Chuck Ficlet: "Attachments"
Title: Attachments
Characters: Casey
Spoilers: Ep. 4x5: Chuck vs. the Couch Lock
AN: For trulyobsessive who requested something to do with cleaning. I hope you're having a better day than the one when I asked you to prompt me!
About to hang the razor next to the towel to air dry it, Casey paused to check himself in the mirror. He didn’t even notice he was scanning his chin and throat for stubbles with the same intensity he applied to work on missions. Californian summer heat was burning through the tiny bathroom window, warming one damp and clean-smelling side of his face.
His father had taught him to shave, some years before he threw him out - one gangly teen, growing too fast, and one old farmer, drinking too much, starring into the mirror, acting like mom hadn't left them for good.
Casey smirked. His father hadn’t taught him a terrible lot overall. It had been considerably more amusing to be shown how to properly do it with a knife by Packard, too, somewhere in a dirty dusty bunker in the middle of a desert, rough male laughter and the smell of booze filling the air - where's the challenge in doing it sober?
Reaching for the hanger holding his uniform, his eyes fell on his wallet lying on the window sill. It held the pocket litter of his current life - credit cards and organ donor card and his Buy More ID. He hesitated. It was bad form to bring attachments on a mission. Apart from that, it was also the type of idiocy to be exclusively committed by people like Bartowski.
But California sun was burning down on him, and Utah and Iran both should be further away than they felt.
Later when he’d buttoned his full dress, he reached for the wallet again, flipping it once and holstering it in his pocket without further thought.
Time to attend his funeral.
Characters: Casey
Spoilers: Ep. 4x5: Chuck vs. the Couch Lock
AN: For trulyobsessive who requested something to do with cleaning. I hope you're having a better day than the one when I asked you to prompt me!
About to hang the razor next to the towel to air dry it, Casey paused to check himself in the mirror. He didn’t even notice he was scanning his chin and throat for stubbles with the same intensity he applied to work on missions. Californian summer heat was burning through the tiny bathroom window, warming one damp and clean-smelling side of his face.
His father had taught him to shave, some years before he threw him out - one gangly teen, growing too fast, and one old farmer, drinking too much, starring into the mirror, acting like mom hadn't left them for good.
Casey smirked. His father hadn’t taught him a terrible lot overall. It had been considerably more amusing to be shown how to properly do it with a knife by Packard, too, somewhere in a dirty dusty bunker in the middle of a desert, rough male laughter and the smell of booze filling the air - where's the challenge in doing it sober?
Reaching for the hanger holding his uniform, his eyes fell on his wallet lying on the window sill. It held the pocket litter of his current life - credit cards and organ donor card and his Buy More ID. He hesitated. It was bad form to bring attachments on a mission. Apart from that, it was also the type of idiocy to be exclusively committed by people like Bartowski.
But California sun was burning down on him, and Utah and Iran both should be further away than they felt.
Later when he’d buttoned his full dress, he reached for the wallet again, flipping it once and holstering it in his pocket without further thought.
Time to attend his funeral.