A/N: Please keep in mind that I've only seen about four episodes of Chuck, so tell me if I've gotten anything glaringly wrong. Also note that this is set almost a decade after the events of Chuck Versus the Ring, (and I believe Chuck has matured/changed accordingly) and set after What Happens in Burma.

He wakes slowly, feeling exhausted and pained and he's not sure where he is. Breathing in the scent of antiseptics, he blinks tired eyes open and stares up at a blank ceiling. Hospital. Why would he be in a hospital?

Not bothering to call a nurse, it takes almost twenty minutes for one to wander in and discover that he is, in fact, awake. Letting out a soft gasp, she addresses him almost excitedly.

"We were worried you wouldn't wake up. When we found you you'd already lost so much blood… We lost you on the table once." Realizing that she's gotten ahead of herself, she stops, blushing brightly. "Oh, but that's not important right now. How are you feeling?"

He shrugs, some niggling feeling in the back of his mind insisting that it really was important that he'd been legally dead. Ignoring that for now, he gives himself a quick self-examination. "Not bad. My side hurts a little."

She marks something on her clipboard. "I'd offer some painkillers but I'm not sure what you're allergic to." Worrying her lip between her teeth, she grabs another clipboard from his bedside table. "Do you think you can fill these out real quick? We're going to need more information before we can do anything else."

Taking what he assumes are general hospital forms, he sits up and reaches for the pen the nurse is gesturing toward him. Then he glances at the top of the first sheet and freezes.

Name.

What is his name?

Neal Caffrey, the ex-con signed with a flourish, relieved that his report was finally done. As much as he liked going out in the field (no way could he stick around the office reading files all day), it meant that he had to do field reports afterword. Remembering the details was easy. It was even kind of fun to hedge and disguise the more gray areas of his personal field work, knowing he was slipping it past the FBI and they were letting him. But damn if it didn't get tedious after a while. He set the completed paperwork aside, picking up a cold case file he'd filched from the office.

Mozzie watched with a distinct look of distaste on his face, probably taking it as proof of Neal being sucked into the normal doldrums of a nine-to-five job – something he would never be so foolish to consider. Especially with feds.

Idly drinking a glass of wine, Mozzie turned a considering gaze at Neal. "Heard you told the Suit about your dad."

Neal eyed his friend for a minute, already knowing where this was going. "Yeah, I did," he replied, setting the file back down and picking up his own glass.

"I thought you didn't remember."

"I didn't."

"But now you do." It was a statement.

Neal sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Not entirely. I remember up until I was fifteen, I think." Peter had commented that he'd never been able to find anything about Neal before he'd turned eighteen, and the ex-con knew he never would. There was nothing to find. Even the records for about seven or eight years after his supposed eighteenth birthday were falsified. "Still a long way to go." Those years were all a blank.

"It's a start, though. Hey, does this mean you know…"

"No names yet," he interrupted, finger tracing the rim of his glass.

Mozzie looked disappointed, but didn't push any further, abruptly switching his attention to the chess set on the table. "I don't suppose you want to play?" he asked, already setting up the pieces.

Neal hesitated. "I'm not sure I want to."

Mozzie stared. "Chess?" Though he knew perfectly well that wasn't what Neal was talking about.

"Did you know, Moz, that I knew how to use a gun when I was ten?" The other kids played cowboys and Indians. I pretended to be my dad.

His friend shook his head, watching him carefully.

"I first shot someone when I was twelve."

Standing on the street in November with only shoes, pants, and a jacket isn't what he planned on, but it's the best he can do. They're the only clothes he has that haven't been ruined (his shirt had been cut off him before surgery, apparently) and it's cold, but he guesses he should just be thankful he's not out in only a hospital gown.

With no name and no money, he's been kicked to the curb. Hospitals in America aren't kind to those that can't pay.

"Hey, buddy, outta the way!" a man snarls, shoving past him on the sidewalk. He's clearly in a hurry; wealthy, too, by the look of his clothing and expensive gold watch.

He has no money. This man looks like he won't notice if some disappears.

It's wrong, he knows. But what else can he do? He's got nothing; no identity, no home. He can't get a job even if he had the time. Winter's coming and he's too prideful to stick it out in a shelter.

Before he really knows what he's doing, he's slipped past the man and has his wallet in hand. Almost surprised, he can't think of how he did it. Like instinct, but what did that mean?

Who had he been before, that pick-pocketing came as easy as breathing?

Work the next morning was slightly hectic, with Peter's flustered orders to be on his best behavior. Neal was left wondering why until Diana finally explained; a high-ranking agent from counter-intelligence was coming to speak with him personally.

For some reason he was immediately on edge, though he couldn't have explained it if he tried. FBI counter-intelligence wasn't a big deal; the White Collar division had worked with them before, even. This wasn't about some con he'd allegedly pulled, was it? What else could have Peter so worried?

Resisting the urge to shift nervously in his seat, Neal pulled out some files and pretended nothing was wrong. That lasted until the agent walked in, young, tall, curly-haired, and all smiles.

"Mr. Caffrey?" he asked, voice familiar in a way it shouldn't be. "I'm Agent Bartowski. I just need to ask you a few questions if that's alright with you." He was trying to sound professional, but his excited demeanor ruined the effect. It was almost cute.

Neal stared hard as he stood to follow the man to the conference room. Then, quietly, "Do I know you?"

The agent's smile faltered slightly before coming back, if at all possible, even stronger than before. "You might."

He goes wherever the wind takes him, living off of petty theft and wandering wherever he can go for free. Without an actual job, he has a lot of time on his hands and nothing in particular to do with it. Winding up in a museum is almost inevitable, and there's something about the art that takes his breath away.

Brush strokes, ink, carved stone, and graphite linger in his mind for days afterward, half-familiar in an odd, comforting manner. Like something left over from childhood, but he doesn't know.

Finally he decides to spend some of his funds on a small sketchbook and pencils. They feel the same as the artwork does, and as he starts to draw it comes back to him faintly. Half-forgotten, it was something he'd done long ago, then stopped because he'd either lost interest or time. But he likes it and he's good at it, so he's not sure why he would have quit. Only that he did.

He enjoys the sensation of creating, and finds he's good at copying, too.

Agent Bartowski didn't end up asking a lot of questions; mostly he just showed Neal pictures and asked if he recognized the people or places in them. Neal didn't see the point, but answered honestly anyway. He didn't know any of them.

The agent looked disappointed, but seemed to believe him. Neal supposed that was a good thing. If the pictures were in any way related to a crime, it helped to have people acknowledge that he had nothing to do with it. Not that it really mattered much at this point – anything he'd done was already covered by the Statute of Limitations, which, for felonies, was five years in New York. If he didn't have the tracker, he would have gone to one of his caches to get the Raphael painting and gloat, though not necessarily to Sarah's face. He could imagine her, blonde hair catching the light as she threatened to shoot him.

Neal paused. Sara Ellis wasn't blonde, and she was definitely sympathetic enough with him that she wasn't pointing guns at him anymore.

Frowning, he gestured at one of the pictures. "Can I see that one again?"

"Yeah. Here."

"…Is her name Sarah?"

Agent Bartowski beamed.

As he sits in a library, flipping through books on art and bonds and things he knows he can forge and get away with it, something catches his eye. It's nothing out of the ordinary – just a man using a public computer to e-mail a friend. But the man is frustrated, and growls when the computer freezes.

Unsure why he does so, he walks forward and offers to help. The computer is fixed within minutes, and the man leaves a little happier than before. Glancing around in mild paranoia, he puts fingers to the keyboard.

Vague information comes back to him, and soon he's typing away. He thinks he remembers a bit about hacking, and then he wonders why it didn't occur to him before.

Making the files is the easy part, and for his birthday he just uses the day he woke up. He's about to add a few college degrees to his name (though he can't remember graduating, and therefore technically didn't) when he recalls that he doesn't have one.

The story of the past eight or so years comes easily.

Choosing his name does not.

Neal can't claim to be surprised by much in life with everything that's happened to and around him so far. Adler had come as a shock when the man turned out to be even more underhanded than the ex-con. Kate's death had been another, but in the nine years since he woke up, sinking into a life of crime, there hasn't been much that truly shocked him.

So when Agent Bartowski took him to the FBI's shooting range and handed him (a felon!) a gun, he stopped and stared, genuinely surprised.

"I don't like guns," he stated plainly. What's your angle?

Bartowski looked confused for a moment, hesitating briefly before gesturing at one of the stations.

Neal took his place, setting up and loading the gun. He hit the button, sending a paper target out 25 yards, aimed, and fired.

A few other agents paused in their own practice as he never let up on his rate of fire, shots ringing out loudly in the mostly silent room until the clip was empty. Bringing the target back, he pulled down the sheet. All center mass; no outliers.

Neal glanced back at the agent once before sending out another target, this time at 50 yards. He reloaded the gun, barely taking the time to aim before firing again.

When it was finally quiet again and the safety back on, he returned to Bartowski. The questions from before and the test at the range; what were they for? He never liked being in the dark, not knowing what someone was after. It was one of the reasons he trusted Peter – predictable (in motive if not method), loyal Peter.

Allowing a hint of exhaustion to creep into his voice, Neal asked, "What do you really want from me?"

The agent didn't seem to know how to answer the question. He shifted nervously before finally admitting, "For you to remember."

Neal cut him a sharp glance. What did this man know – or think he knew – about him?

Remembering the feel of the gun's kick, and the ease with which he had shot even at barely a decade old, Neal shoved the gun none-too-gently back in Bartowski's hands.

"Maybe some things are better left forgotten," he said icily. He's hurt people before. He knew how to do so with frighteningly little effort; in the same way that made him lose everything.

He didn't want to know why.

A few months pass, during which he perfects his skills and his identity, drifting across state lines with no real destination in mind. It's not long after that he ends up in New York.

A commotion catches his attention, and he follows the sounds of groans and cheers to a game being run on the street. Fighting off the urge to smirk, he watches a short guy with a goatee win a round then lose one. He knows the man is in on the con when he eggs him on just a tad too hard to bet big.

He does. A thousand dollars on the table, he swaps the dealer's card with his own queen and gets the hell out of there. An extra five hundred in his pocket on his first week in the city. Not bad.

The little guy shows up at his apartment later, and there's only the barest hesitation once he learns what he wants. Just a rush of excitement knowing that he's going to devote the next few months of his life on a con bigger than all of the others he's pulled combined thus far.

For the next three years he'll pull bigger and bigger jobs, running from the feds the whole time. The rush is almost beautiful, though he wishes it didn't make it so difficult to find Kate.

All the while the feel of conning, forging, planning, and running take on a half-familiarity, ending only when he winds up in prison. Life slowing to an abrupt halt, he takes the time to sit back and think (though really he has no other option) for the first time in years. Pieces come slowly and sporadically, and he remembers the first few years of his life.

Then Kate turns up again, and it's all pushed to the back of his mind.

The past didn't matter, and the memories are almost distasteful. Out of prison, he devotes his time to more entertaining and useful things.

But the process that started refuses to be stopped. It still comes to him, from time to time. He never tells Peter that he forgot at all, and only Mozzie knows anything about it.

And then he meets Chuck Bartowski.

Neal sat in his apartment, idly twirling a wine glass in his fingers. He hadn't planned on having a guest, but Agent Bartowski somehow managed to worm his way in. It hadn't been charm; that was Neal's thing. No, Bartowski didn't need that charm. He had his simple, honest sincerity.

The ex-con quietly texted Mozzie so he would know to avoid the apartment that night.

"You play?" he asked, glass clinking on the table. He gestured vaguely at the always-present chess set.

Bartowski laughed. "It's a calmer game than we used to play, but sure." His fingers deftly set up the pieces.

The ensuing silence was broken only by the occasional clatter of chessmen moving along the board. Bartowski was a good player, but not overtly analytical.

"Check," Neal called, speaking for the first time in over twenty minutes. Peter would be surprised. He's not normally this quiet.

Fiddling with a captured pawn, Neal finally lifted his gaze from the board. "Why go through all this trouble?"

The agent slid his king forward thoughtfully. "If we can find you, so can others who are rather… less friendly."

Neal moved his bishop. "Check. But that doesn't mean I need to know anything. CIA doesn't need my help and I… I'm not sure I'm better off remembering."

"Does that mean you don't want to know who you were? Are? You were a good person." Bartowski leaned back in his seat, game forgotten. He smiled ruefully. "At least you tried to be."

"I don't want to have to choose. I like my life here." The fact was, if he remembered, everything would change. The vague snippets he recalled of the CIA, of Chuck, told him that.

"Sometimes, for better or for worse, those choices are made for us." Bartowski sat up straighter and moved his knight. "Checkmate."

Neal frowned at the board. "Chuck, I – "

"Wait for a while. When you remember everything, then we'll talk about it." He sounded so much more mature – older – than he used to. Maybe it was just the serious nature of the conversation, but Neal was positive he didn't like it.

He sighed, then nodded. Neal picked up his glass and filled it. "When they learned I didn't have any use to them, they just threw me out on the street," he murmured. "It was a pretty isolated area. I guess they thought no one would find me." His hand trailed to his side before he settled it firmly on his glass.

The agent blinked at the sudden change in topic. "You always were ridiculously lucky."

Neal nodded, thinking about Peter and El, Mozzie, June, and Alex. Then he thought about Kate, and Chuck and Sarah.

"I always thought that about you."

He doesn't go in to work the next morning, only leaves a small series of letters on his table for his friends. The tracker rests on top of the pile.

Peter would be upset. But this is for him, and El, and everyone else. If they were targeted because of him, he would never forgive himself.

Chuck had hit the nail on the head when he'd said that choices sometimes are made for them. Sometimes they have to be. He doesn't like it, and he smiles ironically. Chuck sure hadn't liked it at the time, either.

He casts his gaze around the apartment one last time, noting how remarkably unchanged it looks without his relatively few personal effects in it. Picking up his bag, he glances at Chuck and they walk out the door.

They step out into the crisp night air, breath puffing out in clouds of white.

Bryce Larkin sighs, and Neal Caffrey runs away for the last time.