Disclaimer—Recognizable characters belong to Joshua Schwartz and Chris Fedak. No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—Writing in reverse order. While the first story is done, and the beginnings of the second are in the works, I find myself writing this third story instead of the second. Evil plot bunnies. This would not be possible without the great patience and immeasurable talent of Brandywine00.

Many thanks to the many wonderful people I've met here in the Chuck-dom. You are all fantastic. :D

Spoilers—Well, we kinda went AU-ish from the start with this series. General knowledge. What to accept from Season 3 canon: Morgan knows. What to ignore from Season 3 canon... Casey's being fired... I think that's mostly it. :)

Chuck versus the Saint—The requirement for sainthood is performing three miracles. And death.

If there was one thing John Casey had come to rely on, it was his gut instincts. Something was wrong. It wasn't that the bar wasn't his kind of scene, with pulsating music he could feel in his veins or strobe lights that would send any epileptic into fits. It was something else, a feeling he couldn't shake.

When his earpiece suddenly went dead, when his watch couldn't transmit, his blood ran cold.

He'd lost sight of his partners, Chuck Bartowski and Sarah Walker. They'd been on the dance floor, gyrating to the noise, their eyes ever watchful for their marks.

He abandoned his post; he had to. Sliding over the top of the bar, his blue eyes scanned the entire club unrelentingly. He was looking for a tall, lanky nerd in a black suit and a baby blue oxford and an athletic blonde in a ruby red party dress that hugged all the right curves.

It didn't take long for him to spot the geek.

Chuck shook his head, never once glancing somewhere other than the bar. He didn't even look back at Sarah when she said something. He climbed onto one of the bar's small tables. One black Chuck Taylor followed by the other.

"Get down, idiot," Casey muttered. He couldn't even hear his own voice, not above the music that just seemed to keep getting louder and louder. As he scanned the rest of the club, everything slowed down.

The waitress, the redhead that had flirted with him when she placed her orders, wasn't paying attention to any of the patrons, other than the one standing on the table. Her smile was gone. The softness in her eyes was replaced with ice cold steel. From beneath her tray, she pulled a small silver handgun.

He took a half second to look back at his team. Chuck was saying something this time. Sarah didn't see the threat; she wasn't looking the right direction.

Casey grit his teeth, shoving his way through the crowd. He would've pulled his own weapon had he thought he could get the shot off without hurting any of the civilians. The way the lights flickered, everyone seemed to move. It was subtle, but it was enough to make firing a risk he was unwilling to take. His job was to protect, to ensure safety, not hurt someone in friendly fire, not if he could help it.

He tackled her, sending her to the ground.

It wasn't just the thud of two people falling onto the ground that made the dance floor part like the Red Sea. It was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

Chuck watched as a woman shoved a man off of her in the center of the new clearing. She stumblingly got to her feet, backing away. As the music came to a screeching halt, it was Sarah's breathless voice that made him realize, exactly, what had happened. "Casey?" She sprinted forward as the man tried to stand.

Chuck jumped from the table, following in Sarah's wake.

Casey couldn't remain upright; he fell to his knees then careened back onto the floor. He'd been shot before. He'd been stabbed, tortured. None of his previous experiences came even close to the pain he found himself in.

Sarah stopped briefly at his side, but he waved her on.

Chuck slid on his knees, coming to a stop next to his NSA handler, watching the blood gush freely from the hole in his chest. "You're gonna be fine, big guy," Chuck managed. The words felt thick and they got caught in his throat. As the houselights came up, he pulled his coat off and pressed it to the wound. "You're gonna be fine," he repeated. It didn't make him feel any better; he wasn't sure if it was working for Casey, either.

He'd give anything to flash, to know instantly what to do, to save one of his best friends from dying, from bleeding out in the center of some dirty nightclub. His mind screamed at him: flash, flash, flash, dammit, flash!

Casey found that his eyelids were hard to keep open. Reaching out, he grabbed onto Chuck's shirt, pulling the geek towards him. It was difficult to keep his grip. The gangly Intersect, who he'd never had any trouble pushing around, was almost too heavy to bring forward.

"It's okay, Casey, I promise," Chuck said, lowering himself further when he saw Casey try to speak.

"Tell your sister..." His voice hitched slightly. "Tell Ellie I'm sorry."

The Emergency Room at Westside Medical was always a hotbed of excitement on a Friday night. Gang rumbles, drug deals gone bad, and the general population crazies who had nothing better to do with their weekend except make her life difficult.

She stood at the nurses' station, reviewing a chart. It had been a long shift, but it would be over at midnight. She could go home, curl up next to her husband, and sleep, uninterrupted, till noon. At least, that was her plan.

The radio crackled to life, and a report from an ambulance rolled in. "ETA, five minutes. Middle-aged male, gunshot wound. Blood type, AB-negative..."

Ellie Woodcomb scrambled, making sure the closest triage room was clear, overseeing as nurses brought in IV fluids and plenty of blood for transfusions.

When the doors opened and the body was wheeled in, she never saw his face. She focused solely on the gaping wound in his chest.

"No exit," said the paramedic. "Vitals keep dropping."

Ellie began barking orders, taking easy command of her ER. She worked feverishly, trying to stem some of the blood flow, trying to stabilize him so he could be wheeled to the operating room, so a more skilled surgeon could save his life.

"Stay with me," she murmured.

Stay Tuned...

Lines from the next installment:

She saw the blonde clearly entering the back of the van. Then there was the figure in the back, completely hidden. She could just make out his shadowy form. She saw movement, watching as someone slid behind the wheel. She couldn't see his face, not until the surveillance van pulled away from the curb and beneath a streetlight.

She made sure she remembered his features. The strong jaw, the cheekbones, the nose.

She had a feeling she'd see them again.

She smiled to herself.