Entry tags:

007 works at starbucks, fiction

a leader always carries a stick
title// a leader always carries a stick
rating// nc-17
fandom// chuck
pairing// bryce larkin/chuck bartowski
word count// 1125
warning// spy au

kick at the rock, sam johnson, break your bones: but cloudy, cloudy is the stuff of stones.
--richard wilbur

.i//

For their two-year anniversary, they're sent to Barcelona. Black tar heroine, colored balloons found in children's stomachs, children found boated on the American side of the border.

They mix business and pleasure.

Ten million dollars in a briefcase, knives strapped to their thighs. Black Dior suits and a cherry red Maserati. Chuck plays the bodyguard, Bryce the dealer. They fall into their roles easily, fluid.

Gunfire and blood, a surprise blade. Knives at a gunfight.

Only minor personal injuries for them, the Indeigo cartel, dead. Within minutes, the cleanup crew arrives. They peel away in their car, drive it to the poorest neighborhood in the country, leave the keys in the ignition and walk away.

--

Bryce lounges on the hotel bed, sips mini-bar rum in a plastic cup, sharpens his throwing knives.

He hears the shower run, didn't hear Chuck arrive—isn't supposed to.

He tosses his knives over the bed, settles in. Thinks about Chuck's in the shower, thinks about joining him. Thinks about fucking him against the marble vanity, about Chuck's face pressed against the mirror.

Bryce feels his cock stir, a tightening in his pelvis. He reaches down, cups himself, squeezes. Sex spikes in his bloodstream.

He slides his hand into his pants, pictures Chuck on his knees. Full lips around his head, hands on his thighs, hair tickling his stomach. He moans, licks his lips, arches into his palm.

The bed dips, a comforting weight straddles his waist, legs tight around Bryce's torso.

Water drips on his chest, strong fingers squeeze his wrist; pull his hand loose from his pants, pins it to the bed.

"Decorum, Larkin." Chuck's voice is light, his hand heavy as it snakes under fabric, wraps around Bryce's straining dick, holds.

Bryce grins.


.//ii

The first person Bryce ever kills is a thirty-two year old Cambodian woman.

Her file says she's a poisons expert, that she's directly responsible for over twenty political assassinations in the region. CIA intel reveals she's creating a toxin in aerosol format, chemical warfare.

Bryce has her cornered, begging, puts a bullet between her eyes. He feels nothing but the stab wound in his shoulder.

There's the low hum of a cooling motor, a jeep. There's a grunt and the sick sound of flesh yielding to metal. Bryce exits her house, sees an NSA standard issue jeep. Sees the NSA sent an agent.

When Bryce approaches, he winces.

Major Bartowski's lounges in the driver's seat, cigar clenched between his teeth. There's blood dotted against his cheek. Cast off. There's a body by the door, limp, pool of blood haloing around his head.

"Got her research?" his voice hard, cool. Trained.

"Ya." Bryce hops in, ignores the drop in his stomach. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Bartowski nods once, guns the engine.

If he notices how Bryce's hands shake, he mentions nothing.


.//iii

Post mission debrief, radiological alarms blare.

They're thrown in the showers, scrubbed with stinging chemicals, left in a decontaminated room to wait out their blood tests.

Bryce enjoys the sight before him.

Tanned chest, thickly muscled, lean. Towel wrapped around narrow hips, a bandage snugly plastered against his belly.

Chuck paces, irritated. Bryce reclines on the cot, licks his lips.

"Sit down, Bartowski."

"I fucking hate waiting." Fingers through his closely cropped hair, winces when he pulls the bandage.

Bryce beacons him over.

The gauze is tinted red, smells like antiseptic and copper. The gash on his stomach isn't healing properly. Chuck could perform surgery with a .45, but never was much of a medic. Hands too clumsy to stitch himself up properly.

Bryce thumbs the loose tape, gently peels back the bandage. It's a mangled mess of an injury. Machete, deep. Chuck passed out twice sewing it shut. The stitches are tight—thick—but still bleed around the edges. There'll be a scar.

"What's the prognosis, doctor?" Chuck's voice is wet, heated against Bryce's ear. Bryce drags his fingers under the towel, squeezes, dances along Chuck's shaft.

Chuck's teeth nip at the stretch of skin under his jaw, tongue grazing. A move Bryce watched him use against an arms dealer in Belgium before sliding a knife in his gut.

A move Bryce taught him.

"You'll live." Bryce fists Chuck's towel, damp and warm.

Chuck snorts. "But will we?"

Bryce distracts. Fingers brush smooth skin, dip below the waist. Chuck's breathing deepens, his lips part. Hooded eyes. It's easy to push the fabric away, easier to wrap his fingers and tug; to have Chuck sprawled across his chest, tongue swirling in his mouth.

They bend differently. Bryce limber from years of training, Chuck stiffer, body too long to be graceful.

They find a way to move together. They always have.


.//iv

His arms are bound. Broad straps, leather. Stubble thick on his cheeks. Eyes heavy, fuzzy. His mouth tastes of tin, like the remnants of sedative.

The room he's in is white. CIA, definitely, starched, scrubbed with bleach. Bryce recognizes it. Remembers the blood that's been scrapped off these walls.

Interrogation.

There's an elevator outside the door. He hears the gears as it opens, the collapsing of the doors as it descends. The echoes of footsteps, Italian made shoes, a solid gait—a man.

Bryce knows this is his interrogator. The CIA would send their best.

The door opens after a ten-digit code is entered. Retinal scans. Voice identification. His pulse jumps when the door is closed. When the interrogator pauses behind him.

Bryce's smile is strained. "They sent you."

"So it would appear."

Bryce laughs, bitter and infuriated. Standard CIA interrogation procedures. Remain at a distance. Offer short responses. Keep an even tone. When all else fails, torture is permitted. Encouraged.

The shuffle of Italian shoes moves closer; a chair dragged forward, a briefcase set down. Bryce knows sixty different ways of making him talk are contained in that case.

He knows none will be as effective as the disappointment in his captor's voice.

He expects violence. Anticipates disgust. Instead, a hand descends on his head, light, intimate. Fingers reflexively twist through his hair. Suppressed regret.

Chuck Bartowski hovers before him, frown on his face.

"Why'd you do it, Bryce?" Voice soft, hurt—angry and betrayed.

Bryce laughs; fear tightens in his gut. He's seen Chuck's work, seen the bodies. Buried those bodies.

"The money."

Chuck twitches, mouth a tight line. "Who has the Intersect?"

"You know I can't tell you that." The snaps unhook.

"Who has the Intersect, Bryce?"

He laughs.