[ chuck/casey ] [ Christmases and Home Cooking (4a/4)]
[ Fandom | Chuck ]
[ Characters | Chuck / Casey ]
[ Giftee | skyesurfer12 ]
[ Rating | NC-17. PG-13 this Chapter ]
[ Word Count | 12.1k - This part (4.6k) ]
[ Warnings | AU (Chuck and Casey used to be neighbours as kids), Language, Pre-season 5, Unbeta'd ]
[ Summary | Team Bartowski trudge through missions until General Beckman has other plans which leaves them a week to spend Christmas with family and friends. Leaving them plenty of time to reminisce about days of old and of days to come. ]
[ Author's Note | Finally, finally, I have wrapped this fic up to a conclusion that is as satisfying to me as it will hopefully be to you. Thank you for bearing with my 'Christmas' exchange writing - honestly this is precisely the reason why I never commit myself to multi-chaptered things. So this is an achievement for me :D
Apparently I've actually got to split the last part up into two because there's too much text. This hasn't ever happened before. /excited! There be fluff all over the place!
My sincerest apologies goes to skye for stretching this out for so long as I have done. Please enjoy this dear. :) ]
[ Disclaimer | If I were the owner of Chuck, there would have been more Casey and Chuck giving one another smouldering gazes. So nada, I just play in this sandbox. ]
[ Chapters | Part 1 ● Part 2 ● Part 3 ● Part 4a ● Part 4b [END] ]
The door feels heavy underneath his hand as Casey pushes it open, revealing the entrance to a home he once knew. There is an apprehensive feeling that has settled into his stomach as he enters the threshold of his family’s beach house. He feels less of a family member but more a stranger as if time has stripped him of his rights.
Memories fill his thoughts as bits and pieces trigger them from the deep recesses of his mind. It is like looking over someone else’s shoulder and he wonders if he turns around fast enough he can still catch glimpses from days of old; of days past filled with childlike laughter and innocence. Being a part of the marines had dulled the rose-tinted view of the world, conditioning him to perform with military efficiency the sufficient tools required as an adult.
The gaudy puce coloured walls have been thankfully been replaced by various shades of clinical white. White is a good tone: classic and clean with modern allure that rich football wives flock towards. The patrons provide a steady income for his mother as they rent the house out for weekends or for long summers. He’s rather surprised they were able to secure these accommodations during such a busy time of the year.
There are paintings that adorn the walls that he doesn’t recognize; splashes of colour in nonsensical geometric shapes and orientations that are known as art. They replace award-winning photographs that his father had preferred and Casey wonders what became of the shot with the lone wolf standing out amongst the white tundra of snow. That one had been his favourite.
Further along in the open living space, Casey spots an unfamiliar set of white couches set upon the ancient Persian rug; the same rug which had seen many a wine spill and offered warmth on rainy nights with mugs of hot chocolate. At least that hadn’t changed.
The scent of cooking permeates the air, filled with warm spices and cooked meat. It is a nostalgic mix of spicy tang and herbs that Casey can recognize anywhere as his mother’s cooking.
He studiously looks down at his combat boots as if the thought to take them off had only just occurred to him and he bends down to pluck his laces free using efficient flicks of his wrists.
Chuck quietly watches Casey as he leans back against the closed door. The sight is captivating whether it was watching a much younger version of Casey strumming his guitar to the man he had come to know again and love.
It is almost startling to find Casey’s hands are shaking as they ruthlessly attack the black nylon. He squashes down offering Casey any assistance as he bends down to tug off his Chuck Taylors. Casey was too proud to ask for help and Chuck pretends it didn’t take them five minutes. Shoelaces are tricky things.
They slowly meander towards the kitchen, where the muffled sound of conversation floats through the open doorway. Chuck can’t resist asking, “Are you okay, Casey?” He brushes his fingers over the back of Casey’s hand and gives him a questioning look. They stall long enough for Casey to calm his inner turmoil; his carefully honed mask giving nothing away despite the small tick along his jaw.
“Let’s do this.”
Chuck smiles in encouragement and saunters into the kitchen, upping the wattage to avoid appearing too nervous. “Hello everyone!” Chuck lets his optimistic aura permeate every corner of the room.
He feels more than sees Casey stand behind him as the heat rolls off the older man. If Chuck had wanted to lean back a centimetre, he would most likely feel the solid press of a muscular chest against his back. The warm puff of Casey’s exhalations makes the soft curls on the back of his neck stand on end.
This was either going to be the reunion of the century or an unmitigated disaster. Chuck couldn’t quite tell which cliff he would prefer the situation to plummet off if it came to that, but he staunchly refused to think of Casey backing out and driving all the way back to Burbank. They were going to do this.
“There you are! We thought you’d gotten lost trying to find the front door from the car, Chuck,” Mary teases as she busily makes a potato salad on the kitchen counter as she waved a pair of innocuous tongs in their general direction. It still irks him that the people he chose to be around could turn something like a kitchen implement into a murder weapon.
“Lunch is just about ready. Everyone else just took a quick walk on the beach and should be back soon enough.”
Morgan and Alex sit innocently on kitchen stools with glasses of juice. Their heads whip around at Chuck’s greeting and immediately a twin pair of ingratiating looks is aimed in Casey’s direction.
Casey pays neither of them any attention as he honed his eyes on his mother’s back. She seems smaller somehow than the last time he remembers although so much was to be expected when he’s done a fair bit of growing on his own.
Gale, who had until that moment been stirring the pot, turns around and wipes her hands on the tea towel. The wooden spoon had never looked so much at home in her hand and it was not mistake that the kitchen was her domain.
“Did you say Chuck, Mary?” She peers around the island counter and sets the spoon down. Her face immediately lights up as she spots them and Chuck could feel Casey immediately tense up behind him.
One would think for a man that is capable of taking down multiple Mossad agents and their grandmothers, meeting one’s mother again would not be as terrifying. It is infinitely worse. Chuck could sympathise and he gives Casey’s fingers a quick reassuring squeeze.
“Come, let me have a good look at you,” Gale speaks kindly as she seizes up both cheeks within her hands and tilts Chuck’s face gently from side to side, “My, you’ve grown into such a handsome young man. Let me give you a hug.”
She pulls him into a giant bear hug which belied the strength of a seventy year old woman. Chuck momentarily thinks about the special technique she employs to crush oxygen out of him and wonders if Gale was willing to give him free lessons.
After a few minutes - with Chuck’s face thankfully remaining the same flushed pink colour - Gale turns her curious look to Casey before looking back to the young man who had yet to escape from her clutches. “And who is your handsome friend, Chuck?”
Chuck smiles and steps to the side, murmuring softly, “I think introductions are in order. This is John Casey. We work and live together. But I think I’ll let him elaborate.”
Gale gives him a quizzical look and then turns to appraise the taller man, soaking in the sight of corded muscles and broad shoulders as she waits patiently for an explanation.
“Hello. I’m-” Casey pauses and clears his throat. Until then, he had avoided looking directly into his mother’s eyes a mixture of fear and anxiety as to what emotions he will find there. With the last dredges of his quickly fleeing courage, Casey looks up. “John Casey. Only I’m not just John Casey; I am your son.”
The words are met with stony silence and drives Gale’s hands to land on her hips. An absolute thunderous expression settles on her face. “This better not be an elaborate April Fools’ Joke, young man. My son has been dead for years protecting this country and his beliefs.” Despite her words, there is an undercurrent of hope; a small fledgling sliver of light that Gale forced to keep at bay because she couldn’t allow herself to believe the possible truth in Casey’s words.
“Ma… My name is- was Alexander Henry Coburn. The daughter I never thought I would have is sitting over there next to Morgan,” Casey drew in a breath, unsure how much more proof his mother will require to believe him. “There have been a number of circumstances that have led me to where I am today, but I am very much your son; if you will have me.”
Gale lets out a soft breathy hiccup and she seizes Casey into an equally fierce hug with the intention of not letting go anytime soon. Everyone lets out a collective breath. Everything will be alright in the end and Chuck shelves away any notion of cliffs and situations for another day.
*
[2007]
It all begins with a phone call.
The piece of technology buzzes in his suit’s pocket as the plane taxis on the NSA-sanctioned flight en route to Burbank making the loose change he has there rattle.
John Casey had just recently been in Barcelona on a previous assignment. It took another twenty four hours to tie up loose ends and he had rather been looking forward to his pick of assignments as soon as he returned back to Fort Meade until CIA’s poster boy decided to ruin that particular avenue. It makes his index finger twitch involuntarily.
Sliding the new iPhone out of his pocket, he unlocks the lock screen with a swipe of his thumb. The number is listed as unknown and Casey figures it was probably the lab boys back at base with information about the recipient of the Intersect. He glares at the screen for good measure before bringing it to his ear.
“Casey here. Speak.”
“S-Sir!” Casey can hear the man’s spine snap to attention and it makes his grin widen. His reputation definitely precedes him. “We’ve found out a bit more about the person who Larkin sent the Intersect to. Nothing special from what we could dig up: civilian, twenty-eight, a Stanford drop-out and in the current employment of the Burbank branch of the Buy More. He lives with his sister and her boyfriend: both civilian doctors. Full name, Charles Bartowski. The only connection we could find was that they used to be roommates.”
It is now his turn for his spine to stiffen, the name leaves his mouth a little dry. This is a twist of cruel, cruel fate. Christ on a stick, what the hell was a good kid like Chuck doing with Bryce Larkin. It was easy to tune out the lab guy’s blather about Chuck’s past - he had enough first-hand experience down that particular route.
What were the chances that this Charles was different from the kid he used to live next to? Surely there are more than one Chuck Bartowski’s in the world that also lived in California and had gone to Stanford. Damn it.
Shit just got real and Casey knows his typical MO needs some alteration, namely the termination of the target part. After all, he joined the marines and then the NSA to protect those he loved. If the Intersect is recoverable and the kid isn’t smart enough to make copies then Casey can slink out in the shadows without anyone being any wiser and dodging this metaphorical bullet. Everything will be peachy keen and he will be on his way to Syria come the end of the week.
If it was possible for John Casey, master of disguises and second to none, to have lived for as long as he has doing special ops that no one with a shred of humanity would poke a stick at, then it isn’t out of the realm of possibility that this very same John Casey can fly under the radar before anyone figures out who he used to be. Just as he had planned on dealing with ever coming in contact with those he once knew.
Silently, Casey terminates the call and calmly folds his leg over a knee. He reaches down to pull out a black Moleskine from his carry-on bag. The leather book holds a number of tabs on targets he had taken care of in the past amongst other things. More importantly, it had records of the number of favours that people owed him; a little black book full of tabs about enemies, friends and the sort that fell into neither category that were always the most dangerous.
The pages are filled with important bullet points in his loopy penmanship. The margins have little annotated notes in fine print and sometimes there was a sketch or two when the urge tickled him. Even if neat handwriting never saved anyone’s lives in the military, Casey’s kept up the practice. It is a matter of pride after all.
He thumbs over to a new page and begins to write an entry for the new mission, marking Chuck’s name in the margin and boxing it in black ink. Everything he recalls about Chuck he writes down, facts and estimations. Casey wonders if the curly haired kid from his past with a heart of gold still wore it on his damn sleeve.
Casey pauses in his writing to looks outside at the clouds lazily rolling past.
If the Intersect is somehow unrecoverable, Casey knows full well Beckman will issue out a kill order. There are too many unknown parameters so early in the mission to determine precisely when but Casey knows it would be lurking in the horizon.
He never doubted his actual purpose in Burbank and in the interest of national security Casey knows he will not hesitate to neutralize the threat but only if his judgment on the matter required him to do so.
At least being at the top of the food chain at the NSA had its perks. It is better him than some rookie who doesn’t know the right end of a gun. But he refuses to think of Chuck and a clean death in the same sentence and turns his attention back down to his notes.
On a new line below his last disjointed sentence, Casey writes neatly: ‘Possesses the Intersect. Details regarding mission operatives unestablished, for now.’
Casey dots the period harsher than typical and closes the book, stashing the Moleskine and pen away. He knows there would come a day when he would end up dealing with someone he once knew (there had been that kerfuffle with an old classmate of his, but he never did like Andrew anyway and it wasn’t like Casey felt bad about burning him).
He smirks at his reflection as the pilot announced they were to be landing soon. The bank of clouds to his right parted open and the city of Los Angeles sweeps into view. This was going to be a cakewalk. By the start of next week he will be sipping scotch in the alps of Switzerland (Casey decides Syria’s weather doesn’t quite agree with him this time of the year).
Well, that’s how Casey thought it would pan out anyway.
*
As soon as she extricates herself from around her son, Gale smacks a beefy forearm with enough force that causes Casey’s skin to smart. It was a good thing she hadn’t been in possession of her wooden spoon. “Do you know how many tears I have shed for you or the number of sleepless nights I had thinking about what I could have done better? Why didn’t you call home or write, young man?”
“Ow Ma…” Casey grouses as he rubs the spot on his arm, recognizing the anger in his mother’s tone, understandable given the circumstances which called for such emotions. “We were…- There was never enough- It was safer this way for you if you thought I was dead,” Casey settles to say at last, grumbling an apology again under his breath and feeling like he was five all over again with his hand in the cookie jar. Then again, the scope of punishment for pretending to be dead to one’s mother definitely fell into a different category altogether.
He flinches when Gale purses her lips and narrows her eyes at him in displeasure. Casey is glad though that she hadn’t chosen to dissolve into waterworks. Special Ops training never covered the particulars of how to deal with distraught mothers. He can endure whatever his mother had to dish out with the bottled amount of grief that she had undoubtedly kept inside.
“Ma?”
The woman in front of him slumps slightly and motions for Casey to sit down at the dining table adjacent to her. She slips her hand over his large paw to maintain physical contact with him as if afraid that if she let go he would once again disappear into the ether never to be heard from again.
The dining room quickly empties to give them a semblance of privacy. Chuck quietly retreats into the kitchen, announcing softly about making everyone some tea and Mary quickly follows her son’s example as she ensures their lunch won’t be burnt before consumption. Alex and Morgan volunteer to get the rest of Chuck and Casey’s things that are still in the van, eager to slip away for the time being.
“You know, I respected your choice when you joined the marines even though you had the smarts to go to college and do something more with yourself,” she holds up her hand when Casey opens his mouth ready to defend his choice, “Obviously, you are every inch your father’s son. Both of you are actually. So eager to scuttle off to get shot at in another country where I couldn’t stand over you and protect you anymore.
“Like all the other mothers out there with headstrong sons, we all wish upon our lucky stars that you will make it home to us safe and sound. Like some of them, my heart bled when we received the call that you had been caught in a raid with your body blasted into fleshy bits by an IED.
“Right now though, unlike any of the other mothers I know, you came back to me and it is like all my prayers have been answered all at once. Your father would have been so proud of you. Oh my darling boy,” Gale lets out a soft sigh as she cups one of Casey’s cheeks with one of her weathered hands with a smile on her face.
He bends his head downwards and nods; the air in his lungs is lodged uncomfortably in the back of his throat. Never a man of many words, Casey keeps silent unwilling to admit missing the cadence of her voice.
“What a handsome man you have become. I won’t presume to ask why you have done what you did. If you wish to tell me one day, that is your choice to make. As your mother, I am entitled to worry about you and your brother all day, every day. Goodness knows with his job at the FBI and you at… wherever you work now, I’ve earned each and every one of these white hairs,” Gale laughs.
She pats his knuckles absentmindedly when Chuck sets down twin mugs of tea between them with a charming smile on his face.
“Mamma, there are a few things that is very important to me that I have to tell you about,” Casey quietly speaks, ignoring the inquisitive light in Chuck’s eyes and the way the younger man lingers next to his chair. He quickly adds that not all of them were bad to placate the rising look of panic in her eyes.
“As you know, I’m no longer Alex Coburn. I’m a Colonel and I work for the NSA. The Bartowskis figured that one out a few years back. And-” Casey takes in a breath and curls his free hand in between Chuck’s fingers who looks like a deer caught in headlights, “Chuck and I have been together for a year and some.”
The look of shock on Gale’s face seemed to be mirrored as she blinks owlishly between them. Casey keeps his gaze steady on his mother’s face despite the jackrabbit heart beat that pounded quickly against his rib cage with each passing second.
“Oh! In a way that is deeper than flat and workmates then?” she asks once she has gotten over her initial surprise. Of course, she had been hoping but not expecting him to get back together with Kathleen.
From the way her granddaughter had been speaking about Kath’s new man, she had finally settled on moving on from that particular chapter in her life. Gale was very proud of how strong she is, even though she feels a small pang in her chest that there never will be a day to call her daughter-in-law.
“We’re very happy,” Casey answers with a small smile and feels Chuck settle one warm hand on his shoulder. He lets out the air that he didn’t realise he had been holding. This was much better than the fireworks he had been expecting.
She nods and readily accepts her son’s choice. “Then I am very happy for the both of you. You must tell me how this came to be after lunch,” Gale smiles as she gets up gracefully from the table and promptly turns around to bully the two men into setting up the table. Only this time around, no longer was Chuck clinging from Alex’s back but standing side by side with shoulders occasionally brushing and thinking they were being subtle about the entire thing.
“You’re taking this awfully well,” Mary murmurs as she gets out the crockery and opens the oven door which swathes the house in all sorts of mouth-watering scents. When Chuck had informed her of his choice in bed mates, she had been equally as surprised. With her track record as a mother being as short as it had been, Mary had decided it had not been her place to say anything about it.
It hadn’t stopped her from threatening the NSA agent with bodily harm if any hurt came upon her son though.
Gale laughs at her old friend’s words and turns the stove off. “Give me some time to adjust, Mary. You can imagine my surprise when Ellie and James told me about you last year. The next thing I know, Henry will be coming back for tea this time next year. I seem to have a knack for attracting people that just come back from the dead it seems.”
*
[1999]
It’s been nine years since their mother has left. It’s been nine years since he realises dark chocolate tastes so much better than milk and this was a choice that his tastebuds never dared to refute. And nine years since Ellie had raised him up pretty much single-handedly (with help from Gale to make sure neither of them died from starvation when his father was too busy ensconced within his study to remember to eat himself let alone his children’s welfare).
The constant things in his life - in the utterly boring life that was known as middle and high school and the hateful period called puberty - are Ellie, Jammy and Morgan.
Ellie, his brilliant big sister with her terribly brilliant mind, had gone on ahead to UCLA’s medical school. Jammy, the not as equally brilliant but still fiercely intelligent man had made the typical Coburn male choice and run off to join the marines. That only left Morgan as the one thing he saw every day and if it hadn’t been for his best friend’s constant presence, it wouldn’t have made school bearable.
His list had used to contain someone else but no one really ever talked about him anymore. If Chuck was entirely honest with himself, it also used to contain his parents but that was another topic that wasn’t mentioned ever.
Chuck was now eighteen with gangly limbs that grew too fast for the rest of his body. He was tall and entirely too geeky to be a popular kid unless it was amongst fellow nerds and Zork fanatics. His fingers were calloused in a way that spoke of a diligence in his study of popular culture rather than from books or sports.
Not to say his head wasn’t in the wrong place; he wouldn’t have gotten into Stanford’s Engineering Program if it were. He will be headed out in a few days’ time to get settled into his new dorm life. Like the dawn of a new day, this was a new chapter of his life that Chuck couldn’t help feeling excited about.
There was a small mountain of boxes in his room that had been half-heartedly filled with the things he wanted to put into storage and stuff that would be going to Stanford. His bed had a larger pile of things that Chuck deemed his indecisive pile. There was more on his bed than there was in the boxes themselves.
Flopping carelessly onto the window seat, Chuck stared outside into his backyard and blew the curly bangs off his face. The clock on his desk ticked steadily away and Chuck couldn’t help but wish the constant things in his life could have forever remained that way.
It was all wishful thinking and he smiled self-deprecatingly to himself as he thought of lazy days in the sun, carefree and innocently oblivious to the world at large.
This - going to Stanford - was just the gateway to change to the world beyond. It would be a glorious adventure. He pushed off the window seat and began to pick his way through the items on his bedspread, brushing gentle fingers over the acoustic guitar. Chuck was sure even if the change wasn’t particularly grandiose, he would soldier through it and make the negative into a positive.
Picking up the instrument, Chuck returned to the window seat and tucked himself around the wood as he plucked gently at the steel strings in a nameless melody. Stanford’s main campus is almost a 6 hour drive away from Burbank and if it wasn’t for Ellie attending UCLA and making sure he didn’t die, he wouldn’t even be able to live at the dorms.
He wonders if it would be possible to keep his part-time job at the local Buy More up there, just to help with things on the side as best as he could. Apparently he had a face for sales and it had been a blast. All in all, it was an interesting way to spend summer break with Morgan as they terrorised the shelves and were generally unhelpful with inquiries. They all had to start somewhere right?
“Chuck? Open the door buddy! We have to kick off this Star Wars Marathon before you rush off to Stanford and I have work tomorrow!”
Morgan’s voice projected loudly upstairs and Chuck was startled out of his thoughts that he managed to lose his fingering on the fretboard. A dissonant chord clashed amongst the string of colourful notes from earlier and Chuck felt rather amused that he had managed to lose himself doing nothing particularly productive for almost half an hour. Bad habits were hard to break.
Propping the guitar gently against the window, Chuck thundered downstairs to meet Morgan. After a decade and some of friendship with Morgan - his best friend and practically his soul mate in a totally platonic and manly kind of way - spending time with him was never a chore and Chuck thought not even going to Stanford and studying for his engineering degree would or could ever change that.
[ Chapters | Part 1 ● Part 2 ● Part 3 ● Part 4a ● Part 4b [END] ]
[ Characters | Chuck / Casey ]
[ Giftee | skyesurfer12 ]
[ Rating | NC-17. PG-13 this Chapter ]
[ Word Count | 12.1k - This part (4.6k) ]
[ Warnings | AU (Chuck and Casey used to be neighbours as kids), Language, Pre-season 5, Unbeta'd ]
[ Summary | Team Bartowski trudge through missions until General Beckman has other plans which leaves them a week to spend Christmas with family and friends. Leaving them plenty of time to reminisce about days of old and of days to come. ]
[ Author's Note | Finally, finally, I have wrapped this fic up to a conclusion that is as satisfying to me as it will hopefully be to you. Thank you for bearing with my 'Christmas' exchange writing - honestly this is precisely the reason why I never commit myself to multi-chaptered things. So this is an achievement for me :D
Apparently I've actually got to split the last part up into two because there's too much text. This hasn't ever happened before. /excited! There be fluff all over the place!
My sincerest apologies goes to skye for stretching this out for so long as I have done. Please enjoy this dear. :) ]
[ Disclaimer | If I were the owner of Chuck, there would have been more Casey and Chuck giving one another smouldering gazes. So nada, I just play in this sandbox. ]
[ Chapters | Part 1 ● Part 2 ● Part 3 ● Part 4a ● Part 4b [END] ]
The door feels heavy underneath his hand as Casey pushes it open, revealing the entrance to a home he once knew. There is an apprehensive feeling that has settled into his stomach as he enters the threshold of his family’s beach house. He feels less of a family member but more a stranger as if time has stripped him of his rights.
Memories fill his thoughts as bits and pieces trigger them from the deep recesses of his mind. It is like looking over someone else’s shoulder and he wonders if he turns around fast enough he can still catch glimpses from days of old; of days past filled with childlike laughter and innocence. Being a part of the marines had dulled the rose-tinted view of the world, conditioning him to perform with military efficiency the sufficient tools required as an adult.
The gaudy puce coloured walls have been thankfully been replaced by various shades of clinical white. White is a good tone: classic and clean with modern allure that rich football wives flock towards. The patrons provide a steady income for his mother as they rent the house out for weekends or for long summers. He’s rather surprised they were able to secure these accommodations during such a busy time of the year.
There are paintings that adorn the walls that he doesn’t recognize; splashes of colour in nonsensical geometric shapes and orientations that are known as art. They replace award-winning photographs that his father had preferred and Casey wonders what became of the shot with the lone wolf standing out amongst the white tundra of snow. That one had been his favourite.
Further along in the open living space, Casey spots an unfamiliar set of white couches set upon the ancient Persian rug; the same rug which had seen many a wine spill and offered warmth on rainy nights with mugs of hot chocolate. At least that hadn’t changed.
The scent of cooking permeates the air, filled with warm spices and cooked meat. It is a nostalgic mix of spicy tang and herbs that Casey can recognize anywhere as his mother’s cooking.
He studiously looks down at his combat boots as if the thought to take them off had only just occurred to him and he bends down to pluck his laces free using efficient flicks of his wrists.
Chuck quietly watches Casey as he leans back against the closed door. The sight is captivating whether it was watching a much younger version of Casey strumming his guitar to the man he had come to know again and love.
It is almost startling to find Casey’s hands are shaking as they ruthlessly attack the black nylon. He squashes down offering Casey any assistance as he bends down to tug off his Chuck Taylors. Casey was too proud to ask for help and Chuck pretends it didn’t take them five minutes. Shoelaces are tricky things.
They slowly meander towards the kitchen, where the muffled sound of conversation floats through the open doorway. Chuck can’t resist asking, “Are you okay, Casey?” He brushes his fingers over the back of Casey’s hand and gives him a questioning look. They stall long enough for Casey to calm his inner turmoil; his carefully honed mask giving nothing away despite the small tick along his jaw.
“Let’s do this.”
Chuck smiles in encouragement and saunters into the kitchen, upping the wattage to avoid appearing too nervous. “Hello everyone!” Chuck lets his optimistic aura permeate every corner of the room.
He feels more than sees Casey stand behind him as the heat rolls off the older man. If Chuck had wanted to lean back a centimetre, he would most likely feel the solid press of a muscular chest against his back. The warm puff of Casey’s exhalations makes the soft curls on the back of his neck stand on end.
This was either going to be the reunion of the century or an unmitigated disaster. Chuck couldn’t quite tell which cliff he would prefer the situation to plummet off if it came to that, but he staunchly refused to think of Casey backing out and driving all the way back to Burbank. They were going to do this.
“There you are! We thought you’d gotten lost trying to find the front door from the car, Chuck,” Mary teases as she busily makes a potato salad on the kitchen counter as she waved a pair of innocuous tongs in their general direction. It still irks him that the people he chose to be around could turn something like a kitchen implement into a murder weapon.
“Lunch is just about ready. Everyone else just took a quick walk on the beach and should be back soon enough.”
Morgan and Alex sit innocently on kitchen stools with glasses of juice. Their heads whip around at Chuck’s greeting and immediately a twin pair of ingratiating looks is aimed in Casey’s direction.
Casey pays neither of them any attention as he honed his eyes on his mother’s back. She seems smaller somehow than the last time he remembers although so much was to be expected when he’s done a fair bit of growing on his own.
Gale, who had until that moment been stirring the pot, turns around and wipes her hands on the tea towel. The wooden spoon had never looked so much at home in her hand and it was not mistake that the kitchen was her domain.
“Did you say Chuck, Mary?” She peers around the island counter and sets the spoon down. Her face immediately lights up as she spots them and Chuck could feel Casey immediately tense up behind him.
One would think for a man that is capable of taking down multiple Mossad agents and their grandmothers, meeting one’s mother again would not be as terrifying. It is infinitely worse. Chuck could sympathise and he gives Casey’s fingers a quick reassuring squeeze.
“Come, let me have a good look at you,” Gale speaks kindly as she seizes up both cheeks within her hands and tilts Chuck’s face gently from side to side, “My, you’ve grown into such a handsome young man. Let me give you a hug.”
She pulls him into a giant bear hug which belied the strength of a seventy year old woman. Chuck momentarily thinks about the special technique she employs to crush oxygen out of him and wonders if Gale was willing to give him free lessons.
After a few minutes - with Chuck’s face thankfully remaining the same flushed pink colour - Gale turns her curious look to Casey before looking back to the young man who had yet to escape from her clutches. “And who is your handsome friend, Chuck?”
Chuck smiles and steps to the side, murmuring softly, “I think introductions are in order. This is John Casey. We work and live together. But I think I’ll let him elaborate.”
Gale gives him a quizzical look and then turns to appraise the taller man, soaking in the sight of corded muscles and broad shoulders as she waits patiently for an explanation.
“Hello. I’m-” Casey pauses and clears his throat. Until then, he had avoided looking directly into his mother’s eyes a mixture of fear and anxiety as to what emotions he will find there. With the last dredges of his quickly fleeing courage, Casey looks up. “John Casey. Only I’m not just John Casey; I am your son.”
The words are met with stony silence and drives Gale’s hands to land on her hips. An absolute thunderous expression settles on her face. “This better not be an elaborate April Fools’ Joke, young man. My son has been dead for years protecting this country and his beliefs.” Despite her words, there is an undercurrent of hope; a small fledgling sliver of light that Gale forced to keep at bay because she couldn’t allow herself to believe the possible truth in Casey’s words.
“Ma… My name is- was Alexander Henry Coburn. The daughter I never thought I would have is sitting over there next to Morgan,” Casey drew in a breath, unsure how much more proof his mother will require to believe him. “There have been a number of circumstances that have led me to where I am today, but I am very much your son; if you will have me.”
Gale lets out a soft breathy hiccup and she seizes Casey into an equally fierce hug with the intention of not letting go anytime soon. Everyone lets out a collective breath. Everything will be alright in the end and Chuck shelves away any notion of cliffs and situations for another day.
*
[2007]
It all begins with a phone call.
The piece of technology buzzes in his suit’s pocket as the plane taxis on the NSA-sanctioned flight en route to Burbank making the loose change he has there rattle.
John Casey had just recently been in Barcelona on a previous assignment. It took another twenty four hours to tie up loose ends and he had rather been looking forward to his pick of assignments as soon as he returned back to Fort Meade until CIA’s poster boy decided to ruin that particular avenue. It makes his index finger twitch involuntarily.
Sliding the new iPhone out of his pocket, he unlocks the lock screen with a swipe of his thumb. The number is listed as unknown and Casey figures it was probably the lab boys back at base with information about the recipient of the Intersect. He glares at the screen for good measure before bringing it to his ear.
“Casey here. Speak.”
“S-Sir!” Casey can hear the man’s spine snap to attention and it makes his grin widen. His reputation definitely precedes him. “We’ve found out a bit more about the person who Larkin sent the Intersect to. Nothing special from what we could dig up: civilian, twenty-eight, a Stanford drop-out and in the current employment of the Burbank branch of the Buy More. He lives with his sister and her boyfriend: both civilian doctors. Full name, Charles Bartowski. The only connection we could find was that they used to be roommates.”
It is now his turn for his spine to stiffen, the name leaves his mouth a little dry. This is a twist of cruel, cruel fate. Christ on a stick, what the hell was a good kid like Chuck doing with Bryce Larkin. It was easy to tune out the lab guy’s blather about Chuck’s past - he had enough first-hand experience down that particular route.
What were the chances that this Charles was different from the kid he used to live next to? Surely there are more than one Chuck Bartowski’s in the world that also lived in California and had gone to Stanford. Damn it.
Shit just got real and Casey knows his typical MO needs some alteration, namely the termination of the target part. After all, he joined the marines and then the NSA to protect those he loved. If the Intersect is recoverable and the kid isn’t smart enough to make copies then Casey can slink out in the shadows without anyone being any wiser and dodging this metaphorical bullet. Everything will be peachy keen and he will be on his way to Syria come the end of the week.
If it was possible for John Casey, master of disguises and second to none, to have lived for as long as he has doing special ops that no one with a shred of humanity would poke a stick at, then it isn’t out of the realm of possibility that this very same John Casey can fly under the radar before anyone figures out who he used to be. Just as he had planned on dealing with ever coming in contact with those he once knew.
Silently, Casey terminates the call and calmly folds his leg over a knee. He reaches down to pull out a black Moleskine from his carry-on bag. The leather book holds a number of tabs on targets he had taken care of in the past amongst other things. More importantly, it had records of the number of favours that people owed him; a little black book full of tabs about enemies, friends and the sort that fell into neither category that were always the most dangerous.
The pages are filled with important bullet points in his loopy penmanship. The margins have little annotated notes in fine print and sometimes there was a sketch or two when the urge tickled him. Even if neat handwriting never saved anyone’s lives in the military, Casey’s kept up the practice. It is a matter of pride after all.
He thumbs over to a new page and begins to write an entry for the new mission, marking Chuck’s name in the margin and boxing it in black ink. Everything he recalls about Chuck he writes down, facts and estimations. Casey wonders if the curly haired kid from his past with a heart of gold still wore it on his damn sleeve.
Casey pauses in his writing to looks outside at the clouds lazily rolling past.
If the Intersect is somehow unrecoverable, Casey knows full well Beckman will issue out a kill order. There are too many unknown parameters so early in the mission to determine precisely when but Casey knows it would be lurking in the horizon.
He never doubted his actual purpose in Burbank and in the interest of national security Casey knows he will not hesitate to neutralize the threat but only if his judgment on the matter required him to do so.
At least being at the top of the food chain at the NSA had its perks. It is better him than some rookie who doesn’t know the right end of a gun. But he refuses to think of Chuck and a clean death in the same sentence and turns his attention back down to his notes.
On a new line below his last disjointed sentence, Casey writes neatly: ‘Possesses the Intersect. Details regarding mission operatives unestablished, for now.’
Casey dots the period harsher than typical and closes the book, stashing the Moleskine and pen away. He knows there would come a day when he would end up dealing with someone he once knew (there had been that kerfuffle with an old classmate of his, but he never did like Andrew anyway and it wasn’t like Casey felt bad about burning him).
He smirks at his reflection as the pilot announced they were to be landing soon. The bank of clouds to his right parted open and the city of Los Angeles sweeps into view. This was going to be a cakewalk. By the start of next week he will be sipping scotch in the alps of Switzerland (Casey decides Syria’s weather doesn’t quite agree with him this time of the year).
Well, that’s how Casey thought it would pan out anyway.
*
As soon as she extricates herself from around her son, Gale smacks a beefy forearm with enough force that causes Casey’s skin to smart. It was a good thing she hadn’t been in possession of her wooden spoon. “Do you know how many tears I have shed for you or the number of sleepless nights I had thinking about what I could have done better? Why didn’t you call home or write, young man?”
“Ow Ma…” Casey grouses as he rubs the spot on his arm, recognizing the anger in his mother’s tone, understandable given the circumstances which called for such emotions. “We were…- There was never enough- It was safer this way for you if you thought I was dead,” Casey settles to say at last, grumbling an apology again under his breath and feeling like he was five all over again with his hand in the cookie jar. Then again, the scope of punishment for pretending to be dead to one’s mother definitely fell into a different category altogether.
He flinches when Gale purses her lips and narrows her eyes at him in displeasure. Casey is glad though that she hadn’t chosen to dissolve into waterworks. Special Ops training never covered the particulars of how to deal with distraught mothers. He can endure whatever his mother had to dish out with the bottled amount of grief that she had undoubtedly kept inside.
“Ma?”
The woman in front of him slumps slightly and motions for Casey to sit down at the dining table adjacent to her. She slips her hand over his large paw to maintain physical contact with him as if afraid that if she let go he would once again disappear into the ether never to be heard from again.
The dining room quickly empties to give them a semblance of privacy. Chuck quietly retreats into the kitchen, announcing softly about making everyone some tea and Mary quickly follows her son’s example as she ensures their lunch won’t be burnt before consumption. Alex and Morgan volunteer to get the rest of Chuck and Casey’s things that are still in the van, eager to slip away for the time being.
“You know, I respected your choice when you joined the marines even though you had the smarts to go to college and do something more with yourself,” she holds up her hand when Casey opens his mouth ready to defend his choice, “Obviously, you are every inch your father’s son. Both of you are actually. So eager to scuttle off to get shot at in another country where I couldn’t stand over you and protect you anymore.
“Like all the other mothers out there with headstrong sons, we all wish upon our lucky stars that you will make it home to us safe and sound. Like some of them, my heart bled when we received the call that you had been caught in a raid with your body blasted into fleshy bits by an IED.
“Right now though, unlike any of the other mothers I know, you came back to me and it is like all my prayers have been answered all at once. Your father would have been so proud of you. Oh my darling boy,” Gale lets out a soft sigh as she cups one of Casey’s cheeks with one of her weathered hands with a smile on her face.
He bends his head downwards and nods; the air in his lungs is lodged uncomfortably in the back of his throat. Never a man of many words, Casey keeps silent unwilling to admit missing the cadence of her voice.
“What a handsome man you have become. I won’t presume to ask why you have done what you did. If you wish to tell me one day, that is your choice to make. As your mother, I am entitled to worry about you and your brother all day, every day. Goodness knows with his job at the FBI and you at… wherever you work now, I’ve earned each and every one of these white hairs,” Gale laughs.
She pats his knuckles absentmindedly when Chuck sets down twin mugs of tea between them with a charming smile on his face.
“Mamma, there are a few things that is very important to me that I have to tell you about,” Casey quietly speaks, ignoring the inquisitive light in Chuck’s eyes and the way the younger man lingers next to his chair. He quickly adds that not all of them were bad to placate the rising look of panic in her eyes.
“As you know, I’m no longer Alex Coburn. I’m a Colonel and I work for the NSA. The Bartowskis figured that one out a few years back. And-” Casey takes in a breath and curls his free hand in between Chuck’s fingers who looks like a deer caught in headlights, “Chuck and I have been together for a year and some.”
The look of shock on Gale’s face seemed to be mirrored as she blinks owlishly between them. Casey keeps his gaze steady on his mother’s face despite the jackrabbit heart beat that pounded quickly against his rib cage with each passing second.
“Oh! In a way that is deeper than flat and workmates then?” she asks once she has gotten over her initial surprise. Of course, she had been hoping but not expecting him to get back together with Kathleen.
From the way her granddaughter had been speaking about Kath’s new man, she had finally settled on moving on from that particular chapter in her life. Gale was very proud of how strong she is, even though she feels a small pang in her chest that there never will be a day to call her daughter-in-law.
“We’re very happy,” Casey answers with a small smile and feels Chuck settle one warm hand on his shoulder. He lets out the air that he didn’t realise he had been holding. This was much better than the fireworks he had been expecting.
She nods and readily accepts her son’s choice. “Then I am very happy for the both of you. You must tell me how this came to be after lunch,” Gale smiles as she gets up gracefully from the table and promptly turns around to bully the two men into setting up the table. Only this time around, no longer was Chuck clinging from Alex’s back but standing side by side with shoulders occasionally brushing and thinking they were being subtle about the entire thing.
“You’re taking this awfully well,” Mary murmurs as she gets out the crockery and opens the oven door which swathes the house in all sorts of mouth-watering scents. When Chuck had informed her of his choice in bed mates, she had been equally as surprised. With her track record as a mother being as short as it had been, Mary had decided it had not been her place to say anything about it.
It hadn’t stopped her from threatening the NSA agent with bodily harm if any hurt came upon her son though.
Gale laughs at her old friend’s words and turns the stove off. “Give me some time to adjust, Mary. You can imagine my surprise when Ellie and James told me about you last year. The next thing I know, Henry will be coming back for tea this time next year. I seem to have a knack for attracting people that just come back from the dead it seems.”
*
[1999]
It’s been nine years since their mother has left. It’s been nine years since he realises dark chocolate tastes so much better than milk and this was a choice that his tastebuds never dared to refute. And nine years since Ellie had raised him up pretty much single-handedly (with help from Gale to make sure neither of them died from starvation when his father was too busy ensconced within his study to remember to eat himself let alone his children’s welfare).
The constant things in his life - in the utterly boring life that was known as middle and high school and the hateful period called puberty - are Ellie, Jammy and Morgan.
Ellie, his brilliant big sister with her terribly brilliant mind, had gone on ahead to UCLA’s medical school. Jammy, the not as equally brilliant but still fiercely intelligent man had made the typical Coburn male choice and run off to join the marines. That only left Morgan as the one thing he saw every day and if it hadn’t been for his best friend’s constant presence, it wouldn’t have made school bearable.
His list had used to contain someone else but no one really ever talked about him anymore. If Chuck was entirely honest with himself, it also used to contain his parents but that was another topic that wasn’t mentioned ever.
Chuck was now eighteen with gangly limbs that grew too fast for the rest of his body. He was tall and entirely too geeky to be a popular kid unless it was amongst fellow nerds and Zork fanatics. His fingers were calloused in a way that spoke of a diligence in his study of popular culture rather than from books or sports.
Not to say his head wasn’t in the wrong place; he wouldn’t have gotten into Stanford’s Engineering Program if it were. He will be headed out in a few days’ time to get settled into his new dorm life. Like the dawn of a new day, this was a new chapter of his life that Chuck couldn’t help feeling excited about.
There was a small mountain of boxes in his room that had been half-heartedly filled with the things he wanted to put into storage and stuff that would be going to Stanford. His bed had a larger pile of things that Chuck deemed his indecisive pile. There was more on his bed than there was in the boxes themselves.
Flopping carelessly onto the window seat, Chuck stared outside into his backyard and blew the curly bangs off his face. The clock on his desk ticked steadily away and Chuck couldn’t help but wish the constant things in his life could have forever remained that way.
It was all wishful thinking and he smiled self-deprecatingly to himself as he thought of lazy days in the sun, carefree and innocently oblivious to the world at large.
This - going to Stanford - was just the gateway to change to the world beyond. It would be a glorious adventure. He pushed off the window seat and began to pick his way through the items on his bedspread, brushing gentle fingers over the acoustic guitar. Chuck was sure even if the change wasn’t particularly grandiose, he would soldier through it and make the negative into a positive.
Picking up the instrument, Chuck returned to the window seat and tucked himself around the wood as he plucked gently at the steel strings in a nameless melody. Stanford’s main campus is almost a 6 hour drive away from Burbank and if it wasn’t for Ellie attending UCLA and making sure he didn’t die, he wouldn’t even be able to live at the dorms.
He wonders if it would be possible to keep his part-time job at the local Buy More up there, just to help with things on the side as best as he could. Apparently he had a face for sales and it had been a blast. All in all, it was an interesting way to spend summer break with Morgan as they terrorised the shelves and were generally unhelpful with inquiries. They all had to start somewhere right?
“Chuck? Open the door buddy! We have to kick off this Star Wars Marathon before you rush off to Stanford and I have work tomorrow!”
Morgan’s voice projected loudly upstairs and Chuck was startled out of his thoughts that he managed to lose his fingering on the fretboard. A dissonant chord clashed amongst the string of colourful notes from earlier and Chuck felt rather amused that he had managed to lose himself doing nothing particularly productive for almost half an hour. Bad habits were hard to break.
Propping the guitar gently against the window, Chuck thundered downstairs to meet Morgan. After a decade and some of friendship with Morgan - his best friend and practically his soul mate in a totally platonic and manly kind of way - spending time with him was never a chore and Chuck thought not even going to Stanford and studying for his engineering degree would or could ever change that.
[ Chapters | Part 1 ● Part 2 ● Part 3 ● Part 4a ● Part 4b [END] ]