Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck or it's characters.
Sarah watches the rain pour down in buckets outside her window, listening to the angry pounding on the pavement. The water runs in little rivers down the glass, joining, breaking apart, joining again. Mesmerized, she moves towards the glass, tracing a finger down one path. She can't help but feel the full force of her pain when the outside world so perfectly reflects her turmoil. Leaning her head against the cold glass, the path of tears on her cheek mirror the rivulets of water down the glass. It wasn't supposed to be like this. How did it get to this point?
She's filled with a pervasive sense of injustice and some part of her deep inside wants to stomp her feet and dig in her heels and scream. But that part of her has long ago been swallowed down and hidden deep. That wouldn't be acting like an adult, much less like the great agent she's supposed to be. Once great, she thinks. Now, she's not so sure. Not about who she is or what she's doing. Not anymore.
She knows being here has changed her. That he changed her before she even had time to resist. Her hardened heart has thawed, her judgment has clouded. These days, her emotions bubble up with a persistence to which she's not at all accustomed. She blindly grasps at the image she used to know as herself, but after some things have changed, can anything stay the same?
They say that change is the only constant there is. Given her childhood of switching identities and cons like clothing, Sarah understands the physical aspects of change. Change you can see and hear and touch. Growing taller or older or louder. But this change within her is wholly unexpected and novel. Sarah prides herself in being hard to surprise or catch off guard, but this experience is so foreign that she feels adrift. The people in her life have never shown this kind of change, this transformation of who they are. She's been able to rely on the hardness of her fellow agents, the obliviousness of the general public, the absence of her mother, the detachment of her father. Physical things may have changed, but what she could expect from those people remained the same, no matter what, even when she longed and hoped and even silently prayed to a God she's not sure she believes in that they would change and give her more of what she longs for and needs. But that change never came and Sarah eventually internalized the idea that people don't change.
The tears feel hot and heavy as they leave her eyes but quickly turn cool as they slide down her face, pressed against the window. She stares out at the rain, begging for it to wash away her need for tears, closing her eyes and focusing on the chill of the glass on her forehead, wishing it could numb her. She's at the bottom of her reserve, alone in her hotel room, the loneliness filling her ears. The fight has left her exhausted, battling to keep emotions under lock and key, to dance hot and cold like the tears that run down her face. She thinks of Chuck and her chest aches, feels pulled forward and pushed back all at once. She wants to give in so badly that her breath catches in her throat and she gasps, barely stifling a sob, her hand a fist clutched in front of her heart. She sinks to the floor and turns her head away from the window, the debate raging in her mind. But she's too tired to keep up with it, and she lets it all drop away, focusing on the sound of the rain, steady and unrelenting.
Pulling back from the situation, she sees herself as she is—crumpled, tear-stained, desperate, uncertain. This isn't professional, this isn't working. She certainly can't stay like this, unable to move forward in any direction, at a stalemate; something has to change.
In her desperation, she finally lets herself ask the traitorous question that before this point she's succeeded at shoving away and evading. Would it really be so bad to let go? She's already a broken, crumpled heap on her floor, tears staining her face. Could it really be any worse than this? Maybe the struggle is futile anyway, and she's just hurting herself even more. Maybe it's not black and white, maybe the lines that are already blurred have been shades of gray all along.
And she stops trying to predict the outcome, stops trying to think so far ahead, because she's finally started to realize that despite how hard she struggles and pulls and fights, she really can't control anything. She certainly can't control the CIA; they're going to do anything and everything they choose despite her wishes. At some point, it's all going to change, slip through her grasp no matter how hard she clings. And if that's the truth, well then, hell, the only chance she's ever going to have is now. She might as well surrender and enjoy the ride, savor each minute before everything inevitably changes once again.
She looks to the door, her head cocking slightly. With all the agility and desperation usually reserved for missions, she pulls on a pair of shoes and yanks open the door, running out into the hall, down the stairs, out the door.
Meet me in the courtyard, she texts Chuck, knowing he'll follow her strange request despite the weather and late hour. She jumps in her Porsche, going just slow enough to keep from hydroplaning in the inky night, the only sound the wipers on full speed, whacking at the sheets of rain.
Suddenly she's at his house, racing towards the fountain, her t-shirt and pajama shorts heavy and sticking to her skin, her tennis shoes sloshing and squeaking. And there he is, standing under a huge umbrella, looking unsure and confused.
"Sarah, what's going on?"
She steps closer and takes the umbrella from him, moving it away, setting it down. Chuck grasps at it, trying to keep from getting soaked, giving her a bewildered look, placing an arm over his head in a futile attempt to stay dry.
"I'm trying something new," she gives him a little half smile as she shrugs her shoulders and looks down for a minute, realizing the absurdity the situation. But that's the point, isn't it? It's proof she's not in control. She looks up at Chuck, managing an embarrassed little laugh as her shoulders round slightly. Chuck looks at her, his eyes unsure but warm and open, just like his heart's always been. Looking up at the sky, his eyes close as he tilts his head back into the rain, his face tensing as the drops hit his skin hard, his palms rising up by his sides, as if to catch the rain. Pulling his head back down, he opens his eyes, and laughs, full out.
"You're kinda crazy, you know that?" he says, his eyes dancing. "But, okay, sure. You wanna stand here in the rain getting soaked, then let's stand here. What are washing machines for, anyway, if not soaked clothing?" And even now, he's giving her what she needs—this permission, this understanding. She smiles at him, a little wider, and she knows she really is going to let it all go now.
Unlike nearly every other time she's felt the butterflies in her stomach and the tingles in her chest, she doesn't hold back. Grabbing his face in her hands, she kisses him, hard, pushing her body against his. And just like their kiss at the docks, he quickly responds and his arms wrap around her and hold her close, warm against the chill of the rain. Her sigh reverberates through her whole body as she relaxes into his touch, their kiss deepening. Finally, they break apart, gasping for air and sputtering in the rain. But as she looks up at Chuck and takes his hand, she decides that, yeah, she's going to enjoy the ride.
A/N: I'd really appreciate any feedback as this is my first fic. Thanks!