Chuck vs. the Virus
Chapter 13: Strange Business
The trip to the airport was half unendurable pain, half giddy euphoria for Chuck. The sense of pleasure resulting from all things that wouldn't typically elicit that sort of response made him feel nauseous. He sat on the two-seat bench with Sarah, her arm and a large blanket wrapped around him. Every five minutes or so they had to take off the blanket or put it back on, because the chills would set on so violently Chuck's skin would turn purple.
Sarah looked over her shoulder at Devon and Casey, who sat on the ground against either side of the large van. Casey was polishing his gun with a random cloth he probably kept on his person 24/7, but Devon was staring at Chuck's back. He caught Sarah's eyes, but his stare was blank.
"What's going on back there?" asked Chuck, in a low whisper. He smiled at Sarah, letting her know he was just trying to make conversation.
Sarah shrugged. "Exactly what you'd expect," she said. "We are surrounded by very predictable people."
Chuck chuckled. "I suppose we are." He grinned. "Am I predictable?"
Sarah smiled and leaned her forehead against his head. "Sometimes," she whispered. "Sometimes not."
He lifted a hand and put it on her knee. "Have I told you that I love you, yet?"
Sarah rested her chin on his shoulder, so that her face was close to his. She snaked a hand down his arm and intertwined her fingers in his. "I love you too," she whispered. She watched the smile spread across Chuck's face. "I love your smile, too," she added, reaching up to poke his cheek.
From behind them, Chuck heard Casey grunt and snort in distaste. "I think Casey would have preferred not knowing about us altogether," he whispered.
Sarah nodded. "Probably, but right now...he's our only sure ally. If he doesn't know everything about us, we might lose him too." She caught her breath. "And we both know how that almost turned out last time."
"He was never really against us," said Chuck. "Through it all, he had his head in the right place." He shuddered. "But yes, I am well aware of what he is capable of."
Several moments of silence passed between them. Sarah rubbed Chuck's back until he started sweating again and they removed the blanket. He tried to stretch out his legs, but the movement caused him to grimace in such pain Sarah and Devon made him stop.
"Chuck, when we get to the airport I can stretch your legs for you, ok?" said Devon. "But right now, before we get back to the States, we cannot have any accidents. I don't have the facilities or resources to take care of you on a plane."
After another five minutes of pain, Chuck slipped into unconsciousness. Devon pulled out a syringe from his sack. "We've only got so many of these," he said. "If Chuck keeps needing injections at this rate, we'll run out before we get back to Burbank."
"It won't be this bad on the plane, will it?" asked Sarah, helping Devon lean Chuck against her. "We won't be jerking around like this van is."
Devon shrugged. "Let's hope for no turbulence."
Sarah was leaning against the side of the van now, still on the bench, with Chuck leaning against her. Devon's morose behavior scared her. She couldn't tell whether he was worried about Ellie or Chuck's condition. It was logical to assume that he felt the weight of both his loved ones, but his detached and solemn demeanor had her concerned. If he was worried about Ellie, that meant he was distracted from helping Chuck, and though Sarah didn't want to be selfish, she knew it would be impossible to get Chuck back safely without Devon at 100 percent. On the plane they would find him a suitable distraction. And her, too, if she was lucky.
Chuck woke up just before they arrived at the airport. It was much farther away than it had felt before; the trip from the airport to the Warehouse had seemed to go by quicker. The driver, Major Pent, pulled the van around to the rear maintenance entrance and shut off the engine. If any Pound or Wallstreet member were to see them going into the airport they were all as good as dead. So they were going to quietly sneak in through the maintenance entrance and make their way through to security right before the main terminals.
Apparently this wasn't going to be a problem, with heightened security and all, but Chuck was in no state to question Major Pent.
It took all three men to get Chuck into a wheel chair without causing him to scream out in pain. Sarah kept a hand gently on Chuck's shoulder as she swung a bad around her own. Devon grabbed the other two bags and Casey began pushing the wheelchair onto the loading dock. Chuck could feel Sarah watching him as they moved forward, and he tried not to look at her, worried that her expression would be the same as every time he'd looked at her over the past twenty-four hours: worried, uncertain, cautious.
As they passed the guardhouse, Chuck noticed the man behind the desk nod his head ever so lightly. The doors opened automatically, and Casey led with the wheelchair in ahead of everyone. Devon seemed to drag behind them, which worried Chuck immensely. Was Devon worried that the surgery wasn't good enough? Chuck feared for his own well-being, but knew there was nothing he could do about it right now. He saw Sarah, out of the corner of his eye, turn and look back at Devon.
As they walked through the basement level of the airport, Chuck finally found that his chills were subsiding. He felt different, almost as if this movement were helping. But this renewed inner strength brought with it some troubling mental side effects. He began to think and reflect on the events of the last several days, most of which he couldn't remember. He remembered having conversations with people, he remembered the doctor and the operating room, he even remembered the explosion, but he couldn't remember specifics. He also couldn't remember whether anyone had fully explained to him the extent of his injuries or whether he'd asked for them to explain the events outside his in-patient room during their stay at the CIA facility.
"Well, this has got to be a first," said Chuck, loud enough for them all to hear.
"What do you mean?" asked Sarah. She pushed open a door and held it open so Casey could push the wheelchair through to the main building. Now all that was left was to get through security.
"We failed," said Chuck, bluntly. "We actually did worse than fail. As a team we are worse off than when we started."
"Don't say that, Chuck," said Sarah, softly. She didn't entirely sound like she meant it, more that she wanted to believe it herself. "A huge deal didn't go down. That's something."
"I hate to say it, but, Bartowski's right, Walker," said Casey. "As a team, we've never outright failed before." He drew the wheelchair to a stop in line, behind several other passengers. The line appeared to be moving slowly as new security, worldwide, required nearly the complete removal of one's clothing.
"Casey," said Sarah, sharply, "how can you say that? This isn't even close to being over." She stepped in front of the wheelchair and dramatically looked between the two men. Her eyes were wide and she commanded their attention remarkably. "We've been here before. We've seen this stage of the process where it all looks hopeless, but we always catch a break. This is far from being over." She breathed in deeply, lowered her voice, and looked around cautiously. "They always make a mistake and we are always there to catch them at it. But if you both keep thinking the way you do, we will go back to Burbank with negative news to report and the idea that Chuck's injury has crippled our entire operation."
Chuck blinked, and after several moments, looked up at Casey. "That was pretty convincing."
Casey rolled his eyes and grunted, waving for Sarah to get out of his way. "Love is blind," he said, grumbling, and just loud enough for Chuck to hear. "If you are ever going to make it to 30, you are going to have to think more objectively."
Chuck clenched his teeth together, slightly offended. "And if you are ever going to make it to 50, you are going to have to be nicer to people."
One of the security guards approached them. He was tall with deep olive skin and big, sparkling brown eyes. He was older, as security guards go, and slightly gaunt.
"Are you able to stand, sir?" he asked, in Portuguese.
Chuck briefly thought of his flaming white hair and wondered why the man would choose to speak to him in Portuguese. Before he could open his mouth to respond, Casey answered for him. "He just had major surgery," said Casey, also in Portuguese. "We've been told he is supposed to do as little movement on his own as is possible."
The guard nodded, neither sympathetic nor annoyed, just in acknowledgement. He unstrung the wand from around his belt and, as though he really cared, carefully ran the wand around Chuck's body, within a half inch of his clothing. Then he bent down and carefully removed the moccasins from Chuck's feet, examined them, and put them back on, just as gently.
"I will wheel him around," said the man, to Casey, still in Portuguese. To them all he spoke in scattered English, "Please place carry ons, belts, jackets, and shoes on carriages." He pointed to the large grey bins sitting by the conveyor belt. "Then you can walk through metal detectors."
Casey moved with Sarah and Devon to the carriages and they began taking off their things. The guard pushed Chuck slowly toward the side where they allowed wheelchair access. "So, what happened to you?" he asked, again in fragmented English.
Chuck did him the courtesy of responding in Portuguese. "I'm not really sure, actually," he said. "I haven't been retaining a whole lot of information over the last couple days." He looked over at Sarah, who was looking at him as she waited for Devon to walk through the metal detector. He set off the alarm and was instructed to go back and take off his shirt. Then, absently, Chuck added, "She's either too worried to tell me, or sick of explaining it."
The guard let out a, "Hmm," and looked at Sarah, too. "Is she your wife?"
Chuck hesitated. "Yes, yes she is."
"Well, then," said the guard, speaking comfortably in his native language now. "I'm not surprised. Wives'll think they're protecting us by not telling us something. But truth is, I believe we heal better once we know exactly what is wrong." He came to a stop at the outside of the security area and stood next to Chuck, watching his friends re-dress.
Chuck looked up at him. "Thank you," he said, sincerely. "That was very kind."
"Take care of yourself," said the guard, waving as Casey once again took control of the wheelchair. They walked quickly away from the area and were soon immersed in the busy commons of the airport.
"What did he say to you?" asked Casey and Sarah at the same time.
"Yeesh, paranoid much?" asked Chuck.
"Yes," they both said, again at the same time.
"We were just having a friendly chat," said Chuck. His mind reeled, though, with his own bout of paranoia. His suspicions were reconfirmed in the comments the guard had made. Another seed of doubt had been planted, not altogether causing him to distrust his partners, but at least enough for him to question again why they weren't being as forthright as usual. Were they intentionally keeping something from him? Were they just leaving out the details until he was well enough to deal with them properly?
When they had come to a stop by a grouping of open tables, Chuck snapped out of his reverie. Casey pushed him up to a table and Sarah sat down next to him, then leaned over to grab his hand. "Chuck, are you alright?"
"Yes," said Chuck, "I feel very well, actually."
"That's great," Sarah said, relief returning to her face. "Do you think you could eat something?"
On cue, Chuck's stomach growled loudly. He grinned sheepishly. "We'll take that as a yes," said Chuck, patting his belly with his good hand."
Sarah smiled. Chuck saw her look change from what it had been lately to that old, familiar look she used to give him, before the surgery, before Wallstreet. She stood up. "I will go get us all some food. Are you hungry for anything in particular?"
Chuck frowned. "I should go with you to translate," he said. "These places might not have English speaking employees."
Devon looked up from his seat. "You speak Portuguese?" he asked, shocked.
Chuck looked around at his brother-in-law, gulping. "Um…"
"Of course he doesn't," said Casey. "Chuck, you two can have alone time later. Walker and I will get the food." He gave Chuck a hard look.
"Okay, thanks…Casey," said Chuck, wondering if revealing that he spoke Portuguese, courtesy of the Intersect, was not a good idea to Casey. Devon still didn't know about the Intersect. "Um, Subway, if they have it. Or sandwiches…whatever, doesn't really matter."
Sarah smiled again and bent down, lightly kissing his lips. "Be right back." Chuck returned the smile and watched them leave. Maybe his paranoia was getting the best of him.
The moment they were out of earshot, Devon slid closer to Chuck. "Dude, what is going on?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" asked Chuck.
"What do I—? Chuck, first, they put a sack over my head and truck me to the middle of nowhere. Then they lead me into this bunker that looks like a tornado ripped through it. Then they show me you, which, by the way, was not the greatest thing I've ever seen, and I've seen some pretty not-awesome things. Dude," he lowered his voice and leaned in closer, "there was a half a window sticking out of your side. What the heck was up with that?"
Chuck could feel that he was frowning. Pieces of what Devon said sounded familiar, but he was struggling to come up with any response. "Look, Devon, I don't know much about what is going on right now," said Chuck. "My brain is…on the fritz."
"Are you feeling okay?" asked Devon, changing gears. He extended an arm to Chuck's forehead. "You look better, for sure, but not your typical Chuck-self." He used both his arms to pull Chuck's wheelchair out from under the table, slid his chair so that their knees were almost touching, and reached down to Chuck's feet and carefully lifted his right foot.
"What are you doing?" asked Chuck, peering over his knees.
"I'm going to help you stretch your legs," said Devon. "Don't worry, we do this for therapy patients all the time. People who are in too much pain to work the muscles themselves, we do it for them. Sometimes it feels better than if you did it on your own. Just relax, okay? Don't move your muscles, just let me do it."
After a moment, Chuck let his mind get back into gear. The massage Devon was performing on his legs seemed to stimulate his cognitive thinking. "What exactly did you have to do for me? In surgery, I mean," asked Chuck. "I don't think Sarah wants to tell me."
Devon shook his head and shrugged. "I didn't tell any of them. It was an eight hour surgery of me going as slow as possible…since I didn't have a nursing staff."
"I mean, seriously," said Chuck, catching Devon's eye. "What did you have to do? Explain it to me like…like if you were bragging about it to another doctor."
"Um," said Devon, raising an eyebrow, "okay…" So he did. He began at the beginning and walked Chuck through the process of his own surgery. At first, Devon seemed skeptical of Chuck's reason for wanting to know such specific and probably foreign concepts. But Chuck remained attentive, letting the Intersect work silently in conjunction with Devon's narrative, and Devon became more comfortable speaking medical jargon.
After a few minutes of speaking, Devon switched Chuck's legs and began working on his left.
"After I was able to remove the shard for your side, Dr. Kent was able to staunch the bleeding so that I could see what your internal injuries were. Let me tell you, man, that thing was practically touching your lung. I had to remove your spleen and a portion of your liver, which is probably why you are in so much pain." Devon sighed, thoughtfully. "You are going to need some killer antibiotics, bro. Luckily, I am your official doctor, and per the United States government, Whatever Charles Bartowski requires, Charles Bartowski gets. You really are a big shot, aren't you?"
Chuck grinned, but didn't respond to that question. "What about after you decided to remove my spleen and liver? What did you have to do?" he asked.
Devon hesitated. "Chuck, this is therapeutic for me and all, but why do you want to know all this?"
Chuck sat back in his chair. "I need the information in order to function," he said, after several moments of silence. "I guess…in order for me to heal, I just need to know what's wrong."
Devon laughed, some color returning to his face. He carefully replaced Chuck's foot on the footrest of the wheelchair. "I know they say knowledge is power, but being able to heal yourself through…meditation or concentration is mostly urban legend."
Chuck grinned, playing along. "I know, it's just…I have a lot to think about lately. The more I understand about the things I don't understand, the better I see to function." The truth was, Chuck was only just beginning to understand what the Intersect was capable of; all he knew for sure at this point was that the Intersect wanted information. He, as the utilizer of the Intersect, found tasks easier when the Intersect wasn't confused.
"Does this have to do with Sarah telling Anthony about you two being married?" asked Devon, raising an eyebrow. "I think Ellie's fever is bad enough that she won't remember, if Anthony happens to tell her."
"Sarah told—? Anthony—? From the…? Ellie has a fever?" Chuck listed off the questions that resulted from Devon's comment, finally landing on the most important one.
Devon blinked. "Yeah, remember when Sarah came in yesterday saying I had a phone call? That was Dr. Titus." He shook his head. "I thought for sure Sarah would tell you about that."
"Is Ellie okay?" asked Chuck, shifting in his chair. He suddenly felt like he was sitting on something hot and prickly. He didn't know why that comment bothered him so much. Ellie was allowed to get sick. Just that she usually wasn't sick.
"I think so," said Devon, drifting back into that mode Chuck had noticed in him before. He now understood why. "Sounds like a stomach infection, the way Anthony described it."
"Devon, what exactly is wrong with her?" asked Chuck, trying not to be too needy. But his level of seriousness spiked Devon's interest again.
"Chuck, what is it?"
Chuck clenched his jaw. No one was safe. The whole thing felt wrong.
"I think we need to get you an MRI when we get home," said Devon "I'm worried about you. You look more pale now than you did yesterday."
"It's probably just the hair in this fluorescent lighting," said Casey, walking up behind them with Sarah. They were both carrying a bag of food. Casey handed a sandwich to Devon from his bag and sat down across the table. "Hope you like Brazilian meat," said Casey, eyeing his own sandwich suspiciously.
Sarah pushed Chuck into the table again and sat down in the seat next to him. She pulled three sandwiches out of the bag, a small smile etched on her face, and sat two in front of him.
Chuck's eyes rolled around in his head. The smell was delectable. "Is that…" Chuck sniffed the air. "Pastrami? And…" he sniffed again. "Melted swiss cheese?"
Sarah's smile broadened. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better."
Chuck lifted his arms to take a sandwich. He unwrapped it, then held it just far enough away from his face so that he could admire it. "I think the smell of these just cured me completely." He sighed, sarcastically, inhaled deeply, then took a large bite. "Oh my gosh, Sarah," he said, closing his eyes. "This is the best thing I've tasted in…days. Oh my gosh." He took another bite before he had completed chewing.
When he finally opened his eyes, he was surprised to see all three of his companions staring at him, dumbfounded. He looked at each of them in turn and then said, "What? I haven't eaten solid food in days. Give me a break."
"Chuck," said Devon. "Aren't you in pain?"
Chuck shrugged. "My side aches, sure, but I feel a lot better." He followed Devon's gaze, then, to his own arm, realizing at that moment that he didn't feel any pain in his arm, which he was using to support the sandwich; not a half hour ago he couldn't endure a slight jolt in the wheelchair without feeling a sharp pain rumble through his veins.
Devon stood up and started rummaging through his pack. He took out a fresh spool of bandages.
"Oh, come on," said Chuck, looking around the room. "You can't do that here, you'll gross everyone out."
"Chuck, you probably ripped the stitching. If I don't do it now, I won't be able to do it," said Devon, in a low whisper. "Just don't draw attention to yourself."
Casey grunted. "He's wearing a bright red shirt and has hair as white as paint," he said. "Attention drawn. If you haven't noticed, this country is populated with dark skinned people."
Before Chuck could protest again, Devon began unwrapping the bandage on his arm. "Can someone at least feed me while he's doing this?"
Sarah chuckled. "It will only take a minute, Chuck. Be patient." She stood up and offered her hand to help Devon.
"I'm starving," said Chuck, his stomach rumbling again. He looked back, longingly, at his sandwich.
"What is it?" asked Casey. Chuck looked up. Casey wasn't talking to him, he was looking at Devon and Sarah. Chuck turned his head to look up at them. They were staring at his arm.
Chuck looked at his arm. With the exception of blood smears around certain portions of his bicep, he couldn't see anything wrong or out of place. "What?" asked Chuck, lifting his arm to examine it from different angles. "What is it?" He lifted it up to look at the underside.
Devon held Chuck's arm steady, then grabbed hold of the end of one of his stitches and began to pull. This was very uncomfortable for Chuck and he let out a bunch of involuntary noises. "Goo," said Chuck, grimacing. "What was that?"
"There's a scar, though," said Sarah, running her finger along a certain portion of Chuck's arm. "A very distinctive scar. On both sides."
"I don't understand that at all. Those stitches couldn't have been in for twenty-four hours."
Chuck thought quickly, for many reasons. First, at the forefront of his mind, was the possibility of the Intersect having done something to his body that he was not aware of. Because it had to be the Intersect. As Devon had pointed out not ten minutes ago, in a typical capacity, meditation was not a form of healing that took place in such a narrow span of time.
Second on Chuck's mind was the fear in Sarah's eyes. A fear that was threefold: what did this mean about the Intersect? What did this mean to Devon? What did this mean for the CIA?
Third was the look on Devon's face. Perhaps it was time to tell Devon—privately, of course—about the Intersect. Maybe a doctor's consult was what Chuck needed most right now. Maybe an MRI would be able to tell them something about how the Intersect is using his brain.
"Ok, guys, this just isn't normal," said Devon, sitting back down in his chair. Sarah was still examining Chuck's arm. "You have to know I trust you more than anyone," said Devon, directly to Chuck, "but this has begun to be too hard to do blind. I feel like you guys are keeping something from me that would help me do my job." He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, looked around, and then removed a card from it. He held it up for Sarah and Chuck to see. It was a CIA ID card. "I'm official."
Chuck took the wallet from him, looking at it cursorily. "Devon, this is bigger than just being official. This is so classified, a total of...five people know about it." He pointed a thumb at his partners. "And you're looking at three of them." Chuck looked up at Sarah, who was looking at Casey. Chuck whipped his head around to look at Casey, just in time to see him shake his head ever so slightly. "Wait...what was that?"
"Nothing," said Casey. "We can't talk about this here. Both of you need to shut up and eat. We leave in twenty minutes."
Chuck watched Casey closely. Casey made eye contact briefly, giving Chuck a look that told him not to argue. Sarah sat back down and unwrapped her own sandwich, but Devon kept his eyes trained on Chuck.
"Guys..." said Chuck, looking between Casey and Sarah. "Is there something else going on?" When Sarah could only look up at Casey, Chuck shook his head. "I can't believe this."
"Chuck," said Casey, firmly. "That's not fair. You've got to trust us."
"Trust-?" Chuck choked. He shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich.
"Aren't we ignoring the bigger issue here?" asked Devon, whispering low. He leaned in over the table. "The regeneration...issue?"
Sarah shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak, but Casey threw a cautioning grunt. "It's okay, Casey." She looked at Devon, Chuck saw that she was working hard to choose the right words careful and quickly. "Devon, we promise we will explain everything once we get back to the States," she said. Casey growled, unappeased. Sarah held up her hand. "No, Casey. It's time he knew. All of us know we are in way over our hears here."
"Devon's right," said Chuck in agreement. "If he's going to properly be my doctor, he's got to know what's going on. Maybe he can even shed some light on the weird side effects."
Sarah cast Casey a sideways glance. "You know we're right."
Casey bit into his sandwich, growling again. "Better Devon than anyone else, I guess."
Devon, though visibly irritated, seemed to accept Sarah's promise, sensing the tension in the air and understanding the relative danger they were all in. He settled on eating his sandwich and sharing the paper Casey had bought.
They all ate quickly and were soon boarding the plane. The men helped Chuck out of his chair and the flight attendant folded it up and stuck it behind the last row of seats in first class. Casey chose to sit with Devon across the aisle from Chuck and Sarah.
Chuck felt the skin around the wound in his side stretch. It was really sore, and rather itchy, but it did not feel like the pain he had known from it over the last twenty-four hours.
"Are you alright, Chuck?" asked Sarah. She positioned her bag by her feet, then buckled.
"Yeah," said Chuck, nodding. "Just...pain, you know." Sarah watched him, but didn't respond. He knew she was skeptical of him now. He was skeptical. "What?" he asked, when she didn't look away. Not that he minded her looking at him, but the look she had on her face, it was like she was staring at someone she hadn't seen in a long time.
She tilted her head and furrowed her eyebrows. "Did you know your arm healed? Did you do that? Did you flash on it?"
Chuck shook his head. "I had no idea. While Devon was telling me about the surgery, I flashed and understood everything. But that's all. I didn't do anything about it. I don't remember flashing on self regeneration."
"But for other things, like hand to hand combat or using brand new weapons, you are able to use those skills right after you flash on them," Sarah, said, reasoning.
"Well, yes, but the information comes differently," said Chuck, letting his mind wander off. He didn't know where the comment came from, but he knew it was true. The information from an action flash was very different than an intelligence flash.
"I don't follow," said Sarah.
"When I flash on a person or a location or an object, I just get a whole lot of facts," said Chuck. "As though I've always known them, I can just draw them from memory. But when I flash on...something that requires me to do something, like a bow staff or jujitsu, it's like I act without thinking, muscle memory I can control and manipulate. But it's impulsive. And then it goes away." He thought about that for a minute. "Well, it doesn't entirely go away. It comes easier the next time."
Sarah watched him. Interested, immersed. "So why don't you think the Intersect healed your arm?"
Chuck shrugged. "Because the Intersect doesn't work without me prompting it or reacting to it. All Devon did was tell me about the surgery. I sat and listened..." Chuck stopped quickly and started at a spot on the far compartments across the aisle. Sarah was taken by surprise and followed his gaze to where it landed.
"What is it?" she asked.
Chuck blinked, then looked back at her. "What? Nothing, I'm fine."
"You stopped talking," she said. "In mid-sentence. What were you thinking about?"
Chuck looked at Devon, who was looking at him from across the aisle. Sarah and Chuck had been whispering low, there was no way anyone around them could hear what they were saying, but still Devon was staring at Chuck like he'd heard every word. "It's probably nothing," he said in a low voice.
Sarah grabbed his chin and pointed it at her again. "Chuck, nothing is ever nothing with you."
He smiled. "I didn't mean it like that. Look, Sarah, we've got a lot more pressing matters to worry about right now than what my special little friend is capable of."
Sarah rolled her eyes, not please Chuck was trying to change the subject. "Like what?"
"Like...like..." said Chuck, raising his voice. "Like how we're going to handle the Ellie situation." Devon shifted, now definitely overhearing their conversation. "Sarah, you told Doctor Titus we are married?" This is..."
"Chuck," said Sarah, holding up a hand and cutting him off, "you were recovering from surgery and I couldn't find Devon. I was trying to help." She sounded defensive.
Chuck changed gears, surprised by her reaction. "Yes, I know, and I love you for that," said Chuck. Then he lowered his voice, "But the CIA..."
"The CIA will have to deal," said Sarah. "Chuck, do you want to be with me?"
"Sarah, you know I do," he said, frowning. "But..."
"No," said Sarah. "The government doesn't care. If we want to be together, Chuck, why are we letting the government stand between us?"
Chuck blinked. "Okay, I always imagined myself on the other side of this conversation."
They sat in silence throughout the flight attendants' demonstrations of properly buckling techniques and how to use the oxygen max in a crisis, and their silence extended through takeoff. A slight jolt as the plane left the ground made Chuck cringe, and Sarah gripped his hand more tightly.
When the plane was leveling off in the air, Chuck turned his head to look at Sarah. She had repositioned herself so that she was facing Chuck. He smiled.
"Maybe you should just sleep," said Sarah. "You look exhausted."
Chuck laughed. "No offense, sweetheart," he said, stroking her hand lovingly, "but I cannot possibly look worse than you. When did you last sleep, anyway?"
She smiled sheepishly, shrugging. "It's been a while," she admitted. "But I just don't want to fall asleep. I'm worried about you."
Chuck waved a hand dismissively. "We are 30,000 feet in the air. You don't have to worry about me up here. I'm probably just going to watch the in-flight movie. Plus, I need you at 110. You, Casey, you guys are the ones that can get me through this, but not if you fall asleep during a throw down." Sarah laughed. She reached up and touched his face. "I'll be fine, I swear," he reassured her.
"You'll wake me if anything..." she asked, her eyes already starting to droop. She was giving up the fight to stay awake.
"Go to sleep," Chuck encouraged, not promising anything. He took her hand in his again and held it until, moments later, her grip loosened and she was fast asleep. Chuck smiled, settled into his own seat, and passed out.
Jill stepped into the sunlight and squinted. The bright light annoyed her. Since her months in solitary, her aversion to light was pronounced. Her face was pale and gaunter than ever, though she felt strong and ready for the assignment ahead of her. Much of the Pound's plan boggled her mind, both in its absurdity and boldness. Assimilate back into Chuck's life. How the hell was she supposed to do that?
Now that the Pound had loosed her into the freedom of a solo mission, she found herself extremely conflicted. From the very beginning, when the plan was first revealed to her, she had always intended to protect Chuck until the end. But now, waiting for Chuck and his team to get off their plane, she was wrought with a feeling of debt, as though she had to return a favor or had something to prove to Irina.
Her radiant red hair made her features starkly Russian as she caught her own reflection in the glass. She got approving looks from the people who made eye contact with her, but she stood still and out of the way, checking her watch occasionally and pretending to look down the long line of cars.
Irina had assured her that there was little she needed to do directly with Chuck. She wouldn't be required to talk with or work with Chuck, but work around him, work the people in his life to gain the access to the places she needed to go. Where was the CIA's operations base? Where did Chuck live? Who were his new partners? These were things she could find out by observance and indirect interaction, courtesy of her new look. Those who knew her previously wouldn't recognize her, and those who didn't know her would be intrigued by the culture she suddenly found herself a part of.
The PDA in her pocket began beeping. She pulled it out and looked at the small, flat screen. ALERT was in bold, red letters across the screen. She unlocked the screen and touched the alert. The next message said, "Device 100110 Herring has been registered at . Network unable to gain access. Standing by."
"One zero zero one one zero," Jill whispered aloud. She looked up and looked around. "Chuck?" She scanned the people immediately around her, and as far in as she could see in the airport's main entrance. She slung her bag over her shoulder and moved quickly back inside the doors. Chuck was tall, she expected to be able to spot him right away. His dark curls and long thin face were unmistakable features, ingrained in her memory. They stopped her heart every time she pictured him in her mind.
She stopped and turned on the spot, looking at every face within a fifty-foot radius. When she still wasn't seeing Chuck, she began to panic; she couldn't fail now. In mid-turn, a face caught her eye. She stopped and focused her eyes. He had black hair, but it was short, and that facial structure was unmistakable. That was John Casey.
What, really, were the chances that John Casey, an NSA agent, was in Burbank and not involved with Chuck's team? She waited until John stopped walking; he turned, like he was looking for someone. Another man approached him, carrying bags; he was on the phone and pointing toward the doors. If she wasn't mistaken, that was Chuck's sister's boyfriend, or fiancé. Maybe husband at this point.
But where was Chuck?
The crowd parted a bit and Jill began walking toward them, cautiously. She looked back down at her PDA; the light was still blinking, recognizing Chuck's network presence, a concept she still didn't fully understand.
Then she saw a man in a wheelchair, Casey was blocking him for the most part, but when he wheeled the chair around, Jill stopped and stared for several seconds before peeling away the disguise that hid Chuck from recognition. He was so blonde and pale, and he was slumped over in the chair, as though he was unconscious.
Casey followed the other man through the crowd; people parting as they saw the wheelchair. Jill followed them, pushing her way through the fresh hoard of incoming passengers. They made it out onto the platform before Jill made it to the door. She stood behind the glass, watching as the two men put Chuck into the backseat of a sleek black car. A woman got out of the drivers seat and put the bags into the trunk. Her hair was long and dark, but her features were familiar. If she hadn't paused to speak to Casey over the roof of the car, Jill would never have recognized Sarah.
Jill's blood boiled. Sarah was still around.
As the car pulled away from the side of the road, Jill hailed a cab, cut in front of some unfriendly Californians with a brash apology in Russian, and told the cab driver to follow the black car.
"You got it," said the driver.
When Chuck awoke next, his senses became alert one at a time. First his hearing: voices whispering close to him, but they still felt distant, and a low, steady beep. Then his sense of feel: a warm hand enclosed around his; he was horizontal. Then he smelled Sarah's perfume, and something else a little less pleasant. His mouth was dry and heavy; there was a sour taste of nonuse in his throat.
"Did his eyes just flicker?" someone asked. The hand in his own clenched and he opened his eyes.
"Chuck? Chuck can you hear me? Asked Sarah. Her face was directly above his now. He squinted in the light. His lids hurt, and blinking felt like weights were set on his lashes.
"Did I fall asleep?" he asked. "Did we land yet?"
"What?" asked Sarah, catching her breath. Her voice sounded alarmed.
"What do you mean, what?" asked Chuck, angrily. "The plane. Did we just land?" Sarah didn't answer right away. He studied the look on her face, frowning. "What is it?"
Devon appeared in his line of vision and it reoccurred to Chuck that he was horizontal, but also that he was lying on a bed. He did not feel like he was in a plane. Devon was wearing a white coat. "Chuck, what is the last thing you remember?
Chuck blinked again. "I just convinced Sarah to go to sleep," he said. She was trying to get me to sleep, but she looked like death." He patted her hand. "No offense, sweetie."
Sarah looked up at Deon. "That was right after we'd leveled off in the air," she said in a whisper. "From Rio."
Devon leaned down. "Chuck, I need to check your vitals. Sarah, do you mind stepping back for a moment?" Sarah let go of Chuck's hand and stepped out of his eyesight. Devon flashed a light in his eyes, then held fingers at his wrist, and finally checked his chest with a stethoscope. "Take a deep breath for me." Chuck breathed. Filling his lungs hurt. It was weird. And lastly, Devon took his blood pressure.
Chuck watched Devon work. His brother in law would not make eye contact with him. He worked steadily, addressing each vital chuck with care. Chuck's gaze drifted to Sarah. He saw her clearly in the light now. She looked incredibly exhausted and pale; there were deep purple circles under her eyes that emphasized and magnified the worry in them. When he caught her eye, her look immediately changed to a pleasant smile. She nodded, as though to confirm everything was going to be okay.
"Everything seems to be normal," said Devon, finally. He turned to Sarah. "His blood pressure is a little low, but he hasn't had solid food in days." He shrugged. "I think his body just can't keep up with the Intersect."
Chuck relaxed the muscles in his neck and laid his head back on the pillow. So Devon had been fully briefed. It was relieving and scary all at once. He was in three times as much danger, but Chuck's health was in better hands now that his personal physician understood the situation fully.
Then his muscles tightened again as Devon's last words replayed in his head. "Wait a second…did you just say I haven't had solid food in days?"
Sarah walked back over to him and rested her hand on his head. "Chuck, you've been unconscious for three days."