What if...

Christmas fic

2009-11-29T03:19:34Z

Hey there, boys and girls! I have a small request to make...

Anyone here speak French?

I have just a few short lines (2-3) that I need double-checked for the gift exchange (and I chose French because...well, there is no immediate answer for that...). Anyhow, if you can just proof them and tell me whether I'm making sense or not, I'll........hm...well, if you ever need anything translated to Ukrainian, I can help you there! XD If not, how about a short fic of your design (i.e. give me a prompt and any specifics you want) as a New Year's Eve gift? So, to summarize...

*****The job: Proofread my 2-3 small French lines
*****The pay: Short fic of your design for the New Year.

Any takers?

Ack!

2009-10-31T21:24:23Z

Alright, so I'm twenty years old and I've only ever had one boyfriend in the past (who lasted ten days because I ended it promptly)---and now I've found myself someone new.

Why, then, do I feel so horrible about it?

It's fun to flirt, fun to think about getting married, having kids, going out on romantic dates---but as soon as I put my foot through the door, I get hit by this wave of trepidation. Is it just me? Please tell me it isn't, because this guy is so sweet and kind. I don't want to jump the gun because of an itchy trigger finger.

And almost to add insult to injury, there's an older fellow I've kind of been crushing on for the last little while who told me he kind of felt the same.

Any suggestions in the matter?

In the Eye of the Hurricane - Chapter 7

2009-09-10T05:25:54Z

A/N: Wow, it’s been a while...I apologize.

As a side note—since I love making references to both the comics and the television shows, you might find a few in the following chapters. I’ll point them out at the bottom of each chapter.

Title: In the Eye of the Hurricane – Chapter seven
First chapter: ( Chapter one )
Author: ladyofpride
Characters: Joker, Scarecrow/Crane and the Riddler. Batman will be mentioned (and make appearances) as the story progresses, though he isn’t the focus of the story.
Rating: Pg-17 (if such a thing exists).
Timeframe: follows after the second movie
Warnings: violence, obvious insanity and the death of innocent (or not-so-innocent) bystanders...after all, this is about the Joker...
Disclaimer: I’m not making a profit off of this—nor do I have the desire to either. I’m just playing in someone else’s sandbox.
Summary: It’s true what they say. Sanity can only last so long...

The Riddler shivers every once in a while in the company of his fevered delusions, cold with sweat and shifting uncomfortably as his mind races between reality and dream. He’s trapped somewhere on the border, twitching away from the lurid provinces of his mind as the Joker prods him solidly in the knee periodically. The Joker wakes him on the hour. And then every half hour.

Just for good measure.

“Blame the brain damage,” the Joker says when the Riddler tosses him a glare.

After the drugs begin to wane and the Riddler’s had a chance to pull the fractured pieces of his psyche back together again, he stretches awkwardly on the sheets and nudges his abused leg out of poking range.

“Leave me the hell alone...”

“Humor me.”

“I’ll need stronger drugs for that...” His eyes scan the bedside table where the bottle of painkillers once stood, his body stiff as he tries not to move his torso.

The Joker stole it when the Riddler drifted off.

“Where did you put them?”

The Joker jolts back in mock surprise and feigns an innocent smile. “Put what? I have knives—” he replies, lifting the left corner of his lapel to show the potato peeler tucked inside his breast pocket. “You could search me but you might find me a little prickly, I—”

“Forget I ever asked,” the Riddler interjects, making the words sound short and clipped. He sighs a bit. Sounds as though he’s a little on edge. “And leave, please. You obviously know I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s right...

The Joker smiles.

“Tell me a riddle first.”

The Riddler sighs again, settling back into the pillow as best he can. He’s doing remarkably well considering a fractured collarbone and a concussion. “How about I make a deal with you?”

“That all depends on the deal, sweetheart.”

“It’ll be a riddle, of course. I’ll give you one and you’ll leave the room until you can come up with an answer.”

“And if I’m wrong?”

The Riddler smiles—a little curl of the lips that looks more menacing than it ought to be. “If you were polite, you’d let me beat you with my cane, but let’s be honest...if you’re wrong, you’ll leave to my peace until the doctor returns.”

“That’s, uh...swell, kid, but the doc says I have to keep an eye on you.” He licks his lips, breath coming out in short, excited pants as he leans in close to the Riddler’s ear. “And if I’m right...” he murmurs, slipping the glove off his right hand to trace the faint scar that runs diagonally across the kid’s good collarbone—one he only noticed an hour or so ago, “you’ll tell me all about these beautiful scars. Deal?”

The Riddler hesitates. Doesn’t say anything for a moment. The Joker ghosts his hand across his chest to the other collarbone and then down a little just below the damage. The man’s body stiffens.

He hisses in pain between his teeth.

The Joker can feel his heart hammering against his ribcage. Loses himself in the rhythm...

Then: “...Only one colour, but not one size; stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain; doing no harm and feeling no pain...What am I?” (1)

He leans back, grinning again. When he leaves the room, he feels surprisingly satisfied.

Closing the door partway, he wanders into the kitchen and cranks up the radio.

-1-Joker-1-

“—She says ‘stop’ when it’s time for me to go. She says ‘go’ when I say I love her so—Oh yeah, yeah, yeah...Oh yeah, yeah, the trouble with love—you’ve got me so mixed up, I don’t know what I’m doin’—”

He hears a thump from the bedroom...and maybe a shout. The Joker isn’t sure. He’s too caught up in the music to care. Playing ignorant, he turns the dial a little farther to right despite his weary audience.

“—that’s the trouble with love!” (2)

The second thump comes from the front door.

He takes one last glance into the kitchen shelf before he closes the drawer. The previous owner didn’t have much in the way of volatile chemicals and he doesn’t suppose Crane would be merry with the idea of him fooling around with his drugs—all the same, he needs something with which to entertain himself. The Riddler’s a bit too fragile at the moment for anything he has in mind.

Somehow, he’s not surprised when he doesn’t find the doctor alone.

“Is it poker night already?” he asks, opening the front door a little farther as he eyes the two thugs behind Crane. One is stick thin and twitchy (he’s wearing his orange Arkham jumpsuit under a ridiculously large overcoat) and the other could probably kill an elephant with his bare hand if he wanted to. The man towers over Crane like a totem pole, his face a mess of scars and stitches...

The Joker likes this one.

“Old chums,” Crane says absently as he brushes past him into the apartment, a sack of goodies thrown over his shoulder. Strolling into the kitchen, he drops the bag on the table and reaches inside to pull out what the Joker supposes is a figure-of-eight brace.

“You any good with riddles, Dr. Goodfellow?”

Crane quirks an eyebrow at the peculiar name and glances briefly at the radio. “I imagine you forced our guest to entertain you while I was gone...?”

The Joker reaches into his pocket and pulls out the napkin he wrote the riddle on, the words sharp at some points and blotchy at others where he penned them on the thin material. Crane glances at it, does another eyebrow trick and wanders off into the living room.

Stickman and Lurch ebb into the apartment after the good doctor, eyeing the Joker warily as he rummages through the various bottles in Crane’s santa sack. When Lurch lingers in the doorway, the Joker opens his mouth to ask him who stitched up the worst of his pockmarks.

He’s interrupted by the return of Crane.

“You’ll find your answer on the balcony,” he says smartly, reaching for the radio dial—

“Uh-uh! Shhh...” the Joker whispers, slapping his hand away, “I’m playing a game with Riddles.”

“And the radio...?”

“Here—” He grabs a couple of bottles and shoves them into Crane’s hands. The man eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t make a move to stop him. “—play with these. Keep the goonies quiet until I get back.”

With an oddly professional sounding sigh, Crane humours him and lines the bottles up on the table, reaching into the bag to pull out a new batch of needles as the Joker darts into the living room. Staring through the glass door that separates him from the balcony, he squints his eyes in the mid-afternoon light and finds...

“A barbeque?” he asks dryly. When he turns to face Crane, the man shakes his head and gives him a look that says, ‘try again’.

And he so tries again...

...And then he gets it.

He skips across the living room to the bedroom with an extra spring in his step and opens the door quietly. It closes behind him with a gentle click—the Riddler’s wary eyes shift immediately to him.

The lamp that once stood on the bedside table is now lying on the floor and the alarm clock is flashing its red numbers coyly at him from where it sits beside it. And the Joker could be wrong, but he’d swear the Riddler’s moved an inch or so closer to the edge of the bed.

He supposes Crane’s muscle relaxant is really the only thing keeping the kid in their good company.

It’s a pity.

“Must have been one heck of a party in here...” he muses aloud. Walking over to the side of the bed, he leans down to pick up the lamp and the clock before placing them back on the table. He eventually abandons the lamp shade on the floor after it falls off twice. “Some house guest you are, Riddles. Oh, and before I forget...shadows.”

“Took you long enough,” he mutters sardonically. “Next time, I’ll ask you what’s black and white and red all over...”

“No one likes a smart ass.”

“You know, I’ve never heard of a clown that couldn’t take a joke.”

The Joker waves his hand dismissively and stretches himself out across the bed beside the Riddler. The man’s jaw stiffens when he starts tracing the old scar again. “So, tell me a story.”

“...Once upon a time, there was an ugly duckling—”

The Joker slaps him gently on the cheek and rolls over onto his back. “Not that story.”

“You should be more specific.”

“You’re alarming coherent for one of Crane’s patients...” The Joker steeples his fingers over his chest and crosses his ankles. “So, about all those little nicks and scratches...”

A weary sigh.

Then silence.

“...Are those my gloves?”

The Joker glances down at his hands and wriggles his fingers. Shifting a little to get comfortable, he glances at the ceiling and notices that part of the stucco looks like a horse’s head. “Uh-uh—my question first.”

“My father beat me as a child—now, are those or are those not my gloves?”

“They’re yours,” he admits, and turns his head to give the kid a curious look. “...Your father beat you. Where are the waterworks?”

The Riddler rolls his eyes. He looks oddly rigid doing. “As much as I hate the man, his method of parenting is hardly something to cry over.”

“What’d he do?” he asks, eyeing another faint scar below the Riddler’s ear. “Whip you?”

“He preferred his fists.”

“Big guy?”

“He had a thing for sports.”

The Joker has to laugh at that—not the answer, of course, but the kid’s wit. Most people tend to lose their tongues when they find themselves trapped in a colloquy with him. His relationship with Crane is silent for the most part and his banters with the Bat tend to be one-sided. The Riddler seems to be an entirely different breed of man.

“What’s your excuse?”

“Huh?” The Joker blinks.

“The smile.” The Riddler elaborates—and either the drugs have lowered his inhibitions or the guy doesn’t know what happens to people that hear the Joker’s story. That was just an invitation for disaster.

“You want to know how I got ’em?” he asks. His finger’s itch for a blade. Any blade. He’s never had an introduction to the tale like this before. It’s enticing. “You see, I had an older brother once. Worked for the mob. He did the dirty wo—”

“No.”

The Joker pauses.

It feels like a slap to the face.

“No...” he says again, and this time it has something of an edge to it. When the Joker turns to look at him, he finds the Riddler’s eyes focused on the ceiling, the corner of his mouth curled up in a grimace. “That’s a lie.”

“I wasn’t finished,” he growls—but props to the kid for getting it right.

He turns his body onto his side and leans over the Riddler, and he’s so damn close to putting a little pressure on his collarbone... He wants to, but that gleam is back in the kid’s eye, the maniacal one—a little window to the chink in his sanity. It’s what the Joker was looking for earlier.

It’s a wonder a lie can do.

“Out.”

Crane’s voice cuts through the tension like a surgical knife. The command is soft, but cold, just like everything else about the doctor as he leads Lurch fluidly into the room. The Joker can see he’s working on automatic again as he slips on a pair of rubber gloves. Lurch is carrying a bottle and a needle.

They crowd the Riddler like vultures circling for meat.

The Joker’s willing to leave them alone to stew in their madness.

“I’m not an avid fan of dishonesty,” the Riddler hisses as the Joker leans into him (purposefully) before slipping off the bed. The Joker pretends he isn’t listening, but he takes his time walking to the door. “Would I be wrong in assuming that the worst of those scars were self-inflicted?”

The Joker spins so sharply on his heel, he almost loses balance. But Crane is a swift man and he’s already standing in the way before the Joker can figure out what he wants to do now that the cat’s out of the bag. It’s not as though he’s ashamed of his face, but he knows where the danger lies in a man that never misses a trick—and what exactly did the Riddler do to attract the Bat’s attention? What diabolical plan had he concocted that Gotham’s Police Department couldn’t handle by themselves...?

He settles for flashing the Riddler a smile over Crane’s shoulder before he strolls out of the room. He’d be angry if he hadn’t just figured something out.

The kid obviously has no clue what he’s gotten himself into.

The Bat would agree...

A/N: (1) The riddle comes from “meanriddles. com”. They’ve got a couple of good ones there and they’re rated according to difficulty.

(2) The song playing on the radio is called “That’s the Trouble with Love”, which was sung by Frank Gorshin, the Emmy nominated actor who played the Riddler in the 1960s television show (he’s also the man that escalated the Riddler’s popularity from a minor villain to a full-blown, maniacal, Gotham Rogue). I’m currently trying to find out who wrote the song and I believe it was Bering Strait...if I’m wrong, feel free to correct me. ;)

P.S. You can find the song on youtube

P.P.S. All comments, questions and concerns are welcome. Especially if they’re related to grammar. I think I need a beta...

In the Eye of the Hurricane - C6

2009-07-06T04:11:17Z

A/N: Sorry about the long hiatus. Finals ended in April but I was jumping around everywhere for a while. On a side note, I’m also posting this on fanfiction.net (under the same title), so if you’d much rather just read it there I’ll leave you a link and stop posting it on LJ.

Title: In the Eye of the Hurricane – Chapter six
Author: ladyofpride
Characters: Joker, Scarecrow/Crane and the Riddler. Batman will be mentioned (and make appearances) as the story progresses, though he isn’t the focus of the story.
Rating: Pg-17 (if such a thing exists).
Timeframe: follows after the second movie
Warnings: violence, obvious insanity and the death of innocent (or not-so-innocent) bystanders...after all, this is about the Joker...
Disclaimer: I’m not making a profit off of this—nor do I have the desire to either. I’m just playing in someone else’s sandbox.
First chapter: (Chapter one) –all chapters are connected.
Summary: It’s true what they say. Sanity can only last so long...

They hit the ground running.

Sort of...

In reality, he lands in a messy summersault. Whatever the case, they make it across the alley in one flimsy jump, fortunate enough to land on a building that’s roughly a storey shorter than the one before. There’s dirt in his eyes and his right shoe is lying somewhere three feet behind him, but he’s all in one piece and the Bat’s still chasing them. That’s all that matters—the chase, that is. Who better to have behind you than the Bat?

The Riddler, on the other hand, falls with an oomph! and an ominous snap!

He wonders if the kid broke something vital but a quick look reveals the boy kneeling a little off to his left, fiddling with his cane as he tries to twist the handle off.

“You broke it,” he mutters.

“You’re welcome,” he replies—because, really, what toy isn’t fun when it’s broken? Or maybe the Riddler wanted to break it himself, take it apart piece by piece and devise a new purpose for its existence. It already shoots tranqs and explosives. A sword would be neat. Or just a knife in the handle. Or a potato peeler...

His mind wanders for a moment as his hand slips into his coat pocket, closing around said peeler as the Riddler curses violently under his breath. Glancing over his shoulder, he spots the dark silhouette of the Bat standing on the edge of the last building, haloed faintly by the dismal glow of Gotham City. Streetlamps and city lights aren’t enough to illuminate the sky, but the oily light is enough to smoulder the stars, a dull backdrop for the Batman’s opening scene.

Cue the music.

Laying his free hand flat against the surface of the apartment’s roof, he licks his lips and makes a small psst-ing noise to get the Riddler’s attention. The kid pauses mid-twist, still fighting with the handle, and narrows his eyes at the Joker in obvious irritation.

“Follow my lead...” the Joker murmurs gleefully—just as the Bat spreads his wings, taking a small leap off the building before gliding toward the fallen villains. The Riddler’s eyes shift to the descending shadow just as the Joker’s hand curls around a fistful of pebbles and dirt.

The Batman knows he should take the Joker out first.

He feels honoured.

The joker scrambles to his feet—and cries out, ankle buckling under him before he tumbles back to his knees. His shoe is still lying somewhere on the ground and the Batman has given him a bit of distance, landing behind him rather than on him now that he thinks he’s injured. It’s foolish, really. The instant the man lands, the Joker springs back to his feet and twirls around, tossing the filth at the Batman’s eyes before the man can wind up a punch. Shoving his blind opponent back with a flimsy kick to the chest, the Joker dances forward and lashes out with his knife.

He wonders if the Bat bleeds like everybody else.

The hand on his arm comes as a surprise.

“Stop it!”

The Riddler’s eyes aren’t wide behind his domino mask but the Joker can see an awkward spark burning in the absence of his insanity. It’s a moment of clarity.

God, what an awful thing...

The kid’s bowler hat is missing and the wind ruffles his hair. It looks eerily red in Gotham’s faint glow. Bloody, almost. The Joker supposes that that must be a sign—that it isn’t too late to correct him just yet. All it’ll take is a proverbial blow to the head, and the kid will be singing nursery rhymes with Crane before the week is through.

“Just run,” the Riddler hisses, raising the cane menacingly above his hand before slamming it down squarely on the Batman’s head. It makes a weird clanging noise as it connects with the protective metal but it’s enough to disorientate Gotham’s saviour long enough for the Joker to turn tail and run.

It feels a little funny with only one shoe.

He makes it to the fire escape and slips down the ladder. The other buildings are too tall for any more alley-jumping. He can see Cranes car idling in the dark below him, the driver side window rolled all the way down, and with a barking laugh the Joker draws the doctor’s attention to the scene above.

The Joker keeps his eyes on the car as he races down the balconies and stairs. One tenant turns on her kitchen lights in pure curiosity and screams when he pauses to flash her a smile through the window.

“Don’t stop,” the Riddler mutters as nudges the Joker further. The fire escape rattles and groans, clanging against the brick wall as the Batman lands on the first balcony. “He’s going to catch us.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Just—”

There are two storeys left to go before they hit the final ladder—and the Joker can’t help but make matters worse. Just as Crane pulls the car up the alleyway, situating himself below them, the Joker spins sharply on his heel and grabs the Riddler’s cane.

“What comes down—” he begins, turning the base of the stick up as he plays with the handle “—usually dies when it hits rock bottom.”

“It’s broken!” the Riddler exclaims but his warning falls on deaf ears as a jet of smoke erupts from the bottom of his cane. Sure enough, it gives the Batman something to think about. It gives them all a hard time breathing but the Joker really doesn’t care.

He grabs the kid’s arm and yanks him over the railing before jumping after him. The Joker hits the car.

The kid hits the ground.

The Riddler tries to scream (he thinks) but it comes out as a choked cry instead. The smoke is thinner down here and that’s just about the only reason he can make out Crane’s figure in the darkness as he slips out of the car. The Joker hasn’t broken anything (although the cane feels a little wobbly from where it’s tucked under his right arm) but the pain’s still there. He can feel it in his ribs.

“...You dented the roof.”

The Joker laughs. “It’s an improvement.”

Crane makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat and wanders away for a moment, obscured by the mist. The fire escape groans as the Batman continues his descent, the sound overridden, briefly, by an agonizingly painful cry from the Riddler—which is followed shortly by an insistent ‘let go of me!’

He supposes their evening excursion counts as kidnapping now.

The media is going to love it.

The Joker shoves himself up off the car, rolling to his feet as Crane returns with their injured ward. The kid struggles, faintly, but finds himself shoved into the back seat before he can wriggle out of his grip.

“Broken collarbone,” Crane explains. And, yeah, that probably hurts like a— “Take the wheel, if you please.”

The Joker runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tracing the scars as he yanks open the driver side door and ducks inside the car. The cane gets tossed onto the passenger seat as Crane settles down in the back—the doctor barely has the time to slam his door shut before the Joker floors the gas.

The Batman drops down into the alleyway far behind them, a ghostly image in the mist.

“Well, doctor...” he begins, adjusting the rear-view mirror to examine their patient. The Riddler is sitting upright, trying to put as much distance as he can between Crane and himself. He cradles his left arm close to his body, the shoulder sagging a little under the material of his coat. Blood dribbles down his temple. “...what’s your diagnosis?”

“Six or seven weeks in a figure-of-8 brace,” the doctor muses excitedly, pretending to be oblivious to the mixed expression of fear and hatred he’s getting from the Riddler. The kid would’ve looked intimidating if not for the sudden drain of colour from in face, the pain in his shoulder and chest probably overruling all other sensations for the time being. “But a sling should do the trick for now. At least until we can pen a hospital visit into our schedule...”

Leaning over, the Joker hits the glove-compartment with the side of his fist and the door pops open. Swerving through traffic, he runs a red light as he reaches for one of the tranquilizers Dr. Crane shoved in there before they jumped in the car for their night out on the town.

In the rear view mirror the Joker watches the Riddler shiver, eyes fluttering shut before they snap open again. The kid took quite a beating from the fall.

Gravity does that.

Crane leans forward to take the tranquilizer. Sitting back, he doesn’t give the kid much of a chance to react as he jabs the needle into his throat, pinning the Riddler awkwardly under his arm until the kid slackens against the door. His struggle is short-lived as he succumbs to both the weight of his injuries and the opiate effect of the weak sedative. The Joker focuses on the dark, narrow-eyed glare he receives as the kid checks him out in the reflection of the mirror, consciousness slipping as Crane tugs him into a better position.

He foresees permanent emotional damage in the near future.

The Joker watches him pass out and runs a hand through his hair, pulling the long greasy strands out of his eyes as he swerves to avoid hitting a motorcycle. The bike nearly topples over when he cuts in front of it, the driver slowing steadily when the wail of a police cruiser howls to life somewhere behind them.

They jump from 60mph to 110mph in a heartbeat, the car’s frame rattling as he weaves in and out of traffic. The cruiser chases him until it hits a little red smart car fifteen blocks away from their makeshift head quarters.

Hallelujah for the Fuzz.

-1-Joker-1-

At three in the morning, no one really cares what happens outside their door. Every neighbourhood in Gotham is a tough one—it’s why regular people don’t usually report gunshots unless they hear a return fire. Leave the messy discoveries and gruesome reports to a poor, unsuspecting passerby or an on-duty cop. No one wants to get caught in the middle of someone else’s fight.

Which makes dragging the Riddler up the fire escape easier than stealing candy from a baby.

The kid’s in terrible shape but he soldiers on, glancing wildly around him in the few, brief moments of clarity that hit him at odd intervals during the trip home. Crane hefts him through the balcony door into the dead guy’s apartment and waits for the Joker to follow before they haul him into the bedroom. When they lay him out across the bed, he looks ready to die.

“You can be the doctor,” the Joker muses aloud, handing Crane one of his knives to use on the Riddler’s jacket. He cuts the sleeve in a long clean swipe and removes the offending article. The kid’s shirt follows shortly after. “I’ll be the nurse.”

Crane hums quietly in the back of his throat, his mind working on automatic as he goes about mending their guest. Gentle but cold; clinical and emotionless—like a man working with glass. He treats the Riddler as though he were a fragile artefact, well worth the care but not the compassion. The Joker can see it in the way he moves, fluid and precise, doing what’s best for the young man’s body despite the pain he’s in.

“I need a moment,” Crane says over his shoulder, just as his pale-faced patient shoots him a glare through the sedative’s waning mist. “Find the linen closet and grab a few sheets. I’ll need them for the slings.”

The Joker leaves the doctor to his business, listening to the Riddler’s muffled cries through the bedroom door as he tears a sheet to shreds. The doctor leaves briefly to grab his needles and drugs before disappearing into the room again. After knocking the kid up with his own special concoction of painkillers, Crane throws the door open and takes the Joker’s handiwork to use for his slings.

“Concussed?” the Joker asks eagerly, later, after everything’s been said a done. The kid is bandaged and quiet, his left arm wrapped tightly against the side of his body where he lies, propped up, against the pillows. He’s still pale and dazed, looking hollow and shattered under the influence of Crane’s remedy, eyes half-focused on the ceiling as he ventures dizzily through the world inside his head...

“Yes. You’ll have to wake him every hour to make sure it’s nothing permanent.”

...And isn’t that just like Christmas in July? How often do you get to be someone’s own personal hell for 48 hours straight?

Crane makes a call and throws on a jacket over his borrowed clothes. The Joker busies himself in the bedroom, rummaging through the Riddler’s things until he finds the kid’s gloves—and by then Crane has mysteriously disappeared. No doubt to terrorize another unsuspecting pharmacy or raid one of Gotham’s pristine hospitals...

Dr. John Wayne might’ve revolutionized healthcare in the few, short, sweet years of his life but there was really nothing Gotham’s richest family could’ve done to halt its steady descent into oblivion. Hell is only a jump away.

His hands are a little bigger than the kid’s but the gloves fit—and isn’t that food for thought? Part of him wonders what will happen if the Riddler wakes to find a smile carved into his face but he knows the kid is already smiling somewhere on the inside. It’s the part of him that’s constantly tempted to goad Gotham’s Knight into solving his riddles.

And exactly what kind of criminal wants to get caught?

“Therapy starts tonight,” he says—right after slapping the kid on the knee. The Riddler jerks awake and studies him carefully through half-lidded eyes. “Don’t worry, I know what all the professionals like to say. I’ve heard it all.”

The Riddler doesn’t say anything. His eyes drift lower before he closes them again.

Until the Joker gives him a second slap.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes up the Riddler’s right hand and pats it affectionately as he tries to remember what Dr. what’s-her-face usually says at the beginning of her rambles...

“Forty-eight hour watch,” he explains when the kid tries (painfully) to squirm out of his hold. “No rest for the wicked—doctor’s orders.”

But the kid continues to struggle and it’s a least a little admirable for the fly in the spider’s web. The Riddler’s playing ball in a whole new field now. All bets are locked.

The Joker’s going to teach him how to burn his bridges.

“I think we’ll start with the whole ‘riddle’ scheme...” Digging a finger into one of the kid’s pressure points, the one between his index finger and his thumb, the Joker waits until the Riddler stops struggling before he eases off. “I think you have an odd fixation with telling the truth.”

The Riddler gives him an honest look just then.

It’s a clue.

The Joker laughs. “Don’t tell me—I want to guess.”

Because, really, he has months to figure it out.

The Riddler’s isn’t going anywhere.

[Next chapter: ( Chapter 7 )]

AN: Sorry, I know it’s short but I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow and I’m going to be gone for two weeks.

BTW, if you think posting this only on fanfiction.net is a good idea, just leave me a note. Here’s the link (starting from chapter one): http://www.fanfiction.net/secure/story/story_preview.php?storyid=4863698&chapter=1/

;) Thanks for reading.

P.S....To: America, From: Canada, With Love

2009-05-25T19:52:31Z

Happy Memorial Day to everyone in the States. I've got you in my prayers.

Wonderland - Part Four

2009-05-25T19:34:04Z

Title: Wonderland - Part Four
Pairing: Casey/Chuck
Rating: Nc-17
Warnings: Pwp...yeah, definitely. Smex, my friends, and language.
POV: Casey
Length: approximately 7,000 words
Spoilers: Pre-Chuck vs. the Dream Job—so anything before then is free game
Summary: Sometimes, Chuck can be too damn naive for his own good...

“What are you—?”

“Jeans,” Chuck explains, snatching the leg of his pants from the far end of the bed. His levis never made it to the floor.

Checking the back pocket, he pulls out a small square foil and holds it in front of his face victoriously. That trademark half-grin of his beams at Casey as the man plucks the condom from his fingers. Trust Chuck to be prepared.

“Boy scout,” Casey teases.

“Don’t joke,” Chuck warns before slapping him on the shoulder. It actually stings. “I’m not about to start having sex without one.”

“No...no more joking...” he mumbles against his lips. He lies him back down again, gently, without losing contact with his mouth and just savors the taste. Even with a condom in hand, they still spend the next five or ten minutes fooling around, grabbing, pulling, tugging, pressing, biting (-yes, just like that!-) and kissing until Casey’s eased his first finger into Chuck. The second follows shortly after, and the third, before Casey pulls the latex glove over his cock and slicks himself up.

He hooks one arm under Chuck’s left knee before easing in—easing in and waiting because it’s too hot/tight/wonderful/real to rush through. No, not while Chuck is staring at him with those god-awful—amazing—brown eyes of his. And the trust is shining there, even though the pain prevails over the pleasure, because Chuck’s confidence in Casey is pure enough to be heartbreaking.

No one should have that much faith in a person. Least of all in Casey.

When he pushes himself deeper, up to the root, Chuck’s body as taut as a bowstring that’s been pulled too far, it surprises him when the kid’s hand slips behind his neck to bring him down for a kiss. Chuck’s trust must be made of gold because he holds tight and just lets Casey move until he’s established a rhythm that he can handle. Slow and easy. One step at a time.

It’s rewarding when Chuck bucks under him suddenly, gasping sharply as Casey finds what he’s been looking for. Casey’s next thrust into the too-tight warmth of Chuck’s body is aimed at his prostate, continuing his painstakingly slow assault until the kid’s been reduced to a quivering mass, squirming, writhing, struggling, thrashing—trying desperately to do anything that will speed things up. They wrestle and adjust, limbs slipping and knocking against each other as they continuously tangle and untangle themselves to keep that precious angle that works. When Chuck manages to hook his leg behind Casey’s thigh, surprising him with a powerful thrust up against the rhythm of his own, he counters with a hard press against the kid’s hips, holding the bone hard enough to bruise.

Writhing on the bedcover, one hand fisted in the sheets as the fingers of his other hand dig almost painfully into Casey’s scalp, Chuck surrenders himself to begging and moans audibly “Casey...John...please” in his ear. He doesn’t know if it’s the begging or the fact that Chuck calls him John as he f-(makes love to)-s him, but his grip slackens and he focuses more on pulling Chuck closer as their pace increases instead of just pining him down. He latches on until Chuck begins to shake, first just a little and then a whole lot, and then it doesn’t matter anymore because he’s shaking too and they can both feel the inevitable end of it all.

One well placed thrust deserves another and he feels as though he’s going to pull a muscle somewhere important. His orgasm hits him harder than he expects and it’s a wonder to him that Chuck remembers to call him John instead of Casey when he comes. Also a wonder that he doesn’t crush the kid when he collapses, still rutting like a stupid dog until the spine-tingling sensation oozes out of his body like a spell that’s just been broken. But it isn’t, because he tries his best not to squash Chuck when he turns to kiss his ear again and somehow it feels right to remain intimate like this after sex.

The hand in his hair is massaging his scalp now and Chuck’s usual cocky grin greets him in the quiet darkness of the room. Casey musters the strength the push himself up onto his elbows, brushing away one of the curls plastered to the side of Chuck’s face, before leaning down to kiss him briefly. The sweat and cum is cooling between them but Casey’s just too damn tired to care.

“...So, was this just a spur of the moment thing or has this been sitting in the back of the wonderland inside your head for a while now?”

Seriously. “You can still talk...”

“You sound surprised.”

Casey grunts.

“Don’t start complaining, big guy. In case you forgot, you got antsy when I tried the whole quiet me thing.”

“...I think I preferred it when you were begging.”

Chuck beams at him, his fingers playing with Casey’s hair. “Yeah, that worked well...I think I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Next time.

Casey’s never been quite so happy to hear those words before.

“Next time,” he agrees.

Because there undoubtedly will be one.

A/N: Sorry—this ended up being waaaaaay longer than I intended it to be. It was supposed to be a drabble to help me with my writer’s block. But then...

Again, if anything looks off to you or if you find any mistakes I might’ve missed, feel free to tell me.

Thank you for reading.

Wonderland - Part Three

2009-05-25T19:32:39Z

Title: Wonderland - Part Three
Pairing: Casey/Chuck
Rating: Nc-17
Warnings: Pwp...yeah, definitely. Smex, my friends, and language.
POV: Casey
Length: approximately 7,000 words
Spoilers: Pre-Chuck vs. the Dream Job—so anything before then is free game
Summary: Sometimes, Chuck can be too damn naive for his own good...

“I...” Chuck’s mouth works on nothing but air for a second, completely taken by surprise with the sudden change in tactics. Then he figures it out. “But you’re—”

“No,” Casey corrects him quietly, “The ball’s in your court.”

Chuck frowns—it’s not an angry frown, though. More like ‘what the hell?’

Casey grins.

“This is about the one and only time I’ve been able to keep my mouth shut for more than ten minutes and you don’t want to be in charge?” Chuck asks incredulously, “I thought you would’ve been thrilled.”

“Under normal circumstances? Indefinitely. But you’re not exactly Jezebel and it isn’t as though I’ve been plotting to put you in your place over the last couple of months.”

“Liar,” Chuck teases.

“...Strangulation has crossed my mind more than once.”

As weird as it is to have Chuck talking again (because, honestly, there have been times where he would’ve just killed to have the kid shut up) it eases the tension between them. And, as nice as it’d be if Chuck learned to follow goddamn orders, Casey’s not exactly charging him for all the trouble he causes their team. He’s a Major. He’s accustomed to taking bullets that aren’t originally directed at him.

“That would be interesting...” Chuck wonders faintly in morbid curiosity, “You have large hands.”

“Great. Now, tell me what you want me to do with them.”

“Whatever it is your imagination was doing with them before I interrupted you.”

Well, said imagination was doing a whole slew of things before he barged in, and his johnson really doesn’t care what he does so long as he gets it done soon. Talk about an inappropriate time to be indecisive—he hasn’t felt this weird since prom night. Lisa Jones knew way more than he did.

Besides, patience has never been his virtue.

His mind seems to the fancy the idea of Chuck basking in his afterglow, flush from head to toe, blissfully content, with one of those goofy lop-sided grins spread across his face. Casey can’t help but agree.

“That’s a long list...” he admits quietly, one hand ghosting down Chuck’s chest until he reaches the top of his jeans. His forefinger traces the logo on the button lazily. “And it’s going to start with the removal of these.”

“Then lead the way.”

Chuck’s eyes are focused on his face. They appear darker with the lack of light. Casey studies them carefully before he leans down to kiss him again, slow and tender, like it ought to be, as he manipulates the button through its hole. Balanced on one hand, he teases the zipper down and then he has to break away from that wonderful little mouth if he wants to continuous this properly.

Casey knows some people believe sex has a perfect flow, one in which everything comes easy and everyone goes home happy, but he’s had enough experience by now to know the truth and he’s hoping Chuck has the patience to wait it through with him. It’s a little clumsy, like the process of trying to pull Chuck’s jeans off without losing too much contact, but somehow it works when the kid moves his hips and kicks out gently with one leg. The boxers follow next (which turn out to be just as much fun) and then the delicate manner of trying to fit together in a way that’s comfortable for both parties involved. But when Casey rests his body down along the long line of Chuck’s, all it takes is a small shift to the left and a gently bump against the kid’s hip to have them settled.

And then it gets a little easier.

It’s different. With Ilsa there were either fond moments of gentle caresses and coy kisses or instances of raw, powerful emotion—occasions in which Ilsa lived up to the ferocity of the agent she really was. With Chuck, he’s found the middle ground. He wants to be careful, follows the natural motion of their bodies as he steadily pulls Chuck closer, and somehow it feels better than what he’s experienced before. They turn at odd angles, shifting with the moisture and the sweat slicked across their skin, and it isn’t until Chuck spreads his legs to let Casey even closer that it feels right enough to actually work.

One arms slips under Chuck’s back and they just move. When they’ve established a rhythm, Casey pulls back to see Chuck’s reaction and what he finds in Chuck’s eyes is exactly what he was looking for.

He reaches out in the dark and searches for the drawer of his bedside table, hand catching hold of the knob before mistakenly pulling it out onto the floor. A small pile of junk and his pocket knife spill across the hardwood, but he finds the bottle of lube before it rolls under the bed. Kneeling, he fumbles with the cap, feeling like he’s maladroit and sixteen again, and when Chuck sits up he worries that the kid is getting impatient with him.

But he isn’t. Chuck reaches blindly under the pillow behind him and pulls out a gun. Staring at it briefly, he turns to ditch it on the bedside table before grinning at Casey.

“Go figure.”

“It isn’t loaded.” Yet, anyway. Casey usually checks it before turning in for the night.

“I know. I don’t suppose we would’ve been fooling around in here if it was.”

Not as those Casey’s known a gun go to off on its own, but he’s seen some pretty bizarre things since meeting Chuck. Fate is something Casey doesn’t care to mess with.

The bottle joins his gun on the table before his hand slips between their bodies. Chuck lies back on his elbows, his hardon encompassed by Casey’s fist as he leans down to kiss the corner of his mouth. Steadying himself on his free hand, he moves to find the sensitive skin behind Chuck’s ear before pumping his hand, and then the rhythm returns in all its glory.

And Chuck has the oh’s and ah’s of sex down to an art. The noise alone is almost enough to get Casey off. He thrusts against Chuck’s hip at an awkward angle and it isn’t until the kid’s long cool fingers slip between their bodies to curl around his hardened sex that he gets the idea that maybe Chuck’s trying to be generous in his own little way.

“Come on...” he breathes, and Casey wonders how Chuck can manage to sound that needy when he’s really only thinking about the man on top of him. “You...y-you can...”

“Only if that’s what you want,” he says. Kissing the edge of the kid’s ear awkwardly, he pulls his face back far enough to look him in the eye. “What do you want?”

Chuck glances at the dresser before he tries to look at the mess on the floor, “You have—?”

“Not there.”

Chuck moans. And it makes him sound just a little frightening, like a teenager waking up at five a.m. on the dot because of the goddamn alarm clock screaming in his ear. Then he pushes at Casey’s chest, enough to make him sit up.

He’s half worried that the kid's ditching on him before Chuck follows suit and pulls himself closer to Casey, straddling his thighs as kisses him fully on the lips. Casey takes the opportunity to wrap both arms around Chuck’s lower back to keep him pressed firmly against his body. The attempt is short-lived, though, when Chuck starts squirming, reaching around Casey inelegantly with his right arm.

( Wonderland - Part Four )

Wonderland - Part Two

2009-05-25T19:25:42Z

Title: Wonderland - Part two
Pairing: Casey/Chuck
Rating: Nc-17
Warnings: Pwp...yeah, definitely. Smex, my friends, and language.
POV: Casey
Length: approximately 7,000 words
Spoilers: Pre-Chuck vs. the Dream Job—so anything before then is free game
Summary: Sometimes, Chuck can be too damn naive for his own good...

“I told you I was coming over!” Chuck yelps suddenly as he takes an awkward step back. He almost trips over his own feet. “I even turned down my music so you would hear me!”

Wonderful. Casey should’ve kept his headphones on. It’s not as though Chuck could hear him masturbating through the other end of the bugs...

“You’ve ever slept with Walker?”

Chuck gives him this honest-to-god horrified look, one that Casey is most certainly tempted to laugh at. He already knows the kid hasn’t gotten lucky with Sarah.

“...A gentleman never tells,” is Chuck’s reply—and it’s the one Casey was hoping to hear.

“Then you should know that the same rule applies here."

Chuck gaps again, almost as though he’s going to protest this time, but Casey’s hand cradles the side of his face and he leans in for the softest kiss he can manage at the moment, one that effectively silences the target. Chuck’s going to need some careful coaxing, probably of the tender variety. Casey’s got the training for that. The wild stuff can wait until after their clothes start coming off.

Speaking of which...

Casey leans his head back slightly, lips brushing against Chuck’s as he lets his arm fall to his side. The kid just stands there, stunned, eyes closed, as Casey slips both hands under the hem of his t-shirt and up against the too-warm skin above his hips. Chuck’s reaction is a quick intact of breath as he rests his hands reflexively against Casey’s shoulders, grip tightening as Casey ventures higher under the cheap cotton. The kid’s shirt bunches just below his ribs—and then Casey tugs him closer, chest to chest, so he can press the long, slim line of the kid’s body against his own.

“D-dead men tell no tales, right?”

His breath mingles with Chuck’s before he takes a quick nip at his lower lip. Tastes good, but he can’t have the kid scared out of his wits.

“No bullets in this mission, Chuck, but I’m sure a ‘little death’ is in the game plan for tonight.”

“You’re out of your mind...”

“You have no idea what’s on my mind.”

“You’re drunk,” Chuck points out but he doesn’t pull away when Casey’s kisses him again, “I can taste it...”

Yeah, he can.

But Casey doesn’t mind. He knows how to hold his liquor. Four years ago he was ordered to kill a Russian hitman after a heavy drinking competition. It’s was an experience he’s sure he’ll never to forget.

“I feel woozy...” Chuck mumbles against his lips. There’s a stretch on the ‘oo’ in woozy when he says the word, like he’s a five-year-old that somehow managed to stay up past his bedtime.

“That would be the Midazolam...” ...yeah, as in the date rape drug. And if that doesn’t give Casey a sudden wake-up call, he doesn’t know what will. If Chuck’s off in a world of his own tonight, he’ll absolutely freak out when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Casey may be a killer but he sure as hell won’t allow anyone to accuse him of being a rapist.

“Yeah, I know. Ultra short-acting benzodiazepine...muscle relaxant and sedative.”

For a moment, Casey can’t tell whether it’s the Intersect that’s talking to him or Chuck. Then again, Chuck is a nerd.

“...You trying to prove you’re coherent?” Casey asks eventually, because hell that would be great.

“Yeah...you didn’t give me a full dose, just enough to confuse Katya at the bar. I’m not completely out of my mind right now.”

“Just timid,” Casey laughs. Chuck shivers against him but the kid still doesn’t pull away.

Chuck has that little I-want-it-I-don’t-want-it attitude about him, a sort of nervous indecisiveness that comes with experimenting for the first time. It’s the kind of mentality Casey was hoping to see tonight. Gives him a chance to show how persuasive he can really be.

“No rush,” Casey offers, though his dick would like to tell him otherwise, “Just say when.”

“...When?”

“To stop.”

“Oh...” Chuck says, and the word makes this perfect little round shape with his lips. Casey kisses him again, teasing with his tongue, and Chuck opens his mouth to let him in.

It’s good. Very good. Chuck might be new to the whole man-on-man experience but he’s no amateur when it comes to kissing. Both of his hands have migrated up from Casey’s shoulders. One is on the back of his neck, the other is buried in his hair—and he makes his wonderful little gasping noise when Casey’s hands slide up along his back.

Chuck’s shirt is bunched below his arms and Casey’s looking forward to relieving him of it very soon. He’d like to relieve him of pretty much everything but some of the best tactics begin with a good tease, the slow process of shutting down a person’s defences before swooping in for the kill. And he’s got to be careful with Chuck. The kid’s been with him long enough to know how he operates.

Grabbing the shirt with both hands, he breaks away from Chuck long enough to lift the article of clothing over his head in one smooth motion before throwing it onto the floor. In the next second, he has Chuck’s back against the wall before leaning down to grab the kid behind the thighs, pulling them up to rest above his hips.

Chuck’s obviously startled by the sudden change in position, but he just latches onto Casey with his arms and legs as the man attacks his mouth. He’s got this little squirm in his hips (one which sends the rest of Casey’s blood directly to his groin) as he tries to adjust to the sudden pressure between his legs. The kid doesn’t mind the roughness either, just tilts his head a little to the side and plays follows-the-leader when Casey gives him a generous thrust.

This is alright. It’s fine. Things aren’t moving nearly as fast as he’d like them to but he has to give Chuck credit for being a good sport up until now. Casey just can’t stop thinking about how much he’d like to screw the kid like this, balanced against the wall. It would be a leap for a first-timer like Bartowski. Casey doesn’t even know how adventurous Chuck’s been with women...

Baby-steps, he tells himself (even though another part of him is saying, hurry the hell up already). If you nail him good this time, you’ll get another chance to experiment later.

Because, really, Chuck deserves a little helping-hand after mustering the balls to close the door. And isn’t this about Chuck? Casey had that whole depredating little scenario playing in the back of his mind two seconds before the kid walked into his apartment. Chuck’s the star of this show.

The bedroom, he thinks, because it seems appropriate. He might not have much of a heart but he respects the kid, enough to know Chuck would probably prefer having a soft mattress to lie on when they get down to the real sex. He knows where the lube is but he wonders how far Chuck’s willing let him go without a condom, because he can’t quite remember...

Bathroom, he figures. The detour is going to be a pain in the ass but at least he’s gotten this far. And if Chuck is still gasping like that then maybe he’ll be patient enough for Casey to get everything in order.

“Upstairs...” Casey growls into his ear. The husky strain in his voice surprises him but Chuck nods his head quickly in response. Chuck’s always had an interesting reaction to his grunts.

They detangle themselves carefully as they push away from the wall. Chuck starts up the stairs as Casey darts to the door, making sure the bolt is locked and the security system is set before turning to join him. He’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself from breaking any of his furniture if either Walker or Ellie wander into his apartment tonight.

And if he sees Morgan, he’s liable enough to kill him.

Chuck’s got this ‘Wow, now where the hell do I go?’ look on his face when he reaches the top of the stairs. The blood’s pounding in Casey’s ears but the cool temperature of his apartment lowers his heart rate just enough to clear the all-too familiar haze of lust inside his head. That’s probably what stopped Chuck. The sudden jump from burning hot to an alarmingly stiff cold could easily kill the mood for anyone...

Casey can feel the goosebumps on Chuck’s arm as he guides him gently into the bedroom. It’s unmarked territory. Chuck must feel like he’s in a foreign country, especially being half-dressed in comparison to Casey. He doesn’t blame him. Chuck’s not a loose person. The kid had the whole American Dream thing going on with Sarah for a while—just goes to show that he isn’t the kind of guy that messes around. He makes commitments and follows them through.

Which makes Casey wonder what the aftermath of tonight is going to be like—what Chuck must be thinking about him now. In all the information the government collected about Chuck after the Intersect invaded his mind, there was nothing penned down about one-night-stands or frisky behaviour at bars. Chuck was cut from a cleaner cloth. He never showed the signs of a guy that wanted to be an absolute lady’s man, even if he does look terribly lonely whenever he’s out on a fake date with Sarah...

“Relax,” Casey grumbles but his voice doesn’t sound as soothing as he was hoping it would be. It’s still got this low raspy edge to it, the kind you hear in porn videos and cheap romance flicks. Wonderful.

“I...”

“No rush,” Casey says for the second time that evening. And, yeah, maybe his lower anatomy is begging to differ but if this turns out to be Chuck’s first ever tryst Casey wants at least to make it a memorable one.

“No rush...” Chuck echoes, leaning into the warm hand on his arm. The glance he gives Casey is a nervous one but there’s a glint of absolute trust in his eyes that Casey didn’t expect to see there. After all the times Chuck’s been screwed over in the past (no pun intended), the kid’s at least earned the right to be a little paranoid. Casey didn’t predict this.

Casey’s hand slips down to his lower back and he follows Chuck to the bed in the dark. It feels like a death march.

Fuck.

He decides against telling the kid to relax again. That would be useless. Casey knows he isn’t exactly the gentlest guy on the face of the planet but there are times he would seriously like to ditch the air of intimidation just for an hour or two. Like now. Exactly like now.

As Chuck takes a seat on the edge of the bed, Casey grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. It’s all about give and take, right? And maybe Casey needs to surrender first, show the kid that this isn’t only about one person getting what they want.

Chuck’s face is only partially visible by the moonlight from the window but there’s enough of it for Casey to see the surprise written there when he undoes the top button on his jeans. Nervous, Chuck shifts his eyes to his converse shoes as he fumbles to untie the laces.

Casey takes his time. Slow and easy. Not necessarily a strip tease (unless that’s what Chuck has on his mind), just a show of submission to the situation at hand. Like he’s lowering his gun. See? No hidden weapons.

With his jeans around his ankles, he kicks them aside and toes off his shoes, socks following a second later. Chuck’s only barefoot by the time Casey’s down to his boxers but he doesn’t see any reason they need to sprint through this.

This isn’t a mission.

Chuck shoves himself further back to the middle of the bed. Either to give himself space or because he figures it’s the next step in the process, Casey isn’t sure. Chuck’s probably never been the bottom in a scenario like this. Hell, not many kids figure they’ll ever be on the receiving end of the universe’s greatest game of push and pull. There’s the whole ‘college experimentation’ theory but Casey knows a handful of people that never crossed the gender line when it came to kissing or heavy petting, and he’s betting Bartowski was part of that club before tonight.

Casey kneels on the bed and crawls up to the kid, straddling his thighs as Chuck lies back beneath him. It’s an easy surrender. Too easy, almost, as though Chuck’s gone over this a couple times inside his head, like he’s been checking how much he’ll owe for the price of pleasure—and isn’t that just a little weird? Doesn’t everyone have the right to be greedy in their fantasies?

And then it clicks.

Casey’s eyes lock with Chuck’s and then he finds the words he’s been looking for:

“What do you want, kid?”

( Wonderland - Part Three )

Wonderland - Part One

2009-05-25T19:22:14Z

A/N: Response to the prompt poll from my journal. Thank you for your input.

Title: Wonderland
Pairing: Casey/Chuck
Rating: Nc-17
Warnings: Pwp...yeah, definitely. Smex, my friends, and language.
POV: Casey
Length: approximately 7,000 words
Spoilers: Pre-Chuck vs. the Dream Job—so anything before then is free game
Summary: Sometimes, Chuck can be too damn naive for his own good...

Tonight was a gong show. Worse than Prague.

Much worse.

His adventure in Wonderland Prague had double agents and poisoned martinis, two bombing attempts and an awkward moment with Carina. The situation was a little sticky but Casey had everything well in hand (even if he did act a little reckless when the DEA skirt shimmied into his operation). He’s always had everything well in hand. It’s written in his file.

...In all honesty, though, Bartowski’s probably come the closest to denting his perfect record. You’d think Chuck would learn to stay in the goddamn car by now—really. The kid’s seen what a bullet can do to a body. Does he still believe in infinite lives?

This sure as hell isn’t Call of Duty.

Casey kicks the door shut behind him and tosses his keys onto the coffee table. His phone winks coyly at him from its place on his desk. Four messages. Three are from Ellie. He grunts in annoyance, a tad bit surprised that the woman doesn’t throw in the towel and put a leash on the kid already.

He deletes the messages; knows that the kid is having a jolly old time explaining his disappearance to his sister. Chuck probably wants to tell her the truth, that he had to steal a USB drive from the daughter of a Russian arms dealer in the smutty heat of a rich jazz bar. Probably wouldn’t want to tell her that he ended up drinking the martini Casey made for her, though...

Moron. Trust Bartowski to forget which drink he put the drugs in. He had an interesting choice of conversation, though—Casey can give him that much.

Shrugging off his jacket, he grabs the scotch and settles in his easy chair, propping his feet up on the coffee table as he pours the first glass. He’s got at least an hour of Chuck FM to look forward to on his headphones but if Morgan isn’t there Bartowski might nod off a little early. He hopes. If that family doesn’t find a lock for the ‘Morgan Door’ Casey’s going to be forced nail it shut sometime in the near future. There’s only so much useless chatter his sanity can handle. Chinese water torture looks like sunshine in comparison to Grimes.

The first glass burns exactly as it should, good enough to feel but not strong enough to remind him of his junior year in high school. He waits for the tension in his shoulders to ease up a little before he pours the second glass and pulls the headphones over his ears.

Chuck is somewhere in the living room, still giving Ellie the lowdown on his evening out with ‘Sarah’. He tells her about the bar and the nifty jazz music—but keeps out the little details about the Russian woman and Carmichael’s devilish charm. Casey almost laughs. Even after Roan’s careful tutorage, Chuck still doesn’t know how to handle women.

It was an interesting mission, to say the least. As Casey was serving up vodka, gin and vermouth behind the bar, Sarah settled herself three chairs down from Chuck and comforted herself with a Milano. Chuck was only supposed to order the woman a Lola (the one Casey messed with) and keep her busy long enough to drink it.

At first the woman was a little standoffish; wouldn’t even consider sitting down next to him until he gave her this absolutely ‘I couldn’t hurt a fly’ expression that looked way too natural on him. Had to use every ounce of innocence in his baby brown eyes to win her over...

The real killer came with Chuck’s deal breaking line. The woman didn’t want to order a drink—said she was just waiting for a couple of friends. Chuck panicked.

What else was new?

The kid babbled something about Lola and she thought he meant another woman—looked ready to slap him. Then he murmured something else that was far too low for Casey to pick up on his earpiece. Her next question (one which was asked with an absolute look of bewilderment) made Sarah choke on her martini:

‘Wait—you mean you’ve never had sex before?’

And if Casey was as flimsy a man as Chuck, he’s pretty sure he could’ve pulled off Bartowski’s chastity act himself on another mission. Jesus—a virgin. Really? Because unless Jill had him trained to live off hand-jobs during Stanford, Casey’s almost certain a pretty-boy like Bartowski would’ve seen a little action by now.

But celibacy, apparently, has an appeal all its own. Chuck didn’t have to say much—just had to give her his usual ‘I don’t know what you mean’ look and choke on a vestal little ‘No’. Had her hook, line and sinker.

The Russian chick plopped down in the chair next to him and started chatting up a storm as Chuck ordered them their drinks. Two seconds after sipping his, he realized he had the wrong one.

Casey could’ve strangled him.

The kid looked a little wobbly (and nauseous) as he watched his new companion down her first three glasses, but didn’t say anything to stop her gradual march toward crapulence as he pretended to sip his own. Somehow managing to stay conscious past the kick-ass cuff of Casey’s sedative, he slipped his hand inside her purse and nabbed the USB device before her cheeky little friend skipped over to cut in on the woman’s impromptu Sex Ed class.

Casey and Sarah slipped him out through the back door and took him to the end of the block. Told him to take a moment and walk it off. In the back of his SUV Casey gave him a shot to waive the effects of the sedative but Chuck passed out a second later from the sight of the needle alone...

An hour later and he’s brought back to the present, sitting, drinking, alone in the cool atmosphere of his apartment duplex. Through the headphones he can hear Chuck meandering back and forth across his room. The kid sounds as though he’s dragging his feet. Thankfully, Grimes isn’t there—but the blessing is short lived when he hears Chuck fiddling with his stereo player, popping in some cheap music before cranking the volume a little louder than usual.

Sounds like the kid wants some alone time with his hand.

Casey swears under his breath. Fuck. Can’t the kid just go to sleep? How can he have hard-on after taking Midazolam? Granted, the dose wasn’t exactly high, but benzodiazepines usually do the trick so far as somnolence is concerned...

Tugging the headphones off his ears to rest around his neck, he downs the second glass of scotch before slamming the glass onto the coffee table and easing a little further back into his chair. If Chuck is going to string himself high for the night, Casey might as well take advantage of the break. He hasn’t exactly seen a lot of action since Ilsa dropped by and that was how many months ago?

Casey’s hesitant to get it started. He’s got the feeling there, a little perk in his joy stick from thinking about Chuck’s virgin skit, and that brings up a whole new roll of film for the porn-fest inside his head. Chaste Chuck? There’s a thought. And exactly how much of it is actually true? Chuck’s not a lucky kid (Sarah could probably testify to that) but his little get-together with the Deli Girl Lou was pretty damn close to crossing the line.

Tugging down the zipper of his jeans, he spits liberally into his palm and sets to work. Getting up to find lube is out of the question—if his experience in Burbank has taught him anything, it’s that Chuck can’t be left on his own for more than a second. The kid has the nasty tendency of disappearing before clearing his evening plans with either of his handlers.

Handlers—that word shouldn’t bring up any dirty thoughts but it does any way. Casey can’t get Chuck’s baby browns out of his head, imagines those same eyes staring up at him as Chuck kisses his hip, breath wisping against his hardon as the kid grips it gently at the base. Chuck shouldn’t look that naughty but a finger traces the vein along the underside of his shaft as Casey mirrors the image with his own hand, the tip of his pink tongue peaking out to taste—

Casey’s grip tightens around his dick and he flips to the next channel. A naughty Chuck is nice and all, but Casey’s intrigued with his never-been-touched charade and he finds something closer to what he likes when he halts on the image of a role-reversal. Chuck’s lying back, propped up on his elbows, and his eyes are settled on Casey’s face in a mixed expression of awe and innocence. Casey’s already got his mouth around the head of his cock, working his way down before sucking on the up stroke. Chuck gasps and wriggles a little on the sheets, a bead of perspiration rolling down the length of his throat as Casey repeats the process...

The weird pop-rock whistling from his earphones distracts him for a moment and he uses his free hand to tear them off his neck. Tossing them onto the coffee table, he twists his fist and spreads his thighs a little wider, giving himself a well-deserved pump before returning to the show. Chuck’s flipped over this time, soft and trembling beneath Casey’s body as the man kisses the spot between his shoulder blades. His hand ghosts across the kid’s hip before he grabs his ass, teeth nibbling at the flesh along his neck as he works his mouth up to the base of his skull. It sends a chill down the kid’s spine and he squirms on the sheets, eager and adorable and so fuck’n ready—

But Casey wants to see those eyes, the ones that practically sold him to the Russian bitch with the rich daddy. Casey doesn’t know anyone that could look straight at Chuck in a moment like that and not want to defile him in a way that would probably make today’s porn look like a pony ride. And Sarah thought she had her modest act perfected—Chuck’s twenty eight and he still manages to carry an air of jailbait.

Casey’s working himself into a frenzy and he knows it. Handlers don’t take their assets to bed unless they’re ordered to do it or if it’s their last measure in securing loyalty. Not that Casey’s the kind of man that kisses and tells, but seducing Chuck and then scaring him into keeping his lips sealed might be a tad bit difficult. Chuck’s got a mouth.

Not that that’s a bad thing.

He strokes his shaft. The skin is pleasantly sensitive, just like his imaginary Chuck. In his mind, it’s the kid that’s been worked into a frenzy, slick from the foreplay and silently begging for coition. Casey’s more than happy to lend him a hand. He’s attached to that delicious little mouth, soft lips and a timid tongue battling his on the upper front, his digits down where they matter the most. He wonders what it would be like to get the kid off just by fingering him, to ease inside him when he’s finally warm and lax in his afterglow.

“I—whoa.”

Casey groans (because, really, he can’t help it) and his eyes dart to the door that he thought he locked. Chuck is standing there, fully dressed, and Casey can still hear the faint music from the headphones on his coffee table.

This can’t be his fantasy because, one, Chuck wouldn’t be wearing anything and, two, Chuck sure as hell wouldn’t be on the other side of the room. But it’s really a toss-up...Casey’s got a good eye and he knows that sure as hell isn’t a banana in Bartowski’s pocket.

“I—your door—you didn’t—” Chuck babbles, waving vaguely at the courtyard as he stands frozen in the entrance way. His eyes, however, are glued to Casey’s hand and the slow even strokes up the length of his cock. “—Iforgotmynametaginyourcar!”

Go figure.

“You gonna to finish this?” Casey asks, voice husky and impatient as he nods his head at the raging hardon between his legs (complements of one Charles Irving Bartowski).

“I...”

Chuck isn’t running. Good. Bartowski’s point of focus is on his lap and if the kid hasn’t high-tailed out of here by now then the erection Chuck’s sporting must be for him.

“Close the door,” Casey orders, “and get your ass over here.”

He finds himself pleasantly surprised when Chuck obeys, the door creaking shut until the sound of the courtyard fountain is successfully muffled by the wood.

“I...” Chuck tries again as he takes a hesitant step forward, each successive step shrinking as he draws closer to the Finish Line. When his gaze falls on the floor, feet shuffling against the hardwood, Casey knows it’s up to him to keep the ball in the air.

“Eyes on me, solider.”

Chuck’s attention snaps back to him in a heartbeat, that anxious little stare of his lingering on Casey’s dick before their eyes lock. He can see what drew the Russian woman to Chuck.

He just looks so goddamn fuckable.

He forces down a shiver as the tell-tale tingling sensation at the base of his spine leaps to an all new high, and he musters the strength to tug his zipper up as he pushes himself out of the chair. It’s a pain in the ass having to hide his goods but he doesn’t want to scare the kid away now. A little self-control can go a long way. Casey knows.

“Ellie ever teach you to knock?” Casey asks, edging his way further into Chuck’s personal space until they’re almost standing nose to nose. Chuck’s tall but the kid’s tentative expression axes almost an inch off his height. “Or did the num-nuts at the Buy More give you a lesson on how to be a peeping tom?”

Chuck’s adam’s apple bobs when he makes this small little gulping noise, one that almost sounds comical, but Casey doesn’t laugh. He can’t get over the idea of how much he’d like to trace his teeth across the kid’s throat the next time Chuck swallows like that.

“Uh, no—I mean, yes—wait!—no...” Chuck blanks for a moment before collecting himself again. “Yes to the first one but n-no to the second.”

Chuck’s brain is obviously still functioning on a basic level and that isn’t exactly acceptable by Casey’s standards. It’s harder to make a person putty in your hands when they can think coherently, even if Chuck is straddling the border.

Casey can fix that.

( Wonderland - Part Two )

Prompt Poll (#1) - Part two

2009-05-11T22:56:11Z

Sorry---I`m having a bit of trouble adding a question to my poll. If you can`t post your answer on my "Prompt Poll" post, you can try here instead.

View Poll: #1398312

Prompt Poll (#1)

2009-05-11T21:49:34Z

I'm in a really good mood this week, so...

View Poll: Prompt Poll

Tit for Tat - chapter two

2009-05-04T20:37:51Z

Title: Tit for Tat (chapter two)
Pairing: Casey/Chuck
Rating: will escalate to Nc-17 (actually, pretty quickly)
Word count: around 3,500
Spoilers: Up to, and including, the season 2 finale
Warnings: a bit of violence here, maybe some crude language in later chapters and definitely smex in the foreseeable future
Con-crit: Go ahead. Leave a comment or (if you really want) just send me a message via LJ
Disclaimer: Not mine...though I dearly wish it was...
Summary: With the new Intersect nestled in his brain, Chuck’s abilities leave him at the mercy of one Colonel John Casey and his cruel training regime...

The cotton-stuffed sensation in his head is definitely an improvement from yesterday’s migraine. His body is still unbelievably sore and for a moment he can’t remember where he is until the cell doors slide open with a muffled hiss and Casey flicks on the lights.

Rubbing one eye blearily, Chuck sits up to take in the tall stiff figure of one ruthless Colonel Casey as the man attempts to stretch a kink out in his neck. Glancing at his wristwatch, he reads ten thirty.

“Wait—we slept for twelve hours?”

“You slept for twelve hours,” Casey corrects petulantly, “I’ve been up since four.”

“...And good morning to you to, Casey.”

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” the man mutters. He turns down the hall before adding, over his shoulder, “And that’s ‘sir’ to you, Bartowski. I’ve got a legit reason to discipline you now for insubordination.”

Wonderful. He can just imagine Casey ordering him to do a lap around the block for neglecting to tie his shoes properly.

Chuck can tell this whole new arrangement is going to be barrels of fun.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he yawns loudly and leans down to yank his shoes back on. He’s still dressed in the suit he wore to Ellie’s banquet and his cologne is starting to get to him. He’ll have to remember not to put on as much at the next big event...

He shuffles into the meeting room to find Sarah fiddling with the computers, searching for locations on a map spread out across the big screen. Pictures are strewn about the table, most (if not all) portraying apartment suites.

Taking the Styrofoam cup Casey shoves in his face, he picks up the picture closest to him and waits for a flash.

...Nothing happens.

“Hey...am I supposed to—”

“No,” Casey interrupts.

“Then what are you looking for?”

“What does it look like? A new apartment.”

Oh. Yeah. Because Chuck isn’t going to be living with Ellie anymore, Casey can finally pick a new place—probably somewhere far from Morgan.

He’s going to miss the guy when he goes to Hawaii...

Tossing the picture back onto the pile, he picks up another one and eyes it curiously, “...I didn’t think your equipment took up that much space. I mean, your living room was pretty ridiculous but most of the other rooms were empty...”

Chuck tries to ignore the fact that Casey is staring quietly at him. If the smirk is anything to go by, Chuck would say Casey is waiting patiently for something to occur.

Sniffing his coffee curiously, Chuck pauses a moment before lifting the cup to his lips. As soon as the coffee hits his throat, Casey pounces—

“We’re moving in together.”

—and the lukewarm fluid almost goes up his nose.

This is definitely revenge for the punch he dealt last night.

Choking on that little bit of coffee, Chuck pounds his chest once before looking quickly between Casey and the back of Sarah’s head, “Come on—I’ve had to put up with a camera in my room for over a year!”

“The General doesn’t enjoy the thought of you having only one foot in the game, Bartowski, so we’re going to show you how to live your life from scratch.”

“But it’s not like I’ve committed treason. Can’t you just give me a manual?”

Casey snorts and Sarah turns away from the computer long enough to give him this sad little look that almost stops his heart dead in its tracks. “I’ve never trained someone before, Chuck, and Casey is one of the NSA’s most successful agents. The General’s next best choice is in New Mexico and we’d be forced to fly you down there if think you stand a better chance with him.”

New Mexico means no Ellie...no dad, either, unless the man decides to chase after Chuck and leave his sister in the dust. Ellie doesn’t deserve that, not after all she’s been through.

Chuck takes another sip of coffee and resigns himself to this unfortunate twist in fate, “Casey it is, then...”

The smug look on the agent’s face does absolutely nothing to quell the blossoming sense of impending doom in his gut. Though they’ve managed to act civil when it counted, they are, more often than not, quite bitter toward each other and Chuck knows that if he doesn’t drive Casey mad first the man is going to find a way to break him some time very soon.

His foresees a remarkably painful relationship in the near future...

As if it wasn’t painful already.

“Well, since that’s settled...” Sarah pushes her wheelie chair back from the computer and gathers three files together off the table before handing them to Chuck, “These are for your father. They’re the nearest locations to your new apartment.”

Chuck pauses, “Wait, you already picked a place? Don’t I get to—?”

“No,” Casey offers blankly.

“...Then I’ll just take my sweet time packing.”

“We knew you might. It’s already been taken care of.”

Of course—after all, it only took the cleanup crew three hours to pack the house he shared with Sarah down in the suburbs, and Chuck’s stuff really only occupies one room in Ellie’s apartment. On top of that, if Casey is half as cruel as he usually is, he possibly could’ve ordered them to just throw out all his video games...

Chuck’s willing to put dye in the man’s toothpaste if he has.

“Just out of curiosity...” Chuck asks enquiringly, feeling a little light-headed, “does the government still recognize me as a human being or have they already blotted my name out of existence?”

Casey looks genuinely amused by his question. “Nobody’s a human being in this business, Chuck, but if you do as you’re told we might let you pretend.”

“Of course...why do I even bother?”

“Chuck, it’s going to be tougher than what you’ve been used to,” Sarah adds, “but as soon as you get a hang of things, it won’t be that bad...” Then she gives Casey this look that promises a world of pain if he tries anything funny, “...we promise.”

Casey snorts but doesn’t say anything to contradict her vow. As malevolent as the man can be on a good day, his rep, Chuck realizes, is still on the line. Casey can be downright insane when he’s mad but he hasn’t killed Chuck yet and that’s got to count for something (considering how many times he’s made the man lose his temper...).

“Alright...it’s cram time. I understand. Do I at least get to see this place or will I be blindfolded whenever I’m there?”

“We’ve got a blindfold,” Casey offers, whipping his jacket off the back of a chair before slipping it on. Reaching into one of its pockets, he pulls out the keys to his beloved (second) Crown Vic and steps up beside Chuck, “About face, Bartowski.”

Chuck’s about ready to crack a smart ‘Yes, sir’ but stops himself short before his mouth can get him into any trouble. He doesn’t actually know what Casey is allowed to count as ‘insubordination’ and how the man can ‘discipline’ him if he really is crossing a line, but he’s not too keen on finding out. He’ll test the waters later on, preferably when Casey’s not prone to throw a tantrum.

Chuck surrenders to the inevitable and follows Casey up the Castle stairs, throwing Sarah a silent plea for help with a glance. She averts her eyes quickly.

Okay—so is it just him or is she trying to avoid him? He—

—trips on the last step and almost lands flat on his face. Casey turns to give him this honest-to-god ‘what the hell?’ look before punching his code into the scanner. The man mutters something under his breath that sounds remarkably like ‘moron’ and then they step out into the empty parlour of the frozen yogurt shop.

He’ll figure Sarah out later.

He has bigger fish to worry about...

-1-Casey-1-

He purposefully chose a place far from the Buy More and the address Morgan Grimes is currently listed under. They’re closer to the airport (roughly ten minutes away) and two veteran NSA agents live only a block away from their apartment duplex. The moving team already installed the security system according to Casey’s specifications, all the necessary supplies has been packed away inside and Casey is only five minutes away from—

—locking Chuck in an underground bunker.

“Put that down before I break your fingers.”

Chuck lowers the dart gun on to the kitchen table and takes a well calculated step back. The last time Chuck fiddled with the NSA’s toys he sedated Casey and ran away to play hero at Roark’s company.

Casey has no desire whatsoever to see a repeat of that event.

“It’s not loaded,” Chuck murmurs in his defence.

“It will be when I get my hands on it.”

Chuck’s eyes narrow warily but the kid tries to brush off the threat by throwing his attention elsewhere. Eventually, his eyes fall on a box labelled under his name and he slips the box quietly from the room.

Casey needs to find a white board, somewhere he can write the house rules down for Chuck. Not that he actually expects him follow them word for word (Chuck has a nasty habit of doing the complete opposite), but Casey would like to keep track of which ones he breaks so he can nail the kid for them later. Nothing encourages obedience quite like fear and intimidation.

Brings back old memories.

Taking a quick inventory of his ammunition, he stows it away in the gun-locker hidden behind a replica of Monet’s Water Lilies (a painting Sarah suggested after she convinced Casey that he couldn’t live in a black-&-white apartment anymore with someone as sentient as Chuck occupying the same space). Next up on his list is to check the feed on the cameras to make sure everything is running smoothly but Chuck beats him to the punch.

“You’re worse than a two-year-old,” Casey mutters, swatting Chuck’s hand away from the keyboard of their new PC. Chuck has almost all of the feeds running at once. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just...checking to see if the cameras are working.”

As if—Bartowski couldn’t lie to save his life.

“What else...?” Casey presses.

“...My room. I don’t want you to put a camera in it.”

Casey rolls his eyes.

“No—listen to me. It’d be nice to be able to get dressed in there without having to make sure all the cameras are covered. Leave my room alone and I promise I’ll never shoot you again.”

“If everything goes according to plan, you won’t ever get the chance to shoot me again.”

“I’m not a prisoner, Casey.”

“Yes you are.”

Chuck gives him this really agitated look that almost makes Casey laughs. “Come on, I know I’m invading your personal space here but you’ve always had a thumb down on my whereabouts—”

“Excluding the many times you’ve taken your watch off,” Casey interjects.

“Okay...but I’m going to be sleeping one room down from yours and I’m on the second floor. There’s no tree outside my window and there’s no way for anyone to get in and out of there without you noticing.”

As simple as that sounds, Casey knows Chuck’s been piecing things together on his own. Casey’s not so worried about who’s in that room as he is about what’s going on in that room and Chuck has a history of slipping his schemes through the cracks. The kid’s no idiot (even though he acts like a moron on a regular basis).

Casey knows how to play ‘tit-for-tat’. It’s a competitor’s strategy: if your opponent does something nice for you, you do something nice for them; if they try to hinder you, you return the favour. If Chuck thinks he can play, Casey’s more than willing to screw the kid over in the final round.

“Fine,” he grunts, turning the screen off before leaning over to pick up another box with Chuck’s name on it. Shoving it into the kid’s hands, he heads back into the kitchen.

Chuck asked for no cameras.

He never said anything about audio bugs...

A/N: Hope you enjoyed the update. Next chapter will see some of the action I know you like. I’m trying to pace my stories more...

BTW, if you see any errors of it a sentence sounds just plain weird feel free to give me a poke and I’ll hop right too it

Previous: chapter one

An update on the "Chuck" situation ^.^

2009-05-03T04:59:13Z

I just got home from work and found THIS:

http://chucktv.net/2009/05/02/chuck-renewed-likely/

I've never known Nikki Finke to jump the gun before (kind of the 'no-nonsense' type of person) but I'm not going to break out into song and dance until Monday when I see/hear the news myself. .

Having said that...*does a dance in her head*

If you want to see the original blurb, you can find it here:

http://www.deadlinehollywooddaily.com/nbc-renews-chuck-medium-law-order/

EDIT: This just up, TV by the Numbers seems to be sharing the same news now:

http://tvbythenumbers.com/2009/05/03/christmas-in-may-reports-nbc-will-renew-chuck-medium-and-law-order-announcement-monday/17905

Tit for Tat - chapter one

2009-05-01T05:51:07Z

Title: Tit for Tat (chapter one)
Pairing: Casey/Chuck
Rating: will escalate to Nc-17
Word count: around 3,500
Spoilers: Up to, and including, the season 2 finale
Warnings: a bit of violence here, maybe some crude language in later chapters and definitely smex in the foreseeable future
Con-crit: Go ahead. Leave a comment or (if you really want) just send me a message via LJ
Disclaimer: Not mine...though I dearly wish it was...
Summary: With the new Intersect nestled in his brain, Chuck’s abilities leave him at the mercy of one Colonel John Casey and his cruel training regime...

Wow.

And really—just, wow.

His head has never felt this close to exploding before...

The very first Intersect download he ever received was, admittedly, a little painful—it was his birthday, he’d had a little to drink and he was still brooding over the fact that Jill was inevitably gone. Forever. The download started during the wee hours of the morning and he didn’t regain consciousness until seven, at which time Morgan found him lying on the floor like the fool he was.

This last download was a little different.

First of all, Chuck knew what to expect, which is really a good thing, in a way, because he didn’t pass out immediately after the Intersect was through screwing around with his mind. And secondly, he had the weight of Bryce’s death leaning on his shoulders. Bryce ‘died’ saving the Intersect the last time and he’d given his life again (—which is actually an incredible concept to wrap one’s head around—) for the sole sake of saving America from the evil clutches of Fulcrum. If that didn’t make Chuck feel guilty for trying to shrug off his spy duties, he didn’t know what else would. It was as though he and the Intersect were destined (–doomed—) for each other...in some really creepy way...

So, yeah, maybe it was his choice to let the database creep back into his poor, abused mind, but it was still quite a dozy taking in all the new information and techniques on top of all the old stuff that needed to be re-encoded into his brain. It felt as though someone (like Casey) rammed his head into a brick wall. Repeatedly. He was surprised he was coherent enough to kill the Intersect cube after it drilled itself back into his noggin.

And then the kung fu.

Wow.

And...ouch.

It was like an out of body experience. Almost. He couldn’t stop, like a computer running off a command. His limbs were numb for the most part, acting on a whim of their own, but as soon as his brain snapped back into his body he had a hell of a time comprehending the sharp pain in his wrist. It was from that weird little karate chop he did only about ten seconds ago. Weird...He knows Casey and Sarah are accustomed to the give-and-take theory behind the pain of hand-to-hand combat but this is a relatively new ball game for him. This is...this is...

Oh God.

He rubs his temples gingerly and stumbles toward the door. Bryce is lying out there in the hallway, propped up against the wall like a puppet on display. His eyes are half-lidded. Glossy. Dead.

Bryce Larkin is dead.

And it’s for real this time.

Sarah says something to him. He doesn’t know whether she’s angry or not until she steps up beside him and rests a hand tentatively on his shoulder. Like she expects him to lash out at her at any given moment. Glancing at her face, he can see the tears brimming in her eyes.

‘She wasn’t going to come.’

...Was she?

Casey’s the one that finally gets them to move. Sarah doesn’t need to be told twice but the Colonel has to grab Chuck by his arm and tug him away from the scene with a bit of force. They wait for the cleanup crew before packing into Casey’s car, all creepy and quiet as though they’re walking over someone’s grave, and the drive back to the Castle is spent (for the most part) in sacred silence.

Initially, Casey races most of the way. It isn’t until Chuck tells him he’s about to vomit that the man eases off the gas. A little. Either it was the sight of Bryce’s body or the fact that he probably just crammed one of Awesome’s super workout routines into a single fight scene—he isn’t sure—but his body can’t decide if he’s sitting right-side-up or upside-down at the moment and he doesn’t want to lose what precious little he’s eaten throughout the day. Roark did a swell job of keeping him at his wit’s end. He’d like to take a break already.

“Can...can you go any slower?”

Casey glowers at him through his rear-view mirror but complies after a short grunt. Chuck probably should’ve called shotgun. The back seat is doing absolutely no favours for his new-found motion sickness...

The conversation they have with General Beckham is definitely an interesting one. She offers Sarah her deepest condolences for the death of her partner, thanks Casey for returning promptly to their funny little make-shift team and looks...definitely pleased when she congratulates Chuck for making the right decision concerning the Intersect. Chuck isn’t sure what he was expecting—he thought, maybe, she would yell...Actually, he was hoping she would yell, possibly even demand that his father remove the Intersect again.

...Part of him thinks she knew this would happen.

The General signs off looking remarkably content. According to her, as soon as Chuck gets a grasp on the Intersect’s new features their team won’t have to be sedate anymore. Casey is visibly pleased. It means the man can pick and choose missions anywhere in the world now—Chuck really has no choice but to tag along.

Chuck would outright complain if he didn’t feel so woozy.

Then again, it’s his fault for pushing the big red button labelled ‘Wrong Choice’.

Sarah paces back and forth across the Castle for all of two minutes before she jogs up the stairs with the simple excuse that she should probably inform Chuck’s father of the new situation. Chuck agrees without actually saying anything. He’s been ordered to spend the night at the Castle just in case there are any glitches in the Intersect.

Casey’s stuck on guard duty, though the man looks as though he’s in a world of his own. After all, his team was killed here only a few hours ago. By one of their own, no less.

Chuck shivers.

Casey eyes him warily for a second. The man is checking his gear as he removes it attentively, piece by piece, and neither of them know what to expect if something goes (inevitably) wrong with the Intersect ‘2.0’.

“...You zoning out again, Bartowski?”

“No,” he murmurs, “It doesn’t work that way.”

Casey grunts, puts down his gun and pulls out a chair to unbuckle this weird, little, hidden knife-band around his calf. Chuck just sits there and watches.

“The techniques are just knee-jerk reactions, then...” Casey muses under his breath. And yeah...that seems to be the deal. After all, Chuck didn’t react when the agents pulled their guns on him, only when that one guy took aim at Sarah.

“I guess...”

“You guess?” Casey laughs. “You can just guess kung fu?”

Yeah—and either the Intersect doesn’t particularly like Casey’s tone of voice or there really is a glitch in the download because Chuck goes numb for about half a second as his fist connects with the man’s nose. It isn’t even a full body meltdown. Chuck’s arm just darts out kind of funny and hits the man square in the face.

Casey recoils. Fortunately, though, Chuck doesn’t have any real muscles, otherwise he would’ve broken something...And Casey would’ve broken him in turn.

...His knuckles hurt.

Casey lifts his hand to his face and blinks away the pain before giving him an all too familiar glare. Chuck’s pretty sure he’s gaping like a fish.

“I...I’m so sorry. That wasn’t me—I swear!”

“Better damn well not be you,” Casey warns, “or our next mission will be in Afghanistan.”

Chuck pushes his chair away about a foot, putting a decent amount of distance between them as Casey leans down to finish with the straps. Then, suddenly, the man stops.

“On second thought...” He glances up at Chuck briefly. After a moment, he redoes the last strap and sits up straight. “If you’re going to go nuts on me again, I’d like to return the favour.”

And Chuck can’t help but frown, because really—a suited-up Casey on high-alert is not a force to reckon with. Intersect or not, Chuck is going to hurt after any battle with the man.

“That’s not fair.”

“Hit me again and I’ll show you what’s fair.”

And he will.

Seriously.

Chuck would like to argue his point but he knows the best course of action right now is to say nothing. He can deal with an irritated Casey. Just as long as the man refrains from snapping his neck like a twig, Chuck is willing to put up with any amount of bullying the man has to offer him in the next couple of (long) hours.

Now, if only the Intersect would learn to behave...

“So...is this a good thing or a bad thing?”

Casey glances at him out of the corner of his eye. In the amount of time it’d taken Chuck to muse over broken necks and an AWOL Intersect, Casey had leaned back on just two legs of his chair and propped his boots up on the table. Arms crossed, he looks as though he was recently brooding at the ceiling.

“Try to be more specific, Chuck. If you haven’t noticed yet, more than just a couple things have happened here today.”

“This,” Chuck clarifies, pointing vaguely to the Intersect in his head, “The government still wants it, right? But if its latest update turns out to be a big mistake, then what?”

“Papa Bartowski will fix it,” Casey grunts and that’s really all he offers because Chuck doesn’t get another word out of him until his father shows up.

And ‘Papa Bartowski’ has never looked this mad before...

“It’s out of the question—I’m taking it out!”

“Mr...Bartowski—” and the General makes sure his eyes are on her when she addresses him because having two ‘Bartowski’s’ in the same room together is just a little weird, “—your son has made a generous sacrifice for this country. No one else has as much experience as he does as with the Intersect.”

...Chuck’s also never seen anyone have a yelling match with General Beckham before but, hey, there’s a first time for everything.

“From what I understand, the new Intersect was intended for someone with a little more training,” his father snaps—and then turns his eyes apologetically on Chuck, “No offence, son.”

“None taken,” he murmurs, because, yeah, it’s the truth. Chuck needs to learn not to act on the first thought that pops into his head when he’s under pressure—no more of these ‘spur-of-the-moment’ whims that hit him every time bullets start whizzing through the air.

Bryce would be kicking him right now if he were still alive.

The General’s eyes narrow ever so slightly from her pose on screen and the tight line of her lip thins briefly before she smirks in the most peculiar way. It’s the ‘Casey’ look he’s learned to dread.

...He’s very afraid of her right now.

“I assume, then, that you know how remove it?”

“It might take some time,” his father mutters, “but if you give me whatever information you have from the last copy, I can override it.”

“Very well. Colonel, if you please...”

And both of the Bartowskis turn on cue as something heavy lands with an ominous thud on the table behind them. Once he catches a glimpse of it, Chuck immediately recognizes the burnt cube.

He offers his father a nervous smile when the man looks inquisitively at him.

He has quite a bit of explaining to do...

“That’s...that’s quite a dozy, son.”

“...I know.”

“Good luck,” Beckham offers. And then she logs off.

Typical...

Casey offers them a grunt-like laugh as his father picks up the remnants of the new Intersect, cradling it in his hand carefully as though he expects it to turn to dust. Chuck knows things are looking pretty grim. Without a complete copy, his father will have to manually hunt down each of the original files individually and the images they were encrypted under. Even with an army of analysts that might take a while.

“...You said there were glitches?” His father asks quietly, still focused on the cube.

“Well...there’s really only been one so far.”

He glances at Casey out of the corner of his eye and catches sight of the man scowling at him. Averting his gaze, he takes a seat at the Castle table.

“It’s to be expected,” his father explains, “They’ve given the Intersect one hell of an update. But don’t let the bugs get you down, they’ll ease up in a day or two...I’m more worried about you as a whole.”

Chuck blinks, “What do you mean?”

“She told me you did a flip,” he grins, jabbing a finger in Sarah’s direction. She’s standing by the stairs, looking apologetically at Chuck for tattling on him. “Doesn’t your back hurt?”

Yeah...sort of...

Actually, pretty much everything hurts—except for his ears. His ears are just dandy.

“Chuck, if you’re going to go along with this—even if it’s just for a little while—you’re going to need to train before you let the Intersect take the steering wheel again.”

“He will,” Casey assures the man. His tone is light.

...This means trouble.

“Alright, then...” his father takes one last pitiful look at the cube before nodding to Chuck, “...I think I’ll hold on to this for now. Your sister’s gone for her honeymoon—that gives us about a week to find a new apartment.”

Right, because Chuck finally convinced Ellie that he seriously needed to move out (with or without Sarah) and his father decided that staying in Burbank was probably the best choice for her sanity. They hadn’t necessarily agreed to find a place to live together but Chuck promised to pick somewhere he could keep a close tab on their father.

Ellie was still worried something might spur the man to get up and leave again.

“I guess I’ll leave you to your...” his father glances at the holding cells and frowns in concern, “...‘thing’. You know where to find me if anything drastic happens.”

Chuck nods solemnly.

“Junior’s safe,” Casey mutters, “You can pick him up at noon tomorrow.”

Chuck frowns at the sarcasm but his father laughs heartedly at the joke, patting his son on the shoulder before heading up the Castle stairs. “Please behave, Chuck.”

“I will.”

“Damn straight, he will,” Casey adds, staring at Chuck with a maniacal gleam in his eyes.

...He wonders if maybe he should’ve asked his father to stay the night...

-1-Casey-1-

“You plan on sticking around?”

Much to his surprise, Walker shakes her head. She’s been uncharacteristically quiet tonight and he’s betting Bryce’s death has something to do with most (if not all) of her sombre silence. He supposes it must be true what they say:

You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.

“I...you’ll be alright with Chuck for tonight?”

He nods, jaw set. He doesn’t know how to deal with people and their emotions. Casey can handle heartless bastards—it’s the kids like Bartowski and Walker that throw him for a loop.

“Thank you...” she glances over her shoulder at Chuck. The kid is seated in the computer room near the cells, sending Morgan an e-mail to ‘explain’ his sudden absence...Walker looks all the world as though she would give anything not to be here right now. All her vigour has gone to hell.

“You’re leaving,” he says.

The surprise in her eyes is unexpected, almost as though she honestly thought no one could see through her facade. “Well...in a couple of days, yes, but I’ll be back.”

Maybe. Maybe not. Bryce’s first death was probably a shock to her system, so he really can’t imagine how she must feel now that he’s bitten the dust a second time. ‘Sorry, folks, Franken-bryce is down for the count. No more free passes.’

He’s dead.

“...And if you’re not?”

Some of her verve returns and she pins him momentarily with a glare. The look, however, is short lived. This is the woman that turned down the MI6 agent for Chuck. She was willing to risk life and limb for the kid. For the longest of times, he meant everything to her...

She just probably didn’t realize how much she loved Bryce until now.

...Casey really doesn’t want to ponder this. He doesn’t do ‘mushy’.

“The General won’t want him out of our sight,” she sighs, trying hopefully to change the subject, “I take it we’ll be searching for a larger apartment?”

Right. Chuckles doesn’t know it yet but they’re going to be the ‘bunk buddies’ in just a short while. The kid won’t be able to do so much as eat without someone breathing down his neck.

Sounds like fun.

Casey hasn’t quite decided yet whether the sudden change in housing plans is necessarily a good thing, but if it means he gets a shot at finally assimilating Chuck into his kind of lifestyle then he’s willing to put up with whatever the antics the kid might throw at him. The kid is probably going to flip when he find out, but taking on the Intersect again was Chuck’s decision and no amount of kicking or screaming can change things back to the way they used to be.

“I don’t care about the size,” Casey mutters, “so long as Grimes doesn’t make a new ‘Morgan Door’, I’d be satisfied with a seedy motel.”

“No ground level then, huh?”

“Only if I’m allowed to bolt all the windows shut.”

She smiles. A little. She knows the General’s only hours away from ordering her on a sick leave and Casey understands the hell that usually follows after that. Walker will talk to some therapists, bond with her inner child and either jump back into the game with a vengeance or find a nice cozy job behind a desk in Washington. No one gets to pass-and-go when their partner dies. Not even Casey.

Thankfully, he’s never really worked with Bryce before (not as close as her), and, even better still, he didn’t ever like the guy. He’s got to respect Larkin for doing his duty but that’s all he feels obliged to do.

“Good night, Casey,” Sarah breathes quietly and he simple nods in return because that’s all she needs from him. Pivoting gracefully on her heel, she wanders off to chat with Chuck before heading out for the night and he, left with a high strung twenty-something-year-old, pops the cap off a bottle of Advil in hopes of quelling an oncoming migraine.

Chuck looks honest-to-god confused when he hits the lights. The computers glow and the emergency light down the hall offers just enough illumination to let them muddle about without tripping over anything.

“...Seriously?”

“Yes,” Casey replies, leaving no room for argument, “I’m going to sleep. So are you.”

“It’s what, ten o’clock?”

“Ten twenty,” Casey mutters after checking his watch. Stuffing the bottle of Advil into Chuck’s hand, he leads him to one of the cells and locks the door behind him.

The lock is for the Intersect, just in case it freaks out and tries to kill him in his sleep, and the Advil is for the pain Chuck is probably in. No one busts a new move without suffering for it later.

“Don’t overdose,” Casey warns.

“I won’t.”

“And don’t say anything,” Casey adds, feeling the first bit of pressure building behind his eyes, “or I’ll sedate you.”

Chuck has nothing to say to that and Casey is satisfied with his silence. He had to find another bottle of chloroform because the one at the Buy More mysteriously disappeared (he has a feeling he has one of Chuck’s freakish friends to thank for that), although he also has those nifty new darts Chuck decided to test on him not too long ago. Casey could easily return the favour.

Chuck pops one of the pills in his mouth, screws the lid back on the bottle and shakes it for emphasis before putting it on the floor beside his cot. Leaning down to pull off his shoes, he then swings his legs up onto the makeshift bed and resigns himself to sleep.

Massaging a kink in his neck, Casey takes one last look around the place to check the security before turning in on one of the other cell cots. It is kind of early for their line of work but there’s a bruise forming on the back of his head and he could really do with some sleep right about now.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep, weary breath and wonders if he’ll be allowed to sedate Chuck every night after the move.

It just might save his sanity.

A/N: Sorry, I’m honestly lost for words right now. Criticise it, love it or ignore it altogether—I’m swell with anything, really. Hope you enjoyed it though. :)

Blurb

2009-04-23T15:14:14Z

...Is it just me, or hass chucktv.net been acting a little wonky the last couple of days.

Anywho, I'm just trying to see if there's an update on the Save Chuck situation.

Gotta find a way to send some Nerds...(the candy)...

Sighs of relief

2009-04-22T21:07:06Z

I'm going to go pass out now.

I just spent an hour fighting with livejournal in a vain attempt to post my next update in one post. I was always "too long".

Took up three parts.

@#$%!

Well, once that was over I realized I had a total of 66 posts on my journal and since I'm superstitious I decided to post this just to make it 67.

Yay for craziness!

Dopobachennya, my friends.

Runaway - Part three

2009-04-22T20:54:41Z

Title: Runaway (Part three)
Pairing: Casey/Chuck; some minor pining on Chuck’s behalf over Sarah
Rating: Nc-17
Spoilers: even though the story takes place in an alternate reality, it touches base with many of the episodes concerning Bryce and Fulcrum; predominantly first season, though.
Disclaimer: I don’t own “Chuck” *unhappy sigh*…
Prompts: I apologize. The list is at the end of the chapter (to save space here)
Warnings: AU-ish (Chuck is a CIA analyst, Sarah is still a CIA agent, and Casey is an evil mercenary/NSA agent); more explicit smex; crude language; violence
Summary: Usually, vacations are voluntary...he thinks...he hopes...

-5-Chuck-5-

His head feels as though it’s stuffed with cotton when he wakes. He’s lying on something soft and he’s uncomfortably warm. The faintest hint of a breeze is brushes against his face and he can hear the ocean in the distance.

A child is shouting playfully in the background. He doesn’t recognize the language immediately but he’s conscious enough to realize he isn’t in Kansas anymore.

Sitting up (or trying to, at least...it takes a while), he rubs his forward and cracks an eye open blearily. Lying on a bed beside the window, he glances outside at the palm trees and the dim sky before pulling the blanket off his legs. Jumping out of bed—and falling—he stumbles toward the bedroom doorway and into the adjacent room.

He’s greeted with a small kitchen and a quaint little sitting room—both of which he could honestly care less about.

Scanning the counter, he looks for a phone. Patting his jeans to search for his cell, he comes to the horrible conclusion that there really is no way for him to call the CIA from inside this...house.

Darting over to the door, he’s surprised to find that it isn’t locked. Somewhat relieved, he bursts out into the evening air and takes a good look around. He’s surrounded by trees...and a sandy-dirt road leading off to who-knows-where.

“...Oh my God.”

“It’s not so bad.”

Chuck spins sharply on his heel and almost falls over in the process. Casey is standing next to the house, tucking a gun into his belt behind his back.

He’s the last person Chuck wanted to see right now.

“No way...” Chuck mutters, backing up toward the small path, “I...why? And I mean, really—why? As if barging into my life wasn’t bad enough!”

And Sarah—Sarah? Of all the people he thought he could trust, she’s the one that turned him over to his sociopath...

“Don’t run,” Casey growls. Chuck’s well aware that Casey doesn’t make light of his threats (and he can tell there’s an unspoken threat in the tone of the man’s voice) but he’s tired of taking orders and he liked to take charge of his life for once.

Stumbling backwards, he pivots quickly on one foot and runs.

Casey follows.

He darts sharply to the left once his feet hit the road and he just barely misses the hand Casey shoots out toward his back. He can feel the man’s fingers as they brush against the fabric of his shirt by then Chuck’s got his footing right.

Chuck’s always been a good runner—it’s one of the few things he didn’t have to worry about during his physical evaluation in the CIA. He’s got long legs and a great lung capacity.

He almost outruns Casey.

Almost.

He makes it to the first fork in the road (he thinks he can spot a hut or something in the distance through the trees) but Casey chases men for a living and Chuck’s quick adrenaline boost is wavering. The man tackles him to the ground and he gets sand in his eyes. They sting but he kicks out anyway, trying to squirm his way out of the hold Casey has around his waist. Managing to turn onto his side, he tries to elbow Casey in the face.

He was aiming for the man’s nose, but Casey moves his head at the last minute and catches the blow on his cheek instead. Reaching out to grab one of Chuck’s wrists, he pins it to the ground and catches Chuck in an uncomfortably twisted position.

“Stop it,” Casey grunts, trying to maneuver Chuck onto his back. Once he’s successfully, they both stop to catch their breaths.

“...Let go of me.”

“No.”

“I said—”

“I’m not deaf, Bartowski. I can hear you perfectly fine...” Casey’s hold loosens up on his wrist and the man eyes him warily. “Sit still and I’ll let go of you.”

Why Casey just doesn’t kill him is beyond his understanding. The man could’ve shot him when they first started the chase.

Swallowing down the bile in his throat, Chuck tries to relax his muscles and lies prone on the ground beneath him as Casey pushes himself up onto his knees, straddling Chuck’s thighs. The man eyes him again for a second and then nods decisively to himself.

“Fulcrum knows Larkin sent the Intersect to one of his old contacts.”

...Chuck’s racing heart slows to a more comfortable pace and he swallows nervously again. “...Does anyone know I’m here?”

“The CIA knows I borrowed you for a mission but they’re not aware of your location. The NSA, however, does.” Casey dusts off his hands. “No one else but Walker knows why you’re really here.”

To hide from Fulcrum.

“I can’t stay here forever,” Chuck points out. “Eventually, they’ll find out about me.”

“True, but we have people hunting them down. After Larkin stole the Intersect, both the NSA and the CIA put up their red flags. Fulcrum is one of our top priorities.”

Chuck rubs his face with both hands. He’d like nothing more than to wake up from this nightmare. “...Why did Bryce send it to me?”

Casey grunts out a sharp laugh and pushes himself up onto his feet. “Because he’s an asshole...” he mutters. Reaching downward, he grabs one of Chuck’s wrists and pulls him up off the ground.

Brushing the sand off the side of his face, Chuck stretches out one his legs and limps after Casey as they head back toward the house. “Why are you protecting me? You could’ve just as easily shot me and put an end to your worries about Fulcrum getting its hands on me.”

“We still need the Intersect.”

“I’m pretty sure the government’s capable of making another one.”

Casey glances at him over his should and gives him a weird look. “You want me to kill you?”

“No!” Chuck replies quickly, “No...not really.”

“Then quick complaining,” he grumbles. Looking at his wristwatch Casey sighs and picks up the pace. “We’ve still got to cook something for supper.”

Chuck blinks.

He’s utterly amazed by Casey’s acceptance of the situation.

“I—”

“Zip it,” Casey growls, “Or you can forget about eating.”

Chuck shuts his mouth almost immediately and bits the inside of his cheek.

...It’s going to take a while getting used to this.

-6-Casey-6-

They cook beans in the pot and Chuck tries to make decent salad out of the lettuce he finds in the tiny fridge. Casey hasn’t had much time to gather supplies yet and he spent most of the day making sure their location was secure before Chuck woke up. He was expecting the massive freak-out—really, he was—he was just kind of hoping he’d have time to get into the house before Chuck regained consciousness. The drugs didn’t last as long as they should’ve.

He’ll keep that in mind for next time.

They’ll only be here for a while. Casey has another contact ready to take them to the next location if Fulcrum gets wind of Bartowski, and they won’t be sitting idle, either. Casey hates waiting. They’ll do recon or something just to send information in for their cover. So long as the NSA believes they’re being productive, Casey won’t have to worry about anyone finding out what they’re really up to.

Chuck eats in silence. Looks like he’s staring off into space. Either he’s cursing Larkin in the back of his mind or he’s trying to figure out why Sarah suddenly just dropped him into Casey’s hands. Or maybe he’s doing both. Chuck is the kind of guy that spends too much time thinking and not enough time taking action.

“I thought you were going to kill Sarah the next time you ran into her.”

Casey munches on a salad leaf and swallows, “Had to make an exception this time.”

“Did you threaten to kill her if she didn’t help you?”

Oh boy. The million dollar question. Sarah loves Chuck—it’s a no brainer—but as long as Chuck thinks she betrayed him for his own safety and not her own he’ll never be able to focus on the mission. If he hates her (even just a little) it’ll be easier for him to move on and worry about his own safety.

“You going to be mad if I tell you the truth?” Casey asks. Of course, he doesn’t plan on telling him the truth but he’s had practice lying in the past.

“...Yeah.”

“Then yes. I did threaten her.”

The kid’s such a pup. Moron. Since when did the world physically revolve around love? Casey fell in love once—look at the good it did him. A person’s energy is better wasted on seducing targets and one-night-stands with people you don’t plan on ever seeing again.

The kid could be a regular Don Juan or Lothario—he’s got the looks and the smile. If he learned how to properly use to gun and throw a few punches, he could easily become a field agent. He’d probably have fun too. He’s got the brains and the people skills necessary to keep himself alive.

Sighing, Casey drops his plate into the sink and runs a bit of water. Leaving it to soak, he opens the fridge and pulls out the hooch. Chuck drinks the stuff without question. Swallows his first shot without wincing. Jesus. Maybe he should’ve told the kid something else...

Sitting across from him at the table, he pours himself a glass.

“You know that friend I told I was going to see today—or was it yesterday?”

“Yesterday,” Casey offers. He hopes this doesn’t lead anywhere weird...

“Oh...well, I asked him for relationship advice and he said going after a woman like Walker was a good idea.”

He’s calling her ‘Walker’ now.

Sounds like the plan worked.

“And I really thought he was right,” Chuck continues. He downs the next shot just as quickly as the last but doesn’t ask for a third. Hopefully, the kid knows how to hold his liquor...

“You hate her now?”

“No...” Chuck admits weakly. “I can’t. She has the right to want to protect herself...I’ve never met anyone that wanted to die...”

Chuck muses quietly for a while longer. He takes his third glass (but drinks it carefully this time) and looks remarkably pained when he sets it down on the table. When he turns to Casey and offers him his hand, Casey honestly doesn’t know what to say.

He just takes it.

This’ll be the first time Chuck decides to initiate anything. He stands quietly, finding the kid remarkably gentle when he presses his lips up against his own. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol. Does it matter? Casey’s never been the kind of man to turn down an offer.

Chuck reaches out to cradle his neck and Casey pulls him closer as the kiss deepens. The kid moans. Rubs himself a little closer. Casey’s brain feels numb.

He’s surprised they make it to the bedroom in one piece.

They collapse, eventually, as they fall into bed. Chuck’s rather well coordinated for someone that just drank his spirits effortlessly and he already has his hands up Casey’s shirt before the man can finish undoing the kid’s belt. It’s a bit of a struggle trying to undress each other without stopping but when the last article of clothing hits the floor it all accelerates from there. God, he missed this. It’s only been a day but he can truly appreciate a body as wonderful as Chuck’s. The kid is long and slender, soft and tender in just the right places...

Chuck keeps his hands tangled in Casey’s hair when the man reaches over to open the nightstand. The attack against his lips continues as he fumbles in the dark for the lube but he eventually finds it before losing his temper—the kid doesn’t falter when he opens him with his first finger. Just moans and takes it. Must think he’s invincible.

Casey spreads him. Is tempted by the heat. And his hand shakes when he lubes himself up, hot and hard and ready to roll.

And he does roll.

Right over onto his back.

Chuck shoves him down and straddles his waist as he continues to attack his mouth, nipping at the corner of his lips as Casey rubs his hands appreciatively along the kid’s sides until he reaches his hips. Sitting up eventually, Chuck’s hand closes around his cock and holds him steady as he presses himself down.

Casey tilts his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes as he’s finally enveloped in that wonderful heat. He hisses through his teeth, trapped in a vicelike grip he has no intentions of escaping—Chuck gasps and waits, hands rubbing against Casey’s stomach as he lifts himself up before rolling his pelvis back down again onto his length.

Feels as good as their first time.

Casey forces his eyes open. Watches Chuck’s silhouette under the faint light from kitchen.

Wants to kiss him.

Chuck keeps his hands pressed firmly against his abs—he’s the one in control tonight. And really, Casey doesn’t mind. It’s nice to see that the kid has a little initiative.

Chuck keeps the pace. It’s a steady tempo. Casey isn’t sure if it’s because the kid’s tired or if he wants to make it last. Doesn’t matter. Just rocks and keeps Casey pinned down firmly beneath his thumb. The sounds he makes are worth it.

Eventually, it comes to an end. Sooner than he would’ve liked. There’s a pressure building up at the base of his spin and its practically explosive when Chuck’s already too-tight heat clenches around him. There’s a blank moment of nothingness and then Chuck cries out into the night.

It’s music to his ears.

It’s a wonder to him, though, that he’s the first one ready to pass out. The sudden silence of the night smothers him until he feels Chuck’s hands dipping into the pillow on either side of his head.

When the kid’s lips brush against his own there’s a shooting pain where his heart should be.

...He can’t understand why the kiss matters more to him than the sex.

A/N: Ah! It’s done. I nearly cried when I lost the first edition but now it’s changed (quite a bit) and I know where I want to go with this in the next installation (which will take a while, I’m sorry, because this reads as 21 pages long on my document and this series somehow manages to always turn out long).

If there are any grammar mistakes just throw them at me and I’ll correct them ASAP. I’ve read through this a couple of times but because I already know what it sounds like in my head I’m destined to miss something.

Alright—and much thanks to everyone that offered me a prompt! Prompts are wonderful. I love them dearly. If you have one (or if there’s a character you’d like to see in the future) just toss one at me and you will be credited.

PS: Cyber cookies for whoever can guess where Casey took Chuck XD

Prompts (and their prompters):
1) simallyher: Cherry Cola, Milkshakes
2) tiki_92090: “Chuck flashes on Casey”
3) Anonymous: ‘French’-kissing (emphasis on the ‘French’...); Kansas
4) turtle_goose: Casey turns Chuck and Sarah against each other

Runaway - Part two

2009-04-22T20:53:30Z

Title: Runaway (Part two)
Pairing: Casey/Chuck; some minor pining on Chuck’s behalf over Sarah
Rating: Nc-17
Spoilers: even though the story takes place in an alternate reality, it touches base with many of the episodes concerning Bryce and Fulcrum; predominantly first season, though.
Disclaimer: I don’t own “Chuck” *unhappy sigh*…
Prompts: I apologize. The list is at the end of the chapter (to save space here)
Word count: about 7,800 words long.
Warnings: AU-ish (Chuck is a CIA analyst, Sarah is still a CIA agent, and Casey is an evil mercenary/NSA agent); more explicit smex; crude language; violence
Summary: Usually, vacations are voluntary...or, at least he thought they were...

-3-Sarah-3-

She isn’t a trusting kind of woman. It isn’t her choice, really, but she has to deal somehow with all the lies the world tosses her way. As much as she loved Bryce, she can’t understand how he could turn around and betray her like that—they were supposed to be a team after all...or so she was led to believe. She’s pretty sure she’ll never be foolish enough to follow a man as blindly as she did him..

...Even if Chuck has a nice smile.

Unconsciously, she finds herself glancing at her hair in the reflection of the elevator doors as it descends to the research labs. Chuck is there. Or he should be—he texted her a while ago. Said it was urgent.

She hopes he isn’t reconsidering his new position as her partner.

Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, she brushes a hand down the front of her suit jacket and tries to figure out when this strange attraction to the analyst began. Was it Brazil? The man had little to no practice with firearms and he still stayed behind to let her get away. Then again, Bryce would’ve done the same...

Then again, Bryce was trained to be America’s next Superman. Chuck wasn’t exactly your everyday hero. Chuck was peaceful. Sweet...

The elevator slowed to a halt, her heart dropping into the pit of her stomach as it bounced up to the right level. The awful thing started racing as the doors binged open and she half-expected Chuck to be standing there already, waiting for her.

What she finds instead is much worse.

Major John Casey’s sneer almost stops her heart in its track. Sarah always knew she was going to die someday.

Quite frankly, she was hoping it wouldn’t be this soon...

“Good afternoon,” He says—about as menacingly as he can without arousing suspicion from the three scientists chatting loudly at the end of the hall, “That was fast...”

“Where’s Carmichael?” –And she didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but why else would Casey be there if not for Chuck? If she hadn’t hired him all those years ago to help her save Bryce, she would’ve never had had to deal with him again. Now she regrets it.

And Bryce is dead anyway.

It’s no wonder who did him in...

“You want to know?” He asks—and turns his back on her as though he knows she wouldn’t dare pull a gun on him. Not now, at least, when she could be charged with it. Casey knows how to work the system.

Hesitantly, she follows him. She keeps her distance, though, and doesn’t take her eyes off him until he leads her into an open office. Taking a look around, he lets her in and closes the door.

Maybe he’s just here to kill her.

“I said—”

“ ‘Where’s Bartowski?’—I know.”

She opens her mouth to snap at him but ends up biting her tongue instead. She said ‘Carmichael’, not ‘Bartowski’...

Charles Bartowski...

She must be losing her touch—most of the analysts don’t need to use an alias but, from what she’s heard, Chuck’s been working on some fairly delicate research lately. And the young man is a literal genius, someone the government isn’t too keen of losing in the near or distant future.

Casey smiles. He meant to let the name slip. Bastard. He’d never do anything unless there was a reason for it.

“...Well?” she asks.

“He said he was going to meet a friend,” he replies as he takes a step back and leans against the desk by the far wall. Even at a distance he still somehow manages to loom. “I thought I’d drop by and tie up any loose ends before we left.”

Sarah’s jaw sets and her eyes narrow almost of their own accord. “For what?”

“I’m sorry, Walker,” he apologizes, the corner of his lip turning up smugly, “It’s a secret.”

“The Director assigned him as my partner and I—”

“Tough luck. Official business. You understand, I’m sure.”

“No...” She can’t let this slide—if Casey thinks he can walk all over her, he has another thing coming. “What happened in Brazil?”

For a moment, Casey says nothing. She holds her breath. The tension builds, and suddenly the space between them doesn’t feel as long as it should be anymore—she would like to consider herself quick with a firearm but she’s heard stories about the things Casey can do with a pocketknife.

The man hasn’t survived this long on luck alone, even if he does have the devil working overtime for him.

Casey’s eyes narrow thoughtfully, like he can’t decide whether he should and shouldn’t tell her. In another second he sighs and crosses his arms, shifting his weight a little on his perch.

“I slept with him."

...Sarah would’ve much rather preferred a physical attack.

Her gut twists. Like it did when she found out Bryce betrayed them. When she found out he was dead.

It can’t be true.

“No.”

“You asked.”

Sarah shakes her head. She’s not in denial. “You coerced him into having sex with you.”

And Casey laughs—genuinely laughs, like she just told him the pope was an alien. “He seemed to like it.”

“You—”

“Listen, I wouldn’t even be here if he wasn’t offering. How do you think he survived in Sao Paulo after you ditched him?”

“I didn’t—”

“Of course you did,” he interjects, “When my partner and I dropped by for a visit with the hotel manager, he told us the kid checked in with you. Funny then, isn’t it, that we only found him?”

And it’s true. She can’t deny it. She could’ve waited—could’ve backed him up. Instead, she left him to the vultures...

Suddenly, she feels a little lightheaded. This is all her fault.

Taking a step back, she’s half-tempted to lean against the wall for support. Instead, she fights down a wave of nausea and looks him in the eye. “Why him?”

Casey snorts, “You’re really asking? ...For starters, I don’t have to worry about getting him pregnant.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sarah snarls. That’s always been her ace card—the ability to turn nerves into pure rage at the drop of a hat. Her father taught her the importance of changing with the pace. You could get killed, otherwise... “If you think I’m just going to let you get away with—”

“You—”

“Stop interrupting me,” she warns, “I don’t know why you’re doing this to him but I’m not going to let you get away with it.”

Casey smiles, “You’re going to report me?”

That wouldn’t necessarily work—Casey somehow manages to always slip through the cracks—but it would tie him up for the time being. If she accuses him of abusing his power over Chuck, someone would have take the time to look into it and the two of them would be separated (even if that ‘someone’ didn’t find Casey guilty). In that time, she could get Chuck somewhere safe...

“Yes. I am.”

Casey’s eyes turn dark at her words. “I wouldn’t advise that...”

“Or what, you’ll kill me?”

“No.”

And, quite frankly, that surprises her.

“Do you know what Bryce Larkin did?”

He stole the Intersect.

She doesn’t want to be reminded.

“...What does that have to do with Chuck?”

“Who do you think Larkin sent the Intersect to?”

...And that really isn’t fair. Chuck’s an analyst—he’s a good man. If anyone deserved to be plagued by something as horrible as that, it shouldn’t have been him.

Chuck might be valuable but the government knows he and Bryce were close friends before they graduated from Stanford. If they think he had something to do with Fulcrum’s infiltration, he’d be arrested for treason. Even then, they might just kill him.

But why Chuck? If Bryce was really working for Fulcrum why wouldn’t he send it to one of his other contacts?

“Did he see the files?” She asks.

“Yes. You and I are the only ones that know about this.”

“If the government finds out...”

“They’ll put him in protective custody,” he assures her, “There’s substantial evidence to show Bryce had several contacts within Fulcrum that he could’ve sent it to and since Chuck is of particular interest to the government he’s already until regular surveillance. You’re the only CIA agent he’s come into close contact with outside his fellow nerds and they’ve all been cleared. It suggests Bryce acted against the outside agency instead of for it.”

...Then what was Bryce really up to? Did the CIA send him to intercept them?

Why the hell wasn’t she told?

“Then we should report the situation,” she says.

“Think again—Fulcrum has agents in the CIA. If any of them find out Chuck has the Intersect in his noggin, they’ll have him flown out of here by midnight tonight.”

“Which is why you’re taking him away?”

“I talked to his supervisor an hour again. Both our agencies believe we’re going to pay an old enemy a visit.”

“Where?”

He just smiles.

“Tell me,” she warns.

“I did—it’s a secret.”

Rage boils up inside her chest and she’s about to let him have it before he raises a hand peacefully and chuckles.

“As soon as my contacts track Fulcrum, I’ll return him to America. In the meantime, I need your help.”

...Her help?

As if she would ever help him...

Reaching into one of his pockets, he produces a cell phone and tosses it to her. “If you love him...” he says—and those words hurt worse than she ever thought they would, “...you’ll help me.”

-4-Chuck-4-

A long day with Morgan is never really a long day at all—somehow, it always ends sooner than he would like. Morgan stuck with him the day his mother disappeared and he let Chuck crash at his house the night after his dad abandoned him and Ellie. Morgan let him talk his ear off on the phone the week Bryce almost got him kicked out of Stanford and he still thinks Tron is one of the coolest movies ever invented.

Not to mention, Chuck trusts his advice.

And when he finds Sarah Walker standing outside his apartment door, he firmly believes Morgan must have some sort of secret super powers.

Sarah looks nervous. He steps off the elevator to find her with her fist raised to knock on his door. She freezes when she catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye and smiles almost immediately, lowering her ar.

...Even so, Chuck can’t get over the fact that the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Is everything alright?”

She gaps for a second, like she didn’t expect him to penetrate her defences this suddenly, but she nods. “I’m...fine. I was worried you weren’t going to be in tonight.”

“No—I’m sorry, did you try calling? I forgot my cell phone on the table this morning.”

“Actually, I needed to see you in person...We have an assignment.”

Ah. So that’s why she’s so solemn. Chuck isn’t keen on dying and he hopes the government doesn’t plan on sending him to Brazil again.

Shoving his hand into his jean pocket, he pulls out his keys and unlocks the door. Stepping inside, he lets her follow before closing it quietly. “What’s this about?”

“We’ll be leaving the country for about a week. We need information on a drug dealer.”

“Huh...but I’m guessing this will probably take longer than just a week?”

“...Most likely.”

“I see...” Chuck sighs, “And I take you came here tonight because we’re leaving now...?”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, “I just found out about this today.”

“Hey, it’s not a problem—guess I need more practice in the field anyway.”

She smiles faintly and nods, heading into the kitchen. “Pack only what you think you’ll need,” she calls over her shoulder.

Nodding to himself, he slips into his bedroom and nabs his knapsack from under the bed. The government will give them any supplies they’ll need particularly for this mission and Chuck’s a fan of packing lightly. His adventure running all over Brazil is reason enough.

Stuffing in the bare minimum of clothing, his wallet, toiletries and a razor, he zips up the bag and throws it over his shoulder as he rushes back to the front entrance. Sarah hands him his phone quietly and they leave.

The long drive to the airport is an awkward one.

He stares out the side window for most of the ride. When he’s through trying to guess where they’re going, he turns to look at her and glances at the tight line of her mouth. He wishes she would just tell him what’s expected to wrong with this mission...

Because something most undeniably will.

“...What would you say is the most important part of being an agent?”

The question must’ve caught her off guard because her mouth opens and closes without emitting a sound. After collecting her thoughts, she tries again. “It...it really all boils down to protecting the people that matter most to you...at all costs.”

“Yeah...” he answers. He guessed as much.

“You lie to your friends to protect your cover, right?”

“Right,” he admits.

“So do I. It’s for their own good.”

They fall silent again after that. By the time Sarah pulls into the air base, the sky is dark and cloudy. Night is upon them and so is a storm.

She parks near the field, reaching into the backseat to pull out a briefcase before leading him to a small plane. The ladder is down and the pilots are waiting. His bag feels heavy against his back.

“...Why does it feel as though we’re walking to our deaths?” he asks quietly, slowing to a halt near the ladder and turning to face her. A few drops fall from the sky and it starts to drizzle lightly. It’s fitting, somehow. And a bit creepy. “...This is weird.”

“But you trust me, right?”

“...Yeah, of course.”

“This is probably going to take a hell of a lot longer than a week,” she says, choking out a laugh.

“Are you alright?” he asks—because he might be a lovesick idiot but he’s no fool, “Please—tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt? Did—”

He’s cut off by her lips. They’re soft. Gentle. One hand slips behind his neck so she can pull him down into a proper kiss, and he reaches up gently to rest his hands on her hips.

“...Sarah?” He asks when they pull back for air. She’s beautiful, even when she’s breathless.

“You’ll be back. You just have to trust that we’ve made the right decision for you.”

“Um, ‘we—”

But he doesn’t get the chance to finish that question. Something pricks his neck and almost instantly his head begins to swim. Reaching behind him, he manages to catch one of the ladder railings to stop himself from falling.

Faltering, he stares at her as his legs give out. Strong arms enfold him from behind and someone hoists him up the ladder.

You protect the people you love, right?

...Right?

( Runaway - Part Three )

Runaway - Part one

2009-04-22T20:52:04Z

A/N: Here's the next installation of the ‘Villainy’ series. I apologize for taking so long. The first part was (Villainy in C Major), followed by (Made in California) and then (Sweeter than Bliss).

Title: Runaway (Part one)
Pairing: Casey/Chuck; some minor pining on Chuck’s behalf over Sarah
Rating: Nc-17
Spoilers: even though the story takes place in an alternate reality, it touches base with many of the episodes concerning Bryce and Fulcrum; predominantly first season, though.
Disclaimer: I don’t own “Chuck” *unhappy sigh*…
Prompts: I apologize. The list is at the end of the chapter (to save space here)
Word count: about 7,800 words long.
Warnings: AU-ish (Chuck is a CIA analyst, Sarah is still a CIA agent, and Casey is an evil mercenary/NSA agent); more explicit smex; crude language; violence
Summary: Usually, vacations are voluntary...or, at least he thought they were...

He feels like he should move but there really isn’t any reason for him to get up this early. It’s Sunday morning, he’s pleasantly warm and Morgan’s probably too busy wooing ‘Anna’ to go out with him for their usual coffee and milkshake.

Stretching one leg carefully, he tries to maneuver his way out of the entanglement of limbs without waking Casey. He doubts it’s possible (Casey is a spy, after all) but he tries to be as gentle as possible without poking the man in the ribs.

Pressed up against his chest, Chuck moves his hand down across the man’s pecs in a vain attempt to navigate his way out of the loose hold. One of Casey’s arms is draped over Chuck’s, hand pressed lightly against his shoulder blades, and the other is trapped under the smaller man’s body. He imagines the position must be relatively uncomfortable. How they managed to roll into this position is beyond his understanding. The man’s smooth ministrations along his back had lulled him off to sleep last night and he has no doubt Casey probably had something to do with this small manipulation.

Chuck tries to move his arm a little further but his mission is short lived. Casey stirs.

The dingy light from his alarm clock doesn’t illuminate much of the room. He feels more than he sees Casey shift his face closer before warm lips press up against the corner of his mouth. And Casey’s every bit the agent. He calculates, readjusts, and catches Chuck square on the lips on the second try, melting the kid with sheer will. The arm draped over his body pulls him closer, locking him in a not-so-unpleasant pseudo embrace with the trained killer and he surrenders to the kiss.

It’s far too early for him to complain.

Casey savours it; waits. His nose brushes against Chuck’s on the pull back before he leans in again to repeat the process. Chuck would’ve never pinned the man as a cuddler but the fact that Casey’s still there this morning is enough to make him hold his tongue. Or Casey’s. The man dives in a little on the next attack and Chuck battles it like the French.

“...Good morning?”

He sounds breathy when he manages to separate their lips. Casey’s focus shifts to his jaw and Chuck doesn’t feel the need to stop him.

“Definitely,” Casey growls just below his ear, nipping the flesh gently between his teeth, “Sleep well?”

Yeah...yeah, he did. His body feels lax, boneless, like he’s just been stretched out and left to recoil. He can’t quite remember the last time he felt this good and he’s in no hurry to ruin the moment.

Well...actually, he is.

“I need to go.”

“What’s the rush?” Casey murmurs.

Chuck squirms uncomfortably, “My answer has a double meaning.”

The man sighs. Casey knows. The man steals one last kiss before he relinquishes his hold, flexing the arm Chuck slept on as the analyst slips out of bed. “Make it quick.”

Heh. Tyrant...

“Yes, sir,” Chuck mutters sarcastically but he really would like to make it quick. He misses the warmth already.

Blindly, he makes a grab for the housecoat he usually has draped over the back of his desk chair and pulls it over his body modestly as he shuffles toward the bathroom. Closing the door halfway behind him, he flicks on the light, waits for his vision to return and finishes his business.

Then he flashes.

Well...he doesn’t actually ‘flash’ until he opens the bathroom door again, lights still on, and catches a glimpse of the small eagle-shaped tattoo on the bottom of Casey’s right foot. If the man hadn’t been lying there, Chuck probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

The images pelt him like a hurricane, a colourful tirade of weaponry, traitors and government secrets. Major John Casey is a man on the line, someone the government tries to use only when he’s their last card. The man’s broken a thousand rules and walked free each time. It’s in his power to decide what needs to be done for the greater good of America, and there’s no one that can really stop him if he decides the country’s best course of action isn’t exactly the most pleasant.

That would certainly explain Casey’s mysterious double life as both an agent and a gun for hire. Hell, he could kill Chuck out in the open and the world would turn a blind eye on the transgression. All he’d have to do is chalk it up as something as stupid as a security breach. No one would be the wiser.

Chuck swallows.

Quickly, he hits the light switch and pauses for a moment in the dark. He blames the hesitation on his nerves. Chuck always knew he wasn’t built for fieldwork—he can barely stand the sight of blood—and this...this is just a whole new can of worms.

“You lost?” Casey murmurs groggily from across the room. Chuck hears the ruffle of bed sheets before he hustles back over to join the man.

No need to act suspicious.

Casey’s hands are inviting, though. He brushes the robe off Chuck’s shoulders gently and pulls him in close, warm lips pressing up against his throat as Chuck surrenders to the sensation. He closes his eyes, allows himself to feel and succumbs to the slumber that awaits him.

He’ll figure out his escape plan after breakfast.

-1-Casey-1-

Perfect mouth, perfect skin; legs like heaven and the flexibility to flaunt them—Chuck is the poster-boy of all young, innocent lovers, the kind some people fantasize about having; the kind some people pay well to keep their beds warm at night. Chuck probably doesn’t know the price he could fetch if he ever decided to offer. Doubts the kid would be interested in something like that. Chuck’s too clean. Naive. If the kid didn’t work for the CIA he probably wouldn’t know what a gun was.

Though, Casey could honestly care less at the moment.

He’s a little delusional with this newfound power trip. Chuck doesn’t need his personal space. Not now, anyway. Casey’s spent miserable nights in the desert with nothing but sand and a rucksack for comfort—Chuck’s warmth alone is an aphrodisiac in comparison. Casey pulls him in close, touches whatever he can get his hands on and just basks in the glow. The kid doesn’t complain. A real trooper. Just moans a little and goes limp in Casey’s arm like the man was hoping he would.

This is the payoff for all those days spent in hell. Welcome home, soldiers. Chuck knows how to thank a fella for serving his country and Casey isn’t the kind of man that lets gratitude fall on deaf ears.

A hand slips lower and he brushes his thumb dangerously low on Chuck’s belly but either the kid is exhausted or he hasn’t had much practice between the sheets because Casey doesn’t see coition happening again for at least another hour. Kids these days—need more exercise. But damn, if Chuck put a little effort in building his endurance up he could be lethal...

Carnal knowledge is a dangerous thing.

He drifts in and out of sleep with Chuck pressed up close beside him. Sunlight streams in through the crack in the curtains sometime after ten before he finally musters the strength to stretch himself out. He drags Chuck into the shower with him (which ends up taking more time than either of them anticipated) and towel dries his hair as he slips into the kitchen to make a full pot of coffee. Chuck tidies up his room and fuses over the table (going so far to rub it with bleach) but he manages to down the caffeine and a piece of toast without jumping the kid again.

Although, with all the fondling he’s invested so far he’s a bit disappointed...

“Where’s the fire?”

Chuck nearly tips his cup over a second time when he reaches across the table to grab his cell phone. Between sterilizing the kitchen and texting some (currently) unknown contact, Chuck hasn’t found the time to eat yet.

“What? Oh—sorry. I’m trying to get a hold of someone.”

“Someone...?”

It takes Chuck a moment to realize he left that statement open for an answer. He drops his phone on the table and tries to shrug nonchalantly, “Uh, a friend—a childhood friend. He went on a date last night and I can’t get a hold of him...”

Casey’s glad his leer isn’t lost on the kid. “You think, maybe, he’s still asleep?”

Chuck almost blushes—how he manages to look so innocent after all they’ve done in bed together is beyond Casey’s understanding. He isn’t complaining, though. Adds a little excitement to each new adventure...

“It’s...never mind. I’m going to be gone for the day. Are you going to leave before I lock the door or do you plan on scaling the balcony again?”

Admittedly, climbing up here wasn’t all that fun. It was dark and windy and cold—and Chuck’s balcony doors were locked. If he didn’t think he was going to get laid once he got to the top, he wouldn’t have bothered.

At least now he understands why that idiot from the fairytale climbed Rapunzel’s hair.

Casey grunts under his breath and laughs, “I’ll be out of here in five. Be back by ten tonight.”

“...I think you must be mistaken. This is my apartment. I don’t have a curfew.”

“You do now,” Casey sneers as he reaches behind Chuck’s curls and tugs him in for a quick, hard kiss. Pulling away, Chuck looks rightfully miffed.

“Hey—”

“Stay out of trouble,” Casey warns as he steps through the archway into living-room and onwards to the front entrance. Five seconds later, he has his shoes back on and he’s ready to go. “And don’t be late—I’ll break the lock on your door if I get here before you do.”

And he will.

No joke.

Chuck doesn’t say anything. Good. Casey’s never been much of a morning person. Then again, he’s never really an “any-time” person. He’ll play nice when he’s ready to play nice.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, honey,” Chuck mutters sardonically from his seat at the table.

As Casey opens said door, he pauses halfway out and replies with a derisive, “See you tonight, sweetheart,” before shutting it behind him. Glancing at the cell phone he swiped off the table during the kiss, he scrolls down the kid’s address book for the number he needs.

Chuck won’t be missing it any time soon.

-2-Chuck-2-

“Her mom doesn’t smile but I think her father kind of grinned when I said I hoped to open a business of my own one day.”

Chuck grins, leaning forward to take a sip of Cherry Cola before he asks, “Your gaming shop?”

“Tom said he’d leave it to me in his will.”

“Doesn’t he have kids?”

“He’s 80,” Morgan argues, waving one hand for emphasis, “And I’ve worked with him for almost five years now. If he has kids, they’re either imaginary or horribly deformed because I’ve never seen any of them.”

Chuck almost laughs. “So—tell me more about Anna. When are you going to see her again?”

“Tonight—and man can she pull some moves!”

For a moment he chokes on his soda—almost immediately, Morgan tries to correct himself.

“Not those moves—although she is fantastic—I mean, she’s taken at least seven different kinds of martial arts. The woman has an actual samurai sword mounted on the wall next to these trophy-plaque-things and she showed me her numchucks. You need some, man—you’d be a Chuck with numchucks and Chuck converse shoes.”

“That would be truly amusing, Morgan.”

“Yeah...” Morgan drifts off for a moment and leans back in his chair. After sampling his usual chocolate milkshake, he glances outside the cafe window and asks, “How’s your love life doing, Chuck?”

Chuck bites his lower lip.

Morgan waits a second and then looks at Chuck, “Wait, dude—there’s got to be someone you’ve been oogling. You have got to be one of the most romantic guys I know.”

Yeah...weird, but true. Chuck never should have told him he wanted to get married and have, like, five kids—but he was drunk at the time and 21. Now he’s thinking two kids might be all he could handle...

“Here’s an imaginary dilemma...” he starts. The look Morgan gives him is a curious one but the man folds his arms and nods when he’s ready to play the game, “Someone comes to you and gives you the chance to choose between two possible lovers...”

“Let me guess—one’s ugly but loyal?”

“No...” but Chuck grins anyway because he never dreamed of running into someone like Casey before, “One is physically satisfying and the other is emotionally fulfilling.”

“...I’m assuming there’s another catch?”

“The first one is guaranteed to stick around in the future—the second is leaning a little more towards being unattainable...”

“Wow...” Morgan shakes his head in wonder. “If you’d have asked me this a year ago I would’ve gone with the first one—but Anna...well, you’re a hopeless romantic anyway and you’re really quite emotional—sorry, buddy—so I’d have to say...go with the second. She’s more your type.”

“Emotional?”

“No, unattainable—when was the last time you went out to a bar?”

Chuck almost chokes again. They laugh about it for a minute and then Morgan continues with the story of how he came to meet Anna’s parents. Chuck really didn’t think it’d been that long since Morgan met the woman...How much of his normal life had he been missing?

Somewhere between Morgan’s rant about Anna’s psycho cat and how he decided to call her “Anna Banana”, Chuck zoned out on the conversation and let his mind drift to Sarah. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman—no argument there—and just talking to her was enough to make his heart jump. But they were both CIA agents and he wasn’t ready to dive into her past. She probably wouldn’t appreciate having to tell him how many men she’s killed in her life and Chuck doesn’t think he could stand the heartache of having to think of her as a murderer—even if she had the right to kill someone. On the other hand, Casey wasn’t exactly a saint...

“—should ask her out.”

Chuck blinks. “Who?”

“Whoever it is you’re thinking about.” Morgan quirks his eyebrow as though he’s an expert. “Come on, man—I can totally tell when you’re daydreaming.”

“Sorry.”

“No prob. A man’s got to dream sometime.”

No kidding.

He just doesn’t know how lightly Casey is going to take being dumped...

“You should call her.”

Chuck shakes his head, “No, that wouldn’t be professional...”

“She works with you?”

“Well...sort of, but...” Chuck reaches into his back pocket for his phone, wondering if maybe he should text her for coffee instead...

Much to his surprise, it isn’t there.

Trust him to forget it at his apartment...

( Runaway - Part two )

Priorities

2009-04-14T05:58:39Z

A/N: I just couldn’t resist. Don’t know if it’s going to stay as a one-shot though...

Title: Priorities
Rating: Um... pg-13 if this stays a one-shot; subject to change
Pairing: Casey/Chuck
Word count: this bit is approximately 750.
Warnings: an angry Casey and a promise of unimaginable punishment (for now, anyway)
Spoilers: 2.20 – “Chuck vs. the First Kill” (and pretty much all the episodes leading up to it)
Beta: un-beta-ed, but I do listen to all editing comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Feedback: Just by the comment feature, please.
Summary: The cardinal rule of running from the government is this—don’t try it. Casey can be an agreeable guy but that’s only when you remember to keep him in the loop...

Gun loaded, he cocks it shut and glances at the stairs. The second Chuck hits the ground floor he’ll be out like a light—and it won’t take three tranquilizers to put him out like it did for Casey. The kid might be a genius but there’s nothing much his brain can do against a sedative. It’s ironic.

Almost.

Casey’s willing to lay his life down for his country but he’s not running the General’s orders through his head right now. He understands the necessity of making it appear as though Chuck will be delivered to the airport comatose but it’ll be easier to fudge Chuck’s escape if Casey can fool the powers that be into thinking everything’s going according to plan. He hasn’t decided (yet) the best way to give Chuck a good head start but Casey’s always been keener on his feet. He needs the action and the adrenaline to get his creative juices flowing and this is no exception.

Life’s been rather entertaining since Chuck Bartowski barged into it.

His jaw locks. It’s just a bit of nerves. The good kind—he can’t stand the prosaic thrum of life’s little day-to-day activities and this is his rush; his aphrodisiac. Casey was born on his feet and he plans on dying on them too.

Turning to the Castle screen, his eyes fix on Walker and Bartowski, waiting; calculating. There’s a brief, tentative moment between them before Chuck’s face lights up and Sarah pulls him into a shaky embrace. It’s a Judas Kiss. The kid always gets sucker punched by the ladies.

Although...it’s a little hard for him to believe Sarah’s actually going through with this.

...But she isn’t.

Casey’s not a fool. He can see the look that passes over Chuck’s face before they part. The kid’s an open book—and Walker’s a tart. She might’ve fallen for Bryce’s cool composure but Chuck’s bleeding heart hits her square in the sweet tooth and it’s an addiction he doesn’t see her shaking in the near future. She’d probably jump off a bridge if Bartowski told her gravity didn’t actually exist

As they walk off screen Casey catches a glimpse of the kid’s wrist. No watch. Go figure. He was hoping Sarah would be able to trust him by now but he can’t say he didn’t see it coming. Sarah doesn’t trust anyone much.

Even sometimes Chuck.

Speaking of which, Casey plans on having a little ‘heart-to-heart’ with the kid as soon as he gets his hands on him. Washington will be the least of his problems.

Setting the gun down on the table, Casey pulls out a chair and takes a seat. No need to ruin their fun just yet. Besides, it’s easier this way. He gets to play the good cop (by the General’s standards) and Chuck gets one more hour of fresh air.

Sarah, of course, will be paying for this little act of insubordination through the nose but she’s a tough girl. If she’s brave enough to call the shots behind Casey’s back then she can probably gather the wits to explain herself before her superiors. Life’s all about give-and-take.

Bartowski, on the other hand...Well, if he’s got something to go by then the General might be willing to let him point them in the right direction of Orion. Chuck doesn’t usually run without a plan (or, at least, an inkling of what he’s getting himself into) and as frightened as he was when Bryce first introduced him to the Intersect the kid’s grown himself something of a spine by now. Chuck probably knows where Fulcrum’s taken his father.

Even so, he’s going to get a lashing when Casey catches up to him. If (—by some miracle of God—) the General doesn’t send him to Washington after all, Casey will lock him up in his own apartment. There’s no way in hell Chuck’s going to walk free after skipping off to play with Walker and Casey isn’t old enough yet to let anyone walk all over him. Chuck was still just his mother’s dream when Casey learned how to fire a gun.

Rubbing his brow, Casey feels the makings of a migraine coming on. Glancing at his watch, he counts how many minutes have passed since they left the Buy More and grabs the tranquillizer gun again. Screw the wait.

Five minutes is more than enough time for a head start...

A/N: Um...

Evil!Casey prompts

2009-03-25T01:32:01Z

So...I'm mildly peeved with my previous laptop for unexpectedly dying on me. It happens, right? The poor fella was old...but he didn't have to take my fics with him! That conniving little bastard...he had it all planned out...

Having said that, it's been such a long since I worked on the my latest Evil!Casey fic I can't exactly remember all the particulars for the plot. I know the beginning and the ending but most of the filler has escaped me...

Now, having said that, I'm open to prompts. If you have any for me (which I will be forever grateful for) please feel free to send a word or two my way. Come on---who doesn't fantasize about an evil!Casey? He's evil!

Sorry...I think I'll go write... ;)

In the Eye of the Hurricane - C5

2009-03-20T04:14:34Z

Title: In the Eye of the Hurricane – Chapter four
Author: ladyofpride
Characters: Joker, Scarecrow/Crane and the Riddler. Batman will be mentioned (and make appearances) as the story progresses, though he isn’t the focus of the story.
Rating: Pg-17 (if such a thing exists).
Timeframe: follows after the second movie
Warnings: violence, obvious insanity and the death of innocent (or not-so-innocent) bystanders...after all, this is about the Joker...
Disclaimer: I’m not making a profit off of this—nor do I have the desire to either. I’m just playing in someone else’s sandbox.
Summary: It’s true what they say. Sanity can only last so long...
First chapter: (Chapter one) –all chapters are connected.

He can feel the Riddler’s pulse as his fingers slip under the cuff of his green suit jacket, heart beat racing as they close around the bony wrist. The kid’s rate is incredible. Enticing. It feels as though he should be high off of ecstasy or freebase. Too bad the kid’s not shaking.

The Joker can remember the old kids, the ones he’s seen over the years in the alleys, and how they’d shake and yell and lose their minds under a moon that wasn’t quite full. It’s all about the power, right? The struggle before the ultimate high—followed by the sickening sensation of nothing after you’ve hit rock bottom. And they had absolutely nothing until they could get their hands on another shot of pure liquid gold.

But the Riddler doesn’t need that sort of power. That rush. Even with the sudden adrenaline boost, his head is level. There’s this daring look in his eyes—one that speaks volumes for someone currently questioning his own sanity. The battle raging on inside his head is a beautiful one indeed.

Dementia does the weirdest things to some people...

“What’s your rush?"

The Riddler stares at him for a moment, almost as though he can’t decide whether to be angry, afraid or utterly baffled by the Joker’s bizarre behaviour. After a moment’s hesitation, he tugs his arm free and takes a step back. The Joker merely smoothes down the front of his coat in response and licks his lips patiently, knowing that the kid probably doesn’t buy his innocent look any more than Crane does. Even so, it helps, sometimes, to confuse the hell out of people. It can buy a person time.

The crash in the stairway startles them out of their reverie. Mostly. The Joker’s accustomed to expecting the unexpected and, if the Riddler’s history of escaping the Bat is anything to judge him by, the man is familiar with the Bat’s persistence.

He glances once over at Crane and waves. With a small laugh, the Joker pivots quickly on his right heel and makes a swipe for the painting under the kid’s arm.

It’s showtime.

The Riddler’s cane is half-raised, hand now free from the Joker’s grasp, but he doesn’t react in time to stop him as the artifact is tugged out from under his arm. A startled cry escapes his throat as the Joker spins in a half circle (somewhat awkwardly) and tosses the painting carelessly to his partner in crime.

Crane somehow manages to catch it with one hand, ducking inside quickly as another bang is heard inside the stairwell. And since there’s no way to drop directly down to the ground floor, he suspects the Bat must be rolling down the stairs.

“Stop!” The Riddler shouts and the Joker hears more of anger than anything else in that refined voice of his. In the poor illumination of the distant street light, all he can see is a brief flash of dark green as the young man darts past him toward the car.

He barely reaches out in time to stop the kid. Crane revs up the engine as he turns the man sharply to face him. He caught him by the arm this time, just above the elbow, but it’s not the arm with the cane and he wouldn’t put it past the kid to strike him with his favourite toy.

When something slams into the stairwell door, the Joker is honestly surprised it stays standing. The Batman put one hell of a dent in it and it won’t take more than a second for him to finish the job.

Wisely, the Riddler shifts his attention to the more immediate danger and aims the base of his cane at the door. He shoots something at its base. The Joker is hoping it’s another explosive but it shatters upon impact with the ground.

...He’s a little disappointed.

The Riddler wrenches his arm free just as the door swings out into the alleyway and slams against the adjacent wall violently. Reaching into one of his pockets, he produces a lighter and flicks the lid open.

The Batman rises to his full length as he steps out into the dim light. The Joker waves again in Crane’s direction and this draws the Dark Knight’s attention briefly toward the car as it screeches forward onto the street.

The Riddler thumbs the igniter, the tongue of tiny flame licking the air devilishly as the kid faces the man head on. There are only a few paces between them. One could easily act.

But the Riddler waits. He doesn’t know why. It must be a part of the ‘plan’.

The Bat waits too, more so because he probably doesn’t understand what his opponent’s up to. It’s exciting though. Better than drugs. The Joker’s getting the jits just watching them—the Dark Knight standing there like a demon fresh from hell and the Riddler with a flame as small and fickle as the line separating his sanity from the impending fall. Nothing can beat this. The tension is breathtaking.

Those teenage delinquents have no idea what real euphoria feels like.

The Joker wonders how long they can make the moment last, and then he smells it. It’s faint—something familiar. The Batman must smell it too because he acts the instant the Riddler tosses the lighter forward, darting to one side to avoid catching the flame.

But the Riddler wasn’t really aiming for him.

The gas from his dart reacts immediately, the alley filling with the same thick smoke from yesterday night. The Joker can only catch a glimpse of Gotham’s martyr as the man glides in for the kill before he’s lost in the haze.

There’s a clash in the dark, the sound of feet scuffling along the ground just a little off to his left before something else ignites in the smog. There’s a flash—and an eerie silence. His eyes are stinging.

Stepping back, someone bumps into his shoulder. They’re too big to be the Riddler. Besides, the kid wasn’t wearing any armour...at least, not any he was aware of.

Slipping the steak knife out from inside his coat pocket, he takes a jab at the person in question and smiles as he manages to wedge the blade into tender flesh. He must’ve caught the man somewhere between the armour plates (although he can even begin to imagine where that would be).

The Dark Knight gasps. Actually...it’s more of a wounded growl. When the Joker tugs the blade free, he’s knocked aside before he can get another hit in. His jaw smarts but, stumbling backwards, he somehow manages to stay on his feet as he reaches the edge of the cloud. He can breathe again.

The gas must be fading.

Shuffling a little farther, he only catches a blur of the Riddler as the young man strolls briskly past him. His pace is not fast enough to be considered a run but the kid’s no fool. It won’t take long for the Bat to catch up.

Waving away the smoke in his eyes, he sprints after the kid and around the corner. He’s admittedly a little surprised when the Riddler takes a good running jump at the fire escape ladder beside the building and somehow manages to pull himself up. Nimbly, he negotiates the ladder (cane still grasped securely in one hand) up onto the first balcony and then along the stairs steadily toward the roof of the apartment complex.

The Joker approaches the ladder and watches the Riddler a moment longer before jumping up to grab it. He misses the first time but catches it on the second try and yanks it the rest of the way down before scrambling up after him.

He barely makes it to the top of the five stories before the Bat rounds the corner to the adjacent alleyway. The Joker can hear him coughing.

Darting up the final balcony, he reaches the roof and pulls himself over the ledge to find the Riddler fiddling with his cane. The kid is cursing under his breath, trying to load something through the base.

“Need a little help?”

The Riddler looks up at him, somewhat glaring from under the brim of his hat, and shakes his head, “No. Not from you.”

“What’s your rush?” He asks—and jumps a little to the side as the talon end of a grappling hook sinks its teeth into the concrete of the ledge. The Joker leans over the side gently to steal a glance at the rapidly ascending vigilante, tsking under his breath as the man draws nearer to the roof.

“Stand back,” the kid says, apparently ready with his daisy toy to fight the big, bad man in black.

“Relax—I have a better idea!”

And he does.

The second he sees the Dark Knight’s head, he lashes out with a hearty kick and watches as the man loses his balance.

The surprised shout from the Riddler is a little unexpected, especially when he runs to the ledge to watch the Batman drop. Gotham’s saviour doesn’t actually hit the ground but he comes damn close to it before he can readjust his cord.

The Joker, of course, knew this already.

“He doesn’t die,” the Joker explains, probably ruining the end to every battle the kid has to look forward to with the vigilant, “He never dies. It’s a universal truth.”

The look the kid gives him is incredible, like he doesn’t know whether the Joker’s real or if he’s just a figment of his imagination.

As if he has the right to call anybody crazy...

“Why did you do that?” The Riddler asks finally.

The Joker wags his finger in the kid’s face, “The real question here is—why didn’t you do that first?”

The kid opens his mouth to complain—but already they can hear the menacing hiss of the Bat’s cord as he re-ascends. This really isn’t the time or place.

“We’ve got the art,” the Joker explains—and then jabs a finger at the kid’s chest, “and you’ve got the heart. Let us have a shot at remedying that and we’ll let you play your game.”

“But—”

The Joker doesn’t wait. He grabs the kid by the shoulder of his jacket and yanks him after him toward the other end of the roof. They’ve got enough speed to jump once they reach the end.

And they do.

Even if the Riddler is protesting.

( Chapter 6 )

A/N: Reference: “daisy toy” refers to the daisy air rifles cadets use. At one time (like, when my dad was a kid), boys could purchase them for hunting small game.

Anyhow, I really apologize for the delay (and for the shortness of my update). I just finished my last midterm on Monday and with a load of lab reports do I just didn’t want to distract myself from school. Sorry. It’s going to be summer soon...(I hope).

Revenge of the Ex - Ch.5

2009-03-16T04:32:40Z

Title: Revenge of the Ex (chapter five)
Prequel: (Chuck Undercover - Ch.1)
Pairing: established Casey/Chuck; one-sided OMC (Mitchell)/Chuck
Rating: Nc-17 (overall)
Disclaimer: NBC owns Chuck. Not me.
Spoilers: Up to (and including) 2.05
Warnings: just the usual dose of love, minor violence and maybe a bit of bad language. I’ll give you a head’s up if there’s anything new.
Friend prompt: someone entirely crazy and almost amoral—doesn’t understand the difference between a virtue and a vice.
Summary: He always thought breaking up with Jill was the worst experience of his life. Boy was he ever wrong…

He’s a bit shaken after his run-in with Alan Jordan, the artist with a flair for sin and an apparent foot in the drug business. He can only image how the man came to lose his mind.

Chuck downs the rest of his champagne and slips the delicate glass onto the tray of a passing waiter before diving head first into the sea of patrons. He finds his handlers near the bar with Ercolino and an elderly couple, Mitchell hovering close beside them with a somewhat perplexed expression drawn out across his face. The criminal’s eyes fall on Jordan (who is currently hassling some poor and unsuspecting young woman) but he doesn’t mention the man as he averts his gaze to Chuck and sidles up beside him.

“How is he, Charles?”

There really is only one way to describe him, “Insane.”

“Is that so?” the man laughs, keeping his voice low enough to avoid drawing any attention to their conversation, “What did he say?”

“...I think he was talking about the blur between virtue and vice.”

“I take it he was trying to explain his art?”

Well...that’s not exactly true but adultery is the last thing Chuck wants to discuss with Mitchell, least of all with Casey standing only three feet away. “...Yeah. Something like that.”

“What was it then? Murder? Theft?” Mitchell’s eyes focus on Chuck’s for a moment. He wonders if he’s really blushing (just like Jordan said he was). Whether or not he is, Mitchell takes note of something in his body language and pushes the boundary a little further, “Lust, perhaps?”

Chuck wishes he still had that champagne. It was so much easier evading a conversation when his mouth was already occupied.

Mitchell’s smiling gently now. There’s a glint in his eye that can be read in so many ways...Chuck really doesn’t want to interpret any of them. He just can’t find it in himself to look away.

“Or was it love?” Mitchell asks quietly, “Love that doesn’t quite suit the natural laws?”

Chuck doesn’t know whether he’s referring to homosexual relations or adultery—he really doesn’t care. He’s caught off guard by the soft look he’s getting from Mitchell, the tall, dark-haired man that fell in love with him naturally enough. Chuck didn’t have to seduce him. Chuck wasn’t rich or famous and Mitchell knew that when they met. It can’t be right.

He’ll never stop wondering what the man saw in him that day.

“Mike, it’s almost seven,” Ercolino interrupts politely. Chuck’s silently grateful for him. “I believe Jordan said he wanted to introduce us to one of his old friends."

Mitchell nods. The elderly couple keeps chatting with his handlers and he wonders if they’re secretly working with the seemingly harmless old fellow so he can run his business smoothly. The two of them don’t give Casey or Sarah a chance to ‘formally’ ask Ercolino what he’s talking about but Chuck knows the government has cameras and microphones hooked up throughout the building. There’s nothing much Jordan can do without either the NSA or the CIA knowing.

Mitchell squeezes Chuck’s hand gently and follows Ercolino into the crowd. Chuck keeps his eyes trained on the man’s back until he disappears into the masses, and then it’s Casey that draws his attention away as he turns around to find the man staring at him.

There’s a blend of several emotions in his eyes.

-1-Casey-1-

Chuck isn’t a cheater.

People in general aren’t cheaters—usually, their hearts only wander astray when they’re not being emotionally fulfilled. Hey, sex is great and all that but it really only plays a small role in adultery.

Chuck is an exceptionally emotional individual and that’s how Casey can imagine even a small lose in a relationship being a blow to the gut for him. He pined over Jill for who knows how many years and Sarah’s on-again-off-again mixed signals probably messed with the poor kid’s head for a while. Casey likes to think of himself as attractive but he knows Chuck’s ordeal with Sarah and Mitchell played a big part in opening his mind to a same-sex relationship.

Chuck doesn’t understand how easy it is for people to manipulate him.

Which is exactly what Mitchell’s trying to do.

Casey knows the man has genuine feelings for Chuck. He knows the man isn’t going to stop trying to win the kid over—and it certainly doesn’t help that Mitchell can see how open and sensitive Chuck really is. Casey isn’t nearly as emotive as the kid but he knows he should probably to try to lighten up a bit. Mitchell will use it as a weapon against him if he doesn’t.

Casey tries to ignore the look Mitchell gives the kid before he leaves with Ercolino. He didn’t catch their conversation but he did catch the way Mitchell stared at him...the way Chuck was a little nervous and scared and almost...heartbroken. It was a dirty trick; Mitchell shouldn’t have pinned the kid like that but, hey, Mitchell probably learned Seduction 101 on his own when Chuck still was enjoying recess in elementary.

When Chuck says he loves Casey, Casey has no doubt the kid is telling the truth. But Chuck’s still a little broken over the incident with Mitchell and Casey isn’t exactly the most tender guy in the world...Chuck’s in a vulnerable position.

There’s something about this mission that just sucks...

The kid is obviously startled to see Casey watching him. His eyes dart to the ground briefly, shoulder’s slouching. He looks a little guilty.

Casey can’t shake the feeling that he should be the one feeling guilty.

“How’d it go?” Casey asks after taking a step back from Ercolino’s Chatty Cathys and a second step to the side to speak with Bartowski. “Did you flash on Jordan?”

“No,” he murmurs, “I got nothing on him.”

“What did Mitchell say to you?”

“He wanted to know what Jordan told me,” Chuck smiles faintly, “and the artist told me that I was doomed to have an affair—that I should probably stop fighting the inevitable.”

Something solid and cold hits rock bottom in his gut and he almost freezes on the spot. He tries to sound level when he speaks next but he voice still manages to sound a little heavy. “An affair?”

“Yeah,” He grins, and either the kid’s playing with him or Chuck doesn’t notice his guarded tone. He realizes it’s the former of the two when the kid looks into his eyes and smiles a little harder. “An affair behind my fiancé’s back. Wanna help?”

Honestly, he’d love to.

Sarah laughs a little loudly—a cue to the end of her conversation with the elderly couple as the man and woman wander off to bother someone else. Her smile’s a little strained when she turns to join them but she relaxes visibly when Chuck offers her one of his trademark grins.

“I hate gossip,” she sighs.

“But I thought all girls loved it?”

“Only the dull ones.”

Chuck laughs.

“But really—what’s happening?”

Chuck shrugs. He pauses to glance over his shoulder but there’s nothing interesting happening in the background. Some of the paintings are bizarre but all the real action is going on behind closed doors with Jordan and his band of merry men. “I don’t know. This guy is nuts...”

“What else is new?”

“But he likes meddling in other people’s business...” Chuck turns back to face her, obviously worrying over something in his mind, “I don’t know...He’s really open and blatant. If his paintings are anything to judge by, I think he would’ve slipped up on his drug secret sometime before now.”

“Could be a facade,” Casey grumbles, “Or he could be fresh meat in the game. According to Mitchell, Ercolino never mentioned how long Jordan’s been in the business.”

“So...now what?”

“We wait. It’s too early to tell.”

Chuck almost rolls his eyes, “What should we do in the meantime...?”

-2-Chuck-2-

Chuck isn’t opposed to office work. Actually, that’s probably what he’s most suited for. Give him a computer and a cup of coffee any day and he’ll be ready to do just about anything.

Albeit, having Mitchell in the room is just a little distracting...

Well, maybe not a ‘little’ but it certainly is distracting.

He misses the Castle. A bit. It was cozy and cool—and right below the Orange Orange. Being able to sample free yogurt any hour of the day was a bonus he was willing to exploit liberally but it’s probably for the best that he lays off the frozen dessert for a while. After all, he wouldn’t want to lose his chiselled physique.

...Yeah right.

Chuck chews on his bottom lip absently, trying to think of a better word for ‘find’ as he taps away at the keyboard. Sarah gave him a couple of files earlier to fill out from a previous mission and left him in the boardroom at the mercy of Seto, Clark and Mitchell as she and Casey slipped away to speak with the General in private. In the back of his mind, he knows they’re talking about him.

He wishes that at least Casey would’ve stayed behind.

Mitchell makes sure to sit across from him. And stares. A lot. And it isn’t even the staring so much as his unabashed shamelessness about it that bothers Chuck. When he catches the man in the act, Mitchell steals an extra second or two before returning to his work, even going so far as to wink at him once before leaving Chuck in his peace.

The first time it happens, Chuck slouches down a little in hopes of hiding behind his laptop screen—but then Seto notices, and getting the eye from Seto is, by far, worse than getting the eye from Mitchell. Seto could melt iron with those eyes.

He’s not joking.

The second time, he gives Mitchell this narrow-eyed half sneer that might’ve worked if Clark hadn’t looked up just then. She grins, visibly trying not to laugh, and Mitchell returns to his work looking smugger than usual.

Chuck doesn’t do anything the third time...or the fourth or the fifth. He loses count after the seventh and doesn’t even bother to look up at him after then. It isn’t until he volunteers to go with Clark to get some coffee that Mitchell gives up on trying to steal his attention.

“He’s relentless, isn’t he?”

Yes—relentless. That’s exactly the word he’s looking for. “Can’t we just lock him up?”

Clark walks with him to the end of the hall and presses the button for the elevator. “So long as he’s working, he doesn’t have to go back to his holding cell. Seto or I have to be with him at all times though.”

“Isn’t he some sort of rich ex-assassin? What if he snaps?”

“And what do you think Seto is?” Clark asks, obvious excitement in her eyes, “Seto could kill him if she wanted to and she has the clearance to do it if he goes back on his word.”

“Is she a ninja?”

Clark laughs just as the elevator bings and they step inside. She presses the lobby button. “Even better. But I wouldn’t worry about Mitchell. He’s a smart man. He’ll want his freedom.”

Of course—collect two dollars at the Pass-and-Go. Have fun in the Bahamas.

“But I know he’s holding back,” Clark continues. The atmosphere would be a little more serious if not for the elevator music in the background. “Which was why we were wondering if you would weasel it out of him...”

Chuck pauses, “...How, exactly?”

“He’s smitten with you,” Clark points out, “And he’s been playing little mind games with you all day. It’s obvious he’s willing to give a little if you—”

“No,” he says. And really—no. He knows exactly where this is going.

“But—”

“He’s an insane killer!”

Clark looks confused, “Who isn’t?”

“Yeah—but this guy knows we know he’s an insane killer. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of trying to seduce him?”

“Some men are just that weak.”

“Yes—and some men are just cruel enough to make you think you can get something from them,” Chuck mutters, hoping that that somehow made sense, “He’s just messing with us.”

“But the report said you were the one that worked on him in the last mission.”

“I didn’t actually sleep with him,” Chuck replies, sounding a little wounded, “I’m not that easy.”

Clark, suddenly, looks a little apologetic, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “It’s just...there’s a lot you can get sometimes with playing hard to get.”

“Is that the game plan, then?” She asks—just as the elevator doors slide open. Casey is standing there with Sarah on his left.

Chuck pauses for a moment. “Yeah...”

Maybe playing hard to get would work...

A/N: Sorry for the shortness. And the lateness. Between midterms and lab reports, I haven’t had much time to write. I wanted to update my evil!Casey mini-series but my old laptop died on me *sob*. Now I have to re-invent the whole installation...

Previous Chapters:
(Revenge of the Ex - Ch.1)
(Revenge of the Ex - Ch. 2)
(Revenge of the Ex - Ch.3)
(Revenge of the Ex - Ch.4)

In the Eye of the Hurricane - C4

2009-02-22T07:23:50Z

What’s red, green and blue all over?

...

He has no idea. A beach ball, maybe...

This whole riddle scheme is harder than it appears.

Crane gives him a worried look halfway through their walk, probably wondering why he hasn’t said or done anything spontaneous yet. He can’t blame the guy. Silence isn’t natural.

Don’t argue. It just isn’t.

“How do you catch a guy on the run?”

Crane laughs, “Is that a riddle or an actual question?”

“A little of both.”

“You...break his legs?”

Alright...but they can’t exactly show the kid what a real heist looks like if they have to haul him around in a wheelchair.

The Joker stretches out one arm, fingers brushing against the cold damp wall of the alley. He steps in a puddle and the water soaks through the cheap white sneakers the asylum issues to all its prisoners. They’re not exactly dressed for a night out on the town but they have time to find something suitable to wear for tomorrow evening.

After all, he wants to look his best for their newfound friend.

“So...did the kid invite us on a date or what?”

Crane shrugs. He glances again at the Joker before supplying him with an answer, “He left us a clue, though I’m not sure why.”

The Joker runs a hand through his hair. His roots are darker now but the green dye is soldiering on. “It’s ’cause he’s eager to see us again.”

“So I see...”

The Joker gives him a punch in the arm. Laughs a little. It’s been a while since they’ve taken a breath of fresh air outside the confines of Arkham Asylum. Even longer for Crane. “So, where the hell does the kid plan on seeing us?”

“Where else?”

-1-Joker-1-

Two criminals walk into a drugstore. What do you think they said?

Nothing, actually. Despite his urge to waltz in through the front door (he would’ve gotten one hell of a reaction out of the salesclerk), Crane convinces him to break in through the back. As badly as they want to scare some poor bystander senseless, neither of them is exactly armed for a fight with security and Crane needs time to find the right drugs for their future experiment.

Breaking in is a synch. There’s a punk-wannabe kid standing by the back door, sucking on the end of a cigarette as though it’s his last lifeline, and he doesn’t notice the strange pair until the Joker’s within three paces of him. The door’s standing wide open, said underage punk is out enjoying the early morning breeze and he has all of two seconds to register the attack before the Joker literally busts his chops.

He foresees no smoking for this kid in the near future.

The Joker leads the way as they slip inside, being about as inconspicuous as two cats in a bird house, crossing the employee longue and entering the narrow hallway between the front of the store and the side entrance of the pharmacy. A woman is standing there. Her crisp white lab coat speaks for itself. Before she can scream, the Joker has her by the throat, slamming the back of her head into the nearest wall to cut off any ideas she might’ve had of calling for help. She chokes on her next words as Crane pulls the jacket off her arms, looking more than just a little under the weather as the Joker shoves her into a storage closet.

Crane pauses. Admires the shocked expression on her face as she wavers in and out of consciousness before he shuts the door. The man hasn’t had much of a chance to indulge himself in his strange fascination since their breakout but he’ll have plenty of time for that once they deal with the Riddler.

The doctor slips off his straightjacket and yanks ‘Dr. Torrs’ nametag off the breast pocket before tugging on the coat. Crane’s slim enough to fit it. He fixes the collar, buttons it up the front to hide his orange jumpsuit, and wanders into the pharmacy with the calm, collected stride of a professional.

That’s when the Joker spots the exacto-knife.

The Joker’s never been an avid believer of divine forces but he’s prepared to take it into consideration now. The damn thing just is sitting on top of a stack of sealed boxes, idle as can be, waiting for some purpose in its inanimate life.

He’s willing to give it one.

Snatching up the toy, he follows Crane to the end of the hallway and lingers there as the man strolls over to the shelves on the far side. Another pharmacist is at work today but he’s sitting at one of those personal booths with an elderly man and a spindly old woman. The woman spots Crane, squinting through her glasses to get a better look at him, but Crane is a natural and she can’t quite see his orange pants behind the counter.

The doctor doesn’t waste any time scanning the vast selection for the drugs and syringes that he needs. The Joker’s eager to put his knife to good use and that’s when he sees the birthday display.

Balloons. Napkins. Streamers. Party favours.

Face paint...

He needs the white, at least.

The old croon gives him a weird look as he sneaks toward the front counter. When he jumps over it she looks absolutely appalled. It’s amusing. There’s a sign that reads ‘Now open from 6:00 – 10:00’ and he nearly tumbles into it before correcting himself on his feet, shoes making a weird squelching noise as he lands before stalking over to the display. The elderly man with the pharmacist is talking load enough to cover the noise and is apparently an expert at tuning out his wife as she starts yammering about something in a foreign language.

The whole thing runs smoothly up until he grabs one of the kits.

A kid that doesn’t even reach his waist skids around the corner, sliding to a sudden halt when his eyes fall on the Joker. He takes a quick look between the criminal and the birthday display before grinning.

“Whoa.”

Really, with all the violence on T.V. these days it’s no wonder kids are desensitized.

The Joker opens his mouth to give the kid a piece of advice but that’s when big sister Suzy-Sue darts around the corner and grab the tyke by his arm.

“Travis, mom is going to be so mad at you. You shouldn’t...”

Her rant falls short when her brother points to him.

She doesn’t scream (which is just a little unusual) but she does yank her brother rather viciously after her down the aisle. The Joker wets his lips and leans over to give the boy a little wave before he turns around, kit in hand, and notices that the pharmacist has finally spotted him.

“You...you’re...”

The Joker waits for him to remember his name but Crane’s finished with his collection by now and looks a little peeved by the discovery. The man hears the criminal approaching from behind but doesn’t have much time to defend himself as Crane gets him in the face with a half-decent right hook. He did it with a pill bottle in his hand too. Not bad.

The guy goes down like a sack of potatoes.

It’s then that the old witch starts hollering. The old man looks as though he’s about to have a heart attack. Joker skips back over the counter and follows his partner in crime as they dart down the hallway, back through the employee longue and out into the alleyway. The sky is burning. The sun is rising over the living grave of Gotham City.

The Joker can just tell today is going to be great.

Tonight is going to be even better.

-2-Joker-2-

According to Crane, the clue the Riddler gave them was ‘art’.

There are several different museums and galleries in Gotham but one stands out for Crane when he turns the television on and switches to a news channel. There’s a mummy display at Central but a new gallery is opening up on the east side, a collection from some rich French woman visiting America. Several of her pieces have never been viewed before but much of her inspiration comes from Monet.

The Joker listens to the news with only half an ear as he rummages through the bedroom closet for something that doesn’t scream ‘lawyer’. The previous owner of the apartment was a single man and he wasn’t exactly the brightest fellow for leaving his balcony doors unlocked, but he made the right amount of money and dressed well enough to flaunt it. Crane dresses much like his professional self before he was admitted to the nuthouse but it takes him a while to find a good belt for the dark slacks. The late owner had more of a regular build; the Joker’s size.

There’s nothing colourful in his closet but the Joker doesn’t mind the knee-length coat he finds at the far back. It’s a little old, has the left shoulder stitched up expertly and the words on the inside tag have faded with time. It must’ve been a lucky coat.

...Obviously not now but the guy wasn’t exactly wearing it when they broke into his living room.

Crane stashes the drugs in the kitchen and shuts off the living room light so he can catch a little shut eye on the couch. The Joker spends the most part of the morning rummaging through the knife draw in the kitchen. He pockets a potato peeler for good measure and stocks up on anything else he can get his hands on.

You can never have too many blades.

-4-Joker-4-

It feels like Christmas morning when they get to the gallery. The car they hotwired is old like the last one but it isn’t built for head-on collisions. Crane kicks it into gear and gets them to the place a little after sunset, parks in the alleyway alongside the small building and waits an hour before he deems it safe to enter. The street isn’t busy but they both advocate the idea of using the back stairwell. The Joker doesn’t mind locking horns with security but it would be rude to steal the Riddler’s thunder. The guy seems to have everything planned out to a tee.

And he does.

Security is already down. Two middle-aged men lie comatose on the third floor just outside the gallery’s twin doors. One of them has a funny little metal pin sticking out of the side of his neck.

Sedatives.

Why is he not surprised?

Crane toes one of the limp figures with his left foot, tilting his head to take in the blank expression on the man’s face. “...Some criminals would argue that guns are more effective.”

The Riddler is standing at the far end of the gallery, leaning to one side on that incredible cane of his with just his right hand. One of his calves is crossed over the other in a relaxed position. For a moment, his interest is fixed entirely on a painting, admiring it in the dim illumination of the room...

When he turns his head he doesn`t look at them, just keeps them in the corner of his eye. “Anyone is capable of destruction, Dr. Crane. I think a greater deal of effort is invested in preservation and creation.”

“That depends” the Joker replies, “on how imaginative a man can be.”

The Riddler uncrosses his calves and shifts his weight evenly between both feet. After a moment, he lifts his cane and rests it against his shoulder, pivoting on his heel to face the pair.

“Do you plan on stealing anything tonight?” Crane asks, folding his hands behind his back as he steps inside and glances at one of the smaller portraits. Just for a little privacy, the Joker follows him inside and closes the doors behind him. “You mentioned earlier that if you were ever compelled to steal anything it would probably be art.”

“I did, didn’t I...?” the Riddler replies quietly. He’s smiling. Just a little. As he approaches them, slowly, the Joker can see the mischievous twinkle in those lovely green eyes of his. When he stops in front of them, he can see the life in them. The vivacity. The élan.

He’s an animate person—you’d have to be in order to run twenty-some consecutive heists against Gotham’s greatest detective. But he’s not built for battle (just like he said). He’s got more of slender frame, like Crane, and is a tad bit shorter. Maybe by an inch...maybe half an inch—the Joker really doesn’t care. It’s just the energy he’s concerned with, the simple thrum of it in the man’s brisk stride, and its gradual decline in the weary posture of his shoulders. He’s pale. He’s weakening.

He’s tired.

There’s something plaguing his mind, something that’s driven him to challenge Gotham’s Dark Knight to a perpetually endless game of questions and clues. The Joker’s seen it before. Some people become obsessed with things that take them years to accomplish—a house, a dog, a kid (or 2.5 kids, at least). The Riddler’s beast isn’t that simple. He could’ve chosen a normal life but something drove him to the brink of insanity and he’s clearly fighting tooth and nail to hold on.

Beside the Joker, Crane is coming to the same conclusion. “Where do you plan on leading the Batman?” he asks, “I’m assuming this game will come to an eventual end...”

“He’s a cunning man,” the Riddler replies, “the best kind of man to test my riddles. I want to know if I can beat him.”

The Joker considers himself something of an expert when it comes to reading lies. The Riddler isn’t lying so much as he's avoiding the whole truth. Alright—he can buy the idea that the guy wants to match wits with the Bat (after all, that’s what he has all of Gotham believing) but it isn’t his main goal. It isn’t the star on his horizon.

“You mean there’s nothing more to this game?” Crane asks curiously, “You just feel compelled to harass Gotham’s saviour with your riddles?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe not.”

The Riddler smiles again, tapping his shoulder with his cane—though his smile is a little thin and the spark in his eyes dulls a little as he narrows them. “Then what, do you suppose, is my great secret?”

And that’s when the Joker gets it. He takes in the Riddler’s defensive position, the tension in his shoulders, the potential mischief hiding there in plain sight beneath the green, and it all just clicks.

“I know what it is,” he says. The two men stare at him, Crane a little curious, the Riddler mildly upset—both equally surprised. Really, why hadn’t he thought of it before? “You’re a leprechaun.”

Crane gives him a weird look. The Riddler opens his own mouth to protest but closes it again almost immediately. He’s frowning in the kind of way that he can’t tell whether the Joker’s being serious or not.

“Oh, come on,” the Joker sighs, rolling his eyes, “If not for those things you keep leaving everywhere—”

“—riddles,” Crane supplies.

“—then the media would’ve labelled you Patrick O’Danger or...or something stupid like that. You cause mischief for no apparent reason, you wear green all the time, you’re short—”

“—I’m not that short,” he protests.

“—and you’ve got a hat. Add a shamrock to it and you’ll complete the look.”

“That’s a rather crude observation.”

“Well, do you like Lucky Charms?”

“No,” the man mutters, “And that isn’t the answer. I—”

The man is cut short by the incessant beeping noise on his left wrist. He pulls up the sleeve of his suit-jacket to glance at his watch and curses under his breath.

“You have a bomb?” The Joker asks hopefully.

“No. Batman’s going to be here soon.”

One of Crane’s eyebrows arches ever so slightly, clearly interested by the man’s answer. “You recorded the amount of time it takes the Batman to react to one of your riddles?”

“Not exactly,” the man admits solemnly. “He’s improved quite a bit since the last few heists...”

“Even so...”

The Riddler stares at the floor for a moment, mind wandering a thousand miles a minute as he brushes past the Joker and heads toward a beside the doors. The Joker almost does a double take when he spots the Polaroid Land Camera sitting there. But those things are old...older than the kid. 1970s maybe?

“Your family couldn’t afford to buy a new one?” the Joker inquires as the kid unfolds the collapsible model and strolls on over to one of the paintings.

“I need the photo tonight,” he explains as he raises the camera to his eye and takes a snap at the seaside picture, “It would be rude to leave that woman with nothing to show her guests...”

“You actually like this painting?” Crane asks, stepping up beside the boy.

“It’s alright, I suppose.” The Riddler lowers the camera and takes the photo from its mouth. Bending down to place the Polaroid on the floor, he straightens again and reaches into his pocket for a black marker. “The Batman will find it if he figures out the next clue.”

He writes something on the back of the photo. A bunch of numbers. Joker catches a couple of 3s and a 5 as he steps up behind him but by then the Riddler’s done. The kid pauses to put the photo on the ground before reaching up to grab the original and it’s then that the Joker realizes the Riddler has purple gloves.

...He had purple gloves once...

“Then why this gallery?” Crane presses.

“The artist is French.”

Ah...

As if that makes any sense.

But it probably does to the Bat. The kid’s last riddle could’ve said anything, really—the Batman still would’ve been able to solve it.

“Which reminds me...” the Riddle turns to face Crane, glancing briefly at the Joker before returning his attention to the doctor, “...what is it that interests you about me? You already know I don’t kill or steal—I’m really no use to you or your companion.”

The Joker smiles; the Riddler catches it in the corner of his eye. “We’re here to save you, of course!”

“...From what?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Yourself.”

It’s then that the lights flicker. They flicker again before failing, leaving the emergency lights for clarity—and he knows it’s the Bat. The guy is just so damn obsessed with spooking his prey before gliding in for the attack that if it isn’t him the Joker’s willing to quit wearing face make-up for at least a year.

Glass shatters out in the hall somewhere close to the doors.

The Bat is going to kick it in any minute now.

The Riddler tucks the painting under his left arm and lifts his cane, walking over to the door as if there isn’t some deranged man dressed as a flying rodent waiting for him on the other side.

“I take it you have a plan?” Crane asks in obvious amusement. He and the doctor keep up behind the kid, both equally curious as to how he plans on evading Gotham’s hero.

“Something of the like...” the Riddler murmurs as he aims the bottom of his cane at his destination. The Joker’s expecting more gas bullets but he finds something a little more interesting instead.

A dart of some sort or another is ejected from the cane, hitting the door with an audible thud before exploding.

See!

He knew the kid would enjoy explosives.

It isn’t just some toy either. The twin doors and half of the wall are blown to kingdom come, splinters raining down on them as they press forward through the cloud of dust. Someone shouts out in the hall, covered by the brunt of the destruction, and the Riddler steps over and around it as though he’s done this a thousand times before.

“You have a car?” The Riddler asks over his shoulder as Crane and the Joker skip over the debris after him. A chunk of the door is knocked aside just then, a sure sign that the Batman won’t be down for long. The explosion might’ve shocked him a bit but the Joker’s seen him endure worse in the past.

Damn, if this isn’t exciting.

“...We do,” Crane admits quietly, eyes focused briefly on their nemesis before he follows the kid into the stairwell. “Were you expecting us?”

“It occurred to me that you might show up but I was really hoping I would be gone before Gotham’s Knight arrived. I’m not exactly a fan of running.”

“I am,” the Joker giggles, skipping the stairs by twos as they dash down to the ground. The Riddler glances at him strangely for a moment but tries to ignore him for the most part. The kid’s smart. He knows something up.

When they burst out into the alleyway, the Riddler’s eyes fall on their beat-up car before he glances the other way down into the darkness.

“Are you coming?” Crane asks, though he says it with an air of sarcasm. “I think we need to have a little heart to heart.”

The Riddler doesn’t even look at him as he takes a step in the other direction. “No...I think I better not.”

He’s obviously startled when the Joker reaches out to grab him by the wrist. The Riddler almost drops his cane. He spins around to glare at the man, that perceptive look of his returning to his eyes, and the Joker just can’t help but smile when the kid says, “I don’t need saving.”

Denial.

Honestly, people these days...

“Oh, you need it more than you know, kid.”

And he does.

Everyone thinks they’re fine before the fall...

[Next chapter:( Chapter five )]

A/N: Ack—I know! I hope they still sound in character. If not, please feel free to throw me in a burlap sack and beat me back to sense. I’m sorry (ducks for cover).

...Anyway, the Joker’s comment about the Riddler and his subtle inability to lie is from the comics. That’s why he leaves riddles—he just can’t do something without leaving a hint that will unveil the mystery of why he does what he does. I’ll tell you more about it as the story progresses...

In the Eye of the Hurricane - C3

2009-02-18T06:31:40Z

Title: In the Eye of the Hurricane – Chapter three
Characters: Joker, Scarecrow/Crane and the Riddler. Batman will be mentioned (and will make appearances) as the story progresses, though he isn’t the focus of the story.
Rating: Pg-17 (if such a thing exists)
Timeframe: follows after the second movie
Warnings: violence, obvious insanity and the death of innocent (or not-so-innocent) bystanders...after all, this is about the Joker...
Disclaimer: I’m not making a profit off of this—nor do I have the desire to either. I’m just playing in someone else’s sandbox.
Summary: It’s true what they say. Sanity can only last so long...
First chapter: (Chapter one) –all chapters are connected.

Apparently, you’re supposed to stop at a red light.

The Joker shrugs it off as a learning experience but Crane is somewhat miffed when a police cruiser pulls in behind them after the third intersection. It’s fairly late, traffic’s non-existent and there’s a remarkable lack of people on the streets. They’re all gone. Somewhere. Maybe the Riddler has them scared stiff—what, with his ‘death and destruction’ and all...

Yeah right.

Something’s up.

“Hey, Chuckles, we’re going to make a quick pit stop.”

Crane stares at him through the reflection of the rear-view mirror and it takes only a moment for the message to sink. He glances quickly over his shoulder at the cop in pursuit and has all of ten seconds to scramble into the front passenger seat before the Joker slams on the breaks.

The back glass shatters. Something went flying when they made contact and he’s betting that’s why Crane moved to the front. They skid through the fourth intersection, police cruiser pressed into them like a crushed soda can, before rolling to a sickly halt—all sparks and screeching metal. That’s why he likes some of these old rusty cars. Good frame. Tough enough to kill a moose.

Crane’s airbag deployed. His didn’t. He pats the dashboard affectionately before shouldering his door open, taking a moment to smooth down his straightjacket as he steps over to the cruiser. It’s then that he spots the other car behind it. Bent the cruiser all to hell. Looks like a scene from a cool action movie.

The cop looks a little...worse for wear, all bloody and whatnot, but the guy behind him looks much better. The man shoves open his door and stumbles out onto wobbly feet, makes a move to see if the cop’s alright before he spots the Joker and hightails out of there instead.

“I take it we interrupted his game.”

The Joker licks his lips; watches the man run toward the sidewalk before darting around the corner. “I think GPD needs to, uh, lighten up a little. The more, the merrier, you know?”

Because it really is a no-brainer—the Bat solved a riddle, told the commissioner where to expect the next attack and good old Gordon sent his toy soldiers to block all the exits. That explains the cruiser, the stray driver and the lack of all other life forms. But what could it hurt to have a few extra players? The Joker’s betting he could solve the riddles too if the anchorman bothered to broadcast a couple of them.

“He’s fairly confident in himself to be leaving so many clues,” Crane wonders aloud, the doctor inside him just vocalizing old thoughts, “unless, of course, there’s something else compelling him...”

Maybe. Maybe not. The Joker has to admit—he likes a guy with an air of mystery. It’s not as challenging when you know how to read them.

Then he sees a young couple.

A guy and his gal, a petite blonde leaning heavily against his lean frame. He’s laughing quietly about some joke and she’s snickering, obviously intoxicated. The young man has his arm around her shoulders, leading her to a bench by the nearest bus stop, acting the part of the perfect gentleman...

It helps that he’s wearing the green.

“That,” he says, making sure to put emphasis on the word as he points at the man in question, “That there is unfair.”

Crane frowns curiously, “How so?”

“I’ve been here longer. How did he get a side-chick before me?”

“She’s intoxicated.”

“Same difference.”

Crane pauses, contemplating his argument. Then nods. He waits for the Joker to lead the way as the Riddler sits the woman down on the bench next to him, trying to help her keep her head up. He’s a good looking young fellow, someone that probably could’ve made it far in the world if not for his obvious urge to play do-or-dare with the authorities (and their psycho pet rodent). It wouldn’t be difficult for him to get a little cooperation from a horribly misguided lady.

“This is for him,” the young man says, taking a folded piece of paper and placing it in the palm of her right hand. He has a walking cane, which he sets down beside her as he closes her fingers around the note. “He’ll need it for the next riddle.”

“ ’kay, hon...”

He smiles kindly at her, leans back and stretches his arms out to rest his elbows on the back of the bench. Crossing his legs, he tilts his head slightly forward to scrutinize the pair approaching him from under the shade of his green hat. “Let’s start with something simple, shall we?”

“Go ahead,” Crane replies.

“ ‘Alive without breath, as cold as death; never thirsty, ever drinking; all in mail never clinking.’ What am I?”

“Is it considered cheating if I already know the answer to this one?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he sighs, “The internet makes just about everything easily accessible.”

“A fish.”

The Riddler sighs again, taking his elbows off the bench to grab his cane. It has a black wood shaft and a gold cap. A gentleman’s cane. “Scarecrow and Joker...what a surprise.”

“Really?” the Joker asks as he rolls up the sleeves of his straightjacket and takes a seat on the other side of the Riddler, “And here I was hoping to awe you with my presence...”

“I’m speechless, really, but some things are just inevitable. From what I’ve heard, you’ve escaped the police several times before in the past.”

“My, my, word does get around...”

“You’re a native to Gotham, I take it?” Crane asks, weeding out whatever information he can. It always helps to get a little background on the guy you plan on rehabilitating.

The Riddler senses this. But he smirks (just a little) and answers anyway. “I am, but I was away when the Batman introduced himself to Gotham City...”

The Joker leans over and pats him on the knee amicably, “You know, it never hurts to make a new friend. Which makes me wonder, sweetheart, how did you happen to meet the Bat...?”

“How else? I broke into a bank.”

The word ‘broke’ sets off the alarm bells inside his head. It’s a clue. It’s a good one.

The Riddler’s really not a big bad wolf.

Not yet, anyway.

Crane smiles, “And you didn’t rob it because...?”

“Because it’d be a waste of time and resources—you, on the other hand, would do it just to get a reaction out of everyone. Wouldn’t you?” The Riddler lifts the end of his cane and stares at the gold cap. It’s then that the Joker notices the small question mark engraved on it. “Besides...if I was ever compelled to steal anything, I think, maybe, it would be art...”

Crane opens his mouth to ask another questions but he’s cut short by an ominous roar in the distance. That, the Joker supposes, is the Bat-automobile...Bat-o-bile...Bat-mo-bile...

He likes that last one the best.

The Joker stretches, half tempted to just sit there and wait for the man in black, but they have places to go and the cops are going to get restless soon. The Joker knows they’re watching, the chick probably being the only one that doesn’t know about them yet. They’re lurking in the alleyways, like rats...

They’re greedy.

Why catch three villains when you can wait five minutes and get the supposedly tainted vigilante as well?

“As much as I enjoy a challenge, I’m afraid I’m something of a featherweight in the Batman’s category,” the Riddler murmurs quietly, lifting the other end of his cane to aim at the nearest stoplight, “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I need to finish the preparations for tomorrow’s heist.”

He presses down on the gold cap and there’s a swift whistling noise before the stoplight bursts, sparks raining down onto the crushed vehicles below. One of the sparks ignites something in the light and blue smoke rises from the ruins.

Gas bullets.

Nifty.

“Can I get your number?” The Joker asks, laying the humour on a little thick as the Riddler stands, cane in hand, straightening his jacket, “I must see you again, darling.”

“No, but I’m pretty sure you’re more than capable of finding me on your own within the next couple of days. And if not—” he tips his hat first to him and then to Crane before taking a step down the street, away from the dark cloud descending upon them and into the madness of the night, “—then it’s goodnight, gentlemen!”

He has to appreciate a man with class but he really doesn’t have the time to sit around and ponder the Riddler’s true intentions. He’s not evil in the heavier sense of the word. No. Not at all. Deviant, perhaps, but the poor misguided boy is walking the finer line toward landing himself in a mental institution, one that might actually cure him. It’s a line the Joker looks forward to shoving him off of. Gotham doesn’t need any more lost souls. It needs men with knives and explosives—and if the cane is anything to judge by, then the kid just might find himself enjoying the simpler pleasures provided by good old fashioned detonators.

The intersection is flooded with the Riddler’s smoke, twin lights breaking through the darkness to illuminate the bench.

That would be the Bat.

The Joker laughs. He jumps to his feet and grabs Crane by the wrist before darting off in the Riddler’s direction. They can hear the Batman as his wha-cha-ma-call-it opens up and spits him out; hear him glide through the darkness to find the moaning girl. That’s when the cops jump into action, lights flashing and sirens whining as they rush in to catch at least someone in the madness. They’re a little too late for that now.

He plans on paying the Batman a visit but that can wait. Later. Just as soon as he and Crane complete their trio.

The Riddler’s got something more than just a bat waiting for him in the wings.

And the Joker really does love his surprises...

[Next chapter:( Chapter four )]

A/N: Just on a side note, my mom nearly hit a moose once. You don’t want to hit a moose. Your car (and you) will suffer dearly and the moose will walk away...

As for the Riddler’s ‘riddle’, it was taken from the ‘batbad’ website (just google “riddler” and “batbad” together and it’ll be the first site that pops up). I’m pretty sure the riddle can be found on several websites but that just happens to be where I discovered it.

Alright, thanks for putting up with my third chapter. If there’s anything that needs changing, just throw me a stone, and I’m sorry if I seem to be interpreting the Riddler a little weird. In the comics, he wasn’t as ‘bad’ as the other villains. Don’t get me wrong—he`s a villain, alright. But that’s because he let things get a little out of hand...