December 18th, 2008.
Paris, France.
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Snapshot:
(Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ18) P1020511
Dimensions: 2816 x 1880
Picture Taken: 18.12.08, 3:30 p.m.
Chuck and Sarah sat, facing each other, round table between them, a plate of French delicacies laid out on the surface on a porcelain dish, food untouched on Chuck's side. Faces appeared in the background, and a large, clear window off on Sarah's side. The two are oblivious to the chatter of the noisy -and very overcrowded- cafe.
If one paid attention, they can also see a few fingers peeking over the bottom of the photo, reaching for a slimy, abandoned, deshelled member of the mollusc family.
---
It just so happened, that those firm, callused fingers belonged to one John Casey of the United States Air Force, agent of the NSA, and currently on assignment in France. Said assignment now leaned very close to one Sarah Walker of the CIA.
Their schedule had not allowed them for much time off for sight seeing. It had been to apprehend a relatively minor drug lord that had decided to moor himself and his million dollar luxury yacht off the coast of Paris, this said 'lord' having suspected, though blurry, ties with cavorting around with Fulcrum, who had dabbled in drug sales for a while for no yet apparent reason.
With all three no worse for wear, except for a cut on Bartowski's leg that Agent Walker had fussed over and demanded to have seen by medically registered personnel- they, (meaning Sarah and Chuck), had decided to go out for a few hours. Casey, who knew leaving the kids to themselves would end up a disaster, had grudgingly followed, swearing he would get compensation for his troubles.
The prime opportunity happened only one hour into their meandering, two kilometers from their hotel.
They sat themselves on plump armchairs in the corner of the cafe, clear view of the door, of course, although the two younger of the three would not have noticed if Osama Bin Laden himself had waltzed in, as absorbed in each other as they were.
John Casey had forgotten how sickeningly candy sweet, and teeth-rotting young love was. It was not an adult's kind of mature, passionate, subtle kind: it was swooningly, very obvious, cheesy infatuation.
He had bravely held his ground (for the greater good and for America, he kept on repeating to himself), as his charge and his partner had flirted all the way from Los Angeles to half way across the world. The sexual tension between them was electric, and it made him want to shoot both of them.
The way Walker instigated things, then darted back into her CIA hardass, job-focused facade was no help either, leaving Bartowski looking very like a lost puppy, usually downfallen, and difficult to coerce into cooperating.
They had changed from ignoring each other, to tiptoeing around the large fluorescent elephant in their conversations, then throwing looks of wistfulness at each other when they thought no one was looking, to touchy feely, anger, and to a whole lot of other emotions in barely a week that an exasperated Casey was fit to force and deadbolt them into a small cupboard together after slipping some Viagra, (he was sure that was the cause of Bartowski's aversion to Walker a couple of days ago), and some nice NSA issued tablets that made a person's actions rasher (and more truthful), into Walker.
For some reason, to his relief, and strong misgiving, they had been fine today, perhaps after a small talk that Walker insisted on that cemented them as friends with benefits; just friends; just friends but we-both-know-we're-lying; real couple under fake couple parade; real couple-but-don't-tell-John; or real couple and let's-expose-it-to-the-world.
He had been flipping through pamphlets that he had picked up on France, bored out of his mind after having finished fiddling with the camera he had brought, half wondering if Isla was currently in this country at the moment, and half tempted to find out.
Glancing up casually for a split second, noting the same fact that he had noticed for over an hour sitting in his seat, that he had seemingly and very obviously become a third wheel (or even an overprotective father determined to sit between two young lovers just in case: people didn't know how true that fact was, on many different levels).
The conversation was light, and happy, but the look of intensity interlocked between the two pairs of unblinking eyes, was anything but.
As Walker laughed, her expression clearly enjoying the atmosphere and pleased with one half of her present company, Casey covertly followed the movement of Bartowski's hand with a cocked eyebrow as it placed itself on her knee under the table. He was suddenly very uncomfortable, and scraped his chair back an inch.
It was plaintive that Sarah was uncomfortable too -in a whole different way- as she tentatively smiled after her large beam had fallen away. It looked like the culmination of this whole year, the times they would have kissed and gone further if they had been a real couple; even Chuck's expression was serious. How did the two of them change moods so quickly, and fall into these intense and deeply intimate moments? Casey wondered.
She reached down, and for a long moment, her fingers hovered undecidedly over his, but then made her decision, entwining her slender digits with his, and clasping his hand tightly with her own.
Chuck's eyes took on a vulnerable glow, putting his heart forward to be rejected again. Walker had leaned forward, seeming had enough of all their cat and mouse playing. Casey had steeled himself, jamming his eyes closed, spine wooden, grimace on his averted face.
A few minutes later, when he deemed it should be safe, he cracked open one eye, to be met with a stomach turning amount of tongue. He swallowed the bile that burned his throat, and tried not to retch.
Walker's hand was all over and into his hair, his curls wound tightly through her fingers, her other hand on his chest, playing with the top button, as if undecided or not whether to rip it off in the middle of the public.
Bartowski almost had her lying chest down on the table, as his hand pulled them both from their seats and half collapsed onto the food, his own hands on her hips and alternating between cupping her jaw and caressing a spot very high on her side, the thumb on that hand rubbing circles suspiciously close to her breast.
Both were pointedly ignoring the gaping patrons (one mother clapping her hand over her child's eyes, her own staring in disbelief at the couple) around them, staring at their very visual display. After all- wasn't this where the French kiss originated from? As much as he knew their relationship was very against the rules, and trouble for him- it was a relief compared to their usual changing moods that he described as 'Auckland's four bloody seasons in one day'.
A Cheshire grin stretched itself over Casey's face, making him look rather frightening, and maniacal. His eyes calmly surveyed the situation directly in front of him with detachment; following the two as their fused mouths that couldn't separate from each other for less than a millisecond before fervently looking for more, gradually progressed into hungry, open-mouthed kisses.
His hand was almost at the tray under the other two-thirds of his team. Walker was too engrossed in Bartowski, barely caring if Casey wanted to eat, and was blind to his actions as he drew the item carefully into his fingers.
Chuck's eyes were blissfully closed, reveling in the taste of Sarah's soft lips, teasing and caressing that he hardly noticed Casey's actions.
Sarah Walker, top international spy, finally did of course, although at the last moment, a tribute to her skill as she had been distracted by a man she had very deep rooted, and very dangerous feelings for.
And with perfect timing of a born, raised, and trained agent, Casey patiently waited for the next time their mouths drew away, then swiftly slipped his evil intention into his asset's mouth, just as said asset expected the entrance of a CIA agent's tongue, and instead sucked in the creature eagerly.
Sarah had reluctantly drawn away a second before -and for good reason- as she realised what had happened, but not having enough time to recover from her dazed state to warn her companion.
For a moment, Chuck Bartowski was suspended in confusion, wondering why a piece of warm womanly tongue had been cut off from the woman herself, and resided in his mouth. Wondered why it was cold, and tasted faintly of sour lemon. His furrowed eyes snapped open to see John Casey in a fit, a worried Sarah Walker, and a snail missing from his plate, the shell lying innocently on it's side.
-Then all hell broke loose.
---
Snapshot:
P1020512
Shot taken off center, the owner evidently has dropped the expensive piece of surveillance equipment (that- he insisted to a not so amused Chuck Bartowski- to a better use, after the whole fiasco) while guffawing uncontrollably, and it had flashed as it hit the ground at an angle.
The main objective was currently holding his throat as he tried not to throw up, which would be eternally shaming in a fancy, overseas eating place. His face was plastered over with a look of disgust and complete revulsion, tongue poked out, eyes bulging, spluttering and coughing as he choked on the flavour, and thought of what he had just consumed.
His companion, a blond woman, cobalt eyes watery with laughter and mirth, lips stretched in a wide grin, held her stomach that ached from multiple unstoppable convulsions from the hilariousness of it all.
The owner or operator of the camera, on edge of the photo, was clutching his head, worried it would explode with all the pent up endorphins that had accumulated over the years pounding through his entire body.
Worried customers of the shop peering anxiously, and slightly terrified with the obviously American tourists. The restaurant owner in the back of photo looking rather annoyed by his food's reception by the ignorance of the three.
---
Let it be noted that paybacks were hell, even after a fakely repentant Casey presented the two with three photos (two aforementioned, and the third, a shot of them kissing that Casey's good heart -however dusty- had decided they would want as a memento, all double and triple printed as a precaution to any more destructive actions from Walker) to the two,
-as that night with Walker and Bartowski cooped up in their own room to protect their cover (and also joined by Angst, a year's worth of Longing, Affection, Lust, and Love, not to mention their perverted was-to-be makeout session that afternoon), melted Casey's surveillance equipment, headphones, and a large chunk of the rational part of his brain, by very vocal means.
Wow, this is insane. And very random.
If you haven't read my previous fic, 'Pictures of Us', this is kind of a follow on, although not necessarily in that time line, or part of that plot.
Here's my disclaimer, since putting a A/N at the top would kill everything: I don't own Chuck, but I own a rather frightening amount of pictures of him on my computer...
Thank you to my reviewers for my story (see above), I wasn't expecting such a large and enthusiastic reception for it.
Especially thanks to Axistech for the idea. Instead of doing it in a multichapter, I'm just going to do the 'day-trips to various places' which had no reference to one another. Later on when I have enough snapshots, I may put them in order to faintly resemble a 'photo album'.
Dreamwalker: I'm currently musing over your idea, so expect something soon...possibly, maybe...
Um, for the link, for those who asked about it, turned out to be pretty legit, except when I tried to play it, apparently I had some kind of codec missing...and I think I got a virus from it, which screwed my computer up, so I won't be trying the rest of the sites anytime soon.
Even though I'm not American: woooo Barack Obama won!! It was rather obvious that he would though, Palin and McCain are nutjobs of the worst kind.
P.s. Did anyone notice the reference to Auckland weather and actually understood it?