Fic: Chuck, 'Inter Somnia'
Title: Inter Somnia
Authors: nakeno
Pairing: Chuck/Casey sort of, Chuck/Sarah also sort of
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own'em, don't get paid.
Word Count: 881
Author notes: I know not from whence it came-- kept it short and sweet, however.
Summary: “You've missed a lot,” she says, when Chuck looks confused. But he couldn't agree more.
There's a crack in the ceiling, in the corner, in his bedroom. When he came home from Stanford, when he wasn't busy spilling pixelated blood, he'd often stare at it and imagine being small enough to slip inside, where nothing could follow.
Except for maybe giant spiders. It would depress him even more. He'd had enough of things sucking the life from him, thank you. Like Jill. Like Bryce.
That was then-- it's been so very long ago.
This is now-- and it's too hot in his room. He can't sleep. Humid, even. Whatever happened to west coast dry-heat?
His nerves are raw; alive and singing with a discomfort he knows by the way it curls in the bottom of his gut and jerks at his calm. Speeds up his heart, muffles his hearing. He gets that way around Sarah. Always has.
He knows why, suddenly and it's not even a surprise.
Chuck turns his head and John-- Alex-- is looking at him squarely, brow going up in question. He extends his head up on his neck to answer the question not asked, free from the pillow, just long enough for a too large hand to slip into the curls at the back of his skull.
John kisses him and it tastes salty. Coppery. He wants more of it.
Casey pulls away, with dulled interest, droll perplexity. He slips his hand away from Chuck's hair and his fingers are sticky and slick; bright and red. Bloody and glittering in low, low light from the window.
Chuck should panic. He doesn't.
Because John goes, oh so calmly, “Don't worry. It's not yours.”
It never is, is it?
He doesn't love John Casey. But he does owe him. Not every day does a guy murder people for you.
Next comes breakfast, but Casey is gone.
Ellie hums when she cooks eggs. They smell good. Taste bad. He doesn't have the heart to tell her so.
They share small talk and creamers swiped from the corner store because they're “just right” for each cup of coffee, Ellie, his Goldilocks always explains.
A child goes rushing by, dressed in blue as clear as his eyes, blond hair wild and spiky. He's screaming “awesome, awesome, so cool!”
“You've missed a lot,” she says, when Chuck looks confused.
But he couldn't agree more.
Morgan, at work, tells him about this close-encounter with a redhead and his bicycle. It's close enough to sex for Morgan so Chuck lets him tell it. Wait, Morgan, I'm a spy, haven't you heard? My life is more interesting than this. Since Vicky Vale. Morgan has heard, but he's not as excited about it as he was before.
Later, when Chuck is vaulting over the Nerd Herd desk, they're using price guns as pretend ray guns.
Jeff and Lester are in pursuit, but Chuck isn't scared, though he's gripping plastic like it's actual gun metal.
They're closing in and Morgan is hunkered beside him.
“Flash, Chuck, flash!” Morgan begs.
Chuck doesn't flash.
Instead he dies. A lot. His blood flows fast and steady. Out of him. Clean out of him. Hysterically, all he can think is: Casey is going to be so pissed at me. Price guns are a lot more dangerous than they look.
Especially going up this hill-- Buy More tiles traded in for too-rocky terrain and upward climbing and his Converses are crap for this, dude.
Devon just claps him on the back, sweaty and vibrant and so very much alive as Chuck is a bent-over reed next to him, panting for every molecule of air he can swallow.
“Don't worry, bro. Not much further. The view here is...” Chuck waits for it, but it never comes.
Devon, Devon-- say it. The view here is Awesome.
“Sweet.” Only it's not Devon's voice, unless it's grown peculiarly feminine.
Chuck turns his head to the side and blinks at Sarah. Her hand is in his. It's soft and sure and warm.
“The sweetest.” He agrees, sliding his dessert over to her side of the small, rocking table. The booth is cramped and the sway of the train as they slide away from Prague, away from everything, is slow and hypnotic.
The world slides away, far and away.
Chuck doesn't mind in the least.
Sweet.
**
He wakes on a thread count that he's sure outweighs his yearly Buy More salary. Ex-salary: that's not his life anymore.
It's mid-morning. He's in capri-pants and a white shirt with the sleeves in cuffs at his elbows. He doesn't know how to live like a billionaire yet. Or live like a fake one.
Worn, old stone under his feet-- sun-warm and the air is salt-cured when he pushes through glass doors onto the terrace.
Chuck wraps his fingers around iron-wrought railing. Breathes. His feet are planted, his chest is tight; Italy smells a lot like bad decisions.
On the table just inside, a ridiculously vibrant package glitters a holographic blue.
This message will self-destruct in sixty seconds.
He checks his phone. No messages. Not that he expected any. No reply; return to sender.
An hour later he'll open that package, on the terrace, and think about how he didn't sign up for this.
He didn't sign up for any of this.
However, the view here?
Is awesome.