A/N: Yes , this was a long time coming. I thank you all for your patience.
This chapter and many to follow will be in the form of alternating, present-tense, first-person POV.
So, watch for the changes.
I sincerely hope you'll find it worth the wait.
Thanks to my beta, michaelfmx.
Don't own Chuck et al.
—
Chapter Five: Them
...
The transition from the relative darkness of the aquarium to the bright sunshine is abrupt.
I can't put my finger on it, but it feels like I've made—am making—a transition in more ways than one.
Chuck stops by the highly stylized Orca sculpture I'd passed by when entering the aquarium. I push the vague, disconcerting feeling aside, concentrate on the here and now.
"Okay, here's as good a place as any to start the nickel tour," he gestures. "This is Skana. It was done by a well-known indigenous artist named Bill Reid. One of his most celebrated works is on display at the airport. The Jade Canoe."
It comes to me. A large, greenish sculpture I quickly passed by on the way to pick up my rental car. Something with aboriginal figures in a boat?
I barely recall it, focused solely as I was on the mission that lay before me. As usual.
"I think I saw it."
He's surprised. "You flew in? I'd have thought you would've driven."
I'm confused for a moment. Then it dawns on me.
"I'm from D.C., Chuck. Not the state."
Even as I speak, there's this little voice that tells me that I should've gone along with his assumption. Then come up with a plausible reason why I would've flown up here. I'm normally very good at that sort of improvisation.
At The Farm, one of the first lessons pounded into recruits is that truths—about yourself, your life—are to be hoarded like a miser hoards his gold. Jealously guarded, grudgingly spent only if there's categorically no other way to accomplish your mission.
Even then, stringent frugality is the key. Dole out the absolute bare minimum, nothing more.
It seems I've thrown that admonition straight out the window. It's as if I'm some sort of reckless lottery winner on a wild spending spree.
I told him my name, instead of using the perfectly good alias that'd been crafted for me. I'd admitted that I was by myself when I could've told him I was meeting someone. And now, to top it all off, I've revealed where I live. Or, more accurately, where I stay between missions.
And it's not just in words.
My reactions to him have been honest. Real smiles. Genuine laughter. Heartfelt empathy. Unfeigned flirting.
He disarms me. Throws me off my game, as no one has ever done before.
He carries no weapons. Isn't skilled in any of the martial arts—trust me, I know how to tell—yet, Chuck Bartowski might very well be the most dangerous man I've ever known.
Everything about him impels me to step out of the shadows. To become someone I'm not sure I can be. Or ready to be.
Open, not closed. Honest, not deceptive.
But I can't. Not completely. For his safety foremost.
At least that's what I tell myself.
"Sorry. I shouldn't have assumed you're from the state."
"That's okay. After all, I assumed you're from Burbank, California, not the one in Illinois."
"Wait. There's a Burbank in Illinois?"
"Yep. It's near Midway airport in Chicago. I had to fly in there for some business."
And there I go again. Revealing something I really shouldn't have. I manage to stop myself before I tell him what kind of business it was.
For a month, I'd been chasing a Moldovan weapons dealer across Europe, always a step behind. I'd finally caught up with her on the flight from Frankfurt to Chicago. Somehow, upon our landing, she'd managed to slip through the FBI's net.
So I'd tracked her down myself.
Not my bailiwick, but I knew the woman much better than the locals did. Knew how she thought. Knew the kind of places she likely would hide.
Turned out Burbank, IL, a couple of miles south of the airport, was that place.
She hadn't come quietly. I still have a small scar from that encounter.
"You assumed correctly. I'm a California boy. Born and raised."
"Not a world traveler, then?"
"Nope. Vancouver's the furthest I've ever been from home." He pauses, his gaze drifting off. "I've always hoped I'll get to Paris one day, though."
He refocuses. "You travel a lot?"
I shrug. "I get around. My job takes me places."
Many, many places. None of which I've truly seen. Unless you count scouting out lines of sight and escape routes as seeing.
He nods his understanding, doesn't ask directly what I do, even though he's clearly curious.
"So, Sarah, if you don't mind me asking, was it your job that brought you up here? Or a vacation?"
Well, Chuck, I'm a CIA agent sent up here to apprehend a dangerous terrorist. Failing that, I was instructed to eliminate him.
No. I can't tell him that. And if I could—and did—I'm sure he'd do the smart thing and run.
Fast and hard.
I don't want to be alone. Not today. I want him by my side, even if it's just for a few hours.
I prevaricate, sticking as close to the truth as I can. "A bit of both. The company I work for sent me up here to meet a person of interest to us. But he couldn't make it, so now I have some unexpected time off."
He considers that for few moments.
"That's interesting because I find myself in a similar situation. I came up here to recruit some talent for a project I'm—" a frown crosses his face, "—the company I work for is starting up. I did my job a little too well, and now I have the rest of the week off." He shrugs, "Sort of a backhanded reward."
It's obvious there's more to this story than he's letting on, but I don't push. How can I when I'm holding so much back?
"It appears we're both at loose ends."
"I guess we are." He grins. "Maybe fate is telling us that today's the day we get to be loose with each other."
I raise a questioning eyebrow.
He immediately blushes. "Sorry, that came out wrong. I just meant—"
I grin. "I know what you meant, don't worry."
"Whew!" He lets out an exaggerated breath, swipes his hand across his forehead to wipe away imaginary sweat. "That's a relief. I've been slapped for much less."
I chuckle at his antics. He grins in turn.
Gesturing with his head toward the road, he asks, cheerily, "Ready to roll, Miss Walker?"
I nod. It appears he's about to offer his arm, but at the last moment changes his mind. Probably thinks he'd be too forward.
However, as we make our way down along the tree-lined sidewalk, through the dappled sunshine, a part of me wishes he'd been just a little bit bolder. Because it would've answered the question that's been on my mind since our hands met.
A question whose answer scares me, just a little.
Okay, more than a little.
What if there's nothing when we touch a second time? No chill? No warmth? Nothing? Maybe it was just a one-time thing. Never to be repeated.
Would I be relieved or saddened? I'm not sure.
But what's even scarier is the alternative.
What if it wasn't a one-time thing? That when I touch him again—or he touches me—I'll feel that same sudden surge. I'm not sure I'd know how to handle the implications of that.
I know I could settle the issue by simply reaching out and taking his hand that almost brushes against mine as we walk along.
But, as I said, I'm afraid.
No, I'll keep my hand where it is.
For now.
…
Damn.
I should've offered her my arm. It would've been a natural, spontaneous thing to do.
But I'd over-thought it. As usual. The moment's gone. To do it now would just seem forced.
Still, as we walk down the sidewalk, I find myself sneaking a glance down at our hands, separated by mere inches.
What would happen if I just reached over and gently took hers in mine?
Would she object? I don't think so, but I'm not certain.
And if I did, would I feel what I felt before? What I hoped she felt as well?
I would like to know.
My hand starts to move toward hers.
Stop. Don't force it.
I'll wait for the right moment. And do my best to make sure I don't miss it when it comes.
If it comes.
…
Upon reaching the main road, my eyes are momentarily drawn to what looks a bit like a San Francisco streetcar, but, in this case, hooked up to a pair of large white horses. It's about half full of people waiting to go on a tour of the park.
The prices are on display. Expensive.
Chuck notices my glance. He stops, thoughtful. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head, wondering if I would enjoy that sort of thing. Calculating the cost.
"Chuck?"
He looks at me.
"I'd rather walk if that's okay with you? That way we can stop whenever and wherever we want."
I mean it. I'm not saying it just to make him feel better. I'd much rather be with him alone, not stuck with a bunch of other tourists.
He relaxes. "Yes, I agree. That's better."
A few more steps find us at the seawall.
He points out the raised inner section. "That's for bikes. Be careful crossing over. I almost got nailed once. Some guy practicing for the Tour de France, I expect."
I'd noticed the division on my way to the aquarium, but I appreciate his genuine concern. There's no condescension in his tone like I'm some helpless woman who can't figure things out for herself.
"Gotcha."
Ahead of us there's a marina crammed with pleasure boats of all sorts. Behind that, a wall of high-rises.
He glances at me. "We can go left or right, but I like going to the left. I like the views better from that direction.
"Sounds good. Besides, I came from the right, so I've already covered that ground."
I'm ready for something new.
"Okay."
He points out the sights as we amble along
I'm not used to that. Ambling, I mean. My life has always been a full-on sprint, rushing from one con to the next, one mission to the next, barely having the time to catch my breath in between.
The best way to keep one step ahead of those dragons lurking in the dark corners of my mind, waiting to pounce.
No, I can't remember the last time I ambled. Not really. However, while on a mission, it would often appear that I did so.
But it was all a façade. My mind was always running full tilt even if my feet weren't.
Evaluating the threat level of each and every person around me. Always assuming the next corner I turned could conceal an ambush. All the while making sure nothing I did or said would give me away. Doing my level best to make sure that no one would see anything even close to the real me.
But not now, not this day. It's as if I'm been given the chance to see the world anew—through his eyes.
A world where people are just that. People. Not potential adversaries.
A world where turning a corner opens up new vistas, replete with delight and beauty, not hidden threats.
A world where I can put aside my life—for a while, at least—and just be a girl out for a walk with a boy.
I feel determination rise up in my chest. I will amble. With him.
And I will enjoy this day.
I look around with renewed appreciation for the scenes before me.
It doesn't hurt that Chuck is a good tour guide. Enthusiastic, entertaining, humorous, informative.
Truth be told, however, I'm more interested in him than I am in the scenery, engaging as it is.
I'm very good at absorbing information, especially as it pertains to my cover or the details of my mark's dossier. I wouldn't have survived this long without being able to do so. But he seems to remember even the most trivial details about the city. It makes me wonder if he has some form of eidetic memory.
A veritable walking database. With cute, curly hair. And those beautiful, honest eyes.
We approach a tall, cage-like structure with a peaked roof.
"What's that?"
"Come with me."
We look inside to see an old, muzzle-loading cannon.
"The Nine O'Clock Gun."
He smirks. His voice, his body language, remind me of one of those smarmy, overly cheerful gameshow hosts. It's a remarkable transformation.
"Miss Walker, I need you to listen carefully to this next question."
He pauses, dramatically.
"For today's grand prize and a berth in the championship round, at what time each evening does Stanley Park's Nine O'Clock gun go off?"
A long time ago, I'd developed a dumb-blonde persona. It's quite amazing how careless marks can be when they think a woman's IQ and bust measurements are only separated by fifty or so points.
Without thought, I slip into character. I rock my head from side to side, a vacuous expression on my face.
"I dunno." Then, hopefully, "A quarter to eight?"
He blinks a couple of times, seems to gather himself before going on, his expression of empathetic regret comically exaggerated. "Oh, so sorry, Miss Walker. The answer is…nine o'clock!"
He gestures toward an imaginary sidekick. "Johnny, what parting gifts do we have for our lovely contestant?"
An older couple walking by gives us a puzzled look.
Chuck winks at them. They appear momentarily startled before moving on.
Lovely. I don't think anyone's told me I was lovely before. I like the sound of it even if it was said in jest.
No. I'm wrong. Not in jest.
Inadvertently would, I believe, be more correct. Just as he'd inadvertently told me I was beautiful.
I like it when he says stuff like that. And I like the way he says it. Not studied, planned out beforehand. No. Genuine. Spontaneous.
It stirs something inside me.
I laugh. Partially to cover my sudden blush, partly because he's so amusing.
He grins, hugely.
After a few moments, he sobers. "I've been here a few times when it goes off. The sucker's loud. No matter how much I try to prepare myself I always jump a couple of feet."
"I can imagine." That's about all I can do. I stopped being surprised by the sound of gunfire quite some time ago.
"I won't tell you about the little shriek I let out last time." He leans closer. I feel his warm breath on my cheek.
I suddenly feel a little warm myself.
He semi-whispers, "Kind of embarrassing when little children look at you strangely."
I'm quite certain he's embellishing, but the picture of him letting out a squeaky yelp as he jumps makes me chuckle.
He's funny.
I'm not.
…
She's funny.
Once, when I'd tried a similar schtick with Jill, she'd just looked at me blankly—as if I was an idiot. Then told me not to embarrass her in public by acting so stupidly.
Not here, however. Sarah went along with it so smoothly it was as if we'd planned it out beforehand.
But something tells me she doesn't realize just how funny she is. That same something that told me she wasn't aware of just how kind she was when I was struggling earlier, foot in mouth.
And the dumb-blonde routine was astonishing. Startling. The transformation was so quick and so complete, it was as if a completely different woman had suddenly appeared out of thin air.
And it wasn't just her facial expressions or tone of voice. Her body language had, for a few seconds, oozed a blatant…sexuality. Like one of those lesser-known blonde bombshells that populated so many of the old B movies.
It'd taken me a few moments to recover.
Maybe she's been an actress at some point in her life. Certainly not in anything I've ever seen. If she had been, I'm quite certain I would've remembered.
I push aside my curiosity, continue my narrative. "They had to build an enclosure after engineering students from UBC kidnapped the cannon as a stunt and held it for ransom. Also to hinder people who liked lobbing rocks from the beach up into the barrel."
Her eyes widen. "Someone actually did that?"
"Yep." I point out into the harbor towards the floating fueling stations. "Back in the Sixties, there used to be one of those right in line with the cannon. Not the smartest idea in retrospect. One rock went right through the "O" of the Texaco sign on top. No one was hurt, but they repositioned the station after that."
She snorts. Cutely. Up to this very moment, I hadn't realized that such a thing was possible.
"I should hope so."
At that moment, a crazy idea pops into my mind. It's silly and ridiculous, but I decide I'm going to chance it.
I want to hear her laugh again.
Ok, I'll be honest. Part of me is also testing her. If she finds this funny…
I look around us, melodramatically, making sure that there's no one within earshot. I lower my voice as I lean in closer.
The breeze wafts a subtle, citrusy scent my way, one that my untrained nose can't identify. I like it. It suits her.
"Can you keep a secret, Sarah?"
She jumps just a bit then nods, uncertain, I believe, where I'm going with this.
"What I just told you was the official explanation. But there's much more to the story. It wasn't just some random prank."
"What do you mean?"
"What really happened was covered up. The then relatively little-known National Enquirer was the only newspaper that somehow got the facts. But almost no one believed the headline."
She pretends to gasp, her hand over her mouth. "What was it, Chuck?"
I form air quotes. "Time Traveler Uses Antiquated Cannon to Foil Alien Invasion!"
She looks bewildered. "Excuse me?"
I look around again, before quietly going on, "Here are the facts, Sarah. And I remind you that this information is classified."
I pause. "Unbeknownst to mankind, that Texaco station had been unwittingly positioned at a precise wormhole nexus point. A crustacean-like alien race from the Crab Nebula used the recently discovered intergalactic portal to send automated probes to evaluate Earth and its inhabitants.
"What they saw appalled them. Millions of their smaller, though admittedly tasty, brethren being sacrificed each year to appease the insatiable appetites of the planet's dominant creatures.
"Bent on vengeance, they decided to attack. They placed a teleportation device on the roof of the station. Thereby, upon their arrival through the wormhole, the members of the invading army would be instantaneously transported to strategic locations around the globe.
"Before mankind knew what was happening, the world was overrun by colossal, killer crabs.
"Their first priority was to take out all the seafood restaurants. After that, they turned on the governments who condoned such atrocities."
I gesture wildly. "The authorities tried everything to hold off the ravaging hoards. Gigantic pots of boiling water. Copious amounts of melted butter dumped from the bellies of every available fire-fighting aircraft. Gargantuan, remote-controlled nutcrackers. But, alas, nothing could stop the relentless onslaught. One by one, the governments toppled, til none were left standing."
I see the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, the laughter dancing in her eyes, but she keeps a horrified tone in her voice. "Chuck, what are you saying? That for the last forty years the world's actually been ruled by heartless, brainless creatures with no backbone?"
Somehow, I manage to contain myself, keep my expression serious.
"No, Sarah. While it may sometimes feel like it, that fate was avoided. But only because a brilliant scientist of the year 2049, from one of the last remaining enclaves of humankind, managed to ascertain where and when the invasion had started. He used his time machine to make a one-way trip back to the year 1964, here in Vancouver. Unable to bring any weapons with him from the future because of energy limitations, he knew he had to find some other way of stopping the invasion in its tracks.
"Canadian gun laws being what they were, he was frustrated in his attempt to buy a rocket launcher or heavy machine gun at the local sporting goods store. Desperate, running out of time, he realized the only way was to use this here cannon." I point with my thumb. "So he came and loaded it with rocks."
"But he didn't sink the station."
"He didn't have to. The scientist, at the last moment, recalled the largely discounted account of a sixty-eight-year-old grandmother from Poughkeepsie who, in the year 2039, had taken out one of the monstrous invaders using nothing but a Nerf Super Soaker and a canister of Morton's table salt.
"He then realized that all he needed to do was get the station to move."
"What? How would that help?" She seems genuinely engaged.
"If the station was moved, the invading arthropod army would materialize ten feet above the water, not on the platform from which they'd be teleported."
She's puzzled. "Couldn't they just swim over and climb on board anyway?"
"No, Sarah. As our hero had correctly deduced, saltwater was instantly fatal to them."
She blinks, doesn't comment for a couple of seconds. When she does, her voice drips sarcasm. "Ya think they would've figured that out before they came all this way. You know, to a planet that's mostly covered in the stuff."
"I never said they were smart. Just big and mean."
She snorts. Again. Still cutely.
"In any case, after the entire first wave suffered a terrible, salty death, the invasion was called off.
"Our hero, given time, found a way to destabilize the wormhole, making further incursions impossible. Then, unable to return to his own time, he moved to Florida and formed an elite organization dedicated to keeping earth's native shellfish in check. Making sure that we live in a world that never has to fear the second coming of a cataclysmic killer crustacean conquest."
I stand straight, shoulders back. I look off into the distance as I snap off a salute.
"Our first line of defense. The brave men and women of…Red Lobster!"
She gapes for a moment, then, finally giving in, bursts out laughing.
I join her. People walking by look at us strangely. Shaking their heads.
I don't care. I've made Sarah Walker laugh. The rest of the world can take a flying leap.
A minute or so passes before she regains control, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes. She shakes her head, still chuckling.
"You, Chuck Bartowski, have a very fertile…and strange…imagination."
I shrug. "Too much sugar when I was young. And I read way too many comic books."
"If I had to guess, I'd say a little too much science fiction as well."
I hold my thumb and index finger half an inch apart. "A smidge, perhaps."
"Yeah, right." She grins, toothily.
A chance breeze blows a loose strand of hair across her face. I have this sudden, almost overpowering urge to reach over and tuck it behind her ear. My hand starts to move, but she forestalls me—and saves me from making a fool of myself—by doing it herself.
Somehow, the gesture, so small yet so gracefully, if unconsciously, done, rekindles my earlier disbelief.
How is it possible that a woman like her isn't constantly surrounded by friends and admirers?
She's funny. Kind. Empathetic. Wicked smart. She laughs—really laughs—at all my stupid jokes.
And if that wasn't enough, it's all wrapped up in a package so stunningly beautiful that it beggars description.
So why is she by herself?
I'm determined not to question it. I'm simply going to accept it for what it is. A gift.
After all, if the situation had been otherwise, what chance would I have had to spend any time with her? A woman I'm beginning to like much more than the brief time we've spent together logically warrants.
Not that logic has exactly done me a lot of good in the relationship department.
Logic did nothing but make me lose sleep, for months, as I analyzed, over and over again, what I'd done wrong with Jill. What I said or didn't say. What I did or didn't do.
Logic's made me decline every opportunity since, reasoning that I wasn't good enough for some woman Ellie introduced to me. Or in a pitiable act of self-deceit, reasoning that none of them were exactly what I was looking for.
Logic's done nothing but leave me alone and lonely, standing on the sidelines as I watch life pass me by.
To hell with logic.
I like Sarah.
I'm not going to let this chance slip by without even making an effort.
Time to feel again.
…
I like him.
I know. I shouldn't even be admitting this to myself, let alone to him.
It's unprofessional.
But I don't care.
His empathy. His kindness. His off-beat sense of humor. He's employed them all—unselfishly and brilliantly—to drive away my blues.
I can't recall the last time someone even attempted to do that for me.
No surprise there. For almost my entire adult life, my associates have been fellow spies; officially sanctioned liars, thieves, and, in many cases, killers.
And when I was on a mission? More often than not, I spent my time in the company of some sadistic tinpot dictator, bloodthirsty terrorist or the like.
Neither group could possibly be defined, even by the most charitable, as being nurturing.
But Chuck's so different from them. As far as the sunrise is from the sunset.
He defies categorization, at least the categories of my emotionally stunted life.
No, I'm fooling myself. Of course, I know what category he's in.
Chuck Bartowski is a good person. Worthy of trust.
My subconscious recognized that before I did. That's why I've let my guard down—repeatedly—confident that he would never use my revelations for his personal gain.
Just being around him makes me believe that maybe, somewhere, deep inside me, there still exists that real girl.
The good person I could've been if my life had not taken the course it did.
Maybe it's not too late. To find her again.
Maybe he can help me. Perhaps, he already has.
All I can do is see where this goes.
TBC
—
A/N: UBC is the University of British Columbia.
For those who may not know it, Red Lobster is chain of over 700 seafood restaurants, most in the USA, but with branches in many other countries.
The Jade Canoe, more properly, The Spirit of Haida Gwai is situated in the Vancouver Airport International Terminal. The Black Canoe version sits outside the Canadian Embassy in Washington DC.
At one time, there were a number of floating gas stations in what's known as Coal Harbour: Chevron, Texaco, Esso, etc. Down to one now, a Chevron.
I'm hoping that I'll be able to overcome my writer's block in this story and update much quicker next time.
Thank you for reading.