This story will have multiple points of view, each one depicted by the name of the character above each scene.

It should go without saying … but I don't own Chuck.

A/N: I'm sure some of you are wondering what the hell is going on with the deletion and reposting of this aging story. I've decided to take another stab at it from the very beginning, in a way that's more befitting of my original concept. Simply put, this was our (mine and Emily's) first attempt at fanfiction, and looking back, I'm not all that happy with it. At the time, it was mainly a way to keep Emily's writing chops up and her mind focused on something besides fighting cancer. Now that she's free and clear of that nightmare (thank God) and back to writing her own stories (go Emily), I wanted to pick up the mantle, as it were, and recreate ASITHOC without relying so much on canon. Yes, we eventually did veer away from the show's framework during the last arc of the original story, but by that point, it felt somewhat disjointed to me.

As you'll see, this storyline will be different. It'll start coming off the canon rails as soon as the first deviation from canon happens (in the next chapter), jumpstarting a kind of butterfly effect. There will be an underlying arc tying together the subplots, hopefully making the whole thing feel a bit more cohesive and coherent.

To stave off any worries from the gallery … yes, this is still a Charah fic, through and through. But some may find it darker than the original—at least in the beginning.

I've also chosen to write Chuck and Sarah's POVs in first person, in the hopes of delving further into their thoughts and feelings. As of right now, I don't plan on having any of the other characters' POVs, as we did in our original story, but if I do, they will remain in third person. One of Emily's books does this and it actually worked out surprisingly well.

Finally, I'm keeping the chapters in-between six and seven thousand words in length. I feel like some of our longer chapters from our first go-round might have come across as monumental undertakings, rather than enjoyable jaunts that you can read on the fly. As an added bonus, keeping the word count lower will also allow me to update more quickly.

Well, that's it for now. Wish me luck… fingers crossed… and away we go…

Act I

Chapter 1: Harbinger

*** Sarah ***

I navigated the manicured streets of Burbank with my Porsche on autopilot, my teeth grinding and my brain on fire.

How in the hell could I have let this happen on my watch? Chuck was my asset, mine and Casey's to protect. And Bryce had made off with him with little to no resistance—at least from me. I had even given my ex the damn elevator code, for God's sake. Against Casey's pleas, I'd helped a dangerous fugitive escape custody, all in a desperate attempt to save Chuck's life. I was supposed to be one of the best the CIA had to offer, and I'd failed miserably.

Or … maybe not, considering Chuck was still alive, if not fully awake yet. I stole a quick glance at him, slumped against my car door, his arms and legs akimbo, and shuddered with relief. Only Bryce's twisted sense of propriety—or whatever angle he was working—had spared Chuck's life.

He might have the world's most sought-after super-computer lodged in his brain, but at the end of the day, Chuck was just a glorified—albeit gifted—computer tech, working at a big-box store for a meager wage. The closest he'd ever gotten to any kind of espionage was playing unrealistic video games with that walking social disaster he called a best friend. He was a liability in a firefight and he could have gotten himself killed.

I should have told him what Bryce was capable of. Should have warned him, at least. Instead I'd sent him into that medical bay alone, like a lamb to slaughter, and listened helplessly as he and Bryce conversed in some bizarre language before Bryce lured Chuck in close enough to break his bonds and hold a loaded syringe to Chuck's jugular.

The fact of the matter was, I hadn't been able to muster up enough courage to even look at Chuck for an extended period of time, much less tell him how to handle himself in a room with a highly-trained CIA operative whose only real rival was myself.

And that was the crux of my screwed-up, convoluted situation, wasn't it? I was a coward … and this was all my fault.

It all came down to the incident.

I never should have kissed him like that, never mind that we both thought we were going to die. What'd I been thinking? Assets were strictly off-limits, especially one as important as Chuck, who flaunted his heart on his sleeve like a diamond cufflink at a kleptomaniacs' convention.

I had been raised to hide my feelings, to only show others what they wanted or needed to see. Emotions were a weakness in my world, and so I'd always shoved mine down so deep, excavating them had become more trouble than it was worth. I did my job and I did it well. What Bryce and I had had together never interfered with that. We both knew the deal. What we'd had worked for us. Until it didn't; until Bryce went rogue. And then Casey shot him.

Even though I'd grieved for a time after losing Bryce, I eventually chalked his death up to his own treachery and the cost of doing business. As far as I was concerned, he'd earned Casey's bullet to the chest.

But if I ever lost Chuck…

He moaned, startling me out of my reverie. My hands tightened on the wheel, and I swerved—just a tiny bit, but more than I was comfortable with. I'd secured the asset, alive. I was in the process of delivering him safely to his destination. What the hell was my problem?

Then I thought back to the incident…

I'd wanted to kiss him like that from almost the first moment I'd laid eyes on him—that was the damn problem. I'd never met anyone like him—his innate kindness, the way he always trusted everyone until proven otherwise, how he looked at me like I was his own personal miracle when he was the true wonder … a godsend, bringing color and meaning to my monochromatic existence. He'd become so precious to me in such a short amount of time, made me feel things I thought I'd sworn off long ago.

But in my world, people with strong emotional attachments usually wound up dead, or at the very least, never seen or heard from again. And I was no one's miracle. Beneath my arm-candy exterior was a lethal weapon whose only real motivation was my unwavering sense of duty … except in the few-and-far-between moments when I dared to dream.

The worst part was, I suspected Chuck saw through those moments, through my tough exterior to the remnants of the innocent, scared little girl who'd wanted nothing more than to be part of a family and have a place where she belonged—the girl I thought I'd buried years ago. Until recently, she'd been nothing more than a distant memory, banished to the furthest recesses of my heart … but with each passing day I spent with Chuck, I could feel her stirring—slowly, sometimes even painfully, coming back to life.

And when he kissed me back in front of that bomb, what I'd felt from him hadn't been desperation—a what-the-hell-we're-gonna-die-anyway-so-why-not sort of passion. He'd kissed me like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it, and the bomb was a mere inconvenience. Like kissing me was at the top of his bucket list, the thing he wanted to do most before he died. There was no fear in his kiss—just pure adoration. It was the most heart-wrenching compliment I'd ever been given … and once I knew we were safe, I didn't know what to do about it.

Because we hadn't been standing in front of a bomb—unless you counted Bryce's incendiary intentions. And Chuck wasn't just a loose end now—he was a huge problem … at least when it came to me. Even if I was motivated to consider deepening our cover by making our fake relationship an under-the-cover, real one, it was a terrible idea. Chuck wouldn't be able to hide it from the powers that be. He would screw it up somehow, probably getting me reassigned in the process. He hadn't even managed to say ten sentences to Bryce before he'd almost gotten himself killed. And the hell of it was, had the circumstances been different—had retrieving Bryce been a higher priority than protecting Chuck—I wasn't sure I would've been able to do my damn job.

Now I felt completely raw and exposed. Right when I'd finally been able to convince Chuck to dial back his affections by lying to him under the influence of that truth serum, I'd had to go and screw it up. There was no way to put the genie back in the bottle now. He'd been the other half of that kiss, after all. He must have felt the truth radiating off of me in waves as I tried my damnedest to fuse our bodies together before the bomb had a chance to blow us apart.

Grinding my teeth, I made a hard left at the Buy More and slammed my Porsche into second gear, popping the clutch for the straightaway that led to Chuck's apartment. The sooner I got him out of my car, the better.

He stirred, scrubbing at his eyes. "Sarah?" he said without even looking, as if he had absolute faith that I'd been the one to save him.

Naïve, that's what he was. I had practically ghosted him for two days straight, and yet he'd kept calling and calling. Anyone else would have taken the hint, but not Chuck. The moment he'd seen me in the Buy More, sent to talk to him about Bryce's resurrection, all he'd wanted to do was dissect what that stupid kiss had meant for our relationship … not that we even had one. I should've let him eat his way into a coronary with the sandwich slinger. Then again, letting him clog his arteries with smuggled salami would have been counterproductive to my prime directive—keeping the asset alive at all costs.

He was going to end up getting me killed—or worse, blowing our cover. And then he was going to wind up in a bunker or box without me here to protect him, all because he couldn't compartmentalize his feelings to save his freaking life.

"Idiot," I muttered, slowing for a red light. The Porsche responded as it always did—like an extension of my body—but for the first time, its smooth handling failed to calm my frayed and tattered nerves. Inside, I felt muddled—roiling grief, fear, and an emotion I couldn't quite identify all vying for attention. I felt like taking my fancy sports car off-road, sending it juddering over bumps and ruts until the ride mirrored the chaos churning inside me.

"That's not a very nice thing to say," Chuck grumbled, slurring his words as he pushed himself upright. "Shouldn't you be kinder to the guy whose arch-enemy just used him as a human pincushion?"

Even half conscious, the guy was hilarious. Pursing my lips, I somehow repressed the urge to laugh. "I wasn't talking about you."

"Oh?" Chuck gave me a sleepy smile. "Who, then?"

I slowed my breathing and felt my heartrate respond in kind. Farm 101—present a calm exterior. Never let them see you sweat, especially when they're depending on you to stay alive. "Bryce, of course," I lied. "Who else?"

"He is an idiot." Chuck sounded adorably drunk. "But he was your idiot. Your undead idiot, to be exact. Vampire Bryce, at your service."

"You might want to shut up, Chuck." I let my irritation—at him, for getting captured; at myself, for letting it happen—creep into my voice. "You're not making any sense."

"Up … Chuck," he echoed, stifling a belch. "You're right, Sarah. Don't want to puke. Consider. Lips. Zipped." Like a little kid, he clapped a hand over his mouth and peered at me, looking a little green as the streetlights flickered across his face.

I pushed the button to roll down the passenger-side window, just in case. "Don't you dare vomit in my car, Chuck. I mean it. This has been a crappy day and if I have to deal with your bodily fluids wrecking my upholstery on top of it all, I won't be held accountable for my actions."

He was such an amateur. An amateur who spoke a weird language that, come to think of it, sounded a lot like those barking aliens from that Star Trek show he'd forced me to watch. Who dated salami slingers and was impossibly cute and kissed with such passion and determination. God, just thinking about it…

"Can't hurt me," Chuck mumbled from behind his hand. "Gotta protect the precious Intersect, remember? It's your job."

Was it me, or did he sound … angry? I stole another glance at him, but he'd already slumped against the door again and closed his eyes.

Goddamn him, anyway. Where did he get off, making me think about my feelings at a time like this? Bryce was alive and in the wind. Casey was on the rampage. And the General was likely on the verge of giving birth to a rabid, vengeful cow.

There was no doubt about it … kissing Chuck had been a huge mistake. One that I would not make again. When he was in his right mind, I would explain that, succinctly and clearly, so he understood. He was smart. He'd get it. And then I could put all these confusing emotions away and focus on the task at hand. It was for his own good.

I swung the Porsche into a parking spot next to the courtyard as he sat up, blinking in confusion. Without another word, I got out of the car. Chuck followed suit, looking a little more like himself.

"It wasn't a full dose. It'll be out of your system in a few hours," I offered to cover for the awkward silence.

"Thanks," Chuck said, scanning the courtyard. "I think I can handle it from here."

Great. I could finally go home. Figure out what my next steps to salvage this situation should be. Make a plan and execute it. Anything would be better than this.

Chuck paused by the fountain, turning back to face me. "So, are you and Casey gonna go after Bryce?"

"No. Bryce is probably halfway around the world by now," I said, hoping it was the truth. Of all people, Bryce was the one I least wanted to play chess with. We'd worked together for far too long. He could anticipate my moves and countermoves better than anyone else, which would make it that much harder for me to protect Chuck. The further away Bryce was, the better. "It's someone else's job to find him."

Chuck's eyes widened. "Sarah, this is Bryce Larkin we're talking about here. Your old flame. My old nemesis. We have to do something."

This was exactly why Chuck and I could never be together in any meaningful way. He always allowed his emotions get the best of him, instead of following orders. He would make a terrible soldier.

"We each have our own assignment," I countered, hoping that Chuck would read between the lines.

Being Chuck, he did no such thing. "Right, and I'm yours. So, what? What does this mean … for us?"

For the love of God. Three minutes ago, he'd hardly been coherent. Now we were back to having the relationship discussion he'd launched into at the Buy More before everything had gone to hell? "Nothing. You're protected," I said, deliberately misunderstanding him.

Anyone else would have left the subject alone, but not Chuck. "No… for us. Our fake relationship. I mean, you and Bryce were…" His voice trailed off. "You're really not making this easy."

Of course I wasn't, I thought, exasperated. That was the point. I wasn't making it easy, because I didn't want to talk about it. Surely one didn't need extensive training in psychological interpretation to get the gist.

Just when I was tempted to inject Chuck with a sedative of my own—if only to put a merciful end to this pointless conversation—Ellie walked up behind me. I didn't turn; I didn't need to. Clipped steps with slightly more weight on the right foot and a whiff of Pantene volumizing shampoo equaled Ellie. And right now, it also equaled salvation.

"Hey, sis," Chuck said, sounding somewhat dejected. Reason number 4,092 why Chuck and I could never be together—he was a terrible liar.

Luckily, Ellie didn't seem to notice. "Hi, guys," she said, juggling an armful of groceries. She gave me one of her radiant smiles. "It's good to see you, Sarah."

"You too," I said, and truly meant it. She always seemed to have that effect on me, no matter the circumstance. Must be something in the Bartowski genes.

"Are you coming to Thanksgiving?" Ellie asked.

Right. Thanksgiving. Bonding, tryptophan, cover repair. Would this nightmare never end?

After Chuck's recent deli-girl detour, attending his family celebration to reinforce our cover was a necessary evil. And, if I let myself think about it long enough, it actually sounded kind of wonderful. I liked Ellie more than I cared to admit. If I never saw Chuck again, I wouldn't just lose him—I'd lose everything that came with him, including his misfit friends and patchwork family.

Bryce had never been able to give me that. And I'd never known I wanted it, before. If I had, I wouldn't have dared to dream it could be mine.

I glanced up at Chuck. His mouth was half-open, as if he was about to speak. Hope shone in his beautiful brown eyes—eyes that, not too long ago, had been sharpened with fear and then clouded by drugs.

I'll go to Thanksgiving, I was tempted to tell him. But it won't mean anything, except that our renewed cover is intact. It doesn't mean we're really together, and not because Bryce is back. But because we can never have anything more than what we do right now. I'll keep you safe. You'll stay alive. And we'll forget that kiss ever happened, even though some part of me wants nothing more than to kiss you like that again.

"Of course," I said, instead, and fled the scene before I compromised myself any more than I already had.

*** Chuck ***

Marshmallows. Bread. Lettuce. Extra cranberries in case Devon puts too much sugar in the sauce. Cheap Tupperware containers in case Morgan forgets to bring his own again. Check, check, check, check, and also … check.

Running through the list one more time—the last thing I wanted was to fall victim to Ellie's wrath on Thanksgiving—I opened the front door, grocery bags in hand. With my head down, I hustled through the dining room towards the kitchen.

"Chuck," Devon bellowed from his post by the stove, sounding as jovial as Kris Kringle and wearing an honest-to-God apron, "get ready for some turkey."

I opened my mouth to respond to Mr. Ray-of-Sunshine—then turned my head and did a double-take. John freaking Casey was standing in the middle of my sister's dining room, wearing a black suit fit for a funeral, looking grim as always, and holding—was that a Cosmo?

Maybe the Intersect had fried my brain once and for all … or I'd slipped into an alternate reality.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed.

"Well," Casey replied, lifting the world's most judgmental brow, "your sister invited me to dinner."

"Really?" Maybe Bryce and the General were coming too. It'd be a party. Ellie would have to send me out for extra folding chairs, at which point I could attempt to flee the country.

Who was I kidding? They would find me wherever I went, I thought dismally. It didn't matter how far I ran or how well I tried to hide. They would always find me.

"Why else would I be here," Casey mumbled, barely moving his lips. Maybe his top-secret training had included ventriloquism. If all else failed and the NSA went to smash, he could always join the carnival.

Ellie hurried toward us, looking as thrilled as her overzealous boyfriend. I had a sneaking suspicion their mutual joy was due to the presence of the remorseless hit-man they'd unwittingly invited to dinner and not the prospect of extra cranberry sauce. After all, my sister had always been so happy for me to make new friends.

"Did you find everything?" she asked, wresting the bags of groceries from my grip.

"Yeah, I did," I said, turning away from Casey. "But listen … I need to talk to you about something. When you have a second…" I trailed off as she completely ignored me, disappearing back into the kitchen.

Giving up on clueing Ellie in about Morgan and Anna, I spun back to face Casey. "Hey," I said, placing my hand on his shoulder.

Casey glared at it in horror, as if perhaps I'd dipped my hand in the blood of Satan before touching the pristine fabric of what I was sure was a government-issued, well-tailored suit. Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with the suit. Casey had an overall disgust of being touched by other human beings, period. I'd begun to suspect that he was, in fact, not human, but a very violent robot planted in our midst to make me feel even less muscular and competent than usual.

"Sorry," I said, retracting my hand before Mr. Roboto decided to cleave it from my arm. "I have a question for you." I glanced over Casey's shoulder to make sure Ellie and Devon were out of earshot. No worries there; they were too busy bickering over the best way to stuff the prized turkey. "What do you think Bryce meant when he said, 'Casey, care to try again?'"

Casey raised his other brow. It was as judgmental as the first.

"'Cause call me crazy," I persisted—not the easiest thing to do when confronted with what had to be the most aggressive eyebrows on the planet—"but I got the weirdest feeling it was you who tried to kill him."

"Good guess," Casey said, deadpan as usual.

Definitely a robot. A murderous, vindictive robot who was standing in my house, drinking a pink Cosmo.

"Are you serious?" I swallowed hard. "Does Sarah know about that?"

"It was in my report," Casey said, as casually as one might discuss the weather. His eyes bore into mine as a bead of sweat trickled down my back.

Jesus. The Cosmo-drinking robot had just admitted to killing Bryce. Well, trying to kill Bryce, but it was the thought that counted.

"Why would you … do that? Why would you want to kill Bryce?"

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew it was a stupid question. Why would Casey do anything?

"Orders," Casey said, with alarming predictability. "Your old nemesis is a very dangerous human being, Chuck. You get a chance to shoot Bryce Larkin, you shoot to kill."

Somehow, my two worlds had collided. Here I was, standing with Casey in my sister's dining room while the smell of roast turkey filled the air, discussing Bryce Larkin's near-death experience at the hands of a freaking cyborg. I stared, at a loss. Casey stared back, bored or annoyed—it was hard to tell.

Our beautiful moment was interrupted by Devon, still swathed in his Thanksgiving-themed pinafore and bearing the star of the meal in a roasting pan. "Guys, no shop talk tonight," he said with a blinding grin. "We got a bird to eat. Hey, John. Could you help me stuff this monster?"

"Cosmo?" Casey said without missing a beat, and handed me his drink.

*** Sarah ***

You can do this. Pull yourself together. It's just a job.

Sitting in my Porsche in a Trader Joe's parking lot five minutes from Chuck's apartment, I willed myself not to hyperventilate. I'd done everything right. Followed up with the General and Director to let them know where things stood. Armed myself in the least obtrusive way possible. Worn a festive color. Picked up a gorgeous bunch of fall flowers to give to Ellie as a hostess gift—because let's face it, no one wanted to eat my cooking, and the Internet said you had to bring something when you were a guest at someone's Thanksgiving table. So why was my stomach in knots?

True, it was embarrassing to have to Google appropriate Thanksgiving etiquette. And equally true, Bryce was still in the wind, and I knew better than to think that he'd vanished into thin air. But that didn't account for the way I felt like I might just vomit.

I'd given Chuck a hard time for nearly puking on the Porsche's pristine interior, but at least he'd had an excuse. What did I have? Just a bunch of soon-to-be wilting flowers, a ticking clock, and a sneaking suspicion that I was lying to myself.

Just do your job, Walker.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, I put the Porsche in gear and pulled into traffic.

*** Chuck ***

Bottle of wine in hand, Ellie watched Casey walk into the kitchen to help Devon stuff the bird. "Thank you, John," she called after him. "He's so sweet," she said as he disappeared around the corner.

"Like honey," I deadpanned, surrendering to the absurdity that this evening had become. "Uh, sis, Morgan is bringing somebody tonight."

Ellie rolled her eyes, setting the wine on the table. "A real someone or an imaginary someone?"

I supposed Morgan deserved that. "Uh, real, actually. Very real, and she's very nice." It wasn't a total lie. Anna could be nice, given the right circumstances—which, I feared, would not be in evidence tonight. "And, um, she—"

"She?" Ellie said in disbelief. "You said 'she.'"

Apparently, Ellie thought Morgan was gay, despite his longstanding crush on her. Wouldn't that just do wonders for his self-esteem? "Yes. Yes, Anna. Morgan's girlfriend. There could be a slight issue though because she knows about you and Morgan."

Ellie looked completely bewildered by this. "What are you talking about?"

With perfect timing, the doorbell rang.

"Just remember," I said, handing Casey's pink Cosmo to Ellie, "it's not my fault."

I crossed the living room and pulled the door open wide. There stood Sarah, beautiful and unattainable, with Morgan and Anna right behind her. "Ah, hello, Sarah and my other friends. Welcome to Thanksgiving."

Sarah stepped inside, all smiles, holding a bunch of flowers. She pressed a kiss to my sister's cheek.

"Thank you," Ellie said. "They're beautiful."

"You're welcome," Sarah actually looked elated to be here, as if she were my real girlfriend, come to enjoy Thanksgiving with the fam.

Ellie beamed as Sarah stepped past her.

That left Morgan and Anna, who had come dressed to kill—not literally, I hoped—in some kind of off-the-shoulder, black-laced shirt and more makeup than I had ever seen her wear. She looked like she was channeling Ru Paul.

"Ellie," Morgan said, looking the way he always did when he spoke to my sister—like he'd come face to face with a goddess and might be struck blind at any moment. "So this is Anna, my–"

"Girlfriend," Anna interrupted, as if she didn't trust Morgan to complete the sentence.

"Right," Morgan said, a hopeless expression on his face. I almost felt sorry for him.

"And this is my green-bean casserole," Anna held it up like she was introducing a favored relative. "Try not to drop it."

A dreadful aroma emanated from the dish that held the casserole. Burnt … onions, perhaps? Maybe deep-fried asphalt? For the love of all that's holy, please drop it, I thought with sudden fervor.

Anna looked Ellie up and down, her expression suffused with disdain. "It's good to meet you, finally."

Puzzlement drew Ellie's eyebrows low as she pried the casserole from Anna's grip. "Yeah, Chuck just told me about you and Morgan. I'm so happy for you," she said, her tone landing somewhere between sincerity and relief.

"Hussy," Anna hissed in response, sweeping past Ellie into the apartment.

I closed the door behind her, sighing. It was going to be a long night.

OoOoOoOoO

Thanksgiving might be a colonialist, imperialist, Manifest Destiny-embodying farce of a holiday, but man, the food was good. Too bad I couldn't say the same for all our guests: One made me fear for my life, another made me fear for Ellie's, and a third was so beautiful it hurt—especially because with every word that left my mouth, I had to lie about the fact that she wasn't actually mine.

I glanced across the table at Sarah, who was sipping her wine, her eyes on the Anna/Morgan/Ellie fiasco in progress. Red was definitely her color, and she looked even more gorgeous by candlelight than she did when she was kicking a perp in the face. For tonight, I decided, I would pretend she was my real girlfriend—not just for the sake of our cover, but for the sake of my heart. It was Thanksgiving, after all.

Even Casey didn't seem immune to the holiday's charms. He looked like he was actually enjoying himself, suit and uptight attitude notwithstanding. And why shouldn't he? The turkey was everything a turkey should be—moist, delectable, and reclining, half-demolished, on the bed of greens Ellie had insisted it required. The beer was cold. And Anna hadn't gone for Ellie's throat yet.

Maybe the company wasn't so bad after all.

"I am in heaven," Devon said around a mouthful of food, echoing my thoughts.

"Yeah. This is so good." Sarah smiled at Ellie, who responded in kind.

"I'm glad you like it."

"Amazing," Casey chimed in, also with his mouth full. I wished I had recorded it for posterity. It was the nicest thing I'd ever heard Casey say to anyone.

I looked back at Sarah, who looked happier than I'd ever seen her. Real girlfriend. Real girlfriend, I kept telling myself. And who could blame me after the incredible kiss she'd laid on me in front of that not-a-bomb? I could've sworn that when our bodies slammed together—insistent, adrenalized, and overwhelming—she'd wanted me just as much as I'd wanted her. Otherwise, everything I'd felt from her in that moment was just another lie, and I'd been reduced to nothing more than a convenient pair of lips. I wasn't sure if I could handle that thought.

No way. She was good, but not that good. She might've been able to lie to me under the influence of a powerful truth serum, uber-spy that she was, but some things you couldn't fake. I just had to be patient.

"Do you usually do Thanksgiving?" I asked her, trying anything I could think of to re-forge the connection I'd felt with her that night at the docks.

It seemed like an innocuous enough question, but Sarah's face fell. "Not recently," she said, glancing down at her plate with the fake smile she used to hide what she was really feeling.

I felt like an ass. Of course, Sarah didn't usually do Thanksgiving. For all I knew, she'd never done Thanksgiving. If my upbringing had been a natural disaster, hers must've been Hiroshima. Not that she would ever tell me anything about her past. I just had a feeling. I wanted to apologize, but she wouldn't meet my eyes.

Oblivious to anything other than the demands of his stomach, Morgan leaned back in his chair. "Oh, man, oh, man. Okay, you know what? For my second plate, I need critical side dish number two." He gestured with enthusiasm in the direction of the sweet potatoes, nearly poking Sarah in the eye.

I had never known anyone to love a dish as much as Morgan loved Ellie's Thanksgiving sweet potatoes. He worshipped them with religious fervor.

"Oh, yeah," Devon said, passing the casserole dish across Sarah to Morgan. "There you go."

"Thank you," Morgan said. A beatific smile spread across his hairy face. And then he froze, puzzled. "There's no marshmallows on my sweet potatoes." He looked at Devon like my sister's boyfriend had just told him Call of Duty 4's release date had been canceled.

"But it's Morgan's favorite number two side dish," Anna snapped, glaring at Ellie with even more vitriol than before. Edging away from her to take a sip of my beer, I was filled with sudden relief that she hadn't ended up sitting next to Sarah or Casey. She'd probably liberate one of their guns or knives in an effort to take Ellie out before the meal was done.

"I'm sorry. I must've forgotten," Ellie said, looking chagrined.

"Thanksgiving is ruined." Anna shook her head in disgust, heart-shaped earrings swaying. Beneath the table, I saw her fingers curl into tiny fists-of-fury, her knuckles whitening, ready to do battle.

And things had been going so well.

"No, no. Wait, that's my bad." I shot to my feet. If there was a bloodbath tonight, it wouldn't be because of some misplaced mini-marshmallows. "I'm sure I picked some up. They must still be in the Herder. I'll be right back."

"Don't be too long," Ellie called after me, amusement clear in her voice. Had my desire to get away from the Potentially Homicidal Morgan-Obsessed Vixen been that obvious?

Well, whatever. Go to the Herder. Get the marshmallows. Deliver them and avoid murder and mayhem. How hard could it be?

Whistling, I walked out the door.

OoOoOoOoO

Mission accomplished.

Walking back from the Herder, goods in hand, I reflected on just how disgusting marshmallows really were. Sure, they looked all adorable in their rainbow-striped bag, with that stupid slogan, "Have fun with your yum!" But when you really got right down to it, all the sugar in the world couldn't disguise the fact that one of their key ingredients was gelatin, made from ground-up animal parts. I knew this because Dan Pollack, a bully who'd taken great joy in making my fourth-grade life a living hell, had told me—right before he'd snatched my cup of marshmallow-topped hot chocolate and dumped it down my open backpack, drenching my brand-new Batman comic.

Ever since that day, I had avoided ingesting marshmallows of any kind. Unfortunately, I hadn't been so lucky at avoiding bullies. Exhibit A: Bryce Larkin, Undead Abductor.

Well, that didn't matter right now. I wasn't going to think about what nefarious activities Bryce might be planning next, or what his reappearance might mean for my relationship with Sarah. And I certainly wasn't going to think about whether the rogue agent who'd wrecked my life had Thanksgiving plans, because that would be absolutely ridicul—

"Hello, Chuck," Bryce said.

Seriously?

I stared in disbelief as the Undead Abductor himself stepped out of the shadows next to my apartment. The guy didn't look to be armed with a syringe this time, much less a gun—but in the dark, how the hell was I supposed to tell? Besides, even if Bryce wasn't armed, he probably still knew thirty-seven ways to cut off the flow of oxygen to my brain with his pinky finger.

There were so many things I wanted to say. Chief among them was, Well, if it isn't my old pal, Benedict Larkin, followed in short order by, What the hell are you doing here? with a chaser of, You should leave, before I get angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. But when I opened my mouth, all that came out was, "Sarah and Casey are right inside. One girlish scream, and they go into combat mode."

Fabulous.

"Relax," Bryce said. His lips curved into that sly grin I used to think was so cool—the same smile that had once gotten Bryce all the girls he wanted, including the one I loved. "This your place?"

Was this really the conversation we were having after our last encounter? "Ellie and I live here, yeah," I said, wondering if the Intersect could somehow empower me with the ability to turn a bag of marshmallows into a deadly weapon.

His smile shifted, fading into a grimace. "You live with your sister? What happened, Chuck? What happened to you? The guy who wanted to be the software billionaire? Bill Gates with style?"

I could feel all the blood rushing to my face. "You got me kicked out of Stanford," I said, with a murderous glare. To hell with the marshmallows. Maybe I could singe off his skin with the heat of my hatred and contempt alone.

Unsurprisingly, Bryce was unfazed. Either that or, as usual, I didn't register on his radar—not when he had someone more important in mind: himself. "Look … I need to talk to Sarah," he said, as if I hadn't said a word. "Can you bring her to me? Without Casey?"

My mouth fell open. It wasn't enough that Bryce had snatched Jill from my clutches after tanking my future at Stanford. Now, during Bryce Destroys Chuck's Life: Redux Edition, he wanted me to fetch him Sarah, too? Was this some kind of sadistic joke?

But no. Bryce stood there, hands in his pockets, his expression hovering somewhere between boredom and exasperation. He kinda reminded me of Casey, but with fantastic hair. And he was serious.

Unbelievable.

"Why would I help you?" I said, sounding as incredulous as I felt.

Bryce shrugged, and for the first time in our conversation, an actual emotion flickered through his eyes: fear. "Because of Fulcrum," he said. "That guy in the elevator, he works for them. And they want the Intersect, Chuck. They want you."

A/N #2: This will be the only chapter that strictly follows everything that happened in canon. It was necessary to set the stage for the rest of the story. I'll post the next chapter in a few days. Hang in there…

A/N #3: If you would, please take a moment to leave a quick review. It could be as long or short as you'd like, but it would at least let me know that I'm not playing to an empty house. I get a treasure-trove of inspiration from your thoughts, ideas, or suggestions. And if you feel moved to do so, please hit that Follow and Favorite button. Your support and feedback mean the world to me!

Take care,

SmatterChoo…