Disclaimer: I do not own Chuck, anything related to the Beatles, Sarah Palin, the titles of these chapters (as they are lyrics from the song, abiet some edited) and... other random things that are in here that you recognize. I do, however, take responsibility for writing it and coming up with the idea. So there!

Postscript Messages
Chapter 2: How's Your Mother, How's Your Little Brother?

I didn't write another letter for three months until one of the last days of another short break in between missions. I had gone out the day I wrote the letter needing to pick up a few things from the store--I was practically starving myself again and knew that was something that needed to come to an end.

That was when the world came crashing down, some higher power spiting me.

I was going down the cereal line, looking for my secretly favorite cereal, Cocoa Puffs, and standing by the Apple Jacks was a tall man with short brown curly hair and black converse. My mind immediately screamed CHUCK! along with my voice.

My legs took me over to the man, my arms staying, thankfully, stationary at my sides.

He turned around and my heart dropped to my stomach and my stomach jumped to my throat.

"Oh," I said, completely dejected and heart broken. "I'm sorry, you just..." There was no way I was going to let myself lose it then and there in the middle of a grocery story with some random guy, surrounded by cereals. So I walked away, never actually getting my cereal.

I decided by the time I got back to my apartment to write another letter before I left, in desperate need of... something.

Seeing that man who looked so much like Chuck sparked many more questions in me. I knew that I'd feel better if I wrote them on paper, even if I never got an answer.

Chuck,

I haven't spoken to you for a while and decided to change that, even though I don't get to actually hear your voice. All those people in the movies and books are right; memories serve someone--specifically everything about you--no justice. They don't hold a candle to the real thing.

I was at the store today, getting some food before I jet off again. I saw this guy, he looked exactly like you from the behind, and it got me wondering.

This time, I had to stop what was coming next, so I scribbled down the next best thing.

How's your sister, Ellie? I hope she's not too upset with me, although I don't blame her for being mad at my abrupt departure. And Awesome? Still being awesome, I hope. Have they set the date yet, or has it already happened? And Morgan! Are he and Anna still dating? I hope Casey is doing his job well, or that you've at least knocked some sense into him.

There's so many questions I want answers to, but I forfeited them when I left. And then there's answers I've wanted and needed to know since before I left.

I want to know about his day, if he accidentally walked in on Morgan and Anna in the break room, or all about the new trouble Jeff and Lester got him in. I want to hear about what he ate for breakfast, the stupid people who came in for his help, everything and anything.

I wanted to know if he was as crazy for me as I was him...

Suddenly my phone rang. It was a text from Beckman; I was leaving early. Quickly, but neatly, I signed the letter, stuffed the notepad in my bag and headed out.

Yours,

Sarah

The next letter I wrote was during my time in Russia. It was a longer-term assignment and a boring one at that. Russia being Russia, there were leaks of information about a new, even more lethal, nuclear weapon. Seeing as the CIA seems to always be pulled into the Russian affairs, I, and a small assembly of fellow agents, were sent out to investigate and gather information about the weapons if they even existed. Basically do do exactly what the Russians had done when we were building our Atomic and Hydrogen bombs.

Weather had interfered, though, and we were consequently snowed in one day, the snow rising to the middle of the downstairs windows. We had a heater running, but it still hadn't canceled out the cold. More than ever I longed to be somewhere sunny.

Somewhere like LA.

Agent Jackson had joked--he was one of the funnier ones of the solemn group of agents--about ditching the mission the second they could escape and taking the first flight out to somewhere sunny like Florida or Hawaii.

My mind, of course, wanted to fly to my heart where I left it in LA.

I was stuck in the house with a group of younger, newer agents, so they were restless, but also finding a way to enjoy themselves by playing card games and other random activities. I was assigned as the leader of the mission and they all looked up to me and respected me for it.

Before Chuck, this wouldn't have bugged me--I would've demanded it--but we needed some defiance.

Wrapping myself in a blanket, I left the others downstairs and went to my sleeping quarters.

My last letter was a month past, so I decided to write another, to tell him about the cold of all things.

Dear Chuck,

You have it so lucky in LA. It's warm and sunny and beautiful and, best of all, there is no snow. Snow can be really annoying. And if there's enough of it, you can get snowed into your home like I am now.

I can't actually tell you where I am, but I don't think that writing down some hints would hurt anyone. After all, the agents that are here with me are all respectful and everyone needs a little rebellion from time to time.

Clue One: It has two cities named after two consecutive radical leaders of the past.

Clue Two: There's a Beatles song with the former name of this country in it.

Clue Three: It's cold here, as normal; probably just as cold as Sarah Palin's house in Alaska.

I wish that I could be wrapped up by 100 blankets, or surrounded in a small space with a large group of people.

... Or just one man by the name of Charles Bartowski...

But really, I shouldn't complain. It's un-agent-like.

As is writing these letters.

Wishing I was somewhere warm that I would never have to leave,

Sarah

And if that warm place could be his arms, I'd have no reason to.