Fic: Chuck - What You Need
Title: What You Need
Author: Bee
Fandom: Chuck
Pairing: Chuck/Bryce
Rating: G
Notes: Written for picfor1000. No spoilers. Set pre-series. Thanks to very_improbable for checking this over.
Summary: "Get up," Bryce says, cheerfully intractable. "You can sleep in the car."
Bryce smacks him on the shoulder at 9:00 am. Chuck tries in vain to wrestle the covers over his head. "It's Saturday," he mutters into his pillow.
"Get up," Bryce says, cheerfully intractable. "You can sleep in the car."
"The what?" Chuck hopes he sounds grumpy, but he's already rolling out of bed when Bryce tosses a brightly colored towel over his head.
*
Chuck takes Bryce at his word and sleeps hard for a while, reclined in the passenger seat of Tim Franklin's car. He drifts awake as the road starts winding, the seatbelt digging alternately into his shoulder and chin. Bryce is singing along quietly with some classic rock station. The station fuzzes out on the serious curves, but Bryce keeps going, joining back up seamlessly when the signal returns.
Chuck ratchets the seat up and peers out the window.
"That's the ocean."
"It sure is." Bryce sounds inordinately pleased, like dividing one landmass from another by means of a large quantity of salt water was his idea in the first place.
"Cool."
*
They wind along the coastline for another half hour. Chuck's glad he didn't have breakfast; the switchbacks are brutal, and Bryce takes some perverse pleasure in Chuck's involuntary panic noises as they hurtle around another tight curve with only a sheer cliff between them and the ocean hundreds of feet below.
*
Chuck can't tell if Bryce has a specific destination in mind, but eventually he turns off at a poorly-marked, unpaved road. They bump along for a couple of minutes before Chuck spots a dozen or so dusty cars parked amidst the scrubby grass clinging to the thin soil.
Bryce hops out and pops the trunk; Chuck makes his way around to meet him, and lets Bryce hand him a towel, a tube of sunscreen, a baseball hat, and a Frisbee.
"Thanks, Mom," Chuck says. Bryce laughs louder than the lame joke deserves. Chuck looks at him. What gives?
"I made sandwiches," Bryce says, still chuckling a little. He hands over one of those soft-sided coolers; Chuck unzips it and peers inside at two bagged sandwiches and two water bottles, and can't help laughing too.
*
They hike down a moderately perilous incline to what turns out to be a surfing beach, gear abandoned on the shore and the people nothing but specks out in the water. This is Chuck's kind of beach, nothing like the noisy, overcrowded beaches of his childhood summers. It's quiet except for the dull roar of the waves, and a little chilly under an overcast sky.
They tromp along in the sand for a bit; Bryce kicks off his sandals and waits patiently while Chuck shucks his sneakers and socks. Enjoying the cool rasp of sand between his toes and the sharp salt smell of the water, Chuck feels more awake than he has in weeks.
*
They set their stuff down a near a dilapidated old lifeguard tower. Chuck eyes it suspiciously; it looks like a good stiff breeze could knock it over. He catches Bryce eyeing the tower too, probably wondering how high he'd have to jump to catch hold of the ladder. Of course, he could just be lamenting the lack of a hot blonde lifeguard leaning over the railing to flirt with him. For all his apparent openness - his easy smile, his friendly manner - Bryce is harder to read than anyone Chuck knows.
*
Bryce doesn't have to ask if Chuck wants to come jogging; Chuck watches him lope off down the sand, running close to the water where it's easier, the shifting sands tamped down by the relentless wash of the waves. When Bryce is a speck and his footprints have been swallowed by the sea, Chuck lies back on his towel, closing his eyes against the glare.
*
Chuck dozes off, and when Bryce returns he takes advantage of Chuck's groggy suggestibility for the second time that day. The icy shock of the Pacific lapping around his ankles brings Chuck's brain back online in a rush.
"Holy crap, that's cold," he sputters, instinctively retreating from the water.
"No you don't," Bryce laughs, catching his wrist. "You have to keep going. You'll get used to it."
"You know, people only say that when they're making you do something really unpleasant for no good reason."
"Chuck," Bryce says, "trust me," and while Chuck's distracted, trying to formulate a response, Bryce shifts his grip and pulls Chuck along with him into the frigid surf.
*
Half an hour later, Chuck drags himself up onto the blessed warmth of the dry sand. Bryce had declared a laughing, panting truce at about the time Chuck lost feeling below his knees. Bryce flops down beside him, a bit winded but still smiling.
*
While Bryce is out swimming "a couple laps" in the water, Chuck eats his own sandwich and half of Bryce's.
*
Later, after Bryce returns and eats his remaining half-sandwich without complaint, after he races Chuck back to the car and drives like a maniac to the nearest diner they can find, after they settle into a booth still damp and sandy and Bryce lets Chuck steal his bacon and gets a little ketchup smear on the side of his face that Chuck's still debating pointing out to him…
"Hey," Chuck says abruptly, feeling stupid when Bryce looks up sharply. "No, not... Just. Thanks. Thank you."
Bryce huffs a laugh and ducks his head, part of his standard repertoire for deflecting attention, but when he looks up his eyes are clear and blue, and he's smiling like he had earlier, out in the water.
"Somebody has to drag you out of your own head once in a while," Bryce says. "Remind you there's a bigger world out there."
Chuck wants to protest that he knows that, of course he knows it. But somehow...
"I mean it, Bryce," he says, and maybe it's weird for him to be pressing the point like this, but Bryce catches it, tosses it back.
"I know," he says. "You're welcome."
Author: Bee
Fandom: Chuck
Pairing: Chuck/Bryce
Rating: G
Notes: Written for picfor1000. No spoilers. Set pre-series. Thanks to very_improbable for checking this over.
Summary: "Get up," Bryce says, cheerfully intractable. "You can sleep in the car."
Bryce smacks him on the shoulder at 9:00 am. Chuck tries in vain to wrestle the covers over his head. "It's Saturday," he mutters into his pillow.
"Get up," Bryce says, cheerfully intractable. "You can sleep in the car."
"The what?" Chuck hopes he sounds grumpy, but he's already rolling out of bed when Bryce tosses a brightly colored towel over his head.
*
Chuck takes Bryce at his word and sleeps hard for a while, reclined in the passenger seat of Tim Franklin's car. He drifts awake as the road starts winding, the seatbelt digging alternately into his shoulder and chin. Bryce is singing along quietly with some classic rock station. The station fuzzes out on the serious curves, but Bryce keeps going, joining back up seamlessly when the signal returns.
Chuck ratchets the seat up and peers out the window.
"That's the ocean."
"It sure is." Bryce sounds inordinately pleased, like dividing one landmass from another by means of a large quantity of salt water was his idea in the first place.
"Cool."
*
They wind along the coastline for another half hour. Chuck's glad he didn't have breakfast; the switchbacks are brutal, and Bryce takes some perverse pleasure in Chuck's involuntary panic noises as they hurtle around another tight curve with only a sheer cliff between them and the ocean hundreds of feet below.
*
Chuck can't tell if Bryce has a specific destination in mind, but eventually he turns off at a poorly-marked, unpaved road. They bump along for a couple of minutes before Chuck spots a dozen or so dusty cars parked amidst the scrubby grass clinging to the thin soil.
Bryce hops out and pops the trunk; Chuck makes his way around to meet him, and lets Bryce hand him a towel, a tube of sunscreen, a baseball hat, and a Frisbee.
"Thanks, Mom," Chuck says. Bryce laughs louder than the lame joke deserves. Chuck looks at him. What gives?
"I made sandwiches," Bryce says, still chuckling a little. He hands over one of those soft-sided coolers; Chuck unzips it and peers inside at two bagged sandwiches and two water bottles, and can't help laughing too.
*
They hike down a moderately perilous incline to what turns out to be a surfing beach, gear abandoned on the shore and the people nothing but specks out in the water. This is Chuck's kind of beach, nothing like the noisy, overcrowded beaches of his childhood summers. It's quiet except for the dull roar of the waves, and a little chilly under an overcast sky.
They tromp along in the sand for a bit; Bryce kicks off his sandals and waits patiently while Chuck shucks his sneakers and socks. Enjoying the cool rasp of sand between his toes and the sharp salt smell of the water, Chuck feels more awake than he has in weeks.
*
They set their stuff down a near a dilapidated old lifeguard tower. Chuck eyes it suspiciously; it looks like a good stiff breeze could knock it over. He catches Bryce eyeing the tower too, probably wondering how high he'd have to jump to catch hold of the ladder. Of course, he could just be lamenting the lack of a hot blonde lifeguard leaning over the railing to flirt with him. For all his apparent openness - his easy smile, his friendly manner - Bryce is harder to read than anyone Chuck knows.
*
Bryce doesn't have to ask if Chuck wants to come jogging; Chuck watches him lope off down the sand, running close to the water where it's easier, the shifting sands tamped down by the relentless wash of the waves. When Bryce is a speck and his footprints have been swallowed by the sea, Chuck lies back on his towel, closing his eyes against the glare.
*
Chuck dozes off, and when Bryce returns he takes advantage of Chuck's groggy suggestibility for the second time that day. The icy shock of the Pacific lapping around his ankles brings Chuck's brain back online in a rush.
"Holy crap, that's cold," he sputters, instinctively retreating from the water.
"No you don't," Bryce laughs, catching his wrist. "You have to keep going. You'll get used to it."
"You know, people only say that when they're making you do something really unpleasant for no good reason."
"Chuck," Bryce says, "trust me," and while Chuck's distracted, trying to formulate a response, Bryce shifts his grip and pulls Chuck along with him into the frigid surf.
*
Half an hour later, Chuck drags himself up onto the blessed warmth of the dry sand. Bryce had declared a laughing, panting truce at about the time Chuck lost feeling below his knees. Bryce flops down beside him, a bit winded but still smiling.
*
While Bryce is out swimming "a couple laps" in the water, Chuck eats his own sandwich and half of Bryce's.
*
Later, after Bryce returns and eats his remaining half-sandwich without complaint, after he races Chuck back to the car and drives like a maniac to the nearest diner they can find, after they settle into a booth still damp and sandy and Bryce lets Chuck steal his bacon and gets a little ketchup smear on the side of his face that Chuck's still debating pointing out to him…
"Hey," Chuck says abruptly, feeling stupid when Bryce looks up sharply. "No, not... Just. Thanks. Thank you."
Bryce huffs a laugh and ducks his head, part of his standard repertoire for deflecting attention, but when he looks up his eyes are clear and blue, and he's smiling like he had earlier, out in the water.
"Somebody has to drag you out of your own head once in a while," Bryce says. "Remind you there's a bigger world out there."
Chuck wants to protest that he knows that, of course he knows it. But somehow...
"I mean it, Bryce," he says, and maybe it's weird for him to be pressing the point like this, but Bryce catches it, tosses it back.
"I know," he says. "You're welcome."