It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

Chapter 5: Out of the Ashes

I awoke refreshed and rejuvenated, a tawny cat stretching in the early morning haze. Bars of butter-yellow sunlight fell across the pale blue comforter, and I traced one of them absently with a fingertip, remembering everything that'd happened last night. God, it felt too good to be true—like some kind of fantastical dream.

Chuck and I had never made it back inside to rejoin Thanksgiving dinner. We'd gotten so caught up in our discussion that before I knew it, shadows swept the courtyard and hours had passed us by, unnoticed. He was so easy to talk to—a beautifully chaotic, brilliant conversationalist who made me feel as if my heart was skipping rope. He'd brought out a sense of playfulness that was far out of character for me … but also wonderful.

We'd chatted about everything—our tastes in art and literature, where we'd traveled, our favorite foods, the way we saw the world. The more I'd listened to him talk, the quicker my façade crumbled … leaving only Sam, let loose from her self-imposed cage. He had a way of making me laugh, even when the topic was serious, that I'd never experienced before. By the end of the night, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

It'd always been hard for me to talk about myself—I was prone to obfuscation—but I'd done my best, and was proud of the fact that I hadn't lied to him once, even under the tight scrutiny of the ever-present courtyard surveillance. Sure, I'd done a lot more listening than talking, but without even realizing it, I found myself telling him things I'd never shared with anyone.

The whole time, I'd never let go of his hand. It felt like an anchor tethering me to the moment—as if losing my grip on his fingers would cause our entire encounter to dissipate, like smoke escaping an empty palm. More than anything, I wanted it to be real—nothing between us shrouded behind the veil of a CIA-sanctioned mission for the sake of national security.

I'd noticed Ellie peeking through the curtains a few times as the night wore on, but she never came outside to interrupt us—which, I supposed, was a tacit kind of approval. She wasn't the proverbial shrinking violet. If she was uncomfortable with me staying outside with her brother, instead of sitting at her dinner table, she'd step out into the courtyard and say so.

I knew, of course, that Ellie wasn't the only one watching—that the courtyard was being monitored by Bryce as well as the analysts back at Langley—but for the life of me, I couldn't find a reason to care. With any luck, Graham would interpret the kiss and my willingness to share intimate details of my life as unwavering dedication to the mission's objectives. And if he didn't … well, it was still worth it in exchange for the miracle that this evening had turned out to be. I wouldn't take back a second of it.

Morgan finally broke the spell that'd settled over us when he'd left to go home. I'd dropped Chuck's hand as soon as he walked out of the Bartowskis' apartment, not sure how much Chuck wanted his friend to see. They'd made small talk for a few minutes before Morgan headed out. When he thought I wasn't looking, he'd given Chuck the cheesiest double-thumbs-up imaginable.

By that time, night had fallen in earnest. Like the gentleman that he was, Chuck walked me to the door of my apartment. He stared down at me, an uncertain look in his eyes. "Thank you for everything, Sarah … for talking me off a cliff … listening to my story," he'd said, his voice shaky. "I can't begin to tell you how special tonight was for me."

The hesitancy in his voice—as if he thought I might laugh at him or discount what he'd said—slayed me. "Tonight was special for me too, Chuck," I'd said, imbuing my tone with all the sincerity I could manage. "As are you."

And then, before I could lose my nerve, I'd gone onto my tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

The first time I'd kissed him had been impulsive, spurred by the need to let him know how amazing I thought he was, how foolish he'd be to internalize the crap life had dished his way. I didn't regret it—quite the opposite—but I wanted the second time we kissed to matter … to really mean something. So instead of doing what I really wanted—twining my hands in his curly hair and inviting him inside—I'd contented myself with the most innocent expression of affection I could imagine: A peck on the cheek.

I'd meant it to be chaste, but it didn't feel that way. It felt intense, and … erotic. I could feel the roughness of his stubble against my lips, could hear his harsh intake of breath. He smelled of soap and cinnamon, with an undergirding hint of Chardonnay.

Wanting more—and both excited and terrified by the thought—I'd stepped away. "Good night, Chuck," I'd said, feeling breathless. He looked as dazed as I felt. His gaze followed me as I closed the door of my apartment behind me.

I'd lain awake for hours, remembering every detail, feeling euphoria course through me. When I'd finally tumbled into sleep, it had been the most restful night I could recall having in years.

That sense of giddiness was still with me this morning, making me feel impossibly light. I knew I had to get up, but I wanted to savor the moment for just a little longer. I closed my eyes, letting myself sink down into the warm bath of my memories.

At which point, with impeccable timing, my phone rang.

I lunged for the bedside table … and felt my heart sink when I saw Graham's number flash across the screen. What if he'd seen right through me?

In the split second before I answered, I reminded myself that I'd only been doing what he'd asked me to. I'd kissed marks before. There was no reason for him to believe this was any different. But somehow, that only made me feel worse.

I sucked in air and hit the 'accept' button. "Walker, secure," I said, scooting up so my back was against the headboard. He couldn't see me, of course, but it went against the grain to take a call from the CIA's director while lying in bed.

I couldn't see Graham either, but when he spoke, it sounded like he was grinning. "Excellent job, Agent Walker. You have Bartowski right where we want him. That kiss was genius—and that speech about believing in him … Oscar-worthy. Kudos, once again."

Relief flooded me. "Thank you, sir," I said, keeping my tone humble—and trying to shed my guilt. Graham might view Chuck as a mark right now, but I knew that wasn't his long-term plan. Chuck could have been my partner, after all. Maybe he still would be—although I hoped not, for his sake. He was too good for this life.

"I would expect nothing less. You're truly gifted. Recruiting you remains one of the best decisions of my career." He paused, giving me time for the compliment to sink in—and I sat in silence, letting it. Manipulating me into joining the CIA might have been one of the best choices he'd ever made … but I was starting to believe that going along with it hadn't been one of mine. I'd done it to save my father and my own hide, but still … for the first time in four years, I'd begun to believe there might be something better for me out there.

"Now," Graham said, oblivious to the conflict raging inside me, "to the business at hand. You'll need to be at the Buy More today before noon, ostensibly to visit Bartowski. A messenger will be arriving to deliver something important to him, and you should be there when he receives it."

"Understood, sir." I kept my tone neutral as glee bubbled up inside me. This had to be part of the plan we'd discussed. I couldn't wait to see Chuck's face when he heard the news.

"Excellent. I'll expect a full report later today. Make your way over to Agent Larkin's residence to deliver it. I have business to discuss with both of you. Until then." And as per usual, he hung up before I could say another word.

Usually his terseness bothered me, but not today. In a few short hours I would get to see Chuck again, and even better, I'd helped put something in motion that would restore a piece of what he'd lost. Humming, I got to my feet and headed toward the shower. It might be November, but today I planned to wear a dress whose color was as bright as my mood.

OoOoOoOoO

As I pulled into the Buy More plaza, I was astounded by the sheer number of cars. It'd taken a while, driving in meandering circles, to find someone who was leaving before I could pull in behind them and park. Luckily, I'd been so excited that I'd gotten there with plenty of time to spare, forgetting that it was Black Friday. The truth was, I'd been missing Chuck all day and was desperate to see that beautiful smile of his. There was no point in denying it. After just one amazing night, I'd become addicted, craving the sight of his wayward curls and honey-colored eyes. I remembered his dumbfounded expression when he'd seen me on Thanksgiving—the way the bag of flour and sage had crashed to the floor—and hoped the semi-fitted saffron midi dress I'd chosen had a similar effect.

Looking up as I approached the store, I had to laugh. BUY MORE. The name itself, posted in huge yellow letters above the entrance, said it all: Engage in rampant consumerism, all ye who enter here.

The doors slid open, revealing a packed interior, avid shoppers shoving each other out of the way in hot pursuit of a bargain. Glaring fluorescent lights illuminated aisles labeled with green-and-white signage, announcing movie genres, CD players, audio accessories, and a thousand other items. TVs lined the far right wall, each playing a different blockbuster. Never having lived anywhere long enough to put down roots, I didn't get why it was such a big deal to have the perfect flat-screen or the ideal sound system … but I guess everyone had their own vice. Mine was somewhere within the walls of this paean to conspicuous consumption.

As if the Buy More itself wanted to point me in Chuck's direction, the store's central aisle led to the Nerd Herd desk, which sat beneath a massive sign suspended from the ceiling. I spotted Chuck at once, talking to an elderly man with white hair whose back was stooped, his posture dejected. Next to the man stood a little girl with pigtails and a green paisley dress. Her black Mary Janes were scuffed and the dress was a bit too small, but she was adorable nonetheless. She couldn't be any older than five or six and I could see her bottom lip sticking out in a pout all the way from where I was standing at the front of the store. Intrigued, I wove my way through the side aisles to a place where I could observe and listen in—but not be seen. I was a spy, after all, and watching Chuck was quickly becoming my favorite pastime.

"I'm sorry, princess," the man was saying as I got closer, his expression stricken—as if he hated to let her down. "This is more than Grandpa was planning on spending. Is there something else you might like?"

The little girl sniffled, clutching a green-and-white portable video system. She looked up at her grandfather, her eyes filled with tears, and my heart clenched. "I know it's a lot," she said, her voice wobbling. "It's okay, Grandpa. Please don't be sad. We can find something else."

She clearly didn't want to upset him, which broke my heart even further. If she'd been a spoiled, whiny kid, that would have been one thing. But here she was, trying so hard to pretend like she hadn't really wanted the gaming system, wiping away her tears with the backs of her fists and giving her grandfather a tremulous smile. I wanted to buy her the darn thing myself.

Chuck cleared his throat. His face mirrored the way I felt—desperate to fix this somehow. "Actually, there might be something I can do. I just remembered that the Leapsters are going on sale next week—half off. What if I just offer you the discount a little early?"

The older man shifted uneasily. "We wouldn't want to ask for any special treatment—"

"It's no problem at all. Really, I'm happy to do it." He smiled down at the little girl, whose expression transformed from disappointment to hopeful joy.

She jumped up and down, clutching the … what had Chuck called it? A Leapster? "Please, Grandpa, please say yes!"

Her grandfather's gaze turned back to Chuck. "Are you sure it's not a problem?"

"It would be my pleasure," Chuck said, coming out from behind the desk. "Here … let me walk you to the registers."

My heart melted when I saw the little girl reach up to slip her hand into Chuck's as they walked down one of the aisles. Instead of looking surprised, he acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. He smiled down at her with the warmest eyes I'd ever seen as she skipped alongside beside him, making their way to the front of the store.

As the three of them stood in line, the little girl tugged on Chuck's hand to get his attention. He crouched down to her level and her words came almost too quickly for me to understand as she told him about all the games she could play on the Leapster. Chuck nodded along, adding to her excitement when he told her about some of the ones he'd played himself.

When it was their turn, Chuck stood and leaned over the counter, whispering in the cashier's ear. She grinned, shaking her head as if he'd just told her the sweetest thing she'd ever heard, and proceeded to ring up the sale. It seemed no one was immune to his charm.

Their purchase made, the man and his granddaughter left the store, the girl skipping all the way out into the parking lot … and only then did I see Chuck pull out his wallet and hand the cashier a wad of bills.

My eyes narrowed. The Leapster-thing hadn't been on sale at all. Chuck was making up the difference in price out of his own pocket.
.

I didn't think I could fall any harder for this guy … but I'd been wrong.

He made his way back to the Nerd Herd desk like nothing had happened … as if he hadn't just committed an act of extreme generosity to make a little girl's day. I used the time to pull myself together, running a finger under my eyes to wipe away the tears that had welled up. Only then did I sneak back through the aisles, stepping out from behind a towering display of shatter-proof phone cases.

"Hi, Chuck."

It felt like such an inadequate greeting after what I'd just witnessed, but he didn't know I'd seen anything, and I wanted to keep it that way. I had the feeling anything else would embarrass him.

At the sound of my voice, his head swiveled in my direction and a smile spread across his face. "Sarah! What are you doing here?"

"I knew this would be a crazy day for you, so I brought us lunch." Walking up to the desk, I held up the white deli bag filled with Italian subs I'd bought at the strip mall across the street: chicken parmigiana for me and a pastrami on whole wheat for him. I'd even grabbed a couple cannolis.

His smile widened even further, almost making my knees give out. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know I didn't, but I wanted to." I smiled back, helpless to stop it.

"Well, whatever's in the bag sure smells amazing." He set his palm at the small of my back, leading me away from the desk. "Come on … we can eat in the break room."

I leaned into his touch, but the moment we'd rounded the corner into one of the aisles, he dropped his hand. His mouth opened, as if to speak—right before Morgan came loping into view.

"Chuck," he said, skidding to a halt when he saw me. "Oh … and Sarah. Hey, Sarah. Nice to see you again."

"Hi, Morgan." I lifted my hand in a wave, grateful that he didn't try to shake my hand.

"Dude, it must be your day for visitors," he said to Chuck. "Some old geezer's here to see you."

"Really? Because I'm not expecting any—" Chuck's voice died as a man stepped out from behind Morgan. He was tall, maybe in his late sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair, a black suit, and a leather suitcase that looked like it had seen better days.

Perfect timing. Graham's messenger had arrived.

Seeing him, Chuck's face went red, then white. "Dean Adams," he said, in a voice that barely managed to remain level. "Fancy seeing you here. Sarah … this is Stanford's Dean of Engineering. You know … the guy I told you about—the one who had me thrown out of school."

Adams looked at me, standing next to Chuck, clutching my deli bag. "Can we talk in private, Charles?"

"Actually, Sarah and I were just about to enjoy the lunch she brought us. Plus … she's my friend. We don't keep things from each other." Chuck's tone, typically gentle—at least in the brief time I'd known him—could've been used to chisel diamonds. "Don't worry, she knows about everything that really happened at Stanford. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her."

Guilt ricocheted through me. I had more secrets than a Catholic priest after a full month's worth of confessions—including the reason for the dean's presence at the Burbank Buy More. Were secrets necessarily bad, though, if they helped someone else? Or was I just deceiving myself?

"Fine, fine." The dean held up his free hand in surrender. "It's up to you, Charles."

Chuck glanced over at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction. "Sarah stays ... if she wants to."

I nodded, doing my best to look innocent. "If you want me there, of course I'll stay."

"Thank you," Chuck said, sounding as if he meant it. Maybe he thought the dean was here to deliver more bad news—but what did he think the guy could possibly have in mind after failing to grant him his degree and tossing him out on his ear? "That being said, I think I can find us a better place to have this conversation than in between the memory sticks and the DVDs. Please … step into my office."

Chuck led the way to the break room, the sarcasm in his voice thick—doubtless meant to remind the dean of the fact that he likely would have had his own office … or even his own company … if Stanford hadn't thrown him under the bus. I followed in his wake, trying to conceal my excitement at what I knew was coming. Luckily, no one was paying attention to me.

He swung the break room door open and we stepped inside. The room was gray: Gray walls, gray door, gray circular tables ... a place where creativity went to die. A small kitchen area was tucked to the left of the door, with black cabinets and a—surprise, surprise—gray countertop, on which sat a microwave and coffeemaker. Across the room was a wall of beige lockers. The only pops of color were the hideous blue chairs that hugged the tables, their backs studded with circular holes … as if their designers had been inspired by a block of Swiss cheese.

Chuck gestured to the closest table. "Please, have a seat."

The dean slid into one of the horrible chairs, and Chuck and I followed suit. I put the bag of sandwiches on the table, where it immediately began to leak grease onto the laminated surface. Lovely. I looked around for paper towels, but they were across the room and I didn't want to abandon Chuck, who was radiating anxiety. He perched on the edge of his seat, drumming his fingers on his knee as if his nerves were frayed to the quick.

"I'm sure you're wondering what I'm doing here," the dean said when all three of us were settled.

"I am." The words came out clipped, and a fine sheen of sweat shone on Chuck's forehead. "The last time we talked, our conversation was less than pleasant. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that it ruined my life. So, forgive me if I'm not too excited to see you show up at my place of business, without any kind of warning."

The dean winced. "Totally understandable," he said, placing his briefcase on the table. "But I hope you'll change your mind after you find out why I'm here."

He popped the lock on his briefcase, removing an embossed leather-bound jacket and an envelope with the school's emblem on it. He handed both to Chuck, who took them without a word.

His hands trembling, Chuck opened the cover … and gasped. Tilting my head, I could read the top line, "The Leland Stanford Junior University," inscribed in fancy script.

"What is this?" Chuck's hands began to shake harder. The jacket slipped through his fingers and landed on the table. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"It's your diploma, son. And long overdue. You've earned your degree in Electrical Engineering, with honors, I might add."

"But what—but why—how?" The words caught in Chuck's throat, like fish impaled on hooks beneath the surface of a troubled lake. He tried again to speak and ended up sputtering into silence.

"We were wrong." The dean placed a hand on Chuck's shoulder. "I know now that you didn't cheat on that test—that you were framed. I also know who did it. We've rescinded Bryce Larkin's degree and let Professor Fleming go. He's lost his tenure and his retirement, and there are potential further legal consequences for both of them. You did nothing wrong, Charles. I should have never doubted you."

Chuck ran his fingers through his hair, struggling to maintain his composure. Gripping the diploma in his other hand, he said, "Who told you? Why now?"

"I'm afraid our sources are confidential. But entirely trustworthy, I assure you." The dean drew back his hand, smoothing the front of his suit jacket. "Now if you would, Mr. Bartowski … please examine the contents of the envelope. There's one more thing we need to discuss."

Obediently, Chuck turned the envelope upside down. A check fell onto the table. He leaned over to peer at it—and choked. "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? For what?"

"It's a settlement, Charles—for lost wages, defamation of character, and your pain and suffering, which"—he glanced pointedly around the Buy Room's break room—"seem to have been considerable. Stanford is also offering you free tuition for any post-graduate work you might choose to pursue."

I bristled at the implied insult, but it didn't even seem to register with Chuck, who looked stunned.

"I … I don't know what to say." His voice trembled. "I just … thank you."

"There's no need for thanks." Clicking his briefcase shut, the dean leaned back in his chair, which creaked in warning, as if announcing its intention to shunt him onto the linoleum. He straightened hurriedly, his eyes on Chuck's face. "Stanford owes you a tremendous apology, as do I, on a personal level. I should have known better than to believe the accusations leveled against you. This is the least you deserve, and I am sorrier than I can say that you've spent the past six months thinking some of the people who should've had the greatest faith in you decided you were unworthy of that faith. I only hope that in time, you can forgive us."

A faint smile lifted Chuck's lips. "Well, sir," he said, his voice more confident than I'd ever heard it and his gaze flitting between the check and the diploma, "I'd say this is an excellent first step."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck sat, holding the diploma balanced carefully on both his palms, as if he was afraid it would shatter if he let it go. The dean had shown himself out, and Chuck and I lingered in the break room, which had taken on the distinct aroma of chicken parmigiana. Giddy with the success of my plan—and grateful to Graham for coming through in such a dramatic way—I could barely breathe.

"This is crazy," Chuck said, as if to himself. "I feel like … maybe I'm dreaming. First meeting you, then all of this. With that money, I could start my own business, like I've always wanted. I could buy a car. I could move out of my sister's house. But more than that, my diploma … my reputation …."

His voice trailed off, as if he lacked the words to describe the implications of Dean Adams' visit. He sounded stunned, and I couldn't blame him. Here he was, sitting in the break room of the crappy store where he'd worked for the past six months, holding a Stanford diploma and staring at a check for a quarter of a million dollars with his name on it. I was sure he couldn't make more than $10 an hour; it had been a sacrifice for him to pay for half of that sweet little girl's Leapster. That check represented at least 25,000 hours of working at the Nerd Herd desk, doing what, for a guy of his intellect, amounted to menial labor—and I was sure that during every single one, he couldn't help but think about what he'd be achieving if Bryce and Fleming hadn't screwed him over.

He'd done all the work to earn that diploma, of course. It was his by rights. But I couldn't help but feel privileged to have played a small role in making sure he'd received it, after everything that had befallen him. No matter what else I'd done in the name of justice and liberty—some of it decent, some of it underhanded—this was by far the accomplishment of which I was proudest. Looking at Chuck's face, his expression flitting between shock, joy, and disbelief, I knew his happiness was all the reward I needed.

He set the diploma down on the table and took both of my hands in his. His fingers were warm, his grip sure. This close to him, I could smell the now-familiar scent that had come to mean Chuck, the one that both calmed me and sent my head spinning. "You said you believed in me, Sarah—God knows why. You've just met me, and within the first twenty-four hours that we've known each other, you learned the worst about me that there is to know. You should've thought I wasn't worth your time. I'll never understand why you didn't—why you saw the good in me, why you said all those kind things." He swallowed, hard; I could see his Adam's apple shift. "I've been through six months of hell. I lost everything I thought I wanted. And then you showed up yesterday and told me things were going to change for the better … and now look what's happened." He let go of one of my hands to gesture at his diploma.

"I don't know why you said what you did, Sarah. I don't know why you kissed me." His voice broke. "But I know one thing for sure. I never even thought to wish for someone like you. You're like some kind of … some kind of angel."

Even though I'd heard him say this on the surveillance recording, the word still took me by surprise. How could anyone think that about me? He was a gift—my gift.

"Trust me, Chuck, I'm no angel." My gaze fell from his, lighting on the uneaten bag of sandwiches.

Gently, he lifted my face. "You know how you said you believed in me? Well, let me return the favor. I might not know you very well, but I'm usually pretty good at reading people—Bryce and Jill aside—and I think you're an incredible person. You're passionate, insightful, funny, kind … God, I could go on forever."

I couldn't think of a single thing to say. Luckily for me, he was still talking.

"Ellie didn't give me the specifics, but she told me you moved out here all alone, to make a change in your life. Would it be too arrogant for me to hope you'll let me be a part of that?"

My mouth went dry. "I—" I began, and couldn't manage another word.

"Normally I wouldn't be brave enough to do this. I mean, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I wouldn't have the courage to speak to you, much less ask you what I'm about to." He squared his shoulders, as if bracing himself, here goes nothing practically stamped across his forehead. "Do you want to go out on a date sometime? I mean on a date without my sister watching us through the curtains?"

So he'd seen Ellie peeking at us too. His sister was a lot of things … but subtle wasn't one of them.

Anxiety filled me—what if I screwed this up? It took a moment for me to find my voice. "So, like a real date, then?"

He fidgeted, glancing away. Then his eyes found mine. "Yeah. What do you think? You don't have to say yes if you—"

His nervousness was charming, but I didn't want to make him suffer any more than he already had. Looking up at him through my lashes, I said after a beat, "Okay."

A slow grin lifted his lips. Then it vanished, and he looked shocked all over again—as if my response were as surprising as the Stanford diploma he held in his hands. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm," I said, nodding—the most socially acceptable response I could manage. I wanted to do a little dance right there in the Buy More breakroom, throw my arms around Chuck and kiss him—hell, blow a kazoo, if one were available.

"Tonight," Chuck said, looking from me to his diploma to the check and then back again, as if checking to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. "Our first real date."

A/N: Hi, everyone! This story has been so much fun to write. We hope you're enjoying it as much as we are! Just FYI, Emily has surgery next Wednesday (3/18). We plan to put out another installment before then, but depending on how things go, we may need to take a brief break while she's recovering. After that, though, we'll resume writing!

A/N #2: Although we've reached out to everyone individually, special thanks go out to Crazzywally, Tecmaster86, Grayroc, David Carner, Karla1707, fezzywhigg, gombek69, lindsdee, ReaderNotAWriter85, jwatkins, coreypeters009, atcDave, Dillwg, Reyes9, sram15, Kacper983, Tpsoftballdad, Charahfsn, uplink2, Mike B, mjd1969, Deathzbreath, WillieGarvin, xxx Rob M xxx, Tigertod, James K, bigfan22, michaelfmx, PeterOinNYC, Vurich23, and the guests that have taken the time to chime in.

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