Chuck Fic: Chuck vs. The Magic of Dance
Title: Chuck vs. the Magic of Dance
Characters: Chuck/Casey
Spoilers: none
Rating: teen
Wordcount: ~ 1200 words
Summary: Casey was oozing masculinity. While dancing to Madonna. The paradox should make the universe implode, and yet it didn’t.
Author’s Note: This is for a multitude of prompts: *) Chuck and Casey have to defuse a bomb in the game “Dance Dance Revolution” at the arcade by dancing. *) Thanks to some “fast thinking,” Chuck tells some girls at a bachelorette party that Casey is a male stripper. Casey has to live up to it to keep their cover. *) Casey, through some extenuating circumstance, is forced to serenade Chuck with a romantic song. (<-- these are all by lassroyale) *) A glimpse of Casey as Chuck’s cover boyfriend when they infiltrate some gay party. (<-- that one’s by usakeh). Thank you guys for the totally wacky prompts. ;)
Chuck vs. The Magic of Dance
As these things tended to go, it all happened incredibly fast. One moment Chuck was crouched behind the console, chanting, “Just go on, almost got it, just go on!”, and Casey was nothing but a slurred motion in the corner of his eye. The next moment, he’d finally flashed on the goddamned right cable, and the bomb was defused. Exclaiming a cry of victory, he looked up just in time to see Casey, all pro and keeping up the cover, not just ending the dance but doing so with a flourish, nodding at the audience that Chuck suddenly noticed was there. It had come from all the arcade to see the weird hulk of a man dance the crap out of Dance Dance Revolution, and now it broke into spontaneous applause. Casey’s thankful smile was so serene, it heralded a beating for the next Buy More customer to cross his path.
Well, Chuck thought, still breathing hard when he pulled himself up, his heart beating wildly in his chest from the adrenaline. All this certainly put a new meaning to the idea of exploding into motion. How evil did you have to be to put a bomb in a gaming console, anyway?
A variety of facial expressions crossed his face while his eyes wandered from Casey’s feet - who would have guessed! - up to his face, passing some smirks, reluctant respect, and settling on a still breathless laugh. “Tap dancing?” he said. “First perfect pitch, now tap dancing?”
“Seduction school,” Casey said shortly, eyes glued to the slowly dispersing onlookers like they were assassins instead of fans. Then, deadpan, “Just wait until you see me tango.”
“Aren’t you just full of surprises,” Chuck said, improvising.
At that point though? He had no idea.
The second time, it happened in direct relation to the first time, because they were under cover on a huge high society bachelorette party, and when Chuck observed two giggling girls dragging Casey onto the dance floor, he suddenly flashed - the normal way, thank you - to that time at the arcade. When usually he would have just envied the agent for the professional ease with which he loosened his body and transformed into a perfect dancer in that way only spies could, he now observed how Casey’s perfectly controlled dancing style extended to freestyle as well. It was him directing all the moves of the girls with a minimum of motion. He was oozing masculinity. While dancing to Madonna. The paradox should make the universe implode, and yet it didn’t.
Chuck was unable to draw his eyes away from Casey’s hips. It looked like the magic was all in the hips.
“He’s like Patrick Swayze,” a high female voice crooned right next to him. “Young Patrick Swayze. I told you they aren’t just waiters.
“Tell me you’re the agent I talked to. Tell me he’s the stripper. Please, please tell me. I need him to be the stripper.”
Having an impressively high retention rate of subliminal information came in handy at the strangest of times. His eyes didn’t even leave the dance floor while he spoke. He didn’t even think to watch out for Sarah, who was off stealing the bride’s tiara.
“Stripper.” There was too much testosterone on the dance floor to not conjure up the according pictures. Casey not being the stripper would be unbelievable. He had to keep up the cover. Or that was what he’d claim. “That’s right. He’s your stripper.”
Casey would kill him. Chuck thought it was worth it.
They spent the flight home with Casey playing with his gun on the helicopter’s bench, while Sarah sighed a complaint about how the CIA only taught its spies to waltz.
Chuck, meanwhile, was seriously reconsidering his sexual identity.
The third time it happened, it was Chuck and Casey under cover while Sarah stayed behind in the surveillance car, because the target owned a night club of the other kind.
Chuck was crushed against a corner of the heart shaped sofa when Casey broke into a roaring laugh of fake happy drunkenness, exuberantly throwing an arm around his ‘fiancé’s’ shoulders and assuring the target that he would do a lot more than sing a song for his lover if he was just allowed to see the ‘special room.’
The night club owner was a man of actions rather than words, and before Chuck could even decide on a reaction, three happy drunk men and a beaming drag queen had shoved the other spy onto the stage, putting a mic in his hand. The first chords of Whitney Houston’s most famous song already started playing.
True to their cover of mad - and most importantly exclusive - lovers, Casey kept his attention all on Chuck.
Alright, so he’d known that Casey could sing - God knew it had taken him some moments of huh to get over that high C. And he wasn’t really surprised when Casey’s interpretation of the tender sounds consisted of full lung volume with quite the baritone, the kind that flattened you against a wall. He still felt like he was being crushed against the back of the sofa, although Casey was a safe couple of feet away. What he still didn’t expect was how his eyes were immediately drawn to Casey’s hips, softly swinging along with the beat, and how his brain was quite insistent that the laws of physics could stop working if he stared long enough, like to make Casey’s shirt lift by magic and reveal skin.
What he didn’t quite notice anymore, meanwhile, was the Fulcrum operative sneaking up on him in the corner of his eye, the syringe with the sedative barely concealed.
Casey, though, had it all under control. Eyes fixed on Chuck with such determination that Chuck was forced to look into his eyes again, he continued to sing while moving towards Chuck. All the room broke into a sigh collectively.
Every step Casey took in his direction sent another small shudder down Chuck’s spine, rhythmically.
As it was a matter of course with professional spies, the timing was perfect. Casey dropped the mic the moment he’d reached Chuck, the last harmony still ringing in the air, dragging him out of the sofa, drawing him in, melting them into the most unapologetic kiss. If Casey did something, he sure did it right.
There was a small whimper of anguish behind Chuck when the operative’s wrist broke, and in the corner of his mind, Chuck took note of Casey’s second hand wrapping around him as well like an afterthought.
He was flooded with the most powerful feeling of relief. It was like he had held out on the seventh chord for weeks, desperately waiting to finish the cadence. The immense physical presence claiming him was very masculine and very focused, promising one hell of a lot more than just a girlish dance.
It was also the third time the room erupted into cheers.
Much later that night, the patio was covered in darkness and silence, silence so loud that Chuck thought the neighbors would wake up from his knock at the door. Or possibly from hearing his heart, pounding hard against his chest in a nice beat of anticipation.
When the door opened, the silhouette of Casey towered in the frame for a moment, then stepped aside.
Chuck had started grinning wildly when he slipped inside, brushing against unmoving broad shoulders on his way. The door didn’t even produce as much as a click when it fell shut behind them, but who needed a soundtrack anyway.
Characters: Chuck/Casey
Spoilers: none
Rating: teen
Wordcount: ~ 1200 words
Summary: Casey was oozing masculinity. While dancing to Madonna. The paradox should make the universe implode, and yet it didn’t.
Author’s Note: This is for a multitude of prompts: *) Chuck and Casey have to defuse a bomb in the game “Dance Dance Revolution” at the arcade by dancing. *) Thanks to some “fast thinking,” Chuck tells some girls at a bachelorette party that Casey is a male stripper. Casey has to live up to it to keep their cover. *) Casey, through some extenuating circumstance, is forced to serenade Chuck with a romantic song. (<-- these are all by lassroyale) *) A glimpse of Casey as Chuck’s cover boyfriend when they infiltrate some gay party. (<-- that one’s by usakeh). Thank you guys for the totally wacky prompts. ;)
Chuck vs. The Magic of Dance
As these things tended to go, it all happened incredibly fast. One moment Chuck was crouched behind the console, chanting, “Just go on, almost got it, just go on!”, and Casey was nothing but a slurred motion in the corner of his eye. The next moment, he’d finally flashed on the goddamned right cable, and the bomb was defused. Exclaiming a cry of victory, he looked up just in time to see Casey, all pro and keeping up the cover, not just ending the dance but doing so with a flourish, nodding at the audience that Chuck suddenly noticed was there. It had come from all the arcade to see the weird hulk of a man dance the crap out of Dance Dance Revolution, and now it broke into spontaneous applause. Casey’s thankful smile was so serene, it heralded a beating for the next Buy More customer to cross his path.
Well, Chuck thought, still breathing hard when he pulled himself up, his heart beating wildly in his chest from the adrenaline. All this certainly put a new meaning to the idea of exploding into motion. How evil did you have to be to put a bomb in a gaming console, anyway?
A variety of facial expressions crossed his face while his eyes wandered from Casey’s feet - who would have guessed! - up to his face, passing some smirks, reluctant respect, and settling on a still breathless laugh. “Tap dancing?” he said. “First perfect pitch, now tap dancing?”
“Seduction school,” Casey said shortly, eyes glued to the slowly dispersing onlookers like they were assassins instead of fans. Then, deadpan, “Just wait until you see me tango.”
“Aren’t you just full of surprises,” Chuck said, improvising.
At that point though? He had no idea.
The second time, it happened in direct relation to the first time, because they were under cover on a huge high society bachelorette party, and when Chuck observed two giggling girls dragging Casey onto the dance floor, he suddenly flashed - the normal way, thank you - to that time at the arcade. When usually he would have just envied the agent for the professional ease with which he loosened his body and transformed into a perfect dancer in that way only spies could, he now observed how Casey’s perfectly controlled dancing style extended to freestyle as well. It was him directing all the moves of the girls with a minimum of motion. He was oozing masculinity. While dancing to Madonna. The paradox should make the universe implode, and yet it didn’t.
Chuck was unable to draw his eyes away from Casey’s hips. It looked like the magic was all in the hips.
“He’s like Patrick Swayze,” a high female voice crooned right next to him. “Young Patrick Swayze. I told you they aren’t just waiters.
“Tell me you’re the agent I talked to. Tell me he’s the stripper. Please, please tell me. I need him to be the stripper.”
Having an impressively high retention rate of subliminal information came in handy at the strangest of times. His eyes didn’t even leave the dance floor while he spoke. He didn’t even think to watch out for Sarah, who was off stealing the bride’s tiara.
“Stripper.” There was too much testosterone on the dance floor to not conjure up the according pictures. Casey not being the stripper would be unbelievable. He had to keep up the cover. Or that was what he’d claim. “That’s right. He’s your stripper.”
Casey would kill him. Chuck thought it was worth it.
They spent the flight home with Casey playing with his gun on the helicopter’s bench, while Sarah sighed a complaint about how the CIA only taught its spies to waltz.
Chuck, meanwhile, was seriously reconsidering his sexual identity.
The third time it happened, it was Chuck and Casey under cover while Sarah stayed behind in the surveillance car, because the target owned a night club of the other kind.
Chuck was crushed against a corner of the heart shaped sofa when Casey broke into a roaring laugh of fake happy drunkenness, exuberantly throwing an arm around his ‘fiancé’s’ shoulders and assuring the target that he would do a lot more than sing a song for his lover if he was just allowed to see the ‘special room.’
The night club owner was a man of actions rather than words, and before Chuck could even decide on a reaction, three happy drunk men and a beaming drag queen had shoved the other spy onto the stage, putting a mic in his hand. The first chords of Whitney Houston’s most famous song already started playing.
True to their cover of mad - and most importantly exclusive - lovers, Casey kept his attention all on Chuck.
Alright, so he’d known that Casey could sing - God knew it had taken him some moments of huh to get over that high C. And he wasn’t really surprised when Casey’s interpretation of the tender sounds consisted of full lung volume with quite the baritone, the kind that flattened you against a wall. He still felt like he was being crushed against the back of the sofa, although Casey was a safe couple of feet away. What he still didn’t expect was how his eyes were immediately drawn to Casey’s hips, softly swinging along with the beat, and how his brain was quite insistent that the laws of physics could stop working if he stared long enough, like to make Casey’s shirt lift by magic and reveal skin.
What he didn’t quite notice anymore, meanwhile, was the Fulcrum operative sneaking up on him in the corner of his eye, the syringe with the sedative barely concealed.
Casey, though, had it all under control. Eyes fixed on Chuck with such determination that Chuck was forced to look into his eyes again, he continued to sing while moving towards Chuck. All the room broke into a sigh collectively.
Every step Casey took in his direction sent another small shudder down Chuck’s spine, rhythmically.
As it was a matter of course with professional spies, the timing was perfect. Casey dropped the mic the moment he’d reached Chuck, the last harmony still ringing in the air, dragging him out of the sofa, drawing him in, melting them into the most unapologetic kiss. If Casey did something, he sure did it right.
There was a small whimper of anguish behind Chuck when the operative’s wrist broke, and in the corner of his mind, Chuck took note of Casey’s second hand wrapping around him as well like an afterthought.
He was flooded with the most powerful feeling of relief. It was like he had held out on the seventh chord for weeks, desperately waiting to finish the cadence. The immense physical presence claiming him was very masculine and very focused, promising one hell of a lot more than just a girlish dance.
It was also the third time the room erupted into cheers.
Much later that night, the patio was covered in darkness and silence, silence so loud that Chuck thought the neighbors would wake up from his knock at the door. Or possibly from hearing his heart, pounding hard against his chest in a nice beat of anticipation.
When the door opened, the silhouette of Casey towered in the frame for a moment, then stepped aside.
Chuck had started grinning wildly when he slipped inside, brushing against unmoving broad shoulders on his way. The door didn’t even produce as much as a click when it fell shut behind them, but who needed a soundtrack anyway.