A/N the First: May the fourth be with you! No, seriously, I wanted to post this chapter today just so that I could tell you that. Notes at the end.

Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love. — Neil Gaiman

The Jack of Hearts

12 JULY 2008
PIÈ DE MÁ WINE BAR
20:18 ITA

The card practically burned a hole in his pocket as Chuck stood with his hand resting on the gate that would lead down to the bar. The tracker in his phone had notified him that Sarah was in the bar somewhere; he'd had to trace his way through Riomaggiore to find it. The most popular feature of the Cinque Terre region was a set of hiking paths connecting the five little villages. Piè De Má Wine Bar obviously capitalized on this, as it sat right off the entrance of most famous of the four paths, the Via dell'Amore. One simply had to make a turn outside the village, go through a gate, and down a set of steps to get to the bar, which was where Chuck was now. And he was, as Morgan would kindly put it, probably about to choke.

How could he not? He had no idea what the card—the Jack of Hearts—meant, but it carried with it an implication hard to ignore. He knew the pattern on the back well: it had come from the deck in his bunker. He'd assumed the card had somehow gotten lost, and had incinerated the rest of the deck, as it was impossible to play Solitaire without a full deck or cheating, and he hated cheating. He hadn't even used the cheat code on Sonic the Hedgehog as a kid to skip to the end and fight Dr. Robotnik, no matter how annoying it was to collect all of the Chaos Emeralds. Given that he had incinerated the card deck over eighteen months before, it had to mean Sarah had taken it from the bunker on her first visit.

Maybe it had been an accident. Yeah, that was it: she'd taken the card during one of their Go Fish or poker games, and either hadn't wanted to tell him or hadn't thought it mattered. It had been a handy bookmark...for a book she was reading nearly three years later... Sure, he'd met crazier theories. But he had a feeling that Occam's Razor was probably the way to go with this one. And it made some kind of nervous excitement—excitement he hadn't truly felt since the first time he'd seen Sarah after his second trip to the bunker—shoot through him. That was why he was standing outside a bar in Italy like a virgin approaching prom night. He didn't even bother with the routine observation that he was being kind of pathetic.

If nothing else, the past ten months had taught him that he wasn't a coward, so he pushed through the gate and headed down the steps. Piè De Má Wine Bar was an open patio bar, jutting out over the water so that people could sit at tables and admire the Mediterranean. It was a little more crowded than Chuck had expected, but he found Sarah rather easily.

She sat at one of the tables by the railing, looking out across the water. West, Chuck thought, back to wherever their homes had been before. She'd changed into something less nondescript: a breezy white shirt that left her arms bare and a skirt that showcased her legs. Her hair was down and it made her seem softer. He blamed the way the sunlight hit her hair for the fact that he stopped and stared, though that was foolish.

He'd carried her picture, sewn into his parka, through Barcelona and Seville and all the way to Siberia. For hours at a time, whenever he'd stopped long enough to rest, he'd denied looking at the picture because it had hurt. And over time, it had become easier not to look at the picture, and by default, not to really look at Sarah and see her for what she was.

The card in his pocket made that impossible now. He swallowed hard as his heart started up again, and headed across the bar.

She didn't turn. "Yes, Chuck?"

He gave her back a puzzled look. How had she known?

"Your phone pinged mine," Sarah said, answering his unasked question in that way she had of knowing his thoughts. She turned now and gave him a neutral look, though something seemed...off. Before he could figure out what it was, she looked away.

Chuck took a seat. "The sunset's gorgeous," he said. "I came to find you because you had to see it."

Sarah toasted him with her wineglass. "Got it covered, thanks."

"I can see that. It's a nice spot." He looked around at the other tables, filled by couples enjoying wineglasses and talking in low voices. It made him think back to a mostly empty bar and grill in Washington D.C. when Sarah had asked him what they were to each other and he hadn't fully answered. Did he regret that? It was hard to tell: it had been an honest answer, at the time. Or had it been? He hadn't known all of the details. He'd never known all of the details because the card in his pocket told him that he'd never had the full story.

He decided to cover up his uncertainty with conversation, an old and reliable trick from his arsenal. "It's stunning. I walked around outside the town a little, down the path. I don't think Riomaggiore is a real place."

"It's pretty," Sarah said, and finished her wine in one swallow. "I need another one of these. Want one?"

He was tempted; it would be nice to sit and enjoy a sunset with a glass of wine and the view, but while Lincoln was in his head, alcohol had to be off-limits. "No thanks," he said.

"Oh. Right. I forgot. No alcohol for you." Sarah turned—and stumbled a little.

He frowned. "Sarah, are you—wait, how many of those have you had?"

"Not that many," Sarah said quickly. Too quickly.

Chuck blinked. "You're drunk," he said.

"No, I'm not." Sarah wouldn't meet his eyes. He gaped, incredulous. Sure, he'd seen Sarah have a drink before, maybe two if it was a party. But she never approached even remotely buzzed. The night before, after half an evening out with Carina, she'd been sober as a judge. But now, she looked mortified. "On my way to there. But not drunk yet. I wasn't expecting you to come find me."

"So you were...drinking alone?"

"Don't judge me," Sarah said. "It's been a really bad two days, okay? So don't judge me."

"Okay." Chuck held his hands up, though he could feel annoyance growing. She didn't hold the monopoly on stress, after all. Since it was easier to simply smooth the way, he said, "I'm sorry."

"You'd better be." Sarah settled back into her seat and gave him a grumpy look. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you. I thought you'd want to see the sunset."

Sarah glared. "Looking for a friend to share the sunset with? You're friends with Casey, too."

"Casey isn't exactly somebody who would be moved by the beauty of a sunset," Chuck said, feeling very much like he'd wandered into an active minefield while wearing a blindfold and carrying only a cane to navigate. "In case you've forgotten: he's John Casey. Big, mean, and his regional dialect comes from the back of the throat."

Sarah stared moodily into her empty wineglass and didn't say anything.

"Because he grunts a lo—Sarah, you're not jealous of Casey for some reason I won't understand, are you?"

"God, no," Sarah said, and left the table. "Stay here."

After a minute, she returned from the bar with another glass of wine and a bottle of sparkling water for him. "Pretend it's alcohol or something so I'm not drinking alone."

Chuck pretended to check the label. "2008," he said. "Good year for this vintage."

Sarah gave him a sort of half-smile at that. He debated as he cracked open the bottle. He could already tell he wasn't leaving Sarah alone: if she truly wanted him gone, she wouldn't have brought the water back with her. But maybe it was safer to just sit there and drink his water quietly. And he might have, if his stomach hadn't rumbled.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

Sarah shook her head. Wisely, he remained silent rather than comment about drinking on an empty stomach. Things were fragile enough right then without him starting an argument. He instead headed for the bar, returning with an armful of appetizers.

Sarah eyed the plates with suspicion.

"Dinner," Chuck said, arranging plates on the table. "I know it's strange, but considering that breakfast was maraschino cherries, I think I'm moving up in the world. C'mon, eat. I heard something somewhere about good scenery making food taste even better."

"So can sex," Sarah said, and Chuck was glad he hadn't actually tried to eat anything yet, as it would have gotten stuck in his windpipe when he choked. She gave him a look. "What? It's a fact."

"And apparently something you have on your mind."

"Not completely."

Chuck cautiously reached for a roll. "What do you have on your mind?" It was a stalling tactic, and he knew it, as the card in his pocket actually felt like it might ignite at any second.

Sarah moved a shoulder. "More than sex, that's for sure. I like this wine. I keep thinking, Ellie would like this wine, too. She and Devon should be here, drinking this wine."

"Going to be a little while before she can drink again."

"Yeah. Any updates?"

"I called again and got to talk to her this time. She's jealous." When Sarah's eyes widened, Chuck held up his hands. "I didn't say we were in Riomaggiore, just that it was scenic. And pretty much anything's got to beat staying at a hospital."

"Yeah. It sucks." Sarah scowled. "I talked to Beckman. It was definitely Fulcrum."

"Have they said why? Has there been any communication with any member of the organization to possibly give any kind of motive why they would do something like that?" He wanted the people who had hurt his sister brought to justice. But mostly, he wanted to get them all away from everything. Maybe, if there was a motive, it could be a clue as what to do next.

Sarah shook her head. "That would make too much sense."

"Amen. Does Casey know?"

"Yeah."

Silence fell. Chuck knew that the fact that the card was rubbing against his pants pocket was all in his imagination. He had no idea what it meant, and no idea how to hope it did mean what he thought it might. He took a deep breath, twisting the water bottle cap around and around in his hand, and reached for his pocket.

"I'm sorry," Sarah said out of the blue.

Chuck blinked. "For what?"

"For what? Chuck, I've been a raging bitch all day."

"It was a stressful day for everybody. It's not a big deal."

"I shouldn't have jumped down your throat at the hospital. I'm sorry."

Chuck waved a hand, like Obi-Wan trying to use the Force. "You are forgiven," he said as somberly as he could. He dropped the act. "Sarah, seriously, it's not a big deal. I'm sorry highly exaggerated rumors of my death ruined your evening out with Carina."

"Wasn't your fault." Sarah chewed on a stuffed date, looking out toward the sunset. She rested her feet on the lower rail. If it weren't for the dark smudges of exhaustion under her eyes, betraying her jetlag and fatigue, she would have looked perfectly at home. "Shouldn't have let her talk me into the paint drumming, though. I'll be cleaning paint out of places I didn't even know I had for months."

Chuck's thoughts took a detour. "That's good to know," he said after a second. Testing, he eased back in his seat and crossed his ankles, also resting his feet on the rails. It was impossible to forget the Jack of Hearts, but maybe it was unfair to bring it up while Sarah was under the influence of alcohol. It felt a little disrespectful—or maybe that was just the coward's way out. And given the inroads Sarah was making on the stuffed dates, maybe getting food in her system would sober her up. He nudged the cheese plate at her as he remembered something. "Hey, so speaking of Carina, what'd you and her go to see Gwen about?"

Sarah, reaching for a piece of cheese to load onto a cracker, stopped moving. Her eyes widened. "Did Gwen tell you about that?"

"I saw you there," Chuck said. "I was just curious."

"You were there?" Sarah's eyes widened further. "Why the hell didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have had to think you were dead, Chuck!"

"It was Gwen's call," Chuck said. "Russ wasn't sure if you were in on the plan or not, and you know, you don't get to see your friends much, and it wasn't supposed to be a big deal. It was just a couple of hours while the Intersect was being uploaded. And like I said, I didn't want to interrupt your night out with your friend."

"This is a problem." Sarah gave him an exasperated look and gesticulated with a piece of cheese, wildly. "I'm always the last to know, and I shouldn't be. I should be the first to know."

"They seemed to know what they were doing."

"I don't care. I should still be the first to know. There can be other nights out with my friends. I can get a new friend. Hell, I can get a new Carina—no, wait, I really can't. She's kind of unique. But the point is: I can replace that stuff. I can't replace you."

"I don't know," Chuck said, tensing up at the intensity of her stare. "I hear you can buy new Chucks by the pair."

Sarah sort of laughed, and he felt his body loosen from sheer relief. At least she'd found that funny. It was true that he didn't understand Sarah on any given day, but this was like Sarah intensified and randomized. And when she gave him that look, he understood that he hadn't even scratched the tip of the iceberg. After all, she'd carried around a stolen card from his deck in the bunker. They'd only had time to grab their emergency packs before leaving the states, which told him that whatever that book had been, Sarah considered it vital. And by extension, so was the card.

"I will tell you first from now on," he said. "Whatever it is."

"Thank you." Sarah reached across the table, ignoring her still-full wineglass, and stole his bottle of water. The minute she took a sip, a pensive look overtook her. Whatever thought it was that crossed her mind had her staring down at the water bottle. "Carina suggested I go talk to Gwen."

"About what?"

"I'm thinking about transferring."

Chuck felt as though something had punched him in the stomach. "Transfer where?"

"Quantico." Sarah never looked up from the water bottle.

Dozens of questions rose, but Chuck asked what he felt was the most prevalent: "Why?"

Another long sigh. "Because I'm making you miserable. Or maybe you're making me miserable. Whatever it is. Something had to give. This is easiest for everyone."

She could have started tap dancing on the table and he would have been less surprised. He gaped at her. Things hadn't been happy since he had returned—there really was no way they could have been, all told—but...transfer? Miserable?

"And since Ellie's so close to figuring out how to reverse-engineer the Intersect, and probably Lincoln, too, you'll be getting what you want soon, and I want more, you know? I mean, don't get me wrong," Sarah said, waving the water bottle around as she gestured, "I am a good spy. A damn good one."

"And so humble."

She continued on as though she hadn't heard him, which was probably the truth. "But with all of the crap that's happened, I need...something different. So I talked to Gwen, and she's going to fast-track my application for an instructor position at Quantico. I would have told you." She thought about it. "Eventually. Eventually, I would have told you. Oh, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm abandoning you."

"But...aren't you?"

It took a minute for Sarah to answer. "What's so great about being a spy?" she asked instead. "It used to be fun."

"And now it's not?"

"No," Sarah said. "Now I have to lie about things I don't want to lie about in the first place, and I hate it. I just want out."

She'd expressed dissatisfaction before—he thought of the time in the locker room in Castle, the night before she'd disappeared and their world had changed. But ever since, every time he'd asked about how she felt about still being part of Prometheus, her answers had been either evasive or they had been platitudes. Maybe it wasn't fair to push while it was clearly the alcohol making her talk, but he was tired of being confused.

"Were you even going to tell me about this?"

"I'm telling you now, aren't I?"

"After how many glasses of wine?"

"Chuck, it's not like that."

"It's exactly like that," Chuck said. It occurred to him that he was being hypocritical: he'd always fallen on his sword, so to speak, convinced that Sarah and Casey were "stuck" with him, babysitting the lame Lincoln subject who couldn't even go out into public without wondering if today was going to be the day somebody slipped up to him, whispered a phrase, and turned him into a weapon. Sarah and Ellie had assured him that this wasn't the case, that Sarah and Casey were fine with it, but hearing the truth, he could feel anger rising. He was mad. He didn't care if it was because Sarah wasn't perfect or because she had let him down by not living up to his thoughts or whatever crap Casey was going to spew. He was angry, and he wanted answers, not platitudes, evasions, or half lies. After everything they'd been through together, he deserved at least a modicum clear-cut honesty about something.

So he sat up straight and leaned toward Sarah. "You know what? It occurs to me that this is a two-way street. You want me to tell you things first, I think you should return the favor."

"And what does that make us to each other, then, Chuck?" Sarah looked at him, her eyes challenging. "Friends?"

"Among other things, yes. But, either way, friends or not, it doesn't change things. If you want answers first, you give me the same consideration."

"I don't want to be your friend," Sarah said.

Chuck's stomach fell. There it was, he thought, in black and white. His anger gave way to bafflement and a sort of sadness. "Oh."

Sarah rolled her eyes at him. "Chuck," she said, reaching to grab his wrist as he moved to stand. "Get with the picture. I'm saying that I think you should be my boyfriend again."

Her fingers seemed impossibly warm against his skin. "What?" he asked.

"I'm sorry to go all middle school on you—well, not really that sorry. It fits, don't you think? We're, like, one step away from passing notes in the hall with how bad we are at communicating."

Chuck felt insult rise. "You know, I'm doing the best I can, Sarah. I'm sorry if you think I'm too juvenile."

"Chuck, I'm not talking about you. Hell." Sarah pushed her hands through her hair.

"Then what are you talking about? Just...tell me."

Sarah gestured, wildly. "You think I want to be this way?"

"I don't know what you want! Every time I assume something, it turns out to be the opposite, okay?" Chuck gave her an exasperated look. "Stop making me guess, Sarah. Please."

"You want to know what I want?"

Chuck pushed his hands through his hair. "I just said so, didn't I?"

"I want you to be my boyfriend," Sarah said. "Things were just better then. Okay, maybe they weren't because I was lying to you about what the bosses wanted me to do to you and about Lincoln, and it sucked knowing that and knowing one day you were going to hate me, but you don't hate me, do you? Not really. I mean, look at you. You're here, looking out for me at a silly wine bar in a town you've already mispronounced three times, and I don't think you want to be just friends either."

His first instinct was to ask her how to pronounce the town name, if he kept saying it wrong. Thankfully, he had somesense of self-preservation, and the rest of her words filtered through. There seemed to be only one answer. With a hand that was only shaking a little, he took the card out of his pocket and set it in the center of the table. "I think you need to explain this, Sarah."

Her eyes cut to the card; she went still again. "Have you been going through my things?"

"No," Chuck said, and realized that the card was kind of proof to the contrary. "Well, sort of. I wasn't spying on you or anything. I saw the book on your bed and was curious about what you were reading—your door was open, don't look at me like that—and the card fell out. It's not important. What is important is that this card, it's from the bunker. My bunker. That pattern isn't a common one, and this is the card that was missing from my deck, which means you had to have had it since your first visit."

"I..." Sarah looked from his face to the card on the table. All of the blood had drained out of her face. She didn't reach for her wine, though.

He knew the smartest way to get the truth out of Sarah was to wait it out, but impatience made him lean forward. Somehow, however she answered, that was important. He had to know the answer to questions he wasn't sure he knew how to ask. "What does it mean?"

"It...I..."

"When did you even take it? I never saw you."

"I palmed it," Sarah said, sighing. She pulled her wineglass close to fiddle with the stem. "As Bryce and I—as we were leaving. The card deck was on the table and I took the top card. It just happened to be the Jack of Hearts."

"Why? I have a feeling it's not because you're anti-Solitaire." He wasn't breathing, Chuck realized, and he didn't intend to start until she gave him a clear answer. He gripped the edge of the table.

"No. No, I am definitely not anti-Solitaire," Sarah said, and met his gaze, completely sober. "I took the card because I didn't want to leave the bunker empty-handed. You gave me a scarf, yes, but...Bryce, he was supposed to take me to Cabo on that trip. And for a long time, I thought that would have been easier."

Chuck's stomach plummeted. He could imagine, too clearly, a perfect trip to Cabo, all the sun-soaked beaches. Perfect super-spy Bryce Larkin and Sarah Walker, enjoying their perfect trip together.

"And you know, it probably would have been. But I don't regret it."

"Why not?"

"Because for every bit of trouble that trip caused—and trust me, it caused a lot of trouble—I met you. And I guess, even at the time, I knew it meant...something, so I wanted something to carry with me, something small. Something that meant something. So I took a card from the deck we used to play Go Fish." Sarah's smile finally turned self-deprecating. "Tang," she said. "It's what they give astronauts, you know."

Chuck finally took a breath. Part of his brain was still stunned into shocked silence, but the rest of him was very, very warm in a way that had nothing to do with the last glow of sunset on the Mediterranean or the beauty all around him. It was difficult for him to recognize it, as it wasn't something he'd truly felt since February.

"Oh, thank God," he said. "It did mean something. I was worried you might just have sticky fingers."

Sarah looked distressed. "Chuck, I would never—"

"Not everyone is worth ruining hundreds of games of Solitaire for, after all. In fact," Chuck said, and felt a grin spread over his face, "I can think of only one person that would be worth it, for me."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Sarah asked, looking breathless. "Because I mean it, don't you dare mess with me—"

"I'm not."

"Because if you are, I swear to you—"

"I'm not," Chuck said. He leaned forward and, needing some contact, any contact, grabbed Sarah's wrist, gently. Her hand went limp under his. "I honestly didn't know what to think when I found the card. I still don't know what I think, but I'm not messing with you. I wouldn't dream of it. You kept that for three years?"

"Yes." She wouldn't meet his eye.

There were so many questions, but the main one on his mind was, "Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

Sarah gave him an exasperated look. "Because I can barely handle it without thinking I'm some sort of crazy person. The last thing I wanted to do was scare you off, too."

"I don't know. I think it's kind of sweet." Chuck picked up the card and looked at it. "Though, a little overwhelming."

"You think?" Sarah pushed at her forehead, and Chuck wondered if the wine was giving her a headache. He nudged the water bottle over to her side of the table; she took it automatically, though she didn't drink. "The very first thing they teach you at the Farm is how to lie. Not just how to lie, but how to conceal big lies."

Chuck's stomach, which had been leaping giddily, began to churn.

"And the best way to conceal a big lie is to tell the truth about everything else," Sarah said. "Sure, you conceal one fact here, but you reveal another there. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes," Chuck said. "Though I'm not sure why you're saying it."

"I lied to you about Lincoln, my big lie, and what the bosses wanted me to do to you. I had my reasons initially, and maybe it was wrong and maybe it wasn't. But the thing is, to lie to you, I got to tell the truth. And it was...freeing." Sarah did take a drink now. She held his gaze, though. "I got to tell you things that I never really shared with anybody else."

Chuck thought back to the way things had been before his second trip to the bunker and more specifically, to their first date, at the Smithsonian. "About Harvard, and things like that?"

Sarah nodded, looking away now. "Things like that," she said. "And I might not have told you all about that if I hadn't been keeping bigger things from you. Like Project Lincoln. The thing is, everything I told you was real. But...now it doesn't matter."

He was still lost. "Why not?"

"I've seen the way you look at me, Chuck. I lied about one thing, I could be lying about something else. So when you ask why I didn't tell you, that's why."

"Because I would automatically assume you're lying?" Chuck asked, still confused.

Sarah looked him directly in the eye. "Yes."

"But I...don't..." Chuck set the card on the table again, as it suddenly seemed a lot heavier than it looked. He gave Sarah a bewildered look. "I don't automatically assume you're lying."

"You wonder sometimes."

"I'm not perfect," Chuck said. "And I don't wonder. Not when it matters."

"I couldn't take that risk."

"Why n—"

"Because I love you."

Chuck's brain stuttered to a halt at the worst possible moment. For a second, time existed outside of him, and he was suspended, sitting at a table while the Mediterranean crashed against the rocks below the wine bar, staring at Sarah Walker. Every single argument he'd been about to make was suddenly dashed to pieces.

"Could you," he said, and he had to clear his throat because his voice was suddenly hoarse, "possibly repeat that?"

Sarah turned bright red. Instead of embarrassment, however, her look was pure defiance. "You heard me."

"I'm not sure I did, not quite—correctly."

"I said I love you." Sarah tilted her chin up, and her eyes were a challenge. "And that's why I don't want to be friends. I thought I could. For—hell, for three years, I tried to keep it all in a box like a good little spy, but I'm not going to do—"

"I love you, too," Chuck said.

"—that anymore. I just can't, don't you—wait a second, what did you just say?"

For a second, he was tempted not to answer right away. He felt both intensely grounded and so happy that he could practically feel his body becoming unhinged from reality, but he didn't care. For once in his life, he didn't question. He just smiled. "What was it you told me, once? Just say the word?"

Somehow, she managed to groan, though he wasn't sure how, through her breathless smile.

"Technically, in this case, it's words, but—" That was as far as he got before Sarah rounded the table and hauled him to his feet. Laughing, he rose and met her halfway and they made complete fools out of themselves in an Italian bar. He couldn't bring himself to care. Ever since he'd found that card, there had been a feeling in his chest that he hadn't wanted to acknowledge, but now he could claim it for what it was: it had been hope. He kissed Sarah until he literally heard applause—and realized that everybody in the bar was cheering and cat-calling.

Sarah flushed a deeper red. Somehow, she managed to tilt her head in acknowledgment to the other patrons, most of whom laughed, though she never relinquished her grip on Chuck's shirt. "We really need to get out of here," she said under her breath to Chuck.

"No kidding," he said, but he couldn't resist: he kissed her again, and it was nearly two minutes later that Sarah recovered and dragged him away from the bar, plucking the card from the table as she went.

12 JULY 2008
IL NIDO D'AMORE
22:37 ITA

There was something to be said for an afterglow.

Chuck didn't know how long he could lie there, doing nothing but tracing random patterns on Sarah's back with the tips of his fingers, but he figured forever sounded good. Even if the bed wasn't exactly the most comfortable in the world—though that hadn't mattered earlier, at all—he was…happy. A little overwhelmed, but he was trying not to think about that overmuch. The entire time he'd known Sarah, there had always been a sliver of doubt, wondering why she had picked him when there were so many better options out there, wondering how it was that she found the energy to keep going above and beyond the call of duty for him. To know that the entire time, she'd had her doubts, too, and had even seemed to dislike him at points, that somehow made things better.

Maybe he wasn't the only crazy one here. He was perfectly fine with that.

She made a sleepy noise in the back of her throat. "Can hear you thinking," she said, shifting a little. They'd kicked off most of the blankets with their earlier activities, but she didn't seem cold. She shifted again, though, settling against him. "This bed sucks."

Chuck laughed. "It really does. We could try the one in the other room."

"I don't know how you'd fit in that one, let alone the both of us."

He laughed again.

Sarah rested her chin on his shoulder, still looking sleepy. "It'd take some interesting acrobatics," she said, and she was clearly mulling it over. "Maybe we could make it work."

"I think at this stage, you'd fall asleep on me." And he wasn't sure he was ready for another round—oh, he wanted one, that was for sure. But it had become wincingly obvious that it had been six years for him and three years for her. Sarah had managed to laugh it off convincingly enough by pointing out that it was fine: they now had something to aspire to. And it would take a lot of practice to get there.

That was another thing he found perfectly fine.

"No, I w-wouldn't." Sarah's sentence cut off with a yawn. "Good thing I'm so tired, though. This bed is ridiculously hard."

"It is."

"Maybe the floor would be…preferable…" Sarah's words were slurring now. She'd sobered up during their conversation—and had made it a point to tell him so at least twice, in case he was worried that he was possibly taking advantage—but it had been a ridiculously long, travel-filled day. Running a mission on no sleep hadn't helped. Chuck wasn't terribly surprised when she burrowed into the one remaining blanket they had left and fell asleep.

In truth, he should probably be doing the same. Lord knew, he was tired. But he was also wide awake and completely full of energy. If he closed his eyes, he wasn't sure he wouldn't just lie there all night, marveling and delighting. He was happy. Sarah loved him.

So he continued to lie there, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, still stroking Sarah's back because he could. Sure, the rest of his life was a mess. Even this, here, now, though it felt perfect, was messy. He and Sarah both brought their baggage to the relationship, and given the paths they'd walked, they'd accumulated a lot between them. He'd had no idea just how deep Sarah's own neuroses, which she'd brought to light in startling detail, had gone. And most days, his own head was such a jumble that it was going to take a therapist years to fix. If they screwed this up...

He didn't want to think about that, so he deliberately set it aside. Sarah had said she loved him. He loved her. Maybe it was the stuff of cheesy romantic ballads, but they could find a way. They were smart.

Outside of the bedroom, his life was a mess, too. He had no idea what was going on with the government, save that Charles Carmichael was listed as a casualty of the tragic explosion at the DNI. It had been a Fulcrum strike, but why?

Maybe, he thought, he could get some answers. It wasn't like he could sleep now.

It took a little creativity to extract himself from Sarah, but he managed. He pulled on shorts and grabbed the laptop they'd been given in Pisa. A quick virus scan showed that there were at least four monitoring devices on it, as well as a keystroke tracker. He disabled that first, then shredded the rest of the programs like tissue paper.

His first step was to set up an alias that Dave would understand immediately. Since the other man had used the word "frell" the day before, he settled on the name JohnSunDethronesRygel and sent a message winging across the Atlantic.

It took Dave less than thirty seconds to respond with a "Thank God you're alive" message. Chuck sent a coded message in reply, along with a head's up that he was about to violate some heavy government security.

Dave's reply was a resigned, "Go for it."

With that sort of permission out of the way, Chuck hacked into the Metro's secure website and hunted up the video feeds, searching around. Of course, the time-stamped footage from when Señor Saliva and his goons had taken Chuck through the station was missing—Graham had managed to see to that much, at least—but with a little creative problem solving, he found a camera angle that captured all of Señor Saliva's men as they searched the stations for Chuck.

He grabbed screenshots of all of them and sent them through all of the major databases. It only took a minute for the results to come back: he scanned through them. Mercenaries, he saw, all of them with a few hits on their rap-sheets. A couple were ex-military. It took a little digging, but eventually, he found a connection to Graham: they all had the same time period redacted from their records eight years previous. A deeper look told him they'd all worked freelance on a CIA project in Turkey, led by one Langston Graham.

So he was right. Graham had sent them, after all. He sent that information to a secure drive and switched gears.

Though he was trying to be quiet, Sarah still stirred. She cracked one eye open.

Chuck froze, guiltily. "Sorry," he said, not sure why he was whispering. "Was I being too loud?"

"No, s'just funny." Sarah shook her head, closing her eyes. "Also what I kind of expected. Don't ever change, Chuck."

"I'll do my best," he said, but he figured she was probably already asleep again. It took him a minute for his attention to return to the computer, though he couldn't imagine a soul would blame him for being distracted. But once he returned to the computer, he sifted through the NSA's servers until he found the memo he was searching for: a list of those deceased in the Intersect explosion.

Charles Carmichael was the third name on the list. He swallowed hard and kept scanning. When he recognized another name, he went cold. A third name stood out to him, until he knew four in all. Most of the dead had been in the Intersect room, he saw. Two listed among the casualties had been scientists in the other room, probably those closest to the blast. He thanked any and all deities listening that Ellie had been to the back of the room. She had survived.

The other four members of Project Lincoln hadn't been so lucky. Whiskey, Uniform, Gamma, Zulu. They were listed by their civilian names, but he'd spent over a month staring at their call-signs and lists of things that controlled them, as well as their Lincoln-trained abilities. By the end of that month in the bunker, he'd known more about them than he had about himself. Zulu, who'd been stationed in North Africa. Whiskey had been in South America. Scientists and therapists had been working with them in D.C., trying to get them better. Gwen hadn't talked about it much, but Chuck knew it hadn't been going well. He, Delta, had been the only one to change, among them.

And now the rest of them were dead.

Chuck slowly shut the lid of the laptop. He hadn't made a connection to the other Lincoln subjects—how could he, when he still didn't remember the two years he'd known them?—but it just seemed unbelievably unfair. Here he was, in the most beautiful place he'd seen since Greece, in bed with an amazing woman that loved him, and everybody else that had gone through the same program with him was dead.

They needed to get away from the Intersect. It was toxic. Any branch of it destroyed anything it touched, systematically and gleefully. Sarah had said Ellie was close to a solution, and Chuck had the possibility of another solution. He nearly reached for his wallet to grab the Orion ads, but Sarah stirred in her sleep, moving closer to him, and he remembered he'd made a promise to tell her everything first. Besides, he wanted her opinion on it anyway.

He set the laptop under the bed and stood to gather the rest of the blankets and dump them back on the bed. He was hungry, but they hadn't stocked the apartment with food yet, and he wasn't sure he could trust the tap water here. So, trying to forget about that, and the horrible news of the rest of the Project Lincoln subjects, he crawled back into bed beside Sarah, cuddled against her, and closed his eyes.

A/N the Second: A thousand thank-yous to the wonderfullest beta reader of them all, Mr. mxpw himself. Not only does he have a winning smile, the grammar sense of a three-time-award-winning nerd, the patience of a saint, and the personality of an awesome person, but he makes julienne fries as well. So handy to have around. Thank you, Max. Thanks also to my pre-readers, who have encouraged me, held my hand, and shared their delight in this story as it goes along. And thank you to you, sitting behind that screen, still reading.