A Flip of the Coin 2/4
Author: dettiot
Rating: T for language, sex and violence
Summary: What made Charles Carmichael agree to become Chuck Bartowski? Well, to start, it wasn't as much of a change as you'd think. A companion to the early chapters of Two Sides of the Same Coin from Carmichael's perspective.
Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: This chapter was a total bear to write. If it hadn't been for Steampunk . Chuckster, I might not have gotten this out today! So it's thanks to the best writing buddy around that this chapter is ready to go. :-)
Please note that like Two Sides of the Same Coin, this story is now rated T.
XXX
After what happened in the Dominican Republic, Charles cancelled his leave and went back to work. The last thing he needed was time to think. What he needed was work. Lots of work.
And fortunately there was plenty of that available.
The next month passed in a blur as he hopscotched the world, going from New York to India to Thailand to South Africa to Norway. As soon as he wrapped up one assignment, he took another. It didn't matter who he was working with, what the mission required: if it kept him busy, kept him from having to think, he did it.
He couldn't keep this up for long, he knew. But he was going to for as long as he could.
Tonight he was attending a consulate dinner in Kiev, held in a luxury hotel in the heart of the Baltic city. He was escorting a female agent who would be charming the socks-and probably more-off their target, in order to obtain a flash drive with his contact list. Charles didn't know the agent very well, but it didn't matter. He was just there to be muscle and provide a cover.
Glancing at his watch, Charles adjusted his straight tie and checked his cuffs. The CIA had gotten a room for them in the same hotel as the dinner, for the benefit of their cover. But even with that proximity, if Agent Valenzuela didn't move her shapely ass, they were going to be more than fashionably late for tonight's dinner.
On cue, the bathroom door opened and Agent Valenzuela stepped out, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders in waves. Her dress was long, form-fitting, and bright red, amply displaying her assets. Thanks to her heels, she was elevated all the way to five foot five. "Ready, Agent Carmichael?"
Charles nodded and straightened up. "Yes, Agent Valenzuela." He offered her his arm. "Need a hand?"
She let out a tinkling little laugh and latched onto his arm. "I do. Damn heels, but they're necessary."
"I feel the same way about them, too," he said absent-mindedly, sweeping his eyes around the corridor as they left their room.
"And how often have you ended up in four-inch heels, Carmichael?" she asked, smirking up at him.
"More times than I should admit to," Charles said, trying to keep things light and easy. Being sullen and withdrawn would do more harm than good, even if that was how he felt like being. But when you were Charles Carmichael, that usually meant acting differently from how you felt.
Agent Valenzuela snorted softly. "Haven't we all?" She stumbled slightly and gripped his arm. "Damn these things. I feel like an elephant on roller skates, to use the words of my Farm roommate."
He let out a soft chuckle. "It's a good metaphor."
"She had a way with words," Valenzuela said, a sad smile on her face.
"Had?" Charles asked, glancing at her.
Valenzuela nodded. "Killed in the line of duty about three months ago. I told her she'd wind up dead from that damn project, but she wouldn't listen to me."
His curiosity piqued by her words, Charles looked at her as they stepped onto the elevator. "What project?"
"I probably shouldn't say . . ." she said, worrying her lower lip for a moment. Then she shrugged. "But it's not like you don't know about it. Because everyone knows about the Intersect."
"I have heard about it . . . although not for a while," Charles said.
Even with his clearance level, the info about the Intersect was pretty scarce. It was some kind of specialized database, he knew, devised after September 11th when the CIA and NSA realized they needed to do a better job of sharing their intelligence. There had been a lot of fanfare about it at the beginning-speeches about working with their colleagues in Fort Meade to keep America, and the world, safe, agents gossiping about who might end up working on the project. But then the trickle of news about the Intersect completely dried up.
It wasn't that surprising, he knew. Lots of projects started off with a bang and then collapsed into a colossal screw-up, something to be swept under the proverbial carpet as quickly as possible. But hearing about Valenzuela's friend made him wonder just what the story was about this project. Because if agents were getting killed because of it, it made him want to do something to help.
"Anna had to take the big crunch in order to protect the damn thing, and now they're saying that because it was so top-secret hush-hush, she won't get listed on the Memorial Wall," Valenzuela said, her voice bitter.
"We all know that the Memorial Wall is missing dozens, hundreds of names," Charles said. "As long as you remember Anna and honor her service, she's not forgotten."
Valenzuela blew out a breath, stirring the tendrils of hair around her face. "I know that." She paused and looked up at him. "I'm sorry. I'm going to visit her family after this mission, to tell them Anna's goodbyes, so . . . this is all weighing on me."
"I understand," Charles said simply. "How can I help tonight to make things go smoothly?"
"I'll be fine," she said, squaring her shoulders as they walked off the elevator. "Having Charles Carmichael on your mission gives you the magic touch," she said with a smile.
He doubted that, but if she needed to think that in order to get through this mission, he wasn't going to disabuse her of the notion. So Charles simply nodded and did what he was supposed to do. Yet in the back of his mind, he felt the idea of the Intersect gnawing on him.
When this assignment was over, perhaps it was time to go back to D.C. Time to learn more about the Intersect.
XXX
Two years ago, when he decided to put the money piling up in his bank account to good use, Charles bought a condo in the West End neighborhood between Dupont Circle and Georgetown. It was only a studio but it suited him during those infrequent occasions he stayed in D.C. But now, it was feeling a bit cramped.
But that would happen when you spent three weeks never leaving a four hundred square foot apartment.
Normally, the studio was bright and airy in spite of its size. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in plenty of natural light when the blinds were raised. The walls were painted white and covered with black and white photos of Washington landmarks. Dark hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, and sleek electronics further enhanced the state-of-the-art feel to the apartment.
Right now, though, it was a pigsty, Charles had to admit. Stacks of file folders covered every horizontal surface, including the floor and his bed. Pizza boxes and Chinese cartons cluttered the countertops, and water bottles in various stages of fullness were dotted around the apartment. After Valenzuela had gotten the flash drive and they had left Kiev, he had come back to Washington and gone to Headquarters, collecting all the files he could carry out. Researching the Intersect was just the kind of huge, sprawling project he needed. Something to keep his mind busy if he wasn't on missions. And when he got in that bury-himself-in-work mode, his living conditions deteriorated.
It didn't matter, though. Because he was on to something. Something big, something that could change everything.
For the last three years, the CIA had been tracking a terrorist group called Fulcrum. Not much was known about them-undercover agents had a bad tendency to die or go rogue when they went into Fulcrum, it seemed. What the CIA did know was that Fulcrum thought they were protecting the United States by using methods and techniques that were "more innovative" than those used by other intelligence agencies.
What exactly were these more innovative methods was unknown . . . until Valenzuela's friend, one Anna Smith, used her cyanide capsule to avoid being captured by Fulcrum. She had been involved with the Intersect project in some capacity-something high-level, something that involved protecting the Intersect at all costs. And right before she died, Smith managed to send back a message to her handlers, indicating that Fulcrum had been tracking her movements. Tracking the Intersect.
When Charles read that detail in a top-secret, highly classified report, the pieces started falling into place. Fulcrum wanted the Intersect for themselves. It explained a group of seemingly-unconnected crimes from the daily intelligence reports: the robberies at out-of-the-way storage depots, the hacking attempts on the CIA's mainframe, and more. That didn't explain how Smith had been able to protect the Intersect after her death, though-wouldn't Fulcrum have searched her to find the computer or flash drive that the Intersect was on? Charles guessed they hadn't found it. And it would seem that if they couldn't capture the Intersect, Fulcrum was going to learn all it could about it.
And that meant he should, too. Because he was getting an idea for his next assignment. It would be big. It would involve taking out Fulcrum, using the Intersect in some way. But the more he researched the Intersect, the more questions he had. It was driving him a little bit crazy, actually.
As far as he could tell, if he wanted more information about the Intersect, he would have to go to Graham and get clearance. And that was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to. Not after what had happened in the Dominican Republic.
Taking a deep breath, Charles stood up and stretched a little, feeling how stiff he was. He hadn't been diligent about his workouts during the last few weeks-not to mention bathing. A shower and a shave would be in order before he met with Graham. And it would give him a little time to prepare himself.
He had done his best to not think about Sarah Walker. And he had succeeded. Mostly. It took force of will, a mountain of research, and working until he was exhausted to keep her out of his thoughts, though. But was that the best way of dealing with what had happened?
From that first moment he had laid eyes on her, as she walked towards him, there had been an inexplicable connection between them. It was chemical, biological, magical . . . it didn't seem to care about logic or reason or reality. All that mattered was the few days he had spent with Sarah Walker hadn't been nearly enough. He wanted more. Much more.
Then maybe you shouldn't have slept with her, Carmichael.
Charles groaned and headed towards his bathroom, starting the shower and setting the temperature at just above lukewarm. The last thing he needed right now was a hot shower.
Stepping under the spray after he shucked his clothes, Charles rotated his head on his neck and rolled his shoulders. He had made his bed-now he had to lie in it. And that was about the worst metaphor ever given what had occurred between them, he conceded with a sigh.
Walker didn't seem like the type to go crying to Graham about what had happened in the Dominican Republic. Of course, if Graham knew about their interaction, he wouldn't be so obvious as to call Charles in for a dressing-down. No, Graham would have just sent him to the Falklands or something equally awful. But still, Charles doubted that Walker had done much talking about what had transpired between them-just like him.
So it wasn't like he had anything to worry about when he saw Graham. Other than keeping his mind on his work, instead of thinking about Sarah Walker and how he felt when he was around her. And since the likelihood of their paths crossing again was slight, there was no reason for him to avoid the thought of her. He wasn't some teenager with a crush. It was time he remembered that.
XXX
The longer he waited in Graham's outer office, the more he wanted to jiggle his leg or tap his fingers against the folders in his lap. Anything to release the nervous energy inside him. But he suppressed the urge, because it was too much like something he did as a kid. It had been a long time since he felt this apprehensive before meeting with his boss. But then, this was not a normal meeting. He was going out on a limb by presenting his idea to Graham. And it could wind up playing into the deputy director's hands.
Because this job was going to be a lot bigger than just Charles Carmichael. There would need to be a team to pull this off. So after years of denying the leadership of task forces and workgroups, he was going to be stuck with being in charge.
But maybe that was a good thing. It would give him a chance to get his bearings. Figure out this strange conflict that had developed inside him, these impulses to play video games and fidget and get lost in thought. Especially when those impulses lead to thoughts like what books he would take to a desert island or whether he might ever see Sarah Walker again.
The sight of Graham's assistant approaching him made him shove such thoughts to the back of his mind. "Is he ready for me, Anne?" he asked, straightening up in his chair.
"Yes, Agent Carmichael-go right on in," Anne said, nodding to him.
"Thank you," he said, getting up and heading towards the doors into the inner office. Charles paused in front of the doors and took a moment to collect himself. Then he opened the doors and stepped into the office.
As he approached Graham, the older man rose. "It's a surprise to see you, Agent Carmichael."
"Thank you for fitting me in," Charles said, restraining himself from immediately getting down to business. Sometimes you had to play the political game-even though he disliked it. A lot.
"Of course, of course. You have something to present to me?"
Charles nodded and walked over to the table and chairs in one corner of Graham's office. It would be easier to spread out the papers he had at the table instead of passing them back and forth across Graham's desk. "I do. I've been doing some research and I believe there's something we've missed about Fulcrum."
Graham's eyebrows went up slightly, but he remained silent and took a seat at the table. As Charles began explaining the connection between Fulcrum and the Intersect, Graham kept his face blank. That wasn't very unusual-after all, at his level Graham had to have a damn good poker face. But coupled with the anxiety that Charles was already feeling, it wasn't exactly comforting.
"In short, I believe that Fulcrum is determined to acquire the Intersect. Either the actual technology behind it, or simply the raw intelligence. It's difficult to understand how they weren't able to obtain the Intersect from Agent Smith after her capture, but at my clearance level I had to make some inferences," Charles concluded, folding his hands on the table.
"So what are you saying, Carmichael?" Graham asked, leaning back in his chair.
Here it was: the time to make the CIA's dreams come true. Taking a breath, Charles plunged in. "I want to lead a team that will go after Fulcrum. Using the Intersect."
Whatever kind of reaction he was expecting from Graham, he didn't get it. In fact, there was no reaction. Graham just looked at him, his face blank.
"I know this must seem to be coming out of the blue," Charles said, stumbling over his words in a way that he never did. At least, not since he was a teenager. "But with the research I've done so far, I know this is what Fulcrum is planning. And I want to stop it."
"You've finally found something that requires your skills," Graham said. "After years of requests, you're deigning to work with the rest of us."
Charles felt Graham's words land on him like a body blow. Shit. This was bad. It would appear that denying all those task forces and teams was about to blow up in his face.
"Unfortunately, Agent Carmichael, the CIA already has a highly-qualified team of agents working on analyzing and addressing the threat posed by Fulcrum. They've been on the case for nearly two years now. I don't believe they require any assistance." Graham rose from his chair. "Is that all?"
At being so clearly dismissed, Charles felt a flicker of anger. "What about the Intersect?" he asked, rising to his feet and taking full advantage of his height.
"The Intersect Project has been a noble experiment, but we are currently assessing our involvement," Graham said flatly. "We've lost two agents to it already and we have no idea how to prevent such losses. Even with dozens of the best scientists in the world working on this."
Two agents? He only knew about one-Valenzuela's friend. And the idea that the CIA was considering pulling out was certainly news to him. But that meant the window of opportunity was closing quickly. If he didn't find out just what the Intersect was now, soon it would be buried away and completely inaccessible.
"Still, I'd like to learn more about the Intersect, sir," Charles said. "Perhaps the scientists haven't seen a better use for it, since they're not field agents. I'd like to try, before the CIA gives up on the project."
For a long moment, they faced off across the table. Then Graham shook his head. "There's no need, Agent Carmichael. The Intersect is a failure and it's time for the NSA and the CIA to reallocate their resources towards new options. And that includes you."
Charles blinked as Graham walked over to his desk and picked up a folder. "There's an assignment in New York that could use your assistance. Bryce Larkin came back from his deep cover operation with some rust on him and you're just the man to help knock it off."
Given the history between himself and Bryce Larkin-the history that Charles was fairly sure Graham knew nothing about-that kind of request was a dangerous one. And he was tempted to keep pressing his case about the Intersect. But he knew it was hopeless. Graham had that "my mind is made up" tone to his voice and Charles was already on thin ice. As much as he didn't want to, it was time to cut his losses and regroup. Find another way to get what he wanted.
Because he didn't agree with Graham. It wasn't time to write off the Intersect-not when it was what Fulcrum wanted. And he had to admit, his curiosity about this strange project was too strong to let it go. Just what was the Intersect? Why did Fulcrum want it so badly? And how had it managed to slip through their fingers so far?
He was going to find out, one way or another. The above-board way hadn't worked, so it was time to brainstorm some more creative methods.
XXX
Lifting his umbrella over his head, Charles stepped out of the taxi that had deposited him outside an office building on West 59th Street, not far from the Hudson River. The building was ramshackle and dilapidated looking, sharing the block with a parking lot. The rain pouring from the sky made the area look even more bleak and forbidding. In short, it was a perfect spy base.
Hurrying up the sidewalk, Charles found the access panel and punched the entry code on the keypad. The door unlocked with a soft click and he stepped inside, a shower of raindrops falling onto him from his umbrella as he closed it. Grateful that he was dressed casually in jeans, boots and a leather jacket, Charles looked around.
The insides weren't much better than the outside, but at least there was heat. And he could hear a faint hum of conversation from down the hall, so he headed in that direction. As he approached the room at the end of the hall, the buzz got louder. But when he opened the door and stepped inside, a silence fell over the room.
It looked like your typical office: cubicles, computers, and bad lighting. But Charles knew that appearances were often deceiving. And all of the people in this room were too fit and too attractive to be anything other than spies.
Looking around, he didn't see Bryce. So he lifted his voice, making it carry through the room. "Is Agent Larkin here?"
After a moment, Bryce Larkin appeared at the back of the room and walked towards Charles. Conversations resumed for the most part, although Charles could sense the curiosity in the room.
"Carmichael," Bryce said, folding his arms over his chest. His suit, although impeccably tailored, looked a bit rumpled. Like it had been a long day already, even though it was just past lunchtime.
Hmm. Looked like Bryce had some bee in his bonnet if he was keeping this on a last name basis. Charles just nodded. "Hi, Larkin. Graham sent me-said there was something I could do to help out?"
"And here I thought this day couldn't get any worse," Bryce said. "Yeah, I guess so. C'mon back to my desk and we'll talk."
"Rough morning?" Charles asked as he followed Bryce. It had been several years since they had spent any time together, but they had been in the same training class at the Farm and had even shared a room for a while. He had always considered them friendly, even with what happened with Roberts.
"Don't ever dump your partner without telling her first, Carmichael. But then, you're smart enough to not have a partner," Bryce said, glancing back at him over his shoulder.
His words nearly made Charles stumble. How could he have forgotten? Bryce had been Walker's partner.
Actually, he hadn't forgotten. Not at all. From the moment that Graham had said he would be coming to New York and meeting with Bryce, he had that thought going through his mind. But he had just pushed that thought out of his mind and focused on the drama that already existed between himself and Bryce. Because it was depressing enough to have Bryce Larkin unknowingly steal the girl he had been interested in when they were at the Farm. But to have history repeat itself by Bryce once again having a woman that Charles was intrigued by . . .
Giving his head a shake, Charles tried to keep his voice light. "Yeah, I heard about what happened with you and Walker."
Bryce slumped into his chair. "It was a mistake. One that she made sure to point out to me today at lunch. And now, here you are."
She was here? In New York?
It was so tempting to ask Bryce for more details about his lunch date with Sarah. To find out if she was staying in New York. If she had mentioned him. It was the kind of temptation that made Charles's mind skitter away from it, like a lizard moving from hot sun into cool shade. This wasn't the time or place to be asking such questions. So instead, he pushed aside any thought of Sarah Walker and concentrated on the job.
"I just want to help, Bryce," Charles said, lowering himself into the uncomfortable chair in the corner of Bryce's cubicle. "Graham sent me here, yeah, but I came because when I looked over your last few missions, it was pretty clear that something was up."
"You're still a gracious bastard, Chuck," Bryce said, leaning back in his desk chair.
At the sound of his teenage nickname-something he had revealed to Bryce in a moment of weakness-not to mention the backhanded compliment, Charles felt his back stiffen. "I've told you more than once that it's Charles now. And what happened with Roberts, I don't blame you for it. She made her choice."
"Because you wouldn't make a play for her."
"Is this really that important?" Charles asked, his voice low and just above a hiss as he leaned in towards Bryce.
"Nope," Bryce said. "Not really. But it's still important to you. Or is it something else?" His eyebrows lifted as he took in Charles.
Shit. Bryce always had an uncanny knack at reading him. But things had changed since the Farm.
Schooling his face, Charles shook his head. "I'm just here to talk about work, Bryce. Or would you prefer Agent Larkin?"
Bryce gave him a long look, then he shrugged. "Bryce is fine. Okay, Charles, lay it on me. What am I doing wrong?"
You hurt Sarah.
The thought sprang into his mind completely unbidden. Charles almost growled under his breath as he shoved the thought away. Jesus, he had to get himself under control. Now.
Charles removed the folder that Graham had given him from his briefcase and opened it. "Let's start with this job in Portugal," he said, picking the first mission Bryce had completed after his deep cover assignment.
To his surprise, Bryce simply nodded and leaned forward, listening to what Charles had to say. It made it easier to focus, to concentrate on work. Because although he put up a front, Bryce was going along with this now. So clearly he knew something wasn't working for him.
And it felt good to help. To get something right.
XXX
After nearly four hours of conversation, Bryce leaned back in his chair and eyed him. "You want to get a drink?"
That wasn't a good idea. Keeping his interactions with Bryce professional was already difficult with their shared history. Bryce's relationship with Sarah didn't help matters, either. Add in liquor and it could get really, really messy.
But it was now past six and he was hungry. And if he didn't get a drink and some food with Bryce, he would be on his own for dinner. The thought of trying to find someplace to eat and then having his meal alone . . . Normally, he didn't have a problem with eating by himself. But tonight, it sounded so lonely.
He would take messy drama over loneliness. At least tonight.
"As long as we get some food with it, sure," Charles said, rising to his feet.
"I know just the place," Bryce said, standing up and pulling on his trenchcoat. "C'mon. I want to hear what you're working on."
"Just doing what I can to help," Charles said, following Bryce out into the night. The rain had tapered off into barely a mist, so he kept his umbrella tucked under his arm.
Looking up at him, Bryce quirked an eyebrow, his blue eyes glowing. "Uh-huh."
"You know that's not going to work. Not anymore," Charles said. "You can't just make me spill my guts like I did in training."
"Yeah, I know," Bryce said. "Not unless you want to talk. So spill."
This was why he stayed professional with the agents he worked with. Because having a friend who was an agent was too damn annoying. Unfortunately, Charles hadn't learned that lesson until after he finished his training, and by then it was too late: he was already friends with Bryce.
And even though he hadn't seen Bryce in years and there had been plenty of misunderstandings between them, their friendship was solid enough to handle such absences, it seemed. Or maybe it had lasted simply because they hadn't seen each other.
"Fine," Charles said as they walked up to a slightly dingy-looking restaurant. "You've heard of the Intersect, right?"
Now both of Bryce's eyebrows had gone up. "Yeah, of course. What, are you getting assigned to that? It's an albatross."
Something in Bryce's voice made Charles think he had some kind of first-hand experience to go on. That was intriguing.
Their conversation was on hold while they were seated and looked over the menu. But once they had ordered burgers and beers, Bryce leaned forward, resting his folded arms on the table. "Are you, though? Getting assigned to the Intersect?"
Charles shook his head. "No . . . it's a long story, but I think Fulcrum is trying to acquire the Intersect. And I think that's the way to take out Fulcrum-find a way to use the Intersect to work against them."
"Don't know why they'd want it," Bryce said, giving their waitress a smile and an admiring glance as she put down their beers.
The sight of Bryce checking out the waitress-checking out any woman-shouldn't make him feel angry. But it did. But there was no reason for him to feel angry. None whatsoever, and certainly not because of Sarah Walker. Charles wrapped his hand around his beer and took a long swallow.
"I'm not sure, either," Charles answered, focusing instead on Bryce's question. "I'm still not even sure how the Intersect works exactly."
Bryce lifted his glass and eyed Charles over the rim. "Have you talked to Graham?"
"Of course I did. He stonewalled me," Charles said, making himself sip his beer rather than chugging it and ordering another.
"Seriously?" He sounded absolutely shocked.
"Yes, seriously," Charles said, losing his patience a little. "I said I wanted to lead a team that would go after Fulcrum, lure them out with the Intersect, and Graham turned me down. Then when I said I wanted more info about the Intersect at least, he refused and shoved this job on me."
Giving up on politeness for appearance's sake, Charles took a few large swallows of his beer. He coughed and looked at Bryce, who still looked surprised. Breathing a few times, Charles got himself under control.
"I suppose I asked for too much," Charles said quietly, rubbing his thumb against his glass. "I probably pissed off Graham by acting like I was doing him a favor-not to mention the whole CIA-by finally agreeing to lead a team but only on my terms. No wonder he blew me off."
"What's got you so interested in the Intersect, though? If you were talking about it two, three years ago, when it was hot shit, I'd understand that. But now?" Bryce shrugged. "It's old news. Maybe that's what Graham was trying to say."
Charles considered this for a moment, then shook his head. "No . . . I think it was more personal. And I think it was mostly about me offering to be a team leader, of a team of my own making, than something Graham had set up."
"The man is pretty much the classic definition of 'control freak'," Bryce commented. "But that's his job."
"I know," Charles said. And he really did know that. Graham hadn't gotten to where he was by not sweating the small stuff. By offering to create his own team, Charles was usurping Graham's control. So it was no wonder he got slapped down.
"So why the Intersect?" Bryce asked after a few moments of silence.
Ready to reply, Charles opened his mouth only to hesitate. Bryce seemed really interested in knowing what Charles was after when it came to the Intersect. It was more than normal friendly curiosity, or even a professional interest. No . . . Bryce had some angle going on. Something he was keeping quiet about. And that made Charles consider holding back a little.
After all, he was already keeping a big secret: his interaction with Sarah. What was one more lie of omission?
"I got curious because there's just been no news about the Intersect lately. I've kind of been following it since the start," Charles said. "Not to mention that no one really seems to know what the Intersect really is."
He did his best to sell it, but he wasn't entirely sure that Bryce was buying it. Fortunately, their large, greasy burgers arrived at that moment. It saved him from having to say anything more about the Intersect, let him shift the conversation to the food and how much longer Bryce might be in New York. Keeping things light and easy, making it easy to wrap up this dinner and leave when it was done.
No muss, no fuss. Something that had been lacking in his life lately.
Perhaps Graham's refusal to go along with his Fulcrum plan was a sign. He had felt off his game for weeks now, ever since these strange, unsettled feelings had begun. Just because his life was currently a bit empty didn't mean he had to change things up. Didn't mean he had to throw away his present and embrace his past. He had pushed away Chuck Bartowski for good, valid reasons. Video games and comic books were fun, but they weren't something a grown-up valued as much as a kid did.
It was like the Bible quote-putting away childish things. The life he lived now, being a spy-it was like a real-life video game. What computerized version could compare to that? There was no reason to become some nerd in order to feel like he was living his life to the fullest.
His job was enough to feel full. He didn't need hobbies or a relationship, something external. If he wanted to make a change, he could start by focusing on himself. It was time for him to regroup and figure out what was next for him, find a new assignment that could challenge and excite him.
That would be all he needed. A mission.
XXX
With a sigh, Charles unlocked the door of his studio and stepped inside. The monthly housekeeping service he used had long ago removed the signs of his research bender, so the condo was back to its normal pristine condition. It was a shame that his dirty clothes and grubby appearance would mar the perfection.
But he was too damn tired to care that much.
Since he left New York, he had focused on the job. A task force was making their move against a group of Afghani terrorists and needed help in the field, so he had spent the last three weeks hip-deep in sand, his skin tanning to a light golden brown as his hair and beard had grown out. He couldn't wait to get a haircut and a shave, to feel like himself again.
He frowned when he heard a crackle under his foot. Looking down, he realized he had stepped on a package that he hadn't seen in the dim light of the pre-dawn hours, a package that was resting on the floor just inside the door. Probably it had been delivered and left at his front door and his housekeeper had brought it in. But why leave it on the floor, instead of on the kitchen counter?
Dropping his duffel bag, Charles leaned down and picked up the package. He reached out and flipped on the light switch as he locked the door behind him. His hand stayed on the lock when he realized the package bore no postage, no address. Nothing.
The exhausted fog he had been in immediately lifted as his brain took over. He yanked the door open and looked at the lock, noticing the small scratches: clear signs of lockpicks being used. Closing the door, he carried the package over to his kitchen counter and turned on all the lights, in order to examine this parcel more thoroughly.
It was a fairly innocuous looking package: wrapped in brown kraft paper, about nine inches wide, twelve inches long, and three inches deep. There had been a feeling of flexibility to it when he was holding it, almost floppiness.
Someone had broken into his home and left him something. He had no idea what it might be or who could have done this. The proper, by-the-book decision at this point would be to call the police or at the very least take it to the Agency without unwrapping it.
But Charles did neither of those things. Instead, he ripped open the paper wrapper, revealing a stack of files.
That was not what he expected. Blinking, Charles opened the top folder, trying to determine just what this was, why he had received paperwork under such secretive circumstances-
When he read the words on the first page of the file, he felt his eyes go very, very wide. Because amid several red ink stamped TOP SECRET and some blacked-out lines, there were two very important, unbelievable words.
Project Intersect.
What?
Charles shuffled through the files. It appeared that he had received a complete set of files on the Intersect-schematics, timelines, personality assessments . . .
A chill went down his spine when he realized, from the age of the papers in some of the folders, that the Intersect Project must have been in existence well before its official creation date post-September 11th. The sheer amount of information supported that idea.
Just what the hell was the Intersect?
All thoughts of a shower, shave, and bed fled his mind. Instead, he pulled out one of the high bar stools that was pulled up to the counter and sat down. He bent his head and began reading.
The more he read, the more he felt overwhelmed and shocked. The Intersect was a project that the CIA had been working on for decades. It was a computer database, yes-but one that was designed to be uploaded into an agent's mind.
That revelation made him sit back in his seat, needing a few moments to process. Such an idea sounded like science fiction, like one of the movies he used to watch on TV late at night while having sleepovers with Morgan. It shouldn't be possible . . . but here he was looking at evidence that it was more than possible.
What an amazing concept! Imagine having the vast information resources of the CIA and NSA, at your disposal. No more having to recover data and send it in for analysis while you were left waiting; your own mind would help perform the analysis. Or you could receive the intel you needed while out in the field. Your case closure rate would skyrocket.
His thoughts sobered when he realized something else. That must be what had happened to poor Agent Smith-she had the Intersect in her head, and with her death the Intersect was gone. That was how Fulcrum had not gained the Intersect with her death. It was incredibly ingenious-it meant that the Intersect was protected like almost no other intelligence was.
Charles could feel his mind whirling as the wealth of possibilities presented themselves to him. He leaned in and started reading again, turning through the pages and devouring all that was there about the Intersect.
By the time he finished reading, the sun had risen well above the horizon. He was even more exhausted, his skin itched from the caked-on sand and dirt, and his throat and stomach protested their lack of food and drink. But none of it mattered, because he knew what he wanted to do.
It would involve taking a page from the first experiment with the Intersect-one that involved not just uploading a preliminary version of the Intersect, but a brand-new personality. The experiment was intended to test the Intersect's ability to allow agents to go into deep cover situations without compromising their fake identity. The experiment had failed, but there was potential there, he thought. At least, with his limited knowledge about the brain, he thought it was a possibility.
But he knew someone who was an expert. Someone he could talk to about something so far-fetched. But it would be an awkward conversation.
Looking at the nearest clock, Charles calculated the time difference between D.C. and Los Angeles. Ellie might be up, but given her schedule, it would be best to send her a text and make sure she was awake instead of calling out of the blue. Even though the wait was frustrating, a grouchy Ellie would be difficult to manage.
In the back of his mind, he felt a pang of guilt at the thought of 'managing' his sister. But it would be for her own good, he argued with himself. He did truly love her, but he knew how much she missed him. How she wished that he might have a different job, regardless of how proud she was of him, because she wanted to see him more frequently.
Yet if Ellie approved of his idea, if she could help him with what he needed, she might get her wish.
The ringing of his cell phone drew him out of his thoughts and he saw, happily, that it was Ellie.
"Chuck!" she proclaimed. He could practically hear the smile that must be on her face. "Oh, I know you're Charles now, but I was so excited to see your text that it just slipped out."
"No, no, it's okay," Charles said, reassuring her. "I'm just happy to hear from you so quickly. Because . . . because I need your help, Ellie."
As he said the words, Charles realized that any idea he had of managing Ellie was the height of foolishness. Because he couldn't do it. Asking for her help was the first step in making his plan happen, but the tone of voice that he had made his request had been pure younger brother. It was the tone of a man who truly did need help and was turning to his only family.
This wasn't some kind of con. The fact that he had even considered trying to manipulate Ellie made him feel sick to his stomach. Just how far had he overshot the mark in trying to correct his course? In trying to push aside those instincts that had been tugging on him, those strange feelings to become more like Chuck, he had gone too far and tried to be too much like some cold, distant spy.
Charles swallowed, feeling a wave of guilt and disgust. But there was also determination. Because he was going to fix this. He wasn't cut out to be all spy. He didn't want to be like that, and if he kept fighting himself, he would give in and let himself become hard and deadly and dark.
So . . . so he had to do everything he could to explain this to Ellie. To make this work. Because he wanted to discover what it would be like to be Chuck Bartowski again. To reconnect with that side of himself he had pushed aside, to enjoy once again the things he used to love that he let go of in order to become "normal."
There were so many risks involved. He didn't know if he would be successful in persuading her. But he was going to try. Because he needed an escape. A way to right his ship.
"Charles?"
Ellie's voice sounded concerned. Worried, even. It brought him back to Earth. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I asked how can I help."
Once upon a time, things had been that simple for him. If Ellie had called and asked for his help, his first instinct would have been to help her. Now? Now, he wasn't so sure. But by helping him, Ellie would let him see if there was hope for him.
Taking a deep breath, Charles gathered his thoughts. "It's going to sound crazy, Ellie. And for now, you can't tell Devon about this. But . . . but do you think it's possible to upload information into the human brain? As if it was a computer?"
And as he waited for Ellie's answer, Charles knew she held his future in her hands.
End, Chapter 2
