August 23, 2004
It was 5:37 a.m.
Chuck knew this because he was awake and his body had become militantly accustomed to waking up at 5:37 every morning, not long after the first rays of sun began to filter through the blinds of his bedroom.
His first move was to evaluate his surroundings. He kept his eyes closed, so as not to notify any potential threats that he was awake. His nose and body felt nothing unusual, but there was an unfamiliar weight on the other side of the bed. It wasn't moving. He was about to innocuously stretch his body back towards it to determine what it was before the obvious explanation hit him.
It was Jill.
He smiled and opened his eyes, rolling over to see his girlfriend sprawled naked on the other side of his bed. The immediate haze of waking lifted and the memories of Jill climbing into bed with him last night returned. She had been given a surprise long weekend from the Stanford labs, so she had caught a late flight out of LAX to visit him.
Surprises, in Agent McKenzie's vernacular, meant not disclosing a guard or two in the parameters of a training mission, or filling an area with debris from an "explosion" to force Chuck and Bryce to take a circuitous, dangerous route to their destination. If you don't learn how to deal with surprises, he would tell them, you will die.
By Chuck's count, that left making steak bordelaise and watching The View as the lone activities that didn't threaten his life. And the jury was still out on The View.
His first instinct when Jill had opened his door had been to rush her, to take the trespasser by surprise and subdue her quickly. His body had twitched with muscle memory of the footwork Sarah had taught him that would bring him from his bed to the doorway in the shortest amount of time while maintaining cover. It had only been by recognizing her hair, seeing the familiar arms of her glasses, noticing the memorized curve of her profile, that he had tamped down on what were now his instincts.
She had smiled when she saw him, a smile that was half giddy, childish happiness at seeing him after so long and half unrestrained hormones. Wordlessly, she had begun taking off her clothes and walking slowly towards him in bed.
In his room now, he alternated his gaze between the dawn light shooting through the shades and glancing at Jill's still sleeping form. Sleeping on her stomach, her back rose and fell the slightest bit with each breath and her hair fanned out across it, various tendrils floating across the surface of her skin.
Chuck slowly stood up, walking over to the window and peeking out the blinds at the beginning of the summer day. He could feel the day's heat beginning to form on the panes of glass; it would be scorching by afternoon. After a last glance at the city's skyline, he sat down again on the bed, taking a drink from the cup of water that he always placed on his bedside table before retiring for the evening. His parched throat thanked him.
When Jill had entered last night, her footsteps had been slow and deliberate, crossing delicately one in front of the other. In his mind he had gone through the necessary counter footwork, even as he noticed how each stride must have been calculated to highlight and draw attention to her long, lithe legs. Part of him kept thinking about how obviously she was communicating her next moves. The other part of him had been waiting excitedly for her next moves.
Wait for your opponent to make the first move, Chuck. It had been one of Sarah's lessons. Watch their body language for any signs of shifting from a passive mode into an active attack. Watch for the flexing of muscles, that will tell you which limb they're going to use.
Jill's shoulder's had tensed, which had drawn Chuck's attention to her arms. He had watched as she carefully and slowly slid the straps of her bra over her shoulders, letting the garment fall to her hips. Naturally, his focus had shifted from her arms to her exposed torso.
A distraction, Sarah had taught him, is any action that is designed to take attention away from the limbs.
He had looked back at her arms, then.
Chuck watched as Jill's right arm reached for something that wasn't there, probably his body. He allowed himself the faintest sliver of a grin at the frustrated, sleepy groan that she emitted. He took another sip of water and picked some non-existent lint from his boxers. On the mirror that sat opposite the bed, atop of his dresser, he saw both Jill and himself reflected.
He looked a lot bigger, compared to her, than he could ever remember being.
Last night, when Jill had come in, it had seemed to take her an hour to reach the side of the bed. He had watched as she reached down to the covers, her slender fingers wrapping themselves around the fabric, bunching the material like holiday tissue paper. Chuck had slowly moved into a more upright position, so he no longer required his arms and hands for balance, but could instead use them if needed.
Jill had pulled back the covers, not lifting her gaze from his. He remembered noting that she hadn't once looked away from his face. According to Sarah, maintaining unbroken eye contact was the easiest way to disarm your opponent.
Chuck hadn't moved as she shifted her body into the place where it was currently laying. With Jill still not looking away, her hand had reached out and moved towards him, towards his face.
Your face is your weakest point, Sarah had told him. He had made jokes about that, but the point remained that four of the five senses were located there, and could easily be assaulted if you allowed an opponent access. Seven of Sarah's first ten lessons with him were teaching him how to protect his face from attack.
He had watched Jill's hand approach, instincts and training telling him not just to avoid her fingers and their sparkling, burgundy red nails, but to grab them with his own hand, twist them in one of a variety of different directions intended to break, sprain, fracture, or merely threaten.
But he hadn't moved. Jill's hand had continued its slow journey until her fingers cupped the curve of his cheek. It was a small gesture and to Jill it had probably been nothing worth noting compared to what came after. To Chuck, though, it had been a reminder of a thousand things he was on the verge of forgetting. Like Ellie and Devon, who were starting their medical careers in Burbank. Like Morgan, who still bombarded him with messages over XBox Live the few moments he was on. All at once, from that simple touch, he had felt lessons about enemy combatants recede. He had placed his own hand over hers, taking her soft skin inside his own now-callused palm.
Sitting on the bed, noting the position of the sun behind his blinds, Chuck saw Jill's hand grasp for his body again. At her second petulant noise, he repeated his gesture from the other night, taking her hand in his own.
In two days she would be leaving, forced back to California by work. In five days he and Bryce would be shipped off to Spain for their first training assignment in the field. Él ahora habló español. It was, for whatever reason, what made the entire thing seem the most real. Realizing he could fluently speak other languages had finally caused the idea to click in his head. The weapons that had previously been paint ball guns and dart guns were now going to be gun guns.
Jill squeezed his hand back and sighed happily. He smiled to himself. She was both his anchor and his propeller. It was for her, for the people he loved, that he was doing this. And it was her, being there for him, that kept him grounded. It was her words, about the human brain being too complex to reduce to computations, that kept him sane. And it was having her to trust with his heart, that kept him from becoming one of the disillusioned, distrusting agents he was trained by every day.
She snuggled up to his arm, wrapping her own around it.
He couldn't think of any of his combat lessons about that.
He took another sip.
August 23, 2004
It was 2:11 p.m.
According to Bryce's government-issue watch, at least.
He flipped nonchalantly through his notebook, his messy scrawl intentionally obscuring most words from outside reading. He also had placed random letters in the middle of words, random words in the middle of phrases, random phrases in the middle of paragraphs. Simple subtraction codes that wouldn't catch an outsider's eye but would prevent any outsider from gleaning the information he had put down.
Colin Williamson.
Bryce didn't know where Orion had found his information and he didn't want to know. It was independent research on Bryce's part that confirmed that Orion's report that Williamson was an U.S. liaison to the Ukraine. And a few favors that Bryce was owed had told him, just as Orion said, the man was being investigated for possibly disclosing names of covert agents to the Russian mob.
He had left the apartment this morning to look at the information Orion had provided, unwilling or unable to open up the notebook in the apartment, in a place that felt so much like Chuck. For whatever reason, he had almost tripped descending the narrow staircase that led up to their place.
These things take time, Orion had told him. If an investigation was only in its initial stages, it would likely be four to six months before the information could be confirmed, and another two or three months before the hit could be constructed and assigned. The agency liked to design their Red Tests to be almost idiot-proof. They liked to set up everything in as controlled an environment as possible.
Orion had told him what Bryce's instructors had told him: an agent's job in their Red Test was only to show up and kill, to be punctual and be dispassionate, to check their watch and check their weapon.
Bryce took a slow, steady sip of his coffee. It wasn't bitter, despite how appropriate Bryce felt that detail may have been. He flipped randomly back and forth between two pages. He told himself it was to throw off the scent of anyone inside the coffee shop who might be watching him, not because he was so nervous that he needed something to do with his hands.
Colin Williamson was going to die, Orion had told him, and it would be one of the CIA's recruits that would be expected to kill him. It might be you, he remembered the disembodied voice saying, or it might be Chuck.
If Chuck passed his Red Test, Chuck would be the only possible candidate to be the human Intersect. If they attempted to make Chuck into the human Intersect, Chuck would die. If Chuck didn't pass his Red Test, they would discharge him. If they discharged him, he'd be safe. He'd be alive.
He and Orion were trying to influence the assignment for Chuck's Red Test. They were trying to make it impossible to complete, without getting Chuck killed. They were trying to save his life.
To Bryce, it still somehow felt like betrayal. He took another sip of his coffee and flipped the page.
Kevin Daniels. According to Orion's intel, the CIA was close to identifying him as the primary contact for a group of violent Guatemalan rebels who had been periodically and mysteriously supplied with modern American weaponry.
You may have to kill him, or Chuck might.
Chuck might. Bryce was no longer sure he knew what Chuck would or wouldn't do. His friend's eyes now swept every room upon entrance in an unfamiliar, analytical way. They analyzed every space for any possible hostiles, for the best possible ambush spot, for hiding places, for cover, for makeshift weapons.
Even the walk here had been strangely nerve-wracking. Bryce had kept patting his pants pocket where the small notebook resided every few moments, as if he were expecting it to be stolen, or for it to be a figment of his imagination.
The bell on the door of the coffee shop rang gently as an older woman entered with her kid. The sound knocked Bryce out of his musings and he checked his watch again. 2:19. He didn't even know why he kept looking at it.
There's a system in place, Orion had told him. Certain targets are poisoned. Certain targets are assassinated. Others have their deaths arranged to look like accidents or suicides. Recruits, Orion said, their actual job is simple, but they're placed in the situation that will make them the most uncomfortable.
It was a test within a test. It forced you to break your last rule.
Bryce casually grabbed his phone from his pocket, turning it over in his hands in a manner that would appear haphazard. Orion's latest burner had been designed to look like a standard Nokia 5100. If it had been something he could have talked to Chuck about, they would have made jokes about decorating it with rhinestones and floral covers.
Bryce flipped to Jennifer Samson's page. The NSA was compiling evidence that she was the DEA leak responsible for two different drug cartels in Colombia avoiding recent sting attempts.
Dignitaries, Orion had told him, were poisoned. Double agents, assassinated. Foreign leaders were snuffed in designed military coups. Enemy combatants were killed in staged accidents or killed face to face. If you preferred a fair fight, you were given the assignment of poisoning someone. If you were unsure you could pull the trigger at the right time, for your Red Test you'd become an assassin. If you hated manipulation, that was what you'd be doing.
Orion had told Bryce that for his Red Test, he should expect a mugging. He should expect to have to be cruel and brutal. He should expect to be the guy who killed Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Chuck, Orion had said, would be asked to be an assassin.
Bryce kept expecting Chuck and Jill to enter the coffee shop at any moment. Every time the bell rang he kept glancing through his peripheral vision to see if he recognized a tall mop of curly brown hair or Jill's petite form.
Orion had arranged Jill's time off from work. Orion had somehow found room on an overbooked flight from LAX to Dulles. Just to get Chuck out of the apartment. Just to give himself and Bryce time to decide on who Chuck wouldn't be able to kill. Bryce flipped another page.
Allejandro Goya. The ruthless premier of Costa Gravas.
Bryce stopped twirling the phone in his off hand. He looked at the thing, knowing that just pressing one button would connect him with Orion. Or he could close the notebook, put the phone back in his pocket and walk away. He could be Chuck's friend, or he could be Chuck's savior. He could have his best friend by his side for the next year or two, or he could just have the knowledge that his friend was alive for the next twenty.
Bryce's finger hovered over the "Send" button.
The last thing Orion had said to him the last time they spoke was: what's important here is not you or me. It's Chuck.
The bell of the coffee shop rang. Bryce didn't even look.
He pressed the button.
August 23, 2004
It was 11:42 P.M.
Jill sat at the edge of Chuck's bed, watching but not really watching late night television. Chuck himself was asleep. Jill noticed that Chuck now slept, for whatever reason, with his body taking up as little space on the bed as possible, as if he were used to sleeping in small spaces and had no idea what to do with all the room available on his queen-size bed.
It was one of many things that she didn't recognize about him. She didn't recognize the way his eyes darted around the room every time he came to a doorway or how his gait had turned from awkward and fumbling to long and purposeful. His smile still spread wide and unrestrained across his face, but now something pulled down at the corners. His eyes were always drooping, despite his almost permanent alertness.
On TV, David Letterman made some joke about the U.S.A. Olympic men's basketball team losing to Lithuania two nights before. Though the joke wasn't particularly funny, Jill laughed, for no other reason than to do something with her anxiety.
That Wilco song that Chuck liked said that all distance had no way of making love understandable. But the Chuck that had moved all distances away had stopped giddily recommending her bands to check out, had stopped playing video games online, had stopped watching Tron bi-weekly. This Chuck hadn't sent out mass e-mails about the latest XBox 360 updates.
He seemed more grown up than she had ever seen him.
When she went back to California, she would be meeting her Fulcrum handler for the first time. For the past few months all of her work had been done through her Uncle Bernie, but with the progress she was making on in-field therapy methods for biochemical weapons attacks and her knack for inventing creative puzzles for agents out in the field, she was being promoted. Or being watched.
A few weeks before, a Fulcrum agent had come into the lab, poisoned during a covert activity by the CIA. He had been laying there, on the table, his breath coming out in short gasps as his esophagus swelled. His chest had heaved every few seconds with deep, aching breathes that caused his back to arch high into the air. His head would thrash around, searching for a better angle for air.
The agents that had brought him in had handed her a vial and told her to make an antidote.
She and Chuck that day, they'd gone to the Smithsonian, they'd gone to visit the White House, they'd gone to the Lincoln and Washington Monuments. Chuck had told her, smiling, about how and why they had built the Washington Monument in that style. He'd talked her ear off about the Wright Brothers' flying machines.
For a few hours, he'd been the Chuck she remembered. He'd looked like a twenty three-year-old whose age would only increase for the few short seconds when he'd hesitate at an archway or take too many consecutive steps slowly.
The Fulcrum men had told her to make an antidote and had stood there, impassive, while this man in his elegant suit coughed and hacked, pining for air that wasn't coming. She had grabbed the vial, putting together everything she needed as quickly as she could without breaking any of the delicate equipment in the lab.
The man on the table, his build had been lean and tall and his hair was windswept and his features classically handsome. When she didn't look closely, he kind of looked like Bryce. And the two other agents had just stood there while she fiddled with the dials on her microscopes, hoping she recognized the chemical makeup of the poison so she could engineer something.
She hadn't.
She laid back down on the bed, smiling to herself when Chuck scooted unconsciously closer to her. For all of his differences in appearance and demeanor, for all of the little things that she didn't recognize, he still made every attempt to make her smile.
She and Chuck had passed by the CIA building earlier in the day. Jill had taken an unnaturally long look at it. She didn't know why. She didn't know what she was expecting to see. An agent outside, kicking puppies and denying citizens their basic rights? Or maybe one agent standing around, not doing anything while one of his partners choked to death.
She didn't know anymore if there was really any difference between Fulcrum and the government. The longer she worked for them the more they seemed like two sides of the same coin, and which one you ended up with was less a matter of ideology and more a matter of chance.
Jill turned off the television, feeling far more real next to Chuck than she did watching Letterman. She turned over onto him, reaching an arm across his torso and wrapping one of her legs around his. Chuck's left arm, which was tucked against her body, fought its way free and found a more comfortable position wrapped around her shoulders.
She stiffened when he squeezed her shoulder.
The Fulcrum men, they had told her she needed to give the dying agent a tracheotomy. His breath had stopped coming out even in gasps at that point, and instead his mouth moved wordlessly, like a fish pulled onto dry land. That close, he looked less like Bryce and more like someone who could be Bryce's brother. He looked like someone who deserved concern over his death.
He looked like a kid.
She had taken the scalpel and her hands had shook. Right before she had made the incision, the kid had reached up and grabbed her shoulder.
Around noon, she and Chuck had decided to get lunch at some random Thai restaurant that they just happened to be walking by. It had been one of those spontaneous, hey-let's-do-this decisions that Chuck tended to make. She could always tell they were coming by the way he'd slow his gait, how he'd look back at whatever he saw. Then he would stop and grab both of her hands, making sure to make full eye contact.
Then he'd put his hands on her shoulders.
It was 11:58 pm.
When her incision in the kid's throat had gone too deep, his hands had fallen from her shoulders and laid limply on the side of the table. She stood there, shocked, looking between the other two men. She wanted someone to remind her that she was a scientist, not a medical professional. She wanted someone to tell her that to create an antidote to an unrecognized poison in less than ten minutes was impossible. She wanted some sort of forgiveness, some sort of absolution.
When she had arrived at Chuck's apartment days later and opened the door, Chuck had looked young under the moonlight and she had thought of the person she had just killed. She had thought of the people who stood there and left without a glance or a show of remorse. She had approached Chuck and kept her eyes locked with his, looking for that forgiveness or absolution.
There were things about him she didn't recognize anymore. The curve from his neck into his shoulder was tougher and leaner than it had been even the last time they were together. He had new patterns and habits, and his old ones seemed like the work of a different person. But when, in half-sleep, he pulled her close and rested his chin on her head like he would every time he slept over in her bed, those incongruities didn't seem to matter.
His hand stayed on her shoulder.
A/N: Sooooo, excuses time! I had a lot happening in my life over the last month, some of them very good and some of them not so good. I was also writing a lot of other stuff- stuff I was being paid to write- and as consequence this was pushed to the back burner. But I'm back now! And I have inspiration! And stuff! Woo! For those interested, Digi Bonds won the last chapter title contest. In, like, five minutes. Go Digi! BUT he never got back to me with a one-shot request. So, Digi! Please request one! Or not. Whichever.
As always, I have to give much love to my beta Frea O'Scanlin, who not only is a great beta but made me feel really bad for my readers by updating like 8 times since I posted ten. Nothing promotes writing like jealousy, I always say.
Speaking of Frea, she has recently invited me and several others to join up for a blog. It's called Castle Inanity and you can find it at castleinanity(dot)blogspot(dot)com. I'll be writing a column there periodically entitled "Why We Write" which is about, um, why we write. Some of the best authors in the fandom- mxpw, Wepdiggy, , liam2, Freaherself- will also be contributing. And, what might most interest you all, is that there will be progress bars on our fics! You'll know exactly when I'm being lazy and can bug me about it! How cool is that?
Answer: It is very cool. ONTOTHEREVIEWS
Nautica7mk: So every time I read your review I blush. Seriously. I... I don't even know if I can come up with an adequate reply because every time I try I just start turning to warm, flattered goo. Thank you so much for your kind words!
JohnClark43: Hahaha, your opinion of the Sarah/Jill balance is to have it all Sarah and no Jill? I like it, sir. I like it. I apologize, however, for going completely opposite this time around. I'm a jerk. It happens. As far as what happened in the bar scene, I may revisit it later when Sarah returns to the story, but that won't be for awhile. Though I don't know how meaty the bar scene would have been, honestly. Thanks so much for the review!
Fire From Above: I'm glad you liked my Sarah characterization! I know that you're not really a Charah person, but I think this early characterization of her, and the way she responds to the uncertainty of how those words don't mean anything about her, shows exactly why so many people are. At least I hope it does! Thanks for reading and reveiwing, as always!
zipfe: So I didn't write more or faster this time around and I'm sorry! But things will be picking up a lot in the upcoming chapters, making Sarah's absence the least thing on your mind. Hopefully. If I do my job. Thanks for the review!
Team Bartowski: Writing Sarah was probably the most frustrated I've ever been with a character, but I also think it was the most rewarding. And, because I've now kind of figured her out, it'll hopefully be only the good stuff every time you see her. But I hope you liked this chapter as much, even without Sarah! Thanks for reviewing!
Foxmac: So, you got some more answers on Orion and Bryce and some more of Chuck slowly distancing himself from the people in California. I know, I am an evil guy. I'm glad you liked the last chapter and I hope you liked this one, too. Thanks as always for the feedback!
TeddyLupin67890: So, next chapter you're definitely going to get to see Chuck in a mission. Albeit a training mission, but hey. A win is a win, right? As far as Jill goes... well I won't be killing her off just yet. I apologize in advance! Thanks for the review!
Ayefah: I'm glad you liked the training! This chapter was devoid of such activities, but the next run of chapters is going to be all training, right there in the thick of it. So I hope you enjoy those, and I hope you liked this one, too! Thanks for the reviews!
Pegasus0012: So, I'm not going to lie, I think it was your comment in reviewing What Fates Impose that really kicked my ass into high gear in finishing this chapter. So, for that, I thank you. I also thank you for your kind words, especially regarding incorporating canon, which is something I've tried hard to do every step of the way. As far as the 1.0 or the 2.0, the answer is the 1.0. Since, regarding canon, the 2.0 won't be around for quite a while yet. Thanks for reviewing!
onesmartgoalie: I'm glad you liked the last chapter! Thanks so much for reviewing! Sorry I didn't update soon!
Tynianrex: Well, you had a co-conspirator in your plan to make Sarah a bodyguard/partner and I can't say the thought didn't cross my mind. However, that's pretty much the point of Bryce- at least to the CIA. I liked the theory and, if I didn't already have someone in that roll, I might have gone with it, though! Thanks for the review!
jinxed97: I'm glad you liked my version of Charah! Thanks for reviewing!
xx-crispy-mnms-lover-xx: I'm sorry for no Charah for awhile! Hopefully you still love my story anyway! Thanks for the review!
Joe: I definitely hope the changes we see in them and the changes they see in each other next time they meet will be interesting! Thanks, as always, for reviewing!
aardvark7734: Aardie, I'd like to point out that your reviews are longer than some of my one shots. THIS IS IN NO WAY A BAD THING I LOVE IT IT MAKES MY EGO GROW. With that out of the way, I have to say to you the same thing I said to Nautica7mk earlier, every time I read your review I melt into a puddle of self-satisfaction. I really appreciate every word. So thanks for that. Getting to your content, I guess the connection between the two POVs in chapter 10 were thematic. They were about how Chuck and Sarah had changed each other, even after such a short time. I'm glad you liked my Sarah and I thank you so much for always giving so much feedback!
TSYldChild: The thing about a lot of these basic training aspects is not that I'm trying to gloss them over, but that I'm trying to make them implied rather than stated outright. Because we have seen Chuck getting exponentially better at combat, we can assume in the future he'll be even that much better, and so on. Both you and Tynianrex had a great idea, regarding Sarah as bodyguard, but like I said I already have Bryce to fill that roll and how silly would that be to have them both doing the same job, right? :)
DanaPAH: DON'T FREAK OUT! It's okay! There's a new chapter! I'm really glad you liked so much of chapter ten, and I agree with you, this story is about Chuck's journey more so than Charah. And the CIA revealing the Omaha project... Well that's going to be fun, isn't it? :) Anyway, in my world, the Red Test is kind of like that not-so-secret secret. The kind of secret that everyone knows about, like how to pass your exams as a lawyer, you know? Anyway, if you ever want to know in the future how a chapter is coming along, you can check out Castle Inanity (castleinanity(dot)blogspot(dot)com) which will have a neat little progress bar that will tell you exactly how complete or not the latest chapter of Twist is! Thanks so much for being so passionate about my story and, I promise you, I won't abandon it! I am pretty sure Frea would start tearing out my fingernails if I started taking too long between chaters.