A/N: A short chapter this time.

I thank all of you once again for your response to this little tale.

Especially as it's gone on for two years now.

Don't own Chuck et al.

—

AT LOOSE ENDS: Chapter Twelve

I take his hand and stand.

"The bridge next?"

"Yep. Back to the overpass and then down to the main road. Time to show you that view I keep talking about."

"Sounds good."

"But only after I use the facilities. My morning coffee has decided to make its presence known."

He points. "The restrooms are just over there. You know, if you need…"

I shake my head. "No, I'm fine. Often, on long stakeouts, I haven't been able to leave the van at all. For any reason. You learn to train yourself."

He chews on that. "Not something they talk about too much in the movies."

"I imagine not."

He squirms. Just a little bit. "Okay. I'll be back in a flash."

Releasing my hand, he starts walking hurriedly away.

I call out. "Chuck!"

He stops. Turns.

"Yeah?"

"Make sure you pick up some more tissues from the gift shop."

A smile slowly grows on his face.

"Will do."

I watch him disappear into the small building off to the right of the gift shop.

Taking out my compact, I check my lipstick. Considering recent activities, it's no surprise that it needs some work.

The uncapped lipstick is halfway to my lips when it suddenly comes to me.

I'm happy.

And I have been for a while. I can't pin down the exact moment it happened, or even if there was an exact moment. But it dawns on me that I've been heading in that direction ever since I decided to trust him. When I pushed aside my caution and agreed to walk with him.

When was the last time I genuinely felt this way? Perhaps the day that I was singing along with the radio as I drove that little yellow Volkswagen cabriolet of mine. Looking forward to my high school graduation. Finding my own way. Ready and eager to break free from the life I'd led with my dad.

That was right before I saw them haul him off to prison. And before Langston Graham hauled me off to prison too. Just a different kind of prison.

Since then, I'd thought there'd been times when I was happy.

Those early days with Bryce, where everything seemed bright and possible.

Those rare occasions with Carina when we were able to put aside our competitiveness and actually enjoy each other's company.

But I know now that I'd been fooling myself.

What I'd felt then wasn't happiness. It was just an absence—sporadic and temporary—of sadness.

Which is not the same thing. Not at all.

Chuck has done more than simply chase away my despondency. Much more. He's helped me find something positive to fill the negative space it once occupied. Something to build on. Something tangible. Something to firmly grasp with both hands.

Something, perhaps, too precious for words to express. At least, for my stunted emotional vocabulary.

But I'll have to try. I need to let him know just how much I value what he's done for me.

I realize that I've been standing here, lipstick and compact in hand, lost in my thoughts. I quickly finish up and slip the items back into my purse. It's only then that I notice that he's already halfway back from the gift shop. He holds up a small tissue package in each hand. He grins before slipping one into each jacket pocket.

As he nears me, I can't help but grin back, but I try to keep my voice cool. "That's rather presumptuous of you, Mister Bartowski. Just how much kissing do you think we're actually going to do?"

…

"Ooh! Someone's full of herself, isn't she? I'll have you know, Miss Walker, that there are many other situations where tissues would come in handy."

"Such as?"

"For instance, what if a sudden sandstorm descends upon us? How will we keep the sand out of nose and mouth without tissues?"

She gestures to the verdant vegetation surrounding us. "Not exactly a desert here, Chuck."

"Okay, I give you that. But what about a locust swarm? I wouldn't want those creepy bugs getting into my mouth."

I shudder theatrically.

She sighs. "Number one. Vancouver is not exactly known for locust swarms, is it?"

"Well, no."

"Number two. Roasted locusts are quite tasty."

I gape. "You've eaten them?"

"Uh-huh. On a mission in an eastern African country. I was on the run. The locusts were the only food I had access to."

I shake my head. "And yet you thought that me having Milk Duds on popcorn was disgusting."

"At least the locusts are nutritious."

"Don't care. You'll never get me to eat one." I shudder again.

Stepping closer, she looks up at me and bats her eyelashes. Dropping her voice, she asks, sultrily, "Even if I asked you nicely…Chuck?"

I swallow heavily. I feel the sudden heat in my cheeks. My willpower slips. "Well, maybe."

She chuckles. "You're so easy."

But then I manage to recover, lean closer, and whisper in her ear, "I think I'd pretty much do anything you asked, Sarah.

"Anything."

I pull back.

She's blushing.

That'll teach her.

…

It suddenly feels very warm, despite the autumnal coolness.

I resist the urge to fan my face.

Our eyes lock for a brief moment, then, smirking a little, he takes my hand. Without further ado, we start walking, swinging our joined hands like giddy teenagers, smiling shyly at each other all the while.

As we near the overpass, an older, but pristine, yellow Porsche convertible with California plates comes to a halt. Its occupants pausing, no doubt, to appreciate the same view I'd enjoyed earlier.

A happy blonde woman, wearing a white, cable knit sweater under a light jacket, is driving. On her left hand, which is gripping the wheel, an engagement ring sparkles in the sunlight.

The dark-haired man in the passenger seat has a black leather jacket over a dark red button-up shirt. He's happy too.

They regard the scene before them for a few seconds, then look back at each other, smiling. Mutually enraptured.

I get the feeling that's pretty much a constant state for the two of them.

She puts the car in gear and they drive slowly toward us. As they pass, they wave at us. We wave back. I notice the woman has a wedding band nestled close to her engagement ring.

I'm guessing that they're on their honeymoon.

A song begins to play on the car stereo. A few piano notes, then a bluesy woman's voice.

Looking out on the morning rain

I used to feel so uninspired

And when I knew I had to face another day

Lord, it made me feel so tired…

The car speeds up and draws away. The music fades.

But the words linger, find their way deep down into my heart. It's as if the singer knew me in my dark despair.

I have to know more. I need to know if she found her way.

I stop, turn and hopefully ask, "Chuck, do you know what song that was?"

"You don't recognize it?"

I shake my head. "My life has had little room for music. Or anything else not mission related."

He contemplates that for a few seconds. There's a hint of sadness in his eyes. Sadness for me.

But then he grins cheerfully. "Well, Miss Walker, you've come to the right place. I happen to be an enthusiast of all things musical. You probably didn't read the fine print in the tour package contract—who does—but a music appreciation segment is included at no extra charge.

"It's an old song. The title is, 'A Natural Woman', or more precisely 'You Make Me Feel Like A Natural Woman', with the first five words always encased in brackets.

"This version, and by far the best one, is sung by the immortal Aretha Franklin. One of her signature songs. What we heard was part of the first verse."

Eagerly I ask, "Could we hear the rest of it?"

"That can be arranged." He reaches for his phone. He glances at it, then puts it back in his pocket. "Damn. My battery's dead. Forgot to charge it last night. Could I use your phone?"

I shake my head. "Sorry, I left it in my room."

I'm disappointed. I try not to show it, but I'm sure he notices. "We can try later, Chuck."

He hesitates. "I know the words, Sarah."

I brighten. "You do?"

"Uh-huh. Would you like to hear them?"

"Very much."

"You're sure?" He gives me an odd look.

"I am. Why are you asking?"

"It's just that they're very powerful. They might…hit a little close to home. I don't want you to feel embarrassed. Or pressured."

"I'll be fine, Chuck."

"Okay, then." He sounds a little dubious.

"You'll have to excuse me in advance for what some might consider as gender appropriation, but, hey, what the heck, if Joan Baez can do it, so can I."

"Joan Baez?"

"Yeah, in the song, "The Night They Drove…" He checks himself. "Another time."

He takes a deep breath. "Okay, here we go."

I expect that he'll just recite the words for me, but he doesn't. Instead, quite unselfconsciously, he looks straight ahead, simply opens his mouth, and begins to sing.

I gape, astonished, surprised yet again by Chuck Bartowski.

Looking out on the morning rain

I used to feel so uninspired

And when I knew I had to face another day

Lord, it made me feel so tired

His voice is lovely.

I have a sudden image of him sitting beside me in that little yellow car of mine, singing with me. And looking at me the same way the man in the Porsche looked at his wife.

A chill runs down my spine.

He pauses, briefly glances at me before going on.

Before the day I met you, life was so unkind

But you're the key to my peace of mind

My heart hiccups. I put a hand over my mouth, but the gasp still escapes.

'Cause you make me feel

You make me feel

You make me feel like a natural woman

He stops, turns himself to look at me.

Deeply moved, I somehow manage to clear my throat, compliment him. "Chuck, you have an amazing voice!"

I can see that he's pleased. "Not nearly in the same class as Aretha's. But thank you."

Softly, he asks, "Do you want me to keep going?"

I'm uncertain, but only for a moment. I have to hear the rest. "Please, Chuck."

He looks into my eyes, then sings again.

To me. For me. No one's ever done that before.

When my soul was in the lost and found

You came along to claim it

He chokes up, clearly affected by the words. As am I. But he manages, after a second or two, to keep going.

I didn't know just what was wrong with me

'Til your kiss helped me name it

Now I'm no longer doubtful, of what I'm living for

And if I make you happy I don't need to do more

I feel a tear running down each of my cheeks. I didn't realize I'd been crying.

He uses his thumbs to gently swipe the tears away. An extraordinarily intimate gesture.

His eyes are glassy too.

I suspect the chorus comes next, but I don't give him a chance. I throw my arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss.

The words sing in my mind and heart.

He makes me feel.

Like an actual woman.

…

Focusing on her response, her feelings, I hadn't given enough thought to mine.

I heard the song a hundred times and sang along with it almost as often, but never has it affected me as it has today.

My soul was in the lost and found. Until today.

And I didn't know what was wrong with me. Not really. Until she helped me name it.

She's crying. Just a little. I brush away her tears. I feel my eyes well up in response.

I don't know if I can find my voice and finish the song.

Then she's kissing me, and I realize there's no need.

If I can make her happy, I don't need to do more.

TBC

—

A/N: Here's the last verse. The one he was unable to sing.

(Just in case you're not familiar with the song. If not, you might want to give it a listen)

Oh, baby, what you've done to me (what you've done to me)

You make me feel so good inside (good inside)

And I just want to be (want to be)

Close to you, you make me feel so alive

I was, once again, tempted to end our story here. But gauging from your comments, I believe you'd want me to continue.

Please tell me if I was correct in that assumption.

Thank you for following along. Especially after all this time has passed.