Chuck versus the Open Invite

A/N: Takes place around season 2, no exact place on the timeline thought. Comes before the Day Off or Black Swan. Will be updated as soon as I can translate it, but in worst case updates will come weekly.

Chapter 1 – Day One, 7:30 A.M.

Chuck woke up expecting an ordinary morning. Still half asleep, he slapped the alarm clock silent and lay there for another few seconds before something felt... off. He was wearing a suit. Not only that—a fake mustache clung to his upper lip, and a name tag on his jacket proudly declared: François Chuck blinked.

"...Right."

Last night's mission. He'd spent the evening pretending to be a wealthy French businessman. Maybe he shouldn't have accepted quite so many glasses of champagne. He peeled off the mustache with a wince, stripped out of the suit, and headed for the shower. Ellie and Devon were already gone—or maybe they hadn't even made it home from the hospital yet.

The hot water slowly chased the fog from his head. Bits and pieces of the previous night drifted back. Crystal chandeliers. Terrible French. Far too much champagne. And Sarah. She'd looked incredible in that evening gown. Chuck smiled despite himself.

"I wish..." he sighed.

A few minutes later he stood in the kitchen brewing coffee. Leaning against the counter, he stared into the steaming mug as if it might provide answers. The memories returned in fragments—bright lights, awkward French, an overenthusiastic champagne toast... ...and Sarah. He decided he'd stop by the Orange Orange before work. Not because he had to. Technically they were just a cover couple. Still... It felt right. Maybe she'd feel the same way. He couldn't stop thinking about the moment she'd smiled at him in the middle of the ballroom. Not the practiced cover smile. A real one. Chuck shook his head.

"Okay, Bartowski. Don't overthink it. It was just a mission."

He took another sip of coffee. Then another memory hit. A man. Tall. Too well dressed not to be suspicious. And... A briefcase. Chuck froze.

"The briefcase..."

His own memory blurred into something else. An Intersect flash exploded behind his eyes. Fish. An airplane. A giraffe. Encrypted drive. Weapons blueprints. International arms trafficking network. The briefcase wasn't just another prop. It was the mission. Chuck set his mug down and instinctively reached for his phone. Nothing. He looked at the kitchen counter. Nothing. He rushed into the living room, checking under cushions, behind the couch, even inside the refrigerator—as though every missing object in the universe eventually ended up there.

"No, no, no... this is really bad..."

He had just slipped on his shoes when his phone finally rang. It was lying on the floor beside the dresser. CASEY flashed on the screen. Chuck grabbed it.

"Hey, Casey!"

"Bartowski."

Casey's voice was as warm as a firing squad.

"Do you have the briefcase?"

Chuck stopped cold.

"Well... that depends."

A pause.

"How bad would it be if I said... maybe?"

Silence. Then—

"Orange Orange. Now."

The line went dead. Chuck sighed.

"So... I guess I really am stopping by Sarah's."

The Orange Orange was unusually quiet, carrying its familiar scent of fresh citrus. Sarah stood behind the counter in civilian clothes—jeans and a simple pink top—but to Chuck... She was still Sarah. She looked up as he walked in, and for just a moment everything else faded away. That feeling was back. Something bigger than their cover relationship had ever allowed.

"Hey, Chuck."

"Heeey," Chuck answered a little too quickly.

"I just... coffee... well, I already had coffee, so maybe orange juice. Or... conversation. Or..."

Sarah smiled. Just a little.

"Chuck."

"Yeah?"

"Relax."

There was a brief silence before she leaned in slightly.

"Do you have it?"

Chuck swallowed.

"Well... first of all, hi."

She smiled a little wider.

"And second?"

"That depends on what we're looking for."

The front door opened. Casey entered like an approaching thunderstorm.

"The briefcase, Bartowski."

Chuck slowly shook his head.

"I don't have it."

Casey's jaw tightened. He muttered something under his breath that was probably illegal in several states. Sarah's expression was different. She wasn't angry. She looked worried.

"Chuck," she said quietly, "do you remember anything? Any detail at all?"

Chuck hesitated. Then the memories snapped into place. A dark parking garage. The elegant man carrying the briefcase. Handing it to a beautiful woman. A woman Chuck recognized. The flash ended.

"I know who has it."

Casey frowned.

"You don't remember half the night, but you know who has the briefcase?"

"It flashed."

Casey was already turning toward the door.

"Let's move."

Chuck didn't follow. Instead, he looked at Sarah.

"She..."

Sarah met his eyes.

"...she acted like she knew you."

Something changed in Sarah's expression.

"Who?"

Chuck swallowed.

"The woman who organized last night's event."

Silence. The room suddenly felt colder. Sarah's face became completely unreadable. Too unreadable. Casey slowly turned toward her.

"Walker?"

Sarah didn't answer immediately. She looked at Chuck for a long moment before quietly removing her apron and setting it on the counter.

"Then let's go."

Chuck nodded, but he couldn't shake the feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't going to be a routine mission. Not even close.

The previous evening's operation had taken place at an upscale winery, where several hostile operatives had been working undercover. Chuck still had no idea where the briefcase had ended up—or even what was inside it. But one question bothered him more than any of that. How did that woman know Sarah?