Dear me,
You have to stop doing this to yourself, because you and I both know that it will end badly.
I mean it really is one thing to ogle Sarah and worship the ground she walks on; that part is easy, that part is familiar, but when the hell did John Casey come into the equation?
First things first, you have to seriously start ogling Sarah more - man, you're not even doing it anymore, you don't even notice when she wears that classic cleavage-baring shirt! What's wrong with you anyway? When did you start wanting to hide behind Casey more? When did you start curling your hands in his shirt when he shields you from psychos with guns?
This is the reason you're writing a letter to yourself in your own head. This isn't healthy, you know this means you're turning into a basket case; there's nothing remotely good about this at all!
The worst thing is that you're gravitating, orbiting now. It hurts to be around Sarah, it hurts to remember how much you adore her and how much she can't, and how she's seduced by every good looking agent that just waltzes in. I know you know somewhere that she really cares, but it's not enough, and it hurts.
So now you're two steps behind Casey, cowering behind him in all those dubbed over ninja-movie worthy fights, watching with a bit of pride and surge of amazement at how he protects you, beats guys to slush all for you.
But it's just a job, get that in your head, you moron! You can't do this again, you can't get any more attached than you already are, you can't, you can't!
Above all, you cannot, under any circumstance, spontaneously think about things you shouldn't, like how Casey would kiss, or how he would act in an actual relationship,…in bed. NO! No, no, no!
Fucking hell…you are not gay! Not even Caseysexual!
This also means you cannot knock on his door for no reason, and then push and shove your way in even when he tells you to get the hell out before he decides to try out his new torture equipment. That should scare you, why doesn't it scare you? Why does the thought of not getting in his house and sitting there with him glaring at you scare you more?
Oh god, this is def-con level not good.
And weeks later, after you've killed someone, taken a life, stolen it from another person, and oh god, this isn't just giddy pretend 'what would it be like to be a spy' anymore, it's so damn real. No one's protecting you, you're on your own, you've murdered now. How could you have done that…?
You knew it was different than pressing the RT button on your Xbox controller, you laugh at how you knew it would be, but you'd hoped that maybe society had desensitized you to the concept of killing.
Nope. No. Definitely hadn't.
You'd pulled the trigger, twice, because of your poor aim, because he'd just stood there, teetering, but not fast enough. You can't even justify it as saving someone, as saving anything but your own skin. It was his discarded gun at you feet, his eyes staring at you as he slowly, slowly reached behind him…you'd been taught, at least, that stray hands were not good.
With a startled cry, as though you were the surprised one, your sweaty finger twitched.
Bang, bang. Loud. Short wheezes, his and your own, until your panicky breathing is all you can hear. Your hands shook and the gun clattered to the floor, and you can't remember much of what happened afterwards. Casey and Sarah too late, looking surprised, worried, even Casey, and so you'd closed up and off like a pro. You hated when they worried for you, like you were just some poor kid. Part of you wanted to prove them wrong, even when they were completely right.
You'd put your big boy brave face on, as ill composed as you think it must've looked.
Their eyes never quite left you, not until they'd both felt the need to drop you off at your door, touching you more than was necessary, even Casey, with too rough punches to the shoulder.
Your hands hadn't even gotten dirty. There was nothing macabre about any of it. No poetic watching as the light left his eyes, you were too far away. Just s gradual slump, boneless, limp, dead.
You'd seen bodies before, but all the death you've witnessed, nothing has prepared you.
So you knock on Casey's door again, and maybe it's the pathetic smile you offer that makes him grumble resignedly as he lets you in.
"I brought James Bond, you'll like that buddy, if nothing else than to nitpick everything Sean Connery is doing wrong."
He doesn't even watch the beginning of the movie with you, because he was busy before you showed up, doing laundry he says; how ridiculously normal. You'll never get over how normal sneaks its way into even Casey's life.
You'd helped yourself to a beer, and you don't know when you'd become familiar enough to rifle through his fridge uninvited, but it had happened. The thought makes you smile, but there's an odd tightness in your chest that prevents you from smiling too widely.
Later he comes back from doing his household chores and you aren't paying attention to the movie and you're also not paying attention to anything else, but you've learnt to know when Casey walks in the room. It usually means you're saved.
So hey, about that list of things you're not supposed to do here, me, please hear me out, you are not supposed to have a breakdown in front of Casey. So let's see if we can accomplish that-
Too late.
"Chuck."
His voice startles you out of the strange listlessness you've drifted into, where everything was quiet and muted. The noises all seem to be suddenly clamoring for your attention and it almost hurts your ears.
"You're shaking, Chuck."
You realize that's really the least of what you're doing. You're practically babbling and you can feel your eyes and cheeks are damp.
On the screen, a bomb explodes in a way you would have previously thought tremendously cool. Now it makes you jump and emit something like a hiccough.
And then Casey's there, closer than usual, though he doesn't make any move for you. Your hands are shaking so bad that you fumble the beer and it spills on the couch and floor.
The only thing he does is take the beer away from you, gently, and you'd never imagined he could be so damn gentle.
"Sorry about the beer," you remember stuttering out, your words caught in the snare of choked gasps and dry sobs that were cracking and embarrassing. Oh God, this was mortifying, you know that it is somewhere distant, but you can't stop.
"It's alright," he said, and his voice was so steady, his presence was so reassuring, and how could anyone blame you for latching onto that when it was so near? Of course no one could blame you, because anyone would've done the same!
Certainly.
You barrel into his chest hard, and you're not surprised at all that he absorbs the force and keeps his balance. Your hands claw at any part of him that you can reach, almost violently, nails scraping as you try to grasp something you can't seem to hold. You push your face into his neck, all hard and muscled and strong, and you think at least he's sturdy enough when you start screaming.
Well, maybe not quite screaming, nothing nearly epic enough to equal Braveheart's battle cries or calls of freedom, but it's noise nonetheless. You realize you may even be doing something that's a cross between keeningand hyperventilating, and you feel distinctly pathetic. Or you will later, anyway.
Your skin feels too warm in a sickly way and at some point you think your hands have curled into fists and you're hitting him, and you don't even know why. Maybe you're choking out his name unintelligibly, crying - bawling the term comes to you from listening to way too much Alanis Morissette - crying in the way that is exhausting and messy.
You know his arms have wrapped around you, his rough hands are firm on your heaving back. You know it feels good to have that weight there and you can't even muster the effort to feel embarrassed anymore, because there's that wrenching tightness in your chest that's suffocating you.
So you cry until your voice is hoarse and your yelling has died down to stilted, wet breathlessness, you cry until your eyes are sore and no longer able to leak. You breathe harshly against him, curling your body against his warmth, and you realize he's been allowing this the entire time.
You think of all the ways he could have flipped you over the back of the couch or broken multiple bones at once.
Before you can even begin the transition back into the relatively-well-adjusted-Chuck who does not do… this, the exhaustion makes you slump, makes the curve of your arms relax and your fingers press against Casey's shirt. You fall into the kind of sleep that's impossible to fight off.
When you wake up you feel hung-over, despite only drinking a few mouthfuls of beer. You realize you're buried under a mountain of blankets on Casey's couch and then you remember.
With a tentative hand, you brush your cheek and feel the puffiness there and you promptly wish for a natural disaster to crash through Casey's living room and drown you, or possibly crush you.
You hide under the blankets, desperately trying to figure out how best to sneak out of his house to leave (run the hell away) and further cower in your humiliation.
Your body crumples more tightly into a ball when you sense Casey walking into the room.
"Up and at 'em, Bartowski," his gruffness is oddly soothing underneath the horror that he's directly addressing you and you'll have to respond - look at him at some point.
You feel a pillow connect with enough force to your head to actually hurt a little, and it's enough to make you sit up in indignation.
"What the hell?" you hear a voice screech that must be yours, but it really couldn't be because it's awfully nasally and scratchy.
Looking at his (completely normal and composed) face, you figure your own must look like something out of a horror movie, and one with a bad makeup crew.
"Your sister is probably wondering where you disappeared to."
You open your mouth for a moment, then close it, then open it again. You hear a sound and realize it's yourself, making some pathetic whimper in lieu of actual words.
"Chuck," and there, he's using your first name again, this means business…or usually…now it only seems to mean imminent death by embarrassment.
"O-o-oh my God, Casey, I'm so sorry, I think I was…temporary insanity, that's legit isn't it? Yeah that's…I just…I don't-forget it ever happened!" Your face is warm and you feel like crying again for a strange, strange reason.
"It's okay," he says, glaring you down in a way that makes it impossible to look away. "It's okay, right? You're just a kid, you weren't cut out for this."
You feel strangely defensive. "And you are, am I right? Why? Because you're 90% muscle and have no soul and because I cry like a little girl?" you wince at how raspy your voice is, but this anger is coming from nowhere and you don't know how to turn off the valve.
Then you notice the bright, angry looking claw marks on his neck and you think a cat must have scratched him or something - he didn't do well with cats - but with a start, you realize those marks are yours.
He doesn't even snark back at your insolence, and when you whimper again, he's at your side. "I think I need to throw up."
"Bartowski," the familiarity of your surname is mildly comforting. "Get it together. What you're going through is understandable, but that doesn't mean anyone's doing to coddle you through it. You need to go home and make sure your sister doesn't worry." He's glaring at you again, but his lecture is oddly rallying, makes you feel more like a man and less like a boy who had just had a breakdown over a thunderstorm.
Granted, your thunderstorm was murdering another human being.
Still.
Courage went a long way, sure it did, and there was so much merit in being brave, but right now you feel dependent on this man before you, this man who has killed more times than he could probably count.
So sure, maybe no one was going to coddle you, but Casey didn't strike you as the coddling type anyway.
Doing all you can bear to, you lean and sag against him, wrapping your arms with care around his waist. You don't want to leave any more marks.
"Before you dislocate my arm," you trip on the words, hoping to precede whatever protest Casey could come up with, "Can we just stay like this for a second or two?"
To your utter amazement, Casey's tense body relaxes under your hold and then he's got his arms around you, tightly, securely and this time you know exactly why you want to cry.
You nuzzle into his neck, breathing in and out, in and out, until you feel a little more clear headed.
After a very long time, he shifts slightly, your cue to move. You don't. You don't want to.
So he forcibly pushes you at arms' length, holding your shoulders. You resent him a tiny bit for adhering to the reality that you can't stay latched to him forever.
He sighs, frowning at you. "Go wash your face, idiot."
The couch, full of its great mounds of blankets, looks so much more appealing. He sees where your gaze is focused and turns you around, waiting for you to move.
Moving, as it turned out, proved to be another problem altogether. You take one step and stagger like a drunkard and your knees are made of jell-o and you hate life.
Casey catches you and you hang your head as he practically drags you to the bathroom and scrubs your face and messes with you hair like a finicky mother.
"There, now go, I don't want to be on the receiving end of your sister's wrath," he actually looks like he respects and admires the level of rage she's able to reach.
"I don't want to," you mumble, feeling like a child, because you can smell Casey everywhere and you fear what will happen when you step outside his door, cut off from his presence. Something chills inside you and you feel genuine fear.
Maybe you were panicking a little - only a little! - and maybe your breathing was speeding up but then Casey had knocked you upside the head. Startled, you blinked at him.
"You can come back," he growled, looking none too pleased. But his words, oh dear God, his words were like a balm over everything.
"Okay."
Once you've hid the next day away in your room and once you've had time to really think about what you'd done, you don't feel like going back to Casey's. You don't feel like seeing him, or Sarah or anyone ever again.
You cannot believe - the crying, the damn - marks - you'd left on him - the clutching. You groan in despair at just the thought.
When Sarah opens your door without knocking, "Ellie told me you weren't doing too good…" on her lips, you find yourself tensing.
She's not who you wanted to see.
You tense further at that thought, unbidden and instinctual as it was, because maybe this means you really do want to see Casey.
When she hugs you, whispering something soft about everything being 'okay' you can't help but miss the unmistakable strength in a different pair of arms, of the gruffness that promised no coddling, no making you feel weak and pathetic.
You end the embrace early, smiling blindingly at her, assuring with words you don't remember saying because right now you only want to go back and hide under Casey's mountain of blankets (he'd draped them over you, you realize, he must have) and couch and his safety and-
Hello? Right. Yeah. Remember that whole list of things not to do? You're not supposed to want to see Casey more than you want to see Sarah, especially when you're emotionally wobbly and all sorts of messed up.
Well, shit.
You are screwed.
"I told you not to worry your sister," he greets you with disapproval, but you practically bolt into his house anyway, ducking around him.
Maybe it was two in the morning and maybe you think Casey looks good in his drawstring cotton pants and shirt, but as long as you're here, it's fine.
"Bartowski, this is not a motel. My house is not open twenty-four hours and you are not a welcome guest." He says this even as he lets you in, closing the door behind you, not even trying to kick you out.
You're determined to pretend nothing ever happened, even though going to him at this hour might prove the opposite.
"So I was thinking, Call of Duty. It practically describes your life, so what do you say to some two player? I can haul over my Xbox tomorrow…" You're speaking fast, saying a million things a minute.
He's rubbing his temples and growling in a decidedly not good way.
"Bartowski, come with me," he says curtly, his voice leaving no room for argument.
You follow him up the stairs, feeling like a child who has just been found out for misbehaving. You wonder where he's taking you and what he's planning, and it's only when you enter what is unmistakably his bedroom that you panic.
"Uh, Casey, wha-"
"Shut up," he growls, tearing the sheets off his bed and then more calmly sliding under them. "Now, I'm only saying this once. If the couch is too lumpy, there are alternatives," he's giving you a look that says he knows you hadn't been able to sleep since what you'd done, knows that you're craving human contact like it's oxygen.
"Okay," you squeak, and really, it's all you can do not to fidget like a preteen girl at the thought of sharing a bed with another man. You want to slap your forehead with how ridiculous you sound.
You hesitate, but eventually crawl under the sheets with him, swallowing loudly every few moments, pressed as far from him as you can manage without rolling off the bed. He does not touch you, but grumbles, "Goodnight, Bartowski. Deal's only on the table for one night."
One night, that was it? You can't help but think, disappointed. You knew, of course, he'd told you, 'no coddling' but then…how did you explain this?
But when he growled, low in his throat, you somehow miraculously understand what he's communicating.
There was no coddling about any of this, he was simply offering comfort to you like a perfect, growling gentleman. You needed something right now and he was providing for your need.
You've heard about men at war, how they huddled and did…various other things, and that somehow, there was nothing sexual about it, only instinctual, only human, the need to feel that someone was alive next to you.
Granted, you're in no war climate, but Casey knows you. You guess the guy should, monitoring your life the way he did, but you think that maybe it goes a bit further than that.
You reach out (and you know it had to be that way, you had to make the initiative) and tentatively secure yourself closer to him until everything is warm and you feel safe. It should feel all kinds of weird, but somehow you can only muster up a sense of relief. He allows it, and you understand that this is perhaps the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you.
Fucking John Casey, Major from NSA, cuddling with a scared would-be spy who has just taken his first life. It seems so caring, so tender, so unlike anything the guy would ever do.
But it did remain that he was the only one doing this for you. The only one to allow you a sturdy brace against your weakness, to allow you to scream and touch and fall apart like it was a normal everyday occurrence.
His breathing is steady and calming and he's surprisingly comfortable, surprisingly accommodating to your knobby limbs as you settle much too close, much too intimate, but he doesn't once complain.
This close, you can almost hear his heart beating, this close you can feel every shift, the rise and fall of his chest.
You're momentarily amazed by how strong he is, even when you know he's not always so tough, and you sink deeper into his arms, mumbling something you hope he understands is gratitude.
You awake alone again, and once you've gotten past the sleepy grogginess, you pay more attention to the room you're in.
Plain, neat, everything put away, everything in its place. You smile a little at how Casey it is.
You stretch languorously, enjoying the warm sunlight filtering through the windows and the soft sheets, surprisingly soft and you consider drifting off to sleep again…
Instead, you picture Casey making you run a mile for sleeping in - in his bed-and you decide to get up.
You descend the stairs and find the rest of the house seemingly abandoned. With a shrug you riffle around until you find bread and a toaster, making some of your favorite comfort food when you spot the final ingredient. Peanut butter and banana toast, and you're set, you're in heaven.
You then feel Casey's presence in the room, but you don't turn around from your heaven.
"Bartowski, I expect you back in your home, not making your sister worry in fifteen minutes."
You try and say that you can't possibly be gone in that amount of time, but you're speaking with your mouth full.
He sneers at your behavior.
You would retort if you hadn't just looked up at him, because then your brain stops working altogether.
He's wearing these shorts and this sleeveless shirt, both of which are nothing remarkable, and while they do nothing to hide his well defined muscles -nothing at all- there is the small matter of how he looks unreasonably amazing, glistening (oh Jesus, you sound like a Harlequin romance novel) with sweat and still slightly out of breath. He's staring at you like he expects you to be able to think and you really can't do that now.
You're more freaked out that your heart has sped up significantly.
He shakes his head at you, and then he's going up the stairs. "Fifteen minutes!" he calls behind him, all business.
You can't imagine this is the guy who had offered his bed and comfort the other night, just like you can't imagine you'd actually jumped at said opportunity like a starved man at a buffet.
As it turns out, leaving in fifteen minutes proves to be less of a problem than you'd initially thought.
You're gone with five whole minutes to spare, before Casey's even out of the shower you hear he's started.
You crawl back through your window like a teenager who's just been out on a secret date (oh god, why go there?) and the moment you've straightened up, your sister barges through the door.
"Chuck?"
The lines are there on her face, the ones that crinkle and make her frowning and sad. There was no hiding your emotions from her, she always knew when something was wrong, if even in the vaguest sense, and likewise, she couldn't hide her emotions from you either.
With a deep breath and a smile, you set about not making her worry anymore.
It would be okay, you think, it would have to be.
"How come you've been going to Casey's so much?" Sarah asks you, over a bowl of Cheerios. You're indulging in your own personal heaven, and the peanut butter and bananas stick to the roof of your mouth.
You don't even question how she knows what you've been doing, because they both keep tabs on you. That is their job, after all.
"Trying to get him to watch The Karate Kid," you mumble through the peanut butter. As if it explains the lengthy, reoccurring overnight visits.
She snorts, doesn't question any further. "Good luck with that."
You both have the house to yourselves and for a moment your forget all about the security cameras and bugs Casey has planted.
You're smiling at her goofily, like you always have, but the warmth that always bubbles in your chest isn't there. You wonder why.
After a companionable silence, she clears her throat, spoon dripping milk as she holds it aloft. "So…you've been doing okay?"
She's asking about the killing-thing, you know she is. You crank up your smile bigger.
"Sure I am."
"I'm not okay," you say to him when he opens his door to you. It's a more reasonable hour this time, but he still looks disgruntled.
He grunts. "'Course you're not, but you will be," he sighs as he steps aside to let you through.
You briefly acknowledge how much better you feel just by hearing his voice, his nonchalance, his reassurance.
Without really saying anything, he hands you a beer - imported, says it's better, despite his all-American pride - and you watch Deadliest Warrior on the couch.
It's all perfectly lazy and domestic and you're more relaxed than you've been in a while.
"Told my sister I was going to Morgan's," you venture after a while, in keeping with your duty not to make Ellie worry and also…Well, no need to sugar coat it, you're asking if it's alright to stay.
"Extra blankets in the closet," he grunt-growls.
Which means no more Casey-cuddling for you, but at least you can take refuge on the couch, a thousand times better than your suddenly hateful bed. You think it's maybe more worrying that you actively think about cuddling and Casey in the same line of thought.
As you watch guys with way too much appreciation for guns set up human-dummies who bleed when shot or stabbed, you think about Casey, sitting solidly beside you, not too close, but not too far either.
You think about all the weirdness that's passed, mostly because of you, all that weirdness that somehow didn't matter, didn't change the way he treated you now.
Only it did change something, for you. You keep thinking about him and you can't stop.
It sort of sucks because you tend to know what this amount of thinking leads to.
In fact, right now you're thinking about how warm you feel and how nice this is and how stupid this show is and how Casey smells and-
And you know you're really screwed when you accidentally slump sideways, your hands brushing against him the slightest bit, half asleep and he grumbles but lets you stay for a minute before settling you and covering you with the veritable mountain of blankets.
You feel loved.
And holy shit, that is not what you're supposed to feel around John Casey.
Morgan peers at you sidelong.
"You okay, dude?"
You jump a little. "Sure I am, sure."
"Then get your head in the damn game! They're killling us here!"
You try to focus and can't really. "Sorry."
After you both end up losing the level, Morgan turns to you with a huff. "Okay seriously, what's up? Girl trouble? Is it about Sarah? You look all tortured and stuff," he's waving his arms around to demonstrate 'tortured and stuff.'
You're grimacing before you even register it. "No, not girl trouble…" you heave a sigh, which you imagine only solidifies Morgan's claim. "I..I'm just…it all sucks," you finish lamely.
Morgan's looking confused and inquisitive now. "What does?"
You miss being able to spill your soul and vent like a normal human being. "Feelings," you mutter murderously.
"Huh, thought you said it wasn't girl trouble."
"No, I know. Just, feelings. They all blow."
Morgan's plain looking at you with a mixture of pity and concern. "They're not all bad, look on the bright side, hey? What's got you so doom and gloom anyway?"
You slump a little, resignedly. "Nothing. Just thinking how simple life would be without the gunk."
You've been thinking too much, that's the problem. And all about him.
Morgan smiles at you. "Awh c'mon man, that's what makes life interesting." There's that sparkle in his eyes that makes you believe he's a mind reader, that he knows more than he lets on.
But it's Morgan you're talking about.
"Anyway, everything okay with you and Casey?" you blink dumbly at him. "Ever since you've been all tortured and stuff," he's making hand motions again, "I don't know, he seems awfully protective around you. Good friend. Which I myself, personally? I think that's nice. Beyond all that intense manly-man persona, there's gotta be a mush down there somewhere, he does always seem to be ready to jump in front of a bullet for you…"
He keeps talking, managing to sound casual and mischievous throughout his offbeat insight.
Maybe you shouldn't underestimate him.
In an abandoned warehouse (cliché of clichés) two days later, Casey is jumping in front of a bullet for you and he barely flinches as it hits him.
Where, where, you're panicking; in the shoulder? You're terrified all of a sudden, even as Casey sprints to disarm the bad guy before he can fire again and beat him to a pulp.
Sarah's there, just arriving, and somehow you're frazzled enough to resent that she hadn't been here quicker.
"Casey!"
He's crouched on the ground and his breathing is all wrong and your hands are fluttering helplessly in time with you heartbeat.
"Where did you get shot, are you okay? How badly are you bleeding-""Bartowski, can it," he grits out.
Sarah's making sure the bad guy won't be going anywhere and you can't calm down enough to hear anything but the blood rushing in your ears.
"Does it hurt?" you near-whisper, the question sounding ridiculous even as you utter it. Of course it doesn't hurt, or at least, he'd never admit it.
"Just peachy," he growls, more raspy than usual.
When you spot the blood seeping past his fingers where they're clenched around his shoulder, something snaps inside of you.
"Casey," it's a half groan, half hysterical plead and then you're grabbing his face and squishing his cheeks and kissing him hard. It's more than a little desperate.
"Casey, Casey, Casey," you gasp as you pull back, feeling dizzy.
You honestly can't breathe, and you hear the strangely floaty voice of Casey saying '…panic attack…acting insane… as if we didn't have enough to deal with…'
You spot Sarah's face before you pass out (faint, your mind inserts viciously, you had fainted like a swooning girl) and she's saying something too, all professionalism, not commenting on, er, anything else.
But somehow, you know by her eyes that she's just worked something really important out, even before you had, and damn that just wasn't fair, was it?
"Isn't that just like you, Bartowski, fainting when there was nothing wrong with you," he pauses, reconsiders. "Physically, at least, mentally I'm not so sure."
You wake up to this lovely greeting and when it all comes flooding back to you, you bolt upright, choking and flailing and scrambling away from him.
You're backed into the corner of Castle and he's sitting shirtless, bloodied gauze over his shoulder, on the edge of a stainless steel table. He raises his eyebrows at you.
"C-Casey! I'm glad you're okay, you are okay, aren't you?"
"Just a graze Bartowski," he grunts, glaring at you and your skittish behavior.
"That's great! Really great!"
You look around, seeing no Sarash, seeing no savior. You feel your face warm. A cynical, hysterical voice whispers: great going, now you've sexually assaulted the guy, in front of Sarah!
He doesn't say anything and the silence itches. "I'm sorry!" you yelp, bullied into practically shrieking to fill the horrible silence. "I'm sorry about what I did, I didn't, well, I wasn't, it's, I'm not… just forget about it!"
Funny how often you were telling him to forget about the mortifying atrocities you'd commited.
His eyesbrows are even looking incredulous now. He snorts. "You're just a kid."
That same defensiveness from before rears its ugly head, only this time it comes with a batallion of backup. It's a bunch of angry foot soliders and tanks and a lot of loaded guns worth of bravery and righteous indignation and want.
So you narrow your eyes at him and stalk over to where he's sitting, glaring him down as you press into his personal space, practically seething like some rabid bull.
You are not just a kid; at least, you aren't the same as you were before.
Instead of going on a tryiad, instead of letting your thoughts actually catch up with you, you grab his good shoulder and kiss him, prying his lips open as if your life depended on it, pushing your tongue into his mouth like it was a battle, tilting your face for better access like you were a porn star.
It takes two seconds too long for you to realize you weren't fighting some epic battle tooth and nail, because he was kissing back.
It's enough to make you pull back and stare at him stupidly. "Oh."
He smirks at you, all the confidence you'd ever seen in him contained in the curve of his lips.
"You're too easy, Bartowski," he says.
You should feel insulted, but you can't bring yourself to, because the words 'kissing back' were still looping in your head.
"Oh, that's great. Yup, yeah. Just go ahead and do your manipulation thing," you say quietly, trying and failing to sounds cavalier.
You're also thinking about how you shouldn't do this again - scratch that, because this is more insane and hopeless and dangerous than liking Sarah ever was - but it's pointless to dispute how much you shouldn't when you will anyway, because you want to.
"So…what now," you utter after a silence, still looming much too close over him. You find it strange he hadn't felt the need to establish dominance or some shit, that he's still perched on the table contentedly, shorter than you.
"Save it for later, Chuck," he rumbles, and your face heats up when you realize his implication - and he'd used your first name and shit.
He's looking amused now. "Sarah's coming back soon, numbnuts." His raised eyebrows practically scream what did you think I meant?
Your blush deepens and you finally put some distance between you.
But he's smiling, sorta in that scary way he does, but the edge isn't quite there and you decide it might as well be his goopy mushy smile. You comfort yourself that he even has one.
And that he's aiming it at you.
Then Sarah's coming down the stairs and you have to pretend you did not just have a life altering event.
It was not an easy task, what with the way Casey was shirtless.
Two weeks later and it was like Casey had never been shot, like you hadn't kissed him spontaneously on two separate occassions, and even as though you'd never had a panic attack at the thought of him dying. Your little breakdown on his couch also seemed like some far away dream.
It was time for Sarah to intervene.
"Chuck, how's it going?" she asks, serving you your favorite flavor of frozen yoghurt.
You smile at the alliteration in you head.
"I'm just fine," you lean against the counter, and you're still wondering when she's going to stop in the middle of a conversation, gape at you in horror, and scream something juvenille like 'you're gay?'
But that was ridiculous, because you're sure you don't exude gay, even if spontaneous kissing did the condemning for you. Though you might've been wrong in asserting you weren't Caseysexual.
"You don't seem fine," she says correctly.
You shrug. "Sure I am."
"It's about Casey," she says, also correctly.
You've started backing away unconsciously, but she's glaring you down. "Listen, I'm not going to act like the woman scorned here, but you need to do something about this. I'm not blind, Chuck, and even if I was, there was no mistaking the way you practically mauled him with your-"
"Okay, okay, I get it!" you screech, horrified she's being so open about it. Your delicate sensibilities are also offended she thinks your kissing resembles mauling.
"I don't think you do," she sighs, fixing you with a look that's weary. "It shouldn't work, and I don't just mean that the way you think I do, it's a job, you're a job…" she trails off, smiling softly at you.
"But you never could just be that, could you? I want you to be happy, Chuck," and you feel a little like she's giving you permission, but you know the sentiment is genuine.
Your eyes are trained on your yoghurt, but you force yourself to meet hers when you say, "Thank you."
She smiles again and it feels a little awkward and plenty weird - how could it not when it used to be her and now it's him - but it's still okay in the way she'd always made it.
You have no problem returning the smile.
It's been two weeks of surly silence and avoidance and you are, you admit to yourself, scared shitless.
Every mission you stick close to Sarah and Casey seems just fine with that. You wonder if everything that's happened in the past month will just be forgotten and never spoken of again, but you console yourself with one thought. He kissed back.
There's no logical reason why you keep refusing to address the issue, but you just don't want to.
So one sleepless night, drunk on not-thinking and being brazen and foolish, you climb through your window and pound on his door as quietly as you can.
After a moment, he's yanking the door open with a snarled, "What?"
You lift your chin a little. "We need to talk."
"At three in the morning?" he's doing that insanely scarely thing with his face, and somehow you're not as scared as you used to be.
You nod and leave it at that.
After a silent battles, he relents and steps aside. When he closes the door after you, you stare at each other again.
With a grunt he's walking away. "It's too early for this. In the morning, Bartowski."
Still drunk on your brand of non-thoughts and courage, you follow him up the stairs like you've been invited and he doesn't say anything. When you wriggle under the covers after him and he lets you, you think maybe there's not so much to talk about after all.
You fall asleep easier than you've been able to since your first kill. It's been getting better, like everyone said it would, but you still have nightmares sometimes, fits of insomnia. You wonder why John Casey is the cure.
In the morning, the sun is warm and bright when you open your eyes, and he's still there.
"Morning," you mutter sleepily.
You can tell, through the dregs of sleep, that he's been up for a while, but he's just staring up at the ceiling, hands behind his head.
"You came to talk, talk," he says, like it's perfectly normal for the two of you to be sharing a bed at the moment.
"Surprised you even want to talk, you must know what I'm going to say," you demur, not nearly as foolhardy as you were the other night.
"Spit it out."
You can't really argue with that. Only…
"I don't know what to say," it comes out meek, damn it.
The silence grows and you can imainge Casey saying impatiently that he can't read your mind, so you endeavor to come up with something.
"Well I mean, it's not like I planned for this to happen - it's, I…we're sleeping in the same damn bed! - never in a thousand eons would I've thought, not that I wasn't thinking, I do think about…" you trail off because he's looking at you sidelong like you're an idiot.
"Anyway," you quickly interrupt yourself, "I think I might be…well, not gay, but you know, when there's one person, it works out that way, doesn't it? Well that's you, because God knows Morgan doesn't have the same effect and I really think you should take responsibility for what you've done." You finish in a rush, out of breath because you were scared to pause.
A beat of silence, and then he's laughing. More like chortling, Casey does not laugh, but the deep tones roll over your skin curiously.
"That it?"
"..is that…it? Oh I don't know, you've only been avoiding this whole," you falter for the right word, "-thing for two weeks and I-"
"I wasn't avoiding you," he says pointedly, still staring at the ceiling, looking unfazed.
"W-well maybe I did a bit of it, but it takes two to tango!"
Now he actually turns to you full on, his eyes broadcasting how much of an idiot he thinks you are.
You switch gears fast in your irritation, "What about you then, huh? You owe me some explanation, all of a sudden being so nice," you spit the word like it's a dirty thing, "to me and cuddle-cuddling me and letting me sleep here and on your couch and-"
You should stop, because he's growling in the way that means you should run. You remember the last time you did this, goaded him with implications of love and mushy feelings. He'd went on a freakin' rampage, accomplishing the nigh impossible. John Casey was not one to be taunted with having actual emotions or sentimality, God forbid.
"Bartowski," he's barely pronouncing syallables.
"Stop that!" you hiss, annoyed, and finding it ridiculous you're doing this now, in a bed, not even sitting up. "It's all true isn't it? And you-you kissed me back!' there it is, your anchoring hope, your last shred of dignity.
He quiets up real nice after that.
Then he starts talking slowly, as if he went any faster you'd be in danger of misunderstanding.
"Listen, you're getting some wires crossed here. Don't even try tell me different, you weren't made for killing. That can eat a man up, no matter how tough, so what's it going to do to a scrawny geek?"
With a horrible drop in your stomach, you realize what he's doing, where he's going with this.
"I made it just fine, all by myself, I had to, that's my life. Not yours. And there was no one to look after me and tell me it was okay, I thought I'd save you the years it took to realize that. You might be involved in my world, with that thing in your head, but it doesn't mean you have to be like me, like Walker."
He's looking at you steady, serious. "That's it."
You gape at him, something having gone cold inside that not even the heavy sheets or sun can warm.
That can't be it. You remember him chuckling just moments ago, remember him provoking you into initiating another kiss. Which he had returned.
"Bullshit," you breathe, and his steady gaze doesn't budge.
"I mean, not about…I know you helped me," you swallow, because you were grateful, tremendously so. You actually don't know what you would've done if he hadn't. "But you. Kissed. Me. Back."
"Bartowski-"
You cut him off, sounding splendidly like a child. "You kissed back!"
He sighs, finally looks away. "It's not a good idea," he says gruffly.
That's all you need, because something in the line of his jaw tells you he wants this as much as you do.
"Where's that ballsy courage of yours?" you muster out weakly, because you're probably more scared than he is.
Not that scared was a word in his vocabulary.
You scoot over a little and he turns to you. In an awkward, slow pantomine of Hollywood movie kisses, your lips touch. It's chaste and much too unenthusiastic, so you wiggle a little closer and press a little harder, your hands pawing at his jaw and tangling in his hair.
He growls a bit, possibly in warning, and his hands shoot out to brace against your arms and you can't tell if he's trying to push you away or hold you still.
You pull back, irritated. His eyes keep saying the same thing: this is a bad idea. You don't like that.
"C'mon, just, please," you kiss him again, soft, coaxing his mouth open. You repeat this tender motion until you're lost in it, until the warmth brewing in your belly becomes something hot.
He's responding now, that's better, biting your lower lip, drawing you in like he'd been willing the entire time. You groan at the back of your throat, hauling your legs over to straddle him, leaning down on your elbows and knees, engrossed in the wet slide of your mouths, in his warmth.
When you feel his hands on your hips, fingers curving intimately over your rump, urging you down, you follow gladly.
Oh, your mind short circuits a little. You grind down, experimentally, and your thighs clench around him. "Oh," you're slurring it over and over, and he's rolling his hips up to meet yours and you realize you could come just like this, in your pants like an over-excited teenager.
You gasp into his mouth, already breathing too hard to kiss properly.
At some point, your strength fails you and you sorta just deflate against him, panting, groaning something incoherent that sounded suspiciously like a plead. Casey, on the other hand, wasn't vocal at all, but his fingers, his lips, his hips, they all spoke volumes enough and you're so hard it's difficult to think.
With Herculean effort you lift yourself up, stilling your hips long enough to start fumbling with Casey's damn cotton drawstring pants. You attack them as if they've done you a personal wrong, but before you're able to reach inside, you find yourself on your back, out of breath.
"Ladies first," Casey growls, and the notes of want in his voice make you shudder.
"Does this mean you're considering-aah-u-us?"
"You sound like a rom-com," but Casey's yanking down your jeans and boxers in one go (you hadn't gone to his house in sleepwear, after all) and fisting a sure hand around you.
"Casey, C-Casey, slow down! I can't - oh my God - I can't," you squeeze your eyes shut, unsure what you're even trying to communicate. You run your mouth when you're nervous or excited, and the words come easily on autopilot.
"Can't what?" he asks, like the answer matters more than anything in the world.
"I just-" your hands are fisted in the sheets like you're trying to strangle them to death. You buck your hips up sporadically, the skin on skin almost too much, a little too rough, but it doesn't matter because you're losing your mind and it's every kind of perfect. "You're, I just can't-aah-think - ooh, Casey-"
You've been around, you know how this works, maybe not when it's another guy jerking you off, but sex is sex. At least, you'd thought it was.
"Come on, Chuck," he says, and you do, you come fast and hard, your hands flying up to grab him and hold on for dear life, your fingers leaving marks when they catch on skin, but now you're proud of them, you want them there.
You've arched your body, and with a great thud, you slump back on the bed, panting, bringing Casey with you because you can't breathe and somehow mashing your face into his shoulder helps.
"Now," you breath out shakily, "it's your turn." You face is still squished into his shoulder, however.
He grunts a little. "Can't wait for you, lightweight," but he sounds proud at the quivering mass of goop he's turned you into.
You hear ruffling and then the unmistakable sound of something you are very acquainted with.
"C-Casey," you stutter out, as he settles on your stomach, knees spread apart. Something visceral in you responds at the sight, and you like this, you like the fact that Casey's able to get off like this. Yet at the same time, you feel awkward, like you should help, but you're at a complete lost.
It isn't as though you've ever done this before.
"What can I do?" you ask instead, still on post-orgasm cloud nine, a little too juiced up to feel embarrassed. Your hands tentatively move low on his hips, fascinated by the movement of sinews and muscles you can feel beneath your fingertips, the gentle rocking motion you follow reverently.
"Look at me," he says, and you do, your breathing speeding up all over again.
He's stretched out over you, the line of his cock jutting out, his hand fast and tight, his face fucking beautiful. You make sure to watch him, lock eyes with him, and little shivers go through your body, assaulting your senses until you're making little noises to match, but your body is telling you that yes, you're physically capable of coming again, so you're left in this weird, overwrought state. His grinding doesn't help one bit and you're seriously doubting your potential to come again.
He doesn't make a sound, and though his breathing is off, you figure it's hard to let go of training and flawless self-discipline. Your fingers squeeze a little on his hips, urging him to let go, because you're only Chuck.
"Casey," you breathe, your fingers squeezing harder. Finally, something like a moan falls from his mouth.
Then, his muscles are clenching, you can see every twitch, see -feel-the way his hips snap forward into the air, and his eyes never leave yours.
It's a level of intimacy you hadn't expected, and when he's lowering his body on top of yours gently, you feel amazed. You move your hands around his back possessively and determine to yourself that there is no way he's backing out of this.
"Not so bad, right?" you say a little hoarsely.
He readjusts, nuzzling against your shoulder.
"Says you," all gruff and curt and wonderful. You don't even mind the mess on your stomach and chest, because everything is good.
His hands tighten their grip around your waist, as though you're something he fully intends to keep, too.
The warmth bubbles up in your chest, swelling and expanding, until you fear you'll burst with it.
Dear Me,
What the hell.
A breakdown, a panic attack, mauling kisses and fumbly sex all describe your foray into Casey-territory. Your first forays.
How in the hell any of it makes sense, you don't know, but you do know that somehow, it seems right.
So, forget all the insane and mediocre and embarrassment, because…and you have to be able to admit it to yourself if no one else…
That's enough. It's right, Casey's right, and you are damn happy.
Well shit.
You don't even know how you're going to break it to the guy that you're in love with him.
In a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me, choose me, love me…
Oh shit.
You scratch out all the other letters you've written to yourself in your head violently. You start anew.
Dear me,
Please, for the mercy and love of all that is good in this world, you have got to stop watching Grey's Anatomy when your sister forces you and Devon to sit through it.
It's warping your brain.
You must suggest some other form of family bonding, for your sanity.
PS, screw you Meredith Grey, you share Casey's taste in music and you'll always let him have the last piece of cheesecake.
…The radio thing was probably true, though.
Fin.
I don't…know.
First Chuck fic, dear Lord, be kind, as I am more than rusty in my canon lore.
Also excuse the weird POV and how damn long this is. Also, I'm basically ignoring everything past Season 2. I can't even remember if I've seen Season 3. My friend told me Chuck does in fact kill someone later on? Yeah, so I'm guessing this totally happens.
I ALSO don't watch Grey's Anatomy anymore, but I know this quote and I felt an urge to use it. Ellie strikes me as the kind of gal who might watch it. Anyway.
BEHOLD THE SCHMOOPY HURT/COMFORT FOLLOWED BY BAD SEX AND FLUFF!
I think I have a kink for hurt/comfort. I'm not even kidding. This was all a big excuse wrapped up as a story to get some h/c action in. FORGIVE ME.
I hope you enjoyed, because it's been fun this side of the keyboard. :D