A/N: I am a strict canon writer, and I do not deviate from how the show portrayed events. I extrapolate. This story has been banging around in my head for months. Finally got the first bit done.
I joined Chuck Fanfiction Facebook group today and got inspired to get this done. Hope you like it.
May 28, 2012
Somerset, England
"Oh, Dad, it's beautiful," Vivian gushed as she walked beside the lakeshore on the property they now owned. The pathway beneath her feet was worn, and she followed it through a shaded glen. It was almost sunset, and the glow on the water surface sparkled like gold. Pink, blue, and orange flowers trimmed the edges as she looked, until they disappeared under a gently hanging trail of weeping willow fronds, dangling over the water. Two white swans drifted by lazily. "This is where you grew up?"
"Not here, exactly, Darling. In this town, yes. The house I grew up in was destroyed, " Hartley said gently, leaving out the fact that it was old henchmen of hers that had destroyed it. "This estate is where my mother lives now. I wanted you to meet her," he said with a soft smile.
Although, technically, they weren't Vivian and Hartley anymore. They were Veronica and Henry Atwater, thanks to the blank identities Chuck Bartowksi had granted them in Moscow, a way out to start over. From Moscow, they had gone to Europe-St. Tropez, on the Riviera. Any place Vivian had wanted to see, he had taken her. She had traveled much in her youth, her father's money keeping her occupied but alone. This time they were tourists, travelers, and she was seeing it all through new eyes.
Even though Riley had confirmed what Chuck had told her-that her father, Alexei Volkoff, had in fact been a by-product of a defective Intersect download, courtesy of Chuck's father Stephen, she had been slow to accept that it was true. In the dark descent that had begun once she had learned the truth about Volkoff seemed absolute, unavoidable. She could feel the monster inside herself, growing in power, even as her father had receded. In the end, the kind-eyed man standing in her office, pleading for a second chance to be her father, had stood in such stark contrast to her memories that she'd had to stop and reconsider.
With nothing to lose, and no way to go back, she instead took a chance that everything she had learned was actually true, and that she had a second chance. She went to Greece, Italy, France, Spain, Germany. They ate, drank, laughed, and talked. He told her everything about him, from the past, his science and his life before with his friends. She told him everything she had done, things she had learned, things he had coached her in but now no longer remembered. They became close, friends, a slow but steady and strong bond developing between them. Through all of their travels, all of their adventures, everything she learned, it was how to have a father, how to love her father, that she cherished the most.
He put his arm companionably around her shoulders as they walked past the mailbox, the name Summersby on the box, a twist on his mother's real last name, Winterbottom, done for her protection as well. Hartley had purchased this estate for her, and he and his daughter to live. Quiet, peaceful, away from the world, but still home, the home he remembered, the home he wanted his daughter to know as her own as well. They approached the house, moderately sized, but still modest looking, not overly done with opulence. There was plenty of room for horses and trails for horseback riding. "God, Vivian, it's been so long since I've seen her," he said wistfully, his voice catching in his throat when he thought of the woman who had raised him.
She smiled, nodding her head softly, comfortable at last with the man who was her father. They walked up the steps, and he pushed the doorbell, hearing the old-fashioned ding inside the house. The door flew open, and a short, conservatively dressed old woman with a white, bunned coiffure regarded them with a wide smile. "Oh, my Hartley!" she gushed, weeping tears of joy, reaching up and grabbing onto him.
He smelled her perfume surrounding him like a familiar memory, comforting and pleasant. "Oh, Stephen's boy was right. He didn't give up! He brought you back to me!" She pulled back, grasping both of his hands in hers. "They told me you don't remember anything that happened after that horrible business with that nasty computer program," she said, her heavy British accent chopping the beginnings or ends off of her words. "Such a long time. Is that true?" she asked.
"I'm afraid so. But I'm all better now," he said, smiling wide as his blue eyes twinkled. He had lost so much time. He was done wasting it. "Mother, there's someone here I want you to meet," Hartley said, pulling his daughter forward by the hand.
Mrs. Winterbottom's face went ghostly white, and she raised her hand to her mouth, as it gaped open in a wide eye "O." "Dear God," she said slowly. "Is this…"
"This is my daughter, Vivian," he said gently.
"My mother's name was Vivian, too, Dearest," she said, pulling the younger woman into her arms.
"Dad said I look like your mother, his grandmother," Vivian said, huffing as the older woman squeezed her.
"That's right, Dear, that's right," Mrs. Winterbottom cooed. Over Vivian's shoulder, mother and son exchanged a knowing, but sad look. Hartley's mother recognized who Vivian actually resembled, not her great-grandmother, but her actual mother, a woman known well by Mrs. Winterbottom, who had been in fact once long ago her daughter-in-law. The one look from him let her know how complicated the story must have been.
"Welcome home!" she gushed, and shut the door behind them.
June 14, 2012
Somerset, England
Vivian and Hartley sat at the breakfast table, sipping tea. The newspaper sat folded, tucked beneath her dish. "This is so bizarre, Dad. Have you seen this ad?" Vivian asked, pulling it out and sliding it towards her father. Hartley looked where her finger pointed. It was an advertisement, a want ad, someone looking for a 1968 Ford Mustang, something extremely rare in Great Britain. Although not completely unheard of, it stood out for its oddity. "This is the fifth day in a row the same ad is here. Isn't that peculiar?"
Hartley glanced at it, chewing on his croissant and sipping his tea, not completely paying full attention to it until he realized his brain was seeing something that wasn't actually there. He dropped his spoon, and it clattered against the china saucer. "Oh my God, it can't be…" he muttered to himself.
"What, Dad?" she asked.
"Quickly, quickly!" he said, waving his hand in the air. "I need a pencil and paper, Darling. Hurry," he said.
Confused, but rushing to oblige him, she stood and went into the pantry to grab what he needed. He pulled them from her hands and immediately drew what looked like a long tic-tac-toe board. He scanned the ad, jotting letters quickly into the matrix, creating what appeared to be just a jumble. But she watched as he scanned his columns again, and word by word, a sentence appeared. "Hartley, are you there? This is Mary."
Vivian gasped, taking a step back once she read what her father had written. "What is that, Dad?" she asked.
Panting, he replied, "A long time ago, before I went undercover, while Stephen and I were still working for MI6, he devised this secret code, a way to communicate without anyone else being able to detect it. Stephen and Mary owned this car, when their daughter was very small. My God, Mary's trying to find me."
"I thought Stephen Bartowksi was dead," she said softly.
"He, uh, he is," Hartley said sadly. "Mary must know the code. And she knew I would remember it. She must have been running this for months, by the chance that we showed up in England. I have to let her know she found me, Darling. For her to be looking for me, like this, something has to be very wrong." He pulled the top page off the notepad, and began scribbling what looked like nonsense on the next page. It translated into what appeared to be a new classified advertisement, describing a vehicle and a location, but then translated into an unintelligible string of letters. After the lines of gibberish, one sentence-I'm here, Mary. What do you need?
June 27, 2012
Echo Park, Los Angeles, California
Whenever Chuck Bartowski was dreaming, he usually had a conscious grasp of the fact. He had always chalked it up to a strange side effect of having the Intersect. This ability seemed to coincide well with his bouts of interaction with the computer files imprinted on his brain. A six month stint of being without it had never produced the same effect, which served as more proof of his hypothesis. Before his father had built the neural regulator called the Governor, he had also had a CIA psychologist tell him the Intersect interacted with his subconscious mind and could manifest in dreams. As with most other things, he had learned to roll with it. There were worse things, he thought, than having the confidence that whatever frightening thing transpiring before his mind's eye as he slept could not possibly be real.
Just like now, tonight, he knew this was only a nightmare. Nevertheless, the fear had him paralyzed. This wasn't real, but it had been. This just wasn't a nightmare. It was a memory, one of his darkest.
It started in the courtyard in Echo Park, next to the fountain. All of the foliage was adorned with twinkling white lights, the cement patio scattered with tables and chairs, his family and friends mingling on the edge of his vision. He had been happier in this moment than in almost any other, so why, he thought to himself, and how had his brain transformed this to a horrid vision? He realized he had a phone in his hand, heard the voice of a woman, lost and hopeless, who blamed him for all the woes of her life. He looked up, and Sarah was there, in a beautiful ivory draped-front dress, the concern on her face immediate as she perceived the change in his mood effortlessly as he listened. He had said something, words that jumbled, an internal spike of fear for his mother...the need to find Mary Bartowksi in the crowd. Only to brush past Sarah, to hear her groaning in pain, her hands pressed hard over her ears…
Here lay the things of nightmare. Even as a memory, it was incoherent, for Chuck had been so removed from the actual movement of time's progression forward after this, he couldn't even remember this clearly when he was awake. One look passed between them, a cold dread as she understood in a split second before she collapsed what had been done to her. Every drop of Chuck's blood turned to ice water, his eyes wide and full of panic as he stepped forward to catch her before she crumpled to the ground, her face pale and blood seeping out of both nostrils. He couldn't breathe, could only barely speak, babbling hysterically, helplessly certain he was watching her die. The only intel he had told him Norseman wasn't survivable, was it?
Others intervened. His sister and brother-in-law, doctors, remained clear-headed even in the abject chaos swirling around them. Devon had had to pry his arms out from underneath her limp body, while Mary had literally held Chuck on his feet, out of the way as the doctors worked, tears blurring his vision as Ellie and Devon started CPR, after hearing a vague echo that Sarah had no pulse. The squeal of the ambulance broke in, as Morgan and Casey cleared people out as fast as they could, calmly lying to their guests. Yes, Sarah was going to be fine. No one should worry.
Memories flashed like pictures in a slideshow, out of sequence, and only half-recalled as the panic frayed his concentration. He was in the back of an ambulance, jostling about and struggling for his balance, reaching around the medics that were attending to his fiancée. Then running alongside the gurney, briefing his sister and brother-in-law with as much information as possible. The scent of Ellie's perfume, plus the wine she had been drinking at the party, mixed with the antiseptic smell of the hospital surrounded him. Chuck could hear only words in bits and phrases, medical jargon he only superficially understood. Every sound came at him like it was being shouted down a cardboard tube.
It felt unreal.
It is unreal, he thought. This already happened. And you saved her. You saved her, his own voice echoed in his head, in a plea to stop this horrid vision.
Time sped up, jumbled, though he knew he was still trapped in his nightmare. A tub full of ice, her scalding hot fingers against his lips, the naked horror and fear in his sister's and brother-in-law's eyes telling him even this clinging to life was miraculous, considering what had been done to her...Morgan's voice, affirming it. I was in the room when that thing went off. It killed like 8 people in 30 seconds. Sarah was shot with the Norseman? How is she still alive? Morgan's obvious chagrin for saying this out loud, having not initially known Chuck was within earshot...
Mary had been right. Sarah was the strongest woman he knew. Where was his mother? Why did that question seem omnipresent, something he had wondered for 20 years. With Clara, he thought, though he knew, later, she went to Castle to help him and Casey. But she wasn't here, in the hospital...She's fighting for you, Chuck. That's the only thing keeping her alive...Ellie had said, somewhere in the jumbled conversation. He knew it, held it inside himself, and locked everything else down.
The man who had promised to fix this, to save her, released her burning hand and rose, turning to Casey with a steel in his eyes John had never seen before. Not in Chuck, anyway. Sarah had looked this way once, after locking him inside a detention cell, and telling him she needed Chuck, and she was going to get him back.
Chuck had no choice. He could risk his life like that, so easily, for her. Because without her, his life didn't matter. She had given him this life. And it meant absolutely nothing without her.
His gaze shifted again, time advancing in a flash, seeing Sarah open her eyes, the glaze of fevered confusion dissipating. Mistaking his tears of relief for jittery fright, she hushed to calm him.
He felt his blood begin to flow again out of his frozen heart, comfort slowly smothering the fretful agitation.
You saved her.
This is just a dream.
Chuck Bartowski's eyes fluttered open slowly in the pale pre-dawn light that filled his bedroom. A groggy fog of sleep still enfolding him, he let his last words to himself in the dream calm him. Just a dream.
He reached reflexively beside himself, forgetting, and cringing at the cold emptiness on the sheet. Reality suffocated him like a pillow over his face. His chest burned and ached as he breathed, remembering in a trumpet flash of pain why he was alone.
This reality was now worse than any nightmare of her dying had ever been. She lived, but without her memories of him. Without her life, the life that she had shared with him.
He felt the fresh tears stream from his eyes across his temples as reality took hold again, like it did every day he woke alone in his room. Though months had passed since Sarah had left him alone on the beach, her scent still seemed to fill the room, soft flowers and sweet incense. He mused about the insanity of leaving so much of her here, when all it did was hurt him. The princess kiss hadn't worked, as far-fetched an idea as it had been. After all the pain he had lived, how could he have still believed in such a fairy tale?
Because she made you believe in miracles.
Even though she couldn't remember it anymore.
Morose, he began arguing with himself. Wouldn't her dying have been easier? As if anything about life could be easy with her missing from his…
Yes, it would have, the devil on his shoulder whispered in his ear. There was no option left to live with her. If she had to be gone, wouldn't it have been better to have a grave to visit, to adorn with flowers? To know her heart had been full of her love for him as her existence winked away? That someday when he was old, he would be with her again?
He sat up sharply, amazing himself that he even had the potential to let his thoughts go down this path. He remembered the feeling of his father's lifeless body in his arms, knowing any fate, even being lost in the world and never part of their lives again was better than that finality of death, the cold emptiness that swallowed him when he thought that no matter what, he would never see his father again, see his face or hear his voice.
Selfish! He admonished himself, burning with shame for ever even suggesting her death just to save him from pain. Somehow, living in constant misery had weakened him, made him less than he had been at his best. Losing her had always been his greatest fear—the atroxium poisoning had taught him that. But it had always taken the shape of her death, not her consciously walking away from him.
Now all he had was the agony of the memory of her face—her ocean blue eyes, empty and cold, devoid of feeling, gazing back at him instead. The last five years of his life erased like a VHS tape, rewound, broken and unwatchable. Leaving him exactly where he had been when she found him, as if somehow that cancelling out was even or fair. Oh, but it wasn't fair. He was back at the beginning—only older, tired, changed for what he now thought of as worse, and still alone. Exponentially alone. For now he was the sole bearer of memories of a life stolen from him, a life whose absence amplified his loneliness and inconsolability.
He had tried moving on before, tried to get over her. It had been hopeless back then, when he wasn't even sure how she felt about him, when he had yet to hear her say she loved him, when he had yet to hold her in his arms as she slept, after making love to her in their bed.
Stop! He screamed inside himself, pausing as he sensed the word ringing in his ears, realizing he must have screamed it out loud as well. Only the thoughts wouldn't go away. How could he even begin to heal from this utter devastation?
Sometimes things don't heal. It was harsh, but it was true.
He had changed everything, became a different person, the best possible version of himself—for her. And now she was gone.
He wanted a normal morning again, but still, six months since he had last laid eyes on her, it was elusive. Nothing regular or ho-hum about it. Only searing pain behind his eyes at the sterile sunlight, and searing pain in his chest where his broken heart continued to beat.
He turned, swinging the blanket back and pivoting his feet to the floor. At least he had his job, thanks to General Beckman. At one point it had been the perfect component in what he had hoped would be he and Sarah's new life, after spying. Now, it was the only reason he had to get out of bed in the morning.
He and his best friend, Morgan Grimes, and Morgan's girlfriend Alex, worked at his restructured company—Carmichael Industries. Out of the private security business, he and Morgan were subcontractors for the CIA's anti cyber crime slash terrorism unit. No guns, no travel, no more worrying about dying all the time. All the work was done remotely, and on a computer. Just a set of headphones in a quiet bunker disguised as an ordinary office building. This routine had at one point in the past included a bottle of Chardonnay, but now, he had left it out. It had been a quirky, funny part of his rituals way back. But the temptation was too strong now—down the bottle in a standing chug so it would stop hurting, at least for a little while. Rendering him essentially drunk and useless. And he feared the potential for his dependency—for, these days, it was the only thing that ever made it stop hurting at all. And as enticing as that sounded, he knew he could lose himself too easily like that.
And as enticing as that sounded, he still had a mother and a sister in Chicago who loved him, whom he strove not to hurt. And a best friend, who acted as his legs and hands to complete his missions, seated with him, even now, vowing to be there as needed, in any capacity required. Mostly lately as a sounding board and a sponge for his ranting grief.
He would not have survived any of this without Morgan and Alex, John Casey's daughter. He had let Ellie and Awesome go, for their own sakes, telling them he would be ok, not knowing how he could ever be again. Morgan made sure he was, at least as much as he could be anymore.
You know she wanted to remember, he told himself. The picture of all of the evidence laid out before her of this perfect life, where she had actually been happy, was so compelling. She wanted to have what she saw, but the emotions that accompanied the events were gone, and neither of them knew how to get them back. So he had let her go, with the promise that he would not ask her for anything, and that he would always be there when and if she needed him.
Six months ago.
He had no idea where she was. And he knew, no matter what, that she didn't want him to come after her. She would find him, if she ever wanted or needed to.
Why would she have any need for him? Without you, I'm just a spy. He heard her say it in his head, not knowing exactly when or why she had. Now he was certain that she had been right.
Because that was apparently all she wanted to be anymore.
He dressed numbly, like a robot, the mundaneness of the task quieting his roiling emotions. This was his life now. Everything else had gone, and he still struggled to face it. Not that long ago, he had been sure he would never feel like this again—lost or confused. He had found what he wanted, had been in the process of creating the life of his dreams with the woman who completed him.
I should have knocked on wood, he thought bitterly. The thought had just never occurred to him that he would find himself here again. He had never been surer of anything than he had been about Sarah's feelings for him. It had become unfathomable for him to think that someday he would lose her, that she would walk away.
But he had underestimated the power of his father's ill-fated creation, and the ability of evil doers to corrupt it for their own benefit. Sarah had been caught in that crossfire. If you were here, Dad, you wouldn't have rested until you fixed this. His father would have been able to fix this, he felt in his heart. But his father was dead, killed by Daniel Shaw, as a means to disrupt his concentration and his ability to access the Intersect without the governor his father had built for him.
More useless, wishful thinking he didn't have time for. He was going to be late for work.
June 28, 2012
Echo Park, Los Angeles, California
Hazy images of a smile he missed and could no longer see faded into the blurry red digits on his nightstand as the sound of the phone ringing woke him. He reached quickly, fumbling in the dark, hearing a pen and something tinkling like change fall to the floor with the sweep of his hand. He clicked it on without looking at the caller, knowing instinctively that any call coming in at 3:30 am needed to be answered regardless of who was calling.
Before he could say a scratchy hello, he heard a desperate sounding, "Chuck?"
He lost his breath and his voice, knowing instantly who the voice belonged to, a voice he would have recognized anywhere, but hadn't heard out loud in a very long time.
"Sarah?" he managed to squeak out incredulously. His heart pounded against his breastbone, almost causing pain.
"Chuck," she said again, her voice shaking in a way he had never heard before. "I'm sorry...I know it must be the middle of the night where you are—"
He sat up, immediately alert and worried. "Sarah, it's ok. I said anytime. Anything you need. I meant it," he said, echoing the promise he had made her on the beach at sunset before the last time he'd kissed her.
He heard a sharp breath. "I know you did," she said, unable to disguise the tears he knew she was crying.
"Are you all right? What's wrong, Sarah?" he questioned, instantly sick with worry.
"It seems silly...when I say it out loud...but...I keep having this dream. The same dream. Over and over." He tried and failed to remember a time when he had heard her sounding as upset and emotional as she did.
He held his breath as she paused, forcing himself to calm. "It's different...than the others. I think it's a memory. Only I don't know how to find out if it is…" She sniffled. "I just woke up and it's so clear right now...I...just thought..."
"Just tell me, Sarah. Let me help you if I can," he said gently.
She breathed out, a sigh of relief. "I'm in a jungle. And I'm fighting all these men with knives. I'm alone. At first. But then John Casey and your friend, Morgan, are there too. While that's happening, I'm angry. So angry. And I find this building. And I feel like I should be relieved, only I'm not. Once I go inside, I feel...I feel…"
He let out his breath slowly, forgetting that he was still holding it. "You feel what?" he asked encouragingly.
"Devastated. Lost," she choked out. "Complete despair. And then I wake up." She sniffled again. "I've had the same dream every night for almost two weeks." The line was quiet for what felt to Chuck an eternity. "Is this some kind of memory?"
"I think, I think, I think….that it is," he stammered. "I only heard about it, you know, after the fact. But it is." He couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't stop himself from hoping that this meant more of her memory was coming back. Too much hope had the power to destroy him, and he feared it, forced it back down.
"What is it, Chuck?" she asked.
"You were off the grid. In Thailand. Looking for the Belgian," he sighed tightly.
"He kidnapped you, didn't he?" she offered, after several beats.
"Yes, yes, yes, Sarah, he did!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "That's why I don't really remember it the same way you would. I was...I was…"
"Almost completely...gone," she said slowly, not realizing she was repeating the words Dr. Mueller had told her as she had run to him, to pull the electrodes off his head.
"You remember," he said, awe in his voice. He listened to her breathing, what sounded like gasping.
"But you were ok…" she started. "Why would it make me feel...like that?"
"Maybe, maybe...while I was out...you thought...maybe...that you lost me, you know, back then." He coughed to cover the broken shaking at the end of his words.
He heard strangled weeping, knowing with certainty what her face would have been showing him had he been with her, and troubled that she was so disturbed and upset. "I'm sorry-"
"No, no. It's not your fault. This makes sense now, really, it does. Thank you," she breathed. The last sentence sounded so familiar, he imagined the wide, genuine smile he couldn't see but knew was on her face.
Panicking, feeling the finality in her tone, he stuttered, "Wait! Sarah, wait!" Then quieter, "Sarah, please. Don't go yet. I'm wide awake, even if it is the middle of the night. Just talk to me, for a little while."
"Chuck.." she said softly.
"How are you? Really?" he asked.
"I'm just trying to make it through my days, you know? I don't know what else to do. I can't…" Her voice trailed away, cutting off abruptly.
"You can't what?" he asked.
"I have to go, Chuck," she said hurriedly. "Take care of yourself, ok?"
"Ok. Bye," he added, feeling his eyes sting after an all too familiar pain roared in his chest, wishing he could hold on even as he felt her slipping away again.
He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, falling back hard against his pillow. He prepared himself for a long day behind a computer screen, exacerbated by his pending lack of sleep.
She remembered, he wondered again. He had only heard Morgan tell him, after he was safe, what she had done. He had only hazy memories, some he was sure were dreams. What blazed in his mind clearly, even now, was Sarah's face, a memory as he'd opened his eyes. It was the one and only time he had seen her broken like that— her eyes swollen and red, her makeup smeared out of her eyes and down her cheeks, her blue eyes overrun with pain. Saturated with murky swamp water, and yet she still managed to fill his brain with flowers and vanilla. Then a hug so fierce it crushed his ribs gave way to a sigh of relief, and more weeping.
Other memories weren't so clear. Slung over a few shoulders, a jostling ride on an army cargo carrier, a hospital bed with an IV...Sarah changing back from the crazed, desperate hunter into his Sarah...holding him in her arms, brushing his hair back from his forehead, kissing his lips as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Please tell me he's ok. That we weren't too late… her voice, aching. You stopped the doctor in time. He may be missing a few memories, but he will recover...someone else's voice, unknown to him.
She had risked everything to find him. To save him.
A magical kiss, he had said, and Chuck reeled at the irony. It had worked then, but not the second time, when he had tried.
Oh Sarah, he thought, his mind aching. He had missed her so badly it had incorporated itself into his personality now. He wasn't the same Chuck anymore. He wished it weren't true, but he knew it was. Life was always changing. He had changed, in the past five years, becoming the absolute best version of himself. There was no way to stop time, though. He continued to change, but now for the worse, because all the joy in his life was gone without Sarah.
All he remembered about his captivity in Thailand was the worst of it. The knowledge that his mind was deteriorating, his life slipping away. The utter hopelessness and despair Sarah had described from her dream. But his memory ended differently than her dreams. He could recall seeing her in his mind, not believing that she was real. Her voice, calming him, letting him know he was not alone. She was there. And she had pulled him out of the abyss by sheer force of will.
By letting him know how much she loved him.
But she didn't love him, not anymore. Maybe that's why, he thought, she felt the way she did. That some part of her, deep inside where she couldn't reach, missed him as much as he missed her. For whatever that was worth, he scoffed bitterly.
June 30, 2012
Carmichael Industries, Burbank, California
Chuck pulled off his headphones as he saw the panel blinking, a communication coming in from General Beckman. He pushed the button, and saw her familiar stern yet somehow kind face.
"Good morning, Mr. Bartowski," she said crisply.
"Good morning, General," he said flatly, his smile weak. "I wasn't expecting you to touch base so soon. I'm not anywhere near breaking through the security encryption on the last data packet you sent through-"
"That's not what this is about," she cut him off.
He closed his mouth, waiting.
"As you were made aware, we have been monitoring your communications after that last credible threat from the North Korean government." He nodded stiffly. "Sarah called you in the middle of the night yesterday."
He struggled to keep his face neutral. "This isn't supposed to be a surprise, right? She did. You know she did…"
"No Chuck, listen to me. We were able to trace the call," she said.
His heart betrayed him, pounding in anticipation despite his mind telling him it didn't matter where she was, because he couldn't go after her. "General, she made it clear—"
"Listen to me, Chuck. This is important," she snapped, her use of his given name unusual, enough to make him startle. "I haven't forgotten what happened at the concert hall. I haven't forgotten what I owe you."
"You don't owe me anything, General," he said softly.
"The fact that you believe that just proves it to me more. I know what you lost. And I have never stopped trying to help you get it back."
He looked up in confusion. Her face softened, not quite a smile, but the closest thing he could expect from her. "I'm going to share something with you, Mr. Bartowski, that normally I would keep to myself. I spent close to four years always on the defensive, having to explain why everything that you touched seemed fraught with reckless emotionalism. But you and your team made it easy for me. You were the best-you had the results to prove it. However boldly it flew in the face of everything we were ever taught about espionage, those relationships made you better, not worse. You were better with her, Chuck. You're still good, but you're better when she's with you. I know you know this. I know it too. And I will continue to do whatever is within my power to help you get her back."
He forced his facial muscles to set, knowing the worst possible thing he could do was show her that reckless emotionalism, breaking down in front of her. "It, uh, means a lot to me. That you-"
"She's in St Louis. I sent you the address."
He watched as a communique flashed across the bottom of his screen. It was a residential address, in an apartment building. "I thought she was still working for the CIA. Why did you have to trace my phone to find her?" he asked.
Beckman blinked, her eyes staying closed only a beat too long, making him wonder. "She is a civilian as of now, Mr. Bartowski. Which is why it was so difficult for us to find her. Spying on civilians isn't as easy as it used to be," she said dryly.
He felt his tongue seem to stick to the roof of his mouth, closing up his throat before he could form any words. Not with the CIA? Hadn't she told him being a spy was the only thing that she knew how to do or wanted to be? If she had left to think and be alone, but not spying, what on earth was she doing? In St. Louis?
"Why...why...why did she leave the CIA? I don't understand…"
Something dark, almost sad, which was bizarre and unsettling to him, passed over her face. "Just find her, Mr. Bartowski. It will be apparent when you do."
An icy hand seemed to run down his spine at her cryptic tone. "You're scaring me, General. And I'm a lot harder to scare than I used to be."
She pursed her thin lips into a tight line. "As with all things, , fear is in the eye of the beholder."
He felt worse, not better. She knew something from whatever intel they had been able to glean, but thought it best for whatever reason, to not tell him here. "She...uh, she doesn't want me to find her, General. She left for a reason-"
"At least part of that reason you do not understand right now, Mr. Bartowski. But trust me on this, you need to find her. I sent you all the information you need. I'll talk to you soon, Chuck," she said, and swiftly switched off the link, turning his monitor to black.
July 1, 2012
Echo Park, Los Angeles, California
"Morgan?" Chuck called as he opened the apartment door. He knew his friend was home, and he desperately needed to talk to him.
Chuck heard a sharp exclamation of surprise, and a shuffling noise like he was quickly moving to hide something from view. "Dude! You scared the crap out of me! Did you knock?" he asked, looking around, like he was trying to make sure it was only Chuck.
"Yeah, yeah...I thought you heard. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Chuck apologized softly, but saw the flush on his friend's face. "What...what were you doing, Buddy?"
"I thought you were Alex," he whispered conspiratorially. "I didn't want her to see this," Morgan offered, pulling a small black box from underneath the pile of papers he had tossed on top when he heard Chuck enter. Morgan flipped it open, to reveal a moderately sized diamond ring nestled on a bed of black velvet.
"Buddy," Chuck started, a crease of concern on his forehead, "you're going to propose to Alex?"
"Yeah. Yeah," he said with several quick nods. "I have it all planned. I just got a message out to Casey. I didn't want to ask her before I, you know, cleared it with him. I'm waiting for him to get back to me, since, you know, he went kind of dark after he met up with Gertrude."
Chuck wanted to offer warm congratulations, and he forced his smile, but he knew his own discomfiture wouldn't stay hidden from Morgan, his best friend, for very long. "I'm just surprised, you know, that you didn't tell me. That you left me out. When I…." He had gone back there instinctively, remembering his own proposal plan for Sarah that he had agonized with Morgan over for such a long time.
Appropriately chagrined, Morgan blustered. "I know, Buddy. I know. I'm sorry. It was just...you know...I don't want to make it worse. Rub it in...or…"
Chuck grinned, his mouth a crooked line. "I'm happy for you, Morgan, you know that. You getting engaged is good news. I need as much of that as I can get these days. Come here," Chuck offered, pulling his shorter friend into his arms for a hug.
"So what's the plan, Morgan?" Chuck asked, forcing a smile to put his friend at ease. Morgan's desire to shield him had not been that far off the mark, but the last thing he wanted was to bring his friend down with him. "Sports cars? Magicians? Solid Gold Dancers?"
Morgan laughed, patting Chuck on the back as he walked to sit down. "Nothing like that. We are adults after all," he said with a quick smile. "Just a quiet dinner, candles, soft music. I just want it to be romantic. Special."
The same crooked smile on his face, Chuck offered, "You know, a wise man once told me the specifics don't matter. As long as you've got the girl. And you do, Morgan. You guys are perfect together."
"Who told you that?" Morgan asked skeptically.
"Casey," Chuck quipped. At Morgan's dazed expression, Chuck replied, "I know, right? Who would have thought."
Morgan watched Chuck pulling on his fingers, cracking his knuckles, a tell for him that Chuck was nervous or anxious about something. "What brings you by, Chuck? Not that I'm not happy to see you or anything."
Chuck started pacing. "I...uh...I need your advice about something."
"Shoot, Buddy," Morgan said, gesturing for the chairs for them to sit.
Chuck sat, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his palms pressed flat together. "Sarah called. A couple days ago."
"She did?" Morgan asked, amazed. "That's good, right?"
Chuck cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady as he spoke. "She had a dream. About Thailand, I think. She wasn't sure if it was a real memory or not."
"Thailand? As in the giant blonde she-male fighting her way across Thailand one man at a time in order to find you Thailand?" Morgan shouted excitedly. "That's awesome that she remembered that! That was the most emotional I have ever seen Sarah, man, ever. Casey and I both knew, you know, after that, that lord help anyone who ever tried to keep the two of you apart."
The sadness on Chuck's face was palpable, and Morgan regretted his words, which had done nothing more than remind Chuck of how alone he was. It was so hard to talk about anything without bringing Sarah up somehow. She had been there, every day, integral to his life for five years. "Yeah, yeah," he stammered in reply. "I wish I remembered that a little better. Or on second thought, maybe I'm glad I don't, but it would have been nice to have a longer conversation, you know, to see if she remembered anything else."
"She's gonna remember, Chuck. Maybe a little bit at a time, and maybe not as fast as you'd like, but she will. I know it," Morgan encouraged. Chuck appreciated the support, but at the same time he cringed, knowing this circle of hope and despair had him trapped, and there was no moving forward while running in circles all the time.
"Beckman called the next day, telling me they traced the call. She sent me an address. I guess she's in St. Louis. But she quit the CIA, Morgan. She's a civilian. Doing who knows what," he scoffed.
"Traced her? Why? Did you ask her to?" Morgan asked. "Wait, Dude. She quit the CIA?"
"No, of course I didn't. She left. I let her go. I'm not going to chase her, Morgan, as hard as that is. I don't know what Beckman is thinking, other than she wants to help, just like everyone else who's tried to help me. She told me to go find her. Very adamantly."
"Did Beckman know why she quit?" Morgan asked.
"I have a strange feeling that she does, but she didn't tell me," Chuck replied. Morgan quirked an eyebrow.
"Do I?" Chuck asked. "Just take off and show up on her doorstep? I promised her I wouldn't do that."
"I don't know, Chuck, but I will say one thing. If Beckman is telling you you need to go get Sarah, you need to go get Sarah. You do not mess with that woman. She must have a good reason, Chuck," Morgan insisted.
He gently shook his head, raised his folded hands to his lips. "I know, Morgan. That's what's scaring me."
February 15, 2012
Santa Monica, California
Sarah sat on the beach watching as the sun slowly sank towards the horizon, the golden fire turning the crisp blueness of the sky to a delicate orange pink. Somehow, she believed, she had never spent any time like this-quietly contemplating nature's beauty, life's mystery, or other impossibilities that she now knew were facts. She had been sitting here for hours, the chilly breeze from the ocean cutting through her thin sweater. Thinking about her feelings, something she couldn't ever remember having done before either. She had spent a lifetime running from her feelings, hiding them, mastering them to be used as a tool in her work as an intelligence agent. Her frosty exterior was no mask, rather a manifestation of her almost complete control. She knew this, remembered this, from the time she had been 18 years old and recruited by Director Graham after her father had been taken from her, until now.
Only now was not really now. Her memories no longer matched linear time. She was missing five years worth of her life. She had seen herself, in the recordings that Colonel Casey had delivered to her hotel room, transforming as time progressed. Every day for four years she had talked to herself, about her mission, and her relationship with Charles Bartowski. Slowly she had changed from a detached agent to a woman hopelessly in love with a civilian caught in the middle of clandestine espionage. A man who, it had seemed, had sought a life within the CIA because he wanted to be with her, share a life with her. They were married. Married.
Not as a cover. She had married him because she loved him. She knew this. She had seen it on her own face, as frighteningly strange as it had been. What were the chances? How many planets and stars had needed to line up in order to have created this scenario? He had made her happy, just as he had proclaimed, inside the house where he had taken her to try and refresh her memory. Once he had started describing it there, the red door, the white picket fence, her heart had skipped a beat. She had never told that to anyone, not even Bryce. But somewhere along the way, she had told Chuck. Her husband.
But now she knew her own life as if she had read a dossier on some other person. None of the memories of the actual events were inside her head anymore. Right?
She had remembered carving their names on the wall inside the house, and later bits and pieces of events and things from the past. How much remained, buried inside her head where she couldn't retrieve them? How much was permanently gone? She had no way of knowing. All she knew was that the way she had felt before her memories had been destroyed was not how she felt anymore. She wasn't in love with Charles Bartowski. Not anymore.
Everything she had seen in the past week told her without question why she had fallen for him. He was an extraordinary person. The fact that she had kicked him down a flight of stairs and threatened him with a gun to his head having only been met with him throwing himself between her body and a bullet was the best example she knew.
When he had fallen to the floor, pleading with her to run for her own safety, hadn't something flared? Some remnant, some emotion other than cold clinical manipulation? The strongest sensation of deja vu, that she had done the same thing, said the same thing, many times before. She knew without question as she had stooped down, before she knew he had been protected by a vest, that her insides had frozen in fear that he was mortally wounded. It had gone as quickly as it had flashed in, but she could still almost taste it...How could she ever live without him?
Contemplating her life as the last rays of sunlight scattered across the water, she still had that question in her head, though it made no sense to her. She wanted to love him, wanted the life she had glimpsed in her own eyes in the recordings. But she didn't know how to get there. And how could it be fair to ask him to sit around and wait, that maybe someday, she could learn to love him again? Except that he already told her he would, that he would always be there when she needed him. Despite how badly it hurt him, she knew that. He didn't say it, but she knew.
For what now seemed like the hundredth time, she scrolled back over what were now her only memories left of this life. Waking in the hotel room. Her slumber had been heavy, a state she had never been able to completely achieve as a spy, always on the edge, waiting for danger. Deep comfortable sleep, waking to the disorienting feeling that she was in an unfamiliar place, not home. Though this hotel was her home, was it not? She had flung backwards, her head throbbing as she did so, alarmed that she was alone. There should have been someone...someone with her, holding her against his body, spooning her with a strong and sinewy arm around her waist. It flared, but then disappeared. Fogginess and confusion flooded into her instead.
The photograph...Quinn asking her if she had ever seen the man before. She had answered him, parsing, like any good spy. She didn't know who he was, but seeing his face, his smile...had felt like a giant claw had ripped its way through her insides. The reason why hadn't been clear. Eventually she had rationalized it-and somehow Quinn had confirmed it with his lies, told solely to manipulate her.
Once she had returned to Chuck's apartment, no one had acted as she had anticipated. She lurked in the shadows, spying on her family. They only spoke of her, how she was different. In ways that seemed strange to her. Twisted and confused as her mind was, she still had facts to help her make decisions. As much as Quinn had tried to convince her, she couldn't deny that these people-Chuck, and his sister, and Morgan-they were concerned because they cared about her. Loved her. None of the harm she had been guarding against was apparent. It didn't make sense, even as she had looked to Quinn for guidance. The harshness of his response did not correlate with the mild situation she seemed to be seeing.
Lying next to him, hearing the order to kill him, and feeling the shrill panic, hesitating. Just long enough for him to wake, and the inexplicable rush of relief that he had. She had let Chuck disarm her in the Intersect room, a compelling sincerity in his eyes that shook her to the core, and a surging fire when he had used the words "your Chuck." In fear of this feeling, she had clubbed him to the ground. She had deployed the explosive, but hesitated to detonate it. And the feeling when the bomb had gone off, unconnected to anything, a sharp stab of grief, and a misplaced thought-that same thought-How could she ever live without him?
The more she remembered, the more this one, simple thought encroached. She had told him she didn't feel what she had felt, couldn't be the woman he remembered. Her thoughts and feelings were disconnected-like pages ripped out of a book and slapped back together haphazardly so that nothing made sense anymore. But even now, knowing the enormity of what she had lost-she knew this. She had been happy, and had never even thought for a moment that she would have lived one minute of her life without him.
Even this beach was important. She didn't know why, but she had come here to think. And he had found her here, probably for the same reason. She hadn't even been surprised as he had suddenly appeared, and actually wondered why instead she felt a fleeting whisper of what she thought of as relief.
Seeing the kind gentleness as he spoke, juxtaposed with the agony she clearly saw in his eyes and on his face, tore at her. Knowing he was in pain, that she had any part in causing it, was unbearable in a way that unsettled her. He disregarded his own pain, for her. She had seen this firsthand, knew it without questioning it. How had she ever let herself fall this hard for someone else? Because he's your Chuck. The thought brought tears to her eyes. He was, he had been. She knew she had wanted that always, but now, always had been cut off at the end of their story, the same ripped pages scattered about.
He told her everything-from the first day, to the last moment as they sat here together. He laid himself completely bare, as he had in the house where she had almost killed him. With every word she learned more and more why he had become "her" Chuck. She'd asked him to kiss her to satisfy a clanging emptiness his stories had opened up inside her. She made a wish as she felt his lips touch hers, hesitant and gentle. A wave of his sadness seemed to crash into her while it lingered.
And she saw it, in his eyes, when she opened hers, now, as the kiss ended. Love, and unbelievable anguish that he struggled to keep in check. His hand lingered on the side of her face, as if he knew it would be the last time he would ever touch her. She reached up and covered his hand with her own, feeling the cold metal of his wedding band. He pulled his hand down, and her finger still traced the silver piece of jewelry.
"That's a lock pick, isn't it?" she asked softly.
"What?" he breathed, then pulled his hand back. "Yeah. Nuptial spy gear. You...thought it was...cute." He flashed a smile out of the corner of his mouth, but it was broken, and his eyes edged with tears. The unspoken words hung between them like fog. Looking out at the ocean, he said, "I...uh...I can't, I can't take it off. I never thought I would ever have to take it off-" His voice broke. Eventually he smiled again. "Unless I had to extricate myself from handcuffs."
Fidgeting, she pulled her sweater cuff down over her knuckles again to hide her barren finger. She had removed her wedding band and diamond ring in the hotel room. She was not his wife, no longer the woman he remembered. She watched his eyes trail down anyway, watched his heartbreak reflect back at her. "I'm sorry, Chuck," she said, tears streaming from her eyes as she too looked out at the ocean. "That life...that story….I wanted that. I still do. But wanting it doesn't make it real to me." She reached into her pocket, then in a trembling fist deposited her rings into his hand.
"Sarah, I don't-"
"Please, Chuck, just take them. Everytime I look at them all I do is remember how much I hurt you. I-"
Crying, he turned back to her. "None of this is your fault. You didn't-"
"I tried to kill you!" she shrieked, startled that she had spoken so loudly, looking around to make sure no one else was in earshot.
"But you didn't," he said firmly. "You saved my life when you shot Quinn." And terminated the only chance left to potentially restore her memory, he thought bitterly.
Both eyes red and glistening, she turned to meet his hazel stare. "All we will ever do is hurt each other now, remind each other of what we want but can't have." He looked away, unable to face the truth in her eyes. "It kills me to see that look in your eyes, knowing I'm the reason for it. I need more time. But it isn't fair of me to ask you to wait."
"But I will, Sarah," he said fervently. "I love you. I always have. And I always will." He wanted it to sound stronger, but it ended up sounding like he was telling her he had a terminal illness.
"I know you do. That you will. That's why it hurts so much," she whispered. She reached up and cupped his cheek with her hand. She gulped over a lump that rose in her throat as she watched him close his eyes, ever so slightly lean into her hand. Pulling her hand away took all the strength she had left. "I'm leaving. Really leaving this time. I have to...to...figure things out. Without this...this constant reminder of what's gone. I don't want it to be forever, I don't, please believe that. But…"
"I understand. I do," he said softly. "But it doesn't change anything. Everything I said is still true. I'll be here. Whenever you need me. I promise."
She grabbed him, wrapped her arms around him, lifting off the sand as she pulled him hard against her. Her mind flashed-standing in the dark, vaporous breath surrounding their heads. They were on a bridge, and he was holding her as tightly as he gripped her in return now. His breath shuddered, and she knew it had in her memory too, only for a different reason. She...she had felt...safe. For the first time in her life. Safe. The feeling lingered as she released him. From his story, she knew this memory had to be from when he had killed, or thought he had killed, Daniel Shaw, to save her life. For one brief instant, a memory and the feeling that accompanied it were in synchrony.
She wanted to tell him about her sudden recollection, but hesitated. It had the real potential to toy with his emotions, and she couldn't bring herself to do that. Absurdly, she felt the urge to promise him she would come back, but then she couldn't. She feared making him a promise she couldn't keep. Honesty was new, as well. But she knew deep down, she had always been able to be honest with this man. Instead she rose to her feet.
For the third time now, Chuck felt his insides rip as she walked away from him. This was the worst, because he had a nagging suspicion that this time, it was forever.