AU novella. An advice columnist meets an arresting stranger, resulting in dangerous feelings, confusions, and errors.

A/N1: As practice in writing novellas (Dying to Death reawakened my interest in the form), I wrote this. I shared it with some readers who convinced me that posting it was preferable to leaving it inert on a word processor. The story is finished. If there is interest, I will post it over the next little while. Eight chapters. This first is a scene-setting chapter. The story borrows plot from a movie, Please Kill Mr. Know-It-All, but it ultimately travels its own path. I don't own Chuck or the movie. No money made.

Chuck vs. Mrs. Know-It-All

CHAPTER ONE

Dear Mrs. Know-It-All,

I have a problem. I have been in love with a woman for almost two years, but I cannot decide if she loves me too or not. She rarely talks about her past or her feelings. At times, it seems clear that she does have feelings for me. At other times, it seems crazy to think so.

We once shared the most passionate kiss of my life, but then she became icy toward me the next day. (It didn't help that her old flame came back to town!) I don't know what to do and I admit I am beginning to freak out about the whole situation. Should I try to find someone else - maybe someone more normal, more capable of sharing herself - or should I hold on?

She has beautiful blonde hair.

Thanks in advance,

Desperate Pocket Protector

Chuck Bartowski put his pencil between his teeth and leaned back in his desk chair, stretching his long legs out under his desk at the same time. Inadvertently, he kicked over one of the several tottering stacks of books in his study/living room.

"Damn!" he carped, but then got excited: his copy of Henry James' The Ambassadors was among the toppled books; he had been searching for it off and on for almost a week.

He reached under the desk, banging his forehead against it in his eagerness to secure the James. "Damn," he said again, but he did not pause to rub his forehead until he had the book in his hand and had put it on the desk. As he rubbed his forehead, he looked at the wild snowdrifts of paper that obscured his desk. If he wasn't careful, the James would go under a drift to be lost for again, for weeks, or months, or years. He made himself a mental note to move the book to his nightstand later. It was the fortieth or so mental note he had made that morning.

He looked away from the book and at the letter on his computer screen again. "Geez, poor Desperate Pocket Protector...Probably a hopeless loser." Chuck spun his desk chair quickly and hard, pulling up his feet and allowing it to rotate one-and-a-half times, so that he ended up facing away from his desk after the brief whirligig.

He glanced around the room. The floor was covered in books and papers. There were bookshelves along the walls and books on almost every flat surface of the room. Besides books and papers, and his desk and chair, the room hosted only an armchair, a loveseat and a couple of lamps. On the wall were a couple of movie posters - one of Grosse Pointe Blank and another of The Fifth Element. His beloved Tron poster, a gift from his late father, was on the wall in his bedroom. Thinking of his bedroom, he got up, remembered his mental note, and grabbed the James as he rose. He walked to his bedroom. It too was a farrargo of books and papers. He put the James down on top of a stack of books on his nightstand. He turned to look at the Tron poster.

xXx

Chuck's parents had both died in a car wreck a little after his ninth birthday. He and his sister, Ellie, had been forced to live with his father's mom, a woman who had handed down the psychological instability that had plagued his father - the instability that Chuck feared was the cause of the car crash. His grandmother meant well and she loved Chuck and Ellie, but Helena Bartowski had demons to contend with, and so although she managed to keep a roof over the kids' heads and to keep them clothed and fed, she was emotionally distant and unavailable, lost most of the time in dark inner struggles. She died just shortly after Ellie had turned eighteen.

The kids inherited the house and enough money to allow Ellie to afford to start college that fall. Chuck was a high school sophomore, so Ellie had to manage him and college simultaneously. But she had, in effect, been his parent for years, so she was not taking up two new roles simultaneously. Ellie, like Chuck, was gifted. Perhaps not to the degree Chuck was, but Ellie was well above above-average.

Chuck had gotten a scholarship to Stanford. He had majored in software engineering but then added a psychology degree. For three-and-a-half years, he had been a star at Stanford, the darling of both the science and the humanities professors. The library had been his real home, books his best company. Finally, at Ellie's urging, he had decided to try to join a fraternity his senior year, to try to make some friends, to have a "social life", as Ellie kept saying. To his surprise, given his seniority and his bookwormishness, he had gotten chosen. He had even made a close friend - the president of the fraternity, the handsome and popular Bryce Larkin.

At first, it had been a heady thing, suddenly being included in groups that had never noticed him before, either in high school or in college. Being Bryce's satellite meant that he was surrounded by beautiful, attractive women, and since even Bryce had limits on how many women he could entertain at once, Chuck often got to actually interact with the women and got to know them. He even started dating one, a woman named Jill Roberts. Chuck had fallen for her hard; they dated for a month or so. But Chuck left to go home over Thanksgiving, and when he returned, Jill was with Bryce.

Bryce - for whatever reason, Chuck assumed it was Jill - froze him out. Jill would not speak to him. And just like that, his days of reflected popularity came to a sudden end. He finished school once again as a library ghost. The frat house was a difficult place. Bryce seemed to feel some need to demoralize Chuck, attack him. He did it frequently, and with him setting the example, the other frat brothers mostly joined in. Chuck was miserable - his friend and his (sort of) girlfriend gone, his frat brothers distant. He went back to his books. He really never left them again.

When he graduated, with only Ellie there to celebrate with him, he had thought he would get a job with Roark Industries or some other cutting edge company. But a strange thing happened. An English professor who he had taken a couple of courses with and who thought a great deal of his writing, recommended him for an open position at a San Francisco newspaper. The paper's advice columnist, a woman as old as the pyramids and still guided by Emily Post, finally retired. The paper wanted to keep the column, but to bring it into the present, to find a hip, intelligent new voice. They interviewed Chuck and had him write responses to several 'test' letters. They loved his work.

But there was a problem. The majority of the readership of the column had always been female, and most of the letters sent in were also from women. Although that had been in part because of the previous columnist, the paper was reluctant to hire a man, especially one so young, to take over. They offered him the job, but only on two conditions: that he keep his true identity secret and that his columnist identity would be Mrs. Know-It-All. The column would be Ask Mrs. Know-It-All. Chuck disliked both conditions, but the second the most. He thought that was a completely stupid title for him and for the column. But, he was stuck with the conditions and he eventually came to dislike them less. He had no desire to be known as an advice columnist, to be known to anyone as Mrs. Know-It-All. He took the job, worked hard and seriously, and the column had been on the rise steadily ever since. There was promising talk of syndication - and perhaps a book deal.

The only person who knew his real job was his longtime buddy, Morgan Grimes, who was also now working as Chuck's agent. Everyone else he knew, including Ellie (and her husband, Devon Woodcomb), Chuck was ashamed to admit, believed he worked from home as an analyst for an insurance company. It was ridiculous, hiding in plain sight like this, but it was what the paper wanted. Chuck had grown used to it and had no desire to be known as Mrs. Know-It-All.

He spent his days reading letters asking for help. He usually read the letters in the morning, chose the ones he wanted to answer, then played video game for an hour or two until lunch. He ate, then went for a walk around the neighborhood. His incredibly lazy basset hound, Dud, was normally ready to face the day by that time (Dud was a notoriously late sleeper) and he would accompany Chuck on his walks. The neighborhood had gotten used to the awkward pair: the lanky, slightly ungainly and very tall man walking along, his pudgy, low-to-the-ground dog paddling along beside him, as if one were the symbol for height and the other for width.

After the walk, Dud normally returned to his bed and snored away in the afternoon as Chuck began to compose replies to the letters chosen that morning. Typically, he was done by 5 pm and took some time to watch an hour or so of television before making himself dinner. After dinner, he and Dud took another walk, a shorter one. When it ended, Chuck went over his replies once more, and then sent the new column in. He would read it until bedtime.

And so went his life, for the most part. Sometimes on the weekends he would hang out with Morgan or visit Ellie and her husband. But mostly he kept to himself and stayed in his apartment. It was easier. He had made one foray into "social life" and it was not for him. His life had few problems of its own - but that was okay: he had other people's problems to think about.

Chuck shook his head and turned away from the Tron poster at last. He had a letter to answer.

Dear Desperate Pocket Protector,

I would not want to be in your shoes. Tennis shoes, I bet. You sound like you have fallen in love with a wooden girl, not a real girl. A woman who cannot bare her heart over two years will likely never bare it at all, because she does not have one. Despite my name, I don't know what to tell you about the kiss: sometimes people make mistakes. Maybe she did. But if she has not kissed you again, I would say she is one-and-done. Move on, DPP, find yourself a real girl. They grow them even in California, or so I have been told. (A hint: look for a brunette: one might be easier on your heart.)

In Certainty,

Mrs. Know-It-All

Not his best effort, but it would do. Chuck's phone rang just as he finished drafting the letter.

Morgan.

"Hey, agent-o-mine! What's up?"

"I hope you aren't."

"What?"

"I mean, I hope you are sitting down."

Chuck was used to Morgan's inability to get to the point. "C' mon, Morgan, what're you talking about?"

"We should probably meet this evening. Dinner - at the noodles place down the block from you? We can talk while we slurp."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "Please tell me no one can hear your end of this conversation, Morgan."

Silence. "No one. I am all by my lonesome in my office." That was what Morgan called his car.

"Good. Okay. I will head your way after Dud has his evening constitutional."

"One day, Chuck, you need to explain to me what a Basset Hound has to do with the Constitution."

"Morgan, it-"

"Gotta go, Chuck, got another call coming in. Chime is money. Bye, Chuck."

"Bye, Morgan."

xXx

Chuck slipped on a light jacket and checked once more on Dud. He was snoring madly in his bed, asleep on his back with his platypus paw stuck up in the air. Chuck shook his head. Crazy dog. But he was good company.

Chuck left the apartment and headed to the noodle place, Soup and Oodles. He got there and went in. Morgan was already at a table and waved Chuck over. Morgan was in a white dress shirt and tie. He stood. Chuck could see that the shirt was tucked into Morgan's ironed khaki pants. He even had on a dark tie.

"What's the occasion, Morgan? I haven't seen you this dressed up since you went stag to the prom." Chuck sat.

Morgan shook his head decidedly as he retook his seat. "Not stag. I had a date."

"A blow-up doll in a backpack is not exactly a date, Morgan."

"She was just a few breaths away from being my date."

"Yeah, but your breaths, Morgan, not hers."

Morgan grinned. "I still say I wasn't stag."

"I guess you did have that photo taken."

"And we looked good, she and I. We were happy. Until she started deflating."

"Why are we here, Morgan?"

"Oh, right. Sorry, I got lost tripping down memory lane. Good times. Anyway, I called because we got a syndication offer. Big money." Morgan's face split into a big smile. "I told you it was coming."

"That's great, Morgan," Chuck said half-heartedly.

Morgan's smile shrank. "What's wrong? Why aren't you happy? This is gonna mean serious money. You could actually afford to have someone clean your apartment, maybe buy some more bookshelves. Hell, you could buy a car!"

"What would I want with any of that stuff, Morgan. I don't know. I have told you all along that I am happy with the way things are."

"No, you aren't, Chuck. You are used to the way things are, you aren't happy with them. And, hey, it turns out this offer is...um...good news, bad news."

"What do you mean?"

"The syndication offer requires that you remain...Mrs. Know-It-All."

Chuck nodded. "And?...Why do I think there is an 'and'?"

Morgan blushed a little. "And they want to put her face out there."

Chuck sat back in his chair. A waiter came and took their order. As he left, Chuck leaned back toward Morgan. "But there is no Mrs. Know-It-All; ergo, she has no face."

"That sounds creepy, Chuck."

Chuck shook his head. "Morgan, did you tell them we would agree?"

"Well, Chuck, man, I can't sign for you, but I did...you know...sorta indicate we would be accepting. There's a hefty signing bonus."

"Of which you get ten percent…"

"Yes. True. But you get ninety…"

"So, a face, huh?"

"Yeah. We just need a picture."

Chuck pursed his lips. "Could it be a drawing?"

Morgan shrugged. "I guess so. Are you still handy with the pencil?"

Chuck nodded. "Yes. Maybe I can come up with something. When are we supposed to meet with the syndicate folks?"

"No definite time, but I would like to move quickly. Could we meet with them tomorrow night?"

"I guess that'd work. Would I need a face by then."

Morgan took a turn pursing his lips. He shrugged. "Probably not required, but it would be a good idea."

The waiter returned with their food. As they began to eat, Morgan sent a text to the syndicate lawyer. They set up a meeting for the next night. Chuck and Morgan chatted as they ate, Morgan telling Chuck about his regular job as a pizza delivery man. He was Chuck's agent as a side-gig.

xXx

Morgan walked - bounced, really - away from the noodle place and Chuck stood on the sidewalk for a minute. He felt restless. He knew that Morgan's news was really good news, but he was used to his life. It was not clear if it would have to change, but his gut told him that it would change things.

Maybe that would be good; maybe he needed to change. Ellie kept telling him that he did. At least she would be happy about the syndication-or she would if he finally came clean and told her that he was Mrs. Know-It-All.

Chuck decided that he was not interested in going back to his apartment right away. The theater around the block often showed old, black and white movies. He had not gone in a long time. He walked in that direction.

When he turned the corner of the block, he could see the old marquee. It was on, and they were advertising a Laurel and Hardy festival. He paid the woman in the box office and went inside. The films had already started, so he found a seat near the back and sat down. He watched the film for a few minutes, then heard a snort of laughter from beside him, across the aisle.

He looked. A beautiful blonde, her hair pulled back in a long ponytail, was staring, entranced, at the screen. While she did not laugh continuously, her smile was constant and, when she did laugh, it was a good-natured snort that seemed somehow to involve her shoulders as well. She had a bright smile, although, for some reason, Chuck has the feeling that she did not smile often. She seemed...to be smiling about smiling, like it was a stolen pleasure.

Chuck was so affected by her that he reached into his jacket pocket and took out his small notebook and pencil he always carried. Trying to be as unnoticeable as possible, he began to sketch her picture. At one point, she turned toward him. He managed to palm his pencil and to hide the notebook. The woman looked at him for a moment; she held his gaze. Then she smiled at him, a quick, sweet smile. Then she seemed to catch herself. The smile fell away and she turned back to the screen. A few minutes later, she got up and left. Chuck thought about following her, speaking to her. But what would he say? He remembered his warning about blondes given to Desperate Pocket Protector. Better to just let her go. He had the drawing. It would have to do.

xXx

Chuck got home. Dud was asleep, still snoring. Chuck undressed and put on some pajamas. He started to turn on the television, then decided against it. He thought of the drawing. He wanted to remember the blonde woman and remember her laugh. He retrieved the notebook from his pocket and looked at the drawing. It was good. It had captured something about her, some intelligence and depth in her gaze. He had not been able to tell quite whether the drawing was good in the dimness of the theater, although it had felt as though he were tracing her features with his hands, not using lead on paper. And in the good light of his desk lamp, he could see that he had outdone himself. He could not remember ever having sketched anyone better. The likeness made his chest ache.

It hit him: she could be Mrs. Know-It-All. That gaze. He just needed to tinker with the drawing. Copy it (he was not going to give up or mar the original) and then alter it a bit. But she - or a kind of copy of her - could be the face of his column. He looked at the drawing again.

Mrs. Know-It-All.

He wondered who she really was.

xXx

The next day, Chuck did the unthinkable. He broke his routine. Dud was not amused. When he rose at midday expecting his walk, Chuck was still tinkering, copying the drawing of the woman. He finally got a version he liked, and then took Dud for a walk. But by then it was mid-afternoon. The appointment with the syndication lawyer was soon. Chuck took a short walk with Dud then got himself cleaned up for the meeting. He put the sketch in a folder and put the folder in a shoulder bag. He told Dud to man the fort as he headed off, trailing a reluctance to meet Morgan and the lawyer, to sign the papers-and to change his life.

Maybe.

Dear Mrs. Know-It-All,

I have a problem. I am stuck in a dead-end job. But I don't know how to do anything else, really. I could quit but I am stuck. I have developed...occupational psychoses, problems...and I worry that they will be with me my entire life, keep me from changing my life even if I change jobs. Is there any hope for me? Can I reverse course and get out of this dead-end?

Hoping for better but fearing the worst,

Old Dog in Newark

Almost.

She was almost done with it. Almost free. Her life was almost ready to change. She could feel it. So close. She was terrified.

Sarah Walker was seated in a chair in her apartment. She had pulled the chair up to the window, so that she could look out on the streets lit up in the dark. To be honest, her apartment depressed her more every day. At one point its barren, stainless steel gleam had, if not pleased her, at least agreed with her. It had seemed a fit place in which to live her non-life: beautiful but hard, edgy and discomforting.

Her life.

So much of it turned on her conman of a father, Jack Burton. He had christened her a con before she had any say in the matter. She had been conning, playing at first bit parts then larger and still larger parts, since before she could understand what the word 'con' meant, before she would have been able to comprehend that confidence games were not really games at all. When she had understood and comprehended, she was already sunk in the mire of her father's life, and with little to any sense of how normal life worked, what a normal childhood, indeed what a childhood at all, looked like. Her father had made her into a hood by stealing her childhood from her.

Her life had gone on like that, con to con, until nearly the end of high school. That fateful spring, when she was beginning to think that, at eighteen, she could leave her father and the con life and fend for herself on the right side of the law, her father had made the first of the two big mistakes that shaped Sarah's adulthood. He conned a gangster. The whole thing would have blown up in his face if not for the intervention of the CIA Director, Langston Graham. Graham saved her father - but at a price. Her father ended up going to jail, and Sarah ended up getting conscripted into the CIA. Graham had manipulated her, she later came to realize, using her youth and her fear for her father against her. Graham had somehow found out about her and become interested in her, in her potential for a role in the CIA. So, at an age at which she should have been dreaming of prom and sending out graduation announcements, she was at The Farm, being trained to be a CIA agent.

Not seeing any real alternative, she threw herself into the training - much of it already familiar as versions of lessons her father had taught her - and she excelled. Graham was pleased. She graduated and went into the field. At first, she did what you might call bread-and-butter spying - most of it a darker, more fraught version of the cons she ran with her father. But after a year of covers and infiltrations, drops and pickups, Graham changed the course of her career and put her on the path he had always intended to be hers. He gave her a termination mission: she was to kill a double agent. The order was given and she was on a plane to Paris before she had any chance to think, to balk. In a phone call after her arrival, Graham insinuated that her father's upcoming parole hearing would go badly if her mission failed. She went through with it, shot that agent, a woman, on a dark, deserted Paris street. It was the worst day of Sarah's life, a day when she found out that she could kill another person. Graham, knowing that, then kept her at it, giving her several missions of the same sort over the next couple of years.

Sarah's father was paroled. But she was imprisoned. She saw no way back to a normal life: that possibility had bled out along with the double agent in Paris. It was as equally dead. But a couple of years after her father was paroled, Sarah did something Graham did not expect: she quit. Her father had fallen on hard times and had gone back to conning. It seemed that he, like his daughter, could not do normal. Sarah weighed her options and decided that returning to conning with her father was preferable to remaining Graham's assassin, so that is the choice she made.

A year later, her father made his second big mistake. He conned another gangster, a truly powerful, fearsome man, and that man caught him red-handed. Langston Graham was not there to 'correct' Jack's mistake mistake-but Sarah again paid the price. The gangster - Alexei Volkoff - intended to kill her father. Sarah got him to agree to a meeting - and Sarah again traded herself for her father. Volkoff accepted Sarah's services as an assassin as a 'repayment' for her father's trespass. She agreed to perform five terminations for him - after all, Volkoff had announced, smirking at her, that he was not "an unreasonable man." Since then, during the past year, during her bloody indentured servitude, Sarah had killed four men for Volkoff. Volkoff had never forced her to kill an innocent: all four men she killed had been rivals of Volkoff's, men as nearly as bloody and as evil as her 'employer'. Sarah had changed from CIA assassin to mob hitwoman. The change felt like a cruel de-evolution, from something awful to something even more awful still.

xXx

Her father had spent the last year as Volkoff's 'guest'. Sarah knew he was alive but was uncertain where Volkoff was holding him. She saw her father once a month at Volkoff's estate, but her father did not know where they were holding him (he was transported with his hands cuffed, blindfolded and with earplugs). Her father was holding up: he seemed well enough. As he said, it was like he was back in prison but with better food, comfy furniture, and the freedom to drop the soap in the shower. I wonder why dad is funny but I never am?

Volkoff had also exacted one more thing from Sarah - back when they struck their bargain for her father's life. An agreement that, if she were ever discovered, and could be linked back to him, Volkoff would kill her father.

Volkoff had paid Sarah for the hits she performed, but she had put the money away, living instead on the money she had accumulated while working for the CIA. She had never spent much of her CIA pay - all she had done was work. Her apartment was actually owned by her father; he had bought it while flush after a big con. She could afford clothes and food and had a roof - quite a nice roof - over her head.

She spent most of her time under it. She lived in fear of being discovered, in fear of being identified or caught, and so linked (or potentially linked) back to Volkoff. Her father's life depended not just on her carrying out her hits, but carrying them out perfectly. She had to be a ghost, immaterial and untraceable. So far, she had been. She was just waiting for the phone now, waiting on Volkoff, waiting for the fifth hit - and freedom - for her father and for herself.

It had been a visit day. She had met with her father, ate a lunch of subs and chips with him in Volkoff's pool house, then she had been escorted out. Volkoff indicated to her that he might be in touch soon about the fifth job.

The visits with her father always depressed her (and Volkoff's news, welcome in one way, sickened her in another), so she had decided to see a movie, to redirect her thoughts and feelings. She found a theater showing a Laurel and Hardy film festival: it sounded like just the ticket - something light-hearted and silly.

She had been enjoying the film but her enjoyment increased when a tall, curly-headed man entered the theater and sat down across the aisle from her. He was immediately and completely involved in the movie, laughing away at its zaniness. His laugh, more even than the scenes that caused it, made Sarah feel better. His laugh actually made her feel good. She started laughing harder, with less restraint, enjoying the thought (not true, exactly, but still heartwarming) that they were watching the film together.

At one point, she noticed that he had noticed her. For a brief second, although she looked away, she actually thought about crossing the aisle and sitting beside him, talking to him when the movie ended. But she could not do that. Far too risky. He looked like a normal guy, like a genuinely nice guy, and she was certain none of them were for her. She was alone and would remain alone.

She could feel his eyes on her as the film went on. She knew she should get up and leave. But she...liked...the feeling of his eyes on her. Liked the thought that such a man could find her worth gazing at, maybe even being interested in. It wasn't much, but it was all she could have with such a man. If he knew her, really knew her, he would turn away in disgust.

That dark thought was occupying her mind when her phone rang. Her one friend, DEA agent Carina Miller, was calling. Although they talked on the phone occasionally, they had not seen each other in person after Sarah left the CIA. Carina did not know what Sarah was doing now. When Carina asked, as she always did, Sarah evaded. Carina knew very little about Sarah's past and so she was unlikely to guess at the circumstances in which Sarah lived. Despite hating the evasions and the lies, Sarah still enjoyed their talks, even if they were always brief.

"Hey, Carina."

"Blondie, how're tricks?"

"Fine. You?"

"Stateside again-for a while, actually. Thought maybe we could finally see each other in person, do a little female bonding. What do you say?"

"Um...maybe. Not right now, but maybe soon. How long will you be stateside?"

"Until my shoulder heals. Dislocated it...badly...in my last mission."

"Was that dislocation in the line of duty? Or was it the result of extra-curricular activities?"

Carina laughed. "Not telling. So, c' mon, Sarah, let's get together. Don't make me hunt you down, spy-style. I want to see you. I miss you."

"I miss you too. Tell you what: let me call you back in a day or two. Maybe things will have gotten...clearer for me by then and we can make plans. Okay?"

Carina blew out a resigned breath that Sarah could hear over the phone. "Okay. But I will call if I don't hear from you. Really, Sarah, let's get together. I want to see you."

"Alright, Carina. I promise I will call. It was good to hear from you. I want to see you too."

"Good. Talk to you soon."

"Yes, soon. Bye."

Sarah disconnected. She sat in her chair, feeling the weight of her phone in her hand. She thought about the man at the movie. I wonder what his name was? I wonder what work he does? Is he as...sweet...as he seemed?

She stood up and put her phone down. That line of questioning was just going to undo the good the movie and the man had done her. She would never see him again. That was the way her life worked, that was its logic.

She walked to the bedroom and began to change for bed. Maybe Volkoff would call tomorrow, and she could begin planning...the fifth job. Or maybe Volkoff had just given her chain a jerk.

Dear Old Dog in Newark,

I have an old dog myself. I have taught him new tricks. If you know you are on a dead-end road, change direction. Your life isn't over until you give up on it. If habits can be made, they can be broken - that's not just logic, it's life.

In Certainty,

Mrs. Know-It-All

A/N2: Thoughts?