belated (chuck, chuck/sarah, pg)

[ndnickerson]

Title: belated
Author: ndnickerson
Fandom: Chuck
Characters: Chuck/Sarah
Rating: PG
Summary: Chuck asks Sarah for a huge favor.
Spoilers: Vague for the Season 2 finale. Set during Season 3.
Word Count: 1000
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.
Note: Prompt was this picture for challenge 8 at picfor1000.


Sarah Walker knocked on the door to Chuck Bartowski's apartment. A rare breeze relieved the boiling heat, and for a moment Sarah closed her eyes, basking in the warmth and relative peace. But her blue eyes snapped open and her fist came up when she heard Chuck's familiar voice, squeaking out a panicked epithet.

"Chuck?" He didn't answer, and she was just poised to kick in the door when it suddenly swung open, and only by a swift grasp on the frame did she avoid tumbling into Chuck's arms.

"Hey, sorry."

For possibly the second time in their entire acquaintance, the Buy More Nerd Herder turned quasi-reluctant spy was wearing an apron, and his face was streaked with flour.

"So, when you said you had a huge, massive favor to ask—"

"Well, I thought maybe all that time at the Wienerlicious might finally come in handy."

Swiftly pulling her hair into a ponytail, pausing only long enough to toss her purse onto the couch, Sarah strode authoritatively into the kitchen. A pot of some alarmingly brown, gluey substance simmered on the back burner. The light in the oven was on, but it seemed to be empty. Every available surface was covered in the white grit of either flour or sugar.

Sarah turned to Chuck, who stood, hands on his hips, behind her, and for the first time, said "I'm afraid."

Chuck had the gall to smile. "Well, remember how last week, we were in Phoenix, and it was—"

"Morgan's birthday," Sarah nodded, remembering that Morgan had called while Chuck was being held at gunpoint by a few burly, sour-faced henchmen. And he'd managed to drop the two of them while apologizing approximately a thousand times for missing their annual trip to Disneyworld and takeout order of sizzling shrimp.

"And when we were in LAX, trying to find that bomb—"

"The Battle of the Rock Bands," Sarah nodded.

Chuck nodded to her appreciatively. "Yeah. The little bearded man has been feeling left out. And one of his favorite things is churros, and I thought, hey, why don't I make him some, but..."

He gestured helplessly at the disastrous kitchen, and Sarah managed to mostly hide a smile.

"And this is where I come in?"

"Well, you spent how many months frying hot dogs in batter? See, with this, you don't even need hot dogs. Or the sticks. I think."

"Frying them, yes. Frying them well?"

Chuck wrinkled his nose. "You're a highly-trained CIA assassin, Miss Walker."

"And you're the Intersect," she pointed out, relaxing her arms. She didn't even remember crossing them. "I guess between the two of us, we should be able to figure it out. Got an extra apron, Bobby Flay?"

--

A trip to the grocery store later, Sarah asked curiously, "So, how long do we have until he gets back?"

"He's at a video game launch," Chuck said, hefting the flour. "Free pizza and soda. Hours."

He glanced at Sarah, whose gaze was fixed on the flour bag. "What?"

"Um... self-rising flour?"

Chuck glanced down at the bag. "Yeah?"

"Eh, I'm sure it'll be fine."

--

A trip to the emergency room later, Chuck was rubbing his gauze-wrapped hand and Sarah was staring fixedly out the window.

"It wasn't your fault."

"The stove was on fire."

"But it wasn't your fault."

Sarah pressed her lips together and sighed. "Casey and I have managed to keep you relatively unscathed for years. I will be the laughingstock of the CIA if a batch of churros is what finally gets you."

"You actually think we're going to get that far?"

Sarah shifted the car into a higher gear and Chuck slammed backwards into his seat.

"Guess not."

--

"You have to keep stirring."

Sarah wiped a hand across her brow, leaving a trail of flour. "Are these things really that expensive to buy on the street?"

Chuck took the wire whisk from Sarah's slackening grip and vigorously stirred the chocolate mixture, wincing when a small wave lapped over the side of the saucepan. "That's not the point. This is to say I'm sorry, and spending five minutes and ten bucks isn't the same."

"Isn't the best birthday present really 'I didn't burn down our apartment'?"

"Aargh! Turn the heat down!"

--

Sarah sank gratefully to the couch, her eyes closed. Her feet were throbbing. She could feel a fine spray of grease on her skin. Add a pair of pigtails and a red cotton skirt, and it was like Wienerlicious all over again.

"Thank you."

"You've said that." Sarah didn't open her eyes.

"I thought another twenty times couldn't hurt."

Sarah toed her shoes off and fell sideways onto the couch, her cheek sinking into a throw pillow. "You owe me big time."

"I know."

She heard Chuck's footsteps and reluctantly opened her eyes, to see him standing over her. He held a paper plate of their freshly-minted churros in his hand.

Sarah groaned. "After all that work, I am going to watch him eat every single one."

"But we have to try them first."

Sarah sighed and dragged herself up, but her lips turned up a little at the smile on his face. He handed her one, turning the plate so she could dip it into the chocolate.

"They aren't half bad," she said thoughtfully.

"It's a rule. Hurt yourself that many times, and it has to come out good."

"I'll remember that." She glanced up to see Chuck staring at her. "What?"

He brought a hand toward her face. "You've just got a bit of chocolate..."

He gently brushed her cheek with his fingertip, but before she could stop herself, before she could even blame her exhaustion and fright over his injury, she was grabbing his hand, parting her lips to draw his finger inside, to suck the chocolate off the tip.

By the time Morgan made it home, the churros were long cold, but Chuck and Sarah couldn't have cared less.