A/N: Part two of the interim. Took a bit longer than expected due to work deadlines. Priorities, I know. If only FF paid the bills. Anyway, enjoy. Next up, First Date. I'm so looking forward to writing Season 2.

The first time we learned about Fulcrum, what we learned came from Bryce, after he had returned from the dead right before Thanksgiving. I say we, meaning Operation Bartowski, for I know that both Graham and Beckman had been aware of Fulcrum way before Bryce sent Chuck the Intersect to keep it out of Fulcrum's hands. It was much more complicated than that once it was all fleshed out, but for explanation's sake, it's easier to talk in the moment sometimes, remembering what it was that we thought, as opposed to what was really going on. Fulcrum was an individual faction within The Ring, a much larger cabal of enemy agents, and though I had never heard about them other than in whispers overheard at Langley, the intelligence community was aware of their activities as far back as 2003. My red test had involved The Ring, though I never knew it at the time.

Fulcrum's goal, and, truth be told, The Ring's goal as well, was to build their own Intersect. We gradually learned of this in bits and pieces, but it made sense. Misinformation abounded, of course, and I'm sure that helped to fuel that desire to obtain. It sounded ominous on paper–super soldiers, killing machines, programmable with intelligence and all-knowing in the field. Their agents, Intersect-ed if you will, would be unstoppable against the CIA or the NSA. We found out later just how flawed their intel was, how incomplete. But in mid 2008, they were trying to win the war before we could get our soldiers deployed.

Now, I know that Fulcrum's leader, Ted Roark, was a former associate of Orion, Chuck's father. Roark knew all about the Intersect–what Orion had created with a small group of scientists he led. Some type of falling out had occurred and Roark and Orion parted ways, bad feelings all around. Orion went into hiding, for reasons I will explain later, and Roark started his own software company that rivaled Apple and Microsoft. But he wanted the Intersect…because he wanted to win, and believed he couldn't, not completely, without that advantage.

Orion was the genius; Roark had been fumbling around and failing for 20 years, at least when it came to the Intersect. Fulcrum's plan was to steal the Intersect in possession of the U.S. government. Part of it was for everything we already knew–the secrets in Chuck's head that existed nowhere else, everything the United States would want kept out of the hands of enemy agents. The other part was the program itself. They couldn't effectively create one, so they wanted to steal a functioning version to reverse engineer.

So not only did Graham, Beckman, and Casey know that the U.S. was rebuilding the Intersect after Bryce destroyed it, so did Fulcrum, and The Ring. I really was the last one to know–by design. I introduced complications into their plans because of the way I felt about Chuck, something that became harder and harder to deny to everyone.

I was keeping my head down and trying to follow Bryce's advice after Lizzie was eliminated. I wish I knew what he knew, why he said what he said. Fulcrum thought Bryce had the Intersect, and they were hunting him. Fulcrum had bugged the Buy More because Tommy had been taken down there–the one agent who had figured out it wasn't Bryce, but Chuck. Those bugs were meant to lead them to Bryce, hoping to figure something out by listening to our conversations. Lizzie knew the truth, and she'd died for that knowledge.

I had no proof, I never had any proof, but I am almost certain it was Bryce who executed her. His mission, given by Beckman, was to take down Fulcrum. Lizzie was a loose end, a loose end that threatened Chuck's safety. Did Bryce know more about Graham than he let on? Or was it just that same old sixth sense that we'd both had, especially after the leak we were almost sure he had looked the other way about, potentially to profit for himself.

Oftentimes, when I was alone in my hotel room and unable to sleep, my mind would build things and take them apart, the strategic movements of my mind unstoppable at times. One night, I happened to start thinking about this scenario. Lizzie was remanded to CIA custody, and was in a holding cell inside a CIA facility. Bryce was pretending to be a double agent, posing as Fulcrum. It had to be how he had gotten inside, for everyone in the CIA still thought Bryce was dead. Fulcrum had someone on the inside. We already knew Fulcrum had agents in every agency. That wasn't the issue.

What happened in situations like that? Once the CIA called in the cleaners, local law enforcement was almost always left to put everything back together. No one would know they were actually watching cleaners in action–they appeared as police or firefighters or whomever the scene dictated. The scene at the dumpster–the cleaners were posing as police officers, but that also meant someone from LAPD, someone legitimate, would have been dispatched as well. Bryce had obviously made his way through their blockades to get to Lizzie's cell. The only way that was possible was if Fulcrum was running interference.

Fulcrum had to have someone in the LAPD. The agents didn't seem to directly know each other, rather forming loose associations most likely without identity exchange. It had to be that way, or else Bryce would have been able to tell us who it was that gained him access, and for that matter, he would have been instantly identifiable to every Fulcrum member, and he wasn't. He had no idea. They also had no idea that he was on his way to kill their mole, or I know the assistance they offered would never have been put forth.

So Bryce was hiding out again. Had Fulcrum put something together, suspecting Bryce was not who he was claiming to be? His warning about Graham came back to me. Graham now knew everything. If Graham had been compromised or extorted, the truth about Bryce was the hottest selling secret in D.C. But that also meant once Fulcrum found out the truth, Chuck would never be safe again.

I was still wrestling with this knowledge, this hypothesis, when we were assigned another mission. Beckman alone delivered the briefing. Even small things like that tripped the wire on my spy senses, and made me question. Was he really just detained elsewhere? Or was Beckman parsing the information to him? Did she have her own questions? Just what had she shared with Graham about Bryce? I stayed calm and neutral, even to Casey. I trusted him more than I trusted either of the others, but I still didn't completely trust him. Perhaps I had started to, especially after he had allowed me to go after Chuck once the bunker order had gone out, but I was wary again, mostly because of the Bryce information.

Beckman explained that there was credible intelligence that Fulcrum agents had infiltrated the Los Angeles police department. This ended up being true, only we never proved it here. This particular mission failed, so to speak, another reason to distrust Graham, but I'm getting ahead of myself here. Beckman explained that in the past three months, almost all of the scenes where we had called in CIA cleaners, mission specifics had been passed to Fulcrum. How she knew that, she never told us, as with every other time, we didn't necessarily need to know at this point. What she did mention was the newest U.S. government project, rebuilding the Intersect. She left out the part about Chuck, specifically to keep me in the dark.

Our orders: A fake mission. One that would require us calling CIA cleaners, false intelligence disseminated, and then us tracing the false evidence back to the source. It reminded me more of an elaborate con, something I would have done with my father, but her rationale was sound, at face value. She signed off, telling us she would be in touch.

The next morning, we had a routine briefing, Chuck included, in Casey's apartment. Beckman and Graham together, telling us about the potential theft of classified information from a CIA substation near Van Nuys. Chuck astutely asked straight out…how could they think the theft was potential? Either whatever they were talking about was still there or it wasn't. Beckman told him they believed it could be an inside job, the intelligence copied. Our job was to first check if the data had been compromised, and second to track down the leak if it had been compromised and to contain it. We were scheduled to leave late that evening.

An encrypted text from Beckman to only Casey and me told us this was the fake mission. So Graham and Chuck were in the dark, thinking everything was just as she'd explained to us. I was sure about Chuck's status, and afraid to ask Casey just what and how much Graham knew. I wasn't even sure he would tell me the truth, and now with my hindsight, I'm sure he wouldn't have. I didn't like heading into a dangerous situation without all of the facts, but I didn't have a choice here. I just reminded myself my primary mission was to protect Chuck, and everything else, including my orders, was secondary. I knew I was vowing something that most certainly was contrary to Casey, my partner's, goals here, but there was nothing else I could do.

We took our spy van, the most inconspicuous vehicle we could use that fit all three of us. We drove to Van Nuys. It was dark, so most of the scenery wasn't visible, just a murky, starless sky. After about an hour, we arrived.

Substations were routinely hidden in plain sight, an outward façade that appeared innocuous, hiding its true purpose. The address checked, this tiny building that looked like a repurposed school building that had a sign out front that seemed to indicate the business front was risk management consulting. Ingenious of course; it could explain comings and goings without routine customer traffic in and out of the building. Being late evening, the building was closed up and dark, although we were assured that inside, there would still be a CIA presence.

A fake mission, I reminded myself. Nothing had been compromised, and everyone inside the substation would have been unsuspecting. We were investigating the cleaners, and the corresponding LAPD response. We were there with the supposed intention of scanning their database to search for a breach. We were the breach, uploading false information about an information processing unit for the new Intersect computer. We just had to do it without the guard's knowledge, and make it appear that what we were investigating was legitimate.

I should have had a little more faith in Chuck's intelligence before we went in. We weren't instructed to not inform Chuck of the secret mission behind the mission, but there was some reason why Beckman told us but not Chuck. Now, I'm sure it was because Beckman was afraid he would say something in front of Graham. Chuck didn't question anything until he saw me at the actual computer, after we had bypassed the building security and made it to the server room undetected.

"Sarah, you're not scanning the database, you're corrupting the database," Chuck said to me, disbelief in his voice. He knew better than to jump to conclusions, but he had every right to question.

"Did you flash?" I asked him, wondering if his deduction was his own or the Intersect's. Often, his insight and intelligence were what he utilized, not only the Intersect in its most basic functionality.

"No, but you're uploading, not downloading," he interjected. He continued, in a sentence so full of computer jargon I can't remember it now. Something technical that he just knew, being the computer engineer he was.

"We're planting false intel," I said in a clipped voice as I counted down, waiting for the software to upload.

"That wasn't part of the mission, was it?" he asked me.

"Chuck, please, questions later," I implored him. "Beckman gave these orders."

"So, she doesn't trust Graham, huh?" he asked so plainly, he floored me.

I had to wait several seconds before my breath steadied. "Up to a point, only, as far as I can tell," I murmured.

The upload was complete. I pulled the equipment, stowed it, and tried to put everything back the way it had been before we arrived.

"You don't trust him either, do you?" he asked me, posing the question, but with the assured tone that he was right.

"I don't trust anyone, Chuck," I told him matter-of-factly.

He looked sad, his eyes glistening, as I said that. "Do you trust me, Sarah?" he asked softly.

Of course I did, I thought. I had, from the moment I had met him, when I defied my orders and chose to protect him at all costs. He was the only person I had ever fully trusted in my entire life, the partial trusts of others paling in comparison. I hadn't included him in that statement, because I was thinking about the CIA and spying and the mission. He was my asset, he was on the mission with us, spying, but still, he was separate. More important, in a class by himself inside my head. I didn't know how to explain myself out of that without either hurting him or betraying my feelings.

Fortunately, Casey on the com interrupted at the most opportune time, and I never had to answer. I knew the matter wasn't forgotten; it was too important. But it gave me time to think, to find a way to express myself in just the right way.

"Time for the fireworks, Walker," Casey said into my earpiece. He was blowing the doors, creating the need for the cleaners. "Get yourself and Bartowski clear."

We pulled the tranq'd guard clear, exited the building, and Casey remotely detonated the C4 he had attached to the door, away from the equipment in the server room. Logically speaking, the entire scene didn't make any sense, the explosion only making it appear more strange. Fortunately, the cleaners never asked questions. Their job was clear–pretend to be whoever they were supposed to be, and put everything back the way it had been before the CIA and or NSA had shown up and destroyed everything. The equipment they utilized was varied and extensive, and they were expert restoration specialists. The kind of damage we had done on this phony mission was about four hours of work for the cleaners.

Then we waited. We had retreated to the spy van, observing the location from a far. Casey filed the report to Beckman, something he routinely did, but I made sure I read it over his shoulder, that he wasn't telling her anything he hadn't told me. If he thought I was suspicious, he never said so. I had learned how to observe without being obvious, and I think it worked well in this situation. Even Chuck didn't really notice what I was doing.

We watched the cleaners in action. I made sure I distinguished the cleaners from the actual presence sent from the L.A. police. Two actual officers, in uniform, in one patrol car.

I was in the front with Casey and Chuck was behind us. He flashed, out of my sight. "Guys, I think one of those officers is a Fulcrum agent," he said hurriedly, slightly breathless, which cued me on the fact that this time, he had flashed.

Casey and I exchanged a glance. "Did you flash on a face?" I asked.

"His badge," Chuck explained. "I just saw mostly redacted stuff, but the CIA has an incomplete file."

"Sounds like what Beckman was looking for, don't you think?" Casey announced. His gun was out. "Come on, Chuck," he ordered. "Let's get a better look. See if that computer in your head has any more info."

I wanted to protest, but I didn't. Casey was acting appropriately, knowing sometimes Chuck flashed in succession, based on what he saw or heard. The first flash had been incomplete; I had heard that when he explained. My trepidation was merely fear that something would happen to him. The risks needed to outweigh the benefits for my argument to hold–and this time, considering what was at stake, the reasoning was flawed.

The moment Casey and Chuck were inside, the building exploded.

Instantaneously, I was blinded by the flash of the fireball as it rose into the air. The ground beneath the van rumbled like an earthquake. I felt the tires lift off the ground and then settle roughly. I covered my ears with my palms to block out the deafening noise. The force, even inside the van, had knocked me from the chair to the floor. It took several seconds for me to get my bearings, to understand what I had just seen.

Explosion.

Casey.

Chuck. Chuck.

I wasn't even all the way upright, but I grabbed the latch for the door and stumbled out of the van. The heat from the burning building hit me in the face, making it difficult for me to breathe. The air reeked of burning wood and chemicals. The scene was unrecognizable from how the building had appeared when we arrived. The police car was tossed clear, on its roof and blackened, on fire. I couldn't see the spot where the door they had entered had been.

To be completely honest, I don't remember much of the story here as it played out. I could blame it on my faulty memory, as I'm retelling this, but I have multiple instances of this, all of which involve shock, when I believed I had seen Chuck die. I was trained to maintain peak functionality, even in severe cases of stress and trauma. There are many situations that I remember that Chuck is hazy about, especially before he downloaded the 2.0, when his fear and uncertainty would cloud his cognitive function. All of my training was useless when my mind tried to compartmentalize Chuck's death in the heat of battle.

Something that devastating, all encompassing, could not be compartmentalized. I know I screamed, for I was hoarse for days after this. I don't remember what I said or what my voice sounded like. I also know I at least tried to approach the building, for I had first degree burns on my face and neck. I don't remember when or how, or even the pain of the burn at the flashpoint against my skin.

My memory starts again at the same time I believe my heart started beating again, when I started breathing again. Emerging from what appeared to be a cement wall free standing in the fire, I saw Casey, with Chuck slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Casey's face was blackened with soot.

He was running, and then he was there, speaking, though I couldn't hear anything coherent. I was grabbing at Chuck as Casey was gently lowering him to the ground from his grasp. I touched Chuck's face, also blackened. He had a dark, angry bruise on the side of his forehead that appeared to be bleeding. I leaned close, relieved when I felt his breath against my cheek, his heartbeat beneath my hand that rested on his breastbone. Casey was calling 911.

In between panting breaths, Casey explained. "We were lucky. Inside the firewall in the stairwell. Another foot forward and we would both have been blown to bits. This was deliberate, meant for us."

I didn't know how he could be so sure, but I wasn't thinking clearly,

"Chuck?" I asked, hearing the weepy fear in my voice. "Chuck, can you hear me?"

He moaned in pain, his eyelids fluttering. I saw one eye open, and then he squeezed his eyes shut. "Light…hurts," he gasped painfully.

"Concussion, most likely," I told him, more to assure myself than to inform him. "You're ok," I said softly, grasping his hand and holding it. I pushed everything else out of my mind–the mission, its complications, how we could explain these injuries to Ellie in a way that wouldn't raise suspicions. Nothing mattered but his breathing. In…out…in…out. It kept me grounded, kept me sane.

The extreme stress of that, of hyper-focusing all of my strength and energy into just being present with him until he was alright, caused more holes in my memory as I now think back. I know I rode in the ambulance with him, and vaguely remember telling the ambulance driver to divert to another hospital, not Westside, concerned about Ellie and Devon. Wiltshire was closer to us anyway, so it wasn't that strange a request, although I did flash my credentials to ensure he knew he was following my orders.

I remember the sick feeling I had once they took him away from me when the ambulance arrived, and they told me to wait. Casey was there, somewhere, milling around later, but if he talked to me, I don't remember it. I remember throwing up in the public restroom in the emergency room, unsure if the tears I was crying were from the burning in my throat or the helplessness I felt.

The next clear memory I have was being allowed into his room, after the doctor explained he only had a mild concussion, a few lacerations, and contusions. Nothing serious, and they were discharging him in a few hours. Casey had to do a lot of paperwork as the senior agent, especially when civilians ended up involved due to the extenuating circumstances such as this. That paperwork kept him busy, thank goodness, for whatever else he may or may not have suspected about what I felt for Chuck, him seeing me the way I was in his hospital room would have given everything away, of that I have no doubt.

Chuck was sitting up, alert, but a little loopy from whatever pain medication they had administered. He smiled at me first, that calm, relaxed smile he saved just for me. I don't know what I looked like, probably an absolute wreck, fresh from vomiting and crying. Even drugged, he saw that, his smile fading as he turned concerned eyes to me. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said, forcing a smile and fighting more tears. I sat on the cot next to him and rested my cheek on his shoulder, turning my face away from his. "I'm just glad…you're ok," I said, perhaps a little more breathlessly than I had hoped.

As much as I kept him guessing about my true feelings for so long, there was very little I could hide from him, no matter what I did. He had to have sensed at least a bit of what I was feeling. He never said anything, just gathered my messy hair into his hand and pulled it back to my other shoulder. He rested the same hand in the center of my back, comforting me, though he had been the one injured.

We stayed like that for a long time. I never said anything else, but I could hear my voice inside my head. I was in love with him, I told myself. It was impossible, unactable. The argument continued…my job and my intentions. Before, there had never been a distinction between the two. I had to protect him, but did my emotions put him at risk, more than he already was? How could I continue living if he was killed, because I had failed to protect him, failed in my mission? The answer, short and cruel, was that I couldn't. My life was forfeit for his; it had to be.

As hard as it was, I had to ignore those feelings. I vowed that I would, that I could. Only, I had no idea how strongly I felt all of that for him. It seems crazy, but I had no prior knowledge about those feelings. What they would make me do, make me say…or not do, not say…for his sake.

He had become the focal point for my entire life, something new, unheard of. I was more than a little scared. And definitely hopeless.

But, through all of this, he loved me too, just as much, just as strongly and inexplicably. He would not leave me hopeless. In fact, the hope that I found, mirrored in his eyes whenever I looked at him, is what allowed me to keep going. It still does. I was only just first learning that here.