A/N: This is a pretty long chapter story but I couldn't find a good place to break it up.
Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck.
Chapter 1
I woke up suddenly, in an unfamiliar hotel room. My head hurt, like the remnants of a hangover. A low frequency buzz in my brain, like a phone on vibrate, deep in my cerebellum. I'm lying in bed wrapped in sheets of confusion. I leaned up to look around and the room spins. I closed my eyes and swallowed the bile in the back of my throat. I opened my eyes slowly and the room stabilized. I was trying hard to make sense of how I got there, wondering where the hell there actually was. I can't make it make sense, can't explain the inexplicable. With no answers becoming apparent, my brain starts jumping back and forth between how and where, how, where, how, where. I had been awake for mere seconds and confusion ruled my existence, became the larger part of my identity.
The confusion was deepening rather than lessening as I climbed further out of sleep and into consciousness. The more awake I became, the less I understood. Everything I was experiencing was wrong. The noise in my brain was very wrong. The vomit taste in my mouth was wrong. The room was wrong. Not in itself but the fact that I was in it. Somehow even I was wrong, my sense of self was fuzzy and convoluted.
I didn't know where I was, I didn't know where I was supposed to be, but I knew definitively this hotel room wasn't it. I didn't know how I knew that, and tentacles of confusion squeezed my perceptions of things known and unknown. I not only couldn't remember how I got there, I couldn't remember where I was before there, and the wrongness of that realization started to transform confusion to fear.
I barely had time to recognize the downtown Los Angeles skyline out the window when there was a knock at the door. Recognizing the city outside had a grounding effect on me. It was familiar, something known in the haze of confusion. The knock at the door also helped. It was a call to action and I'm good at that. Action is not confusing, it's enlightening. My brain latched on to the only facts it had access to. I was in a hotel in LA and someone was knocking on the door.
I sat up in the bed and performed a mental check of my physical condition. Other than the buzzing in my skull, I felt.. adequate. I actually felt like shit, but all my limbs seemed to be functioning normally. I was no longer dizzy, I had good motor control. I was wearing a camisole and matching pajama shorts, so I pulled on a sweater that was lying on the bed next to me and grabbed my pistol out of my suitcase. I had no memory of loading it, so I ejected the magazine to check it, then gently clicked it back home and pulled the slide back a little, gratified to see a round already chambered.
These actions were familiar and understood. There was a clarity in them. Clarity and confusion are mutually exclusive. I have clarity that my gun should operate normally, but confusion in regards to nearly everything else around me. I'm anticipating a further lessening of confusion at knowing who's knocking at the door. The knock was not forceful but persistent, almost constant. Like they knew someone was here and they had no intention of going away. Not how a hotel employee would knock.
The buzzing in my head seemed to recede slightly as I moved quietly to the door. I jerked it open quickly and found myself looking at a pudgy 40-something man in a cheap suit. He didn't seem as nervous as he should, considering I was pointing my Smith & Wesson at his head, but he held his hands up placatingly.
"Whoa, Sarah, Sarah. Easy girl," he said quietly.
Girl? No one me calls me 'girl'.
"Who are you?" I asked.
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Who, Where, how, who, where, how? Confusion seeps back in like smoke, clouding my thoughts, darkening my emotions. The brain-phone is louder suddenly.
"I'm Nicholas Quinn, your handler," he said, stepping into the doorway. I took a step back, still pointing my pistol at his face. "We've only known each other for nearly five years. I guess you're not all back yet, huh?"
Handler? I don't have a handler. Not all back yet?
Five YEARS?
"What do you mean?" I asked. Answering the door has only magnified my confusion. I don't like Quinn's answers, they don't make sense. I need something that makes sense. My headache was noticeably worse, the phone-buzz getting louder still. Not yet unbearable but needing attention soon.
Five years? Five years? I repeated this to myself as my confusion latched on to his statement of time and became a focal point in my head. He moved slowly into the room with his hands up, so I let him come in. It was better than holding him at gunpoint in the hallway. I shut the door and kept my gun trained on his back.
"Well, you took a nasty blow to the head. You spent a week in the hospital. Is any of that ringing a bell? Japan? Bullet train?" He asked as he moved to the bed and started pulling files out of a satchel.
"Meh, it doesn't matter. I'll fill you in on the details." He paused, then added, "If you're fit for duty?"
He was talking to me over his shoulder while facing away from me, which I found annoying and disrespectful. He seemed dismissive of my mental state, which I found infuriating. His 'Meh, it doesn't matter' statement made me want to pummel him until it did matter.
As much as I didn't like him or his flippant attitude, listening to him talk was helping me. Thinking about what he was saying, even as strange as it was, helped me focus. Confusion was still a veil over my thoughts, but it seemed slightly more transparent. I still didn't remember, and I certainly didn't trust this unctus jackass, but I wanted to see where this went so I lowered my weapon.
"What the hell are you talking about, Quinn? You're saying I have amnesia?"
He finally turned around to face me. "Yes, that's correct. You were on a mission in Japan. You were on a bullet train. Someone hit you from behind. We're not sure if they were trying to kill you or just knock you out, but it was a pretty bad concussion. You were out for a while, but we found you and exfiltrated you back to the states."
"You said you've been my handler for almost five years, but how is that possible? I don't know you. Are you telling me my amnesia goes back that far? That I'm missing five years of my life?" I worked really hard to keep my voice level and maintain distance from whatever was happening, but I was struggling. It shouldn't be a struggle. The fact that it was a struggle increased my level of confusion again and the confusion made the struggle yet more difficult. I was caught in a negative feed-back loop of confusion that was rapidly bordering on despair. I definitely was not on my A-game.
"The doctors said you would likely have some memory loss. I didn't think it would go back that far. You were confused in the hospital, so I had you brought here. This was your residence when you first started your current mission. I was hoping it might trigger your memories." He paused and looked at me closely. "Has it?" He asked.
No surprise I was confused in the hospital. It seemed to be my new state of being. I glanced around the room. It was ugly, all silver and green. There was something about it, but I didn't care enough about a random hotel room to tug on that thread. "No. The room seems vaguely familiar, but I spend a lot of time in hotel rooms. They all seem vaguely familiar." Interestingly, Quinn did not seen disappointed by this answer.
There was a question I was avoiding. "What's the date?" I asked, dreading the answer.
His reply stunned me. "I'm so sorry to have to tell you like this, Sarah. It's January 27, 2012," he said quietly. His tone seemed like he was trying to affect some level of compassion, but it sounded false and flat to my ears. He picked up the TV remote from the table and turned it on to a news station. They had the date and time on the screen in the corner.
"I've lost nearly five years of my life?" I asked quietly, looking at the television and trying to comprehend the magnitude of what I was being told. It seemed like the news should have a more dramatic impact on my psyche, but instead it actually helped. This was at least part of the root of my confusion and knowing that helped me get a handle on it. It had a cause, which could be analyzed. Confusion was no longer the greater part of my identity, but it was replaced with an emotion I couldn't yet identify. I don't do well with emotions, but it was a relief, nonetheless.
"Yes, so it would seem. But you're still the best agent we have, Sarah. I still think we can make this work. You've been working a deep cover assignment this entire time. The doctors say you're physically fit for duty and that your memories will likely return in time."
I looked at him like he was speaking an alien language which would have made more sense than what he was currently asking of me. "How the hell am I supposed to go back into a deep cover operation when I don't remember anything about it?" I demanded. Something else about what he was saying didn't add up. I looked down at my arms and hands and considered the implications of a week in the hospital, spent mostly unconscious.
"I have a file for you to memorize. It will get you through and I'm also going to be in your ear with a micro transceiver. I can help you with how to respond until you get comfortable. If we're lucky, your memories will start to return, and you'll be fine."
"What kind of deep cover operation is this?" I asked, still trying to process what he was telling me, the absurdity of what he was asking me to do.
"It's a long term seduction mission. About five years ago, you were assigned an asset. A man by the name of Charles Bartowski who was then 27. Eventually he became an agent, CIA cover name of Charles Carmichael. Goes by the name Chuck. This is all in the file."
Not reacting to his words about a long term seduction mission was extremely difficult given the mental state I was in. Finally, I had something solid, something grounded in reality, in knowledge of myself, that my confused state couldn't touch.
I don't do long term seduction missions. I barely do one-day seduction missions and I would never sleep with an asset or a mark. Ever. It was my golden rule. This job had tainted enough of my soul, I wasn't going to let it have that part of me. It was a promise I'd made to myself while I was a 17 year old recruit, ten years ago. Well, now fifteen years ago.
I had several points of reference to prove the lie he was feeding me. The television supported his claim that I had indeed lost close to five years of memory, but everything else was a complete fabrication. I needed to start thinking of an extraction plan for myself. I was in deep shit because I was apparently five years out of the loop. I knew I had to be very careful.
Keeping my expression even, I said, "Ok, I'll look at the file."
He smiled and said, "I'll ask you again. Are you fit for duty?"
"I am," I replied.
"Good. Your orders are in," he said as he held up a picture he had pulled out of the file. "You recognize this man?"
The picture was of a handsome man in his early thirties. "I've never seen him before." It was true, but there was something about him. Something just on the edge of my consciousness.
"He's the reason your last mission in Japan went south."
"What are my orders?" I asked.
"Your orders are to kill Chuck Bartowski," he said plainly.
At first I'd wanted to play along with Quinn, act like I'd bought into his bullshit. But as I looked down at the picture again I was suddenly conflicted. I didn't know why but I really didn't want to kill the man in the picture. I didn't want any part of a mission with that as the goal. As I studied the picture of the handsome man, my confusion changed to anger which intensified the buzzing in my brain. I'd just learned that I'd lost nearly five years of my life and I'm being given all this information by a man who's lying to my face about my current mission. What else was he lying about?
I was so tired of handlers and their lies that I could barely keep myself from putting a round between his eyes and sorting it all out later. I knew he'd never actually been my handler, but it didn't matter. He claimed to be. I remembered Ryker and his schemes, using me the way he did, as if my life was forfeit for his personal enrichment. And now here I was again, with this new asshole trying to pull something else over on me.
The weight of the few minutes I'd been conscious pressed in on me. I felt like shit, tired, run down and just… off. Disconnected, disjointed and confused. And now angry. Learning that I'd lost nearly five years of my life after waking up in a hospital, surrounded by doctors and nurses dedicated to helping me heal would have been bad enough. To learn about it like this, from this piece of human excrement was more than I could stomach. Enough was enough. To hell with confusion, it was time for action.
I took a step back and leveled my gun at his face again, pulling the hammer back to make sure he was clear on where we stood.
"I'm so goddamn sick and tired of being lied to and played by third-rate has-beens, Quinn, you have no idea," I said with teeth clenched, fighting not to pull the trigger. "None of what you're saying makes the least bit of sense. If I was in the hospital for a week with a head injury, where's my IV bruise? My hands and arms are clean. I also know I haven't come off a catheter anytime recently either. Those things leave reminders for days."
This time around he looked genuinely afraid with my gun pointed at him. "Sar-" he started.
"Shut up! I'm not done asking you questions yet, but first I want you to put that file down, and slowly pull your weapon out with your left hand." I let my eyes go dead blank. I could tell he understood how close he was to losing everything at that moment. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his pudgy face.
He slowly dropped the file on the bed then awkwardly pulled his pistol out of his shoulder holster with his left hand, holding it with two fingers. "Sarah, you're making a big mistake here. There's a lot going on you don't understand."
"Yeah, if that's the case, I'll apologize later. But I think you're full of shit." I took three quick steps forward and jabbed him hard in the solar plexus with the business end of my pistol. His eyes bulged and he exhaled explosively as he fell to his knees, dropping his gun. I promptly picked it up and tossed it in my suitcase, then pulled out a loop of paracord which I used to tie him up while he wheezed and coughed on the floor.
As I searched him I quickly discovered that he was wired. I should have realized that he wouldn't be alone, trying to con me into whatever off-book operation he had going. It had been less than a minute since I put him on his ass, but I knew backup was already on their way. I quickly stuffed the file, his gun and his wallet into his messenger back and slung it over my shoulder as I made my way to the door. I pulled it open and listened before glancing out into the hall. It was quiet but I figured I had less than sixty seconds before his backup crew arrived. Not even enough time to put on a damn pair of shoes.
I sprinted down the hallway to the nearest stairwell and opened the door. I heard at least two pairs of feet moving fast and loud up to my floor. They were only a few floors down, but I was short on options, so I quickly made my way down one floor and waited in the hallway next to the door. I figured Quinn had maybe a five man team at the most. I would have put a pair up each stairwell and one up the elevator. I gave them a five count after I heard them go stomping past the door then made my way back into the stairwell and down to the lobby, hiding my gun behind the messenger bag.
I was at a serious disadvantage. I knew I was at Maison23 hotel somewhere in Los Angeles, but I had no idea how I'd come to be there, and I was five years behind the curve. First things first, I was going to have to appropriate some transportation. I stepped behind a column to quickly survey the lobby. There was a man in a dark suit looking anxious just outside in the drop-off area, but the lobby was clear. He was standing near the front end of a black SUV with the doors open. I knew there would be a lot of glare on the glass doors of the lobby making it difficult to see in, so I quickly made my out the door and was on top of him before he could get to his gun.
"Do not move!" I screamed. I quickly glanced in the passenger door of the SUV and saw the keys were still in the ignition. I closed the passenger doors. "Pull your weapon slowly and slide it over to me, now!"
He had hate in his eyes, but he did what I told him. I picked it up and kept him covered while I made my way around to the driver's side of the car. I saw him tense as he went for a backup weapon and my hand responded almost of its own volition as I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him center mass and he went down, a revolver skittering out of his hand and across the pavement, blood spreading across the front of his shirt. I could hear screams nearby as I jumped in the SUV, turned the key, put it into gear and pulled quickly out of the hotel parking lot.
I knew the vehicle would have a tracker, but it would take them a few minutes to get it online. Hopefully the technology hadn't improved that much in the five years I'd lost. I hadn't been to LA for a while, but it didn't take me long to get my bearings. I was just north of downtown LA, not too far from Dodger Stadium so I started heading that direction.
As I was driving, I pulled Quinn's wallet out of the messenger bag. He had a few hundred dollars in cash, which I would have to thank him for later. Assuming I didn't kill him later. The entire scenario was so bizarre that it left me disoriented and my headache wasn't helping matters though it had lessened. It wasn't bad, but it left me feeling dull around the edges and I still couldn't shake the sense of wrongness that had been plaguing me since I had woken up . I'd had minor memory loss from a concussion before, but this felt different. I felt incomplete.
I drove as far as I dared before I pulled into a random shopping mall. My first priority was to get a pair of shoes, then find new transportation. I got a few looks on my way into the mall but being checked out was something I was so used to that I barely noticed it. Some of the looks did seem to be regarding my shoe-less state. Plus I was only wearing a long cardigan sweater over a camisole and pajama shorts, but this was LA and with the thigh length sweater, my wardrobe choices weren't all that remarkable.
I went into an athletics store to take care of the first priority on my list. I was in a hurry, but as I saw a particular pair of shoes on display I paused. They weren't really my style, but I was inexplicably drawn to them.
"Chuck's!" I heard myself say as I picked them up. Somehow the word had dual meaning in my mind. I realized I was smiling. Not just smiling but grinning like an idiot. These stupid shoes were making me so happy I could barely contain myself. My vision blurred and I realized I was on the verge of tears. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me. I've got tears of joy over a stupid pair of shoes? Confusion once again interrupted rational thought, but my feelings of happiness remained.
I was so focused on those silly shoes, and so bewildered by the emotions they invoked, that I almost jumped when someone spoke up behind me. Way to maintain situational awareness, Walker.
"Can I help you ma'am?"
I turned around to see a young woman looking at me with a concerned expression. She glanced at my bare feet and seemed to notice that I was on the brink of tears.
I cleared my throat and wiped at my eyes. "Um, you know what, it's a long story." I made a dismissive motion with my hand. "Do you have these Chuck's in a ladies size 7?"
"Sure, do you have a color preference?"
"Black." I said. It just felt right.
Black Chuck's. Chuck's. Chuck. My orders were to kill Chuck Bartowski. What?
The girl was able to ring me up quickly and I paid with cash courtesy of Quinn. I knew my timeline was running short for him to track the SUV, so I made my way down to the food court. I didn't relish what I had to do next, but I needed transportation in order to get distance and have some time to plan my next steps. I would try to make it up to them later if I lived long enough. I spotted what I needed pretty quickly and was able to lift a woman's purse off the back of her chair while she and several other women were engrossed in conversation. It was a nice bag, so I wasn't surprised to find a BMW key along with a very strange phone inside.
I figured she would have come in through one of the more upscale stores, so I made my way out to the parking lot through Nordstrom's, which was thankfully on the opposite side of the mall from where I'd left the SUV. I started walking down a parking isle holding the panic button on the key fob and found the car in less than a minute. I was happy that there wasn't a car seat in the back and wondered why that even occurred to me. I was also happy that it seemed to be a lower end model that did not have GPS installed so I didn't have to worry about the car being tracked. I could switch out the plates with a similar model later and potentially drive the car for several days before I needed to ditch it.
I left the shopping center and started driving, mainly looking to get some distance from the shopping center. I made a series of random turns not even really paying attention to where I was going. After a while I pulled into a restaurant parking lot so that I could take a closer look at the strange phone I'd found in the woman's purse. It seemed so advanced and alien, but also familiar at the same time. It was an intensely strange experience. When I pushed the power button, the date was displayed on the screen. January 27, 2012, just like on the TV in the hotel room.
I don't know how long I sat in the car just staring at the date on the screen as the reality of my situation closed in around me. I really had lost nearly five years of my life. I was suddenly crushed and nearly overwhelmed by a sense of unimaginable loss. It was like I had a hole in my soul, and I had a difficult time fighting back tears. I fought them because I felt like if I let them come I wouldn't be able to stop, and I didn't want someone seeing me sitting alone in a stolen car, losing my shit in a restaurant parking lot.
It occurred to me that I wasn't 27 anymore. I was 30, almost 31, and this added to my sense of loss. I needed to focus so I struggled to pin down the last thing I remembered. After Bryce had disappeared, Graham had been pissed off. He assigned me to Ryker as punishment for some perceived role I'd played in Bryce going off the grid. I remembered saving the baby from Ryker. I remembered not having the first idea how to care for the child but being desperate to do so, and the harrowing journey to get to my mom's house, with the baby in tow. My mom had the baby and she was safe. After that, things started to get fuzzy and then there was just… a sort of blankness. Nothing until I woke up in that hotel room. The last thing I remembered clearly was driving away from my mom's house.
I also noticed the strangeness of the transition of my memories from leaving my mom's house to waking up a short while ago. I'd lost time due to being drugged or unconscious before, sometimes for days, but those memory transitions were fairly seamless, if a little confusing. This memory transition was not at all seamless. There was the blankness, but I realized it didn't feel like an emptiness or nothingness. The blankness had a sort of substance, a weight and shape, a jaggedness to it. I noticed as I focused on it, my headache intensified, the low frequency buzzing acquired a piercing quality, like a high frequency squeal had been added to the mix. I remembered seeing a small bottle of pain relievers in the purse and dry swallowed three of them.
I tried to recreate the plan I'd had after I'd left my mom's house five years earlier. I remembered that I was planning on returning to DC to see Graham in person and express my displeasure at Ryker's so called mission. I was going to make it clear that I would never disclose the location of the child. But try as I might, I couldn't remember anything past leaving her house. I didn't know what my orders would have been after Budapest.
Before Ryker, I'd always reported directly to Graham. Would he have permanently given me a new handler after how I handled Ryker's messed up and completely off-book operation? It seemed unlikely. That was nearly five years ago but I knew there's no way I would have tolerated having a handler like Quinn for five years. His lack of knowledge about how I operated also proved we'd never worked together for any length of time. Something about the guy set me on edge and he was obviously rogue. For all I knew, he was some sort of independent operator.
Ultimately, I knew I had to get in touch with Graham. Given the circumstances, protocol dictated I check in. I also had to admit to myself that I was desperate for some kind of familiar link, even it was Graham. There was no love lost between us, but he was a connection to my past, to me.
I unlocked the phone and discovered that it was like having a little mini computer in my hand. It was very intuitive to use and even had internet access. But there was also an underlying sense of familiarity to go with my shock at how advanced the device seemed. I knew I had never seen anything like it in my life, but I also felt like I should have one of my own in my pocket. The feeling was disconcerting, creating a kind of cognitive dissonance. It was completely foreign yet also familiar. It made my headache worse and caused new tendrils of confusion to slither into my brain.
I brought up the phone app and realized I knew that's what they were called. All the different functions were called apps. Another thing to add to the growing list of things I knew but had no idea how I knew. As I started dialing Graham's number it occurred to me that after five years, the number was almost certainly burned. Sure enough I received a recorded error.
I pulled up the web browser and did a search for Langston Graham just to see what came up. I was stunned to discover that Graham was dead, killed in a helicopter crash with a number of additional CIA employees. I strongly suspected the news article was a cover story. No doubt Graham was dead, but I highly doubted it was a helicopter accident. It was a day for stunning discoveries. It occurred to me that as it pertained to Graham being dead, I felt no sympathy or remorse, only aggravation. The man had not been kind to me.
I did a search for Bryce Larkin though I found myself reluctant to go down that road even if I was able to find him. I found a death announcement for him as well, but the story made me suspicious. It felt like misdirection. To make matters worse, the article was nearly four years old.
I called another number. My last remaining professional contact. Same deal, number not in service. I couldn't help a groan of pure frustration that emanated from my mouth. I remembered being more freaked out, more out of my depth while I was locked away in a hotel in Budapest with a crying baby than I was currently. However, this situation was a close second.
I noticed something else strange about the memories I did have; what should have been crystal clear recent events, weren't. Being in that hotel with the baby I'd rescued felt like it should have been recent, but it didn't. The memories had a fade to them. They felt older, like they would if say five years had passed. I probed at the blankness in my and felt at the mental weight it seemed to convey. The blankness itself seemed like a strange memory. One of wandering through endlessly through total darkness, but it was not empty. I cried out as a piercing stab of pain skewered through my head. The blankness seemed constructed of pure agony.
The pain subsided as I focused my thoughts on coherent memories and my current plan of action. I was down to my last resort, no one else to call, no one else who cared, just like in Budapest. Just like I did then, I called my mom. It went to voicemail, but it was her voicemail. I didn't leave a message but just hearing her voice was enough to calm me down a little. I'd try again later. While hearing her voice soothed me, at the same time I realized how much I hated not having a support structure of people I could call.
I miss my team.
Once that thought occurred to me it seemed absurd, or rather I thought it should feel absurd but didn't. The fact that it didn't feel absurd served to further heighten my confusion. I work alone. I don't have a team, I don't have a support structure. Other than my time with the CAT Squad, I had never worked with a team. Why would not having one now bother me? Absurd or not, I couldn't get over the feeling it created in me. Not having a team to call on left me feeling exposed. Vulnerable and alone. I hated it.
My team needs me. I need them.
I'd been on the move almost constantly since leaving Quinn tied up. This moment of introspection and analysis was proving more difficult than I'd thought it would. My thoughts were disjointed and incomplete. As I sat there pondering my lack of a team to call on, I suddenly smelled the food coming from the restaurant and realized I was ravenously hungry. I had no idea how long it had been since I'd eaten. I felt far enough away from the shopping mall to risk going inside to have a late lunch.
As I stepped into the foyer of the restaurant I had a tremendous sense of déjà vu. But it wasn't déjà vu, it was a memory, or the cusp of a memory. I had been there before. I hadn't even looked at the name of the place, but I saw it above the hostess station. El Compadre. It felt important but as I tried harder to remember it was like I was pushing the memory further away. I wanted to scream with frustration, but I schooled my expression when the hostess came up.
"Just one?" She asked.
"Yes, just me." As we were walking by a particular booth I suddenly stopped the hostess. "Can I sit here?" I asked.
"Sure," she said as she put the menu down. "Someone will be by to take your order soon."
I slid into the right side of the booth and as I looked up, I saw the man from the picture sitting across from me, giving me the most amazing smile.
"I can be your very own baggage handler," he said. His voice was low and filled with flirtatious intent. It was one of the hottest things that a man had ever just spontaneously said to me. I was left speechless at that statement. Me. CIA Agent extraordinaire, killer of men (and women), rendered mute by an unassuming nerd.
Nerd? Where did that come from?
"I like you, Chuck." I said suddenly. The words had just spontaneously formed in my mouth and jumped past my lips with no conscious thought on my part at all. I understood that I was reliving a memory, not so much remembering it as actually experiencing it again. I'd been on a date with Chuck. It was a cover-date but not a cover-date. I'd said the same words that night, not really meaning to.
For a moment I was split across two intersections of time, past and present. I was having a strange sort of dissociative experience, as if I was the one speaking through my past self to the man she was out on a date with. At the same time my past self was speaking through me to the memory that I could see, hear and almost smell sitting across from me.
Chuck Bartowski. It was him, but not like from the picture at all. His hair was longer, curlier. He was a little younger than in the photo and was dressed casually. I blinked and the image of the man vanished. The memory faded out and I was left longing for more. But then I realized that I owned that memory of him sitting at the booth across from me, offering to be my own personal baggage handler and my proclaiming that I liked him. It was as real a memory to me as my recent interactions with Quinn. The realization gave me hope but it was tempered by the blanket of confusion that lay over my thoughts like gauze on a wound.
The waiter came by and I ordered the lunch special and water. After he left, I pulled Chuck Bartowski's file out of the messenger bag and started going through it. Within two minutes my blood pressure was spiking, within five my blood was boiling and within ten minutes I was in a rage. I eventually had to put the file away because my food arrived. The waiter could tell something was wrong with me, but he just scurried off. Smart man.
My rage was the result of the file, which was supposedly one that I had built in my years working undercover. It claimed I had been working a five year seduction mission against Chuck Bartowski to gather evidence that he was a rogue operative. For some reason it had taken over two and a half years for us to become romantically involved. The file didn't specify why it took so long for me to seduce him. We were married a little over a year later and according to the file, our one year anniversary was only about six weeks away. A two year relationship with a mark, a suspected rogue agent.
It was so outrageous a claim as to require that whoever came up with it be tied to chair and asked very specific questions, in a pointedly firm manner, about what the hell they were thinking. It was so absurd that it defied rational thought.
The file also noted that I was part of a team, and the members left me completely dumbfounded. Major John Casey was a man that I'd heard a lot about. As I understood it, he was the NSA's version of me, only less cuddly. Also on the team as secondary medical support were Chuck's sister who was a neurosurgeon, her husband who was a cardiothoracic surgeon. The strangest of all was that the team seemed to include Chuck's best friend Morgan, who was, as best as I could tell, a failed Benihana chef turned Buy More store manager? It made no sense at all but I didn't let myself dwell on it. I didn't need another thing for my confusion to latch on to. I miss my team.
Despite my rage at the ridiculous mission the file had me undertaking, I forced myself to focus on eating the meal in front of me, but I didn't taste anything. I could have been eating the menu itself. Seduction missions had never been a big part of my work with the CIA. What little it did involve was very limited, with backup on standby, ready to extract me should things get out of hand. I'd typically get the mark to take me to their room where I would use any number of methods to render them unconscious then get whatever it was I needed from them.
I had made it perfectly clear to Graham from the outset that I would never include sex as part of my seduction methods. I despised the touching and most especially despised any kissing these missions often required, and I would never allow hands on my unclothed person. Quinn obviously had no idea who I was or how I operated if he thought he could convince me this mission was real.
Suddenly it was like someone hit me between the eyes with a sledge hammer as the truth of the matter opened up before me in all its obvious glory. My vision went blurry with tears again, like they had with the stupid shoes but this time with the crushing enormity of what Quinn's lie actually meant. The food in my mouth turned to paste and I had to spit it out.
If Chuck Bartowski wasn't a mark then that must mean he was really my husband. Not my cover husband but my true 'til death do us part' husband. I felt the sense of loss – the depth and breadth of what I was missing in those absent years – threaten to overpower me again and had to focus all of my will on keeping it together. A few tears I was unable to contain spilled down my cheeks and dripped on the table.
The idea that I was married; that I was in an open, honest and loving relationship was almost as hard for me to believe as the idea that I would marry a mark. But then that wasn't really true, and I knew it. Even then, I realized that the Sarah I couldn't remember was living the life that I dreamed of but never believed could happen. Take away the taint of confusion and the bizarre emotional roller-coaster I was currently riding and the Sarah I was today was the same as the Sarah of five years ago, and I knew what that woman dreamed of. We were separated by mere days, not years.
At first I thought maybe I could have that dream with Bryce, but it turned out that he had the emotional depth of a kiddie pool. When it became apparent that my quiet dreams of a home and a family wouldn't be realized with Bryce, I'd all but given up hope of ever attaining it. All but given up hope. It was a strange way of saying that I hadn't actually given up hope, even though it seemed like such an unattainable dream.
Unattainable because of who I was, what I had done as Graham's Enforcer. When you really boiled it down, I was an assassin. Could someone find something in me to love? I was a cold hearted killer. I didn't want to be but since when did what I wanted ever play a part in my life? It's what I'd been trained to do since Graham plucked me out of high school. I'd shot a man on my first mission, the day after my 18th birthday. After my Red Test it was termination order after termination order, occasionally broken up by miscellaneous short term undercover work and some espionage. But mostly it was wet work. How could I possibly be married? Who could love a killer, even a reluctant one?
And the flip side of the same coin; was it possible for me to open myself up to the possibility of loving someone and being loved in return? The vulnerability that would create terrified me like nothing else, but even as I asked myself the question, I knew in my heart that the answer was yes. A resounding yes. Not only could I do that, I desperately wanted to do that. And it seemed I had done that.
I knew then that I needed to talk to Chuck. If he was really my husband, if our relationship was true, he knew more about me than anyone ever had or could. It was very likely that he was out looking for me at that moment, that he had some idea what had happened to me. I found the thought warm and comforting.
Another question occurred to me. Was my name Sarah Bartowski? I turned the name over in my mind a few times and sounded it out quietly. It took me a moment to realize I was smiling, once again grinning like an idiot, almost laughing with joy as my vision blurred yet again with unshed tears. It seemed almost like an involuntary reaction. Like tapping the pattelar tendon caused your leg to kick out, saying Sarah Bartowski out loud made me smile. It made me happy like seeing the shoes in the store had made me happy but infinitely more so. Of all the wrongness I'd experienced in the time I'd been awake, the rightness of that name was like a balm for my spirit.
As I reveled in the rightness of that name, I also felt like the sensation of having such powerful feelings with no frame of reference was creating a kind of emotional sea sickness in me. I was riding a tempest of emotions, waves of them crashing over me without warning and seemingly without end. Many of the emotions flooding through me were astoundingly happy ones but this did not help me find any sense of control over them. If anything it made it more difficult as they were so far removed from my normal experience – I was not a happy person – and it magnified my sense of loss.
I closed my eyes for a minute and focused on my breathing. It helped. A little. I pulled the picture of Chuck out of the file and looked at it. He had a little smirk on his face. I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the man in the picture in a random setting. Then I tried to picture looking at that man from a distance, through a sniper scope, finger on the trigger.
I nearly vomited my meal onto the table. I knew there was no scenario under which I would shoot the man in the picture. I didn't know how or why I wouldn't, but I knew it in my soul. Not just 'would not' but 'could not'. Add to the list of things I knew. I would never kill Chuck.
As I studied the picture, I realized I thought he was beautiful. Not just handsome but incredibly handsome. Sexy. His hair was too short in the picture, too styled. Not my preference even though he still looked delicious. I overlaid the longer, curlier hair from the memory I now had of him across the table from me and it nearly took my breath away. He looked amazing in the suit, but I thought maybe he didn't wear suits all that often. He was much more casual. Like the younger man I could see when I closed my eyes.
Chuck's Chucks. I suddenly knew why I bought those shoes. I would bet anything it's what he typically wore. Thinking about his fucking shoes made me smile. I desperately wanted to talk to him, to see him, but I needed to talk to my mom first. I needed some perspective on things. I had no idea if I'd ever contacted her again. I dropped some cash on the table and walked quickly out to the car I'd stolen.
As I approached the car, I realized I felt bad about stealing it and that in itself was a revelation. Sarah Walker from five years ago wouldn't have felt bad in the least about it. She wouldn't have given it a second thought. It seemed some of Sarah Bartowski's more enlightened conscience was left in me as well. I'd changed. I'd grown. I realized it was emotional growth and somehow even though my memories were hidden from me, they had affected a fundamental change in who I was. It was still there in me. Even if I couldn't remember how or why the changes came about, they were there. This insight made perfect sense to me as I understood that the process of falling in love, of loving someone and being loved by them in turn was, by definition, a process born of emotion.
I understood then with perfect clarity that the chaos and confusion swirling in me was about more than just missing memories, it was about how utterly different I felt from the Sarah Walker of five years ago. That was the basis for the wrongness I felt in myself when I'd first woken up. The changes were almost unimaginably vast and all encompassing. It seemed I also felt the old Sarah Walker, Agent Walker, rebelling against these changes, not understanding them, not trusting them, afraid of them.
I got in the car and started driving towards the address in the file for Chuck's apartment. My apartment. My life. Our apartment. Our life. I called my mom as I drove, whispering an urgent prayer to whatever gods might exist to have her pick up.
"Hello?"
I almost couldn't speak I was so grateful to those gods, whoever they might be. "Mom. It's Sarah."
"Oh, hi Sarah! I didn't recognize this number. How have you been honey? How's Chuck?" I was so shocked by her reaction to my call that I almost rear-ended the car in front of me as it slowed down for a red light. My mom knew Chuck. She sounded as if we had spoken recently, like we were in touch and getting a call was not unusual.
"Sarah? Are you there?" I heard on the phone.
"Mom, when was the last time we spoke to each other?" I asked.
"Early last week, dear, why? You guys were thinking of having us come up to visit soon."
I was at a loss for how to proceed. I hadn't expected this even though it made perfect sense. Chuck was – is – my husband. That level of trust implied that I would share this part of my life. Didn't it? It made me wonder what other changes had happened in the last five years. Was I even a spy any longer? Did I even still work for the CIA?
"Sarah, I can hear you breathing so I know the call hasn't dropped. What's going on?" I heard concern start to bleed through her voice.
"Mom, something has happened, and I need to ask you some questions, ok?"
"Of course, honey, anything," she said, her voice tinged with worry.
"Mom, when did you first meet Chuck?"
"I don't know how much of that I can say on the phone, Sarah."
"Just keep it vague." I offered.
"We met about a month ago when the man you were afraid would find out about us did in fact find out. Chuck helped you take care of things. You told me that man would never be a problem again."
I didn't know how many life altering revelations I could take in one day, but I needed answers. Or rather, one more answer. "Mom, I'm going to ask you another question, but I can't talk about why I need to ask the question. I promise I'll explain as soon as I can."
"Sarah, you're really starting to scare me. Can't you just tell me what's going on?"
"I can, mom, just not right now. I'm almost at the place I need to be, and I'll have to go very soon. Please just answer me one more question and I promise I'll get back in touch with you as soon as I can and explain everything, OK?"
"Ok, sweetie. What do you need to ask?"
I didn't know how to phrase the question. "Chuck and I. Our life. Our marriage. Is it real? Do we love each other? Do I love him?"
"Oh my God, Sarah! How could you possibly ask such a thing?" She sounded truly distraught.
"Please, mom. I'll talk to you again as soon as I can. Please answer the question!" I was begging for the answer, but I think it was more for confirmation than for her to really tell me how I already knew I felt.
"I've never seen a couple more in love than the two of you, Sarah. Ever. What you and Chuck have… it's rare and special. You've been through so much together, Sarah."
I felt a certain sense of peace at her words. I had found what I always wanted, and I felt it now, felt the rightness of it drowning out the wrongness I'd felt earlier. It was true and real even if I didn't understand or remember how it came to be.
"Thank you, mom. Don't worry, OK? Something… Something has happened, but we'll figure it out. I'll call you as soon as I can. I love you, mom." I said.
"I love you too, Sarah. You better call me no later than tomorrow or I'm coming up there, do you hear me?"
I knew she wasn't kidding. "I will mom. Bye."
"Good night, Sarah."
I hung up the phone and pulled the stolen BMW into a shopping center a couple of miles from the address in the file. After wiping down all the surfaces I'd touched, I took the messenger bag and guns but left the purse and phone in the trunk, then set the alarm and put the key on top of one of the tires.
I walked from there to the address in the file. As I got closer, I felt a sense of familiarity with the area but couldn't associate it with anything specific. As I approached the complex, I started to get nervous. Agent Walker was screaming at me that this was a mistake, her voice in my head was my voice. I couldn't be married, even after what my mom had said. I was a killer, a murderer, unworthy of happiness. I don't know how I did it, but I ignored her as I walked through a tree lined archway and into a verdant courtyard.
The apartments for the quaint complex were arranged around the courtyard, with a fountain in the middle and greenery all around. It felt like an oasis. Calm, familiar, comfortable. I was drawn to the fountain. I loved it, but I also hated it a little bit too. I smiled as I walked around it but felt a little sad at the same time.
I did a slow circle in the courtyard, looking at the various apartments. I noticed the one listed as Chuck's, which currently seemed dark and empty. There was a window off to the side and started walking towards it. Somehow I knew the Morgan Door would be unlocked. I almost stumbled as I wondered what the hell a Morgan Door was. Sure enough, I was able to pull the window open and step into a bedroom.
As I pulled the window closed and locked it, I was inundated with a flood of powerful emotions and sensations that I couldn't identify. I let them wash over me, not trying to understand or make sense of them, knowing the effort would be futile. One thing I did know was that a lot had happened in this room. It was almost more than I could bear, and I swayed a little on my feet. I was shaking, quivering, but I didn't immediately realize it.
The window was next to a closet, so I opened the door and ran my hand along the racks of clothes, divided into his and hers. All the hers were my size and style. The simple fact that my clothes were hanging up seemed momentous to me. I had been living out of a suitcase for as long as I could remember, effectively my entire life. It was one of the fundamental changes that had occurred in me, one that might seem trivial to an outsider, but which I understood implicitly. It was a statement that this was my home, this is where I'd set my roots.
As I stood there in amazement, staring in wonder at my clothes actually on hangers, I realized I was cold, it being January after all. The low 60's were not exactly camisole and shorts weather, so I kicked off my new Chuck's, slipped out of my pajama shorts, pulled a pair of pants off a hanger and put them on. They were a perfect fit. I took off the cardigan, grabbed a long sleeve sweater off a shelf and put it on. I realized it was way to big for me but it smelled good and I didn't want to take it off, so I rolled up the sleeves. It said Stanford on it. The file said Chuck went to Stanford. I could still hear Agent Walker making noises in the back of my mind, but she was muted, less insistent. It seemed clothes on hangers had affected her as well, or perhaps the smell of the sweater.
As I wandered around the room, I felt disconnected from reality. I had emotions flooding through me, but I couldn't get a handle on them, I couldn't associate them with anything. I felt a little crazy, like genuinely a little unhinged. The emotional tempest raging inside me was in full force and I felt uncoupled from my sense of self. It would take me a minute to recognize that I was crying passively, tears streaming down my face.
I was experiencing the polar opposite of the pervading sense of wrongness I'd endured upon waking. Everything here was right, everything made sense even if I didn't understand how. It was emotional clarity to offset the intellectual confusion brought on by the missing memories. I understood that the emotions were vastly more important than the memories that spawned them. My emotional clarity far outweighed my intellectual confusion.
I smiled at a giant movie poster for an old science fiction movie, framed and hanging on the wall. I loved the stacks of comic books lying around even though I'd never in my life even picked one up. I moved to the right side of the bed and somehow knew it was mine but once again, didn't know how I knew, and for once not caring. I sat down on the edge of the bed as I opened the top drawer of the nightstand. I found one of my favorite hand creams, a couple of books of poetry that I'd always loved and some hair scrunchies. I closed it and opened the bottom drawer.
Oh my.
I felt a powerful stirring low down in my body that I needed shut down fast. I closed the bottom drawer quickly, blushing. It seemed Sarah Bartowski had a pretty robust sex life. I was suddenly extremely jealous of the life I had forgotten. I felt violated, robbed of some intrinsic part of my identity. Sarah Bartowski had accomplished something impossible, something miraculous. She had not just grown beyond Agent Walker, she had grown beyond Sarah Walker and become almost a new species. I felt as removed from Sarah Bartowski as the caterpillar is from the butterfly.
But it wasn't 'she'. As much as it might feel like it, we were not two separate people. She was me. I had done those things. Somehow over the last five years, I had found love. I found love and I managed not to kill it. I managed to cultivate it, nurture it and it in turn had nurtured me. That had to explain the roiling ocean of emotions I was feeling. The memories were… hidden… but the emotions associated with those memories were crashing over me like waves in a hurricane. A torrent of happiness and joy and love and companionship.
However, as wonderful as the emotional clarity was, the lack of memories represented an incalculable loss. I felt that loss so profoundly that I could barely breathe. A loud sob escaped my throat. I had shut it down before, in the car, in the restaurant. But this was my bedroom. Before, it had almost overwhelmed me. This time there was no almost. I lay down on the bed and I let the grief engulf me. I cried for the loss of my life. I buried my face in my pillow and and I screamed my misery into it. I raged my injury and cursed the heavens for taking my life from me yet leaving me breathing to feel the agony of it. I don't know how long I cried but eventually the tears stopped. I rolled over and pulled the other pillow to me. Chuck's pillow. As I breathed in, exhausted in body, mind and spirit, the scent of the pillow matched the scent of the shirt and I felt a sense of comfort replace the sense of loss. I let that comfort embrace me, much as the grief had moments before. I sank into that feeling and wrapped myself up in it as I felt myself drift off to sleep.
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It was a really wonderful dream. By far the best I'd ever had considering the nightmares that often plagued my sleep. Someone was stroking my hair and whispering my name softly. Affectionately. There was so much love in those two syllables that it seemed like it must actually be a different word, spoken in another language – Angelic maybe – that just sounded like my name. The inflection, the tone, spoken so quietly but with such power. It was beautiful.
I felt myself waking up and I fought against it. I wanted to stay in that dream. But then I realized that I was already awake, and it wasn't a dream. I opened my eyes and saw the man from the picture, Chuck, dressed in black combat fatigues, kneeling on the floor next to the bed. My Chuck. I didn't remember how he was mine, but he was. And I was his. His Sarah. He was My Guy and I was His Girl.
The love in his face, the adoration in his eyes made me feel like a thief but I fought against it and after a few moments I understood that it wasn't true. I wasn't a thief. I was his wife and he loved me. I might not remember what I had done to earn that look from him, but whatever it was, I had done it. My lack of remembering didn't undo it.
"Hey, you," he said quietly.
"Hey, Chuck," I whispered back.
He was stroking my hair and I could tell he'd been crying too. I took his hand in mine as I lay there and let my feelings for him shine through the way his did for me. This was how I felt. The why didn't matter. We would figure that out later. He seemed too happy to speak at the moment and I realized that he was more beautiful than any picture could ever capture.
The small piece of Agent Walker left in me only had one question to be conciliated. She needed confirmation from the only person who could provide it. I would get it for her, and then she would be quiet. I sat up on the bed and tucked my feet under me, but a kept holding his hand. I couldn't get over how beautiful he was.
I cleared my throat, which felt raw from my earlier grief fueled meltdown. "Chuck, I need you to tell me about my last mission before I came… here." I said.
He looked very sad for a moment, but then he spoke. "Budapest. You saved a baby that your handler Kieran Ryker was trying to kidnap so he could use her to steal her inheritance. You took the baby to your mom who's had her for the last five years. Your mom adopted her. She's your little sister. Her name is Molly. You killed Ryker last month when we discovered he'd found out about Molly and tried to take her."
Agent Walker was appeased, and I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my psyche. As my mom had told me, I had trusted this man with her life and the life of the baby I'd rescued. There was no higher level of trust that I could have bestowed upon him.
I sighed. "Chuck, leaving my mom's house after dropping Molly off five years ago is the last thing I remember before I woke up today."
A look of such anguish crossed his face, but it seemed he'd already had some time to process what I was telling him.
"I was hoping it wasn't true," he said as tears spilled down his cheeks. "Your mom called me. She was worried and upset. I guessed what must have happened to you based on what she told me about your conversation with her earlier tonight. She said you called asking about our life together, asking if it was real, if we loved each other. I realized that must mean that your memories of us were gone and I was terrified that I'd lost you." He stroked my face as if to confirm I was real.
"You've lost your memories but you're here, you fell asleep in our bed, on my side of the bed. You're wearing my sweater it and I'd say it looks like you've been crying?" He asked softly, stroking my face.
His pain was breaking my heart and I knew that while I might not remember him, I still loved him. The was no question about that in my heart or my mind. My brain might not remember, but my heart was fully committed.
"I don't have the memories, but I've been experiencing the strangest, most incredible emotions. They're so powerful they almost overwhelm me, but I don't have any frame of reference for any of them. Strong emotions are generally tied to something. A memory of some kind, an event, but mine aren't. I decided that the only thing that matters is how I feel, not why I feel that way. The why is there, in my past. It was real, it happened and that's why I feel this way. I realized that just because I couldn't remember why didn't mean that my feelings were invalid. I can feel it even if I don't remember it."
I scooted closer to him and took his face in my hands. "I love you, Chuck. As strange as it is for me to say that to a man I have no memory of, or at least so far only one very specific memory. But I'm not going to deny the truth of what's in my heart and what's in front of my eyes right now." I was amazed at how easy it was to say these things to him. I'd always been terrified of the idea of saying that to someone and actually meaning it. Loving someone makes you vulnerable. It gives that person the power to hurt you, to abuse that love. It gives others the opportunity to use them against you. But it was so worth it.
He was still crying but the tears seemed to be as much from relief as from sadness. His face gleamed with my declaration of love.
"I love you too, Sarah. So, so much." We sat their in silence for several long moments, each to overcome to speak.
"What is the El Compadre to us?" I asked suddenly.
He smiled and my heart skipped a beat. I remembered that I loved that smile. "It's where went on our first date almost five years ago. It was supposedly a cover date for you, but you've told me several times over the years that you fell in love with me that day and could never really make yourself view it as a cover date."
I smiled back at him. "That's the memory I have of you. Of us. Somehow this afternoon, just by chance, I ended up at El Compadre. As soon as I walked in I knew I'd been there before. As the hostess was taking me to a table, I walked past this booth and just needed to sit there. Almost as soon as I sat down I saw you sitting across from me, looking a little younger with your hair longer and curly." I ran my hands through his hair and reveled at how soft it was. "You said that you could be my own personal baggage handler and I was hooked."
Chuck laughed and wiped tears from his face. "I felt so stupid after saying that. But less than a minute later you said that you liked me, and I felt better."
I looked at the clock and realized I'd been asleep for a while. I ran my hands through my hair and dry scrubbed my face.
"I must look like death warmed over." I said with a forced chuckle.
"You're the most beautiful thing in the world," he said softly.
And then the tears started flowing again. I didn't try to stop them, just let them flow. I knew his compliments always had an effect on me. I relished them. It felt good to not fight the tears and I realized that with Chuck, I didn't have to. I leaned forward and hugged him, and he hugged me right back. I don't know how long we stayed that way, but he eventually pulled back.
"Can you tell me what's happened to you? It's been a week since Quinn captured you on the bullet train in Japan. We got word that Quinn had been spotted here in LA. We found your tracker in a warehouse downtown, but you were already gone by the time we got there."
I don't know why I was shocked, but I was. "Quinn captured me?" I asked, dumbfounded.
Chuck nodded sadly. "He's the one who did this to you, Sarah. Tell me what you remember."
My fury now had a target, but I focused on telling Chuck what happened. "I woke up this afternoon at Maison23 with no memory of how I got there, or even where there was. I didn't know it was Maison23 until I saw some stationary in the room. Within a few moments of me waking up, Nicholas Quinn was knocking on my door. I had no memory of him, but he told me he was my handler and that he had been for the last 5 years. I knew that had to be bullshit, but I let him in because I needed answers.
"Chuck, it was like I was drowning in confusion. Nothing made any sense. Not where I was, not when I was, not even who I was. I woke up thinking it was 2008 but I didn't feel like I did back then. I understand why now, but I can still feel that disparity. I was desperate for information, something I could cling to that could help me understand what was happening. At first I thought him telling me that I'd lost five years of memory was BS too, but he turned on CNN and they had the date stamp on the screen.
"Once I figured out what he was telling me about my life was a crock of shit, I knocked him on his ass, tied him up and took his stuff. I was going to question him, but as I was searching him I discovered he was wired so I had to scramble to get out of there before his team showed up. I had to shoot one of them outside the lobby when he went for a gun. Then I took their Tahoe and left."
"We heard about the shooting at Maison23 on the scanner. We knew it must have something to do with you and were going to head over there when your mom called. When she told us about your conversation, I just knew you were coming home." Chuck explained.
I smiled and squeezed his hands as I continued. "Anyway, I had to leave the hotel room so fast that I didn't have time to put shoes on, so I went to this shopping mall and found a shoe store." I motioned at my new shoes on the floor in front of the closet. "As soon as I saw these silly Chuck Taylor shoes, they just made me so happy, I had to buy them.
"After that I stole a car and just sort of drove around randomly. That's when I wound up at El Compadre. While I was there, I spent some time looking at a file he had on you." I motioned to the satchel on the floor by the window. "He was going to try to use it to make me believe I was working you as a mark. That I was undercover and that our life together was a mission I was working to prove you were a rogue agent."
"Quinn is a bigger idiot than I thought," Chuck said. "You would never let yourself be used on a mission like that. Not for one night, much less two years."
I smiled again, getting more confirmation I didn't need that this man knew me to my bones. "The file says he wanted me to get something from you called Intersect glasses. He claims you stole them from the government. Once I got them back from you I was supposed to kill you."
"Jesus, Sarah. Baby, I'm so sorry this has happened to you." He looked completely heartbroken.
"Chuck, I don't even know what happened. Can you tell me how I lost my memories? Do you think I might be able to get them back? It's like the memories are there, they're just hidden or buried or something! I have this giant blankness in my head that literally hurts to think about!" I had started to spiral at the end, but Chuck put his hands on face and looked in my eyes.
"Sarah don't freak out," he said softly. "That's kind of our thing, but it's usually you telling me not to freak out."
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I smelled the essence of what had calmed me on the pillow and shirt I was wearing. I immediately felt a sense of comfort and belonging. Don't freak out!
I opened my eyes. "Ok," I said, squeezing his hands and smiling. "I feel a little better."
He looked at me intently. "Sarah, the fact that you've only been awake for a few hours and are already remembering things is a really good sign. But this is a long story and there are other people here who are worried about you. People who love you and who can help. Are you up to having this conversation with them?"
It was time to reclaim my life. "Yes, I can do that," I said. I looked at the man I loved and knew in my heart that I was home.
Somehow I've lost my memories, but as strange as it sounds, I remember who I am. I was Sarah Walker.
I am now, and I will always be, Sarah Bartowski.
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A/N: Obviously I could easily end this here, but I'm leaving it up to you guys to let me know that you do in fact, want more of this story.
As I mentioned in my profile, I'm in the process of working on "Sarah vs. Fulcrum" which is a more plot driven continuation of "Asking Chuck Out". I'm also working on editing "Asking Chuck Out" to create a PG version of that story and perhaps open my writing up to a larger audience.
This particular story came to me when I realized that that my problems with how Chuck ended didn't start on the beach at the fade-to-black, but rather here, with Sarah waking up in her old hotel room. I seriously hate what the writers did to Sarah at this point. Not to belabor the point, but to me, it was a betrayal of her character. Nothing she did after waking up made any sense and some of it was so far out of bounds as to render suspension of disbelief impossible. It was like I was drowning in confusion. Writing is cathartic and can provide clarity, so I feel a little better now.
I want to give special thanks to Zettel for his pre-reading and suggestions, which, in my opinion at least, gave this story so much more depth.