A/N: Final chapter, folks. It's the ultimate chapter, too. (If it weren't, I think I'd be skewered.) Apologies for the delay—this was one of those chapters that I wrote multiple versions of. It's longer than usual, so maybe that'll make up for its lateness. Everyone's continued awesomeness is outright astounding.

I didn't proof this chapter as many times as usual; there are probably more typos than normal. I'll fix them when I read it over again later, but do apologize for them in the meantime. The other normal disclaimers, even at the very end, still apply.

-.-.-.-

Day 9: Saturday

"Chuck?"

Someone was distantly calling his name. He scrunched his face at the disturbance. Every time last night, it started like that. Unable to do more than process his name—higher cognitive functions were offline—he clumsily shook his head from side to side.

"No, no more dancing!"

The sleep dripped off his words as he flipped from his back to his stomach and smushed his face into the surface under him. I'm sitting at a table with, at a minimum, two of them no more than five feet away, he internally drawled out. They don't need to dance with me every other song! He threw his right arm over his head to signal his seriousness to Abigail, or Marilyn, or one of the other VPs: he didn't want to dance anymore.

"Chuck, wake up. The party starts in an hour."

A hand touched his shoulder and lightly shook him, but the contact caused goosebumps to spread across his entire body. Presumably, it had the same effect on the hand's owner—it disappeared from his shoulder immediately. He struggled to process the reaction: the one person that had that effect on him was the only person he hadn't danced with. …fine, one more dance, but only because it's her… Tilting his head toward where he thought the voice—Sarah's voice, he corrected after another beat—was coming from, he opened his eyes to narrow slits.

Chuck's guess had proven correct—Sarah was off to his left, standing over him. Taking in his surroundings, though, he realized he wasn't at the gala anymore. He was in his bedroom, passed out on top of his bed. More synapses started firing as he squinted at the alarm clock. Ugh, I must have been dreaming…or hallucinating…about last night. Great start to the day. Upon noting the time, and that the dance with Sarah wasn't real, he burrowed his face back into what he now knew was his pillow. His voice was muffled as he spoke in barely intelligible English; aside from knowing where he was, his brain still hadn't fired up fully.

"'S too 'rrrrly."

"You're the one that agreed to a brunch for our engagement party," she replied coolly. "Thanks for letting me know what time it was, by the way: lucky for you, Ellie noticed I didn't spend the night and called to ask me to pick up a few more bottles of wine. Now: get. up."

She doesn't sound pleased. This day keeps getting better and better… About to reply to the best of his sleep-clouded ability, her words sunk in. …oh crap, I did seriously forget to tell her what time the party was. CRAP.

It was coming back to him. He hadn't seen much of her after she'd hung up after her very long chat with CIA—she'd looked like she was ready to shoot anything that dared speak to her. The highly unexpected kiss right before Abigail caught up with them, although enjoyable, had thoroughly confused him, and given that she had been on the verge of decking him and dicing him into tiny bits a few minutes before that, Chuck hadn't wanted to push his luck. As a result, despite the kiss, he settled for continuing the shocked-and-clueless, but supportive, fiancé routine.

"Continuing the routine" involved him interacting pleasantly with everyone that approached him…when he wasn't being dragged to the dance floor…and looking at her from a far as she seamlessly switched between cool, professional discussions with the agents that arrived and polite chatter with the clients. He hadn't been able to tell if she was avoiding him or if she truly was that busy juggling both duties. Because he had barely seen her the rest of the night, he certainly hadn't spoken to her—only once, in fact: to say goodnight at the appropriate (and subtly hinted) time. She'd said something about it "being a late night" and "not to wait up," and her voice brokered little opposition: she'd used a hint of the now-infamous "death threats in a syllable or less" voice.

By that point, his conversation with Ellie—and the engagement party—had been the last thing on his mind. Not being sliced and/or diced was his primary concern. All he could do was plaster a small smile on his face, nod, and plant a quick peck on her cheek before saying goodnight to Abigail and the others as he headed toward the Herder. Though I bet they watched me walk to the car…ha. Coming off the all-nighter he'd pulled on Thursday night to hack Fort Knox's server, he didn't remember much else about his post-gala Friday night. He did remember that neither Fulcrum nor Sarah were in his bedroom when he had passed out.

Armed with new knowledge, he began to protest Sarah's edict when he realized something else: the goosebumps had yet to dissipate. Wait…when she touched my shoulder…I definitely felt that. It wasn't through a shirt or anything…whhhhhhhhhhy? Popping his head off the pillow enough to look down at his attire, he had to suppress the groan of incredulity, promptly picking up the pillow and covering his head. In his exhaustion the previous night, he hadn't finished the getting-ready-for-bed process. He had shed everything but his tuxedo pants and hadn't put anything else back on. The groan slipped out this time as he clamped the pillow a little tighter over his head, cheeks burning at his state of undress from the waist up.

Is there ANY way that Sarah could have missed the no-shirt thing? Summoning the courage, he peeked out from under the pillow, blinking his eyes a few times to focus them. One look at her, and he had his answer: …nope, definitely noticed. Her eyes were angled toward his ceiling, and even though the hands on her hips suggested that she was irate (…which she is, he reminded himself), he could see the flush that had crept up her neck and her irregular breathing. …oh, just super: it's going to be one of those days. The days where we almost set each other off with just a touch.

He was still exhausted, but suddenly lacked the energy to argue for a few more minutes of sleep. He reluctantly tossed aside the pillow and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He resisted the urge to pull a blanket over his top half, in case their friend from the other morning as watching, and busied his hands by rubbing his face. With a cautious smile in place, and not wanting to address his apparel, he elected to elaborate on the first thing that he'd said that morning.

"Do you know how many times your coworkers made me dance with them last night?"

Oh do I ever, she thought with a reproachful look. She'd had few reprieves from the both the CIA and Fort Knox's clients over the course of the evening, but when they had come, her eyes had found Chuck from across the room. She'd wanted to go over just to simply see him, to assuage her own fears: to make sure that he was here, to make sure he was alright, to make sure he wasn't in some abandoned building being held by Fulcrum. But, every single time, Abigail or one of the other three VPs had him out on the dance floor. At first, she was appreciative, but once they collectively broke a dozen dances—A dozen dances that you noticed, she mentally added—she wasn't as appreciative, nor was she amused.

By the time they said goodnight, she wanted him out the door and far away from her coworkers. Nice to know that Chuck was as fed up with the dancing as I was. Before she could move much further down that road, agent mode sternly intruded. Do your job, already—the gala's over. You got lucky last night. Back to reality, before he is kidnapped because of your head being everywhere but here. The self-reprimand fresh, she was able to look at him instead of the ceiling, taking care to keep her eyes above his neck.

"They were doing me a favor by keeping an eye on you."

His face fell. The sort of high-quality banter from last night was unlikely, he knew, but he was hoping for an answer that didn't come straight out of the Secret Spy's Dictionary. Metric tons of tension AND she's cemented in agent mode. It was as if yesterday didn't happen. Absolutely spectacular.

"Look, I'm really sorry…"

Oh no, she thought as soon as he started talking, not an apology. If it's anything like yesterday's apology, with him dressed like…that, we won't be leaving this room. She felt the flush creeping up her neck again, and countered it by abruptly cutting him off, a hard edge to her voice.

"Don't."

Unable to deal with the hurt—and shocked—look on his face, she hurried to leave. Was that really necessary?, one of her inner, non-agent mode voices sniped at her. She slowed as she neared the door. Probably not. What the hell's wrong with me? Sighing, she paused in the doorway.

"Just," her tone softened as she slightly turned her head back toward him, "get ready…please. We'll talk later."

He hesitantly nodded before he realized that she was down the hallway already. He flopped back on to the bed with a long sigh.

Oh yeah, today's definitely going to be one of those days. Ugh.

-.-.-.-

Firmly knocking on the door, she didn't have to wait long before it swung open. She had a pleasant smile on her face, vestiges of the bedroom conversation gone.

"Hi, John. Ellie asked me to come over and check on the food?"

I'm still not sure how Ellie convinced Casey to let her use his kitchen…

"Sure," Casey answered with the same pleasant smile Sarah was sporting. "Please, come in."

Stepping over the threshold, she couldn't help but reflect on the irony of the situation—she'd been trying to figure out a way to get over to Casey's apartment most of the morning to discuss last night without raising suspicions. Ellie's frantic request to check on the food as Sarah had entered the kitchen was a godsend.

The door clicking shut erased the smile on both their faces, and they proceeded silently to the kitchen. Walking past the table with the surveillance equipment, she noted that the video feed from Chuck's bedroom was full screen—Chuck had just trudged into the hallway. If the video was any indication, Casey had seen everything that had happened that morning. She ground her teeth as she marched past him into the kitchen. Oh, come on. What is it with him? Just leave it alone, Casey…

"Having a good day, Walker?"

…or not. He had a look of smug, knowing innocence all over his face. She didn't dignify his prodding with a response, shooting him a scathing glare over her shoulder before returning her attention to the various pots on the burners.

"Want to tell me what happened on your end last night before I tell you what happened on mine?"

He grunted, leaning against the doorway leading from the front room to the kitchen.

"I already know what happened on your end—Beckman briefed me and had me pull the surveillance footage from the party."

Oh spectacular. So now he's not only seen how the morning started, but he knows exactly how the entire night went. Stirring one of the pots with a bit more vigor than necessary before effortlessly launching the spoon into the sink and setting the timer for a few additional minutes, she smoothly twirled to face Casey and leaned back onto the counter.

"Fine, then you tell me what happened on your end. All I know is that you ran into trouble and Chuck got you out of it."

"Huh, cute. How about the trouble you two ran into last night? This morning? Sure you don't want to talk about that?"

NOT in the mood. Clenching her jaw and crossing her arms over her chest, she noticed the set of chef's knives mounted on the wall. They were well within reach. She gave them a long, sidelong glance before refocusing on Casey. The signal was received loud and clear. Casey subtly pulled a hefty wooden cutting board closer to him—a possible shield—and ran through his Friday night.

Because Sarah hadn't gotten a chance to look at the plans for Reed's office, Casey meticulously detailed his general plan for infiltrating the office building and the beginning of its execution. But, in typical Casey fashion, he glossed over the finer points of his inglorious spill from the ceiling and Chuck's pivotal assistance, skipping ahead to snooping around Quentin's office.

She'd learned, after working with Casey for over a year, that what he didn't say was as important as what he did say. In this case, scrutinizing Casey's expression and tone, his omission meant one thing. Its magnitude cased her eyes to widen. …Chuck didn't just assist Casey and speed things up. Chuck literally saved Casey. And Casey knows it, too. Quickly drawing in a breath to refocus before she started mind-fawning over Chuck, she tuned in again to hear the end of Casey's condensed retelling.

"...after I got back here, made my report to Beckman. She wanted the Intersect to look over everything ASAP, see if anything triggered a flash. Cleaned up, and waited for you and the Geek Wonder of the World to get home. Imagine my surprise when it was only him—made my job easier. Went over to see him, used the 'files are still corrupted' excuse that he so conveniently created earlier, and had him look everything over. Took a while to get through it all…"

Well, the more-than-usual grogginess this morning makes more sense, she thought with professional detachment. If Casey had kept him up most of the night looking at intel, he probably didn't sleep much…

"…but he flashed on a few things," Casey continued, "recognized a few others from working on the virus stuff. He also concealed the entire mission, somehow—you're going to ask him about that. Between what he gave us and the obvious things I found, next week's going to be busy."

She inclined her head slightly to acknowledge his statement. Left unsaid was how they were going to be "busy" this week without blowing anyone's new cover. Probably a good call on his part, Sarah thought grimly as she silenced the beeping timer and faced the stove to check the food. Just thinking about thinking about it is making me sick. I need to get out of here before he starts in on us again. Picking up two of the pots, contents now ready for consumption, she nodded at the remaining food on the stove.

"You mind helping me over with this?"

A sardonic grunt was all she got in reply, but Casey surprisingly stepped over to pick up two others without a fight as she headed toward the front door.

"Hey, Walker."

Pausing as she turned the doorknob, she looked over at him with a barely patient expression.

"What."

"This little cover of yours, as obnoxious and annoying as it is, needs to be rock solid after this circus."

…no kidding. Thanks, Casey.

"I know how to my job."

She swung the front door open, effectively ending the conversation.

"Thanks so much for the help, John!"

Still deep inside the apartment, he shook his head with a patented Casey sneer as he replied cheerfully.

"Not a problem at all."

-.-.-.-

Man, I don't even know some of these people, Chuck thought as he was barraged by multiple, hard slaps on the back, slaps so hard he took an involuntary step forward before righting himself again. A group of Awesome's frat brothers stepped into Chuck's view, all of them enthusiastically giving him double-thumbs up and cheerful congratulations as they walked by. Were the thumbs-up necessary—nearly knocking me over wasn't sufficient? He almost made the sardonic remark aloud, but stopped himself, forcing a grin instead and thanking them instead.

Even though he'd gotten over the immediate shock of Sarah and his apology earlier, his mood continued to be less than stellar. He resisted the urge to sigh—too many people would notice that. Why can't we just act like we did last night? I don't get it. He settled for restlessly scanning the packed courtyard for Sarah instead. They had been saying hello to everyone separately all afternoon, no doubt a product of how their morning had started. Yeah, because THIS doesn't look suspicious, he couldn't help but think as he kept scanning the crowd.

He spotted her then, standing near the fountain. Despite everything, the sight made him smile: she was making polite chit-chat with Abigail and Marilyn. Studying her posture more closely, her calm exterior was forced—he could tell. In reality, she was about as pleased as he was. Maybe I should go over and try to sneak in an apology again. He'd entertained the thought several times already that day, but had decided against it each time. She said we'd talk later—so, we'll talk later. Plus, you promised her you'd make sure this didn't feel too real, remember.

Someone suddenly grabbed his hand and started rigorously shaking it, wishing him congratulations repeatedly. Hesitantly, he began to shift his focus to whoever was holding his hand, but just then, Sarah's head snapped toward Abigail. Slight panic crossed her face for a moment before it was concealed beneath a more pleasant-looking expression.

…OK, forget talking later. I'm going over there now. Absentmindedly muttering an apology to the person holding onto his hand as he forcibly extracted it, he began ducking and weaving his way across the courtyard. He was close enough to hear Sarah sputter out an answer to whatever it was that Abigail had said.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Shit, maybe Casey was right to say something, she thought as she casually looked for Chuck. He wasn't anywhere in sight.

"You're really going to make me repeat that?" Abigail replied, regarding Sarah with the skeptical ex-spy eye while taking a sip from her drink. Marilyn, too, was looking at Sarah skeptically.

For a moment, Chuck thought he was walking into a spy-related conversation. He almost turned around, but then he saw Sarah quickly glance over to where he had been standing for most of the evening, near the courtyard's entrance. Nope, not a spy conversation. He was evaluating how to quickly clear the final cluster of people—the Buy More green shirts—when Sarah answered with a combination of shock and vehemence.

"No, Chuck and I are not 'having problems already.' "

Oh crap. Ex-spies questioning our cover. Not good not good not good not good… One of the green shirts spotted him, and said something to the others that had them all stampeding towards him. Eyeing the fountain, he utilized its edge as his escape route, precariously dodging empty pop cans and crumb-filled paper plates as he bypassed the green shirts and danced the last few feet to where Sarah and the others were standing. He appeared next to her just as she was finishing her sentence, and was able to seamlessly tack on to the end of it.

"She's just irritated that I remembered to invite her boss to the party and not her."

Her head snapped toward him as he stepped up next to her. He gave her an innocent hip bump and tentative smile, not quite knowing how his rescue attempt would go over. Rolling her eyes at him, a relieved smirk crept across her face as she returned the hip bump. He's not getting out of this one that easily, though, she thought, looking to her coworkers for support.

"I think that's a good reason for being irritated, don't you?"

Abigail and Marilyn looked like they would have agreed if they could, but they were tongue-tied—the reason was so mundane and non-nefarious that it would have sounded ridiculous coming from anyone else, but it seemed eerily believable as Chuck defended himself and the conversation went on.

"I tried to apologize this morning, if you recall."

"I recall that when you tried to apologize, not only did the party start in an hour, but you were shirtless. That was not going to end well."

His eyebrows shot up. …WOW. I didn't think she would EVER admit that aloud. Their exchanges had been more like bantering than arguing. He decided to take a small risk. Stepping behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and perched his chin on her shoulder, whispering into her ear. She tensed, but made no effort to get away.

"Hey, you could have requested that I put on a shirt."

"Just like you could have requested that I attend the party today."

"What if I said I was really really really really really really…" he took an exaggerated breath, "really really really…"

She finally elbowed him in the ribs, but her voice was light, if not a tad sarcastic, as she finally relaxed into his embrace.

"My God, you're impossible."

"Impossible to resist? So I've been told."

He could feel her laughing rather than hear it. A huge grin across his face, he picked his head up and spoke a little louder so Abigail and Marilyn could hear.

"You know, though I can't really think of how it could be worse than forgetting to invite you, I'm sure it could be. Somehow."

"That's true, Sarah," Marilyn finally piped in, recovering enough to speak. "He could have remembered to invite your exes and not you. That would have been awkward."

But not nearly as awkward as this moment is right now, he thought. Predictably, Sarah tensed up, but when she spun out of his embrace, she was still holding on to his hands and was looking at him somewhat oddly.

"How do I look?"

"Uh…" He coughed a few times to clear his throat. Where did THAT come from? "Is this a trick question?"

"Not a trick question, promise."

He leaned back and tried his best to examine her clinically. Jeans and a polo. Looks fantastic to me.

"You look stunning, just like every day. Why?"

Her mind was already racing, eyes bouncing between their joined hands and the fountain and Ellie and Casey and the odd-shaped hedge and…everything in sight. Oh my God, that's it. I can't believe I didn't put it all together before now.

He noticed the look on her face and started to panic.

"What? Were you looking for a particular adjective? I have more of them…"

"No, that was fine. We need to talk."

"Uh…now?"

She had already started moving toward his open bedroom window.

"Now."

After they had hopped through and pulled it shut, even the seasoned ex-spies present in the crowd didn't notice Casey reach into his pocket and activate a portable jammer, nor did they notice him casually stand like a sentry near Chuck's window, his back to it, with a smirk on his face. It appeared that Walker had just figured out what he had noticed most of the week. About time, Walker. Score one for Team Chuck.

-.-.-.-

Sarah sat down hard on the edge of Chuck's bed, incredulous at how oblivious she'd been. I can't believe I didn't see any of it before. She looked up at Chuck, who was sitting a few inches in front of her in his computer chair, looking very concerned all the while.

"Sarah, what's wrong? I'm sorry if I went a little too far out there, but Abig…"

Shaking her head, she assuaged his fear about the courtyard.

"This isn't about that. You're sure I look fine, right?"

Just to make sure, he looked her over one more time, reaching the same conclusion as before.

"Yes, you look absolutely fantastic, gorgeous, wonderful…"

She silenced him by gently placing the tips of her fingers over his mouth, a shy smile on her face from his effusive complements. He tentatively spoke after she dropped her hand back to her lap.

"Are you mad at me…again?"

"I'm not sure yet." She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, making sure that everything made as much sense as it did a minute prior when it came together in the courtyard. Stretching the length of the bed to turn on his radio loudly to mask their conversation, her gaze was calm, but piercing when she settled back into place and spoke again, leaning a little closer so he could hear her over the music. "But I distinctly remember you saying that you hated me in red."

Chuck's eyes went wide as he looked at what she was wearing again. Blue jeans…and a red polo. It was actually more of a salmon, but he wasn't about to go down that road…again. Oh crap. He nervously chuckled.

"Let's chalk that up to a momentary lapse in judgment, because it's a proven fact: you look great in any color."

"I also distinctly remember you breaking up with me right around that time. Chalk that up to a momentary lapse in judgment, too?"

His voice was very small when he answered. There's no way she knows how those two are really connected.

"…yeees?"

"No. It was Bryce, wasn't it," she calmly stated, tone very matter-of-fact.

Or she DOES know how they're connected. Holy. CRAP. He tried to bluff his way out.

"How could it be Bryce? It's not like I have him on speed dial."

"This has him written all over it, and he was in town when it all happened. That's not a coincidence."

She stared him down, no hint of anger present, just mind-blowing clarity. He finally relented with a miniscule shrug.

"Yeah, he might have had something to do with it. Though I feel kind of bad just letting him take the fall for it, I mean, it's not like he twisted my ar…"

Sarah sighed, which was enough to stop Chuck from babbling much more.

"Why?"

"Uh, well, you know." He shifted around in the chair. "He was worried that we were developing, uh…feelings for one another, and that the feelings were going to get one or both of us hurt, so the red thing was to show him that we weren't. Weren't developing feelings for one another, I mean. But then you did get hurt, and he brought it up again, and then, uh…well, you know what happens from there."

"You decided that you would break up with me to prevent me from getting hurt again."

The guilt on his face was enough of an answer as his eyes darted over her shoulder to the Dune movie poster. God, that explains so much, she thought as she leaned back a little on the bed, taking a deep breath. It explains his behavior since then, it explains his little speech last Saturday, why he's felt so guilty about making this feel too real… She didn't feel angry with him, for some reason—perhaps the massive "a-ha!" moment was mitigating the ire she would have normally felt. Trying figuring out what she was feeling, he looked back at her, his eyes inexplicably full of awe. It took her by surprise.

"Wow, just…how? How did that come together right now?"

"It came together now when Marilyn made her comment about inviting our exes. We were standing right where you broke up with me."

He waited a beat, but she didn't speak again. He thought that was all she was going to say, and began slowly wheeling himself back toward his desk. Not quite sure why we had to talk about this now, but whatever… Her hand flying to his knee stopped him, and his head snapped up to catch her barely audible words.

"Just like it came together now that the only time I've been able to think lately has been when I haven't been fighting our new cover."

It was his turn to be surprised, rapidly wheeling back to the bed. Some of the big examples were flying through her head in rapid succession: Every problem I've had with this cover has been keeping the professional/personal line, and most of the tension all week has been because of the struggle to keep that line—Monday evening, Tuesday night, this morning... When I stopped focusing on the line, things clicked: I couldn't think of a way to get Reed's security plans all of Thursday, but I got it in less than a minute once he pulled me down onto the couch with him. Everything came together in the conference room on Friday night once I made that decision on the stage to enjoy the evening. And I didn't even realize all of THIS until I relaxed 5 minutes ago... Thinking through the all the evidence, she found the words to continue after swallowing once.

"Your reason for us not being together was crap. I'm able to do my job better when I'm not fighting…this." She used her index finger to point between them. "If I hadn't been fighting it so hard, that shot in the train station would have been easy."

Chuck scooted close enough so that their foreheads bumped together. She wasn't sure if it was on purpose or on accident, but her hands went up to his shoulders to prevent him from possibly moving back. Her voice dropped even lower.

"My reason's crap, too. Ellie was right. I could never leave you. I'd quit."

The statement hung in the room. ...WHAT?; his brain refused to function beyond that. His eyes scrutinized her face. A tension-filled beat passed before there was action: he closed the gap between them, lips colliding as she pulled them back onto the bed. Heating up quickly—one of his hands had grazed her stomach, and she'd arched into him with a hitched breath—only she heard the click of the bedroom door over the music.

Instinctively, she began to flip him toward the door so that he'd be the one pinned to the bed. A throwing knife appeared in her left hand, and as she flipped them over, she sat them up and let the knife fly without opening her eyes or breaking their kiss. Only when she heard it embed with its distinctive thunk did she reluctantly pull away and turn toward the door to assess the situation. The knife had flown straight and true, landing right where she wanted it to land: just to the right of the door at chest level. Her eyes grew wide before fiercely narrowing as she took in the scene.

After she had broken the kiss, Chuck had flopped back down to the bed, hands lightly resting on her hips as he caught his breath. He opened his eyes to find himself looking not at Sarah's face, but at her profile. She was breathing as heavily as he was, but she was intensely looking at the door. Wh…did someone knock?, he wondered. Curious as to what she was so focused on, he twisted his neck and upper body enough to follow where Sarah was looking.

His bedroom door was partially open. Morgan had taken one step into the room, an Xbox 360 game tucked under his arm, but one foot was hovering in the air as he awkwardly held a grape soda by the bottom of the can with his left hand. His eyes were bulging out of their head as they ping-ponged between the bed and the wall. Well, I already know what's happening on the bed..., Chuck thought, but his eyes snapped to the second location. The handle of a familiar throwing knife was clearly visible. That was shocking in itself. What was more shocking was the can of grape soda that the knife had cleanly impaled. The can was securely fastened to Chuck's wall, grape soda drizzling down it.

Chuck's mouth unconsciously dropped and his brows furrowed as he stared at the can. He had no idea how Sarah's knife had nailed the soda and missed Morgan. I don't believe this… While he had noticed the intruder later than Sarah, both of the bed's occupants ended up shouting loudly with one voice.

"MORGAN!"

Noticing that Sarah's hand was heading toward the small of her back, presumably to grab another knife, Chuck knew he had to act. Flipping them over again, he pinned her arms above her head and stared Morgan down as best as he could over his shoulder while yelling over the radio.

"Dude, she's gonna KILL you. Run."

Chuck's emphasis on the last word jolted Morgan from his terrified stupor. Yanking the door closed, it slammed shut, and once Chuck was sure Morgan had fled a reasonable distance, he let go of Sarah. She propped herself up on her elbows as he leaned back and gave him a quizzical look.

"You know I could have gotten out of that, right."

"I was hoping that the whole novelty and newness of the situation would work in my favor."

She sat up enough to kiss him again, deepening it a bit before breaking it off. Her eyes flicked to her handiwork.

"Do you care that I almost just killed your best friend?"

"Eh, well…" He glanced over at the can. "If you were trying to kill him, he'd be dead. Besides, I think after everything he's pulled over the past week, he was due for…something. Not sure I would have murdered the man's carbonated beverage before his very eyes, but it's very fitting for you."

The kiss this time went on until they ran out of air.

"Now what?" he gasped as they pulled apart.

"At some point, we have to talk about what happened last night so we're all on the same page. As for the rest…"

She almost told him about Samoa, but decided against it. I just told him I'd quit before I'd leave him. A vaguely worded warning is fine.

"…Casey won't care as long as the missions aren't affected, but Beckman might—she can't find out. We'll take it one day at a time, but for now, we have to get back to the party and enjoy what's left of it as a real couple."

His grin was blinding as he slid off the bed, standing up and offering her his hand. He seemed to realize something as he pondered the knife-and-can on his wall.

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa," he started, dramatically pausing to make sure he had her attention as he pulled her up off the bed for another quick kiss. "Just so we're clear…"

His opening had put her in a serious frame of mind. Clear about what?, she thought with a tinge of nervousness.

"… we're going to have to set ground rules about concealed weaponry. I mean, come on, one of these times, one thing's going to lead to another…and then I'm going to lose a finger or something, and you know how I am with blood. And lost body parts. And both combined. I don't think tha…"

His smile was getting larger and she couldn't stop the large grin from appearing for a multitude of reasons. Let's have a little fun before I agree—he's paying for that opening. She smiled sweetly.

"Sorry, sweetie. Occupational hazard."

"Oh reaaaaaaaaaaally?"

Leaving him standing near the bed, she walked backward toward the window, slightly nodding while arching her eyebrows. He followed her, accompanying his words with elaborate hand gestures.

"Well then. Guess it won't matter, though: as of last night when I got that projector working, I ceased being a Nerd Herder. I'm officially a computer programmer now. Do you know how many all-nighters, on average, we pull a week?"

He was clearly kidding—the rest of his face the corners of his mouth were uncontrollably twitching upwards—but her eyes narrowed a bit as she unlatched the window without looking.

"…are you saying that we're never sleeping together?"

"Hey," he shrugged, with a flawless deadpan delivery, "occupational hazard."

Both of them were grinning uncontrollably and laughing as they climbed back into the courtyard.

-.-.-.-

The party, surprisingly, lasted well into the night, with leftovers and spontaneously ordered pizza serving as an impromptu dinner. Everyone, civilians and ex-spies alike, had fun, some more than others—Marilyn, for instance, had a lot of fun. More than she'd had in a while.

Walking into her sizable apartment, she made a beeline for the kitchen, specifically, the liquor cabinet. Filling a tumbler with a two token ice cubes, a small amount of Coke, and a liberal amount of rum, she found herself sitting in front of the computer before long. Illuminated only by the glow of the monitor and a small desk lamp, she thoughtfully stared at the wall behind the monitor. Sipping her drink, Marilyn finally shook the mouse from side to side to wake up the computer, and began writing what she knew would be a long email:

Tim,

The note you scribbled in your card couldn't be more right—it's funny how fast bad news travels in the intelligence community. Thank you for the sympathy card: it got here on Thursday. I can't quite believe that Justin's been gone a week today. I know you were wondering about what happened, but everyone still is. I was at a conference all of last week and feel much more out of the loop than normal, and no one at the firm has any clue what happened other than one of our clients got hit and Justin happened to be on site. It was bound to happen, I suppose. He made a lot of on-site visits the past few months, and seemed to be more distracted and stressed than usual. He said things were fine when he was actually home and I could ask him. Guess not, but oh well. Occupational hazard.

I'm not writing to thank you for the card, though. I wanted to give you a report about the request you made the week before last—the one involving some unofficial poking around. The last time I talked to Justin, sometime late last week, he said could procure some human surveillance from the firm and keep it off the books, but he wasn't going to be able to do it until this past Monday. He was more curious than you, me, and everyone else about Walker and Casey both being in LA for so long. Because of how the weekend went, the plan changed. A lot has changed here in general since you emailed, and not just to Justin and me.

I was able to scrounge a temporary surveillance team together by hiring local muscle once I heard the news about Justin and got back into town. They started surveillance early Sunday morning, using some spare equipment I had around the house. Not a particularly bright bunch, and not very proficient at covert observation, but I've found the locals to be surprisingly observant. On Monday, I planned to ask Abigail and other two VPs if they would mind helping out once I got to the office. I figured if I phrased it right, the unofficial sympathy vote would be in my favor.

The plan ended up changing again when Abigail announced during our weekly working lunch that Sarah Walker had "given notice" to the CIA. They were letting her leave alive, and she was applying for Justin's job, Abigail said. We were all skeptical, her (Abigail) especially, but after she met with Walker, she completely changed her mind: she knew (you know how Abigail gets) that it was true and had hired her on the spot. The rest of us remained less than convinced, and I was rather displeased—using any of the others to help poke around was now out of the question. The temporary team became permanent. Luckily, everything indicates that they haven't been detected by Walker or Casey. It's the first break we've had.

I'm still not pleased, but after meeting Walker and talking with her this past week, everyone's convinced. Sarah Walker has officially quit the CIA. Period. You're never going to believe why. I didn't when Abigail told me, but it's true: the legendary Sarah Walker has fallen in love. I've met her fiancé (yes, you read that right), a civilian that she met while stationed here. I danced with him yesterday night at our gala, and I was at their engagement party all today. He's quite real. You're probably not convinced, but it's something you have to see to believe.

Because Walker is the best, she could be acting. She's that good, after all, and could have seduced the hell out of this guy. Compiling all the different reports from my locals, it's not possible. All of it's real. She announced to his entire family that she was quitting the CIA on Monday, and has talked to the fiancé's sister about her old job. He proposed on Tuesday (Walker was stunned, didn't see it coming at all), and their mornings and nights since then have been more than interesting to watch. I, for one, am convinced, by both what I've seen and what I've been told. If it's an act, it's Oscar worthy.

I don't know what brought Walker here in the first place, other than it was one of those missions. All of us found that out at the gala after a few hostiles tried to kidnap her fiancé. The rest of us watched him while she dealt with the CIA, so I didn't get to see any of the almost kidnappers. I couldn't begin to tell you if they were of foreign or domestic origin. Whatever her last mission was, it was a serious one. I'll keep my ear to the ground and poke around a little more to see what I can find out, but it does seem like a moot point now. If the mission was so important, why would they have let her leave?

John Casey is more of a mystery. I still don't know why he's in LA, or why his cover job (a sales rep at a chain electronics store) is what it is. He broke into an office building alone on Friday night, the person watching him told me, but the person then sheepishly added that he forgot to write down the address of the building and couldn't find it again. Useful, right? I'll watch for unusual break-in reports, but I'm not holding my breath.

Walker and Casey being in LA together seems to be a very large coincidence. Their paths cross often, but I've never seen them alone in the same place for long without a good reason. I have a funny feeling that the fiancé, the tech supervisor at the electronics store, got Casey his cover job—they live in the same apartment complex, carpool frequently, and socialize on a semi-regular basis. How's that for ironic? When Casey and Walker do end up socializing (mostly at the fiancé's bidding—if only he knew Casey was an NSA agent!), all their interactions are purely social. I'd be surprised if they've ever talked shop.

Because Walker's starting at the firm next Monday, it'll be easier to keep eyes on her. I'm going to shift most of the surveillance that's been on her to Casey. He's still an active agent, and we know little about what's he's doing here—less than we know about Walker, even. If there's anything else I should be looking for, let me know.

Best,

Marilyn

-.-.-.-END-.-.-.-

Sequel: Chuck vs. the Accidental Benedict Arnold (see author profile)

A/N2: Again, thank you all for hanging with the story, particularly when you were less than pleased with how it was going. Hopefully, you're all at least indifferent to how it ended. Perhaps a few of you even liked it, but that might be a bit much to ask for. Not sure what my next FF project will be. We'll have to see.

...A/N2.1: I didn't realize that so many people were gunning for a sequel to the sequel! Holy crap. That's part of the reason the above A/N is so vague. Now we'll really have to see what happens...