(no subject)
title: Prague
rating: pg-13
pairing: Maria Elena (Karina)/John Casey
summary: Everything about John Casey bothers you. Karina's got layers, and Agent John Casey is the one right under her skin. (spoilers up till 1x04 "Chuck Versus the Wookie")
a/n: My first Chuck fic, and since it's only on its fourth episode, most of this will probably be Jossed. But that's alright--I'm just glad I had some inspiration!
---
Everything about John Casey bothers you.
His voice, his brashness, his beady little eyes...whenever he's around, your shoulders bunch up just that little bit and this tic in your jaw goes wild. Yeah, you keep cool, you make your jokes, you undress him for good measure and tie him to a bed and walk out of his life with your hips shaking and your head held high--but on the inside, your blood boils and your skin itches and goddamnit, muscles clench despite yourself.
("Muscles I bet Martin'd faint after hearing about, huh? Been there, though. Done that.")
You just can't get a bead on him now, the smug bastard. The sarcasm you can handle, but the way he was acting, it's hard to tell whether he'd made you the moment you walked in, or whether he was in the dark the whole time. 'Which side are you on,' or more accurately, 'Which side are you going to dick over now' is the game you people play, and he's always been more sly about where he falls in that arena.
And you hate that, the blurred line between fakery and Casey just being a dumbass, so you simplify him. Turn him into a shit-poor spy who's duped by long hair and long legs, and it's easy to face him again. But Casey isn't as easy as you make him out to be, so thinking of him is mind-numbing, sometimes. And in your line of work, you've always said, your mind is your deadliest weapon.
("Next to the jewelled stiletto you sometimes keep tucked in your cleavage, right?"he answers back, and the fact that his voice is in your head is enough to make you want to scream.)
You can't afford turning John Casey into a regularity--into someone you give more than a passing thought. Not anymore.
Because it didn't always used to be this way, so damn confusing and not worth the trouble. Once, you enjoyed the complexities of Casey, went so far as to seek the adventure out. You liked bumping into him, on those rare occasions his missions wandered over the line into your own. He was... most definitely worth any and all trouble that inevitably followed you both.
("Natural born hellions, you think he once said, and then with that twinkle in his eye, he'd looked you up and down and amended, "Well, mostly natural.")
The memory makes you laugh, shaking your hair out as you get ready to board a plane out of this one-Starbucks town, and the sound from your throat is so foreign it startles you.
You laughed a lot, once, real laughs instead of the sly smirks and the sneaky smiles. Laughs that meant you were still having fun playing a role, being someone else, and you were just too ciega to see that with every new name and face and land you claimed as your own, little bits of Maria Elena were fading away. You're smarter now. Years and scars and too many close calls will do that to you.
You've been with the DEA for longer than you care to remember, and adrenaline only gets the blood pumping now, not the heart. No breathless quickies in the shadows of the darkened Louvre, no going down on a tall, dark, handsome spy in the back of a racing taxi down New Yorks streets, no having him go down on you in between a life and death ("Oh, hell, are there any other kinds, sweetheart?") footrace along the dirty rooftops of Argentina.
Now, it's get in, get what you want, and leave--and what you want doesn't include making wild and crazy monkey love with the fucking NSA, anyway.
Because that sort of thing, you've learned, only leads to mutual destruction. Johnny boy with his pants down in Prague and you with a priceless computer chip and a dawning realization that your idealism is shot just as dead as the targets who would've killed you if you hadn't killed them first.
You can't save the world. You can only save the mission, and only occasionally, yourself. There's no room in that equation for Casey, and the fact that once upon a time, you almost wanted there to be...well. It disgusts you, now.
When you realized "Sarah" was working with John, you were thrown. Made a glib comment and went on with your business, but the flickering, nervous dart of his gaze felt like needles on your neck. It made you angry, reckless.
Angry that he was here, that he couldn't look you in the eye and that your last meeting was just an embarrassment to him, not the explosion in the proverbial warehouse-of-life it was for you. Angry that he was looking at Sarah with those speculative, semi-dirty expressions, probably already calculating the exact arch of her back and the curve of her legs thrown over his shoulder. Angry that the perfect little CIA agent with the broken heart had him right where you could never get him--wanting more.
("The shit deserved the kill he got--look where his actions got us. I'm stuck at Buy More with the Turd Herd and she's roasting weinies while making doe eyes at the int--analyst." There's more to that story, but the shadows have always been too dark in Casey's eyes, and your light too dim. You decide only to hear the jealousy, the strange protectiveness of his tone, and hey--that's enough to keep you restless for at least a night or two.)
What's trouble is that Casey is an alpha male all over-- brawn with a brain that moves in unpredictable ways, a mirror of yourself if you cared to psychoanalyze, but above all, too deadly a combination to throw your lot in with. Maybe it's Daddy issues, but the broadness of his shoulders only makes you picture violence, not protection. Your life's already rife with plenty violence--he's a distraction, really. And as untrustworthy as they come.
("You should know, darlin'--people are forever cursing themselves for trusting your pretty little ass, aren't they?" and his sneer was so hypocritical you punched him in the face and used your panties as a gag.)
Casey does get his kill, though. Mostly because killing is what he does best. At first, that's what you liked most about him, actually--it even turned you on to see him get those bastards in Prague.
Prague, where you were Karina Alexandrova, girl with the eyes like sky. Prague, where Casey looked between you and the gun to your head, and chose the computer chip in Jakub Cerny's hand instead.
Oh, Cerny did bite it in the end, and at Casey's hand, too. Knife to the heart, quick and bloody, just the way you would've done it yourself. Even a little flashy, a twist of his wrist and that beautiful arc of glinting steel driving straight through layers of very expensive silk. You appreciated the trick, the skill, the game. At first.
But then you remembered he nearly got you dead, and even though it was his job, even though you realized that the agent is never as important as the mission, you finally realized that Casey would get you dead one day, and never even flinch. So you told him that your will to live far outweighed your admiration and your libido, and that was that.
("Might want to rethink the libido part. Far is too strong a word. I may be a show-off, but I've got some great sleight-of-hand in the sack, too. Don't you agree--mmmphh!")
Tied him to a rickety bed, cut your initials in the wall behind him, and left lipstick marks on his hip. Then you got the hell out of Dodge, item recovered and outlook on life refreshed--in a matter of speaking. Bottom line is, you won. And won for a reason.
The idiot doesn't think long-term, is the thing. Just goes straight for the jugular and thats it--mission done. And sure, sometimes the jugular can be good--fun, at any rate. But sometimes, oh, sometimes...
A person needs to look to their future. Insurance.
Casey will never realize that. Put a gun in his hand and he thinks he can save the day. Put a knife in his hand and he'll even do it with a flourish. But he doesn't think ahead. Doesn't think beyond the mission, of what's at stake, of what consequences his every action holds. Who he'll need later, whether for a favor or backup or information.
Never flinches when there's a choice between your life and the job.
Once upon a time, that fact embittered you. Made you hate him because you were different than that, better. Now, though, you just hate him because deep down, you're beginning to think you're just the same.
So yes, everything about John Casey bothers you. Enough that you're almost not sorry you didn't go farther than the undershirt and boxers in that hotel room. Enough that boarding this plane, the fact that Sarah and her floppy-haired boyfriend are the only ones seeing you off almost doesn't bother you. Enough that you almost want to drink a nice shot of whiskey on the plane and straightaway start forgetting Casey's mouth under yours.
Enough that the note in your back pocket, the dark writing slashed onto the Buy More Sales Associate business card, almost doesn't make you smile. Almost.
("Be seeing you." and there's more than just warning in those words. Something like a promise. And even though you've discovered that most promises at the hands of people like yourself are nothing but empty, you can't help but believe. Just a little bit.)
In the end, you chose to help Sarah instead of running away. You lost your part in the mission, but saved the life. So maybe you are different than the John Casey you knew. And maybe John Casey is different than the John Casey you knew. Because he came back to save Chuck and Sarah, and one day, a gun could be to your head once more, and maybe that day, Casey will choose you, instead.
And maybe that day will be the day Prague stops mattering. Wild to hope, but you like to live life on the wild side, don't you?
"Be seeing you," you echo, and crumble the card to the floor.
--finis--
rating: pg-13
pairing: Maria Elena (Karina)/John Casey
summary: Everything about John Casey bothers you. Karina's got layers, and Agent John Casey is the one right under her skin. (spoilers up till 1x04 "Chuck Versus the Wookie")
a/n: My first Chuck fic, and since it's only on its fourth episode, most of this will probably be Jossed. But that's alright--I'm just glad I had some inspiration!
---
Everything about John Casey bothers you.
His voice, his brashness, his beady little eyes...whenever he's around, your shoulders bunch up just that little bit and this tic in your jaw goes wild. Yeah, you keep cool, you make your jokes, you undress him for good measure and tie him to a bed and walk out of his life with your hips shaking and your head held high--but on the inside, your blood boils and your skin itches and goddamnit, muscles clench despite yourself.
("Muscles I bet Martin'd faint after hearing about, huh? Been there, though. Done that.")
You just can't get a bead on him now, the smug bastard. The sarcasm you can handle, but the way he was acting, it's hard to tell whether he'd made you the moment you walked in, or whether he was in the dark the whole time. 'Which side are you on,' or more accurately, 'Which side are you going to dick over now' is the game you people play, and he's always been more sly about where he falls in that arena.
And you hate that, the blurred line between fakery and Casey just being a dumbass, so you simplify him. Turn him into a shit-poor spy who's duped by long hair and long legs, and it's easy to face him again. But Casey isn't as easy as you make him out to be, so thinking of him is mind-numbing, sometimes. And in your line of work, you've always said, your mind is your deadliest weapon.
("Next to the jewelled stiletto you sometimes keep tucked in your cleavage, right?"he answers back, and the fact that his voice is in your head is enough to make you want to scream.)
You can't afford turning John Casey into a regularity--into someone you give more than a passing thought. Not anymore.
Because it didn't always used to be this way, so damn confusing and not worth the trouble. Once, you enjoyed the complexities of Casey, went so far as to seek the adventure out. You liked bumping into him, on those rare occasions his missions wandered over the line into your own. He was... most definitely worth any and all trouble that inevitably followed you both.
("Natural born hellions, you think he once said, and then with that twinkle in his eye, he'd looked you up and down and amended, "Well, mostly natural.")
The memory makes you laugh, shaking your hair out as you get ready to board a plane out of this one-Starbucks town, and the sound from your throat is so foreign it startles you.
You laughed a lot, once, real laughs instead of the sly smirks and the sneaky smiles. Laughs that meant you were still having fun playing a role, being someone else, and you were just too ciega to see that with every new name and face and land you claimed as your own, little bits of Maria Elena were fading away. You're smarter now. Years and scars and too many close calls will do that to you.
You've been with the DEA for longer than you care to remember, and adrenaline only gets the blood pumping now, not the heart. No breathless quickies in the shadows of the darkened Louvre, no going down on a tall, dark, handsome spy in the back of a racing taxi down New Yorks streets, no having him go down on you in between a life and death ("Oh, hell, are there any other kinds, sweetheart?") footrace along the dirty rooftops of Argentina.
Now, it's get in, get what you want, and leave--and what you want doesn't include making wild and crazy monkey love with the fucking NSA, anyway.
Because that sort of thing, you've learned, only leads to mutual destruction. Johnny boy with his pants down in Prague and you with a priceless computer chip and a dawning realization that your idealism is shot just as dead as the targets who would've killed you if you hadn't killed them first.
You can't save the world. You can only save the mission, and only occasionally, yourself. There's no room in that equation for Casey, and the fact that once upon a time, you almost wanted there to be...well. It disgusts you, now.
When you realized "Sarah" was working with John, you were thrown. Made a glib comment and went on with your business, but the flickering, nervous dart of his gaze felt like needles on your neck. It made you angry, reckless.
Angry that he was here, that he couldn't look you in the eye and that your last meeting was just an embarrassment to him, not the explosion in the proverbial warehouse-of-life it was for you. Angry that he was looking at Sarah with those speculative, semi-dirty expressions, probably already calculating the exact arch of her back and the curve of her legs thrown over his shoulder. Angry that the perfect little CIA agent with the broken heart had him right where you could never get him--wanting more.
("The shit deserved the kill he got--look where his actions got us. I'm stuck at Buy More with the Turd Herd and she's roasting weinies while making doe eyes at the int--analyst." There's more to that story, but the shadows have always been too dark in Casey's eyes, and your light too dim. You decide only to hear the jealousy, the strange protectiveness of his tone, and hey--that's enough to keep you restless for at least a night or two.)
What's trouble is that Casey is an alpha male all over-- brawn with a brain that moves in unpredictable ways, a mirror of yourself if you cared to psychoanalyze, but above all, too deadly a combination to throw your lot in with. Maybe it's Daddy issues, but the broadness of his shoulders only makes you picture violence, not protection. Your life's already rife with plenty violence--he's a distraction, really. And as untrustworthy as they come.
("You should know, darlin'--people are forever cursing themselves for trusting your pretty little ass, aren't they?" and his sneer was so hypocritical you punched him in the face and used your panties as a gag.)
Casey does get his kill, though. Mostly because killing is what he does best. At first, that's what you liked most about him, actually--it even turned you on to see him get those bastards in Prague.
Prague, where you were Karina Alexandrova, girl with the eyes like sky. Prague, where Casey looked between you and the gun to your head, and chose the computer chip in Jakub Cerny's hand instead.
Oh, Cerny did bite it in the end, and at Casey's hand, too. Knife to the heart, quick and bloody, just the way you would've done it yourself. Even a little flashy, a twist of his wrist and that beautiful arc of glinting steel driving straight through layers of very expensive silk. You appreciated the trick, the skill, the game. At first.
But then you remembered he nearly got you dead, and even though it was his job, even though you realized that the agent is never as important as the mission, you finally realized that Casey would get you dead one day, and never even flinch. So you told him that your will to live far outweighed your admiration and your libido, and that was that.
("Might want to rethink the libido part. Far is too strong a word. I may be a show-off, but I've got some great sleight-of-hand in the sack, too. Don't you agree--mmmphh!")
Tied him to a rickety bed, cut your initials in the wall behind him, and left lipstick marks on his hip. Then you got the hell out of Dodge, item recovered and outlook on life refreshed--in a matter of speaking. Bottom line is, you won. And won for a reason.
The idiot doesn't think long-term, is the thing. Just goes straight for the jugular and thats it--mission done. And sure, sometimes the jugular can be good--fun, at any rate. But sometimes, oh, sometimes...
A person needs to look to their future. Insurance.
Casey will never realize that. Put a gun in his hand and he thinks he can save the day. Put a knife in his hand and he'll even do it with a flourish. But he doesn't think ahead. Doesn't think beyond the mission, of what's at stake, of what consequences his every action holds. Who he'll need later, whether for a favor or backup or information.
Never flinches when there's a choice between your life and the job.
Once upon a time, that fact embittered you. Made you hate him because you were different than that, better. Now, though, you just hate him because deep down, you're beginning to think you're just the same.
So yes, everything about John Casey bothers you. Enough that you're almost not sorry you didn't go farther than the undershirt and boxers in that hotel room. Enough that boarding this plane, the fact that Sarah and her floppy-haired boyfriend are the only ones seeing you off almost doesn't bother you. Enough that you almost want to drink a nice shot of whiskey on the plane and straightaway start forgetting Casey's mouth under yours.
Enough that the note in your back pocket, the dark writing slashed onto the Buy More Sales Associate business card, almost doesn't make you smile. Almost.
("Be seeing you." and there's more than just warning in those words. Something like a promise. And even though you've discovered that most promises at the hands of people like yourself are nothing but empty, you can't help but believe. Just a little bit.)
In the end, you chose to help Sarah instead of running away. You lost your part in the mission, but saved the life. So maybe you are different than the John Casey you knew. And maybe John Casey is different than the John Casey you knew. Because he came back to save Chuck and Sarah, and one day, a gun could be to your head once more, and maybe that day, Casey will choose you, instead.
And maybe that day will be the day Prague stops mattering. Wild to hope, but you like to live life on the wild side, don't you?
"Be seeing you," you echo, and crumble the card to the floor.
--finis--