Chuck vs. Evil Chuck

Disclaimer: I own Chuck. I'm also a compulsive liar named Ronald Reagan with two Porsches in my driveway and the Swedish Bikini Team living in my summer home in Gstaad. Honestly. Except the part about me being a compulsive liar.

Spoilers: Chuck vs. the Suburbs, picks up where that left off and goes A/U from there.

Ch 1 – Stay

Ellie turned at the sound of the door closing and smiled on seeing her younger brother dragging his suitcase down the hall.

"Hey. What'd I tell you, house-sitting really changes things, huh?"

"Absolutely," he replied, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Just not in the way you were hoping, Elle. To tell you the truth, the suburbs were kind of a disaster for me and Sarah."

Ellie got up from her chair, looking concerned.

"Well, what happened? What went wrong?"

"I guess something that's been wrong from the start, y'know."

"I… you guys aren't breaking up, are you?"

"No, no, no, no. No. Trust me. Sarah's not going anywhere," he quickly added.

"Chuck, I guess…" she began, looking confused. "I don't know what you're saying exactly."

"Look Elle, I know how much you love Sarah. And I know how much you love the idea of us moving forward with you and Devon. But… we're not anything like you guys," Chuck replied, thinking just how much of an understatement that was.

"But you guys seem so perfect."

"Yeah, I guess. But being in that house… with her, it was so close to being perfect. The way I had always pictured the way it would be. That I realized what was wrong with that picture. And it was us."

Chuck frowned, remembering the fake pictures in their fake house, showcasing their perfect, fake relationship. Photoshopped images of a moment that never happened and never would.

"Sarah and I are never going to be anything more than what we are right now," he replied and Ellie's face softened in a mixture of sadness and worry. "And you know what? I'm okay with that."

Chuck put on a brave face for his sister's benefit and stepped into his room, leaving his suitcase by the door and then dropped onto his bed. It had been a pretty mind-opening, heart-wrenching… typical Team Bartowski mission.

On one hand, he could count the highlights of the past few days. Sarah with a beatific smile as she cooked breakfast for him. Sarah in her bathrobe coming out to give him a kiss as he left for work. Sarah with a ring on her finger.

He placed his arms over his eyes and tried to remember the feel of her hand in his as he shielded her from the Fulcrum Intersect images. The feel of the cool metal band underneath the pad of his thumb that would've marked Sarah as being his, just as his band marked Chuck as being hers. He rubbed his finger and could almost feel it there. Still feel that symbol of partnership that meant everything to him. And nothing to her.

Could he blame her? Why would she want to give up the debonair Jane Bondian-lifestyle to become what? Mrs. Sarah Bartowski, bathrobe fashionista extraordinaire?

He squeezed his eyes shut to try and shut out the image of her impassive expression as he gave the ring back, hoping against all hope and their history together that she might hesitate. That she might show some glimmer of desire to stay with him. And instantly regretted the action as a deluge of red, murky images flooded his mind.

Hearing a noise across the room, Chuck rolled to his side, grabbed the copy of The Decline of Western Civilization from his nightstand and hurled it at the source. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped as he saw Morgan at the window, rubbing his nose.

"Okay, one: ow. Two: nice throw, dude! Three: ow."

"Morgan! I'm so sorry! You okay?"

"Yeah, Chuck. What was that," Morgan griped, sniffing experimentally.

"Uh… surprised… me is all. Wh-what are you doing here?"

Morgan got a lopsided grin and scratched at his beard.

"Want to play some Call of Duty?"

"Yeah," Chuck said with a smile, pushing aside thoughts of beautiful spies and horrible crimes. "Let's blow stuff up."

"Now you're talking!"

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Sarah fell onto her bed with a sigh.

She had taken hard beatings. She'd been subjected to torture on more occasions than she cared to recall. But none of them compared to her current assignment. And no interrogator had been more skilled at breaking her than a nerd named Chuck.

The longer she stayed on this assignment, the harder it became to endure the beatings. Chuck breaking up with her (a few times), punch to the gut. Chuck giving his mother's charm bracelet to her, broken fingers. Chuck's reluctance at giving back the wedding band, broken heart. Chuck… just being himself, she's ready to confess all.

Sarah placed her arms over her eyes and tried to forget the feel of his hand gripping hers, her face buried in his shoulder as he protected her, ensuring that the Intersect images didn't imprint on her mind and destroy it. She tried to forget the life that could've been.

After all, the honeymoon was over.

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Chuck wrapped gauze around his thumb, trying to cut down on the irritation from his 'battle scars.'

"War is hell," Morgan intoned as his friend stepped back into the room, eyes glued to the video game carnage on the screen.

"Ain't that the truth," Chuck replied, sitting down on the bed and watching the deathmatch in progress. "So, not that I don't appreciate the compan, but what's with the all-night gameathon? Get kicked out of the house?"

"Well, kinda. Big Mike's over there. And I really don't want to go home right now."

"Why… would Big Mike be at your mom's," Chuck asked, a slightly confused grin on his face.

"Because I… kinda… accidentally hooked him up with her," Morgan explained and glancing over to see Chuck's bewildered expression, he groaned. "It's like this. It was Lester and Jeff's idea…."

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While at Harvard, Sarah had taken a psychology class. One of the topics that had interested her at the time was oneirology, the study of dreams. Since high school, she had a recurring dream of the day that her father left her. A normal enough experience, given his subsequent arrest, but what bothered her was that she hadn't had that dream since becoming an agent. Until today.

Her eyes fluttered open and Sarah stared at the ceiling for a moment in the predawn light. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she turned over and looked at the clock that Chuck had given her last year.

Chuck.

Putting her arm over her eyes, Sarah's mind drifted back to those classes and remembered the interpretation that she turned up when she researched her dreams. A literal interpretation was the fear of being deserted, abandoned or even betrayed.

Surely not something that would happen in my life, she thought with a smirk.

But there were other meanings she remembered as well, and chose not to dwell on. Sarah stared at the clock as it switched to 6:30 and the music switched on.

…. You'd better hope and pray

…. That you make it safe

…. Back to your own world

…. You'd better hope and pray

…. That you'll wake one day

…. In your own world

Sarah groaned as her mind went again to the man that was beginning to fill her waking thoughts. Getting to her feet, Sarah switched off the radio and prepared herself for another mind-opening, heart-wrenching, typical Team Bartowski mission.

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…. Coz when you sleep at night

…. They don't hear your cries

…. In your own world

…. Only time will tell

…. If you can break the spell

…. Back in your own world

Chuck rolled over and glared at the clock. Last time Sarah had spent the night in his room, she had set the alarm for 6:30 to go for her morning run. As late as he went to bed after the orgy of video game violence and grape soda, he'd forgotten to switch the time to 7:30.

Grumbling, Chuck reached out and punched the snooze button, closing his eyes with an exhalation of breath.

A few calm, nobody-hunting-me-down-and-wanting-to-kill-me days, that's all I ask.

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The figure sat in shadows, her keystrokes echoing in the vast conference room, her fellow leaders of the Ring having long since gone home to their spouses and children. Of all her colleagues, only she truly had the drive and determination to see their objective realized. They had families to which they were beholden. She had abandoned hers long ago.

As the woman known only as Artemis pulled up a message from Meadow Branch, her eyes widened at the video footage attached to the email. Picking up the secure line, her lips took on a satisfied smirk as she purred into the receiver.

"Find this… Charles Carmichael."