A/N: Again, thank you all for your wonderful reviews. Not only do they give me the inspiration to write, they mean a lot. And while I know that the angst is so thick you can cut it with a knife, let me assure you that the story does eventually become much fluffier. Just hang on for a little bit longer. ;-) Also, I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies in my depiction of London. I'm basing my knowledge off of some brief research and three consecutive visits a little less than four years ago.
Disclaimer: If they were mine, this show would so be on HBO.
~*~
Present Day . . .
The late sun slowly dips beneath the horizon, glinting off the Thames River as the London lamp posts gradually flicker on. Sitting opposite his date in a small booth, Chuck tries to ignore the overly flirtatious ramblings of his business partner, sitting directly beside him. Unfortunately, when Josh leans across the table and runs his finger provocatively over his giggling date's cleavage (supposedly, she's dribbled a bit of soy sauce onto her chest), it becomes almost impossible to overlook.
Biting back the impulse to tell his uncouth partner to get a room, Chuck turns instead to Nicole. Her shoulder length blonde hair frames her face in waves, and his heart skips a beat as he tries not to think about another blonde – a blonde who's been worming herself into his thoughts for the better part of the night.
Why did you leave me, Sarah?
His shoulders tightening, Chuck takes a deep breath and pushes the thought from his mind. "So, Nicole," he says uneasily, shifting so that he can no longer see Josh's antics, "What do you do in London?" He leans forward on his elbows, attempting to focus all thoughts on the woman sitting across from him.
Clearly thankful to have an excuse to ignore their friends, Nicole smiles pleasantly, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulders. When it gleams slightly in the lamplight, Chuck again forces unwanted thoughts aside. "I'm a secretary for the Mabey Group," she says.
"That's great," Chuck replies, and even he can hear his words fall flat. Clearing his throat irritatedly as Josh begins a game of footsy with his date, he forces some enthusiasm into his tone. "Do you like it there?"
"Not really," Nicole states, a hint of humor twinkling within her blue eyes. And despite his earlier resolve, Chuck reflects for a moment on how Sarah's blue eyes are slightly brighter and just a little bit rounder. But then he frustratedly pushes the rumination from his mind just as Nicole leans forward with a conspiratorial wink. "My boss is a bit of a duffer," she confesses.
Chuck chokes as he takes a sip of wine. "That doesn't sound good," he says, chuckling lightly.
"Trust me," she grins, "It's not. But I intend to return to university to become a nurse."
"Hey, that's great," Chuck replies, his tone genuinely enthusiastic now. A twinge of relief floods his lanky frame as he relaxes into the conversation. "I bet you'd make a great nurse."
"It's certainly better than bringing the duffer coffee all day," Nicole agrees, smirking. "What about you, Chuck?" she asks, scooting slightly to the right when Josh accidentally brushes her ankle with his foot. "What do you plan to do with your life?"
Chuck laughs nervously, blushing slightly and casting Josh a disgruntled look when his friend's foot accidentally brushes his own ankle. "Well, aside from selling the video game," he says, also shifting a little to the side, "I'm not really . . . sure . . ." He trails off when his eyes land on a red brick building framed on the edge of the water, its bright lights flickering across the liquid abyss. And as his eyes scan the strong black lettering which edges the building, his heart freezes in his chest: "PARK PLAZA RIVERBANK". Park Plaza Riverbank, 714. The whisper emerges from almost twenty-four hours before, his ear tickling perceptibly as he remembers the feel of Sarah's breath against his skin. Unbidden, his eyes glaze over and his thoughts finally take over.
~*~
One year ago . . .
The early morning sun shined through his window, illuminating dust motes and casting shadows along the wall. Blinking sluggishly, Chuck rolled onto his side, his eyes slowly opening to the mellow light. Immediately, his last conversation with Sarah played through his mind, sharp and distinct in his sleepy haze.
"I think the relevant question," Chuck said, swallowing hard before continuing, "Is what are you going to do with your life, Agent Walker?"
The words sprang forth, causing his heart to sink as cold fingers of anxiety trickled through his chest. What did Sarah plan to do with her life? And whatever those plans were, did they include him? For the past three years, all he'd ever wanted was a life with Sarah Walker. He didn't know what he'd do if he was forced to live without her.
Lost in his ruminations, he almost missed the sheet of paper lying haphazardly against his alarm clock. When his eyes finally fell upon it, his entire body tensed. Scrawled across the note was his name in her writing, a little messy as if written in a hurry. Gulping nervously, he reached out with a shaky hand to pluck it from his nightstand.
And when he read what was written, he felt as if he'd been plunged into a bath of ice cold water.
By the time you read this, I will be gone.
Gone.
Gone.
By the time you read this, I will be gone.
Sarah had left him, and all she had written was a single paragraph, enclosed within a thin sheet of paper.
Blinking rapidly, a lump formed in Chuck's throat as his entire world seemed to shift. And as he read the note again . . . and again . . . and again, he was consumed with the overwhelming desire to find Sarah and simply hold her in his arms and never let her go.
The problem was, he had no idea how to begin. And even if he did, he had no idea if she'd even want to be found.
~*~
Present Day . . .
Chuck blinks hard, coming back to the present with a jolt. On the other side of the table, Nicole is staring at him in concern. "Is everything okay, Chuck?" she asks, placing a hand on his arm.
Chuck's eyes dart to her hand, then quickly return to her face. "Oh, uh," he says, trying to regain his footing as his mind reels from the memory, "I'm sorry, it's been a long day."
But even with the muttered apology and the jolt back to reality, and even though he knows the woman across from him deserves better, his thoughts are marching a discordant rhythm within his head. And along with them comes a more recent memory:
"I can't do this anymore, Sarah . . . I need you to leave . . ."
Joined with that memory is the memory of the stricken look on Sarah's face – the look he had pretended he had not seen. The look that she had quickly hidden when it became clear that he wasn't going to change his mind, but which now resonated through his core and pierced him to the quick.
Park Plaza Riverbank, 714. Her words echo through his thoughts once more, so fresh within his mind that he can still feel her presence by his side.
What the hell was wrong with him? After a year of heartache over Sarah's absence, over her supposed abandonment of him and the life they could never share, she had returned. And in the space of an evening, he had chased her away.
Suddenly, Chuck jumps to his feet, fumbling for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. For someone who had graduated from Stanford (well, sort of), he could be a real idiot sometimes. "I'm really sorry, Nicole," he says, "but I have somewhere I have to go."
"Buddy?" Josh's eyes widen in dismay. "What's going on?"
"I'll meet you back at the hotel," Chuck states impatiently, flinging £40 onto the table. "This should cover our portion," he says, glancing apologetically at his date. But she doesn't have a chance to respond, because the second the bills hit the table, Chuck turns on his heel and dashes from the restaurant, almost tripping over his converses in the process. Tumbling into the hostess stand, his knee collides with a resounding bang, and he just barely hears Josh laughing anxiously and asking: "So, how would you ladies feel about a Ménage à trois?"
While he's pretty sure he sees a shocked Nicole throw a glassful of water at his brazen fraternity brother, he's too busy pushing out of the restaurant to notice. In fact, his mind is too focused to even allow a smirk at Josh's misfortune. Every muscle, every fiber of his body aches to get across the water and onto the seventh floor of that hotel.
His shoes beat a frantic rhythm across the cobblestoned street, his arms breaking into goosebumps as the chill London air blows across his skin. Zipping up his jacket with a shaky hand, he ignores the startled looks of passersby and increases his pace, the wind blowing his curls into disarray. His lungs feel as if they're going to burst, his breath emerging in ragged gasps, but still he races across the bridge, his eyes fixed determinedly on the brick building ahead.
When he finally reaches the hotel, his face red from his exertions, he doesn't even stop to explain himself to the shocked bellman. It's only when he's finally made it to the seventh floor, his eyes feverishly scanning the room numbers until he finds 714, that he allows himself to slow down. But even then, his pulse hammers relentlessly through his veins as he stares at the door leading to the sought after room, cold fingers of tension prickling through his chest.
He's not sure how long he stands there, simply staring at the piece of wood separating him from the woman who holds the key to his future. Finally, he gulps loudly and raises a shaky fist to knock.
Ten seconds pass . . .
Then twenty . . .
Then thirty . . .
No one answers the door.
His chest twists anxiously, and he raises his fist to knock again. And then twice more. Still, no one answers the door. Just as his shoulders are slumping in defeat, the door belonging to the adjacent room, 712, swings open and a tanned man with sleek black hair peeks out. "Can I help you?" The man asks, and Chuck's eyes flicker over the light red marks which cover his throat. The marks which he acquired only a few short hours before, when Sarah allowed herself to think about Chuck and let down her guard.
"I'm looking for Sarah Walker," Chuck says hesitantly, regarding the man through anxious eyes. He has no way of knowing what happened earlier, no way of knowing that Sarah's been sent back to Langley.
"Sarah Walker, huh?" The man grunts, studying the computer nerd as a light seems to dawn in his eyes. And while Chuck doesn't know it, the man – Agent Thompson – is remembering a conversation he'd shared with Beckman when he'd first received this assignment. A conversation in which he'd been warned that Sarah had a habit of falling for her male partners – the most recent being an analyst with curly brown hair. "Who's asking?" Thompson asks, arching a brow.
"Chuck Bartowski," Chuck replies, raising a trembling hand to shake.
"Chuck Bartowski," Thompson repeats, snorting softly as he grasps Chuck's hand. "I should have known." He holds Chuck's stare for a long moment, obviously weighing the situation. Finally, his expression turns apologetic. "She's gone, man. I'm sorry."
Chuck's shoulders tighten. "Gone?" he repeats blankly, hoping that he's misunderstood. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that she's gone and she's not coming back," the agent clarifies, shrugging noncommittally.
Chuck's heart plunges into his stomach. "Do you . . . do you know where she went?" he stammers. He's suddenly having trouble breathing, and a thin layer of sweat is forming upon his palms.
"Come on, buddy," the man cajoles, a hardened edge joining the sympathy on his face. "You know that I can't answer that question."
A pang reverberates through Chuck's chest, the despair growing in his eyes. "Please," he pleads, his voice piquing as he sheds all pretense. "I need to find her. She's . . . Is there any way you can tell me where she is? Even just a hint. Even just an acronym." When Thompson's face hardens further, his tone becomes even more desperate. "Even just the first letter of the name."
But: "I can't," Thompson states firmly, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."
Chuck closes his eyes, a sense of defeat welling within his gut. Finally, he tries one last ditch effort. "Can you at least get a message to her?" he questions urgently.
"I'm sorry," Thompson repeats immovably, "I wouldn't even know how to reach her."
Chuck stares at the agent for a long moment, willing him to become more cooperative. But when Thompson's expression remains impassive, Chuck sighs heavily and visibly deflates. "I understand," he says hollowly, slumping against the wall. He briefly considers trying again, explaining to this man that his whole future hinges on finding Sarah Walker, but the look on the guy's face tells him that he wouldn't get very far. If anything, he'd simply get himself thrown out of the hotel. So he simply nods, watching the agent head into his room and close the door behind him.
And because he has no other options, and because it's clear that there's nothing left for him at the Park Plaza Riverbank, he turns slowly around and heads for the elevator. When he steps out into the night, the frigid air assaults his face and turns his lips numb. But he doesn't really notice. For the second time in as many days, he's let Sarah Walker slip through his fingers.