A/N: So. Hello, remember me? I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't, seeing as I haven't updated this story in – Christ, over two months! I have had reasons, exams, etc, yadda, yadda, yadda. Though, I'm sure you don't care about them. Point is, now I'm finished and this chapter is finished. It's long. Longest chapter so far I think, which is why I'm extra thankful to Dana for getting this back to me so quickly (considering it took me two months to write, two day beta time is nothing). Anyway, I'm not gonna go another two months without posting. I'm aiming for a chapter a week, at least for the next two weeks. Then I go into exile for a while and updates will depending on whether I have wi-fi or not. So. Read. Review. Enjoy. I give you Chapter 11.

RIP. Passionovermind and Armadilloi

Chapter 11

Friend 'til the Last

Previously...

"Who was the driver, Chuck?" Sarah interrupted.

Chuck blinked several times, hard, before looking at her directly, remorse written across his face.

"Bryce Larkin."

16th October 2007

Somewhere off Highway 395, California

03:20 PST

No.

No.

Bryce was...

For what felt like the longest time, Sarah just sat there, hands splayed limply in her lap, feeling as if Chuck's words had just passed straight through her, not processing at all. Every remaining ache and pain in her battered body was gone. Replaced by nothing, a cold, all-consuming, empty numbness that was all too familiar. She tried to speak, but to no avail; only air came out. As she rapidly blinked through strangely dry eyes, it hit.

Bryce was dead.

But that didn't make sense. Bryce...He couldn't be dead; he had been in D.C., not hours before the bomb went off. Bryce was Chuck's handler, he was deep cover; what the hell would he be doing driving a car rigged to blow up? No, it wasn't true. He couldn't be dead, because that would mean –

"I'm sorry."

The soft words were spoken so gently that it took Sarah a moment to realise Chuck had even said them. She pulled her eyes from the dark, empty space across the room she'd been staring at to look at him, where he was sitting, watching impassively through watery eyes.

"W-what?" she stammered.

Chuck swallowed, struggling to hold her gaze. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I know – I know you and Bryce were close and -"

"Um, no," she interrupted, struggling to find her voice, and when she did it, was quiet and raspy. "We really weren't all that – He was my partner," she said insistently. At least he used to be, that part was true. She didn't know what Bryce was to her now. Had been, she silently corrected, had been.

Chuck didn't seem to buy that answer, and neither did she. His flickering eyes had settled on her, almost timidly, concern emanating from deep within their brown depths. His mouth had formed a silent "O", and from the tension in his arms she could tell he didn't know what to do with himself; whether to comfort her or to give her space.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

Sarah nodded silently. She was sure he was.

After a moment's silence, she found her voice again. "Could you tell me what exactly happened?"

"It should have been me," he blurted, catching her off guard, and Sarah found herself drawing the comforter closer.

Chuck noticed this and stood up, retreating closer to the wall next to her bed. His whole demeanour seemed to fade into the shadows of the room. His body was slumping against his dark clothes and his eyes were struggling to break out from the deep bags beneath.

Sarah felt a tinge of guilt rush through her, temporarily replacing the numbness that Bryce's death had brought on; it was the middle of the night, he needed rest. He clearly hadn't slept properly in days. He shouldn't be having to do this, reciting the story of his friend's death. But she held her tongue. She needed to know what happened to Bryce, and she needed to know now.

And then her eyes were watering.

Dammit, Bryce –

"Five days ago, I found out that The Ring was going to detonate a car bomb somewhere in Glendale. The operation was kept very quiet, and only the top Ring operatives were privy to it, so it was lucky I managed to find out about it at all..."

Pausing, his eyes slowly moved over to Sarah, seeming almost fearful of what they might find. She found herself nodding in reassurance for him to continue.

October 11th 2007 [5 DAYS EARLER]

Daniel Marks' Hotel Room, Los Angeles

23:46 PST

Chuck wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there.

At least for the moment the floor was comfortable, something soft that had been there to ground him as every bit of bottled up emotion had seeped out. The alcohol had made it easier, and once it had started, there really had been no stopping it. Quite frankly, it was surprising it had taken him this long to react to it all, to cry. The last time he had truly felt like this was the morning after his mother had left. That overwhelming sense of hopelessness and abandonment, that no nine-year-old should ever have to feel, had left him broken and vulnerable. But as bad as that period of his life had been, that childhood experience had taught him one thing: to be strong. Ellie had drilled that into him, repeatedly. They needed to be strong for each other. And so he had tried, desperately. Holding it together after Jill's funeral had been hard, but he had managed. Just. But Ellie had been there for him then. Now it was just him.

A while ago there had been banging on the door, people asking if everything was all right. He had just ignored it, and eventually it had gone away. Even now that he was starting to feel vaguely coherent again, there was still only one thing he was absolutely aware of: the car bomb, and his powerlessness to stop it. He was truly pathetic.

Things weren't supposed to be happening this way; this wasn't what Bryce or Graham had told him would go down. Then again, none of this should have been happening to him at all.

He wasn't a fighter.

He never had been.

Since high-school and before, since the days when bullies would jump him in the school yard, fighting had just never been his thing. That was why he had become an analyst after the CIA had recruited him. He knew that there were probably many more lucrative career choices that his Stanford degree would open him up to, and if money was the only thing that appealed to him, he might well have taken them. But this way he was making a difference. A difference, from a very safe distance. And that had suited him just fine, for he was, after all, not a fighter.

So when Graham had asked him to go undercover with The Ring, it had taken every bit of restraint in Chuck's body not to laugh him down. Him, Chuck Bartowski, undercover? Infiltrate The Ring? There was just no way; he wasn't a field agent. Wasn't that a job for a real spy, someone like Bryce Larkin? And so he had politely turned down Graham's request.

More than anything, he wished that had been the end of it, that he could've just gone back to his life at a desk, where his world rarely extended beyond the top of his computer screen, where it was still up to all the Bryce Larkins and Sarah Walkers of the world to save it. But if he had learnt anything of late, it was that things rarely work out the way you want them to and wishes are only for children.

After hearing Chuck's initial rejection, Graham had gone on to show him pictures of the mass-graves in Costa Gravas. The ones that hadn't been reported by the media. Pictures of the orphaned children standing in front of their burning homes, crying out for parents who would never return. Pictures of the refugee camps that the A-listers didn't visit, the ones where the suffering was too great to simply airbrush aside. All of the ongoing pain and suffering that The Ring had caused, the pain that he could help put a stop to. Because he was special.

Then Graham had told him why.

The entire reason he'd been recruited into the CIA in the first.

There had never been any real choice after that.

In retrospect, he should never have agreed to go along with it. But Graham had capitalised on his humanity – a humanity that was now slowly slipping away from him – and he, in all his naïve idealism, had said yes.

After that Chuck's world had changed forever.

But that was still back then, when pictures were still just pictures. This was now. Where everything was real.

Where in less than 24 hours a car bomb would go off, killing however many civilians in the process, all in the name of politics. With intel like this he really should call Graham. Or Bryce. But he knew what they'd say. Maintain the cover.

But there was still the chance...

Surely there was no way Graham would allow civilians to die? As important as his cover and his mission was, the overall point of it was to save lives. Perry had been the exception. The necessity, as they had said.

He needed to get up. Now. He'd wasted enough time feeling sorry for himself.

Palming his hands against the thick carpet, Chuck started to push himself off the floor. His limbs were still slightly clumsy from the alcohol, but he was used to that feeling by now. Once he was on his feet he reached over to the small bed-side cabinet and pulled a phone out of the drawer. It wasn't his Ring phone. Hitting the speed dial, he pressed it to his ear and started to count the rings.

The phone had barely rung twice when a voice answered, sounding irritated. "This phone is for emergencies only, Chuck."

"Bryce," he breathed, relieved to hear his handler's voice, and before he knew it his mouth had got the best of him. "You gotta help me, Bryce. This is getting way way too out of control. I don't think I can do this any more and-"

"Chuck," Bryce interrupted, ever the calm ice to his babbling. "Slow down. Tell me what's wrong."

Chuck took a moment to pause and compose his thoughts. As tempting as it was to let his mouth run wild, if Bryce was going to take him seriously, he needed to calm down. People were depending on him.

"There's a bomb – a car bomb. It's set to go off sometime tomorrow in Glendale."

Bryce was silent for a long while before he asked, "Where did you find this out?"

"Cooper just told me. You have to tell Graham so he can get a team out here to stop it."

"Easy, Chuck," Bryce said in that same stupidly calm voice – didn't he get the situation? "We haven't heard anything about this? Are you sure this is right?"

Abruptly, Chuck found that he was pacing. "Erm, yeah, I'm pretty fucking sure." He paused momentarily, considering that Bryce probably wouldn't appreciate having syllables sounded out for him – to hell with it.

"All operatives has been ordered to go to ground – they're planning for this, Bryce. Do you really think I'd be calling if I wasn't sure? I know the risks about breaking my cover – you personally made sure about that the last time you were-"

Clearly Bryce had had enough. "All right!" he interrupted, sounding much more worn than Chuck was used to. "I believe you."

Chuck nearly tripped over the remains of his laptop, wincing at what his temper had done to the poor instrument. "You do?"

"Yeah, Chuck. I trust you."

"Then – then you need to talk to Graham," he said, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel. He swallowed heavily, pausing mid-pace. "You need to convince him to get a team down here to stop it."

He heard his handler sigh; Bryce knew what Graham would say too. "I'll talk to him, Chuck. But right now, you need to sit tight."

"Sit tight?" he exclaimed, and then before he knew it he was pacing again. "How the hell I am supposed to just sit tight when a car bomb is set to-"

"Chuck! You think I want this bomb to go off?" Bryce snapped. "I told you I'd speak to Graham, and right now that's all we can do. There's nothing you can do about it – we don't even know where the bomb is!"

"No, we don't," Chuck quietly conceded. He was right; there was little they could actually do at this moment.

"Then sit tight, and I'll get back to you." After a moment's pause, Chuck thought his handler had hung up when a different voice, one more youthful, said, "Don't worry, buddy, we're not gonna let this bomb go off."

And then, in typical Bryce Larkin fashion, he was gone. Just like old times. Hardly.

With a sigh, Chuck dropped the burn phone back on the bed. Bryce had better get back to him fast.

Even so, he felt that the call had largely been pointless. Graham's answer wouldn't be hard to predict: The Ring was a severe threat to the United States and the CIA was severely compromised by it. It needed to be stopped, by all measures necessary.

It hadn't taken Chuck long into his cover to begin to understand how the CIA worked. To Graham – and probably the rest of the United States government for that matter – everything and everyone were just all pawns in a giant game of chess. A game that demanded sacrifices, where phrases like "acceptable risk" and "collateral damage" were viewed from a purely statistic standpoint. The data he'd managed to upload yesterday was barely the tip of the iceberg in terms of what Graham was after; his answer wouldn't be hard be predict.

At least Bryce had seemed sympathetic. That ought to count for something. What's more, he was also right: they didn't know where the bomb was exactly. But he couldn't take the chance on waiting for Bryce to come through for him – not with this.

Chuck glanced over the remains of his laptop in the corner.

To hell with sitting tight.

Maybe he was a fighter.

# # #

Back at the data storage facility, Chuck had had the foresight to install a backdoor into the Ring's internal servers, purely as a precaution. Of course, when accessed, the connection wouldn't be completely secure, but no-one would notice for at least twelve hours – more than enough time to get in and get what he needed before anyone noticed, he'd thought. It was highly unlikely they'd be able to trace it back to him anyway. Well, he hoped.

By some miracle of modern technology, his laptop still worked and the backdoor connection was still in place. He quickly set up a keyword search using an algorithm that he – okay, he and Bryce had designed back in college to look for anything that could help him pinpoint a more exact location for the bomb. It didn't take the programme long before it got a hit: a county records map of a district in Glendale, viewed by someone senior within the Ring only a few days prior. That had led to the computer nerd, which up until now had lay dormant and repressed within him, breaking through to the surface with a small grin.

Check.

Okay, so it wasn't much – the map covered an area of several square miles. But it was a start.

Aces, Charles, the age old voice said in his head.

Stretching, Chuck pulled himself off the chair that he'd been camped on since the search had started. As tempting as it was to stare the search into completion, he wasn't making it go any faster, no matter how good with computers he was. Rubbing his eyes – he really didn't care what time it was, he had no intention of sleeping anyway – he wandered over to bathroom, hitting the light by the mirror, before hanging his head beneath the tap.

Ice cold water started to rain down on his head, slowly percolating through his re-emerging curls before breaking out onto his face. It was refreshing. He stayed there for a couple of minutes, letting the water relax him, draining him of the days events. This calm, new confidence he'd been feeling for the past hour or so since he set up the search was strange. Strangely exhilarating. His over-bearing guilt for his recent failures as a human being was still there, but now he felt different. Maybe this was thrill of the moment that Bryce had told him about. Maybe it was the feeling that now he might actually make a difference.

Finally, he pulled his head up and shut off the water. The face that stared back at him in the mirror was his own, and so unfamiliar.

Wow, he really did look like crap.

Chuck snorted to himself, finding it strange that he chose to notice this now. He had long since given up caring about his appearance.

A beep from the other room pulled him back to reality. Giving his hair a quick once over with a towel, he rushed back into the other room. The search had finished, surprisingly quickly. Which couldn't be good, it could only mean that..

Dammit, he cursed silently.

No further results.

He stared at the screen, unblinking, just to make sure. When no change came, he sighed; this might be harder that he originally thought. Regardless, there was no way in hell he was going to give up. Maybe if he changed the search parameters of the algorithm...

Wait.

Cooper had said something about making a political statement, and to do that casualties were required. Casualties meant somewhere crowded, somewhere where there would be people. A mall, maybe? No, if a car was the delivery mechanism, it would have to be stationary, in a parking lot, say. There wouldn't be enough people in a mall parking lot at the same time to guarantee enough casualties – Chuck quickly shrugged off an involuntary shudder before his emotions could get in the way of his thought process.

To guarantee casualties, they would probably have to drive the car into the mall, and as fanatical as they were, Chuck really doubted the Ring were into suicide bombers. At least not when their own operatives were involved. No, it couldn't be a mall. They would need a place where lots of people would be on the street all at the same time. If the time of the bomb was pre-set, they would also need to know when people would be on the street. Where would people all be out on the street at the same time?

Then it hit him. They wouldn't...

"Shit," he muttered.

Frantically, Chuck pulled the map of the Glendale district back up and started scanning over it. It didn't take him long before he found what he was looking for. The district in question contained two high-schools and an elementary school. Crap.

It was then that the burn phone started to ring from the bed.

Chuck grabbed it and pressed it to his ear. "Yeah," he answered.

"Hey, Chuck." It was Bryce.

"Well, what did he say?" Chuck asked, getting straight to the point.

"Easy there, buddy. We'll get to that."

"Cut the crap, Bryce. What did he did say?"

Bryce sighed. "He said no. He said that your mission was to -"

Chuck almost laughed in disbelief. "That figures."

"Listen, Chuck, I know what he said and -"

"Well, Bryce, thanks for trying," Chuck interrupted, not bothering to hide his obnoxious tone. "You know, for a minute, I really thought you'd help me with this. I guess I was stupid; you'll always put the mission first."

Bryce didn't have a chance to reply before Chuck hung up.

When he called back, Chuck ignored it.

He was on his own now.

# # #

Bryce called several more times that night, which Chuck continually ignored. He didn't need Bryce and Graham telling him what he could and couldn't do; he had his own problems to deal with.

His idea about a school being a target meant sense – if only in theory. Despite several modifications to the search programme, the map was the only clue he'd managed to find. He'd also accessed the L.A. traffic grid and checked the surveillance around all of the schools for any signs of – well, anything. He wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but he hadn't noticed any particularly suspicious looking vehicles hanging around, and he had yet to flash on anything he saw. Not that he was expecting to; he hadn't flashed on anything for the last three days, since Perry.

That could only mean two things: the bomb had yet to be delivered, or he was wrong about the target. He'd also started checking the surveillance outside other public places too that were within the same area, for anything that might be suspicious. But the longer he trawled through surveillance footage, the more daunting the task seemed; it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, without knowing what the needle looked like or whether it was even there in the first place.

Unfortunately, the Ring servers which he had access to didn't contain any specific personnel information; for the purposes of secrecy, names, identities, and vehicles had all been redacted. Ring operatives didn't know information like that for people outside of their own cell – that was probably how they'd been able to elude the CIA for so many years. Even the elders of Fulcrum hadn't known that the Ring had been puppeteering their operation all along. For Chuck, this was incredibly frustrating: it meant he couldn't just scan through the traffic cams looking for a specific Ring vehicle. Then again, that would be assuming that they even were using one of their own vehicles.

His mind had been toying with an idea for the past hour or so, and the longer his empty searches went on the more tempting that idea seemed, despite the risk. The Ring might not keep personnel information stored on their servers, but the CIA did, however little it might actually amount to. The trouble was, logging onto the CIA mainframe and searching for suspected Ring-affiliated vehicles would set off some alarms, with both the CIA and the Ring operatives that had infiltrated it. But he was running out of options; it was already the 12th and theoretically the bomb could go off at any time.

Chuck swallowed heavily. It was now or never.

Since he'd been "burned," his login had been deleted. Fortunately, as brilliant as a spy as Bryce Larkin was, his passwords were easy to predict. Since college, he'd always used the names of his girlfriends as his password, and one "sarahwalker" later, he was in. As the system loaded up, Chuck felt himself redden; it felt wrong to just label Sarah Walker as Bryce's girlfriend – well, she was, or at least she used to be, but she was also so much more. She was Sarah Walker...

Chuck quickly chastised himself for allowing himself to get distracted. He needed to focus. Starting to scan through files, he quickly managed to find a list of suspected Ring-affiliated vehicles, and narrowed it down to exclude those outside the West Coast. He was left with eighty-seven results. He fed those results into a programme to start a live search through the L.A. traffic grid, concentrating on the area of Glendale he'd found the map of.

It was his best – and probably only – shot to find the bomb.

Chuck allowed himself to sit back in his chair, exhausted, as what was likely to be his final search started. The computer screen told him it was past five, and glancing outside of his east facing window, he could see that pre-dawn was just starting to break on the horizon. L.A. had yet to start waking up. He used to love this time of day, the calmness of it all. Everything just seemed so perfectly tranquil. It was one of the many things he missed about his old life. Whatever happened with the bomb, it was likely that his cover was probably blown anyway now. That thought actually made him smile a little; everything would soon be over.

As he watched the the progress bar on the screen, Chuck felt his eyes start to droop. Maybe he could just close them for a minute. It was okay, he wasn't really in the mood for sleeping anyway...

# # #

Chuck was awoken by the sounded of banging.

Who the hell would be banging?

No, it wasn't banging. Someone was knocking.

And why did his back hurt?

The he remembered and suddenly everything came back.

Shit, he had fallen asleep.

Chuck jumped up off his chair so abruptly that he nearly knocked the laptop off the desk in front of him. Cursing, he glanced down at the screen to see that it was flashing. Could that mean that his programme had found something? Just as he was about to see what it was, the door to the hotel room clicked open and a small, female voice said, "room service."

He spun around and ran over to the door, his foot just managing to block it before the chamber maid could enter. The woman quickly jumped away from the door, taken a back by his sudden appearance. "Sorry," he said, quickly. "I must have forgotten to put the sign up. Can you come back later?"

He heard mutterings in Spanish as the chamber maid walked off. Letting out a sigh of relief as he closed the door, Chuck returned to the computer, acutely aware that the sun was already high in the sky. It must be at least one. Had he really slept for eight hours? He couldn't remember the last time that had happened... What if the bomb had already gone off?

Chuck opened the flashing file on his screen; it was a three minute video clip from a traffic cam. The time stamp showed it had been taken about an hour ago, and Chuck eerily started to watch it. Fortunately, there were no charred remains, no blackened buildings, no people screaming. That could only mean that the bomb hadn't gone off – assuming the pictures he was looking at were even relevant.

Chuck wiped a bead of newly formed sweat off his forehead, and examined the feed more closely. It was of a near empty street, and Chuck was sure that he'd looked at that same street before, only he couldn't place it... Then a single vehicle passed by. He couldn't see inside through the SUV's tinted windows, but the license was consistent with a partial from the CIA database from one of the suspected Ring vehicles. A nervous tinge started spreading through his gut; had he really found it? The location was in Glendale and it was – Oh, crap.

Chuck never been more sorry to be right in his life before.

It was from the street next to the elementary school.

# # #

October 12th, 2007

North east Glendale

14:47 PST

Dammit, Chuck cursed, as the clock on the dashboard moved forward by another minute.

He swerved past an oncoming truck and onto a side street, quite sure he'd never driven more manically in his life. Three pm was fast approaching, and he was certain he wasn't going to make it in time. He wasn't sure the bomb was going to go off then , but he'd slept through the rest of the day, and three pm made sense; children, parents and teachers would all be outside, all at once.

He was certain that this was it. Before sprinting out of his hotel room, he'd continued watching the clip. A couple of minutes after the SUV had gone past, a man had passed by going the other way, covering his face. It could have been nothing, or it could have been the bomber, exiting the scene. That had to be it; the location, the timing, the vehicle, it all made sense. It had to.

Now more than ever, he hated the fact that this was L.A.. Despite all speeding and short-cuts, it had taken him almost an hour and a half to get here – and he wasn't even there yet! Chuck had thought about calling ahead, but had ultimately decided against. An anonymous bomb scare to the school would only cause panic and drive everyone out into the street, which was the last thing he wanted. That would also alert the authorities, and it wouldn't be long before it found its way back to the Ring. No, he needed to get there and disable the bomb himself. Either that, or get it as far away from civilisation as possible.

C'mon.

After cutting a final corner and passing several more houses...he was there. He had made it. The image of the street on the surveillance feed that had been burnt into memory suddenly came into view. The school was still there, just ahead, and so was the SUV. It was quietly parked about twenty feet from the school gate, ominously waiting. Chuck pulled over his own car and stepped out.

This was it.

He sprinted over to the SUV, without actually having a clue as to how he was going to disable this bomb. At least he'd found it; that was the important thing. Pressing his face up against the windows, he could just make out the insides of the car. Everything seemed normal – it wasn't as if there was going to be several sticks of TNT lying on the driver's seat...

A light on the dashboard told him that the doors were unlocked. Chuck started to let his hand drop down to the door handle. He paused. What if opening the door triggered the bomb? Chuck considered it for a moment, before finally deciding he would have to chance it. The bomb was probably rigged on a timer; it wasn't a boobie trap. There was only one way to know for sure...

Nothing.

The door opened peacefully, and Chuck released a long breath that he wasn't aware he'd been holding. At least that was something.

Chuck pulled himself into the driver's seat and started to examine the layout. Even from inside, everything still seemed normal. The fuel gage and speedometer seemed fine. There was no ticking timer on the dashboard clock, only the correct time, which was far too close to three pm for his liking. He had seven minutes. He needed to hurry. The radio was...

The radio!

The radio was not quite attached properly, sticking out slightly at a disjointed angle from its holder. Chuck frowned and hit the play button. Silence. He tried it again. Still nothing. After a moment's pause, he delicately started to pull the entire radio forward out of its holder on the dashboard. There were no wires connecting it; they had been removed. The radio was fake.

Small beads of perspiration were starting to form on his forehead, and he gently set the faux radio down on the seat. Leaning over, Chuck peered into the now empty hole in the dashboard. About four inches back was a small digital timer, only this one didn't show the time, this one was counting down.

At least Chuck had been wrong about one thing, he had more than seven minutes. The timer read just under twelve. Somehow that just seemed to make things worse.

Dammit.

He couldn't quite believe it; he was right.

Chuck leaned in closer, trying to examine more of the timer. It was surrounded by a small metal case and coloured wires – red, blue, green, white, black, too many to count – that were twisting and winding in every direction. Some of them seemed to lead off into the engine, while others fed back into the main timing device .

He took a breath, willing the engineer in him to see some flaw in the design or least some way to start disarming the thing. There were no obvious screws or points to start. If there ever was a time for the Intersect to work, he wished it would be now...

Then, as if on cue, Bryce Larkin opened the passenger door and sat down.

"Hey, Chuck."

Chuck nearly smashed his head on the roof in shock. "Bryce," he breathed. "What are – what are you doing here?"

Bryce cocked an eyebrow at him. "I told you, I wasn't going to let this bomb go off."

"But Graham wasn't -"

Bryce quickly shook his head, cutting him off. "That's not important right now, Chuck."

"What do you mean not important?" Chuck asked, unable to get over his handler's dismissal. "You mean Graham gave the okay for us to stop the bomb?"

"No, he didn't. He said what we both expected him to, remember? Greater good."

Chuck tried and failed to throw his arms up in the air in the restricted space. "Then what the hell are you doing here? Are you here to stop me?"

"Dammit, Chuck," Bryce growled back. "Will you for one minute stop being so dense and just listen to me?"

"Fine, but you better be fast, we've only got about – oh, nine minutes."

Bryce's eyes flickered over to the hidden timer in the dashboard and he grimaced, clenching his jaw. "Graham's dead, Chuck."

"What?" Chuck asked, momentarily forgetting the situation. "How? When?"

"I don't know," he replied shaking his head, suddenly looking much more tired. "It happened sometime last night after I left his office. It's looks like someone's also trying to pin the blame on me. I only just managed to get out of D.C.."

"What does this mean?" Chuck asked.

"It means," Bryce began, gesturing to the hole in the dashboard. "That whatever happens, he's still dead and we have eight minutes to disarm this bomb. So get to work."

"I don't think I can, Bryce," Chuck said. "The design...I've looked it over, and I don't think I can get in. I think I'm gonna have to drive it out of here."

Bryce frowned. "What do you mean, you've "looked it over"? Have you flashed?"

"No," Chuck said, wishing he could've at least managed to do that. "I tried and...I can't, not any more."

Rolling his eyes, Bryce slammed his fist down on his knee. "Bomb schematics are in the Intersect, Chuck! You need to flash."

"I know that!" Chuck said. Didn't Bryce get it? He couldn't flash any more. He'd barely been able to do it successfully in the first place.

Bryce's expression softened, and he suddenly looked much more sympathetic. "I know what you must think of yourself right now – what you've been forced to do. What I do forced you to do. But you're a good person, Chuck. You are a good person, okay. You need to remember that. But we're here now, and you need to focus. The Intersect is affected by emotions, so take a deep breath, calm down, and try again."

Chuck sat back in his seat. He wasn't sure whether Bryce truly believed what he was saying, but he was right about one thing at least. The Intersect was affected by emotions. He need to calm down. He could do this.

"Okay, I can do this," Chuck said, more to himself than Bryce.

He took a deep breath and concentrated on the timer. He stared at the wires, the casing, the timing device itself, taking it all in, willing himself to relax. Only nothing happened.

"Bryce...I'm not flashing."

His handler sighed. "Just concentrate, okay? Relax."

"No, you don't get it. I am relaxing. I don't think this particular schematic is in the Intersect."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Bryce, I'm pretty sure." Chuck looked up from the timer. "What do we do? If it's not in the Intersect then we can't stop it!"

Bryce had visibly paled, and when he spoke his voice was calm. "We aren't going do anything. You need to get out of car, Chuck."

"What?" Chuck asked, puzzled.

"Chuck, if it's not in the Intersect, then we don't have time to disable it. The bomb squad would never be able to get here on time and even if they did, the Ring would find out. That leaves us with one option: driving it out."

Chuck nodded, trying to look confident. "Okay, that's what I thought. Let's drive it out of here then."

Bryce shook his head. "Sorry, Chuck. Not you, me. I'll drive it out of here – alone. You've got a mission to complete, remember?"

"What?" Chuck exclaimed, not quite believing what his handler was saying. "You expect me to just – my cover's blown anyway."

Bryce shook his head again, forcing a grin. "Cover's not blown, Chuck. How do you think I found you anyway? You did use my name to get into the CIA mainframe, they'll assume I somehow found out about the bomb plot. No-one will suspect I was working with you, given our history. You hate me, remember?"

This was ridiculous. Chuck looked down at the timer. Five minutes. "I can't let you do this, Bryce. I'm not just gonna -"

Bryce cut him off again, turning suddenly serious. "Dammit, Chuck, just get out of the car. I'll get the car away from here and bail out once I get far enough away."

"No," Chuck said, defiantly taking a firm grip of the steering wheel. "We do this together."

"Fine," Bryce said, sounding defeated. "If that's the way you wanna play it."

Before Chuck could even process his words, Bryce's right fist had smashed into his cheek, sending him crashing back against the door. Chuck's vision went blurry as he tried to pull himself back up. But Bryce had already leant over and opened the door. "Sorry, Chuck," he muttered, before giving him a final shove out onto the curb.

Chuck rolled over several times before coming to a skittery stop on the tarmac. The last thing he was aware of was the sound of the car door slamming and the SUV speeding away. Then he fell into unconscious.

# # #

When Chuck came to, his face was throbbing. Prying his eyes open, he pushed himself up off the road, rubbing his cheek. The SUV and Bryce were gone. He glanced down at his watch; only two minutes had passed – which meant there were three left until the bomb went off.

Dammit, it should be him driving that car, not Bryce. It was his responsibility. He couldn't let Bryce do this.

Chuck began fishing through his pockets for his phone, only to find his wallet was gone. He must have lost it in the car in the commotion. Still, he had bigger problems at the moment. Finding his phone, he pulled it out and hit the button for the only number it dialled.

"C'mon, Bryce," Chuck muttered to himself. "Pick up, dammit."

After nearly a minute Bryce answered.

"Hey, Chuck," he said, casually. "Sorry about that punch. But you can be pretty stubborn sometimes."

"Quit joking around, Bryce," Chuck gritted through his teeth, restraining the urge to yell. How the hell could he joke around now? "Tell me you've bailed out."

"Sorry, Chuck," Bryce said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "Still too many houses around. Need to get it further way."

"You need to get out!" Chuck said. "You've only got – shit, less than two minutes!"

"Yeah, I know," his friend answered, seriousness subtly creeping back into his voice.

"Then bail out!" Chuck pleaded.

"Not yet," Bryce answered calmly. "Not yet."

"C'mon, Bryce!"

Dammit, sixty seconds.

"I really am sorry for all of this. I didn't want this life for you."

"No!" Chuck said, shaking his head. "No, Bryce, don't say that. Don't apologise. Just bail out, okay?"

Bryce was silent, and Chuck could hear the roar of the engine. "Bryce! C'mon, talk to me, here."

Forty seconds.

"Chuck? You still there?" Bryce asked abruptly.

"Yeah, I-I'm still here," Chuck replied, fully aware of that his voice was starting to crack.

C'mon, Bryce. Bail already!

"I need you to promise me something."

"Yeah, sure," Chuck said, struggling to focus. "Anything – just bail out of that car!"

Thirty seconds.

"Promise me you'll take of her."

Sarah.

No, he couldn't do this. Bryce couldn't die.

"No, no, c'mon, buddy. She needs you!" Chuck said, trying to reason. "You're gonna go on missions and you're gonna save the world!"

Bryce gave a small laugh before turning serious. "Please, Chuck. Just promise me."

Twenty seconds.

"Of course I promise you – now just bail out of the car!"

Fifteen seconds.

"Sorry, Chuck," Bryce said again. "Not yet – I'm still not clear."

"Bryce, please!" Chuck was begging now. Nothing seemed to matter now beyond clutching the phone to his ear and listening to the sound of his friend's voice.

Ten seconds.

"Look after yourself, buddy."

"No, Bryce! Dammit, don't do this. Get out!"

Five seconds.

"You know," Bryce said absently. "She really is a great girl. Take care of her for -"

And then there was nothing.

The connection was dead.

"Bryce? Bryce! Bryce, answer me!"

Chuck could only breath as he desperately listened, not wanting to believe. He couldn't. His heart was pounding against his chest, a drum roll on his ears.

He was only vaguely aware of dropping the phone. His legs felt weak from under him, and he suddenly felt very sick. Nothing seemed to matter now.

Bryce was gone.

And it was his fault.

# # #

16th October 2007 [Present Day]

Somewhere off Highway 395, California

03:47 PST

A stoic silence had filled the room since Chuck had finished his story.

He'd ended by telling her how the Ring – Chuck had choked on actually saying the name Cooper in front of her – had correctly assumed that the body was the car was Bryce's, based on the search through the CIA database. Apparently Chuck's hack into their servers had gone unnoticed; his cover had remained intact, until he'd broken it again, for her, and she was alive because of it.

Sarah was sitting with her back pressed against the headboard, knees drawn to her chest. The comforter was pulled all the way up to her neck, wrapped protectively around. She normally didn't feel comfortable having it this tight, preferring the freedom that came with having it around her waist, but it had somehow drawn its way up. Despite it, though, and all of her other layers, she still felt cold. Or numb. She couldn't tell any more.

Chuck had steadily moved away from her as he had started to talk about Bryce, eventually settling on the couch opposite, away from all the light the bed-side lamp was giving out. He hadn't been able to keep eye contact with her, and now that he had finished, he wasn't even looking at her. He had only hinted at so many things in his story, each sounding progressively worse as he went on: the execution of the doctor in Mexico, the torture, his Red Test.

Her own Red Test had been only two years ago and it had easily been the worst day of her life. No name. Just a street and a place to be. But she had accepted that as her life. She was a field agent. Chuck wasn't – whatever this Intersect was, it didn't strip him of his conscience.

Sarah literally had no idea what to say to him. She'd never been good with words, and with the new found weight of Bryce's death pressing down on her, giving Chuck any kind of reassurance was almost beyond her. He clearly thought Bryce's death was his fault – that he should have been the one driving that car, and that she should blame him in some way for it. The thing that terrified her the most was that almost sounded like he wanted to be driving that car, knowing that there was no way out.

And that was stupid.

That was beyond stupid, how he could think that.

She needed to tell him.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't and Bryce was still dead.

Chuck cleared his throat from across the room. "Are you okay?" he asked. He was looking up at her, though still avoiding eye contact.

That question caught her off guard.

Dammit, there he was, doing it again. Putting her first. He'd been so gentle with her, in telling her about Bryce. Right now, she felt like she should be the one comforting him.

Sarah felt her eyes start to well. "Yeah, I think I will be," she answered truthfully, hoping Chuck wouldn't notice her eyes from across the room. "I, um, I just need a minute. Clear my head. Lot of stuff to process. Think I'm gonna step outside. Get some air."

Chuck nodded solemnly, and she drew back the covers. Walking didn't hurt nearly as much as it did a few hours ago – a lot had changed. She could still see Chuck eyeing her cautiously as she moved towards the door, ever ready to catch her were she to fall.

Sarah stepped outside into the near darkness, which only a few poorly placed security lights were breaking. Once she was clear, she made sure to dry her eyes with her sleeve before any true tears could form; Sarah Walker didn't cry.

It was still a couple of hours before sunrise and most normal people in the motel were sleeping. She took a few steps away from the main building, across the sandy parking lot, out into the open mountain air. Everything seemed so peaceful. The birds still had the sky to themselves, their song not polluted by the drowning noise of any highway. She'd never really noticed things like that before. Being locked up and tortured in the same room for three days probably did that to a person; make them appreciate the small things.

A day ago, she thought that she was going to die in that room, and she had been preparing herself for it. Starting to accept the concept of non-existence; that the hollow, empty walls and Cooper's sneering face might be the thing she'd ever she. She would've given so much for just one last minute of freedom. But now that she was here, and she clearly wasn't going to die, everything just seemed so numb.

Bryce was gone.

She hated the way things had ended between them, with him leaving that stupid note – which looking back, made a lot more sense. Their relationship was never going to work, it had taken her months, but she could see that now. As much as she might try and think otherwise, she had never held any deep feelings for Bryce. She hadn't loved him – not that she pretended to know what a concept so complicated as love was. What she had with Bryce, it was a marriage of convenience; they had been what the other had needed. A warm body to hold on to and a way to ease the stress after missions.

Even so, she had been his partner. She couldn't understand why he would just leave like that. Go charging off to try and save the world, and shroud it all in obscurity. Of course, she knew it was just part of the job. But a part of her wished he would have told her about it. She knew it was selfish to think that, to be angry at him. She needed to grieve for him, and she would when it finally started to feel real.

Sarah heard the motel door close quietly behind her, and she didn't have to turn around to know that it was Chuck moving towards her. She breathed a silent sigh of relief; while she still didn't know what to say to him, she was glad he had come out. It meant she wasn't alone any more. It was only now that she realised how much being alone still scared her.

Chuck came to a stop next to her, and stood there silently, looking out at the dusty parking lot. Maybe it was just the darkness playing tricks, but his expression seemed a lot more composed than only a few minutes prior, not betraying any emotion.

After a while he turned to her, his expression contorting into a frown. "You're shivering," he said quietly.

Was she? She hadn't noticed.

"Here," Chuck said, removing his jacket and carefully draping it over her shoulders. He was left only in his stained white t-shirt.

"Won't you be cold?" she asked, tightening the oversized jacket around herself. It felt nice to wear it again.

Chuck cocked his head to the side slightly and gave her what was probably the first genuine smile she'd seen him give. "It's the desert," he said, as if that explained everything.

"Yeah," she said, gesturing around her. "In the middle of the night."

Chuck smiled again before shrugging. "It's still the desert."

Sarah reluctantly found herself smiling back at him. "You can be pretty stubborn, you know."

"So I'm told."

Chuck held her gaze for a few more seconds, before slowly turning away, the smile gradually dissipating from his face. Now that he'd removed his jacket, the red marks were once again visible on his neck, reminders of just how much he had gone through to get her out. Silence filled the air, and Sarah took another moment to take it all in. None of this seemed real.

"When we were in our junior year of college, Bryce framed me for cheating," Chuck said, his voice far away. "Said I'd stolen the answers to some test and that he'd found them in my room. Stanford didn't look to kindly on this, and it looked like they were gonna expel me. Then the night before I'm due to find out whether I was gonna be expelled or not, Bryce finds me in a bar. He said that he needed to talk to me. I was pretty drunk by this point, and after several embarrassing attempts to break his nose, I decided to listen to what he had to say. He told that he'd withdrawn the allegations, that he'd been forced to do so by his CIA superiors."

Chuck shook his head in disbelief and let out an empty laugh. "He said they wanted to recruit me, and that he was trying to save me from it by framing me and getting me expelled. But they'd found out and forced his hand. I didn't believe him until the charges were dropped the next day and someone from the CIA approached me."

Chuck paused and took a breath. His face dropped to the ground and he kicked pitifully at the sand before he looked up to her. "I hated him, Sarah. For longest time, I just thought that he was jealous. That he was trying to hold me back. We managed to get along at the CIA, to be civil and stuff. But I don't think I ever forgave him. Of course that was why Bryce getting me kicked out of the CIA was such a plausible cover."

As much as she wanted to, Sarah didn't ask any questions. She needed to just let him speak.

"It's taken me five years to realise, but he was right, you know, to try and get me expelled. He was trying to protect me, I can see that now. He was always my friend, and I just gave him crap for it."

Chuck pursed his lips together in resigned acknowledgement. "I just wished I'd told him and – hey, are you okay?"

"What?" Sarah asked, jumping at the sudden change in topic.

Chuck's eyes widened and he stared at her. "You're crying," he said softly.

"Oh," she said, in more shock than embarrassment. She was crying?

"Here," Chuck said, and he gently brushed a single tear from her cheek. His skin was cold against her and she shivered slightly at the touch, but something about it just made her feel safe, reassured that despite all that had happened, everything was going to be okay. After a second, Chuck seemed to realise what he had done and quickly pulled back.

"Thank you," she said quietly, trying to blink any remaining moisture out of her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Chuck said again, the words just seeming to slip out of his mouth, and Sarah knew he wasn't apologising for touching her. He thought she was crying because of him. "I'm so sorry."

"Chuck," she said as firmly as she could – this had gone on long enough, it needed to stop. "Do me a favour and stop apologising, okay?"

His mouth fell open, but there were no words. He just looked confused.

"What happened with Bryce, it wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself."

Chuck's expression looked pained, but he eventually nodded in seeming acceptance. Very slowly, she placed a hand on his arm, giving a small, reassuring squeeze.

"And what happened to me, that wasn't your fault either, okay?"

Chuck nodded again.

"And in the morning, we're gonna come up with a plan of what to do. But now, you need to get some rest."

This, however, he wasn't fine with accepting. He started rapidly shaking his head from side to side. "No, no. I need to keep watch – I made a promise to Bryce to keep you safe and I already failed him once and -"

"Chuck," she said firmly, cutting him off. "Shut up. You need to rest. If you won't get some sleep willingly, I'll go and get the tranq pistol from the car."

He considered this for a moment. "Fine," he conceded. "I guess an hour or two on the couch wouldn't hurt."

"Uh-uh," Sarah said, already starting to drag him back to the motel room. "You're gonna sleep for at least six hours, and you're gonna sleep on the bed."

But this point it seemed, Chuck had learnt not to argue.

When they got back into the room, Chuck kicked off his boots. Sarah then realised that she'd be traipsing around in only her socks. A wave of tiredness had recently come over her, and she found herself not caring. Less than an hour ago she'd been wide awake. Now all that seemed to matter was getting more rest and making sure Chuck got some too.

Discarding Chuck's jacket, Sarah climbed onto her side of the bed and pulled the covers around herself. Chuck stood hesitantly at the end of the bed, before he saw the glare she was giving him, and he got into the other side. He drew the covers only to his midriff, letting his arms lie free on top of them.

"Good night, Sarah," he said quietly.

"Night, Chuck," she returned, before turning out the lamp.

There was still some distance between them, and through the darkness she could see Chuck trying to relax against the obvious awkwardness he felt at sharing a bed with her. Maybe she should have offered to take the couch herself? She hadn't exactly given Chuck much choice. Then again, while he currently seemed to be in a phase of listening to her, he probably would have downright refused to take the bed if she took the couch. She waited until his irregular breathing started to still, when she was sure that he was asleep, before she closed her own eyes. She had forced Chuck to take some rest; that was a start.

There was just something about him that couldn't quite place, and it irked her. Something about him was just...different. The last twenty-four hours had only cemented that view. He was clearly someone who wore the weight of the world on his shoulders, holding himself to impossibly high standards. Carmichael or Bartowski, Chuck really was an enigma to her. A enigma she needed to protect, she'd decided. Both the CIA and the Ring would now be hunting for him, and every step of the way, she'd be there, holding them off. It wasn't just the fact that he'd saved her life. The thought of what the CIA or the Ring would do to him horrified her; he'd already been through so much already. They were going to need to stay ahead.

How she'd do that, she didn't have a clue. Everything now was just too overwhelming; Chuck, Bryce, the Ring, Graham, it could wait. The news of Bryce's death was just too fresh, and she never had been good at processing. She didn't want to think about it. Not right now. She wasn't ready.

When tomorrow came, then she'd allow herself to think about it.

One mission at a time.

# # #

A/N: I haven't written enough of the next chapter yet to give you a snippet, but I wanted to give a bit of a forewarning: there will be Casey. The Ring director will also be returning.

Side-note: Some of the time stamps I have given in the chapter are inconsistent with those in Chapters 4&5 – particularly with regard to Graham's death. This is an error purely on my part, and I apologise. I'll be going over and changing them soon. I blame it purely on the fact that the US has four different time zones.