Critical Hellfire

By Steampunk . Chuckster

Summary: Chuck and Morgan are co-hosts of a locally popular streaming channel in which they discuss all things metal while playing video games. Their lives are uprooted when their demo guy hands them THE demo of the ages—a band called Critical Hellfire, fronted by singer and bassist Sarah Walker. AU Charah.

A/N: Folks are being very nice. I appreciate it. Hope you all have the best Sunday!

Disclaimer: I don't own CHUCK or any of its characters. I don't own any of the songs mentioned in this chapter, this fic, or anywhere else for that matter. I am making absolutely zero dollars writing and posting this.

Chuck stopped as he felt a tug on the bicep of his brown suit jacket. "What?" he half-snapped over his shoulder at Morgan.

He didn't know why he was on edge tonight in the lead-up to the Critical Hellfire gig at the address that was on the flyer.

It was a cool old brick warehouse that had been re-outfitted for band gigs. It was right across the street now, music blasting out of the giant windows tilted open at the bottoms, lights blaring from inside.

Maybe the nerves came from the fact that the singer of Critical Hellfire had seemed to invite him to the show out of… He didn't know. Politeness? She'd been distracted, spotting the club owner at his table in the corner. Chuck had seen her arguing with the man after she walked away, towering over the guy as he sat there looking up at her with wide eyes. As if he hadn't expected this woman to step up to him and drag the owner for filth for trying to cheat her like she said.

If she hadn't actually meant to invite him, he'd be so embarrassed. If she didn't actually want Chuck and Morgan from the goofy Twitch channel to come to the show because they were small-timers, barely worth the attention, not like the producers or reps from recording studios or the agents were, he'd have to get out of here with his tail between his legs.

And it wasn't like he expected her to float off of the stage, come right up to him, throw her arms around him, and thank him profusely for blessing her band's show by attending. She didn't even have to fucking talk to him. He really just wanted the experience of watching Critical Hellfire live again.

He didn't believe in religion for himself, but holy shit, this band was a rock 'n' roll religious experience.

And so he was nervous, and a little on edge, snapping at his best bud for no reason.

Morgan didn't seem to notice though, instead glaring over his shoulder. "Is that the producer stuff shirt guy's limo?"

Chuck furrowed his brow, turning with a squeak of his brand new, spotless, white Converse against the sidewalk. He saw a long, black limousine parked on the other side of the street, idling. The driver hustled around the car to the back, opening the door, making room for the slickest looking bloke Chuck had honestly ever seen to step out, straighten to his full height, looking back over his shoulder to check for traffic, and begin his walk across the street, leaving his driver and limo behind without a word.

Wearing sunglasses.

Again.

His hair was perfectly in place, and he had perfectly trimmed facial hair.

He even did that thing with the button, just buttoning the one button in the middle of his tailored grey suit that shimmered in the streetlights.

Cole Barker spotted them then and grinned, lifting one hand in a wave.

Chuck waved back, clearing his throat. "That's, uh…that's him. And hey, go easy. He doesn't seem like a stuff shirt. He's kinda cool."

"Right. Uh huh. A regular ol' cucumber."

The gamer glanced down at his own outfit, his brown suit that looked like it was bought at a Goodwill, the black Quiet Riot "Metal Health" T-shirt underneath, and the white high-top sneakers. He quickly buttoned one button in the middle, smoothing his hand down it. "D'you think I should'a tucked in this shirt?" he hissed at Morgan, tugging at the T-shirt.

"Fuck no, bro."

Well, that would have to do as an answer, he guessed. Then he spun back to the producer. "Hey, Mr. Barker!" he called out. "Didn't know you'd be joining us."

"Cole," the producer corrected. "How are ya, Morgan?"

"Good."

Cole seemed to be expecting more than that and when he didn't get it, he cleared his throat and finally turned back to Chuck. "I'm actually not joining you. I'm here to observe." He tilted his sunglasses down his nose so that they could see him wink. "See if we can't work some of this into the new 'n improved Games N Rock show. The GnR sessions show."

"Right, right," Chuck said with a sage nod. "Although, maybe we don't want the 'show' part after 'Sessions', seems kind of repetitive. It's not a show per se, more of, um, sessions."

"Of course! You're right. We'll figure all that out." Cole cut his hand through the air smoothly. "So who are we seeing, gents?"

"Critical Hellfire," Chuck said, backing towards the entrance where a few people waited while the bodyguard checked the guest list. "They're absolute fire."

"Ah. Hence the hellfire thing?"

As they got to the bouncer a moment later, Chuck turned and grinned at the man. "Hey, I—"

"Sorry. Invite only," the bouncer said. His shoulder span was probably twice that of Chuck's. And the bouncer had an inch or two on the younger man too, even with Chuck being the tallest of the three as they stood clumped together.

"Oh. Yeah, um, we should be…on there."

"Name?"

"Bartowski. Chuck Bartowski and Morgan Grimes. Might be something about Games N Rock Sessions on there."

The bouncer scanned the list and for a terrifying, mortifying moment, Chuck thought he wouldn't be on the list, that the whole slumping away with his tail between his legs fear would be actualized before he even got into the venue. And in front of Cole Barker who was signing them to expand and streamline their Twitch channel.

"Okay. Go on in. Your name?" he asked Cole.

"Oh man, bummer. I guess you gotta be on the list," Morgan said.

"He's with us," Chuck insisted. "That cool?"

The bouncer shrugged. "Okay. Go on in."

Cole sent Chuck an impressed look, and Chuck felt a little chuffed when the older man thumped him on the back as they walked into the warehouse's large sliding door.

Rush's "Red Barchetta" was blasting from the speakers near the stage. There were maybe fifty people milling about in the large warehouse space, some folks drinking beers on the couches, others at the large tubs filled with ice and beer (very novel), some hanging out at the standing tables. There was a small makeshift bar at the back, too.

The walls were all brick, decorated with a large Andy Warhol print of Debbie Harry in the far corner. Lights beamed down on the rest of the art, which included a few pieces that looked straight out of the annals of heavy metal art lore, beastly troll-like creatures attacking half-naked, muscle-bound warriors with long hair and broadswords. One of the pieces of art looked straight out of Tribal Nation mythology, with bird skulls in the heavens looking down on a mounted Tribal warrior holding his bow aloft, lighting striking it.

Behind the stage where the band's equipment was set up, Chuck spotted a giant chandelier that emitted a haunting orange-red glow.

"Are we in heaven?" Morgan breathed at his shoulder, clutching his arm like it was a lifeline.

"We…might be, buddy."

"Who did this guy's decorating? Can I get his number?" Morgan giggled manically, pushing his hands through his hair and taking it all in. "Chuck. Dude, when more of these fat checks start flooding in and I get my own place like a real life adult, I want it to look just like this!"

"Uh, same. Saaaame," Chuck droned, gaping at all of it.

He turned then, looking over his shoulder.

Cole Barker had disappeared in the scrum as more people kept slowly filtering in through the same door they'd entered.

"Dude, where's Cole? You see where he went?" he asked Morgan.

"Nah, who cares? We aren't here for him. We're here for Critical Hellfire."

"He just disappeared like a ghost, that's all I'm sayin'," Chuck shrugged. "You see how that suit fit him?"

"That comes with the money, buddy," his bearded friend explained. "We'll get to wear fitted suits soon."

"This was my dad's, man. What was I thinking wearing this tonight? Like, I should've used that money to buy a new one. Damn it."

Morgan patted him on the back. "I get it, bud. I don't even know what to do with all that dough. It's just, like…sitting in my safe in my closet. I don't know how to start, even."

Before Chuck could respond, the drummer of the band trotted up onto the stage, holding his drumsticks up in his hand as the crowd cheered. He gave them a toothy glistening grin, winking, going to his set and kneeling to go full Vanna White, swiping a graceful hand along their band's logo printed on his bass drum. "Like that?!" he asked in a yell. "It's new!"

He plopped down on his stool, fixing his shirt that had tears in the front, revealing seriously cut abs. Then he pushed a hand through his wavy brown hair to get it out of his face and began stomping on the bass pedal.

Just like that, he dove into a drum solo that made the hairs on Chuck's neck stand up.

After about a minute of letting their drummer go mad, the other three members of the band climbed up onto the stage, picking up their guitars.

Sarah brought up the rear, holding a hand up in greeting, a confident smile on her face. As if she was warning everyone in the warehouse to buckle up. Oof, he had to lean on Morgan a little, which was hard because the shorter man was hopping up and down in excitement like the rest of the attendees were.

She had thick heeled leather wedge boots on, spikes coming off the sides at the ankles. And her black leather pants clung to her figure like a second skin. You could see the shadow of her belly button under the hem of the black mesh crop top she wore over a black bra. Her long blond hair was feathered back from her face, her makeup was dramatic, smokey eye with blue eyeshadow glimmering on her eyelids at the outer corners.

Her guitarist took the bowler cap on her dark hair from her head and slapped it onto Sarah's head teasingly as she wandered closer to her to fix something with her amp. Sarah took it off, laughing, and slapped it back onto the other woman's head. Then she took her spot at the mic.

And as the drummer slammed one of his sticks onto the crash cymbal, the band froze in pose, waited a beat…and just like that, they dove right into the song.

Chuck and Morgan both raised their fists over their heads and yelled, "OOOOHHHHHHH!"

He found himself thrashing around again next to Morgan, stomping his feet, not caring that he could sort of feel his dad's suit jacket tugging uncomfortably at the shoulders, as it didn't really fit him all that great. If he busted this jacket, he busted it.

He didn't care.

This was too good.

They dropped some legitimately incredible original songs amongst the covers, and when the other guitarist with the long double braids spilling down his front set down his guitar, Chuck saw that there was a keyboard behind him as well.

"Oh no, no he slams the keys too?!" Morgan wailed. "Noooo!"

The unmistakable tune from an organ filled the room, and in swung the drums. Chuck knew immediately what it was, and he eyed his best friend out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the explosion.

Morgan froze, his eyes wide.

Here we go…

Sarah stepped up to the mic, curling her lip, and out came the growl. "I'm gonna take it to the limit…of my looove, Before I turn and walk away…"

Morgan wailed again, the explosion exploding, and he grabbed at the raggedy white shirt he was wearing with his usual brown khakis. "It's Whitesnake! IT'S WHITESNAKE, CHUCK!" He yanked at the Whitesnake shirt he was wearing again.

But as much as he loved his best friend, he moved away from him a little bit, wanting to hear Sarah more than he wanted to hear Morgan's belting of the song.

"Don't break my heart again… like ya did before…"

Chuck had somehow snuck in closer to the stage without even realizing it, drawn to her like a moth to a lamp. He bobbed his head to her bass specifically, twisting up his face in utter awe at how good this shit was.

And as she repeated the refrain, her blue eyes dropped to fasten on him. They widened a little, maybe recognizing him? He didn't know for sure. And then she smiled at him during the musical break, and when she winked, his knees nearly failed him.

Staying upright, he just beamed up at her, bashfully sticking his hands in his pants pockets and bouncing on his toes to the music.

She finally pulled her gaze away from him, tossing her hair back behind her shoulder with a graceful flick of her head.

When Critical Hellfire finished the song with a bang, she leaned into the mic and said, "Thanks for coming, everybody. Have some drinks. They're, uh, not on the house. As it so happens."

The crowd chuckled. A small group right behind Chuck began to chant, "ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE!"

The guitarist with the braids chuckled and leaned into his mic. "We're comin' back, ya freaks. We gotta drink too."

They filed down off of the stage, leaving their instruments in their stands, disappearing into the crowd, in spite of Chuck standing on his toes to try to watch them for as long as he could.

There was no doubt about it. This band was the real deal.

They were special.

They had the spectacle part of putting on a live show down pat. He knew if they had real production value, real money behind them, with lights, stage effects, and a whole stadium, maybe even an amphitheater, at their disposal, they'd be monster rockstars, worldwide.

And maybe he was getting a little carried away because Critical Hellfire's lead singer made his heart beat so hard inside of him it felt like it might literally explode right through his chest cavity. A gruesome thought, sure, but she made his brain go haywire.

Morgan's teasing during their streaming on the channel last night made the viewers laugh, considering all of the "LOL!" responses they got in the comments. But the truth was far more intense. He had more than a crush where this woman was concerned. Or maybe this was just what it felt like to crush hard on a serious rocker babe.

Pushing a hand through his curls, he took a deep breath and moved away from the stage to find Morgan.

He wasn't where he'd left him. Oops…

"Morgan?" he called out, turning to look both ways. "Buddy?!"

Cursing under his breath, he stuffed his hands in his pockets again and wandered around the warehouse, headed for the nearest wall and skirting the edge of the party, taking in the artwork. Up close, the art was even cooler. Like Conan the Barbarian and Red Sonja, but on shrooms or something, and holding electric guitars and swords. Madness.

Who owned this place? And how did Critical Hellfire snag a gig here without having to compete with other bands the way they had to at Mosh Mansion?

Could he be friends with the person who owned this place?

That'd be the ultimate dream.

He supposed he had money now.

"You've got another thing comin'!"

Chuck jumped at the growl in his ear, spinning on his heal and pulling his hands out of his pockets, holding his fists up by his face in his best Bruce Lee impersonation.

He lowered them again as Morgan held his arms up towards the ceiling as if praising higher powers. "It's Judas Priest! Our lord and savior!" He wailed out the high note along with the song—not quite as well as the original—his blood vessels in his neck close to popping.

Stepping in, he grabbed his best friend by the shoulder. "O-Okay. A'right. You're about to pop a blood vessel. Chill."

"I was trying to chill, Chuck. I was. But all these tubs of ice? All I'm finding is water. I don't want water. The hell is this place? Hard rock and no beer? Water? What the fuck?"

"Hydrating is important, Morgan."

"Not that important. Not right now!" He licked his lips. "I need somethin' to wet my whistle."

Chuck gave him a look, guiding him towards the tub of ice in the corner. "Well, now you sound like an old prospector, ya weirdo."

"Somethin' to wet my whistle and a little nugget of goooolllldddd!" he growled, making Chuck giggle.

When they got to the tub, Chuck gestured to it with a beaming grin. "Ta daaaa. Beer. Now don't you tell me I don't do anything for you." Chuck reached in, tugging out a bottle of Dos Equis. "Mmm. Cerveza."

"There are so many kinds, though. How do you just grab one and that's that? You're stronger than me, brother." Morgan made a show of picking.

And a shadow cast over the tub then. Still shaking his head at The Beard's indecision, he glanced up to see who else was getting a drink.

None other than the lead singer of Critical Hellfire reached in to snag a frosty cold bottle of water. She cracked the seal on the bottle cap and brought it up to guzzle it. But she paused when her eyes landed on him.

She lowered the bottle, grinning. "You came."

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I did." He cleared his throat. "We did. We came. Of course we came." He threw his arm around a gaping Morgan Grimes, squeezing him to his side. "We're totally into this band of yours."

"So I've heard." She shrugged one shoulder cutely then pointed at the tub of ice and drinks. "What're you guys having?"

Morgan was silent, making strange quiet squeaking sounds. Sarah lowered her chin and looked through her long eyelashes expectantly.

Chuck cleared his throat and nudged Morgan. "You guys really struck him dumb with how good you are. He gets like this when he, uh, rocks too hard." She laughed and nodded. "This is Morgan. My, uh, partner in crime. Fellow host. Fellow GnR Nerd."

"Hi, Morgan. Nice to meet you." She reached across the tub towards Morgan and Chuck nudged him again. This time more subtly.

Finally, the shorter man pulled himself together and took her hand, shaking it. "Pleasure's all mine. Shit."

She smiled harder. "So? Can I get you a beer?"

"I've got mine." Chuck decided to shoot his shot, as lame of a shot as it might come off as, and he cracked the cap off of his bottle on the edge of the tub. He caught the cap midair in his empty fist and shrugged modestly as she gave him an appraising look. "Hey, thanks for inviting us to this. Seriously lovin' the venue. It's outta control tight. And, as always, you guys fuckin' wail. The original stuff was nonsense." He froze, realizing what he said. "Sorry, I-I mean that as the highest order of compliment. My vocab is… Nonsense, as in, like, totally mental. Bonkers. Out of control. Out of control good. I don't-I don't really dance and I was out there thrashing around like an idiot."

"Yeah, I saw you," she giggled. "And don't worry, I know how you use that word, I wasn't offended." She bit her lip and rushed on. "My, um, my drummer told me you guys have done a lot to promote Critical Hellfire. Thanks a lot for that."

"Hey, yeah. No, of course." He swished his hand through the air dismissively. "Look, full disclosure, I'm-I'm not sure what kind of actual promotion our little Twitch channel actually provides for the local bands, if we help anybody at all. But we do what we can in the only way we know how, ya know?"

"I LIKE ALL BEER."

Chuck and Sarah turned to look at Morgan, eyebrows raised.

Morgan tugged at his denim jacket he wore over his Whitesnake t-shirt. "I'm a big fan of beer, so really, uh…anything. I drink any…all of the, uh…beers." He sent Chuck a less than subtle help me look.

Sarah giggled, then twisted her pursed lips to the side and dug in the ice, making a show of rummaging with adorable "Hmmms", before she came up with a bottle of Michelob Ultra. "You're a Whitesnake fan, apparently. Makes me feel like you're a Michelob Ultra man."

"I am a Michelob Ultra man! You're fuggin' brilliant, holy shit!" He took it gratefully.

She beamed. "Enjoy that. And seriously, you guys, thanks so much for being here."

"Thank you for inviting us!" Morgan exclaimed.

As she walked away, she turned back to smile at them over her shoulder, but then her gaze switched to just Chuck, and he watched as her eyes slid down to his toes and back up to his face again. She gave him a long look, then turned back, disappearing into the throngs of people, mingling.

"Well, I'm a Michelob Ultra man now," Morgan muttered. "Dude, did you see that? Did you see that?!"

"Yeah, she grabbed you a beer. She's nice." Chuck shrugged.

"Not that! Oh my God, Chuck." Morgan twisted his fist in the sleeve of his friend's suit jacket. "She was checking you out! Full on checking you out."

Chuck gave his friend a playful shove and scoffed. "You idiot. She was not. Are you high?"

"No, unfortunately. But you couldn't have really missed that, buddy. Come onnnn!" He groaned when Chuck just shook his head and shrugged. "She looked at you the way Jessica Rabbit looks at Roger Rabbit."

He couldn't help throwing his head back with a laugh, thrusting his hands out. "That's the metaphor you go with?!"

"What? It's apt. Anyway, you're deflecting. She just checked you out hard and I saw it with mine own eyyyyes!" he announced, raising his fist, pointing to his eyes with two fingers.

"You're a nut. Have you seen her? Have you heard her sing? Seen her play that fuggin' bass? Right, she was checking me out, me in my dad's suit that's too tight in the shoulders and too short in the arms. That woman was checking this guy out." He poked himself in the chest with his thumb. "Okay. Sure. Uh huh." He snorted with a roll of his eyes and took a long sip from his beer.

His best friend was seeing things, perhaps blinded by how much he loved him, looked up to him, put him up on a pedestal. But just because Morgan Grimes thought he was a catch—something the real world wouldn't agree with him on for anything—that didn't mean he actually was. Even with the so-called "two-hundy-thou" sitting in his bank account, waiting to be spent, and if he listened to Ellie and Awesome, some of it was waiting to be invested. Money or no money, a woman like the lead singer of the wailing-est band in all of LA didn't just give him that long look she gave him as she walked away because she was checking him out.

And still, a nagging voice in his head kept pointing out that she'd let her blue eyes drop to his toes and back up to the tip of his head again before she turned her gaze away from him.

A/N: I LIKE ALL BEER TOO.

Please review if you're able to. Thanks!

-SC