Sarah prides herself on being the best—Graham's Enforcer, the Ice Queen, and agent extraordinaire. But when she becomes her own worst enemy, she's forced to confront her deepest weakness . . . or risk losing Chuck forever.

This starts out as Canon, but will become more and more A/U as we go.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

Chapter 1: Sarah vs the Nemisister

Sarah Walker navigated the manicured streets of Burbank in her Porsche on autopilot, her jaw clenched and her brain on fire.

Everything hurt. Her jaw. Her sense of purpose. And most of all, her heart.

The pain in her jaw made sense. She clenched her jaw when she was nervous or pissed off, had done it since she was a child. It was one of the few habits the Farm had been unable to break. As for her sense of purpose, that was logical too. Chuck was her asset, hers to protect. And Bryce had made off with him right under her nose. Sarah had given her ex-partner the damn elevator code, for God's sake. She'd helped a fugitive escape, to save Chuck's life. She was Graham's enforcer, and she'd failed.

Or . . . not, considering Chuck was still alive, if not fully conscious. She glanced at him, slumped against the car door, and shuddered with relief. Only Bryce's twisted sense of justice—or whatever play he was running—had saved her asset's life.

How could Chuck have gotten so close to him? Hadn't he realized what Bryce was capable of?

The answer, obviously, was no. Chuck might have the world's most sought-after super-computer in his head, but he was an IT nerd who worked at the freaking Buy More. The closest he'd ever gotten to shooting someone was playing those lame-ass video games with the walking social disaster he called a best friend. He was a liability in a fight and he could have been killed.

Sarah should have told him what Bryce could do. Should have warned him. Instead she'd sent him into the holding room like a lamb to slaughter, and listened helplessly as he and Bryce exchanged words in some unfamiliar foreign language before Bryce lured Chuck in close enough to hold a syringe to his throat.

She hadn't known Chuck could speak a second language. No one had put that piece of intelligence in his dossier. Maybe it was some kind of unanticipated Intersect side effect. She'd have to tell the Director.

The truth of the matter was, Sarah hadn't wanted to talk to Chuck long enough to tell him how to handle himself in that little room, with the lethal rogue agent whose only real rival was Sarah herself. She hadn't wanted to look at him, much less have an extended conversation.

This was all her fault.

She shouldn't have kissed him, never mind that they both thought they were going to die. What had she been thinking? Assets were off-limits, especially the ones that flaunted their hearts on their sleeves like a diamond cufflink at a kleptomaniacs' convention.

Sarah had been raised to hide her feelings, to show others what they wanted or needed to see. Emotions were a liability, and so she'd shoved hers down so deep, excavating them had become more trouble than it was worth. She did her job and she did it well. What she'd had with Bryce hadn't interfered with that. They both knew the deal. What they'd had worked for them. Until it didn't, because Bryce went rogue. And then Casey had shot him.

Sarah had chalked his death up to the cost of doing business. She and Bryce had used each other. They'd never talked about feelings—and if they had, she wouldn't have trusted a word he said. Bryce had always been working an angle—just like Sarah. Chuck, on the other hand—

He moaned, startling her. Her hands tightened on the wheel, and she swerved—just a tiny bit, but more than she was comfortable with. She'd secured the asset, alive. She was in the process of delivering him safely to his destination. What the hell was her problem?

She'd wanted to kiss him like that for months—that was the damned problem. She thought his ignorance about the way her world worked—the way he trusted everyone until proven otherwise, how he looked at her like she was his personal miracle—was cute as hell. He made her feel things she'd sworn off long ago.

Loving people wasn't safe. Hell, loving Sarah wasn't safe. In her world, people died and disappeared all the time. And she was no one's miracle. Beneath her arm-candy exterior was a weapon whose only motivation was her duty, except in the few-and-far-between moments she did her best to suppress.

The worst part was, she suspected Chuck saw through her tough exterior to the scraps of the innocent, scared girl who'd wanted nothing more than a family and a place to belong—a girl she thought she'd buried years ago. When he'd kissed her back, what she'd felt from him hadn't just been desperation, a what-the-hell-we're-gonna-die-anyway-so-why-not sort of passion. He'd kissed her like they had all the time in the world, like they weren't standing feet away from a bomb ticking its way down to explosion. Like he'd been waiting all his life to do this and he was damn well going to take his time.

Well, that was ridiculous. They hadn't been standing in front of a bomb—unless you counted Bryce Larkin's incendiary intentions. And Chuck was worse than an asset—he was a liability. Even if Sarah was motivated to consider deepening her cover by making their fake relationship a real one, it was a terrible idea. Chuck would screw it up, probably getting her reassigned in the process. He hadn't even managed to say ten sentences to Bryce before he'd almost gotten himself killed. And the hell of it was, if he hadn't been her asset, Sarah didn't know if she could have let Bryce stab him with that damned syringe. For the first time in years, she'd been afraid that, had the circumstances been different—if retrieving Bryce had been a higher priority than protecting Chuck—she might not have been able to do her job.

Grinding her teeth, she made a hard left at the Buy More and shoved the Porsche into fourth gear for the straightaway that led to Chuck's apartment. The sooner she got him out of her freaking car, the better.

He stirred, scrubbing at his eyes. "Sarah?" he said, as if he had absolute faith that she'd been the one to rescue him.

Naive, that's what he was. Sarah had ghosted him for two days, and he'd kept calling anyhow. Anyone else would have taken a hint, but not Chuck. The moment he'd seen her in the Buy More, deployed to talk about Bryce's resurrection, all he'd wanted to do was dissect what that stupid kiss had meant for their relationship . . . not that they had one. She should've let him eat his way into a coronary with the sandwich chick. Then again, letting him clog his arteries with smuggled salami would have been counterproductive to her prime directive—keep the asset alive at all costs.

He was going to get her killed—or worse, blow her cover. And then he was going to die, all because he couldn't compartmentalize his feelings to save his life.

"Idiot," she muttered, slowing for a red light. The Porsche responded as it always did—like an extension of her body—but for the first time, its smooth responsiveness failed to satisfy her. Inside, she felt muddled and roiling, grief and fear and an emotion she couldn't quite identify all competing for attention. She felt like taking the fancy car off-road, sending it juddering over bumps and ruts until the ride mirrored the chaos inside her.

"That's not very nice," Chuck said, slurring his words as he pushed upright. "Shouldn't you be kinder to a guy whose arch-enemy just used him as a human shield?"

Even half conscious, he was funny. Sarah repressed the urge to laugh. "I wasn't talking about you."

"Oh?" Chuck gave her a sleepy smile. "Who, then?"

She slowed her breathing and felt her heart respond in kind. Farm 101—present a calm exterior. Never let them see you sweat, especially when they're depending on you to stay alive. "Bryce Larkin," she lied. "Who else?"

"He is an idiot." Chuck sounded adorably drunk. "But he was your idiot. Your undead idiot, to be precise. Vampire Bryce, at your service."

"Shut up, Chuck." She let her irritation—at him, for getting captured; at herself, for letting it happen—creep into her voice. "You're not making sense."

"Up . . . Chuck," he echoed, stifling a belch. "You're right, Sarah. Don't want to puke. Consider. Lips. Zipped." Like a little kid, he clapped a hand over his mouth and peered at her, looking green in the streetlights that streamed through the car window.

Sarah pushed the button to roll the passenger-side window down, just in case. "Don't you dare vomit in my car, Chuck. I mean it. This has been a crappy day and if I have to deal with your bodily fluids wrecking my upholstery on top of it, I won't be held accountable for my actions."

He was such an amateur. An amateur who spoke a weird language that, come to think of it, sounded bizarrely like the barking alien-speak from Star Trek. Who dated salami slingers and was impossibly adorable and kissed like Sarah was special to him and like he might even feel—

"Can't hurt me," Chuck mumbled from behind his hand. "Got to take care of me. I'm your job."

Was it her, or did he sound sad? She stole a look at him, but he'd slumped against the door again and closed his eyes.

Goddamn him, anyhow. Where did he get off, making Sarah think about her feelings at a time like this? Bryce Larkin was alive and gone rogue once again. Casey was on the rampage. The General was likely on the verge of giving birth to a rabid, vengeful cow.

Chuck was a risk. Kissing him had been a mistake. When he was in his right mind again, she would explain that, succinctly and clearly, so that he understood. He was smart. He'd get it. And then she could put all these confusing emotions away and focus on the task at hand. It was for his own good.

She swung the Porsche into the courtyard and he sat up, blinking. Without another word, she got out of the car. Chuck followed, looking more like his normal self.

"It wasn't a full dose. It will be out of your system in a few hours," Sarah offered to cover the awkward silence.

"Thanks," Chuck said, looking straight ahead. "I think I can handle it from here."

Great. Sarah could go home. Figure out what their next steps were. Make a strategy and execute it. Anything would be better than this.

Chuck paused at the fountain, turning back to face her. "So are you and Casey gonna go after Bryce?"

"No. Bryce is probably halfway around the world by now," Sarah said, hoping it was the truth. Of all the people alive, Bryce was the one Sarah least wanted to play chess with. They'd worked together for too long. He could anticipate her better than anyone else, which would make it much harder for her to protect Chuck. The further away from her asset he was, the better. "It's someone else's job to find him."

Chuck's eyes widened. "Sarah, this is Bryce Larkin we're talking about here. Your old flame. My old nemesis. We have to do something."

This was exactly why Chuck and Sarah could never be together in any genuine way. He was always thinking about the human way to handle things, instead of following orders. He would be a terrible soldier.

"We each have our own assignment," Sarah said, hoping that Chuck would read between the lines.

Being Chuck, he did no such thing. "Right, and I'm yours. So, what? What does this mean … for us?"

For the love of God. Three minutes ago, he'd been incoherent. Now they were back to having the relationship discussion he'd launched in the Buy More before everything had gone to hell? "Nothing. You're protected," she said, deliberately misunderstanding him.

Anyone else would have left the subject alone, but not Chuck. "No… for us. Our fake relationship. I mean, you and Bryce were…" His voice trailed off. "You're really not making this easy."

Of course she wasn't, Sarah thought, exasperated. That was the point. She wasn't making it easy, because she didn't want to talk about it. Surely one didn't need extensive training in psychological interpretation to get the hint.

Just when Sarah was tempted to inject Chuck with a sedative herself just to put a merciful end to the conversation, Ellie walked up behind her. Sarah didn't turn; she didn't need to. Clipped steps with slightly more weight on the right foot and a whiff of Pantene volumizing shampoo equaled Ellie. Right now, it also equaled salvation.

"Hey, sis," Chuck said, sounding disgruntled. Reason number 4,092 that Sarah and Chuck could never be together—he was an awful liar.

Luckily, Ellie didn't seem to notice. "Hi," she said to Chuck, juggling an armful of groceries.

"Hey," Sarah said to Ellie, as cheerily as if she and Chuck were just returning from dinner and a rom-com.

Ellie smiled at her. "Hey, Sarah. It's good to see you."

"You too." Would this evening never end?

"Are you coming to Thanksgiving?" Ellie asked.

Thanksgiving. Right. Bonding, tryptophan, cover repair.

Attending Chuck's family celebration was a necessary evil. And, if Sarah let herself think about it for more than a second, it actually sounded wonderful. She liked Ellie more than she cared to admit. If she never saw Chuck again, she wouldn't just lose him—she'd lose everything that came with him, including his misfit friends and his against-all-odds family.

Bryce had never given her that. And she'd never known she wanted it. If she had, she wouldn't have dared to hope it could be hers.

She glanced at Chuck. His mouth was open as if to speak. Hope shone in his brown eyes—eyes that, not too long ago, had been sharpened with fear and then clouded by drugs.

I'll go to Thanksgiving, she wanted to tell him. But it won't mean anything, except that our cover is intact. It doesn't mean we're really together, and not because Bryce is back. Because we can't ever have anything more than what we do right now. I'll keep you safe. You stay alive. And we'll forget that kiss ever happened, no matter that some part of me wants nothing more than to do it again.

"Of course," she said, and fled.

OoOoOoOoO

Marshmallows. Bread. Lettuce. Extra cranberries in case Devon puts too much sugar in the sauce. Cheap Tupperware containers in case Morgan forgets to bring his own again. Check, check, check, check, and also . . . check.

Running through the list one more time—the last thing he wanted was to fall victim to Ellie's Thanksgiving wrath—Chuck opened the front door, paper grocery bag in his arms. Head down, he hustled through the dining room to the kitchen.

"Chuck," Devon said from his post by the stove, sounding as jovial as Alex Trebek and wearing an honest-to-God apron, "get ready for some turkey."

Chuck opened his mouth to reply—and then turned his head. John Casey was standing in his sister's dining room, wearing a black suit fit for a funeral, looking grim as always, and holding—was that a Cosmo?

Maybe the Intersect had fried his brain once and for all and Chuck had slipped into an alternate universe.

"What are you doing here?" Chuck hissed.

"Well," Casey replied, lifting a judgmental brow, "your sister invited me to dinner."

"Really?" Maybe Bryce and General Beckman were coming too. It'd be a party. Ellie would have to send Chuck out for extra folding chairs, at which point he would strategically flee the country.

They would find him wherever he went, he thought dismally, watching his sister approach, looking thrilled to see him—or maybe it was just the prospect of extra cranberry sauce. They would always find him.

"Thanks," Casey said, without moving his lips. Maybe he was a ventriloquist as well as a secret agent. If all else failed and the NSA went to smash, he could join the circus.

Ellie hurried toward them, a woman on a mission. "Did you find everything?" she said, wresting the bag of groceries from Chuck's arms.

"Yeah, I did," Chuck said, turning away from Casey. "Yeah, but I need to talk to you. I need to talk to you about something. Later. Later," he said as she disappeared into the kitchen. For God's sake, why was he repeating himself like a parrot? And how was it reasonable that he had to deal with the whole Anna/Ellie/Morgan drama on top of Casey's presence at Thanksgiving?

Giving up on clueing Ellie in, Chuck spun back to face Casey. "Hey," he said, putting a hand on the NSA agent's shoulder.

Casey stared at Chuck's hand in horror, as if perhaps he'd dipped it in the blood of Satan before touching the pristine fabric of Casey's suit. Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with the suit. Casey had an overall disgust of being touched by other human beings, perhaps because he had a disgust of other human beings in general. Chuck had begun to suspect that Casey was not, in fact, human. Perhaps he was a well-dressed, very violent robot planted in their midst to make Chuck feel even less muscular and competent than usual.

"Sorry," Chuck said, retracting his hand. "I have a question for you." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Ellie and Devon were out of earshot. No worries there; they were busy bickering over the best way to stuff the turkey. "What do you think Bryce meant when he said, "Casey, care to try again?'"

Casey cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Cause call me crazy," Chuck persisted—not the easiest thing to do when confronted by what had to be the single most aggressive eyebrow on the planet—"but I got the weirdest feeling like it was you who killed him."

"Good guess," Casey said, deadpan as usual.

Definitely a robot. A murderous, remorseless robot who was standing in Chuck's house, drinking a pink Cosmo.

"Are you serious?" Chuck swallowed hard. "Does Sarah know about that?"

"It's in my report," Casey said, as casually as Chuck might say, "Let me show you what we have in stock," to a customer at the Buy More.

Jesus. The cosmo-drinking robot had just admitted to killing Bryce. Well, trying to kill Bryce, but as his mother used to say before vanishing when Chuck was nine, it was the thought that counted.

"Why would you … do that? Why did you kill Bryce?"

Even as the words left Chuck's mouth, he knew it was a stupid question. What reason would Casey give for killing anyone?

"Orders," Casey said, with alarming predictability. "Your old nemesis is a very dangerous human being, Chuck. You get a chance to shoot Bryce Larkin, you shoot to kill."

Somehow, Chuck's two worlds had collided. Here he was, standing with Casey in Ellie's dining room while the smell of roast turkey filled the air, discussing Bryce Larkin's near-death experience. He stared, at a loss. Casey stared back, bored or annoyed—it was hard to tell.

Their beautiful moment was interrupted by Devon, swathed in his Thanksgiving-themed apron and bearing the star of the meal in a roasting pan. "Guys, no shop talk tonight," he said, grinning at them. "We got a bird to eat. Hey, John. Could you help me stuff this monster?"

"Cosmo?" Casey said, without missing a beat, and handed his drink to Chuck.

OoOoOoOoO

You can do this. Pull yourself together. It's just a job.

Sitting in her Porsche in a Trader Joe's parking lot five minutes from Chuck's apartment, Sarah willed herself not to hyperventilate. She'd done everything right. Followed up with the General and the Director to let them know where things stood. Armed herself in the least obtrusive way possible. Worn a festive color. Picked up a gorgeous bunch of fall flowers to give to Ellie as a hostess gift—because let's face it, no one wanted to eat Sarah's cooking, and the Internet said you had to bring something when you were a guest at someone's Thanksgiving table. So why was her stomach in knots?

True, it was embarrassing to have to Google appropriate Thanksgiving etiquette. And equally true, Bryce was still in the wind, and she knew better than to think he'd just vanished. But that didn't account for the way she felt like she might just vomit.

She'd given Chuck a hard time for nearly puking on the Porsche's pristine interior, but at least he'd had an excuse. What did Sarah have? A bunch of wilting flowers, a ticking clock, and a sneaking suspicion that she was lying to herself.

Do your job.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she put the Porsche in gear and pulled into traffic.

OoOoOoOoO

Bottle of wine in hand, Ellie watched Casey walk into the kitchen to help Devon stuff the bird. "Thank you, John," she called after him. "He's so sweet," she confided to Chuck, who stifled a laugh.

"Like honey," he said. "Uh, sis, Morgan is bringing somebody tonight."

Ellie rolled her eyes, setting the wine on the table. "A real someone or an imaginary someone?"

Chuck supposed Morgan deserved that. "Uh, real, actually. Very real, and she's very nice." It wasn't a total lie. Anna could be nice, given the right circumstances—which, he feared, would not be in evidence tonight. "And, um, she—"

"She?" Ellie said in disbelief. "You said 'she.'"

Apparently, Ellie thought Morgan was gay, despite his longstanding crush on her. Wouldn't that just do wonders for his self-esteem. "Yes. Yes, Anna. Morgan's girlfriend. There could be a little issue though because she knows about you and Morgan."

Ellie looked bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

With perfect timing, the doorbell rang.

"Just remember," Chuck said, handing Casey's Cosmo to Ellie, "it's not my fault."

He pulled the door wide. There stood Sarah, beautiful and unattainable, with Morgan and Anna right behind her. "Ah, hello, Sarah and my other friends. Welcome to Thanksgiving."

Sarah stepped inside, all smiles, holding a bunch of flowers. She pressed a kiss to Chuck's sister's cheek.

"Thank you," Ellie said. "They're beautiful."

"You're welcome," Sarah said, as naturally as if she really was Chuck's girlfriend, come to enjoy Thanksgiving with the fam.

Ellie beamed. "Devon's inside over there," she said, pointing at the kitchen, and Sarah stepped past her, flowers in hand.

The first line of defense had surrendered. That left Morgan and Anna, standing face to face with Ellie. Anna had dressed to kill—not literally, Chuck hoped—in some kind of off-the-shoulder lace black shirt and more makeup than Chuck had ever seen her wear.

"Ellie," Morgan said, looking the way he always did when he spoke to Chuck's sister—like he'd come face to face with a goddess and might be struck blind at any moment. "So this is Anna, my – "

"Girlfriend," Anna interrupted, as if she didn't trust Morgan to complete the sentence.

"Right," Morgan said, a hopeless expression on his face. Chuck almost felt sorry for him.

"And this is my green-bean casserole," Anna said, like she was introducing a favored relative. "Try not to drop it."

Please drop it, Chuck thought with sudden fervor. A dreadful aroma emanated from the dish that held the casserole. Burnt . . . onions, perhaps? Could it be?

Anna looked Ellie up and down, her expression suffused with disdain. "It's good to meet you, finally."

Puzzlement drew Ellie's brows low as she took the casserole from Anna. "Yeah, Chuck just told me about you and Morgan. I'm so happy," she said, her tone landing somewhere between sincerity and relief.

"Hussy," Anna hissed, sweeping past Ellie into the apartment.

Chuck closed the door behind her, sighing. It was going to be a long night.

OoOoOoOoO

Thanksgiving might be a colonialist, imperialist, Manifest Destiny-embodying farce of a holiday, but damn, the food was good. And so, Chuck decided, was the company—even if two of them were secret agents, one suspected another of lusting after her boyfriend, and he himself had recently been abducted at syringe-point.

He glanced across the table at Sarah, who was sipping her wine, her eyes on the Anna/Morgan/Ellie fiasco in progress. Red was definitely her color, and she looked even more gorgeous by candlelight than she did when she was kicking a suspect in the face. For tonight, he decided, he would pretend she was his real girlfriend—not just for the sake of their cover, but in his heart. It was Thanksgiving, for God's sake. Even Casey looked like he was enjoying himself, suit and uptight attitude notwithstanding. The turkey was everything a turkey should be—moist, delectable, and reclining, half-demolished, on the bed of greens Ellie had insisted it required. The beer was cold. And Anna hadn't gone for Ellie's throat yet.

"I am in heaven," Devon said through a mouthful of food, echoing Chuck's thoughts.

"Yeah. This is so good." Sarah smiled at Ellie, who beamed back at her.

"I'm glad you like it."

"Amazing," Casey said, also with his mouth full. Chuck wished he'd recorded it for posterity. It was the nicest thing he'd ever heard Casey say to anyone.

He looked across the table at Sarah, who looked happier than he'd seen her since they'd met. Real girlfriend. Real girlfriend. "Do you usually do Thanksgiving?"

It seemed like an innocuous question, but Sarah's face fell. "Not recently," she said, glancing down at her plate with the fake smile she used to hide what she was feeling.

Chuck felt like an ass. Of course, Sarah hadn't recently done Thanksgiving. For all he knew, she'd never done Thanksgiving. If his upbringing had been a natural disaster, hers had been Hiroshima. He wanted to apologize, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.

Oblivious to anything other than the demands of his stomach, Morgan leaned back in his chair. "Oh, man, oh, man. Okay, you know what? For my second plate, I need critical side dish number two." He gestured with enthusiasm in the direction of the sweet potatoes, nearly poking Sarah in the eye.

Chuck had never known anyone to love a dish as much as Morgan loved Ellie's Thanksgiving sweet potatoes. He worshipped them with religious fervor. For Christmas, maybe Chuck would get him a potato shirt. If their relationship lasted long enough, maybe he'd get two—one for Morgan that read "She's My Sweet Potato," and another for Anna that read "I Yam." The thought made him grin.

"Oh, yeah," Devon said, passing the casserole dish across Sarah to Morgan. "There you go."

"Thank you," Morgan said. A beatific smile spread across his hairy face. And then he froze, puzzled. "There's no marshmallows on my sweet potatoes," he said, looking at Anna like she'd just told him Call of Duty 4's release was canceled.

"It's Morgan's favorite number two side dish," Anna said, glaring at Ellie with even more vitriol than before. Edging away from her to take a sip of beer, Chuck was filled with sudden relief that Anna hadn't ended up next to Sarah or Casey. She'd probably liberate one of their guns and take Ellie out before the meal was done.

"I'm sorry. I must've forgot," Ellie said, looking chagrined.

"Thanksgiving is ruined." Anna shook her head in disgust, heart-shaped earrings swaying. Beneath the table, Chuck saw her fingers twitch, as if in pursuit of a weapon.

And things had been going so well.

"No, no. Wait, that's my bad." Chuck shot to his feet. If there was a bloodbath tonight, it wouldn't be his fault. "I did pick them up. They're in the Herder. I'll be right back."

"Don't be too long," Ellie called after him, amusement clear in her voice. Had his desire to get away from Potentially Homicidal Anna been that obvious?

Well, whatever. Go to the Herder. Get the marshmallows. Deliver them and avoid murder and mayhem. How hard could it be?

Whistling, he walked out the door.

OoOoOoOoO

Mission accomplished.

Walking back from the Herder, goods in hand, Chuck reflected on just how disgusting marshmallows really were. Sure, they looked all adorable in their rainbow-striped bag, with that stupid slogan, "Have fun with your yum!" But when you got right down to it, all the sugar in the world couldn't disguise the fact that one of their key ingredients was gelatin, made from ground-up animal parts. He knew this because Dan Pugliano, a bully who'd taken great joy in making Chuck's fourth-grade life hell, had told him—right before he'd snatched Chuck's cup of marshmallow-topped hot chocolate and dumped it into Chuck's open backpack, drenching his brand-new Batman comic.

Ever since that day, Chuck had avoided eating marshmallows. Unfortunately, he hadn't been so successful at avoiding bullies. Exhibit A: Bryce Larkin, Undead Abductor.

Well, that didn't matter right now. He wasn't going to think about what nefarious activities Bryce might be planning next, or what his reappearance meant for the future of Chuck's relationship with Sarah. And he certainly wasn't going to think about whether a rogue agent who'd wrecked his life had Thanksgiving plans, because that would be absolutely ridicul—

"Hello, Chuck," Bryce said.

Seriously?

Chuck stared in disbelief as the Undead Abductor himself stepped out of the shadows next to Ellie's apartment. The guy didn't look armed with a syringe this time, much less a gun—but in the dark, how the hell was he supposed to tell? Besides, even if Bryce wasn't armed, he probably knew thirty-seven ways to cut off the flow of oxygen to Chuck's brain with his pinky finger.

There were so many things Chuck wanted to say, chief among them Fuck you, followed in short order by What the hell are you doing here? with a chaser of, Please leave. But when he opened his mouth, what came out instead was, "Sarah and Casey are right inside. One girlish scream, and they go into combat mode."

Fabulous.

"Relax," Bryce said. His lips curved in the grin that Chuck used to think was charming—the same smile that had once gotten Bryce all the girls he wanted, including the one Chuck loved. "This your place?"

Was this really the conversation they were having? "Ellie and I live here, yeah," Chuck said, wondering if the Intersect could somehow empower him with the ability to wield marshmallows like a weapon.

The smile shifted, fading into a grimace. "You live with your sister? What happened, Chuck? What happened to you? The guy who wanted to be the software billionaire? Bill Gates with style?"

Chuck could feel the blood rushing to his face. The hell with the marshmallows. If he thought he could make it back to the Herder in time, he'd run the bastard over with pleasure. "You got me kicked out of Stanford," he said, glaring at Bryce.

Unsurprisingly, Bryce was unfazed. Either that, or as usual, Chuck didn't register on his radar—not when he had someone more important in mind: Himself. "I need to talk to Sarah," he said, as if Chuck hadn't spoken. "Can you bring her to me? Without Casey?"

Chuck's mouth fell open. It wasn't enough for Bryce to sleep with Jill. Now he wanted Chuck to fetch him Sarah, like a dog obeying a master that had kicked him one too many times. Was this some kind of joke?

But no. Bryce stood there, hands in his pockets, his expression hovering somewhere in the territory between bored and exasperated. He reminded Chuck of Casey. And he was serious.

Unbelievable.

"Why would I help you?" Chuck said, sounding as incredulous as he felt.

Bryce shrugged, and for the first time in their conversation, an actual emotion flickered through his eyes: Fear. "Because of Fulcrum," he said. "That guy in the elevator, he works for them. And they want the Intersect, Chuck. They want you."

OoOoOoOoO

Chuck walked back inside, his heart pounding double-time. Luckily, neither of the two uber-spies sitting at the dining room table had super-hearing to go along with their mad assassin skills. He could keep his secret for a few minutes longer, while he figured out the best way to let Sarah know he was fraternizing with the enemy.

Honestly, he felt cheated. What good was having the Intersect embedded in his brain if it didn't even alert him that Bryce Larkin, rogue agent and backstabber, was lurking in the alleyway next to his house? Not to mention, both times that he'd encountered Sarah's ex-boyfriend, it'd been in an extremely compromising position. First, there'd been the abduction and subsequent injection. And now, here he was, walking back from the Herder—a car he only drove because Bryce had robbed him of his college degree and his career—clutching a bag of mini-marshmallows.

Talk about being emasculated.

Sarah smiled at him as he walked past the table to hand the stupid marshmallows to his sister. He smiled back, like a robot on autopilot. He couldn't help it—she was just so beautiful. She was everything he'd ever wanted. And her should-be-dead asshole of an ex-everything was sneaking in through Chuck's bedroom window right this second.

He sucked in a lungful of air, which smelled like roast turkey and butter and whatever atrocity Anna'd committed upon an innocent dish of green beans. It also smelled like defeat.

"Thank God the marshmallows are back," Devon said, like Chuck had survived a war rather than extracted a bag of Kraft Jet-Puffed from the back of the Herder. Chuck's sister had managed to find a nice guy, despite the cluster fuck of their upbringing. She and Devon had a profession in common. They were building a lovely life together. Which begged the question—why was Chuck such a screw-up?

Ellie held out a hand for the marshmallows and Chuck relinquished them, making a conscious effort to unclench his fingers. He was gripping the bag so hard, his nails had left tiny half-moons in the plastic.

"Thank you," she said, only half her attention on Chuck. The rest was focused on digging in a drawer for some utensil, which was lucky. Ellie didn't miss much when it came to her brother, which was going to make the next few minutes especially challenging. He needed a distraction, any distraction.

Maybe Chuck could clue Sarah in, then choke on a turkey bone or something. He had two doctors there, after all. They'd feel compelled to save him.

Doing his best not to envision Bryce Larkin in his room, inspecting it for additional ways to sabotage his existence, Chuck slid back into his seat in time to hear Anna tell Morgan, "I made this for you."

She was holding up the green bean casserole like an offering. A burnt offering, like that classic horror movie Morgan and Chuck had watched one time when there was nothing else on TV and Chuck was sick of playing Halo.

"Thank you," Morgan said, scooping some onto his plate. "Thank you." Poor sucker—like over-complimenting Anna's generosity in preparing the Green Bean Atrocity was going to save him from having to consume it.

Anna eyed Morgan expectantly. He eyed the green beans expectantly. Everyone else eyed all three of them expectantly, like Anna, Morgan, and the side dish were starring in a crappy sitcom and the rest of the guests were waiting for the cue that would lead them into their next laugh line. Except the last thing Chuck felt like doing right now was laughing.

He forked a piece of turkey into his mouth and managed to swallow it. It sat in his stomach like a weight.

Chuck might've managed to fool Ellie, but Sarah didn't have any wayward utensils to distract her. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him from across the table. "Everything okay?"

Everything was so far from okay, he didn't even know how to address it. "Yeah, everything's great," he lied, attacking his turkey with the fork like it'd done something to offend him.

Her eyebrows drew down ever so slightly, the way they did when she didn't believe someone was telling the truth. If they were playing poker, it'd be a tell, for sure. Chuck was surprised they didn't train it out of her at the Farm. Maybe they didn't think anyone would notice—but he did. He noticed everything about her.

At the other end of the table, the Drama of the Crappy Casserole was still in full swing. "Do you like it?" Anna said, leaning forward to look at Morgan, whose mouth was crammed full.

He swallowed, looking pained. "Mm-hm. Very much. It's devastating—" he winced, took in her anticipatory expression, and pasted the world's fakest smile on his face—"devastatingly good."

Devastating was the word for that casserole, all right. It was also the word for what Anna would do to Morgan if he didn't learn to lie better than this. Maybe Chuck could get Sarah to give him lessons—if the two of them were still speaking after tonight.

"Does anyone else want some?" Anna chirped. She held the casserole dish up hopefully, glancing around the table. Morgan took this opportunity to knock back the entirety of his glass of wine, likely in an attempt to neutralize the effects of the casserole.

Neutralize. Damn. Chuck was even starting to sound like them.

Speaking of which—what the hell was he going to do about the rogue spy in his bedroom? Bryce wouldn't stay in there forever. Much longer, and Chuck was probably going to glance up from the table to find him plastered to the ceiling like Spiderman.

Casey actually grabbed for the casserole dish. Nice to know Chuck could add 'masochist' to the NSA agent's list of qualifications. Or maybe Casey was just testing himself. If I can withstand this apocalypse of a side dish, I'll be one step closer to resisting torture by the enemy.

Devon's eyes widened as Casey reached past him. Then, to Chuck's horror, he reached out and squeezed Casey's bicep. Even in Chuck's panicked state, this shocked him. His eyes met Sarah's across the table. She looked as appalled as he felt.

Well, Chuck had wanted a distraction.

Casey looked down at Devon's fingers, and for an awful moment, Chuck thought he was going to break them one by one. The NSA agent didn't say a word, but it was a terrible, loaded silence.

"Nice and tight, John!" Devon said, letting go. "I'm impressed. You work out?"

Sure, Chuck imagined Casey saying. I dismantle human beings for a living. Like what you do, except I have no intention of putting them back together again.

For once, Chuck was grateful for Casey's aggravating tendency to speak in monosyllables. "Yeah," he grunted, slopping the green beans onto his plate. "Work keeps me in shape."

A puzzled look flashed across Devon's face. "How many calories do you burn at the Buy More?"

It was now or never. Chuck leaned across the table, caught Sarah's eye again, and mouthed, Bryce Larkin is in my bedroom.

Sarah stared at him. Then her jaw clenched—which, for her, was practically the equivalent of a full-on nervous breakdown. Chuck knew just how she felt.

Devon and Casey were still engaged in Operation Mystery Muscle Man. "You tell me," Casey said in response to Devon's question—again with the monosyllables.

"About 350 an hour, max. You look like a guy who needs an adventure," Devon said, with the conviction of someone who'd come up with the worst idea of all time. "Two words: Water sports."

But as Chuck watched Sarah set down her wine glass and square her shoulders, gearing herself up to confront the ex-boyfriend she'd thought was dead, he knew something for sure: The worst idea of all time was letting Bryce Larkin into his sister's house. And one way or another, Chuck would pay.

OoOoOoOoO

"Excuse me," Sarah said, dropping her napkin next to her plate and pushing her chair back from the table. "Too much wine. Be right back."

Ellie raised her glass in a toast as Sarah headed down the hallway toward the bathroom—which, conveniently, was in the same direction as Chuck's bedroom. Guilt stabbed her, sharp as a blade. For the past hour, she'd forgotten that Chuck was her asset and she was his handler. Forgotten that she was a spy and a liar. She'd let herself relax into the fiction she'd created—that she was a normal woman sharing Thanksgiving dinner with her boyfriend's family. A family that wouldn't want anything to do with her if they knew the truth.

Sarah was amazed that Chuck still wanted anything to do with her after the past couple days—much less that he'd agreed to let Bryce meet with her in private. Then again, Chuck was the original nice guy. A great guy, actually. Brilliant and funny and brave. He deserved better than Sarah—the armed holiday infiltrator who was trotting off to meet her ex-boyfriend in her current-fake-boyfriend's bedroom.

This was work, she told herself. The job. But for once, she couldn't make herself believe the lie.

The truth was, this was the first real Thanksgiving she'd ever had. Eating microwaved Stouffer's with her dad in front of the TV didn't count, and after the CIA'd gotten hold of her, she'd been too busy training to think about stuffing herself with turkey and cranberry sauce. It wasn't like anyone in the CAT Squad was domesticated enough to cook, and as for her time with Bryce, the closest he'd ever came to cooking anything was when he'd accidentally flambéed a rabbit on an operation where they'd had to blow up a barn.

She'd teared up when she found the rabbit lying in the snow, its fur half-seared off—not that she'd let Bryce see. The Ice Queen didn't cry.

The point was, she'd let herself believe that she'd belonged at that table, with Anna's horrible casserole and Morgan's favorite number two side dish and Casey's resting bastard face. Most of all, she'd let herself believe she belonged there with Chuck.

But she knew better. She didn't belong anywhere. Except maybe here, turning the doorknob of the bedroom of the man she'd rather not love, about to confront a rogue spy who ought to be dead.

Bracing herself, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Sarah took everything in at once, as she'd been trained to do. Tron poster. Gray bedspread, neatly made. Guitar propped in chair. No Bryce.

He dropped from the ceiling, landing behind her. "You're getting rusty," he said.

Turning, Sarah rolled her eyes. That was Bryce, always one for theatrics—in the bedroom and out of it. "Bryce, I have a gun. Do I need to use it?"

"I'm unarmed," he said, hands open at his sides—as if that proved anything. "And I'm sorry."

Sarah wanted to ask him what he was sorry for—vanishing? Letting her think he was dead? Injecting Chuck with that sedative? But all of that was irrelevant. Bryce was a fugitive. She knew her duty. "Why shouldn't I arrest you right now?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

He raised his right back, and with horror, she realized he was flirting with her. "Because I'm not a rogue spy," he said, stepping closer. "Because the Intersect was a mission. Because, Sarah, you're still in love with me."

And then the bastard kissed her.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah had been right. Chuck was an idiot.

Upon further consideration, maybe he wasn't as much of an idiot as his sister's boyfriend, who was still trying to convince Stone Face Casey to join him on a water sports extravaganza. Chuck wanted to tell Devon that the last thing Casey needed in his life was another adventure, but he didn't trust himself to speak.

"Two dudes. One raft. White-water rapids." Devon grinned at Casey, who returned the favor. The sight was appalling. Casey grinned like a shark—right before it bit. His smile didn't reach his eyes, but Devon didn't seem to notice. All hail-fellow-well-met, he looked Chuck's way. "I got some brochures I gave to Chuck. Hey, those rafting brochures still in your room?"

Chuck's room—where that asshole Bryce currently was, having a private meeting with Chuck's girlfriend . . . who might be Chuck's fake girlfriend, his cover. Or maybe not, after the way she'd kissed Chuck in front of that bomb—what they'd thought was a bomb, anyway. Come to think of it, maybe they weren't wrong. Bryce was kind of like a bomb, just waiting to explode if Casey found out he was anywhere near this house.

The hell with Casey. Ellie'd take him out, before Mr. Work-Keeps-Me-in-Shape could draw one of the seventy-nine weapons he'd doubtless concealed on his person. Either way, this evening was bound to end in carnage, marshmallows or no marshmallows. What had Chuck been thinking, letting him in?

The room fell silent. It took Chuck a second to realize this was because Devon had asked him a question, which he'd been too busy pondering the evolution of Chuck Ruins Thanksgiving Through Another Act of Failed Espionage to answer. "What?" he managed, almost choking on a mouthful of what had to be the worst green bean casserole ever to emerge from an oven.

"Don't worry, Devon," Ellie said, pushing back from the table. "I'm headed that way. I'll get them."

Shit. "No, no, no," Chuck said, jumping to his feet so fast he almost knocked his chair over. Casey grabbed it with those creepy supernatural reflexes of his, giving Chuck a glance that hovered somewhere between suspicion and disappointment. Usually this bugged Chuck—it was aggravating to be the dude with the world's most powerful supercomputer in his head, yet be unable to navigate the world without screwing up left and right—but right now he couldn't care less. "I'll get them," he said, chasing after Ellie, who was already halfway down the hall.

"Don't be silly," she said. "Go back to your green bean casserole. I hear it's delicious."

Chuck couldn't manage a smart-ass comment. He couldn't manage anything. He didn't think he was breathing.

Because Ellie'd pushed open the door to his bedroom. And there, in the middle of his floor, right in front of his Tron poster, was Bryce Larkin with his tongue down Sarah's throat.

He didn't care if she was his girlfriend or not. If she was his cover or something more. All he knew was that if Sarah had gone ahead and shot him when Bryce was using him as a human shield, it wouldn't have hurt any worse than this.

OoOoOoOoO

"What the actual fuck?"

Sarah's first thought was that she'd never heard Ellie swear. On its heels came the realization that Ellie was five feet away, cursing at her—and there Sarah stood, making out with Bryce. The guy who'd slept with Chuck's girlfriend, gotten him kicked out of college, derailed his career, put a target on his back, and, most recently, used him as a human shield—not that Ellie knew about the latter, but still.

Sarah was facing the door. Bryce had his back to Ellie. Maybe she could pass this off as cheating on Chuck with a random burglar who'd broken into Ellie's brother's bedroom. He was going to kill us all, she'd say, so I kissed him to change his mind. As you can see, it worked. Really, if you think about it, I'm a hero.

Sarah stepped back from Bryce and opened her mouth to implement this strategy—she was, after all, the daughter of a con man—but one look at Ellie's face let her know it was a lost cause. Ellie was turning the color of Sarah's shirt, her hands clenched into fists. "Tell me," she said, her voice menacing enough to give Casey a run for his money, "that's not Bryce Larkin. Tell me you put a hallucinogen in my wine. Because that would piss me off, but not nearly as much as what I think I'm seeing right now."

Sarah wanted to tell Ellie that though she'd done far worse than spike someone's drink to get her way, she would never, ever do such a thing to Ellie. They were friends, for God's sake—except maybe, not anymore.

"You're dead," Ellie said, a comment that was presumably directed at Bryce. Who knows—it could just as easily be a threat intended for Sarah, given the circumstances. "Chuck went to your funeral, you worthless piece of shit. How the hell are you standing here?"

Bryce's mouth fell open, but he didn't say a word. Why couldn't he have been struck mute a few minutes ago, before he'd told Sarah she was still in love with him?

Still as arrogant as always. Some things never change.

Sarah shouldn't have kissed him back. But she'd thought he was dead. She'd grieved for him. Missed him. Felt betrayed by him.

Despite all that, she'd never been in love with him. She knew that now, for sure. Maybe that's what this kiss had been—a test.

But none of that mattered now. She'd made a mistake. And, like a dumbass rookie, she'd gotten caught—along with her ex-partner. Some CIA operatives they were.

"Ellie—" Sarah started, but the word just hung there. If the situation involved shooting, hostage negotiation, or interrogation, she'd know exactly what to do. But here, she was at a total loss.

Tears shone in Ellie's eyes. "And you!" she said, her voice rising. "I invited you to my home. Trusted you with my brother. And what do you do? Sneak away from Thanksgiving dinner to do the nasty with the world's vilest undead human being in Chuck's bedroom!"

"I know how bad this looks," Bryce said, evidently having decided to give confirmation bias a try. Sarah wanted to kick him, but touching him again in any context would have been a major tactical error.

"You're right," Ellie said, glaring at Sarah as if she'd like to sling a dish of sweet potatoes at her head—or shoot Sarah with her own gun. "It couldn't be worse."

Except she was wrong. Because behind her, in the shadows of the hallway, Sarah caught a glimpse of the one person she'd hoped wouldn't see this.

"You've got to be kidding me, Sarah," Chuck said.

OoOoOoOoO

Sarah's face went white. Her eyes flicked from Ellie to Chuck and then back again. Chuck could see her calculating, trying to figure out a way to escape this mess—and coming up empty.

"Chuck," she said, her voice pleading.

Chuck didn't know what to do. As fast as if they were being delivered courtesy of the Intersect, strategies flipped through his mind. Kick Sarah out, and he'd blow the cover they just managed to piece back together. Act as if they were a happy ménage à trois—Chuck, his girlfriend, and his arch-nemesis who'd been resurrected from the dead—and Ellie'd be scanning his brain for evidence of a covert stroke before Morgan hoovered up the rest of the sweet potatoes. Throw a punch at Bryce, and he'd wind up getting an MRI anyhow—right after Bryce smashed his skull.

Any way you look at it, he was screwed.

You'd think he'd know what to do about this. Getting fucked over was, after all, a Chuck Bartowski Special. They should have named a drink after him—for all the nice-guy losers who didn't wind up getting the girl. Or the degree they'd spent three and a half years busting their ass to earn, only to wind up Head Nerd of the Herd.

What would Bryce Larkin's drink be? A Molotov cocktail? 007 Martini? Sex on the Beach?

Chuck would be willing to bet Sarah and Bryce'd had sex on a beach somewhere, right after they tandem-jumped out of a helicopter and saved the world from a zombie terrorist invasion. Probably while Chuck was behind the counter at the Buy-More, upgrading someone's iPhone.

The image rendered him speechless. Unsurprisingly, Ellie had no such problem. "Get out!" she said, glaring between Sarah and Bryce.

"But—" Sarah said, her eyes on Chuck.

If Ellie were a dog, her hackles would be standing on end. She stepped inside the bedroom, Chuck behind her, and shut the door. "Don't look at my brother. Look at me. This is my house, and you're not welcome here. Not now, not ever. Get. Out."

"I—"

Ellie drew herself up to her full height. "Don't speak. You," she said, pointing an awful finger at Bryce, "leave the way you came in, which I imagine was through that window, for which I am going to purchase a lock. I've had just about enough of people swinging through here like it's Grand Central Station. And you," she said, swiveling to face Sarah, "make an excuse. Anything. I don't care what. A sick grandmother. Period cramps. Nuclear fallout in the Balkans that you're somehow uniquely equipped to mitigate. Just don't sit back down at my dining room table, or I swear to God you'll be wearing that abomination of a green bean casserole like a hat."

Chuck's mouth fell open. He hadn't heard Ellie sound this furious since he'd gotten caught hacking into his high school's server to change the grade of a friend who'd badly needed to pass 10th grade Chem. Not to mention, of all of those excuses, the crisis in the Balkans was actually the most likely scenario. "Ellie," he said, trying not to sound as betrayed as he felt, "it's Thanksgiving. Maybe we should—"

She spun to face him. "No, Chuck. You're too nice for your own good. You always have been. After what happened with Jill—and this worthless excuse for a human being—I swore I'd never let anyone hurt you like that again. Well, I might not be able to stop it from happening, but I can sure as hell keep these two assholes from kicking you when you're down. I don't care if it's Thanksgiving or Christmas or the freaking Fourth of July. You're my little brother, this is my house, and I'm not having it."

Hands on hips, she advanced on Bryce, who—to Chuck's shock—retreated. "I'm not going to ask again. Get. Out. Now."

OoOoOoOoO

With a final glance at Sarah, Bryce did as ordered, slipping through the window and landing silently on the ground below. Sarah knew she hadn't seen the last of him.

How the hell had this happened? One second she'd been buying flowers and exchanging isn't-Morgan-ridiculous glances with Chuck over wine. Now she was standing in Chuck's bedroom, her lips still tingling from kissing a man she thought she'd never see again, watching Chuck stare at her like his heart was breaking.

It was a cover, damn it. Not a real relationship. How many times had she told Chuck that? He had no right to look at her that way.

But if it was just a cover, why did her chest hurt like whatever beat inside of it had cracked in two?

Not only was it a cover—it was a cover that she—CIA agent extraordinaire—had just blown to smithereens. Chuck might be able to act as if he forgave her—might even actually forgive her, decent human being that he was. But Ellie? There was no way. She'd raised Chuck. Ellie was a lioness and Chuck her brilliant, weaponized cub. Even if Sarah had the slightest chance of getting Chuck to agree to maintain their cover, Ellie would do everything in her power to keep the two of them apart.

Sarah hadn't just lost Chuck—she'd lost Ellie, the closest normal friend she'd ever had. She'd lost too-cheerful Devon and obnoxious Morgan and candlelit Thanksgiving dinners. She'd lost her only shot—however farcical—at a normal life and a family.

The ache inside her chest intensified, until it was hard to breathe. "Please, Chuck," she said. "There's a reason—I can explain—"

But he turned his face away.

Goddamn Bryce. Why had he kissed her?

Why had she let him? She could have pushed him away, had him down on the floor with a gun in his back before his lips had ever touched hers.

Maybe she'd screwed it up on purpose, because she cared too much about Chuck. Because, God help her, she wanted this to be more than just a cover. She wanted it to be real, and it scared the hell out of her.

Was it possible that the pain in her chest was heartache—because she loved him?

It made no difference. She'd blown their cover, when all along she'd thought Chuck would be the one to screw it up. And now they might reassign her, give Chuck's protection detail to some less competent agent who would probably get him killed.

All she'd ever wanted to do was protect him. But instead, she'd destroyed him. One look at his face told her that. There was a hardness to his eyes and a set to his jaw she'd never seen before.

The openness she'd always mocked him for—it was his greatest strength. And her closed-off, let-no-one-in emotional blockade—it was her weakness.

She would never be able to make this right. Bryce was out there right this minute, plotting God knew what. If he'd gotten into Chuck's room once, he could do it again, no matter how many locks Ellie put on his window. And if Sarah wasn't there to protect Chuck, what would happen to him?

"Chuck," she said again, but he shook his head.

"There's nothing left to say."

She'd never heard him sound like that. So remote, so cold.

"You heard my brother," Ellie said, twisting the doorknob with unnecessary force. "March your over-aerobicized butt down the hall, tell my guests that you've been stricken with Ebola, get into your fancy car, and go back where you came from."

Sarah's lips trembled, but she didn't say a word. Head held high, she slipped past Ellie and Chuck, walked down the hallway, and obeyed.

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