Entry tags:

chuck, chuck/casey, slash

Incidents & Anecdotes
Title: Incidents & Anecdotes
Author: thelovehater
Fandoms: Chuck
Pairing: Chuck/Casey
Words: 2,789
Rating: R
Summary: Casey was perhaps the most fictional person he'd ever encountered...
Warnings: None
Notes: Thanks to live_in_morroco for beta support.



As far as Chuck could tell Casey adhered to no specific logic - unless the art of killing people could be considered logical. Which Chuck supposed it could be, if one took into account the greater conflict between good and evil or the general fight for the fate of humanity. Granted those were matters better left to fictional characters (superheroes and ninjas primarily) but Chuck considered them all the same as Casey was perhaps the most fictional person he'd ever encountered. Casey wasn't a man as much as he was a bizarre approximation of action heroes and their corresponding plastic figurines. Chuck was almost certain that if you checked Casey's hands you'd find a molded plastic kung fu grip where a wrist ought to be. There was something false about him - no one was that tough, no one was that impervious. It was almost surreal.

Then again, life had taken on a surreal quality lately - things were almost fictional. Except that they happened and kept happening with alarming frequency. Suddenly he was a spy, suddenly there were things he didn't tell Morgan, suddenly beautiful women who didn't charge by the hour paid attention to the things he said.

Bryce would cite such instances as examples of magical realism.

Well he would, if he wasn't you know - dead.

. . .

Increased proximity to Casey did not result in increased understanding. The second stakeout was little more than 20 cramped hours in the back of a U-Haul truck across the street from an "alleged" terrorist cell. Sarah made a point of emphasizing the alleged when listing the reasons why her presence was unnecessary. She had better things to do, secretive FBI things that probably required microfilm, scuba equipment and any number of gadgets taken straight from a Bond movie. Chuck could imagine Sarah emerging from tropic waters clad only in a white bikini ala Ursula Andress. She would be a vision of blonde perfection - every curve highlighted by the water glistening on her skin, the pneumatic swell of her breasts distracting the eye from the dagger strapped to her long tan legs as she ran along a white sand beach.

Sean Connery would approve.

Roger Moore would also approve but in a different and considerably flashier manner. Sarah was just that kind of girl - the kind who only associated with geeks like him when national secrets were embedded in their brains. Everything about her was larger than life - cinematic. The more Chuck looked at her the more he craved popcorn and some of those bite sized Butterfingers they only sold at concession stands. Sarah wasn't reality - she wasn't even spy-reality - unless you count whatever it was Karina did. Real spies seemed to spend the vast majority of their time waiting around in late model automobiles for something dangerous to react to.

Sarah was every adolescent fantasy he'd ever had rolled into one woman.

Except for that one about his chemistry teacher Mr. Chemmanoor and a rather illicit study session.

But that was just once a long time ago - it didn't count for anything, no matter how dangerously ironic it was to have someone that attractive teaching chemistry.

The mistakes of the first stakeout were not repeated; he brought a light sweater this time, sizzling shrimp was not ordered, his stakeout mix was decidedly downtempo. No Britney whatsoever. He was locked, he was loaded, and he was all business. Bringing his A game to the table with a soda on the side.

Casey regarded him with a small grunt and orders not to touch anything. Those were the only words spoken that night - the remainder of the evening was spent in aimless silence as they kept their eyes peeled for something worth reacting to.

. . .

Casey made those tiny quiches himself - he did not pick them on sale up from Save Mart like he'd said. Chuck caught him offering the recipe to Ellie in exchange for the secret of her special guacamole. It didn't take a surveillance crew to know that Casey knew a little more about gruyère than he was letting on.

Chuck didn't know what was more disturbing - the fact that Ellie's coveted ingredient was really just Miracle Whip or the fact that Casey baked.

. . .

At last count Casey had shoved Chuck in the face 39 times since they'd met.

Chuck can't figure out why he's kept count.

. . .

Chuck didn't know why he was lounging in Casey's living room looking through military photos trying to get a flash when he could be at Morgan's playing the new Halo or at Sarah's doing whatever it was a fake boyfriend and girlfriend did. Hell, he could just be at home - Ellie had made those little cupcakes with the strawberries inside. Chuck wagered he could be in a thousand different and better places.

Only he wasn't.

Casey seemed even more distant than usual - he leafed through the stacks of photos without truly looking at any of them. There was something cute about the way Casey pouted when was aggravated. Chuck had noticed that fact weeks ago but had been too frightened by his use of the words "cute" and "Casey" within the same sentence to really pay full attention.

"Is something funny Bartowski?"

"No. You just - when you're angry you do this little thing with your mouth and its - its nothing."

There was a glimmer of something in Casey's eyes that Chuck couldn't quite place - Casey's eyes had never glimmered before. It was almost like the look a girl gave right before she -

Oh. OH. OH.

"You like looking at my mouth?"

"That’s not what I said."

"Subtext Bartowski. Subtext."

Chuck didn't get kissed that night but he didn't get any flashes either so it all sort of evened out.

. . .

When the time came for it - and the time did eventually come - things were different. Another evening trying to reboot his inner OS and absorb all the pointless information Casey threw at him. Their routine argument escalated into a staring match gone wrong - just like the final scene of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly only with more flinching on his part. Casey remained steady - he was always so goddamn steady. It irked Chuck on a cellular level.

The kiss was harsh - it came out of left field and just kept coming. Casey clawed at Chuck's button-down ripping it at the seams, pushing his pants down off his hips without even undoing the belt. Chuck didn't know just what he'd expected - a quick punch to the face, maybe a couple threatening glares for good measure but certainly not this intensity. Casey didn't reciprocate - he didn't push Chuck against the Ikea loveseat and rip at his clothes while making absurd little comments about how he "tasted like Twinkies."

Casey didn't even eat Twinkies. Or any thing else containing high fructose corn syrup for that matter.

This had to be a trap. A double. One of those weird latex mask-wearing sorts from Mission Impossible - the original, not the crappy remake.

Whoever it was they were certainly...forceful. They'd done their homework - that’s for damn sure. Rough hands roamed over his stomach as his pants dangled awkwardly around his ankles - Chuck could tell he looked ridiculous. His skin was too pale, his cock was too red - it poked out through the split in his boxers as Casey kissed down hips, pushing the white fabric over the bone as he kissed lower.

"We can't do this."

"Too late Bartowski."

And with that Chuck's boxers joined his pants at his ankles. Casey was still licking at that spot just below his hipbone, worrying the flesh with his teeth as his hands cupped Chuck's ass tightly.

"I thought you liked - I mean you don't like. No. You can't - that doesn't - Karina - "

Casey's tongue was moving in slow circles now on that same little spot. He was as focused when it came to this as he was with everything else. Chuck could hear odd little noises escaping his throat - strange sounds that he would have found embarrassing if his brain could still work.

"Why are you kissing me there?"

"Why not?

For the life of him Chuck could not think of a single answer to that question.

. . .

There was mini-frenzy at the Buy More every time a new operating system was released. Technophiles downright invaded the place, camping out at midnight just to be the first to get a piece of that sweet OS. Big Mike referred to these times as Nerdapalooza for a reason- things had a tendency to get out of hand quickly. As such the entire staff was on overtime; Lester was on crowd control, Anna tackled inventory, Morgan did whatever it was that Morgan did and Casey...

Well Chuck didn't know what Casey was doing and he didn't care.

Sort of.

Apart from a few clipped words they'd exchanged over a suspected attack on the Armenian Prime Minister there hadn't been much worth saying. Chuck couldn't think of a polite way to say "I need to stay away from you now that you've called my sexuality into question," and Casey was just...Casey.

It wasn't a big deal though - routine fallout from an isolated incident. Nothing to worry about. Problem solved. Mischief managed. Mission accomplished. The swarming PC owners of Nerdapalooza were a thousand times more foreboding.

. . .

After three weeks Chuck finds himself on Casey's doorstep with a bowl of guacamole and the THX-1138 DVD. He does not know how he got there only that it probably occurred through osmosis - or teleportation.

Casey greets him with a smile.

. . .

The tricky thing about sex was the intimacy. Sure all the stuff with body parts was confusing at first (and just a little bit scary) but the real hard part was the closeness - the feel of another heartbeat. The calling out someone's name and meaning it because in that moment they were the one you needed.

Chuck could handle sex with Casey. OK maybe not handle. The thought of someone putting that in there still filled him with a vague sense of apprehension but he was content to let Casey have him in other ways. To take off all his clothes and touch him everywhere until he's came just from the sheer overwhelming newness of it all. To touch Casey with shaking hands in an awkward attempt at reciprocation as he tried in vain to decode the unwritten rules of this sort of thing.

. . .

Ellie accuses Chuck of glowing. Which would be ok if she accused him once and then got over it - instead she makes a point of mentioning it every time he returns from Casey's place. Its not as though she knows - she cant know. It would be impossible for her to know - he'd been almost methodically careful. No one knew.

Ok maybe Awesome did.

Awesome knew things. He just did. Awesome knew how to tango and what the dates on wine bottles meant. He knew how to say, "what's your sign" in twelve different languages and had mastered the delicate art of getting drunk without acting drunk. Chuck considered him about as close to Superman as any one person one could be. Only without all that Clark Kent crap. Awesome would never hide his powers behind plastic frames and tweed suits - he had no need for a maladroit alter ego.

Its not until Awesome pulls Chuck aside one morning after waffles that Chuck realizes the full scope of his powers. He'd been just about ready to say something snarky about leggoing his Eggos when Awesome looks at him with one of those patent pending looks and simply says.

"There comes a time in every man's life when he's got to start being honest with himself about what he wants."

Chuck could only nod - avoiding anything even resembling eye contact as he adjusted his nametag. Have a superhero in the apartment was a truly unfair for everyone involved.

. . .

Snipers were never a good sign. As far as Chuck could tell snipers were typically the harbingers of either death or some sort of really painful wound that left a nasty scar. Under normal circumstances he would avoid any and all guns that didn't connect wirelessly with his Playstation.

But when was the last time circumstances were normal?

The infrared beam was drilling a small hole into the center of his head. Chuck could feel death approaching and it was nothing like the way it was in the movies. His life didn't flash before his eyes and there were no blinding white lights unless you counted the blinking street lamp. Life was about to be cruelly snatched from him and there were no revelations to be had.

Casey shoots with frightening accuracy. Chuck hears the muffled click of a silencer and suddenly its over. The sniper is lying in a puddle of his own brain and Casey is staring over at him with a look of apprehensive concern as Chuck empties the contents of his stomach onto the concrete.

If he wasn't completely unhinged Chuck thinks he'd like to kiss Casey just then - out in the open where people could see.

. . .

"Never point a gun at anything you're not willing to destroy Bartowski."

The shooting range is deserted. Chuck figures anyone who actually wanted to do target practice at this hour is probably out robbing a liquor store. Its so late that its starting to get early - Casey runs through the rules of firearms, the parts of the pistol - assembling and reassembling it quickly as he outlines its mechanisms. Every word registers as gibberish as Chuck fights to keep his eyes open. Guns are a necessity - they aren't cool or flashy the way they are in the movies. When Chuck's fingers curl awkwardly around the barrel he does not feel cool or confident. There is something about the chill of the steel that seeps down into his bones and leaves him weak - his hands shake as he fires and each shot misses. The dull ache in his arms from recoil is a testament to the fact that he's not cut out for this sort of thing. Bartowski's don't shoot guns, they don't run towards danger - they duck for cover and stay in locked cars.

Casey's hands are warm as they join Chuck's around the barrel of the gun - they are steady in ways his own will never be. There is something overly intimate about the touch and Chuck leans into it, letting Casey guide his arms into the right position. The gun feels lighter in his hands somehow and when Chuck fires he blows a tiny hole into the center of the silhouette. The force of it sends him hurtling backwards into Casey's chest, nearly knocking them both to the ground.

"Nice word Bartowski. The shooting part - not so much the falling part."

. . .

Chuck has always found his room a decidedly unsexy place. The blandness, the immaturity, the Tron poster - it was not an atmosphere designed for the erotic. There were times when Chuck had to actively move the figurines above his desk before he could even jerk himself off. Their painted plastic eyes seemed accusatory - damning somehow. Yoda did not need to see him in that state. Ever.

Chuck could care less what Yoda thinks of him right now. The whole empire could be watching and it wouldn't matter one bit. Not with the things Casey is doing to him. Cruel impure little things that make him blush. Casey knows just what to do - how to push in slow at just the right angle, letting it burn ever so slightly. He knows how to make Chuck say his name like its the only word in the English language - how to strip away all Chuck's shyness and fear until he's a moaning babbling wreck.

The force is strong with this one.

. . .

There are things Chuck does not get.

Things like Michael Bolton or string cheese or the actual rules that accompany ice hockey.

Only now Casey isn't one of those things. Chuck can't claim to know him fully - the whole shamrock boxers thing is still sort of weird - but there are moments. Little bits of time where what they have seems less like an arrangement and more like a -

Well. He's not going say that word.

Yet.