Characters: Casey/Chuck (Slash)
Summary: Stuck in the camera van on stakeout, Casey finds a new way to shut Chuck up.
Author's Notes: Set in Season One, for simplicity, and written for my tentinyfandoms challenge ("Night").
Working for the military, John Casey had resigned himself to the fact that other people decided where he went, what he did, and when that happened.
He rarely questioned it.
Yet somehow the Zen of that whole approach flew right out the window when confronted with spending a night on stakeout with the Asset while Agent Walker did something else.
Casey didn't ask what her other plans were. It was none of his business, not to mention unprofessional. But that didn't stop him from imagining what she was up to—something nice and relaxing, no doubt, like dinner party espionage followed by a kitchen shootout, or an explosive-laden military ambush of a secret-agent foreign-national.
All of it sounded better than endless hours of being trapped in the camera-van with the impossibly talkative Chuck Bartowski…
"—I still have the light-saber replica I bought at the 1998 Convention, but the first one I went to was before that, when I was fourteen—Morgan and I went—though I lost the ticket stub a few years back. Morgan's still got his, or he used to, but he's moved a couple of times since then so maybe—"
Casey casually slid his fingers up along his face to check for eye-bleed. Ear-bleed. Nope—not even a drop. Sure seemed like he was on the verge of it, though. His brain was waving the surrender flag double-time, and reminding him that this was the punishment you earned for trying to be patient.
So he stopped.
He felt the sound before he heard it…
"What are you—wait, is that growling?" Chuck lurched forward, right into Casey's space. His eyes scanned the equipment. "Did you see something on the monitors? What was it? Who—"
"Bartowski!" Casey snapped.
"Sorry. I just thought maybe something important had happened."
The fact that Casey hadn't killed Chuck yet (or just muzzled him, though the night was young and Casey knew where the duct tape was if he needed it) was pretty important, but he didn't say it. He might have, if he thought it would've kept Chuck from crowding so close, because damn—something smelled really good, something tied to Chuck. A new shampoo, maybe? Or was it—
Focus, Casey reminded himself. They were on an assignment here. He was too good a soldier to get distracted by things like Agent Walker's combat skills and slinky dresses, and he'd never even had to try ignoring things about other men, like the incredible aroma emanating from Chuck. But right now, that smell was taking on a life of its own that made Casey want to nibble Chuck's earlobe right in front of the surveillance equipment and God and everybody…
"—hear me? Casey?"
"What." Casey said automatically. "I was thinking, Bartowski, about our mission and what we're looking for."
"Which would be easier if I were inside, so I could move around, get into the back rooms and corners and stuff."
"Where I can't see you, which is why we're in the van. Besides, the security cameras in this place could give Caesar's Palace a run for their money." Casey surveyed the twenty-camera display appreciatively, taking in views of the four main rooms, the kitchen, the entry hall, and the two rear hallways. He was distracted by a sudden thud behind him.
"Bartowski!" When yelling didn't rouse the Asset, Casey got down on the floor and shook him. "Bartowski," he said again, feeling for a pulse and gently lifting Chuck's head to check for bleeding. He was still working his fingers around the back of Chuck's skull when Chuck's eyes fluttered open—dazed and heavy and impossibly huge—and the scent from Chuck's shampoo drifted up and lassoed Casey like a wayward steer.
"Nnnngghhh…" Chuck groaned, the sound going straight to Casey's cock and overriding every sense of procedure and protocol he'd ever learned.
Casey kissed Chuck with the heat of too many nights spent polishing his guns and rearranging his military medals while watching the rise and fall of Chuck's chest over the lonely transmission of the bedroom spy-cam.
Chuck slowly responded to the assault by wrapping his hand around the back of Casey's neck. "Mmm…"
Somehow that was even better than the sound Chuck had made before. Casey chased the feeling of it across Chuck's tongue and up against his hip, before remembering where he was and why they were there.
He pulled back, tried to shake off the distraction. "What happened earlier? When you fell over?"
"Huh?" Chuck looked like he was still recovering from the kiss. Not surprising—Casey had honed his kissing abilities over the years to a pornographic level that could trick both sides of the truth out of a veteran double-agent.
"Did you flash?" Casey persisted.
"Oh." Chuck sat up woozily, bracing himself on an elbow. "I got a whole chain-gang download on the kitchen staff. Twelve of them have records—harmless stuff, but it's a lot to process all at once." He rubbed his head as if it hurt.
"The maitre' d owes two years of back-taxes, and one of the waiters was a P.O.W. in Iraq."
Casey grunted in sympathy.
"So, did I just imagine you kissing me before? Because why would you start something like that and then stop, though I don't think my imagination is good enough to come up with that kind of detail, not to mention the technique—"
"Bartowski. Chuck," Casey amended. "How much more surveillance do you need? What's left?"
"Hey, unless someone's planning on crashing through the doors after closing, I've seen everything there is to see—down to the last Appletini and fan-folded napkin. I'd say we're done."
Casey rubbed his chin. "How could the General's intel be bad?"
Chuck shrugged and rose to his feet, still unsteady. "Maybe the key player got sick and decided to stay home. Maybe there was a car accident. Who knows? How badly do you want to spend the rest of the night watching the cameras?"
Looking at Chuck's flushed cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes, Casey processed the current situation and re-evaluated his objectives. He decided to suspend the mission for the remainder of the evening and file the mental paperwork under Pending. That left him free to pursue the opportunity right there in front of him.
"Change of plans. Looks like I've got the rest of the night off," he said, reaching for Chuck's hips and pulling him close. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Chuck's neck, where the skin was warm and enticingly fragrant, and Chuck nearly fell into him in response.
"Sounds good to me," Chuck gasped, as Casey nipped his earlobe and tightened an arm around his waist.
While people dined unseen and unthreatened, Casey performed his own surveillance of Chuck, grateful for the privacy of the camera-van and helpful amenities such as the panel below the console that pulled out to become a bed. Casey prided himself on being thorough, and personal encounters like this were no exception. He explored Chuck in slow, delicious detail, listening for the sounds that weren't words and hearing everything Chuck had been too busy filling the air with nervous talk to actually say.
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