"If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it is yours forever. If it doesn't, then it was never meant to be." – Anonymous
"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness." – Fredrich Nietzche
"Love Hurts" – Incubus
One year ago . . .
Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the gap in the cutained window, highlighting the half-eaten trays of food, dirty laundry and discarded video games littering the floor, the desk, and every other cluttered surface of Chuck's room. Laying on his back with his arms stretched lifelessly on either side of him, Chuck stared vacantly at the ceiling and tried for the thousandth time to clear his mind. It didn't seem to work.
Sighing heavily, the computer nerd fumbled along his rumpled comforter for the discarded sheet of paper, creased and slightly faded from over handling.
Dear Chuck,
By the time you read this, I'll be gone. I'm sorry for –
Just as his heart began its by now familiar plunge inside the recesses of his chest, his door swung slowly open and his sister peeked inside.
"Chuck," Ellie said hesitantly, trying not to wrinkle her nose, "You've been in here for three days. Are you ever going to get out of bed?"
In response, Chuck's arm fell back to his mattress, the letter dangling limply in his hand. "She left me, Ellie," he said tonelessly, liquid ice flooding his lanky frame.
If Chuck had been looking at his sister, he might have noticed the tightening of her jaw and the flash of her eyes. As it was, he had returned to staring blankly at the ceiling.
"I know, Chuck," she said, coming to sit on his bed. "But you can't just lay in bed all day. It isn't healthy."
Chuck slowly turned his head so that he was looking at Ellie, causing her to cringe at the expression in his eyes. "What else is there to do?" he asked, an unnatural hopelessness filling his tone.
She paused for a moment, considering. "Well," she said finally, "what about that video game you always wanted to create?"
~*~
Present Day . . .
Late Friday afternoon in London brings with it many things: tourists hopping around town, trying to find the latest buzz; business people dashing to the nearest Tube station, eager to relax after a long week of work; theatre, night club, and restaurant employees scurrying along the sidewalks and the inside of shops, gearing up for that night's clientele.
All of it is regular, all of it is commonplace. But this particular late Friday afternoon brings with it something a little different. Because this particular late Friday afternoon finds Chuck Bartowski strolling down the bustling thoroughfare of Tottenham Court Road, a grin on his face and a swagger in his step. Well, the grin and the swagger are present until a suggestion is made by his colleague, one Josh Brown. In response to which, Chuck stops dead in his tracks and turns to the man with arched brow.
"A strip club?" he squeaks, staring at the red-headed man who had been his fraternity brother in Stamford. "Really? 'Cause I was just thinking we could order pizza and watch TV . . ."
"Oh, come on, Charles," his new business partner teases, slinging an arm around Chuck's shoulders as he begins to lead him toward the line. His green eyes crinkle around the corners as a grin slides across his face. "We just sold a cutting edge video game. We have to go out and celebrate."
"See, that's the thing," Chuck states, ducking out from underneath his friend's arm. "I don't really equate seeing scantily clad women with celebrating."
Unfortunately, Josh has other ideas. (But then, he never had abandoned the whole frat boy attitude.) Ordering two tickets, he turns to Chuck with a smirk. "You always have been an oddball, Bartowski," he states, grabbing Chuck's arm and pulling him toward the doors. Before Chuck has another chance to protest, he's been pushed through the double doors of the club and guided to a table on the far side of the front row. "Sit back and relax, my man," Josh says, signaling a topless waitress with one hand and delivering a light backhand to Chuck's chest with the other. "You are in for a treat."
Chuck glances at his colleague dubiously, wishing for the hundredth time that Morgan had been more interested in video games and less interested in learning to cook for Benihana. But when the music starts and smoke fills the stage, he pushes the thought aside and reluctantly diverts his eyes to that night's entertainment. A woman dressed as a British police officer saunters onto the stage, creamy long legs fully revealed underneath her black skirt, tendrils of blonde hair pooling out from underneath her blue cap. Her back is to him, but something about the way she sashays onto the stage causes Chuck's stomach to tighten as he shifts forward on his seat.
"I told you you'd like it," Josh quips, ruffling Chuck's brown curls. But the computer nerd is too absorbed in the act to notice.
The woman sidles to center stage, curling her fingers around a thin metal pole and pulling off her cap. Leaning back with a slender knee curled in midair, her blonde hair spills over her shoulders as she shakes her head amidst murmurs of approval from the assembled crowd. She begins a slow dance around the pole, gyrating in time to the music even as she inconspiciously takes in various members of the audience. The way she moves causes goosebumps to break out onto his skin as unbidden memories struggle to resurface. And when her gaze finally lands on his table, Chuck's jaw drops, his brown eyes piercing into her own heated blue.
Sarah Walker.
Her lips part, her forehead creases, and a hint of awe enters her eyes. For a moment, a wild thought flits through his mind that she's going to abandon her charade and come to his table, erasing the last year. But then a wave of resolve washes over her features, and she straightens her shoulders and blinks, looking away and continuing her dance.
If he'd been less shocked, Chuck might have noticed the apologetic look in her eyes before the sudden transformation. As it is, he's left to watch her in silence, his heart beating rapidly as the last year seems to close in on him. Sarah. Here. Sarah. In London. Sarah. Five feet away. The same Sarah who had abandoned him one year before, without so much as a verbal good-bye. The same Sarah who had captured his heart, turned his world upside down, and then left him with no more than a simple note.
That Sarah was up on stage in a London strip club, dancing for all the world to see and pretending as if she had not just seen him. Swallowing hard, Chuck's stomach drops to his knees when she unbuttons the top two buttons of her blouse, then sashays down the stairs and over to the roving hands of a muscular, middle-aged man. And when she grabs his tie and pulls him forward for a sexy kiss, her lips brushing heatedly against the man's mouth, a sharp pain pierces his chest and he jumps to his feet.
"I'm going back to the hotel," he states flatly, shaking off Josh's hand when it closes around his wrist.
"But, buddy," he protests, pointing toward the middle-aged man, "that could be you if you play your cards right."
Chuck glances toward Sarah, now leading the hulking man out of the room by his tie. Again, a sharp pain reverberates through his chest, and he narrows his eyes. "No, thanks," he says simply, but tension is evident in his tone. Before Josh can protest further, he turns on his heel and marches out of the club.
~*~
Smiling tantalizingly at her newest mark, Sarah pulls the man back to the nearest room, an unspoken promise shining within her eyes. When the door finally closes behind the pair, the man is only too eager to run his hands along every inch of her body. Unfortunately, before he can even reach for the buttons of her blouse, someone steps up from behind and clubs him over the head with an iron bar. The man immediately slumps to the floor with a muffled thump.
"You had me worried for a minute there, Williams," Agent Thompson states, and the bar drops onto the ground with a clatter. His tanned, whiskery face is creased in concern, highlighted by his neatly trimmed black hair. "What the hell happened out there?"
"Nothing," Sarah replies, answering easily to her new name as she unleashes a pair of handcuffs from her makeshift police uniform. She quickly places them on the mark's wrists, purposefully avoiding her partner's scrutinizing gaze. "I followed protocol perfectly."
Even as she says it, her thoughts are pierced by the same pair of brown eyes which have haunted her for the past year. Only this time, the image is accompanied by the uncomfortable knotting of her stomach muscles and an almost overwhelming sense of urgency. "I'll radio in for backup. You can finish this," she states, straightening up and grabbing her leather jacket off a nearby chair. "I have something I have to take care of."
"Something more important than Vladmir Dostoevsky?" Thompson archs a brow.
Sarah pauses for a moment, considering, before turning to her partner with a determined glint in her eyes. "Yes," she says firmly, then slips on her jacket and heads for the door.
"Williams, wait," Thompson barks, and she turns to find him staring at her out of narrowed eyes. "Who was that guy?"
Apparently, Thompson saw more than she thought. "I'm not sure," she says simply. "But I have to find out."
It's to his credit that he doesn't stop her from leaving.
~*~
The London sky slowly darkens, sending shadows skittering along the walls of the St. Giles' hotel room. Decked in nothing more than a dark blue t-shirt and jeans, Chuck's converses beat a well-known path into the plush red carpeting while his mind continually drifts to memories he does not wish to entertain.
One year ago . . .
"Congratulations, Mr. Bartowski," General Beckman stated, leaning forward in her seat. "The Ring has been infiltrated, the Intersect erased from your mind. You're now free to live your life without government interference."
Gone were the requests to have Chuck join the CIA as an analyst. Gone were the inquiries into what he had decided to do with his life. After six months of dealing with Chuck's ineptitude as the Intersect 2.0, both the United States government and Beckman herself wanted nothing more to do with him. And even though he knew he should probably feel insulted, he couldn't help the immense feeling of freedom which bubbled through his veins.
A slow grin spread across his face as he turned to look at Sarah, standing directly behind him and a little to the side. The moment he saw the look on her face, the grin faltered. Her features betrayed no trace of emotion, no hint that Beckman's words had penetrated her defenses. When Beckman finally disappeared from the screen, he took a step toward her, ignoring Casey's grunt and eventual departure from the Castle.
"Sarah?" he began tentatively, his heart beating a frantic rhythm in his chest.
Her head whipped in his direction, all emotions almost perfectly concealed from her blue gaze. Even so, a hint of something that Chuck couldn't quite place penetrated the surface. "You're free, Chuck," she said simply, attempting a smile.
Even though her smile didn't quite reach the hidden emotions in her eyes, it caused him a twinge of relief. "I know," he replied, his grin returning slightly. "It feels . . . good."
"So what are you going to do with your life, Mr. Bartowski?"
Her words emerged almost throatily, causing a flicker of hope to resound within his chest. He took a tentative step in her direction. "I think the relevant question," he said, swallowing hard before continuing, "is what are you going to do with your life, Agent Walker?"
Present Day . . .
A pang pierces Chuck's chest, and he rips himself from his memory, running shaky fingers through his curly hair. Unbidden, his eyes drift to the front pocket of his suitcase, his mind drifting to the worn sheet of paper carefully concealed inside. But then he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, willing his mind to go peacefully blank. Before he really knows what he's doing, he grabs his wallet from the nightstand and heads quickly to the door, perhaps intending to visit the pub downstairs.
But when he opens the door, the breath is knocked from him as ice water seems to flood his chest. Standing in front of him with her fist poised to knock is Sarah Walker, a long leather jacket wrapped around her sinewy frame.