A/N (1) Previously on Chuck versus The Journey: Chuck and Sarah's second night in the honeymoon suite took a dramatic turn. Bryce wanted to remove Chuck from the mission but was removed himself by Sarah, who literally kicked him out. Our struggling heroine finally has reached the end of her strength, and it is my sad duty to inform you that we are to embark on a grim two-parter. Will the heart of one certain chocolate-eyed nerd be big enough to carry her through her darkest hour?
When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self-assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down.
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me! Help me!
"Help!" (John Lennon & Paul McCartney)
Chapter 24: Sarah vs. The Darkness (1)
"You kicked his ass like a warrior goddess! Pow!" Chuck exclaimed after the door of the honeymoon suite closed behind them. He got into a broad fighter's stance and amateurishly mimicked a martial arts pose. Had the situation been different, Sarah would have snickered amused.
"Chuck," she spoke under her breath as her demeanor changed drastically. Gone was the wife fiercely defending her husband, morphing into a young woman who didn't know how to maintain her confident appearance any longer. Who didn't know how to keep anything together any longer and not tumble down like a house of cards, all the cards useless until someone smart comes along, counts if the deck is still complete and then puts them back in the order they should be at the start. Someone with enough love to tackle that task.
He let out a deep sigh and leaned back on the door, trying to process what happened and its ramifications. "Frankly, I think Beckman won't be pleased. How do we explain this?"
We? It was I who probably destroyed my career, attacking a fellow agent while on a mission, disregarding a direct order. However crazy that douchebag's plan was.
"I never expected that. Thought to end up as the laughing stock, starring in that miserable role in Bryce's abysmal show, and then, bang, you introduced such a plot twist."
He didn't look at her but seemed to replay the glorious moments of his kick-ass wife saving his dignity in his imagination. His eyes glinted with admiration and excitement.
Give Chuck something to gush over, and he will forget about the world! How many times have we sat at the fountain at Echo Park when I tried to muster the courage to talk about my feelings, and he spiraled endlessly about something on his mind, never catching that I was about to open up a little bit.
"Chuck," she whined, drawing out the "u" in his name. Not in exasperation, not in annoyance, not in impatience - Sarah Walker actually whined. Her tone made him drop his thoughts and take those few quick steps to her, eventually registering her cramped position as she tried to master the queasy state her stomach was in.
There might be some truth, she thought sarcastically, in that spastic colon Chuck made up last year. Feels like my intestines are tying themselves into knots.
"You're OK?" he asked, concerned.
You've seen too many movies, she pondered without accusation. If I wince from cramps and can't stand upright, how are chances that I'm OK?
Sarah tried to straighten up and failed, which prompted another question from him. "Did you hurt yourself out there?"
She shook her head. Taken-for-granted things as speaking a few words developed into something as strenuous as learning a new language.
"No, … I'm… just a bit…," she huffed, not finishing her sentence, while she stared through him, failing to focus on him.
She is falling apart, Chuck realized. What was the trigger? I bet it had to do with those strange words Bryce said, how he emphasized her cover name, to which Sarah reacted so strongly.
But he knew it was not the time to analyze the situation. These were his fifteen minutes of fame – being a tower of strength for Sarah Walker when she was in the so-far unheard state of needing support. It was somehow impossible to imagine that Sarah could break down, but whatever it was, Chuck knew her Achilles heel had been revealed, probably by Bryce Larkin's words. It seemed to be something deep inside her, and Chuck knew Sarah well enough to know that whatever it was, she had buried it herself but never came to terms with it.
Even the mightiest can crumble under the assault of their own running amok brain. How can I convey to her that she has to face the music? She can run away from most things, but not from herself. She can ignore the world and me, but not her own issues. Not forever. I wonder how long she is fighting that. Resilient as she is, she might have carried it with her for years already. But everyone cracks someday.
He took her hands in his. She flinched as if in pain but didn't break the contact with him. With a pang, he realized that if it was Bryce who had caused her breakdown with his words, then her cover name, Samantha Lisa, was part of the trigger. Chuck shortly closed his eyes in dismay over the thought that possibly his repeated use of her name had paved the way for her condition.
"Sarah, you're sick," he spoke out what she needed to accept, and her lackluster eyes of an unusual smeared grayish-blue eventually focused on him. It was striking how her eyes revealed her inner workings - or could only he see that? She shook her head again.
"I'm not sick. A bit worn out. Just need a little bit of rest."
The weight of the world is on my shoulders. I probably torpedoed my career successfully. I'm not sure anymore if I'm Sarah or Samantha. I don't know how to find a way to keep you at my side and not lie to you about my past, and yeah, that past has finally and firmly caught up with me when Bryce pulled the ultimate verbal threat.
The dizziness she experienced did not stop her mind from racing.
My intellect tells me that the threat is void, but my mind is envisioning a funeral where I am once more attending only in the shadows, tears streaming down my face as I know that this burial is real – and it is my fault. As the icing on the cake, all that I've been in the last decade strangles me to death.
"Chuck," she sighed, unsure how to convey the dark premonitions she had. "I'm feeling…"
Sarah trailed off again. Her mouth moved, but she didn't utter a sound. She had never talked about it before. It had been something more uniquely "hers-alone" than anything else in her life.
How can I tell you? About my years as a teenage criminal, about my dad, about my so-called career, my fears, about coercion and loneliness and angst, about violence and death and gallons of blood - without explaining everything and driving you away in disgust? How can I cope it with myself now that my shields are broken? But how could we ever have a future otherwise?
She had had a few affairs and now and again a one-night stand, so it had not mattered that her lovers never knew more than her fake names and rarely her burner phone numbers. Her only longer relationship had been Bryce Larkin. She saw today that it had been a dysfunctional one. Opening up and sharing was not part of whatever they had. Had it been only convenient to have a guy around?
Was I fooled by the thrilling life we had and misinterpreted that as a relationship? Probably this had been Bryce's luck. The CIA is everything for me. My desires, including those in the bedroom, always took second place, since my first experiences with men didn't do anything to make me believe that my father's derogatory annotations about love were false.
Had she given herself away too cheaply, for the lowest common denominator of merely having a man nearby to satisfy physical urges mechanically?
No, I tried to have a relationship with Bryce. Not with all of my heart, maybe because I sensed something was off, but I tried. I wanted to have what all the world seems to have, but the man I chose was not able to give me that. Possibly it's not even his fault. But it will be my fault if this thing with Cuck, whatever it may be, bombs.
Her inner debate increased her unrest and nervousness.
"…anxious," Sarah finally concluded the sentence.
She was concentrating on his face as if she had to remind herself who he was, while her own mien looked lost and confused. "I never experienced that before," her alarmingly thin voice belied, not to keep the truth from Chuck, but to convince herself of the lie, desperately aiming to avoid the moment of clarity when there would be no escape from verity anymore.
Chuck patiently shook his head, another kind of sorrow written all over his face. Sarah knew that expression. It was the look that came right before a white lie. The countenance people display before they spare you something unpleasant with empty phrases.
I deserve nothing but lies. When have I ever told Chuck the truth, let him into my life, sharing my innermost emotions? What can I expect from him now that I need his support? I don't know how to deal with the fact that I need help, even more so knowing that I don't deserve it. I should have given a little bit earlier, so I could receive a little bit tonight.
Is it give-and-take in friendship and love? She wondered. Both were pretty fresh ingredients of her life, introduced by Chuck. While she was the seasoned agent protecting his life, he seemed to be the mentor who symbolically took her by the hand on her path to humanity.
"You've experienced something similar before," Chuck spoke intentionally slowly as if he presumed that she needed more time to comprehend. This was not the Chuck she knew who could rattle away at a speed that would make most rappers jealous.
"The first night when we were here," he hinted. "Our unfortunate cover situation."
Sarah put a trembling hand on his chest as it suddenly spilled out of her.
"You were so … considerate. If ever a girl found a gentleman coming through in her most hopeless hour, it was me last night."
She searched his face and foolishly tried to find a feature that would explain why Chuck Bartowski from Echo Park, Burbank, was so different from any other man she had met. Even the best of them would have shed a few crocodile tears last night and then enjoyed her body to bolster up their cover marriage.
The reflection of what last night would have meant if it had been Bryce instead of Chuck hit her again like the Capitol Records Tower collapsing over her. She had scrutinized the situation: The threat upon them individually and the USA generally, the dire need to save the mission, her ability to put on her mask and endure almost anything for the greater good, even ignoring her feelings for Chuck, but being acutely aware that she never wanted to have Bryce in any way near to her anymore. She wouldn't have filed sleeping with Bryce as a necessity of her duty. She would have felt used, abused - even raped.
Sarah gulped, nervously looking down. "You…you're aware that everyone else… would have taken advantage of the situation."
Chuck didn't trust his ears at her words. The disgust she expressed was as startling as a lone scream in the still of the night. He had expected to be her support tonight, but he had not foreseen that it would give himself much to ponder as well.
That does not sound like the Sarah that joyfully hopped on Lon Kirk's yacht. He studied her eyes. He perceived the very same woman who gave him a hard time interrupting her tete-a-tete with the criminal billionaire a year ago. What was different about the situation then, requiring intimacy for the job, except that the man this time was himself? Back then, she acted as if it was no big deal to sleep with a sleazy mark every other week. Have I underestimated you, misinterpreted your words, body language, and intentions? Did you have everything under control back then, knowing how far you would – and vice versa, would not - go? And this time, had you been disgusted with a scenario that spun out of control and left you no choice, regardless of who was in that honeymoon bed with you – and little Chuck Bartowski surprised you for being not like any other male?
Chuck forced himself back to reality as Sarah continued, having paused herself by returning his stare.
"Unless I wanted those folks to storm the room and kill us, I had to go along with everything you did."
A powerful affection for him temporarily overlayed every other emotion. A happy teardrop formed in the corner of Sarah's eye. It kept Chuck from refusing the praise and from detailing how natural it had been for him not to take advantage of her.
"I can't imagine how cruel that must have been for you," she closed.
Can I ask her to repeat that? Could it be true?
Chuck hid his surprise. Her words made it very clear that she acknowledged the deep feelings he had for her. "Sarah, it…" he began to explain what he had suppressed a few seconds ago but was thankful that the teardrop started to roll down her cheek. It allowed him to trail off before he talked too much about himself. His task was to help Sarah through the night. Chuck caught the tear with his thumb and did not finish his sentence.
"Chuck, I never felt so appreciated in my life… does that sound weird?" she asked, her hand applying a little pressure on his chest to make him understand how important her message was.
"Not at all," he replied, "but it sounds a little sad."
Sadly, you had to wait so long until somebody treated you as a human being.
•••••••••••••••••••
(Flashback, unknown place and time)
"Samantha Lisa, it's your choice!" the man bellows. "You will obey, or he will die."
•••••••••••••••••••
With a vengeance, her angst flooded back. It was like their short conversation, and the feeling of gratitude and respect it generated, had kept the fright away for a minute or two. But the floodgates were open, and a tidal wave of fear was threatening to tear her away. She wanted to rest her weary head, her tightening chest, and her weak limbs.
"My head's so heavy… it's like I weigh a thousand pounds… it feels like I'm dragging a baby elephant on a leash with me," Sarah rattled after taking a first, tentative step. "I'm afraid … my legs are going limp."
She was stunned at herself. While she tediously disgorged the words like a cat a hairball, they still came naturally and uninhibited. She would rather choke than to voice them for anyone to hear, but the nerd by her side, for a very long time, had not been "anyone." Some things came so easily around him.
Chuck remembered that the doctor, where he was eventually sent to come to terms as a parent-less kid grappling with angst and guilt, was a relatively funny and rather straightforward fellow. In terms of the illness of the soul, his first treatment was truth and humor. "I feel horrible," Chuck had opened at his first visit to his office, and the doctor gladly clapped his hands and exclaimed, "Wonderful, then you came to the right place, because I can help!"
"I thought that a little bit of walking around would do you good, but under these circumstances, we shouldn't," Chuck stated. "I want you in that bed as soon as possible," he told Sarah, nodding in that direction with lazily half-closed eyelids.
"That's what they all want," she complained, but it didn't sound like she objected to the idea. On the contrary, she went for a playful glance that ended up as a caricature of itself. If only her feet carried her over to the bed, she would walk herself.
Chuck was content that she still replied to him.
She is still communicating. She does not shut off and gets lost in her panic. But it looks like I have to take care of bringing her to bed.
Sarah still leaned against him in her cramped posture, her respiration hard and loud.
"Bellyaches?" he asked empathetically.
"Hmmm-hnnn," she confirmed. Chuck slipped a hand between them and rubbed her belly cautiously with the back of his fingers. Sarah hummed against his chest, but she was more appreciative of his attempt to mollify than actually feeling alleviated.
"Everything's OK with your tummy," he soothed. "It's just a little upset because so much is going on."
There it is again. His hand on my belly.
Sarah turned a bit, so she leaned more on his side than on his chest to give him better access. For a wink, it felt so wonderful to offer herself to him, even if it was only to massage her ailing stomach. Her mind didn't make the slightest erotic association, but opening up was something she never did under any circumstances in any way. In a way, it was easier for her to undress and have sex than to admit her vulnerabilities and seek remedy. Chuck had her trust - and that alone felt incredibly good.
He understood the motion. He adjusted his hand, which slowly but confidently circled over Sarah's belly. For a few seconds – though she could not say how long actually – the fear seemed to ebb away. Through Chuck's hand, warmth and comfort streamed into her body. For a too short time, her whole existence was in abeyance, reduced to his caring hand and her grateful tummy. Then the dark side won, and anxiety returned.
Sarah sensed that her legs would soon give in and tried to walk away from him to the bed. Shocked to realize that she had to grab his arm, she halted.
I don't have the strength and the balance to walk. She was physically in top shape but couldn't seem to drag her feet through the quicksand of her life.
She slowly raised her head. The mere thought that she could find him looking down with pity or scorn, gleefully checking out the invincible agent for once struggling to stay on her feet, made her inner turmoil even worse.
Why should he? She asked herself. And what makes me think he ever would?
His eyes, full of fondness and worry, removed those fears. If there was a human being she sorely needed tonight, then it was Chuck.
How could I think he would despise me? She wondered but knew the answer – it was her emotional condition. I should cling to him like the wallpaper to the wall. He's my lifeline.
Chuck put a hand under her chin, and she immediately rested herself into his palm. How does he know that my head is as heavy as the full moon? Dear Chuck.
"Sarah, what's up?" he asked, knowing the answer but surprised to discover a yet unknown emotion in her look – shame.
Poor Sarah is fighting with her pride and does not want me to see her in this moment of weakness.
"Can't walk," she eventually sighed, and Chuck understood the overcoming it took her to admit. She never looked as fragile as at this moment. He performed the Bartowski eyebrow dance just for her, and she acknowledged his efforts with a faint smile that was too weak to reach her eyes.
"Sarah Walker, you're gonna get laid now," he annunciated, his brows doing the jitterbug for her amusement. She did not mockingly protest this time. She understood his aim to cheer her up - or even provoke to stir her out of her depression. "Please," she sighed. Thank you so much for all you try.
It gets worse, he feared, displaying no signs of his emotion. You gotta be calm and caring and not make it harder for her.
Chuck carried her to the bed, laying her down. He folded back the duvet on the other side. "Strong, brave, invincible, plus –" there was that eyebrow dance again "– with one of the Burbank Bartowskis in your team, you'll come out on top," he declared with a confidence Sarah welcomed. She eyed him warily as he fluffed up the cushions and then placed her there, helping her slip under the sheets because she moved too tiredly.
"You will make it through this," Chuck encouraged her. "There'll be ups and downs for a while, but I'm helping you through."
"Yes, please, help me," she requested, savoring the comfort the fluffy pillow provided.
After an extended loving look, he turned away. Sarah's eyes widened in fear and followed him like magnets as he pulled up a very comfortable armchair, positioning it at her side of the bed, close to the edge, in a way that he sat right next to, but facing her.
Chuck saw her mouth, half-opened in tension, and her overall expression. He immediately understood what happened. "God, no, sorry! I won't leave you – unless you want me to."
"No," she said with relief clearly showing on her face. How can he scare me like that? No, correctly, why am I scared? He just told me he would help me. Why would he leave me the next moment? Sarah struggled to understand that her fettle turned her jittery and unattentive. It was a bad sign that it became harder to follow logic and reason and be more and more at the mercy of her anguish.
"From now on, I'm going to tell you what I do, so you know exactly what's going to happen." He looked around. "Do we have everything? I'm getting a bottle of water for us," he proclaimed and did so, feeling her eyes on him when he got up once more. Before he sat down again, he closed the door to the terrace and the curtains.
Chuck switched the room lights off and left only the bedside lamps on, regarding her reaction.
"That's better," Sarah said. The creases on her forehead were as deep as the Mariana Trench. Her breath came fitfully, and her mouth was unusually wide open to catch as much air as possible.
"Here's a drop of cool water," he said as he opened the sealing cap of the bottle, then leaned forward to bring it to her lips.
She hardly noticeably nodded and drank thirstily. You're my water of life, Chuck. "Thank you."
She pulled the cold, half-empty bottle against her temple, sighing in a relief she knew would last only seconds. Everything that helped did so only for a few moments. It seems like a battle I can't win. I will succumb to despair and darkness, no matter how I – no, we! – try to avoid it.
"Do you have any kind of medication for when this is happening?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No, never took anything… it goes away after a while."
"But it comes back," Chuck stated. "How long has this been happening?"
Sarah shrugged. "About ten years. But not all the time."
He stared at her in disbelief. "I know you feel pretty lousy right now, but ten years, Sarah, ten years! No one else would have endured this so long. You're a tough, tough lady."
Once more, she registered his attempt to steer her into positive thinking. She was thankful he did, yet she could not help breathing erratically.
It has taken on its own dynamics, and it looks like tonight will be the worst of all those times. I don't want Chuck to see me like this, but I don't want him to leave. He needs to save my life tonight.
She took a deep breath of air that wasn't enough, so she quickly took another one and yet another, and within seconds, Sarah expected to suffocate, a dizzy fog disseminating in her head while she gaped at Chuck. Help me, help me!
"Chuck," she commenced, but he had noted her troubles already.
"You're hyperventilating, Sarah," he softly explained. "Let's exercise a bit of breathing technique."
"I... am … not…. hyperventilating," she remonstrated. "I can hold… my breath… longer than you."
That's Sarah Walker now, Agent I-Don't-Need-Nobody, Agent Hand-Me-My-Knives-And-I-Can-Master-Everything.
"That don't impress me much," Chuck challenged her, "as long as you can't hold your breath longer than Superman."
She looked at him questioningly. I can breathe as well as anyone. What's the BS about hyperventilation? I am dying here, so help me!
"Wanna try it?" He looked at her with such pleading puppy eyes that she nodded against her own will. He's so sweet I'd do anything if he only asked. If he patents that look and sells it, he will be a rich man in six weeks.
"Ok. You slowly and deeply inhale through your nose, when I say twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, then you hold your breath as long as it takes to repeat the numbers in your mind, and then I repeat it aloud while you slowly exhale, through your mouth."
I should have known that myself, she mused, but was surprised by another aspect. Chuck knows what he's doing. There is a secret about him I have yet to uncover. I have a reason to survive tonight!
"Silly," Sarah puffed nonetheless. She didn't know why she reacted that way. Possibly by giving the semblance to have everything under control, she hoped to regain it. What crazy logic, she judged herself. Could be Chuck's.
Chuck began nonetheless, raising his left index finger. "It'll be fun. We can do this together… twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three. Please, join me, just once."
Sarah watched his finger like a ship without a compass in a storm would hold on to a light-tower but kept gasping much too fast.
"You'll feel better if you try it… please, please try it… twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three!"
She gave in to his pleading, just to keep him satisfied, tried to inhale slowly, and then held her breath while she counted silently. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three.
"Out now.. twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, excellent, Sarah. Let's try it again."
While her respiration was still too fast, it slowed down a bit by repeating the exercise. Chuck then saw that she was losing concentration, lowering her head with glassy eyes and starting to breathe more quickly again.
"Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three," he said, and in the pause when she had to count silently, he whisperingly rhymed, "Your beauty makes me shout Yippee," to close with normal tone, "Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three."
She peered at him with newfound interest, her face showing a hint of amused endearment next to the dominating strain and anxiety. "What did you say?"
"Nothing, Sarah. I only counted." Chuck made a less than convincing poker face that almost elicited a laugh from her. "Next try… only a truly bad-ass agent can take it so far… twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three."
Sarah enumerated and held her breath, then observed him watchfully – great, she is distracted for a moment! - as he closed again by counting out loud. A disappointed expression scurried over her face. "You didn't say anything."
"I never do when you have to count in silence," he replied, and after a couple of more repeats, she lost her concentration again. Thence, at their next reiteration, when she held her breath while counting, he rhymed in a whisper, "You are sweeter than a honeybee."
Sarah smiled feebly. "Twas nice."
Thank you, mom, thank you, dad, Chuck prayed. All the suffering of you leaving us and all the treatment I got myself prepared me to be there for the woman I love tonight.
"What?" he inquired with mocked amazement.
"What you said."
"Didn't say anything."
She tried to give him an austere stare but realized she looked cross-eyed.
"Trying to … distract me?" she rhetorically asked. "No … use in that. I can take the truth. Tell me…"
…what's wrong with me? she wanted to ask since he was prepared for everything, but the thought alone hurled her into even deeper depression and despair. Shakily, her left hand searched him, and she had to watch it to control it. He took it in both of his.
"Hey, I'm here," he calmed. "You'll make it. I'm at your side. Just tell me what you need. I'm here. Do you want me to hold your hands so you can feel I'm here?"
"You promised I'd get laid," she wheezed accusingly. "Now, I'm all alone. … Come into bed. Please."
Chuck unceremoniously did as requested and quickly slipped under the duvet. Sarah attempted to crawl over to him, but he closed the distance faster, and she laid her head on his chest. "Hold me."
"Yes, Ma'am!" he exclaimed, but she failed to respond, too busy marshaling her thoughts to talk to him about how she felt.
"I have... palpitations," she explained. "My hands… and… feet tingle, no, you know…, like… like…"
"Pins and needles?" he helped her out, realizing she knew the term, but speaking came hard for her.
"Hmm-m," she confirmed, tapping with a finger on his chest, just to find out if she still could do that.
"Your body is busy dealing with your situation," he explained, offering her the unspoken question from which they strayed earlier.
She should ask. I will not force it onto her.
She did not pick up his hint and lay on his chest for two or three minutes, breathing hard, not saying anything.
"My feet are getting numb," she panted forth the words all at once, evident fear in her voice. "It's like my life is leaving me, Chuck, it's-"
She stopped when he freed himself of her loose embrace, the fear of being left alone again creeping into her eyes. "Just a sec," he murmured.
Don't go away! And if you must go, end my misery, put me in a warm bubble bath in our honeymoon bathroom, leave me a knife and close the door quietly. I will slip away before my bath gets cold. I don't want to live without you anymore. You can take the sun and the moon and the day and the night with you if you go. I do not need anything anymore if you leave me.
"Sarah, listen to me," his urgent voice reached her ears, his worried visage filling her view like a close-up in a movie. "Sarah," he repeated her name, "don't give in to your anxiety, Sarah!"
She startled. Where had my thoughts taken me too? Where had I been actually? What did I… from where did he pull me back? The last few moments were almost gone from her memory. She could hardly remember those suicidal thoughts that were utterly alien to her. She might suffer, but she was a fighter. But she could not deny that the sentiment had surfaced. Keep your wits together, Walker!
"I'm going to take care of your feet," he told her, his voice soothing again. He tenderly turned her, so she was lying on her back, then slid down to the other end of the bed. He knelt at her feet and placed them on his lap. Like a concert pianist, he stretched his fingers with an exaggerated faraway look preparing for his task.
He's trying to put me at ease with his antics, she realized. Dear Chuck.
She perked up when he slipped a hand under the ankle of her left foot and gently held it there, and placed his other hand on that foot. His thumb slowly walked from the bottom of her heel up to her toes, then he tenderly kneaded one after another with two fingers. She stared at his hands on her foot wordlessly for long seconds before she could not hold back a soft moan anymore, momentarily diverted from her woefulness.
His fingers were bringing back life to her feet. "That's so good," she purred slowly. She felt the urge to be saucy to convince herself that she was improving while she already knew it was only momentary relief. "I know why I keep you around."
His eyes are smiling and sad simultaneously - glad that he gave me a short respite and melancholy that he can't prevent the unavoidable.
"How do you know what to do?" Sarah asked incredulously. Chuck grinned at her, obviously experiencing a happy moment himself because he could provide a little distraction.
"I have no idea," he admitted as frankly as only Chuck could while he grabbed her other foot. "I take your feet, hold them in my hands, and sense what might feel good to you."
Doncha ever tell any other woman that you sense with your hands what feels good, she wanted to warn him, but her flippant detour burst the tiny relaxed bubble she had entered like a needle popped a balloon. Her angst filled the vacant space immediately.
Chuck smiled and let go of her feet, returning to her side, looking unsure.
"What?" she asked and sensed that speaking got more challenging.
"I don't know if you want me to hold you again," he confessed. "Some people aren't keen on nearness when having such troubles."
I was one of them, Sarah thought. I crawled into my bed like a mortally wounded animal and waited for the sun to rise the next morning – or not to rise for me again. That was before you.
"I'm not like some people… anymore," she softly replied.
He scooched over and slipped an arm under her shoulder while laying against her side. She moved her torso a bit.
"Boobie," she complained, and he looked at her quizzingly. "My boob's squished, that's not so nice. Can you…?"
"Sorry," he quickly said and equally fast, moved respectfully away. Sarah rolled her eyes at him. "Don't… I mean, stay..., just take care of it."
Chuck looked distinctively confused.
Heck, just grab my breast and keep it from being squished between ourselves, she thought, exasperated, but knew she could not say this. She shifted a bit and nodded.
"OK," she simply said, and he moved closer again. She wanted to smile but couldn't.
"Better now?" Chuck asked, with apprehension looking down as her head rested on his left upper arm, and his right arm embraced her torso, making sure not to touch her chest.
As if I would misunderstand any touch from you tonight, she thought and replied, "Thank you."
They lay in silence for a minute as Sarah's mind swirled in a hundred thousand sinister directions. She eventually twisted her left arm back, searching for his hand, and found it. She did not fathom how she survived such moments in the past – without him by her side.
"I got such pressure on my face," she panted. "It's uncomfortably warm."
He squeezed her hand. "We'll see it through together."
He is so calmly worried, not freaking out as he usually does, she wondered. He is in control. The tables have turned. He's my protector. I'm his protegée.
Those thoughts did only bring relief for the tiniest of moments. Hardly she welcomed their soothing effect, these were gone, supplanted by the weight of the impending doom coming closer.
Sarah swallowed hard. Her hand in his felt clammy. The comfortable warmth Chuck provided competed with an unhealthy heat that came from inside. It took only the shortest of time, and she felt her skin getting moist, her face pressing even more as tiny beads of sweat formed on her brows, forehead, and cheeks. Her almost coughing respiration began to turn into a severe problem.
"Chuck," she choked.
"I'm here for you," he whispered into her ear. "As long as it takes, I'll be as close to you as you need me. I'm your friend. I'm not going anywhere."
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A/N (2) In the introduction to this story, I told you that "Chuck vs. The Journey" is based on something that happened to a friend of mine. These two chapters full of angst are what I hinted at back then. I don't claim to be medically correct at all times. I am aware that panic attacks, anxiety disorders, and everything in that area are widely varied forms of illnesses. I described what I witnessed many years ago and adapted it to my story. I didn't have to bend many details, solely customizing it for Sarah and Chuck and their relationship. Before you ask, last time I heard from her, my friend seemed to do fine, and that's all I'm going to say. And if you suffer from similar troubles - it's no shame to seek help.