Chuck vs the Adventures in Buymoria

Chapter 6: The Things We Cannot Control

The pre-dawn chill still clung to the forest when the boot found his ribs.

It was not a gentle waking. The leather was stiff, the pressure deliberate, dragging Chuckles instantly out of a dreamless sleep and into the damp, dark air of early morning.

"Up," Sarah said.

Chuckles cracked one heavy eyelid. The sky above the canopy was still a bruised shade of purple, completely devoid of sunlight. "Is it morning already?"

"Yes."

"Could we perhaps postpone morning?"

"No."

He let out a long, theatrical groan and rolled onto his back, staring up at the needles of the pine trees overhead. "Five more minutes?"

Sarah folded her arms across her chest, her shadow tall and unyielding against the faint twilight. "Then I'll start counting."

Chuckles sat up immediately, his hands raised in surrender. "Right. Morning. Splendid."

A short while later, the frost-dusted grass brushed against their boots as they stood facing each other in a small, secluded clearing. The air smelled of woodsmoke, damp earth, and crushed pine needles.

Chuckles held up both hands before she could settle into her stance. "Before we begin, I'd like to establish for the official record that yesterday I was thrown to the ground approximately fourteen times."

"Sixteen," Sarah corrected smoothly.

Chuckles paused, blinking. "You counted?"

"Yes."

"That's somehow worse."

A tiny muscle in Sarah’s jaw twitched. Her lips thinned, fighting back a shadow of amusement that almost—almost—softened her sharp features.

"Ready?" she asked, her voice snapping back to business.

Chuckles took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders to work out the lingering ache from yesterday's bruises. "Ready."

She came at him without warning.

This time, his instincts kicked in before his mind could overthink it. He moved. It wasn't effortless, and it certainly wasn't graceful, but he avoided the immediate catastrophe. He ducked beneath her initial sweeping strike, planted his heel into the soft earth, and managed to pivot away from her trajectory rather than stepping directly into her path.

Sarah paused, her stance shifting effortlessly as she reset. A brief, rare nod of approval cut through the dim light. "Better."

"Thank you," Chuckles wheezed, adjusting his grip.

She didn't give him time to savor it. Sarah attacked again, her movements a blur of practiced lethargy-turned-lethal speed. Steel rang against steel with a sharp, deafening clash that echoed through the quiet forest. The force of the blow reverberated up Chuckles' arms, forcing him backward, his boots skidding across the damp grass. He stumbled, caught his balance by a fraction of an inch, and hauled his guard up just in time to catch her follow-up strike.

"Better," Sarah repeated, her voice steady, barely breathing hard.

Chuckles grinned, the rush of adrenaline masking the sting in his forearms. "That's two compliments in two days. At this rate, I'll become unbearable."

Sarah's mouth twitched again.

Then, with lightning speed, her foot swept around and kicked his ankles out from under him.

The earth rushed up to meet him. Chuckles hit the ground with an undignified grunt, the air exploding from his lungs as his back slammed into the dirt. He lay there for a second, staring up at the gray canopy, listening to the quiet rustle of the trees.

"Three compliments?" he managed to ask from the grass.

"Get up."

"Right."

He scrambled back to his feet, dusting off his sleeves and shaking the dirt from his hands. Sarah was already waiting, her weight balanced, her spear held low and steady.

This time, as she began to move, Chuckles forced himself to stop reacting to her weapons and started watching her. Really watching her. Not just the obvious tell of her shoulders or the shifting placement of her feet, but the micro-adjustments that signaled her intent before she even took a step. The subtle tightening of her pale knuckles around the ash haft of the spear. The fraction-of-a-degree turn of her hips. The way her eyes narrowed, darkening as her mind selected the exact point of impact.

She was stunning when she fought.

The thought struck him unbidden, sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze of the sparring match. There was an impossible grace to her—a fierce, quiet perfection that seemed to elevate her beyond the messy reality of the world around them. When Sarah fought, she belonged to a domain of absolute control. She was quick, precise, and completely devoid of hesitation. Every movement was a whisper of purpose; no motion was wasted.

Chuckles felt a deep, aching pull in his chest. He wanted to be able to move like that. He wanted that kind of strength. But more than that, he realized, he wanted to understand her. He wanted to see past the armor, to tear down the walls of supreme composure, and discover what happened when Sarah forgot, even for a single second, that she was supposed to be untouchable.

She lunged again.

Chuckles read the shift in her weight, stepped cleanly to the side, and let her momentum carry her past.

"Good," she whispered.

He smiled, a spark of genuine confidence lighting up his face.

She pressed the advantage, striking hard. He brought his parry up, turning the blow. She spun, coming at him low, and he ducked, the wind of her weapon sweeping through his hair.

She struck a third time, a direct thrust, but Chuckles anticipated it. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist, arresting her momentum mid-strike.

For half a second, the entire world ground to a halt. They stood locked together in the center of the clearing, chest to chest, their breathing ragged in the cold morning air.

Sarah looked up, her gaze locking onto his.

Chuckles instantly forgot his footwork. He forgot his guard. He forgot what he was supposed to do next.

Her face was inches from his. At this distance, he could see the intricate flecks of pale green hidden deep within the brilliant blue of her irises. He could see a single loose strand of dark hair resting against the curve of her cheekbone. He could feel the sudden, radiant warmth of her skin seeping through the fabric of her sleeve beneath his fingers.

The forest seemed to dissolve around them. The trees, the morning chill, the damp grass—it all faded into background noise. There was only Sarah. Her eyes. The subtle rise and fall of her chest. The tiny, involuntary curve of her lips that she tried so hard to suppress whenever she looked at him.

He wanted to stay in this suspended breath of time. Just for another second. Maybe ten. Maybe forever.

Sarah twisted her wrist with a sudden, sharp leverage.

Chuckles was thrown off balance, stumbling sideways as the physical connection broke.

"Focus," she commanded, though her breath was noticeably shorter than before.

"Right," he rasped, shaking his head to clear the fog. "Focus."

Sarah began to circle him, her eyes fixed on his. He turned with her, keeping his center of gravity low. She feinted to the left, a subtle twitch of her blade meant to draw a panicked reaction—but Chuckles held his ground, seeing straight through it.

Sarah smiled.

It wasn't a smirk, nor was it a cold, competitive gleam. It was a real, unshielded smile, breaking through her defenses like sunlight through a storm cloud.

It hit Chuckles harder than any physical blow she had ever dealt him. He had seen her smile before, but never like this. This wasn't a defense mechanism or a polite habit. This was genuine, warm, and entirely for him.

Something deep within his chest pulled painfully tight. An overwhelming, terrifying wave of affection surged through him. He wanted more of it. He wanted to spend every day finding new ways to make her smile like that. He wanted more moments where the distance between them vanished entirely.

Sarah lunged forward to continue the drill.

Chuckles moved on instinct. He blocked the thrust, parried the shaft of her weapon, and stepped backward to create space. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Driven by the surge of emotion, his hand came up—not as a calculated combat move, but as an unconscious, desperate reflex to reach for her.

The magic inside him, volatile and deeply tied to his emotions, answered the call instantly.

A blinding burst of blue-white light erupted from his open palm.

The kinetic shockwave tore through the air with a deafening crack, like thunder striking a tree. The shock of raw energy struck Sarah squarely in the center of her chest armor.

She didn't just fall; she was lifted off her feet and thrown backward through the air. Her body collided with a heavy stack of fallen, rotting logs at the edge of the clearing with a sickening, heavy thud. Bark snapped, dead branches splintered, and she disappeared beneath the collapse of wood and debris.

Then, absolute silence descended on the forest.

The world stopped spinning. The colors drained from the clearing.

Chuckles stood frozen, his hand still outstretched, wisps of pale blue smoke curling off his trembling fingers.

"Sarah?"

The wind didn't even whisper through the trees. No movement came from the pile of logs.

His stomach dropped into a bottomless void. Cold dread washed over him, drowning out every trace of warmth he had felt moments ago.

"Sarah!"

He broke into a frantic sprint. He vaulted over a decaying trunk, tripped on a tangle of roots, and scrambled through the sharp branches, tearing at his clothes as he searched the debris.

"Sarah!"

He fell to his knees beside her body.

She was lying facedown in the dirt, half-buried under crushed limbs and shattered timber, terrifyingly still.

For one agonizing second, Chuckles couldn't draw air into his lungs. The wonder, the warmth, the soaring hope he had felt moments earlier evaporated into ash. There was only an suffocating, cold terror.

His hands shook so violently he could barely extend them as he reached for her shoulder. "Sarah? Please…"

He swallowed hard around a lump of sharp panic, his vision blurring. "Sarah, come on. Wake up."

He gently slid his fingers to her cheek, clearing away a smudge of dark dirt. Her skin was warm. A faint, shuddering breath parted her lips. She was alive.

Relief swept over him, but it was instantly crushed under a wave of devastating guilt. He looked down at her armor—the metal was scorched, and beneath the leather straps, deep purple bruising was already beginning to bloom across her side.

His face crumpled.

Oh God.

He had wanted to impress her. He had wanted to prove he was growing stronger, that he could stand beside her as an equal. He had wanted to get closer to her.

And instead, he had blasted her across a clearing. He had broken her body with the very power he couldn't control.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking, thick with self-loathing. "I'm so sorry…"

A low, painful groan squeezed from Sarah's throat.

Chuckles almost collapsed right there.

Her eyelids fluttered, heavy and confused, before slowly opening. She squinted against the morning light, her gaze wandering before finally settling on his face.

"Chuckles?" she rasped.

"I'm here," he said, his voice barely a breath. "I'm right here."

"What…" She shifted slightly, wincing as her muscles protested.

"Don't move," Chuckles said quickly, sliding a hands behind her shoulders to gently support her weight. "Just stay still. Don't force it."

Sarah lay there for a long moment, taking slow, deliberate breaths to test her ribs. As the fog in her mind cleared, she took in his appearance—the trembling hands, the pale skin, the absolute, heartbroken horror written across every line of his face.

"I'm okay," she said softly.

Chuckles shook his head, looking away as a knot tightened in his throat. "No, you're not."

Ignoring his protest, Sarah pushed herself up onto one elbow. Chuckles immediately moved to steady her, his hands terrified of exerting too much pressure.

"It wasn't that bad," she grunted, her jaw tightening against the pain.

"I threw you across the clearing, Sarah," he said, his voice laced with bitter self-recrimination. "I could have killed you."

"But you didn't."

Chuckles stared at her, stunned by the sheer lack of anger in her voice.

Sarah raised her hand. Slowly, carefully, her fingers reached up and pressed against his cheek, her touch steady and warm against his trembling skin.

"Look at me," she commanded quietly.

He forced his eyes back to hers.

"I'm here," she said, her voice dropping into a register of quiet, absolute truth. "I'm fine."

His breath caught in his throat. Sarah's thumb lingered against his cheekbone for one heartbeat, then two, anchoring him in the reality that she was alive, that she was whole. For once, neither of them made a joke. Neither of them pulled back to pretend the touch was an accident, or that the electric silence between them meant nothing at all.

Then, with a quiet exhale, Sarah drew her hand back.

She turned away, braced herself against a thick log, and forced herself to stand. Her movements were slow, her jaw tight as she fought through the sharp pain in her side. Without another word, she began to limp slowly back toward the camp, cradling her ribs with one arm.

Chuckles stayed on his knees in the dirt, watching her retreat through the trees.

There was something in the rigid line of her shoulders, in the heavy, deliberate placement of her boots, that told him she was furious. Not with him—there was no hatred in her eyes when she looked at him.

She was angry at herself.

She had been the one pushing him. She had been the one teaching him to unleash what was inside him. And in that fleeting moment of vulnerability, when she had allowed herself to smile, Sarah had been reminded of the terrifying truth: Chuckles' greatest power was unpredictable, chaotic, and wildly dangerous.

As was that lingering feeling about him, that she tried to suppress. It took more and more effort.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

By midday, the trail had squeezed into a tight gorge before opening up to reveal a natural hot spring, cradled like a secret in a bowl of moss-slicked granite. Plumes of thick, mineral-scented steam drifted lazily into the trees above, catching the harsh afternoon light.

Morgan had immediately declared it the single greatest discovery since breakfast.

While the women took advantage of the secluded pool to wash away the trail dust and thaw the morning chill, the men established camp a respectful distance downwind. A small fire crackled between three flat stones, but Chuckles barely felt its warmth. He sat on a fallen log, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the flickering embers while his mind replayed the sound of splintering wood and the sickening weight of his own out-of-control magic.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps crunched through the pine needles beside him. Bryce dropped down onto the log, his massive frame causing the timber to groan in protest.

Bryce sat in silence for a moment, resting his forearms on his knees. He looked at Chuckles. Then his gaze drifted toward the clearing, where the thick veil of white steam rose above the rocks. Then he turned back to Chuckles, his expression unreadable.

He muttered something low and guttural—a brief, harsh string of Klingon consonants that sounded distinctly unsympathetic.

Chuckles frowned, pulling his gaze from the flames. "What?"

Bryce let out a slow, heavy sigh that seemed to rattle in his chest. "I see what you're doing."

Chuckles blinked, instantly pulling his shoulders back in a defensive posture. "What am I doing?"

"Sarah."

Chuckles nearly choked on his own breath, his face flushing instantly. "I'm—I'm not doing anything."

Bryce leaned in a fraction closer, his dark eyes locking onto Chuckles with unsettling intensity. "Stay away from her."

"Why?"

"She'll chew you up, boy."

Chuckles stared at him, his brow furrowing as the word echoed in his ears. "Boy?"

Bryce nodded, solemn and unblinking. "She's an apex predator."

A flash of genuine offense cut through Chuckles' embarrassment. He gestured vaguely between the two of them. "Boy? Bryce, we're the exact same age."

Bryce offered a subtle, dismissive shrug of one broad shoulder. "Still."

Chuckles turned his head, his eyes drawn back toward the plume of steam rising behind the rocks. Through the mist, he could hear the bright, splashing water and the clear, echoing sound of laughter. Among them was Sarah's voice. She sounded different over there—unburdened, free of her heavy armor and the crushing weight of responsibility she carried everywhere else. It was a soft, human sound, stripped clean of the cold precision she wore like a second skin.

Chuckles forced himself to drag his gaze away, staring back down at his dirt-stained boots.

"She's not going to chew me up," Chuckles grumbled, though his voice lacked conviction.

Bryce gave him a long, pitying look, turning his head back toward the fire.

"That's exactly what prey says."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Later, as the sun dipped below the tree line and long shadows stretched across the glade, the women returned to camp with damp hair and the clean, mineral scent of the hot spring clinging to their skin.

Over by the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, Alexis was already dead to the world. Wrapped tight in her bedroll with her cloak drawn up to her chin, she slept with a deep, undisturbed rhythm, completely immune to the rustle of camp life around her.

A few feet away, Casey sat cross-legged on a flat rock. A long iron blade rested across his knees, and in his right hand he held a coarse whetstone. The rhythmic, whisper-thin rasp of stone against edge—shhhk, shhhk, shhhk—was a steady, mechanical pulse in the evening quiet. He said nothing to anyone. His face remained half-hidden in the gloom, his dark eyes quietly tracing the movements of the camp, taking in every subtle shift in posture, every unspoken tension, before returning to the glint of steel in his hands.

Near the center of the camp, Bryce had prepared a pungent, warming potion, grinding dried roots and oils into a thick salve.

Sarah sat on a low stone near the firelight, her back turned to the main circle. Her tunic had been pulled down past her shoulders, exposing her naked back.

Chuckles happened to glance up from the fire.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

Sprawled across Sarah’s shoulders and the small of her back were dark, angry violet bruises—a stark, painful tally of his lost control earlier that morning. But as Chuckles watched, Bryce’s broad, heavily calloused hands began moving across her skin, carefully and methodically working the thick ointment into her muscles.

Sarah didn't flinch. She sat entirely unbothered, her head bowed slightly, comfortable with the quiet, practical intimacy of field medicine.

Chuckles felt a sudden, sharp knot twist tightly in the pit of his stomach. A strange mixture of lingering guilt and sudden, suffocating irritation flashed through him. He dragged his eyes away, forcing his gaze toward the dirt with absolute, ferocious determination.

He picked up a heavy oak branch and poked the fire.

He jabbed at a glowing log, shifting it an inch to the left.

Then he thrust the stick directly into the heart of the embers, jamming it down hard enough that a violent fountain of bright orange sparks erupted into the dusk.

Morgan, lounging across the fire pit with his cup of tea, watched the shower of sparks drift up into the darkening canopy. He looked at the mangled embers, then glanced at Chuckles.

"Are you trying to kill the fire?" Morgan asked mildly.

"No," Chuckles snapped, not looking up.

"You've been stabbing it for five minutes."

"I'm thinking."

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "About fire?"

"Yes. Fire."

Morgan shifted his weight, his eyes tracking from Chuckles' tense, white-knuckled grip on the stick, across the clearing to where Bryce was gently working his thumbs into Sarah's shoulder blades, and then right back to Chuckles' stony expression.

"Oh," Morgan said softly, the light of sudden comprehension dawning in his eyes.

Chuckles' head snapped up. He glared at Morgan with a heat that outshone the dying embers.

Morgan held his hands up in silent, peaceful surrender, wisely returning his full attention to his tea and the flames.

Off in the shadows, the soft, rhythmic scrape of Casey’s whetstone never missed a beat. Shhhk. Shhhk. He didn't offer a word, but the faint, knowing glint in his eyes caught the firelight as he watched Chuckles stew in his own miserable silence.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Night fell completely over the camp, wrapping the clearing in a heavy, velvet hush. Sleep had taken the others—Alexis lay buried deep beneath her cloak near the ashes, Bryce’s slow, rhythmic breathing rattled softly in the darkness, and Casey sat motionless against a tree trunk, a shadow keeping silent watch.

Chuckles sat alone on a frost-slicked rock beneath a sky dusted with cold, distant stars. He rolled a smooth river pebble back and forth between his fingers, his thumb dragging over the polished stone in a restless, repetitive rhythm.

A faint rustle of grass announced Sarah’s approach, though her footsteps were so light she moved like a shadow given form. She didn't offer a greeting, nor did she ask if she was intruding. She simply sat down on the log beside him, wrapping her cloak tighter against the midnight chill.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The wind hummed quietly through the high canopy, carrying the scent of pine and dying embers.

"You feel guilty," Sarah said softly, breaking the silence.

Chuckles glanced sideways at her, the starlight catching the sharp line of her profile. "About the bruise."

Sarah gave a casual shrug, a slight movement beneath her heavy wool cloak. "It's nothing."

"I know," he murmured, his eyes returning to the small stone in his hand.

"But?"

"But I did it."

Sarah studied him, her sharp blue eyes cutting through the dim light to read the subtle tension in his frame. "Tell me about the magic."

Chuckles frowned, caught off guard. "What?"

"Your magic."

He paused, letting the pebble drop into his palm, staring down at his bare hands. "I don't really know how to explain it. It doesn't work like a sword drill or an equation."

"Try."

Chuckles drew in a long, cool breath, his shoulders dropping slightly. "I know the name of the wind," he said, his tone shifting into something surprisingly somber and deep. "I can call it. I can shout dragons out of the sky."

Sarah raised a single dark eyebrow. "Dragons?"

"That's what I said."

A faint, fleeting trace of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips before vanishing back into the shadows.

Chuckles continued, his gaze drifting upward. "I can make fire."

He upturned his palm. With a subtle flick of his fingers, a tiny, brilliant spark ignited in the empty air above his skin. It didn't burn him; it blossomed into a delicate, blue-gold ember that danced lazily above his knuckles.

Sarah watched it intently, the tiny flame reflecting in her irises.

Chuckles shifted his hand, his fingers weaving a slow, hypnotic pattern through the air. The fire obeyed, stretching into a glowing, ribbon-like thread that looped around his fingers. "I can even bend it sometimes."

He twisted his wrist, guiding the light in a sharp, spiraling arc—and then closed his hand into a tight fist. The flame vanished into nothingness.

"But what's the point?"

Sarah turned her entire body toward him, her gaze unwavering.

Chuckles stared bitterly at his empty palm. "If I can't control it, then what good is it? I wanted to help you this morning. I wanted to stand beside you. Instead, I blasted you into a pile of logs."

"You barely hurt me," Sarah said firmly.

"I know."

"Then stop punishing yourself."

Chuckles met her eyes, the raw frustration burning behind his own. "It's not that easy."

"No," Sarah’s voice softened, losing its sharp combat edge, dipping into a quiet warmth she rarely permitted herself to show. "But you don't have to learn it alone."

Chuckles blinked, the wind blowing a stray lock of hair across his forehead. "What?"

"I can help you."

"You?"

Sarah nodded. "Of course."

"You can teach me magic?"

"No."

A bewildered look washed over his face. "Then what can you teach me?"

"Focus." She held out her hand, palm up, hovering in the small space between them. "The Amazons have abilities of their own."

"Like what?"

Sarah’s expression hardened into something mysterious and ancient. "Some of them are considered… unnatural."

Chuckles stared at her extended hand, then looked up into her face. Despite the lingering gloom, a familiar, irrepressible spark returned to his eyes. "You realize that sentence makes me want to ask approximately twelve questions. And at least one of them is about some tragic guy named Plagueis the Wise."

"I know."

"And you're not going to answer any of them."

"No."

Chuckles let out a low, breathy laugh, the suffocating guilt finally loosening its grip on his chest. "Very Amazon of you."

Sarah’s lips curved upward into a genuine, unshielded smile. "Very Chuckles of you."

He reached out and wrapped his fingers around her hand.

His skin was warm against hers, his grip steady and unhesitating. This time, neither of them pulled back. Neither of them cracked a quick joke to break the tension or made an excuse to pull away. They just sat together, their hands locked beneath the vast, silent expanse of the star-filled sky.

And somewhere deep inside Sarah's chest, that strange, terrifying flutter returned—a sudden, tight pull that defied her discipline, her training, and every wall she had ever built around her heart.

She forced a quiet breath through her nose and stared out into the dark forest, willing her pulse to slow down, commanding herself to ignore it.

For now.