Perfect Fit | A Chuck fic
Title: Perfect Fit
Rating: K+
Warning: Mild violence and death.
Prompt: Bryce/Sarah, background-story from when Sarah snapped those pictures she had on her cell phone in the first season (or just the two of them being kick-ass spies and partners, really, which they could do as well by blowing things up while on a mission as by going shopping or something domestic like that, I think)
Author’s Note: Written for Misura for the help_pakistan auction. Thanks to FierceQueen for beta-ing.
Summary: Bryce and Sarah - Larkin and Walker - a perfect fit right from the start. After all this time, they know each other inside out, able to predict each other's move in a moment.
-x-
You are all too aware of your pounding footsteps and pounding headache, beating together in a double-timed rhythm that threatens to cloud your mind completely. Your hip is achingly bare without your gun; your hands clench nothing but air. The only weapons still on you are the set of knives strapped to your calf, which are impossible to reach while running for your life.
The man behind you is so close you can hear him panting. He doesn't have a weapon either, his gun lost in the ferns a distance back. You are trying to get a lead by winding through the trees, but it is hard to go fast when there is no clear path. Branches catch at your face; fallen trunks threaten to trip you.
"Almost there," crackles your partner's voice through the earpiece, and the knowledge gives you an extra burst of speed. Your pursuer growls and lunges forward, his hand barely missing your arm as you leap over a thick root.
"Down!" shouts Bryce, the voice in your ear echoed from ahead, and you land in a roll. There are several sharp cracks of gunfire over your head, and your pursuer grunts once more in surprise before collapsing. Bryce darts out from behind a tree to approach the body, his gun held carefully in front of him. The man is starting to rise to his feet, and you look up just in time to see him fall back at another gunshot.
When Bryce steps away again, he has returned his gun to its holster. With a brisk nod you straighten and brush the dirt from your knees. There is no need to ask whether the man is still alive. Instead, you wipe the stray hair from your eyes and smile thinly.
Bryce is waiting only a few steps away, and when you turn to him, he asks carefully, "You got the Key?"
"I've got it."
"Great." Bryce reaches for your hand and tilts his head. "Now let's say we get out of this jungle and back to our hotel."
You have already opened your mouth to agree when the next gunshot sounds, and Bryce stumbles back from the force of the bullet.
There isn't time to check if Bryce is badly wounded. Instincts take over, and you pull him to the ground with you, one of your knives in hand only a second later. You are searching the trees for any sign of your attacker, but it is hard to see anything in the chaos of the jungle. There is a movement to your right; you throw the blade and are rewarded by a hiss of pain. The next knife is balanced and thrown before two more gunshots fill the air. You duck low to the ground, head over Bryce's bloodied torso. He is struggling to sit up, hissing that the bullet only grazed him, but you can see the amount of blood on his shirt.
"Stay down," you order sharply, and pull out another knife.
Something snaps behind you, and you whirl about to find yourself face to face with the enemy. He is only an arms length away, and you lash out impulsively. The man dodges the blade and sweeps up his gun for a final shot. You grab at his wrist to twist the weapon from his grip and find you are not strong enough.
“The Key - give me the Key,” the man is demanding again and again. He’s pulling against your grip to bring the gun up again; you cannot hold on for much longer. Summoning the rest of your energy, you kick out with your foot and the man briefly doubles over with pain. His hand still does not loosen and you feel his finger pulling at the trigger. Desperately, you try again to pry the gun from his grip, but your hands are becoming damp and you cannot hold on for long.
A single gunshot fills the air.
For one breathless moment, you cannot move. You half expect to feel a blossom of pain somewhere along your body, but it is your opponent who sags unceremoniously to the ground, his fingers finally loosening from the gun. You rise unsteadily to your feet, eyes watering from exhaustion and see Bryce, leaning heavily against a tree, his shirt stained red and his gun in hand.
"Thank you," you choke, and remove the gun from the corpse.
Bryce nods shortly just as his legs give out on him. You give a quick look around for any more enemy agents - none that you can sense - and dart to his side. "Sarah," he gasps, mouth twisted in one of his wry smiles, "I think I've been shot."
-x-
No missions until you are healed, Director Graham had said. I can't let injured agents out in the field. Then he had paused, and it had almost seemed as though he was going to order you to go with another partner for the time being, but instead he simply leaned forward and ended the transmission.
"Well," Bryce had grinned, "How do you feel about a day at the beach?"
One day turns into a week, but neither of you mind. The air is warm but not humid, the sand hot but not scalding, the waves strong but not overpowering. Bryce doesn't enter the water because of his wound, but you wade together with your feet submerged in the rising tide. The two of you eat mini-sandwiches at the bar, drink cocktails by the pool, and don’t wake until long after the sun has risen.
"This has been one of the best weeks of my life," you tell him one night as you and Bryce watch the sunset from your hotel room.
The next day, you take a picture of Bryce with your phone when you think he's not watching. When you lower the cell, he drops down on the towel beside you. "If you're taking a picture," he chides softly, "It should be of the both of us." And as you smile up at the camera lens, you cannot help but wish that you could stay here on the beach with Bryce forever.
-x-
That night, Bryce takes you out to an exquisite restaurant with dimmed lights and expensive wine. You talk of how to spend tomorrow and the next day, each idea becoming more and more preposterous until Bryce suggests with a quirked eyebrow that you both rent scuba gear and live underwater. You laugh at the thought of Bryce greeting a passing jellyfish, and so you don’t immediately hear the chime of his phone.
Your laughter fades as he lifts the cell. "Excuse me," he says, frowning down at the name on the display as he slides from his seat. You watch as he crosses the room, winding through tables to make his way to a private corner. The conversation is long, with Bryce listening for extended intervals before snapping a reply into the receiver. The waiter arrives with your meals, but you only pick at your linguine as you wait.
When Bryce finally closes up the phone and returns to the table, he is much more subdued. You wait until he is seated and unfolding his napkin before asking, "Who was that?"
He doesn't answer directly, staring instead at his steak as though offended by the cooked meat. "We have to return to Washington."
"What? Now?"
"Tomorrow." Broodingly, he lifts his fork and stares at the tines. "We leave tomorrow afternoon."
The rest of the dinner is dampened by the news, and although you try more than once to make Bryce smile, his mind seems to be miles away.
-x-
The closer the plane gets to Washington, the quieter Bryce becomes. You tell yourself it is only because he is disappointed that the end of your holiday has come so soon; after all, you cannot help but wish the week had not passed so quickly.
Bryce says nothing as the plane lands and you depart. At the luggage carousel he finds his bag with single-minded purpose and barely waits for you to take yours before striding to the lined up taxis.
"You know something about why we've been called back," you guess as the taxi pulls away from the curb.
Bryce just looks out the window and does not respond.
You barely notice as the streets fly past and are almost startled when the cab pulls up at the hotel. You climb out and wait for the driver to retrieve your bag from the back. It is only when the man closes the trunk that you realize Bryce has not moved from his seat.
"Aren't you coming in?" you ask in concern, bending down to peer into the back.
He quirks a smile, although his eyes still seem weighed down. "I'll meet you later tonight," he promises, "There's something I've got to do first."
Something is wrong with what he is saying, but you step back from the taxi and take hold of your suitcase. The cab pulls away, and you watch it slide into the rush of traffic. Then, with a lonely ache inside that you refuse to acknowledge, you turn away and walk into the hotel.
-x-
Bryce does not return within the hour, nor does he arrive before dinner. You eat a quiet meal in your room with the television turned on low as a distraction. When you call Bryce once, the phone rings loud in your ear, but he doesn't answer.
You and Bryce have been partners for a long time, almost since you first began fieldwork. There was one other partner you had before him, another woman, but your personalities had clashed too much and you'd both been reassigned. Since then it has been Bryce and Sarah - Larkin and Walker - a perfect fit right from the start. After all this time, you know each other inside out, able to predict each other's move in a moment.
Except now, Bryce is gone somewhere in Washington, and you have no idea why or where. You do not know what he is doing. You do not know why he has not told you anything.
It is late in the night, the moon high above the skyscrapers, when you receive a call from the Director asking for your location and status.
You relay the information in crisp tones and answer the rest of the questions just as firmly, if with growing confusion. When the Director finally pauses, you work up the courage to ask, "Sir? Is there some problem?"
There is silence on the other end of the line, and you wonder if you should have not have spoken. And then the explanation comes, spoken as a tense statement of facts, "Bryce Larkin has gone rogue, Sarah."
Rating: K+
Warning: Mild violence and death.
Prompt: Bryce/Sarah, background-story from when Sarah snapped those pictures she had on her cell phone in the first season (or just the two of them being kick-ass spies and partners, really, which they could do as well by blowing things up while on a mission as by going shopping or something domestic like that, I think)
Author’s Note: Written for Misura for the help_pakistan auction. Thanks to FierceQueen for beta-ing.
Summary: Bryce and Sarah - Larkin and Walker - a perfect fit right from the start. After all this time, they know each other inside out, able to predict each other's move in a moment.
-x-
You are all too aware of your pounding footsteps and pounding headache, beating together in a double-timed rhythm that threatens to cloud your mind completely. Your hip is achingly bare without your gun; your hands clench nothing but air. The only weapons still on you are the set of knives strapped to your calf, which are impossible to reach while running for your life.
The man behind you is so close you can hear him panting. He doesn't have a weapon either, his gun lost in the ferns a distance back. You are trying to get a lead by winding through the trees, but it is hard to go fast when there is no clear path. Branches catch at your face; fallen trunks threaten to trip you.
"Almost there," crackles your partner's voice through the earpiece, and the knowledge gives you an extra burst of speed. Your pursuer growls and lunges forward, his hand barely missing your arm as you leap over a thick root.
"Down!" shouts Bryce, the voice in your ear echoed from ahead, and you land in a roll. There are several sharp cracks of gunfire over your head, and your pursuer grunts once more in surprise before collapsing. Bryce darts out from behind a tree to approach the body, his gun held carefully in front of him. The man is starting to rise to his feet, and you look up just in time to see him fall back at another gunshot.
When Bryce steps away again, he has returned his gun to its holster. With a brisk nod you straighten and brush the dirt from your knees. There is no need to ask whether the man is still alive. Instead, you wipe the stray hair from your eyes and smile thinly.
Bryce is waiting only a few steps away, and when you turn to him, he asks carefully, "You got the Key?"
"I've got it."
"Great." Bryce reaches for your hand and tilts his head. "Now let's say we get out of this jungle and back to our hotel."
You have already opened your mouth to agree when the next gunshot sounds, and Bryce stumbles back from the force of the bullet.
There isn't time to check if Bryce is badly wounded. Instincts take over, and you pull him to the ground with you, one of your knives in hand only a second later. You are searching the trees for any sign of your attacker, but it is hard to see anything in the chaos of the jungle. There is a movement to your right; you throw the blade and are rewarded by a hiss of pain. The next knife is balanced and thrown before two more gunshots fill the air. You duck low to the ground, head over Bryce's bloodied torso. He is struggling to sit up, hissing that the bullet only grazed him, but you can see the amount of blood on his shirt.
"Stay down," you order sharply, and pull out another knife.
Something snaps behind you, and you whirl about to find yourself face to face with the enemy. He is only an arms length away, and you lash out impulsively. The man dodges the blade and sweeps up his gun for a final shot. You grab at his wrist to twist the weapon from his grip and find you are not strong enough.
“The Key - give me the Key,” the man is demanding again and again. He’s pulling against your grip to bring the gun up again; you cannot hold on for much longer. Summoning the rest of your energy, you kick out with your foot and the man briefly doubles over with pain. His hand still does not loosen and you feel his finger pulling at the trigger. Desperately, you try again to pry the gun from his grip, but your hands are becoming damp and you cannot hold on for long.
A single gunshot fills the air.
For one breathless moment, you cannot move. You half expect to feel a blossom of pain somewhere along your body, but it is your opponent who sags unceremoniously to the ground, his fingers finally loosening from the gun. You rise unsteadily to your feet, eyes watering from exhaustion and see Bryce, leaning heavily against a tree, his shirt stained red and his gun in hand.
"Thank you," you choke, and remove the gun from the corpse.
Bryce nods shortly just as his legs give out on him. You give a quick look around for any more enemy agents - none that you can sense - and dart to his side. "Sarah," he gasps, mouth twisted in one of his wry smiles, "I think I've been shot."
-x-
No missions until you are healed, Director Graham had said. I can't let injured agents out in the field. Then he had paused, and it had almost seemed as though he was going to order you to go with another partner for the time being, but instead he simply leaned forward and ended the transmission.
"Well," Bryce had grinned, "How do you feel about a day at the beach?"
One day turns into a week, but neither of you mind. The air is warm but not humid, the sand hot but not scalding, the waves strong but not overpowering. Bryce doesn't enter the water because of his wound, but you wade together with your feet submerged in the rising tide. The two of you eat mini-sandwiches at the bar, drink cocktails by the pool, and don’t wake until long after the sun has risen.
"This has been one of the best weeks of my life," you tell him one night as you and Bryce watch the sunset from your hotel room.
The next day, you take a picture of Bryce with your phone when you think he's not watching. When you lower the cell, he drops down on the towel beside you. "If you're taking a picture," he chides softly, "It should be of the both of us." And as you smile up at the camera lens, you cannot help but wish that you could stay here on the beach with Bryce forever.
-x-
That night, Bryce takes you out to an exquisite restaurant with dimmed lights and expensive wine. You talk of how to spend tomorrow and the next day, each idea becoming more and more preposterous until Bryce suggests with a quirked eyebrow that you both rent scuba gear and live underwater. You laugh at the thought of Bryce greeting a passing jellyfish, and so you don’t immediately hear the chime of his phone.
Your laughter fades as he lifts the cell. "Excuse me," he says, frowning down at the name on the display as he slides from his seat. You watch as he crosses the room, winding through tables to make his way to a private corner. The conversation is long, with Bryce listening for extended intervals before snapping a reply into the receiver. The waiter arrives with your meals, but you only pick at your linguine as you wait.
When Bryce finally closes up the phone and returns to the table, he is much more subdued. You wait until he is seated and unfolding his napkin before asking, "Who was that?"
He doesn't answer directly, staring instead at his steak as though offended by the cooked meat. "We have to return to Washington."
"What? Now?"
"Tomorrow." Broodingly, he lifts his fork and stares at the tines. "We leave tomorrow afternoon."
The rest of the dinner is dampened by the news, and although you try more than once to make Bryce smile, his mind seems to be miles away.
-x-
The closer the plane gets to Washington, the quieter Bryce becomes. You tell yourself it is only because he is disappointed that the end of your holiday has come so soon; after all, you cannot help but wish the week had not passed so quickly.
Bryce says nothing as the plane lands and you depart. At the luggage carousel he finds his bag with single-minded purpose and barely waits for you to take yours before striding to the lined up taxis.
"You know something about why we've been called back," you guess as the taxi pulls away from the curb.
Bryce just looks out the window and does not respond.
You barely notice as the streets fly past and are almost startled when the cab pulls up at the hotel. You climb out and wait for the driver to retrieve your bag from the back. It is only when the man closes the trunk that you realize Bryce has not moved from his seat.
"Aren't you coming in?" you ask in concern, bending down to peer into the back.
He quirks a smile, although his eyes still seem weighed down. "I'll meet you later tonight," he promises, "There's something I've got to do first."
Something is wrong with what he is saying, but you step back from the taxi and take hold of your suitcase. The cab pulls away, and you watch it slide into the rush of traffic. Then, with a lonely ache inside that you refuse to acknowledge, you turn away and walk into the hotel.
-x-
Bryce does not return within the hour, nor does he arrive before dinner. You eat a quiet meal in your room with the television turned on low as a distraction. When you call Bryce once, the phone rings loud in your ear, but he doesn't answer.
You and Bryce have been partners for a long time, almost since you first began fieldwork. There was one other partner you had before him, another woman, but your personalities had clashed too much and you'd both been reassigned. Since then it has been Bryce and Sarah - Larkin and Walker - a perfect fit right from the start. After all this time, you know each other inside out, able to predict each other's move in a moment.
Except now, Bryce is gone somewhere in Washington, and you have no idea why or where. You do not know what he is doing. You do not know why he has not told you anything.
It is late in the night, the moon high above the skyscrapers, when you receive a call from the Director asking for your location and status.
You relay the information in crisp tones and answer the rest of the questions just as firmly, if with growing confusion. When the Director finally pauses, you work up the courage to ask, "Sir? Is there some problem?"
There is silence on the other end of the line, and you wonder if you should have not have spoken. And then the explanation comes, spoken as a tense statement of facts, "Bryce Larkin has gone rogue, Sarah."