A/N: *taps mic* Is anybody there? Anybody actually reading this story? Yes? No? Maybe? Depends on how much Charah there is?

Okay well, this chapter took a LONG time, and even so it's my shortest one thus far and contains a lot of nonsense. Go figure. But it also has some important bits. I think. It might qualify as filler. I don't actually know if it's "filler" because I'm not familiar with the lingo writers use.

I must thank retropanda37 for her beta skills and for not quitting on me once she read this chapter. I'm being totally serious. Also, thanks to my sister for her feedback. My endless gratitude also goes out to those who have read, reviewed, and/or put this story on their alerts :)

Disclaimer: I was sick at one point during the writing process and I may or may not have been in a cough meds-induced delirium for parts of this chapter. NyQuil is kinda trippy.

Please let this work.

Chuck's mind was a blur, the only clear thoughts sounding in his head his own blaring pleas for this plan to work. Admittedly, it wasn't the smartest plan. In fact it was downright stupid; coming down to simply hoping things went his way. If he was honest with himself, most of his plans always came down to that. But rescuing Sarah and Casey in plain sight of the rebels was probably the most precarious plan he'd ever decided to go through with. It was either this or a shady meeting come sundown. He figured, though, that if he just walked up to Mr. Accent and his army to engage in a questionable exchange, he was guaranteeing his, Sarah's, and Casey's capture. At least if he went through with his plan, he was giving them more of a chance to escape.

He took a moment to swipe the sweat off his forehead with his forearm before he resumed digging. Morgan was laying back, his body casually strewn across the sand, head resting on a knapsack, playing his role as an arbitrary person lying out trying to get some sun, and not one trying to distract from what Chuck was currently busying himself with. It was a largely secluded area but Chuck didn't want to take the chance of some vagabond wandering by and noticing his actions. Therefore, he instructed Morgan to just lay out. In an effort to look like an easygoing individual and not one who was preparing for a daring rescue mission, Morgan had taken to humming. Early on in Chuck's digging, the tunes had been random melodies. Only now that he noticed the humming was suddenly making him anxious, as Morgan had become more emphatic with the tune, did he realize his friend had chosen an actual song. He paused briefly from his hunched over position while digging in order to strain his ears over the breeze to put a name to the familiar tune. He finally recognized the song. That can't be right, he thought, as he straightened his back.

"Is that…Nerf Herder?"

Morgan looked Chuck's way at the question. "Uh, yeah."

"Buffy?" Chuck asked, unable to keep the utter puzzlement from his voice or off his face.

"Yeah," Morgan answered, drawing out the word.

Chuck gave him a look as if to ask why that song.

"I can't help it, Chuck. What we're about to do, especially you, needs a soundtrack or at least some theme music."

"And you chose Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"

"No," Morgan argued. "I chose Nerf Herder…or rather, it chose me."

Chuck nodded at Morgan to hand him what was arguably the key to their escape to place in the hole while his friend continued his defense of the song choice. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Buffy. In fact, he remembered a time when he used to have a crush on Buffy Summers; it was just such an oddly specific song to be humming.

"I don't know why; it just came into my head," Morgan continued. "Nobody gets to choose what songs get stuck in their heads."

"True," Chuck said, as he began filling the hole back up.

"I think it might be because I was watching a Buffy marathon on TV right before we left for the mission."

Chuck let out a soft laugh, thankful for the distraction from his thoughts Morgan was conveniently providing. Morgan resumed his humming at a less energetic tempo, much to Chuck's relief. He was starting to feel the sweat slide down his back as the midmorning sun was making its approach higher in the sky, the sand sticking to his palms and forearms. His heart was beginning to pick up its pace in his chest, and now he wasn't so sure the sun was the sole cause for the beads of sweat currently running courses down the sides of his face. Slapping the mound of sand he had just created to serve as a marker, Chuck slowly leaned back and sat on his heels to observe the result of his work, satisfied that it didn't seem too noticeable as he surveyed the area.

"Okay," Chuck breathed. "How's it look?"

Morgan gave a quick scan around the beach before looking back at the mound. "Good. Are you going to be able to spot it?"

"Yeah. I'm sure I'll find it. Hand me the knapsack."

He grabbed it, pulling back the flap to get his shirt and knives. Slipping on the long-sleeve dark green shirt, he struggled to pull it down as it clung to his body due to his excessive sweat. It only served to remind him of how unsettled his nerves had been since separating from Sarah and Casey the day before. He pulled up the sleeves some and grabbed the three knives, placing them in his boot. Maybe Sarah will find some use for them, he mused. He stood up, hoping to better catch the breeze, and faced the ocean. The distinct weight of his tranq gun and Sig-Saur P229 tucked in his back was all he felt as he crossed his arms over his chest.

The flow of the wind surrounding him felt calming, helping to compose his nerves for what was coming. Initially, Chuck had wanted to go ahead with the mission immediately after finalizing the admittedly less than stellar plans for Sarah's and Casey's rescue, but thought better of it, as it was dark. He didn't know what he would come up against in the obscurity of the thick jungle and factoring complete darkness into the equation would only complicate things. The night had passed agonizingly slowly for him. He didn't know how he made it through. Before making their trek just near enough the camp location in the morning, Chuck knew he should've been sleeping the few hours available to make sure he was rested enough to be able to battle through their escape, but he just wasn't able to slip into anything resembling a slumber. How could he? He was too worried about Sarah as hundreds of thoughts and questions filled his mind. Was she okay? Was she hurt? What were they doing to her? He hoped she knew he was coming for her. He also hoped she wasn't mad that he was coming for her. But of all the thoughts running through his mind and emotions coursing through him during his insomnia, one feeling stuck out – he missed her. He wanted her back. Where she was safe. With him. He turned around with determination and faced Morgan.

"I'm ready. Are you ready, buddy?"

Morgan scrambled up from his prone position, sending grains of sand into the breeze, seemingly unaware that it was time. He ran a hand across his forehead before swiping the other across it as well and repeating the motion again. Chuck, sensing his friend was on the verge of freaking out, spoke up.

"Morgan," Chuck said cautiously as he stepped toward to his friend. "Morgan, this is it, okay? Don't freak out on me. We can do this. You just do whatever you need to do to get yourself through it, alright? Channel Michael Carmichael, Cobra – I don't care. Just…" Chuck took a deep breath. "Let's do this."

"You're right." Morgan nodded. "Let's do this. I'm not even the one who should be freaking out anyway. You're the one who's going in there." Morgan said. He then looked at him as if remembering something. "It's kind of late to be mentioning this, but you know there are probably people guarding Sarah and Casey, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," Morgan said. "…so how are you even planning on getting past them? You don't speak Spanish."

Chuck looked at him. This was the part of the plan he had intentionally kept ambiguous with Morgan during the planning to keep his friend from worrying. It was the part that, if he survived infiltrating the camp, was likely to be the biggest gamble. Realistically, the entire plan was a gamble, not just the infiltration, though it was the part facing the greatest odds. Things could go horribly wrong and possibly end up with him being held captive along with Sarah and Casey.

Or dead.

He cleared his throat. "Well, um, I'm just going to, you know…" he trailed, furrowing his eyebrows and tensing his jaw. "Give them a really…scary menacing glare," he said. "And hope no words are exchanged," he rather lamely tacked on the end with a shrug, as he checked how secure his weapons were tucked in his waistband.

Morgan simply stared at Chuck before releasing a humorless laugh. "A menacing glare?" He blinked. "You?" He ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, my God, this plan…" Morgan muttered under his breath.

"Yeah," Chuck said, attempting to placate his friend. "…you know, I'll just blend in and not talk to – wait," he said, straightening up, a thought occurring to him. "You don't think I can pull off a menacing glare?" he asked, slightly affronted. Chuck didn't think he was that much of wimp to not be able to pull off an intimidating stare.

"Well…" Morgan said, dipping his head to one side, assessing him. His eyes started at Chuck's boots before slowly rising to his pants, finally reaching the long-sleeved shirt Chuck's upper body was filling out with his arms crossed over his chest. Chuck raised an eyebrow when his friend reached his face. "You know what? Actually, yeah, you can," Morgan assented, a tinge of awe coloring his voice. With more assurance he added, "Yeah, you can definitely pull it off – especially with that beard. It makes you look rugged."

"Rugged? Really?" Chuck asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

"I think Sarah digs it, too."

"Yeah?"

"I noticed her staring at you a little bit longer than she normally does just before the mission."

"Hmm," Chuck mused. "There's no way I'm ever letting it get as thick as yours, though."

"Well, not many can pull off this look, my friend."

Morgan bent down and shouldered the knapsack. They then began walking away from the ocean toward the line of forest that awaited Chuck. He looked to his right at Morgan.

"Alright buddy, this is where we part. You have the coordinates and the GPS, right?"

Morgan nodded.

Chuck took a deep breath. "Well, alright then. Don't be late."

"I'll be there, man. You can count on me."

"I know I can." Chuck slapped his friend on the back. "Good luck."

"Good luck, Chuck. Now, go get your lady."

He watched Morgan turn around and trudge away. Morgan was shaking his head from side to side no doubt doing his best to not freak out over this half-baked plan of theirs. Chuck turned and faced the depths of the jungle before him. An uncomfortable mixture of nervousness, anticipation, determination, fear, and nausea came over him. He ran a hand over his face, noting the coat of sweat it picked up even through his beard, and then wiped it on his pants.

He swallowed roughly before he stepped forward and ventured into the green expanse that awaited him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sarah rolled her eyes for the third time that morning.

This diplomat, whom Sarah at some point had determined was from the Iranian side of the foiled intel exchange, was really starting to get on her nerves. His paranoia wasn't something he hid very well, as he had shown up in the tent she and Casey were being held every hour the previous day and well into the night, and then had begun his routine again today. He'd already shown up three times so far, which admittedly surprised her since it meant he never actually left the camp the night before. As if his compulsive attendance wasn't enough, his ridiculous attempt to get her and Casey to disclose national secrets that came with every visit was also very annoying. His line of questioning wasn't even that good. Didn't he know covert agents were trained to withstand interrogation techniques – techniques that were much more effective than his? She actually felt somewhat insulted that he didn't deem her nor Casey worthy of harsher methods – as twisted as that sounded in her own head. He would just plainly ask what the U.S. was planning on doing with the information on the drive and then stare at them in a way that Sarah could only assume was meant to scare her and Casey.

Casey, she thought.

Casey, with all of his Reagan-revering, gun-loving, G-man suit-wearing, American snark, had made his thoughts on rebel armies and Iranian-Venezuelan relations inexhaustibly clear the night before. Once Casey's deference for Reagan had managed to come out during one of their captor's visits, an impromptu rehash of the Iran-Contra affair had somehow taken place. That's when things got ugly for Casey.

Again.

At first, Sarah was rather amused at the way Casey and the diplomat had been engaged in a heated discussion over a twenty-five year old issue. That was until, after instruction from the politico, Casey's head met the butt end of the rifle belonging to the rebel standing guard inside the tent.

It was the second time he had gotten knocked out that day.

All she could do was think that Casey seriously needed to pick his moments better.

Now, here they were, still bound at the wrists and re-bound at the ankles, in the tent. Waiting. The meeting was supposed to happen later that day, she remembered that much. She wasn't sure what Chuck was planning to do come sundown. Surely he wouldn't expect the diplomat to honestly go through with the exchange. There was no way he could be trusted to follow through on his word. Hell, from what she remembered overhearing of the conversation the previous day, their captor didn't even give his word to Chuck that there would be an "exchange." The numbers available to this man at the rebel camp only served to stir the worry in her stomach more furiously.

Whenever she was threatened it never mattered to Chuck what he had to go through to make sure she was safe. He always became more determined. She loved that about him. But, as she glanced at Casey, who was seated on the ground next to her, bound in the exact same way, and then looked at the rebel standing guard inside the tent holding his rifle, and listened to the bustling of the many other armed rebel soldiers outside going about their activities, her safety became less important. Even if this had happened to her when Chuck had the Intersect, this was a dangerous place for him to enter. Especially alone.

With no back-up.

She sighed.

Sarah brought her knees up to her chest and leaned her forehead against them. She closed her eyes and blew out a breath to calm her nerves. Chuck was going to be okay, she told herself. She was going to be okay. Casey was going to be okay, and somehow they were going to get out of here. Chuck would have a plan – he always had a plan. Things didn't always go according to the plan but there was always a general plan and the end result was always favorable.

He always had a plan.

Even for a proposal, she thought, as a slow smile formed. She brought her head up. Things would be okay. There was a plan.

Please let his plan work.

Disclaimer #2: Don't own Chuck! Please don't sue!