A/N: Blank screen staring back at me.

Blinking cursor mocking me.

Words. Not. Coming.

But here now. Finally.

A Sarah-centric chapter this time.

Thanks to my beta michaelfmx.

And thank you for your patience.

Don't own Chuck et al.

—

AT LOOSE ENDS: Chapter 13

This kiss is long. Slow. Gentle.

Not like his kiss of reassurance. Nor is it like my grateful kiss in response to that act of empathy and kindness.

No, this kiss is one of mutual…commiseration. The acknowledgment that we're both lost souls.

Reaching out to each other.

I lose myself in it. How could I not?

After a long while, we part for air. My arms still around his neck, I rest my head on his chest. I've dampened his shirt front with a smattering of tears.

He doesn't seem to mind, just holds me closer.

How did I wind up here?

Agent Walker, Langston Graham's blunt instrument, reduced to this state by a song? While in the arms of a man who, only a few hours ago, was a perfect stranger?

She would've never believed that such a thing was possible. She would've wondered what was wrong with her to even entertain such a foolish thought.

But I'm not her anymore—finally—and that's what's right with me.

I feel.

Again.

For almost as long as I can remember, any display of honest emotion was vigorously discouraged, if not outright censured.

Once, when I was twelve, I'd asked my dad what would happen to the single mother whose modest bank account we'd just cleaned out. It was the first time I'd questioned what we were doing, the dawning of my understanding that this wasn't just some fun adventure.

It'd been a desperately lean time for us. We'd been reduced to sleeping in the car, with barely enough money for gas and food.

Nonetheless, I felt guilty that our actions had deprived that hard-working young woman of what she needed to live. And I was worried about what might happen to her little girl, a couple of years younger than myself.

I told my dad how I felt.

He'd pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped. He was cold, stern with me. His habitual darlin' conveyed little affection and even less patience.

Marks are not people. They're just sheep, waiting to be fleeced. Once we've done what we came to do, we never think about them again.

I'd mildly demurred—the first time I'd ever done so—but he was firm. Harsh. (It was only much later that I understood that his harshness was probably how he protected himself from feeling anything even resembling guilt.)

Not. People.

Later on, the CIA and Graham drilled that same thinking into me. Sure, the lessons were couched in more diplomatic language, but the message was just as unequivocal.

Your marks are not human beings. They're simply targets, with no more substance than the paper silhouettes on the shooting range.

You will not think about consequences, the effect your actions will have on those left behind. Or upon yourself.

Consequences are irrelevant. Consequences are for weaklings.

You are not weak. You are a weapon, wielded for the greater good of the nation.

Get in. Get the job done. Get out.

Whatever it takes.

Never look back.

And I did just that.

Almost.

There were lines that I drew. Ones that I would not cross.

No matter how complex the mission was, how much I was pressed for time, or how much simpler and quicker it would have made things, I would never hurt or allow—if it was within my power to prevent it—an innocent to be hurt.

And, when the situation required it, I made sure the wives and children—which, somewhat surprisingly, most of my marks had—were not left utterly destitute, reduced to living in their car. Sometimes, with the very monies that Graham instructed me to reacquire from my target. Other times, with funds from my personal slush fund.

But beyond that, I dared not go.

Too many dragons lurking in too many dark corners.

I would not—could not—let myself dwell upon the many times I had to virtually prostitute myself to get close to my target. Nor upon what I so often had to do when I did get close.

If I did, if I let myself feel too much, I knew I would never survive.

Like my father, I learned how to be harsh with myself. To deny my emotions.

I did that so well, that my peers dubbed me the Ice Queen, judging me as being incapable of feeling anything, of being anything other than what I was. A soulless machine.

But the whole time I'd been hiding my true self from me, protectively secreting my oh-so-human heart behind The Company breastplate of unrighteousness.

And just like that it comes to me.

I was wrong. Loose-End Sarah is not a new person. Not even a rebirth. Not really.

She's been here the whole time. Almost forgotten in the lost and found. Just waiting for the right person to come along and claim her. To fully awaken her from slumber.

Chuck.

I've given him access to her. Inadvertently at first, I admit. And with misgivings. Misgivings that have receded further and further into the background the more I've come to know him.

I've let him in, fully trusting that I'll be handled with care. Even after I find the right time, the right place, and muster the courage to tell him about my scarlet-soaked life.

Agent Walker, who's been strangely quiet this whole day, tries to make herself heard. She tells me I'm being a fool.

Trust no one, especially with the truth. No normal man can possibly care for a woman who has done such things. Who has a past such as yours.

Every man you've ever known has let you down.

He will too.

It's inevitable.

I ignore her. Deafen my ears to her protests. Instead, I listen to Chuck's heart beating.

Strong and sure.

I trust him.

He gently kisses the top of my head. He doesn't say anything, just holds me close.

Until this moment, I never truly understood how wonderful quiet can be, how so much can be said without a single word being uttered.

Then, of course, it's spoiled by a carload of what sounds like a group of rowdy frat boys approaching. I don't bother opening my eyes or turning my head to confirm it.

We really, really need to find a spot where we won't be so rudely interrupted.

They stop and shout out the usual about us getting a room.

The faint odor of pot wafts our way.

In a stage whisper, one of them comments about how well I fill out my jeans. Another one makes a salacious sotto voce remark about how much better I'd look out of them.

Chuck pulls back. Stiffens. I'm quite certain he's about to rip into them.

I pull him back toward me. I open my eyes, whisper, "Don't bother, Chuck. They're just envious. And immature. Ignore them. I've heard much worse."

He's angry. "But—"

"It's okay. Really."

He nods, stiffly. "Alright."

"Hey, babe, after you're done making do with the beanpole, maybe you'd like to come on over here and be hugged by a real man, someone who knows what he's doing."

The speaker drops his voice, and suggestively adds, "And we've got a big backseat. Nice and comfy.

"We could make room for her, boys, couldn't we?"

"Sure could, Chance!" The others snicker their agreement.

I can hear the leering smirk. "Satisfaction guaranteed, babe."

I tense as I turn in Chuck's embrace to face them. Chuck starts to drop his arms, but I hold on to them, making sure they remain clasped around my waist.

I was right. It's a group of four purple sweat-shirted UW boys in a shiny black convertible.

"My, oh my. You're even better looking the right way around."

Long ago, I perfected a look that shut down even the bravest of those fellow agents who tried to make a move on me. It doesn't fail me this time, either.

They all immediately fall silent. Look away. Cleary intimidated.

Except for one. The driver, who resembles a young Brad Pitt, right down to the dirty blonde hair, continues to stare unabashedly at me, the remnants of that leering smirk still on his face.

He's clearly the leader of the pack.

"Hi. Chance, is it?"

He nods.

I give him my most insincere saccharine smile. "Well, Chance, you know, I might just consider it…"

His smirk starts to grow again.

"…if I had even the slightest inclination to believe that your satisfaction guarantee applied to anyone other than yourself."

The smirk disappears. Completely.

"Why don't you look me up after you've figured out how to please a real woman? Of course, I'll probably be a grandmother by the time you manage it—if you ever do—so you probably wouldn't be interested anymore."

One of the boys whistles quietly. Another mutters, "Burn."

Chance, his face flushed with anger, scowls at the offenders. He opens his door and stands, fists clenched.

"You bit-"

I cut him off, my voice is sub-zero. "I'd stop right there if I were you, Chance."

I glare, full Ice Queen mode this time.

He tries to glare back, but he doesn't have a hope in hell. Grown men, dangerous men, have recoiled—one even dropped his pistol—at that look.

His eyes shift away.

I let my gaze sweep over the other occupants of the car. Not one of them dares to look my way. "Your friends aren't going to help you, so, unless you want to know what it feels like to be decked by a real woman, I'd advise you to get back in your car and move along."

He hesitates, then looks to his buddies for support. They pointedly avoid eye contact. He shakes his head at them. Deliberately ignoring me, he seats himself and slams his door.

"Let's get out of here, guys. Nothing worth seeing." He puts the car in gear and they take off, the tires squealing.

I feel Chuck pull me a little closer. Then I turn in his arms to face him again. I wrap my arms around his waist.

He smiles. "I thought you said we should ignore them."

I feel sheepish. "Yeah, you're right."

"Why didn't you then? Not that they didn't deserve to be put in their place."

"I couldn't care less what they said about me. I learned a long time ago to ignore that kind of juvenile talk."

I pause.

He waits for a second or two before asking, "Okay, what was it then?"

I'm embarrassed. I look down at his chest, pick at imaginary fluff on his black shirt, murmur, "I got angry when he implied you were…inadequate."

He starts to laugh.

I look up. "What?"

"Sorry, it's just that this situation reminds me of a great old Star Trek episode. The Trouble with Tribbles."

I look at him blankly. "Tribbles?"

He sobers. "I guess you haven't seen it."

"That was the show with Captain Kirk and the Enterprise, right?"

He nods.

"I saw a few episodes when I was a kid, but I don't remember that one."

"Well, to make a long story short, they're on this space station and Captain Kirk is trying to find out who started a fight between his crew and the Klingons."

He quickly adds, "The Klingons were the bad guys."

"Gotcha."

"It turns out that Scotty, the chief engineer, threw the first punch. The amusing part was that he'd restrained himself during the whole time the Klingons were making insulting remarks about Kirk. It was only when they insulted the Enterprise that Scotty could no longer control himself."

I think for a few seconds. "So, you're saying that I'm Kirk and you're the Enterprise in this case?"

"Yeah, I know it's a bit of a stretch, but you going all quietly postal on those guys reminded me of that scene. Standing up for me, even though they disrespected you much more."

"As I said, I've heard much worse, have dealt with much worse characters than that crew."

"Which is total crap, having to put up with that kind of garbage."

"It comes with the territory."

He shakes his head. "It shouldn't." He takes a deep breath. "I'd like to apologize on behalf of the male of the species, Sarah."

"You already have, Chuck."

He's puzzled. "Huh? How?'

"By not behaving like them."

He's pleased by that. "Thank you. As you probably gathered from the Morgan DVD incident, Ellie has strong views on the aspect of respect. She made sure I did too."

"Another reason I'd like to meet her."

He smiles. "I'm sure she'd like to meet you, too."

And just like that, we've once again gone down a path that we're not quite sure how to tread.

Or ready to tread.

He releases me from his embrace and we start walking toward the bridge, hand in hand.

We're both quiet, not for the first time today.

I break the silence. "So, comic books and science fiction. I guess that means you're a bit of a geek?"

He stops walking and turns to face me. Trying to look and sound offended, he replies, "Excuse me. I prefer nerd, thank you very much.

I let out a one-note chuckle. "There's a difference?"

He huffs, "There most certainly is, Miss Walker. And if my phone battery hadn't died, I could've shown you the scatter plot which proves that, while I do have geekish tendencies, I definitely fall on the nerdish side of the diagonal."

I hold in my smile, reply with put on solemnity, "Please pardon my ignorance."

"Of course. In your defense, however, I will admit that the distinguishing characteristics can be a little hard to spot."

"Such as?"

He pauses, thinking. "Here's one. A geek would've ensured he brought his portable power pack to charge his phone on the go. I did not, so, therefore, am not a geek."

"But you do have one of those packs, don't you?"

He blushes faintly. "Yes."

"Where is it?"

"I left it back in Burbank."

"On purpose?"

He looks down at the ground, and quietly says, "By accident."

I laugh.

He raises his head, and excitedly adds, "But that just backs up my argument. A geek would've never done something so careless. Or forget to charge his phone, for that matter."

I give him a long, searching look. "I bet that you wish you had that power pack right now just so you could show me that scatter plot thingy."

He's embarrassed. "I plead the fifth."

"You do see the irony, don't you? Contemplating something that you believe only a geek would do, to prove that you're not one."

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. I do believe I've made him speechless.

I decide to let him off the hook.

"Okay, Chuck, I'll take your word for it."

He smiles his relief.

"Besides, I just realized I have some empirical evidence supporting your argument."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Once, on a mission, I was obliged to hug and kiss a guy who truly was a geek." I grimace. "It wasn't pleasant."

"But it was different with me?"

"Uh-huh."

"So, not inadequate?"

"No, Chuck. Definitely not."

He puffs out his chest.

"No. But try to remember that all you've done here is confirm that you're a nerd. Not exactly the highest compliment someone can be paid."

He grins, eagerly replies, "I'll take it."

I shake my head, laughing. I reach up and gently, quickly ruffle his hair. It's as soft as I thought it would be. He closes his eyes. Sighs contentedly.

It takes a real effort to draw back my hand.

"Okay, Nerd Boy, don't you think we should get going? Otherwise, at this rate, it'll be dark by the time you show me that view."

He opens his eyes. "Right. Right. We should get moving."

He suddenly shudders.

"What was that?'

"I was thinking about some of the guys I work with, Sarah. I just hope the guy you had to kiss wasn't half as disgusting as they are."

I shrug. "He didn't try anything, Chuck, and it was a very brief, almost chaste encounter. Once I kissed him, he became quite talkative. Turned out he wasn't the traitor we thought he might've been. In fact, his information led us to the real culprit."

"After he came out of his daze."

"What?"

"He only talked after he regained his senses. Right?"

I think back. Chuck's right. The man had just stood there, stunned for nearly a full minute.

"You're right. How did you know?"

He points toward himself. "Recipient of Sarah kisses right here. I know their power. Poor guy probably thought he'd died and gone to heaven."

He snorts. "He'll tell that story to his peers for years. Nobody will believe him though."

"Why wouldn't they?"

"For the same reason that none of the people I work with—with the exception of Morgan, who's always been supportive—would ever believe I spent the day with and kissed…you know…someone like you."

"What about me, Chuck?" I know it's a little shameless of me, to fish for compliments like this, especially since he's been so generous with them already, but I'm in a festive mood.

And a little needy? Maybe.

In any case, I really like how he looks at me when saying them. And how he says them. With utmost sincerity. Even when they were inadvertently spoken.

"You're gonna make me say it?"

I nod. "Yep."

His smile is gentle. Understanding.

"Someone like you. A woman who I strongly suspect could've handled that entire carload of frat brats without musing her hair. Who did handle them, without even raising her voice.

"But more importantly, someone like you, who's funny and kind and wicked smart.

"And beautiful. So beautiful."

He pauses. "Inside and out."

I blush, even as I can't help but wonder if he'll feel the same later. After I tell him.

No, I have to have faith. Faith that we'll find a way.

"Thank you, Chuck. That was…sweet."

It appears he's about to mildly object to that, but then changes his mind.

"I'm guessing you haven't had a lot of sweet in your life."

"No, I haven't."

"Well, Sarah, I'm happy that I can bring a little sweetness into your life."

"I am too, Chuck."

More than you know.

He offers his arm. I take it.

"Shall we?'

…

As we follow the path down to the main road, it occurs to me that, except in the grammatical sense, I've never been part of a we.

An us.

Not really.

Even at the high-water mark of my relationship with Bryce, one plus one always equaled two. Never the two becoming one that the Sunday school teacher my dad and I were conning went on about.

I never told Carina about how I felt, about trying to find what was missing in my life. Hardly surprising since I couldn't even be sure what I was looking for. Besides, I knew very well what her idea of two becoming one would entail.

But now I'm beginning to understand what people mean when they talk about their better half.

And how two broken halves can make a whole whole.

An us.

A we.

…

We rest our arms on the bridge railing and contemplate the panorama stretched out before us.

The park's topography is such that the multiple towers of the downtown core almost seem to be rooted in the forest itself. The view is worth the time and effort it took to get here.

It's breezy. A strand of my hair blows into my face. Chuck reaches over and tucks it behind my ear with only the slightest hesitation. His fingers gently brush my cheek as he does so.

My cheek tingles at his touch.

He catches my eye, smiles shyly. I smile back. Then he takes my hand again. We turn back to the scene.

Below us, moving slowly, is the massive white cruise ship we saw earlier. Its decks are crowded with passengers taking in the scenery as they head out on their journey.

I cheerfully wave at them.

He raises his voice to be heard over the noise of a group of cars passing by behind us. "I doubt they'll notice us way up here, Sarah."

He's probably right, but I don't stop. "Don't care."

Just then, on the uppermost deck, an older man with binoculars to his eyes happens to look up to see me waving. He waves back, still looking through the binoculars. Then he briefly turns to a group of other older men and points me out. They bring their binoculars to their eyes.

A group of birdwatchers would be my guess.

They all wave at me enthusiastically. I return their gesture with the same energy until the ship passes under the bridge, taking them from sight.

I turn to Chuck and give him a mock glare. "Oh, ye of little faith."

He hangs his head in equally mock contriteness. "Forgive me, please. I should never have doubted you. Maybe you should start calling me Thomas from now on."

Then he brings his head up and grins at me. "Although I'm quite certain they wouldn't have been nearly so interested if it'd only been me up here."

I ask, flirtatiously, "What are you saying, Chuck? That I attract attention?"

He chuckles. "Now why on earth would I ever think that?"

Gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb, he adds, "I expect that group of guys will be talking about their sighting of you for some time to come. It'll probably be the highlight of their entire trip."

Then he leans in closer, whispers in my ear, "I know it was for me."

He's done it again. Made me blush.

But he doesn't draw attention to it. Instead, he takes my hand and gently turns us back the way we came.

"We should get back down to the seawall. Still lots more to see."

I nod.

And more to tell him. Much more.

Later.

After dinner.

We'll find a bench overlooking the water. And I'll lay it out for him. Let him know what he's in for.

And hope that he can still see the woman he likes under the massive baggage I carry.

I know. I'm a coward. I should tell him right now.

But if this is to be the only day we'll have, I want it to last as long as possible. And I want to hang on to those feelings he's awoken for as long as I can.

After dinner.

After some wine.

I just have to have faith.

—

A/N: I hope to wrap this up in two more chapters. One of them being an epilogue.

I've got a pretty good idea of how they will go, so hopefully not too long before they're published.

Thank you all for following along.