A Flip of the Coin 1/4

Author: dettiot

Rating: M for language, sex and violence

Summary: What made Charles Carmichael agree to become Chuck Bartowski? Well, to start, it wasn't as much of a change as you'd think. A companion to the early chapters of Two Sides of the Same Coin from Carmichael's perspective.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck. No copyright infringement intended.

Author's Note: A lot of people said they really liked Carmichael in the first chapter of Two Sides of the Same Coin and it made me realize that we don't get to spend a lot of time with him. So I got inspired to explore his mindset and how he came to the Intersect Project. I hope you enjoy this! Many thanks to Steampunk . Chuckster for all her help with this fic.

This story begins about a month before Carmichael's mission with Sarah in the Dominican Republic.

XXX

The moment he stepped into CIA headquarters, Charles Carmichael was braced for what was about to happen. What was that line about how you shouldn't do something great if you couldn't handle the celebration?

He really needed to remember that.

As he walked through security, a buzz started among the other agents in the area. Charles tried not to notice it. Tried not to notice the eyes on him, the whispers of Charles Carmichael that started to fill the halls. And then somebody started clapping and it was all over.

With an inner sigh, Charles pasted on a smile and nodded to the crowd. He accepted the handshakes and the hearty pats on the back. Listened to the compliments and praise. Let people admire him, stand in awe of his work.

Yet it all felt so . . . so hollow.

Shaking his head, Charles gently cut off the agent who was gushing over one of his old missions. It must not have been as gentle as he intended, though-the agent looked crestfallen and embarrassed, letting Charles go without another word.

Why did it-the praise, even the accomplishment of completing another mission successfully-feel empty? Charles considered that as he headed to Langston Graham's office. He'd been a field agent for five years and a member of the CIA for eight. Recruited during his sophomore year at Harvard, from the start Charles had been someone who attracted notice. Being seen as a tactical and strategic genius would do that, he mused. Having bigwigs who knew his name as soon as he arrived at the Farm, being sent to Agency functions while still in training, all the opportunities and advantages he had received-it had been clear pretty early on that he wasn't considered a normal recruit.

But the attention had only gotten more intense once he was in the field. Once he began showing he was more than just book smart. It hadn't been easy, Charles acknowledged. There had been a lot of hard work: physically, mentally, emotionally, he had stretched himself to his very limits. Thanks to his exertion and a little luck, though, he had risen through the ranks to become one of the most successful agents in the CIA's history. He had his pick of assignments, a certain degree of power, and a near-constant stream of requests for his assistance.

And none of it mattered.

Stabbing the button for the elevator that would take him to the floor with Graham's office, Charles told himself he was being as melodramatic as his teenaged self. Certainly a high case closure rate mattered: it meant he was doing his job of keeping the country safe. Thwarting terrorist plots and ending revolutions wasn't something that anyone could do, and he happened to be pretty damn good at it.

It was the politics, the expectations, that didn't matter. He could care less that Graham and his bosses wanted him to move out of the field and into administration; that wasn't for him. Thanks to his success, he could ignore most of the political wheeling and dealing that went on among his fellow agents. And honestly, he preferred it that way. Preferred working on his own mostly, preferred not having a partner and instead working with various agents on a case-by-case basis.

So what was the problem? When did the applause start to become an inconvenience-a drawback?

Charles stepped into the elevator and selected the button for the fourth floor. He leaned against the side of the car, not missing how three different agents made to step onto the elevator, saw him, and immediately turned away.

Once the doors shut, the mirrored panels threw his reflection back to him. His appearance wasn't out of the ordinary: tailored suit in a deep charcoal gray, a pale gray shirt and a tie with blue and silver swirls. His wingtips were slightly scuffed, but all in all, he looked like your average CIA agent. Or at least, that's what he tried to achieve.

For years, he had been trying to fit in. No, not fit in, not exactly . . . just not attract too much attention to himself. As a spy, his very nature was to blend in. To become part of his surroundings. When he was out in the field, he could do that. Whether it was posing as a Russian arms dealer, performing surveillance while melting into a crowd in Marrakech, or seducing an Italian countess, Charles Carmichael could become whatever was required. It was when he had to be himself that the problems began.

He frowned a little and pushed aside such thoughts as the elevator doors opened. Graham had requested his presence the next time he was at headquarters and Charles wasn't quite sure why. So he spent the next five minutes determining a list of possible reasons for this meeting and developing a strategy for reacting to each of those possibilities.

"Ahh, Agent Carmichael. Have a seat," Langston Graham said, rising from his desk chair as Charles stepped into his office.

"Thank you, Director," Charles said, nodding to Graham as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in the chair across from him. "It's good to see you."

"You're not often in the vicinity of Washington, so I hope this meeting isn't inconvenient," Graham said, settling back into his chair.

It would seem that whatever Graham wanted to talk about, it was something he thought would annoy Charles: thus the kid-glove treatment. Charles tilted his head to the side. "Not at all. I like to come through every three or four months, just to make sure I remember where Headquarters is."

Graham let out a dark huff of laughter, confirming Charles's suspicion of what was to come. Because Graham wasn't one to laugh at Charles's jokes unless he wanted something.

"Perhaps you need to reconsider being a field agent, if you're in danger of forgetting where Headquarters is," Graham said smoothly. "I have several teams and task forces that would love to have Charles Carmichael as their leader."

And there it was, Charles thought with an inner sigh. It had been about six months since Graham had tried once again to get him to move up the ladder, so he was right on schedule with this request. But that wasn't what Charles wanted.

Although . . . maybe he should consider it. Perhaps that was what he needed to find a new kind of meaning with his job: find a new challenge. And leading a team, being the one to plan the operations from the start and utilize the team's resources wouldn't be so different from what he already did on missions. Yet being in charge officially, he suspected, would be very different. So it might be a challenge.

But having people depend on him like that, looking to him for guidance and support-that didn't sound like the kind of work he wanted to do. He could admit that his current system suited him. If he worked well with an agent, it made the mission go smoothly. If things didn't click, at least he was stuck with the other agent for just one assignment.

So Charles looked at Graham and shook his head. "I'm content with field work, Director. Thank you for the opportunity, of course."

Graham leaned back in his chair. "You have to understand our perspective, Agent Carmichael. We see great things in you. So much potential. But we also see an agent not living up to his potential."

"I appreciate that perspective-but I don't agree with it," Charles said calmly. "I won't come out of the field unless I find a team or task force where my skills are truly needed."

The director looked annoyed by that answer, but Charles just looked at him with a nonchalant expression and Graham gave up. "Very well, Carmichael. I don't suppose you'd throw me a bone and let me suggest a few agents that you could work with on upcoming assignments?"

"Of course I'm willing to listen to your suggestions," Charles said, trying to keep his graciousness from coming across as smug. "You know more about the field operatives available than I ever could."

If Graham had been anyone other than the deputy director of the CIA, Charles was pretty sure he'd be rolling his eyes right now. He slid a folder across his desk to Charles. "You'll find some names and service records inside. If anyone appeals to you, just contact Operational Support."

Charles murmured a soft noise of acknowledgement as he ran his eyes over the list. He stopped when he saw the name at the bottom: Agent Sarah Walker.

The way Graham kept trying to do the agency version of matchmaker was moving past humorous to annoying. Because this wasn't the first time he had attempted to get Charles to work with his latest pet agent.

Not that there was anything wrong with Graham identifying agents that were worthy of his patronage and then giving them all the benefits of such patronage. Charles himself had been the recipient of those benefits himself when he was starting in the CIA. But that didn't mean he wanted to work with Walker.

She was good, he admitted. Her reputation was that she got the job done, often flying by the seat of her pants. She was a loose cannon and completely loyal to Graham. That wasn't a combination that appealed to him.

Yet it didn't mean he wasn't curious about her. Because she was also reputed to be pretty damn hot, and that was saying something within the ranks of attractive people that made up the National Clandestine Service. And sometimes, a mission called for a female agent who could make men forget their name. Given that Walker could do that-all while she was planning where to slip a knife into said man-made her an interesting option.

"I thought Walker was partnered with Larkin," he said, looking at Graham.

"Larkin's in deep cover and Walker's at loose ends."

"Hmmm," Charles said, mulling over that interesting piece of intel. He closed the folder and stood up. "I don't think we had anything else to discuss?"

Graham shook his head and stayed seated. "That's all, Agent Carmichael."

Charles gave Graham a nod and turned, walking out of the office. He slid the folder of potential mission partners into his laptop bag and headed towards the second-floor visiting agents bullpen: an area of cubicles for anyone who was in town and needed workspace. He'd hunker down with some files and his laptop and figure out what he was going to do next. Once he knew his next mission, he could figure out what operatives would suit his needs.

It was simple and cut-and-dried, really. At least it was to him. Most of his work came pretty easily to him now. Hopefully, he wouldn't get distracted by wondering why he was tired of being good at his job.

XXX

His eyes moving around quickly, Charles looked for someplace that would give him cover. But as a six-foot-four Caucasian in Tokyo, he was finding that was a difficult search. Someplace crowded, that was what he needed. And in the Ginza, an upscale shopping area, it was just a matter of picking any of the luxury stores that lined its streets.

The sound of muffled shouts behind him made his decision. He was just outside the Sony Building, and there was definitely a crowd inside. So Charles casually slipped into the showroom for the electronics giant.

Inside the store, there was a loud buzz of conversations punctuated by beeps, whistles and bells. Everywhere he looked, people were surrounding display models, trying out new electronics. Large video screens took up the walls, advertising products and displaying the progress of gamers using the store's gaming consoles.

Charles felt his eyes widen slightly as he watched the video games. They had really come a long way from his old NES. Moving around the store, he edged over towards the area featuring the PlayStation 3.

It had been a long time since he had done any gaming-not since his early teens. The fact that there was a new PlayStation had completely slipped his notice, thanks to the whole being-a-spy thing. And since he needed to stay here for a while, why not pass the time getting familiar with the newest flagship console?

Stopping at a touch screen kiosk, he tapped on the screen to bring up the German display. He didn't want to pick English and give himself away, and he knew German well enough to get by.

He slowly read through the marketing materials on the new system, at first making sure to glance around his surroundings enough to ensure he hadn't been spotted. But after a few minutes, he got sucked into all the technical specifications, feeling intrigued. To think, the NES that seemed top-of-the-line when he was a kid was exponentially outstripped by this new console in so many ways. Reading over all this, it made him feel like ten-year-old Chuck Bartowski, talking with his best friend about video games and cheat codes. Feeling that same surge of excitement and limitless possibilities.

It had been a long time since he had felt that. And he should really stop. Get his focus back on the mission, finish the job and get out of Japan. His childhood habits didn't relate to this job-they weren't necessary and he didn't have time for a stroll down memory lane.

But instead, he walked to a newly-vacated display unit and picked up the controller. It was so large and chunky compared to the tiny NES unit-and more complicated. More buttons, more triggers, more . . . everything.

The screen in front of him blinked with the message START NEW GAME? At least that was familiar.

Gazing at the screen, Charles suddenly missed Morgan. Which was pretty ridiculous, since it had been years since he had done more than email his old friend. And the emails were few and far between, he admitted. But standing here, holding a game controller and getting ready to play a video game, he wished he had kept in better contact with Morgan.

He wished a lot of things, actually.

If he hadn't gone to boarding school at thirteen-if he had stayed in California, maybe his dad wouldn't have left. He wouldn't have become Charles Carmichael-he would have stayed Chuck Bartowski. What sort of person would he have become, what sort of life would he have if he hadn't left?

Would he have been happier?

And just why was he wondering that? Charles frowned. He was . . . well, no, he wasn't happy now. There were too many nagging questions and minor annoyances tugging at him to call himself happy. But he was certainly content. He was doing good work, serving his country and keeping the world safe. He got to travel and see all kinds of exotic destinations. He had plenty of money, good health, and a challenging career. What more could he want?

Friends. Family. Love.

His frown deepened. That-that was . . .

Charles put down the controller and stepped away from the console. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be thinking about playing games when there was still work to be done. Video games were something that he used to do-they wouldn't fill the hole inside him, wouldn't fix what was broken in his life.

Not that his life was that broken. No more than any other spy's. He was fine. Just fine. There was nothing wrong with him.

Straightening up to his full height, Charles headed for the door of the store. When he stepped out onto the street, he walked with confidence, almost with swagger. The bad guys were looking for him? Let them find him, then. Because if they did, he would take care of them. There was a tranq gun shoved in the back of his trousers and he was an expert in several martial arts disciplines. He could take them.

He was Charles Carmichael. He wasn't some nerd who couldn't throw a punch. He was an agent of the CIA and a badass.

And if he kept reminding himself of that, he'd be able to push aside this self-doubt. And this strange, half-baked longing for something else.

XXX

Leaning his head back against the seat of the jet, Charles admitted to himself that not following his own rules was a stupid idea.

About two years ago, after several missions that hadn't gone according to his plans, he had performed a thorough analysis of each mission to see what the failure point was. Although there were always multiple reasons why an operation went off the rails, he was able to link most of the problems to a lack of connection between himself and the agent he worked with on those missions.

He had high standards, he knew. Possibly too high. But he wasn't going to suffer fools gladly and he wasn't about to commit to a potential partner without putting them through their paces first. That meant working single missions together and then reassessing. But the problem was, how to quickly craft that connection with an agent, a connection that would let them get through their shared mission?

For Charles Carmichael, getting a drink first before the assignment began was the way he did just that. It let him see the other agent in a more relaxed setting, let him get a feel for their quirks. It was unorthodox but it worked.

The mission in Japan, there hadn't been time to get a drink with Agent Shaw first. There was no trust, no understanding. It was little wonder that the operation blew up in their faces and they had barely gotten out of the country alive and with the intelligence they were after.

It would go down as a win, but not to Charles. He had higher standards. So he resolved that on his next mission, if it was time-sensitive, he'd just do it alone rather than go into the field with someone he wasn't sure of.

Hopefully, though, that wouldn't be necessary. Pulling his computer bag out, he extracted his laptop and settled in to do some work, thankful that private jets and the CIA's budget and research knowledge allowed for Internet access. He plugged in and began scrolling through intelligence reports.

Nothing seemed all that interesting. He bypassed the Eastern European and Russia jobs-he still had a price on his head from his incursion against Alexei Volkoff. There was always work in Afghanistan and Pakistan, but given the vast amount of resources the CIA was throwing there, he felt like that part of the world was covered. For his money, it was the small, seemingly inconsequential jobs that ended up being the real game-changers.

Charles rolled his eyes a little at the cliches and kept looking. After an hour, though, he was rewarded: chatter out of the Dominican Republic about President Fernandez's recent speeches, linking problems within the country to Trujillo-era terrorists located in the United States. It was the kind of nonsense an elected leader spouted when things weren't going well, but Charles was intrigued by the connection. He could almost feel the neurons in his brain firing as he began digging into the intelligence and doing his own research.

By the time the jet had landed in Washington, he had a working theory and enough information to support an operation. Now the only question was who he should work with. He doubted the list Graham gave him last week was still accurate-at least, not in full-so once he arrived at headquarters, he went straight to the field agent scheduling office.

After a few minutes of searching, the best option looked to be Sarah Walker. Charles pursed his lips and thought that over as he took the stairs to Graham's office, needing the extra time to think more than the convenience of the elevator.

There was no good reason for him to hold out. Walker was a pretty good agent and just because Graham wanted them to work together didn't change that fact. And there was enough time before the mission started for them to have a drink in the next day or so. Yet something about giving in to Graham put his teeth on edge.

Or maybe it was just the rumors about Walker. About how she tended to make a play for her partner. Most gossip said that she and Larkin had a fairly hot-and-heavy partnership-one that had ended abruptly on both personal and professional levels when he went into deep cover.

Scoffing, Charles brushed that aside. He knew how much of an old-boys network the CIA was; just because he wasn't a woman didn't mean he ignored that fact. Women were held to a different and unfair standard, one that he didn't agree with. Regardless of the rumors about the various agents he worked with, he tried to give everyone a fair shake. That was part of the reason for pre-mission drinks.

So he'd let Walker prove herself to him without judging her first. It'd be interesting to see for himself what it was about her that made Graham her biggest cheerleader. And for this mission in the Dominican, she was a damn good fit: skilled, experienced in presidential security, not rumored to do anything that he found annoying.

And his decision to work with Walker would probably make Graham's day, he thought to himself with a grin as he swept into the deputy director's office.

XXX

When he stepped into the H Street Country Club, a quick scan of the bar confirmed his belief that Walker wasn't already here. It was only 7:45 and parking was notoriously bad around here. He didn't mind waiting for her-he preferred being the first one here.

Nabbing a stool that was halfway down the long bar, Charles slid his jacket off and draped it over the stool's back. "Dos Equis, please," he said to the bartender as he settled into his seat. Within a few moments, he had a cold beer in his hand and was ready to meet Sarah Walker. But for a few moments, he let himself relax a little. Rolling up his shirt sleeves, he rested his forearms on the edge of the bar and mulled the thought of seeing his sister.

Over the last year, he had been making more of an effort to reach out to Ellie. Certainly they had stayed close after he left for boarding school, but phone calls and emails could only go so far. While he was in school, there hadn't been the money to allow many visits; by junior year, he was usually lining up jobs and friends to stay with during the summer, so he didn't come home to California and Ellie couldn't come East. The same pattern continued when he started at Harvard. So although Ellie had been there when he graduated high school and college, and he'd done the same for her college and med school graduations, their visits had always been short and squeezed in.

But everything had changed when he had nearly missed her wedding two months ago.

A mission, one that he thought would wrap up with plenty of time to spare, had instead become one of those assignments that seemed to never end. He hadn't been able to get things wrapped up enough to allow him to leave for California until the morning of the wedding. It had taken a lot of pulled strings to allow him to be in the church in time for the ceremony. At the time, he thought he'd just stay for the reception and then head off to another assignment. But Ellie had different ideas.

"Do you realize we haven't spent more than twelve hours together since you were eighteen?" Ellie had asked, pinning him with her hazel eyes. "I know how busy your job keeps you, but . . . but I miss you."

"Aren't you afraid I'll just sit around and play video games all the time?" he said, trying to make a joke out of it.

Ellie, who had always been smarter than him, had tilted her head to one side and looked at him for a long moment. "That's not who you are anymore, but if that's who you want to be, I wouldn't mind. Just so I could have my little brother around for more than a day."

Charles had felt his stomach sink. Why had he said that? Why had he let slip the strange, unsettled feelings that were bothering him? Especially around his sister-Ellie was always like a bloodhound when she suspected something was wrong. But to his surprise, Ellie had just given him a small, slightly sad smile and kissed his cheek. "Think about it, Charles. You're always welcome, even if I'm now Mrs. Woodcomb."

The timing hadn't been right then. But maybe after this mission to the Dominican Republic, he could put in for some time off. He'd banked plenty of leave over the years and he knew Ellie meant what she said. The more he thought about the idea, the more appealing it seemed. Charles ran a hand through his hair and considered the real heart of the matter: if he didn't put in for the time now, he probably wouldn't do it.

Pulling out his phone, Charles called the scheduling office and let them know that after this mission he was taking a week off. As he finished the call, he noticed it was eight o'clock. He put away his phone and glanced towards the door before taking a small sip of his beer. Walker should be here any second now.

The faint clump of boot heels made him turn his head, his eyes locking on the owner of the boots: a woman with the unmistakable air of being a spy. A woman who also matched the descriptions he'd heard of Sarah Walker: beautiful, stunning, gorgeous, with eyes that didn't give away anything.

She was all that and more. And maybe those baby blues were mysterious to other people, but there was something about her eyes that drew him in . . . and made him feel like he knew her.

He couldn't help a small grin. "Walker, I presume?"

There was a small flutter in her throat. Like she swallowed down whatever she was going to say and instead went with, "That's me. And you're Carmichael."

As she sat next to him, Charles felt like his whole body was on high alert. It was unnerving, exciting, and interesting. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this.

Sarah Walker was a very composed woman. Some would see it as reserve, even coldness, but Charles didn't. No, underneath the surface, she had a strong heart. She cared. At least, that was his read on her. Passion wasn't something he had ever heard talked about when it came to her, and it made him wonder just how blind his fellow agents were.

It also made him want to see how she reacted if her composure was challenged. So while she was looking over the drink choices, he leaned in to read the menu over her shoulder. He could tell she was slightly annoyed at his forwardness. But he was thrown by his own reaction. Because . . . damn.

Charles moved back from her and wrapped his fingers around his beer. So that experiment had backfired, because that high alert feeling had changed into an electric tingle, one that made his skin heat up and his stomach tighten. He had never been affected so strongly by anyone, out of the dozens of beautiful women he had encountered over the years.

Perhaps it had just been too long since he'd been on a date or any kind of social encounter with a woman. Not that this was a date-it was work. And he needed to remember that.

But it was tough. Because he was very quickly discovering that Sarah Walker had a dry wit and a no-nonsense attitude that he liked. She didn't back down from an argument but kept it civil. And when they talked about the mission, her insights lined up with his.

All in all, this mission was looking more interesting by the minute. He actually felt his spirits drop when she finished her drink and reached for her purse.

"Leaving, huh? No interest in dinner?"

For a split-second, he could see her reconsider. And he found himself hoping that she would stay and have dinner with him. But then she shook her head and gave him a small smile. "I still have a few things to wrap up before we leave. Another time, maybe."

Her half-hearted promise made him feel like a teenager. Like the bumbling, shy nerd he had been when he first started noticing girls. And that was ridiculous. He had moved on from being Chuck years ago. Just because he felt like something was missing in his life didn't mean that he should pin any or all his hopes on Sarah Walker. A woman he would be working with and who didn't deserve to have any doubts about just why she was on this mission with him. She was there because she was good. Not because she was beautiful.

"Your loss," he said, trying to sound unaffected and casual. "There's an indoor mini golf course upstairs, and I'm lousy at it. You could have won easily."

From the way she tensed up a little, and the cool tone to her voice when she said, "Tempting," Charles knew his answer had come across as more arrogant than breezy. It made him want to kick himself. To find some way to not seem like an asshole. So when she reached for her wallet, he acted on instinct.

"I've got this," he said, his hand covering hers. He ruthlessly ignored the spark that went through him at the touch of her hand and pulled his fingers away, rising to his feet and gesturing to the bartender. "I'll see you tomorrow, Walker."

He didn't know if his offer to pay had done enough to set things right between them. He hoped it had, especially when he saw her have to steady herself a little when she stood up. Could she have been as affected as he was?

Her wisecrack about enjoying the mini golf made him laugh. Something that not many people could do. So he gave her a small salute as he bid her goodbye. The smile she flashed before she walked away made him realize that he was in trouble. Because her smile, even when it was small and quick, made him feel warm all over.

Picking up his beer, he threw back the last of it, making a face at the flat, bitter taste. "Shit," he muttered.

But he wasn't really talking about his beer.

XXX

"Carmichael! Charles, stop!"

The sound of her voice finally penetrated the sleepy haze he was in, which made him realize what he was doing. Walker was pinned underneath him on the bed, his hips and legs holding her down while his hands gripped her wrists. Her eyes were wide, but not with fear-with confusion.

"Oh, shit." As fast as he could, he rolled off her and moved to the edge of the bed, letting his head hang as he ran his hands through his hair.

He had done it again. Damn it, he should have known better than to relax around her enough to fall asleep first.

It began on his third mission after he finished training at the Farm. He'd always been a sound sleeper and prone to talking in his sleep-and occasionally even somnambulism. On that mission, his fellow agent gave him a bad vibe. He had a personal cell phone that he never failed to answer, he was evasive with Charles, and he would disappear for short periods of time. When the mission went south, Charles couldn't help wondering if this guy had tipped off the terrorists. But without any real evidence, there was nothing he could do or say.

But that night, in the hotel room they shared, Charles had been the first to fall asleep, and then had proceeded to hold a knife against the suspected traitor's throat, without waking up until the agent had punched him in the face.

Only the fact that he was right-the guy was a traitor-allowed Charles to keep his sleepwalking quiet. He had done some research and discovered various methods that would help him cope with his unconscious behavior. He hadn't had an episode in years.

But Walker-Sarah-she shook him up. In ways he hadn't experienced ever before. Something about her made him uncertain. Tested him. Challenged him in ways that went beyond the professional.

And then there was the chemistry.

Charles hunched his shoulders a bit more. Just because she made him hot, turned him on like no other woman ever had, it was no excuse for how he had acted around her. For God's sake, he was an adult, not some teenage nerd. He could control himself.

Like you did earlier?

It was all he could do not to groan at the memory of yanking her back into that darkened room inside the presidential mansion, pressing her against the door in order to keep her safe. Because the danger, the spark of their argument about tactics, and how her curves felt even better than he had imagined, it all combined to make his body react.

She had known exactly how affected he was. The way she had rolled her hips against his was more crushing than getting slapped in the face. Because her face had been completely blank, her eyes for once unreadable, as she moved against him.

He had no clue what she thought of him. But he knew he had to get his shit together. And having his sleepwalking problem choose now to re-emerge was the last thing he needed.

There was a soft cough from next to him and he heard Sarah shift on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly as she moved to sit on the edge near him. "Okay there?" she asked softly, her voice showing neither censure nor sympathy.

His jaw tensed a little, the embarrassment making him avoid her eyes. "Yeah. Sorry."

That was a crappy apology. She deserved better and he had already opened his mouth to try again when she took the blame. And that made him lift his head and give her the apology she deserved.

As he spoke, as he looked at her, he could feel the awkwardness of the situation start to ebb. That was good. Because if nothing else, he was starting to think that Sarah Walker would make a hell of a partner. She was even better than Graham had said she was. Sure, she worked on instinct and went off half-cocked at times, but he thought she would balance him out and vice versa.

So to keep this somewhat professional, he offered to sleep on the floor. And her response, so full of disbelief and amusement, turned the tables on the conversation. Because she flushed as soon as she realized what she said, and seeing the pink spread across her cheeks . . . it was endearing. And it made him want to flirt with her.

And she flirted back. She nudged him with her elbow, she looked at his lips. He could feel the tension growing inside him, the tension that hadn't ever really gone away since that moment in the darkened room, and he knew that there was only one way for that tension to be released.

He wanted her. Badly. Enough to throw out all the rules about agent relationships and any future working partnership they could have, if only he could find out what it would be like if he pressed up against her again.

The words he was saying, about being stuck, they didn't even make all that much sense. He'd never been able to come up with the charming phrases that other men seemed to when they were flirting. He just had to hope that she was getting the message. Because without a clear sign from her . . . he wouldn't make a move.

When she lifted her face towards his, her lips hovering an inch away and her eyes locked on his, Charles wasn't sure if that was enough of a sign. But it had to be, because he needed to kiss her.

The moment their lips came into contact, Charles nearly sighed. Because her mouth was warm and soft, because she used just the right amount of pressure, because there was something indescribable about how she made him feel. He rested a hand on her back as he took his time kissing her.

Whatever it was that she brought out in him, he liked it. He wanted more. And he wanted to give her more. This was going to be the best night of her life, he hoped. Because it was already looking like the best of his.

So he nuzzled her neck and pushed her down on the bed, running his hands over her frankly intoxicating body as he prepared to make the beginning of this night about her pleasure.

Not in order to coerce her into a blow job or anything tawdry like that. Not because he was apologizing for what had happened earlier. No, he began kissing his way up her thigh towards her center because he wanted to taste her.

And when his mouth covered her, Charles Carmichael felt like his world began to make sense again.

XXX

Was it normal, after the best sex of your life, to feel regret?

Charles didn't know. Because he hadn't often been in this position: lying naked next to a near-complete stranger who still felt more familiar and more important than nearly everyone else in his life.

Sarah was sleeping on her stomach, her arms underneath her pillow and her back to him. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect she had a knife under that pillow. But he knew she didn't. He knew she had fallen asleep beside him, her back turned towards him in an unconscious show of trust.

And that was the last thing he deserved.

What the hell was he thinking? He had never done this before: sleep with an agent at the end of a mission. He had better control than that, he had other ways of releasing adrenaline. Ways that didn't involve orally pleasuring a woman he would love to work with again.

Good luck getting either of those things.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Charles told himself to calm down. But it was just as ineffective as when you told someone else to calm down. Because his mind was racing and he felt like he was going crazy.

Working with Sarah again seemed unlikely. Because he knew he wouldn't be able to not touch her, to not want her. Not when a quick glance at her now made him want to wake her up and-

It would be too dangerous. If he couldn't control himself around her, it would interfere with any mission they were on, complicate situations that needed to be straightforward. There was a reason that officially the CIA was against interagency relationships. They might turn a blind eye towards most couplings that occurred, but when they got in the way of an assignment the couple in question would be severely disciplined.

With the brunt of the punishment falling on one of the agents-typically the female one, in the heterosexual relationships.

That was the last thing Charles wanted.

But could he have what he really wanted? A way of seeing Sarah again? Like . . . dating?

He rubbed a hand over his face and got out of bed, pulling on his wrinkled clothes. No. That ship had sailed. Jumping the gun and sleeping with her tonight was the last way to start a relationship. He hadn't dated much, but he knew that much. Just imagining the awkward attempts at conversation, with their memories of what they had already shared together, was enough to make him shudder.

No . . . it was more logical to just make this a one-time interaction. Yes, they had worked well together. Yes, they had spent the night together. But neither of those facts meant that either situation should continue.

Gathering his things, Charles saw that he had a text message. Scrolling through it, he felt an odd sense of relief. Because Graham wanted him on the first flight to New York, to present the intel they had recovered to the UN.

And now he had the perfect reason to leave now. To keep the logic and reason behind his decision from being weakened by emotion. He would just leave now and avoid any unpleasantness in the morning.

It only took a few moments to be ready. He glanced at his watch and nodded. The first flight to New York would be leaving in two hours-plenty of time.

Yet when he reached out to open the door, he paused, his hand resting on the doorknob. Should he just leave like this? Without telling Sar-Walker what had happened?

There wasn't much time to spare. Charles fumbled around and found a pad of paper in his bag. Hunting for a pen seemed to take much longer than it should, but finally he had something to write with. Which left him staring at the blank page, wondering what to say.

Should he reassure her that it was just work? Say something about enjoying having worked with her? No, that would be bad-there was too much room for innuendo and assumptions with that.

With a small grimace, he scribbled her name and then explained that he was going to New York on Graham's orders. He stared at the note, hating how cold and formal it was. So even though it wasn't what he wanted to say, because it was even more formal and didn't come close to how he really felt about this mission, he wrote that it was good to work with her before signing his name.

Honestly, she would probably wake up and feel the same kind of relief that he did. Feel grateful that he wasn't turning into some lovestruck idiot. Because Sarah Walker must have men falling at her feet. The last thing she probably wanted was to add him to the ranks of her admirers.

Charles closed the door carefully behind him, making sure the click wasn't loud enough to wake her. Then he faced forward and focused on what he was supposed to be doing: his job.

End, Chapter 1