chuck fic: as though without landscape
as though without landscape
Sometimes, over the years, she’s felt as though she were hardly a person at all, but transparent as window glass. What Sarah did after the train station in Prague.
chuck/sarah, pg, 1410 words. spoilers for season 3.
Sarah presses her cheek against the cool glass of the train window and tries to keep perfectly still. If she so much as blinks, her vision will blur even more and there will be tears on her cheeks, on the window pane, messy as they drip down her chin. She’s learned to control her movement, to breathe silently and evenly. She’s been well trained. Two years ago she was the CIA’s best.
Maybe if she cranes her neck a certain way she’ll still be able to see the train station, and Chuck might still be on the platform. The breeze could be pulling his trenchcoat away from his body, exposing the rest of his spy costume. It’s possible that he’s waiting for her.
She doesn’t look back, though, and anyway she wouldn’t be able to see him. Her passport says she’s Isobel Coleron and anyway Sarah Walker has never been her real name. Sometimes, over the years, she’s felt as though she were hardly a person at all, but transparent as window glass. Hector Coleron’s passport -- not Chuck’s -- slides between her fingertips, hits the floor with a little flop.
Prague is passing by outside the window, she can see it out of the corner of her eye, the spires and the rosy quality of the buildings, but she doesn’t turn her head to really look. It would be like acknowledging this particular failure, locating it in space and fixing it to a map. She’s on a train, she can feel the slight rumble of the wheels beneath her, she’s going somewhere. The city recedes.
The tears clear away, maybe it’s the air conditioning, but gradually the world becomes clearer, the scuffed leather of the empty seat across from her and the matted grey carpet. A flash of white outside the window. She turns just enough to get a better look and a field of white poppies swims across the horizon, bobbing and curving like waves in the breeze. She’s only been in the Czech Republic a few times, for missions that are over in a matter of hours or days, where she spends her time on jets or at embassies. Nobody mentioned fields of white poppies.
This is real, she’d said, with the peculiar emphasis of absolute truth. Even if it didn’t matter.
The CIA sends her on a quick mission to Lisbon, at the American embassy, and she spends most of the time pantomiming and trying to smile. Nobody knows her so nobody notices anything is wrong. She’s never quite gotten the hang of Portuguese.
She curls her fingers around a glass of champagne and practices quirking her lips just so. When her mark’s eyes light up, she forces herself not to look away. It’s just stupid, that this double-agent diplomat would remind her of Chuck.
Still, it gives her a certain satisfaction, when her pumps make contact with his face.
(“Tell me the story about Athena,” she’d said once to her dad, driving between cities. “Just one more time, okay?”
“Athena stepped out of her father’s forehead, all grown-up and wise and ready for battle, and let me tell you, once her daddy got over his splitting headache, Angel Hair, she sure taught him a thing or two, just like you.” He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to smile.
“But didn’t Athena have a mother? What about her?” Not every little girl, she’s starting to realize, travels everywhere with her daddy.
“That’s a sad story, sweetheart,” he says, turning back to the road and adjusting the radio dial. For a second, the angry buzz of static is all she can hear.
Eventually she probably asks again, but her dad probably just calls her his Little Athena and ruffles her hair and changes the subject. Anyway she doesn’t remember a more satisfying answer.)
Casey calls her before she can even get to Langley, still in the car the CIA sent.
“Beckman said you should be back in the country,” comes his familiar half-grunt over the phone, “and she wants you to report back to Burbank.”
“What’s left to do there?” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her thighs slide slightly against the leather seat.
“Cleaning up after the nerd. Beckman wants us to make sure the Ring doesn’t realize an important asset has gone missing. There’s a flight leaving your location in half an hour, Agent Walker. See you in Burbank.”
It’s not until after the phone goes dead that she realizes he hasn’t made a single joke about her and the nerd. It’s his own version of consideration. She’s not going to mention it.
There are millions and millions of cities in the world, and so of course Sarah has to go back to Burbank as though it is another place entirely. Once, she was trained to do this.
(“They were right, Angel Hair, in the movies when they said you got one phone call, but I guess in the movies they don’t have answering machines. You’re probably at school. I hope you aren’t letting those losers get you down. Remember to do your homework, okay? I love you, sweetheart. Remember to be ready for anything.”
The machine beeps and she listens to the sound echo against the kitchen tiles. The CIA wants her to finish high school like a normal girl, but she’s not sure what about an empty house is ordinary. She shrugs her backpack off her shoulders, though, and pulls out her physics textbook.
My little Athena, her dad sometimes called her, and his voice was always sad. The knife throwing lessons were a lot more useful.)
The texture of her room is the same, the greens and silvers of the hotel should be as comforting as the plush carpet. People from her world (could it have ever been her old world?) would ask why she stayed in Burbank and sometimes she’d think she should just tell them it was this particular room. She only brought a few things to Prague, the most essential items, and soon her room looks just the way it always did. She’s not going to dwell on it -- what is a room but a place to sleep?
“I’m not going to ask why you went off-grid, Agent Walker, because you came back.” Beckman’s juxtaposed against the Prague sky and god, one of those people milling around behind her could be Chuck but for a hundred reasons Sarah can’t look away. “But I should warn you that if you ever pull a stunt like that --”
“I understand completely, General.” She casts her eyes low and deferential. “Do you have a new mission for me?”
“I need you to go undercover for the next few weeks. The mark is a local computer tycoon. He has an important piece of intelligence in his possession, we believe it may have key information on the rogue group known as The Ring. Get him to fall in love with you and extract the intelligence.” Beckman quirks an eyebrow. “I believe you can handle this assignment?”
“I have it well in hand, ma’am.”
When she relaxes her hands, there are little crescent moons embedded into her palms from her fingernails.
(“I’ve never really had a best friend,” she’d said, and she thought maybe her voice would be lost in whatever song Lester was wailing. That would probably be okay. Chuck doesn’t need to hear it. But there’s his palm, just against hers, and she’s aware of the fact that they are so close, she could reach out and touch him, pull him towards her. If he were Bryce, she wouldn’t hesitate, but there is something that keeps her still.
“You do now,” he says, and he’s looking her straight in the eye. He doesn’t smile and she knows why they hold this pause. There is something here that could shatter, if they jostle it the wrong way.
Her lips quirk and he’s smiling.)
The man falls in love with her -- she’s gotten so used to recognizing the particular look -- and Sarah steals the intelligence and runs out of his mansion. He’s unconscious, she’s tranq-ed him, but still she’s running, feet smacking against the pavement as her heart accelerates, this pointless sprint that nonetheless is going to carry her through this, on to the next mission and the next, the life of a spy.
Run away with me, she said and the thing is, he’d said yes.
Sometimes, over the years, she’s felt as though she were hardly a person at all, but transparent as window glass. What Sarah did after the train station in Prague.
chuck/sarah, pg, 1410 words. spoilers for season 3.
Sarah presses her cheek against the cool glass of the train window and tries to keep perfectly still. If she so much as blinks, her vision will blur even more and there will be tears on her cheeks, on the window pane, messy as they drip down her chin. She’s learned to control her movement, to breathe silently and evenly. She’s been well trained. Two years ago she was the CIA’s best.
Maybe if she cranes her neck a certain way she’ll still be able to see the train station, and Chuck might still be on the platform. The breeze could be pulling his trenchcoat away from his body, exposing the rest of his spy costume. It’s possible that he’s waiting for her.
She doesn’t look back, though, and anyway she wouldn’t be able to see him. Her passport says she’s Isobel Coleron and anyway Sarah Walker has never been her real name. Sometimes, over the years, she’s felt as though she were hardly a person at all, but transparent as window glass. Hector Coleron’s passport -- not Chuck’s -- slides between her fingertips, hits the floor with a little flop.
Prague is passing by outside the window, she can see it out of the corner of her eye, the spires and the rosy quality of the buildings, but she doesn’t turn her head to really look. It would be like acknowledging this particular failure, locating it in space and fixing it to a map. She’s on a train, she can feel the slight rumble of the wheels beneath her, she’s going somewhere. The city recedes.
The tears clear away, maybe it’s the air conditioning, but gradually the world becomes clearer, the scuffed leather of the empty seat across from her and the matted grey carpet. A flash of white outside the window. She turns just enough to get a better look and a field of white poppies swims across the horizon, bobbing and curving like waves in the breeze. She’s only been in the Czech Republic a few times, for missions that are over in a matter of hours or days, where she spends her time on jets or at embassies. Nobody mentioned fields of white poppies.
This is real, she’d said, with the peculiar emphasis of absolute truth. Even if it didn’t matter.
The CIA sends her on a quick mission to Lisbon, at the American embassy, and she spends most of the time pantomiming and trying to smile. Nobody knows her so nobody notices anything is wrong. She’s never quite gotten the hang of Portuguese.
She curls her fingers around a glass of champagne and practices quirking her lips just so. When her mark’s eyes light up, she forces herself not to look away. It’s just stupid, that this double-agent diplomat would remind her of Chuck.
Still, it gives her a certain satisfaction, when her pumps make contact with his face.
(“Tell me the story about Athena,” she’d said once to her dad, driving between cities. “Just one more time, okay?”
“Athena stepped out of her father’s forehead, all grown-up and wise and ready for battle, and let me tell you, once her daddy got over his splitting headache, Angel Hair, she sure taught him a thing or two, just like you.” He takes his eyes off the road just long enough to smile.
“But didn’t Athena have a mother? What about her?” Not every little girl, she’s starting to realize, travels everywhere with her daddy.
“That’s a sad story, sweetheart,” he says, turning back to the road and adjusting the radio dial. For a second, the angry buzz of static is all she can hear.
Eventually she probably asks again, but her dad probably just calls her his Little Athena and ruffles her hair and changes the subject. Anyway she doesn’t remember a more satisfying answer.)
Casey calls her before she can even get to Langley, still in the car the CIA sent.
“Beckman said you should be back in the country,” comes his familiar half-grunt over the phone, “and she wants you to report back to Burbank.”
“What’s left to do there?” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her thighs slide slightly against the leather seat.
“Cleaning up after the nerd. Beckman wants us to make sure the Ring doesn’t realize an important asset has gone missing. There’s a flight leaving your location in half an hour, Agent Walker. See you in Burbank.”
It’s not until after the phone goes dead that she realizes he hasn’t made a single joke about her and the nerd. It’s his own version of consideration. She’s not going to mention it.
There are millions and millions of cities in the world, and so of course Sarah has to go back to Burbank as though it is another place entirely. Once, she was trained to do this.
(“They were right, Angel Hair, in the movies when they said you got one phone call, but I guess in the movies they don’t have answering machines. You’re probably at school. I hope you aren’t letting those losers get you down. Remember to do your homework, okay? I love you, sweetheart. Remember to be ready for anything.”
The machine beeps and she listens to the sound echo against the kitchen tiles. The CIA wants her to finish high school like a normal girl, but she’s not sure what about an empty house is ordinary. She shrugs her backpack off her shoulders, though, and pulls out her physics textbook.
My little Athena, her dad sometimes called her, and his voice was always sad. The knife throwing lessons were a lot more useful.)
The texture of her room is the same, the greens and silvers of the hotel should be as comforting as the plush carpet. People from her world (could it have ever been her old world?) would ask why she stayed in Burbank and sometimes she’d think she should just tell them it was this particular room. She only brought a few things to Prague, the most essential items, and soon her room looks just the way it always did. She’s not going to dwell on it -- what is a room but a place to sleep?
“I’m not going to ask why you went off-grid, Agent Walker, because you came back.” Beckman’s juxtaposed against the Prague sky and god, one of those people milling around behind her could be Chuck but for a hundred reasons Sarah can’t look away. “But I should warn you that if you ever pull a stunt like that --”
“I understand completely, General.” She casts her eyes low and deferential. “Do you have a new mission for me?”
“I need you to go undercover for the next few weeks. The mark is a local computer tycoon. He has an important piece of intelligence in his possession, we believe it may have key information on the rogue group known as The Ring. Get him to fall in love with you and extract the intelligence.” Beckman quirks an eyebrow. “I believe you can handle this assignment?”
“I have it well in hand, ma’am.”
When she relaxes her hands, there are little crescent moons embedded into her palms from her fingernails.
(“I’ve never really had a best friend,” she’d said, and she thought maybe her voice would be lost in whatever song Lester was wailing. That would probably be okay. Chuck doesn’t need to hear it. But there’s his palm, just against hers, and she’s aware of the fact that they are so close, she could reach out and touch him, pull him towards her. If he were Bryce, she wouldn’t hesitate, but there is something that keeps her still.
“You do now,” he says, and he’s looking her straight in the eye. He doesn’t smile and she knows why they hold this pause. There is something here that could shatter, if they jostle it the wrong way.
Her lips quirk and he’s smiling.)
The man falls in love with her -- she’s gotten so used to recognizing the particular look -- and Sarah steals the intelligence and runs out of his mansion. He’s unconscious, she’s tranq-ed him, but still she’s running, feet smacking against the pavement as her heart accelerates, this pointless sprint that nonetheless is going to carry her through this, on to the next mission and the next, the life of a spy.
Run away with me, she said and the thing is, he’d said yes.