Chapter Nineteen—in which Sarah comes clean (with a lot of help from Chuck) during some much-needed private time and Zondra and Bryce finally start communicating … in their own way.
This chapter sets the stage for the Chuck vs The Three Kings arc and should carry us through a few months in Chuck time. You'll start picking up hints that will lead us into Season Two.
Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…
Chapter 19: Chuck vs The Three Kings
The sun slipped through the cracks of the bedroom's blinds, waking him. Still in the clutches of Morpheus, Chuck rubbed his eyes, hesitantly chasing his dreams away.
From the carousel of random ideas came some semblance of order—a subtle reminder of who he was underneath the montage of thoughts with their loose connections to his waking life. After a few moments more, he began to analyze them in a lazy haze. Perhaps these ideas were meant to be kept. Some were composed as if from books he'd once read, some were just plain silly. After another moment they were gone, leaving no trace in their wake. If they were still in his head somewhere, there was no bread-crumb trail leading back to them. Chuck closed his eyes again, willing the carousel to return, for his mind to tumble back into dreams, but it was a fruitless endeavor.
Memories from the night before came flooding back as he remembered why there was a warm, soft body deliciously pressed against his left side, an arm draped over his belly.
Last night, after Bryce walked Zondra to her bedroom, Sarah had suggested they pore through some of the intelligence retrieved from the bank's vault—but Chuck wasn't having it. He'd seen the troubled look on Sarah's face when she and Zondra had walked through the door after their harrowing near-death experience. He'd also witnessed Sarah's transformation through the video feed when she'd confronted Channing, just a moment before she ended his life. It'd shaken him to his core. Gone was the loving woman he'd come to cherish, supplanted by … well … nothing at all. An empty shell; a glacial, vacant stare; death's willing servant—Graham's enforcer.
It terrified him to see such a metamorphosis take hold of her—not because he now feared Sarah on any level, but because of what a change like that could do to a person's psyche. Chuck knew that for every action Sarah took—no matter its origin—she'd experience a reaction of equal force, weight, and intensity. Even though she'd killed Channing to save Zondra's life, his blood was still on her hands and had only added to the tally sheet Chuck was sure she'd been keeping ever since her red test—a topic she'd reluctantly brought up during one of their deeper conversations while they were apart.
So last night, instead of working, Chuck had pulled her into the bathroom, a glass of Chardonnay in his hand, closing the door behind them. At first she'd misunderstood his intentions. A fire had blazed up in her eyes as she'd looked back at him, and he'd wanted nothing more than to reply in kind. After all, it'd been far too long since their last physical encounter—something Chuck needed just as desperately as she did. But when he set the glass of wine on the edge of the counter, sat her down on the edge of the tub, and knelt in front of her, the fire quickly died … along with their misunderstanding.
Chuck was sure she could see the worry lines etched across his face as he gazed up at her, willing her to share her pain with him. "Sarah, honey," he'd said, "you need to talk to me about tonight—about what happened with Channing. Please tell me what's going through that beautiful head of yours."
Her kneejerk reaction had been to play it off, act as if she didn't understand the true purpose of his request. But she hadn't been able to meet his eyes. It must've dawned on her, maybe for the first time, that Chuck had borne witness to her innate brutality—had watched her become the judge, jury, and executioner in the blink of an eye.
But from Chuck's perspective, Sarah had had every right to make that call. Channing was evil, beyond redemption. There'd be no reasoning with him—even though Sarah had tried—and Zondra's life was literally in his slimy hands. Chuck's role wasn't to play the arbiter of justice—to decide if Sarah was worthy of being pardoned for her actions. No … his only concern was to make sure she realized she no longer needed to carry the weight of her actions alone. That he was there for her to help carry the load—to ensure she'd never collapse under its enormous strain.
So with steely resolve, Chuck had lifted her chin so their eyes met before he continued.
"I know you think you'd be tainting our relationship if you decided to confide in me about how you're feeling right now—that I'd never fully understand what you've done or had to endure in the line of duty—but you'd be wrong to think that, Sarah."
She'd shaken her head as tears welled in her eyes. The panic that set in was so obvious, Chuck could see the quickening pulse in her neck—could hear her breath becoming more labored by the second. But he couldn't waver under the pressure. He cared too much for her to let this slide without confronting it head-on. That was why he'd brought her to the bathroom in the first place—where solitude and privacy were the norms.
His heart pounding with trepidation, Chuck reached over to fill the tub with hot water. He rummaged in the cabinet and came up with a bottle of bubble bath, then poured it into the tub—a little awkward, given that he only had the use of one hand, but he managed. Then he dug a lighter out of his pocket that he'd found in the kitchen's junk drawer and went back into the cabinet for a half-burned candle he'd come across during his earlier bathroom jaunt … seemed like whoever had occupied the safe house before Sarah and Bryce had had a predilection for relaxing in the tub. That accomplished, he'd lit the candle, flipped the overhead light, turned the water off, and then turned back to Sarah.
"Your bath is ready, my lady. All that's missing is your gorgeous, naked self." He'd deliberately kept his tone light. If Sarah had the slightest inclination he intended to continue easing her into deeper waters—so to speak—she'd likely cut and run.
A small smile curving her lips, Sarah'd eased out of her clothes and stepped into the tub.
OoOoOoOoO
Sarah woke to the welcome sensation of Chuck's fingers trailing light circles on her hip and the comforting feeling of his body pressed against hers. She kept her eyes closed and her body relaxed, wanting to savor the moment. Despite the fact that Chuck was hiding out in a safe house with a bounty on his head and only had the use of one arm, she'd half-expected to find him gone … or at least back on the couch. After what she'd shared with him last night, she wouldn't have blamed him in the slightest.
But no. She'd shared the darkest part of herself with him—voiced things she'd never told another soul—and he was still here. He'd seen the ugliest part of her and instead of rejecting her or regarding her with disgust, he'd brought her into the light.
He was a miracle. Her miracle. And if she had to spend the rest of her life working to deserve him, she would do so, gladly.
He'd been so gentle with her last night, coaxing her into the tub and then handing her a glass of wine, waiting for her to slip beneath the bubbles and let the warm water ease the tension in her muscles. The candle he'd dug up had filled the room with flickering shadows, making her feel like the two of them were in their own private, vanilla-scented universe.
Only after she'd closed her eyes and leaned her head back to rest on the tiles behind the tub did he speak. "I love you, Sarah Walker. More than anything."
She'd hummed in response, too moved—and frankly, too much in disbelief—to speak. How could he love her? She'd let the Ice Queen come out to play and put a knife through a man's eye. She was a killer. And Chuck carried spiders outside to save their lives—she'd seen him do it.
She kept her eyes closed, not daring to look at his face. Surely, 'I love you' wasn't the end of that sentence. He must intend to follow it up with 'but'—as in, 'I love you, but after what I saw tonight, I don't think I can be with you anymore.'
But Chuck didn't say another word. Instead she heard the closet door open and close. The bubbles sloshed as he dipped something into the water, and then a washcloth glided over her neck and down to her collarbone.
"I will always love you," he said softly, trailing the washcloth down further still. His movements traced the shape of her breasts, and she resisted the urge to arch into his touch. "No matter what you tell me or what you do."
She was sure he could feel her heart racing through the cloth. "Don't say that, Chuck. Don't make promises you can't keep."
His touch gentle, he slid the washcloth down to her belly. His hand rested there, tantalizing and sure. "Tell me what happened tonight. How you felt. Get it out, so it can't hurt you anymore."
"I don't want to talk about it." Her voice sounded slow, intoxicated—from the wine, from exhaustion, from the warmth of the water seeping into her body, from the feel of his touch.
"You might not want to. But you need to. I'll just listen, if you want. Think of me as … your confessor."
A low laugh escaped her. "Pardon me if you don't exactly remind me of a priest right now."
"I hope that's not a bad thing." The cloth slipped lower, along the length of her inner thigh. It was erotic, sure … but she could also feel the love in the way he touched her. Somehow, some way, he was telling her the truth. No matter what he'd seen tonight, he still wanted her—not just in his bed, but in his heart and his life.
It was that realization, more than anything else, which gave her the courage to speak. "I never wanted you to see me the way you did tonight."
"How? Brave? Strong? Willing to do anything to keep one of your closest friends from being killed by a near-rapist and degenerate?" The conviction in his voice was unmistakable—as was his faith in her.
"Is that how you see me?" She laughed again, but this time it was bitter and so jagged, it tore at her throat.
"Of course I do. How do you see yourself?" His voice was low, soothing, as his fingertips pressed into the arch of one foot, then the other.
Tears slipped from beneath her eyelids, snaking down her cheeks to mingle with the water. "They call me the Ice Queen for a reason. When I killed Channing tonight—when I've killed anyone—in that moment, I don't feel hesitation or guilt or regret. I feel nothing at all. It's like I'm not even there, Chuck. Like I'm looking at myself from above. You asked how I see myself? As a cold-blooded sociopath, that's how. Because how else could I do any of those things?"
"You're no sociopath, Sarah."
Again, his voice was filled with such certainty. As wonderful as that made her feel, he was deluded. She had to make him see who she really was, who he said he loved—
"Maybe I wasn't born this way. But how Graham had me trained … what they taught me to do … he made me into a monster, Chuck. His pet monster. I stabbed a man through the eye tonight and all I could think was how much he deserved to die. I analyzed the situation, figured out the most efficient way to make that happen, and executed my strategy—along with Channing. How does that make me anything other than a sociopathic freak?"
She heard the sound of him draping the washcloth over the side of the tub. Then his good hand slid into her hair, running through the strands with a gentleness that made her shiver, despite the warmth of the water. "You said that in the moment, you don't feel hesitation or guilt or regret. So what do you feel right now?"
Sarah's breath caught, and with a trembling hand, she brought the glass of wine to her mouth, taking a sip. "I told you. I don't want to talk about this."
"Humor me. Just for a little while. Please."
For a long moment, she said nothing. He didn't press her, just kept stroking her hair. Bubbles sloshed over her body as he scooped water from the tub, rinsing her clean. The sensation was hypnotic. It lulled her, somehow, giving her the confidence to speak. "I feel awful that I took someone's life, no matter how terrible a person he was. Grateful that I was able to save Zondra. Sad, because I'm sure one day you're going to realize how much better you could do and leave me."
His hand left her hair, closing over her fingers and taking the glass from her grasp. "That will never happen, Sarah. For one thing, I'm smart enough to know you're way out of my league. And for another, listen to yourself. You do feel guilt. And regret. And why? Because you're a good person who's been trained to do terrible things. Tonight, those skills might've saved Zondra's life." He gripped her shoulder, steadying her. "A sociopath doesn't feel guilt, Sarah. A sociopath doesn't shed tears because an evil man is dead at her hands. You're strong and beautiful and you're my hero. Heroine. Whatever. There's no one I admire more."
Her eyes fluttered open, and she found the courage to look at his face. The adoration and respect she saw there nearly gutted her. "I wish I could see myself the way you do."
"I'll make you a promise," he said, leaning forward to kiss her. "Someday, I swear you will."
They'd spent the rest of their time in relative silence as Chuck bathed her, the only sounds the lap of water against the side of the tub and her hums of contentment. When she was relaxed enough that she'd feared she might slip down the drain along with the water, she'd gotten out of the tub and he'd handed her a towel without a single lascivious word or glance—another first for Sarah. All he'd wanted was to comfort her … to make sure she knew she was loved, safe, and accepted.
Back in her room—no, their room, now that everything was out in the open with Zondra—he'd changed into a borrowed pair of Bryce's sweatpants, then grinned as she'd put on yoga pants and the robot-alien shirt she'd taken from his drawer when she first left Burbank.
"I stand by my previous statement. There's nothing sexier than you in my Optimus Prime T-shirt," he'd said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and smiling up at her.
She couldn't help but smile back. Her hair was still damp, she wasn't wearing a bit of makeup, and her shirt was two sizes too big, but he still thought she was beautiful … apparently, inside and out. She'd told him the truth, told him she expected him to run one day, and somehow he'd managed to make her feel better about the worst, most horrible part of herself.
He might be the furthest thing from a priest she could imagine, but he'd heard her confession and quite literally washed her clean, with a tenderness she'd never felt before. The wine, the bubble bath, the candle—she'd assumed he'd wanted sex, and she'd been on board with that plan. She'd missed him … and she would have done anything to distract herself from the ugliness inside her head. But what he'd given her was so much more than a temporary distraction. He'd offered her intimacy, and given her peace.
She hadn't thought such a thing was possible.
While she'd stood there, marveling at the sense of wonderment that had somehow settled over her, Chuck had finished the glass of Chardonnay and set it down on his nightstand. Then he'd pulled back the covers and patted the space beside him.
It had taken them a couple of minutes to get comfortable, given the situation with his shoulder, but at last he'd settled onto his back and she'd snuggled up against his left side. He'd wrapped an arm around her, holding her close. "You can go to sleep, Sarah," he'd whispered into her hair. "I promise I'll be here when you wake up."
Well, he'd kept his promise—and while Sarah still felt comforted by his presence in the daylight, the feel of his body against hers and the realization that they were alone, in a bed together for the first time since those stolen hours in Burbank, made her want more than to simply feel safe. She wanted to be with him, wounded shoulder and all.
She felt his lips graze her hair. "Good morning, gorgeous."
"Morning." Pulling back to get a look at his face, she scrutinized him. His color looked good, the circles beneath his eyes fading. "How do you feel?"
"Waking up with you? Like the luckiest guy ever born."
Sarah made a derisive sound. "I meant your arm."
"Oh, that. It still hurts a little. But it's much better, I swear." He rested a hand on her hip. "And you? How do you feel?"
She knew what he was asking, and fought to hold his gaze. For once, it wasn't as difficult as usual. "I feel better, too. Thank you"—she cleared her throat—"thank you for making me talk. And for listening to me. And for believing in me."
"I always have." He held her closer. "I always will."
Traffic had begun to stir on the street outside. She could hear cars going by, as well as the sound of people talking beneath their window—which meant they had a limited amount of time before reality came crashing in again. Sarah intended to make the most of every minute.
"Hang on," she told Chuck, pulling away.
He made a discontented sound low in his throat. "Where are you going?"
"Not far. Don't worry." Reaching over to the nightstand for the pack of mints she'd purchased at Trader Joe's with this very occasion in mind—hey, a girl could dream—she popped one into her mouth.
Chuck gave a husky laugh. "I guess the Boy Scout motto goes for CIA agents too, huh? Always be prepared."
"I'm willing to share." Deftly, she slid a mint between his lips.
"Would it be too forward to imagine this means you plan on kissing me?" He looked up at her, his eyes shining with amusement—and a deeper emotion she recognized all too well, since she felt the echo of it within herself. For the first time, the love she felt for Chuck didn't frighten her, or make her feel unworthy. She watched the sunlight slant across his face and envisioned a world where the two of them could wake up together like this every day … not in some stupid safe house with Zondra and Bryce right down the hall, but in a home of their own.
"Oh," she said airily, pulling his T-shirt over her head, "I plan on doing a lot more than that."
"Do tell."
"I'll do you one better. I'll show you." She dropped the T-shirt to the floor beside the bed and shimmied out of her yoga pants. His eyes followed her every move, darkening as she tugged his sweatpants off and climbed on top of him, relishing the feel of his body beneath hers. "Today's your lucky day, Chuck Bartowski. You're hurt, so you get to lie back and let me do all the work."
Reaching up with his good hand, he cupped her cheek. "Maybe I should get shot more often."
"Don't you dare," she said, and bent down to kiss him. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, then slipped inside as his hand slid downward, gripping her hips, guiding her.
They did eventually make it to breakfast, but Bryce's much-maligned eggs had long since gone cold.
OoOoOoOoO
Zondra turned out the bathroom light and made her way toward the kitchen. She'd intended to shower the night before, but after Bryce had walked her to her—his?—room and tucked her in, she'd instantly fallen asleep, both emotionally and physically drained. Between the stress of the mission and the night's revelations, she'd slept like the dormouse in Alice in Wonderland. Unfortunately, much like the dormouse, she'd woken to find herself still in the midst of the Mad Hatter's proverbial tea party. The world was upside down, and without caffeine, she didn't have any hope of righting it again.
Hell, even with caffeine, she didn't know if she could make sense of the past twenty-four hours—but a strong cup of joe would definitely be a good start.
The faint scent of vanilla hung in the air as she walked down the hall. Sarah must've drawn herself a bubble bath last night after everyone had gone to bed; when Zondra'd gone in to take her shower, she'd noticed a half-melted candle sitting on the edge of the counter and seen a scrim of soapsuds clinging to the side of the tub. With everything that'd happened the night before, Zondra couldn't blame Walker for wanting to unwind. She deserved anything she wanted after taking out that sleazebag, Channing—may he rot in hell—saving Zondra's life in the process. She just hoped Sarah had found some form of peace, although Zondra was finding none for herself at the moment.
Yeah, she needed caffeine and lots of it.
No one else was awake, so she tried to keep quiet as she filled the coffeepot with water and located the beans. That proved to be a bit of a challenge, since Sarah or Bryce had purchased whole beans from some gourmet roastery and she had to hunt for the grinder, then dump the beans in and run the water to muffle the sound.
When she glanced more closely at the bag, though, she noticed that the beans in question were Brazilian dark roast—her favorite. A coffee snob, she'd made this blend all the time back at the Farm, the one indulgence she'd allowed herself … other than nerdy movies and sex with He Who Must Not Be Named. Was it possible that Bryce had remembered, and purchased this for her?
Surely not. Then again, he had a picture of them in his bedside table. By his own admission, he'd watched The Princess Bride two dozen times or more. He'd said she was everything to him.
And here she was wearing his shirt—yet again—because she had no clean clothes of her own.
"Goddamn tricky son-of-a-bitch," she muttered, dumping the ground coffee into the filter.
"I hope you're not talking about me."
Bryce's voice came from behind her, startling her so badly she lost her grip on the grinder. Coffee flew everywhere, getting in her hair … down his shirt … on the floor.
"Jesus!" she said, spinning to face him.
"Now I know you're not talking about me. Unless I've become a candidate for sainthood in the past twelve hours, which I seriously doubt." He reached out, brushing the grinds from her hair.
Zondra scooted backward, which wasn't much of an improvement, since the counter was behind her and she'd effectively cornered herself. "I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about the coffeemaker. It's … tricky."
"Like Run DMC?" Now he was openly laughing at her.
"No, you asshat. Like someone who sneaks up on unsuspecting women and causes them to fuck up their access to the only substance that has a prayer of making this shitty morning any better." She scowled at him, and he backed up, palms raised in surrender.
"Far be it from me to squander your Brazilian dark roast, Princess Buttercup."
So he had purchased it for her. How was she supposed to unpack that little tidbit?
She opened her mouth to ask, but he'd already backed up and was pulling half-and-half out of the fridge. It was hard to yell at a guy who was facilitating your access to primo java, so she busied herself with fixing the mess she'd made and setting the coffeepot to brew.
"Here," he said, setting the creamer on the counter and opening another cabinet. "I picked this up for you yesterday. Peace offering?"
When she turned, he was holding a small shaker of nutmeg and another of cocoa. She'd always mixed them into her coffee, giving the illusion of a deluxe barista beverage at the fraction of the price.
He held them out, looking hopeful. "I would've gotten something to steam your milk with—what do you call it? A wand? But they don't sell those at Trader Joe's."
"You're impossible," she said, taking the shakers from him.
"I know," he said, raising his trademark eyebrow. "You want the blue mug or the one with the picture of Castro on it? Someone's sick idea of a joke."
"As long as it'll hold caffeine, I don't care." She held out her hand and he handed her a light blue mug, chipped at the edges. It had seen better days, but right now all she cared about was that it didn't have a hole in it. Grabbing the coffeepot, she poured the four inches that had managed to brew into her cup, dumped in cream, the sugar that Bryce wordlessly pointed out, and her nutmeg and cocoa, then leaned against the counter and sipped.
"Better?" he said after a long minute, during which she managed to drain the entire cup.
She lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "In a manner of speaking. But now I'm hungry."
"I'll make you breakfast."
"More burnt eggs? No thank you." The retort came out before she could stop it. She hadn't meant to show him she cared that much about what he said—for good or ill.
He regarded her impassively, his own half-full coffee cup in hand. "Have I done something to make you angry? I mean—lately?"
They were treading way too close to territory she'd prefer to avoid. "I'm grumpy. Just ignore me."
"Not a chance. What's on your mind?" Narrowing his eyes, he set his mug on the counter. Fidel glared back at her, which Zondra found aggravating. She didn't think she could take being double-teamed by an evil dictator and a two-faced, supposedly-love-besotted spy this early in the morning.
"Fine." She set her own mug down and swiveled to face him, arms crossed over her chest. "Did you make Walker breakfast like this every morning? Because you sure as hell never made it for me."
His eyes shuttered, the familiar blank expression coming over his face. "Is that what this is about?"
"Partially. Maybe. Just answer the question."
Bryce drew a deep breath, and for a moment she thought he was just going to walk away—but he stood his ground. "I'm not in the habit of making anyone breakfast every morning. Including myself. You might've noticed I'm not exactly a gourmet chef, Zondra. Women aren't lining up, clamoring for my Eggs Benedict."
If he wasn't going to back down, neither would she. "I didn't ask if you made Walker a crappy breakfast. Or if she ate the breakfast you made her. Just … if you went to the trouble."
His expression softened, and he took a step toward her. "It wasn't like that between us. It never was. Maybe I deluded myself into thinking it might become more … but that was just because I knew I couldn't have you."
"How could you know such a thing? You never tried!" Her voice rose, despite her intentions to keep quiet.
"I know," he said, his eyes fixed on hers, "because I wouldn't let myself."
Silence descended between them.
What did that mean? He wouldn't let himself—because he cared too much about her? What kind of screwy logic was that?
"You might have noticed … or maybe not—I know how you are in the absence of your morning caffeine fix—that I am out here with you. Whereas Sarah is … well, let's see. Chuck isn't on the couch. And her bedroom door is closed. So I can only deduce that they are in there together." He gave her a guileless grin. "The two of them are actually kind of perfect for each other. And besides … I have no interest in Walker, Zondra. I do have an interest in you, though. Specifically, in making you breakfast."
"That's just what you would say." She stomped over to the coffeemaker and refilled her cup. "Is that what you told the woman at Dalia's Cleaning Services when you scammed the keycard off of her?"
His eyebrows rose—both of them, this time. "What makes you so sure it was a woman?"
"Wasn't it?"
Bryce gave her a measured stare, looking amused. "It was."
"Uh huh. And just how did you manage to get the card so easily? No—don't tell me. Let me guess." She slopped way too much half-and-half into her coffee.
"You think I seduced her out of her keycard? And then came back here and bared my heart to you?" A note of incredulity crept into his voice.
"That," she said, returning his stare, "is exactly what I think."
Without a word, he spun on his heel and marched out of the room. She followed him, more aggravated than ever. It was just like him to run away right in the middle of a—
"Here." He'd stopped by the couch and was rummaging in his bag. "My secret weapon. Causes women to fall at my feet wherever I go."
She looked at what he had in his hand, prepared to give him a piece of her mind—and realized he was holding a tranq gun.
"Twilight darts," he said, his voice even. "That's how I got the card. I could've seduced her, sure. But I didn't want to. Like I told you. I want you."
Zondra was speechless.
"Now," he said, the note of amusement creeping back into his voice again, "if you're done berating me and questioning my motives, would you allow me to make you breakfast?"
It was her turn to quote The Princess Bride—but this time she stole Westley's line. "As you wish," she said with as much dignity as she could manage, and, turning, strode back into the kitchen, Bryce trailing in her wake.
She refilled her coffee mug again as he pulled the carton of eggs out of the refrigerator and cracked three into a bowl. "I hope you like scrambled. It's the only kind I know how to make."
"And if I said I didn't? Would you still make me breakfast?"
Splashing some half-and-half into the bowl, he gave her the side-eye. "I would. But it would go from being almost inedible to damn-I-wish-I'd-stopped-at-McDonald's."
"I don't eat McDonald's," she pointed out. Fast food of any kind had fallen off her radar years ago, unless she was on a mission and had no other choice. She was a culinary snob too, and not embarrassed to admit it.
"My point exactly." He whisked the eggs as if they'd done something to deserve punishment. At this rate, they'd be beaten to a more grievous extent than Edward VI's whipping boy.
"Bryce—" she began, in an attempt to save her breakfast from utter annihilation.
He held up a hand, forestalling further comment. "If you're going to give me feedback on my cooking skills, kindly refrain. I'm making breakfast for you—mistakes and all. If you help, it doesn't count."
"It also doesn't count if I can't eat it," she mumbled under her breath.
"Can't hear you." He'd found a skillet somewhere and was melting butter at way too high of a temperature. She could smell it browning from across the room. "Ah—perfect," he said happily, dumping the eggs in and poking at them with a metal spatula—in a nonstick pan. "One order of scrambled eggs, coming right up."
Zondra put her head in her hands.
A few minutes passed, during which she fought the urge to look up. There was no need to; the smell of burnt eggs had once again filled the kitchen.
"Um." Bryce's voice had turned tentative. "That's weird. I swear I was watching it the whole time. But then how is it—"
"Burnt?" She sighed, talking to her palms. "Because you … oh, never mind. I appreciate the thought, but I really am hungry. Can you just please let me—"
"Absolutely not! I said I'd cook you breakfast and I meant it. Just give me a chance to try again."
They were still arguing over who would get to commandeer the cooking, Bryce's scorched eggs congealing in the pan, when Chuck and Sarah walked into the kitchen—looking a bit worse for wear.
"Burnt again, I see," Walker said, heading straight for the coffeepot. "I'm shocked. Creamer?"
Sighing, Bryce passed her the half-and-half and backed away from the stove. "It's not like you're a culinary genius, Sarah. But by all means, give it your best shot. You did save Zondra's life, after all. Maybe she'll be nicer to you."
Zondra bit back a retort as Sarah poured two more cups of coffee, emptying the carafe. She handed one to Chuck, dumped the ruined eggs into the trash, and set to work, attempting to salvage what was left of breakfast.
One reason Zondra'd held her tongue was because she knew Sarah could take care of herself—and quite frankly, she'd been looking forward to seeing Walker decimate the guy. But Sarah didn't say a word. In fact, she hummed as she handed the mug to Chuck—a bizarre turn of events, given that before this morning, Zondra would've sworn Walker was as likely to hum as she was to tap dance to Singing in the Rain.
She looked more closely at her friend—and understood. A frisson of jealousy coursed through her at the sight of Sarah's rosy cheeks, the unmistakable post-coital bliss that colored her features. There was no other word for it—Walker was glowing.
Was Zondra jealous of the fact that Walker'd been with Chuck … or just how happy her friend looked? Either way, it didn't reflect well on Zondra—unless she was actually in love with Chuck. But she couldn't be, could she? It would be way too Jerry Springer for her to be in love with her best friend's guy … not to mention, at the Saville, she'd told Sarah she still had feelings for Bryce. But that had been before her revelation—before Chuck had been willing to give his life to save hers.
Was she in love with Chuck—or just the idea that someone would make that kind of sacrifice for her? That there was a guy out there, a smart, good-looking guy, who would treat her with kindness and respect?
There wasn't enough coffee in the world for this three-ring circus. Maybe breakfast would help.
Zondra didn't advertise it—and she didn't often have a willing audience, after all—but she loved to cook. Between missions, she'd taken cooking classes in a wide variety of international cuisines. If she hadn't become a spy, she would've loved to be a gourmet chef. But this wasn't the morning to showcase her skill set, so she shook off her uneasy feeling and helped Sarah make an all-American breakfast—bacon, eggs, and fruit.
Bryce had long since fled the kitchen, and Chuck had bowed out with an apology, given his out-of-commission arm, so it was just Zondra and Sarah, working side by side. Sarah kept giving Zondra loaded glances, but she didn't speak and so neither did Zondra, except for occasional requests to pass the butter or flip the bacon.
When the food was done, the two of them brought the plates out to the living room where everyone sat, eating in silence—the scraping of plates and utensils the only sounds.
Great. More silence. Maybe no one would ever speak again. They'd communicate in code, because it was too awkward to do anything else.
She was on the verge of brewing more coffee—maybe with a shot of Baileys?—when Sarah reached for the duffle bag they'd dumped the Fulcrum intel into, unzipped it, and spoke. Her tone was brisk, which was a relief. Zondra didn't think she could stand hearing Walker sound all lovey-dovey … not today.
"We'll need to report into Graham ASAP," she said. "After we called in the cleaners last night, he'll know something went down and expect an update."
"Agreed," Bryce said, setting his plate down with a distinct air of relief. "How do you want to handle this?"
Sarah ran the tip of her index finger across her lips. "First, we should sort through everything so we know what we're dealing with before handing Graham the kitchen sink. No need to give him an advantage we could use against him or to protect ourselves."
"I say we start by using the mobile scanner to digitize all the paper files." Chuck gestured at the scanner in the corner, next to the TV. "Then we'll just need to copy the data from the discs and thumb drives to the hard drive. Once everything's there, I'll be able to organize everything logically so we can sort through it."
"On it," Bryce said, getting to his feet with alacrity. Zondra couldn't help but think he was as relieved to have a course of action to pursue as she was.
While Bryce fed page after page through the scanner, Sarah placed each disk in the computer's optical drive for Chuck to copy. Finally, he inserted the thumb drive and copied its data, moving on to unencrypting the files that needed it. Zondra was worried that might pose a problem, but Chuck just hummed and typed away, as happy as a tornado in a trailer park.
Awesome—more humming. Was there a soundtrack to their mission Zondra ought to know about? And was she the only one who felt superlatively awkward?
She glanced over at Bryce, and suddenly felt less alone. Finished with his task, he was poking at his uneaten fruit, looking morose. As attractive as Zondra found Bryce's usual air of confidence, she had to admit that she could get used to this new, merely-human version. That didn't mean she'd forgiven him for treating her like crap … but at least she'd moved on from wanting to punch him in the face every time he opened his mouth.
OoOoOoOoO
Chuck was back in his element. His happy place. He held black belts in both bits and bytes. With a keyboard, mouse, and some data to manipulate, he knew he could do anything. There'd be no one who could ever hope to snatch the digital pebble from his hand. This was his world and he had yet to be dethroned. And after all the incredible and possibly highly illegal things—at least in some states—that Sarah'd done to him this morning, his confidence was riding an all-time high.
With his wounded body reinvigorated by Sarah's delicious ministrations, he got back to work. It didn't take him long to organize all of Fulcrum's intel into searchable rows and columns as he hummed along to the song that'd been stuck in his head for days. Dylan's 'The Times They Are A-Changin' was one of Chuck's all-time favorites and suited their situation, but its sea-shanty melody was starting to annoy him—and he was sure it was driving everyone around him nuts too, even if they hadn't said a word. As Chuck indexed the data, he tried to think of something else to listen to as soon as possible so 'The Voice of Protest' was no longer stuck on repeat.
"Hang on," he said, feeling self-conscious at the idea of Sarah, Bryce, and Zondra staring at him as he worked—and hummed. "Just putting some finishing touches on a database, so we can search it for what we need … and … done." He looked up, making sure all three of them were ready for him to continue. "Okay, let's see what Fulcrum's been up to."
The paper files turned out to be most, if not all, of Fulcrum's financial records of their operations in California. The bastards were involved in everything from drug trafficking to extortion and blackmail of local and state officials. Based on what Chuck saw on the first few pages alone, he knew this would turn out to be a crippling blow to Fulcrum no matter what else they found—but then things got a lot more personal.
He opened another document—and saw a name he hadn't heard since his flash, when Zondra first walked into Casey's apartment and into Chuck's life. It seemed like such a long time ago.
"Um … guys," he said, his voice cautious, "wasn't the Gentle Hand Augusto Gaez's outfit?"
Zondra glanced over at Sarah, who was studiously staring at the floor. "Yeah," Z said, when it was clear Sarah wasn't going to speak. "Why?"
"Says here that they're at least working with Fulcrum, if not part of it. Looks like they've been running guns out of South America—Rio de Janeiro, to be exact—to help fund Fulcrum's operations back here in the states." His hands shook with excitement as he typed in his next query. He held his breath as the computer paused, processing his request—and then felt a smile light his face as the results came up on his screen. "Lookie here … Gaez does have a contact within the CIA. Does the name Agent Amy Monroe ring any bells?"
Sarah's head jerked up as Chuck looked at her, then at Zondra, his hands outstretched. "Ta da!" he said, not caring how cheesy it sounded. He could feel his eyes sparkling with happiness, his smile growing so big, he was worried he might break something. Zondra had finally been vindicated, even if she was currently considered rogue by one part of the government and dead by another.
"Holy shit," Z said, incredulity clear in her voice. She turned to face Sarah, probably hoping to see her joy mirrored on her friend's face—but Sarah looked devastated. Tears formed on her lashes, her bottom lip quivering.
"I'm so sorry, Z," she whispered. "I'm the worst friend in the world. You'd have every right to hate me for what I've put you through."
After last night—not to mention the fact that her name had just been cleared—Zondra apparently had no patience for guilt trips or recrimination. "Aww, come on, Wee-Wee Walker," she said, her lips twitching. "Amy obviously framed me to turn us all against one another, deflecting suspicion from herself. I'm just glad to be part of the team that'll end up being responsible for burying the conniving bitch. Pretty sure there's gonna be a burn notice put out on her head by this afternoon, and it's all because of what we've been able to accomplish here … together."
Wee-Wee Walker? What the hell was that all about?
Whatever it was, it wasn't nearly as important as the reunion that was taking place in front of him—something that Chuck had hoped for ever since Zondra had told him she was innocent. Sarah stood, walked over to where Z was sitting on the loveseat, and wrapped her arms around her. She leaned in to whisper in Zondra's ear, just loud enough that Chuck could hear. "I'm afraid an apology doesn't even begin to cover it, Z. I owe you big time."
Zondra just squeezed her friend back, looking as if she was reveling in the love and sincerity that poured through Sarah's embrace. It didn't matter what'd happened between them before, or what Sarah had been tricked into believing. As for Amy, Chuck was sure she'd get what she had coming to her.
When Zondra pulled away, Sarah sat down on the loveseat beside her. Chuck regarded the two of them with elation, his vision blurring at the corners.
"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "now that that's out of the way, let's talk about what was on the thumb drive. I think you guys are going to be satisfied. Suffice it to say that the veil's just been ripped from Fulcrum's immediate and long-term plans."
'Satisfied' was a mild term for what he imagined the three agents would feel. Listed in the files were hundreds of names and dossiers of CIA, NSA, FBI, and DEA agents and assets, either within Fulcrum's grasp already or being targeted for induction.
"This is insane," Zondra said as she watched the list of names scroll down the TV's screen, where Chuck had redirected them so everyone could see. "You know what this means, don't you?"
Bryce spoke up for the first time since he'd walked over to feed the pages through the scanner. "There's about to be an intelligence purge. A massive one. All these people—they'll have to go to ground if they want to continue living—or, in a best-case scenario, be arrested if they turn themselves in."
Chuck figured Bryce was right. Not only that, but—irony of ironies—he'd bet Sarah and Bryce would likely receive substantial accolades because of this mission. Based on their reactions, this was unlike anything they'd seen or heard of before. The ripple effects could last years.
"And now for the pièce de résistance," Chuck said, bringing something else up on screen with a flourish, "the discs. Why would Fulcrum go through the trouble of burning discs when they could've easily transmitted or stored the information digitally like the rest of the intel? These files contain the most sensitive data Fulcrum has, I'm sure of it."
As it turned out, everything on all three discs pertained to the elusive Project Janus that Sarah had told Chuck about over a month ago. From what Chuck could remember from their conversation, Janus just consisted of Fulcrum's plans to steal the intel from the government. The information on the discs encompassed far more—everything needed for a fully functional Intersect computer. Chuck shuddered at the thought.
Fulcrum had divided their plans to build their own Intersect into three phases: Intelligence, Hardware, and Software. Chuck opened the 'Intelligence' folder first. As they'd suspected, this was Fulcrum's plan to gain access to secure NSA facilities and go after the raw data. After all, without the intelligence to encode into the images used during the upload, the Intersect would be useless.
Fulcrum's schemes to gain access relied heavily on a Nathan Page and Troy Mason. Apparently, Page was the only person with full clearance to all of the facilities in question. Fulcrum had planned on kidnapping Page's girlfriend, Monica Whittaker, to blackmail him into stealing both CIA and NSA databases. Once they had the data, they'd use Mason to unencrypt the highly classified intelligence.
The files didn't detail how Fulcrum planned on forcing Mason to do what they wanted. Maybe he was already in their back pocket and they didn't need to coerce him any further. If Mason didn't work out, though, there was a contingency plan in place to use someone from the L.A. area. The only clue as to who it might be were the initials V.H. With any luck, Casey might be able to take what they had and flesh out some more details.
Chuck moved on to the 'Hardware' folder. The four of them sat, staring at the screen, as he scrolled through the various diagrams and schematics, including what looked like a complete blueprint for the Intersect itself … or at least Fulcrum's version of it.
Based on what Chuck could decipher, Fulcrum was a lot closer to replicating the Intersect than Graham or Beckman had ever suspected. They'd even tested a prototype, but with disastrous results. Most of the test subjects had died within minutes of the upload, either from a brain aneurysm or other forms of hemorrhagic stroke. The few that did survive the upload had instantly gone mad, displaying either sociopathic rage or complete psychotic breaks.
"This is—this is—" Chuck swallowed hard, his stomach rolling as he flipped through photos of the unwilling victims of Fulcrum's sick science experiments. "How can they use people like this?"
Bryce looked as ill as Chuck felt. "Because they're vicious, Chuck, and they'll stop at nothing to get what they want," he said, shooting Chuck an empathetic glance. "But with this information, we can hopefully decimate their operations so they can never do something like this again."
Nodding wordlessly, Chuck continued reading. "There's a bunch of stuff in here about something called the 'Cipher' that's supposedly in the process of being built. It sounds like some kind of central processing unit for the Intersect, but thousands of times faster and more complex than anything I've ever heard of."
Chuck opened an internal memo pertaining to the subject at hand and they all read it in silence. After the first test subjects died, Fulcrum had decided to start hedging their bets. Should Fulcrum's own Cipher design not pan out, they'd need contingency plans in place. Knowing that the government would be designing and building their own version—as well as that they'd already pulled off a working Intersect computer once before—Fulcrum planned on doing what they did best … stealing it. Should Fulcrum get word through their extensive alphabet grapevine that the government's Cipher was nearing completion, a group with the oh-so innocuous name of 'The Children of Colossus' were the primary faction assigned to take on that task.
"The Cipher?" Sarah said, her voice skeptical. "Never heard of such a thing."
"Me either," Chuck said grimly, moving on to the 'Software' file folder.
Evidently, while Fulcrum was plush with thugs and henchmen, they were sorely lacking in the brains department—specifically, those with the scientific background necessary to design and program something as complicated as the Intersect. Chuck flipped through the dossiers of one scientist after another, from mathematicians to engineers, programmers to neuroscientists. Next to each name, Fulcrum had noted their importance and the organization's intent to conscript each scientist into servitude.
"What the hell?" Chuck said as the next dossier came up on the screen. His fingers froze on the keys as his worlds collided.
In large, bold capital letters, the name on the dossier read, DR. ELEANOR FAYE BARTOWSKI.
"They want Ellie? My sister?" His voice shook … and then it hit him in the face like a bucket of ice-cold water. "But what would they do to her if she said no? Oh, my God! We've got to—"
"Chuck—" Bryce began, but before he could utter another word, Sarah leapt from her seat and knelt on the floor next to the couch. She rubbed the back of his neck, her fingers snaking through his curls, talking to him in a soothing voice that was barely above a whisper. "Listen to me, Chuck … you, your sister, and Devon are my whole world now. My family—the only real one I've ever known. I will never allow anything to happen to any of you. That's my solemn promise. We'll get word to Casey too, so he's aware of what's going on … but Chuck … remember that we've just thrown a massive monkey wrench into Fulcrum's plans to press-gang any of these scientists into service. I doubt anyone within Fulcrum's ranks would dare approach any of them now that they've been exposed. You've not only saved countless lives with your brilliant, beautiful mind, but you've probably saved Ellie and Devon's too."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting her words sink in. Sarah had ninja moves and spycraft—but knowledge was the only weapon Chuck had at his disposal. The thought of gaining more crucial information—information he could use to protect himself and his family—was only thing holding him together in the face of this newest revelation. He'd absorb all that he could before allowing himself to take the inevitable nosedive … and with Sarah by his side, she'd be there to catch him when he fell.
Chuck kissed Sarah's cheek and found the strength to sit up straight. Flexing his fingers as she took a seat next to him, he attacked the keys once again. "Let's finish this."
The last file was marked as 'critical for operations.' Fulcrum was desperate to find a group called 'The Three Kings.' According to the file, without the Kings, Fulcrum would have no hope of having a fully functional Intersect. As with their efforts to find Bryce, they were utilizing a tremendous amount of time and resources, but were currently at a complete loss.
When they'd all had a chance to read through everything, Chuck repackaged the intelligence into a zipped folder with his own encryption methods, explaining as he went. Then he connected to his remote server to upload it. Watching the progress bar snake across the screen, he felt a tickle in the back of his mind—a nagging feeling that he should know who or what The Three Kings were. He gave it up as a bad job when the file completed its upload.
"I didn't see anything in those documents that would give us any advantages against Graham—or Beckman, for that matter," he said, his tone level. "I vote we turn everything over to him. There are some serious national security issues at stake and I'd hate it if we held onto something that might save lives."
"I agree with Chuck," Zondra said, weighing in. "As much as I hate the idea of that bastard putting another feather in his cap, there's the good of the country to think about."
He gave her a grateful smile. "I just ask that we share everything with Casey. With Team Intersect temporarily disbanded, I have a feeling the various agencies within the government aren't as prone to sharing as they once were." Sitting back, he closed the laptop and looked at each of them in turn. "Most importantly, Casey needs to know everything we do if he's to continue protecting my family. I was really unnerved to see Ellie's dossier in there."
Still sitting next to him on the couch, Sarah patted his hand. "Try not to worry, Chuck. I'll make sure Casey knows everything, as well as Ellie and Devon. They'll all need to stay vigilant." She got to her feet, smoothing her clothes. Chuck knew her well enough to interpret the series of constrained movements for what they were—Sarah's attempt to repress her desire to leap into the Porsche and speed down the highway, back to Burbank. When it came to protecting the people she cared about, she only trusted other people so far.
"Before we do anything else, we need to call Graham," Bryce said, cradling his phone in his hand. "Do you want to do it, or should I?"
"Be my guest." Sarah squared her shoulders.
Bryce dialed Graham's number, this time leaving it on speakerphone. A moment later, the Director answered.
"Graham, secure."
"Walker and Larkin secure and reporting in, sir," Bryce replied.
Chuck and Zondra listened as Sarah and Bryce brought the Director up to speed, embellishing where necessary. When they finished, the excitement in Graham's voice was palpable.
"I'm afraid 'a job well done' doesn't even begin to cover it, agents. What you've done for your country as well as this agency will live on within the halls of Langley long after you and I are gone. You can both expect promotions as well as commendations to be placed in your permanent records."
"Thank you, sir," Sarah said, sounding modest, with the perfect hint of gratitude. Her expression belied her tone, though, and swiveling to look at Zondra and Chuck, she rolled her eyes.
Before Burbank, Chuck thought there might have been a time that Sarah would have been over the moon to hear that kind of praise from Graham. Now, he was sure it meant less than nothing.
"I've said it before and I'll say it again. You two are the tip of the spear in our fight against Fulcrum," Graham said. "I'll arrange for a courier to pick up the intelligence later this afternoon at a remote location that will be determined. In the meantime, I want you to concentrate your efforts on Whittaker, Page, and Mason. We can't afford for Fulcrum to have any leverage over Page by snagging Whittaker out from under our noses."
"Understood." Bryce's voice was calm, but his hands were balled into fists. Chuck was sure that, having once been in Fulcrum's clutches, seeing the extent of their brutality in black and white had to be jarring for him … to say the least.
"I'll make sure the DNI as well as Page is aware of the threat," Graham went on. "We'll need a team on Whittaker at all times and I want Agent Walker to make contact with Mason. I'm disturbed that there's no obvious carrot or stick with his involvement with Fulcrum. His residence is just across the bridge in Oakland. Find out which one it is and stay in close contact with him, Agent Walker. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." Sarah said obediently—then bared her teeth at the phone.
"Good day, agents," Graham said, and disconnected the call.
"So," Sarah said as soon as they'd hung up, "I'll go ahead and send Casey that email, and then we can—"
Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Chuck. He'd sat up straight, his eyes wide.
"You okay?" she said, eyebrows lowering in concern.
"Oh my God, Sarah." His gaze roved between each of the agents, settling on Sarah's face. "You won't believe this—but I think I figured out who The Three Kings might be."
A/N: We know there's a lot to unpack in this chapter! Some of you might've picked up on references that exist in canon for Season 2. While our version will contain a few similarities to canon—the bad guys will still be bad guys—most of what we have in mind going forward is completely AU. That said, if certain episodes of the show don't drive our version of the story, we'll gloss over them in future chapters. We've got an overarching plotline in mind and anything we include going forward will exist in service to that plot.
A/N #2: We had fun transforming Bryce into a willing—but dreadful—short order cook and Zondra into a gourmet chef. And, of course, Chuck's brilliant mind and stellar hacking skills once again saved the day. Let us know what you think—please leave a review! It means a lot to us to hear your feedback … the more we all support each other's stories, the more this community will grow and thrive.
As always, thanks for reading.