A/N: This started as a one shot, but surprise, I found out it wasn't. So the story continues...

And if it don't come easily

One thing you must believe

You can always have trust

In me

Because my heart will

Always be

Yours honestly

"Not Enough"

Van Halen

May 26, 2012

Echo Park, Los Angeles, California

The sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains and onto his face woke him, as it filled their room. He felt the comforting pressure of Sarah's body against him, her head on his shoulder, angled as she had often done in the past, like his shoulder was her pillow. He felt their skin adhered together, a pleasant reminder of the previous night. She was perfectly still, sound asleep, the muscles in her face relaxed in her sound slumber. He scanned with his eyes, not even turning his head to keep from disturbing her, seeing the time had crept past eight in the morning, much later than he ever usually stayed in bed.

He had been completely exhausted, although a constant state now it seemed, as stress had worn away at him, compounded by a consistent string of sleepless nights, caused by both his own restlessness and worry about hers. This morning, laying here, he felt like he had been asleep for days, or how he would feel waking up from being tranquilized, he thought with vague amusement. Also, this was the most restful night's sleep Sarah had had since agreeing to stay with him in February. He knew, because he had heard it all–her restless turning in her bed, pacing in the hallway, walking to the kitchen to get a drink, or the living room to sit in front of the tv when she couldn't sleep. Or even sitting up screaming sometimes, after having a nightmare, which did happen on occasion.

He felt her hum slowly awake, feeling her soft blonde hair tickling against his chin as she lifted her head. "I thought I was dreaming," she said softly, her voice hoarse from sleeping. "That this was just a dream," she said softly, tilting her head to look at his face. "Thank god it wasn't," she said, almost to herself.

He felt the warmth inside, the last fear that somehow things would reset in the morning gone. He looked at her face, and it was as if nothing had changed at all. She was just his wife, her sleepy eyes warm and bright, and glowing with her love for him. "I was trying to not wake you," he said softly, his own voice scratchy from the morning as well. "It's been so long since you actually slept, you know, a good night's sleep."

She rolled over, tucking her hip against him, sliding her leg across his thigh. Resting her chin on top of her hand, she gazed up at him, studying his face again in the sunshine instead of the moonlight, unable to not smile, deeply relieved, as she saw the relaxed calm on his features. "You would have to have been awake all that time to know I was awake," she said inquisitively.

She watched him close his eyes, lifting his eyebrows on his forehead, unable to deny her logic in the moment. "I hated thinking you couldn't sleep. I could never decide what to do, you know, get up…or just leave you alone," he finished weakly. "But it is much easier overall, when you're here next to me. Much more comfortable."

He felt her finger, tracing a line across his thigh, above where her leg was resting, exposed as the sheets and blankets jumbled. Beneath her finger a fine white gash, a healed over scar, almost four inches long. It left a bald gap, a clean swath on his skin. He felt her touching him, looking to see her focusing intently, as she was thinking. "On the railroad tracks. I could see your leg, your pants were sliced open and your leg was bleeding," she mumbled, looking away, concentrating.

"Yes, Sarah," he said intensely, remembering how focused she had been on his scars last night before bed. "The night you thought I killed the mole. I didn't know you were there," he said. "Not then."

"You walked past me inside the train station…I could see it then…I thought you must have fought him already somehow," she mumbled again.

He forced his muscles to relax, waiting. He knew, eventually, it was another emotion that was bringing these memories out. She had done this more than once, started with facts, soon digging into the accompanying emotions. "I thought…I thought that I pushed you too hard, that you were doing all of that for me. That you were changing, permanently, and I couldn't stop it, stop you…that I had lost you, forever." She closed her eyes, lost in the despair the memory had brought to the surface.

Her distress troubled him, but it was intense emotions that seemed to unlock more memories. He thought to try and offer comfort, knowing himself how awful a time that had been for them. "My sister…wouldn't let me give up on you," he said slowly, hoping that was the best place to start, if she couldn't remember the entire incident. "She knew how much you meant to me."

She sighed, a light mist in her eyes as his words penetrated to the heart of her. "I just remember, you know, afterwards, that you told me you loved me. You never had before, not like that," she insisted.

"I absolutely should have, but no, you're right. I told my father, and Morgan, and Casey, and my sister and Devon. But you, I hadn't yet. I had to learn the hard way, it's never a good idea to wait until you're on the edge of losing everything that ever mattered to you, before you say what you really mean," he said with earnest determination.

"Everything?" she asked, questioning gently, tilting her head, a crooked smile on her face.

He swallowed, reaching up, brushing her loose curls back from her face, running his finger along the soft line of her jaw. "Everything," he repeated passionately.

She felt it then, the invisible wire that connected them. The one that had always been there, even when she thought it had gone. How she had known, even in her darkest confusion, that he was part of her, and no matter what she did, she couldn't leave him behind. She had stretched that wire to its limit, until it had nearly pulled her insides out in its most taut state.

Turning back, her hand still aching from where he'd squeezed it, not letting her check to make sure he wasn't bleeding, seeing the outside of the house…picture perfect, like a scene out of her childhood dreams…feeling her heart crack open, knowing part of what he had told her had to be true…why else would he know that? Why would she have told him that, unless he had somehow become a part of that dream, a part she no longer remembered…

Now, she felt it, reeled tight and holding them together, bound again forever. She found strength there, and shifted her eyes toward the uneven white line on the inside of his wrist, below that hand that touched her face. "Where is that from?" she asked, suddenly worried again, but needing to know. He watched her physically brace herself, anticipating potential bad news, that it was something he had because of her.

"We were in Iran, taken by old friends," he stressed the word sarcastically, "of Casey's. Morgan saved us by electrocuting them, and himself in the process."

He saw the faraway look in her eyes as they focused on nothing. "You did CPR," she whispered, but still dazed, wondering what information she was missing to get from there to the scar.

"We were shackled. You were lock-picking…but I was frantic. I couldn't help it, I kept pulling on the manacles until it sliced into my wrist and made me bleed," he admitted. "I thought I'd just seen my best friend sacrifice himself for us."

"Are there others?" she asked tensely, lifting up on her elbow. "Scars, I mean." She was serious, a pleading in her eyes that got under his skin.

"Sarah," he said warily, knowing why she was asking, perseverating on the same thing as the night before. He would not hurt her, bringing up something he knew she would internalize. He did have a scar on his scalp, above his ear, that his hair covered efficiently, caused by her kicking him into a wall mirror. "You and Casey kept me very safe over the years, all things considered. Casey was shot four or five times. Me, never, thanks to you."

She didn't quite believe him, he knew, watching her scan over him. She looked at his hairline, obviously remembering the blow. She looked at his body as well, seeming to know exactly where he had been injured during that fight–lacerations on his chest, bruised ribs. Fortunately, nothing was left now for her to see.

"As long as we're comparing scars," he said, shifting onto his side. "This one," he said, reaching for her left hip, tracing his finger around to the flesh beneath the bone until he found the divet he knew was there. "You got in Pakistan. Saving Carina's life. She got captured, and you got shot freeing her." He reached for her left arm, pulling it up, turning it so the underside of her wrist was exposed, tiny white slashes just barely visible, the signs of very old scars. "And those are from when you were ten, and you rode your bicycle in front of an armored car and crashed it, so your father could pull a con and steal money. You did that alot, I think, but those are from the one time when you actually broke your wrist. It was broken for almost two weeks before your dad took you to the doctor," he added, his voice laden with disapproval.

He had hesitated, not wanting to bring it up, knowing how in the past talking about her childhood bothered her like nothing else. But he wanted her to know he knew it, because she had trusted him enough to tell him. He never knew all of it, and he was certain, after all that time, the biggest driving factor in her not wanting to talk about it was her guilt, her shame, for being somehow less than she thought she should have been. Somehow afraid that he would think less of her if he knew how she had lived before joining the CIA. He wondered, vaguely, if she remembered telling him that one of the greatest gifts he had ever given her was his understanding, without judgment.

This was comfortable, familiar, she thought. It was a sensation, more than a memory. Like a cloud of contentment surrounding her, supporting her. She reached up, touching his cheek with her hand, turning his face towards her. He watched her eyes, roaming over his face, her gaze resting on his lips. She slid her hand forward, letting her thumb caress his bottom lip, while her index finger ran over his top lip. "Chuck," she said, breathless suddenly, pressing her hip against him harder.

"Hmm?" he hummed, his eyes partially closed, reveling in the sensation of her delicate fingers on his mouth.

"I remembered something last night, like I told you," she whispered. She flopped back, her head back on his shoulder. She took deep breaths, steadying and calming, and closed her eyes. She was taking his advice, treating a deep dive into her memory almost like self-hypnosis. She could recall more, combining her visual images and her related emotions.

He opened his eyes wider, listening. She spoke in the present tense, like she was back in the moment she was remembering. "We're at the top of the Eiffel Tower. It's early spring, April I think. It's cold, and I don't have my coat. My red peacoat. I threw it away, because I knew it would always remind me…of what you had to do to save my life. Your jacket is wrapped around me," she said, looking like she was breathing in the same scent, "and it smells like you…so much…it's like floating on a cloud. It's windy, my hair keeps blowing in my eyes, but the view is incredible. We can see the entire city, it's so clear. The trees are lime green, just tiny buds and no leaves, from up so high. You're so excited, like a child, rambling and giddy… and it makes me feel so…loved. That you think my being there with you is what makes it so important, when it was obviously something you had dreamed about your whole life. You come up behind me. I turn to look at you," she sighed, lightly moaning, almost humming. "I feel happy. For the very first time in my life that I know, completely happy. Joy. This is what it feels like." He felt the tears, stinging his eyes, always suspecting she had felt that way in that moment, but never having heard her say it so plainly before. "You take me in your arms and kiss me, running your hands in my hair. You're laughing, telling me how adverse to PDA you usually are, but suddenly not any more. We decide to go back to the hotel room and we…you…". The joyful recollections focused, sharpened around her, as the rest of the memory was full of heated desire.

Lifting back up, she reached for his mouth again, tracing both top and bottom with her fingers. She felt his tongue graze her fingertips before he pursed his lips against them. He heard her whimper sofly, deep in her throat. "Did I tell you then, that no one had ever…done that to me before?" she asked, her voice deep and hoarse.

He knew exactly what she was referring to. He rolled towards her, wrapping his arm around her slender waist and pulling her against him. "I asked you what was wrong. You turned red like you were sunburned." He chuckled softly to himself. "And it was so hard for you to tell me, but eventually you did."

"You…" He felt her begin to tremble, her mouth puckering at his jaw. "It was so intimate… more than anything else I had ever experienced before." She paused, holding her breath, hyper focused on the way his hands felt against her skin. "Last night, when you…" He kissed her, feeling her sigh in his mouth. She murmured against his lips, "I wasn't afraid, at all. I wanted you to do it. It was all I could think about. And once you did…I remembered what that felt like, to let myself go, to just accept what you wanted to give me."

He moved his mouth down her neck, murmuring, "I actually think I heard you asking me to not stop last night." She shivered, the memory fresh. "Not that I ever would," he swore.

She kissed him again, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her breath tickling against his ear, she told him, "But it always meant that you loved me. It was like giving you a part of my soul," she said. "But a part of me I only gave to you."

"That's what it always meant, Sarah. It was never any other way with us. I loved you…for a long time before anything like that happened," he confessed.

Against the skin on his neck, she whispered, "I loved you the first time I saw you." The words tumbled out, beyond her conscious thought, but she knew they were true.

She felt the breath rush out of him, with her ear against his throat. It was half a laugh, half a gasp, hushed with wonder and emotion. "Sarah," he said tenderly.

"That's not a specific memory. Just something I know, like what day of the week or what month it is," she explained.

"Like I knew I could trust you, that first day, on the beach. It didn't make any sense, but I knew I could," he whispered. "In Paris, you told me you trusted me, and you relaxed," he said against her ear.

"I do trust you, Chuck," she said, a stronger whisper. "I knew that I could. That I always could."

He so clearly remembered how ill at ease she had been in the Paris hotel room, so unexpected at the time. It made sense, when she explained it, her face aflame with embarrassment. Such a tender moment, he thought now. Funny, he had forgotten in their passionate coupling last night, that she might have similar feelings like that again. Only this time she hadn't, not in the slightest, instead reveling in the experience. Whatever holes left in her memory about their relationship, she innately trusted him now, despite what in her mind was a shorter span of time of loving him. Part of her remembered him, like a remnant from a past life, even if her consciousness didn't yet.

"I want to just stay here, like this," she crooned. "As backward as it seems, this is easier. Regular life is harder."

"I know," he said sympathetically. "It will get easier, I promise."

"When I'm with you, like this, I know who I am," she said, resting her head on his chest. "The rest of the time I feel lost. Morgan tries, so hard. But he never knows quite what to say, or what to do."

He rolled her onto her back, stretching himself on top of her. He just regarded her, lovingly, the softness in his eyes melting her on the inside. "I know, your whole life, all you ever did was play a role. Whether you were with your dad, pretending, or in the CIA, always undercover, not even really sure who the real you was after so long," he commiserated.

"But I changed, once I met you, and that person…she's still not all here yet," she admitted, shaking her head in defeat.

His face came alive, a fiery adamation seizing him. "You always said that, but it wasn't really true. You make it sound like you had to change, you know, for us to fall in love, or be together." He was radiant, flushed with his eyes on fire. "On the inside, you were always the same. I knew that, I saw that, even when I barely knew you. You didn't change. You just became yourself. That's why I know, even if you don't really remember all that much about the past, that we still fit. We still work. Because you're still you. You're still my Sarah," he said, his voice breaking on the last few words.

"Chuck," she gushed, quivering in his arms. "Is that really what you thought? What you think?"

"Yes, really." He kissed her softly. "Start trusting your heart, instead of your head, like you've been taught all your life. Like you do, when you remember something," he coached. "My sister told me that. Emotions are stronger than just memories."

She kissed him, harder, completely wrapping herself around him, pulling the sheets away that blocked her skin connecting to his. He responded to her passion, groaning deep in his chest, the thinnest of gaps between them now an unbearable distance.

"I still don't want to get up yet," she said, gasping for breath as she pulled her mouth away.

"Who said anything about getting up?" he laughed, resting his forehead against hers.

There was no sound she knew of, nothing she remembered in all of her life or even anything she had ever dreamed, that was as beautiful as the sound of him laughing. He had been in so much pain for so long, most of it having to do with her. Any reprieve, even for a moment, was a relief to her.

"Let's try for a different memory, shall we?" he teased, crushing his mouth back against hers, silencing the giggling response to his question.

She flipped him onto his back roughly, laughing with him as he pulled her against him. "That's a fantastic idea."

He caught his breath, whispering against her ear, "I love you, Baby."

She pulled up, looking into his eyes. "I love it when you call me that," she giggled. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"Maybe…" he teased. "Let's see if you remember when."