in this skin

Sam wants to run, and it shocks her a little more every day that she doesn't. The problem is that she has no idea anymore what there is to run to, and that's what happens when practically five fucking years of her life seem to be gone. Graham's dead, Bryce is dead, and she can remember him with such visceral force that knowing he's been gone for so long, already mourned and his loss accepted by everyone else—that makes her want to scream. But they weren't like that, she's not like that, she's a good little spy. A good little spy who woke up in Susie Homemaker's fucking dream life. She almost wants to call Mandarin on herself. She's only heard rumors about what it entails, but she wants someone else to come in and dig his fingers through her because if she has to look at Chuck Bartowski one more fucking time, she's going to lose it. He needs her. One glance at him tells her that.

There's never been a safer way to send her running than that knowledge.

The Mandarin protocol is initiated when a friendly agent is suspected to have undergone extensive brainwashing by an enemy force. The protocol determines whether said agent has been compromised or not, and determines a safe length of time before the agent is allowed to resume regular duties. These decisions are final and may result in the expulsion or imprisonment of the agent in question.

It's fucked up, how prison would feel safer than this.

But her body remembers his.

She wakes and every morning when she wakes she keeps hoping that it will all be a dream, but she's in a bedroom that apparently used to be Morgan's, sunlight slanting in from the right, a closetful of clothes she can't remember buying near her bed. It's the kind of wardrobe and equipment that would have gone with a long con—she finds bustiers, garter belts and stockings, even a pair of cheap plastic handcuffs that she could escape from even with one arm broken. That doesn't exactly bring a blush to her cheeks, but with him? The skittish little geek sleeping down the hallway?

She fell in love with him?

She knows that every single damn time she probably took Bryce's death hard—according to what she's been able to dig through, he 'died' more than once, and that hurts too—but she still can't imagine rebounding to Chuck Bartowski. He is cute, but the part of her that catalogs such things has labeled him as the biggest sucker, the most glorious mark that she's ever seen, and she still hasn't seen anything that would contradict that.

But then she walks out still in her sleepshirt and panties and sees him standing in front of the fridge in his boxers, and for just the briefest flash she imagines sneaking up behind him, guiding him back to bed—to his bed, their bed. But the only time it's been their bed is when she woke up and found herself in this fucking nightmare and she'd tried to entice him into a massage, so she could break that defenseless neck of his.

Married. Married, for God's sake. She's made some foolish decisions in her time, but seduce and dump was always her forte. Letting Bryce get under her skin had been foolish, but—

Chuck turns to her and while his eyes are guarded, his smile is genuine. "Want some breakfast?"

Sam has to clear her throat to speak, and she feels exposed, which is ludicrous. She doesn't tug down the hem of her shirt, but his gaze sinks there anyway, and he tries to play it off.

It's not that she thinks this will be easy. It's that she knows it will be.

"I'm not really hungry," she says. "Coffee and yogurt will work."

He starts assembling the coffeepot and she sorts through the cups of yogurt already stacked tidily in the fridge. Nonfat strawberry banana and black cherry, a few Greek brands she hasn't heard of. She selects one and manages to remember the location of the silverware drawer, scraping off the lid and gazing frankly at this man who is still wearing his wedding ring, still fighting every impulse he has to stare at her.

Who the hell was Sarah to him, really? Who could she have fucking been, if he still called her by her cover name, by that identity? The kind of girl who would shackle him to the headboard with plastic cuffs and tease him with little kisses until he was begging for it?

He turns and gives her another quick smile. "It won't take long," he promises, and takes out a bowl, a spoon, the milk. He pours a full bowl of cereal—childish, she thinks, her face neutral—and glances over at her before sitting down at the table.

She takes the hint and joins him, swirling the spoon through her yogurt before she sits down, making sure she has a good sightline to the door and the back bedroom hallway, the most likely points of entry.

"Did you sleep well?"

She nods automatically, swallowing a spoonful of yogurt. "You?"

He shrugs and almost says something. He's been doing that a lot, and while she's damned sick of it, she knows that whoever he would be talking to isn't here anymore, and hearing him address someone else who should be living in her skin has been unnerving enough.

Every fiber of her being wants to leave him behind. But he wants her and that's more than she can say for anything else she can remember. There's nothing left of who she was anymore. Only this. Only pieces of someone else's life.

She brings him a cup of coffee without asking if he wants one, brings packets of sugar and artificial sweetener and creamer, and he gives her a smile. "Want to go to the movies tonight?"

She doesn't nod automatically this time, but it's been so long since she's been in a position to actually relax and do such a pedestrian thing that the question catches her off-guard for a moment. "Sure," she replies, and the delighted expression in his eyes when he looks back down at his cereal makes her want to break something.

Because all she feels in her now is fear.

He tends to leave her alone during the day—thank God—and through the blinds she watches him cross the courtyard, watches Morgan greet him at the door of the apartment across from his—theirs. Their apartment. He calls this place their apartment, our place.

She tries to imagine Chuck as malevolent and it's hard, but then it always is, with the best ones. The ones who have an easy smile and a confiding nature, the ones whose hands are always empty until their fingers are twisted around black-bladed knives.

Whoever Sarah was, at least she has more weapons than Sam ever dreamed about, and there's something in that.

Before he left he told her he'd take her out to dinner before the movie. He hesitated at the end of it, like he wasn't sure what her response would be, but the way his face crinkled up in a happy smile after she said yes... God, it makes her ache, makes her stomach burn to think about it. She can't work like this. She can't work with no endgame.

Stay here how long? Until the last five years come back? What if it never comes back, what if it was never gone to begin with...

But everything, every sign, everything, tells her she's lost five years. She was never that interested in television but when he flips through, the shows seem different, the lighting, the music. She's gone through the browser history on her laptop—also new—and she finds passwords saved on sites she's never heard of. In her closet she finds a white button-down that smells of him, one he must have put there by mistake, but then she sees the print of one of her favorite lipsticks marking the collar and it smells more of her than of him. It's a shirt she wears to bed, to lounge in. One of his.

She needs an endgame. She needs a goal and a time when she can turn to him and say no, it isn't working, this just isn't working.

But he's the only one who seems to remember, anymore, and after he brought her back to his place, after their kiss on the beach, he had asked if she wanted to call her mother. He's met her mother. He's met the baby, and the panic that had led her to leave the child with her mother is still fresh in her—and now Ryker's dead and she doesn't have to worry about him coming for either of them, not anymore. She can call her mother. She can meet the little girl she saved and get back a piece of something that isn't Chuck or Burbank or panic.

Chuck gave her the number a week ago but she hasn't been able to find it in her yet, the strength to call. Some part of her is convinced that she'll show up on her mother's doorstep and find an impostor there, and she'll know for sure that what she's trapped in is a nightmare, not someone else's dream life.

Instead she takes the car to the gym and beats the shit out of a punching bag until the pounding of her heart drowns out everything else.

It's just a movie, just a damn movie that she probably won't enjoy—she's seen his room, wallpapered with posters for movies she hasn't heard of or barely remembers. And yet she dumps almost every article of clothing she apparently wears on the bed, shimmying into a pair of skinny jeans, tight but still fitted enough to give her a decent range of motion. The longer nothing happens, the more positive she is that something soon will. She's on autopilot when she straps knives to her ankles and a slim vest around her bare waist. The problem is what top to wear; if she just wants him in bed, well, that's easy; if she wants to send him a very clear fuck-off signal, she knows how to do that. But this is a guy who lights up when she walks into a room, who still wears a wedding ring, even if she doesn't. She decides on a one-shoulder top and leaves her hair in loose waves, and laces up a pair of platform sandals. She's tall but he's still a little taller than her, and she likes the idea of being on eye level with him, her hips level with his while they're—

He's taken her dancing once, once that she remembers, and they haven't danced since, and yet.

She tucks a gun into her waistband before she opens her bedroom door.

He takes her to a restaurant and from his expression when they walk in, she knows he's hoping she remembers something, but to her it's just the standard L.A. Chinese restaurant, done in stereotypical cherry red. She picks a seat with a good vantage point of the room and he orders a beer with his dinner, and the poor guy looks like he needs to relax. She's trying to remember the last time she actually got drunk—

"Well, for a while, you weren't," he comments, taking a sip of his beer, and she realizes, her eyes narrowing, that she must have actually said something out loud. Which is stupid. It's exactly when she stops perceiving a threat for what it is, that she's in trouble...

"You thought you were pregnant," he explains, and he lets out this little sigh. Disappointed, she guesses, although this has been enough of a nightmare; she can't imagine waking up to a rounded belly, married to a guy who couldn't be more perfectly wrong for her, who worships the ground she walks on. "Kinda. You thought you might be. But there was this really epic nightclub-hopping bachelorette thing before that, in Miami, apparently." He chuckles. "You'll have to ask Carina and the girls about that one, though."

Carina. Sam feels like she's still rebuilding her armor, and despite their history, she's never been able to fully trust the redheaded spy. Oh, she's sure Carina would have her back in a fight, but with everything else that went down with the squad—

"Well, Carina and Zondra, anyway. Amy was in with Gaez and I'm sure she's still in some super-fun government prison."

"Amy was—"

And the ease with which he talks about it just makes the cognitive dissonance worse. He shouldn't know what he's talking about, and yet when he describes how Zondra took Amy down—and how he used a broken DVD as throwing stars—nothing rings false.

And this is part of why she's so afraid to leave him. She doesn't know who her friends or her enemies are anymore, especially now that she's technically not working for the government, and while she's afraid to put too much stock in what he's saying, she'll keep it in the back of her head. She'll wait to see if anything he tells her is proven wrong.

But if he is... oh God, she'll be lost.

The restaurant is only a few blocks from the theater, so they walk it, and when he reaches for her hand she laces her fingers between his, feeling the wedding ring there. "You still... wear it," she forces out, a little reluctantly.

"And you're still here," he points out. "Maybe I kinda think it's a good-luck charm. Plus I think Morgan would kill me if I ever took it off. He'd hate to see the one wedding he's conducted end badly."

He's mentioned that. His best friend, that bearded little nutjob, married them. She'd say that it can't be legal, but she's seen stranger things in her career. And the wedding video is in its case, on the entertainment system. She saw it there when she returned to him, and the thought of watching it—she's sure it's easy now to fake such things, to digitally replace faces and everything, but more than that, the thought of watching someone who is supposed to be her marry a man she barely knows... that thought makes the hairs rise on the back of her neck. Watching her mission logs had been bad enough, watching the girl on the screen, watching Sarah Walker transform from a cover identity to a life...

He takes out his wallet and pays for their tickets, and she slips her hand into her pocket, hoping he doesn't try to take it again. She doesn't like what his touch does to her. She has new scars and her hair is different and when she isn't thinking she remembers things she doesn't know, and the touch of his hand against hers makes her feel things that don't make any sense.

The movie isn't due to start for another ten minutes, and they skip the concessions, and he watches with some faint amusement as she picks a suitable place to sit in the theater. Then he sits down beside her, all lanky limbs and faint nervousness, his long fingers skipping over his cell phone screen before he silences it.

"So there's something we need to talk about," he says, quietly, and her stomach tightens like she's a damn virgin on her first date who's afraid he's about to say how you're gonna pay me back for getting you into this movie, hot stuff.

"Mmm?"

"We need to take some work," he says, and he sounds almost apologetic, but inside she's as happy as she ever allows herself to be. Work. Something she knows she can do, something that won't frustrate her. Something clean and easily understood. "Well, I do. And I just thought, since you've been so stir-crazy, that might be something you want to do too?" He raises his eyebrows.

She nods, trying to act impassive. "I do hate eating your groceries and not contributing," she says, but from the grin he gives her, it's like she's just cracked the best joke he's ever heard.

"Yeah, you're eating me out of house and home, what with your fancy yogurt and fresh fruit and all," he says, shaking his head. "Okay. So I'm gonna put some feelers out, see what's out there... and it's not gonna be like..."

Like it was.

As long as it's something like what she actually remembers, she couldn't give less of a damn.

"Well... it won't be like working for the government, that's for sure," he finishes. "Okay. So maybe we can get in some practice sessions, see what rolls in?"

The lights start to dim as the screen brightens before them. "Sure, but I'll warn you, I've been keeping up." Apparently. Apparently she has, and she's thankful to the girl she so briefly was, for that.

Chuck lets out a little laugh. "Well, then, I'll consider myself warned. But let's make it interesting. If I manage to get you on the mat once, Walker, you'll... watch something with me, back at home."

"Long as it isn't too dirty," she says, shaking her head.

"And what are you gonna bet?"

"That I'm gonna knock you on your ass? That's a given."

"What are you gonna get if you manage to stay upright for the whole session?" he asks patiently.

The first trailer stars people she's sure she's never seen in her life. "I don't know," she murmurs. "I'll have to get a raincheck on that."

Because everything she wants—to see her mother again, to visit Bryce's grave, to track down her father—none of those things match the soft smile on his face, and the girl she used to be, she can easily imagine, would threaten body chocolate or handcuffs, and maybe that's what he wants her to say.

And she can say none of it, and when the movie starts the armrest stays vacant between them. The glances she sends in his direction aren't the curious lovestruck gazes of a woman on her first date with the guy she's living with.

But she puts her arm on the rest, palm up, and her heart speeds up when he laces his fingers through hers again.

She decides walking in that she's not going to take it easy on him, and she definitely doesn't, but she has no chance to collect on her raincheck.

He gets her on the mat three damn times.

And it's impossible. It's fucking impossible that he can move the way he does. An expression comes over his face and then it's like she knows exactly who she's dealing with, she's sparring with another highly-trained agent, and that shift in the way she sees him opens up something in her chest. It's so much easier when she can categorize and quantify, to sort things into the appropriate pigeonholes. He's an agent who happens to be her husband, and that's infinitely better than a civilian who happens to be her husband.

But another agent wouldn't be so damned open with her. And oh God, with his every word it feels like he's lain bare to her.

And he can actually split off, and she's still easing into the identity of Sam-Chuck's-wife instead of Sam-Jenny-Burton or Sam-Sarah-Walker, and it's easier for her to just be in full attack mode. But the way he anticipates her, it's like he's been watching her—

And he has. He's been watching her for five years now, watching the way she fights, the small tells, how she waits for an opening and feints before a direct attack.

Fighting with Chuck Bartowski feels more intimate than sleeping with him would, because in bed she just becomes the seductress she was trained to be, but when she's fighting, God, she tips into it, pours all of herself into it, and he fucking meets her every punch and kick. She wants to hurt him like this because it's easier than saying the words that have been repeating in her head since she first tried to kill him, since he first tried to convince her that her mission wasn't to kill him. She wants to hurt him because things were so much easier when he was just a man she was supposed to kill, and from the look on his face every day she knows that she is fucking killing him, because the woman he loved used to live in her skin. And she's gone.

And she wants to hurt him because she's afraid there's nothing else in her to do, to give.

They fight until they're both gleaming with sweat, and there's a small grin that flashes on his face every now and then. He's fucking enjoying this, and that little spasm crosses his face when she starts going after him with judo moves, and then he matches her again, with insane ease, with the fluid technically-perfect moves of a damn academy instructor. She's frustrated enough by it, by his lack of vulnerabilities, that she pushes herself beyond where she normally would, flinging herself at him, almost shaking with rage, and it's only when she releases a gruff cry that he pulls back, his defensive stance collapsing.

"Sarah?"

"I'm not fucking Sarah," she yells, flying at him again, and he backs up a few steps to regroup, his eyes concerned on hers, and she sees red. "How can you be married to someone and still not call her by her fucking name, how can you say you care about me—"

And that's the third time he gets her on the mat, pinning her down, and while it's brief, a part of her relishes the direct threat of his fingers tight around her wrists, his hips between hers, something physical and tangible to fight, the satisfying yield of flesh and bone when she throws him off her. He's panting when he meets her eyes again.

"Because I don't know who you were," he admits, and somehow she's split his lip; he licks a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Because I only know who you became, and the girl I met, the girl I fell in love with? Was Sarah Walker."

Sam's glad Sarah Walker is dead. If she weren't, Sam would kill her herself.

The movie Chuck asks her to watch isn't pornographic, but at least she would have known how to deal with that. Instead it's a wedding, their wedding, and she has no words to describe to him how fucking creepy it is when people show her things she's supposed to remember, moments in her life that under normal circumstances she would never have forgotten, and then turn to her, expectantly, waiting for some magic light bulb to go off, waiting for her to suddenly become who she no longer is, a person she never truly feels she ever was.

And Sarah Walker is weak. Sarah Walker threw away her job as a spy to settle down with a computer nerd in Burbank. And maybe he's no ordinary computer nerd, maybe he managed to knock her flat a few times, but he has no damned walls. Sam has depended on her own for so long that being around someone as open as he is rubs on her like sandpaper. He wants to see her vulnerable and the fact that she can't be that woman for him—

Was she ever? How the hell could she ever have wanted to be the kind of girl who put on a long white dress and said those vows to him and let him sweep her backwards for a long kiss? The only way any of it makes sense is if it was always a cover. Always for cover.

How could she have loved him? How can she love him like this? She was his handler, for God's sake. She wouldn't have given it up for a two-bedroom in Burbank.

Because Sam learned a long time ago that love was for people who had less to lose.

Chuck looks over at her after the video is over. He's in a blue v-neck and jeans, she's in a black t-shirt and jeans with knives strapped to her long legs, and her mouth is set in a hard line.

They'll never get anywhere for as long as he's expecting her to walk back through the door. The way she feels now she'll be damned if she finds herself becoming that weak, naive woman again.

"You don't feel it," he says with a sigh, like it's her fault, her fucking fault, and she can't meet his eyes. "If you don't feel it then why are you still here?"

She runs her fingers through her hair, then pulls it back, wrapping an elastic around it. "Because, as foolish as it seems, you're the only person who seems to have any use for me anymore."

She's already looking for her way out when he comes up with the plane tickets. A change of scenery will do them good, he says, but she can see the look in his eyes. It isn't getting any better for her, but it's not any better for him, either.

And at least Sarah was loved. She can see how much he misses her, and she hates him for it because a part of her understands.

Sam's not used to feeling lonely when all she's ever felt is alone.

She can't help comparing him to Bryce when they pack, when they take their flight. Airline security procedures are different now and they have to pack more carefully, and Sam takes everything she might need if she does vanish for good this time, and maybe by now he's expecting it, maybe by now it would be easier for him if she leaves and he figures out that the woman he married is really and truly gone.

But he's promised her a mission, and she thinks, Just one, just a few more days. Just a little longer.

Chuck smiles at her when they take their seats. "This must seem familiar, huh?" he says, stretching his legs out.

She gives him a small, brief smile. Bryce would usually take the wedding rings out now, slip one onto her finger, kiss her palm, his startlingly blue-eyed gaze finding her own. They went over so many missions together that they had it down to practically shorthand, and the more dangerous, the higher her blood rose—and the more intense the post-mission sex was.

Chuck reaches for her hand and she fights herself, tamping down the immediate impulse to backhand him, to get his hands off her, to make him stop touching her. She hates that she feels anything when he touches her, when she's thinking about Bryce...

And Bryce is gone, just as gone as the woman Chuck Bartowski fell in love with.

"It's okay. We'll be meeting up with Casey again. You remember Casey."

"Yes." She takes a deep breath. God, she wants to snap at him. "Yes, I remember him. So he's got the job for us."

"Well, it's probably Verbanski. Gertrude Verbanski. They're a thing now, and if I could stomach the idea of watching them make kissy-faces at each other all day, I wouldn't mind working for them full-time." He grins. "He'd probably say it was fair, though, after..."

After. After watching them for so long. She remembers the expression on Sarah's face, in that damned wedding video, and she knows that Chuck only ever looked at her in love, and spies aren't supposed to fall in love.

She was never supposed to fall in love with Bryce and she will never, never, never make the mistake of falling in love with Chuck, because the life they've chosen means it will only ever end like this. One of them dead or gone. One of them irreparably broken.

She's just not sure which one of them it is.

They rent a car and head over to Verbanski Corp, and she relaxes a little. They walk in, among the training agents, going through synchronized exercises, and she's on alert, watchful. From her sparring with Chuck she knows they could handle it if something went bad—

they, it is so strange to think of them as they

—they would be able to handle it together. Keeping herself protected has always been second nature; it's just been so long since she's had to deal with such a terrible feeling of loss and need.

Gertrude Verbanski's eyes are cool and appraising when Chuck and Sam are ushered into her office. "What a pleasure to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Bartowski," she says, though Sam sees her gaze flick ever so briefly to her bare left hand. "Please, have a seat. The matter is delicate, but I believe it falls firmly within your skill set."

Verbanski wants the two of them to break into a secure facility and recover a piece of intel—a thumb drive, an item so small that, in the time Sam remembers, it would barely have any capacity whatsoever. The drive is a prototype and it contains a program that could give the right programmer access to secure networks within a set radius. A laptop, a wireless hotspot, and this?

"World War Three," Verbanski says, her voice rising as much as it ever does, and Sam has to admit, in the privacy of her own head, that she likes the woman's assurance and ease. If she had been able to choose a life to inhabit, it would be this one. A life of power and meaning, taking on the missions she wanted, leaving the others to independent agents. A competent man by her side who would much rather take a drive to a shooting range than talk about his feelings.

And when that man arrives Chuck greets him with a smile and a hard clasp, and then Casey turns to Sam and his gaze hardens a little. She returns it with a small smile. "Walker," he greets her. "Surprised to see you here."

She shrugs. "I think we were offered a job."

Casey glances over at Verbanski and, at her faint nod, Casey looks over at Chuck. "Mind if I steal Walker here for a minute?"

"Long as you promise to bring her back."

"If the mission is acceptable to you both?" Verbanski glances between Chuck and Sam, and Sam nods. Apparently Chuck is one of the few people who can break into the shifting-algorithm system used in the former government facility, and it sounds easy enough, almost disappointingly so. Sam relishes the thought of bandaging up bruised knuckles again, taking out her frustration on something other than a punching bag or a tall lanky guy with brown eyes.

She remembers a flash of blue and frowns to herself, following Casey, her hand brushing the small of her back to make sure her weapon is still there.

"So none of it's come back."

Sam hates the duality of feeling herself relax, responding instinctually to some almost-familiar cadence of his voice, and simultaneously bringing up her guard, because he's not on her side and whatever is between them is locked into his head, not hers.

She shakes her head. "Not really. Nothing real."

Casey nods. "Creepy as hell, huh? I've tried to imagine it—the person I was five years ago, waking up to this." He nods at the small office. It's about half the size of Gertrude's, but it's his, sparse but practically a mini-armory. She sees a photo of Alex on his bookshelf near a framed photo of a president she actually does remember.

"It was cover, right?" she asks him suddenly, because he would know. Chuck went from civilian to quasi-spy; Casey's a lifer. "Sarah's a cover."

Casey grunts. "For a long time it was," he admits. "But probably not the way you're thinking. You've seen the mission logs; you—Sarah—might have started out as the honeypot, but you came clean almost immediately."

"And—Sarah—fell in love with that guy?" She shakes her head. "He likes to talk about his feelings, for fuck's sake, and he keeps staring at me like he thinks it's just going to be a dream, and I wish to hell it was..."

And she stops talking because she never talks this much, God, she's been around Chuck and only Chuck for far too long.

"Trust me, I don't get it either. He's a giant nerd. But..." Casey shrugs a little, bringing out a Desert Eagle and casually disassembling it. "The thing is, Chuck fell—" He curls his lip a little. "He fell for you. Pretty much instantly. If Graham had asked you to run a honeypot on him, God, there couldn't have been a better mark. But the Chuck you've been with? This is not the Chuck you met five years ago. I was shocked the guy lived more than a week with the damn Intersect in his head. When he started training to be an agent, some days it was still like watching a slow-motion train wreck. And I've been there with the two of you since the beginning, and I think the reason he's the way he is today, is because he wanted to impress you."

Someone like Bryce.

Casey begins to methodically clean the gun and Sam shifts just to feel the weight of the gun against her spine. "Someone who wears his damn emotions on his sleeve."

Casey shrugs. "Someone had to," he points out, "and it sure as hell wasn't going to be you or me."

She thinks about that when they return to the airport, take a flight out to Oregon, check into a little motel where the only thing different is the accent the receptionist has. They're traveling as man and wife and it makes sense to sleep in the same room, in a king-sized bed together, even though she's still just a little afraid he might try to touch her and she might put him in a sleeper hold before she realizes what's going on.

She wonders if the Intersect kicks on while he's asleep, if there's some lag time. Wonders idly if the augmented grace of his movements when he's fighting translate to skill in the bedroom.

And that is definitely something she does not need to be thinking about, not at all.

Bryce didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but she had told herself so many times that she knew how he felt about her, and how it was better not to hear it. If he didn't speak it, it wasn't real, and it wouldn't hurt so much...

But oh, she had been wrong, so wrong. Now she'll never be able to ask him how he really felt about her, if they could have a life like the one Chuck wants to share with her.

They take the rental car and do some recon, using some tech she's not familiar with, and once they're back at the motel Chuck hacks into something and finds a rough plan of the building. "Built around the same time as Castle," he mutters to himself, with a small grin. "Mmm. Hope you packed some business suits."

"Of course I did." She walks out of the bathroom in a pair of short shorts and a soft v-neck t-shirt, and his glance at her is almost fond; he's comfortable seeing her this way, her face scrubbed clear of makeup, relaxed and almost ready for bed. She makes sure she has plenty of knives on the side of the mattress she's claimed and sits down in the desk chair, folding her legs.

"So what's the plan?"

"There's probably an auxiliary entrance on the ground floor. We find it and get in, but if we're not careful we'll trip some alarms going in, so there's that. If we trick the environmental control system into thinking there's a toxin, we can get it to lock down and give us plenty of time to get through the safe's security. Since it's not a government place anymore, I doubt they have the latest firmware—so I can keep the oxygen on while we're working."

"Can, or will?"

Chuck shakes his head at her, cracking his knuckles. "O ye of little faith. We'll be fine. In and out, no muss, no fuss."

"So, if this is so easy... why is Verbanski having us do it instead of doing it herself?"

Chuck shrugs a little, his gaze reflecting the blue light of the computer screen. "Because I'll be faster at cracking the security? Or Casey sweet-talked her into it." He glances up at her. "But... there'll be more intense missions, I'm sure, and if any of the guards try to sass us on the way in, go for it. I know how disappointing you find a blood-free mission."

Sam looks at the bed. She doesn't want to be in it while he's in it. Or while he's awake. Or while he's even in the same room. But she doesn't want to talk, either, because talking will make it harder when she has to leave again.

It feels like she's always been living with one foot out the door.

"So what else do you know about me."

After a beat he puts the laptop down on the bed and just looks at her for a moment. "I don't know anything," he admits finally, quietly. "But... S—Sam."

That's always how he'll see her, first, as Sarah, and her poker face must not be as good as she thought, because he tilts his head. "What I think is that you're the girl I met a long time ago," he says softly. "The one who was terrified as hell to let me anywhere near her. The—the woman," he corrects himself, "the kind of woman who could singlehandedly avert nuclear holocaust if she had to, who didn't want me to see any piece of her whatsoever. And that woman's favorite pizza is vegetarian with no olives, and she loves rocky road ice cream and burgers with extra pickles, and she hates talking about her feelings or asking for help. Her dad used to call her angel-hair and use her to con suckers out of gullible people. She took a little girl she was ordered to kill and cut herself off from her own mother just to give that little girl a chance at a normal life. And before I met her she was in love with one of my best friends, the guy who did his best to make sure I never had an Intersect in my head—and then sent one to me."

Bryce.

She sets her jaw and gazes straight back at Chuck.

She knows him but she doesn't. He spent a long afternoon on the beach telling her all about them and she sees the way he acts around Morgan, Casey, her, but he's a man with his ear perpetually attuned to an imminent arrival, almost quivering in anticipation of his wife's return, and it's so hard to believe that he ever actually sees her at all.

"What's my favorite position in bed."

She knows it will needle him, but she still feels a little disappointed in herself for asking when she sees him flush and fiddle with his wedding ring. "Uh, any of them," he says, haltingly. "Anything that we've tried you've been—cool with."

And her body knows his. This body knows his and seducing him, the thought of seducing him, is infinitely easier than talking about her feelings. This body knows his and this body is married to his, and he knows things he can't, shouldn't know about her, and everything in her wants to run.

She knows he wants her. He's flustered by it, now, by this woman standing in front of him in such familiar skin, with someone else behind her eyes.

Casey said she's still the woman Chuck fell in love with.

And then she looks at him and wonders, if she crawled over him, if she laced her fingers through his and took him between the press of her thighs, whose name would he whisper, whose face would he see above him.

And she's so lonely in this skin but she'll be damned if she fucks him while all of her is still in mourning for someone else.

She is still the woman he fell in love with, but he is not the man. Chuck, who has used her silence as a sign that he should return to his planning, who is still sneaking brief glances in her direction, built his life around someone who no longer exists, and now his sister and brother-in-law are thousands of miles away, his father is dead and his mother is a spy, his best friend has settled down, and he has the most powerful weapon imaginable in his head.

With anyone else she would be able to lose herself. She can so easily imagine him pulling her into his embrace after they slowly part, circling her in the cage of his arms, whispering that he loves her, that oh God if only she will come back to him...

He's no more Bryce than she is Sarah Walker.

She waits until her body has stopped trembling, vibrating in sympathy with his desire, and slips under the covers, as far away from him on the bed as she can be. She pulls a pillow down between them. He taps on the laptop keyboard for a few minutes longer, and then she hears him sigh as he puts it away, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth. She curls herself into a tighter ball, and she spent so long living out of suitcases in motel rooms that it felt odd to sleep in a room without a hard mattress or a loud air conditioning unit.

It did. Now some small part of her misses the bed she sleeps in, back in Burbank.

She forces herself to go to sleep, but she doesn't drift off until Chuck slips back into bed, telling her goodnight as he flips the lights off. And she's too damn aware of him.

She's not being fair to either of them, staying with him like this.

When she wakes her arm is flung over the pillow at her side, and her fingertips are resting against his back, so warm through his white cotton undershirt.

What he doesn't understand is that for that first interval, right after, when she was still reeling from whatever that asshole Quinn had done to her, it felt like waking. She was disoriented and raw and nothing made sense, and the time she spent working with him still feels like a blur. And she hates walking in on a real mission without knowing how he'll react, but she discovers soon enough that he's not the wildcard here.

In the space of two eyeblinks he becomes and it took her years of training to get to the skill level he reaches with that little headshake.

She shook her head with disdain when he opted for the tranq gun instead of anything more permanent. Then she sees him disable the receptionist with a broom handle and a series of movements so swift she can barely follow them, and she understands. What fun would a gun be when he's able to do all this.

A slender lock of her hair has fallen out of its pin when they finally find the safe. Chuck sets up his laptop and they're both panting as they try to ignore the alarm sirens, the shouts from overhead. "Our most vulnerable point is the surface shaft near the west entrance," he tells her, and she nods, one hand cupping the butt of her gun as she sweeps the small space, heading in that direction.

One of the rooms she passes is a glassed-in cell. She sees the spaghetti-cord tangle left by a recently-moved laptop; the detritus spread around clearly defines the rectangle of its absence. Soda cans are stacked in a pyramid near the door, and she sees a few crinkled, obviously empty chip bags tossed nearby. A cuff dangles empty near the keyboard shelf.

And she begins to wonder if that thumb drive is what they were really sent to retrieve.

In the time it takes Chuck to get through the security and break into the safe, Sam takes out two agents, knocking them cold and tossing them into the bare cell opposite the recently-vacated one. Chuck lets out a crow of triumph and she's bouncing on the balls of her feet, full of impatient energy by the time he appears, his laptop back in the costume-compliant briefcase, a wide grin on his face. "We got it!"

"Great." They both cringe at the sound of a drill from above. "So let's get out of here before they break through."

He's automatically visually sweeping the hallway when he sees the cell she noticed earlier, and she's already practically at the exit when she realizes he's not beside her. She backtracks and he's in the damn cell, searching the desk, almost frantic.

"Chuck! We have to get out of here."

He shakes his head. "Just another minute—"

The grinding, drilling sound is louder now. She goes in after him, grabbing the suitcase, and their fingers touch, and he glances up at her.

Her chest is suddenly tight and it takes a moment for her to catch her breath. "Chuck, please. They're almost through."

He frowns but he obeys her, his hand reaching for hers, and together they find the emergency exit. She goes up first, cautiously, holding out a hand to keep him back, her gun at the ready.

"Uh, Sam? It's okay, you don't have to go first..."

"Shh."

He's two entirely different people, this man she woke up married to. He's probably the nerdiest guy she's ever met who wasn't employed as an agency analyst, and then in a fight he moves with such efficient grace that it makes her jealous. He avoids bullets, for fuck's sake, avoids ones fired at him, avoids firing them himself. She can't imagine anything less than a small army taking them down when they're both operating at maximum efficiency.

Hell, it would take a small army to take him down alone.

They take out three agents at the exit and then two more on the way to the car, and they're flat-out running, and she glances back to see such an intense expression on his face. Then he catches her looking at him and flashes her a little grin, and they split off easily, throwing themselves into the car, and for once she's letting him drive.

For once?

He peels out, gravel flying, and the adrenaline makes her laugh as she unbuttons the blazer, begins to pull the pins out of her hair.

"You have it?"

He nods, grinning, reaching into the inner pocket of his blazer and handing it over without a second's hesitation. She studies it, shaking her head, and hands it back. Such a small thing. But her blood is up, and when they pull into a gas station to change clothes and pick up snacks, she has enough energy to run around the parking lot ten times.

"You were amazing back there," he says, in jeans and a t-shirt now, as they walk back to the car, the snacks swinging in the bag at his side.

"Me? You'd make a million bucks in your first week if you hired yourself out," she admits, shaking her head.

"Well, if you've got a million bucks on you, maybe we could come to some kind of arrangement." He wiggles his eyebrows and she has to laugh at how ridiculous it all is. This temporary ease between them is so far beyond anything she could have imagined.

And something shifts between them and he reaches for her hand, pulling her toward him. Her heart is in her throat when he kisses her, softly. Her head's spinning when she reaches up, threading her fingers through his wavy hair, and God, his tongue sweeps over hers and she doesn't care who's around them, where they are, what time their flight is, anything.

Then he pulls back and she hates the hope in his eyes, hates the terrible shivering in her stomach when she waits for him to say Sarah's name.

"Sam," he whispers, the backs of his fingertips brushing down the line of her jaw.

And somehow it's worse, because she didn't know how desperately she was waiting for the sound of her real name on his lips.

Chuck's been on the phone with his sister, and gradually Sam figures it out, but part of her wonders if that's what prompted him to kiss her, his exhilaration over the idea. She went to the bathroom at the airport to splash water over her and peer into her own eyes, trying to keep her distance, and when she came back he was talking to Ellie, in the rapid half-sentence way shared by siblings.

Morgan and Alex come over once they're back at the apartment and her stomach twists at the thought of entertaining them when she's like this, but Morgan and Chuck are talking about—

Orion.

Alex lingers at the fringes of their frenetic conversation and Sam offers drinks and snacks—Chuck squeezes her hand when she gives him a drink, and Morgan's eyes light up at the can of grape soda—and then she goes back to her room and tries to weigh it out, but her heart just keeps pounding.

There will be other missions.

She tries to open the closet door but she keeps hearing him through the door and she hates how much she wants to listen, to go out there, but this isn't her fight. And maybe this is good, maybe this is what he needs to distract him.

When she leaves she isn't even sure if he notices. She takes the car and drives, trying to find a place where the sky is open, where the horizon isn't choked in granite and steel. She drives and the further she is from him—

She ran away from him once, before, ran away from this, and she keeps thinking that if she can find what she needs to run to, that will fix it all. From the expression in his face when he looks at her, she had thought that he needed her, but he doesn't need her at all. The Intersect has made sure of it.

She hates the idea that he needs her. She thought knowing he didn't would be a relief.

She lets the wind whip through her hair and the first time he calls she lets it ring until it flips to voicemail. Less than a minute passes before he calls again.

Her lips are tingling.

This is all she's been taught, all she knows, and she used to hate her father for doing this very thing.

"Hello?"

"Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah." Her answer is immediate, almost husky, and this is the cost of pushing it down until she's shaking. "I'm okay. What's going on?"

"I just didn't know where you were, and..."

She slows down, activating the GPS. It's going to take a while to get back, and at least when she's this far away, she's impervious to the expressions in his brown eyes. "Morgan and Alex still there?"

"They went home to get some dinner. Did you—you didn't want to be around them?"

She makes a soft irritated noise. "Chuck... look, this... I heard what you were talking about..."

He almost explodes with nervous energy. "S—Sam, if he's still out there—I mean, they brought Shaw back, he was shot way more times than Dad, and it would make sense, he knows more about the project than anyone—"

She can follow just enough of it—the name Shaw sends a frisson of nervousness over her belly and she knows he probably told her about Shaw that day on the beach but there was just so fucking much—and Chuck has been talking it over with Ellie and Morgan and he thinks they should go back to the facility, now that the thumb drive has been delivered, maybe there will be something left, some clue—

They.

She has to force herself to pay attention to the traffic around her. Her fingers are shaking a little. "You should do that," she says, and she's glad that her voice comes out steady. "Even if it wasn't him, it was probably someone else, someone who could be a great asset."

He pauses for a beat and she knows he picked up on it. "You—you don't..."

She feels her jaw try to clench as she fights to keep her voice even. "You don't need me," she says, trying to sound brisk. "I need to... I need to get out, Chuck."

She's so glad she can't see his face—but she can imagine it, and she pushes down on the gas a little more. She's dimly aware of the space between them, some part of her is almost aching with it, and she dreads seeing him again, because she knows how his need will drown her.

"I do need you," he says quietly. "I always have."

"You need her," Sam says, and that's when her voice trembles, just a little. "And for the rest of your life you're going to be waiting for her to walk through that door, and she, she was a fool for getting involved with you, because it never fucking works, Chuck, it never will."

"And you're afraid to try," he shoots back. "And before... it took so, so damn long for you to get past that, and... God." He makes a frustrated sound. "Please, please just come home. Please sit down so we can talk about it. I can't do it like this."

He thinks he can change her mind. "I can pick us up some dinner on the way back," she says, like an apology.

She needs to not lock up again so she brings back a bottle of bourbon with the pizza. And when she walks in with it she sees that his face is dry but she can tell from the pink rims of his eyes, from the way his gaze locks to her and stays locked to her, that he's stuffed it down too.

And she should leave tonight, she has every intention of leaving tonight, but she takes her first shot neat and this skin she's in, it hums underneath with the alcohol, and Sarah Walker apparently didn't drink herself to sleep, not with Johnnie or any other member of the family.

She puts the glass down hard on the coffee table and God, she can't look at his eyes, and then she is. And her stomach flips.

"What do you need?" he says. "Tell me what you need and if it's in my power I'll do it."

What she needs is him out of her life, this falling, drowning feeling that sweeps over her when their gazes meet, when their fingers or lips brush. What she needs is to feel whole again without him. What she needs is to cast off this damn security blanket and find a way to live in a world that has turned on its head since the time before.

She shakes her head. "I need to track my mother and father down," she says. "Reconnect with Carina and the girls. Visit... visit Bryce's grave." Her gaze shifts down at that. "And I need something without all this fucking baggage because you're never going to be looking anywhere other than through me, and being around you and this..." She trails off, flushing a little.

He looks like he wants to touch her and she tries to imagine being the kind of woman who could take comfort in his arms. But he holds himself back. This is what she did to him.

This is what Sarah did to him.

"Beckman would probably take you back in a second," he says softly, almost grudgingly. "Without me, especially. And I can't imagine how this is for you... Sam, I'm not looking through you."

She shakes her head, a flash of anger rising in her. "All you're doing is waiting for her to come back, but... I don't want her to. I'm sick of all this bullshit, I'm sick of pretending I'm someone I'm not, to you. I'm not cut out for this kind of life."

He presses his lips together, misery in his eyes.

She stands, trying to cover the tremor that falls over her, and he stands too, like he's terrified she's going to walk out right now, like he can stop her. And, she realizes, he can. If he wants to, he has the physical strength and skill to keep her here.

But he won't, not if he thinks she doesn't want to stay.

"I need to hire you," he says, each word separate and clear. "Because you're the best damned agent I've ever met and I'm going to need someone good at my back while I do this. As for the rest... I can help you. Help you track down Jack—"

She manages to keep her brow from furrowing before she figures out who he means.

"And Carina, and the rest." His hands clench into fists at his side. "And after that... after that, if you still want to go, I'm not going to stand in your way."

"But you have no idea how long it's going to take to track down Orion."

Chuck shrugs a little. "If he wants me to know where he is, if he's able, he'll find a way to tell me," he replies. "But no. I don't know."

She folds her arms. "I'll give you a month," she says, after a long moment. "All right? I'll help you out for a month and you'll help me track them down."

He nods and closes the space between them, offering her his hand. "Deal."

She doesn't want to touch him again, not with the memory of his kiss lingering on her lips, but she shakes his hand anyway.

"A month and four days," he murmurs.

She only realizes the significance when she's in bed that night, remonstrating with herself for losing her nerve.

Their wedding anniversary. He wants her to stay through their wedding anniversary.

Even though she knows Chuck is practically buzzing with anticipation, he takes her to see her mother before they head back to the bunker where they retrieved the thumb drive. Molly—she can't believe this is the baby she sang to sleep, what feels like only a few weeks ago—looks so radiant and her face lights up with recognition when she sees the two of them, especially Chuck. She walks right over and grabs Chuck's hand, and he leans down a little, casting a playfully pleading glance over his shoulder as she marches him to a low table. She has a tea party set up with her stuffed animals and dolls, the small plastic plates set with miniature sandwich crackers and chocolate candies.

And they take to each other with such an ease that Sam wants to look away. Chuck is great with Molly. He's the kind of guy who would make an excellent father. White picket fence, suburban ranch-style home, station wagon—the house he showed her when he was trying to make her remember. That's him.

That's the kind of life she'll leave him free to have.

Sam accepts the offer of a glass of sugar-free lemonade from her mother, and they sit down where they can still see Molly. Sam can feel a little undercurrent of nervousness whenever her mother looks at the little girl. And no wonder, given the circumstances under which Sam left the girl with her.

"It's so nice to see you," her mother says, and this at least is familiar, the small pit of guilt she feels in her belly when that small crease pinches her mother's forehead. "I wish we saw more of you." She looks down at her drink but doesn't take a sip. "So Chuck told me that you... there was an injury...?"

"Apparently I've forgotten the past five years," Sam says quietly. "I feel like I just left her with you about a month ago." She nods in Molly's direction. "And now she's walking around, talking... it's so strange. Keeping her safe, is that why you weren't at the wedding?"

Her mother nods. "I know why you set it up the way you did, but it broke my heart, watching you walk away, and I was so glad when everything was resolved. When we could see each other again." She smiles. "You're always welcome here. You know that."

Molly giggles. Chuck is tipping a miniature teacup to the mouth of a stuffed frog, his pinky finger aloft.

Her mother's expression has gone a little narrower when Sam glances back at her. "You aren't wearing your ring," she observes neutrally.

Sam shakes her head. "I've lost the last five years," she explains. "I don't remember him. Meeting him, marrying him. It's all gone. He's a stranger."

"Mmm." Her mother takes a sip of her drink. "I never thought I'd meet a man who was good enough for my little girl, but I'll say this for him, he'd bring you the moon if you asked for it."

"The one thing I'll never need."

Her mother's shaking her head. "Sam... after all that time with your father, I can't blame you for being gunshy. But that guy over there? From everything I've seen, he's exactly the kind of guy I'd want for you. You two got along together so well."

But did we?

It was all lies. It had to be all lies, a series of increasingly bad decisions, a spiral that she'd thought she would never fall into. But her mother had seen them together.

It took you so long...

She had thought that he just wore her down, that if she could get away she would be safe. But that was her first mistake, becoming a spy who wants to be safe.

Maybe that's all he ever wanted, too. A home with a woman who loves him. The kind of woman who will agree to help track down his missing father, knowing full well that the search is likely to end with a shallow grave somewhere, a double-tap to the head and one to the heart. Someone to hold his hand, to comfort him as he cries.

She can't look at him. She can't.

Some part of her she had thought long buried is imagining herself and him and Molly at the table in their apartment, going over their plans for the day as they devour bowls of cereal. She can see him watching cartoons with Molly, tickling her until she's screaming with laughter, tucking her into bed at night, this little girl Sam had decided was her responsibility.

And he would do that for her, if she asked. He would take the burden of raising her kidnapped charge and accept her into their family.

And all she's promised him is a month, nothing more.

Sam is the one who reaches for his hand when they return to the facility and discover only a burnt-out shell. There's nothing left, no scraps of paper, no miraculously pristine computer equipment, nothing.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "We had to get out... I just wish we'd had a minute or two longer." He sighs. "There are more places to look."

She squeezes his hand and does not look at his mouth. Does not. "Then let's go."

"You giving him up?" Carina winks at the bartender as she lifts her martini, tossing her head so her dark-red hair falls behind her shoulders. "Because, if he needs some comforting..."

Sam tries to imagine the way Chuck would respond to Carina's frank sensuality and would almost pay to see her try it. "He doesn't quite seem like your type."

"Yeah, well, neither did Morgan." Carina's lips curve up, her smile widening into a grin, as Sam practically chokes on her bourbon and Diet Coke. "What you forget is that sometimes my type is anything you want."

They're by themselves at the bar, and that's okay with Sam. Three or more of them and it becomes a clash of their personalities, trying to one-up each other, although Carina would try to be competitive with a brick wall. "That's rich."

Carina peers at her over the rim of her martini glass, her eyes sparkling. "So it's okay for me to take a go at him," she says, and it's barely a question.

Sam shrugs. "He's supposed to pick me up when I call," she admits. "And I need some entertainment."

"Oh, you'll be entertained." Carina grins again. "I'd say we could both offer him a good time tonight, but we'd blow his innocent little mind. Among other things."

You've been pretty cool with everything we've tried. Nothing about Chuck particularly screams sexual dynamo, but he has the Intersect... and she feels the slightest shiver track down her spine as she wonders again just how thorough those skills are.

"And once he passes out, we could really reconnect," Carina suggests, then downs the rest of her martini.

For a second Sam wonders if anything happened between her and Carina in that lost interval of her memory, but she doubts it. "That was one time," Sam says mildly. "And I was a lot drunker than this."

Carina shrugs. "Just like riding a horse. And, speaking of, Morgan seeing anyone?"

Sam nods. "And a part of me really wants to see what would happen if you offer the two of them a threesome."

The bartender, who has been fascinated with the two spies since they walked in, delivers Carina's fresh martini almost immediately. "The night is young, Walker."

It must be the bourbon. Sam doesn't bother correcting her.

Chuck comes in to collect Sam two hours later, and she sees the slight wariness in his eyes when he catches sight of Carina, obviously trashed, peering at him through her dark lashes. "Chuck. Been too long, sweetheart," Carina says, running her hand along his sleeve. Sam slides off her barstool and picks up her clutch. She dug through Sarah's wardrobe and found a short black dress with a flounced skirt that clings to her curves, and she'd wanted to dress up for her night out. Then Chuck looks at her and her stomach tightens a little and she wonders what he remembers when he sees her dressed like this.

"I was just telling Sam here that we should really catch up. Back at your place. All three of us." Carina gives Chuck that little grin, the one that Sam has seen work on marks so, so many times.

"Well, I'd be happy to offer you the couch," Chuck says, taking a half-step away from Carina, and her hand drops back to her side with a little pout.

"But that's no fun. What we need is a good old-fashioned slumber party." Carina links her arms through theirs as they head for the exit. "You know, nighties and pillow fights. Maybe some truth or dare."

Sam's chuckling to herself, shaking her head, and then her gaze meets Chuck's.

And oh, she shouldn't have given him a month, shouldn't even have given him another week, because the bourbon is singing in her, fizzing in her blood, and she's suddenly sure that their first time is going to blow her fucking mind, because he's been married to her long enough to know exactly how to make her come.

Carina tries hard, but when Chuck finally gives her a firm, only faintly apologetic refusal, she sighs and reluctantly asks to be dropped off at her hotel. Sam's not sure exactly why, but after Carina's out of the car, she feels almost painfully aroused.

She doesn't know how long it's been since she's had sex, but she feels restless, wondering how often Sarah had sex with Chuck, wondering if she was truly herself with him. If she ever raked her nails down his back, if she ever cuffed him to the bedframe and fucked him until she came, and not with those paltry play handcuffs either.

They're walking back to the apartment when he slows, near the fountain in the courtyard. She stops and turns to face him, and the world seems to tilt a little, and it's been too long since she's felt this good.

"There's a cabin he used sometimes," Chuck says, his hands in his pockets. "I was thinking we could go check it out tomorrow."

She nods. She learned how to withstand almost anything at the Farm but there were no classes in what to do when there was no Mandarin, only freefall, only feelings that contradict everything she knows she should do.

He says he'll let her walk out of his life.

She feels like she's only ever done that.

Their eyes meet.

Carina would act dizzy, more drunk than she was, unsteady on her feet, and ask him to carry her to bed. Cup her palm against his cheek when he was bent close to her, pull him down, wrap her legs around him.

Sam swallows hard.

"I'll see you in the morning, then."

He keys them in and she chuckles as she steps out of her heels, kicking them away from the door, and he holds her elbow when she wobbles a little bit. The sensation of his skin against hers makes her clench a little.

It would mean nothing.

It would mean everything.

His lips brush her cheek just a moment too long when he leaves her at her door.

Things a little too hot for me right now. Give me some time to settle a disagreement. See you soon, Angel Hair. Say hi to the schnook for me.

The postcard is in their mailbox when they return from the cabin. The postmark is blurred and part of her wonders if it's even real.

She walks inside, slowly, closing the door behind her, keeping track of the little things the way she always does. The air conditioning unit gives a soft hum from the corner. The lights buzz quietly to themselves.

He's giving her space, and she's glad for it; when his gaze and all of his attention is on her she feels herself trying to become what he wants and resenting him for it, and resenting herself for trying. She's moved through life burying herself so deep and the thought that she actually married this man without fully letting him in, without him ever seeing her, makes her feel almost sick, disgusted.

Chuck is looking down at a device strapped to his forearm when she walks in, every now and then glancing up at his computer, where a progress bar slowly inches across the screen. He seems fully in his element like this, and it's easier to see him this way. He's got the kind of genuine, wholesome good looks that would make him the ideal trap for a skittish mark—

Good looks?

—and he wouldn't have rotted at a desk doing analysis at the agency for long, but a Chuck without the Intersect would have been perfect for that job.

He glances up at her and his attention shifts from wherever it is, back to her, and she feels her breath catch. She hated it for him, this morning. She hated walking into the cabin and seeing his face fall at the undisturbed dust and cobwebs. He installed a video camera anyway, just in case someone comes by who might give them a lead, and he probably started setting up the remote feed as soon as they walked inside.

She wordlessly hands him the postcard and he chuckles after he reads it. "Sounds like we both struck out today," he says quietly. "I'm sorry, Sam. But at least you know he's probably close."

Not that he definitely is.

It's the split in his attention that leaves her feeling comfortable enough to sit down on the bed beside him, but it's a mistake, she knows as soon as she's in contact with his bedspread. She's held herself so fucking rigid for so long and this little vacation from life is working on her, and when their gazes meet she feels it again.

She's hated Sarah for so damn long and this is the man Sarah chose to spend the rest of her life with, and she's watched the logs. Three years working by his side before they decided to quit the life, only to come back to it again, trying to find a balance. Four years before they were married.

And maybe Chuck grew into this skin, the competent, occasionally brilliant, occasionally irreverent spy she sees before her, this spy who at his heart is everything a spy is not. The sheer goodness he radiates is by itself seductive, and she's been suspicious for so long that it was hard to take him at face value, but this is who he is, exposed before her. He's a man looking for the same thing she is, and what kills him is that he thought he had found it with her.

She had fully intended on celebrating the death of Sarah Walker when she walked out of this apartment for the last time. The death of vulnerability and lies and foolish choices.

There will come a moment when she has to make a choice, and after that moment, she'll be too deep in his orbit to walk away.

She's beginning to wonder if the moment has already passed.

Chuck swallows and manages to glance away. "Verbanski has another job for us," he says, and clears his throat. "If—if you're interested."

She nods. "It'll give us a chance to see what they've found out, anyway."

Casey shakes his head when they walk in. "Gave the staff nerds a field day when we gave them this assignment. They traced the money back far enough, and guess who first bought that base off the government for a song? Our old friend Ted Roark."

Chuck immediately stiffens next to Sam. "That seems like some quick turnaround," he comments. "New construction to surplus in, what, eight months?"

"Well, don't forget about his connections," Casey points out. "The tricky thing has been figuring out who got it after Roark."

Chuck's fingers are beating an absent tattoo on the arm of his chair. "Could Decker have been involved?" And then Sam sees it, the simultaneous narrowing of their gazes. "Could Shaw?"

Almost immediately they turn to look at Sam. Chuck's hand tightens on the arm of his chair. "Is he out?"

Casey picks up his phone and barks a few commands to whoever's at the other end. Both the men are visibly upset by the thought of Shaw being out, and Sam has to admit that she isn't sure why, but even she feels a thread of tension creep over her belly.

She can tell he's trying not to do it, but finally Chuck gives in to the impulse and reaches for her hand, and his skin is almost clammy against hers.

"Far as we can tell, he's still in custody," Casey says when he hangs up, and Chuck releases an almost bitter laugh.

"Yeah. For how long?"

"You're the one who didn't take him out when you had the chance," Casey growls.

Sam squeezes Chuck's hand. "So Shaw has a reason to keep your father in custody," she says.

"As far as I know there are two things he wants in this world: to punish you, and to have an Intersect again," Chuck sighs. "Having my father in custody isn't ideal, but he can get an Intersect that way... if he has the right leverage." Chuck blanches. "Oh God, I have to call Ellie."

He has his phone in his hand before he's even out in the hallway, and Casey frowns a little to himself before he looks at Sam. There's no Desert Eagle on the desk in front of him this time, but he doesn't need the gun to look menacing. "Kind of surprised to see you back," he admits gruffly. "With Bartowski, anyway."

Sam shrugs. "He's a good asset," she says mildly.

"Yeah, don't think I don't know exactly what you want to do with that—"

"They're okay." Chuck sighs. "Everyone's okay, including Clara. And Ellie says hello. But Shaw's been able to cause trouble from custody before..."

"I'll put some of the boys on it. In the meantime..." Casey raises his eyebrows. "Thought this was right up your alley."

Talking about Shaw has left Chuck keyed up, but even he can't help smiling when Casey goes over the mission. "And you and Gertrude didn't want to do this because...?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

Casey grunts. "Just thought two of the biggest fans of—" he makes a little exasperated sound— "PDA might be a better fit."

And Sam has never had a problem with PDA—as long as it's for the job.

They're going in as a couple. He's the scientist—so his costume seems to consist of a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and a too-stylish tux—and she's his wife, and all eyes are supposed to be on her while he's intercepting the meet.

She takes those instructions to heart, and when she steps out of the bathroom and back into the main space of their hotel room, Chuck's mouth literally drops open.

Her violet silk gown is strapless, with a sculpted bodice, and the skirt falls down to her ankles, leaving half her back bare. Her strappy pewter heels give her just enough extra height, and when their gazes meet, she's sure the temperature in the room has gone up at least ten degrees.

She wears Sarah's rings, and she thinks that he likes seeing them on her again, even if it's as part of a disguise. They mingle with the guests and he uses an outlandish accent, looking down his nose until she hands him a flute of champagne. Their intercepting mission goes without a hitch, but they can't afford to be caught there if their subterfuge is revealed, so all too soon they're walking quickly back to the car, back to the hotel. Probably a late flight, a pass at the airport, and they'll be back in Burbank and she'll be another day closer to a decision she finds herself less and less certain about.

Her blood is thrumming with adrenaline even when they're in the elevator, headed back to their room. He's taken the ridiculous glasses off, and they grin at each other like fools, and Chuck is the kind of guy who would never chastise her for goofing off during a mission, for acting even a breath below professional. He makes an awful spy, and he makes a fantastic spy, because Chuck at his heart is the last guy in the world anyone would suspect of being one.

She still has her rings on when she keys into their room, and he's already loosened his tie when she turns to him.

"I don't know why, but I was expecting dancing," she admits, softly.

Chuck grins. "Guess we didn't stick around long enough. Kinda disappointing though, right? I do a mean tango." He taps his temple.

"I bet you do a mean anything."

He nods. "Whatever the situation calls for, I'm there. Lambada, waltz, salsa... haven't needed to clog yet, but I've been keeping my fingers crossed." He grins again.

This was how they were, before. And that tension between them never feels so strong as it does right after a mission.

She reaches for his hand, and the sudden faint expression of surprise vanishes immediately as she steps in close to him. "Well, I doubt you'll need any extra help with this one," she murmurs, and slips her arms up over his shoulders, guileless and sincere as a prom date. He follows her lead and slips his arms around her waist, his warm palms low against the small of her back, as they sway together to the rhythm of their heartbeats.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again with a small shake of his head.

"What?" she murmurs, keeping her gaze on him.

"I was just thinking, that maybe I did this wrong," he says quietly. "I was so desperate to get you back—to get Sarah back," he corrects himself, "and the only way I could see it was to make you remember, and there's so much I wouldn't change about the last five years, but there's so much I would, too. We screwed up so much along the way. I screwed up so much along the way." He shakes his head. "You'd think, after losing you, after almost losing you so many times, I'd be used to it by now, but I'm not, and I won't be, not ever. And I know I told you I'd let you go, Sam, but it's not because I want to. I swore I'd love you forever, and I will. And I'll let you go, I'll be miserable the rest of my life, if that's what it takes to make you happy. Because that's more important."

Sam swallows hard, her blue eyes searching his brown ones. "I don't want you to be miserable," she says firmly.

He gives her a small, sad smile. "And at the end of the month, when you're gone..."

She shakes her head. "Something tells me that it's going to take longer than that, to track your father down," she says softly. "And I'd hate to leave before I see how that works out. Or..." Her heart is trying to come out of her chest. "Or the way you lambada."

He's trying not to let himself hope. She knows exactly what that looks like, exactly how it feels.

"So maybe I could stick around a little longer."

He swallows and shakes his head. "Not a little longer," he says, and his voice is almost hoarse. "Please, not only a little longer. Not just a little more."

There was a moment, when she could have turned away. There was.

And then their lips meet.

She stops wondering how it was between them before, because she only knows how it is.

They hastily leave their outfits on the carpet at the foot of the bed, save her rings, and while the weight of them is unfamiliar, it seems right somehow. They tumble into bed and it's too fast, she wants to remember all of it, every single bit of it, the scent of him against the faint musk of his aftershave, the way his knee slips between her legs to part them and she flips him onto his back, and between every kiss they roll together, sealed tight skin to skin, like they just can't get close enough.

"Chuck," she whispers, her brow creasing as he slips two fingers between her thighs, his thumb finding her clit, and she arches, rocking desperately, scrabbling to get a grip on him.

"Oh God... Sam..." He shudders when she palms his cock, measuring his length and girth as her fingers curve around him. "God, it's been..."

For him it's been too long, and for her...

He keeps working his fingers in her, sliding out and thrusting back in, his thumb circling her clit as he leans down to kiss her, and she slips an arm around him, her hand fisting against his hair as she bucks, tilting him onto his side. The way he kisses her, oh God, she has dreaded this drowning so much. The weight of his love for her could crush Sam.

But Sam is the only woman he's ever really loved, like this. And she hated Sarah for so damn long because Sarah was foolish enough to let him in...

No. Sarah was strong enough to let him in.

She flushes as she whimpers against his mouth. She's not fucking feigning it, and she knows exactly how to fake an orgasm, how to drive a mark over the dizzying edge of desire, but this is her, this is real. He gives her one last hard kiss before he's brushing his lips over her nipple, and she shivers as he pulls the hard, rosy tip of her breast into his mouth.

She releases a low guttural cry, her thumb brushing the head of his cock, and she's gratified to find the slick warmth of his pre-cum there. He massages her other breast roughly, squeezing her nipple as he suckles the other, and she would never have thought he would be rough, but God, she's almost lightheaded at how fucking good it feels. She cups his balls and he groans against her breast in pleasure, and when she slides her fingertips up his shaft again, she parts her legs fully, angling him toward her. "Now," she begs, crying out when he pulls his fingers out of her, bringing them together and holding them straight as he rubs his wet fingertips, slick with her arousal, over her swollen clit.

"Please."

She isn't the one who begs. She is the one who leaves them begging.

She cries out in frustration, still spread open for him on the bed, as he scrambles to the foot to dig in his pants pocket, and a few seconds later he's crawling back toward her, a wrapped condom in his hand. She takes it from him, ripping open the foil impatiently, stroking it over his cock. He nips at her lower lip as she pumps him in her fist, and God, she's so wet that just the slide of her inner lips against each other makes her shudder in pleasure.

And then he laces the fingers of one hand between hers, rolling onto his back, and she straddles him, guiding his cock into place, the head rubbing against her clit, leaving her gasping before she angles him a little more, just between her legs. She lets out a low soft moan and their palms are damp where they touch, and she's taken half his cock when he just barely brushes his thumb against her clit.

"Oh fuck," she pants, and in one smooth thrust he's buried to the hilt inside her, and both of them shiver at how amazing it feels. He flicks the very tip of his thumb over her clit and she rocks her hips as he arches.

She pushes herself up, until only the tip of him is still inside her, then takes him all again in one smooth, brutal thrust, groaning in pleasure. She takes it faster the next time, faster, and his fingers tighten against hers, and he rubs her clit harder, until she tosses her head back, her breasts bouncing as she rides him, and her harsh breaths have just turned into one long low moan.

"You—" She loves the little hitches in his breath with her every thrust. "God, Sam, you are—so—gorgeous—"

"Mmmmm," she sighs, flushing a little as her arousal blooms, tightening in her core. "Mmmm, feels so good—oh God—"

He thrusts his hips up to meet hers on the next stroke, panting, his gaze dark and intense on her. "That's right, baby," he says, and he sounds almost desperate now, and she sobs at the pleasure of it as she ruts against him, taking him as deep as she can. "Feels so good... come for me, Sam, please."

She shudders, her slick inner flesh clenching hard around him as her orgasm rises. "Oh yes, yes," she sobs, as he circles her clit, and when she finally breaks, jerking with every stroke of his fingers, he groans as he lets himself find release in her.

She collapses to him and it takes a long, long moment before she can breathe without panting. "God," she moans, her skin cooling as her sweat dries, but the warmth of the afterglow leaves her powerless.

"Mmm," he agrees, sliding his hand from between them, drawing his fingertips up the line of her spine. She nuzzles against his chest, then forces herself to slide off him.

She can't remember the last time she made love to someone as herself, not as Mrs. Anderson or any of the other variations inbetween.

Not for just a little while.

There is nothing else. She's already too deep, and when she walks back into that apartment in Burbank with him, when she joins him in his bed, it will be over. It already is over.

Nothing she knew makes sense anymore. Only him.

She cleans herself up and he slips back into bed, pulling her into his arms with no hesitation, and she closes her eyes, relaxing against him.

She's actually falling for the guy she's married to.

A smile twitches across her lips just before she falls asleep.

Chuck offers to stay in the car—she sees a little flash of humor cross his face as he says it, and she doesn't quite understand that, but then it's gone—but she shakes her head and they walk slowly between the headstones, their hands joined.

She has to see it with her own eyes, Bryce's name engraved in stone, and when the wave of grief comes, her eyes prick and sting, but it doesn't leave her on her knees.

Part of her almost wants to feel guilty about that.

They stand there, silent, for a long time, before Chuck clears his throat. "I know... we've already said all this, buddy, but... thank you. For sending me that email, for sending Sam into my life. I just wish you were still here to see it."

Sam blinks hard and Chuck's fingers tighten on hers. She leans against his shoulder and he releases her hand to slip his arm around her waist.

She thought she needed this. But Bryce isn't here, not really, and the woman she was when she was with him feels like someone she can barely understand, now. She had been so desperate, burning through their time together, knowing that any moment could be their end, and then one was. She had been convinced that it was the only way, that there was nothing more she could want.

And then she met Chuck.

"Thank you," she whispers, and she doesn't know who she's saying it to, and part of her doesn't care. She lingers there for a moment longer, then takes his hand and begins to walk back to the car.

"You okay?"

She nods. "Yeah," she murmurs. "I'm okay. Thanks."

He gives her a small, bittersweet smile. "We can... we can always come back," he says quietly.

She shakes her head. "He already knows," she says softly. "What we always knew, going in. It wasn't going to last."

His thumb brushes the stone of the engagement ring on her finger before he releases her hand, as they reach the car.

They have a flight in the morning. It's terrible timing but they only have one bottle of champagne, so they'll probably be okay.

That is, if she can even walk at all in the morning.

The upper tier of their wedding cake has been defrosting in the refrigerator all day. He's naked when he brings it back to the bedroom with him, along with a makeshift ice bucket that she's pretty sure used to hold Lego blocks.

She giggles, the sheet pulled up over her bare chest, watching him nearly lose his balance as he slips back into bed with her. "So this is for good luck."

He nods. "Something like that. I think every single wedding tradition is supposed to have something to do with luck."

She shakes her head, tossing her hair a little, and opens her mouth obediently when he offers her a forkful of cake. "So there's a scenario where we could have worse luck than this?"

"Never say things can't get worse," he tells her firmly, then takes a bite of cake. "You came back to me, and this time it didn't take me three years to get you in the sack..."

She pokes his side and he squirms away from her, laughing. She takes the opportunity to steal another bite of cake.

"Are you sure about this?"

He takes a breath, then shakes his head. "No," he admits. "And if you... Sam, I'm glad you don't remember what he did to you, what he wanted to do to you. In all honesty I never want him anywhere near you again."

"But if Shaw knows where your dad is..."

Chuck shrugs a little. "If he knows he'll probably lie to me just because he can," he sighs. "And if he's involved, if he sees that he's getting what he wants? He'll just try to exploit this."

"Ahh, but he doesn't know about your secret weapon."

He pauses before he takes his sip of champagne. "My devastating charm?"

She chuckles, reaching for her own flute, and the sheet slips down, and his gaze immediately gravitates to her breasts. "Try again."

"The government supercomputer in my head?"

She shakes her head, swiping a bit of icing from the side of the layer and popping her finger into her mouth. "Not quite."

"My borderline genius moves in the bedroom? Because those are our secret."

She laughs again, taking the plate out of his hands and putting it on the bedside table before she kisses him. "Sam Bartowski," she murmurs against his lips. "Who is going to do anything to help her husband get his father back."

"When he tries to get to you..." Chuck's fingers slide into her hair as she begins to trail her lips down his chest. "Mmmm. If you cry a little—make him think—what he's—fuck, Sam—what he's doing is..."

He trails off and she raises her head, still gently fondling his balls, her saliva cooling on the tip of his cock. "Is what?"

"Is getting to you then he'll probably break faster—for fuck's sake can you keep doing that—"

She chuckles as she leans down, licking and gently sucking as she takes him in her mouth, and he groans in pleasure. "Mmmmm, yeah, baby. God, that feels so good... but I think I promised you something..."

She pulls back and his fingers lace through hers as she reaches for her champagne flute again. "Yeah, I think you did... and it involved fucking until I wouldn't want to sit down tomorrow."

"Mmm-hmm." He pulls her onto his lap so she's straddling him, gazing up into her eyes.

"I love you," he whispers. "No matter what name you were going by, I always have."

"And I love you too, Chuck," she whispers, tipping her head so she can press her lips to his in a soft kiss. "Probably always will."

"Probably?" he says, in feigned hurt.

Her lips curve up in a small wicked grin. "Depends on how many times you make me come tonight, sweetheart."

"How did you know that was exactly how I wanted to spend our first anniversary?" he murmurs, angling himself for her as she sinks down onto him, her eyes fluttering shut.

"Just a hunch," she murmurs, letting out a soft cry as his warm palms cup her hips, guiding her down to him. His fingers ghost up her sides and she rises and sinks to him again, all of her trembling with need, to feel him against her, skin to skin.

And she gives herself over to it, crying out as they move together, as he rolls her onto her back. She digs her nails into him, shivering, whimpering at the pleasure of it, and when she finally, finally comes again she sobs out his name, her legs tightening around him to pull him harder against her as he follows.

He's all she needed and she almost let him go. She did let him go, for a little while.

She sighs against his chest, his hips still gently moving against hers, and she feels it again.

Home. In his arms, pressed tight to him, her skin finally feels like home.

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