him. Not yet. Not until he was safely tucked away on the train and they were far away from the unconscious man in her bedroom.

"Chuck, I told you to trust me."

"Yes, I realize that, Sarah," he said in a brittle tone, the sarcasm snapping her last nerve.

She spun on him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling his face close to hers. "I said to trust me. That means stop asking questions and do what I tell you to do. You did see how many weapons I have in this sack, did you not?"

Chuck's mouth snapped shut and she saw him pale a bit. "And you expect me to trust you when you say something like that?" he whispered through his teeth, eyes bulging.

"Stuff it, Chuck. You don't want to make this any more difficult than it already is, trust me. So just…do what I tell you and we won't have any problems."

She could feel his warm breath against her cheek, causing the hair that had escaped her chignon to flutter against her ear. Her fingers slowly unclenched and she lowered her arms to her sides.

"Now, let's go."

Sarah walked on, relieved when she heard him move to follow her. "Fine," he grumbled. "But you had better tell me what a nice country girl is doing with guns and knives, and—well, and everything else you have been hiding from me for the last month."

"I will," she promised, trying not to dwell on the fact that she would, at some point, have to tell him the truth. For now, she had to focus on getting him on the train. And if that meant allowing him to leave a note for his sister, then so be it.

And she could use the time it took for him to write the note to use his washroom and make herself look a bit more presentable for being in public. She knew she had blood and bruises to clean up. And corrective makeup to apply.

With that particularly pleasant thought in mind, she hurried her step and tugged on Chuck a bit harder, glad not for the first time that she lived within walking distance of his home.

}o{

They stood on the platform as the train screeched to a halt, steam billowing so profusely that when Chuck glanced to the side at his mysterious, well-armed companion he could only barely make out her silhouette.

Once they had arrived at the Bartowski-Woodcomb residence, they had discovered that both Devon and Ellie were at the hospital working late shifts. While Sarah had seemed relieved about the development, Chuck was disappointed and miffed and confused and…well, a slew of emotions.

He only had time to write a very brief missive, telling his sister that he had urgent and sudden business in San Francisco. Sarah had advised he keep the lie as general as possible, leaving out any details he might not remember later if Ellie asked. Where she learned how to lie so expertly, he did not want to know.

It would not matter anyway. When Chuck came back from San Francisco, Eleanor Faye Bartowski Woodcomb would murder him. When he came home? Or if?

Because as things stood at the moment, he didn't entirely trust that Sarah Walker was taking him to safety.

That wasn't true. He did trust her. It was just that he didn't know why he trusted her, with the way she had fought Casey tooth and nail, and with a skill that was alarming—and, he begrudgingly added, impressive and even attractive. He blushed to himself. Then there were the knives and guns. What sort of woman needed weapons?

He almost snorted. Every woman needed a weapon. It was almost as though he had momentarily forgotten the state of the world that he lived in. Even so, he had never met a woman who carried more than a particularly sharp hairpin on her person for protection. Knives? Guns? Unheard of.

Chuck had no idea of knowing what lie ahead, but he was placing himself at this woman's mercy. She said she would protect him, keep him safe, and strangely enough it was less embarrassing than it probably should have been. Having a woman assure him she would keep him safe should make him feel shame, but there wasn't any room for any other emotions, as full of confusion as he was.

There was one thing of which he was certain. Sarah Walker looked just as unblemished and without injury as she had been at the beginning of night. She had disappeared into his washroom while he wrote Ellie's note and when she reemerged minutes later, the blood beneath her lip was cleaned away, the bruises on her face mostly gone, her hair in pristine condition again. She had also changed into a lighter dress with less layers and a simpler skirt. The only remnants of her brawl with John Casey was the slight swelling of her bottom lip and an off-color mark on her forehead that no one would even see unless they were standing directly beside her as Chuck was at that moment.

Sarah turned to him suddenly and gave him a strange look. "What is it?"

"Hm? Oh. Nothing. It's just—You, uh, cleaned up well. I mean, what I mean is, you almost look normal. No, that's not—" He just stopped and turned towards the train. "Oh, look. The train's here."

He walked away from her towards the train where a steward stepped down to the platform. There was a small family climbing onto the train at the other end of the platform, but other than that Chuck and Sarah were alone. It was nearing ten o'clock in the evening and this was the last train of the day, but there were only two trains per day that ran this track, and the lack of people was rather unusual.

Chuck turned to regard Sarah as she followed after him, approaching the entrance into the train with a studied, nonplussed look on her face. The steward seemed to lack any amount of tact as his eyes raked from her face down to the toes of her boots poking out from the hem of her dress. Even in his state of confusion and nervousness, Chuck felt a spike of annoyance at the lack of respect.

To her credit, Sarah acted like she had not noticed, ignoring the steward's hand as he attempted to help her up the steps onto the train. Or perhaps she really hadn't noticed. Either way, Chuck rather enjoyed the sheepish and slightly peeved look on the steward's young, smarmy face.

He followed Sarah along the aisle, through the cars until they were situated towards the middle of the train, in an almost empty car, where she slid into the window seat and looked up to watch him as he sat beside her.

They were silent while the conductors prepped the train for departure, and Chuck found he couldn't stop his leg from bouncing. He took a deep breath and ignored the gaze of the rotund woman moving up the aisle past him and moving into the next car.

"Chuck," Sarah hissed beside him.

He jumped and turned to her, wiping at his forehead with his sleeve. "Did you say something?" he whispered back. There was a man reading a newspaper towards the front of the car, about ten rows away.

"No. But you need to calm down. You look as though you're about to rob this train."

"Oh, I'm very sorry," he whispered harshly through his teeth. "But you'll have to excuse me. I may be a little nervous considering my current predicament." The confusion was very quickly crumbling and in its wake was annoyance and anger. She had yet to explain any of what was happening, and yet he had willingly just followed her onto a train that was traveling almost four hundred miles north, away from his source of income and away from his family. Away from everything he knew.

Sarah merely clenched her jaw and looked away from him, staring out the window as the conductor rushed past and towards the engine. The steward yelled, "All aboard!" from his place on the platform, and then the car began to quiver and shake.

Within moments the setting outside of the window began to slide past them, slowly, achingly. As the train sped up and they cleared the station, Sarah's eyelids fluttered and she finally sunk back into her seat, covering her face with her hands.

"Are you alright?" he couldn't help but ask as she slid her hands around to her neck, massaging her own shoulders.

"I'm fine."

Chuck nodded, letting the uncomfortable silence slip between them again. John Casey, his assistant for a little over a month, tried to kill the woman he had been seeing for almost as long. How did he know where she lived? Why was he there? Why did he want her?

But then the way Sarah had spoken made it sound like he—Chuck—was the one in trouble. Was Casey after him, then? If Casey was after him, why didn't he just kill him when they were alone together in the workshop? He had plenty of chances. That thought made Chuck a little dizzy and without thinking about it, he slammed his hand down on the arm of his seat, right onto Sarah's bruised hand.

She pulled away quickly, and he saw her attempt to hide a wince.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah," he breathed, enfolding her hand gently in both of his, careful not to touch her sore knuckles. They were red and chaffed, not bleeding anymore, but certainly bruised. She pulled her hand from between his and folded it up with the other one in her lap, shaking her head.

"It's alright. It could have been worse."

"Right, a dirigible could have been flying overhead and had its engine fall out and go through your bedroom's roof during the skirmish. I imagine that would have been worse."

She turned slightly disbelieving eyes on him, staring for a moment, before he saw a small smile lift the edges of her mouth. It disappeared just as suddenly and she turned away, staring at the back of the seat in front of her. "Sarcasm only suits you a little, Chuck."

"Well, that's something I suppose."

"Are you feeling well?" she asked and he kept his eyes in front of him, still able to see her looking at him in his peripheral. "You look pale."

"I feel as though I'm blind suddenly. Not—Not literally, obviously. But…" He sighed, running his hands down his face and slumping down a bit in his seat. "For instance, I have no idea where we are going."

"I told you San Francisco." She pulled one of the tickets out of her pouch and held it in front of his face. "See? It says there on the ticket. I wasn't lying to you…" The way she trailed off spoke volumes for Chuck. I wasn't lying to you…about that. But how many other things was she lying about?

For a woman who had almost been murdered in the privacy of her bedchambers, Sarah Walker was abnormally calm and collected. Any other woman would be screaming like a tea kettle. Not that he had much experience with women in any circumstance, let alone one such as this.

"I know we're going to San Francisco. It's just…What then, Sarah? What happens after that? What do we do? Where are we staying? How long will we be there? Why did we have to leave in the first place? Why are you protecting me all of a sudden when you were the one attacked tonight?" He shook his head. "I have a thousand questions and I don't even know where to start. I feel as though there's no ground beneath my feet and any moment, gravity is going to kick in and I'm going to fall."

"And where would you fall to?" she asked quietly.

"China," he muttered, shaking his head a bit.

He heard a one syllable giggle come from beside him. In spite of everything, it made him smile a bit.

"Have you ever been to San Francisco before?" he asked suddenly—anything to fill up the chasm of silence between them.

"Yes. I have."

"What's it like? Is it as bad as Los Angeles can sometimes be? Is it as good as Los Angeles can sometimes be?" he added with a shrug, smiling crookedly.

"Yes to both. It-It's different. I can't explain it as well as I would like to."

"That's alright. I suppose I will see it some time tomorrow, won't I?"

"Most likely late tomorrow night, if not the day after," she admitted. "There are enough stops along the way that it will take longer."

"I can honestly say that I have never slept on a train. Well, a moving train."

Sarah tilted her head. "What do you mean by 'a moving train'?"

He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the way everything seemed so brittle between them, the situation still floating over their heads like a dark cloud, the conversation they needed to have hovering in his mind. It was just that he was afraid of what might be coming. And for just a moment, he wanted something that might calm him, lull him into a state of comfort with Sarah Walker again. Before everything blew up.

"I slept in a discarded train car in a scrapyard for a few nights once. When I was eleven."

Sarah was quiet for a moment. "Oh. You ran away from home?"

"Something like that." He shook his head, then. "Sarah, I feel as though I've been exceedingly patient about this whole thing. I'm here. I got onto this train with you. But that doesn't mean I don't want an explanation. I haven't the foggiest idea about anything anymore. All I know is that I'm glad I have my hat and coat at least because this car already feels a bit chilly and I don't tend to function well in the cold…"

Her hand dropped on his arm, effectively stilling his tongue. "Chuck, it's alright. I will tell you what I know."

Chuck let his eyes drift shut and he clenched his jaw. If she had something to tell, that meant Sarah Walker had lied about something. And that hurt, even though he had no idea what that something was. "When? When will you tell me?"

She licked her lips. "I suppose now's as good a time as any."

Chuck repositioned himself in his seat, sitting up straight and turning his body towards her. She was wringing her hands in her lap, and then seemed to get a handle on what he assumed were nerves, before she turned to face him as well, her face so serious and so beautiful.

And Lord help him, but her eyes were so blue in the dim car lighting…

"Just tell me, Sarah. Please."

"I-I am. Just…please, Chuck. Don't freak out."

He had nothing lucid he could respond with, so he just bobbed his shoulders in answer. There was no possible way this would end well. He could feel it, so he braced himself, crossing his arms at his chest and meeting her gaze.

"Just about two months ago, an old friend of yours visited the Buy More and he brought something with him. An automaton."

Chuck frowned. "He did. But how did you know that?"

"In due time," was all she said. "The automaton was broken, though, was it not?"

"It was." He forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying, listening to her, instead of letting his mind shoot off into a million different directions.

"And he wanted you to fix it."

"Yes."

"You were going to tell me tonight, weren't you? About what happened with the automaton after—after your friend left it with you to fix." She met his gaze and he nodded. "I thought so. Because something did happen. Didn't it?"

"What does any of this have to do with you, Sarah?" he had to ask, but she merely shook her head.

"What happened with the automaton, Chuck? Tell me. Trust me."

"You haven't given me a reason to trust you yet. You still haven't told me anything I don't already know."

"When have I ever given you a reason not to trust me, though? You saw some things tonight that have made you question, yes, but try—try to think of me as you thought of me before tonight."

That made Chuck blush, and he inwardly cursed himself for it, because he knew from the heat rising out of his collar that she could see it. She had enough tact to pretend she had not noticed, though, and perhaps that more than anything was what made him trust her at least enough to answer her question.

"I was fiddling with it. I got his—its chest panel open. I was looking for any abnormalities, anything that was broken or loose. Anything that would cause it to break down. I'd never seen anything like it before," he said, awe tingeing his tone. He was in his zone talking about that strange machine. It had stayed with him, even all of this time later. Every gear inside of it, every movement it had made before he shut it down to fix it. "It was exactly like you and I—so human—the way it blinked, the way its mouth moved, lips, fingers, its eyes were even bloodshot, just like mine when I haven't gotten enough sleep. It was astounding. And the more I studied it, the more mysterious it became. I've never experienced that. I spent hours pouring over it, all night even. And nothing was clear. I had finally met a machine I could not figure out. A machine I could not fix."

She was listening so intently, he couldn't stop. Her eyes, though…so beguiling…

"It was exciting and frightening at the same time. But then it was also extremely disappointing." He rubbed his hands down his thighs to dry his palms. "Because I felt a bit like a failure. So I made a last ditch effort, tried to activate the automaton one more time. See, there was a switch in its n—That's not important," he breathed, even though Sarah had not seemed to lose interest for even a moment as he spoke. "I switched it on and it came back to life. It started blinking at me, looking like it was going to say something. I moved closer to try to hear when it grabbed me by the throat." Her eyes widened a bit. "And then it said something about the secret being beneath its face. It wanted me to open its face, so I did and there—there was this glowing blue…cube of sorts. I don't know how else to describe it. But it was beautiful, and I was fascinated by it, so obviously I tried to pry it out of the automaton's head. It popped out and almost fell onto the floor, but I caught it barely." Chuck shook his head. "I don't know what happened then. Except that I went to put it back and I felt something going through my arm, a tingle, a vibration…I don't know…and then there was nothing at all until I woke up the next morning."

Sarah's gaping mouth shut and she turned to look at the back of the seat in front of her again. "That wasn't just any machine, Chuck. It was a very important machine."

"It did something to me, Sarah." Her head spun and she looked at him closely. "Like the waltz tonight. I think that I was learning to waltz when I almost fell over. Or…something. That was how I did the polka when I took you to Mother Harriet's."

Chuck didn't see even a hint of the surprise he expected to find in her features when he revealed that. If anything, he thought he might see confusion. But there was nothing.

"Sarah, you know what happened to me, don't you? Why is the automaton important? Tell me."

"What did your friend tell you about his work?"

"He left the orphanage to go into service. The Royal Air Force."

"It wasn't just service, Chuck. It wasn't the RAF. Well, maybe it was at the beginning. I'm not entirely sure. But then he was recruited."

"Recruited?"

She took a deep breath. "Bryce Larkin is Agent Bryce Larkin."

The car seemed to shift then, almost as though the train had run off of its track, the lights dimmed further, and then there was nothing but images. Fast-moving images. Images he could barely catch before they flitted to something else.

And then he felt hands on his biceps, holding him tightly. And then he heard his name by his ear—it was urgent but quiet.

"Chuck…Are you alright?"

He blinked quickly and everything was clear again, save the dull ache in his head. And the shocking revelation…

"Bryce is a spy," he breathed. "He works for the Imp-Imperial Espionage League. Recruited from the Royal Air Force in 1887…" Chuck swallowed thickly, shaking his head. "N-No, he—Bryce can't be a spy."

"Are you alright, Chuck? Did you—?"

"What's happening to me, Sarah? What did that thing do to me?" he asked, beginning to panic. He wasn't aware of the way his hands were shaking until Sarah reached out to grab them, holding them still by sheer force.

"That was what I meant when I told you it was important. In fact, Chuck, it was the most important thing the government had."

"H-Had? It was important? What do you mean?"

"That automaton is just a hunk of tin now. There's nothing inside of it."

A wave of realization washed over him so suddenly that he almost rocked right off of his seat. The only thing that kept him from sliding into the aisle was Sarah's grip on his hands. She was squeezing so tightly he wondered if there was any blood left in his fingers, but he was grateful, because it gave him something to focus on, something to keep him from hyperventilating.

"Whatever was inside of it is gone now…because it's inside of me. In my head. That's what all of the flashes are. That was how I knew how to dance. And—And that was how I knew about Officer Geralds, and about Bryce. What is this thing?"

Sarah seemed to straighten her posture a bit, pulling back from him and folding her hands together in her lap. "It's called the Intersect. Apparently Agent Larkin had spent a good deal of time looking for the man in which the government had it hidden. Automaton, I should say. It was just that it thought it was a man for three years."

"How?"

"I-I don't know the details. Just that they lost track of it and Agent Larkin finally found the automaton just as it began to malfunction. And he was desperate and brought it to you." All Chuck could do was gape. Because there was no possible way any of this was really happening. And he would ask Sarah to pinch him if he wasn't absolutely sure that it was happening. "Apparently he didn't think things through."

Her tone was so brittle—it could be snapped in half by the slightest touch. And she looked upset. No, not upset. Angry. Her nostrils flared and her jaw clenched, her lips pursed. He wondered if she was aware of the way her eyes were flashing. And Chuck decided that the woman sitting beside him was not Bryce Larkin's friend. And vice versa.

"What is the Intersect? How do I know all of these things?"

"The Intersect is a collection of government intelligence. Not just any government intelligence, Chuck. Every piece of information that this Empire has collected over the last few decades is now trapped inside of your brain."

He swayed and she grabbed him again, keeping him in his seat. "All-All of it?" he stuttered.

"Yes. I believe so."

Chuck's eyes slipped shut and he let his chin fall to his chest, his shoulders slumped. "This is madness. How do I know you are telling the truth about this?"

"Do you really believe anyone could make all of this up?" she asked. "And what would I have to gain from it if I did?"

She had a point. It was much too farfetched for her to have made it up. That made his gaze snap up to hers suddenly. "How do you know about any of this?"

"Agent Larkin didn't trust anyone else."

The perpetual sinking feeling became worse then as he half-realized what was coming. "You know Bryce."

She nodded slowly.

"You are a spy." The hammer was poised over him, waiting to drop…

For a few moments, she was silent and he wished he could read her as well as he had been able to read her before. But he knew now that hadn't been her. The woman he had been reading was a construct, a character. "I am a spy."

The hammer fell and his insides shattered. The ache in his chest was worse than he supposed it should have been. This part of the charade should not have been a surprise. Because she had been perfect. Too perfect.

And Chuck Bartowski was nothing more than a toy maker. A man who played with toys. A man who lived in the rooms above his sister and her husband's home. A man who understood machines better than he did humans. To think that he could have formed a real connection with any woman, let alone one as marvelous as Sarah Walker had been undeniably vacuous.

It was all he could do to nod, staring into his lap. "Of course you are," he whispered. "I don't see how you couldn't be."

"Agent Larkin sent me to protect you."

"I figured that out, thank you," he snapped. And then he realized how transparent he was being, that he was showing his cards so to speak. The worst thing he could think of at the moment was for Sarah to see how badly this was hurting him.

But it had been twenty five days of bliss. Of feeling confident about himself, what he chose to be, the man he had become. The things he had always been self-conscious about didn't seem half bad, after all. Because Sarah Walker had been interested in him. A brilliant, strong, humorous, interesting, and extremely beautiful woman accepted his invitations to picnics and dinner. She had jumped at the chance to sit at his table in the Aviator's Timepiece when he visited. And she had returned the favor by making appearances at the Buy More.

Now he realized it wasn't bliss. It was denial. He had wanted it to be real so intensely that he never questioned it. Not even once. He never wondered why a fantastic woman would spend so much time around him.

It was to protect him.

And all of this time he had been foolish enough to believe she had just wanted to get to know him. Their relationship never had to be romantic. Just having her there, the way her eyes lit up when he walked into the Aviator's Timepiece. He never knew if her warmth was because he was the only friend she had made in a new place, or if it was because she cared about him perhaps in the way—Who was he kidding? In the way he cared about her. He had allowed himself to hope for more than friendship. She had never given him a reason not to hope.

It made it all hurt that much worse.

She was never there for him. Just him.

She was there because she had to be. He was an assignment. A mission. She stuck close to him not because she enjoyed his company, but because it was the easiest way to make sure no harm came to him.

How often had she been putting up with him in the last twenty five days?

The shame and embarrassment were eating away at him and he couldn't sit here letting her see it all flash across his face.

He wondered if spies made a lot of money, and he wondered if she had ever thought of how much money she would get if she could just stick out the next hour with the strange overly tall toy maker.

He was disgusted by his own self-pity.

He never should have thought…never should have expected…

And suddenly Chuck was on his feet in the aisle. He almost spun on his heel and left, but then he stopped. Because as muddled as he was, as destroyed as his life suddenly felt, and the unbearable shame boiling in his gut—so unbearable it was almost blinding—he couldn't help but recognize that she was just following orders.

While it hurt badly to imagine himself as "just orders" where Sarah Walker—Agent Walker?—was concerned, he knew he couldn't be discourteous. Even after she had played him. Like a beginner's fiddle in the hands of a virtuoso.

So he turned back, not quite able to meet her gaze, instead looking at the smear on the window just past her shoulder. "I'm getting air."

"Chuck—"

"Please."

That was it.

He swept out of their train car, pushing his way past any and all barriers that kept him from feeling the cold night air against his face, that kept him from being alone. He just wanted so badly to be alone.

A/N: Ow. Basically.

Thanks for reading! I would love it if you reviewed as well! Or, let me know elsewhere if you enjoyed it. I'm not picky.

Til next time!

SC