A/N: Last chapter of direct Brarah interactions. Chapter 18 is the flashback timeline of "Chuck vs the Baby" and it goes into the Pilot. This wraps them up. Do I hear a few collective sighs? Thanks for sticking with it through the rough patches.

The Truffaut mission left both Bryce and me shaken. We had both come very close to being killed, saved really only by the random, depraved sexual appetites of bad actors. Not all damage from that kind of mission was physical, or visible on the surface.

I told Bryce more, afterward, when we were alone, about how Henri had touched me in the bathroom. A normal person would have maybe needed counseling after being molested the way I was. No such luxury in the CIA. Oh, don't get me wrong, the CIA has a contingent of psychiatrists working round the clock for them in a variety of capacities. But not to help us be better people—merely better agents. They were the gatekeepers, the ones who cleared us to work initially, and then subsequently after any episodes of what they called on-the-job stress. The only thing a CIA psychiatrist would have checked for was whether or not being forcibly penetrated with someone else's fingers would ever have kept me from doing my job.

I made sure that it didn't. And by saying that, I mean I hid it so well that no one could tell, ever. I did tell Bryce, but I relayed facts only, not how that had made me feel—violated and worthless and unlovable. Not all that uncommon of a reaction, but extraordinarily difficult to manage on one's own.

He seemed shocked at first, more so that I had been caught off guard at all. Then almost angry, although I don't know if he was angry that it happened in general, or angry that it happened to me—because I was his girlfriend. All he actually said was that he was glad Henri was dead. So was I. The sex we had after that mission was the only other clue that led me to believe it was maybe because Henri had specifically violated me, his girlfriend.

Being in the wine cellar while Bryce was distracting Jeanne had left questions…questions to which I wasn't sure I wanted answers. Bryce showered immediately when we were back in our hotel room. After an unusually long shower, he emerged with bright red skin, as if he'd scrubbed for a long time. I knew based on what I'd seen and overheard that things had gotten a little out of hand. I had anticipated another quickie with him in the car…but he refrained completely. It made me wonder…had he actually fucked her while I was there?

I didn't know how to ask him. I couldn't even broach the topic of whether or not he was opposed to that hypothetically…or how it worked with us being a couple if that was somehow unavoidable. I was too afraid to ask him, truth be told. Afraid that somehow the dynamic between us would be disrupted. That we would "break up"…whatever that meant. Short term…that meant me all alone once more, mostly doing wet work and assassinations again.

I had never feared being alone before. I had even resigned myself to that, convinced that would never change for me. I was in purgatory with Bryce, the way we were, that somewhere in between. But, somehow the thought of being on my own now…after I was in a relationship with my partner, made it seem worse, amplified, like it was a fate worse than death. I couldn't picture what my life would look like if that were ever to happen, how I would ever go back to just me working alone.

I told him what had happened to me while he was climbing under the covers, before he ever touched me. Those words he said were after we'd had sex. His only real reply to my confession was the way he was with me during the sex.

For contrast purposes, I should explain here…my husband is gentle. Gentleness personified. There is this ribbon that seems to run through him, permeating his entire being with gentleness. That's what I saw that first day in the Buy More. What I saw every time he smiled at me…when I saw him holding our babies for the first time. What I see when he is a loving father to our children. What I see when we make love, for even at his most passionate and arduous, he could not keep that gentle soul of his from shining its light outward, all the way inside me. It was what I think I worried about most, when Chuck switched from asset to spy.

Before I met Chuck, there had never been a single person in my life who had ever acted that way in general, least of all towards me, not even my own parents. It was rare, like a precious stone I had found in a pile of rocks. I was tainted, jaded almost beyond reprieve, while that transition with Chuck was ongoing, after he had downloaded the 2.0, and later while Daniel Shaw had been assigned to align the Intersect with government specifications. Their term, not mine. I couldn't see the way forward for Chuck in that world without him losing that amazing quality of his…or then consequentially, without him being killed. In the end, deep down, he made that decision for so many reasons, but I know the ultimate deciding factor had been me.

Before the 2.0, all he had ever wanted was his normal life back. I know his dream had me there with him, in his normal life. But he knew, and he had told me many times, that I wasn't normal. And I wasn't. I wanted to stay with him anyway…and then that chance was taken away when he downloaded the 2.0 after Bryce was killed by The Ring. His only option then? Come into my world…learn how to live with me and be as abnormal as I was.

Chuck made me watch this very sad movie one time, about a man who could perform miracles, but was poor and black in the south in the early 1930s, and was wrongly accused of murdering two small children. We watched it first because one of the actors in it looked familiar to me, and Chuck agreed, but we couldn't place from where. Anyway, in the movie, the warden at the prison executes him, even though he knew that the man was innocent…and that he was a miracle from God…thus intentionally destroying the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, would ever hope to see in his life. I cried during that movie, sobbing incongruously or so it seemed, because I understood that perfectly. For a time, I was sure I had done the same thing.

That was, though, just another example of how much stronger than me Chuck is. Despite that little puff of breath he would offer as a way to doubt my words, his humbleness doesn't change the facts. Chuck always knew exactly who he was, even when he wasn't necessarily proud of himself. He never let anything–the tragedies in his life, his desire to achieve something better, or his need to be with me–compromise who he was. He had such a narrow path through that maze so full of pitfalls, but he made it through. I hate that, even for a short time, before we were together, that I forgot that…how strong Chuck truly was.

Contrarily, Bryce was never gentle, ever. There was not the slightest bit of gentleness inside him. Tonight, Bryce was…cautious with me. He made sure I was ready…and moved slower than he had ever moved before. Normally, he would lay back while I satisfied myself before taking his turn for the same. This was the only instance ever of us staying in missionary position throughout the entire act. Standard for most, I guess, but it was rarer for me, rarer for us. It took longer than usual for me to come. I thought I heard him sigh, almost like he was relieved, when I climaxed. His usual enthusiastic thrusting afterward was also absent. It was the longest round of sex we ever had. I actually came twice, something that had never happened with Bryce before, or since.

We weren't cuddlers either. We only slept in the same bed for the cover, separated by a wide gap. But he held me afterward, against him, while he told me what had happened in the wine cellar, without me needing to ask him.

"I was close. Closer than I've ever been to…doing that," he admitted. "She was…you know…jerking me off. I couldn't just—"

"I know," I said quickly, not wanting to hear his explanation. I did understand, though.

"It was only her hand. She didn't…you know," he said. "And I didn't…" He didn't finish the thought.

"Have you ever? You know…not been able to avoid it?" I asked, finding the courage to ask after he had already shared so much.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not ruling it out, you know, absolutely. Keeping you alive…keeping myself alive…is more important…even if it meant fucking someone. But I always have…at least up to now…been able to find another way." The fact that his first reason he listed was to protect me stood out. It even scared me a little. Mostly because I wasn't sure I could reciprocate, even to save his life. I felt myself hoping for the same thing…being able to find an alternative solution.

"I did touch her, Sarah," he confessed, his voice deep. It resonated with shame. "If only to…you know, stop her from just—"

"I know," I repeated, still not wanting the details. "But then why didn't you—". The rest of my sentence, want to have sex right away, cut off.

"I needed to separate it," he explained. "You're different."

There it was again…that fear that boiled in the pit of my stomach. I didn't know what he meant. I didn't want to know. Sure, I agreed to be his girlfriend. But, the emotion behind his words was too much. If I lost myself like that, I couldn't do my job. If I had let jealousy rule that moment, upset about Jeanne touching him, we would never have gotten out of that situation alive.

In retrospect, I think maybe moments like this made him think I was in love with him. Because instead of telling him how I was feeling, I stayed silent. He took my silence for agreement, when all it was was fear and uncertainty…the inability to put my feelings into words.

Regardless of all of that, it felt calming to be in his arms, and it made me feel empty when he rolled away and left the bed. I hated feeling that way, scared and uncertain. I never let Bryce hold me like that again. When he tried, I pulled away. When we shared a bed for the cover, I slept with my clothes on, once we finished having sex. I began to wonder if doing that, behaving that way was hurting him…but that, combined with everything else, was having the potential to complicate things. He was so nonchalant, even joking about it sometimes, I eventually convinced myself I was imagining it.

I can only imagine what it was that Carina saw that made her think seducing Bryce, or attempting to, would get under my skin. She never interacted with me–only Bryce, as our paths crossed during a mission in late December of 2005 in Bogata, Colombia. Carina was working an undercover solo mission for the DEA, targeting cocaine traffickers, members of Clan del Golfo, one of the largest criminal organizations in the country. Bryce and I were on a mission to intercept intelligence that was known to be moving from Clan del Golfo through an associated cartel in Mexico, one that would eventually help move drugs across the U.S. border.

Most of the agents working undercover in this situation were DEA, but on at least a few occasions, there was proof that more than drugs was involved–sometimes the threat of extranational terrorists infiltrating as well. This intelligence we were after was a list of names of known undercover operatives whose covers had been blown, mostly outside of their knowledge. The CIA became involved when they had received a tip that CIA and NCS operatives' identities were included with the intel.

Carina had set herself up well within the cartel, insinuating herself, probably by using sex, deep into the organization. Bryce was to pose as a courier for the Mexican headquarters of Clan del Golfo, taking the place of a man killed previously by CIA operatives. Carina had been informed of his true identity. Bryce went in alone and was able to secure hundreds of pictures of the meeting site, as well as the location of the flash drives that contained the intelligence. The plan had been that once he knew what to look for, we could intercept the package before it left Colombia, without compromising Carina's cover within the cartel.

We had a time and a location. The Andersons cover was in full swing, this time as an overly affectionate married couple enthralled with an intense public display of affection. We were in the street markets, surrounded by people. Bryce pinned me to the wall and kissed me, pressing his body against me, making the warm humid air even more unbearably hot. His hands were in my hair and on my cheeks, but it was the cover kissing, eyes open and searching for our target. We saw them approach, briefcase in hand, and it matched the photos Bryce had taken the day before.

He grabbed it and handed it to me, but they saw us, and a foot chase ensued. I was a faster runner than Bryce, so it made sense that he gave it to me first to run with it. Unfortunately, the target, whose names we never knew, grabbed Bryce and threatened to kill him if I didn't turn over the briefcase. He had a gun to Bryce's head.

In situations like that, the target thought he was using our feelings to manipulate the scenario. That I would simply surrender the briefcase to save my partner's life. A perfect example of why those emotions we had for each other, whatever they may be, could never be as important as the mission. Our mission succeeding was the only way to protect hundreds of agents who worked for the DEA, CIA, and NCS. Handing it over to protect someone I cared about was unacceptable. Not to mention, it would still have ended in both of us getting killed.

When he was first taken hostage, Bryce was yelling at his captor in Spanish. He spoke to me in English, using a seemingly harmless pet name–Honey. He called me Honey. Which was in fact a code…that meant for me to shoot the man holding the gun to Bryce's temple. It was dangerous, very dangerous, to shoot someone perpetrating that type of hostage situation. One slip and I would either shoot Bryce by accident or not be quick enough and the target could shoot him first. Honey in that situation meant…I trust you to take the shot.

So I did. The man fell dead on the ground next to Bryce with a bullet in the center of his forehead before he even flinched. I was quick and accurate with my gun, and Bryce knew that. Did it cross my mind that I could get Bryce killed at that moment? Of course. But it was worth the risk. It had to be. That was my job…and the job…the missions…came first.

Still sweaty and panting from the action, adrenaline surging in our veins, we walked back through the busy market, away from the dead body that was soon to attract attention. He grabbed a red rose from one of the merchants and handed it to me, quick to pick the cover back up to distract from the chase we had just participated in with the dead man. The CIA cleaners would be called the moment we were clear and do damage control.

We were back in the hotel when I felt Carina's influence, almost as if she were in the bed between us. There was nothing unusual about the way the sex began, energetic tumbles across the bed. Somewhere in between that, something changed, like a light was flipped. Bryce rolled me over onto my stomach, then pulled me up by my waist, holding my head against the pillow. I felt his fingers holding my hips firmly, and then he was thrusting inside me from behind, the way Sam always had whenever we had sex. The act itself didn't bother me. It wasn't like he forced me to do it that way, or even that he wouldn't have stopped if I'd asked him, or let me flip him onto his back like I always did. In truth, it felt so good, I couldn't say anything at all to him, other than moaning wordlessly into the pillow.

"You do like it like this, don't you?" he whispered, out of breath, in between his vigorous thrusting.

Carina had told him how I preferred to be fucked, at least at the time when she had known me. It blazed across my mind angrily, making my vision almost flare red. The sensations for me of being fucked from behind were probably the only thing that could have distracted me from stopping dead and questioning him. Why was he talking to Carina about me? About sex? The more I thought, the more my mind twisted around possibilities, none of them good.

As distracted as I was, the orgasm I had was still so intense my consciousness got fuzzy for a second. My muscles contracted so hard it almost forced Bryce out of me, which in turn made him thrust harder, creating this feedback loop that was so pleasurable it was almost painful in its intensity. "Sarah…" he breathed in amazement, over the sound of my screams, muffled against the pillow.

His orgasm seemed to last forever, though it didn't overlap with mine. It did become painful for me at the end due to my increased sensitivity after my climax. He collapsed next to me, flopping on his back, not touching me. Could he see the look on my face? At the very least, he had to know I was not pleasantly content.

"What did she say to you?" I demanded to know, as soon as I caught my breath.

"In the beginning?" he asked, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. "That she was very interested in some downtime after the mission was over." He had raised his hands in the air and put quotes around "downtime" with his curled fingers. "Silly me, I thought you would have told your best friend that we were together, but you didn't, did you?" he asked, turning the tables on me.

"Who I'm sleeping with…what our status is…that's none of her business," I retorted.

"Until your best friend propositions your boyfriend for sex. Then it sort of does," he replied. He was actually a little irritated, I realized.

"What did you say?" I asked, suddenly anxious. My main concern was Graham finding out. Carina was DEA, but her assignments with the CIA came down through Graham, and she had frequent interactions with him.

"I said you and I were mutually exclusive when it came to sex," he explained. Such a strange way to describe it, but I guess it worked. I realized he was savvy enough to not spell it out either. All she knew was that Bryce and I were sleeping together. I was convinced Graham knew that, but didn't know it was more.

"She didn't give up that easily. She suggested a threesome. Saying she knew you weren't adverse to the idea," he added.

I was blinded by rage. How dare she tell him that. I had to explain. I know it shouldn't have mattered to me what he thought. Hell, his first experience with me was a 45 second fuck in an elevator after torture and killing. I knew what he already knew. But by this point we were closer. Not close, but closer, if that makes sense.

"I barely remember those…times. We drank and did a lot of drugs back then," I said in a soft voice.

I could feel him looking at me in the dark, understanding something without telling me he did. How I had been when I met him.

"She was angry that I turned her down," he added. "She tossed in the I-should-try-fucking-you-doggie-style comment as she walked away."

"So what was that? A science experiment?" I asked in outrage.

"I'm sorry, Sarah," he apologized. I heard the sincerity in his voice. "I thought about it and…the idea of watching you, listening to you like that…I couldn't resist it. You hold so much inside…I just…". He sounded embarrassed and frustrated.

It didn't make sense to me why he would feel that way. Why seeing and hearing me lose control was such an aphrodisiac for him. But now I was thinking.

I did enjoy sex better in that position. I always had, since the second time I'd ever had sex. Damn it, even Carina knew that after our crazy nights together. Bryce had no qualms about asking me to shift my weight, move slower or faster, or touch him a certain way. Why had I never told Bryce that I liked that? Or asked him to do it like that?

Because it was about control.

Nothing in my life was within my own hands to manipulate. Down to how I dressed and where I slept. Since the day I was born that had been my plight. Letting Sam have me the way I had, without even once asking him for anything, was just a perfect example of how I had let that continue. Until Carina had, indirectly, showed me how dangerous that could get if I didn't take control of something. My sex life, at the very least.

Bryce had been the next stop on that journey. Aside from that night after the Truffaut mission, the only times I had an orgasm during sex was at my own effort. I never laid back and let him fuck me—I fucked him until I was satisfied, and he let me do it.

To a normal person that probably sounds strange. Whenever I'm with my husband like that…control was the last thing I ever thought of, because I loved him. I wasn't relinquishing control to him, I was surrendering my will to him, trusting that he would bring me to climax without fear or anxiety. He wasn't relinquishing control to me, he was letting me please him. It was never about ourselves—it was about the other. Nothing made me happier than feeling my husband lose control of himself because of what I was doing to him…seeing the look on his face at that moment he released inside me. But that's what it's like to make love, not merely fucking.

As much as I enjoyed having sex with Bryce, as close as we were, we never once made love. And during this conversation, I realized I was sacrificing my own pleasure in order to maintain control. If I let him fuck me that way, it would be absolutely amazing…for it wasn't the barely-touching impersonal way Sam did it. Bryce massaged my breasts, kissed my back and the back of my neck, twisted his hands into my hair and lifted my head to kiss me. But it was giving too much away, and I couldn't reconcile the two in my head.

"I like being in control," I told him quietly, hoping he wouldn't misunderstand.

"Oh, I know that, Sarah," Bryce scoffed. "But I thought you trusted me."

"I do," I admitted, surprising myself as I said it. But I did, at least as far as our partnership at work. And, also it seemed, in our personal one too.

"Then why won't you let me do that for you?" he asked. Like it was a favor. His words irritated me.

I didn't have the words to answer him, not used to talking openly and eloquently about anything. My emotions were so complex I couldn't figure them out, let alone express them. As physically good as that felt, I didn't want to have to rely on him to make me feel that way. I was assured pleasure when I pinned him to the bed and rode him to my heart's content. Face down on the pillow on my knees, I was helpless.

There were books I read a long time ago, when I was probably too young to read them. I forget the name, but it was actually several very long, like 800 pages or more, books. Maybe romance novels, but ones with substance, not the kind you used to be able to buy in the drug store. The premise was in prehistoric times, probably five or six thousand years B.C. A young girl, a modern day human, was raised by Neanderthals. It was an epic story of how she found her own people, fell in love and had a family. I think the author did years and years of research before she wrote them, I vaguely remembered reading about that. What fascinated me was how she described life with the Neanderthals.

They were nonverbal. Male dominated. When the males wanted sex, they made a hand gesture, instructing the female to drop down and assume the position, offering herself for penetration. Any male could have any woman he wanted, at any time he wanted, and the females were expected to comply. There was a lot of graphic sex in those books, mostly between that girl when she was an adult and the man she met who she would later marry, or mate with, as it was described. She never enjoyed sex until she met that man, who knew how to please her, rather than use her body for his own pleasure.

The book was told from her point of view, and while it was possible other women enjoyed the attention of being singled out, she hated it. Some part of her mind understood she was culturally obligated to allow herself to be raped. Nothing so horrible had happened to me…but those books crossed my mind both during my time with Sam, and after this discussion with Bryce. That I was just assuming the position, waiting to be used, even though I thoroughly enjoyed it. Bryce never used me like that. That type of sex muddled everything. In the end, it was easier to just not do it. My control was more important than my pleasure. That moment was when I decided. It took falling in love with Chuck to change my mind about that.

"You aren't a vibrator," I replied. "It's an experience, not just getting off, right?" I offered. "I like fucking you the way I do." I thought quietly for a moment. "What feels better for you?" I stressed the word feels, cuing him in that I was referring to the physical sensations.

He smiled wickedly in the dark. "When you pull your legs all the way up…and you hold onto the bed to hold yourself still…damn," he snickered. "I can see everything like that…and you are one gorgeous creature, Sarah. I can't emphasize that enough."

Almost every time we had sex after that, I did that for him, stretched my legs up and high. I held the rungs on the bed rail, sometimes sliding my ankles into the bed frame next to my hands. I was very flexible, and I could take the pounding. I could count on one hand the rest of the times he fucked me from behind like that. Somehow I think he saved that for times when the missions preceding the sex were the most dangerous. A screaming orgasm like that relieved tension better than anything else I knew.

Bryce and I were together. He was my boyfriend, but we didn't date, to use that word correctly. We went dancing or to dinner when it was part of a mission. We watched movies or television in our hotel room during downtime. We had frequent and regular sex. At 26 years old, I had never been on a real date. Strange, right? That fake date with Chuck that ended up being a real date for him was my first date. The second first date was my first real date. At almost 27 years old.

Time went by. Almost an entire year. I was comfortable…more comfortable than I had ever been in my life. I was still full of holes, but I couldn't feel them, not living with Bryce the way I did. If this was as good as my life would ever get, I was alright with that. We were field agents, destined to die young. I was living the best life that was available to me.

And then it was gone, just like that.

It was mid to late July of 2007, unbearably hot in Mexico, so bad we rarely did anything during the day but sleep. We did almost everything at night, when it was cooler. We had just finished a mission in Spain, and we had two days off before Graham was sending the next mission to us in Mexico. We were walking on the beach in the moonlight. It sounds more romantic than it was, mind you. The nights were cooler, and the beach was the coolest place to be at night. The air was comfortable. The beach was deserted, and we'd had sex in the ocean, the only place where it was cool enough to work up that kind of sweat.

Something was wrong. I felt it in my bones. I felt it when I looked at him, seeing this…veil that seemed to shroud everything. He had pulled something, that very limited part of himself that he shared with me, farther inside and away from me. He was distant, noticeably distant, though we were always just at arm's length, emotionally speaking. The sex had become mechanical, more like how it was with Sam than how it had ever been with us.

I didn't know how to talk to him, how to ask him anything other than a generic way of inquiry. All I got was the generic fine. Graham briefed us separately, nothing new there…but he didn't tell me what Graham had told him, the part that Graham didn't share with me. That was the first time ever…and I'm sure Bryce lied when he told me our briefings were identical.

"Sarah, I have a personal matter I need to take care of that I just found out about today," he said to me as we walked. "Graham knows about it. It's not life or death serious…but I have to go. I should be back in a few days."

I know now he used that excuse because he knew I wouldn't ask any follow up questions. That was one topic we never, ever talked about–our pasts, our old personal matters. I just couldn't shake the feeling that something more than that was going on. He seemed so…distracted and uneasy, not like himself at all.

He left early the next morning. He was as quiet as death when he woke up and dressed, only waking me when he bent down to kiss my lips. Before I was fully awake he was gone.

That was the last time I saw him before I thought he was killed by John Casey in late September. He left Mexico, left me…and disappeared. I called Graham to check when time had elapsed past the time I expected him back, and Graham confirmed there was no communication between them…and he had no idea where Bryce was, or why he had gone. He called me back to Washington immediately.

I barely remember that plane ride. I felt like my insides had been scooped out, like with a giant backhoe. I tried to come up with rational explanations…and none of them made any sense. Bryce had gone rogue, defied orders, and dropped off the map. I had spent nearly every day of my life with him for the past two years…and I felt like all of a sudden I didn't know him at all. How much of what he said and did was real and how much was an act? I questioned it all, every moment, every touch. My insides were engulfed in an unquenchable fire, quickly burning everything and leaving a wake of dusty ashes where my entire life had been.

I was hoping Graham could shed some light on it, give me some answers, even if there were some things still that no one knew. Graham never even mentioned Bryce's name when I was in his office. Instead, he bluntly informed me he had assigned me a handler and a new mission.

My handler's name was Kieran Ryker.