A/N: Hi. I'm totally hiding from real life scary things, can you tell? Update update update update. It's cool, we're cool, I'm cool.

Thanks to everyone still here, in spite of the 5 and a half years Chuck's been off air. Quite a show to still have me writing this stuff and y'all sitting around reading it. (insert heart eyes emoji here)

Disclaimer: I'm not making money from this. These aren't my characters. CHUCK doesn't belong to me.

Previously in our SteamVerse chronicles:

After a lot of ACTION, death, and destruction, our crew cornered Big Theo on the docks. Agent Gibson murdered Ishmael Grand to get to Theo, then arrested the crime boss, leaving Chuck and Sarah to deal with their shock and disgust from watching what he'd done.

Enjoy!

"Chuck? What are you doing?"

The toymaker seemed to ignore her for a moment, seemingly looking for something in their tent. "I didn't mean to wake you up," he finally said.

Sarah blinked tiredly and pushed the covers down to her waist, sitting up and suppressing a yawn. "What's wrong?"

"I can't sleep."

She knew that. She'd heard him tossing and turning. It had kept her awake, as well. Though that wasn't entirely true, was it? What kept her awake was probably the same thing that had kept him awake.

The bullet that slammed into Ishmael Grand's chest. The clinical remorselessness of the IEL agent who'd pulled the trigger. How unmoved he was by the man dying on the dock, a man he'd worked with for a long time.

Sarah had killed people before.

She'd watched life drain from their eyes after she'd put a knife in their gut. But it was always a them or her situation. Ulrich Renner sneaking into her room to slit her throat in her sleep when he discovered she'd stolen his money. Or Henri Thomis attempting to poison her, pulling a gun on her when he realized she knew what he was doing. Their names, their faces, everything…all of it stayed with her in spite of not regretting what she'd done to survive.

As much as he'd done to aid West in the past, Grand became an informant. He'd been a turncoat, but even in the end, he'd risked his his life to keep West from getting onto that boat. He'd helped his handler, as some assets might not, when instead he could have made a run for it, grabbed his wife, and fled the empire.

In spite of that, his reward had been death.

He'd been murdered for it. And by the man who was supposed to be on his side.

It made her feel sick. Though, she knew, not nearly as sick as it must have made Chuck feel. Death was still so new for him. Whereas death had been a large part of her life since she was a child.

"What are you doing?" she asked, shaking that thought out of her head and swinging her legs around, placing her feet on the floor. She shivered a bit at how cold the night air was now that she wasn't huddled up in her cot.

"Looking for a lantern."

"Why?"

He didn't respond.

She pushed to her feet and stared at him for a moment as he rummaged. And then she turned and located the lantern at the foot of her bed, moving to stoop down and sweep it up in her hand, holding it out to him wordlessly.

It took him a moment, but then his eyes latched onto it, then dragged up her bare arm to her face. "Oh. Thank you." He stepped forward to take it from her, his fingers brushing hers.

She ignored the resulting shiver, blaming the cold air again, even if deep down she knew it wasn't the culprit this time.

"Where are you going?" she asked as he shrugged his jacket on and stepped into his boots.

"Don't worry. I'll be fine. I just can't leave things the way we left them earlier. It isn't right. Nor is it fair." He moved towards the exit and she rushed after him, grabbing his hand.

"Excuse me, toymaker, but I asked you a question. Perhaps you've forgotten, but I'm supposed to be protecting you and it isn't exactly safe out there, what with the Coronado Patrol no doubt arriving to assess what happened tonight."

He shrugged and tried to leave again but she held fast, tightening her fingers around his. "Chuck. What are you doing? Answer me."

Sarah received a dark look over his shoulder and he sighed, glancing away, though he did turn back to her. She let him pull his fingers from hers and he lit his lantern with a turn of the lever at the base. "We just left him there."

"What's your plan? The patrol have probably already found him."

And Gibson left with Casey in tow after he ordered Chuck to truss the body up. In spite of not being a part of that order, Sarah had helped him, seeing the overwhelming anger Chuck was trying to suppress…and perhaps the urge to be sick again. Apparently there was a safe house where Gibson would keep West until the other agents arrived. And Casey was assigned to help him watch over the criminal for the night just in case.

It had left Chuck and Sarah alone. And try as she might to talk to him, she hadn't been able to find her voice. Instead, they'd crawled into their respective cots silently, neither of them finding peace enough to sleep.

"Don't worry. I'll be careful. Go back to sleep."

And then he left.

Sarah refused to crawl back into her cot and simply wait when he was out there alone. The last time Chuck had a run-in with patrolmen, he'd nearly been shot. Both times.

So she deftly tugged on trousers and grabbed her long coat, shrugging it on, buttoning it and grabbing her gun as she moved through the tent. She stepped into her boots on the way out and pushed the flap aside, squinting out into the lowly lit rows of tents.

She easily spotted Chuck's broad shoulders, the curly hair fluttering in the breeze as he disappeared behind a tent much further down the row. And because she had a duty to protect him, to keep him safe, she silently rushed after him.

Part of her had hoped that maybe she'd misunderstood him. Maybe she thought he meant Grand when he actually meant something else. But the more she followed him, the closer they got to the dock where everything had happened. She knew she was right. Only thing she couldn't figure out was why.

What did he plan on doing? Giving the man a proper burial? They didn't have the time. And curse her for thinking it, but she thought it anyway…The man wasn't entirely innocent, was he? He'd worked for Theodore West for years. That was probably why he'd been the IEL's best target when they first sent Bryce to swing him onto their side.

Or blackmail him, as it seemed that was what had really happened.

Sarah slipped down to the docks and ducked behind a crate that had been left at the edge of the jetty, watching Chuck's steady movement towards where they'd left Ishmael Grand's body.

At least there was some dignity in the way they'd wrapped him up. It would keep the seagulls from pecking at him. Wouldn't it?

She shivered, swallowing thickly at that grisly thought, focusing on the steady thump of Chuck's boots against the wood. And then she snuck after him, careful not to make any sound as she trailed the toymaker.

He turned and stopped, staring down the jetty where they'd caught West trying to board the boat. Chuck was lucky in that the patrol hadn't been led here just yet.

They would wander out here to investigate, eventually. Perhaps in the morning, when it was light again.

She'd feared he might waltz right into a group of them.

Chuck slowly moved onto the jetty that jutted out over the Pacific Ocean, the waves quietly slapping at the posts holding the dock above water.

And Sarah followed him just as slowly, stopping to kneel behind a coil of frayed rope that was well out of his line of sight.

The con artist just watched, wishing she could see his face a bit better. At least there were lamps lit here. The light from the nearest one danced against Chuck's shoulders as he stooped down beside the body they'd wrapped in a tattered sail to afford him some kind of dignity in death.

As Chuck bowed his head, just staring, the light afforded her a glimpse at his profile. He had such a strong face, stronger than she'd given him credit for at first. Granted, he'd just fainted when she first met him. He'd been a bit pale and sweaty and confused…and then embarrassed.

At this moment, however, he looked almost…determined. Like he'd come here for a distinct purpose, rather than just paying his respects now that he wasn't numb and sick like before.

But then Chuck surprised her.

Because he put his hand on the body, untucked the tarp, and began to unroll it.

The tarp was stained with blood, she noticed, but he kept unrolling it, finally revealing the white face of the dead man.

Chuck seemed to be having trouble, pointedly avoiding looking at the face as he pulled back the man's bloodied coat and starting dipping his fingers into the pockets.

She frowned.

He was taking everything out of Grand's pockets. An expensive-looking gold watch, some trinkets, and finally he pulled the man's wallet out of his pocket, opening it up and taking the money. Chuck rolled it handily into a wad and set it by the watch and trinkets.

He replaced the wallet then.

Chuck checked a few more pockets, then took the man's bifocals, taking his own handkerchief out and cleaning them a bit, before laying the handkerchief out flat on the wood and putting his spoils in the center of it, pulling up each corner and tying it shut. He lifted the makeshift sack and slid it into his inner coat pocket, then began to roll Ishmael Grand back up.

Sarah slowly backed away, inching up the jetty, and she hid better behind a crate further down the dock. She decided not to go straight back to the tent, instead wanting to make sure Chuck was safe. So she held tight and listened for his footsteps.

They approached soon thereafter and he strode right past her, his head down, a hand in his pocket.

She'd not misjudged him, she knew.

He hadn't just stolen from a dead man. Or…he had. But she knew he wouldn't keep whatever he'd gotten for himself.

This wasn't an easy world to live in. Money was hard to come by if you hadn't been born with it. Greed ran rampant. She was driven by greed herself. She'd even taken from the dead before. A girl had to eat, after all, and they hadn't needed the few coins she'd pocketed.

So she couldn't judge him if he had taken it for himself.

She just knew he hadn't. Because in this world where so many people were in need of so much, where many found themselves scraping the bottom of the barrel, so to speak, for anything they could get…this man was different.

And she realized as she watched him leave the docks and make his way towards the tent city again, that she even relied on him being different. She relied on his goodness. It made her feel like getting up every morning meant something. It gave her hope.

Chuck Bartowski gave her hope. And she realized as she continued to follow him that hope wasn't something she'd ever had a lot of. It always seemed such a wasted effort, hoping.

She thought she herself might have at one time stooped low enough to keep Grand's money, and sell his watch and trinkets for more money.

But the toymaker never would.

As she raced around to take a shortcut into the tent city, dashing along the edge of the water, darting through the shadows of the little tourist community, she knew he would walk into the tent, see her there, and set Grand's belongings on the table. He would tell her what it was. And why he'd taken it.

She finally ducked into the tent and took a deep breath, fixing her hair in place and reaching under the bed to make sure her sleeve of knives was still attached to the mattress there.

Her fingers slid against one of the blades and she closed her eyes for a moment. Would there ever be a time when her existence didn't require these? The way a regular person lived. Without weapons hidden in skirts and sleeves, under beds, in nooks and crannies?

No. Probably not.

And then she heard Chuck approach and she sat on her bed.

As he walked in, his eyes fell on her immediately. She knew he was wondering why she was dressed, why she had her boots on.

But he didn't say anything. She had to fight hard not to let the tiny smile of relief light her pretty features as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled the sack out, dropping it on the desk near him.

Sarah let her eyes drop to it, and then she looked at him again as he rubbed the back of his neck and moved to the corner of the room where the basin was. He poured some water into it, shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over the nearby chair, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up to his elbows to wash his hands and forearms.

She knew it was blood he was trying to clean off. And it hurt knowing this wasn't the first time he'd done this in just this one damn night.

"Chuck?"

"I know," he said quickly, scrubbing his arms a bit. He pulled away and grabbed a towel, drying himself as he turned back. "I should have taken you with me. It's dangerous out there, what with the patrol having arrived at the hotel. But they're focusing there. Closer to morning, I'm sure they'll move their inquiries to the Tent City but not now.

Sarah simply nodded.

"Those are his," she said after a few moments, gesturing with a flick of her fingers towards the sack.

"Yes," he said immediately.

And she thought not for the first time since she met him months ago that he had a very pesky habit of never letting her down, not in anything, and of constantly reaffirming the faith she had in him as a good man. An honest man.

"I went back and grabbed anything that might be important or valuable. I hadn't been thinking when Gibson was standing there over me, telling me to wrap Grand up in that…dirty sail he'd found lying there. I just wanted him away from me, you see." His brown eyes lifted to her blue ones in the soft lamp light. "But I just…I knew I had to go back and collect everything he had on him when he died. The patrol would've found him and they would've stolen it. The money, the watch, whatever they could get their hands on."

Sarah lifted her eyebrows and nodded. He was right. They certainly had no respect for the dead. They didn't have much respect for the living.

"What do you mean to do with it?"

"He's mentioned his wife often enough. If there's a way I can get it to her…Well, that's what I mean to do."

"Chuck…" She sighed, shaking her head. "We really can't—"

She saw the look on his face then, a bit of a wry smile cast down at his feet like he knew she would try to fight him on it, and she cursed herself for feeling the sting of his disappointment.

She sighed again. "Helping people, thinking about the needs and happiness of others, that all comes so naturally to you, Chuck," she said quietly. "That's not the case with me. What I do, I do for myself. That's how it always had to be. Survival was paramount. And to survive, I couldn't waste gestures on anyone else."

"I know," he replied, just as quietly.

"Finding out where his wife lives, where to send it all, how to send it…All of that would be nigh impossible. That, on top of the fact that it'd be incredibly unsafe for us to even attempt it," she explained.

"I know."

The Ice Queen, they called her. Unfeeling. Quick to murder, swindle, humiliate. No remorse. No guilt. She wouldn't bat an eye over cutting a man's throat and stealing the clothes off his back if she could.

She'd read the stories that left out the part where she'd been attacked by two or three men. Or that one story that hadn't said anything about the way her victim had torn at her bodice to try to get inside of it before she'd gotten one of her blades out and sunk it into his ear, killing him immediately. His equally drunk friend had told the story of waking up as she'd clambered to her feet, the knife covered with blood, her hand covered with blood. He'd said she laughed, kicked his friend's dead body, and ran away.

She'd done none of those things. But the Ice Queen sold papers when she was ruthless, cold-blooded, despicable.

If there had been ice in her veins at one time, it wasn't there now.

Not as she watched Chuck unroll his shirtsleeves and button them again, his shoulders slumped and his head down, his brow furrowed thoughtfully, his lips forming a hard line.

It made her heart ache, warm blood pumping through her veins a little faster as she wracked her brain for what to do—how to make that slump of his shoulders go away.

Sarah stood then, and she leaned down to yank the sleeve of knives from under the mattress, propping a foot on the headboard of the bed and sliding a knife into the boot, pulling her pant leg up and strapping two on her calf, before covering them again.

"What are you doing?"

A corner of her lips turned up and she sent him a quick glance, aware of how coy she must look and not caring much. "Are you staying here?"

He looked incredibly confused, and as much as she liked how particularly sweet that look was on his face, she decided not to make him guess.

"Ishmael Grand had a suite in the hotel," she said, lowering her foot back down and turning to face Chuck, putting her hands on her hips, standing up a bit straighter, feeling so at peace with her decision that it made her almost heady as she looked at him. "Surely there are plenty of things there that he would've liked his wife to have in the event of his death."

He looked breathless, like he didn't dare to believe what had just come out of her mouth. And that rather stung, didn't it? She pushed that feeling aside.

"It can't be safe to go back to that hotel. Like you said…the patrolmen. It isn't safe."

"Not if you go alone." She paused, taking a step closer. "But you won't bealone."

Chuck shook his head minutely, and then he crossed the tent in a few rapid strides. She held her ground, looking up at him as he slid to a halt in front of her, so near she could feel his chest against hers, his breath playing with a tendril of hair at her temple.

And for a moment, as his hands cupped her elbows so that she could feel his thumbs gently stroke her over her coat, his face so near her own, her eyes fell to his lips and she thought he would kiss her.

Her entire body braced for it, everything in her buzzing, lips tingling in anticipation, her heart racing. It was unlike anything she'd ever experienced…

And then he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and broke her gaze, stepping back. He dropped his brown eyes to his feet and grinned suddenly, shaking his head. "Thank you, Sarah," he said, slowly looking up at her through unfairly long eyelashes. He'd been so beaten down and tired, depressed even. But she saw the energy in him now, the determination.

And in spite of wanting something else—wanting it so bad she'd felt it everywhere, in places she hadn't thought about in what must have been ages—she decided she would take this.

}o{

Sarah ran a hand down the front of the gown she'd changed into, most likely dirtying the pristine white frills on the bodice. But it didn't matter if the frills were a bit off color and dingy, so long as no one happened upon her and Chuck.

She glanced over at the toymaker as they moved up the hotel's side staircase at a quick pace. His suit was wrinkled, one side of the lapel creased and sticking up awkwardly.

Nobody would see them.

And anyhow, she figured there were plenty of guests here who were the worse for wear after the events of the night.

She felt Chuck squeeze her hand as they neared the door that led into the corridor where Grand's suite was.

Letting him thread his fingers with hers wasn't the best idea, she knew.

Upperclass couples didn't hold hands in public. It was inappropriately intimate. Instead, as his "wife", she should thread her arm through his or hold onto his bicep.

But she let him do it all the same. She damn well couldn't stop that moment in the tent from washing over her. It kept happening. The thrill, the anticipation, the need…

"This is the floor…" Chuck used his free hand to push open the door and he peeked out into the hallway, left first, then right. "Clear."

He held the door open for her and finally she pulled her hand free, moving into the hallway first. "Shall we?" she breathed with an arch of her brow, hearing him follow after her.

She dug in the sleeve of her gown as they hurried along the corridor, both of them glancing to and fro to make sure no one saw them.

Of course, their fancy dress would make people think they were just another couple staying at the hotel, but Sarah wanted them to accomplish all of this without being spotted.

"Here," she said, and Chuck surprised her by fixing his jacket, taking a deep breath, and moving back a few steps. She moved in front of him and put a hand on his chest before he could charge much further than a few feet and he halted, blinking down at her in confusion.

"Chuck, what are you doing?"

"I was going to break it down. We don't have a key."

She hated to point it out to him, and she hated that she hated it…because this was her life, a part of her existence. "I'm a thief, Chuck. I've gone through plenty of locked doors without the use of force." She held up the lock picks she'd hidden in her gown's sleeve.

"Oh. Of course."

She turned away from him, careful to make sure she didn't see his response. Then she got to work on the door's lock.

"Careful." She shivered at how close he was to her, his lips by her temple, his chest brushing against her back as she worked on the lock, the picks scraping as she did her best to concentrate. "We don't know if anyone is inside."

He made a good point. And she acknowledged it with a quick nod.

After only a few more seconds, she felt the lock give way with a click and she grabbed the handle, opening the door and stepping inside, ready to have a knife at hand if needed.

But she discovered the room was empty as Chuck turned on the lamps.

"Quick, the shutters," she said, gesturing towards the window. And he dashed over to shut them. "Don't want anyone to be suspicious if they see the light from outside."

He nodded.

And then they stopped and looked at one another. Now what? She could see it in his face. Sarah broke his gaze and let her eyes wander the room. There were things that would be easy to collect, easy to pack up and send to Mrs. Grand. And other things she knew they'd have to leave here, and let the patrol or the IEL deal with.

"The drawers," she finally said. "Start there. And I'll look in the closet."

She heard him quietly opening the drawers, rummaging, and collecting behind her as she slid the shuttered closet doors open and peered inside.

It seemed Ishmael Grand did not spend his criminally obtained income on clothing. There were only a few crisp, ironed suits and a few different shades of dress shirts.

"Sarah."

She turned away from the closet to see Chuck hunched over the drawer of the writing desk in the corner. She walked over to him and stopped beside him, looking down as he emptied the drawer onto the desk and slid his fingers underneath a corner, pulling on the fake bottom and revealing a hidden cache beneath.

"What is it?" she asked as he grabbed the stack of papers that had been tied together.

"Oh my God. Sarah. These are letters."

"What?" She reached down and snatched some out of his hands, looking down.

She skimmed a few of them.

BT has addresses in his desk…

Contact between BT and Kaiser confirmed. Business or political?

"What are these dated?" she asked, her heart in her throat, turning the papers over.

"They didn't date them. But Bryce was contacting Grand after he left. Look at this one." He handed it to her. She pulled it up to look at it near the lamp.

I.G. Something important is keeping me from bringing down BT. I cannot reveal what. I'm protecting someone who would do the same for me…

Sarah looked up from the paper at Chuck. His jaw was clenched, the lamplight dancing over his profile as he stared straight ahead. She kept reading.

Do not trust the IEL. Do not trust Agent G. Protect yourself. Protect your wife. Stay safe. You will hear things that will make you question me and my loyalty to the cause. Nothing could be further from the truth. IEL believe me to be traitor. I am not. Your letters will no longer reach me where I am going. Agent L

She looked up at Chuck again. "Grand lied to us. Seems there was quite a bit he didn't tell us."

"Do you suppose it was loyalty to Bryce? He thought we were IEL agents and he was warned not to trust the IEL." He gestured to the letter she held. "How did Bryce send these?"

"From Los Angeles while he was there, I assume, having you repair the prototype. And Langley when he brought it back to them. This was probably the last one." She grabbed more from Chuck. "These are mostly correspondences from when Bryce was still here."

He hummed in agreement distractedly, thumbing through more of the letters. She jumped when his hand grabbed at her. "That wasn't the last one."

"What?"

She pressed up against his side as he moved the letter so that they could both read it.

I.G. God willing this letter finds you well and that the ruse worked. I had to get you that one last message. Thank you for the part you played to put Agent G off the scent. I made it to Atlanta, New York and finally Paris. All thanks to you, my friend. Your gracious offering of food and money saved my life. I will pay you back in some way. Keep Agent G happy. Keep IEL happy. There is something brewing here in Paris. I don't understand it yet but it is evil. Not certain how far-reaching this is. Keep your eyes open, ear to the ground. If BT mentions The Inquisitor, get out. Not sure BT knows the danger. He will be playing with fire even he cannot control. You will want to be far away. They knew me. They knew my secrets. Darkness is coming. Stay safe. Til we meet again. Agent L

Sarah read through it one more time before she felt Chuck's gaze on her face. She slowly lifted her eyes to his and blinked. Where did they even start with this, she wondered?

"I hope you don't think I'm being petty," Chuck said quietly and somberly, "but it is a great comfort to me that Ishmael was playing Agent Gibson this entire time."

Her answer was a mere shake of her head. She was pleased to discover he'd had more power in all of this than any of them knew. But she had been thrown off by this last letter. She took it from Chuck, ignoring the quiet sound of protest, and she folded it up and stuffed it in her sleeve.

"We'll revisit this later. We're losing precious time."

"Later?" She felt him watching her as she moved to gather more of Grand's possessions she imagined his wife might like to have. "Sarah, he said something about…about 'something brewing' over in Paris where he was. The Inquisitor. What's The Inquisitor? And what about how they…knew his secrets? Knew him? He's an agent in the IEL, Sarah. How did someone he met in Paris know who he is?"

These were all thoughts she was struggling with herself, but they didn't have the time for it now.

She looked at him over her shoulder. "I promise, Chuck. I'm not taking any of that lightly. But we need to hurry. We still don't even know what we'll do with any of this."

The toymaker looked like he wanted to argue for a moment, but he didn't. Instead he got back to work, grabbing the rest of the letters and replacing the false bottom of the drawer, putting everything back that they weren't taking.

}o{

Casey had given them both long looks when they'd met up with him the next morning, casting his eyes at their extra luggage first, then back at them, then back at the luggage again.

But he hadn't said anything.

Instead, he led the way to the wagon and helped them load everything up.

At least she'd had the idea to abandon the clothes they'd stolen from that rich couple on the first day, replacing it instead with Grand's possessions and money for his wife. They wouldn't need all of that, since they were taking the train back to Los Angeles after the ferry landed at the port in San Diego proper.

Casey and Sarah sat up front and Chuck perched in the back with their bags. They were silent as they rocked back and forth along the dirt road towards the dock where their ferry awaited them.

And they stayed silent as Casey pulled the wagon to a stop, all of them hopping down to unload everything and lug it down onto the docks.

Casey tipped a dock hand to take the wagon back to Agent Gibson at the hotel and they turned to walk down to the jetty to buy their tickets for the ferry and climb board.

Sarah heard the sound of hooves thumping against the ground, and as she turned, she spotted an approaching horse, the man she'd hoped never to see again sitting on its back.

"Ah. I was hoping I hadn't missed you," he said as he stopped the horse at the edge of the dock. "Seems I haven't."

"Lucky for us," Sarah breathed just loud enough for Chuck and Casey to hear.

She'd expected some sort of acknowledgement from Chuck, but there was something wrong. The look he was giving the IEL agent was not a look she was used to seeing from him. His eyes were dark, his brow heavy, his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched.

Before she could do anything about it, Casey spoke up. "I already sent the wagon back to the hotel. You din't need ta come here."

"Oh, just wanted to see you all off. And say thank you. Theodore West will be tried and sentenced, sure as I'm standing here now."

She wasn't surprised the man acted like nothing had transpired. He hadn't just shot a man in cold blood last night, a man who'd helped him.

But it was still unsettling.

Maybe it hit too close to home? But then she wondered…

She'd never be able to kill an innocent, someone who wasn't on the brink of killing her first. Would she? She thought not. She didn't think she could pull the trigger the way Gibson had last night. It just hadn't been necessary.

"And of course there's the matter of making sure you're all paid."

"Agent Gibson, sir, if you could give us the address to the home of Ishmael Grand, sir, we'd be much obliged," Chuck finally spoke up.

It startled her, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. Even Casey turned to give him a questioning look.

"Pardon me?" the agent asked, squinting in confusion.

"Ishmael Grand. We would like his home address. Where his wife lives, rather."

Gibson squinted in suspicion. "Why would you need that?"

"He wanted me to give his wife something. I have it in my possession now. And I need to send it to her. It was a last request," he lied.

But was it truly a lie? Grand had spoken to them as he lay dying on the jetty, his blood seeping through the cracks between the wooden boards, dripping into the water below.

He hadn't given any last requests, however. He'd died before he could.

Sarah found she couldn't fault Chuck for the lie. They needed to get Grand's address somehow, otherwise his wife would never receive what rightfully belonged to her.

But Agent Gibson's response was patronizing, disrespectful. An amused snort that was dismissive and cruel. Then he held out his hand. "Give it to me and I'll see that it gets to her."

That was a lie, Sarah thought. And she knew Chuck would see it the same way she had.

"I was his handler, after all," the agent added.

Chuck didn't budge. "The address, Agent Gibson."

"You truly think I'm just going to hand you a government asset's home address? I'm an agent with the Imperial Espionage League. Giving away someone's personal address to bounty hunters wouldn't be prudent." He tsk tsk'd patronizingly again and crossed his arms.

"One more time, I'm going to ask you for that address so that we may send this single possession to Mrs. Grand the way her husband asked before he died. He served his country. He deserves this much."

"I'll take care of it. I'm his handler, after all. You aren't getting the addr—"

But he had to stop there. Because Chuck had closed the distance between them before Sarah or Casey could stop him. He twisted his hands in the lapel of the agent's jacket, and he used his grip to bodily lift the shorter man and slam him right back down into the ground so hard that a puff of dirt rose up around Gibson's body.

Without missing a beat, Chuck flipped the man onto his stomach and pinned him there with a knee on his back, both arms pulled behind him so that the agent couldn't fight him off.

Sarah gaped, chancing a quick glance at Casey who seemed just as floored by the proceedings as she was. He even looked a little confused under the shock. She turned back as Chuck leaned down with his mouth close to the other man's ear. Through gritted teeth, he said, "You killed that man in cold blood. So you'll excuse me if I don't believe you have his or his family's best interests at heart. Give," Chuck tightened his grip on the other man's wrist and made him growl in pain, "me," tighter, "the damn address."

"God save you, you son of a bitch," the man groaned, anger in his face along with the pain. "Take the damn address if it means that much. Inner coat pocket. Black book." Chuck twisted his arm a little and he cried out in pain. "Third page, it's on the third page, kindly get off of me!"

Chuck rummaged in Gibson's pocket with his free hand and finally held up a small black journal. He climbed off of Gibson and thumbed through it, tearing the page out and doing the agent the disservice of dropping the book right smack dab on the man's head.

Sarah was gobsmacked. There was no pain in Chuck's face, as though he had a headache. No haziness. Nothing that meant he'd flashed the way she'd witnessed in the hallways of the Hotel Del. That was all him. There was a touch of vengeance in him, an intimidating amount of anger. A small group of ferry customers had looked over during the scrum and when Chuck glanced in that direction, they all quickly dispersed, looking away. As though he was someone they didn't want to fool around with.

Not only did he get what he was after, Chuck also smeared the bastard spy's suit and face with mud.

There was something especially satisfying about the way Chuck folded the page he'd stolen and stuck it in his own jacket's pocket without saying thank you…or anything, really…stepping over Gibson's legs nonchalantly. As though he was completely done with the man he'd left to pick himself up out of the dirt.

The powers above help her, but she felt something deep, deep inside of her churn behind her belly button. A thrill. There was pride, yes, but something else, something that made her squirm a little…in a good way.

It made her flash back to that moment in the hotel room when their lives were on the line and West's men barged in, how Chuck's body had pressed her into the mattress, heavy and warm and hard. How safe she'd felt once the man retreated in embarrassment and Chuck's arms tightened around her took a backseat suddenly to that warm weight of his lithe form on top of hers. His hot breath against her neck. His fists twisted in the material of her blouse.

She shook herself, fighting the blush, shuffling a bit to make room for Chuck between her and Casey, fighting the urge to meet the toymaker's brown eyes as she felt him look at her. For approval? Or maybe just to gauge how she felt about his threatening the agent? He couldn't think she was upset about it. But she knew he definitely couldn't know just how good it had made her feel. That was a dangerous game she refused to play. Not with him.

"There's still the matter of your compensation," Gibson said, seeming almost amused—in a wholly patronizing way that made Sarah want to take a crack at him herself. He was still brushing the dirt off—in vain, she noted with a petty amount of satisfaction.

Sarah's immediate reaction was to reject the money. As angry as John Casey would be about it, she didn't want the Imperial Espionage League's money. Not after last night. So she spoke up.

Only to be interrupted before she could get a single word out.

"Keep it." She turned and gave Casey a wide eyed look, before schooling her features and folding back into her spot at Chuck's side. The man must have felt both her and Chuck's eyes on his profile as he grunted and shrugged, looking almost annoyed. "Guess we're bounty hunters with a conscience."

Gibson smirked, but none of them seemed to care about the agent anymore. Casey and Chuck were already stooping to gather their luggage. Sarah helped them, not even sparing the agent another look.

As they moved away, Casey called over his shoulder, "But don't spread that around or I'll kill you."

She heard Agent Marcel Gibson of the IEL call her name, probably for some attempt at a charming and memorable goodbye, a way to try to plant himself into her mind so that she thought about him after she'd left. Perhaps she might lie awake at night beside her sleeping husband, thinking of those eyes and that body.

That was his hope, she thought. And that, she decided, was more thought than he was owed.

So she kept walking as though she hadn't heard him.

She followed a few steps behind Chuck and Casey, and she noticed with more than a small amount of interest when Casey stalled at the gangplank and stepped to the side, gesturing with a flick of his head for Chuck to go up before him. She wasn't sure if the toymaker noticed, but she saw the flicker of respect in the very small smile on the older man's face as he turned to walk up the gangplank himself.

It left her almost heartened to see that the somewhat legendary bounty hunter, Major John Casey, was not immune to powers of a sincerely good man.

It was impossible not to like Chuck Bartowski if you even had a shred of humanity in you. As evidenced by the fact that IEL Agent Larkin, a bounty hunter, and a seasoned criminal all seemed to care about him in their own way.

As she stepped onto the ferry, Casey grabbed the bag from her that held a lot of Grand's possessions. She nearly protested, but he threw her a look she understood immediately. He must've known what they'd done somehow. Maybe he'd guessed after Chuck's manhandling of Gibson. Or maybe he'd followed them last night.

Did he approve?

Did she care?

But then he piled their bags on the deck and pushed them all against the railing, turning and standing over it like a sentinel, crossing his arms, sweeping his gaze over every last passenger near him. Sarah took note of it and walked over to the other railing where Chuck stood.

"In some other life," Chuck said quietly, "I imagine I might come back here. Maybe try the caviar, some champagne. Those fancy cheeses that smell awful but taste like Heaven."

She huffed in amusement and turned to look up at him. "Maybe someday you can."

Chuck's brown eyes dimmed slightly and the corner of his lips twitched. "Perhaps." Then he paused. "May I ask you something?"

She didn't respond, merely watching his profile, and he asked anyway.

"Do you ever—What I mean is have you ever taken a trip somewhere just to enjoy yourself? Or is it always a job? A con?" He looked at her closely.

Sarah found she didn't know what he would want to hear her say. That she did take real holidays? That she was just like anybody else in at least that way? That she was normal in that one way at least? Or did he want to hear the opposite?

Because she respected him, because nobody was close enough to hear, and because she needed him to trust her… Sarah Walker, con woman extraordinaire, told the truth.

"No." She pushed a bit of hair behind her ear and looked out at the water as they surged through it to round the peninsula. "Working has always meant eating, having a roof over my head. And contrary to what they say about…about the Ice Queen…in the papers, I mean…" She refused to meet his gaze, but she felt it burning her cheek. "I never lived the high life unless I was playing a part for a con. Because I only have what I need to live on at any given moment, on any given day. Sometimes not even then. So no. I've never taken a holiday. Have you?"

She felt preposterously ridiculous, adding that question on the end. He would know she felt vulnerable, nervous. He would know she was deflecting the conversation from herself.

But because he was Chuck and not virtually anyone else, he answered her question instead of pointing out how depressing she was. "No, I haven't. I work to eat, like you say. And anyhow, where would I go? Whom would I go with?"

"Morgan might enjoy an outing to the beach," she said, nudging him with her shoulder. When he chuckled, she felt her spirits lift, and a bit of pride color her cheeks.

"He certainly would. Though I'm not sure how I would ever get the sand out of his gears."

She laughed and leaned forward with her elbows on the railing, letting herself be warmed by the image of the bearded android in his pressed tweed suit trying to walk through sand, commenting the entire time on how unsteady and strange the ground was.

And the lift that gave her heart carried her the rest of the way home.

A/N: Please review. Thanks!

-SC