A/N: A few things I planned on addressing based on comments. Specifically Sarah acting OOC. I am extrapolating, obviously, since her background is spotty. She is different, even the first moment we see her, than she was in the past. "Baby" drives this home if we look at the series as a whole. We see part of that in Phase Three, tempered because of her motivation. Casey comments as well.

Carina was a horrible friend if we look at the series. A spy, out for her own interests and less concerned for Sarah than Sarah was for her (Pakistan comment.). By "Cliffhanger" she has come around…mostly. That problematic situation started somewhere.

Sarah and Bryce—assuming she cared about him, which is implied in the show more than once. She never wanted Chuck to know anything about her—because he was different. Here, she and Bryce have common ground in a lonely and isolating world. She didn't tell him EVERYTHING but she at least answered his questions. I believe she would have been more forthcoming about what Bryce asks her, because he was a spy, unlike Chuck.

If she cared for Bryce why did she stay at the end of Nemesis? It was obviously a difficult decision. She is packed and ready to go when both phones start ringing. She chose Chuck at that moment. My rationale—it's hinted at when my Sarah is describing Bryce in Chapter 12. She will further explain, but it hinges on one word. Trust.

Anyway, more Brarah…

Gustafson was scheduled to meet Temmer in the restaurant located on the ground floor of another hotel close by. Bryce had shown up at my hotel room door first thing in the morning. After flashing a dashing smile, commenting about my roll-out-of-bed beauty, and getting under my skin with both of those, he gave me a long briefing about this leg of the mission, the plan that he had devised on the fly, using his autonomy as an agent.

We knew Gustafson was a double agent, willing to transfer nuclear information to Temmer to be sold to the highest bidder. Bryce was certain it started with Gustafson, but it couldn't have ended solely with him. He was willingly passing the information, with no evidence of compensation for it. Temmer was the one making the money. Gustafson's motivation was something else. We needed the actual information, to keep it out of the hands of the bad actors, but we also needed to know why.

Bryce devised the plan, but he never did so in a way that made me feel like he thought he was in charge. We were partners. He didn't say it, but he treated me that way, asking for my input…explaining everything so there were no surprises. It was contrary to how I had always worked in the past, minus the few times when as pairs in the CATs we worked that way, like in Pyongyang with Zondra. Carina was the queen of surprises–in more ways than one…springing things on me at the last minute, changing the plan dynamically without explaining her actions or worrying about their consequences downstream.

Outside of the bedroom as well, Bryce taught me. I learned how to be a spy, an honest to goodness spy. Everything I had done up to this point somehow felt…off, like I wasn't quite doing what I was meant to do. Either too easy…or too hard, with no room to use my talents in between. Don't get me wrong–spying was no dream job, not for me anyway. I wasn't lying when I told Bryce it saved my life, because it did. I was coerced, but my only other option at the time was jail, or maybe juvenile detention…becoming a ward of the court if my mother couldn't be located. I would have no hope of an education or employment, alone in the world at 17. The CIA was my best path forward considering how narrow the path out of hopelessness truly was. He was right when he told me I had been alone too long…right when he knew but didn't say if I continued down the path I was on when he met me, I would have burned out very young. Being Bryce's partner tempered my relationship with the CIA…made it bearable. He had a lot of bravado, and it surfaced in different situations, but deep down, he thought of himself as a savior.

Not megalomaniacal, mind you. More like the heroes in his mind that he was trying to emulate by pursuing this life as a spy. I didn't know it then, but he had already saved Chuck at this point. I was his next soul to save. I had thought he might have been trying to do that then…learning years later that was in fact the case, after I knew the truth about Chuck and him at Stanford. Bad judgment, poor decisions, and underestimated expertise put aside, Bryce did save me. For all the turmoil he caused, I will always be thankful for that. It was incomplete here in 2005, because of what the only alternative to my current state was, provided what he could offer, as a spy. Chuck completely saved me…in every way that a person could be saved. I think that's a line from a movie, one that Chuck made me sit down and watch with him. The fact that I can quote pop culture movies now just shows how much he really did.

The CIA saved me from my father. Bryce saved me from rotting my soul away to a place where it couldn't be redeemed. Chuck saved me from the CIA…basically resetting my life to a place where it should have gone had my life not been derailed by my parents when I was very young. Saying this about Chuck, here, is important, because, like I have explained, Chuck is who truly made the difference in my life. He was my source of hope, in an otherwise hopeless world. It was a struggle, since the first day I met him, because of our situation, but I stayed and endured that, because that flame of hope had started burning even then, and I could not bear to let it go out. It was too much a metaphor for the light inside my soul. But I had a long way to go until my heart woke up and made the true comparison between Bryce and Chuck, and what they meant to me.

Bryce and I were posing as a couple, casually dressed and arm in arm. Bryce approached the front desk in the lobby, beaming with a charming and disarming smile. "Good morning, Andre," he said in English, playing the tourist, suavely reading the clerk's name tag and addressing him by his name, a simple way to earn part of his trust. "My name is Bryce Anderson, and this is my wife, Sarah," he added, gesturing to me. I smiled, letting my appearance distract the clerk, fully aware of the CIA's hard work to finely hone my seductress persona. He produced a hotel key card from his pocket and slid it across the desk towards the clerk.

"We were on our way to breakfast, and we realized we lost our keycard. We don't have a way to get back into our room," Bryce explained.

"Of course, sir," Andre replied calmly, in mildly accented Portuguese, used to using English in an international hotel and dealing with guests.

I scanned behind me, nodding almost imperceptibly to let Bryce know the corridor was clear. I watched his eyes flicker to the corridor on the opposite side, also noting it was empty. The moment Andre turned to walk away, probably in search of a replacement keycard, Bryce pulled out his tranq gun and shot him, the dart landing squarely in the clerk's shoulder. Painless, as the man didn't flinch at all, just slowly crumpled to the floor behind the desk. We moved fast. Bryce sailed over the counter, planting his palms flat on the counter top and swinging his legs over like the desk itself was a pommel horse. He ducked down below counter level and removed the man's name tag.

He was in the process of attaching the name tag to his own chest while I was tasked with dragging Andrew's unconscious form away from the main lobby. To the immediate left of the desk was a supply closet. I dragged him inside, scanning to be certain this was where he would have gone anyway, had he been moving to complete the request we had made of him. I pulled the dart out of his shoulder, knowing he would wake in an hour or so, thinking he had merely fainted on his way in here.

I emerged from the closet, seeing Bryce scanning for me in his peripheral vision. I nodded ever so slightly to let him know we were secure. I moved farther down the corridor, pretending to be entering from the elevator. He grabbed the intercom on the desk next to the phone and toggled the button. "Will Dr. Linus Gustafson please report to the concierge desk in the main lobby? Dr. Linus Gustafson, concierge desk." He repeated the phrase in perfect, unaccented Portuguese. I was surprised, not having seen those skills in him yet.

He sounded bland, using the perfect tone the clerk would have used to page him, to take a phone call or to be delivered a message. Gustafson was already in the restaurant, and his contact was very late, over an hour at this point. All the more reasonable why someone would be calling him and he needed a page. I was sauntering, appearing to be searching in my purse, a way to compensate for my slow forward motion as I waited. Bryce's eyes flickered back to me, indicating he could see Gustafson approaching. He kept his head down, appearing to do more of the clerk's work.

I started moving forward again with my leisurely, tourist pace. He wasn't alone as he walked; there were a handful of people who must have left the restaurant around the same time. No matter, I could have picked him out anywhere. He looked nervous, and the more I watched him, the more apparent it became how terrified he was. His motions were jerky and twitchy. He was sweating profusely, though it was comfortably air-conditioned inside the hotel. His eyes darted around like a hunted animal.

I looked down, reaching for my purse again, and intentionally collided with him. My purse slid from my arm and bounced on the floor, all the contents on the inside scattering on the floor through the open zipper. I gushed an apology in Portuguese, intentionally thickening my words to make sure he heard my American accent and not the perfect Portuguese I could speak. That close to him, I could hear how close to hyperventilating he was, my interference in his movements making it worse. I stooped at his feet, mumbling in English, reaching for the scattered items.

Reluctantly, he bent at his knees, at least looking like he wanted to appear polite and help me gather my things. His eyes never stopped darting around, though. He was wary of a trap. I bent forward, knowing the neckline of my shirt would flap open. My cleavage was enough to distract him, even in his heightened state of awareness. That was all Bryce needed. He sailed across the counter again in the opposite direction, a perfect repeat of his gymnastic move.

Bryce's real gun was pressed against the small of Gustafson's back before he could even straighten up. I scooped up the last of the paraphernalia on the floor and then froze. "You're coming with me," Bryce said firmly, under his breath.

I stood, making it clear with just my posture and a stern face that I was with Bryce, and we were all leaving together. He walked with us, at gunpoint, out of the lobby and into the street. Bryce forced him into the backseat of his car and I handcuffed him to the door handle. "Who are you? What do you want?" he kept asking as we drove.

Bryce stayed silent, adding to Gustafson's panicked anxiety. I knew he was waiting for Gustafson to say something else, something that he wouldn't have otherwise divulged unless he was frantic. Gustafson amazed me, but he never did, just kept demanding we tell him who we were and what we were doing, what we were planning. I found myself struggling to stay calm, suddenly having flashbacks of last night's similar scenario. The car, the impending interrogation…Would he be number 15? Did Bryce expect that I would just kill him too, once we found out what we needed? It was my job. It had always bothered me, but I had been able to bury it, pretend that it didn't, until now. Now it was eating away at me. The situation…the environment…my inability to run from it…all was taking its toll.

Fortunately for me, if Bryce noticed my internal struggles at all, he never gave any outward sign. Nor did he ever answer Gustafson's questions. He drove that same way, weaving expertly through the cars, speeding on the straight-aways. This time it wasn't as enjoyable a ride. It was adding to my growing trepidation with the entire scenario. We were back at the same building, where Bryce had his base set up. It took all the strength I had to remain neutral and unaffected to be back in the same place where just 12 hours ago Bryce had tortured a man, whom he later watched me kill.

Did Gustafson know where we were? What was happening? I didn't know how he could have, but his demeanor changed the moment Bryce pulled him inside the room and locked the door.

"You're CIA, aren't you? Aren't you?" Gustafson demanded, using anger to cover the fear that was leeching out of every pore.

Bryce was calm and cold, like the surface of a frozen lake after a raging blizzard. "You have information. We want an answer. Why are you in Lisbon, Doctor?" he asked.

"Where is Temmer?" Gustafson asked, his voice suddenly shrill again.

"Temmer is dead," Bryce barked back at him. "You're going to tell us what you were going to tell him. All of it." I sensed the menacing tone, waiting for the violence to take over the moment.

The news of Temmer's demise made Gustafson crumble to pieces as we stood and watched. He was muttering to himself frantically, babbling at times. What I did hear was at the end of an almost minute long tirade. "You have to help me…please…you have to help me…We're on the same side!"

"We most certainly are not," I growled in reply. "You are a traitor…passing information to people who want to sell it to the highest bidder."

"You…you don't understand," he stuttered out. "They have my family. They're dead unless Temmer reports back with the information! If he's dead…then…then…the deadline will pass…and…"

Bryce was unswayed, I could tell. But 17 years of learning to read people was impossible to shake, no matter what else I was doing. I knew, deep down, this man was telling the truth. He wasn't selling anything, just as Bryce had explained. We were looking for the additional motivation, and I was sure we had just found it. He was being blackmailed, handing out the information against his will, with no other option…no choice. The CIA would have taken Gustafson's family as collateral damage, not worth compromising the nuclear safety of the entire nation. That was logical sense, something I never would have argued with. I didn't here, but it was an argument I would later hear Chuck make on multiple occasions. He couldn't choose between the safety of his family and the safety of the entire world. For him anyway, the only compromise always seemed to be his own safety instead, forfeited for family and unknown innocents both.

"He's telling the truth," I whispered to Bryce.

He didn't disagree out loud, or tell me I was crazy or I was wrong. All he asked was, "Are you sure?" When I told him I was, he believed me. I don't know why he did, just like that, but he did.

"They're here in Lisbon with you," Bryce said, telling him, not asking him.

Gustafson got weepy. "They're going to kill them no matter what. I know that. He brought them here to threaten me. I was trying to buy some time…I just…"

"We'll help you. But you have to tell us everything you know, right now. We're almost if not just out of time. We need to move now," Bryce said urgently.

Gustafson talked for almost 15 minutes straight, almost without taking a breath. He told us all about the international terrorists that had recruited Temmer. The same terrorists that were in the process of securing nuclear weapons intelligence for North Korea. Gustafson was a scientist, but an expert in the type of warhead that North Korea was trying to secure. Not the old school World War II type of weapon, or even the more advanced H bomb type of weapon. They wanted smaller, more manageable nuclear bombs–the kind that could fit in the head of an ICBM or intermediate-range missile. Gustafson had been specifically delivering information about how to increase the yield and range of said missiles…making them a potential threat to the North American continent.

Armed with that information, Bryce, posing as Temmer, made contact with the terrorists. They gave him a set of coordinates to deliver the information. Bryce called a tactical team and had them on stand-by. I went to get Gustafson's wife and son away from their captors.

I double and triple checked the coordinates, and then waited outside, surveilling the building and its external cameras. I disabled the electronic surveillance equipment by disrupting the outside power flow, then decoded the lock on the door and went inside. I waited in the shadows and observed. I could see the victims, both tied to chairs with their hands behind their backs. They looked frightened and traumatized, although from my vantage point, physically unharmed. There were five guards. Difficult, but far from impossible to handle by myself. I had a small contingent of tactical officers at my disposal, but in a scenario where stealth was key, it was always scaled back. A large tactical presence added variables that made spying–moving and acting in silence and unobserved–difficult. They were ready to move on my mark, but I had to go in first alone. It was the only way to keep the hostages from becoming collateral damage.

I advanced slowly with my weapon drawn. I waited until the guards were in the perfect formation, standing mostly away from the hostages. I was able to take out three of them before they became aware of what was happening. All three dropped after my silenced gunshots simultaneously. I had been firing my weapon almost exclusively in one-perfect-shot scenarios, but target practice at the Farm had been ingrained, and came back to serve me well here.

I rolled out of the way when the remaining two turned their weapons in the direction of the gunfire and started shooting. Gustafson's wife and son started screaming, terrified as the situation became more dangerous. They were just reacting emotionally, but I used it to my advantage, allowing their noisy hysteria to create a slight diversion. I made sure the guards had moved away from the hostages, no chance of stray bullets or friendly fire causing serious harm. They lost my location–I knew, I could see it in the wild way they were scanning, aiming their guns haphazardly into the dark. The last two shots that took them down came at them from behind, no telltale flash from the muzzle of my gun visible to them when I fired. I gave the signal for tactical advancement.

I found out later there were a few extra guards elsewhere in the building that the tactical unit neutralized. They had been unaware of my approach because I had disabled the surveillance. I let them work while I went to free the Gustafsons. "I work for the CIA," I told them quickly, as I worked to untie them. "Dr. Gustafson is safe. We're working with him. I'll get you to safety."

"They were forcing him to give up his plans. He…he works with nuclear weapons research," his wife stammered, obviously concerned not just for her and her husband's safety, but also the potential damage his blackmail may have caused to the safety of the world.

"We know. He's helping us to stop the terrorists. He just needs to know you're safe. We're doing everything we can to make sure the terrorists don't get the information," I assured them.

Once I untied Gustafson's son, a young teenager, probably 13 or 14, he dove at me, hugging me tightly. I could feel how tense he was, trembling with fear. I was taken aback, stiff arms at my side in shock at the action. I glanced over his shoulder at his mother and saw the obvious gratitude in her eyes as well. Awkwardly, I returned the embrace quickly…this young boy who was hugging the person he had just witnessed kill five people.

It hit me like a tidal wave in that split second. I had used my skills this time not to merely destroy…but to save. It was similar to my decision to save Carina, though Carina had a hand in creating the very problem that had endangered her life to begin with. Only it was more, purer, if you will. These were innocent people, and I had rescued them. The lives I had taken had been to ultimately protect them. I liked the way it made me feel, so close to the thoughts I had originally entertained when I had convinced myself at the Farm the reasons why I could do the job of CIA officer.

The tactical team and the CIA cleaners took over the scene, and I took the Gustafson's back to rendezvous with Bryce. The CIA took them into protective custody. I facilitated the family reunion, assuring them all that the circumstances of the situation would be taken into account, the charge of treason not set in stone, considering his coercion as well as his eventual cooperation.

I arrived back on the scene while the CIA was taking the terrorists Bryce had apprehended into custody. We had reports to write, statements to give, information to be exchanged. There was a lot of standing around. "Nice job, partner," Bryce said, half-teasing, with a devilish smile on his face, bumping into my shoulder. It sort of shocked me, but I have to admit, I liked the way he said it made me feel. I hadn't had a partner, a real partner, since I had trained with Sam at the Farm. Graham had kept me isolated after I had left the CATs. In the same instant, I felt sad, almost wistful, feeling like this situation was temporary. That I would return to Washington and then just resume my role as the CIA's most ruthless and successful assassin.

The CIA was moving one of the terrorists into the vehicle to move him off site when they lost control of their charge. Bryce was busy talking to the CIA liaison in charge of the scene, his head bent down over a clipboard, probably waiting to sign on the correct line. He didn't see from my vantage point, as I watched the terrorist overpower his guard, pull a gun from the man's holster, and turn to fire it in our direction. It happened lightning fast. All I could do was act, jumping towards Bryce, tackling him to the ground, as the bullet pierced the chest of the liaison Bryce had just been talking to. It hit his vest, but he still went down crashing beside us on the pavement. Over our heads, more agents were reacting, and the threat was neutralized. His only motivation in that act had been an attempt to kill Bryce, just because he wanted to. He had no hope of escape, no way out of his situation.

Bryce was face down on the pavement, and I was pressed against his back. I slowly shuffled my weight, sliding to get my legs underneath me so I could stand. I reached down my hand to pull him to his feet. While I was doing that, I watched the fallen liaison officer, coughing and poking at the bullet lodged in his vest, directly over what would have been his heart. Bryce turned, kneeling down beside the other man. "Are you all right?" he asked, pulling at the restraints that secured the vest. He was nodding and coughing still when Bryce looked back up at me. "Sarah, you saved my life," he said, with gratitude in his tone.

I smiled, a little embarrassed that he had said it like that, in front of all these people. I realized at that moment that I had two lists running now. People I had killed…and people that I had saved. Perhaps that was the missing element, what was keeping the scales balancing, not crashing down to one side and dooming me forever.

I was back in my hotel room, preparing my things, getting ready to fly back to D.C. I told myself I would wait to contact Graham when I was back in the U.S. Somehow explaining everything that happened seemed too complicated now. I needed the plane ride back to think it through and provide a long and detailed explanation that didn't compromise anything else. Bryce knocked on my hotel room door while I was still in the process.

He smiled, that irresistible way that he smiled that had found its way inside my armor. "Heading home?" he asked casually, still standing in the hallway and glancing over my shoulder at the suitcase on the bed.

"I'm due back in D.C. in the morning," I explained to him. I had done my best to sound neutral, but somehow, my voice had betrayed me. Could he hear that reluctance, that tinge of sadness in those words?

"Well…we have some time then, don't we?" he asked suggestively, eying me up and down hungrily.

"Time for what?" I teased, almost instantly aroused when he used that tone of voice, and felt my body respond despite myself.

"Time for me to thank you…for saving my life," he said, suddenly serious, as he stepped over the threshold. He reached for me, pulling me against him. I kissed him.

Before I knew what was happening, we were on my bed. He slid the suitcase over, letting it plop onto the floor with a thud. This wasn't the elevator, but it also wasn't the repeat of what had happened the night before. I wasn't vulnerable, broken, pulling myself up from a nose dive and clinging to him. I wanted him in a way I had never experienced before. I wanted the touches and the kisses…I wanted to hear the way his breath changed while I was touching him. It had a bittersweet quality this time. Knowing that I wanted something so badly…and that this would most likely be the last time I would ever get to experience it. I tried to savor it, and not let it make me sad at the same time. It was difficult. The only distraction I had was to lose myself in the physical sensations and turn off my emotions, to stuff them into a place where they wouldn't affect me.

He let me take control until I was completely satisfied, and still changed positions with me multiple times. It was my first experience here, but I would learn, later from this point, how to compare my experiences, at least the ones I could remember. Sam was quick and efficient. Most times, 15 or 20 minutes was enough to bring me to orgasm multiple times. He was precise, always hitting the right spot and not wasting time with anything else. Like I explained before, one step beyond a vibrator. Sex with Bryce was always a marathon event by contrast. He could last. I had control over my own pleasure, but he could control his release until he was certain I was satisfied.

When we were finished, I stayed in bed while he got dressed. He still chatted away, the same way he did the night before. It was charming…almost sweet. He sat on the edge of the bed, close to me but not touching me. "It was nice to have a partner again…even for a little while," he said with a smile. I didn't miss the double entendre, quickly wondering how someone who was so experienced with women could have had a dry spell of partners for his bed.

Like he had commented about before, I stayed quiet, keeping my thoughts and feelings hidden. He wasn't completely transparent–he couldn't be, not for all the reasons I have already explained. But he was better at parsing that than I was. He could show attraction, and even tenderness, however restrained. I wasn't capable of showing any of that. Part of it was my literal confusion–not understanding what it was that I was feeling at the time, sure it was different from what I had felt when I was with Sam, but certainly not how normal people behaved with one another. Rather than show too much, more than was appropriate to his delicate balance, I showed nothing. I felt sad that he was leaving, but I stayed stoic, giving him a brief smile as he left my room. My eyes misted once I was alone.

I thought that moment was the last time I would ever see Bryce Larkin. I spent the entire plane ride back to D.C. coaching myself back into the state I had been in when I had left for Lisbon. It took more effort than I had anticipated, but my years of training on the run with my father were a part of me, and I was in control again by the next morning when I was due to meet with Graham.

Imagine my surprise when I was summoned into Graham's office–only to be actually interrupting a meeting already in progress…between Bryce Larkin and Langston Graham.