A/N: Sarah is about to meet her detainee for the first time (other than seeing him hanging in that cell like a side of beef). She will have her work cut out for her, trying to undo all of the damage that Decker has inflicted on Chuck, physically and psychologically. Is it too late?

This story is definitely a departure from what I typically write, so I was a little surprised at the positive response it has received so far. Thanks for the support.

Disclaimer: Don't own Chuck

Chapter 2

Sarah stood outside the secured room where Bartowski was being held. Her orders had been followed, the staff had relocated him to a room with a bed and a CIA doctor had been brought in to address his injuries. The guard opened the door and a man stepped out of the room holding a chart in his hand.

"You must be Agent Walker?" the man asked, extending a hand. He was a serious looking man in his mid-fifties with graying hair at his temples. Sarah accepted his hand, shaking it. "I'm Doctor Brent Siegle. The patient is finally awake but he hasn't spoken yet. As Agent Wilcox requested, I did a full examination, including bloodwork. Obviously, our resources here are limited, so there's only so much I could do. That being said," he paused, showing Sarah the chart. It was a front and back diagram of the human body on which had been cataloged all of the damage that had been done to Bartowski.

"As you can see, patient X has been through the ringer and then some. He has welts and lacerations over a large portion of his torso, including some on his arms and legs. The deepest of them I sutured closed and bandaged the rest. These shaded areas along the face and torso represent major bruising. He sustained four broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a fractured orbital rim and three broken fingers. There were also burns across his torso, most often seen with electrocution. He was severely dehydrated and malnourished, so we put him on an IV."

"Jesus," Sarah breathed out, looking over all the markings on the page in conjunction with all that the doctor had related to her.

"That's not all," Dr. Siegle added, flipping a page in the chart. "These are the results of the tox screen. There are traces of sodium pentothal, which isn't surprising given where we are," he stated, taking pause to look at the building around them. "What is surprising is the presence of some compounds I wasn't familiar with."

"What sorts of compounds? A drug of some kind?" Sarah asked, peering more intently at the page, even though the chemical names meant nothing to her.

"I conferred with some colleagues -discretely of course- and some of the compounds are similar to what is found in … platypus venom."

"I'm sorry. What?" she asked incredulously.

"I suspect this is an engineered toxin to mimic some of the side effects of platypus venom; namely hyperalgesia. The venom from the platypus produces focal hyperalgesia, which is an increased sensitivity to pain. That is what makes it so incredibly painful. However, if given intravenously, theoretically, the subject's entire body would have this increased sensitivity. I've given him some anti-inflammatories in hopes that they will reduce the effects until the toxin is completely out of his system." Dr. Siegle closed the chart and held it in his hands as he addressed Sarah.

"Agent Walker, I've been a doctor with the CIA for almost twenty years and I've seen more horrors than I care to recall. This," he said, gesturing to the small window in the door, "... I'd like to say he's lucky to be alive, but with what he likely endured, he might have been better off if he wasn't. I'm no psychologist, but that's got to have some sort of lasting effects. I realize it's 'need to know', but whatever this guy did, did he deserve this?"

Sarah considered the doctor for a moment. She was already certain of the answer, but she didn't want to give away too much just yet. "That's what I'm here to figure out." He nodded his understanding and spared a glance through the door's window.

"I'll leave you a copy of my report and I've been instructed to provide a copy to Director Graham as well. If there's nothing else, I'll leave you to it." WIth that, Doctor Siegle nodded and walked away.

According to Decker's notes, such as they were, Chuck hadn't talked to him in over a week. She hadn't had time to go over more of the recorded interrogations from when he first arrived at the facility, and she wasn't looking forward to it. Taking a cleansing breath, she nodded to the guard, who unlocked the door and opened it for her.

When she stepped into the stark room, the door was closed and locked behind her. She could see Chuck lying in a hospital bed, his arms and feet strapped to the bed rails. His face was turned away, but she could still see his profile, the red, purple and yellow of the bruises and cuts on his face still prominent. Sarah didn't know what to expect of this man. She had the accounts from the day of the bombing that seemed suspect at best, then the smattering of notes that Decker had left, preaching this man's guilt, and lastly, she'd heard the mournful pleas of Chuck's sister, sharing with Sarah the story of her brother's misfortune. After being in this hellhole, enduring endless tortures, she expected he would be filled with hate and bile, only making the task ahead of her all that much more difficult.

Slowly, she walked toward the end of the bed, her heels clicking on the linoleum flooring. When last she saw him hanging in that cell, she could see his ribs and the muscles pulled tight beneath his skin. Clearly Decker had withheld food and water as part of his interrogation, or rather torture, protocols. As the doctor had indicated, there was an IV now attached to Chuck's arm, slowly dripping, along with a pulse oximeter that was attached to his finger. Sarah clasped her hands together in front of her, looking the man over as he laid there. The speed of his breathing indicated that he was awake, though it hitched on occasion, likely from his damaged ribs. She remained silent, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

It took only a minute or so before Chuck's head slowly turned to face her. His left eye was still mostly swollen closed, so he was forced to fully turn his head in order to see her properly. Sarah could see his eyes widen in surprise at the sight of her. She wasn't certain if it was the simple fact that she was someone new, or if it was her personal appearance that affected him. She was no stranger to men ogling her, underestimating her, or just plain dismissing her, based on her looks. Her appearance was cultivated by the CIA years ago and honed for maximum effect. Sarah knew she was beautiful, but there were times she'd wished she weren't, wished she could blend into the crowd again, to be unseen.

She watched as he looked her up and down quickly, but never lingering, which she took note of. That was, until he reached her face and met her gaze, holding it. She had looked at the picture in his file more times than she could count, studying him in hopes of gaining some understanding. The kind eyes and slightly goofy smile were gone and in their place was pure, unadulterated fear. Unable to hold her gaze any longer, his eyes searched the room, the floor, looking anywhere but at her. It seemed apparent that he wasn't going to initiate any conversation, so it was time for Sarah to present an olive branch.

"Mr. Bartowski," she began, her words alone causing him to flinch. The reaction must have jarred him, his face wincing in pain. Sarah paused, hoping to give him a chance to recover. Just as she'd suspected, Decker had done a bangup job of breaking Chuck Bartowski. Sarah slowly and deliberately lifted her hands, holding them palms out, attempting to show that she came in peace.

"Mr. Bartowski," she repeated slowly, trying to use a softer tone. He didn't flinch, but he still looked at her with fear and apprehension. "My name is Agent Walker." She let that settle in for a moment, but his expression didn't change, so she continued. "Do you know why you're here?"

Chuck stared at her for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly, before he mutely nodded his head, almost imperceptibly. Sarah nodded as well, lowering her hands to clasp them in front of her again. She noticed his gaze flick between her and the door, as if he was trying to anticipate an attack from any angle. Sarah turned her head to look at the door, following his gaze, before turning to face him again. She slowly stepped between him and the door, blocking his view.

"Mr. Bartowski, I need you to focus on me right now. OK? Nobody's going to interrupt us," she stated, raising her eyebrows as if to ask if he understood. Rather than setting him at ease, his eyes grew wider, his breathing speeding up. Realizing, belatedly, how that might sound, she closed her eyes for a moment, berating herself internally. "What I mean is that it's just you and I, talking. Alright? I just want to talk."

The tension in his body slackened slightly and his breathing began to slow. Swallowing thickly, he didn't take his eyes off her but he nodded his understanding. "Good. I understand that you haven't spoken in some time. I'm going to ask you some questions and I'll try to stick to yes or no answers where I can. So, just shake your head accordingly. If you want to add more, by all means, do so."

He nodded his understanding, a little more confidently than before. Sarah was hopeful that it was a good sign, but she knew there was a long way to go to try and earn any trust with him. "On September 14th you informed local authorities that there was a bomb at the Sheraton Grand hotel." She paused and he nodded, swallowing hard again. "And you said that Senior NATO officer, General Stanfield, was the intended target of that bomb. Is that correct?" she asked. Chuck nodded again.

"Are you familiar with Vuk Andrić, a Serbian national operating in the US?" He began to shake his head "No" but stopped himself, wincing slightly before he nodded his head in the affirmative. Oh shit.

"So you were working with Andrić," she accused, her voice hardening. His eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently.

"Nu," he croaked, trying to speak through his hoarseness.

"You expect me to believe that you knew him, but you weren't working with him? How exactly is it that a Nerd Herd supervisor at the Burbank Buy More came to know an international terrorist?" Her voice was growing louder and she knew this was becoming counterproductive, but she was beginning to feel angry with the fact that she was betting on him being innocent and was now learning she might have been very wrong.

Chuck closed his eyes and shook his head, stammering to try to speak in his defense. "Don't… don't know," he uttered in a raspy, labored voice.

"You don't know? You don't know him or you don't know how you know him? Which is it, Mr. Bartowski?"

"I… saw him… at-at ...Large...mart," he forced out, coughing, followed by a pained grunt as he leaned forward with gnashed teeth and eyes shut tight. Blowing out a slow breath, he laid back down, trying to regulate his breathing. Sarah could empathize, coughing with broken ribs hurt like a bitch. That empathy took the edge off her anger, allowing her to calm herself, giving him a chance to recover.

"So, you saw him at the Largemart. The one near the Buy More?" she asked, recalling seeing the Largemart from the map she'd studied while trying to match up locations, distances and timelines leading up to the bombing. Chuck nodded. "And what? You bonded over a gallon jug of Miracle Whip and he told you all about his terror plots? Shared all his plans with you?" There was no small amount of sarcasm in her voice, despite her attempt to calm herself earlier. Chuck locked eyes with her for a moment before setting his jaw and turned his head toward the opposite wall, facing away from her much as he had when she'd walked in.

Sarah tilted her head to look up at the ceiling, blowing out a long breath. She recalled the interrogation videos she'd watched, remembering the way he'd answered with fear and desperation. Decker had asked the same sorts of questions, over and over, never accepting Chuck's answers. Unsurprisingly, Chuck finally shut down when it was clear that Decker would never be satisfied with his answers. Now with her, he was actually voicing responses and she started going down that same road, causing him to shut down again.

"Look. Try to look at this from my perspective. A young man with a troubled upbringing, has few friends, was kicked out of college, works a dead end job at a retail store and lives with his sister. He's intelligent, lonely, and maybe a little bitter and angry about the life he's been dealt. We see it all the time. Groups like these, they're masters at grooming people, playing on their vulnerabilities and drawing them into their causes before they realize it. On top of all of that, you suddenly have all of this information about Serbian demolitions experts and bomb plots. You can understand how bad this looks, right?" Sarah just let that hang in the air, watching Chuck as he continues to stare at the wall. The muscles in Chuck's jaw were visibly clinched, his lips pulled in tight.

"Mr. Bartowski… Chuck. The man before, Decker, he's gone. It's just me now." With that Chuck turned his head slightly to look at her out of the corner of his eye, as best he could. Sarah tried not to grin at the small triumph of being able to get through to him. "There aren't going to be any more interrogations, no more beatings…. Just, no more. OK?" Chuck turned his head further to look at her again, his expression still full of trepidation.

"I don't know if you had anything to do with this or not. That's what I'm trying to piece together, but all I've got to go on is everyone else's word. They're all saying you're guilty of being party to this somehow, which is why you're here and in your current … situation," she added, gesturing to the bed. His expression dimmed and she could see a glistening in his eyes, as his hands flexed in his restraints.

"I don't agree with what he did to you, which is why I pulled you out of there and put you in here. All of that other stuff stops now, but in exchange, you're going to have to give me something. You're going to have to talk to me. Unlike Decker, I'm willing to listen. Talking to me, being honest with me, is your only avenue out of this place." She shifted her feet slightly, which caused him to flinch again, though not as severely.

Sarah stepped back away from the bed, creating some space between them. She began to slowly pace the room and his eyes followed her every move, only occasionally flitting to the door. As she paced, Sarah studied him from every angle, like a puzzle to be solved, wondering how best to approach it. That much was true; he was a puzzle, an enigma. She had studied him academically, poured over his file, but seeing him in the flesh added a new dynamic. So many things didn't make sense. There were seemingly no ties between Chuck and any terrorist cell, no criminals of any sort, yet he admitted to knowing Vuk Andrić, the man suspected of creating and planting the bomb, and having knowledge of the plot in advance. How was it possible if he wasn't somehow involved?

Sarah considered herself an expert on extracting information from people. Whether through the false promises of seduction, which made her skin crawl, to the often "unpleasant" interrogations of enemy agents, they always talked; everyone talks. Trained foreign agents, warlords and even religious zealots, they'd always spilled their secrets. Yet, here was this man, this enigma, who had no training, seemingly no convictions, and he hadn't confessed to anything. Innocent people confessed to crimes they didn't commit all the time, and under far gentler conditions than what Chuck had been through.

If he was innocent, why subject himself to the atrocities inflicted on him by Decker? Why not just confess to put an end to his suffering? Was his moral compass so strong that he would rather die than admit to being in league with a terrorist, a mass murderer? She knew soldiers, hardened agents, that would have caved, and she wouldn't have blamed them. Whatever the case, Chuck Bartowski was far stronger than anyone gave him credit for, despite what Sarah had learned from the man's sister regarding his past emotional issues.

"Why Chuck? Can I call you Chuck?" she asked, stopping on the opposite side of his bed. He considered her for a moment then nodded his assent. Sarah nodded in return and started again. "Why Chuck? Even if you had nothing to do with any of this, why not simply confess? Why endure Decker's relentless torture when you could have just simply confessed, told him what he wanted to hear and put an end to it all?"

Chuck's gaze shifted away from her, his focus drifting around the room, as if he was contemplating her question, though he didn't answer. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't see you as someone with strong convictions. You're definitely not a zealot, a martyr, that would endure all of that for someone else's cause." She paused, slowly stepping to the foot of his bed to look at him straight on.

"Ellie, the way she describes you, I would never imagine that you would have lasted as long as you have, but here you are." Chuck's expression changed in an instant, his arms and legs straining against his restraints as his nostrils flared and eyes blazed.

"You stay the hell away from her!" he growled, his voice shaking with rage. "She had nothing to do with this. If you touch-"

"Whoa. Calm down," Sarah rushed out, raising her hands in surrender. "I have no interest in harming your sister." He was still seething, her words doing little to comfort him. Sighing, Sarah resigned herself to offering another olive branch. "I reached out to your sister under the guise of investigating your disappearance." Chuck's eyes widened, his rage giving way to concern.

"All she knows is that you're missing. She has no idea about any of… this," she said, gesturing to the bed. "I needed to learn more about you, the real you, not what's in your file. I needed to understand how you tick; your personality, your passions… your pain. I needed to know why you would do something like this, to help these people."

"Is she… is she OK?" Sarah was taken aback, his powerful concern for his sister evident in his tone and the look of sorrow in his eyes. She was thankful that Decker hadn't resorted to using Ellie as leverage.

"I won't lie, she's frayed at the edges. She's very worried about you." Chuck let out a disgusted huff, shaking his head as he looked at the ceiling with tears in his eyes.

"What sort of monsters are you people? You can coldly lie to her when you know exactly where I am. How do you sleep at night?" he spat, a lone tear trailing down his cheek, but he was helpless to stop it or wipe it away.

"I don't," she replied flatly, which seemed to give him pause. "Believe me Chuck, there are many things about my job that I don't like, but I have to do them to protect my country; our country. I took no joy in deceiving your sister, Chuck, but for what it's worth, she was left with a sense of hope that you might be found and returned to her." Sarah stepped forward, placing her hands on the footboard of his bed.

"Whether that day ever comes relies solely on you. I give you my word that no harm will come to your sister, but if we don't get to the bottom of this, your chances of getting out of here don't look good," she stated frankly. With her hands curled around the footboard, she began tapping her ring against it, a habit she developed when frustrated or anxious. The sound pulled Chuck's attention to her hands.

In an instant, his eyes rolled back in his head and his body seized up in pain as his back arched off the bed. His arms and legs strained against their bonds, his face racked with agony. Sarah could only stare in shock and horror. Before she could raise the call to the nurses outside, he collapsed back on the bed, coughing and wheezing in pain. Sarah rushed to the side of the bed but stood helpless, unsure what she could do for him. Slowly, he seemed to come down from whatever episode overtook him, but his eyes had remained closed throughout.

Chuck's face was ashen, as if he'd seen a ghost. When he opened his eyes, she could see terror in his eyes along with a hazy, unfocused gaze. Backing away, she moved to the door, pounding on it. The guard peered through the door's window and then unlocked it, allowing Sarah to call for the nurse, who was already on her way. The older woman rushed in while Sarah stayed back to allow the woman to work.

"What happened?" the nurse asked, a slightly accusatory tone in her voice.

"Nothing!" Sarah replied curtly. "I was at the end of the bed, talking, and then all of a sudden it looked like he had a seizure of some kind. It only lasted a few seconds and then it was over." The pulse oximeter's audible alarm was off, but the device was flashing, which Sarah gathered was not a good sign. Not a moment later, Dr. Siegle stepped into the room, surveying the situation.

"His heart rate is highly elevated and his oxygen saturation is starting to drop," the nurse stated, calling over her shoulder to the doctor. "She claims he had some sort of epileptic episode."

"Carol, give him 4 mg of Ativan and see how he does with that. Agent Walker, I think we're going to have to cut visiting hours short today," Dr. Siegle stated. Sarah nodded her understanding, not taking her eyes off Chuck. Shortly after the injection, his breathing began to even out and his heart rate dropped back to normal as his eyes fluttered closed.

"Keep me updated on his condition," she said before stepping out of the room and heading back to her office. When she closed her office door behind her, she leaned back against it and blew out a long breath. For some reason, the episode she'd just witnessed had shaken her. Sarah had seen far worse things in her life, caused them too, but something about seeing his body twist and contort in pain, almost as if he was possessed, had affected her. Regardless, she needed to keep her objectivity. There was still a job to be done.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Chuck had woken feeling more exhausted then he had before, and with a massive headache to boot. To make matters worse, he still hurt all over; a dull ache with the occasional sharp pang from a rib or a cut. He tried to think on the positive side. He was in a warm, relatively soft bed, something he hadn't had in weeks. In the past, he thought he hated the winters in California, but he had a newfound appreciation for what a bone deep cold actually felt like.

Flashes of memories crossed his mind, moments hanging in that cell, the vicious beatings. He was certain he was destined to die in that room, never to be heard from again. Then he'd been rescued, or had he? With Decker, Chuck knew what he was facing. The man was a psychopath, but at least he was predictable. Chuck learned what he could expect from the seemingly deranged man, who was hellbent on breaking Chuck. Yet somehow, when he felt all hope was lost, he'd awoken in a different room, still frightening in its own right.

At first he thought that maybe he'd had a complete mental break and he was dreaming it all. The soft bed, the white room, all in such sharp contrast to where he'd been. Then he realized he was strapped to the bed, still a prisoner, just in a different kind of cell. This one frightened him even more, the fear of the unknown. Would they use more drugs on him, test some experimental serum or device on him?

The nurse that had been in his room when he awoke had been stoic, showing no emotion and offering him no comment. She busied herself checking vital signs and adjusting the IV that was attached to his arm. He couldn't read the bags to discern their content, but he was helpless to prevent it even if he knew. When the doctor entered, looking at a chart, Chuck had felt a surge in his head, like a brain freeze mixed with a dizzying swirl, like a scene change in a 1960s Batman episode. It was similar to others he'd experienced, but brief and not as painful. Despite never having seen the man before, Chuck knew he was a doctor, Dr. Siegle; a doctor for the Central Intelligence Agency. His credentials were impressive, as one would expect of the CIA. There wasn't anything sinister in the doctor's history that Chuck was aware of, even though he wasn't sure how he was aware of any of it. He was a medical doctor, not a mad scientist at least.

When he'd left, Chuck was alone with his thoughts, which ran through a litany of potential fates, or horrors, that could befall him in this new place. When the door opened again, he could hear the unmistakable clacking of heels. For some reason, that filled him with more dread than if it had been Decker. If his past was any indication, women had the ability to wound him far more deeply, and more debilitatingly, than any belt or punch ever could. When his curiosity finally won out, and he turned to look at her, he was even more certain that the objectively breathtaking woman standing at the foot of his bed could ruin him completely. The woman seemed to stare through him with no feeling, no emotion. It was like the ghost of Christmas yet to come; he feared this one the most.

Her initial questioning was calm and subdued, lulling him into a false sense of security, but only for a moment. She quickly grew hostile, much like Decker, and he knew, yet again, that what he said no longer mattered. He was guilty in their eyes and they'd accept nothing that didn't support that notion. So, he retreated into himself again, turning away from her.

To his surprise, the woman actually tried to explain things from her perspective, how it all looked given the evidence they had. Chuck had heard it all before, shouted at him by Decker. He knew it looked bad, like he was implicated, and he felt that, to a certain degree, they were right. He felt responsible for the deaths at that hotel. If only he could have gotten through to them, if only he could have stopped it himself…

She confessed that Decker was gone, and that she was taking his place. If Decker was bad, this woman must be so much worse if they'd brought her in to, undoubtedly, take things to the next level. When she'd mentioned Ellie, Chuck flew into a rage. He felt like a dog on a chain, barking but ineffective. He knew his threats were empty, tethered to a bed in a dark hole somewhere, unable to protect his sister. It filled him with such hopelessness, such dread, that he was afraid he might break down right there.

Despite her best efforts to set him at ease, reassure him that his sister was safe, he didn't trust anything that anyone said; he couldn't. It was when she'd begun absentmindedly rapping on his bed with her ringed finger that it had happened. It was like a white hot stake was driven through his skull, the searing pain immense. Chuck lost focus of everything around him, all of his senses overwhelmed by a flurry of sights and smells; a kaleidoscope of still pictures, videos and documents. Some were nonsensical, images of ordinary people, places and things, but in between them was interspersed an encyclopedic documentation of a life spent in the shadows; the making of who was now Agent Sarah Walker, the Ice Queen.

Time seemed to hold no meaning as his mind followed tangent after tangent. One bit of information, a code phrase, a name or an image, sent him onto another mission, another alias. It was like pulling on a thread and watching the sweater unravel. At some point, he must have blacked out or fallen asleep, now waking up to the aftermath of a psychedelic trip through a very special part of hell. Chuck's mind felt heavy, spent. With all of the other sensations, both physical and emotional, he lay there in his bed, silently trying to process it all.

Chuck's room was silent, only the occasional footsteps in the hallway outside or the rush of air through the ventilation system breaking the silence. The rest of the time it was so quiet that his mind played tricks on him, like there was a constant white noise, perhaps it was the rush of blood in his ears. Whatever it was, he tried to focus on it to keep from thinking about all the things that he'd "seen". Unfortunately, like one of those optical illusion pictures, the less you focused on it, the easier it was to see the hidden image. By focusing on the white noise, his mind began to rehash and collate all of the information that he'd been subjected to the night before. At least he thought of it as night, trying to impose some sense of order to his existence, lest he go completely insane.

He had been subjected to what he surmised was the complete, unredacted file of the CIA agent now known as Sarah Walker. All of her missions, her personal reports and the reviews added by her superiors and company shrinks were there. "Seeing" those files led to epiphanies, leaps in logic that brought him to the file of related missions or persons. Walker's assignments with various handlers, and her time with three other women in a ridiculously named "CAT squad", and the circumstances that surrounded their disbanding. Chuck found some troubling discoveries regarding that team, though he wasn't sure what to do with that information.

The most troubling leap he'd found was in relation to one of Agent Walker's aliases, a "Sarah Anderson". It was a gut punch to find that her partner, the other half of "The Andersons," was none other than Bryce Larkin. Bryce Larkin from Connecticut, "Bryce Larkin". The man that had single-handedly torpedoed his life, taking everything away from him. There were many images of Bryce and Agent Walker together, either on missions or on some vacation get away. She was undeniably breathtaking, and her smile in some of the pictures had been intoxicating. However, the images left him feeling even more bereft. Bryce always got the good ones, and it made Chuck sick to think about it. Bryce had taken everything from him and as penance he was graced with the likes of Sarah Walker. Despite all he'd learned of this woman, it was irrefutable that Agent Walker was a brilliant and talented spy. She was often referred to by her superiors and peers alike as the best there was, so naturally, Bryce would be fortunate enough to be partnered with her, likely in every sense of the term.

Chuck thought back to his birthday, which seemed like a small eternity ago. The email that Bryce had sent him out of the blue; the Zork attachment included. The thing was, it wasn't just a Zork file. It was a Trojan horse of sorts, Chuck recalling the slideshow of images as it's payload. Was it coincidental that Bryce happened to be a spy and after opening that email, seeing those images, Chuck began having these unexplainable episodes, knowing things he shouldn't?

Chuck's head was throbbing, making it difficult to concentrate, follow his own line of thinking anymore. He kept his eyes shut tight, controlling his breathing and tried to block out the pain as he'd learned to do over the weeks here. Eventually, his exhausted mind and body succumbed to sleep yet again.

A/N 2: As I mentioned before, while this story is an AU which is based, in part, on canon, I will not be strictly adhering to it. There may be intersections (no pun intended) with canon along the way but this will be largely new content, from new perspectives.

I appreciate your support of this story so far. If you've made it this far, maybe go a little further and add a review or PM. I enjoy reading your impressions (good or bad).

Be well and stay safe,

JW