A/N: Some shifting of tense in this chapter. Hopefully not too difficult to follow.
Always remember, my stories are canonish, not canon. And that two years have passed. Neither Chuck or Sarah are exactly who we knew at the beginning. They've changed, hopefully matured. Especially Chuck.
Thanks to Michaelfmx, my beta, without whose help and encouragement, this chapter would've been a bit of a mess. And thanks as well to Zettel and Grayroc for their encouraging words and ideas.
Any errors you run across are the responsibility of the author.
Don't own Chuck, et al.
Enjoy!
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SECOND CHANCES
Chapter Eight: Belief
Her expression wondrous, she delightedly exclaims, "Chuck, it's beautiful!"
They're standing, hand in hand, upon a small rocky outcrop, maybe twenty feet square. Behind them lies a small, but dense grove of wind twisted trees. A hundred feet below, the waves crash rhythmically onto a boulder-strewn beach. The moon is full, its reflection an irregular golden shimmer upon the water.
She feels his eyes upon her.
He replies,"Yes. Extremely beautiful."
…
Earlier.
Do people actually get a do-over in life? What might Chuck call it? A reboot?
She looks over his way. He just gives her a gentle smile. Says nothing. Leaves her to her thoughts. And her driving.
There's that damned perceptiveness again.
Sarah had thought that he hadn't understood what she'd been thanking him for. That he hadn't truly comprehended how much of an impact his words had had upon her.
Don't fool yourself. He knows. Because you've let him see…you.
She'd never done that on a mission before.
Or at any other time. Be honest.
The conjured mirror-image of Samantha had staggered Sarah. She'd thought her long gone, consigned to the scrap heap of her long-ago, best-forgotten youth. But somehow, despite all that had followed, that apparently not-so-fragile inner core had survived.
It was as if the clock had been turned back.
A chance to start again.
She glances Chuck's way. He certainly deserves that chance.
And you don't, Sarah?
The voice in her head shocks her. It's not hers or anyone else she's known. Not her dad's. Nor Bryce's. Not even Carina's.
It's his. Chuck's.
She glances his way, for a moment, foolishly wondering if he'd actually spoken out loud.
How, in the span of nothing more than a few hours, has Chuck Bartowski worked his way this deeply into her psyche?
He believes there's something…beautiful…deep down inside me.
But he made that decision based on…what? He barely knows me. Almost nothing of my past.
To let him remain ignorant would be grossly unfair. A massive lie of omission.
I'll have to tell him. Not just scratch the surface like I did last night.
Let's him decide if there truly is something...anything…worthwhile within me.
She glances his way again, sees him looking out the side window, apparently absorbed in the scenery passing by.
Chuck Bartowski.
The arbiter of my fate.
…
It had taken them almost half an hour to drive to the spot where he'd asked her to take an almost indiscernible, rough, little side road.
After traveling a few hundred yards, they'd come to a seemingly impenetrable wall of trees. The effect of their gnarled trunks and twisted branches, visible in the headlights, had been anything but inviting.
She'd been puzzled, wondering what it was that made this place so special for him.
After turning off the engine and killing the headlights, she'd turned to him, about to ask, when, in the moonlight, she'd seen the grin on his face.
He'd asked, "You're wondering, 'what does he see in this place', right?"
Taken aback by his insight, it'd taken her a moment to reply.
"Yes. It doesn't seem like a very…relaxing…place."
Chuck had explained. "That's because, Sarah Walker, this is merely the gateway. Where I want to take you is through there." He'd pointed straight ahead, into the heart of the grove and asked, "You ready?"
She'd nodded, a little uncertainly. If anyone other than Chuck had taken her to such an isolated and foreboding-looking location, she would've been wary of the person's intentions.
As it was, her senses had been on high alert. Wary, not of him, but for him. She'd forced herself to remember her role, that this wasn't a casual date. She'd been reassured by the thought of her S&W in her purse and the feeling of the knives strapped to her calf.
She'd asked him to grab the flashlight from the glove compartment, but he'd told her they wouldn't need it. He had asked her if she had a blanket, stating that it might be a little chilly. She'd found one in the back of her car, neatly packed away. After grabbing it, they'd walked towards the trees.
Sarah had forgotten what it was like to experience moonlight in its fullness. Living in a city did that. But here, shielded from the harsh glare of LA's artificial day, the memory had come back. She'd marveled that she could see quite clearly, that there were distinct shadows cast on the ground.
It had been captivating.
She'd remembered the last time she'd walked in the moonlight. On that occasion, there'd been a sniper rifle slung across her back. And she had noticed the moonlight only insofar as it affected her mission. Certainly, she hadn't been captivated. Rather, under her breath, she'd cursed the pale luminescence, knowing that it might betray her presence to the occupants of the secluded house she was approaching. Normally, she would've waited for a moonless night or some cloud cover, but the latest intel had indicated this would be the last chance before the target changed location. Again.
So she'd walked, stealthily, quickly, intent on reaching a location she'd previously scouted out. One that would allow her to see, just barely, into the high walled courtyard of the place.
She'd been able to charm one of the local deliverymen into revealing that her reclusive subject had one weakness. He always took his morning coffee on the veranda, away from the curtained rooms where he'd spent the last three months of his life, hiding.
In the end, she hadn't been seen and had reached the position she needed in time. The mission was concluded. Satisfactorily, according to Graham.
Another notch on her belt. And another bit of deadened scar tissue on her heart.
But tonight was different. Free from any rigid mission constraints, freed from Graham, she'd been inclined to enjoy the otherworldly glow enveloping them. A big part of that enjoyment had been the pleasant companion by her side.
The weird trees had still bothered her, though.
Although there'd been no one around, he had spoken very quietly, perhaps affected, as she was, by their surroundings.
"Looks a bit like Fangorn Forest, I grant, but I promise the trees won't be doing any talking."
She'd looked at him blankly, totally lost.
He'd chuckled lightly. "Not a Tolkien fan, I see. Another entry on the growing list of 'explain later.'"
When they'd reached the edge of the grove, she'd been hesitant. Even though she'd really wanted to share his private place, she'd couldn't quite see how they were going to reach it.
He'd noticed. Had turned to her and offered his hand.
He'd whispered, "Trust me. I know the way."
Without hesitation, she'd taken his hand as he'd confidently led the way between the contorted trees, following a path invisible to her eyes.
…
"Yes. Extremely beautiful."
His voice sounds odd. Firm, but somehow hesitant at the same time. She turns to see him quickly averting his eyes, bringing them back to the scene before them. Even in the moonlight, it's clear that he's blushing. He releases her hand.
She looks down at it. A hand can't feel lonely, can it?
He confounds her while at the same time delighting her. In the restaurant, he'd delivered his lovely, thoughtful words while looking straight into her eyes. Words, in so many ways, much more intimate than any other man had ever spoken to her.
And yet here he is, shy, self-conscious over the relatively innocuous compliment he'd just paid her.
Why?
Then it comes to her. His earlier words had been a selfless act, spoken for her benefit, to build her up. For her and her alone. With no ulterior motive behind them.
Giving, not taking. A Chuck Bartowski trait, it seems.
Perhaps he feels that his comment on her physical beauty is of a different nature. Worried that it might be construed as an act of taking, not giving. Like so many men before him had done.
In general, the men whom Sarah had come in close contact with had no genuine interest in anything other than what they could see. Touch. Possess. To them, she existed solely as an object for their own gratification. An appendage, viewed much the same way as their exotic automobiles or expensive watches.
Their prime concern was what having her on their arm said about them.
Look at me, I'm handsome/rich/powerful enough to have such a woman.
In some fundamental ways, Bryce hadn't really been any different. She'd known from the very beginning that, regardless of her qualifications, he would never have chosen her as a partner if she'd been of plain or even average appearance.
It's not as if Chuck's not attracted to her. It's plain to see that he is. And she's honest enough with herself to know she would've been disappointed if he hadn't been. But his attraction is of a different, non-possessive sort. A wondrous, "What did I do to deserve to be in her company?"
At the restaurant, her trained eye had noticed a number of men checking her out. Evaluating. She'd seen it often before; the conundrum of the egotistical male.
Why would she choose to be with him when she could be with me?
In similar situations, Bryce had always proudly, if not blatantly, preened, taking their envious stares as a compliment to himself.
Not Chuck, however. It's doubtful he'd even noticed what was going on around them, focused as he was solely on her. He certainly hadn't seemed to catch the numerous flirtatious overtures their pretty brunette server had cheekily (why had she assumed that Sarah wasn't his girlfriend?) tossed his way.
Whatever the reason, his possibly inadvertent declaration has embarrassed him (which she finds kind of endearing). To spare him any further awkwardness, she asks, "You said you've been coming here for a while. Was this always one of your favorite places?"
He looks relieved by the change of subject. "No, this one's relatively new. Come, sit, and I'll tell you the sad story."
He gestures to a small bench, crudely constructed from driftwood and tree branches.
"Was this here before?"
He shakes his head. "Nope, made it myself after I found the place." He grins, ruefully. "As you can plainly see, carpentry is not one of my skills. But, in my defense, it is pretty comfortable."
For a moment, she imagines him working on it, clumsily, perhaps. Winces inside at the thought of him hitting his thumb with a hammer.
She smiles, cheerily says, "Well, I think it's quite charming. It adds to the ambiance."
He smiles back. "Why, thank you, Miss Walker."
They sit, hips and knees almost brushing up against one another, on his compact creation. She drapes the blanket across their knees.
"Chuck, if you don't mind me asking, how did you find this place? Given that path through the trees, it seems unlikely that anyone could just stumble across it."
"Google Earth. Well, that and some serendipity.
"How so?"
He gestures to his right. "See the house on that point?"
She looks, notices a sprawling, modern structure, a half-mile or so away. "Yes."
"We had a mission there once. Very early on. The guy who used to own it was holding a massive diamond which was to be used to fund a weapon purchase for a terrorist group. We were tasked to reconnoitre his home in order to find a way to recover the diamond."
Sarah remembers reading Forrest's terse, almost perfunctory report in the team's file, being puzzled by its lack of detail.
Curious to hear his perspective, she asks, "How did it go?"
He chuckles. "Good and bad. We'd been assigned a DEA liaison, as they'd been the first to twig to the plans." He shakes his head, grinning. "She was quite the handful. A wildcard. To make a long story short, she impulsively snatched the diamond, and we had to escape down the beach between here and the house. She got away by SeaDoo, with the diamond, I might add. We had to hole up behind the rocks just below us. Forrest and Casey managed to hold off the bad guys until the cavalry arrived.
"The end result was that the terrorists didn't get their weapons and the man's organization was broken up. But the DEA got the lion's share of the glory. Casey and I didn't care, but I'd never seen Forrest so furious." He shakes his head, laughing softly. "She swore if she ever saw Carina Miller again, she'd shoot her on sight."
Sarah jumps. The report hadn't included that detail. "Did you say Carina?"
"Yeah, she was the DEA agent. You know her?"
"Yes. She's a friend of mine. Haven't seen her for a while."
He looks at her for a few silent seconds. "Too bad you weren't here back then. Maybe she would've been more cooperative. More of a team player."
Wryly, she replies, "Knowing her, I doubt it."
"You'll have to tell me about her one day."
"I'll have to think about it. Not sure you're quite ready for Carina."
He chuckles. "You're probably right. Anyway, I saw this place when we were running down the beach. Couldn't tell what it was like on top until I checked it out on Google Earth. Afterward, I came and saw it for myself. There was a really old campfire pit and some beer cans, but no evidence there had been anyone here for years. I cleaned it up and made this lovely little bench." He pats it with his hand.
"So this became your go-to place?"
"Yep. My fortress of soli-." He stops. "You know, it's unfair of me to keep lobbing all these pop culture references at you. Suffice it to say, this became my place of...escape.
"I had to sneak away at first, but for the last year or so, Casey would cover for me when I needed to get away from her and all the rest. Wasn't always easy to find the opportunities, but it would've been a lot more difficult if Forrest hadn't passed on a lot of the handling duties to him."
"Was there somewhere else before?"
"There was. A beach...in Malibu." He looks off into the distance. "I started going there when I was a teenager. Used to take the bus. Sometimes, I just needed to be on my own. No Morgan. No Ellie." He pauses. "But Forrest found me there, the night everything happened. And wrecked it for me." He frowns at the memory.
Gently, she asks, "How, Chuck?"
"The best way to describe it is that she was like a mobile Chernobyl. Practically everything she touched, everywhere we went became radioactive to me. Poisoned.
"She made it abundantly clear—again—that I better watch my step. That I couldn't count on Casey to intervene on my behalf in the future. That she would have absolutely no problem going nuclear on me and my family if I didn't cooperate to the fullest.
"This, of course, all coming after she reminded me…forcibly…that there was no place to I could hide from her and that I better not think I could just run off to some goddamned beach anytime I felt like it.
"She twisted my arm until I agreed." He winces.
"Yes, I can see how her threats would've been quite intimidating."
"They certainly were, but what I meant is that she literally twisted my arm. She used this weird little armlock thing on me—"
Sarah cuts him off. She almost hisses, the words barely able to escape her clenched jaw.
"She hurt you?"
Chuck, clearly sensing her sudden, towering rage, pulls back, startled. He tries to backpedal. "Yes, but the pain pretty much stopped as soon as she let go. And it was only the one time."
Sarah knows Forrest's subsequent actions had caused him much more pain than any armlock ever could, but the thought of her laying her hands upon Chuck ignites something primal within her.
She growls, "Don't you dare minimize what she did!"
He looks hurt. "Sorry, Chuck. Not mad at you. It's that woman—"
She closes her eyes, visualizes catching the next plane to Paris. Tracking down the bitch and putting in the same armlock she'd used on Chuck, twisting until she hears the bones start to…
"Sarah." She hears his voice, almost as it's coming from some great distance. "Sarah."
She struggles to clear the vision in her mind. She shakes it off, opens her eyes to see his face very close, concerned. She feels his hand resting gently upon her hand, one she hadn't even realized she'd clenched into a fist.
"Sarah, you OK?"
She takes a deep breath, tries to dampen her fury. She nods, curtly.
"Yes, I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
She's about to repeat herself, but stops.
No, not doing things the same old way.
"No. Not really. I'm just so freaking angry. If I'd known about this before I met with Forrest I…I would've hurt her…badly. And enjoyed doing it.
"Well, then, it's just as well you didn't know. They might've pulled you off of this assignment. We might've never met."
Quietly he adds, "And that would've been a tragedy, Sarah. Much more painful than a twisted arm could ever be."
She feels her cheeks warm, unsure how to reply to his earnest words.
Fortunately, it seems he's willing to carry the conversational ball. He continues, in an upbeat tone, "So, I realized early on that if I didn't want to ruin all my favorite haunts, I'd have to take her to places that I didn't care about."
"So you didn't take her to the restaurant we went tonight?"
"God, no! I would never take you to any place where she and I went." He chuckles. "If we did, you might pick up some sort of loathsome disease she left lying around."
She manages a small laugh, responding to his efforts to lighten the mood.
He glances at her, grinning. "I'll let you in on a little secret. I started to check out Yelp reviews before we went out. Made sure I always chose the places with the worst possible reviews. I figured that if I was gonna be miserable, she was sure as hell gonna be miserable right alongside me. I think she may have even gotten a mild case of food poisoning at one particularly bad bistro we went to."
The image of Forrest bent over a toilet, retching, cheers Sarah immensely. She chuckles.
"Ouch! I hope I never get on your bad side."
He looks her way, then earnestly, but quietly says, "I don't believe that would be possible, Sarah."
Oh! She looks down.
How does he manage to say such things?
He doesn't dwell on his words, just looks out at the water again. "Fortunately, most of our fake dates actually were fake. We'd just go to that awful green apartment of hers so she could bombard me with stuff that would make me flash. As bad as the resulting headaches were, it was still better than being with her in public, having to pretend we were a couple.
He continues, a note of disgust in his tone. "When she slept over, the first thing I'd do, after she left, was wash the sheets. I could tell Ellie hated it all, even though she tried to be supportive. Forrest's pillow, I'd throw inside a garbage bag and bury it in the closet until she needed it again. Then I'd open the window, even if it was cold outside. I just couldn't stand the smell of her in my room.
"Just the thought of her writhing in my bed, pretending that we were having...", he blushes, "...you know, made me nauseous.
"Or maybe what all of it was doing to Ellie...and to me, is what made me feel sick."
He shakes his head. "I'm not sure."
She gently places her hand on his, says, softly, "That's all done with now, Chuck. No one needs to pretend anymore."
Except I still am. Pretending to be someone who's…beautiful…enough to sit here and listen as you open your heart.
It's time, Sarah. You've put it off long enough.
"Chuck, you said some...things at dinner. Lovely words...about what you saw...in me."
She'd thought he'd might be flustered or embarrassed at her reminder. She couldn't be more wrong
He nods slowly, never once breaking eye contact with her. "Yes, Sarah. I remember. They're all true. And I meant every word."
Her insecurities spill out in hurried words. "But how? How can you be so certain? You hardly know me."
He thinks, doesn't respond for a few long moments. "I'm not totally sure. It wasn't one specific thing. More of a gradual accumulation of words. And actions."
He pauses. "There was that moment we had at the Buy More. I felt this immediate connection. More than just physical, although that certainly was a part of it. You just seemed like the kind of person I would want to know better...even though I'm pretty sure my outburst convinced you otherwise."
He grins, ruefully, before going on.
"But if I had to guess, I'd say my good feelings about you really started to take shape when you told me you liked my shoes."
She blinks in surprise. "You're kidding."
"Nope. I know that sounds odd, but when we had that conversation, I knew right then you were different...in a good way...from Forrest. And our talk at Lou's served to only further widen the gap between you and her."
He pauses. "You showed me what kind of person you really are, Sarah."
"I didn't do all that much."
He shakes his head. "Have to disagree. Strongly."
He starts counting on his fingers.
"First, you noticed the whole Lou thing, how it'd affected me. You tried to make me feel better by putting my mind at ease about the whole fake girlfriend charade. Forrest never gave a damn about my feelings.
"Second, you made it very clear where you stood on the issue of hurting me or letting me be hurt. A stand you strongly reinforced tonight, I might add." He frowns. "And we know Forrest's record on that, don't we?
"Third, you showed me just how disgusted you were with Forrest and her tactics. And you understood why I kept going despite what she tried to do. She never gave a damn about what motivated me, just wanted the results. Would do anything to get them.
"Fourth, you helped me see my past actions with the team from a new perspective. I still don't think I was super brave or anything, but I could see where you were coming from. Forrest had no qualms in telling me how little she thought of me and my contributions.
"I could go on, Sarah, but I think you get the drift. You showed me compassion. Empathy. You saw what this life full of lies has been doing to me. How it's touched and contaminated...everything. My family. My friends.
"You were eager, unselfishly eager, to help me put all that crap behind me. I could see it. In your eyes. Your expression. Hear it in your words and the way you said them.
"No, Chuck I'm not—"
He leans in closer, gently cuts her off. "No. None of that. You're a good person, Sarah Walker. Don't let anyone ever tell you differently."
Sarah feels her heart lurch. She puts her hand over her mouth to stop her gasp from escaping, turns away before he can pick up on the stinging tears at the corners of her eyes.
I've never been told that. By anyone.
Good con, Darlin'. Good mission, Sarah. But never just good…Sarah. Until now.
It takes a few minutes to compose herself. She can feel him watching her, curious, but he says nothing.
She wants to believe him, but her self-doubt perversely moves her to protest. Without looking his way, she says, "But how could you feel that way after I told you what I'd been? Graham's enforcer."
She looks back at him, her mask in place, her voice flat, harsh.
"Let's be blunt, Chuck. I was his assassin. Bloody. Brutal."
If she'd believed this would intimidate, repel him, his response proves her wrong.
He doesn't back away, literally or figuratively. Instead, holding his ground, he quietly replies, "I was thinking about that, about you, last night, Sarah. When I pondered over what Graham et al. had done to you, I was so angry that I felt like punching a hole in the wall."
He shakes his head. "I'm normally not a wall puncher, Sarah. You should know that, but I was just so freaking furious..."
She has this sudden vision of him, fist raised, barely restraining himself.
"But then I started to think about you, about the kind of person I saw sitting across the table from me last night. About the kind of person who would do what you've done for me.
"And I realized something."
He pauses, makes sure she's looking into his eyes. "Almost anyone else would've been irreparably warped, broken. Would've become nothing but a soulless, heartless automaton.
"But not you. I don't presume to know exactly how you avoided that fate, but you did."
Did I?
He continues, "Any person who can live the life you've been forced to live and come out the other side with her humanity intact, is the kind of person I'd be honored to know. Am honored to know.
"You are a truly remarkable woman, Sarah. I'm privileged to have you as my friend."
She turns her head, dashes away her tears with her fingers, ashamed (foolishly, she knows) to let him see her thus reduced.
How does he keep doing this to me?
A hand holding a tissue appears in her blurred peripheral vision. She takes it gratefully. She dabs away the remaining tears. Blows her nose, noisily.
She glances his way, mortified. "Sorry."
He waves it off. "Hey, don't worry about it. Way back in high school, I got used to women crying in my presence. Usually, when they finally realized just how foolish they'd been to say yes when I asked them out."
She chuckles wetly. "Bunch of cry-babies. At the very least, I would've waited until I got home before breaking down."
He laughs. "Yeah. At least grant me that courtesy, right?"
The smile drops from her face as she reaches over and takes his hand, serious once more.
"Chuck, you've said some very kind things about me."
He reiterates, "All true, Sarah."
"Thank you for believing that." She cuts off the protest he's about to make. "But I can't let you go on making assumptions about me."
"What do you mean?"
"For one, you believe I would've handled things better than Forrest did. But I'm not sure I would've."
"That's crazy talk. You would've never acted like her."
"That's my point. You're presuming. If I'm not even certain what I would have done, how can you possibly be so positive I wouldn't have been like her?"
"I just am."
"But you didn't know the Sarah Walker of two years ago. You only know the Sarah you see today. A woman whose life has gone through major upheavals.
"I was more like her than you know. Focused on my job."
His reply is vehement, immediate. "Focused, I can accept, but you're not going to convince me you were ever anything like Alexandra Forrest."
"Chuck, you have this…blind faith in me. In the goodness you think you see."
"Faith, yes, Sarah," he shakes his head, "but not blind. Definitely not blind."
For a second she's unsure how to respond to the absolute sincerity she sees in his eyes and hears in his voice. Her resolve weakens, momentarily, but then she gathers herself and pushes through.
"I believe the only way for you to be sure is for me to tell you about myself. Who I've been. What I've done."
"We already went through this last night."
"No, not really. I'm well aware that you're not ignorant in the general sense. That you have a much better idea than the average person about what this life has demanded of me.
"But you don't know the details. And details count."
The Devil is in the details. Appropriate.
He's stubborn. "They won't change my opinion of you."
"OK. How about this? If, at the end of my story, you still think the same of me as you do now, I will accept your judgement. I will do my best to abide by your decision.
"I'll try and see myself the way you see me."
He nods, solemnly. Regards her for a long moment. He sighs. "You need to do this, don't you?"
"Yes, Chuck, I do." She pauses. "But, as important as it is for you to know me, there's another reason I need to do this. A big one."
"And what's that?"
She musters her courage, looks into his eyes."Before I answer, you have to understand something about me.
"I've been a practiced liar for almost my entire life."
He shakes his head, opens his mouth to disagree but she prevents him by quickly adding, "No, it's true. Please listen to me. Patiently, if you can.
"This isn't easy for me to say."
She takes a deep breath. "Chuck, my father was, is, a thief. He called himself a con-man, but that's just sugar-coating it. And he wasn't some Robin Hood type of thief. Quite often, the people he conned were no better off than we were.
"I helped him steal from good people. Right from the time I was eight years old until my middle teens. Even after I knew it was wrong, I kept on doing it for a very long time. Playing my part in the cons he spent so much of his life engineering. Cons that defined who he was, is. And me, I suppose, as well.
"He taught me how to lie. Gave me a solid foundation in duplicity. The CIA built on that foundation. Honed it to near perfection.
"Deception became my baseline, my norm. I've lost track of how many times I've gotten close to my marks by portraying myself as someone I wasn't. A woman with a false name, a fabricated history. Becoming the person they needed me to be, so I could relieve them of whatever Graham wanted."
Part of her wants to look away, but she forces herself to maintain eye contact. "And even when I was sent to eliminate a target with whom I had no actual contact, there was still deception. Just of another sort."
She pauses.
"I had to deceive myself into believing I was OK doing such things. That I could carry them out without such actions having any sort of lasting impact upon me."
She sees the sympathy welling up in his eyes, but she plows on. Looks out towards the horizon.
"This is what goes back to what I said about me not knowing how I would've acted if I come here as planned.
"It's very likely that you wouldn't even have known me as Sarah Walker. To protect myself, I probably would've used an alias. In any case, I certainly wouldn't have told you anything personal, anything real about me.
"An agent never does that with an asset. You never know what might come back and bite you in the ass if you give away an actual truth.
"But I might have told you some made-up things about myself, to make you believe I was opening up to you. In order to draw you closer, to encourage your cooperation. That approach had almost always worked in the past, so why try to fix something that isn't broken?
"That was me, Chuck. Back then. And I was exceptionally good at what I did."
"But now?"
"The last two years have had left their mark on me. Since my accident and Graham's demise, I haven't been kept…busy…with what I used to do. There was time, plenty of time, to think about who I'd become.
"I felt a growing…dissatisfaction…with my life. Not just with the stagnation, but all of it. My past. My present. My future. I felt there needed to be a change. What exactly, I wasn't sure, though."
She looks back at him. "But coming here, meeting you, has made it clear to me."
He's clearly surprised by her declaration. "How, Sarah?"
She doesn't answer directly. "Chuck, you're an inherently truthful, honest person."
He shakes his head. "No, Sarah, I'm not. I've lied lots of times."
"Of course, you have. First of all, we forced you to. But you're also an imperfect human being who tells untruths, even though I suspect most of those lies were small ones, uttered to spare other people's feelings.
"Regardless, what I meant is that your instinct is to tell the truth. To reveal. To enlighten.
"I, on the other hand, have been taught, by word and example, to be the precise opposite. To the point that my instinct is always to mislead. To conceal. To endarken.
"And your first inclination is to trust people, to believe that they are honorable. At least until they prove otherwise. But I've been taught to mistrust, to be suspicious of others, to assume that people are inherently dishonorable."
She looks into his eyes. "I don't want to be that person any more. I want to speak truth. To assume the people I meet are basically good. To be open and honest with myself. And you.
"But I can't do that if I'm hiding my past from you. That would be the most enormous mistruth of all."
He gives her a long look. "I think I get it."
"Please understand, I'm not asking for absolution. Just your honesty. After you know the facts.
"Can you do that, Chuck? For me?"
She almost adds 'for us', (Where did that come from?) but is able to catch herself in time.
He squeezes her hand, gently. "Yes, Sarah. I can and I will. To the very best of my ability."
Now that the moment is here, Sarah finds herself wondering where to start. And knowing what lies ahead, she's suddenly chilled. She shivers. He notices.
He slides closer to her, their hips, knees touching.
"Cold?"
"A little."
He holds up his arm as if to put it around her shoulders.
"Would this help?"
"Yes, it would. Thank you."
He settles his arm around her shoulders. Draws her close. Her shivering stops immediately.
That surprises her until she realizes it wasn't cool night air that was causing her to shiver.
It's fear. Fear that, despite his best intentions, he won't be able to handle what she's about to tell him. But, somehow, the warmth of his tender embrace, banishes her fear. Restores her courage.
At least for the moment.
It takes her some minutes to gather her thoughts, but he doesn't push her. He says nothing, just waits upon her.
With her head leaning into his shoulder she starts. Slowly. Hesitantly.
"Chuck, the first thing you need to know is that my birth name…is not Sarah Walker. That was the name given to me by Graham, by the CIA. However, it is the name I've come to…accept as my own.
"I've had many names, but the first one given to me was Samantha..."
...
As she warms to her task, Sarah finds there's little or no linearity in the litany of horrors she lays out before him. Forward and backward she goes, chronicling the life misshaping events of her past.
One moment, she's speaking of her father and how he'd twisted her, but then something in her words triggers an ugly memory of what Graham had done, and just like that, she's ten years older. A young woman, no longer a little girl. But neither innocent.
She tells him things. The good. The bad. The very bad. Things she's never told anyone else.
Not the CIA psychiatrists. Not Carina. Definitely not Bryce.
How she felt, the depths she fell into after her Red Test. How she crawled inside herself, sickened, after shooting down the unnamed woman in the streets of Paris. How that city had become a blight on her memory. Forever, for her, a city of darkness, not light.
Ashamed, she speaks of how, to her despair, to her regret, it became easier after that. But never easy. How each kill tore another little piece from her heart, leaving behind an organ that came to be more scar tissue than anything else.
And even though she tries to hold it in, her aching, crushing, almost overpowering loneliness leaks through, soaks her narrative, from start to finish. A loneliness that has permeated every aspect of her existence. A loneliness that the presence of Carina and Bryce, each in their time, had only partially, and only temporarily, relieved.
He never interrupts, although she feels him flinch when she comes to some of the truly terrible, blood-soaked passages. But he never pulls away. Instead, he draws her even closer, giving her the strength to carry on.
Eventually, after many hours, (exactly how many, she's unsure), Sarah finds her eyelids drooping, her voice slowing. She doesn't know exactly when it happens, but she's vaguely aware of him drawing the blanket around her more tightly. She sleeps.
…
The feel of the sun on her face and the sound of birds chirping in the trees behind them rouses her. Sarah opens her eyes, blinking. Looking around, confused at first, she realizes that she's nestled into Chuck's shoulder, the blanket around her.
He's still holding me. That's a good sign.
I hope.
Nonetheless, she keeps her head down, reluctant to look up into his eyes. Fearful that she may have misjudged the situation, afraid of what she might see in his face after all that she's confessed.
She hears his voice, gentle and kind. "Morning. Did you sleep well?"
Not what I expected.
She nods, realizing, that despite the discomfort of sitting up all night, she'd slept very well.
"Yes, Chuck." Shyly, she adds, "Thank you for holding me."
"My pleasure, Sarah."
She asks, apprehensively, "Did you sleep?"
She feels him shake his head. "No, I didn't. I had a lot on my mind."
Sarah catches her breath, almost certain what will come next.
How can anyone listen to that and not be utterly appalled? Even Chuck Bartowski.
"Sarah, you asked me to listen to your words, in effect, to stand in judgement upon you. To declare that you are a good person despite the life you've led."
She feels him take a deep breath.
Here it comes.
"But I can't do that."
Her heart sinks. Of course, he can't. Who could?
She pulls away from his embrace, distances herself from him as much as the bench allows. Looks out into the distance.
"I can't be the one to decide that for you. As much as I believe in you, in the fundamental goodness within you, even after all you've told me, in the end, anything I say is meaningless…if you don't believe in yourself."
What?
She turns back to stare at him.
"You have to decide. You, Sarah Walker, have to believe in your heart of hearts what I know to be the truth about you."
He hasn't given up on me. Why?
"But how do I do that?" She hears the note of desperate hope in her voice.
"You have to listen, really listen, to your own words."
"What do you mean?"
"You have this way of portraying yourself that I doubt you're fully aware of. I sort of had to read between the lines to fully comprehend what was really going on."
"In what way?"
"You have a tendency to…maximize…the terrible things you've had to do while minimizing all the unselfish acts that so often accompanied them."
"I don't understand."
"Sarah, I saw the same pattern again and again. You'd tell me about some genocidal warlord or scum of an arms dealer you were sent to take out, only to find that the plan you'd been given was flawed. That it would result in the death of innocent bystanders. People on the street or members of the target's household. Almost in passing, you'd mention how you changed things up, against orders, and often at risk to your own personal safety, just to take the innocents out of harm's way.
"Yet, when you talked about how those missions had affected you, the emphasis was solely on how you eventually took out the target and the resulting blood on your hands. The saving of the others barely got a passing mention. It was almost as if I'd blinked I'd miss it."
She looks into her heart, ponders on his words. Is startled to recognize that's exactly what she'd done.
How did I not see that?
How did he see it?
Nonetheless, something within her impels her to protest. "But not every termination mission was like that! Sometimes the job was quick, neat, with no opportunities to be anything other than focused on the assignment."
"I know. And that sorta leads me to my second point.
"When you spoke, your experiences brought to mind the image of a capable surgeon removing a cancer. One who knows that the cutting, the invasion of the body is necessary, but who still finds it eminently unnatural, distasteful at the same time."
"But surgeons save lives. I was taking them."
"I know the analogy isn't complete. However, like the surgeon, you did what needed to be done, removed the cancer. Not that you decided who the target would be. Your superiors bear the responsibility for the choices made."
She chews on that for a few seconds. "I've never thought of it that way."
"However, you do hear of some surgeons who grow to enjoy the cutting in some twisted, perverted fashion."
Sarah sees where he's going. "You're wondering if I ever felt the same way?"
He shakes his head. "No, not really." He pauses. "But I'm going to ask anyway, because I believe you need to hear the answer out loud.
"Did you ever find enjoyment…pleasure…in doing what Graham forced you to do?"
Her reply is automatic. "No. Thinking back still…sickens me."
He inclines his head. "Did you ever, even once, deliberately make one of your targets suffer? As punishment for who they were, for what they'd done?"
She shakes her head, quietly replies. "I was very good at my job. It was…quick. Every time. Torture, the idea of inflicting pain for pains sake…no, I couldn't…I just couldn't, bring myself to cross that line. It was bad enough…just doing what I did."
She looks away. "But I was tempted…a few times."
He softly replies, "That's understandable. I've felt the same way a number of times over the last few years. After experiencing the ugly acts that some who claim to be human have carried out."
He lets that sink in for a few seconds.
"Please answer me this, Sarah."
She turns to look his way. Raises an eyebrow.
"If you'd heard about a woman, who, under duress, was ordered to carry out actions that went against her very nature, actions that nonetheless resulted, directly and indirectly, in the saving of many lives, someone who'd put herself in harm's way again and again to help good people, what would you think of such a person?"
She gapes at him, sees a little smile on his face as he gently uses her own argument against her.
"Yeah, I know it's a run-on sentence. But, before you say anything, I've been informed on good authority that the actions speak for themselves, thus rendering any counter-argument useless."
"I don't know…"
"Earlier, you asked me to accept that view of myself. I'm asking you now to do the same.
"I'm trying, but it's hard. I've been what I've been for so long."
"I understand. But think about this."
He leans in closer, quietly asks, "Sarah, would you take a termination assignment now?"
Forrest's parting words come back to her. You prepared to do your duty, Walker?
No, no that. Not anymore.
"No, I wouldn't."
"Even if taking it would result in you being restored to your former position?"
She shakes her head. "No."
"Sarah, would you take a bullet for me?"
There's no hesitation. "I would."
"How about, Ellie? Think about it, you've only met her once."
"Yes, I would."
"So, what kind of person would you say that is? One who will no longer engage in those distasteful actions of her past, but is still willing to sacrifice herself for others?"
She shakes her head, mildly exasperated. "You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Bartowski."
"The better to elicit a response, Miss Walker."
She breaks his gaze, looks down into her lap, quiet, part of her afraid to admit to the truth of the evidence laid out before her.
"I'm waiting, Sarah."
She looks up to see that gentle, little smile on his face. Again. One she's quickly learning to love.
"Well?"
"A good person." She can hear the tentativeness of her response, closer to a question than a statement. She has no doubt he can hear it as well.
But he appears to ignore it. "Normally, this is the part where someone says, 'Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?' "
He pauses. "However, I can tell that wasn't easy for you. But, maybe as time goes by, and people other than myself confirm what I've been telling you, it'll get easier."
She looks at him in wonder.
How did he do that? Help me see myself in his eyes?
A good person. It'll take time to wrap my head around that.
"It's a time of new beginnings for both of us. At Lou's, you talked about helping me get through all this. And that I could help you as well."
"Yes."
"Sarah, I'm game if you are."
She responds eagerly. "Yes, Chuck. I think it's a great idea."
"To new beginnings, then."
"New beginnings."
"Too bad we don't have any champagne. We could make a toast."
She slides closer, their hips touching once more. She smiles. "I have an idea."
"What?"
She reaches up, takes his head in her hands. Gently pulls him down. Kisses him soundly, but briefly.
Sarah pulls back, sees the stunned look in his face. Waits for a few seconds until he opens his eyes.
"I think that should seal the deal, don't you?"
He replies enthusiastically. Very enthusiastically. "Yes, that most definitely does."
TBC
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A/N: Thought I change it up from the beach being "The Place". Thank you all for your continued patience, following along even with long intervals between stories. And thank you for all your kind reviews. We'll see some other canon characters (no, not that one) make their appearance, for better or worse, in the next few chapters.