ndnickerson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ndnickerson) wrote2009-03-03 07:43 pm
ndnickerson) wrote2009-03-03 07:43 pm
15 step, 2/? (chuck, chuck/sarah, r)
Title: 15 Step
Part: 2. fed to lions
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ndnickerson
Pairing/Characters: Chuck/Sarah
Series: Chuck
Word Count: 1288
Rating: R
Summary: Chuck suggests an evening of cover maintenance.
Spoilers: General through mid-Season 2.
Warnings: Adult situations.
The lights come back on at 2 a.m. The lack of air conditioning, the stillness after the storm has left the apartment stifling-hot. Anna is on the couch, cuddled up to Morgan, her stilettos and stockings folded carefully on the floor. The coffee table is covered in empty cartons of ice cream, assorted dice and playing cards, half-finished mudslides. Chuck's on his back, head propped on a purloined couch cushion, with Sarah snuggled into his side, stripped down to his undershirt and boxers in the heat.
Her face is flushed, her hair working itself loose from the knot at the nape of her neck. "Hey, Sarah," he breathes, voice thick and rough, muddled with sleep, his finger glancing over her cheek. He almost groans in relief when the air kicks back on.
The room is in shambles. Morgan claimed the soon-to-be-melted ice for a grape-soda binge, then crashed from the sugar high, leaving Anna to sigh and nestle into his side. Ellie had been called in after the dark traffic signals had caused yet another wreck. The flashlights had burned through their batteries, the candles had melted to pools of wax. Sarah had talked about a little sister as she moved her pawn around the board, smiling up into Awesome's trusting gaze, and Chuck had been momentarily fooled, until he remembered.
Not everything was lies. Just most things.
The deadbolt clicks back and for a heart-stopping second Chuck thinks it's Casey; Sarah tenses and has somehow gone from zero to seventy, blue eyes open, narrowed. In a flash she has an empty winebottle in her hand, poised and ready to spring if whatever's behind that door is a threat to him.
Then Ellie walks in and Sarah collapses back to him so fast that Chuck lets out a startled "Ooof."
"Everything okay?"
Ellie waves her hand in a meaningless gesture, brow furrowing as she sees the open bottles, the stack of pizza boxes, the marbles and dice and cards that had fluttered from the flashlight halos into the outer darkness. "Ugh," she mutters in disgust, dumping her purse into the armchair, and plods toward her bedroom, leaving the lights on.
"Hey."
"Hey," Sarah murmurs back, letting the winebottle go.
They take turns brushing their teeth, although Chuck has to grip the counter to keep it from moving. He follows Sarah unsteadily to his bedroom; the humidity hangs in the hot air, so he lies on top of the sheet in his boxers and undershirt.
"Did we drink an entire bottle of rum?" she moans from her side of the bed, raking her hair back.
He doesn't open his eyes. "One and a half," he says, rubbing his forehead.
"If I'm staying over, I need to be wearing one of your shirts."
He points, eyes still closed. "Second drawer."
She rolls over and pokes him in the ribs. "Come on, honey," she says, a little too sweetly.
Chuck slides away from her. "Do that again and the results will be unpleasant."
"How unpleasant?"
"Like," he begins, but thinking about it is too much. He makes it to the bathroom just in time.
When she follows him in, he glares up at her. She's changed into his redshirt tee with the metallic communicator badge, the fabric molded to her breasts, the hem above her black lace panties. Hands on her hips. He can't stop staring at that inch of bare skin, the curve of her.
"Come on," she says, and only then do his eyes flick up to her face, and the momentary euphoria is replaced by nausea. "Take a shower. It'll help. Where do you keep the aspirin?" She's already looking through drawers.
"Medicine cabinet," he mumbles. She makes a face at the options, but she deftly uncaps the extra-strength, offers him two.
"I'll get a cup."
Chuck grabs her arm, offering her Ellie's spare bathrobe. "You, do not, want Morgan to wake up and see you in that," he points out.
She half-smiles. "Good point."
He manages to close himself in the shower stall before she returns. Through the rippled blur of the glass he watches her run her fingers through her hair, watches her try to hide the fact that she's watching him, one hand holding Ellie's robe closed over that shirt, the fabric so tight it seems painted on. After five minutes his head is pounding, his throat is parched, and he's still so drunk that opening the shower stall seems like a good idea.
Her glance is so quick that he doesn't see it, but the blush that creeps up in her cheeks is slow enough to catch.
In his room the air is finally cold enough to make the hair on his arms rise in gooseflesh. She slides her hands up under her shirt and pulls her bra off, and he flips off the light, downing half the bottle in nervous gulps as she saunters, there is no other word for it, to her side of the bed.
"Sarah?"
"Hmm?"
He spoons up behind her, breath brushing the back of her neck, and she trembles, and that response, at least, she couldn't have faked.
"You're never the redshirt. I'm the redshirt."
He teases it up her side, sliding his hand underneath when he meets resistance, and she doesn't answer in anything more than soft, muted gasps. She's the one who ends up tugging the shirt over her head, flinging it to the carpet, and he watches her, half-believing that there's no way this is real.
"I'm always the sacrifice."
She says it quietly, so matter-of-fact that he wraps his arms around her and pulls her tight to him.
"It shouldn't be that way."
She leads his hand to her breast, without answering, and this is just more of their false history, something else he'll never truly have.
Even so, as he slides his hand between her legs and finds her slick, curves his fingers and caresses her until she muffles her cries in his pillow, she doesn't stop him. When she comes he slides his thumb up to rub her clit and she groans and rolls onto her belly, trapping his hand under her.
"Tell me," he whispers, half-pinning her under his weight, face buried in her hair, distantly aware that at any moment she's going to tire of this game and fling him bodily across the room, but she hasn't yet. "Let me."
She stops, and he stops, her breath coming in gasps as he feels her pulse against him again. When she draws her knees up he pulls back, suddenly ashamed, afraid of what he'll see on her face.
"Don't you see," she says into the pillow, arms clasped tight around her, voice wavering. "Always, Chuck."
The sacrifice.
He wants to argue with her, to beg her to just talk to him, but she turns on her side and won't look at him. She leans over for the shirt and slides it back on, shivering in the thin fabric.
In the morning she blames her bloodshot eyes on a hangover he knows she doesn't have, leaving him with a kiss on the cheek, not meeting his eyes, and he wants to say it, wants to tell her he didn't realize, he couldn't have known. Morgan and Anna are stirring on the couch, Ellie's smiling at something Awesome is whispering in her ear, and Sarah seems somehow transparent and bruised, her arms wrapped tight around her waist, slipping out while wearing a watery smile that shouldn't have fooled anyone, could never have fooled him.
He goes back to bed and hates himself for ever falling in love with her.
Part: 2. fed to lions
Author:
ndnickersonPairing/Characters: Chuck/Sarah
Series: Chuck
Word Count: 1288
Rating: R
Summary: Chuck suggests an evening of cover maintenance.
Spoilers: General through mid-Season 2.
Warnings: Adult situations.
The lights come back on at 2 a.m. The lack of air conditioning, the stillness after the storm has left the apartment stifling-hot. Anna is on the couch, cuddled up to Morgan, her stilettos and stockings folded carefully on the floor. The coffee table is covered in empty cartons of ice cream, assorted dice and playing cards, half-finished mudslides. Chuck's on his back, head propped on a purloined couch cushion, with Sarah snuggled into his side, stripped down to his undershirt and boxers in the heat.
Her face is flushed, her hair working itself loose from the knot at the nape of her neck. "Hey, Sarah," he breathes, voice thick and rough, muddled with sleep, his finger glancing over her cheek. He almost groans in relief when the air kicks back on.
The room is in shambles. Morgan claimed the soon-to-be-melted ice for a grape-soda binge, then crashed from the sugar high, leaving Anna to sigh and nestle into his side. Ellie had been called in after the dark traffic signals had caused yet another wreck. The flashlights had burned through their batteries, the candles had melted to pools of wax. Sarah had talked about a little sister as she moved her pawn around the board, smiling up into Awesome's trusting gaze, and Chuck had been momentarily fooled, until he remembered.
Not everything was lies. Just most things.
The deadbolt clicks back and for a heart-stopping second Chuck thinks it's Casey; Sarah tenses and has somehow gone from zero to seventy, blue eyes open, narrowed. In a flash she has an empty winebottle in her hand, poised and ready to spring if whatever's behind that door is a threat to him.
Then Ellie walks in and Sarah collapses back to him so fast that Chuck lets out a startled "Ooof."
"Everything okay?"
Ellie waves her hand in a meaningless gesture, brow furrowing as she sees the open bottles, the stack of pizza boxes, the marbles and dice and cards that had fluttered from the flashlight halos into the outer darkness. "Ugh," she mutters in disgust, dumping her purse into the armchair, and plods toward her bedroom, leaving the lights on.
"Hey."
"Hey," Sarah murmurs back, letting the winebottle go.
They take turns brushing their teeth, although Chuck has to grip the counter to keep it from moving. He follows Sarah unsteadily to his bedroom; the humidity hangs in the hot air, so he lies on top of the sheet in his boxers and undershirt.
"Did we drink an entire bottle of rum?" she moans from her side of the bed, raking her hair back.
He doesn't open his eyes. "One and a half," he says, rubbing his forehead.
"If I'm staying over, I need to be wearing one of your shirts."
He points, eyes still closed. "Second drawer."
She rolls over and pokes him in the ribs. "Come on, honey," she says, a little too sweetly.
Chuck slides away from her. "Do that again and the results will be unpleasant."
"How unpleasant?"
"Like," he begins, but thinking about it is too much. He makes it to the bathroom just in time.
When she follows him in, he glares up at her. She's changed into his redshirt tee with the metallic communicator badge, the fabric molded to her breasts, the hem above her black lace panties. Hands on her hips. He can't stop staring at that inch of bare skin, the curve of her.
"Come on," she says, and only then do his eyes flick up to her face, and the momentary euphoria is replaced by nausea. "Take a shower. It'll help. Where do you keep the aspirin?" She's already looking through drawers.
"Medicine cabinet," he mumbles. She makes a face at the options, but she deftly uncaps the extra-strength, offers him two.
"I'll get a cup."
Chuck grabs her arm, offering her Ellie's spare bathrobe. "You, do not, want Morgan to wake up and see you in that," he points out.
She half-smiles. "Good point."
He manages to close himself in the shower stall before she returns. Through the rippled blur of the glass he watches her run her fingers through her hair, watches her try to hide the fact that she's watching him, one hand holding Ellie's robe closed over that shirt, the fabric so tight it seems painted on. After five minutes his head is pounding, his throat is parched, and he's still so drunk that opening the shower stall seems like a good idea.
Her glance is so quick that he doesn't see it, but the blush that creeps up in her cheeks is slow enough to catch.
In his room the air is finally cold enough to make the hair on his arms rise in gooseflesh. She slides her hands up under her shirt and pulls her bra off, and he flips off the light, downing half the bottle in nervous gulps as she saunters, there is no other word for it, to her side of the bed.
"Sarah?"
"Hmm?"
He spoons up behind her, breath brushing the back of her neck, and she trembles, and that response, at least, she couldn't have faked.
"You're never the redshirt. I'm the redshirt."
He teases it up her side, sliding his hand underneath when he meets resistance, and she doesn't answer in anything more than soft, muted gasps. She's the one who ends up tugging the shirt over her head, flinging it to the carpet, and he watches her, half-believing that there's no way this is real.
"I'm always the sacrifice."
She says it quietly, so matter-of-fact that he wraps his arms around her and pulls her tight to him.
"It shouldn't be that way."
She leads his hand to her breast, without answering, and this is just more of their false history, something else he'll never truly have.
Even so, as he slides his hand between her legs and finds her slick, curves his fingers and caresses her until she muffles her cries in his pillow, she doesn't stop him. When she comes he slides his thumb up to rub her clit and she groans and rolls onto her belly, trapping his hand under her.
"Tell me," he whispers, half-pinning her under his weight, face buried in her hair, distantly aware that at any moment she's going to tire of this game and fling him bodily across the room, but she hasn't yet. "Let me."
She stops, and he stops, her breath coming in gasps as he feels her pulse against him again. When she draws her knees up he pulls back, suddenly ashamed, afraid of what he'll see on her face.
"Don't you see," she says into the pillow, arms clasped tight around her, voice wavering. "Always, Chuck."
The sacrifice.
He wants to argue with her, to beg her to just talk to him, but she turns on her side and won't look at him. She leans over for the shirt and slides it back on, shivering in the thin fabric.
In the morning she blames her bloodshot eyes on a hangover he knows she doesn't have, leaving him with a kiss on the cheek, not meeting his eyes, and he wants to say it, wants to tell her he didn't realize, he couldn't have known. Morgan and Anna are stirring on the couch, Ellie's smiling at something Awesome is whispering in her ear, and Sarah seems somehow transparent and bruised, her arms wrapped tight around her waist, slipping out while wearing a watery smile that shouldn't have fooled anyone, could never have fooled him.
He goes back to bed and hates himself for ever falling in love with her.
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