the beast within the burden is all mine {chuck - sarah}
Title: The Beast Within The Burden Is All Mine
Fandom: Chuck
Characters/Pairings: Sarah. Very light Chuck/Sarah; mostly gen.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,114
Author's Note: This isn't chronological. I know; I'm sorry.
Summary: Season 2. AU. When this is all over she’s left with four white walls, the scrape of her chair, metal against linoleum, and one word: Why?
When this is all over she’s left with four white walls, the scrape of her chair, metal against linoleum, and one word:
Why?
She folds her hands on the table, fingertips six inches from a thick manila folder. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
(They hit her with the butt of a gun; she chooses laughter over tears.)
-
“This isn’t just a job,” she says, perched on the edge of the fountain in front of the place he calls home, barely touched beer held in her hands. The condensation makes her fingers slip if she’s not careful.
Chuck hangs his head when he smiles; that’s how she knows he doesn’t believe her.
-
There wasn’t ever a plan.
At the beginning, there was just the unspoken agreement that comes between partners that orders are for following, not questioning.
Sarah forgot that first.
“You’re on thin ice, Walker,” Casey chides; the brush of leather against her bare arm serves as a reminder that it isn’t with him.
-
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
She’s ten, pigtails and bitten nails, a botched con and inches of beige carpet and dead air between them.
“If you want a job done,” she wishes she could call the tone patronizing, spends hindsight looking for reasons to feel anything but the sort of affection you feel when you’re just a child and you believe your father is the kind of person that words like heroic or respectable denote; when you’re young and you just don’t know any better, “you have to do it yourself is all.”
When he bends to kiss her forehead, she bites down on her lip; the line is imperfect, the absence of the last of her baby teeth marring the imprint.
-
“I’m sorry, Agent Walker, but you knew this was coming.”
Her hands are clasped behind her back and her fingers pull at the first thing they can, tangle with metal around her wrist that gives in with the force.
A charm bracelet clatters to the floor.
-
A decision is made in three words.
Her gun is cold against her stomach and Casey blocks the staircase.
Just because she can’t see them doesn’t mean that she thinks for even a second that he isn’t armed.
“You in?” She asks it before she loses the nerve.
“Yes.”
-
“When they talk about extraction and - ” Chuck’s sentence stutters to a stop. She’s sweat slick and tired from a workout; her wrist aches from where she hit the bag wrong. “Does that really mean - ”
“They’ll put you underground, keep you locked away until they’re done with you or you no longer pose a threat to national security.” There is no emotion left in her voice. “It’s like prison without the phone calls and visiting hours.”
“Lovely. That’s very…very comforting.”
His sarcasm is hard to swallow.
She imagines the same could be said for her indifference.
“You know, this is usually the part where you would say, ‘but that would never happen so don’t even worry about it’.”
“I don’t make those decisions, Chuck,” she offers, finally, disappearing down the hall towards the lone shower in Castle.
-
Her choked sob melds with the sound of the spray, harsh against her skin.
-
The charm bracelet breaks.
Twelve hours later, Casey’s behind the wheel, she’s a brunette, and Chuck’s shell-shocked in the backseat.
The state of Arizona welcomes them.
They won’t be staying long.
-
“Come on,” the man with the folder leans closer to her, “you’re one of us; you know how this works.”
There’s a vacancy to her eyes and the sting of a split lip that begs to differ with that first statement.
-
Once, her finger froze on the trigger.
A shot fired and it wasn’t hers. A woman fell. Chuck had never looked more confused and Bryce had never looked more disappointed.
Casey’s words still cut the most.
“You want something done right, you do it yourself.”
-
Two out of three of the lightbulbs in the motel room were blown.
Her hands skim his shoulders, come around between them to flatten against his chest.
“Chuck,” the hum of his breathing, pants against her temple, sounds like no, no, no. His hand is warm and trembling on her waist. “We can’t do this.”
When his forehead comes to rest on her shoulder, standing there trapped between his body and the wall, she feels like the wind’s been knocked out of her.
-
They don’t have close calls.
This is the CIA; you either get caught or you don’t.
-
“We’re going to run out of states.”
Casey means, this can only go on for so long.
She gives a curt nod.
-
The man gets tired of pacing these floors, of listening to her give vague answers and run through every distraction technique she knows.
“You won’t tell us where they are?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
He wants to hit her but he won’t. It wouldn’t do any good.
All those man hours spent on her training and they made her this way; they made her unable to break.
Now they’re paying for it.
“What makes being on the run so much better than the alternative? Seems to me it would be a lose-lose situation.”
Her silence holds his attention.
-
The car kicks up dust she has to blink out of her eyes when he pulls it off the side of the road.
Casey pauses, had on the steering wheel.
“I don’t like this plan,” he says, as if the admission is painful.
“It’s our best shot.”
He shakes his head. “It also has a good chance of sticking me with Bartowski.”
She smiles, faintly. She thinks he might miss her, if this is goodbye; she thinks she might miss him too.
The ability to vocalize that sentiment isn’t something they’re well-equipped to do.
“It won’t come to that.”
Finality threads through the air and she gets out before it chokes her.
-
“This isn’t just a job,” and she held Chuck’s hands in hers.
“This isn’t just a job,” and it’s the last thing she says to him.
-
She got herself caught.
-
“Are you going to answer?”
Sarah shrugs, “You wouldn’t like my answer.”
“Try me,” and there’s a scowl hidden just beneath the surface. She’s a rogue, and she’s familiar with the disgust that breeds among agents.
She’s also familiar with the regret that creeps up on you. The wonder.
“Because one of these days,” she chooses her words carefully, “you’ll stop looking.”
-
There was no plan. And then there was.
(The twist?
They let her go.)
-
If you want something done right -
-
fin.
-
Fandom: Chuck
Characters/Pairings: Sarah. Very light Chuck/Sarah; mostly gen.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,114
Author's Note: This isn't chronological. I know; I'm sorry.
Summary: Season 2. AU. When this is all over she’s left with four white walls, the scrape of her chair, metal against linoleum, and one word: Why?
When this is all over she’s left with four white walls, the scrape of her chair, metal against linoleum, and one word:
Why?
She folds her hands on the table, fingertips six inches from a thick manila folder. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
(They hit her with the butt of a gun; she chooses laughter over tears.)
-
“This isn’t just a job,” she says, perched on the edge of the fountain in front of the place he calls home, barely touched beer held in her hands. The condensation makes her fingers slip if she’s not careful.
Chuck hangs his head when he smiles; that’s how she knows he doesn’t believe her.
-
There wasn’t ever a plan.
At the beginning, there was just the unspoken agreement that comes between partners that orders are for following, not questioning.
Sarah forgot that first.
“You’re on thin ice, Walker,” Casey chides; the brush of leather against her bare arm serves as a reminder that it isn’t with him.
-
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
She’s ten, pigtails and bitten nails, a botched con and inches of beige carpet and dead air between them.
“If you want a job done,” she wishes she could call the tone patronizing, spends hindsight looking for reasons to feel anything but the sort of affection you feel when you’re just a child and you believe your father is the kind of person that words like heroic or respectable denote; when you’re young and you just don’t know any better, “you have to do it yourself is all.”
When he bends to kiss her forehead, she bites down on her lip; the line is imperfect, the absence of the last of her baby teeth marring the imprint.
-
“I’m sorry, Agent Walker, but you knew this was coming.”
Her hands are clasped behind her back and her fingers pull at the first thing they can, tangle with metal around her wrist that gives in with the force.
A charm bracelet clatters to the floor.
-
A decision is made in three words.
Her gun is cold against her stomach and Casey blocks the staircase.
Just because she can’t see them doesn’t mean that she thinks for even a second that he isn’t armed.
“You in?” She asks it before she loses the nerve.
“Yes.”
-
“When they talk about extraction and - ” Chuck’s sentence stutters to a stop. She’s sweat slick and tired from a workout; her wrist aches from where she hit the bag wrong. “Does that really mean - ”
“They’ll put you underground, keep you locked away until they’re done with you or you no longer pose a threat to national security.” There is no emotion left in her voice. “It’s like prison without the phone calls and visiting hours.”
“Lovely. That’s very…very comforting.”
His sarcasm is hard to swallow.
She imagines the same could be said for her indifference.
“You know, this is usually the part where you would say, ‘but that would never happen so don’t even worry about it’.”
“I don’t make those decisions, Chuck,” she offers, finally, disappearing down the hall towards the lone shower in Castle.
-
Her choked sob melds with the sound of the spray, harsh against her skin.
-
The charm bracelet breaks.
Twelve hours later, Casey’s behind the wheel, she’s a brunette, and Chuck’s shell-shocked in the backseat.
The state of Arizona welcomes them.
They won’t be staying long.
-
“Come on,” the man with the folder leans closer to her, “you’re one of us; you know how this works.”
There’s a vacancy to her eyes and the sting of a split lip that begs to differ with that first statement.
-
Once, her finger froze on the trigger.
A shot fired and it wasn’t hers. A woman fell. Chuck had never looked more confused and Bryce had never looked more disappointed.
Casey’s words still cut the most.
“You want something done right, you do it yourself.”
-
Two out of three of the lightbulbs in the motel room were blown.
Her hands skim his shoulders, come around between them to flatten against his chest.
“Chuck,” the hum of his breathing, pants against her temple, sounds like no, no, no. His hand is warm and trembling on her waist. “We can’t do this.”
When his forehead comes to rest on her shoulder, standing there trapped between his body and the wall, she feels like the wind’s been knocked out of her.
-
They don’t have close calls.
This is the CIA; you either get caught or you don’t.
-
“We’re going to run out of states.”
Casey means, this can only go on for so long.
She gives a curt nod.
-
The man gets tired of pacing these floors, of listening to her give vague answers and run through every distraction technique she knows.
“You won’t tell us where they are?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
He wants to hit her but he won’t. It wouldn’t do any good.
All those man hours spent on her training and they made her this way; they made her unable to break.
Now they’re paying for it.
“What makes being on the run so much better than the alternative? Seems to me it would be a lose-lose situation.”
Her silence holds his attention.
-
The car kicks up dust she has to blink out of her eyes when he pulls it off the side of the road.
Casey pauses, had on the steering wheel.
“I don’t like this plan,” he says, as if the admission is painful.
“It’s our best shot.”
He shakes his head. “It also has a good chance of sticking me with Bartowski.”
She smiles, faintly. She thinks he might miss her, if this is goodbye; she thinks she might miss him too.
The ability to vocalize that sentiment isn’t something they’re well-equipped to do.
“It won’t come to that.”
Finality threads through the air and she gets out before it chokes her.
-
“This isn’t just a job,” and she held Chuck’s hands in hers.
“This isn’t just a job,” and it’s the last thing she says to him.
-
She got herself caught.
-
“Are you going to answer?”
Sarah shrugs, “You wouldn’t like my answer.”
“Try me,” and there’s a scowl hidden just beneath the surface. She’s a rogue, and she’s familiar with the disgust that breeds among agents.
She’s also familiar with the regret that creeps up on you. The wonder.
“Because one of these days,” she chooses her words carefully, “you’ll stop looking.”
-
There was no plan. And then there was.
(The twist?
They let her go.)
-
If you want something done right -
-
fin.
-