A/N: To all of you who are still here, I can't tell you how much it means to me! With the holidays and my week long illness and another project I was working on for a friend's Christmas gift, I was too swamped. And at the moment I'm in a writer's block slump that I'm trying to force myself out of. That didn't stop me from posting this!

Thanks to everyone leaving reviews, PMs, messages, tweets, emails, etc. You're all too much for an amateur writer like myself to even handle. It's a great feeling. So thank you.

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. Its characters are not mine. Though they might as well be, considering how often I think about them.

When last we left the toy maker and his con-woman-posing-as-an-IEL-agent companion, they were nestled in the warmth of their San Franciscan hotel room. A parade was going on outside of their window to celebrate the arrival of the Prussian Ambassador when Chuck suddenly flashed.

"Agent Walker, somebody is plotting to assassinate Albrecht Huber."

We begin again after only a moment has passed...

Sarah stared at the toy maker, her face blank, confusion swirling in her head.

"Somebody is what again?"

"Sarah, he's going to be assassinated."

"The ambassador?" She realized belatedly that she was squeezing his arm with the hand that wasn't tangled in his lapel, and let go of him, dropping her arms to her side. "Somebody wants to kill him? Why? Wait, hold on. How?"

"I don't know how yet, but—"

"No, Chuck. I mean, how do you know? Where is this coming from?"

"I flashed."

"On the ambassador? You know from flashing on the ambassador? What did you see?"

He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut tightly in what Sarah took to be impatience. Sure, she had only known him for less than seventy days, but the con woman knew for sure that impatience was not one of Chuck Bartowski's defining traits. It was unsettling.

"I didn't flash on Huber. I flashed on…" He spun back to the window and plastered his hands against the glass, his eyes nervously flitting back and forth over the people watching the parade from the sidewalk. "He's still there. Let's go."

Sarah's reflexes kicked in and she grabbed his wrist before he could get past her. "Who, Chuck? What in hell's fires are you on about? You aren't leaving this room."

He spun on her. "Sarah! The man who means to assassinate the Prussian ambassador and potentially start a war…massive loss of life…he's down there watching the parade! Out on the street! Right now! We have to get him!"

"What are you talking about?" she exclaimed, turning him to face her. "Slow down, Chuck, and tell me what you saw."

Taking a deep breath, his eyes ablaze in panic, he moved close. She had to stop herself from taking a step back, instead solidly meeting his intent gaze. "There is a man leaning against the lamppost down there," he said, pointing his finger in the general direction of the street. "He turned away from the procession and looked up at this building. I just happened to glance down at him and saw his face. He is in the Intersect. I flashed on him. His name is Harold Nooman."

"Harold Nooman? The Harold Nooman?"

Chuck just nodded.

"The man they proved planted chemical explosives beneath the Duke of Boston's carriage two years ago? They never found him after the assassination, did they?" Sarah asked, worrying her lip between her teeth.

"No. They didn't. But I did. Just now. He's down there, Agent Walker, and as an operative of the Imperial Espionage League, you're required to do something about it, to prevent a man's death when it could mean saving the lives of countless others."

Sarah blinked. "What?"

"Maybe I'm not a spy, but I have this…thing in my head. And that means I have at least some obligation to help as well."

"No," Sarah said emphatically. "Neither of us are obligated to do anything. Wait," she snapped before he could interrupt. "Before we talk about going down there and confronting this Nooman fellow, what makes you think he wants to kill the Prussian ambassador? Even if he did kill the Duke of Boston, what if he's just here to see a parade?"

"He's an assassin-at-large, Sarah!" Chuck ground out through his teeth. "You can't tell me you're alright with him walking around the streets of San Francisco as though he didn't murder the Duke two years ago before he escaped right under the noses of the authorities."

"That isn't my mission," she said, painfully aware of the fact that her lies were coming back to bite her in the backside. Of course an agent working for the Empire would want to see a man like Nooman behind bars, but her priority was Chuck's safety. This was going to be difficult.

"Of course it is!"

"Tell me why you think he's going to assassinate Huber!" she demanded, grabbing his shirt collar and pulling his face close.

He swallowed thickly and nodded. "Uh…" he started, his voice a little strangled. "Sorry, yes. Right." She let go of him and put her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow. "They surmised at the time that Harold Nooman was in the Baltic War, shipped out with the navy. He was with the 8th Regiment Artillery; they were sent overseas to help defend Prussia from the Scandinavians. Fuel wars. That sort of thing…"

"And?"

"And in 1875, his regiment was shoved onto a fleet of warships in the Baltic, and led into the bloodiest, worst defeat our empire's history has ever known. The Scandinavian navy had ships that outnumbered ours five to one and almost the entire fleet was sunk to the depths within a single day."

Sarah blinked. "Is this the Intersect? Or you?"

"A bit of both," he rushed out, and Sarah couldn't help but smile a little at that. "What does this have to do with the Duke of Boston, you may ask. Well! Let me tell you, Agent Walker." She looked up at him through her lashes, raising both eyebrows. He colored slightly and cleared his throat. "Who led the 8th Regiment Artillery on those ships and who led the fleet into battle, against all logic, against advisement of his superiors, without a second thought as to the safety of those brave men?" He paused dramatically. "None other than Vice Admiral James Leighton, of the Boston Leightons, the D—"

"The Duke of Boston. James Leighton," Sarah finished for him, earning a slow smile and a nod. "Harold Nooman killed him as vengeance?"

"That's what everyone said, at least. He was avenging his brothers-at-arms."

"That may be, but what has that got to do with the Prussian Ambassador?"

"We're talking about a man who saw his friends cut down beside him, saw the burning hulls, masts and sails of ships that had harbored his regiment sinking to the depths of the Baltic Sea, Sarah! That does things to people. Death, murder, fire everywhere, everything exploding, the sound of a bullet whizzing past your head—it changes a person. He's most likely mad, insane. The Prussian Ambassador is on a goodwill tour to celebrate the anniversary of the Prussian victory against Scandinavia in the Baltic Wars…" Chuck stuck his hands out and widened his eyes, apparently waiting for her to finish.

"Rather a slap in the face for a man who was part of that war and watched his regiment mowed down to defend a country they had no real allegiance to," Sarah admitted quietly.

"Exactly. He's going to assassinate Albrecht Huber. I know he is. Why else would he be here?"

"What did you see when you flashed?"

"When I flashed on the article, I saw a balcony in an…an opera house, maybe? I can't…I can never remember the actual images when I flash," Chuck reasoned, rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully.

It all made sense—Well, considering that Chuck was getting a good deal of this information from the bank of government secrets trapped in his head, which was strange in and of itself. And 'strange' was an understatement.

"Chuck, my priority is keeping you safe."

"Your priority is to your country!"

"My priority is you," she argued. "I protect you, not the Prussian ambassador."

She wasn't sure if she was imagining it, but she thought she saw a hint of suspicion in his gaze. And if there was one thing she could not afford, it was to lose his trust. An IEL agent would do anything she could do to prevent war, and if Albrecht Huber were murdered on American soil, there was more than just a chance that trigger-happy King Wilhelm II would be spurred to action. Violent action.

Damn it.

"Leaning against a lamppost, you said?" she asked.

The least she could do was to act as though she cared about the fate of this damned empire and the damned world it trampled over. That way he might be less dubious about her new cover—that of a spy with the IEL. Maybe that would get him off of her back for long enough. Long enough for what, she didn't know. Not yet, anyway.

One step at a time.

}o{

She was looking at Chuck's back as he rushed down the stairs of their building. She had taken a moment to pull her boots on, giving him a bit of a head start. But she gained on him, reaching out and grabbing him by the back of his collar before he got to the bottom of the staircase.

Within moments, she had his back against the wall, her hand on his chest keeping him there. She looked into his wide eyes, feeling his breath against her cheek as she pinned him with her sharp blue eyes.

"You're behind me, Mr. Smith. That's non-negotiable."

He gulped and nodded. "Sorry."

She rushed forward, slowing only slightly as she passed the owner in the lobby.

The man nodded distractedly at them as they moved past him, Sarah threading her arm through Chuck's and smiling, seeing her "husband" flash the man with his own wide grin. Unassuming, Chuck. Well done, she thought sarcastically.

But the moment they moved out of his sight, the couple took off down the sidewalk and stopped at the lamppost where Nooman had been a minute before. Chuck stalled, his hand on the post. "He was just here," he panted, spinning to regard her with desperate brown eyes.

"We'll find him," she said, glancing first one way, then the other. "What was he wearing?"

"Uh…uh, he was…dark brown coat. Uh, black hat. Clean-shaven."

Admittedly, Sarah wasn't looking as hard as she was leading him to believe, and while she felt a pang of guilt (just a little one), she was determined to protect him while they stood out in the open like this. The crowd was making her slightly worried and she was again plagued with the feeling of being watched.

As she glanced over her shoulder, then up at the windows across the street, she was looking for someone who wasn't Harold Nooman. She was looking for the man who had been outside the night before. She saw nothing out of place, but the feeling remained.

"Let's go, Charles," she said, wrapping her hands around his arm as he guided them through the throngs of parade enthusiasts. She saw his eyes scanning the faces in front of them, looking for the potential assassin.

His theory left her admittedly baffled. It wasn't entirely a leap to assume Nooman lost his marbles over what he had seen during the Baltic War, when his entire regiment was cut down in front of him. That much violence in such a small period of time, and with that intensity…it was liable to drive anyone mad.

She felt memories from long long ago prick at her brain and she blinked a little, biting her cheek to force herself to think about something else, anything else. Yes, combat could change a person, drive them to perform their own acts of violence. And if he had it out for Prussia, the ambassador would be an easy target.

Chuck's insistence that it would start a war between the U.S. Empire and Prussia was perhaps his own paranoia speaking. It wouldn't be as black and white as all that. War tended to have a multitude of grey areas.

"There!"

She jumped and turned to look at Chuck as he pointed, nearly hitting a short woman's hat clear off of her head.

"Sorry!" he yelled at her as he grabbed Sarah's hand from his arm and tugged her straight into the middle of the street.

Had he gone completely mad?! They were standing out in the open and people were turning to stare at the strange couple. "We're interrupting the parade, darling!" Sarah growled, her eyes wide as she tugged Chuck back to the sidewalk. "He just loves horses so much, don't you dear?" she explained, patting her "husband" with a placating hand, attempting to fold them back into the crowd for at least some semblance of anonymity.

"Sorry," he breathed. "Sorry. It's just—I saw him. He's on Divisadero. I saw him. He just turned the corner."

Her curiosity was piqued, admittedly, so she let him lead her across the street, avoiding the band marching past, their trumpets blaring loudly in her ears. They rounded the building and moved onto Divisadero. Even though the parade didn't turn onto this particular street, the crowd was still incredibly oppressive. But at least she didn't have that prickly feeling in the back of her neck. Whoever was following them, watching them…perhaps she and Chuck had lost them.

With that optimistic thought in her mind, she gently guided Chuck away from the pull of the crowd and looked up at him. "Do you see him?"

His eyes shifted, moving over the crowd. And finally he dropped his gaze to his feet, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. "No. I don't."

Sarah patted his chest. "It's alright, Chuck. We tried."

Almost as though he was doing it without thinking about it, he reached up and took her hand from his chest, holding it gently, his fingers so warm, which was notable only because the morning air was so cold. At least, that was what her brain continued to insist even as her heart skipped a beat.

"I suppose so," he mumbled. He looked incredibly downtrodden and upset. "I hate to give up, though."

"I know," she said, pretending she didn't notice the way his thumb stroked over the back of her hand. She paused, biting her lip and glancing in the nearest shop window. There were sticky buns propped on small dishes in a glass display case, and she could just make out the steam coming from the mug of an elderly man sitting at a small table inside, his cane leaning against the wall behind him, his hat propped on the handle. "What say you to perhaps taking a bit of a break from our frugal lifestyle?"

The disappointed look in his eyes was lost to curiosity as he tilted his head rather adorably. "W—Uh, what do you mean?"

"We're already out and about and no harm has come to us. I don't think we would be in any more danger inside of this cafe with some sticky buns and coffee."

The grin on his face ended up being worth the money she slid across the counter to the young girl who presented them with their two mugs of coffee and single sticky bun.

And as they sat at a very small, slightly unbalanced table in the back corner, Sarah Walker the Ice Queen couldn't help but compare their situation at that very moment to those times he had visited her at the Aviator's Timepiece. That felt like a lifetime ago now. So many things had changed. Chuck had been so warm and comfortable during those times, noticeably well-put-together, always in a tie and vest, his hair combed as neatly as was possible with the way it curled so. And the shoes poking out from the table always looked freshly shined.

He looked ragged now, his face covered in the beginnings of a mustache and beard, his eyes bloodshot and perpetually…upset. Like there was so much on his shoulders. And there was so much on his shoulders. There had still been a lot on his shoulders then, but that had been before he knew about it. Before he knew why Sarah was actually there. Before he knew she was a liar. A fraud.

Sarah took a long draw from the mug of perfectly warm coffee and gulped it down, scanning the faces of the other people enjoying their sticky buns in the cafe. "Are you alright?" she asked finally, keeping her eyes fastened on the front door, avoiding his pointed gaze.

"Mm," was all she got out of him, and she couldn't resist stealing a glance. He was staring down into his mug, his shoulders slumped and that line between his eyebrows so pronounced. "I wish there was a way I could prevent all of this from happening. I mean, what's the point otherwise?"

"The point?"

"All of this. This damn thing I have trapped in my head. This asinine adventure running away from a man who—Well, damn it, I don't even know why he wants me. You don't even know why. You know nothing at all—I'm sorry, I meant no offense by that," he rushed, as though he saw the pang of defensiveness in her eyes. She felt a little sheepish that she had allowed him to see it. "In my mind, it all boils down to Bryce Larkin. He probably kept a lot from you, and he kept everything from me. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if he knows who John Casey is. Or vice versa. And here the two of us are, almost completely in the dark."

"Letting our coffee and sticky bun get cold," she interjected. It wouldn't do to have Chuck descend down the slippery slope of self-pity. He didn't seem like the type of person who indulged in self-pity. It wouldn't become him at all.

The windows of the cafe shook as a humming zeppelin passed overhead, the occupants going about their business as though they were quite used to the occurrence. The bus boy was poised behind the display case, holding his hands up in case the glasses stacked on the shelves there were jostled enough to fall off.

Chuck smiled a little at her quip and brought the mug to his lips, then grabbed his fork and went to town on the sticky bun between them. At least he had an appetite still.

It was an unnecessary gesture on her part, bringing him in here for some comfort food and drink.

He needed to know that running off after assassins to catch them would not be tolerated. Then again, she was supposed to be a government agent. Government agents didn't let assassinations happen.

She almost snorted at that, because they most certainly did. If it was the right person. She wondered how many times Bryce Larkin had assassinated the "right person", and thought back to the time he had almost killed her. Well…times. It happened on multiple occasions.

Bastard.

"Do you think it will be like this every time?" Chuck finally piped up, his voice quiet, subdued, his eyes numbly fastened on the floorboards beneath their feet.

"What?" She watched him closely, skewering part of the bun and popping it into her mouth. Sarah forced herself to enjoy the cinnamon and sugar assaulting her taste buds. As hungry as she was, she wasn't entirely in the mood to savor the tasty treat.

"Flashing on something and not being able to do anything about it, I mean. What if I open the newspaper tomorrow or next week and I get some flash about another assassination, or…or something…and I can't do anything to stop it? Like I can't stop Nooman now."

Sarah didn't know what to say, and because her first impulse was to cover his hand with her own to comfort him, she instead put her fork down and crossed her arms, clamping her hands under her armpits. "I know you might feel as though you have to act on these…flashes. But you have to remember something very important. The Intersect wasn't supposed to end up in your head, Chuck. You aren't obligated to act on the things you see. You're just a civilian."

He shook his head. "Who happens to be traveling with a spy who works for the Imperial Espionage League. You cannot seriously be telling me to ignore all of this."

"I am. Because you have to. You aren't supposed to know all of these secrets, Chuck. You aren't supposed to be flashing. And you are not a spy."

Tapping his fork against the plate, he ducked his head and looked into his coffee again. "I realize I must seem ridiculous to you, Agent Walker. I make toys for a living, for God's sake. You're right. I'm not a spy. I'm just a regular man with a regular toy shop." He leaned forward over the table, then, his amber eyes swirling with something she couldn't read, something that made her heart beat a little faster, which in turn made her uncomfortable. "But spy or not, I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing I could have done something to stop an innocent man from dying and I did nothing instead."

Who said any of these people are innocent? Sarah bit her lip to keep from saying it aloud. Perhaps Chuck saw things as black and white, this way or that way, with nothing in between. It made sense, considering his life. To someone like Chuck, a person was either good or bad.

But she knew enough to know that no one was completely good or completely bad. There were blurred lines. Good people sometimes did bad things, and…

Bad people sometimes do good things.

She finished her coffee mutely, and looked up at him again. "I'm sorry, Chuck. But there's nothing you can do."

"There has to be something I can do, Sarah."

Perhaps Chuck Bartowski was the exception to that rule. Perhaps he was the only truly good person there was in this screwed up world. But how long would that last now that Bryce had brought him the Intersect? How long would he remain innocent and good?

She just shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

"But I remember the box in the opera house. It's the only photograph I remember from the flash. It has to be important. Otherwise, why would I remember it?"

Rubbing a hand over her face, she finished the sticky bun and chewed thoughtfully. "Chuck, please. You have to move on from this. If there were something that could be done, maybe I would consider it. But we lost Nooman in the crowd. Not only that, you are leaps and bounds more important than anything else that exists in this entire country—the world, even."

Chuck's face hardened a little. "The Intersect, you mean. Not me." He finished his coffee.

She paused, pushing her mug to the center of the table. "You are the Intersect now, Chuck. I hate to be cruel, but you have to get used to it."

He didn't seem particularly angry with her for saying it, nor was he offended. He just seemed to accept it with a nod, his shoulders still slumped.

She wondered how many times he would flash in the future on something he could potentially prevent, only to read the next day that whatever it was he could have stopped actually happened. And she wondered what might happen to him if it became a continuous situation as long as the Intersect was in his head. Would he be driven mad by the resulting guilt?

Chuck was an abnormally thoughtful individual. She could imagine a small lump of self-hatred in his heart growing bigger and bigger and bigger as time went on…Almost like a tumor…

Realizing she was running away with her own imagination, she stood up from the table and gestured outside. "We should go back. You're safer behind locked doors."

With a nod, he climbed to his feet and brushed his hands down the front of his jacket. She threaded her arm through his and they walked out of the cafe slowly. The sun was higher in the sky now, shining down over the buildings and warming the top of Sarah's head, thank goodness. They strolled along Divisadero Street calmly, seemingly at peace with their surroundings as the crowd thinned now that the parade had completely passed through. Though Sarah Walker was deep in thought, and she knew by the look on Chuck's face that he was as well.

This was a pretty pickle she was in now.

Not only did Chuck think she was a spy, working on the side of the law, he most likely thought she was an immoral spy. Or perhaps he thought she was very bad at her job. What did anyone really know about the IEL, anyway? Just how many times had the IEL done unlawful things and hidden behind the fact that they worked for the Queen of the United States? Chuck wouldn't be privy to something like that. Not like she was. Just like the rest of the sheep, he probably thought his government had the people's best interests at heart. She suddenly felt a bit guilty thinking of him that way. As a sheep. His distrust of the patrolmen had already proven he most certainly was anything but a sheep. But that didn't make him any less naive.

And now he wanted so badly to be the hero, to go and save Ambassador Huber from assassination, as though he had the resources. Even if Sarah agreed to help him, which she wouldn't, he had no chance of succeeding.

There was nothing more frustrating than a naive toy maker with a heroic streak.

She found herself feeling slightly guilty again.

"Sarah, it's him!"

She spun and saw a man with shoulder-length, grey hair spilling out of the back of his black hat and tangling in the collar of his brown coat. The man was walking slowly towards them, his grey-green eyes alert and a bit manic.

Before she could do anything, his eyes stopped on Chuck who was pointing straight at him. Sarah watched as a dark cloud passed over Harold Nooman's face before he spun around and bolted, knocking over a startled young woman in his haste.

"Chuck, no!"

But the toy maker had taken off after the assassin. And Sarah sprang after him, thanking the powers above that Chuck Bartowski was an abnormally tall man. This way she could keep track of him easier than if he had been a shrimp like Agent Larkin.

"Chuck! Stop!"

He kept running, either ignoring her completely or…and she preferred to give him the benefit of the doubt in this way…he couldn't hear her. But God he was a fast runner. Especially for a man who spent his days huddled over toys and machines.

She watched as Harold Nooman ducked into an alleyway, disappearing from sight, and real, tangible fear spiked in her breast as she watched Chuck disappear as well. Any number of terrible things could happen in that alleyway, none of which left her toy maker in a good position. Best case scenario, he was knocked out cold and she would find him unconscious. Worst case scenario, he would be…

Sarah sped up, ignoring the incensed cries of the people she ran past. When she finally cleared the corner and barreled into the alleyway, she just caught the tails of Nooman's coat disappear again at the end of it.

Chuck was still going strong, proving himself to be much more gainful than she would have guessed, considering he was so lanky.

When she finally burst out of the alleyway on the other side, she couldn't see Chuck anywhere. She did however spot Nooman in the seat of a carriage, the driver chasing after him with a sandwich in one hand and his other hand in a fist as he yelled for the thief to stop.

What in hell's blazes is he God damn doing?

A trolley blew past her, going dangerously fast in her humble opinion. But she made a split second decision to run alongside it until she could leap onto the steps, clinging to the railing. Why was she chasing this man? This was none of her business. She wasn't a spy. She was a con woman. She was supposed to be protecting Chuck, not gallivanting after a wanted criminal. She was a wanted criminal herself, for God's sake!

But she kept her eyes on Nooman's back, watching him barrel down the street without care, causing people to have to dive out of his way to avoid being trampled. Sarah took her eyes from him for just a moment to watch as storm clouds began to spread above the rooftops, staining the industrial soot blanketing the city. And the sky began to darken.

She looked back down at Nooman, hoping he didn't make a turn where the trolley could not follow.

All she could do was hope Chuck was somewhere nearby.

And as if by magic, she heard his voice. "Sarah! What are you doing?"

The con woman turned with startled eyes to see Chuck in the driver's seat of a carriage, racing alongside her cable car. "What are you doing? Where have you been?" she yelled back.

She was even more surprised to see a crooked grin on his face, which died immediately as his eyes turned forward. He half-stood and waved his arm to the side. "Move! Get out of the way!" he yelled desperately, allowing the man crossing the street enough time to get to the sidewalk before he was run over.

"Scoot over!" she barked, and he frowned a little at her, before complying, scooting to the right side of the seat. "Keep 'er steady!"

"What the devil are you doing?"

"Just do what I asked!"

Sarah wrapped one hand around the cable car's pole and braced her other hand on the metal frame of the door. If I die because of you, Chuck Bartowski, I will haunt you from beyond the grave.

With that oath in her mind, repeating it over and over and over, she leapt off of the trolley and clung to the side of the carriage that was steadily traveling alongside it three feet away. She heard Chuck swear loudly before she felt his hand grab her under one arm and lift her into the seat with a grunt.

"You're insane!" he yelled when she was finally situated.

"Shut your trap and give me the reins!" she growled, and she would have laughed at the rushed way he handed them over as if they had burned him…she would have laughed…if she weren't so damned angry at him for this whole thing.

She ignored the fact that she had willingly participated in this tomfoolery, and instead focused her anger on Chuck, tearing after Nooman's carriage with skill. Chuck held on for dear life beside her and she studiously kept from stealing a glance at him.

When they finally plowed onto Market Street, Harold Nooman's carriage was nowhere to be seen.

Sarah yanked on the reins to stop the horse. Chuck didn't even wait for it to come to a complete stop before he climbed up onto the seat and frantically looked around the marketplace. There were vendors everywhere she looked, but no Harold Nooman.

Sarah finally spotted the carriage sitting idle a few dozen yards away and she reached up to yank Chuck back down to his seat. He landed with a pained grunt and turned to her. "You see him?"

"No. He got away. That's his carriage. We will never find him in this."

Now that the breeze was picking up, her sweat became unbearably frigid and she just wanted a bath.

There was a low rumbling sound and she thought perhaps it was another airship passing over the city, but then there was a bright flash, an outcry from a nearby child, and rain poured down from the sky.

"Damn it!" she cursed, pushing Chuck to make him get off of the carriage. He clambered to the street and turned to look up at her. She thought for a split second that he would offer his hand to help her down, but then that telltale line appeared between his brows and he turned away again.

Sarah hopped down and immediately grabbed the back of his coat, forcing him out of the road, onto the sidewalk, and beneath a tea shop's overhang. She pushed him back against the wall, aware of how soaking wet he was as she glared up at him. "What in Sam hell is wrong with you, God damn it?" she hissed.

"I saw Harold Nooman again," he explained, as though that was a good enough answer.

She poked him in the chest with her pointer finger. "You do not get to tear off like that! There were at least five different times during that damn chase where he could have killed you!"

"How?"

"He's an assassin, Chuck," she ground out. "You don't think he has a weapon on him? If he had been lucid enough, he could have turned around and taken a few shots at you. And what if he didn't miss? What am I supposed to tell Larkin about the Intersect then?"

A dark look passed over his damp face as he peered down at her. In a bout of petulance, he shrugged carelessly. "I suppose then you would have to explain to Agent Larkin that the Intersect is gone." With that, he pushed past her and walked glumly to the carriage, climbing into the seat again and staring straight ahead, his face a storm cloud. He just waited like that, sitting in the rain, glaring unblinkingly.

Something gnawed at her insides as she walked out into the rain and climbed into the seat next to him. She saw him sneak a momentary glance in her direction, and thought perhaps she saw his Adam's apple bob once. And when he peeled his coat off and dropped it on her lap, she realized why. She was in a white shirt, a now sopping wet white shirt. And while she had never been a fan of stays before, she was infinitely grateful she was wearing them now.

Ignoring the embarrassment she wouldn't have felt with anyone else, even a perfect stranger, she shrugged the coat on and buttoned the front, crossing her arms over her chest as he flicked the reins and guided them down the road towards their hotel again.

A half hour of complete silence later, they were walking up the stairs to their floor, Chuck's boots squishing noisily with each step. If her shirt had been a bit see-through in the rain, Chuck's was now transparent. She could see every nuance of muscle in his back, the broadness of his shoulders, the surprising ripple of strength in his arms as he gripped onto the railing on either side of the staircase.

Sarah swallowed and lowered her gaze from his back, only to realize lower was most certainly not better. Instead she raised her gaze to the ceiling until they arrived at their room.

"Where did you get that carriage anyway?" she found herself asking as he unlocked the door.

"I stole it," he snapped over his shoulder, pushing the door open and half-mocking as he gestured for her to enter before he did. She glared at him and complied. As he followed, he added, "You gonna arrest me, Mrs. Smith?"

She spun around as he shut the door behind him, having every intention of giving him a piece of her mind for being so unnecessarily childish, when she spotted something above the door frame. It was small and metallic, like some sort of toy one might find at the Buy More.

Except that it was sinister-looking, made of brass and resembling a six-legged scorpion of some sort…

Her eyes frantically swept the doorframe and saw another. And then she turned and saw another three of them on the floorboards. "Oh hell…"

A gaseous green something was gushing out of the stinger-like tail of the sinister toy at an alarming rate, spilling across the floor towards them. When she turned and looked at the original menacing whatever-it-was that she had first seen, she saw that the gas was curling around Chuck's head, reaching for him like the tendrils of an octopus.

Sarah grabbed him, pulling him away and making to open the door, but his weight suddenly crashed against her side. She barely caught him, grunting as she eased his unconscious body to the floor. "Chuck? Chuck, no! No…"

Her vision was blurring as she attempted to shake him. She knew immediately that she had failed. She hadn't protected him. She hadn't kept the Intersect safe.

She hadn't kept Chuck safe.

She heard the door open beside her but was too weak to look, instead keeping her darkening vision on Chuck's peaceful features. So peaceful and warm and handsome. Even with all of the scruff.

The heavy thumping of boots…against the…against the floorboards…someone was inside…Chuck…the Intersect…

She slumped forward against his chest, darkness wrapping her up in its frigid arms until she felt her toy maker's stubble against her forehead, and then nothing at all.

A/N: Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

Brass poisonous gas spewing scorpions? What terrors!

I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!

If you did, leave me a note somewhere. Any ol' place will do. (Afterallitismybirthday.) WOT? Ahem.

Ta!

SC