AN: Well, here it is, the final chapter. I'm probably going to do an epilogue, but it will be short. Thanks to all those who reviewed.
Chapter 7
The room is uncomfortably still when I enter. Only the sounds of the monitoring equipment provide distraction from my mission. Chuck's prone body is centered on the generic hospital bed. A sheet is pulled up to his chest. His arms rest on top of the starchy material. His left forearm is encased by a white cast. I can't help but think that he would have preferred something more colorful. It doesn't look like they touched his head wound, which makes me strangely proud of my first aid skills.
His face looks so peaceful that I tiptoe to his bedside chair. Positioning it so that I can see Chuck and the hallway, I sink down onto the structure. Casey quickly invades my line of vision, leaning against the doorframe.
"Just talked to the doctor. The kid's going to be fine. They had to repair some internal damage, but the rest was fairly simple to treat," he informs.
My eyes flick to Chuck's face before returning to Casey's.
"He's not….is he in a coma," I meekly question.
A look of shock appears in Casey's gaze before responding, "No, not at all. He should be over the gas by now. Must just be tired."
"Oh, good," I say, silently chiding myself for being so pessimistic. There isn't a lot to be optimistic about in our line of work, however, so I'm not surprised.
"He'll wake up when he's ready. They said he will need bed rest for two days, before we can move him," he continues.
I nod my head in an attempt to feign coherence. The truth is that I'm reliving the moments in the woods when I thought I'd never again hear Chuck's voice or see his smile. Those are the times when clarity hits, when what's important in life becomes apparent. My dilemma is whether to listen to what I heard in those minutes or listen to what my head says now.
"Once he's well enough, we've been ordered to complete the original mission. The specialist is waiting to extract the Intersect," Casey says reluctantly, as if I've become this fragile piece of china.
My head snaps at his declaration. I realize that I may not even have a choice in the matter at hand. Once the secrets are out of Chuck's brain, he will be of no use to the government. He will no longer need handlers. He will no longer need me.
"Understood," I say, in the sternest tone possible.
I can tell that Casey wants to know what I'm thinking. Instead of asking, he says, " I got us a room at the hotel across the street. Someone needs to watch the asset at all times, but we should get some sleep otherwise."
I don't respond.
"You take the first shift. Call me when you want a break," he says, pretending to be in charge of the situation.
"No problem Agent Casey," I automatically respond.
He exits the picture, leaving me to my thoughts. My musings flow from mundane things like the color of handguns to important things like the role the Agency plays in today's world. Mostly, however, my thoughts center around a certain tall, lanky Nerd Herd leader who has made my life very complicated. Said man is currently moaning in his sleep. Finally regaining my ability to utilize my years of training, I calmly hop to my feet.
"Chuck," I say, hovering above him. Unlike the tranquility I saw earlier, his face is now contorted in discomfort. I say his name a bit louder and his eyes slowly open. They're filled with pain, confusion, and a lack of cognizance. His good hand fumbles for something on the bed. Swatting it out of the way, I take hold of the object in question. It's a morphine dispenser.
"You want more pain killer," I wonder aloud. He groans in response. Assuming that to be a positive answer, I pump the device twice. A minute or so go by before Chuck visibly relaxes. His eyes meet mine and they are much more focused.
"Hi," I say, sitting back down in the chair. It takes immense will power to keep my hands in my lap because I so badly want to touch him.
"Hey," he croaks. His throat must feel like sandpaper. I look around for some type of liquid. Seeing a pitcher on his bedside table, I pour him a glass of water. I'm about to hand it to him when I realize that his injuries hinder his mobility. Improvising, I pluck a straw from the tray and insert it into the cup. His lips eagerly accept the straw and the relief that the drink brings.
He tests out his newly lubricated vocal chords saying, "Thanks."
"No problem," I reply, placing the glass in its original resting place. An odd silence encompasses the room. It's not exactly awkward, just strange.
Never being one to go too long without speaking, Chuck questions me. "What happened?"
"You remember the plane crash," I ask.
"I remember you kicking ass, but that's the last thing," he explains. I smile at his terminology.
"You passed out. I had to carry you for miles. Casey finally found us. I…I thought you were dead," I say. My voice hitches at the end and I pray that he didn't notice. His eyes narrow for a moment, but he lets it go.
"Well, unless this is heaven and you're my guardian angel, I'm still kicking," he slurs, inhibited by the morphine. I'm shocked by the change in his behavior, but I know first hand the effects of high strength medicine.
"That you are Chuck Bartowski. That you are," I concur.
With a slightly more sober voice, Chuck turns to more serious matters. "What happens now?"
I school my face before replying. "You need to rest for a few days. After that, we will take you up to see the specialist. He's fairly confident that he can separate you from the Intersect."
"And then," he questions, after contemplating my words.
"We observe you for a while to ensure that the secrets are gone and you reintegrate into your previous life," I state, like a professor teaching his students.
He gives me a pointed look before posing his next inquiry. "What about us," he says.
And there is it. Chuck has voiced the one puzzle that has been troubling me since we heard about the new procedure. It is the very issue I was pondering while he slept. I'm still not ready to answer.
"Well, tactically speaking, you would no longer need special agent protection. Casey and I will be reassigned," I reply.
"No. What about us," he reiterates, moving his cast wrist back and forth. "Would you take the new assignment or would you give us a chance?"
"Chuck," I sigh, before he interrupts me.
"Are you going to deny that something is happening? I may not have been in the best of shape, but I was there in that forest. I saw how you reacted," he asserts, with an intensity in his eyes that I rarely see.
As much as I want to acknowledge the truth in his words, my professionalism is still too prominent in my behavior. Agent Sarah Walker wins the battle over the woman I sometimes long to be.
"It's my job. I did what I had to do to get us out of there alive," I explain.
A look of exasperation streaks across his features. He unconsciously sits up in the bed. Emotions flitter through his eyes before settling on a look that I can only describe as determination.
"So you're saying that there is nothing between us at all? Think about it long and hard Sarah because I swear to god that this is the last time I will ever ask. If you say no, that's it. I'll get this computer out of me and go back to the life I enjoyed before that blasted e-mail. I will look back on this year with contempt," he says.
I'm completely shocked by the words emanating from my usually reticent asset. By the look in his eyes, I know that his ultimatum is real. This is one of those do or die, fight or flight moments. It is the very thing that I live for, but, in this instance, I'm absolutely terrified. I have to decide between my job, my country and the affable man who I've known for mere months, but was able to break down many of my walls. I don't even know how I really feel. All that I know is that it's different than anything else I've ever experienced. The situation in the forest changed me even more. I have never felt such panic and devotion when protecting an asset in a dire situation.
I heave a giant sigh before responding.
"Even if I wanted to stay, I have a job. I have a responsibility to the CIA, to the country," I respond, but it's more of a non-answer and Chuck sees through it.
"But do you want to stay," he says, almost begging me for a straight answer.
I crumble at his pleading eyes. For some reason, I cannot treat this man like the mark the he is suppose to be. I can't blatantly lie to him, unless it is for his own protection or the good of the country. My head hangs for a moment before lifting once more and looking directly into Chuck's brown orbs.
"Part of me does. A big piece of me wants to throw everything to the wind and explore this thing between us. I can honestly say that I've never felt like this before," I confess, in a quick burst of words.
A huge smile spreads across his face. It blows me away. My emotions are swirling, but I cannot yet let myself bask in the happiness that he has found. There are still too many variables for which to account.
"That scares me Chuck. You hardly know me. I've killed a lot of people. I always thought it was for the greater good, but I'm even starting to question that. These type of distractions will get me killed," I say, trying to explain my rationale.
"Distractions?"
At his look, I backpedal. "I didn't really mean it like that. It's complicated. There are so many forces at work that can easily tear us apart."
"I understand. I guess the big question is whether or not we're worth the risk. Will you take the leap with me Sarah," he questions, holding out his injured hand for me to take.
My gaze darts between his outstretched limb and his inviting face. This man has been beaten down many times in life, but he always manages to get back up and dust himself off. A relationship between us would be just as big of a risk for him as it would be for me. My danger is professional, while his is emotional. I have no doubt that Chuck would eventually lift himself up, if I rejected his proposal.
I believe that I could turn Chuck down and live a fulfilling life, but I don't think I'm willing to take that chance. However, I am prepared to fight. For this strange man, I'm willing to put it all on the line. Removing my hand from its resting place on my lap, I grasp Chuck's cast hand and squeeze. He gives me another lights out smile. This time, I join him. My grin is less dazzling, but no less heartfelt.
"I'm not making any promises," I caution, trying to remain levelheaded.
"Ok," he says, while still stupidly smirking. I chuckle at his childish tendencies.
"I have to go, if I'm reassigned, but I'll make it back as often as possible. If the talking heads object, I'll barter with them. I guess I'm just saying that no matter what happens, I'll try."
"That's all that I ask Sarah," he replies, lowering our joint appendages to the mattress. He then begins tapping his fingers against my palm. It's so…normal that I once again feel tears threatening. If Chuck and I are going to have a relationship, I need to get my emotions under control. For now, I will chalk it up to some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
It feels good to let go. To borrow the often used cliché, a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. We sit in comfortable silence, until Casey's menacing form appears in the hallway.
"Well isn't this touching," he mocks. His words and tone are sarcastic, but I see a deep rooted understanding in his eyes. It's his way of telling me that he approves.
"Keep it out of my sight from now on," he says. In a less subtle manner, that is his way of telling me that it better not interfere with the job. It will be good to have Casey on our side, if this crazy coupling has any chance of survival.
"And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company Special Agent Casey," Chuck replies, matching Casey's sarcasm. It feels good to hear him so jovial again and know that I had something to do with the reappearance.
"Shift's over Walker. Go get some sleep," he says, completely ignoring Chuck. I want to protest so that I can have more time alone with my….Chuck, but decide to let my partner set the terms. Standing up, I extract my hand from Chuck's grasp, give him a peck on the lips, and smile sweetly at Casey, before leaving the room.
The next few days fly by like summer vacation. Chuck and I spend the mornings and afternoons together, while Casey takes the night watch. He claims that it's more enjoyable when 'the kid's out cold'. I don't mind at all because it gives us a chance to get to know each other on a different level. Our conversations are not clouded by the veil of uncertainty. He still asks questions that I can't answer, however, I am revealing more of myself. Most of the time, we watch television or play chess. We were both surprised to learn of the others affinity for the ancient board game. I've bested him four out of five times. He claims his injuries have impaired his judgment. I let him whine, for now.
Chuck did indeed want a more entertaining cast. One day, while he was napping like an elderly person, I took the initiative and covered the plaster with colorful geometric shapes. Upon awakening, he complained that it looked girly and halfheartedly attempted to convince the staff to make him a new one. I, however, won the battle and he'll have to live with his kaleidoscopic arm.
The doctors have determined Chuck to be well enough for transport. Today we're leaving the hospital and making the three hour trip to Ashland by car. He is dressed and ready to go when I guide the wheelchair into his room.
"What is that," he questions.
I shoot him a smile, saying, "Your mode of transportation."
"No way. I'm not using that," he protests. I'm amazed, sometimes, at how comfortable Chuck is with himself, but there are times like these where he feels the need to flex his masculinity. It's oddly endearing.
"Hospital rules. Besides, you're still weak from the surgery," I say. In an effort to pacify him, I give him a long kiss on the lips. Our faces stay close when the connection ends. He gives me a smirk.
"If you say so," he concedes.
"I do," I reply, maneuvering the wheelchair to his bedside. With a little more help from me than he would have preferred, we get him into the medical contraption.
"Let's go people. Unlike your little Star Trek show, it actually takes time to get places in the real world," Casey barks from the hallway, disappearing as quickly as he appeared. Chuck and I let out simultaneous laughs.
"Let's go," I echo, gripping the handlebars and propelling the chair forward.
Chuck's hand on mine startles me to a stop. He looks up at me with vulnerable eyes.
"Together, right," he question, seeking reassurance.
I rub my thumb over his hand, saying, "Together."
He smiles at me, before facing forward in his seat. As we exit his room, I am less certain about the future than ever before, but my confidence in our decision does not wane. Chuck has brought a great sense of calm into my life and I will be forever grateful. He cracks a joke about hospitals, as we head toward the front doors, toward the unknown.