A/N: Because I have a little time on my hands still, a new Christmas short story. And yes, the title is kind of a giveaway, if you know the film.

A Roman Holiday

Chapter One: Santa Maria

December 23, 1:25 pm
Piazza di Santa Maria
Rome

Chuck was seated in the Piazza di Santa Maria.

An espresso cup was on the small restaurant table in front of him, empty, but his head was full of the mosaics he had just seen in the Basilica di Santa Maria.

The waiter stopped by and Chuck, luckily able to order in English, asked for another espresso — and a glass of sparkling water. The day was sparkling, brightly sunlit, if cold, and Chuck's leather jacket was adequate to the cold, especially aided by the sunlight. The Piazza was too beautiful to leave, too beautiful to seek a warm spot inside.

Another espresso would banish the cold altogether — or at least help keep it at arm's length.

He glanced at his watch. His sister, Ellie, had bought it for him for Christmas, given it to him early. She was a full-fledged doctor now, out of her residency, and she was a bit flush with cash. She'd bought Chuck a gorgeous Glycine Combat Sub, with a large dark face and easily legible markings.

She got it for him for his Christmas trip to Rome. It was expensive, but not Rolex expensive, not close. Chuck had shown it to Ellie one day when they went past a jewelry shop in Burbank, and she had remembered.

Wearing it now, seated in Rome, leather-jacketed, Chuck felt like a spy — like he was on a mission in the Eternal City, about to meet some dangerous stranger.

He scanned the Piazza as he imagined spies must scan their surroundings; he checked sightlines, although he was not really certain what those were; he studied the faces of the few passersby, looking for suspicious characters.

He laughed at himself, glanced again at his watch.

The waiter brought a tray with the espresso and water and set it down. He took the empty cup. Chuck handed him the money necessary, then picked up the small cup and gulped down the wonderful, bitter coffee.

As he sat down the cup, a woman sat down at his table.

Chuck's eyes had been on the espresso cup when she sat down. He glanced up, startled, despite his spy play.

He had not seen her coming.

He would have known it if he had. She was beautiful. But Chuck had little time to consider that. She was panting, a little, and pale, a lot. Her red leather jacket was held closed by one hand. The zipper was torn, part of it hanging loose from the front of the jacket. A cut ran along one sleeve. She reached out with her other hand and grabbed his water and drank it in parched gulps.

She put the glass down and gave him a taut smile above powder blue eyes. "American?"

Chuck knew he could speak but he seemed to have forgotten how. He just nodded.

"Good. I'm sorry about this, but I need your help. Are you staying nearby?"

Chuck's head buzzed. Two espresso shots and then...this. Her. What's happening? Her blue eyes held a look of entreaty.

It was a bad idea, answering. He nodded.

"Take me there, please. I'm not picking you up. This is no scam. I just need some help."

She cast a glance around the Piazza, scanning it, checking sightlines, looking for suspicious characters. Actually doing the things he had been pretending to do.

She checked her watch and breathed out a curse when she realized the crystal was fractured, intact but spiderwebbed with close, white lines, obscuring the dial.

"What's the time?"

Chuck checked his watch. "2 pm."

The woman nodded. "So, take me to where you are staying." She looked around the Piazza again, her body language more urgent.

"Okay, it's not far. The Hotel Santa Maria. It's right here in Trastevere."

She nodded. "Good." She stood up unsteadily. "May I lean on you?"

Chuck ignored the pervasive dream-likeness of the scene and came around the table.

She stood, using the table to steady herself. "Please, put your arm around me, like I'm your girl. And just talk to me as we walk along. Tell me anything. I'll listen."

Chuck slipped his arm around her. She was tall, slender, athletic. But he could tell she was hurting. He kept his arm as loose around her as he could, fearing that he might worsen her pain, and they started for his hotel.

They had only gotten started when she looked at him. "Talk, please." Closer to her now, he was startled by the blue of her eyes, its depth and brilliance, perhaps made more prominent by her paleness.

"Um...right...okay. Well, I'm Chuck. Chuck Bartowski of the Burbank Bartowskis. Not an old family, not a rich one, not a numerous one, but one from Burbank nonetheless. I have a sister, Ellie; she's a doctor. I'm not a doctor. I'm...well...I take some explaining.

"Right now, I manage a Buy More. A big-box electronics store...Maybe you know them?" Her look said no. "Well, I manage one. The job kinda fell on me, like the sky on Chicken Little. — Do you think 'Little' was his surname, or was it like a nickname, you know, given to him by, like, the bigger, not-sky-shy chickens?" She gave him an incredulous look and a wondering smile, although he could also see that her pain was still present. "Right. Not a real issue. Anyway, I am managing this Buy More. The old manager, Big Mike, got moved up to Corporate, and I stepped in…"

Chuck looked at her. She seemed to be paying close attention to what he was telling her, despite her pain and her occasional glances over her shoulder.

"So, I've been there a while. I've been planning to quit and start my own software business but, well, you know how it goes, you get in a job and you get settled into the routine and pretty soon that's just who you are...the person who does that job...and somehow the rest of your life starts to conform to it and not it to the rest of your life...and then that's just it. You're Chuck Bartowski, Buy More Manager, even off the clock...you know?"

Her eyes turned navy, a trick of the sunlight and shadows or the result of some sudden emotion. "Yeah...Chuck...I know exactly what you mean."

"So, the Buy More starts doing better. I mean a lot better. And there's this contest among US Buy More managers, a store turn-around contest. And I...I mean we...my store...won. I got some cash and this trip."

She grimaced but held his gaze. "Why take the trip now, at Christmas?"

"Buy More SNAFU. The only time the replacement for me could come to run my store, this...well, tool, named Milbarge...was now. Something about family in the area, although I think he was pissed that Burbank won. His petty revenge. Who knows what mess I will find at the store?"

They had arrived at the hotel. Chuck led the woman inside, ignoring the curious look from the desk clerk. Chuck's room had been cleaned while he was out, he realized as he opened it and showed the woman inside. She looked around. "Nice."

It was. Simple but clean and well-ordered, the Hotel had been all Chuck hoped. He was already a fan of Trastevere, the neighborhood. It was funky, Bohemian, and there were several small, family-owned restaurants nearby. Although he had only been in Rome for two days, Chuck already felt comfortable. And a little alone.

He closed the door and the woman went and closed his curtains. The room became enshadowed. Chuck felt suddenly nervous. He had not really thought about what he was doing, had done. He had just done it. Something about her eyes.

She walked into the bathroom and flicked on the light. She looked at herself in the mirror, blinking and frowning. She turned to face Chuck; she still standing in the bathroom light. He was standing at the foot of his bed in the shadows of the room.

"Hi, Chuck. I'm Sarah. And I am sorry to...impose...on you like this, but I needed help." She let go of her coat and it opened. She had on a blue blouse beneath it, but Chuck could see the edges of a red stain. Blood.

Without thinking, he stepped into her light. "Let me help." She gave him a surprised smile and one nod. He carefully took one cuff of her jacket in one hand, placing the other on the shoulder. She turned, tugging her arm free. She winced and hissed.

"Sorry," Chuck whispered softly.

She gave him a look. "Not your fault. Thank you."

The jacket came off and Chuck could see that her blouse was bloodied along her side. There was a cut in the fabric, and he could see a cut in her white skin through the cut in the blouse.

"Hang on," Chuck said. He left the bathroom and went into the bedroom. He opened his suitcase and took out a small, red pouch. He brought it back to the bathroom.

Sarah looked at it. "A first-aid kit? In your suitcase?" Her grin was real despite being atop her discomfort. "Boy Scout much?"

Chuck laughed, and some of the tension in him, in her, in the room, was gone. "No, my sister is a doctor, and she always sneaks one of these into my luggage. It's not much, but maybe it will help. Given where that cut is, you're going to need my hands on you."

She shot him a look.

"Sorry, sorry, that came out wrong. I just mean that you are going to need my help."

She seemed reluctant to admit it but then her shoulders slumped. "Guess so, Chuck." She reached up and began to unbutton the blouse. Chuck looked away, then realized he was going to have to look at her to help her. He tried to make sure he kept himself focused on the injury, and not on anything else. She took off her blouse, revealing a blue, lacy bra that Chuck did not notice.

I'm not noticing her blue, lacy bra. Or her beautiful white skin.

He gave his head a quick, tight shake.

The wound was on her side, running around a bit toward her back. Chuck ran hot water, wet a cloth, and gently sponged at the cut. It was long but not deep. After he had cleaned it and the area around it, he waited for a moment to see if it would begin to bleed again. It did not, so he dried the area with a towel and opened the small first-aid kit. He fished out a couple of butterfly bandages, and working with deliberate care, he held the skin closed and bandaged it.

When he finished, he checked the bandage carefully, to make sure that its edges were all down and that it had secured the wound. Still looking at it, he spoke, thinking aloud: "You'll need to give yourself a couple of days, being careful with it, but I don't think stitches are necessary. The cut's clean and shallow; I doubt it will leave a scar."

He glanced up at Sarah. She was not looking at the bandages but at him. Her eyes had lightened from navy to another blue, maybe royal blue. The grin she gave him lacked all self-consciousness. "Aren't you going to kiss it?"

Chuck fumbled for a response. The thought of putting his lips to her skin made his face blaze. She noticed, and her grin intensified. "Thanks for that, Chuck." She moved carefully, rotating at the waist. Then she seemed to remember she was standing shirtless in the bright bathroom light. She crossed her arms without seeming defensive or accusatory. "It feels okay, the bandage. How does a Buy More manager learn to do that?"

"Sister, doctor. I kinda went to med school too, though I never got any credits. I helped Ellie study; I soaked up a lot. I was also her guinea pig on occasion. I've been bandaged for imaginary wounds countless times."

Sarah laughed, the first time she had. The sound was soft and buoyant, unexpected. She turned and walked into the bedroom.

Sarah had put her jacket on the sink, after Chuck helped her with it, and now Chuck picked it up. It was unexpectedly heavy. He felt the pocket. A gun.

The whole situation arrived in his consciousness. He had taken a wounded woman to his hotel room, Sarah, she said, and he had bandaged what was almost certainly a knife wound. She had a gun in her jacket pocket. She had not been playing a spy in the Piazza: she was a spy — or something like that.

Chuck took a deep breath. The situation was bizarre. He needed to keep his wits about him. But that blue bra I'm not noticing is…

Walking into the bedroom, Chuck put her jacket carefully on the bed, trying not to let on that he had noticed the weight, had any idea about what might be in its pocket, and he took off his own, putting it beside hers.

He walked past Sarah and to his suitcase. He rummaged around for a moment and then produced a sweatshirt, an old, comfortable one he'd had for years. It was red — or had been — with the Stanford S on the front of it. Something about Sarah, and not just the first letter of her name, made it seem an appropriate choice. He handed it to her. Her eyes had shifted shade again, to some blue for which Chuck had no name, indigo, maybe — they seemed a live mood ring that altered with each shift in her, traveling the wide, wide gamut of shades of blue. She took the sweatshirt and pulled it on, putting her hands behind her neck to pull her long blonde hair from it. The movement seemed to pain her a bit, and he saw her bite her lip.

"Thanks, Chuck. Would it be okay if I stayed for a little while? Just in the room? I know it's a lot to ask, and you've already gone above and beyond. You've been...kind to me."

Chuck did not think before he answered. "That'd be okay. It's Christmas Eve Eve and I admit, as much as I've been enjoying Rome, I've been feeling a little lonely."

One of her eyebrows rose. "Really? You? If you don't mind me saying it, you seem like the kind of man who'd have friends, be good at...being friends."

Chuck ducked his head at the praise, unexpected in both form and content. "Um...well...I do have friends, one in particular, Morgan, but he couldn't come — his mother's been sick — and my sister couldn't get the time off, so here I am, by my lonesome. Just me in a huge, strange city."

"The story of my life…" Chuck thought he heard Sarah say as she turned away. She picked up her jacket, looked at the damage to it, and shook her head. "Too bad, that was one piece of the wardrobe I actually liked."

Chuck stuck on the word 'wardrobe'. Not a common word outside of movies or theater. He made himself walk to the one armchair in the room and sit down.

Sarah put the jacket back on the bed and sat down beside it, facing Chuck. The light from the bathroom lit the carpet between them, although they were both in shadows.

"So," Sarah breathed out, uncomfortably, after a long moment of silence, "here we are. Chuck and Sarah." She gestured from Chuck to herself and then fell quiet again, a guilty look flitting across her face.

Chuck chewed his lip for a second, then plunged in. "Look, Sarah, I gather you are in some trouble? I'd like to help, help more, if I can, but I don't...understand. Can you tell me what's going on?"

She stared at him for a long moment. He suspected her eyes changed shades several times as she did, but the room was too dark for him to be sure. She tensed, then relaxed, then tensed...then relaxed, staring at him all the while. A weariness seemed to be present in her, revealed when she relaxed, a weariness less physical than existential, a state more of spirit than of body.

Sarah was tired. There was a wracked look about her, like she was the remnants of someone, but no longer someone.

"I work...for the US government. The...job I was here to do...went sideways on me. I managed to do...what I needed to do, but I got hurt, almost..." She paused, lost in reflection.

"I saw you in the Piazza and you looked...you looked like I could trust you. I can't tell you much more than that, the details. But you aren't in any kind of trouble, and I don't believe anyone followed me here." She stood up and patted her pants pockets, her face first pinched and then disbelieving.

"Damn, I lost my phone! Do you have one?"

Chuck nodded, stood up and started across to the bed. He had put his phone in his jacket pocket. "No, wait," he heard her say. He stopped and looked at her. "What day is it again?" Her eyes were shifting shades, one unknown blue to another unknown blue.

"December 23rd."

"Christmas Eve Eve?"

"Right."

Her eyes deepened again, Prussian blue; he was close enough to see it this time, knew it. He could see her deciding, resolving. "And you say there are good restaurants nearby?"

Chuck hesitated, then nodded, unsure of what she was thinking. "Yeah, quite a few. And a couple of nice clubs, or so says the woman, the concierge, at the desk. I haven't gone to any of them but I...was considering it."

Sarah put her hand in her back pocket and came out with a small leather cardholder. She blew out a breath of relief, shaking credit cards from it into her hand.

"If you are game, Mr. Chuck Bartowski of the Burbank Bartowskis, how about we spend the day together here in Trastevere? Not stay in the room. Go out. My work is done and my boss...can't contact me. I'm safe. I could use a little downtime...And it sounds like you could use some...company?"

"What's your last name, Sarah?"

She grinned, seeming to take his question as an affirmative answer. "Walker, Sarah Walker."

A/N: So it begins.