Dare to Hope

Casey sat hard on the leather seat of his Crown Vic, but didn't start the car. Maybe this was the wrong DMV. There was no DMV in Topanga, strictly speaking, and he'd chosen the Winnetka branch as the nearest equivalent. Maybe she worked at the one in Santa Monica. Or maybe she was the type of person who broke into DMV records with more illegal pursuits in mind.

Using the car computer, Casey did a quick search for Emily Mareau in Topanga, California. No hits. He broadened the search to all of California. Still nothing. Rubbing his face tiredly, Casey tried to remember if he'd done this before. Then he kicked himself for falling into the belief that Emily was real … again.

His phone rang, the sound reverberating through his head, initiating a migraine. He pounded frantically at the buttons trying to silence the damn thing, only to have it ring again a minute later.

Walker!

The Intersect!

Duty taking the forefront, he hit the talk button on the phone. "Casey."

"What are you doing in Winnetka?"

Casey whipped around in surprise, fully expecting to see Sarah standing outside his window, before he remembered that she knew the GPS track code on the car. Leaning his head back against the head rest, Casey pinched the bridge of his nose and weighed his responses.

"Checking a lead on that woman," he said finally. It was the only bit of reality he had – that there was, in fact, a woman that had been shot outside his apartment, and that according to the Intersect, she was somehow connected to him. All they had was the code name Tristavee, and knowledge of a few sealed files, and the ever-fading image of Emily in Casey's mind. Then there was the medical file that was slightly rushed, but had vanished in short order along with the woman. There was a slow effort to reconstruct things from the attending emergency staff without arousing suspicion, but given the ten car pile-up on the 5 that same evening, there weren't a whole lot of memories surrounding this one victim.

"Casey … Casey!"

Sarah was calling him back. Had he dozed? He wanted to sleep, but he grunted at her to show he wasn't gone yet.

"Did you remember something about her?"

"She said she came from Topanga," he mumbled. His foot was starting to throb.

"We pursued that lead already," Sarah said patiently. She was so gentle with him, but not in a patronizing way. "Are you safe to drive home?"

Casey wrinkled his nose, offended by the question, but the annoyance just made his head hurt more.

"When did you eat last?"

Now she was crossing the line to mother hen!

"I just needed to check!" he said defensively. "I had the day free."

"You shouldn't be driving," she said firmly. "Stay there. I'm coming to get you."

Casey huffed angrily. She wasn't seeing her dead child! She didn't understand the driving need to be sure – absolutely sure. And Casey didn't dare tell her his reasons. If Emily was in danger, then telling Walker would only increase that danger. If she wasn't even real, then speaking her name would get Casey benched faster than he could draw his gun – and Casey was a fast draw.

A tap on the window roused Casey and he jerked awake, nearly banging his head on the steering wheel as stars exploded behind his eyes. The police officer that had been blockading the DMV entrance was knocking on his window. Confused (mostly about when he'd fallen asleep) Casey rolled down the window.

"You can't loiter here, sir," the officer opened diplomatically.

Without a word, Casey found his NSA badge and held it up. The officer pursed his lips, more annoyed at being outranked than anything else.

"My partner's on her way," Casey assured, even though he had no idea if it was true. His phone had fallen between the seat crack.

"Are you ill?" the officer asked.

"Fine," Casey said sharply, jamming his fingers into the crack to retrieve his phone. "Fine. Is there a good place to eat around here?"

-----

Casey was glad he made it to the diner without crashing his beloved car. Something about driving or walking kept him going far better than sitting or talking did. Eating helped too. He sprang for the buffet, glad to be walking, glad to be shoveling food down his mouth, into his growling stomach. Once through the first plate, he could take his medicine. (He'd tried taking the pills on an empty stomach once, with disastrous consequences.) He stopped mid-chew, when he heard her voice.

"Why did you come here?"

Casey took two more deliberate chews, then swallowed so slowly he nearly choked. Goosebumps covered his skin, starting on his neck, going down his arms, tingling all the way to his navel, making his hair stand on end. Carefully, he reached into his pocket for the zip-locked bag with his pills. No sense waiting for the second plate. He should've been paying closer attention to the time. Keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched, and his back firmly toward the ghost, he shook out the three different pills he needed and swallowed them in one gulp.

"What are those for?" she asked. She – someone – was still there.

"Was poisoned recently," he said dismissively, keeping his attention on his plate and the well-crafted chicken and black bean salad he was eating. "Not that it's any of your business."

His head was clearing now. Soon the ghost would dissolve into reality – a curious bus boy, perhaps. Even if he was talking to himself, he didn't care.

"Please, look at me," she begged, coming around so that her form cast a shadow over his plate. He didn't look at her. She waited him out. It figured she'd get a double dose of stubborn obstinance – one from him, one from her mom. Even if she'd only gotten her mom's she could outlast him.

"I went to the DMV," he told the shadow, hoping he could make her go away with facts as to her non-existence. "You weren't there."

"May I sit?"

Casey thought a moment, and finally shrugged.

And there she was, paler and more haggard than before, brown hair hanging down so it covered her ears, left arm in a sling. She waited patiently for him to finish his salad, and did not protest when he immediately slid out of the booth and went to the buffet for round two. Resting his hand securely on the reality of the stacked plates, still warm from being washed, Casey took a few deep breaths and turned back to the booth. She was still there, waiting patiently, eyes alertly screening the room for danger, right hand absently adjusting the sit of the sling across her chest.

The meds reached Casey's stomach, making him nauseous, and he knew it would only get worse if he didn't eat something. Looking toward the door made him feel like a coward, and any thought of calling Walker and demanding an ETA made him feel like an invalid. So he loaded his plate with grilled chicken, steaming mashed potatoes, and lots of gravy, and went back to the booth.

The waitress had brought Emily a drink and she sipped slowly, turning the glass in her hand, tracing the condensation with her fingers, leaving a wet ring on the table.

"I didn't say I worked at the DMV," she said quietly. "I said they were short-staffed."

Casey nodded. She could easily be a hallucination. So far, she hadn't fed him any scenarios he couldn't have made up on his own.

"I wasn't going to look for you again. Not after …" She sighed and nodded toward her arm. "I'm just tying up some loose ends and then I'll disappear."

This time, he looked at her. Her blue eyes were downcast, her fingers tapping the table in the same fidgety manner he had. Whether it was a person going under cover or a ghost warning that she'd never visit again, he suddenly felt compelled to look – to take her in.

"Emily."

She met his eye, tears brimming in her own. "I don't know what to call you."

Casey's breathing quickened. "Tell me who shot you. Who poisoned me?"

Her mouth opened and closed with no words and her face contorted with pain. "I don't know who they are. I don't actually see them; I just feel it … like I'm being hunted."

Casey reached out, daring to hope, and placed his hand over hers. Waves of sorrow, guilt, and lost forevers washed between them, threatening to drown them. But she was like him. They both steeled themselves and pulled their hands away awkwardly. He looked back to the buffet and she looked out the window.

"All this mess because I saw a piece of paper and dared to hope you were real."

Casey huffed and curled his lip bitterly. "You don't drag skeletons from the closet unless you're prepared to join them."

She balked, her eyes flashing fire. "You think I regret this?"

"You have a hole in your shoulder," he pointed out.

"In my shoulder, yes!" she repeated. "Not in my heart. Not anymore!"

He gave her a look, warning her not to get hysterically loud, and she dropped her voice to a whisper.

"Now I know you're real," she continued. "You're more than this picture I carry with me –"

"What picture?" he interrupted. Pictures were bad. They connected you to people and made you weak. He needed to teach her that.

She pulled the photo from her wallet and handed it to him. He nearly died just from seeing it. There he was, eighteen and smiling like a goon, leaning against a black Crown Vic, his ten-month-old Emily in his arms, wearing a candy-striped shirt and reaching up to touch his face. The car wasn't his. He'd found a job at a local dealership. That had been his plan, to support his family.

"Where did you get this?" he asked breathlessly, his hand ghosting over the picture, his fingers pinching the edges to convince himself it was real.

"Gramma's attic," she said. "Gramma Vero. That's where I found the papers – found my real name."

She trailed off wistfully, biting back tears so fiercely, he feared she would break skin.

"Emily," he said again. He felt stronger, just speaking her name to truth. "Who is protecting you? The hospital records –"

"I have friends," she interrupted curtly, bringing her fingernails to her lips, but not biting. She had his eyes. It took his breath away to notice.

"Who are your friends?" he persisted. Was she white world or black – he didn't even know.

"The same ones who are getting me clear of this mess," she said, standing abruptly. "Please don't look for me. Not until you've figured out who is trying to kill us."

"I –"

He wanted to tell her he loved her always; he wanted to beg her to stay. But she silenced him with a hand on his shoulder, gave him a gentle squeeze, and then she disappeared.

-----

Casey burped as he gulped down his third soda in a single hour. It was his downfall at all-you-can-eat buffets, but he didn't make the rules and he didn't believe in God strongly enough to care about the occasional gluttonous binge.

When Agent Walker entered, it was with a mixed eye-roll and sympathetic sigh. Bartowski was a half step behind her, which brought an eye roll from Casey. He told himself that they had a mission, and they couldn't leave Bartowski alone, even though the truth was that they needed a second driver since he was temporarily forbidden and was by no means leaving his car behind. He didn't really know if he cared.

She had his eyes.

"You look happy," Chuck said jovially, sitting across from him and reaching for the bread on Casey's plate.

"Scratch that," he amended, putting the bread back when Casey growled at him.

Sarah disappeared into the kitchen, probably to ask his waitress if he'd been behaving oddly. That would be a trip – figuring out which parts of today were hallucinations.

"Ellie had a fit when she found out you drove here," Chuck said, leaning back and sprawling his arms over the back of the bench. "She's going to find you tonight and take your keys."

Casey glowered and kept eating his mashed potatoes.

"If I were you, I'd admit defeat and bring them over yourself. Your living room doesn't exactly scream 'guy-next-door'- what with the weapons, the bullet-proof vests, the random tactical gear –"

"She doesn't work at the DMV," Casey interrupted, talking through a mouthful of green beans. "Might be a temp."

"Miss Tristavee?" Chuck checked. He moved the coasters around, fiddled with the napkins, and then pulled a pen from his pocket and started doodling.

When Agent Walker came, she slid into the booth next to Casey, carrying a salad plate and a cup of coffee. Instead of feeling crowded, it made Casey feel safe – like they were just his friends coming to join him for lunch, and they weren't judging him for wanting a ride home. He didn't want either of them driving his precious car, and he didn't know which he'd choose to spend the ride with, but now, as they sat here and ate, he felt safe.

"Did you meet her here?" Sarah asked gently. "Tristavee?"

Casey shrugged noncommittally. He was getting full and his foot ached. Slouching back against the seat, he folded his arms across his chest, and propped his foot on the opposite bench. Chuck scooted out of the way without even looking up.

"What did she say?"

"Some one else it protecting her," Casey answered. "She's going to disappear where it's safe and leave it to us to find the shooter."

"In other words, back off," Sarah said with a chiding smile.

Casey shrugged again.

"I got the surveillance tapes from the manager," Sarah continued. "Soon we'll have a face for the name."

She wasn't asking him to describe her, even though he'd just seen her. They'd run that loop too many times since yesterday, and she knew it would go nowhere. Casey leaned his head against the window, arms crossed, staring contentedly outside as Walker finished her plate. Sarah ate slowly and Chuck filled two napkins with Call of Duty strategy notes, while rambling amicably. When they left, Casey handed his keys to Chuck and laid peacefully in the back seat of his car. His friends were here and he was safe.

-----

They hit a bump and Casey was jostled awake. Quiet conversation wafted from the front seat – tactical scenarios. Instincts kicking in, Casey's eyes snapped open, seeking danger, and his hand reached for the gun strapped to his ankle. The amateurs always missed that one in a weapon's search, usually stopping when they found his knife.

Neither weapon was there. Tensing, he evaluated the situation critically. He wasn't bound, and he recognized the back seat of his own car. His stomach was full and slowly, the hazy afternoon was coming into focus. Chuck was driving him home, and from the sound of it, discussing video game strategy with Morgan.

With a twisted grin and a glint in his eye, Casey rose stealthily from the bench seat, staying cautiously clear of the rearview. When he was perfectly positioned right next to Chuck, he said, "Boo!"

Chuck yelped like a girl and Casey sat back, laughing. It was just too easy with that kid. Chuck's face flushed and he signed off with Morgan, turning his full, pouting, attention to Casey, via the rearview mirror.

"How long was I out?" Casey asked, wishing the car were wider so he could extend his leg across the back seat.

"Maybe an hour," Chuck answered, still bitter about getting scared. He motioned toward the stop-and- … well, stopped traffic. "As you can see, we haven't gone far."

"Agent Walker?" he checked. She'd taken his gun, he guessed, but he had more in the trunk, if only he could remember how to fold down the seat.

"She's a few cars back." Chuck checked the rearview instinctively and Casey looked out the back window directly until he spotted her car two cars back and one lane over. She was talking on her phone, too, though probably not about video games.

Casey checked the clock in the car, trying to remember when he'd last taken those pills and if it was time for more. Nothing hurt, but the wrap on his foot itched and he wanted to clean and change the bandage. He wasn't sure he had all he needed in the car, but decided it would be fun just to unwrap the foot and gross out Bartowski. He went back and forth about the whole thing – having a battle scar versus having a completely lame reason for losing his toe. He felt a little better knowing that the shooter was a trained assassin who knew he was NSA, wanted to incapacitate him, and was only pretending to be a buffoon. But Casey preferred knowing his enemies before they shot at him, and he was overly critically when they got the jump on him like that. Now, in a very short span, he'd had his toe shot off and he'd been poisoned in his own Buy More! It was time to change surveillance modes.

"… and in the end, they're just following him everywhere," Chuck rambled. He'd been talking pretty constantly, decidedly not watching Casey change the bandage on his foot.

"Casey, are you even listening to me?" Chuck asked, irritably.

"Beautiful Mind," Casey said, using the little bit that he'd heard to deduce what movie plot Chuck was quoting. The kid had a habit of reciting, in great detail, the plots of any and every movie, TV show, or commercial he ever saw. Casey had figured it was a form of torture that nerds afflicted on the rest of the world, but the added intel did help whittle down the NetFlicks list considerably.

"I'm not schizophrenic," Casey said firmly.

"Then why won't you tell anyone what Tristavee looks like?"

Casey glared threateningly, but Chuck was looking at the non-moving traffic. "Maybe it's none of your business."

"Not even a hint," Chuck pestered. "She reminds you of someone you know."

"You know enough government secrets to get you killed on a normal day," Casey countered. "Do you really want to add this one?"

Chuck faltered and stuttered the way he did when he wanted Casey to open up and be sentimental about something. "She means something to you. And not the hard-edged, angry you; the soft, sugar-bear you that you don't like to hold onto. You store it remotely and access it via satellite, and you definitely don't have that whole Verizon network."

It was true. Emily wasn't even a part of him anymore. She couldn't be, else he would go crazy. He was a marine washout and a killer, and whether he admitted it or not, this Intersect mission was as close as he'd come to saving the world in a long while. When this mission ended and he killed Chuck, he would just be nothing again. No one. And Sarah's video tape surveillance would prove what he'd known all along. None of it was real. Casey shuddered and cut the satellite feed from his soft, sugar-bear side.

"First," Casey warned threateningly, "Do not ever mention, hint at, or think of the words sugar bear in context with me. Second, Tristavee is not our concern. We need to know who shot me at the Buy More, if my cover has been compromised, and if you are in danger. There is no Tristavee. There never was."

Chuck nodded, swallowing hard. Then he held up a wallet-sized photo between his fingers. "Casey, who is this?"

-----

Black.

White.

Stars.

Breathe! Casey, breathe!

Worlds collided – the real with the imaginary. Casey snatched the photo from Chuck, his eyes going wide, his heart racing.

"Where did you get this?" Casey demanded, his hands trembling over the face of his younger self holding his baby girl.

Chuck looked at him, so alarmed that he threw the car into park right in the midst of the unmoving traffic. "At the diner. It was on the bench when we left."

It felt like his heart was beating in his throat, threatening to vomit itself onto the very fine leather upholstery. Casey couldn't breathe. He had a thousand thoughts, but couldn't form words. He vaguely heard Chuck calling after him as he jumped out of the car, staggering onto the freeway. The asphalt cut brutally into his bare foot, the wound still exposed. He didn't care. He needed –

"Casey!"

Agent Walker jumped out of her car, weaving through the other vehicles to get to him. He ran towards her, holding the photograph in both hands lest it disappear.

"It's her!" he said breathlessly, stumbling as the pain in his foot reached critical and he thought his head would explode. "It's my Emily!"

-----