A/N: Spoilers through Chuck v. the DeLorean

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Beta: Much gratitude to the amazing arty esbee d'arc for her beta of this fic.

~*~

The day she's born, her father is three hours late coming to the hospital.

He strides down the hallway in business suit and tie, a brief case jammed full of cash swinging jauntily from his right hand. Humming tunelessly, his lips creep slowly upward as he thinks about the thousands of dollars enclosed inside his case. All of it is payment for the designs to La Muerte, one of the deadliest weapons America has ever created. The Middle Eastern Patriarch had practically shaken with excitement when they'd made the exchange. Little does the man know, the plans will create nothing more than a harmless transistor radio.

He chuckles briefly, almost missing the nursery before skidding to a halt and doubling back. Immediately, his expression becomes more attentive as he peers through the glass.

He knows he should visit his wife first; he has amends to make, sweet nothings to murmur ("When are you going to get a real job, Jerry?" "Soon, soon.") But faced with the choice of seeing the disappointment in her eyes or the child she's brought into the world, he finds himself staring raptly through the nursery window and scanning row upon row of tiny newborns. His eyes come to rest on a pink-bundled infant lying in a nearby crib, with puckered mouth and tiny fingers curled into fists.

She's absolutely gorgeous.

When the nurse places her into his arms, a gentle warmth floods his chest as he takes in his tiny daughter. She's got ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes, and the soft pale down upon her head almost seems halo-like. When she tightens her tiny fist around his right index finger, his features shift in awe.

He's always been able to come up with words; he's always been able to talk himself out of a situation. But now, as his little girl looks up at him with utter vulnerability reflected in her newborn gray eyes, he's left speechless for the first time in his life.

He's still gazing at her in modest wonder when he finally remembers that he has a job to finish. He hesitates for a moment, reveling at the feel of the infant in his arms. But Saudi princes have a habit of figuring out when they've been cheated and he has some loose ends to cut. Tapping on the nursery glass, he signals the nurse to come and take his child away, and even though his finger feels bare without the touch of her fist, he strides out of the hospital without a backwards glance.

Kimberly Lisa Clark snuggles back into her plastic bassinet, her only company the small stuffed bear which has been placed haphazardly down by her feet.

~*~

She's a year old when she's thrown into her first con. Her father has placed her in a stroller and left her on the sidewalk, in full view of tourists and business people alike. Wearing nothing but a thin red jacket, ruffly blue jeans and tiny white baby shoes, her face is tinged pink from the blustery wind blowing through the city of Chicago. The child's lower lip trembles as she gazes at the sea of strangers, her blue eyes gradually widening when she can't find her father among them. A few moments more, and she begins to wail at the top of her small lungs.

The sound causes her father's chest to twist with remorse, but he remains stationed behind the crowd beginning to coalesce around his baby daughter. Murmurs and exclamations arise from the bystanders, each of them wondering where the infant's parents can be. Several pairs of eyes begin to rove the nearby area, looking for some sort of authority figure. Despite their avid search, none of them take the time to turn around and look behind.

Certain that their attention is sufficiently diverted, Jerry Clark slowly, carefully reaches steady fingers into a number of pockets and withdraws several fat wallets, dropping them into a waiting bag. The bag is labeled "Chicago Department of Social Services," a handy prop for when Jerry finally pushes through the crowd and declares himself a social worker.

"Move along, folks, move along," he commands, coming to a stop behind the stroller. He forces himself to keep his eyes averted from the tiny girl who does not see him, whose wails are growing increasingly fervent. Though his stomach knots at the sound, he keeps his expression neutral and continues the masquerade.

Around him, the crowd begins to slowly disburse. "What are you going to do with her?" one lingering heavy-set woman blurts out forcefully, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"She'll be taken into social services, where she'll receive a warm bottle and a soft crib until someone can find her parents," he replies smoothly, locking gazes with the meddlesome woman. When she nods, pacified, he begins pushing his daughter's stroller through the remaining crowd.

A good con man always leaves before anyone realizes he was there.

Moving quickly, he finally stops several blocks away, ducking into a nearby alley and pushing the stroller along in front of him. The child's tears have dried upon her soft pink cheeks, but her lower lip quivers nonetheless. When he comes into full view, she reaches her tiny arms upward. "Dada," she says plaintively.

He tries to ignore the pang that echoes through his chest. But when he finally leans down to pick up his daughter, she looks at him with watery eyes so full of trust that he has to turn his head and look away.

~*~

She's nine years old when her mother finally gets fed up and leaves her father. The Wisconsin rain is coming down in sheets outside her bedroom window, the accompanying wind sending the shutters of her two-story house clapping against the wooden frame. Katie O'Connell sits quietly on her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. The discordant sound of her parents' fight drifts in fragments up the stairs.

"Dare you . . . take her with . . ."

"It's the only . . . need money . . ."

". . . ruined our daughter . . . just like you . . ."

A sharp pain pricks the girl's chest at her mother's words, and unshed tears sting the surface of her blue eyes as she pulls her arms more tightly around her small frame. When the door finally slams, the sound echoing loudly through the large house, she forces back a sob.

A good con artist does not cry.

Racing to her bedroom window, Katie watches her mother haul a suitcase down the long walk before she finally slips into her car and drives away. (Ruined our daughter.) She bites her lower lip hard, leaving tiny indentations in her tender pink skin as she tries not to cry.

She doesn't know how long she stands there, attempting to block out everything she's just heard, attempting to erase the fact that her mother just walked out on them. It is only when she hears the creak of her door and footsteps entering her room that she turns around.

Her father is standing at the foot of her bed, a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream resting on his open palm.

She narrows her eyes at the ridiculousness of the situation. Her mother has just left and her father is bringing her Rocky Road ice cream. Just like a con gone bad. Instinctively, she moves her fingers to her wrist, which still aches from their recent foray with the armored truck.

The foray which cost her her mother. (Just like you.)

But when she opens her mouth to argue, her words die in her throat. Even though he's trying to hide it – even though she's only nine – she can still see the deep pain hidden behind her father's eyes. Her breath catches at the sight. Redirecting her eyes to the bowl, she nods toward the treat. "Rocky Road," she murmurs, unable to think of anything else to say.

Her father's lips twist into an uneasy smile and he transfers the ice cream to her waiting palm. "I thought you deserved a treat," he replies, taking a seat on her bed.

"Mom's not coming back, is she?" the girl asks quietly, staring at her bedspread as she takes a bite of ice cream.

"I don't think so." The response is even, controlled. "But listen," he says, and Katie glances up to meet his gaze, "There's no reason we can't do this alone. You and me? We're a team." He nods encouragingly.

The words are meant to be comforting, but they fall flat on the girl's ears. "Sure," she says, trying to smile but grimacing instead.

The expression does not go unnoticed by her father, who inadvertently winces at the sight. "Listen, darlin'," he continues, a little more heatedly. "I need you to do something for me, okay?" When his daughter nods, he leans forward and looks more deeply into her sharp blue eyes. "Trust me, Angel," he pleads, and an undercurrent of desperation washes through his words.

The girl swallows, hesitating. But when her father continues to hold her gaze, she notices that the deep-set pain never wavers. And she knows: Regardless of what her father has done, he needs her to protect him.

A shadow passes over her face and she finally nods her small blonde head. "Okay," she agrees softly. "Okay, Dad. I'll trust you."

She doesn't really have any other choice.

~*~

Fifteen-year old Rebecca Franko stands by the Cleveland High School hotdog cart, Pete Murphy close by her side. The CHS football team battles victoriously on the field before them, but she really only has eyes for her date.

He's the cutest boy she's ever known.

She blushes as his dark green eyes take in her every move, his wavy red hair blowing across his angular face. When she takes a bite of hotdog, his face splits into a crooked smile and he leans forward, lifting his finger to the corner of her mouth. "Mustard," he says softly, gazing intently into her eyes.

She swallows hard.

Suddenly, before she can really fathom what's happening, his smile broadens and he quirks his head. "Come on," he says, and he immediately begins a fast-paced walk toward the bleachers.

"Pete, where are we going?" she protests, placing her hand on his arm to stop his rapid progress.

But he won't be deterred. "Come on," he repeats more urgently, grinning crookedly as he grabs her hand and pulls her underneath the bleachers.

Giggling, she follows after him, her heart racing at his proximity. When he stops abruptly and turns to face her, goose bumps break out onto her forearms. He's so close that she can feel his breath on her cheek.

"We can get more privacy down here," he whispers huskily, reaching out and pulling her into his arms.

The movement is unexpected and she stumbles on the bleacher frame, blushing as she tumbles into his gawky embrace and steps on his foot. "I'm so—" she begins to say. But before she has time to mumble an apology, he pushes his lips onto her open mouth. Her eyes fly wide at the gesture, and she freezes in place. (Please don't let my braces catch on his lips.) But when he slips his tongue into her mouth, she slowly closes her eyes and lets her fingers thread through his soft red hair.

The kiss is tender and awkward, clumsy and enthusiastic. It's also not exactly the way she imagined it. But then, it is her very first.

When he finally breaks away and looks at her with quiet affection, her heart skips a beat. Grinning foolishly, she rests her head on his shoulder and allows him to pull her into a hug.

She's never cared about anyone this much.

They date for two months after that, but the relationship is cut short when she moves to San Diego and for the sake of her cover, her father forbids her to call him. (A good con artist knows when to cut ties.)

She never does see him again.

~*~

At seventeen-years old, Jennifer Burton stands impatiently inside the jail, tapping her foot in time to her thoughts. Two days ago, her father had been arrested from their San Diego home. One day and twenty-three hours ago, she had been confronted by Director Graham of the CIA. And one day and fifteen hours ago, she had agreed to join the Agency as their newest Recruit.

The idea of being a CIA agent is still so foreign to her that she has a hard time wrapping her mind around the concept. She's not even sure she knows what it means yet, except that the idea sounds good to her. After years of breaking the law and living on the run, she's lost all concept of who she is – or who it is she's supposed to be. Maybe being Sarah Walker is a good place to start looking. That, and they promised her decision would be taken into account when determining her father's sentence.

Her father's sentence. Her stomach tightens at the thought. After everything they've been through, after all the years of cons, her father has finally been caught. She bites her lip and closes her eyes, her shoulders hunching forward as a sharp pain pierces her chest.

I was supposed to protect him.

Biting her lip, she leans back against the wall, willing herself not to cry. When the jailer walks toward her, a stern look on his face, she has to fight to force her features into some semblance of a neutral expression. "I'm here for Jack Burton," she says, and she's relieved to hear her voice waver only a little.

The jailer nods smartly and turns without saying a word. Undecided, Jenny follows after him, twisting her fingers into fists and leaving moon-shaped indentations upon her palms.

"Wait here," the jailer commands, gesturing roughly toward an empty chair at one side of a small table.

A short time later, her father comes through the double doors in his orange jumpsuit, his face split into a wide grin. "Hi, darlin'," he intones, leaning over to give her a kiss on the cheek. "How have you been?"

How has she been?

She has to keep herself from rolling her eyes. Or narrowing them in anger. "Fine," she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Hey," he replies jovially, casually lifting his legs to rest them on the table. "What's the problem?"

She stares at him for a moment, a hardness seeping into her expression as she takes in his carefree attitude. He doesn't even care. "You're in jail," she finally responds, her tone slightly clipped.

"Hey, don't worry," he assures, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head. "I'll be out of here in no time. Not even the Big House can keep a good con man down. Trust me, Angel."

The words are like stagnant air, polluted with broken promises. She crosses her arms over her chest, staring hard at the man who had once been her whole world. As the hardness travels from her eyes into her chest, her father's expression shifts. "Come on," he cajoles, dropping his feet heavily back onto the ground. "There's really nothing to worry about."

"Sure, Dad," she says, but it's clear from the look in her eyes that she doesn't mean it.

After years of his lies, the realization dawns that her father will never tell her the truth. And she's tired of the lies, of the deception. She's tired of the con.

She may have failed him, but he failed her first. Even if he'll never admit it. Even if maybe she's not ready to admit it herself.

Several minutes later, she hastily excuses herself, despite her father's meager protests. Her shoulders are shaking with suppressed emotion, and she longs to put as much distance between herself and the jail as possible. To get as far away from the life her father has handed her and to finally start building one of her own.

Good con artists know when to cut ties.

~*~

The door crashes open and twenty-four year old Sarah Anderson backs inside, pulling her cover husband along by the collar of his untucked dress shirt. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair is in disarray, and her blouse is unbuttoned. The high of the mission is still fresh within her mind, causing her pulse to race and her skin to tingle. When Bryce slams the door and pulls her to him, pressing his lips to hers, she grinds her hips against his groin and pushes her tongue into his mouth.

Two hours ago, they had been seconds from torture at the hands of top Middle Eastern spies. She shivers slightly, remembering the knives with which the enemy had proposed to force their secrets. But when one particularly nasty looking blade hovered inches from Bryce's pale face, Sarah had broken out of her binds and aimed a well-placed kick at his attacker's chest. Chaos was unleashed, but the two finally escaped (mostly) unscathed, taking with them the prototype of a deadly weapon before blowing up the enemy base.

After seven years of training, Sarah Anderson has truly found her niche in the CIA. She's already one of the Agency's top agents. And for every enemy agent she brings down, she feels a sense of absolution. As if she knows that she has made up for those now distant years of her life when the con was her only means of survival.

And even though this is another con – even though she doesn't really know him, and he doesn't really know her – all that is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is how he makes her feel when he runs his hands along her body, causing her to shiver in their wake; that, and the fact that when she needs it most, he won't let her down.

She can trust him with her life.

So when he finally pushes deep inside of her, sending a thrill of pleasure racing through her core, she allows herself to believe that she's fallen in love with him. Immediately, the tension built up during the mission is released and she pierces him with her deep blue gaze, willing him to see the emotion in her eyes. (It's something she'll never admit with her mouth.)

It's only later, after he turns rogue (and even when she discovers the truth), that she realizes she might have made a mistake. But then, it's easy to confuse love with passion.

~*~

Thirty-year old Sarah Walker leans back against the headboard, her stiletto boots leaving indentations on the bed as she pulls her legs to her chest. Her head is spinning with unfocused thoughts, each flitting through her mind before the next can fight for dominance. Only one thought is clear: She's sitting on Chuck Bartowski's bed when the CIA expects her to be on a plane headed for Langley. Hell, even Chuck expects her to be on that plane. How can he not when he dropped her off at the airport no less than three hours before?

So when the bedroom door creaks open and footsteps enter the room, she keeps her gaze focused on the bedspread as her nimble fingers pick at the nearly invisible lint. But when she hears the sharp intake of breath, she can't help but raise her head at the sound.

Chuck is standing at the entrance to his room, a forgotten plate in his hand as he gawks at her in open-mouthed shock. "Sarah?" he gasps, dropping the plate onto the floor. It lands with a resounding crash, but neither really registers the sound.

"Hey," she greets him, forcing a small smile into place.

"Um, I'm sorry," Chuck stammers, the shock still apparent on his face. "Aren't you supposed to be on a plane or something?"

Sarah purses her lips and returns her gaze to the bedspread. "I couldn't leave," she replies, the words barely audible.

Not this time.

Chuck draws in a shaky breath. "Why not?" he inquires, dropping onto the bed and moving to sit by her side. He brushes against her arm as he leans against the headboard, causing a warm prickle to traverse her skin.

Sarah swallows and redirects her line of sight so that she's gazing at his chin. Her heart is hammering loudly in her chest, her skin tingling with suppressed nerves, but she forces herself to answer him. "I couldn't leave you," she clarifies, and the certainty of her words contrasts with the tightness of her muscles.

He might not even know her first name (she's not even sure she knows what her first name is anymore), but he's slowly infiltrated her defenses until she's pretty sure he knows everything else.

Everything that matters, anyway.

It's the biggest con of her life, yet somehow it's the realest experience she's ever had. Of all the men she's known, he's the only one who can break through her defenses. The only one who can remind her of what it is to be normal. She may not have been born Sarah Walker, but he makes her feel like she's had this identity all of her life and she never wants to let it go.

She never wants to let him go.

Despite all this, she continues to cling to her legs, unable to meet his eyes. For the first time in a long time, she feels an overpowering sense of fear. Fear of normalcy. Fear of rejection. Fear of finding out that maybe he doesn't feel the same way.

And along with that fear is a vulnerability she can't remember ever experiencing.

So when he slowly lifts her chin with his finger and raises her face so it's level with his own, it takes her a minute to meet his gaze. When she finally does, her breath catches at what she sees reflected there.

"Hey," he says, a plethora of emotions coloring his tone as he looks deeply into her eyes. "Do me a favor, okay?" Her brows arch in response, and he takes a deep breath before continuing. "Trust me, Sarah," he beseeches gently.

The words are reminiscent of so many in her past that for a moment, she can only stare unblinkingly at the man gazing at her with such rapt attention. But then a warmth seeps into her chest and she finds her muscles relaxing as her mouth curls upward into a small smile. Raising her hand to cup his cheek, she leans forward until their lips are almost touching. "I do," she says softly.

And when she kisses him, she knows that it's the truth.

Fin.