DISCLAIMER: I don't own Chuck.

Sam tries her best to open front door quietly, she wants to avoid waking the house up. The lights are off. She checks the time. 12:37am. She silently curses. Seven minutes late. She slips off her shoes and places them by the front door. Now she just has to tip toe upstairs. One foot in front of the other…

"YEARHG!" Sam pitches forward onto the ground, having tripped on someone's outstretched leg, that was extending from the couch. How did she not see him? She catches herself on her hands. A tall shadow looms over her.

"Sam?" Her father says drowsily. Chuck hurries to help Sam. Once standing in the upright position, Sam flashes a guilty grin at her father.

"Heeeeey Dad… I'm home. You stayed up, that's… great." She might have half of a beer. Only half!

"Sammy, I've been going out of my mind! Look at the time! Why didn't you call? You shoud've called!" Chuck stars pacing in front of Sam. "Was it the bus driver, did he give you trouble? UGH, I hate irresponsible bus drivers! I bet he was intoxicated! Or stoned, or… or just a bad driver. But anyway-" He turns and starts examining Sam. "Are you okay, you doing okay? I am so relieved that you got home safe, oh I thought I was going to have to go looking-"

"Dad."

"- for you and I wasn't going to find you. Oh my god, it would have been terrible. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't think-"

"Weren't you asleep on the couch?" Chuck pauses in his stream of words.

"Yes, but that doesn't count." Sam shakes her head, bemused. She leans up on the tip of her toes, and places a kiss on his cheek.

"Love ya," she smiles. She turns towards the stairs and starts off. Her heart sinks when she hears her father say in a voice unlike his own.

"Wait Sam." Sam knew she had been found out. She was in deep trouble. She slowly turned towards him, her eyes cast down. She dared quick glance at him. He was standing very still, his brow low, his arms crossed.

"Why… why do I smell alcohol on your breath?" He said with hesitation, not wanting to believe his daughter would betray his trust. His eyes search hers, seeking the truth.

"Uhm…"

"I didn't catch that, Sam." Sam cleared her throat and lifted eyes to his.

"I might have had, maybe um, a beer, half, half a beer…" She heard him exhale loudly; apparently he had been holding his breath. He hung his head and his arm muscles clenched. She winced. Chuck never lost his temper. That was Mom's job. But right now, Sam was afraid of the look of disappointment and anger playing across Chuck's face. His voice was calm when he spoke,

"I said no booze. You. Are. Four. Teen. You are undera-"

"I'm not drunk!, I made it home fine and-"

"I don't care!" His arms uncross, and he's waves them emphatically. "I don't care that you're not drunk! What, do you want me to applaud you! Oh good for you Sam, you didn't come home pissed! I said no drinking!" Chuck said losing his control.

"Chuck?" Her Mom raises her head from the couch. Chuck had woken her up. Sam was startled by her. They both stayed up to wait? They didn't trust me at all!

"What Mom's down here too? What is the matter with you guys?" Sam asked. She was home on time and she was sober, she didn't deserve the death glares her Dad was sending her.

"What's going on, is Sam okay?" Sarah asked, sounding half asleep.

"Oh my god yes! I'm home, I'm fine and I am going to bed!" Sam announces, she turned her back on them and took the stairs, two steps at a time. Chuck shouts after her, but she ignores him.

The car was excruciatingly hot in the California afternoon sun. Chuck readjusts his suit blazer that he was sweating though. Sitting in a hot car in the middle of traffic on a Saturday afternoon was not fun. He was definitely getting a headache. He was on the highway home after a meeting with a potential client. This client needed an advanced cyber security system to protect his company from hackers. It was a big job, but Chuck knew it was doable. No, that's not what was making Chuck anxiously drum his finger on the steering wheel. He had left early to meet this client, with only a quick goodbye and kiss on the cheek for Sarah, so he had not spoken to Sam, as she was asleep. He hated having an unresolved fight with someone, let alone his daughter. Arguments should never simmer.

He looked into the rear-view mirror and rubbed his four o'clock shadow. His short trimmed hair lacked its normal bounce, and his eyes had dark bags. He had not been sleeping well for almost a month. He took a swig of coffee from the travel mug Sarah had sent with him. He splutters, surprised. Irish coffee? Bless her heart. Sighing, he thinks about the conversation he had with Sarah after Sam had stormed off.

"Chuck, what the-" Sarah starts, very confused. She gets off the couch and approaches him.

"She's been drinking!" He says in a defeated tone. He turned to her. "I told her not to? Why wouldn't she listen?" He clasped his hands over his head.

"Chuck," Sarah wrapped her arms around his torso. "Everyone has their first drink sometime..." His eyes snapped to hers.

"You think I'm overreacting?" he groaned

"Well… no, not exactly. I don't know…" Sarah paused, and chose her words carefully. "You're the kind of Dad who's always going to want his kids to be kids."

"No, I just want her to use her head and consume age appropriate beverages!" He still looks troubled as Sarah takes his hand and leads him upstairs. Sarah chuckles.

"Hey, she came home on time, she's seems sober… Let's just remind her in the morning, to use common sense with alcohol and that she's still too young." Chuck was silent. Sarah searched his eyes for his response. He took a breath.

"She was seven minutes late." He amended. Sarah smiled, opened the master bedroom door, and pulled Chuck inside with her.

He returns to drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Traffic starts to move and the car in front of him pulls forward. He presses on the acceleration when a car from the lane to his left swerves in front of him. His heart leaps into his mouth and he slams down on the brake. It wasn't enough. His mini-van gently bumps the pick-up truck's bumper. The truck's brake lights flashed and horn blared. It came to a tire screeching stop a few meters ahead of Chuck. Must be a bus driver!

The driver stepped out. If one word could be used to describe the truck owner, it would be: cliché. He had a black leather jacket and black jeans, underneath he wore a white t-shirt emblazed with a red skull. Chuckle stifles his giggle. A bus driver could dress better. Mr. Cliché had a shaved head, and untrimmed facial hair. A red bandana tied up the whole package.

It was at that moment that his iphone starting playing the classic Batman theme. It was Ellie. Should I take it? Right before this guy has a fit? It would give me an excuse not to talk to him…

Na-na-na-na-na-na-

"This is Charles." He answered all the while watching Mr. Cliché inspect his trucks bumper damage. He didn't look very happy.

"Hey Chuck, it's me. Are you guys on for game night?" Mr. Cliché had started stomping, the only word that could be used to describe his gait, towards Chuck's car.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, El-" Mr. Cliché had arrived at his car. Chuck waved and grinned at him before rolling down his window. "I'm gonna have to go soon El-."

The punch hit before he saw him make a fist.

The breath rushed from his lungs and stars burst in front of eyes, as waves of pain radiate from the side of his face. Chuck slumps over onto the passenger's side, his phone long forgotten. Blood pools in his mouth. He spat a wad onto the car carpet.

"WHAT THE HELL MAN?" Chuck yells. Mr. Violent Cliché ignores him and reaches his hand through the window, unlocks the door and swings it wide open. His meaty hand grabs onto Chuck's leg and drags him out of the car, and onto the ground, as easily as if he was dragging a big pillow. A kick in the stomach came next. It hurt more than the punch. Chuck struggles to breathe as Mr. Violent Cliché hoists him up by the scruff of his shirt collar.

That's when the flash hit. Now that was pain. Real pain. "Someone put an axe into my brain" pain. Despite the overwhelming urge to vomit in Mr. Violent Cliché's face, he plays out the Intersects's defense instructions to a tee, and Mr. Violent Cliché was out cold in a matter of seconds. Chuck collapses to his knees, grasping at his head.

His brain was screaming, his lungs were on fire and his hear was stinging. What's going on? He'd never felt like this after a flash. Granted he'd not flashed in nearly four years, let alone carry out said flashes. He falls to the ground and vomits, wincing as it splatters on the pavement. Oh god I need help. He was in the middle of a major Los Angelo's highway suffering some sort of breakdown. People were stopping in their cars, some just to stare. Phone. He tries to stand; his chest twinges painfully and his left arm has shooting pain. It didn't take having a Cardiac surgeon as a brother in-law for him to know that he was having a heart attack. The world is tilting and the light is waning in and out. He swears as loud as he can with a dwindling supply of air, and stumbles closer to his car. He retches to the side, before trying to climb into his car. He's too weak. Phone. He spots it lying on the floor by the driver's seat. He stretches his arm, almost able to reach. His lungs burn again as he tries to gasp for air, and his head feels like its exploding. His fingers brush the phone and he manages to get a hold of it.

"CHUCK!" Ellie screams out of the device. She hasn't hung up? It feels like it's been years since he dropped the phone.

"Ellie... help." Chuck wheezes out. "… Highway… dying." Chuck feels his legs give out, and he finds himself lying on his back, his legs folded beneath him, his arms sprawling, on a highway. His phone falls from his grasp, and his world goes black.

Author's Note:

Does anyone want to be a Beta reader for me? I'm not promising punctuality.

JR Lai