Disclaimer: The characters and setting of "Chuck" belong entirely to Josh Schwartz & Chris Fedak and the team at NBC. No infringement is intended.

A/N: This is an M fic, with language and situations inappropriate for younger readers. Please respect that. The title and some of the darkness comes from Maroon 5's song "Harder to Breathe".

Harder to Breathe

You go home and climb into a shower. But no matter how hot the water is, you feel his hands on you. No matter how many times you brush your teeth, you taste him on you.

And when Devon comes home from his shift, you greet him in the dark, begging for him to make you feel everything – anything. And in the morning light, when he sees the marks on your throat and breast, he apologizes, eyes wide and horrified, until you want to scream and confess everything, but you don't. You kiss him sweetly and tell him he's the best and you loved it, every minute of it, and he shouldn't feel guilty about making you feel so good – so awesome – and he finally stops saying anything, although he treats you like china for days afterwards and you can feel his apology in every touch.

And the guilt sits in your stomach and you can't eat and no one notices – no one notices. Chuck is wrapped up in his increasingly strained relationship with Sarah, who is sexy and beautiful and seems sweet and yet you can feel a reluctance in her, and you don't understand it, because on the surface, all the moves in the relationship come from her. There are secrets in her eyes and she seems to be pulling Chuck in with her – your dear little brother who has always been too smart and too easily hurt.

And Morgan who has always hung around, watching you with his dark and desperate eyes, who has been the peripheral add-on to every family occasion nearly as long as you have been a family, is no longer there. Anna has drawn a line in the sand, and seeing as Anna's sandbox includes uninhibited sex in indiscreet and sometimes illegal places, you have finally been replaced in Morgan's fantasies, if not in the secret centre of his heart.

And there is no one to notice your anger and pain and intense grinding desire for something you should not want, something you should not ever have reached out for. Like a child drawn to flame, you have been burned and it hurts. It hurts. But you find yourself reaching out, night after night, fighting the desire to seek it out again

And so, when you find yourself at his door again, you have to turn off your brain, because your yearning is doing all the talking and it has been ten days – ten nights – and now it is Sunday morning and Devon has gone on a road trip with some college buddies to watch grown men throw balls and tackles at each other and you hurt, you burn, with need.

And when he opens the door this time, it is as if he has been waiting for you. There is no tenderness in his eyes, no affection in his hands as he pulls you into the room. There is no hesitation in his manner when he pushes you to the couch, drawing the straps of your tank top off your shoulders, and palms your breast, coaxing the nipple to rise, to tease first his hand, then his tongue.

And you sigh, and then moan when his tongue travels down and the jeans you are wearing are pushed down and he is between your thighs and you can't think, you can't think, and the tension rises under his mouth until you are begging, begging for more and for him to stop because you can't breathe, and never to stop because you can't breathe, and just as it becomes painful, his mouth is on yours again and you are smothered in your own taste, and he has filled you with his heat and hunger and you explode – you actually see lights behind your eyes and you think you may die – it really feels as if there is not enough oxygen left in the world and when he comes – when he comes – his ragged cursing fills your ears and once again, you are the one who bites, breaking the skin on his shoulder and tasting his blood in your mouth as the explosion rolls through you and you jerk under him.

And when he rolls onto the floor, still cursing, you struggle off the couch, pulling your jeans up and zipping them with unsteady hands, covering your breasts and running a hand through your hair, and leave without a backwards look.

And you run back to your apartment, your hands shaking so hard you can hardly open the door. Everything you are wearing goes into the laundry, and you are back under the pulsating heat of the shower, desperately washing the evidence of him off your thighs and stomach. But your hands slow as the soap slicks over your tender skin, and you have to shake off the memory of hands and tongue and lips.

And when you are clean, or at least as clean as possible, and have changed into sweats, because you can't quite stop shivering, and pulled your hair back into a casual pony tail, and are making dinner – a quiet dinner for two – just you and Devon tonight, as Chuck has a date with Sarah – the door flies open, and you hear your dear boy saying, "Babe? Are you home? I invited John for dinner – I want to talk to him about coming to the Rockies for our rafting trip."

And you turn and John Casey is standing in your living room with that look on his face, the one that says, "I know there are secrets here that no one wants to admit to," and you – you are one of those secrets – and you stand in front of him, your body covered in layers of fleece, and you know he can see to your very core, and Devon is kissing you on the cheek, his hand rubbing your ass familiarly and whispering in your ear, "You don't mind, do you, doll? I told him there would be lots of food. He didn't want to come, but he always seems sorta lonely."

And you want to cry because Devon is so sweet. And you want to cry because Casey is looking through you as if you are nothing more than the cook of the evening, the fuck of the day, and you want to cry because life used to be so simple and now it is not and you want to run away and never come back and you want to be writhing under his mouth again, and you think perhaps you are going mad, not crazy – not crazy, which sounds kind of interesting and noisy, at least – but quietly, silently mad.

"Ellie? Ellie? You okay, sweetheart?"

"Fine. Fine, honey. John, would you like a glass of wine or beer?"

"Whatever Devon is having would be fine, thanks. And I'm sorry to crash the party – the doc wouldn't take no for an answer."

And you flinch, and nearly drop the glass, but then you steel yourself and turn and hand him the deep red wine – wine the colour of blood – and say sweetly, "You know you're always welcome, John."

And Devon beams, and Casey grins tightly, eyes dark with something – some emotion you refuse to see – and you go to the kitchen and serve up dinner.

Because no matter what else happens, you look after hurt people. That's what you do. And if sometimes you aren't sure why, your instinct is never at fault: you can feel the hurt in the room and it fills you until you are not sure if it is yours or someone else's.