A/N: This is by far my favorite chapter yet! It has the poetry as promised – I got so caught up in reading Octavio's poems while writing this, lol. UNF, such sexy poetry. Anyhow, apologies for the delay and please enjoy!

P.S. – I can't thank you guys enough for the amazing and supportive reviews. It always makes my day to hear what you guys think.

The Art of Kissing John Casey –Part Four

Chuck awoke when the blankets were yanked off of him, accompanied by an abrupt, loud bark. "Get up, Bartowski, you're going to be late," fell on his ears. Cool air quickly replaced the cocoon warmth of the blanket, and swept over him with the same effect as a glass of cold water to the face – almost.

"Ngh," said Chuck drowsily, his brain slow to catch up with him as he rolled over and presented Casey with a view of his back. A second later he felt a hand clamp down over his ankle and suddenly, he was staring up at Casey from the vicinity of the floor in a mixture of shock and mild confusion.

Casey in turn, glowered down at him before turning away. "Get up," he grumbled, tossing a disparaging glance over one broad shoulder. "Breakfast is in twenty minutes." Before Chuck could answer, Casey strode off briskly down the hallway.

Belatedly, he realized that Casey was fully dressed, fully groomed, and apparently in his usual ill temper. "Great," Chuck muttered. He twisted around and glanced at the clock by the nightstand. His eyes widened. With an unbelieving groan, he flopped back down on the carpeted floor with a soft thump. It was six - sixA-freaking-M. Work was at eight am. Chuck pulled his fingers through his hair. "This is unconscionable," he groused to the empty room. "This is abuse."

"BARTOWSKI!" yelled Casey from somewhere downstairs. "GET UP!"

Chuck felt compelled to argue, but abandoned the urge at the last moment. He could not deal with the six am wrath of John Casey right now – at least not before his shower. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled, pushing himself up from the floor. Chuck stood and stretched, then, with a faintly wistful glance at the bed and all of its inviting comfort, shuffled off to the shower.

It figured that Casey didn't understand the allure of sleeping in until a reasonable hour. Then again, Chuck's dealings with Casey were hardly reasonable to begin with, at least by normal standards.

-VVV-

Chuck stood beneath the shower nozzle and let the warm water sluice over his body as he slowly tried to wake up. He rubbed his eyes tiredly - six am, that's just insane – and let the memories of the previous night trickle from the back of his mind to the front. Chuck braced his arms on the tile in front of him, and let his head hang forward. His eyes drifted shut as water rushed over his shoulders and down his back, chasing away the sleep from his skin. Wet hair framed his face in brown spikes; he cracked open an eye and watched droplets fall from the ends of his hair in steady rivulets.

He watched as a bead of water slipped slowly down Casey's back, tracing a glistening path over pronounced dips and solid contours…

Chuck felt himself flush with the memory, a spider web of heat – warmer than the water sloshing over him – branching through him fever-hot. He scrubbed his hands hard over his face in frustration.

"It's an assignment – an assignment," Chuck muttered to himself. "Just an assignment," he repeated. "Nothing more." Right, because he was a pro at keeping fake relationships impersonal. He felt his mouth twist into a self-deprecating grin.

Absently, Chuck reached for the body wash perched neatly on the edge of the tub. He flipped open the top and all at once, his senses were assailed by the smell of cocoa.

Chuck stared down at the bottle in his hand as if it had bitten his fingers. Casey had Dove Clean Oil Body Wash – with Cocoa Butter scent. Casey. John Casey. If the whole situation hadn't been so absurd to begin with – the fact that he was naked in Casey's shower being the prime absurdity – Chuck might've burst out laughing. For sure he'd pegged Casey as having something, well, manlier.

Axe for Men, maybe. Certainly not…this.

Chuck squeezed a little of the sweet smelling wash into his palm and inhaled a deep whiff. The scent of chocolate invaded his nose. Chuck recalled the way it smelled on Casey – rich, almost creamy, with the underlying smell of something uniquely Casey.

He felt his cock harden at the thought.

The memory continued to slide through his veins, down his throat – how Casey smelled as he crowded him against the kitchen counter. How Casey's scent had been all around him when he'd been woken – as abrupt as it had been. How he knew, that if he were to go and bury his face in one of the pillows, he'd catch Casey's scent lingering on in the fibers.

Demanding. Overwhelming. Casey. His hand drifted down. Without thinking, Chuck wrapped his fingers around his rigid shaft. The body wash made his palm slick and smooth; his fist enclosed it in a tight heat. He slid his fist down his length slowly, the body wash providing a hot, silky sensation.

Fuck. He was not going to do this.

Chuck groaned and bit his bottom lip. He moved his hand a little faster and tried to think about something else. Sarah! He could think about Sarah. The smell of cocoa butter filled the shower, steam rising to clog every one of his senses in the chocolaty scent. He jerked himself faster, pausing to rub the pad of his thumb over the head of cock. His hips twitched forward and he let out a short moan.

He couldn't bring up Sarah's face. All he could recall was the intensity in Casey's eyes, black pupils chasing out blue irises in the dim light of the hallway. All he could remember was the warmth of Casey's breath as it ghosted across his ear.

'I won't hurt you. You don't have to be afraid of me.'

Chuck twisted his wrist and moaned louder as he pulled on his cock just how he liked it. He wondered suddenly, what the slide of calloused palms and fingers against his cock would feel like…what kind of friction violence-roughed skin would create. He wondered how hard it would make him come.

Fuck. Fuck.

Chuck squeezed his eyes shut. He was breathing heavily, his breath coming in short, desperate pants as his orgasm coiled in his belly. He pumped his dick quicker; closed his fist tighter. He felt his balls constrict as he plunged towards his climax, with a sort of need he hadn't felt since he'd been a horny teenager.

He remembered the feel of Casey's fingers curved around the back of his neck, so much strength thrumming just beneath the surface, drawn taut – so very Casey.

Gentle, rough, the slide of calloused fingers against his skin…against his jaw…against the corners of his mouth.

Chuck came with a long, loud moan that he tried unsuccessfully to bite back. He braced his free hand against the shower wall to hold himself up as he sagged forward, shaky, limbs loose and relaxed. The shower smelled like come and sweat and cocoa butter. It was intoxicating.

Chuck glanced up and saw evidence of himself splattered over the shower tile.

"Fuck," he said.

-VVV-

When Chuck finally made it downstairs, Casey gave him an odd look as if to say: 'I know exactly what you did.' As if to confirm this, the NSA agent gave him a critical once-over and asked, "How was the shower?"

Fine,' thought Chuck, 'if you count the fact that I've never had sexual thoughts about a man, let alone masturbated thinking about one.' Well, not since that one confusing dream he'd had involving Ewan McGregor, at least. Morgan had promised to take that one to the grave, though Chuck suspected he'd only agreed to avoid admitting to people he'd ever watched Moulin Rouge.

"Great," Chuck answered as nonchalantly as he could. "Hot," he added when Casey cast him a suspicious frown. The agent didn't reply - he only stared, his gaze digging uncomfortably beneath his skin.

After a moment Chuck looked away guiltily, though he knew he didn't really have a reason to feel that way. "So," he said, "what's for breakfast?"

He perched on one of the barstools pulled up near the kitchen counter with an expectant look.

Casey turned his back on him. He pointed to the flat griddle on the stovetop with his spatula. "Pancakes," he replied. "Figured you could eat a proper breakfast for once, instead of one of those wheat-grass hippy drinks that Devon keeps trying to feed you." He said the word 'hippy' with the utmost derision and it made Chuck smirk a little.

He took the opportunity to rib the big man because after all: revenge was always that much sweeter when it came to Casey. "Aww, Casey," said Chuck with a wide-mouthed grin, "you do care. Next thing I know you'll be making me breakfast in bed." Chuck batted his eyes and gave Casey his best simpering look.

Casey threw him an irritated glare, before a corner of his mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly. For John Casey, a small twist of the lips spoke volumes and Chuck read Loki-esque levels of mischief in the soft curve of his mouth. He abruptly wondered if he'd made a gross error in judgment.

"Are you planning on staying and sharing my bed with me, Bartowski?" Casey carefully and deliberately set down the spatula. Then with slow, calculated steps, he stalked over to Chuck and stepped right into his personal space.

Chuck was instantly hit by Casey's scent – that exclusive blend of chocolate and masculinity and…something he just couldn't define. Something, that was strictly John Casey. He flashed back to the shower, touching himself, masturbating using Casey's body wash.

"You smell nice," he blurted before he could stop himself. He saw Casey's eyes widen slightly – ha, so the big bad NSA agent could be caught off guard – but before he could celebrate that discovery, Casey's voice broke through his train of thought.

"Did you brush your teeth?"

"Huh? Wha –" before Chuck had even started to form the word, Casey's mouth was on his, hot, demanding – almost violent. It was different from last time - last time was a lesson, a show of force. This time, the clash of their mouths was quick and dirty and hot.

Chuck fisted his hands in Casey's shirt, knuckles pressed hard into the solid flesh and muscle he felt beneath the fabric. He was hyper-aware of the roughness of Casey's hands as he pulled his fingers through Chuck's damp hair; though he was only fleetingly aware of coherent thought slipping right away, when Casey began to suck on his tongue. He tried to keep control of the situation, steady himself - push back. Casey pulled back slightly and tugged Chuck's bottom lip between his teeth.

And that was just about the sexiest thing ever, which was very strange considering that it was Casey doing it.

If Chuck felt dizzy with the sensation of Casey nibbling lightly on his lip, he felt positively unraveled when Casey moved his mouth to roll the lobe of Chuck's right ear between his lips. "You're so easy, Bartowski," Casey whispered, hot breath ghosting across moistened, sensitive skin.

Before Chuck had fully registered what he'd said, Casey pushed back from him and returned to the stove. It took a few minutes for Chuck to recover his composure, his pulse tearing rabbit-quick through his veins. His lips burned with the Casey's taste.

However, when his head finally cleared Chuck felt anger rise in him – different than the anger he'd felt last night. Different than the explosion of nerves and temper that had flooded him, right after the first kiss Casey had forced on him. This time he felt...used.

"You've got to stop that," Chuck bit out in a tight voice. Casey looked back at him, idly, but something must have shown in his expression because the NSA agent turned to regard him fully. He gave Chuck his complete attention, though he could tell Casey was mentally tensing – Chuck saw the exact moment Casey shut down. It was as if a steel wall slammed down over the agent's features. His expression became cool and blank.

"Stop what, Bartowski?" Casey's voice held a dangerous edge. Chuck stood his ground.

"This!" Chuck said in exasperation, half-rising out of his seat to gesture between the two of them. "You can't just keep, you know, assaulting me like this."

He must've hit a trigger, because in two steps the big man was nose-to-nose with him. Casey's expression was carved into a rigid veneer of cold fury that Chuck felt bore into him, inch by inch. The intensity of the look shivered down his spine and made the fine hairs on his arms stand in alarm. "We have a job to do. I'm taking this very seriously," Casey said in a flat, dead voice. "I am doing – and will do – everything I can to prepare you for this. Whether you want to be a slack-jawed idiot about it is your own business."

"I am taking this seriously, if you hadn't noticed," Chuck replied, keeping his voice as even as he could manage. "I didn't try to push you away - I even agreed to come and spend the night with you. In your bed. If I wasn't going to take it seriously, I wouldn't be here and I'd let you grope Cole Barker all you wanted."

Casey snorted and took a step back, giving Chuck some space. "Then what is it you want?" he ground out, familiar anger bleeding through his icy demeanor. He folded his arms across his chest and waited with an impatience Chuck could almost see curl from his skin like steam.

Chuck finally looked away, though his jaw was set stubbornly. "It's just...you could be nicer in your approach or something."

"What, do you want romance, Bartowski?" Casey scoffed as if the whole idea of being the slightest bit romantic was ludicrous.

"Yeah, well, maybe," Chuck replied in a clearly obstinate tone. He looked back at Casey. He was prepared for the sneer written plainly across the agent's face, but he found he was unprepared for the sting of hurt it caused.

"Unbelievable," Casey muttered. He turned his back and went to the stove. He stared at the mixing bowl full of pancake batter as if considering something – shady NSA secrets for all Chuck knew or cared at that point – and then without warning tossed the whole batch into the sink. "I need to check in with Beckman," he snapped suddenly. "Be ready to leave at 0730 hours." He disappeared upstairs and Chuck was left to find breakfast for himself.

Chuck found his appetite had disappeared, however, when he glanced into the kitchen sink to see if any of the batter was salvageable.

-VVV-

"So dude, like what's going on with you and Casey?"

Morgan's question caught Chuck off-guard and he stood up quickly, his cheeks flushing with high color in the space of a minute. "What? Wh-why would you say that?" He forced a laugh, which only caused the shorter man to raise both eyebrows dubiously.

"Ookay then," Morgan said. He pointed indiscreetly to Chuck's left. "The big dude's been glaring at you all day. It's really kinda freaky." Chuck followed Morgan's line of sight and saw Casey standing across the store. The agent was standing to one side as a customer yammered at him, though for the most part he seemed to be ignoring her. Chuck swallowed, his throat suddenly dry: Casey was staring straight at him. Casey's gaze was burning, heated enough that Chuck felt the force of it like a blast of desert air across the back of his neck. When Casey finally broke his stare and looked back at the customer, Chuck was surprised that the woman wasn't incinerated on the spot.

"Did it just get hot in here?" Chuck muttered. He wiped his palm across the back of his neck; his skin prickled uncomfortably beneath his clothing.

Morgan gave him a strange look. "Um, no, I actually thought it was chilly..." he trailed off for a second, distracted by Anna as she waltzed by with a wink and a bounce of her dark pigtails. Morgan looked back at Chuck with a lazy grin. "So, did you two have a fight or something?"

"Fight?" repeated Chuck with a nervous laugh. He shifted his eyes back to Casey and was relieved to see that the NSA agent was engaged in a heated debate with the woman. He was probably going to sell another Beast Master Deluxe Double Down Package today – Big Mike would be thrilled. Nobody sold the Beast Master Deluxe Double Down Package, unless of course you were John Casey. Morgan cleared his throat noisily and Chuck looked back at his best friend quickly.

"Um, nope - no fight," said Chuck. "Why would we fight? We have nothing to fight about." He was about to say more when his cell phone vibrated. He fished out the phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. Damn it. "Hey, listen buddy," said Chuck with a imploring smile, "I'm gonna take a quick break. Cover for me?"

Morgan looked at Chuck and sunk back into one of the chairs at the Nerd Herder desk. He threaded his fingers behind his head and propped up his feet, accidentally smashing the heels of his shoes down on one of the keyboards. The sound of flattened plastic made Chuck wince. "Of course, man. I've always got your back," Morgan assured. He leaned towards Chuck and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Need me to run interference?" He tilted his head slightly towards Casey with a knowing nod.

Not unless you want an arm broken,' Chuck thought. "Nope that won't be necessary," he replied hurriedly. He darted off and made his way to the Home Theatre room as inconspicuously as possible. A moment later, the door opened and Casey strode in, pausing only to snick the lock shut behind him.

Chuck opened his mouth to say something and was cut off immediately. "Shut it, Bartowski, I don't want to hear it," Casey grunted. "Oh and don't say a word, you hear?" The agent turned towards the big flat screen that dominated the room, and hit a button combination on the remote. A second later, General Beckman's image flickered to life onscreen.

"Gentlemen," she greeted with a curt nod of her head. She looked towards Casey. "How goes preparation for the mission, Major Casey?"

Casey glanced at Chuck, but there was none of the scorn that Chuck expected to see in his gaze. Instead, the agent's expression was carefully neutral. "It's going," Casey paused as if considering the proper choice of words, "as well as can be expected, General. Bartowski isn't the greatest student, but he can be taught."

Chuck was insulted. 'Not the greatest student?' Hell, technically he wasn't even a spy. He piped up before he could stop himself. "Well, I mean - in my defense - I've never y'know...done this." Casey shot him a withering glare. General Beckman tilted her head inquisitively.

"What do you mean, Mr. Bartowski?" she asked. At Chuck's blank look, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. "What do you mean by this?" she clarified, enunciating each word slowly as if Chuck were unremittingly slow-witted.

"You know what?" he said, holding up his hands in defense. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." He was already regretting having said anything at all, when the General's mouth pulled down into a severe frown.

"I see. Well, Mr. Bartowski, there is still time to back out. Consider yourself lucky that you even have this option," she added, her frown deepening. "But considering this would be the longest mission you will have had away from home base, I will give you twenty four hours to consider whether or not you have the chops necessary to successfully complete your task. I will await your answer tomorrow. Should you decide that this is too much for you to handle, I will call in Agent Barker. "

General Beckman's expression became inscrutable as she leaned forward and shifted her gaze between Chuck and Casey. Her eyes narrowed. "This mission is very important to the NSA and the CIA. The information that our asset has is vital to us - and to the war with Fulcrum. We will get it either way." She paused to flash a grisly image on the screen. Chuck flinched back from it, his stomach turning instantly. Next to him, he heard Casey's quick intake of breath. "And if you, Mr. Bartowski," continued the General, "cannot do this, you will tell me tomorrow." She sat back in her seat. The image disappeared from the screen. "If you say you can complete the mission and fail, there will be consequences - ones that you will not like."

Without a further word, General Beckman cut the feed and the screen went black.

"Good going, Bartowski," snarled Casey, rounding on him suddenly. "What part of don't say a word did you not understand?"

"Look, it's not my fault that you're such a brute about everything," Chuck shot back as Casey advanced on him. "Not everything is as easy for me as it is for you - I can't not separate myself from my emotions. I'm not some unfeeling Japanese autonomous robot."

Casey stopped dead in his tracks. Chuck braced himself, sure that the agent was about to hit him. Casey didn't hit him. Instead, he simply walked around Chuck, unlocked the door, and stomped out without offering one single word, remark, or rude comment.

Chuck didn't watch him go. He didn't move. He didn't do anything for a long, tense moment.

He'd seen the briefest flash of something in Casey's eyes – something distressing.

He'd seen the quick flash of hurt within Casey's expression when he'd called him a robot.

-VVV-

Dinner was a painfully silent affair and again, Chuck was spending the night with Casey - this time with Ellie and Devon's knowledge. He'd gotten a surprise when he'd come home from work: apparently a pipe had burst in his room, flooding it and making it temporarily uninhabitable. Oddly, none of his electronics or important items had been ruined - just the carpet and a pair of red Converse All-Star high tops. In truth, he was more chapped about the high tops than he was about the carpet.

The carpet could be replaced, hopefully with something he liked. The high tops though...he hadn't seen Converse All-Stars like those since 1998.

Of course, just as Ellie was fretting about where he could stay - she'd developed something of a complex about people sleeping on her couch ever since the Morgan debacle - Casey had come over and offered Chuck his spare room. It was a perfect cover, especially since the insurance company had advised it would take about a week for the damage to be assessed and repaired.

Meanwhile, most of his clothing smelled like sewage.

"Did you have to flood my room?" Chuck asked sullenly. He chased a piece of broccoli around on his plate with disinterest, before risking a glance at Casey.

"There are worse things I could've done, trust me," Casey replied shortly. He licked his thumb and turned the page on the Newsweek he was reading, ignoring Chuck completely. Chuck might as well not have been there for all that Casey had spoken to him so far.

Chuck sighed. He was in for a long night.

-VVV-

After cleaning up and washing the dishes - also done in silence - Chuck settled on the couch and wiled away his time watching TV as Casey began to disassemble and clean a vast amount of weaponry. He did so with a sort of tender care and precise efficiency that even Chuck could appreciate. He tried to ask a few questions like he usually did on their Sunday afternoons in Castle, but Casey wasn't playing the game.

After unsuccessfully attempting to engage the NSA agent in a conversation that consisted of more than mere grunts, monosyllabic answers, and offhanded gestures, Chuck gave up.

He shot Casey a sour glance and swiped a book off of the coffee table, instead. He read the title: The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. He flung a curious look at Casey, but the agent wasn't looking at him. He was cleaning out the barrel of a Glock with a pipe cleaner, an expression of intense concentration pasted across his features

Chuck opened to the first page.

He was asleep within minutes.

-VVV-

Chuck woke in the semi-darkness, to the slide of rough fingers over the curve of his cheek.
He opened his eyes and saw Casey leaning over him, a chiaroscuro figure of shadow and dim light. Casey took the book from Chuck's hands and placed it carefully on the coffee table. His eyes were intense, pupils blown out in the half-dark as he leaned down towards Chuck.

"Casey, what are you doing?" Chuck asked sleepily. His voice sounded hushed, almost eerie in the stillness, the silence. Casey didn't reply. Chuck's heart began to lurch towards a staccato roll of thumps and beats – and quickened even more when Casey pressed a kiss to the underside of his wrist. Then Casey spoke, words dripping from his tongue to slide over Chuck's skin; liquid sensuality entwined in speech.

And Chuck was helpless to do anything but listen – to the sound his heart, his breath, and to the fluidity of Casey's voice.

"Mis manos," Casey whispered, his voice low and whiskey-rough, "abren las cortinas de tu ser." Casey's lips stitched the words against Chuck's skin as he shifted to lay a kiss inside the crook of his arm. Chuck's breath hitched, his body became flushed with impossible heat. He wanted to say something - anything - but his tongue felt thick in his mouth, incapable of forming anything resembling a coherent word.

He continued to listen.

Casey shifted and curved over him, one knee between Chuck's as he leaned forward. The agent's scent surrounded him. "te visten con otra desnudez," Casey murmured, his lips tracing a warm trail up his arm as he moved to kiss Chuck's shoulder.

The usual roughness of Casey's tone was smoothed around the edges by flowing cadence. It made his voice unbelievably provocative. Casey's lips dusted across Chuck's collarbone as he slid the pads of his fingers up Chuck's side. He curved his large hand around Chuck's ribs and counted each one with a gentle touch of his thumb. Chuck could feel the slide of his skin on skin, rough whorls and calluses scraping delicately over bone and flesh. He shivered. Casey sucked lightly on his collarbone.

"descubren los cuerpos de tu cuerpo," Casey slid his hands beneath Chuck's shoulders, palms hot on his skin. He slid them between his shoulder blades, pressing in, pushing up. When Casey kissed the corner of Chuck's mouth, he was lost. He turned his head and offered his mouth to Casey willingly. This time when Casey kissed him, it was slow, languorous and dripping with a kind of sensualism Chuck was sure he'd never experienced.

"Mis manos," whispered Casey against his lips, "inventan otro cuerpo a tu cuerpo."

Casey brought his mouth down on Chuck's again, in another long, slow caress of lips and tongue. Chuck drank the taste of him, pulled it deep within him. Time seemed to pass in a shift of alternating currents: fast and slow; meandering and dizzying. His hands were on Casey's back, on his shoulders, in his hair. He twisted up into the solid bulk leaned over him, the connection of their mouths not enough. All of it felt new, thrilling, like the first time he'd groped a girl in the shadows of the bleachers in high school. He moaned; Casey dragged the tips of his fingers down Chuck's side and lightly squeezed his hip.

"Casey," Chuck gasped. The noise sounded unapologetically wanting and Chuck found he just didn't care. Casey disengaged himself and stood, leaving Chuck's skin and mind buzzing with the fact that he'd just made out – quite thoroughly too – with John Casey.

Casey smirked down at him and asked in a perfectly even tone: "Romantic enough for you, Bartowski?"

Without waiting for Chuck's reply, the NSA agent turned and went upstairs to bed.

"I expect you up here in fifteen minutes, Bartowski – we've got an early start tomorrow."

Chuck lay stunned in the half-dark, body tingling, head buzzing, and wondered just what in the hell happened.

(To be continued...)

-VVV-

Casey's poem:

Palpar
by Octavio Paz

Mis manos
abren las cortinas de tu ser
te visten con otra desnudez
descubren los cuerpos de tu cuerpo
Mis manos
inventan otro cuerpo a tu cuerpo

(Translation)
Touch
by Octavio Paz

My hands
open the curtains of your being
clothe you in a further nudity
uncover the bodies of your body
My hands
invent another body for your body