Pick a Little, Talk a Little
21 NOVEMBER 2007
CASTLE: UPSTAIRS
13:37 PST
"Any luck?"
Chuck didn't look up from the computer monitors in front of him, though his shoulders tensed a bit. "I'm sorry," he said, crankiness flavoring every syllable, "did you happen to hear me shout 'Eureka' or something? Because I must have missed it myself."
Casey's smirk grew so pronounced that Chuck didn't have to look up to see it. "So…no, then?" Casey asked.
Chuck scowled at the monitor. "Yes, no. Don't you have guns to clean?"
"Always. This is more fun." Casey crossed his arms over his chest, his smile broadening. He wore a G-man suit, but as Chuck hadn't flashed on any immediate threats in the LA area, he'd been stuck in the office all day. Which made it only too understandable that he would be haunting Chuck's office. Outside of stakeouts, Casey didn't handle boredom well. And he'd apparently learned early on that a frustrated Chuck was a source of hours of entertainment. "Maybe we should give the drive to the boys at the DNI. Seems you're not nerd enough for the situation, Bartowski."
"I'll have you know, I worked three years in a row on the winning solar car that my fraternity brothers and I built," Chuck said before he realized that he was essentially walking into a trap.
Indeed, Casey's smirk broadened. "Nerd," he snorted, and walked away whistling, mission accomplished.
Chuck had to respect a man who could stick to his principles. Too bad said principles involved annoying Chuck on every possible occasion. And Chuck was stressed enough without impatient NSA agents breathing down his neck. He'd been glued to the computer screen for three days, morning to night, coding and trying to circumvent Sergei Ezersky's awe-inspiring security. Sure, the man designed nightmarish robots that inspired phrases like "Aww" and "Oh, God, kill it with fire," but, damn. Security shouldn't be this hard to crack, not when it was Chuck Bartowski trying to crack it. He'd already shoved up his sleeves to his elbows. If he hadn't shaved most of it off, his hair would be a
rumpled mess from the number of times he'd run his hands through it. Three empty Red Bull cans lined the desk next to his right hand, intermingling with four water bottles Sarah had sneaked into the lineup. The trash can beside his desk stood as a graveyard to a fast food diet that made his doctors wince.
But it wasn't like he could drag himself away. The security on Sergei Ezersky's cloned computer drive was just too…much. Even as he repeatedly smashed into one brick wall after the next, he couldn't help but be impressed. Frustrated as hell, but admiring at the same time.
He checked his check-list of things he still needed to try, and moved onto the next option.
Twenty minutes later, he let out another curse and moved to the next.
This man had better security on his computer than he did on his house, Chuck was certain. He'd been able to break that given some preparation and thirty minutes of work on-site. But the computer drive was a whole new ball-game, where every single member of the other team was the insane lovechild of Albert Pujols and Alex Rodriguez and Chuck had a batting average below the Mendoza line. He had less of a chance of winning than the Washington Generals.
That attempt proved a little more viable. Grumbling under his breath about crazy Russians and their robo-rabbits and their security systems that made a level of Halo 3 look like Pong, he hunkered down.
He jerked back something touched his wrist.
"Wh-what?" He blinked away a computer screen-induced haze and looked over. Sarah was not only leaning beside him, she was actually sitting on his desk. She was holding his hand and playing with his watch. "What are you doing? Why are you doing that? Hey, stop." He slapped at her hands. He needed that hand to code.
She slapped back at him. "I'm setting your watch."
"What? Why?"
"Because." Sarah set his hand back on the desk. "There. Now you can get back to work." She patted him once on the cheek, jumped to her feet, and sauntered off toward her office.
Such was the draw of the code that he didn't watch her go. He just hunched forward and got ready to follow the white robo-rabbit down the rabbit hole of computer code and DOS overrides.
Time passed. He couldn't have said how much, just that he grew more and more absorbed with trying to out-code one Sergei Ezersky. When his watch beeped, he shot straight up.
Sarah was waiting for him on the other side of his desk, holding his jacket and looking at her watch. "Works every time," she said, smiling as he blinked muzzily at her. "C'mon, time to go."
"What? Go where?" Obediently, he rose to his feet.
"I'm driving you over to your therapy appointment." Sarah helped him into his jacket. "You can work on that code when you get back."
Chuck frowned and gave the screen a second look. Sarah wasn't having any of that, though. She hauled on his arm, pulling him away from the computer screen and keeping his arm trapped between hers all the way out to the parking lot in case he decided to try and make a break for it. "C'mon, you just have to get it over with," she told him as they climbed into her Jeep. "And Dr. Anton's a nice guy, right?"
"He is," Chuck said grudgingly, reaching forward to play with the radio.
Sarah slapped his hand away. "I want to listen to NPR."
"Why? It's so boring. Here." Chuck put on the Lithium station, dodging another slap, and leaned back in his seat to watch the L.A. traffic go by. He'd come a long way in just a month. Maybe it was just having Sarah there, but he didn't start sweating at the mere idea of venturing into L.A. No, it took ten or more minutes for it to start getting to him. He nodded at the radio. "See? Doesn't it take you back to high school?"
"God, I hope not."
"Not a good time?"
"Not exactly," Sarah said, wrenching the Jeep into a left turn that practically put it up on two wheels.
More than accustomed to her, Chuck didn't even bother to grab the door. "Huh," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "That surprises me. Seems you'd be, like, the softball star or something."
"Late bloomer." Sarah cut off a VW Bug. "Extremely late."
"What? No. Get out." Chuck stared at her, trying to imagine it. When that proved impossible, he just shook his head and watched the scenery fly by. "Not president of the Knives Club, then?"
"Ha, no."
"Secretary of the Sharpshooters?"
Sarah slanted him a sideways grin. "I thought I was an office manager?"
"Touché," Chuck said. "Treasurer of the Tae Kwon Do Society?"
"My high school experience wasn't normal."
"That's okay. Neither were any of my suggestions." Chuck shrugged and pulled out his phone, tapping on the screen a few times. "Last time I played Tetris the whole time, but I think with this session I'll go with Ninja Ropes." He set the game up to load on his phone.
"Or you could just talk to the psychiatrist." Sarah sped up to get onto the freeway.
Chuck wisely waited until she'd cut across traffic to get into the carpool lane. "That's far too conventional. I'd rather walk on the wild side and mock the face of conventionality."
"Oh, is that what they're calling it?" Sarah's fingers tapped on the steering wheel, but not in time to the music. An outward sign of agitation, Chuck deduced, watching out of the corner of his eye. He waited for the dam to break and for her to say something, but she kept silent.
He broke first. "What's on your mind?" he asked, stealing an oft-used line from her.
She didn't look over, which was probably a good thing. She was a crazy enough driver with her attention focused on the road. "Nothing."
"Yeah? Then why are you tapping?"
Now she did look over, just to squint at him. "How do you pick up on that and not—hm, never mind. Just, I think you should talk to him. To Dr. Anton."
Casey had said the same thing—maybe not outright, but close enough. Chuck leaned back, half against the seat and half against the door, a frown pulling at his mouth.
"I mean, if you don't want to, that's up to you and I understand, but…" The fingers started tapping again. "You've been sitting in a car staring up at an apartment for the past three nights, and I'm a little worried."
Chuck's frown deepened. "You've been watching me?"
"I check the GPS at ten, before I go to bed. Just to make sure." Two more taps of the thumb. "And your location's been outside of Jill's apartment for the past three nights. I didn't want to say anything about it, but…"
"Talk about not normal," Chuck said. He shifted so that he was facing forward again, the better to watch Sarah flirt with two hundred or so car accidents between Dr. Anton's office and Castle. "Ellie wants me to write her a letter."
"Who?"
"You know. Jill."
Sarah was quiet for a minute, mostly because she was busy gunning the engine to get around a minivan. "Do you think that will help?"
"I don't know." Chuck moved a shoulder.
Sarah swerved back into the carpool lane. She winced, maybe at the fact that she almost clipped the minivan's front fender. "You could try actually talking to her."
"I don't know," Chuck said again.
"Talk to Dr. Anton, then."
"Yeah?"
"That's what he's there for." Sarah mimicked his shoulder move. "If you're not going to talk to Ellie or me about it, talk to him. He won't judge."
Chuck tipped down his sunglasses to look over at her. "And you will?"
She smiled. "We all just want to help you out, Chuck. You know that."
"Yeah, I know that."
"And sitting out in front of her apartment like that…it's not healthy." Sarah, seeing their exit up ahead, methodically began to cut across the lanes of traffic. She glanced over at him, and he wished she wouldn't because it meant that she looked away from the freeway of death she'd created with her driving. "I think you know that, too."
"Yeah, yeah." He hunched his shoulders and scowled. "I know it."
"So. Simple solution: talk to Dr. Anton."
"Yeah, yeah," Chuck said again, sinking back into his seat. Sarah just smiled, patted his knee, and focused on not killing them on the way to therapy.
21 NOVEMBER 2007
DR. ANTON'S OFFICE
14:54 PST
Sarah's suggestion had made it seem so simple: talk to Dr. Anton. Tell him how you feel.
But now that he was sitting on the couch, knees together, his hands atop them, sweating despite the easygoing, bland office atmosphere around him, Chuck felt his throat clam up. Dr. Anton sat across from him, a simple, innocuous notepad on his knee. He didn't make any of nervous motions. He didn't jiggle a leg, or tap the pen, or even chew on a pen cap.
Where was the energy going, Chuck wondered. Why didn't he need an outlet? His first therapist, Scott, had always been content to shoot the breeze and talk about the A's until Chuck had been comfortable enough to talk. Dr. Anton merely sat across from him, a pleasant look on his face. "Pleasant" seemed to describe him well, though "unassuming" might work, too. He was somewhere in his mid-forties and comfortable with it, balding on top and sagging in the middle. Chuck was almost disappointed that he wasn't wearing a sweater vest.
Abruptly, Chuck leaned forward. Dr. Anton's lack of motion made him want to compensate. "Everybody wants me to talk to you," he said, breaking the silence that had dragged on for ages.
"Do they?" Dr. Anton asked, pulling his foot up onto the opposite knee. "And what is it you want, Charles?"
"Chuck," Chuck corrected him. "And what I want is to stop being a drag on everybody around me. Wow, that came out depressing." He blinked. "I guess what I want is to get better."
"Better?"
"You know. Be able to step outside without having to psych myself up for thirty minutes, have normal conversations where I don't second-guess everything. That sort of thing." Chuck took a deep breath. "My sister thinks I need to talk to you about…about Jill. Sarah thinks so, too."
"Why don't you?"
"I don't know." Chuck picked his hands up and put them back on his knees, just a small movement. It seemed to make him feel better, so he did it again. "It's a little personal?"
"I don't want to force you into something you're not comfortable with, Chuck." Dr. Anton gave him a kindly smile. "Why don't you tell me about your sister? Or Sarah? They sound important to you."
"Ellie and Sarah? Sure, they're important." Chuck played with his thumb, tugging on it with his other hand. He yanked once, hard enough to pull it clean off, but it remained as firmly attached to his hand as ever. "Our parents weren't around, so Ellie raised me. I always respect her opinion, and Sarah's, well, Sarah."
"Yes? What does that mean?"
It took him a moment to remember the cover details. He should have reviewed the packet like he always did right before he came and spent an hour playing on his phone on Dr. Anton's couch, but he'd been so wrapped up in breaking Ezersky's security that he hadn't had the chance. It just figured, the one time he would use the freaking information…
"Sarah was one of the agents on the team that retrieved me," he said, finally remembering. "And Agent Case was on the team, too. So I'm probably most comfortable around them."
"You call her Sarah," Dr. Anton said, consulting his notes, "this Agent Waters?"
"Yes. Case prefers to go by his last name, though." Chuck twisted his thumb around. "He's another one that thinks I should talk to you. He hasn't outright said it, but he kind of hinted—or grunted—at it, which is Case-speak for, 'Do it already.' He kind of has his own language."
Just like Sarah had her own language of smiles and gestures.
"What they think means a lot to you," Dr. Anton observed, writing something down in his pad. "Their opinions matter?"
"Yes. Sarah's more than Cas—Case's, probably. They've been there from the beginning, and they haven't left or snapped or anything. Well, Case has, but again, that's just him. He's not the most patient of men."
"And this is something you worry about?"
"Case being patient? Not really. It's just part of him." Chuck caught the raised eyebrow and jolted. "Oh! You mean them snapping or leaving? Well, yeah, I kind of worry about it sometimes. Like, sometimes I look at them and wonder, 'Why aren't you sick of me yet? Why haven't you left and gone on to a better job where you're not babysitting some loser that the bad guys didn't even care enough about to torture?'"
His cover, after all, was a guy stuck in a Russian prison for five years, abandoned by his government and his captors, practically.
What a sucky cover.
"Have you talked to either of your partners about this?" Dr. Anton asked, his voice soothing.
Chuck shook his head.
"Why not? If you don't mind me asking, that is."
"I dunno. I guess, fear that maybe if I don't say it, they won't have thought about it, and they won't wake up to the fact that the possibility exists?" Chuck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands pressed palm-to-palm in front of him. "It's idiotic, I know. The possibility does exist." Although it wasn't likely. What had been the word Sarah had used, that night on the beach when he'd almost taken her head off over the Ellie situation?
Frozen.
Stuck.
Sarah and Casey weren't going anywhere. And that was his fault, too.
"You should see Sarah, Doc," he said, staring down at his hands before he glanced up at Dr. Anton. "She's…she's almost not real, you know? She kicks so much ass, but she's really nice, and she never seems to run out of patience unless we're on a mission together and even then, it's not really me she gets antsy at. Hell, I'm positive that something on our last mission scared the crap out of her, but she just kept going. She's like a freaking Energizer Bunny. And I look at her, and at Agent Case, and I think, 'Oh, my God, you're stuck in Burbank, and it's my fault.'"
"Is it your fault?"
"What?"
Dr. Anton shrugged. The move didn't fit, somehow. It seemed too kinetic. "Is it your fault that your partners are, as you say, stuck in Burbank?"
"Well…" That made Chuck frown a little. True, it hadn't been his choice to get the Intersect, and with Gwen's backup, he could have put the base of operations anywhere despite the fact that the higher-ups had hinted strongly that the base remain in DC, where he could be protected by quite a few more men and women. But he had wanted to see Ellie again, and to be able to see her on a regular basis. And technically, he hadn't known Sarah would be suffering in Burbank right alongside him. She'd told him she had new orders.
Casey, that was a given. For the two weeks he'd been in DC, the man had been like a living, breathing, grunting shadow.
"Partially," Chuck said at length. "I mean, I chose to come to Burbank. But I didn't choose them, specifically."
"So, that was just the bad luck? That it was them, these people you would care about, that would get stuck in Burbank?"
Just a couple more people screwed over by the government's illogical choices?
Chuck shook his head and finally met Dr. Anton's eyes. "I guess you could say it was."
"And these partners…Sarah and Agent Case. Do they care for you?"
"What?"
"You've made your feelings about them clearly known. You respect their opinions, and they matter to you." Dr. Anton scribbled something on his notepad as he spoke, his voice never varying from a relaxed, gentle tone. "How do you think you stand with them?"
"They're not exactly alike."
"Start with Agent Case, then. How do you think Agent Case feels about you?"
That one made Chuck frown a little. "He's…gruff with me," he said at length, "but that's just his usual setting. We didn't get off to a good start."
Those were warning shots! Next one goes in your skull, Bartowski!
"But you know, I think I've grown on him a little. He made me a sandwich once." Chuck didn't mention the therapy talk they'd had in the car. It felt like he was infringing on Casey's privacy if he went into more detail. "And he's a surprisingly good teacher when he wants to be. I've learned a lot from him."
"Hm. And your other partner? Sarah?"
That was a harder one to quantify. It felt unfair to try and fit a woman who encompassed so much in his life into just a few details. "I know she doesn't hate me," Chuck said, as that was really the only thing he felt certain about from day to day. He knew he frustrated her, he knew she'd gone to the wall for him against Graham and Beckman and probably wouldn't mind doing so again. "She's so incredibly patient. I don't understand it, how patient she can be. I…have a hard time with some things. It takes me a long time to go to outside, and I can't handle crowds very well, and she's never made fun of me, or belittled me. It's like she's not even judging me. She just says, 'We'll deal with it,' and when she says that, you almost have to believe her. And she should be complaining because all she does is glorified babysitting, but it's like she doesn't mind."
He shrugged helplessly and scratched the back of his head, leaving his hand resting on the back of his neck. "She's got this sense of humor about everything, too, which is great. I never know when I'm going to look up and she'll be laughing about something, or just waiting to share a joke, and it's cool because most of the world thinks she's so reserved. And she's so kick-ass. Like, I saw her fight off four guys at once and drop them all without even really breaking a sweat."
"She sounds like quite the woman," Dr. Anton said after a long pause. He scribbled something on the notepad.
It was all Chuck could do not to crane his neck and try to see.
Later, after the timer in the corner had gone off, declaring the session over, Chuck headed out to the parking lot. That same "quite the woman" was waiting for him. Casey always waited in the car, sitting behind the wheel and glowering, but Sarah sat on the hood of the car, a bag of gummy bears on her lap. As Chuck approached, she tossed one in the air and caught it in her mouth. He grinned.
"Sorry," she said, throwing him a gummy bear as he neared. "I got bored, so I sneaked in and found the vending machine."
"You found gummy bears in a vending machine?"
"I know, crazy, right?" Sarah tossed one and caught it in the same hand as she studied him. "You look…wrecked. Hard game of Ninja Ropes?"
"No." Chuck hoisted himself onto the hood and helped himself to a few gummy bears. He tossed one, missed it completely, and decided to eat the rest straight. Chewing gave him a momentary distraction. "I talked to him."
"What about? Jill?"
"No." Chuck shrugged.
Sarah glanced sideways at him, but didn't press the subject. "Feel better?"
He felt vaguely like a wrung-out sponge. "Eh."
"Want to play hooky and go see a movie or something?"
"No, I really should get back and work on that code." Chuck gave her a regretful smile as he filched a couple of gummy bears. "And then I think it's high time I sat down and wrote a letter, don't you?"
"Only if you want to, Chuck." Sarah rubbed a hand down his arm, and it felt nice. He smiled again as she tipped back to catch another gummy bear in her mouth.
"I want to. You're right. Ellie's right. Hell, even Casey's right. Getting better is about me, and I think writing that letter's going to help." Chuck jumped off of the hood and turned to give her a hand down. Though she could have flipped off of the hood fourteen different ways, no doubt, she grinned as she gripped his fingers and hopped down. "It can be something I can be thankful for tomorrow, right?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Thanksgiving?"
"Oh. Right. I forgot."
"Trust me, after you see what Ellie goes through tomorrow, you'll never forget this holiday again." Chuck gave a happy groan at the thought as he climbed into the passenger seat so that Sarah could defy death a few dozen times on the drive back to Castle. "So much food. You're going to love it, I promise."
"Okay, then." Sarah shot him a last grin and whipped the car out into traffic. When he moved to adjust the radio, she didn't slap his hand away.
21 NOVEMBER 2007
THE BACHELOR PAD
21:49 PST
Casey pulled up short at the sight of Chuck sitting on the Bachelor Pad's sofa. His keys still dangled from a finger. "How come you're not glued to your monitor?"
"Sarah locked me out of the computer."
"Walker did? Heh." Casey shut the door behind him.
"I could probably get around it in under five minutes." Chuck tilted his hands and the controller, unconsciously squinting every time he fired of a cluster of shots onscreen. "But maybe she has a point. I need to take a step back from the coding, clear my head. Whatever. How was the NRA chapter meeting?"
"Bunch of actor wimps looking to get a badass reputation through handguns. Probably shoot their own dicks off, do the world a favor. Though I did get to talk to an old jarhead out of the First about the new M-one-thirty-four that we just got installed in Castle. She's a beaut. May be Army crap, but she's still pretty." Case drew a cigar from his pocket, stuck it between his teeth, and took his time lighting it. He puffed in a drag and let the smoke rings fly as he sat down on the couch by Chuck. "Ooh-rah."
"Hooah," Chuck said automatically. On screen, he tossed in a grenade for good measure and ran onto the next point. Fallaise Gap wasn't going to save itself.
Casey glanced over in surprise to hear the Army grunt from him. After a second, he shook his head, possibly reminding himself that Chuck had indeed gone through Basic. Chuck didn't blame him. He sometimes forgot it himself, which was kind of a marvel. Those nine weeks had been hell.
"What's this?" Still puffing on the cigar, Casey leaned forward and plucked up the folded white sheets of paper on the coffee table. Something clattered to the floor. He bent and picked it up.
Chuck was probably a little more vicious than he needed to be as he sneaked up behind three Nazis, switched to his Walther P-Thirty-Eight, and took all three down with head-shots.
"Hell, Bartowski," Casey said, apparently content to be ignored. "You proposing to somebody?" Casey held up the ring that Chuck had retrieved from his dumpsite at Stanford. His thick thumb and forefinger absolutely dwarfed the tiny twist of metal. Chuck watched him out of the corner of his eye, and didn't miss the way Casey almost dropped the ring when a thought hit home. "You're not—it's not Walker, is it?"
"Sarah? No." Chuck glanced away from the game to give Casey a "what the hell?" look.
"Probably a good thing. Looks cheap."
"Excuse me, I made that."
Casey grunted.
"It was a promise ring. For my ex-girlfriend." Chuck tossed yet another grenade—he'd have to stock up soon—and hustled out. "The same ex-girlfriend that dumped me via letter while I was at OCS. And that paper you're grubbying up is my reply."
"A Dear…Jane letter?"
"Mostly. It has elements of 'screw you, Jane,' in the middle. Turns out, writing can be very cathartic." So could taking out an entire platoon of Nazis on Call of Duty 3, but that went without saying, Chuck had always felt. "It was Ellie's suggestion. I'm going to deliver the letter tomorrow."
"On Thanksgiving?"
"Yeah. She'll be visiting her parents up by Sacramento, so I won't run into her."
"Could just mail it."
Chuck shifted a shoulder. "Feels wrong."
"Okay." Casey turned his attention to the game. "What's going on here?"
"Classic shoot 'em up game. You're an American soldier in St-Lo, you've got your choice of weapons." Chuck flicked the controller to cycle through his arsenal, watching the way Casey's eyebrows rose in approval. He showed off what the rest of the buttons did, and handed the controller over to Casey.
"What?" Casey looked down at the game controller in his hands as if he were holding some sort of alien object.
"You like shooting things, so shoot things."
It took Casey a few false starts, and some assists from Chuck, but before long, he was racing across the terrain as Private Nichols, shooting Nazis and laughing throatily each time one of them took a head shot. He probably would have had an easier time if he'd stuck with the Browning. Hindsight made Chuck wince a little. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned that he preferred the MP-Forty over the Browning because he was such a good shot in the game since it only made Casey determined to be just as good as Chuck.
He was also vaguely aware that he may have created a monster. Sitting on the couch, watching his coworker obliterate Nazis while Chuck himself held onto a letter he'd written in fits of anger, bitterness, bafflement, and regret, he didn't mind so much.
He dreaded the next day, when he would have to deliver the letter.
But he kind of looked forward to it, too.
22 NOVEMBER 2007
CHEZ BARTOWSKI/WALKER
11:17 PST
"Um, wow. I didn't realize how much Ellie gets into Thanksgiving dinner."
Chuck joined Sarah at the trash can and peered inside. "What? Just because you saw her trash an entire turkey? That's nothing."
"Apparently not." Sarah rested a hand on her hip. "It's such a waste, though."
"Sounds like someone's lamenting the demise of the turkey. It's probably happy that we're not eating it, you know. Or getting stuffing shoved up its butt. I hear it's a very unpleasant experience."
Sarah's face crinkled in disgust. "Just the kind of image I need right before lunch. Thanks."
"Chuck Bartowski, mental image extraordinaire," he said with a dramatic bow. He barely caught the sponge Sarah threw at his face. "Hey! That's dirty!"
"Not yet it isn't. Toss it back, I need to get started."
"Aye-aye, boss." Chuck sidled up next to her and turned on the faucet. "It's a shame Morgan isn't here yet, actually. Knowing him, he'd probably take that entire turkey home and have it for dinner for the next week and a half."
"Before or after it went into the trash?"
"Doesn't matter, really. It's Ellie's special Thanksgiving turkey. Awesome and his frat brothers could use it as a football during one of their Rose Bowl pre-gamers and Morgan would still try to salvage enough for turkey sandwiches."
Sarah's scrubbing slowed. "Please tell me you're joking."
"It's that good, Sarah. Frat-boy sweat and all."
"Ew." Her eyes squeezed shut. "Disgusting."
For some reason, a memory chose that exact moment to sucker punch him in the face. Suddenly, all Chuck could see were intense blue eyes reflecting the dim glow of a laptop, the feeling of limb against limb; so little space, and there was heat, lots of it, everywhere—
"Chuck?"
He blinked and shook the image away. The soapy cup clenched in his hand was about a foot away from the running water. Meanwhile, Sarah was looking at him like he'd accidentally shot himself with a tranq dart.
"Are you okay?" Her eyes were narrowed in concern, the beginnings of a frown etched in her face. "You spaced out for a minute."
Chuck shoved a cup under the water. "Ah, yeah, sorry. I see what you mean now, that's all. Apparently the mental image of playing drunken football with a turkey does wonders for the mind."
Sarah nodded silently, but the look on her face screamed skepticism. He chose to play oblivious and turned his attention back to the sink, hoping she'd follow suit. She did.
He hadn't brought up the episode in the security console since they'd unwittingly stumbled upon the army of insane toy robots, but he certainly hadn't forgotten about it. Put it out of his mind for a little while, sure. When he was coding, he could forget anything. But that little nugget of sensation kept sneaking its way to the back of his mind. Chuck shifted uncomfortably and forced himself not to look at Sarah. The woman had the perception of a freaking wildcat when she chose. One look and she'd start asking questions, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to answer any of them at the moment.
"What's bothering you, Chuck?"
Too late.
He knew he had to bring it up at some point, of course. It was either that or risk driving himself insane with an onslaught of unanswered questions. But the first thing that came out of his mouth was, "Can you teach me how to pickpocket?"
He nearly blinked at himself. What the hell had that been about?
Apparently Sarah shared his sentiments. She stopped scrubbing and gave him an odd look. "Sorry?"
He was too far in now to back out now. Chuck dropped a plate in the rack. "Pickpocketing. It's not like I'd steal anything, and you and Casey would snap my fingers off before I even came within two feet of you. But who knows, I may be able to use it on a mission or something." Sarah raised an eyebrow at that. "Someday? Maybe? Okay, unlikely, but still. Seems like a handy thing to know, or just a neat thing to learn."
And maybe it wasn't the best time to bring it up. He only now recalled the look on her face when he'd made the offhanded comment about learning from the Artful Dodger. There must be some bad history there. And indeed, there it was again: a hint of sadness tingeing her carefully guarded expression. He offered an encouraging smile, hoping that it would remove that look forever.
"Come on, Sarah. Just one lesson?" He saw her hesitate and surged on. "You can just tell me the basics while we finish the dishes. I'll behave, I promise." He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis, hoping that might seal the deal.
It worked. Sarah finally broke into a smile.
"Okay, why not." She dried her hands on a dishrag before hip-bumping him to clear more space in the kitchen. He obligingly took a step back. "Pay attention, because this is the most important thing you're ever going to need to know when it comes to pickpocketing."
Sarah turned away from the counter and leaned in tantalizingly close. Chuck froze. All brain activity ceased as Sarah pinned him down with what was fast becoming a trademarked intense gaze. She held the look for all of three seconds before straightening, an easy smile on her lips.
"Distraction is key."
She lifted her hand as she said it; dangling from her fingertips, just as it had more than a week earlier, were his keys. It was practically déjà vu from the night on the beach. Darth Vader was almost leering at him.
Chuck's hands flew to his pockets. "Okay, first of all, that was a horrible pun. And second, how did you do that?"
Sarah tossed him the keys. "Like I said, distraction. Psychology says that the human mind can only concentrate on one thing at a time. If your mind's not on your wallet, then your wallet's up for grabs. Here you go, by the way."
Chuck's jaw dropped as she nonchalantly handed over his wallet. "What the—when did you—"
Sarah's smile widened. "It's all about knowing how to divert attention. An expert pickpocket knows how to create a distraction long enough to steal whatever valuables they've located on their mark." She invaded his personal bubble again; if she noticed the subtle hitch of breath and the way his shoulders tensed, she ignored it.
"Take this, for example." Sarah ran her hands down his arms—excruciatingly slowly—from elbow to wrist, her eyes on his the entire time. Her fingertips left individual trails of heat that seared into his skin. "This is a deliberate distraction. So, as the mark, obviously the most important thing you need to do right now is to try your best to avoid it."
Chuck couldn't have looked away if he tried. "Honestly, Sarah, you're kind of making it, ah, impossible."
"Well, that's the point. You make it impossible for them to concentrate on anything else, and just like that, your watch is gone." Sarah dropped his arms and stepped away.
It took a moment for her words to register. When they finally did, Chuck closed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his face. He could practically feel her humming with anticipation.
"Sarah," he said, measuring his words evenly. He might as well play her game. "What time is it?"
He opened his eyes to see Sarah studying the bulky watch attached to her wrist, the all-too innocent smile threatening to split her face. "Why, it's 11:26 and thirty three seconds, Chuck."
"Thank you. Now give me my watch back, you freaking magician."
"Or," Sarah said, her smile shifting into something decidedly much more devious, "we could continue your pickpocketing lesson. Really, where's the fun in just watching and learning?"
Chuck's face dropped as he watched Sarah pull off his beloved watch and slip it into her pocket. "Oh, that's cruel. You're kidding me, right? I can't do that."
Sarah shrugged. "You said you wanted to learn."
Chuck folded his arms across his chest. "Yeah, I just can't."
"Why not? You've got my permission, Chuck, it's okay."
"We're coworkers." Chuck shifted his shoulders. "It's inappropriate. And besides, how exactly do you expect me to distract you? You're CIA, you sleep with one eye open."
"I do not."
"Excuse me, I've shared a bed with you, and you do so. And let's say it works. I'm not saying it's an actual possibility, but if I do distract you and your magician ways, how do I know you won't get caught off-guard and accidentally kung fu my butt out into the fountain outside?"
Sarah blinked at him, and for a moment, Chuck swore he caught the faintest hint of a blush. Then she snorted—a very Casey-like snort, which threw him off—and rolled her eyes.
"Fine. How about this?"
She removed the watch and placed it on the windowsill over the sink. "There. If you can distract me long enough to take—hey!"
Chuck had already leaped forward, hand outstretched. Sarah whacked his arm away just as his fingers brushed the strap; the watch went flying, skidding across the counter.
"Cheater! I didn't say you could start yet!"
"Hey, it was a distraction." They both scrambled for the watch.
"A totally unfair one!"
"Yeah, says the person who cheated at cards for over half an hour!"
Despite the fact that Chuck was closer to the fallen watch, Sarah beat him to it. She snatched it from the ground a split second before him and straightened with a triumphant smirk.
Judging by her subsequent reaction, it was safe to say that she wasn't expecting him to tackle her, but he drove his shoulder into her midsection nonetheless. It probably wasn't the most appropriate course of action, and there was nothing graceful about the move, but it worked. Sarah gasped and dropped the watch. Chuck lunged forward and caught it just before it hit the ground. He barely had time to heave a sigh of relief, though, before Sarah crashed unceremoniously on top of him.
And they definitely didn't have time to get off of each other before Ellie and Awesome breezed through the door.
Whatever his sister had been saying to her boyfriend was immediately cut off as the couple gaped. Chuck counted three seconds before awkwardness exploded into the apartment, and another four before the occupants in said apartment started breathing again.
Chuck was the first to move. Unfortunately, he hadn't taken Sarah into account, as she was still mostly on top of him, so he stumbled and went down to one knee. "This isn't what it looks like!" he said, holding both hands out almost like an umpire to steady himself. Out from under Sarah, he scrambled to his feet and extended a hand down to help her to her feet. "She was teaching me how to pick—actually, never mind. We fell. There. That's my story."
"Both of you?" Ellie's eyes cut from Chuck to Sarah, now standing and batting at a wet patch on her jeans. "On top of each other?"
"There was water on the floor. We were doing the dishes." Desperate, Chuck pointed to the dishes even now sparkling in the drying rack. "And clumsy me, I slipped, and I took Sarah down with me."
"Did you break anything?" Ellie asked, peering around her kitchen.
"No, everything's fine, I promise."
"Then okay. I'm going to go get changed." Ellie strolled past.
"I think I hear my phone," Sarah said apologetically, and fled the room after her roommate.
Awesome strode over to Chuck, a wide grin spreading across his face. He clapped Chuck on the back, the other hand raised high.
"Up top, bro. Awesome."
Chuck stared.
"Devon, we weren't—I wasn't—"
He let out a resigned sigh and returned the gesture.
22 NOVEMBER 2007
ELLIE'S CAR
14:51 PST
"You know, once upon a time I was perfectly capable of driving myself places," Chuck grumbled as he stretched the passenger side seatbelt over his lap. He clicked the belt into place and leaned back against the seat, his arms crossed and a dour look on his face.
"Oh, I know." Ellie applied chapstick in the mirror before she started the car. "But somebody needs to go with you and make sure you don't take forty years."
"It's just delivering a letter." A letter that sat like a lead weight in the inside pocket of his jacket, crinkling nicely between the seatbelt and his chest. "I'm just going to run over there and drop it off, that's it. You shouldn't have to take time to drive me all the way over there and back when you're in the middle of preparing your great Turkey Day feast."
"Sarah's watching the food." Ellie edged easily into traffic. It wasn't Casey's bull-fisted driving style or Sarah's "only live once" variety of road acrobatics, but Chuck found himself gripping the door handle anyway.
He focused on the conversation to take his mind off of it. "Can Sarah even cook? I mean, have we proved this theory for ourselves? This is, after all, the Thanksgiving Day Feast, and yes, I capitalize that. In addition, it's the first Thanksgiving Day Feast Morgan will be eating in five years. It's a special occasion for the little guy. Are we sure we trust Sarah with that? It's a pretty big deal."
Ellie rolled her eyes. "Sarah can cook."
"So she's not the type to burn water?"
"Even if that were physically possible, no. She's got a good hand in the kitchen. Which you would know if you left your computer and your Spaghetti-Os behind and came over for dinner every once in awhile." Ellie, without taking her eyes off of the road, reached over to flick him gently on the ear.
"Hey, Spaghetti-Os are good, I'll have you know."
"You need healthy things in your diet. Leafy, green things. Like vegetables."
Chuck deliberately made a sour face. "Yuck. Why? And just for future reference, they're putting a full serving of daily vegetables in Spaghetti-Os these days. It says so right on the can."
"You want to know what else they're putting in Spaghetti-Os?"
"Geez." Chuck rolled his eyes. "First Sarah, now you."
"Well, I'm your physician now. I've gotta look out for my baby brother."
"You're my neurologist. You have to look out for my mental health, and I don't think Spaghetti-Os cause brain damage." Chuck opened his jacket to pull out the letter he'd written the night before. The envelope was already starting to show the wear and tear of stress, as he'd been threading it through his fingers all morning. It had thankfully been in his jacket during the whole pickpocket crash and splash incident, thankfully.
He'd have hated to write it again.
Ellie's eyes drifted down to it. "What's it say?" she asked, quietly letting the subject of Chuck's diet lapse.
Chuck stared at the envelope for a long moment before he answered. "That I'm sorry I didn't write back five years ago, that I don't understand." He flipped the envelope over, ran the side of his thumb along the edge. "That she doesn't have to write back, just that I needed to do this for myself, and I don't care what she thinks. It…got a little angry. In the middle."
"You didn't call her a poo-poo meanie head, did you?"
"I would like to remind you, for the millionth time, that I was four when I called you that."
"
So?"
"Things you say when you're four shouldn't be held against you for the rest of your life."
"Yes, but what are big sisters for?" Following Chuck's directions, Ellie made the turn onto Jill's street. He hadn't come here the night before, the first time in four days, to stare at the window. For one thing, he'd figured that Jill hadn't been there, what with the holiday happening and all. And he'd been so busy writing the letter on his laptop and playing Call of Duty with Casey that he'd fallen asleep on the couch before he could think to come over and sit on his customary street corner.
Ellie pulled up into that parking spot and took a deep breath. "Want me to come in with you?"
"No, I'm okay." Chuck unhooked his seatbelt.
"I'll wait out here for you. Take your time."
Chuck climbed into the cool air of the November day, fingers clenched tight on the letter. It felt strange after all those weeks of just sitting by the curb, to go through the physical motions of crossing the street, stepping over the sidewalk and up to the front walk, but he didn't dare pause with Ellie watching him from the car. He just tensed his shoulders, hoping that the rigidity of his body language didn't scream that he was a threat to any passersby.
He lucked out at the front of the apartment building, as somebody was coming out just as he reached the entrance. Once he was inside and away from Ellie, he took a few seconds to stand and breathe. He knew the layout of the building, so there wasn't much need to look around. Jill's apartment was on the fourth floor. He could take the stairs or the elevator. He chose the stairs since they would take just a little longer. If he dragged his feet at all on the way up, well, he was allowed to go at his own damned pace.
Finally, he reached Jill's floor. He took a deep breath by the stairwell door, fingered the letter, and told himself to get a move on. It was only about twenty feet between the stairwell and Jill's apartment, but those twenty feet seemed to both drag and blink by. Chuck closed his eyes and opened them to see himself standing in front of Apartment 419.
"This is it," he muttered sotto voce. He hadn't brought tape with him to stick the envelope on her door, so he knelt down to push the letter under her door.
He heard footsteps.
Chuck stilled, halfway bent down. Were those coming from the hallway or inside the apartment? His heart began to race, jackhammering against his ribcage and making his hands shake. Carefully, quickly, he pressed his ear to the door.
Definitely inside the apartment.
Jill hadn't gone home for the holiday. And she was coming right for the door.
Oh, God.
He couldn't face her right now, even though he'd written her a three-page letter. Or maybe because he'd written her a three-page letter. Oh, God, Chuck thought again, shooting to his feet and backing up until his shoulder blades bumped into the wall opposite Jill's door. He had no idea what he would say.
He cast his eyes desperately for an escape route, any escape route. Just a long hallway, though Jill was near the corner, and she would have to turn the opposite way to get to the stairs and elevator. Chuck debated. Would she take the stairs or the elevator?
What if it wasn't Jill? What if it was a roommate? Chuck bolted for the corner, intending to hide until the threat passed. Something made him stop cold.
What if it was a boyfriend?
How did he feel about that? Shouldn't there be some sort of raging jealousy, some sort of desire to punch the guy in the face, maybe hate him?
The doorknob turned. Chuck let out a very small yelp and dove behind the corner.
Moment of truth, he thought, edging around the corner just a little bit. Would he see Jill again, just like he had at the Stanford game? Would it hurt because it didn't hurt? Or would he be facing the new beau in his ex-girlfriend's life? His fingers flexed on the corner's edge as the door opened.
It was a man that came out. Chuck felt his insides deflate even as his heart sped up.
Then he felt his eyes narrow.
The guy had to be at least thirty years Jill's senior. That made no sense for boyfriend, unless Jill had somehow acquired a taste for silver foxes in the past few years. And he was dressed impeccably in a dark suit, with a maroon shirt and matching tie that actually looked rather dapper. Relative? No, Chuck thought. He'd met Jill's family and they were comfortably suburban types. Her father wore black socks with sandals.
So what the hell was this guy doing in Jill's apartment?
The intruder was clutching a binder, Chuck saw. Jill's binders had been infamous during their Stanford days, packed full to the edges to the point of being overfull, chocked with loose papers, the filing system inside known only to her. She always decorated each quarter's binders with a theme: Futurama characters, her favorite elements, the Partridge family. The binder the man held now had a doodle of a lever on it.
Why was this man stealing one of Jill's school binders?
As Chuck watched, the man fumbled in his pocket for something. Keys? Indeed, the man drew out a huge key ring that had to have contained at least thirty keys, all of which looked alike.
Distraction is key.
It had seemed like a horrible pun at the time. It still was. But Chuck could hear Sarah's voice in his head now, urging him onward. His fingers itched. He could stroll by, grab the guy's wallet, see who he was. Make sure that nobody was doing anything to Jill. Innocently drop said wallet off at the police station with a claim that he'd found it.
An expert pickpocket knows how to create a distraction long enough to steal whatever valuables they've located on their mark.
In the hallway, the man dropped his keys.
Oh, come on, the sensible part of Chuck, the one that was telling him to stay put and keep his not-inconsiderable nose out of it, screamed. The universe is just mocking me. The rest of him took a deep breath.
If your mind's not on your wallet, then your wallet's up for grabs.
I can't believe I'm about to do what I'm about to do, Chuck marveled at himself. He took a deep breath, stepped around the corner, just as the man bent to retrieve his keys.
Here I go. Time to see if Sarah's lesson had paid off.
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