A\N: I don't own Chuck, but if I could I would!
"Scared?"
The summer sun beats mercilessly upon me as I stand at the foot of the ladder, slick with chlorinated water, and weigh my options. The other children scream jovially around me and cerulean water continues to splash from the public pool to lap at my feet, but I remain rooted to the foot of the ladder with my geeky little brother pushing me to climb it.
"No!" I cry defensively. At this point, Morgan and I are seven. One of my hands rests upon the rung nearest to my height level as I push myself to climb, to jump off the high dive and take the plunge. I can do this; I'm seven now. I'm a big boy.
The problem is, I don't want to do this.
That's not true. I do want to do this; I want to be the hero. I want to hear all of the other kids I'll grow up with cheer me on and call my name as I plunge into the slightly too cold for comfort water. I want another little piece of the endless admiration my best friend seems to hold for me.
He laughs and grins that crooked smile, blue eyes bright with delight and adrenaline, front teeth missing to create a gaping hole. "Come on," he wheedles in a high-pitched voice so typical of a little boy. "You're scared."
"Am not!" I respond loudly, adjusting the terribly embarrassing flotation device affixed to my left arm. "I'll prove it." With that dynamic statement, I clamber up the ladder, ever mindful of the rungs made slippery due to the wet feet of previous divers, and carefully edge out to the end of the board.
It wobbles beneath my feet as I hesitate to take the jump, surveying the dozens of laughing children and their parents who turn themselves into bronzed human prunes merely twenty feet away in the recliners. Despite the floaties Ellie supplied me (and Morgan) with, I still don't feel entirely safe.
I have this sick fantasy, this cataclysmic image in my head. It's of me jumping off the board and hitting my head at the bottom of the pool, bleeding to death in the chlorine-heavy water before the lifeguards can pull me out. It's of me toeing my way off the end and my floaties failing to compensate for my ineptness at swimming, of drowning, of a slow and terrible death.
You can do this, I tell myself. You're not going to die. Not today.
"Hey! Hey!"
It's Morgan; he has scurried to the side of the pool and is waving his arms like a blithering idiot in order to garner my attention. He grins that goofy best friend grin and I steel myself, edging just a little closer to the end of the board and daringly curling one toe around the rough, corrugated metal.
Not today.
Before I know it, cold water rushes up to meet me and I'm submerged. The floaties do their job and I bob back to the surface, gasping for elusive breath and grinning like a fool as I paddle over to the ladder and pull myself out.
Morgan rushes over to meet me, throwing his short, skinny arms about me with surprising force. He nestles his cheek into the junction between my shoulder and neck in an embarrassing display of family and brotherhood that an outsider might refer to as a hug. "See?" he says lightly as I awkwardly wrap my arms around him and pat the back of his life jacket, too proud to show that I'm loving this. Too proud to show that I love that my best friend thinks I'm a hero. "That wasn't so scary."
Flash forward fourteen years; Morgan and I are twenty one. No longer are these the days of walking to school rain or shine, no more idyllic suburban neighborhood for us.
This is the life of a spy.
As far from suburbia as possible.
We can't believe that we wanted to be here. Who in their right mind signs up to fight in a war where their side is hopelessly outnumbered, outgunned, and in danger of being killed as they speak?
Life isn't fair.
Don't I know it.
It seems like the whole world is falling apart around ups. Dirt piled in front of the armed bunker is sent into explosive plumes in the air due to far-advanced gunfire, raining down upon our heads as Morgan and I crouch to hide from what could easily become our doom.
We have to go out there; we have to.
It doesn't mean I want to.
We have a duty. A duty, an obligation, we have to do this.
"Scared?" Morgan shouts over the cacophony of gunfire. He grins, and even beneath the camouflage face paint and battle scars, it's still the Morgan dimpled grin as it was fourteen years ago. Somehow, we're back at that suburban pool and I'm poised on that diving board feeling as though the world is falling out from under me.
Somehow, he hasn't changed.
Somehow, I haven't, either.
"'Course not, Morgan!" I bellow, loading my tranquilizer gun with shaking hands.
He rises into a crouch, peering over the top of the bunker with his rifle slung over his back and the toes of his brand new combat boots (a gift from Alex) digging into the scarlet dust. My eyes track to the stain in the right side of his uniform, to the tear patched by Casey as he slept. I don't want to remember that night.
I don't want to remember dragging him back to the camp. I don't want to remember holding his hand, holding him down as he screamed and they dug the bullet out of his abused flesh. I don't want to remember his pain.
But I do remember.
I doubt I'll ever forget.
He gets to his feet, crouching low, and beckons for me to do the Morgan. I follow him and we dart out of the bunker into open fire and in some way, somehow, this is beautiful.
Somehow, between all the screaming and the shooting and the explosions and the pain and the agony and the dying, this is beautiful.
This is me, this is Morgan… this is us.
And this is beautiful.
Ten years later, I'm Morgan and I are thirty-one. We're standing in the ready room of the church we've attended since birth in our hometown, me doubting myself once again in front of the mirror and Morgan making himself presentable.
I can't help but grin at how vain he is.
People don't change.
I'm already dressed; I have been for a few hours. I'm getting married in twenty minutes; how could I not be far too prepared?
Morgan, however, is not. He stands at the other mirror, half-dressed and attempting to shrug the pristine white shirt that my fiancée selected for him over his shoulders. I have to fight not to wince at the jagged scar in his arm that's giving him so much trouble; it's a bad day.
I hate it when that scar gives Morgan bad days.
And I really don't want to remember the night that put that scar there.
"Do you need help?" I ask.
His face is white as chalk. It always is on his bad days. He's pale, in pain but not wanting to admit it. He needs help, but he would never ask. He's too proud.
People don't change.
He nods and I cross the room in a heartbeat, helping him with the shirt before pulling his arms through the sleeves of a classy black jacket. He manages the bow tie himself, only wincing a little more than usual when the strenuous movement of his arms pulls at the troublesome healed wound in his side. When he's finished making himself presentable, he runs one hand through his dark hair, tousled as ever, and squares his posture before plastering a slightly less genuine grin on his face.
It's the Morgan grin, though. He's still Morgan. He hasn't changed.
People never do.
He brushes a speck of dust that I don't see from my shoulder before wiping his bright green eyes with the back of his hand, Morgan as ever, to hide the tears that he won't admit are coming. I catch his hand, bony and emaciated, before offering a reassuring smile.
"Why are you crying, Morgan?" I ask. Please don't shut me out, Morgan.
"It's me. And you know I always cry at weddings," he responds.
I snort. "Yeah, I know. Remember Big Mike's wedding?"
He scowls. "I try not to. End of conversation."
I can't help it. I burst out into laughter. Morgan old Morgan.
He brightens and claps a hand on my shoulder as we move toward the area of the church where I'm to be married. "So, my big brother's finally tying the knot," he says. "Scared?"
"Me? Scared? Nah..." I trail off. This feels wrong.
I love her, sure. I love her more than I've loved any other woman.
But still, somehow it feels wrong. Somehow, it feels like she's taking me. Taking me from Morgan.
He needs me. He's still that gap-toothed little kid, my nerdy best friend running alongside the edge of the pool and calling my name. He's Morgan, he's my Morgan, and he still needs me.
The woman at the door gestures for me to go in, tilting her head toward the church. I turn to Morgan and throw my arms around his shoulders, hugging his too-thin frame to mine for what seems like the first and the last time.
This time, it's not embarrassing.
He's still the Morgan little boy, still the Morgan kid in the floaties clutching me to him like a life preserver at the edge of the pool.
This is us. And somehow, this is beautiful.
He's beautiful. He's my best friend. He's Morgan.
"Enjoy it while you can, Morgan. Next time you hug me, I'll be a married man," I jest.
"Whatever," he responds with that juvenile grin.