A/N: Believe you me, I'm just as amazed I got this chapter out so quickly! Writer's block officially gone? ;)

The Art of Kissing John Casey – Part Seven
***

Twenty-minutes into his dinner with Cole Barker, Chuck became resigned to the fact that Ashton Kutcher was not going to come waltzing through the door of P.F. Chang's with Casey, and tell him that he'd been Punk'd.

Twenty-seven minutes found him staring at a plate of firecracker shrimp that he was trying hard to pretend didn't look appetizing. Chuck was also trying to pretend that the two drinks in front of him - some bright green concoction that he was embarrassed to even look at – were not his. And their offensive color wasn't necessarily the worst part about them, either. The worst part had to be the fact that Cole had ordered them for him. In fact, the agent's exact words to their waitress were still making him itch. "And why don't you get my boyfriend here something 'fun' to drink, won't you love?"

In Chuck's opinion, that statement had been simply wrong on at least two counts.

Not that stating he was on a date with his boyfriend had deterred their waitress from madly flirting with the British agent, of course. She was young and fresh-faced, with a sort of innocent look that made her seem more adorable than sexy, even when she was trying to shove her breasts in Cole's face. She'd come by twice, unbidden, with drinks each time, which is how Chuck came to be staring at two beverages that he was certain only bubbly girls drank on their twenty-first birthdays. When he'd managed to wrest a minute of waitress Rachel's attention away from Cole to ask what the drinks were, she'd advised him that they were called "Alien Secretions", which had made Chuck immediately regret asking.

Cole reached out and lightly touched Chuck's wrist, causing him to jump and snatch his hand back reflexively. The other man didn't look offended; rather, he smiled almost apologetically, which seemed infinitely worse, mainly because it made Chuck feel like a jackass. Cole raised his drink – a dirty martini, waitress Rachel had giggled and blushed over that one – and proposed a toast.

"To good food and even better company," Cole said.

Chuck raised his own glass, though his hands were a bit shaky with nerves, which caused him to slosh most of the bright green liquid onto the table. "Um, yeah," he replied. "I guess." Chuck then knocked back what was left of his beverage in one swallow. He was annoyed to discover it tasted delicious.

Cole set down his drink and, with unexpected quickness, reached out and purposefully took one of Chuck's hands in his own. He entwined their fingers firmly though casually, so to an outside observer it might appear an almost natural gesture. Chuck felt his palms grow sweaty as restlessness sparked along his fingertips. "Listen Chuck," said Cole with a serious air, "I know this comes as a surprise to you – "

"— Um yeah it comes as a surprise!" interrupted Chuck, annoyance crossing his features. "Where's Casey?" He looked around, half expecting to see the NSA agent sitting at another table, watching them. His surprise didn't come from the rush of disappointment when he didn't see the agent anywhere, but rather from how sure he'd been that Casey would be there. He cut his eyes back towards Cole and tried to ignore the gentle manner in which the other man was stroking his thumb across the inside of his wrist. His skin tingled where Cole touched him and it made Chuck want nothing more than to yank his hand back and tuck it safely away in his pocket. "I thought," Chuck began, and then sighed, pulling his free hand through his hair. "I thought you were replacing me, not Casey."

Cole gave him an appraising look, leaning in closer and lowering his voice so that Chuck had to lean forward as well in order to hear him clearly. "Apparently Agent Casey thought that you'd work better with me than with him. He seemed to be under the impression that you would have an easier time completing the mission without him around to distract you." Cole watched him carefully, searching for something in Chuck's expression.

Chuck glanced away, feeling resentful and wounded. How could Casey just leave him like this? And it wasn't his fault that Casey distracted him – the man was unnervingly distracting when soaking wet and hard, pressed up against him with his hands hot on his body, his lips everywhere…

Chuck abruptly realized that certain parts of his anatomy were stirring, clearly interested in pursuing his train of thought to its conclusion. He straightened in his seat and took a large swallow of his second drink, and hoped that Cole attributed his sudden flush to the alcohol. If the MI6 agent suspected anything to the contrary, he chose not to say. Instead, Cole released his hand and sat back in his chair. He regarded Chuck over the top of his martini glass for a lingering moment, before downing the beverage in two gulps.

The waitress was already placing another drink on the table for Cole, before he'd even popped the gin-soaked olive into his mouth. "So I never did get the full story," Cole mentioned casually, "as to what happened between you and Agent Casey that caused General Beckman to request my presence for this mission."

Chuck opened his mouth to reply, then shut it with a snap, blushing furiously despite his best effort not to. All he could think about was the stupid shower, and strangely, the half-moon scar he'd seen on Casey's upper thigh when he'd been wearing those goddamned red shorts. He didn't trust his voice right then, so Chuck bought some time by polishing off his second drink in a record time of point five seconds. Waitress Rachel was considerably slower in bringing him a new drink, but he didn't begrudge her tardiness. After all, he didn't have a smile that could make women drop their panties on the spot, nor did he have the cool British accent to match.

As Chuck stared curiously into his electric green beverage, a sudden thought struck him. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "How'd you get here so fast?" Chuck squinted at Cole and sipped his drink. "England is far away," he added, accusingly. Chuck felt warmth spread through his belly and chest – there was a reason he didn't drink a lot, and that reason was that he was a terrible lightweight.

Cole seemed to pick up on this fact and grinned at him with an easy, smooth smile. Chuck was beginning to get a little annoyed with how effortless the British agent made everything seem, but he kept the thought to himself and drank a little more, instead. "I actually flew in yesterday," Cole answered. "Agent Casey apparently thought I might be needed sooner rather than later."

"Oh really?" Chuck asked, a bit glumly. He felt defeated – he'd really been trying to work with Casey. In fact, it'd been less trying and more doing, though what it boiled down to was that Chuck had been surprisingly comfortable with the growing intimacy between him and the NSA agent. He sighed and rested his chin in his hand. He finished his drink without thought, and automatically reached for the new one that was set down for him a moment later.

Cole frowned. "What have you and Agent Casey done to prepare for the mission?" he asked, leaning forward again. Chuck failed to notice how low Cole's voice had become or how unexpectedly slinky it sounded, as if his words were edged in mink.

Chuck picked at his untouched appetizer, moving a piece of breaded shrimp around on his plate with his fork. He shrugged noncommittally and didn't look at Cole. "Um, this and that," he muttered. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to be having – least of all with Cole Barker – though as the minutes rolled by and the alcohol began to flow through his veins, he was having a hard time remembering exactly why he never liked the MI6 agent.

Cole raised a brow and a corner of his mouth quirked upwards. All at once he appeared mischievous, like a smiling, well-groomed fox. He also looked insufferably suave, but Chuck wasn't paying attention to any of that; he was too busy enjoying the way his blood thrummed hotly beneath his skin, warmed by the liquor settling into system. Belatedly, Chuck became aware that a curious charge had saturated the air, like the crackle of ozone before a thunderstorm rolled in. He straightened a bit and shifted back, unable to read the glint in Cole's eyes.

Nonchalantly, the British agent reached out and again took one of Chuck's hands in his own. He lightly massaged Chuck's palm with his thumb, and slowly brought Chuck's fingers to his mouth. Chuck was unable to look away, unable to move – frozen like a fawn caught in the fog lights of an oncoming truck. He had the sneaking suspicion that everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing and were looking at him. "Uh, wh-what're you doing?" he stuttered out, right before his index finger was enveloped in the wet, hot heat of Cole's mouth.

"Oh shit!" Chuck exclaimed weakly, his cheeks flaming red as he watched his finger slip into Cole's mouth to the knuckle, before sliding back out again. It was slick and shiny; Cole blew lightly on the moistened digit and Chuck's whole arm erupted into goosebumps. Cole kissed his palm, and then slipped Chuck's middle finger past his lips, curling his tongue gently around it; hot, so fucking hot. He pulled it from his mouth with wet 'pop'.

"Have you done things like this before?" asked Cole.

And Chuck was having a hard time answering, not because his brain had short circuited – though that was part of it – but because he was painfully aware that every pair eyes in the restaurant were suddenly trained on him and Cole. It was like the embarrassing dream that is portrayed in every slapstick comedy, where some poor, oblivious bastard – usually the down on luck protagonist – finds himself or herself somewhere public, wearing nothing but their birthday suit and a look of horror. "I, uh, no," Chuck finally managed. He half-heartedly tried to reclaim his hand, but Cole's grip was firm and tight. 'Nothing like this," he finished, aware of how noisy his breathing started to become, when Cole began to suck on the tips of each of his fingers in turn.

After a moment, Cole finally relinquished his hold on Chuck's hand and sat back. He gave Chuck a small, though genuine smile. "That's good to know," said Cole conversationally, as if just a minute ago he hadn't been mouth-fucking Chuck's fingers in a restaurant full of people. He wiped a dot of saliva from his bottom lip with a swipe of his thumb. Chuck acted as if he didn't notice and Cole let Chuck believe he was being discreet. "I would have thought Agent Casey would've taken you much farther along, considering the short time frame," Cole mused, almost as an afterthought.

Chuck finished his drink and narrowed his eyes at Cole suspiciously. His head was pleasantly muzzy at this point, though he knew somewhere deep down (where he was infinitely more sober), that there was some sort of danger rolling off of the British agent, Coming from Cole the feeling was almost insidious, and it settled across Chuck's shoulders like a cashmere shawl. It was very much different than the raw, overwhelming menace that clung to Casey like a pheromone. That it was a pheromone that Chuck liked, remained unsaid.

As Cole Barker smiled at him, teeth white and straight, his brown eyes warm and inviting, Chuck's good sense made one last bid. 'This is the guy who nearly seduced Sarah from right under your nose!' reminded the tiny, sensible voice from the back of his mind. And yet, thinking about Sarah and their fake relationship only served to remind him of Casey and their…relationship - and of his confusion and uncertainty.

And oh yeah: he was still Epically Pissed at the NSA agent.

Chuck grinned back at Cole, and, with liquid courage coursing through him, boldly asked the man across the table, "How much farther?"

Cole's grin widened, smooth as silk. When he spoke, his voice dripped like honey over razor wire. "We've got a lot of ground to cover, love."

-VVV-

Chuck was unapologetically drunk. He was the seeing double, stumbling, sloppy, I-have-a-vendetta-against-my-liver type of drunk. And fuck if he cared at that moment.

He wasn't sure how he and Cole made it to the bar – though it was less a bar than one of those kitschy lounges that he'd never been able to get into, at least without having to pay a ludicrous cover charge – and he wasn't certain when tequila had gotten involved either. All he knew was that he was ensconced in one of those half-circle booths that had cushions lined in crushed velvet, and that there were things draped in black suede and blue lights everywhere. It was kind of pleasant, or it might have been if it didn't feel as if the house music that was spinning, was throbbing right in between his temples. Though Chuck was vaguely surprised and thrilled that they played Gigi di'Agostino in an upscale place like this. Cole was pushed right up against him, warm at his side, and the British agent had a hand on his thigh.

"Feeling okay?" asked Cole, his mouth right against his ear. His breath was hot and sultry against his skin; Chuck felt like he was burning up. It was an unpleasant feeling. Chuck leaned back in the booth and didn't answer; just ground his palms into the cushions on either side of him and tried to stabilize his world. He turned his head to say something, something important he thought, when suddenly his mouth was full of the taste of Cole Barker.

Chuck toppled into the kiss sloppily, his hands coming up on reflex alone to curve around the shorter man's shoulders. Cole's beard scraped roughly against his skin, burned his lips, felt strange when he touched it with the tips of his fingers.

Kissing Cole Barker was entirely different than kissing John Casey. Where Casey was a rock, a solid anchor that Chuck could wrap himself around, Cole made him feel like he was falling too fast and too deeply into him; into nothing. Everything about Cole – his heat, his flavor - slipped through the imperfections of Chuck's skin, slid down his spine. It was pleasant, sure, but it also felt wrong somehow.

Chuck yanked back, gasping for air. His world spun like a broken carousel that lurched in drunken fits. He felt his stomach do a flip, than a flop, and it was more nauseating than anything else. Cole wound his fingers in his hair, pulled him close, and kissed him again, slower this time, drawing him gradually into it. For a while, Chuck lost himself to the agent's persistent lips and to his talented mouth and questing fingers.

When he drew back this time, Chuck rested his forehead against Cole's, squeezing his eyes shut as he willed the ground to stop shifting. "Cole," he breathed, sagging forward, "Cole, I'm…I…don't feel good," he muttered. He tried to sit up and ended up flopping back in the booth, boneless and loose. He noticed that his shirt buttons were undone and he wondered when that had happened. "I want, I want," he couldn't think; everything felt so soupy and loose inside of his head. His thoughts were colliding in his brain, like drunk drivers destined to get DUI's.

Cole lifted Chuck's chin with his fingers and brushed his lips along the underside of his jaw. "What is it you need, love?"

Chuck closed his eyes, breathed out through his nose. He felt so hot, so uncomfortable. "Casey," he mumbled. Cole's eyes shot open and he gave Chuck an intense and speculative look. It was then that Chuck realized that the British agent wasn't nearly as drunk as he'd thought he was.

"We do have a lot of work to do," said Cole, thoughtfully, but Chuck wasn't listening. His head lolled against Cole's shoulder and he nuzzled into the other man's neck. Cole smelled all wrong and Chuck told him as much. "I do?" asked Cole in amusement.

"Water," croaked Chuck in reply. When Cole laughed, it echoed and sounded far away to Chuck's ears. "Not funny," he muttered.

"Come on, buddy, let's get you back to Agent Casey. We'll resume this tomorrow."

-VVV-

Cole deposited Chuck onto Casey's doorstep at 4:17AM, with a bottle of water in one hand and bag of Jack in the Box in the other. They hadn't even rung the doorbell before the door was yanked open, revealing a furious Casey looming in the entrance.

He caught Chuck as he fell into the door when Cole released him, unable to hold himself upright for too long. Chuck collapsed heavily against Casey, and then felt his world even out like a becalmed ship when the NSA agent looped an arm firmly around his waist. If he sighed contentedly, nobody commented on it. "Casey," he said, with what was totally not a giggle. "Casey look," he pressed, holding up the bag of Jack in the Box. "I can haz cheeseburger nao!" He started to laugh and unsurprisingly, Casey didn't laugh with him.

"Shut up, Bartowski," Casey grunted. The big man jabbed a finger at Cole, who stood watching the scene unfold with an amused curve of his lips. "I told you to have him back by two AM."

Cole held up his hands in mock defense, though he did take another step out of Casey's immediate kill zone. "What can I say, Major? We had – have – a lot of ground to cover. I was making sure to utilize every minute I had with Chuck to prepare him adequately. We must've lost track of time. We were occupied with other things, you know."

Chuck thought he heard a rumble deep in Casey's chest, like the displeased rumble of a lion that has spotted another male within his territory. It made him giggle again, before his world began to list wildly to the first to the left, then the right, making him feel like he was once again on a ship being tossed in violent sea storm. "Um Casey," he mumbled, clinging to the big man, "I think I'm gonna be sick."

He thought Casey might have grunted something at him - he wasn't paying close attention - but he was pretty certain he heard him growl to Cole. "I'll deal with you later, Barker."

To which Cole may or may not have replied: "Give Chuck a kiss goodnight for me, Agent Casey."

The next thing that registered in Chuck's muddled mind was that Casey had slammed the door rather forcefully in Cole's face. "Hey," said Chuck, "that wasn't very nice."

"Can it, Bartowski," Casey grumbled in reply. "I don't have the patience for your drunken babble right now."

Chuck allowed himself to be led up the stairs towards the bathroom, practically half-carried and half-dragged by the NSA agent. He started to protest the treatment, tried to tell Casey that the room was begining to seesaw in a sickening manner, like those moving floors in a carnival fun house, when he was all at once puking his brains out into the toilet. "Ungh," Chuck muttered, resting his cheek against the cool porcelain, "Casey...I'm dying. Please end it. Please."

Casey didn't reply. He only knelt down next to Chuck and rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades, before curling his fingers around the back of his neck. Casey's palm was cool and dry against the damp heat of his skin, and it felt good. Chuck sagged beneath the contact, like some sort of beta going limp and submissive beneath his alpha's touch. Chuck reached up and flushed the toilet, his cheek still pressed against cold hardness of the rim. "I hate Cole Barker," he muttered as the room once again began a lazy spin.

"You're going to hate yourself more when you wake up in the morning," Casey assured him, blandly. He helped Chuck up to his feet and guided him over to the sink. He pointed to the Listerine. "Use it," he commanded.

Chuck complied, swaying wildly on his feet until Casey placed a steadying hand on the small of his back. "Hey," he said after he spit, managing to get most of the purple liquid into the sink basin, "I'm mad at you, y'know." He tried to jerk away from Casey and narrowly avoided falling on his face, before Casey caught the back of his shirt. Casey again rested his hand against the back of Chuck's neck.

"Easy, Bartowski," he muttered, his voice a soothing burr that Chuck could practically feel brush down his spine. "Let's just get you to bed."

It was just a short trip down the hall and to the bedroom. As soon as Chuck saw Casey's bed, he fell into it gladly, sprawling out right in the middle like an overindulged housecat. He stared up at the ceiling and tried not to let fan rotating above him spin everything too fast and too out of control. He felt Casey untie his shoes and pull them off. "Hey, Casey," he asked, aware that his words were little better than an intelligible slur.

"What, Bartowski?" grunted the NSA agent as he pulled off Chuck's socks.

"Were you going to sleep here tonight?"

There was a pause and Chuck felt Casey settle onto the bed next to him and begin to maneuver him out of his shirt. "I was planning on sleeping on the couch," he said at last.

Chuck frowned. "Oh," he replied, and tried not to sound too disappointed. He was still pissed at Casey, after all - Epically Pissed, even. They lapsed into a strange sort of silence, a thick silence that was all at once obnoxiously loud with everything that was unsaid between them.

Chuck wasn't sure how much time passed, but eventually, he felt his eyes growing heavy with sleep. Suddenly, he was just so fucking exhausted, as if the stress of the past several days finally began to leak out from his seams. He felt Casey throw a blanket over him and opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of the other man as he leaned over him and tucked the blanket beneath his chin. He grabbed Casey's wrist as if to push him away, but there was no strength in his fingers. There so many things that Chuck wanted to say to Casey, things that he was positive the other man didn't want to talk about, but his mind just wasn't cooperating with him. He just wanted to pass out, to sleep, and hopefully wake up without a hangover of apocalyptic proportions. Regarding the latter, however, Chuck wasn't counting on it.

He let his hand fall away and let his eyes drop shut. "Casey," he mumbled, half-asleep. His whole body felt heavy, sluggish. The room continued to sway and twirl unpleasantly around him.

"What is it?"

"Make the room stop spinning."

Chuck felt Casey place his large hand on his forehead, felt his thick fingers push the hair back from his temples. All at once the room ceased its unsettling rotation. Everything calmed and became still, anchored by the solid weight of Casey's palm against his brow. "Thanks," he murmured.

He was already asleep and snoring lightly when Casey muttered, "Good night, Chuck."

(To be continued...)