A/N1 Please bear with me over the next few chapters as backstory and context are supplied. I am, of course, mostly assuming canon, but I am adding a little and subtracting a little, and sometimes weighting imponderables differently or giving them a small twist.

Thanks for the enthusiastic response to the little Prelude! Since it was so short, I thought I would go ahead and start the story proper.

Don't own Chuck.

Sarah vs. Omaha

CHAPTER ONE

Departures and Arrivals

"Love is not a feeling. Love is put to the test, pain not…"

-Ludwig Wittgenstein, Zettel 504

Casey reached up and clicked the computer off. The monitor went dark. He was done talking with Beckman. For now.

So the skirt, Walker, had actually done it. She'd left to join Bryce Larkin. From Casey's point of view, despite his knowledge that Graham had permitted it, Sarah was the spy-equivalent of AWOL.

Casey had spent two hours and three-quarters of a bottle of Johnny Walker considering this new development. He had not expected it, even if he had jabbed at Bartowski about the possibility of it. No, he had not expected it. He would have bet against it, in fact, bet heavily against it.

The truth was that he was sure, sure, Walker loved the moron. She had loved him from the beginning. She had already been in love on that dance floor, on that rooftop. Not only had she protected him from Casey, she'd trusted Bartowski to find a way to disarm the bomb in the hotel. Somehow, the moron had disarmed Walker, too. She had never really regarded him as simply as an asset, even if sometimes fear or exasperation made her treat him that way. And when she did treat him that way, she always apologized or found a way to touch him, something to give him, even if it were only a smile through the Wienerlicious window-she always made it up to him.

But the decisive action was one she performed early on. It caused Casey to be sure.

She didn't know it, but just as she had followed Bartowski to the beach that night after saving Stanfield, Casey had followed her. He'd been looking at them both through the night, through binoculars. Walker had not known he was there. Never suspected it. And Chuck had not known she was there. And so, Walker had let her guard down.

Casey could not see her face clearly until dawn, but he had no need: her posture was eloquent. She was sitting on the hood of her Porsche, staring raptly at Bartowski, barely moving. Thinking. Pining. It was written in her shoulders, her back, the set of her head on her neck, the movements of her hands. Casey had spent a lot of his life watching people through binoculars or surveillance devices; he knew what he saw. Walker had found something she wanted. Silhouetted against the sky, she had taken and held the posture of a homeless man looking into the window of a pastry shop.

She had taken off her boots as dawn came, and walked barefoot to the edge of the parking lot. As the sun showed itself on the horizon, she had shaken her hair loose, closed her eyes, and stretched luxuriously, a tawny cat in the warming light.

She had then resumed staring at Bartowski, pacing back and forth along the concrete, never quite touching the sand of the beach. It took Casey a minute, but he eventually realized that she was screwing up her courage to go and talk to him. Sarah Walker, Langston Graham's Enforcer, a legendarily beautiful spy with a reputation far more fearsome than even Casey's own, was timid about approaching...Chuck Bartowski.

She walked the edge of the lot where the concrete met the sand like she was walking on a wire in the circus. Whether she was conscious of it or not, the edge was clearly liminal for her. But then she crossed the line; she crossed over; she made her decision, even if not consciously, not deliberately.

Casey gazed through the binoculars, hypnotized, unexpectedly moved. He had never seen anything like it, unless it was during altar calls at church when he was a boy (back when he sang in the choir). She stepped onto the sand and stood still, wiggling her toes. She had her boots in her hand. She exhaled like she had been holding her breath for her entire life, then inhaled like she'd just been pulled up, heaving, from the bottom of the ocean. Then she began the walk toward Bartowski. She sat down beside him, a woman beside a man, and not a handler beside her asset. Casey put down the binoculars, started the car, left. He'd seen all he needed to see; he knew all he needed to know.

Casey should have called Beckman that morning and told her what he'd seen, what he knew...But two things held him back. First, he really hadn't seen anything that would sound like proof that Walker was compromised in the retelling of it, and he wasn't going to lamely tell Beckman, "Well, you had to be there, see it for yourself." But, second, he was moved. The woman he knew by reputation was not the woman who he watched hold vigil through the night. The woman who had destroyed his SUV and incapacitated his men, that was the woman he had expected. But this woman, this woman on the beach, she was unexpected. Casey decided to keep her vigil to himself.

And he had. Even as he watched Walker fall farther. It was all perversely fascinating, really, watching a woman as professionally competent as Walker prove to be so personally and emotionally incompetent. She had no idea she had fallen, was still falling. Not that Casey claimed to be much more personally competent, but he at least had been in love before. This was clearly Walker's first time. She had somehow missed her own line-crossing, even though she had done it.

And Bartowski, Jesus!, the kid was bewildered by Walker, completely and absolutely bewildered. The moron was mired in self-doubt on his best days, and a woman like Walker intensified that self-doubt. Walker's strange inability to know her own mind made it impossible for Bartowski to know it. Even worse for the kid, she coped with the situation and her own demanding but unacknowledged feelings by keeping Chuck always within reach but never in her embrace, turning the poor kid into the Mayor of Lukewarm Springs. Bartowski didn't know if she was hot or cold or what. It had been amusing when it had not been frustrating, and when it was too frustrating, Casey poked at one or the other of them. He tormented them because they were tormenting him. But he also slanted his reports, edited video and audio footage.

Casey was willing to let them continue their lugubrious quasi-romance as long as it did not keep them from producing results. Results, not rules, were what mattered: rules existed for the sake of results. Casey believed in the bottom line. And he realized fairly early on that as painful as it was to witness the two of them together, and to have to pull Bartowski out of his almost-daily funks or sulks, or to try to warn Walker without letting on about what he knew, the team was producing results. — Bartowski, maybe it was just him, maybe it was the Intersect, maybe it was both, didn't matter, Bartowski was a spying idiot-savant. Nothing he did or said made much damn sense to Casey at first, but it seemed over and over to work out. And Walker trusted Bartowski implicitly.

Things had been alright, really, if occasionally painful or annoying, until the sandwich girl appeared on the scene. For the first time, Walker began to get an inkling of the fact that she had crossed a line, had crossed over. That she felt something new. For the first time, she had an inkling of the fact that she had fallen for the kid. It did not surprise Casey that she handled it badly. Some handler. Her jealousy had been immediate and palpable. Well, it had to Casey, and surprisingly, although a little later, to Bartowski as well. At some point, even Walker clued into herself. She would not own it, but she had dimly realized that she really was jealous.

But something happened during that whole sandwich-girl debacle, something happened between Walker and Bartowski that Casey did not witness, did not know. But it had changed things. Bartowski was more hopelessly smitten than ever, but Walker seemed lost, dazed, unsure of herself. And then, before Casey could figure that all out, Larkin rose from the dead, alive and well and in Burbank. Walker was particularly hard to read at that point. Casey knew she was glad Larkin was alive. (Hell, even Casey was sort of glad about that, deep down.) But Casey was sure she had no romantic feelings for Larkin. Even if perhaps Walker herself was not sure about that.

Clearly, Larkin expected to start again wherever he had left off with Walker. He wanted her to go with him, into deep cover to take on Fulcrum. He made the Omaha comment as he left, clearly an invitation and code for a location. But Casey did not believe she would go. He was sure she would not go. Something had happened. But what? Theirs had been a great team. They'd gotten great results. Walker was the best partner he ever had. He had to admit, he felt a little of the sense of abandonment he knew Bartowski would feel when he found out. Why had Walker given up on Bartowski? On herself? Why had she given up on the team?

Casey had no time to ponder the questions. Beckman wanted to take the opening, to claim the Intersect for the NSA and only the NSA. She was going to talk to her superiors, to the President if necessary, and use Walker's leaving as a reason to leverage the CIA out of the future of the Intersect. The interagency rivalry was old and bitter. Beckman had other arguments too, but Walker leaving and Graham allowing it certainly looked like the CIA had taken its hand off the Intersect. And if they could take their hand off Bartowski, their hand didn't need to be on him at all.

It was really only because one of their own had (apparently) gone rogue that the CIA had gotten involved at all, that Walker had ended up in Burbank. Casey knew Graham had sent her mainly because he expected to give her a kill order for Bartowski. Graham had, among other things, been trying to save face. Larkin was a known favorite. The CIA needed to look like it could clean up its own messes.

No doubt Graham would fight back, and Casey had no idea how that war would end. But he had his marching orders. He was to intensify the surveillance on Bartowski and to otherwise keep the Intersect humming along. Casey was not happy about the last part of his orders. Walker had been the one who mostly tended to Bartowski's daily needs, most importantly to his need to talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, to examine and reexamine his feelings, to fondle his ladyfeelings. Casey wanted no truck with that nonsense, but for now, anyway, he had no choice. Damnit all, Walker! Why would she choose Larkin over Bartowski? — Larkin was lame before he died and he was still lame after his resurrection.

ooOoo

The flight attendant welcomed the passengers to New Orleans. They were on the ground. Sarah put on her game face. It was time to let go of...whatever it was she was holding close to herself. It was time to surrender Burbank. There was a mission. A new mission. It did not involve...anyone in Burbank. She gathered her purse and slung it over her shoulder, then she pulled her carry-on out of the overhead compartment. She had replaced all her Sarah Walker IDs with her Sarah Anderson ones. It was time to be Bryce's wife.

She trailed behind the other passengers through the airport. She had been to the airport there many times. She knew where baggage claim was, and she knew Bryce would be there, waiting.

And there he was. He had on jeans and a dark t-shirt, a Saints cap pulled down low on his face. Sarah jolted. He was wearing a pair of black Chuck Taylors. She stalled in the hallway, gaping at him. He hadn't seen her, seen her reaction. He was smiling at someone else, a willowy woman with dark hair standing by the carousel. The woman smiled back. Bryce took a step toward her, but then looked in Sarah's direction and stopped. The dark-haired woman followed his gaze and looked at Sarah for a moment. Then she turned her attention back to the clump of black suitcases circling in front of her.

Bryce's smile was redirected to Sarah. Sarah huffed to herself in annoyance. She was never sure of it, but she suspected that Bryce had never actually treated their...relationship...as exclusive, though he said he did and though he knew Sarah had. But she had figured that Bryce had a set of rationalizations for the asymmetry she suspected, probably rationalizations no more compelling than that he was a man and a spy and that certain things just went with the territory. Sarah had never confronted him with her suspicions. She was still unsure why. Even when they were in Cabo, she had not hinted at what she suspected.

Bryce stood and waited for her to get to him. He gave her what she knew was his most dazzling smile. She smirked internally. She'd always called that his Farmer Montgomery smile, since she was more or less certain that the smile was the combined efforts of dentists from the Farm and Roan Montgomery's classes. She giggled to herself. Maybe Chuck was right. Maybe she was funny. She remembered...No. She made herself stop remembering. She halted with her suitcase a few feet from Bryce. He kept the Farmer Montgomery going for a few beats more, then leaned in, targeting Sarah's lips. She leaned in too, but at the last second, she turned her face. His kiss landed on her cheek. She turned just enough to half-kiss his cheek.

When she pulled back, he gave her a look of surprise, but it passed almost immediately, followed by a darker expression. She smiled at him, not her best smile, but it would have to do for him right now. It had been a long day. A hard day. She realized her hands were still trembling. She balled them into fists.

"Huh." Bryce remarked, the edges of his mouth drooping just a bit. "That's not the kiss I was expecting."

"I'm tired, Bryce. I need a shower, a handful of aspirin, and a cup of coffee. Do you have rooms?"

"I have one." He smiled and waggled his eyebrows slightly. That annoyed her; it also sent a pang through her chest.

"One?" Her tone was sharp.

He waved his left hand, the wedding ring. His answer. "The Andersons. Gotta sell it."

She had nothing to say to that. It was what she signed on for. She knew that was the cover. "Right. Sorry. So much has changed so quickly. I'm still trying to catch up."

His look in response to that was flat, speculative. Unlike Cary Grant, Sarah's favorite actor, Bryce was not at his most attractive when he was thinking.

She pulled her suitcase into motion. "Lead the way, Bryce."

A/N2 Bryce in Chucks, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria!

Tune in next time for Chapter 2, "The Anatomy of Melancholy". It won't be up until I have finished the next chapter of Too Old For This.

By the way, the scene in the parking is, in part, a kind of homage to a different sort of scene in Arya's prayers spy-fy Russian novel, Becoming. Both scenes are anchored to a line from a Counting Crows song, and mine is further anchored to a line from Crowded House's When You Come.