A/N: This bit of silliness grew out of a conversation on FF, so I hereby dedicate it to all the great people who hang out there. Hope it lives up to expectations!

Disclaimer: If I owned "Chuck," do you really think I'd make you wait until next March for new eps? :P

"You've gotta be kidding me."

Sarah looks up from her perch on a brand-new motorcycle, unable to keep a smile from her lips. Chuck's arms are crossed against his chest, his mouth contorted into a petulant frown as he refuses to move from the curb. She glances at Casey, who merely grunts as if to say 'Keep me out of this.'

"No, no, no," Chuck protests emphatically. "I am not riding that thing."

"Come on," she says with a persuasive smile. "I even got you a helmet."

She grabs the helmet from behind her and tosses it to him. He fumbles it, recovers, and catches it before it drops. He stares at the shiny black helmet, swallowing nervously.

"Chuck."

His eyes snap up to hers.

"We have to go. The mission. Remember?" He nods and slides the helmet over his head, but makes no attempt to move. She sighs. "What's the matter now?"

"I'm riding with you? Like, behind you?" His voice is muffled through the lowered visor, but she can still hear how it shakes.

She lifts a brow. "Would you prefer to ride with Casey?"

Casey chuckles under his breath as Chuck scampers to hop behind Sarah. When she doesn't feel him though, she looks over her shoulder. He's sitting at the very back of the bike, his arms tucked against his sides, his legs spread wide so they don't touch hers.

"You can't sit like that. You'll fall off," she explains.

Slowly, Chuck slithers forward on the seat until there's an inch left between them.

Rolling her eyes, Sarah dons her helmet. She takes his arms and wraps them around her waist. Before he can protest, she guns the engine and takes off down the street.

"Hold on!" she shouts over the noise.

But Chuck doesn't need that particular instruction. His long arms have already found the space right beneath her ribcage, and his knees are pressing painfully into her sides.

He's squeezing the breath right out of her.

Sarah slows down and pulls over to the side of the road, motioning for Casey to go ahead. She sheds her helmet, letting her hair fall freely, and turns to glare at Chuck.

"I can't breathe when you hold on that tight!"

"Well, I'm sorry," he exclaims, taking off his own helmet, "but you were the one who dragged me onto this monstrosity! Would you rather me fall off the back?"

"Of course not! But can't you hold on without suffocating me?"

Chuck frowns, a deep frown that etches furrows into his forehead. Sarah sighs, calming down. She reaches out to smooth the creases in his brow.

"Look, I know you're scared," she says softly. He glances up at her, his gaze penetrating. "But you trust me, right?"

"Always," he answers simply.

She smiles. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Chuck nods, a small smile on his face.

"You ready?" she asks.

"Yeah," he answers, putting his helmet back on.

"Good. Because we've got a mission to get to."

She settles back in her seat and waits for him. He places his hands on her hips, his grip light but firm against her hipbones. Feeling her breath catch in her throat at the touch, she clears her head and forces the air into her lungs.

It's completely unfair that he's able to affect her this much, that just his simple touch can drive the breath from her lungs after he nearly suffocated her just a minute prior.

And even though she's able to calm her breathing, there's no stopping the grin that springs to her lips. She slips the helmet over her head, glad to have a barrier between herself and the world, glad to be able to hide the blush that's almost certainly gracing her cheeks.

But most of all, she's glad that she doesn't have to share her smile, the one that only he can coax out of her.

Chuck's strong hands squeeze a little harder, Sarah picks up speed, and the motorcycle rockets down the street.

Her birthday's coming up in a few weeks. Maybe she'll keep this bike, her first birthday present in nine years.

Sarah polishes the license plate and steps back to admire her handiwork.

It's only been a month, and she's become addicted to this motorcycle. It hasn't quite replaced her Porsche, since she knows how much he dislikes it and she doesn't want to make him uncomfortable when they go out for cover dates. But still, she manages to take it for a spin at least once a day.

Now, it's nice and clean and shiny, all ready with nowhere to go. She's due at Casa Bartowski for dinner in an hour, but, when they had talked about it, Chuck insisted on picking her up. So she waits for him, polishing away invisible fingerprints from her prized bike as she does so.

She pauses in her work, cocking her head as the sound of a motorcycle engine catches her attention. It comes closer, and she gets to her feet when a sleek, black Yamaha R1, a vanity streak of candy apple red across the front, races around the corner and into the lot.

Sarah's heart thumps with longing. Her bike is awesome, yeah, but that bike . . . She would trade all the stars in the sky for that bike.

The motorcycle comes toward her, and she suddenly realizes that she's nervous. She kicks her toe against the pavement, scuffing the tip of her Converse. And then the rider stops right in front of her, only her now-pitiful-looking bike in between them, and kills the engine.

The rider looks over at her, removes his helmet, and shakes out his flattened curls, a brilliant smile on his face.

Sarah's jaw drops in disbelief. "Chuck?"

Chuck only laughs, and Sarah's breathing quickens. He's wearing his Chuck Taylors, dark jeans rolled up at the cuffs, a plain white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket flapping slightly in the breeze. He looks like he stepped straight out of a James Dean movie.

And as much as she loves his Nerd Herd outfit, she can't help but admit to herself how completely sexy he looks right now.

It's enough to make her weak at the knees.

Sarah clears her throat, grabs a hold of her senses. "The last time you rode one of those," she tells him saucily, "you hardly opened your eyes."

Chuck shrugs and slides off the bike. "I've been practicing."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Why?"

He swallows. "Maybe I wanted to surprise you."

"Surprise me? Or impress me?"

"Maybe a little of both," he concedes with a chuckle, stepping towards her. He's close now, his lips hovering mere inches from her own, when he asks, "Did it work?"

She places her palms against his abdomen, her pulse racing as she delves into dangerous territory. She can feel beads of sweat through his shirt where the cotton clings to his skin. "Maybe," she murmurs.

"Mmm," he replies softly, "good thing I've got one more trick up my sleeve."

"Oh, yeah?" she asks, an eyebrow raised. "What's that?"

He inclines his head, resting his forehead against hers, and breathes, "It's yours."

She pulls away to look at him in wonder. "What is?" she asks, and honestly, right at this moment, if he offered her his heart, she'd snatch it up without sparing a thought for her past excuses.

"The bike," Chuck replies, dangling the key in front of her eyes with a smile. And he looks at her with a look so intense she imagines he can see right through her.

Her heart catches in her throat, her mind clouds with images of herself and Chuck, riding off into the sunset, nothing holding them back.

Turning to him, she says quietly, "I swear to God, if you are joking with me, Chuck Bartowski, I will tear you limb from –"

"Relax," Chuck laughs, pressing the key into her palm. "It's yours."

She turns around to drool over the bike again and leans back into Chuck, who slides his arms loosely around her waist. He rocks her gently, and a silly smile grows on her face when he whispers, "Happy birthday, Sarah."