You Don't Have to Be Cool to Rule My World
Title: You Don't Have to Be Cool to Rule My World
Fandom: Chuck
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700 words.
Notes: Chuck/Casey, episode tag to 'Chuck Versus the Ex'. Title from a song by Prince.
Summary: That's the consolation. Death by disease means no longer having to listen to the Buy More idiots.
So this is it, Casey thinks. I die from a nasty strain of head-cold. Figures.
He's been shot more times than he can count. Stabbed three times. Been subject to poison power, choking gas, bombs, and many more creative ways to cut a man down to size. But his demise is from influenza. That's the dictionary definition opposite of great. Bartowski would say 'uncool', Morgan would say 'not awesome', and, God, he's gibbering like some kind of junked up nerd discussing buffing, whatever the hell that is --- and he hopes to hell it's not that.
That's the consolation. Death by disease means no longer having to listen to the Buy More idiots. Forget never attaining inner peace with his hands on an AK-47, or finding the perfect pecan pie, or risking breaking his heart and buying another Crown Vic; it's a price that's almost worth it. Nearly. Just about.
And then there's Bartowski, Buy More idiot savant, right there. Casey realises with stomach-turning clarity that he's not a hallucination. Bartowski: destroyer of most he holds dear, able to render a perfectly enjoyable night of cleaning his gun into the mind-numbing tedium of listening to a) the arcade fire, b) Bartowski's insecurities coupled with his overprotective sister's pep talks, and c) annoyingly vocal and frequent self-love. It's his fault Casey's here in the first place. As if it could be any other way. Now Bartowski's talking, way too quickly, and dammit, he's the only hope? Really? The only one? Surely there's a chimpanzee around here more qualified.
He feels sick. Worse. But Bartowski's entrusting him to hold the item that everything depends on. And the ground looks like a comfortable option round about now, which is probably just as well, because ---
"Casey!"
"Leave me to die, Bartowski. Have a little compassion, for once in your miserable life."
"No, no, no, no, get up. I need you."
"Better yet, why don't you die?"
Casey coughs and splutters and has moments, mere moments, of blissful ignorance before Bartowski's in his face again. He's rambling on like a fool; there is no way this guy's comparable to Ivy League --- more like IV League, and what is with him being grabby hands all the damn time?
Why is he licking his lips? Why does he look like I'm going to search out a bayonet and skewer him with it? Will I want to? Is this a viable option?
No. Hell no. H E double hockey stick, no freaking way. Ugh.
Bartowski's lips are against his own. Bartowski's tongue. And Casey has weak limbs, so there is no escape. His life is now officially the worst it has ever been.
Except.
It's kind of ---
not entirely horrible.
In an "I'll pretend I never thought this" manner of speaking.
Considering all he's trying to do is impart anti-virals, Bartowski's twisting his tongue in a way that has Casey's blood pumping in a completely different direction to its previous destination. His fingers are hard and warm on his shoulder. And he's rough, for a weak-willed geek, just the way Casey loves it. He's tempted almost to push into it, to turn slightly and grind his pelvis against Bartowski's.
But then it's over, too soon, and Bartowski's acting the coy 68%-straight loverboy again, so Casey cannot and will not act like there was any part of that that was remotely enjoyable. Better to capitalise on his fog-headedness and inability to breathe, completely ignoring that there might be more causes for these symptoms than the mortality-stripping flu. Especially since it turns out Bartowski is just as dense as Casey thinks he is and the locked lips were ridiculously unnecessary.
So this is it, Casey thinks as his head hits the stage with a thump. I'm not gonna die, but now I have to live with the fact I shared a kiss --- no, not a kiss, never refer to it as that again --- a moment with Bartowski. And I'll be constantly reminded whenever he gives one of his goofy little smiles, or does his charmingly innocent act, or jacks off with little huffs and puffs and whimpers. Uncool. Not awesome. The dictionary definition opposite of great.
Fandom: Chuck
Rating: PG
Word Count: 700 words.
Notes: Chuck/Casey, episode tag to 'Chuck Versus the Ex'. Title from a song by Prince.
Summary: That's the consolation. Death by disease means no longer having to listen to the Buy More idiots.
So this is it, Casey thinks. I die from a nasty strain of head-cold. Figures.
He's been shot more times than he can count. Stabbed three times. Been subject to poison power, choking gas, bombs, and many more creative ways to cut a man down to size. But his demise is from influenza. That's the dictionary definition opposite of great. Bartowski would say 'uncool', Morgan would say 'not awesome', and, God, he's gibbering like some kind of junked up nerd discussing buffing, whatever the hell that is --- and he hopes to hell it's not that.
That's the consolation. Death by disease means no longer having to listen to the Buy More idiots. Forget never attaining inner peace with his hands on an AK-47, or finding the perfect pecan pie, or risking breaking his heart and buying another Crown Vic; it's a price that's almost worth it. Nearly. Just about.
And then there's Bartowski, Buy More idiot savant, right there. Casey realises with stomach-turning clarity that he's not a hallucination. Bartowski: destroyer of most he holds dear, able to render a perfectly enjoyable night of cleaning his gun into the mind-numbing tedium of listening to a) the arcade fire, b) Bartowski's insecurities coupled with his overprotective sister's pep talks, and c) annoyingly vocal and frequent self-love. It's his fault Casey's here in the first place. As if it could be any other way. Now Bartowski's talking, way too quickly, and dammit, he's the only hope? Really? The only one? Surely there's a chimpanzee around here more qualified.
He feels sick. Worse. But Bartowski's entrusting him to hold the item that everything depends on. And the ground looks like a comfortable option round about now, which is probably just as well, because ---
"Casey!"
"Leave me to die, Bartowski. Have a little compassion, for once in your miserable life."
"No, no, no, no, get up. I need you."
"Better yet, why don't you die?"
Casey coughs and splutters and has moments, mere moments, of blissful ignorance before Bartowski's in his face again. He's rambling on like a fool; there is no way this guy's comparable to Ivy League --- more like IV League, and what is with him being grabby hands all the damn time?
Why is he licking his lips? Why does he look like I'm going to search out a bayonet and skewer him with it? Will I want to? Is this a viable option?
No. Hell no. H E double hockey stick, no freaking way. Ugh.
Bartowski's lips are against his own. Bartowski's tongue. And Casey has weak limbs, so there is no escape. His life is now officially the worst it has ever been.
Except.
It's kind of ---
not entirely horrible.
In an "I'll pretend I never thought this" manner of speaking.
Considering all he's trying to do is impart anti-virals, Bartowski's twisting his tongue in a way that has Casey's blood pumping in a completely different direction to its previous destination. His fingers are hard and warm on his shoulder. And he's rough, for a weak-willed geek, just the way Casey loves it. He's tempted almost to push into it, to turn slightly and grind his pelvis against Bartowski's.
But then it's over, too soon, and Bartowski's acting the coy 68%-straight loverboy again, so Casey cannot and will not act like there was any part of that that was remotely enjoyable. Better to capitalise on his fog-headedness and inability to breathe, completely ignoring that there might be more causes for these symptoms than the mortality-stripping flu. Especially since it turns out Bartowski is just as dense as Casey thinks he is and the locked lips were ridiculously unnecessary.
So this is it, Casey thinks as his head hits the stage with a thump. I'm not gonna die, but now I have to live with the fact I shared a kiss --- no, not a kiss, never refer to it as that again --- a moment with Bartowski. And I'll be constantly reminded whenever he gives one of his goofy little smiles, or does his charmingly innocent act, or jacks off with little huffs and puffs and whimpers. Uncool. Not awesome. The dictionary definition opposite of great.