At Loose Ends

by WvonB

Two lonely people. A chance meeting. What will happen?

14. Chapter 14

A/N: Well, here we are again. I was going to finish the story here except for a brief epilogue, but it became too long of a chapter.

The only consolation is that most of the next chapter is written so it shouldn't take too long.

Thanks to my patient beta, michaelfmx, for his input.

And thanks to my patient readers.

Part of this chapter was hard to write, trying to come up with a realistic approach to the question of acceptance.

You'll determine if I succeeded.

I don't own Chuck et al.

—

LOOSE ENDS: Chapter 14

She falls into silence as we near the trail that leads back down to the sea wall. It's like she's lost in herself.

Despite all she's done, despite all she's said, despite all those kisses, my first instinctive impulse is to think she's having second thoughts about me. About us. Maybe it'll all be downhill from here.

Life's harsh lessons, it seems, aren't quite that easily unlearned.

It takes a concerted effort, but I manage to force my thoughts down a different path.

Don't automatically think the worst. Don't assume she's suddenly dissatisfied. She's still holding your hand. Still walking closely beside you.

Talk to her. Ask her.

I turn. "Hey. You okay?"

My words seem to snap her out of her abstraction.

She looks my way and gives me a small smile. Squeezes my hand.

"Sorry, I'm fine. Just thinking about something I need to do."

Apparently, I'm poor at hiding my relief, for she adds, reassuringly, "It's nothing that you did, Chuck."

I nod, ask quietly, "You wanna talk about it?"

"No, not right now, if that's okay? How about after that dinner I promised you?"

I'm a little worried about her near approach to the dreaded, "we need to talk" thing, but I push aside my misgivings. "Sounds good to me. Where would you like to go?"

"You choose, Chuck."

"Would you like to stay in the park? Or go to someplace in the city?"

Her response is quick. "In the park. Someplace where we can watch the sun go down."

I think for a second or two. "There's a place a couple of miles ahead. The Teahouse. It has a conservatory with great views."

"That sounds great."

"It is, but it's expensive. I checked out the menu the last time I was here."

She waves my objection aside. "Not a problem. One thing I'll say about the CIA is they don't scrimp on agent expense accounts. I was instructed by my boss that my time up here was on the Company's dime.

"I have every intention of taking him at his word."

She gestures toward her red blouse. "I bought this without even asking the price, which I assume was utterly insane. I didn't care."

"Well, whatever the price, it was worth it. It looks great on you. Of course, I'm pretty sure you'd look great no matter what you have on."

She smiles shyly. "Thank you, Chuck."

"Ain't nothing but the truth, honey." I wince as the words slip out. "Sorry, that was too soon, wasn't it?"

She chuckles, nodding. "Yeah, a little.

"But I'm not ruling out the possibility of trying out the idea at some point. Maybe not that particular one though."

"Gotcha."

Looking around, she asks, "So, do we go back down, or do we stay up here?"

"Back down." I glance at my watch. "I figure if we take our time, we should get there about half an hour before sunset.

"Okay. Let's go."

…

We race each other down the trail.

I'm not sure if it was my idea or hers. We just gave each other a raised eyebrow look and then simultaneously took off.

You'd think, with my long legs, I would have the edge. Or that my chucks would handle the packed dirt better than her low-heeled boots.

But you'd be wrong. Mostly.

Maybe I'd win if we were on level ground. And it was a sprint. Maybe. But with the switchbacks of the path, I quickly realize that the odds are against me.

While I do close the gap during the straight stretches, I have to slow down every time we approach the sharp turns. A lot. Otherwise, my downhill momentum would carry me right into the underbrush.

On the other hand, she seems to have figured out a way to navigate the corners at close to top speed, leaving me in her dust. Then I gain on her until the next turn and the pattern is repeated. And so on.

I feel like a lumbering giraffe trying to keep up with an agile cheetah.

There's a long straight stretch near the bottom. I put forth every effort to catch up, my legs pumping. But it's to no avail. She reaches the end of the path a couple of seconds ahead of me.

After checking to make sure that there aren't riders approaching, she leaps across the bike path onto the pedestrian walkway. Then she turns to face me, her arms raised in triumph, bouncing up and down. Grinning toothily like a mad woman.

Joy incarnated.

After gulping down some air, I laugh at her antics, shaking my head.

I've just learned something. Sarah Walker doesn't like to come in second.

But that's okay.

What are the lyrics from that old Abba song?

I feel like I win when I lose.

…

He's fast, his long legs eating up the distance between us on the straightaways. Thank goodness for the sharp turns, which I'm able to negotiate much better than he does. Still, he almost catches me at the end.

I reach the sea wall first, ahead of him by mere seconds. Before I can stop myself, I turn and launch into an impromptu victory dance.

For a moment, I fear my exuberance (and my competitiveness) may have gotten the better of me, that I've seriously wounded his masculine pride.

Then I see the joy on his face, hear his good-natured laughter, and I realize I needn't have worried. He doesn't have a problem with coming in second. Doesn't even care that it was to a woman.

Unlike Bryce who sulked and whined whenever I beat him at the shooting range or at the gym. Or when some of the other agents snidely reminded him that my scores at the Farm were substantially higher than his.

It became such an issue that I started holding back, ensuring he'd come out on top.

Stupid, I know. Changing who I was just to soothe his fragile male ego. I should've just told him to deal with it. But, to keep the peace, I tolerated his juvenile behavior.

Until he started strutting around like a peacock, dropping hints about how the universe had been restored to its proper order.

I eventually grew so tired of it that I whipped his ass in one sparring bout and then walked out of the gym without saying a word, leaving him flat on his back, gasping for air.

He was better after that. A little. For a while.

Come to think of it, it wasn't much later that he started pulling away.

I'm ashamed that, despite only knowing Chuck for such a short time, I would think—even for a moment—that he would react the way Bryce did.

Stop.

It's unfair to Chuck—even though I'm quite certain he'd always come out on top—to constantly keep measuring him against the mistake that was Bryce Larkin.

Chuck Bartowski is his own person. Unique.

Beyond compare?

I'm beginning to think so.

A sudden memory of walking the corridors of Langley. Overhearing the other women talking amongst themselves (conversations that I was never a part of, and ones that most often ceased if they noticed me) as I passed by.

He makes me laugh.

It never made any sense to me. A guy tells you a few jokes and all of a sudden you fall for him?

Ridiculous.

But I get it now. I think.

It's not laughter, even though that's a part of it, and I've laughed—genuinely—more often in these past few hours with Chuck than I ever did with…that other person.

And it's not just the moments of happiness we've shared today, even though that's a part of it too.

No, it's something much more than the sum of its parts, something that endures.

Joy.

Chuck has brought joy into my life. I'd say back into my life, except that I don't remember ever feeling what I'm feeling now.

He's given me a glimpse of what the rest of my life could be.

He has faith that Loose-End Sarah, with all her laughter and tears, virtues and faults, is here to stay. And not only that, but she's capable of being joyous, with all the long-term implications that carries.

I want to believe. But doubt assails me. Despite my determination and all the promises that I've made to myself about moving forward, do I have that same faith?

Do I?

I look deep into myself, long and hard. Try to see myself as Chuck sees me.

Yes.

Yes, I do.

I believe.

I walk slowly over to him, go up on my tiptoes and kiss him briefly, gently, gratefully.

I look up into his eyes. Let myself bathe in the warmth of his gaze.

It's as if he's the sun. And I'm a newborn flower, opening up to the light for the very first time.

…

The kiss is unexpected. Not that I'm complaining, of course. Any kiss from Sarah Walker is something to be treasured.

Then she peers into my eyes. Looking for what, I'm not sure. She seems to find whatever it is, for she smiles contentedly and takes my hand.

I get the feeling that something significant just happened.

I only wish I knew what it was.

But she's happy, so whatever it was, I'll just go with it. Maybe it's part of what she wants to talk about later.

We amble, catching each other's grins with frequent, shy glances.

As we leave the bridge behind us, we pass by a vaguely similar, but less interesting version of the lighthouse we saw earlier.

She taps her chin with her index finger. "Hmm, let me guess. The Prospect Point lighthouse?"

"Thou hast become wise in the lore of lighthouses, grasshopper."

She chuckles.

"The most traditional lighthouse, however, is way over there," I point to the west, off into the distance, across the water, "on Point Atkinson."

Her eyes follow my gesture. "I see it."

"That one I'd like to see close up."

She turns to face me. "You haven't been there?"

"Just online. It's too awkward to get there by public transit."

"We could rent a car tomorrow if you'd like."

I push aside my irrational, shameful feelings about not being able to afford to do that myself.

"I would like that."

She nods. "Good."

A thought pops into my head. "We could also take a drive on the Sea-To-Sky highway. The videos look great and it's in the same general direction."

She grins. "Even better. However, you should know. I do like to drive fast."

That revelation doesn't surprise me at all. I grin back. "Bring it on, sister. I can handle it."

"We'll see about that, bub.

"Okay, let's see what we've got here." While still holding my hand she steps back and looks me up and down. Not for the first time today. Still, I find myself blushing.

She pretends not to notice. "What are you? About six three?"

I nod.

"We'll have to make sure we get something that's comfortable for you. A convertible, I think. Something sporty."

"That sounds good, but I have to warn you. I'm a little past due for a haircut. Ellie says it makes funny animal shapes when it's too long. And the wind will just make it worse."

She looks at my hair. Squints. "You know, she's right. I just saw a shape that looks a lot like a tortoise."

That takes a second to sink in. I huff. "Miss Walker, are you implying that I'm slow?"

She smiles smugly. "Well, Mr. Bartowski, I did win the race."

"But only by a couple of seconds."

She shakes her head. "Tsk, tsk. You do remember what they say about coming close?"

I grumble. "Yeah, yeah. Horseshoes and hand grenades."

"You, sir, would do well to remember that. Just in case you get to feeling a little uppity."

It's my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Uppity?"

"You know, thinking more of yourself than you ought to."

"I know what it means." I echo her earlier comment on lollygagging. "I just can't remember the last time I heard somebody use it in real life."

She shakes her head, grinning. "Smartass." But behind the grin, there's just the faintest hint of uncertainty in her voice as she adds, "You sure you wanna keep going down this road?"

I look into her eyes. "Absolutely, unconditionally, one hundred percent yes."

She nods, happily. "Good. So, tomorrow's a date then?"

"Yep. But we need to finish this one first."

"You're right. What's next on the agenda?"

"Nothing especially noteworthy until we reach Siwash Rock. But it may be the most pleasant part of the walk coming up. Once we get around this corner, the view opens up."

"Siwash Rock?"

"You'll see. But first, some history about the seawall itself."

…

As we walk, he points out the irregular granite stones visible in a curved section of the wall ahead of us.

"A Scotsman named Jimmy Cunningham, a stonemason, started working on it back in the thirties. He often did the work alone, hauling the heavy stones and cementing them in. Which was quite an accomplishment considering the guy was only about five foot four.

"When he couldn't get what he needed from the quarry, he'd scrounge up materials from wherever they could be found. Paving blocks from old streets being torn up. Abandoned headstone bases from the cemetery. Rocks from the beach.

"He toiled for thirty-two years, well into his seventies. He finished about half of it. Apparently, after he'd retired, he came down one time in his pajamas to supervise the workers who took over from him. He died before it was finished."

"That must've been heartbreaking. Not being able to see it through to the end."

"Yeah, you're probably right. But I think he could look with satisfaction at what he had accomplished."

He gestures ahead of us. "After all, how many people leave a legacy as substantial as this?"

Not me.

In Langley, my official record is buried in some vault. All that I've accomplished. The good along with the not-so-good.

The public will never know what I've done. And even within the intelligence community, only a very small, select group is privy to the details of my time with the Company.

When they're gone, no one will remember me. The files will gather dust like neglected tombstones. Forgotten by the generations that come and go.

Unbidden, a line from some forgotten song pops into my head.

I touch no one and no one touches me.

I close my eyes, sudden tears pricking at the corners. It seems that my earlier despondency hasn't quite run its course.

Chuck notices, of course. He leans in close and places a tissue in my free hand.

I dab at my eyes. "Sorry."

"Hey, nothing to be sorry about." Then he quietly asks, concern in his voice, "What were you thinking about?"

I don't answer him directly. "Chuck, what do you hope to leave behind?"

I can tell the question catches him off-guard. "Like a legacy?"

"Yes."

"Whew! That's a biggie."

I nod. "I know."

He's silent for a handful of seconds, pondering.

"I guess I'd like to be known as someone who became successful in what I'm good at, but one who did so honorably, with a clean conscience. And that the company I founded is known for helping people, not simply to make money."

I squeeze his hand, ask quietly, "That's admirable, but what would you like people to think about you when you, Chuck Bartowski, pop into their minds?"

He stares off into the distance like he's trying to look into the future. Long moments pass before he speaks again.

"I'd like to believe that people will remember me as being someone who loved his family. His friends. Someone who was there for them in the good and the bad times. Especially the bad times.

"Someone who was patient. Kind. Generous."

He pauses, brings his eyes to mine.

"Someone who was a good husband. A good father."

"Oh!" I'm powerless to stop my gasp. Or my blush. I look down at my feet.

He grants me a few moments of space before he gently inquires, "How about you?"

That I don't have a ready reply is just another sign of how much he continues to disarm me.

Instinctively, my training kicks in. Stall until you can improvise something. Lie if you need to.

No. Not here. Not with him. Not now. Not ever.

The truth or nothing.

I look up at him. "Honestly, I've never given it much thought."

"How come?"

"In my line of work, the idea that there'd be a tomorrow of some sort always seemed so…uncertain. Nebulous."

"It's like that song—" He snaps his mouth shut, shakes his head, frowns, clearly annoyed with himself.

"What song?"

"No, Sarah. Here you are telling me something personal, something important, and I trivialize it by thinking of some silly old tune from the sixties."

"It's okay, Chuck. You've helped me see how…powerful…music can be. I'd like to know what came to your mind."

He's still reluctant. "You're sure?"

I nod. "I'll tell you if I think it's silly or not."

"Okay, then.

"It's called Secret Agent Man, by Johnny Rivers. It was the theme for a TV show about—you guessed it—a spy. What you just said reminded me of the opening verse."

He doesn't sing this time, just recites the words, although the cadence is songlike.

There's a man who leads a life of danger

To everyone he meets he stays a stranger

With every move he makes

Another chance he takes

Odds are he won't live to see tomorrow

He embarrassedly adds, "It goes on from there. How a pretty face could conceal an evil mind. How kissing persuasive lips might lead to letting words slip. And making sure he doesn't give himself away while on globe-trotting spy missions. And other stuff like that.

"Pretty corny, huh?" He looks at me hopefully, awaiting my opinion.

"A little bit, maybe, but there's a measure of truth, too."

"What part, Sarah?"

"Well, for one, the tomorrow thing." I pause. "Not necessarily the idea of not living another day, although there have been times when I wasn't sure I would."

He squeezes my hand but says nothing. Just nods to show he's following along.

"But there's also the thought of what kind of tomorrow could I have after the CIA's done with me. Unprepared as I am, what kind of future could I realistically expect, coming from my world into the real world?"

He thinks about that. "I think I understand."

"Which sort of leads to the question you asked. Almost no one knows what I've done, almost no one can ever know what I've done, so what kind of legacy is that? And if I can't be anything other than what I am, what could I ever expect to leave behind that anyone would care about?"

Even as I say the words, I know they sound self-centered, whiny, discouraging.

Please tell me I'm wrong, Chuck. Make me believe.

He doesn't let me down.

"No, Sarah. Your future's not set in stone. I'm convinced that you'll do just fine out here in the 'real world'."

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

He shakes his head. "And no, I'm not pretending to know what you'll accomplish, but whatever it is, I firmly believe that people will be very happy to have known you. That they'll always remember you with fondness. That their lives will have been enriched by spending time with you."

He pauses, captures my eyes. "I know mine has been."

Then he softly adds, "What better legacy is there than that?"

How can I not kiss him after hearing words like that?

…

She kisses me again, but this time I'm pretty sure I know why.

When she pulls back, I can see the anxiety in her eyes has retreated.

I'm happy that I managed to find the right words to calm her fears. That I'm able to do so continues to surprise me a little. But only until I realize that I was simply speaking from my heart.

From my faith in her. Sarah Walker is a good person.

Then it comes to me. My faith is the source of her anxiety. She's worried that it will crumble after she tells me about who she's been. What she's done. That, unable to separate the person from those actions, I'll pull away. In fear. Or disgust.

I tell myself that I would never do that. That, no matter what she reveals, my belief in her innate goodness will not waver. After all, she's told me the truth about Bryce, and I managed to get past that.

But a dark, little voice at the back of my mind nags at me.

After she lets you know about her time as an agent, will you ever be able to look at her the same way again?

Can you see yourself sharing your life with a woman who's carried out some of the actions you're imagining right now?

Could you see yourself being okay with her being alone with Ellie?

Could you see her as the mother of your children?

I quash the voice.

Yes, I can. I have faith. I do.

I glance at her.

She smiles, her beauty beyond compare.

A pretty face can hide an evil mind.

Please help me out where I need more faith.

…

He's suddenly quiet. Withdrawn. His responsive smile is distracted.

He's figured out what I want to talk to him about. I'm sure of it.

It's no surprise. Chuck is both exceptionally empathic and singularly intelligent, qualities which don't often go hand in hand.

Every word he's spoken, every action he's taken tells me he's eager to know all he can about me. That he's prepared to accept me for who I am and to make a place for me in his life.

No, it's not his sincerity nor his willingness that I question. Not in the slightest.

It's his ability—despite all his honest intentions—to take in the frank truth and not withdraw in horror. And from the look I see in his eyes, it's that ability that he's starting to question.

I'm sure of it.

It's no wonder that he's apprehensive. And so am I. That's why I've kept putting it off.

No longer.

He needs to know. Now, not later. Before his active imagination runs rampant. Picturing things that may be even worse than the truth.

If that's even possible.

I'm afraid. But there's nothing for it.

In the end, all I can do is take the leap and hope the water is deep enough to cushion my fall.

Up ahead I see a bench, one somewhat removed from the main walkway, with no other benches near it.

I point it out. "Chuck, could we sit for a while?"

He looks my way for a few long seconds, wondering perhaps. "Sure, Sarah."

I sit close beside him, making sure I hold onto his hand. Who knows? This may be the last time he'll want to do that.

I take a deep breath and make sure he's looking at me before I speak. "Chuck, remember that phrase in Polish that I didn't translate for you?"

"I do. You said it wasn't the right time."

"Well, it's the right time now." I repeat my earlier words. "W ierzę, że mógłbym się w tobie zakochać.

"I believe I could fall in love with you."

That catches him off guard. He gapes at me. But only for a second or two. Then he smiles hugely, his anxiety pushed aside for the moment, at least.

"The way you said it, Sarah, made me hope it meant something like that. But I couldn't be sure."

"I shouldn't have left you hanging like that. I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's okay. You don't want to leap too quickly, right?"

"That's just it. Even though it's only been a few hours, I may have already fallen." I shake my head. "I don't know. I'm inexperienced in such matters.

"All I know is that I've never felt this way about anyone. With anyone."

He caresses the top of my hand with his thumb. "I feel the same, Sarah."

I tuck his words away in the back of my mind. Perhaps I'll need to comfort myself with them later.

I'm tempted to lean in and kiss him, but I stop myself. I can't allow the attraction I feel for him to deflect me from my purpose.

I strive to remove any affection from my voice, to be clinical. "You've figured out what I want to speak to you about. About my time in the CIA. Am I right?"

He's embarrassed. "Yes, Sarah, you're right." Then he hastily adds, "But you don't have to if it makes you feel uncomfortable."

"The truth is, Chuck, it does make me feel uncomfortable. But I have to do it. I need to.

"The problem is that I'm a coward."

He shakes his head. "No, you're not."

"No, Chuck. I am. Maybe not in the physical sense, but emotionally I am. That's why I've kept putting this off. It's hard for me to open up."

He objects. "But, Sarah, you've told me about your father and Bryce. That must've been hard, but you did it."

"Only because you made it so much easier for me.

"It's like the line in that song. About kissing persuasive lips.

"Yours are, Chuck."

He's happy about that, his smile genuine, even as he blushes.

I'm serious again. "But what I'm going to tell you now goes well beyond bad parents and bad partners. Far outside the scope of a normal person's life."

I think he's about to protest, but I forestall him. "I know you'll do your best to understand. That's not the issue."

I pause. "It's about informed consent. You know what that is."

"Yeah, when a doctor tells you the pros and cons of a procedure, so you can make a voluntary choice to go ahead or not."

I nod. "That's what I'm going to ask you to do. But to do that, I have to tell you about what I've done, and who I've been.

"Then, and only then, will you be able to make a…considered decision."

I pause to make sure I have his full attention.

"Either end this now and walk away. Or stay with me and see where the future takes us."

The starkness of my words takes him aback.

A few seconds pass before he responds. "May I say something?"

"Sure."

"It sounds like you want me to make a mental checklist. Pros on one side and cons on the other. Almost as if it's a purely intellectual exercise. But it's not."

He grips my hand a little tighter. "My heart is involved here, Sarah. No matter what you tell me, I'll wind up filtering it through my feelings for you."

"I need you to be objective, Chuck."

"I'm not sure I can."

I pause, casting about for a way to help him see things the way he should.

It comes to me.

"Okay, maybe you can look at it this way. As you listen to what I'm about to tell you, ask yourself this.

"Could I see myself introducing her to Ellie? Would I feel comfortable letting her spend time alone with the woman who raised me? With the person I care for more than anyone else in this world."

He flinches. Clearly, I've struck a nerve. "Despite your feelings for me, you do have doubts, don't you?"

He ducks his head, embarrassed. Ashamed. "Yeah, I do."

"You should. And we can't move forward without addressing them, right?"

He reluctantly agrees. "Yeah, you're right."

"Chuck, before I start, I need you to do me a favor."

He nods. "Okay. What is it?"

"Please listen carefully and try not to let your imagination run ahead of what I'm telling you.

"And please don't interrupt. This is going to be very hard for me, and I don't know if I'll be able to keep going if you cut in. Promise me, okay?"

He's solemn. "Yes, Sarah. I promise."

"Thank you."

For a moment, I'm tempted to drop his hand. But I don't.

I need something to cling to. Some sort of lifeline for when I hit rock bottom.

Time to leap.

"Act one was with my father on the road. I've told you a little about that.

"Act two began the day my father was arrested. That same day, I was…coerced…into joining the CIA. I told you I was a teenager but I hadn't even finished high school. I was only seventeen."

I see his free hand clench into a fist. The anger in his eyes. But he keeps his promise and doesn't interrupt.

I go on. "Somehow, Langston Graham, now the Director of the CIA, had come to know about me, my skill set.

"Taking over where my father left off, Graham made sure those skills were honed into ones that would not only be valuable to the Company, but also to him personally.

"Graham waved Old Glory in front of me. Made me believe that I was finally on the side of the angels. That now I could maybe make up for some of the things my father and I had done."

"Encouraged by Graham's interest and praise, I did well at the Farm, even though it was a very lonely time for me, a young girl in a very adult world.

"I graduated with very high marks, the best in my class. I felt good. Proud of what I'd accomplished. Ready to go out into the world and make a difference."

The dredged-up memory hits me anew. Like it was yesterday.

"How was I to know that the real graduation was to come later? And what paths it would lead me down.

"It's called a Red Test. Before you become a field agent, you're obligated to…" I stop, wondering what euphemism I could use. Eliminate? Terminate?

No, I won't sugarcoat it. Not even a little bit.

"You're obligated to kill—" I feel his flinch even though he tries to hide it, "—a person designated to you by your superior. It was understood that the target was a traitor or an enemy of the state, but there was no way you could be certain that it was true.

"It's more of a test of blind obedience than anything else.

"I should've said no, right then and there."

I swallow, hard. "I wish to God I had.

"I was sent to Paris. There I was given the details of who, when, and where. It was a woman."

I pause again. Close my eyes. Reluctant to bring the moment back to mind.

"The whole time, I doubted my ability to carry out my orders. At the very last moment, I decided I could not—would not—do it. However, when she reached for what I thought was a gun, my training took over.

"I shot her."

I wonder if this might be it. That he'll withdraw his hand.

No, he just grips it even tighter.

My lifeline.

Seconds pass before I'm able to speak again. "Taking a life changes you, Chuck. Irrevocably. Never again can you attain the…innocence…you had before that moment."

I open my eyes. Somehow, I find the courage to look into his.

"That was the night Agent Walker was truly born. Fully formed.

"After that, it didn't take very long before I became Graham's agent of choice. His go-to girl."

I let out a one-note humorless chuckle.

"You have a tin-pot dictator, amoral gunrunner, or merciless terrorist that needs to be dealt with? Send Agent Walker. She'll get the job done.

"You can count on her, yes sirree."

Bitter laughter escapes me, but I manage to choke it off quickly.

I see the compassion in his eyes, but he remains attentive and quiet.

"On some missions, it was possible to apprehend my target. Then ship him, sometimes her, off to some secret CIA base, never to see the light of day again.

"But often, too often, that wasn't an option.

"Sometimes, after learning their habits and routines, I eliminated my target from a distance, only seeing them through the scope of my rifle. Other times…

"Chuck, I told you about how I could pretend to be someone else to get close to my mark. I didn't tell you what usually happened to them. And you didn't ask. But I think some part of you knew."

He squirms. Looks away.

"You don't have to answer, I can see it in your face."

…

Damn. I wish I wasn't so easy to read.

But she's right, of course. I wasn't brave enough to face the ugly reality.

Staring off into her past, she goes on, her voice flat, inflectionless. "Those were the worst. The up close and personal ones. Seeing their life ebb away. Their blood on my hands. Figuratively and, many times, literally."

My stomach churns.

Craig's Bond, for sure.

I stop myself. Real violence is nothing like what you see in the movies. No, in real life, there are no stunts. No CGI. No fake blood. No actors rising to their feet when the director says "cut".

No, in the real world, real people really die.

I feel nauseated.

By her? Or for her?

I can't decide. My mind and heart are in a desperate tug-of-war.

"Not that all of my missions were terminations. Not even the majority. But there were enough. Too many."

She looks back at me. There's the faintest note of pleading in her voice. "I'm ashamed to admit it became easier after the first time. All I can say in my defense is that it never became easy. And that I never hurt an innocent person or let them be hurt, if it was within my power."

Turning her face away again, she quietly confesses. "Nonetheless, to survive, I had to become a stranger to myself. I had to lock pre-Paris me away, shield her from the brutal realities of the world I was now a part of if she wasn't to be completely obliterated.

"But as time went by, as the deaths piled up, it became harder and harder to find the person I'd been before I started on that path. I began to believe that I was just deluding myself. That Agent Walker is who I was. Who I'd always be.

"A killer with no hope, no possibility of a different life. Just more of the same.

"Until the end."

She turns to face me again. "And that's when you found me."

She smiles. Briefly. Tentatively. Thankfully.

"You gently forced me—if it's possible to force someone with gentleness—to see that I could change my course. That I did have a choice.

"A choice that I've made. But I couldn't have done it without you."

It's too much. I blurt out, "No, Sarah. You could've."

She's not angry at my interruption, but her voice is firm. "Thank you for that, Chuck. But you're wrong. Yes, all the ingredients were present. My disillusionment. My loneliness. An excess of empty time.

"But I lacked the needed…spark…to initiate the reaction.

"You were—are—the spark. Without you, I wouldn't have had the strength or the courage to change my course. Eventually, I would've gone back to D.C. and picked up where I left off."

I'm about to protest again, but she stops me with a look.

"No, Chuck, it's the truth. Accept it." She's even firmer, brooking no disagreement.

I snap my mouth shut and nod.

She takes a deep breath. "Chuck, I have faith that Agent Walker and I have parted ways. I have faith that I'm on the path leading back to my true self.

"But my faith is not at issue here."

She pauses, leans in closer. Asks quietly, "The important question is, do you believe?"

And there it is. Perhaps the most important question of my life.

I stare off into the horizon.

Can I separate the agent from the woman?

The was from the is?

Or, given what she's told me, have the two become, in my mind, inextricably entwined? And destined to remain that way?

Earlier, I told her that I could never hold the life she led with her father or her former relationship with Bryce against her.

That Agent Walker was just a persona she had to put on to do the job.

And that the past was the past.

Did I mean what I said?

Or was I simply paying lip service to the words?

I bring my eyes back to hers.

She's waiting for my response. Her expression is stoical, but her eyes search my face.

Hopefully.

And with that look, my vacillation, my doubts vanish as if they never were.

She is the is.

I knew that long before she told me anything about her life. Long before her words spoke to me of the unbreakable strength of her character.

I knew before we even exchanged a single word, since that very moment I saw her standing there, lost in her solitary, soundless sobbing.

I knew before I knew her.

I have faith.

My feelings for her are not conditional. Nothing she's told me—nothing she could tell me—will change that.

Earlier, when she'd wondered if she'd turned out well, I'd kissed her, hoping she could read, in my lips, my belief. And she did.

But what I actually knew then pales in comparison to what I know now.

Those assurances would, understandably, carry much less weight than the ones she needs to hear from me right now.

She's still waiting, patiently, for my reply. But I can see the anxiety beginning to grow in her eyes.

Her grip on my hand grows tighter, to the point of being painful, but I ignore it.

I bring her hand to my lips. Kiss it.

I smile. "You know, Sarah, we really need to decide when you'd like to meet Ellie. You two are really going to hit it off." I chuckle. "So much so, that I'll probably wind up being the third wheel."

It takes a second or two for that to sink in.

She blinks in surprise. Then blinks away sudden tears.

…

"The important question is, do you believe?"

Probably the most important question I've ever asked.

A crossroads moment.

What will the third act of my life be like?

Will I be on the path alone?

It all hinges on his response.

Despite my earlier admonition about him taking the time to make a considered decision, part of me wants him to respond immediately. Positively.

I bite back my disappointment when he doesn't.

He's deep in thought, staring off into space. I see the emotions chasing each other across his face. The struggle in his eyes.

I fear my crimson-soaked confession is too much for even him to bear.

As I wait on him, I do my best to keep my expression impassive, but I wonder if my eyes give me away as I search his face.

And then, suddenly, all the turmoil stops. He's reached a decision.

But what it is, I can't tell.

He turns to look at me, but doesn't say anything right away, I feel my unease start to grow.

Please, Chuck, I need to know.

Then he leans in closer and brings my hand to his lips. It's only then that I notice my white-knuckled grip. It must hurt, but he says nothing.

He kisses my hand.

He smiles. "You know, Sarah, we really need to decide when you'd like to meet Ellie. You two are really gonna hit it off." He chuckles. "So much so, that I'll probably wind up being the third wheel."

It takes me a moment to understand.

Then I blink in surprise. Then blink away sudden tears.

He believes.

There are no words.

I release his hand. Throw my arms around his neck.

I kiss him.

Bring on the third act.

I'm ready.

TBC

—

A/N: Some of you may have wondered if I will ever get back to Cliffside.

All I can say is that I hope to do so in the near future.

However, I believe I'm nearing the point where I will no longer add to this site.

We'll have to see where matters go from here.