[ When Chuck looks at her, all he sees is Mako. Not the Japan's lost daughter or Tokyo's Dorothy or even Pentecost's new project. He sees a person, not a word or an idea; not a recruit or a soldier or a child. All of things are just facets, one part of a greater whole, but Chuck has known Mako long enough to collect all of them, hoarding ever sliver of her she's ever offered or he's whittled from her, gathering them to him and holding them so tightly to his chest that sometimes, when she thinks about it, it makes her breastbone ache — like the pressure of his own arms is holding her down.
During training they're taught that their copilot will be everything, that there will be no one else in the whole wide world that they will ever trust or understand more than them. And it's moments like these (and the rivalry and the fighting, all of it) with her knees pressing hard into Chuck's side and Chuck's mouth twisting into a shape that resembles a smile, that convince Mako that there is only him — eclipsing Raleigh and all of his large-eyed pining, all of his boyish sighs and adolescent shoving and those late night texts that cry Mako Mako.
In the morning she'll feel bad about it; not unlike the bruise that'll color Chuck's knee come breakfast time, it'll be sore. Mako will sit across the both of them in the mess hall and feel something burble in their stomach that is equal parts happiness and dissatisfaction, but for now there's only the warm press of Chuck's tongue into her mouth and the puff of air he lets loose against her lips as one of her hands curls up into his hair, making him not-quite laugh. ]
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During training they're taught that their copilot will be everything, that there will be no one else in the whole wide world that they will ever trust or understand more than them. And it's moments like these (and the rivalry and the fighting, all of it) with her knees pressing hard into Chuck's side and Chuck's mouth twisting into a shape that resembles a smile, that convince Mako that there is only him — eclipsing Raleigh and all of his large-eyed pining, all of his boyish sighs and adolescent shoving and those late night texts that cry Mako Mako.
In the morning she'll feel bad about it; not unlike the bruise that'll color Chuck's knee come breakfast time, it'll be sore. Mako will sit across the both of them in the mess hall and feel something burble in their stomach that is equal parts happiness and dissatisfaction, but for now there's only the warm press of Chuck's tongue into her mouth and the puff of air he lets loose against her lips as one of her hands curls up into his hair, making him not-quite laugh. ]