Note: This was written for a prompt at comment_fic.
Real spies – he thought – wore nice suits at all times. Not just for missions. They actually owned the things. They didn't wear Nerd Herd uniforms, or chucks – oh, the irony – and they absolutely did not sleep in Star Trek t-shirts.
He shifted a little on the bed and smoothed his very own Enterprise crew blue shirt over his stomach, looking at it with pride. "Live long and prosper, Chuck." But he swept his own grin off his face and reminded himself that real spies did not quote Spock. True, Spock could definitely kick Fulcrum's ass using only his mind, but real spies didn't know that. Real spies were too busy being hardcore to watch Star Trek. Which brought him to the next point.
Real spies were hardcore. They had arms the size of his neck. Or bigger, if they were the Casey brand of real spies. He flexed his own bicep and eyed it with disgust. Pitiful. He really needed to start going to the gym. Maybe he could ask Awesome or Casey to train him. A little bit of weight lifting, you know, just to get the muscles going. He nodded to himself, approval written all over his face. He had brilliant ideas sometimes. Except for the fact that Awesome would probably make him wear spandex shorts to match his bro – Chuck shuddered a little at the thought – and Casey's idea of training would definitely leave him seriously injured. He frowned at his own fear.
Real spies weren't scared of pain. Real spies weren't scared of… He held his breath and stood perfectly still when he heard a noise and felt something move next to him. "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…" He let out the breath he'd been holding – very carefully, you never know – when everything turned still again. The room was still dark, and the only thing he could hear was the soothing sound of peaceful breathing. He chose to ignore his own heart pounding in his chest. Because real spies knew no fear. They saved the day and didn't hesitate before putting their lives on the line.
He reached for the bottle of grape juice on his bedside table and took a sip. He did put his life on the line on a weekly basis. True, he had two of the best agents in the world next to him, making sure he'd make it alive, but still. There was risk involved. It was risky. He played with the straw in his mouth as he pondered the thought. He took risks, right? He flew a helicopter. And the whole remote control Nerdmobile plan to save Morgan had been pretty cool. His lips curled up around the plastic straw, his face the picture of smugness. "Carmichael. Agent Charles Carmichael" he murmured, making sure his voice was deep and spy-like. "Shaken, not stirred." Maybe he wasn't that far from being a real spy.
"Chuck. What are you doing?"
Sarah's voice startled him enough to make him simultaneously choke on a mouthful of – shaken, not stirred – grape juice and spill the contents of the bottle all over himself. When he finally managed to stop coughing, he patted the purple puddle on his chest in an admittedly pathetic effort to get himself dry. "Nothing! Nothing here, nothing happening!"
With a sigh, Sarah turned on the lamp on the bedside table and handed him a box of tissues. "Go back to sleep, Chuck." Sarah was always cranky in the middle of the night. Especially when she had to stay at his place. Still wonderful, if you asked him, but very cranky.
Chuck soaked practically every tissue in the box before giving up and throwing the t-shirt on the floor. Real spies were suave. He reached over Sarah's body to turn off the light and shifted on the bed until his head hit the pillow. Real spies were smooth. Seductive. He put his hands under his head and sighed. Real spies were ready to sweep the girl off their feet even in the middle of the night. They did not almost get killed by juice and then soak themselves on it. Bond would never let that happen. Bond would be disappointed in him.
"Sarah?" Chuck felt her stirring next to him. "Do you think I'll ever be a real spy?"
Chuck took her silence as a negative – no surprises there – and he was ready to try to sleep when she finally spoke. "Why would you even want to be one?"
"Why would I- why would I want to be a real spy?" Chuck let out an incredulous huff. "They get incredible cars, they wear cool suits, they are badass, they are… they're the coolest guys!" He shook his head and started voicing his long list of reasons why real spies were just what every sane man would want to be like, but Sarah interrupted in the middle of an enthusiastic description of shaken drinks.
"Chuck." She waited until he looked at her to continue. "Real spies don't break the rules to start secret relationships with their handler." And she snuggled into his side, resting her head on his chest and tangling one of her legs with his. "Go back to sleep, Chuck."
A smug grin appeared on his face as he felt her skin on his. Yeah. Why would he want to be a real spy anyway? He moved one of his arms to wrap it around her. So maybe he was kind of a wimp. And he couldn't be trusted with a drink while in bed. And his suit was rented. His smile grew even wider when he felt Sarah drift off in his arms. Maybe he couldn't take nine men all by himself. And maybe he needed two secret agents to protect him on his missions. Maybe he'd never be a real spy.
But Bond's girls had nothing on Bartowski's.