summary: Down on her luck and tired of her life, a conwoman decides to leave the game, but she needs one last score. Taking a job from a notorious fellow con, she finds herself tasked with the one thing she never wanted to do: kill someone. Once she meets the mark and finds him charming, kind, and undeserving of such a fate, can she do it? Or will the con game keep her trapped forever? AU.

note: Howdy. Welcome to A Fragile Little Flame. It's been a while since I ventured into the wild world of AU multichapter Chuck fic, but here we are again.
First, a necessary thanks eternal, for reals, to David Carner. He helped me figure out so much of this fic, plot-wise, and for months now he's been a wonderful sounding board and cheerleader, encouraging me and absolutely helping me when I got. very very stuck, which happened a bunch.
Second, this fic is a little dark. You might've guessed it from the summary, but I feel it bears repeating. There's some danger, there's some talk of deathy stuff, and particularly, as the summary suggests, Sarah does or aims to do some stuff some of y'all might not agree with. If you don't like it, that's fine, I get it. I'm prepared for the yelling, frankly. But I stress throughout that Sarah here is tired, and hurting, and desperate. The events she goes through certainly aren't ones she takes lightly, as I'll repeat again and again. Related to said darkness, there's a l'il language in this fic. Not a ton, but my other fics have been less sweary for some reason lol, so if you're offended then. Go read Walls? Idk. Anyway, here's the Prologue, which I know sets up the summary but y'all need an insight into this specific scene for a reason. The first chapter should be up in a few days! As ever, if you enjoy this feel free to let me know! Stay safe, and remember this is all pretend, guys. Fanfiction cannot harm you ;)

disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, wicker chairs, henchmen or newspapers.

A Fragile Little Flame

Prologue

For the sake of drama, she's sure she should be in a dark, seedy-looking basement right now. Or maybe a port, at night, surrounded by wooden crates and shadows and puddles. Perhaps even a dark pub or bar, smoke thick within the air, windows tinted brown. Somewhere to create a mysterious atmosphere, something that suggests the darkness of what's about to happen.

Instead, she finds herself walking into a light, bright café at 1pm.

Chez Marie is a nice place, French-style in theme with wicker wooden chairs, red tablecloths, but in a modern, clean way rather than a rustic or country vibe. And it's full and bustling, servers with warm smiles rushing round the place with ease, light happy music playing at a comfortable volume. The smell of coffee and food hangs deliciously in the air.

Yet it doesn't warm her heart. Doesn't impress her. Instead she just heads to the table she knows she's needed at, avoiding the polite staff, and walks up to the man she's here to meet with.

He's seated by the window, as his instructions had said he would be. There's a china tea set sitting in front of him, cups and milk and teapot, and she watches as he opens a pack of sugar, stirs it into his drink, tossing the paper to the floor. Discarded. Two beefy men sit either side of him, unblinking- muscle and nothing more. She'd be a little flattered at the protection against her, if she didn't know he always travels with backup, both to defend himself and to intimidate those he meets.

"Miss Green?" he asks, still focused on his tea, and she stops in front of him, nods.

"That's me."

And then he looks up at her, grins a gross, long smile. She tries not to visibly show her disgust at the sight of the man she's heard so much about, for so many years.

Oh, there's nothing actively wrong with him, no. Though she likes to think she doesn't judge people on just their appearance anyway, he's not terribly ugly, she supposes, and she's not the type to hate a scar if he had one. In fact, she's sure he looks, to most people, like an ordinary guy. A little old and definitely balding, but perfectly regular.

But there's something in his eyes that is dark, and cold, and she knows there's good reason to see it there.

She's stayed far away from the shadow of Simon Blanc, his violence, his methods, his awful legacy within the con game, for a long, long time. He's the kind of man you come to only when you have no other choice.

And she needs this job. She needs any job, literally anything. He's paying, and she's completely, utterly, desperate.

Swallowing her pride, and maybe something else stuck in her throat too, she slips into the lone remaining seat at the table. Simon waves over a server, nods her way.

"Could she get a double macchiato, with the foam on top? It's always so good here." His tone is dripping with sincerity, warmth, a compliment to the server, but she sees right through the façade. This man enjoys nothing, is genuine about nothing. Everything in his life is a game.

"Right away!" the server says happily, rushing off again.

She feels something sick stir within her stomach at the idea of double shot caffeine right now, but she doesn't want to argue. She just wants this over with as soon as possible.

When the drink has arrived, she takes a polite sip, then looks across the table.

"We both know why I'm here, so..."

"Oh, yes," Blanc says, like he'd almost forgotten, snapping his fingers at one of the men to his side. The guy produces a file, hands it to Blanc, who hands it over to her, 'Miss Green' as she'll be before she chooses a cover name for this job. "So. This guy's pissing me off—been doing it for too long now, honestly. You take him out and 750,000 is yours, plus whatever else you wanna steal from him in the meantime."

It's a lot of money. Not her biggest win, no, but she can't afford that kind of risk, that kind of greed right now. She needs just enough to set her up. To get her out.

But when she'd contacted him, enquired about a job, she wasn't expecting this. She hadn't been specific about what she'd take, but just as she knows Blanc's reputation, she's sure he knows hers, too.

Looking across at the man, she frowns a little.

"Take him out?"

"Yeah," he says, shrugging casually, clearly meaning only one thing. The coffee churns, bitter in her stomach.

"I don't know what you'd heard about me, Blanc, but I'm not—" Cutting herself off, she leans in, lowers her voice. "I'm not a hitwoman."

Just like that, his eyes harden, that false-lightness fading, shoulders tightening. They're cues of anger, but she holds firm.

"I know what you are, Miss Green. I know you're out on your ass. This is what I'm offering. It's this or nothing. And I know you need this job. You contacted me—you need me, not the other way around."

And there, she supposes, lies the rub. Because it's true.

Once upon a time, she was great at this job. Raised in it by Jack Burton himself, going from place to place, stealing and conning and rolling in money and glee. When her father had been arrested, she'd carried on, running with the money he'd left her until she conned someone else. She's assumed hundreds of names, been to so many places, countries, cities. They'd even nicknamed her the Ice Queen because of how cold and clean-cut she managed to make every con.

But then a few things went south. Then a few more things. The jobs she could do got harder, tougher, darker. She had to take from people who probably couldn't afford it, then from people who definitely couldn't. With no roots, no home, no life, she had to keep running, but to keep doing that she had to keep getting money. She'd started taking jobs from people, whatever they wanted.

Until a few months ago, when she'd decided she needs out. It's not even a need- she simply has to get out. Move to some inconspicuous boring suburb, finish her diploma, maybe, get a simple job. And live. Get out of the game.

And that's why she finds herself sitting across from Simon Blanc. The creepiest, lowest of the low. And he wants her to kill someone for him.

She never would've considered it, once. But for 750,000 dollars, and more on top, she'll do just about anything, now.

Taking a deep breath, she opens the file, sees a fairly familiar face looking up at her.

"Shit," she breathes, and Blanc snorts a little.

"I see you know him. Yeah, it's a high-profile thing, but that's why it'll be so sweet." He grins sadistically, leaning in across the table. It takes everything in her to not lean away instinctively. "You need to kill him in his bed. Real front page news shit. Make it as bloody as you want, I don't care. But it's got to be there, it needs to be a scandal. He's got good security, you can't just break in, you'll need to be let in there yourself. I'm sure you can manage that."

He looks her up and down, his hint so blatant it makes her skin crawl. She tenses, tosses back another mouthful of bitter, hot coffee.

"Fine." She says, with a tight smile. "Timeframe?"

"Two weeks starting Monday—gives you a little time to figure out your plan or whatever. I really don't wanna wait."

With a nod, she looks back down at the file, the vague information, newspaper cuttings, the photo. But she already knows most of it. Who doesn't? Even someone as disconnected to life and popular culture as she is, knows one of the biggest tech moguls on the planet. The founder of an incredibly successful company, the innovator, inventor, the rags-to-riches millionaire honoring the legacy of the father who abandoned him.

And in just two weeks, she has to kill him. Even though it goes against her conscience, her morals, everything she knows, she also knows this is the only way. She swears to herself- to get out, to start her life, she'll succeed.

Chuck Bartowski won't know what hit him.