Chuck fic: Arrow Through Me (Gen, preseries)
Arrow Through Me
Gen (hints of het UST), PG, preseries, 1,000 words
a/n: Written for picfor1000. Title from a song by Paul McCartney & Wings. Thank you to innie_darling for the beta and fine-tuning.
Summary: The Bartowski luck takes a turn for the better.
The van was a bargain, and with the money he'd saved Paul was able to get the used Commodore-60. Driving fast with Bob Dylan turned up loud, he thought about the job in San Diego, how maybe his life wasn't going to be a complete waste after all. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, breathing in the scents of exhaust and dry grass through the open window.
Then the engine started to make a weird knocking noise and stalled.
Stupid van had been running fine when he'd left Modesto.
He pulled over onto the shoulder, only to find that his brakes had gone funky as well, and rolled jouncing onto the grass. The fence line rushed up too fast and Paul squeezed his eyes shut, instinct taking over, but remembered at the last second to pump the brakes.
The van lurched to a stop. It took him a moment to realize that, and also that his eyes were still closed. Letting out a long, slow breath, he unclenched his fingers from around the steering wheel and opened his eyes. Through the windshield he saw a trail of steam rise into the air.
He switched off the engine, cracked the door, and climbed out. Cars rushed past on the highway a few dozen yards away.
So much for the Bartowski luck turning around. This was not good, not good at all.
He got the hood open, and studied the engine, but his computer knowledge didn't seem to apply here.
After a few feeble tries (and scalding his fingers), he let out a curse, paced back and forth a few times, and then laid down in the grass with his arms spread wide. Paul stared up at the clear, cloudless sky and thought maybe he could just stay there a while, all peaceful. The job in San Diego was a lone regret in his mind. Grass tickled him through his t-shirt and jeans.
"Hey."
He turned his head and saw a pair of slim, brown leather boots. His gaze went up to find a girl maybe a few years younger than he was. Above the boots she wore a jean skirt and a yellow sweater. The wind was doing its best to pull her brown hair out of its long ponytail.
Paul suddenly found it very difficult to swallow. She had her head tilted to one side as she stared down at him, a little crease of confusion in the middle of her forehead and a half-smile of amusement on her full mouth. His world split into before seeing her brown eyes and after.
"You need help? Are you hurt?" She knelt in the grass, and her skirt slid up a few inches.
"What? Oh. Uh. No, I'm fine, I just--" He scrambled to his feet. "My van, it broke down and I'm not good with cars."
She got to her feet again. "I could take a look." She walked over to the steaming, ticking engine and peered in, pushing the ponytail over her shoulder. She rolled up the sleeves of her sweater.
"No, you...you shouldn't have to, I can..."
The brown-eyed goddess held up her hand. "My mother always said a girl should know how to change a tire and fix a car." She bit her lower lip, staring at the engine. "It's just overheated. I've got a gallon of water in my car."
"I think the brakes are a little messed up, too."
"A fluid leak. I can patch it enough to get you to a garage."
"You do this a lot?" He followed her towards her car, a bright blue VW.
"Do what?" She opened the trunk and reached for a plastic jug of water.
"Rescue strange men in distress?" He grabbed the jug from her. "Let me."
"Nope, I think you're my first." She slammed the trunk shut. "And you don't seem that strange."
"Really? I could be an axe murderer." What ever made him think he could hold a normal conversation with a beautiful girl?
"You could be. I have mace in my pocket. Anyway," she added, giving him a sideways glance. "I'd be really surprised if you turned out to be an axe murderer."
"Well, good." Paul felt ridiculously light-headed at the thought that she didn't think he was an axe-murderer, that she didn't find him all that strange.
They started back towards the van. The wind rustled the tall grass past the fence line, swaying the treetops. The girl leaned her head back and smiled.
He might be a washout from MIT with twenty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents, a broken-down van, a used computer, and three pairs of jeans to his name, but for the first time in weeks, that didn't seem to matter as much.
"We have to wait until the engine's cooled," she said, leaning against the side of his van, like she belonged there. She tapped her fingers against the metal as if following the beat of a song.
He put the jug of water down on the grass and leaned next to her.
They were quiet for a few minutes.
"Uh, hey, we haven't been introduced," he managed finally. "I'm Paul Bartowski." He held his hand out to her, realized it was covered in engine grease, and lowered his hand, pretending he'd just been stretching.
"Katherine Buckner," she said. "Everyone calls me Kate."
"That's a great name."
"It's served me well." Her mouth twitched with a smile that had a story behind it.
"So...how long?"
"How long what?" She turned to look at him, the brown-eyed gaze moving over his face.
He felt a flush creeping up his neck. "How long does it take for the engine to cool? Not that I'm in a hurry," he added quickly.
"Twenty minutes at least. Maybe longer. We don't want to get burned when we remove the radiator cap."
"Oh," he said, his mouth going dry again. We.
It definitely looked like the Bartowski luck had taken a turn for the better.
~end
note: I couldn't find any point in the canon that gave us their names or how they'd met. I'm sure canon will contradict this at some future date.
Prompt:
Gen (hints of het UST), PG, preseries, 1,000 words
a/n: Written for picfor1000. Title from a song by Paul McCartney & Wings. Thank you to innie_darling for the beta and fine-tuning.
Summary: The Bartowski luck takes a turn for the better.
The van was a bargain, and with the money he'd saved Paul was able to get the used Commodore-60. Driving fast with Bob Dylan turned up loud, he thought about the job in San Diego, how maybe his life wasn't going to be a complete waste after all. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, breathing in the scents of exhaust and dry grass through the open window.
Then the engine started to make a weird knocking noise and stalled.
Stupid van had been running fine when he'd left Modesto.
He pulled over onto the shoulder, only to find that his brakes had gone funky as well, and rolled jouncing onto the grass. The fence line rushed up too fast and Paul squeezed his eyes shut, instinct taking over, but remembered at the last second to pump the brakes.
The van lurched to a stop. It took him a moment to realize that, and also that his eyes were still closed. Letting out a long, slow breath, he unclenched his fingers from around the steering wheel and opened his eyes. Through the windshield he saw a trail of steam rise into the air.
He switched off the engine, cracked the door, and climbed out. Cars rushed past on the highway a few dozen yards away.
So much for the Bartowski luck turning around. This was not good, not good at all.
He got the hood open, and studied the engine, but his computer knowledge didn't seem to apply here.
After a few feeble tries (and scalding his fingers), he let out a curse, paced back and forth a few times, and then laid down in the grass with his arms spread wide. Paul stared up at the clear, cloudless sky and thought maybe he could just stay there a while, all peaceful. The job in San Diego was a lone regret in his mind. Grass tickled him through his t-shirt and jeans.
"Hey."
He turned his head and saw a pair of slim, brown leather boots. His gaze went up to find a girl maybe a few years younger than he was. Above the boots she wore a jean skirt and a yellow sweater. The wind was doing its best to pull her brown hair out of its long ponytail.
Paul suddenly found it very difficult to swallow. She had her head tilted to one side as she stared down at him, a little crease of confusion in the middle of her forehead and a half-smile of amusement on her full mouth. His world split into before seeing her brown eyes and after.
"You need help? Are you hurt?" She knelt in the grass, and her skirt slid up a few inches.
"What? Oh. Uh. No, I'm fine, I just--" He scrambled to his feet. "My van, it broke down and I'm not good with cars."
She got to her feet again. "I could take a look." She walked over to the steaming, ticking engine and peered in, pushing the ponytail over her shoulder. She rolled up the sleeves of her sweater.
"No, you...you shouldn't have to, I can..."
The brown-eyed goddess held up her hand. "My mother always said a girl should know how to change a tire and fix a car." She bit her lower lip, staring at the engine. "It's just overheated. I've got a gallon of water in my car."
"I think the brakes are a little messed up, too."
"A fluid leak. I can patch it enough to get you to a garage."
"You do this a lot?" He followed her towards her car, a bright blue VW.
"Do what?" She opened the trunk and reached for a plastic jug of water.
"Rescue strange men in distress?" He grabbed the jug from her. "Let me."
"Nope, I think you're my first." She slammed the trunk shut. "And you don't seem that strange."
"Really? I could be an axe murderer." What ever made him think he could hold a normal conversation with a beautiful girl?
"You could be. I have mace in my pocket. Anyway," she added, giving him a sideways glance. "I'd be really surprised if you turned out to be an axe murderer."
"Well, good." Paul felt ridiculously light-headed at the thought that she didn't think he was an axe-murderer, that she didn't find him all that strange.
They started back towards the van. The wind rustled the tall grass past the fence line, swaying the treetops. The girl leaned her head back and smiled.
He might be a washout from MIT with twenty-seven dollars and sixty-two cents, a broken-down van, a used computer, and three pairs of jeans to his name, but for the first time in weeks, that didn't seem to matter as much.
"We have to wait until the engine's cooled," she said, leaning against the side of his van, like she belonged there. She tapped her fingers against the metal as if following the beat of a song.
He put the jug of water down on the grass and leaned next to her.
They were quiet for a few minutes.
"Uh, hey, we haven't been introduced," he managed finally. "I'm Paul Bartowski." He held his hand out to her, realized it was covered in engine grease, and lowered his hand, pretending he'd just been stretching.
"Katherine Buckner," she said. "Everyone calls me Kate."
"That's a great name."
"It's served me well." Her mouth twitched with a smile that had a story behind it.
"So...how long?"
"How long what?" She turned to look at him, the brown-eyed gaze moving over his face.
He felt a flush creeping up his neck. "How long does it take for the engine to cool? Not that I'm in a hurry," he added quickly.
"Twenty minutes at least. Maybe longer. We don't want to get burned when we remove the radiator cap."
"Oh," he said, his mouth going dry again. We.
It definitely looked like the Bartowski luck had taken a turn for the better.
~end
note: I couldn't find any point in the canon that gave us their names or how they'd met. I'm sure canon will contradict this at some future date.
Prompt:
