A/N: Welcome to the M version of this, not the E version that is on AO3. You can read starting here without having to read the more graphic beginning. I tried to put enough background in here so readers are not confused, woven into the context of the chapter. Hopefully not too confusing. To those who know this as Chapter 3, this was not "tamed" on purpose. We have just moved beyond the episodes of torture and/or rape. If you are starting here, and you feel confused, Chuck will explain more to Sarah in the next chapter that fills in exposition, while at the same time it works for the story.

With my first coherent thought, I question where I am.

Is this heaven?

I was dying…bleeding to death…

And now I'm here.

Heaven as a destination was a place I did not believe in. And worse, at random times when I would doubt my decision to disbelieve, I would know, based on my past and everything I had done, even if it existed, I would never go there.

It's dark. I'm warm, safe, resting on a plush bed. A fluffy pillow is propped under my head. The sheets beneath me are soft and smooth. A soft blanket covers me. There's no noise at all.

I'm comfortable, encapsulated in comfort. I had forgotten what that could feel like. My body is in a natural resting position, limbs compact. Nothing hurts. Nothing hurts.

There are no chains. I'm clothed…what feels like cotton pajamas…no, scrubs, like a nurse or doctor would wear.

Is this heaven?

I can't imagine it could be anywhere else.

I try to recall what happened, but my memory is full of holes. I'm so tired, exhausted, though I feel like I've been asleep for a hundred years. A low level buzz inside my head makes me think I'm medicated, but in a good way. (Is there a bad way? I think that may be true…but I can't place it.) I've only had short stretches of rest for almost three months. I think I could sleep for another three months and still be tired.

I have suffered trauma…and it is still with me, worsening my exhaustion. I feel it, wrapped around me like a heavy cloak.

Perhaps it is my brain's way of protecting me, this sleepy haze.

I try to open my eyes, but I cannot. There are what feel like cotton pads over my eyes, fitted like a sleep mask.

Bleach…bleach was poured into both of my eyes. My captor blinded me as punishment…

I lift both hands to touch the bandages over my eyes. As I raise them, I feel a bandage on my right wrist. The fingertips on that hand feel numb and my wrist aches.

My wrist was slashed…my captor's doing, following through on his promise to kill me, surprisingly by his own hand…after the most vicious attack I had endured in captivity.

I reach with my left hand to touch my right wrist. The bandage is elaborate, layers and layers, and I feel the pull of stitches. My potentially fatal wrist wound has been treated, repaired. My manual dexterity with the hand on the injured side is diminished, however.

I'm numb…medicated, I understand. There are bandages all over my body like patchwork. So many wounds I can't count them, but they don't hurt. At least, not now.

I was whipped by my captor, after the last time I was raped…

I shift ever so slightly and feel the thick padding between my legs. I'm bleeding. Heavily. I feel tenderness, like cramps, but something else that's worse, like open wounds or burns.

Leftovers from the part of my torture penultimate to the whip. A cattle prod my captor used to fuck me, after he raped me.

The horrors in my memory are too much to process. Sleep…sleep is pulling me back.

It is only sleep, but I'm so relaxed, so comfortable…how could this not be heaven?

I have seen hell, lived in it for months. I'm blind…so I have no idea what heaven looks like. I sleep.

It's only as I drift away that I remember…if this was really Heaven…I should be able to see.

Where am I?

~O~

I come fully awake again, hearing voices outside my door. I remember what happened and why I'm here…wherever here is.

It's dark because I'm blind.

And I'm alive because Chuck Bartowski saved me.

The fragments in my memory fuse together, now separate from my fever dreams.

I woke to the distant sound of gunfire, shouting in Spanish. Footfalls, heavy, pounding, like running feet.

It took all my strength, but my eyes fluttered open…only to reveal more dark…layers of it. And then I remembered.

Bleach. I was blind.

I couldn't see, but I listened to the chaos all around me.

Something heavy was on top of me, constricting my breathing. I was cold, bone-chilling cold. My head was light, consciousness wavering. I felt a stabbing pain in my wrist and blood spilling out in time with my pulse.

I realized with a start, it was Diaz on top of me. Or…his body. I felt something warm and wet against my stomach. Diaz' blood.

The gunshot.

All of this…mere seconds. More thumping, pounding footfalls. The weight on me was suddenly removed. I heard a huff and felt Diaz slide from me, hearing the heavy thud as his body hit the floor.

He was dead.

I didn't have time to react, for all at once I was aware of who else was there. The one who shot Diaz.

It was Chuck. Chuck. I remembered his scent and the sound of his breathing.

I became hysterical, weakly pulling at my chains and continuing to hemorrhage from my slit wrist. "Chuck…oh my god…Chuck…"

My own voice sounded foreign to me—panicked, desperate, saturated with tears, barely coherent.

I heard the quiet gasp. I never told him I knew who he was. I'd shocked him. He recovered quickly.

"Sarah…the pin…"

I had the thought…I was supposed to unlock my chains…but as soon as I thought it, my mind went blank once I heard his voice.

My entire being was reeling. He was in control of himself and the situation. He was mission focused. But…he was crying. He wasn't letting it interfere with his actions or his mission. But he was crying. I heard it. I felt it, both on my skin and in my heart.

He saw what had happened to me. Worse than when he left. I've been whipped and burned…and slashed open. What do my eyes look like? I pictured hideous bloody red and gray lumps where my eyes used to be.

I had a strong urge to comfort him, to tell him it was alright, none of this was his fault…but I couldn't find the strength…

He touched my chin, gingerly. My face was bruised. I felt his fingers on my lips. The pin…he was trying to get it out of my mouth. He was frantic to move, but he would not be harsh or rough. He gently probed into my mouth with one finger.

I moved my tongue, trying to extricate it. I was frightened at how weak I was, out of breath from twisting my tongue.

He was still crying. I heard it while he moved like lightning. He was unlocking the wrist that was cut.

The world winked off as my head lolled to the side.

I was awoken again by his voice, and his hands on my face. "Stay with me, Sarah. Focus on me."

How could he be so gentle and speak with such conviction? It was a stern command, firm, but painted with kindness and compassion.

I was bleeding to death. He was trying to keep me alive.

I faded in and out. I heard fabric ripping. He wrapped my wrist tightly to staunch the bleeding, crossing it intricately so it held the wound closed.

I was only half conscious. He unfastened my chains. I was wrapped in a blanket and he lifted me, cradling me against his chest.

"Oh my God…" I heard him murmur, close to my ear. It was from lifting me. I must have weighed next to nothing, starved and dehydrated for so long.

Our previous encounter was during his initial infiltration of the cartel's compound, posing as a paying sex customer. He passed the pin to me from his mouth to mine…while I was drugged and more interested in pleasure than what he was trying to do, or what he was enduring at great cost to his soul. He had cried then, too, but because he believed he had violated me, treated me no better than any of the others.

I remembered what his body looked like. He was leanly muscular, but also amazingly strong, as I noted.

I relaxed in his arms, letting go of everything else that was out of my control. He was carrying me. If I was to die, his arms were perfect. I was safe.

I recall bits and fragments of partially heard conversations, jumbling now in my mind.

"…wondering what the hell was going on…"

"…I don't care, Casey, that's not why we're here…"

"…are you sure he's dead?"

"…I killed him, Casey…just hurry…she's going to die if we don't get her out of here…"

"…sick sonofabitch got off easy…man deserved to be hacked into pieces…would have been my honor…"

"…your sister is…do the best I can…"

"…can't risk it, Devon…you either…"

"…needs help…only so much…"

"…keep her alive…transport…"

"…nerve or tendon damage…evaluated…use of her hand…"

"…no reflex in her pupil…reactivity to light…blind…"

Then a long stretch of silent darkness.

Chuck is growing angry, like he was when I had heard him argue with Diaz. But his voice sounds thick, heavy. Sad.

I feel wetness on my cheeks but the familiar stinging crying causes in my eyes is alarmingly absent. My eyeballs are dead.

"Sarah, can you hear me?" Chuck's hand, softly stroking the top of my head. It only elicits more tears. I don't deserve this—his gentleness, his compassion, or the risk of his own life.

"Chuck…" It's so soft I wonder if he can hear it at all.

"I'm taking you somewhere safe. Rest now, ok? Just rest. You've been through so much." His voice breaks. "But you're alright now."

I have no real reason to believe him, but I do. I trust him. I trust him with my life. A life that is suddenly worth something, a life he salvaged from a funeral pyre.

I stop fighting and I let go. The darkness is not foreboding. It's safe, quiet, and peaceful. My dreams, when they come, are of things that are possible for a future, not hopeless longings from the past.

A voice calls me back from the pit into which I've fallen. I don't hear individual words, just the voice…like music, like a siren song. My heart, dead in my chest for months, close to dying in earnest, fights against the dark…beckoned by the voice.

~O~

When I wake up again, I feel like I'm waking up from a hundred year's rest. I've become a different person.

Who she is—I have no idea. She isn't a CIA officer any longer, but she isn't a prisoner either. No one's sex slave, no one's chained pet, subhuman.

She's a free woman—but the woman is incomplete. She has been traumatized, brutalized and destroyed. I feel her there, deep inside me where she retreated long ago to protect herself. I fear she may never return from that requiem. Whatever I do in this world, I must do it without her.

I hear footsteps on the other side of the door. I hear a muffled conversation, gradually increasing in volume as the people move closer.

They are so close. A man and a woman. Chuck. The man is Chuck.

I resist the urge to jump up and follow the sound of his voice. I sense my own weaknesses—I'm blind, injured, and medicated. I'm in bed for my own welfare.

I am drawn to the sound of his voice, listening to it like a piece of music. It's only after several minutes that I tell myself to listen to what he's saying. And also what his companion is saying.

"Chuck, how long do you plan on keeping her here?"

"I don't know, Ellie." He sounds frustrated.

Ellie. Ellie. His sister is Ellie. She's a doctor, married to a doctor.

"She needs serious help, Chuck. A lot more than I'm capable of here in a cabin like this." Her words are factual, but her voice is weepy, trembling.

"I know, Ellie, believe me, I know. I want her to get the help she needs. But I have to make sure she's safe. Fulcrum is still actively looking for her. They don't know Bryce is dead. They still want the Intersect."

"But…that's you…" She sounds horrified.

"He made them think it was him. It kept me and the Intersect safe."

How does Chuck know this?

"There's more, Chuck." She sounds accusatory. A pause, and then a gasp. "The CIA doesn't know you did this, do they?" She doesn't wait for his answer. "You're rogue!"

"Ellie, we're not having this discussion now." His voice is sharp and the words are spoken quickly. "I appreciate your help, both of you. We couldn't have done what we did without you. But I need to know that you're safe too."

"Chuck–"

"Ellie, please." He sounds desperate, but because he's worried. After a very long pause, he adds softly, "She knows who I am."

"How?"

"I don't…I don't know. She was working with Bryce. He told her what was going on. She must have seen my photo, because I'd never met her before…" He swallows hard, like he can't finish whatever else he wanted to add.

"Chuck–" Her voice is strident. The fact that I had identified him frightens her.

"Ellie, I can trust her. I know I can. Bryce took her into his confidence. He couldn't break into the DNI without her help."

Her voice is still trembling. "I'll go, Chuck. But until you can actually bring her to a hospital, I have to come back to take care of her."

"Thank you, Ellie."

Memories rush into my head…

Cool hands on my ankles…easing my feet into stirrups, attached to an examination table…I punch up, kick up, making contact with her body, but she blocks me…

"Sarah, I'm a doctor…I know you're in a lot of pain, that you have been for a long time…I'm here to help you. You have to let me touch you. I know what you've been through…I will go as slow as you need me to…"

Her voice is soothing, gentle…I trust her. My legs tremble in the stirrups and she reaches between my legs, narrating everything before she acts. I feel heat…from a bright light…I jump when she touches me…

I grit my teeth against the pain…why does it hurt so bad at just a touch? One finger…then what feels like a swab, something plastic…I wince, feeling something scrape against me.

A needle and a burning trail under my skin…she's injected me in my upper thigh…Antibiotics, she tells me.

I'm in a tub full of warm water…the scent of soap is potent, fluffy bubbles tickle my chin…I'm being cleaned with a soft washcloth…

Light…light? How can I be seeing light? I'm blind…but she's pulled the bandages away. She replaces them…darkness returns.

More pieces of the puzzle. Chuck was CIA, but his rescue mission wasn't sanctioned. He is hiding me somewhere, and his sister is doing him a favor by taking care of me.

I recall some of the conversations I had overheard.

Devon…Ellie's husband. He said Casey. Casey? John Casey? NSA John Casey?

After Chuck was sent the Intersect and downloaded it, Bryce assured me that the NSA sent an agent to protect Chuck. I had never met Major Casey, but he had a reputation as a cold-blooded assassin. He was protecting Chuck? And moreover…he had helped Chuck rescue me from the cartel?

It seemed so far-fetched…was I hallucinating? How much of what I heard was real? Everything seemed so crazy.

I realize that Chuck and his sister have been talking in low tones, unheard by me as I ruminated. I focus again on what she is saying.

"I'm going to run all the tests. I did give her antibiotics, just in case. She may have been infected with something beyond just bacteria…I won't know until I get the results back. She really needs a unit of blood, but, for now, she just needs rest…she's anemic, but her body will bounce back. It will just take longer." The same trembling, sympathetic voice.

Then, her tone shifts. "Chuck, are you going to tell me why you asked me to test you?"

"Ellie, please, don't ask. I can't…I can't–"

He sounds like he is being strangled, his voice wheezy and choked…

And then I can't breathe, remembering what happened between us, while I was drugged…Oh, Chuck…

I start crying, hysterical, wrenching sobs. I feel the bandages over my eyes start to adhere as I wet them with my tears…

He must have opened the door, but I didn't hear it over the sound of my weeping. Suddenly, the scent of him surrounds me. I feel the mattress shake as he sits beside me. He keeps space between us and doesn't touch me.

"What is it? Sarah?" He sounds so worried. I notice he doesn't ask me if I'm alright. He knows I'm not.

"Chuck…" I manage through my tears. "I…" I lift my hand, reaching blindly towards him.

He takes my hand, holding it gently. His skin is warm and the hair on the back of his hand tickles me.

"It's alright," he whispers. He lifts my hand to his lips. I sense the wetness on his cheek, his chin. Tears.

I reach and brush the tears from his cheek with my fingers. I feel him pull back.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm so sorry."

I won't let him pull away, and rest my palm against his cheek.

"You saved my life. Will you at least tell me why?"