all we have to do. (Chuck)
Title: all we have to do.
Pairing/s: Charles Bartowski/Bryce Larkin
Rating: ..PG?
Word count: 773
Warnings: V. much AU. And Bryce and Chuck are dysfunctional. This is not surprising.
Disclaimers: All elements borrowed from Chuck ( = approx. all) are not mine.
Summary: Continuation on thirty pieces and counting. In which plans are made, and backstory is touched on, and our boys make like Thelma & Louise.
Bryce doesn’t know what’s happening, of course. Omaha is a long way away, and his assignments send him all over the world and back again.
The US government, in its infinite grace and wisdom, partners him with Charles Bartowski for a very important mission in the heart of Kansas. Charles is not as he remembers, older and tired and a little bit broken. Three nights in, Bryce rents them a theatre, slips the owner exorbitant amounts of money and charges it to a covert expense account. They settle into the dark theatre, Wrath of Khan on the big screen, Charles’ hand on Bryce’s leg, Bryce’s tangled in Charles’ hair.
They relearn each other’s bodies, Bryce’s nimble and trained, Charles’ worn and weathered and peppered with new scars and considerable new muscle.
It’s something of an apology, though Bryce isn’t sure why.
~
Hospitals are death traps, speaking from a security standpoint. Dozens of exits, scores of untraceable doctors and nurses in and out at all times of the day, not to mention patients and visitors and spies slipping into your room at midnight.
(They’re also entirely horrible for resting and recovering, but that’s another story.)
Charles wears gray, because it’s simple and blends well without drawing attention to itself. He doesn’t say anything, because Bryce is awake and some conversations just take a little while to start. This one, in particular, takes a long time, and by the time the first word is spoken, both are unsure if this is the beginning or the end.
There’s just one word, thick and heavy with something that won’t quite allow itself to be hurt. “Why?”
~
They work well together.
It’s as simple as that; they know each other’s movements, read each other’s bodies. They speak a language of their own cobbled together from memory and shared regrets and more than a little Klingon. Together, they can move mountains, bring down oppressive governments and beat any Xbox game you care to give them, with time to spare for a coffee break.
They are casing a possible Russian mafia hideout, counting entrances and employees and memorizing faces for patterns. They share a waffle cone (strawberry for Charles, a concession on Bryce’s part), passing it back and forth as the minutes drag on.
“The secretary is ex-Triad.” Charles accepts the cone from Bryce, hands touching briefly, and deftly prevents a line of melting cream from rolling down the side of the cone.
“How do you know that?” Bryce asks, mind and eyes captured between the job at hand and the man sitting to his right. Charles catches his eye and smirks, casually adjusting his grip on the cone to reveal a scar on his left thumb, jagged and deep.
~
The story spills out, pieces and shards from Bryce’s mind, confused and fuzzy but understandable. At some point in the night, Charles raids the nearby snack dispenser for sustenance, empty wrappers and plastic bags spread out on the bed between them.
Bryce has a back-up plan: find Orion. Charles thinks that’s all very well, but they can’t be certain Orion will help and anyway, isn’t that a little bit like putting all their trust in the Wizard? Together, fueled by junk food and very strong painkillers, they form a new plan; so insane, so ridiculous that it just has to work.
Come morning’s light, when the nurse stops in to check on the mysterious patient with the head injury, Charles is gone.
So is Bryce.
~
(Bryce’s hands grip Charles’ wrists, muscles in his arms straining to hold on. The sky above them, a hundred-foot drop beneath, Charles suspended between the two.
“Don’t look down,” he advises.)
~
They go in with guns blazing. Stealth is all very well, but they need the firepower to back it up. Bryce covers Charles while he enters the Intersect, starts up the programme, watches the pictures, razor-sharp cutting into his mind. Bryce enters, plants the bomb. Charles is barely conscious at this point, holding on by a thread, the feel of Bryce’s hand on Charles’ hip, arms under his keeping him on his feet.
It’s not the triumphant exit they would have liked, but it suffices. Bryce hauls them both into a waiting car, drives with one hand so he can rest the other in Charles’ curls.
“We did it,” he says, finally, exhaling slowly, letting the shape of the words rest in the air.
Charles half-smiles, eyes open in slits. He knows they’re now two of the most high-priority wanted agents in the country; melting into the shadows won’t be easy. They both know this. “It’s not over yet.”
Pairing/s: Charles Bartowski/Bryce Larkin
Rating: ..PG?
Word count: 773
Warnings: V. much AU. And Bryce and Chuck are dysfunctional. This is not surprising.
Disclaimers: All elements borrowed from Chuck ( = approx. all) are not mine.
Summary: Continuation on thirty pieces and counting. In which plans are made, and backstory is touched on, and our boys make like Thelma & Louise.
Bryce doesn’t know what’s happening, of course. Omaha is a long way away, and his assignments send him all over the world and back again.
The US government, in its infinite grace and wisdom, partners him with Charles Bartowski for a very important mission in the heart of Kansas. Charles is not as he remembers, older and tired and a little bit broken. Three nights in, Bryce rents them a theatre, slips the owner exorbitant amounts of money and charges it to a covert expense account. They settle into the dark theatre, Wrath of Khan on the big screen, Charles’ hand on Bryce’s leg, Bryce’s tangled in Charles’ hair.
They relearn each other’s bodies, Bryce’s nimble and trained, Charles’ worn and weathered and peppered with new scars and considerable new muscle.
It’s something of an apology, though Bryce isn’t sure why.
~
Hospitals are death traps, speaking from a security standpoint. Dozens of exits, scores of untraceable doctors and nurses in and out at all times of the day, not to mention patients and visitors and spies slipping into your room at midnight.
(They’re also entirely horrible for resting and recovering, but that’s another story.)
Charles wears gray, because it’s simple and blends well without drawing attention to itself. He doesn’t say anything, because Bryce is awake and some conversations just take a little while to start. This one, in particular, takes a long time, and by the time the first word is spoken, both are unsure if this is the beginning or the end.
There’s just one word, thick and heavy with something that won’t quite allow itself to be hurt. “Why?”
~
They work well together.
It’s as simple as that; they know each other’s movements, read each other’s bodies. They speak a language of their own cobbled together from memory and shared regrets and more than a little Klingon. Together, they can move mountains, bring down oppressive governments and beat any Xbox game you care to give them, with time to spare for a coffee break.
They are casing a possible Russian mafia hideout, counting entrances and employees and memorizing faces for patterns. They share a waffle cone (strawberry for Charles, a concession on Bryce’s part), passing it back and forth as the minutes drag on.
“The secretary is ex-Triad.” Charles accepts the cone from Bryce, hands touching briefly, and deftly prevents a line of melting cream from rolling down the side of the cone.
“How do you know that?” Bryce asks, mind and eyes captured between the job at hand and the man sitting to his right. Charles catches his eye and smirks, casually adjusting his grip on the cone to reveal a scar on his left thumb, jagged and deep.
~
The story spills out, pieces and shards from Bryce’s mind, confused and fuzzy but understandable. At some point in the night, Charles raids the nearby snack dispenser for sustenance, empty wrappers and plastic bags spread out on the bed between them.
Bryce has a back-up plan: find Orion. Charles thinks that’s all very well, but they can’t be certain Orion will help and anyway, isn’t that a little bit like putting all their trust in the Wizard? Together, fueled by junk food and very strong painkillers, they form a new plan; so insane, so ridiculous that it just has to work.
Come morning’s light, when the nurse stops in to check on the mysterious patient with the head injury, Charles is gone.
So is Bryce.
~
(Bryce’s hands grip Charles’ wrists, muscles in his arms straining to hold on. The sky above them, a hundred-foot drop beneath, Charles suspended between the two.
“Don’t look down,” he advises.)
~
They go in with guns blazing. Stealth is all very well, but they need the firepower to back it up. Bryce covers Charles while he enters the Intersect, starts up the programme, watches the pictures, razor-sharp cutting into his mind. Bryce enters, plants the bomb. Charles is barely conscious at this point, holding on by a thread, the feel of Bryce’s hand on Charles’ hip, arms under his keeping him on his feet.
It’s not the triumphant exit they would have liked, but it suffices. Bryce hauls them both into a waiting car, drives with one hand so he can rest the other in Charles’ curls.
“We did it,” he says, finally, exhaling slowly, letting the shape of the words rest in the air.
Charles half-smiles, eyes open in slits. He knows they’re now two of the most high-priority wanted agents in the country; melting into the shadows won’t be easy. They both know this. “It’s not over yet.”