A/N: Back again with an update. This was very hard to write, and I rewrote it a bunch of times trying to get the interaction just right. A huge thanks to nevr for his preview and his suggestions to keep everything believable. There is a method to my madness-I just hope I can pull it off. There is more here than meets the eye, which is even trickier. Hold on to your hats. The next in between chapter of vsHL is half done. Lots of snow today so I'm hoping to stay warm inside and get that done as well, although I'll publish tomorrow if all goes well.

I'd only ever fainted once before, actually from blood loss, after I'd been shot in Pakistan on a mission to rescue Carina. I didn't think it was possible to dream while you were unconscious from fainting. No REM or whatever. Maybe it was because I fainted from shock.

Because I know I'm dreaming.

The image of Chuck is frozen in my mind like a photograph. I almost didn't recognize him. I think if I hadn't heard his voice first, I wouldn't have recognized him.

At 26, curly-haired and sweet, unaware of his own allure, insecure and defeated…Chuck stayed in my mind that way. I knew even when I thought of him later, the image wasn't accurate anymore. Picturing him angry and gaunt in captivity was too much, so my brain defaulted, keeping him sweet and loving. The picture that stayed in my heart despite all the difficulties.

But picturing him like this? Never. Casey was right. The Chuck I had known was gone.

He is more muscular, broad-chested, which when combined with his height gives him an overpowering presence. His hair is short, swept up from his forehead but combed back and he has more pronounced, meticulously shaped sideburns. I had seen Chuck in a tuxedo once, for a mission, and recalled thinking he looked like a teenager on prom night. Now, the immaculate suit he wears, one of the most expensive I've ever seen, fits like a glove, tailored to his muscles and his trim waist. His shirt is opened an extra button, without his tie, enough that I can see a gold chain around his neck, resting just above the fine edge of his chest hair.

He is unbelievably attractive. Not with the cuteness of the Chuck I had fallen for, but like an alpha man, capable of attracting any woman he wanted. The kind of charm that Bryce strived for, the Bondesque presence that would have women swooning as he walked by. Most of the male agents I'd known over the course of my career had been some version of that stereotype, though Bond himself was fiction. Unachievable, and perhaps more importantly, undesirable.

During the short time we pretended to date, one of the movies I had watched with Chuck in his apartment was a James Bond movie…something from the 1970s, I can't remember the title. The character was glamorized and larger than life. But he was also a ruthless killer, a heartless womanizer, a duty-driven super spy without a soul.

It was the absolute schism of what I knew and what I had seen that overwhelmed me and caused me to faint. Chuck and Bond…each the antithesis of the other. Chuck as Bond? My mind couldn't wrap around it.

The first thing I become aware of is the scent of cologne. Strong, musky…but it is Chuck. I know it. He'd changed the brand, the scent, but the essence of him is still there, potent. I can smell it because his suit jacket is balled under my head, like a pillow. I'm prone on the floor.

The spy in me takes over. I keep my eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness still, in order to hear. It's Chuck and Casey, deep in discussion.

…made my complaint and you know why…this is a bad idea…

Noted and filed, Casey. You aren't wrong. She's a liability. But, the fact remains, she is the only one we know for certain saw him and is still alive.

On paper, sure, but potentially so pickled she wouldn't remember what he looked like anyway.

(I hear an angry huff, and although it should be Casey because of the tone, it's Chuck. He disapproves of Casey's words, if not the sentiment.)

It's all we have to go on, Casey. She wasn't as far gone as she is now when she did.

There's a long pause, punctuated by the sound of dress shoes clicking on the tile floor.

What if she's the leak? Have you considered that? I know you don't want to, Chuck, but–

She's not. (a heavy, aggravated sigh.) At least, not the primary leak. I'm 99% sure I know who it is. I just don't have substantial proof yet. I'll get there. I just–

Chuck stops speaking abruptly. They murmur to each other, but now too low for me to hear. Has Chuck figured out that I'm awake and listening?

Embarrassed for being caught so easily, I open my eyes. Chuck is standing over me, looking down. "Can you sit up?" he asks in a perfunctory manner.

He hasn't seen me in nearly three years. We've each lived a lifetime since then, twists and turns and ups and downs. Well, only downs for me, but I have no one but myself to blame for that. His nonchalance, that tone, like he's slightly irritated—I'm left reeling.

What did you expect? A warm hug?

The memory of those hugs from long ago could make me shiver all over.

His tone of voice, the stillness in his features, and the bland look in his eyes washes over me like ice water. I don't know what I was expecting, but to be so brutally confronted with the…unknownableness of the man I have been in love with for almost three years blasts a hole through the center of me.

My Chuck (I have no right to think of him this way, but I do…I can't help it) would have been crouched at my side, concern creasing his features and emotion warming his eyes. This Chuck is professionally cool and detached, checking on my wellbeing as far as it matters to him in the moment and his overall mission, nothing more.

My fainting inconveniences him, and he's impatient. But flatly, almost smugly.

I have feared Chuck's potential wrath, his hatred of me. I had never imagined that I would wish for that anger, or that hatred, just to see…something. At least if he was angry, I was affecting him somehow. Impacting him.

His indifference shrinks me to nothing. Hatred is the flip side of love. Apathy dismisses my worth, what little that's left. I feel it again, fervently…the desire to quit. To stand up and run. Grab my things and just run and never look back.

I flop to my side, ungracefully struggling to right myself and stand. My skirt's tightness impedes movement and my heels make me slide before I grab the chair and pull myself up. I sit back in the chair, not wanting to worry about my wobbly knees.

Chuck would have helped me up. I must constantly remind myself that this isn't Chuck. I should almost pretend like I don't know him, the way he has dismissed me.

Can I do that? I don't have much faith in myself, certainly not with these conflicting emotions bouncing around inside me.

"Water?" Chuck asks as he nonchalantly stoops to retrieve his folded suit jacket. He shakes it out and lays it on the corner of the desk. The offer is condescending, like I'm a helpless female. Anger starts to trickle into my emotional soup.

I don't know how to be angry at Chuck. It turns on itself and hurts my whole body, like a kick to the stomach.

I shake my head, not trusting my voice. The sight of him in his trimley tailored shirt snug around his musculature draws my attention and I force myself to avert my eyes.

No matter what, it seems, I'm still attracted to him. It's a physical reaction, comfortable and familiar to me. The pleasantness of his appearance distracts me from everything else. Is it good or bad? I don't know.

Casey, believe it or not, looks the most uncomfortable. Chuck is so smooth, so unaffected it's unnerving.

Casey is having trouble being cool and detached? What is going on here?

Something passes between them, a look I don't understand. Chuck in a position of power over Casey just seems wrong, out of place. Casey grabs the file folders on the desk and as he's stacking them, the office door opens again.

"I can take it from here, Casey. Get Agent Walker up to speed."

I feel the address like a slap in the face and consequently, I keep my head down, my eyes on the floor.

Casey moves past me to the door. Before it shuts, I hear staccato clicks from high heels and I turn. She's tall, as tall as Chuck, and on heels she towers over me. Her legs are impossibly long and tanned and a cascade of strawberry blonde hair hangs loosely over her shoulder.

This must be Chuck's partner. I can't remember the name Beckman mentioned. She glances at me like I'm a new potted plant and breezes by me to approach Chuck. He nods, the briefest of flicks of his head, indicating she can speak in front of me.

She then flicks a gaze down at me, my only acknowledgment. Something ugly and green surges through my veins, though it's nonsensical: what right do I have to be jealous of her? Or anyone (Amy, Zondra…)

But I am, oh, I am. A long time ago, he was mine. He could have been…if I hadn't been so afraid.

Had I known this would happen, if someone could have shown me this would be the ultimate consequence of my actions, it would have been enough to push me past the fear. My Ghost of Christmas Future never showed.

I am living that nightmare future, long past any hope of changing it.

"It's confirmed for tonight, Carl. The Duchessa is finally free for the evening."

"And how did you manage that?" Chuck's tone is conversational, as he ignores my presence.

It strikes me that she called him Carl. Carlo, the Italian version of Charles. Casey called him Chuck, but when he thought they were alone. I can't assume anything, even if she is his partner. I must maintain decorum unless I'm instructed otherwise. It's standard procedure.

The only one he isn't fucking, according to Amy.

Suddenly fixated on those thoughts, watching him move, I'm so uncomfortable I wish I could just disappear. Why am I here any longer if I'm being ignored?

"She daren't refuse an invitation directly from Signore Bellini's sister." She smiles at Chuck and pats his lapel. The smirk on his face makes me feel sick.

Apparently, the only reason he isn't fucking her is because their cover is brother and sister.

She bites her lip, looking up at him through her eyelashes though they are the same height.

She wishes he was. I feel even sicker, and quickly shift to stand, ready to run back to my room. Chuck never takes his eyes off her, but gestures quickly to me, as if to hold on a minute.

How could he be so smirky, pretending that he has this woman as his sister, when Ellie thinks he's dead? Doesn't he miss her? The Chuck I knew would have given his own life to save his sister. I saw it happen.

Another reminder—this man before me is a stranger. He looks familiar, he makes my heart and my body ache, but he's a stranger.

He takes her hand, removes it from his chest, not roughly, but deliberately. He never takes his eyes from her face as he does it. "The cover matters, Vitta. Don't forget that."

Vitta? Vittoria. Italian for Victoria. He calls her by her cover name. I file the information away.

She stands up taller, juts out her chin. "Of course."

She turns to me while still addressing him. "Is she one of those cats you mentioned? Meow." She mocks me and I burn hot again. Only Chuck's presence keeps me from standing and belting her across the face.

"Yes." He looks at me. "Sarah Walker, meet Vittoria Bellini. My sister." I hear it, but I can't get past the way he says it. Your sister who loves you more than anything thinks you're dead. I want to scream it, but I bite my tongue, and instead stay silent. Vittoria is offended and her eyes flash at me.

"The red-head is Carina, right?" she asks him. He nods.

"Which one?" She's being intentionally cryptic, like I'm the maid.

"Sarah." Chuck answers with my name, only I don't know what she means. Something happens right then, the way he says my name, my first name. There is a minute fluctuation, a softening in his tone, that anyone but me would have missed. It sounds like the way Chuck would say my name before, when I was his handler and protecting him.

The effect is gone as quickly as it appeared and now I'm just angry, unable to contain it. I rise to my feet, no longer afraid that my knees will shake.

"Unless someone speaks to me, I'm leaving. This is bullshit!" I can feel my face burning hot with rage.

Vittoria is surprised, but Chuck takes it in stride, barely flinching. Has he ever seen me this angry? No, but…I'm just as much a stranger to him as he is to me.

"I thought Zondra was the bitch," Vittoria mutters.

"Oh, I'm sure Agent Walker will come around once we get acquainted." Chuck smiles, though it's phony, not reaching his eyes.

My anger flares first, until I realize there is a deeper purpose in those words, spoken the way they were. Chuck is a spy, after all, and apparently a good one, to be in charge of this operation. Vittoria doesn't know that we have a history, which means she doesn't know what Chuck's history is. It's a secret he wants me to keep.

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. Jealous. Because the tone he used is full of innuendo. He's already acquainted himself with Amy and Zondra, for real. He means to bed all four of us? Or at least to have his own partner think so?

I'm angry, jealous, and sick all at the same time. And I hate myself for the purely physical way just those words make me feel. The closest memory I have to the sensation is the argument I had with Chuck in front of what we thought was a bomb, when I was infuriated and then unable to not kiss him.

I'm still breathing heavily, my hands clenched into fists at my side, when Vittoria says, "If she's your date, then you'd better read her in. The party starts at eight sharp." She brushes past me, too close, irritating me further. But then she's gone and I'm alone with Chuck.

"Casey filled me in," I say as I cross my arms. I hate how vulnerable I feel. The situation feels surreal, like I'm in a dream, only this is real.

"Just sit, Sarah. I'll explain the rest."

I hear it again, the softness in his voice when he says my name. His face and his eyes are still blank and cold, but his voice is like a caress. It lowers my defenses and I sit. He sits on the edge of the desk, towering above me. His cologne drifts down, making me feel dizzy with its potency.

"The rest? How about all of it?" At his confused look, I elaborate. "Casey told me facts, but I still…I don't understand. None of this makes sense."

"A lot's happened since I last saw you." His voice is softer, smaller.

In the Buy More, watching as Bryce passed me the code words that I would use to leave Burbank, never to return…

The memory overwhelms me. The lack of alcohol in my system has left me erratic, overreactionary. The biggest mistake of my life has been brought back full force. I blink rapidly as my eyes sting. Don't cry in front of him! It takes all my strength to even try and fight it.

As detached as he has been all along, he notices whatever the war inside me shows on my face. "Sarah…"

I can't bear the tenderness in the word, when he says my name, because that's still the only place where I can feel it. "I'm sorry, Chuck," I whisper in a trembling voice, disregarding his cover. "For what happened to you."

He takes a deep breath, one that lifts his broad shoulders. "That wasn't your fault." He sounds so sure. How does he not blame me for that?

"I left. I was supposed to protect you and I left."

"To be with the guy you wanted to be with. You thought he was dead and you got a second chance. I don't blame you for that."

I blink and the tears flow. He has no idea what the truth really is. That's why he didn't blame me. But the truth? That I was afraid?

He misinterprets the tears. "I'm sorry, Sarah. For your loss. For everything that happened afterwards." The words are flat, emotionless. Obligatory, but not heart felt. His heart has been shut off, stuffed inside somewhere to protect him from this life. I shouldn't expect more. But it hurts all the same.

"Even if you had stayed, Beckman didn't have a choice. We were compromised. Fulcrum had been listening to us in that store for months. It was only a matter of time. It worked out in the end, though."

"What about Ellie?" I regret blurting it out, but I need to shake him somehow.

Nothing. He barely reacts. His eyes darken as if with storm clouds, but only for a second. "I'd rather she think I was dead…than for her to know what became of me."

"You can't mean that," I whisper, searching for a remnant of emotion from him.

"Her brother is dead. But nothing will ever tarnish her memory of him. She couldn't even look at me now, after…everything…" He swallows hard, but quickly shakes it off. He jumps to his feet and paces behind the desk, putting space in between us. He rubs his temples with his fingertips, like he has a headache.

"Casey filled you in on the past. Beckman sort of explained why the CATS are here, right?"

"You're looking for our help to find the people who stole the pieces of Volkoff's weapon. You think we've had dealings with the intermediaries."

"There's more to it than that. I needed you specifically. But Graham wouldn't allow you to be pulled from the team. Given your past difficulties, I could see his point. I had to agree to all four of you, or none of you."

"Why me?"

"Alek Kradetska."

He says the name and I can't breathe. Before the CATS had been assigned, Kradetska was only known as The Ghost, or Prizrak in his native tongue. One of the most prolific Russian assassins of the day. I was the only one of the CATS who spoke fluent Russian, so I was put in the lead. Find his identity by any means necessary. It cost me a piece of my soul, but I found out his real name and I saw his face. And I barely escaped with my life.

"You discovered his true identity and you saw his face. There were only four people who knew what he looked like, and the other three are dead."

"You think Prizrak is working with the Ring?"

"I do. And so is one of the CATS."

The conversation I overheard after I fainted…the leak, as Casey had explained.

"You don't think–" I start to protest.

"That it's you? No," he swears. "You were almost killed in that op because one of the other girls blew your cover. Bringing you all here kills two birds with one stone."

"The CATS disbanded because of mistrust. Zondra–"

"I know," he interrupts. "I studied all of that intel. Gaez was always able to stay one step ahead."

"Zondra had a transmitter in her boot heel," I argue.

"She passed the lie detector test." He blows out a breath in frustration. "This isn't the time or place, but I'm just letting you know the stakes. My mission is to find Prizak and the pieces of the weapon he stole, as well as route out the traitor in your midst. I need your help to do that."

His exploits, as disgusting a picture as they paint, cross my mind again. He was looking for the traitor. Fucking for the cover…but also for duty to his country? Any means necessary sometimes meant, though we were never required to, we had no choice but to engage in that sort of thing. If it's possible, I feel better and worse at the same time.

"Shy on pillow talk?" The words are like acid, burning on the way out. I sound jealous, and I hate it.

"That's not the part I need help with," he quips without batting an eyelash. "Although Gino and Paolo gave you and Carina the stamp of approval." He winks. Winks.

I blush and squirm. I had no memory of last night, but apparently Chuck knew the male members of our mini orgy. I feel dirty, like he's looking through me.

Heated, I lash out. "Yeah, you're favorite fuck buddy drugged me. That won't be happening again." I'm on my feet again, ready to storm out.

He seems confused by my anger. I'm just ragingly jealous, but he has no idea. It makes no sense to him. He thinks I never felt anything for him. As vulnerable as I feel, I'm glad that he doesn't know. This Chuck might rub it in my face, that I care as much as I do. If he ever felt the same for me, he got over it.

I'm marching away, towards the door, when he calls, "Eight tonight. Wear something tight and low-cut. Duchessa Vilago is the guest of honor."

Are you fucking her too? I bite my cheek so hard I taste blood in order to not say it out loud as I storm out of the room.