A/N: We're back.

Thanks to my my beta, michaelfmx, for his insightful suggestions. As usual.

Don't own Chuck, et al.

—

LOOSE ENDS: Chapter Eleven

If I'd been told this morning that someone as extraordinary as Sarah Walker would be in my arms, and me in hers, I would've laughed, wondering what kind of ludicrous fantasy world they inhabited.

Yet, here I am. Here we are.

When she'd dropped my hand, I'd felt suddenly bereft, so quickly have I become accustomed to being in some sort of constant physical contact with her. But the feeling only lasted for the second or two it took for her to wrap her arms around me and rest her cheek against my chest.

Caught off guard, I was unsure how to respond. Then I'd pushed my momentary confusion aside and returned her embrace. Gently, almost tentatively at first, as if I was afraid I'd break her. Until I recalled the strength she'd displayed upon pulling me from harm's way. Then, feeling a little foolish about my hesitation, I'd drawn her closer, firmly to me.

She fits perfectly, the top of her head in the ideal position for me to kiss it, had I the boldness to do so. And she smells amazing, the citrusy notes of her perfume blending wonderfully with a scent from her hair that I'm unable to identify.

She whispers, "Thank you, Chuck. For caring. For understanding."

She sounds…grateful. As if she's unused to people showing her compassion. Empathy.

This isn't the first time she's said as much, but I'm still baffled. How could anyone with even half a brain, half a heart, not care, not want to do all they could to understand her, her life?

I whisper back, earnestly, "No problem, Sarah. Like I said before, you make it easy."

A massive understatement.

Minutes pass in comfortable silence. More than a few. I don't care. I could hold her this way forever.

Then a sudden thought comes to me. Do parents truly understand just how badly their actions, or lack of actions, can screw up their kids? I don't think hers or mine really did.

And yet, she became this incredible woman. And I'm starting to believe that I'm pretty damn good myself.

What a difference a day makes.

I chuckle at the thought.

She looks up at me. I can tell she's puzzled.

"What?"

I smile. "I was just thinking that with the number our parents did on us, it's a wonder we turned out as well as we did."

She doesn't reply, just searches my face. Her gaze is complicated, eyes filled with…doubt.

She's wondering if she has turned out well. I'm sure of it.

It doesn't take a genius to understand why.

That itinerant con life could've taken from her any ability to regard the human race with anything but outright cynicism. Rendered her incapable of honesty, trust.

And her time in the CIA—the unspoken, perhaps, unspeakable actions she's carried out for them—could've completed the job. Stripped her of the last vestiges of compassion, kindness.

Divested her of any semblance of even basic humanity, leaving nothing but a heartless, wantonly cruel automaton behind.

I try to imagine that unrelenting struggle to hold on to her true self in the face of those seemingly overwhelming odds.

But she is what she is, not what she could've—perhaps, should've—become. Somehow, someway, she beat the house.

Until this very moment, I don't believe I fully grasped the enormity of that.

My god, her core must be made of fire-hardened, unbreakable steel. Her strength of character stretches the limits of my comprehension.

And yet, here she is. In my arms, looking up at me, her face mere inches from mine, wondering, worrying, enveloped in an air of almost childlike vulnerability.

I rarely have a problem with words. Well, at least in quantity, if not necessarily quality. But, right now, when I need them so badly, they completely desert me.

How can I tell her how proud I am of her? The pride she should feel in herself. How turning out well doesn't even begin to describe just how utterly marvelous she is.

Her eyes close, perhaps in disappointment. She's waiting on me. I need to do…something.

I close my eyes as I quickly cup her face in my hands.

I kiss her.

Yeah, I know. This from a guy whose lack of gumption stopped him from kissing the top of her head a few short minutes ago.

Surprise!

I certainly am. Surprised, that is. And I think she is too. She doesn't respond.

Maybe I've gone too far, too fast. Maybe I should stop.

No. I'll press on. Hope that she can somehow read my lips, grasp what I'm trying to say to her.

Then she kisses me back, fervently, her hands clutching at my back, pulling me even closer.

Her lips part in an invitation, one I eagerly accept.

The outside world fades away. Coherent thought abandons me.

…

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't reply to my unspoken question.

Of course, that's foolishness on my part. Expecting him to know me well enough to somehow sense my self-doubt. To intuitively discern just how badly I need his reassurance.

Even from a man as empathetic as Chuck Bartowski, that's a lot to ask.

I close my eyes as I try to fight off the tug of disappointment brought about by my unrealistic expectations. He's already done so much for me today. To demand more would be selfish.

I feel him loosen his arms as if he's preparing to step away from our embrace. I tell myself to smile, to not let him see my letdown.

Then I feel his large, warm hands gently cup my face. Before I can react, he's kissing me.

He's. Kissing. Me.

My eyes pop open in surprise, but only until they confirm the testimony from my lips. Then I close them again, reveling in the sensation of his lips moving slowly, softly against mine.

I can't explain it, but somehow I sense—in his kiss, his touch—his unshakeable belief in me. His absolute conviction that, despite who I've been, despite what I've done, I have, in fact, "turned out well."

And, in my heart, I know that confidence won't waver, won't fade away, no matter what I have yet to tell him about my life. I know he'll somehow find a way, regardless.

Because he's Chuck.

And because he's Chuck, his mouth remains closed, presuming nothing. Hopeful, but undemanding.

Enough of that.

I pull him closer, part my lips. Offer.

He responds without any hesitation, but not aggressively. No. Still tender, still gentle.

I lose track of place. Of time. I know only him. Only now.

Until I hear a loud, nasally voice behind me. "Excuse me, you're blocking the way!"

I pull back, reluctantly, and turn my head to see a stout, redheaded woman pushing a double-wide baby carriage containing a dark-haired boy in one side and blonde girl in the other. Fraternal twins, it seems. Behind her is a small, mousy-looking man with two tiny Yorkies in tow.

I'm slow to respond, the kiss still fresh on my lips, my mind, so she goes on, impatiently, even more nasally, "I said excuse me. Now get out of my way."

The two dogs each let out a single high-pitched bark as if to emphasize the woman's peremptory command.

I look down quickly. There's plenty of room.

I'm about to tell her that in no uncertain terms when Chuck steps in, politely replies, "Certainly, ma'am. Our apologies." I start to loosen my embrace, but before I can, he drops his hands to my waist and gently shuffles us over a few feet toward the water. He leaves his hands where they are after we stop by the small curb.

Still polite, he addresses the woman once more, smiling. "There you are, ma'am. You have plenty of room now. I hope you enjoy the rest of your walk. It's a beautiful day!

"And may I add that you have two remarkable children."

The woman doesn't know what to say, taken aback by his cheerfulness. After a few seconds pass, she nods choppily, then barks over her shoulder, "Come along, Gilbert. I don't know why I let you talk me into walking around the seawall. It isn't romantic at all!"

They wheel off. As they recede, she grumbles at Gilbert without looking at him. "You'd never catch me doing what those two were doing."

We hear his quiet, patient reply, "Yes, dear, I know."

Just before they turn a corner, he briefly turns towards us and shrugs helplessly. Then they're gone.

I feel the laughter building up in Chuck's chest. Then it escapes. I join him.

After a few moments pass, I look up into his face and ask, grinning, "How did you know how to handle her so well?"

"Not the first time I've had to deal with rude people. Customers too often think they're entitled to behave in any way they like."

"Well, you did a great job. And the part about her kids being remarkable was genius. They weren't the most pleasant looking babies."

"Yeah, but that's what made them remarkable, just not in the sense she understood it. To her, though, I expect they're the most beautiful kids in the world. Which is as it should be."

I nod my agreement. "You know, Chuck, besides being rude, there was something else that I didn't like about her."

"What was that?"

"Her poor judgment. She believed the sea wall wasn't at all romantic."

"Whereas, you do?"

I nod. "Yes, Chuck. Today has been the single truly romantic day of my life."

"Excuse me? You're saying today is the most romantic day of your life?"

"Not most. Only."

"I don't understand. There were a lot of things about Bry—he who shall not be named—I didn't like, but he did know how to sweep a girl off her feet."

I scowl. "I know. I was one of them."

"And yet you're saying that none of the stuff he did was romantic?"

I shake my head. Firmly. "No, not really. I thought so at the time, but later I realized it was all about him. The wining and dining, the dancing was just his way of saying to other men around us, 'Look at me. Look at the beautiful woman with me. She'll be in my bed tonight. If I chose, I could take your woman too. All of you would like to be me, wouldn't you?'"

He thinks for a few moments. "I get that, Sarah, but I've been given the impression that I'm not really great in the romance department."

"Let me guess, Jill?"

"Yeah. One of her complaints about our relationship in its late stages. She wanted to be swept, but I just couldn't figure out how to do it."

He shakes his head at the memory. "Not to her satisfaction, at least. I guess that's part of the reason she moved on to someone who was better with a broom."

I'm suddenly furious. A vision of Jill at my mercy pops into my mind.

No. Not at my mercy. No mercy. Verbally, at least.

I take a deep breath to calm myself. I need to make sure he doesn't think I'm angry with him. "That's bull, Chuck. You're the most romantic man I've ever known."

"I am?"

"Yes."

He's confused. "I'm not sure what I've done that's so romantic."

I rein in my frustration. Modesty is just a part of who he is. I'm getting used to it.

But sometimes he can go too far.

"So, you're telling me that kiss wasn't romantic?"

He's flustered. "No, no, of course not. It was amazing. I know I'll never forget it."

"Okay, then it must've been the hug? Or was it the hand holding that wasn't?"

He huffs. "Okay. You've got me there. But really, most of what we've done today is just talk."

At my frown, he hastily, he adds, "Which has been amazing. But romantic?"

"Of course it is. We talked.

"He, you know who, never really talked with me, only at me. And even then, when we weren't on a mission, every word, every thought was really just foreplay. Never spontaneous, always planned out well in advance, leading to only to his bed."

Chuck blushes, faintly, but doesn't comment.

"He never cared enough to want to know how I felt. And he never told me how he felt, not really. He never wanted to taint that image he had of himself. The stoic, unemotional James Bond super spy. Equally unaffected by love or violence.

"And I was naive enough, stupid enough, to accept that for far longer than I should've. Always hoping things would change. Until I realized they never would. That he never would."

He shakes his head in wonder. "So, he blew the chance to be with you simply because he wouldn't communicate?"

"There was more to it than that, but yes, that was a big part of it. However, in all fairness, I didn't do a great job of that either." I pause, look into his eyes. "Not with him, anyway."

He absorbs that, then replies, smiling, just a bit. "Are you saying that it's different with me?"

"Yes, Chuck. I've told you stuff I've never told anyone else. Ever. How I feel about my job…my life. I would normally never be anywhere near that open with someone I've only known for a few hours. Or even years, for that matter."

He asks softly, "Why, Sarah? Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you that you feel you can, but why?"

"Because right from the first moment I met you, you haven't been afraid to let me see the real you. Your honest emotions. You've admitted your fears, told me of your shortcomings. Your failures. You've never pretended to be something you're not.

"And…"

"And, what?"

"You've actually listened to what I had to say. Respected my thoughts. Respected me.

"And, to top it all off, you've gone above and beyond to try and make me feel better about myself. About the life I've led."

"I just said what I felt, what I believe, Sarah."

I nod. "I know, Chuck. And in my books, that's real romance.

"It's not when some guy fills your hospital room with flowers to the point of overflowing. Or when he flies you to Rome for dinner. All the while making sure the whole world knows how wonderful he is. That's just showmanship, not romance."

He shakes his head. Opens his mouth as if to disagree, but I jump in before he has a chance.

"Chuck, why did you kiss me? It wasn't just because you find me physically attractive, was it?"

He blushes again. Mouth agape. Speechless.

"It's okay. I'm physically attracted to you too."

He blinks a couple of times. "You are?"

"Of course. I told you before that you're handsome. I wasn't just saying it to be kind. I meant it. Besides, you're tall. And I've recently discovered that I rather like tall men."

"How recently?"

"I'm not exactly sure. Sometime this morning, I believe."

He grins, straightens to his full height.

"But enough of that. I need you to answer the question. Why?"

He takes a second or two to reply. "You know when I said we wound up being pretty good people, despite what our parents did to us?"

"Yes."

"Well, I thought I saw self-doubt in your eyes, maybe even disbelief." He pauses, then quietly adds, "Was I right?"

I nod. "Yeah, Chuck, you were."

He nods back. "I didn't like seeing that. I wanted those doubts to go away. I wanted you to know just how extraordinary you truly are."

I open my mouth to protest, but he firmly cuts me off before I can speak.

"No, Sarah. You are. End of discussion."

I close my mouth. Blush. I seem to be doing a lot of that lately.

"And I didn't want you to be unhappy.

"Sarah, I'd give anything to take that sadness away."

I feel my throat suddenly close. I can barely get out the words. "You would?"

"Absolutely, Sarah, I would.

I can only nod.

He takes in a deep breath. "But I just couldn't find the words. Which, as you may have figured out, is kinda unusual for me."

I dash away a tear (which he pretends not to notice) and widen my eyes, comically. "No! You're kidding?!"

He grins, toothily. "Enough sass, woman.

Then he's serious again. "So, I did the only thing I could come up with at the moment. I kissed you, hoping you'd understand what I couldn't say in words."

He's suddenly shy. Uncertain. "Did it work?"

I answer him by wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him down and kissing him deeply. His hands slip inside my jacket, grip my waist a little tighter as he pulls me close.

After what seems like a very long time, but not nearly long enough, we have to come up for air.

He gently rests his forehead against mine. Both of us not quite gasping, but certainly appreciative of the gift of oxygen.

He pulls back an inch or two. I hear the smile in his voice as he murmurs, "I'll take that as a yes."

I open my eyes, look right into his mirthful, warm ones, murmur back, "As you should."

The mirth fades as something more urgent, deeper, takes its place. He whispers, a little hoarsely, "You, Sarah Walker, are breathtaking. In every possible sense of the word."

"And you, Chuck Bartowski, breathe new life into me."

He smiles. "I knew that CPR course would come in handy one day."

I giggle. Another thing I seem to be doing a lot of lately.

But then drops his voice, puts some smolder in his expression, waggles his eyebrows. "You know, Sarah, they do say that most communication is non-verbal."

"They do, don't they?"

"Yes. So, I was just wondering if, in the future, I have some trouble getting the words out, we might employ this method again? You know, just to make sure the lines of communication stay open."

I pretend to think about that for a few seconds. "Okay, if you must, but only because I wouldn't want there to be any sort of fundamental breakdown.

"In fact, you might try kissing me again. Just to make sure—"

My stomach growls. Loudly.

Hopefully, he didn't hear it. Or feel the reverberation in his hands.

He smirks.

Damn. He did.

"I think someone needs to be fed."

I nod, sheepishly. "The bellboy who brought my breakfast kinda ruined my appetite. So I didn't eat much."

"What'd he do? Try and make a move on you?"

"No, Chuck. I'm quite certain he imagined a fantasy with me in the starring role."

He echoes my earlier words. "Gimme his name, Sarah. I'll go and kick his butt for you."

Before I can find some sort of reply for that, he goes on, putting on an exaggerated pretense of apprehension. "Wait. How big was this guy?"

"Average size, about my height."

"Whew!" His serious expression returns and he growls, "In that case, the butt-kicking can proceed. Just say the word."

I laugh. He joins in.

My stomach rumbles again.

He steps back, taking his hands from my waist. "Okay, Miss Walker, you're fortunate. The grand tour package does include lunch. Let's check our options."

…

I pull my phone out of my pocket and open the local street food app. "I'll see which vendors are in the park today."

She nods. "Sounds good. But, before you do that, I'll need another tissue from you."

"Why?"

She points to her mouth and then mine. "Lipstick. Not everyone needs to know what we've been doing."

I blush. "This is my last one."

"Not a problem. We can pick up some more later."

It takes a second or two for the implications of that seemingly offhand statement to hit me.

I hold back my smile as she takes the tissue and dabs at my lips. "Okay, you're good now. Now, find us some lunch, boy. I'm starving."

"On it." I look back at my phone. It takes a few seconds, but then I find one of my favorites.

"Score!" I pump my fist.

Grinning at my enthusiasm, she asks, "What'd you find, Chuck?"

"You're in for a treat. Today we're dining at Wakwak."

"Wok Wok? Chinese food?"

"No. W-a-k-w-a-k. Japanese style hamburgers. You like hamburgers?"

''Yeah, I do. But Japanese style?" She sounds a little dubious.

I gesture enthusiastically. "Trust me. They're great."

I feel a rumble. "Man, now my tummy's growling just thinking about them."

She grins. "Okay, Chuck. Japanese burgers it is. Where do we have to go?"

I point to a spot about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. "Up there. Prospect Point. Which is great, because I can also show you the view from the bridge. "

I'm firm. "But only after we eat."

"Of course. We wouldn't want you fainting from hunger now, would we?"

"No, you wouldn't. A fireman's carry might a bit too much to ask of you, as strong as you are."

"I probably could manage. After all, you're a little on the lanky side, "

"Comforting to know. Hopefully, we won't have to put that to the test. And, by the way, I prefer the term svelte."

"Svelte?"

"Thin and well built, according to one dictionary."

She takes a step back. Looks me up and down. Slowly. Twice. "I stand corrected. Svelte it is."

I feel the heat in my cheeks. I try to cover it with a theatrical gasp. "Sarah Walker. Are you objectifying me?"

She nods. "Yep. You got a problem with that, mister?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Just wanted to be sure. Objectify away."

She grins. "And while we're on the subject, you needn't be shy about looking at me. I like it when you do, the way you do. Never objectifying.

"So feel free."

Then, she steps closer, and, in what sounds like a sultry voice, whispers in my ear, "Anytime, any place."

I swallow heavily, unsure of what to make of that.

My voice goes up an octave. "Lunch. That's next on the tour. Lunch." I pull out my phone again, almost drop it. "There should be a path just this side of the bridge." I shakily slip the phone back into my pocket.

She takes my hand again, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Lead on, Macduff."

"You know that's a misquot…"

She gives me a flat look.

"Gotcha. Leading on."

…

We stop as he looks around. The bridge's south tower rests on its massive foundations in the water to our right. I hear the rattle and thump of the cars passing over the metal deck far above us.

He's unsure. "The trail should be around here somewhere."

"I must say I'm somewhat disappointed, Mr. Tour Guide. I thought you knew this park like the back of your hand."

"The seawall, yes. The trails, not so much. You'll understand why in a few minutes."

We walk another fifty feet or so

"Ah! Here it is."

He points up. "You ready?"

I crane my neck, look upwards. Way up. It's intimidating.

The path is narrow. We'll have to go single file.

"You first, Chuck."

"So you can check out my butt, right?"

"No, so I can catch you if you pass out on the way up."

"Hah! Very funny."

He looks up again. Gulps.

"Okay, here we go."

I know my conditioning is first-rate, but even for me, the climb isn't easy. By the time we reach the top, we're both huffing and puffing.

He bends over to catch his breath.

After a minute or so, he straightens up, grins weakly. "Now you know why I'm not familiar with the trails."

"You did fine, Chuck. That path was pretty steep. And you recovered quickly."

"Not as quickly as you."

I shrug. "Part of the job requirements."

He looks as if he's going to ask me more, but then changes his mind.

"Sarah, let's go over to the main road. There's a great view of the bridge from the overpass."

He offers me his arm, which I gladly take. Not because I need the support. I just like being in contact with him. I missed it on the way up. A lot.

A couple of minutes later we're at the overpass.

He's right, as usual. The view is very picturesque. We're looking straight down the bridge roadway, with the two towers aligned, the far one framed by the nearer one. The snow-peaked mountains provide the background. On each side of the bridge entrance is a tall pillar with a large lion sculpture at its base. The deck gradually rises in elevation to a point in the middle, so we can't see the other end of the bridge, just the cars coming or going over the top.

I look at him, nod appreciatively. "I like it, Chuck."

"Me, too."

Then I notice something odd.

"Three lanes?"

"Yeah. It started with just two. The builders didn't plan ahead particularly well. But eventually, they did add a third. The middle one alternates. See the lane lights?" He points.

Suspended above the road, at regular intervals, are bars with three lights. The right lane light is green, the middle is also, and the left one is red.

"They switch over the middle lane when needed. There can a be long wait getting onto the bridge when you're restricted to a single lane."

"I can imagine."

"Okay, enough of the failure of urban planning. It's time to eat. Even if I hadn't been hungry before, I would be after that trek up here. Prospect Point, and lunch, are just up ahead."

He takes my hand.

…

We're fortunate. The line isn't too long.

"Sarah, is it okay with you if I order for us?"

"Of course, Chuck. You know what's good."

"Good. I didn't want to come across as one of those guys who see it as a power move to decide for his date." I stop myself. "Or guidee, in this case, I guess."

She smiles. "Don't worry. I wouldn't have thought that even if you hadn't asked.

"And, Chuck?"

"Yep?"

"I think by this point it's safe to call this a date. Don't you?"

I nod vigorously, happily. "A date it is."

We reach the head of the line. The Asian woman inside the truck asks, "What can I get you?"

"Two deluxe Teriyaki cheeseburgers, please, and one order of fries."

I turn to Sarah. "What would you like to drink?"

"Water will be fine, thank you."

"Make that two waters, please."

Sarah reaches for her purse as if to go for her wallet.

"No. My treat."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, this is within the scope of my budget. However, you can get dinner, if you'd like."

"Okay. I'll take you up on that."

The woman gives me a total. I take out two of the greenish twenties and hand them over.

She gives me a blue five-dollar bill and some change back. I drop a couple of the two-dollar coins in the tip jar.

"Five minutes." She hands us our water bottles.

"Thank you, we'll wait over there."

We walk over to a cement picnic table.

I'm torn. I'd like to sit beside her, but I'd also like to see her face, especially when she takes the first bite. I sit across from her.

Uncapping my water bottle, I take a long drink. She does the same.

"I only ordered one side of fries because it's more than enough for two people."

"The voice of experience, I take it."

"Yeah, I've had their food a number of times. Wakwak and Japadog are two of my favorites."

She sighs, good-naturedly. "Let me guess. Japanese style hotdogs."

"Yep. Their Kurobuta dog is amazing. The Kobe beef of pork sausages."

"Chuck, I'm starting to notice a theme here. What's next, Japanese pizza?"

I widen my eyes. "Sarah, how could you possibly even contemplate such an abomination? Real pizza is the food of the gods. Sacred. The very idea of a Japanese pizza, or, for that matter, Mexican pizza, is…horrifying!"

I shudder dramatically.

…

I somehow manage to keep a straight face, even though it takes all my training to do so.

"I'm so sorry, Chuck. Forgive me?"

"Yes, I will. You didn't know my feelings on the matter, so I won't hold it against you. But, please, don't bring it up again."

He sighs heavily. "I think I've lost my appetite."

Just then the Wakwak woman calls out, "Your food's ready!"

He jumps up. "Right back!" He practically runs over to the truck.

A minute later, he's back, bag in one hand, a fistful of napkins in the other.

He plunks himself down, opens the bag and takes a sniff. "Man, they smell good."

I gently chide him. "I thought you said you'd lost your appetite."

He grins. "One thing you'll learn about me is that very few things can ruin my appetite. Even in the middle of some gory horror movie, I'll be happily munching on my popcorn with Milk Duds."

I make a face. "Together? Eww!"

"Don't knock it til you've tried it. Now, it's time to eat."

He opens the bag, hands me my burger, then takes his out. He grabs the fries and puts the container in the middle between us.

He reaches around in the bottom of the bag and takes out a handful of packaged condiments. Salt, Ketchup and…white vinegar?

He comments, "Yeah, I believe Canadians are the only people in the world who generally prefer white vinegar on their fries. It's a bit of an acquired taste, but I've grown to like it."

I nod. "I'll give it a try. I've had fish and chips in England with malt vinegar, so this shouldn't be too much of a stretch.

He opens a couple of vinegar packets and dribbles their contents on half of the fries. Then follows up with a sprinkle of salt.

"I'll leave the other half untouched in case you prefer yours au naturel."

I try a couple. "Not bad. But I see what you mean by an acquired taste."

After munching on a few fries himself, he says, "I brought ketchup if you prefer."

"Thanks. By the way, what's with all the napkins?"

"You'll see." He unwraps his burger. I do the same.

Frankly, it looks like a bit of a mess. Sauce, and melted cheese dripping over the side of the brioche bun.

He echoes my thoughts. "They're messy. Best to keep it in the wrapper when you eat. Otherwise, it kinda gets everywhere."

I hesitate.

"Trust me."

I do. I take a bite, carefully, maybe a little tentatively.

It's glorious. The flavor of the patty, the teriyaki sauce, the cheese and the fried onions blend so fantastically together. I take a much bigger bite.

I think I let out a little moan, but I'm too busy chewing and swallowing to worry about it.

I'm halfway through before I notice that Chuck is watching me, smiling indulgently, his untouched burger in his hand.

I swallow my latest mouthful. "What?"

He gestures to the area around his mouth.

I pick up a napkin. Wipe my mouth. It comes away heavily stained.

"We wouldn't want everyone to know what we've been doing."

"Smartass. Now eat yours or I might just snaffle it when I've done with mine."

"Yessir!" He starts with a large bite, grinning close-mouthed around the food. It makes him look like a chipmunk with a nut in each cheek.

I roll my eyes at his antics before getting back to my burger, which, unfortunately, I finish much too quickly.

Looking down at the empty wrapper, I'm a little saddened.

I wipe my mouth again, then grab some of the fries. They're lukewarm. Guess I should've taken some earlier, but my attention was elsewhere.

I take my water bottle and take a couple of long swallows.

Chuck's just finishing his. I see what he pointed out earlier. The area around his mouth is a complete mess. He notices my glance and grins before grabbing a couple of napkins and vigorously wiping himself down.

I notice that he's missed a spot. Somehow, there's a smear of sauce on his forehead. How he managed that, I have no idea.

I take a napkin, pour a bit of water on it and gesture for him to lean forward across the table.

He's puzzled, but comes close enough for me to dab at his forehead and remove the spot. He closes his eyes while I do it.

"There. Now you're fit to be out in public again."

"Thanks, mom."

I glare at him, all the while holding in my smile. "You know, Chuck, if I were you, I would think twice before pissing off someone who can make a weapon out of pretty much anything."

He glances at my hand. He smirks, skeptically. "Are you trying to tell me that you could use that—"

Without any warning, while holding on to one corner of the napkin, I snap it toward his eyes, making sure I don't hit him.

He jerks backward in surprise, blinking rapidly.

"Human beings instinctively protect their eyes. It's almost impossible to avoid reacting the way you just did.

"And the reaction would've even been stronger if I'd actually hit one of your eyes. Almost everyone would bring their hand to the damaged eye and, in most cases, close the other one as well. Even if was just for a second or two.

"In either case, that would be all the opening I'd need."

I sit back, let him absorb that for a few moments.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see, but pretend not to see, his hand move, in what I'm quite certain he believes to be a surreptitious manner, towards the pile of napkins.

"So, if I was to—" He flicks a napkin toward me in the same fashion as I'd done.

I don't flinch. I don't even blink.

He gapes. "What the…

"I thought you said it was impossible to avoid a reaction."

"No, Chuck. I said it was almost impossible.

"First of all, the only way you could've telegraphed that move more would've been to say, 'Aha! In one second I'm going to attack you with this napkin!'"

His face falls. "I guess I'm just not sneaky enough."

"No, you're not. Which is a good thing, Chuck. I've had more than enough sneaky in my life."

His face brightens. "Gotcha."

I reach over, pat him gently on the cheek. "Good boy."

"What's the second reason, Sarah?"

"An Analysis of Sympathetic Nervous System Responses: Cause and Control Thereof."

He's bewildered. "Excuse me?"

"A required course at The Farm. The sympathetic nervous system controls the fight or flight response. It was run by a couple of mad scientist types. Identical twins. Borderline crazy in my opinion.

"Everyone called them the 'Boos Brothers.'"

"Were they drinkers?"

"No, not booze as in alcohol, but b-o-o-s."

"Because…"

"They would keep coming up with all sorts of wild scenarios to scare the crap out of the trainees. You know. Boo!"

"Oh, I get it. Clever name."

"The idea was to gradually desensitize us to disconcerting events. Big or little. And to teach us how to gain control over instinctive reactions.

"And they didn't limit their activities to the classroom. While you were taking their class, they had permission to attack, so to speak, at almost any time and almost any place."

"Sorta like Cato with Inspector Clouseau in a Shot in The Dark."

A memory comes to me. Alone in some rundown motel while my father went to some bar. Watching TV at 2 am because there wasn't anyone to tell me to go to bed. And no school days to worry about. "He keeps surprising Clouseau by attacking him at the most inconvenient times—"

He nods. "—because Clouseau told him to do that for their workouts. The fight scenes were hilarious."

…

She smiles, then frowns. "The Boos Brothers attacks weren't funny, though. Not knowing what might happen at any given moment made us all a little paranoid. A secondary benefit. Paranoia is good for spies. At least according to our instructors."

I give her a few seconds before asking, "Gauging by your non-reaction reaction to my not-so-sneaky sneak attack, I assume you passed the course with flying colors?"

She nods. "I believe my high mark still stands."

I nod. "Let me see if I've got this right.

"Because of your training, you rarely get caught unawares. And even if you are, you're usually able to control your reactions. To make a calculated response rather than an instinctive one."

"Yes."

"Okay, that's what I thought." I pause. "May I ask you a personal question?"

She hesitates, then slowly nods.

"Did my kiss catch you off guard? Because it sure as hell did me."

"You were surprised?"

"Uh-huh. And it seemed to me that you were too."

She reaches over and takes my hand. "Yes, Chuck. I was. And not for the first time today. Not by a long shot."

"If it's any consolation, the same thing keeps happening to me."

She smiles.

"It also seems to me that your response was much more instinctive than calculated. Was I right?"

She nods, her slight blush adding emphasis.

"Not to bring up the whole gift-horse thing, but why, Sarah?"

She looks into my eyes. "Because you make me forget who I was. Forget my training.

"I'm someone else with you. Not a persona. Someone real."

She pauses.

I gently ask, "Who?"

She seems embarrassed. "Promise you won't laugh."

"I promise."

"I call her Loose-End Sarah."

I roll that around in my mind for a second or two. "I like it. She's new, I take it."

"Yes. Spontaneity has never been a big part of my life."

She sighs. "I'm a planner, Chuck. The CIA always insisted on meticulous mission preparation, but I went well beyond what was required. List upon list. Doing everything in my power to foresee and plan for every contingency. Trying to expect the unexpected. Planning every move and word in advance."

"Which is good, I take it."

"Yes. On Missions. The problem is that the planning spilled over into my private life. Everything was structured. I made sure that I left no time in it for idleness. Finishing one assignment, then immediately planning for the next."

"Why, Sarah? Everybody needs to de-stress from time to time. Some time to sit back and take it easy."

She drops her head, her voice small and quiet. "Not me, Chuck. I was…terrified…of having too much time to dwell about things I didn't want to think about. Structure kept the bad thoughts at bay."

My heart goes out to her. I lean in closer, whisper back. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She brings her head back up. "No, not now. But later, I would. If that's alright with you?"

"Yes. Of course. Whenever and wherever you want."

She nods. Squeezes my hand. "Thank you."

She gnaws her lower lip, lost in thought, worrying, I'm sure, about how that discussion will impact on what's happening between us.

Truth is, I'm a little worried too.

Time to change the subject. I smile.

"Okay, Miss Walker. Enough lollygagging. Places to go, stuff to see."

She raises an eyebrow. "Lollygagging?"

"It's a word."

"I know. I just can't remember the last time I heard anyone use it in real life."

"Just one of my many peculiarities." I ask, only half joking, "You're sure you wanna keep going down this road?"

She shrugs her shoulders, nonchalantly. "What the hell. I've got nothing better to do. Might as well see what's around the next corner."

I widen my eyes. "Wow! That's quite the ringing endorsement."

She giggles, worries, at least for the moment, behind us.

I pick up the debris from our lunch and deposit it in the nearby garbage can. I walk back to the table, offer her my hand. She takes it.

"Shall we?"

TBC

—A/N: I fudged a few things in this chapter. I don't believe they actually allow food trucks in the park. And Wakwak is more a small food trailer rather than a truck. But truck, according to my beta, sounded better. I agreed.

Then there's the path. According to the map, there's a path somewhere near the bridge. I have no real idea exactly where or how steep it really is.

Thank you for following along and your kind reviews.

Until next time.

PS If you haven't given Zettel's The Missionary and The Vanishing Woman a look, I suggest you head on over. They're both amazing stories.