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Chuck’s had a small digital camera most of his life, always liked staying on the sidelines and snapping shots in the Dome as a kid. The techs and crews became his family, and he loved the act of flipping through the physical photographs, getting to relive the moments he’d frozen in the squares resting in his palms.
He was never very good at it, just wide shots of all the action, blurry closeups from his vantage point on the floor, all tucked away in a box in the corner of his quarters. There was never any time to worry about learning the craft, and no energy left for perfecting something new.
Now the Breach is closed and Chuck’s left with more time than he knows what to do with. While he was in the hospital, biding his time until his wounds healed enough for full-mobility, whiling away the hours, he has Herc order him a book or two. Devouring them is what keeps Chuck from lashing out in frustration at his own incompetency, laid up in a bed in a quiet corner of the Dome.
Once his wounds have healed and life is returning to some semblance of normal, Chuck orders a shiny new DSLR and pilfers a copy of Creative Suite from the supply stores in the old marketing office. Herc buys his son an upgraded zoom lens as an early birthday gift, and suddenly Chuck can’t keep the camera out of his hands.
No one’s safe from the observant gaze of Chuck’s camera. In his room, shots are tacked up of Max with his head on his paws and Tendo gesticulating wildly with a coffee stir stick, Mako laughing at one of Raleigh’s terrible jokes, Herc stoic in his dress blues as he speaks to another representative from the UN. When he sees the photo of Stacker glaring at him, long middle finger protruding from the wrapping of his bandaged hand, fighting to keep a smile off his face that matches the one on Chuck’s. It’s his life, taped to a metal wall.
Lining the collage on one side is a column of black and white photobooth-style shots, showcasing different lighting techniques. They’re all of a single subject, the handsome planes of his face highlighted by the stark contrast of the monochrome printing.
Chuck can’t help the soft exhalation when he gets to that section of his wall, curls his fist to keep from touching the edges of glossy paper.
Yancy is Chuck’s favorite model. He’s the only one willing to sit while Chuck tinkers with his reflectors and backdrops, adjusts the light just so, who humors the curses and muttered insults to Chuck’s equipment with quiet smiles. He doesn’t even have to pose for Chuck, just has to look in the direction of the camera while Chuck depresses the shutter. He really shouldn’t judge the quality of his skill on the photos of Yancy, because the man would look like a model, no matter the angle or the lighting. (Chuck knows, because even shot from beneath in low lighting, Yancy still looks like a god.)
The door creaks open behind Chuck and heavy footsteps stop just shy of where he’s standing.
"Still mooning over your wall of victory?"
Chuck can’t stop the arrogant smirk from spreading across his face. “Put it that way, not a photo on Earth that wouldn’t be at home here.”
Yancy loops an arm around Chuck’s neck, tugs him back so he can rest his chin on Chuck’s shoulder. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re cute when you get cocky?”
"Nah, usually too busy cussing me out." He turns his head, catches Yancy’s profile in his peripheral vision. "Wanna be my first?"
The shout of Yancy’s laughter echoes off the walls. “Little late for that, I think.”
"Aww, don’t get bent out of shape, Becket, was just saving the best for last."
"When you put it that way." Yancy pulls Chuck across to the bed, lowers himself onto the mattress. His movements along his right side are still stiff, even five years later, but Yancy moves about the Dome just fine. "Wanted to talk to you about something."
Chuck’s shoulders tighten a little and he can feel his jaw go rigid, an automatic defense mechanism he can’t help, steeling himself against possible bad news. “Kay.”
"Relax Chuck. Nothing to get worked up about." Yancy’s fingers curl into the knotted muscles and his voice is low, soothing. Chuck hates himself a little for how easily he bends to Yancy’s manipulations, how easy he is for Yancy in general. Chuck’s leaning into the kneading touch before he catches himself, jerks back.
"So?"
Yancy reaches back, pulls something from his pocket. Unfolding the sheet of paper, he hands it over to Chuck, who has to read it twice before looking up at Yancy in disbelief.
"New York?"
"Thought you could use a change of scenery, Shutterfly. Lots of good shots in the big apple. What do you say?"
Chuck’s not good with expressing gratitude, or verbalizing much of anything that doesn’t involve sarcasm or frustration. It’s just, it’s really fucking thoughtful and something Chuck would never think to organize for himself. Knowing Yancy, he’s already lined up people to walk and feed Max when Herc can’t, people to check on his father to make sure the old man eats regularly, has hotels and schedules already sorted. So Chuck just nods, and Yancy’s smile widens and he pats Chuck on the thigh.
"Then get packing, we’re leaving tomorrow."
—
The flights are too bloody long, the jetlag is a beast, and they have to switch floors twice because the requests of both non-smoking and king size bed are apparently too difficult to accommodate in a single room.
But then Chuck can’t stop snapping photos, Yancy was right, there’s so much to see. And the third night, when Chuck’s reviewing the day’s pictures, relaying the details of why he took each one, he sees that smile again on Yancy’s face, not bored or simply tolerant, but really interested in what he’s saying. It hits him like a ton of bricks, just how much Chuck loves him.
Of course, the shot of Yancy’s face, lit by the late afternoon sun, with the city spread out behind him - that doesn’t hurt.