Disclaimer: Chuck, the show, Chuck, the character and the Chuckverse aren't mine. They're part owned by Schwartz and Fedak, part owned by Warner Bros and part owned by NBC, I really don't know in what proportion. I write this little piece of fiction with no profit in mind. No, don't insist, I don't want money for this, it would be a crime.

Sarah travels from some places that I took from "Chuck and Sarah's vacation album" in the NBC website.

Author's note: Well, this is going to be a tradition. The new season of Chuck begins and I publish a new story a couple of hours before the premiere. I couldn't do that again even on purpose. Fortunately, I hope I can continue this one, because there is no way that the writers can touch all the themes I wanted to develop. No freaking way. It's a season 3 AU, for God's shake.

But I'm not convinced with this story. Sometimes I think is fairly readable and other times I think it's the craziest thing I've ever seen. You'll judge. But please, if you think that the fic is a piece of shit, try not to say it like this, try to say something like "This is the biggest amount of bovine excrement that I had the displeasure of reading."

Yes, I know, I need a beta. Have compassion, English isn't my first language and I'm embarrassed to ask anybody. At least it's readable.


"Did you know what happened to The Lemon?"

For all the 27 questions Sarah Walker didn't want to hear, this was the number one (just after "Do you know where is your father?" and "Is that a parsley bit between your teeth?")

She did not want to know anything about The Lemon aka Chuck Bartowski aka the Nerd Imbecile.

Forgetting about him had been the focus point of her sabbatical period. That and trying to find herself.

Granted, when her superiors had talked her into "taking some vacations," she hadn't seen it like that. She had complained and thought that they were making a fuss over one tiny, little, almost insignificant, accident. Agent Jameson still kept one testicle, after all. And both hands, which were too long to Sarah's liking.

General Beckman had excused her attitude with big words like PTSD (even if Sarah would have bet an eye that the General had been about to say PMS), Overwork, General Stress and Inability to Disconnect from the Job. Beckman advised a prompt "sick leave," for Agent Walker's own good. Sarah had known she was in big troubles when she realized that General Beckman was worried about her. It had been a traumatic experience (and Sarah Walker only described as "traumatic" things like dismembered bodies, raped children or a naked Morgan.) Trapped between her superiors' reservations and her inability to say what was really going on with her, Sarah had given in.

So she had been offered a dozen of relaxing and touristic places to spend her time. When she had taken a lighter and burnt the travel brochure of Prague, her leave of absence was extended to six months. She had been tempted to do the same to the one of Paris.

Two European cities. Two cities that were crossed out from her tiny list of Places to Visit Before I Die. Not just because she had already visited them, but especially for the memories that those places entailed. Paris was the place where her life changed irreparably, Prague was the place where her life was ruined irremediably.

Every time she remembered the early autumn chill, the rasping of Chuck's cheeks against her lips, the light shaking of his hands, the touch of the train tickets in hers, the pure, unadulterated burning that sprouted from her heart to her entire torso and throat when he said "I can't;" every time she remembered any of this, the only thing she wanted to do, the only thing she barely stopped herself from doing, was curl up in a corner and cry until there were no more tears inside her, until she was no more than an empty shell.

But she was Sarah Walker, and Sarah Walker was too much of a spy, too much of a woman, to dehydrate herself because of a nerd, to suffer insomnia because of a dense boy, to pine for a stupid, moronic, idiotic, clumsy, good for nothing and gigantically blind loser!

The first week at Acapulco, she had drunk (alcohol) and sunbathed and tried to empty her mind from anything that could have to do with some curly haired roly-poly. But unfortunately, everything had reminded her of him (the mai tais, the guacamole, the jalapeños… brown color…) and men had bothered her with unwanted conversations (although she appreciated the amount of free drinks she got.) So she decided to travel to the Guadalupe Islands and try the cage-diving with great whites. Which had been a terrific experience, until she found herself wishing Chuck were there, if only to throw him to the sharks.

Wanting a change of scenario, she had travelled to the Alps, because heliskiing sounded like fun. The place was beautiful, the mountain looked endearing, the weather was nice. One of the skiers had Chuck's smile. She had gotten out the helicopter before the engines stopped and descended like a pro. Everybody had praised her.

She hadn't cared.

She had taken a trip to Piedmont then and visited Turin. She had liked the architecture and the Museum of Oriental Art and had enjoyed the parks and gardens. And, of course, the chocolate. One morning she passed by an ice-cream parlor, had a flash of the Orange Orange and decided to pack and go elsewhere.

That happened to be the Great Sand Sea, in the Libyan Desert.

And one evening, in the middle of nowhere, when the sun was about to disappear among crimson death throes, Sarah Walker had had an epiphany: you can't run from your memories, you can only learn to live with them and learn from them.

Yes, she was in love with Chuck and yes, unfortunately he had broken her heart, but that wasn't excuse to act as if the world had ended.

Chuck had taught her that.

She had spent the next two weeks (after she got out from the desert, that is) just choosing a quiet place to reside for a season. She had liked the trees in Rhinebeck's streets. Once she had settled down, she had read a lot and walked a lot and went for a jog a lot and made an effort to be civilized with other people.

When she had felt she was ready, she decided to open herself to music. In the beginning, she had avoided any album or band that Chuck liked or could have chosen, sometimes to the point of getting around an entire section of a shop. After a while, that didn't matter. She had gathered together a small collection that maybe wasn't the best or biggest in the planet, but made her very proud, and she had created a playlist of her own. She even went to the theater and watched movies and for the first time, she had been able to tell somebody the plot of a TV show (The Mentalist, because she could identify with Jane somehow and Simon Baker was the hottest piece of meat that had come from Australia.)

She had spent around four months in that town.

In all that time, nobody called her.

One morning she had seen a man planted on the street, just in the entrance of her lodging. He wore a dark suit with no personality, polished shoes and unnecessary sunglasses under the clouded sky. He carried himself with the typical self-confidence of somebody well trained that bore a gun.

She had known it then: her time of absence was over.

A side of her had sighed relieved. Because even if she tried to be normal —and she had enjoyed her spiritual journey— the truth was that she was a spy. That's what she was best at, even if some days she wished it wasn't.

She had rubbed her palms together in anticipation as she walked up and down in the waiting room outside Beckman's office.

She would have sensed something was wrong when she had been summoned by General Beckman and not the Director of the CIA.

The bomb was dropped after the usual greetings, a few platitudes and an eager Sarah asking "What's my new mission?"

Beckman had lowered her gaze and spent an entire minute looking through her papers. "We have though," she had begun, still not looking at her, "that your experience tips the scales in this assignment's favor."

"Which is…"

"We can't just throw all those years when they can be very useful in this mission."

"Which is…"

"And we can't ignore the importance of this mission."

"Which is…"

"Burbank," the General had said point-blank. "Your old assignment."

Sarah had made a fist and her knuckles had creaked, yearning for a good punching session.

"You have to understand, Agent Walker, that the Los Angeles field unit…"

"Team Bartowski," Sarah had mumbled automatically.

"…has been the most effective spy team against Fulcrum. And now that The Ring has turned into our biggest threat, I expect the team to keep up the good work." Beckman had thrown her a pious smile. It had terrified Sarah. "Above all after your full recovery."

Sarah had wondered what would be the worst that could happen if she cut the General's head and pinned it up on one of the building's entrance.

"You will take today's flight to Los Angeles at 03:03 p.m. and report to the Castle first hour in the morning, tomorrow."

"To whom?"

"Colonel Casey, of course."

"Anybody else?"

"No, just the Colonel. Agent Forrest has been temporarily assigned there to complete a mission, but she won't stay long. When she is gone, only you and the Colonel will be stationed there. For now."

Sarah had felt that Beckman wasn't telling her everything. "I assume that I must expect that Chu— Agent Bartowski will join us anytime, won't he?"

If Sarah had to classify the expression that Beckman's face showed for a hundredth of a second, it would be regret. Or perhaps pity. "He won't. Bartowski isn't an Agent."

"When he ends his training, I mean," In Prague, Sarah had added in her mind.

"He will never be a field agent." A strange pause. "He isn't apt."

"Did he fail?"

A deep part of Sarah —the one that had hid balled up inside dark alleys and had swindled lovely elderly women in the day of their husbands' funeral— had smiled. She had chided that petty side of her quickly.

"I am sure Colonel Casey will fill you in." That was Beckman's more authoritarian tone. The one that didn't accept any discussion.

So Sarah had nodded and accepted the mission and packed and taken the flight and landed in LA and rented the same room in the same hotel and slept a dreamless sleep.

And the next morning, at 09:00 a.m. sharp, her growling persona had gone down the staircase of the Castle once more and she had met the grave face and wary stare of one Colonel Casey. Who, after his greeting, had asked her the worst of 27 possible questions to Sarah: "Did you know what happened to The Lemon?"

And now Sarah was torn between spitting to the ground or taking her gun and kneecapping him.

She did none of them.

"If you're talking about him failing his training in Prague and standing in his own way to become a field agent, yes, I've heard." Sarah took her jacket off and hung it on the back of one of the chairs. "Not that it matters, because it didn't before. He's still the Intersect and I'm sure he'll take any opportunity to get on our wick, as usual." To my charging, Sarah thought.

Casey didn't reply. He didn't even grunt. He just stared at her as if he was assessing the pros and cons of amputating a gangrenous limb.

"What?" Sarah asked, when his gaze unnerved her.

"Bartowski…" Casey fell silent, frowned and two second later resumed talking. "Bartowski had an accident."

As an automatic reflex, Sarah grabbed a chair to maintain her verticality. "An… an accident? What kind of accident?" Casey opened his mouth to talk. Sarah didn't let him. "Is it serious?"

He nodded and let out a soft affirmative groan.

"How serious?" Her voice sounded strangled even to her. "Are we talking about broken bones? Burns?" The next idea froze her blood and emptied her lungs. "Oh my God! Is he… Is he dead? Is he? Please, Casey—"

"He's alive," he interrupted her.

Sarah felt the relief expand her rib cage and shore up her feet on the ground. She relished on every breath she could take. After a while, she recovered the control of herself, even if it was in a mostly superficial way.

She felt a pressure on her left shoulder. It was Casey's hand, that was gripping it.

Sarah focused on that hand, on that grip, and in her own breathing. When she got something akin to willpower, she talked: "What happened?"

If Sarah was a person of few words, Casey could be more. "In Prague. He was shot."

"Did they use real gunfire?" Sarah couldn't belief that the CIA would be so extreme.

"No. It was outside the installations. In a robbery." He made a face. "Just a robbery."

Sarah nodded. Chuck had survived to international assassins, falls from buildings, drugs, shootings, even a bombing, and a common robbery hurt him.

"He was shot." She echoed. "And what? What that means? How bad was he hurt?"

"The bullet severed his spinal cord."

Sarah felt like throwing up. "How…?" She could sense her loss of control again. She fought it with all her strength. She couldn't falter now. "Paraplegia?"

Casey nodded.

Sarah managed to ask "What was affected?"

"Legs." He let go of her hand. Almost like a studied movement. "He lost the use of his legs."

Sarah's world became a blurring color palette.

It wasn't until several minutes later that she realized she was crying.