AN: Just wanted to say that I'm loving all the new stories being posted. They help get me through my own frustrations with writing.
Chapter 4
The Sun has completely set and my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, but the moon isn't as bright as I had hoped, due to the storm clouds above. Snow is falling lightly and the temperatures have dropped rapidly. It can't be above thirty, by my estimations. Chuck dropped the branch he was using to cover our tracks some time ago. I don't even think he realized it, so I chose not to broach the subject, considering his propensity for freak outs. The snow and visibility should give our pursuers enough trouble.
Chuck stumbles again in the snow. I hold firm to his side, as he fights to regain his balance.
"I need a break," he pants.
The caretaker in me wants to give him as much rest as possible. The agent in me knows we need to put as much distance as possible between us and the crash site.
"We just stopped twenty minutes ago," I explain, letting the agent win.
My grip remains tight and I continue forward, before he can stop our momentum. I want nothing more than to let him curl up with his head in my lap, but now is not the time. I'm not sure that time will ever arrive or that I would even recognize it.
Chuck marches along beside me and I think that's the end of his protest, but I am surprised when he is ripped from my arms by the forces of gravity. I turn around to find him kneeling, with his hand on his thighs and his head facing the snow covered earth.
"What's wrong Chuck," I question, hunching down beside him. Concern laces my voice.
He doesn't answer me. It's like all of his energy is focused on his quickened intakes of breath. He sits up slightly and his hands fumble for the zipper of his jacket. After several seconds, he gives up and starts pulling erratically on the fabric.
My hands brush his away and I undo the garment for him. It does no good. His hands just begin clawing at his BuyMore shirt. I'm really starting to worry.
"Tell me what's going on Chuck. I don't know what to do."
He looks up at me with the gaze of a wounded animal pleading for life. I can tell he's trying to speak because his mouth moves, but no sound emerges.
He manages a whisper. "Can't breathe."
I don't understand why he's having trouble breathing. It doesn't make any sense. In response to his pulling, I remove his already loosened tie and unclasp the first few buttons of his shirt. He doesn't seem to be any more at ease, so I do the best I can to quell his hysteria.
"Chuck, I want you to calm down. Take slower breaths."
He nods his head in agreement and I wait to see improvement. His hands fall back to his thighs, as he tries to implement my instructions.
"Is it working," I ask.
Chuck shakes his head again, but in the negative sense. The jostling isn't good for his head injury even if it is easier than speaking. I look around in frustration, as if asking the forest gods to give me an answer.
At a total loss, I go for the most motherly action possible, rubbing my hand up and down Chuck's back. I then nudge him to the nearest tree. He leans back slightly and I unfold his legs. The tension in my body subsides slightly, as his rhythm becomes steadier.
"You ok?"
"Better," he squeaks. His voice is clearer, but exhausted.
He closes his eyes and I undo the remaining buttons of his shirt. His good hand grabs my wrist.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm not going to molest you. You kept grabbing at your chest. I need to see what's wrong."
He acquiesces and I finish the job, moving both sides out of the way. I am shocked by the bruising that I see on his chest and torso. My reaction must have been visible because Chuck immediately barrages me with questions.
"You just have some serious bruising. I may have jostled one of your ribs against your lungs, causing your breathing problem," I reassure, failing to mention my hypothesis that bone pierced his lung, causing it to deflate and quite possibly filling it with liquid, with blood. But I'm no doctor and my prognosis would probably sever any semblance of rationality that remains. I don't think Chuck could get any more injured, even if he tried.
"Here. I want you to stay hydrated," I order, handing him an open bottle of water. He takes it without protest.
"I don't have anything to wrap your chest, which would be ideal, so we're just going to have to be extra careful."
I'd have something to wrap him with, if I had brought the first-aid kit.
"Sarah," he says, wanting to make sure he has my attention.
"Yeah?"
"I can't go on."
I want to chastise him into compliance; give some sort of drill instructor monologue. Something stops me. I'm not sure whether it's how horrible he looks or the part of my mind that constantly reminds me that Chuck is an unwilling participant in the spy life.
"Fine, but we have to find an acceptable place for cover before we can stop," I explain.
"Ok."
My cold fingers once again fumble with the buttons of Chuck' shirt and my eyes struggle to keep my gaze professional. His well defined chest does not catch my attention and neither do his abs. Shaking my head, I quickly zipper up his jacket, put his tie in my pocket, and deposit the water bottle in it's appropriate compartment, inside my bag of tricks.
I gently help Chuck to his feet and situate things so that I can still support him without hurting his injuries. My hand ends up on his waist, fingers hooked through his belt loops. We set off on our trek for cover, which turns out to be a short one, as we happen across several large rocks that provide protection and good lines of vision.
"Here we go," I encourage, pushing Chuck up the slight incline to our new home.
He eases to the ground and I take time to scope the surrounding area for escape routes and trouble. They shouldn't be able to see us from more than twenty feet, at which point I too will be able to see them. Even night vision goggles will be of no use in this weather.
When I arrive back at camp, Chuck is sitting behind a rock. I sit opposite of him on the inclined plane, facing the path we just traveled.The rock is taller than his slouching form, so he isn't visible from the other side, but I am and it gives me a great view.
"Do you want something to eat?"
No answer.
"Chuck," I say, loudly.
I nudge, well Chuck would describe it as kicking, his leg and his eyes open slowly.
"What," he asks.
"You need to stay awake."
Acting like the baby he can sometimes be, he says, "I don't want to."
"We didn't just go through all of that to have you fall asleep and slip into a coma."
He's properly reprimanded, but meekly continues to protest. "I'm tired."
"Why don't we talk? That should keep you awake," I offer.
"About what?"
"I don't know. You choose."
"Can I ask you questions?"
I hesitate. This could get into dangerous territory, but if it's what he wants to do than so be it.
"Sure," I finally reply.
"And you'll be truthful," he asks, with suspicion lacing his tone.
"I think you know what I can't tell you and it's easier to be truthful about other things than is it to lie and then have to remember them later."
"Great," he says, sitting up slightly in excitement.
"I get to ask you questions too, Mr. Bartowski," I tease.
His face falls slightly, but he accepts my conditions.
"So you probably can't tell me your birthday, but I'm going to guess you're in your twenties."
I shake my head to signal his correct prediction. "I'm twenty-eight."
"Ahh…an older woman. Not sure how I feel about that," he jokes.
"Shut up," I chuckle. "It's only one year."
"I know you don't like olives, so what is your favorite food?"
I look at him in disbelief. "Are we in elementary school?"
"Well what else am I supposed to ask? Answer the question counselor," he quips.
"Hmm…let me think." I mock serious thought by putting my hand on my chin, before answering, "I'm going to have to go with grape Popsicles. The ones with the funnies on them."
"Popsicles? Are you twelve?"
"Well what's yours Mr. Maturity."
He gives me that goofy grin, before saying, "Pizza, of course."
We go on like that for who knows how long. Chuck sticks to the safe topics and I only have to refrain from answering twice. It's as good of an experience as one can have in this atmosphere and will help to patch up the tenuous relationship we've had these past few weeks. Even with our conversation, I maintain constant surveillance of our surroundings. I'm finishing a visual sweep when I realize that Chuck hasn't answered my latest question.
"Chuck," I say, making the all too familiar call.
There's no answer and I cautiously crawl over to his side of camp. After several minutes of shaking and name calling, I realize that he has slipped into unconsciousness.
"Damn it."