All the performances of human art, at which we look with praise or wonder, are instances of the resistless force of perseverance; it is by this that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that distant countries are united with canals. — Samuel Johnson
Good-Bye, Sarah Walker
5 OCTOBER 2007
SECURE HOLDING FACILITY, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
09:45 EDT
Before he'd been thrown in a bunker and left in literally the middle of nowhere, Chuck had never understood that noise could be its own power. That it held tenor, tension, tempo. By listening to even the air around his head, he discovered that he could pick up…things. Currents. Sometimes even emotion. Of course, seeing as his emotions had been the only ones present in the bunker, that hadn't actually helped him much. But now that the CIA had seen fit to throw him underground once again, it aided him in leaps and bounds.
Because in this underground hell, there were at least other people. Other prisoners in equally tiny cells down a long, godforsaken corridor in this awful place. Guards that walked by every fifteen minutes or so, rapping nightsticks against the cell bars like they were in some old prison movie. Lawyers, representatives, agents that all came to "talk" to those inmates being held. The woman in the cell next to him. Chuck couldn't see her, but late at night he could hear her breathing mingling with his own and the other sleeping prisoners.
He kicked the wall in front of him now with the nondescript prison shoe they'd given him. "Hear that?" he called.
It was a moment before she answered, but that wasn't unusual. "What?"
"Something's happening."
Another pause, this time longer. "Something's always happening."
But Chuck heard footsteps nearing, and the way the mutters from the other cells rose. "I think it's time to face the firing squad."
"I highly doubt there's going to be a firing squad."
"Do you think they'll let me smoke a cigar instead of a cigarette?" Chuck went on as if Sarah hadn't spoken. "I mean, don't get me wrong, James Dean could make a cigarette look cool, but I don't know if I'd be able to pull that off. Especially since it would be a sin to shoot me wearing a leather jacket."
"Again," Sarah said, and Chuck heard the note in her voice he'd been aiming for, "I highly doubt there's going to be a firing squad."
"Probably for the best," Chuck decided. He didn't smile. It hurt too much, though the guards claimed his black eye and puffy post-interrogation face were healing nicely. "I'd hate to crap my pants in front of a group of men like that."
"Oh, I don't know. I imagine given time you could talk them out of it."
This was said with just a tint of bitterness. Because she couldn't see him, Chuck closed his eyes and leaned his head back so that it rested against the wall. He could feel the rumblings of each individual footfall heading down the corridor of cells through the concrete. It echoed through the throbbing veins in his face, through the loosened tooth. Though it would have been more comfortable to sit on the cot, especially given the bruising along his torso, he'd taken the floor between the cot and the back wall. It at least gave him the illusion of privacy.
Sure enough, the footsteps kept going, which meant they were heading for the cell blocks at the end of the hall. Those occupied by none other than Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker.
He didn't look over when the footsteps stopped outside his cell. "You Charles Bartowski?"
"Depends if it's Ed McMahon at the door or not," Chuck deadpanned.
He heard the slap of something metal against the thick bars that made up one wall of his cell. "I'm Gwen Davenport with the FBI."
"FBI," Chuck echoed. "CIA. NSA. You know what? I'm really tired of initials."
"Well, here's a few more for you," grunted another voice, a familiar one. "MYA."
"Midgets Yacht Association?"
"Move your ass, Bartowski. Get up."
At length Chuck did so, but he made certain to stretch each limb, finger, and joint before he turned to face his own version of the firing squad. The FBI agent stood closest the bars, holding her badge up against them. He got a brief impression of boxy, professional clothes and a severe bun holding back gray-streaked hair, eyes that could only be described as piercing—before the flash smacked through him.
Ducks on a pond, one landing and about to splash the others—
DAVENPORT, GWENDOLYN A. Agent Status: Active, FBI. DOB: 10 March 1956, Married to Davenport, Gerald, two children, 16 and 13. BA from Harvard, JD from Columbia, stationed in Washington DC.
Formerly in Narcotics—
Approved inter-agency liaison—
Chuck blinked and shook his head to clear the last of the fog. "Inter-agency liaison?" he asked without thinking.
Davenport raised her eyebrows. "My reputation precedes me, apparently. How are you doing, Agent Bartowski? How's the face?"
"Healing, no thanks to Agent Casey's buddy," he said, moving closer but remaining out of reach. Just in case.
"Major," Casey corrected, quiet threat lacing the word.
"Major Bartowski?" Chuck pretended to think about it. "Has a nice ring to it."
He thought he heard a snicker from the adjacent cell, but it was the growl that emerged from between Casey's teeth that took precedence. For the first time since they'd tossed him in this place, he was grateful for the safety of the bars.
"Agent Bartowski," Davenport said, clearing her throat. "I've been assigned to your case and to protect you from any continuing abuse. If you'll come with me?"
Chuck was about to open his mouth and reply that he was kind of held back by the bars when the door slid open on its own accord. He stared first at it and then at the FBI agent. "Whoa—how did you—"
"You learn a few tricks over the years. Major Casey is here to keep an eye on you."
Casey flashed handcuffs and a smirk. Chuck didn't bother to sigh as he held both wrists out. "We've got to stop meeting like this."
"I should've shot you on the beach," Casey muttered as he twisted Chuck's arms back to slap the cuffs on—none too gently. But then, Chuck had been expecting that. He gritted his teeth against the way the movement sang through every single one of his bruises. "Would've saved me loads of paperwork."
"Oh, I'm not sure about that, Casey." Sarah moseyed up to the bars of her own cell and leaned both elbows through, looking entirely casual. She also looked, in Chuck's opinion, far better in the CIA version of prison stripes. Where he looked like a little kid trying on Dad's clothes, Sarah managed to bring baggy back into style. "Murder generates its own amount of paperwork. Any District Attorney could tell you that."
"Would've been worth it." Casey turned Chuck so that he was facing Sarah, deliberately making the handcuffed man stumble. "Say good-bye to your girlfriend, Bartowski. This is the last time you'll be seeing the likes of this traitor."
"Wh-what?"
"They're sending her to the pen," Casey went on, unable to contain the glee in his voice. "The big house. The slammer, the—"
"I get the picture!" Chuck snapped, but he'd gone dead-pale and was beginning to sway. To Sarah, he babbled, "They can't send you away! You're innocent—I know you are, I was right there with you—look, I'll tell them it was my idea, that I coerced you or something—"
Behind him, Casey snorted at the possibility of that.
"Relax, Chuck," Sarah said, touching his arm just above the elbow through the bar. Casey jerked Chuck back. "I'm not going to prison."
"You're—you're not?" Chuck twisted to give Casey an accusing look.
He shrugged his shoulders, just a bare movement. "News to me, twerp."
"I got my orders a few hours ago," she went on.
Chuck's eyes widened—he hadn't heard anybody come into the holding facility.
"While you were asleep. I was just hanging around until your representative got here." Sarah nodded at Agent Davenport, who nodded back. "Trust Agent Davenport, Chuck. She's one of the best—she'll do right by you."
"Thank you, Agent Walker." Davenport took a step forward and put a hand on Chuck's shoulder, intending to guide him away.
He ignored her. "O-orders?" he demanded of Sarah instead. It occurred to him that in the past week, he hadn't been away from Sarah Walker for longer than a few hours at a time—and now he had a sinking feeling that he might never see her again. Suddenly, it was much, much harder to deal with all of the noise, and the movement, and the people—
"Chuck!" Sarah poked him in the arm. "Relax."
"Will I ever see you again?" Chuck found it hard to swallow.
Sarah's smile seemed forced. "Who knows? I can't make any promises, you know that."
"Hey, maybe they'll have regular visiting hours at my bunker this time. It's no Cabo or anything, but maybe you could stop by." Chuck attempted to smile, though he felt the very foundation of his sanity beginning to fissure and crackle around the edges. Everything inside him wanted to flee in a thousand different directions, but several things held him back—most of them being Casey, who still had a firm grip on his handcuffs. And Sarah's light touch above his elbow, of course.
"There will be no bunkers involved here, Agent Bartowski," Davenport said. "Now, if we could move this along?"
"Yeah, the government's not gonna wait all day for you lovebirds to keep twittering," Casey grunted.
"Go on, Chuck."
With all three of them urging him away, Chuck had no choice but to turn and start walking. He chanced a look over his shoulder as he was led away, though. "Good-bye, Sarah Walker."
She gave a sad little wave, just one hand. "Good-bye, Chuck Bartowski."
As he walked away, his footsteps boomed like the final toll of a clock.
16 OCTOBER 2007
MADISON MERCY HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM
21:42 PDT
As far as anybody else waiting in the tiny room on the second floor of Madison Mercy could tell, the man in the rumpled suit in the corner looked completely average and unhindered.
Inside, Chuck freaked out.
He'd started out okay. Well, guilty, but okay other than that. He'd even been able to tolerate the hospital noises. The beeping, the nurses at the station, the sound of footsteps and gurneys wheeling. Magazine pages turning, quiet conversations in the waiting room. The keys sitting like lead in his pocket buffered all of that. But slowly, reality had leaked in. Here he was, waiting on a sister who hadn't seen him in five years, and he had no idea what to say to her. Hell, she'd run away from in the parking garage so fast she'd left her car sitting in the middle of the freaking road.
He saw the walls warp slightly, felt them move in an inch. His breathing began to hitch.
A gaggle of nurses walked by. Their chatter seemed even louder than usual.
Chuck loosened his tie.
Whisp. Whisp. A balding man three chairs down couldn't seem to find anything satisfactory to read in his magazine. He kept flicking pages back and forth. Whisp. Whisp.
Why was it so hot? Chuck had always found hospitals cold whenever he'd had the misfortune of landing in one, but now he felt as though fire were spreading through his body, starting below his sternum and scorching its way to his fingers and toes. In what he hoped was an unobtrusive manner, he stripped out of the suit jacket. It changed absolutely nothing.
The walls inched closer. Chuck put his head down and prayed for Ellie to finish up with her patient and come back.
To his left, he heard movement and sound—the unmistakable long-legged strides of what could only be a doctor. Chuck didn't look up, even when he heard, "Hey, Darla—sorry I didn't get here sooner—playing squash with the guys—"
The nurse spoke in a softer voice, so Chuck only caught a couple of words of the reply. He lifted his head when those words were "Dr. Bartowski."
Dr. Long Legs had his back to Chuck. "And she didn't say why?"
Mutter, mutter. Chuck wished the nurse would enunciate. Around him, he practically heard the walls creak as they inched closer and closer.
"Well, that's somewhat less than awesome," the doctor commented. "She was supposed to go off shift nearly an hour ago. Where's Dr. Markowicz?"
"Accident—the five—"
The walls shuddered like something out of a bad horror movie and jumped. When Chuck blinked, the entire waiting room changed and warped and twisted. His hands began to shake.
"Well, can't say I blame him, I guess, but do you have any idea what might have upset her? Any idea at all?"
It was too hot, it was too loud, it was too much. Chuck wanted desperately to pay attention to the conversation at the desk, but he couldn't seem to do much more than shake. For the first time in three weeks, he wished that he was back in Siberia, where he hadn't made his sister cry, hadn't made his sister run away, wasn't constantly being escorted around by NSA agents that made porcupines appear like the cuddliest beasts on the planet, where his best friend wasn't a traitor but a decent guy who sometimes got into gunfights in the desert and needed Chuck to bail him out with satellite support.
The walls groaned. Another inch closer.
If he ran right now, if he just dropped everything and sprinted away as fast as his legs could take him, would he make it before the walls swallowed him whole? Would he make it before the oxygen ran out, leaving him gasping and dying in the middle of the hallway? He honestly didn't know. He didn't think he'd get very far with his feet beginning to tingle the way they were.
"Whoa." The doctor with the long strides was suddenly a lot closer. As in, right next to Chuck. "Hey, buddy, whoa, what's going on? You okay?"
Chuck's chest began to heave.
"Wait a second—Chuck?"
His name pushed off the fog for just a second. Chuck stared at the doctor kneeling in front of him, eyes wide. Though his vision was rapidly going blurry, he still managed to recognize the patrician features in front of him. "D-Devon?"
"Wow, buddy, I thought you were dead."
Chuck went back to freaking out.
"But that's a story for another time, clearly. C'mon, dude, let's get you out of here."
Something grabbed his arm, bodily lifting him from the seat. Chuck had no choice but to go along with it, even when he felt his arm go around somebody else's shoulders. Throughout the whole thing, Dr. Devon Woodcomb kept up a steady stream of encouragement, but Chuck's mind had gone fuzzy. He watched the world through a dark, faraway tunnel, barely noticing that his feet were moving.
Devon deposited him on a soft surface and disappeared from view for a moment.
Chuck put his face in his shaking hands.
A few seconds later, he felt a hand pry them away, and something was pushed into them. "Breathe into this."
Though the words sounded foreign and strange, Chuck obeyed without question.
The first breath did absolutely nothing, but after a minute or two, he felt his world begin to expand and fill with glorious air. Slowly, his vision cleared and he became aware of the fact that he'd been dragged out of the waiting room and into an examining room. His sister's old boyfriend from medical school stood in front of him, studying him with his arms crossed.
When Chuck finally felt he could breathe without the paper bag, he lowered it. "Hey, Devon."
"Doing okay, buddy?"
Chuck managed to nod, though he was still shaky and drenched with sweat. "Y-yeah, I'm okay now. Thanks for…" He gestured with the spent paper bag.
"No sweat. Humor me while I check a few things?" Devon asked as he pulled on a stethoscope.
"What? Oh, uh. Sure." Chuck gulped and attempted to collect himself while Devon listened to his heart. Inside, he was reeling a little bit. Dr. Devon Woodcomb was still part of Ellie's life? When Chuck had left, the two hadn't even been seeing each other seriously. Chuck had been leery of the relationship—yes, he was aware that as a healthy young woman, his sister had a sex life, but there had just been something…Ken-doll like…about Devon "That's Awesome!" Woodcomb.
Maybe he'd misjudged the guy.
When Devon had finished checking his heart, Chuck cleared his throat. "Do you, uh, mind if I…" He pointed at his tie.
"Not at all. Go ahead, get comfortable."
Chuck pulled off the hated tie and felt a rush of oxygen flood into the room. It was foolish, he knew—the tie hadn't actually been strangling him—but he didn't particularly care. He sucked in a huge breath.
"I sometimes feel exactly the same way, bro." Devon hunkered down so that he could shine a penlight into Chuck's eyes. Obviously satisfied, he pocketed the light and held up a finger. "Follow the finger with your eyes."
Chuck obeyed.
"So where've you been, anyway?"
"It's a long story, and one I'm really not authorized to tell." Chuck sighed. "As in, they'll throw me in prison for the rest of my life if I tell you."
"Whoa. Serious, dude."
"Unfortunately…" Chuck shrugged, since he couldn't move his eyes unless it was to follow Devon's finger. "It's really not, but orders are orders."
"So you're still under Uncle Sam's thumb?"
Probably for the rest of his miserable existence, thanks to Bryce Larkin. "Yeah. New assignment, actually."
"Just visiting before it kicks off?"
"Staying, I hope. I came by to see Ellie first thing."
"Oh?" Devon leaned back and folded his arms over his chest. "And how'd that go?"
Horribly. "Not well. I startled her in the parking garage and she ran off with her car still running. I was waiting to return her keys when…"
"Yeah, let's talk about the panic attack. Do you have many of those?"
"Not usually that bad. That was by far the worst." Sensing that it was safe to do so, Chuck hopped off of the examining table and crossed to a roll of paper towels. He began mopping up his face and neck. He knew the walls around them were thin, and little more than an illusion—people could start pouring into the room at any moment, crowding his space, taking up all of the air. But it was amazing just how powerfully the brain could be used to trick oneself. "How often? I'd say, one, two every…day."
"You're having daily panic attacks?" For the first time, Devon's expression shifted from wariness to concern. "How long has this been going on?"
For eleven days, but Chuck didn't want to admit that. So he just shrugged.
Before Devon could press the subject further, the door opened, admitting Ellie into the fold. She looked a great deal steadier than she had in the parking garage—now it was Chuck's turn to look like a wreck, apparently. He jolted and dropped the paper towels.
Ellie ignored that. Instead, she strode straight up to Chuck. He braced, expecting the slap that he'd been waiting for since moment one. Ellie looked far too calm, a face he remembered from the time he'd accidentally flushed her miniature tea set down the toilet. Granted, he'd been five at the time, but the look hadn't changed much.
Without a word, she turned and looked over at Devon instead. "Desk Darling Darla said that there was a commotion in the waiting room?"
"Yeah, nothing to worry about, babe." Devon flashed her a grin, but Chuck noticed it wasn't quite endowed with the same confidence of the young doctor from medical school. Apparently, Chuck wasn't the only one that recognized Ellie's look. "Just a minor panic attack. We took care of it."
"A panic attack?" Now Ellie turned her attention back to Chuck. She was close, close enough to reach out and grip his arms if she wished, but she didn't touch him. "Are you okay?"
Chuck nodded miserably. "It's no big deal, Ellie. That happens to me a lot now."
"Speaking of which, buddy—I really think you need to see a doctor about this. Not saying you need to go on anxiety meds or anything…" Devon trailed off when Ellie shot a look over her shoulder at him. "Just giving my opinion as a medical professional, babe."
The last thing Chuck wanted to know was how the Intersect would mingle with anxiety medication. He shook his head. "I'm okay, Devon. Thanks."
But Devon frowned. "I really think—"
"He said he's okay," Ellie cut in sharply.
Chuck didn't remember his sister being quite this…brittle. "El—"
"You said you're staying here," Ellie said.
"Yes, I just moved—"
"Where?"
Where? Chuck blinked at her. "I, uh, I'm not sure yet. Here, I have it written down…" He fumbled in his pocket for the slip of paper Casey had given him on the plane with his new address. "This—that's my new place."
"You haven't even been there?"
"I wasn't kidding when I said I came straight to see you." Chuck shrugged. "It's just a place to live."
"Alone?"
As alone as somebody could be with constant government surveillance. "Yeah, I guess so. No, wait, I've got a roommate. John something."
"That wasn't quite what I meant…" Ellie nibbled her lower lip, concern evident on her face. She laid a tentative hand on Chuck's arm, the touch feather-light. "Look, I don't know what the protocol for having your brother come back from the dead is."
"Coffee?" Chuck offered weakly. "I could buy you a cup, we could catch up."
Ellie gave him a "don't kid yourself" look. All three of them in the room knew that Chuck's system could in no way handle coffee after such a massive panic attack. "Why don't you come stay with me tonight? We could catch up and Devon can keep an eye on you like I know he wants to."
"You want me to stay over, babe?" Devon stood up straight—he'd been leaning against the counter, watching the siblings interact with a wariness most people reserved for being stuck in cages with particularly toothsome rattlesnakes.
"You're just going to call every two hours otherwise." Ellie squeezed Chuck's arm before she let go and turned. "I'll call my roommate on the way home and make sure she's okay with this—do you need a ride, Chuck?"
"I've, uh, I've got a car."
"Why don't I ride with you?" Devon said. "Ellie can give me a ride in to work tomorrow, right, babe?"
"Good idea."
"Here, c'mon, Chuck, we'll head on out, let Ellie finish up here—"
"Two things first," Chuck interrupted. He had remembered why he'd come into the hospital at all. He dug Ellie's car keys out of his pocket and handed them over. "There. And I need to get my jacket."
"I can get that for you, bro—"
"Thank you, Devon, but…" Chuck shrugged. "I won't get better if I don't face up to it." It was probably pathetic that his obstacle to hurtle was a waiting room when his obstacle to overcome a month before had been Siberia, but there wasn't much he could do about that. He ducked out of the exam room and took a moment to gather his bearings—he couldn't remember the way to the waiting room, as he'd been a bit out of sorts when Devon had dragged him away. Thankfully, he spotted Desk Darling Darla down the hall.
He focused on counting his steps, as he had in the train station in St. Petersburg. Even though he knew a few of the people in the waiting room watched him curiously, he kept his stare on the linoleum below his feet as he crossed to the jacket. It would have been easier to grab it and run. Because of that, he forced himself to don the jacket there, straightening rumpled material and maintaining as much dignity as he possibly could.
He put his hands in his pockets. Something crinkled.
Confused—he kept things in his pants pockets, not his jacket pockets—Chuck drew out a small slip of paper. It bore a single line of text. A name, actually.
Two things happened at once.
Chuck read the name Phillip Dartmoor.
And Sarah Walker strode into the waiting room.
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