Bryce was behind proper cover again, but it was a hollow victory. A patch of wet colour, redder than the rest, blossomed over Bryce's right side, the scent of blood heavy and metallic under the scent of gunpowder. Shot though he was, the spy continued shooting as if nothing was amiss. All Chuck could do was helplessly watch, replaying the gunshot - Bryce's faltering, his hiss of pain - over and over in his mind.
His friend - his best friend - had just been shot in front of him. And there was nothing Chuck could do about it. Other than fainting, but the adrenaline rushing through Chuck's system didn't even grant him that small mercy.
Chuck was beginning to get the feeling that Stanford really had it out for the pair of them.
Sarah dropped back behind the desk, risking a glance over at her former partner. "Bryce-"
"Get him out of here!" Bryce snapped, overriding Sarah's concern.
Chuck ignored whatever Sarah was trying to say to him, simultaneously hiding from the bullets and trying his best to hover around Bryce. He wanted to find something clean to press against the wound, he wanted to call Ellie and Awesome and demand they tell him how to field dress a gunshot. Neither instinct, he knew, would be one Bryce would let him indulge. Especially since he seemed intent on pretending that he wasn't even injured in the first place.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Chuck babbled, watching the red stain spread. It was too far in to be the graze he knew Bryce would inevitably dismiss it as, but not too far in to have hit anything vital. At least Chuck really, really hoped so. "I got you shot."
For a moment, Bryce stayed behind cover, his eyes meeting Chuck's. "Idiot," he said, both harsh and fond. "It's not your fault."
Chuck begged to differ. If he hadn't dragged them to Stanford, if he hadn't insisted on Bryce coming back here, if he hadn't gotten them all so invested in the information on the file - maybe they could have made a run for it. Maybe Bryce would never have gotten shot again at all. He really, really hated that Bryce had been shot again, it really wasn't fair and Chuck really ought to have known better than to distract them all when they had been quite literally running for their lives.
And Chuck really had to watch himself in panic mode, because he was pretty sure he'd said all of that aloud.
"Idiot," Bryce said again, affectionately this time. "Want to blame someone? Blame them." As he spoke, he shot twice over the desk, a muffled thump echoing after the gunshots. He lowered himself back down behind the desk, suppressing a groan at the back of his throat. "Hey, Casey," he grinned suddenly, a tiny hint of mirth in his eyes. "You're not the last guy who shot me anymore."
The NSA major might have smirked, just a little, but the spray of bullets from Magnus and his crew made it impossible to spot.
"New plan," Casey growled, considering a beaker filled with liquid. "When Sarah says run, you make for the side door. Larkin goes with you."
Bryce looked as though he'd love to protest, but he met Chuck's pleading gaze and capitulated. "You'll need this," he said, sliding clips of ammunition, knives and what appeared to be several small explosive devices over towards the other agents.
Sarah smiled gratefully, nodding at Casey. "Now!"
Casey shot at the beaker, smoke filled the room, and Chuck began to power crawl out of the lecture hall. Though he couldn't comprehend how, with how much pain he was in, but Bryce kept pace.
"Computer lab," Bryce said, finally sounding strained. "Down the hall."
.
.
"Please tell me you actually have a plan running around that genius head of yours," Bryce groaned, hauling himself into one of the orange chairs with about as much grace as Chuck usually managed.
"A plan, yeah, I have a plan," Chuck agreed, eyes caught again by the - much larger and far wetter looking - bloodstain on Bryce's shirt. "Oh my God, Bryce-"
"Mission first," Bryce cut him off, not ungentle. "I'll live, trust me."
"Not when Ellie gets her hands on you," Chuck mumbled, fully intending to rat his best friend out to his sister at the earliest possible opportunity.
"Let's save Casey and Sarah first, buddy," Bryce suggested, leaning back a little heavier in his chair. "Then we can face the not so tender attentions of Doctors Bartowski and Woodcomb."
Chuck nodded once, turning his attention back to the computer in front of him. He had a plan, and it was even a good one. And now all he had to do was make sure it worked. He pulled up the first name, picking up his phone while Bryce frowned at him, clearly trying to puzzle out Chuck's plan.
"Hi," Chuck greeted as soon as the phone connected. "Hi. Is this- is this Glenda Mitchell? We're in the Science building lecture hall. It's an emergency. Bring lots of big guns."
"I'm sorry. Whoever this is, you've got the wrong number."
"No. No," Chuck blurted out, trying to keep her on the line. "Crap. Crap. There's a code phrase. I know there is." He turned to Bryce, not even bothering to hide the panicked plea on his face. "Um-"
Bryce reached out and took the phone from Chuck's hand. "Glenda?" he asked, sounding utterly calm and not even remotely like he was still bleeding out from a gunshot wound. "Are you coming to the toga party?"
Bryce tossed the phone back to Chuck, scooting the chair closer so he could read the names too.
Five times they called, placing five requests for backup with as much weaponry and explosives as the recruits had in supply. And five times, they said the most ridiculous code phrase Chuck had ever heard in his lifetime.
Telling himself that they had done all they could for Casey and Sarah, Chuck removed the disc from the computer and turned back to Bryce. "Are you coming to the toga party? Really?"
Bryce gave him one of his looks, the exasperated overly fond kind. "We're at college, Chuck. What else were we supposed to say?"
"But a toga party? Buddy, what if you were invited to one?"
Bryce heaved as exasperated a sigh as he could. "Chuck, in case you've forgotten, you weren't the only nerd of the two of us during college. And I studied for three degrees, ran track and did gymnastics when I wasn't hanging out with you. I was really, really, really busy. You think I was the kind of guy who got invited to a toga party?"
As a matter of fact, yes Chuck did think he was the kind of guy who'd get invited to a yoga party. Although, he couldn't remember a single time either of them had attended one. Even when they'd pledged a fraternity.
"These recruits, think they'll be good enough to help?"
"More than," Bryce assured him, a tiny glimmer of satisfaction shining over the pain in his eyes. "I was running missions out of here by the end of junior year."
"Is there any way that you could not right now?" Chuck snapped, unable to bear his friend boasting about the job that could - and probably would, considering Bryce's current run of luck - kill him for another moment. "You've just been shot. Again. And now you're, what? Praising the CIA for the training they've done to these recruits? The training that's probably going to get you all killed?"
"Chuck," Bryce began, as serious as Chuck had ever heard him. "I'm going to say this only once, so I need you to really be listening to me. Okay?"
Chuck didn't want to listen. He wanted to continue blaming the CIA for turning bright, hopeful kids into their own personal toys. For turning his best friend into a weapon of their own design. Unfortunately, it was very hard not to listen to Bryce Larkin when he turned on the quiet intensity. It was the way he'd always talked Chuck out of panic attacks.
"Okay."
Bryce nodded, leaning forward in his chair as much as he was able. "I am a good spy. No, scratch that. I am a brilliant spy. And just because I may have the occasional propensity for getting myself hurt on missions, doesn't mean I'm not very, very good at my job. And I know you're my best friend and I know you hate seeing me hurt - and I am sorry for that, Chuck. Really I am. But I am not going to stop protecting you. And I need you to be okay with that."
"We were going to start a tech company, remember?" Chuck asked, shadows of their old plans echoing in his mind. "How could you have chosen this life?"
"It chose me," Bryce replied softly. So soft Chuck barely even heard him. "And, one day, you'll understand why I'm glad it did."
Bryce Larkin was a stubborn, obstinate, pigheaded man. And he was a spy. And Chuck's best friend. And the one didn't negate any of the others. Chuck might not be a spy in the strictest sense, but he was also stubborn (and obstinate and pigheaded) and he was also Bryce's best friend. Which meant, hopefully, he had the leeway to do what he was about to do.
"I don't think I'll ever be entirely okay with that, Bryce," Chuck stated quietly, watching sadness and resigned disappointment flash over his friend's face. "But, I really don't want to lose you again. So. I propose a trade."
"A trade?" Bryce invited, tearing off the lower half of his undershirt and pressing it against the blood soaked fabric on his side. His breathing was slightly more laboured as he continued; "I'm intrigued."
"Do your job, buddy, every bit of it. Protect me. Protect Sarah and Casey, Ellie, Awesome, and Morgan. Protect all of us, if that's what you want to do. Get into firefights and fistfights and be even better than James Bond and Jason Bourne combined."
Bryce's eyebrows disappeared into the tousled mess of his hair, a grin (bright, easy, the kind only Chuck himself ever managed to coax out of him) appearing on his lips. "And in return?"
Chuck pointed at the rapidly reddening fabric in Bryce's hand. "The minute that happens, I want to know. No hiding it. No avoiding medical attention. I understand if you don't want to involve Ellie and Awesome, too many injuries would blow our covers anyway, but I don't want to be the guy left out of the loop. You get hurt protecting me? I know about it and we take care of it. Or I go to Beckman and tell her you being my handler is negatively impacting our mission."
Part of Bryce bristled at that, Chuck knew. He'd always hated being held accountable to anyone and anything above what he believed was best. But, the thing was, Chuck knew Bryce. Knew him well enough to know that - not every time, but when it mattered - Bryce would bend for Chuck.
"I get to do what I want and you get to mother hen me," Bryce hummed, nodding easily. "Buddy, that's been our relationship since the day we met."
Chuck bit back the urge to grin. "You agree then?"
Nothing about this situation was good, but they were, and that was enough.
Bryce's eyes twinkled. "Hija."
Of course he had to agree in Klingon. "Dork."
Bryce's answering grin disappeared behind his raised gun, a single gunshot echoing loudly in the room. Behind Chuck, there was a crash; something sounding very much like a body dropping heavily onto one of the other computer desks.
"That's one less crossbow wilding psychopath you have to worry about," Bryce managed, hissing through the pain from the recoil.
"Now I only have to worry about one legendarily stubborn superspy," Chuck agreed, trying very hard not to turn and look at the dead body.
Bryce's smile softened, turning almost chagrined. "It's time to face the wrath of both Bartowski's isn't it?"
"Don't worry, buddy," Chuck grinned, deciding that Stanford would just have to forgive him for borrowing one of their chairs. "You've got about five minutes to think up a cover story."
Bryce glanced up at him, fortunately not objecting to being pushed out of the room. "Rabid Icelandic UCLA fan?"
"We'll just say we were in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Bryce chuckled, the sound turning into a groan. "Ellie's never going to let either of us leave the complex ever, ever again."
.
.
Late Sunday afternoon, they arrived home again. After a long and exhausting night in the hospital, Bryce had discharged himself AMA. Ellie allowed this only as far as it took to get him into the car, stating calmly but firmly that the spy was in her care now. Bryce, already pale from blood loss, had gone even whiter at the pronouncement. Despite the somber mood from Bryce's injury, the drive back home had been almost enjoyable. He and Bryce had slept a good three out of the five hours, the other two spent playfully bemoaning the blowout that had been the football game.
As they had neared the city, Bryce had tried one last time to persuade Ellie that letting him stay in his own apartment was a sensible course of action. He had lost the argument. Three to one. He accepted his defeat with good grace, barely even complaining as Awesome helped him into the Bartowski-Woodcomb apartment.
"I'm sorry your return to Stanford wasn't everything you thought it would be," Ellie sighed, entering the kitchen with Chuck while Bryce sprawled on the couch.
Chuck smiled bracingly, taking a long drink of water. "You remember that evening with Morgan in the karaoke bar? His cover of Glory of Love that he dedicated to you?"
Ellie's eyes widened with horror. "That completely ruined Karate Kid 2."
Morgan was many things, a good singer was not one of them.
"Seriously though, Ellie," Chuck smiled, wishing that he didn't smell like blood and hospital and gunpowder so he could give her a proper hug. "Thank you for dropping everything and coming to help. It really, it meant a lot. To both of us."
Both Bartowski's turned, watching the sleeping figure of Bryce for a long moment.
"We look after family," Ellie murmured, hugging him. "It's what we do." She smiled, looking down the corridor towards the bathroom. "Now, I'm going to help Devon find some stronger soap. Call us if he wakes up and needs anything."
"Will do."
Chuck waited until his sister was down the corridor before he went into the living room. "Come on, buddy," he called, gently shaking his shoulder. "There's a nice, comfy bed with your name on it."
That it was Chuck's bed was neither here nor there.
Bryce opened one eye, the blue hazy with sleep and the pain meds Ellie had stubbornly insisted he take. He muttered something under his breath about Bartowski's, but he accepted Chuck's support as they shuffled down the corridor to his room. Chuck eased him gently onto the bed, smiling as Bryce muttered about the Tron poster and closed his eyes again.
.
.
The thing was, Chuck didn't intend to keep Fleming's disc of Stanford recruits. He hadn't intentionally kept it away from Sarah and Casey when they'd driven back down while Chuck was still sitting by Bryce's bedside. But, now that he was back home, Chuck couldn't deny the urge to know. His name was on this disc. He had a file devoted to himself, both on this disc and in the Intersect. And, Bryce would never have given it to him and let him keep it if he didn't - on some level - think that Chuck deserved to know the truth.
So, he only felt a tiny bit guilty as he slipped the disc into his computer while his friend slept (or pretended to sleep, it was hard to tell with Bryce) obliviously on his bed.
"You didn't think we'd let you keep that, did you?" Sarah asked, leaning in the doorway to his room.
"I have to know, Sarah."
Sarah's eyes flickered briefly to Chuck's bed and the agent on it, but she nodded. "Okay, Chuck." She came further into the room, coming to stand at his left side.
.
Chuck clicked on his name, a black and white video popping up on screen. It was Professor Fleming, just as Chuck had known him senior year.
"Test subject 0326," Fleming said. "Bartowski. This will be his first interview."
Chuck frowned. He couldn't remember ever having an interview like this with his professor.
Fleming pressed a button on his phone. "Send Chuck in."
The office door opened, Bryce Larkin walking in. He looked as impossibly young and handsome as he always had, but there was a kind of anger in his bearing.
"Bryce," Fleming greeted, trying to rush him out. "This isn't a good time. I'm waiting for another student."
"Chuck Bartowski," Bryce said, the anger in his voice impossible to detect, except for someone who knew him. "He never got your message."
"What are you talking about?"
"You put Chuck on the CIA recruitment track." Bryce's voice wasn't just angry, it held a demand for an explanation, with the undercurrent that it had better be a good one.
"It's not up to me, Bryce," Fleming explained, almost pleading. "They want him for the Omaha Project."
Bryce blanched, rocking back in his seat like he'd been punched. "That's a military operation. They'll turn Chuck into-"
"I'm required to send all the top test results to the agency," Fleming interrupted, apparently oblivious to the ice creeping into Bryce's eyes.
"I want my friend out of this." It wasn't a demand. It was a statement of what was going to happen. As if Bryce Larkin's word was law.
Fleming shook his head. "He's a perfect candidate. Key words in his essay responses correlate to 98% of the subliminal images in the exam."
Bryce looked down, taking a moment to calm himself. "You don't get it," he said, voice calm. Too calm. "Chuck's a good person. He's got too much heart for this kind of work. He's no operative." Whatever Bryce was seeing in Fleming's face made him slam a palm down on the desk, desperate. "You can't put him out in the field. He won't survive!"
Chuck rocked back in his computer chair, unable to process what he was watching. Bryce defending him, protecting him, even back then.
"The agency isn't going to let go of a recruit this promising." Fleming shook his head, almost awed. "The amount of information he can retain?"
Once again, Bryce looked like he'd just been hit. "They're not going to give him a choice."
"As things stand now?" Fleming made a noise of apology. "No."
"Chuck has too much heart for a job like this. Too much integrity. Too much soul. It would destroy him and I won't let that happen."
Professor Fleming made an uncomfortable sound at the back of his throat. "It's not your choice, Larkin. It's not even mine."
Bryce's eyes flickered, a plan visibly taking shape before him. "It is now." He leaned forward, placing both his hands on the desk. "Now, here's what we're going to do. You're going to tell them that you made a mistake. You tell them that you got Chuck's records mixed up. Pick a failing student, give him Chuck's score and I'll plant answers to the mid-semester test in his dorm. The student gets expelled, Chuck graduates and never hears from the CIA. Ever. You keep your job and the agency gets me. Everybody wins."
"Larkin-"
"Do we have a deal?"
"I can't tell them I mixed up the results. My credibility, Bryce-"
Bryce smiled, sharp and sinister, exactly like he did whenever someone was holding a gun on Chuck. "I don't care about your credibility, Professor. I care about Chuck. Now, are you going to help me, or am I going to have to resort to something unpleasant?"
"His job after graduation," Fleming began, sounding almost panicked.
Bryce paused, pain flickering over his face. "His dream job. It's CIA?"
"He's brilliant and we need him."
Bryce smiled. It wasn't cold or bitter, it was bright and proud. "He is. And you're going to find somewhere else for him to start out," Bryce stood, and there was nothing but cold promise in his eyes. "Because if he so much as breathes near a CIA company, you're not going to live to do the same." As quickly as the threat was there, Bryce's Hollywood smile was back in place. "Let me know which student we're framing. Have a nice day, Professor."
.
.
Chuck pushed away from the desk, eyes fixed on the image of the twenty-one year old version of his friend. "Bryce was the reason I lost my dream job," he breathed, waiting for the sting of betrayal to appear. "But he did it to save me." And that was why betrayal was nowhere near Chuck's complicated list of emotions.
He spun in his chair, meeting the pained eyes of his best friend. "Why couldn't you have just told me?"
Bryce smiled, and it was sadness and pain and relief. "Back then? They'd already recruited me. I was CIA property, and so were my secrets."
Chuck understood that, he did. But, that didn't stop him wishing that Bryce could have spoken to him about it. He knew how much it must have torn him up not to be able to tell Chuck anything about it.
"And since everything?" Chuck waved a hand at his head to demonstrate the everything.
Bryce's face was a blank mask, but his eyes filled with shadows and pain. "I didn't want you to hate me."
Sarah squeezed Chuck's shoulder, taking the disc and slipping out of the room.
Chuck moved from the chair to the free side of the bed, letting out a long breath. "I could never hate you, Bryce," he said quietly. "I tried, those four years when I thought you'd just abandoned our friendship. But CIA or not, gunshot wounds or not, you're my best friend and I could never hate you."
"I made you lose your dream job and because of that your girlfriend," Bryce reminded him, face guarded and words designed to sting.
"First of all, Jill dumped me for a guy she'd been sleeping with for months, that's not on you," Chuck announced, brushing quickly past the still stabbing betrayal. "Second? My dream job was working with you in our own company. Assistant Manager and Accountant for the Burbank Buy More might not be exactly that, but it is close. And we get to save the country too, so that's pretty cool."
The laugh Bryce let out was pained and wet, but his eyes sparkled. "What did I ever do to deserve a friend like you?" he asked, like it was a mystery why Chuck hadn't unceremoniously tossed him from his life.
Fortunately, that was an easy question to answer. "You remember freshman year?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, everything you did then and then everything you did that summer, and then everything you did sophomore year and-"
"I get it, Chuck."
"Good," Chuck nodded, flopping back against the pillows. "Because I could ask you what I ever did to deserve that kind of loyalty."
Chuck didn't even have to look to know his friend was grinning. "You remember freshman year?"
Chuck couldn't help the laughter that shook the bed, and it didn't matter because Bryce was laughing too. And it hurt, it had to hurt, but they just couldn't stop. They laughed so hard Ellie came in to check on them.
"What is going on in here?" Ellie demanded, half amused, half in doctor mode.
"Chuck started it," Bryce grinned, only a little out of breath.
"I did not," Chuck protested, wide eyed. "He did."
"Oh yeah, blame the guy who just got shot."
Chuck had a very mature response, but sticking his tongue out at Bryce just seemed even more appropriate.
Ellie shook her head at them, but Chuck could see the smile she was fighting back. "Don't make me separate you two."
"Sorry, Ellie," they chorused, innocent as misbehaving school children.
"Why do I have the feeling you're going to be the worst patient I've ever had?" Ellie asked, her smile in her voice.
"Don't worry, Doctor Bartowski," Bryce smiled, eyes slipping closed. "Chuck'll keep me in line."
Ellie looked highly doubtful, which was slightly unfair considering Chuck held the record for making sick superspies eat chicken soup when they didn't want to, but her eyes were soft and warm. "Get some sleep," she suggested, inching out of the room. "We'll get you when it's dinner time."
Chuck wanted to shower and change, and make sure Bryce hadn't bled through his dressings again, before he went to sleep. But, by the time his sister had closed the door gently, Chuck's eyes were heavy and he was sure Bryce was already asleep. It had been a long, long weekend. A nap was exactly what he needed. That being said, the next time someone suggested going back to Stanford, Chuck was going to have some very strong words for them. Because, college had been the best years of his life, but Stanford? That place definitely had it out for it's graduates.
