Author's note: Time to be self-promoting. It's nomination time for the final Awesome Awards. If you wouldn't mind, please go to the forum (http : / forum . fanfiction . net / forum / TWoP _ Kicked _ Us _ Out _ But _ We _ Still _ Love _ Chuck / 49974 / - make sure you remove all the spaces) and nominate my story Chuck vs. the Fake Empire for the appropriate awards, including the John Casey Award for Best Alternate Universe Story and the Bryce Larkin Award for Best Crossover Story. I'm eligible for other awards, but for those, nominate as you will.
As far as this story goes… enjoy!

It's been over a month now since I was captured by Nicholas Quinn and my memory was suppressed. A few memories have returned since then, but before today, it had been nearly two weeks since the last time a clearly identifiable memory came back.

That particular memory was not long after I became Chuck's handler. A physician named Jonas Zarnow had attempted to steal the Intersect on behalf of North Korea, and while so doing, set both me and Maj – dammit, COLONEL Casey up to make it look like we were trying to kill Chuck. While that was all going on, Ellie had invited me over for dinner, and I came with a CIA-prepared soufflé, which Chuck then proceeded to murder.

Anyway, that came back while I was baking the other day, and Chuck was pretty much ecstatic. I'm sure he would've been equally ecstatic about me remembering Irene DeMova if he hadn't been trying to defuse a bomb that was set to blow the Pacific Concert Hall into oblivion.

But back to the topic at hand – today. Like I said, it's been over a month since the whole thing with Quinn went down. Since the end of our last mission, however, I've been trying to get comfortable with Chuck again. I haven't really driven anywhere in that time, but yesterday afternoon, I for some reason very much wanted to take my Porsche for a drive down the Pacific Coast Highway.

So I asked Chuck where it was. I knew it wasn't a good sign when he went pale and gulped, but then when he told me that that Brazilian son of a bitch Augusto Gaez had blown it up (and nearly blown Carina up with it!), I saw red.

Fortunately, Chuck very literally knows me better than I know myself, and was able to calm me down relatively quickly. Then, he promised he would take me to Torrance so I could buy a new Porsche. "We've got a lot of money from selling the Buy More to Subway," he told me. "Plus, the government finally unfroze our accounts, so I think we can spare a hundred grand for a 911."

Well, we were down in the South Bay, test-driving a 911. The dealership had put a CD of what they called "mood music" in for the test drive, and as we were driving up the PCH, a song that sounded very familiar came on.

"Chuck," I said, "do you know what song this is?"

He listened for a moment and frowned. "You know, vaguely," he replied, "but I couldn't tell you what it is. Give me a minute…"

Chuck dug out his iPhone, then activated an app on it. The app listened for a moment, and then Siri (which, by the way, CREEPY) spoke.

"The song you are listening to is called 'Santa Maria', by the Gotan Project," Chuck's phone said.

Chuck turned and looked at me. "Doesn't strike me as your type of music," he said. "But then, nothing really does –"

"La Ciudad!"

Chuck raised his eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?"

I pulled the car over to the side of the road, and then turned and looked at him. "La Ciudad!" I said again. "That skank that you tangoed with at the art auction, the one who tried to kill you!"

"That's right," Chuck breathed, recognition dawning. "That's right, I learned the tango from Devon, and he taught me the women's part!" Then, he got a curious look on his face. "'That skank'?"

I smiled and shrugged. "What can I say, she messed with my man."