Tremors
31 OCTOBER 2007
UNDER THE SANTA MONICA PIER
13:12 PDT
"So you're telling me that after all we went through, all that combing the pier, running around like a bunch of hooligans, your little stunt with the stuffed animals, and getting my partner and your partner shot, you forgot that there's a bomb somewhere under the Santa Monica Pier just ready to take out innocent civilians?" If it were at all possible, John Casey would have been breathing fire.
"I had other things on my mind!" Though it killed his back by inches, Chuck forced himself to lower Sarah's body slowly. He propped her up against the pillar, where she sat, slack and limp, like some life-sized doll. It made his stomach roil; he forced himself to focus. "And it's not like it's entirely my fault. Who was it that shot the guy who knew where the bomb was?"
Casey dumped Laszlo's slack form in the sand. "How was I supposed to know that he was going to pass out at the sight of a little blood?"
"He's been stuck in a bunker for ten years. Us 'bunker pals,' we tend to develop these pesky little things called phobias!"
"A phobia about gunshot wounds? If I'd shot you, you'd still be awake and just as annoying as ever. Now find the damn bomb, Bartowski!"
"What, suddenly I'm a bomb dog?" Chuck rolled his eyes, but he had to admit that he had a better probability of seeing into Laszlo's twisted mind than Casey did. And Casey had better field medicine training than he did, which meant that he was the more logical choice to look after the injured Laszlo and the unconscious Sarah.
Still, that didn't exactly make Chuck enthusiastic to go wandering around in dim, open spaces by himself, especially since it had occurred to him that the bomb Laszlo was building could very well be a landmine. Even though chances of Laszlo actually using a landmine were slim, as it had a pretty contained blast radius and wouldn't take out much more than the person stepping on it, the idea festered and couldn't be dislodged. He stepped delicately across the sand.
Unfortunately, he didn't think to wait until he was out of Casey's line of sight.
"What are you doing, Bartowski?"
Chuck tried to hide his wince. "Nothing."
Casey's stare didn't waver.
"Fine. I was thinking, what if it's a land mine? Which is ridiculous, I know, but—"
"It's not a land mine! Find the damn bomb before I shoot you. Do I have to do everything myself?"
"Why not? That seems to be the only way you'll be satisfied with anything." Chuck rolled his eyes and began to search. Laszlo would want to be near the blast seat until the bomb went off, which meant it had to be near. The problem was that there was nothing around but sand, clumps of disgusting kelp that looked single-handedly responsible for starting a zombie apocalypse or two, and pillars. Lots and lots of pillars. Chuck checked behind every one.
When he came back, Casey had finished bandaging the gunshot wound on Laszlo's shoulder. "I've still got it," the NSA agent said, his voice smug. "An inch to the left and he would have had complications, but—what is it?"
"I can't find the bomb," Chuck said.
"It's got to be around here somewhere. Fine, stay with the bodies—" Chuck's stomach tilted to hear them referred to as corpses. "While I have a look around. If Laszlo wakes up and tries to get away, tranq him." Casey shoved the tranq gun, which he'd taken earlier, back into Chuck's hand.
Chuck stared at it and tried not to lose his breakfast.
Once Casey had stalked off, muttering about incompetence, Chuck tucked the gun back into his waistband, triple-checking to make sure the safety was on so that he wouldn't do something stupid like shoot himself and join Sarah in unconsciousness. He knelt and checked Sarah's pulse. Casey had assured him that nothing in Sarah's file indicated any allergies to the tranq darts, so once the drugs in her system wore off, she would be fine.
"Pissed as hell at you," Casey had added with undisguised glee, "but fine."
Still unconscious and propped against the pillar, Sarah simply looked exhausted. It made little sense—after all, Chuck had seen to it that she was now getting rest, whether she liked it or not. She could have at least looked peaceful or relaxed. It was like the universe was trying to make him feel as bad as possible. Chuck wanted to point out that at this stage, it was getting excessive. The universe had, after all, already stuck him in a bunker and given him a gun-happy NSA agent for a partner.
Of course, they'd also given him Sarah Walker. Maybe the universe did have a sense of humor after all.
To Chuck's left, Laszlo stirred. Casey had stripped off the other man's shirt to administer the field dressing over the bullet wound, and the man's skin was fish-belly white against the tan T-shirt-turned-bandages. Just like Chuck's own skin had been when Sarah had first pulled him from Siberia.
Not for the first time, Chuck wondered if, after ten years, he too would have snapped in a way that meant damage to everything around him, even people. Before Bryce had sent him the Intersect, his daily routine hadn't changed, and he hadn't protested. He'd just continued to follow Mr. Carver's directions and play video games or work on gadgets in his off-time. If Sarah hadn't showed up, would he still be there? Would he ever think about things like getting sand lodged in his dress shoes or down the back of his pants?
He'd never be under the Santa Monica Pier with a maybe-live bomb, an unconscious fugitive, and a tranqued CIA agent, that was for sure. Overhead, the boards rumbled as the West Coaster brought a new group of screaming people around Pacific Park. Chuck glanced up absently, and froze.
"Uh, Casey?" he called.
He heard the other man's footsteps pattering across the sand. "What is it?"
"I, uh, I found the bomb."
"Where?"
Chuck pointed.
After a moment, Casey growled. "He got the drop on me," he said, mimicking Sarah (Chuck wasn't sure Sarah's voice was actually that high-pitched, but he'd learned only to correct Casey on the days when he wasn't feeling particularly fond of keeping all of his fingers). "Fantastic. Way to be literal, Walker."
"In her defense, it was a clever use of—"
"I'm going to call EOD, get a squad down here. Can you tell if it's armed?"
Chuck squinted at the bomb, wedged high up in the pier rafters. "Uh, not from here, no. Want me to climb up there?" He hoped not.
Casey shook his head. "Get Walker and the egghead out of here. I'll call in back-up, get the area cleared—"
Something beeped. Even Chuck, for whom computers were just a way of life, heard the ominous undertones to that beep. He and Casey turned very slowly.
Laszlo lifted his head and grinned. "If you were wondering, the bomb's armed," he said, holding up a small device in his good hand—a device that Chuck was positive hadn't been there a minute before. "And yes, I did set up a chain of them because, hey, genius. Good luck, boys!"
Casey snarled. Before Chuck knew what was going on, Casey had reached over, yanked the tranq gun out of Chuck's jeans, and shot the geek lying on the sand.
As Laszlo's head rolled back, Chuck rounded on his partner. "Was that really necessary? He could've told us how to defuse the bomb!"
"He's a sociopath. The only thing he's going to tell us is whatever we want to hear, and then he'll just blow us up anyway." Casey kicked Laszlo's hand out of the way and grabbed the device, scowling. He tossed it to Chuck. "Get anything?"
Chuck squinted, but the Intersect provided no help. The trigger was nothing but a small black panel with a red button. He turned his attention to the pillar that Laszlo had used to rig the nucleus of the bomb. How had the other man gotten up that…oh, that was how. "I'd need to get a better look," he said, his voice absent.
When he latched onto the first rung, Casey's eyes widened. He grabbed a handful of Chuck's shirt and hauled him down. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Getting a look at the bomb." Chuck tried to shake off Casey's grip. "Look, we don't know how long Laszlo set the timer for, or if he's bluffing. The only way to find out is if we go up there. Call your FBI buddies or whatever, see if you can get the pier evacuated. I'll go up, get a look, come back down."
"You think I'm letting the Intersect near a live bomb? Get out of here, Bartowski! Take Walker if you feel you must, but I want you out of range."
Chuck tried to struggle out of Casey's grip once more. Again, no dice. "It's me versus hundreds of innocent civilians," he said. "I'm going up there."
"No, you're—"
"The longer we stand here arguing, the more likely it is that the bomb's going to go off and we'll get blown up! Let me go!" Chuck wrenched himself free. The sound of ripping fabric made him wince, but it wasn't like he was particularly attached to the shirt. The CIA had picked it out for him.
He scrambled up bars that Laszlo had drilled into the column, muttering, "Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down." Wouldn't it just be fantastic if he had somehow managed to add batophobia to his ongoing list?
"Just so you know, when you get down, I'm going to shoot you myself!" Casey called after him, even as he pulled out his cell phone to request the proper tactical teams.
"Look at the bright side," Chuck told himself, deliberately not looking down, "I'll probably die from falling off the pillar before then."
His brain must really be a dark place to consider falling from a great height and dying "a bright side."
As he climbed, pausing to wipe his hands on his pants, the world darkened. At first, he thought it was only his overactive imagination causing trouble, but a quick glance proved that the recesses under the boards were just darker than everywhere else. Creepy, he decided, and absolutely perfect for housing a bomb. He hauled himself up the last couple of feet and crawled tentatively onto the beam running parallel to the ground, putting himself face-to-face with an active and armed bomb.
Admittedly, it wasn't as frightening as he had anticipated. There was still a pressing desire to soil his trousers, but it wasn't as overpowering as he might have expected. The bomb itself wasn't actually much bigger than a boat engine of all things, and most of it was hidden from view by flat, black panels. Wires ran all over the place, even along the underside of the boards above his head, scuttling in at least five different directions like spiders. The other bombs, Chuck figured. Part of the chain reaction.
The device appeared to be controlled by a laptop that was sitting open atop the beam, with a countdown flashing across its screen. And computers were Chuck Bartowski's forte, which lessened the terrifying part of it all somewhat.
Besides, the bomb wasn't actually the scariest thing about all of this. No, that would be the fall. Especially since Chuck ignored the chant going through his head and glanced down to make sure Casey and Sarah were still all right.
Immediately, his head spun. He latched onto the pillar until it stopped, whimpering a little. "High," he said to nobody. "Very, very high. Why did I want to be a hero, again?"
Maybe the universe was helping him out: happy laughter drifted down through the boards. A family up on the pier, enjoying a holiday together.
"Oh, right," Chuck said. Ignoring the newest coat of sweat and his own shaking limbs, he inched forward toward the laptop.
"Is it armed?" Casey shouted, his voice barely audible.
"Yeah, and he's got it on a countdown!"
"How long?"
Chuck blinked at the numbers, hoping he was wrong. "Um…less than five minutes?"
Casey swore. "Get down from there, Bartowski! Now!"
"No, wait—" Chuck inched closer to the laptop, and by default, the bomb. There was something on the bottom of the screen…a line of text. ENTER COMMAND. "I think Laszlo gave himself a back door in case something went wrong!"
"I don't care! Get down here! That's an order!"
Fear should have made him want to curl up in a little ball. Instead, Chuck's fingers itched for the laptop keyboard. "No, Casey, I think I can hack it."
He couldn't be sure because all of his attention was focused on the screen, but Casey might have begun climbing to come drag him down. "When we get back to Castle, you and I are going to have a long talk about following orders!"
"You too, eh?" Chuck muttered. In the back of his mind, he flashed through Laszlo's file, searching his memory for something, anything that could help. "Are you really going to waste time trying to change my mind, or are you going to let me defuse this bomb? You could be getting people off of the pier. Just in case I screw up."
He heard a growl, didn't bother to decipher it. His fingers began to fly over the keys.
Ten years in a bunker meant two things: very little social interaction, and plenty of time for video games. Chuck would have bet his last dollar that he and Laszlo had probably played the same games at some point, had probably harbored some of the same thoughts. They even had similar hacking styles, but would that really help?
He got through the first line of defense easily.
4:07.
The second line of defense proved a little trickier. And the typo in the second volley of code didn't help. Chuck could feel precious seconds racing away as he typed in the corrected code.
3:24.
The laptop began to whirr—a sign that overheating might be near. Was that Laszlo's big plan? An overheated laptop to set off the bombs?
Chuck broke through the third line of defense only by luck and the fact that his ex-girlfriend liked Everquest. He himself hadn't played, but nights of listening to her muttering under her breath while he tried to study came in handy now.
2:02.
On the other side of the laptop, a whining noise kicked up. Again, Chuck felt the distinct need to wet himself. He focused on the laptop, muttering under his breath, cursing whenever he screwed up the code. If he hadn't spent hours poring over Laszlo's designs the day before, the bomb would have already blown and the Santa Monica Pier would be underwater by now…
Thinking of all the families, all the couples and the anglers just enjoying a Halloween day on the pier made him type faster.
1:15.
The whine increased.
"Bartowski! Get down from there!"
"Stay on target, stay on target," Chuck muttered, ignoring him completely.
The timer up in the corner shifted from green to red as it hit 0:59, and began to count down. 0:58. 0:57.
0:51.
Chuck's fingers flew even faster.
He was eyeball to eyeball with a thirty count when he finished the last line of code. Knowing Laszlo, if he got this line wrong, there wouldn't be a mocking "Ah, ah, ah, you didn't say the magic word" banner for him. If he made the smallest error, the bomb would blow.
0:23.
His finger hovered over the RETURN key. This was not the time to be a coward.
0:18.
0:15.
0:14.
0:11.
"If this doesn't work, I'm dead either way," Chuck told himself. They weren't the most reassuring final words, but they would have to do. He pressed his finger to the RETURN key, squeezed his eyes closed, and prayed.
He hit the key.
The whine increased.
For an eon, Chuck stayed exactly as he was, his hand poised on the keyboard, his eyes scrunched shut, and his body tensed, waiting for the blast.
It never came. The whine increased again, in pitch and tone—and died abruptly.
After a moment, one of Chuck's eyes opened. His eyeball wheeled around as he took in details. If the bomb had exploded and he somehow hadn't noticed, heaven or hell or purgatory or whatever it was looked bizarrely like the seamy underbelly of the Santa Monica Pier. And if he was going to spend just as much time in the afterlife sweating as he had while living, well, what was the point?
"Am I dead?" he wondered aloud, opening his other eye.
"No, but you will be!" Casey sounded both frustrated and relieved. Chuck leaned over slightly to peer down at the NSA agent, who looked positively diminutive from this height. Of course, the fact that he looked tiny did nothing to minimize the annoyed look. "Get down from there!"
"Ah, give me a minute." Abruptly, Chuck's limbs melted into a substance somewhere between jelly and water. He collapsed back against the pillar, barely holding on with limp fingers. Had he really just…defused a bomb? Had he, Charles Bartowski, reject spy, just saved countless individuals aboard the pier by outwitting a madman and defusing a freaking bomb?
Chuck pinched himself. It hurt. He didn't know whether to be relieved or mystified by that.
His cell phone rang. With a shaking hand, he pulled it out and answered. "Hello?"
"Bartowski!" The phone made Casey's voice sound even more annoyed than usual. "Is the bomb still active?"
"N-no. I disabled it."
"Good. Now get the hell down before you fall and break your idiot neck."
"I, ah, really don't think climbing right now is a good idea," Chuck said, watching the way tremors of disbelief, relief, and adrenaline ran up and down his thighs. He kept his legs wrapped around the beam for support. "Give me a minute?"
"Sure, fine, take all the time you need, up close to a bomb." Not many could convey an eye-roll through words. Casey was one of the lucky few. Chuck rolled his own eyes in return. He'd disabled the bomb, after all. If nothing else, he deserved a damn moment of peace.
"Oh, hey." Casey's voice shifted to surprise. "Looks like Walker's waking up."
"Is she?" Chuck hung up and scrambled for the rungs, hurrying down faster than he would have thought possible with his barely functioning limbs. He landed in the sand and immediately raced to where they'd stashed the unconscious duo.
Sarah hadn't moved. But Casey was standing over her with his arms crossed over his chest, and a huge grin on his face. "Sucker," was all he said.
Chuck glowered. "You're a small, petty man, and I kind of hate you."
"Don't care. Grab Walker and clear the area before the FBI arrives. I don't want them seeing you."
He had a valid point. Chuck's identity had been erased by the government, so the fewer agents that saw him, the better for his cover. And if nobody but he and Casey witnessed the unconscious Sarah, maybe the fact that he'd shot her wouldn't go on report. He knelt next to her once more and, mentally apologizing every step of the way, angled her so that she was face-down. "How are you going to explain the deactivated bomb?"
"Magic," Casey said. "I'll handle the FBI. You worry about following orders for once in your damned life."
"I'm glad you survived, too, Casey," Chuck said, sarcasm dripping. He pulled Sarah to a standing position and maneuvered her over his shoulder. "We'll be on the beach until she wakes up. Even in southern California, they give you odd looks if you walk down the street with an unconscious woman over your shoulder."
Casey frowned at him. "That was a textbook fireman's carry. Where'd you learn that?"
"I did attend a little basic training before they shipped me off to rot in the cold." Chuck glanced over at the distinct wail of sirens. "Sounds like your backup's here. Have fun with the Feds, Casey. What is it they say, better late than never?"
Before Casey could out-sarcasm him, Chuck headed off, the deadweight of his unconscious partner settled across his shoulders. It was almost as heavy as the guilt he now carried.
31 OCTOBER 2007CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
19:42 PDT
Ellie's annual Halloween party always started at seven, but Chuck figured he was allowed to be fashionably late, especially since he had arrived on time. It had simply taken him twenty-three minutes to peel his fingers off of the steering wheel of his car, ten minutes to force him from the vehicle, and another seven to lurk in the entryway. The party had spilled, as these events inevitably did, into the courtyard, so that he was surrounded by a litany of doctors pretending to be everything from the generic cat and ghost costumes to a few Victorian lords and ladies wandering around. Music boomed from a DJ table set up on the other side of the courtyard. He tried to ignore all of it as he stood outside his old bedroom window, and tentatively raised his free hand to knock.
There was a brief pause before the window was pushed outward an inch or two in invitation.
Shrugging to himself, Chuck pulled the window open and climbed into the dimness. He kept his right hand behind his back. It was probably a useless measure, but he already felt a little foolish, so why change anything now?
Sarah didn't speak. She just crossed her arms over a black T-shirt, her expression absolutely unreadable as she leaned against her dresser.
"Hello to you, too," Chuck said, closing the window. "How's your head? I, ah, hope the headache didn't last too long?"
"I took some Advil." Sarah's eyes moved up and down, studying him. He'd changed into a white shirt and jeans for the party, nothing special, and nothing meriting that level of scrutiny. "Where's your costume?"
"What? My cost—oh, yeah. That. It's out in the courtyard somewhere, I imagine, with Morgan. We'll debut it later."
"You and Morgan have matching costumes?"
"Not really matching so much as it's the same costume." When she gave him a confused look, Chuck shrugged. "You'll have to see it to really believe it. But that's not why I'm here. I came to apologize."
"Chuck—"
"Because I really, really screwed up today, and—"
"Chuck."
"No," Chuck said, holding up a hand. "Let me say this. All that stuff you said about how partners should always be able to trust each other was true, and then I go and do something stupid, and I just—"
"Chuck!" Sarah, her patience seemingly gone, crossed over in two strides and grabbed his arms. "You've apologized six times—seven now, actually."
"I'm sorry," Chuck said.
"And that makes eight." Sarah gentled her grip and rubbed her hands down his arms, just the once. "Chuck, I already forgave you. You don't need to keep apologizing."
"But I feel bad that—"
"Accidents happen," Sarah interrupted in a firm voice. "And that's all that it was. We'll just be more careful in the future, and maybe keep you away from tranq guns until you've passed Casey's Gun Club criteria. Okay? No more freaking out about this."
He wanted to keep apologizing until he was blue in the face, but Sarah's expression told him that nothing of the sort was ever going to happen. So he just nodded. "Okay. No more freaking out about this."
"Good. Now tell me what you're hiding behind your back."
Chuck mustered up a small smile. It fell short of being truly amused, but it at least landed in the ballpark. "Well, I brought you a couple of apology presents."
"Chuck, I already told you, there's absolutely no need to—"
"Too late." Chuck's smile gained a little more authenticity. "I already bought them, so now you're stuck with them. Do you at least want to know what they are?"
Sarah fell quiet. Her expression had once again grown unreadable, but it was less of an angry unreadable. Now he figured she was trying to hide her puzzlement, something she did when he went off on geek tangents. He waited her out.
Finally, she sighed and smiled. "I shouldn't encourage you."
"And yet?"
"And yet," Sarah echoed. "I want to know. What is an appropriate apology gift?"
"Well, first." Chuck reached behind his back and pulled out a DVD case. "A little humor. The hostage situation isn't exactly like what we faced today, but…well…"
Sarah flipped the box over to read the synopsis. "'Speed?'"
"Got a hostage situation?" Chuck asked solemnly. "Shoot the hostage."
He saw just the smallest flicker of a smile before Sarah managed a somber look. "I'm glad to see you're already finding this funny."
"Let's face it. At some point down the road, it's going to be hilarious. We'll crack a few ribs laughing, probably, knowing us. And yes, it's too soon to start now, but 'Speed' will definitely help the process along. We'll watch it sometime. You've been around me long enough that my Keanu impression probably won't scare you off. Now, for the serious part."
Wordlessly, he pulled his right hand from behind his back and held it out to her.
"I know I've already apologized eight times, so this will just have to make nine. I'm really sorry, Sarah, that I hit you with that dart."
Sarah hadn't moved. She stared at the offering. When she lifted her gaze to his face, finally, her expression was wary. "How on earth did you know that gardenias were my favorite?"
"Oh, that's easy. I hacked your file."
Sarah's face immediately closed off.
"And I'm totally kidding about that," Chuck said, hurrying on. Sarah had been more than closemouthed about her past, but up until that point, he hadn't realized the depth of her need for privacy. "I didn't hack your file, I promise. It was mostly a guess, really. We passed a lot of flower stands when you were dragging me all around Thessaloniki and we were pretending to be tourists. And you always stopped to smell the gardenias."
He realized that he was still holding the flowers out to her. "And, ah, are you going to take them? They really are my way of saying sorry—that's ten—for everything I put you through today, and for making you the butt of Casey's jokes for the foreseeable future."
Apparently, he and Sarah put different amounts of stock in Casey's jokes because this didn't faze her. Instead, she wordlessly took the bouquet and promptly did the girliest thing he'd seen her do: she buried her face in the flowers. Chuck's eyebrows went up.
They went up farther still when she hugged him.
Maybe he was spending too much time around trained operatives. When she moved toward him, he tensed for an attack, but Sarah merely burrowed in. After an awkward pause, he hugged her back.
A short knock on the door made both of them jump.
Without waiting for a reply, Ellie poked her head in. Her eyes widened, as Chuck and Sarah weren't a great deal less than obvious as they jumped apart. The Speed DVD clattered to the floor. Chuck felt his face go bright red. "Uh, hi, Ellie."
"Well, hey, Chuck." Ellie's suspicious look darted from one to the other. "I didn't see you come in."
"I just got here. I came by to see Sarah and give her—"
"Some flowers that I left at the office," Sarah interrupted. She had her "cover" smile on, Chuck noticed. "It really was very sweet of him—I was upset that I'd forgotten them. I was just saying thank you."
"Uh-huh." Again, Ellie looked from Chuck to Sarah and back again, as if she wasn't certain she bought the story. When they gave her innocent smiles, she seemed to shrug to herself. "Anyway, sorry to barge in on your, ah, moment, but have you seen the emergency corkscrew? Devon got the parrot-shaped one stuck in a bottle of red, and I fear it's a lost cause."
"I think it's in the junk drawer, between the old coupon book and the colored pencils," Sarah said, frowning as she tried to recall.
"Oh, that's great. Thanks. I have no idea where I'd be without that crazy memory of yours." Ellie smiled at both of them and turned to go. Mid-turn, she paused, and swiveled back. "Don't hide in here all night, you two. You really should come out and join the party."
She closed the door behind her.
Chuck waited approximately two seconds before he attempted to speak. "Did I just see my sister wearing little but strategically placed garlands?"
"I'm pretty sure she's wearing a bikini under there," Sarah assured him, bending to pick up the DVD she'd dropped. "And if you think that's bad, wait until you see what her boyfriend's wearing."
"It's probably not as bad seeing as he's not my sister," Chuck said. "I'd better go, you know, join the party, try to fight some of my inner demons by being a social creature."
Sarah waited until he was almost to the door. "If it gets to be too much, let me know. I'll make excuses for you, and you're more than welcome to come hide in here if you need to. Just, ah, give me time to get my costume on before you come barging in."
"Okay. Come find me when you do, I'll introduce you to Morgan and to our costume. You'll love it."
"Sure."
"Oh," Chuck paused at the door, "and this makes for apology number eleven, but I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"When you were unconscious and I had to get you away before the FBI arrived, I sort of maybe copped a feel." Sarah's eyes went wide. Quickly, Chuck held up both hands. "But it was an accident, I swear, so—sorry. And yes, that's twelve. I think I'll go now."
He fled before Sarah could remember that she was armed.
31 OCTOBER 2007CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
20:23 PDT
Devon found him quickly, unsurprisingly. Though the man didn't live at Ellie's place full time (Sarah had told Chuck that Ellie and Devon spent half of the time in Echo Park and the other half at Devon's admittedly less awesome apartment a couple of miles away), the mantle of the host had fallen to him. Probably because Sarah, the rightful co-host of the party, was still fighting off the final effects of the tranquilizer dart.
"Chuck, hey!" Devon, wearing only as much as it took not to get arrested in public, appeared at Chuck's elbow with a couple of beers. "Glad you could make it! How've ya been?"
Chuck took the beer. "What aren't you wearing?"
"Like it?" Devon wrapped a companionable arm around Chuck's shoulders and pulled the other man into the courtyard so they could make the rounds of the party. Chuck wasn't sure which made him more uncomfortable—the sheer amount of people jockeying for space, or being half-hugged by an almost-nude man. It was a close tie, he decided. "I convinced Ellie that this was the year to go as Adam and Eve. Awesome, right? Hey, check out my snake."
"I'm okay, Devon, I really don't need to—oh, you mean that snake."
Devon patted the head of the giant rubber snake making its way across his broad and cut shoulders. "I named him Crawly."
"Really? I think Steve might be a better name."
"Steve?" Devon considered it. "I like that. Awesome. Hey, anyway, like I said, I'm glad you made it. I can't wait to see this space penis costume Ellie's been talking about."
"Sandworm. It's a sandworm."
"Uh-huh. Also, some of the buddies and I are carpooling up to the big Stanford-UCLA game next week, and we've got spots open in the cars. Want in, Stanford man? We promise to go easy on you when you lose horribly." Devon gave him a rakish grin and nodded at an acquaintance as they walked.
Chuck felt the need to guzzle half of his beer. If the Halloween party in his sister's Echo Park apartment was threatening to shut down his system, he imagined that the big game would probably just knock him into a coma before he got within forty miles of the place. Even if he wanted to see Stanford, there was just no way he could handle it.
"I'm sorry, Devon, I think I'm going to have to pass on that." He gave Devon a regretful smile. "I never know what my schedule's going to be, and you know how it is with us…"
"Government types?" Devon clapped him on the shoulder. "No big deal, bro. The offer's open if you do find your schedule clear, but if not, no sweat, right? Hey, what do you say, next week—you and me, guy's night? We'll catch up, grab a couple of beers, watch a sporting event of some type."
Chuck opened his mouth to turn Devon down, but paused. Being in the bunker had restricted his social circle to pretty much nil. It would be nice to start making friends again, to expand his horizons…and lose everything all over again when the government decided the Intersect was too valuable to just leave wandering around Los Angeles.
He shoved that poisonous thought away before it could completely ruin his night. "You really are as awesome as your old nickname," he told Devon.
"Old nickname?"
"Yeah, back when you and Ellie first started dating, Morgan and I used to call you Captain Awesome."
"Hey, I like that." Devon grinned and struck a superhero pose. "Captain Awesome. Heh."
"I can fully say there is nothing ironic about the name."
"I don't think I've ever been a Captain of Awesome before. Maybe a lieutenant, but…"
Chuck laughed. "Well, so forth shall you be called Captain Awesome. So mote it be."
"So mote it be. Oh, hey, crowd incoming. If you'll excuse me? I have to go take up my host duties."
"One would expect nothing less from a Captain of Awesome. Thanks for the invite to the game."
Once Awesome left him to go be a good host, the party seemed to increase in size, population, and volume. Chuck clutched his beer like a lifeline. Sweat popped up. He probably shone like a wet human beacon, given that he could feel his heart beginning to beat erratically. Thankfully, his vision hadn't started sparkling around the edges, so he had awhile to go before he had to take Sarah up on the offer of hiding in her room. Between the failed therapy session, the crowds at the pier, facing down a crazed gunman (water gun or no), shooting Sarah, and defusing a bomb, he was frankly amazed that he wasn't gibbering in some corner somewhere.
Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe he was getting better.
Hoping to distract himself from a panic attack, he looked for Morgan. It usually wasn't hard to find his best friend. All he had to do was check the food table, especially if Ellie had done the cooking. Chuck wandered over that way now. Realistically, if he were going to survive, liquid lubrication would be necessary. And he should probably cushion that alcohol with food to avoid embarrassing scenes. He grabbed another beer from the drinks table.
Though it warred with his instincts to find some place dark, cool, empty, and quiet, he headed toward the speakers. He'd have a better vantage point there, and people might be dissuaded from talking to him by the volume of the music.
As he walked by the DJ table, studying the group around the fountain, something grabbed his arm. Chuck yelped and barely avoided spilling beer everywhere.
"Whoa, whoa—just me, buddy!" Morgan lowered a massive pair of earphones and gave Chuck a concerned look. "Man, hiding from the Mafia really did a number on you, didn't it? You okay?"
Chuck thumped his chest to stabilize his heartbeat. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just startled."
"Worried the ghouls are gonna get you?" Morgan elbowed him, grinning. "Don't blame you. Though I did see some very sexy ghosts wandering around. Wouldn't mind one of them getting me, if you know what I mean."
Chuck managed to infuse humor into his chuckle as he glanced over the table, the speaker, laptop, a set of turntables, and a banner bearing a cartoon of lightsaber-wielding Luke Skywalker pimping earphones and aviators.
"Wow, Morgan," Chuck said, taking in the pinstriped black shirt and vest. "DJ Starr Killer, huh?"
"In the flesh." Morgan did an impromptu twirl—and promptly had to twirl back around to avoid strangling himself with his headphones cord. He grinned. "Ellie pays me to do all of her parties. She has to approve the playlist first, of course."
"Of course. How much is she paying you for this, if you don't mind me asking?"
Morgan waved that away. "Secrets between friends? Never."
Chuck felt guilt slide a nice little dagger between his ribs.
"Ellie pays me by not filling out the restraining order. And two cases of grape soda." Morgan began spinning the turntables until the Gorillaz had blended smoothly into Mötley Crüe. Finished, he turned back to Chuck. "Ready to bring the sandworm back?"
"After five years of hibernation, I'd say the Worm who is God is once again ready to rule." Chuck felt the first surge of excitement he'd experienced all day. As one, he and Morgan faced the costume, which lay behind the table on a tarp. Chuck set the food and beer aside. "Can you believe it's been fifteen years?"
"Eighth grade. We were so cool."
"Still are, I think."
"Oh yeah."
After a moment of proper reverence, Morgan started to move for the tail of the sandworm. Chuck grabbed his shoulder. "I think you should take the head this year."
"What? No, Chuck, that's your—"
"You more than deserve it, buddy. Look at how perfect you've kept her. I mean, wow. You can't even see any evidence of the time you dared me to eat those fifty Warhead candies, and I puked so hard that Ellie decided on the spot that she was going to be a doctor."
"A dark chapter in our history. And it was gastroenterologist, not doctor. Ellie's always wanted to be a doctor." Adoration gleamed as Morgan picked up the head of the sandworm. "Are you sure, Chuck?"
"I'm sure."
"Then let Shai-Hulud rise again!"
Together, they lifted the sandworm. At that moment, Chuck saw Ellie emerge from her apartment, glance around the courtyard, and spot him. She met his eye, took in the joint costume, and sighed good-naturedly. Chuck gave her a "what can you do?" shrug before he lowered the costume over his upper body.
Morgan counted to three and they charged out into the courtyard, right into the middle of the crowd. Operating a sandworm costume turned out to be just like riding a bicycle. They may have run over a few people at first, but before long, the entire crowd was chanting, "Sandworm! Sandworm! Sandworm!" and cheering them on.
The best part, Chuck felt, was that the voice leading the chant was Ellie's.
31 OCTOBER 2007CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
21:09 PDT
Morgan and Chuck had discovered in the tenth grade that more than thirty minutes inside the sandworm led to bad things. Things like the cream cheese incident, wandering into walls, doors, other people, and, on one notable occasion, into the fountain. Morgan had been all for installing a timer and periscope system. Chuck had made the argument that they had watches and could use the money they saved on video games. His argument had won, but only just.
During one of his breaks, Chuck spotted Casey entering the courtyard. As was his habit, he moved to the right of the entryway, staying still while he scanned the area. When he saw Chuck, sitting with Ellie and Awesome and their friends, he shouldered his way through the crowd.
Chuck excused himself. "Casey, hey! I didn't think you were going to make it."
"I'm not staying." Casey glanced around and tugged at the lapel of his suit.
"Why not? Hot date?"
"No. I just dropped by to deliver this." Casey produced an envelope from inside his suit and held it out.
As Chuck took the envelope, Morgan appeared at his elbow. "Hey again!" he said to Casey. "Good job last night—we probably couldn't have taken out Harry Tang and his minions without you, so thanks. Even though you totally disappeared afterward. You and Chuck missed an awesome party. Anyway, what are you supposed to be? A secret agent?"
Chuck, whose ears were now finely tuned to the silent (and deadliest) Casey growls, stepped forward so that he was shielding Morgan from Casey's wrath. "Ha, ha," he said, hoping his voice sounded squeaky only in his ears. "Good one. No, I don't think Casey believes in Halloween. Got a hot date, don't you, big guy?"
Casey's growl could be heard only by small animals and Chuck.
"Awesome," Morgan said. "She must be one lucky lady."
Chuck cleared his throat. "Wow, so, anyway—Casey, can I, ah, get you anything? There's some excellent punch. I don't think Morgan's actually spiked it with peppermint schnaps this year—" He glanced over for confirmation, received a regretful headshake, and barreled on. "So it might still taste good. Why don't I get you a cup?"
"Don't worry about it, Bar—Chuck." Casey's eyes darted through all of the civilians. "I just wanted to drop that off for you on my way…to my date."
Chuck thumbed open the envelope and reached inside, frowning a bit when his fingers found something flat, cool, about half an inch thick. It felt like a piece of wood. Curious, he pulled out a wooden plaque. The light from a nearby tikki torch made it easy to read. He leveled a stare at Casey. "Really? You came out of your way to bring me this?"
Casey snickered. "Good night, Bartowski. See you at home."
As he sauntered away, Morgan gave Chuck a confused look. "He's also my roommate," Chuck explained, and sighed. In his hand, he held a plaque proclaiming him the Employee of the Month for Pacific Securities, LLC for October of 2007. He glared at Casey's retreating back.
"Oh, cool!" Morgan read the title. "Congratulations, Chuck!"
"It's not real," Chuck said. "It's Casey's idea of a joke."
"Weird joke."
"I think I'll burn it," Chuck said, studying the plaque.
Morgan had apparently stopped paying attention. "Wait a second," he said to himself, though Chuck heard him perfectly. "Who is that goddess? I don't think I've seen her at any of Ellie's parties before!"
"I know," Chuck said without looking up. "It's ridiculous how many good looking doctors Ellie and Awesome know, isn't it?"
"Uh, Chuck. I don't think she's a friend of Ellie and Awesome. She's waving at you." Morgan tugged on Chuck's arm.
"What are you talking about? I don't know any—oh, that's Sarah." Spotting her across the courtyard, Chuck waved back. He wondered, in the back of her mind, why it had taken her two hours to get into costume. Or had she gotten a call from Uncle Sam? She certainly didn't seem to have her post-mission expression on.
"Wait, Sarah? Your secretary Sarah?"
"Office manager," Chuck said. "She's not a secretary. She's an office manager."
"Whatever, she's coming this way." Morgan hurriedly finger-combed his hair, checked to make sure his shirt was tucked in, and smoothed his eyebrows in one practiced move.
Chuck stared at him. "How often do you practice that in the mirror?"
"Shh."
Sarah finished easing through the crowd, a glass of wine in hand. She had a smile in place; Chuck was surprised to see that it was one of the real variety rather than a cover smile. She went straight for Morgan. "You must be Morgan. Chuck's told me so much about you. I'm Sarah."
Looking vaguely like a small animal caught in the headlights, Morgan shook the hand Sarah held out. "Grimes," he said in a fairly decent British accent. "Morgan Grimes."
Chuck rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Then, and only then, did he get a full look at Sarah's outfit. A tan pencil skirt, a pale blue turtleneck, and a vest the same color as the skirt, trimmed with fur. Instead of the detached and professional look she preferred, she'd opted for dramatic makeup that accented her bone structure and made her seem more striking that usual. Her hair framed her face with a '60s bob. Chuck squinted—the ensemble looked familiar, but he couldn't place it. "Who're you supposed to be?"
Sarah actually pouted. "You don't recognize it?"
"Dude, Chuck. Duh. Okay, man? Duh." Morgan elbowed his friend and turned toward Sarah, his manner suddenly debonair. "Miss Romanova, I presume?"
She inclined her head, smiling. "You presume correctly."
Chuck frowned as a memory flitted right at the edge of his mind, just out of reach. When it hit him, he all but groaned at himself.
"Tatiana Romanova?" he asked. "You're Tania?"
Sarah gave him a very different smile than the one she'd bestowed upon Morgan. "I thought it was appropriate."
"Well, yeah," Morgan said, completely misinterpreting Sarah's meaning. "You're a dead ringer for Daniela Bianchi. Sarah, you may very well be the coolest woman on the planet, if you don't mind my saying so."
"I don't mind."
Chuck felt a grin blossom and grow until it threatened to split his face apart. "What happened to Miss 'I still say I should be Bond,' hmm?"
"The dry cleaners lost my tux, so I had to go with this old thing instead." Sarah smoothed a hand over the faux fur on the vest. "Did I get it right? I, um, picked the movie because it was one I'd actually heard of. Did you know there are something like five different James Bonds?"
"Six, actually," Morgan said. "Seven if you count Peter Sellers—"
"Which we don't."
"But by far, the best Bond will always be Connery."
"Bond, James Bond," Chuck croaked in a fair imitation. Before Morgan could reply and send them both into a spiel of Bond quotes that could (and had) last for hours, he cleared his throat. "Uh, DJ Starr Killer? Your music stopped."
"What? Oh, crap." Morgan bolted to his feet and hurried away.
With him gone, Chuck chose to sit on one of the lawn chairs Ellie had dragged out for the occasion. Sarah perched on the arm of the chair. They were silent for a moment, watching the party all around them as Morgan set up Nelly on the speakers.
Chuck broke the silence. "So, 'From Russia With Love,' huh? Is that some kind of message?"
Sarah took a sip of wine and shrugged. "Do you remember how many hours we were on the Siberian Express?"
"Uh, vaguely. I was kind of busy trying not to freak out. Why?"
"Because you let maybe two of them go by without quoting that movie. I got curious, so I rented it."
"And what did you think?"
For a long moment, he wasn't sure if Sarah was going to answer or not. "It really, really sucked."
Chuck gave her a scandalized look. "Bite your tongue! That's James Bond you're blaspheming!"
Sarah just took another drink of wine and shook her head, as if mystified. "Well, maybe you saw something I didn't." She sounded doubtful.
"So if you thought the movie sucked, why are you Tatiana?" Chuck said, folding his arms over his chest.
"What, and miss the way your eyes all but popped out of your head? C'mon, Chuck. Even I'm not a big enough person to rise above that." Sarah fluffed her hair—admittedly, longer than Tatiana Romanova's, but Chuck couldn't blame her for not wanting to get her hair cut for a Halloween costume. "Besides, it's nice to have a creative costume. I wear disguises for work all the time, but on my own, I usually just go as a cat or something. The opportunity was just too perfect."
Chuck just shook his head, slowly, but he was smiling again. "Just think, Sarah Walker. You came so close to being the perfect woman. But I don't know if we're going to get past this Bond hatred of yours."
"We'll work on it." Sarah smiled. "What on earth are you holding?"
"Casey's idea of a joke." Chuck handed over the plaque that he'd all but forgotten about. "Congratulate me, I'm Castle's Employee of the Month."
"Hm. Guess he hasn't figured out you hid all of the weapons from the armory last night."
"If I'm lucky, he never will." Chuck rolled his eyes again. "Even if it saved our lives. May he never figure out why Laszlo only had a water gun."
"So…why are you Employee of the Month? I missed something."
"Don't worry—if you shoot me with a tranq dart at any point in time, I'm sure Casey will be glad to bequeath that questionable honor to you, too. I bet he'd even be okay with you using regular bullets."
He expected fury, or at the very least, mild annoyance. But the corners of Sarah's mouth tilted upward. "Nice to know he has a sense of humor, even if it's at my expense. You should put this over your desk at work."
"I'd rather not have the reminder of my actions from today sitting over my head all the time. Sarah, I'm—"
"If you apologize again, it's going to be thirteen times," Sarah said, her voice deceptively pleasant.
"And I'm told that's unlucky. We've been over this."
"All right, all right." Chuck took the plaque back as Morgan came hurrying back up.
"Got the music situation all taken care of, so DJ Starr Killer is free to focus all of his attention on you two." He plopped down on the lip of the fountain opposite of them and gave Sarah his biggest grin. "So. What'd I miss?"
Chuck and Sarah exchanged a glance. "Ah," Chuck said, ignoring Sarah's quiet smile, "honestly, you're better off not knowing."
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