Of all the stupid rookie mistakes. Leaning in like that. Didn't matter whether Bartowski and Larkin had been frat brothers at Stanford or could both speak some kind of gibberish space language. You just don't get that close. Or at least not more than once. Because you either learned right quick what could happen if you did or you died.
Fortunately for Casey, after the encounter with Larkin, the Intersect was still alive. Unfortunately for Casey, after the encounter with Larkin, the Intersect was still alive. Damn baby-sitting assignment. Why didn't the NSA just put him out of his misery and give him a desk job where he could get fat and tell the same old spy stories over and over again to his peers while they sat in a run-down bar and all got drunk together to numb the pain?
Instead, here he was, on the sidelines, benched, as it were, while the kids took over. Had all the fun. The excitement. Took all the bullets. Well, that was one part Casey could probably do without.
But the rest of it sure sounded nice. Working on his own again, deep cover, meeting exciting people, many of whom wanted you dead. Too far away to get daily instructions from the head office. There was a thought that Casey whispered to himself, if it was even possible to do that. Beckman was his boss, a ranking officer, and so she automatically deserved respect and deference. But Casey sure missed the almost total control that a deep cover mission placed into his more-than-capable hands.
He thought of Bryce in that tux on his way to the Consulate dinner and pictured the young spy in his mind's eye. The face turned into Casey's, and he imagined himself making his way smoothly among the diplomatic crowd, his suit impeccably fitted to his broad shoulders, highlighting his confident bearing and concealing his whip-toned muscles at the same time. Bow slightly and kiss a soft, well-manicured hand here – don't let that giant diamond ring poke your eye out – share a cigar and an off-color joke with a group of men there. Just as you're getting back into the rhythm, you see the very subtle code signal that indicates a door at the far end of the room. You approach it casually, check quickly to make sure nobody is paying attention and, quick as a wink, you're through the opening and off to some exotic location for months, maybe years, living the life.
Casey sighed. To the senior NSA field agent, it sounded just like heaven.
Casey shook his head a bit to clear it and smirked at himself. No more time for dreams. His reality, it seemed, was going to take all of his attention. Well, maybe not quite all. Casey could always find opportune moments here and there to yank Chuck's chain. That was always fun. And the way Bartowski was starting to sass him back and at the same time wearing his heart on his sleeve about Walker just gave Casey that many more chances to exercise his dry and cutting wit. It wasn't deep cover or a strategic black ops mission, but it would have to do for now.