A/N1 More of our story. The players are assembling. Thoughts thought. Feelings felt. Life proves unpredictable.

Thanks for your responses. They keep the story humming along. It's a lot more fun to write when you know there's a responsive audience.

Don't own Chuck.

Sarah vs. Omaha

CHAPTER THREE

Behooved and Behicked and Behulked

"Before one goes through the gate
One may not be aware there is a gate…" R. D. Laing, Knots

Sarah left the bathroom. There was one light on in the bedroom, the lamp on Bryce's side of the bed, the side nearest the bathroom. He was in boxers, supine on top of the covers. He looked at Sarah as she came into the bedroom. When he noticed her pajamas, he tried to keep from looking crestfallen. He failed. Sarah did not look at him after that. She marched around the bed to her side. She grabbed a pillow and headed to the front room. She could feel Bryce's gaze on her back and backside, as she did. He cleared his throat. Sarah ignored the sound.

Sarah tossed the pillow on the couch and sat down. She heard Bryce get up and then get back in bed. Likely, her retreat had driven him beneath the covers. She smirked bitterly to herself.

Her stomach was a smoldering fire pit. Sarah had not eaten all day; she felt too...off...to eat. The combination of bourbon and the Americano on an empty stomach was proving to be a bad idea.

The light clicked off in the bedroom. Sarah reached up and turned off the lamp at the end of the couch. She stayed seated, hunched over, trying to find a posture that would ease her discomfort. She had never felt like this before. Her breathing was still labored. Her heart smacked wetly against her chest, and it was as if each smack vibrated to the ends of her fingers. A dull ache re-started in her head, as the aspirin she took earlier began to wear off. She felt sick. But more, she felt wrong, wrong all over.

She allowed herself to just topple over onto the couch, transfiguring her hunched seated position into the fetal position. She hugged herself. Squeezed her eyes shut. And finally surrendered.

They were going to die, the two of them. Chuck could not disarm the bomb. A few seconds more of life, no more. No more. But instead of fear, Sarah was flooded by a storm surge of desire: sexually charged, oh yes!, but so much more. More layered, nuanced, reticulated (Where had she heard that word? Harvard, a biology class. Biology class? Of course.) She kissed Chuck, grabbed him, pulled him not only to her but all against her, maximizing surface contact. If she was going to go, she did not want to go alone. If he was going to go, she did not want him to go alone. They'd go as one, not two.

But they hadn't gone. Seconds had passed, maybe minutes, who knew?, and they pulled apart, still there, two, not one. Sarah had masked her reaction; she had not felt merely 'uncomfortable': she had felt utterly exposed, naked before another person in a way that she had never been before in her life. She'd never known she could be one with anyone.

She was usually two all by herself. Sarah Walker and Sam: the first cool, controlled, beautiful, deadly. The second vulnerable, shaken, hurt, clutching her own knees to her, her head down, locked away in the depths of Sarah's heart. Sam was never exposed to the world. Sarah processed everything, censored it, marked it with careful inattention or deliberate forgetfulness, a psychological black magic marker. Only a redacted version of the world ever reached Sam. But Sam had escaped. She had been there. She had kissed Chuck too. It was Sam's first kiss. The kiss shook Sarah, and it shook Sam, floor to rafters. It loosened the screws that held the hinges on their life. Neither of them had any previous experience for comparison, any frame of reference in which to situate it, any resource to make sense of it.

And then, not long afterward, Sarah kissed Bryce. Or he kissed her, although she admittedly kissed him back. Bryce felt and smelled familiar against her. His Farm-trained lips moved through their practiced routine, pleasant enough, but familiar in the wrong way, a kiss-by-numbers. Bryce gave her a kiss. He was focused on it, on how it went, on creating a reaction. Chuck kissed her when he kissed her back. Her lips knew the difference. Chuck's kiss had been an act of adoration, and its focus was on her, the woman he so obviously adored. Bryce's kiss had been a perfectly executed act, but its perfect execution was the focus, not Sarah, not really. Bryce would've kissed any woman the same way.

That was part of what she meant when she told him he still had it. It was partly her own Farm-trained assessment of the kiss. It had not only been that, she knew. She was so shaky, so mixed up by kissing Chuck, and by Bryce being still alive, that her own lips and body had betrayed her, responding before she'd had a moment to sort what was happening, settling into the familiarity of Bryce, of the kiss. And she was glad he was alive. But despite her words and despite her response, Bryce's kiss was a clear, pairwise loser. Chuck's kiss was so vastly better it seemed different in kind, not just degree. And Sarah had not given Chuck a kiss, a kiss-by-numbers, a Farm kiss. She kissed him. Focused on him. Adored him.

But for Chuck to see her kiss Bryce, after she'd refused to talk about their kiss...and while Sam was still dancing inside her in response to Chuck's kiss, undisturbed by Bryce's kiss, swaying from side-to-side, her fingers pressed gently against her lips, her eyes alight, still trying to understand all that it meant…the total exposure, the total exultation.

And Sarah finally knew. Chuck had been able to reach Sam all along, had reached her all along. He had helped her escape. He had let her out.

But Sam was no longer dancing. She was now in the same fetal position as Sarah. The two were one.

Despite her position, though, Sarah felt better. A little. Sleep claimed her. She dreamed of curls, kisses, and explosions.

ooOoo

Chuck caught up with Casey. They silently entered Casey's apartment. Casey peered at Chuck out of the corner of his eye. The kid was green. He was moving but automatically. Getting him through the briefing would be tricky. If Beckman saw him this bad, if Graham was there and saw him this bad, he would become the Boy in the Bunker. At least that was Casey's worry. Part of Casey actually thought that might be a good thing.

Out here, in the spy life, Chuck would eventually get himself killed. He had zero instincts for self-preservation. He rushed in where spies feared to tread. Casey did not want to see the kid a corpse. But he also knew that the kid lived in and for other people. To put him below ground would be like trying to grow a sunflower in a cave. Did I just think that? Sunflowers? Goddamnit. The kid would, in time, wilt and die. He might not die physically, but he would die nonetheless. He would eventually give up, simply go through the motions. It would not be easy, but Casey wanted to keep the kid above ground, keep the kid alive, keep him doing what he had been doing with the team. To do that, though, he would have to find a way to cauterize the bleeding hole in the kid's chest. One hell of an exit wound: shit, Walker.

They seated themselves in front of Casey's computer monitor, and, precisely on time, he lit up and Beckman was there. She shot Casey a follow-my-lead look, but she could have said it aloud. The kid would never have known. He was staring at the floor, not at the monitor, and he was clearly lost inside his own head.

"Good evening...team. We have had a change, as you both know." Casey nodded once, barely, just to make sure that Beckman knew he had told Chuck, as ordered. "I know that will create the need for an adjustment. Things here in Washington are fluid. I will let you know more when we talk tomorrow. The mission you have is one that you will need to see to in the morning. A skilled hacker who calls himself 'Nova' has been putting out subtle feelers on the dark web. He has information that he claims will be of great interest 'to the right parties'. He's been cagey, but we worry that he has found his way to information on various American intelligence agents, stationed or working both here and abroad.

"An NSA analyst who had privileged access to such files has gone missing, but there was brief activity using his password yesterday. If it was Nova, as we speculate it was, he covered his tracks well. We don't know what he saw, if anything, but the timing and the password make us worry he may indeed have accessed very sensitive data.

"He's set up a meet in LA tomorrow at a local coffee shop...called, um, ah...Bump and Grind." Beckman kept her face straight. "We haven't been able to identify the person who is to meet Nova. I need Chuck there to see who meets him. Maybe we will get lucky and Chuck will flash. We think it is likely someone who belongs to Fulcrum. This is the sort of information they have been after for a long time.

Beckman leaned in toward the screen. "Casey, you have to make sure that the file never leaves the coffee shop. Secure it and return it to us. I will make a team available for back-up."

Beckman paused, turning her attention wholly to Chuck, who had barely looked up during the briefing. "Is the Intersect...unwell?"

Chuck looked up, his eyes moist. Casey rolled over in his desk chair, obscuring Chuck from view. "The Intersect is fine. It's been a long day. He's understandably shaken about the changes in the team. He will be fine. Fine. We'll get it done tomorrow. You can still depend on us."

Beckman shifted her gaze to Casey. He knew he had not fooled her exactly, but her gaze told her that his willingness to make the effort had bought him and Chuck some time. "Ok, Major Casey. I am depending on you." The screen went dark.

Casey was getting ready to yell at Chuck when he realized how counterproductive that would be. "Go home, kid. Drink a little if you have to. Shout or throw things. Whatever. But for your sake and mine, and those agents out there, be ready to do the job in the morning."

Chuck did not respond. He got up and walked to the door. He stopped. He spoke while facing it. "I'll figure it out, Casey. This thing in my head brought her here. I hoped it would keep her here. I guess I knew I wouldn't." Opening the door, he exited without further comment, closing it behind him.

Casey stared at the door for a minute, then spat on his own floor. "Goddamnit, Walker." He sat still for a minute, then got up, got a towel and wiped the floor. He deposited the tool in a clothes basket, grabbed a fresh bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. He went to have a drink with the moron.

ooOoo

Sarah stood in line at the coffee shop. She still had no appetite, but the thought of eating did not revolt her, and she knew that she and Bryce had a long day ahead of them. They were implementing the first part of the plan today. Bryce was still asleep. Sarah left him a note and then went outside, walking a little, trying to take deeper breaths. Eventually, she entered the shop.

She got to the counter and the barista, a tall young woman with long red hair, asked for her order. She asked for an Americano and a plain croissant. The young woman rang it up and Sarah paid her. She asked for a name.

"Sarah."

Sarah found a table in the corner. She sat down, her back to the wall.

"Trust me, Chuck."

She heard the words in her head again. They sounded dark to her now, like she had cursed him, surely, but herself too. She should have asked to be reassigned as soon as she realized that she had said those words and meant them. What did she think she was doing? Who was she to make anyone promises, to invite dependence on her? She had told herself that all she meant was that she would protect him and his family. She had meant that, but it had by no means been all that she meant.

That was the problem. What it all meant. What did she mean? What was she vowing to Chuck on that beach? It was as though her words had reached out in front of her and committed her in a way that she had not realized. They'd reached all the way to and past Sarah's horizon at that moment. Out past the morning's rising sun.

She and Bryce were going to a function this afternoon, one at which Gretta Garland would be present. The point was to make sure she saw Bryce and then that she saw them, Bryce and Sarah, together, as a married couple. They had to sell it for the plan to work, or so Bryce contended. The file on Garland suggested he was right; he wasn't just using the mission as a way of re-establishing some kind of intimacy with her. But she would have to let him touch her and hold her, kiss her. No part of her wanted any part of that. She had grown more sure of it last night. But it was the job; it was the assignment. There was no way around it. She was his cover wife and she was a professional. She did her job. Except when I don't. Except when I run.

ooOoo

.

Bryce woke up and realized quickly that he was alone in the apartment. He found Sarah's note. It did not surprise him. They had never spent much time abed together even when they were a couple. Sarah grew antsy as soon as their needs were sated. She normally kept a room for herself and she would slip away to it. Bryce had not objected. He had always grown antsy too. It had all just been part of a relationship with Sarah Walker. He was sure she had felt something. She treated their relationship as exclusive. It must have meant something.

But he did not. But he was prepared to do that now, he thought. He would never be immune to the charms of other women, of course, but he could keep his gun holstered. Even if it was unnatural. For him. At least he was willing to give it a try. Being exclusive with Sarah Walker did not seem too high a price to pay for being with Sarah Walker.

Bryce really did not know her very well, but that was all right. Theirs had never been a relationship predicated on knowledge of one another. He never asked her about her past. She never offered. He knew of her agency past and that was enough. She seemed to feel the same way. Neither of them could depend on the future, given the life expectancy of agents who did what they did, so they had never peered ahead. They were what they were, no less, but no more either. There was no vector of growth in what they had, only the hope of maintenance.

He was puzzled, though. He had been since he woke up in Burbank and especially since he kissed her. Something had felt strange about her and about the kiss, unfamiliar. She responded, but her heart hadn't been in it. Why? Yes, she thought he was dead. But he wasn't. All good. No, Burbank had changed her. He was not going to be able to win her back as he hoped until he figured out why and how.

If he had not known better, he'd have thought there was something real under her couple cover with Chuck. If he had not known better: but he did. First, Sarah was the consummate professional; she did not break the rules or overstep her boundaries. Second, Casey had to have watched them like some evil-tempered bird of prey. And third: C'mon, man...Bartowski? Chuck was great and everything, but he was a boy and he always would be. He had no chance with anything that did not come with an instruction manual. Sarah Walker certainly did not come with an instruction manual. And look at the ruin Chuck had let his life become after what Bryce had done for him at Stanford.

Yes, Chuck had friends, and Bryce would admit a twinge of envy there. But the friends were the League of Losers, all clad in Buy More green, the time-clock at the store ticking off the moments of their lives. Besides, Bryce had basically given up on friends when he'd saved Chuck from the CIA. Bryce thought of what he had done for Chuck as the first heroic sacrifice in a life of quiet patriotism.

ooOoo

Sarah had been adrift in her thoughts. The barista called out, "Sarah?"

Sarah answered reflexively, holding up her hand, her mind elsewhere. "Here I am!"

The barista located her, and as she did, Sarah heard another voice, a familiar voice.

"Sarah? What are the odds? Wait, Sarah, what are you doing in New Orleans?" Ellie had Devon in tow, and they were both suddenly standing in front of Sarah.

ooOoo

June Thorne was sitting in her seat on the plane, her short, jet black hair slicked down. She was dressed in a short, snug black dress and black high-heel sandals, decorated with multiple silver buckles on the straps that climbed to her knees. She crossed her legs and admired them. She knew the men in the seats across from her were admiring them, too. Fine, let the sons of bitches go home and work it out, rhythmically admiring the memory of her. She crossed her legs again, just to give the men another, better angle, a close-up of the other ankle. June found the power of being desirable intoxicating, as always. Exercising power of any sort always intoxicated her.

The plane would be in the air soon. She looked again at Bartowski's photo. She laughed to herself as she had each time she looked at it as she went through the file. She'd flipped back to it several times. Although June wouldn't use the term aloud in mixed company, she couldn't help but think it to herself.

What a pussy.

A/N2 Ouch. POVs are fun, but the interiors of some heads are frustrating, and some are dark carnivals. This story is going to let the characters speak and think for themselves. Buckle in, buckle up. Tune in next time for Chapter 4, "Home Away from Home".