First Place
Morgan had once described Bryce Larkin as the Fett to his Solo. An apt description, except in the end Solo gets the girl and Fett gets eaten by a Sarlacc. Chuck, on the other hand, seemed destined to always come in second to Bryce Larkin; especially when it came to fantastic, amazing, beautiful girls.
It almost surprised Chuck that he was surprised. Of course Bryce would be there just as he finally gets the courage to try and win Sarah’s heart again. Just because Roan is a spy legend and established playboy didn’t mean he knew everything about women. Such as, when given a choice, they always choose Bryce over Chuck. It didn’t matter whether or not Sarah liked him; she always would like Bryce more. Just like Jill.
Chuck decides to do the only prudent thing to do when faced with such a situation: he gets plastered. With one bottle of wine down and another two waiting in the wings he remembers a cardinal drinking rule. Alcohol is always better with people. Or a person, he could make do with a person. But even in his inebriated state he vaguely remembers that Morgan is having an evening in with Anna, Ellie is out of town at a conference with Awesome, and drunk-dialing is a stupid idea. Good thing he’s stock full of brilliant ideas, or so he thinks.
He continues to think so as he stumbles across the courtyard, shins hitting the edge of the fountain. Finally making it to Casey’s apartment he reaches up too knock on the door just as it opens. Overbalancing he stumbles inside, falling in the entryway in a gangly heap.
“Wha…”
“I saw you coming on the surveillance camera I set up. Idiot.”
Frowning slightly, his brow furrowed. “Mm not a idot,” he slurred, “Mm billiant.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re getting drunk on a weekday. Sounds completely brilliant to me.” Casey slammed the door shut before striding into his living room to put away the guns he was cleaning. He knew from long experience: Guns + Drunk People = Bad Idea. Chuck stumbled in after him.
“Where are your glasses? You’re getting drunk too,” he slurred, shaking the bottle of wine clutched in his right hand.
“No, I’m not. I am staying perfectly sober so I can make sure you don’t do anything stupid to compromise the government secrets swimming around your head Intersect.”
Chuck frowned, and for a moment Casey though he was going to argue with him. What came out instead was choked sentence, as if the words where trying to strangle Chuck as they worked their way up his throat and out his mouth.
“Is that all I am to you Casey? A, a computer?”
Casey regarded Chuck for a moment, weighing his answer. He knew the right one. Yes, Yes, and a thousand times Yes. He was a trained assassin for the NSA; he couldn’t afford to get close to Chuck. ‘The asset’ he mentally corrected himself. He couldn’t afford to get close to the asset. The very drunk asset standing in the middle of his living room with horribly disheveled clothes, clutching a bottle of wine and looking like he’d just found out his goddamn puppy had gotten run over. No, not run over, murdered by a puppy serial killer who brutally tortured his victims before gutting them with a rusty scythe.
Casey sighed.
“You occasionally are of some minor use other than flashing on things and keeping the backseat of the car warm,” he bit out.
If anything Chuck looked even more despondent.
“But I’m not nearly as useful as Bryce Larkin. Or as cool. At least Sarah doesn’t think so.”
“Bryce Larkin is an insufferable showoff,” Casey growled, “who should be dead right now.”
Chuck grinned at that. He always imagined Casey took it as a personal affront that Bryce was alive after Casey killed him.
“So you’d rather have me on a mission than Bryce?”
“At least you provide useful information about computers and security cameras. Now sit down, you’re stupid swaying is making me dizzy.”
Chuck grinned even wider, sprawling out in the couch and setting the wine-bottle on the table with a clunk.
“You like me more than Bryce Larkin.”
“Hard not to,” Casey said harshly, “Larkin is annoying as hell.” He bit his lip as Chuck snuggled down into his couch cushions, resisting the urge to add on ‘and you’re oddly charming and rather adorable when you’re not speaking.’
The next day Chuck woke up with a massive headache and sore muscles from passing out on Casey’s couch; but he smelled coffee percolating in the kitchen and he decided he couldn’t be happier. Casey liked him more than Bryce Larkin. Sure Bryce got him kicked out of Stanford, stole his girl, sent him the Intersect (thus guaranteeing him a life of constant fear and anxiety), and crushed any chances he had with Sarah into the dust; but Casey liked him more. Casey wasn’t as curvy as Sarah but he saved Chuck’s life more often than Chuck could count, and Chuck couldn’t help but appreciate that. Long blonde hair is sexy, but in the end he’d rather have someone who wouldn’t hesitate to hurl a microwave at a potential murderer’s head. At his potential murderer’s head.
‘I finally did it,” he though contentedly, “I came in first.”