A/N: Thank you for all the great feedback! A couple of you promised to review if i came back and you've kept your promise so i guess i'll have to keep mine, right?

This chapter is something i've waited a long time to get out, the format's a bit different but stick with me. the rest of thursday will follow after.

As always, Altonish, the literary genius that he is, helped me a great deal with this story. Especially for a certain part. You'll know it when you get there. =)

Chapter 38:

The trouble with trying to be normal is that from the moment it becomes a conscious effort, it's reduced to an act; a cover for all the ugly patches and all the hurt, and the trouble with that is strictly that—a cover.

Sarah tries anyway. She's just gotten off the phone when Chuck walks into the kitchen.

"Who was that?" he asks, as she puts the phone away.

"No one," she replies with a carefully calculated, casual shrug.

He accepts it and he's so used to all this anonymity that he could care less if it was Engels, the Director, her new partner, or the president himself.

A relief, that. She didn't think she could lie to him anymore.

It's only been a month since everything went to hell, but it feels like years since she's been herself.

"Sit," she orders. "I'm going to make you breakfast."

For the first time in a long time, Chuck's face bursts into a grin."You sure you still remember how to turn on the stove?"

She sticks her tongue out at him and laughs despite the pain building up inside her chest. Impulsively she reaches over and grabs him by his shirt, kissing him to stem the pain and doing everything she can to funnel the extra emotion into a passionate kiss.

Chuck's eyes are wide when she pulls back. He's clearly taken by surprise. "Wow..." he whispers in a daze. "What's the occasion?"

She strokes his hair, taking in the scent of him. "You're my husband," she states, rather matter-of-factly."I don't need a reason, do I?"

Do I?

Suddenly her chest feels tight and she can hardly breathe. Everything feels just like old times only the touch no longer feels right. Her hand freezes whilst still entangled in his hair and she stares at it as if it were someone else's limb, certainly not hers.

It's like they're going through the motions of a happily married couple trying to find that old feeling but she's too numb to feel the warmth.

Chuck rubs her back. "Sarah?" he asks, staring up at her.

Sarah stirs from her thoughts and retracts her hand, keeping them behind her back.

He looks at her. One second he seems to be able to pinpoint it and the next he's just perplexed. "What is it—are you—do you—" He stalls and clips his own sentences for fear they will inflict more damage than the awkward silence will.

"Do you want to talk?"

"No," Sarah says. She can barely breathe much less talk through the crippling chest pain.

Chuck bites his lip. "It's just, I thought we were doing better."

Sarah looks up abruptly and momentarily forgets the mask she's been trying so hard to maintain. "Are we?" she utters. "Or have we just gotten better at pretending?"

He stares at her and the hurt is so commonplace it's nearly expected. He doesn't say anything and it's just as well. She's no closer to the answer than he is.

"I feel fine, Chuck. Everything's fine," she dismisses, putting on the familiar mask.

Chuck looks at her carefully, his warm brown eyes not missing a thing. And suddenly she feels his scrutiny like a noose around her neck. He's going to see through her to all the hurt and then all the guilt will come rushing back. He'll avoid her gaze, avoid her touch...and one day, he'll avoid her altogether.

And that's when she realizes, they could never be normal. Not ever again.

They try to get back to their old routine; they try to do all the things they used to. They go to their favourite coffee house, sit in their usual booth and pretend like it's just any other lazy afternoon. Chuck tries, she can tell, but moving ahead has to be a joint effort and all the best memories, all the people she loved; they're all stuck in the past. She doesn't understand why he'd want to leave everything behind.

Chuck does most of the talking which is good because Sarah can't think of one single thing that would be worth saying.

"We should get a dog," he suddenly announces.

Sarah sits up straight and tries to hide the fact she's been so caught up in her own thoughts she's missed the majority of their conversation. "W-what?"

"A dog. Man's best friend." He smiles. "I've always wanted one and I think..." Chuck's smile wanes and he doesn't tell her what he thinks; she already knows. It's good practice...for something that's never going to happen.

Sarah holds her breath, waiting for the pain in her chest to subside but the most she can hope for is a constant dull ache. She knows she'll never forget. It hurts too much to.

"Sarah?" Chuck prompts.

"I don't know," she responds. The perfect answer for everything. "I'm not much of a dog person."

"Okay. How about a cat?"

"No."

"Fish?"

"No." Sarah takes a quick drink of her coffee, eagerly swallowing every bitter drop. "I just..."

I don't want anything.

I don't want anything to change.

I want everything to be the way it used to be.

"Do whatever you want." She doesn't mean to sound so caustic and uncaring but she can tell Chuck's been rebuked.

She doesn't know how else to tell him, but a puppy isn't going to resolve the unmade crib hidden in the closet or make her forget about the sonogram photos she's already reduced to ashes.

"Okay," he says quietly and stares down at his coffee. They pass the next few minutes in silence, and Sarah's never been more grateful for the busy cafe with its loud coffee-grinders and cacophonic clean-up of metal on ceramic.

"Sarah." His voice gets her attention. "What are you thinking about? There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?"

But of course there is. There always has been.

Sarah doesn't lie. She just keeps quiet and stares at her hands currently clenched around the coffee mug.

"Chuck." She uses the same tone he's used on her and it sounds just as tired and worn out as it sounds. "Stop it. It's nothing, I'm fine."

His expression weakens just the slightest. "I just—"

"I know. Please." She's begging him now. "You have to stop worrying about me. I'm not much of a talker, you know that." She smiles for him, so that he can see he has nothing to worry about, but somehow she feels like she's failed even at that.

"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" He looks hopefully up at her and takes her hand, prying it off the chipped white mug. "Anything."

Sarah's resolution wavers but she presses her lips into a stubborn line.

"I know. Now can we talk about something else?"

He shrugs. "Like what?"

Exactly.

She has no idea what to say to him anymore. It's like they've forgotten how to talk to each other and all of it sounds like white noise.

"I want to take you to Paris for Christmas."

Sarah snaps back only to realize she's been caught up in her own thoughts again. She blinks slowly and tries to hide it from him but Chuck's waiting for her to respond.

"Oh." She takes a slow sip of her coffee. "I don't know. It'll be cold that time of year."

Chuck frowns. "But you've always wanted to go in the winter. You like it when all the tourists have vacated."

Sarah shrugs. "I don't know."

She doesn't want to commit to anything. Chuck's planning for things months, years down the road and she can barely think past today.

How can he want a future full of awkward moments? How can he want to spend the rest of his life with a woman who no longer knows what it means to feel?

What started out as only an ill thought has germinated and taken root. It threatens to devour her from the inside-out but she can't bear to make the confession.

How can she put him through a lifetime of this?

"What would you like to do then?"

"I don't know, Chuck, I haven't really thought that far yet."

Sarah's afraid to look into the future. She's afraid to face the fact that perhaps there isn't any more happiness left in store for them. This is it. This is all they have now.

"Well, where would you like to go for the holiday?"

Oh God. Sarah bites down on her tongue to hold back the tears. He looks at her like a kid on Christmas Eve, still so eager and full of excitement, and she knows she's been nothing but a burden to him. He's trying to move on and she's holding them both back.

"I don't know, Chuck, whatever you think is best."

Chuck's smile falls and he reaches across to clasp her hand. "Hey..." he says gently. "I know it's been a rough year. Just say the word and I'll make it yours."

Sarah can't help herself. She bursts into tears and hides under a curtain of blond hair.

"Sarah..." Chuck coaxes. "Honey, please don't cry. The waitresses are going to think I'm mistreating you."

Somehow, despite everything, he still manages to get a laugh out of her.

"That's better," Chuck teases. "Please don't cry, Sarah, everything's going to be okay, I promise."

"I know," she whimpers, taking a slow deep breath. She looked into his sad brown eyes and felt like he could save her from everything except herself.

They go out for dinner even though the fridge is filled with leftovers. He orders her favourite wine without asking and they share a salad and pasta.

"Sarah, are you okay?"

Sarah looks up at him and wrinkles her brows. "Of course, why do you ask?"

He points at her plate with his fork. "You've barely had anything. I'm eating all the food." Even though it's probably taboo to toss food around at such a fancy restaurant, he slides his plate over and portions a helping of pasta onto her already too-full plate.

"I'm just not that hungry," she says with a smile.

"You barely ate anything at lunch."

"Big breakfast," she explains, taking another drink from her glass.

Chuck frowned. "You barely had anything," he accused. Sarah feels obligated to eat something from her plate but even that isn't enough. Chuck clasps her hand and squeezes it. "Are you sure you're alright? Do you feel sick?"

"No! I'm fine!" she insists. She spends the next fifteen minutes eating just to placate her husband. She's completely lost her appetite but she does it only so he won't worry the way he does.

She reminds herself for the hundredth time that she'd do anything to keep him safe. She's already gotten a glimpse of their future and it's not what she wants.

"Sarah?"

Sarah sighs and sets her cutlery down against the porcelain plate, the abrupt noise breaking apart the carefully construed ambiance.

"I have to go back," she blurts out, looking shame-faced at her husband.

Chuck wrinkles his brows. "What? Why, did we leave something on at the house?"

"No, Chuck, to work." Sarah pushes the plate away, knowing she won't regain her appetite tonight. "I have to go back to work."

The man's confusion shifts to a different emotion altogether. He looks as if she's pierced him through the heart and she stares down at the tablecloth because she can't bear to see his pain.

Chuck sets down his cutlery and pushes his plate away. He's silent and pensive and when he finally speaks, his voice is distant and hollow.

"Why?"

Sarah shrugs. "It's time. It's been long enough."

"No." She glances up to find him shaking his head. "They can't make you. How much can they take from us? What do they want from you? Haven't they put you through enough?"

Chuck's showing more emotion than he has in months, she hasn't seen him this angry since...well...she doesn't really know.

"They didn't ask me, Chuck," she replies quietly. She waits for the fact to sink in, knowing his misdirected anger will soon shift and be placed squarely where it belonged.

Chuck looks at her in disbelief. "No! Sarah, why? After everything, you're...you're..."He's too angry to find the words and when his sputtering finally comes to a stop, all can say is: "How can you possibly do this?"

Sarah reaches out to him but he won't take her hand. "Chuck. This is who I am. Being a spy is what I do."

"Why?" he demands. "Why do you have to do this?"

That's the real question, isn't it?

Sarah stares at the tablecloth. The answer was simple. She needed to get away. She needed an escape from the oppressive sadness of their home. She needed to forget.

"I need something to take my mind off of what's happened," she offers. "I need something to hold on to."

Chuck looks at her, his eyes wide with wonder. "What about me?" he asks softly.

"Chuck..."

Sarah looks to Chuck and his expression seems to say it all. There's nothing left for her to explain.

Chuck goes to bed without her. He doesn't even bid her goodnight before he's gone and it's like all the warmth in the house has left with him. Their small home has never felt so cold and austere to her before, but she dreads another argument so she waits half an hour in the living room before she has the courage to make her way up to meet him.

She catches up to him in the bedroom but he barely registers her presence. They might as well be living in different worlds. She takes her time brushing her teeth, flossing twice to buy herself some time. She sneaks peeks at him from the bathroom door, wondering what the proper words are, but she knew one thing was for sure. For once, she's going to have to be the one to start the conversation.

Finally she leaves the sanctuary of the bathroom and walks cautiously to the foot of their bed. She takes a deep breath, avoiding his gaze and instead staring down at the monotone sheets to keep her focus.

"I'm sorry."

Silence.

Chuck closes the book and looks at her with an unreadable expression.

"It's just...I think it would be better if I got back into my old routine. I think it would help and it would keep my mind occupied, so I won't have to think about..." She struggles with the lump growing in her throat. "...all the time..." she continues, glossing over the things she can't put into words. "I just...I need to feel like myself again."

She looks up at him and hopes he'll understand.

She's broken and all she knows is that before she had become a Bartowski, she had been whole or at least as whole as half a person can ever be.

"I...need this," she repeats when he still doesn't say anything.

Chuck places the book on the nightstand and sighs softly under his breath. They're not going to fight about this because she can already see the defeat in his eyes.

"Okay," he whispers. "If that's what will make you happy. All I've ever wanted was to make you happy."

Chuck starts to sink under the covers and Sarah stands in her place, dumbfounded. She'd rather have an argument than his cold acceptance. She'll take anything so long as there was some semblance that he still cared the way he used to, but he's taking her decision without a fight. It's like he's given up on her; on them.

Cautiously Sarah crawls into the bed beside him. There's only a few inches separating them but there feels like an ocean between them.

Chuck moves to turn off the light but she reaches for his arm and stops him. He tenses in surprise, but when she moves over him, he says nothing at all. Tension mounts but there's no accompanying spark; it's just a thick oppressive hood hanging over the two of them.

He looks a little fearful at first when she dips her head towards his, and instead of closing his eyes in anticipation, he's watching her lips almost as if he's afraid of them. They come together and it's like kissing a statue; he's there but he's not alive.

She keeps kissing him, trying to awaken something in the both of them, and finally his hands come up along her sides and he strokes her gently. Sarah moans automatically; even though it doesn't feel quite right, it's still Chuck. He's still the One.

Hastily she tears off her negligee in an effort to encourage him. They haven't made love since she's been in the hospital and she needs this. She needs to feel alive. She needs Chuck to feel alive again.

Then it happens.

His fingers run over the scar along her abdomen. It's a tiny thing now. It's still red and angry, but it's so small it seems impossible that such a minute wound could have hurt them both so much.

Chuck's fingers trace over the outline and she thinks for a moment that it's a lost cause. She takes his hand and guides it away from the scar but she thinks she's lost Chuck already. His mind is lost to her.

She kisses him, desperate to distract him and she lets out a small shriek of surprise when Chuck tosses her over. He's on her in a second, his hot breath burning against her neck, and for a second it feels almost familiar.

Sarah moans his name and pulls him closer. Finally. This is a dance they know too well. Whatever their problems, they've always been good at this. A hunger burns within her and after being handled with kid gloves for so long she needs him so badly she can't wait anymore.

Sarah's lithe legs wrap around Chuck, forcing him closer, but from the moment they join, it's not right. There are no stars behind her eyelids, no cresting wave, no earth-shattering exhilarations that threaten to render her speechless. It's pleasant...but little more.

She can tell from Chuck's body that he senses it to. He quickens his pace frantically trying to find the right rhythm something...anything...but the moment leaves and by the time Chuck tires and lays down beside her, all she can feel is the crushing weight of defeat.

"I'm sorry," she tells him again for the second time in less than an hour.

"Don't be," Chuck wheezes. "I was just tired and it's been a long time. It'll be better next time."

It's not true though and Sarah knows it. They're broken. Everything's broken and like the scar that will mark her abdomen forever, they'll never be the same.

Chuck turns out the light and they huddle under the comforter. She knows Chuck isn't sleeping. Neither of them do; her pillow is too wet with tears to sleep on and Chuck's breathing never steadies. They drift out onto the inky ocean but there is no shore for them to reach.

Her partner looks at her and says, "You're being kind of quiet." He says it as if it were an accusation.

Speeding down the freeway in the dark of night, it's the first thing either of them has said in the last fifteen minutes.

She shoots him an irritated look and he averts his gaze, focusing back on the road. Normally Sarah has more patience for this kind of stuff, but honestly, they've worked together what—three—times at most? Who was to say she wasn't naturally introverted? Who was to say she didn't hate small-talk? This is why she'd requested to work without a partner.

All this silence doesn't bode well and Sarah knows her body language is sending the message loud and clear.

"Well don't take it out on me," he mutters under his breath.

"Right, because I'm the screw-up. Yeah, I know," Sarah retorts, generous with the disdain when it came to herself. "It's my fault we messed up, it's my fault we blew our covers, and it's my fault we didn't get the intel we wanted."

The driver sighs. Neither of them have the emotional quotient for this sort of thing.

"No one's blaming you...that much. I mean parts of it were your fault..."

Sarah takes the words stoically, all the while wishing the man beside her had the sense to at least cushion the blow before punching her in the gut.

"But you've been through a lot, this is your first mission since—"

"Save it," Sarah snaps and stares out the side window. "I'm fine. I made a mistake and I promise you it won't happen again." And just to make sure one thing was for sure, she repeats herself.

"I'm fine."

Her partner clamps down on his tongue and just keeps driving. Sarah gazes out into the nothingness, trying to find comfort in the familiar road signs and muted orange lighting, but all she can think about is what a failure she's become.

She can't even stomach walking through the door tonight to face Chuck. She's no good as a wife and now she's a failure at everything else too.

An hour passes and they are well into the city now. The oppressive dread closes in on her with every mile that's covered between here and the little blue house on the quiet cul-de-sac.

"You know what—" she exclaims just as she sees he's about to take the exit into the suburbs. It's the first time she's spoken up and compounded with the urgency of her tone, it's nearly enough to make her partner slam on the breaks and nearly derail them off the bridge.

"What the hell!" he exclaims, honking the horn even though the person he's most irate with is stuck inside the car with him.

"Sorry, I just realized I don't need that ride home," Sarah excuses, clutching her chest. "Do me a favour and drop me off at that hotel over there."

With some quick manoeuvring they manage to avoid an accident and still find themselves in the correct lane but only just. The man sighs in relief and only when safe to do so, looks over at his partner with an expression like she's lost her mind.

Sarah doesn't explain herself. She doesn't think she can. She's not entirely sure what she's doing. And even when her partner drops her off at the front doors of the hotel and asks her again if she needs a ride home, she denies it again.

"I'm fine," she repeats once aloud and then silently over and over again in her head. She keeps telling herself that until she starts to believe it.

Sarah sits alone in the dark hotel room. Her bags sit unopened by the door and she hasn't changed out of her clothes. She hasn't done anything except sit in the dark, trying to catch her breath.

What the hell has she done?

What the hell was she thinking?

But of course she wasn't thinking. All she knows is that she can't face the guilt and pain—not tonight, maybe never again. Her emotions were going to get her killed. They could destroy Chuck.

It wasn't too late. She could call a cab and pretend none of this happened. She could return to that double-life and put on the mask again to hide all her hurt.

That's not the problem though.

The problem was that she didn't feel sad at the prospect of not returning home. She always felt sad. Always.

But all she could feel now was relief that she didn't have to face the oppressive guilt that waited for her on the other side of their front door.

"It's just for a night," she reasons. She'll stay here tonight and go back tomorrow. She'll tell Chuck they'd had a late mission and she didn't want to disturb him. Tomorrow...she'll go home tomorrow, she was sure of it.