Title: Got your back
Author: noctaval
Characters/Pairing: Chuck, Bryce, a little Bryce/Chuck
Warnings: Post-season 2.
Disclaimers: I don't own Chuck! This is probably fortunate for everyone.
Notes: Inspired by hollywood_r_bin's plot bunny.
Summary: Somehow Bryce always came back to haunt Chuck --- but he hadn't really expected something this literal.
There was a ghost in Chuck's head.
At first he thought he was losing it, really losing it, when Bryce's voice whispered in his ear not to go down the north corridor, because there were two hidden cameras and three unseen guards, and he'd be caught in the crossfire either way. Chuck had snapped his head around so quickly he'd given himself whiplash, finding nothing but empty hallway. He radioed Sarah anyway and took the long way around the building.
He'd pretty thoroughly convinced himself it was an isolated episode of post-traumatic stress when Bryce showed up in the Large Mart parking lot. He was dressed in a white suit straight out of Miami Vice, and swaggering like Lando Calrissian. The dead spy strolled across the asphalt, indicating the illegally dark windows of a gleaming black Escalade with a nod. Bryce mouthed "Bad guys" at Chuck, then vanished like a soap bubble.
Chuck, who had been there to pick up toilet paper, dodged the ambush by the skin of his teeth and earned himself a rare smile from Casey later. Sarah just looked puzzled.
Completely assured of his own insanity, Chuck managed to squash the overwhelming desire to spill his guts to Sarah. Because really, nothing said "I need to be institutionalized" like "I see dead people," except maybe "I see your dead ex-boyfriend, the spy, and he gives me good intel." Besides, being locked in padded bunker somewhere would probably interfere with Morgan's plans to take their sandworm costume to Comic Con next year.
Slowly, though, he began to realize there was a little more to this thing than his imminent mental implosion. Sometimes a bright flash glimpsed sidelong in the mirror would take on an ambiguous human form. Or he would feel the warmth of a hand on his shoulder or the brush of air past his neck. Morgan commented on his new cologne, the scent of Bryce's aftershave wafting through the aisle, but Chuck just turned the CPU fan over in his hands again and doggedly pretended to analyze its dimensions.
It wasn't until the middle of a firefight that Chuck was really sure he wasn't coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs.
* * *
Chuck had flashed on the drug dealer they'd been sent in to investigate, then flashed on his bodyguards' tattoos, then flashed on the completely unexpected and unwelcome face of the Basque terrorist who was apparently at the party to initiate a swap of high-tech detonators and heavy artillery for Juliano Ibias's drug money. Wonderful.
By the time Chuck was done flashing on the (frankly, quite impressive) series of Wushu moves needed to extricate himself from the nefarious clutches of Ibias's swimsuit-model psycho assassins, he was utterly drained. He therefore had nothing to contribute to the ensuing violent exchange of bullets. When one assailant spotted him cowering behind a card table, knocked over his shelter, and pointed a very large gun at him, Chuck was pretty sure he was going to die.
He focused his willpower, trying desperately to induce a flash, and succeeded in mustering something like indigestion. Chuck swallowed dryly and began to move his lips, hoping a little old-fashioned silver-tongued bullshitting might save the day, when the breath left him in a whoosh and his body started to move of its own accord. His legs flew up and his elbows came down, raining a flurry of blows down on the other man in flawless sequence. The whole thing lasted about five seconds.
He looked up to find Casey grunting with approval as he cold-cocked a stumbling Ibias, and Sarah staring at him. Chuck slowly relaxed, a strange cold tingling on his skin for a moment before fleeing like an exhalation. He hadn't flashed.
* * *
The mission debrief that followed was a little awkward. The General was pissed at their clumsiness, disapproving of how fast the whole operation had devolved into a shootout --- but when Chuck lied to her straightfaced and explained the way he'd flashed to take out the last attacker, she just nodded her acceptance. Sarah was still watching him, her gaze penetrating, and he knew she suspected...something. But she couldn't know. How could anyone?
Afterwards, Chuck stood alone in his bathroom, the lights left off. He splashed some water on his face, then dropped his forehead against the mirror.
"Thanks," Chuck whispered quietly, and very carefully did not look over his shoulder.
And if the answering "No problem, buddy," felt a lot like it was pressed against his shoulderblades, Chuck thought he could live with it.