The elevator doors slid open, and the sound of heavy boots echoed across the polished floor of Carmichael Industries. Analysts looked up from their screens, whispering nervously as the man strode into the lobby like he already owned it.
John Casey.
Chuck stepped out of his office just in time to meet him. "Casey. Welcome to the Think Tank."
Casey's sharp eyes scanned the building like a hawk assessing its prey. "This place is a sieve, Carmichael. Weak walls, blind corners, half-trained guards. If I were running this op, it'd already be a fortress."
Chuck offered his best diplomatic smile. "Good thing you're here to, you know… fortify it."
Casey grunted, unimpressed. "General Beckman's orders. Officially, I'm your Head of Security. Unofficially, I'm here to make sure you don't get yourself killed — or worse, compromise the mission."
Chuck's smile twitched, but he kept it steady. "We've worked together before, Casey. Monaco, remember? We pulled it off without either of us dying."
Casey crossed his arms. "Barely. You got lucky. Don't start thinking luck is a strategy."
The Walkthrough
They moved through the building together, Casey barking critiques at every turn.
"That stairwell is an ambush waiting to happen. That glass? One sniper round and your analysts are fish in a barrel. And don't get me started on Jeff and Lester out front. They couldn't guard a lemonade stand."
Chuck sighed. "Look, I get it. You want perfection. But part of running a cover is making this place look like a real think tank, not Fort Knox."
Casey shot him a sharp look. "And part of staying alive is not pretending. You're running an intelligence hub, Carmichael. Treat it like one."
Chuck met his glare evenly. "I am. Just with less yelling."
For a moment, they stood nose to nose, the tension thick. Then Casey smirked. "Guess we'll see whose way works best."
Later – Chuck's Office
Casey stood by the window, arms folded like a statue, watching the parking lot below. Chuck sat behind his desk, typing up a report.
"You know," Chuck said casually, "when you're not barking orders, you're almost pleasant."
Casey's head turned, glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Smiling gets you shot, Carmichael."
Chuck leaned back, ignoring the jab. "Listen — when you're around my family, you don't call me Carmichael. You use my civilian name — Chuck. Or Bartowski. Got it?"
Casey raised an eyebrow. "Your family's involved?"
"They're not involved," Chuck corrected quickly. "But they live nearby. My sister Ellie, her boyfriend Devon… which means, for your cover, you'll be moving into the apartment next door."
Casey groaned audibly. "Neighbors. Perfect."
Chuck grinned, a little too smug. "Yeah. Welcome to Burbank, John. Try not to scare them. Especially Devon — he's a nice guy. Overly nice. Like, borderline golden retriever nice."
Casey muttered something under his breath that Chuck pretended not to hear.
Still, when Chuck saw the analyst team downstairs relaxing just a little under Casey's looming presence, he realized something: the Think Tank had its iron fist.
And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what it needed.