A/N: Alrighty. I've been having a killer writer's block for a while now, and it's been a few weeks since I last updated this. I'm truly sorry for that, but the negativity in this fandom was seriously bringing me down. But now, may I take this chance to say, "I TOLD YOU SO!" Chuck and Sarah are back on track, no? I had faith, I stuck it out, and I'm officially pretty damn satisfied. And for those who actually stuck it out as well, kudos to you. For those who didn't, we'll forgive you, it's not too late to start watching again! Chuck needs LIVE viewers to have a chance at a 4th season, so how about we save our favourite show, yeah?

This fic is still an angsty piece of crap, but it should be getting better soon. Short chapter today, sorry about that.

Disclaimers - I don't own Chuck, I don't own Frightened Rabbit's "My Backwards Walk". theprincess1511 was awesome in beta-ing this!

The loud clacking of her heels echoed through the park, momentarily disrupting the peaceful, pristine atmosphere that had drifted over the area like a blanket. Only lit by lampposts, the paths that winded around the entire park were dim. Yet she quickened her pace as his voice grew nearer, louder, clearer. Was he with someone? She wasn't sure if she wanted to know.

She crossed the next patch of grass, her breath coming out in ragged gasps as he finally came into view. The first thing she noticed was the musical peal of laughter that escaped his lips as he stared down at his wrung hands. Then her eyes swept over his frame, noting for a fact that he was still dressed in the same clothes that he had worn nearly two days before. And he was alone. Very, very alone.

"Nah, it's not like that…" He whispered to himself, tilting his head to the side as though he were facing someone on the bench. He hadn't noticed her yet.

He beamed with an intense smile, very much knocking the breath from her lungs as she stepped to hide behind a tree. "She's not my girlfriend… She never was."

The abnormally sized lump in her throat threatened to choke her, there and then. He cracked another smile, as she watched him silently – curiously – from the refuge of her tree.

"Look, Sarah's moved on. I mean, I can't deny that I still… love her but –" He pauses, as if someone were interrupting him, but that fact fails to grab her attention because as soon as she hears her name being associated with the word, "love", she sinks to the ground, covering her nose and mouth, in an effort to silence the strangled sob that escapes from her lips.

"It's complicated," he offers, the typical line that magically answered every question without actually answering the question. Ironically, she feels the urge to laugh. When will their relationship ever be uncomplicated?

She wipes the tears away, attempting to rub the tearstains off her cheeks, standing with her back flush against the bark of the tree. She stilled her breathing – it was a miracle that he hadn't noticed she was there yet. Maybe he did, and was politely giving her a chance to man up before she confronted him. She prayed that it wasn't the latter.

But when had the world ever given in to Sarah Walker?

"Sarah?" he calls out, and she freezes in her place, cursing silently. She could do nothing but reveal herself. And she felt her breath hitch as she viewed his pained expression. The eloquent, fancy speech that had formed in her mind began to conveniently fade away.

"Hey Chuck," she offers a smile, and receives another in reply. But she knows that it's all a mask; a façade. She can tell that he masks his pain – it's all in his coffee-brown eyes. But she fails to identify the emotions she wears under hers. She is neither happy, nor content. But both stubbornly refuse to back down. And so, the smiling continued.

He motions her to the empty space on the bench beside him, and she takes it, brushing a hand over her jeans in an effort to clear the sweat off her palms. She smiles; he smiles. The monumental, metaphorical elephant sitting between them begins to smile.

"Sarah, I'm sorry," he starts, breaking the ice. "I'm sorry for running away… I'm sorry for not telling any of you where I was going. But the truth is, I hadn't a clue where I was going either." He takes a moment to breathe; to re-gather and rephrase the rampant thoughts that swarmed in his mind. His eyes, wild and desperate, sought hers, as though they were begging her to understand his decisions.

"I… I met my mum," he finally smiles sincerely – she catalogs his smiles, knowing which are fake or genuine. But her jaw drops, following the revelation. "She's been bringing me around, back to our old home, to –"

Her eyes dart around nervously as she asks, "Where is she, Chuck?"

"She's right behind me, can't you see?" He cranes his neck backwards, and she's reminded that he's still innocent… nerdy. The sight makes her smile, and falter, when she realizes that there's absolutely nothing behind him.

She wasn't one to cry.

She wasn't one to fall to her knees in agony; wasn't one to pour out her emotions in the most expressive ways possible. She'd perfected the art of storing those forsaken emotions in that little compartment at the back of her heart, cramming every little feeling into that tiny space.

Feeling sad? Shove it right in there. Feeling betrayed? No problem, there's still space in here! Are you in love? Stick it right in. She knew one day that it would overflow and spill over like a toxic mess, but she hadn't expected it to burst – she hadn't expected it to explode.

And when it finally did – when the metallic walls were finally waned and bent from the pressure, when the hair-line fissures began to expand – she cried out, almost hysterically, as though fifteen years of pent up emotions had ravaged every inch of the pulsating bundle of muscles in her chest with its acidity.

She fought off the invasive hands that sought to bring her to her feet again, blocking out the incessant buzzing of conversation around her. And it was with shocking epiphany that she had been lying in bed the whole time.

Staring forlornly at the ceiling, her eyes began to hollow as her mind began to dominate every inch of her being, allowing every thought, every memory, to pour over her like a veil. And the very thought of him jolts her into reliving their entire relationship, the newest scar being the most prominent.

She took in a shaky breath as she sat up on her bed, combing a trembling hand through her blonde tresses. Her stomach ached and her eyes burned with fat, salty tears that left a trail of searing pain as they fell steadily down her cheeks. Swiping them away hastily, she chuckled to herself. I'm going insane.

Her bedside lamp fell to the ground with a shuddering crash. She cradled her hand gently, palm still red from the contact. "Punching bag," she mutters pathetically as she moves toward the dangling blue bag – her own personal stress ball.

Refusing the gloves that rested on her dresser, she unleashed an endless tyrant onto the bag, striking it as she would any other opponent. Precise punches landed into the hard fabric, each one with more force than the other as she grunted at the painful contact.

"I've already notified Shaw and Casey that I found you, Chuck. We've been searching for days. Were you always here? We should get back soon."

"I… Shaw? I… can't go back, Sarah. Please, don't make me. I can't… I can't leave her."

"In case you haven't noticed, you're still the Intersect, Chuck. You have a commitment to honour, and that commitment is in Burbank."

"No… I can't. I'm fine here, Sarah."

"Look at you! You're in the same set of clothes that you left in, you're dehydrated and delirious! I can't just leave you here."

"Try."

Droplets of perspiration dotted her forehead and her skin glowed with a grimy sheen of sweat. Resting her head against the punching bag, she leaves a faint imprint onto the bag.

She wanted it to be simple again – their relationship. She missed their humorous banter, the easy atmosphere that they normally carried around each other – the moments where she just knew that he was the perfect guy; where she could distinguish the fine line between pure love and pure lust.

She attacks the bag again, and she's certain that if the bag were alive, it would've died by now.

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Walker. Prepare… to be heart warmed."

She punches the bag once more, and her knuckles begin to ache.

"Is it really you? Or am I super stoned?"

She applies a wild roundhouse kick to the bag, and it swings wildly. She punches it once more.

"It feels great, like everything is finally real."

Her knuckles, red and raw, begin to bleed from the sheer amount of scraped skin over her bones. She bared her teeth, clenching them in an effort to block out the pain.

"I like you, Chuck."

A sharp intake of breath, and she collapses to the floor, sobbing, as she realizes that the sentence is no longer true. No, it's become so much more to her.

"I love you, Chuck," she whispers into the darkness.