A/N: This is an experiment in Charah. I'm trying. This will be only 2 chapts at the most. Taking a breather from some other projects.
I don't own Chuck. If I did, things would be different. This half is kind of the inverse Pandora's Box, except for the next chapter.
It had been sunny that day. An incredible California spring day when neither of them had to work and breakfast on the beach on a Tuesday morning seemed like a neat idea. He'd been so easy to please, and pleasing him had been her pleasure.
She picked him up at his apartment, reveling in his easy embrace. He was still not totally comfortable with PDAs out in the open but he figured Casey would approve – for the cover.
'Sarah, I know you super secret CIA agents get 'get outta tickets free' cards any everything but some of us mere mortals missed the day they issued 'immortality cards', in fact I'm pretty sure they told me I didn't qualify. So please slow down.'
'Chuck, this is my only release, my only freedom in life, don't make me give it up, please?'
He was sooo whipped. He just hunkered down in his seat and smiled at her. "Go for it, babe." Fuck Casey. If anyone were listening they'd write it off to the heat of the moment. Or fear. Yeah, he was good at emoting that one. He'd never, ever gone this fast riding in something that had no wings.
They pulled into their favorite beachfront restaurant, a diner really, and got their usual to go. She drove to 'their place' on the beach and she'd raced him to it. She won easily as she always did. She'd left him carrying the Styrofoam boxes containing their breakfast. Hey, in the CIA it wasn't how you won, it was only the victory that counted.
She slid into their spot like a Yankee stealing third. "SAFE" she thought triumphantly.
She spread the blanket out, smoothing it flat as could and turned on her knees to tease Chuck about his loss again.
Something hit her in the head, hard, and her laughter died on her lips as she slipped into the arms of Morpheus.
They hadn't raped her. It had been a straight up robbery. Gangbangers and druggies preyed on the early-morning beach goers, the hunters looking for last scores before returning to their lairs. It was becoming more and more of a news item and less and less of a rarity.
For 4 days she'd been unconscious.
For four days Chuck Bartowski was still a part of her world, still smiling, still joking, still avoiding PDAs, still allowing her the freedom of her release.
And on the fifth day it all turned to shit.
A body was found, partially decomposed several miles north. He'd just been thrown away. Dumped like the morning's trash. He hadn't gone easily and from the bruises on his hands and knuckles, the medical examiner said he'd given out a lot of pain to someone. John Casey had identified the body, made a lot simpler because of a laceration Chuck had gotten at the BuyMore while he and Casey had been carrying a plasma TV.
She cried the entire 5th day. John Casey came by to say goodbye since they were closing down the operation. No sense two agents babysitting a corpse (he didn't say that, he just thought it real loud). He hugged her awkwardly and handed her a stack of disks. "Here's as much of him as I could save for you, Sarah. I'm sorry. I'll miss him. And you. "
And on the 6th day she cried. Ellie Bartowski came and they cried together. A sister who'd lost her baby brother and a broken spy who'd lost her almost-lover. She loved him. Had for some time. And now it hurt. She'd never told him. Not once.
On the 7th day, Ellie Bartowski came to see her again. They were having a memorial for Chuck and were scattering his ashes at his beach. She'd gotten a friendly attending to look the other way while she took her out for the ceremony. After the ceremony Sarah Walker disappeared, never again to be seen in Los Angeles. Ellie Bartowski would spend a lot of money trying to find her but not a piece of evidence suggesting she'd even existed could be found. She married Devon and moved to a new place. One without the ghosts.
Washington, DC
A CIA agent no longer physically able to do field work. She was considered emotionally unstable and was offered a desk job in D.C. or a medical pension. She chose the pension and met with General Beckman.
"Miss Walker, it's been an honor serving with you. I'm only sorry the circumstances could not have been more favorable. Rest assured, the bodies of those responsible for killing Mr. Bartowski and assaulting you will be turning up in dumpsters and landfills for quite a few weeks to come. John Casey is an angry man, Ms Walker. A very angry man."
Arlington, VA
For 5 months she did nothing. She was legally Sarah Walker. She kept the name to honor him.
She sat at home in her condo that the CIA had given her. Being #1 had some perks and apparently those extended into retirement. She started to paint again. She'd painted for years as a way of relieving stress. It relaxed her then, it didn't now. Now she painted angry seascapes, ravaged landscapes, and cities on fire, people in pain. Her CIA shrink said she was moving away from reality and needed to find something to ground her to this plain of existence. Or she'd just go away some day leaving a hollow body breathing on autopilot.
"So, we can be 100% certain that she's not hiding something? That she knows something we couldn't get out of her in hypno-sessions?
"General, the last time she saw Chuck Bartowski alive was on that beach. He is dead, General. The condition of the body found would make identification difficult. Agent Walker was never told about the damage and 'missing parts' of the body as a kindness. Major Casey identified the body from some recent injuries the intersect had sustained at his place of work in his presence. It was Charles Bartowski's body. No head, no hands, but the injury to the arm, the laceration confirmed by Major Casey, 100% certain, General."
That was fine. She had run her own DNA tests. She'd found that the DNA markers matched that of Bartowski. The human intersect was dead.
"This matter is closed then, Doctor. Thank you for your time and expertise. We will curtail all surveillance of Ms. Walker. Our assets can be better employed elsewhere.
She sold the condo. Told the few friends she'd made since retirement that summer in D.C. was just too hot for her and she was going to travel and maybe find a place she'd like to live and a job that wouldn't cause too many of the crippling headaches she'd been subject to since the… since she retired. The doctors said it was stress and would probably go away with time. She didn't think so.
She quit driving for the night after crossing over the Mackinaw Bridge. She drove into a little town at the northern terminus of the bridge, St. Ignace. A tourist trap, but nice in its own way. She dropped by the visitors center and pulled some brochures on lake front rentals. It was October so she was sure vacancies would be common and rates low. She was on a budget now, no CIA credit cards or slush funds.
She took her laptop out and reviewed her emails. Spam. Offers from the Bank of Nigeria, Microsoft Lottery, and the usual one that so tickled her fancy offering listings on "True Love Dot Com" for single females. She read down through the listing of available men but didn't see much there that would compare to what she'd had. She sighed. Maybe someday. In the meantime, this looked like a fine place to call home until the wanderlust struck her again.
Last Hurrah Bar & Grill
St. Ignace, MI
Charlie Malone gently pushed the last of the old geezers out of the door of the 'Last Hurrah' bar he'd bought with his life savings and government backed loans he'd applied for after being discharged from the Army. His short hair, lanky build and quick smile had made him an instant hit with both the locals and the 'summer girls'. But he'd always just smile at them, give them a free drink and a turn on the dance floor and then ignore them.
The more insecure of the rejectees tried to start the rumor that he was gay but the occasional blonde lucky enough to get past his screens and spend time with him after work would testify to the contrary. He just didn't sleep around. Ever. Incredible kisser but refused to do much else. It was like he was in mourning or something. So the tales of Charlie Malone usually contained suggestions of a lost love, a traumatic military experience, nothing even close to the truth. Tall tales were not tall enough for his truth.
St. Ignace was not high on his list of places to drop anchor but it beat the crap out of California. There were no memories here, just memories to make. The U.P. was a lot like northern California, just that the surfer jargon was replaced with almost Canadian syntax and pacing, ay? He fired up his laptop and checked his email. He went to his usual first stop, True Love Dot Com and scanned the available ladies to see if his dream girl might miraculously appear. No, not tonight. Someday perhaps but not tonight. His phantom lover was out there, he was sure of it, just as he was certain that no matter what, he would keep looking and waiting.
Sarah Walker found that St. Ignace had a subtle charm, like someone else she knew, it just grew on her. Maybe she'd found the place called 'home' the shrinks said she needed to find. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. After talking to the locals, she'd gone down to the "lower peninsula" and traded in the Porsche on something more useful, something big with 4-wheel drive and the power to stand up to the Michigan winters, when the gales came off the lake and turned the roads to inches of ice. She was looking forward to the challenge of winter driving and one of the local galleries had been showing her paintings and so she just might have a source of income. She decided that she'd 'winter over' in St. Ignace and if things still looked bleak, she head elsewhere in the spring..
As she drove over the bridge and down into St. Ignace she passed a little bar and decided to stop for a beer. It'd been a long time since she'd had one and it had been a hard, long day. It was his birthday. Happy Birthday, Chuck. I love you, baby.
She knew if she had one she'd drink the place dry so she skipped the idea of the bar and drove on to her rented lakefront house. Some other time.
Charlie Malone was having a fine time of it. He'd imported an Irish band for the last of the tourist weeks hoping to squeeze some more money out of them. The "southies" were packing up the lake homes, winterizing and getting ready to go south until spring. Locals called them snowbirds. First hint of snow and they migrated and took their money with them. And it was his birthday. He was 30. And he was alone.
The band's lead singer was a gorgeous blonde, a Galway girl with the delicious lilting accent of that region and a singing voice that would melt the hearts of any male who heard it.
Even though he couldn't understand the lyrics, "Harry's Song" broke his heart. And when they'd segued into "Do You Remember Me?" he took a fifth of Irish Mist off the shelf and a clean glass and went back to his office.
It had been 9 months without word. Nine months without the sun, without light in his darkness, without air in his lungs. Nine months. They'd agreed to six. After six months Casey said they would have quit looking. After six months the surveillance would be terminated. After six months he could resurface and resume his life, although with considerable changes. He couldn't contact Ellie, for example. Ever. And Ellie had agreed. Anything to keep her little brother safe, even if he was being cut out of her life forever. Anything. Including pulling Chuck's medical records and replacing them with those of a homeless man about the same age and build who'd overdosed. It was Devon who'd literally used a hacksaw to remove the head, hands and feet of the corpse. Casey took it out to the place it would be discovered and shot it full of holes. Just like the gangbangers would do.
After six months, Sarah Walker would contact him and they could begin a new. But she hadn't contacted him. No one had. He'd been cut adrift. He was out of the loop. Not knowing was the worst. Had she gone back to Bryce? Gone deep cover? Or didn't she want to join him? It did mean losing her world and maybe she didn't think he was worth it.
Sarah Walker hadn't been told of any of the plan. Her role was the most critical if Chuck Bartowski was to survive the sanction placed on him with the successful advent of the new intersect. The NSA was not going to take any chances with security. Dead men told no secrets. The Bitch Beckman had ordered Chuck killed. The genuine spontaneity of her reaction was critical to the success of the operation.
She'd been very genuine. Casey had raised an eyebrow and asked him point blank if he'd slept with his handler. He hadn't so this confirmed what he'd already expected. She was totally compromised. She should have asked for reassignment.
The plan was for John Casey to email Agent Sarah Walker and take her to dinner about 6 months after Chuck's "death" assuming they were both in-country and not on assignment. After catching up, he would hand her an envelope and leave. In the envelope were an email and web address and a 'suggestion' that she join the website and consider retirement and relocation for a change.
Unfortunately, she'd been medically retired. He hadn't struck her that hard but she'd taken an emotional shot as well. She'd been declared emotionally unstable by the CIA, offered a desk job with the NAS but had declined. She took retirement. She'd succumbed to her wanderlust and had been gone before he could make contact. Shit. Sarah Walker was off the grid. He had no way to contact her.
A knock at the door. The blonde from the band opened the door holding her own bottle of some beer that never sold. Charlie wasn't really in the mood for company.
"H'lo, Charlie-lad. Why so sad? 'Tis your birthday and ye should be ongoing glad to have it since t'weren't long ago, rumor has it, ye were doubtful of anoother, s'truth to tell." When he boiled down the accent (for example 'birth' came out 'bay-erth') to content he felt a chill. The M1911 was in his hand and pointed at her head, unwavering.
"Who are you? Who do you work for? Fulcrum? The NSA?"
She laughed. "I work as a singer in an Irish band that ye yerself has hired. I only meant that people say ye were in that Afghan place and moost have some terr'ble mem'ries since ye partake naught of the local ladies, none but the pales, so I thought I'd come in and see if yer of a mind to try a pale Irish lass, Charlie m'lad. I would deem it a great honor, Charlie, if you would remember me."
It had been nine months and her songs that night had slain him. He let go and pretended that Maire was someone else with those same laughing blue eyes and all-day-sucker-I-won-the-lottery smile. And for a wee bit of time, he could pretend and banish the dark and breathe the air. But just for a wee bit. And when he awoke she was gone. The note read "Charlie, she's out there, the one ye seek. Find her, Charlie, for ye have much to give. Find your Sarah."
He never knew her last name. When he pulled the contracts and contacted the booking agent no one could give him a number. The band had returned to Ireland. He wouldn't book them again.
He didn't want to think of the hurt he caused when he called her "his Sarah" for how else would she have known the name?