A/N: This will be a relatively short piece. (Although, my hard working beta michealfmx believes I'm kidding myself.)
There are many stories on this site that explore the "what if" scenario of our favorite characters meeting under very different circumstances. And at different times in their lives. This is one of those.
The canon-ish timing of the story will become more apparent in the next chapter but there are clues contained here as well.
Told mostly in the first person with the point of view switching in alternating chapters.
Don't own Chuck et al.
—
AT LOOSE ENDS
Chapter One: Her
At loose ends.
Upon awakening in my hotel room, I'd wondered about the etymology of the phrase.
I'd thought it might, perhaps, have some sort of a connection with weaving, but, upon consulting my phone I find it is, instead, a nautical term. Something to do with keeping idle sailors busy by having them search for loose ends in a sailing ship's rigging.
I can't recall the last time I was truly idle. It seemed there was always the next mission to plan for. The next mission to be executed.
Ad infinitum.
Truth is, that was as much my choice as it was my boss's.
I need to keep busy. Too much free time leads me down pathways in my mind to places I don't like visiting.
It's like my memory is one of those old maps with monsters drawn in the unexplored, dark corners.
Here be dragons.
So how did I wind up here? At loose ends with nothing to do, no place, except here, that I had to be for at least the next week?
It all started with a man by the name of Jules Levesque. I guess you might say he was my boss's bête noire.
Levesque, a French terrorist, had avoided capture for years. He'd been implicated in a series of attacks on American tourists abroad.
After one particularly heinous attack, Langston Graham, my boss, had personally promised, to the President no less, that the CIA would bring Levesque in from wherever he was hiding. And do so within a month.
That was six months ago. The man had dropped off the face of the earth, had eluded every agent the CIA director had set on his trail.
Graham was embarrassed. He doesn't like being embarrassed. Personally or professionally.
But last week, things changed. An attack in Jerusalem had taken the lives of a Californian Jewish couple—and their three young daughters—while they were on a tour.
Levesque's fingerprints were all over the operation.
It'd been the final straw. Graham had ranted. Called in favors. Cajoled. Threatened.
Nothing.
Until two days ago, when some tenuous intel had suggested that the target, apparently confident in his false identity, might be on his way to Vancouver to go on, of all things, an Alaskan cruise.
I supposed that even terrorists needed a vacation from time to time.
It was our best lead.
Graham had been unequivocal in his instructions to me. Get close to Levesque by whatever means possible. Grab him and utilize your backup team to spirit him back across the border, where he would be tried.
What was left unsaid, but no less unequivocally, was that if Levesque couldn't be brought back in the custody of the CIA, he wasn't to leave Vancouver.
Period. End of sentence.
It wasn't the first time that I'd been assigned that kind of role. And I knew it wouldn't be the last.
But I did what I'd always done. I'd meekly accepted my orders, not letting Graham see any of my escalating disillusionment.
So I hopped on a plane. Then, using an alias, I set myself up in the same hotel that the person we believed was Levesque was going to use. I'd been thoroughly briefed on the man's appearance and habits, but it was unknown if he'd changed his appearance. So I'd planned to stake out the lobby on the day of his arrival.
But, as matters turned out, all of our preparation was for naught.
On the day our target was supposed to arrive, three men had been ambushed and killed while on their way to the airport in Guatemala City. It'd been determined that the victims were Levesque and his two bodyguards.
It was pretty much a given that Mossad had been behind the hit.
Graham phoned and told me the news. I'd expected to be immediately recalled to Langley for another assignment. However, Graham surprised me. While my backup team was to decamp in the morning, I was to stay away from D.C. Far away.
When I asked why, Graham told me, reluctantly, that one of my less-than-officially-sanctioned missions had come to light, and was being investigated by a secret Senate subcommittee. He told me that he needed some time to put out the fire.
He added that since I'd never been to Vancouver before, and was therefore unknown in that city, it would be best, safest, if I stayed put. On the Company's dime, of course. He told me he'd call when things blew over.
So here I am, alone in a strange city.
Footloose and fancy-free.
It seems it's my morning for pithy, cliched phrases.
I get the footloose part but the fancy-free escapes me.
Grabbing my phone again, I type away and read the results.
Unconstrained by amorous entanglements, having no sweetheart to tie one down.
Appropriate.
It was a year ago that Bryce had gone off the reservation. For almost that entire time, I'd had no idea if he was alive or dead. There'd been no messages in the secret back-channel we'd previously set up.
Nothing.
Rumors of attempted sabotage at a top-secret DNI facility came to light shortly after he'd vanished. Rumors that a CIA agent had been killed. I'd wondered if it'd been him or, barring that, if he'd been involved somehow.
But no one I knew could or, perhaps, would confirm.
Until a month ago when Graham had told me that Agent Larkin was, indeed, dead. No details were offered, and I didn't ask, knowing I wouldn't be enlightened regardless.
For a year, I've been alone. Truth be told, I know now that I'd been alone for quite some time before he'd physically disappeared. I just wasn't willing to admit that to myself.
Fancy-free.
I'm momentarily tempted to stay in bed and while away the day, but doing nothing isn't in my nature.
Idle hands are the Devil's playthings.
I laugh scornfully at myself.
Not true, at least not in my case.
Busy hands, my busy hands, have been, are, Graham's playthings.
Don't go there. Dragons.
So I throw back the covers and stand. Going to the floor to ceiling window, I open the curtains. I appreciatively scan the vista spread before me. Off to my left is a large park covered in trees, a mixture of evergreens and deciduous, with some of the latter's leaves just starting to change color.
Straight ahead, on the other side of a body of water, are the mountains I hadn't taken time to appreciate when I'd first arrived. There's a dusting of snow high up on the peaks.
Beautiful.
And it's a lovely sunny day, with a scattering of white, puffy clouds making their way across the deep blue sky.
After placing a breakfast order with room service, I quickly head to the shower.
Standing under the hot water, I can't help but wonder what I'm going to do for the next week.
I'm tempted to see if Carina would like to join me. But I'm not really in the mood for the nights of clubbing she would insist on. Or her continued attempts to find that someone she believes, erroneously, that I'm looking for to replace Bryce.
Besides, she's likely off on a mission of her own somewhere in Argentina or Thailand or some such place.
No, I'll talk to the concierge about some ideas.
…
I'm just finishing drying my hair when I hear a knock. I put on a robe and cinch it up. Picking up a blue five-dollar bill, I head to the door. Upon opening it, I see a handsome young man looking down at the order form placed on the cart in front of him.
He looks up at me. "Good morn…"
He stops, looking me up and down, not quite leering, but as close as is possible without actually carrying out the act.
I suspect he's imagining the fantasy of the attractive woman with the robe that "accidentally" comes open and the events that follow.
He smiles. Suggestively.
I suppose I should be used to this kind of response by now. After all, it's been some years since the CIA had taken the raw material and molded it into an effective tool, you might even say, an effective weapon.
But it still rankles that most men only see the container, that they have little or no interest in the contents.
If I'd been on a mission, had this man had been my target, I may have been obliged to tease, to tempt, to tantalize.
But I'm not and he isn't, so my robe stays tightly closed. I hand him the tip and dismiss him with a curt thanks. I pull the cart into the room myself and shut the door in his face.
The incident leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don't enjoy my breakfast of fruit and yogurt, only half finishing it. I barely touch the coffee I'd been so looking forward to.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I take a deep breath and try to push my bad mood aside. It wasn't completely fair to take out my frustration on the man who was simply doing his job, his extracurricular thoughts aside.
It's not his fault I'm gonna have too much time on my hands.
I go to my suitcase. Searching through its contents, I realize that, with the mission's possible outcomes in mind, I'd only brought two types of clothing with me.
One type to reveal, to flaunt my assets. To stand out and attract Levesque's attention. The other to obscure myself. To blend in with the shadows. To get near him without him knowing I was even there.
I don't want to wear either. I don't want to be either. Not today.
I recall a bright red, long-sleeved blouse I saw in the window of the hotel's high-end clothing shop. It, along with my jeans and black leather jacket, will do until I can do some more shopping.
I call down and tell the woman who answers what I want, the size, which room to bill and send it to. I don't bother to ask the price. I suspect the blouse is ridiculously expensive, but I don't give a damn.
The CIA's dime.
I'm just finishing my makeup when I again hear a knock on my door. I check my robe again, hoping I won't have to face the same person who'd delivered my breakfast.
It isn't. Rather, it's a pleasant young woman. From the shop, if I had to guess. She smiles as I sign for the blouse, complimenting me on my choice.
A few minutes later, I slip it on and do up the small white buttons. The lightweight silk feels good against my skin. Without a thought, I leave it hanging loosely outside my jeans.
But then I realize that's a force of habit. To conceal the pistol I usually carry at my back.
Not today. I tuck in my blouse and place the pistol in the hotel safe.
But I'll keep the knives I'd strapped to my right calf.
…
The concierge, George, a soft-spoken man in his late fifties, after asking about my interests, fills me in on some of the things to do in his town.
He gives me a map with the best shopping areas outlined in red. And a with a few of the better restaurants marked as well.
When I tell him I enjoy walking, he suggests the park I'd seen from my window. Stanley Park, as it turns out, has a six-mile-long seawall that almost completely encompasses it.
George tells me that on a lovely day like today it would be a real pleasure. I agree. He points out on the map how to get to the entrance. As he does, I notice that there's an aquarium contained within the park's bounds.
I ask him if it's worth visiting. He smiles.
"Yes, Miss Morrison. It's one of my favorite places. I took my kids there when they were young, and now I take my grandchildren."
He steps out from behind his counter over to a rack of pamphlets. He picks one out and hands it to me.
"Here are the directions and details. I think you would enjoy the visit."
"Thank you, George. I'll give it a look."
"You're welcome. I hope you enjoy your time in our city."
George's cheerfulness buoys me up, my bad mood fading a little.
I place the maps into my purse even though I don't really need them. I'd already memorized the salient details.
I put on a smile.
"I believe I will."
That's certainly optimistic, if not an outright lie, but I don't want to upset George with the truth. He's been kind to me.
I step out into the sunshine. The day is just cool enough to make my jacket comfortable to keep on. I settle my purse strap over my shoulder and start walking toward the park.
…
I stand, fascinated, before the jellyfish tank, watching their slow delicate dance, their warm colors contrasted against the cool blue background.
"It's called the bell."
Startled from my reverie, I look down to see a little blonde girl, maybe eight or nine looking up at me, a serious look on her face. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a group of children along with their chaperones fifteen or twenty feet away.
"What?"
"The top part. It's called the bell. Or sometimes the hood. But I like bell better because it looks like a bell to me."
I look back into the tank for a moment, then back to her.
I smile, a genuine one this time. "Yes, I agree. I think bell is better, too."
She smiles back, then offers her hand.
"Hi, my name's Samantha. What's yours?"
I take her hand gently in mine, holding in my surprise. She even looks a bit like me when I was her age.
Come to think of it, I'd been about her age the one and only time my father had taken me to an aquarium. Where that was, exactly, I don't remember.
"Hi, Samantha. My name's Sarah." I'd been someone else on this mission, but, for some reason, I don't want to lie to this child.
She shakes my hand for a second or two then lets it go. "It's good to meet you, Sarah."
"It's good to meet you too, Samantha."
"You can call me Sam." She pauses. "If you'd like."
I smile again. "Yes, I would like."
I gesture toward the tank. "How do you know so much about jellyfish, Sam?"
"Our teacher said we each had to learn about a sea creature before we came here on a field trip. I chose jellyfish because I like the way they look."
"Not too icky with all the tentacles and such?"
She shakes her head. "No, they're beautiful. Like you."
I feel my cheeks warm. I'm not sure I've been the recipient of such a genuine compliment before.
"Thank you, Sam. I don't think I've ever been compared to—," I pause to look at the descriptive sign, "—Pacific Sea Nettles before."
She shrugs her shoulders. "I would've said you looked a mermaid, but I know they don't exist. Except in cartoons."
I nod. "Well, I think being compared to these lovely creatures is quite an honor."
"You're welcome. Your blouse is very pretty. It's a nice color."
"Thank you. I just got it today."
"I'm not old enough to wear a blouse, but maybe I could ask my mom if I can get a t-shirt that color."
"Perhaps she might if you ask nicely."
Just then, one of the women with the group of children calls out, "Samantha, come along now. We're going to see the killer whale show."
Sam has a pained expression on her face. She whispers to me, "The proper name is Orca. Sometimes the teacher forgets."
I whisper back, conspiratorially, "Well, not everyone remembers stuff as well as you do. You just need to be patient with her. And remember, she knows a lot of stuff you don't know."
She nods sagely. "You're right. She does. Can I hug you?"
"Yes, I would like that very much."
I crouch down and we hug. She steps back.
"Bye, Sarah. Make sure you go and see the Orcas. There's an underwater viewing area that I really like."
"I will. I hope you enjoy the rest of your field trip, Sam. Goodbye."
She walks over to join her group, giving me a smile and a wave over her shoulder as she does so.
I wave back.
...
By the time I arrive at the darkened underwater viewing area, the killer whale—no, the Orca show—has just finished. The smattering of people that'd been watching disperse and, within a few minutes, I'm by myself.
It's a little warmer down here, so I slip off my jacket and carry it over my arm. I resettle my purse and walk towards one of the floor to ceiling viewing windows.
The water's still agitated from the show, so I wonder what I'm going to be able to see.
As I peer into the pool, I'm suddenly illuminated by a shaft of light coming through the window. Maybe a cloud that'd been casting a shadow has moved on. Maybe it's some trick of reflection or refraction. I'm not sure.
I look down at my sleeves. My blouse seems to glow in the rippling light.
Catching movement in the corner of my eye, I look up to see something huge, black and white, gliding through the water, effortlessly, slowly, toward me.
I'm entranced. I don't move, barely take a breath.
Hyak (I remember the name from the brochure) stops, turns to bring his left eye close to the glass to study me. I'm surprised, considering his massive size, just how small that eye is.
But that does nothing to take away from the intensity, the intelligence, the curiosity in the gaze being directed my way.
I'm suddenly struck by the conviction that our positions have somehow suddenly reversed. That I'm now the one on display behind the glass, not him.
I close my eyes. An abrupt vision of a little blonde girl pops up in my mind.
Sam? Myself? I'm not sure.
The little girl is looking over her shoulder, excited. "Come, see the killer. Let's see how high she can jump."
When Graham told me to jump, I never, not even once, ever stopped to ask why. I only stopped long enough to ask how high before flinging myself into my assignment, heedless of the injuries that I'd knew I would inevitably sustain upon my crashing back to earth. The lacerations of my heart and mind that never had a chance to heal before being overlaid by fresh, bloody new ones.
And no one was ever there to cushion my fall, to help me up and salve my wounds. Not Graham, definitely not Bryce. No, not even Carina.
What could I do except pick myself up, self-bandage my bruised, battered soul, and move on?
Which is exactly what I've done for far longer than I choose to remember.
For far too long.
I open my eyes look into the eye of the marvelous, lovely, empathetic creature still watching me so closely.
In a moment of silent communion, a boundless, soundless rapport, I wonder if this is all there is for us? All there is to be?
Are we both hopelessly ensnared, swimming in endless circles, slavishly obedient to those in command, just waiting for the escape that only death will grant us?
I know it may sound silly, and it's likely just some random movement, but it's almost as if Hyak nods his head before he turns and swims away, disappearing into the blue.
Leaving me bereft.
I stare, unseeing, into the emptiness stretching out in front of me.
I've never felt more alone.
I close my eyes, my head down.
It's only when I feel the tears slipping down my cheeks and dripping onto my clenched fists, that I realize I'm crying.
I don't cry.
Early on, my dad taught me that genuine crying is for suckers, weaklings. If things go bad, you move on, start planning your next job. Crying gets you nowhere, it just makes you vulnerable to someone looking to take advantage of you.
Fake tears, on the other hand, especially from a girl or woman, work really well with most men. I think it triggers some kind of instinctive protective reaction. Most will agree to almost anything to get you to stop crying.
I'm really good at fake tears.
But real ones, not so much.
My dad taught the lesson so well that I didn't really cry, even on the day they took him off to prison.
And I didn't cry when Bryce left. Or even when I found out he was dead.
I don't cry. Not really.
Except, it seems that I do.
I hadn't planned for spontaneous crying, so, of course, I have no tissues in my pocket. Nothing to sop up the copious tears, nothing to stop the drips from my nose.
I hate the thought of soiling my new blouse, but I'm just about to use my sleeve when a hand appears at my side, offering a couple of tissues.
Embarrassed, I take them. I quickly dab at my eyes, then blow my nose. It's only then that I turn to see a man about my age, tall with curly brown hair. He's standing a couple of feet away, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
I just nod my thanks.
He just nods back.
For a moment, I get the feeling that he's going to use my moment of vulnerability to try and hit on me. Maybe he'll use the old coming to the aid of a damsel in distress line. Or maybe he'll tell me that a beautiful woman like myself should never have to cry alone, that he'll provide a shoulder for me. Or some such drivel.
Right now, that kind of crap is absolutely the last thing I want to deal with. Harsh words of dismissal find their way to my tongue.
But I don't utter them because he doesn't say anything or move in on me. Rather, he turns his eyes to the place that Hyak had occupied a few moments ago.
I look up and see a look of childlike wonder on his face.
Several moments pass before he looks back at me. His warm, brown eyes are glistening with unshed tears.
Smiling gently, he quietly, reverently, says, "That...that was extraordinary."
TBC
—
A/N: In case you're wondering, the Vancouver Aquarium hasn't kept Orcas in captivity since 2001. And, in more recent times, it was also decided that it will no longer keep captive any other type of cetacean, either. Had to fudge the timeline to fit my story.
The incident I described took place a long time ago. My wife and I were in the underwater viewing area, which is relatively dark. She was wearing a bright red sweater and, as she approached one of the viewing windows, she was illuminated as if by a spotlight.
Hyak (technically Hyak II), a large Orca (20 ft. long, 15,000 lbs.) spotted her from across the pool and came over to look at her, just as in the story. It's a moment I vividly and fondly recall, even after all these years have passed.
Next time the POV will shift to Chuck's.
Thank you for reading.