Chuck Bartowski was a man of hidden talent. And as he spends one lazy day indulging in his artistry and recreating images of the people in his life, he finds himself thinking about the people behind the faces and what they mean to him.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: Light T
Timeframe: Post 1.11 Chuck vs. the Crown Vic
Pairings: One sided Chuck/Sarah, mentions of Ellie/Awesome and Morgan/Anna
Well, once again, another foray into Chuck World. Thanks so much to those who read and reviewed Denial. I loved all the feedback, and thought, why not try again? I don't quite know what spurred this ficlet on…it kinda manifested itself when I was doing a rough sketch of Zachary Levi one day. I guess I kinda wanted Chuck to think about the people in his life and kinda analyze what they mean to him. It's not too much in storyline, just kind of a breakdown of the major characters on Chuck. Still, I hope you enjoy!
Chuck Bartowski was a man of hidden talent. Despite whatever idiocy John Casey claimed he possessed, Chuck Bartowski found himself being the brain that finagled them out of whatever scrape the Intersect booted Team Bartowski into. Despite as cowardly and girlish his scream of terror may appear, he had actually stared down the barrels of very loaded and very big guns successfully without peeing his pants, not to mention the manic Latina loca who had hurled a very sharp knife in the vicinity of his cajones. Despite everything that seemed to escape his comprehension, Chuck Bartowski was actually an observant person. He liked people and saw them as they really were, abetting his natural charm and uncanny ability to connect with the many different individuals he stumbled across both at Stanford and manning the Nerd Herd counter. In his time, he had seen many quirks and affectations that made Morgan seem as bland as Ben Stein. He liked to take those things he had seen and channel them into a medium that best displayed their eccentricities: art. Yes, Chuck Bartowski was a clandestine artist, a talent that began with his fondness for the fantastical world of comic books and culminated with his very real world of espionage and deception, using a pen and a paper to convey the oh-so interesting human condition into beautiful pieces of sketched thingies. It was actually quite poetic.
It was a slow day, lacking the activity of an Intersect-induced excitement and even the monotony of his nine-to-five. With nothing to occupy his time, Chuck settled down at his desk chair, his sketchbook splayed across the surface of his desk. He flipped through the pages upon pages filled with caricatures of subjects both inanimate and real people. He had hit a funk with nothing that sparked his inspiration to draw. And lately, he needed an outlet to release his frustrations. Rubbing his chin, he thought to the reasons of his frustrations: the multitude of government secrets encrypted in his brain. It was those government secrets that proved to be the catalyst to the new people barreling into his life. They had fit themselves into the crevices that had been left between his constant fixtures and molding his life into something completely new. Picking up his pencil, Chuck lowered the lead to the paper, finally finding his inspiration.
- - -
From his window, Chuck caught a glimpse of Casey through the NSA agent's blinds. The hulking man was bent over, his piercing ice eyes fixated on an impeccably trimmed bonsai tree. With deliberate precision, the NSA agent extended a pair of clippers, severing a wayward leaf with a quick squeeze of his meaty fingers before straightening, a satisfied sheen to stare as he gazed fondly at the finished product. Major John Casey. There was quite the character. Built like a cannonball and just as destructive. The easiest person to draw was Casey. The man was painstakingly simple from personality to facial structure. John Casey lived – and possibly would die – for two things: his country and his Crown Vic…Well, okay one thing, but, in his defense, the destruction of the latter object was in pursuit of the safety of the former. So that counted, right? Even in his moment of insufferable loss, Casey had shown the two most prevalent sentiments in his limited emotive gamut. Poise and control with a dash of sarcasm would be the easiest way to describe the human tank that had barreled through his life, both gun barrels blazing. Casey rarely exuded emotion, staying stoic even in the most harrowing of gun battles, aside from the animated – Chuck could argue maniacal – gleam in his icy eyes. Only John Casey would squeal like a little girl (if he had the chance and if he vocalized any sort of emotion) as he shot someone. Even his manner of communication was uncomplicated. Casey spoke in grunts, a talent Chuck had grown to admire as well as decipher with little to no difficulty, if not fear. The short terse grunt signaled the affirmative, the long, growling grunt with the squinty eyes meant irritation. It was like a science. Once, Chuck had tried to imitate Casey's affinity for the grunted word, but had only succeeded in sounding remarkably like that weird, bald ninja dude in the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie. Yes, John Casey was a no-nonsense kind of guy and an artist would draw him the same way: short, no-nonsense strokes both bold and commanding.
It was easy to picture Casey's face. It always looked the same: grim and concentrated. His small, beady eyes cutting through his target, the tightly set mouth and narrowed jaw carved by Michelangelo clamped rigidly, and his posture stiff, the broad shoulders thrown back and squared, and the big, meaty hands clenched, ready to flail out to strike someone or something or inch towards his gun. The man was a machine when it came to his job, but that wasn't to say Casey didn't have his moments of emotional vulnerability. Chuck had seen the absolute anguish skating across Casey's gaze when his beloved Crown Vic left the world of the living in an impressive ball of swirling explosive fire. He had witnessed Casey's weird brand of amused fun as he unloaded bullet after bullet into the bodies of dissenting agents with deadly accuracy, and yes, he had even seen the rather humorous sight of a disgruntled Casey trussed up and tied to a bed, gagged, and clad in only a thin white t-shirt and a pair of boxers sprinkled with four-leaf clovers.
Casey had rarely exuded emotions other than annoyance or anger when it came to himself, but lately something almost akin to fondness…Chuck shook his head, perishing the thought from his mind. Nah. Casey was probably thinking of the ways to maim him for the loss of his precious treasure. John Casey was fond of nothing but that damned Crown Vic. So that meant John Casey was fond of…nothing. Least of all the man who carried the Intersect.
- - -
As he turned to a clean page, having just completed Casey's visage, Chuck vaguely heard the front door swing open and Ellie's melodic giggle followed by Devon's boisterous baritone permeated the house as Captain Awesome made his presence known in a flurry of navy blue scrubs and gleaming white teeth. Bracing his palms atop the doorframe, the Captain practically swung from the door, lobbing a toy football towards Chuck. Surprised at the projectile, he lurched back, nearly toppling off his chair as he fumbled the ball slightly before it hit his chest and settled down into his lap. Taking Chuck's less-than graceful capture of the football in stride, Awesome clapped his hands, one eyebrow cocked in anticipation as he proposed an in-house pre-Super Bowl dinner for the weekend with the himself, Ellie, and the de facto other couple of Chuck and Sarah. Inwardly grimacing of the innate awkwardness that would surely ensue, Chuck agreed with a withering smile and an even more withering acquiescence, unable to stave off Awesome's excitement. Awesome flashed his trademark grin, leaving with a wink and an enthusiastic "Awesome!" Chuck looked down at the Nerf football in his hand, his mind set with his next subject.
Chuck could remember the first time he met the Captain, then just known as Devon. From first impression, the man looked way to good to be true. Too gorgeous, too good at his job, too open. And then he had flashed that big, goofy smile, straight white teeth prominently displayed and one eyebrow slightly cocked higher than the other. That smile had taken Chuck aback. For some reason, the smile seemed out of place on Awesome's handsome face. Chuck reasoned that a guy that good looking shouldn't smile so wide and open. It looked weird. He had fully expected a smug, self-indulgent leer in the mysterious ways the models did. The 'yeah, I know I'm better looking than you are so just bask in my inherent beauty and wallow in your lack of' type of smile. But nope. Awesome had grinned that wide, open grin, grabbed Chuck, drew him into what he called an "Introductory Hug. More where that came from, buddy," and clapped a hand on his back. But that was the thing with Awesome. The man knew nothing but sincerity and didn't have a malicious bone in his body. That was just the way Awesome was: genuinely and unequivocally happy. Happy to be with Ellie. Happy to save lives in his occupation. Awesome was just happy. And awesome. It was a bit disconcerting.
- - -
Adding a bit more detail to Awesome's perpetually quirked eyebrow, Chuck barely glanced up as Ellie poked her head in the doorway, inquiring about dinner, and he shrugged, stating whatever would be fine with him. Ellie smiled, wavering at the doorway for a moment, just looking at him with palpable fondness before she disappeared, calling to Awesome to start marinating the chicken. Chuck's eyes lingered at the doorway as her lithe form meandered down the hallway, and he smiled to himself, his pencil tapping at the pad before it began to form the outline of Ellie's countenance. He had seen her face every day for as long as he could remember. It had been the face that soothed his sorrows, shared in his triumphs, and laughed with him at his humorous mishaps. She was the one person who had always been there and truly stuck around, even when every other person left them. He could always count on her with those wonderfully empathetic eyes. Every member in the Bartowski family had dark eyes except Ellie. But for some reason, the fates had gifted the eldest Bartowski sibling with a set of clear green orbs that held the slightest hint of Bartowski brown if she wore darker clothing, and Chuck as those same eyes were displayed the extent of her extreme compassion, the compassion only justifying her occupation as a doctor.
Chuck remembered the day when those clear green eyes had glazed over before closing as Ellie's limp body collapsed on the couch. His heart shuddered to a stop that day. It was the day that marked one of the few instances when Chuck world collided abruptly with spy world, and that day scared the living shiz-nit out of him. His sister, his caring, loving, compassionate sister who never thought of anything but helping others when the need arose had been caught in the crossfire of a crazed ex-gymnast who was just as tiny as Mary Lou Retton and believed the truth was better excavated through a nifty little poison that would allow a person to live just enough to divulge the target before spiraling said person into a hazy end and his almost blatant obsession of ruining the relative peace of the general world. Brilliant. As he gazed down at Ellie's prone, unconscious form, her complexion pale and her forehead clammy, the full implications of the severity of his situation crashed down on his consciousness. The people who trigged flashes of the Intersect were bad people. They were people who held secrets, and yes, they would kill to keep those secrets hidden. It was then Chuck made a vow. Ellie had spent her life protecting him from the pain and tribulation the real world had to offer but at the same time opening his eyes to reality. It was time for Chuck to return the favor. Only this time, he would be shielding her eyes to that reality: a reality he had seen for himself and didn't like one bit. Nope, not one little bit.
- - -
Chuck's attention diverted from his sketchpad to his cell phone as the tune of "White and Nerdy" by Weird Al Yankovic trilled, signaling a call from none other than Morgan Grimes. Sliding open his phone, Chuck had barely offered out a greeting before Morgan's gleeful, voice informed him of his unavailability for the night due to the temptation of a hot tryst with his lady friend. Chuck shook his head, bidding his best friend good luck before hanging up, shaking his head with amusement. Who would have thought Morgan could hold a girl for more than a week? It was a paradox in its own right.
From the cherub face to the out of place facial hair, Morgan Grimes was a picture of contradictions. He had never quite grown up, in stature as well as mentality, but he had still managed a full lustrous beard that men twice his age would envy. He had the attention-span of a five year-old as well as the accompanying maturity level but had somehow managed to corral a serious, steady girlfriend who didn't mind the quirks that came with the lumberjack beard and five-six package. Morgan Grimes wasn't a complex person. He liked his video games, his Morgan Outings with his numero uno amigo, Charles Bartowski, and his sizzling shrimp with a side of orange chicken and chow mein. He was totally complacent with his future as a Buy More appliance salesman. He looked at the world in the most uncomplicated way imaginable. To Morgan Grimes, the world was simply a video game with each new stage of his life just another level to be beat. Sure, there wasn't any restart button, but Morgan still managed. He went full speed ahead, not worrying about what the world would think about his affectations. Chuck admired him for that.
Morgan had been the first person he had met after a desperate job search had led him to the Buy More. Clad in his now familiar white dress shirt and grey tie, he had peered down at the strange, bearded man who, in turn, had peered right back up at him, sizing up their considerable height difference. The smaller man had done a cursory sweep over his nametag before he had grabbed Chuck by the arm, steering him to the counter situated in the center of the Buy More's main aisle. With deliberate precision, Morgan turned to Chuck, a completely serious sheen to his eyes before he spoke.
"Okay, dudeski, let's go over the basic rules of the sacred sanctity that is this space they call the Buy More." Morgan ticked off the points on his fingers. "Number one, Big Mike is Big Mike, nothing else. You go for another title, you will know the feeling of a foot up your patooty. B, see that small, bald guy over there? Harry Tang. Do not mess with him or chow mein will not be just an appetizer, it will be the state of your insides. And thirdly," Morgan gestured to the televisions plastered to the far wall, "this is the Wall. It may be just a bunch of overly-expensive high-definition televisions, but to us true Nerds it is a call. A call to abuse our authority as employees of this perennial palace and indulge in the technological advances that have long since shaped our livelihood." Wiping an imaginary tear from his eye, Morgan gazed fondly at the gaudy structure. At Chuck's confused stare, he shrugged. "We use it to play video game tournaments when Jeff's locked Harry Tang in the storage room." With a grin, Morgan turned to the newest employee, rising up a bit on his toes to clap a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Welcome to the Buy More, hombre." Chuck smiled to himself at the memory. The rest, as they say, was history.
- - -
Chuck laid his head on his hand, indolently dragging his pencil across the heavy paper, watching as the visage of Bryce Larkin took shape. He supposed Bryce would be pretty difficult to draw, but he was willing to take the challenge. Back in college, he would have placed Bryce up near Ellie and Awesome with the relative complication of his façade and the connotations behind him. Back at Stanford, Bryce was his best friend, his brother, and the man who had introduced him to the girl Chuck believed was the love of his life. Now, Chuck wasn't so sure how to classify his old nemesis-cum-dubiously classified friend. Things were so much easier when Chuck could simply love Bryce or hate him. There was no grey area, just the extremes. As of the present, however, the dynamic between Chuck and Bryce was nothing but grey areas. First, Bryce was his best friend then the guy solely responsible for getting him kicked out Stanford but just to preserve Chuck's genuine innocence from clutches of the CIA. Then, he was a CIA agent gone rogue, stealing then sending the now infamous Intersect via – of all things – e-mail that subsequently ingrained every government secret into the general expanse of Chuck's brain. Only…Bryce wasn't rogue. That misconception had righted itself when he pulled a Jean Grey and rose from the dead. Bryce had stolen the Intersect to save it from the even more morally ambiguous clutches of the sub-agency Fulcrum, and with his immense talent to decipher encoded images, Chuck was the only logical choice to safe keep the files. Even his reassignment to take down Fulcrum provided a grey area. Bryce may have gone deep undercover, but he could also reappear at any moment. Everything connected to Bryce Larkin reeked with ambiguity from the subtlety of his reappearance to his dashing exit clad in a well-fitting tux with a swish of feathery hair Chuck's couldn't quite manage and one final backwards glance with his smoldering blue eyes. He hated to admit it, but he envied Bryce. The man had everything, the Stanford degree, the girl in both Jill…and Sarah…and the job that didn't stop at a managerial position manning a counter that helped frustrated technological ignorants for the paltry pay of eleven dollars an hour.
Chuck pressed harder, shading in the casual messiness of Bryce's hair, thinking back to his old nemesis. It was funny how the present turned out. Who would have thought charismatic, charming, smooth Bryce Larkin would turn out to be an aloof CIA agent. Back at Stanford, Bryce was Mr. College, the guy everyone loved and everyone knew would be successful in whatever career he dabbled in, sure to be the popular socialite that graced the society pages of the newspapers. Back then, Bryce had so many friends, knew so many people. Now, Bryce had exactly one friend, his job disallowing personal contacts for fear of using them as collateral should an operation be discovered. Talk about an occupational hazard. Chuck, as ashamed as he was to admit it, had always envied Bryce, even going so far as to resent him after Stanford had closed his doors to a relatively successful future. But the truth of the matter was Bryce envied him. In that nanosecond the two of them had a chance to talk before Bryce was handed over to the CIA, Chuck had caught the miniscule hint of longing in Bryce's solemn tone as he lamented over the hazards of an intelligence agent. And in that nanosecond, the long aloof, long enigmatic Bryce Larkin had revealed the truth. Given the chance, given the opportunity, Bryce would give up everything – his adventurous lifestyle, his anonymity – for Chuck's life. For the stability – however precarious it could be – Chuck had. For the ties Chuck had to a home. Weird.
- - -
Chuck turned his sketch book to a clean page, starting on the hardest person who had plopped herself into the nucleus of his orderly life, messing it up with the efficiency of a caffeine-hyped five year-old: Sarah. Sarah Walker. Or…whatever her real name was. If Morgan was a picture of contradictions, Sarah was a walking one. She was his Mona Lisa: a vision of pure beauty bearing only a guarded smile that held perhaps the greatest of secrets. Sarah Walker: CIA agent, the bane of his existence, yet the inexplicable beloved of his life. A walking contradiction that hid behind a veil of the CIA's best agent. She could feign any emotion within the human repertoire with the blink of an eye but could also hide genuine sentiments behind a stoic mask. With him, Sarah was nothing but the ultimate handler, patient, kind, and gentle, but he had seen her take down men twice her size with a deadly shot and almost brutal callousness. God forbid he ever seriously pissed her off. Not that he ever would. Chuck actually liked his limbs when attached to his body. Chuck's gaze drifted to the picture they took together the night of Ellie's Halloween party. His eyes drifted to her scantily clad body, nothing but womanly curves, graceful and lithe as showcased in the tantalizing Princess Leia costume. Her skin was soft, but beneath lay bundles of corded muscle honed after years of CIA training. Through that training, she gained infinite amounts of knowledge, but lost the essentials that truly made her human: a family, friends, even a place she could call home, and the most: love. Yep. Walking contradiction. A contradiction he would never fully understand.
Chuck furrowed his brow, his tongue poking through his teeth as he lightly sketched the outline of her eyes before pressing harder, making the shape more distinct. Chuck took meticulous care in perfecting Sarah's eyes. Superficially, they were the things he loved most about her, but also the things that brought him the most heartache. The irises were a clear, enigmatic blue, sometimes clouded to a navy when she displayed potent anger and sometimes flashing a translucent cobalt with the tiniest bit of compassion. He had often caught the minute spark of genuine affection that gave him the slightest glimmer of hope but just as quickly as it manifested in Sarah's stare, she buried it beneath the tough sheen often encompassing the irises. Chuck knew the saying that the eyes were the windows of the soul but through those eyes, no one knew the soul of Sarah Walker. They were as ambiguous as her name, plucked from a file and veiled with just as much secrecy. It still didn't negate the effect she had on him, however. When he looked into those endless expanses of a cloudless summer sky, falling into them as he had been catapulted from an airplane, all he could see was the beauty hovering over the surface, but little else. She was a mystery to him. A file in the computer of his brain. A flash from the Intersect. He didn't know much, little snippets barely significant to something conducive to a relationship: she was once in love with Bryce Larkin. She was a CIA operative. She didn't like olives. And – although she believed she had whispered it too quietly for him to hear – her real middle name was Lisa. But that was it. Still, he could argue he had still fallen for her. Sure, a lot of it was initial lust. Sarah Walker was the most beautiful, the most jaded individual he had ever met, but there was so much more to her that seemed to come up in gradual bits and pieces he couldn't ignore. He admired her tenacity, her loyalty, and the weirdly alluring way she kicked ass. Okay, yeah, a part of it was hero worship, but…another part, he just couldn't quite identify.
Chuck switched to a different pencil, filling his sketched outline with a vibrancy that didn't quite showcase the true color of Sarah's lips, those full, pouty lips. They haunted his dreams, clouding his mind and taking him back to the moment, that bone chilling, heart wrenching moment, that he believed he was about to be blown until little Chuckles bits. Until she kissed him. And, God, had she kissed him. She truly, honest-to-God, fulfilled his wildest fantasies and laid a wet, sloppy, frantic, and utterly hot kiss on his unsuspecting mouth. With his own eyes shut, he failed to catch the flash of fear that skated across her deep blue eyes before she rose up on her tiptoes, trapping his face between two palms and pressing those delectable lips to his, throwing all caution to the wind. With a desperation he hadn't know she could posses, her tongue had snaked out probing insistently, begging entrance as they let go, finally succumbing to the illicit feelings stifled beneath facades of professionalism and duty in their last moments of life. The world faded away into a swirling vortex of muted sounds, breathless gasps, and groping hands scrambling frenetically for purchase. He remembered the feel of her strong hands tangled in the opened lapels of his shirt clinging to him as though she could siphon the passion she had long barred for herself with their connection. She clung to him like a lifeline as, ironically enough, she finally allowed herself to live. Her lean body fit against his perfectly, her womanly curves gliding against his solid masculinity. His palm splayed against the small of her back, clenching into the smooth leather of her jacket, his pulse quickening in time with the brisk staccato of her heart, his mind screaming for more. More time, more life, more her. Even the seconds ticked away, she angled her head, leaning even more into him, seeking even more of his lips, a desperate whimper escaping in a sigh. And Chuck could remember in that blissful moment although he may have died that day, he had died a happy – if not completely aroused – man. Only he didn't die. The bomb that wasn't ticked down to its final second before expelling nothing but a mechanical sigh at finally completing its mission leaving Chuck and Sarah to stare stupidly at each other, the latter forcing a joke to alleviate the of sexual tension wavering between them. The first thing his mind registered, other than the fact that she had nearly strangled him with that vice grip on his collar, were those clear crystal eyes of hers, the potent fear flashing against the surface as the ramifications struck her right through the breast where her heart beat with life. They were alive. And they were screwed.
- - -
Shaking himself from the vision in his head, Chuck sat back, the lead of his pencil dulled almost to the wood, his fingers blackened with the product of his artist's implement. Before him sat the finished creations of his artistry: portraits of Casey, Awesome, Ellie, Morgan, Bryce, and Sarah. They were his past, his present, and hopefully his future. But what they represented was so much more. What she represented was so much more. The portraits were nothing but physical materializations of the real thing, manifested on heavy art paper. But, they were just surface illustrations, unable to truly delve into the minds and inner workings of the souls and personalities that lay beneath the skin, ready to reveal themselves with time and possibly the right amount of prodding. And if he could just find out what lay beneath the surface, if he could just break the ice that glazed over her clear blue eyes and dive into the waters below, maybe, just maybe what was initially just a portrait could blossom into a full-blown work of art and maybe become the next da Vinci for the ages. Running a weary hand over his eyes, Chuck checked his watch. He had a short shift at the Buy More, only a cursory check to see if there was anything new to fix. Taking one last glance at Sarah's face, Chuck flipped back to Casey's picture before grabbing his keys and exiting his room.
- - -
Sarah Walker knew she shouldn't feel as comfortable as she currently did idling on a couch at the Bartowski residence, making small talk with the elder sister of her assignment. But she did. Honestly, it was hard not hold some level of comfort with the characteristically open personalities of the Bartowski siblings. Her eyes flit over to Ellie as the elder Bartowski smiled, laughing at yet another mishap that occurred during her shift at Wienerlicious. Standing to check on the vegetables stewing on the stove, Ellie mentioned Chuck had left for the Buy More but should be back any second before inviting Sarah to stay for dinner. Readily agreeing, Sarah offered to wait for Chuck in his room, and with a friendly wave to Awesome as he poked his head up from the breakfast nook allowing view of the kitchen, she meandered down the familiar hallway to Chuck's sanctuary. Without the pressure of keeping up a cover, Sarah took the time to peruse the space without fear of judgment. She strolled around the parameter, taking in the pictures, posters, and various trinkets adorning his walls and every available surface that showcased his endearing personality before halting at his desk.
A familiar mug caught her eye, and zeroing in on the sketchpad prominently splayed across the surface, Sarah slowly approached, her eyes taking in the extraordinary likeness of John Casey manifested as an illustration as the narrowed eyes stared right back at her from the page. Sarah settled into Chuck's desk chair, gazing down at the well-loved notebook, and she flipped through the pages, marveling at Chuck's skill. Laughing inwardly at the accuracy of Awesome's grin, she paused at Bryce's visage before turning the page to her own face. Her breath caught as she absorbed the detail Chuck had put into her profile, far more than the preceding caricatures. The illustrated version of her visage was looking over her shoulder, gazing into the distance with an indescribable expression adorning her features. If Sarah had to it was an expression torn between potent intensity and another emotion she didn't want to name. Almost like…longing. Sarah shook that notion from her mind as she continued to gaze at her portrait. Her hair fluttered behind her in the tacit wind, a few tendrils making their way onto flushed cheeks like a flowing cape with just the same connotations. He had shaded in her features with different amounts of pressure, the detail and accuracy of the illustration remarkable. The drawing was devoid of color except for one part. Her eyes. He had displayed the color of her eyes to perfection from the deep turquoise shade, to the slight ring of navy around the circumference of the iris, to the slight flecks of yellow green encased in the depths. Sarah reached out finger, lightly tracing the image, careful not to smear the lines. He had even managed to capture the guarded sheen prevalent in every time she looked into his own chestnut spheres.
A slight shuffling immediately piqued Sarah's delicate senses, and she glanced up as Chuck sidled into his room, clad in his Buy More uniform, a brilliant smile skating across his deceptively handsome features. He offered out a greeting that she quickly reciprocated, forcing a smile onto her own face and reaching out to take his hand as he led her out to the living room. They stayed cemented in her psyche. Yes, he had captured her cautious gazes perfectly, but if only he knew the truth. If only he knew exactly what she stifled beneath a façade of indifference and detachment. But if he did know, if he was in any way cognizant, everything would be compromised. And Sarah wasn't quite ready to let him go. At least, not yet.
And cut. Again, don't quite know why this was written, but hey, why not? I hope this was pretty accurate, and I must say, I love me some Chuck/Sarah, no matter how one-sided it may be at the moment. Until next time!