A/N1 Fanfiction Author's Warning: Squirm-worthy moments ahead, or so at least they seemed as I wrote them.

A reader mentioned wanting Chuck's POV. I wondered if anyone noticed that I had not written in his POV since a brief section of Chapter 1. But his POV did reappear in the last chapter and it will be with us a lot from here on. There is a method to my madness…

Thanks for the kind reviews. I know this isn't an easy story.

Don't own Chuck.


ACT III

CHAPTER SEVEN

Time and Thought are Mutually Entangled


Chuck stomped on the accelerator; the car leaped into traffic. It was as if the other cars were moving in slow motion. He could feel their direction, speed, even make and model. It was all there for him, like intuition, but it was not intuition. The Intersect. He had a sudden sense of how a racetrack must look to elite drivers. Still, he kept the car under the speed limit. His mind was racing.

What he had seen in Sarah's face was what he had seen glimpses of early in her time in Burbank, early in her time around him. That maddening attraction/repulsion thing that had led to the draw-and-push of their early years together.

She reacted to him immediately. As she had done, he knew, when they first met. But back then, she had known who she was, or thought she did, and she'd been better able to cope with the reaction than he thought she was now.

He was on thin ice. At any moment, he could plunge beneath, into freezing waters ruled by the Ice Queen. He did not think Sarah could...would...kill him; he obviously was not hoping to find out. He recalled a conversation with Ellie, back after he and Sarah had gotten married and he was momentarily frustrated by Sarah's still-sometimes-present reticence about sharing how she felt.

"Chuck, remember something. It's taken your wife five years comfortably to begin to connect with her own feelings, to acknowledge them, attend to them, share them, to be guided by them. Her training and the environment she lived in for so long forced her to disconnect from her feelings, deny them.

"She's made so much progress; she and I have talked about it. She knows she still has work to do, but she has come a long way. You are so close to her it's hard for you to keep the progress in view. Just remember, if you press her, her instinct is to shut down or delay even longer. You've been patient with her all this time; you just have to keep being patient.

Maybe she'll never lead with her heart in quite the way you do. But she is lead by her heart these days. Remember back when you told me that you have to keep winning her again and again? Well, you've won her—but you need to stay patient. Slow. Take things slow. Super slow."

And here he was again. Superslowman.

But the thought caused no rancor, no bitterness. He had vowed to be there for her, always. He would be now. He decided to follow her lead, to the extent that he could. For now, he would do as she told him. Maybe he could win her, reach her heart. If he lived long enough.

ooOoo

Sarah had forced Chuck to throw his phone and Carina's out the window. Now, Sarah was trying to cope with the pain in her head.

Every time she looked at Chuck and let her gaze linger, the pain became worse, worse the longer her gaze lingered. She was forced into quick glances, sidelong checks. Her head hurt. She was afraid of the man in the front seat. Yet another part of her, despite the pain and the fear, kept whispering to her that she was in the backseat and that he could pull over and join her.

How could one person be so jumbled? She wanted to scream. Who had taken her life from her? What had been done to her?

She had been so focused on who she was and on her AWOL past that she hadn't really given how it happened much thought. She'd been beaten. Hit her head. That had been her sole thought. But was that what happened?

What did the man driving the car know about her? She hadn't been able to get help from the man at The Gull. But this guy-maybe she could get him to help her. He did not look like a threat, although her reaction to him made her think he was, made him feel like one when she didn't feel drawn to him.

She leaned forward, speaking through a tightening throat and a knotting stomach as she put the barrel of the gun against the back of Chuck's head.

"Who are you?"

"Chuck."

She caught his scent again, felt woozy; pain spiked in her head. She gritted her teeth.

"I know that already. The woman, Carina, said your name. What is your full name?"

ooOoo

Chuck felt his pulse rocket. Had she heard the name 'Bartowski'? Probably not. She took herself to be Sarah Walker. But there was that weird I don't know you but it hurts me to look at you thing she was going through. The fact that his presence seemed itself to cause her pain. What would that name do?

His name. Her name. Their name.

Even as he drove, he absently touched his thumb to his wedding ring, steering with just the fingers of that hand. He looked up into the rearview mirror. She saw the small gesture. She poked the barrel hard into the back of his head, grimacing as she did so. "Is your last name 'Anderson'?"

Chuck was lost for a split second. The ring. She was remembering...Bryce. Not Chuck. Not me. She knew 'Anderson', not 'Bartowski'. Chuck's eyes stung, filled with tears. Sarah noticed. Her grimace transfigured into a puzzled frown. "You aren't Anderson, are you? But you know that name, don't you? It means something to you, like it does to me…"

Chuck blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, hide the hurt. He needed to be able to handle this, make tactical decisions about what to reveal and when. But, God, lying to Sarah! Without meaning to, he muttered under his breath: "No secrets, no lies." Her eyes got big, then she took control of her expression. She let the line pass.

"No, Sarah, I am not Chuck Anderson. The name 'Anderson' does mean something to me. It was a cover you used in the past-quite a few years ago now, when you were partners with Bryce Larkin."

For a moment, Sarah's face was blank-not because she was suppressing an expression but because, Chuck could tell, she was genuinely expressionless. But then she blushed. He saw a light in her eyes. She turned from him slightly, so that he could not see her eyes in the mirror.

Chuck felt his heart liquify, stream down along his the insides of his ribs, and pool in his feet.

Sarah remembered Bryce Larkin, her old boyfriend, long dead, but not her husband, sitting in front of her, now her hostage, her gun barrel against his skull.

ooOoo

Sarah spoke, not to him, not even to herself. She just spoke. Her voice the voice of her memory. "We were partners. We pretended to be married. He...was Mr. Anderson; I was Mrs. Anderson. We were someplace in South America, maybe...I sort of remember him, see him. We were more than...partners…" Her mind filled with memories, but out of focus, emotionally distant.

Guarded...blue...eyes.

She came to herself. Looked back into the mirror. Chuck now looked away. But she saw him fighting with himself. His hands were trembling on the wheel. She drew the gun away from his head a little, an automatic response to a welling up of sympathy for him and...what? Something else...for herself, about herself. Mild regret, complex dissatisfaction. "We were more than partners...but less than a couple. I don't remember it any of it clearly. But I remember…" She spoke aloud but not tp Chuck, rather to the empty air.

She was drifting away again, could feel it, not caught up in the memory, but in the event of remembering itself. It was the first time it happened like this since she woke up on the dock.

"Cabo. We tried to convince ourselves we could have something...But by the time we left, we both knew, even though we didn't say anything to each other. Maybe we thought we could try again, would try again, that...another place, another time it might work…"

But I knew. There had been too many secrets, too many lies, too much compromise, not enough promise...We had nothing to build on except...professional competence, nagging emptiness…I remember that...

She stopped herself. The angle of Chuck's shoulders testified to his effort to control himself. What she had just said had affected him as much as her. Differently, but just as much.

Why? Did he know Bryce?

She started to let go of the memory, but then she remembered the claim check in her pocket. The rings. What was Bryce's name when they were the Andersons? Maybe it was just...Bryce. It didn't start with 'C'. It didn't.

Those rings she pawned, the bare spot on her finger, the pawn shop, the tears.

Those rings meant something to her that the Anderson's rings never began to mean, that the Anderson's never meant. Those rings were real. She was...had been, anyway...married. Really married. She knew it but could not believe it.

'C' is for heart and heart is for…."

"Chuck," she blurted out, "is that your real name? Who names their kid 'Chuck' these days, anyway?" She could hear herself, her tone unreadable. She waited for an answer.

ooOoo

Chuck was unsure what to say. Why did it matter? He did not want to lie. She was thinking about Bryce. About the Andersons. Those were the times she remembered.

"Yeah, my name really is Chuck."

"And you are a...spy?"

It was the day for all of Chuck's buttons to get pressed, no, more, hammered. "Yes...and no. More or...less. My wife..." Chuck wasn't sure how to go on. His mouth moved but no words formed.

"Your wife? You are married."

Chuck winced, but minimized the movement. "I am…I was...I lost her." He finally allowed himself to acknowledge that her rings were gone. He had seen it—but kept it at bay for as long as he could. He slumped slightly in the seat.

"Oh. Sorry."

ooOoo

Sarah seemed at that moment to realize she had fallen into conversation with her...hostage. How had she forgotten?

Because forgetting was what she now did best. She steeled herself. Pushed away from the thought of the rings. Chuck was not her 'C'.

She had no idea who was, or if anyone was anymore. She was, she had been, someone's heart.

How could a spy have been anyone's heart? How could she have been? She leaned forward and put the gun back against Chuck's head. She wasn't sure if she did it to reestablish control or just to catch his scent again.

How could the scent of a man she feared make her feel...centered?

ooOoo

They drove on in silence for a time. Sarah needed to ask Chuck questions. He knew things about her. She was afraid of him, afraid of the answers. Why was she afraid of this man? He did not seem like a threat, despite her feeling that he was. His glances at her were not searching for a weakness to exploit. They were...concerned...but for her, not himself.

Finally, Chuck asked Sarah a question. "Look, I am just driving—where are we going?"

"Burbank. We're headed in the right direction, given the signs."

"Yeah," Chuck swallowed hard, "...we are. But why?"

She gave him a look. "You may as well stop pretending like you don't know anything about me. Obviously, you do. I don't remember you, not exactly anyway. But I heard Carina say that she did not know if I would remember you. So, I'm guessing I could, maybe even should remember you. How did we know each other?"

Chuck offered each word of his answer as if were dangerous. "We were members of the same...team. We worked together. In Burbank. But look, I'm not sure Burbank is the best destination for you right now…

"You are having memory troubles, right?" Chuck asked this quietly. She gave him one sharp nod. An Agent Sarah Walker nod.

"Well, I know something about how that happened to you. It's...well, it's complicated," Chuck glanced at her in the mirror, "it's a looong story. I'm not sure where to begin…" Or where it ends, if it hasn't already.

He could see fear and curiosity in her eyes: she wanted to know, was afraid to know.

Chuck thought about the long night he had spent on the beach years ago, trying to come to terms with the Intersect, the CIA, Sarah, the NSA, Casey. She had kept vigil over him, protected him while he worked it out. He would do the same for her, no matter what the end turned out to be.

I love you, Sarah Bartowski, and I love you, Sarah Walker. I love you, Sarah.

ooOoo

Beckman's phone practically exploded when she turned it on as she left the plane.

Huntaker. Other members of the Intersect Committee.

She looked at her text. Stopped walking. Another first-class passenger ran into her while looking down at his own phone He apologized.

The LA DARPA facility was bombed. Heavy casualties, including Dr. Smith. The Intersect Project is finished.

Huntaker. Beckman knew a part of him was actually happy, or at least relieved.

Her phone vibrated, another text from Huntaker, this one brand new.

Sarah Bartowski's fingerprints found on the scene at DARPA. DNA evidence. The Committee voted while you were on the plane. Clear majority. Termination order now in effect.

Shit. Sarah was not responsible for DARPA. Beckman rejected the thought. What was going on? Why would someone implicate Sarah? And now the intelligence community was hunting her.

At least no one on the Committee knew yet that Chuck had the pristine Intersect. That was something. That was a big something, actually. An advantage. And although Beckman was not trying temporarily to mute the horror she felt about the bombing-she had handpicked Smith and liked her-she knew that the bombing would delay Huntaker and the others from finding out that Chuck had the Intersect.

Beckman tried to phone Carina. Nothing. She tried Chuck. Nothing. What was going on? Had they found Sarah? She hit the call button on her phone-John Casey-and put it to her ear as she entered the terminal.

ooOoo

Sarah glanced out the window. Remembering the little she had remembered, late pieces of her time with Bryce, had brought back the emotional tone of that time.

Bryce had been a source of warmth—lukewarmth—in the cold, in the mostly weary, stale, flat and unprofitable landscape of her spy life. But he had never changed her, never changed that landscape.

But something had changed her. Someone. Someone who came after Bryce. Someone far, far better. Someone who had helped her to be reborn. Someone who found a Sarah lost to time and brought her back. Someone who energized, freshened, varied and rendered profitable the landscape of her life.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to conjure up a face. Mr. Fantastic. Where are you, Mr. Fantastic? No face appeared and the effort made her head pound, a nine-pound hammer.

An odor...food cooking, then plated, and the...aroma, flavors—chicken, pepperoni. Chicken Pepperoni?

I really am losing what is left of my mind.


A/N2 So much confusion and misery in one car (in one brief chapter). More next time in Chapter 8, "Din and Prodigality". Keep the faith.

Continued thanks to WvonB, David Carner and halfachance.