31 JANUARY 2008
GRAND SAVILLE HOTEL PARKING LOT
17:23 PST
Chuck fussed with the cuffs of the tuxedo jacket for the fifteenth time. “You know, there are times when the government astounds me.”
“Yeah?” Sarah checked her makeup and set the compact in her kit.
“I mean, look at this.” Chuck spread his arms to encompass the whole suit.
“What? It looks nice.”
“I mean, the government can get me a fitted tuxedo at any time of the day, with almost no notice. Two hours ago, that would never have occurred to me.”
“Connections,” Casey said, slamming open the back door of the van and climbing inside with them. Unlike Chuck and Sarah, he wore nondescript clothing, as he would be hanging around the lobby while the others crashed the private party at the bar. Chuck had spent the entire car ride over from Dr. Anton’s trying to discern if Casey’s anger had anything to do with the fact that somebody was in the country illegally with his dead lover’s credentials, or if it was the normal brand of Casey anger. He couldn’t tell, though Casey certainly seemed grumpier than usual. Indeed, the NSA agent frowned now. “Are you girls ready? The party started half an hour ago.”
“Relax, Casey. One of the principles of crashing is you never show up on time.” Sarah folded up her makeup kit and stowed it on the shelf in the back of the van.
“Yeah, Case, haven’t you ever crashed before?” Chuck asked as he squeezed by the other man. He told himself that the subsonic growl he received in reply didn’t make him move any faster.
The late afternoon sunlight made him blink as he climbed from the van. The other two followed him, but before Chuck could head for the front doors of the hotel, Casey stopped him. “You remember what we talked about?”
“Go in, don’t attract attention, gather as much information as we can about why this group is on American soil, and get out. Don’t start any international incidents. Don’t overeat on the canapés. Do let you know if there’s any trouble.”
“Good.”
“You know, Sarah’s going to be right there with me, and she’s done this before,” Chuck felt the need to point out.
“Oh yeah, because there’s no chance the two of you will get separated,” Casey said, and rolled his eyes. “And what was the most important thing?”
“Casey, don’t worry, I’m not going to attract attention to myself.”
31 JANUARY 2008
GRAND SAVILLE BAR (SURROUNDED BY RUSSIANS)
17:32 PST
The portly Russian dancing in the middle of the group took one look at Chuck. “Sascha!”
Chuck didn’t even have time to blink before the man latched onto both of his arms. Some part of his mind registered that Sarah swiftly stole the tray of drinks from his arm—they had been forced to pose as waiters, as the dress code was most definitely not black tie—but most of him was frozen in shock, staring in terror at the man who had grabbed his arms. “Is that you, my sweet Sascha?”
There went his promise to Casey about not attracting attention to himself. Chuck froze, but it hardly seemed to matter. The Russian—who did not inspire a flash now, though Chuck knew he was Grigory Keylov, arms dealer—simply hauled on his arm, yanking him right into the middle of a large crowd of other Russians. “Everybody, meet fourth cousin on my mother’s side! I haven’t seen you in forever! Big hug!”
And he lifted Chuck right off his feet in a spine-cracking hug.
Evidently the response to finding long-lost family members was to dance, and to dance vigorously. Chuck found himself yanked right into the middle of a circle of dancing Russians, all of whom were smiling and not anywhere near sober. From the looks of it, and the sheer amount of vodka wheeling around the party on the waiters’ trays, sober was something they hadn’t seen in a few hours. His best hope was to hop around awkwardly in the circle, an arm around a stranger’s shoulder and his other arm around Grigory’s shoulders. He tried his hardest not to think that he was touching complete strangers, let alone dancing with them. He also tried his hardest not to break out of the circle and run screaming from the room. So instead, he babbled.
“Yeah, we’re dancing,” he said, not sure if his voice was audible or if it was just him. At least Sarah didn’t seem to be moving far off; she was just on the other side of the dancers, watching him with an expression somewhere between concern and amusement. Chuck continued to hop around, praying that it looked less like a tall, gangly guy with too-long limbs having an epileptic fit and more like dancing. “This isn’t crazy at all, just dancing amid a group of Russian baddies who think I’m someone else entirely, and hell, to make things even better, I don’t speak a word of Russian. This is going swell. Don’t draw attention to yourself, Casey says. Don’t cause an international incident, Casey says. Well, good work, Bartowski! Two minutes inside, and you’ve already done both!”
Grigory, dancing next to him and still tipsy with glee and drink, looked over. “Is there problem, sweet Sascha?”
“No, no problem,” Chuck said quickly, raising his voice. “You, uh, you ever see ‘White Nights?’ Baryshnikov and Hines, dancing their way to fr—” He broke off abruptly because he had spotted something out of the corner of his eye. Curious, he turned, looking past Sarah and Russians on various pieces of furniture, all tossing back vodka and in deep conversation with each other. Something about the woman seated on one of the bar’s sofas seemed familiar.
The flash was only a small one this time.
The stairwell from his flashes earlier that day.
SUGAR BEAR.
A shot of Ilsa Trinchina, quickly followed by a flash of her letter to Casey, as if Chuck would ever forget that. No amount of brain bleach existed that would enable him to do so.
The stairwell again.
Chuck jolted.
What the hell? Hadn’t Sarah said that Ilsa was dead? If so, she looked really, really great for a reanimated corpse. He tried to signal to Sarah, to get her to look over her shoulder and see Ilsa.
Grigory misread his signal. “He wants the blonde!” he shouted, and Chuck was jerked back to the present, where he was currently dancing in a circle with a bunch of Russian thugs and arms dealers. “Sascha wants the blonde!”
“Wh-what?” Chuck looked around in a panic, but the circle of dancers was already breaking up, two of the men going over to pull Sarah back. Given Sarah’s nature, Chuck half-expected her to whip out some muay thai and drop them on the spot, but she allowed herself to be hauled into the circle, right next to Chuck. He almost wanted to say something about treating women like an object, and how that was wrong. Casey’s threats about not drawing attention came back to him.
“What’s up?” Sarah asked, apparently unfazed by being yanked into a circle and forced to dance among a bunch of bad guys and villains. Chuck wondered what sort of CIA training they had that allowed one to get used to these kinds of circumstances. “Something the matter?”
“So Casey’s girlfriend is here,” Chuck said.
“What?”
“Yeah, turns out she’s less crispy than originally thought.” Chuck jerked his head over toward the sofa. Sarah’s steps barely faltered when she spotted Ilsa, but she did tense up. “What do we do?”
“Not sure, but I think we need to get out of here and figure out what’s really going on.” Sarah lifted her watch to her lips. “Casey, we’re compromised. We need extraction.”
“On it,” Casey said through their earpieces. Chuck and Sarah exchanged a look, but didn’t dare speak again in the middle of the dancing. Chuck could see Sarah seeking a way out of their current situation. He craned his neck, searching for Casey, hoping to somehow warn the other man, but he didn’t see the NSA agent in time. Casey came in through the back entrance—and headed straight toward Ilsa.
“Uh-oh,” Chuck said. “Maybe we should warn—nope, never mind, he’s found her. Uh, let’s hope it’s a happy reunion.”
“Well, she hasn’t slapped him,” Sarah said, turning in a circle next to Chuck.
“Why would she slap him?”
“I don’t know. But I would consider a slap a sign of a not-happy reunion.”
“Point.”
It was downright impossible to read the lips of the two across the room, thanks to the distance, the dancing, and the fact that he had never been trained to read lips. Casey’s back was mostly to them, and Chuck imagined that his shoulders were tensed, but he couldn’t tell. Ilsa, who really was quite pretty, certainly seemed to look troubled and surprised, but Chuck had no idea what that meant. How on earth was she here, he wondered, when she was supposed to be long-dead from a bombing?
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world,” he murmured to Sarah, “and she walks into mine?”
“I know what you mean,” Sarah said. They twirled again. “You can’t see what they’re saying, can you?”
Chuck shook his head. Around them, the dancing slowly stopped as the music faded out. Chuck and Sarah clapped politely with the others, and Chuck had to fight his every being not to tense up when one Russian after the next grabbed his shoulders and shook him gently, in a familial way. Grigory took two shots of vodka from the very tray Sarah had been toting around the party and shoved them at the CIA Agents. “For toast!” he said, pointing at the stage.
Chuck followed his maybe-fourth-cousin’s finger to the stage, where a man in well-tailored, expensive clothing, had just picked up the microphone. Chuck only had enough time to think that the man kind of resembled a Baldwin brother before the flash hit.
VICTOR FEDEROV.
An abandoned gas station, dusty with age and disuse.
Photographs of a bomb, superimposed over an oil pipeline.
TOP SECRET CIA DOSSIER.
A flowchart of a Russian Organized Crime Group and Structure.
CIA Docket, Classified, Case Number: 045TY.
Shot of an abandoned gas station.
“Uh, Sarah?” Chuck said before the man could start talking. “I figured out what brought all of the baddies together.”
She eyed the man on the stage, who was making his opening remarks in a heavy accent, swaying a little from the drink. “Who is he?”
“Victor Federov. He’s a Russian oligarch with ties to everything from the mob to a plot to overthrow parliament.”
“Sounds like a real sweetheart,” Sarah muttered. “Whatever they’re doing here, it must be something sinister.”
“Thank you all for coming,” Victor Federov went on, slurring a little. “I know it wasn’t easy for everybody to get out to L.A.” He pronounced it like “Hail A,” and raised his drink. “But you should know I am very, very grateful. For this, I’d like to introduce to you a woman who makes me the happiest man on earth by agreeing to become my wife!”
A spotlight swept over the dance floor and bar. Chuck wheeled about to follow its progress, freezing when it landed on Casey—and the woman standing in front of him. To his horror, the spotlight then followed that woman to the stage, and Victor Federov finished, “Ilsa Trinchina!”
Chuck looked up at the smiling mien of Casey’s not-so-dead ex-girlfriend and said the only thing that came to mind: “Well, that blows.”
31 JANUARY 2008
EN ROUTE TO CASTLE
19:12 PST
Chuck reached forward to fiddle with the radio, only to have Casey slap his hand away. “Don’t. I like this song.”
“It’s Neil Diamond,” Chuck said, wrinkling his nose. He quickly shrank back against the seat at the look Casey gave him. “Okay, so you’re a Diamondhead. Noted.”
To Chuck’s right, a slim arm reached out and twisted the volume knob on the radio. Casey added a growl to his glare, but Sarah only lifted an eyebrow as she said, into her phone, “Yes, General. I’m glad I was able to reach you. This is Agent Walker. I’ve got a sitrep for you. Sure, I’ll hold.” She covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Sorry, Casey.”
Casey shrugged.
They weren’t precisely walking on eggshells, Chuck thought, but things had been a lot quieter as they had slipped away from the party. As for Casey, it was hard to tell the difference, but Chuck was pretty sure that the regular stony countenance had hardened even further, and the man was quieter than usual. He also maintained what looked like a death grip on the wheel of the van, but that could have just been L.A. traffic. For himself, Chuck knew that he was also quiet, but he didn’t know quite how to broach the topic of an ex not only coming back to life, but marrying a Russian gangster.
Emily Post, he thought, really should have written a book about it. Maybe Dr. Phil would have something to say.
“Yes, General, I’m still here,” Sarah said to his right, startling him a little. “We’ve left the party at the Grand Saville, and our mission there was a success. Yes, we identified why there’s so much Russian black market activity.”
She paused, listening to whatever it was General Beckman had to say, no doubt. “Yes, ma’am. His name is Victor Federov. Ch—Agent Bartowski flashed on him, and the man outright admitted to being the reason that the crowd had gathered. No, no, we didn’t interrogate him or even engage him. He gave a speech. The party was to celebrate his upcoming wedding, which is why they’re all here.”
Chuck glanced sidelong at Casey. Casey kept his eyes on the road.
“Yes, that’s where it gets a bit tangled. The fiancée in question is Ilsa Trinchina.” Now, Sarah looked around Chuck, sneaking a quick peek at Casey. Again, the NSA agent kept his eyes forward. “Trinchina has a history with Major Casey, which could cause complications with Federov. Yes, ma’am, Trinchina knows that Casey is in the area. They, ah, happened to see each other at the party. Purely an accident. No, we don’t think Trinchina will mention it to Federov. Why not? Ah...”
She looked at Chuck for just a split-second, and he shrugged back.
“A hunch, ma’am,” Sarah said. She was quiet for half a minute, listening to whatever it was the General had to say. “Very well, understood. Perhaps, given Casey’s history with Trinchina, is it possible to, say, outsource this surveillance? One of the teams Major Casey or myself have been working with should be happy to cover this, as we’ve led them to several sizable busts. Yes, we’ll see right to it.” She pulled the cell phone away from her face and hit “End Call.”
“And how is the General?” Chuck asked, clearing his throat in a desperate attempt to remove some of the ensuing awkward silence from the van.
“I think she might have been having drinks with the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Sarah said.
“Really?”
“Couldn’t be sure, but I think so. Anyway, I’m going to make a few calls and get Agent Keynes or Agent Bateman on setting up surveillance on the Russians, which means I’ll need to fake a warrant when we get back to Castle. Beckman wants us to monitor only, but with...” Sarah leaned forward a little to look around Chuck again, and Chuck turned his head accordingly so they were both eyeing Casey. “Ilsa being there, Prometheus needs to keep its distance.”
“Don’t worry, Walker, I’m not going anywhere near the Grand Saville again,” Casey said, cutting over into the next lane with what Chuck felt was quite a bit more violence than necessary, even for L.A. traffic.
Sarah gave Chuck a pointed look. He swallowed hard and looked from one partner’s stormy face to the other’s expectant one. “No need to worry here either,” he said, holding up both hands for peace. “Fourth-cousin-on-mother’s-side Sascha is staying out of this one.”
“Good. I’d better make those—” Sarah broke off as Chuck’s cell phone, not hers, buzzed out the Cheers theme song. “Calls. Who is it?”
“Captain Awesome, of course. Who else would have such an awesome ringtone?” Chuck pressed “Talk” and cleared his throat. “Hey, Devon. How’s it going?”
31 JANUARY 2008
THE STAGGER INN
20:17 PST
Despite the sign above the door, Chuck was tempted to reach into his pocket, pull out his phone, and double-check the address Devon had texted to him earlier. He would have expected an establishment like The Stagger Inn to be a dark, smoky pub, done in deep browns and greens and with the heads of recent kills mounted on the walls and some guy named Bubba quietly sipping a 40 in the corner. Apparently, the Stagger Inn liked to thumb its nose at stereotypes and preconceptions, as it was sleek, clean, and lit up with blue neon. There wasn’t a dead deer to be found.
There was, however, Devon. He looked up from his spot at the bar, which was pretty empty, given that it was a Thursday night, and waved Chuck over. Like half of the other occupants of the bar, he still wore his scrubs, though no white lab coat. He was nursing what looked like regular tonic water.
“Glad you could make it,” he said when Chuck dumped his messenger bag on an empty stool and sat down next to him. “Sorry for calling you so last minute. Had a surgery cancel, but I needed to stick close to the hospital, so...”
“No problem. After the day I’ve had, I could really use a beer.”
“Any preference?”
“I’m good with whatever, really. I’m not picky.”
Devon nodded and flagged the bartender to get his attention. “Chris, my usual for him?”
A Stella Artois appeared with frightening speed in front of Chuck. “How do you do that?” Chuck asked, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. Back at Stanford, it had always taken him at least five minutes minimum to get the attention of any bartender, even if the bar was empty save for him. It was the male Bartowski curse.
“Do what?”
“Never mind. I guess it has to do with the ridiculous bubble of handsomeness or something.” Though Devon looked confused, Chuck took a sip of his beer before he explained. “It’s what Morgan used to call your phenomenal cosmic powers.”
“Ah, awesome.”
“Indeed. To being awesome?” Chuck asked, lifting his beer.
“Indeed,” Captain Awesome echoed. “I’m going to guess the lack of a page or a text means nobody was injured at...wherever it was you were tonight. Seriously, are you like a waiter or something?”
Chuck looked down at the remnants of his tuxedo. “No, I’m the fourth cousin of somebody named Grigory.”
“Say what?”
“It’s a Russian thing,” Chuck said.
“You’re a Russian waiter?”
Chuck paused. “Sure,” he said. “I’m a Russian waiter.”
Devon smiled and took a drink of his tonic water. “Life has definitely gotten more interesting since you came back. Which is kind of why I wanted to talk to you tonight. That, and it’s about Ellie.”
“What?” Chuck jerked upright on the barstool. “Ellie? Is she okay? Did something happen? Fulcrum—”
“Whoa, whoa, take it easy, buddy.” Devon laughed and patted his shoulder. “It’s nothing like that. Hell, it’s not really anything to do with,” he looked around the bar and lowered his voice, “the government, you know? I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh. Okay.” Chuck felt his heart slow back down to a gallop as the panic receded. “What’s up?”
“I’ve been doing some thinking lately. Ever since we had to go to DC and we weren’t sure if we were coming back to SoCal.” For the briefest of instants, Devon looked as broody as it was possible for him to look. “It got me thinking about what’s important in my life, you know?”
Despite himself, Chuck thought of what had preceded DC: his realizations about Sarah and Jill. And, of course, the bloody mess that had followed. He took a healthy swallow of beer. “I know what you mean.”
“Don’t take this wrong way, as it wasn’t your fault, but when you left, dude, Ellie...she didn’t handle it well.”
Chuck felt a twist of guilt squeeze his stomach to pulp.
“And maybe I didn’t handle it as well as I should have,” Devon continued, all of the perpetual optimism gone from his voice. “I could have done more. I should have.”
“Devon—”
“It’s a long story, but we broke up,” Devon said, holding up a hand to tell Chuck to wait. “Quite a few times. I know Ellie’s probably told you a little about what happened after you left, but I want you to hear it from me, too. I’m the one that screwed up. I should have been more supportive, more something.”
“Devon,” Chuck said, more forcefully. The guilt continued to writhe and flicker through him like a living thing. It hadn’t been his fault that he had been gone, like Devon said, but that didn’t stop the guilt at all. “I’m sure you did everything you could. You’re Captain Awesome. To be anything less than awesome is not in your genetic makeup.”
“Thanks for the support, bro, but it was not awesome. It’s over and done now, and Ellie and I are in a good place again, but you need to know that I wasn’t the best I could be for her.”
It took a few seconds before Chuck could speak. He was usually on the other end of this type of conversation these days. It felt odd. “Devon, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does. I was way too focused on my career.”
Chuck blinked at him. “The same one you dropped without any qualms for my sister when we had to go to DC, possibly permanently?” He tried to raise an eyebrow, but Sarah was so much better at that move than him. “It doesn’t matter. Even before I came back, you were there. You were around.”
“I should have been around more.”
“But you’re around now,” Chuck said, puzzled. It was his turn to hold up his hand to stop Devon. “Look, I love my sister more than anything else in the world, but I know her. She’s a Bartowski. We have,” and he had to think about it for a minute, “stubbornness issues. Of course, Ellie’s way worse than me.”
“Uh-huh,” Devon said in a tone that told Chuck he didn’t believe the other man for one second.
“And she can’t have made it easy for you, either. Our parents abandoned us, and then I went missing and dealing with all of that plus medical school and becoming an awesome surgeon, I mean, holy hell, I should buy you a better drink than whatever it is you’re drinking.”
“Still on call, bro.”
“Even so. You’re still here.”
“Of course I am.” In a switch, Devon looked almost affronted. “I love her. I’m not going anywhere.” He caught Chuck’s look and amended, “Unless she kicks me out and means it. I won’t resort to stalking, I swear.”
“Then we’re good,” Chuck said, and lifted his beer to polish it off. He paused with the bottle halfway to his lips when obvious relief covered Devon’s features. “Are you okay?”
Devon turned back to his drink. “Man,” he said, “this is harder than I thought.”
“Seriously, you’re starting to worry me.”
“I really wasn’t expecting this to be that difficult. The thing is, you’re the man in Ellie’s family.” Devon turned toward Chuck now, suddenly enough that Chuck jerked back half an inch on the stool. The doctor didn’t appear to notice, since he was digging in the pocket of his scrubs. “So you’d be the one I ask in this situation, but I think it would be that way even if you weren’t the only one I could ask. So can I?”
“Can you what?” Chuck’s eyes widened when he saw what Devon held out to him. “Uh, wow.”
“Can I marry Ellie?” Devon opened the box.
Chuck had to blink; he was pretty sure he would have been blinded otherwise, thanks to the sheer size of the diamond set in the ring in the box. “Wow,” was all he could think to say. “That’s, uh, that’s quite a rock you’ve got there.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Is that a—yes! Of course. You have my blessing, of course.” Chuck transferred his gaze from the ring to Devon’s face, and did his best to hide the shock. “Sorry, was just startled by the, uh, bling.”
Again, he could see the sheer relief take over Devon’s face, and the other man grinned. “Been in my family for years. It was my great-grandmother’s. Think she’ll like it?”
“I think she’ll love it.” Chuck belatedly remembered that he was still holding his beer, and took a second to finish that off. It was a good thing he did, too, for Devon tackled him with a bear hug. Chuck grunted when he could breathe again. “I’m just not sure she’ll be able to lift her hand anymore. Though I do have to ask—are you sure? I mean, I mentioned stubbornness issues earlier.”
“I’m sure.” Devon set the ring on the bar top and waved at the aforementioned Chris. “Another round for me and my bro down here? Hey, soon I’ll mean that literally, hopefully!”
“Awesome,” Chuck said.
“Yes?”
“No, I was saying that it was—you know what? Never mind. Cheers. I’m happy for you, Devon, I really am.”
“Thanks, bro. That means a lot to me.” As Chris set another beer in front of Chuck and another glass of tonic water in front of Devon, the latter frowned. “Oh, right, I needed to ask you a favor, buddy. Do you think you could hold onto this for me? Just for a day or two, while I figure out how to propose? Ellie’s a bloodhound when it comes to these things. If I keep them at either of the apartments, she is going to smell diamond.”
“Are you sure I’m the best person for that?” Chuck asked, eyeing the ring nervously now. “I might lose it.”
“Try not to, but I have faith in you. You’ll be fine.” Devon’s cell phone began to cheep. “Unfortunately, that’s my cue. I’m needed at the hospital, dude.”
“Go on, I’ve got this,” Chuck said.
“No need. Chris, drinks on my tab?”
“Sure, Doc. No problem.”
“Thanks. See you around, Chuck.” Devon grabbed his own messenger bag and with a wave, left Chuck to his beer and the ring.
After he’d left, Chuck picked up the ring and opened the box, blinking a few times. His sister was getting married. Ellie. Devon was going to ask Ellie to marry him, the sort of thing that meant for better or for worse, in sickness and health. He’d been a little surprised when he had come back in October, to find that Devon and Ellie were still together, but not married. He would have been happy for both of them if they’d gotten married while he had been in Siberia, but now—assuming Ellie said yes—he was going to get to see it happen.
“Nice ring,” the bartender said. “I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”
Chuck started to splutter and explain, but decided he didn’t really care. “Thanks,” he said, and finished his beer.
31 JANUARY 2008
THE BACHELOR PAD
21:53 PST
Casey took one look at Chuck in the doorway of their shared apartment, his eyes cutting to Chuck’s hand and back to his face, and swore. “Good lord, please tell me that isn’t for Walker.”
Chuck hurriedly shoved the ring in his messenger bag. “It’s not.” He couldn’t imagine trying to propose to Sarah, not when her smile regularly increased his chances of walking into walls, cars, doors, and all manner of other dangerous things. Besides, the ring type was all wrong for Sarah, anyway. He imagined she would probably go for the big diamond, but she seemed like she would want something maybe just a little less flashy and—why the hell was he thinking about this? He pushed it aside and really looked around at the living room of the apartment.
They weren’t neatniks or anything, but he and Casey weren’t usually this messy. There were fast food wrappers all over the coffee table, next to an open bottle of Jim Beam and the open gun-cleaning kit that told Chuck every gun in Casey’s not-inconsiderable closet was now spotless. After the first look and cutting remark, the NSA agent ignored him, focusing on the Call of Duty campaign taking over the flat-screen.
“Having a good night, Case?” Chuck asked, picking up the Jim Beam to determine the level of alcohol left inside. Casey certainly looked pretty sober, and given the rate he was fragging noobs, he didn’t seem to be any worse for the wear.
The other man grunted.
“That’s weird, you’re normally a Jack Daniels man.”
“Grabbed the wrong bottle off the shelf. Would you move? You’re between me and killing Nazis.”
“Oh. My bad.” Chuck moved out of the way. At any other point, he would have just ignored Casey and gone straight upstairs to put in some work on his computer or play some video games himself, but right now, he hesitated. It struck him as odd and weirdly coincidental that the same day they would find out Casey’s dead lover was engaged to be married, Devon would ask him to hold onto an engagement ring for Ellie. So many changes in relationships, he couldn’t help but think. For Ellie, for Casey, even for himself and Sarah.
“You gonna stand there all night, Bartowski?” Casey asked without looking at the screen. “You got something to say, say it.” His tone warned Chuck what would happen if that something to say included the words “Ilsa” or “Russians.”
“No, nothing to say,” Chuck said. “I was just wondering...”
“Yes?”
“Do you want a wingman?”
Casey’s fingers paused on the controller. He eyed Chuck up and down. “You wanna stay, you gotta drink.”
Chuck picked up the Jim Beam. “What? Drink this?”
“Whassa matter? Afraid of getting a little hair on your chest?”
“I love the implication that sobriety is a slight against my manhood,” Chuck said. “I had a couple of beers earlier, but fine. I don’t have any plans, I guess I can drink with you.” He set the bottle back on the coffee table, kicked off his shoes, and padded over to the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting a glass, duh. Real men use glasses. My sister told me so.”
“Cute, Bartowski.” But Casey didn’t grumble any further as Chuck joined him on the couch, picking up the other controller as he did so. While Casey changed the game over, he poured himself a generous helping of Jim Beam. He really didn’t have any plans for the evening. Ellie had a shift at the hospital, Morgan had to work the Buy More, and Sarah would probably be overseeing the FBI team they were using for surveillance.
“And no talking about Ilsa,” Casey said as Chuck choked down the first sip.
Chuck had to fight a cough. “What? I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Yes, you were. You’d have been sly about it, but I know you and your bleeding heart, Bartowski. I’m not one of your adopted strays. We’re not talking about Ilsa.”
Chuck took a longer sip. He’d forgotten just how strong Jim Beam was, when he’d only had a few beers in the past few months. It really was a good thing he didn’t plan to go anywhere. “Got it. No talking about Ilsa. Can we kill some Nazis now?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
31 JANUARY 2008
BACHELOR PAD
22:50 PST
Chuck picked off yet another enemy soldier and mimicked Casey’s grunt. “I just don’t get why you keep picking the M1 over the STG-44 every time. The killshot ratio is—crap!” He ducked back behind a low wall. It was sheer imagination, but he swore he could feel the breeze brush against his scalp where the sniper missed. He told himself the alcohol wasn’t affecting him; his character just seemed slower than usual tonight.
“Sentimentality,” Casey said, grunting again as his character ran to take out the sniper.
“Sentimentality? You’ve been playing this game less than four months!”
“Learned to shoot on an M1 Garand,” Casey said, and Chuck temporarily forgot he was in the middle of a war zone surrounded by Nazis at the wistful tone in Casey’s voice. “My grandfather kept one in perfect condition, and he used to let me shoot it when we’d go out to the woods together. That thing was a beauty.”
“Oh.” Chuck looked back at the screen and yelped. “Maybe you might want to point that thing of beauty at the guy trying to kill me, Casey!”
Casey muttered under his breath unintelligibly for a minute. “I swear, Bartowski, I let you take one or two—”
“Three, actually.”
“Measly little headshots, and it’s all bitch, bitch, bitch.”
“Yeah, well, it’s my head and I happen to be fond of the number of holes it already has, I don’t need any more!”
“I’d be happier,” Casey said, “if you shut those holes a little more often. There, see, I took care of the guy. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
31 JANUARY 2008
BACHELOR PAD
23:38 PST
“No kidding? You had a .44 magnum? For reals?” Chuck fumbled a little as he reached for his glass. When it came up empty, he frowned and grabbed the bottle. He only spilled a little alcohol on the coffee table this time. “You used it to stop some punk from robbing a bank, right?”
“I did not.” Casey scowled viciously, his tongue stuck out one corner of his lips as he concentrated on the screen. “Bartowski! Pull your damned weight, would you?”
“What? Oh, right.” Chuck grabbed the controller and attempted to maneuver his soldier around to shoot the guy giving Casey trouble, but he kept running into a wall until—“Crap on a stick! Why the hell does that keep happening?”
“Because your big, fat head is an easy target, moron.”
“It hurts my feelings when you talk to me that way, Casey. It really does.”
“Shut it and get back to help me out.”
Chuck grumbled, but did as he was told. “Damn Nazis.”
“Damn Nazis,” Casey agreed. “What the hell does it matter if I had a .44 magnum for? It was only one mission.”
Chuck gaped at him for so long that blood spattered his half of the screen once more. “What does it matter? What does it—Casey, that’s the gun that Dirty Harry uses! He is the one person on the planet that’s able to ask you if you feel lucky, and you know it’s not a joke or a spoof. C’mon, he is Dirty Harry, greatest cop ever, and maybe greatest Clint Eastwood character, too.”
“It’s not even the coolest gun I’ve fired, Bartowski. Will you get your damned head in the game?”
“One second.” Chuck tossed back half of the contents of his glass and faced the screen with renewed vigor. The entire room was beginning to swim a little, but it felt pleasant, like being dunked in a Jacuzzi or something. “All right, Mr. Tough Guy Dirty Harry’s Gun Wasn’t Even the Coolest Gun I’ve Shot, what is the coolest gun?”
“Besides Bitchin’ Betty?”
“The mini-gun at Castle?” Chuck asked, blinking sluggishly as he used his Walther to take out an enemy soldier. “That’s what you mean, right?”
“Right.” Casey swayed a little as he grunted. “We got one of those new SCARs in last week. As far as assault rifles go, it’s pretty...”
“Sweet?” Chuck asked, filling in for him.
“I was just going to say pretty.” Casey frowned. “I haven’t gotten to shoot it yet.”
“Why the hell not? Is it pretty or isn’t it?”
“Been too busy watching your bony ass, haven’t I?”
“My ass is not bony.” Though he was a little worried it might be, so Chuck wiggled said article. “And I’m sad you haven’t gotten to shoot your pretty gun, Casey. I really am. Hey! Where are you going? We’re in the middle of a campaign here.”
“Screw the campaign. I’m going to shoot the SCAR.”
Chuck blinked. “You can’t do that. You’re drunk.”
“No, moron, you’re drunk. I’m fine.” Casey proved it by swaying again as he reached for his shoes.
“You’ve had just as much to drink as I have. I counted.” It was a point of some pride, and maybe a little contention, that he was able to keep up with Casey at all.
“Yeah, well, unlike some here, I can actually hold my alcohol,” Casey said, sneering. Instead of heading for the front door, however, he took off in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?”
“The head. Do you mind?”
“Oh. Right.” Chuck leaned forward to pull on his shoes again, the shiny black shoes that went with his tuxedo. They’d lost the jacket at the party earlier when they had turned him from a black tie party guest to a waiter, and he had stripped out of the vest, but he still had the pants and shirt and the shoes, even if they were a little scuffed. He frowned at one scrape across the toe and licked his thumb to rub it off. As he did so, his phone fell out of his pocket. He picked it up and looked at the viewscreen, which was a picture of Sarah, naturally.
A grin spread across his face.
He should call Sarah. She would probably get a kick out of Casey shooting the SCAR. She liked weapons.
It took her a minute to answer. When she did, her voice was sleepy. “Chuck? Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” Chuck said. “I just thought—wait, were you asleep? You sound like you were sleeping.”
“It’s nearly midnight, Chuck.”
Chuck looked at the clock, and his eyes widened. “Oh, crap! I’m sorry. Well, sorta sorry, if we’re going to be honest here and it’s important to be honest and—”
“Sorta sorry? What are you talking about?”
“Well, you sound good when you’re sleepy, so I can’t be sorry about that, now can I?”
The pause on the other end of the line went for so long that Chuck pulled the phone away from his ear to check and make sure they hadn’t been disconnected. They hadn’t, which was good. It had been hard enough dialing her number in the first place.
“Chuck,” Sarah finally said, and he heard that amused tone in her voice that he absolutely loved because it always made him want to smile, “how much have you had to drink?”
“Some. A little.”
“How much is a little?”
“Uh, some beers, and Casey was having some Jim Beam and insulted my manhood, so I had some of that, too. I think that means I’m manly now, but I’d have to check and get back to you about that.”
“Uh-huh. Have you been drinking any water?”
“What would I do that for?”
“I’m going to take that as a no, then. I think you should go pour yourself a glass of water, Chuck. And one for Casey, too.”
Chuck looked at the bottle of Jim Beam, considerably depleted. “I don’t know if I should. Would that be considered manly? Casey says I give into my lady feelings too much.”
“I think everything you do is manly, Chuck.”
“Really?” He felt himself brighten. “Even the screams of terror?”
It sounded like Sarah might be muffling laughter on the other end of the line, though he had no idea why she would need to. Even that sound, however, was enough to make his smile broaden.
Casey came out of the bathroom, took a look at him, and groaned. “Tell me you didn’t call Walker!”
Chuck covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Of course I called ‘Walker.’ I thought she might want to see you shoot the gun, too, if it’s as cool as you—why are you slashing a hand across your throat? Sarah’s cool, I promise. I know you don’t like her because she’s, in your own words, a CIA skirt, but Casey, you’ve really got to give her a fair shake and why are you still making that motion at me? I’m confused, Casey.”
“Moron! Don’t tell Walker about the SCAR!”
“Why not? She’s my girlfriend, Casey. You’re supposed to tell your girlfriend things.”
“Not this, you’re not supposed to.” Casey’s glare could melt steel. “She’ll stop us.”
“Oh. Right! Right. Uh, I can fix this.” Chuck thought long and hard for a moment, then removed his hand from the phone. “Sarah? Are you still there?”
“SCAR?” Sarah asked, no longer sounding sleepy.
“No, it’s Chuck. Chu-uck, remember?”
“Chuck, what are you up to?” A great deal of suspicion laced Sarah’s voice.
“Nothing. We’re, uh, we’re playing video games and we’re going to stay at the Bachelor Pad all night, and not go shoot the cool new gun in Castle’s armory. Good night, love you, bye, Sarah!”
“Wait—”
But Chuck hung up. “Okay, I told her we’ll be here playing video games all night, we should be clear.”
“Well, good, let’s go.”
“But Casey, I don’t think either one of us should drive—”
“Which is why we’ll hail a cab. March, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.”
1 FEBRUARY 2008
CASTLE: PARKING LOT
00:02 PST
“Hey, look!” Chuck piled happily out of the cab, nearly tripping over his own shoes in the process—it wasn’t his fault, he was so used to the Chucks, and the tuxedo shoes were really kind of slippery—and bounding across the parking lot. “I thought you were sleeping!”
“I was—mmph.” Sarah’s words were cut off by his enthusiastic embrace as Chuck swept her up. He leaned back to grin at her. She wore her usual sleep-gear: Chuck’s old Stanford shirt and since it was February, a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. She’d thrown on her combat boots and a jacket over the ensemble, but her hair was slapped back in a ponytail and she didn’t look like she’d put on any makeup. She still looked stunning. “Well, hi.”
“Hi. I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.” Chuck’s brow wrinkled. “Wait, why are you here? Did you have work to do or something?”
“Or something. Where’s your coat?”
“At the Bachelor Pad. I’m not cold. Why? Are you cold? I wish I’d brought my coat, if that’s the case. The guy in movies is always giving his coat to the girl, and it’s supposed to be really romantic, but if you don’t have a coat then—” It was Chuck’s turn to break off in surprise as Sarah stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. He blinked at her before the smile spread. “What was that for? You’re trying to get me to shut up, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” said a voice behind Chuck, and he half turned, still holding onto Sarah. He’d completely forgotten Casey was there. “And not only did it not work, I’ve now had to witness two of those little shows. Bartowski, you need to pay the cab driver. I forgot my wallet.”
“Oh, right.”
“I’ve got it,” Sarah said. “You two get in the Jeep.”
Casey’s face fell. “What?”
“I know exactly what you two came here to do, and not tonight. So get in the Jeep. I’ll take you home.”
“But Walker—”
Sarah’s face took on that steely set Chuck remembered well from the Acropolis. “That’s an order, Major Casey.”
“But Casey wants to shoot the SCAR. It’s the coolest gun we have,” Chuck said, putting on his best wheedling grin, the one he knew usually worked wonders with Sarah.
This time, it didn’t seem to have much affect on her. “You two can shoot it tomorrow.”
“For reals?”
“For reals,” Sarah said. “I meant that, Casey. In the Jeep.”
Casey gave her a dour look and trudged off to Sarah’s Jeep, his steps slow and dragging. “You, too, Chuck,” Sarah said.
“Can I drive?”
“No, but if you beat Casey there, you can have shotgun.”
“Sweet! Shotgun!” Chuck took off toward the Jeep, only to be elbowed out of the way by Casey. The other man put a hand over his face and shoved him back. “Hey, no fair, I called shotgun.”
“And I’m still bigger than you. Deal.”
When Sarah climbed into the driver’s seat, she looked back to grin at Chuck. “Didn’t beat Casey?”
“He’s bigger than me.”
“Maybe next time.” Sarah started the car and turned the radio on. It was on the Oldies station, which should make Casey happy, and Chuck only wrinkled his nose a little. “You two been having a good night?”
“It was good until you showed up,” Casey said, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling. “We would have been fine, Walker.”
“Don’t worry, Casey, you can show Chuck how cool the gun is tomorrow. I’ll even include extra ammo in the next supply request.”
Most of the grumpiness in Casey’s mien cleared. “Really? You’d do that?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re okay, Walker.”
“Thanks, Casey. I happen to think the same about you. What are you doing back there, Chuck?”
“Uh...” He drew his hand away from the window quickly. “Nothing. I wasn’t writing ‘Tron’ on the window.”
“Great. More for me to Windex tomorrow.”
“Smooth, Bartowski.”
“Hey, ‘Tron’ is the greatest movie ever, you know.”
They didn’t pull into the Bachelor Pad’s parking lot, however, but the lane behind the apartment, which made both men blink around them in confusion. “Walker, you lost?” Casey asked as Chuck piled out of the backseat, stumbling a bit. The world had begun to swim a little less pleasantly. He wondered if Sarah had any alcohol that could bring the buzz back. He’d been enjoying not thinking so much. The world no longer seemed just a bit too large and he no longer felt like he secretly didn’t belong. The easy swirl through his system, the heat below his sternum that was always there whenever Sarah was around: he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
“No, I’m not lost. You two are staying with me tonight.”
“What? Why here? You could just stay with us, and I can sleep in my own damn bed.”
“Because it’s easier for you to flag down a cab from your place than it is here, and I can keep an eye on both of you.” Sarah pointed at each in turn. “And besides, Ellie has a better medicine cabinet.”
Chuck blinked at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ask me again in the morning. C’mon, fellas, this way.” Sarah eased her way under Chuck’s left arm, wrapping her own arm around his back. He happily leaned a little against her. She was always so warm, and she smelled good. “What were you playing this time?”
“Call of Duty. We were supposed to frag Nazis, but Casey kept letting me get shot.”
“Casey kept letting you get shot?” Sarah looked between the two men in confusion.
“Payback,” the NSA agent said, and laughed.
“What for?” Chuck asked, highly affronted.
“Everything, Bartowski. Everything.”
“You’re a bit of a sadistic bastard, John Casey,” Sarah said.
“A bit?”
Something occurred to Chuck, and he stopped so abruptly that he felt Sarah stumble into him. He looked down at her, seriously. “Sarah, if you’re going to be with us the rest of the night, you’ve got to know.”
“Know what?”
“The rules.”
“What rules?”
“The rules,” Chuck said, drawing the word out as his vision seemed to stretch and blur Sarah’s face a little. His head began to feel heavier. “If you’re gonna drink with us, you’ve gotta be manly, and no talking about Ilsa. But it’s okay if you’re not manly. You’re a girl, I like that.”
“I like that you like that. All right, I won’t talk about Ilsa.”
“That’s good. Because Casey doesn’t want to talk about Ilsa.”
“I can see that. Let’s get inside, yeah?” Once they were inside, Chuck let himself be led to the couch, while Casey took a spot on one of the easy chairs on either side. Casey’s face had darkened again into that dangerous look Chuck recognized well from having worked with the other man for months, and he wondered what had happened. Before he could think to ask, though, Sarah came back, holding two tall glasses of clear liquid.
“Vodka?” Chuck asked.
“Water.”
“That’s not as fun.”
“I’ll remind you that you said that in about eight hours. Drink it all.”
Chuck shrugged, but did as he was told. He knew sometimes Sarah got annoyed at him for not listening well enough, so he figured he could oblige her now. When he finished the glass, he held it out to her. She only left to refill it. “Not again,” he moaned.
“You’ll thank me later, I promise.”
“This makes me think of the movie ‘Waterworld,’” Chuck said glumly. “By the time I finished watching that, I was so sick of water. I can’t even imagine how Costner felt, filming that. It must have sucked.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Or one of those ‘Pirates of the Carribbean’ movies. I mean, shot after shot of being splashed with salt water, and that’s on the days you’re not being tossed overboard.”
“Or wearing an uncomfortable corset.”
“Or wearing an uncomfortable—thank you, Sarah, that’s a good point. Or wearing an uncomfortable corset.”
“Should’ve known you wear a lot of corsets, Bartowski,” Casey muttered.
“They flatter my figure.” Chuck stuck his tongue out at his roommate. When he turned to look at Sarah for back-up, he blinked. She was holding her phone up. “Why are you—why are you pointing your phone at me?”
“No reason,” Sarah said, smiling at him. He felt the need to smile back. “Keep going. You were saying? Pirates?”
“Are you—” Chuck squinted. “You’re filming me!”
“I am not. Just keep going.”
“You are.” Chuck pointed a finger at her, and trailed off for a few seconds, fascinated by the way it wobbled at the end of his arm. He forced his attention back onto Sarah. “That’s really weird because I didn’t know you knew how to use your camera phone.”
Sarah laughed. “That’s absurd. Of course I do.”
“Uh-huh. Then why is it, when we moved here, you were all, ‘Chuck, I can’t figure this out, can you help me with it? Can you show me how to do this? Oh, Chuck, my computer’s busted again, can you fix it?’”
“I do not sound like that!”
“Sure you do,” Casey put in, pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. He had a mostly full glass of water still in hand. “You’re a girl, and that’s a girly voice. You sound exactly like that.”
“See?” Chuck asked.
Sarah rounded on Casey. “Don’t encourage him!”
“Why not? I have to deal with you two all the time, don’t I? Shouldn’t I get my own kicks in? For the record, you’re weird, Walker, to get all hot and bothered by a geek.”
“Hey!” Chuck lifted his head from his water glass. “It’s nerd.”
Sarah crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t sound like that,” she repeated.
Uh-oh, Chuck thought. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Immediately, he set his water glass to the side, ignoring the way it wobbled dangerously on the edge of the coaster, and gave Sarah the puppy dog eyes. “I’m sorry for making fun of your voice, Sarah. You don’t really sound like that. You sound much prettier.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said, and leaned toward him.
Something had occurred to Chuck, though. He gasped and pointed. “It was a trick!” he said, staring at Sarah.
She immediately froze. “What? What are you talking about?”
“All of that needing help with your computer when we first came out to California. You didn’t really need help, did you? You were just doing like they do in the movies, you know, with the ‘Oh, I don’t know how to hold a bat! Can you show me?’” He’d put his voice into a high falsetto for that, but now he switched to a bass register. “‘Why, sure, little lady, no problem! Here, let me use this excuse to put my arms around you!’”
“It took you this long, and being drunk, to notice?”
“I...” Chuck couldn’t find a good reply to that in his memory banks. He frowned and took a drink of water.
“I met her in Rome.” Casey’s voice was quieter than Chuck and Sarah’s voices had been, but it somehow seemed to reverberate throughout the whole room.
Chuck narrowed his eyes, studying Casey. “Met who in Rome?” he asked, and then it occurred to him. “Are you talking about Ilsa? I thought the rules were—”
“Shh!” Sarah actually pushed her hand over his mouth, and he tried to nip at her fingers. She hooked her arm around his neck in retaliation and pulled him closer to her, but didn’t remove her hand. “Go on, Casey. You were saying?”
Casey didn’t look at either of them. He just continued to stare into his water glass, balanced on his knee, his fingers resting on the rim. “She was beautiful. It was at the Campo de’ Fiori, on a Tuesday morning. I remember that. I was late for a meeting, and I had to stop and stare because she was more beautiful than any of the flowers in the market.”
Chuck was about to ask what kind of flowers there were, but Sarah, who hadn’t removed her hand from his mouth yet, simply shifted and forced him to adjust. She moved so that she was using him for a chair back rather than the sofa, sitting in his lap, and he had to put an arm around her middle or end up with a cramped shoulder. He didn’t mind. Her hair was soft against his cheek.
“So then what happened?” Sarah asked Casey.
“I asked her to dinner. Well, probably begged.” Casey frowned and took a drink of water. “Maybe I begged. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I asked her to dinner, and she said, ‘Where?’ I couldn’t think of anywhere, so I said, ‘Right here.’ And when she said, ‘When?’ I said ‘Right now.’ She told me it was breakfast time, not dinner time, and I told her I would gladly wait for any time with her.”
“Aw,” Sarah said.
Casey glowered at her. “No comments from the peanut gallery.”
Chuck could feel Sarah’s suppressed laughter shake against his ribcage, and hid his face in Sarah’s hair. “Did she say yes?” he asked.
“I don’t remember.” Casey frowned. “We had dinner together, yes, and before that, lunch, and before that, breakfast. I never made it to that meeting. We just spent all day walking all over Rome and talking. She was easy to talk to. And one thing led to another, and then we were taking assignments that meant we could stay together. She was a photographer, and she worked in a lot of zones the NSA had interests in, so it worked out.”
“So you both went to Chechnya?” Sarah asked.
“Yes. Just another assignment for both of us. Or so I thought.” Casey’s frown grew deeper. “I was convinced nobody could have survived that blast. I found her camera outside the little café, but there was never enough DNA to match her to any of the burned bodies.”
“So how did she survive?” Chuck asked.
“She doesn’t know.” Casey took a long drink of water. “Woke up in the hospital two months later, she told me today. Didn’t remember a thing.” He paused for a long time. “But she never forgot my face.”
“Hey, that means there’s hope for you yet. I mean, never forgetting your face, that’s some pretty heady stuff right there,” Chuck said, and Sarah elbowed him. “Oof! What was that for?”
Sarah didn’t look at Chuck. “Sorry, Casey. I’ll get him out of your hair.”
“It’s okay. Maybe he’s right.” Casey finished off the water. “Hope for me yet. Heh. I almost like how that sounds. Am I getting the couch?”
“It’s comfortable, I promise. I’ll go get you some blankets. Chuck, c’mon, let’s get you settled, too.” Sarah pulled Chuck to his feet and kept an arm around him, which he deduced was a good thing. He didn’t remember the floor of Ellie’s apartment being this uneven before. It seemed unfair.
“Good night, Casey,” he called over his shoulder.
There was a pause from where Casey was settling himself on the couch. “G’night, Chuck.”
Sarah pushed open the door of her own bedroom with her free hand and Chuck felt himself being guided to the bed. He blinked. He was used to seeing it made on the occasions he did come over, and he vaguely recalled calling Sarah and having her reply in the sleepy Sarah voice. Oh. She must have gotten out of bed to come meet him and Casey at Castle. “What are we doing in here?” He thought about it for a moment, then perked up, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are we in here to make out so that Casey doesn’t see?”
Sarah’s smile could light up solar systems. “I should have gotten you drunk a long time ago,” she said, and pushed on his shoulder until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Shoes.”
“What?”
“Kick off your shoes.”
“Oh. I can do that.” Chuck did so and smiled at Sarah. “Now what?”
“Your shirt.”
“Um, that’s a bit forward don’t you think?”
“You’ve got an undershirt on under it.”
“I still don’t think—” Chuck broke off when Sarah kissed him. He forgot all about forward and backward and everything but Sarah. She was standing over him, so it was his turn to crane his neck, but he didn’t mind overmuch. He pulled her closer with one hand, the other hand reaching up to pull her ponytail loose. She felt even better than she smelled, was all he could think. He leaned back, intending to lie down and pull her with him, but she just broke the kiss. He blinked at her. “What was that?”
“Distraction.”
“What?” He didn’t understand until he looked down and realized she’d unbuttoned his shirt. “Wow, you’re good. Do they teach you that at spy school?”
“Same principle as pickpocketing. C’mon, let’s get you out of this. You’ll sleep more comfortably.”
“Oh, sleep sounds good.” Chuck moved to lie down right then but Sarah grabbed his shoulders, stopping him. “What’s the matter? Is it not time to sleep? Oh, that’s right. I should be polite and wait for you. You probably want to sleep with me.”
“If there’s a God, he’s laughing at me right now,” Sarah said.
“What?”
“Nothing. Let’s get your shirt off, and then you can lie down.”
Chuck felt his brow wrinkle yet again. “Do you want to sleep with me, Sarah?” It seemed like an important question, but he had no idea why.
She went still, absolutely unmoving in that way she had, the way that was more than just her normal conservation of energy movement. It made him think of great works of art, even now, though in his current state he couldn’t actually name any of those works of art. The world was far too hazy and blurry and disconnected for that.
“Well?” Chuck asked. “Do you?”
Sarah smoothed a hand over his hair. “When you’re ready.”
He wanted her to kiss him again, so he gave her his best wheedling grin and grabbed her hand with both of his own, playing idly with her fingers. “I’m ready now.”
Sarah closed her eyes and breathed in, very deeply. She let out the breath slowly. “I apparently picked the wrong moment to film. I wonder if you’ll believe me when I tell you about this in the morning.”
“I don’t see any reason why I wouldn’t.”
“I know. Tell you what, I’ve got to go get some blankets for Casey. Why don’t you lie down and wait for me to come back?” Sarah looked around her own room for a moment and retrieved something from under the desk. She set it down beside the bed: a trash can. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“You’ll figure it out.” Sarah waited until he had crawled beneath the covers on the other side of the bed, careful to avoid the spot where she’d obviously been sleeping earlier. Then she stroked his hair again and kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
“Can’t wait,” Chuck said. He frowned when Sarah shut the light off on her way out to fetch blankets for Casey. He would have liked to look around her room a little, since he rarely got the opportunity to be in here when she wasn’t, and he knew she had been adding her own touches to the space in the past few months. He couldn’t really make out anything farther than the nightstand, which held what looked like a fashion magazine and some hand lotion that smelled like Sarah. Chuck considered getting up and poking around her desk, but before he could actually move, his eyelids began to drift close as the world darkened slowly, lulling him away from the shimmery realms of consciousness.
The last thing he heard before he gave in fully was the door opening and closing. He felt something warm against his right side, and the world suddenly seemed better and more comfortable, and after that he knew no more.
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