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Chuck could hear Bryce's voice behind him. Talking and charming the bellboy bringing in their luggage. His laugh falling from his lips as easily as ever - warm and bright and happy, effortlessly selling the two tech nerds in town for business (and a little pleasure) cover.
He should have been with him, making sure his laptop was handled with the reverence such an important piece of technology deserved. And he'd had every intention of doing so when he'd entered the room. Reassure Bryce that he could handle himself and his former college best friend/whatever the heck they were now (rivals turned partners turned those same two nerds coding Zork and cursing college professors) didn't have to worry.
Unfortunately, he was a little… stymied.
The door shut softly, footsteps soft behind him. “I've got a lead on a great place for lunch,” Bryce announced, setting his briefcase on the bed. “Comes highly recommended.”
Chuck managed a grunt of acknowledgement, watching Bryce pull out the scanner. A spy's paranoia to ensure there were no bugs around. Or in Chuck's case, Wednesday night - Casey liked to snoop.
Once again, Chuck wanted to help. They'd cover the room in half the time. But, he was still stymied. Possibly hallucinating, even.
And if he stared long enough, maybe the hallucination would rectify itself and Chuck wouldn't have to-
“Earth to Charles Bartowski,” Bryce called, leaning against the dresser, scanner out of sight. “Do I need to find your reset button, or are you just solving a couple of complex differential math equations while I slum it doing the spy stuff?”
“Dork,” Chuck sighed, all fondness, no sting. Only Bryce could make Chuck feel normal in an abnormal situation. Which made the situation at hand even worse. If it were Casey or Sarah or even Morgan, Chuck could suck it up, deal for the weekend they were booked in for.
Unfortunately, this was perfect, professional, (gorgeous) superspy Bryce Larkin. What Chuck felt comfortable around, safe around, his nineteen year old self around. There'd be no lying ramrod straight and trusting his sleeping body not to move like the traitor it was. Not this week. Not now.
And especially not since…
“There's one bed.”
A corner of Bryce's lips curled up in the half-smirk that drove Chuck crazy. “Yes, Chuck.”
“One bed.”
“Yeah.” Bryce didn't sound like he was grasping Chuck's problem.
“One,” Chuck pointed helpfully to the bed in the centre of the hotel room. “Bed.”
Maybe if he said it in Klingon, Bryce would get it.
A curious tilt of Bryce's head, his eyebrows furrowing like he couldn't quite make Chuck out. “And what did you think when Beckman told us our cover was a couple?”
Hallelujah had been first choice. Then a few choice curses because Bryce was brilliant at pretending and Chuck was pants at it. And Bryce would definitely pick up on things if/when Chuck was a little too good at selling being smitten.
And Beckman had said a lot more than just their cover, actually. A stern lecture about selling their cover because their target was particularly jealous of his girlfriend getting any male attention. And not to mess it up.
But that wasn't Bryce's point. Chuck knew that, it was just easier to think about than Bryce's actual point. Namely the bed situation. Specifically the singular bed situation.
“I- uh-” Damn him, that was a good point. “Didn't think it would be so small.”
“Small?” One of Bryce's eyebrows arched into his hairline. “I could run laps in this bed. I could perform entire gymnastic routines in this bed.”
Hello, mental images. Chuck shook those flashes away, now was not the time.
“I'm sorry, I meant small for someone who isn't Hobbit sized.”
“Hobbits average three foot six. I'm five eleven. Of course I suppose normal sized people do seem Hobbit like to freakishly tall giants such as yourself.”
Chuck ignored the freakishly tall giant comment, he'd expected exactly that. What he was stuck on was the specificity of Bryce's retort. He felt a goofy grin pull at his lips, completely distracted from the bed issue.
“You’re a nerd.”
Bryce winked, a move that would have been corny if it wasn't a move made by Bryce. “I never pretended not to be, Chuck.”
Chuck's stomach rumbled, halting a very fond, scrunch-faced expression of exasperation directed at Bryce. “Lunch?”
Bryce's eyes sparkled. “Just wait till you see the menu at this place.”
Lunch was, predictably, incredible. Briefing Beckman on what they'd achieved today for their mission (little besides being seen coming and going from the hotel) was less so. Dinner was had in their room (because apparently “that's what a loved-up couple would do, Chuck”, Chuck couldn't disagree, even if he was suspicious that Bryce had only said it because he knew Chuck was more comfortable staying in tonight before the soiree tomorrow) and was amazing. It was astonishing how good hamburgers could taste when they cost that much.
Also amazing was the sound system their room came with - Star Wars had rarely sounded so good.
Less so was the getting ready for bed thing. For most of the day, Chuck had managed to avoid thinking about the inevitable end to the day. Slipping between crisp white sheets with the college best friend who had betrayed him to save him. Who'd died and ruined his life, only to really make it better and make his family whole again and give Chuck a purpose again.
All the things Chuck didn't want to think about before he had to actually sleep beside the spy who made him feel feelings it was very inconvenient for him to feel right now.
And he'd just thought the word “feel” way too many times for one thought-sentence. He blamed Bryce.
Irritating, secretive, thoughtful, considerate Bryce who wordlessly went to change in the ensuite so Chuck could pull himself together alone. This would be so much easier if he was a jerk.
Chuck, who'd brushed his teeth while Bryce was securing the room for the night, speedran getting changed into his pyjamas (tasteful blue checked flannel ones) and crawled under the sheets on the right side. There was no need to wait and awkwardly discuss which side the other preferred, Chuck already knew that from Stanford. Bryce was a leftie and Chuck was a rightie, sleep-wise anyway.
And speaking of certain superspies, Bryce emerged from the ensuite. All fluffy hair, soft flannel sleep pants and a black T-shirt with the X-Files logo on it.
Bryce scanned the room with a flicker of his gaze, landing on Chuck with a growing smirk.
“Nice jammies.”
Chuck would be taking no teasing on his pyjamas from a man in an X-Files shirt. “I can't believe you still sleep in those.”
His teasing earned an indulgent grin, the mattress dipping as Bryce climbed into bed. “Believing doesn't stop when the sun goes down.”
“Says the man who'd probably be in on the cover up.”
Bryce’s breath left on a dramatic gasp. “You take that back.”
“Never!” Chuck cried, raising his hand like it was a battle cry. And, because he couldn't resist tweaking Bryce. “And Skinner was definitely in on it too.”
Chuck could see Bryce twitch, wrestling with the urge to let Chuck know exactly how wrong he was.
“I am an oasis of calm,” Bryce intoned, pulling a deep breath in. “Your words cannot reach me.”
Chuck laughed, settling down into the pillows. “Night, superspy.”
Bryce grinned, tugging the covers up over himself. “Sleep tight, 007.”
Despite the goodnight and the familiar rhythm of Bryce's steady breathing beside him, Chuck couldn't go to sleep. He hovered right on the edge, body sleepy but mind too keyed up to sleep. It kept whirring like a computer crunching data, hyperfixating on the warmth seeping into the bed beside him, the effort not to move, the hundreds of times they'd done this before and how it was everything and nothing like those times.
Bryce hadn't come back from the dead back then. Hadn't yet made Chuck realise the things he used to be blissfully oblivious of.
“Bryce? You awake?”
A soft sigh. “No, Charles.”
Chuck rolled his eyes, deadpan sarcasm - he'd missed that. “Does this remind you of college?”
Bryce cracked an eye open, his lips curled in amusement. “Little bit. You're not hogging the covers yet.”
Yet. Chuck had almost forgotten he'd woken up burrito'd in Bryce's blankets once upon a time. “I had to protect myself from your cold feet.”
Bryce silently laughed, the mattress shaking a little. “If I wasn't so comfortable I'd pay you back for that one.”
“I’m glad you're comfortable, I can feel the ice of your feet from here.”
Bryce chuckled again, propping himself up on one elbow. “Okay, Bartowksi,” he said, oddly serious. “Spill.”
Spill. Chuck could do that. “My Klingon is rustier than you think, I used to have a crush on my fifth grade teacher, Scully is infinitely cooler than Mulder-”
“We’ll come back to that last one,” Bryce interrupted, apparently not remotely distracted. Of course not. He was like a dog with a freaking bone when he wanted to know something. “You only babble like that when you're nervous. And you're not muttering obscure coding phrases in your sleep right now. So, something is up. Spill.”
“I'm good,” Chuck squeaked, octaves too high and about as convincing as Casey in customer service. “Really good. All good.”
“Good?” Bryce echoed, like a man inviting Chuck to dig that hole deeper.
Chuck was nothing if not obliging. “Good. Better than good. Very good. Super good.”
Bryce hummed understandingly. Like he knew something Chuck didn't.
“So you're not lying there freaking out about having to pretend to be madly in love with me tomorrow?”
Chuck scoffed. “More like laying here freaking out about pretending that it's not actually true.”
Bryce's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat. Chuck half moved, thinking there was someone behind him, until his brain caught up with his mouth and he realised what he'd said.
His mouth ought to come with a warning label. Caution: might tell the truth and ruin important relationships. He was a disaster.
“You know, it might have sounded like I just admitted to being in love with you, but, um, this bed is very comfortable, like seriously comfortable. I'd probably tell Casey I loved him if I was laying on this mattress. Well, actually, no I wouldn't, but you can pretend that I would if it makes it less-” Chuck groaned softly. He'd ruined everything. “I've made this mission awkward, haven't I? Just forget I said anything until after tomorrow, then you can never speak to me again and I won't hold it against you at-oomph-”
“Breathe, Chuck.” Bryce's voice was almost as soft as his eyes, watching Chuck like Chuck was something special and not the nerd who'd just babbled nonsense at him. “You haven't ruined anything.”
“But,” Chuck waved his hand around, trying to encompass his word vomit before settling on the situation at hand. “The mission?”
“Does come first, yes,” Bryce admitted reluctantly. Reluctance quickly gave way to a half-grin Chuck hadn't seen in years. “But, after tomorrow when this heavenly mattress isn't there to sway you into romantic sonnets, we can talk about this properly.”
Chuck let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Bryce didn't hate him. Bryce more than didn't hate him if he'd deciphered his Larkin speak properly.
Chuck grinned with a hope he didn't know he was capable of, “If by ‘talk properly,’ you mean go on a date that's not for cover, let’s definitely discuss it more later.”
“It's a deal, Chuck,” Bryce agreed, still with that half-grin that was all Chuck's. “Now go to sleep.”
Chuck grumbled for show, sinking properly into bed. Muscles unwound from tension, sleep gathering at his vision. He had a maybe-date to look forward to.
“Oh and Chuck? Maybe I won't be pretending tomorrow either.”