Saw a very strong cast perform Les Mis last night. My reaction: Well, now I understand Urinetown better.
Tonight, three snippets:
Chuck versus the Miracle of Life
“Does it have to be Bryce?” Chuck asked. Beside him, Casey growled. Chuck wasn’t getting into the reasons.
The General frowned. “Bryce Larkin has more infiltration experience, and we need Agent Casey on the outside, prepared to perform an extraction if necessary.”
Chuck sighed and stretched his legs out. “Okay, fine. What I don’t understand is how we’re supposed to get Sarah and Bryce and me all into this place. It’s supposed to be a fertility clinic!”
Bryce looked away, while Sarah did that thing where she almost looked at him, but her eyes swerved to the side just a tad, as if she didn’t want to shame him with her understanding of his deficiencies. “You and Bryce are going to pose as a couple seeking to have a child,” she explained gently. “I’ll be your surrogate.”
Casey snorted, and this time Chuck turned on him. “I’ve had about enough of that from you!” he insisted. “Next time you have an opinion, use actual words to express it, okay!?”
“Whatever,” Casey said.
“Wait,” Chuck realized. “A couple? Why him and me? Why not, you know, me and Sarah and our, our sperm donor?”
“You’d be okay with that?” Bryce asked, and Chuck imagined it: playing a guy who couldn’t knock up his superhot wife and needed Bryce Larkin to do it.
“I could do it,” he said weakly.
“Better this way,” Bryce said. “The clinic just settled a sexual orientation discrimination case with the state. They’ll be falling all over themselves to show how open-minded they are; we’ll ask for a tour and see if you flash on anything.”
In the office beneath the Orange Orange, it all made sense.
Then they were at the clinic, and after the horrific fifteen-page forms they had to fill out—Chuck used his own actual medical history, but it still took forever—the nice lady doctor showed them into her office, and before Chuck had even gotten comfortable in his seat she was asking, “So whose sperm are we going to be using for your procedure?”
Bryce looked over at him. “We hadn’t really—”
“His. His. I mean, have you looked at him? Not to mention seen him in action,” which Chuck realized probably meant something very different to the doctor as soon as it had come out of his mouth. Sure enough, she was blushing. “I mean, his.” Both Bryce and Sarah were watching him as if he were a bomb timer ticking down, so Chuck shut up.
“Well, we’ll need a sample for preliminary genetic testing,” the doctor said, her voice only a little wobbly. “After we finish up here, he can go right in.”
Then there was some discussion about their beautifully clean medical histories, and some stuff Chuck didn’t like to think about, having to do with children and family and all the parts of life it was beginning to look like he wouldn’t get to have. And he had to have that conversation with Sarah there, as if they were really going to do this together. So he was desperate to escape when the doctor finished her little spiel about the clinic, and he didn’t pay much attention when she pulled out a cup and handed it to Bryce.
“It’s just through there,” she said, pointing to a door at the far side of the room. “We have some magazines and videos if you like.”
Chuck felt himself go Rotten Tomatoes red, but Bryce seemed unfazed. “Nah,” he told her, and stood, grabbing Chuck’s shoulder so that Chuck had to get up too. “Hey,” he said to Chuck, his voice going low and intimate. Chuck automatically turned, and Bryce was right there, tilting his head and moving as if—
Chuck opened his mouth to protest, and Bryce took it like the Alliance falling on the Horde. His hands cupped Chuck’s face, turning him to the side a little, his thumbs pressing slow and steady across the skin under Chuck’s eyes, a caress as intimate as his tongue in Chuck’s mouth. Chuck’s eyes were bugging out like Daffy Duck’s at the beginning, but at about thirty seconds in they sent in surrender signals to Chuck’s brain, which was no longer paying attention anyway, and drifted closed.
When Bryce broke the kiss, Chuck stood there still tilted, mouth open and begging for it, his hands clutching at nothing at all, until Sarah cleared her throat.
“See you in a bit,” Bryce said, and winked as he headed towards the door.
“Uhh,” Chuck said.
Sarah coughed again. “Do you think we could get a tour while we’re waiting?” she asked. “I’m so interested in the technology you use.”
“Of course,” the doctor said, her eyes firmly fixed on a picture on her wall. Chuck followed her eyeline automatically, and—
Cells dividing/cells dying/biological implants/RFID-tagged dogs/Dolly the sheep/man leaning over coughing/formulas in Russian, crinkled at the edges from being smuggled out in a woman’s shoe/cells dividing again.
Okay, so not so much a fertility clinic as a breeding ground for unauthorized and highly illegal biological experiments.
Just another day in the life.
Dean was watching a Mythbusters marathon, eating Cheetos and rubbing the orange dust all over Sam’s pillow while Sam struck out on new hunts for the eighth day in a row. Sam reached up and rubbed his aching neck. “This is starting to freak me out, Dean. We haven’t found any sign of anything supernatural since we put Lilith down.”
“You’re worrying because we haven’t found anything to hunt,” Dean said flatly, slumping further down into Sam’s bed and crumpling the empty plastic sack beside him.
Which was totally hypocritical, because Dean quite obviously didn’t know what to do with himself without a hunt in the offing. “What if it’s over? What if all that, the final battle, all those angels and demons in that vortex, what if it’s just—done? As far as we know, God is—” He stopped, because quoting Nietzsche was a little too weird even for him in this context, not that Dean would catch the reference. “Hell is totally sealed off. What if that means this world—mortal life—is all we have now?”
Dean twisted a little on the pillow so that he could look over at Sam. “C’mon, Sam, there’d still be ghosts—”
“Werewolves,” Dean said, angry and apologetic all at once.
“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam said, allowing himself to prickle in return. “Find me one and let’s go.”
But Dean didn’t. Not that day, or that week, or that month. Neither did Bobby, nor any of his friends. Pam wasn’t getting any extra help from her Sight any more, though she was still telling fortunes.
“No more Hell, hunh?” Dean said one night while Sam was reading through apartment listings on Craigslist, thinking about how to approach the idea of settling down, getting real jobs.
Sam carefully didn’t look up. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Okay, then.” Rustling sounds: cloth on cloth, then cloth on skin.
When the bed creaked, Sam couldn’t resist a glance. He nearly fell out of his chair. Dean laughed at his expression, but kept his hand moving on his dick.
“You gonna get over here any time soon, or are you just gonna watch?”
Under the circumstances, Sam determined, actions spoke louder than words.
There are worse things than falling for a geek.
It’s just that John can’t rightly think of one right now.
Chuck is slobbering over some new videogame with Morgan, caught up in the moment. John is never that absorbed in his own life, at least not when he’s not fighting for it. Chuck is happy, and Chuck will be happy when he goes home and sees his sister, and Chuck will be happy when Sarah smiles at him and tells him he did good on the last assignment. It makes the fact that Chuck would be happy if John gave him a compliment seem less important.
John is not good with happiness. His most successful positive emotion is probably smug satisfaction, the kind that comes from a nice clean kill. It’s possible that this feeling he has when he looks at Chuck is actually a kind of envy. As humiliating as that would be, it might be preferable to the alternative.
Chuck looks up from where he’s stapling tinsel onto a BuyMore banner and smiles at John. John scowls back, just like he knows Chuck expects, and sure enough Chuck’s smile barely falters.
John’s got a terrible imagination, so he doesn’t imagine dragging Chuck into the back, shoving him up against the wall, and smashing their bodies together until that smile is only a memory.
John’s got a terrible imagination, so he doesn’t imagine what life would be like if his orders to dispose of the human Intersect hadn’t been cancelled at just about the last possible moment.
There are worse things than falling for a geek, and John is very, very afraid of what he’s going to be willing to do to avoid them.