Chuck Fic: turn to the first side

[fated_addiction]

notes: in a nutshell? this took a life of its own. i’m super nervous about this, as i wanted to take a little time and explore sarah. it could’ve been a combination of that shiny poll and coffee too. this takes an au-ish turn between chuck versus the first kill and chuck versus the colonel, taking on the prompt chuck, sarah, and the open road. at any rate, i owe some people some chuck porn and i hope you enjoy it. *laughs*

turn to the first side
behind them, the highway stretches into the mountains, over dust and dirt and the bones of a few trees; Black Rock is nothing but abandoned pieces of a ghost town, old toys, and an army of battered signs, waiting to point out that they've missed another chance again. nobody likes a detour. chuck. chuck/sarah. spoilers for chuck versus the first kill and chuck versus the colonel. 8,306 words, pg13.


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Behind them, the highway stretches into the mountains, over dust and dirt and the bones of a few trees; Black Rock is nothing but abandoned pieces of a ghost town, old toys, and an army of battered signs, waiting to point out that they've missed another chance again.

There are pieces of empty papers that crack, matted crisply over glass and tire marks. A breeze keeps to the space, running against the sides of windows and the lonely car, dark and almost mocking. It needs to go. It’s the only thing that Sarah can think straight about. It needs to go

Chuck sits at the open tunnel though, staring blankly at the entrance with closed fists. The ladder folds from underneath the plastic horse, bars leading down to a bunker of empty rooms and wires. They found tools and broken computer screens, a few empty shells, and wrinkled soda cans. Her ears are ringing, her mouth tight as her teeth pull at the inside skin. She doesn't wince. She doesn't know what to say to him.

She sweeps her hands against the front of her jeans, looking away and into the road. Her t-shirt is sticky, lining into her skin as the air fluctuates under the weight of the sun. In a few hours, it'll disappear. It’s quiet, too quiet, and the breeze picks at the back of her neck, pulling at hair and running over the hips of her jacket. Her gun is pressed against the small of her back. She has three bullets. There was no time for extra ammunition. In few hours, she's sure Casey will know this too. Training gives away to heavy instinct.

Stepping forward, she tries not to sigh. She doesn't reach for him. Her fingers are numb and nervous, pulling over the pockets of her jeans again. She tries not to bury her hands. It’s not a good habit. This is too open and they need to go. They need to figure out what's next. She’s trying to hold too many things.

"Chuck."

Her voice cracks. But he doesn't turn and she watches as his shoulders slump, his head ducking forward. The open entrance seems to sink. To the side, there's a large screen and pieces of metal pocketing around them as a fence. This used to be a drive-through. Chuck almost made a joke before. If this were any other day, they'd laugh nervously about the irony. They’ve never had time for that either. It isn't about what's fair right now.

“He was supposed to be here," he says absently, "I don’t understand.”

She comes to stand beside him, keeping her body tuned to all angles. Her nerves are sharp, tight. The car stands alone behind a motel sign. Vacancy is cracked and the wires lay dead, spread into the dust and dirt. She glances briefly at the entrance again, pulling her hands away from her jeans. Her palms are stretched into lines of grease and dirt, her fingers curling slightly in the memory of the ladder. She doesn't think about fathers and memories.

She shakes her head. “We need to keep moving.”

Sarah is firm. The choice is gone. There’s no time for more choices either; there's a new town, three exits over and in two more there will be a motel. The first thing they need to do is to steal a new car, the second is to sleep. They need the hours. In the morning, she'll make another decision. She stands by the one that she took in the beginning. She’s not going to let anything happen to him. It’s not the way she works. She won't let him down.

But he looks up at her, confused and exhausted. The devastation is gone, buried with bits computer screens and the few working wires that they did find. There were no flashes down there. There’s never any real explanation to how this is supposed to work. There should be. He's tired now. And her chest is tight, pulling as she tries to keep her head on straight for just a couple more hours. She remembers old habits. They’re all part of her. She’s not trained to get out of these things, to keep them safe. She knows. That’s survival.

"We need to keep moving," she says again. And then again because she will need to; it's what she knows he needs. She works on what he needs, what will keep him safe. Moving.

He shakes his head. Then he nods, only to shake his head again. It's easy and both frightening to watch him like this. He's fighting himself for her, for her. His shoulders tremble and his mouth is twisting. She watches as he swallows hard then and reaches forward, closing her hand over his shoulder. Her fingers feel too heavy over his shirt, even as she kneels by him. He looks away. The ground is hard on her knees.

“Dad was supposed to be here. I flashed.”

He says it slowly, punching each word out as he tries to sigh. It’s so strange how i flashed strings together all these feelings for her. Sometimes, she's angry. Sometimes, she's scared for him. It plays a game of back and forth, weaving her in between the job and how she feels. Here, she forgets neither of them. She can't. It’s really guilt that stands with her because if she had done her job, if everyone else had listened and remembered how much bigger this still stands, they wouldn't be here.

She’s quiet though, then pulling her hand away from his arm. She shifts to stand. Her knees hurt, and her fingers reach over lines of her jeans, trailing over the fabric. They brush over her boots. There’s a crack and her gaze snaps up, only to watch as one of the wires from the sign begins to swing.

“Sarah, I flashed.” And it's almost desperate there, as if he were ready to hear her say what she should say; whatever that is, she thinks, is gone and what's done is done. There’s nothing to linger on. There’s nothing that can be lingered on. They can't. She can't. She can't.

The facts, however, remain the same. There is nothing here. She forgets about fathers and sons, fathers and daughters, and the plays on similarities. He deserves more than platitudes. There were no flashes. They need to move. She can play with them, over and over again. There’s just no more. They don't have time. They have to lose the car.

She’s on her feet. Her boots scrape into the dirt and dust climbs onto her legs, smearing over her knees and hands. Her fingers stretch, pulling into her palms. She wants a shower. She’s tired. She’ll need a couple of hours. The back of her neck is tight, pulled even as her stomach continues to tie itself into knots. She keeps her mouth relaxed and doesn't look at Chuck. It’s still quiet now. They’re lucky. They’ll have to remember that.

Still, Sarah gives into what she understands. “I know.”

He says nothing again.

And as they drive, she counts the mile markers.

One hundred fifty-two, then three, and four; she remembers the first time she took to a mission this long. She was kid, in every sense of the way and belonging mattered more to her than the objective. It worked then. It hasn't worked since.

Chuck is still silent next to her; his head tilted back against the seat. His eyes are half-closed, his gaze turned to the window. She steals glances at him. She’s worried. She tells herself to stop. But everything is standing the same: marker one hundred and fifty-nine looks like one hundred and seventy-two. The exit too is still close.

On the road, though, they have company. Cars cluster and open to pockets of spaces that keeps her glued to her mirror. There are no horns or sirens, like the city. It’s unnerving and too slow, the memories picking at what little sanity she has standing. Her fingers are stretched over the wheel, into the leather and the grooves that have already faded under the sun. There’s enough space for them to depend on the favor of time. In her head, she can see Casey picking apart what they left, Chuck's family and jobs, his room and her room.

It’s getting dark too. The highway is starting to thin under the sky, the colors sharp over the glass. It’s too easy to go one, then two. She doesn't know what she was thinking.

She takes a different exit.

"I think I've seen this movie."

The keys to their room dangle from his fingers. The sound slaps between them, wrinkling softly as he gathers them back into a fist. Sarah has never wanted to make herself laugh so badly as they stand together, staring at the door.

Instead, her mouth turns slightly and she shifts, nudging him. He shakes his head, almost amused and neither of them has really said much about Black Rock. She can guess what he's thinking; something about his dad, something about his family and friends that they've had to leave behind. She’s thinking about Casey. She remembers she's only got three bullets and a set of knives.

Chuck slides the keys into the door. It snaps loudly as the lock turns, his fingers wrapping around the knob. She watches as he leans heavily into the door, pressing his shoulder into the wood. It pops softly and they enter, bag-less and exhausted. She turns before she closes the door though, looking out into the lot.

There are four cars, two trucks hidden around the corner. Their new car is a dusty Volvo, ancient and standing as if it were ready to be buried with old school buses and a different decade. Across the street, a diner stands still. The sign is buzzing orange, writing open across the backs of a small group of cars. She counts them too, watching as the light bleeds in from the windows. Her eyes blur and they feel a little heavy. She just needs a couple hours of sleep. There were no real houses on their way in.

"Sarah?"

Turning, she forces a smile back on her mouth. "Sorry," she says, "I spaced out. I think my body's too used to driving."

It’s like two truths and a lie. He smiles back at her, the corners of his mouth mirroring the tightness that haunts her still. She brings a hand to her shoulder, rubbing away at the weight. She kicks the door shut too, only to turn again and bolting the lock twice. If only to make sure, she tells herself.

Only to make sure.

The room is almost boneless. There is a bed tucked into a corner, wearing nothing but thin sheets as skin and pillow in the middle. The color is almost yellow under the light and it faces an empty television, the screen watching them as Chuck sits on the edge of the bed with tight hands and she turns to draw the curtains. She sees no closet. It doesn't matter.

She wants to talk about a plan, but she doesn't know where to start. Or she doesn't have a plan. It doesn't really matter which, but an admission is going to cost her. She’s stopped thinking about the things that she really wants to say to him. They’re not going to help. They’re never going to help. She almost remembers Bryce. Then, she doesn't. She can forgot these things too. History won't repeat itself.

"I -"

The words are dry over her tongue and he's watching her carefully, as if to pull a reaction. Her hands slip behind her and she reaches for her gun, pulling it out from under her t-shirt. She wants to shower. She needs to clear her head. She can't do much for him like this.

"I'm going to shower."

"Oh."

She frowns and he frowns back, keeping his gaze steady. They’ve done this before and her tongue brushes against the backs of her teeth, picking at the lines. She tastes nothing. They’ll go across the street in the morning. After, she reminds herself, after they figure out what's going to happen.

"I'm going to shower," she repeats. And she feels like that's all she's been doing, adding, "but if you want to go first, that's fine too - I can wait."

He shakes his head. Slowly, his hands unfold from over his lap. She counts, pulling her gaze away from his as she watches his fingers pull away as if they were nothing but layers. They hover over the blanket of the bed. He’s never been afraid to touch anything - that's what she marvels about most. With what's in his head, he's never changed. She knows it scares him too.

But they hesitate over the blankets and the bed, hovering as if he were anxious. She watches intently, caught between wondering if she's reading too much into this or not. She never wanted Chuck to lose what made him. They are miles and miles away from his family and friends, his life. She doesn't know how to tell him to be prepared for not ever finding his father. She can't think like that yet.

"Nah."

He forces a smile too. And her stomach knots together in a mix of nerves and disappointment. She doesn't know what to expect anymore; outside of what she understands, the very basics, putting this, whatever this is. There’s no comparison either. This has changed everything as is and expectation, if she’s honest, never mattered to begin with. She can’t be selfish.

"Go for it," he rubs his eyes, "I'll make myself take one in the morning."

She nods, not trusting herself to say anything. He falls back and over the bed, the mattress sagging to swallow him. She turns then, into the bathroom and pulls the door shut behind her.

The light snaps on, fizzing. It pulls an eerie glow over the small space, tight and walked with dirty tiles. They were white once, she thinks. Or blue. These rooms, after awhile, all look the same. And the shower curtain is peeling from the rings that hold it closed. There’s a window between the toilet and the shower, water stains and holes peeking back at her. There’s this smell too, not quite clean or right. She tries not to think about it and her boots squeak as she steps forward.

She pulls open the faucet and the water sputters into the sink. It rushes hard, running over the graying drain. Her skin feels too tight again, taunt and she holds out her hands under the light, watching as the color starts to waiver. She remembers her gun on the nightstand.

Her hands drop.

That night, there are three things that scare her:

Casey will find them eventually, as the how or the why don't matter quite yet; she's driven now by a dangerous mix of duty and subjectivity, while he's always been loyal to duty in the end. She knows that Chuck knows this too. She doesn't know if they'll talk about it.

Past mistakes are past mistakes, but she's going to have to give Chuck something. Something doesn't mean just anything anymore.

And as she stays awake, Chuck fits into sleep with his knees pressed into the back of her legs and his hand tucked over her side. He doesn't completely touch her, but her body is too aware of placement: of his fingers, how they curl over her hip, and how she can just barely feel his mouth over her shoulder. They are all incomplete movements. Even that, there is too much for this.

Secretly, she likes that best of all. She isn’t supposed to.

In the morning, she wakes up before him.

They take to the diner quickly, over coffee and eggs that neither of them touches. It’s the place, she thinks. The small booth that closes them off into the window. She can see in front of her. She can see behind her. Across the street, or just to the side. All angles are covered. This is what's important. They’ll be on the road soon.

She pays particular attention to the people too. The man two tables over holds his coffee just like her. Finger to thumb over the mug handle, ready to pick up and drink or ready to go. It’s a sign of heavy nerves. And three more tables over, a waitress is wiping down the surface counter-clockwise. It amuses her and she's singing some song softly, halfway between a mutter and just out loud. People do come in and out and it's "hey Joe" or "the usual, you two" because there's always a face to community.

But what she won't say to Chuck is that after awhile, it all becomes the same thing. Exit signs are just numbers and mirrors. There’s always a Jack, a Joe, and a little kid asking for more syrup on their pancakes. There’s a waitress that will call them both sweetheart and smile to care. This is how it feels to disappear.

"So we should go back."

She looks up finally, watching as Chuck pushes his hands underneath the table. He meets her gaze and offers a half-smile, tired and shy. It doesn't quite reach his eyes though and her guilt pulls at her nerves again. It’s a process too: his face changes each thought from his father to Ellie, to home and work, to Morgan and the things that he's losing - lost, she thinks. This is will always sink back into being her fault. She’s learned too quickly to read the lines of his face.

Uncomfortable too, Sarah is aware of the weight of her own presence. Her boots are heavier today. She left her jacket in the car and there is fringe, at the end of her t-shirt, waiting to pulled. They’ll make a stop again, later. A new motel, a change of clothes. There’s money too. Chuck has to know that her dad taught her well.

"I don't think so," she murmurs finally, " - we're still too close and we don't know if there's really any point to going back. You saw the place. They're gone."

He frowns and doesn't say anything. She’s trying not to remember earlier anyway. It was nothing of incredible significance. They shared a bed. He almost laughed. She almost smiled. And this morning, his fingers were tucked into her hip and his mouth was at her shoulder as if they had done it all before. She’s not supposed to think about this. It isn't safe right now, for either of them. There needs to be other mornings. There will always be that need.

"Sarah."

She looks down as he says her name, his hands spreading back over the table. The waitress passes them, her reflection blurred into surface. She doesn't pay much attention to them anyway. Chuck's hands are still unsteady too, his fingers shifting and falling. They’re restless. Neither of them likes eggs anyway.

"Sarah," and again, he's trying. She knows what's coming.

"You need to make sure."

Her gaze stays straight and over his hands, brimming into the plate. The eggs are a sharp yellow, curled at the ends and peeling against crumbs from his toast. The roof of her mouth is sticky and her stomach churns slowly. She tries to swallow, but her mouth is still. It’s why she's kept to coffee. She’ll eat later. She can wait.

"I need to make sure."

He seems to soften, pushing his hands forward. They reach for hers, but then stop and hover. His fingers turn into his palms, almost clenching into a fist. Slowly though, her fingers uncurl and rest against the table. Under her palms, the surface sticks into her skin. It’s almost an offer. But neither of them moves.

She bites her lip. She doesn't want think about this. They have hours. They have to prepare for days and the impulse is already starting to haunt her. He’s still watching her, waiting for the answer; he doesn't say it again, doesn't slur through make and sure. It might break her. There are things she doesn't know how to say. There are things that nobody can know.

She shakes her head then, she doesn't say it. She doesn't say no.

The speed limit is sixty-five now.

The car keeps to sixty. And it smells a little like the diner, their second one, and some cigarettes. Chuck tries to sleep next to her, his eyes closed tightly as his head tilts into the window. He’s tired. She can't forget that. The sun's too bright and there are water stains peeling into windows on all sides of them.

There’s a pull over the back of her neck, sharp and shaped into a new weight. She remembers the day her mother left. She forgets. Her fingers bury themselves into the wheel. This car has a plastic covering, already peeling underneath her fingers. It can be thrown away.

Remember the first rule, she tells herself, know how to disappear.

It’s better not to lie.

It takes more than a couple days to say, “We’re going to be okay.”

They have to stay small.

"We just did a big circle."

They’re holding a map over the back of the car, numbers and names of towns that hold very little importance. The collar of Chuck's shirt has folded back underneath his throat, picking lazily at his skin. There is no breeze and the sun is at full height, licking at the both of them. Her t-shirt is too tight, her jeans are glued into her legs, and after awhile, she's beginning to feel like she's staring at the same thing.

She shakes her head though, drawing her fingers over the highway on the map. They itch. The paper wrinkles under her nails, the red lines unraveling into webs of town names and more exit signs. She doesn't want to think about exits. Over their heads, too, the sun is starting to thicken heavily. On the radio, there was something about rain. It was like it was laughing at the both of them.

"No," she sighs finally, "we didn't."

And she doesn't know how to tell him what they're looking for exactly because she's trying to remember too. She and Casey have existed on this co-dependency on Chuck, his flashes, and their resources. Instinct was always a different kind of weight. But she doesn't know what he's thinking either, and he hasn't said anything about what he wants to see outside of the fact that he wants to go back to Black Rock. They can't.

She shuffles forward, leaning into the car. Her boots are starting to swallow her feet, tight and wedging into her heels. They had a bag in the other car. It was safer to leave it behind. She did take the money. It’s the only course of action that stands as dependable.

"I memorized what I could," it's a lie, but not a complete lie. She knows things like schematics and contacts, old friends of her father that she's never used and habits that she set herself up for just in case. Her mind works in files and assessments. They just can't go back and as long as that rings true, it's going to be what drives them.

He nods, then, and she hears the faint oh - as if he expects more from her that she understands. She feels fragmented here. She shouldn't. She knows how to this. These habits have never really left her.

She looks over at him. "We have to keep in mind that -"

"Casey?"

There’s a sliver of amusement written into his mouth and she lets herself breathe, her mouth turning in response. He laughs then too and the sound flips, muffled as he buries himself into his hands. They’re still unsteady and she's been noticing, more and more, as they waste through time. They haven't talked about anything but the present. She reaches for him, her fingers curling into his arm as she digs her elbow over the map. It starts to flail underneath her arm, cutting lightly into her skin.

She leans into Chuck though and her eyes close, her forehead dropping against his shoulder. She steals the moment. It’s just a moment. She can feel him trembling and she keeps herself still, quiet, and taunt. She’ll be what he needs her to be too. She’s already promised herself this. But it's exhausting and maybe then, here, this is where she misses Casey. There was a balance and it's been pulled, snapped into pieces that she's not really sure how she's going to handle when everything stops.

"I don't want to think about Casey." He's sharp, even now. His hands have fallen from his face and he looks down at her, somewhere between a small smile and nothing at all. Maybe, she’s waiting for him to panic.

She gets it too. She gets it, but doesn't want to get and she pulls herself to full height, leaning in again and brushing her mouth against his jaw. It’s impulsive and rash because if she opens, she opens and it won't stop. It won't be safe. She needs to keep to some of these habits that she knows.

"We should go."

Gently, he pulls his arm free. This time though, he's said it first.

What Sarah remembers is being twelve and angry, often clueless to why they moved around too much and why her dad never seemed to like anything but trucks. They were never too tall, never blue or red; often, marked and marred, they'd wear mud-stains and townships, their version of zip codes.

There were the friends that sneered and the friends that never got too close. The bumpers would be scarred into scams and Sarah, as she stood, never really could bring herself to wonder if they held the secrets to as why her mother really left the both of them like this.

"It's about being smart, angel-hair," he say. She never knew how to ask, but he'd tell her anyway, almost as if he were wearing it as the face of expectation. It was always about patterns.

It’s still funny what she understands now.

Just in case, there’s a plan to forget.

Chuck doesn’t need to know how to take someone else’s name.

For dinner, a new waitress asks if they’re married. She says yes.

The hardest part is how easy a string of days can seem like one, long one.

Some times, it’s smarter to keep track of time. Other times, it’s better to let things take their own course. She believes in systems and plans, as she was brought into this. It shouldn’t make any difference. Still though, every motel room becomes the same room, every diner becomes the same diner, and she’s afraid of getting tired.

And she almost warns him too, her mouth tight at the wheel as he says things like, "Ellie is going to hate me -" or "I can't see anything at all." as it all goes and just breaks her heart. It’s easier to forget about herself.

What the road does, then, is unravel as an escape. The highway walks along the car into the next switch, into another meal, and to rest, just rest in another room that looks just like the first one they stayed in. They have a bag now. She’s always been careful with money. They have enough clothes too to last for a big wash if they don't find what they're looking for anymore.

But the clothes are too big and too small, and her heels are starting to peel into the backs of her boots. She’s too familiar with the shape of her own body, of his and how the mechanics of their needs work. It looms over her, waiting and picking, hoping to have that time where she just snaps.

She’s tired. The energy that's been driving with her is slowly starting to slip away in between memories and all the vices of duty. She wonders a lot about that day, the day she said yes as her choice or if her mom had made a choice, had hesitated and then taken her with her, to wherever she is. It doesn't matter anyway and sixty-five seems to be a stretch of miles and an odd sort of confidant that she can deal with on her own.

Next to her, Chuck is awake again. His hands are folded around a coffee cup. He flashed some hours ago, with the name of an old contact of her father's. She was trying to find options. He said something like still working and they went over and over, drawing circles around the things that they know and don't know. It’s a different world without the resources, the support, and the past couple years of having new habits.

"I'm sorry," she says then. Her gaze meets his briefly, as she blinks into the motion of throwing a sympathetic smile his way. It’s not about placating him. She hopes he knows. She's not that person. She wouldn't do that to him.

And like that first night, the day she came to get him, he smiles somewhere between surprise and reassurance as Chuck has always been Chuck. She doesn't want that. She wants him to talk to her. She wants her guilt to stop and some sense of finality to emerge so that she can take him home to where he should be and all of this can stop being the nightmare that's waiting for them.

"Don't be."

She shakes her head. "I am though. I know that it's been - this isn't right, Chuck. I'm supposed to be able to give you the help you need and here I am."

Her fingers dig into the wheel. Another new car; the service miles to the one before where starting to ring and there are things that she just has very little patience for. He’s watching her though and the smile, that smile is gone as he fades into a strange sort of seriousness. Reaching forward, his hand closes over her arm and it settles, tugging one of her hands free from the wheel.

She almost protests, but shifts into compliance. Her hand goes into his, their fingers lacing without hesitation. She pulls up her knee, letting the wheel press back and hard over it while the balance is still maintained by her free hand. She’s distracted though. Palm to palm, Chuck's hand seems to want to swallow hers and his fingers play at a squeeze. She feels tiny, all of the sudden, and she doesn't know why.

"Pull over," he murmurs.

Her mouth opens to protest, but nothing falls and she finds her body rolling into the motions of his request. The wheels growl from underneath them and the car skirts onto the side of the road, kicking up a mix of dirt and dust. She pulls her hand away from his and throws the car into park. It shudders, but sighs and then stills. It's hot again.

Turning to look at him, she tries to smile in reassurance. He shakes his head, studying her. She wonders what he's looking for. She always wonders what he's looking for. It’s never made sense to her to begin with. But slowly, his hand rises again and he cups her face, sliding his thumb underneath her jaw. Her teeth run over her lip as she feels his thumb press over her skin, brushing softly.

"I'm glad you're here."

He’s almost shy as the words slip, tired too as she leans into his hand. Her ears are ringing loudly. She doesn't say anything to him. She doesn't know how to. But she gives him that, just that, as her eyes close briefly. She keeps still and aware of the way his fingers start to slide over her face, against her skin. He’s touching her as if to remember, as there is something that she's not completely privy to.

She wishes she could be that person who could run on admissions and confessions. She’s learned not to. It’s not fair, it's never been fair, but it's how she's come this far. She wishes it were that easy. Maybe, she thinks he would know everything the way she's been meaning to tell him.

"I think I should look at the map again," he tells her then. It’s almost a reassurance.

For a little while, he keeps a hold on her hand.

But three towns over, when she's so sure that this isn't California anymore and it can't matter because they haven't to keep moving away so that they can re-group. That’s an excuse, even though she's always tried to promise things that aren't excuses.

She finds him at a pay phone.

It’s outside a gas station, on the side by the men's room where the music is faint and the only thing that you can hear is the stretch of highway that runs underneath them. She’s bought sodas. He sees her. She drops the bag, remembering that this was his suggestion. He’s flushed too and her heart stops, her fingers at her hip. She remembers her gun is in the car and if he does this, if calls anyone, they'll find him. She promised to protect him. That would break all of her promises down. She can't have that.

His eyes are wide, as she reaches forward and slams her hand over the phone. The pay phone space is too, too small and she doesn't know what she's going to say that she already hasn't. They’re wandering; they've been wandering in circles. He’s right. Chuck's right. Maybe, they should've gone back.

Her throat is tight, drying as she looks up at him. Her mouth opens slowly, ready to snap hard. He shakes his head and his fingers start to push into hers. He tries to push her hand away, but makes an incomplete effort. He’s missed the wedding, she thinks. She’s losing track of time. That’s got to be it.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, "I'm sorry - I can't -"

Sarah kisses him then.

There’s a coffee aftertaste, written into her mouth for miles.

The sun is high in the sky, as the day begins to end. She’s not really sure when she's started to notice again. Hours back, it was only raining and the windows are stained with the prints of a passing shower. It’s been a long time since she remembered where they got this car too.

Taking the fifth exit, she decides to stop counting then. It’s not about what matters, but her head is spinning and all she can think about is how she didn't think much before, before him. She worries that he's going to see that. She needs to keep him seeing her as he thinks he knows her: sharp, unfazed, and moving. For her, it's about keeping promises and without keeping those promise, she's not going to be able to do this.

The car shudders into half a town, away from city signs that she doesn't read. She knows Casey, she knows the agency, as it's always been about the bigger picture and the common good. Unity, she never laughs, and justice for all. She's learned to stay away from the joke. Chuck might laugh though, if she decides to tell him.

"I'm sorry," he says this time. Although, it doesn't like he's sorry. His voice is tight, steady and she tries not to pick apart the momentum that's driving the simple apology. She doesn't want to know. She shouldn't need to know. This is about functioning right now.

But there's a motel painted into the view in front of her, under the lights. The sign is small, but she can read vacancy as she squints. The lights, however, swing from red to green and she keeps the pressure of her foot on the pedal as even. They pass a police car. There’s no one in it. Next to her, Chuck shifts. The air is uncomfortable and tight. She keeps her gaze straight, if only out of habit.

Pulling into the parking lot, she swallows. There are cars for company; pocket spaces signaling how many bodies are going to share the time here with them. Bodies, she remembers. This is what they teach you in the agency. She picks the spot farthest away from the office, pulling into a hard park and then returning both hands over the wheel. Her eyes close and she lets her mind unravel, just for the moment, as he watches her.

Her lips still burn and she's not sure she wants to understand any reactions that she's having. Her hands ache, the sensation stretching across her skin and into her bones as her fingers keep themselves tight over the wheel. He shifts next to her. She hears his seat belt snap free.

She tries to imagine Chuck angry. It would be easier if he were angry, having to force himself into some system of survival. She could think about the important things: his father, Casey and the agency behind them, as the things that they should deal with are left behind. They can always have another day, one more hour; it's easier, without a doubt, to give into that inclination.

"You can't kiss me again."

Her mouth tightens, her voice wavering as she pulls at the words. The taste is bitter, taunt, and she opens her eyes if only to keep her gaze straight. The tension in her shoulders is starting to pile, pull underneath the weight that she's been carrying. Her hands relax over the wheel, but they don't move.

She says it again, "You can't kiss me, Chuck."

It stands alone, each word covering any tendency that she might have to fall into an admission. Not now, not now plays over and over again in her head, like it's always done. She knows this to be true. She can't forget who she is to him. She can't think about what she can be.

He says nothing.

She counts to ten in her head then, hesitating before her hands drop. Her palms face over her knees and then she pushes them, reaching for the door. It opens with a loud crack, swinging back and letting the air into the car.

Out of habit, she gets out first. She’s more than aware that she kissed him first.

The thing about her father is that he never made a standing promise.

He told her first: your mom isn’t coming home.

She’s forgotten a lot of things.

In the new room, the bed is too low.

It's dark, and light is peeking inside from under the curtains and the cracks in the door. It crawls against the carpet and she counts the patches that shape into shadows. Her gun is under the pillow. There are new bullets, a box in her jacket and an extra in the car they're keeping for now. It's easy to stay quiet.

Her hair is still wet from her shower. The skin around her eyes is tight and she fingers the ends of her pillow, picking quietly at the fabric. From behind her, Chuck sighs softly. He’s awake too. She knows him. He’s too still, almost sullen. It’s her fault, but she's only trying to protect him. It’s all she's ever tried to do. It’s almost ready to sound like an excuse.

And it's not that she wants one either, but she understands that there's a system to this too, to how she maintains a level of stability and to how she's going to get them out of this. They’re going to be scarred and far from unscathed, but there's got be a way. There’s always going to be a way for something.

Shifting, Sarah rolls onto her back. Her eyes pull into the ceiling. There are stains in the wall, pieces of paint curdling into freckles that trail back to the top of the door. Chuck shifts. But he doesn't move either. She almost wishes he did. She doesn't know how ask him - and even then, she thinks, would that be fair?

"I'll get you home again."

The words decide to slip. They don't feel hollow yet. Selfishly, she doesn't dwell on the sound. Maybe, it's a reassurance. Maybe, it's not. But she can't stand the silence. It hasn't even started to pull at her nerves, but she knows it's there. Between the two of them, that's always enough.

"I don't know how," she murmurs, "but I'll figure it out. We’ll find your dad. We’ll get you two home. I promise, Chuck. I promise."

She can't help but think about the bigger picture; there's his sister, and his father, and the weight of what's going to happen. In her head, she's already stepped past the wondering. She’s ready for the too late. Maybe, she's feeding this. She doesn't really know. She didn't when she was little either; a scam is never just a scam. She’s tried too hard to leave those habits behind.

It’s easier to just protect him.

The sheets rustle though. She feels the bed shift and then dip, the covers pulling over her stomach as Chuck rolls over to his side. He props himself up by his elbow, peering over her as her gaze turns to meet his. She softens, if only out of habit, and the corners of his mouth turn slightly. They’re tired. Maybe, it's catching up to them.

Small towns, she had said. Or didn't. All she remembers is pulling him away, Black Rock and that instinctive need to keep him no matter what. Sometimes she wonders if that's just it, outside the feelings that she has - that's what they are, she knows. That’s what they can be. But it's always, without fail, been about systems and habits, the way they carry her through motions of who she is now.

"I want to believe you."

He says it finally, his voice soft. His free hand moves over her cheek, his fingers brushing over her skin briefly. They’re still shy. And she lets her teeth slide into her lip, tugging at it. The habit is old, almost nervous, and she can see, in the dark, the corners of his mouth as they turn briefly.

She nods to stop him. "I know."

It doesn't feel right, saying i know and leading herself into i understand which will, without fail, come later somehow. She doesn't want to think about later just yet. It hurts a little though, that he wants and just doesn't, like he used to. But she can understand. Everything has blurred.

She wonders too if he's waiting for secrets, if that's what he wants; to be privy to her life, to this now would be even more dangerous. She wonders if he's angry that she only lets him see. This is a constant though, consistent and cyclical. She’s never stopped herself from telling him. She’s never decided that she doesn't trust him. She does trust him. He’s never given her any reason not to. It’s the situation that she doesn't trust. Or losing him - she doesn't know how to lose him. It’s never stopped scaring her.

"Ellie's going to hate me."

"No," she says quietly, "Ellie's going to be okay."

She shakes her head too, turning her gaze to the ceiling again. The light continues to play over the paint, dull and blurred as it shifts into corners. There is no movement in the area. She should be worried. But keeping to the city would've been a terrible idea, predictable and uneven. The city reads patterns faster.

And she can feel it too, the way the end seems to pull at each one of her nerves. She understands begins and middles. She understands how change functions. It’s always walking back to systems how she's learned to survive on them and survive well. It’s that this and Chuck hold a perspective for her that's never been there. It sounds too strange for her to say out loud. She’s used to losing people.

"I'm going to tell you everything one day."

Looking up at him, she lets her fingers brush lightly over his jaw. They’re steady. They just don't feel steady. Her skin seems almost too tight. She's not really sure how to read his gaze either. His eyes seem to have never stopped watching her.

She continues though, almost shy. "It sounds stupid. But I'm going to do it when this isn't happening, when we get out of this - we're going to get out of this, you know? Like always. We always do."

And the words are almost familiar, as if she's said it to him before. Maybe, she has. There are too many ways, too many situations that that she can think about: from the beginning, to slowly understanding, to nearly losing him and now, coming face to face with things that he might just understand too.

Chuck says nothing though and she's almost disappointed, hoping to carry a sense of conversation from somewhere. She feels a little like she's gone crazy, finally with the open road and the odd memories, the pieces of herself that she's allowed her mind to just push back and forget.

Instead, he pulls himself away from his hand and leans over her, pressing his mouth lightly against hers. Her lips don't move but she breathes, her eyes open and wide in the dark. They’re both still and the room seems too silent, prompted by the slow twists of the sheets as she tries to return to sense. But slowly, her mouth starts to open against his and it's far from the reasoning of a quick kiss. There is no impulse left to stand and she brings her hands up to cup his face.

The kiss is hard, hot, and tight as they pull at each other. Under her palms, his skin is flushed. She pulls her fingers into his hair and they curl, almost buried as he pulls her over him. Her tongue slides into his mouth, pushing over his. She tastes him, some awkward combination of dinner and coffee, the same day always approximate in rotation. He grunts against her mouth and she sighs back, moving her lips slowly against his. She wants to taste him, to savor and ignore the rationality that threatens to make her snap. This isn't supposed to happen. It’s happening anyway.

She pushes her hips into his. The sheets seem to fall from her legs and pull over her knees as his fingers slip underneath her shirt. He gives the fabric a tug, his thumbs sweeping into slow, almost lazy circles over her skin. She can't stop kissing him. It’s desperate, unlike before, but there's odd sense of steadiness that both scares and unnerves her. It’s almost too fast.

And it's Chuck that pulls away, breathing heavily against her mouth as his hands come up and curl in her hair. The strands fall wildly into his fists and they still, listening to the room and the outside. There’s nothing, no tires or city laughter. There’s no promise of an interruption. They both just know.

She’s hesitant as she pulls away then, her fingers untangling from him. His hands stay around her though, pulling though her hair and to her shoulders as she tucks into his side. The bed is small enough for a necessary excuse. She doesn't want to think about excuses anymore.

"We should sleep," he says finally. "Maybe, they'll have decent eggs here."

It’s the first time, in while, that she's almost ready to laugh.

The morning presses his mouth over her jaw in an awkward kiss as he thrusts a cup of coffee into her hand.

It’s too hot, the styrofoam licking the lines of her palm. She almost smiles, but lets him linger and slides another hand against the cup as she relaxes. It feels rare and too long, a quick sign that they're going to keep moving again. where doesn't matter yet.

"You know I've always wanted to take a road trip."

His mouth grazes her hair and she doesn't tell him that the woman at the desk called them honeymooners, complete with stars in her eyes and a smile that was way too big for checking out. Sarah remembers that he likes to appreciate these things later. She can do better, she thinks, keeping later as a possible goal.

What she does do is nod and hides a smile, then, into her coffee cup. She can taste her own laugh, the pressure of sound running against her teeth. She doesn't meet his gaze and she thinks about old habits again, of fathers and mothers, of then and now. She understands, she thinks. It’s something, even if it's just a little bit.

But he's watching her, really watching her; there's openness that stands taller, waiting for her to accept it. They have been running circles around each other. They’ve been too used to it. She knows their habits better than her own. It’s not completely clear what they're going to do. It’s going to matter too.

"But," he then adds, "it get old pretty quickly, huh?"

He gives her the keys. They feel heavy in her hands, the ridges picking against the pads of her fingers as she pulls them into an awkward fist. She doesn’t say thing like fathers or picks at the weights of the pieces that they’ve yet to touch on together. They do know how to keep moving on, running forward and away from everyone else’s solutions. It’s always the better plan.

For now, it’s the difference too.