It Was Just That the Time Was Wrong 1/2

Author: dettiot

Rating: T

Summary: Two percent of the world's population can travel in time, a much-studied yet barely-understood occurrence that is triggered when one of the affected reaches their twenty-first birthday. Each time traveler has an anchor: someone they interact with at various points in their respective lives who stabilizes their trip into the past. What happens when two travelers have each other as anchors . . . and they fall in love?

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

Author's Note: This fic was inspired by a prompt from fakecuddling on Tumblr, who asked for Chuck or Sarah as a time traveler with the other one as their anchor. I took the prompt in a slightly different direction, but one that I hope y'all will enjoy. And I read about a hundred pages of The Time Traveler's Wife before stopping because I was bored. Hopefully, you won't do the same to my fic!

XXX

I can't do the talk like they talk on TV
And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be
I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you
I can't do anything except be in love with you

Romeo & Juliet, Dire Straits

XXX

Chuck Bartowski is nine years old and he's hiding behind the last row of bookshelves in the Encino-Tarzana branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. He's hiding because he doesn't want anyone to know that he's crying.

It's been three weeks since his mom disappeared, and he doesn't understand what's going on. His dad stays locked up in his office and only comes out when Ellie bangs on the door and yells that they don't have anything to eat. And he only opens the door because he can't slide money under the door.

On TV, when people disappear, the police get called. In comics, the Avengers or the Justice League would help find a missing person. But no one seems to be looking for his mom. Except Chuck. And he just wants her to come home and read him a story and make him feel safe. Ellie tries her best, and she does help . . . but he really wants his mom back.

Suddenly there's a soft gasp and Chuck looks up, rubbing away his tears quickly. Then his eyes go wide, as he sees who's standing at the end of the aisle.

It's the prettiest lady he's ever seen. Prettier than Black Canary or She-Ra. The lady is blonde, just like those superheroes, with big blue eyes that are staring at him like she's seen a ghost.

He rubs his hand over his cheeks again, feeling his ears turn red. There's nothing wrong with crying-everyone cries. But he feels embarrassed by the way the lady is staring at him. "Um, hi?" he says, his voice squeaking a little.

Just like that, the lady seems to realize what she was doing. Her face smooths out, reminding him a little bit of his mom. Chuck presses his lips together and pushes himself up to his feet, not wanting to start crying again. "Hi," he says again. "Are you lost?"

She nods slowly. "Yes . . . a little." She looks around, then back at him. She smiles, a bit weakly. "Hi. I'm S-Sam."

There's a bit of a catch in her voice, like she was going to say some other name. But then, maybe he's just imagining it.

"I'm Chuck," he says. "If you're lost, the librarian can help you. She's right over there." He points in the general direction of where the librarians sit at their desk and answer questions.

Sam nods, not looking away from him. "Yes, of course." She takes a step back, then stops. "I . . . why were you crying just now?"

He's not sure if he should tell her. What if she calls the police and he and Ellie get taken away from their dad? What if he never sees Ellie or Dad or Morgan again, on top of maybe never seeing Mom again?

But . . . but he doesn't think she would do that. Sam seems nice. And a little sad. So Chuck tells her the truth.

"My mom's missing and no one's telling me anything about where she is. And-and I miss her."

Sam's face changes at his words. At least, her eyes get a lot softer and sadder, making her look like she might cry. "I'm sorry, Chuck. I wish I could help." She crouches down a little, looking right into his eyes. "But I'm sure your mom will come home someday."

Something about the way she looks at him makes his stomach feel funny. In a good way, not like how it did the morning after eating that cherry cheesecake with Morgan. But before he can say anything, like 'thank you' or 'do you really think so?', there's the sound of stomping feet and his best friend's voice.

"Chuck? Hey, Chuck!"

"Shhhh, Morgan! You're gonna get us in trouble," Chuck says, quickly brushing past the lady and looking around the end of the bookcase at Morgan.

"Ooops! Sorry," Morgan says, whispering loudly. "Ellie's looking for you. And she's upset. You better come now."

Chuck frowns and nods. "Okay, lemme just say-" He turns and blinks. Sam is gone. Like she just went poof and vanished into thin air. Just like his mom.

"Say what?" Morgan says, coming to stand beside Chuck.

Maybe he was going crazy. No, he definitely was. Imagining pretty blonde ladies, talking to him and saying nice things. Chuck sighs, feeling his shoulders droop some. "Nothing, Morgan. C'mon, let's go." He turns and starts walking, letting Morgan chatter excitedly about something or other. Chuck's not really listening. He's worrying about what's bothering Ellie. He's scared about what's going to happen. But he's also wondering if maybe Sam had been real.

XXX

When she was back in her right time, Sarah Walker closed her eyes tightly and tried not to cry. Because if she started now, she might not ever stop. She has encountered her husband at a hundred different times in his life, but the image of nine-year-old Chuck, all curls and gangly limbs, crying because his mother was gone . . . It broke her heart. Especially since she knew what had happened when he found his mother.

She rolled over in their bed and pulled his pillow against her chest with one arm. The other arm she wrapped around her gently-rounded stomach, wishing that Chuck was here. Home, with her, safe and sound. Not lost in time again.

But this time, when he came back, she was going to tell him the truth. Tell him what her real name was. Just so he would know. It was something she should have told him a long time ago, really. Even though it broke their rule of no secrets, no lies, Sarah had held on to this one secret. So even though he actually kind of already knew her real name, since she had just told his nine-year-old self, she would tell him when he got back. Because she knew he wouldn't really remember her telling him her name.

XXX

It's very dark tonight, because there's no moon. Sam looks around, but in a casual way. She keeps her pace steady, trying not to attract any attention. She has less than a half-mile to go until she'll be back at the motel. Where she can eat the can of baked beans she's got in the plastic bag in her hand, where she can watch some TV with the door locked until her dad comes home.

If he comes home tonight at all.

Biting her lip a little, Sam keeps walking. There's not many cars along this dusty stretch of California highway, so if anyone tried anything . . .

Sam reaches into her pocket and grips her pocket knife. She'll be fine. She just has to get to the motel.

There's less than five hundred feet to go when suddenly, a beat-up pickup truck pulls up beside her. Sam carefully pulls her knife out, keeping it by her side. She's close enough to the motel that she could run, if she didn't have to cross the road. So it's better to be armed, just in case.

"Hey, honey," says a slurred voice inside the dark cab. "You wanna ride, sugar?"

"No, thank you," Sam says, inching past the truck. "I'm fine, mister."

"C'mon, don't be like that, pretty little thing like you . . ."

Now Sam knows the driver is drunk. She's all skinny and bony, with hair she keeps back in a ponytail. Her jeans are dirty and her sneakers have holes in them. She's not pretty.

And a drunk is unpredictable.

She ignores him and looks back and forth so she can cross the road. She's halfway to the other side when a door slams and she realizes the driver has climbed out, leaving his car running with the headlights on.

"C'mere an' I'll give you a treat," he says, menace and glee wrapped up in his voice. Sam doesn't want to look at him, but some cold, clinical part of her makes herself. Kind of tall, kind of fat with a beer belly that hangs out between his stained white tank and his jeans, wearing boots with steel toes.

If he hurts her, and she goes to the police, she'll have to be able to describe him.

"No," she says, trying to make her voice sound firm. But a little quiver leaks through, and Sam knows this man hears it and likes it. He likes knowing that she's scared. Likes scaring twelve-year-old girls who just want to go home and eat dinner.

Sam takes a step back, not wanting to turn around. Not yet. She's still too far from the motel, and she'd have to get out her key and get it in the door and the lock sticks . . .

The man takes two more steps, and he's nearly within arm's reach.

And then the truck goes silent and the headlights go dark. Sam can see someone standing by the truck, someone who must have turned the key in the ignition, as she turns and runs for the motel. She doesn't know why someone came along and stopped the truck's engine, but she knows a sign when she sees one.

Somehow, over the sound of her pounding feet and ragged breaths, she hears something. Sam looks over her shoulder, then slides to a stop as she sees the drunk man getting his ass kicked.

There's so little light that she can barely figure out what's going on. It looks like another man, a man who is beating up the drunk. She's curious about what kind of person would do that-did he hear what the drunk was saying to her? Did he put two and two together and step in to stop this?

Sam needs to figure this out. She doesn't know anyone who would ride to the rescue like this for someone like her. So she takes a few steps towards the road, getting a better look.

The stranger is really tall. And he's skinny, but from the way the drunk is whimpering after each punch, there must be some muscle there, too. It's like he's some kind of ninja. He's got dark hair and he's wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

The drunk collapses on the road and the stranger stops, taking a deep breath. He runs a hand through his hair and even in the near-dark, Sam can tell his hand is shaking. Like he's upset at what he's done.

And something in her makes her want him to know she appreciates what he did. That if he hadn't helped her, bad things would be happening to her, right now. Softly, she calls out, "Thanks, mister."

He whirls around, nearly stumbling over his own feet and falling flat on his butt. And Sam can't help the small giggle that escapes her lips before she slaps her hand over her mouth.

The stranger gives her a sheepish, rueful smile. "Some superhero, huh? Nearly wiping out over my own feet." He grows serious and steps towards her, but keeps plenty of space between them. "Are you okay?"

Sam nods. "Yeah-nothing happened. He just . . ." She lets her voice trail off, and the stranger finishes her sentence.

"Scared you?"

She nods again and shifts her feet. "Yeah. So, um, thanks."

He smiles a little. "You're welcome. Where were you going?"

It's a little weird that he asks where instead of why. Why is she out here at this hour, why is she all alone. But then, this whole night feels pretty weird, so Sam just accepts it. "Here," she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder towards the motel. Something she wouldn't tell most people, even ones who had saved her from a bad situation. But something about this guy makes her trust him.

If only there was some moonlight for her to see him better.

The man nods. "Good. Get on home now and I'll take care of this . . . gentleman," he says, gesturing to the drunk who's now half-snoring, half-moaning on the pavement. "And be careful."

"Uh-huh," Sam says, turning for the motel.

"I mean it," he says, his voice very adult: all firm, but also with a lot of concern in it. "Be careful."

She looks back at him, feeling surprised. Because it's like . . . like he knows her. She can't put her finger on it, and he sure doesn't look familiar at all. But-but he knows her. And his words are just as much warning as some kind of request. Like he needs her to stay safe.

That's . . . that's really weird. And nice. Sweet, really. And Sam doesn't know what to do with all this, and she's never going to see this guy again, so . . . "Okay. I will," she says, looking at him for a minute before breaking into a run for her motel room.

Once she's inside with the door locked, Sam peeks out through the curtains. The stranger has moved the drunk guy into the truck-more proof that he was stronger than he looked-and is now standing by the side of the road, holding something that lights up his face. Could it be one of those new cell phones she's seen on TV? But she didn't know they were so small . . .

Whatever it is, it's not enough light for her to see the stranger's face, not from this distance, and after a moment the light vanishes. She doesn't know what happens, but the next morning, the truck is gone and her dad is back, whisking Sam away to the next town full of citizens to con.

XXX

He always knew she had it rough as a child. And that she had left things out when she talked about those days. But seeing a twelve-year-old Sarah, hearing her voice shake as she tried not to show how scared she was of a drunk pedophile . . . it made his blood burn. Made him lose control, in a way that had never happened to him before. Not even with Shaw.

Chuck looked at his computer monitor. While he had taken his trip to the past, the screensaver had kicked on, cycling through the photos folder on his computer. And all the images were of him and Sarah. He reached out to touch the screen when an image appeared of Sarah at Ellie and Devon's wedding. The screen was cold; pixels had no warmth. Not like Sarah's skin.

He missed her so much. He just wanted her back home, to be done with this never-ending mission against Alexei Volkoff. When they were together again, he was going to hold her so close to him and he wasn't going to let her go. She wouldn't remember that he had been there for her that day, so many years ago . . . but she would know he was here for her now.

XXX

The morning that Ellie pointed out that he needed new jeans, because you can see almost his entire tube sock in the pair he's wearing, Chuck decides he hates growth spurts.

Well, no, he doesn't hate them. He didn't want to stay five foot eight forever. But growing eight inches in one year . . . he feels like an alien. Like his mind's been stuck into someone else's body, one that he doesn't know how to use. He keeps bumping into things or falling over his own feet.

And with how tight money is, the last thing Ellie needs is worrying about keeping him decently clothed.

But there's nothing he can do about growing out of his clothes à la the Hulk, so before he goes to the comic book shop, he heads over to the Goodwill.

It's probably a futile quest: the last two times he came to Goodwill, he couldn't find anything that was long enough for his freakish giraffe legs. But he has to try. Goodwill means he can get all his comics; Old Navy means he'll have to beg Al at the comic shop to give him another week to pay for all the books Chuck has in his subscriber box. Al's already bent the rules for Chuck before and Chuck doesn't want to get the guy in trouble.

Flipping through the racks, Chuck finds himself bobbing his head in time with Hooked on a Feeling as it plays over the P.A. system. He hears someone humming, on the other side of the rack and off to his right where he can't really see who it is. It's a woman, he thinks.

He gets distracted when he spots a pair of jeans that might be a contender. He pulls them off the rack and holds them against himself, and he grins when he realizes they're long enough. He can't help bursting out with a celebratory "ooga-chaka ooga-ooga-chaka ooga-ooga-ooga-chaka!"

There's laughter behind him, and Chuck spins around and nearly falls into the rack of clothes. Because the laughter is coming from an absolutely gorgeous woman, a woman who's grinning at him. "Excited?" she asks.

For a minute, he has no idea what to say. His brain has totally frozen up, like a first-generation Pentium trying to run the newest version of Windows. Because this woman? She's beyond hot and she's laughing at him in a nice way. Like he's really funny and amusing.

When he realizes she's waiting for him to say something, Chuck finally catches up. "Yeah! Um, yes. It's hard for me to find jeans. Or any clothes, really. Not that I'm picky or anything. I've just grown a lot lately. My sister jokes that if I could just go around naked, it'd solve so many problems. But it wouldn't, because I'd get arrested. For nudity."

Oh my God, stop talking stop talking stop talking! His brain is doing all it can to make his lips stop moving, but his mouth is like a runaway train.

The woman laughs again, in that nice way, and nods. "Getting arrested would be a bad thing."

Chuck nods. "I wouldn't want to wreck my life, just because I couldn't find a pair of jeans that fit."

"We can't have that. Go try them on and I'll tell you what I think."

"What?!" Chuck blinks at her, feeling very confused. And also really nervous. Because . . . it was one thing to have Ellie eye him and tell him if he was good to go. But this woman? She was beautiful, wearing expensive-looking clothes-she clearly knew a lot about style. Unlike him.

She gives him a small smile and all but pushes him towards the fitting rooms. "Go on. You can pretend I'm your sister."

No one has that good of an imagination, he thinks as he walks towards the fitting room, not sure why he was going along with her. But . . . but it would be kind of nice to have a woman's opinion. A woman who wasn't related to him. And he did need to try on the jeans to make sure they'd fit his legs.

Still, he wonders why the mystery woman was offering to help him. Maybe he could ask her that when he came out of the fitting room, in the jeans that actually feel pretty good. They even make him look kinda cool, he thinks, giving himself one last look in the mirror.

"So, what do you think?" he says when he steps out of the room. He frowns when she's not there waiting for him, then starts looking around. He searches the whole store, only to realize that when he went into the fitting room, she must have bolted.

There's tons of reasons for her to leave, but Chuck can't help thinking it's because she didn't want to hurt his feelings. Which is nice and all . . . but also kind of ironic. Because he does feel a little bit hurt.

Chuck looks at himself in the mirror and sighs a little. At least the jeans fit.

XXX

She hadn't had any encounters with a teenage Chuck before. Seeing him, clearly getting used to his much-taller body . . . it was adorable. If she thought he was occasionally clumsy and downright nerdy now, it was nothing compared to how he had been during her latest trip to the past. But it was also sad. Because she could see the worry in him, how tense his shoulders were as he stood in that dingy Goodwill and tried to find a pair of jeans that would fit his gangly limbs. Chuck had looked about sixteen, which meant it had been a good two years since his father had left him and Ellie. The two siblings must have been barely getting by.

If only she had found the time to leave money with the cashier to pay for the jeans. That thought made Sarah wince. A time traveler without enough time. Although she hadn't had any money on her, either. Sarah made a mental note to start stashing twenties in all of her clothes, just in case.

Sarah sighed as she sipped her coffee and looked over at Chuck's coffee and eggs, growing cold and congealed. She hated when she came back from a trip only to find that her boyfriend had "leaped," to use his word for traveling into the past. Because whenever she came back from a trip, she didn't feel like herself until she had gotten a chance to kiss Chuck and tell him that she loved him. Meeting him, falling in love with him and getting to be with him . . . it made time travel a lot less scary. And definitely more interesting.

XXX

The book is really expensive. It's not fair: why does a glorified workbook cost so much money? The girl who was born Sam but is now Jenny Burton doesn't really know. But if she's going to pass geometry, she needs that book for her extra-credit assignment.

There's no sense in asking her dad for the money. First off, they're broke, thanks to the last few cons not panning out. Which was her fault, according to her dad. In the last year, Jenny had refused to help him with cons and now they were suffering because of it. But she just couldn't do it. If her dad went after scumbags and frauds, it'd be one thing. But no, "Jack Burton" specialized in bilking elderly women and ministers: good people who didn't deserve to be taken just because they didn't know all the cons.

She wouldn't help him rip off people that reminded her of her grandma, the woman who had raised her until she had chosen life with her dad. Sometimes, Jenny wondered what her life might be like if her seven-year-old self had made a different decision.

So asking Dad was out. And try as she might, she couldn't seem to find a job. She was willing to do nearly anything legal that would pay her a little money, but people always seemed to hire the kind of girl that Jenny wasn't: the kind who could smile and laugh at dumb jokes, who knew the right clothes to wear and the right TV shows to watch.

Jenny let her eyes move around the bookstore, casually. Not like a girl who was about to shoplift. Because using a five-finger discount was the only option if she was going to get that book and pass geometry-a totally pointless kind of math, in Jenny's opinion.

The clerk wasn't noticing anything other than the two sorority girls who were bending over in front of the desk, giving him an eyeful of their overdeveloped chests and tattooed lower backs. The only other person in the store was some grad student-looking guy, reading a comic book in the next aisle.

Taking a deep breath, Jenny checked for cameras or security mirrors. There weren't any in this little indie bookstore, so she carefully picked up the workbook and held it behind her back. She's just about ready to stick it down her pants and use her shirt to hide the rest, when a voice says quietly, "Have you considered the library?"

Jolting in surprise at the interruption, Jenny turns around. As she does, she loses her grip on the book and it falls to the floor, making a loud fwap as it takes a few books with it on the way down to the grubby carpet tiles.

The voice belongs to the grad student guy, who walks around the book case and bends down to pick up the book. "You can probably find this in the library," he says before meeting her eyes and speaking in a whisper. "You don't wanna steal this."

Over the last few years, she's gotten really good at shoplifting. She's done it dozens-no, a hundred times now. But something about the way this guy is looking at her makes her feel flustered. Flustered and embarrassed and ashamed.

"I-I wasn't gonna . . . " Her voice trails off as she realizes how stupid it is to lie when he caught her red-handed. She takes the book and hugs it against her chest.

The man tilts his head before, strangely, smiling at her. "It's okay. I stole a few books in my day. And I got caught and nearly screwed up my whole life. So when I saw you . . . I don't want that to happen to you."

Jenny blinks. "You-you don't?" Why would he care if something bad happens to her?

"Nope," the guy says breezily. "So give the library a try first, okay? Or maybe ask one of your classmates to lend you the book. I bet there's somebody else who has it, right?"

Who is this guy? Jenny takes another look at him, trying to figure him out. He looks early twenties, maybe, with messy curly hair and brown eyes. Kinda ordinary looking, really. But he's just so . . . nice. And normally that would be less than nothing to say about someone, but this guy-it fits him. Because he's nice, in the good sense of the word.

She nods a little and nibbles on her lower lip before speaking. "Yeah . . . there's someone I could ask." Sure, Brent was one of the rich kids, but he was pretty generous. In that whole "here, poor peasant, enjoy my kindness" way. It was show-offy and fake, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

But before she asked Brent, she would take this guy's advice and try the library.

"Great," the mystery man said, grinning at her. "Good luck-and be careful out there."

His words echo in her head for some reason. Jenny shakes her head and turns to put the book back on the shelf, so he knows she's not going to steal it. "You, too," she says as she looks back at him, only to look around in confusion when he's not there anymore.

With a frown, Jenny hoists her backpack onto her shoulders and leaves the bookstore, setting out for the long walk to the library.

XXX

Oh my God, time travel was so awesome! One minute he had been sitting in Professor Fleming's class, the next he was in a bookstore, getting to read one of his favorite issues of Teen Titans from eight years ago. What was more, he had helped that girl avoid his own near-fate by talking her out of shoplifting.

At least, Chuck hoped he had done that. He hadn't had as much time as he thought he would. So far, he'd only made a few leaps, and the amount of time seemed to vary. Most trips had only been a minute or two; today's had been the longest one yet at over fifteen minutes.

Traveling in time-or as the journalists and scientists called it, Unexplained Excursions to the Past or UEP for short-was still a new phenomenon, one that didn't affect many people. One theory said that the trips in which you came into contact with your anchor would be longer. It was just a matter of figuring out who your anchor was and seeking them out immediately when you realized you were in the past. So far, Chuck didn't know who his anchor was, but if the theory was correct, they must have been in that book store.

Maybe his next leap back would help fill in more of the blanks . . .

XXX

It was another sunny, beautiful day in southern California. Not that they didn't have a lot of those, but something about today makes even super-student Chuck wish he wasn't in school. When the bell rings, he deliberates about what he should do. Morgan has detention, due to an unfortunate incident involving a frog in biology class and the most popular and least smart girl in school being convinced to enact The Princess and the Frog. So Chuck is on his own, and he doesn't feel like going back to his empty house. With Ellie off at UCLA during the week, he gets lonely staying by himself, especially now that the appeal of being alone in the house has long worn off.

But hey, it's a good day. Maybe he could stop by the coffee shop and do his homework there. Morgan could meet him there and then they could go right to Morgan's house, for his weekly dinner with Morgan and his mom.

Yeah, that's a good plan. So with a spring in his step, Chuck walks to the coffee shop and gets in line, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He's looking up at the menu board, calculating how much money he has and if he can afford a medium white chocolate mocha or if he should get a small, when someone knocks him forward, nearly into the person in front of him.

"Whoa!" he says, hoping it's not one of the bullies from school. It's crazy that even post-growth spurt, he's still not safe from the jerks who pick on the kids they think deserve it.

But it's not a bully. It's a woman-a beautiful one-who looks maybe five years older than him. She seems disoriented and confused, her blonde hair covering most of her face as her head whips around the shop.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Chuck says, holding his hands up. "Don't freak out. Are you okay?"

She stares at him and bites her lip before nodding. "I-I'm fine."

Chuck's not sure he believes her, but he smiles and nods back. "Great. That's good. Are you sure?" Before the woman can say anything, Chuck grimaces. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked that. I'll leave you alone now."

He's already turning back around before he's even finished speaking, but then there's a hand on his arm. "No, it was nice of you," the woman says. "Thank you for asking. I . . . I'm a little out of it today."

"Aren't we all?" Chuck asks with a smile. "That's why we're standing in line at a coffee shop."

"I definitely need a coffee," she says, sliding her hands into her pockets. Then her face falls. "Damn it."

"What is it?"

She sighs, her shoulders slumping. "I don't have any money."

In the back of his mind, he can hear Ellie telling him not to fall for this. That he shouldn't trust beautiful women who don't have money. Meanwhile, a voice that sounds like Morgan says, "First coffee, then her phone number, then who knows?"

"I'll just . . ." the woman says, taking a few steps back to get out of line. But the wistful look she throws at the menu board decides things for Chuck.

"Wait," he says, reaching out to take her elbow. The moment his fingers make contact with her, Chuck feels a charge. A spark. Something he's never felt when he's touched another person. He stares at her and she stares back, looking equally shocked.

A throat clears and Chuck realizes he's now at the head of the line and the cashier is waiting for his order. He feels his ears turn red as he looks at the woman. "This one is on me."

"Oh, no, I couldn't-"

"I insist," Chuck says, giving a small tug on her elbow and pulling her up to the counter. "What's your pleasure?"

He hopes she's not one of those fluffy coffee drink types, but looking at her, he doesn't think so. She's beautiful, yes, but in a way that makes him think there's more to her than her looks. A lot more.

"A . . . a small black coffee," she says, looking at him.

Heaving an inner sigh of relief, Chuck turns to the barista. "A small black coffee and a small white chocolate mocha, please."

The barista nods and gets to work, and Chuck looks at the woman. "The coffee here is great. You'll really enjoy it."

"I'm sure I will. Thank you so much for paying," she says, giving him a shy smile.

"You-you're very welcome," Chuck says, feeling butterflies start tap-dancing in his stomach. "I'm glad I'm here to help."

The woman smiles wider and holds her hand out to him. "I'm Sarah. And since I don't accept coffee from strangers, you're . . . ?"

"Oh!" Chuck rubs his hand against his jeans and then takes hers, feeling that spark again. "Chuck. I'm Chuck."

"Chuck?" she repeats, holding on to his hand. "That's a nice name."

"You might be the first person since my parents to think so," he says without thinking, then groans softly. Bringing up his parents? What was he, eight instead of eighteen?

Thankfully, Sarah just smiles at him and then takes the coffees that the barista hands over while Chuck pays. She gestures to a table by the front of the shop, right by the row of tall windows, and Chuck follows her, wondering how he got so lucky. If anyone from school walks by and sees him with someone like Sarah . . .

What are you, some kind of Neanderthal? Ellie shrieks in his head. Ask her questions! Make her feel special, instead of just thinking about yourself!

"So, um . . ." he says, taking a seat across from her. "Do you live around here?"

Sarah doesn't respond right away; she puts some sugar in her coffee and sips it before answering. "Actually, I live in D.C. I'm just . . . visiting."

"I've never been to Washington! Is it nice? All the museums and the government and everything?" Chuck knows he's talking really fast and he hasn't even drunk any of his mocha. He makes himself take a few deep breaths.

"I haven't lived there very long-I just graduated from college and I've moved there for work," Sarah says, wrapping her hands around her mug. "What about you?"

"Me?" Chuck asks, sipping his mocha-what a great way to stall for time! "Well, um, I'm going to Stanford in the fall . . ."

He kinda wishes he didn't have to reveal that he's only just starting college, but then, if she's only visiting, he shouldn't get his hopes up too high about anything happening, really. Even though something about Sarah makes his heart pound.

"Congratulations," Sarah says, smiling at him. "It's a great school."

Chuck flushes. "Thank you. I, I'm really excited to go there." He takes another sip of coffee, hoping the hot beverage could be an explanation for his red ears.

For a few moments, they don't talk. They just drink coffee and look out the windows and catch each other's eyes occasionally. And Chuck can't explain it, but he feels like he knows Sarah.

His coffee is nearly done and he's trying to figure out a way to make this good feeling last longer, when Sarah takes a deep breath and stands up. "I'm sorry to drink and run, but-but I have to go. Thank you for the coffee, Chuck, and-and I hope I can pay you back someday."

"What? I mean, that's nice, but you can pay me back by just paying it forward sometime, but you've got to go?" Chuck rises to his feet, wishing he could make her stay longer.

She looks at him, then nods. "Yeah, I have to go. It was really nice to meet you, Chuck." Sarah holds her hand out to him, her fingers slim and graceful-looking. When he takes her hand, her grip is strong.

And there's the electricity again.

Taking a long look into her blue eyes, Chuck manages to smile and nod. "It was good to meet you, too, Sarah. I guess, have a nice life?" He shrugs his shoulders sheepishly, and she smiles back at him.

"You, too." She lets go of his hand and steps away, turning around quickly and dashing for the doors.

It's not a good thing when a woman practically runs away from you like that. But Chuck can't help thinking that Sarah didn't want to leave.

Maybe he's just fooling himself. He sinks down into his chair and stares blankly out the window of the coffee shop, and he hopes he might cross paths with Sarah again someday. Because after all, the world is pretty strange.

XXX

Oh my God, time travel was awful! It's confusing and disorientating and Sarah doesn't like it. At all.

The worst of it was how she reacted to her first UEP: emotionally, without using her training. What kind of spy would she be if she reacted like that whenever a mission went a little bit wrong? Her training coordinator had tried to reassure her, telling her that the few spies who had experienced UEP had admitted how little their training had prepared them for the experience. But Sarah didn't want to listen to false reassurances.

Part of her didn't even want to admit she was a time traveler. But she had to accept it, so she could figure out how to handle it. But the whole thing seemed so pointless. What was the point of going into the past if you can't change anything, if you can't control where you end up or when you can come back? She had never considered herself a control freak, but she might have to change that opinion.

Showing up someplace without any money, with no idea of where or when she was . . . Sarah doesn't like that feeling. It was just luck that let her find someone who was nice to her. Who didn't try to take advantage of her confusion. It was actually kind of nice, to find someone who restored a bit of her faith in humanity. After how she grew up, and four years of spy training, that faith has become a bit bruised.

The next time she traveled in time, though, she couldn't count on finding some nice guy to help her out while she got her bearings. She would have to be smarter, better. More like a spy.

End, Chapter 1