It’s been days and you still have no idea who your kidnappers are. There’s
a dark-haired woman with eyes like amber and her henchmen--two muscle-bound
drones who wait silently for the opportunity to cause pain--but they never explain
their reasons for snatching you. They’re just people who want to know
what you know and, to your total shame, you answer every one of their questions.
You can’t help it; you’re scared witless.
When familiar arms drag you free, you want to cling on to them forever because it feels so good to be saved. You’ve been all alone, terrified out of your mind, and when he comforts you in his normal gruff manner you cry. The hood is removed and you’re relieved when the rough cloth scrapes away the wetness.
“Everything’s okay now, Chuck.”
The rumble of that voice makes you feel protected and, blinking away the brightness, you follow him and Sarah out of your former prison and over to his car.
Snap out of it. You’re the funny guy, you remind yourself once you’re seated in the backseat of that SUV, and you cover your face as diamonds of watery light spin in front of your eyes.
“Are we compromised?” asks Sarah, but you don’t have enough strength left to answer her.
“We need to know, Chuck.”
The other voice is more important. It belongs to the man whose arms pulled you clear of that cell. That pit in the ground that was dank and earthy, exactly how you imagined your grave would smell.
“No,” you say blankly. “They never asked about the Intersect.” You told them everything else though, from your name to your shoe size to your first grade teacher. “I…I…I…” you stutter, frustrated because of your helplessness; angry because of the frustration. For once, you want to be more than a geek who repairs computer software.
“It’s okay, Chuck,” says a voice, the wrong voice. Sarah’s the one who always tries to make you feel better with platitudes.
Later, when you’re put to bed like a baby, it’s those same, strong arms tucking you in and making you feel safe. He smells Christmassy--spice, citrus and musk all mingled together--and this soothes you. You sleep properly for the first time since this whole crazy mess began.
~~~
“Chuck.”
You look up from the service desk, where you’re filling in paperwork, and see him leaning on the counter, staring you down in that alpha male way of his. You wonder when ‘Bartowski’ or ‘kid’ changed to something more personal.
“We need to talk,” he says when he has your attention. You’re in the process of opening your mouth to continue the conversation when you realise that he’s already gone.
There’s a definite cosmic imbalance here. He suffers from a shortage of words, whereas you? You were born with a surplus. Many of them are repeated and redundant, but they’re useful for filling up uncomfortable silences. He hasn’t worked out how to do this yet, or maybe he’s moved on past that need.
You chat a little more during lunch. At least you sit opposite him for a few seconds and stare at the way his mouth moves while he makes demands on your time. Not exactly demands though because you’ll always be there willingly whenever he asks. He has strong arms and strong words and he saves you.
That evening you go to his place as arranged. You wander through his bleak apartment with its spy gear and less-than-personal photographs and wonder if he has a real home somewhere. He leads you into the guest bedroom which is darkened by black out blinds and unfurnished, except for one plain desk set up in the very center with two chairs on either side.
You sit where he indicates and suddenly there’s a clichéd halogen light shining obnoxiously into your eyes.
“Who do you work for?” he barks then he leans over until he’s right there in your face, gripping your tie until it tightens like a noose around your throat. Tight, tighter, oh, oh, oh...
“Fuck,” you hiss then you gag and retch and suck in breath desperately because you have a sickening feeling that maybe he’s not the person you once thought he was.
“No fucking,” he says pleasantly, “just you telling me what I want to know.”
You watch the way his biceps expand menacingly as he presses down on the varnished surface of the desk. “I don’t know anything,” you say. “You know more than me.”
Prowling the room like a caged timber wolf, he comes to a halt beside you and proceeds to examine you leisurely from head to toe. You wish it didn’t have such a profound effect on you. He shouldn’t scare you so much. He’s your protector.
“Agent Walker knows everything and now you’re going to fill me in on those details that I’m missing.”
You search frantically inside your hive brain, trying to pick out the moments that he wasn’t there. There are so few. He’s so huge he takes up a large part of your head space.
“Your name?” he asks politely, switching character in an instant, and the question seems simple enough.
“Charles Bartowski,” you answer like a good little robot boy.
There’s a deep sigh then he spins your chair to one side and crouches down in front of you. He’s quieter now, voice hushed yet still kind of gritty. “You can’t tell them that, Chuck. You have to keep to your code name at all times. If they find out about the Intersect we’ve lost.”
All of a sudden you feel as warm as if you’ve been baking in the sun for hours. He sounds so comforting and the way he rests his hand just above your knee turns the whole world rosy. Then, in a flash of quicksilver that persona is gone, replaced by someone entirely different.
“Tell me about the asset,” this new man says icily. “Where is the asset?”
“I…I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He’s up on his feet now, pacing towards you then there’s a sudden open-handed slap to your belly that makes vomit rise. Those big fingers grip you around your throat again.
“Tell me everything. It’ll save you a lot of pain. It’ll save your friends and family a lot of pain.”
You think of Morgan and Ellie and Devon. They could get hurt. If you don’t tell him what he wants to know then he could do this to your sister.
“They’re here now by the way,” he continues in that threatening rumble as he releases you from the vise. “Waiting for their turn in the hot seat.”
You remember what you were told. “My name is Charles Carmichael and I work for the immigration department.”
“Not what we want to hear,” comes the reply, but you think you hear a hint of approval somewhere deep down. In fact you’re feeling a whole lot better about yourself until a hood is slipped over your head and the small, dark world you’re living in reduces dramatically in size.
If you thought that was frightening it’s nothing compared to the feeling of having your clothes forcibly removed from your body. When you’re yanked to your feet and your pants are tugged free, you remember all the stories you’ve heard of prison rapes and barely manage to hold back a scream. He’s supposed to save you.
“What do I do?” you gasp. “What do you want me to do?” You’re naked, except for a pair of thin cotton shorts, you’re standing in the middle of a chilled room and you can’t see. You can’t see anything and the panic begins to build.
“Tell me about the Intersect.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Is that convincing enough? The words sound tinny inside your head. A liar’s voice.
You stand for a lifetime, shrouded in silence and dark, until claustrophobia turns you dizzy and you stumble over to one side. You gain an irrational amount of comfort from the strong arms that are there to support you and lean into his body until you regain your balance. Then the hood is removed and you see him looming over you, glassy-eyed and cruel, exactly like that woman who kidnapped you.
“Stay still,” he says and you shiver and wait for more questions. Your legs are tiring by the second, beginning to ache badly, and you spread your feet wide apart to stop yourself from crumpling. There should be something to lean on. You thought there was.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask as the agony extends itself throughout every cramping muscle.
He looks lazily up at you from where he’s seated in that big padded office chair. “Tell me everything you know about the Intersect,” he says in that bogus pleasant voice and when you refuse to answer his eyes momentarily soften. You stagger again from exhaustion and have this crazy idea that he’s about to rush over and stop you from falling. He doesn’t. You manage to summon up the dregs of your inner strength and stay upright even though you’re completely numb by now.
Instead of coming to your aid, he picks up an attaché case from beside him and you watch his actions, mostly to take your mind off the pain in your legs. He places it on the desk, unlocking it with a small key, and you discover that you don’t give a damn about what’s inside. You don’t care. You don’t understand.
“I don’t know anything,” you say. “You’re wasting your fucking time.”
The belly punch hurts. The slap to the face stings. The mouth just an inch away from yours makes you shiver.
“Tell me about Bryce Larkin,” he whispers, closing the tiny gap between you.
“Who?” A moment after saying that you’re manhandled into a chair and the muscles in your legs twitch in relief.
His voice becomes lower and gruffer as he changes back to the man you thought you knew. “This won’t hurt,” he says as he loads a syringe from a vial, “and it won’t harm you. You just have to learn to push past the effects.”
He straps a tourniquet around your bicep and flicks at a vein. You should fight, you shouldn’t be letting him do this to you, but he has a semi-automatic shoved down the back of his pants and there’s a knife strapped to his leg and, anyway, you know he could kill you with his bare hands if he felt like it. You have a feeling he likes snapping necks. You also have a feeling he’s not who he says he is. This isn’t the kind of game that you enjoy playing.
When the needle enters your skin you flinch the way you always do, but he keeps a tight hold of your wrist until the drug is fully administered. There’s a sudden smell of food invading your nostrils, but it disappears almost instantly and you look up to see him leaning over you; he's such a huge warm presence that your head begins to spin.
“Fight it,” he murmurs and his mouth is close and his breath is sweet and his hands are like iron as they grip your shoulders. “What is the asset?” he asks and you open your mouth to tell him everything then brake hard before the first words sneak out from between your lips.
“Where is the Intersect?”
You hate the Intersect more than you hate Morgan’s sick habit of dunking cheese fries into strawberry milkshake. “Get it out of me,” you plead, threading your fingers into your hair and tugging at it like an insane person. You can feel it burrowing inside you like a worm. Getting deeper, minute by minute.
“Calm down, Chuck.” Those big hands move upward carefully unclenching your fists and holding on to you. “It’s just the effects of the Pentothal. Try and keep a clear mind.”
You do as you’re told, concentrating on the blanket of solid strength that surrounds you.
“Now tell me everything.”
Gazing up at him, you try to fight it the way he told you to, but it’s impossible and you can’t help but say what’s on your mind. “I like you,” you rasp out between chattering teeth, the unexpected truth-telling making you more shaky and confused than ever. “I like the way… the way you look and the way you make me-me- feel. I think about you all the time. I want to touch you. I want you to touch me…”
Now that you’ve started talking you don’t remember how to stop. You keep jabbering on and on about how you truly feel until he puts a hand over your mouth and groans as if he’s in pain. Then, in between telling you how sorry he is, he leans over and kisses you.
“I didn’t know.”
He’s kneeling now and pulling you down onto the floor with him and then his mouth covers yours again. It feels better than good and as bewildered and woozy as you are, you kiss back hard.
“This can’t be happening,” he mutters, but his palm is covering your hardening cock and he’s stroking it through your shorts. “This cannot happen.”
All inhibitions gone, you run your hands under his black polo shirt, over his body and you kiss away every broken word that comes out of his mouth. Arching up into his fist, you thrash and buck, sliding your fingers inside his pants until you feel every inch of that deliriously good strength.
He continues to tell you how wrong this is even when he’s picking you up and carrying you through into his bedroom.
“I can’t do this,” he breathes, but his actions tell a different story as he throws you on the bed and removes your shorts then strips away his cover of clothes and weaponry.
Life turns into a delicious blur. He bathes every inch of your skin with his tongue until you’re crying out, begging for more and having him becomes more important than anything -- even getting rid of this Insect creature that’s nesting inside your head.
Rolling you over until you’re laying on your belly, his fingers squirm wet and thick inside you and when he bites down on your shoulder you surge back against him, moaning and pleading to be fucked raw and owned by this tower of strength.
“I gotta stop,” he says bleakly, his cock solid against you, and it’s as if he knows that the dizziness is fading and your mind is beginning to function again.
“Don’t!” you hiss as his fingernails scrape over your back and you kneel up presenting yourself. “Fuck me.” Circling your hips, you squeeze the solid column that’s resting between your butt cheeks, urging him on. “Please.”
He heaves out a sigh as he gives up all attempts at resistance and then, gripping your shoulder, he pushes you down until your face is buried deep in his pillow. It smells the same as he does and you breathe in and get even more excited, if that’s possible. Reaching a hand beneath you, he begins stroking your cock, keeping you hard and wanting as he pushes in, so fucking slow, so fucking strong.
His tongue has washed you inside and out, his fingers have lubed and stretched you and now he’s yours, every burning slippery inch of him. It hurts, but in a good way. He’s taking care of you.
A long time passes before he’s fully sheathed -- long enough for your brain to push away the effects of the Pentothal and enjoy every second of this. You’ve always wanted him. You understand that now. It’s not just his strength that you need, it’s him.
“I’m ready, Casey.”
As it escapes your lips, you come to the conclusion that you love the sound of his name. It suits him; it’s tough and powerful; the perfect match for a protector who’s unexpectedly become so much more than that.
The moment he begins to move his customary stoicism disappears and he releases a stream of words that are full of painful remorse. You try and switch off from his misery because you want this so fucking much. A truth serum isn’t the most romantic of ways to jump start a relationship, but you don’t care because it got you exactly where you needed to be -- in his bed.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters for the hundredth time. “I can’t do this.”
You decide that you’ve heard enough self-flagellation for one decade and squeeze out from under his draped body, rolling over onto your back.
“But you are and, god, Casey I… I really want you,” you say as you hook your legs over his shoulders and pull him closer. “I need you.”
His eyes widen and turn an even softer shade of blue then he leans in to kiss you and his cock nudges at your hole. You suck on his tongue and bear down until he’s inside you, back where he belongs, and you can feel yourself grow as his prick rubs against your sweet spot, scratching that deep-seated itch inside of you. These rolling, sweeping waves of sex take over then you’re climbing towards pain-gasm as you push up against his weight, running your hands over his hairy chest and thumbing his nipples as he powers into you.
“Fuck your fist,” he gasps, trembling from effort.
You take a firm hold of your shaft remembering how often you’ve jerked off with shadowy images of a federal agent lurking in the background, secretly fantasising that he was listening in. You scrape your thumbnail over the slit then begin a steady pull and you’re transfixed by Casey’s face the same way he’s transfixed by you.
It’s real and it’s right and it may have started in a dangerous scary manner, and it’ll most likely continue that way, but the one thing you’re sure of is that it must continue.
Casey’s holding back from coming. He’s still now, breathing deeply and focusing on the way your hand is sliding up and down your cock. You put on a show for him, twisting and squeezing, increasing the speed until the pit of your belly is aching and you’re burning up from desperation.
“Fuck,” you whine as he pushes down on your thighs. He shifts a little, changing the angle, then begins this steady pummelling of your insides that sets sparks flying. You haven’t done this for years. Last time was too emotional to cope with and it took you forever to get over it.
He groans out this husky expulsion of agonised breath and his face is a picture of pent up need. His blatant desire for you is the most erotic thing ever and you let go, jerking and bucking, shuddering as the semen streams out of your slit, coating your fist and your belly and spattering onto your chest. You finish off with a sigh and he lunges in and kisses you, hips pumping, his tongue and cock buried deep inside you and when he comes there’s just an urgent grunt, quiet yet menacing, like the feral killer he truly is.
Afterwards, he massages the muscles in your cramped legs and then collapses down onto the bed beside you. “I screwed up,” he says as he stares vacantly at the ceiling light. “Badly.”
You’re the one who’s been blank since the kidnap. He can’t fade out as well. “We- we can make this work,” you answer because this is a no-brainer as far as you’re concerned. You have to make it work. If it doesn’t then you have nothing -- just like last time. “I won’t say a word.”
Casey throws an arm across you, pulling you close and you smile that big, stupid, dopey grin of yours because this is all you need to know. For now.
DONE