A/N: For the sake of explanation. This story was inspired by the Counting Crows album, "August and Everything After." A study in desolation. If you are looking for fluff, this is not for you. I promise a happy ending, but layers of angst before we get there.

Everything is quiet

Since you're not around

And I live in the numbness now

In the background

"The Background"

Third Eye Blind

March 1, 2022

Carmichael Industries, Los Angeles, California

Tina followed the older woman into the break room, noting how deserted the room seemed. There were huge plate glass windows on two walls, the views of the city gleaming spectacularly in the morning sunshine. About ten bistro tables, two refrigerators, two microwaves, and an industrial coffee machine were lined along one wall. Against the other wall was the sink, and a few vending machines.

Lisa spoke quickly, as she pointed out each thing. "You can put your lunch or whatever in there." She waited while Tina used the fridge. Pointing to the coffee machine, she said, "Coffee, tea, and hot chocolate." She pivoted. "Everything in the vending machine is free. You just scan your badge. Which we will go take the photo for as soon as we're done."

The sound of footfalls on the tile floor made her turn her head. A very tall man in a navy suit, paired with a crisp white dress shirt and pale gray tie, walked into the room. His hair was dark, white concentrated at his temples. His hair was cut short, but combed back off his forehead—obviously a way to tame dense curls. He was olive complected, with a strong jaw and a sloped nose. His shoulders were broad, but he was thin, his musculature like that of a swimmer. With that, she thought, strikingly slim, almost gaunt as Tina thought, noting his hollow cheeks.

Tina realized she was staring after she felt Lisa bump her. She turned her head quickly back at her guide for the day. Lisa pulled her arm, as they were blocking the coffee machine.

"Good morning, Lisa," he said, as he reached into the drawer for a coffee packet. The corners of his mouth twitched up ever so slightly as he spoke. His tenor voice was soft, restrained. Up close, she saw his eyes were hazel, though from a distance at first glance they had appeared brown.

"Good morning, Mr. Carmichael," Lisa replied.

Mr. Carmichael? Tina thought suddenly. The CEO? What was he doing in the employee break room?

"This is Tina Gerrard," Lisa explained, gesturing to her new coworker. "She was hired for Louise's position. In Accounts Payable."

"Welcome aboard, Tina," he said, reaching out his hand toward her. Taken aback, and a little nervously, she shook his hand. He gave her the same tight lipped smile, no teeth visible. His handshake was firm, though she felt rough calluses at the base of his fingers. His eyes mesmerized her.

Her grandmother had told her once that the eyes were the window to the soul. If that was the case, then this man's soul was in purgatory. There was no light in his eyes whatsoever. They were haunted, lifeless. So incongruous with the brief but pleasant exchange that had just occurred.

"Lisa here will get you settled in," he said stiffly. Tina wasn't sure if he had noticed her thorough examination–he gave no outward sign, totally oblivious to any eyes on him.

He turned to walk away, holding his coffee in his left hand. Tina saw the wedding ring on his finger just before he turned.

Dumbfounded, it took Tina a moment to recover. "The CEO is around like that? So casually?"

"Mr. Carmichael? Yes," Lisa replied. "He's very quiet and he keeps to himself. But he's down to earth, you know. A regular person."

"He's married?" Tina asked, wondering why that was the first thing she thought to ask.

Lisa looked uncomfortable, glancing around to see who was within earshot. Then she spoke. "No, no, he's not. He's actually divorced. Only married once, and for less than a year. Before he started this company."

"But he was wearing—"

"A ring? Yeah, he was," she replied, vaguely but with pity in her voice.

Tina's face scrunched in confusion. "Have you ever seen her? His ex wife?"

Lisa was worried, and tried to not let it show. This new girl was a little too nosy for her liking. Granted, not every new hire met the CEO at the coffee machine on their first day. But Charles Carmichael was an enigma. A kind, generous man who avoided human interaction if at all possible.

"No, no one has," Lisa answered. "And if you ask him about her, you will be transferred to the mail room faster than you can blink."

Tina processed that, shock on her face.

Unable to resist a bit of gossip herself, Lisa spoke to her sotto voce. "If you ever end up in his office, look at the photos on the shelf behind his desk. There's a photo of his sister and her family. And angled behind it is a photo of Mr. Grimes, you know, Morgan, the office manager? That photo is very old. And they're in it together."

"I don't get it," Tina replied, perplexed.

"Ok. I'm just saying. I've worked here for over nine years. And if that picture didn't exist, I would think he was physically incapable of it," Lisa said.

"Of what?" Tina asked in confusion.

"Smiling," Lisa said sadly. "Nine years, and I've never seen him smile."

XXX

Chuck sat at his desk, fidgeting with his cup of coffee. It was annoyingly hot, he thought. He had just had the machines serviced last week for the water temperature being too low. No happy medium, it seemed, now that this was so hot he could use it to take the paint off the walls. He picked it up, pursed his lips and blew on the surface, and sipped, cursing as he felt it burn his tongue. Down it went. He could wait. Only now, the fuzzy dullness caused by the burn would be with him all day. He couldn't let the cup sit there. He picked it up, put it down.

Why couldn't he just drink his coffee? He lamented.

The intercom on his desk beeped. No one ever waited for him to reply. His administrative assistants knew when he was in his office, they could just talk. "Morning meeting, Mr. Carmichael?" He recognized the voice, Jessica.

"Go ahead, Jessica," he said into the unit on his desk.

There was a group of administrative assistants that rotated to the CEO's office. It had been Morgan's idea of course. He had given a long, persuasive speech about allowing cross training into other aspects of the office, as well as reducing stress. Chuck hadn't understood the full meaning of that, until Morgan had so diplomatically explained that Chuck himself, as the CEO, was intimidating. He inspired hand wringing, antacids, and bouts of crying in the restroom, according to more than one source.

Morgan had also explained it wasn't because Chuck was harsh, or overly demanding, or critical. But Chuck was silent more than he spoke. Young, inexperienced workers took his outward demeanor as critical, though it was never intended as such. Chuck was cold, unfeeling, also explained to him by Morgan.

It was because Morgan didn't understand. Could not possibly understand. There were only two options–feel nothing, or feel everything. He had tried everything–and been overwhelmed to the point of non-functioning. Feel or not. Live or die. Living was only compatible with not feeling.

Chuck knew Morgan didn't understand, because part of his rotating secretary plan had actually been an underhanded way to try and introduce Chuck to women. Morgan would never admit it, ever, would never bring it up and never made any effort to interfere in Chuck's life. But he kept hoping, somehow, Chuck knew that too.

Staying cold and detached kept them at bay, assuring no one came too close. He had learned that from the master, he thought bitterly.

The office door opened, and Jessica walked in. She was the oldest of the team, closer to 30, with long dark brown hair and brown eyes. She had a gleaming smile. He preferred her, as she was the most thorough, and the most professional. She was not easily flappable. "Good morning, Mr. Carmichael," she said crisply, shutting the door behind her as she entered. "I see you got your own coffee again," she said with a smile and a lifted eyebrow.

"You're not a waitress," he said blandly, a hint of a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "And besides, the water is too damn hot. Can we call for repairs again and have them adjust the temperature correctly?"

She tapped something quickly onto the surface of the iPad cradled in her arm. "Yes, sir," she replied. "You have a meeting at ten with the customer facing team, a meeting at noon with the web designers, and a meeting at two with the sales team."

His eyebrows lifted, his eyes flashing wider for a moment. "Sounds like a great day," he said flatly, though she knew he was being sarcastic.

"This is the information you requested, concerning the new hire in Accounts Payable. I'm sending it to your desktop now, sir," she said.

"Tina Gerrard, right?" he asked.

She nodded without looking up. He knew everyone, even new hires, and remembered them all. His company employed over 200 people. He knew each one. He saw the file, clicked it open. "He was her brother, correct?" he asked. He was looking at an old newspaper article, from almost nine months ago, about a local man killed in a collision with a drunk driver.

"Yes, sir. Four children under the age of ten," Jessica told him, simplifying the article. "Eight hundred thousand dollars, sir?" she asked, anticipating his actions.

"Correct. In an independent trust, with head legal counsel as the executor. Not traceable back to me or the corporation," he said, matter-of-factly, knowing she knew the protocol, just reiterating for redundancy's sake.

She typed away on her iPad, nodding as she did so. "Very good, sir." Her iPad started beeping. "Oh, sir, you have General Beckman on line one. Will you take the call?" she asked.

He kept his face as stoic as possible, wondering by the curious tilt to her head if she had seen him pale. "Yes, I will," he said softly, reaching for the phone, nodding to dismiss her. He waited until he was alone before he answered, pushing the button that allowed her to video conference.

"Hello, General," he said kindly.

Diane Beckman, now a Major General, looked back at him from the same desk, in the same office, she always had since he had first known her, over 15 years ago. She had a few more wrinkles, just as he did as well. Her hair was still auburn, styled into the same tight twisted bun with her bangs swept to the side. "Are we secure?" she asked stiffly.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. His office and in fact his entire office building were subsidized with security from the government, in line with the government contracts his company had secured in the realm of cyber security. Her specific wording was just a code, asking him if he was alone in his office. "I can tell by your face that you don't have good news, General," he said stiffly.

She sighed, closing her eyes for a long stretch, a sad resignation on her face. "The newest field test failed," she told him. "We had our best scientists make those modifications based on the telemetry from the last failed test. No effect."

He nodded, glancing away from the screen. "How long before you just accept that it's not fixable? You keep wasting time and resources. It's not working."

"Damn it, Bartowski, it's not a weather balloon!" she shouted. "It's–"

"I'm well aware of what it is," he snapped back, anticipating the words she said, the same plea in her voice that was always there. He had no stomach for it.

She shook her head, sighing again, then took a deep breath and started again. "I still honestly believe your sister could figure this out, Chuck. If you just–"

He cut her off. "Absolutely not, General. We've been over this and over this, every time something fails. Ellie stays out of this. That's not negotiable."

Beckman's face pinched in sympathy, her eyes warm with a kindness he rarely saw. "If she knew the truth, she would–"

He interrupted Beckman again. "She's out of this. The truth makes no difference. The truth just…hurts them. All of them."

"But what if she could help you?" Beckman demanded.

His eyes like ice on fire, he leaned toward the screen, pointing for emphasis. "And what if she can't? She lives with that for the rest of her life? No," he swore as his voice shook. "You promised me she will never know, even…" He swallowed hard. "Even at the end."

Beckman pressed her lips together, her light green eyes swimming with sadness. "I gave you my word, Chuck, for better or worse. I keep my word. I just wish I could make you see from a different perspective."

"All my…perspectives are gone, General," he said bitterly. He glanced at the clock at the bottom of his screen. "Now, if you'll excuse me, General. I have a meeting at ten that I need to prepare for. Thank you for keeping me informed." He cut the connection before she could respond.

Beckman was left, alone in her office, staring at the blank screen on her computer. Wondering when she had started to care more than Chuck Bartowski, about anything. It had been gradual, she understood. She had watched the Chuck she had always known slowly disappear, the misery eating him from the inside out. His persistent refusal to follow her advice, it seemed to her, was simply his outward manifestation of his apathy toward life in general.

She knew how he appeared to the world. Rich, successful businessman. He lived in Beverly Hills, in a giant mansion that overlooked the ocean. He drove an expensive vehicle, and had property in ten different countries.

No one really saw what she saw. A shell, empty and devoid of feeling. A man with a 20 roomed mansion who lived out of two of them. Someone with one friend in the world, Morgan Grimes. His only family was his sister, her husband, and her two children. The Woodcombs had even moved back to California five years ago, worried at what they saw happening to Chuck. The parts of him that were dying slowly, a little each day.

His expensive home was a fortress that protected him from the world. He went nowhere, other than to work. The people who cleaned the rooms he never used were the only people he conversed with.

He even used his old code name, Charles Carmichael, in everything he did. Morgan called him Chuck, in private, but everyone else called him Mr. Carmichael. Beckman was sure she was the only one who ever said his real last name out loud. No one else dared, she knew. That had been his way of detaching, walking away from the life that had crashed. He had sold or donated everything, then bought his ridiculous mansion. And filled it with new things. New furniture, new clothes. Even a new toothbrush.

Not a thing left to even remotely remind him of what he had lost. The one and only thing he had kept was his wedding ring. A morbid, self-inflicted wound that he would not allow to heal. What man, divorced for almost ten years, still wore his wedding ring?

A man who wanted nothing to do with the world he lived in, but had nowhere else to go.