Author's Note: The premise behind this story is rather simple. I figure, it's only a matter of time before something bad happens to Chuck. Considering the set-up of the show and the way he constantly gets himself in trouble, I see it as rather inevitable. This story is simply a depiction of that.
Warning: There are slightly more graphic depictions of violence than can be found on the show. Also, probably some language.
When Chuck dropped to the ground, there was an audible pop as his right elbow smashed into the unforgiving concrete. He still had no idea how to fall properly. Even over the gunfire, yelling, and the blood pounding in his ears, the hollow sounding collision made Chuck's teeth ache. It was as much a reaction to a perceived pain stimulus as it was genuine pain.
The initial plan, so much as it could be called a plan, was to rush to the protective bulwark of the nearest shipping container. He had made it about eight feet, then found himself dropping to the ground as one of the masked gunrunners stepped in front of him. It had been completely involuntary. He hadn't meant to drop to the unforgiving concrete, it had just happened (his survival instinct was Spiderman-esque).
When he hit the ground, he rolled, also involuntarily. His left hand immediately cradled his right elbow, rolling onto his left shoulder and doing his best to protect his suddenly painful arm. The gunrunner dropped to the ground, although his descent was precipitated by a far more fatal occurrence than Chuck's. Chuck had just enough time to watch a spurt of blood escape from the man's upper chest before he started crawling to his original destination.
Chuck huddled next to the enormous metal container, making sure all of his body was protected by his new metal shield. If possible, the gunfire seemed to intensify; probably more combatants entering the fray.
Chuck took a deep breath and wiped his forehead with his left hand. His right arm was still mostly useless, held close to his chest. He wasn't sure if his arm was broken or if he was just suffering from a rather severe irritation of his funny bone. He put his arm out of his mind.
He had no idea how things had gotten so bad, but then he usually never did. Due to intel garnered from his flashes, Team Bartowski was in search of a weapons cache being smuggled into the country by a Chechen gunrunner (or a terrorist, Chuck still wasn't sure which term suited Razman Basayev best). They had no idea the size, type, or lethality of the weapons involved. All they really knew was that it was probably big and very dangerous, which Chuck thought went without saying (it was a weapons cache after all). One minute the three of them were checking a shipping container Chuck had been confident held their target, the next they were being shot at from masked men that apparently congealed out of the ground. Sarah had immediately pushed him inside the open and very empty container, sternly telling him "Don't leave here under any circumstances" and then slammed the door shut on him. He had been completely manhandled and had been too stunned to react.
Of course he had not listened. He never listened. It wasn't like he enjoyed putting his life in jeopardy, but he just couldn't help himself. It was some strange compulsion he couldn't explain. He suspected much of it had to do with a certain blonde haired agent, but he knew even that wasn't a good enough explanation for why he did what he did. He just couldn't sit idly by while people he cared about risked their lives for the greater good. He had always been a bit of a romantic in that aspect. Chuck just had to help, even if it meant being stupid. His contribution was usually meager in comparison but sometimes the situation called for his somewhat unique perspective and skill set (it wasn't like just anybody could reprogram a missile guidance system on the fly).
He had long ago left the embrace of the empty shipping container and had forayed hesitantly, very hesitantly (he wasn't Superman or Bryce), into the ensuing gun battle. And a gun battle it was. Chuck had no idea how many bad guys there were (his guess was a lot) but he and his handlers had not come alone, and the fellow CIA and NSA agents trolling the warehouse and storage area for weapons were more than likely now engaged with his assailants; which helped to explain the still bleeding man not more than six feet from him (Chuck briefly considered crawling toward the downed gunmen and grabbing his weapon, but quickly discounted the idea as ludicrous, not to mention potentially detrimental to his own health).
Chuck was fairly positive Casey or Sarah were not responsible for the downed gunman, as he was far removed from the container he'd been shoved into and he hadn't seen either of his handlers since the battle began. That was probably a good thing as Sarah would have torn him a new asshole for risking his life and Casey might have done something extreme, like knock him unconscious to prevent further injury due to his own stupidity. It had likely been one of the good guys; Chuck made a mental note to find out whom and thank them later; quietly and unobtrusively.
The huge metal door of the container he was leaning on suddenly swung out. Chuck stilled, his breath fading fast. He slunk to the ground as quietly as he could, lying on his stomach. A pair of booted feet came into view under the edge of the door; one foot moved carefully forward. Chuck saw a hand grab the door and slowly start to pull the door back; whoever it was, they were leaving their hiding space.
This was it, Chuck knew. He could just feel it. This had to be where the weapons were, and of course he had stumbled upon it through sheer blind luck. There was only one problem, the small matter of the rather large man now surveying the embattled warehouse. He held what looked like an assault rifle close to his shoulder (Chuck vaguely recognized the shape of the gun from the newest Call of Duty game). That was bad.
Chuck inched forward, doing his best to maintain total silence. The man had not bothered to give his immediate area much close inspection, but Chuck figured it was only a matter of time before the man noticed him just sitting there. It was time to get proactive, time to finally do his own ass kicking, time to prove he wasn't so physically inept, time – Chuck slithered a little too loud and the man looked down. His eyes widened slightly, his rifle automatically swinging around to point at Chuck, and Chuck did the only thing he could do, he screamed for help, any kind of help (like a little girl).
To Chuck's amazement, his scream for help worked better than he ever expected. The man froze, in astonishment or amusement or fear, whatever the reason, his motion halted, giving Chuck enough time to spring to his feet and rush forward. He hit the man solidly in his chest with his good shoulder and both tumbled to the ground. A scrum broke out for the gun, but with only one fully functional arm, Chuck was at a serious disadvantage (not that his uncoordinated flailing limbs didn't provide suitable confusion in the man). The man promptly pushed Chuck away from himself, and reached to his hip where he quickly brandished a knife.
Chuck backed away, the man duck-walked forward, knife glinting in the gently fading light of the day. "Hey, hey, can we maybe talk about this?" The man merely continued forward, Chuck continued backward. "I mean, shouldn't we maybe get to know each other a little better before we resort to stabbing?"
The man barked out harshly in a language Chuck didn't understand (it was probably Chechen), a cruel smile adorning his face.
Chuck paled and felt his back hit the front of the shipping container. Trapped. "Right, so I guess that's a no."
And then there she was. His beautiful, perfect, golden guardian angel swooped down upon the knife-wielding man without mercy or hesitation. Chuck knew intellectually that the woman he found himself increasingly captivated with was a highly trained and deadly weapon (he had the flashes to prove it), but he had never really seen just how lethal she could be firsthand and in horrible Technicolor. What seemed instantaneous to him was nothing but a blur of limbs and grunts of pain and exertion; the knife-wielding man falling backwards, his legs trapped underneath his body at an odd angle, his own knife embedded deep in his throat. A couple of wet gurgles escaped the man's mouth, and Chuck had to turn away.
Sarah turned on Chuck immediately, already forgetting the man she had just killed, grabbing hold of his shirt and hauling him to his feet, pure fury etched on her face. "I can't believe you. You never learn! What the Hell were you thinking?"
Chuck did the only thing he could do, he blushed deeply, avoiding Sarah's eyes at all cost, and babbled incoherently. "Sorry! I'm sorry! I just thought – you were out there and I – "
"You can be so stupid, Chuck! When I told you not to move, I meant it." There was the slightest hint of a tremor in her stern voice, and Chuck shot his head up to focus on her face.
He had to instantly look away again, the intensity and emotions in Sarah's eyes was completely intimidating. There was anger there, but also a boiling mishmash of fear, worry, longing, desperation, gratitude; Chuck only felt even more ashamed. She always had the power to make him feel like such an idiot. He felt her arms close around him, pulling him flush against her body. Her breathing was heavy and fast, her arms trembled as they tightened painfully around him, and her chin rested briefly on his shoulder. Soon, her careful hands began coursing up and down his body; Chuck could not stop the slight shiver that wracked his body.
Sarah took in a long, shaky breath, and pulled away from him almost as fast as she had hugged him, a tinge of red coloring her face. She did not look at him for several seconds, but when she did, she looked him steadily in the eyes, face again stern and angry, but tempered by the usual concerned look in her eyes she seemed to reserve only for him. "Are you okay?" Her hands were still idly searching his body.
"I think I broke my arm."
Sarah moved her curious hands to his right arm, looking sympathetic. "It doesn't feel broken. You might have popped your elbow." Sarah sighed and Chuck got the distinct impression that she was now more annoyed with him than anything else. "What are you even doing out here?"
Chuck saw an opportunity to move the focus from him to the mission. If he got her back on track, maybe he could put off his inevitable ass chewing until he was safely ensconced in the warm embrace of heavy painkillers. "I think I found the container where the weapons are."
Sarah's eyes widened slightly. "Really?"
Chuck nodded and reached back with his left hand to knock on the shipping container behind him. "I think they're in here."
Sarah carefully maneuvered around him, her body angled so that she could keep at least part of her body facing away from the container and toward any potential threats. "You are not to leave my sight, do you understand?"
"Wouldn't dream of it." Chuck had every intention of doing what he was told now.
Sarah grunted disbelievingly and tentatively pulled the container door open, gun leading. As soon as the container was open enough for her to slip inside, she inspected the container. "Chuck, get in here." There was still a definite edge to her voice.
Chuck did his best to shuffle inside as quickly as he could. Chuck could see several very large crates arranged on several pallets. Right away Chuck flashed on the wooden crates, body going stiff, and sucked in a breath. "These are it."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
"Good work, Chuck." Sarah smiled brightly at him and suddenly Chuck's arm no longer hurt quite as much. "Casey, I think we've found the guns. We're about 100 yards southwest of your position, near the crane." Sarah struggled to pull one of the nearest wooden crates to her feet, but she could barely move it. Giving up, she began working on the lid instead.
A flash overcame Chuck like a punch to the gut. The box Sarah was tampering with centered in his mind, screaming danger. "Sarah, wait!"
Sarah stopped moving immediately. "Chuck?"
"Don't open it! Bomb!"
Sarah blinked and pulled her hands away from the crate like they had been burned. "Bomb?"
Chuck nodded his head vigorously. "Bomb! Very, very, very big bomb."
Sarah paled and looked at the crate that came up to about her stomach. "Do you know what kind?"
Chuck shook his head and walked up to stand next to Sarah, looking down at the very offending crate.
"You need to leave, Chuck." Sarah turned to him and grabbed his upper arm with a firm grip. "You need to go now."
"What? No! I'm not leaving you. We don't even know if it's set to go off!" Chuck glared at Sarah, standing firm and defiant. How could she even think of asking him to leave? Hadn't they already been through this once before? Didn't she remember what happened then (Chuck certainly remembered)?
Sarah narrowed her eyes, her grip tightened and she gritted her teeth. "Don't argue with me, do what I say!" She started to drag him toward the container's exit.
Chuck brought his left hand up and somehow (he really had no idea how) knocked Sarah's hand from his arm. He took a step back, putting some distance between the two. "I didn't leave you before, what makes you think you can make me leave this time?"
It was a testament to her skills as an actress that he almost didn't believe her, almost didn't believe the unvarnished desperation in her eyes (he'd been fooled by her before), when she looked directly into his own eyes, lowered her voice to an emotion-fuelled whisper, and pleaded "Chuck, please." It was all she said, and it was like the words settled themselves inside his stomach and tightened into an iron ball. It was that feeling of being on a rollercoaster and having your stomach completely drop out from you onto the ground. He had wanted to break away from her gaze; had wanted to appease her, but there was no way he could leave her to face this unknown situation on her own. So he didn't do anything, couldn't say any words, because they didn't really matter anymore. He wasn't going to leave, he couldn't; he wouldn't be the same Chuck Bartowski if he did. "I can't and you know it." Sarah's eyes closed in resignation and her whole body seemed to lose strength. "We will work this out together, but I promise if it – if it's like before, I'll go." He had to give her something; he'd never seen her look so helpless.
She perked up immediately, her eyes opening. "You promise?"
They didn't need to discuss what he meant, because they both already knew. "I promise." Chuck's words were soft, a whisper that soothed Sarah's tumultuous eyes.
Sarah whirled on the crate with a new sense of determination. She pulled a knife from within the folds of her clothes (someday, Chuck hoped to discover just how she hid those things) and carefully inserted the blade between the lid of the crate and the crate. Using enough leverage, she pried the top off just enough to peek inside. There was indeed a bomb.
Sarah pulled back up, a grim look on her face. "Casey, we need a bomb disposal team ASAP."
"There's a bomb?" Chuck could hear the exasperated tone come through clearly over his earpiece. He winced; Casey was decidedly unpleased.
"Looks like some kind of improvised FAE, but I can't be sure."
"Why is there always a bomb?" Casey mumbled a few other choice words over the com, before getting back on point. "All right, I'll put in the call. How much time do we have?"
Sarah didn't respond, instead looking at Chuck expectantly. Chuck shrugged his shoulder helplessly. Was she expecting some kind of miracle? "How the hell should I know? It's not like these ever make sense!" Chuck then pointed at his head.
"Why is Bartowski with you?"
Chuck's eyes widened and Sarah frowned. "He didn't listen. As usual."
"God damn stubborn idiot. Next time I'm going to tie him up and throw him in the trunk."
"I'll help."
Chuck glared at Sarah, but either she didn't notice or simply didn't care (he figured it was the second choice). "If I wasn't here, you wouldn't have known about the bomb until it was too late."
"At least you'd be safe."
Chuck was starting to feel heated, and took a step toward Sarah. Why was she starting this up again? They had more important things to worry about. "I'm safest whenever I'm with you."
The look of anger and frustration that had started to grow on Sarah's face quickly dissipated at his words. Wherever they had been going, they got back on track almost immediately after that (he had a gift like that). "Help me get this thing outside, there's not enough light in here."
Chuck just stared at her. "You want to try and disarm it? Now?" He could still hear the occasional pop of gunshots.
"Would you prefer waiting until after it's gone off?" Sarah arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and Chuck just shrugged his shoulder. Sarah rolled her eyes and moved to one end of the crate, motioning Chuck to take up position at the other end. Together, they began pushing the large crate toward the exit.
"I'm sorry."
Sarah sighed and looked up briefly to lock eyes with Chuck. "I know you are, but I just wish you'd think more carefully about what you do. You're too" Sarah paused, looked down, as if embarrassed, "valuable to put yourself in danger like this."
"Right, because of the Intersect." Chuck didn't bother to hide the bitterness in his voice.
"Not just because of that, Chuck."
They reached the lip of the container and began pushing the crate onto the cold concrete; Sarah didn't add anything to her somewhat cryptic response (Chuck wasn't sure he even wanted to think of the implications of Sarah's words at this moment anyway). For the next several seconds, the both of them concentrated solely on getting the crate outside. Once secure on the concrete, they pulled up to rest for a bit (Chuck's arm still hurt like a bitch). Sarah moved to stand in front of him; she looked like she had more to say. She cocked her right hip to lean against the crate, and started to open her mouth.
It was a mistake. In reality, only about ten seconds passed during the time they stopped to rest and when things went topsy-turvy. In that brief period, everything changed. In that time, Chuck thought about how aimless his life had been, how frequently he had let things escape him, how much he had wasted. He wasn't truly unhappy; he couldn't be, not with Sarah and Ellie (and Devon) and Morgan in his life, but there was so much more to life that he could be enjoying. He'd become complacent, afraid. The Intersect was a convenient excuse; how much could he really be expected to do, the goals that he wanted to achieve, when he had to hold true to the whims of some indifferent puppeteer who only wanted to exploit him for their benefit? Besides, the Intersect had brought him Sarah.
There was so much to say about his stalwart and magnificent companion. She was as close to perfection as he'd ever experienced. Not because she was actually perfect, far from it actually; Chuck was well aware of her many flaws (her inability to tell him the smallest true detail about who she really was, was just the tip of the iceberg), but this only increased his admiration for her. She was a total puzzle, and Chuck was determined to figure her out. It's what made her right for him. He adamantly believed that. If only he could somehow convince her of the same belief.
To be honest, Chuck wasn't sure why he did it. He had always had a bit of an impulsive streak; he tended to act without really thinking through every faucet of every situation (but then who really did?). It wasn't very smart, it wasn't what he was supposed to do, but he did it anyway, because he knew no other way. They had surprised each other; Chuck and Sarah standing one in front of the other, and a man dressed wearing a lot of black (so a bad guy) and holding a pistol in his right hand.
He just wished he had done more. That he hadn't let Bryce's betrayal get the best of him so thoroughly. He was stronger than that, wasn't he? Hadn't the last few months proved that? He had accomplished so many amazing things: landed a helicopter, disarmed a bomb, destroyed a vintage American car, all in the pursuit of something beyond himself. Still, he wished he had accomplished more with his life.
He hadn't meant to do it, he really hadn't. He knew it was wrong, but he just couldn't help himself. He pushed Sarah as hard as he could with his good arm; if he were some other guy, and this had been some other time, he might have had a small, albeit evil, chuckle at the look of total shock and betrayal on Sarah's face as she fell backwards, but all that popped into his head at that moment was: now what? Being completely unprepared for the force of Chuck's push, Sarah was unable to halt her fall even slightly, and her side and back impacted against the edge of the crate with a loud and nauseating crack. Chuck knew instantly something had broken. Pain contorted Sarah's face as she melted to the ground, a heap of bruised knees, wheezing breaths, and groans of discomfort.
Irrationally, Chuck desperately hoped that she wouldn't hold it against him. He had hurt her. He had caused her pain. The idea instantly made him feel ill, or he would have felt so if he actually had the time to process the effects of her fall. Fortunately, her fall was probably the least of their worries.
But again, Chuck was struck by the thought of what now? He had done what he felt compelled to do, namely get Sarah out of the man's line of fire, but that put him squarely in it. In some way, Chuck figured his impulsive plan made sense. If this man, this man dressed in black and murder in his eyes, had shot Sarah, he would have ended up in the same place he was now, defenseless and waiting for the inevitable. With Sarah relatively out of harm's way, she might figure out some way to stop the man before he fired, or at the very least she would be safe (this meant more to him than he felt comfortable admitting at the moment). He probably would have never done it if he had had time to think about the action. Maybe. It wasn't like he wanted to get shot, and he knew in his head that it was Sarah's job to literally take a bullet for him if necessary, but he just couldn't let that happen. He just couldn't.
How had it even happened? How did Sarah not notice the strange man? She was usually so on top of her game. Chuck had tried on more than one occasion to sneak up on her, not seriously of course because that'd be impossible, but just to see what her capabilities were. Was he really that distracting a presence that she'd been so easily blindsided? He was starting to see her point about him staying in the car. He really was nothing but a hindrance. And how had he not noticed the man until it was too late? Was he really so enamored with Sarah that he couldn't see what was right in front of him?
The gun went off.
